When Sena at last found his sweaty hands empty of flyers, he made a beeline for the house. It didn't feel right to be out on the streets unattended, uncollared, and it was a relief to pass through the fence and make it back onto his master's property.
He half expected Hiruma to pop up behind him demanding where he'd been, but when he turned to shut the fence, he found only Monta following, which was an even bigger relief.
Honestly, he had expected Monta to vanish the moment Hiruma left, but maybe Monta had enjoyed chatting with the surprisingly large crowd of surprisingly beautiful women that had gathered. Once Monta had passed out a few flyers and got a question here and there asking if he was one of Deimon's players, he'd enthusiastically begun to show off his catches. Whether or not the women were actually impressed, at least he was able to hold their attention long enough to hand out the flyers, which was better than Sena could say for himself.
"What? I got something on my face?" said Monta, as they worked together to push the gates shut. When it closed with a click, he did a quick swipe of his forehead with the back of his wrist. He did have a goofy grin and a bit of a blush, but that wasn't going to brush off.
"I just... Thanks for... coming back," said Sena, a certain promise from the car ride drifting through his head. Monta probably hadn't come back for his sake, but it didn't change how furious Hiruma would have been if Monta had disappeared, and there would have only been one available target for his anger. "I'm... really grateful."
Monta only scoffed, the relaxed cheer draining out of him in an instant. "That bastard Hiruma knew I wouldn't have anywhere to go, and wanted to rub it in my face. That's why he left me unguarded out there. If I was braver, I would have called his bluff and run. Ah, Sena, I'm so uncool..."
"I-I don't think so! I mean, I didn't run either."
The look that Monta gave him in response was a little insulting. "Come on," he said, "might as well go see what crazy practice he has cooking up for us now."
The front door turned out to be locked, and Sena was against the idea of just ringing the doorbell.
"Don't you know the code?" Monta gestured to the keypads, as incredulous that Sena wouldn't know, as Sena was incredulous at the idea that he would be told such valuable information.
"Let's check the practice yard," Sena suggested. "There's another door back there, maybe master left it open for us."
"Ugh," Monta rolled his eyes, "You can be so gross sometimes."
They were in luck. In the practice yard, they found Musashi actually up, or at least sitting on the grass, drinking from another mug of something. "Hey, Monta," he said when he saw them. "Hey... you."
"Oh, it's been a while!" said Monta.
"It's Sena, sir," said Sena shyly. Since his master had introduced him by the name, he thought it meant he was allowed to use it.
"It's Musashi, Sena," the other man returned, and pointed to the far edge of the yard, where a football was propped up against the fence. "Can you get that back for me? Kicked it a little too far."
When Sena got closer, he saw that it was actually a scant inch away from the fence: not leaning against it, but impaled firmly into the dirt, point first.
"You kicked this?" Monta demanded. He plucked it from the dirt like a strange potato, and stared all the long way back to where Musashi sat.
"Just trying to stay in practice," said Musashi. "You kids okay? Hiruma got all worked up about something out there. He's on his computer, probably best to leave him be for now."
Sena shivered. He appreciated the warning—crossing his master in a bad mood was the last thing he wanted—but it also felt wrong not to report in for his next instructions.
As if reading his mind, Musashi took another slow sip, then stood up to pull something out of his pants pocket. "He left some training for you both though. Actually no," he squinted at the slip of paper, "Looks like it's old Doburoku's handwriting. Anyway, let me know if you want me to talk you through this stuff, I've seen it all before. Or not, doesn't matter to me."
"Well, if it's Doburoku, I guess it's okay," said Monta. "He knows what he's talking about."
"Are... are you sure... um..." said Sena.
"That I'm not gonna go crazy on you?" Musashi put the mug down. "Probably fine. You ever done a bench press before?"
They were deep into it when the back door slid open, revealing Kurita's tired form. "I'm home! I put some chili on the stove, it should be... ready... in..."
Kurita trailed off as he took in the sight before him. Monta was flat on the bench, straining against the barbell. Sena, who'd been banned from bench presses when Musashi saw the state of his back, was doing ladder drills. And Musashi himself still seemed well, if occasionally unresponsive, leaning against the storage shed and giving intermittent suggestions, when his eyes were open.
The exhaustion from a hard day's work slowly cleared from Kurita's face, like clouds parting to allow pure joy and excitement to shine through.
"Everyone is working so hard! I'll come join you!" With an impossible lightness to his movement that hadn't been there before, Kurita rushed over to spot Monta, and yell encouragingly. Monta finally managed the weight he'd been attempting, and Kurita cheered so loudly that Monta even managed to do it a second time.
By the time the chili timer went off, Sena was ready to collapse, and the others looked no better off. Soon enough, Musashi was dozing at the kitchen table, while Monta took his turn in the shower. Kurita happily stirred the bubbling pot and recited what seemed to be the entire recipe, with occasional interspersed directions for Sena to fetch this and that for the table.
