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Chapter Text

Just like in the match against the Japanese u20, the stadium was roaring with cheers and the team was high on adrenaline. Goosebumps were running through Rin's body, he could feel his small hairs on his arms stiffing and the blood running 100 mph in his veins. 

This is his stage. He's the protagonist. This is where he belongs.

As much as the final NEL ranking served as an unpleasant surprise at first - Isagi sharing the crowning title with him - he learned to deal with it by using it as a pretext to prove how much better he's gotten by miles and miles. 

See, the thing is: he has always been aware of his superiority inside Blue Lock, to the point playing has become boring and predictable since no one could pose a threat to his game -  or even just stand out beside him. 

Now that he has an “official” rival with whom he contends the number one spot, he's more motivated than ever to demonstrate his skill and to keep striving for perfection.

In the training sessions that preceded this match Rin pushed himself to limits he didn't know he had, he put so much effort in breaking records and getting to unreachable levels that getting to actually play with a team on an international level now seems the bare minimum.

What's more of a novelty though, is that those training sessions never ended in the daylight. They always progressed when the shadows enveloped the  facility and sleepiness took out all of his teammates. 

Save for one.

That's why those nightly drills were never done alone. A lingering secure presence was always ready to feed him  the ball and sync up with his tempo. A sincere and intelligent person he learned to consider a friend without ever planning to, against all his beliefs.

This will be the day where they’ll find out if their compatibility was intrinsic, or if it was a lie they kept pushing on each other throughout the previous eventful 30 days.

**

Japan is tied 2-2 with the Nigerian team. Only 5 minutes of additional time left on the clock. As much as Rin’s presence was crucial in this game, none of the scored goals were on his name.

He can do this,  he thinks. They will win. This match, and all the ones to come,  until the weight of that shiny golden cup rests in his hands. 

The ball is getting past the midfield as it dances between Bachira's boots - that annoying bee guy always has to show off his unnecessarily flashy moves. 

“Don’t overdo it,” Rin mutters under his breath, even though Bachira can’t hear him.

And Bachira doesn’t overdo it. For once.

A quick feint, two defenders thrown off, and the pass goes short to Isagi. The striker stops the pass and takes half a second to inspect the field, as if his brain is calculating the odds in his favour to steal the last goal. It pisses Rin off more than it should.

“Move it, they're closing in on you.” Rin barks.

Isagi raises an eyebrow but doesn’t have the time to argue. He sprints with the ball over a Nigerian midfielder and sends it clean to Reo, who’s already turning before it reaches him.

Now it’s moving. Fast. Tight.

Reo to Karasu. Karasu to Chigiri. Chigiri back to Reo.

They discussed this tactic during the team drills. A last insistent press during the additional minutes. Action before hesitation.

It’s tiki-taka, but not just for the sake of it, they're pulling Nigeria’s backline forward, making them bite at shadows.

Every Japanese player’s up front now - everyone but Gagamaru and the three-men back line. All of them clawing for the game-winner. All fighting for the chance to blast that fatal goal.

And as much  as he wants to, Rin doesn’t call for the ball. He just adjusts. He knows his moment is coming.

As he keeps running forward he notices how the space opens. Brief. Barely wide enough for a thread to pass through. That's it, give it to me.

Reo’s about to send it but at the last second, Onazi cuts in. That striker bastard. 

Rin clocks him immediately. Fuck.

Nigeria’s golden boy isn’t pushing for a final goal; he's dropped deep, clogging passing lanes like he’s some damn center-back now. His eyes are locked on Rin. Shadowing. Reading.

Reo changes course, sends the ball sideways instead. “Damn,” Karasu mutters as he receives it. “They’re parking the bus, not so mediocre of a plan.”

“Well, break it!” Isagi snaps.

Karasu gives him a brief look sharp, dark, amused. “Easier said than done.” he says before finally moving.

He passes it off again. One touch. Two touches. It comes back to Reo, then to Bachira, who taps it with his heel back toward Hiori.

Finally.

Hiori’s been waiting. Stalking the edge of the play like he knew the rhythm would come to him eventually. He receives the pass with an ease that borders on infuriating - like the ball chose him, not the other way around.

But as soon as it touches his feet, Onazi is there. Closing the gap with no subtlety. The Nigerian star striker turned-emergency-defender barrels in with the kind of physical presence that screams overcompensation. 

He doesn't speak right away, first he crashes his body forward, shoulders squared, boots loud, making his intentions clear without needing to announce them.

Then, with a confident, threatening tone, “You're not getting through me, number twenty three.”

Rin hears it. Of course he hears it. He used the kind of cliche threat that usually works on most midfielders who get nervous under contact.

The kind of tone Rin would respond to by kicking the guy’s ankles out.

Hiori doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look rattled. His expression doesn’t even shift. For a second Rin wonders if he even heard him, but then Hiori tilts his head the tiniest bit, eyes cold and unreadable.

“Right,” he mutters, quiet but laced with something sharp. “That’s what the last three said.”

The grin he wears after saying it is new - not warm, not even amused - If anything, a little too smug for anyone who doesn’t know Hiori Yo as well as Rin does. He feels his insides shift, heart pounding with adrenaline and pride.

Onazi lunges in without warning, trying to body him off the ball. And, from the dumbfounded look he wore at that moment, one could easily tell he knew he made the mistake that cost his team the game.

Hiori doesn’t back down. He lets Onazi get close, almost invites the contact. Then, with a subtle shift in weight and an inside flick, he slides the ball forward, low and cruel, right between Onazi’s legs.

A nutmeg. Smooth. Clinical. Disrespectfully ultra-sadististic.

Onazi stumbles forward a step, caught on the wrong side of the play as Hiori slips past him like water down a drain.

The Nigerian bench erupts with disappointed screams. Their  side of the crowd groans loudly. 

Rin almost grins before he manages to stop himself.

🎶🎶

Hiori’s already moving again, slicing through the last defender.

Rin sees an opening. That’s it. That's the hot spot he was looking for. He sprints to Nigeria's scoring area with precise and knowing speed. He's sure he'll get the pass. He's certain this goal is his.

And that's because he has a trick in his sleeve he's been waiting to test.

“Hey Sheep!” he screams as he gets a glimpse of cyan icy hair on the corner of his eye.

“Score it. Beast.” His ear catches as a precise clean pass cuts through the only remaining defender and lands expectingly at his feet.

“Right on the money.” Rin says under his breath. 

A brief silence preludes the echo of the monstrous shot he crafts. 

Then the stadium absolutely roars with excitement when the ball- just like they, together, predicted- blasted past the goalkeeper and is beautifully claimed by the net.

Rin’s chest burns. There it is. That high. That ecstatic fire.

What scrambles him viscerally is acknowledging he just finished a perfectly scripted, crafted to the detail, chemical reaction with Hiori Yo.

He sprints toward the corner flag, body dripping with sweat and dopamine. He proudly gazes at the crowd chanting his name.

Yes. Look at me. I’m the number one striker on this team.

And I scored the winning goal.

He almost misses Hiori, fully charging at him like he’s about to tackle him.

"It worked!” The cyan-haired boy yells through a wide grin as he gets closer. 

Now Rin can discern his features better. All the pressure long gone, eyes lit with quiet pride, lips curved so much they might reach the stars.  

A mesmerising sight.

The other reaches Rin just as he violently suppresses that weird thought in his head. 

And he does what Rin was already projecting in his  head. Hiori drops into a crouch - one knee down -  right in front of Rin, low and instinctual, like it’s part of the play. No theatrics. No ego. Just himself.

And as  much as Rin opposed this duo celebration before, he doesn’t even think before mirroring him. Knees bending, he pushes himself forward forward until they’re face to face.

Close enough that their kneecaps brush, and Rin feels it. That small point of contact. He tells himself it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t move away.

Even worse, while he wouldn’t admit it out loud - not in this, or any other parallel universe- he thinks that the goosebumps he gets from that insignificant touch alone give him a gold rush no single goal could ever compete with.

Hiori’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sync with his own. For a moment, the world drowns in white noise - the chants, the cheers, the boots slamming the ground behind them - it all fades.

It’s just them.

Hiori taps his thigh twice, fingers light and precise. Their cue. Their gaming signal.

Then his voice drops, low and amused, the kind of tone that feels like a smirk wrapped in velvet.

“Told ya. We are compatible after all.” Now those words hit like a blade through his heart. Rin’s memories fly  to the first time he heard him say similar words. 

How long have we come, Hiori.

Rin feels it immediately, that flicker in his chest, like something lit a match behind his ribs.

Not pride. Not even satisfaction. Something warmer, stupid, and inconvenient- What the hell is that supposed to mean?

The air between them tightens. Their knees are still brushing. Rin thinks he should pull back. He doesn’t.

He holds his ground. Glares, just enough to keep his face from softening. “This position is corny” he snaps, voice flat, like the feeling in his chest isn’t eating him alive.

Then he makes up for it with a lighter tone, almost like an intimate confession “It was a good pass.”

And while those words taste bitter like lies - because it wasn’t just a good pass. It was perfectly timed, intuitive and effortless - the expression the compliment leaves in Hiori's face is priceless.  

Eyes wide, a stunned smile and eyes glimmering like polished diamonds. 

And while Rin is still getting drunk on that image, a fond “It was a great goal” wraps around his soul like static.

Rin doesn’t say anything. Can’t. His mouth’s gone dry, and his brain is doing something stupid, like replaying the way Hiori looked right after the pass. How bright his eyes had been. That damn smile.

There’s a part of him, a very small, very dangerous part, that wants to stay here. Just them. Just this. A match won, a moment suspended, a connection too sharp to name.

And then-

Bachira crashes into them like a human meteorite.

“YOOOOOO! WE WONNNN AND THAT WAS SOOOO SICK!!” he howls, diving in with his full body weight like he’s auditioning for a wrestling championship.

Rin doesn’t even get a chance to brace himself before they’re both flat on their backs, Hiori half-folded under his arm, and Bachira’s limbs everywhere.

“Ow- You fucking- get off-” Rin grunts, voice strangled as an elbow digs into his ribs.

But it’s too late. The bubble shatters.

Chigiri and Karasu arrive next, equally loud, equally uninvited. Karasu drops down on one knee beside them, peering into Rin’s face with mock concern. “You good, man? You and Hiori looked like you were about to propose to each other. Sick action though.”

Chigiri chuckles, arms crossed. “We actually won thanks to you two! Since when are you even tight? And that double celeb? What kind of romcom pose was that?”

Hiori looks like he wishes for a crater to open up through the pitch and sucks him to the earth nucleus in that instant. 

“We were strategizing,” Rin snaps, although his voice comes out slightly more panicked than intended. “It was- It wasn’t- Bee bitch get the fuck OFF me!”

Bachira’s practically vibrating with excitement. “It was like watching a wildlife documentary! Two rare wolves doing their little mating ritual!”

 He throws his arms out dramatically. “‘The alpha marks his territory by squatting at a perfect ninety-degree angle-’”

“Shut. Up.” Rin shoves him off, violently, but Bachira only laughs louder, rolling onto the grass like a feral toddler.

Meanwhile, Hiori is slowly, silently extracting himself from the pile, his face unreadable but his ears just slightly pink.

Karasu’s smirk sharpens. “Seriously though, that whole assist, that celebration? That was suspiciously synchronized.”

Rin opens his mouth to deny it, but Reo cuts in as he jogs up, tossing an arm around Hiori like he’s congratulating him at a wedding. “I really don’t get why you’re all acting like you’ve discovered some mind blowing news. I knew you two were up to something. You’ve been sticking to each other like glue in drills lately.”

Hiori, to his credit, just smiles politely. “That’s all it takes for good teamwork.”

Rin wants to die. Or vanish. Or maybe fling his entire team into the sun.

The worst part is: he can still feel the ghost of that moment on his skin. The brush of Hiori’s knee. The unspoken weight of his voice. “It was a great goal.”- WHY IS HE OBSESSING OVER THIS TOO MUCH?

All while the moment has already been drowned in sweaty limbs, bad jokes, and awful metaphors.

This is hell.

Literal, social hell.

By the time Isagi arrives- smiling, hands on hips, panting with residual adrenaline- it’s all gone too far. 

This is Rin’s cue to leave.

“Nice goal, and nice chemical reaction.” he says, genuine and knowing “That was  cool, for moment I was thinking you were just going to fist bump, which-”

“Or chest bump,” Bachira chimes in helpfully. “Or backflip!”

“I will end you,” Rin growls, eyes laser-focused on Bachira, who grins wider like that’s exactly the reaction he was fishing for.

Behind him, Hiori lets out a single, almost-silent breath of laughter.

Rin hears it. Notices it. Feels i- NO.

And even though the whole team is there now - cheering, slapping shoulders, pulling them to their feet - Rin’s eyes find Hiori’s, just once more, over the chaos.

And Hiori holds the look. Steady. Quiet. That same damn smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Rin doesn’t smile back. But his heart still stutters like it wants to. 

That’s the moment he realizes how much he’s grateful for that fateful night Hiori interrupted his late training session and unexpectedly proposed a ‘mutually beneficial partnership between a striker and a midfielder’.

A partnership that turned Hiori into a person who now fills his world.

An alliance that became the foundation of the bond they share today.

A pact that etched those cold, cyan irises into the fabric of his dreams.

A deal that unearthed the truth they’d both been circling: their perfect compatibility.

An unspoken vow to never drift apart. No matter how loud the world around them gets.

Chapter Text

30 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The 23 Neo Egoist League survivors return to the training facility like a pack of overexcited mutts. Restless but ultimately refreshed. 

And unbearably fucking loud.

Two weeks of special training, and suddenly everyone thinks they’ve ascended to a higher plane of evolution.

Rin watches from the edge of the facility gate, one shoulder leaning against the concrete wall like it’s the only thing keeping him from walking out. A duffel slung lazily over one arm, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. 

He observes them without expression, the way one might observe ants scrambling in a pile - technically impressive, sure, but ultimately meaningless.

Bachira is the first to make noise, which is, of course, on brand. The guy’s skipping - skipping - into the courtyard, balancing a football on his head and singing some tune under his breath that sounds like a child’s nursery rhyme. 

There’s dirt on his shoes and joy radiating off him in stupid, erratic pulses. Word is he spent his break playing pickup matches with kids in some far-flung rural area and apparently found spiritual enlightenment in their unpredictable kicks. 

Rin doesn’t even pretend to understand what that means.

Isagi trails close behind, earbuds in, moving with the self-important calm of someone who’s seen professional-level tactics live and now believes  cracked the code to football’s future. Lukewarm.

The dude probably spent the last two weeks rewatching European matches to dumbly memorise formations like scripture. He’s walking like someone who’s carrying knowledge no one else has - Rin doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him for it or surpass him so thoroughly that whatever he’s carrying becomes obsolete.

That rich guy - Reo - , on the other hand, is talking a mile a minute, listing off metrics and stats Rin doesn’t care to hear. Apparently he worked on rounding out his weak spots. “Explosiveness, stamina, vertical jump, one-touch passing,” he rattles off proudly to the red-haired sprinter. 

Just as he contemplates how quickly seeing these losers made his return tragic, Rin spots Shidou and curses the Japanese legal system for defining homicide illegal.

That antennae freak somehow managed to return looking even less domesticated than when he left.

 His shirt’s nowhere to be seen, and his grin is wide and borderline feral. Bungee-jumping, parkour, “aggression enhancement,” or whatever unholy regimen Ego subjected him to clearly worked - he moves like someone who enjoyed the adrenaline more than he should’ve. And his eyes are even hungrier now.

The rest of the team floods in behind them. Some chattering, others silent. Everyone moving like they’ve come back from a pilgrimage. Like they’re all new versions of themselves.

Rin though, isn’t new. Rin is distilled. Sharpened. Taller by 1 centimetre, he adds a bit proudly in his head.

While they were chasing thrills or watching matches or finding themselves in goddamn playgrounds, Rin trained in solitude, deep in a mountain shrine selected by Ego himself.

 No teammates. No distractions. Just himself, a football, and a training regimen designed to dismantle the ego only to rebuild it stronger. 

Hours of meditation. Daily runs in silence. Shots measured by breath. He wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone. Wasn’t allowed to use a phone. The only sound was wind, the crack of the monk’s wooden stick against his back - that old bastard - and the voice in his own head.

He hated it.

He loved it.

He thinks he left something of himself in that shrine. Something heavy. Something loud. The part of him that still flinches when he remembers Sae’s face. The part that worries about looking small next to Isagi. 

The part that longs for praise and burns with shame at the longing.

He killed it in those mountains. Or maybe buried it. 

He hasn’t checked yet to see if it’s still twitching.

Now he’s back. And while the others return beaming with ego, Rin returns hungry. He doesn’t feel the need to talk. He doesn’t care to share his revelations. He just wants to train. Wants to play. Wants to dominate.

And more than that, he wants to see who dared to improve while he was gone.

//

The first team meeting is noisy. Ego enters the briefing room dressed like he’s about to host a TED Talk. His voice cuts clean through the chatter, commanding silence in under three seconds.

“Welcome back, my diamonds in the rough. Let’s see if the time I wasted investing in you has paid off.”

A new training regimen is announced: team drills, tactical breakdowns, mixed-pair simulations. Ego isn’t just watching for stats now. He’s watching for adaptability. Compatibility. Efficiency under pressure.

“We’re done joking around now. This is not play pretend anymore. This is the u20 world cup. The real deal. Every moment you spent in this structure served as a stepping stone to reach the spot you’re filling now. And as both Blue Lock’s and Japan’s representatives you should think a million times before making foolish mistakes. And by that I mean anything that prevents you from carrying the ‘world’s best’ title”

Rin only half-listens. His brain’s already simulating formations. His body is itching to get on the pitch.

But the room isn’t just buzzing with ambition, it’s dripping in banter.

Chigiri challenges Reo to a 100-meter sprint to “see if those vertical jumps actually helped.” Karasu spends ten minutes trying to figure out if Otoya’s arms got buffer during the break. Gagamaru does one-legged squats on top of a chair for no discernible reason.

Even Barou - Rin spots him near the edge of the group - is engaged in light conversation with Niko.

They’re all smiling. Even if just a little.

Rin isn’t. He doesn’t - never does - feel like smiling. He doesn’t feel like wasting breath on pointless updates or half-jokes.

He just feels like crushing everyone.

//

By the time the first full team drill is done, half of them are on the turf, face-down, breathless. The break clearly filled their minds- but their bodies aren’t caught up yet.

“Ego needs therapy,” Yukimya mumbles through clenched teeth, flopping face-first onto the turf.

Karasu’s already flat on his back next to him. “Nah, that man needs prison time.”

As he bounces a medicine ball on his knee, Bachira adds cheerfully “You’re all wrong: Ego needs dick-”

“Don’t say those words in that order ever again,” Isagi is quick to cut him off.

Rin keeps his distance, standing at the edge of the formation like he always does, gaze sharp and silent. He’s drenched in sweat but hardly out of breath. His shots were crisp. His coordination, razor sharp. 

He notices the cyan headed guy - Hiroi or whatever his name is- glancing at him briefly during one of the set plays, eyes narrowed. Not clear if judgmental, or just… curious. Measuring. Rin doesn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, grabs a water bottle, and makes his way to the far end of the field to stretch in silence.

As the night creeps in and dinner buzz fades out, one by one the others retire to their dorms. Laughter dims. Music fades from open doors. Lights go dark.

By 11 PM, Blue Lock is asleep again.

Except Rin.

Because the stillness he trained in didn’t erase the storm. It just taught him how to use it.

//

🎶🎶

Everything in his chest feels too full now. Like he’s been swallowing pressure instead of breathing. 

The break set something off in him: a kind of itch under the skin, a gnawing restlessness. He didn’t train for relaxation. He trained because he had to. 

Because if he stopped, even for a second, the thoughts would catch up to him.

The break only confirmed what he’s always known: Football isn’t just the only thing he’s good at. It’s the only thing he has.

And it always feels like he isn’t good enough.

That’s why, while every player in the facility is snoring, Rin laces his boots again like it’s religion. The pitch is empty. The lights are low. The Blue Lock man stands at the net like a monolith. Unmoving. Unjudging. Perfect.

Just like Rin needs it.

He takes a shot.

Then another.

Again.

And again.

Until the repetition burns through his muscles and dulls the screaming in his head.  Until the silence feels earned, and not like a punishment. Until the world outside this pitch doesn’t exist anymore.

When his 43rd shot echoes through the silence,  Rin pants satisfyingly as he sees the ball getting past the robotic blue lock man and touch the net like it was drawn by it magnetically.

He arches forward and puts his hands on his kneecaps, he can still practice more. 

The other players retired to the dorms more than an hour ago by now, and this is his favourite time to train. 

In peace, without any half-baked teenage guys roaming around. Alone.

And not haunted by his own thoughts.

He turns his head upward to let the sweat on his face drip faster and he inhales as much  air his lungs allow him to. He savours the moment while he reflects on the voluptuousness he feels every time he scores a goal. 

It's addictive as fuck.

Not that he will ever make the rush of pleasure he gets from it to show to any outsider, unlike some antennae freak he knows. 

Rin gets lost so deep in the dopamine he almost misses the voice approaching behind his shoulders. 

Who dares interrupt this intimate moment?

“That was a clean shot, but realistically speaking there's no way in hell ya can score it in an actual match.”

He calmly straightens his back. All the heat washes off from his expression. 

“Piss off, I’m in no need for unsolicited advice.” he barks under his  breath before turning around to acknowledge the identity of the newcomer. 

His eyes catch the cyan hair. Out of all the people with the nerve to disturb him he certainly doesn't expect that dude. 

Not because it's out of character for him. It's because Rin doesn't - in fact - know shit about his character. Hell, he doesn't even recall ever interacting with the guy.  Matter of fact, even his name escapes his memory at the moment.

What's even rarer, though, is that he also doesn't remember ever trash-talking him, a pleasure very few, if none, blue  lockers ever had  the chance to savor.

No matter, he can fix it now. Nobody interrupts his solo training.

The guy makes insulting him a whole lot easier as soon as he starts blatering in an analytical spree to demonstrate how much the perfect goal Rin just scored was not perfect at all. 

“Just tryna help…I mean, it's the kind of shot that can be given life to only if you perpendicularly position yerself in front of  the net, which is already unsettlin’ since that is also the angle from which the ball can be most easily intercepted. Also, ya hav’ ta be able to predict the goalkeeper's-”

“Don't you think I'm already aware of all that, loser?” Rin angrily cuts him off.

The mathematical analysis that was being laid out before him scratched something dangerous in his brain, the condescending tone he gets from  this unknown NPC is unsettling. 

The worst part of it all is that Hiroi is absolutely right. It wasn't a realistic shot. 

But Rin also is not the average player. So he has the right to test uncharted waters.

“Well, okay then. Do as ya please, striker.” The cyan head retorts, a playful smile  painting his lips. “I'm gonna train here as well, and since you apparently despise unsolicited advice I'll try not to bother ya too much” he goes on.

“No. Get Out. I'm the one training here." This is pissing Rin off.

“I don't recall ya being the only one with the right to do after-hours training, also, this is the only accessible training room at this time, so I didn't have much of a choice  here.” The  other calmly, too calmly, states as he goes and fetches a ball for himself.

Rin is in no mood for fighting back, he already lost precious time by engaging in that bit  of conversation. 

This guy seems laid back enough to actually not be that much of a bother,  if he was Bachira  or, worse, Shidou, Rin would've already kicked him  out of the room without hesitation.

Just the fact that he actually doesn’t remember hearing much of him before proves that  he lacks the obnoxiousness that plagues the rest of the team. 

“Just don't interrupt me again, and don't even attempt to get in my way.” Rin says as he goes to retrieve the ball from  the net. 

Once it's secured in his arm he looks at the guy again. “You can use the other half of the  pitch.” he says flatly before repositioning the ball in front of the net with a few meters of distance. 

Angled acutely, not perpendicular this time. 

“Thank ya” Retorts the other with a bit of a sarcastic edge in his tone. “I'll make sure ya feel as if I'm an imperceptible shadow then, Rin.” He continues, the ghost of a smile never leaving his pale face.

And  that was the end of the exchange. The guy surprisingly stayed true to his  word. Not just that, but his movements were gracious enough he didn’t even make too much noise in his training.

**

An hour passes.

Satisfaction dripping on Rin’s body along with the sweat. It was a rather prolific session, he thinks as he strides to the bench on the left side of the room.  

He almost forgets about the  other's presence until he sees him standing on the spot he was approaching.

A towel was hugging around his neck and his head was turned upwards to chug the water from the bottle between his fingers.

He looks drained.

Rin turns to take a glance at the clock that was hung on the opposite wall. 1:00 AM.

He stayed longer than he intended to.

As Rin realigns his eyes with his body, his arms reflexively lift to catch the water bottle that's been tossed to him.

I can get my own water alone, thank you very much. 

But since the guy hasn't been yet deserving of more piercing words he settles for a muffled sound of gratitude and an acknowledging chin lift. He doesn't say a thing as he decaps the bottle. 

A faint laugh embraces his ears, he opens his eyes and meets the other’s gaze with a questioning look.

“S'funny. Everybody here claims they never actually ever heard ya say ‘thank you’, just wanted to test that.” he lets out between through-nose air blows.

He just did sarcastically in his head, does that count?

It was no mystery to Rin how the other blue lockers talk about him when he's not around. Actually it's really easy to predict he's not a generally favourite person given his unfriendly personality.

But that's exactly what he wants to achieve, so, not only he doesn't mind others talking behind his back, he even 100% endorses it as well. 

Better than having them talk to him in his face instead.

“Didn't ask you to give me anything Cyan, why should I?” Rin states flatly as he drinks his very much earned hydrating source.

What started as a muffled amused sound turned into an actual close mouthed laugh. “Fair enough I suppose, still wouldn't hurt bein’ nicer once in a while.” 

His laughs dials down, he reaches for the towel to clean his lips from the wetness that lingered on them before extending his right arm expectingly. “My name is Hiori Yo, by the way, could fully tell ya didn't remember it” 

Rin stares at the open palm that awaits to collide with his. He did remember, kind of… he just didn’t want to risk calling him by the wrong name.

He doesn't usually shake hands. He's also taken aback by the last words Cya- Hiori lets out. 

Now that he thinks about it, he did interact with him before…right? 

“I don't shake hands. And I- uh- I know who you are.” Rin lies blatantly at the end, and for  god-knows what reason hoping his expression doesn't sell him out. 

Hiori’s  face grimaces in a malicious way, a smirk  forms in his lips as he lets his hand fall to his thigh after the rejected shake. He says: “Sure ya do, just like ya do also know we played together in the third selection at some point”.

Oh, it’s that guy.

The one who gave him a goal assist in the match he played with Shit-Isagi and the bumpkin. Not half bad as a midfielder, he gotta give him that.

Now that he's sorting through his memories, he does recall Hiori aiding him when he got briefly injured during the u20 match.

That being before that day turned into the worst one of his life because of that sorry excuse of a brothe- actually there’s no need to mention that. Who cares?

“Yes, whatever, I guess we did”. Is the answer he settles for as he puts the bottle on the bench and reaches for a towel as well.

Something shifts in Hiori's face, he watches Rin attentively as he gathers his stuff to head for the showers, “Why d’ya choose to train at night?” he goes lightly.

Rin gives him a questioning look. If this is small talk, Rin is in no mood, nor does he  have the time for it. 

And If the guy  is actually interested in knowing, Rin is not interested in replying.  And that's because this very question forces him to rethink everything he's  been trying to ignore.

Everything he thought he fixed in that stupid shrine in the mountains. 

Something lurking in his thoughts, a being, sometimes Tin thinks it's the devil himself, that took a liking into haunting his very soul.

Sleeping has always been very challenging, if not impossible, for Rin. Wearing a poker face everyday day comes with its expensive price. Which is suppressing every thought and emotion constantly threatening to come out and expose his true self.

Suppressing them doesn’t of course mean throwing them out. Not at all. In fact they very much linger inside  him and eat his insides raw. 

And while it's (kind of) easy to ignore them in daylight, when he has football occupying his body, it’s at night that he can’t afford to be oblivious of their existence.

When the silence fills the room, that's when it gets loud in his head. 

You are a failure. 

Football is the only thing you think you're good at, but even at that you are just pathetic and lukewarm.

You have nobody-  I DON'T NEED ANYBODY- everyone needs somebody.

And you. are. utterly. alone. 

“The one who can change japanese soccer is Isagi Yoi-" STOP.

So, he tries to stay awake as much as he can. He likes to drain his body with training until he feels like he's passing out. All so that when he actually tucks himself  into bad the exhaustion is so heavy he can't help but drift into sleep before getting to think about anything.

“I like being alone. Better than sharing oxygen with people who don't deserve to breathe in the first place.”  Rin decides to reply instead.

Hiori's icy eyes glimmer, they start walking  side by side towards the common showers.

“Alone is good. I'll have ta agree with ya. And while it's not for the same scorbutic reason ya just gave me, I decided I will be training here every night from today onwards. Just thought I'd give ya a heads up.”

Rin stops walking.

What. 

This is his therapeutic time of the day. 

This is his safe space.

This is the one thing that demonstrates he's better than anybody else  in the facility. Discipline. 

“No, you won't.” He hisses under his breath.

Hiori, who did go on walking, stops his step and turns around with a challenging look. “Yes, I will.” 

“The fact that I was kind enough to let you disturb my routine this time, doesn’t in any way in hell mean you  can bring your lukewarm ass here everyday to take up my space” Rin blurts out with a finger threateningly pointed towards his interlocutor. 

He steps closer confidently.

“This has been an exceptional occasion, don't abuse my patience anymore than you already did”. Rin  goes on.

Hiori sighs, he looks up to Rin as if he wants  to exterminate their slight height difference, his gaze pierces the taller one’s.  “I am the one who's been kind enough to not flip ya  off when ya told me to get out in the  first place. As I already stated, this isn't yer training room, and if ya think yer empty threatening words scare me in the slightest you're very much mistaken, striker." he pronounced the last word as if i was an insult of some kind.

“If every other player here gave ya the impression that ya have the right to treat people in a shitty manner just because ya have not been called out on it yet, I’ll tell ya right now I am not bowing to that bullshit.”  Hiori continued, not stuttering nor taking a breath once, as if the whole speech had been rehearsed  before.

Rin looks down on him. This condescending motherfuck- 

“I don't  even know why I bothered wasting my breath with an Isagi lackey, do what  you want, it's not like you're getting to become a good striker anytime soon.” He spits. And that's kind of a lie.  

Rin saw  his moves between brief breaks, dude’s not bad at all. He did throw those words at him knowing that. Also, by the look of it, Hiori strives for a midfield position anyway. 

That seems to strike a nerve in the shorter one. 

Hiori takes another heavy step towards Rin. They're so close now they might look like they’re about to headbutt each other. “I am no one's lackey” Hiori's voice deepened. 

“And I play in midfield, I wouldn’t underestimate that if I were you. I'll have ya know: a good midfielder is a puppeteer, one that makes a striker dance to whatever tune he dictates. So if anyone is a lackey, it's the person in the striking position.”

As those words leave Hiori’s lips Rin is immediately, uncannily, and unwillingly reminded of that bastard of his brother. 

Sae did seem to have this exact mindset as a weapon. 

And, as if to prove Hiori’s point, he  did really dictate the u20’s game like an orchestra leader.

What’s strange is that these words are coming out from a Blue Locker. Which is- hello- the facility that was especially designed just to create the most egoistical and efficient striker. 

Maybe this guy is not that much of an NPC after all.

“Well, you can put this mentality to the test with those pseudo-strikers in here, like the antennae freak who strives on the field only if he partners up with a professional midfielder, or that other bastard who has you on a leash-“

“Do ya by chance get paid for bein’ an assho-“

“You see, I’ll have you know: a real striker is his own playmaker. He- I see all the players on the field as tools to either ignore or exploit in a way that serves my purpose, which is, of course, scoring.” Rin cuts him off as he takes a step back. This conversation is getting longer than it needs to.

When his emerald orbs clash with the icy ones in front of them, he is surprised to see them glowing. As if they just glimpse into a treasure they’ve been long before searching for.

This dude’s weird as fuck, I did just blatantly insult him right- His train of thoughts is immediately interrupted when he notices Hiori starting to take slow steps around him.

Cyan-head was circling around him as if he was an object he wanted to get a 360 of before deciding to buy it.

What the actual f-

“Let’s train together.”

Hiori  says so quickly and randomly Rin can’t believe his ears.

“Did you just listen to anything I just told-“

“Yes. Our mindsets are exactly on two sides of opposite extremes. A bent line can also become a circle, and when that happens the extreme points actually collide and melt into each-“

“For the love of god, stop with the mathematical analogy, what is the fucking point you’re making here?” Rin is rubbing the bridge of his nose and has his eyelids closed as he says that. 

This guy’s giving him a headache.

A small amused puff escapes Hiori’s nostrils as he continues “The point is, Itoshi, we are perfectly compatible for a chemical reaction. And, my analogy was geometrical.” He looked almost excited when he blurted out those words.

“Never done that shit, certainly not gonna start now. Also aren’t you kind of betraying your master by offering me a partnership like this?” Rin starts walking again towards the showers again. 

Will he actually get to bed at any point tonight?

“My god, ya really do like mentioning Isagi a lot” Hiori points out in a playful tone as he trails behind him.

Rin halts again. Pissed off.

He turns around so abruptly Hiori almost bumps into him. “Do you want to have a broken skull?” 

And he really thought he was threatening before he caught the smirk Hiori gave him in response. “I mean, everyone has preferences, don’t say it like it’s something I would hate by default.” he says as he resumes the walk this time. 

Now Rin looks like he’s trailing behind him.

“This is Blue Lock. The first requirement to survive here is to have a strong ego.” Hiori continues his speech as Rin catches up to him. 

“As I already told ya earlier, I’m not tied to anybody. As much as nobody is tied to me. But. It’s ’everyone for himself’ until it comes to actually learning how to benefit from each other. That’s something ya don’t seem to have understood yet.”

Just when Rin thought the lecture was over Hiori adds with a smug tone “And it’s the one rope yer rival used to climb his way to the top.” 

That said, they walk through the sliding door side by side.

This is an interesting interpretation, Rin’ll give him that.

The striker allows himself a reflective moment of silence . 

“So what, are you offering a deal to every potential striker of the team to ‘equally benefit from each other’ during matches? What kind of game are you trying to pull off here?” Rin questions as they both enter the common shower room.

If Hiori thinks he’ll just accept becoming a mere chess piece in a midfielder’s board he’s utterly mistaken.

“No, actually. You’re the only one I was intending to ask.” Hiori unexpectedly replies. 

They both stop at the entrance.

Rin is so confused his eyes pierce scrutinisingly the other one's pupils, as if they will tell him the drawback in all of this. 

“Why?” 

A brief agonising silence preceded the shorter one’s answer. The eye contact starts to burn Rin’s soul.

“Ya are the only one here who scores goals like it’s the one thing anchoring him to life.”

What the fuck.

Hiori hangs the towel and walks into a showering stall. 

“Guess we can discuss this better tomorrow night.”

Rin didn’t realise he didn’t move from the spot he was standing on, as if Hiori was still in front of him and didn’t just cut off the conversation.

Rin leaves his towel on its appointed spot and hits off the shower as well.

And as the water slides on his naked body those words form a mantra - Fuck monks and their habits -that keeps looping in his mind.

“Ya are the only one here who scores goals like it’s the one thing anchoring him to life.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

//

🎶🎶

It always starts the same way.

A stadium. Empty seats. Windless silence. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace. It's pressure waiting to collapse.

The grass is too green, unnaturally vivid, like a dream someone tried too hard to remember. Rin is on the pitch. Alone. Ball at his feet. No teammates. No rivals. No referee. Just himself, the net, and the echo of his heartbeat so loud it could split glass.

He takes the shot.

It’s perfect: his form, the angle, the whip of his ankle.

The ball flies.

But it doesn’t reach the goal.

It stops. Mid-air. Like time itself gets caught in its throat.

Then the voice comes.

Smooth. Detached. So calm it hurts more than if it screamed.

“That’s cute, Rin.”

The stadium lights flicker on, and Sae is there.

No jersey, no sweat, no dirt on his cleats. Just standing near the midfield line, arms crossed, watching like he’s already decided this is all a waste of time.

“You think you can score without someone giving you the ball?”

Rin tries to respond. Mouth open. But no sound comes out. His throat burns with the silence.

“Midfielders decide everything, Rin. The tempo. The transitions. The plays.”

Sae takes a step closer. Rin takes one back.

“Strikers are just tools. You know that. I’ve always known that.”

Another step.

“You can run. You can shoot. But you’ll always need someone smarter than you to tell you when.”

Sae walks now. Calm. Certain. Like his words are facts etched into the field.

