Title: Vivere nel Peccato
Author: Waruji
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Status: 3/?
Theme: When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults. -Brian Aldiss
Characters: Squalo, Yamamoto, and Yamamoto Senior

Pairings: Some implied 80S

Word Count: 5537
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or any of its characters and I'm not making any profit out of this.
Summary: Squalo pays Yamamoto a visit after his first hit.

Author notes: So Squalo's chapter is finally finished, I'm not really sure who is going to star in the next chapter yet though.

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He stood outside the small, traditional sushi shop, wondering idly if he was going of the deep end. He didn't need another reminder of his defeat to this amateur in swordsmanship, even if he did have a remarkable talent. What was this need to speak with the one who wore he title that should have been his all along? He clenched his right fist, a flesh and blood mimicry of the eternally closed artificial left hand, and wished he had brought his sword but because it would attract too much attention he had left it behind in his hotel room. He stood out enough already simply by his status as a tall foreigner with long, white hair and an unpleasant smile that never reached his eyes.

Among these throngs of short, dark haired Japanese he couldn't have hid even if he wanted to but there was no reason to go out of his way to attract attention. Squalo had even switched out of his customary leather uniform to a loose-fitting black t-shirt and a pair of entirely too casual blue jeans; he had found himself wishing for the familiar heavy weight of dark leather hours ago when he first put these on. After years of nothing but the Varia uniform and the occasional piece of formal wear the outfit was uncomfortable. The aggression in his eyes and the sharpness of his smile aside, he felt too much like a wolf in sheep's clothing and it unnerved him because he had never been one to pretend to be anything other than what he was.

Shaking of his concerns, he pushed the sliding door open and stalked through the opening. His eyes sweeping over the crowded room, filled with men of various social status all talking amiably over the food and sake on the tables, until their line of sight landed on a smiling man working magic with his knife on a dead fish on the counter before him. The man handled the knife like it was an extension of his arm and despite the easy and relaxed fashion he used it Squalo could tell he could easily turn the tool into a dangerous weapon with an expertise few sushi chefs should have. It was easy enough to spot in the way he held the handle, the way he sliced, and it was familiar enough that Squalo would have recognised him as Yamamoto Takeshi's father and teacher even if he hadn't already been aware of it. For a moment, Squalo's insides curdled with dark, festering hatred as he recognized the middle-aged chef as someone of the opposite end of the spectrum of him; there should be no place in the world for skilled, innocent fools that clung like poison ivy to the ideal of a perfect, pristine world that only existed in their minds. He moved his shoulders, forcing them to relax and let the anger subside but it was already too late.

Yamamoto's father had frozen instantly, the murderous aura rolling off Squalo in waves had interrupted his calm and precise slicing and he looked up with a face that although hard and uncompromisingly determined held no trace of a true born killer. But there was still an impressive determination when the old man locked eyes with him and Squalo wondered if he should revise his earlier opinion. Even an innocent fool could be dangerous depending on the situation he thought, thinking back to the doe-eyed brat that had fought Xanxus and lived through the ordeal. It was almost a shame he was such a nice brat; he could have had a lot of potential. Perhaps the Arcobaleno would iron out the last vestiges of naivety in him, if they wanted Sawada to survive in the Mafia world it was inevitable.

Soft men never lasted long but the runt hadn't seemed to realise that he wouldn't have to be another Xanxus or Byakuran in order to be a Mafia leader. The difference between a being hard man and being a ruthless or cruel man were miles apart.

"Welcome," Tsuyoshi said, his face and tone carefully neutral but without an ounce of sincerity. His gaze followed Squalo as he walked forward, taking note of the warrior's grace in his step. The silver-haired assassin sank casually down on one of the free chairs in front of the counter and grabbed hold of one of the menu's lying in a neat pile close by encased in thin plastic as if he were an average customer.

Squalo barely looked at the menu; it was composed of row after row of strange little symbols that were of little value to him. Even if he had learned to read Japanese as well as speak it in his youth he had never bothered to hold on to the knowledge and over the years, as his use of it had become nonexistent, his grasp on the various markings had slipped. Asia had not been his playground most of the time and beyond the spoken Japanese that all of the Vongola were required to know –a tradition stemming out of respect for the First Boss– he had had little, if any, use of the language at all. However, even if he had been able to make sense of the writings it wouldn't have mattered much anyway; Japanese culture and culinary appreciation were foreign to him and so the items listed were all the same to him anyway. But dark brown, slanted eyes, like so many others he had become accustomed to seeing in this country, were watching him with a silent intensity that made his skin itch. He forced himself to relax enough that he wouldn't start twitching uncomfortably in his chair.

