Note: Based on the assumptions that a.) one's personality is way different at age six than it is at age fifteen and b.) a Lambo raised by the Vongola would have turned out differently than a Lambo raised by the Bovino, I've taken a few liberties with Lambo's characterization. I've tried as much as I could to keep as many elements of his base personality in as possible, but since the gap between what he canonically acts like as a child compared with as a teenager, this proved to be fairly difficult, and this probably resulted in a few moments that are just plain OOC. I apologize. Also, it should be said that this is meant as a side-story to the as-yet-unwritten alternate!TYL canon I've invented for my AU table.

~~~

At age six, Lambo renounced his position as youngest assassin of the Bovino and became a full-fledged member of the Vongola Famiglia, a decision that was made for him without his consent by Reborn. He was a Guardian now, albeit a young one, and the rules were clear; from that day forth, Lambo was a Vongola, placed under the legal care of one Tsunayoshi Sawada, much to everyone's chagrin.

Admittedly, it wasn't much of a change in the social respect; Lambo had been living with Tsuna and his family for a year anyway, and he was more or less used to it. He had his own room and his own bed, with three meals a day provided by Mamman and no responsibilities. Unfortunately, that final condition was fated not to last. The day after Lambo's assimilation into the Vongola was completed, Mamman put her foot down- Tsuna was to convince Lambo to go to school. He was a growing boy, the logic went, and it was high time he recieved an education.

The task proved much easier than it should have, once Tsuna found the right track. When half an hour of coaxing, cajoling, begging, and yelling had failed to get him anywhere, Tsuna pulled out his trump card; if Lambo would go along with the school regime, Tsuna would give him a piece of candy every day when he returned home. Easily won over by the prospect of regular rewards for essentially doing nothing, Lambo spent the next afternoon at a department store with Tsuna, picking out notebooks and making arrangements for a school uniform in his size.

And on the morning of Lambo's first day of school, Tsuna was legally obligated to spend an hour ironing his uniform, packing his bag, feeding him breakfast, and attempting to make something managable out of the wild tangle that was his hair. After the dishes had been cleared from the table, Lambo shouldered his brand-new bookbag and tugged insistantly on Tsuna's pantsleg. Tsuna was busy putting his own things together and gave him nothing more than a noncommittal nod. "What?"

"Walk to school with me, Tsuna," Lambo commanded, as if he'd found the magic words that wound Tsuna's soul around his finger. Not 'will you walk me to school?', of course. The great Lambo-san didn't need to be walked anywhere; he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But the Ten Year Bazooka had been explicitly banned from school premises by Tsuna, who knew a disaster in the making when he saw one, and it wouldn't hurt to have someone to shove under the metaphorical bus if the need arose.

"No," Tsuna snapped, possibly harder than necessary, and Lambo was proud of himself for not breaking out in tears. Seeming to realize his mistake, Tsuna ran a hand through his shaggy hair and sighed before continuing in a softer tone of voice, "I'm sorry. I'd walk with you if I wasn't already late."

"You're not late yet," Lambo pointed out, still sniffling for effect. Tsuna glanced at the clock, made a low whining noise of exasperation in the back of his throat, and marched toward the door.

"Alright, alright. Hurry it up, then," he said, and on the inside, Lambo jumped for joy. Yes, he was still as good at manipulating Tsuna to his will as he'd always been.

Lambo's new school was only five blocks away, and what with the brisk pace Tsuna set, they were there in no time. Lambo let Tsuna walk in first- not that he was hiding behind him, mind you, it was just that there could be monsters lurking in the halls, and if anyone was going to get iced by something that had more legs than Lambo had socks, it sure wasn't going to be him. Tsuna departed quickly after depositing Lambo in the torture zone that was his classroom, but did smile weakly at him and promise to have his candy ready when Lambo came home.

Tsuna walked to school with him for a week and suffered three tardies because of it, but all in all, no one seemed to mind that much.

---

Sometimes, when he was alone, Lambo liked to pretend he was the king of the universe- possibly because a small part of his brain was determined to cling to the silly five-year-old idea that he was. School and the passage of time had instilled in him the sad knowledge that not only was he not all powerful, he could get beaten up by half the first-grade class of Namimori Elementary, but when he was at home, all that melted away.