“That’s why you lost  to  Isagi. That’s why you will lose. Because you keep pretending you don’t need anyone.”

The ball falls to the ground with a dead thud.

Rin lunges forward - to scream, to tackle him, to beg him to shut up - but Sae isn’t in front of him anymore.

He disappears from the spot Rin reaches for.

The net behind him suddenly erupts with sound: goals being scored. Over and over. Dozens. Hundreds. A hurricane of goals he didn’t touch. Didn’t block. Didn’t create.

He turns.

Every striker he’s ever hated is there.

Shidou. Kaiser. Loki. Isagi with that infuriating grin of his.

And all of them are being fed by midfielders.

Sae. Ness. Charles. Bachira.

Not one of them is alone.

Rin is.

Always been.

**

Rin wakes up gasping, like someone took a steel bat to his lungs.

Sheets twisted. Sweat slicked down his spine like ice water. His T-shirt clings to his chest as if trying to choke him.

He doesn’t even glance at the clock before he’s dragging himself upright, elbows digging into his thighs, fingers pressing into the hollows of his eyes like maybe he can physically rub the dream out of existence.

But Sae’s voice is still there. Echoing like tinnitus. Midfielders decide everything. You will always need someone smarter than you.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rin whispers into his own palms.

Not to the room. Not to the dream.

To himself.

He gets up. Barefoot. Silent. Stalking to the sink to splash water on his face like that’ll drown it.

 The face that stares back at him in the mirror doesn’t look like someone who just trained with monks for enlightenment. 

It looks like someone barely holding the threads of his own ego together.

He hates this. He hates that a dream still has that much power. They always do.

He hates that Sae’s words - that bastard’s words - still cut through him with surgical precision.

And more than anything, he hates that he knows Sae isn’t entirely wrong.

Because the World Cup is coming. And this isn’t just Blue Lock anymore. This isn’t just a proving ground for inflated egos. This is Japan’s best versus the world. And Rin can’t afford to walk onto that field only carrying hate and ambition.

He needs more.

He needs a weapon.

He needs something - someone - that fits in his blind spot without disrupting the rhythm of his obsession.

And that’s when the thought returns. Like a mosquito that doesn’t leave even when swatted.

Hiori Yo.

The weirdo with the glacial stare and surgical speech. The one who spoke to him like he was a puzzle instead of a person. 

The one who called him out, circled him like prey, and offered not submission, but synergy.

Perfect compatibility. His words.

NPCs don’t linger in your head after you kick them out.

Rin stares at his reflection. The silence buzzing again. But this time, there’s no Sae. No cheering strikers. No impossible goals echoing behind him.

Just an unspoken possibility.

A thought he’s afraid to say aloud because it sounds dangerously close to dependency.

But still, he thinks it.

Maybe I should accept the deal.

He braces his hands on the sink. Eyes burning. Jaw clenched.

Not because he wants to be anyone’s puppet. Not because he believes in partnerships.

But because-

He’s tired of waking up feeling like this.

//

29 days before Nigera VS Japan

Morning drills begin before the sun even finishes rising. The Blue Lock pitch floods with motion, chatter, and competitive tension sharper than any alarm clock.

Rin walks in with his usual gait. Controlled, straight-backed, surgically precise. But there’s something about him that’s just a bit… off. 

Not broken. Just misaligned, like a metronome clicking out of rhythm by half a beat.

His eyes are duller than usual. Sharpened not by focus but, what a surprise, by lack of sleep.

The sweat sticking to his neck looks like it’s from stress, not exertion.

It doesn’t take long for someone to notice.

“Do I finally get the pleasure to meet Zombie-Itoshi?,” Bachira sings, juggling a ball behind him with his heel. “Are you okay Rinrin? You look like you spent your whole night in war trenches.”

“Maybe the shrine turned him into a sleepwalker,” Shidou offers, ducking as Isagi launches a pass just overhead.

Rin doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s not in any mood for meaningless bickering. Not when he is, in fact, experiencing a - albeit inner - war.

So he takes a deep breath, tightens the wrap on his wrist and steps into formation like it’s any other day.

Even if he knows it’s not.

And apparently his body does as well:

His passes aren’t clicking. His shots land with just a fraction less venom. In tight spaces, he takes half a second too long. And in Blue Lock, that half second costs everything.

He doesn’t rage. He doesn’t sulk. He wears the weight like a second skin. He hides it expertly, because the Rin Itoshi doesn’t do ‘bad days’.

 He only does quiet, sharp, simmering discontent.

Still, the truth echoes in every mistimed kick: the nightmare is clinging to his ribs.

//

By the time Ego dismisses them, half the players are peeling sweat-stuck jerseys off their backs and making a beeline to the cafeteria. Rin takes a different route.

The one place no one bothers to check twice the night-training room. Empty during the day. Just like he wishes his mind was. Echoey. Quiet.

Except, this time it’s not empty.

When he pushes the door open, there’s movement near the equipment cabinet.

Hiori’s already there, sleeves rolled up, setting up cones and weighted balls like some obsessive ghost haunting the pitch before sunset. 

And this time he moves with a kind of purpose that doesn’t need permission.

Rin stops at the door. Frowns.

“What, staking a claim now?” He scoffes.  “Well then, let me know if you also plan to start charging rent for the half of the pitch you barely use.” 

Rin spits the words like venom. 

Hiori doesn’t look up. He even finishes rolling out the last cone before speaking.

“I figured I’d start early. Since ya’ve not exactly been in yer best game today.”

Silence drops like a stone between them.

Rin doesn’t bristle, he fights the need to snap. He just breathes once, deep through his nose, and walks in further without saying a word.

And - by Rin Itoshi standards - that alone is enough of an answer .

🎶🎶

Hiori finally looks at him.

The usual grin is gone. He doesn’t show the smug edge nor the snark he wore on the previous night.

He almost looks…understanding. And - maybe this is just ‘Zombie-Itoshi’ hallucinating - his expression betrays even a bit of guilt.

“You’re so obviously sleep-deprived.” No shit, Sherlock. “The weight distribution in yer footing’s all wrong. Ya kept zoning out mid-run. And that one volley you missed-” Rin winces slightly, this is torture for his polished ego. “yer reaction time was a full half-second off. One usually only makes those mistakes when their brain’s running on fumes. Or when they decide they want to forfeit victory”

Rin says nothing. His silence doesn’t cut this time. It just… hangs.

Hiori sighs softly, walking toward the bench to grab two water bottles. He doesn’t throw one at Rin like yesterday. He offers it, gently, like someone passing a message.

“You’re not insulting me yet. And since you’re in the mood to be nice…” Wow, Does this guy really think Rin not snapping at him is a form of kindness? Is the bar that low? Or is Rin really just that much of an asshole?

“And I don’t want to be the asshole one, I’ll make it clear right now that I didn’t propose a partnership - nor did I point out any of…that -  because I think ya need me,” Hiori begins. 

Rin unconsciously accepts the bottle. And he just watches like a dumb fuck.  Half-impressed and half-agitated.

Hiori continues anyway, like he’s speaking to the pitch itself.

“Yer not built to play like anyone else. That’s why ya think you hav’ ta carry everythin’ alone. ya think being dependent on anyone makes you weak- makes you…expendable.”

The flicker in Rin’s eye is instant. Sharp. A barely-there flinch. Hiori’s guess landed close enough to hurt.

“But partnerships don’t mean bowing your ego,” Hiori says, quieter now. “They mean sharpening it against someone else’s. Ya aren’t soft for needing synergy. Yer just not suicidal enough to pretend you can juggle the whole field by yourself forever.”

He steps closer, but still carefully keeps a fair distance between them.

“I’m not offering you chains. I’m offering a secure weapon. Ya said it yourself: a striker needs to see the other players as tools to exploit.”

Hiori’s gaze lifts and holds him fully now, not afraid of what’s behind those emeralds.

“So let me be yer sharpest one. And I'll let you be mine.”

Hiori’s face visibly cringes at the wording choice. 

Too late though, because the offer already hangs in the air like smoke from a just-fired bullet.

For a moment, Rin considers rejecting it again. On principle. On pride. But his body doesn’t move the way it usually does when he’s preparing to say no.

Instead, his fingers twitch. His heart starts pounding from fear mixed with - a little bit of - excitement.

Then his gaze drops to the ball near Hiori’s foot.

And without another word, he steps forward, takes it in one smooth motion, and sprints off to the other side of the pitch like something in him just snapped free.

“If you want to be a worthy ally,” Rin calls over his shoulder, deadpan but heavy with something electric beneath it, “you should sharpen your reflexes.”

Hiori blinks.

Then grins. Big. Open. Almost childish.

“I knew ya’d come around,” he mutters to himself as he chases after him, lungs already preparing for the race.

From the outside, it looks like two players just doing extras after a long day. Just drills. Just footwork.

But this is the moment it all begins.

No contracts. No fist bumps. No handshake deals.

Just a ball, a sprint, and the kind of unspoken agreement that reshapes everything.

The striker.

The midfielder.

A chemical reaction waiting to combust.

And the rest - as they usually say-

Was fucking history.

Chapter Text

27 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The chainsaw finishes tearing through the last corpse with a sickening crack-thunk, blood geysering up in thick, gelatinous arcs as bone splits like dry wood. Mangled limbs scatter across the industrial hallway - some twitching, others just lying as life's already been sucked off of them. 

One final swipe, and Hiori’s character steps back, panting in pixelated exhaustion, surrounded by a mosaic of ruined flesh and glitchy shadows.

The hallway is quiet now. All enemies dead. All weapons half-broken. The red filter fades from the screen. A moment of empty stillness.

Then unexpectedly:

GAME OVER invades his screen. 

Killer rank: B+

“Damn it,” Hiori exhales, dragging a palm down his face as the stats flicker onscreen. “That was supposed to be an A.”

He sounds like someone who just watched his favorite soufflé collapse in the oven.  irritated because of knowing exactly where you slipped and not being able to rewind time five seconds to fix it.

The cafeteria is low-lit and weirdly cold, like the central air never got turned down from last night’s sleep schedule. One of the lights flickers above the vending machine. The food smells processed. Recycled. But the table, his table, is warm enough.

Kurona leans over and immediately extends his hand. “My turn. Gimme, gimme-”

“You’re gonna die in the first thirty seconds,” Hiori mutters, already passing the phone screen-down across the table.

“I probably will,” Kurona admits with a grin that shows no shame, only anticipation. “At least I admit it, don’t act like it didn’t just happen to you as well, as well.”

Isagi groans from behind his mug of tea like he’s already regretting his life choices. “Why do you two insist on playing that psychopath game during breakfast…”

“It’s not a psychopath game,” Hiori replies, tone flat but practiced, like he’s had to defend this before. “It’s reflex training. And narrative analysis. And inventory management. And problem solving under pressure-”

“It’s chainsawing mutated nurses,” Isagi deadpans.

Hiori shrugs. “Same thing.”

He slouches back in his chair, arms crossed. Lets himself sink into the rhythm of the morning, the hum of the food-making machines. Kurona’s exaggerated gasps of horror. Isagi arguing with one of those very machines.

His muscles still ache from last night, in that slow, spreading way that means he trained right. Hard enough to be tired, not hard enough to regret it. The soreness pulses in his thighs, glows in his shoulders. 

He feels it every time he shifts his weight in the chair, and every time it hits, he smiles a little inside.

I can get used to this.

Then an overhead speaker crackles once like it’s trying to cough out sleep before it speaks.  Anri’s voice follows, annoyingly awake, syrup-sweet and clinical all at once.

“Reminder: breakfast will end in ten minutes. Anyone who still values nourishment should report to the cafeteria now. Otherwise: no complaints when you’re fainting mid-sprint.”

A few groans rise from nearby tables. Someone drops their fork in protest. Kurona snorts over his stolen turn on Hiori’s phone, and, without looking up from the gory red-stained hallway his character just sprinted through. “I’m surviving on sheer instinct, instinct.”  he says.

“Half the dorm is probably still droolin’ into their pillows,” Hiori mutters.

Isagi sighs like a tired parent. “Bachira’s gonna miss it again.”

Kurona grins. “What, you worried he’ll starve, starve?”

“He skipped dinner too. Said he wasn’t hungry after that weird inverted wall run Shidou made him do.” Isagi’s already pushing his tray away and standing. “I’ll save him something.”

“You’re gonna smuggle cafeteria eggs in your hoodie?”

“I’ll wrap it in napkins like a normal person.”

Kurona raises his hands in surrender. “May the stench be ever in your favor, favour.”

Hiori watches all of this with half-lidded amusement. He presses his tea cup to his lower lip and lets the warmth bleed into his skin. 

Isagi’s soft spot is one of those things he doesn’t comment on. Not because it’s surprising, but because it’s too obvious to be interesting.

He follows the movement for a moment - Isagi sliding the tray away, Kurona leaning in with his usual grin - and just as quickly, his mind drifts.

His gaze shifts across the cafeteria. Scans the usual corners.

It’s not obvious at first, not until he does a second sweep.

Rin’s not here.

He’s not tucked into a booth like he sometimes is, not hunched near the walls or lingering by the vending machine with that miserable athlete’s scowl. His tray isn’t sitting unfinished on any table.

Hiori’s eyes narrow slightly.

Not surprising, he thinks. Rin was already hanging on by threads yesterday. Eyebags carved beneath his eyes like warpaint. That haunted, electric look of someone still being chewed on by their own thoughts. 

They’d walked back to the dorms in silence last night, neither of them really saying goodnight, just parting like two shadows peeling apart from the same wall.

He probably passed out the second his head hit the mattress. His thoughts voice.

Hiori tilts his head back slightly and lets the edge of the tea cup touch his lower lip again. Still warm. Still steadying.

He replays like in a mind-reel last night. Or their second official training session as partners.

//

28 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The session as a whole has not been flashy. No wild cross-field shots or rehearsed passes. No theatrical chemistry.

Nothing like the moves they’ll be able to pull telepathically in that unforeseeable future. 

It was just a long and brutal 1v1. Just Hiori and Rin, stealing the ball from each other in a rotation so tightly bordered it got almost violent.

It didn’t look like training for synergy at all. It was more like they were testing how hard the other would be to break. 

And Hiori would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see Rin broken by his doing. 

Itoshi was faster than him, no surprise there. Explosive off the mark and as usual Sharp-footed. All the sloppiness that plagued him during the day - during actual training - seemed to have vanished. 

And when he charged forward, he did it like a striker with something to prove to the ground beneath him. 

He also proved the strength he carries in his shoulders: there were two times where Hiori had to pivot hard just to keep from getting barreled into.

But Hiori’s not easy to corner either. And last night, he’d shown it.

Metavision gives you something speed can’t.

He read Rin’s shifts before they happened. Not all of them - Rin had a way of faking rhythm like a magician hides cards - but enough. Enough to intercept twice. 

Enough to steal possession with the kind of dribble that stays just out of reach.

That’s when he realized something strange.

Rin didn’t get angry when he was outmaneuvered by him. He didn’t lash out - no, got even more quiet. Sharper.

As if every time Hiori surprised him, he filed the data into some invisible spreadsheet in his head

 It was terrifying.  It was awe-inducing.

They didn’t speak much during it, breathing and the sound of cleats kissing the grass beneath them mostly filled Hiori’s ears. 

When they had noticeably pushed each other enough, Hiori suggested a waterbreak

He tossed to Rin one of the two bottles he previously positioned on the bench. The other accepted silently.

Then there was a brief conversation. Hiori cringes as he thinks back at the way he started it. Ugh, so pretentious.

“I was thinking,” Hiori starts, wiping his neck with a towel as they trail side by side through the corridor, the buzz of the overhead fluorescents matching the low hum of his voice. “That whole drill earlier. It was like solvin’ for x in a system that kept mutating its own variables.”

Rin, who’s about three-fourths asleep with wet hair sticking to his jaw, gives the most exhausted noise known to mankind. Somewhere between a scoff and a dying exhale.

“Cyan,” Rin mutters, eyes half-lidded. “Say something normal or do me a favour and shut up all the way.”

Well, excuse him for breaking the silence with actually interesting statements.

But Hiori laughs under his breath, clearly unbothered. Knowing if Rin really wanted him to shut up, he would’ve left. He doesn’t. That’s already data.

And he went on.

“I’m serious though. Yer whole style’s like a divergent function. Ya should be readable, but every time I think I’ve solved you, ya pivot in a non-Euclidean trajectory. It’s unnatural.” he maliciously decides to push more buttons.

“You’re unnatural,” Rin says, tone dry but less venomous than usual.

“Your feints are even more unnatural . They were so counterintuitive. Ya  threw off my calculations for a second there. I usually effectively predict with a 0.3 margin of error. With ya, it’s been closer to 0.8. Congrats.”

The excitement in his tone filled the room so thoroughly that the pause that followed after his rant was almost comical.

After a while, quietly, Rin says: “You’re fucking insane.”

Ya ain’t seen nothing yet. 

“I am a midfielder,” Hiori replies, completely straight-faced. “It’s basically the same thing.”

My god, you should really stop with these weird one liners. Echoes in his mind even now.

And while the striker must’ve not caught on how Hiori noticed it - of course, because he would visibly rather chew glass than validate anyone - there’s a flicker of something in the corner of Rin’s mouth. Not a smile though, god forbid.

Just the twitch of someone almost entertained. And very annoyed - that he is.

“You talk too much,” Rin mutters, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm.

“You listen too little.”

“If I wasn’t in a hurry to crash I would’ve already knocked your teeth out.”

Hiori huffs a laugh. “Did the untouchable Rin Itoshi just admit he’s tired?”

“You’re projecting, calculator.”

“Mhm Probably.” No need to push more buttons. Not yet.

They turn the corner into the dorm wing. The hum of the vending machine is the only sound for a moment.

Silence.

As they’re about to part ways to each retire to their dorms Rin mutters under his breath. “Still beat you.”

And Hiori grins, eyes forward. “Only because I hesitated.” is said almost whispering. 

Rin doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t even argue or ask why.

That’s how their first training session ended.

When they split ways Hiori drags himself to his dorm, drops face-first into the sheets without bothering to shower, without bothering to think .

But thinking is all his brain knows how to do.

His legs are twitching with leftover adrenaline. His ears are still ringing from the silence that followed every ball-steal.

And despite the exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come.

Because the moment you finally stop moving - really stop - is the moment your mind starts playing reruns.

And Hiori’s reruns don’t begin with last night.

They begin with the two week break.

Those fatidic days in between. The space where everything quieted down, and the wrong things got loud…

//

45 days before Nigeria VS Japan

He always thought it would feel better.

Securing a spot in the final twenty-three. Walking out of the Neo Egoist League without his name in red. No elimination. 

Survival. He should’ve felt proud of it.

Instead, he felt statistically average. Rank 16. He survived by a margin. No exceptional performance and ultimately forgettable. Like a decimal point in someone else’s equation.

And yet, for the first time, the number didn’t haunt him the way it used to.

Because for the first time, he didn’t feel detached from what it represented.

His two matches with Bastard München hadn’t been just tolerable. No. They’d surprisingly been fun. 

Not the adrenaline-junky thrill that Shidou chases like a drug. Not the territorial domination Barou salivates over. 

No, but something was blooming in Hiori's chest at the thought of football, not a fully embraced feeling, but definitely undeniable. Almost visceral . A kind of satisfaction that came not from victory itself but from seeing the play unfold exactly as he predicted.

Like solving a long equation in his head and watching the numbers click into place on the field.

A clean pass into Isagi’s blind spot. A decoy move that let Kurona slither through the backline. A soft heel flick to flip the game’s tempo.

He wasn’t improvising anymore. He was reading patterns and rewriting them.

And when the ball touched his foot, it felt like it belonged there.

Like he was finally speaking a language he didn’t know he was fluent in.

That’s when he realized: He never actually hated football.

He just hated what it used to be.

Before Blue Lock, football was a checklist. A performance script. Do this drill. Make that pass. Smile for that scout. Win that tournament. Shake that hand.

Not for him. Never for him.

Always for them. 

His parents.

Methodical, pristine, tactically obsessed in a way that scraped the soul clean out of the game. They didn’t want a son who played football. They wanted a vessel. A legacy simulator.

And so, for years, football had felt like an iron suit welded to his skin.

Blue Lock didn’t strip it off. It taught him how to move in it.

Still, even with that new awareness glowing faintly under his ribs, he dreaded the break. Not because of what it meant, but because of where it led.

Home.

//

His return was quiet. As always.

No cheers. No “we’re proud of you.”

Just a smiling nod from his father. A scrutinising long glance from his mother. 

“Welcome back, Yocchan.” Was the nicest thing that’s been said to him throughout the whole evening. 

And even at those, he smiled with his mouth. Not his eyes.

The backhanded comments - meant to justify control as concern - he was bombed with at the dinner table exceeded his thin patience. 

He disguised the suffocation he felt as tiredness and excused himself to his bedroom. 

“Yer still not shooting enough.”

“Don’t let the others outshine ya, Yocchan.”

“Don’t settle for midfield, prove that yer a real striker.”

And Hiori isn't exactly renowned for hysterical crash outs. 

So when he screamed “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT ME!”against his pillow, it meant he got to a point he can’t contain his piled up resentment anymore. 

Why can’t he be seen as a teenager who just wants to have fun, instead of a programmed machine?

Why can’t he be loved like an actual son, instead of a tool to achieve status and general praise?

Why can’t he be treated like a human fucking being, instead of a numb doll to throw a never ending succession of venomous darts at?

Those questions haunted him that night, as he lay stiff in the same childhood bed where dreams used to die quietly.

When his thoughts started to resemble more and more a perfectly crafted, top notch, planned to the minimum detail cold blooded murder, Hiori finally decided to walk to his desk and pick up his controller.

His only escape from his wretched reality. The only - legal - way he can vent his frustration and anger.

And as he starts to set up his computer’s monitor under his desk he finally spots the box.

It had the Blue Lock seal pressed into the cardboard. Half-expecting a mistake, he peeled the tape back.

On its top there was a single note, printed cleanly in Ego’s familiar sardonic font:

“MIDFIELD IS THE AXIS.

BECOME THE GLUE.

UNDERSTAND COMPATIBILITY AT A CELLULAR LEVEL.

THE PLAYER WHO CAN ADAPT TO ALL FORMS IS UNSTOPPABLE.”

Under the message, a row of objects glinted against the foam casing.

Video Games.

Dozens of them. Not football sims. Not traditional sports titles.

Ego’s picks were deliberate. They were exactly the type of games Hiori was yearning for at that moment.

That for-eyed omniscient demon.

For a moment, he just stared at the games like they were alien. Ego had never sent them personalized material before. Not even a tutorial. Just the tools. Just the invitation.

It didn’t need to come with any further lecture, just notes sticking on each CD. The message was clear.

These are your blueprints.

He picked up the CD boxes and read each attached note  one by one. Each word served its purpose to justify and explain every pick. 

And - most of all - how would each game improve Hiori’s skills on the field.

Apex Legends: Reflex-heavy, all about syncing with two teammates and adapting mid-battle. Very “midfielder-like” in its positioning and pacing.

The Binding of Isaac: Rebirth: High unpredictability. Forces reactive strategy and quick decision-making. 

Devil Dagger:  Pure reflex. Minimal UI. No handholding. This is about spatial awareness and immediate reaction.

Hades: Mix of planning and fast reflex combat. The build variation system mirrors how a midfielder experiments with passes, angles, and timing.

Dead by Daylight: Forces you to outthink a killer while cooperating with others. Teaches risk vs reward, stealth, and team-based problem solving under stress

This is gold. I’m in heaven. Hiori thought as he picked up the Dead By Daylight box and positioned himself in front of the computer’s screen.

He didn’t even bother sorting through the whole box  to read the notes for every game. He needed to let out his frustration as soon as possible.

Hiori stayed up that night until 3 AM, controllers in hand, losing hours to digital battlefields and problem-solving puzzles that never repeated the same pattern twice. Not for the adrenaline. Not even for escapism.

But because with every respawn, every tactical failure, every glitched-out death scene - he learned something.

About choice. About timing. About reading an ally’s move before they make it.

About the exact moment when to pass off the burden.

And when to shoulder it alone.

And as each system revealed itself to him in pixels and logic threads, a thought rose from deep inside him. Gentle, but firm. Like a truth he’d buried under years of programmed restraint.

Football doesn’t have to be a fight.

It can be a problem. A game.

And games can be mastered.

He thought of Bastard München.

He thought of his teammates’ hunger. He never got how they could get so fired up about kicking a ball before.

I understand it now.

He finally mastered his own vision. His own ego.

//

🎶🎶

The screen is soaked in red. Again.

Viscous. Splattered. Inviting.

It drips down pixelated floorboards like the juice of something freshly butchered, the frame jittering in feedback loops that mimic human panic far too well for a piece of code.

Bones crunch through the stereo. Flesh tears in high fidelity. The chainsaw revs once, and then again, carving open the last enemy with such detailed violence it makes Hiori blink.

Not from disgust. From satisfaction.

His thumb tightens instinctively over the trigger. There’s no enemy left. Just a hunk of mangled meat twitching on the ground like it’s trying to remember the act of dying.

KILL STREAK COMPLETE fills up his screen. 

GRADE: S+

He exhales slowly, satisfaction invading his body.

The sound that leaves his mouth isn’t a breath of relief. It’s something more dangerous. That hollow, near-holy reverence of a scientist watching the perfect equation write itself in arterial spray.

His fingers hover over the controller. Sticky with sweat. Palms still buzzing. His eyes feel dry from how long they’ve been peeled open.

He doesn’t blink. Not yet. It’s not the carnage that gets to him. It’s not even the brutality.

It’s the clarity.

There’s something intoxicating about it. The clean madness of a world where action always leads to reaction. Where every strike delivers immediate consequence. Cause. Effect. Blood.

He never says it aloud - wouldn’t, not even to Karasu - but there are moments during these sessions, late and low-lit, where the violence becomes something else. Something almost mephistophelic. 

Sometimes the enemies look like monsters. Sometimes they don’t.

Just sometimes - when his body is slouched forward in the dark and the volume is up just high enough to drown the silence - the faces flicker.

And for just half a second, the enemy wears a face he knows far too well. 

A mother’s smile that never warmed him. 

A father’s eyes that saw only grades, trophies, obedience.

He pretends, only barely, that he doesn’t enjoy the fantasy. But he chainsaws through the memory anyway.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the red fills the frame. Until there’s no one left to please. The message from Ego is carved in his mind by now.

Compatibility.

Ego didn’t mean teamwork. He meant synergy. He clearly meant control.

He meant the ability to anticipate the chaos and bend it. The same way he’s anticipating the game’s kill animations. The same way his reflexes tighten before the boss swings. The same way he can practically feel the blood before it sprays.

So then, if midfielders were ‘compatibility’ incarnate…

Who in Blue Lock was worth syncing with?

He sifts through the roster in his head. Not with emotion. With precision. Each player analyzed like a new potential update to his build.

Isagi Yoichi

The “default” choice. And a close friend. They’ve played together. Communicated in mid-sprint. Thought in sync. 

But Isagi is already developing into a field commander: someone who no longer relies on single connections, but entire systems.

Isagi’s instinct is to mold the game around him.

Too central. Too distributed.

Hiori can’t breathe under someone else’s vision.

Shidou Ryusei

Explosive. Animalistic. Efficient in the most terrifying way. 

But also volatile. Impossible to predict. Anarchy in cleats.

Playing with him would be like trying to play chess with a coked-out Doberman. 

Barou Shoei

Power. Presence. An apex predator. A king.

But Barou doesn’t pass, let alone sync.

There’s nothing compatible there. Just a cathedral of ego.

Kunigami Rensuke

The safe solid option. Straightforward. Brave. Strong.

But too readable. Too honest-faced.

Hiori would get bored.

None of them would do.

There was only one player left. One he hadn’t even considered before because - frankly - it made no goddamn sense.

He doesn’t understand Rin Itoshi.

And that’s exactly why he can’t stop himself from contemplating what it would be like to work with him.

Blood paints the screen again. But this time, Hiori’s not watching.

He’s seeing something else. Not a game. A memory.

A bloody nose in the third selection.

The way Rin wiped it with the back of his sleeve, eyes burning like he’d won the injury. A feral, alive,  look in his eyes like he didn’t just get his ass kicked by Shidou.

A busted lip, U-20 match.

Rin sprinting even after a tragic-like collision. One he dived into deliberately. All that blood loss and he still commanded the pitch like pain wasn’t real.

A drip of crimson, PXG vs Bastard München.

It ran down his chin like warpaint. His pupils blown wide with adrenaline, his jaw slack with euphoria. The crash-shot that sparked his entire being. That made his body tremble from the dopamine rush.

And he looked happy.

Not joyful. Not proud. Happy. Like the pain had reminded him he was alive.

Hiori swallows, slow and dry.

That’s it, isn’t it?

That’s what Ego meant.

Compatibility isn’t about safety. It’s not about comfort. It’s about potential.

And Rin Itoshi is a walking paradox of potential.

A striker so sharp he bleeds himself dry. So relentless he doesn’t even realize he’s dying on the pitch every time he steps onto it.

He scores like it’s the one thing anchoring him to life.

And that - that chaos - Hiori can learn to read.

Not all at once. Maybe not even fully. But enough.

Enough to build a formula around. Enough to grow obsessed with solving.

On-screen, the game flashes another death sequence. Guts, tendons, something that used to be a lung.

Hiori doesn’t look away. He’s never felt more sober.

And finally, he whispers under his breath, to no one in particular:

“Yeah. You’re the one I want.”

Not as a friend. Not as a savior. Not even as a goal.

As a variabile.

A volatile, beautiful, bloodstained variable he wants to crack wide open.

//

27 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The training field is a mess of limbs and noise.

Otoya’s cleats shriek across the turf too sharply, like they’re trying to carve a groove in the earth just for fun. 

Bachira, having made a miraculous resurrection from his breakfast coma - thanks to Isagi’s magnanimity- is vibrating with his usual sugar-high glee as he pinballs between players, giggling about imaginary spider legs.

Kurona nearly trips over a dummy pole because he’s laughing too hard at Shidou failing an acrobatic flick he had no business attempting. 

Hiori feels almost weird training in a pitch full of people now, one where your only threats aren’t just piercing daggers shot by two deep emeralds.

He pairs up with Karasu, who is already knee-deep in his morning ritual of being obnoxious.

“You saw that, right? That was a nutmeg, my guy. I get a point. Don't you dare tell meit doesn’t count-”

“No one’s keeping score, Karasu,” Yukimiya mutters, barely looking up.

“Oh. Uh… Well, I am. Mental spreadsheet.” He taps his temple with a smug flourish. “Filed under ‘Reasons I’m Everyone’s Problem.’”

Hiori exhales, slow and soundless, one boot resting gently against the ball like it’s the only grounded object in the chaos. 

He'd be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit fond of the Crow's shenanigans. He's like the older brother he never had.

His muscles have warmed into a familiar hum and the tea he drank before leaving the cafeteria is still lingering at the back of his tongue.

From where he’s standing, the field looks deceptively functional. Cones aligned. Lanes drawn in dry chalk. A drill grid so neat it could belong on a brochure.

But it’s all surface. Because, underneath, the posturing hierarchy jousts, energy that skews toward combustion more than coordination. Everyone is striving to be the protagonist.

He likes it, though.

This chaos. The tension.

The sheer volume of variables.

🎶🎶

Karasu jogs over, already smirking like he knows he’s about to be a nuisance.

“You good, calculator?” he asks, knocking Hiori’s arm lightly with his elbow.

Last night a hot-headed striker addressed him with that nickname as well.

“You’re still on that?” Hiori doesn’t look at him, just shifts his stance. “I thought your attention span expired after one insult.”

Karasu grins. “Looped it. I’m building a brand.”

He juggles the ball once on his thigh before continuing, “So, what’s it like being teammates again with the Assassin crow?”

Hiori doesn’t answer. In fact his ears almost fail to catch the question.

Because that’s when Rin arrives.

Refreshingly with no dramatics. Just the echo of boots striking turf with crisp economy, and the silent, collective posture adjustment of a team realizing that the standard has just walked into the room.

There you are.

Rin is in uniform. His hair’s damp, sticking to his forehead like he only just peeled himself out of a cold shower. His expression is unreadable. 

As he steps into the warm-up line, he doesn’t say a word. But he passes Hiori. And for one blink-long moment, their eyes meet.

No smile. No voiced greeting.

Just two players, two predators tied in a hunt - unbeknownst to everyone else on that pitch - locking gazes.

Hiori’s head barely tilts in recognition.

Rin returns the acknowledgement with the briefest nod.

Just as Hiori’ s having an inner debate on whether he should approach him or not, the whistle pierces through his nonsense.

He might ignore you in public. Don’t swim on uncharted waters just yet. His mind scolds him.

During the first drill Hiori drops into rhythm like he’s been waiting for it. There’s no hesitation in his runs, no lag in his touches. He moves with calculation sharpened by instinct. His field of vision blooms open - reading and predicting before anything happens.

Karasu is next to him, feeding passes that look like mistakes until they land. Tricks that shouldn’t work but occasionally explode into something spectacular.

And since most of the time they don’t work, the noise is twice as loud.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit fond of the Crow's shenanigans. He's like the older brother he never had.

“Oh come on!” Karasu yells after tripping over his own trick shot, sending the ball two drills away. “Signal next time, Hiori! I was vibing in jazz mode, not fucking calculus class!”

“You should be able to adapt to both,” Hiori replies without even looking, cushioning the rebound and returning it with the perfect pace.

Karasu throws his hands up. “This is abuse.”

“Ya welcome.” Hiori grins

Shidou yells something obscene across the field. 

Raichi barks back. 

Aiku throws his arms up as if questioning the entire purpose of humanity. 

Gagamaru saves a goal so hard he topples backwards and crushes Bachira, who wheezes in giggles from under him.

Amid the chaos, the rhythm builds.

Karasu jogs beside Hiori during rotation, this time quieter. Just slightly.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

Hiori doesn’t reply. Just lifts a brow.

“I mean it,” Karasu goes on. “You used to be so... like someone playing chess underwater. Every move pre-simulated. But now?” He grins. “Now you’re sharp. Aggressive. Like you actually want it.”

“That’s because I do now, dumbass.”

Karasu lets out a low whistle. “Shiiiit. Bastard München really did a number on ya.”

Hiori exhales slowly, the breath dragging something warmer out of his chest. He thinks of Ego’s parcel. Of the controller. The blood. The moment he looked at the game screen and saw not horror, but clarity.

He thinks of the eyes Rin wore the past nights. Bruised by lack of sleep but still sharply focused. Fraying at the edge of something dangerous. 

The blood in his veins accelerates with excitement at the thought of their upcoming training session in a few hours.

“Something like that.”

Karasu squints at him like he wants more. But ultimately doesn’t ask.

Drill reset. New formation.

The teams split again.

// 

The corridor outside the pitch is dim, lit just enough to remind you that no one else is supposed to be here. It’s late. Past lights-out for anyone with a normal schedule. 

But no one in Blue Lock is normal. And certainly, neither is Hiori. Who, by the way, is late for the meeting on the pitch with Itoshi.

His boots tap soft patterns into the tile, steady and calm, the rhythm of someone fully aware of where he’s going and what he’s about to build. The air has that pre-sprint stillness to it. That quiet that always comes before ignition.

He’s halfway to the field when he hears someone behind him. A deliberate stride. Like someone who always plants their foot for maximum control.

He turns his head slightly.

Of course.

Isagi.

The other boy catches up easily, hoodie half-zipped, hands in his pockets. His eyes scan Hiori once, like he’s not surprised to find him there.

“You out here walking?” Isagi asks, tone neutral.

Hiori nods. “Couldn’t sleep.”

That’s not a lie. Not completely. He hasn’t been able to sleep well for days. Not since the idea of his and Rin’s alliance took root and started growing between his neurons like ivy.

Isagi doesn’t press. Thank you.

“Thought you might be running new routines,” Isagi says after a beat. “You had that look earlier. The one where you go all quiet and mathematical.”

Hiori smirks faintly. “That’s just my resting face.”

Isagi huffs a laugh. “Fair.”

“And you had that look earlier, the one you wear while new potential tactics are being built by your synapses.” Hiori counterattacks, actually interested in the striker’s thought process.

Rin can wait just a bit more.

Isagi he’s quiet again. For maybe four steps. Then, almost voraciously:

“Y’know me too well” Isagi chuckles. “During today’s drills, specifically by watching your and Karasu’s ball actions, I realized something. It should not be just about controlling space. I think it's more about forcing your opponent to create space for you.”

Hiori glances over. Irises glimmering.  “Elaborate.” 

Isagi obliges, a rhythm building in his voice like he’s syncing up with the steps they’re taking. “Everyone talks about blind spots like they’re something to avoid. But what if you weaponize them? What if you bait the movement that creates them, just so you can attack from them? You don’t just exploit blind spots. You plant them.”

