Yamamoto sat waiting, his hands buried in his dark hair, the toe of his scuffed, muddy sneaker tapping the ground at odd intervals to a melody no one else could hear. The hand on his watch echoed his heartbeat, and he didn't need to look at it to know that it was long past midnight. The air was cold and eerily still, smelling of antiseptic and bleach; the chair he was sitting in was stiff and uncomfortable, but he didn't care, didn't even notice.

He could still see it in his mind's eye, the moment when he skidded to a stop in front of Tsuna and Gokudera. He would never be able to forget it; he would wake up in the middle of the night for years, gasping for breath and desperate for proof that his best friend was still there, still alive. Three days after, he could still hear the gunfire and screaming in his ears, could still feel the explosion rock through his body, could still see Tsuna crouched over Gokudera, both of them covered in blood.

He'd been in the east half of the warehouse when an explosion had gone off in the south, blowing a hole in the wall and sending a shockwave through the interior.

He braced himself against the concussive wave as it swept over him, closing his eyes against the wind; he dropped to his knees, covering his face and gripping his sword. On his finger, the rain Vongola ring glowed blue and burned his skin, and he knew. Somehow, he knew, deep in his being: someone in his Family was in danger, possibly mortal danger. The windows in the warehouse, high above him, shattered; shards of broken glass rained down on him, slicing his arms and digging into his shoulders and back.

He felt the heat against his face as a huge fireball lit up the warehouse; angry flames licked the ceiling and thick, black smoke filled the rows of shipping containers. He'd seen bigger and hotter explosions, but something about this one felt world-shattering—as if he'd just lost the thing he held closest to his heart.

Takeshi sighed and straightened up, taking one of Gokudera's insipid, limp hands in both of his own. He traced the veins beneath the translucent skin, trying to convince himself that Hayato was only cold and clammy because of the chilliness of the room. He'd always admired Hayato's hands, how smooth and nimble they were when they danced across the keys of a piano, or when they put together his sticks of dynamite, or thumbing through the pages of a book. It had always amazed him how, despite his affinity for explosives and his equally combustible personality, Gokudera had managed to keep his hands relatively unscathed. Unlike his own, there were no calluses and minimal scars, only smooth porcelain skin—usually. Now, though, instead of simply pale, he seemed washed out, ashen,—what's the word? He searched his memory for a word he'd heard once that fit—pallid. He looked sickly.

It had been a tense, worried, terrified twelve-hour wait as Shamal and Namimori's best tried to save Gokudera's life. Takeshi kissed his fingertips reverently, praying that it wasn't as bad as Shamal had said. No matter what happened, they would find a way through it, and he would never stop loving Hayato, but they were facing the worst: a shard of glass through his back…severed muscles and nerves…life-threatening blood loss…injury to the lumbar and sacral regions of the spine…dangerously close to the spinal cord…permanent damage. None of those phrases were in any way reassuring.

He couldn't deny that Gokudera looked terrible—almost as terrible as he felt. Takeshi stared at the tube running from Hayato's nose to a machine, the IVs in his rights arm, the cuts and mottled bruises married china pale skin, the bandages…all those bandages. The burns had been wrapped up, and the doctors said that none of those were life-threatening. The real danger was the blood loss and lung damage. Gokudera's breathing was shallow, weak, and shaky; his beautiful silver hair was faded and wilted on the pillow. His eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, and Takeshi knew that Hayato was in the throes of a dream; he hoped it was a good one, better than the reality, because their reality sucked ass at the moment.

The room was near silent, punctuated by the faint hum of the machines and the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. A few awful times, the constant beeping had faltered, and each time Takeshi froze, waiting desperately for the crucial indication that Hayato's heart was still beating to even out. If they lost Gokudera—if he lost Hayato—he didn't know what he would do.

"Oh 'Dera, please wake up. Give me some sign you can hear me," he begged.

The beeping of the heart monitor was his only response; Takeshi had expected nothing less. The doctors had informed him that it could be awhile before Gokudera woke up, if he ever did. He took a lot of damage; they predicted he would never walk again.

Yamamoto knelt behind a particularly large piece of rubble, knuckles white on the katana's hilt. He could hear movement around the corner, and he hoped and prayed that it was one of his; there was enough blood on his sword. He'd heard from Ryohei and Chrome since Tsuna contacted him, and he didn't expect a word from Hibari. That just left Gokudera, the noxious and striking Gokudera Hayato. Taking a deep breath, he left his hiding spot and launched himself over the chunk of concrete. And his heart stopped in his chest and the blood in his veins turned to ice water, because the sight that greeted him ripped a gaping hole in his life.

Tsuna was kneeling on the ground over a body, blood covering his arms up to his elbows. His T-shirt and jeans were torn and scruffy, and there was a nasty-looking cut on his arm, but what struck Yamamoto were the tears running down his face and the way his small shoulders shook violently. Yamamoto would have normally been thankful that Tsuna was alive and relatively unharmed, but the body on the ground kicked whatever relief he might have had into next week.

Surrounded by crumbled concrete and twisted metal pipes, lying on his stomach in a pool of his own blood, was Gokudera Hayato. His sterling silver hair was tarnished red, his clothes soaked. Tsuna was kneeling next to him, his jeans saturated in crimson liquid; he'd balled up his jacket and was pressing it against the wound in Gokudera's back. Tsuna's head jerked up as Yamamoto approached, and relief flooded his eyes.

"Yamamoto!" he exclaimed. "Are you okay?" Leave it to Tsuna to be worried about his Rain Guardian's welfare when he was elbow-deep in his Storm Guardian's blood.

Yamamoto nodded and crouched down next to the brunet. "Go," he said to Tsuna. "The Vongola emergency team should be here by now. Go tell them to get ready!" He nudged the smaller teen out of the way, replacing his hands with his own; almost immediately, his hands were flooded with warm blood, and he was afraid he'd be sick then and there. "I'll be right behind you with Gokudera."

Tsuna didn't wait to ask questions; with near preternatural speed, he was gone, sprinting back through the warehouse towards help. Yamamoto took a closer look at Gokudera, and his heart sank. The bomber's skin, in the places it wasn't covered in crimson, was chalky and paler than usual, and his lips were turning blue. Yamamoto had assumed that Gokudera was unconscious, but when he shifted and put pressure on the wound, Gokudera shuddered and groaned; his eyes flickered open, hazy and unfocused.

"Hey, Gokudera," Yamamoto said, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm gonna have to move you, okay?"

Green eyes drifted up to look at him—no, not at him, just in his general direction. Gokudera couldn't see him, he realized; he only hoped that the bomber could at least understand him.

"It's gonna hurt, I know, but I have to move you to get you help." With one hand still firmly holding the compress in place, he slid his other arm under Gokudera and, swift like ripping off a bandage, he flipped the bomber, cushioning his upper back. Gokudera cried out, tears coming to his eyes. Slowly, Yamamoto stood, cradling Gokudera against him and muttering apologies.

"I'm gonna get you help, Gokudera," he promised as he started running for the emergency team. "You're going to be okay."

The sound of rustling cloth drew him out of his musings, and his head shot up. Beautiful jade eyes looked at him blearily. Fuzzy and unfocused, but open. Takeshi's heart soared, and his lips spread in a grateful, mildly hysterical smile as he thanked the gods that the Storm Guardian had made it through the night.

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