tampered | LOG; Complete

LOG; Complete

When; February 14th, 2008
Rating; PG (language)
Characters; Anezaki Mamori [

fuckingmanager], Hiruma Yoichi [

fuckingqb]
Summary; There's a bit of tension in the apartment after a rather unexpected exchange of words resulted in Mamori being more than a little irritated at Yoichi.
Log;

Under these circumstances Hiruma was not a loud typer. When he was tense, when there was too much adrenaline making his blood pump too fast, he would find himself hitting the keys on his laptop harder than he should. It was a characteristic under those certain conditions he couldn't help and didn't bother trying. But when he was calm, when he was not forced to think as fast as he was able (and faster still on some occasions), when he could let himself relax marginally, he was a fairly soft typist.

Right now, the strokes of his typing were heard very distinctly, not because he was tense; he was, but not in the same way that he was on the football field. This was a different kind of tension, borne under a heavy, almost itchy silence.

Hiruma's shoulder twitched and he glanced over the top of his laptop screen at the woman in the kitchen. His gaze didn't linger, going back to his work despite the almost impatient prickling in his fingertips.

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The tension was just as easily felt at the other end of the apartment, fingers turning white as Mamori gripped her knife tightly, chopping chives with careful precision. Restraint was the clear difference between the two, polar opposites clashing not in volume but through silence, not a sound slipping from Mamori's lips as she went about the kitchen without pause. Even the pan's sizzle seemed to subdue at Mamori's will, chopsticks slipping under a layer of fried egg and quickly tugging it from the steel surface to tuck over a still steaming plate of fried rice.

Where Hiruma manifested his frustration outwardly, Mamori tended to wrap it up and tuck it away, out of sight. Blue eyes flickered up, gaze lingering on Hiruma's broad shoulders for a moment before the distraction was quickly tossed aside once more, fingers grasping the sides of the plate with a little more force than necessary as Mamori walked over to the living room and placed the dish on the coffee table nearby.

It wasn't proper, but what were the odds that Hiruma would want to eat at the dining table anyway?

Lips drawn in a tight line, Mamori then returned to her own plate, already growing cold on the table. A pair of pink chopsticks prodded at the fried egg, poking holes in the omelete before taking a bite.

Not enough salt.

He didn't look up when she came into the living room, focusing on his typing until her back was turned and she was sitting at the dining room table. Though there was no actual vocal sound made, there was the familiar curl of his lips that came whenever he made an irritated noise. He looked at his screen and then at the plate on the coffee table, irritation firing again, drawing his mouth into a deep frown.

He'd existed with Mamori in silence before. Most of the time it was hardly noticeable--it was simply the way things were. This silence was noticeable. It was impossible to ignore. It carried too much of a weight to it.

Tch. It was again a thought and not an actual expressed sound. Fucking manager. Wordlessly Hiruma moved his laptop to one knee, grabbing up the plate she'd left on the coffee table and putting it on his other knee. The chopsticks were held negligently in one hand, the other at the keyboard, dividing his attention between the twin tasks of work and eating.

And, much as he tried not to, interrupting both just long enough to throw a glance at the only other human occupant of the apartment.

Edited 2008-02-15 03:34 (UTC)

The entire situation was ridiculous, and Mamori knew that as much as she criticized Hiruma for his tendency to be stubborn to a fault, she was just as culpable, unable to meet his gaze and unable to muster even a nonverbal apology. Usually, things managed to fall back into line in a heartbeat, whether through Hiruma simply ignoring Mamori's protests, or Mamori persisting despite his, but here both were caught in a standstill. He needed to apologize, Mamori knew, but she also knew better than to expect him to actually follow through with one--right and wrong just weren't always applicable to the moral calculus in Hiruma's mind.

She pushed the rice from one end of the plate to the other, eventually letting out a slight sigh and picking up the almost untouched plate to carry to the counter, pulling a roll of plastic wrap from a nearby drawer; she'd save the meal for when she had an appetite.

Her lips pursed as Mamori then moved on to washing the dishes, trying to form words of apology and failing, unless "stupid Hiruma-kun" counted somehow.

Hiruma ate more out of muscle memory than any real appetite. He stopped soon after he'd started though, noting Mamori's movements out of the corner of his peripheral vision, the tip of his chopsticks standing on end at the center of his perfectly balanced plate. His hand stilled, momentarily, on his keyboard as his eyes moved off his screen and over to the kitchen, gaze on her back.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew that Mamori was waiting for him to apologize for what he'd said earlier. Whether or not what he said was right or wrong was, at this point, irrelevant, because at this point it was plainly apparent that she felt he owed her an apology. Everything else was moot.

