"Isn't it a little too early for this?" Shamal questioned, exasperated as he threw a weary glance over his shoulder to look at the familiar figure standing by the entrance to the room.
"Since when did seeking professional help require punctuality?" the brunet who stood by the door of the infirmary with a hand over his evidently bleeding chest retorted. He casted a brief peek behind his back to make certain that nobody was there to see him before closing the door with a soft click with the use of his back. "Besides," he added wryly, "You're not one to speak."
Shamal heaved a sigh. "Still bitter about nearly killing Bianchi, I see," he murmured under his breath, flippantly gesturing with his head for him to occupy one of the beds. The brunet quietly followed, albeit begrudgingly.
At least I can say with certainty that he's still capable of being bothered by something, the man mused to himself. One would honestly think otherwise from everything he'd gone through his entire life under the tutelage of Bianchi. The woman was harsh, everybody knew that. He didn't know much about how Bianchi trained her student but Shamal could recall that one time when the teenager dismissively confessed to being the subject of Bianchi's poison cooking for practice, the longest duration of the said practice lasting half a year of tolerating the various side effects it presented. Knowing that, it was a little easier to understand his confidence which often bordered on apathetic disinterest.
Levelling himself to the teenager's midsection, he set his equipments down and observed the extent of the damage. He clearly had no breathing difficulties nor did he look as if he was struggling with movement. The only indication that his injury existed was the blood that was not easily seen on the dark fabric. But of course, they've been together for a little more than half a decade so the man could say with confidence that it was a grave mistake to judge the gravity of this person's injuries by his outward behavior.
Shamal gave the brunet a stern look from where he sat- a silent command which the brunet quickly followed through.
The teenager shrugged the black button down shirt off of his shoulders and let out a small snort at the blank look that Shamal directed at his chest.
"...Three days? No." He watched as emotions of sheer disbelief flitted across the man's brown eyes. "A week. You've been hiding this for a week."
The brunet glanced down at him, eyes indifferent to the extent of the damage that the wound on his chest presented. It was infected, he could tell, and perhaps that meant something critical in Shamal's medical dictionary. The three gashes ran across his chest from his left collarbone to his right hip, a few smaller cuts surrounding it in varying lengths and depths, caused by things that ranged from glass shards to bullets that would be capable of reducing a human's body to nothing but mere pieces if directly hit with it.
"It's not that bad. It healed quite nicely a few days after I had it," he tells him with a casual shrug. It didn't slip past Shamal's attention how the brunet didn't flinch at the slight pull that the action made on his injury. "It just reopened from last night's operation."
Shamal raised the brunet's arms in order to start cleaning both the gash and other minor injuries. He smiled grimly. "Seriously? An operation at this time of the month?"
The brunet didn't bother to reply. He doesn't exactly see why Shamal should be concerned. Getting his body pierced by bullets, sliced by poisoned daggers and piano wires, littered with bruises from fists, weapons, both wooden and metallic, and almost every object that can be hurled at a person and cause death, and tormented by agonizing pain from electric currents and acidic solutions that the few smarter opponents he manages to come against would have wasn't all much of a new experience even if it was examinations week. He was capable of balancing his academics and his life underneath the surface of society. Even better, he knew how to remain on top.
Shamal took the hint from his silence but persisted to ask with a raised eyebrow at his lack of response. The brunet rolled his eyes.
"Time is scarce amongst the Vongola," he replied. "You should know that best, Shamal."
The hands dabbing at his wound stopped briefly before resuming.
They didn't say anything to each other after that.
Throwing his bloodied black button down shirt over his shoulder, he silently nodded his gratitude to the man before leaving the infirmary. He heard the man click his tongue before the door closed and he smiled to himself as he turned and made his way down the stairs.
It was deathly silent in the hallways of the school and he mused on how it was wise of Shamal to reside in a private school for his base of operations. Not only would the people attacking him lose their face in front of a prestige school, but they'd also risk attracting attention from the yakuza and the lurking organizations keeping watch. Japan was an active center of underground activities; that was common knowledge. It was just a matter of figuring out who is in charge of which territory, and despite Shamal's seemingly unsuspecting facade, he was positive he knows more than he actually lets on.
