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With club activities wrapping up for the night, most of the team was already gone and on their way home. Well, actually, almost the entire team by now. Mamori looked up from her sweeping to find herself practically alone in the clubroom. Maybe they’d all cleared out so quick because practice had been especially hellish, with Hiruma in a particularly gleeful and violent mood.
And speak of the devil, he appeared, slinging his bag over his shoulder, gun tucked under his arm. “If you’re going to just stand there and take your time cleaning, you can turn the lights off after you.”
As always, how rude.
Hiruma walked past her, busy writing something in his Threat Notebook, but he did take the opportunity to hook a foot around the leg of one of the nearby chairs and pull it out, just a bit, just enough to be askew and in the way of anyone else who might try to walk through the clubroom.
“Do you have to?” She asked, stepping forwards to right the chair.
“I don’t know what you mean.” he replied, tucking his notebook into the back pocket of his pants, and Mamori could all but hear him grinning.
She sighed, going back to cleaning, but out of the corner of her eye she saw movement, something small and white fluttering to the floor. It was a tiny piece of paper, landing on the ground behind Hiruma, something that had undoubtably fallen out of that terrible notebook of his, and she bent down to pick it up.
She didn’t mean to look at what it was, it wasn’t her prerogative to pry into other people’s affairs. Especially into Hiruma’s affairs, because she knew she truly didn’t want to know even a fraction of what he did. But as she stood back up, and made to call out to the quarterback, to tell him he’d dropped something, she stopped, eyes drawn to the scrap of paper she’d picked up.
What drew her eye wasn’t the handwriting, which was slightly messy and most definitely not Hiruma’s. Or the words that were written, Sorry I can’t practice today, I have to go home! I’ll see you tomorrow! Or the signature, which was Kurita’s. No, what caught her eye was that right after Kurita had written his name, there was a little doodle of a football (which Mamori thought was drawn very well) and then a little heart.
For a moment she stood there, looking at the note, with its well-worn creases and frayed edges, and wondered.
But then she called out to Hiruma, who was almost at the door, “You dropped something.”
He stopped, turned on his heels, gaze flickering from Mamori’s face to her hand, where she held out the little note. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he walked back towards her, long legs closing the gap between them in a moment. Mamori knew he could see what it was that she had in her hand, she made sure that she was holding it in a way where he could read the words.
For a moment Hiruma was silent, but then said. “I don’t need it. It’s trash.”
Mamori bit back a sigh, “If it came from your notebook, I’m sure it’s not. I doubt you keep anything useless in there.”
She watched Hiruma’s face, carefully, and the demon stared back at her, impassively stoic. His finger twitched on the trigger of his gun, and she tightened her grip on the broom, but then he simply reached out and snatched the little piece of paper from her hand.
“Whatever.” he said, jamming the note into his pocket before turning to head back to the door.
Mamori was about to chastise him, you could at least say thank you, but she bit back the words when he hand-signed a few words at her before walking out of the clubroom and disappearing into the night.
Don't fucking say anything.
There was no signal in their code for fucking, but Mamori could extrapolate from Hiruma’s hand motion what he meant.
For a minute she stood there, surprised and confused and mildly intrigued but mostly just surprised, really, because the last thing she had expected to see was a faint blush creep up to the tips of Hiruma’s ears as he’d left.
Well then.
…
Tossing his bag on the floor by his bed and his gun somewhere close by, Hiruma dropped onto his bed. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, and in the dim isolation of his room, he didn’t care to hide it. Without getting up he maneuvered out of his uniform’s jacket, and then yawned again.
From how he was laying, he could feel the corner of his Threat Notebook poking into his back, and he pulled it out of his back pocket. With it came the little piece of paper he’d snatched out of the fucking manager’s hand, just a little piece of paper that was nothing more than trash, and he smoothed out one of the corners that had gotten rumpled in his pocket.
It was an old note. From last year, before Kurita had gotten a phone. A note that Hiruma had found taped to the door of the clubroom one afternoon when Kurita had had to rush home to help his dad because a part of the temple’s roof had collapse in a storm and flooded everything. A note that Hiruma had kept, because he needed a bookmark for his Threat Notebook and no other reason at all.
Eh. What was the point.
Tucking the note back where it belonged, Hiruma flipped to a blank page of his notebook. Reaching down into his bag, he rooted around until he found a pen. For a few seconds he looked at the blank page, twirling the pen around his fingers, and then began to write. Hiruma Youichi. 17. 176 cm. 67 lbs. Quarterback for the Deimon Devil Bats. He paused, tapping the tip of the pen against the page, before quickly adding In love with his best friend.