He ground his teeth together, looking back at his computer.

Perhaps there was a way to get around the problem without actually having to say anything, Mamori pondered, as she began to put the dishes on the drying rack. As easy as it would be on a theoretical level to own up and apologize for being overly sensitive, Mamori couldn't quite let herself. Not yet. Doing so would not only be insincere--what was she supposed to apologize for? appreciating the flower?--but it would also be a dangerous trip down a slippery slope. She couldn't let Hiruma get too comfortable, to the point of expecting such concessions, after all.

But the desire to break the silence was real, and so Mamori made a quick trip to her room, fishing out a notepad and flashcards which she had found in the marketplace, and carrying the supplies out to the dining room, laying them out on the table. The cap of her ballpoint pen held between her teeth, Mamori's brow furrowed slightly as she began to draw out game plays with amazing alacrity, most of them second-nature after a rather busy football season.

She might've claimed, a couple of days ago, that she no longer cared for being the 'fucking manager,' but deep down, Mamori was pretty sure both of them knew this wasn't the case.

And that, on some level, she was already more than willing to put up with Hiruma's obstinance.

Edited 2008-02-15 05:02 (UTC)

One eyebrow arched from behind his computer screen. Now what was the fucking manager up to?

Watching her from the corner of his eye, the scratch of her pen over her note cards blended with the soft, occasional keystroke from his laptop. It was a familiar filler to the thick silence that almost let him relax a bit more. He didn't. There was still too much yet unspoken for him to relax again, at least as much as he ever allowed himself to.

Still, it was familiar and almost lulling; Hiruma wondered if that was her intent. To try and get him to drop his guard with the routine of it all. Hiruma's lips quirked up, just slightly, vaguely amused at the thought.

Edited 2008-02-16 05:20 (UTC)

Having finish the last play that she was aware of, Mamori tugged off a hair band from around her wrist and wrapped it around the pile of cards, making sure that it was secure before walking over to Hiruma and balancing it on the top of his head.

"I figured that you probably didn't bring the originals to the City," Mamori explained, forcing a bit of levity in her voice, although it just didn't quite seem to fit.

The sudden break in the silence managed to catch him by surprise, though not nearly so much as the placement of the cards on his head did. Giving an irritable frown he plucked them from his hair and, moving the rubber band enough to see what was written on the cards, flipped through it almost negligently.

He grinned, putting the rubber band back in place and dropping the cards into the bag beside his chair.

He could comment that she'd remembered them all, but he wouldn't. He knew she would remember them all; she knew he expected her to. Few people spent as much time planning and preparing for the Devil Bat games, in terms of strategy, then they did. Mamori might not have been able to put on a uniform and get on the field, but she easily worked as hard as the others, simply in a different capacity.

She wouldn't expect him to acknowledge her memory of all the plays regardless.

So instead he arched an eyebrow at her. "Know something I don't know, fucking manager?"

Edited 2008-02-16 05:38 (UTC)

There were a number of ways Mamori could interpret that sentence, and the only thing that she could be pretty certain of was the fact that hitting the nail on the head wasn't very likely. For all the times Hiruma wore his emotions on his sleeve--mainly those which related to violence, sharpshooting, or the two combined--there were at least ten other moments where he carefully tucked them away, underneath his trademark grin.

Eventually, Mamori would probably be able to read even those. Or at least, so she hoped.

But for now, she'd opt for vaguely avoiding the topic rather than guessing incorrectly. He deserved that much.

"Mm," Mamori shrugged, letting her fingers linger for a little longer in his hair before pulling away, resting her hand on the back of the couch.

Hiruma turned back to his computer, setting the plate on the coffee table without bothering to get up and take it to the kitchen. Left to his own devices Hiruma would have let the apartment become a cluttered mess. He'd be able to find anything he needed, of course, because it was simply his way; he just rarely bothered to put anything where it properly belonged right away. Already his room was reflecting his habits.

So, while he made no move to get up and put the plate away right now, it didn't meant that eventually he wouldn't. If left on his own.

He knew that Mamori's more domestic tendencies would kick in long before his own. They always did.

