I haven’t written for a while so I hope these don’t suck X_X thanks so much to those of you who made the requests and gave me prompts; doing this actually did help me get off my butt and fight my writer’s block. I’m just sorry that they’re all so late *bows* waaah gomen ~~
Hope you’ll enjoy! :)
EYESHIELD 21 FICLETS
Eyeshield 21, Yamato/Shin
Title: Silence; Strength
Requested by: souseki_naora
Prompt used: The World Cup, and Sena
Note: Spoilers for Teikoku arc and beyond. This is kind of an introspective fic ;D
‘It’s kind of a surprise and not a surprise, seeing you out here.’
Shin was the personification of physicality: a build of blood and muscle and sweat, limitless strength and cold, solitary nights of training in self-confinement. Skin glistening and muscles heaving, his dark eyes didn’t even look up from his one-handed pushups, and Yamato didn’t really expect any less – there were players with natural, god-given gifts like Kongou Agon, and those who honed skills from a build-up of years and years of training, however unintended, like Sena-kun; and there were was Shin, an extraordinary ace blessed with both ends of the scale, arms and legs birthed with natural gifts and laced with countless devoted years of daily training.
He was exercising outside, alone – at least for a time – caressed by the cold evening Manhattan air.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You, working out hot and heavy at this time of night as if your life depended on it,’ replied Yamato casually, moving down to a crouch next to the other young man and peering at him. ‘You probably don’t realize how much other people see that as remarkable, especially at your current level.’
‘You were the real Eyeshield 21. Straight from the heart of America,’ Shin countered calmly between pants, his breath forming clouds of mist. ‘That, alone, is remarkable.’
Yamato smiled, his eyes flickering away. ‘Were is right.’
It was only a little awkward, what’s between them, and the brief silence that followed, with only Shin’s short, sharp breaths cutting the air. Yamato knew what it was: a mutual respect that didn’t really need to be said in words – the fact that he didn’t really need to be out here, talking to Shin about any of this. But somehow, even amidst the frosty air, it gave him some kind of warmth, a strange comfort. He wrapped his thin scarf more tightly around his neck and grinned.
‘You know, after I lost to him, I told him the truth,’ he said, and he was surprised at the softness of his own voice, how much it reflected a closely-kept memory.
For the first time, Shin paused, and looked straight up into his eyes. ‘Sena?’
‘Who else?’ teased Yamato mildly, raising an eyebrow. He blew into his hands once to warm them, before crossing his arms. ‘I was excited at the idea of fighting alongside him. So much, in fact, that I almost forgot to be frustrated at my own defeat. Team Japan … is filled with real superhumans. It’s amazing how much power and potential we have – but we better not underestimate or get left behind, eh?’
Shin pulled himself up slowly into a sitting position on the concrete, his legs folded, his focused gaze never leaving Yamato’s eyes.
‘There’s no such thing as no room for improvement,’ he agreed.
‘And that’s why you’re out here, pushing yourself, even though your skills are already terrifying,’ answered Yamato pointedly, rummaging in his pocket. ‘Want some lifesavers?’
The corners of Shin’s mouth twitched.
‘Ah, caught red-handed. You were just about to smile,’ Yamato winked, popping a lifesaver into his own mouth with one hand and holding the colorful, cylindrical packaging out in offering with the other.
‘… You’re … really cheerful.’
‘You’re not cheerful enough. Although, if you started grinning and chuckling like me tomorrow, I’d probably be pretty scared.’
Shin shook his head and grabbed himself a lifesaver. ‘You really are something.’
‘So are you,’ answered Yamato warmly, folding his legs underneath him into a seated position, so that they were side by side. ‘We both are. We all are.’
They sat there together for the next hour in silent contentment, under the cover of the stars, without exchanging another word. Perhaps, Yamato thought, they both understood everything that wasn’t said such that they didn’t need to.
But their gazes did meet several times – at which point Shin would nod, and Yamato would smile – and that felt like enough.
Eyeshield 21, Hiruma/Sena
Title: Pasta and Sentimentality
Requested by: katgi
Prompt used: Sena forgot his lunch XD
Note: Spoilers for World Cup arc. Another one of my rather silly, light-hearted fics. ;3
Militaria’s linebacker actually stopped.
