ES21 Fic: Disengagement
Opening post, first fic in a new fandom. Go me.
Title: Disengagement
Author: Reston
Summary: Musashi leaves. UST ensues.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Warnings: MusaHiru. Spoilers for chapters 132. Also, minor playing around with of canon timeline.
Seeing Musashi in workers’ clothes pissed Hiruma off in a way that he tried not to pay attention to. It threw off his game.
“You want help there, old man?” said Hiruma, leaning against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his posture unworried and relaxed as he watched Musashi sweat under the midday sun.
“Funny.” Musashi exhaled breath in a rush as he hauled a bundle of wooden beams over his shoulder. Hiruma watched Musashi’s arms strain from the effort, lines of sweat dripping from his elbows. “You and hard physical labor? Give me a break.”
“Football’s hard,” pointed out Hiruma. “Physical, too.”
“You know what I mean,” said Musashi as he straightened.
Hiruma watched the beams wobble, smirking. “Too bad,” he said. “Looks like the construction worker’s life isn’t for you.”
Musashi grunted without saying anything, shoes scuffing in the dirt as he regained his balance. He turned and began to make his way back to the construction site. “Get back to class, Hiruma. Skipping is bad.”
“What the hell are you doing then, fucking hypocrite?” retorted Hiruma. He paused, narrowing his eyes. “And is that a beard you’re growing?”
Musashi paused mid-step, touching his chin self-consciously. “It helps me fit in with the other workers, I think,” he said. He grinned at Hiruma. “You like?”
Hiruma scoffed, ignoring the dread tightening his insides. “You look fucking terrible.”
Musashi flipped Hiruma off before staggering away.
___________________________________________________
“We lost our last game by two fucking points,” said Hiruma almost two months later, picking his way over piles of equipment to where Musashi was mixing foundation concrete with a shovel. He was chewing his gum viciously enough that that ache in his jaw was a distraction from the ache in his shoulders, calves, thighs, the slow burn of anger knotted in his chest.
Musashi’s eyebrows knitted together. After a moment, he shrugged. “That’s too bad.”
“We were on the 30-yard line at the end of the game,” said Hiruma shortly, picking a support beam to lean against. “30 yards and down two points.”
“You missed the kick, didn’t you?”
“Fucking old man. I can’t kick worth shit and you know it.”
Musashi didn’t say anything, continuing to stir the concrete. There was a smear of concrete mix on his forehead, gray powder caked on his hands up to his forearms, but his movements were sure and steady, no signs of fatigue at all.
Musashi had built up muscle in the past few weeks, most visibly in his shoulders and arms. His hands had grown calloused and weathered, his fingernails chipped and grimy. He’d taken to tying a bandanna around his forehead to keep the sweat off his face.
“Look at you,” Hiruma heard himself say. “You don’t even look-” He bit himself off, chewing furiously on his gum.
Musashi smiled at the concrete. “Look my age?” he suggested.
“Look like yourself,” snapped Hiruma. “That’s what I was going to say.”
Musashi’s stirring never stopped, but the line of his jaw tightened and his shoulders seemed to hunch in on themselves.
Neither of them said anything after that. Hiruma watched Musashi’s impassive expression until the concrete was thoroughly mixed, blowing and popping one bubble after another.
“Gen-chan!” someone shouted from across the construction site. “We need you over here!”
“Yeah!” Musashi straightened. “Give me a minute!”
Hiruma leaned in. “Remind me, Musashi,” he hissed. “Why the fuck am I doing the kicking?”
Musashi shook off his shovel, flicking droplets of wet concrete from the shovel’s blade. He looked Hiruma in the eye. “I suggest Takada from the soccer team,” he said evenly. “And hurry up about it, before they make him a starter.” He put the shovel down, turning away from Hiruma’s incredulous look. “Don’t mess with the concrete. I’ll pour all your ammo into my next foundation if you do.”
Hiruma watched him leave, then stared at the drying concrete for a long time, blowing bubbles and trying to think.
