SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY, but this is my gift for @yelpfic for the Eyeshield 21 2025 Gift Exchange! I ended up combining a couple of your prompts, which ended up very silly, but I hope you like it!
I apologize for my terrible handwriting, hopefully you can read it 😂
And, as always, thanks so much to @eyeshields for organizing this event and breathing life into this little fandom! You're the best <3
I have one little sketch under the cut from when I was designing Hiruma and Takami's outfits lol
Here is my gift for @blaka-smoko ! I hope you like it!!! And thank you to @eyeshields for organizing another great year!!!
Like a well-oiled machine, the Shin family preps the coming week’s breakfasts and lunches together every Friday night. Seijuro’s mom washes and weighs out the ingredients, Seijuro chops them, and his dad is in charge of the stove.
It’s so well-organized, that it’s with careful consideration and much gravitas, that Seijuro says, very seriously, “I’d like to make extra. For—my friend.”
There’s a pause as Seijuro’s parents glance towards their son and then back at their work. A peculiar request from their, frankly, peculiar boy.
“Of course,” they say, hiding smiles, remaining nonchalant. They were young once, too.
That is how Seijuro ends up with two onigiri for Sena, which he presents to the running back as if it’s nothing—as if onigiri have little legs and make their merry way, by happenstance, into lunchboxes—during a lunch break in their Youth World Cup training camp.
Sena weakly mumbles protests, caught between politely declining and politely accepting, unsure which one is the most polite.
“You should be increasing the amount of simple carbs you eat during intense training,” Seijuro says. “When you deplete your glycogen stores, your body has to metabolize slower burning fuel. Slower fuel, slower movement.”
In that moment, there has never been a more rapt student than Sena, eyes wide and serious, drinking in every word Seijuro says despite their loud teammates starting to trickle in around them as lunch starts.
“Okay,” Sena says, quietly. “Thanks.”
Seijuro hands them off.
The onigiri switch hands, parchment crinkling slightly, and their fingertips brush during the exchange.
Deimon’s receiver sits between Sena and Shin, and Yamato sits on Sena’s other side.
Seijuro is finely tuned to his body the way a surgeon knows her scalpel. Any deviations are noticed immediately, and if needed and appropriate, corrected. As he eats methodically, he takes stock of his body.
Heartrate, elevated.
Breathing, dysregulated.
Nervousness is not completely unknown to Seijuro, but it’s rare, and in any case, he keeps checking in on himself, knowing his dataset is incomplete. So he continues.
Face, warm. Blushing, slightly, maybe.
Mind, singularly fixed on Sena.
Especially how just now was the only time he's ever—touched Sena's hand like that—which would not have this affect on him, surely—except that it was Sena's hand. Sena's bare hand. They'd taken their gloves off and washed their hands for lunch, so both of their hands were bare.
When Deimon's receiver gets up for something, Yamato is still chatting with Sena. Seijuro waits for a lull in the conversation, and reaches out again, across the meter of space between them, and with his bare hand, gently nudges Sena's elbow, right above a scrape of turf burn from earlier in the day.
Sena’s face turns to him immediately. Seijuro's stomach flips—pleasantly, the same way it does as a rollercoaster starts cresting downwards from its apex. The weightlessness, the lightness. A thrill of excitement at what's to come. He soaks in Sena’s attention, sitting a little taller. His fingertips have a pulsing neon-buzz.
"What did you think?” Seijuro asks, though he knows the answer. His family has been working on their recipes for years and the macros are perfect.
"They’re so good," Sena says. He fiddles with the washi tape: footballs on a green and white background. “I don’t think I’ve seen these at the convenience store…?”
Seijuro picks up the cue, hesitating only briefly, “They’re—homemade.”
“No way! That’s amazing!” Sena adds, voice quieter and contemplative, “Shin-san is amazing.”
