Where did I go wrong?
Looking back, Yamamoto often wondered where he went wrong. Every time he had told the Sun Guardian exactly how he felt - no matter where they were, what they were doing or who they were with - he would be turned down or ignored in one way or another. "You're drunk, to the extreme," had been the first one, at the swordsman's twentieth birthday, even before Tsuyoshi had brought out the alcohol. The second time, the boxer had completely ignored him; pretended that he couldn't hear the Rain Guardian over the roar of the storm outside as they sat on the couch together, watching a movie in the lounge of the Vongola base. Every time after that, the reaction would be different, but never in favour of the center-fielder.
Looking back, Yamamoto realized he probably should've taken the hint. He was smart enough to pick up that the older man hadn't wanted anything to do with those sorts of feelings, but he was stubborn enough to keep pushing, just in case he finally got the answer he wanted. For weeks and months and years, he pushed and pushed and pushed, all the way up to a championship ballgame in which his team was playing for first place. They had won the game by a landslide and the other guardians had joined them in the locker room for a celebration. The swordsman, needing a breath of fresh air, had snuck outside, dragging the nearest person to the door out with him without registering it was one Sasagawa Ryohei until he had leaned backwards against a lamp post on the curb and actually looked at his companion.
Looking back, Yamamoto knew that if there was anything in his life he would change, it was that brief moment where he lost all his self control; that brief moment of pure idiocy that drove him to push too hard. Maybe - just maybe - if he could stop himself from fisting his hands in the boxer's orange dress shirt, stop himself from pulling the man closer and kissing him, then maybe he wouldn't be were he was now: using the lamp post as a support to stand up as he stood bent over with his free hand clutching his bleeding broken nose.
"Just back off to the extreme, alright, Takeshi?" The bitterness in Ryohei's voice made Yamamoto flinch, even if he didn't have the guts to lift his gaze and meet the boxer's eyes. He had known the boxer long enough to hear the looks he was giving in his tone, but this time, the swordsman couldn't work anything out. Maybe because he was getting dizzy from blood loss, or because the annoyance and bitterness and anger in the older guardian's voice was overpowering everything else, or even a heavy mixture of both. Whatever it was, the fact that he couldn't properly understand his friend like he usually could scared him enough to keep his gaze down as the older man continued. "I've been putting up with this so far because it was just words, extreme things I could brush off, but you were just pushing your luck extremely too far this time. Just leave me the hell alone from now on, you got it?"
Looking back, Yamamoto regretted ever trying to get somewhere with the boxer that took them beyond being just friends after turning their relationship into nothing more than a co-worker status. He wished he could go back to his twentieth birthday and stop himself from ever saying those three little words to his closest friend, to choose friendship over anything else his heart desired. But, even looking back, he still asked the same question.
Where did I go wrong?