And before Sena’s mind could register that it was probably the most idiotic thing to do, he also stopped.
He heard Hiruma’s voice yelling furiously behind him, somewhere. He knew he was going to get repeatedly shot for it afterwards; they’d all learned that even a fraction of a millisecond lost could cost their team plenty, even though he and the opposition were just standing there stupidly, blinking at each other. It was probably a good thing that the guy in front of him was as stupid as he was.
So, just narrowly missing getting tackled (or killed), Sena snapped himself out of it and bolted off like a crazy person. He could hear Shin’s mild grunt and Yamato’s entertained chuckling as he sped away.
Cooking a huge vat of pasta for the whole team was actually quite therapeutic, especially after his somewhat embarrassing experience in the match earlier that day (and, as expected, he did get mercilessly berated for it afterwards). Sena, his messy locks swept back with a headscarf and a white apron donned on his shoulders, could hear excited voices clamoring in the communal room next door – and he felt even more relaxed, just listening to them; they’d gone through an easy match, after all, and all of his teammates were excited. Things were going smoothly as of yet, without a hitch.
Although … forgetting to eat his lunch in favor of chatting with Riku that day did almost cost him a touchdown; his stomach had grumbled and groaned so loud in the middle of the match that he’d even managed to startle the opposition.
Sena stirred in the slices of chicken, and wrinkled his nose. I better not do that again.
‘You’re damn right you better not.’
The brunet’s heart practically crashed into the roof of his mouth.
Hiruma was always like that, Sena knew – painstakingly observant, piercingly insightful, frighteningly right about everything; it was an instinctive reaction to follow whatever he saw and whatever he did. So it was a reflex to him to take a step back when the tall blond behind him reached over his shoulder, to watch as he pinched some pieces of pasta and slid them onto his tongue, into his mouth.
‘Ah – sorry,’ Sena said quickly. ‘I didn’t realize I was talking out loud.’
Hiruma eyed him momentarily, before eyeing his cooking. ‘That is a massive shitload of food.’
‘Ah, yeah,’ the brunet laughed half-heartedly. ‘I’m sure everyone here’s hungry. And we’re all Amefuto players. We probably have the appetite of an army, since we practically are … an army …’
Sena couldn’t tell whether or not Hiruma was actually listening. The blond had idly reached over again, grabbing himself a few more pieces of pasta with his fingers.
‘… And, well, after the silly thing I did today, this was the best thing I could think of to make up for it,’ the brunet continued anyway, watching Hiruma slide the food into his mouth. ‘We’re so far away from home – some of us probably crave a home-cooked meal now and then. Especially something like pasta, considering we just finished a match. We all need to keep up our strength, right?’
Admittedly, Sena flinched a little when keen eyes turned to look into his. Hiruma licked the sauce from his fingertips.
‘Um,’ the brunet started, ‘… is it good?’
And before he could even blink, he’d received a swift, sharp kick to his behind, and a loud startled yelp had escaped his throat. The next thing he saw was Hiruma’s back moving away from him.
‘Kehehe, your sickly-sweet sentimentality has its uses, fucking chibi,’ the blond turned his head back and smirked. ‘Your food can put some of those bastards into shape. Bring some up to my room when you’re done.’
And with that, he was out of the kitchen door, and gone.
Sena leaned back against the benchtop, staring in surprise at the empty doorway. It wasn’t because of what the blond had said - Hiruma was always unapologetically honest, distinctly straightforward about things like that, or about anything in general. But their entire exchange might’ve felt somewhat more welcoming, maybe even warmer, than usual. Than ever. Then again, they’d both come miraculously far in what they all considered a surreal story; Sena’s heart might have just skipped a beat for no reason in particular that he could think of.
The brunet made sure to set aside one empty bowl before he resumed cooking.
Title: In Denial
Requested by: gayroadtrip
Prompt used: Shinpachi is injured, and Gin is worried
Note: Lol sorry sweetie, I know you said ‘injured’, but what came out was Shinpachi being sick … hope you don’t mind? Meep. D: Also, warnings for Gin being Gin, worried or not, haha.