Seijuro doesn’t have a chance to respond—which is for the best—because their coaches call to regroup, and this time Sena and Seijuro are in separate groups for the rest of the day and don’t have a chance to—talk, he guesses, though neither of them are particularly talkative—see each other, except for watching Sena, already showered and changed, walking home with some of his Deimon teammates. They cling casually to him: they slap his back or they grind their knuckles into his hair or they bump his shoulder—in a friendly way, Seijuro is sure. They touch Sena casually and none of them seem to be stuck on it or think twice about it.
Seijuro is about to turn away when he notices Sena’s red water bottle. There’s a small green and white sticker with a cartoon football on it now.
“Shin?” he hears Sakuraba ask. “You ready to go?”
“I was getting my backpack,” he answers.
That is the first day of their training camp. On Sunday, Seijuro does the same thing. The nudging. The onigiri. Their fingertips meeting once more. He finds himself leaning over Sena during huddles to read the whiteboard play, close enough that Sena’s helmet sometimes bumps into Seijuro’s jersey; or sitting next to Sena on the bench during lessons, their legs touching along their thighs as the coaches make them squeeze in as many players as possible. If they are in the same group, then wherever Sena is, Seijuro is right there, close enough to be a second shadow. Though to be fair, twice Seijuro turns around, thinking he’s by himself, and bumps into Sena.
“Ah, sorry, Shin-san,” Sena says, accompanied by a half-step backward.
“Don’t worry about it,” Seijuro says. Bumping into Sena doesn’t hurt, but his mind hyperfixates where Sena’s arm brushed against his. Again, he finds his heartbeat increasing, badum, badum, badum.
“I told my mom about your homemade lunches. She was really impressed.”
“Please relay my thanks.” Seijuro thinks: he talks about me to his family. And then all he thinks is Sena, Sena, Sena.
Sena nods. “And—ah… Could you wait a bit after practice? We probably won’t see each other again until we’re at the airport next weekend, so…”
“Okay,” Seijuro says, understanding that Sena might have requested anything else and he would have agreed just as easily.
For the rest of that day, Seijuro is hyperaware of Sena. Or rather, they are hyperaware of each other since it’s their eyes that meet when something funny happens and or when they have to find a partner for a drill. And, if Seijuro could get embarrassed, he might be embarrassed that their synchronicity is noticed, sharply, by their coaches when one of them comments, “You two have good chemistry for this play. We’ll have to use it more during the tournament.”
When camp ends, finally, Seijuro hurries through his routine.
“I need to talk with Kobayakawa about something,” Seijuro tells Sakuraba and barely waits for a reply before exiting the locker room.
Away from the growing crowd of teammates waiting by the main entrance, Seijuro spots Sena by the bleachers, alone. Seijuro walks over.
“Right,” Sena mumbles, opening his backpack and taking out a small, soft-walled cooler. Sena pulls out a small glass jar of honeyed lemon slices. There’s a dark blue ribbon tied around the lid. “I just—wanted to say thanks—so, I hope you like these. I heard they’re good for hydration. Ah, and honey is a simple carb. I think. So that’s good! I made them last night so it probably needs a little longer, but I didn’t want to… keep waiting…”
Sena holds out the jar.
Seijuro easily reaches out and accepts it, consciously letting his fingertips brush Sena’s wrist. No feigned politeness, no hesitancy. He wants it, simple as that. “This will be very effective for recovery. Thank you.”
Sena zips his backpack and nods his head. “Great! That’s great to hear! Okay! So! I’m just gonna, uh…”
Their training camp is a long way from Seijuro’s house, and he already has a pre-portioned balanced dinner waiting for him.
Neither of which stop him from asking: “I’d like to discuss our play more. Do you have time now?”
Sena, starting intently at his shoes, nods. “I heard there’s a good cafe nearby.”
When they walk, it’s not by happenstance or coincidence or anything else that their hands keep brushing.
