Author's Note: Hi, this is my first fanfiction story. I seem to be having some trouble with creating a scene break. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd gladly welcome them. Thank you for reading. ^..^
Disclaimer: I make no claim to the ownership of any Eyeshield 21 characters. Eyeshield 21 and all its facets belong to Riichiro Inagaki, who is awesome. This is not for profit, simply personal entertainment with the intent to improve my writing.
It was an awkward affair, their first date. Then again, their whole relationship seemed awkward. Mamori sat across from Hiruma at a small table in the corner of the building. It was poorly lit. She could barely see him, and he had pulled out a gun when the waiter had leaned forward to speak to them. The poor man had quickly stumbled back. A young woman replaced him, shaking. She did not lean forward.
Despite this, it was a nice restuarant, fancier than Mamori had expected. It was fortunate she had listened to Hiruma when he told her to wear semi-formal.
Their silverware clinked.
Mamori shifted tugged at the hemline of her pale blue dress. Hiruma was looking anywhere but at her. He had dressed for the occasion as well. Her boyfriend, if only she could smile at the thought, wore a simple lavender button-down shirt and black slacks. His blonde spikes were almost flat. The style was certainly less pointy than usual. She tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear.
The movement attracted Hiruma's attention. He glanced at her, then looked away. "You look nice."
"Thanks," Mamori said, brightly despite her thoughts. "So do you."
He nodded and continued eating. She wished she hadn't confessed.
Everything was different now, awkward. As if the brilliant spark they had was replaced by this... this. Very little had actually changed, but it all felt different, somehow, flat and stressed. He still called her fucking manager or some other epitaph. They yelled and they fought, about plays, about respect, about Sena, about guns. But, when they were alone, those brief times when everyone else had left the clubroom or had not yet arrived, there was nothing. She sat on one side of the table. He sat on the other.
"The food is good." Mamori ventured.
"Tch, it better be." Hiruma scowled. "It was a damn nightmare to find a..." he paused, catching himself, "A suitable place," He finished, somewhat lamely, and frowned at himself for it.
Mamori tilted her head. Her short hair escaped her ear and tilted with her head, revealing a small earring. Hiruma took a long drink. When he sat the glass down, Mamori asked, "What do you mean by suitable, Hiruma-kun?"
Sharp teeth showing, Hiruma grinned, "You'll see for dessert. I ordered while you were fidgeting, manajerk."
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Her confession had been absolutely unspectacular. Two weeks ago, she waited until after practice, when it was just the two of them. They were sorting plays and trying to decide on a team to have a practice game against.
"Zokugaku is always up for a game," Mamori suggested, not really thinking as she blindly shifted through pages. She was trying to work up the courage for what, she was convinced, would certainly fail.
"Are you even paying attention, shitty manager? We played them last week. The fucking team needs to practice against different types of players." Hiruma said, harshly scolding her.
Ashamed for neglecting her duties as manager, Mamori quickly skimmed through her notes before pulling out the ones she was searching for. She handed it to Hiruma, saying, "I was thinking this college team might be willing to play us. They have several new players on their reserve team, so they could use the practice as well."
Hiruma swiftly read her notes. "Do it." He grinned, widely.
Mamori nodded, and the two fell into a comfortable silence. She hoped the team would agree to play with them without Hiruma's intervention. Things always tended to become high-strung, bets made, countries crossed, when people were reluctant. The quarterback had already begun researching this new team's strategies while Mamori double-checked her notes and made plans on how best to approach their coach.
After a few minutes, Mamori set down her pen and looked up. Hiruma glanced at her, immediately noting her change in posture. "Finally going to say what's been bugging you, fucking manager?"
Sighing, she told him, "I'd really rather you called me by name, Hiruma-kun."
"That's old news, fuck-ing man-a-ger." He drew out the last two words in a taunt. No longer interested, he closed his laptop and stood to leave.
Mamori stood with him, angry, "Ooh, you're suck a jerk, Hiruma-kun! Why can't you just let me confess?" She said, letting her temper get the better of her.
Hiruma paused. "Confess?"
"Yes," she shouted. "I like you!" The words echoed through the clubroom, half challenge. She stood, eyes fiery and waited for him to turn her down.
He stilled, only moving his eyes at first, taking in her flushed face, balled fists. She liked him? "Sure," he said, then casually continued toward the exit.
Startled and confused, Mamori chased after him. "Wait, what?" Hiruma stopped right before the door.
He turned around and met her eyes. With more confidence than she had confessed with, he explained, "Sure, we can go out." Then, he left.
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That was all there was to it until she had demanded a date three days ago. Hiruma had nodded. The next day, he had given her a time and general suggestion on dress. Now, they were here, at The Cafe, which usually required reservations considerably more than three days in advance.
Mamori poked at her food. It was delicious, but she wasn't really enjoying it. Hiruma set down his knife and fork, which he'd used as if he were native to them, then waved at the waitress. Within moments, the harried girl had swept away their finished dishes, filled their glasses, and brought a covered tray. Mamori was impressed. The girl paused before removing the lid with a flourish.
Hiruma smirked. "It's not quite Kariya's, but it's the chef's specialty."
On the plate were six creampuffs, but not exactly. They had a strange red sauce dribbled over them. Their filling also had a slight red tint and a tang she did not expect or recognize. They were not Kariya creampuffs, no, but she relished them in near the same fashion. Conscious of the situation, she daintily ate three. Hiruma ate one. The last two sat on the plate, taunting her.
In the dim light, so focused on the dessert it was impolite to eat, Mamori missed the slight softening of Hiruma's expression. His lips quirked, just a little, as he watched her, struggling between her appreciation of the food, the knowledge that he wouldn't eat them and her sense of fairness and etiquette. Finally, Mamori laid down her fork, signaling a victory over temptation. Hiruma turned away before she could catch his smile.
The check came, along with a small box. Hiruma took the check and ignored the box. His date, curious as always, pulled it to her. Inside were twelve more creampuffs.
Hiruma closed the book with a snap. Mamori jumped. "You might as well put the last two in there. I won't eat them."
"Did you not like them?"
He scowled. "Too fucking sweet. I thought the wine might help, but it didn't."
"Wine, Hiruma-kun, did you drink wine? We're still underage." She scolded on reflex.
"Tch, we didn't drink any wine; besides, I had less than you did. Where do you want to go next?" Hiruma stood, dismissing her concern, and circled to her side of the table. Mamori shuffled in her purse before pulling out a billfold. Hiruma pulled her chair away from the table with her still sitting, then placed himself before her in the space he'd made. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm helping with the bill. Afterall, I did insist you take me on this date." She leaned around Hiruma to reach for the bill. Hiruma grabbed her outstretched hand and lifted her from her seat. For a brief moment, their bodies were pressed closely together.
"Are you trying to insult me?" He asked, still holding her hand, his voice gruff.
"Ah, um, no. I'm sorry," she said, stepping out of reach and freeing her hand, embarrassed. "I just..."
Hiruma's already unpleasant expression turned harsh as he angrily walked past her. "You just wanted to treat me like the fucking shrimps. Don't forget your creampuffs, fucking manager."