[FIC] Reborn!: Anchor
Anchor
Present for: shizuu
Type of Present: Fanfiction
Characters/Pairings: Yamamoto/Hibari
Rating: R
Words: 3366
Summary: “In front of him stands a burning building that used to be a home.” After his father’s death, Yamamoto’s ground is pulled out from beneath his feet.
Notes: My Hibari is incapable of fluff. I REALLY TRIED I'M SO SORRY. ORZ Warnings for blood and well, Hibari. The usual.
It’s raining.
Yamamoto Takeshi stands, back straight with his shoulders hunched, as if it is far too much effort for him to keep himself upright. His sword is drawn by his side, coloured by fading red that is slowly being washed away by the incoming rain, blood draining from metal to dye the cobblestones and pavement red.
In front of him stands a burning building that used to be a home. A sudden, loud creak and the signboard falls, still bearing the name Takesushi.
His father has named the restaurant after him. It was built the same year he was born, and his father decided that since he is changing careers for his son, he might as well name the place after his son as well. Yamamoto still remembers the days he has sat with his father, eating sushi and listening to his father’s stories, of that quiet, warm voice and frequent laughter, of those large hands around his small ones, brushing his hair or simply playing with him. It’s all a little fuzzy around the edges, like an old forgotten paragraph, but he grasps on to the memories like they are the fading dreams of an idealist.
The last drops of blood slicks off his sword to drip onto the ground.
Inside that building, Yamamoto knows, are corpses, dressed in white and black and red and bits of grey. Corpses like broken dolls, decorating the wooden floors of a place that used to house wonderful memories and even better food. Corpses split into half, or with their heads cut from their bodies, or stabbed through the stomach, or sliced open like a tuna fish being prepared for dinner. Yamamoto had wielded his sword with the same amount of skill that his father had wielded that sushi knife. Perhaps even more.
The rain falls around him. He thinks that he is going to drown in it, in this endless rain.
Then he hears footsteps behind him, quiet and deliberate. He doesn’t need to turn to note the killing intent that suddenly spikes in air, growing nearer and nearer with every thud on the stone pavement. A step, two, three are all Yamamoto needs to turn around, the Shigure Kintoki suddenly a blade again at his side.
Hibari looks at him, steady and impassive, still serious and deadly despite the rain forcing him to hide Hibird underneath his jacket and plastering his wild hair to the sides of his face. “Yamamoto Takeshi,” he says, a monotone rendition of his name and Yamamoto smiles, a stretch of his lips that speaks of near-congeniality and almost-sincerity.
He receives only a narrowing of eyes in his response for his efforts. Hibari never changes, not even surrounded by carnage and blood and rain, the makings of a tragedy yet he is still his own genre, never to be pinned down. Yet he is always there, always dependable. Perhaps in another time Yamamoto’s smile would’ve grown a little wider at seeing him, but now there are only his speeding footsteps as he trips his way towards Hibari.
And Hibari doesn’t move away. He stands his ground, expressionless, tonfas not even in his hand because he isn’t afraid, he has never been afraid, has he? Hibari has never felt the choking fear at the back of the throat, the rush of blood into the ears and the eyes, blinding and deafening both, the tingling feeling in his hands and the twisting in his gut when he realizes. Hibari isn’t as weak to feel the crushing grief like the current dragging him down to the sea when he sees. Hibari will never know the bitter, bitter taste of failure, never fall on his knees and grope at a corpse, hoping against hope in a world where he needs to learn to never hope again.
No, Hibari doesn’t know. That is why Yamamoto is standing in front of him, sword clattering to his feet as he clenches his hands tight on Hibari’s lapels. Hibird has long flown away, chirping in irritation but Hibari’s eyes don’t change, still challenge him as always, still asking what else does he have to give. But Yamamoto has nothing to give - he is hollow and dried out, a husk with shaking hands and a racing heart, feeling so suffocated by everything that he just wants to claw his throat open to breathe.
“Hey, Hibari,” he manages to say, syllables garbled but still, somehow, understandable. “It’s... It’s kind of funny. They call us Guardians, yet I-” his breath hitches. He swallows. “I couldn’t protect him.”
Hibari’s hands are on his wrists, slender fingers exerting a grip of steel. But Yamamoto doesn’t let go, holds on with all his desperation and the hope he doesn’t have because this is all that’s left for him, right here and right now. Hibari is a rock that will never be moved and Yamamoto needs an anchor.
