(no subject)
Title: After Me, the Flood
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters, Pairing: Squalo, Yama/Goku
Rating: PG-13 for some violence
Word Count: 4000
Notes: Title stolen from Regina Spektor who stole it from Pasternak.
Yamamoto sat on his bed and stared down at the cell phone in his hands. A plane would be ready for him in twenty minutes. Yamamoto never ceased to be amazed at the Vongola's resources, even with such short notice.
He felt a little guilty about leaving his Family at a time like this. He rarely felt guilty, never gave himself a chance to by doing things that he'd regret, so this was odd. He didn't like that feeling in his gut, but he had no choice. And it was for them. It was for a good reason.
"Taking a vacation to the country, are we?" Gokudera was leaning against Yamamoto's door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look pleased, but he looked like he lacked the energy to be angry.
Yamamoto smiled up at him softly. "Word travels fast," he said, his voice low and reserved. He hadn't noticed how quietly, how slowly he'd been speaking lately, but Gokudera had mentioned it to him. It had been night and Yamamoto knew that Gokudera always felt a little less vulnerable in the dark; they had most of their serious conversations then, after everyone else was asleep. Forehead resting against Yamamoto's bare shoulder, Gokudera had asked quietly if it was because of his dad, because of the recent funeral, and Yamamoto hadn't known how to respond. He didn't know what had caused it. He didn't even know that he was doing it. So he hadn't answered and Gokudera had just let it be.
"You know we need you here right now, right?"
Yamamoto shrugged. "It's just overnight," he said, "and I need to do this before things get really bad."
It was no longer appropriate to use hypotheticals and suppositions when they spoke of the coming battles. The battles were going to happen. And they'd just have to be ready.
Gokudera said nothing, but Yamamoto felt the mattress shift as the other man settled beside him on the bed, his hands hanging between his knees. He'd been looking thin lately. They'd all been looking ragged. The constant string of wakes and funeral services could do that to a person. Yamamoto turned to the side and nosed through Gokudera's shaggy hair, pausing with his mouth near his ear.
"Sometimes you just have to know, right?"
Gokudera frowned a little and pulled away. "Yeah, but...the Varia?"
"They're not so bad, you know."
"They're assassins!"
Yamamoto smiled. "So's Reborn."
"Exactly!"
"Haha, what's that supposed to mean? Really, it will be fine."
Gokudera grumbled to himself, then stood up. Yamamoto followed him. He knew the other well enough now to know that the argument was won. And it saddened him that this was the shortest argument they'd ever had.
"Just be safe, yeah?"
Yamamoto smiled and rested a hand on Gokudera's shoulder. "Hey, you go off on your own to train all the time. Besides, I can trust headquarters to you. Right-hand man and all."
Gokudera rolled his eyes but looked gratified. "Takeshi..."
Yamamoto smiled. "That's a first."
Gokudera shrugged. "It's just, we're disappearing, you know? Don't you..." He paused. "Don't you disappear, too."
Yamamoto tried to smile reassuringly, but the cell phone in his hand rang. It was time to go. He shrugged again, a gesture he'd picked up recently, and ruffled a hand through Gokudera's hair before he walked out the door.
***
Varia headquarters was a vast, sprawling estate settled in the mountainside of northern Italy. Balconies jutted out from the upper floors, overlooking the forests and the hillsides and the vineyards. It was all very lavish, Yamamoto thought to himself.
The flight in had shown him the topography of Italy. He could understand where the romantic notions came from, why Gokudera spoke of it with such fondness. It had something of a warmth, visible even from the height of the plane, that Japan lacked. But the Varia mansion was devoid of warmth. Just cold marble and glass, all surrounded by pavement, an entity quite separate from the comforting landscape he'd seen earlier.
On the car ride in, he'd passed many simple, humble homes along the roadside or set back farther into the countryside. The simple, natural look of the common architecture had been very pleasing to him. Nothing like this loud mansion at the end of the long, winding driveway. But it was still beautiful, he had to admit. Before him, the white statue of a naked girl rose from the fountain, her arms stretched over her head, her legs crossed at the ankles, a span of cloth draped loosely over her wide hips. He wondered briefly, as he got out of the car, what Gokudera's childhood home had looked like.
He approached the door, his only luggage the sheathed sword that he tapped against his shoulder as he walked. He had packed lightly. The door knocker was carved stone in the shape of a lion's head, situated about midway up the door, fierce and terrible. It roared silently, eternally, a heavy brass ring draped over its bottom row of teeth. Yamamoto reached up and rapped it against the door. He could hear loud voices inside -- not arguing, but yelling anyway. One of the voices, a little sharper than the others, drew closer to the door.
"Shut up, shut up," he could hear, "I paused it!"
Several locks clicked and the door was pulled open enough to reveal the sharp, silver points of several knives, and Belphegor's smile which was equally sharp. Gripped in his other hand, Yamamoto could see a video game controller. The long, modified cord trailed off behind him. Belphegor evaluated him for a moment through long, blond bangs, then yelled over his shoulder.
