Summary: Some things settle, some things don't, some things wait- until they get tired of waiting. A look into post-return and pre-Kantou Musashi and Hiruma.
"Hey, Fucking Old Man, you're just going to stay in here?"
Takekura Gen, reluctantly christened Musashi by a certain blonde demon, looked up from the book he was reading. Reintegrating into high school life was… interesting, to say the least. He still loved football, and he hadn't had any trouble picking it back up, but almost a year's break had left him behind in several subjects- something he now had to pursue in his spare time between football practice and regular class. Usually, in the club room.
Musashi had been excused from dealing with the company until the end of the season, but he still dropped by the building after school, sometimes. Just to see. Or maybe it was just that old habits died hard. He had been hustled away by the other employees, anyway, sent back with assurances that they were getting along just fine without him. Even his father, the last time he'd seen him, had gruffly ordered him to leave. He had pretended not to see the sports magazine hastily swept under the bed.
Lost in thought, it was only after Hiruma flipped him the finger that he realized he hadn't answered.
The blonde quarterback stood in front of him, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a sleek black M16 assault rifle. A large green bubble blossomed from his mouth and, caving in to pressure, popped. The faint scent of green apples drifted to his nose, mingling with faintly warm breath. (Monta would swear up and down that Hiruma didn't have any body heat. Demons were cold blooded.) He was still in uniform, the top few buttons undone, a red shirt peeking through. Probably his jersey.
"I'm studying," Musashi replied blandly, tapping the book against the table. Graphs and charts were littered across the surface. Calculus.
"You don't need that shit," Hiruma snorted. The gum disappeared into his mouth, chewed up in a matter of seconds by sharp, very white teeth. Hefting his gun, there was an audible click and the cold, if slim, end of a barrel pressed against Musashi's grizzled cheek like the bony finger of Death.
Musashi supposed there would be no title more apt.
"Playing football also means being a high school student," Musashi pointed out.
"Don't fuck with me, Old Man, you shouldn't have any trouble. Only fucking fatty and the fucking brats have as much trouble with Deimon's curriculum." The gun traveled up his cheek, down, followed the line of his neck. It dipped into the v of his shirt, popping three loose buttons and baring Musashi's tanned chest underneath. He hadn't worn a shirt, today. It was just like Hiruma to take advantage of it. Staring straight back at Musashi's impassive face, Hiruma grinned and brushed the barrel against his nipple, daring him to comment, react, moan.
He wasn't sure when Hiruma started doing this. He'd never reacted, before. Sometimes, Musashi wondered if that was what the blonde was waiting for, behind the gleam of his eyes and the too-wide grin.
For a crazy moment, he wondered what would happen if he took him up on his offer and pinned him down to the table to screw him senseless. It lasted three breaths before he smiled at his own folly. Sex with Hiruma would be rough, exciting, and demanding. There was no doubt about that. But Musashi had a feeling that it would pull him inexorably, completely, down into the devil's lair. One into two into three. Inescapable. And he couldn't, not while he still had his father to think about.
Turning back to the book, he calmly turned away from Hiruma and re-opened the chapter, staring at the squiggles of polynomial functions and derivatives.
Hiruma cackled and the table creaked under his weight, his firm thighs nudging themselves against either side of his broad shoulders. Then, with very little effort or warning, he slotted an arm holding a revolver over Musashi's shoulder and emptied an entire magazine into the pages.
Musashi dropped the book, the perforated sheets scattering across the floor.
"You've been staring at the same damn page for the past fucking hour, Old Man," Hiruma said. "You should know better." He tossed the smoking gun away, the metal clattering noisily as it hit a pipe and then fell on Cerberos' roof, promptly sniffed at and mangled by powerful canine jaws.
"Yoichi," Musashi sighed, facing him again. He had no idea what Hiruma wanted, right now. Apart from him, and that he wasn't ready to give. Though he had a sneaking suspicion it would be troublesome, whatever it was. That was his way, after all. Pushing and pushing for his own way until you just crumpled and accepted it. Except, he hadn't, for him. Never, for him. Only temptation (a row of brown balls all lined up on the earth) and seduction (a common dream, the pull of cloth, the feel of the gun traveling down his spine).
"They're not brats, your fucking employees." Hiruma had always had a way of hitting the mark. Particularly when you least expected it.
"…I trust them."
"You damn well better, Fucking Old Man. I'm not going to let you go back till we've had our Christmas Bowl." Hiruma's face broke into a feral grin, all teeth and passion and the confidence of a demon.
"We're going. And you're coming with me."
A/N: This thing…warped. Really. It was SUPPOSED to be the start of a fic detailing the events within the shared room on the cruise ship of the Sena the Detective episode. Instead, Musashi and Hiruma ran away with it. Hiru-muse just produced the random machine gun molestation style out of thin air, too. Clearly, this drabble has gained a life of its own.
I tried to research a bit on guns, but if I have something wrong, feel free to tell me.
…So…this is my first Eyeshield ficcy? Unbetaed and hastily written. Title is something random that's a homonym play on rerouting.