
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2127201.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Eyeshield_21
  Relationship:
      Hiruma_Youichi/Takekura_"Musashi"_Gen
  Character:
      Hiruma_Youichi, Takekura_"Musashi"_Gen
  Additional Tags:
      Phone_Calls_&_Telephones, Inline_with_canon, Masturbation, Sexual
      Fantasy, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Implied
      Relationships
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-29 Words: 1524
****** Sincerity ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "As long as they win, Hiruma can fake it until even he himself
     believes that he had faith in the team all along. He’ll do it
     himself, if he has to." Hiruma holds it together for the sake of the
     team, even when that means letting his own defenses down.
Hiruma’s entire body hurts.
Sheer force of will has kept him going for the past several weeks. The Devil
Bats have to win, and in order to win they have to complete the training camp,
and in order to complete the training camp he has to make it look possible. He
knows perfectly well that completing the camp takes superhuman determination
and more physical strength than he truly believed any of them had; even now,
with the softness of a Las Vegas bed under him, he doesn’t quite believe that
they made it.
That’s fine. He doesn’t need belief anyway. As long as they win, he can fake it
until even he himself believes that he had faith in the team all along. He’ll
do it himself, if he has to.
It must be because he’s tired, because he’s let his defenses fall even just for
this moment. He certainly would never let his thoughts slide down the path that
they take if he were in his right mind, wouldn’t let the whisper -- it would be
easier with Musashi -- even take shape in his mind. But his defenses are down,
they crumbled days ago and he’s been running on fumes, and the words are in his
head and on his lips, mumbled against the sheets under his face before he
realizes what he’s doing, and once he hears them he lacks the fight to lie to
himself anymore.
At least he has the room to himself. There’s no one else to see his fist hit
the mattress, no one to see how pathetically weak even that motion is. Hiruma’s
fist is shaky, so fragile that even the impact with the sheets is enough to
knock his fingers loose and drop his palm flat onto the sheets.
He turns his head sideways, stares at the limp angle of his fingers on the dark
sheets. He didn’t bother turning the light on -- it’s not like he needs to see
to collapse onto the bed -- and his skin is illuminated only by the sparkling
neon lights through the window. When he blinks the light catches, dances
sideways, and for a moment he distantly admires the patterns, the crystalline
fractures in his vision; then he blinks again, and hot liquid trickles across
his cheeks, and he realizes he’s crying.
“Fuck.” He throws himself sideways, rolls over onto his back as if gravity will
help restrain the reaction coming up his throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” It’s not
his usual yell; it’s barely a whisper, though the words are sharp as glass for
all that he’s the only one who hears them. He’s the only one who needs to,
anyway. He doesn’t have time for this, doesn’t have time to be tired and
doesn’t have time to be weak and certainly doesn’t have time for the wail at
the back of his head, the loneliness and want and hopeless truth, that it would
be easier with Musashi. Hiruma doesn’t have time to do this, not when he’s
alone, now, not when he has to lead the team to victory and bring Musashi back.
His thoughts stutter on that, circle back around, and Hiruma shuts his eyes
against the glitter of light and the apparently unstoppable pattern of his
mental chatter both. He wants to win for winning, not to bring Musashi back, he
doesn’t need Musashi. It’s fine. He’s fine. He doesn’t need Musashi to win, and
he doesn’t want Musashi, and he doesn’t miss the flush of Musashi’s skin and he
doesn’t miss the curve of Musashi’s smile and he doesn’t miss, he doesn’t --
“Aw, fuck,” he says again, louder this time, and follows this up with a
resigned groan. “Really?”
His brain has no reasonable response to this. It’s spooling out buried
memories, all the things Hiruma has spent so long carefully papering over, all
the pieces he thought he had managed to forget. Apparently hidden isn’t the
same as lost, not with his usual defenses shattered and torn and crushed to
dust by sheer physical and mental exhaustion, and all the logic he usually
brings to bear on this is purring suggestion that sets his blood on fire,
telling him he deserves this, he owes himself a break, he should really relax,
after all.
Hiruma stares at the ceiling, turns this idea over in his head. It’s a bad one,
he’s fairly sure, though he can’t make out the cracks in it. But he’s grinning
without thinking about it, his mouth curving wide and reckless, and his hands
are still shaking but his blood is going hot, and at least his tears have
stopped.
That last is what does it. Jerking off to Musashi he can handle -- it won’t be
the first time, after all, probably won’t be the last, either -- but tears he
absolutely cannot, not even alone, not even for one night. If he lets himself
go here he will never be able to pick the pieces back up, and if he must choose
between one and the other, the one that will let him win is always the right
answer. He decided that a long time ago.
He doesn’t even reorient himself on the bed. He’s turned sideways, his feet are
hanging off the edge and his head is barely supported at the edge of the
mattress, but it’s not worth moving, it’s not worth even kicking his boots off.
When he gets his jeans open he can feel the salt-sweat of the day sticking in
the crease of his elbows, the dust from the road lingering under his waistband,
and that seems right too, that seems apt in a way the illusion of cleanliness
never could be. His exhaustion seems to have no effect on his dick; he’s well
over half-hard before he gets his fly open, and between the grip of his fingers
and the fantasy behind his eyelids it’s only a breath before he’s entirely
there, flushed and hot as he drags his hand carelessly over himself.
Being tired helps. It’s easier to let the fantasy take over when he’s this
tired, easier to set aside his carefully constructed barriers and his awareness
of his surroundings, until the image of Musashi bleeds into the leading edge of
a dream and the imagined grip of fingers goes stronger, gentle and more careful
in spite of the other boy’s broader hands. Hiruma’s breathing drops heavy with
pleasure, low and shuddering in his chest instead of high and desperate with
the tears he can’t let himself shed, and behind his eyelids Musashi leans over
him, kisses a point of clean into Hiruma’s filthy shoulder, braces the other
boy down into the softness of the mattress as he strokes over him. He’s
smiling, wide and sincere and delighted, and he’s been here this whole time,
he’s been right where he should be, here where Hiruma is, and they’re going to
win together, Hiruma will never play alone again.
His orgasm catches him unawares. Hiruma’s still lost in sketching in the
prelude, the alternate circumstances where the absence in his life was never
there at all, when his skin flashes hot, his breathing stutters into
anticipation in his throat. He seizes at his original image, throws himself
back into his first idea with the speed of desperation; he’s barely got his
fantasy back in place when his body convulses in against the drag of his hand
and sensation drags him under as he wails a gasp and comes over his shirt and
stomach alike. It’s barely pleasant; the ripple of reaction through his
exhausted muscles is closer to agony, brings him rolling sideways and curling
in around his fingers in instinctive protection from the motion of his own
hand. But his mouth is full of Musashi’s name, his throat is trembling on every
breath, and the ripples keep coming, shuddering through him until he can’t keep
the sound back, until the other’s name spills free into the dark air in front
of him.
It takes minutes for the shaking to stop. When Hiruma can take a breath with
relative smoothness again he lets himself go, wipes his hand absently on his
shirt, and sighs himself into true relaxation against the mattress. The button
of his jeans is too hard to redo, but at least his pocket is easy to reach; he
fishes his phone free, flicks the screen into backlit brightness, flinches back
from the glow.
It’s probably not a good idea. Hiruma doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care what
time it is in Japan and doesn’t care how he’s going to sound across the line.
He’s grinning before the ringing starts, before there’s a click on the other
end and Musashi’s voice says, “Hiruma?”
“We made it,” Hiruma declares. He does sound awful, his voice is raw and rough
even in his own ears, but it doesn’t matter, just for this moment everything is
going to be okay. “We made it through the training camp.”
He starts to laugh even before Musashi’s startled exclamation of delight, and
if it sounds hysterical to his own ears, it’s still the most sincere reaction
he’s had in a year.
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