"Squaloooo! It's for you!" Then he left the door open and wandered back down the trail of the game controller cord.
Yamamoto wiped his feet on the welcome mat (The Varia have a welcome mat?) and stepped inside. The interior was as decadent as the exterior, like something he'd seen in a movie. All polished and shining. a dwelling of luxury, but cold.
He could hear the heavy heels clicking against the floor before he saw him. And though they'd only met once in battle, his blood recognized and responded to the sound of his gait.
"Katana brat." The term of endearment was as warm as it was frightening.
Yamamoto smiled widely, nakedly. "Squalo," he said.
Squalo spread his hands wide in front of him in a mocking imitation of generosity. "If you're here to ask for our support in the coming bloodbath, you should already know the answer's no. We don't go in for such lousy odds."
Yamamoto smirked -- an expression he had adopted from Gokudera, realizing it only too late, after many years, and there was nothing to be done -- and he shook his head. "We'll manage without your help, thanks."
"Aaaannnnd...finishing move!" Belphegor laughed like a jackal and Yamamoto could hear him fling his game controller across the room in celebration. It crashed into something -- probably something expensive -- that it the floor with a loud thud, then rolled away. Lussuria moaned his displeasure.
Squalo flashed him a sharp-toothed smile. "Come on," he said, "we can talk somewhere else."
Yamamoto followed him down the hall, their footsteps echoing against the walls bare of everything save a gold-framed portrait of Xanxus. The man was even more frightening in portrait form, all cold eyes and frowning lips, and Yamamoto felt himself walking a little more quickly past it.
In contrast to the minimalism of the hallway outside, the walls of Squalo's quarters were covered with a variety of blades. They looked to have originated from many eras: some heavy and uneven, pounded out from sheets of steel with rudimentary tools; some light and ornate, the swords of royalty -- emperors. Some seemed too heavy to lift, probably relying on the accuracy and strength of their wielders, not on their agility. Some seemed like blades that Yamamoto dreamed about in his own hands, in those dreams where he was a lone swordsman wandering across exotic continents, the dreams from which he'd awake with a pounding heart and roll over to desparately press Gokudera into the mattress. One blade, Yamamoto imagined, from each swordsman Squalo had defeated, a number impressive in its magnitude. Still, one space remained unclaimed, an empty span of wall just above the head of Squalo's bed.
"That space," Squalo said with a sharp leer, "is yours."
Yamamoto smirked in return. "I'm honored."
He leaned in to examine it, the obviously naked spot on the wall. Beneath it was attached a thin, golden plaque: Katana Brat, it announced in deeply engraved kana.
"Nice. But you spelled my name wrong," he said, flopping down on Squalo's bed just beneath the plaque.
"Nope. It's right." Squalo dropped into a fat chair across the room, his feet set wide apart and his arms hanging over the sides. "It's been years, brat."
"Mm," Yamamoto said. He said it noncommitally, as if he didn't lay awake at night, remembering the Rings battle, didn't remember the rush of blood, the pulse in his throat. That pulse got him through some of his darker days, through the days when he had to learn to fight for the kill. He leaned back on his hands. Beyond the door, he could hear Belphegor and Lussuria fighting over their video game.
"No faiiirrr," Lussuria whined, "I thought we banned special moves!"
Belphegor's laugh was cold and frightening, and a wet, fleshy noise came from the TV. Lussuria cried out in anguish.
"I can cheat," Belphegor informed him, "because I'm a prince."
Yamamoto snickered. "He should play with Lambo sometime. That kid's brutal with a game controller--"
"Make play dates on your own time," Squalo interrupted him, "why are you here?"
Yamamoto leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers locked together, his eyes serious as he contemplated what to say. He'd thought about it over the whole flight, but was still left without the right words to explain what this was. Even he didn't know himself.
He cleared his throat. "Those videos you sent me," he tried, "I've watched them all. I'd watch them, and then I'd train. Just about killed myself training, haha!"
Squalo looked pleased with himself. He bent one knee and brought his foot up to rest on the seat of the chair. "So you got tired of stupid baseball, and now you want to fight me," he said, "to see if you learned anything."
Yamamoto nodded.
"You think you can beat me? You can't beat me by copying my moves, brat. I've mastered them all!"
"I know that." His tone was grave and quiet. "I just want to fight you. If you think you're up to it."
Squalo watched him for a moment before grinning and lacing his fingers together behind his head. "I've been waiting for a decade, snot."
***
Squalo's training hall was impressive. It was easily four times the size of the room in which Yamamoto trained, and it lacked any of the warmth and tradition that Yamamoto was used to. It looked very modern in contrast. Constructed of brick and steel, the hall was filled with many platforms and recesses. Much of it looked very worn -- probably built when Squalo was first scouted by the Varia. Maybe before. But some of it... Some of it looked newer. Some of it reminded Yamamoto of the room in which they had battled for the Ring of Rain. How nostalgic of him, Yamamoto thought with a slight smile on his lips.
"No shark this time, I trust," he called across the room, then winked.