Lambo had the best bedroom in the house- or at least, he enjoyed pretending that, too. His room looked out over two sides of the house, giving him an unparalleled view of the street- monitoring people's comings and goings was easy, and he liked keeping track of who was doing what when. His room was across the hall from Tsuna's- above the kitchen and adjacent to the staircase -so that when the door was cracked open and he was really quiet, he could hear snippets of conversation coming from below.

It was in that way that Lambo learned for the first time the true seriousness of the Millefiore, something that his younger self hadn't quite registered, despite having visited the future for an uncomfortable length of time. After that, he'd stopped lying on the floor next to the hall, staring up at the ceiling and listening to what people had to say. (Tsuna had considered this a step forward, at least- a year ago, Lambo would never have been able to stay quiet long enough to eavesdrop.)

Instead, he'd started playing fort. The rules were easy, and changed at his whim; the basic platform usually included dragging the spare mattresses out of the hall closet and arranging them in such a way that they created a small inclosed space, with Lambo in the middle, that could be used to shield himself from the horrors of the outside world. These constructions were often more art than science- and the art was the sort of modern, conceptual art that couldn't be trusted. They collapsed on him at a reliable rate, burying him and his stacks of manga tankoban below a pile of stuffing and old sheets, but that was okay. He'd go crying to Mamman or Tsuna and recieve valuable pity, sometimes along with a treat if whoever he complained to was in a particularly generous mood.

Tsuna was usually a bad person to lobby for treats, however; even though he hadn't planned on it, after a full year had passed, he was still suckered into giving Lambo small gifts at the end of each school day. Candy was still his favorite option, as it was easy- all he had to do was get the candy box from its inaccessable place in the top cabinet in the kitchen -but some days he would come home with capsule machine trinkets or packs of trading cards. The treats were offered on the conditions that a.) Lambo went to school, b.) Lambo completed his homework, and c.) that Lambo had not gotten into trouble that day.

Lambo found the last condition unfair, as it was hard to meet. It wasn't his fault that he didn't fit in, that he was an outcast and a loner since day one, but whenever he got carried away and blacked Fujimori-kun's eye or was involved in a plot to assault the teacher, he was punished, and punishment was unpleasant. As his legal guardian, it fell to Tsuna to dole out the punishment, which he hated doing. Tsuna had one unspoken rule for keeping the peace, which was, "I don't care what you do at school, as long as you go. I don't care if you blow up the building or take someone's bento box or hold the principal hostage, but whatever happens, I do not want to hear about it." If Lambo didn't cause any trouble at school, creating a chain of trickle-down yelling that resulted in Tsuna being scolded by his mother, then he received a treat. If not, then he went without candy for a day- sometimes for the entire duration of his punishment.

It was never really said, but he knew Tsuna pitied him for his situation, and he hated it. He knew that Tsuna sympathized- Lambo had become what he himself had been before Gokudera and Yamamoto showed up -but he didn't want or need his pity. Lambo didn't need anything from anybody, except three meals a day and the occasional reward for the thrilling task of existing.

---

It was a relatively nice night, all things considered, Lambo thought as he pulled the sheets over his head. Tonight he was playing an all-night game of fort, the challenge being to see how long it took for the igloo of pillows he'd encosnced himself in to collapse. It was one of his better creations, really; a window to let in the moonlight, a squar-ish opening facing the bedroom door for speedy bathroom access. Best of all, it had remained standing for a full three hours so far without so much as wavering, which was a good sign. Lambo was momentarily filled with pride; he'd made something actually decent.

Which made things even worse when he heard the front door slam shut quietly, someone's muted footsteps clicking across the kitchen tile. He froze up, and cursed himself for it; the old Lambo would never have felt fear. But this wasn't fear, he told himself. Just caution. Experience with the Vongola was slowly teaching him its values, even if he was finding it hard to get used to. He listened tensely to the squeak, squeak, squeak of the unsteady old staircase, and edging to the front of his fort, Lambo prepared to pounce.

When the attacker came into view, however, shadowed by the dull play of light on the walls, he relaxed; it hadn't been an intruder after all. "Tsuna?" he asked softly, brow furrowing in confusion. It was late, must have been close to midnight- Lambo knew he hadn't come home that afternoon, but to come back this late? Something must have been wrong. Tsuna was many things, but inconsiderate wasn't one of them, and he would never make his mother worry without a reason. He would have at least called ahead. Lambo was annoyed on Mamman's behalf.