"Vooii, old man," Squalo said, and even though his voice was loud it was noticeable more quiet then normally, it was as close he would ever come to talking normally. "Recommend something."

The apprehension on Yamato Tsuyoshi's face was quickly hidden behind a veneer of professional courtesy and deeply instilled politeness, choosing to ignore his customer's rudeness, as he began to list a number of choices that Squalo didn't even bother to listen to. Instead he watched Yamamoto's father and wondered why this man didn't awaken his killer instinct the way every other swordsman in his path always had. Squalo knew he could kill this man, this man made soft by a life lived in peace and comfort, without much effort –even without his sword strapped to his arm– but that had never stopped him before and somewhere beneath that softness there was quite a bit of potential. Whether they were strong or weak, he always felt an urge to cross swords with them, almost as if he was searching for something undefinable, and he rarely left any alive in his path. So why not with this man? There was something deeply soothing in the sharp clean slices a blade created but a snapped neck wasn't bad for relieving tension either, there was no reason why he shouldn't feel an inclination to end the life before him.

"I'll take the last one," he drawled out and watched Yamamoto's father work from behind half-lidded eyes and smiled at the fearlessness in the old man's features and posture. So, this man really was the rain guardian's father after all.

The dish that was presented in front of him was breath-taking in its intricate beauty but Squalo had little understanding or appreciation for the culinary arts, not even those that were said to take ten years to master, and he had never cared much for fish to begin with. He stared at his meal unenthusiastically, picking at it with those bothersome little sticks Asian people seemed to insist eating with in one hand and resting his cheek against his closed left hand, the elbow sitting disrespectfully sitting on the counter.

"You're not from around here," Tsuyoshi observed with a hint of irritation, watching as the foreigner tried, and failed, to make some sort of abstract sculpture out of the sushi. "And you're obviously not here for my sushi. What exactly is it that you want?"

"Straight to the point, huh?" Squalo snorted, letting the chopsticks fall down on the counter as he lounged back in his chair in a state of apparent relaxation. After a brief pause, debating whether he should bother lying or not, he leaned forward again. "You could say I'm an acquaintance of you son."

"Takeshi?" Tsuyoshi said startled, surprise breaking through his professional mask. Then a thin-lipped composure settled across his features again. "You look too old to be one of his friends."

"Who said I was a friend?" He replied lazily, just to be contrary. "But really old man, don't you have any proper utensils here? I can't eat with these sticks."

"This is a sushi shop," the dark-haired man said, the look in his eyes turning that familiar blend of frigidity and condescension that Squalo normally received in this country for being a rude 'gajin'. It was amazing how little it took to offend them. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"It's none of your business," he said casually, "but I have a few things to discuss with your son."

At that the old man remained silent for a while, his eyes growing distant as he evaluated the foreigner in front of him; one swordsman to another. His gaze took in Squalo's lean muscled build that could only have come from many years of hard, back-breaking training, the self-assured way he held himself like a languid predator reclining on the chair and lingered on the left hand covered by a dark leather glove unlike the bare right. There was a peculiar heaviness in that gaze that said that Yamamoto senior knew a little bit more then he should.

"My son has behaving strangely lately," he said finally, as if he was uncertain if he should mention this to someone who had walked in his restaurant not even as much as an hour ago; but there was recognition in his eyes. A true swordsman would always recognise his like, and even prey, if it had any sense, should recognise a carnivore. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

"Me?" Squalo drawled in mock surprise and wondered if he should stop ridiculing the man before he came too close to the truth. "No, I didn't do anything to the brat."

"But you know," Tsuyoshi said; an unshakable certainty born out of intuition settling into his expression.

"Look," Squalo said, no longer smiling, "don't pry into this for both your sakes. It isn't worth it."

"Do you have any children, young man?" Tsuyoshi said suddenly, the fine lines in his face to deepening tiredly.

"No," Squalo snorted, feeling a faint shiver run up his spine at the very idea. "I could never stand children. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Then you wouldn't understand," he said and looked very tired and very old all of a sudden in a way Squalo's own father never had. That bastard would never have stared down at his hands softly, concern for his only son taking his mind far away like Yamamoto senior, who looked for all the world like he was no longer in the popular little sushi shop. "A parent will always worry about their child; that's just how it is."