“Don’t be stupid,” Hibari says, voice low and deadly like the sweetest of poison, undiluted and sharp. “No one worthy will ever need to be protected. If they have to be, then they are just herbivores.”
Yamamoto is silent for a moment that seems to drag on forever. The rain falls around them and Hibari’s unforgiving, unmerciful eyes bore into him like knives, his nails now digging into Yamamoto’s wrist, drawing pinpricks of blood that are washed away by the rain. Yamamoto slowly pries his own fingers off Hibari’s lapels, letting his hands drop back to his sides. His shoulders shake.
And he starts to laugh.
Because it’s just that simple to Hibari, isn’t it? Hibari has never been one to protect people - the only thing he ever cares enough to defend is Namimori, which belongs entirely to him. After all, anyone who is worthy of Hibari’s attention would need to be able to challenge him, and those who can challenge him are more than capable of protecting themselves. Anyone else lesser is simply an ‘herbivore’, not worthy of even a glance.
Yamamoto wishes that the world is truly as black and white as Hibari wants it and forces it to be. He wishes that he could be as detached as Hibari is, if only for a moment. It’s something admirable, he thinks, shoulders still trembling but he’s not laughing. He can’t laugh, because this isn’t funny; this isn’t a game anymore. It has never been a game, yet he has wanted to believed-
It’s only fun and games until someone gets killed, he thinks of the old saying and his eyes burn. But he can’t cry either, not here, not with Hibari in front of him, because Hibari will never understand and will only think him weak.
He doesn’t want Hibari to think him weak.
And Hibari has a hand on his chin now, harsh enough to bruise, the other hand holding a tonfa against Yamamoto’s throat. “Yamamoto Takeshi,” he intones, and it’s almost like a pronouncement of death. “Stop this.” Or I’ll bite you to death. Hibari doesn’t need to speak the threat - Yamamoto knows it well enough.
This is what he needs right now, he thinks. He doesn’t want apologies or consolations or help, because all that will just remind him of the feel of his father’s blood in his hands, smelling of copper and metallic just like every other man that Yamamoto has killed before.
There’s something in Hibari’s eyes; a sudden darkness and intensity, the tonfa against his throat pressing closer to his windpipe. The deadly intent that has always been around Hibari suddenly sharpens and gains focus, narrowing down on him. And all of the sudden there is nothing left in Yamamoto’s world except for Hibari’s eyes, the cold metal, and the grooves of his own sword against his palm. In one flash, Yamamoto knows.
He takes a step back and draws his sword upwards to meet the tonfa, metal meeting metal in a soft, gentle clink. The Shigure Kintoki shifts back into its bladed form, pressing against Hibari’s tonfa just so slightly. His lips stretch out into something resembling a smirk, feet spreading apart on the wet pavement as he moves into his customary starting position, the sonkyo.
Hibari only gives him a glance, barely a second before he strikes and Yamamoto has to stop thinking, just focusing on surviving, on the feel of metal digging into his palms, the cold, murderous look into Hibari’s eyes and the deadly precision of his strikes. It’s something impersonal for Hibari - a whim; an indulgence. Something nearly leisurely.
He brings his sword up to block the blow, flowing into the Samidare immediately, a move that will slice Hibari into half if the other doesn’t simply step back and duck. The deadly intent in the air thickens even further, nearly suffocating and Yamamoto has to smile, just a little, because Hibari is the only person he knows who is able to make his own will itself into a weapon. And now he has to stop thinking and concentrate on the battle, on Hibari’s tonfas and those narrowed, burning eyes of his that almost seem to be telling him something. His world narrows down into nothing else but him and his now-opponent and their weapons, feet stepping into puddles and splashing water everywhere. Yamamoto doesn’t mind.
Because he needs this - needs the rush of adrenaline to keep away the memories. It keeps things visceral and raw, just the rush of blood pounding in his ears, clean and loud, as he fights simply to survive. Hibari doesn’t hold back, has never held back, and Yamamoto has to keep up before he is killed.