It looked weird, in writing, despite how many time’s he’d thought it in his head. At least when it was in your mind it could be abstract, and no one had to know, and you didn’t have to really focus on it because you could always just think about something else. And Hiruma had a lot of other things he could think about.
But with the words there, on paper, you couldn’t ignore it.
So Hiruma ripped the page out of the notebook and held his lighter up to the corner, watching the fire eat away at the lined paper and ink and secrets until he was left with just a small pile of ashes on his bedsheets.
Brushing the ash onto the floor, he put the notebook and lighter away and got ready for bed, and, for the time being, thought about other things.
...
There were a couple things that Mamori had never really thought about. A couple little, innocuous things about Hiruma that she’d never paid any mind because, really, what good would it do to over-examine his mannerisms and try to unpack any of what his terrible behavior meant?
But, well, that little note from the other day had got her thinking. And noticing.
And really, they were such tiny little things. The sorts of things no one would notice, unless you were currently trying very hard to focus on a specific someone’s behavior. Hiruma was too clever to be blatant, too careful to let anything big slip. Mamori had learnt quickly enough, especially after the Death March, that Hiruma kept up a public face. An airtight, near-bulletproof façade, all violence and extortion and manic laughter.
But, nevertheless. Tiny little things, sporadically interspersed between insults and kicks and the threat of gunfire. A touch that lingered, a hand on a broad shoulder that remained for a second longer than necessary. A wicked grin that became just a bit softer, kinder, when turned towards the big lineman. A look, a look Mamori had never seen and couldn’t quite read, directed at Kurita as the larger boy excitedly praised his teammates, grinning wide and laughing with pure joy.
It really was, in the whole scheme of things, nothing special. Because Hiruma and Kurita were good friend. Friends since middle school, long time teammates, along with Musashi, and a bit of kindness and physically affection expressed between friends was normal.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Mamori was overthinking things.
But this was Hiruma. And Hiruma didn’t do anything without reason. And he certainly wasn't the type to engage in kindness and physical affection. And for what reason would he have kept that little, innocent note?
Passing out snacks during a break in practice, Mamori watched, in dismay, as Hiruma mercilessly tormented Monta for missing a pass. Why on earth, when the quarterback was such a terrible person, did she find herself thinking and worrying and spending so much time caring about this whole thing? Why did she care?
That night, fresh from a bath and in her pajamas and heading to bed, she figured it out. Hiruma was a terrible person, but he was still a person. A high school student, like the rest of them. If Sena were to be preoccupied with something like this, she wouldn’t just turn a blind eye. She’d try to help him. Of course she would. She was a kind, caring person, and just because she might not agree with how someone decided to act it didn’t mean she should treat them any differently or any less.
And, for sure, Hiruma seemed to need some help. Mamori had no proof that he knew how to, in any way, express emotions in a good, normal, healthy way. So, she might as well try to help.
...
He liked watching Kurita practice.
It was early morning, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon and casting the school grounds in a soft glow. Hiruma had gotten there earlier than he normally did, but still long after Kurita and Komusubi had arrived, undoubtably, because those two were idiots. And judging from everyone else's schedules, it would still be twenty minutes before the fucking shrimp and the fucking monkey showed up, and maybe about twenty-five to thirty minutes until the fucking baldy would arrive. So it was just the two linemen, all suited up and energetically practicing, and Hiruma, who had a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand as if he was writing up plays but he wasn’t, no, he was just taking the rare opportunity he had to watch Kurita practice.
Sure, Kurita was an idiot. And slow. And soft. And lacking confidence. And unable to catch a ball even if his life depended on it. And sure, Hiruma berated him for all of those points almost daily. But he knew, and he knew Kurita knew he knew, that none of that really mattered. All that mattered was that he was strong.
It was frightening, really, that strength. At the same time unexpected because of Kurita's personality but also expected because of his size. Underneath that fat was muscle, strong and thick and well-used from daily practicing and weight-training, and though people often underestimated Kurita, Hiruma never would. Not when he’d witnessed all the hard work Kurita had and continued to put in. Not when he’d found a wicked smile spreading across his face every time he heard the sickening crunch of Kurita tacking a practice dummy or an opponent. Not when he’d been there, on the field, time and time again, protected by the only Center he’d ever played with.
He trusted that strength. Always had, always would. Trusted Kurita even though it was more in his nature not to trust people. It was the reason he was here, playing football, on a team they’d made together.
It was that strength that he’d fallen in love with. And that tenacity. And that burning passion. And that kindness. And that blinding smile.