"goofy's eyesight gonna go bad if he keeps fact-checking with the lights off" ft. an incorrectly done kotatsu in an apartment in houston
HAPPY ES21 WINTER GIFT EXCHANGE!! this is my lil present for @gyroshrike, featuring the goofy running back duo. thank you @eyeshields for organizing and running the event :)
Here is my Winter Gift Exchange '24 fic for @kamiya-travis. I hope you like it! It's my first time writing so much Hiruma & Mamori interaction.
Shout out to @eyeshields for organizing, thank youuu!
Title: Any Other Name
Rating: Gen
Relationship: Hiruma & Mamori
Summary: During the Hakushu game, Hiruma's injury happens right before halftime. His conversation with Mamori goes differently.
The gift of being an eldest daughter is that it's also a bit of a curse. Granted, Mamori is an only child. However, she and Sena were close since they were little. They were practically siblings. Caring for someone came naturally to her when they'd play together. The effect compounded from there. She took care of people because she was a caretaker, and she was a caretaker because she took care of people. A cycle. The gentlest ourobous.
That's why, with Hiruma on the cot with his broken arm bandaged, she has to put her foot down.
"There's no way you can keep playing with your arm like that!" she yells, unable to keep her voice calm. The envelope she tore up and then painstakingly taped back together shakes in her hand. "After halftime, we'll have someone else be quarterback—"
"Third question," Hiruma says through gritted teeth, ignoring her completely. "There are idiots in the NFL that have kept playing matches with broken bones. True or false?"
Mamori knows she's trapped in the cycle. She can't let him hurt himself any more.
"If I say true, then you'll just keep playing," she says, unable to keep her eyes from welling with tears. "So I'll say false."
"Wrong." A slash of a smile streaks across Hiruma's face. "I win."
"What? Third... question...?" Her mind goes back to the beginning of the year. Their bet. How could she have forgotten?
"As you promised, you'll work obediently."
"You're an idiot," she whispers. "Bringing that up after all this time."
"Just keep your promise. Open the letter."
"By process of elimination, it has to be Ishimaru." Her fingers work stiffly pulling out the single piece of paper inside. Reading the name feels like gibberish at first. "It's—my name?"
"Oh, good, you're not illiterate. Almost had me fooled."
"You can't be serious. I'm not on the team!"
"You're on the roster."
The Bando game. She had thought it was uncharacteristic for Hiruma to add her as a form of sentimentality.
"I don't have a uniform." Even as Mamori says that, she knows Hiruma already has an answer. (Suzuna teasingly making Mamori try on Sena's uniform. It'd be easy enough to get her a spare knowing her measurements.)
"That chibi cheerleader is useful sometimes."
Mamori is left standing dumbly, at a complete loss of words. Up to this point, her role on the team has been all about analysis: film, developing plays, planning for every possibility.
"Are you doing this because I know our playbook?" she asks.
Hiruma scoffs. "So does the team."
"But I can't throw—" But she has thrown a few times, she thinks, a little with Suzuna, even once with Hiruma when they had needed to take a break during a particularly long film session. She hadn't been all that good, but she had caught on to the basics.
Her eyes widen.
The weight training she had tried out of curiosity with the team.
Cycling alongside them during their runs.
Ladders with Sena every once in a while.
Even the games of sand football.
She'd been training with them all this time, hadn't she?
"You've been planning this for a long while, haven't you?" she asks. "You always have backup plans just in case, even if something like this happening was almost impossible."
"I've told you before, we make our own luck. Now, don't tell me you'd be satisfied with just being a fucking manager this whole time."
Being the manager for the Devilbats had come naturally to Mamori. It was a challenge she happily accepted. Just like Yukimitsu, Mamori hadn't joined any other clubs. It would have interfered too much with the Devilbats demanding schedule. Her kinship with Yukimitsu is different than her friendship with Suzuna. (Suzuna is part of the cheer team and the Devilbats.) Mamori and Yukimitsu only have the Devilbats. She'd been so happy for him when he joined the field against Shinryuji, even if she felt like she'd been left on the outside looking in.
Mamori had made peace with giving up her last year of athletic eligibility to help the Devilbats.