The question was answered when Tsuna stepped into the light, however, and Lambo squeaked in a thoroughly undignified manner, diving into the shadowed recesses of his pillow fort. When he dared peek out again, his first impression was confirmed. Tsuna swayed drunkenly in the doorway, his face a raw, bloody mass of bruises and contusions, half covered by a thin strip of steak that hadn't yet seen a dinner plate. He was still wearing his school uniform, but it was nearly unrecognizable, torn in several places and dirtied with mud and splotches of blood- where that had come from was anyone's guess, but Lambo saw that some of it must have dripped from his nose, which almost looked broken. He was clutching the doorframe for dear life, as if he'd fall over without it, and it occurred to Lambo that that might have been the case.

"What are you still doing up?" Tsuna asked, his voice thick with tiredness and a sort of long-suffering, ground-in fear.

"I couldn't sleep." The lie was palpable, but he knew that Tsuna didn't care. It was a placeholder for real conversation, a formality that had to be taken care of before they could proceed. "I was worried about you," he said after a moment, a grudging tone in his voice. He had been, too. He suspected it was for all the wrong reasons, and it made him angry; he wasn't supposed to care about Tsuna. Or was he? He was his Guardian now. It was all so confusing.

Tsuna grinned- or Lambo thought it was a grin. It was hard to tell through the swelling on his his face- he could have been smirking or frowning or giving him the facial equivalent of the finger, and Lambo wouldn't have known. "I bet you just wanted your treat, didn't you."

Lambo opted to stay silent, because it wasn't exactly not the truth. It just wasn't all of it, either.

"Well, I didn't have time to get you anything on the way back," Tsuna explained, sounding genuinely sorry, for some reason. Lambo wondered why; he'd never been particularly concerned about it before. "It, ah- it must have slipped my mind." He giggled like a madman, and it sounded nerve-wrackingly creepy- caught somewhere between mirthlessness and true insanity. "But here," he offered, digging a shaky hand through his pants' pocket and drawing out a small, oblong object, "you can have this."

He tossed it through the air and Lambo dove to catch it, nearly collapsing his fort as he scrambled into its projected trajectory. He missed and eventually found it near the far wall of pillows, glinting in a shaft of silver moonlight. Curious, he picked it up and felt its warm weight in his hand- a shiny brass bullet casing, and not one embossed with the symbol of the dying will flame. It looked shockingly normal, completely out of place in Lambo's established world view.

Scowling, Lambo looked up to ask Tsuna about his strange gift, and found that he'd moved on in Lambo's moment of distraction. "Goodnight," he heard Tsuna say as he departed, and though Lambo didn't think it was a very good night at all, verbally at least, he was forced to agree.

---

An eight year old Lambo stood with his back pressed against the door to Tsuna's big, impressive Mafia-boss office- the one with the big poofy guest chairs and the bigger infinitly shinier desk -clutching a report card to his chest. For the first time he could remember, he wasn't about to get yelled at for his grades, and yet, he was nervous about telling Tsuna. Don Sawada had made it clear that his door was figuritively always open to his Guardians, but it was closed now, and that was sending a mixed message. It was possible that Tsuna was busy, or not even there.

After a moment spent savoring his victory over the onslaught of end of term tests, Lambo burst into the office, and was glad to see Tsuna seated behind his gigantic, overly-reflective desk, bent over one of Reborn's incomprehensible reports. "Papa, papa!" he yelled, jumping on to Tsuna's lap and nearly causing the chair to topple over backwards.

"Stop, stop," Tsuna laughed, attempting to sit up, "you're crushing me. I can't breathe."

"Sorry," Lambo said, grinning, backing off just enough to allow the passage of air. He wouldn't want Tsuna dying before he'd had a chance to impart his good fortune.

Tsuna blinked twice, realizing something- Lambo could practically see the gears turning in his head -and he shot the boy a questioning look. "Wait. Papa?"

Lambo winced; he'd been hoping Tsuna wouldn't have noticed that. It'd slipped out, really, he hadn't meant to say it, but once he had, he'd known it to be the truth. His biological parents had done next to nothing for him on the nurturing front, opting to let the plodding beaurocracy of the Bovino Famiglia raise him into an assassin. They hadn't been around much, and when they were, it was to berate him for being such a scatterbrain. Tsuna was definately an improvement- Tsuna who fixed him dinner when Mamman wasn't home, and helped him with his homework when he was having a hard time with his maths, and had bandaged him up when he'd scraped his knee. Tsuna, who he'd watched grow from a scared little boy into something of a man, with all the responsibilities and lack of sleep that entailed. He'd even say Tsuna was his maturity role-model, even though he'd never admit it to anyone except on pain of death.