He sighed, twirling his pen around his fingers, and lazily blew a bubble. There was a whole list of things he could name as things he’d fallen in love with. A whole list of things that would stay ambiguous in his mind, never to be spoken aloud or written down, because if it all stayed in his head then nobody would find out about it and it could be his and his alone and as long as it was all ambiguous it wasn’t something that was expressly relevant. Especially when there were more pressing matters at hand. Like winning.
There was a loud crack, so infinitely loud in the still and quiet morning air that it almost made Hiruma jump. But it was a sound he’d heard many times and was at this point far too used to, the sound of Kurita breaking the equipment. He yelled at Kurita for it, more for show than anything else at this point because they had more than enough (coerced) funds to repair or replace anything that got damaged. And maybe also because Kurita was cute when he was flustered, apologizing and clumsily trying to fix that which he’d broken.
He could break me Hiruma thought, out of the blue and not of his own accord, and he was more than a little confused at what emotions that thought brought about.
But he didn’t have to be bothered with thinking about that for long, because there were footsteps on the grass, fast approaching. Not the footsteps he’d expected to hear at this point in time, though, and looking up it was the fucking manager who’d shown up, with Sena and Monta close behind, mind you, traipsing over from the clubroom, dressed to practice.
“You don’t have to glare at me like that, I only just arrived.” Mamori said, giving him a little frown.
“Whatever. Did you finish what I wanted?”
“Of course.” She dug into her bag and passed over a stack of papers, the wonderfully inconvenient analog data she’d sorted from the game on the weekend.
“Good.”
“You could say thank you, you know.”
“I could.” Hiruma mumbled in reply, flipping through the papers. He couldn’t deny, she did a good job, and he’d never admit it out loud but it was nice to have someone help out with the, well, more intellectual side of the game.
Rustling, and movement, and Mamori sat down beside him. And after a moment of silence, she spoke. “Are you not practicing?”
“I am.” he replied, offhandedly, not really listening to her as he turned the page. “Just taking a break.”
“Oh. Watching the others practice?”
He hummed in agreement, still not paying her much attention.
“Watching Kurita?”
He stopped, slowly looking up from the data and at Mamori, eyes narrowing. He didn’t like the look in her eyes. He didn’t like her asking that. He didn’t like the fact that she’d seen his bookmark. He didn’t like not knowing what her fucking angle was.
Shoving the papers in his bag, along with his own (unused) pen and notebook, he stood up, grabbing his helmet and a gun. He contemplated signing at her to keep her fucking mouth shut again, but opted for just giving her a quick middle finger, figuring that would get the message across just fine. And it did, he could all but hear her frown, and cackling, he made his way onto the field, the sun now risen high above the school and reflecting off the barrel of his gun.
…
Mamori had never been in love. Maybe a few little crushes here and there, and maybe a whole lot of motherly feelings of protection, but nothing like real love. And yes, she didn’t know if Hiruma was in love. Maybe he was also just nursing a little crush (like whatever Monta felt towards her, because yes, she could tell, she wasn't that oblivious, and she resented the fact that Hiruma had used those feelings to get the receiver to join the team initially). But anyways.
She might not be well-versed in love, but to her, there didn’t seem to be any reason to not tell the person you liked how you felt. Well, sure, there were plenty of reason that could possibly exist in the world, but to her, there didn’t seem to be any real reason why Hiruma shouldn’t just tell Kurita how he felt. And if there were, well, she wasn't privy to any of that. And Hiruma would never tell her, and she knew that if she asked, she would not get anything in return but a hail of bullets.
Really, this would be far easier to deal with if it were anyone besides Hiruma. If it were anyone who could express emotions candidly and in a normal human way.
But anyways. She had a plan.
She was a girl of action, after all.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s a study schedule.” Mamori said, passing out the paper’s she’d printed last night, “With everyone spending so much time training, I want to make sure that no one’s neglecting their schoolwork. Everyone still needs to do well in class, after all.”
“No one asked you to do this.” Hiruma replied, glaring at her. She could tell he was suspicious. “With or without intervention,” he held up his Threat Notebook, “everyone's going to pass no matter what.”
“Passing is one thing. But succeeding is another thing altogether.”
Hiruma rolled his eyes, and she ignored him for now. There were four study groups, each with one tutor; She would be tutoring Sena and Monta, Yuki tutoring Komusubi and Taki, Jumonji tutoring Kuroki and Togano, and finally, Hiruma tutoring Kurita and Musashi.