And yet.
(She placed eighth overall for the girls' heat in the last sports festival race. She beat out a couple of the girls on the track team.)
(She’d thought about joining the track team actually. Something to keep her in shape. Something fun to do. A different form of challenge. But there was never any time.)
"The team has worked so hard to reach the Christmas Bowl," Mamori says. "Somewhere along the way, it became my dream, too." She folds the paper back into the envelope and sets it to the side, all business. "What's your plan? You can't expect me to last the whole second half. I can't throw like you."
Hiruma keeps grinning sharply despite the pain he must be in. "Who the fuck asked you to do that? Your head's getting stupid from all the cream puffs. You're not my replacement. We're going two quarterbacks."
She lets his barbs slide off of her. If anything, his insults are a good sign. They're also reassuring. (Seeing someone as unflappable as Hiruma fall is distressing to the say the least.)
Mamori taps her chin. "If you're going on the field, it must be because you still have a card up your sleeve. Throwing has to be impossible—which is why you'll still do it, won't you?"
"Realistically, I got one good throw left. My arm'll be useless after that."
"But Hakushu doesn't know that. Just you being on the field will make them hesitate with how unpredictable you are."
They lock eyes.
"We're cursing them so they can't fucking look away. Gonna drive fucking eyelashes insane trying to predict what we're gonna do. Might've been close if it was just one quarterback, but luckily we got the smartest bitch joining the field."
"You're terrible," Mamori says. This insult doesn't bother her either. No, her system's already start to fill with adrenaline. She's more concerned with other things. She's seen how big the linemen are.
Reading her mind, Hiruma says, "Can't guarantee you won't get hurt."
"It's a full contact sport," she says, blunt. Her voice shakes. This is how Sena and Yukimitsu must have felt their first game. She gulps. "I'll do it."
"As if there was any question. 'Sides, the Devilbats don't let fucking cowards on the team."
Their talk takes them about a third of the way through halftime. They hustle getting ready. Following Hiruma's instruction, she bandages both his arms up, and he waits for her to change into her uniform. She is a bit touched to find it's modified for women, more room in the chest padding.
When she puts on her helmet and stares into the mirror, she doesn't recognize herself. All she sees is an American football player. (She likes it.)
She steps out of the changing room, and they walk in-step together to the field, but when Mamori steps onto the pitch, she does it as part of the team.
[fic] Seijuurou Shin's Top Secret Super Special Training Camp
Shin and Sena train on the slopes. They train at the beach. They train in the waves.
Sena sure hopes all this training is making him stronger. But at least the scenery can't be beat.
Pairing: Shin/Sena
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
For: @kbz-writes
Prompt: training partners, winter sports
Rating: T
Status: Complete ( 1.5k words)
Notes: Happy winter gift exchange to kbz! And thanks as always to @eyeshields for organizing another great event!
Here is my Winter Gift Exchange '23 fic for @moistspaghettis on tumblr. Sorry it's late but hope you like it! Happy holidays!
Thank you to @eyeshields for organizing!
Title: A Very Special Christmas (Bowl)
Rating: Gen
Relationship: Kobayakawa Sena/Shin Seijuurou
Tags: Fluff, Missing Scene, Crushes
Summary: Christmas Eve is considered one of the most romantic evenings. Leave it to Sena to spend it talking about football.
Tomorrow is Christmas, and Deimon did not make it to the Christmas Bowl. They’d been knocked out in the semifinals by Oujou in a rematch that mirrored last year. It had gone down to the wire, decided by one failed tackle at the end zone. Sena still gets a bit emotional when he thinks about it, even now a few weeks later. It had been a devastating loss. But if they had to lose to anyone, at least it had been to Oujou who’d gone on to win the whole thing and advanced to the Christmas Bowl. Even so, Sena’s restless energy has been compounding every day since Deimon got knocked out of the tournament.
He’s taken to late evening walks to try and help him wind down with varying levels of success.
