Okay, so... My first ever attempt at writing fanfiction. It's 11am and I've been up all night. Supposed to be studying for very important college exams, but this is what I be doing instead. ^^

Anyway, first fic. Therefore, horribly OOC. Also, my writing style kind of sucks. And is unbeta'd. But I hope I bring enjoyment to someone. Do review with your opinions.

Pairing: YamaGoku

No lemonz. But swearingz yuss, many swearingz.

In my dreams I might own KHR, but IRL, I make with disclaimage.

Enjoy

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Proverbs

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Teeth clenched, crushing the filter of yet another cigarette. Gokudera was running dangerously low on the things, and it wasn't as if they were easy for a 15-year-old to acquire. Not cheap, either, though he would happily forgo food if the need to choose ever arose.

But what really annoyed him – what really made his eyebrow twitch uncontrollably – was that the reason for this waste of glorious nicotine was smiling. And laughing.

"Ahaha-" The awkward sound was accompanied by Yamamoto's trademark hand-rubbing-the-back-of-his-head. No doubt he could tell he was getting Gokudera worked up, but it wasn't intentional. He was just having trouble with Italian grammar. His attitude clearly showed that he hardly considered it something to get distressed over. Which only rubbed the silver-haired man further up the wrong way.

"I don't see what's so funny," Gokudera snapped, "about not being able to remember something you learned five minutes ago, idiot!"

"Umm, maybe if we could try a differen-"

"No," the half-Italian replied categorically. "I refuse to try any of your weird methods. Besides, if you just want to learn this stuff the way you usually do, why would I even need to be here?" On second thought, maybe that isn't such a bad idea. I could go home and finally have some peace-

No! He shook his head rather violently to dislodge that train of thought. No, he was doing this at the Tenth's request – even if the plan had initially come from Reborn – so he would not back out of it. And he definitely would not be stopped by something as simple as the Rain's lack of active brain cells. He'd cram the knowledge inside his head by whatever means necessary. He'd shake a bit of that idiotic tranquility out of him and get him to take something seriously if it took him a decade. Definitely!

With his resolution bolstered, he turned back to the small chalkboard and began from the basics once more.

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Yamamoto sighed. He sighed often, but not usually like this. After a good warm-up stretch before a game, after the first sip of warm tea on a cold night, or when a perfect breeze would brush past him on a hot day... those were the acceptable kind of sighs. He didn't like how this new, impatient sound came out of him.

The Vongola Rain Guardian wasn't suited to exasperation. He handled Gokudera's tempestuous moods better than most people, but when Gokudera Hayato got into this state, it was difficult to avoid catching a little of that impatience yourself. To make matters worse, the more Gokudera pushed the grammar on him, the less enthusiasm Yamamoto could bring himself to muster. He found himself gazing out of the window in the opposite direction of the chalkboard, chin resting on the heel of his hand. It was a beautiful day. If only the Storm Guardian would listen to his suggestion they could be outside right now. In Yamamoto's eyes, you didn't need a chalkboard or a textbook to learn a language. He had one fluent speaker. That would be all he would need. If only 'Dera would listen. He sighed again, inaudibly.

And then realised with slight dread that Gokudera had gone silent. Probably waiting for a reply to a question he had just asked. A question Yamamoto had missed...

He didn't need to turn his head back to know that the silver-haired bomber was staring straight at him, but it wouldn't have been polite to not do so, so the Baseball star turned with a big smile on his face.

"Sorry, I spaced out there for a minute. I don't know the answer..." Yamamoto admitted, rubbing the back of his head and laughing apologetically.

Gokudera looked like he was about to blow a gasket.

Why does it always have to go like this? Yamamoto wondered. He laughed a little more, an attempt to push the mounting tension to one side. It worked for him, and he felt his stress drain away a little but he could see Gokudera was only getting more and more frustrated.

"I don't see what's so funny," Gokudera snapped, "about not being able to remember something you learned five minutes ago, idiot!"

Yamamoto promptly ceased his laughter.

"Umm, maybe if we could try a differen-" he attempted to suggest, but was cut off coolly.

"No. I refuse to try any of your weird methods. Besides, if you just want to learn this stuff the way you usually do, why would I even need to be here?"

The Rain Guardian didn't so much as blink at his methods being called "weird". He was used to it by now. Just like being called an Idiot. It really didn't bother him, because he knew that was just how Gokudera was. Sometimes he just wished the Storm would think about what he was saying before he said it.