Hey. Oi. What the fuck are you doing in my bed?
It was so bloody annoying, that flat, hot pressure somewhere against his thigh; everything was hazy, but Shinpachi was still aware of something nudging his leg, something like a foot kicking at him, and a familiar excruciating drawl reverberating someplace he wished he could ignore. There was such a clog in his head – probably a good thing – because the voice seemed to be babbling more, and he couldn’t understand it, and he didn’t really give a damn, either way. His fingers unconsciously grabbed at the blanket at his shoulder, and he pulled it over his head. A dark, silent bliss.
And suddenly, there was a sharp whoosh, and cold air washed over him, and somewhere amidst the fog of his mind he vaguely realized that his snuggly blankets were no more.
‘Wake up and get off my bed,’ the voice snorted. ‘I wanna friggin’ sleep.’
Shinpachi would have groaned if he weren’t feeling so nauseous. He cracked an eye open. He was greeted with a large blur of silver curls, and he knew he shouldn’t have bothered looking at all.
‘What are you talking about, Gin-san,’ he croaked out. ‘This is the guest bed.’
‘Are you drunk or something?’ answered Gintoki incredulously. And suddenly, his eyes grew as large as saucers and he pointed a sharp finger accusingly. ‘Wait. Are you trying to seduce me??’
Shinpachi wrinkled his brow and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He turned his head momentarily on his pillow; a rack full of the same white kimonos and the same black shirts and black trousers over and over again, and shelves upon shelves of dirty magazines entered his field of vision. He really was in Gintoki’s room.
‘… I’m going to the other room then,’ he murmured hazily, forcing himself to sit up. His head was spinning, and he was much too tired to argue. ‘I don’t feel so good.’
‘Are you going to hurl?’
A brief pause. ‘So … were you trying to seduce me?’
Shinpachi could have slapped himself for ever getting the flu in the first place. His knees felt like jelly, but he tried to pull himself to his feet; anything would be better than enduring this ridiculous banter all night. He knew he was swaying. He was just about to prop himself against the nearest wall when, unexpectedly, a pair of firm hands caught him.
The look on Gintoki’s face was less than impressed. ‘You’re a dumbass, you know that.’
Shinpachi pressed his lips into a thin line. ‘Shut up.’
And then, to his surprise, Gintoki pushed him back down, and Shinpachi stumbled back onto a mound of soft covers.
‘I don’t want you to try swaggering your way out and I’m the one who ends up having to clean up when you pass out and turn into a pile of mess on my floor,’ Gintoki snapped, his pale eyebrows creasing. ‘My room’s warmer anyway, so I don’t want to hear any bitching and complaining tomorrow. And if you dare barf while you’re here, I’ll kill you.’
The silver-haired young man made his way under the covers next to where Shinpachi was sitting in a daze, grumpily threw the blankets over himself, and went still. And somehow, even through his dizziness, Shinpachi couldn’t stop his own lips from forming a faint smile.
Gintoki always did act ridiculously in denial when he was worried.
MOBILE SUIT GUNDAM 00
Gundam 00, Setsuna/Nena
Title: There, Inside Your Thoughts
Requested by: bubblefire
Prompt used: Kiss
Note: Lol I’m not sure if you’ll like this, but I tried. XD Sorry bubble. I totally suck haha.
Setsuna thought himself to be hardened by war; not necessarily the kind of toughness that made him more machine than his mobile suit, but one of unsaid discipline and self-control. That was his childhood, his youth, his years, filled with memories of the weight of steel and iron heavy beneath his knuckles, fast legs running atop sun-dappled plains of dust, smeared all over with blood and sweat and needless dreams. There was more to his purpose than human emotions, abandoned desires, unfamiliar impulses.
But it was still strange for him to see Nena Trinity laid out on the table, her eyes closed, her hands lying still by her sides. Setsuna walked over to her and bent over; he could feel a faint mist of warmth escaping her lips. She was still alive.