Musashi took one look at the schedule he’d been given, and making momentary eye contact with Mamori, gave her a knowing smirk before saying, “Can’t do it. I have work.”
“Oh no.” She replied, doing her best to sound like she hadn’t expected that response as she handed a schedule to Kurita. “Are you sure you can’t just come for a bit?”
Musashi’s acting wasn’t much better than hers, but it was good enough. “No chance in hell. Got a really big contract to finish, I can’t spare any more time than what I already give for practice.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Well I’m busy too.” Hiruma interjected, now holding a lighter beneath his copy of the schedule.
“No you’re not.” Mamori snatched the lighter from his hand and placed it on the table. “And you can’t skip, you’re one of the tutors.”
He shrugged. “So? Make the fucking fatty go with the fucking baldy’s group.”
“Now, don’t be like that. Yuki will have his hands full with Taki. And you’d be best for tutoring Kurita since you know him so well. And, Kurita would love for you to tutor him. Right, Kurita?”
The big lineman beamed. “That would be great! I’d love that!”
Mamori smiled, because she could see the tiniest bit of blush creep up to the tips of Hiruma’s ears and his frown turn into more of a pout. Even the demon’s cold heart wasn’t completely immune to that heartwarming, ice-melting smile.
“Whatever.” Hiruma mumbled, taking his lighter and stuffing in into his bag, along with the study schedule. “Hurry up with the shit, we’ve got to start practice.”
…
He didn’t hate it.
He didn’t hate sitting in Kurita’s room, helping the big idiot with math homework. It was a waste of time, sure, and he could definitely be out there doing something actually useful. But still. He didn’t hate it. He might even say he enjoyed it. How long had it been since they’d been together for something not football related? A long damn time, that was for sure.
And the fucking manager was right, damn her, it was actually not too painful tutoring Kurita because at this point in time he knew very well how the fatass learnt and he wasn’t doing too bad job of a teaching, if he did say so himself.
Not that he’d want to make a habit out of this. He’d find a way to get the study schedule obliterated in due time.
But for now, he might as well make the best of it, more or less sitting in Kurita’s lap as he explained a trig problem, a pencil in one hand and a gun held in the other (for motivation).
And a few days later, when Kurita gleefully picked him up in a crushing hug to thank him for the 70% on the last math test (a personal best by quite a bit), Hiruma actually found himself (momentarily) grateful for the study schedule.
…
It was sort of a coincidence, really, but a welcome one. She found out by accident that a first-year member of the Disciplinary Committee had an older brother who played football in university. One day while talking to him, she had asked for and he had gladly given her two tickets for an upcoming game. And she kept the tickets in her bag for a few days, until the game was the next night.
She slipped out of the clubroom after practice a few minutes after Kurita and quickly caught up to him. “Oh, Kurita!” she called out, jogging up to him, “Before you go, can I talk to you for a moment?”
“Of course.” He replied, smiling wide. He bent down a bit so she didn’t have to crane her neck so far back to talk to him. “What is it?”
Mamori pulled the tickets out of her bag and held them up. “I was given these tickets for a university football game. The game is tomorrow night, and I was planning on going but I just found out that I have a Disciplinary Committee meeting at the same time. Do you want the tickets?”
Kurita’s smile widened. “Of course!” he exclaimed, and Mamori couldn’t help but smile back. His smile really was infectious. “That sounds so fun!”
“It really does.” She sighed. “And it would have been such a good opportunity to watch a high-level football game. I would have loved to, oh, I don’t know, analyze the game. I could really learn a lot from watching a game like that. Maybe even see some new plays we could use.”
Mamori waited, patiently, as Kurita put two and two together. “Then maybe Hiruma can come with me!” the lineman exclaimed, finally. “He can, uh, analyze for you! He likes that!”
“What do I like?”
They both turned to see Hiruma standing a few feet away, something akin to a grenade launcher in hand. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, the look in his eyes full of suspicion. Fair enough.
Mamori placed the tickets in Kurita’s hand, and after a moment of looking at them, Kurita held the tickets up in front of Hiruma, smiling wide. “Look! Mamori just gave us tickets to a university football game tomorrow!”
For a very brief moment, Mamori could see a couple different emotions fight for dominance on Hiruma’s face. Stoic indifference eventually won out. “Us?” he asked.
“Yeah! I mean... if you want to go...”
Hiruma looked from Kurita, to the tickets, to Mamori. “So why isn’t the fucking manager going to the game?” the question was directed at Kurita, but he was glaring at Mamori, “A good manager should take advantage of this sort of opportunity and do some recon.”
“She said she has a Disciplinary Committee meeting.”