"Spare me the sentimental drivel," Squalo sneered. "There are a lot of assholes out there who would screw their sons over a thousand times over just for kicks. He might be your 'little boy' but if you stick your nose where it doesn't belong it might get cut off."

"Maybe it will," Tsuyoshi said quietly, the light in his eyes dimming with something that came too damn close to sympathy for Squalo's taste. The old man was making assumptions he had no right to be making. "But he's still my precious–"

"Squalo! What are you doing here?" A surprised voice exclaimed and they both turned to face the broadly grinning Yamamoto junior standing in the doorway.

"Did you have a good day at school today, Takeshi," his father asked smiling with genuine fondness at his son, as if his conversation with Squalo had never taken place.

"It was fine," Yamamoto replied; sliding his bag off his shoulder when he reached the counter and letting it slide down with a soft thump. Then he shifted his eyes toward Squalo. "I never thought I'd see you here."

"You know this young man then, Takeshi?" Tsuyoshi asked.

"Yeah, this is Superbi Squalo, "Yamamoto said easily. "He was my opponent in that contest I was in four years ago."

At that, Tsuyoshi's face looked startled then a knowing look Squalo didn't like settled across his features. "Was he now?" the old man said slowly; considering.

"Yeah," Yamamoto said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was actually Squalo who made me interested in learning kendo in the first place."

"Superbi Squalo," Yamamoto's father said thoughtfully. "That's an unusual name."

"It's Italian," Yamamoto offered cheerily before Squalo had the chance sneer rudely. "But we won't occupy you time anymore dad. I'm sure Squalo has some things he wants to talk to me about right away."

And with that the rain guardian grabbed a hold of Squalo's arm and practically dragged him up out of his chair and out of the room, into a small hallway before he released his grip. Squalo hadn't seen him for a little bit over a year but he hadn't changed much. He was a bit taller, his shoulders a tad bit broader and his features were a little sharper then Squalo remembered (was that a scar on his chin?), and his smile, his smile was a little off. It wasn't something Squalo could quite put his finger on, he didn't know the brat well enough for that, but something had changed. He could guess the reason why without much difficulty but what direction had it taken the boy?

Yamamoto looked uncharacteristically tongue-tied, his eyes flickering from Squalo to the doorway they had just passed and then back again repetitiously, fidgeting with his clothes. "We should probably talk in my room," he said after a while, sounding very much like he had intended to say something else entirely.

The rain guardian's room was depressingly average. There was a single, unmade bed with blue sheets, a desk with a closed laptop and various mementos strewn across the room in a homely, uneven fashion. Squalo crossed the room in even strides to reach the shelf on attached to the wall just above the head of Yamamoto's bed containing a row of books. He tilted his head to read the few titles that were legible and not Japanese chicken scratches. Too many of them were about baseball.

He shot an incredulous look back ay Yamamoto. "Do you actually read this crap?"

Yamamoto frowned. "It isn't crap."

"I heard you had made your choice," Squalo replied. "So what's with the library?"

"I did," Yamamoto said and sighed. "But I can still dream, even if it will never happen. Haven't you ever wanted to do something other than this?"

Squalo stayed silent at that and shrugged. "If I ever did I don't remember. It doesn't matter anyway; I never had the luxury of choice like you did."

Yamamoto looked up at him. "You didn't?" He asked, as if the possibility had never struck him.

"Nah," the assassin replied. "My family has been mafioso for generations. My old man would have cut me up good if I ever disgraced them by leaving."

"Your own-," the dark-haired teen began, a worried crinkle forming between his eyebrows, then he stopped. "That's a really personal question."

But he didn't apologise and his eyes turned away and Squalo could tell by the thinning of his lips into a harsh line he was comparing what little he knew of Squalo's asswipe of a father with his own.

Unceremoniously Squalo sat down on Yamamoto's bed, a small popping sound coming from his neck as he rolled his head from side to side before looking back at the rain guardian. "It doesn't matter. My father was a scumbag who didn't know how to think for himself. End of story," he said, then smiled. "I hear you've finally become one of us."

The boy looked down on his feet despondently. "Yeah, you could say that."

Squalo could almost slap himself in the face as he realised he had touched upon a sore issue. Already regretting what he was about to say, he ground out the words between closed teeth, wondering why the hell he had to play shrink to the kid who beat him. "And somehow, that's a bad thing?"

