Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i. rolling downwards.

God tried to teach Crow how to talk.
"Love," said God. "Say, Love."
Crow gaped, and the white shark crashed into the sea
And went rolling downwards, discovering its own depth.

~"Crow's First Lesson" by Ted Hughes

The boy was ignoring him.

Squalo found that utterly vexing, considering how much thought he'd given it, to how he'd deal with the brat when he saw him again. If he would ignore him or avoid him, or if he would face him head on and shove back as much as the kid pushed on. In the end, and after much consideration, Squalo had decided to face the kid when the kid faced him, and make it damn clear that they weren't friends and Squalo didn't like him. But at the same time, Squalo wanted him close, to teach and mentor and study. Defeat was a bitter taste under his tongue, but it had dulled, somewhat, as a new, insidious thought came to him. A spark of curiosity that wanted to see that raw talent molded and shaped into something worthy. If he had to admit defeat to the kid, he'd at least make sure the kid was worthy of having defeated him.

Squalo found, the more he thought about it, the more he suddenly understood Tyr better.

Xanxus didn't get it, of course. Xanxus usually didn't get much or anything at all, when it came to Squalo, his loyalty, his music or his food. But Xanxus didn't really care what Squalo did or said, so as long as Squalo didn't dare slack off on what was really important, his duties to Xanxus. His vow would never be acknowledged, but it was a clear understanding between them, that it'd never stop being important. Things worked well that way, and as long as Xanxus could be sure they wouldn't change, he didn't care what went on in the manor. He had his own defeat to stew on, his own schemes to set up, his own mind to explore. Most days, he didn't even bother to see anyone, except Squalo, because he only trusted Squalo to bring his food and his whiskey into his room. And if Squalo minded being reduced to a mere butler, Squalo knew better than to protest about it. When Squalo announced his intentions of inducting Sawada's Rain guardian into his way of the sword, Xanxus had thrown a bottle at his head, but it had been more a reflex than a real protest. Squalo knew those things, knew that Xanxus would at least refrain from shooting the kid on sight, and went about preparing himself to approach the subject.

...except the boy was ignoring him.

Or worse, even, he was avoiding him.

Squalo thought he had no damn right to ignore him, after all that had happened. He had won, and if anyone had a right to be avoidant and shameful, it was Squalo. And Squalo had decided to relinquish that right for the sake of his own pride as a swordsman. What right did that boy have to scurry out of rooms and corridors, so that he and Squalo were never in the same room for more than five minutes? How dared he not meet his eyes across the room? It just wouldn't do.

Squalo watched Yamamoto walk around the well-cared grounds of the manor, knee deep in that crisp, pure snow from the Alps, with a gaunt that spoke of his carelessness of the cold and the depth of his thoughts. He took those walks often more than once a day, and always alone with whatever thoughts he kept inside that silly head of his. No one else seemed to notice the taciturn air around him, not even that annoying brat that fancied himself a real right hand man, and not even Sawada and his eyes that supposedly saw deep into a man's soul. But Squalo did, he saw the strange absent-minded gestures, the gaping silence that contradicted the irritatingly happy personality he'd expected to meet and for which he had prepared so meticulously, lest he gave into impulse and throttled the exasperating brat. Squalo heard the jokes and the laughs and felt there was something missing, something he'd originally judged to be there. Evidence said he'd misjudged the boy, except Squalo never misjudged people. He really saw people for what they were, and that was why he could follow Xanxus without a second thought, because he'd judged him and knew his judgment was accurate.

It just wouldn't do.

So with a long suffering sigh, he stepped into the snow, hating the cold that tried to creep into his bones, and huddled deep inside his jacket before he bent down and grabbed a handful of snow. It was powdery and cold, and he ignored the wetness easily spreading through his glove and into his hand, as he molded a compact ball that was sure to hurt once it hit its target.

Yamamoto yelped in pain when, indeed, it hit.

"I," Squalo told him, stalking over with an arrogant air that seemed to contradict the childish gesture, "dislike being ignored."

It was quite a dignified entrance, and Squalo was rather proud of himself for it. Sure, he could have screamed and stomped over to the brat, but then, given how the kid had been skillfully avoiding him, Squalo was sure he'd need to catch him by surprise or he'd excuse himself and run away before they could talk. Sometimes, there was no other way but to be sneaky, and loathe as he was to be, Squalo could be sneaky. He'd even planned the speech, which was a modified version of the speech he'd originally prepared, which in turn had basically been an announcement that Yamamoto was now his student, and tough luck if he didn't agree. He'd visualized how the conversation would go, what Yamamoto might say and how precisely Squalo would rebuke him, showing off that impeccable wit of his. Everything was planned, everything had been taken into account.

But then Squalo actually looked at the kid, and he forgot his painstakingly chosen words.

Yamamoto looked small, breakable, sprawled on the snow from the brutal snowball that had caught him on the side of the head. He wasn't wearing proper clothing for the weather, a t-shirt too thin and jeans too worn, and his expression was shy of terrified, jaw slack, lips parted and eyes wide. No, Squalo thought, silver eyes narrowed and sweeping the form frozen on the ground, from head to toe, he looks broken. The amber eyes weren't glinting with that same amusement as they had once, that strange inner light that they had kept even when the kid finally got serious and wielded his sword properly. That bewildering brightness that came from the conviction that the entire world was a game, and it was just a matter of knowing the rules to play. It was gone. It was gone.

Squalo felt the blow of anger suddenly flooding his veins like a physical thing, redoubled by the fact he didn't even know why he was angry in the first place.

"What," he whispered, pinning Yamamoto down with his eyes, with a look that sliced through him as if to find that taint so carefully concealed from everyone else, "have they done to you?"

And then the kid tackled him to the ground, and Squalo almost hit him, before he realized it was just a hug. Lying flat on his back, Squalo blinked at the late evening sky as Yamamoto held him hard enough he was sure his ribs would bruise, and buried his face into his jacket. Squalo blinked again, as the melting snow started seeping into his clothes, making them cold and wet, and Yamamoto still hadn't let go of him. He wasn't crying - mercifully - but he also wasn't letting go.

Squalo thought of screaming and kicking him off, demanding answers to the questions boiling around in his brain.

Squalo thought he heard a soft, quiet whisper repeating sorry, I'm so, so sorry, over and over again, like a mantra.

So Squalo stared at the sky, wondered what on earth he'd missed, tried to ignore the unforgiving cold, and realized this was probably the strangest Christmas he'd ever endured in his life.





Squalo didn't ask questions, he demanded results.

Yamamoto rather liked that, since it meant he could keep all the answers to himself, so as long as he fulfilled Squalo's expectations. Of course Squalo's expectations often seemed impossible to achieve, but they were never intimidating enough to make him consider giving up his answers. He held those close to him, fed them slowly to the bright blue flame of his duty, and forced himself to strive for more.

He'd been hesitant to accept the offer to live in the Varia manor, but then he'd realized it wasn't so much an offer as much as it was an order, and that he was expected to be excited about it in the first place. The Yamamoto from before would have been beside himself with excitement, it would be out of character if he didn't accept this with a beaming smile. Except the Yamamoto from before was not the Yamamoto that was panting for breath now, struggling to master a new form. The Yamamoto from before didn't have nightmares religiously every night, nor did he startle when a shadow moved at the edge of his vision, expecting to find Xanxus sneering at him in every corner. The Yamamoto from before could laugh freely and not only when the script said he should, and his laughter was sincere, it didn't carry that nasty sound of broken glass in it, like the new Yamamoto's did.

The old Yamamoto had never been so afraid, like the new one was.

But there was no time to worry about the past and what he'd been before, not when Squalo was coming at him, eyes blazing and sword raised to strike him down. Yamamoto met his parry and slid his feet slightly apart to let the shock of the hit travel through him and into the ground. Squalo had taught him how to do that, once he'd showed him he'd truly mastered Attacco di Squalo, just like he'd eventually taught him how to block Scontro di Squalo and all the Shigure Souen Ryu forms he'd known. They were working on blocking Scontro di Rondine, now, because Squalo had explained to him that he couldn't let himself open to his own techniques. Yamamoto soaked in the lessons to the best of his ability, and found that it helped, sometimes, to keep the nightmares and the swell of panic away, to have something to think about.

The clash of metal echoed as Yamamoto found himself flung back, mastered by his own technique. He landed hard on his back, and marveled for a moment, if he really had created such a monstrous attack all on his own. Squalo added his own flavor, when he executed the form, but even if he was more refined, the basic principles were still the same. And Yamamoto had created that. Being on the receiving end, he could not deny that it was a form meant to kill, and that he had yet to kill anyone with it was a marvel on its own.

The only man he'd ever used that form against, with genuine killing intent, had died prey of Xanxus' flames, when he'd loudly boasted about how easily he had killed Squalo.

Xanxus.

Yamamoto couldn't stop a shudder from wrecking through his frame as the name alone brought back a tidal wave of emotions and sensations that stifled him under the weight of what he'd done. The ghost of fingers on his skin caused goosebumps to spread all over it, and his sword slid an inch out of his sweat-slick hold. Yamamoto took a deep breath and called forth the blue fire raging within him, forcing it to spread through his senses and eat away the fear before it could bloom into a panic attack. He'd had one of those, once, the first night after they came home from the future. It had been enough to not want to have another one ever again, though he could only be grateful that his father hadn't noticed it.

"VOOOII, did I kill you with just that?" Squalo asked as he stalked forward, sounding annoyed, even if Yamamoto knew it was just his way of asking if he was alright.

Yamamoto shivered and looked up; though his eyes were guarded, some of the fear leaked out. He no longer looked at anyone unguardedly now, he'd learned that lesson well enough. It didn't matter with Squalo, though, because Squalo always saw right through it, and didn't ask questions about it. It was his father and his friends and the rest of the world he had to guard from, though. It was from people who pretended to understand but didn't, that he had to shy away from. He knew his friends wouldn't... do what Xanxus had, but even if they were good natured and sincere, they still didn't understand. And Yamamoto knew, now, that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. The fear of what they'd do to him, if they could see him for what he really was, the fear was overwhelming. The old Yamamoto had not know fear that deep; he'd only hidden from others because it made it easier to make friends and have fun. His fear had been to scare others away, and rather than risk a possibility, he smiled and urged them to move on, because after all, there was nothing they couldn't do, if they stuck together.

Yamamoto knew it was a certainty, now, rather than a possibility. If Tsuna or Gokudera or any of the others ever saw the ugly, ragging things inside him, they would be terrified, just like Yamamoto was, when he forgot and risked a look inside himself.

"Can I hug you?" Yamamoto asked softly, looking at the ground, "just for a bit."

Squalo made an annoyed sound, passing air through his teeth, but dropped down to the floor in front of him. He glared, surly and not at all happy about it, but he didn't pull away when Yamamoto slowly crawled over and curled in his lap, clinging tightly.

Squalo was safe, though, because he'd always seen Yamamoto anyway, and Yamamoto reasoned there was no point in hiding something they both knew was there. And Squalo didn't ask questions, which Yamamoto liked best about him; he knew something had happened, that had changed the old Yamamoto into the new, defective one, but he didn't ask what it had been. He never said anything about it, in fact, he just rolled with it because it was something that he couldn't change, and didn't expect Yamamoto to be like the one from the old days.

Yamamoto loved him a lot, just for that.

Squalo placed a hand on the ground, behind him, and leaned his weight on it, while he let his sword arm relax on his side. He said nothing of Yamamoto's frantic need for touch, and instead tilted his head back, to look up at the sky, and wished he knew who could be held accountable for it.

He'd rather enjoy skinning them alive.





The kid was doing better.

Squalo knew, because the abrupt hugs - which he also knew were Yamamoto's way to prevent an untimely panic attack - were growing less and less frequent. Not that the brat had stopped touching him, quite the contrary, in fact; he was irritatingly touchy all the damn time, brushing his hand against his arm or his shoulder or his hand, fingering his hair and acting basically like a goddamn wart.

But he was doing better, and he was not turning into a monster, for which Squalo was glad, and would allow him to be a wart all he wanted.

Of course, Yamamoto was not Belphegor, he had none of the innate madness within him, that rape had lit up into the fantastic flourish of demented violence they lived with. Squalo remembered Bel, before he'd truly snapped. He'd been a devious kid, smart like the devil, too smart for his own good. He used to laugh at everything, and he'd been an annoying ball of endless energy that just wouldn't sit still for five minutes. Squalo would look away for a second, and he'd find the blond dissecting some poor animal, or casually terrifying some of the staff by detailing how exactly he'd like to murder them, or setting the curtains on fire on the flimsy excuse that he was cold. But even those sociopath urges of his wouldn't have amounted to much, among assassins like them, except then there had been an... incident.

Lussuria had dealt with it, because Squalo had still been too young and too shaken up by Xanxus' defeat at the hands of the Ninth. So Lussuria, and Mammon, had carefully sewn the Prince's mind back into something resembling normalcy, and Squalo had only been able to watch them, since there had only been one thing for him to do.