Surely, Hiruma would probably know that there were no Disciplinary Committee activities tomorrow. That seemed like the sort of thing he’d keep tabs on, if solely because he kept tabs on everyone at the school. So she waited, doing her best to keep a poker face, to see what he’d say in response.
After a very long moment of silence, long enough for Hiruma to blow a bubble and let it pop, the quarterback reached out and snatched the tickets from Kurita’s hand. Mamori was poised to snatch them back, ready at the first hint of a lighter to save the tickets from destruction, but Hiruma just tucked the tickets into his pocket, leaving them intact.
“If she really had any dedication to the team, she’d pretend that meeting didn’t exist and go to the game instead.” As his gaze slid away from Mamori and up to Kurita it softened, “Be ready at 6:30 or I’ll go without you.”
“I will!” Kurita exclaimed, smiling wide, and Mamori couldn’t help but smile as well.
...
He wasn’t going to say no. Of course not. He’d be a fool if he did. It was a great chance to watch just about the highest level of football in Japan. Analyze everything. Take notes. Steal plays. He even found a phone taped up near the back entrance of the stadium that he’d put up and forgot about a year and a half ago. All in all, a good day.
And going to a university football game with Kurita, well, that was a bonus.
It was nostalgic, bringing him back to the days of standing on the sidelines at the military base. Only this time he was surrounded by the lights of a stadium and the screams of countless fans. And Kurita, currently enthralled by the game and quickly making his way through the largest bag of popcorn Hiruma had ever seen. Leaning back in his seat, feet up on the back of the chair in front of him, he smiled, watching as the home team successfully got the first down. It was fun.
Sure, maybe when Kurita had grabbed his hand to make sure they didn’t get separated in the crowd of university students on the way to their seats he’d been inclined to shoot something. But Kurita had asked, please, don’t bring any guns, please don’t shoot anyone, so he’d left the small pistol and flare gun he had for emergencies tucked away in the bottom of his bag, pretending that the color rising to his cheeks and the tips of his ears was just from the chilly air.
Goddamnit.
He’d been doing this for years. Not exactly avoiding his feelings, but keeping them stuffed in a corner of his mind in an undefined and amorphous state. He’d been doing this since, hell, that one time he’d been so soft he’d actually talked about his dad and didn’t lie. So it wasn't as if he was going to stop now or anytime soon. And definitely not because someone, for no reason, wanted him to.
Goddamnit.
He didn’t hate Mamori, of course he didn’t. Sure, they didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things and this whole current fiasco was making the tension worse, but even still. She was good for the team. He’d never say it, but they wouldn’t be where they were without her. But nevertheless. He hated this. Whatever this fucking bullshit she was up to was.
The game ended, and they filed out of the stadium with the rest of the fans and into the cool night air. With both his playbook and Threat Notebook a little more filled, it had been a successful outing. Yes, very successful. For those reasons alone.
It was cold enough that Hiruma could see his breath. “Be careful.” he said, sidestepping a large group of university girls talking excitedly about some very attractive player. “You might lose me in the crowd.”
“I won't!” Kurita assured him, and reached out to grab hold of his hand, “There. We won’t get separated now.”
Any other time he would have evaded this sort of physical contact, but he had said that with the intent of getting Kurita to hold his hand again. This time, the blush was actually from the cold air. “As if I'd ever get separated from you, you fucking fatty. I’d have to be blind and dead to lose you in a crowd.”
Kurita smiled down at him, and he smiled back, and he could have called a certain “slave” to come pick them up and get them home nice and quick, but he decided that it would be fine if they took the train instead.
...
They didn’t often run into each other during the school day, mostly because Hiruma seemed to always be doing anything but actually attending class and doing schoolwork, but by chance they happened to be in the hallway at the same time. Or, maybe not by chance. Who really knew with Hiruma?
“How was the game last night?” Mamori asked, smiling at him.
Hiruma did not smile back. He stalked up to her, eyes cold and mouth drawn in a firm line, and glared down at her with a look that might have turned anyone else to stone. “It’s none of your damn business.” he hissed at her before walking off, quickly disappearing through a door that was definitely not to his classroom and likely not a room he was supposed to be in.
Mamori sighed, continuing on down the hall. She knew that, of course. It really wasn’t. She didn’t need to meddle. She shouldn’t meddle. And she had thought, many times, to stop trying to get involved in Hiruma’s business. Really, this whole thing didn’t suit her. It was definitely more up Suzuna’s alley, this sort of relationship drama.