The Mafiosi-cum-tutor was paying attention to the board again, and Yamamoto watched as angrily hunched shoulders moved from left to right. It was intriguing, how delicate, spiraled handwriting could blossom from the tip of a piece of chalk wielded with such ferocity. The swordsman found himself wondering if Gokudera realised that when he wrote, the chalk struck out a rhythm in perfect time against the board. Or that said rhythm was causing shoulders to visibly relax under his button-up shirt. He doubted it.

These were all the little things Yamamoto noticed about the world, and stored away. The important things, he thought to himself. He had been finding a lot of important things to do with Gokudera lately. The way he scowled was one: much the way other people had different kinds of smiles reserved for different people, 'Dera had a scowl for every occasion. This silent discovery had made Yamamoto laugh out loud for such a long time that Ryohei had eventually asked if there was something EXTREMELY wrong with him. Another was the way he smoked; like he was pissed off at the world. Every time something began to annoy him his hand would twitch for a cigarette, the only factors ever deterring him in reaching for one being the presence of teachers or, at Tsuna's place, the "sanctity of Jyuudaime's home". That was why it bit into Yamamoto that from almost the beginning of this lesson, he hadn't seen Gokudera without one of the sticks protruding from his mouth. Did he really annoy the Storm that much?

One other thing he'd noticed; the way Gokudera spoke Italian. Gokudera had an incredible grasp of Japanese – far better than his sister, who'd been studying it for longer – but there was just... something that got Yamamoto when the half-Italian spoke his mother tongue. He was just as angry, just as foul-mouthed and possibly even more insulting than when he spoke Japanese, but he seemed so...

Free, Yamamoto decided. Not happier, just unhindered. Like the words tumble out of him so much more easily. Fluidly. It was still gruff and harsh and brash, but more vulnerable than his Japanese ever sounded. As if a bit of the childish innocence he'd had before he'd become closed to the world had stuck with him in his first language. And then there were the Storm's little rants in Italian. Nothing was as damned funny to Yamamoto as listening to Gokudera vent and curse in a language the baseball player could not make heads or tails of, and still walk away with the feeling he had understood every sentence of it.

But more than either of those two things was the fact that speaking Italian soothed Gokudera. It was an incredible transformation to watch, like an animal being set back into its natural habitat. Tentative at first, as if establishing that the ground was, indeed, solid, then competent, and then downright bold, pushing the limits of something it had just realised it never should have taken for granted. Beautiful adjustment. It was just human nature that the familiar was calming. And calming was what Gokudera needed right then. Therefore, Yamamoto decided to try, just the once more, to push forward his idea for class.

From a different angle this time.

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"Val più la pratica della grammatica."

The chalk paused aloft, flow of present tense verb endings stemmed temporarily. Perhaps the stress was finally getting to him, because he could have sworn he heard Italian from the boy behind him. He turned and spoke:

"Again."

"Val più la pratica della grammatica," the dark-haired male repeated happily.

No, he wasn't losing his mind. The idiot had actually managed a sentence in Italian. A decent sentence at that, with perfect grammar and damn near perfect pronunciation. He blinked. And then he recognised the Italian proverb. "Val più la pratica della grammatica"... Experience is more important than theory.

Gokudera had been quiet for about a minute when Yamamoto began to wonder if he'd gotten the phrase wrong. He ran it over in his head again and again, replaying the way Squalo had said it on those DVDs. He thought he'd said it perfectly. Ah well, he'd made an attempt. You couldn't do more than your best. And now that the Hurricane Bomb was stunned into silence, he decided he would take advantage to try to sell his idea.

"So, you know, I thought we could speak Italian for a bit rather than the reading and writing. To get a feel for it. I'm really slow with books and stuff anyway, and you could take a break from writing," he suggested, shifting a little nervously under his tutor's stare.

Gokudera was quiet a moment longer. Impossible. From what the other had said, not only did he understand the meaning of the words, he also understood the implied meaning behind the idiom... he couldn't remember the last time he was as taken-aback. He shook it off as quickly as he could when he realised he was gaping. But rather than answer the other's indirect request, he posed a question of his own.

"You- where did you learn that?" he demanded.

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Taking heart at the fact that his suggestion hadn't been immediately shot down, the Japanese boy hastened to answer.

