Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warning: This is yaoi. And crack.

Summary: Sena is a boy. And he's straight. Totally.

It seemed obvious to Sena that something was wrong with the water at Deimon. (And he knew who'd be responsible for that, and it wasn't the Ministry of Health, Labor, and Welfare.) Everyone was being so—Sena couldn't think of a good term for it. Insane, maybe. Except Jyuumonji had seemed less insane and more anxious, and Hiruma—who could tell with Hiruma? Though when it came to people who could possibly want chocolate from Sena on Valentine's Day, he would never in a thousand years have guessed Jyuumonji and Hiruma—

"OK, no," said Sena, out loud. A passing salaryman in a loosened tie gave him a wary glance. "That's not what happened."

No. It definitely wasn't! They—they had just obviously heard that Sena had been helping Mamo-nee and her friends make chocolate, and they had accurately guessed that he would not come out empty-handed, and obviously Hiruma had an unexpected craving and Jyuumonji—Jyuumonji was (had been?) a bully of Sena's, and he was obviously used to taking things from Sena, and why not chocolate, if Sena happened to have it and Jyuumonji happened to want it—

"Coincidence," said Sena firmly, a little desperately, as he passed a convenience store, and two middle school boys who'd been walking in front of him stopped to turn and stare. "Just a coincidence."

"What is?"

Sena walked right into a stack of wooden crates and would have gone down in a pile of splinters if a hand hadn't caught his arm.

"I'm not really like this," Sena whimpered.

Someone hned under his breath, as if he would laugh if he weren't such a man.

Sena looked up.

Musashi was smiling crookedly down at him. He was dressed for work, the bandana tied securely over his head, and in one hand he had a plastic bag of what looked like five or six Pocari.

"You walked right by me," said Musashi, answering Sena's question even as he opened his mouth to ask it.

"Uh." Sena felt his cheeks going pink. "Oh."

Musashi was still holding his arm. Sena had barely realized this when one of the middle school boys from earlier yelled from ahead of them, "Oi, old man, you shouldn't hit on high school girls!"

"But I'm OK with older women, neechan," shouted the other one.

Sena could have passed out from all the blood rushing to his face. "I am not a girl!" he yelled back, and wished that had come out more manfully angry and less pitifully defensive.

"Yeah, OK, neechan! Whatever you want!"

"Prove it, burikko!"

Musashi shifting gears to stern was sort of like having someone switch on the gravity for the first time. "That's enough."

Sena watched the boys beat a hasty retreat with both desperate envy and a new low in self esteem. Eyeshield 21, MVP of the Kanto Tournament, starting running back for Team Japan, and middle schoolers were picking on him. Without thinking, he said, "You're so manly, Musashi-san."

Because that wasn't gay at all.

He could feel Musashi raise an eyebrow.

"I—I mean," Sena stammered, and blurted, "I mean, you—it's just—I wish—I wish I were more like you."

Sena had never meant to tell anyone that. He was sort of embarrassed about it, that the first thing he'd ever thought on seeing Musashi—not Musashi back then, but just the foreman—had been Why couldn't I have been more like that? Because no one picked on people who looked like Musashi. No one even imagined locking Musashi into bathrooms, throwing away Musashi's shoes, or ordering Musashi to go buy them bread. Not Musashi—with his tall, compact form, his long, level stare. People respected Musashi. Liked Musashi. Wanted to be liked by Musashi.

Musashi probably got so much chocolate on Valentine's.

"I don't know," said Musashi, and the hand left Sena's arm. "I like you the way you are."

Sena—did not blink.

"The way I am?" he repeated, and looked at Musashi.

Who was looking at something on the ground, one eyebrow raised. Sena followed his eyes.

To the pink-wrapped, white-ribboned bag of chocolate on the ground.

For a long, silent moment, they both stood there, staring at the wrapped chocolates lying on the ground.

Somewhere in a small, isolated corner of his brain, Sena decided he would have preferred to just die on the Death March last year after all.

"That," he gasped, "that—not—I mean—it's—don't—I—not—girl—"

The last shreds of his dignity were blowing in the wind. How had that thing gotten out of his bag? And why did it have to happen in front of Musashi? Musashi, who was the very ideal of manhood to Sena. Musashi, who could swap his hard hat for a topknot and two swords and have it be completely appropriate. Musashi, who was everything Sena wanted to be, who was—

—picking up the chocolate.

"No—" Sena held up his hands, to either surrender or start cutting. "I—no—it's not—you don't understand—"

Musashi straightened up. Sena lunged for the chocolates, willing to be rude if it meant getting that stupid, stupid thing away from—

Musashi raised it over his head.

Sena's hands followed the chocolates automatically, and then he found himself apparently flashing back to third grade when taller kids would play Keep Away with his bento. Only now it wasn't Takefumi-kun holding his bento over his head—it was Musashi holding a pink and white bag of chocolate that Sena had labored to make in Home Ec on Valentine's Day.

Sena stood there, arms over his head, looking up at Musashi. That same small, isolated corner of his brain demanded to know since when had Musashi been so stupidly tall.

Musashi looked down at him.

"I think I'll keep this," said Musashi, and then the chocolate was disappearing into a pocket.

Sena—stood there, arms raised, mind a complete blank. Musashi seemed to eye him for a minute, and then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Then he leaned.

Right down.

Into Sena's face.

"Go straight home, Sena," he said. His voice was low and—somehow gentler than usual, and it occurred to Sena that, to anyone looking, it looked an awful lot like he was about to put his arms around Musashi's neck. "And don't talk to strangers."

When Musashi pulled away, Sena realized he was holding his breath.

And his arms. Still in the air.

Sena didn't see Musashi walk away. He didn't know whether Musashi went up the street or down, whether he looked back or not. All he knew was that he had now had three bags of chocolate taken from him, his face was so flushed that his cheeks hurt, and his arms didn't seem to want to come down. It was only when he heard a passing toddler asking his mother, "Oneechan want up?" that Sena turned as red as the Deimon amefuto team's uniforms and slammed his arms back down by his sides.

He didn't know why he was blushing so much.

"Why doesn't anyone just ask?" he whimpered.