Hiori exhales through his nose. “That’s diabolical.”

Isagi shrugs. “It’s logical. If you can predict someone’s predictive model, then you can manipulate what they don’t see. It’s just…uh- reverse meta-vision.”

That hits.

Harder than it should.

Hiori slows slightly. That phrase. Reverse meta-vision.

What if a midfielder’s job isn’t just to see the field, but to make the striker blind in all the right directions?

Or - flipped - to be the second sight the striker doesn’t realize they need?

His brain is already moving ahead, rewinding his earlier thoughts, reconfiguring the drill he’s been sketching in his head. What if, instead of shadowing Rin’s route like a second body, he became the moving solution to every unsolved variable Rin left behind?

Wraith coverage.

Not chasing like last night. Completing instead. Like two sides of the same coin.

“Thanks,” Hiori mutters softly.

Isagi blinks. “For what?”

Hiori’s already veering off toward the pitch. “For the illuminating thought process. And the insomnia upgrade.”

Isagi just shakes his head, a small knowing grin on his lips . “You should really go to sleep. ” he mutters.

//

Rin is - of course - already on the pitch.

His silhouette’s easy to catch even in low light: long, lean, that loose stance of someone who’s conserving energy but ready to explode at a moment’s notice.

He doesn’t turn to look as Hiori approaches. Just mutters: “You’re late.” Tone factual like he’s a clock reading time.

Hiori smiles lightly. “It’s rude to start training without me, y’know. I could’ve reported ya for going rogue.”

That earns him a sidelong glance. Rin’s eyes narrow, calculating. “You’re not in the position to make jokes.”

“I’m relaxed” Hiori corrects, stopping beside him and stretching his arms across his chest. “I should teach you how it feels like, one of these days.”

Silence.

Then Rin scoffs. Not a real sound. Just breath shaped like disdain. He walks toward him. 

“Do you take any of this seriously? Because I think you wasted my time more than enough.” He says as he confidently steps into the fake grass.

That’s the edge. The one Rin always carries in his words, this time with suspicion sharpened into something near-hostile. 

The implication that the only way you’re allowed on his field is if you’re ready to bleed for it.

Hiori doesn’t flinch when they are face to face.

So short tempered. Thrilling. His mind comments.

“I do,” he answers simply. Then nods toward the ball near the half-line. “That’s precisely why I came with something in mind.”

Rin raises a brow.

“A drill. One I’ve been testing mentally. Inspired by a match review, and - some conversations.”

“No names,” Rin cuts in immediately.

Hiori grins. “Does that even matter?”

He jogs toward the equipment rack, picks up a set of cones, two elastic resistance bands, and a few weighted balls. Rin watches him like a sniper lining up a trajectory.

“We’re goin’ to be each other’s wraiths tonight,” Hiori says, already laying out the cones in staggered zigzags across the pitch’s left third.

“Wraiths?”

“Phantom coverage. Blind spot mitigation. Focus, the idea is pretty simple-” Rin glares at that last statement, as if Hiori just called him dumb to his face. Bingo.

The older one goes on explaining to anticipate being cut off “ya sprint the drill as striker, and I tail not your position, but yer weaknesses. Every shadow ya leave, every window you open - I fill it in. Not by chasing, this time, but by preempting.”

Rin’s expression doesn’t shift. But his posture changes, just a little. Shoulders angled.

Interested.

“You’re testing field overlap under pressure,” Rin says flatly.

“Yes. But dynamically. And with resistance. I won’t be on yer heels: I’ll be tethered to ya, like an alternate instinct. We’ll both wear the band. If either of us breaks tension, the drill fails.”

“And if one of us pulls off a sequence clean?”

“We log it,” Hiori answers. “Record the movements. Catalogue the patterns. Then switch roles. Ya play my instincts, and I run the tempo.”

Rin exhales. No sarcasm but no praise either. Though there’s a flicker of approval in how fast he strips off his jacket and steps into the setup.

“You planned this just for tonight?”

Hiori shrugs. “The idea hit me while walking.”

“Obsessive, if you ask me” Rin mutters under his breath, probably not intending to be heard.

Hiori lights up. “I think the word you meant to use is observant.”

Rin says nothing.

But he slips the band over his torso.

And when they face each other, knees bent, cones before them like war obstacles - Hiori feels it.

That charge again.

The one he only feels around players who don’t play. They hunt.

And Rin Itoshi? He hunts like he’s starving. Like the pitch is the only place that recognizes his existence.

So they move. Together. Apart. Ghosting. Predicting.

One shadow. One echo.

Two wraiths.

//

Everything is going smoothly until a minor mistake breaks the equilibrium bubble.

So minor it shouldn’t even count. Not a misread of footwork. Not a stumble. Just a stupid fucking half-second overlap where prediction and reaction meet in the wrong place.

Hiori’s foot angles toward the cone, body weight tilting to trace the blind gap Rin should have left - but Rin doesn’t feint like he always does. 

Instead, he cuts inside harder, faster, their patterns clashing like wires sparking beneath a floorboard. And before it could be stopped, unprecedented - unwanted - contact occurs.

Shoulder meets chest. Knees almost clip. The rubber band between their torsos snaps taut with a sharp zing of resistance before slapping back to rest.

It’s nothing. No one falls. No one yells. But the rhythm is long gone and dead.

A perfect run streak, wrecked by static. And they both freeze in it.

As if they’ve been following a religiously memorised script and now are thrown off by a situation in which they must inevitably improvise.

Hiori freezes, Rin almost pressed on his back. Should I…?

That's when the latter steps back first, a twitch of his mouth like he’s tasted something bitter. 

Hiori still doesn’t move, just stands in place, hands slightly raised like he’s still calibrating all the angles that went wrong.

It’s not embarrassment that fills the atmosphere. Well -  Not on Hiori’s part at least.

It’s the silence that lands like a thud between them. Heavy and blunt-edged.

What now? Why did we stop? Should I joke about it? Or apologize? The prevision system that HQs in Hiori’s head signals ‘Emergency’ in crimson red.

Then-

Rin clears his throat. “Break.”

That’s all it takes to shatter the panic.

Of course, yeah. Great escape route: “Break.” Hiori repeats like a parrot. 

Any form of eye contact is avoided. Rin turns his shoulder and paces toward the benches. 

Hiori follows after a few seconds, breath still settling. He makes a short detour to the far rack where they left their water bottles lined in a pair.

It’s always like this. Hiori offers the water. Every time.

And Rin never complains. Never thanks him either, but also never stops him. That counts.

By the time he sits down beside him on the bench, handing Rin his bottle, the air has cooled a little, enough to be breathable again.

They drink. Nothing is said.

Then Rin exhales, slow, controlled. One breath. Then another.

And without looking up, he asks:

“You haven’t told anyone…right?”

The question is so sudden, so tone-dead in the moment, that Hiori almost laughs.

Almost. Is he being for real?

Because Rin’s voice is - not tight, exactly. But there’s a strange texture to it. Like he’s trying to wrap the question in armor even though the act of asking already gave away too much.

Hiori blinks. Plays dumb.  “Tell anyone about what?”

Rin doesn’t look over. It looks like the next words cost him 10 years of his lifespan.“The- uhm. Deal. Our training. The partners- whatever the fuck this arrangement is.”

The phrasing is messy. Like he’s trying not to give it too much importance while still needing an answer. Hiori turns slightly, studying the sharp line of Rin’s jaw, how the muscles tick faintly even at rest.

It takes every ounce of his abused self control to not bust laughing in his face.

“No,” he says simply. “I didn’t.”

A grin twitches his lips.

Rin’s bottle lowers half an inch. A flicker of relief so small it could be mistaken for nothing at all.

But Hiori sees it. This is peak teasing content.

“I didn’t,” he repeats, voice soft but clear, “and I don’t plan to.”

He waits. Just a beat. Fuck it.

“Unless, of course…” he leans slightly forward, enough to glance up into Rin’s profile. “Yer afraid” 

As soon as he says that the striker is on his feet. Walking toward the lonely ball.

Hiori continues pressing. He’ll never get another chance to enrage him like this again.

“ Oh, I get it now! Yer unprecedented lone-wolf reputation will get ruined if people find out ya spent more than ten minutes in amicable compan-”

He’s cut off in a striking instant.

He doesn’t even get to breathe before something shifts fast in his peripheral vision. Instinct instantly kicks in. His body is piloting itself on his own. 

Hiori’s hands shoot up just in time to catch the ball sailing full-force at his face. It slams into his palms with a satisfying thud, the pressure reverberating down through his wrists. 

The force of it is real. Way more than casual. A full blown fast shot.

This guy is crazy.

He blinks once. Then looks down at the ball. Then up untill Ice meets Emerald.

Rin is already standing again, one brow barely raised, like he wasn’t just trying to shatter a nose bridge.

“Hey! Ya could’ve done some serious damage with that-” Hiori begins, almost yelling. All while still holding the ball between his palms like a newborn puppy Rin tried to throw into traffic.

“That’s what you get for running your mouth too much,” Rin replies, voice as dry as a bone left in the sun.

“Besides-” his gaze sharpens, glinting with something between challenge and acknowledgement - “I knew you’d catch it.”

The implication lands slow and heavy, like dusk settling over water. He knew.

Hiori swallows. Hard enough for it to be noticeable. Then that light grin from earlier quickly transforms into a malicious smirk.

Push it.

“What if I didn’t?” he asks, testing with a velvety tone. The kind that hides blades under plush.

Rin doesn’t hesitate.

“Then you’d be bathing in your own blood with a fractured skull.”

It shouldn’t land like a compliment. But it fucking does.

And somehow, Hiori feels the hairs on his arm bristle - like a field of grass before thunder breaks.

I need more details than just that. Am I being creepy?- Actually who gives a shit, he’s clearly more unhinged than me. His mind is running marathons.

Now the air between them is charged again. But not like before. Not even remotely awkward.

Alive.

Like two magnets circling the edge of snapping together or repelling forever.

Hiori exhales slowly. Rolls the ball down his thigh. Doesn’t break eye contact.

The blood still hangs in the air - not literally (duh), but in tone and weight. Rin’s words haven’t faded; they’ve embedded. Like fragments of glass in soft flesh.

A fractured skull. Bleeding out. A twitching body that looks like it’s been exhumed.

That wasn’t just a violent visual. That was just a fragmented picture, a frame of a scene which Hiori is eager to watch fully.

Hiori lets the ball settle beneath his boot. Tilts his head faintly. His voice comes low and silken:

“And how exactly were you planning to clean it up?”

Rin doesn’t blink.

The silence stretches for half a beat longer than necessary, and Hiori can see it: the way Rin’s gaze shifts deeper. Like he’s imagining it. Like it’s a problem worth solving.

And if anyone told Hiori a week ago that the one person that would - without question - indulge his gory fantasies would be Rin Itoshi, he’d go on a laughing spree for an hour.

“Hose it down,” Rin says eventually, deadpan. “Let the water push the blood off the pitch lines. Turf’s synthetic anyway. Won’t stain so it’s far less traceable.”

Interesting choice.

“You thought that through quickly,” Hiori murmurs, lips curving at the edges.

“You asked.”

Hiori can’t help the thrill curling in his chest. Like he just found a missing piece in a puzzle he forgot he was solving.

He circles the ball with his foot slowly, body turning into motion like a wraith just waking from slumber. His steps are smooth. His gaze never leaves Rin, even as he fakes a shudder.

Let’s see how far I can take this.

“Good thing no one knows,” Hiori says, voice faux-light, laced with pretend caution. “Because if they ever had the misfortune of finding out… I assume you’d just… take them out on sight?”

Rin’s eyes narrow, but not in irritation. He doesn’t rise to the bait the way a normal person would. He tracks Hiori’s movement like a sniper aligning a shot. Cold. 

“Depends,” Rin says, moving too now. Following. Not quickly. But deliberately. His gait has that controlled smoothness of a panther preparing to lunge. “Depends on who walks in.”

YES! Perfect answer! This could potentially become the best conversation Hiori’s ever had the pleasure to be engaged in.

They’re pacing each other now, slow orbiting, the ball abandoned between them. The floodlights overhead buzz faintly, throwing warped shadows across the empty pitch. And for a second, the atmosphere feels like a paused horror game. The moment just before something crawls out of frame.

🎶🎶

“Let’s say…” Hiori says, dragging his finger through the air as if outlining the shape of a story. “It’s Bachira.”

Rin’s brow lifts slightly. “Lukewarm choice. That’s the easiest one.”

Hiori’s immediately intrigued “Because?”

“He’d fucking laugh.”

The midfielder lets out a sound between a chuckle and a hum. “I can see that happenin’.”

Rin steps closer, walking past him now, slow and steady. “I’d lure him with something stupid. A challenge. Maybe dare him to nutmeg me.”

“You’d use ego as bait?”

“He’d bite. Every time.” Go on.

“And then?”

“Let him think he won. Let him turn his back. And just as he’s doing that dumb spin-celebration thing-” Rin glances over his shoulder, “-I sweep his legs.”

Hiori’s smile spreads. This feels so wrong.  “Unoriginal. But effective.”

Rin continues like he’s narrating a play, “You can slip a cord over his throat. He’ll be down giggling.”

“He’d probably enjoy it until he passed out.” Hiori continues.

“For sure,” Rin murmurs, looking far too calm about it.

They walk in a loose arc now, toes brushing chalk lines, shoulders open. Hiori’s arms are folded behind his back, his expression thoughtful. Who’s next?

Rin’s hands are tucked in his pockets, relaxed. But there’s nothing soft about either of them.

“Alright then,” Hiori says, tone laced with a little more challenge, “What about Shidou?”

Rin stops.

His eyes narrow like he’s switching tabs. Violence, page two.

“That one needs to be surgical,” Rin mutters, slowly. “That antennae freak is too reactive. And all  the muscle will be a problem.”

“You’d lose if you let him get momentum,” Hiori agrees. “So how do you break him?”

Rin exhales,  a shift in breath that suggests he’s reflecting.

“You don’t go head-on. You outlast him. Wear him down.” He starts walking again. “Thirty minutes of constant runarounds. Traps. False openings. Let his adrenaline burn itself out. Once he’s breathing through his teeth, you drag him behind the goalpost.”

“Nice visual.” 

“You knock him unconscious with his own cleat.”

“Poetic,” Hiori grins.

He stops at the center circle. Spins slowly on his heel, looking around the field like it’s a chessboard. “And I’d play a long con. Guilt-trip him into a psychotic breakdown.”

“Any of your mathematical analogies will be enough to send his brains on emergency mode” Now Rin’s looking at him again. Head slightly tilted, mouth almost tugging at something - either amusement or disbelief. But he doesn’t comment.

Hiori sees the invitation.

So he continues, voice low, deliberate.

“I’d convince him he was the reason we lost a match. Not with yellin’. Just hints. Planting the seed. Watch him self-destruct from the inside. Then when he’s not looking?” He lifts one hand. Snaps his fingers. “Tranquilizer dart. Right in the neck.”

Rin hums. Like he officially approved the plan.

They walk in tandem across the pitch again, this time not as partners in motion but co-conspirators. 

Hiori’s fingers are laced behind his head, shirt tugged up with each lazy stretch. Rin has his hands stuffed in his pockets, chin slightly down, eyes forward like he’s mapping out the next day’s demise.

The air has cooled, but the blood hasn’t. Not after the drill.

There’s a peculiar stillness to the night now, like a held breath, waiting to be punctured.

Hiori glances sideways, then says it offhandedly, like it’s nothing:

“So? Let’s say someone did walk in on us. Right now. Who do you think it’d be?”

Rin doesn’t hesitate. “Isagi. Never minds his fucking business ”

Of course.

Hiori smirks. “And how would we deal with him?”

“You’d distract him,” Rin replies instantly, voice sharp but lazy. “Play dumb. Say you forgot your water bottle or some shit.”

“And you?”

“I’d be behind him already. One step inside the pitch, and the ground caves under his feet.”

Hiori blinks. “Trapdoor?”

“Bamboo pit. Twelve feet. Laced at the bottom with bent rebar.”

“Jesus.” Something scrambles his insides.

Rin’s eyes flick to him, flat. “Oh I’m not done.”

His voice drops, less performative now. Slower. As if he’s been  building the scene for himself long before this dialogue even happened.

“After he falls  I jump in after him with a box cutter. Slice the Achilles tendon first, so he doesn’t try anything stupid.”

Hiori’s eyes widen slightly. His mouth twitches upward.

May this conversation never end.

Rin, as if he can read his thoughts, goes on. “Then the eyelids. Just enough to make blinking impossible. Maybe break his fingers next.  Then let him bleed. Eventually, someone finds him.”

“Unrecognizable, I s’pose”

Rin’s lips curl into something adjacent to the faintest smile. “Just enough left that they wonder how it went wrong. Not what happened, but why.”

Hiori whistles low under his breath, the sound barely carrying. “That,” he says, “is fucked.”

But then something shifts in his expression. A glint. That lightning-strike recognition of data aligning in the back of his skull.

He slows to a stop mid-field, brows drawing in faint disbelief. I knew that sequence was familiar.

“…Wait,” he says, blinking. “Wait. No way. That’s- That’s literally the kill order from  a horror movie. Shallow Graves Volume III.”

Rin freezes.

Mid-stride. One foot still in the air. His gaze slices sideways with surgical calm.

He hadn’t expected Hiori to catch it. That’s written all over the stillness in his spine.

“If you call that horror,” he mutters after a moment, resuming his walk with practiced nonchalance, “you definitely don’t know shit about the genre.”

Rin also being a horror enthusiast wasn’t something he planned to find out this way. Now everything makes much more sense.

That was the variable of the equation he’s been trying to tackle.

That's another piece that commons them to strengthen their compatibility. And it's not even football related.

Hiori jogs to fall beside him again. Grinning now, like someone who just opened a locked safe with no blueprint.

“Oh come on. Ya don’t just accidentally design a bamboo pit-and-slice job with perfect narrative pacing unless you’ve rewatched that scene at least five times.”

Back and forth.

“It’s formulaic.”

“It’s visceral.”

“It’s time." 

“Excuse me?” Hiori lets out a baffled laugh. “Half the audience had to look away when she started peeling his face off with the tape cutter.”

“And half the audience wouldn’t last five minutes watching something actually terrifying.” The man clearly knows his stuff.

“Ya mean like those experimental void-core movies where nothing happens for ninety minutes and then one guy coughs and it’s a metaphor for grief?” Hiori teases.

“Yes.” Rin states matter of factly, as if nothing less should be expected from him. Bastard.

“So pretentious.” Hiori teases.

And Rin scoffs.

They’re already at the tunnel entrance. The doors yawn open in the dark, shadows pooling toward the locker rooms. Their steps echo differently here. 

“So what is it for ya, then?” Hiori asks, a little more earnestly now. “What’s the perfect horror scene?”

Rin doesn’t answer at first. Strips off his jacket, throws it over his shoulder as they move.

Then, like he’s speaking to the hallway instead of Hiori:

“No screaming. No chase. Just one shot: a man standing behind a glass window. He’s still. You don’t see what’s in the room. But you know. Something’s there with him. You just can’t hear it.”

Hiori glances at him, head tilted.

“That’s from Cold Matter.”

“Yes.” Rin looks surprised.

“You like psychological dread more than gore.”

“It lingers better.”

Hiori hums thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll just hav’ta agree to disagree”

“Like I care for your approval.” 

God fucking forbid. Hiori mocks him in his head.

They’re silent again, both peeling off their shirts in near unison now. The sharp bite of the locker room’s fluorescents reflecting off damp skin and dark hair. Towels slung over shoulders. Muscle memory in motion.

Hiori turns his faucet on. Steam immediately clouds the mirror across from him. The hot water hits like punishment, but he doesn’t flinch. Just closes his eyes, lets the pressure work through his scalp.

And when he turns it off - no more than five minutes later, eyes open, hair slicked -

Rin’s gone.

No sound. No splash. No towel. Not even the faintest trace of warmth in the tile beside him.

Hiori exhales.

A grin carves across his lips without permission.

Because now they’re even.

One horror reference each. One unspoken point of contact.

Two players who seemingly have nothing in common.

With the same obsession.

//

24 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The next three days unfold like film negatives: quiet snapshots layered with noise and rhythm, looping themselves in a pattern that almost feels deliberate.

Daytime is vibrant. Loud. Public-facing.

The pitch buzzes with drills, shouts, scuffed turf and sarcasm. The ball moves like it’s been lit on fire, passed between players who treat it like both a weapon and a promise. 

Hiori returns to his usual group without missing a beat - synchronizing with Kurona and Isagi in small-sided scrimmages, laughing under his breath when Bachira tries to nutmeg Karasu twice and eats turf for it both times.

“That’s what you get for showing off,” Isagi yells from midfield.

“Hey!” Bachira pouts, flipping onto his back like a toddler mid-tantrum. “Spiders are allowed to show off.”

“Not when the spider has two left legs,” Kurona adds, grinning.

“You’re all haters,” Bachira groans, hands over his face. “I’ll never play again.”

“Promise?” Yukimiya mutters from nearby.

Laughter ripples. Sendou’s already trying to jump over someone.  Aiku swears he’s going to retire by twenty-five if the chaos doesn’t stop.

In the middle of it all, Hiori blends in perfectly. Or rather, he lets himself blend. Efficient passes. Smooth transitions. Tactical clarity. He talks more. Jokes, even. 

Smiles when Karasu throws a lazy arm over his shoulders like they’re best friends. At one point, he even cheers when Gagamaru makes a save that ricochets into Kurona’s stomach. The team moves, and he moves with them.

But every time he glances toward the far end of the pitch-

Nothing.

Because Rin’s there, too. Just not here.

He trains almost  separately. He still rotates through the team drills when assigned, but there’s a kind of invisible fog around him. 

Like he’s present only in body, and even that’s only on loan. No one questions it. Clearly they've gotten used to it. Or it’s just that no one wants to be the one to interrupt whatever lives behind that glare.

Hiori doesn’t approach.

And Rin doesn’t either.

It’s an unspoken agreement. A dance. Ghosts in daylight. Strangers wearing recognition like a secret tattoo only visible under specific light.

But at night, when the sky folds into itself and the pitch is silent save for cleats and breath- 

That’s when they always, infallibly meet.

Little to no words. No greetings. No jokes.

Only obsessively rigorous drills.

They don’t even warm up anymore. Well, not separately, at least. Hiori passes the ball to Rin the moment he steps onto the field and Rin returns it without comment. Their patterns begin without structure, without planning, and yet sync into place like magnets clicking in slow, perfect tandem.

Each night they tweak something.

A new band variation. A pass-and-pivot loop. Close-quarters dribbling that forces Hiori to rely less on space and more on rhythm.

There’s barely any room to breathe. But that’s the whole fucking point.

He learns how Rin’s foot twists just before a cut. How his weight shifts half a second ahead of every sprint. How his body will always sacrifice safety for velocity.

And Rin-

Well. Hiori’s not sure what Rin’s learning about him. But he’s certain the other boy is learning enough. Observing and silently filing away.

That’s what makes it both exhilarating and unnerving.

There’s almost no personal talking. Most of the conversations they have are actually disagreements and bickering that Hiori likes to think is banter.

The night in which they plotted murders together quickly fades into an exception, not a pattern. 

And they both appreciate when it’s silent. As if it’s a prize after having to put up with their loud obnoxious team in the daylight.

They pass water bottles in silence. Reset drills in silence. Dismiss each other with a simple nod and vanish into the tunnel like twin shadows peeling off from the same wall. 

It’s all becoming familiar.

After the sixth night of training, Hiori lays flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling like it’s hiding answers in its cracks.

His pulse is still faintly accelerated. His calves are sore. His knuckles faintly grazed from when he caught himself on the turf after a particularly vicious foot clash.

But his mind won’t shut off.

No surprise there.

Because for all the movement. For all the progress. For all the synchronicity on the field - he cant help but think about how he doesn’t actually know Rin. Almost at all.

They don’t talk about family. Or childhood. Or the weird stuff people think about before they fall asleep. They don’t know what food the other hates, or what music makes them feel human, or whether they were ever the kind of kid who wanted to run away.

Their dynamic is a paradox. Raw chemistry with no origin. Natural compatibility with almost no context.

And Hiori knows that’s not sustainable for what they’re trying to build.

You can’t truly sync with someone unless you know what they carry.

Unless you understand their hunger, their cracks, the bruises under the gameplay.

He thinks back to the gory talk.

How easily that slipped. How sharp Rin became when describing damage. The way his mouth curled with near-pleasure when asked to imagine hurt. 

But also how surprised he looked when Hiori caught the movie reference.

He didn’t expect me to know that.

That had been the crack. The slip. The first fissure in the iron mask.

And in that moment - shared through fictional blood and imagined carnage - Hiori had seen it.

Compatibility didn’t come from drills. Or practice. Or perfect pass completion stats.

It came from the collisions.

The parts of people that aren’t meant to match, somehow clicking.

So that’s the next step, he thinks.

Find the collisions.

Not to expose Rin. He thinks. But to understand him.

And maybe - if he’s brave enough - reveal a few things himself.

Tomorrow he’ll try.

Yes, tomorrow he’ll make sure they talk more. Find out something new about each other. Should I try to wave at him when we cross paths in the morning?

So when they do get to slowly unravel the enigmas they are to each other, it won’t just be about drills or tactics or data.

It’ll be about them too.

What they are. What they’re building. And why, despite everything, it feels like they’re being pulled into the same orbit - whether they want to be or not.

Hiori exhales slowly, then turns to the wall.

Eyes closed.

And this time, sleep comes fast.

Chapter Text

🎶🎶

The pitch is endless again.

The atmosphere is grey, fog-choked. Floodlights flickering in arrhythmic spasms like dying nerves. No sidelines, no goalposts, no sky above - just a warped field swallowed in grayscale silence.

Rin stands in the center, heart already clawing up his throat.

He knows this place. He knows what comes.

His cleats grind against the ash-crusted grass. The air smells burnt, not of fire, but of something that’s been scorched clean. There’s no ball. No starting whistle. No fans. Just breath and dread.

And then, he appears.

Sae.

Silently looking down on him. A smirk barely tugging the edge of his mouth like it never quite grew into a smile. He stands near the arc, arms folded behind his back like he’s here for a funeral. Rin’s funeral.

“You still think being alone means you’re strong?”

His voice carries in the dream like static through metal - corrosively wounding. The kind that leaves rusty oxidated scars behind.

“You still think you don’t need anyone? That a striker should outrun his own shadow?”

Rin says nothing. Because he knows the dream only grows teeth when he speaks.

But tonight it’s not the same. And he knows exactly what’s different.

This time, he’s not alone.

Another figure emerges from the fog behind him - slow, precise, like a file loading into memory.

Hiori. 

Silent. Calm. Pale in the strange light, but somehow realer than everything else.

Why is he here?

But Rin exhales - some part of him is instinctively relieved.

Because Hiori’s been running alongside him every night lately. A constant in training. A pulse syncing with his own. Someone who doesn’t ask for anything but gives structure. Pattern. Understanding.

Hiori wasn’t supposed to pose a threat.

But then he moves. One step. Two. Three.

Not toward Sae.  Not in midfield. Not into position.

He steps into Rin’s blind spot. Clean. Quiet. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he belongs there.

The turf cracks under him like glass under pressure, webbing out with every silent footfall.

And Rin finally turns - breath fast, vision blurring at the edges.

Hiori’s face is unreadable. So robotically clinical he doesn’t even resemble a human being anymore.

What’s going on? It doesn’t usually go like this

Sae starts walking, slow as a predator with nowhere to be.

“So that’s it,” he murmurs. “You let someone in. You let them behind the curtain. And now they’re rewriting your code.”

No I didn’t - He’s just another pawn in my game- Rin backs up. His feet scrape turf that suddenly isn’t turf. It’s black water. It’s teeth that smell of decay.

His lungs are filled with the dark liquid. He screams. No sound comes out.

He’s on the pitch again. 

Hiori walks toward him, gliding, like his cleats have no need for friction anymore.

And then the final shift. The ball materializes.

Rin doesn’t see it arrive. One moment his foot is bare against the ground, the next it’s pressed against the familiar synthetic shell. Cold and foreign.

Like he never kicked a ball in his life.

He doesn’t get time to react because Hiori lunges.

He cages him into a grasp. Fingers like cold bone circle his ankle, dragging him down in one violent, merciless yank.

Rin stumbles. His elbows hit the ground. His head whips sideways.

The weight of the moment knocks the wind from his lungs.

Above him, Hiori’s shadow leans in. A sadistic smirk burning all the safety and innocence his face usually transmits.

The twitch of someone whose calculation worked.

His icy eyes look down at the younger Itoshi, frightened and panting on the ground.

Like this was the natural conclusion.

“You give him your blind spot,” Sae repeats behind him. “You swallow the consequences”

**

Rin wakes up with a noise stuck in his throat: half a gasp, half a scream.

His room is dark. Cold. Still. But his chest is a live wire.

The sheets clung to his limbs like restraints. Sweat glues his shirt to his spine. He forces his eyes to adjust to the outlines of the ceiling.

His lungs betray him as they refuse to slow.

He swings his legs off the mattress. Sits there, hunched, gripping the edge of the bed like it might collapse under him. The floor is cold. He welcomes it.

He quickly looks around him to check if the noise startled any of the sleeping teammates he shares the dorm with. 

Shidou is fucking drooling and Barou is snoring like a gorilla. His two other roommates - Isagi and Bachira - are in beds so far he doesn’t even discern their figures.

As he realises all those morons are still sound asleep, his mind is anything but quiet.

Hior- That cyan-headed bastard betrayed him.

Well, not really. Not in the waking world. Not in a way he could actually accuse or resent.

But the dream did. That achingly realistic subconscious projection.

And that was worse.

Because usually Rin’s dreams don’t lie. They expose. They’re the only place he can’t out-sprint his own fear. The only pitch where instinct isn’t an advantage, it’s a mirror. One he’s forced to look into.

And tonight? It reflected something unforgivable.

He let someone in. He let someone orbit his space. Sync up with his tempo. Start shaping the language of his play like a second brain, one he didn’t have to speak out loud to communicate with.

He let himself think maybe,  maybe Hiori could be a piece worth embodying with the rest of his puzzle. Maybe there’s value in tandem. In compatibility and - and fusion.

But not trust, definitely. Trust is a chemical. Add just enough and you get something stable. Add too much and it explodes.

Rin leans forward, fingers laced, elbows on knees, as  pure rage takes control of his face. He really wants to believe this is just his mind lashing out and this nightmare means nothing.

But he knows better.

He knows how ego can rot you from inside out if left unchecked. And he knows fear when it’s wearing Hiori’s eyes. He’s not afraid of Hiori himself. He’s afraid of what the guy might get to uncover.

The weak points Rin doesn’t know he has. The variables that haven’t been defined yet. The holes that can’t be trained shut.

Because Rin’s greatest strength has always been his isolation. His ability to dominate without compromise.  And now he’s entertaining the idea - scratch that, he's living it nightly - that maybe compatibility has a place.

That maybe connection has power. But power always has a cost.

What if he gives something real, and gets dissected for it? What if he falls for the illusion of synchronicity, and that’s the blind spot that dooms him in the end?

“What the fuck did that mean?”

Sleeping again is impossible because of the lingering feeling of Hiori’s fingers closing around his ankle.  A pressing reminder  that the nightmare will re-invade his brain as soon as he closes his eyes.

//

23 days before Nigeria VS Japan

He hadn’t even opened the conference room door yet and Rin already wanted to kill himself.

The hallway was a trap of artificial lighting and scattered voices, most of them too loud for a morning like this. His feet moved without thought, but the noise scratched like sandpaper against his jaw. A headache had been blooming between his temples ever since he woke up.

“Good morning Rinrin!” oh for fuck's sake-

A blur of sweatpants and poor impulse control launches at him from the side. Bachira’s shoulder collides with his like they were in a contact sport, arms flailing, some stupid impression of a bird or bug or both.

Rin doesn’t even blink. Just stiffens, spine snapping straight, and stares at Bachira with the expression of someone deeply contemplating homicide.

“Do you want to die,” Rin asks flatly, “or are you just genetically programmed for humiliation?”

Bachira only grins, entirely unbothered. “ Yes, my breakfast was delicious, thanks for asking!” 

The sarcasm pisses Rin off even more. “Touch me again and I’ll break your wrist.”

A giggle. “Only one?”

Rin doesn’t engage him and veers left. If he heard one more syllable, there’d be actual blood.

The conference room feels colder today. Too many chairs scraping too loudly, too many voices babbling in meaningless frequency. Rin walks in without much thought to his direction, shoulders locked into their usual bristle, jaw set like he’s bracing for impact. Because he is.

His thoughts haven’t stopped spiraling since he woke up. He didn’t even have breakfast because he slept in. Again. The only thing his mouth’s been full of is the bitter taste of unease nesting behind his teeth.

He’s been like this since the nightmare.

Sae’s presence was expected - he’s lived in that shadow long enough to know the shape of it. But Hiori? He wasn’t supposed to become the thing dragging Rin under. The weight around his ankles. The eyes in the dark, waiting for him to turn his back.

The way Hiori had smiled before dragging him under. Calm. Familiar. That was the part that still gnawed at the back of his mind like mold on bread.

Rin spots him as soon as he passes the doorstep - by the fourth row of chairs, angled just enough to have a partial view of the door - Hiori Yo was laughing.

That Crow Karasu was next to him, head tilted back, hand on Hiori’s shoulder like he’d just made the world’s most obnoxious joke. Whatever they were laughing about was clearly so unfunny it looped into comedy. 

Rin blinked once.

He didn’t know what pissed him off more.

The way Hiori laughed so freely- how dare you laugh after what you did? - or  that he stopped the moment their eyes met.

Because for a second, Hiori did glance at him. And though the laugh didn’t survive the stare, that soft look stayed.

That’s when Hiori lifts a hand. Tiny. Barely noticeable. 

A literal two-finger wave. At him. At Rin.

Why the fuck would he do that?

Rin stops walking. His stomach drops like someone hit reset on gravity.

Hiori Yo does very often wave at people. But when he does, it would never be at Rin. Obviously.

They never openly acknowledged each other in public. It was part of their agreement. Well  - not exactly. 

The agreement was to not tell anyone about the night training, but by that logic the less they interact in daylight the less are the odds their partnership will be found out before they get to reveal it in the world cup.

And yet now, this, after that dream?

No. This isn’t normal.

His mind is trying to make it fit a pattern. Correlation? Causation? He’s not even sure. But the moment that wave happened, Rin’s brain whispered something dangerous:

It’s a sign.

Maybe the dream wasn’t a delusion. Maybe it was… prophetic.

He glares at Hiori, like he’s daring him to laugh. Like he expects him to sprout fangs and say “Surprised?”

But Hiori just shrugs. Unbothered. He has that same expression he wore in the dream. Like he knows something.  What if  he does?

Rin slides into a chair, eyes narrowed. Everyone around him is still talking. Bachira is perched on his chair backwards, talking about a dream involving a dinosaur and a rice cooker. Raichi’s yelling about how today is his day. 

Shidou’s proving - as usual - that freedom of speech shouldn’t be a right extended universally.

“Oi, where’s that mop-headed freakshow?” The freak himself shouts from his reclined position over three whole chairs, one leg thrown up like he was sunbathing. “Ain’t this supposed to start five minutes ago?”

“He’s probably electrocuting someone in the sub-basement.” Niko offers from behind his hoodie.

“Or having an existential breakdown over his own hairline,” Shidou added. “Man’s forehead’s got more landscape than Raichi’s future.”

That got some laughs. Even Barou snorted from his squatted perch.

But the screens flickered then, and suddenly Ego’s face snapped into view - cold, grayscale, and thoroughly unimpressed.

“I arrive precisely when I mean to, Ryusei.  Unlike your goals, which are consistently ten seconds late.”

Silence.

Then Isagi whispers, “Damn.”

Shidou now looked like a beaten dog. “You don't deserve my explosions, shitty for-eyed cunt.”

And Rin would’ve gladly gloated about it if he wasn't also being beaten - by his subconscious.

Then, as if the universe heard the loudest unspoken fuck you in Rin’s bloodstream, Ego starts his never ending speech.

Rin barely hears the opening lines - some insult about them being cockroaches in cleats - but his ears perk when Ego’s tone sharpens into direction:

“Today’s training match will follow a split-team formation. Two teams, led by two different core strikers.”

Of course. Here it comes.

“Isagi Yoichi. Itoshi Rin.”

No surprise there. 

Rin doesn’t breathe when the digital formation flickers onto the screen.

He watches the player markers fall like puzzle pieces. Red and blue. One after another. Standard. Predictable.

