Rated: G to NC-17 for language, violence, and sexual situations
Steve's Notes: These drabbles were written in celebration of Yamamoto's return in ch. 325.
Disclaimer: Katekyou Hitman Reborn! © Amano Akira


pierced || PG-13 || 142 || Gokudera/Tsuna/Yamamoto || for hiza_chan

Gokudera sits in front of Tsuna, an unlit cigarette trapped between his lips. His thighs rest on either side of Tsuna's pelvis and his bony knees dig into Tsuna's ribs. He rolls the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other as he stares absently at the sky and its cottonball clouds, the white paper and gold filter occasionally catching on his new lip ring. Tsuna watches as avidly as Yamamoto, whose chin rests on Tsuna's shoulder and whose growing arousal Tsuna can feel against the small of his back.

"Do you think he knows?" Yamamoto murmurs huskily into Tsuna's ear. It makes him shiver and the almost imperceptible movement causes Gokudera's acid green eyes return to them, to the earth.

"No," Tsuna replies as Gokudera's mouth becomes a sharp frown, the lip ring glinting in the summer sun. "Never."


an expected delight || NC-17 || 197 || Gokudera/Lambo || for alcedines

His adolescent knees knock against Gokudera's torso, blunt and painful against the bruised ribs. Gokudera snarls a reprimand against Lambo's slender throat but the warning is either unheard or unheeded; Lambo's knees dig into his gauze-covered chest moments later.

"Little shit," Gokudera snarls as he pulls back and wraps his hands around Lambo's skinny thighs, his thumbs in the hollows below his hamstrings. Lambo cries out something in garbled Italian at the sudden change and the sharp pain of Gokudera's nails in his skin, but his cock jumps between them. Gokudera notices and smirks. He growls, "Like that?" as he digs his nails in harder.

Lambo whines. The tears in the corners of his hooded eyes become heavier until his eyelashes could not possibly hold onto them any longer; they fall down the crescents of his ruddy cheeks. His fingers twist in the bed sheets and his toes curl tightly. But he nods frantically, his dark curls sticking to his sweaty skin and his ivory teeth biting into his pink mouth.

"Yeah," Gokudera murmurs then, almost to himself. He rakes a stinging line of red own Lambo's legs; Lambo hiccoughs a wet moan. "That's a good boy."


a boy, a bird, and a dog || G || 310 || Yamamoto, Jirou, Kojirou || for mochalatt3

His new scar a starburst over his abdomen, his new ring glittering on his body, the first thing Yamamoto thinks is, I need to find Tsuna and then, Gokudera. I need to tell him—

He squashes the thought as it rises in him like panic. He needs this strange calm he's possessed since he woke up to Byakuran's smiling face and teasing explanation, to a modified ring and a terrible urgency. He didn't panic when Byakuran called him a friend nor when he dressed in the comfortable, but unfamiliar clothes pressed into his hands. He didn't panic when his legs nearly folded beneath him as he stood nor when his empty stomach longed for his father's sushi and a tall glass of milk. He did not panic because he must not panic, not when his friends are in danger.

"Your ring will find them," Byakuran says as he unfolds his long, white wings. "I'll see you later, eh?"

He leaves and Yamamoto breathes life into Jirou and Kojirou with a delicate flame not unlike a heartbeat. An expressive akita, Jirou jumps into Yamamoto's arms with a short bark and nuzzles his chin, licks his face. The crystal embedded between his eyes scratches at Yamamoto's skin, but his fur is soft and warm. Kojirou, less expressive but no less affectionate, lets the dog have his moment with their master before he trills. He settles on Yamamoto's out-stretched hand, flaps his sapphire wings, and pulls at the small, unwashed hairs at Yamamoto's temple when Yamamoto brings him close.

"Yeah, yeah," Yamamoto laughs as the animals bring him the comfort and the fortitude he did not know he needed. He allows himself to think of nothing but their simple affection for him for a single, warm moment. Then he forces himself to pull away and say, "Okay guys. Let's go find our family."


a spoonful of sugar || PG || 136 || Yamamoto/Gokudera + Lambo || for alcedines

Lambo is nine, still in love with grape candy and playing mobster, when Gokudera is shot three times in some back alley in Palermo.

"Do you think he'll like it?" Lambo asks Yamamoto when he's allowed to visit. He's almost scared to talk to Yamamoto, who has a hard edge in his eyes that is not unlike the hard edge of his sword. Uselessly, he adds, "They're my favorites."

