Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn. I don't even have a fedora.

There was the mansion, at first, complete with your sister and the rest of your 'family.' They were all liars and they make you sick to your stomach. There were those five years you spent living with Dr. Shamal before you realised he was everything you never wanted to be. And then, there were the five years alone in Japan, listening to neighbours argue all day and fuck all night. You promised yourself, no matter what, some day, you'd live somewhere you liked. Remotely, even.

It's understandable that your somewhat disappointed with how life is treating you in adulthood.

It's understandable that if you'd had the choice, this wouldn't be anything near to home. But seven years in this shared apartment make you grow slightly fond of the kitchen – 'not yours' – the grand piano in the lounge – 'nowhere near as good as yours was' – and the bed, sheets strewn over it, lopsided, hanging over the right and away from the left – 'not all yours.'

It's all you have, really; one side of the bed, two pillows and half the bedsheets. Your clothes are nothing but suits, aligned in accordance to colour, because that part of you that's a vulnerable control-freak in need of being fed.

When you look in the mirror, it's not really you. Maybe it's getting older, or maybe your just one of those adults who desperately and pathetically longs for the old days, your teenage years, when you were nothing but a happy kid with a life you hadn't known existed. Sometimes you'll wake up in the morning and stare into the face glaring at you through the glass with confusion, because you forget, just for a second, that you're a man now. You're everything you wanted to be, and it doesn't feel like enough, although you'd never admit it.

Since thirteen, you'd believed all you wanted was to be the Tenth's right-hand man. That was before the hormones, and before you noticed how endearing that baseball-idiot looked on the pitch, and before Hibari started drawing nearer and corrupting you. You're twenty-four now. You could have had a wife, kids, perhaps, and maybe even a domestic little second-job.

You know you don't want that, but some masochistic side of you makes you want to think that you do. It's fucked up. You're fucked up.

It's the reflection; the hair too long, too many earrings, too grown-up and too not-yourself. You look at yourself and you think 'not yours. His.' It chills you too the bone sometimes to think about what you've become – you don't mind the job of course, it's everything you wanted. In truth, you got everything you asked for over and over again.

Except that one thing. That one thing that you let nobody know but yourself, not even your precious Tenth or who it regarded; that stupid moron who, for some reason, made your heart thud a little faster.

It wouldn't matter so much – 'but you bet it would still really hurt' – if you hadn't got the worst possible replacement. Not that Hibari had ever asked consent, because in your defence, he pinned you pretty firm and kissed you pretty possessively, and is a pretty strong bastard. He's not a replacement, not really. He never gives you what you think Yamamoto could have, never holds you unless there's a blatant reason, an obvious explanation, and when he smiles, you're normally too pissed with him to care.

You don't believe in love. You know you loved your mother, but you can't remember feeling it; it's so difficult and you were so young. Even if you did, what Hibari and you have is nothing past 'restrained comfort.' He's seat in a strangers house, and your asked to make yourself at home, but you're conflicted on whether to sit down or not. It's a lovely seat really, all decorated, all regal, but it feels stiff and feels uncomfortable when you take your place on it. And even though it hurts your back – 'and your ass' – you won't say that, because it would be rude and break the polite get-together with the stranger you barely know.

So you keep pushing yourself down on those hard cushions, but it doesn't get any softer, or easier to sit on for that matter.

Both of you were stupid – 'or maybe just you' – and seventeen when it just began, and you never believed it would continue for this long. It's disappointing and it irks you but it feels oh-so-good when you slide close, when he's inside of you, and when sometimes he bites down on your bottom lip and it doesn't hurt, but you'll snarl through breaths and pants anyway.

You shouldn't be thinking about that. You shouldn't be mulling over how tonight you could have been imminently jumped by the damn bastard and fuck no, you absolutely should not be smiling about the image it makes in your mind.

Your frown fixes back to place and you just stand there, at Yamamoto's doorway, counting the seconds for a little longer – 'approximately sixteen seconds.' And somehow, your hand raises, curled into a fist and you're getting ready to knock and to say it, and you're bracing yourself for the hug and the kiss and the sex, and you aren't nervous at all because you know, and you always have known that Yamamoto loves you too. He's told you, a thousand times over, and he's told you that 'you don't have to say it back, even if you feel it too, because I can wait a lifetime for you to be ready, I promise.' Sometimes, you feel like replying. When you open your mouth silence flows out and he just shoots you that smile, and his eyes start twinkling and you know that sooner or later he'll give up and you feel like you'd probably be fine with that and wish him the best.

But you're wrong. Your hand is shaking a little, and it falls to your side and you feel like shit. You can hear him in there, probably dressing for the meeting, and he's just humming quietly, and the sound is slipping through the narrow gaps in the doorframe and tugging at what you once referred to as your heart. It's your chest; lined with cuts and scrapes and the occasional stitches.

It's when you're absent-mindedly tracing the recent bandages over your ribs, you realise that you're no good for him. He could do so much better. And it's when your palm slips over the bitemark on your neck from Hibari's teeth you realise even if Yamamoto couldn't, you'd still want to think so. Just so you could wander back to your apartment and feel the smooth folds of the Cloud Guardian's suit and the soft thickness of his hair and maybe even feel his heart race against your back before you fall asleep.

'But…'

You disgust yourself. And you stammer back to that place that you can only describe as home, and you promise to yourself that you won't be jealous when Yamamoto falls in love because you had your chance, and that's enough.

'…You've always been a liar.'

Author's Note: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Me...? Angst-whore...? ... May-be.)

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