Sena’s breath puffs out in little clouds and mingles with the string-light sparkly night air when he sighs, long and heavy. When he looks ahead again, he sees an approaching figure. Whoever they are, they’re pretty big. They cut an intimidating figure in their matching snow pants and jacket combo, but their ski mask has a pompom bobbing on top which instantly erases most of Sena’s nervousness. He decides against crossing the street in favor of scooting to the side to let them pass. If Sena were bolder, he would talk to them about joining a football club.
Instead of passing, the other guy pulls down his knitted ski mask and fixes Sena with a confused stare.
“Shin-san?” Sena asks, jaw dropping as recognition knives through him. Sena’s failed tackle had been against Shin to give Oujou the win. And there he was, wearing a pompom.
“Training,” Shin says after a pause. “This is my neighborhood.”
“This is—” Sena looks over his shoulder. He feels out of place immediately. The houses here are bigger traditional homes. Even the decorations are more elegant. The lights precisely line each wall, gold dusted ornaments drip from tree branches, lush wreaths at every door. There’s not an inflatable reindeer in sight. “I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. S-sorry, Shin-san.”
“Our schools are not that far apart. I’ve found myself in your neighborhood before.”
“Right,” Sena says, still embarrassed. “Well, I’ll let you get back to—to your run.”
Neither of them move.
“You don’t know how to get back,” Shin states bluntly.
“No, no, I definitely…” Sena forces himself to perk up. “I can figure it out!”
“Hm,” Shin says. He pulls the ski mask off completely and tucks it into his jacket pocket. With a gloved hand, he smooths out his messy dark hair. He looks over at Sena expectantly. “Do you want to come in for a moment? I can show you the way.”
“Oh, uh, okay,” Sena says, carefully shuffling after. They walk to a white house with red and yellow string lights mapping out the roof, making it resemble a frosted gingerbread house. “Are you excited about tomorrow?”
“Ah,” Shin says, blinking. He takes off his winter gloves and grips them tightly in one hand, but his gaze drifts off. He almost sounds distracted, which gives Sena pause. Shin’s consistent focus has always been one of his defining characteristics in Sena’s mind. “That’s right.”
“Shin-san, is everything… okay?” Sena asks with genuine concern. “I don’t want to pry, but, well.”
Ducking his head, Shin scrubs a hand through his hair again. A frustrated breath later, Shin drops his hand, but avoids Sena’s searching look. “We should sit down.”
With all the discipline Sena can muster, he hangs his coat up and takes his shoes off with exaggerated calm. They enter a small sitting room with a cozy looking kotatsu. There’s no decorations inside, and the house is quiet. Shin pours them water and sets out a small platter of sliced fruit despite Sena’s insistent protests.
“I heard your stomach growl,” Shin says.
“Erm, well,” Sena mumbles, “I don’t have to watch my diet so much now that it’s the off season.”
Shin stares at the sliced fruit. “I’d wanted our teams to meet in the finals.”
“Unlucky we were on the same side of the bracket,” Sena muses. “Again.”
“The commentators called it a grudge match.”
“It’s definitely not! That’s so embarrassing.” Shaking his head, Sena smiles as he thinks about their match. “I wish we’d won, but I’m glad it’s Oujou representing us.”
“Are you coming to watch tomorrow?”
As if there is any doubt. “Of course! We have a whole group going from Deimon. Some are doing a watch party at Komusubi’s. It’s gonna be a crazy game. I think you and Yamato are a good match up.”
Shin leans forward, arms crossed on the small kotatsu table. His dark eyes are intent as they pierce into Sena. “Who will you be rooting for?”
“For Shin-san,” Sena says simply, voice quiet. He pinches a thin slice of pear between his fingers. The pear bursts sweetly against Sena’s tongue when he bites into it. “If Deimon can’t win, then I want Oujou to win.”
There’s a heavy pause that makes Sena look up from eating, self-conscious.
Shin clears his throat. “Actually, I feel nervous for tomorrow.”