BLUE TEAM – Main striker: Isagi Yoichi

Isagi, Kurona, Bachira, Raichi, Aryu, Gagamaru, Otoya, Kunigami, Zantetsu, Niko, Chigiri

RED TEAM – Main striker: Itoshi Rin

Rin, Shidou, Yukimiya, Karasu, Hiori, Aiku, Nanase, Reo, Kiyora, Fukaku, Sendou

Shidou stretched both arms behind his head, eyeing his side’s lineup with the grin of someone planning a war crime. “Look at all this chaos. Rin, we’ll be reminiscing about our PXG times, I feel blessed.”

“Die, freak.” Rin dismisses him while still sorting out the players on his team. 

Meanwhile Karasu winks at Hiori. “Think they’ll start cryin’ halfway through?”

Hiori’s reply was smooth. “Only if ya attempt more rabona passes.”

And that’s when he sees it. The world is clearly plotting against Rin today.

Hiori Yo. Red side. His mouth goes dry. 

He’s never been paired with him in official formation. Not once. Even when they trained off-grid, they worked alone. That was the deal. That was the boundary.

But now?

Now, on the very morning after that dream, when his brain is still reeling from the feel of Hiori’s phantom fingers around his ankles - he gets assigned to his team?

This isn’t random. This is fate staging a fucking play.

The guy haunts his dream, waves at him in public, and joins his team?

There’s something wrong here. There’s a pattern.

Or maybe this is just his brain playing tricks. Maybe the dream was just a dream. Hiori was having a seizure. Ego’s just a statistical sadist.

After all, Rin knows he often overthinks. Knows he sees signals in static, warnings in silence. He’s always been like this - digging his own trenches and calling it strategy.

So then why does it feel like instinct? Why does this fear feel like armor?

What if all this obsession is just the edge he needs to stay ahead?

What if this paranoia is not weakness - but his most important weapon?

 //

🎶🎶

The whistle tears through the field like a war cry.

The pitch erupts into movement - red against blue, friction stitched into every sprint. Eleven against eleven. 

No spectators, no fanfare, just the brutal hum of cleats on turf and the distant bark of Ego’s voice in the review room mic. A regular scrimmage with stakes so high they feel tectonic.

23 days till the world cup starts. To sharpen their stats and skills to perfection. To revolutionise Japanese football and carve it into the centuries-old  history of the game. A page - a chapter - waiting to be entirely dedicated to Blue Lock.

And Rin will make sure his name will be the one that lingers most.

The Red Team pulls into a solid structure fast.

Aiku commands the backline like a war general, already barking at Kiyora to push higher while Yukimiya and Reo pivot wide to stretch the field. Karasu hounds the midfield like a snake on caffeine, linking with Hiori and bouncing triangles off Sendou’s short passes. 

Shidou, of course, doesn’t follow any tactical directive. He’s already out there clawing through bodies like a rabid golden retriever with something to prove.

Blue Team adjusts on instinct. Isagi, as usual, isn’t just playing - he’s reading. He’s on the move before the ball is even passed, already calling switches and dragging Kurona and Chigiri into those ruthless, geometry-carved lanes he’s so obsessed with. 

Bachira’s moving like a demon let loose in a mirror maze - ball glued to his foot, smile venom-sweet - and Raichi is yelling at someone for something irrelevant.

Rin knows all of this. Sees all of it. But only peripherally.

Because his own game is too sharp today. He’s slicing instead of weaving. Every pass he makes feels like it’s missing a calibration. Every sprint a hair too soon. His limbs aren’t sluggish, but his sense of the field is off. Like someone rewired the map in his head.

Still, his instincts keep him afloat.

Eight minutes in, Rin ghosts into the half-space, intercepts a lazy touch from Zantetsu, and carves a through-pass to Karasu. Karasu doesn’t waste it - taps it off to Shidou, who, despite having just elbowed Niko in the jaw for no reason, pulls off a stupidly brilliant backheel into Reo’s path.

Reo shoots. Goal.

1-0. Red team leads. 

Shidou screams like they just won the World Cup.

“Purple knot! That was brilliant!” he yells at Reo, who glares at him and walks away.

Isagi doesn’t flinch. If anything, he smiles. The annoying lukewarm bastard. The kind that’s full of analysis and mid-game plotting. Rin knows it - and hates it- well.

Play restarts. Blue Team regains momentum, mostly through Kurona linking up with Chigiri on the flanks. 

Their speed is suffocating. Aryu overlaps with elegance, but it’s Chigiri who rockets into the final third and sends in a cross that Isagi meets mid-air clean header, past Funaku’s reach.

1–1. Teams tied.

This is pissing Rin off. 

He’s already switching flanks, weaving between Chigiri and Otoya. The next attack builds around Karasu’s deep pass. Rin calls for it but gets overrun by Raichi. 

Shidou recovers, fights off two bodies, and boots a shot that slams into the crossbar.

Gagamaru punches it out mid-fall.

“Oh come on!” Shidou huffs.

“You’re just bad.” Bachira giggles, nutmegging Sendou on the counter.

For a moment, it’s chaos. Fast breaks, slide tackles, shouting. Someone nearly crashes into Ego’s camera pole. 

Rin gets clipped by Kunigami and doesn’t even register the pain. He’s chasing something else.

The control. The click. The feel of flow.

But he doesn’t have it yet. Not the way he did during last night’s drill. Not like when he was with-

His eyes dart left. 

He feels the shadow lurking somewhere. No, stay away from me.

Rin hasn’t acknowledged nor used him once.

He tells himself it’s tactical. Hiori’s being marked. That’s all.

The play continues. Chigiri breaks free again. Karasu closes in, clips him slightly, and the whistle blows. Free kick.

Rin lines up. Thirty yards out. A clear path.

He takes it fast, curling left - targeting Yukimiya at the edge - who volleys it just off the post. 

Fuck you - you four-eyed pole.

Blue Team picks up steam. Isagi visibly reads the next build-up three steps ahead. Steals it. Darts forward.

Rin intercepts him with a slide tackle so clean it echoes. This ball is mine fucker.

“Jesus,” someone mutters.

Rin doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need praise. He needs that feeling back. The one where everything syncs.

But it doesn’t.

Because even when he’s the best player on the field, something’s not sitting right. Like a wrong rhythm thrumming under his skin.

Maybe it’s just the lack of sleep.

Where is Hiori?

He’s not in Rin’s direct line of sight. 

Instead, he lingers at the edges - just within the frame, but never centered. Positioned on the periphery.

Just like in the dream.

And that thought coils around Rin’s spine with a pressure that’s hard to shake. His legs keep moving, but the thread of concentration slips just enough to fray. 

His passes are too sharp, too angular. One rockets toward Reo like a bullet and Aiku barely saves it with a desperate lunge. The sequence breaks. Rin exhales through his nose, jaw clenching.

🎶🎶

Every time that familiar flash of pale blue hair the edge of his vision, his body tenses - not from threat, but something more frustrating.

Like he’s bracing for betrayal.

It’s irrational. He knows that. Logically, there’s no reason to spiral. Hiori hasn’t done anything. No look, no comment, no act that hints at sabotage. 

But logic doesn’t matter when instinct’s already been infected. 

When dreams have turned someone into a ghost you have to dodge, even in daylight.

And yet-

He watches, almost unwillingly, as Hiori drifts into coverage again. Not loud. Not demanding. Just consistent. Aligned with the pulse of the play.

A perfect echo of Rin’s tempo - irritatingly smooth.

Fuck.

Rin’s muscles are tight, wound like they’re expecting a snap, a shift, a crack in the surface. But Hiori doesn’t crack. Doesn’t overreach. Doesn’t hover in Rin’s blind spot like in the nightmare. Just ghosts through his lane. Calculate but painfully human.

The moment that breaks the spiral isn’t dramatic. 

It’s mechanical.

A pass begins from Reo - clean. Karasu flicks it with muscle-memory precision. And then, before anyone can speak, Hiori appears.

Then it’s just one look. One read.

Let’s try this.

He doesn’t stop the ball. He redirects it, threading it through a collapsing pocket between two defenders and angling it exactly where Rin’s acceleration is slicing open space.

And for a breathless moment, Rin forgets what he was so afraid of.

Because that’s just Hiori.

Not a phantom. Not a premonition wrapped in fog.

Just the guy whose passes always feel one thought ahead. The one who never needs prompting. Who shows up late at night with two water bottles and doesn’t bother explaining why. Who can train in near silence and still know exactly what Rin wants from a sequence - no words required.

The same one who grins like a serial killer when he talks about horror films but plays like a surgeon dissecting weaknesses mid-match.

And - it goes without saying - They’ve been practicing for moments like these every night.

That’s why there’s no warning. No hesitation either. Rin’s body reacts before he decides to comply - foot sweeping through the ball on instinct, syncing with the feed like it was magnetised.

The ball hits his stride like it always belonged there. No hesitation. Rin swings. The net folds with a crisp, full sound that silences the pitch for just a heartbeat.

GOAL!!! Fills up the big screen on the upper side of the walls.

1-2. Red team leads.

Rin doesn’t even contemplate a celebration. He never does those. 

But he exhales - slow, through his teeth - and something detangles in his chest.

The moment stretches like air in a bubble. Rin’s breath fogs just faintly as he slows his jog, and without even turning, he feels Hiori retreat into position behind him.

And Hiori didn’t do anything strange. He didn’t act like  he was in the dream. Didn’t even meet Rin’s eyes.

He just moved. And matched.

And maybe that’s the part Rin has no defense for.

Because when everything in this match felt too noisy, Hiori moved like an extension. Not a threat. Just a part of the system Rin’s already building.

Rin doesn’t look back at him. Doesn’t want to feed the wrong muscle.

But he thinks - almost reluctantly - If it keeps working, I won’t stop it. That’s all there is to it.

It’s not trust, of course. But it’s not fear either.

Hiori’s more of a wraith than a haunting shadow.

“Was that a pass or divine intervention?” Karasu barks from midfield, jogging over. “Because holy hell, I didn’t even see that angle.”

Hiori, trotting calmly, doesn’t even react. Just smooths a hand through his bangs. “I saw Rin’s acceleration pattern three steps early,” he says plainly.

“See? Math nerds are terrifying,” Karasu laughs. The rest of the game flows cleaner after that.

Rin secretly enjoys how nobody on the field has any idea how long these two have been practicing this choreography in the dark.

**

The field is bleeding out.

Most of the players have drifted toward the sidelines, shirts clinging to their backs, cleats dragging with fatigue. The last cones are being kicked lazily into piles. Voices ring out - bickering, laughter, someone yelling about a rematch already.

But Rin’s focus is razor-thin. Tuned only to the figure lingering near the gate.

The truth is, something is caught up  in his throat. The urge to admit I’m sorry for turning you into a monster in my head is pressing his vocal cords.

Of course there's just no way he intends to say that. He would sound like a psychopath, since everything happened -in fact - in his head.  And, for the record, Rin Itoshi never apologises to anyone, period.

Hiori stands there with his usual post-training grace, quiet and poised. It’s instinct that silently pulls Rin toward him. He slows his steps, eyes scanning the perimeter of the pitch. 

Ok, no one’s watching. Good.

He closes the distance with the midfielder in careful strides, making sure his shadow doesn’t fall until the very last step. Then, his body clenches uncomfortably for what he's  about to say, with a voice low enough not to echo: “It was a good pass.”

Hiori flinches.

Just a fraction - just enough to be noticeable to someone who’s watching.

He looks up, blinking like he isn’t sure Rin actually spoke to him. Like he was expecting silence. Like he was the one supposed to pretend they were strangers again.

“It was a great goal.” He quickly composes himself.

Then Hiori’s expression shifts. Now soft and understanding. Almost Bright. “I’ll see you later”, he adds like he's murmuring  like a  secret promise.

Rin doesn’t meet his eyes for long. Just nods once, short and sharp, before turning his head slightly to glance around again - confirming no one caught that.

And  that is instinct. Not because he’s ashamed.  Or scared, like this bastard once suggested.

But because whatever this is - whatever fragile, blood-soaked blueprint they’ve started to sketch between each other - it isn’t ready to be held under fluorescent light and open commentary.

Some things are better built in shadows.

He walks away without saying anything else. But Hiori watches him leave, head tilted like he’s recalibrating everything he thought he knew.

//

Rin leaves the screening room long after the lights dim. He’s spent the last hour rewatching footage from the last two training sessions, eyes pinned to every moment where his tempo slips, where Hiori’s movements ghost perfectly behind his own, and where their chemical reaction is still sloppy. 

He hasn’t had dinner as well.

Skipping meals seems to be becoming a bad habit lately. Eating feels like a distraction for that rush to focus and analyze.

Or at least he tells himself it’s focus. But really, he just forgets. Like the body isn’t something that matters anymore.

By the time he steps out into the hall, most of Blue Lock has migrated to their rooms or the common lounge. The dining hall’s light is still dimming, the smell of cheap curry barely lingering. Rin doesn’t notice nor care. His stomach has been silent all day anyway. 

His hands itch with momentum. Still stuck in the weightless space between analysis and execution. Like the only cures are motion and sweat.

He changes while thinking about the drill he planned, laces his boots, then heads for the pitch under the glare of strip lighting and too much silence. The night is cold enough to bite at his collarbone. 

When he steps onto the field and sees Hiori already there - already moving, already waiting - it doesn’t surprise him.

This time Rin is the one who’s la-

“You’re late,” Hiori says without looking, his foot rolling the ball back and forth with casual rhythm. His hair’s still damp from the post-dinner shower, collar turned up against the night chill. “Almost thought ya bailed.”

Rin stops at the sideline. Doesn’t respond immediately. Just adjusts the tape on his wrist, more out of habit than need. I would never bail on training.

“Screening room.” he says finally, voice low. “I wanted to watch something.”

Hiori hums, neither surprised nor curious. But his gaze cuts sideways for just a second. He feels the burn of his gaze, eyes narrowing at the tension in Rin’s jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, the faint hollowness in his face that wasn’t there last night.

“Let me guess,” Hiori drawls, stretching his legs as he talks. “Ya watched this last session in slow-mo, logged every foot misalignment, and screamed internally each time yer sprint dropped below max acceleration.”

Rin doesn’t dignify that with a reply. He just stalks onto the turf, pulls off his hoodie, and mutters, “Warm-up’s over. We’re starting.”

 Hiori sighs, picking up the ball. “Got something in mind? A drill?”

Rin rolls the ball under his foot, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. Close-quarters overload drill. We trap the ball in the central third and stay there. Limited touches. One has to fake out the other and get through. You stop me from advancing, or I stop you. Quick reads. No breathers.”

“Test each other’s spatial bursts and feint tempo. Sounds fun.” Hiori says , stretching his neck until it pops.

“Not supposed to be fun.” Ruin retorts just to annoy him.

“I know,” Hiori says with an eye roll, already moving to position. “That’s why I said it.”

They start. Rin’s tempo is jagged tonight, tighter than usual, as if his body hasn’t synced up yet. Hiori matches it easily, not by overpowering him but by weaving just out of reach - reading not just Rin’s hips or knees but his whole body’s tension.

And then Hiori speaks mid-drill. Unprompted and frankly unnerving. “Are ya planning to commit suicide or something?”

Rin misses a beat. His foot slips for half a second and the ball wobbles, but he recovers before it costs him. Still, it’s a rare glitch. What the fuck-

“What?” he barks, blinking.

“I mean,” Hiori says calmly, “is this one of those bucket list weeks? Where ya start doin’ reckless shit because you’ve secretly got two days left to live?”

In Rin’s head, no piece comes into place whatsoever. He stops the ball dead under his sole. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Ya spoke to me. In public. During the day. Voluntarily.” Hiori’s tone is casual, like they’re discussing cafeteria food.  

The way Hiori is going about the whole thing, reminds Rin of his persona in the dream. Bold as fuck. Rin scowls, but his heart doesn’t spike. 

But then again, he’s been here in real life as well - this strange, padded corner of the universe where Hiori says straight up batshit crazy things with a voice dipped in honey and doesn’t flinch when Rin snaps back. 

“Maybe I just had a seizure. And for the record, you were the one who waved at me this morning.”

“Comparing a brief imperceptible wave to approaching me in public and talkin’. So we’re goin’ with denial.” Hiori teases with a smirk.

Stop smirking like that. Rin’s mind screams. As if he's scared the midfielder about to drag him by his ankle again. Calm the fuck down. This isn’t a nightmare. 

“Cyan, we barely exchanged two words. Stop being weird about it or- ” Rin’s scowl deepens, but the fire behind it flickers strangely. “I will kill you with this ball.”

“I’m not bein’ weird at all, just rightfully confused.” Well it's not  like I can tell you I felt bad for demonising you because of a dream. “Also, ya already tried that once. Remember?” Hiori retorts pointing at the ball.

Finally, a good chance to change the subject.

“It was only like four days ago, yes I fucking remember,” Rin mutters, kicking the ball forward with force. Hiori sidesteps and traps it clean with one touch. “And you’re lucky I wasn’t aiming for your head.”

“Ya were definitely aiming for my head.” Hiori points out defensively. 

it’s true that he was. It's also true that for a brief split second he feared it would land where he intended. “…It was instinct.”

Hiori scoffs. “I'm starting to  think yer actually secretly a killer.”

There’s silence for a moment.

The ball spins once between them before Rin steps in again - faster this time, more composed.

“Why are you talking so much now?” Rin asks, brushing past him, shoulder to shoulder. “Just shut up and play.”

“I evolved.” Hiori says, matter-of-factly

“Degenerated more like.” Rin whispers to himself as he goes back into position. Hiori just grins, watching him move.

There’s something weirdly satisfying about these drills. Their breath is syncing up. Their plays tightening with precision every rep. Rin’s never trained with anyone like this in Blue Lock.

And before that, he only did it with one person.

The one that made him cling on to a shared dream so tightly and with such naive hope just to shatter it in the end.

But this is different. There is no emotional attachment in all of this. Just mutual benefit.

And even if his dreams - nightmares - tell him otherwise, Rin will make sure this arrangement strengthens his performance in the U20 World Cup, not hijack it.

After his first big mistake in attaching himself to someone - his brother, his own blood and flesh - just to end up betrayed and left alone,  now Rin always makes sure every human relationship he is is tied in is strictly necessary and doesn't exceed it professional boundaries

That's precisely what this is.

And if a spoken shared interest in horror fantasies, those consistent thoughtful water bottle tosses and an undeniable chemistry on the field that almost resembles trust don't fit into the average standard of professionalism, Rin will leave it up to someone else's interpretation.

Hiori snaps him out of his thoughts when he exhales, slumping slightly. “Okay. I’ll shut up now.”

“Fucking finally.”

//

The air around them still vibrates faintly from the session’s last drill. Sweat cools into fabric, breath calms into silence, and the night air clings to their skin with a weight that’s more suggestion than chill.

Rin chugs the last sip from his bottle and lets it fall to the turf with a soft thud. His pulse is still rhythmic, not quite tranquil, but quieter than it’s been all day. The exhaustion is so heavy he feels like fainting.

Maybe skipping breakfast and dinner wasn't such a great idea after all.

As he relishes the gratitude of being sat, having the bench underneath him holding him steady - his ears are attacked by a traitor.

His stomach fucking grumbles. It wasn’t loud, but the sound cuts through the silence anyway, like a misplaced snare hit.

Hiori turns his head slowly, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to confirm the source of the offensive vibration. 

Shut up. Don't say anything. Rin immediately glares at the ground like it also personally betrayed him.

But of course: “…Was that you?” Hiori asks, half skeptical, half amused.

“No,” Rin snaps. Too fast. “It was just-”

“Yer second stomach? Alien parasites maybe?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Rin mutters, hoping the heat he feels in his ears isn't visible. “I just- I forgot to eat.”

Hiori blinks. Then laughs, short and disbelieving, wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “You forgot to eat? What, did ya get trapped in a three-hour thesis about our blindside overlaps?”

“…It was only an hour and forty. And it wasn’t a thesis.”

“Uh huh.” Hiori agrees sarcastically.  The bastard's enjoying this.

They sit on the bench for a moment longer, half-crumpled against their bags, sneakers pressing divots into the damp turf.

The floodlights are off now - only the auxiliary lamps above the maintenance wing cast weak triangles onto the field.

“i’ll tell  ya what, I’m really craving some ochazuke right now,” Hiori says offhandedly, as he tightens the cap on his bottle.

Rin’s head turns so fast it might’ve cracked.

The taste of that godly meal was already invading his mouth. That statement was unexpected. Because it voiced exactly what Rin was thinking about.

Rin stares. It’s a blank stare at first. Then it hardens into disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“What? No? Rice, tea broth, toppings-”

The inebriating smell, the rice enveloping his tongue with the right consistency, the feeling of comfort of being alone with the bowl inviting to be devoured - Fuck, he's so hungry.

“I know what ochazuke is, moron” Rin says, tone rising. “That’s my favorite meal.” He adds   in a rush, as if to point out how that unnecessary description felt so insulting.

Ochazuke reminds him of home. Of the long, therapeutic walks  he would take along the dock in Kamakura.  Alone. The sea breeze caressing his skin. Earpods playing anything by King Gnu.

He would always end up having dinner at the local Ochazuke restaurant. And it always hits the spot. Sea bream flavour. That and tea are his mental stabilizers. He has to eat ochazuke at least twice a month, or else he's not in good shape.

And it's actually  been a long while since his taste-buds had the pleasure to flirt with that green-tea olympic elixir.

“Oh.” Hiori’s  eyes glimmer. As if he just made a world-changing discovery and now updating the data in his head “Mine too.”

Oh fuck you. In how many other ways does this dude resemble Rin? It's almost as if - next thing he knows - he's been stalking him for months.

And just like to seconds ago, Rin stares at him  blankly and then in disbelief “You're fucking joking”

“Why would I joke  abou- Do you think having Ochazuke as a favourite meal makes ya unique? It's literally one of our traditional dishes - Everyone loves it!” Hiori looked done with him.

And Rin never thought he would ever feel territorial over a fucking meal.

But, ever the competitive person he is, he just has to underline how much he likes - and craves - Ochazuke more than Hiori - and whatever people ‘everyone’ includes.

So he goes “I would literally kill for ochazuke right now.”

“Ya really do love to use the k-word” Hiori laughs. But his eyes are glittering like he enjoys every second of Rin unraveling. Hiori sighs as if burdened by sainthood.  

“We can sneak into the dining hall and avoid yer incarceration. Pretty sure it's open for cleanup - if we're  careful enough, we won't get caught.”

Rin never shares meals. Not breakfast.  Not lunch. Not dinner. He always sits alone at the table in the blue lock canteen. No one even dares to ask if they can sit with him. 

Meals should be savoured in lone silence. That's how he always did it.

But- as his stomach makes its painful void known - loudly - more and more, Rin guesses it's either delicious ochazuke with Cyan-head, or dying out of starvation. 

So he hesitates for a half second but ultimately pushes himself off the bench. “If we do, I’m blaming you.”

“Of course ya are.”

//

The smell that reaches his nostrils is so rewarding Rin wishes he could end every training session this way.

By that, of course, he means ochazuke - not sitting next to Hiori Yo like they’re coworkers on a lunch break.

The first spoonful hits his mouth and it’s embarrassing how close he is to groaning aloud. The warmth runs down his throat like it’s healing something. 

It goes without saying that the one he used to have in Kamakura was better - both in quality and emotional weight - but right now, this feels like the best bowl he’s ever had.

The rice has soaked just enough to hold texture, and the green tea broth tastes faintly of salt and comfort and perfectly wasted potential - because he could’ve had this two hours ago, like a normal person, if he hadn’t skipped dinner for the sake of analyzing half a dozen mistimed feints.

He exhales slowly. Doesn’t say a word.

Across from him, Hiori eats in silence too. His shoulders are loose with fatigue, posture slouched just a touch more than usual. The bench creaks beneath them in a way that makes Rin wonder how often this room - this weird limbo of a half-lit dining hall left open for cleaning staff and stragglers - is used for anything other than accidents like this.

Neither of them has the energy to comment. The quiet is thick but not awkward. Almost relaxing.

Still, Rin feels it: a weird, subtle pressure that builds in his throat now that Hiori’s around for a non-football related purpose. He takes another bite to drown it.

Hiori’s voice breaks through a few minutes later, soft enough to match the mood.

“Didn’t think you’d actually agree to come.”

Rin doesn’t look up right away. He focuses on his bowl, stabbing through a clump of over-soaked rice.

“You said you were craving ochazuke,” he mutters. “So was I.”

“Yeah, but I figured you’d choose starvation over making it a social activity.”

That was exactly what he’d been thinking earlier, before deciding to get his ass off the bench. Almost word for word.

It’s like the guy’s been given some invisible script to his internal monologue and is quietly, smugly quoting it back at him.

How many times has it happened now?

Little phrases. Observations. Reactions that mirror his own thoughts too cleanly to be coincidence.

It’s not normal. It’s not right.

Rin glares at him, sharp and immediate. “You’re not a social activity. You’re background noise.”

Hiori lifts a brow, unimpressed. “A ‘very talkative’ background noise, apparently.”

“Just shut the fuck up and eat your food.” But he doesn’t fully mean it. There’s no real venom in the words, not tonight.

They’re both too exhausted. Rin’s limbs feel like overcooked noodles - deadweight with muscle memory - and whatever biting edges he might normally use to keep people out have all dulled under the sheer weight of repetition and adrenaline loss.

They go quiet again.

Somewhere in the far end of the dining hall, a janitor’s cart rattles and a door clicks shut. The lights hum overhead. Outside, the night is still. Too late for chaos. Too early for calm.

🎶🎶

Rin finishes his bowl faster than he should. Hiori isn’t far behind. They don’t say anything as they both reach for the bottles of tea they grabbed from the vending machine. The hiss of the caps breaking is the only sound between them for a beat.

“Ya shouldn’t have skipped dinner” Hiori says eventually, not accusatory, just observant. “Or at the very least you could’ve told me ya did before going through intensive drills with - and I’ll quote - ‘no breathers’.”

Why does he even care?

“I didn’t skip it,” Rin mutters.

“You did. And yer lucky you didn’t pass out”

This is such an unnecessary lecture.

You know what? “Starvation doesn’t look so bad right now ”

Hiori fucking  snorts. “Ya crawled into the dining hall like Samara from the The Ring.”

Oh well. Rin scoffs under his breath. “You’re projecting,  Cyan”

Silence dips between them again for a second.

And then Hiori does something rare. He leans forward slightly. Not enough to breach space, but just enough that his voice is quieter, filtered through a lower octave.

“Why don’t ya ever address me by my name?”

Rin blinks. His head lifts - enough to meet Hiori’s icy gaze with a flat look. He wasn’t expecting the question. Let alone now. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead,

“What?” Rin mutters.

“Ya always call me ‘Cyan’,” Hiori says, shrugging one shoulder. “Or ‘calculator’ Or sometimes just grunt in my direction. But never my actual name.”

Rin frowns, a crease forming between his brows. He didn’t realise. Not consciously, anyway. He thought he had. Had he really never-?

“It’s condescending,” Hiori adds, tilting his head, spoon hovering over his bowl like the thought distracted him too much to keep eating. “Like I’m beneath naming.”

Rin sets his bowl down with a soft click. Stares at him a moment. He looks calm, like he always does. But there’s something else there - something Rin doesn’t have the vocabulary for. Something quiet and simmering

As if Hiori’s saying: I notice more than you think. I carry it in silence.

“If anyone here is condescending, it’s you.” Rin says, trying to sound dismissive but it comes out too clipped. Too quick.

“Oh?” Hiori raises an eyebrow. “Do explain, Rin.”

The name purposely dragged out as if too say: see? It’s not that hard.

“You say shit like you’re running a commentary track. Or a lecture - a maths one specifically. All-knowing, quiet asshole style. As if you’ve already made up your mind about everything I do.”

There, I said it. Stop bugging me now.

“I’m your senior,” Hiori replies with mock dignity. “I have a right to patronise ya.”

The fucker- “Go fuck yourself.” 

“You first.” Hiori says, barely missing a beat.

The bowls sit empty now, miso residue pooling at the edges, a few stubborn grains of rice clinging to ceramic like they’re refusing to move on.

Hiori stands first, stretching his arms over his head, the fabric of his hoodie riding up slightly with the motion. “Guess that’s our cue.”

Rin grunts in response, pushing back his chair with the heel of his foot and stacking their bowls in a neat pile. He doesn’t think about why he does it. Doesn’t think about the fact that Hiori didn’t ask him to. He just does.

They move in tandem without speaking, carrying the dishes to the small return counter near the kitchen’s side door.

Rin deposits them, wipes his hands, and rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. 

The hallway outside is still dim and silent, the only sound is the soft thud of their footsteps. They don’t walk side by side, exactly, but they’re close enough for their shadows to overlap on the walls.

When they reach the branching corridor, the one where they’d usually part ways for their respective dorm wings, Hiori slows his pace.

Then stops.

Rin doesn’t. Not until-

“Next time, don’t skip dinner.” It’s said lightly. Almost teasing. But Rin feels the weight behind it.

He should’ve just walked away. That would be the usual thing to do. Cut the moment before it breathes.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Hiori.”

And Hiori blinks. For the first time he looks caught off guard. His head lifts a bit. 

There’s a pause Rin doesn’t know how to read. Then a shadow of a smile and the faintest nod. No words.

Rin watches him go, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to dissect it. The hallway feels quieter now. He’s not sure if that’s a relief or a threat.

That name still tastes strange in his mouth. Hiori.

But maybe - just maybe - he doesn’t hate the way it lingered.

**

The nightmare was long forgotten by then. 

And that night - for the first time in a while - Rin has a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

//

22 days before Nigeria VS Japan

All that for Rin to wake up to war.

Not a metaphor for the emotional chaos bubbling beneath his psyche like yesterday’s ochazuke. No. A real war. Or what sounds like one. With shouts. Something crashing. And the distinct thud of what must have been someone’s elbow colliding with a solid wall.

He blinks.

And there it is again: a squabble of overlapping voices, one hoarse and savage, one nasal and shrill, one sugary and sociopathic, and one already grating on Rin’s nerves like nails on slate.

“Don’t fucking put your crusty-ass compression tights on my pillow, you cretinous goat!”

“That’s not your pillow, that’s mine-”

Something slams. A metal thud. Then a wet sound and a scream.

“YOU ABSOLUTE NEANDERTHAL-” That’s Isagi.

“Your protein shake spilled, not mine! Don’t cry ‘cause your vanilla sludge can’t survive turbulence!” And that’s Shidou 

“That was a 7,000 yen supplement, you radioactive parasite! I got it in Spain!” Isagi sounds devastated.

“I used it to brush my teeth.” The shit-eating smirk can be detected just by hearing Shidou’s tone.

Rin’s head drops back into the pillow. Hard. He contemplates letting out a guttural scream, primal and echoing. But that would require more energy than he currently has, and more importantly - it would validate these barbarians’ existence.

So he just lies there. Blank-faced. Mentally flipping the table of his life.

Sharing a room with the “top five” had sounded strategic on paper. Until it wasn’t.

“What is wrong with you! Now I have to throw it away, you fucking deseased cockroach” Isagi barks back, wielding a towel like a whip.

“Ya just mad ‘cause your dental hygiene is awful.”

“I’LL KILL YOU-”

“Keep it the fuck down” Rin croaks, voice crusted with morning rust. Let me preserve what’s left of my will to live.

“Yay! Rin’s awake!” Bachira sings from somewhere above him - and Rin doesn’t mean that figuratively.

He glances up and sees the bug-eyed lunatic literally dangling from the upper frame of Barou’s bed, legs swinging like a jungle gym monkey.

“Go away.” Rin rasps, “if you fall on me, I will twist your spine into a Möbius strip.” 

Hiori suggested that once - hearing that bastard constantly talk like a Maths textbook apparently enriched his ‘threats vocabulary’.

“Ooh! Cool geometry threat!” It surprises him how Bachira even had enough functioning brain cells to get that.

Barou emerges then, grunting like a boar yanked from hibernation. His hair’s an unholy mess - crown-level volume, like it’s been electrocuted on all sides - and his arms glisten with the menace of someone who does early morning lifts before even brushing his teeth.

“Who moved my shorts?” The statement is not a question. It is a threat packaged in a low, guttural bass.

Nobody answers.

“I said: Who. Moved. My-”

“Were you shorts lying on that nightstand?” Isagi asks almost rethorically, like he already knows the answer but wants to delay his decapitation. 

“Yes! those shorts” Barou looks like he is bracing himself for what comes next.

“I used them to mop up Shidou’s shake spill,” Isagi says flatly. Like he already rehearsed it in his mind.

“You did what?!”

“I said I-”

Barou lunges. Chaos reigns.

He throws a deodorant can at Isagi’s head (misses). Bachira jumps down with a yell of “Make love not war!!” (ignored). Barou tries to suplex Isagi into the futon. 

Rin, having had enough, sits upright and slams the back of his head into the wall.

“ALL OF YOU. SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.”

For a beat, the room falls still.

Barou pauses mid-strangle. Isagi breathes out like he’s been resurrected from the underworld.

Rin glares around with sleep-deprived murder in his eyes. “It’s six-fucking-thirty. I had exactly five hours of sleep. If you want to die, keep going.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” Shidou mutters, adjusting his towel like a deranged spa guest.

“Someone’s suicidal.” Rin retorts.

Rin drags a hand across his face. This is hell. He lives in hell.

And worst of all, last night’s peace - that rare, strange quiet - is now starting to feel like a hallucination. The bowl of ochazuke. The unspoken truce. 

For one moment, he had a shared privacy. Comfortable silence here and there. A brain not screaming on all cylinders.

Shidou beams. “You’re so violent in the morning. Love that for you.”

Bachira somersaults off the dresser. “You’re literally in a relationship with his brother, are you trying to build an Itoshi harem? I ship it!”

The mention of that half-baked being is his last straw. 

He needs to get out of that room before he makes all his and Hiori’s shared murder plans come to life.

“I WILL SHIP YOU IN A BOX TO HELL.”

As he yells those words Rin detangles himself from the sheets, grabs a towel, and heads with long, fast strides toward the exit .

He slams the door harder than necessary.

The sound echoes down the hall like a gunshot - not that he cares. If any of the other residents have complaints about noise this early, they can take it up with Shidou’s face and Bachira’s existence.

His towel is slung low over his neck, and his steps are deliberate - fast, and fueled entirely by the last five minutes of unbearable noise pollution. 

His jaw ticks as he stalks toward the showers, passing under flickering hallway lights with the air of someone trying not to commit a crime before 8 a.m.

The bathroom door squeaks open. He doesn’t flinch. Just throws his towel onto the hook, strips like his skin is too tight, and steps under the freezing spray without waiting for it to heat.

The water hits his back in a hard stream, like it’s trying to rinse off not just sweat but the headache those idiots gave him.

He leans one arm against the tile, lets his head drop forward under the spray. The sting is good. Sharp enough to keep his mind from spiraling back into murder. 

The worst part? None of it was surprising.

That room is just noise. Every fucking day. All the fucking time.

He’s used to it by now - which doesn’t mean he likes it. Doesn’t mean he can function properly inside it. That level of volume doesn’t match his operating system. 

They all exhaust him.

Rin exhales through his nose, water soothingly slipping down the nape of his neck.

That’s when he thinks of the person with whom he’s been spending his late nights

The contrast between his roommates- scratch that, the whole team - and him is so sharp it’s almost insulting.

Hiori doesn’t shout. Doesn’t intrude. Doesn’t try to wedge himself into space Rin hasn’t offered.

He doesn’t assume Rin wants to be talked at, or touched, or made the subject of some stupid joke.

He doesn’t fill the air with filler words just to avoid silence. He exists beside Rin - not around him, not above or below. Beside.

Even in drills, he matches pace without fanfare. If Rin wants to push, he pushes. If Rin wants to analyze in silence, he reads the cue and shuts up. He’s the only one who can go an entire session with Rin and not say a single word unless necessary.

And when he does speak?

It’s not useless. It’s not loud. It’s not performative. It’s relevant. Sharp. Clean.

And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Because when everyone else in Blue Lock feels like an obstacle - a barrier to navigate, a noise to ignore - Hiori Yo feels like a tool Rin doesn’t exactly hate using. 

A presence he doesn’t have to manage. Doesn’t have to explain things to. Doesn’t have to defend himself against.

The water runs hotter. Rin adjusts the tap, jaw tight.

He can’t remember the last time someone was useful and quiet at the same time. Even that bumpkin Nanase - docile as he is - has this tendency to narrate his every move like it’s a tutorial video. 

And don’t even get him started on the antennae cockroach, who plays like every touch is a punchline and Rin’s the setup

But Hiori? Hiori just moves. Moves the way Rin needs him to - without being told.

And that’s what really gets under his skin, isn’t it?

Because Rin hasn’t told him anything. He doesn’t explain. Sometimes he doesn’t even ask. He just plays and Hiori matches it seamlessly.

