Yamamoto spent the next two weeks going between his job at his pop's restaurant, his apartment, and Gokudera's hospital room, doing his college work in his spare time—in the car at stop lights, on the sidetable while Dera was sleeping, during his break at Takesushi.

When Tsuna asked him if he wanted to go after the Uomo Che Cammina Morto Famiglia, it had taken all his strength to turn him down. There was only one thing Takeshi wanted more than to personally torture the men responsible for Gokudera's injuries; he wanted to stay by Gokudera's side and help him through this. He wanted to be there when Gokudera smiled again and meant it; he wanted to be there when he laughed—maybe even at one of Yamamoto's jokes.

But more than all of that, he wanted to be there when Gokudera recovered enough to walk again; he wanted to be there to help him take his first new steps, to stand by him.

Yamamoto brushed Gokudera's hair out of his eyes; the silveret shifted in his sleep, unconsciously tilting his head towards the swordsman, murmuring his approval. He was captivated by the way it constantly flopped unceremoniously over his closed eyes; he always had been. He wanted so badly to bury his nose in that hair and take in the bomber's scent.

But that would be crossing a line he was balancing on; he was surprised that Gokudera hadn't socked him for holding his hand, but he had a sneaking suspicion that that had something to do with the drugs. Gokudera breathed softly, air whistling just the slightest bit through parted, pink lips, just begging to be kissed. It was so tempting to steal one while the bomber was resting, but no—that was stepping over the lane too. Actually, that was throwing himself off the cliff of Personal Boundaries and straight into the deadly, shark-infested waters of the Creepy-Love struck-Admirer Ocean.

Tsuna had never said as much, but Yamamoto could tell from the meaningful gleam in his caramel eyes that the Tenth Vongola Boss knew of his feelings; he knew that Yamamoto was in love with Gokudera. No, that's not quite right. He wasn't just in love with Gokudera, but he was hopelessly, irrevocably, utterly head over heels for him. Yamamoto loved 'Dera's brash and reckless nature, his devotion to his friends, and his laugh and smile—when he meant it. He adored Gokudera's explosive temper and his tendency to slip into his native tongue when he got especially livid; Italian was such a beautiful language, particularly when it fell from Gokudera's lips.

Yamamoto loved Gokudera and he would do anything for him, and despite how much he wanted revenge for what happened, it was more important for Yamamoto to stay by the bomber's side. Tsuna would take care of the enemy; hell, without Yamamoto there, Tsuna wouldn't feel obligated to hold back. Him, Hibari, Enma, and Dino against the Uomo Che Cammina Morto Famiglia—Yamamoto almost felt bad for the poor bastards. They had no idea what they'd provoked when they set off the bomb.

Yamamoto smiled when Gokudera groaned and opened his eyes, blinking at him sleepily. He wished that the tired eyes would brighten, wished that the exhausted heartbeat would deepen and strengthen; the docs said that Gokudera was out of the danger zone, but his heart was still weak.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he said glibly. Gokudera scowled, tugged his hand out of Yamamoto's, and growled, "Shut the fuck up, yakubaka."

He was glad; Gokudera was cursing and insulting him, which meant he wasn't completely on Cloud Nine. When he'd first woken up, the bomber had been so stoned on painkillers he hadn't even objected when Yamamoto kissed him on the forehead and held his hand; Yamamoto treasured the memory of 'Dera's hand in his, because it would never happen again. Still, he was grateful that Gokudera was getting back to his own self; he knew how addictive Morphine could be.

"Maa, maa, Gokudera," Yamamoto laughed, "take it easy. I'm just joking!"

Gokudera grumbled, but let it drop. There was a moment of silence before Yamamoto cleared his throat. Gokudera looked at him expectantly, his face schooled into disinterest but his eyes betraying him.

"So," Yamamoto said, "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first, 'Dera?"

"I hate that name," the bomber growled. He mulled over it before saying, "Might as well get over it. Good first."

Yamamoto grinned and motioned to the plastic bag next to his chair. "The doctors have cleared you for release; you can go home—" Gokudera's eyes lit up and his lips spread in an uncharacteristic smile— "on a few conditions."

The smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. "And those would be…?"

"Well, for one, you have to stop smoking or you could increase the risk of complications—" Gokudera scowled and swore— "as expected, you're confined to a wheelchair until further notice, and you have to see a psychologist weekly."

Gokudera growled, low and menacing, but when he spoke, his voice was even and together. "Is that it?"

Yamamoto looked away and bit his lip; how did he tell Gokudera?

"Well, um—don't get mad, Dera," Yamamoto started, "but they won't release you under your own power. They'll only let you go if you agree to a temporary guardianship and living with a caregiver until they clear you." Yamamoto closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion; predictably, he was right.

*The following cursing has been censored due to its inappropriate nature and complete disregard of the English language*

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