And he really doesn’t intend to die. He’s fighting back, going through the forms of the Shigure Souen Ryuu one by one and pitting his Rain flames against Hibari’s violet Cloud ones, blinking water out of his eyes as the rain poured down from the roaring skies because he wanted to live. Despite what had happened; despite his failure; despite this not being a game anymore - he still doesn’t want to give up. He is still willing to kill just to survive, just to protect what he sees to be important.
Hibari recognizes this, Yamamoto can tell from the quiet, upward curve of those thin lips, the slightest dimming of the fire in those dark eyes. He knows what Yamamoto needed, and it seemed that he didn’t mind providing it. Now Hibari’s smile widens as Yamamoto moves backwards, moving his katana in a wider sweep - a move that has taken off a Whitespell’s head earlier.
But Hibari isn’t such easy prey, of course. He dodges with a simple twist of a hip, almost too fast to be seen, and for a moment he entirely disappears - one second, he is in front of Yamamoto, in direct proximity of the strike and Yamamoto is making to flip the sword (he doesn’t want to kill him; not Hibari) over to its blunt side before he feels a hard, harsh blow across the back of his neck and ribs.
Then it goes black.
***
He wakes up to white, so white that it blinds him. Yamamoto blinks, squeezing his eyes shut from the onslaught. For a brief moment, he doesn’t remember.
Then it all comes rushing back.
Yamamoto sits up suddenly, hands clenching around the bedsheets as he looks around him. Colour slowly fades back into his vision, and he blinks when he recognizes the wood-and-paper walls that characterises Hibari’s Foundation. He looks around him, hands clenching around the top of the futon he’s lying on when the door suddenly slides open.
“You’re awake,” Hibari observes as he steps into the room, dressed in his usual black yukata as always. He stands next to Yamamoto’s makeshift bed, arms loose at his side and giving him a long look.
“Hey, Hibari,” Yamamoto murmurs right back, turning his head to the side. He doesn’t want to meet Hibari’s gaze. Not yet- not now.
Not when the memories are still raw and fresh.
Hibari drops down to sit next to him, his eyes never leaving Yamamoto’s form. His gaze nearly burns, a solid, uncomfortable spot on his skin that just makes Yamamoto clench his fists even harder, grinding his teeth together, trying not to shake because showing so much weakness in front of Hibari is simply inviting death or scorn, no matter who they are.
But then there’s a grip on his chin, tight and bruising as always (Hibari has never learnt to be gentle with people) and Yamamoto is forced to meet those dark eyes. He flinches, because condemnation and scorn aren’t what he wants to see, and he doubts that he’ll be able to simply laugh it off this time.
Neither of those is in Hibari’s eyes, however, and no understanding either (but that’s only to be expected, isn’t it?). There’s only blankness, and a certain expectation that just confuses Yamamoto even more.
“What are you going to do, Yamamoto Takeshi?” Hibari demands, soft and deadly, demanding as only he can be.
Yamamoto opens his mouth, about to answer but then he realizes that he honestly has no idea what to say. What can he do now, really? He has already killed everyone who has a direct hand in ending his father’s life, and he knows himself well enough to know that he won’t - he can’t - go storming into the Millefiore base to take down the man who ordered his father’s death.
“I don’t know,” he chokes out. “I don’t know, Hibari, I really don’t. Tell me what-” He cuts himself off halfway, eyes widening slightly.
Hibari won’t tell him, he realizes. Hibari has never been the one to provide the easy answers, or give him an easy way out. Tsuna or Gokudera will tell him to take a break, to rest, to calm himself down. They will reassure him and tell him that it’s not his fault, coddle him in one way or another and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to hide from what he has done; what he hasn’t managed to do.
And he doesn’t want to think anymore. He has never been the sort to think too much anyway, because what does thinking do, in the end?
Hibari has let go of his grip on Yamamoto’s chin, but Yamamoto doesn’t turn away, meeting those dark eyes with his own even as Hibari speaks, “If you want me to tell you what to do, Yamamoto Takeshi, then you are nothing but an herbivore.”
Yamamoto laughs, a little broken, a little gasping, but still sincere like it means something still, in this world where he seems to have lost everything. He drops his head on Hibari’s shoulder, and Hibari lets him. “I know that, at least. I’ll need to find my own answers myself. But... not now.” I can’t deal with it now. I don’t want to think about it.
“Then what do you want to do?”