___________________________________________________
“Christmas,” Hiruma remarked to the pre-dawn sky, watching his breath turn white in the cold air. “And some fucking old men,” he added pointedly, “are awake and at school and working at five a.m.”
He heard a snort drift up from beneath him. “Can’t help it,” said Musashi.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Hiruma.
“Scattering salt,” said Musashi. “Principal hired us to fix up the clubrooms over winter break.”
“Don’t you know what day it is, old man?” said Hiruma. He leapt down from the fence he’d been sitting on, slipping on the icy pavement for a breathless second before regaining his balance. “Shit!”
Musashi was grinning, the bastard. He threw salt at Hiruma from the bag slung over his shoulder. “See?” he said. “Told you.” He put down the bag and sat down on it. “This job has to get done before everyone takes off New Year’s. My crew’s showing up in an hour.”
“They’re going to expel you if you miss any more school,” said Hiruma. “I could talk to the principal again.”
“Again?” Musashi looked at him edgewise. “I knew this job had something to do with you.” He reached into his back pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes-Seven Stars. As Hiruma watched, Musashi lit one and took a deep drag, expelling smoke and frosted breath into the air.
Hiruma narrowed his eyes. “Since when did you start smoking?”
Musashi shrugged. “Got used to the taste.”
“They’ll do hell to your speed.”
Musashi inhaled again. “Never had much use for that anyway,” he said.
There were warning bells going off in the back of Hiruma’s head. He snapped his gum. “You’re watching the game today, aren’t you?”
Musashi wasn’t looking at him. “No.”
Hiruma stopped chewing. “No?”
“I’ll be working all day,” explained Musashi, still smoking, still not looking at Hiruma. “So I won’t have time.”
“Won’t have time,” repeated Hiruma, each icy word stabbing into the semi-dark. He stood up, resisting the urge to begin shooting up everything in sight, and began to pace across the salted pavement, back and forth, back and forth. “You-”
Hiruma bit off the rest with a snarl. He spat out his gum, turned on his heel, and stalked into the football clubroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
It was dark and freezing inside, but Hiruma wasn’t surprised when Musashi followed him in anyway. He’d at least put his cigarette out. Hiruma paced for a moment longer under Musashi’s gaze, trying uselessly to walk it off, then whirled around and leveled one threatening finger at Musashi. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it. Don’t you dare fucking tell me that you don’t miss it.”
Musashi’s expression was unsmiling and flat, nothing exposed at all.
“Christmas Bowl,” snapped Hiruma, mostly to see Musashi flinch. “Christmas Bowl! Remember that, you fucking senile old man? The fatass won’t stop babbling about it!”
“Hiruma,” said Musashi tightly. “Hiruma, it’s just a game.”
Hiruma stopped short. “Just a game?” he repeated. “You think it’s just a game?” Hiruma felt his hands twitch for the handgun tucked into the small of his back, wanting to rip that calm expression off Musashi’s face, wanting to pound some sense back into that thick head. “You stupid, fucking-”
He had the gun, but this was Musashi, and Musashi hadn’t been intimidated by Hiruma’s arsenal ever. Musashi caught Hiruma’s right wrist when Hiruma went for the gun, then grabbed Hiruma’s other wrist mostly in self-defense. He backed Hiruma up against the opposite wall, sending posters crumpling to the floor, and just stood there with Hiruma’s wrists in his hands, apparently determined to wait Hiruma out. Hiruma snarled at him, arms flexing uselessly in Musashi’s grip, furious at-fuck, everything-Musashi and cigarettes and being fucking held down like this, fucking losing.
“Calm down,” said Musashi.
“Shut up,” snarled Hiruma, then lunged forward as best he could with his hands pinned and caught Musashi’s mouth with his own.
The kiss was hard and messy and demanding-months of frustration-no finesse at all until Musashi let go of Hiruma, big hands settling on Hiruma’s hips, thumbs hooking into Hiruma’s jeans. Hiruma fisted one hand in the back of Musashi’s jacket and wrapped his other arm around the back of Musashi’s neck, pulling him closer, pulling him in. Musashi’s stubble rasped across Hiruma’s face. Musashi’s hands clutched and tugged, impossible to ignore.