But she hadn’t stopped. Because, over the past few weeks, she’d finally been able to at least partially pinpoint what sort of emotion it was in Hiruma’s eyes when he looked at Kurita and thought no one was watching.
Something sort of happy, something sort of sad. Something full of longing.
And it made her heart ache, because as terrible of a person Hiruma was he was still a person, a person she liked, despite everything, and no one should ever have to look that forlorn.
…
The wind was cool, so Hiruma pulled his scarf a little tighter, adjusting it so that it covered his chin. Mamori had asked him to meet her in the clubroom at two in the afternoon on Saturday, so here he was, sauntering across the empty school grounds at 1:07 pm.
Maybe she would stop being a conniving coward and tell him what exactly her fucking endgame here was.
He blew a bubble, let it pop, and then pushed the clubroom door open. And he knew right away that something was wrong, because it was unlocked. And the lights were on. And not only was Mamori there, almost an hour early and waiting for him, but Kurita was also there.
Hiruma’s gaze flickered from Kurita, who smiled at him, to Mamori, who didn’t meet his gaze as she pulled out her phone and looked at it, to the rest of the clubroom, which was otherwise empty and almost completely normal but not quite.
“Put your phone down.” He hissed, and the manager looked up at him, blinking.
“But I just got a text from my mom, I-”
“No you fucking didn’t. Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”
Hiruma could see Kurita’s expression change to confusion, and the boy looked back and forth between the other two. “Hiruma, what-”
“And you!” he interrupted, pointing his gun at the lineman, “You get the fuck out of here.”
“But Mamori wanted to have a meeting with-”
“No she fucking didn’t. She was just about to leave.”
She couldn't completely keep the look of guilt and oh-no-you've-caught-me off her face, poorly hidden behind a pout and a relatively normal look of exasperation. But that wasn't going to fool him. It might be enough to fool anyone else, but not him. No fucking way. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to play along with her shitty half-baked plan, because if anyone was going to trick people into confronting things they were avoiding, it was going to be him and him alone.
“Hiruma-”
He cocked his gun before Kurita could finish whatever he was going to say. “I said get out of here, you fucking fatty.”
“But why-”
“Out.”
“But-”
“I SAID OUT!” He barked, kicking a nearby chair across the clubroom floor as hard as he could.
A look of fear and confusion and sadness on his face, Kurita scooped up his bag and made a beeline for the door, past Hiruma and out into the schoolgrounds, his heavy footsteps fading away as he ran off. Once they had disappeared completely, Hiruma turned his attention back to Mamori, who was sitting there, phone put away and arms crossed, a look of determination in her eyes.
“That was rude.” she said.
He ignored that. “What did you tell him?” Hiruma asked, snarling.
“That you wanted us to have a strategy meeting. And that I contacted him because you were too busy blackmailing someone to contact him directly.”
“That’s fucking stupid.” It was, but he wasn't surprised that Kurita had bought it hook, line, and sinker. That idiot.
“Well, it worked. Or, it would have, if you hadn’t chased him off.”
“You must think I’m a fucking idiot too, if you think I’m going to just go along with this bullshit.”
“Well you have up until this point.” Mamori countered. “You really could have just vetoed the study schedule right off the bat. But you didn’t.”
Fair enough. But far be it for Hiruma to let her know that he thought so. “Well up until this point you hadn’t forced my hand. But this was going to cross a line. Let me guess, you were setting up something to trick me into confessing, weren’t you?”
Her poker face was shit. “Maybe.” she replied. “But I wouldn’t call it a “trick”, more of a-”
“I don’t give a shit what you call it. It’s fucking stupid as hell. It’s fucking annoying as hell. Just leave me alone and stop this shit already.”
“But I don’t want to-”
“Why?!" Hiruma snapped, voice was steadily getting louder. “Do you think this is funny? Or what, is this revenge for something? For bullying that fucking shrimp? You want to see me suffer too?”
“That’s not what I want.” Mamori replied, looking insulted, her voice rising in volume too. That was rare. “Not at all!”
Of course not. The fucking manager was a good person, he knew that. Everyone knew that. She wouldn’t do anything vindictive. So, then, what the hell was the reason for her doing all this bullshit? Frowning, Hiruma seated himself in the chair Kurita had recently vacated, placed his feet up on the table, and asked. “Then what the hell do you want, fucking manager?”
…
He was angry, glaring at her with cold eyes, chewing his gum like it was his job. She sighed. Well, that certainly hadn’t gone as smoothly as she’d planned. And now Hiruma was very, very angry, and as much as she knew she wasn't in any real danger, he wouldn’t ever actually hurt her, it was still a bit terrifying.