While outwardly he appeared to be ignoring Mamori, in reality he was acutely aware of the fact that she was standing near him. He didn't usually, of course; he'd become accustomed to her looking over his shoulder and reading whatever it was that had captured his attention. This was convenient for him, of course, since it meant that he wouldn't have to explain it to her later. It made it easier for her to understand the route of his thinking. He'd grown accustomed to her being able to keep up with him.

This time, however, either because of the weird silence of earlier, or because her hand had lingered against his hair (something he couldn't recall her having done before), Hiruma's attention was split between the screen of his laptop and the girl beside him.

"You didn't eat much." He said off-handedly, not looking up at her. It was simply an observation.

"Wasn't hungry," Mamori replied, finally giving in and grabbing the plate Hiruma left on the table, glad for an excuse to get away from the proximity which had suddenly become unsettling, somehow. At the same time, Hiruma's observation clearly meant that he had been paying attention, after all.

Mamori wasn't sure whether to be relieved that he wasn't angry, or to be irritated that he'd purposefully pulled a kindergarten-level silent treatment, lack of apology and all. Maybe there was a bit of both.

Which was frustrating, because if there was any indication of a power imbalance between the two of them, this would be it. Anger, while it certainly wasn't something Mamori sought in life, was still an indication that she could hold steadfastly to her beliefs, and showed that she wouldn't be swayed by the moment. And it was something she often lost while with Hiruma.

It was why, rather than mentally cursing at him, Mamori had spent much of the time spent brooding in her room wondering whether the chocolates she'd made for him had been a bad idea after all.

Tap, tap, tap went his long fingers against the keys of his keyboard, once more intent on his work. This time the silence was more of what he was used to; that tension of a moment ago was gone.

He knew why things had been the way they were, a moment ago. He wasn't an idiot. Frankly he was surprised that it had taken so little to get her talking to him again. He was used to being on the receiving end of her anger, and he never apologized when he pissed her off--typically when he did, it was completely intentional. He liked seeing her get like that.

He'd had no intention of apologizing this time either, but frankly he'd expected her to ignore him a bit longer. The fact that she didn't had him wondering why.

Had Mamori known that her actions actually held some weight in Hiruma's mind, perhaps it would have put her more at ease, but as things were, the game seemed to be pretty one-sided. But if there was one thing she'd learned from watching all of the Devilbats' games, it was that taking chances often worked to one's advantage.

And not taking chances, on the other hand, left a person with an undeniable sense of unease, of opportunities missed. Not everything could be backtracked, in that sense, and sometimes Mamori felt as though without reaching out, people would begin to slip through her fingers. On one hand, it was good in the sense that the lives of her friends were progressing; on the other, Mamori felt stagnant by comparison, unable to follow unless she held them tight within her grasp.

The spot where the cards had been placed before were now replaced by a small box of chocolate, Mamori's fingers lingering just long enough to get them to balance on Hiruma's head.

"And before you say no, they're sugar-free."

Hiruma's fingers stilled, work again interrupted by the placement of something on his head. What was with her suddenly putting shit on his head? He was about to snap at her that his head wasn't a fucking table when she spoke and the words stopped behind his teeth. Frowning from the dip of his eyebrows down to the curl of his mouth Hiruma retrieved the little box from where she'd deposited it and stared at it.

It sat in his palm, a girly presence complete with a tiny little box. It wasn't the first Valentine's Day chocolate he'd ever received--there were some girls that had given him chocolate before, giggling things that had blushed and run away as soon as it was delivered. He never ate any of it; it was all guaranteed to be a cavity inducing horror. Kurita usually ended up eating it (there were a few occasions where a girl had handed over her chocolate, wrapped in such a pretty display supposedly meant to entice, and in the same movement Hiruma had tossed the box at Kurita. Those girls stopped giving him chocolate).

He stared at the box Mamori had given him, considering, before finally saying, "Tch," quietly, tossing it, too, into the bag with the cards.

She'd half expected him to throw it out, or at least to make some kind of snide remark about falling prey to the commercialism that was Valentine's Day, but when neither occurred, it was all Mamori could do to stop herself from grinning broadly and giving everything away. Part of it was undoubtedly the joy Mamori always took from catching Hiruma off guard, the little bit of pride which rose in her chest whenever she was able to see eye-to-eye with him--even if the position was different here, the basic concept was still the same. At the same time, there was something else almost settling in her throat; Mamori didn't trust herself to speak through it.