This- thing shouldn’t exist. Not with someone so different from him. Not with someone who can be calm without being slow, quiet without being soft.

But it does. And it’s functional. Efficient. Familiar in a way Rin didn’t notice until last night.

Until ochazuke. Until that name left his mouth.

He runs both hands through his hair, pushes water from his face with a low breath.

This isn’t trust.

It’s just- comparison. And coincidental compatibility.

Because Hiori’s objectively more tolerable than the others. And smarter. And sharper. Just overall better.

He doesn’t get on Rin’s nerves just by breathing. That’s it.

It’s not about liking him as a person . It’s not about needing him as an ally. Just the thought of friendship makes Rin want to hurl.

It’s about… contrast.

Rin shuts the water off, grabs a towel, and dries himself roughly. No use lingering in that thought. He’s already wasted enough time thinking about something that doesn’t need emotional weight.

Hiori is just the one who hasn’t made Rin regret working with him. Yet.

That’s all.

Right?

Chapter Text

22 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The door to the fire escape creaks with the kind of suspicion that sounds like it’s already tattling to Ego.

“Shhh- shut it, shut it- Kurona, I swear to God-” Isagi hisses, gripping the edge of the rusted frame as he waves the others through like a soldier ushering civilians under sniper fire. 

Bachira shuffles in with the grace of a cartoon goblin, sneakers squeaking against concrete, arms balancing two plastic water bottles and a packet of stolen rice crackers he insists aren’t stolen.

Kurona glances over his shoulder, expression mild. “You told me to close it. Not quietly, quietly.”

Isagi gives him a look like he wants to invent a new swear just for this occasion.

Hiori is the last one through, phone still glowing dim in his hand, face lit faintly by the muted screen. He doesn’t need much prodding to keep up - just  the casual press of his shoulder against Kurona’s as they settle beside each other near the rooftop’s edge.

A breeze hits them sharp and damp - the kind that smells like dew and sweat and lingering metal from the stairwell below.

No alarms. No sirens. The security cameras don’t point this high: something Bachira discovered entirely by accident after climbing halfway up the scaffolding because “he hasn’t seen the sun in so long he has to make sure he hasn’t become a vampire” 

Nobody asked him to, but everyone thanked him for it.

They decided they’ll use it as their spot. Temporary and fragile and probably a rules violation, but a good spot nonetheless.

“Ahhhh the sun, sun” Kurona exhales.

“Freedom!” Hiori soaks in the morning breeze caressing his skin. This place is amazing.

But Bachira didn’t hear him. He was too deep into a very emotionally heavy and detailed narration.

“I can’t believe he said that,” Bachira says a bit too loud- breaking the morning silence, mouth half full of rice cracker crumbs. “Like, he really screamed it. I thought his veins were gonna burst!”

“Who?” Hiori and Kurona speak at the same time.

“Flick!” They also say at the same time, and burst in laughter.

“Rin!” Bachira responds.“He crashed out on us this morning”

Oh, Hiori is suddenly interested in what he was dismissing as typical Bachira-nonsense.

Isagi sighs, already rubbing at his forehead. “He didn’t scream. He said it a bit loud - While hurling a towel. There’s a difference.”

“No, no, no.” Bachira’s eyes sparkle with narrative glee. “He said it. Like, screamed it from his soul. ‘I WILL SHIP YOU IN A BOX TO HELL.’” He mimics Rin’s tone with exaggerated gravel, gesturing to the clouds. “Like a freaking demon being exorcised.”

Kurona smirks. “That’s pretty on-brand of him, him.”

Hiori tilts his head, eyes skimming the horizon as the rooftop laughter stretches into another round of exaggerated reenactment. 

Bachira is now fully committed to his impression of Rin, growling threats and storming across the i improvised- terrace platform.  Kurona’s biting sarcasm feeds the loop. 

Isagi’s mostly monitoring, like he’s debating whether climbing onto a roof before 7 a.m. counts as grounds for disciplinary action.

Then Hiori says with a low tone: “Did he really say it like that?”

His voice barely registers. It cuts between Bachira’s dramatic grunts and the buzz of cicadas below. But it lands.

Bachira whips toward him with glee. “Exactly  like that! Red-faced, teeth out, eyes glowing like a cursed sword. He meant every syllable.”

Kurona snorts. “You say it like you were into it, into it.”

“I’m into the performance.” Bachira almost yells defensively.

“You’re really exaggerating Meguru” Isagi scolds him “Also, since we are complaining about morning tragedies, SHIDOU USED THE PROTEIN SHAKE SUPPLEMENT I GOT FROM SPAIN TO BRUSH HIS TEETH. THEN HE FUCKING SPILLED IT. ALL OF IT. THE WHOLE-“

Hiori’s already quiet again and he barely registers Kurona scandalised gasps. 

He’s immersed in deep thoughts now.

They talk about Rin like he’s a storm system. Like you measure him in barometric pressure and prepare for landfall. 

And… they’re not wrong. He is like that. Explosive, ruthless, tactically cruel. Always carrying that undercurrent of “try me” in every glare, every cut pass, every syllable spat like it was too sharp for his tongue.

That’s the Rin everyone sees.

The one who wakes up cursing, tears through morning drills like they insulted his bloodline, even glares at Gagamaru - everyone loves that dude - for breathing too loud. The Rin who sets fire to the atmosphere just by walking into a room.

But there’s a version Hiori sees at night.

A way more recalibrated one. Well-

He is still abrasive. And still impossible to talk to unless you’re prepared to be dismissed mid-sentence. 

But he is calmer.

And clearly more- uh…let’s say economical with his rage. Less concerned with asserting dominance and more focused on refinement. 

The Rin who doesn’t yell when he fucks up a touch - just curses under his breath, resets the drill, and runs it until it’s perfect.

At night, Rin’s aggression is almost all internalized. Pointed inward. Focused on the equation, not the ego. Like he’s aiming all his venom at the part of himself that hasn’t reached what he wants yet.

And maybe that’s the real difference.

In the daylight, Rin looks like he’s fighting everyone.

At night, he’s just fighting himself.

So no, the Rin they’re all laughing about now is not the Rin he trains with.

Not the one who walks two steps behind him at night like he’s making sure no one overhears.

Not the one who slips into drills without speaking, and matches tempo like it’s not even worth discussing.

Not the one who eats ochazuke like it’s a war ration and somehow still makes it look dignified.

Not the one who called him by name for the first time yesterday.

Hiori knows it shouldn't be endearing.  It's basic fucking social etiquette. But it is still new data. An observable shift. One more pattern to log, like footwork sequences or reaction times. He wouldn’t even think twice about it if it wasn’t for-

“Ya look deep in thought, Hiori” Kurona nudges him.

Hiori shakes it off. “Just thinkin’ about how to get to a higher level in DBD ” The lie easily rolls off his tongue.

Isagi sighs. “Hey we agreed to no more gaming talk before breakfast!” he says, pointing his middle and pointer fingers toward Hiori and Kurona.

“I didn't even say anything yet, yet” Kurona raised his arms like Isagi just pointed a gun at him and said ‘you have the right to remain silent’.

“Just preventing you from it. I know how this goes, if I don’t stop you you’ll carry on geeking for the whole next hour” As he says this, Isagi crosses  his arms and raises his eyebrow. 

Hiori glances at his phone screen to silence an incoming call. 

“Speakin’ of time, it’s ten past seven. We’ll have to be at the canteen for breakfast by twenty minutes”

“Fuck, let’s be quick about this then,” Isagi says, slapping his palms on his knees like he’s about to initiate a business pitch. 

Kurona fishes a crumpled candy wrapper from his jacket pocket and throws it at him. “There's still plenty of time. Let’s start, Let's start.”

They wanted to do this since the day they reunited after the break. Barchira suggested it as an exercise to spend time with each other without the pressure of slacking off from training. And since training is literally mandatory from 8 AM to 9 PM - Ego is a criminal - the only spare time they have is either early mornings or late nights.

Hiori's the one who scratched the late nights idea - because “We'd be so exhausted from trainin’ we wouldn’t even be able to stand up straight”.

Of course, even if that was a pretty logical reason everyone agreed with, he suggested meeting in the morning because he had all  his nights booked for extra training with a pair of emeralds. 

And he planned on that before Rin even took the deal. He gambled on the odds and won.

The thing is, even meeting in the morning has been impossible these days. For several reasons.

Bachira is a heavy sleeper - for instance - and Isagi wastes all of his spare minutes in getting him to wake up.

But mainly because - a more technical issue - they don't have a specific place to gather in.  Their dorms are both shared with people who by that time are still asleep and wouldn’t appreciate the noise.

Some more than others apparently.

So - when Bachira told them he found out the facility had an upper terrace, they knew that was the best spot to exploit for their ‘bonding ritual’.

Not before the dancing dribbler was met with skepticism (that was Kurona), then refusal because ‘it was kept secret from us players for a reason, so we could get in trouble’ (Isagi), and finally acceptance  (Hiori). A perfect, quiet place to play videogames in peace.

🎶🎶

“Alright, everyone take one” Bachira says, pulling out a folded square of paper from his sleeve like it’s a stage trick. “Don’t read until I say so.”

Hiori raises an eyebrow. “Ya carry paper slips on ya?”

“Of course,” Bachira grins, passing them around. “In case of sudden emotional emergencies.”

“This feels like entrapment,” Kurona mutters, but takes one anyway.

The game's been explained to them before - and that also was Bachira’s invention. Everyone writes something down. An answer to a prompt, a confession, a lie, whatever. 

The rule is: you guess who wrote what, and you don’t take it personally.

Unless you’re Isagi, who definitely still holds a grudge about being accused - during a brief 'practice' turn - of writing “I once googled if soccer balls have souls.”

Hiori unfolds his slip and reads the prompt:

“Write down something stupid you’d never admit.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Just scribbles down: “I used to pretend to faint during PE to avoid socializing.”

He folds the slip and drops it into Bachira’s cupped palms with the others. When all four are in, Bachira shakes them around like a dice cup and flings them onto the rooftop floor like casting tarot.

Kurona grabs the first and snorts: “‘I once tried to use protein powder as dry shampoo because I was late for a date.’”

“That’s Shidou,” Isagi says, deadpan. Still  holding a grudge from those tragic events in the dorm.

“Shidou’s not here.” Hiori says, rolling his eyes amused.

“Yeah, but it’s still him.” Bachira puts an arm around his shoulders and pats his head comfortingly.

Gross. PDA. Hior's mind immediately hate-comments.

“Wrong. That one’s me, it’s me.” Kurona admits with zero shame. “It smelled like oatmeal and- regret.” 

“What?” “You go on dates?” “oatmeal?”

 “Just go on with the next one, one” Kuronna quickly dismisses the avalanche of judging questions.

And the next one is - nobody even questions it - Isagi’s. “Sometimes I replay goals I’ve scored in my head to fall asleep faster.”

He defends himself immediately. “Visualization. It’s training.”

“It’s narcissism, you egoisitcal fucker, fucker” Kurona says.

“I do it too,” Hiori offers. “With passes though.” Three heads turn toward him.

He shrugs. “It works. Like white noise.” 

It really does.   

It's a habit he picked up recently.  These days  - nights -  he's been making way more good passes than usual.

One in particular lingered obsessively in his mind on the previous night.  Along with the goal that it created. And the words that followed.

“It was a good pass.”

They now replay uninvited. They stayed with him not because they were polite. Because they were rare.

A breach. One that doesn’t align with the public-facing Rin, the one who treats compliments like acid.

And the thing is, Hiori didn’t need the praise. He’d known it was a good pass the second it left his foot. He didn’t need it validated. But hearing it… something tightened in his chest.

Even if Rin treated it as nonsense when Hiori confronted him about it. It’s still clear it held a hidden reason.

Hiori didn’t press further, but saw it as an extended olive branch. A step further into the completion of his compatibility plan.

Because it meant that version of Rin - the one who can acknowledge effectiveness without gritting his teeth - still shows up sometimes when ‘the sun’s out’.

Just rarely. Like an exception to his own rulebook.

Hiori's train of thoughts gets  interrupted when Bachira picks up his  confession. “Oh-hoh. This one’s gold. ‘I used to pretend to faint during PE to avoid socializing.’”

Bachira then peers over the edge of the rooftop like he’s searching for Hiori’s ghost. “You okay, buddy?”

“I was eleven,” Hiori says, tone flat. “And my classmates were all assholes”, he adds to help his case.

“Still counts,” Isagi mutters. They all laugh. And it’s easy.

But even as Hiori chuckles, part of him hangs back. 

The rooftop’s wind has teeth to it now. Not biting, but pressing. The kind of cold that makes you aware of your collarbone. That reminds you you’re alive. That there are things under the surface of your laughter that you’ve left unspoken for too long.

He’s phone keeps buzzing, a number he convinced himself would stop appearing if he ignored it long enough.

A conversation he plans to delay to keep living in a lie in which everything is fine.

Kurona checks the time. “Seven- twenty five. We better get going, going.”

Isagi sighs and stands up, stretching. “Bachira, clean up your crumbs. I’m not getting blamed for your squirrel diet.”

They gather slowly. Like they don’t really want to leave but know they have to. A brief pause in the noise. In the drills. In whatever’s brewing under the surface of every match and passing glance and name said too soon.

And for a moment - just a beat - Hiori doesn’t move.

He lingers, eyes on the cloud line, on the red edge of sunlight turning the Blue Lock facility into gold. Something in his chest pulls tight, like a breath held too long.

“Hiori, hurry up!”

“Comin’”

**

The stairwell echoes with the shuffle of sneakers and the quiet buzz of post-mischief adrenaline as they descend, single file, from the rooftop. 

The air still smells faintly of rust and sleep.

Bachira’s grinning like he just got away with a prison break.

Isagi checks his phone every ten seconds like Ego’s going to text them a death warrant.

Kurona walks with his hands in his pockets, unreadable as ever.

Hiori follows behind, still half-lost in thought.

And then-

At the turn past the second-floor landing, they see him.

Rin.

He’s just stepped into the hallway from the opposite wing, towel around his neck, hair still damp from a shower that clearly did nothing to soothe his mood. He’s dressed already - plain and efficient. As always. 

But something about the way he moves - sharp turns, eyes flicking to each of them - carries the heaviness of someone still shaking off rage.

His gaze settles on them.

Mere seconds. But long enough for it to be felt.

Bachira slows. Isagi stutters a step. Kurona tilts his head, either amused or alarmed. Hiori- hesitates.

Then their eyes meet. Just for a fraction of a second. But it feels like the space between them stretches taut with unspoken suspicion.

He considers waving - like he subtly did yesterday. Something to cut the tension.

But then he thought of the ‘crowded circumstance’ and the mood he allegedly is in this morning.

No, not a good idea.

The moment passes. Rin looks away, starts walking, without a single word.

“Whew,” Bachira exhales in a whisper, bouncing slightly to release tension. “He still looks pissed off.”

“He definitely knows we were up to something,” Isagi mutters under his breath.

“He didn’t say anything.” Kurona points out.

“He never says anythin’.” Hiori says, more to himself than to them.

They keep walking, trying to act normal - which only makes it more obvious they aren’t.

Behind them, Rin’s steps grow fainter. But the weight of that stare stays wrapped around Hiori’s shoulders.

//

The Blue Lock canteen lights buzz faintly overhead, their white glow already unforgiving this early in the morning. Most of the tables are half-filled, scattered with players and their groggy chatter, metal trays scraping as breakfast begins in earnest.

The four of them step in as a unit, with enough proximity to be noticed as a group.

As they sit at a table near the center of the cafeteria - the one under the flickering overhead light they’ve unofficially claimed as theirs - Hiori’s already halfway through unlocking his phone.

“I owe ya a rematch,” he says flatly, thumb gliding to tap open Brawl Legends EX. The garish splash screen flickers across his screen with a familiar jingle that already has Kurona grinning like a menace.

Kurona slouches into his seat with all the confidence of someone already planning a first-move combo. “This time I’m going first, first.”

“Ya always say that,” Hiori mutters, sliding the phone across the table without a glance.

“You always cheat with passive boosts, boots” Kurona fires back, already jabbing at the controls.

“You two need help,” Isagi groans, peeling open his miso lid like it’s somehow their fault his blood pressure is high before 8 a.m. “We already settled this, no gaming talk-.”

Hiori doesn’t even blink. “You said no gamin’ talk before breakfast. Not during.”

Bachira grins mid-chew. “He’s got you there, Yoichi.”

Isagi stares at him like he’s just been personally betrayed. “You’re taking his side now?”

“I’m taking the side of fun,” Bachira says, tossing a boiled egg into his mouth like a smug gremlin.

Isagi’s gearing up for a rebuttal - one hand raised, mouth open, brow twitching - when a tray slams violently beside him.

“Donkey.” Barou snarls, voice low and final.

Conversation halts.

Isagi doesn’t even turn his head. “Oh my god, it’s seven fucking AM. Can we please not do this again.”

Barou growls. “Don’t tell me you thought we were done.”

Everyone’s heads whip.

At the center of the cafeteria, Isagi stands mid-sip of his coffee, staring up at Barou with the face of someone already exhausted by his own existence. Kurona and Bachira, seated on either side of him, look like they want pop corn to match this front row seat.

“Not here, let’s be mature about this, Barou.” Isagi says flatly.

Barou’s tray clatters next to Isagi’s. “Matur- You used my shorts. To clean up a spill. From a protein shake I didn’t even touch.”

Bachira giggles. “Technically, it’s Shidou’s fault for spilling it-”

Kurona mutters, “Shut up, don’t ruin the fun, fun,” like he’s trying to cast a silence spell.

“I didn’t know they were yours,” Isagi argues, jaw tight. “And- it wasn’t that big of a spill.”

Barou’s eyes narrow. “It soaked through two towels.”

“Because it was thick!” Isagi shoots back. “You could fix this with one wash.”

A laugh bubbles up in the corner of the hall. Then another. And then the room fractures. Commentary, jeering, someone throwing a piece of bread like it’s a bet token.

At the table where the show is going down, Hiori doesn’t laugh. He looks up.

And Icy Irises clash with emerald. Oh. He’s here.

Across the cafeteria, one table away from the warzone, Rin sits alone. Tray methodically arranged. Fish picked clean, eyes half-lidded in boredom or disgust. He’s not engaging. But he’s watching.

Their eyes meet - barely a flicker, but enough. The atmosphere around Rin feels carved out, like a silence bubble in the middle of a riot. He looks like he’s calculating the calorie burn of murder.

“Still not apologizing,” Isagi declares, tossing a piece of omelet onto Barou’s tray like a peace offering.

Barou doesn’t flinch. “Keep it. For your last meal.”

The noise escalates. Sendou starts commentating like it’s a boxing match. 

Shidou’s in the back yelling, “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” with a grin wide enough to fracture glass. 

Gagamaru bets a boiled egg on Barou.

Hiori sighs and glances sideways.

Rin hasn’t moved. He’s sipping his green tea like it’s the antidote to the entire room. And yet - his eyes flick to Hiori again.

For a moment, everything drowns. The clash of voices. The table slamming. Even Kurona next to him, laughing under his breath.

Because that look Rin gives him - that small eye-roll when Isagi yells “Do you even know how much that supplement cost?!” - is a shared language.

Do you miss the silence, too?

It lingers in the air like steam over miso.

Kurona elbows him. “Hiori, you better not miss this!”

“Morons” Hiori replies, softer than necessary.

He looks down at his food, pokes at the rice with the edge of his chopsticks. But his mind flickers - not to the protein powder, not to the fighting, but to the night before.

The soft clink of ceramic bowls. The silent and comfortable atmosphere.

And now here they are again. In the same room. With everyone else throwing hands over breakfast, and the only person Hiori might actually want to sit with is the one person who almost certainly won’t let him.

He doesn’t want to admit it - but it’s weirdly grounding. That glance.

The way Rin looks like he’s got a scalpel for every problem and only chooses to cut when it matters. The way he looks away last, like fine, I see you too.

“You think Barou’s actually gonna throw a punch?” Kurona mutters as someone yells “HOLD HIM BACK!” for the third time.

“Nah, all bark no bite” Hiori says, still looking past him. 

Kurona laughs again, and it jolts the tension loose for a moment.

Still - Hiori can’t shake the contrast. The chaos of the morning - and Blue Lock in general - versus the stillness of night training. 

This noise, this crowd - it feels like a bad fit. Not for Rin. Not for him.

And somehow, knowing someone else is tired of the performance too makes it all easier to sit with.

Even if they never talk about it.

Maybe we should.

//

Karasu pats him on the back with enough force to stagger him half a step.

“Not bad today, Hiori,” he says, sweat still slicking his forehead. “Ya almost made me look slow out there.”

Hiori exhales through his nose. “That’d take a miracle.”

Karasu laughs, shakes out his legs, and wanders off toward the lockers with a lazy wave. The clatter of boots, voices, and metal lockers swells behind him. 

Everyone’s dispersing like they’re getting released from military duty. Probably not far off.

Hiori pulls his shirt halfway over his head before Kurona appears at his side, holding his water bottle like a trophy.

Kurona then nudges him just as they’re leaving the pitch, his voice low but gleeful. “You owe me another rematch, rematch.”

Hiori doesn’t have to ask what he means. He’s already pulling his phone halfway from his pocket. “I literally wiped the floor with ya.”

“You hacked the match bonuses.” Kurona reports annoyed.

Hiori - amused - rolls his eyes, “Sounds like a skill issue.”

“You’re insufferable.”

It makes Hiori huff out a laugh. No one else could get him to say a full sentence straight after the drills he just went through. He’s still catching his breath, feet still sore from impact.

But there’s something about Kurona’s energy that doesn’t take anything out of him. 

They walk back toward the dorm in tandem, Kurona nudging him with his elbow every few steps like he’s some kind of metronome for conversation.

“You hear what Gagamaru said after the last match?” Kurona starts, voice bouncing. “Said the wind shifted and that’s why his header went wide.”

“There are no windows in this prison, where would’ve the wind come from? Also I was standin’ next to him. He just whiffed.”

“He says he’s attuned to nature now, now.”

“He says that every week.”

Kurona shrugs. “He’s spiritual.”

“He’s delusional.”

“Spiritual and delusional are cousins, cousins. ” Kurona says proudly. “You can quote me.”

They reach the hallway to their room, still half-laughing when Hiori peels away from him with a vague wave toward his locker. “Gimme five. Gonna grab a change.”

“Fine, fine.” Kurona sighs, tossing his water bottle into the air and catching it behind his back. “But hurry up, I wanna win while your hands are still shaking.”

“Yer not gonna win.”

Hiori steps into the dorm, kicking the door shut with the back of his heel, and finally lets the quiet settle over him. The kind of quiet he doesn’t get often - not in a building full of boys obsessed with ego and volume.

He drops his towel on the bed, opens the drawer, and pulls out a clean shirt.  His hands move on autopilot.

He doesn’t even notice the phone until the light blinks again.

There it is. Buzzing, face-up.

Still calling. Still them.

His chest tightens by millimetres.

It’s the same number as earlier - the one he’s been ignoring since they got back from the break. The one that makes his stomach stiffen like it’s prepping for a punch.

He already knows it’s the sixth call. He counted. Subconsciously or not.

They haven’t left a voicemail.

They never do.

It’s always direct contact or nothing. Like their silence is punishment in itself. Like they’re doing him a favour just by reaching out.

Hiori stands there, phone blinking on the nightstand, shirt half-folded in his hands, feeling… nothing, at first. 

He hasn’t told anyone here about his parents.

Karasu’s the only one who probably knows - he has to. They played on the same team for years, rode the same buses, wore the same bruises. He must’ve pieced it together back then. The long silences. The way Hiori always stayed late after practice just to avoid being picked up.

But if he ever figured it out, he never said anything. Never asked. And Hiori never offered.

And here in Blue Lock, it feels even more distant. Like something packed away in a storage box labeled Do Not Open.

Kurona doesn’t know. Bachira doesn’t. Not Isagi. 

Which is exactly how he likes it.

Eight days. That’s how long it’s been since the break ended. And he hasn’t spoken to either of them once.

Not a message. Not even a blue tick.

Because Blue Lock is the only place where their voices can’t reach him. Or - could. Up until now.

His fingers twitch toward the screen. He doesn’t touch it. Just watches it light up again. Persistent. Predictable. Like they knew the silence would stretch only so long before the guilt would start to bruise.

This isn’t panic. This isn’t fear.

It’s just the old thing again. That tightness. The invisible tension that runs from the base of his neck down his spine whenever he sees their names. The tug-of-war between guilt and anger. Between wanting to explain himself and knowing it won’t make a difference.

He hears Kurona’s voice faintly from the hallway. 

And here he is. Staring at a phone like it holds a live grenade.

It stops ringing. For a second.

Then it starts again. Same number. Same silence pulsing between the vibrations.

A part of him registers the time. His eyes flick to the corner of the room where he’d left his cleats.

He’s supposed to be training again in less than forty minutes.

The night drill. With Rin.

They never actually agree on a time, but it’s always implied. Same spot, same rhythm, same hush of mutual effort.

And Hiori doesn’t want to be late this time.

Hiori exhales slowly, phone still untouched. Back of his neck damp from the workout - or maybe just from the weight of indecision.

He knows he can’t avoid it forever.

Not if he wants them to stop.

And they will keep calling. Not because they care. But because they hate being ignored.

He hesitates only a breath longer.

🎶🎶

Then his thumb taps “accept” and the screen shifts. A faint delay. That humming silence just before a connection snaps into place.

“-finally.” his mother’s voice seethes. No hello. “So ya are alive.”

The words hit like wet cloth to the face - soft, but suffocating.

“Yeah,” Hiori says quietly, adjusting the phone against his ear, “I’ve been- trainin’. Sorry.”

That pause. A sharp intake of breath like she’s deciding how angry she’s allowed to be right now. “Ten whole days,” she says, tone clipped.

“Eight, mom.” Hiori corrects her. At least memorise the right scrip.

 “We haven’t heard from ya in eight days. Ya think that’s okay?”

No, he doesn’t. But the line between not okay and what else could I do feels thin and worn.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, even softer.

Then, of course - like clockwork - another voice enters the fray. His father’s, deeper and always just slightly louder than needed, even when he’s not yelling. “What did I say? I told ya not to push him so hard. He’s clearly been busy.”

Oh this time you’re playing attorney. 

They always switch roles like record changers. One of them spits in his face how much of a failure he is. The other defends him.

It doesn’t matter who plays who. As long as they get to use him as a pretext to fight.

“Oh, I’m pushing him?!” his mother snaps immediately, and Hiori pinches the bridge of his nose. This again.

“I’m not saying you’re-”

“Don’t start. You always do this - defend him when he pulls this disappearing act. This is what happens when ya coddle him. He thinks he can ignore us like we’re strangers-!”

“I never said that!” Hiori cuts in, sharper than he meant to. “I’m not ignoring ya.”

Silence.

Then his mother exhales, shaky and hard. “You don’t call. Ya don’t text. We’re just supposed to assume you’re fine? What if something happened? What if ya got injured?”

“I didn’t,” Hiori says. “I’m fine.”

But it’s not the kind of fine that holds. Not with them. It’s too brittle.

They argue louder now, like he’s set something off. He doesn’t even know what anymore - whether it’s each other, or themselves, or him by extension.

His name flickers in and out of the yelling, like a scapegoat neither of them wants to hold onto for long.

He pulls the phone slightly away from his ear. The volume doesn’t change much.

His dorm is quiet. Kurona must’ve gone to shower by now. And his ears are full of noise that doesn’t belong to this place.

SoLoudSoLoudSoLoudSoFuckingLoud.

This isn’t the first call like this. But it’s the first in a long time.

He thought Blue Lock would buffer it all out. Thought if he trained hard enough, slept late enough, performed high enough, the distance would become something more permanent. That silence would be enough of a message. That if he stayed good, he could stay gone.

But it’s never that simple.

“-he doesn’t even try, do you see that? He just shuts down and disappears-!”

“He’s under pressure! He’s doin’ something real with his life now, and all ya do is-”

“Ya didn’t care when it was my pressure keeping him in line! Now suddenly it’s too much?!”

“He’s eighteen, he doesn’t need to be hounded-”

He shuts his eyes.

ShutUpShutUpShutUpShutUpShutTheFuckUp.

This is the part that always ruins him. When they stop talking to him and start talking through him. When he stops being a person and becomes a middle point in a years-long stalemate.

He used to yell back. Not because he believed it would work, but because staying quiet made him feel like glass - clear and breakable. Now? Now he just listens.

Endures it like a long-distance injury.

His fingers tighten around the phone.

And somewhere between the clattering of their voices, a small, useless thought slips in:

He’s supposed to be with Rin in twenty minutes.

That small note of reality grounds him more than anything else. The reminder of someone who doesn’t demand access to every inch of his thoughts like it’s owed. Rin doesn’t even ask.

He just shows up. Moves beside him in rhythm. Sometimes that’s enough.

“Yo,” his mother snaps again. “Are you even listenin’-?”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

“Ya don’t sound like it.”

“I am.” He isn’t sure what they want from him. A statement? An apology? A decision?

He’s given them so many versions of those things, he’s not even sure what’s left.

“You’ve always been like this,” his father mutters now. “Avoiding things. Pretending like silence makes it go away.”

Now you’re on the opposing side as well.

“That’s rich, coming from you!” his mother spits back.

“Don’t twist this into-”

“I’m not twisting anything. You’re just conveniently forgetting all the times you let him stay locked in his room with his stupid games because it was easier than dealing with him!”

“That’s not true-!”

Hiori’s hand shakes. He looks at the clock.

Fifteen minutes.

He wonders if Rin will mind if he’s late.

He clears his throat. Interrupts the fight. “Listen, I have to go. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I really am.”

A pause.

“Is that it?” his mother asks, voice scathing. “That’s all?”

Hiori doesn’t answer right away. His thumb hovers over the red button. His breathing feels shallow.

“I’ll try ta call next week,” he says at last.

“Ya better,” his father says, but there’s no real warmth behind it. Just the weight of obligation.

He hangs up. The screen goes black.

He sits still for a full minute. Two.

Then, with slow, practiced motions, he tosses the phone onto the bed, leans forward, and buries his face in his hands.

He suppresses the tears that are threatening to spill. But it still aches.

Ten minutes.

He stands. Wipes his palms on his sweats. Tugs a fresh hoodie over his head.

Rin’s probably already on the field. Probably already started without him.

Good. He doesn’t think he could stand silence if it felt like waiting.

But maybe, if they move, if they pass and run and shoot in sync again - maybe it’ll be enough to feel real again.

Maybe tonight, the silence will feel more like his.

And less like theirs.

//

The field is - as predicted - quieter than usual. Just ball against turf. Shoe against gravel.

And Rin’s breath.

Hiori should be used to this silence by now. He craves it, even. But tonight it feels like trying to breathe through static.

They’ve been running the same shadow drill for almost fifteen minutes. A triangle pass-to-shot loop, no defenders, no stakes. Just rhythm. Repetition. Muscle memory.

But he keeps screwing it up.

The passes are either too heavy or too soft. His crosses tail wide. Twice, he catches the turf weird with his plant foot. His whole body feels misaligned. Like one of those claw machines that grabs too early no matter how precisely you aim.

He kicks again.

Too hard. The ball skids off the grass like it’s trying to flee the field entirely. Rin lets it go.

“Reset,” Rin mutters.

No commentary. No sigh. Just that one syllable, clipped and neutral.

Hiori jogs over to trap the ball. His chest tightens.

He doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to explain.

Not that Rin would ask him to anyway.

But it’s so loud in his head. Their voices still haven’t left him.

“You just disappear!” “I’m not twisting anything!” “It was easier than dealing with him-”

SoLoudSoLoudSoFuckingLoud-

The ball rolls to Rin’s feet next. He lines up like usual. Glance. Pivot. Kick. Hiori’s job is to follow and return. Easy.

Only- 

He doesn’t pass.

He lashes it. Like the ball has a grudge. Like the ball is the decapitated head of some people in particular-

Rin barely deflects it - one foot lifted just enough to reroute the shot wide.

It slams the metal gate behind them with a clang like a warning bell.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Then Rin turns, eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to get me back for the time I aimed at your head?”

Hiori stares.

He should laugh. Or snort. Or roll his eyes and mutter “so you finally admit it”

But the weight on his chest has grown leaden. He doesn’t say any of that. Doesn’t even offer a half-hearted smile.

Just shrugs slightly and mumbles, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Let’s try again.”

Rin raises an eyebrow. Suspicion flickers in his posture. He’s too perceptive for someone who hates talking.

But he lets it drop. Walks to place the ball back at center.

They start again. And Hiori… he’s just not locking in.

His foot slips a little on the next pass. He forgets the reset position and ends up half a beat late on the overlap. And his second shot spins so wide, Rin doesn’t even bother chasing it.

Rin steps off the drill line.

“All right, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he says. Not sharp. Not annoyed. But there’s weight behind it. Something that demands an answer.

“Nothin’.”

Rin fires back. “You’ve been on point all day. In the training match, you read two presses before they even formed. But now you’re playing like you’re underwater.”

Hiori breathes through his nose. He can still hear his parents. Still see the missed calls stacked like needles in his inbox.

“I’m tired,” he says finally, because nothing else comes to mind at the moment.

“Bullshit. We’re all tired.” Rin retorts as if to say: “If you want to lie, at least make it believable”.

Another beat. “Then I’m- distracted.”

Rin tilts his head. Not mockingly. Just observant. “I can tell.”

That should be it. That should be the end of it.

But Rin keeps looking at him. Like he’s trying to triangulate the exact place Hiori’s thoughts are bleeding from.

Hiori looks away.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not now. If he ever plans to open up about it with Rin, it’s still too soon.

Because Rin is like pressure: constant, silent, demanding. If you open too much, he’ll fold you with precision.

The silence between them stretches. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. A kind of quiet that doesn’t press on his ribs.

And that, somehow, makes it worse. Because Hiori knows this is the only place in his life where silence isn’t punishment. And still, he can’t bring himself to match it.

“I’m just not focused,” he mutters.

Rin doesn’t press. But he doesn’t drop it either. “Well, fix it then.” he says.

And it’s not cruel. It’s not an order. It sounds like someone saying: You’ve done it before. I’ve seen you. You’re capable. So prove it.

Hiori drags his hands down his face. He knows.

He knows.

But the noise - his mother’s voice, the slam of accusations, the memory of being nothing more than a reason to fight - clings and sucks air out of his lungs. He can’t get a clean breath.

He lines up again. The ball looks farther than it is.

“Again?” he says, voice low.

Rin nods once. “Again.”

And this time - his shot hits clean.

Still, it takes everything he has not to flinch at the sound.

**

“Hiori, you’re off your game. Let’s just take a break.” 

Rin steps back, chest rising with a quiet exhale, eyes sharp. “Your footwork’s lazy. You’re dragging your pace. You’re not even aiming anymore.”

Hiori’s already repositioning the ball. “No. Not now. I’ll do it this time.” 

A pause.

“Then I’m the one who needs a break,” Rin says flatly.

That makes Hiori freeze.

Because those words aren’t neutral - they’re a blow. And Rin knows it. He’s not someone who jokes. Not someone who makes himself the problem. So when he says something like that, it’s a cut disguised as retreat. 

A veiled insult that stings sharper than if he’d just said you’re being unbearable.

Hiori’s voice comes out harsher than he means. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“it’s true.” Rin doesn’t raise his voice - looks like he really wants to - but his tone shifts, sharper now, harder. “You’re off. You’ve been off since we started.”

“I said I’m fine.” Hiori hisses. Mentally cursing his fucking parents for destroying his one moment of peace.

“You’re not.” Rin takes a deep breath, like he’s gentle-parenting himself to avoid displaying a crash out. “You lying about it is not beneficial to neither of us at the moment”

How dare he- “I’m not lyin’-” He recalls the desperate tone in which he said these exact words to them less than two hours ago.

Rin looks fed up. He holds the ball steady under his foot. “You’re spiraling.”

Hiori’s whole body stiffens. The way Rin says it - not accusing, not even upset. Almost clinical. Like he’s diagnosing something.

And that pisses Hiori off more than if Rin had been yelling.

“Why are you acting like you know everything?” Hiori mutters, spinning another ball under his foot to keep his hus body busy. “When ya don’t.”

Rin’s eyes narrow. “I’m just pointing out what I’m seeing.”

“Ya don’t see shit.” Hiori has never cursed this much in one single conversation.

It all comes too fast. Too raw. Like instinct. Like he’s slamming a door shut.

He’s angry. He’s frustrated. He’s tired. Right now there are no videogames to let it all fall off his shoulders.

And also right now, Rin looks like a good target to exploit.

The silence that follows stretches painfully long.

And Rin doesn’t fill it -  which only makes it worse. His stare stays fixed. Not pushing, not prodding. Just waiting.