“I don’t want anything.” She replied to his question, calmly as she could.
Hiruma’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. What’s your endgame?”
“I just want to help you.”
“You don’t have to help me with anything.”
“I don’t have to, but I want to.”
“No, I mean I don’t have anything that I need help with.” Hiruma elaborated, sounding exasperated.
Well, that wasn't how Mamori saw things. “I think you do. You always try to hide how you really feel from others, and I don’t think you should.”
“I don’t try to hide how I feel. I do .”
Not as well as he probably thinks he does, Mamori thought. She’d seen the way he looked at Kurita. “Well you don’t have to. At least not all the time.” she paused, and then, voice soft, just putting it out there, “Not around me.”
Hiruma’s tone was ice cold and stoic, far past being angry. “It’s none of your fucking business.”
She knew that. Of course she did. Of course. Of course. It wasn’t he business, not in any way.
“I haven’t ever talked to anyone about it. And don’t think you’ll be the first one.”
“But don’t you think you should talk about it?” She countered, “It’s good to talk about your feelings.”
“No, I don’t think it is.”
It was Mamori’s turn to sound exasperated. She sighed, rubbing her temple. “What is your problem with talking about how you feel? What’s wrong with sharing your emotions with others?”
“That sort of emotion is weakness. Something other people can take advantage of.”
She wasn’t going to unpack the depth that statement spoke, not right now at least. “Hiruma.” she said, softly. “I don’t have a book of blackmail to fill. I don’t have a need to extort you. I don’t have any ulterior motives. I just want to help.”
“But why ?”
Why indeed. “Because I can, so why wouldn’t I?”
Hiruma stared at her in disbelief for a moment, and then groaned, leaning back in his chair, head tilted so far back Mamori could only see the underside of his chin. “Why are you like this?” he asked, sounding halfway between laughing and getting ready to set the whole place on fire. “It’s annoying as hell.”
Rude, but she couldn’t help but smile. She had the feeling that maybe she’d finally gotten through to him. A bit, at least. “And you know, if you really don’t want to show any emotional “weakness”, you should maybe not stare at Kurita like that so often.”
The quarterback sat up abruptly, glaring at her. “I do not.” he hissed.
“You do. A bit.”
Hiruma mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like “Goddamnit.”
“You should just tell him how you feel.”
“No.”
“But don’t you love him?”
She could actually watch the progression of a faint blush creep up Hiruma’s cheeks. “What does it matter if I do?” he shot back.
“Why don’t you just tell him?”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
The blush had reached Hiruma’s ears, and sighing, he reached into his pocket to take out another stick of gum. “Have you been in love before?” he asked, voice taking on a very different tone.
“No.”
“You’re lucky.” Hiruma replied. “Love is dumb and annoying and troublesome. It’s a distraction. Gets in the way. Makes you do stupid things.”
“I haven’t ever seen you do anything stupid.”
He laughed, and motioned vaguely at the clubroom around them. “Starting a football team with only two members and hoping to win the Christmas Bowl is a bit stupid, don’t you think?”
Well. Maybe. But just like how Kurita believed in him, Mamori also believed that Hiruma could somehow pull this all together. Now, when had she started thinking like that? “I think it’s sort of sweet.” she said.
“Shut up.”
“Well I think it is. Is... is that why you made the Devil Bats?”
For a moment Hiruma glared at her, but then looked back up at the ceiling. He was silent for a bit, and sighed, and eventually spoke. “At the start he was really annoying. Wouldn’t leave me alone for a fucking minute, just pestering me about playing football with him. And I never intended to, I wasn't built for it. But it was fun. It really is. And there was just something...” he blew a bubble, “I’ve thought about it for years, you know. Why, of all the people I’ve ever met, why would it be him? That big, stupid, slow, fucking idiot fatass. Why? Why not anyone else? Why not Musashi? Hell, why not you? Why not literally anyone else in this whole damn world?”
Mamori most definitely didn’t have the answer to that.
“And I can’t think of a good reason. Well, not a good enough reason, that’s for sure. And I've thought about it a lot.”
To Mamori, he sounded tired.
“Maybe I was too soft in middle school.” Hiruma continued, “I should have been more careful. I... you let your guard down for one second and then bam! Now you’re thinking about how perfect his fucking smile is for no goddamned reason. And you think that those kind of bullshit thoughts will go away eventually and stop but no. They don’t. They just get worse. No matter how hard you try to think about other things. And then years later you just get used to it. And then you get a nosy fucking manager trying to get you to put those thoughts into words, like that will help with anything.”
