Fic: Atlas (Hiruma/Mamori, PG)
This is... more or less hellishly depressing. Let's just say that I had a mildly wangsty evening until thanatoast ♥ managed to cheer me up, as always, and this just sort of happened.
Even now, writing is still the next-best release of emotion.
On another note, do me a favor and CLICK THESE EGGS. Just click them. Just do it. Okay? Okay. THANK YOU SO MUCH. :>
On the agenda tomorrow is SUPER SECRET PROJECT 1, SUPER SECRET PROJECT 2, and COSPLAY STUFF. Pictures maybe IF I CAN FIND THE GODDAMN FUCKING CAMERA CHARGER ><
Whatever, fic.
Title: Atlas
Rating: PG
Characters: Hiruma/Mamori
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Word Count: 1,369
Warnings: Uhhhhh, spoilers for Chapter 300. Maybe. Probably. T_T
Summary: Mamori won't stand for it anymore.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Should it come to this, this is AU and all characters involved in sexual relations in this story are 18 or older.
Author's Notes: More or less for thanatoast ♥ who will always be my best and only source of inspiration~ towards the end, I suppose it could match up with this gorgeous piece of artwork, but that was not the original intention, by any means.
It had been a week.
The first unanimous decision the team had come to had been that someone was going to have to knock on the clubhouse door and force Hiruma to come out of there.
A week since they'd lost the most important game of their lives, a week since his hopes and dreams had more or less gotten ruined.
Eight seconds. Ten points.
Eight seconds.
Eight fucking seconds.
It had been a week since he'd turned his back to them and left them to their own depression. They'd finished the game. He'd held them up and helped them this long.
There had been no one there to hold him up. There never was.
Someone was going to have to get him out of there. Someone was going to have to talk to him.
The second unanimous decision the team had come to was that that person was going to have to be Mamori.
They didn't have to tell her.
She hadn't been involved in the decision-making process, and it was on a frosty, cold Saturday morning, grass covered in dew, that Mamori trudged across the field, sneakers crunching with every step.
In her gloved hands she carried a box, holding it close to her person as if it was providing some sort of warmth.
She'd need it. His ice-cold heart stopped the second they lost that game, she'd overheard someone say.
Mamori disagreed.
If anything, she believed it had only started beating then.
Pale finger reached out to touch on the door of the clubhouse. Cold. She knew he was in there; he'd locked himself in the clubhouse the second he'd gotten back to the school after the game, not looking back once.
What he was trying to do, she was entirely certain.
But she was more than intent on finding out.
"Hi--" she started, then stopped herself, making a face. "Youichi, I know you're in there."
No answer.
No surprise there.
"It's been a week, I don't even know what you're sustaining yourself on in there."
No answer.
"You know, gum doesn't have any nutritional values at all."
No answer.
"You're going to starve yourself like that, or get yourself sick. Everyone is really worried."
She could practically hear him Not Caring through the door.
"I mean, it was just a--"
"Che, what are you doing talking to a door, fucking manager."
Mamori jumped, turning around to come face-to-face with the very man she'd thought she'd been talking to all along.
"Get out of my way."
"Where have you been?! Everyone's been--"
"Eating."
"I thought you were-- how can you be so insensitive?! I thought you were seriously in trouble! I worried about yo--"
That was when he slammed the door in her face.
He hadn't locked it, however, and she stepped inside, locking it behind her. "You need to stop only thinking about yourself!"
"It's very rude to enter without knocking," he told her, point-blank.
The problem was the lack-luster tone. As if all his spirit had been sucked from him.
"Honestly, Youichi, it's--"
"Don't call me that."
"It was just a game."
The look he threw her couldn't have been icier.
"You don't know anything."
"I know--" she started to protest when he promptly cut her off.
"Sena spent five hours crying after he got home and locked himself into his bedroom, before crying himself to sleep that night. Kurita spent three days crying in favor of food, and even then, he's hardly eaten. And what did you do, fucking manager? You stuffed your face with creampuffs. In fact, you haven't stopped for a few days. You've also put on three pounds."
She wasn't about to ask how he knew, if only because she knew he was right.
"I-- I brought them to share," she said a bit meekly, feeling a tad hypocritical now, placing the box she'd been carrying in her arms on top of the table he'd kicked his legs on top of, arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at the wall away from her.
"Che."
Mamori bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from lashing out at him again.
"Go away, fucking manager."
That promptly sent her over the edge again, as expected, and she shot up from her seat, both hands braced on the table as she more or less leaned over him.
"Would it kill you to acknowledge that I'm trying to help here?! That everyone is worried?! That you need to keep up as a functional human being?! That--"
His glare as he brought his feet down from the table made her ranting skid to a stop again, and if it hadn't, his interruption would have done the trick regardless. "What, do you want me to get out my happy face and start skipping across a meadow? Not going to happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not eight days ago. I eat. I shower. I sleep. I use the bathroom. It's Winter Break, it's not like I need to go to school, what more do you want from me. Now go away."