Squalo's leer was meant to chill him to the bone. "For me to know," he said, "for you to find out."
Yamamoto's sword was light in his hand, a weight he'd grown accustomed to over the years. And despite his comfort with it in battle, it had been ages since he'd sparred with anyone, really. He'd taught Gokudera and Ryohei enough that they could fight back some, but their sessions were more of an athletic workout for Yamamoto than they were sparring matches. Neither of them made his blood rush like real opponents did. Right then, in Squalo's training hall, he could feel his pulse under every inch of his skin.
Squalo was positioned across the room beneath a steel platform: perfectly protected and ready to charge on the offensive. Yamamoto stood out in the open, unafraid. Squalo must have had a wind machine installed in the place; his long hair was whipping around behind him like the heroes on the covers of Haru's romance novels. The ones she'd tuck away when someone else came in the room. He and the guys had made an afternoon of thumbing through one that she'd left on a side table, laughing at the especially descriptive bits. Women were so weird. Yamamoto grinned to himself. All primped up like Harlequin hero, Squalo didn't look like someone ready to engage in battle.
"Nice boots," Yamamoto called across the expanse, eying up the furry, feathery things covering Squalo's feet. His voice echoed; it seemed to splash somewhere in the distance.
Squalo barked laughter. "Nice monkey suit, brat!"
And then he charged. His sword was an extension of that arm without a hand, strapped on and fierce. He bared his teeth like a feral beast, and Yamamoto could smell the wild stench of bloodlust as the space between them closed. He could feel Squalo's footsteps rumble up through the floor, pounding into his legs like heavy heartbeats. He readied his blade.
Squalo cried out as their swords connected. The vibration coursed through Yamamoto's arms, through his body. His teeth chattered together, and yes it had been so long. So long since an attack had taken over his entire body. It was pleasure unparalleled by anything in his world.
Yamamoto felt the strain in all of his muscles -- his arms, his chest, his back, his legs -- as he threw his weight forward and pushed Squalo away from him. They stood, mere meters apart, chests rising and caving with heavy breath. Yamamoto felt in his guts the way he did kneeling at his father's funeral service: empty and angry and wanting to cling to something that would hold him upright. Then, it had been Gokudera and Tsuna. Now, it was the eye contact between him and Squalo, their bodies tense, then kinetic.
When Yamamoto groaned into his first attack, the water in the air, in his thoughts burst forth and a swirling squall surrounded him. It was everything inside him: years of training, years of fighting, years of searching for that shock, that jolt that made his bones tingle. It was everything inside him pushed to the surface, focused for the first time and Squalo met it with strength and resolve and a laugh as loud as the ones that Yamamoto used to make, but colder, more blizzard than hearth.
Deeper breaths, halted footsteps, swings of blade that connected with nothing but air and water. Another form, tacked to the end of the endless list of forms. As he thrust the blade forward, he felt the energy in his body gather, gather, until it was all balled together like furious storm clouds. He held it warm inside him for a moment. Then with a scream, he shattered it, broke it into pieces, fragmented it into a million bits of soul and the water roared up around him. And as the water crashed down, rained down on Squalo, each droplet became as powerful as a bullet. At that moment, all charity fled Yamamoto's body and he wanted nothing more than to see them pierce Squalo's body. He wanted nothing more than to see his blood. To taste the copper in the air, to smell it and feel it on his skin.
But he saw the whip of white hair as Squalo sidestepped and avoided it. He saw the shift of hips, the movement of feet, the way he moved with grace and power and the arrogance of one always right. Yamamoto shivered, felt drained, felt as he did some nights when Gokudera was looming over him, moving inside of him, pulling away, letting him finally rest. His body felt sapped to the point of frailty, but this was the exciting part: He could just come up with more. He could just take in that deep breath and find something else left within his body, something else with which to move forward.
And so he did. When Squalo charged at him again, all bared teeth and tongue and spittle, all waving hair, Yamamoto didn't shield. He didn't back away. He pushed forward, body tilted at a low angle, long legs propelling him forward. His pants felt tighter around his hips, he hungered and thirsted and needed everything, everything, and then Squalo's blade slid over his upper arm, his chest, his abdomen. It cut deep and something in Yamamoto felt like relief ten years coming.
He heard Squalo laugh sharp and frosty against his ear as they passed each other. His own blood splashed from his body and speckled his face, his lips. He hissed against the pain. His left hand shot up to grasp the wound on his upper arm, and the blood was warm and sticky between his fingers. Squalo might have said something, but Yamamoto couldn't hear it. The entire world could have screamed its soul raw then, could have cursed and kicked and beaten his bones to dust and he wouldn't have noticed a thing.
When he pulled his hand away, the palm was thick with blood. He looked at it for a moment as if it held the secrets of who he was. Then he wiped it roughly on the sleeve of his black suit. In his mind, surrounded by the animal cries of pain and fear and adrenaline, was the memory of a room, a flooded mausoleum. He could remember the sight of Squalo disappearing beneath the surface of the water. The silver-smooth dance of a shark. The blood caked around one eye. He remembered the swell of certainty in his chest, the sense of being in the right body at the right moment, the universe coalescing for one perfect instant of existence. He remembered. His blood remembered and even though Squalo's next attack was perfectly silent, Yamamoto could feel it coming.