It took Mamori a moment to reply, because years? “It will help. Look, doesn’t saying all that aloud make you feel better?”
“No.”
“Or, at least, help you decide what you’re going to do?”
“I already know what I’m going to do. I’m going to do nothing.”
It was like trying to reason with a brick wall. A smart, gun-toting brick wall. “But Hiruma, if you love Kurita, and have for years, wouldn’t you want to tell him so he knows and, oh, I don’t know, maybe you could start dating? Wouldn’t that be better than just holding all these emotions in?”
“No. We’re friends. And teammates. That’s enough.”
“Is it?”
Hiruma held eye contact with her, and as stoic as his cold eyes were, there was something else. “Yes. It is. I’m not... I want him to succeed. I want the team to succeed. I want to have fun. So I’m going to be the quarterback, and the fucking fatass will be my center. That’s it. We’re going to make the best goddamned team in the country, and we’re going to win the Christmas Bowl. That’s the goal, the only goal, and I'm going to make it a reality.”
Well, she wasn't going to get anywhere farther with him. “You will.” she said. “You certainly put enough effort into working to make that dream come true.”
Hiruma hummed. “His dream.” he said, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Which became our dream.”
Mamori smiled, laying her hands in her lap. “You’re really not too bad of a person, you know.”
“Don’t think for a minute, fucking manager, that I’m anything but a devil with a cold, black heart. I’ll kill you.”
“I know.”
They sat there in silence for a long moment, a long moment that was surprisingly not uncomfortable but actually rather pleasant. That was, until, Hiruma said, “Fuck you.”
She sighed. “You’re welcome.”
“Whatever.” Hiruma stood up, grabbing his bag and gun and not pushing his chair back in. “If we’re done here, I’m going home.”
“Alright. Good luck.”
“Fuck you.”
And he disappeared out the door with nothing more than a middle finger as a good-bye, and Mamori smiled, because though her original plan had crumbled and failed miserably, at least the outcome was going to be relatively the same.
She wasn’t one for betting, but she would bet enough money to build another clubroom that Hiruma was actually on his way to Kurita’s house and not his own.
…
For a very brief moment Hiruma contemplated knocking on the front door of the temple and entering that way, but that thought was quickly swept aside. That would be far too out of character for him. It was bad enough that he was worried , and anxious , and nervous , and actually doing this . So instead, he hopped over the fence and walked around the house until he stood under Kurita’s window.
He stood there for a minute, contemplating, working his bottom lip between his teeth. Not the best idea for someone with such sharp teeth, but he was out of gum now and had to keep busy somehow.
Having thoughts was one thing. Writing said thoughts was another thing. Voicing said thoughts to a third party was another thing too. But, actually telling Kurita how he felt, that was another thing entirely.
And to make it worse, doing this was like admitting that Mamori had been, at least partially, right.
His finger toyed with the trigger of his gun, tapping gently on the polished metal.
Eh. No time like the present. Tossing his gun in his bag, he slid Kurita’s always unlocked window open and climbed inside.
…
Slipping on her jacket and grabbing her bag, Mamori closed the clubroom door behind her. Hiruma had broken out the flamethrower inside the clubroom today and as a result there had been the need for a bit more cleaning than normal. And there was still a (relatively large) portion of the wall that was charred, but Hiruma had told her to lay off, don’t bother trying to clean that, he’d just get the principal to pay for a new coat of paint.
Smiling to herself, she double-checked that the door was locked. Normally, she’d be a lot more upset about it all, but she would let it slide. Just for today, probably. But she’d noticed that Hiruma had been in a great mood lately, and maybe that resulted in a bit more fire damage but it also resulted in a lot less vulgarity and actual bodily harm towards the rest of the team, which she couldn't be more pleased with because, finally, Hiruma wasn't bullying Sena so much. And, that had been her original goal in becoming manager, so chalk that up as a victory for her.
Stepping away from the clubroom, Mamori turned to walk towards the school gate, where Sena was waiting to head home with her. This late, the school grounds were almost entirely empty, save for the other football players heading home themselves. And, speak of the devil, Hiruma was walking the opposite direction she was, having left the clubroom only a couple minutes before her. She could barely see him, from this far away and dwarfed by Kurita’s large frame, but she could make out their silhouettes walking side by side. And she could see them momentarily stop, and Kurita bent down, and Hiruma stood on his tiptoes, and she turned away because it would be rude to watch them without them knowing. And she found Sena at the front gate, and when he asked her why she was smiling, she just told him that it wasn’t really his business.
And it wasn’t her business either, she knew that well enough. But oh well.