Several phrases of what to say run through Sena’s mind. Mainly shock and disbelief that someone like Shin—someone so steady and collected—could be nervous of all things. Sena from last year might have spoken out with the first thought that came to mind, but instead he pauses, eyes lowering.
“I have not felt nerves in a long time,” Shin continues. “It’s off putting. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“What do you usually feel before a game?”
Shin’s broad hand rubs against his jaw, deep in thought. “Nothing.”
Sena’s mouth parts while Shin just shrugs. No wonder Shin seemed off.
“I remember I’d get so anxious the night before games that I would sleep walk,” Sena says, laughing. “It still happens sometimes.”
“When I said I was training earlier,” Shin says. “I was supposed to rest today, but I couldn’t sit still. Walked around for an hour.”
Sena’s face softens. He didn’t think he and Shin would have so much in common. “There’s all this weight on your shoulders to carry the team. Being the captain and ace and all that.”
“Representing all of the East,” Shin adds.
“And then all your teammates where this is their last year to play ever. So it feels like you have no choice but to win and—okay, sorry, that’s probably not helping.” Just imagining that has Sena drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He looks up at Shin, who’s barely just smiling, and his heartbeat picks up. Stupid anxiety. “Ah, being nervous—I think it shows how important tomorrow is for you,” Sena says softly.
Underneath the table, their knees brush together.
“Yeah, probably,” Shin says. His hand is again resting against his mouth, thoughtful. “I always want to perform well, which usually means winning.”
“But tomorrow?” Sena asks when Shin trails off.
“It’d really bother me if I lost on that big of a stage with you rooting for me.”
The pear drops from Sena’s limp grip. He swallows thickly. “W-what—if you—if you—?”
Shin continues eating. His dark eyes keep meeting Sena, and now it’s Sena looking away.
“I make you nervous?” Sena squeaks.
“Something like that.”
“Hiruma’ll be happy to know that I finally intimidated you,” Sena mumbles. “Only took two years.”
“You’re an exceptional athlete, but I did not say intimidating.”
“How’re your nerves?”
“Better.”
“Um, well, it is getting late, so if you’re still feeling pent up—um, anxious then maybe a walk, like, if you still needed to, ah, y’know, because of tomorrow.”
Over the last year, with joint training camps and scrimmaging, they’ve gotten close enough to figure out each other’s ticks and relax around each other. They’re both quieter by nature, but being comfortable has allowed them to joke in a way that they don’t do as often around others. Shin now parses through Sena’s word vomit with ease.
“Sure, I could use a walk.”
Shin cleans up for them, and a few minutes later, Shin’s walking Sena home. There’s an ease to his gait even in the snowy conditions, shoulders relaxed. More than that, Sena feels Shin present next to him, no longer miles away in his own head, spiraling. They chat quietly, about football, about other things, and the walk passes by pleasantly until they’re at Sena’s front gate.
“Do you, um, want to come in?” Sena asks.
“It is getting late,” Shin says.
“Oh, yeah.” Disappointment flutters briefly in Sena’s chest. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Maybe tomorrow,” Shin says, “after celebrating.”
Sena nods, no longer as wound up as he was earlier that evening. “Good luck, Shin-san.”
“Thank you, Kobayakawa,” Shin says. He waits by the gate until Sena’s inside before trekking off.
Sena peeks out the window, watching Shin’s broad back trail out of view.
"Was that your date?" Sena's mom, Mihae, asks suddenly from the living room. It looks like his parents just came back from their date. She's unclasping her fancy dangly earrings. His dad is loosening his tie.
"How long have you been watching?" Sena asks, mortified. "When did you come back?"
"Honey, don't even fret," Mihae says. "I was about your age when I first went out on Christmas Eve."
Sena's face floods with color. He plays back that evening spent with Shin, Christmas Eve spent with Shin. It was total happenstance but all the pieces seem to form the conclusion that it was, in fact, a date. Accidentally, but still a date. And what's more:
