Hiruma is going to kill them.
by Mina Lightstar
"Eh?" Kurita was equally shocked and overjoyed. He almost spat out his tea. "You found enough people to form a team?!" The small table protested as Kurita slammed his hands upon it, used it to push himself to his feet. He gaped at his teammate -- though really, all things considered, he should have known it would end up like this.
"And you didn't find anyone!" Hiruma pointed out, leveling a finger at him. "Fucking fat-ass, what were you doing all this time? Now stop stuffing your mouth with cake!" The blond made a fist and shook it for emphasis. "We're practicing double-time today! Next week we'll have a pile of rookies to put up with."
"But -- but--" Kurita stammered, and could barely form the question, "but how did you get ten more people to join us, Hiruma?" The moment he asked, though, he knew the answer.
Hiruma grinned -- though Kurita thought it was impossible for Hiruma to really grin. No matter what emotion the outspoken quarterback was feeling, his mouth, it seemed, could do nothing but smirk.
"How do you think, fat-ass?" Hiruma produced the much-feared little black book, better known around campus as the Devil's Handbook. "Nobody wants anyone to see them naked, now do they? Nobody wants their girlfriend to know they've been flirting with someone else, now do they? Nobody wants the principal to know they've cheated on an exam, now do they?"
"Stop, Hiruma, stop," Kurita pleaded. Sometimes, he knew, he was better off just not knowing. Hiruma's information network was both amazing and frightening. More than once, Kurita wondered just where and how the blond obtained everything in that book.
Then he decided he was too scared to find out.
"So, we're really playing in the tournament?" As always, the joy for Hiruma's results quickly overrode any unease about Hiruma's means to get them. Kurita downed the rest of his tea in one gulp and pumped his arms. He was ready for practice. To play in the tournament? He would do triple the amount of practice.
"We'll be in the tournament," Hiruma confirmed, tucking the Devil's Handbook safely in his back pocket. "YA-HA!"
Their first practice as a group had not gone very well. Kurita was saddened as he watched their classmates head home, rubbing their biceps and other sore muscles. When at last they were out of sight, Kurita took off his helmet and once again examined their club's space.
The football field was in horrible shape. Not surprising, Kurita lamented, seeing as how their team was on the bottom rung of the club ladder at Deimon High. Only two members strong, with others blackmailed into covering the other positions so the Devil Bats could actually participate in any games, they could hardly be called a real club. A lineman and a quarterback, that's all they really had. Kurita trained hard and he knew -- saw -- that Hiruma did the same, but it simply wasn't looking good for them
"What are we going to do?" Kurita mumbled into his helmet. He wanted to play in the tournaments, wanted that more than anything, and so he was grateful for the regulars of other clubs to step in and give them a hand. (He chose to ignore the part about Hiruma threatening most of them into it.)
But Hiruma had been right: Rookies, all of them. Kurita was willing, able, to teach them the rules, but few people could become a good player overnight. With less than a week before the tournament and a team full of newbies, Kurita wasn't having very high hopes.
"We'll have to clean this field up," Hiruma was muttering beside him. The blond was surveying the field, disgust plain on his features. "How are you supposed to build a kick-ass team with a shit field like this? I'm gonna' talk to the principal, make him see things my way, get him to--"
Kurita flinched, as he'd interrupted the quarterback's angry mumbling. "Do you..." He fiddled with his helmet, thought about what he wanted to ask. Did Hiruma think they had a chance? Did Hiruma think any of their emergency recruits would come to like the game, stick around, join the team?
"What, fat-ass? Spit it out."
Kurita didn't get a chance.
"Whoa, nice field, Deimon!"
The voice was gruff, taunting, and coming from the steps. Kurita turned around, but Hiruma /spun/, as he was already annoyed.
A redhead high-school student was standing by, observing their field, if it could even be called so. It took Kurita a moment, but he recognized the yellow uniform.
"Ah, you're from Seishun?" he asked.
"Yup," the other boy acknowledged.
"The hell's a Seishun student doing here?" Hiruma spat.
The redhead didn't even offer a name, just shrugged one shoulder as though the gesture would somehow placate Hiruma. "Just here to scope out the enemy, that's all." He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked down to one end of the field, then the other.
"Enemy?" Kurita echoed. Then he realized, "Oh, are you playing you in the tournament?"
The redhead made some noncommital sound, then another of scorn. "You call this a club? Your field sucks, and only two of you know what you're doing. Are you really serious about--"
"Then I guess you're done snooping around," Hiruma cut in snidely. "So run home back in time for dinner."
Kurita sighed. Hiruma was in a touchy mood as it was, and this wasn't the first time someone had gotten on their case about the state of the so-called football team. He hoped it would stop there, he hoped Hiruma wouldn't have to be too mean.
Thankfully, the redhead apparently deemed them not worth his time. He checked his watch. "Well, I was just curious. But I guess I really do have nothing to worry about, heh." He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to go. "Good luck, Deimon." That last was mocking.
Kurita stared off into space long after the other student had left. "Seishun isn't taking us seriously at all, Hiruma," he whined eventually.
"Fucking fat-ass," Hiruma snorted. "We aren't playing those bastards. Not worth our time."
"Who are we playing?" Just one reply from Hiruma and Kurita felt better. Hiruma simply had that strange skill: He was evil, the student body insisted -- but at the same time, Kurita maintained that Hiruma was the most indomitable person he'd ever met, that nothing short of two broken legs would stop him from doing what he wanted. At the same time, Hiruma made people feel better about themselves.
... In a very unusual way.
"We're playing Oujou," Hiruma quipped.
"Oujou?!" Kurita echoed, almost dropping his helmet.
"That's right, fat-ass." Hiruma showed his teeth, managed to look both menacing and encouraging. "And Seishun's lucky we aren't playing them, because I would have /fucking killed them/."
Kurita winced at the intensity of the words. "Hiruma, that--"
But the blond would not be contradicted. "Tomorrow, we're gonna' FUCKING KILL THEM!"
Kurita gave up then, because Hiruma's words, like always, made his blood boil with adrenaline and determination.
"FUCKING KILL THEM!" Hiruma shouted again, with such force that it made Kurita answer with, "YEAH!"
The tournament came and went and the Devil Bats didn't even make it past the first round. But Hiruma didn't give up, and so neither did Kurita.