"You got a problem with that?" he asked defensively, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. He'd changed out of his uniform before coming, and he regretted it; it was hard to look severe in a two-sizes-too-large cow-print shirt and slacks.

Tsuna laughed again, and Lambo felt the brief tension had been suitably diffused. Maybe the lie that they'd both been kidding was now an acceptable half-truth, and they could move on. "No. It's just, I thought I'd be a little older when someone sprung revelations of parenthood on me."

Lambo had no further comment for this, so, trying to cover up his embarrassment, he produced the report card, holding it as one would a holy scripture. "Look!" he said proudly, thrusting the crumpled paper into Tsuna's hands, and, after he inspected it, Tsuna grinned widely at him and motioned for him to get off his lap.

"Well, Mama will be happy," he said, sliding a drawer open and rifling through it, looking for something. "She's been bagering me to talk to you about your grades, and now I don't have to. I think that deserves a treat." It'd been a long time since Lambo recieved a reward for decent performance visa vis academia, and it was a pleasant surprise when Tsuna pressed a celophane-wrapped caramel into his outstretched hands.

"You keep candy in your desk?" Lambo said in half-suspicion, half-awe as he struggled with the wrapper. That was one of the perks of being the big boss, he supposed- you could have candy whenever you liked, not just when it was allowed. You could allow yourself. Lambo was instantly envious.

Tsuna shugged sheepishly and took out a caramel for himself before quickly shutting the drawer again, as if it contained vital secrets pertaining to issues of national security. Which it might have, under the candies. "Sometimes it helps me concentrate if I have something to suck on while I'm reading," he explained, shuffling the papers on his desk nervously.

"Yamamoto-kun says he has something else you could suck if you're interested, Papa," Lambo said innocently. He'd overheard Yamamoto joking with Gokudera earlier in the week (always a bad idea, as Gokudera had no discernable sense of humor) and thought he'd relay the information. And was therefore confused when Tsuna flushed bright red and choked on his caramel.

"Wh-when did he say that?" Tsuna demanded after loosening his tie enough to swallow.

"Dunno. Is it important?"

"No," Tsuna sighed, sitting back in his chair again. "Now, run along and tell Mama about your grades." As Lambo made for the door, Tsuna tossed something in his direction, adding, "And if you see Yamamoto, give him a caramel."

---

So far, Lambo had been having a fairly enjoyable ninth birthday. Mamman had packed an extra cupcake in his lunch, his Papa had slipped a card with three-thousand yen enclosed into his backpack, and before he'd left school, I-Pin had run up to him and pressed a garishly wrapped box into his hands. Four years in Japan may have improved her language skills, but she sure hadn't picked up any of the 'art of packaging' tropes that seemed so common in their adopted country.

And now he was going to be late for his own birthday dinner, but that was alright. If he knew his fellow Guardians at all, he knew that they would have gladly started and finished without him, and he was fine with that. The last thing he needed was a bunch of crabby old men getting drunk and ruining his birthday. He'd see Tsuna later, because Tsuna was reliably anti-drinking, or at least anti-Tsuna-drinking, and would therefore have a few un-inebriated brain cells left with which to make conversation.

In the meantime, Lambo was amusing himself with the new DS game he'd bought with his birthday money. It featured a bright pink hedgehog named Speedy, and so far he'd made it to level four; all those years of playing video games with Tsuna- back when everything had been bright and shiny and he hadn't had to pretend they weren't fighting a war -had left him with decent gaming skills, and he was enjoying their merits.

It always amazed Lambo that he could walk and play games at the same time, but somehow, he'd aquired the skill. It would have taken a lot to distract him from his gaming, as living with a teenage Mafia boss and his pals usually created enough interesting and weird situations that he was used to some degree of chaos, and the gunshots nearly didn't do it.