Yamamoto looks at the table next to the hospital bed, where an opened package of sweets rests purple and innocent among the sterile white and unforgiving steel. The smile that comes to his lips almost makes the nausea Lambo feels disappear.

"Yeah," Yamamoto replies as he uses his free hand, the hand not holding Gokudera's limp fingers, to ruffle Lambo's curly hair. "He's going to love it."


growing pains || PG || 884 || Yamamoto + Yamapapa || for faorism

Home will not always be two bedrooms, one bath, and a living space above a family-owned sushi restaurant. Someday it will be a small apartment in Tokyo with a battered couch, a double wide futon, and an ashtray or two on the kitchen counter. Someday after that it will be a sprawling villa in Palermo, where he has an extravagant room that he never sleeps in, but another technically-isn't-his room with schematics warring with whetting stones on the coffee table and wide, often open French doors that allow the wind to carry in the scent of the Mediterranean. Someday he will know home isn't a place but a person who swears and smokes and only says I love you when he thinks Takeshi can't hear him.

But that is some day, and not this day, when Takeshi is fifteen years old and standing outside the front entrance to Takezushi like a stranger. Inside, he can hear his father cleaning the bar and singing along—quite badly—to some old enka music that his mother loved. It takes all the courage he has and more to raise his hands from his sides and open the door, and even more to call out, "I'm home!"

Behind the bar, his father stops singing. There is a rag in his hand and soy sauce on his sleeve. He looks exactly the same as he did two months ago, when Takeshi had told him that he would come home late because he was going to stay after school to practice pitching with Kaoru.

"Decide to come home?" his father asks as he goes back to his cleaning. The movements are ritualistic after all these years. "I was wondering where you had gone off to this time."

"I was helping my friends," Takeshi says without hesitation. He does not regret helping his famiglia nor the Shimon. "I went to Italy."

His father clicks his tongue and Takeshi almost flinches. Ever since he was a small child, that was always the noise his father made when he was disappointed. Eventually, after he has cleaned all the needle-like sashimi knives, his father continues, "Your friends must have been in a lot of trouble."

"Yes," Takeshi answers simply, because it is the simple truth.

"Alright," his father says. He looks up at Takeshi and gestures to a stool in front of him. "Come sit down."

Each step is a battle. Takeshi wants nothing more than to turn around and flee. There is a set of stairs in the back of the restaurant that leads directly to the second floor; he could have taken them and snuck into his bedroom, changed out of his dirty clothes and put on some clean bandages. But then he would have had to face his father in the morning with the knowledge that he had hidden from the man who taught him courage, and that alone had made the decision for him.

He sits. His father stares at him, takes in his bloody knuckles, the gritty gauze on his face and hands, the easy rest of the Shigure Kintoki between his shoulder blades. "Wait here," his father says.

The two minutes Takeshi waits, listening to the sounds of ceramic in the kitchen, are an eternity. When his father returns, he's carrying a bottle of saké and a pair of small, black lacquer cups. He sets one down on the counter in front of him and the other on the bar in front of Takeshi. He fills them both and the comforting smell of warm saké wafts up.

"You are not done growing," his father begins as he sets the bottle down. "And I always asked myself, 'What are you doing with that boy, Tsuyoshi? He has nothing in his head but baseball, baseball, baseball. Yes, he will inherit the shop from you one day, so he has a future, but shouldn't you try to encourage him to do something else?'"

His father pauses to sip at his saké. Takeshi does not touch his cup.

"Then you met that boy with the wild hair and called him your friend. You have a foreign friend who smokes and no regard for his elders. You had never really had friends before, so I allowed you to do as you pleased. Then you started disappearing, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months. I never heard from you, not once in all those times, but I told myself that you were a good boy. You would do nothing but make me proud."

Takeshi looks up at his father. He would proudly say, "I am Vongola" if he could, but his voice sticks in his throat. How does he tell his father that, at fifteen, he's a member of the mafia world's most powerful family? Not only a member, but within the inner circle? How can he say he will probably never play baseball professionally, that he will probably never inherit Takezushi, that everything his father ever wanted for him will never pass?

"Do you want to know what I think, Takeshi? I think you are still growing. But at fifteen, you are one of the best men it has ever been my good fortune to know." His father lifts his cup again. "Welcome home, son."

This time, Takeshi drinks with him.


picking up pieces || R || 886 || Gokudera/Yamamoto || for melissa_42

Physical therapy is not easy.

