Ten minutes left on the clock and he's on his knees, hands numb as they take the weight of his worn-out body. Everything is cool around him: the air, the grass, the tears in his eyes. Unshed for now, waiting for later. Sena closes his eyes, breathes in, and stands on shivering legs. The stadium around him shouts, breaking through the shield he'd distractedly set around himself, dissolving the silence of his focus with claps and hoots. Deimon, they say, or maybe Alexanders – Sena has long since stopped listening.
Yamato takes off his helmet with one hand, drops the ball with another, and then waits. The reporters are screaming touchdown, Hiruma's screaming profanities, and somewhere in the distance Suzuna is crooning for him, looking alight with sweat and tension as she jumps alongside the cheerleading team. The ace of the Teikoku team leans in, sets a hand against Sena's closest shoulder. It is wide and strong and Sena's knees almost crumble under its stony weight.
"I will not lose," Yamato says, and something inside Sena twists, like bile or glee or excitement.
"This is not the end," Sena finds himself replying, peering at Yamato from under his helmet's visor, pulling it up to maintain his seriousness. The stadium is bright all over, camera flashes and banners with bold letters, but Sena's eyes only stick to the white glare of Yamato's damp face.
Yamato, in return, only laughs, and it's not derisive, just cheerful, like a hunter and a worthy prey. His hand drops as he turns away, stares at the colored floor under their feet. Sena rises to the occasion, straightening his back, ignoring the sharp throb that runs over from his ankle to his calf; it's icily soothed by Doboroku-sensei's wraps, but the shiver that wrecks Sena has nothing to do with temperature.
"Give me your best," the real Eyeshield 21 says, voice deep and shoulders wide, that stance unafraid.
"I wouldn't think of doing otherwise," the fake Eyeshield 21 replies, returning to his position, the fire in his eyes sharper than any run.