Yamamoto lifts his head and catches Hibari’s eyes for a moment - barely any warning before he surges forward, capturing Hibari’s lips with his own. And then it’s all about desperation, lips and tongues and teeth against each other, more of a spar than a true kiss because he needs this, he wants this intensity, all of his usual gentleness ripped from him with the rawness of his grief and his need.
There’s no room for the velvet that he usually uses to cover the sharp steel edge.
Hibari meets him bite for bite, their lips moulding against each other even as he pulls him closer, their chests pressed against each other. Yamamoto claws at his sides, clinging to him because Hibari has always been unaffected and detached, the eternal rock that he can anchor himself to. Hibari won’t ever back down, will always be able to meet him move for move no matter what he throws at him. He is dependable that way, and right now it is precisely what Yamamoto needs.
His hands move downwards, curving around Hibari’s shoulder blades before scrabbling at his belt and buttons and zips, all of the sudden they are a puzzle he can’t solve. Hibari doesn’t stop the kiss, but one graceful hand stops his, snapping open the buckles like it holds the answer.
(It can be metaphorical, Yamamoto thinks, and laughs, almost a sob, into Hibari’s mouth.)
And he can feel Hibari’s growing erection against his hand, hot and hard and it forces him to focus on the present, on Hibari and Hibari alone. The Cloud Guardian has never played second best, not to anyone and the least to memories. After all, it has always been what he wants and needs.
Except perhaps just this once.
Hibari’s hands are on Yamamoto’s pants now, unbuckling and unzipping with his usual ease, as if he’s not affected by this at all. But Yamamoto knows Hibari well enough to tell now; knows the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the hitched breaths that Hibari wants this as much as he does. That is only to be expected, though - hasn’t Hibari always done what he wants, and nothing else?
Yamamoto laughs into Hibari’s shoulder, rocking forward and relishing in the small gasp that little movement elicited. He sucks hard on a collarbone, scraping his teeth across the skin and biting down as Hibari bucks up, rubbing their erections together. Fingers wrap around their lengths, tugging against it and Yamamoto breathes out shakily, fisting Hibari hair with a hand as he pulls himself up, pressing their lips together in a harsh kiss.
His other hand travels downwards, hurried and desperate, his breathing erratic and shallow, squeezing his eyes shut as he curls his hand around Hibari’s, rocking together as the world narrow down to just the pleasure and the scent and feel of Hibari so close to him. There’s nothing else but this, and Yamamoto nearly sobs in relief.
When he comes, white overwhelming his vision and nearly taking him over, he can feel the tears that he has been trying to dam up slip down his cheeks, sobs catching in his throat. It’s too much and it’s not enough all at the same time, confusion, frustration, self-hatred and sheer grief crashing down on him and it is like trying to fight against the tide. He’s drowning, hands clenching around Hibari’s arms as he kisses him harder, as if Hibari is the only thing left that’s real.
That isn’t very far from the truth.
The high fades and his eyes are closed, pressed against Hibari’s shoulders and shaking. Hibari’s arms are wrapped loosely around him, as in he is trying to comfort him but he doesn’t know exactly how to, but it’s enough for now, barely adequate but that’s what they will have to make do with now, isn’t it?
After all, they are at war.
Hibari pulls away slowly, cleaning both of them quietly yet gently, soft, warm touches on skin. Yamamoto wipes any remaining tears, face turned away because he’ll still like to pretend that he’s stronger than this; as strong as Hibari is. But there’s still no judgement in Hibari’s eyes, no contempt and it’s almost comforting to know that despite everything that has happened, he still has Hibari’s respect.
There’s a soft touch on his chin, fingers tracing the scar and Hibari’s eyes are completely unreadable now. Yamamoto closes his eyes and let the hand on his chest push him down to the bed.
***
When he wakes up, the futon is cold and one of Hibari’s men is at his side, eyes nervous and darting, wringing his hands as if he’s afraid of offending, or as if Yamamoto would break if he says a wrong word.
Hibari has already left Japan, he explains, in low voices as if announcing a funeral, but he has left a letter.
Yamamoto Takeshi, the letter reads, each kanji perfect and like a calligraphy painting. Yamamoto traces a fingertip over the strokes, marvelling at the evenness of each one, and his smile is small.
Recover quickly and stop behaving like a herbivore.
Hibari Kyouya
For the first time since he has felt the blood of his father on his hands, Yamamoto’s laughter is genuine and true.