"Remember those DVDs Squalo sent me? The Sword Master battles things? It's something he kept saying on them so I-"

Ten seconds. That was all it took for Yamamoto to realise that honesty had not been the way to go here. He could practically see the cogs turning inside Gokudera's head.

"The language he had unsuccessfully been trying to teach the Japanese boy for the past three days... not even a handful of words had stuck... Squalo had more luck over DVDs?" Yamamoto was sure the current train of thought was something like that.

But Gokudera surprised him when, instead of grabbing the front of his shirt or producing a stick of dynamite, he merely turned his back.

"Gokud-"

"Piss off," the silver-haired Storm growled in response, voice and body trembling with hours of suppressed frustration and now rage. This, it seemed, had been the stick that had broken the camel's back. The Baseball player rose to his feet.

At times like these, Yamamoto just wanted to hug Gokudera. You know, the way parents are told that the best way to calm down a frantic child in the middle of a tantrum is to restrain them in a hug? Like that, wrapping his arms around the bomber and willing him to relax. Obviously, it would never work. Gokudera would blow him up sooner than listen to him. But Yamamoto was tired of rationalising for the afternoon, and he was starting to feel a bit agitated himself. He wanted to hug Gokudera. So, caution to the wind, that's what he did.

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Suddenly, Gokudera couldn't move his arms. That's what struck him first. Sheer disbelief was the only reason it took him so long to realise why he was incapacitated. That baseball idiot was... is... is... hugging me?!

No, he corrected himself, attempting to move his arms to rid himself of the invasion of his personal space. Restraining me.

"What the fuck, idiot?!" he yelled, redoubling his efforts to break free of the hold, only to feel the grip tighten around his chest. This was bizarre. He wondered for a minute if there was something wrong with Yamamoto and faltered – before reminding himself he didn't really care either way, and aiming a kick back at the taller man. He was satisfied by the pained grunt he gained from the action, but it did little good, earning him perhaps a centimeter of wriggle room. And it also made the baseball idiot wise up a little.

Yamamoto kneeled into the backs of Gokudera's knees, bringing them both to the floor so the Italian could no longer kick at him.

"Asshole baseball idiot, what the shit is wrong with you? Let me the hell go!"

"Just calm down a little, 'Dera."

"Get the fuck off me and I'll calm down, bastard! And don't call me by such informal names Yakkyu Baka!"

Yamamoto chuckled at the irony, bringing forth another bout of struggling from his captive, who, paranoid as he was assumed, the laughter was belittling.

"Calm down first," the Japanese male replied, clearly seeing a funny side to the conversation which just wasn't there. "And I wouldn't light those if I were you," he added, no doubt talking about the dynamite Gokudera had slid between his fingers, even though, by rights, he shouldn't have been able to see it from that angle.

Hurricane Bomb almost Che'd defiantly and lit the sticks before he realised that, for once, he and the baseball idiot were in agreement. They were in the Tenth's house, after all. He wouldn't be responsible for blowing it up. He struggled angrily for a few more minutes, never getting anywhere. Yamamoto trained with either a bat or sword every day, and by comparison, Gokudera had gotten lazy using his flame arrow. He cursed himself, swearing to take up his dynamite practice again the very next day. As the minutes dragged by, his struggling and shouting slowly lessened.

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The quieting down relieved Yamamoto. He hadn't expected it to take nearly that long, and he had been starting to wonder if it was even possible to calm down someone like Gokudera by force. Maybe the whole thing had been a big mistake. He knew he was going to pay for dearly as soon as he let go, anyway. That was for sure. Gokudera's shoulders were still squared in anticipation of a fight, even though he'd stopped flailing like a startled cat.

So if there was no way he was going to avoid a fight later, he thought he may as well clarify the situation now, and he tilted his chin down to rest his face on one hunched shoulder. It smelled sophisticated; clean and fresh like soap and laundry detergent, but with a hint of cologne and an even subtler layer of smoke and gunpowder. He breathed deeply a couple of times, dread spreading quickly through his veins. He was keenly aware that the fascination he had felt recently towards the other was more than just innocent curiosity, and now he knew that this would probably be the one and only time he would ever get close to Gokudera Hayato.

"I just wanted to hear you speak Italian, I didn't want to fight with you," he mumbled into shirt cotton. "And I definitely didn't want to give the impression Squalo is a better teacher than you. I thought impressing you would make you see things from my perspective, that I can learn things if I try it from different angles." He didn't know why he was going through all this effort to explain, Gokudera probably wasn't even listening; probably too busy planning exactly how hard he was going to hit Yamamoto later.