It was precision and practice and part soul-recognizing-soul, and Yamamoto's arm swung out behind him, fluid and blind, and even though he couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, couldn't yet feel the connection, he knew where his blade was going. He knew and followed through and Squalo yelped like a starving dog on a frost-bit night. The resistance against his blade, shooting through his body like electricity, wasn't the fleshy kind that came from slicing deep into a body. Instead, it was sharp and hard and Yamamoto turned in time to watch Squalo come to full stop behind him. Yamamoto reached out his hand and grabbed from the air what his blade had sliced free: a thick length of white hair, held tight in his hand like a rope.
Yamamoto stared at his prize. He knew what this was, what it signified. He knew why it felt so heavy. It would have been so easy to coil it up and put it in his pocket, and something inside felt as if it was why he had gone to Italy, as if it was what he'd been seeking. But now, watching Squalo stand in shock, Yamamoto didn't want it so much anymore.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice weaving between the ambient sounds of water, "here. Take it."
Yamamoto held out his hand and Squalo turned to face him. His face was red and strained; his lips were pulled into a tight grimace and before Yamamoto could react, Squalo lunged forward, blade out, and shoved Yamamoto to the ground. He felt the air forced from his lungs and the cold water began to seep into the back of his suit.
Squalo held him down, one knee on his chest, the tip of his blade at Yamamoto's throat. "You still can't beat me, brat."
Yamamoto grinned despite the crushing pain of Squalo's weight on him. He panted as he spoke. "I'm not concerned with beating you."
Squalo bent down, his breath on Yamamoto's lips. He was not breathing as hard as his opponent. "You'll never be the best until you're willing to take me out."
"I don't need to be the best. I just need to protect my Family."
And Squalo stared at him, startled and confused and amused. Just as he'd been at the end of the Battle for the Ring of Rain. His eyes were wide and wild. When the tip of Squalo's blade nicked Yamamoto's throat, Yamamoto winced.
"And I don't need to protect them from you anymore, do I, Squalo?"
Squalo laughed, the mean, wicked laugh that leaked into Yamamoto's dreams sometimes like rainwater through a storm drain. It terrified him; it excited him.
"Stupid brat," he said when he'd caught his breath. He licked the drop of thick blood from Yamamoto's throat like honey. Then he stood up, pressing his knee harder into Yamamoto's chest in the process. "No one comes close to beating me like you, you snot-nosed little amateur. But if you can do this, you can protect the Vongola from whatever fucking weak-ass mafia grunts come after you."
Yamamoto's bloodied hand gripped at his chest. That was going to bruise. "Thanks," he said, grimacing through the pain as he pushed himself up.
Squalo held out a hand and tugged him to his feet. Then he surveyed the bloodied, tattered wreck he'd created. He turned on his heel. "Keep the souvenir," he called over his shoulder as he walked away, "when you get serious,let me know."
***
"Jesus Christ!" Gokudera stripped the sullied jacket off of Yamamoto's body. The filthy thing stunk of rust and sweat. "I hope you fucking killed him!"
Yamamoto just laughed and reached up to unbutton his stained white shirt. Such a worrier, he thought. And the pain shot through him like fresh cuts and he hissed. Gokudera sighed.
"Let me get it, you idiot," he said, slapping Yamamoto's hands away. His fingers were unsteady as he slipped each button free. "Christ. I told you not to be stupid, didn't I? We need you here and we need you healthy enough to fight."
Yamamoto smiled warmly as he scratched his fingers through Gokudera's hair. Gokudera felt so warm, and Yamamoto had been so cold for the whole flight back. "It's fine, it's fine," he said, "I'm fine."
Gokudera scowled but didn't pull away from the touch. Once the shirt was unbuttoned and pulled free of Yamamoto's body, Gokudera looked him over. He took in the gashes over his chest, down his abdomen; the slices that ran around his biceps, his forearms.
"You call this fine?"
Yamamoto didn't answer because he wasn't meant to. He just let Gokudera look him over, worried and angry. If there was anything that Gokudera excelled at, it was being worried and angry. He let him run careful fingers along the cuts that would scab over, then scar. He let Gokudera contemplate for a moment, then pulled him into his arms. Gokudera stayed there, his cheek resting atop Yamamoto's head. The warmth pressed against Yamamoto's bare skin felt good. It made him sleepy.
"Idiot," Gokudera whispered. Then, louder, "Hey, I don't want your blood on me."
"Haha, it's all dry now!"
Gokudera frowned. "You sound better, at least." Then he grumbled, but brought a hand up to cup Yamamoto's head against his chest. "Did you find out what you needed to," he asked.