The screaming did, and Lambo looked up long enough to ascertain three things: that he'd been walking by the park, that someone had been shot, and that that person was Tsuna. He wouldn't have recognized him at all, body laying in the gutter with blood spreading in a ghoulish rose across his white shirt, if he hadn't been so close- no more than a hundred feet away, maybe less, close enough that Lambo could almost smell the coppery tang of the blood. "Papa!" he screamed, dropping his things and running; his school books, his gameboy, it didn't matter if he lost it all.

Tsuna turned his head a fraction to look at Lambo as he approached and grinned feebly, a trickle of scarlet blood running out the corner of his mouth. "Happy birthday," he whispered as Lambo hugged him, shaking his limp body, begging him to hold on even as his eyes closed and his breathing slowed.

It took a team of three men, all technicians from the ambulance, to remove Lambo from Tsuna's person, and then only under the condition that he was allowed to ride next to Tsuna on his ride to the hospital, where they would patch him up. Lambo clung to the delusion that Tsuna would be alright then, clung to it like a drowning man clings to a stick of driftwood because it was the only thing he could find. There was blood all down his front and his hands were coated in drying ichor, but it didn't matter, and he didn't care, because the first person he'd allowed himself to get attatched to in a long time was lying there dying, and the last thing he'd said had been 'happy birthday.'

In some small way, Lambo felt that made it his fault.

---

Tsuna was taken into emergency surgery and Lambo was ushered into the waiting room where, two hours later, it was revealed that Tsuna had been shot in the right shoulder, which a sadistic doctor had the gall to tell him had been lucky. If it had been his left shoulder, Tsuna would have died in seconds.

Somehow, this wasn't much of a consolation.

A kindly nurse came around and forced a stack of papers on him, noting correctly that a nine year old wouldn't be expected to know his father's medical history, and therefore if Tsuna had any other next of kin, he should simply fork over their phone numbers so they could be tracked down and put into a state of simliar mental distress. Lambo stared at the paper for a moment after the nurse had retreated to a respectful distant of twenty feet, where she hovered like a mother hen watching her chicks. This might have annoyed Lambo in other circumstances but he was too shell-shocked to feel anything; too horrified even to cry. There was a significant mental blockage occurring in the emotional trauma center of his brain, and not even a six-car pile up of a disaster could unblock it.

As soon as the hovering nun turned away to leaf through some luckless patient's chart, Lambo set the papers aside and withdrew his cellphone from it's place in his pocket. Tsuna had been very clear that everyone was to be reachable at all times, so Lambo never carried it in his bag; who knew when such things might be discarded? He flicked the phone open, found his contacts, and dialed the first number on the screen. A phone behind the reception desk, where Tsuna's personal articles had been deposited, rang shrillily, and Lambo felt an uncomfortable lump develop in his throat. He shut the phone, reopened it, and tried the second number.

Two rings, and the phone's owner picked up; "Hey, Lambo! You're late, you know. Tsuna was worried- he went to go get you, so if you see him, bring him home with you, 'kay?" Yamamoto's cheery voice did nothing but increase the size of the lump to the point where Lambo almost thought he wouldn't be capable of talking anymore, but he made a valient stab at it.

"Yamamoto?" he began, his voice trembling. He tried to will himself not to break into his old crybaby ways, not with a fellow Guardian on the line, not until he was alone, but it was failing miserably. For a long time he'd been trying to be like Tsuna, who never cried anymore, always faced things like the man he had been forced to become, and now his already weakened control was faltering.

"Yeah?" Yamamoto asked, a note of uncertainty hovering around his voice, which in itself was disconcerting. Yamamoto always assumed the best, even when he was standing in the middle of a disaster zone.

"Yamamoto, Papa was shot."

From the other line, silence. Then a voice so dark, so heavy and severe, that Lambo almost thought the phone had been passed on to someone else; "When? Where are you? I'll come get you-"

"No, it's-" he faltered, aware that he was probably lying, "it's fine. Papa's- he's in the hospital. They took him into surgery a while ago. I- I would have called, but I couldn't, I didn't know what to do-" And damn it, he was crying, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. He tried to sniffle quietly, but he knew Yamamoto could hear, and he was glad- so, so glad -that Gokudera wasn't the second number on his list, because Gokudera would have throttled him through the phone with exasperation and worry and rage.