You were too reckless, he could imagine himself saying, though he didn’t say it, of course; she was comatose there, and she wouldn’t be able to hear him. And it wasn’t something he really needed to say – she wasn’t the same kind as him, wasn’t the kind of person who kept herself free from impulse and spontaneity.
He could imagine her throwing her arms around him and kissing him again, like the first time they’d met, and he wrinkled his brow, just thinking about it.
I caught you worrying about me, she’d probably say.
And he would reply: Who did this to you?
Reality returned to him, and there she was, lying still on the table, sound asleep. Her lips were pale; there was nothing of the flushed, mischievous grin that Setsuna always remembered. There were shadows underneath and all around her eyes. He had to wonder, for a moment, if he would actually feel a heartbeat at all if he pressed his palm against her chest.
But he would never do that, because it felt more human than he was used to, maybe, to touch a girl he barely knew – or to touch anybody at all.
Every time I see you, you’re doing something impulsive. Like the wedding party, all those years ago.
And she would probably grin, and answer teasingly: And every time I see you, you look as if you’d like to think you had nothing to do with me. But now, you’re here, and I’m there, inside your thoughts.
And there she was again, the real Nena Trinity, still and quiet, even though he’d heard her voice just fleeting moments before.
Something made him hesitate.
But then, he shook his head, and realized, maybe, that he’d already made his choice. He couldn't really imagine what had led his feet to the door of this chamber in the first place. Part of him didn’t want to know; part of him didn’t need to know. Another part of him knew: that this was human, that this was compassion, the blood and soul of those that waited on the dead or near-dead of their own kind.
That’s right: being Gundam pilots didn’t really link you to me.
Setsuna looked away, then, because it was just too sentimental for his taste to be having an imaginary conversation with someone he’d just mentally claimed to have had little to do with.
But he did reach out and brush his fingertips momentarily against hers, as if that was their last kiss, before he turned around and walked away.
PRINCE OF TENNIS
Prince of Tennis, Tezuka/Ryoma
Title: Feathers (Lol I know, so creative right).
Requested by: mnemo_syne
Prompt used: Feathers
Note: I'm not sure if you'll like this one or not, because part of me thinks this might be epic fail haha XDDD this fic's so silly. I hope it'll do, nonetheless *hugs*
The next time Kunimitsu saw him after years and years wasn’t in the most expected of places.
He wasn’t even on the court: he was in a local courtyard with someone – a little kid, or so it appeared – underneath the light drizzle of rain, tangled strands of black hair clumped and dripping. His body hadn’t changed, still small and slender, Kunimitsu noticed; he hadn’t grown any more muscular and not that much taller than they’d all probably have expected. Raindrops trickled down those thin arms, mingled with sweat. His furrowed eyebrows, the creases in his face, the fire in his eyes … Kunimitsu had only on very rare occasions seen that passionate determination from that boy before.
But then again, Echizen was playing impromptu badminton with a kid and sucking miserably at it.
Needless thinking flowed through Kunimitsu’s mind instantly: he shouldn’t be playing out in the rain, however light; sportsmen are supposed to take good care of their bodies; he’s … actually using a tennis racquet to play badminton; how are they supposed to control the shuttlecock properly if the feathers are all soaked?
Of course, he didn’t say anything. He was silent where he stood, underneath the shaded roof of his umbrella. The boughs of the tree above him creaked. Even from afar, he could see the little girl grinning brightly, laughing, her eyes sparkling, her lips moving to say, I love playing with you, Ryou-nii.
Echizen rolled his eyes, but they seemed to gleam – small scraps of warmth from the old Echizen the Seigaku regulars knew and loved.
Kunimitsu turned around and walked home, leaving them to their moment.
The next time Kunimitsu saw him after that drizzling afternoon was, again, hardly in the most expected of places: at the front door of his own house the very next morning, his racquet slung over his shoulder. They both stood there momentarily, blinking at each other; it must have been years since the last time they’d spoken in this way, but it was as if all that time between then and now had been compressed, erased, and Echizen was looking up at him with a casual expression, like they were back to where they were years before.
‘You still call me that.’
Echizen coughed several times, before smirking. ‘What else am I supposed to call you?’