End
Present for: shizuu
Type of Present: Fanfiction
Characters/Pairings: Yamamoto/Hibari
Rating: R
Words: 3366
Summary: “In front of him stands a burning building that used to be a home.” After his father’s death, Yamamoto’s ground is pulled out from beneath his feet.
Notes: My Hibari is incapable of fluff. I REALLY TRIED I'M SO SORRY. ORZ Warnings for blood and well, Hibari. The usual.
It’s raining.
Yamamoto Takeshi stands, back straight with his shoulders hunched, as if it is far too much effort for him to keep himself upright. His sword is drawn by his side, coloured by fading red that is slowly being washed away by the incoming rain, blood draining from metal to dye the cobblestones and pavement red.
In front of him stands a burning building that used to be a home. A sudden, loud creak and the signboard falls, still bearing the name Takesushi.
His father has named the restaurant after him. It was built the same year he was born, and his father decided that since he is changing careers for his son, he might as well name the place after his son as well. Yamamoto still remembers the days he has sat with his father, eating sushi and listening to his father’s stories, of that quiet, warm voice and frequent laughter, of those large hands around his small ones, brushing his hair or simply playing with him. It’s all a little fuzzy around the edges, like an old forgotten paragraph, but he grasps on to the memories like they are the fading dreams of an idealist.
The last drops of blood slicks off his sword to drip onto the ground.
Inside that building, Yamamoto knows, are corpses, dressed in white and black and red and bits of grey. Corpses like broken dolls, decorating the wooden floors of a place that used to house wonderful memories and even better food. Corpses split into half, or with their heads cut from their bodies, or stabbed through the stomach, or sliced open like a tuna fish being prepared for dinner. Yamamoto had wielded his sword with the same amount of skill that his father had wielded that sushi knife. Perhaps even more.
The rain falls around him. He thinks that he is going to drown in it, in this endless rain.
Then he hears footsteps behind him, quiet and deliberate. He doesn’t need to turn to note the killing intent that suddenly spikes in air, growing nearer and nearer with every thud on the stone pavement. A step, two, three are all Yamamoto needs to turn around, the Shigure Kintoki suddenly a blade again at his side.
Hibari looks at him, steady and impassive, still serious and deadly despite the rain forcing him to hide Hibird underneath his jacket and plastering his wild hair to the sides of his face. “Yamamoto Takeshi,” he says, a monotone rendition of his name and Yamamoto smiles, a stretch of his lips that speaks of near-congeniality and almost-sincerity.
He receives only a narrowing of eyes in his response for his efforts. Hibari never changes, not even surrounded by carnage and blood and rain, the makings of a tragedy yet he is still his own genre, never to be pinned down. Yet he is always there, always dependable. Perhaps in another time Yamamoto’s smile would’ve grown a little wider at seeing him, but now there are only his speeding footsteps as he trips his way towards Hibari.
And Hibari doesn’t move away. He stands his ground, expressionless, tonfas not even in his hand because he isn’t afraid, he has never been afraid, has he? Hibari has never felt the choking fear at the back of the throat, the rush of blood into the ears and the eyes, blinding and deafening both, the tingling feeling in his hands and the twisting in his gut when he realizes. Hibari isn’t as weak to feel the crushing grief like the current dragging him down to the sea when he sees. Hibari will never know the bitter, bitter taste of failure, never fall on his knees and grope at a corpse, hoping against hope in a world where he needs to learn to never hope again.
No, Hibari doesn’t know. That is why Yamamoto is standing in front of him, sword clattering to his feet as he clenches his hands tight on Hibari’s lapels. Hibird has long flown away, chirping in irritation but Hibari’s eyes don’t change, still challenge him as always, still asking what else does he have to give. But Yamamoto has nothing to give - he is hollow and dried out, a husk with shaking hands and a racing heart, feeling so suffocated by everything that he just wants to claw his throat open to breathe.
“Hey, Hibari,” he manages to say, syllables garbled but still, somehow, understandable. “It’s... It’s kind of funny. They call us Guardians, yet I-” his breath hitches. He swallows. “I couldn’t protect him.”
Hibari’s hands are on his wrists, slender fingers exerting a grip of steel. But Yamamoto doesn’t let go, holds on with all his desperation and the hope he doesn’t have because this is all that’s left for him, right here and right now. Hibari is a rock that will never be moved and Yamamoto needs an anchor.