🎶🎶

That’s what finally cracks Hiori.

He snaps, stepping forward. “You have no right to say that”

Rin doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

Hiori’s voice is low, sharp, like a blade pressed just shy of skin. “Ya don’t get to read into my fuck-ups and call it ‘spiraling’ like ya know what that means.”

He doesn’t know why he said that. Those are words he would definitely throw at his parents had he known they would’ve made any change.

But they feel right at the moment. Lightening his chest. 

Then Rin exhales. Still too calm. Still unreadable. “It means something’s wrong. You can’t even look me in the eye.”

What?

“Ya didn’t even bother callin’ me by my name untill last night. I don’t owe you that. ”

Hiori’s being so unfair. He knows it. And Rin really does look like he wants to help - in his own way.

“Hiori” Rin folds his arms, challenging. “Just- calm down and let’s take that break”

Hiori snaps “Oh please, like ya would ever take your own advice.”

“That’s not the point.” It really looks like it’s taking every bit of Rin’s self control to not add fuel to the fire.

Unexpected, considering what I was hearing about you this morning.

“No?” Hiori scoffs. “Ya act like everyone’s a problem but you. Like we’re all- liabilities, and yer the only one who’s allowed to fuck up.”

Hiori just wants to add whatever fuel he can to the blaze between them.

“I never fuck up.” Rin says, voice low and cold.

Bullshit. Hiori doesn’t say it. But he thinks it hard enough to echo.

Rin sees that.

He steps forward - just one step, but it shortens the space between them like a threat. “You’re pissed off. You’re tired. You’re somewhere else. You made a pass that nearly cracked my ribs, and now you’re sulking because I won’t pretend that’s normal.”

Hiori’s hands ball into fists. “I didn’ mean to. I wasn’t aiming at you.”

“You weren’t aiming at anything, and that’s the problem.” Rin snaps.

And that’s the switch. The quiet burns away.

An excuse to let it all out unfiltered.

“Is that what this is about?” Hiori’s laugh is bitter. He feels so small right now. “One bad pass and suddenly I’m a problem?”

“It’s not one bad pass.” Rin’s voice sharpens.The thin threads holding his patience clearly starting to snap. “It’s everything since you showed up today. You’re not here to train for a world cup. You’re just kicking the ball for the sake of it. And I’m not gonna be your punching bag while you work your shit out.”

You saw right through me, bastard. “I never asked you to-!” Hiori consideres pushing him with his hands. Just to feel something. 

But he never was a violent person and - of course - he knows that touching someone like Rin Itoshi never ends well. It would shatter whatever little trust they were starting to develop.

“Then don’t fucking show up like this!” Rin explodes anyway. Finally. “Don’t act like you can just bury whatever’s going on and keep pretending everything’s fine. Because it’s not.”

The words hit like a shove, but it’s the way Rin moves that gets to Hiori.

They’re too close now - close enough that the heat coming off Rin’s skin cuts through the lingering chill of the pitch. His voice still vibrates in Hiori’s ribs, low and sharp. There’s the faint rise-and-fall of Rin’s chest, fast from the argument, not the drills.

Hiori can see every detail he’s not supposed to be looking at: the crease between Rin’s brows, the fine sheen of sweat along his temple, the twitch in his jaw that means he’s fighting himself as much as him.

Hiori’s pulse stumbles.

And Rin doesn’t back up.

And in the thick of it, Hiori feels it - that static in the chest, that boiling pressure behind his eyes. It’s too much. Everything. The phone call. The weight. The noise in his head.

“I didn’t ask to be fucking dissected,” Hiori says, quieter now. “I didn’t come here to talk.”

“Why did you come then, if you knew you weren’t going to be efficient?” Rin demands. He’s the one who’s pissed off now.

Hiori looks at him. Like he’s trying to reach his soul with the icy stare.

He braces himself for what he chooses to say next. It can’t go worse than this anyway.

So finally, he says, exhausted, “Because this is the only part of my day that feels quiet.”

That does it. The words hang. For a beat, neither of them breathes.

Rin’s eyes flicker - not softening, not exactly. Just shifting. Considering.

Then he says, barely audible: “You- you don’t usually act like someone who wants quiet…”

One of us has to attempt consolidating the connection through basic conversation, genius. Hiori would’ve sayd in a different circumstance.

Instead he exhales like something broke.  And coats his words with the painful truth. “That’s because it’s too loud in my head. I wish I could suffocate it,”

Rin stills, there’s a small shift in his posture. His weight settles evenly, arms uncrossing, like something inside him just unclenched.

For a second, Hiori wonders if he said too much. Too real. Too soon.

But Rin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn it into something else. He just holds the silence for a beat too long, then turns his head from Hiori.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than before. “I get that.”

He swallows, once. Doesn’t blink. “I… I see you.”

Hiori believes it.

He can discern it now - not because Rin’s told him anything, but because it’s all over him. 

The sleeplessness.

The way he runs drills like he’s exorcising something.

The way he never lingers long after a training match. He’s not resting - he’s retreating.

Always one step back from the world.

Maybe that’s the thing they have in common. Not the quiet itself - but what they use it for.

They stand there, two players facing off with no whistle, no audience, no scoreboard. Just a pause in the rhythm. 

Rin shifts. Picks up the ball. Doesn’t say anything - just throws it to the other side of the pitch . 

Hiori steps forward. Breathes in once.

The noise is still there - his parents, the call, the fight -  but it’s muted now. Just static in the background.

For now, this will be enough. Not silence. But something close to it. Something that feels like understanding. 

“Break’s fine.” Hiori mutters. 

The words are barely out before something cuts through the corner of his vision.

A flick. A sharp silver blur, carving the air on a perfect parabolic arc.

He flinches because it’s unexpected. Reflex. His body still stuck in fight mode.

Clink.

The water bottle hits the ground near his foot with a soft thunk, placed by motion.

He stares at it like it’s foreign. Like it shouldn’t be there.

Because for a moment - he can’t help it - he thinks, That’s supposed to be my job.

The bottle sits upright. Perfectly still. Like it was meant to be caught, but Rin didn’t want to force it. Just left it there.

A gesture, not a command.

Hiori breathes in slow. The air around them feels different now. Way quieter. Like something heavy just got set down.

When he looks up, Rin’s already turned his back. Sitting near the edge of the pitch, arms resting on bent knees, like the toss never happened. No gloating.

Just the same unreadable calm, jaw tense like he’s holding something in.

The silence finally settles nicely like it was always waiting to make it’s appearance.

Hiori picks up the bottle. His hand still feels a little shaky.

He unscrews the cap, keeping his gaze low. “I thought,” he says, voice dry, “that was s’pposed to be my thing.”

A second passes.

“You looked like you needed it more,” Rin says. No weight on the words. Just fact. Not kindness. Not pity.

I see you.

It lands harder than anything thrown because it’s deliberate. Quiet. Shared.

Something in Hiori’s chest shifts like it just got nudged. Enough to breathe.

He takes a sip. The water’s lukewarm, nothing special. But it hits different. 

“Thank you, Rin”

**

They don’t talk as they walk back. Not that they ever do.

Hiori keeps his steps even, measured - not because he has the energy to keep up appearances, but because if he lets the weariness in his limbs show, Rin might stop. Might point it out again. Might see more than what Hiori can afford to give right now.

The silence between them is different than the one on the field. There, it has purpose. Motion. A rhythm to drown in.

Here, it stretches. But not unkindly.

The hallway hums with late-night electricity - those overhead lights buzzing faintly, like someone’s pressed a pillow over the building’s mouth.

Just them.

Hiori’s calves ache. Not from drills. From tension. From holding everything in while his brain tried to scream itself inside out. Even now, he can feel the after-image of the phone call, like a ringing that hasn’t stopped. It’s quieter now, though. Dampened. Like a radio turned one notch down.

That’s the only reason he could walk next to Rin at all. The quiet that followed.

And the strange, terrible comfort of someone standing beside him who never once asked him to explain it.

He doesn’t want to go back to his room.

Not yet.

He knows the calls won’t come again tomorrow - not twice in a close period of time. They like to wait. Make it linger. They’ll let him squirm for a while before the next blow lands.

Still. The silence in that room isn’t like this.

This one is… held. Not empty.

It’s strange, he thinks - how Rin, of all people, makes space feel less like isolation and more like a pause. Like a hand resting near yours without touching. Just close enough to be felt.

They reach the usual point where they split off to their separate dorm wings.

Hiori doesn’t realise he’s stopped walking until he sees that Rin already has.

Their shoulders are almost level. That’s how it always is between them.

Rin doesn’t look at him right away. Just stands there, arms crossed, face unreadable in the low light. The shadows fall uneven on his profile - one eye gleaming, the other tucked under a veil of dark hair.

Then he speaks. Softly. No venom, no sarcasm.

“Don’t dream tonight.”

The words land like water in a drought. Strange. Out of place. Absolutely needed.

Hiori blinks.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t question it. To anyone else, it would sound like a curse, a threat, or an odd joke. But to him-

He understands. He feels it.

No dreams means no noise.

No re-lived arguments or faces twisted in disappointment. No memory palaces shaped like cages. Just sleep. Quiet. Breathing.

Rin doesn’t explain himself, of course. He doesn’t have to. And Hiori doesn’t ask.

Instead, after a pause, he replies. “And I..hope your mind shuts up long enough to let ya rest.”

Rin looks at him then.

Just a flicker. But in that flicker, there’s something tender. Or maybe unshielded is the better word. A moment of acknowledgment. A nod across the breach they’ve been straddling for weeks.

Rin looks away first - because he always looks away first when it’s not competition.

Then, as if catching himself in a moment that’s too sincere, he clears his throat and adds-

“Don’t be shit tomorrow.”

It’s a small push. A reminder that the world is still the world. That morning will come with drills and eyes watching and expectations to meet. That their connection isn’t going to soften the stakes.

It’s exactly what Hiori needs to hear.

He smirks, leaning back slightly, one hand tucked in his hoodie pocket.

“Wouldn’t wanna make ya look slow again.”

Rin scoffs - a breath too sharp to be a laugh, but close enough.

He turns, walking toward his dorm without another word, steps measured, calm. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just hand Hiori the only peace he’s been given all day.

Hiori stands there for a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t move until Rin disappears around the corner.

And then, only then, does he let himself exhale. Slowly. Like the breath had been waiting for hours.

In the silence Rin left behind, there is no weight. No noise. No pressure.

And maybe, if he’s lucky, that quiet will last until morning.

Chapter Text

18 days before Nigeria VS Japan

Ego’s looming. The World Cup countdown burns in the center of every hallway screen like a taunt. 64 nations, eight  matches, ninety minutes at a time. One mistake can break your arc.

And Blue Lock, in all its egotistical brilliance, has responded with more training. Double the simulations. Triple the stat reviews. A new biometric algorithm to measure “personal brand volatility.” Rin doesn’t even pretend to understand that one.

“Apparently, if you blink weird on camera now, you’re statistically less marketable,” Chigiri muttered once between drills.

Barou barked something about “marketing being for clowns.”

Rin agreed with both of them and neither of them. Because who the hell cares if his blink looks ungrateful when his passes land with surgical exactness?

But these past days, the company of a pair of icy irises made everything simpler.

The same Hiori who’d collapsed into truth five nights ago - reluctantly.

“Because this is the only part of my day that feels quiet.”

That sentence stayed with Rin longer than it should have.

It had pressed into his thoughts like a bruise impossible to ignore. Because Rin had understood that kind of quiet. The kind you carve out of noise with discipline and effort. The kind you defend like territory.

That’s why Rin stayed and let it settle.

Even offered the damn water bottle. He still doesn’t know what possessed him.

But since then… Hiori’s been sharper, never distant. Focused. Light-footed. Tactically exact.

Their passing drills have been clockwork. Their positioning on the field instinctual. 

Ego’s even noted it: “Striker and midfielder pairing 08: compatibility rating up by 27%. Predictive cohesion nearing top percentile. Continue.”

Rin hated how much he liked that. It meant all of this…arrangement is working. 

They still don’t talk during daytime drills. But between them, a new language has started to form.

Yesterday, when Rin hesitated for a split-second on a switch play, Hiori had murmured, “Ya can leave it to me.” Not loud, but Rin cought the words anyway.

And he responded without thinking: “I already did.” like a fucking loser.

(He promptly tried to strangle himself for it with his sweat towel in the locker room.)

He’s been more aware of him now. Not just as a player, but as a presence. The way Hiori moves - fluid, nearly silent. The way he doesn’t fill space with unnecessary talk. The way his eyes scan the field like he’s always calculating two moves ahead.

And sometimes, the way he glances at Rin. Not often. But sometimes. Not for validation. Just… confirmation. That he’s still synced.

That Rin’s still there.

//

Today, Ego’s barked out a new directive: “Mock match. Nigeria formation analysis. Shidou, Rin, Bachira, and Hiori - unit three. Execute or evaporate.”

Great.

Cue five hours of Shidou yelling across the pitch like he’s auditioning for a gladiator reboot.

“Oi, little cyan!” Shidou shouts as Hiori threads a pass under his foot. “That assist was so yummy!”

Rin’s already thinking about tripping him.

Hiori doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look back. Just raises a hand - not in thanks, but in some sarcastic “noted” gesture that makes Rin want to snort.

Later, during cooldowns, Barou tries to get everyone to join his new “kettlebell hell circuit.”

“No,” Rin says immediately.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“It is now.”

Hiori sidesteps the entire interaction by suddenly needing to retie his boots for the fifth time.

“Cowards,” Barou mutters, hoisting a dumbbell the size of a human child.

The hallway’s a warzone of noise as well.

Someone’s blasting music from the communal bathroom. Bachira’s laughing too loud about something Sendou said. Niko’s complaining about the water pressure. Someone knocked over a broom and just left it there like a corpse in a crime scene.

Rin shoulders past it all, tuning it out with years of practice. A muscle memory built on necessity.

Halfway down the hall, he passes Hiori.

They don’t stop. They don’t speak.

Just a small nod between them, like a check-in. Unspoken and exact.

Rin registers the way Hiori’s hoodie sleeve is pushed up just enough to show the wrap on his wrist from training. How he’s walking a little lighter today. Like his head’s not weighing him down.

But even now, five days later, something lingers between them.

He adjusts the towel around his neck and keeps walking.

Rin often thinks of the previous night from that one. Six days ago. When they shared - well, ate together- some well deserved ochazuke. It was nothing, a fluke bound to not repeat itself. He tells himself that. But-

He hasn’t had a single nightmare since.

And sometimes - just sometimes - he’s not stupid enough to call that a coincidence.

//

The dorm is a catastrophe. Again.

Too many voices clashing over each other. Barou growling about the laundry rotation like he’s threatening bodily harm. Shidou narrating his own push-ups at max volume. Bachira humming through a mouthful of toothpaste while kicking open drawers for no reason.

Even Isagi has started screaming more in recent days, like he can’t stand the silence anymore. Always asking questions. Always watching.

Rin decides to head out early. His drills with Hiori usually don’t start until an hour - more or less, they never have a specific time to meet.

Rin grabs his hoodie off the rack. Doesn’t rush, doesn’t look at anyone. He’s done this a hundred times now. Slips his arms in, zips up halfway, checks his pockets for the bottle cap he uses to lock the vending machine controls when the others piss him off. His routine is exact. Reliable. Efficient.

Almost makes it to the door.

Then- “Hey, Rin.”

He stops, hand on the doorknob.

He already knows who it is before turning. Isagi, still half-dressed, sitting on the bottom bunk like he owns the airspace around it. Elbow propped on his knee, mouth tilted into that neutral line he always gets when he’s trying to sound chill and not calculating.

“You heading out again?” Isagi asks. Not mockingly. Just curious.

Go fuck yourself.

Rin doesn’t answer. The doorknob creaks under his fingers.

“That’s like, what - four nights in a row?” Isagi goes on. “You doing drills or something?”

Behind him, Bachira cackles like a cartoon. “Rin’s on a secret mission. Ooooh. Mysterious.”

Shidou grunts from the floor, still in push-up position. “Bet he’s got a body buried under the field.”

Barou doesn’t even look up from whatever protein bar he’s dissecting. “He’s probably just sick of hearing your voices.”

That, at least, is accurate.

Rin finally glances over his shoulder. Not far enough to show his face, just enough to be clear. “None of your damn businesses.” 

He says it like a blade -  not raised, not swinging, just sharp enough to leave a cut if they press.

The room stills for a second. Isagi blinks, but doesn’t speak. Doesn’t press. Which makes Rin more relieved for some reason.

He slips out.

The door clicks shut behind him. Not a slam like last week. Just enough to seal the noise out like it never existed.

The hallway is now dark and still, coated in the blue-white hum of emergency lighting. A far cry from the chaos behind him. His shoulders ease down.

He moves on instinct. Long steps, measured breath. No destination spoken aloud. He doesn’t need one.

He knows where he’s going. But he doesn’t think about it like that. Doesn’t give it the weight of a ritual. Doesn’t name it.

Let them make their jokes. Let Isagi take mental notes like he’s building some grand theory in his skull.

Whatever.

They don’t know what it’s like to need space so badly it becomes a second skin. They don’t know what it means to work yourself quiet. To outrun the noise, even if it means slipping out at night and vanishing for an hour or two, no explanations given.

And if someone’s waiting for him when he gets there -   that’s no one’s business either. They’ll all find out soon enough.

But not like this. Not here. Not now.

It’ll all happen on the main stage. While the whole world still thinks Rin Itoshi doesn’t need anyone but the ball at his feet and the game in his blood.

Let them keep thinking that a little longer. Let them choke on it when it stops being true.

**

The halls at night always feel like they belong to a different building.

Rin’s hands are in his pockets, hood half-up, not because it’s cold but because it gives him a reason to look down if he passes anyone. He doesn’t plan to. No one has reason to haunt these floors right now. 

He doesn’t check his phone to look at the time. Their meetings just fall into a rhythm. Like knowing when to breathe after a sprint. Instinctual. No planning necessary.

But since tonight he’s too early, instead of heading directly to the pitch, he veers.

Down the southern wing, past the performance lab, to the room he knows will be dark but unlocked. Ego probably thinks it builds discipline or whatever. Rin doesn’t care. He just knows it’s open.

The screening room.

He peaks through the entrance and notices the screen glowing low on standby, waiting for some genius analyst to bring it to life.

Rin pushes open the door and finds light.

There’s someone sitting on the floor cushions. Hoodie pulled halfway over his head. Phone screen lighting up his face in flickers. Barely moving.

Hiori.

He doesn’t notice Rin at first.

Which gives Rin a few seconds to take in the scene without comment. The big monitor’s on, but paused some old training  match queued up halfway through. No notes. No journal open. No tablet in hand. Just Hiori with his thumb on a small screen, knees pressing on his chest, blinking at something that clearly isn’t tactical.

Rin steps forward once.

The floor creaks.

Hiori flinches barely and lowers the phone with that look he always gets when he’s been caught doing something extremely human.

“You’re early.” Rin says, low and flat.

Hiori raises his head and greets him with a soft smile. Ice irises glimmering thanks to the light projected on the wall. Small cyan strands falling on his face. “I could say the same for ya.”

They stare at each other in stillness for a second. The lights from the hallway dying out behind Rin. The glow from Hiori’s phone fading between his fingers.

He turns the device off and slips it into his hoodie. Then pauses. As if reconsidering.

Hiori then pulls it out again.

And just barely turns it in Rin’s direction.

Rin catches the familiar, unmistakable splash screen before it disappears. He scoffs. “Dead by Daylight?”

Hiori shrugs one shoulder. Doesn’t bother denying it.

“You’re analyzing mid-game while dodging murderers?”

“Not analyzing.” Hiori leans back in the seat, head resting lazily on the chair’s spine. “I was waiting.”

Rin raises a brow, only barely. “For what? The killer to get bored?”

“For a teammate.” Hiori says.

Rin’s silent. Not because he doesn’t get it, but precisely because he does. Too well.

Hiori lifts the phone again and taps something casually. “Hey so…they’re addin’ a new map. Something in an abandoned school. Was about to try it out to kill time”

“Uh- Cool” Rin sais, like the word tastes strange in his mouth.

Silence, again. This time it is kind of awkward. 

Should we start training now?

Then, finally, Hiori taps something again and says it offhand, like he’s not offering anything big. Just another play.

“If you ever want to play, I’ll send you my ID.”

What?

Rin stares at him with a questioning look.

It’s not the offer that makes his jaw lock -it’s the way Hiori says it. Like he doesn’t expect a yes. Like he’s giving Rin the option to pretend it never happened if that’s what keeps their balance intact.

Rin hates how easily he reads him now.

He steps forward slowly, sits with crossed knees beside him. Says nothing for a while. Just stares at the paused frame on the big screen - some midfield play caught in the middle of a turnover

Rin recomposes himself immediately, like the words he just heard are offensive. “This is Blue Lock, not a daycare. I’m not wasting time on co-op horror games like some casual.”

Hiori doesn’t even flinch. “Ya sound like you’ve played ut before.”

“I have.” Rin mutters before he can stop himself. 

Shit. 

As a horror enthusiast, he does indulge in videogames of the genre from time to time. He always plays with randoms though. And coincidentally Dead by Daylight happens to be his favourite. 

But with the world cup approaching it’s certainly been the last thing on his mind. So he adds, sharper. “A few rounds. Doesn’t mean I play with people.”

Hiori turns, barely. Just enough that Rin catches the faintest hint of a smirk. “Ya mean you don’t trust people not to get ya killed.”

“It’s not about trust” Rin says, jaw tightening. “It’s about competence. Most players are useless.”

Hiori gives one of his shit eating smirks. “Sounds like fear to me.”

Oh fuck you.

Rin looks at him, flat. “I’m not afraid of a fucking mobile game.”

“I didn’t mean the game. I meant people.” Hiori’s voice is maddeningly calm, like he’s not trying to provoke - but absolutely is.

They stare at each other for a while - the kind of stare that’s less about anger and more about the refusal to break first. They’ve been doing those a lot recently.

Hiori leans an elbow on the back of his cushion, eyes half-lidded. He looks relaxed. Rin can feel himself tightening in response.

Hiori doesn’t look over right away. His thumb scrolls, feigning casualness. “Ya probably main Meg.” Like he’s testing something.

How did he…?

Rin freezes. “I don’t.”

Hiori doesn’t back down. “Ya do.”

“I don’t.” He does.

Hiori nods to himself like he’s figured out a puzzle. “Sprinter. Overachiever. Constant need to be chased but never caught. Definitely a Meg.”

“I swear to God, if you say one more word-”

Hiori is fully grinning now. “Didn’t even deny the chased part.”

Rin runs a hand through his hair, groaning through gritted teeth. “This is exactly why I don’t play with people.”

“Because they’re right?” Hiori hums, maddeningly smug now.

“Because they’re insufferable.”

But his voice lacks real venom now. There’s something else threading through it - exasperation, sure, but muted by something closer to curiosity than contempt. 

And the worst part is, Hiori certainly knows it. Rin can see it in the way the other boy settles back into his seat, like he’s already won a battle that never started.

He too has been learning a thing or two on how to read his body language.

“You could just say no,” Hiori says after a moment, voice softer. “I’m not asking ya to duo. Just… if ya want. We have plenty of time.”

Rin stares at him. For a beat too long.

“I don’t play with people,” Rin mutters again like a broken tape. But it sounds less like a rule now. More like a habit.

Hiori shrugs. “Then don’t think of me as people.”

It’s not even teasing. Just a blunt statement. And that, somehow, is worse.

Rin doesn’t answer. Not yet. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s already considering it.

But the truth is, the thought of queuing up a match and seeing that username pop up in his notifications doesn’t feel like a distraction right now.

Maybe it’ll turn out useful to sharpen our compatibility on the field. 

Hiori doesn’t speak again right away. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, not urgently - more like he’s giving Rin space to come to his own conclusion, or maybe letting the tension hang on purpose. It’s impossible to tell with him. He’s quiet even in the way he teases.

Rin stays a bit  out of reach, arms crossed now. He’s not looking directly at him. He’s staring at the blue-gray glow washing over the floor. His jaw’s tight, not from anger, but from the weird itch crawling under his skin.

Hiori plays Dead by Daylight. Wants to play with him.

It’s a small thing. A stupid thing.

But it’s also… not. Not when everything about Rin’s life has been sharpened into a weapon. Not when he’s spent the last year cutting away distractions like they were weaknesses. This - whatever this is - shouldn’t even register. It should be easy to say no and walk out.

So why hasn’t he?

“I…I like being chased,” he says suddenly. Flat. Direct. The truth sounds ridiculous out loud, but it’s not a lie. “That’s why I play. Not often. But- yeah I’ve had the app for years.”

Hiori stops scrolling. Turns his head just enough to glance at him. He doesn’t smile, not fully, but Rin can feel the air shift again.

“Figured,” he says simply.

Rin tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the type,” Hiori says, thumb still hovering over the screen. “You like being the hunted. Not because you’re afraid, but because ya want to be the last one standin’. Ya want to be seen and still survive.”

Rin doesn’t respond.

Because he’s fucking right. Am I this predictable?

Or is it just that easy for Hiori to read him now? Not even in a smug or loud way. He does it with this eerie clarity. 

Like he’s been paying attention longer than he should have.

“And you” Rin says eventually, voice low. “You obviously play killer.”

Hiori finally looks at him fully. His gaze is glowing. “Yeah.”

“Because it’s easy?”

“Because it’s quiet. And I like knowing blood was spilled thanks to me.”

There’s a pause.

Rin doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not the answer he expected. But it fits. Too well. He thinks back to that time they plotted murders on their teammates. Of course you would like that.

He leans back slightly, flexing his fingers once. 

Eventually, Hiori holds out his phone.

“I’ll send the invite,” he says, not pushing. Just offering.

Rin hesitates for a second too long. Then he shifts, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his own phone. The weight of it suddenly feels stupid. Like this object in his hand has become symbolic of something much more than just a game ID.

They both reach toward the middle at the same time - and for a second, just a second, their fingers brush as they exchange phones.

Rin’s fingers are cold from the air-conditioned room. Hiori’s are warmer. Not by much, but enough for Rin to notice it - enough that the contrast sticks longer than it should.

They each type in their own IDs. Quiet. Focused. Avoiding eye contact now like they’re pretending that moment didn’t land like it did.

Sheep23.

Beast10.

The screen glows softly in Rin’s hand as the confirmation notification dings.

He almost scoffs at the names. What am I doing?

They pass the phones back without another word. 

Rin stares down at the new tag on his friends list. His thumb hovers above it like he’s not sure if he wants to tap it now or later. His chest feels tight - not in a painful way. Just full. Like something’s pushing against the walls from the inside.

This is stupid.

He shouldn’t feel anything.

Not because of the game. Not even because of the invitation.

But because… this kind of thing doesn’t happen to Rin Itoshi.

People don’t ask him to play things.

People don’t say “if you ever want to.”

People don’t pass phones like it’s casual.

And more than that - people don’t look at him the way Hiori does sometimes. Not as a rival. Not as a fan. Just… like a person. Like someone worth checking in on. Someone worth being compatible with.

He fucking hates that word now.

Because it won’t leave him alone.

He clears his throat, thumb still hovering.

“We’ll still train,” he says flatly. “This doesn’t change anything.” 

It’s not a warning. It’s not quite a condition. It’s more like… a reassurance. To himself. That the order of things hasn’t shifted too much.

Hiori looks over at him. Quiet again. Measuring.

“Obviously” he says.

And that’s it.

No push. No smugness. Just a quiet agreement - not to change anything on the surface.

But something has changed.

Because somewhere deep in his chest - somewhere he refuses to look too closely - there’s this awful, persistent thought crawling in:

Is this what friendship looks like?

No. No. Of course not.

What he has with Hiori doesn’t look like anything he can name.

It’s functional. Controlled. Built in silence, in repetition. Their chemistry on the field is mechanical perfection, not emotional reliance. Their conversations, if you could even call them that, are data exchanges. 

**

🎶🎶

The match footage playing on the big screen is long forgotten. Paused somewhere at the 74th minute, a blurry freeze-frame of some corner kick that no one’s paid attention to in twenty minutes.

The real game is in their hands. Literally.

Two mobile screens glow against the dark. One gripped in long, pale fingers with nailbeds half-bitten from stress; the other held in a loose, casual grip like the owner has never known pressure in his life.

Sheep23 and Beast10.

Rin clicks “Ready” like it’s a trigger.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Hiori.

The screening room is quiet, save for the occasional soft hum of the AC and the taps of their thumbs moving with trained speed. 

Rin glances to the side once - just once - as the matchmaking timer ticks down. He watches how calmly Hiori holds himself, shoulders relaxed, hoodie sleeves pushed back, knuckles resting against the cushions they now unintentionally share.

The match is starting. Too late to back out now.

They spawn on opposite ends of the map. Typical.

Rin lands somewhere near a barn, generator humming in the near distance. Fog rolls in at the edges of the frame. A soft ambient static underscores the silence, building tension.

He breathes in. Focus.

He’s done this before. He’s good at this game. This isn’t some casual distraction - this is muscle memory, reaction time, reflex calibration. Rin plays to win. Even in 4v1 horror survival scenarios.

Even in the dark. Even with Hiori beside him.

He crouches, finds the first generator. Skill check - perfect. Another. Perfect again.

He’s halfway through it when he hears the first cue. The lullaby.

No mistaking that tune. A clean, mournful melody in the distance. The Huntress is coming.

And of course he knows exactly who’s playing killer.

Rin keeps his gaze locked on the screen, but his ears are straining. 

They’ve never hung out outside training before - except the necessary-called-by-nature time they had a late dinner together. He tells himself this is just gaming. Mental exercise. Horror immersion.

…So why is his heart going faster?

She - Hiori - finds him two minutes later.

Clean pursuit. Tight loop around the haybales. Rin throws a pallet early, forcing her to reroute. She doesn’t hesitate.

Her first axe skims past him - wide left.

Rin’s lips threaten to twitch. “Try harder,” he mutters.

A soft laugh from his left. Unfiltered.

Rin doesn’t look at him, but he hears the tease in his voice when the next axe lands just inches from Rin’s character.

“Not bad,” Hiori says, calm. “Ya run cleaner than I thought.”

“You throw like you’re giving me a head start.”

“Oh? Would ya rather I commit early?”

The way he says it sends something sharp crawling up Rin’s spine.

He doesn’t answer. Just vaults the next ledge, fast and fluid. The thrill of the chase is familiar. The game sharpens everything. His mind clears. His instincts override thought.

Hiori is toying with him.

The next minute is cat-and-mouse.

Rin’s character moves like water - no wasted steps. He could loop her for another full generator cycle if he wanted to.

But something shifts.

A pause in Hiori’s movement. A step too close.

Rin jukes right, and the axe flies wide - on purpose. He’s sure of it. He scoffs under his breath. “Patronizing me now?”

Hiori’s voice is a slow ripple: “Just admirin’ the route. You’re easy to read when yer trying to prove somethin’.”

Rin freezes for half a beat.

The game doesn’t pause, but his thumb slips - barely.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, low. 

But Hiori hears it. Of course he does.

And when Rin’s character makes a tight turn around the next haystack, the axe finally lands.

Downed. Rin clenches his jaw.

He doesn’t look up, but he feels the weight of Hiori watching him.

“Gotcha,” Hiori says, gloating. 

Rin clicks Recover. “Took you long enough.”

There’s silence for a while after that.

Hiori leaves him downed -  doesn’t hook him right away. Just lets him crawl, crawl, crawl.

When the match ends - sacrifice count high, exit gates unopened - Rin doesn’t speak.

He locks his phone. Drops it in his lap.

Then: “You weren’t trying at the start.”

Hiori stretches, slow. The grin never leaves his lips. “Was observing.”

“You stalled.”

“Ya liked it.”

Rin glares at the black projector screen in front of them, the match replay still paused in the background. He huffs. “Tch.”

It’s comfortable. And that’s dangerous.

Because comfort leads to connection. To recognition. To whatever this weird thing is.

Rin breathes through his nose, phone still in his hand, screen dark now. His pulse is finally coming down, the tension in his shoulders shifting from fight-or-flight to something more inert. But his head won’t shut up.

The chase felt good, the kind of immersive high only a game like this can offer. And he didn’t exactly hate the midfielder’s contribution to that.

But then Hiori speaks, and it ruins the whole process of calming down. “Wanna run it again?”

Rin exhales once. A short, sharp breath. He doesn’t look over when he responds. “No.”

There’s a soft chuckle to his left. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re quittin’ after one round.”

“I’m not quitting.” Rin snaps, too fast. “We’re done. We’ve got training to do.”

“Later.” Hiori shrugs. “Ya always stall for a good ten minutes stretchin’ anyway. This wouldn’t even cut into that.”

Rin turns slightly, gaze sharp now. “Hiori. This is Blue Lock. Not some gaming club. I don’t waste time when the World Cup’s ei-”

“-eighteen days away, yeah, I know,” Hiori cuts in smoothly. “You’ve said that twice already tonight.”

Rin has a split second urge to strangle him. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Their eyes meet. Neither blinks.

It’s Hiori who cracks the stillness first, voice shifting into something almost smug. “Ya got me booked all night anyway and ya know it. Just one more round.”

The words land somewhere between casual and deliberate.

Rin blacks out for half a second.

Not literally. But his mind spirals hard.

He said it like this is a standing thing now. Like Hiori’s schedule just slots naturally against his. Like the pitch after hours isn’t enough - now he’s got access to Rin’s downtime too.

He wouldn’t mind another round. Just one.

It had been… interesting. Hiori was a sadistic killer with immaculate mechanics. 

It was kinda fun.

But that’s exactly why he can’t say yes.

Because if he starts chasing that comfort, letting it stretch from the field to the screen to the hours in between - then what the fuck is this?

He clenches his jaw. The F-word word (friendship) again. Always circling.

He loathes it.

Hates how it requires things. Soft things. Dependency, loyalty, mutual comfort. All the junk that makes people slow and stupid and satisfied.

Rin is not satisfied.

He’s hungry.

And that hunger doesn’t leave room for things like… bonding.

“No,” he says, flat and final. “One game’s enough.”

Hiori doesn’t argue this time. He just sighs, sits back further into the seat, thumb idly flicking through the post-match screen.

But he doesn’t leave. And neither does Rin.

And then: “Fine. Not tonight.”

Rin glances over, wary.

“We can exchange Discords then.” Hiori adds, almost offhand.

“…What?”

Hiori finally looks at him again. “Ya heard me.”

“No.”

Hiori doesn’t even blink. “Don’t be dramatic. We don’t have to talk or anything. I’ll just ping ya when I want a rematch.”

Rin’s eye twitches.

Hiori hides a smile behind his knuckles. “Seriously. It’s also really practical. Yer not always early to training. I’m not either. This way we won’t waste time figurin’ out where to meet or if one of us is busy.”

Rin narrows his eyes. “What would we be busy doing in this prison?”

“Just sayin’. There’s a 5% chance.”

“I am always punctual.”

“Then you’ll be the one remindin’ me. Works both ways.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s a simple extension of logic. A move toward efficiency.

And maybe it is.

But Rin hears something else underneath.

He sighs - too loud. Like the breath was ripped from him.

Then, grudgingly, he reaches for his phone. “Okay. But we still train now.”

Hiori grins. It’s warm. And a little bit cruel. “Deal.”

And as their phones pass between them again, their fingers brush - this time, longer.

Rin doesn’t pull away first.

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t need to.

They sit back in silence, phones now returned, backs resting against worn cushions.

On the frozen screen ahead, the paused match flickers in silence.

Outside, the hallway is dead quiet.

Rin’s thoughts are not.

//

The water on his neck has gone cold. His hair still clings damp to his forehead when he drops onto the mattress, one towel over his shoulder, the other slung across the foot of the bed like he forgot how to be neat.

He didn’t forget. He just doesn’t care.

Everything from the neck down is humming. Exhaustion, mostly - his calves ache, his arms are tight, and his hoodie clings to his back with the memory of sweat - but the hum runs deeper than that.

The kind of hum you get when your body’s tired but your head isn’t. When your thoughts feel faster than your heart rate, even after running drills for two straight hours.

Hiori had been in sync tonight. Stupidly so. Every movement felt pre-read. Every pass found Rin’s foot like it was aimed by something smarter than instinct. Not a word spoken after “ready?” - they didn’t need to.

And maybe that’s what’s bothering him.

He flips onto his side, glares at the shadowed ceiling, and pulls his blanket up to his chest like it’s some kind of emotional shield.

He should sleep.

He wants to sleep.

His body aches for it - the deadweight in his limbs, the faint tingle in his knuckles from too much control and too little padding. His mind, though - his mind is chewing on something again. Something with sharp edges.

“You’ve got me booked all night and you know it.”

Rin scowls into the dark.

Hiori had said it too easily. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. It landed somewhere deep, curled up behind his ribs, like a coin dropped into a well.

