disclaimer: not mine, quite obviously.
spoilers: tiny reference to recent chapters, but not really a spoiler.
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time
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One day he gets hurt on the field; not so much, but there´s blood and the look of it is worse than the actual injury.
Hiruma puts his face on his hands, afterwards, after the game, and it hurts so much that he doesn´t remember if they won or they lost, it hurts so much that Hiruma almost doesn´t care.
When he finally looks up, a hundred years after, there´s Mamori-
-Mamori, there, beautiful, damp cheeks, narrowed eyes, worried brow, looking right back at him, something indescribable in her eyes, something Hiruma knows exactly how much he´s been wanting to see.
"About fucking time, manager," and the last word he speaks into her neck.
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Their first date he takes her to a Seijin Suzuki´s movie –when she doesn´t know who Suzuki is, yet. Hiruma pays for an absurd amount of popcorn and as he puts handful after handful into his mouth he mumbles –the titles rolling in, bright colours, pop-music, directed by - "this guy´s my hero", and Mamori realizes he would have never confessed that to anyone else.
"I don´t understand all that fuss about fucking Tarantino," he rambles when they are outside, and there is still popcorn left, he throws it in the air and catches with his mouth. "That guys is just fucking copying Suzuki. Fucking American, they can´t appreciate talent."
"You know? I´d like you to stop using that language?" Mamori tells him, she has been waiting for a chance to do so.
"What?"
That first date, Hiruma, in the middle of the street, puts his arm over her shoulders, and hisses in her ear Make me , and slower Fucking make me.
It´s not their first kiss, but it´s the first one with witnesses.
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He teaches her to swear.
One day her mother walks on her talking over the phone. She is horrified.
Mamori had always been such a respectful child.
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Hiruma likes to buy her ice cream in the winter.
Second year of college, the night before a final he shows up at her flat, cone in hand, blueberry flavour.
It´s snowing.
"It´s snowing," Mamori tells him, in the half-infuriated half-fond tone he has been dancing with for years. She throws a towel over his head, his clothes are wet –he keeps a sweater in her flat, it´s old and ragged, but he likes to slip into it after they´ve made love. It smells of her as well as of him.
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They are shopping in Roppongi one Saturday morning and Mamori realizes he can pick the clothes she´d like most, the colours that are her favourite –although they never have "what´s your favourite colour?" boyfriend-girlfriend conversations, I don´t do that shit, Hiruma had said.
Mamori buries her hands in the pockets of his jacket; she has always loved doing this, from the start.
"Come here," she says, brushing her lips along the line of his jaw.
"What?"
"TBS is running a Seijin Suzuki marathon this weekend," she offers, enjoying the slight smile of awe and pride that plays on his lips as she says that name, as if he didn´t expect her to remember.
"And what?" he teases.
"Do you want to crash at my house for a couple of days?"
"Are you asking me on a date?" Hiruma asks, really thinking, about fucking time , about fucking time.