No one ever said it would be—his doctors and his psychologist had stressed the opposite—but Takeshi had not given the supposed difficulty of it any second thought. After all, he had more than one ruthless and impossibly demanding tutor during his life; how different could it be?

But physical therapy is different from his father's exacting katas, Reborn's precise demands, or Squalo's hands-on, no holds barred training. Every time he attempted something with his tutors, no matter how hard, he eventually triumphed. Now even a single step is exhausting. It frustrates him because he knows he could run and run for miles if only his legs would obey his demands. It is infinitely worse than breaking his arm and being replaced as starter on the baseball team because, even when he had been willing to die from the stagnation of it all, he had known he would get better. This injury is different. It is hardly a clean break in his radius that will heal in six weeks; it is a mess of nerves and muscle that cannot regenerate and may never heal at all.

"Hey, idiot!" Gokudera snarls from the other side of the bathroom door. "Are you fuckin' drowning? You better be, making me wait so goddamned long!"

Takeshi jerks and the water in the bathtub sloshes over the rim. It is lukewarm. "A—ah, I was just getting out!" Takeshi replies as he tears his gaze away from his atrophied legs. He reaches for the bar his father had to install so he could get himself in and out of the tub. "I'll be there in a minute."

Gokudera mutters something foul and Italian under his breath. It takes Takeshi much longer than a minute to haul himself out and dress, but when he wheels into his bedroom, neither he nor Gokudera comment on it. Takeshi towel dries his wet hair as Gokudera sucks on a cheap Mild Seven, blowing the smoke out the open window. He finishes just as Takeshi maneuvers from the wheelchair to his bed, the action still stiff and awkward with inexperience. Gokudera watches him rearrange his legs stoically, his acid green eyes half-lidded and his nicotine stained mouth a straight line. Takeshi tries to distract himself by reaching for the chemistry textbook on his bedside table, but before he can ask Gokudera for more help on balancing equations, Gokudera snaps, "Not now."

Takeshi's eyes flicker upwards in time to see Gokudera flick the Mild Seven filter out the cracked window. His heart begins to beat faster as Gokudera strides over and sinks down onto the mattress, next to Takeshi. He's so close Takeshi can feel the heat roil off his body.

"I want to fuckin' kill him," Gokudera says without preamble. His face and his hands are unerringly steady; he's absolutely serious. "I want to beat his face in until his own mother wouldn't recognize his face. I want to break all his fingers, then his legs, then his ribs. I want to put a real bullet through his brain for even touching you. You are my responsibility, do you understand?"

Takeshi's blood roars in his ears. He tries to laugh but his throat refuses to let more than a whistle of air out.

"Cristo," Gokudera swears, his stoic façade crumbling in the frustrated corners of his eyes and mouth. "I'm fuckin' trying to tell you—"

Takeshi's legs are almost useless now that they are not bolstered by illusion, but his arms are stronger. His fingers become vices in Gokudera's shirt and he drags the other boy forward until their mouths touch. Their noses mash together and it's terribly awkward until Gokudera tilts his head and parts the seam of his lips. Then it's wonderful and Takeshi desperately tries to suck Gokudera's anger and passion out through his mouth, and Gokudera readily gives it to him with his heavy, bitter tongue and the sharp edge of his teeth.

"He was just—trying to—protect his family," Takeshi gasps between Gokudera's bruising, intoxicating kisses. "We would have—ahhh—"

"Don't compare me to him," Gokudera says after he removes his teeth from the sensitive curve of Takeshi's neck. His eyes are darker than Takeshi has ever seen them and the thick muscle of his jaw jumps. He rests a hand on Takeshi's thigh and absently soothes the sore muscle with his thumb. It feels so good, so good, and he marvels at the double-edged joy that pierces him. "I would never hurt you."

"No," Takeshi says, and places a hand on top of Gokudera's. Gokudera stiffens but does not pull away. "I know you won't."

Gokudera scowls, as brittle as he ever is, and snaps, "What is that supposed to—"

Takeshi shuts him up with another kiss. He tries to say thank you but he doesn't know how; Gokudera tries to tell him I will take care of you but he never will. They convey their anger and frustration and anguish into actions, yet this is all they manage: Gokudera slides his tongue slowly against Takeshi's, Takeshi curls his fingers in Gokudera's soft hair, and they share air when they part for breath.