"No."
He stood to face her then, stare hard enough to burrow its way into her soul-- if it hadn't already-- one hand each finding a spot on either side of her on the table as he forced her to bed backwards. "Do you know what it's like to be disappointed, Anezaki?"
She stared at him for a moment before he merely answered for her. "You don't."
"Che." Promptly he was gone again, arms crossed and about five steps away from her, staring out the window.
"You're going to miss Christmas."
"I don't care."
"Maybe if I--"
"You're worthless, and no, there's nothing you can do. What part of go away don't you understand."
She was quiet for a moment, before promptly opening her mouth again, as expected. "Do you even know what this is doing to the others? Sena, Kurita, Musashi, too, and Monta and Yukimitsu-- they looked up to you all these years, and you're letting them down."
"Was long overdue, anyway. Took them long enough."
"That's fatalisti--"
"Realistic." He whirled on her, tears shining in his eyes. "It's over, fucking manager, okay?! There was only one chance, one time, one try! And I fucked it up! I deserve to feel like shut, so let me! There was only one Christmas Bowl, and I failed, so just leave me alone already!"
It had taken her by surprise. He'd immediately turned away, of course, to stew, or do whatever it was Hiruma did, really, and any normal, sane person would have probably just let him be.
Mamori had resigned her insanity the day she'd joined the team, however, and had long come to terms with the fact. Swallowing hard, she took a few steps towards him, until she was able to reach out and touch him, her open palm coming to rest on his shoulder blade.
He didn't move.
"You carried the weight of that team for this long. Who's going to carry you?"
He didn't say anything.
One forearm came to support itself on the wall, his forehead resting on the wrist of a balled fist.
"Youichi," she said softly, and his arm fell again.
He seemed a broken man.
It broke her inside, just a little, to see him like this, and when she then took her hand off his shoulder to reach for his forearm instead--
"Don't kid yourself, fucking manager. I weigh too much for you to carry me." Voice devoid of the venom from before, she reached forward to hug him, only to have him stop her, grabbing hold of her arms before she could, and leaning his forehead against her shoulder.
His hands were holding on tightly, almost possessively, and Mamori closed her eyes for the moment, letting him just hold her, at an arm's length, as always.
"It's okay," she finally whispered. "You don't always have to win."
If she wasn't imagining things, she would have said Hiruma was crying, imperceptible as ever, but just noticeable enough, to her.
Then again, even if he had been, she wouldn't have noticed such a thing. Of course not.
Even now, writing is still the next-best release of emotion.
On another note, do me a favor and CLICK THESE EGGS. Just click them. Just do it. Okay? Okay. THANK YOU SO MUCH. :>
On the agenda tomorrow is SUPER SECRET PROJECT 1, SUPER SECRET PROJECT 2, and COSPLAY STUFF. Pictures maybe IF I CAN FIND THE GODDAMN FUCKING CAMERA CHARGER ><
Whatever, fic.
Title: Atlas
Rating: PG
Characters: Hiruma/Mamori
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Word Count: 1,369
Warnings: Uhhhhh, spoilers for Chapter 300. Maybe. Probably. T_T
Summary: Mamori won't stand for it anymore.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Should it come to this, this is AU and all characters involved in sexual relations in this story are 18 or older.
Author's Notes: More or less for thanatoast ♥ who will always be my best and only source of inspiration~ towards the end, I suppose it could match up with this gorgeous piece of artwork, but that was not the original intention, by any means.
It had been a week.
The first unanimous decision the team had come to had been that someone was going to have to knock on the clubhouse door and force Hiruma to come out of there.
A week since they'd lost the most important game of their lives, a week since his hopes and dreams had more or less gotten ruined.
Eight seconds. Ten points.
Eight seconds.
Eight fucking seconds.
It had been a week since he'd turned his back to them and left them to their own depression. They'd finished the game. He'd held them up and helped them this long.
There had been no one there to hold him up. There never was.
Someone was going to have to get him out of there. Someone was going to have to talk to him.
The second unanimous decision the team had come to was that that person was going to have to be Mamori.
They didn't have to tell her.
She hadn't been involved in the decision-making process, and it was on a frosty, cold Saturday morning, grass covered in dew, that Mamori trudged across the field, sneakers crunching with every step.
In her gloved hands she carried a box, holding it close to her person as if it was providing some sort of warmth.
She'd need it. His ice-cold heart stopped the second they lost that game, she'd overheard someone say.
Mamori disagreed.
If anything, she believed it had only started beating then.
Pale finger reached out to touch on the door of the clubhouse. Cold. She knew he was in there; he'd locked himself in the clubhouse the second he'd gotten back to the school after the game, not looking back once.
What he was trying to do, she was entirely certain.
But she was more than intent on finding out.
