"'You look rebellious.'"

Hiruma stifles a snicker, so at most it sounds like a snort. "That what she said?"

"Yeah." It's fresh yet in Musashi's mind; just that morning, the clear disfavor across his mom's face. He didn't think it'd please her, anyway -- the state of his hair? Nor the fact that his dad's finally let him go back to school. To football, to his team.

"Hah. You know what she really meant: 'You look retarded.'"

"No," Musashi frowns.

"It's fucking true, though. Think I'd make that your punishment at all if it didn't make you look like a fucking chump?"

At this, Musashi smirks to himself. He doesn't have to say anything back, doesn't have to point out how Hiruma's saying something untrue again -- because otherwise Hiruma should've approved any of a dozen more stupid haircuts than a mohawk. He could've gone for a mullet at best.

"What're you pausing for, fucking old man. Get on with it."

There's something in Hiruma's breath, a little catch there following the edge of demand in his words. It's like Hiruma just stopped himself short of...begging.

Musashi moves his caressing hand up along Hiruma's back, and under the spread of his fingers, Hiruma's pale skin stretches over quivering bones, tender flesh and his body opening up just a little more so that his need is as bare to Musashi as every inch of his nude self.

Just for a moment longer, Musashi loses himself in the rare sight before him, for Hiruma this far unguarded is unexpectedly more beautiful to him than anything. And only then does he breathe again, get on with it finally.

Somehow, from some passing guilt, whatever it is, he imagines his parents frowning down on him, because here he is back in Deimon alright, except not in the classroom or the hallways where he should be, and he's certainly not in his school pants to begin with, and instead of a book or a pen he has his cock in his hand and it's slick, hard, and just aching for that heat --

Musashi pushes, slides himself inside Hiruma with a moan. He settles there for a still, unbroken moment, then starts to move again, grunting as he pulls out a bit before driving back in, and then gasping when Hiruma braces his forearms against the table, bare heels high off the floor, and pushes his hips back against Musashi's thrusting.

"Fuck," Musashi puffs out.

"You fuck," Hiruma rasps, hooking a leg up around Musashi's thigh to shift leverage.

Against him, Hiruma's flexed and just short of strained, when it's not supposed to be like this. So Musashi tries to hold him still by the hips. "Just let me do all the work. Okay?"

"Your work isn't fucking working. Get it out for a sec."

"What?"

In the end, lest any of this gets ugly, Musashi puts up very little fight when Hiruma pushes him down to the floor, to a less comfortable slump against the wall. After which Hiruma brings his hips down to Musashi's groin, fitting Musashi's cock back inside him. Hiruma grinds himself down, one hand pressed to the wall behind Musashi and the other curled around Musashi's bent knee.

"Better," Hiruma huffs.

And nibbling at Hiruma's shoulder, Musashi can concur.

The last time they did anything like this, Hiruma kept swearing and fidgeting with impatience, his motions needlessly bumpy and wild that Musashi could barely keep his cock inside him every few seconds. It got so miserable to the point they could hardly stand coming. Afterwards Musashi said to Hiruma, "You'll have to get on without me," and he didn't mean just the sex. And Hiruma just hushed, though clearly seething, because that was all to do anymore now that Musashi had quit.

"Fucking missed this," Hiruma murmurs, his words a hot puff of breath against Musashi's face. "You. Goddamn you."

Hiruma's lips are flushed with hints of their earlier kiss, the one they shared just before Hiruma went down on him. Musashi leans in to the pull of Hiruma's mouth, slips his tongue inside that soft heat, the faint taste of his own come. Hiruma makes this lazy, if impassioned, little noise into the kiss, and Musashi growls, quietly, containing some savage desire to keep kissing Hiruma until he's numb.

But then Hiruma breaks the kiss, flipping his head back. Musashi sticks a hand through Hiruma's hair, clutching at its yellow strands, thumb brushing against his earrings. With every deliberate, forceful weave of Hiruma's hips down on his cock, Musashi can feel every little shudder of Hiruma's muscles, hear every sharp breath ripped out of him by the exertion.

"Hiruma." Musashi wants to say a lot more, say how he missed saying his name like this, but in truth, more than saying anything to Hiruma right now he just wants to fuck the sense out of him, really, and so he heaves himself up from the floor and shoves persistently into his quarterback.

Ultimately, when that's not nearly enough, he pushes Hiruma by the shoulders until he's pinned to the marble tiles on his back. This way Musashi can hold nothing back anymore and just pound into the tight bastard, give it to him twice as hard.

"Holy shit, old man!" Hiruma gasps, his legs sliding smoothly to twist around Musashi's waist, urging, encouraging, and just taking it. Not bitching for once.

With the heat growing thick and sticky, his breath hardly slowing, and Hiruma just tightening, tightening around his cock, Musashi cannot but shut his eyes in bliss, lost to any sense of control. He feels Hiruma's fingers scrape across either of his shaved temples, the caress slithering up to the spiky strip of his hair, and Musashi bucks just a bit out of rhythm, his cock turning even harder -- if this was still at all possible.

When he opens his eyes, Hiruma's eyes are on him, lids heavy with lust, but the next moment he's digging his fingernails into Musashi's scalp and then it's his turn to close his eyes, moaning and bending his back in a twisted curve. Leaning over, Musashi slides a hand down and up Hiruma's side, and his other hand he folds over Hiruma's grip on his cock.

A few more longer and deeper thrusts, everything burning, bursting, and then Musashi comes, just following Hiruma. Then, his cock softening, he brings his movements to a slow, gentle rock even as he draws in uneven breaths, and in his arms, sprawled under his sated weight, Hiruma trembles and licks along Musashi's jaw.

Just outside the clubhouse, the bell shrieks just in time for lunch. Musashi, though, chooses to close his eyes and yawn, unconcerned about their sweaty bodies stuck together with come.

Without the physical threat of a gun on hand, Hiruma tries to get him off and away with an assault of teeth and nails and a whole barrage of insults, only these end up amusing Musashi at most. So he doesn't move at all for a while, until Hiruma socks him in the ear and he decides to get dressed for class finally.

But while everyone at school seems to find him "Cool" with the new hair, later in the afternoon, the reception is quite the opposite in his dad's hospital room.

"You look like a jackass," his dad grunts, shifting roughly on his pillow.

Musashi chuckles, but stops as soon as his dad turns back to him with a frown.

He leans a shoulder by the window and looks out at the full orange sky, scratching his 'old man' stubble. ...until something draws his gaze down to the grounds.

Then:

"Thanks, Dad," Musashi smiles. Outside there's Hiruma, flopped down on the grass, polishing his bazooka as he waits for him.

END