But oh, Squalo remembered.

He knew he'd earned Levi's grudging respect after that, not because he'd been avenging one of their comrades, but because he'd displayed the ferocity and bloodthirsty nature worthy of his namesake. There hadn't been much left after he was done, from the bastard who'd caught their Prince off guard, to the entire family who'd seen fit to spit on the Varia by ordering him to act, assuming them weak. Levi had only cared about it because it was an insult to their boss, an underhanded way to undermine their already weakened power within the mafia, and Squalo had said he'd felt the same.

Truth was that whatever could scare their Prince just shouldn't fucking exist, and it made Squalo sick to the tips of his hair, to think about it. He knew what the mafia was, and that it wasn't some rainbow shitting unicorn, but goddamn it, they were honorable. The worked outside the law, and they killed and stole and trafficked and maimed and did a vast lot of really shitty stuff, but in the end, they had their own law. And their law was honor. To resort to something like what they'd done to Bel - and he'd been ten, god fucking damn it, psychotic genius assassin of the Varia or not, that had been just wrong - because there were no honorable means to win, it just went against every fiber in Squalo's soul. Defeat sucked, it was bitter and repugnant and he hated himself for losing, but he'd admitted to it, honorably, because he'd fought with his all and had still lost, and his honor remained with him, because of it. Nothing, ever, justified throwing away one's honor just for the sake of winning, because victory without honor wasn't victory at all. It was one of the things he liked best about Xanxus, why he knew his loyalty was not misplaced.

Xanxus was one of the most honorable men he knew, it was just that his honor system was slightly different from everyone else's, that was why he was so brilliant.

Xanxus had approved of the massacre, when Squalo told him about it, because they both knew it had been wrong and dishonorable, and they could not repay such a thing with anything else but death and carnage. Squalo knew, though, that Xanxus didn't really care about what had been done to Bel, for the sake of Bel himself, but what had been done to him, through his subordinates. What mattered was the understanding and the disapproval of such tactics, as they were clearly beneath them.

Yes, Squalo knew rape, and it disgusted him. He knew what it looked like, and he lived with what it could end as, and he was quite certain that someone, somewhere, had raped Yamamoto Takeshi simply because they could not kill him. And if Squalo ever found them - when - he was going to take much pleasure from showing them just how much he hated them for it.

He knew Yamamoto, though, much more than he'd care to. He knew the kid would not talk, would not name Squalo's to-be-victims, and wouldn't own up to what had been done to him. It would take him a very long time to learn what he wanted to know, so in the meantime, he'd work on fixing up the brat and keeping him from slipping down the slope and ending up like Bel. After all, Yamamoto had defeated him, not Bel, and Squalo would diligently dig out up to the last speck of Yamamoto and polish it into something worthy.

It was the honorable thing to do.

"Mou, you're smiling again, love," Lussuria pointed out casually, looking at him over the rim of his sunglasses with a speculative look that let Squalo know he knew he was up to something. "Thinking of a certain Japanese boy, perhaps~?"

Squalo allowed the smile to turn into a grin, and cracked a dark laugh that only served to perk the flamboyant fag's curiosity some more. Squalo knew he could probably tell Lussuria about Yamamoto, and earn an ally to execute his plans. Yamamoto had managed to charm Lussuria enough to make a friend out of him, even if it was just with the tattered rags of his old shell, and Squalo knew Lussuria's brand of friendship ran deep and twisted just like the man himself.

"Something like that," he said, training his eyes back to the newspaper in front of him, and forcing himself to actually read it. "It's a pet project of mine."

But he wouldn't, because Yamamoto, unlike Bel, didn't concern Lussuria or the Varia. This was personal, simply because Squalo's honor was bound to Yamamoto's and it was no one's business but theirs.

And Squalo was thorough, when it came to personal.





Squalo gave him a watch, for his seventeenth birthday.

The gift had come in the mail, in an unassuming brown package that his father had given him when he got home from school, along with a heavy look that Yamamoto couldn't entirely read, but that clearly carried some disapproval in it.

As far as everyone was concerned, Yamamoto Tsuyoshi knew nothing of his son's involvement in the mafia. Yamamoto had spent a year studying abroad in Italy, via a scholarship earned through his baseball talents, and his letters to him had said nothing to contradict the story. Tsuna and Gokudera had dutifully asked for news on Yamamoto, despite the fact he'd kept in contact with his friends through other means, and talked excitedly about their own boring, normal lives.

Yamamoto's father had died, in that future world they'd visited, because he had known nothing about the mafia, and he had had no way to be prepared. Yamamoto knew he couldn't spare his father from becoming a target again, but he would spare him becoming a victim.

It turned out, much to Yamamoto's shock and bewilderment, that Yamamoto Tsuyoshi knew quite a bit about the mafia, the Vongola and the Varia. He'd told his son exactly what he thought about the whole affair, and it had not been charitable or approving. In the end, though, father and son reached an understanding, and Yamamoto earned himself another pillar of unconditional support, far more tender and less insightful than Squalo. And he was forever grateful for it, and what it meant, as he and his father became closer than they had been before, though he still didn't speak about Xanxus or what Xanxus had done. In fact, Yamamoto rarely spoke of the future they had visited, preferring, when he could, to treat the whole thing as a horrible nightmare that he shouldn't have to concern himself with any longer.

"It's from Squalo," Yamamoto said with a little smile, prying the box open on the counter, "you know, that teacher from Italy." He added, as if his father didn't know exactly who Squalo was, but it was part of their agreement, and Tsuyoshi smiled indulgently, playing his part properly.

"Must like you quite a bit," the elder Yamamoto pointed out casually, diligently slicing the fish in front of him, "most teachers don't give students birthday presents."

"He's my favorite teacher in the world," Yamamoto informed him, and for once the brightness of his voice was genuine, as he extracted the black case carefully, "might be just an Italian thing, though." Tsuyoshi merely arched an eyebrow as Yamamoto pulled out the pocket watch from the case. He swallowed hard. "Or maybe not."

It was a beautiful silver watch, with an exquisitely carved star on the cover and black letters engraved in a circle around it, in some sort of shiny stone. Yamamoto squinted at the watch, trying to make out the letters, but it wasn't Italian, as he'd originally thought.

"Ne-nemo ne?"

"Nemo me impune lacessit," Tsuyoshi's tongue rolled the words somewhat awkwardly, but clearly enough. He put down his knife and stepped out of his part of the script. "It's Tyr's watch, Squalo's master was once a knight from the Scottish order." His face turned into a scowl, which Yamamoto knew usually happened when he talked about the mafia. "It was his greatest pride, he always spoke fondly of those days. I'm surprised Squalo kept the watch, though. He did always have a strange relationship with Tyr."

Sometimes, Yamamoto wanted to ask his father why he knew so much. He was almost certain he'd been involved with Vongola, somehow, since he spoke of people as if he knew them personally, and of certain events as if he'd been present when they happened. But Yamamoto would not ask him, because then he'd have to tell him about Xanxus and the future, and he didn't want to. That was the agreement, and he preferred to be curious, than vulnerable.

"What does that mean?" Yamamoto asked instead, opening the watch to find two dates engraved inside the watch, and wondered what they meant. "Nemo me imprudent lacesset?"

"Nemo me impune lacessit," Tsuyoshi corrected softly, eyes sober as he stared straight into his son's as he translated it from memory; Tyr had explained it, more than once, in much detail, of course Tsuyoshi had never forgotten. "No one can harm me with impunity."

The implications washed down Yamamoto's back like icy water. It was always what Squalo implied, not what he said, that Yamamoto cared about, because that was always what he really meant. And there was hardly any other way to look at the watch, than another reminder that Squalo knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not all the details, but he knew, and he would not let Yamamoto forget it.

You will be avenged.

It was as good as a vow, and Yamamoto knew how far Squalo could go, when it came to vows. And precisely because of that, Yamamoto would never let him know what Xanxus had done. It would be unfair to repay his  mentor's training and kindness by turning him against the man he admired the most in the world. And because, if Yamamoto were truly honest with himself, he was afraid what would happen, if Squalo found himself in a situation where he had to choose between his vows.

He carefully put the watch down, mood considerably less bright than it had been, upon arriving home, and ate everything his father put in front of him, no longer hungry at all.





"Stay. Here," Squalo snapped as he bared his teeth and dug the tip of his sword into Yamamoto's chest. "You're not fucking ready yet."

"But--"

"VOOOII, STOP FUCKING MAKING ME REPEAT MYSELF!"

Yamamoto jumped back, Squalo never really unleashed his lungs on him anymore, and the sudden blast of sound had caught him so off guard he let his sword fall to the floor, transforming into its harmless shinai form at his feet. Squalo spared him an eye roll before he was gone, running hot on the heels of the thieves that had managed to make Lambo part with his beloved bazooka.

It was the last one, though, and it was invaluable enough that the Varia had been contracted to protect it after several attempts to steal the other remaining ones had ended in their destruction. And whatever the unknown attackers were tracking the bazooka down for, it couldn't be any good. Squalo had come to Namimori to inform the brats about it, with orders to destroy it, so as long as the enemy didn't get their hands on it.

Yamamoto knew Squalo had told him not to, explicitly. Never the less, he grabbed his sword and waited five heartbeats before chasing after the Italian, not really expecting to get involved, but not wanting to just wait and not know what happened. He liked watching Squalo fight, even if he could never look when he killed. Yamamoto hated imagining how Squalo fought, he invariably ended up thinking of that battle he never saw.

There were four men, who were quite fast on their feet, one of them carrying the bazooka. Squalo ran after them with a zealous intent, and Yamamoto knew he was grinning, thrilled at the hunt. Yamamoto wondered if he'd ever learn to feel that sort of thrill himself, when the thought of killing made him queasy. He had been ready to kill, against the Millefiore, because there really wasn't any other way, and other people were dying, and it was for the greater good. Yamamoto found it was a lot harder to summon the murderous intent when any of that wasn't present. Oddly enough, though, Squalo wasn't angry at him, not even frustrated. He'd summarily deemed Yamamoto 'not ready', and seemed to have no real interest to push him into it until he changed his mind about that. It was just another show of Squalo's odd kindness to him; though Squalo was anything but kind, his actions and his indulgence were kind enough for Yamamoto. He might never return his hugs, but he didn't kick him off with a screech. He gave him that watch, but never asked questions about it. He taught him how to kill, but never told him to show him what he'd learned.

It was really hard not to like Squalo, when he was like that.

Yamamoto stopped short when he saw Squalo chasing the men into a large warehouse. He hesitated, because he couldn't go in and pretend he hadn't disobeyed Squalo, but on the other hand, he didn't want to stay outside and not see Squalo fight. Though, rationally, none of those guys were funeral wreath-level, and Yamamoto was sure Squalo outclassed them all with ease. But the restlessness built up in his bones, and he was running forward again, gripping his sword with white knuckles. He was tired of the nightmares, he didn't want to add more to it.

And then the warehouse went up in flames, taking Squalo and whoever was inside with it.

Yamamoto screamed.

Chapter Text

ii. drawer of knives.

Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding.  All the unhurried day,
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

~"Deceptions" by Philip Larkin

Yamamoto Takeshi walked down the street, hands inside the pockets of his slacks while he played with the toothpick held between his lips, and carefully ignored the thirteen men dispatched to kill him as they followed him and arranged ambush after ambush. It was something of a daily ritual, of the late, since lots of people seemed to have simultaneously decided he'd been Sword Emperor for too long, and came after him to relieve him of the title. Yamamoto ignored them, because they were hardly worth his time, much less the edge of his sword.

He was good at that, ignoring things. Like worry or sadness or longing or fear or guilt, he was very skilled in drowning such things inside the pool of raging blue fire within himself. Nothing ever came back from the pool, destroyed completely as the useless distractions they were. He was also very good at ignoring people, when he wanted. It helped that he was known world-wide as a flawless, powerful assassin, second only to Reborn - and even so, some rumored he'd long surpassed his old tutor. Being powerful afforded him fear, and fear afforded him privacy, and if he wanted to play dumb and ignore what people were telling him, few people still dared to yell at him for a reaction. Fewer even got a reaction that didn't involve a blade slicing them in half.

"Yare, yare," Yamamoto muttered to himself, sidestepping a woman who subtly tried to stab him with a pocket knife, without looking back to see her fall down, dead, ten seconds later. "You guys are getting pretty annoying," but the annoyance, too, was fed to the blue fire, and Yamamoto's slightly morose expression didn't change one bit.