Instead, Yamamoto offered pity through his own fear. "It's okay," he told Lambo insistantly, and Lambo knew he was self-medicating as much as reassuring a friend- but that was alright, because Yamamoto cared for Tsuna deeply, and Lambo knew that. And knew that he was in pain, too, or the same sort of shocked amazement that Lambo was suffering from. "It's okay. They got him to the hospital, huh? That's good. Okay, stay right where you are. I- I'll get Gokudera and we'll come down there," oh, good, a warning, Lambo would have time to calm himself down before Gokudera's arrival, "and everything will be okay. Okay? I promise."

Lambo nodded even though Yamamoto wouldn't be able to see it through the phone, and whispered, "Okay," in a voice that didn't sound like his own. Yamamoto hung up without a goodbye and Lambo put the phone back in his pocket, wanting to curl up in a ball on the bench and just cry until everything felt normal again.

It took Yamamoto and Gokudera a surprisingly short time to make it to the hospital, but by that time, Tsuna was already out of surgery. Issued his own room, Lambo found it surprisingly easy to sneak in, despite the fact that Tsuna was not to have visitors. It was a nice room- chairs lined up beside the gurney-bed, a TV, a sanitary sink -but it lacked a window, and Lambo felt closed in, trapped in a room with his dying adopted father, who couldn't even breathe for himself. They'd hooked him up to a machine that did it for him.

It shouldn't have been as easy as it apparently was for two adult men to sneak into a hospital room, but that was cleared up when Yamamoto explained, "We came in through a bathroom window." He talked little and in short, choppy, anger-laced sentences, and Lambo couldn't tell if he was more angry at Tsuna's unnamed attacker for shooting him in the first place, or himself for allowing it to happen.

For a time, it seemed to Lambo that Gokudera and Yamamoto had undergone a personality transplant; Yamamoto, who'd always been the more optimistic of the two, was glaring harder than Lambo had seen anyone glare before, staring off into space as if the blank, white-washed walls held the name and address of the shooter, and Yamamoto was memorizing it for later. Gokudera, meanwhile, who Lambo has assumed would be the one making threats and taking names, had scooted his chair as close to Tsuna's bed as he could manage, and was all but rocking back in forth in his seat, nearly exploding with worry. They stayed that way for an hour, two, three, four, until midnight rolled around and a nurse came in to check Tsuna's status, found them there, and unceremoniously kicked them back to the waiting room.

While Yamamoto made calls and Gokudera got what amounted to half of South America's coffee bean crop from the espresso machine, Lambo curled up in a rigid plastic chair and went to sleep, exhaustion forcing him to forget his troubles- at least until he dreamed, whereupon he drowned in them. He woke up at dawn in a cold sweat, his clothing sticking to his chest and legs, his mouth tasting like mold. No one had called him in sick to school, but no one cared, either; this was officially his sick day from the world, and nobody was going to cart him off to a government institution just to learn algebra. If they did, he vowed to escape and come back somehow, come back to his poor, ailing father who'd been shot because of him.

Tsuna was carted back to intensive care at noon, and Yamamoto brought this news back to them along with sandwiches and more coffee for Gokudera, who seemed to have found a hospital-friendly addiction with which to calm his nerves. Though no visitors were allowed, a small congregation of friends and family members slowly gathered in the waiting room as the day trudged on, forming a small cluster of depress, worried, lonely, and vengeful people, some of whom (namely Lambo and Mamman) found it impossible to stop crying. No one chastised them for it. It was felt that in this situation, it was deserved.

Sometime in the afternoon- it might have been after school let out, Lambo thought later -I-Pin stepped nervously into the waiting room, walking cautiously as if anyone who wasn't a close, personal friend of Tsuna's was liable to be tossed out. Lambo, who had no desire to listen to Gokudera's fiftieth rehashing of the 'I'm going to kill the lousy bastard' speech and Yamamoto's succinct counterpoint, 'no, I am,' had moved to the fringe of the group, and was in perfect range when I-Pin sidled up to him, taking an empty seat.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, anxiously setting a hand on his arm. He'd been gripping the armrest hard enough to turn his knuckles white, but at her touch he relaxed, as if all the tension had leaked out of him and into her.

"No," he told her honestly, because he didn't have it in him to lie anymore. "You know," he said after a while, "if this is maturity, then I don't think I want any."

Before she left that night, I-Pin leaned over and kissed his forehead, telling him in her soft angel-voice, "It's going to be alright." Lambo wondered why he'd ever disliked her; in that moment, he almost believed it.

