tampered | Log; Complete

Log; Complete

When; February 20, 2008
Rating; PG-13 [language]
Characters; Anezaki Mamori [

fuckingmanager], Hiruma Yoichi [

fuckingqb]
Summary; Mamori is out making friends; Hiruma has concerns about the people she's talking to.
Log;

The lock to the apartment clicked and the door swung open, shutting as the figure let himself in and then flicked the lock back into place. The bag was deposited on the couch, the rifle right beside it, Hiruma's knuckles cracking as he let it go. He hadn't realized he'd been gripping it so hard. Not that it mattered.

Outwardly he appeared calm, and not even the weight of his steps through the apartment gave away the rolling agitation stirring through him. He dug in his pocket, wanting something and finding something else. It was an acceptable substitute, the quarterback popping a stick of the sugerfree gum into his mouth and chewing slightly faster than normal.

He didn't knock, even though it wasn't his room he was walking into. He probably wouldn't have extended the courtesy, even if he'd been in less of a irritated mood.

It was deeper than that, though. It was more than irritation, dug itself further under his skin and made him--

--he reached out, grabbing the top of the laptop screen and swinging it, along with the rest of the computer, away from the person sitting in front of it. He flicked it closed, eyes never leaving the person sitting at the desk whose work he'd interrupted.

"Fucking manager."

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She had anticipated Hiruma's return, the comments on Cirucci's journal more than indicative of his mood and his intentions, and so when her laptop suddenly vanished from her line of vision, Mamori wasn't surprised. Fingers no longer having keys to type upon, Mamori merely folded her arms on her desk, fingers entwining as she looked up at her suitemate.

One who, from her point of view, was being entirely ridiculous. What Mamori did or said was up to her own discretion, and regardless of whether or not there was true danger out there--which Mamori doubted, because really, who in the world could eat souls?--she didn't like the idea of being controlled. Didn't like having him breathing down her back and trying to pull her away from whatever he deemed undesireable, in some manner.

The look in his eyes, however, admittedly made Mamori shiver. Just slightly. It wasn't often that his gaze was so piercing.

"Hiruma-kun."

He didn't say anything for a long moment, the tips of his fingers on the top of her closed laptop. When Hiruma got pissed--like when fucking fatty junior had run away before their game with Posiden--he could rage and pour every fiber of his being into that rage, funneling it into whatever he needed to do in order to correct the situation.

This was different. He was facing the same kind of stupidity that made him want to scream, and that would probably eventually happen, but for now he kept himself in check. For the moment. Because, under the anger, there was a barely restrained worry that he didn't want her to see. Different from worrying about losing a game.

"Where the fuck do you think you are?"

"Sitting in front of you," Mamori promptly replied, not hesitating for a single second. She could feel the lecture waiting on the tip of her tongue, and in light of that, her own was sharpened, ready to meet wit with wit. What right did he have to talk to her in that manner, anyway?

Not waiting for a reply, Mamori pushed her chair back, gaze turning away and onto her hands as she stood, eyes glancing longingly at her bed--the pillow looked like it might possibly be able to muffle her rage, were she able to execute it well.

"You do realize that this is my room, don't you? I don't recall hearing you knock, Hiruma-kun."

"Because I didn't." He shot right back at her, fueled by her impatience to have this over with. Anger he could deal with. Anger he did deal with, all the damned time; no one ever did what the fuck they were supposed to well enough for him, as well as he knew they should be able to. He just needed to be certain that the anger, when it boiled over, wouldn't reveal exactly how much he was concerned. Maybe he was naive enough to believe that there was no real danger in this fucking city, but Hiruma knew better.

He tried a different tact, stepping back from her desk and advancing toward her a step, hands itching for a handle, a trigger, longing to just shoot something until he felt certain that nothing was going to happen.

"You know what the fuck I meant."

There was a flicker of fear as Mamori turned to face Hiruma again, watching the steel spark in his eyes, barely contained anger--or, truly, anger not contained at all--manifesting itself as a slight growl in his voice. One hand reached out behind her, feeling air, her feet shuffling backwards despite the fact that this was Hiruma and she was never supposed to be afraid of Hiruma, no matter how many rounds of ammo he shot in the air, no matter how many times the gun was pointed a little too close for comfort.

"You need to get out right now," Mamori warned, a slight quaver in her voice. "You're overreacting, and I..."

She swallowed, trying to pull together whatever vestiges of strength were left in her knees.

"...I'm not going to stand for that."

"Then sit for it." There was a gun in his hand again, loaded, safety off, heavy and familiar and he came so close to firing it--not at her, he never hit anything that he didn't fully intend to and thus never accidentally hit them either. His teeth ground together and his fingers tightened around the grip, thumb on the hammer. He's thinks, in a part of his mind, that he's probably alarming her with his restraint. She's used to him screaming and shooting and kicking. He's used to him screaming and shooting and kicking. He's not used to being this scared and he doesn't like it, at all.

