Characters – Tsunayoshi, Gokudera, Yamamoto, Lambo, Chrome, Ryohei, Hibari
Pairings – nil
Genres – General, Friendship, Action, Drama(ish)
Note(s) – Inspired from gr8 story, the 14th KHR anime ending. And this is possibly my favourite KHR piece yet. And yes, Mukuro isn't here in body (but in spirit, he probably is) because he's in Vindice being cool.
Disclaimer – You know, you know.

Suits that were Ironed.

A fresh bullet cleaves air that is rotten and foul with murderous intent, splitting through the sound of cracking jaws and agonizing yelps.

The man with the jet black hair vaults right into the projectile's path. He waves one armed hand in front of himself, deflecting the bullet at the distinct noise of metal colliding with metal. Several more are fired, but meet the same untimely, and shaming, fate. Once the rounds of the revolvers are exhausted, he narrows his venomous eyes and charges forth to take down the unfriendly gun-wielding individuals with his tonfas, a grim frown stubborn on his face. He is not particularly impressed by the quality of the enemy today, more irritated than anything else (the bursting flame of purple emanating from his ring proving just that), but their numbers are growing rampantly – flooding out from the doors of streetside pubs and through other confusing roads leading out of the junction. And he hates crowds.

Blood splatters, unsightly on the brick walls of the dingy walkways, the dull glow of the streetlamps providing little lighting – which is good since it will be harder to recognize the six Vongola guardians under such circumstances. Outside of that, the building number of opposing agents is not agreeing well with the situation. They had been sent out to eliminate just barely a group of ten – accomplished, beautifully – but Gianini obviously had not taken note to inform them about the fact that afterwards, the backup would be ever persistent (and bent on revenge, but that was a given). They duck stabs from short daggers and avoid the fury of bullets raining down from the rooftops of towering buildings. The whole battlefield is flooded with noise as Italian curses pollute the grounds, faint indications of their Japanese counterparts just barely heard above the low bellows.

"This is way too extreme! Even for me!" a blur of white comments with an eager tone as he delivers a right-hook squarely to the cheek of an unguarded enemy. As the disoriented man topples back onto the paved ground of the darkened alley streets of Italy, the snow-haired man accurately sidesteps a clumsy lunge from a masked attacker. He promptly decides to grab the enemy's collar and flip him onto his back with a nasty thump to the spine.

"We can escape from the left, there are no men coming from there," a meek, wholly feminine voice informs the team of six over the loud roars of hot-blooded (and bloodied) men. Her knees are skinned and the one sleeve of her suit is torn to reveal scratches – her skirt, safely, is still intact. Despite the fact that she is currently standing a large lengths away from the suggested left, the men choose to believe her, disregarding hesitation and reluctance. Without further formalities and near-death escapes, a series of dynamite bombs are tossed into the air, spraying out to the enemies in a plethora before exploding glamorously.

When the dust and smoke die down; the Vongola are gone.

"Got… to… stay… calm," the gangly teenager chants as he struggles to catch his breath. A stream of livid red, something that can be compared to pretty, intricate ribbons, if not for the situation, seeps languidly from a cut across his shoulder. The cow-print shirt he is wearing is wrinkled and in tatters as the fifteen-year old clasps a shaking hand over his wound. He holds back the flood, because it has been drilled into him that if he even dares to show weakness in the fray, death will not be trailing too far behind. His other hand is over the woman's shoulders, guiding her through the dark pathways, trying to make the best of the minor limp in her step. (It is common that she sustains the most injuries – those bastards liken her to their first, and easiest, target.)

But tiny crystal tears leak from his eyes anyway; they frame the small scratches on his face because he can't help it, and because someone else is behind him, guarding him with consoling efficiency. At his back just barely by his heels, the tall swordsman keeps his katana poised and drawn in a rigid stance before his chest. His eyebrows are furrowed, mouth terse and unhappy as they dash through the winding roads, guided only by the sound of an all-seeing, but fatigued, female's voice.