---

Because everyone was ignoring him and there really wasn't anything else left to do, Lambo decided to open I-Pin's gift. Yamamoto had thoughtfully returned to the scene of the shooting after making sure Tsuna was alright- or at least not dead yet -and had brought back his bookbag. He'd used the bag as a pillow and now the box was a bit squished, but that didn't matter.

Hands trembling, he stroked the box, staring at it pensively. The shooting was reminding him of the first day he'd seen evidence of Tsuna's new delinquent lifestyle, the day he'd come home beaten to within an inch of his life. He remembered the bullet casing Tsuna had given him, and knew that it had been the most meaningful gift of all. Better than the candy, better than the capsule trinkets, better than the time Tsuna had splurged and bought him a video game for an entire month of good behavior- better because it had meant something. He wished he still had it. He'd given it to I-Pin as a show of good will a few weeks after he'd gotten it, and he hadn't regretted it until now.

Sighing, he tore off the paper and stuffed it back in the bag. Carefully, he lifted the lid of the box to reveal the casing, strung on a golden chain. For the umpteenth time in 48 hours, Lambo knew he was going to cry, and didn't even try to repress it.

He decided two things that night. The first was that he was going to wear his ring on his finger, even though the rest of the Guardians bore theirs on the same necklaces they always had.

The second was that he owed I-Pin a debt he wasn't entirely sure he could repay.

---

When Tsuna was feeling better enough for guests, the first person he asked for was Lambo, and the first thing he said after an uncomfortable, stifling pause was, "I'm sorry."

Lambo thought he'd cry again, so he accepted the apology, offered one of his own, and ran out, yelling at Yamamoto that he was next.

---

The second time Lambo saw Tsuna after the incident, he'd regained his composure some. "Papa, don't be sorry," he whispered, knowing or at least hoping that Tsuna was asleep as he appeared to be. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have been late. I shouldn't have made you worry. I'm sorry. I know the doctors say you're better, but I don't trust them. Please don't die." He felt childish, like offering Tsuna some superlative that he could not turn down if he'd only hold on and pull through, but that urge, he managed to flatten.

"That necklace," Tsuna coughed, "what is it?"

"Something that's very important to me," Lambo answered, startled, "even if I didn't know it before."

"Good to know," Tsuna said, and Lambo thought he saw the ghost of a smile before his father passed into unconsciousness again.

---

Third conversation:

"How are you today, Papa?"

"Terrible. But morphine is a wonderful thing, Lambo. If you ever have to be shot, that's a perk; the morphine."

"You're delirious, I'm coming back later."

---

A week and a half and half a million yen in hospital bills later, Tsuna was sent home, under the watchful care of his Guardians. Though he recovered physically, Lambo could tell he was never the same. Once broken, the human spirit is an instrument that never plays the same way again.

---

At age ten, Lambo decided he'd had enough. "Papa," he said, marching into Tsuna's cavernous office and taking a seat in one of the way-too-comfortable leather chairs, "Papa, you have to do something about Gokudera."

Tsuna sighed and looked up. "What's he done now?"

"Nothing."

"And this is a problem why?"

"I don't know, it just is. If he's nice to me for a few days, you just know he's about to pull something really horrible."

"Have you ever considered that maybe he's just had a change of heart?"

Lambo hadn't. Food for thought.

---

So he decided to test the theory. "I'm a Guardian too, you know," he informed Gokudera nonchalantly while the other was attempting to watch some complicated foreign sport involving horses and mallets.

"That's nice, stupid cow. Go away."

"No, I'm serious. Reborn picked me, and Papa's accepted me, so what's your problem?"

Gokudera glared at him. "He is not your 'Papa,' stupid cow. Now, go away. I'm trying to watch polo." End of story, case closed. Lambo decided to drop it.

---

"Hey, Lambo?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever forgive your father?"

Lambo looked at I-Pin strangely over the package of Chinese food she'd brought him. "Forgive him for what?"

"For dying on your birthday."

Fingering his necklace, Lambo stared out the shop window and into the street. Outside, the lively, happy people, the people who'd never seriously said the word 'Mafia' in their lives filed past, blissfully unconcerned with war and pain and death.

"No," he said slowly after a long while, "but you know, I think that's okay."

And she kissed him, and he kissed her, and life went on.

And for once, it wasn't even a lie.