Kunimitsu frowned and swept the other young man in as he gave a sneeze. It looked to him like Echizen’s personality hadn’t changed in the slightest, and maybe that was a little comforting.
‘You’re sick. You shouldn’t have been playing in the rain yesterday,’ he muttered, closing the door behind them.
Echizen raised his eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I was sitting for my parents’ friends. Got told off, though, when they found out I took her out into that weather. Child-minding’s not really my calling,’ he answered hazily, helping himself to a tissue and blowing his nose. ‘And I did see you. It made me want to play tennis against you again. So, here I am.’
If anything, Echizen had never really been this talkative, or eloquent, but Kunimitsu understood. He and the others had missed him, too.
‘You can’t play in this condition.’
‘Actually, I need to sweat out my fever,’ the black-haired young man teased. ‘And I can still play you even when I’m sick.’
There was that mischievous look in his eyes again, nostalgic of the old Echizen they all remembered. Maybe Kunimitsu saw, too, something of the little girl from the day before: that clear sparkle of anticipation and excitement. It had been a long time. The skin of his own fingertips prickled suddenly, and to his own surprise, he welcomed it.
He turned away and began walking to his bedroom. ‘I’ll get my racquet.’
‘Great,’ answered Echizen, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
Kunimitsu, however, stopped suddenly at the doorway and turned back to the other young man expressionlessly. ‘Really, Echizen. Badminton?’
‘Don’t say a word.’
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN FICLETS
Katekyo Hitman Reborn, Gokudera/Tsuna
Requested by: theprerogative
Prompt used: Caught between doing what he should be doing and what he wants to do
He’d always get that prickle in his fingertips at the most inappropriate time: when the Tenth was holding a meeting, or showing him how to do something, or humming quietly to himself, immersed in one of his tasks. He knew the Tenth was a hard worker, whose days were filled with too-early sunrises and unspoken loneliness at twilights; and yet, there were only his usual soft smiles, the ones that made Hayato’s chest sting a little less (and at the same time, a little more) when he saw it, and rarely ever a complaint.
Hayato often watched his boss’ hands – small, and thin, fragile-looking hands, scrunching at the fabric of his trousers, or wrapped clumsily around a fountain pen, or sweeping locks of hair away from large brown eyes. Hayato marveled that such formidable flames could actually sprout from these boy’s hands; he often wondered if the skin of those hands had turned rough, work-worn after all these years. He wanted to run his own fingertips across the back of those hands, sometimes imagining what it might feel like if they laced their fingers together, and he’d feel himself prickling whenever he thought about this, whenever he watched the Tenth’s hands.
He always stopped himself short, even if the opportunity was there. Many times, the Tenth had placed a warm hand on his shoulder, or good-naturedly straightened his tie for him, or held something out to him; but he always bit down on his lip and stopped himself from touching his hands. He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t – maybe the Tenth would think it was inappropriate. Maybe Hayato wouldn’t be able to let go.
So he said nothing, even when the Tenth’s presence was enough to make his heart beat just that little bit faster. He did nothing, even when those big brown eyes were lit with that smile, even when that kind voice was murmuring, great job, Gokudera-kun. I’m proud of you.
And then, before he realized it had even happened, everything he’d known crumbled into dust.
It was late afternoon the next time they were alone together: a grey sky with grey clouds – it had always been blue when The Sky was here – and branches that creaked and groaned amidst the cold air. The Tenth looked pale, wintry, his hair limp, his lips blue. Hayato wanted to wrap his arms around him. He thought it would have been appropriate at that moment, maybe, if ashes fell out of the sky and enveloped them both.
His mouth quivering as if uttering a prayer, he reached into the coffin. The Tenth’s hand was dry, lifeless, still underneath his fingertips.
‘Tenth,’ he whispered. ‘Tenth, I’m right here.’
Can you hear me, Juudaime?
Hayato threaded their fingers together and still wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, what it would have been like.
Katekyo Hitman Reborn, Yamamoto/Gokudera
Title: Just A Mafia Game
Requested by: ravient
Prompt used: Our promise
Note: I intended for this to be pure YamaGoku but I’m too much of a drama queen *fail* so this ended up taking a slightly different turn: it also deals with the relationship between Tsuna and Gokudera as a boss and his right-hand man.