Hiruma wasn’t sure when the kiss changed, only one minute Musashi was breathing into his mouth and trying to yank Hiruma closer and then in the next Musashi was turning his face away, shoving at Hiruma's chest to put some space between them.
“Stop,” said Musashi, and when Hiruma didn't immediately pull away, he grabbed Hiruma's arms and shoved Hiruma against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. "I said-"
Hiruma stopped. Took a deep breath, feeling the cold wall shoved hard against his back, Musashi’s rough hands clamped around his arms, pinning him down, holding him still. Musashi’s mouth was reddened and grim. Musashi’s breath was hot and furious against Hiruma’s skin. Musashi’s face was mostly hidden by his bangs, but Hiruma could see that his shoulders were hard and rigid with tension, practically shaking with it.
“Stop it,” Musashi said through his teeth, his hands on Hiruma's arms squeezing tight, tight, tight. “Just-stop it. Following me around, showing up at all my worksites, messing with me at five in the morning, and then this-”
“Going to say it’s a game?” Hiruma hissed furiously. “Like hell it’s a fucking game-”
“Yeah, okay,” snarled Musashi. “Fine, it’s not a fucking game. But my job isn’t a fucking game either, and my dad is sick in the hospital, and my crew-” He took a deep, shaky breath. “You think you can change anything, but this is not something you can change.”
Hiruma bared teeth. “Yeah?”
Musashi was still. “Yeah,” he said. “I won't let you.”
And then Musashi let go. Pulled away, those words hanging between them, the shared warmth from just minutes earlier whispering away in the winter chill, gone. Stood there, hands helplessly clenched at his sides. Didn’t quite meet Hiruma’s eyes when he left, and Hiruma rubbed at his arms when the door slid shut, telling himself that the sick taste in the back of his mouth wasn’t defeat.
1,724 words.
Note to self: I owe kasugai_gummie my first born chid more MusaHiru fic.
Title: Disengagement
Author: Reston
Summary: Musashi leaves. UST ensues.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Warnings: MusaHiru. Spoilers for chapters 132. Also, minor playing around with of canon timeline.
Seeing Musashi in workers’ clothes pissed Hiruma off in a way that he tried not to pay attention to. It threw off his game.
“You want help there, old man?” said Hiruma, leaning against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his posture unworried and relaxed as he watched Musashi sweat under the midday sun.
“Funny.” Musashi exhaled breath in a rush as he hauled a bundle of wooden beams over his shoulder. Hiruma watched Musashi’s arms strain from the effort, lines of sweat dripping from his elbows. “You and hard physical labor? Give me a break.”
“Football’s hard,” pointed out Hiruma. “Physical, too.”
“You know what I mean,” said Musashi as he straightened.
Hiruma watched the beams wobble, smirking. “Too bad,” he said. “Looks like the construction worker’s life isn’t for you.”
Musashi grunted without saying anything, shoes scuffing in the dirt as he regained his balance. He turned and began to make his way back to the construction site. “Get back to class, Hiruma. Skipping is bad.”
“What the hell are you doing then, fucking hypocrite?” retorted Hiruma. He paused, narrowing his eyes. “And is that a beard you’re growing?”
Musashi paused mid-step, touching his chin self-consciously. “It helps me fit in with the other workers, I think,” he said. He grinned at Hiruma. “You like?”
Hiruma scoffed, ignoring the dread tightening his insides. “You look fucking terrible.”
Musashi flipped Hiruma off before staggering away.
___________________________________________________
“We lost our last game by two fucking points,” said Hiruma almost two months later, picking his way over piles of equipment to where Musashi was mixing foundation concrete with a shovel. He was chewing his gum viciously enough that that ache in his jaw was a distraction from the ache in his shoulders, calves, thighs, the slow burn of anger knotted in his chest.
Musashi’s eyebrows knitted together. After a moment, he shrugged. “That’s too bad.”