Half lidded amber eyes looked up at the sky, the mind behind them lost in memories even if the body moved fluidly. Yamamoto sighed as he broke the man's neck, letting him slump down into the dirty alley floor without looking back. Ten years, it didn't sound like much, but it was, and it hurt. And that hurt was the only thing he would never feed to the blue fire, because along the hurt were other things he didn't want to lose. Things that were his. He was one of the Vongola Guardians, not the strongest - that title would forever belong to Hibari - but the one people feared the most. He carried out Tsuna's will when there was no other way, and he protected his boss without flinching. He was serene, because he fed everything that wasn't serene into the blue fire. Everything but his memories of Squalo, and all that came with them, the anger, the despair, the comfort, the smiles. Those were his, the last thing that he retained of his own, and he would not give them up.

"Yamamoto Takeshi," the voice was familiar; it had once given him nightmares, long, long ago. "The Sword Emperor," Genkishi raised his blade as he stepped into the deserted warehouse, not bothering to wait for Yamamoto to acknowledge him. "Brace yourself."

"The Phantom Knight," Yamamoto turned around, smiling kindly at him with his eyes closed. "I'd have thought you of all people would know better than coming here." The amber eyes were open now, but they were not warm. And the smile was no longer kind. Suddenly, the air inside the warehouse felt thick, as Yamamoto's murderous intent leaked out of him. "I didn't know you wanted to die this badly."

Genkishi knew better than to throw a taunt back, when the sharp edge of his sword was more than enough. He hit air, and had a fraction of a second to move away as Yamamoto landed on the spot he'd been occupying five seconds prior. But each movement was so graceful, Genkishi noted, so controlled and fluid at the same time. Yamamoto hadn't even bothered to draw his sword yet, his hands still deep inside his pockets. Enraged by the dismissive posture, Genkishi threw himself at him, but Yamamoto seemed to know all of his moves already - impossible - and didn't even need a sword to avoid them.

"You know," Yamamoto mused with that same carefree, serene tone of his, ducking down and forward, until he was face to face with the other man. "I don't remember you being this weak, Genkishi," and he sank his knee with impossible strength against Genkishi's gut, driving air and what felt like life itself out of his body. "I was actually afraid of you, once."

Yamamoto watched impassively as Genkishi sank to the ground, and walked further back into the warehouse. Ten years, but he knew exactly where he was, he'd been careful to find out what exactly had been done after the rebuilding efforts began, to replace the old warehouse. He finally took one of his hands out of his pocket, and used it to pull out something from inside his jacket. Genkishi watched him through blurry vision, knowing that single hit had been powerful enough to cause massive internal damage. Even if Yamamoto didn't fight him, he was likely to die, as a result of that single hit. Why, he thought desperately, watching Yamamoto pull out a silver pocket watch from inside his jacket to look at the time, why is he so strong? Of course Genkishi had known he'd be strong. Men did not get the reputation and prestige Yamamoto Takeshi had in the mafia world, if they weren't strong. But Genkishi was strong, too. Genkishi had always been a good candidate to become the Sword Emperor, but his alliance to the Giglio Nero had prevented him from raising his sword against Vongola's Rain. Well, now he'd abandoned that gilded cage, and though he had anticipated a harsh battle, he hadn't expected this.

Yamamoto Takeshi was inhuman.

"What do you know, I'm actually on time," Yamamoto mused to himself, letting himself fall to the floor against the far off wall. Genkishi had yet to manage enough strength to get up. "Did you know, Genkishi? This is my special place, that's why I can't forgive you for barging in. It's not polite." He tilted his head against the wall, arms resting on his knees as he seemed to relax. "We're at the grave of the real Sword Emperor. Did you know him, Genkishi? Superbi Squalo. He was the greatest swordsman in the world, that's why we're here today, right now."

"Is that so?" Genkishi felt he had mastered his pain enough, as he stood up a bit shakily. "Then why is he dead?"

Rumor said Yamamoto Takeshi felt nothing but serenity and bloodlust. Genkishi thought it was impossible, that maybe if he struck a nerve hard enough, that serenity would crack and leave Yamamoto open for a strike. What Genkishi didn't know was that Yamamoto Takeshi felt something other than serenity and bloodlust, the only other thing he afforded himself to feel and that wasn't immediately shoved into the blue fire, but that so few had ever managed to inspire in him.

Yamamoto Takeshi embraced anger the most, no matter how rarely it came to him, because it had been anger what kept the blue fire inside him raging still, nearly fifteen years later.

And Genkishi had just managed to push the one raw nerve that Yamamoto didn't know how to react to, but with anger.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" He growled, and between glaring up at Genkishi and running at him with his sword unleashed, less that a heartbeat passed.

Genkishi didn't see him move, partly because he was so damn fast - monster, he's a fucking monster - but mostly because the moment he prepared to dodge the strike of Yamamoto's blade with his own, a cloud of faint purple smoke erupted in the middle of the warehouse. Genkishi heard the clash of blades that didn't involve his own, and wondered who'd dare interrupt his battle.

"VOOOII, what's with that fucking puny strike?" Squalo demanded loudly, bluffing through sheer adrenaline and pretending his whole arm wasn't feeling numb, as he tried franticly to readjust to his surroundings.

One second he was fulfilling his orders, destroying that damn bazooka for once and for all, and the next he was crossing blades with a psychotic bastard that was making his brain itch, because he knew him from somewhere. He just couldn't place where. Squalo would worry about that as soon as he either won the battle or ensured no one was trying to kill him. Then he could care about who was who and where the hell he was. He leaped back at the same time the amber eyed man did - he looked Japanese, if the Japanese were freakishly tall - and narrowed his eyes at that stand. It was familiar.

Genkishi didn't know what was going on, except that this had been a fantastically bad idea. He'd underestimated Yamamoto Takeshi, and he was going to die because of, without having even landed a single blow. It would be an embarrassing way to die, with a witness on top of everything, but he couldn't run away now. It wouldn't be honorable. He took a breath that made his insides hurt and reset his stand, willing to use the stranger that had appeared without warning to his advantage. They said Yamamoto Takeshi was unusually good at seeing through deceit, but he couldn't possibly know of Genkishi's secret talent, no one did. He would catch him off guard if he weaved some--

"Illusions, Genkishi?" Yamamoto's smile was feral, as his eyes seemed to glow with righteous anger. "Of him? How fucking dare you?"

Squalo didn't know who Genkishi was, except that it obviously wasn't himself. He was about to screech something to that effect, when the man charged at him again, and Squalo felt a thrill of fear when he realized he was grossly outclassed. It didn't stop him from charging on, though, because Superbi fucking Squalo didn't run away from death. But the man merely brushed him away with a brutal slice that he barely managed to block, continuing straight on for a man Squalo hadn't seen yet - so fucking sloppy, it's a miracle you're not dead yet - and sliced his body neatly in half, with a strike from shoulder to hip. It was an impressive display, and since Squalo still didn't like being ignored, he clapped, sound loud against the oppressive silence of death, arching an eyebrow at the stranger. It was easier being cocky than terrified, and his arm was still numb, clapping helped.

"VOOOII, nice shot," Squalo drawled with a smirk, "but you haven't---"

"Why are you still here?" Yamamoto asked him, staring blankly. "I killed him," he said a touch hysterically, though Squalo thought he really didn't need to emphasize his point by stabbing the still bleeding corpse with his sword. "The real one! He's dead!"

"Quite," Squalo snorted dryly, though warily; he didn't want to deal with a hysteric swordsman that had pretty much disarmed him with one hit. He wanted to know who this man was, because he was a worthy opponent, but he had stuff to do first. Duty, then leisure. "If... you're done desecrating that corpse?"

"Why are you here, Squalo?" Yamamoto demanded again, voice louder as he emphasized the question with a down-left swing of his sword that Squalo had worked so hard to get him rid of; those sort of quirks got people killed.

They were also the sort of thing that one didn't forget or stop doing no matter how much time had passed. Squalo felt a shiver of unease as recognition stomped over denial and he couldn't force himself to not ask.

"...Takeshi?"

The katana in the man's hand slid from his fingers, clattering and transforming into a harmless shinai. Squalo had seen that same sword do that exact same thing less than ten minutes prior, except the one who'd drop it had been a lanky brat who couldn't kill, not... not the thing in front of him.

When Yamamoto screamed, Squalo realized he'd somehow managed to land in hell.





No one would tell him anything.

Squalo thought that was pretty fucking unfair, considering he hadn't been the one who'd broken into hysteric sobs in the middle of a warehouse, and he was actually refraining from screeching his demands. The man who was Yamamoto had broken down into hysterics in a way that had unnerved Squalo quite a bit, and he hadn't known what to do to stop it, except maybe hug him like he used to hug the lanky brat he'd taken as a student. That had worked well enough to get some answers, which were disturbing on their own.

Apparently, he'd been dead the past ten years.

He was taking it well, all things considered, unlike Yamamoto, who seemed to have shattered far worse than Squalo had ever imagined he could. He'd hugged him back so tight he'd felt his spine would break, in the warehouse, and once Squalo had managed to get through him and the initial shock had faded, he had not liked what he'd seen. Oh, it was Yamamoto alright, and he had recognized much of the boy in the vulnerable man looking at him like some sort of miraculous apparition that he was too afraid wasn't real. But Squalo could also see a sliver of madness in his eyes, something deeply wounded that had never really healed. It wasn't the same tilt of madness that made Bel's smiles terrifying, but it was related to it. He wanted to ask and find out what had happened, exactly, but Yamamoto hadn't let him. He wasn't a kid anymore, and he knew the game well by now, because Squalo found his attempts to start that conversation skillfully derailed into other matters that were important, and not nearly as personal.

Which was how he'd found himself led into the underground base the brats apparently called home now, and into Sawada Tsunayoshi's office, to inform him of what had happened.

"This is gonna sound really fucking weird," Squalo said, standing straight after he'd refused the offer to sit down, "but I think I just traveled through time."

Ten years had been good for Sawada, it seemed. He'd lost much of that wide-eyed naivety that had made Squalo sick in a thousand different ways, but he was still the same brat he'd known before. Squalo knew, because Sawada was smiling at him awkwardly, trying to be reassuring and at the same time certain his reassurance was unwanted.

Damn right it was unwanted, Squalo didn't need it. What he needed were answers, preferably before he was given some way to go home.

"I believe you," Sawada said with a nod, and Squalo knew he was sincere, and still found his sincerity mocking. "I really think you should sit down, Squalo. We need to talk."

"VOOOII! I'm fucking fine on my feet," Squalo snapped in annoyance, "and nothing you tell me is gonna fucking throw me off my feet, so fucking spit italready."

Tsuna sighed. He'd... almost forgotten what Squalo was like. But he was just the same as he'd been, before they all thought he'd died. Well, Tsuna thought a bit wryly, of course he's the same. He is the same man, for him it hasn't been ten years. The hard thing about being the Tenth, Tsuna had found, during his years in power, was not that the fights or the wars or the lives he'd ended up claiming. The hardest part about being the boss was making decisions for the best of others, even when others wouldn't appreciate his help. But someone had to make those choices, and he was the best suited for it, because he had learned to see the bigger picture. The mafia was a rough world, and he could try and change some things, but unlike his teenage days, when he wanted nothing to do with it, or later on, when he decided he was just going to change everything, Tsuna had learned everything had a reason behind it. He changed things done for the wrong reasons, but a surprising amount of things done in the mafia were backed by very good reasons that couldn't be ignored.

It was his most honest and firm belief that nothing ever happened without a reason, and he was sure this was no exception.

"I'm familiar with time traveling, Squalo," Tsuna leaned back, folding his hands on his lap in a gesture Reborn always criticized as too unassuming. "I've done enough of it myself."

"What?" Squalo's hostile air was momentarily replaced by bewilderment as he stared at him.

"I'd... like to tell you a story," Tsuna said softly, nodding more to himself than to the irascible Italian standing in front of him, "it's a story that I swore my family to silence, so no one but my guardians and a select few know about."

"Fascinating," Squalo snarled, catching himself as he glared. "But I don't need a fucking story, I need a fucking way to go home."

Sawada told him the story anyway.

Squalo wasn't sure when he'd sat down, or when he'd started holding his head in his hands, but it wasn't shock or amazement that had him tearing at his hair by the end of it. He didn't really care about that future the brats had visited and saved, he wasn't even thinking of the implications that came with how the story ended. All that Squalo could think about was that thin wisp of a brat clinging to him in the snow and begging for forgiveness. It made sense to him, so much of it. If the Millefiore had been as monstrous as Sawada remembered, if Yamamoto had really fought as hard as the kid said he had. Stupid, Squalo thought, brain reeling with possibilities and theories and so much frustration, so fucking stupid. Why didn't you tell me this before?

"You don't think I'll be able to go back," Squalo said after Tsuna was done with his storytelling, instead of voicing his thoughts - fuck it, just fuck it - looking up at a man that, if things were different between them, he could probably bring himself to respect. "Do you?"