"Mm." Yamamoto pulled back to kiss the tip of Gokudera's nose. The answer was neither a yes nor a no.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters, Pairing: Squalo, Yama/Goku
Rating: PG-13 for some violence
Word Count: 4000
Notes: Title stolen from Regina Spektor who stole it from Pasternak.
Yamamoto sat on his bed and stared down at the cell phone in his hands. A plane would be ready for him in twenty minutes. Yamamoto never ceased to be amazed at the Vongola's resources, even with such short notice.
He felt a little guilty about leaving his Family at a time like this. He rarely felt guilty, never gave himself a chance to by doing things that he'd regret, so this was odd. He didn't like that feeling in his gut, but he had no choice. And it was for them. It was for a good reason.
"Taking a vacation to the country, are we?" Gokudera was leaning against Yamamoto's door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look pleased, but he looked like he lacked the energy to be angry.
Yamamoto smiled up at him softly. "Word travels fast," he said, his voice low and reserved. He hadn't noticed how quietly, how slowly he'd been speaking lately, but Gokudera had mentioned it to him. It had been night and Yamamoto knew that Gokudera always felt a little less vulnerable in the dark; they had most of their serious conversations then, after everyone else was asleep. Forehead resting against Yamamoto's bare shoulder, Gokudera had asked quietly if it was because of his dad, because of the recent funeral, and Yamamoto hadn't known how to respond. He didn't know what had caused it. He didn't even know that he was doing it. So he hadn't answered and Gokudera had just let it be.
"You know we need you here right now, right?"
Yamamoto shrugged. "It's just overnight," he said, "and I need to do this before things get really bad."
It was no longer appropriate to use hypotheticals and suppositions when they spoke of the coming battles. The battles were going to happen. And they'd just have to be ready.
Gokudera said nothing, but Yamamoto felt the mattress shift as the other man settled beside him on the bed, his hands hanging between his knees. He'd been looking thin lately. They'd all been looking ragged. The constant string of wakes and funeral services could do that to a person. Yamamoto turned to the side and nosed through Gokudera's shaggy hair, pausing with his mouth near his ear.
"Sometimes you just have to know, right?"
Gokudera frowned a little and pulled away. "Yeah, but...the Varia?"
"They're not so bad, you know."
"They're assassins!"
Yamamoto smiled. "So's Reborn."
"Exactly!"
"Haha, what's that supposed to mean? Really, it will be fine."
Gokudera grumbled to himself, then stood up. Yamamoto followed him. He knew the other well enough now to know that the argument was won. And it saddened him that this was the shortest argument they'd ever had.
"Just be safe, yeah?"
Yamamoto smiled and rested a hand on Gokudera's shoulder. "Hey, you go off on your own to train all the time. Besides, I can trust headquarters to you. Right-hand man and all."
Gokudera rolled his eyes but looked gratified. "Takeshi..."
Yamamoto smiled. "That's a first."
Gokudera shrugged. "It's just, we're disappearing, you know? Don't you..." He paused. "Don't you disappear, too."
Yamamoto tried to smile reassuringly, but the cell phone in his hand rang. It was time to go. He shrugged again, a gesture he'd picked up recently, and ruffled a hand through Gokudera's hair before he walked out the door.
***
Varia headquarters was a vast, sprawling estate settled in the mountainside of northern Italy. Balconies jutted out from the upper floors, overlooking the forests and the hillsides and the vineyards. It was all very lavish, Yamamoto thought to himself.
The flight in had shown him the topography of Italy. He could understand where the romantic notions came from, why Gokudera spoke of it with such fondness. It had something of a warmth, visible even from the height of the plane, that Japan lacked. But the Varia mansion was devoid of warmth. Just cold marble and glass, all surrounded by pavement, an entity quite separate from the comforting landscape he'd seen earlier.
On the car ride in, he'd passed many simple, humble homes along the roadside or set back farther into the countryside. The simple, natural look of the common architecture had been very pleasing to him. Nothing like this loud mansion at the end of the long, winding driveway. But it was still beautiful, he had to admit. Before him, the white statue of a naked girl rose from the fountain, her arms stretched over her head, her legs crossed at the ankles, a span of cloth draped loosely over her wide hips. He wondered briefly, as he got out of the car, what Gokudera's childhood home had looked like.
He approached the door, his only luggage the sheathed sword that he tapped against his shoulder as he walked. He had packed lightly. The door knocker was carved stone in the shape of a lion's head, situated about midway up the door, fierce and terrible. It roared silently, eternally, a heavy brass ring draped over its bottom row of teeth. Yamamoto reached up and rapped it against the door. He could hear loud voices inside -- not arguing, but yelling anyway. One of the voices, a little sharper than the others, drew closer to the door.
"Shut up, shut up," he could hear, "I paused it!"
Several locks clicked and the door was pulled open enough to reveal the sharp, silver points of several knives, and Belphegor's smile which was equally sharp. Gripped in his other hand, Yamamoto could see a video game controller. The long, modified cord trailed off behind him. Belphegor evaluated him for a moment through long, blond bangs, then yelled over his shoulder.
