byahoooo | & you're the finest thing that i've done.

& you're the finest thing that i've done.

[ It's raining today.

Usually, Yamamoto doesn't mind. Rain doesn't bother him; it's not supposed to, right, it's his element, something that defines him, something that's etched into who he is, into what makes up his DNA. But today is different. A lot of things about today are different, and he shouldn't --

( Shouldn't be so fucking selfish or so goddamn angry, but he is. )

Yamamoto sits with his blade out, the sharp gleaming end of the katana stuck against the wood floor as he props both of his hands on top of the hilt, dropping his chin toward his chest. And he laughs; it's quiet, breathy, but his shoulders shake with it, anyway, and he brings one hand up, rubs his thumb against the scar on his chin.

He can hear the rain from inside, hitting against the glass pane of the windows, streaking down to puddle into the corners of the sill, and the aging wood soaks up the water. And he's surprised by how much it irritates him -- what the hell, Yamamoto, get a grip, shouldn't you be glad. Byakuran is gone ( but that name still wrenches a hole in his gut, even now ) -- and Tsuna --

But.

His fingers curl around the hilt of his blade, and he peers up without lifting his chin, focused on the polished nickel of the door handle across from him. Hibari would be here soon. ]

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[ He's well aware that after the entire fiasco is over, after all the things they've gambled on and won, that he will come back to this. Or something very much like it.

After all, he's the only one in the family privy to the information, trusted not to overreact and jeopardize the authenticity of the lie. And so he returns, of course, to the place he sometimes shares with Yamamoto Takeshi. He kills the engine of the Maserati, feels the throaty purr die down, and sits, for a moment, in the car, the muted noise of raindrops incessant.

He knows perfectly well that he can drive away right now, and the man inside will be none the wiser, but Hibari Kyouya has never been a coward.

And so, he emerges, with an umbrella, and heads inside before closing it, stray droplets shaken out properly. He sees Yamamoto with his sword, knows instinctively that there'll be hell to pay.

And he shuts the door then, and steps further into the room. ]

...You're here early.

Don't sound so disappointed.

[ He fixes his gaze on him, offering nothing else in response, because Hibari's always been bad at small talk, always been bad at socializing, and would rather get violent than waste time chatting about the weather.

His gaze flickers to his sword, briefly, and he wonders if Yamamoto would use it, now. Because he knows - even if he doesn't understand - that deliberately putting Yamamoto and the others through an emotional wringer is a colosally douchey thing to do.

Then again, only herbivores had feelings like that. ( He doesn't want to think about his own. ) After all, this is necessary.

He sets aside his shoes neatly, before unbuttoning the suit jacket, and loosening his tie, just a tad. He doesn't egg Yamamoto on, because he knows that eventually, the Rain Guardian would get to it. ]

I'll be going upstairs.

Kyouya.

[ He reads it well, knows the words not said, the warning in the wake of the two syllables Hibari responds to when they're alone, when no one is around to hear what he calls him.

And so he stops, for a moment, glancing down at his hand, the way it tightened over that dangerously sharp blade. Any moment, there will be blood, spilling from the cut, staining the floor.

He wonders if Yamamoto - no, Takeshi - knows this.

Hibari raises his chin, then, in a gesture that is calmly challenging, almost defiant, and it annoys him when a small, traitorous part of him suggests that perhaps he should explain himself. Maybe apologize. He crushes it quickly - someone like him would never apologize. He ignores, too, the faintest nagging of guilt. He's watched Yamamoto grieve, spent endless nights with him while he came to terms with the death of the Vongola Tenth. Shared his bed, fucked him, to know exactly how the man feels every single night.

Knows, and all the while, said nothing. Done nothing but tighten his grip on the man and whispered for him to go faster, harder. Offering comfort the only way he knew how.

He waits for what he knows will come next. ]

Haha, you're -- You could have told me.

[ And suddenly, Hibari doesn't want to continue this conversation. What else can he say? What can he do that can undo something like this? He can hear the blood drip, in the silence of the room, the muffled sound of rain so very far away.

His expression reveals nothing - and his dark eyes reveal even less, because they both know, right? It's not that simple, and Hibari has got a job to do. There's no mirth in that laugh, no amusement - and he thinks that he can sense the anger and the pain that lies behind it.