“Don’t be stupid,” Hibari says, voice low and deadly like the sweetest of poison, undiluted and sharp. “No one worthy will ever need to be protected. If they have to be, then they are just herbivores.”
Yamamoto is silent for a moment that seems to drag on forever. The rain falls around them and Hibari’s unforgiving, unmerciful eyes bore into him like knives, his nails now digging into Yamamoto’s wrist, drawing pinpricks of blood that are washed away by the rain. Yamamoto slowly pries his own fingers off Hibari’s lapels, letting his hands drop back to his sides. His shoulders shake.
And he starts to laugh.
Because it’s just that simple to Hibari, isn’t it? Hibari has never been one to protect people - the only thing he ever cares enough to defend is Namimori, which belongs entirely to him. After all, anyone who is worthy of Hibari’s attention would need to be able to challenge him, and those who can challenge him are more than capable of protecting themselves. Anyone else lesser is simply an ‘herbivore’, not worthy of even a glance.
Yamamoto wishes that the world is truly as black and white as Hibari wants it and forces it to be. He wishes that he could be as detached as Hibari is, if only for a moment. It’s something admirable, he thinks, shoulders still trembling but he’s not laughing. He can’t laugh, because this isn’t funny; this isn’t a game anymore. It has never been a game, yet he has wanted to believed-
It’s only fun and games until someone gets killed, he thinks of the old saying and his eyes burn. But he can’t cry either, not here, not with Hibari in front of him, because Hibari will never understand and will only think him weak.
He doesn’t want Hibari to think him weak.
And Hibari has a hand on his chin now, harsh enough to bruise, the other hand holding a tonfa against Yamamoto’s throat. “Yamamoto Takeshi,” he intones, and it’s almost like a pronouncement of death. “Stop this.” Or I’ll bite you to death. Hibari doesn’t need to speak the threat - Yamamoto knows it well enough.
This is what he needs right now, he thinks. He doesn’t want apologies or consolations or help, because all that will just remind him of the feel of his father’s blood in his hands, smelling of copper and metallic just like every other man that Yamamoto has killed before.
There’s something in Hibari’s eyes; a sudden darkness and intensity, the tonfa against his throat pressing closer to his windpipe. The deadly intent that has always been around Hibari suddenly sharpens and gains focus, narrowing down on him. And all of the sudden there is nothing left in Yamamoto’s world except for Hibari’s eyes, the cold metal, and the grooves of his own sword against his palm. In one flash, Yamamoto knows.
He takes a step back and draws his sword upwards to meet the tonfa, metal meeting metal in a soft, gentle clink. The Shigure Kintoki shifts back into its bladed form, pressing against Hibari’s tonfa just so slightly. His lips stretch out into something resembling a smirk, feet spreading apart on the wet pavement as he moves into his customary starting position, the sonkyo.
Hibari only gives him a glance, barely a second before he strikes and Yamamoto has to stop thinking, just focusing on surviving, on the feel of metal digging into his palms, the cold, murderous look into Hibari’s eyes and the deadly precision of his strikes. It’s something impersonal for Hibari - a whim; an indulgence. Something nearly leisurely.
He brings his sword up to block the blow, flowing into the Samidare immediately, a move that will slice Hibari into half if the other doesn’t simply step back and duck. The deadly intent in the air thickens even further, nearly suffocating and Yamamoto has to smile, just a little, because Hibari is the only person he knows who is able to make his own will itself into a weapon. And now he has to stop thinking and concentrate on the battle, on Hibari’s tonfas and those narrowed, burning eyes of his that almost seem to be telling him something. His world narrows down into nothing else but him and his now-opponent and their weapons, feet stepping into puddles and splashing water everywhere. Yamamoto doesn’t mind.
Because he needs this - needs the rush of adrenaline to keep away the memories. It keeps things visceral and raw, just the rush of blood pounding in his ears, clean and loud, as he fights simply to survive. Hibari doesn’t hold back, has never held back, and Yamamoto has to keep up before he is killed.
And he really doesn’t intend to die. He’s fighting back, going through the forms of the Shigure Souen Ryuu one by one and pitting his Rain flames against Hibari’s violet Cloud ones, blinking water out of his eyes as the rain poured down from the roaring skies because he wanted to live. Despite what had happened; despite his failure; despite this not being a game anymore - he still doesn’t want to give up. He is still willing to kill just to survive, just to protect what he sees to be important.