"Squaloooo! It's for you!" Then he left the door open and wandered back down the trail of the game controller cord.
Yamamoto wiped his feet on the welcome mat (The Varia have a welcome mat?) and stepped inside. The interior was as decadent as the exterior, like something he'd seen in a movie. All polished and shining. a dwelling of luxury, but cold.
He could hear the heavy heels clicking against the floor before he saw him. And though they'd only met once in battle, his blood recognized and responded to the sound of his gait.
"Katana brat." The term of endearment was as warm as it was frightening.
Yamamoto smiled widely, nakedly. "Squalo," he said.
Squalo spread his hands wide in front of him in a mocking imitation of generosity. "If you're here to ask for our support in the coming bloodbath, you should already know the answer's no. We don't go in for such lousy odds."
Yamamoto smirked -- an expression he had adopted from Gokudera, realizing it only too late, after many years, and there was nothing to be done -- and he shook his head. "We'll manage without your help, thanks."
"Aaaannnnd...finishing move!" Belphegor laughed like a jackal and Yamamoto could hear him fling his game controller across the room in celebration. It crashed into something -- probably something expensive -- that it the floor with a loud thud, then rolled away. Lussuria moaned his displeasure.
Squalo flashed him a sharp-toothed smile. "Come on," he said, "we can talk somewhere else."
Yamamoto followed him down the hall, their footsteps echoing against the walls bare of everything save a gold-framed portrait of Xanxus. The man was even more frightening in portrait form, all cold eyes and frowning lips, and Yamamoto felt himself walking a little more quickly past it.
In contrast to the minimalism of the hallway outside, the walls of Squalo's quarters were covered with a variety of blades. They looked to have originated from many eras: some heavy and uneven, pounded out from sheets of steel with rudimentary tools; some light and ornate, the swords of royalty -- emperors. Some seemed too heavy to lift, probably relying on the accuracy and strength of their wielders, not on their agility. Some seemed like blades that Yamamoto dreamed about in his own hands, in those dreams where he was a lone swordsman wandering across exotic continents, the dreams from which he'd awake with a pounding heart and roll over to desparately press Gokudera into the mattress. One blade, Yamamoto imagined, from each swordsman Squalo had defeated, a number impressive in its magnitude. Still, one space remained unclaimed, an empty span of wall just above the head of Squalo's bed.
"That space," Squalo said with a sharp leer, "is yours."
Yamamoto smirked in return. "I'm honored."
He leaned in to examine it, the obviously naked spot on the wall. Beneath it was attached a thin, golden plaque: Katana Brat, it announced in deeply engraved kana.
"Nice. But you spelled my name wrong," he said, flopping down on Squalo's bed just beneath the plaque.
"Nope. It's right." Squalo dropped into a fat chair across the room, his feet set wide apart and his arms hanging over the sides. "It's been years, brat."
"Mm," Yamamoto said. He said it noncommitally, as if he didn't lay awake at night, remembering the Rings battle, didn't remember the rush of blood, the pulse in his throat. That pulse got him through some of his darker days, through the days when he had to learn to fight for the kill. He leaned back on his hands. Beyond the door, he could hear Belphegor and Lussuria fighting over their video game.
"No faiiirrr," Lussuria whined, "I thought we banned special moves!"
Belphegor's laugh was cold and frightening, and a wet, fleshy noise came from the TV. Lussuria cried out in anguish.
"I can cheat," Belphegor informed him, "because I'm a prince."
Yamamoto snickered. "He should play with Lambo sometime. That kid's brutal with a game controller--"
"Make play dates on your own time," Squalo interrupted him, "why are you here?"
Yamamoto leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers locked together, his eyes serious as he contemplated what to say. He'd thought about it over the whole flight, but was still left without the right words to explain what this was. Even he didn't know himself.
He cleared his throat. "Those videos you sent me," he tried, "I've watched them all. I'd watch them, and then I'd train. Just about killed myself training, haha!"
Squalo looked pleased with himself. He bent one knee and brought his foot up to rest on the seat of the chair. "So you got tired of stupid baseball, and now you want to fight me," he said, "to see if you learned anything."
Yamamoto nodded.
"You think you can beat me? You can't beat me by copying my moves, brat. I've mastered them all!"
"I know that." His tone was grave and quiet. "I just want to fight you. If you think you're up to it."
Squalo watched him for a moment before grinning and lacing his fingers together behind his head. "I've been waiting for a decade, snot."
***
Squalo's training hall was impressive. It was easily four times the size of the room in which Yamamoto trained, and it lacked any of the warmth and tradition that Yamamoto was used to. It looked very modern in contrast. Constructed of brick and steel, the hall was filled with many platforms and recesses. Much of it looked very worn -- probably built when Squalo was first scouted by the Varia. Maybe before. But some of it... Some of it looked newer. Some of it reminded Yamamoto of the room in which they had battled for the Ring of Rain. How nostalgic of him, Yamamoto thought with a slight smile on his lips.
"No shark this time, I trust," he called across the room, then winked.
