Like a Sharp Knife.
"The tongue like a sharp knife... Kills without drawing blood." Buddha
When they're done, there's blood everywhere. Up on the walls, down on the floor, on their clothes. Kyoya wipes his face with the back of his hand as he breathes in and out. Yamamoto steps away from the mess of broken, cut open bodies. There's blood dripping from his sword, and Yamamoto uses his wrist to wipe at a his chin. He leaves a streak of red there before he digs for his cellphone.
He laughs as he reports the success of the mission, keeps his cellphone pressed against his shoulder so that he can take out a handkerchief from his trousers to clean the blood from the blade, swears that there weren't any problems at all, yeah, tell Tsuna everything's fine. Kyoya steps away from the bodies still frowning, his blood still burning inside his skin.
None of the blood is theirs, of course. So weak, despite their weapons. Kyoya is pissed off at the waste of his time.
It's not enough.
"Hibari, we should go before-- woah!" Yamamoto barely avoids the tonfa aiming to his head in the way he always does, and he laughs a little, a hand moving to his sword again. But his eyes are serious, his stance changing, a carnivore wasting away his fangs by pretending to be an herbivore. "Still no good, huh?"
At the very least, Yamamoto knows enough to fight back and mean it, and by the time Hibari has him pressed against the wall, he's properly bruised and breathing hard, and Yamamoto's eyes are golden and his lip is split open and red.
And after he bites at Yamamoto's lip Yamamoto hisses and pushes back, the scent of blood heavy upon the air and the pressure is enough, a downpour against him despite the warm look in his eyes and this is it, the blood and fire, something that is almost, almost saying that they're the same, giving blood for blood for kiss for touch.