Hibari recognizes this, Yamamoto can tell from the quiet, upward curve of those thin lips, the slightest dimming of the fire in those dark eyes. He knows what Yamamoto needed, and it seemed that he didn’t mind providing it. Now Hibari’s smile widens as Yamamoto moves backwards, moving his katana in a wider sweep - a move that has taken off a Whitespell’s head earlier.
But Hibari isn’t such easy prey, of course. He dodges with a simple twist of a hip, almost too fast to be seen, and for a moment he entirely disappears - one second, he is in front of Yamamoto, in direct proximity of the strike and Yamamoto is making to flip the sword (he doesn’t want to kill him; not Hibari) over to its blunt side before he feels a hard, harsh blow across the back of his neck and ribs.
Then it goes black.
***
He wakes up to white, so white that it blinds him. Yamamoto blinks, squeezing his eyes shut from the onslaught. For a brief moment, he doesn’t remember.
Then it all comes rushing back.
Yamamoto sits up suddenly, hands clenching around the bedsheets as he looks around him. Colour slowly fades back into his vision, and he blinks when he recognizes the wood-and-paper walls that characterises Hibari’s Foundation. He looks around him, hands clenching around the top of the futon he’s lying on when the door suddenly slides open.
“You’re awake,” Hibari observes as he steps into the room, dressed in his usual black yukata as always. He stands next to Yamamoto’s makeshift bed, arms loose at his side and giving him a long look.
“Hey, Hibari,” Yamamoto murmurs right back, turning his head to the side. He doesn’t want to meet Hibari’s gaze. Not yet- not now.
Not when the memories are still raw and fresh.
Hibari drops down to sit next to him, his eyes never leaving Yamamoto’s form. His gaze nearly burns, a solid, uncomfortable spot on his skin that just makes Yamamoto clench his fists even harder, grinding his teeth together, trying not to shake because showing so much weakness in front of Hibari is simply inviting death or scorn, no matter who they are.
But then there’s a grip on his chin, tight and bruising as always (Hibari has never learnt to be gentle with people) and Yamamoto is forced to meet those dark eyes. He flinches, because condemnation and scorn aren’t what he wants to see, and he doubts that he’ll be able to simply laugh it off this time.
Neither of those is in Hibari’s eyes, however, and no understanding either (but that’s only to be expected, isn’t it?). There’s only blankness, and a certain expectation that just confuses Yamamoto even more.
“What are you going to do, Yamamoto Takeshi?” Hibari demands, soft and deadly, demanding as only he can be.
Yamamoto opens his mouth, about to answer but then he realizes that he honestly has no idea what to say. What can he do now, really? He has already killed everyone who has a direct hand in ending his father’s life, and he knows himself well enough to know that he won’t - he can’t - go storming into the Millefiore base to take down the man who ordered his father’s death.
“I don’t know,” he chokes out. “I don’t know, Hibari, I really don’t. Tell me what-” He cuts himself off halfway, eyes widening slightly.
Hibari won’t tell him, he realizes. Hibari has never been the one to provide the easy answers, or give him an easy way out. Tsuna or Gokudera will tell him to take a break, to rest, to calm himself down. They will reassure him and tell him that it’s not his fault, coddle him in one way or another and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to hide from what he has done; what he hasn’t managed to do.
And he doesn’t want to think anymore. He has never been the sort to think too much anyway, because what does thinking do, in the end?
Hibari has let go of his grip on Yamamoto’s chin, but Yamamoto doesn’t turn away, meeting those dark eyes with his own even as Hibari speaks, “If you want me to tell you what to do, Yamamoto Takeshi, then you are nothing but an herbivore.”
Yamamoto laughs, a little broken, a little gasping, but still sincere like it means something still, in this world where he seems to have lost everything. He drops his head on Hibari’s shoulder, and Hibari lets him. “I know that, at least. I’ll need to find my own answers myself. But... not now.” I can’t deal with it now. I don’t want to think about it.
“Then what do you want to do?”