And Rin keeps listening for the splash.

//

🎶🎶

It’s snowing.

Icy flakes fall slow. Heavy. Thick enough to silence everything, like the whole world’s been muted. The sky is a flat sheet of grey, the kind you can’t see the sun through. No wind. Just a dull, frozen quiet.

Rin knows this place.

Knows it by the sting in his lungs and the weight in his chest. Knows the curve of the road, the crooked streetlamp flickering like it’s stuck in a loop, the numb bite of slush under cleats.

He’s here again. In the memory. The one that loops behind his eyelids when he’s most vulnerable.

But something’s wrong.

Sae’s supposed to be standing across from him. Cold-eyed. Sharp-shouldered. Wearing that red scarf and the half-smirk that never quite made it to his eyes.

Except… it’s not Sae.

It’s Hiori.

And that alone fractures everything.

He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t here..

Hiori stands exactly where Sae once did - hands tucked in his jacket sleeves, face unreadable. Calm in that irritating way he always is. Like nothing anyone says will ever throw him off balance.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Rin hears himself say.

His voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. It echoes and fades, swallowed by snow.

Hiori doesn’t move.

He doesn’t even blink.

And Rin’s breath catches.

Because he knows what comes next. Has felt it in his bones since the first flake touched the pavement. This is the moment Sae walked away. When he left Rin behind, shoulders squared against the weight of their shared dream like it never belonged to them both in the first place.

“You… said we’d do this together.” Rin says. But this time, he’s not begging.

This time, he’s warning.

Still, Hiori just looks at him. Eyes soft, but fixed like glass. And then he speaks - voice low, nearly buried under the hum of the snow:

“I never promised that.”

The words slice clean through him.

Because that’s the difference. Sae made the promise and broke it.

Hiori never made it at all.

“You’re lying.” Rin mutters, even though he knows it’s pointless. His feet feel frozen in place. His hands, gloved but numb. There’s a hollow behind his ribs where air should be.

“We made a deal. I thought you-” His throat closes around the words.

But Hiori just stares. Not angry. Not smug. Not sad. Just far away.

“I want something else.” Hiori says. “I’m choosing that.”

Then he turns.

No warning. No final glance. Just a slow step into the white, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to leave Rin standing there.

Exactly like Sae. Exactly like that night.

Rin doesn’t call out though. Doesn’t chase.

He just watches. Watches the outline of Hiori’s back fade into the snowfall until it blurs into nothing.

Gone.

Alone again, like he always is.

His knees want to give. His lungs won’t move. And somewhere in the deep part of his chest, the one he’s trained not to feel from, something cracks like glass under pressure.

Just a pressing emptiness.

Always there.

**

Rin wakes with a jolt.

Sheets twisted. Breath shallow. Muscles tight like he’s just sprinted the final stretch of a losing match. The cold from the dream still clings to him, even though the room is warm, humid with leftover summer heat.

His eyes adjust to the dark.

Same ceiling. Same bunk. Shidou’s muttering nonsense in his sleep again. Someone’s foot is hanging off the edge of their mattress. Probably Bachira.

Rin exhales, slow and sharp.

That dream. That fucking dream.

And it happened again. It wasn’t Sae on the field. This time he was not there at all. Just icy irises who didn’t even bother pretending to look back.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Just as he’s turning onto his stomach - the lights fully out, the ambient hum of the dorm’s late-night silence kicking in - his phone buzzes once.

He freezes.

The screen lights up face-down, casting a dull glow against the sheets. He flips it over with the kind of practiced wariness reserved for bad news.

Discord 

Sheep23: you alive?

Rin stares at it.

Blank-faced. Blank-minded.

He doesn’t touch the phone. Doesn’t even shift position. His body stays perfectly still, except for the small twitch of his thumb.

It’s not like the message surprises him. If anything, he’d half expected something because Hiori is…like a rhythm you notice only after it’s been there a while.

Still, Rin doesn’t answer right away. The cryptic dream is still running through his mind.

It’s a simple message. That’s it. Hiori probably sends twenty of those a day. Maybe more if he’s gaming.

What does replying even mean?

Nothing. Objectively.

Just the difference between silence and interaction. Between control and response.

His thumb hovers.

Then, finally, without letting himself think too hard about it, he types back.

Beast10: barely

And hits send like he’s closing a door before something bigger can crawl in behind it.

The reply comes back immediately.

Sheep23: dramatic

Sheep23: you’re the one who nearly ran laps around me tonight

Rin frowns. Then types:

Beast10: you were slow

Sheep23: says the guy who missed a near post tap-in

This bastard.

He knows Hiori saw that. Of course he did - that calculator sees everything. But saying it? This casually?

Rin stares at the text like it insulted his ancestors. 

Beast10: go to sleep

Sheep23: why, so you can pretend you’re not waiting for me to say “gg” again?

Rin nearly drops the phone.

He knows it’s bait. He knows. And yet-

Something pushes up from his chest, uninvited. Something tight and sharp and weirdly warm, like a hiccup of breath that almost sounds like-

A laugh.

He clamps his jaw shut immediately. Blame it on the fact that he’s emotionally unstable right now, or maybe because it’s 3AM, but for some strange reason this might be the closest he’s come to laugh in the last two years.

He doesn’t type for a bit. Lets it settle. Then finally:

Beast10: gg

Beast10: loser

There’s a pause.

The typing indicator flickers on. Then:

Sheep23: no dreams tonight, beast10

Rin’s stomach flips. In an involuntary way. Like a reflex you didn’t agree to.

He stares at the message for too long. How the fuck did he…?

Then, in a moment of impulsive idiocy, types back:

Beast10: don’t call me that

Another pause. Then:

Sheep23: i like it

Sheep23: it’s cool

He chucks the phone onto the bed beside him and rolls onto his back, face burning in the dark for no damn reason.

This is fine. This is nothing.

That was just a stupid dream and this is fucking nothing.

Just - strategic rapport with a fellow ally.

Who happens to know how to chase him in Dead by Daylight, likes horror movies, has ochazuke as a favourite food and threads through balls for him like he’s seen the future.

Rin drags the blanket over his face.

He shuts his eyes, jaw clenched. Tries not to replay the messages again behind his eyelids.

He fails.

But at least it’s not a nightmare.

Not yet.

//

16 days before Nigeria VS Japan

It’s barely ten minutes into the scrimmage, and Rin’s already considering homicide.

His eyes scan the midfield again, partly to track the ball, partly to keep himself from storming off. And like clockwork, they fall on Hiori.

It happens without intention, just muscle memory now. But something sticks.

Not his touch on the ball. Not his composure or the way he ghosts past defenders like it’s second nature. It’s the flash of the morning - the one he keeps replaying.

Because this isn’t the first time Rin’s seen him round that corner just before breakfast. Hoodie half-zipped, head down, trailing behind Kurona, Isagi, and Bachira like it’s some inside joke he’s not part of.

They always come from the same stairwell. The one no one uses. The one that, far as Rin knows, just leads up.

And there’s nothing up there. As far as he knows. No dorms. No rec room. No exits.

So what the hell are they doing there almost every morning?

He’s seen it three times now - maybe four. Always the same rhythm. Always the same group. Always Hiori, quiet at the back, like he’s part of something but not quite in it.

Rin hasn’t asked. Of course not. That would imply curiosity. Or worse - concern.

But still. It clings to him. What’s up there? What do they do?

And why the hell is it bothering him?

He refocuses. Just in time to watch Reo attempt to shout a tactical formation in what Rin’s 90% sure is butchered Oxford English.

He grits his teeth.

Shidou’s shirt is already off by minute five. Karasu’s limping theatrically after every pass he makes, claiming “creative strain.”

Rin does not have the patience for this today.

He cuts past Niko and delivers a clean low pass to Chigiri, who takes it… and then stops, mid-sprint, to tie his hair ribbon. Seriously.

“Are we playing or putting on a fashion show?” Rin mutters under his breath.

Nobody hears him. Or if they do, they don’t care.

Bachira’s making monkey noises again. Shidou is doing pushups in the opponent’s box. Barou nearly snaps at Reo for calling a back-pass “aesthetically balanced.”

It’s chaos. Loud, unproductive, chaotic.

The only consistent thing on the field is Hiori.

He’s not drawing attention, not barking orders. But his movements are exact. 

Rin notices like he always does.

He doesn’t say anything, but when Hiori slots him a narrow pass through two defenders, Rin reacts before he thinks. One touch. Then a shot.

Goal.

Rin just jogs back into position, pulse even. He hears Shidou scream something about wanting an explosive assist too but blocks it out.

Hiori jogs by, not smiling. Just meets Rin’s gaze for half a second.

Rin nods. That’s it.

The match ends with Barou kicking the ball into the stands because someone called him “predictable,” and Ego cuts the scrimmage short, muttering about tactical degeneration.

Rin heads straight for the dorms, pretending his head doesn’t hurt from absorbing secondhand stupidity.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He pulls it out.

Sheep23: 11:15. meet you there.

Rin doesn’t reply right away.

Just stares at the screen a second longer than necessary.

Then he settles to send a thumbs up.

He keeps walking. But the noise of the day doesn’t follow him this time.

**

Night sessions always have this kind of silence to them. Like the world’s asleep just outside the fence, and only they’re awake enough to keep chasing something.

He exhales. Doesn’t bother counting this set of sprints. Just moves. Forward, then back. Turn. Cut. Pivot. Again.

Opposite him, Hiori is running a different pattern. The kind of movement that prioritizes vision, spacing, recovery. He’s light. Almost disarmingly so.

They’ve been doing this for twenty minutes. No words. No instructions. They don’t need any.

Still, something about tonight won’t let Rin settle.

Too much tension under his skin. Not the sharp kind that drives him  - the loose, frustrating sort that distracts. And he knows exactly when it started.

“Ya zonin’ out?” Hiori says, cutting him off his thoughts.

Rin glances over.

“I’m not” he mutters, not bothering to deny it harder.

Hiori shrugs, wiping sweat from his temple with the hem of his shirt. “If ya say so.”

There’s a beat. They start a new round of mirrored footwork - one cut, one pass, one return. Rhythm. Clean. On the fourth switch, Hiori catches the ball on the edge of his foot and asks, so casually Rin almost doesn’t clock it:

“Why Beast10?”

The ball rolls back to Rin. He stops it with the side of his boot.

“What?” he says, even though he heard him clearly.

“Yer ID. Beast10. That’s your Discord, right?”

Rin’s jaw ticks slightly. He doesn’t like being read too easily, and Hiori always manages to do it like it’s nothing.

“It’s not that deep,” he says.

But he knows that’s a lie.

Because it is that deep. It’s muscle memory, ego, a name he gave himself when he first joined Blue Lock and thought branding was just another form of dominance. Because “Beast” was what the world expected of strikers. 

“It’s what I am.” he says, after a pause. The words leave his mouth flat. Factual. But his pulse betrays him.

“10” was the only number he ever wanted to wear - not just because it was Sae’s before, but because it was always meant to be his.

“More like what they made me into here. So I kept it.” He shrugs once

And because, deep down, it’s how he plays. Not pretty, not always graceful. But relentless. Animal instinct dressed up in structure.

“You don’t play like someone who’s trying to prove anythin’ ” the cyan head says eventually.

Rin scoffs. “I’m not.” Another beat. Then: “I already am what I prove.”

Hiori smirks. Then says, “It fits ya.”

They resume the drill. Rin hates how that settles in his chest.

After a few beats, he throws it back.

“Sheep23?” he mutters.

Hiori exhales. Not a laugh, but close.

“Thought ya’d never ask,” he says in a teasing tone. “It’s not as dumb as it sounds.”

“Never said it does.” Rin says flatly, though not without a bite.

“It’s from a line in a book,” Hiori says, catching another pass mid-step. “Something about how everyone just follows the system. Walking in lines. Being told what they’re allowed to want.”

He spins the ball once with his toe, lets it fall.

“I think I picked it back when I still thought I was one of them.”

Rin doesn’t know what to say to that.

Because now, he isn’t. That much is obvious. Not with the way he sees plays before they happen. Not with how he talks less, but says more when he does. And not with the way he’s moved beside Rin, in training and in matches, like they’ve been syncing for years.

“Kind of dramatic for a Discord name,” Rin mutters after a pause. 

“You literally called yerself ‘Beast’” Hiori shoots back, dry as a desert.

Rin scowls. “Shut up, Sheep.”

Hiori huffs out of his nose.“Ya chose 10 because it’s your jersey number” He says next.

“You chose 23 because it’s yours.” Rin retorts back.

Hiori’s lips twitch.

The next drill, they don’t speak. But the tempo smooths out. Just a little. Like tension’s been folded into the routine instead of fighting it.

Rin keeps his eyes forward, but his mind’s elsewhere. Still picking apart that stupid moment.  He doesn’t know why all of this matters.

He bites his tongue. Keeps running. Hiori falls into step beside him like it’s nothing. Like it’s natural.

//

Rin lies on his back, one arm slung over his forehead, blanket kicked halfway to the floor. The fan hums overhead, rattling faintly every fourth rotation. Outside, someone’s distant snoring cuts in and out. His body aches from drills, but his mind won’t shut off.

He hasn’t checked his phone in over an hour. On purpose. Every time he’s reached for it, he’s stopped short. No reason to open Discord. No reason to check the last chat.

And then it buzzes.

Screen lights up.

Sheep23: Rin

Rin stares at it for a second.

Typical Hiori. No punctuation, no emojis, no fluff. Just quiet lowercase honesty.

He doesn’t reply.

Another message pings, softer this time.

Sheep23: so i was trying out oni earlier

Sheep23: match was trash

Sheep23 : thought i’d see if you’re on

Rin reads it twice. There’s no actual question. But he gets it.

He shifts onto his side, propping his phone up against his pillow.

His reply comes slower.

Beast10: no

Beast10: just sleep

It should end there.

But Hiori’s typing again.

Sheep23: i tried watching some footage to knock myself out

Sheep23: now i’m just more awake

Another pause.

Sheep23: figured your brain’s probably doing laps too

Rin doesn’t answer immediately.

He hates that Hiori’s not wrong.

The lights are off. His legs feel like concrete. But his head’s buzzing, restless. It’s been like this more nights than not. Lately, it’s gotten worse.

He lets a full minute pass.

Then:

Beast10: you want something or just narrating

The typing bubble flickers on again, then disappears. Then returns.

Sheep23: dbd

Sheep23 : you pick the map

Rin’s eyes narrow.

So that’s what this is. Not insomnia. Not footage.

He wants the chase.

Beast10 : sounds like you just want to hit someone

Sheep23 : that too

Rin exhales sharply through his nose.

He should say no. He did already. This sounds stupid and pointless. He has training at 8AM.

And yet.

His thumb hovers.

Hiori’s not pushy. That’s what makes it worse. He’s patient. 

Just enough to make Rin feel like it’s his idea.

Beast10 : one match

Sheep23 : generous tonight, aren’t we

Beast10 : shut up

Beast10 : you better not camp the hook again

Sheep23 : no promises

Sheep23 : depends how fast you run

Rin glares at the screen. His heart kicks once. It shouldn’t. It’s a joke.

He mutters under his breath. “Tch.”

The game loads slow. Fog crawling in. Blue light spills across the walls.

He knows what this is.

Just a rematch. Just a distraction.

The blanket hangs over his head, draped low to cut the dim dorm light out. His back’s curled toward the wall, knees pulled slightly up. A position he hasn’t slept in since he was twelve, but it’s the only way the light from his screen won’t get seen by anyone across the room. 

Shidou’s still mumbling in his sleep about protein or explosions or whatever demonic mix of the two drives him. Barou’s snoring like it’s a personal attack on the world.

Rin’s heartbeat ticks faster than it should.

He sets the mic volume low, pulls the blanket over his head… and taps the green Discord button.

He answers.

A soft, filtered breath slides through his ear. Not quite static, but warm in a way that makes Rin’s pulse shift.

“Hey” Hiori says, voice so quiet it barely registers.

Rin swallows.

“Hi” he mutters back.

Then the click of game audio booting up. Fog rolling in. Menu music playing faintly on both ends.

“Ya ready?” Hiori whispers, not teasing yet - just calm, composed, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do. Like whispering across rooms in the dark is a habit they’ve always had.

Rin shifts onto his side. “Yeah.”

**

Rin’s eyes are half-lidded by the time the match ends. Not out of tiredness - not really - but from that strange, sedative quiet that creeps in only when the world forgets you exist. 

The room’s gone still around him. Just the pale glow of the screen washing shadows across his blankets, and the low, steady sound of Hiori breathing through his mic. 

It’s…okay. This.

Lukewarm, maybe. 

But it’s not like he was doing anything better with his nights. He never sleeps right anyway.

It’s just killing time. Unspoken insomnia protocol. Reflex-level coping.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just quiet. Manageable.

Hiori says, barely above the mic’s hum, “gg.”

And for a second, Rin lets himself drift in stillness. In the shape of a silence that isn’t uncomfortable. In the feeling that maybe, this once, he doesn’t have to be someone else.

Then, from the other end of the dorm, almost drowned by the rustle of a turning body:

“…Sae.”

It’s barely a breath. But Rin hears it.

And just like that, the quiet doesn’t feel safe anymore.

Rin freezes.

It echoes in his head before it registers in his ear. That name. His brother’s name.

What the fuck?

His stomach turns.

He doesn’t move. Just lets the syllable hang in the dark like something rotten. Shidou’s voice -  lazy, loose with sleep - lingers like steam on a mirror.

Of course it’s him. Who else would dream about Sae and say it out loud like a fucking love song?

Rin’s throat tightens. His fingers curl into the edge of his blanket.

Gross. Disgusting. Unbelievable.

“Fucking hell” he mutters under his breath.

There’s a beat of silence on the mic.

Then Hiori’s voice, soft. “Did- did I miss something?”

Shit, he must’ve heard. That freak ruined everything.

Rin grits his teeth. “It was the antennae bastard.”

Another pause.

“Oh,” Hiori says, like the realization has just clicked. “Oh. That was-?”

“Shut up.”

Then Hiori makes a noise, somewhere between disbelief and a half-swallowed laugh. “Did he just…oh my god”

Rin doesn’t answer.

Because yes. He fucking did. Not too loud. Not drawn-out. But too intimate to be innocent.

And it wasn’t just the name. It was the way he said it. Like Sae existed inside whatever fantasy Shidou was conjuring behind his shut eyes.

The thought alone makes Rin want to punch the wall. After having puked.

“I’m gonna strangle him.” Rin says flatly. “I swear to god.”

“Please don’t” Hiori mumbles, still laughing - quietly, like he’s trying to be polite about it. “You’ll get benched.”

“He deserves it.”

“He kinda does.” This fucker is amused by Rin’s suffering.

Rin leans his head back against his pillow, breathing through his nose like it might neutralize the nausea curling low in his gut.

“I already had to see them look at each other like freaks on the field.” he mutters. “I don’t need audio commentary while I’m trying to sleep.”

🎶🎶

“It was… weirdly tender,” Hiori says, which earns a glare Rin throws at the inside of his own blanket.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m just sayin’. He said it like - like he missed him.” Is this his new way of teasing?

“I’m hanging up.”

Hiori laughs again. Quiet. Breathless. But there’s something about it that cuts softer than mockery.

Then, a beat later, he says, barely above a whisper:

“Do you think it’s nice?”

Rin pauses.

His ears ring. “What?”

“To… I don’t know. Have that kind of connection with someone. Where yer just wired into their head like that. Even when yer not around.”

Rin doesn’t respond. His stomach’s still somewhere near his knees from the ‘Sae incident’, and now this?

He frowns at the phone like it just insulted him.He didn’t expect this kind of reaction from Hiori.

Maybe they’re not as similar as he thought.

“You think that disgusting shit is nice?” he finally says, incredulous.

“I mean… not like that, obviously,” Hiori mutters. “But the idea of it. Of… being known completely .”

Rin’s jaw ticks. “You fucking sound like Reo.”

Hiori lets out a breath. “That’s probably the meanest thing ya ever said to me.”

“You’re the one being weird.”

“I’m not tryin’ to,” Hiori says, and something in his voice lowers - just a little. “I guess it’s just… rare. People don’t sync like that naturally.” A beat passes. “I know some spend years pretending to.”

Rin furrows his brows.

He doesn’t get this. Not really.

He knows how to sync on the field. Timings, angles, touch weight. He knows how to adjust to someone’s pace mid-press. But whatever this is - what Hiori’s talking about - he doesn’t get it.

“You’re talking about, what, friendship?”

That word again. His brain seems to bring it up obsessively lately.

“Kind of. Or something else.”

What?

Rin is confused. This is the last thing he thought he would talk about with someone. Let alone him.

But it’s 4AM, his brain is fuming at the thought of those two together, and Hiori always seems like a good escape.

Also, it’s just harmless conversation. So he says it.

“Or…” His throat suddenly felt itchy  “love?” 

Gross.

Hiori seems to think about it for a brief moment, then says “Oh. Yeah- That too.” Pause. “How can I explain this….Ya ever solve for two variables?”

Rin blinks. “What?”

Hiori clears his throat. “Like in math. Two equations, two unknowns. The idea is - ya only get the full solution if they’re connected. Alone, they don’t mean anythin’. But together, they solve each other.”

Rin’s quiet for a long time.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that. It’s dumb. It sounds like something Isagi would bring up in an emotional TED talk about chemical reactions or whatever.

But.

Something about it… makes sense.

Rin adjusts the phone in his hand. “Sounds inefficient.”

Hiori hums. “Maybe. Guess it’s the kind of thing ya recognize when it’s right.”

For a moment he wonders if they’re still talking about Sae and Shidou.

“And you think they… have that?” Rin asks, tone sour again.

“Well, I do think they’re gross.” Hiori says flatly. “But yeah. It’s probably there.”

Rin grimaces. “Please, kill me.”

Hiori laughs. He does that a lot now apparently. “I won’t. You’re fun to talk to.”

Rin stares at the dark. Fun? Rin’s never been referred to as fun. Weird at best.

The word drops into his head and just… sits there. Heavy, certain, irritatingly comforting.

And before he can shove it away, his brain - the fucking traitor - adds:

Yeah. You’re fun to talk to, too.

He feels the thought form so clearly it’s like he almost says it out loud. His throat even tightens like it’s preparing to.

Which is exactly why he strangles it on the spot.

No. Absolutely not. That’s not what he means.

Fun is… childish. Pointless. 

He doesn’t need fun. He needs results. He needs players who can keep up, who can push him forward, who can survive next to him on the pitch without dragging him down.

That’s all Hiori is. That’s all this is.

But he doesn’t have a reply to that. So instead, he says the only thing that feels true:

“I fucking hate everyone here.”

“I know.” Hiori says, he sounds like he’s smiling. “Guess it makes this kind of nice.”

Something twists low in his stomach, sharp enough to make him blink at the dark.

Rin wasn’t expecting that.

Not the words - the tone.

Light. Like this was a given. Like they’d both silently agreed on it ages ago and Rin had just missed the memo.

It’s stupid. They’re just talking. But it lands wrong - or maybe too right - and for a second he’s not sure what to do with it.

His brain scrambles for the usual response, something clipped, dismissive. But another part of him - quieter, slower - stalls, because apparently Hiori thinks this is nice.

Nice, in the way people mean when they’re not talking about drills or strategy or winning. Nice in a way Rin doesn’t really… have.

This is bad.

The flip in his stomach lingers, warm and irritating, and he hates how aware he is of the faint hum of Hiori’s mic, like he can hear him breathing.

Hates more that he doesn’t want to break it.

“Shut up.”

Their phones stay lit. Another lobby loads. They don’t click “ready.”

For a long time, it’s just breath between them.

Just two boys under separate blankets, whispering in the dark.

One disgusted. The other quietly intrigued.

Neither of them saying what they mean - not yet.

But maybe, just maybe, solving for something neither has the equation for yet.

And for Rin, that should feel wrong.

Instead…

It just feels real.

Chapter Text

15 days before Nigeria VS Japan

Today, Ego’s been summoning players one by one since breakfast.

Hiori didn’t need long to catch the pattern. He’d noticed it hours ago - each of them heading toward Ego’s office at staggered intervals, like patients waiting for a check-up they didn’t want.

By mid-morning, it was clear Ego was working through the roster like some kind of ominous checklist.

Every hour or so, the monitors in the common areas would flash up a name in that blunt, unblinking text:

Report to my office: 9:20. Kurona Ranze.

Report to my office: 9:50. Niko Ikki.

A short disappearance, the hiss of the conference room doors, and then the return - usually with no explanation. Just a quiet seat taken again, a protein shake cracked.

The conference room is already halfway full by the time Hiori gets there. The hum of the AC is underscored by half-hearted chatter, most of it coming from Bachira, who’s trying to get Gagamaru to bet on how long each player lasts in Ego’s office before they get kicked out.

“Kurona went in for six minutes,” Bachira says, counting on his fingers. “That’s gotta mean something.”

“It means he talks too slow,” Gagamaru replies, deadpan.

Chigiri, sitting nearby, doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Or that Ego’s just bored.”

Kunigami passes by and drops a hand on Chigiri’s shoulder like a warning. “Keep your voice down. You know he hears everything.”

That gets a collective glance toward the security cameras in the corners of the room. Bachira grins right at one and waves.

Hiori takes a seat near the middle, setting his ID card on the table like he’s staking a claim. He’s not particularly nervous - not yet - but the atmosphere makes it hard to relax. Every time the conference room doors hiss open, the entire table goes quiet, all eyes flicking to see who’s next.

The doors slide open again, and Aryu strolls in, hair immaculate as if Ego’s office came with a personal salon. He sits down and immediately begins combing through the ends of his hair with his fingers, ignoring Reo’s attempt to get him to share details.

“Top secret,” Aryu says smoothly. “Besides, wouldn’t want to ruin the drama.”

A few seats down, Rin is leaned back in his chair, one knee up, arms crossed. He’s not talking to anyone, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall. His expression isn’t exactly scowling - more like his default grimace: the one that makes it look like every interaction is an inconvenience.

When Shidou started bouncing a grape off the tabletop, Rin’s gaze slid toward Hiori. And then, very deliberately, Rin lifted his hands, mimed pulling back the bolt of an invisible rifle, sighted along the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

He’s still sour from last night apparently.

Hiori snorted before he could stop himself, leaning back in his chair and giving the faintest shake of his head. It was as close as Rin got to saying let’s put them out of their misery.

The corner of Rin’s mouth tugged upward - just a twitch, almost imperceptible - before he dropped his gaze back to the wall.

Hiori stifles a laugh, lowering his gaze to the table. If Rin wanted him to feel rattled, he’d have to try harder.

“Someone’s in a good mood, mood” Kurona says from beside him, catching the suppressed grin.

“Mm,” Hiori hums, noncommittal. No point explaining.

From the other side of the room, Isagi is trying to piece together a theory about why they’re being called in individually. “Maybe it’s feedback,” he says, leaning forward. “Like private performance evaluations. Could be about our play in the last sim block.”

Bachira shakes his head. “Nope. He’s totally picking his favorite. That’s why I’m last - saving the best for last.”

“Or the worst,” Karasu mutters.

That earns him a grape to the forehead, courtesy of Bachira’s flick-shot accuracy.

The door hisses open again, and Nanase walks in looking paler than usual. He sits without a word, eyes darting between his hands and the table.

“How was it?” Kurona asks quietly.

Nanase just swallows and shakes his head.

This time, the silence lingers a little longer before the chatter picks back up, softer now. It’s like each return from Ego’s office turns the collective mood a notch more inward.

Hiori watches the clock on the far wall, feeling each minute like a slow drip. Rin is still in his seat, posture unchanged, expression unreadable. If he’s been called already, he’s not giving anything away. If he hasn’t… well, maybe they’ll cross paths in the hall.

“Hiori Yo,” Anri’s  voice announces from the overhead speaker. “Report to Ego’s office.”

Bachira leans in with a wolfish grin. “Don’t trip on the way there.”

“Or blink too slow,” Karasu adds without looking up.

Hiori just slides his chair back, ignoring them both. He takes his time standing, adjusts his hoodie, and slips his ID card back into his pocket.

As he heads toward the doors, he glances once more toward Rin. 

Hiori lets himself smile again as the doors hiss shut behind him.

Now it’s his turn.

**

He knocks once and opens the door at Ego’s usual clipped, “Enter.”

The room is dimmer than the hallway - backlit monitors casting angular reflections on the glass wall, code flickering behind Ego’s sharp glasses. Hiori steps in and stands as expected, hands behind his back, posture straight. But he doesn’t force himself to look relaxed.

Ego barely looks up. “Sit.”

Hiori obeys, settling in with quiet hands and a gaze lowered just enough not to seem challenging.

There’s a short silence.

Then: “Your current bid ranking is sixteen.”

Hiori nods once. No need to pretend he’s unaware. The numbers are public.

Ego clicks to another screen. “You’re starting against Nigeria.”

It takes half a second for the words to register. And when they do, Hiori doesn’t react outwardly. Not really. But inside - there’s movement. A sudden rush of something warm behind his ribs.

He hadn’t expected that.

He’s not even in the top eleven. But this changes everything for him. 

“Understood,” he says. His voice is steady. He’s always been good at staying even. But there’s a spark lit now. Quiet, but unmistakable.

Ego lets it sit for a beat.

“You’re not starting because you’re the best,” Ego says, and there’s no malice in the words -  just fact. “You’re starting because of how you function in the machine.”

Hiori nods again.

“I’ve been observing you for weeks. Not just in scrimmages. Not just on paper. But in the margins.”

What does that even mean?

Hiori blinks. “The… margins?”

“The areas between action and reaction. The points no one else notices. Your positioning. Your timing. The way you watch.”

Ego stands and circles the desk slowly.

“You’re not flashy. You’re averagely fast. But you’re precise. And you adapt quickly. You don’t force the rhythm - you read it. That’s what makes you viable as an axis.”

Hiori’s hands tighten slightly in his lap.

“This match isn’t just about ego,” Ego continues, which is ironic considering the source. “It’s about structural function. And right now, your function slots best with the current starting configuration.”

He pauses. Glances back at the screen. Another flick of his wrist, and a set of performance charts pop up - colored trajectories, stamina readouts, compatibility heatmaps.

“I’ll also have to mention your score with striker Itoshi Rin has spiked higher than projected.”

Rin’s name drops like a pin.

Hiori doesn’t react. Not outwardly.

But he thinks the late-night matches. The silent pacing during post-training cooldowns. The way Rin’s eyes shift just slightly when something actually works.

He’s not surprised Ego noticed.

“Your field awareness complements his. Whether intentional or incidental, your predictive capacity matches his offensive style more than any other midfielder’s.”

That… makes something settle in his chest.

Pride, maybe. Or the feeling of things lining up. Like the proof of quiet effort finally paying off - not just in numbers, but in visible trust. 

Rin would never easily admit it. But on the field, he plays with Hiori like he knows he’ll be there.

Still, Ego’s voice cuts through it before the feeling gets too strong:

“This is not a reward. This is a test.”

Hiori straightens slightly.

“If you can anchor him, you can anchor anyone. But that’s only one axis. You are expected to link the entire field - not just one player.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will not waste this opportunity.”

“No, sir.”

There’s another long silence. Ego’s gaze sharpens like he’s trying to see through layers.

Then, finally: “You’ve changed. Since the Neo Egoist League.”

Hiori breathes. “I’ve been trainin’.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not because he’s hiding something, but because he doesn’t know what Ego sees, or doesn’t. 

Ego doesn’t press. He walks back to his desk, sits down again. Taps through a few more screens.

“I don’t care what motivates you,” he says finally. “As long as it sharpens your blade.”

Hiori nods. Once.

He thinks of his mother’s voice - not warm, not cruel. Just careful. Always careful. And how the silence on the other end of the line said more than anything she could’ve offered in words.

He thinks of Rin - not soft, not kind. But steady. Predictable in his edges. And how that predictability has become a rhythm Hiori can read even without looking.

And he thinks of the rooftop.

The view in the early hours. The laughter and jokes with his friends. The thinner air up there. Quiet in a way the dorms never are. 

Sometimes, when Hiori hears Rin’s voice over the mic, low and reluctant, half a second before “Ready,” he thinks what it would be like to go up there with him.

Ego shuts the file. “Dismissed.”

Hiori stands. Bows once. And walks out.

//

The dining hall is loud - bursts of laughter here, clanking trays there, and Karasu pretending to reenact his “miraculous assist” to Barou with such theatrical flair that even Niko groans. 

The noise doesn’t bother Hiori. It washes over him now, harmless. Like the spray off a wave you’ve learned not to flinch from.

He sits in his usual spot. Kurona’s already mid-rant when Hiori slides in beside him.

“And then he tells me,” Kurona gestures with a chopstick, “I’m not starting, but that my presence is crucial to maintaining flow. Flow. Like I’m a fucking faucet, faucet.”

Bachira chokes on his tea. “He called you plumbing?”

“Exactly.” Kurona complains.

“You’re the emotional tap water of the team.” Isagi says with a grin, elbowing Kurona’s side.

“Unbelievable,” Kurona sighs. “I’m getting paid in metaphors, metaphors!”

Isagi snorts. “At least you got a metaphor. Ego just told me my entire function is ‘obvious’ and left it at that.”

“Obvious?” Bachira cackles. “You’re literally number one, you didn’t even need confirmation that you’re starting.”

Hiori smiles faintly into his bowl. The conversation moves fast - it always does with these three - and it’s nice. He doesn’t have to think too hard, doesn’t have to say much. They fill the air enough for everyone.

He knows what they want to ask him. Everyone’s buzzing from their meeting. You can hear it echo in the hallways. Today’s menu isn’t curry or katsudon - it’s analysis, speculation, and bragging rights.

So when Isagi turns to him with a crooked grin, Hiori’s already prepared.

“Bet you got something good, ultra-sadist.” Isagi says.

Hiori shrugs, trying to keep it light. “He said I’m startin’.”

Bachira whistles. “Hell yeah! Midfield axis Hiori!”

Kurona grins. “Did he say you’re plumbing too, too?”

“No metaphors,” Hiori says after a brief laugh, voice mild. “Just… pressure.”

They all nod like they get it. Because they do. Pressure is the language of Blue Lock.

Isagi leans forward slightly, expression softening. “You’ve been pushing yourself harder lately. I mean… sure, we all have, but you’re genuinely locked in.”

Hiori keeps his gaze down. That kind of comment shouldn’t throw him, but it does. He hums low in acknowledgment.

“You deserve it,” Isagi adds, more seriously. “It’s showing.”

And that - that hits a little deeper than expected.

He nods, grateful but careful. If they notice too much, they might start asking questions. Like why Hiori’s legs are always a little looser at night. Or why he’s sharper now with long passes. Or why his peripheral reading has spiked.

Why he’s been syncing with a particular striker faster than anyone else.

But they don’t. Not yet. Isagi, perceptive as ever, gives him a look that lingers longer than it should - but says nothing. Not directly.

Hiori takes another bite of rice. Let’s the silence thicken between them for a second.

They move on. To a ridiculous debate about whose dorm has the best beds.

(Bachira swears his mattress has extra support - “Ergonomic as hell,” he says. Kurona claims his room is the warmest in winter because it’s near the servers. Isagi tells them they’re both delusional and that sleep quality is a mindset.)

It’s easy to blend into the laughter. And of course Hiori does. But part of his mind drifts slowly.

What did Ego tell Rin?

He knows the meetings aren’t scripted. Ego plays things like poker - bluff, bait, and big reveals when you least expect them. So Hiori can’t be sure what was said. Maybe Rin was told to adjust his shooting ratio. Maybe he was shown footage of his temper. Or maybe-

Maybe his name came up too.

Maybe Ego mentioned Hiori. 

He catches himself scanning the canteen - instinctual now. A reflex he hasn’t learned to fight. He doesn’t spot Rin anywhere. Not near the vending stations, not at the far tables with the quieter players, not trailing his brother’s shadow.

Gone. Again.

Probably skipping dinner. Or sleeping. Or sulking somewhere because someone told him to pass more.

Hiori frowns faintly, gaze drifting back to the table. Kurona is deep into another ridiculous anecdote, Bachira’s miming a killer whale, and Isagi is taking pictures of everyone’s tray for “nutritional analysis.” The usual.

But Rin’s absence sticks in his mind like a missed button on a shirt - small, but irritating. It bugs him.

Not because he cares. Obviously.

But they’re training again tonight. Like always. And Rin’s a mess when he skips meals - sluggish, snappy, and (though Hiori would never say it aloud) slightly more dramatic than usual.

He sighs into his sleeve, rubs at the side of his temple, and lingers as the others start standing. 

Isagi claps him on the shoulder. “You staying?”

“Gonna finish this,” Hiori murmurs. “And maybe grab somethin’ to go.”