He looked behind his shoulder and glanced at his watch; it was 3 am. At least, he supposes that Shamal does know more than he lets on. At this time, it takes experience to not be fazed or surprised at the appearance of probable assassins and even seem expectant of it. It must have to do with his profession of being a doctor but being a doctor had its differences with being an assassin and the brunet was certain that the man was leaning more towards the latter as a profession.
"Not that it concerns me," he murmured to himself. He turned to the window and grinned. It was dark, and the sun was far from rising. It was the perfect time to haul his ass out through the window and make his way home in style, as incredulous as it may sound.
Pressing his palms flat against the window and pushing it to the side, he welcomed the cold breeze that immediately came into contact with his face. The wind was chillingly cold, but he didn't mind. He placed one foot on the ledge and then threw his other foot over the wall to stand on the ledge which was barely four inches in length and width. With a swift movement of his arm, he twisted his body and slid the window's glass back to its original place and used it to push himself over the ledge with his arms spread out. But at the position he fell from, the direction of his descent pointed to the wall on the third floor. He performed one flip before stretching his legs out to propel himself against the wall of the third floor and rolling twice in the air before smoothly executing his landing.
As much as he'd rather go with the aerial route, the position of Yumei Private Middle School in Namimori's topography didn't make it a recommendable option. The school was barricaded by the forest grounds so the only way to go about it if he were to choose the aerial route would be to use the trees as some sort of platform for movement, and he would truly rather not for the sole reason of possible yakuza or famiglia territory discovery.
He straightened himself out and glanced at his bloodied and worn out shirt. Fortunately, Shamal thoughtfully provided him with a spare jacket of the school so he didn't have to worry about going home half-naked visibly injured. With barely a second of consideration, he summoned a small spark of Dying Will Flame and ignited the clothing in pure blazing orange flames, thoughtlessly leaving the shredded ornament to burn itself to nonexistence on the ground.
Not even a second later, he was nowhere to be found.
Timoteo, for as old as he was, definitely hasn't abandoned his instincts in battle as he calmly faced the adolescent wrapped within inexplicably dark tendrils of mist. He was tall, and his hair flowed smoothly behind his shadow clad figure. He was an imposing figure for someone as young as he was, but Timoteo wasn't fooled by the almost childish tone to his voice. They had the same eyes; the eyes of a man who was barely hanging on to what most people saw as sanity.
"Greetings, Vongola Nono," the voice said, foreign in language and haunting in tone. He took it all in stride as he pressed his back against his seat.
"I shall humor your unmannerly appearance, lad," he returned. "What do you want of the Vongola Famiglia?"
The teenager chuckled. "I am honored. If you wouldn't mind, I'll get straight to the point."
"Let's hear it."
"Of course. Well then, what I ask for is simple."
Heterochromic eyes, a dangerously beautiful clash between red and blue, narrowed enticingly.
"Step down from your throne."
The teenager was reckless, yet not stupid. He refrained from showing too much of his appearance to counter recognition but he left just enough for him to be remembered. His tone was mocking, not because he was arrogant, but because he knows of something that Timoteo didn't. In fact, with the way he simply materialized inside his office without alerting any of the men on guard for the headquarters spoke levels of his skills and intentions. What he wanted was something he was certain of achieving.
However, the same could be said for Timoteo. He had plenty of time to predict the stranger's unforeseen arrival, and he had never removed his grip from his weapon throughout their conversation. Nothing definite could be seen from his expression as it was properly masked by a kind smile yet cold gaze, and his words probed at his actual intentions.
He stood up. The lack of response didn't bypass Timoteo's attention; the teenager knew the outcome of the situation. The Blood of Vongola boiled underneath his skin.
Out of sheer exasperation, Timoteo said, "Iemitsu, what has your son done this time?"
The teenager must have understood what he had said to some extent from the look in his eyes. He was amused.
"Are you going to stand there all day long, Tsuna?" Bianchi called from the doorway with her hands on her hips, eyebrow raised. "I don't exactly have the patience to hold the door open for you any longer than I currently am."
The brunet blinked twice and shook his head. He entered the house and closed it behind him.
The three long gashes on his abdomen itched.