"I am not fucking overreacting. You are being naive, and you're going to get yourself fucking killed because you refuse to fucking think." He said, voice low, tone pitching with the strength of his anger as he started, so close to letting himself loose.

As if on cue, Mamori could feel her legs give out from under her, calves brushing against the mattress just in time as she landed with a bounce, the impact leaving her shaking from head to toe. Maybe the message had finally hit home, maybe she was scared of the clicking sound the gun made, or maybe it was something else altogether. Perhaps, for the first time, she was truly afraid of him, and that revelation left her completely unsure of what to do, what to say.

It wasn't just anger there, Mamori knew that much.

Her fingers gripped at the fabric of the bed, unable to muster the strength to ball into fists and simply dragging as a result, creases forming in the soft cotton spread.

I don't want to hear this right now. What's done is done, let's move on. Words caught in her throat.

And with a start, Mamori could feel something hot sliding down her cheeks, hands almost clapping against her skin, rubbing the incriminating evidence away as fast as she could.

"I don't want to hear this right now," Mamori mumbled, voice trembling.

"You don't ever want to fucking hear it." He wanted something other than the pistol. He wanted something louder, bigger, heavier, that would fire faster. He kept the pistol in hand though, thumbing the safety on and off, needing at least that in his hand or else he would go mad. She was going to drive him insane with this reckless insistence that everyone in the world was good until proven otherwise.

Yet she'd had no problem assuming he was evil (not to say that he wasn't, but he knew, better than most might think, that he was definitely not the scariest thing out there, not by a long shot).

There'd been a time, not that long ago, that seeing her afraid of him would have satisfied him. She'd never been anything except boldly courageous, standing up to him when few others would. It was something that he--

Right now, though, she was afraid of him, and the only thing he felt was a grim satisfaction, not because she was afraid, but because that meant she was really listening. That when he spoke, it actually had a chance of sinking in, rather than bouncing off her stubborn bravery.

"That doesn't change any-fucking-thing. Want to hear it or not, there are still some fucking psychos out there." That was probably hilarious coming out of him. He didn't crack a smile.

Both hands blocking everything from her range of vision and hiccups catching in her throat, Mamori shook her head quickly, without pause, just wanting to erase everything like an Etch-a-Sketch and to start over, somehow. Including the tightness in her chest which left her feeling nauseated, no relief in sight.

Better her than anyone else, she'd have normally thought. The bullying, the carefully calculated threats--these were the sorts of things Mamori fought to protect her friends against. Ironic that she would fall to it, herself, questions entering her mind, unbidden: why now, why like this, why me?

"I know, I know, now go away," Mamori whispered, voice muffled, panic fraying at her nerves almost painfully. "You've made your point."

"Do you?" Hiruma pressed, and he was suddenly leaning on her bed, looking her in the eyes, bracing himself on his hands. He knew she wanted to escape from what he was saying. He supposed it was how she might have normally handled the situation--let herself run from it, escape it. It didn't feel like her, though. Not how he knew her, the girl that stood up to him, deflected his bullets, stopped the bullies from picking on her precious fucking shrimp. The fact that she looked scared this time told him that perhaps she did, indeed, understand.

He tried to hold her gaze, staying in her personal space, waiting for something.

"Do you need to ask?" Mamori rasped, the shaking in her body calming down slightly as she felt his anger subside, the intensity carrying somewhat of a different feel. Cautiously, she raised her gaze to his, feeling a slight flicker of defiance finally returning as she stared back, unblinkingly.

She couldn't believe him. This wasn't the sort of thing one did to a friend, and even if he'd had her best interests at heart, Mamori couldn't suppress the bitter aftertaste the whole ordeal left behind. There were other ways to go about situations such as these, ways that wouldn't have left her feeling so weak and almost cold.

"If you don't want to leave, I can," Mamori added, finding strength in her words. "But I don't think you'd want that."

He looked at her, stared for a few minutes, waited, and then straightened, gun slipping back wherever it had come from. He'd seen that spark in her eyes again, heard it in her voice when she'd challenged him. It was what he was used to seeing. It was what he'd needed to see. It was reassurance that, even if he wanted her to walk away from this a bit smarter about the things she did, that she wasn't going to fold at this sign of danger.

Not that he expected her to. He knew how strong she was--he knew she wouldn't cave at this.

He just needed to see it.

"No." It was an all-purpose answer, to each of her questions. He took a step back, hands in his pockets. When he looked away from her it was so he could finally turn and walk out, shutting her door behind him with a decisive click.

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