The rain guardian was quiet for a moment. "It's not that I don't want to help Tsuna," he paused. "I – I just don't think I'll ever forget his face when I killed him," he said looking away from Squalo as if he was ashamed to admit it.

'Ah,' Squalo thought. 'First kill anxieties.'

"You will," he said bluntly. "In this line of work the faces pile up too quickly. It won't take long until he's a just a blur in your memory."

"How can you be so sure?" Yamamoto asked.

"VOOOII, you bastard," Squalo spat out loud enough that the boy jumped." Learn to listen to the voice of experience for once. This isn't just a one time thing; you're going to be killing a lot of people for the Vongola from now on. Once you get used to it it'll become just like any other job."

"Maybe you're right," the Japanese teen replied and sat down on the edge of his bed dejectedly next to the Varia assassin. "Maybe that's what I'm afraid of."

Squalo raised an eyebrow questioningly.

The rain guardian laughed nervously and ran a hand through his hair. "What if I keep killing until I forget that it's wrong? What if I just keep killing and killing and killing and it never stops? What will I be then?"

"A hitman?" Squalo drawled. "It's what we do. It's what you do. You have to remember this is the life you chose, kid. No one forced that sword into your hands."

And then Yamamoto laughed again, for real this time, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess that's true."

Squalo rolled his eyes and wondered who it was, exactly, that had had the ever so brilliant idea to bring an idiot like Yamamoto into the mafia. Honestly there were enough morons running around in the Vongola without adding to them. Staring at the boy in front of him he suddenly realised that this was an idiot he would be stuck with for the rest of his life. Seeing as they would be the only swords masters in the Vongola, both shared the rain attribute and whose primary functions would be to serve as assassins –although Yamamoto would have the added glory of being the runt's bodyguard– it was likely Squalo would never be free of him.

'At least he'll be better then his royal pain in the ass,' he thought sourly as he remembered Belphegor's various quirks and random stunts.

"How did you lose your hand?" Yamamoto asked curiously, changing the subject quickly as he saw the storm growing on the white-haired assassins face.

Squalo looked down at the glove covering his artificial limb considering; not many people had ever dared to ask him that. "I cut it off," he replied, for once choosing simple honesty over a snarky comeback.

The rain guardian's eyes widened dramatically and his body froze in momentary surprise. "You cut it off," he echoed.

"There was a man I admired who only had one hand," Squalo began. "I wanted to see if I could be as strong as him."

"You really liked him?" Yamamoto asked smiling softly, probably thinking back to some childhood baseball idol of his or something similar, but it was strangely forlorn.

Squalo's mouth twisted into a scornfully lopsided smile and wondered if he should bother with the truth. He could remember every blow exchanged between them, every technique utilised but the sword emperor's face was long gone in the mist of time. His insides twisted bitterly and he wished he recalled more then a fuzzy outline of a tall, dark-haired man. He had almost considered telling Yamamoto it wasn't the faces that you remembered that haunted you, but the faces that slipped away. "I respected him," he settled on.

Then Yamamoto's eyes changed, they become sharper and clearer – just like when they fought each other in the battle over the Vongola Rings and Squalo had been on the verge of dismissing the boy completely. 'Of all the times he chooses to be perceptive,' Squalo thought with a disgusted grimace. But the rain guardian didn't say anything, just looked at him with those clear, concerned eyes.

Finally, it was Squalo who broke the silence as he stood up and walked away from the bed. "Look, this isn't something I want to talk about. You wouldn't understand anyway, it's a lesson only experience can bring and believe me kid," the smirk slipped of his face, "experience is a hard teacher."

"Alright," Yamamoto said, and then his eyes flickered as if he thought of something. "Why are you here?"

Squalo held out a worn baseball and lobbed it lazily at the teens head, almost regretting he hadn't thrown it full-force but soon as the thought crossed his mind he realised that the rain guardian would have caught it as easily as he did the lobbed ball. At first Yamamoto looked nonplussed but as he saw the untidy scribbled name on its side his eyes widened disbelievingly.

"How did you get this?" He breathed, pure awe in his voice and he touched the ball almost reverently.

Squalo snorted. "I picked it up on after a job in the states. Think of it as a first kill present, or souvenir if you prefer that. I had just heard about your hit and the stadium was right there so I figured why not. If I'd known what a bore it would be I wouldn't have bothered."

A sudden tension appeared in the rain guardian's shoulders and he stared down at the baseball almost longingly. He only hesitated for a moment before he spoke. "Ever since our fight I haven't been as into baseball as I was before. I don't know why but it isn't as exiting to play anymore."

"Maybe," Squalo drawled, smirking nastily, "it's because you've found something better."

"Better?" Yamamoto said in a strangely high-pitched voice with wide eyes. It was almost as if he was nervous about something.

Squalo looked at him strangely. "I'm saying you like mafioso life more than you think."

The Japanese teen relaxed somewhat. "So that's what you meant."

"So that's what you meant," Squalo echoed with a raised eyebrow. "What else could I have been talking about?"

"Nothing," Yamamoto said quickly.

Too quickly, Squalo's eyes narrowed with suspicion but he decided he didn't want to know whatever it was that was going through the brats head at the moment. "You're a killer, slugger," he said instead.

"I don't like killing," Yamamoto protested, his voice strained. "I just like the fight. I like testing my abilities and my limits. It's a contest with a worthy opponent that makes my blood boil. The killing is secondary."

"If you say so," the Italian mobster said casually, the tone of his voice as close to pitying as Squalo could come. "But I wonder how long you can hold to that."

"What do you mean?"

"This kind of life," Squalo said, making a small sweeping gesture with his arm. "It does strange things to your head, unless you're already off in cuckoo land like Bel."

He shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest. "Personally, it's all about the kill for me," he said seriously. "Unless you kill your opponent you can't really say you've won."

"Then why didn't you kill Genkishi when you had the chance? The future you, I mean," Yamamoto asked, his voice shaking with uncertainty even though his face tightened in stone-cold anger as the name passed over his lips. "Wasn't it because you didn't want to kick someone who was already down?"

"Voooiiiiii," Squalo snarled, turning sharply around to face the Japanese teen. "What kind of weakling do you fucking take me for?"

Yamamoto's blinked, as if his fellow swordsman has said something very strange. "I don't think you're weak!" he protested firmly.

"Then don't say such idiotic things," Squalo replied with a sullen glare. "From what I've heard that Genkishi bastard faked his own defeat. Only the victor has the right to kill his opponent in a duel, how could I possible retain my honour as a swordsman if I took the life of someone I hadn't defeated?"

The rain guardian looked surprised, staring at the Varia assassin with an unreadable expression

"Then I guess I didn't win against you, Squalo," he smiled, saying his name softly like it was more then just a string of letters. "Since I didn't kill you after all."

Squalo snorted and looked away from Yamamoto's face, his tone unusually solemn. "No, kid. That's one fight you won."

A shadow passed over the rain guardian's face, then disappeared. "Your future self sent me all the videos of your fights, you know," he said. "To draw me back to the path of the sword."

"I did?" Squalo asked. It was strange, asking about things you supposedly did in a future that no longer exited. It was one hell of a headache, at the very least.

I fought some really strong guys in the future," Yamamoto said contemplatively. "But I still think our fight was the most exiting, maybe because it was my first. I could show you the techniques I picked up from you, if you want to."

Squalo wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but the Japanese teen seemed nervous even though he was sitting perfectly still, waiting calmly for a response. There was a strange sense of anticipation in the air and the rain guardian was watching him with a look in his eyes that Squalo had never seen directed at himself before and it annoyed him that he didn't know what it meant.

"Sure," he said finally, shifting his weight on his feet. The room suddenly felt too small. "Well, have to go now, don't lose to anyone while I'm gone, kid."

"Already?"

"Yeah, Xanxus is a fucking cheapskate," Squalo grumbled. "He wouldn't let me take time off this month so I had to come here on a job."

"You're going to kill someone," Yamamoto said opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something more, then closed it.

"Several someones actually," Squalo said, his wide smirk daring the rain guardian to say something, to spout some ridiculous moral bullshit. "There have been some weapon smugglers who've become to cocky for their own good."

"I could help you, " the rain guardian said instead, and his face was as determined as his father's had been earlier in the sushi shop, but this, Squalo decided approvingly as he saw the ice in Yamamoto's eyes, was the face of a killer.

"I'm not quite that feeble yet," he replied confidently, even though he was very much aware that the dark-haired swordsman's offer had nothing to do with the fact if Squalo could defeat his targets or not. "I can take care of them on my own."

Squalo was already out of the room when Yamamoto realised he wasn't going to get a goodbye. It didn't take long before he hurried after him and fell in line next to the white-haired assassin. They both stopped simultaneously as he placed his left hand on Squalo's shoulder with an air of familiarity Squalo was unaccustomed to since becoming a Varia. He stared at the hand, then at Yamamoto and was startled as he realised they were nearly the same height.

