Vantage Point
by ariviand

Disclaimer: ahhh my first attempt at a KHR fic. Please go easy on me! I apologize for the short beginning, but I promise there's more to come.

Of course, I don't own any of the characters from Katekyo Hitman Reborn!


Peering through the shadows cast by the narrow slats between the rows of the bleachers, Yamamoto idly scratched at the warm skin at the nape of his neck. It was cut off, but he could still make out the orange, green, and white of the field. "Huh."

"Tch," came the irritated noise from behind him, making the corners of his mouth tug with amusement. "What?"

"It looks so much smaller from here," Yamamoto mused, trying to lower his chin until the line of his eye could find the pitcher's mound, thinking back to the recent memory of the game: staring back at home plate in his mind's eye until he could see the ball in his own hand, the movement of his right arm drawing back, the displacement of the wind and the extension of the arm as the ball was propelled forward, spinning and sure, skirting past the bat and smacking against the catcher's mitt. Strike.

Distracted, he heard the word "idiot," glancing back as Gokudera exhaled irritated smoke in his face. "Of course it does. It's a different vantage point."

"Haha, yeah, I guess you're right," Yamamoto replied, with the casual certainty of someone who's not really listening."So this is what Gokudera sees?"

Another scoff and Yamamoto resisted the urge to grin, looking back out at the field. "Like I watch you. Baseball is shit for a sport," Gokudera grumbled, listing off a number of things he found more entertaining. But it didn't matter what he said; Gokudera had come to his first game of the season and no amount of irritable posturing now could take that feeling away. Yamamoto was happy. And he knew Gokudera had been watching him play, because he'd looked back out towards the bleachers several times and their eyes met. It's not like it was hard to spot the one silver head in a sea of black, and the fact that he was mostly scowling helped.

He shouldn't take it so seriously! Well, to Yamamoto, of course playing baseball was serious, but it should be fun too. It was still a game and while winning was important and something he strove for, Yamamoto was also in it for the experience. And being able to share it with Gokudera made it that much better.

"It's nice."

"What now?"

"Nothing," Yamamoto replied, tugging the brim of his baseball cap lower, casting a shadow over his smile before he turned away from the sight of the baseball field and headed back to join Gokudera. It was really dark beneath the bleachers, dark and warm, but the strips of light from outside still caught on Gokudera's pale hair and the smolder at the end of his dying cigarette cast a red-orange glow on his face. The frown was still in his eyes, though his lips were relaxed around the cigarette, drawing Yamamoto's attention there.

"Hey, what do those taste like?" he asked, wondering if they were as off-putting as they smelled, and if so, why Gokudera seemed to enjoy them so much.

But it didn't seem like Gokudera was going to answer. He blew another irritated cloud of smoke into Yamamoto's face and this time the baseball player found it hard not to cough against the burn in his nostrils, but he held firm, pressing his mouth closed and holding his breath til the wave passed.

"Bitter," Gokudera replied, nostrils flaring as the pale flicker of his eyes looked away, maybe catching the slats in the bleachers too. It made the light frame his face and Yamamoto chanced another breath in, nodding.

"Saa, like ayu?"

"What?" Gokudera answered, head snapping back in his direction. There was another scoff before that cute wrinkle returned, right in between Gokudera's eyebrows, the not quite mad with you crease, but definitely getting lukewarm. Yamamoto had to play it safe. "Only you would compare a fucking cigarette to fish."

Yamamoto conceded with a grin and an innocent shrug. "But it's OK, right? Because Gokudera really likes cigarettes."

It was hard to say if Gokudera scoffed through the tension in his mouth or if it was a muffled laugh. Yamamoto liked to imagine the latter and chose to keep smiling, taking his chances and leaning closer.

"You're an idiot," Gokudera muttered, but Yamamoto's sharp eyes couldn't mistake the pink in face. Definitely a good sign.

"Maa," was Yamamoto's reply, simple and meaningless, just an excuse to acknowledge what Gokudera had said without taking it too much to heart. He'd said it enough, said it in a variety of ways, and by contrast, this was mild and Yamamoto knew he didn't even mean it, not really. It was just something he had to say to negate his flushed cheeks and the awkwardness of how close they were, which Yamamoto didn't mind at all, even with the exhale of Gokudera's smoke right beneath his nose.

He heard more than saw Gokudera inhale again, the glow of his cigarette disappearing out of view as the other teenager snubbed it out against the grass to his left side.