Cliffie: ...I'm obsessed. I admit it freely. I'm obsessed with HiruMamo, and there isn't anything I can do about it except write fanfics.

Rated for Hiruma's language. :P

Enjoy! Reviews, of course, are much appreciated!

Disclaimer: I do not own Eyeshield 21 or any of the characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Mamori hates the train.

It's July, and so sweltering hot she wonders if she's going to faint from the heat. The others are practically gasping for air, and she can't even imagine what it must be like to practice in this weather. The team is arrayed all around her, exhausted from a day of practicing away from their home field. The heat eats away at each of them, slowly taking away bits and pieces until all that is left is the shell.

The train is packed, and the body mass makes everything only hotter. Mamori can feel the body heat seeping off those all around her (and smell that certain "special" scent that comes from athletic boys just after training) and she yearns to get away, find a space of cool air.

She's near the door; only Hiruma stands in her way. She edges just a little closer to him, hoping that the glass would perhaps carry the last of what was a cool night (it was too many hours ago, of course, but she can be stupid when she hopes, sometimes).

Hiruma has created a space around himself. He's not quite as pressed up against others as the rest of them; he leans against the door, completely at ease, eyes closed as he pretends to sleep (pretends, because Mamori can see him peek every now and then).

She takes the smallest half-step closer. She can smell him now -- slightly more pleasant than the rest of the boys, although that certainly doesn't make any sense -- and everything about him sweeps over her. She feels protected, suddenly, as if she's stepped into his circle that keeps her from the others' jostling and movements.

"What are you doing, fuckin' manager?"

Mamori jumps, casting a guilty look at him, but his eyes are closed (of course). "It's cooler over here," she mumbles, the excuse sounding weak on her tongue even as she lets it slip by.

She isn't looking at him, but she can feel his smirk. "Wrong. Try again."

She gives in and decides to be petulant. "You have more space, somehow."

His smirk grows.

The train jerks suddenly, or perhaps someone just moves rapidly. Either way, weight is suddenly hard at Mamori's back, and she stumbles forward gracelessly, dropping her clipboard and tripping over her own two feet.

Hiruma catches her with open eyes, steadying her without looking at her, holding her next to his chest and in the circle of his arm (black-clothed, and how does he stand it in this heat?).

His chest is hard and firm, and her cheek rests so-briefly against his shoulder (strong, too), and his hand is on her upper arm, fingers long and touching her skin and it's hot, so hot, and Mamori can't breathe.

She draws away at the first chance, blushing and muttering her thanks without meeting his eyes. She wonders if it's just the weather that makes shivers of warmth run up and down her spine.

She doesn't think it is, and she hates Hiruma for it (he's laughing, chuckling softly and giving her that wicked, wicked grin she lovehates).

When they get off the train, she reaches down swiftly to pick up a clipboard that's already gone. Looking up, scowling already, she finds Hiruma walking off with her clipboard over one shoulder. He glances back, eyes challenging, smirk on his face.

Mamori dashes forward suddenly, ignoring the dying sun that beats down on her. She reaches him, not before he realizes it but before he's decided whether or not to return her board, and she snatches it out of his hand. Skin touches skin briefly, and she burns.

She ignores it and continues walking, head up and defiant (he's still grinning at her).

When she lays in bed that night, her hand burns, and her body remembers his warmth, like the flames of his devil's hell.

Mamori sighs, rolls over, and kicks off the covers.