"Hi--" she started, then stopped herself, making a face. "Youichi, I know you're in there."
No answer.
No surprise there.
"It's been a week, I don't even know what you're sustaining yourself on in there."
No answer.
"You know, gum doesn't have any nutritional values at all."
No answer.
"You're going to starve yourself like that, or get yourself sick. Everyone is really worried."
She could practically hear him Not Caring through the door.
"I mean, it was just a--"
"Che, what are you doing talking to a door, fucking manager."
Mamori jumped, turning around to come face-to-face with the very man she'd thought she'd been talking to all along.
"Get out of my way."
"Where have you been?! Everyone's been--"
"Eating."
"I thought you were-- how can you be so insensitive?! I thought you were seriously in trouble! I worried about yo--"
That was when he slammed the door in her face.
He hadn't locked it, however, and she stepped inside, locking it behind her. "You need to stop only thinking about yourself!"
"It's very rude to enter without knocking," he told her, point-blank.
The problem was the lack-luster tone. As if all his spirit had been sucked from him.
"Honestly, Youichi, it's--"
"Don't call me that."
"It was just a game."
The look he threw her couldn't have been icier.
"You don't know anything."
"I know--" she started to protest when he promptly cut her off.
"Sena spent five hours crying after he got home and locked himself into his bedroom, before crying himself to sleep that night. Kurita spent three days crying in favor of food, and even then, he's hardly eaten. And what did you do, fucking manager? You stuffed your face with creampuffs. In fact, you haven't stopped for a few days. You've also put on three pounds."
She wasn't about to ask how he knew, if only because she knew he was right.
"I-- I brought them to share," she said a bit meekly, feeling a tad hypocritical now, placing the box she'd been carrying in her arms on top of the table he'd kicked his legs on top of, arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at the wall away from her.
"Che."
Mamori bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from lashing out at him again.
"Go away, fucking manager."
That promptly sent her over the edge again, as expected, and she shot up from her seat, both hands braced on the table as she more or less leaned over him.
"Would it kill you to acknowledge that I'm trying to help here?! That everyone is worried?! That you need to keep up as a functional human being?! That--"
His glare as he brought his feet down from the table made her ranting skid to a stop again, and if it hadn't, his interruption would have done the trick regardless. "What, do you want me to get out my happy face and start skipping across a meadow? Not going to happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not eight days ago. I eat. I shower. I sleep. I use the bathroom. It's Winter Break, it's not like I need to go to school, what more do you want from me. Now go away."
"No."
He stood to face her then, stare hard enough to burrow its way into her soul-- if it hadn't already-- one hand each finding a spot on either side of her on the table as he forced her to bed backwards. "Do you know what it's like to be disappointed, Anezaki?"
She stared at him for a moment before he merely answered for her. "You don't."
"Che." Promptly he was gone again, arms crossed and about five steps away from her, staring out the window.
"You're going to miss Christmas."
"I don't care."
"Maybe if I--"
"You're worthless, and no, there's nothing you can do. What part of go away don't you understand."
She was quiet for a moment, before promptly opening her mouth again, as expected. "Do you even know what this is doing to the others? Sena, Kurita, Musashi, too, and Monta and Yukimitsu-- they looked up to you all these years, and you're letting them down."
"Was long overdue, anyway. Took them long enough."
"That's fatalisti--"
"Realistic." He whirled on her, tears shining in his eyes. "It's over, fucking manager, okay?! There was only one chance, one time, one try! And I fucked it up! I deserve to feel like shut, so let me! There was only one Christmas Bowl, and I failed, so just leave me alone already!"
It had taken her by surprise. He'd immediately turned away, of course, to stew, or do whatever it was Hiruma did, really, and any normal, sane person would have probably just let him be.
Mamori had resigned her insanity the day she'd joined the team, however, and had long come to terms with the fact. Swallowing hard, she took a few steps towards him, until she was able to reach out and touch him, her open palm coming to rest on his shoulder blade.
He didn't move.
"You carried the weight of that team for this long. Who's going to carry you?"
He didn't say anything.
One forearm came to support itself on the wall, his forehead resting on the wrist of a balled fist.
"Youichi," she said softly, and his arm fell again.
He seemed a broken man.
It broke her inside, just a little, to see him like this, and when she then took her hand off his shoulder to reach for his forearm instead--
"Don't kid yourself, fucking manager. I weigh too much for you to carry me." Voice devoid of the venom from before, she reached forward to hug him, only to have him stop her, grabbing hold of her arms before she could, and leaning his forehead against her shoulder.
His hands were holding on tightly, almost possessively, and Mamori closed her eyes for the moment, letting him just hold her, at an arm's length, as always.
"It's okay," she finally whispered. "You don't always have to win."
If she wasn't imagining things, she would have said Hiruma was crying, imperceptible as ever, but just noticeable enough, to her.
Then again, even if he had been, she wouldn't have noticed such a thing. Of course not.