Summary: "He's not strong enough. He doesn't think he'll ever be strong enough." This simply describes 20YL!Lambo and the future that was erased. [The title is supposed to mean "alone" in Italian; please correct me if I'm wrong.]

("Where's Tsuna-nii? He was supposed to train with me when he got back!")

*"Merda!"

("Lambo... The Tenth... He's dead.")

It's late—dark thirty—and he can't even see his hand in front of his face, much less the men in black persuing him. There's blood (so much blood) pouring out of the gash in his thigh, and the dark spots in his vision (even darker than the pitch black of the night) are rapidly multiplying.

("...How?! Who-?! How could you let this happen?!")

The alley he'd ducked into to lose his tail is narrow and dank, much like the puffs of breath escaping his mouth at the sheer amount of effort he's expending. After quite a few random twists and turns behind and between buildings, he collapses against a brick wall, one hand holding tighter to his wound and the other clenching around the few Lightning rings left in his pocket.

("It's him! He's Vongola! Get him!")

He grits his teeth—Three D-Rank rings aren't much use when he's clearly outnumbered—and strains his ears, listening for the inevitable footfalls of twenty, thirty mafioso heading for his location. He curses again at the awful circumstances he finds himself in, mind running through simulations of the upcoming battle.

("Lambo, get behind me.")

His chances of success are closer to zero than he'd like, but he simply sets aside those thoughts in order to focus on strategy. Gyuudon is much too large to summon in the alley, meaning he'd have to bring the fight somewhere else. Cons? What are the cons? He'd lose the advantage, however meager, that the small space gives him; they can't all attack him at once. And then there's his Electtrico Cornata, which could take out most of the enemies that would be forcibly squeezed together. Right. He's staying.

("What?! No! I'm a Guardian, too! Don't-")

A searing pain flares up from underneath his hand, and he's reminded of the fact that he can't move, strategy or no. Grimacing, he grabs the bottom of his coat and rips quite a bit of it off. He gently presses the cloth to his already soaked through shirt, hissing at the slight sting it invokes. Still mindful of his surroundings, he adjusts the horns on his head (ever so thankful they'd been returned when he was sent to the past via bazooka; he quickly stops that train of thought before it can bring up the unwanted memories and pangs of longing the memory stirs) and rolls the sleeves of his jacket back up.

("Just do it! That's an order!")

Tap. Tap. Tap. His puts on a grim expression of resignation as the pervasive silence is suddenly broken by the tell-tell tap of shoes and readies himself for battle. He counts twenty-seven at a glance and takes a moment to appreciate the fact that there aren't more. Meanwhile, they struggle to cram their many men into the cramped space (just as he'd predicted) and only finally settle into some semblance of order a few moments later as they come at him, one-by-one. He uses their few moments of confusion to mumble, unhindered, "Thunder set."

("Thund-")

Red lightning strikes him from above, lighting the entire alleyway momentarily and confirming what he'd mostly known already. Those silver wings pinned to black torsos could only belong to the Millefiore Famiglia. The flame is much needed familiarity and comfort at this point, he thinks, as excess lightning curls around his body protectively, discharging sparks occasionally. Said lightning then quickly travels up to his horns as he says quietly, "Electtrico Cornata."

("I'll take him away for you, Hayato.")

At this, not having heard either command but knowing his flames are trouble all the same, the mafioso up front attempt to back away only to find themselves tripping over the men behind them. Finding no humor in the situation as he once might have done, he simply rams into them full speed and dispenses of them quickly, diligently ignoring their screams and cries of pain.

("Thank you, Bianchi. Make sure he stays safe.")

When he stops his charge, he is back at the opening of the small passage. He glances over his shoulder, and upon finding all of the men either dead or heavily injured (or not moving in any case), he quietly slips away, forcing himself to get a safe distance before collapsing once again.

("Of course.")

He can't die here, not now. Eternal slumber seems like pure bliss compared to the Hell on Earth the entire world's become; all the sleepless nights and constant fights. It would be so easy to just—But he can't, won't. He promised. Alive. He's got to stay alive. No matter what. With these thoughts in mind, he drags himself off of the ground and spots a window further down the side of the building. He limps over there and uses his shoulder to break the glass, careful not to send any shards his way.

("Oh, you're awake. How are you feeling?")

He shrugs off his coat and lays it over the glass still firmly rooted in the window sill; he then heaves himself over and into the room. A cursory glance confirms his suspicions. What little lightning he can form around his hand reveals a tattered, old couch and various other abandoned pieces of furniture. Safety. Satisfied with at least some form of protection, he makes his way over to the couch and carefully sinks down into the cushions. He is asleep before his head hits the armrest.

("Where are they? Gokudera-nii and Basil-nii and Ryohei-nii? What happened to them?")

He wakes at dawn a few hours later, and though the pain hasn't stopped, it hasn't worsened either. Small mercies and all that. The rings in his pocket jingle as he sits up, and he's thankful that he didn't have to use them last night. His chances of stealing some from an enemy are slight; he'd be dead already if any of those men had been ring users.

("...")

The Millefiore Famiglia doesn't really bother with him much anymore. (They don't have to now that they've taken everything.) The Black Spell members usually only go after him in the hopes of coming into their Leader's good graces. (He knows because he asked and got a lengthy explanation in reply; his enemies are weird like that.) His recent run-in with them was a meeting of chance. They'd happened to spot him as he was venturing out to steal groceries because his supplies had been running low. Things had escalated quickly from there.