“We were on the 30-yard line at the end of the game,” said Hiruma shortly, picking a support beam to lean against. “30 yards and down two points.”
“You missed the kick, didn’t you?”
“Fucking old man. I can’t kick worth shit and you know it.”
Musashi didn’t say anything, continuing to stir the concrete. There was a smear of concrete mix on his forehead, gray powder caked on his hands up to his forearms, but his movements were sure and steady, no signs of fatigue at all.
Musashi had built up muscle in the past few weeks, most visibly in his shoulders and arms. His hands had grown calloused and weathered, his fingernails chipped and grimy. He’d taken to tying a bandanna around his forehead to keep the sweat off his face.
“Look at you,” Hiruma heard himself say. “You don’t even look-” He bit himself off, chewing furiously on his gum.
Musashi smiled at the concrete. “Look my age?” he suggested.
“Look like yourself,” snapped Hiruma. “That’s what I was going to say.”
Musashi’s stirring never stopped, but the line of his jaw tightened and his shoulders seemed to hunch in on themselves.
Neither of them said anything after that. Hiruma watched Musashi’s impassive expression until the concrete was thoroughly mixed, blowing and popping one bubble after another.
“Gen-chan!” someone shouted from across the construction site. “We need you over here!”
“Yeah!” Musashi straightened. “Give me a minute!”
Hiruma leaned in. “Remind me, Musashi,” he hissed. “Why the fuck am I doing the kicking?”
Musashi shook off his shovel, flicking droplets of wet concrete from the shovel’s blade. He looked Hiruma in the eye. “I suggest Takada from the soccer team,” he said evenly. “And hurry up about it, before they make him a starter.” He put the shovel down, turning away from Hiruma’s incredulous look. “Don’t mess with the concrete. I’ll pour all your ammo into my next foundation if you do.”
Hiruma watched him leave, then stared at the drying concrete for a long time, blowing bubbles and trying to think.
___________________________________________________
“Christmas,” Hiruma remarked to the pre-dawn sky, watching his breath turn white in the cold air. “And some fucking old men,” he added pointedly, “are awake and at school and working at five a.m.”
He heard a snort drift up from beneath him. “Can’t help it,” said Musashi.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Hiruma.
“Scattering salt,” said Musashi. “Principal hired us to fix up the clubrooms over winter break.”
“Don’t you know what day it is, old man?” said Hiruma. He leapt down from the fence he’d been sitting on, slipping on the icy pavement for a breathless second before regaining his balance. “Shit!”
Musashi was grinning, the bastard. He threw salt at Hiruma from the bag slung over his shoulder. “See?” he said. “Told you.” He put down the bag and sat down on it. “This job has to get done before everyone takes off New Year’s. My crew’s showing up in an hour.”
“They’re going to expel you if you miss any more school,” said Hiruma. “I could talk to the principal again.”
“Again?” Musashi looked at him edgewise. “I knew this job had something to do with you.” He reached into his back pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes-Seven Stars. As Hiruma watched, Musashi lit one and took a deep drag, expelling smoke and frosted breath into the air.
Hiruma narrowed his eyes. “Since when did you start smoking?”
Musashi shrugged. “Got used to the taste.”
“They’ll do hell to your speed.”
Musashi inhaled again. “Never had much use for that anyway,” he said.
There were warning bells going off in the back of Hiruma’s head. He snapped his gum. “You’re watching the game today, aren’t you?”
Musashi wasn’t looking at him. “No.”
Hiruma stopped chewing. “No?”
“I’ll be working all day,” explained Musashi, still smoking, still not looking at Hiruma. “So I won’t have time.”
“Won’t have time,” repeated Hiruma, each icy word stabbing into the semi-dark. He stood up, resisting the urge to begin shooting up everything in sight, and began to pace across the salted pavement, back and forth, back and forth. “You-”
Hiruma bit off the rest with a snarl. He spat out his gum, turned on his heel, and stalked into the football clubroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
It was dark and freezing inside, but Hiruma wasn’t surprised when Musashi followed him in anyway. He’d at least put his cigarette out. Hiruma paced for a moment longer under Musashi’s gaze, trying uselessly to walk it off, then whirled around and leveled one threatening finger at Musashi. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it. Don’t you dare fucking tell me that you don’t miss it.”
