Of Being a Kicker
By Kay
Disclaimer: I don't own Eyeshield 21. Sometimes it makes me weep at night.
Author's Notes: SPOILERS for Spiders game and Musashi's triumphant return. Takes place roughly some time after Devil Bats defeat the Spiders. Slight implications of both Musashi/Hiruma and Koutarou havin' a little thing for boys with guitars, but very slight, you could pass them by easily for friendship.
They say the boy is waiting for him outside the school.
Musashi takes his time getting there. Whoever it is, they've waited this long, they can wait until he's good and ready to face whatever's out there. So he goes to practice in the back, but he feels like someone's watching him, and all Hiruma will say, noncommittal, on the matter is, "It won't do any harm, fucking old man. Or are you wussing out?"
Musashi calls him an idiot and shoves the helmet back over his head. Forgets, for a while, that there's anyone there at all except for the wet, slick grass and the blue freckles of the sky and Hiruma's screeching voice and the smell of sweat.
Afterwards he remembers, though. He lingers behind until they're all gone and then Kotarou of the Bandou Spiders is there, melting out of the side of the building like he'd been a fixture now inevitably free. Musashi is, somehow, not surprised. "You waited a long time," he says, which is not an apology but Kotarou takes it as such.
"Don't worry, I got the time. Got plenty of time, not being in the tournament anymore." Kotarou flashes him a grin. "So I thought I'd drop by and tell you something smart."
"Another challenge?"
"No. I got my game."
Musashi waits.
Kotarou takes his time speaking. He flips a comb out of his left pocket, carefully sweeping it through his hair, dark eyes intent on Musashi like he's studying him inside out and through again. Musashi hates that kind of stare; it's what he gets from Hiruma if he's done something that's right but Hiruma doesn't like it. When he'd left, that 'Is there no other way?' and that look, that damned weary, weighted gaze.
He shifts, irritated, and then Kotarou seems to think he's had enough. "You said some stuff. About being a kicker."
Musashi nods. He remembers.
"It's my turn to tell you some stuff, now."
"It's not necessary."
"You heard me that day, didn't you? Screaming across the field. On television or the radio, maybe, I don't know which. But you heard. And then you came."
Musashi nods because it's true, even if it's not all the truth. "I did."
"It's not smart," Kotarou says. "Abandoning your friends when they need you the most."
Musashi knows that. It's why he doesn't punch the kid for his presumptions. Kotarou doesn't know a lot, if anything, about his father, but Musashi figures he doesn't need that excuse anymore, anyway. "You think I wanted to?"
"I think you hurt that one."
"Kurita's moods are always soft. He's forgiven me, though. He forgave me before he realized there was even something to forgive, I think."
"Not him," Kotarou mutters, hands running along his comb, thumb rubbing the plastic smooth. "The other one."
And to that, Musashi has nothing to say.
The last of the sallow arch of the sun dies against the pavement and Kotarou seeps into it, the darkening fall of the sky. Musashi can barely divide his outline from the shadows. But the comb glistens sort of, twirling around in Kotarou's fingers like a baton, in and out, over and under his spidery fingers, the twist of a ball flying through the air a ghost in the movement.
Musashi asks Kotarou what he wants.
"I wanted to win the tournament. I wanted to create the best kicking team. There's a lot of things that I want." Kotarou tips his head, frowning. "I just wanted, right now, you to understand, I guess. Because I know what it's like, waiting for someone who you thought would stay beside you until the end. Even if he is a bastard."
"It's none of your business."
"When you walked onto the field," Kotarou tells him, "he had the kind of look on his face that—"
"Idiot, you don't have to tell me." Because sometimes Musashi still sees it, like a taunting jab to a wound that hasn't stopped bleeding. Because it hurts, kind of, and maybe it should. But there's that and there's this, and this kid doesn't know anything about Hiruma Yoichi. "Worry about your own team. You'll need it, if you're going to win next year."
"We will." Utter confidence. Kotarou grins and his teeth flash white in the darkness. "I'll prove who's the best kicker someday. Because maybe you can kick a sixty-five yard ball—"
'It's a lie,' Musashi thinks.
"—but that doesn't make a great kicker. What counts, what smarts," and Kotarou thumps his chest, "I've got plenty of it. You're still catching up and gotta long way to go. You understand, right?"
"Hmph. I was going to say the same."
"Because you said the reason Deimon won the kick game was because I thought too much of my comrades. But you're wrong." Kotarou turns away, his eyes going distant as he slips the comb into his pocket and starts to walk. His last words are called over his shoulder, off-hand, in parting. "I lost the game. But if you didn't think enough of your comrades, can you say you really won?"
There's enough time, just enough space left between them, that Musashi could have said something. Anything. A retort. A challenge. A protest. But he doesn't, and Kotarou laughs a bit under his breath like he'd expected that, and then the kicker is gone and Musashi is alone.
He reaches for a cigarette before he remembers they aren't there anymore. He's quit. He's a kicker now.
'Why is it that stupid teenagers think they know everything?'
Night drifts on Musashi like a blanket, and he wonders what Kotarou thought he'd accomplish—because rather than feeling enlightened, Musashi just feels more lost than ever.
The End