But this. This is what Yamamoto Takeshi fell in love with. He regards him with calm eyes. ]

Why would I do that?

[ He supposes that he's seen that coming for a while, now. And that it's deliberate that he doesn't defend himself. The pain bursts, numbing yet intense, in that side of his face, and it takes all of his focus not to reel from that blow alone.

Yamamoto always does have one hell of a right hook when he sets his mind to it, and he can taste blood, thick and coppery, in his mouth.

How unsavory.

If he's anyone else, he would have been stung by the fact that Yamamoto had raised a hand at him - but he's not. And he knows that he deserves all of this (after all, it's quite logical, when you really thought about it). He looks back at him, again, the back of his hand wiping at his mouth, smearing the blood on his cut lip, and he's defiant, unapologetic.

Because it's necessary, you see - and Hibari cannot bring himself to say it just yet. He's never been a man who explains himself. ]

You're a little off in that swing.

Does it get easier? Pretending not to give a shit?

[ There is something Hibari has learned long ago - never show weakness, not to enemies, and never to allies.

Least of all to lovers.

His breath is knocked out of him when his back hits the door, but he doesn't make a sound - doesn't offer the slightest clue that perhaps he had felt somewhat guilty (an emotion that serves no plausible use to him, but frustrates him at the same time) - but necessity is necessity, and it is necessary for them to grieve the way they did.

Because he knows, more than anything, that the most authentic performance is something that is truly felt.

He meets his eyes after a moment, the question hitting a chord in him, and his lips thin, just a tad. Don't ask him questions he doesn't know how to answer, Yamamoto. He inhales the other man's scent - he's close enough to feel that warmth from him. ]

What answer are you waiting for, Yamamoto Takeshi?

You tell me, Hibari.

[ Hibari thinks that he vastly prefers the mindless violence to this. This slow silence that builds between them - that sends across things they can't really say - forces him to think, to contemplate. He can read Yamamoto exceptionally well, now. Know every subtle nuance, every unspoken desire, and whatever silly whim he finds himself caught up in.

Hibari indulges silently, most times - because Yamamoto is someone worth admiring when it comes to ability, and because somehow, the man had managed to secure himself a place in Hibari's world.

He moves, a little awkwardly - because he never quite knows how to handle things like this, even if he has years of experience with the Rain Guardian - and there is a strange sort of knot in his throat. Odd, unfamiliar. and a part of him thinks that he should at least say something.

His eyes flutter shut - only because he's unwilling to let Yamamoto see the flicker within his gaze, the hint that Hibari is not as cold as he sets himself up to be. Yamamoto, of all people, should know that, shouldn't he? The signs are all there - the little birds and creatures he would adopt, those too tiny to defend themselves properly, the way he defends his own allies under the guise of callous words, and even more callous attacks.

So he doesn't tell him a thing. And rather, tugs him down, then, pressing his lips against his. ]

...I don't need to tell you anything.

[ Yamamoto will understand, eventually. He always does. ]

[ Hibari checks the urge to deck him when he laughs, because he imagines that this is not the appropriate time for it. Strangely enough, however, he feels the knot in his shoulders loosen, relaxing. Because in Yamamoto-speak, things are something resembling fine, now.

Arching, just a little, with a lazy cat-like grace when Yamamoto's fingers wander, Hibari parts his mouth - and thinks that Yamamoto is sometimes too gentle for his own good.

Too forgiving when it comes to certain people, really. But he isn't going to complain. Not now, at least. Not when his kisses are warm and welcome, and when he's pushed against the door like this, the spark of desire coming alive within him at the kiss. It's been too long, and his fingers fumble briefly with Yamamoto's shirt buttons before he returns that kiss with a rare passion, a silent demand. ]

[ He's pulled along, and he willingly follows, eager and hungry and needing him. Yamamoto's touch is firm, but still teasing, and he returns the kiss with a ferocity that is almost uncharacteristic, and yet fitting all at the same time.

He snaps the buttons, then - because Hibari is not a patient man either, and smiles against Yamamoto's mouth when he hears it clatter all over the floor, finding a perverse pleasure in ruining the other guardian's shirt. He lets him explore his mouth, savors those fingers in his hair, as he slips his own hands inside that shirt, stroking over smooth, scarred abs, and upward. ]

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& you're the finest thing that i've done.

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