five.
Title: Dog Day
Author: sei_kou_ki
Rating: Teen
Series/Fandom: Hitman Reborn!
Characters/Pairings: Yamamoto and Ryohei.
Warnings: vaguely mentioned violence, language
Summary: A brief attempt to make coping with injuries in a bullet ridden battlefield a pleasant bonding experience between two friends.
So he ends up with his head on Ryohei's lap, pinching his nose to keep his brains from leaking out his nostrils in red, thick streams of goo and making pained noises between nervous laughs. The stubborn flow of blood colors the tips of his fingers a rich, bright red, and stains his lips, his teeth, and the seat of his friend-turned-pillow's pants. He apologizes for all the trouble, gripping sorely at the dirtied sword by his side; and his partner for the day only shrugs and grunts in a dismissive way that makes Yamamoto worry a little, reloading a gun with torn up fists. It's one of Colonello's, so it's an acceptable replacement for the burning passions in his bare hands in his honest to god opinion-for now, anyway.
"They've got us in an extreme corner right now," says Ryohei urgently in that low, rumbling voice of his, peeking his firearm and then his head over the corner of the building he leans against. No bullets smash into his skull and turn his innards to mush, so hey, safe for now, he reckons. "Boxes-they must have retrieved those boxes Lal talked about from our previous source. Uhh, that one family. I kind of FORGOT to the limit; I didn't write it down. Shit. The boss is gonna get all upset and Hibari's gonna be all EXTREMELY mad at me, now…"
Ryohei's one of the only guys who'd let him bleed all over him and an expensive Italian suit like this, he thinks.
Yamamoto smiles.
"Maa, at us, you mean?"
But then again, it wasn't like Yamamoto went running around flying bullets and flaming swords and whatever-the-fuck-kind-of-mayhem with just anyone often. Just for his part time job, just with the right people.
"Like I'd let him shoulder the blame on a guy with an EXTREME concussion-wait." The boxer stops mid sentence to cock the gun and turns to shoot at some target that he just thinks lurks there in the ruin behind them. A flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye.
A pause, and nothing happens, nothing pops out of the darkness with bared fangs and razor blade fingers, so Ryohei sighs with a scowl and glances back to Yamamoto, shoulders tense. "'Sides, you're better with like. Words and diplomacy and EXTREME by passing the cops and shit, so you got more out of that meeting."
And by part time job, he meant the mafia.
"That failed, though." The swordsmen forces himself up from the comfort of Ryohei's lap, propping himself up with the help of his sword and sagging against the wall, one eye closed. He feels the same presence that Ryohei does, or thinks so at least. It’s probably just nerves. "If you failed to notice, we went from sleeping under the roof of their 'humble abode', to staring under the barrel of a warm gun in under an hour. Perhaps you’d be better at negotiation than me, Ryohei-senpai."
Blood slowly drips from his nose, viscosity gradually waning. Pain? Whatever. "And I'd hardly call a bloody nose a concussion."
Ryohei grins wildly and shifts slightly when the taller man rests his chin against his shoulder, breathing quietly in his ear. “It’s not your fault to the limit. They were probably planning to betray us from the beginning.”
“Good thing Tsuna didn’t come,” mutters Yamamoto, tearing off his tie to wipe the death off his blade. The momentary cease fire’s coming to an end, and the two of them feel it in little pin pricks running across their veins, flowing hot in bursts of adrenaline. Dully, the ring on his finger glows, a tranquil blue flame in contrast to the Sun Guardian's vibrant yellow fire.
“The boss would hate this, yeah,” affirms Ryohei, supporting the younger man with a friendly arm around the waist as they stood. “To the extreme.”
“Thanks.” The swordsman bumps their heads together in a manly show of affection and pulls away, sheathing his sword and cracking his knuckles. Ryohei nods and rests the gun on the wall, then boxes an invisible opponent in front of him, a right straight followed up by a left upper cut - a nervous habit that could knock a head off a man.
“Do we kill them?”
“Not all of them, no,” Yamamoto orders, and wipes the last of a nosebleed on the corner of his sleeve. “The boss told us to bring home a souvenir.”