Once they are finally out of range, affirmed by the smug grin playing across the person at the rear, they can relax – but only for an estimated twenty-seven seconds. "Who would've thought that we would have so many foes?" He sheathes his sword in one fluid motion and happily pats his friend on the shoulder.

"Shut up, idiot. Let's just get the hell out of here and report back to the Tenth!" The reply is caustic and sharp.

They clean their wounds, bandage the deep cuts and apply mild ointment onto the bruises. They wipe the blood off their clammy skin; a woman washes it out of her long, violet hair before combing out the messiness. Quickly, they toss the crimson towels and cotton swabs into the nearest bin before walking to their respective closets to fetch new suits to wear. Once everything is righted – in no less than ten minutes, a certain cigarette-smoking individual would proudly add - the right hand man hurries everyone along the stretching hallways of the Vongola estate, his voice loud and unabashed despite the hidden gash that is wide beneath his crisp, white shirt. He knocks politely onto the grand mahogany door at the end of the corridor, tucking a straying strand of hair behind one ear with his other hand. He counts three seconds before placing his ethanol-scented hands around the brass handles to pull the doors open.

"We're here, Tenth!" the grey-haired announces their arrival with nothing short of a prideful voice.

The man sitting on the sleek, Italian sofa addresses them with a pair of majestic auburn eyes. With one leg folded neatly and elegantly over the other, he adjusts the collar of his Armani original with gloved hands and motions to the whole group to come in. As they flock inside silently, his lips twitch before curling slightly into a gentle, grateful hint of a smile. Relief flickers across his countenance, subtle yet firm – much akin to the stunning flames dancing over his forehead. The man lowers his gaze to the floor in a regretful gesture, a few long, brown bangs covering his eyes in the process.

"It is too late to feel guilt for sending us on those missions - do not be a herbivore, Sawada Tsunayoshi," a deep and richly matured voice mumbles with disinterest from near the walls of the room, separating himself from the annoying flock. The singular woman in the room clutches her metallic trident closer to her chest; the youngest boy tilts his head curiously to the side. The tallest of the group affords a soft, warming chuckle, as the man with the bandaged hands sounds off in agreement. The grey-haired man sulks in the most mature fashion that is possible, distinctly unhappy with the obvious rudeness directed at his boss.

The sitting man clenches his hands, before releasing his fists as six (seven, if you count a certain someone's eerie, but familiar, presence) steadily approach his feet and kneel down, each planting their left knuckles against the lush carpet of the room. The Vongola boss sighs heavily at their actions, getting onto his feet and hastily gesturing to them to rise as well. His eyes are unblinking and piercing as he inspects his faithful guardians.

He takes in every little detail he can get – from Chrome's dark eyepatch to the scar trailing down Yamamoto's cheek. He sees the unquenchable ire in Ryohei's eyes, and Gokudera's infallible dedication in emerald green ones. From the symbolic golden horns adorned on Lambo, to the pair of clinking handcuffs Hibari absent-mindedly twirls with one hand. He drinks in everything he can in these few seconds; because he will never be certain if he will see every one of them again after another dangerous mission like that. Though he had chosen to send them because he believed that they would succeed with no hitches, truthfully, he was weighed down by stinging worry for the whole entirety of the mission. (Why hadn't he gone with them?)

His voice is clear as he speaks, his heart struggling not to burst in his chest. He is happy, he is relieved, he is uncertain, and he is thinking. He has so many things he wishes to tell his comrades – his guardians. There are unsaid words consisting of gnawing concern, bittering forgiveness, genuine compassion and beautiful gratification. He bites his dry lips; the action does not draw blood, but is enough to remind himself painfully that he is a mafia boss now. But the pain does not compare to that of which he feels when he nearly allows a carousal of strong emotions to take over his state of mind.

Nearly, yet not enough – so close, yet too far.

"Your ties are loose." Tsunayoshi points out with a weak smile.

And that is all he betrays.

end.