But then the swordsman noticed something odd. Absolute silence. He nudged the side of the Italian's head with his forehead (His hair smelled of soap and cinnamon). "I know you're angry, and counting to ten helps, but if you don't breathe you're gonna die," he murmured. That was it then. If Gokudera was that angry, he had no choice. He was going to have to let go in a minute, like it or not. It wasn't fair to hold the other there any longer. In fact, the whole thing had been unfair and selfish, and Yamamoto chastised himself internally. He deserved every bit of a punch he was going to get for it. In an attempt to get closer to him, had he just driven him away?

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Gokudera had been planning his counterattack for as soon as that fuckin' idiot let go. Every muscle in his body screamed out in protest as he made them stop resisting. It was difficult to still them with all the pent-up rage he felt, but he managed.

Only to feel that weight on his shoulder. That warm breath, full of the exact amount of moisture only breath could be. It brushed past his neck first, and then began to heat his shoulder through his clothes... No way, was that idiot actually breathing on him?! Is this another one of his stupid ideas to calm someone down, or is he planning on falling asleep on me?

Then the voice started up, all mumbles and thick half-apology and very strange statements. "I just wanted to hear you speak Italian"? What kind of idiotic person wants something like that when they could be learning the language themselves? He thought, brutally crushing something he could just have accepted as a complement. It never crossed his mind how similar he felt about sushi. He had no desire to make the stuff himself, no desire to learn, and no particular desire to even eat it, and yet when those ingredients came in contact with those hands his eyes were glued. For a baseball idiot, used to gripping things so tightly, his fingers moved with gentle grace as they danced around the worktop. He was sure Yamamoto had caught him staring the last time, though, and that had put an end to it. Ah, how quick we are to forgive our own weaknesses, but not the weaknesses of others.

With his mind occupied on Yamamoto's dexterous fingers, he hadn't even realised he'd stopped breathing. Until that insistent nudging against his hair which brought with it the single most powerful experience of the afternoon. Yamamoto spoke. Right against the shell of his ear. Warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin. Oh God. Dynamite fell from his slack grasp with a clatter. Suppressing a shudder, there was little could be done about the colour rising to his cheeks. As long as he doesn't see...

It would be this moment he decides to let go, wouldn't it!? The smaller male's mind screams in turmoil as he feels the grip loosen around his chest. Before he can think about it, he grabs at strong wrist, his own arms crossed across his body, and pulls the taller one back to him.

"Wha-?" is all that Yakkyu Baka seems to be able to come up with. His voice is as incredulous at Gokudera's actions as Gokudera himself is.

"Che! You sound like an idiot, idiot!" Is what the Bomber comes up with off the cuff.

"Why did- I thought you wanted me to- to let go-?" Yamamoto continued, and the bomber realised that the swordsman was not going to let it go until he made up some stupid-ass answer stupid enough to be believed by a stupid-ass swordsman like him.

"You can't just go around invading people's personal space," he snapped, "and then let go when they're getting comfortable!" It shocked him that not one word of it was a lie, but he ignored the fact, adding an "Idiot!" to his statement for good measure.

Yamamoto allowed his arms to be pulled back, silently accepting the reasoning and blessing every Deity he had ever heard of. And Gokudera was happy because the colour in his cheeks couldn't take that long to diffuse.

"Why do I even get stuck with you?" he asked with a heaving sigh, leaning back against the warm support in unmistakable surrender.

After a long pause came his answer – which Gokudera hadn't expected, because the question was about as rhetorical as rhetoric could get. "Ame futte ji katamaru."

Ame futte ji katamaru... Gokudera's brain whirled through the Japanese. After the rain, earth hardens. An idiom to express the idea that adversity builds character. Yamamoto is surprisingly good with proverbs. He had to smile in a pained way at how the Rain Guardian had made the idiom work on so many levels, referring to himself as Gokudera's adversity. He laughed a feebly, feeling uncharacteristically exhausted and comfortable. Maybe he could just recline like this a little while, and store that punch up for later. He felt movement and vibration as Yamamoto smiled gently into his shoulder, and began to hum to himself.

Sometimes Gokudera had to wonder if that yakkyu baka was smarter than he let on.