‘Is everything alright?’
It was a stupid question to ask. It was a small apartment in the filthy part of town, with dim lights and the awful stench of drink and dust and sweat, cracks in the roof and grime smeared across walls. The rickety wood of the seat creaked underneath Takeshi whenever he moved. Gokudera sat across from him, coughing on his liquor; he was lank and looked nothing like he used to, pale skin and shadows and traces of sickly yellow underneath his eyes.
‘You know I’m not gonna bother answering that damn question,’ he muttered stonily. He took a long drag from his cigarette, his eyes watering. He coughed once on the smoke.
Takeshi raised his eyebrow. ‘When you can’t hold your liquor or your smoke, people have a reason to worry. After I came all the way here …’
‘… You’re free to go all the way back, too,’ Gokudera snapped, his eyes flaring.
There he goes again, the black-haired swordsman thought, shutting himself off. It wasn’t really a surprise to him; he’d been used to this for the last ten years. It was going to take a little bit of a fight, as always, trying to break in.
‘Well, I’m already here,’ he grinned, trying to lighten the mood. He grabbed himself a bottle from the counter-top. ‘And you look like you’re actually dying to say something –’
‘Like hell I am.’
‘— So why don’t you talk to me over a drink, then,’ Takeshi continued, ignoring the other young man. ‘You’re kind of drunk, anyway, so that gives you the right to say embarrassing stuff. And I’m about to get drunk, too, so you can say anything you’d rather I forget tomorrow.’
Gokudera looked at him incredulously. ‘You say the most fucking stupid shit sometimes.’
‘Play nice,’ answered Takeshi, raising an eyebrow and taking a swig of his drink. He would sit there all night if he had to – even if neither of them could admit how much they both needed company, to be in proximity with any trusted human being, to hear someone else breathing, at that moment … even if they were doomed to end up going nowhere at all. The storm guardian shook his head, turning his gaze away.
‘… I hate your goddamn smile.’
‘Because you always do it even when you should be moaning or bitching, or frowning, or crying – whatever. It pisses me off.’
Even though the words and the tone were cold, Takeshi knew there was something else there.
‘That’s why you’re Tsuna’s right hand man, right?’ he answered mildly. ‘You’re so honest with your anger. Better than me, at times.’
Gokudera let out a breath; his eyes looked dull, like they’d lost their usual gleam, and Takeshi realized suddenly how much he missed that usual intensity, that keenness. The storm guardian’s fingers unconsciously began to grasp at the fabric of his own sleeve, scrunching the material underneath his knuckles.
‘… Don’t bring him up.’
‘So you’ve decided to close yourself off instead, as if no one’s feeling the same?’
‘No one said that,’ Gokudera retorted, looking at the other young man stonily. ‘But … you remember that day, all those years ago. In my office, when we made that promise to let nothing happen to him. We joked around and toasted it and drank to it like everything was going to be bloody fine and dandy. Still, we were dead serious, weren’t we?’
For the first time, Takeshi felt the smile fade from his face, even though he knew Gokudera was finally opening his heart up to him. And maybe just gazing at him, crumpled on that dirty sofa as though he had been thrown uselessly there, made something ache, just a little. Gokudera wasn’t looking back at him, however; he had already lowered his gaze, biting down on his lip.
‘He’s dead, Yamamoto,’ he murmured. ‘He’s … really gone.’
Just a mafia game. At any other time, Takeshi would have put on that hundred-watt grin and thought the best, looked on the bright side, of everything. It was important for him and his smile to make his comrades feel better, after all.
But this time, the time when he felt he understood Gokudera the most, he could think of nothing.
With quivering fingers, Gokudera picked up his neglected cigarette from the dust-smeared ashtray and brought it up to his mouth. He coughed several times, his chest heaving. His eyes glistened warm and wet.
‘That’s what you get for being a chain-smoker,’ said Takeshi, looking at him carefully. ‘Jeez. All the smoke you’ve got floating around in this place would sting anyone's eyes.’
Gokudera turned his head away. ‘Yeah.’