"No," Tsuna swallowed hard, "I don't. You didn't switch, Squalo, you moved forward." Tsuna sounded just as bewildered as Squalo felt. "If you'd switched, we'd have memories of your old self in the past, but I think you were just displaced. You were gone from the past, and the world went on without you. Shouichi said that after Byakuran was dead and we came back to our own time, the parallel worlds would harden and separate from each other more firmly. I don't know what would happen if we caused a paradox and tried to send you home." 

"So I'm fucking stranded here," Squalo snorted in disgust, hands clenching on the arms of the chair, eyes blazing. "VOOOII, fantastic."

"I'll help you set in, we all will," Tsuna tried to sound helpful, and knowing that anything he said was going to sound stupid and bland anyway. "I'm glad you're alive after all, Squalo. Even if I too wish this simply hadn't happened, I'm glad you're here."

"I wonder why," Squalo clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling like a cage was wrapping up around him as he glared dangerously at Tsuna.

This was just fucked up. This was wrong. Squalo wanted to go home, to his boss and his half-hearted brat, and his sword and his family, and his life. He wanted the world where he was there and he stopped Yamamoto from becoming... what he'd seen in the warehouse. This wasn't supposed to happen, that much was clear, but there wasn't much he could do, was there? Squalo hated feeling helpless most of all, it reminded him of Xanxus in his prison of ice, and how no matter what Squalo did, nothing was good enough to set him free.

"I think you know why," Tsuna didn't dare look at him in the eye.

"If I do," Squalo hissed, focusing on the one outlet for his frustration that he could have, eyes narrowed dangerously, "I fucking wonder why you haven't done something about it, O Mighty Vongola Decimo."

"You know why," Tsuna insisted, though he still couldn't bring himself to meet the Italian's eyes.

Squalo stood up  in a flurry of temper and white hair, and whirled towards the door, clearly deeming the conversation over.

"No, I don't," he snarled, stalking for the door, "and I don't fucking care to hear your excuses."

"Please stay within the base, Squalo," that was an order if Squalo ever heard one, and it only made the anger boiling in his veins grow, "at least until I contact the Varia and someone gets here."

"Oh, don't worry," Squalo snapped back acidly, turning his head as he reached the door, to regard Tsuna with utter contempt, "seeing that no one else can be fucking bothered to, I have ten years to catch up with."

The door slammed shut hard enough that one of the paintings in Tsuna's office fell to the floor with a clatter. Tsuna let out a shuddering sigh and folded his arms on his desk so he could bury his face into them. He was the boss, he took the hard decisions no one else could take, and he didn't hide from his mistakes.

But while everything might happen for a reason, there was no mistake Tsuna regretted the most, than those that concerned the man that had once been his best friend.





He was back. He was back.

Yamamoto buried his face into the surprisingly soft hair and clung a little harder. Still mostly asleep, Squalo grumbled under his breath and shifted in the suffocating embrace but didn't pull away. It was the third night he spent in Yamamoto's bed, though Tsuna had provided him a perfectly serviceable room in the base. It was just that when Yamamoto looked at him like the smallest breeze could do him in, Squalo couldn't find it in himself to go back to his room. Any guilt Yamamoto might have felt at annoying Squalo, evaporated when he curled up against him under the covers, and the silence in his head turned peaceful, rather than ominous.

"Are you awake?" Yamamoto whispered, sighing as he woke up from another night without nightmares.

"No," Squalo grumbled, squirming under the covers and burying himself further into Yamamoto's arms.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Yamamoto shifted to accommodate Squalo more comfortably, enjoying the warmth of the embrace.

"Doesn't matter," Squalo yawned and still refused to open his eyes, "since I'm not awake yet."

Yamamoto laughed softly under his breath, curling as close as humanely possible. He tried to remember when was the last time he'd laughed like that, and realized he couldn't really remember. He'd stopped laughing at some point, he knew, he just couldn't remember when exactly. All he knew is that somehow his laughter had gotten... wrong, and it scared people when he laughed. So he stopped laughing unless he wanted people scared. By that point, he'd already realized there were a few he'd like to scare as much as he could. 

Now everything was confusing, and he didn't know where he was standing. But it was better, now, the uncertainty of having things changing - making him laugh - than the certainty that kept his inner fire burning strong.

They had talked, of course. Once Yamamoto had found enough self control to stop breaking down every time they were alone - never in public, you do not show weakness in public, it'll get you killed - though all their talks were awkward and somehow ended up cycling back to whatever had happened to him to change him so much. Squalo had never asked him questions before, but Yamamoto was past caring about that, too drunk in the knowledge he was back to think about hiding himself from something that had happened too long ago. You left was a perfectly honest reply, but Yamamoto didn't like the blame it carried, and he wouldn't blame Squalo for something he was not guilty of. He didn't like people blaming Squalo for things that weren't his fault. So he went along with the next best thing, I guess I finally learned the ways of the world, but Squalo hadn't been too keen on that answer, either.

So instead they had talked and argued and bickered and fought, and while Yamamoto wished fervently there was something else for them to talk about, he admitted freely he missed Squalo's cryptic speeches that didn't say half of that they implied. Yamamoto was rusty, translating that sort of thing, but it didn't stop him from enjoying it. He tried to spend as much time as possible with Squalo, sticking to his side every possible moment, until the Italian yelled at him and kicked him out of the room, usually throwing something at after him. That made Yamamoto laugh, too.

"We'll spar, today," Squalo said firmly, though his eyes were still closed and he was still soaking warmth.

Yamamoto's smile faded a bit. He'd known they would, Squalo would never simply stop wanting to fight with him, but Yamamoto wasn't sure he could still swing his sword and not kill people in the process.

"Why?" He buried his nose into Squalo's hair until he touched the back of his neck. "We could always go out if you're bored."

"VOOOII! I'm not bored," Squalo growled, ignoring the pained whine from Yamamoto at the sudden outburst of abuse to his eardrums, "you're being an asshole and not talking to me--"

"Do too!" Yamamoto protested childishly, which in and of itself, Squalo knew was progress, but not enough.

"--So we're letting your sword do the talking for a change."

Yamamoto swallowed hard.







"Why I don't fucking get," Squalo slurred quite angrily, forehead pressed against the counter, "is how the fuck no one saw it?"

It was after hours and Takezushi had long since closed down. Squalo wasn't sure why he'd come to the restaurant in the first place, but in the end he was sort of glad he had. Yamamoto Tsuyoshi was still ever bit as annoying as he remembered him, but at least he remembered him too, and after telling him they were closed, he'd served him a nice, big plate of leftovers and a cup of sake that was never empty. The sake was enough to make Squalo forgive him for treating him like a fucking stray.

"It's not that we couldn't see it," Tsuyoshi said quietly, sipping his own cup, "it's just that we never understood."

Yamamoto was so, so wrong, it hurt Squalo in a place he supposed most people had a heart. He was just so... happy to have him back, Squalo was almost glad he'd landed in this hellish future. Except then the guilt roared and tried to consume him, because landing in this hellish future was what had created it in the first place. Yamamoto had grown to be exactly the sort of assassin Squalo had always wanted him to be, but he was nothing like the man he should be. When Squalo had ended up throwing a monumental fit during dinner last night, Yamamoto had broken down laughing like he used to, and Squalo had been so angry at the shocked faces all around him, that he had had to storm out of the room before he tried to stab more than one fucking moron with his chopsticks. Why had they let Yamamoto sink so low? Why hadn't anyone bothered to preserve his laughter and his personality? Why had they let him sink into his own serenity to the point he was little more than it?

Squalo threw the cup at Tsuyoshi's head, but he was too drunk to aim right, and it went and smashed into a wall.

"Someone raped your son and you fucking let him sink, what the fuck is there to understand?" Squalo was standing all of a sudden, which was quite a feat when he couldn't really tell up from down anymore. "All any of you had to do was be there for him, it's not fucking rocket science!"

It was late now, and he wasn't even supposed to go outside in the first place. They were probably searching franticly for him, fearing he'd... meet the outside world. Squalo had been locked inside the base for nearly a month now and still, no one would tell him anything about what he really wanted to know. He was quite certain it was because there hadn't been a satisfactory answer from the Varia side of things, but Squalo wasn't thinking about it. He was too focused on Yamamoto and all the damage that lay open and bleeding in front of him, to think about what Xanxus would do to him once they met again. Cast him away was the most optimistic prospect, really, Squalo was fully expecting to be killed in the goriest way possible.

"Except none of us were the one he wanted to be there for him," Tsuyoshi met his eyes as he spoke and Squalo saw - he always saw, that was his curse, rather than his gift - through the haze of alcohol and the dim lights, the same glint that had shone in Tyr's eyes that night, eons ago, the night Squalo killed him. Tired. Regretful. Defeated. "Takeshi might love us all, but he didn't trust us like he trusted you." Squalo crumbled on the floor, fingers digging into his hair. "When I met you, Superbi Squalo, I knew nothing good would come from you. When you killed my dearest friend, simply because you realized you could, I resented you. When you killed my brother, to master your own sword, I respected you. When you took my son away, I feared you. But when you abandoned him, I hated you more than I've ever hated anything else in my life, because you managed to destroy what remained of my family, without even having to try." The old man stood up, looming above him, and Squalo saw, for a moment, a shadow of the fearsome warrior he'd been once, when he'd wielded his sword purposely and served Vongola with pride. "And I hate you even more now, because killing you would only make things worse."

Squalo looked up and met that blazing gaze, knowing he deserved every bit of scorn in it. Tyr used to tell him stories, sometimes, after he beat him to a pulp in a training room or a courtyard. He'd calmly sit down on the floor and share his memories with him. Sometimes Squalo had been in too much pain or too much frustration to really pay attention, most of the time, he listened. He talked about being a Vongola Guardian, about duty and glory and the place of each piece on the board. He'd talk about his own exploits and his own achievements. And sometimes, if Squalo had put up a really good fight, he'd talk about the elusive Cloud guardian that had abandoned the family and managed to not be branded a traitor. About how strong he was, how dedicated, how trustworthy. Squalo remembered thinking to himself, that no matter how virtuous Tyr made him sound, Yamamoto Tsuyoshi was still a traitor and a coward.

Squalo acknowledged he'd been a really, really stupid brat, back in the day.

"I could have fixed this, before," Squalo muttered as the moment passed and the tension drained from the room. "I could have done something to keep him from closing himself off the world, but not now. I don't know what I can do now."

Tsuyoshi stepped closer and helped Squalo back onto a chair, before he took a seat of his own. Squalo was too busy chasing circular thoughts in his brain to get really pissed about that.

"So you're saying you're giving up?"

Squalo stared at the cup of sake that was placed in front of him. He wondered absently if the old bastard was trying to kill him of alcohol poisoning. Never the less, he tilted the cup back without feeling the sharp burn down his throat.

"No," Squalo stared at him as intently as he could, through slightly blurry eyes, "I'm saying I've got no fucking clue what I'm supposed to do now, except that I need to do something."

Tsuyoshi refilled his cup, but they didn't talk anymore.





"Oh, do go on," Squalo said, arching an eyebrow as Gokudera paused abruptly, "really, you stopped right before you got to the good part."

Gokudera resisted the urge to slam his fingers into the keys dramatically, he was not fifteen anymore, damn it. He turned to find Squalo, clearly wearing some of Yamamoto's clothes, leaning against the doorway with his hands stuck inside the back pockets of the jeans and looking like a stupid smug bastard. He'd spent two months in the base already, and he acted like master and owner of everything around him. Gokudera felt like being petty and pointing out that the ponytail wasn't helping the whole argument about not being a woman, just for the sake of starting an argument. He and Squalo clashed the most, in the base. Tsuna avoided running into the Italian, Lambo was terrified of him and his damn lungs, Ryohei was in Italy negotiating with the Varia, Hibari didn't deem Squalo worth his notice, Chrome was away running an errand for Mukuro, and of course, Yamamoto acted like a pathetic, whimpering puppy around him. 

Gokudera was just pissed off, in general.

"Because you know so damn much about Bach," Gokudera shot back snidely, pointedly turning his back to Squalo and reassuming the piece where he'd abruptly left off.

"Enough to know you fucked up the beginning too?" Squalo asked, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him, "'cause yeah, I noticed."

He walked leisurely to one of the couches in the room and threw himself into one, as long as he was. Gokudera was particularly annoyed by the fact that was exactly the same spot Haru usually took, when she wanted to hear him play, as it angled directly with his face.

"You play?" Gokudera sneered, looking up at Squalo for a moment and pointedly at his left hand, before he returned to the sheet music in front of him and the soothing notes.

"Not even soccer, no," Squalo folded his arms behind his head and seemingly got ready to spend quite a while in that spot, "but I'm not deaf. You stumbled after the third bar, realized it, paused a second, and then went on. You screwed the whole timing of the piece with that."

Gokudera didn't care if it was childish, he did slam his fingers on the keys in a particularly strident combination and turned a glare that promised violence to meet Squalo's sardonic smile.