Yamamoto lifts his head and catches Hibari’s eyes for a moment - barely any warning before he surges forward, capturing Hibari’s lips with his own. And then it’s all about desperation, lips and tongues and teeth against each other, more of a spar than a true kiss because he needs this, he wants this intensity, all of his usual gentleness ripped from him with the rawness of his grief and his need.
There’s no room for the velvet that he usually uses to cover the sharp steel edge.
Hibari meets him bite for bite, their lips moulding against each other even as he pulls him closer, their chests pressed against each other. Yamamoto claws at his sides, clinging to him because Hibari has always been unaffected and detached, the eternal rock that he can anchor himself to. Hibari won’t ever back down, will always be able to meet him move for move no matter what he throws at him. He is dependable that way, and right now it is precisely what Yamamoto needs.
His hands move downwards, curving around Hibari’s shoulder blades before scrabbling at his belt and buttons and zips, all of the sudden they are a puzzle he can’t solve. Hibari doesn’t stop the kiss, but one graceful hand stops his, snapping open the buckles like it holds the answer.
(It can be metaphorical, Yamamoto thinks, and laughs, almost a sob, into Hibari’s mouth.)
And he can feel Hibari’s growing erection against his hand, hot and hard and it forces him to focus on the present, on Hibari and Hibari alone. The Cloud Guardian has never played second best, not to anyone and the least to memories. After all, it has always been what he wants and needs.
Except perhaps just this once.
Hibari’s hands are on Yamamoto’s pants now, unbuckling and unzipping with his usual ease, as if he’s not affected by this at all. But Yamamoto knows Hibari well enough to tell now; knows the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the hitched breaths that Hibari wants this as much as he does. That is only to be expected, though - hasn’t Hibari always done what he wants, and nothing else?
Yamamoto laughs into Hibari’s shoulder, rocking forward and relishing in the small gasp that little movement elicited. He sucks hard on a collarbone, scraping his teeth across the skin and biting down as Hibari bucks up, rubbing their erections together. Fingers wrap around their lengths, tugging against it and Yamamoto breathes out shakily, fisting Hibari hair with a hand as he pulls himself up, pressing their lips together in a harsh kiss.
His other hand travels downwards, hurried and desperate, his breathing erratic and shallow, squeezing his eyes shut as he curls his hand around Hibari’s, rocking together as the world narrow down to just the pleasure and the scent and feel of Hibari so close to him. There’s nothing else but this, and Yamamoto nearly sobs in relief.
When he comes, white overwhelming his vision and nearly taking him over, he can feel the tears that he has been trying to dam up slip down his cheeks, sobs catching in his throat. It’s too much and it’s not enough all at the same time, confusion, frustration, self-hatred and sheer grief crashing down on him and it is like trying to fight against the tide. He’s drowning, hands clenching around Hibari’s arms as he kisses him harder, as if Hibari is the only thing left that’s real.
That isn’t very far from the truth.
The high fades and his eyes are closed, pressed against Hibari’s shoulders and shaking. Hibari’s arms are wrapped loosely around him, as in he is trying to comfort him but he doesn’t know exactly how to, but it’s enough for now, barely adequate but that’s what they will have to make do with now, isn’t it?
After all, they are at war.
Hibari pulls away slowly, cleaning both of them quietly yet gently, soft, warm touches on skin. Yamamoto wipes any remaining tears, face turned away because he’ll still like to pretend that he’s stronger than this; as strong as Hibari is. But there’s still no judgement in Hibari’s eyes, no contempt and it’s almost comforting to know that despite everything that has happened, he still has Hibari’s respect.
There’s a soft touch on his chin, fingers tracing the scar and Hibari’s eyes are completely unreadable now. Yamamoto closes his eyes and let the hand on his chest push him down to the bed.
***
When he wakes up, the futon is cold and one of Hibari’s men is at his side, eyes nervous and darting, wringing his hands as if he’s afraid of offending, or as if Yamamoto would break if he says a wrong word.
Hibari has already left Japan, he explains, in low voices as if announcing a funeral, but he has left a letter.
Yamamoto Takeshi, the letter reads, each kanji perfect and like a calligraphy painting. Yamamoto traces a fingertip over the strokes, marvelling at the evenness of each one, and his smile is small.
Recover quickly and stop behaving like a herbivore.
Hibari Kyouya
For the first time since he has felt the blood of his father on his hands, Yamamoto’s laughter is genuine and true.
End