Squalo's leer was meant to chill him to the bone. "For me to know," he said, "for you to find out."
Yamamoto's sword was light in his hand, a weight he'd grown accustomed to over the years. And despite his comfort with it in battle, it had been ages since he'd sparred with anyone, really. He'd taught Gokudera and Ryohei enough that they could fight back some, but their sessions were more of an athletic workout for Yamamoto than they were sparring matches. Neither of them made his blood rush like real opponents did. Right then, in Squalo's training hall, he could feel his pulse under every inch of his skin.
Squalo was positioned across the room beneath a steel platform: perfectly protected and ready to charge on the offensive. Yamamoto stood out in the open, unafraid. Squalo must have had a wind machine installed in the place; his long hair was whipping around behind him like the heroes on the covers of Haru's romance novels. The ones she'd tuck away when someone else came in the room. He and the guys had made an afternoon of thumbing through one that she'd left on a side table, laughing at the especially descriptive bits. Women were so weird. Yamamoto grinned to himself. All primped up like Harlequin hero, Squalo didn't look like someone ready to engage in battle.
"Nice boots," Yamamoto called across the expanse, eying up the furry, feathery things covering Squalo's feet. His voice echoed; it seemed to splash somewhere in the distance.
Squalo barked laughter. "Nice monkey suit, brat!"
And then he charged. His sword was an extension of that arm without a hand, strapped on and fierce. He bared his teeth like a feral beast, and Yamamoto could smell the wild stench of bloodlust as the space between them closed. He could feel Squalo's footsteps rumble up through the floor, pounding into his legs like heavy heartbeats. He readied his blade.
Squalo cried out as their swords connected. The vibration coursed through Yamamoto's arms, through his body. His teeth chattered together, and yes it had been so long. So long since an attack had taken over his entire body. It was pleasure unparalleled by anything in his world.
Yamamoto felt the strain in all of his muscles -- his arms, his chest, his back, his legs -- as he threw his weight forward and pushed Squalo away from him. They stood, mere meters apart, chests rising and caving with heavy breath. Yamamoto felt in his guts the way he did kneeling at his father's funeral service: empty and angry and wanting to cling to something that would hold him upright. Then, it had been Gokudera and Tsuna. Now, it was the eye contact between him and Squalo, their bodies tense, then kinetic.
When Yamamoto groaned into his first attack, the water in the air, in his thoughts burst forth and a swirling squall surrounded him. It was everything inside him: years of training, years of fighting, years of searching for that shock, that jolt that made his bones tingle. It was everything inside him pushed to the surface, focused for the first time and Squalo met it with strength and resolve and a laugh as loud as the ones that Yamamoto used to make, but colder, more blizzard than hearth.
Deeper breaths, halted footsteps, swings of blade that connected with nothing but air and water. Another form, tacked to the end of the endless list of forms. As he thrust the blade forward, he felt the energy in his body gather, gather, until it was all balled together like furious storm clouds. He held it warm inside him for a moment. Then with a scream, he shattered it, broke it into pieces, fragmented it into a million bits of soul and the water roared up around him. And as the water crashed down, rained down on Squalo, each droplet became as powerful as a bullet. At that moment, all charity fled Yamamoto's body and he wanted nothing more than to see them pierce Squalo's body. He wanted nothing more than to see his blood. To taste the copper in the air, to smell it and feel it on his skin.
But he saw the whip of white hair as Squalo sidestepped and avoided it. He saw the shift of hips, the movement of feet, the way he moved with grace and power and the arrogance of one always right. Yamamoto shivered, felt drained, felt as he did some nights when Gokudera was looming over him, moving inside of him, pulling away, letting him finally rest. His body felt sapped to the point of frailty, but this was the exciting part: He could just come up with more. He could just take in that deep breath and find something else left within his body, something else with which to move forward.
And so he did. When Squalo charged at him again, all bared teeth and tongue and spittle, all waving hair, Yamamoto didn't shield. He didn't back away. He pushed forward, body tilted at a low angle, long legs propelling him forward. His pants felt tighter around his hips, he hungered and thirsted and needed everything, everything, and then Squalo's blade slid over his upper arm, his chest, his abdomen. It cut deep and something in Yamamoto felt like relief ten years coming.
He heard Squalo laugh sharp and frosty against his ear as they passed each other. His own blood splashed from his body and speckled his face, his lips. He hissed against the pain. His left hand shot up to grasp the wound on his upper arm, and the blood was warm and sticky between his fingers. Squalo might have said something, but Yamamoto couldn't hear it. The entire world could have screamed its soul raw then, could have cursed and kicked and beaten his bones to dust and he wouldn't have noticed a thing.
When he pulled his hand away, the palm was thick with blood. He looked at it for a moment as if it held the secrets of who he was. Then he wiped it roughly on the sleeve of his black suit. In his mind, surrounded by the animal cries of pain and fear and adrenaline, was the memory of a room, a flooded mausoleum. He could remember the sight of Squalo disappearing beneath the surface of the water. The silver-smooth dance of a shark. The blood caked around one eye. He remembered the swell of certainty in his chest, the sense of being in the right body at the right moment, the universe coalescing for one perfect instant of existence. He remembered. His blood remembered and even though Squalo's next attack was perfectly silent, Yamamoto could feel it coming.