It was only when the three of them were seated, the enormous, steaming pot of chili taking centerpiece on the table between them, that Sena realized the fourth table setting was meant for him. Hiruma was out somewhere, and even Monta, another slave, was seated and happily inhaling the aroma, so it was clear he was intended to sit with them. But it just... didn't feel right.
As they all turned to look at him expectantly, Sena backed up a step, then another. He didn't want to see Kurita's face fall. But he couldn't.
"I... I..." The drills and exercises from the afternoon had seemed within the plausible realm of what his master might want from him. But in the face of the fragrant, home-cooked chili, Sena suddenly questioned if he'd done the right thing there either. The thought of his master coming home to find he'd taken such liberties without his knowledge—playing around in the yard all day, eating food unearned—was enough to make his stomach churn. "I'm not hungry."
"No way!" Monta said. "After that workout, you're not hungry?"
"Oh no, I should have asked if you liked chili," said Kurita anxiously, half getting out of his seat. "What do you like to eat, Sena?"
Sena wobbled back another step, and found he was starting to shake. They all waited for him to say something.
The silence was broken by a clatter, as Musashi began to ladle himself a bowl. "How about you eat with Hiruma when he gets back? We'll save you both some."
Sena nodded quickly, gratefully. "Y-yes, that..." He didn't want to imply that he was entitled to food at all. But once Hiruma was back, he could decide what he wanted for Sena. It was perfect. It just... didn't tell him what to do now.
"Shower's free," Musashi continued, in that same too-bland tone, as he stirred in cheese and sour cream. "Or there's a good football rulebook on one of the shelves in the other room, if you want to read that."
Sena clutched the suggestions like a lifeline. Get cleaned up for his master. Study the sport that his master wanted him to play. Be good. Be pleasing.
He resumed backing out, but it was too hard to avoid their gazes: Monta's furious, Kurita's worried, Musashi's the worst of all.
As he turned, he found he had just enough strength for one more run.
That night, Sena and Monta shared Hiruma's bed, which was about as much as he'd expected, but without Hiruma, which... wasn't. For hours, he lay perched tensely on top of the covers, entirely awake despite the exhausting day that had already put Monta straight to sleep next to him—thankfully without comment.
When at last he heard an engine outside, and then the front door open and close, he knew it was time. The footsteps coming down the hallway weren't Musashi's or Kurita's, and the two of them were both tucked into their own rooms by now, besides.
The door opened silently, letting a slice of light cut in from the hallway. Rather than joining them in bed, Hiruma saw that Sena was awake, and beckoned from the doorway, his long shadow making the gesture with him.
Even without being able to see him clearly, Sena could tell that his master was disappointed in him.
"Peak physical condition," Hiruma said, with none of his usual energy, as Sena tiptoed into the hallway.
"Yes, master. I'm sorry, master."
Head down, he followed Hiruma to the kitchen, where two big bowls of the chili, already reheated, waited for them at the table. Sitting down with his master reminded him of his first night here, which Sena realized, with surprise, had been just a day ago.
It was possible that not eating at dinnertime had thrown off whatever schedule Hiruma had planned for him. Earlier, it had seemed like a remote possibility, compared to the unthinkable crime of eating without permission. But now he was equally sure he'd been wrong then. Anxiety squeezed at his gut, and he couldn't force himself to reach for the spoon, though all the signs were saying that Hiruma had brought him here to eat. It was as if his arms had locked rigidly into place, and he could only stare down fixedly at his bowl.
Across from him, Hiruma shoveled chili into his mouth like it was a chore, and didn't say anything. Under the kitchen light, he looked bleached and tired. Even after only knowing him for a day, Sena found the sight uncharacteristic, unnerving.
When he'd finished and let the spoon clack back into the bowl, Hiruma made no comment about Sena's untouched portion, instead reaching for a book sitting on his side of the table. Sena was surprised to see that it was the football manual he'd been reading earlier, his bookmark still sticking out of it, about halfway through.
"S-sorry I didn't finish reading it, master," said Sena. "I can still..."
Hiruma opened up to one of the early pages, and said, "How many points for a touchdown?"
When Sena had stopped quailing at the sudden test, he realized that he actually knew the answer. "Six... master?"
"And after?"
"Um... you can either get one point for a kick... or two points for advancing it over the line."
"Eat your chili," said Hiruma softly.
Test passed, Sena found that his arms had unlocked, and when he took the first spoonful, reveling in the rich, complex flavors, realized that he was starving.
Hiruma paged through the manual rapidly like a flipbook until he reached the bookmark, as if to scan what Sena had read, and began to quiz him again, all easy questions, with generous pauses in between. At first Sena stopped eating to answer each question, and waited for some sort of approval to start again: a grunt, a nod. But as he ate, he only seemed to get hungrier, and soon was just blurting out answers between bites.
When Sena had finished eating, Hiruma got up, moving stiffly. "Do the dishes, shrimp. And then go to bed."
Quickly gathering up their bowls, Sena said again, "I'm sorry."
"Eat with the others tomorrow," Hiruma said, and managed to find the one unbruised spot on Sena's shoulder to give a short, careful squeeze.