("...They're not coming back, are they?")

The mere thought of food causes his stomach to growl, and he heeds its advice. He pulls his hood over his head enough to hide his face from passers-by and buttons it in order to hide the blood. He exits the building through a side door and blends into the milling crowd of people. Several food stands are open and have their goods spread out for the customer's viewing pleasure. Snatching one or two items while the owners are busy serving other customers is easier than breathing, and soon, his coat pockets are full of delicious pastries.

("Hey, kiddo. When I say, 'Run', I want you to run as fast as you can away from here, okay?")

A treat in each hand, he eats as he heads toward his makeshift headquarters, taking the long, maze-like route rather than going straight there, his pace slow and posture relaxed. His senses are too muted right now (They're being completely overshadowed by the pain) for him to know whether or not he's being followed, and he doesn't want to chance it. The journey is time-consuming and is spent in complete and utter silence.

("No! No, I won't! Yama-nii, you can't make me leave again! I can fight!")

Before, silence was unheard of. Before, he wasn't alone. The lack of even inane conversation is unbearable, but he can't bring himself to break it. No, he must always be vigilant, must always be on guard. If he dies... If he breaks his promise, he's not so sure they could forgive him. The mere thought causes a knot to form in his chest, leaving him breathless. He arrives at his destination with no incidents and nothing but that damned silence to greet him.

("Lambo! Listen to me! I know, I know you can fight. I want you to fight. Don't ever give up. Even when it seems hopeless, even when there's no one left, you must fight to stay alive, okay?")

He places the leftovers with the rest of his food supplies after checking and double-checking for security breaches. He finds none. The stench of blood reminds him that he still has a job to do, and so he makes his way to the first-aid kit carelessly left out in the open and rifles through it for the roll of bandages and tape. He takes both items with him to the bathroom.

("But I-")

Once in there, he sets them down on the counter and shrugs off his coat. He then places a clean rag between his teeth and mentally prepares himself for what he's about to do. His hands carefully get a firm hold of the bottom of his once white shirt, and before he can think back on the decision, he quickly pulls it up and off of the wound. He teeth bite down on the rag harshly, and he is barely able to bite back a scream.

("Promise me!")

He regains enough sense to hurriedly pull the shirt over his head and toss it somewhere behind him. The pain has decreased in intensity by then, but he's not done yet. Things are only going to get worse from here, seeing as he still has to clean the wound. He removes the rag from his mouth and washes it in the sink before quickly dabbing at the dirt and grime around the gash. He has to re-rinse and re-wash the rag several times as he does so because of the sheer amount of blood.

("...I promise, Yama-nii.")

Finally, the only thing left to do is the wound itself, and his entire body tenses in preparation. When he presses the washcloth against it, the pain causes him to quickly reach out and grasp the sink with his other hand in order to steady himself, his teeth gritting together harshly as he does so. Cursing to himself, he continues thoroughly cleaning out all of the dirt for the next few minutes, and the new membrane that had been made around the grime is broken in the process, causing more blood to pour out of his side.

("Hibari! I heard a-")

He wipes up as much as he can and eventually gets rid of enough that he can begin wrapping bandages around it. Looking over the several layers of white lining his torso, he nods to himself at the okay job, thinking only for a moment that a certain Sun Guardian could have done it much better. Still panting slightly, he uses a different rag to wash his face and neck before moving on to other parts of his body. A shower at the moment probably wouldn't be a good idea.

("Get out of here, herbivore.")

New outfits are few and far between, and so he settles for a muscle shirt and shorts. (The rings were transferred to the new pocket.) Feeling fresh but most definitely not better, he opens the mirror to reveal a few bottles of medicine. He grabs one and pours out three into his hand, not bothering to read the instructions. He swallows them dry, and they leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He turns the faucet on again after a moment and cups his hand underneath the running water before bringing it to his mouth and drinking from it.

("Wha-")

With some effort, he goes back into the main living area and glances around at his meager possessions. His emerald gaze sweeps over the furniture, still open first-aid kit, his spare horns, and they linger only on the busted pink contraption in the corner and the various picture frames, mocking him with their memories of better times. He goes to the photographs first and lies them face down as he has done many times before. (They'll stay that way until his resolve crumbles, and he needs the reassurance of familiar faces.)

("Don't die.")

He looks to the bazooka next, and though the urge to throw it away rears up again, so much so that he begins trembling, he shakes his head and moves his eyes elsewhere. He's not strong enough. He doesn't think he'll ever be strong enough. He then moves toward his make-shift bed and lies down on it, curling into a ball, willing himself to dream of sweet nothingness until light shines through the holes in the roof, signalling the beginning of yet another day for the last living member of the Vongola Famiglia.

("Ah! Hibari-nii! Are you-?

...Where is everyone?")

A/N: incurableinsanity kind of inspired me to write this little extra (though it's bigger than proteggere, haha) when she commented on 20YL!Lambo's part in proteggere, as did everyone else, I guess. It's really just an expansion on it. Also, I've never cleaned a wound myself before, especially not one this severe, so please excuse any mistakes in that little segment.

Footnotes:

*"Merda!" means "Shit!" in Italian; correct me if I'm wrong on that, too.