Author: sei_kou_ki
Rating: Teen
Series/Fandom: Hitman Reborn!
Characters/Pairings: Yamamoto and Ryohei.
Warnings: vaguely mentioned violence, language
Summary: A brief attempt to make coping with injuries in a bullet ridden battlefield a pleasant bonding experience between two friends.
So he ends up with his head on Ryohei's lap, pinching his nose to keep his brains from leaking out his nostrils in red, thick streams of goo and making pained noises between nervous laughs. The stubborn flow of blood colors the tips of his fingers a rich, bright red, and stains his lips, his teeth, and the seat of his friend-turned-pillow's pants. He apologizes for all the trouble, gripping sorely at the dirtied sword by his side; and his partner for the day only shrugs and grunts in a dismissive way that makes Yamamoto worry a little, reloading a gun with torn up fists. It's one of Colonello's, so it's an acceptable replacement for the burning passions in his bare hands in his honest to god opinion-for now, anyway.
"They've got us in an extreme corner right now," says Ryohei urgently in that low, rumbling voice of his, peeking his firearm and then his head over the corner of the building he leans against. No bullets smash into his skull and turn his innards to mush, so hey, safe for now, he reckons. "Boxes-they must have retrieved those boxes Lal talked about from our previous source. Uhh, that one family. I kind of FORGOT to the limit; I didn't write it down. Shit. The boss is gonna get all upset and Hibari's gonna be all EXTREMELY mad at me, now…"
Ryohei's one of the only guys who'd let him bleed all over him and an expensive Italian suit like this, he thinks.
Yamamoto smiles.
"Maa, at us, you mean?"
But then again, it wasn't like Yamamoto went running around flying bullets and flaming swords and whatever-the-fuck-kind-of-mayhem with just anyone often. Just for his part time job, just with the right people.
"Like I'd let him shoulder the blame on a guy with an EXTREME concussion-wait." The boxer stops mid sentence to cock the gun and turns to shoot at some target that he just thinks lurks there in the ruin behind them. A flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye.
A pause, and nothing happens, nothing pops out of the darkness with bared fangs and razor blade fingers, so Ryohei sighs with a scowl and glances back to Yamamoto, shoulders tense. "'Sides, you're better with like. Words and diplomacy and EXTREME by passing the cops and shit, so you got more out of that meeting."
And by part time job, he meant the mafia.
"That failed, though." The swordsmen forces himself up from the comfort of Ryohei's lap, propping himself up with the help of his sword and sagging against the wall, one eye closed. He feels the same presence that Ryohei does, or thinks so at least. It’s probably just nerves. "If you failed to notice, we went from sleeping under the roof of their 'humble abode', to staring under the barrel of a warm gun in under an hour. Perhaps you’d be better at negotiation than me, Ryohei-senpai."
Blood slowly drips from his nose, viscosity gradually waning. Pain? Whatever. "And I'd hardly call a bloody nose a concussion."
Ryohei grins wildly and shifts slightly when the taller man rests his chin against his shoulder, breathing quietly in his ear. “It’s not your fault to the limit. They were probably planning to betray us from the beginning.”
“Good thing Tsuna didn’t come,” mutters Yamamoto, tearing off his tie to wipe the death off his blade. The momentary cease fire’s coming to an end, and the two of them feel it in little pin pricks running across their veins, flowing hot in bursts of adrenaline. Dully, the ring on his finger glows, a tranquil blue flame in contrast to the Sun Guardian's vibrant yellow fire.
“The boss would hate this, yeah,” affirms Ryohei, supporting the younger man with a friendly arm around the waist as they stood. “To the extreme.”
“Thanks.” The swordsman bumps their heads together in a manly show of affection and pulls away, sheathing his sword and cracking his knuckles. Ryohei nods and rests the gun on the wall, then boxes an invisible opponent in front of him, a right straight followed up by a left upper cut - a nervous habit that could knock a head off a man.
“Do we kill them?”
“Not all of them, no,” Yamamoto orders, and wipes the last of a nosebleed on the corner of his sleeve. “The boss told us to bring home a souvenir.”