"What, the fuck, do you want?" He demanded, standing up and stalking over to where Squalo was absently studying the tips of his hair, as if completely disinterested in Gokudera and his rage.

"Somewhere Takeshi won't look for me," Squalo shrugged as he answer, honest, "he's clingy like motherfucking ivy. Anywhere you are is the last place he'll expect to find me."

It was true. More often now, the sheer unhealthy fixation Yamamoto had with being at his side, all the time, was enough for Squalo to muster up a glare and ignore the kicked puppy expression that invariably crossed Yamamoto's face. He kept half expecting the moron to be looming behind him every time he took a leak; it was getting ridiculous. And it wasn't healthy, either. Yamamoto might have made him the center of his world, in his absence, but that didn't mean it was true. And Squalo would have to leave, eventually, and go back to Italy and Xanxus, where he belonged. Except everyone and their mother expected him to fix Yamamoto, as if by magic, and make everything better. Squalo had already run out of ideas and was just winging the script by now, hoping to god he wasn't making things worse.

There was not much else he could do.

"You know what I hate the most about you?" Gokudera asked casually, glaring down at him as he lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke right at Squalo's face.

Squalo twitched, but fighting Gokudera was better than facing Yamamoto right after a spar, so he swallowed back the snarl building up in his throat.

"That I'm better than you in every possible way?"

"That you stole my best friend away from me, when you even weren't there." Gokudera leaned against the piano, seemingly talking more to himself than to Squalo. "I was, and I wasn't good enough."

Apparently Gokudera was not going to indulge him into a nice screaming match, no, he wanted to talk. Squalo was sick and tired of talking about stuff, and he wished he could just grab his sword and kill people until he got his way. Unfortunately, the heart of the problem was that Yamamoto had been doing that for the past ten years, it seemed, and now there was much talking that needed to get done.

"You got it wrong," Squalo said after a long silence, when Gokudera didn't continue the tirade he seemed to have prepared.

"Wouldn't be the first fucking time," the Storm guardian muttered snidely, trying to put a semblance of order in his thoughts.

Squalo reached a decision, then, half out of frustration, half out of sheer exhaustion. He couldn't do this alone. As much as everyone acted like they expected him to magically set Yamamoto back in track and fit back into this fucked up future, he couldn't do it alone. And the problem was that everyone was so fucking blind. Tsuyoshi had it wrong, too. They saw something wrong, yes, but they were just looking at the effects. Squalo hadn't wanted to believe that no one else had ever really seen what the real issue was. But the more time he spent in the base, watching Yamamoto interact with his family, the more he realized it was true.

The realization chilled him to the bone.

And he needed them to see, because he couldn't stay in Japan forever. He was going to leave, eventually, and Xanxus might even kill him for going missing for so long, and if he really was the only one who ever saw things the way they really were, Yamamoto was going to sink so low he might as well die. Gokudera was, as much as he hated to admit it, the perfect candidate to work with on this, since Yamamoto had simply adored him, from what Squalo could remember. They had grown apart, after the years, but if Squalo knew Yamamoto - and it was disquieting to realize he might be the only man in the whole damn world that did, for how everyone here acted - the friendship could still be saved. It was a bridge that could be rebuilt to connect Yamamoto back with the world outside his wounds and his own escapism. A single bridge wouldn't be enough, but it could be a start, and he was sure Sawada would fall in line right after and with him the rest of them. They could make Yamamoto stand on his own and face the world, instead of ignoring everything, and though Squalo knew he'd never be the same, he'd be better. Healthier.

Sane.

"No," he said quietly, stripping his voice of all venom and scorn he personally felt for Gokudera, "you really got it wrong this time."

Gokudera noticed the change in demeanor in Squalo instantly, and scowled, tensing up as if expecting an attack.

"Do fucking enlighten me."

"I'm just---VOOOII, shut your fucking mouth and listen for once, you asshole. I'm trying to be nice to you here." Squalo glowered, baring his teeth in annoyance at both, Gokudera's reaction and his own stupid words. He swallowed back some of his pride and looked away, uncomfortable. "He didn't like me better than he liked you. Any of you."

"Sure didn't look that way," Gokudera muttered, showing he'd at least managed to grow up a bit in the past ten years by dropping some of his hostile air.

"He just knew he didn't have to hide from me," Squalo used small words, as he'd realized these people really didn't get it. "It made him feel good, that, not having to pretend he was something he wasn't." He shifted to stare at the ceiling, remembering how odd it'd seemed, at first, how easily Yamamoto adapted to life in the Varia manor. How... happy, he'd been. Comfortable. Squalo closed his eyes. "He used to be terrified of any of you seeing him do what I taught him to. I spent more time teaching him how to not get caught by his own allies than his enemies."

"Because he trusted you more," Gokudera snapped accusingly, betrayal ringing clear in his voice. "You don't have to fucking rub it in, you son of--"

That was the biggest problem, as far as Squalo could see. They all saw it in reference to themselves. It wasn't that Yamamoto had been hurt, it was that he was acting 'weird' and closing off from them, abandoning them and betraying them. And people say, Squalo thought unkindly, that Xanxus is a self-absorbed prick.

"BECAUSE HE DIDN'T CARE WHAT I THINK, GODDAMMIT!" He interrupted Gokudera's speech before he could make Squalo sick. He stood up from the couch, stepping closer to the other man. "VOOOOII, BECAUSE HE WAS AFRAID HIS GODDAMN FRIENDS WOULD TREAT HIM LIKE THEY TREATED US!" He saw Gokudera's eyes widening as he leaned in more and more, his own eyes flashing and his teeth bared, as if he wanted to bite off Gokudera's throat. "How many fucking times did you ripped the Varia as a joke, in front of him?" He went on, dropping his voice to a low, angry hiss. "How many fucking times did you rave and bitch about the fucking disgusting assassins? Those hideous monsters? He was as good as one of us, if not by loyalty by skill. He's the same as us, but he couldn't let his precious friends see that. No, of course not, because his precious friends were afraid and disgusted by what he was, and it tore at him to lie and pretend he wasn't one of those people his friends despised, as much as the idea of his friends abandoning him fucking terrified him." Squalo shoved Gokudera back, against the piano. "You told him so many fucking times that he was a monster that he gave up and became one. Congratulations, do you want a fucking medal to go along with your ridiculous self-righteous bullshit?" When Gokudera started to get up, Squalo slammed him down again, determined not to let the asshole close off against the truth. "I didn't do this. I didn't turn him into a fucking raving psychopath. I didn't steal your goddamn best friend away. You fucking abandoned him when he needed you the most. You disgust me."

Squalo pulled back swiftly, to avoid the solid right hook aiming for his face, snarling right back at Gokudera's expression. Oh, he would deny it. Squalo knew people in general were incredibly prone to hold onto lies if it meant not having to face an inconvenient truth, but at least he wasn't stupid. No, the truth would eat at him, and it wouldn't leave him alone until he went back and looked at everything from that perspective. And once Gokudera was done being horrified, Squalo knew he'd have someone to rely on and help drag Yamamoto back to the surface.

Guilt was a fantastic source of motivation, he knew that well.

"I'll fucking kill you," Gokudera said almost calmly, his eyes flashing and his entire frame shaking as he regarded Squalo icily. "I will fucking kill you."

"I've been dead ten years," Squalo smirked humorlessly, tossing his head back purposely, to make his hair rustle and enhance the taunt and Gokudera's wrath. "I probably can't stop you, either." He turned around and began stalking for the door, leaving his back wide open. "But that's not gonna make anything better," a look over his shoulder let him know his words would inevitably drive home, "though you know that already, don't you?"

Gokudera slammed his fist into the piano hard enough to make wood crack. Haru scolded him for hours about his injured hand, but he stubbornly refused to talk.

He was too busy thinking.





Squalo stared at his hair, spilled on the floor at his feet.

He fingered the tips at the nape of his neck, sticking out rebelliously after being cut down so roughly, eyes empty and glassed. He was panting harshly, but now that he'd done it, the rush of adrenaline was fading, and he felt weak, like his bones were hollow. He slid down to the ground, one hand clenched on the short hair on his head while the other grabbed fistfuls of the long strands fallen all around him. He bowed his head, forehead touching the ground, and keened as loud as he could, the sound a pure expression of grief that transcended the tears his eyes were too dry to shed.

Gokudera had given him a folder full of papers containing everything he'd wanted to know, the answers no one wanted him to find out. You deserve to know, the stupid, stupid man had told him, not looking at him in the eye. It's only fair. He'd earned Gokudera's respect, he knew, after their last spat. But Squalo hadn't expected that it would be enough to make Gokudera go against what Squalo supposed were Sawada's orders to keep him in the dark. No one had told him anything, because they desperately wanted him not to know.

Now he knew why.

The whole room was a mess, after Squalo had broken down into a fit of aimless anger and tore the damnable papers to shreds and proceeded to systematically destroy everything around him, before he cut off his hair. He curled up on the floor, dry sobs forcing themselves through clenched teeth as he pressed his knees to his chest, and clawed at his own arms, trying to find an outlet for the emotions spinning out of control inside him.

Squalo had a moment of clarity, thinking how glad he was Yamamoto had been sent to Kyoto for a hit, and wouldn't be around to see him right now. He could only imagine the amount of damage witnessing this pathetic display would cause.

The moment of clarity passed, however, when wild, silver eyes landed on the knife he'd used to cut off his hair. The sharp blade seemed mute and lifeless, as if mourning along with him. Squalo thought that, since he'd already cut off the hair, he might as well go through with things. Not a single flaw in his logic, either, because he wasn't blind. He was the one that always saw clearly were he stood and what he was supposed to do.

Squalo reached for the knife.

Chapter Text

iii. what makes us who we are.

I.

Somewhere between happy, and a total fucking wreck,
Feet sometimes on solid ground, sometimes at the edge,
You spend your waking moments, simply killing time.
It's to give up on your hopes and dreams, to give up on your...

Life for you has been less than kind,
So take a number, stand in line.
We've all been sorry, we've all been hurt,
But how we survive is what makes us who we are.

~"Survive," by Rise Against.

Squalo shifted slowly, minding pain that wasn't there, and watched Lussuria through hooded eyes.

He was in the infirmary, from what he could see; the crisp white walls and the repugnant stench of bleach and disinfectant that crawled up his nose and poke his brain, taunting him with a migraine. It annoyed him. Never the less, he didn't say anything, though the silence was not born of some misguided, mutinous attempt at further antagonizing the man sitting in a chair by his bedside.

Lussuria had a cup of tea in his lap; Squalo knew better than to try and compete with it for Lussuria's attention.

So he stayed silent, wondering how exactly he'd gotten sloppy enough he'd managed to survive, and didn't even bother to test if he was bound or not. Instead he watched Lussuria's fingers wrap delicately on the handle and raise the cup to his lips, in such a disgustingly British display Squalo wished he could simply will him out of his room. Wished he could will himself out of the room, but fat lot of good that had done, last time.

"Well then," Lussuria put the cup down and carefully rearranged himself in his chair, folding one leg over the other and linking his fingers around his knee. Posing was important, Squalo knew; he also knew he wasn't going to like whatever Lussuria said next. "...you're such a gobsmacked moron sometimes, love."

"Shut up," Squalo replied, more because he was supposed to, than any real hope of having Lussuria doing as he was told.

So he took a moment to really look at the other man, instead. Ten years had certainly gone by, if one knew where to look, and as always, Squalo did. There were lines in Lussuria's face, that not even his annoying sunglasses and liberal amounts of make-up could cover completely. The hair was a bit surprising, but so very him, that Squalo could swallow it with ease. Lussuria had always had eccentricity down to a science. It was the uniform that didn't fit, and at the same time it was perfectly logical.

Of course they would have made Lussuria their leader. After all, Bel wasn't leader material, constantly needing supervision just so he wouldn't go on a rampage and slaughter all his allies. Mammon would simply bleed the Varia dry in a month. And Lussuria knew the ropes, was old enough and experienced enough. It made perfect sense.

It made Squalo sick.

"No, I don't think I will," Lussuria said, in that predictably annoying tone of his. Squalo wished that had changed. "You're healed, by the way. No side-effects. I fixed your nails, but left your hair alone." Lussuria smiled thinly, eying the ragged strands that barely reached Squalo's shoulder blades now. Squalo had wondered about that. "A new talent of mine, in this bright era of innovations. Good thing I was in town when your little bout of inbred idiocy decided to manifest itself, hmm? So you're as good as new, healed and all. And I talked to Tsuna-chan, too! You're officially back in the Varia now, so it's my call what to do with you. See? All works out in the end." Squalo said nothing. After a tense five minutes of absolute silence, Lussuria sighed. "We need to chat, Superbi." Squalo flinched at the use of his first name. "About things. Mainly there's two things you need to know, above all the wondrous catch up we need to do. So hear me out, ne? I'll let you do whatever you want after we're done talking. No strings attached, if you want to be a coward or a moron or a man."

"Do I look like I have a choice?" Squalo hissed acidly, not really interested in anything but going away.

He knew Lussuria would keep his word, though, he was annoying like that, so he might as well get comfortable to best ignore whatever the annoying fag had to say.

"You have to understand, love, lots of things happened after you... left," Lussuria's voice took a minute wistful tint, as he leaned back on his chair; Squalo knew his eyes were fixed on him, though. "Alright, then, out with it." Despite the words, he took a deep breath before continuing. "I know what happened to Takeshi, that's the first big thing you need to know." Squalo made a little, pained sound and didn't manage any words. "He told me after the funeral, quite a dreadful mess, that. But, it made the second thing easier on my conscience, too."

Squalo gave Lussuria a skeptical look. Lussuria didn't have a conscience. He was a brilliant actor, a consummated deceiver and a lover of all things twisted and wrong. He didn't have anything remotely related to a conscience, Squalo knew that well. But there he was, the ever annoying, flamboyant fag, owning up to it. Squalo felt a sense of apprehension curl around his spine.

"I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone, very delicate secret, you see. Why, not even Tsuna-chan is allowed to know! But I want you to act like a grown up, Superbi, and keep that wondrous temper of yours in check, because this is fucking important. Alright? What Gokudera told you was a lie." Lussuria smiled, oddly serene. "I killed Xanxus."

Squalo went berserk.

Lussuria sighed once he got him under control, half twisted like a pretzel, with his face down against the floor, and a boot pressing down his neck, threatening to snap it. He balanced gracefully on his precarious perch, wishing things could be easier, but knowing, really, that there was no other way to deal with Squalo.

"Are you settled down, now?" He asked idly, seemingly uncaring of the unnatural way he was twisted in, to force Squalo down. "Honestly, love, have some self-control."

"I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Squalo howled breathlessly, thrashing fruitlessly in Lussuria's grip, snapping his teeth threateningly. "YOU FUCKING CONNIVING, SLEAZY, TRAITOROUS TRASH! VOOOII, I WILL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART WITH MY OWN BARE HANDS!"

"Yes, I supposed you'd feel that way," Lussuria pouted as he spoke, and ground the foot pressing on Squalo's lower back with spite. "I could kill you right now, love. And you know that, too. But I don't want to. You see, secrets like that... you need to share the whole story, it's rather worthless when you don't. So I'm going to let you go, now, and I'm going to sit down, and we'll talk like adults, and I'll let you know why, okay?"

"GO TO HELL, YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD!" Squalo replied eloquently, fighting back in earnest.

When, as promised, Lussuria released him, Squalo lunged at him, homicidal rage written all over his face. Lussuria sighed and proceeded to undo all of Pea-chan's hard work by beating the ever loving shit out of Squalo.

"You don't have a sword," he said calmly, once Squalo was back to the half-pretzel thing on the floor, "you could barely hold your own against me in hand to hand ten years ago, what makes you think you can do anything better now?"

"I will fucking end you!" Squalo spat, voice a feral growl of sheer wrath.

"Well, I'd rather be sitting in a chair for this," Lussuria mused wryly, twisting Squalo's arms back a bit more firmly, choosing to ignore Squalo's reply, "but I'm still going to tell you why. The why is very important, you see. I'm sure you'll see things my way, once you understand that part."

"I'M NOT LISTENING TO YOU!" Squalo screeched furiously, at a decibel level that frankly defied human ability.

"I don't care," Lussuria snapped succinctly, "I'm telling you anyway."

He did.

He told him about the fits of rage, the growing instability, the slippery slide down the slope of insanity. For the first time in more than a decade, Squalo wanted to cry. He knew it was the truth, as much as he wished it wasn't, and it ate him inside, to know that was his fault. Because he'd gone and done the one thing he'd sworn Xanxus he'd never do: he'd left him. Squalo had always known he and Xanxus had a good understanding of each other, but while Squalo had always put his trust wholeheartedly in Xanxus, he hadn't realized Xanxus trusted him.

And he'd abandoned him, just like everyone else Xanxus had ever trusted.

"It wasn't pretty," Lussuria said softly, loosening his hold on Squalo. "It was manageable for a while, sure. We thought he was just throwing a tantrum over you being dead and that he'd get over it with time. We split your duties and joked about eating shark fin soup for dinner all month." Lussuria's voice was as grave as Squalo had ever heard it. Gone was the singsong and the mocking tone, replaced by worn down reluctance that rubbed Squalo wrong. "But he didn't get better. Those last days, the paranoia was intolerable, love. He was shooting people left and right over the most ridiculous things. He shot Levi, once, screaming about him trying to poison his whiskey. Levi." Lussuria let out a shiver of long repressed fear. "He wasn't the boss anymore. He tried to kill Tsuna-chan too, you know? But he didn't tell us about it. He just up and left the manor one day, and next thing we know, Tsuna-chan is calling in a panic because he had to freeze him over again. He just..." Lussuria took a deep breath. "He just wasn't the boss anymore. So I did what I had to do."

"How could you--"

"Because I made a vow, too." Lussuria stood up slowly, cautiously watching Squalo as he pushed the sunglasses further up his nose. "You vowed you'd never leave him, and I vowed I'd never let him fail. You never wanted to break your oath any more I wanted to fulfill mine, but we did, and there's no going back anymore." Lussuria went to sit down in his chair again. "As far as everyone's concerned, all the drinking finally got to him."

"So you couldn't even fucking give him a fair fight?" Squalo rolled onto his back and then sat up, scooting back against the wall. "You killed him and didn't even give him a chance of a honorable death? And I'm supposed to agree now? Say I fucking approve and I'd have done the same?"

"Did you know?" Lussuria asked instead, as if Squalo weren't there at all. "The Millefiore didn't rape Takeshi."

Squalo went cold.

"Don't you fucking dare get him involved in this. You have no right--"

"Xanxus did." Lussuria pretended not to notice the way Squalo's face went ashen white. "The one from that world, time line, whatever it was they visited." Lussuria leaned in, so the green eyes peeked at Squalo over the rim of his sunglasses. "Because you died."

"That's a fucking load of bullshit," Squalo snapped, finding himself somehow on his feet again. "Xanxus wouldn't---The Boss would never---You know this."

"But he did," Lussuria's words were mild, yet they carried the weight of the world in them. "One of them did. Ours could have. Because he stopped being the Boss, and there wasn't anyone there, to keep him from throwing everything away and turning into a real fucking monster."

"You're lying," Squalo said finally, back pressed hard against the wall, and voice frail enough it was obvious he couldn't believe a word he was saying.

"No, I'm not," Lussuria tilted his chin back, defiant.

"You're lying," Squalo insisted, feral. Lussuria wondered if he knew he was acting quite like Takeshi when he decided to be daft. "You're just... you're just creating this ridiculous fabrication out of your fucking ass. I'm not that fucking important. Xanxus can and would stand on his fucking own without me, he would. You killed him for nothing and now you're trying to put the blame on me because you know you're a fucking traitorous bastard."

"Squalo--"

"So what if in another dimension, in another world, he was fucked up and monstrous and dishonorable and everything our Boss wasn't. So what?" He slammed his left hand into the wall, leaving a small crater in its way. "He could have, but he didn't! He didn't do anything! Just because you're a fucking faithless asshole doesn't mean you're right. You should have kept your faith in him, instead of blaming me for shit. Because this wasn't my fault."

"The only person blaming you for this is you. Now, if you're quite done acting four years old?" Lussuria leaned back on the chair, folding one leg over the other once more, in that truly infuriating fashion that made Squalo's rage spike up and threaten to overcome the maddening grief for a moment. "The way I see it, you have three options, Superbi. You either run away from everything and put a bullet between your eyes, like a coward. You act like a real moron and raise your sword against me, thus committing assisted suicide. Or you shut your fucking maw and deal with the shit around you. Be a fucking manand take responsibility for things." Lussuria snarled. "We thought you died, you didn't. Now get the fuck up and do something about it."

Squalo stared a moment, absently realizing Lussuria had to be pissed to ditch every bit of fabulous style and snarl at him that way. Unfortunately, Squalo wasn't inclined to care about it.

"Fuck you," he snarled back, just as fiercely, and stormed out of the room without looking back.

Lussuria didn't bother going after him. 





Yamamoto startled awake, only to find Squalo looming over his bed.

"Hey," the Italian said, somewhat lamely, for lack of anything else to say.

Yamamoto punched him square on the jaw, causing him to stumble back a few steps.

"Yeah," Squalo muttered darkly, licking his split lip, "I probably deserved that."

Considering he'd all but fallen off the face of earth for a couple months, it was quite an understatement.

Yamamoto got out of bed and punched him again, all in one fluid motion.

"Okay, that one too," Squalo actually rubbed his jaw, giving Yamamoto a sullen look.

Yamamoto punched him, again.

Squalo snapped.

"VOOOII, fuck you, that hurts, asshole!" And then he punched back, with his metal hand, quite viciously. "I'm not a goddamn shark piñata!"

Yamamoto fell down like a rock, unconscious.

"Oh shit," Squalo stared at him before picking him up and letting him lie down on the bed, "please don't be dead."

Squalo had needed to think about things. Really think about them. Not only being stranded in the future without means of ever going back home, but the whole mess with Yamamoto and the fact Xanxus was gone. The fact Lussuria had killed him. The fact that, when it came down to it, Xanxus - the realXanxus - would have preferred it that way, if he'd really gotten as bad as Lussuria said he had. So Squalo had gone away, somewhere he could be alone with his thoughts, without people barging in and giving him a chance to procrastinate on them. He was a fundamentally honest creature, and to ignore things was little better than lying. He hated being lied to, and he hated lying to himself.

The truth was he didn't want to die anymore, either by his own hand or by means of Lussuria's wrath. He'd desperately needed the wake up call, yes, and in a way, he appreciated Gokudera for giving it to him, but he had had no idea what to do with his newfound desire to live. He supposed he could go back to the Varia, but it hurt, deep down, to think of Xanxus not being there. What remained of the Varia was still his family, but they weren't whole, not with Xanxus and Levi gone - Squalo had spared more than one bitter smile whenever he thought of Levi, because in the end, the annoying fucktard had managed to outdo him and actually followed Xanxus to the very end. But he couldn't bring himself to go back to the manor and the memories still lingering there, so what else had this twisted future in store for him? He could stay with Yamamoto. Sawada had pretty much said as such, and he knew Yamamoto wouldn't protest. And maybe being there, he'd get to do something for the kid, work with his father and Gokudera to try and drag him out of his damn shell.

The heart of the matter was that Squalo couldn't do anything to help anyone, unless he helped himself a bit first. So he'd gone back to the place he'd sworn up and down he'd never set foot in again, his mother's home.

It had been awkward, not only because the old woman was still alive, but because she'd taken everything pretty much in stride and treated him like he hadn't spent ten years in limbo. Squalo found that, as his relationship with his mother mended itself after years of fights and neglect, the first inklings of a plan formed in his brain. He was Superbi fucking Squalo, for fuck's sake, he didn't take shit lying down. He would train and get stronger, catch up with ten years and more and then prove the world he was anything but dead. He would kick Yamamoto's ass all the way back to sanity. He would kick Lussuria's ass, too, for good measure.

He'd never had a place in the world before, why would he let it get to him now? He made his place, by sheer will and volume alone, and fuck it if he was going to let this be any different.

So now he was back, having made peace with the fact the universe hated him and enjoyed picking on him, and ready to dish out as good as he got. It still stung, somewhere under his sternum, to see his reflection every morning, hair short and wild as it'd been when he was thirteen, before his vows and his fucked up life. But it was just himself, and he had to live with it.

And he would.

"We've been through that already," Squalo said with a snort, as he caught Yamamoto's fist, "and I hit harder than you do, so give it a goddamn rest."

"You left," Yamamoto snarled, hurt plainly written all over his face as he pulled back his hand and sat back on the bed, still slightly disoriented as he came out of unconsciousness. "You didn't say a damn thing, and just left."

"I had things to think about," Squalo shrugged, looking fairly unrepentant. "I'm done with that, now."

"So you're back," Yamamoto's voice still carried a wounded note, "now what?"

Squalo blinked, before he went and sat on the bed, next to Yamamoto.

"I haven't got the foggiest clue." He placed his hands on the bed, and leaned back, letting his eyes move to the ceiling. "I was kinda hoping you had suggestions for that."

"Lussuria said you were welcome to go back, to the Varia," Yamamoto didn't like that suggestion, and his tone said as much, but, like Squalo, he was also fundamentally honest. "So you could go back to Italy."

"Yeah," Squalo let himself fall back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head. "Not too sure I want to do that, though. Seems... worthless now, since Xanxus..."

"Ah." Yamamoto looked down at his feet with a rueful gesture. "I'm still angry at you, you know? For... that." For not thinking how much that'd hurt me.

"I figured you'd be," Squalo replied softly, "I thought about that, too. When I left. I didn't know I was... that important, to you."

Yamamoto laughed softly, brokenly, and laid back next to Squalo. Not meeting his eyes, he reached out, curling around the thin body.

"I love you more than anything else in the world," he said, voice heavy with a conviction that couldn't be shaken. "Of course you're damn important to me."

Squalo suppressed a flinch, stopping his arm from actually curling around Yamamoto's back. He knew, now, that he really did matter, to more than just himself. He'd come to grips with that, the fact in the end he hadn't been replaceable, even for Xanxus. He knew Yamamoto had placed a good deal of his ideals and hopes in him. He knew the brat - his brat - had had a little crush on him, and he hadn't dared to uproot it, back then, because it was a goodthing. A sign he was doing better and not letting what had happened to him destroy him completely. He knew Yamamoto genuinely believed his words.

It still shook him to hear that oddly naive confession voiced in such a tone.

"You don't mean that," he whispered, hand hovering above Yamamoto's shoulder blades.

"I do," and Yamamoto looked up at him, eyes intent.

"You don't even know what love is," Squalo muttered, looking away, letting his hand finally rest on the wide shoulders.

Yamamoto burrowed closer, turning his head to rest his cheek on Squalo's chest.

"I know I'm... I'm not alright," he closed his eyes. "I don't even know if you'd want to be with a man, let alone one so fucked up like me. But I love you, I really do. Some days, it's the only thing I'm sure of anymore."

Yamamoto curled down further, as if expecting Squalo to shove him off at a moment's notice. He shouldn't have worried, given how Squalo was too taken aback to really do much. Part of him marveled how easily Yamamoto had crumbled his carefully prepared speech, even remembering the damn bastard had a track record of that. Part of him was trying not to gag at the mushiness of the declaration. Part of him wondered why he hadn't seen this one coming.

And a tiny, microscopic part of him was silently humbled by it.

He picked the least confusing part of himself to let it do the talking, and hopefully direct the conversation back to where it should go.

"Why on earth would you love someone like me?"

Yamamoto pulled away enough to sit up and look down at Squalo, blinking owlishly.

"What do you mean by that?" He asked, bewildered, and strangely relieved to not have been hit.

Yet.

"It's an easy enough question," Squalo reasoned, raising up on his elbows, brow furrowed. "Why the hell would you think you love me?"

"I don't think, I know," Yamamoto gave him a serious look, which softened by degrees, moments later. "It's just... it's you, Squalo. What's not to love about you?"

Under any other circumstances, Squalo's ego would have promptly launched itself off into a long ramble agreeing with that. These weren't normal circumstances, and Squalo had just spent two months staring and poking at the ugliest corners of himself, in detail.

"Because I'm a fucking bastard?" He ventured, snorting. "Because I'm an impossibly stubborn son of a bitch with a spiteful streak a mile wide? Because I still think you're an idiot, and I'm never going to stop telling you so? Not to mention the fact I'm batshit insane on a good day, but I'm just going for the big, obvious things now."

"Because I trust you, you asshole, that's why." Yamamoto rolled his eyes, denying Squalo the easy exit of a screaming match.

He really should know better, there was no easy between them.

"Really?" Squalo shifted around the bed, folding his ankles and pretending hard he didn't care. "Because you didn't trust me enough to tell me about Xanxus."

Though necessary, Squalo nearly regretted the words, as he watched Yamamoto's confidence dissolve into smoke. He didn't need to ask how or when, it didn't matter anymore. Squalo knew, and Yamamoto suddenly looked small, staring at him with dread.

"That's different," he whispered hoarsely, trying to hold himself together and not sure it would not be enough to keep the panic attack at bay this time. "You knew. You didn't need to know that."

"I made you spend a whole damn year in the same house as your rapist, and I didn't need to know that? I made you sit in meals with him and told you one and a thousand times to bow your damn head and obey his rules. I beat the shit out of you because I thought you were irrationally afraid of him, when, in fact, he'd raped you." Squalo bared his teeth, his unusually sharp canine teeth looking more like fangs than ever. "But I didn't need to know that."

"He didn't." Yamamoto couldn't bring himself to say the word, not without letting the panic attack overwhelm him, instead, he swallowed hard and walked to a corner of the room, away from Squalo and the bed. "He never... he wasn't Him. Why should I have told you, anyway? That'd been just--"

"Because you trust me," Squalo sneered, "or so you claim."

"I trust you, but I know you." Yamamoto ran a hand through his hair. "He was your boss. Your... your reason for living! I just..." He looked away, sharply. "I knew who you'd chosen, if it'd come to that. I'm worth nothing to you. You didn't even want to have me around, anyway. Or what, are you saying you would have believed me if I had told you?"

Squalo stood up calmly, walking over to where Yamamoto had cornered himself with the air of a prowling predator.

"I'm saying that I will beat the goddamn shit out of you if you keep assuming shit about who I was or would have done, if you'd really trusted me and told me the shit I needed to know." He wasn't particularly gentle when he grabbed a fistful of hair and forced Yamamoto to look at him in the eye, but he was sick and tired of everything and he wanted them both to move on. "If you're worth nothing to me, tell me why the fuck I put up with you in the first place? And if you mention my goddamn inner goodness, I will fucking break your neck." Yamamoto let out a little whimper that Squalo ignored ruthlessly as he pulled him up back to his feet. "You are a fucking wreck, and it pisses me off. I'm not one of your sissy little friends, so I'm not gonna look away and let you hide and brood and be a fucking moron. I don't care if you hate me by the time I'm done, this has to fucking stop."

From up close, Yamamoto's eyes still looked as wide as they used to be. Squalo thought that was an odd thing to notice, considering the big damn mess they were in. He wished there was some... magic thing, to clean it all up and leave them both whole and fine. Maybe it was unfair, and Xanxus hadn't deserved to die, and Yamamoto hadn't deserved to be raped, and he hadn't deserved to be flung through time like a rag doll; but life was hardly ever fair. They could either deal with it, or let it get to them and break them. Yamamoto had let it break him, but Squalo had decided he'd much prefer to spit on providence's face and make do with what he had.

He blinked in surprise, brought out of his thoughts, when Yamamoto leaned in and kissed the corner of his snarl, licking off the blood from the split lip he'd given him in the first place.

"I don't think I could hate you," Yamamoto said quietly, smile thin and rueful, "even if I really tried."

Taking the words for what they were - consent - Squalo snorted and let go of him, stepping back with a huff. Yamamoto blinked as Squalo shook his head and headed for the door; he'd done it, hadn't he? That was a damn good start, as far as he was concerned, and now he had other things to do, like settling in after nearly twenty hours of travel.

"Squalo?" The uneasiness crept back, but Squalo was no longer surprised to hear it in Yamamoto's tone. "Where're you going?"

"Kitchen," the Italian said with a much less antagonistic tone, rubbing the heel of a hand on his left eye, "I need a coffee and I'm fucking starving."

"Oh," Yamamoto replied, all eloquence, as he blinked at the rapidly changing mood between them.

Squalo rolled his eyes and stormed away, intent, muttering something about 'fucking lemmings' under his breath. Yamamoto followed, somewhat bewildered, but quickly warming up at the fact Squalo seemed to be planning to stay indefinitely. Tentatively, he allowed himself a smile at that.

And that was that.

II.

It's hard to argue when
You won't stop making sense,
But my tongue still misbehaves and it
Keeps digging my own grave with my

Hands open, and my eyes open,
I just keep hoping
That your heart opens.

Why would I sabotage
The best thing that I have?
Well, it makes it easier to know
Exactly what I want with my...

Hands open and my eyes open,
I just keep hoping
That your heart opens.

It's not as easy as willing it all to be right,
Gotta be more than hoping it's right.
I wanna hear you laugh like you really mean it,
Collapse into me, tired with joy.

~ "Hands Open," by Snow Patrol.

Except life is rarely agrees to leave it at just that, and they had mountains of issues to work out.

Tsuna looked vaguely ill as Squalo nonchalantly dropped a head on his desk, splattering some blood on very important papers that Gokudera had spent hours carefully writing for him. He was also certain that the Italian had purposely dropped it so that Tsuna had to stare into the terrified expression, frozen forever into a scream of fear.

"VOOOII, I'm out of here," Squalo snorted, looking annoyed, "there's your little spy, rub your face all over it if you want, I've got shit to do."

Tsuna tried very hard not to be sick.

"Ah, you do?" He cleared his throat, catching himself, and very pointedly not looking at the mess in front of him, "I mean, thank you for your hard work, Squalo."

"Oh piss off, keep the dick sucking for Gokudera," Squalo sneered at him, rolling his eyes hard enough it could be heard, "I'm kidnapping your Rain guardian by the way, be back next month."

And then he turned and left with a flourish that seemed painfully... empty without the white hair trailing after him. Tsuna heaved a sigh as he leaned back against the backrest of his chair, and stared morbidly at the head on his desk. He really wished Squalo didn't insist on bringing body parts to confirm his kills and wrote reports instead, like everyone else. Tsuna wasn't even remotely fond of the killing in the first place, and it just reminded him of a big, white dog with a temper, dragging dead cats back home and expecting praise.

Except any bit of praise given to Squalo was met with vicious scorn, if Yamamoto wasn't the one doing the praising.

It was... complicated, the whole thing. And Tsuna felt like flailing a bit every now and then, whenever he thought too hard about Squalo and Yamamoto and the sheer pandemonium those two unleashed on the base on a regular basis. But Yamamoto seemed as happy as he'd seen him in years, and Squalo seemed to genuinely care to help him get out of that hole no one else had been able to reach. For that alone, Tsuna was willing to make concessions for the Italian and his lungs, and more than tolerate him, welcome him around.

...he'd have some words with Lussuria, though, because he really didn't enjoy having bloody bits of his enemies brought to him every time Squalo finished a hit. And he valued his eardrums too much to have that conversation with the Italian on his own.

One of the perks of being the boss, Tsuna had found, after years on the post, was that delegating tasks every now and again didn't really hurt.




"Um," Gokudera began, looking from his cards to Squalo to very pointedly not the door.

It was bizarre, how Yamamoto and Squalo had somehow switched places in his life, and where once the Italian was an incredible source of annoyance he wanted to blow up, he found he preferred his company to Yamamoto's these days.

Then again, Squalo hadn't tried to kill him in ten years, whereas Yamamoto's latest attempt had been nearly successful.

"I know," Squalo drawled, dropping two cards on the table and picking another two, and then added in a pointedly louder voice, "ignore him, he's sulking because I gave him a smack down."

Gokudera blinked as he tried to imagine the scene. For some reason, he imagined it going something like all those times Haru lost her patience with him and gave him a round of verbal abuse. The idea was disturbing enough to warrant lighting up a cigarette.

"I thought you quit," Squalo snorted, watching him with a pointed eyebrow as Gokudera juggled his cards, his lighter and his cancer stick.

"Yeah," Gokudera sighed as he blew a ring above their heads, "I quit every year."

Squalo laughed and Gokudera manged to mimic him, ignoring the way Yamamoto's silent presence by the door still set his teeth on edge. He hated feeling that way. He hated not being able to yell at the moron and tell him to just join the game. He hated the fact he preferred playing cards and bitching out the world with the annoying Italian bastard than with his own self-proclaimed best friend.

He hoped Squalo knew what he was doing.





The slammed door woke him up.

Squalo reached around the bed, finding it warm but empty. He sighed and slid out, still mostly asleep, and shuffled his way to the closet, where Yamamoto was currently curled up in a panicky ball of irrational fear.

"Learn to fucking panic in bed," Squalo grumbled, grabbing Yamamoto by the hair, and dragging him back to said bed, without much consideration.

Yamamoto kept himself still, trying to get a grip on his own emotions and the pressing urge to curl up and hide. Squalo shattered the moment with a loud snore, and Yamamoto barked a hysteric laugh before he knew what he was doing. After a while, the hysterics died out, but the laugh remained. Yamamoto reached out for Squalo slowly, still chuckling, and felt a strange satisfaction from the simple touch.

Squalo snored again, loudly.





Squalo's back hit the wall, and he had an epiphany as he slid down, head first, into the floor.

"Fuck, I hate you," he told Lussuria, picking himself up, cracking his spine back in place and then getting ready for another round of beat-the-shit-out-of-the-shark-piñata.

It was cathartic for all parties involved, and Squalo generally enjoyed it, except for the bit where Lussuria bent him like a pretzel and threw him out of the window. Much like everyone else, they couldn't go back to what their relationship used to be, and Squalo couldn't always hold back the irrational yearning to tear out Lussuria's throat with his bare teeth, simply because while rationally Squalo agreed that he'd done the right thing, he still fucking hated him for it.

Besides, Lussuria was the only one in this crazy, fucked up world Squalo felt marginally comfortable about losing against. Yamamoto wouldn't fight him seriously no matter how pissed off Squalo got, which might probably be a good thing, because the one time he had, he'd nearly killed him. And that was fairly counterproductive given his new determination to live long and prosper. It still stung, though, and he was determined to catch up, no matter how hard he had to train for it. Worse than Yamamoto's pummeling mood at the sheer idea of killing him, was Gokudera's fucking self-righteous smugness, so Squalo was not going to get any decent excitement in a fight with him, either, because he wouldn't ask for a handicap, Gokudera was not going to give him one, and the fucker was never going to let him live it down, either.

"Maa, maa, you're just too excitable, love," Lussuria said in an utterly infuriating tone, brushing invisible dust off his clothes. "It works out for Bel, but his style wouldn't suit you, I think." He pointedly ignored Squalo's death glare and gracefully avoided having a metal fist shoved up his nose. "So! How's Takeshi doing these days?"

"He's a fucking moron," Squalo groused, and then abruptly dodged a kick to his jaw, dropping to his knees, "and he's sulking again."

"The fact he actually stops every now and then is very encouraging, though." Lussuria whirled around him, seemingly not even touching the ground, and Squalo barely avoided a hit from an open palm that would have shattered at least two of his ribs. "You're doing a good job, love."

"VOOOII, shut up!" The flare of anger overcame, and Squalo forgot to fall in sync with Lussuria's movements, just throwing himself head on at him. "It's not enough and you know it!"

"Well, no," Lussuria said amicably, even as he twisted him back into a pretzel again, "but it's a good start."

Squalo spent the rest of the afternoon playing video games with Bel, sulking at both his embarrassingly long string of defeats at the prince's hands and Lussuria's grating habit of being right.





And sometimes, life was just too good to be true, so they had to remind themselves it really wasn't.

"I'm going out," Squalo announced, stopping by the doorway to eye Yamamoto significantly. "With Gokudera."

For his part, Yamamoto was quite content to remain where he was, lying in bed with a nice book that promised a satisfyingly happy ending. He hummed in reply and waved at Squalo without looking up at him, and adamantly refused to put the reading glasses on, because he didn't need them.

"Have fun pretending to be clueless tourists," Yamamoto pointedly licked his thumb as he passed a page.

"You could come along," Squalo went on, ruffling his hair with a hand, trying to pretend he wasn't stalling.

"No, I couldn't," Yamamoto's tone carried a glacier wrapped up in honey, but Squalo stubbornly refused to shudder.

"I think you should," because you're being stupid.

"No, not really."

Yamamoto passed another page without reading it.

"It's the last bar in town that's not a shitty karaoke joint," Squalo tilted his head to the side, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"You're already running late, Squalo," Yamamoto closed the book, marking the page with a finger, and smiling emptily at him, "you know how Gokudera gets when you make him wait."

"Yeah," Squalo turned away, just so he wouldn't have to see that expression.

"I'll see you later." Yamamoto looked down at his lap, and pursed his lips as he forced some cheer into his voice. "Tell Haru I said hi."

"Yeah, okay."

At least ten years in the future, Squalo consoled himself, sake still got him drunk as fast as ever.





Squalo still couldn't stay long in the Varia manor, but he made a point to drop by a few times a year, since he was still technically part of the organization. And Lussuria gave him better jobs that the Shrimp did, and didn't bitch at him when he actually finished the job.

And of course, Yamamoto never came with him, giving him a chance to breathe and feel he was his own person, rather than a part of someone else.

"What's it like?" Squalo asked absently, staring blankly at the TV. "To not grow old?"

Mammon was quiet for a long time, pondering whether he should pinch Squalo's thigh for wasting precious time from the pay-per-view, or actually answer straight for once. He shifted in his perch on Squalo's lap, reaching a tiny hand into the bowl of popcorn in front of him and mulled his choices as he chewed.

"Tiresome," the baby illusionist said after a long moment, "very, very tiresome."

Squalo hummed thoughtfully, taking a handful of popcorn himself, and figuring he was at least lucky for having a family to call his own.





"What."

Tsuyoshi merely hummed to himself, looking magnanimous in a way only an old bastard like him could. Squalo wondered, out of nowhere, if Tyr would have ever managed to look like that.

"Nothing in particular," the old man said, placidly turning back to his sushi, "Takeshi dropped by on Monday night."

Squalo blinked, sitting up straight. Monday nights were when he and Gokudera spent some hours playing cards, occasionally with Sasagawa joining to make things amusing (to Squalo) and irritating (to Gokudera) in turns.

"He did?"

No matter how much Squalo hinted at it, Yamamoto still refused to meet with Gokudera anywhere outside Tsuna's office.

"We've been... talking," Tsuyoshi admitted in an oddly soft voice that Squalo had never head before, because that was a voice Tsuyoshi reserved for people he didn't hate. "He'd stopped visiting a long time ago."

Before you came back.

Squalo snorted loudly and promptly squished that tiny swell of pride. He sneered, though the gesture carried little bite with it.

"VOOOII, with how fucking boring you are, I can see why."

Tsuyoshi quirked his lips into an indulgent smile and refilled Squalo's cup.





It was a lie to say that time could heal all wounds, but at least it made them numb.

"Hey."

Squalo approached the bed carefully, half expecting Yamamoto to fling himself at him in a rage. Not that he'd ever actually seen that happen, but witnesses insisted he was quite capable of it.

"Hi," Yamamoto smiled at him, putting his book on the nightstand, and settling back comfortably.

Squalo couldn't really spy the title of the book, but it was probably one of those children's fantasy stories Yamamoto was so in love with of the late. Shifting on his feet a bit awkwardly, he snorted at himself and moved to sit on his half of the bed.

"So," he began, trying to mask the wariness in his voice by pulling his shirt over his head, "I saw you talking with Gokudera earlier."

"Yeah."

Squalo looked over his shoulder, but found Yamamoto's smile no more strained than usual. Still suspicious, he squirmed out of his jeans and into a pair of well worn pants to sleep, waiting for Yamamoto to continue. Yamamoto limited himself to smile at him as he watched him slide under the covers, and Squalo realized this might as well be one of those conversations.

"...will I need to buy a shovel?" He asked skeptically, because no matter how good he was, and what others thought, some days he really couldn't even begin to fathom what was going on inside Yamamoto's head.

"Not unless you plan to take on gardening, no," Yamamoto's smile became smaller and infinitely more sincere, "we're okay, Squalo."

"You sure?"

Yamamoto turned off the lights and went to curl against him, cheek resting on a collar bone. Squalo remembered that he used to feel awkward about that, but that felt like a lifetime ago.

"Yes."

Squalo made a face at the ceiling.

"Okay."





Squalo noticed when Yamamoto was no longer even pretending to be paying attention to him. That annoyed him, because here he was, being the acomodating, magnanimous sort by letting Yamamoto choose where they'd have lunch, and the bastard had the balls to ignore him.

"VOOOII! What are you---" And then Squalo realized what Yamamoto was so enraptured by.

Along their walk - because for some unfathomable reason Squalo couldn't understand, Yamamoto just liked walking to places, no matter how far or near they were - to a supposedly decent Italian restaurant, they passed by the school. Squalo had bitter memories of it, and he preferred to avoid it, but Yamamoto found himself staring at the distance where the sounds of a cheering crowd could be heard. It was such a fascinating expression on his face, somewhere between wistfulness and regret, with a healthy serving of melancholy.

Squalo stared at Yamamoto for a long, long moment before he broke down into a string of profanity and dragged him towards the stadium where the final of the baseball season was in full swing.

"Squalo!" Yamamoto squawked in surprise, trying to keep up with him without tripping.

"Not. A fucking. Word. Ever." Squalo replied viciously, finding a spot in the stands to sit and sulk hard enough Yamamoto expected a stormcloud to randomly pop above his head.

But then someone hit a home-run and the excitement was crawling into him, tempting him and dragging him into a world where bloodshed and fear didn't even exist. It wasn't as fun as playing, but it was still fun. Something that made him inherently happy.

It felt so good he didn't even protest when Squalo had them eating Chinese for a week in retaliation. 





"Don't get up."

Yamamoto paused at the soft request - he knew what Squalo's orders sounded like, and that clearly wasn't one - before he carefully shuffled back atop the Italian, tucking his head under his chin.

"Why?"

"Because," Squalo looked at him through hooded eyes, a strange spark of madness twitching behind his eyes. Yamamoto forced himself not to dwell too much on that, instead trying to figure out why. "I really hate the world today."

October 10th.

"I don't blame you," Yamamoto said quietly, looking away.

"I want to grab my sword and go off on a rampage," Squalo went on, voice almost dreamy, "you know, cut down everything and everyone in my way."

Yamamoto shivered, and not precisely in disgust.

"So why don't you?"

Squalo grinned, infectious and mad.

"'cause you're kinda fucking heavy, you know?"

Yamamoto didn't move an inch all day, after that.





"That guy was really friendly, wasn't he?" Yamamoto mused tentatively, hands inside his pockets as he gave Squalo a sidelong glance.

It was late and Namimori was pretty empty, but the night breeze was nice enough to clear some of the alcoholic fog clinging to them, rendering something not quite sober, not quite drunk. It was pleasant enough, and Squalo had long since given up trying to explain to Yamamoto why cars weren't evil, anyway.

"VOOOII, of course he was," Squalo snorted, "he wanted into your pants, preferably at the same time as mine."

Yamamoto made a strangled sound, nearly losing his step.

"It's a gay bar," Squalo gave Yamamoto a skeptical look, "you don't go there to make life-long friendships, you go find someone to fuck."

"But--then why--you said--Squalo!"

"And they're also the only bar in town that serves the beer I like." Squalo folded his arms behind his head, looking cavalier as ever. "Besides, excluding the fucking, we're already fucking anyway. You're so damn domestic it hurts."

He sighed when a hand wrapped around one of his arms, and didn't even try to protest or pull away from it when it left him standing nose to nose to Yamamoto.

"I'm not your lover," Yamamoto said bluntly, "why would you let the world think that--"

"Because I don't give a flying fuck what the world thinks, and given how we've been fucking married for four years now, for all intents and purposes, it seems kinda late for that memo. I don't really care." Yamamoto stared at him like he was sprouting a second head. Squalo shrugged, rolling is his eyes at his melodramatic antics. "Good fucking god, considering how you are the fucking cuddlewhore, I can't believe news of our universally accepted relationship are really news for you. Way to arrive late to the fucking party."

He started walking down the street again, not at all getting what the big deal was. Yamamoto trotted after him, absolutely lost.

"But you don't want a relationship!"

"Doesn't change the fact I've got one, and Haru uses it as a fucking example whenever Gokudera sticks his foot up his mouth." Squalo made a face. "At least she's getting laid."

Yamamoto paled, looking like he wanted to bolt.

"You... you want to... with me?"

Squalo rolled his eyes.

"Not particularly."

"You don't want to, with me?" Now Yamamoto sounded hurt.

"It's not a matter of want," Squalo beckoned patience from the heavens. "It's just that you can't without going into a panic, and I'll take my hand over a panic attack any day of the week."

"I can."

"No, you can't."

"I can if I want to."

"...you hyperventilate at the sight of porn."

"I do not."

"...this is going to end in a horrible disaster, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. You're just going to get laid."

"...I should have taken a celibacy vow."





That was another big lie; sex solved nothing. It didn't complicate everything, which Squalo seemed to consider a miracle on its own, it was still oh so very awkward.

"So," Squalo stared at his cards, "I'm getting laid now."

Gokudera snorted unkindly.

"Yes, I heard."

Squalo refused to be embarrassed. Gokudera sighed and reached for his drink.

"I guess it's improvement."

"...I guess," Squalo wasn't entirely convinced.

"Bit off more than you can chew?" Gokudera studied his nails.

"I can't even tell anymore, to be honest."

III.

Amarte a ti me hace sufrir, ¡qué buena suerte!
Para acordarme de que existo y de que siento,
Para tener en que pensar todas las noches,
Para vivir.
Amarte a ti es un veneno que da vida.
Es una antorcha que se enciende si se apaga.
Es lo sublime junto con lo idiota.
Es lo que siento y ¿a quién le importa?

~ "Amarte a ti," by Ricardo Arjona

But even that passed, eventually, and all that was left was them, with their awkward problems and even more awkward solutions to those problems.

"Is it selfish," Yamamoto asked Squalo one morning, carefully fingering the tips of his hair, "that I still miss your hair?"

Squalo smirked and didn't bother to open his eyes.

"Only if you think it's selfish that I still miss my time."

Yamamoto was silent for a long moment.

"I think," he began, shifting to look down at Squalo almost solemnly, "that I'm glad I lost you."

"...why?" Squalo tensed, looking at him warily.

Yamamoto smiled, so bright Squalo's breath caught up somewhere in his throat.

"Because I got a chance to find you."

And that really was it.