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Eight Things You Damn Well Better Know, Damn Fan Girl

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It was well into two weeks past your last communication before Hiruma realized he hadn't heard from you.

Sure, it irritated the hell out of him when you'd text him nonsensical ramblings about your day or whatever the fuck it was you sent him, and he hardly spared them a glance, but they were at least notifications that the first Devil Bats fan was still alive. Yeah, back when he, fucking fatty and the fucking old man were still the Mao Devil Bats you had been their one and genuine fan. Hell, that's all you could be since you weren't athletic enough to be a player or smart enough to be a manager (and you'd never be his slave or his puppet, for no goddamn reason other than you'd cheerfully declared yourself his friend when you were both still snot-nosed brats and had ignored his every rejection since then).

Flipping open his personal cellphone Hiruma checked his missed calls and voicemail and inbox. Nothing from you, not even an 'I'm fed up, fuck off and die' text. Scowling, he selected your name and pressed Call (no, he wasn't fucking worried or feeling guilty or any shit like that). Your cellphone immediately sent his call to voicemail.

"Oi, fucking pick up, damn fan girl."

Hiruma promptly hung up without leaving his name or number, but then, he didn't have to. He put his cellphone away and decided to call again after practice.

Which is what he did.

You picked up on the second ring. "Y-Yoichi-k-kun?"

Hiruma frowned. Not because you called him by his given name, but because of the fact you were clearly trying to keep from crying. "What the fuck's the matter? Not that I actually give a damn."

He heard you try to muffle your sniffles but your voice broke when you spoke. "I g-got d-d-dumped."

Hiruma mentally gave you points for at least not using a horribly whiny voice. Aloud he dead panned, "I thought you went to an all-girls school." He grinned wickedly, his amusement apparent in his voice. "You had a fucking girlfriend?"

"No, you damned twit!"

There, that anger was much better.

Hiruma glanced up, doing a lightning fast mental check on his schedule. "I have some time. I'll be over with alcohol."

You spluttered, "What? Why? I'm not that upset!"

"This bastard made you cry. We're gonna fucking kill him. The alcohol is to lower your damned inhibitions enough to get you to go along with it."

"I'm locking the doors and windows!"

"Don't make me blast the fucking door open, damn fan girl."

"...You bastard. You really would, wouldn't you?"

He'd never get tired of the awe in your voice, or of the way you made 'bastard' mean so many things depending on how you said it to him.

You sighed, already sounding less depressed. "Dad's still in the middle of a week-long driving shift, but for the love of god, Yoichi-kun, don't let my neighbors see you bringing the alcohol."

"Che, your fucking neighbors aren't the problem." He had them all in his Blackmail Book. "It's your dad and that fucking rig that―I'll be over soon."

Hiruma hung up and mentally cursed. He'd almost admitted something aloud. Glaring, he looked around to make sure no one had seen or heard. The coast was clear. Still rankling over almost saying something he hadn't meant to, Hiruma slipped his cellphone into his pocket and stalked off in the direction of your apartment. Your dad's face and voice surfaced in his mind, as he knew it would every time something about or having to do with you set it off.


"Listen here, you snot-nosed little shit. See this girl, see my baby? You ever fucking hurt her or break her heart, I'll fucking run over you and then back up several times to smear your moist guts all over the street. Don't you think for one fucking second I won't, because I will. She's all I've got and all I live for. I'll kill anyone who hurts my baby, even if it is a fucking brat. Are we clear, kid?"


The hairs at the nape of his neck stood up, the memory still vividly fresh no matter how he tried to fade or forget it. The look in your father's eyes back then... Even now, years later, he still believed your father's every word. He knew you did too, ever since your dad kicked the crap out of him and then proceeded to lecture him, front of you and all over a name-calling fight between children (he didn’t even shove you!).

Not that that was the reason he continued to—and still—associated with you. Hell, the phone call just now was concrete proof you both still called each other names. Nah, even if he continued to reject and deny the truth, he knew, and he knew that you knew too.

(“I know. But I’m yours!”)

Which is why that bastard had hell coming his way, whoever he was.

If a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it.

~Edgar Watson Howe