A/N: Is anyone still reading this? Here is another chapter, just in case you are.

Chapter 8

I'll stick to my guns so from now on it's war

I am armed with the past and the will

And a brick

-Good Arms vs. Bad Arms

Hiruma perched on the edge of the sink in the school bathroom, his torso twisted as he strained to keep a clear view of his ear in the dirty mirror. He held an ice cube against the upper cartilage and watched the water slide down his neck as it melted.

He caught sight of his face in the mirror. The dark circles and pale skin said a lot about how he'd been sleeping lately. His eyes flicked away.

The bathroom door swung open. He saw Musashi's reflection walk up to him in the mirror.

"I thought I posted a sign," he muttered, scowling as Musashi gave him that calm, passive stare.

"You mean the skull you painted in red on the door?" Musashi asked. "I figured you didn't mean it."

"I did," Hiruma said shortly. "Get the fuck out, old man."

Musashi stepped closer. "If you meant it, you'd be doing this at your hotel."

He had no answer to that, so he went back to staring at the ice cube. His ear had been numb for about a minute now. That was probably long enough.

"Well, I hope you don't mind the sight of blood." He let out a cackle, though it sounded half-hearted even to him. "But I guess you wouldn't be playing with us if that bothered you. Plenty of blood in American football."

He could feel Musashi's stare on him, like a weight.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Hiruma waved to the ice cube and to the needle and earring set out on the counter. "What does it look like?"

"Doesn't it hurt to pierce the cartilage? Should you be doing that by yourself?"

Hiruma scowled and chucked the ice cube at him. "Shut up or get the fuck out."

Musashi did neither. He just walked closer, until he stood an inch away from where Hiruma's lean legs dangled off the sink. Hiruma couldn't ignore the stare, not from that distance, so he just put on a scowl.

The fucking old man opened his mouth to say something. Hiruma turned away, his hand searching for the needle. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and used the flame to sterilize it.

"…Kurita is worried about you," Musashi finally said.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I don't, actually." The lighter snapped closed. He turned back towards the mirror and held up the needle, trying to get the placement right. His spiky hair was pinned back so that he could see, leaving it oddly flat on the side. It made his reflection look off-balance.

"I already found a new high school for us to go to, so he can stop feeling guilty about not getting into Shinryuuji. Deimon will take any idiot. All we have to do is start a team there, recruit a few more players, and we're good."

"Stop it."

"A running back," Hiruma went on. "We definitely need a running back. Once we find him, everything else will be simple."

"I said stop!"

Hiruma flinched. Musashi hardly ever yelled. He hardly ever even reacted to anything Hiruma said. He met his gaze in the mirror, not daring to turn back around to face him full-on. He looked more sad than angry. He'd been looking at Hiruma like that ever since he'd told them what… had told them that they wouldn't be going to Shinryuuji.

He'd said it all wrong, he realized that now. He should have bluffed it from the beginning, pretended that he'd changed his mind and withdrawn Kurita's name from the scholarship. Hiruma could have convinced him that starting a new team at Deimon would be more fun. If he'd had enough time, he could have showed him that Shinryuuji wasn't enough of a challenge – wasn't good enough for them. Kurita would have accepted it eventually.

But instead he'd stumbled back to the practice field the next day, still raw and smoldering from his encounter with Agon, and he'd told Kurita and Musashi everything exactly as it had happened.

He had known that Agon was capable of this. Maybe not consciously, but in his gut. Even so, it hurt worse than he had thought it would.

Hiruma twisted back around, ignoring the worry lines making tracks all over Musashi's face. He fumbled for his hand, rough from carrying planks and cement buckets, and pressed the delicate needle between his fingers.

"You do it," he said. "Right here." He placed his index finger on the spot, a little less than a third of the way down his ear.

"I'm not going to pierce your ear," Musashi said.

Hiruma laughed, louder this time. "It's easy. Just stick the needle straight through." He shifted closer and reached for those big hands, raising them up. "Quick as a nail going through wood. You don't even need a hammer."

"It's going to hurt."

"I numbed it."

"It's still going to hurt."

"Just do it, fucking old man!" he snarled. His thin fingers dug into Musashi's wrist. Not hard enough to bruise. Hiruma had never been strong enough for that.

Musashi probably was. He was big from all the physical labor he put himself through. Not as big as… as some people, but big enough. Hiruma considered that, taking in the breadth of his shoulders and his well-defined arms shown off by the sleeveless top he was wearing. He smelled of sweat and salt, cleaner in a way than the stink of the bathroom.

Hiruma pulled the hand closer to him and saw something in Musashi's eyes give way. One hand, the hand that wasn't holding the needle, went around to the back of Hiruma's head to brace it. Hiruma hooked one leg around Musashi's waist and pulled him still closer.

"Do it," he whispered, his eyes boring into the gentle brown ones, pleading. He dropped his hands to the counter and waited.

Musashi swallowed. From the corner of his eye, Hiruma watched his adam's apple bob under stubbled skin. His eyes fell closed and he stepped back, swallowing again. The needle dropped onto the counter, bounced and then skittered away. He slid out from Hiruma's leg and took few steps back.

"I just came to tell you that I need to leave early again."

"Work?"

"Yes."

Hiruma didn't say anything, and Musashi left, the door swinging closed behind him.

Hiruma sat alone on the counter. One finger touched his ear; the feeling was starting to come back into it. It would hurt like hell to put the needle through now. He was still tempted to do it, but the needle had disappeared. Probably had rolled down the sink.

He gathered up the rest of his things and walked home.

Hiruma saw two choices in front of him. One, he could retaliate, plan some way to get even with fucking Kongo Agon. Two, he could focus on starting a new team and everything that went with that.