And for now, it is enough that Gokudera keeps his warm hand atop Takeshi's slowly healing legs.


the samurai || PG-13 || 462 || Squalo/Yamamoto || for questofdreams

It is a cold spring day when Takeshi asks, "Why don't you cut your hair?"

The question is thoughtless and flippant. Takeshi only asks because he's known Squalo for six years, and in those six years Takeshi knows Squalo's hair has only grown. Once, Dino had off-handedly told him that Squalo's hair used to be short and wild; Takeshi tries to imagine it and cannot. He likes it as it is now, its blade-like straightness and its metallic paleness, but he's curious about it too. Squalo is a man who cut his own hand off without flinching, but refused to give even an inch of his hair. Takeshi has never been able to figure it out and knows he never will, not unless he asks.

He expects Squalo to either ignore him or to tell him to fuck off, to snap that it is none of his business or it's because he does what he damn well pleases. What Takeshi does not expect, however, is what actually happens: a swift fist to the gut and a fall to the unforgiving ground, Squalo's knees hard against his ribs and the edge of his sword threatening his jugular.

"What do you think, brat?" Squalo snarls. His hair spills carelessly over his trembling shoulders. "Do you think that because we swore fealty to the Vongola that we're your lapdogs?"

Takeshi feels his mouth tighten as Squalo laughs, a harsh and choked sound. He has no idea what the other man is talking about.

"I'll give you a hint," Squalo continues, his voice a low hiss. "You're trash. Your pathetic excuse for a boss is trash. Xanxus could eat that little fish in one bite if he wanted. Don't get complacent, scum, it'll be your downfall."

The metal of the spatha is a cold line against Takeshi's neck. It gives Takeshi something to focus on, rather than the distracting pink of Squalo's rage flushed cheeks or the heave of his narrow chest. Comprehension blooms slowly in the back of his brain. After all, he and Squalo are not so different; they are both swordsmen, and they are both loyal, and they both have unshakeable pride in both.

"It was just a question," Takeshi replies easily as they stare at each other, one glowering as the other smiles disarmingly as he places his wide, warm palms on top of Squalo's thighs. His ring glitters amongst the tangle of Squalo's hair. "I wasn't accusing you of anything."

"Che," Squalo snorts, as though it hardly matters. He sheathes his sword regardless. "Like I care what you fuckin' think, brat."

"I know," Takeshi laughs, but when he lifts his duty bound hand to smooth an errant strand from Squalo's temple, the other man does not push him away. "I know."


a relative measure || PG-13 || 376 || Kaoru/Yamamoto || for mochalatt3

Before Mizuno Kaoru, Takeshi was tall.

He had been the tallest boy in his year since he was eleven. When someone asked about his height, he would smile and give a vague answer about drinking a lot of milk. He knows that his height is largely due to a boon of genetics—his father is tall and his mother was too—but that answer is too scientific for Takeshi. He likes to pretend that his love for milk is the reason his adolescent body stretches further than any other boy's, and wants other people to pretend with him.

Then Kaoru lumbers into his life. He is not only taller than Takeshi, but broader too. The muscles of his arms and torso are firm and thick; they coil and relax underneath his skin with little regard to Takeshi's strange envy. Takeshi cannot help the want to feel that strength beneath his hands. So one day, after they've spent hours on the dusty pitch, Takeshi finds his hands wrapped around the swell of Kaoru's bicep.

"Y-yamamoto?" Kaoru stutters, his blunt, almost ugly face turning red.

"Sorry!" Takeshi laughs, but his touch remains. "I just wanted to feel you, you know?"

Kaoru opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Then he swallows, heavily, as though he were parched. Beneath Takeshi's hands, his muscles jump and tremble.

"I want to touch you," Takeshi says as his hands skitter to Kaoru's wide shoulders and eventually to the breadth of his impressive chest, where his heart thunders beneath Takeshi's fingertips. He smells like sweat and old leather. "You can touch me too."

Kaoru's hands rise and linger over his hips until Takeshi steps into the heavy grip. His nose bumps Kaoru's strong jaw. His head swims with the power he has over shy and hesitant Kaoru, whose bulk makes him feel small and thin and breakable. It gives him courage.

"I want to kiss you," Takeshi murmurs. "Will you let me?"

Kaoru licks his lips, his eyes dark against his pale lashes. "Y-yeah," he stammers. It sounds like an admission or a plea, and it so readily reflects what Takeshi feels that he smiles against Kaoru's slick skin.

Before Mizuno Kaoru, Takeshi was tall. After they kiss, he is a giant.


end.