She wasn't completely naive. Being a rather popular girl in her year meant that Mamori was also no stranger to admirers or dates or general high school life, and she could recognize the slight tightness in her chest as an indication that she was yearning for something more, even if Mamori's gut reaction was always to deny it, to wrap it and tuck it in a box in the back of her mind. Simply because Hiruma didn't do relationships in the same way that high schoolers normally did, simply because the only thing she could ever picture him being in love with was football and football alone. Hiruma was extraordinary, no doubt about that, and even if one some level Mamori yearned for change, at the same time, she recognized that such a change might completely alter who he was at a person, and then... what would the point be, in the end?

Unfortunately, Mamori wasn't on the same level. She didn't have anything she could devote her all to, and in doing so, ignore her surroundings. She was just a normal girl trying to find her own little niche in a world where big sister figures were quickly growing out of fashion.

And maybe it was that spark of loneliness that prompted her to sit down on the couch, leaning against Hiruma's arm, head coming to a rest on his shoulder in admission of the fact that maybe it was something other than anger which had set her off in the first place.

"What're you working on?"

He gave her no more than a glance when she sat next to him, and managed to conceal his reaction when her head came to rest on his shoulder. There were certain things he'd come to expect out of the manager, and one of those things was her ability to surprise him. Genius he may have been, but that didn't mean people couldn't still catch him off guard. He was good at recovering from it, quickly, putting together new plays in order to compensate for that element he hadn't predicted. It was what a quarterback did: analyzed, dissected, formulated a strategy, and knew that when said strategy was thwarted he had to be fast enough on his feet to cover his ass.

Mamori surprised him often, and this was no exception.

He kept typing, not trying to hide the things on his screen so that, should she want to look, she would be able to see it. A lot of it was probably not interesting to her anyway--code and numbers as Hiruma worked through the system, looking for whatever it was he needed.

"Learning the fucking City." He finally said, pulling up an aerial satellite image.

Edited 2008-02-20 08:14 (UTC)

He was right in that the majority of the windows on Hiruma's computer screen weren't of particular interest to Mamori, the latter having very little expertise with technology on the whole, but she hadn't really asked out of sincere curiosity anyway, and so there was no disappointment in his vague reply. It did, however, impress upon Mamori once more the gravity of the situation that both of them were currently in, stranded in another world with no apparent avenue of return. Needing to acclimate to a new society, to a new set of rules, without no one there to guide them.

It was fortunate that Hiruma was there with her; had Mamori come to the City by herself, she probably would've landed herself in deep trouble without even noticing. As it was, Mamori actually had time to reflect upon life back home rather than just hanging on by the skin of her teeth as many other citizens seemed to do.

She missed it. Home. Her friends. Familiarity.

There was no point in relaying that to Hiruma, however.

"Mmm..." Mamori acknowledged with a slight nod of her head, before turning her head slightly so that her nose rested against the soft fabric of Hiruma's shirt, where a faint, grassy scent still remained. After a few seconds, however, she pulled back, breaking the contact between the two of them to sink deeply into the cushions of the couch.

Hiruma knew most of what she was thinking--not necessarily that it was running through her head right this minute, but the general sentiment, the various observations, were all things he'd considered almost the moment he'd realized what was going on. He didn't like the City at all, for his own reasons, some of which mirrored Mamori's (even if he didn't know for certain that she was thinking the same thing).

He'd spent a lot of time building a network in Deimon, in Tokyo in general. It was something of a comfort zone, and while Hiruma was more than capable of building a similar network here, of surviving and succeeding in this City until he could finally go home, he acknowledged that capability wasn't at all mutually exclusive with desire. He'd leave this place in a moment for home if he could.

He glanced at her when she moved, trying to figure through and understand her actions. He thought he might know; he figured she was probably lonely. When certain people were absent from your life...

He looked back at his screen, tapping at the keys, chewing his gum.

The silence gradually moving from comforting to unsettling once more, Mamori allowed herself to slide off the couch, rising to her feet and lingering just long enough to give him another passing glance.

"I'm sure you'll figure the City out in no time," she grinned, shaking her head slightly, not bothering to berate him for the blackmail.

Just this once.

He glanced at her in time to catch her looking at him, and when she spoke he let himself grin. It was wide, sharp, confident like she knew he should be. Like he would be, more and more as he settled himself here.

"No fucking time at all."

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LOG; Complete

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