Musashi’s expression was unsmiling and flat, nothing exposed at all.
“Christmas Bowl,” snapped Hiruma, mostly to see Musashi flinch. “Christmas Bowl! Remember that, you fucking senile old man? The fatass won’t stop babbling about it!”
“Hiruma,” said Musashi tightly. “Hiruma, it’s just a game.”
Hiruma stopped short. “Just a game?” he repeated. “You think it’s just a game?” Hiruma felt his hands twitch for the handgun tucked into the small of his back, wanting to rip that calm expression off Musashi’s face, wanting to pound some sense back into that thick head. “You stupid, fucking-”
He had the gun, but this was Musashi, and Musashi hadn’t been intimidated by Hiruma’s arsenal ever. Musashi caught Hiruma’s right wrist when Hiruma went for the gun, then grabbed Hiruma’s other wrist mostly in self-defense. He backed Hiruma up against the opposite wall, sending posters crumpling to the floor, and just stood there with Hiruma’s wrists in his hands, apparently determined to wait Hiruma out. Hiruma snarled at him, arms flexing uselessly in Musashi’s grip, furious at-fuck, everything-Musashi and cigarettes and being fucking held down like this, fucking losing.
“Calm down,” said Musashi.
“Shut up,” snarled Hiruma, then lunged forward as best he could with his hands pinned and caught Musashi’s mouth with his own.
The kiss was hard and messy and demanding-months of frustration-no finesse at all until Musashi let go of Hiruma, big hands settling on Hiruma’s hips, thumbs hooking into Hiruma’s jeans. Hiruma fisted one hand in the back of Musashi’s jacket and wrapped his other arm around the back of Musashi’s neck, pulling him closer, pulling him in. Musashi’s stubble rasped across Hiruma’s face. Musashi’s hands clutched and tugged, impossible to ignore.
Hiruma wasn’t sure when the kiss changed, only one minute Musashi was breathing into his mouth and trying to yank Hiruma closer and then in the next Musashi was turning his face away, shoving at Hiruma's chest to put some space between them.
“Stop,” said Musashi, and when Hiruma didn't immediately pull away, he grabbed Hiruma's arms and shoved Hiruma against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. "I said-"
Hiruma stopped. Took a deep breath, feeling the cold wall shoved hard against his back, Musashi’s rough hands clamped around his arms, pinning him down, holding him still. Musashi’s mouth was reddened and grim. Musashi’s breath was hot and furious against Hiruma’s skin. Musashi’s face was mostly hidden by his bangs, but Hiruma could see that his shoulders were hard and rigid with tension, practically shaking with it.
“Stop it,” Musashi said through his teeth, his hands on Hiruma's arms squeezing tight, tight, tight. “Just-stop it. Following me around, showing up at all my worksites, messing with me at five in the morning, and then this-”
“Going to say it’s a game?” Hiruma hissed furiously. “Like hell it’s a fucking game-”
“Yeah, okay,” snarled Musashi. “Fine, it’s not a fucking game. But my job isn’t a fucking game either, and my dad is sick in the hospital, and my crew-” He took a deep, shaky breath. “You think you can change anything, but this is not something you can change.”
Hiruma bared teeth. “Yeah?”
Musashi was still. “Yeah,” he said. “I won't let you.”
And then Musashi let go. Pulled away, those words hanging between them, the shared warmth from just minutes earlier whispering away in the winter chill, gone. Stood there, hands helplessly clenched at his sides. Didn’t quite meet Hiruma’s eyes when he left, and Hiruma rubbed at his arms when the door slid shut, telling himself that the sick taste in the back of his mouth wasn’t defeat.
1,724 words.
Note to self: I owe kasugai_gummie my first born chid more MusaHiru fic.