eyeshield 21 | horizon
Eyeshield 21 | Musashi/Hiruma | 450 words | unbeta'd.
Dedicated to blizzardseason. Written during Math class, then redrafted in ten minutes and posted. Apparently, this is what I associate with irrational parabolas. :D
Horizon
Maps, maps and plans; diagrams, battlefields in pixels. Hiruma is hunched over the laptop like an old man, fingers extended like a harpy's claws and tap-tap-tapping at a pace that means it's going out of style. Armchair arsonist, Musashi thinks from the doorway, and this title seems fitting as any other.
When it comes to him it's always speak of the devil, because at that moment Hiruma looks up, eyes wide in the darkness and snake-bright. It is nighttime, the best time for mischief. If you tried, you could smell his venom in the air.
“Yeah?” he says, and gives Musashi a once-over, slow and lazy and completely unimpressed. It makes him feel like an outsider, like he's intruding on something that's none of his business. It is a new and uncomfortable sensation, because Hiruma is his business-or used to be, at any rate.
Now his business is living. Musashi is not entirely sure how he feels about this fact.
He's still dressed in his worker's clothes, fresh from the building site and covered in enough dust to drown small children. It provides sharp contrast to Hiruma, wearing his red uniform and smelling of ozone and cut grass: Musashi reeks of tar and sweat and gravel, smelly from not showering all day. He shifts on the threshold, just barely.
“It's late,” he says, to the bats and wires and the night in general. “Come on, let's go.”
He is subjected to a long, blank stare, during which he has time to notice the dark bags under Hiruma's eyes; the tightness of his mouth. After a moment, something flickers on his face-a breath, a thought, dark and thorny and not meant to be seen. He looks like he's about to agree, but then just as abruptly he turns away and says:
“Seibu have been training hard. If we want to beat them, we've got to work even harder.”
And the tap-tap-tapping resumes, fast and erratic like midday traffic, having never been stopped in the first place. Musashi stands in the doorway for a while longer, watching the bowed back-long enough for Hiruma to glance at his shadow on the wall and ask, very pointedly, “Anything else?”
“No,” Gen says. He feels dumb, but speaks anyway. “Nothing else. Good luck with tomorrow's game.”
And he turns and walks away, to his single apartment with his single bed. It's cold outside but he keeps walking, not looking back, because football had always been Hiruma's first love and if he's moved out already he can't blame Hiruma for closing his door and changing the proverbial locks.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Dedicated to blizzardseason. Written during Math class, then redrafted in ten minutes and posted. Apparently, this is what I associate with irrational parabolas. :D
Horizon
Maps, maps and plans; diagrams, battlefields in pixels. Hiruma is hunched over the laptop like an old man, fingers extended like a harpy's claws and tap-tap-tapping at a pace that means it's going out of style. Armchair arsonist, Musashi thinks from the doorway, and this title seems fitting as any other.
When it comes to him it's always speak of the devil, because at that moment Hiruma looks up, eyes wide in the darkness and snake-bright. It is nighttime, the best time for mischief. If you tried, you could smell his venom in the air.
“Yeah?” he says, and gives Musashi a once-over, slow and lazy and completely unimpressed. It makes him feel like an outsider, like he's intruding on something that's none of his business. It is a new and uncomfortable sensation, because Hiruma is his business-or used to be, at any rate.
Now his business is living. Musashi is not entirely sure how he feels about this fact.
He's still dressed in his worker's clothes, fresh from the building site and covered in enough dust to drown small children. It provides sharp contrast to Hiruma, wearing his red uniform and smelling of ozone and cut grass: Musashi reeks of tar and sweat and gravel, smelly from not showering all day. He shifts on the threshold, just barely.
“It's late,” he says, to the bats and wires and the night in general. “Come on, let's go.”
He is subjected to a long, blank stare, during which he has time to notice the dark bags under Hiruma's eyes; the tightness of his mouth. After a moment, something flickers on his face-a breath, a thought, dark and thorny and not meant to be seen. He looks like he's about to agree, but then just as abruptly he turns away and says:
“Seibu have been training hard. If we want to beat them, we've got to work even harder.”
And the tap-tap-tapping resumes, fast and erratic like midday traffic, having never been stopped in the first place. Musashi stands in the doorway for a while longer, watching the bowed back-long enough for Hiruma to glance at his shadow on the wall and ask, very pointedly, “Anything else?”
“No,” Gen says. He feels dumb, but speaks anyway. “Nothing else. Good luck with tomorrow's game.”
And he turns and walks away, to his single apartment with his single bed. It's cold outside but he keeps walking, not looking back, because football had always been Hiruma's first love and if he's moved out already he can't blame Hiruma for closing his door and changing the proverbial locks.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.