It was precision and practice and part soul-recognizing-soul, and Yamamoto's arm swung out behind him, fluid and blind, and even though he couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, couldn't yet feel the connection, he knew where his blade was going. He knew and followed through and Squalo yelped like a starving dog on a frost-bit night. The resistance against his blade, shooting through his body like electricity, wasn't the fleshy kind that came from slicing deep into a body. Instead, it was sharp and hard and Yamamoto turned in time to watch Squalo come to full stop behind him. Yamamoto reached out his hand and grabbed from the air what his blade had sliced free: a thick length of white hair, held tight in his hand like a rope.
Yamamoto stared at his prize. He knew what this was, what it signified. He knew why it felt so heavy. It would have been so easy to coil it up and put it in his pocket, and something inside felt as if it was why he had gone to Italy, as if it was what he'd been seeking. But now, watching Squalo stand in shock, Yamamoto didn't want it so much anymore.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice weaving between the ambient sounds of water, "here. Take it."
Yamamoto held out his hand and Squalo turned to face him. His face was red and strained; his lips were pulled into a tight grimace and before Yamamoto could react, Squalo lunged forward, blade out, and shoved Yamamoto to the ground. He felt the air forced from his lungs and the cold water began to seep into the back of his suit.
Squalo held him down, one knee on his chest, the tip of his blade at Yamamoto's throat. "You still can't beat me, brat."
Yamamoto grinned despite the crushing pain of Squalo's weight on him. He panted as he spoke. "I'm not concerned with beating you."
Squalo bent down, his breath on Yamamoto's lips. He was not breathing as hard as his opponent. "You'll never be the best until you're willing to take me out."
"I don't need to be the best. I just need to protect my Family."
And Squalo stared at him, startled and confused and amused. Just as he'd been at the end of the Battle for the Ring of Rain. His eyes were wide and wild. When the tip of Squalo's blade nicked Yamamoto's throat, Yamamoto winced.
"And I don't need to protect them from you anymore, do I, Squalo?"
Squalo laughed, the mean, wicked laugh that leaked into Yamamoto's dreams sometimes like rainwater through a storm drain. It terrified him; it excited him.
"Stupid brat," he said when he'd caught his breath. He licked the drop of thick blood from Yamamoto's throat like honey. Then he stood up, pressing his knee harder into Yamamoto's chest in the process. "No one comes close to beating me like you, you snot-nosed little amateur. But if you can do this, you can protect the Vongola from whatever fucking weak-ass mafia grunts come after you."
Yamamoto's bloodied hand gripped at his chest. That was going to bruise. "Thanks," he said, grimacing through the pain as he pushed himself up.
Squalo held out a hand and tugged him to his feet. Then he surveyed the bloodied, tattered wreck he'd created. He turned on his heel. "Keep the souvenir," he called over his shoulder as he walked away, "when you get serious,let me know."
***
"Jesus Christ!" Gokudera stripped the sullied jacket off of Yamamoto's body. The filthy thing stunk of rust and sweat. "I hope you fucking killed him!"
Yamamoto just laughed and reached up to unbutton his stained white shirt. Such a worrier, he thought. And the pain shot through him like fresh cuts and he hissed. Gokudera sighed.
"Let me get it, you idiot," he said, slapping Yamamoto's hands away. His fingers were unsteady as he slipped each button free. "Christ. I told you not to be stupid, didn't I? We need you here and we need you healthy enough to fight."
Yamamoto smiled warmly as he scratched his fingers through Gokudera's hair. Gokudera felt so warm, and Yamamoto had been so cold for the whole flight back. "It's fine, it's fine," he said, "I'm fine."
Gokudera scowled but didn't pull away from the touch. Once the shirt was unbuttoned and pulled free of Yamamoto's body, Gokudera looked him over. He took in the gashes over his chest, down his abdomen; the slices that ran around his biceps, his forearms.
"You call this fine?"
Yamamoto didn't answer because he wasn't meant to. He just let Gokudera look him over, worried and angry. If there was anything that Gokudera excelled at, it was being worried and angry. He let him run careful fingers along the cuts that would scab over, then scar. He let Gokudera contemplate for a moment, then pulled him into his arms. Gokudera stayed there, his cheek resting atop Yamamoto's head. The warmth pressed against Yamamoto's bare skin felt good. It made him sleepy.
"Idiot," Gokudera whispered. Then, louder, "Hey, I don't want your blood on me."
"Haha, it's all dry now!"
Gokudera frowned. "You sound better, at least." Then he grumbled, but brought a hand up to cup Yamamoto's head against his chest. "Did you find out what you needed to," he asked.
"Mm." Yamamoto pulled back to kiss the tip of Gokudera's nose. The answer was neither a yes nor a no.