They're more than a few minutes into it, pushing harder, breathing heavier, when Kurita steps inside the club room. He's done this thrice before, walking in on them, and the two times Kurita's asked to join in some way Hiruma's let him, if just because Musashi's told him to.

"Can I --"

"Stay away, you fucking fat idiot. I fucking mean it."

Musashi meets Kurita's eyes, and while he wouldn't do the same any other time, he gives Kurita a quiet, insistent nod so that he steps back and pulls his hand away from Hiruma. Now isn't the best time, and Kurita gives a slow nod back in concession.

Kurita flops down on the bench, his glum eyes stuck to the floor. Musashi grits his teeth. He's too close to climax now, too late to stop for Kurita's sake, but when Hiruma makes all kinds of emphatic noises underneath him and Kurita, listening carefully, unzips his pants to touch himself, Musashi tightens his grasp on Hiruma and holds nothing back until they finish.

After Hiruma's left, without a single word, Musashi takes a towel from his locker and pokes it at Kurita.

"Thank you," Kurita says, softly. He rolls his hand against the towel and watches Musashi change into his work clothes. "Musashi?"

"Yeah."

"Does Hiruma hate me now?"

Musashi takes a moment longer to tie the bandanna around his head. He can't exactly lie to Kurita, so he replies, "Probably," but he knows things aren't exactly screwed up yet, so he adds, "just today. I wouldn't worry about it."

Kurita brushes the back of his wrist against his wet eyes and smiles up at him. "You're right. Thank you for cheering me up, Musashi."

Just before Musashi shuts the door behind him, he catches Kurita folding his Shinryuuji robe neatly.

+

The sun has never glowed brighter, or it's probably just Hiruma. Musashi can't remember his face as lit up, his cackling as animated, and there's more a hint of a smile than the usual smirk in his eyes when he speaks. Musashi simpers to himself and leans back against the rooftop railing. Kurita, as always, sits with them clinging to Hiruma's every word.

"Since you suck at exams, fucking fatty, we got no choice now but Deimon High --"

"Deimon?"

"-- you better thank your fat lucky stars, they're so desperate they'll let any idiot in --"

"Yay!"

"-- now the suckers haven't got a football club, but obviously I'm gonna have to take care o'that --"

"Yay, Hiruma!"

"-- and starting today I want you fucking fatty to get your fat ass down to Deimon and get cracking on those flyers --"

"This early? Yay!"

"-- and as for me I've got plenty of recon and blackmailing to keep me busy so make sure if you bug me it better not be for useless shit like directions --"

"Yay! Methinks this calls for a little party! I'm off to get some tea and cupcakes, you two stay right there!"

Hiruma's still grinning to himself even as Kurita leaves, and just notices Musashi's eyes on him, amused, a moment later.

"What, fucking old man." Hiruma elbows the knee Musashi's drawn to his chest.

"You got him so worried," Musashi says, unbending his leg.

Hiruma snorts, "Fucking fatty cries over everything." He shifts and drops his head on Musashi's lap, angling his face away to Musashi's knees.

Musashi stares at the curve of Hiruma's neck peeking out of his black scarf, at the sliver of pale skin just below the two loops hanging from his ear. He keeps in mind to press his mouth there later.

"You haven't said anything," Hiruma says, after a hushed while.

"Does it matter?" Musashi shrugs.

"...shit, you know. It's like heaven and hell, the diff'rence. From fucking Shinryuuji to Deimon. We gotta get a bunch o'jackasses just to make a team. We're gonna hafta keep at it ten times harder."

"Take more time off my work?"

"Absolutely."

"I figured."

"That okay then?"

Musashi taps a finger against Hiruma's earrings. He can't exactly lie to him, so he replies, "No," but it is okay by him, if he's being terribly honest, and so he adds, "and yes."

Hiruma snatches the finger by his ear and takes its tip between his teeth, gnawing lightly. "You, me, fucking fatty," he says, turning his head so Musashi can see the serious gleam of resolve in his smirk. "We're gonna be awesome."

Musashi buries his fingers in Hiruma's stark yellow hair, nodding, We probably are already.

+

They lose their first match as the Deimon Devilbats, 84-7, but it doesn't matter. Neither do their aching muscles, their bruised skin, their battered asses. They've played in a real game at last, the three of them together, and that's all that matters.

Or at least for a second. Already Hiruma's harping on about the next game and the coming tournaments, every lineup to look out for and every play they should run, and he can't stop moving about their cramped locker room, pacing and bounding like a fireball that Kurita's probably starting to see swirls in his vision.

"Settle down," Musashi says, knowing it's useless.

"This is what it's all about, old man," Hiruma tells Musashi, grinning, right in his face, the scent of Hiruma's intensity, his heat, going right to Musashi's head.

A little afterwards, Hiruma's finally pinned to one spot, but he isn't the least still, moving together with Musashi against the desk.

"I wanna, too," Kurita says, chunky hands fumbling with the laces of his uniform.

"Christ," Hiruma snickers over his shoulder at Kurita, "the sun'll be down by the time you fucking flip that out!"

"No, wait for me!"

"Never mind that," Musashi gestures at Kurita, "just come here."

"Hah, or come there!" Hiruma's laughter comes to a sudden end the moment Kurita stands close by the desk and places a hand on Hiruma's bare arousal. "Oh sshhhhh..."

Kurita darts a glance over at Musashi, smiling. Musashi smiles back at Kurita and sinks himself deeper into Hiruma. He moves faster, and Kurita keeps touching Hiruma, and with one hand around Musashi's nape and the other on Kurita's shoulder, Hiruma breaks into a chortle whenever he can hold back a hiss or a moan.

When it's over and they're sticky everywhere, Kurita makes a hasty beeline for the door, chirping, "I'll get us lots of cake! Be right back!"

"He's gonna get come all over them," Hiruma points out, almost, vaguely, with concern.

"Too bad I'm not having any," Musashi chuckles. He slides Hiruma's legs off his waist and separates their spent bodies.

"Goddamnit, it's too early for work."

Musashi disregards the bare foot Hiruma keeps jabbing into his ribs and goes about pulling on his tank top and jeans. It takes him endlessly, but he always does have a tough time getting ready to leave, anyway.

"A fucking downer, that's what you are."

His bandanna bound, Musashi pulls out his toolbox and steps away from Hiruma. "Tell Kurita I had to go."

"You're gonna make him cry."

"Get him tissues."

"Hey, six sharp at the field tomorrow!"

"Aa."

"Ol' man."

Musashi pauses halfway out the room. "Yeah."

Hiruma sits his naked backside on the edge of the desk and flashes a toothy smirk. "Don't get your fucking right foot destroyed or something. Or I'll kill you."

And just before he shuts the door behind him, Musashi catches Hiruma brush his knuckles against Musashi's kick tee.

END