"Come back soon," Yamamoto said, the sentence heavy with unspoken words and the intensity in his eyes boring into Squalo's skull like a drill.

"Why should I?" He sneered grumpily in return, unnerved by the change in the rain guardian.

Then Yamamoto grinned widely. "Because we're friends."

With a gaping mouth, Squalo could only stand there staring wide eyed. Friend wasn't a word tossed around easily among assassins for obvious reasons and it wasn't something he had expected from someone he had tried very hard to kill once. Had anyone else said those words to him, Squalo would have assumed they wanted something or were lying. People didn't befriend someone from Varia's elite without reason and few ever presumed to call any of them 'friend'. There was no room such things. Hearing those words from Yamamoto however, was different somehow, perhaps it was the sheer sincerity reflected in his large smile or the sharp earnestness of his eyes but Squalo believed him.

"I–," he started, for once speechless.

"As Vongola's future swords masters we have to stick together, right?" Yamamoto continued and his calloused hand was warm as it squeezed Squalo's shoulder comfortingly. "I'll watch your back and you can watch mine."

For a long time Squalo was silent, looking at the rain guardian as if he had never seen him before. "You would trust me that much?"

"I wouldn't make that offer if I wasn't serious," Yamamoto replied.

No one had ever watched his back, not unless they were ordered to and even then it was something unreliable. Not when he was a child, not when he was at mafia school already planting the seeds for his reputation as a swordsman and certainly not after he joined Varia. A man should stand on his own two legs… or not at all, that was the only lesson his father had given him that he had listened to, or at least that's what the old man had believed. The truth was that his piss-poor excuse for a father didn't have anything to do with it, it was just that Squalo's own pride wouldn't let him act any other way. He wasn't a man cut out to watch anyone's back. Despite that he slowly he raised his arm, placing his left hand on Yamamoto's right shoulder in a return gesture.

"Alright," he said, smiling almost as widely as Bel, but it was more genuine then any twist of lips that had passed over his face in many, many years. "I'll go along with it as long as you remember that rain guardian whatever; we're both the requiem of rain. I refuse to accept any other kind of life," he said, his smile gone, "so do you think you can follow me on that bloody path?"

"A bloody path, huh?" Yamamoto said, the smile slowly fading in favour of a more serious expression. "I'm not sure I even have a choice anymore. It's the only job I'm fit for, in the Vongola I mean, and it's not like I can say I didn't know what I was getting into. But one thing I'm sure of, is that I'll watch your back anywhere and one day," he promised, "I'm going to catch up to you."

At that Squalo laughed. "Didn't you already beat me years ago?"

But Yamamoto only smiled faintly at him. Then a perplexed look crossed his features, almost like an afterthought. "You still haven't told me what you came here for," he said.

And Squalo started walking again, Yamamoto following after. "To see if you were still the naïve moron that spared an enemy," He said.

"So, what do you think?" Yamamoto grinned at him. "Have I changed?"

Squalo snorted. "Try asking me a question you don't already know the answer to, kid."

"Well," Yamamoto began, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I'll know when you stop calling me kid"

"I'll stop calling you kid," Squalo said with what he told himself wasn't fondness, "when it's time for you to come to Italy. For good."

"Dad!" Yamamoto called out as they spotted his father working. "Do you need any help?"

Yamamoto Senior lifted his head, and his shoulders relaxed as he saw them. Squalo rolled his eyes; the old man should learn to trust his son's abilities more. Parental affection always seemed to impair people's judgement in one way or another.

"Not today, Takeshi," Tsuyoshi said.

"Then I'll head over to Tsuna's house," Yamamoto said. "We're going over our math homework together."

"Just be back by seven, kiddo," his father laughed.

Yamamoto grinned back and headed out. "See you later, Squalo!" he called out as he left.

"Old man," Squalo hissed over the counter when the rain guardian was gone. "You should take a better look at your son. That's not a kid anymore."

"What do you-?" Yamamoto's father started, but Squalo interrupted him.

"A word of advice," he said. "Learn to let go, or it'll end in grief for both of you."

And then he walked away, already smiling in anticipation of the fight to come.

To be continued…

Author Notes: My first ever attempt at writing Squalo…

This is probably the closest to a happy ending any of the chapters will ever have, too.