The answer was simple. He only had two years to create the best team in Japan. There was no time to waste. He took everything else in his life that served as a distraction – including Kongo Agon – and buried it.

The three of them started their freshman year of high school with tentative club status for their American Football team. Hiruma had managed to get that for them, at least. The Deimon Devilbats were still only three members big, but Hiruma had already come up with a back-up list of slaves to fill out the roster. In the meantime, he kept his eye out for a runningback, though it looked like most of the best sprinters were committed to other clubs.

It wasn't the way he wanted to start, but it was what he had to work with. He was bored to death in his classes and used the spare time to work on a code system for plays he had thought up. Of course, to enact any of them, he needed actual teammates…

He was in the middle of math one afternoon, flipping lazily through his playbook, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. So far, he had a balance of defensive and offensive plays ready, but without a solid line, all of the defensive ones were worthless. Linemen would be the hardest to recruit. It was such a thankless position, and most didn't have the correct physique for it. Kurita was something of a miracle in size, even if he was slow.

But if he switched his focus entirely to offensive plays, it wouldn't matter. He could start with the runningback. If he could just develop an entire play strategy around that position, then it would be fine to fill the roster with stand-ins. The chances of winning were small, but at least they existed.

He picked up his math notebook, ripped out the three pages of notes he had taken, and tossed them over his shoulder. His teacher shot him a nervous look, but shrank away as soon as Hiruma showed him a sharp-toothed grin.

He began writing.

"Hiruma!" Kurita exclaimed. "These plays are great!"

"Learn them well, fucking fatty," Hiruma said. He pointed at the notebook in Kurita's hands. "A good center is critical for these to work. You're not just a player; you need to be a fucking wall."

Kurita grinned and lunged forward alarmingly towards Hiruma, who was perched on the edge of the clubroom's table. Hiruma stuck out one foot before he could get any closer and turn it into a hug. Musashi walked in just as Hiruma managed to throw him off. Kurita's enormous weight caused their little club room to shake when he hit the floor.

Musashi raised an eyebrow and Hiruma gestured to the notebook lying on the floor. "New plays. You've been keeping your eyes peeled for a runningback, right?"

Musashi stuck his pinky into his right ear. "I'm just the kicker. Tell me when to do that and I'll listen."

"Well, when we get our fucking star, his runs can make up for the kicks you miss."

"You mean if, right?"

"When," Hiruma insisted.

Kurita popped up from the ground again. "Musashi, there's a lot that you can learn from these plays, too!" he said excitedly. "Have you learned about onside kicks yet? They're a great strategy, especially for when we get our runningback."

Musashi apparently didn't have the heart to discourage their friend, not when his whole body was thrumming with excitement. He picked up the notebook and flipped through the pages. Hiruma kept a wary eye on him as he did so.

Neither of them had said a word about the incident in the bathroom. In fact, Hiruma didn't think they had been alone for more than a few seconds since then. It had been about a week. Kurita seemed oblivious to the tension between them, but Hiruma was beginning to worry that this wasn't something he could just sweep under the rug.

He still felt that he barely knew Musashi. The other boy was so quiet all the time, so unperturbed by Hiruma's antics. Hiruma was used to defining people by what they wanted – but what exactly did Musashi want?

"So are we going to stand in here or are we going to practice some of these?" Musashi said, his deep voice startling Hiruma out of his thoughts. His eyes caught Hiruma's for a second before switching quickly to Kurita's.

With a shout, Kurita grabbed the notebook from Musashi and barreled out to the field, dragging their beat-up practice dummy with him. Hiruma cackled and hopped off of the table. "I know exactly which one to start fucking fatty on."

"I have to leave early again today."

Hiruma froze, his hand halfway to the one football the club owned. He didn't say anything, didn't even look at the other boy.

"It's work," Musashi added. "This time of year is the busy season and my old man really needs me."

"Busy season," Hiruma echoed. His eyes were still on the dirtied white laces that kept the football stitched shut.

"It only lasts another month, and then I can be here every day," Musashi promised.

Hiruma finally forced himself to look Musashi in the eye. "Is this my fault?"

"What?" Musashi asked. He looked taken aback, his eyes widening.

"Are you avoiding me because of last week?"

He clenched his jaw at the hesitant look Musashi gave him – like he was trying to decide whether to answer honestly.

"Because I'm not going to fucking apologize," he finished. "If I had to apologize for every fucked up thing I've done, I'd never have time for anything else."

The sad expression that settled onto Musashi's face made him angry in a way that he didn't even understand. He fucking hated it when he couldn't understand something.

"I'm not mad at you," Musashi said firmly. "Not about last week, and not about anything else. I have to work a lot right now, but starting next month, I'll be here. I'll be ready for the spring tournament."

"Well, you better be, fucking old man," he answered, but there was none of the usual bite in his tone. He wanted to feel relieved, but he felt more disappointed instead. It would have been easier if Musashi had just been angry with him.

"If we have any chance to win the spring tournament, we need all the practice we can get," he said. He picked up the football and tucked it under his arm.

Musashi fished his helmet out of a box underneath the table. "But you don't really think we have a chance of winning, right?"

"There's no point in playing if we don't have a chance."

"But – I mean, come on. You'll get Kurita's hopes up if you really act like we can win."

Hiruma grabbed his own helmet, and Kurita's as well, since the idiot had left it behind. "We're going to the fucking Christmas Bowl. If I didn't know that was true, I would give up right now."

Musashi looked he was going to protest again, but he held back. He slid the helmet on and snapped the strap into place. "Then we better get back to practice."

"Fuck yes." Hiruma slammed his machine gun onto his shoulder, took a deep breath, and charged out of the room, ready to run up to Kurita with bullets blazing to get him to run just a little bit faster. He could practically feel Musashi shaking his head behind him, but he didn't look back. There was no time for that.