“Leave some coffee for the rest of us, us.” Kurona says, and they’re gone.

The table feels empty instantly. Hiori doesn’t like or dislike it. But for the purposes of what he plans to do it happens to be the perfect arrangement.

He starts moving on instinct.

Hiori’s fingers hover over the vending machine panel a moment later.

The glow of the touchscreen reflects faintly on his face. The menu scrolls automatically, offering the usual: rice, miso, yakisoba, curry.

He swipes down until he finds it.

Ochazuke. Sea bream flavour.

He selects it without thinking.

The machine buzzes quietly, whirring with purpose.

As it prepares the meal, Hiori finds himself hesitating for the first time. His hand lingers over the collection tray, not taking the meal right away.

Is this weird?

Is he crossing a line?

Sure, they ate ochazuke together once. And yes, he did scold Rin for skipping dinner that same night. But that was different. That felt… reactive. This feels premeditated.

This is him making choices.

He tells himself it’s practical. Logical. If Rin eats, their training goes smoother. That’s all.

And if practicality doesn’t involve standing alone in the canteen with a tray of green tea rice wondering whether the other guy might take this as something more - then fuck the word itself.

Hiori sighs, finally picking up the tray. He doesn’t know how he’ll get it to him yet. He’ll figure it out. He always does.

But for now, he just holds it. Lets the weight of it settle in his hands.

Ochazuke for Rin.

Nothing more.

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t frown either.

Just turns and walks out.

**

Sheep23 : training tonight.

Sheep23: can we make it earlier?

Beast10 : how early

Sheep23 : 10:15

Beast10 : the fuck for

Sheep23 : just figured we’d get more out of it

Sheep23 : and I have good news

Beast10 : if this is for another dbd match 

Beast10 : i will physically break you

Sheep23 : not dbd

Sheep23 : come sharp

Beast10 : your funeral

Hiori doesn’t grin.  But there’s a twitch in his cheek as he closes Discord and pockets his phone. 

The tray in his hands is still warm -  the ochazuke steaming faintly in the evening chill as he steps out onto the pitch.

The net at the far goal hangs still, no breeze to stir it, no footsteps to disturb the silence. Hiori’s not warming up. Not running drills. Just waiting - for footsteps he knows, for a presence that shifts the air in ways he pretends not to notice.

He settles near the halfway line. Not the benches. Not their usual warm-up corner. Just the middle - open, unassuming, impossible to miss. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the tray.

And then he waits.

When Rin arrives, it’s with that same half-murderous expression he always carries when someone pulls him off-schedule.

His hair is still damp from the shower, strands curling slightly at the nape. He’s in a training hoodie, sleeves half-pushed up, and there’s a faint frown pulling at his brow - like he’s already calculating whether this detour was worth it.

Hiori watches him approach, he racks the way Rin’s steps slow once he sees the tray.

He stops a meter away. Scowls, confused. “What.”

The air stretches for a beat.

Hiori shifts his weight. Doesn’t offer the tray immediately. Just lifts a brow. “You’re late.”

“You said 10:15.”

“It’s 10:17.”

Rin glares at him. “So you dragged me out for a clock sync?”

“No.” Hiori exhales. Might as well say it without any unnecessary teasing. “It’s for ochazuke.”

Silence.

Rin looks at the tray again. His eyes flick from the bowl, to Hiori’s face, to the steam curling above the rice. He doesn’t say anything.

Hiori shrugs, casual. “Ya weren’t at dinner.”

“What the fuck.” Rin mutters so low Hiori almost doesn’t catch it. His eyes are wide open. Like is being threatened at gun point.

“You gotta eat.” Hioris’s voice is even, but there’s something beneath it -  tension, maybe. Or concern, poorly hidden under his usual deadpan.

Rin doesn’t move.

Hiori’s eyes narrow faintly. “They’ll blame me if ya pass out on the field and I’m the only one here.”

That earns a look. Rin’s mouth twitches, downwards - After weeks of observation Hiori conjectured this is his way of suppressing a smile.

Ha didn’t lash out. Good.

“Are you…stalking me now?” Rin mutters.

Hiori shrugs. Smirk on his face now. “Don’t flatter yerself Beast. My schedule is not that empty.”

Rin’s gaze lowers. The silence stretches.

He takes a step forward, just one - and looks at the tray again. His jaw tightens slightly.

“You didn’t poison it, did you?”

Hiori snorts. “The vending unit’s not an extension of me, Rin. I ordered it. If it turns out poisoned I won’t carry any blame.”

Another beat. Rin doesn’t reach out yet. But his eyes flick to the bowl again.

Hiori watches the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck - like he doesn’t know how to take a gesture when it isn’t transactional. Like being handed a bowl of rice is more suspicious than a surprise attack.

He softens his tone. Just slightly. “Ya don’t have to eat all of it.”

That seems to do something.

Rin reaches out. Slow. Controlled. His fingers brush Hiori’s briefly as he takes the tray.

They don’t flinch. But Hiori feels the contact - like static, brief and sharp.

Rin stares at the food in his hands for a second longer than necessary.

And then, without a word, he sits down. Cross-legged. Right there on the turf. Hoodie sleeves bunched around his elbows, bowl balanced in one hand, chopsticks poised.

Hiori watches him take the first bite. Quiet.

He doesn’t expect a thank you. God forbid.

But he does catch the way Rin’s expression softens just a touch after the second mouthful. The way the frown unknots at the center of his brow. And the way his shoulders - always tight, always braced - seem to loosen, like the warmth of the food is working its way into his chest.

Hiori glances away.

He picks up the ball resting near his feet. Starts a light jog across the turf, letting it roll under his instep.

His thoughts aren’t organized. Not even close.

For some unknown reason he thinks of that weird call the night before - the voice over the mic, the tension, the way Rin froze at the unfortunate mention of his brother.

The name felt like poison in the dark. Hiori had heard it. The weight of it.

But what stuck with him more - what he kept circling back to - was the thing he blurted out afterward.

“Do you think it’s nice?”

“To be known like that?”

He hates that version of himself. Late-night Hiori. Asking things he didn’t know he wanted answered. 

Now, on the field, he lets the rhythm of the ball distract him. But it’s there -  a background process, running silently in the corners of his brain.

The food. The text. The choice to bring Rin here early. To give something. Not because it was owed. But because he could.

Is that connection?

He doesn’t know.

But when he turns, Rin’s still seated, halfway through the bowl. Still eating.

And Hiori thinks: maybe this is the closest he’s been to being part of someone’s solution.

Even if the variables aren’t solved yet.

**

The tray’s empty now. Rin doesn’t say anything - just sets it down like it was a chore completed, not a gesture received.

As expected.

Hiori watches him out of the corner of his eye, the weight of the moment already fading like steam off the ochazuke. No thanks even now. No nod. Just silence.

Still annoying.

“You’re welcome,” he says anyway.

Rin doesn’t look up. He wipes his mouth with the edge of his sleeve and mutters, “I didn’t ask for it.”

“Well,” Hiori’s voice stays level, light even, but his thumb curls tighter around the edge of the ball at his feet. “Careful not to choke on yer gratitude next time.”

That gets him a look. Half-glare, half-squint. The kind Rin gives when he doesn’t want to admit something landed.

Good.

Hiori lets the ball roll lazily under his toe, the rhythm grounding him. He doesn’t smile, but something in his chest loosens. 

This - this is normal. Bickering in code. Silence between punches. Rin only opens his mouth when provoked or pissed, and Hiori knows exactly how to straddle that line now.

🎶🎶

“Warm-up’s over,” he says, already moving toward the control panel. “Let’s go.”

Rin follows without complaint. The tray stays on the sideline, forgotten.

They walk towards the centre of the field, clean lines blinking into place beneath their feet. Floodlights buzz faintly overhead. Hiori keeps his eyes forward, hands loose at his sides - but the words are already there, waiting in his mouth.

“I’m startin’ against Nigeria,” he decides to  reveal.

He hears the moment Rin processes it.

The sound of breath drawn and held, like Rin is calculating how he’s supposed to react - how he wants to react.

Because of course he is starting. That was never in question.

But Hiori?

That wasn’t guaranteed.

Rin’s head tilts, just slightly. “Since when?”

“This mornin’,” Hiori says. “Ego told me during our meeting.”

A pause.

Then, quieter - “Huh.”

He sounds thoughtful. Like Rin’s turning the information over and trying not to let it show that it means something.

Hiori doesn’t push.

Just taps the ball forward with the inside of his foot. “Means we’ve got work to do.”

Rin shifts again, back into motion. “We always have work to do.”

“No,” Hiori says. “I mean core actions. Stuff we can actually pull off in the match. Planned sequences. A fallback.”

“You think we need a fallback?” Rin’s tone sharpens, slightly - ego pricking.

“I think we need options,” Hiori answers, tone even. “Late third, tied score, closin’ window. Ya really wanna leave that to instinct?”

Rin narrows his eyes.

“Since when are you this paranoid?”

“It’s not paranoia Rin, it’s strategy.” Hiori replies. “If we’re gonna do this, it has to be clean. Tight. Predictable - to us, of course, not to them.”

Rin doesn’t argue. Just stares.

Then: “So?”

Hiori nods toward the far sideline. “I’ve got an idea. It’s a double feint. Heavy right bait, shoulder drop into cutback. Ya draw the mark and slip past - I hit the lane behind. If we time it right, it’ll look like a misread until the last second.”

Rin’s eyes narrow a bit further. He doesn’t speak for a long beat. Then-

“That’s fucking risky.”

“Yeah,” Hiori says. “It is.”

Another silence. It stretches. Feels like it might break.

Then Rin exhales through his nose. Sharp. Focused. “Show me.”

And just like that, they’re moving.

They’re going to pull this off.

Because they have two weeks.

And something worth proving now.

Hiori touches the ball first. It’s clean. Light. He fakes right, cuts left, slaloms past the first projected midfielder with practiced ease. The simulated defender moves with robotic precision.

Rin bolts down the flank. Hiori times it perfectly - just before another defender’s projection closes in - and threads a diagonal ball through the seam.

The weight is good. Rin gets to it.

The return is late though.

Rin cuts inside, dragging two defenders. Hiori fills the space - the timing should be exact, but the assist pattern doesn’t build. 

Drill ends. Reset.

Missed.

Hiori exhales through his nose. Not frustration. Not yet.

“Too fast,” Rin mutters, circling back. “Your approach. Second touch delayed the pattern.”

Hiori blinks once, panting. “Ya dragged both center backs.”

Rin rolls his eyes. “You didn’t fill the zone fast enough.”

“Ya didn’t call the switch.”

They stare at each other across the halfway line. The usual standoff. No real anger, just calculation.

“Again,” Hiori says.

The sim restarts.

They try it ten more times.

Ten different runs. Same idea: Hiori draws the central pivot, slips the ball wide. Rin cuts in, peels, or loops depending on the lane. Hiori rotates, times the pass, hits the window.

Every time, something breaks.

Too early. Too flat. Defender intercepts. Wrong foot. Wrong angle.

The sim doesn’t lie. It resets each time with brutal honesty - red indicators on the HUD flashing missed opportunities.

Failure by millimeters.

**

One hour passes.

Hiori’s shirt clings to his back now. Sweat curls at his collar. Rin’s breathing sharper. Not tired - just tight. The kind of tight that comes from expecting perfection and not finding it.

He knows Rin’s rhythms too well now. Knows the way he shifts weight before a run. The way his eyes dart - not to check for support, but to confirm what he already knows.

You’re there, right?

Hiori always is.

Even when Rin doesn’t say it. Especially then.

His thoughts spiral again. Disturbing his concentration.

The soft weight of his phone in his hand, the faint glow of Discord’s interface under his blanket, and Rin’s voice over the mic: quieter than usual. Not cold. Not biting. 

Rin hadn’t responded weirdly to Hiori’s double-variable speech.

But he hadn’t insulted him either.

He didn’t brush it off. Didn’t end the call. He just… stayed.

And for someone like Rin - that must mean something.

Hiori’s chest tightens at the memory. A quiet pull, low and careful.

Maybe it wasn’t nothing.

Maybe he wasn’t wrong to think this thing - whatever it is - is shifting.

Not into something soft. Not into anything he’d dare address out loud.

But… into something true. Something real. An actual bond.

Not cold. Not mechanical.

Rin hasn’t been mechanical with him in days.

The drills say otherwise, though. The screen keeps calling their plays failures. But Hiori can feel it - in the near-misses, the glances, the way Rin doesn’t correct him as fast anymore. Doesn’t bark orders like he used to. Just moves, waiting to see if Hiori will follow.

He always does.

He will now.

Rin exhales beside him without saying anything.

Hiori lifts his chin. “Let’s go again.”

And the way Rin looks at him afterward - not with annoyance, but with something closer to recognition - makes it feel less like failure.

One more play.

Just one more.

They don’t even speak. Just fall into formation - Hiori dragging his marker wide, Rin hovering in the half-space, the sim defender reacting just a half-second too early.

The space opens.

Hiori slips the pass through like a needle threading silk. It carves the field in two, weightless, skimming through the split seam like it always belonged there.

Rin’s already moving. Of course he is.

Three steps. One touch to kill the ball’s spin. Another to shift his angle. He doesn’t look up  doesn’t need to. He knows where the goal is.

Then he hits it.

🎶🎶

The ball leaves his foot like it’s on a mission. A clean, low curve - fast and slicing. It beats the keeper simulation by inches, kissing the inside of the post.

The net ripples.

The HUD flashes:

GOAL — SUCCESS THRESHOLD: 100%

Hiori stops in his tracks.

His heart’s in his throat, beating too fast, like it’s trying to catch up with the moment that just happened. His breath hitches -  not from exhaustion, but from disbelief.

They did it.

They built that. Every pass, every failed run, every brutal restart - it all led to this. 

And it worked.

But it’s not just the win that gets him.

It’s the way it felt. That split second of harmony. Like the ball, the field, and Rin’s movement were all speaking the same language - and now, Hiori is fluent in it

This is what his compatibility plan was always meant to become.

A weapon no one will see coming until it’s already cut through them - and one they’ll remember long after the match is over.

He laughs, swallowed by and ecstatic feeling. A sound staggered by his panting, more like a breath punched out of him sideways.

And then - Rin turns.

That’s what stops Hiori cold.

Because he doesn’t just turn. He turns toward him.

And his face - it’s not scowling. Not cold. Not blank.

It’s open in a way Hiori’s never seen before. Like the adrenaline peeled something back. His mouth is still caught mid-breath, his eyes wide, sharp, alive.

And they don’t drop.

They lock on Hiori’s. Emerald collides with Ice.

Just for a second.

That’s all it takes.

Hiori’s legs are moving before the thought even forms - first a few fast strides, then a full sprint cutting across the turf.

By the time he reaches Rin, the air between them feels… changed. Warmer somehow, charged with something his body registers before his mind can.

He doesn’t plan it.

Doesn’t think.

His hand just lifts, like the impulse’s been waiting under his skin for weeks - fingers spread, palm open, the simplest kind of offer.

He half-expects Rin to shut it down. A scoff, a sidestep, the familiar flicker of dismissal.

But Rin doesn’t move.

Instead, his gaze flickers to Hiori’s hand - brief, assessing - before, against every expectation, he raises his own.

Their palms meet.

And they stay there.

Clasped firmly. Not loose, just that steady, deliberate press of skin to skin.

Heat radiates through the contact, subtle but unmissable. Hiori can feel the faint residual tremor in Rin’s muscles from the shot, the textured ridges of calluses against his own smoother skin. All these small details filter in like they’ve been waiting to be noticed.

This is not a collision. Not an accidental brush during drills.

It’s chosen. Offered. Returned.

And it holds - long enough that it stops feeling like an adrenaline spillover and starts feeling like something slower, heavier.

Hiori’s breathing evens out.

He keeps his eyes on Rin, not their hands.

And Rin - Rin is already looking at him.

There’s- something in his eyes - if Hiori didn’t know better he’d say it was softness - a quiet confusion. Like he’s waiting for something to make sense.

And then it happens.

Just the smallest shift.

Almost a full curve. An unmistakable twitch at the corner of Rin’s mouth - hesitant, like even his face isn’t used to the shape. His brows relax. His shoulders dip, barely.

His lips lift in this slow, unfamiliar movement, and Hiori watches it like a hallucination. Like something the simulation forgot to render correctly.

Rin Itoshi is smiling.

It hits Hiori like a gut punch. He doesn’t understand why he finds it dazzling. It’s barely there. Crooked. Unsure. Lopsided.

But it is unmistakably real.

Real in a way that knocks something loose in his chest. Real in a way that says: this isn’t reflex. This isn’t arrogance. This isn’t control.

This is Rin letting go.

Even just for a second.

And Hiori’s so mesmerised he can’t look away.

He studies every inch of it - the soft pull of cheek muscle, the slight crinkle under one eye, the way it tilts not out of joy, but almost… relief. Like something unclenched inside him without his permission.

Hiori’s breath stumbles in his throat. His fingers twitch at his side.

“You’re-” His voice comes out softer than he meant. He clears his throat, blinking. “You’re smiling.”

The words leave his mouth before he can think about how obvious - and dumb -  they sound.

But Rin freezes like he’s been shot.

The smile vanishes instantly. His whole expression tightens. Lips flatten. Brows furrow. The wall slams back into place so fast Hiori almost flinches.

Rin shifts his weight back a step, jaw tense. “No, I’m not.”

“Ya were,” Hiori says, he’s the one smiling now.

Rin doesn’t answer. His gaze flicks sideways, then down, like the field might give him an escape route if he stares hard enough.

The silence stretches.

Hiori doesn’t push. He just stands there, hands by his sides, trying to slow his pulse. His skin still hums from the contact. His chest is too tight.

He hadn’t expected the goal to do this. He thought it would be technical. Clean. Efficient.

Maybe Hiori shouldn’t have pointed it out. Maybe that was too much, too soon.

But how could he not?

It was the kind of expression that doesn’t happen by accident. Not if we’re talking about Rin Itoshi. That was the kind of moment Hiori waited for without realising he was. 

He wants to say more.

But Rin’s already turned - just slightly. Not walking away yet. But retreating all the same.

And the warmth that was there, brief and flickering, is already slipping between his fingers.

“We only did it once, it’s not enough.” Rin mutters, barely looking at him now. His voice is clipped, low. “It has to become muscle memory if we want to ace it in the match against Nigeria.”

The cold’s back in his tone. Not cruel. Just guarded - the Rin Hiori’s used to. The one who armors himself with performance, with standards. Who only lets his jaw unclench when it’s quiet and no one’s watching.

Hiori exhales, stretching out the tightness in his shoulder. “We’ve still got two weeks,” he says, tone mild. “I think we’re on the right track.”

Rin doesn’t answer. Just walks over to retrieve the ball, crouches, palms it up smoothly into his hand. He stares at it like it’s a puzzle with one missing piece.

Then - without turning - he says:

“You have to stay hungry, Hiori.”

The words land differently this time.

“Satisfaction is what dooms you here,” Rin goes on. “It should never be enough.”

And Hiori’s quiet for a beat.

Because he knows Rin’s not talking about the play anymore. 

He watches Rin’s back - the rigid line of his spine, the way he grips the ball like it’s the only thing that won’t let him down.

And something in Hiori clicks - soft and sharp, like laughter biting the inside of his mouth.

“Yeah, I know.” he says lightly. “But this is big, Beast. I’d say if we do actually ace it in the match, we’ll have to celebrate.”

Rin turns around.

His face is blank. Dry.

“Fuck you” he says after a scoff.

Hiori blinks. Then laughs.

Because it’s not real anger - not yet. It’s the kind of irritation that Rin uses as a smokescreen, a defense mechanism for whenever something might actually touch him.

But Hiori’s not offended. He’s too deep in the vision now. He steps closer, tapping a finger against his chin in mock-thought.

“No, seriously. Think about it.”

Rin squints. “Don’t.”

“We score the goal - that goal be specifically - and we do a little sync-up right there on the field. Somethin’…subtle, but clear.”

“I swear to god-”

“Nothing flashy! Maybe a crouch and a head tilt. Dead by Daylight style.”

Rin stares at him.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m inspired,” Hiori corrects, grinning now. “It’s perfect. Nobody knows about us - how we’ve been runnin’ these drills, syncing, building this. A celebration’s not just a flex. It’s proof. Proof that this was all designed. That we’re not two random pieces - we’re a duo.”

Rin’s expression hardens. “You hope to god you’re still joking.”

“Come on, think about it-”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Rin.”

“No.”

“We’ve worked too hard-”

“That’s exactly why it doesn’t need a fucking dance attached to it.”

“It’s not a dance-”

“It’s corny.”

“No, it’s a subtle message.”

“It’s self-indulgent.”

Hiori exhales through his nose, still keeping it light - but there’s something under the surface now, and it’s starting to strain.

“I’m not sayin’ we do it for attention,” he says. “I’m saying we do it because no one else knows what this took. No one else saw us. Not like this. Not really.”

Rin’s jaw tenses.

Hiori watches him closely, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’re not like the others. They build chemistry over months - years even. We built this in weeks, in shadows. Quietly. From scratch.”

“And that’s where it should stay,” Rin snaps.

The sharpness in his voice cuts cleaner than expected. Hiori flinches internally.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but Rin’s already stepping forward -  the ball tight in his grip, his eyes hard.

“This isn’t a game to me.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You want to celebrate because you think it means something.”

Hiori blinks, thrown.

Rin keeps going. “But it doesn’t. It’s a play. A point. A number that gets us through the next round.”

“It’s not just a point-”

“We’re not some fucking buddies, Hiori.”

And that does it.

That lands like a slap.

The words aren’t yelled. They’re worse than that. Cold. Stripped of emotion on purpose.

Like Rin knew exactly which thread to pull.

Hiori doesn’t speak. Not right away.

Because his chest has gone tight again - not from running, not from fatigue. From something else.

Something like shame.

Hiori’s bright expression cools, shuttering fast. Like he has to put something between them now that Rin’s gotten through.

He scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me.” It lands clipped, so low it could be mistaken for a whisper.

Rin exhales, clearly still wound up. His knuckles whiten where they grip the ball.

The silence between them stretches, thick and hot.

Not because there’s nothing left to say. But because everything else would be too much.

Rin hasn’t moved in a full fifteen seconds.

That alone is enough to tell Hiori something’s wrong.

His glare burns hot for a beat longer - and then falters. Something in Rin’s stillness pulls the fight right out of him.

It’s wrong.

The way his fingers clamp around the ball until the leather creaks. The slight list in his stance, like his own body’s forgotten which foot to trust. The precision that’s usually baked into every inch of him is gone, replaced by something brittle.

And his eyes… they’re not here. Not on Hiori, not even on the pitch. Just fixed somewhere to the side, pupils sharp but glassy, like he’s watching something that isn’t happening now.

Hiori feels the bite in his chest twist into something heavier. He takes a step, careful.

“Hey,” he says, low enough it barely carries. “You… okay?”

No answer.

So he tries again, lighter this time. “I was joking, ya know. About the celebration. Well- mostly.”

Still no response.

🎶🎶

Rin exhales - short and shallow - then suddenly steps back, takes three strides forward, and strikes the ball toward the far wall with everything he has.

It ricochets off the reinforced surface with a brutal sound, like a whip crack. Echoes through the empty chamber.

The bot goalie doesn’t even flinch. The simulation's long over.

Hiori startles, blinking. That wasn’t just a frustration shot. That was rage, coiled and barely held back.

His stomach tightens.

“…Rin?”

He steps forward carefully, like approaching a wild animal that’s not sure whether it wants to run or attack.

Rin’s shoulders are heaving now. He’s panting, short, fast breaths. Like his own skin feels too tight.

What’s with him? We were doing fine just a minute ago…

Hiori doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t weigh the consequences.

He moves on auto-pilot.

Something in him - instinct, impulse, something deeper than thought - decides it’s safe. That because Rin had closed the distance once before, he won’t push it away now.

So Hiori reaches out.

Just a hand, settling lightly on his shoulder. No pull, no grip. A point of contact meant to steady, not to hold.

Rin tears it away instantly.

The movement is sharp, almost violent — not a startled flinch, but a deliberate rejection.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

The words lash out like a snap, louder than anything Rin’s said in days.

Hiori freezes. 

His hand falls.

There’s this awful silence between them, heavy and unnatural. Like the simulation room suddenly became too quiet, too airless.

“…What happened?” Hiori asks, voice low.

Rin doesn’t turn. Doesn’t breathe, for a moment. Then, tight and low:

“You need to stop this.”

Hiori blinks. “Stop what?”

“All of it,” Rin mutters. “Acting like this. Like we’re friends.”

The world tips.

Hiori stands very still. His heart’s suddenly louder than the ventilation system.

“Where the hell’s this comin’ from?”

Rin turns then. His eyes are burning - not with anger, but something messier. Something close to panic, but buried under years of control.

“We’re not friends. We’re not close. We’re not-” his voice stumbles, “We’re not anything.”

Hiori doesn’t move. Just stares.

His thoughts are spiraling. Not fast, but deep - folding into themselves, over and over.

Hiori’s still riding the edge of his own anger, but underneath it there’s this stubborn, aching need to make Rin get it.

He forces the words out before he can second-guess himself.

Fuck it. 

“Is it-” He swallows. “Is it really so bad that we… click?”

Rin’s brow furrows, instantly guarded. “It’s not about-”

“I mean it,” Hiori pushes, talking over him. “Is it so bad that I-” He hesitates, feels the heat in his chest. Dangerous territory. “-that I actually like playin’ with ya?” 

Hiori exhales. The words spill out of his mouth so quickly, like his body knows he’ll regret them as soon as they come out. “So what, Rin? So what if I consider you a friend?”

Rin scoffs, sharp and bitter. “Friendship’s useless. And that’s not the fucking point.”

Hiori takes a step forward, pulse kicking up. “Then what is the fucking point, Rin? Because I think you’re-” He stops, biting the inside of his cheek, then forces it out. “I think you’re fun to be around. I think we built somethin’ good. And maybe that’s not supposed to matter, but it does. To me.”

Rin’s jaw works like he’s biting back something harsher. “You’re imagining it.”

“No, I’m not.” The words come out too fast, too sure, but Hiori can’t stop now. “I feel it. Every time we move in sync. Every time ya cut left without me sayin’ a word and I already know you’ll be there.”

“That’s just training,” Rin snaps, but there’s a stutter in the way he says it. “Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

“Bullshit.” The curse leaves Hiori’s mouth before he can stop it. “That’s not just trainin’, Rin, that’s-” He hesitates, the next word caught in his throat. “It’s… connection. And ya fucking know it.”

Something in Rin’s eyes flashes - not just irritation, but something edged with discomfort.

“It doesn’t matter” he says again, sharper now, like volume will make it true.

“Then why does it piss ya off so much when I say it out loud?”

“Because- fuck, I don’t…” Rin shakes his head hard, eyes darting away. His shoulders are tense like he’s about to walk out, but his feet stay planted.

“Because what?” Hiori presses, quieter now but no less intense. “Because it’s easier to pretend we’re just…Strangers who happen to pass the ball well?”

“Stop putting words in my fucking mouth,” Rin snaps, but his voice doesn’t carry the weight it should.

“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Hiori fires back.

Rin doesn’t. Not right away. He stands there breathing like he’s run a sprint, hands flexing at his sides.

When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. Rough. Like the words are dragging themselves out of him against his will.

“Because it’s like…” He pauses, jaw tightening one last time before he lets it slip. “…it feels like a shared dream again.”

The silence after that is heavier than anything they’ve said all night.

And Hiori feels every word like it’s been carved into him.

“A…what?”

Rin looks at him, wide-eyed. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

And Hiori - startled and caught - scrambles to fill the space.

“Yeah.  A dream. To win. That’s fine. Ya can call it that.”

His voice is too quick. Too soft.

He wants to make it okay again. He wants to hand Rin a safe version of what they’re doing. A word that doesn’t feel threatening.

But Rin shakes his head. Like that made it worse.

“I don’t- I don’t share dreams.”

The words are quiet.

But they’re the kind that don’t bounce off the walls. They sink into the floor instead.

“I don’t share anything with anyone,” Rin says, and it sounds like a confession he’s held in for too long.

“This is wrong,” he adds, half to himself.

“I don’t want this.”

“I-”

He stops.

And Hiori steps forward. Not touching. Just closer.

“…What do ya mean?” he asks.

Rin doesn’t answer right away.

His breathing’s shallow. His fists are clenched now, not at Hiori, but at himself.

There’s something shaking behind his eyes - not tears. Something older. Something like a reflex that never got unlearned.

Hiori studies him.

Rin looks like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff no one else can see. Like something in his brain is screaming that he’s too close - too vulnerable - and that any step forward will send him over.

But Hiori doesn’t want to push.

He just wants to understand.

“You said ya don’t want this,” he says carefully. “What’s ‘this’?”

Rin doesn’t answer.

He looks at the wall. Then the ground. Then at Hiori - and for a second, it looks like he might say it.

Say everything.

But he doesn’t.

Rin takes a deep breath, jaw clenched, and then, without warning, he starts walking. Not toward the sideline. Not toward the ball. Straight for the exit.

Hiori blinks. “…Where are ya going?”

No answer.

Rin keeps moving, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, shoulders tight like a drawstring.

“Rin,” Hiori calls, sharper now. “Talk to me! What’s going on?”

“I’m out of here,” Rin mutters without turning.

Hiori’s brow knits. “We’re not done yet. We still gotta see if we can recreate it-”

Rin stops at the door, one hand on the panel. He doesn’t turn. His voice is flat. “Not tonight.”

Hiori takes a step forward. “You’re the one who said it needs to be muscle memory. Time is ticking. We can’t-”

“I said not tonight.”

The edge in Rin’s tone is clean, clipped. Not shouted, but final.

It lands heavier than it should.

Hiori opens his mouth - wants to push, to pull the logic card again - but something in Rin’s posture kills the urge. That sharp, coiled tension. Like if he says one more thing, the cord will snap.

Rin presses the panel. The door slides open with a low hiss, spilling a slice of cold corridor light across the turf.

He walks through it without looking back.

The door seals shut.

And just like that, the pitch is empty.

🎶🎶

Hiori stands there for a moment, the hum of the floodlights suddenly too loud. The air feels heavier without movement in it.

His hands find the back of his neck, fingertips pressing hard into skin. A bad habit when his brain starts spinning too fast.

Because it’s already doing it - looping back through every frame of the last half hour. The ochazuke. The drills. The perfect run.

The smile.

And then-

That.

That shove. That recoil.

The way Rin’s voice went sharp, like a blade being unsheathed.

Rin’s never spoken to him like that. Not once. Even when they’ve clashed, it’s been about precision, about game logic. Never like this. Never personal.

Hiori exhales, but it’s uneven.

He knows he shouldn’t take it personally - knows Rin’s moods aren’t his to solve - but the truth sits there in his chest anyway, warm and stinging:

He really thought they’d been building something.

The pitch feels… bigger now. Wider. Like Rin’s absence is pushing the walls out just to make sure he notices.

He drags a hand over his face, thumb pressing into the corner of his eye until he sees spots.

“So what if I consider you a friend?”

The words crawl back up his throat like they’re mocking him.

He actually said that. Out loud.

It’s the kind of thing you hear in bad sports dramas - right before the other guy turns, grins, and says, “Yeah, me too.”

Except Rin isn’t a sports drama. Rin is… Rin.

And Rin had looked at him like he’d just handed over a live grenade.

God, what was he thinking?

That maybe, after all those drills, all that unspoken sync, all the gaming sessions, all they shared with each other, Rin would finally - what? Admit they weren’t just teammates?

It’s pathetic.

His fingers curl at his side.

It’s not just embarrassing - it’s indulgent. He’d let himself get carried away, just because they’d hit that perfect run. Just because Rin’s face had cracked open for half a second, like maybe, maybe-

He cuts the thought there. Doesn’t need to chase it any further.

Maybe that’s the real problem.

Except-

It’s still there. What Rin said.

“It feels like a shared dream again.”

He didn’t mean to keep it, but it’s lodged in his head now. Heavy. 

And he keeps seeing Rin’s face when he let the words out. Like he wasn’t fighting Hiori at all. Like he was fighting himself.

The overhead hum is steady. Too steady.

The pitch smells faintly of turf glue, sweat, and-

Coffee.

No, not coffee.

The living room. Home.

The one with the thin carpet that burned your knees if you knelt on it too long. The light too bright for a cloudy day, the curtains open just enough to catch in the breeze.

He was twelve.

Still in his shoes because no one remembered to tell him to take them off.

There’s a trophy in his hands - cheap plastic, fake gold, his name printed on a sticker already peeling at the corners. Doesn’t matter. He’s holding it like it’s glass.

Both parents are there. That’s the real prize.

They’re smiling. Talking over each other. A hand on his shoulder, another ruffling his hair.

Warm. Proud. Almost… together.

Then the shift.

Always the shift.

A sharper edge in her voice. A colder one in his.

The smiles slip.

The air tightens.

They start talking faster. Louder.

He keeps still, because sometimes stillness makes it stop. If you don’t move, maybe they’ll forget you’re there and remember they were happy a minute ago.

It doesn’t work.

The hands drop from his shoulders.

Words snap like frayed wires.

And then-

“I want a divorce.”

The door slams. The frame rattles. The sound lands in his chest and stays there.

The air on the pitch is still heavy, but it’s a different kind now - not from the drills, not from the floodlights - the kind that comes after a door slams and leaves everything rattling in its frame.

It sits in his chest the same way it did back then.

He can still feel the faint imprint of that cheap plastic trophy in his hands, the sticky heat of too many words thrown in a room too small.

That was the first time he learned you could go from being held to being left in the space of a breath.

The trick was never to expect the holding part again.

And yet…

His eyes drift to the spot where Rin had been standing, the faint scuff of turf still visible where his studs had dug in.

It shouldn’t matter.

But they just fit.

That kind of compatibility is rare, and rare things have a way of getting under your skin whether you want them to or not.

So maybe he shouldn’t walk away from it yet.

Maybe tomorrow they’ll run it back.

Maybe tomorrow Rin won’t shut the door.

It’s a small, dangerous hope, but it’s enough to keep him standing there, the field stretching empty around him.

When he finally moves, it’s with slow, deliberate steps, hands in his pockets, tracing the long curve of the pitch like distance might wear the shape of Rin’s back out of his head.

The ball stays behind, perfectly still in the space between where they’d been - like it’s holding their place until they come back.

Chapter Text

🎶🎶

The sound of water wakes him, but he’s not in bed.

He’s sitting on the edge of a dock. Kamakura’s dock.

The old one, with the warped planks and the rust-stained bollards, the one that creaks when you shift your weight. The tide laps lazily against the wooden posts below, the water catching thin strips of orange from a setting sun that shouldn’t be there.

It’s summer-warm, the air is salt-heavy. Seagulls wheel high above, their cries muted, as if they’re far away in another reality.

It should feel familiar. Safe, maybe.

It doesn’t.

There’s someone standing beside him.

It’s himself.

But taller. Shoulders squared like a statue carved out of ice. His hands are in his pockets, eyes locked on the horizon, the tilt of his chin daring the ocean to blink first. Even the sea breeze seems to give him space.

A few meters down the dock, another him leans casually against a piling. His sleeves are rolled up, posture loose, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Barefoot, one heel hooked lazily against the wood, looking like he belongs here - like the dock and the water and the sunset are his, not borrowed.

And then, between them, crouched near the edge where the barnacles grow thick, is the third. His elbows rest on his knees, head bowed enough that his hair veils part of his face. There’s no tension in him, but there’s no ease either. Just a kind of stillness that feels heavier than the other two combined.

None of them look at him. Not yet.

The one standing - The Competitor - speaks first, voice clipped, precise, like it’s used to winning arguments by slicing them apart.

“It was all a fucking mistake.”

The one leaning - The Joker -  glances over, smirk widening, mischief sparking in his eyes. “Which part? The training, or the part where you shoved him away?”

“You let him in,” the Competitor says flatly. “You let him think there’s something there. That’s dangerous.”

The crouched one - The Wounded Child - lifts his head just enough to meet the Competitor’s gaze. His eyes are darker, quieter. “Dangerous for what?”

“For Blue Lock,” the Competitor says. “For staying ahead. For not turning into every other idiot who lets shitty feelings slow them down.”

The Joker chuckles softly, sharp and unpredictable. “Oh, right. God forbid you actually enjoy playing with someone.”

“It’s not about enjoyment,” the Competitor snaps. “It’s about survival.”

The Wounded Child’s eyes don’t waver. “It’s about Nii-chan.”

The dock stills.

The Competitor’s jaw flexes. “Don’t.”

“You know it is,” the Child says quietly. “You think if you cut it off now, you won’t have to watch it happen again.”

The Joker leans a little closer, voice teasing, dangerous. “You mean when you said we’re chasing a shared dream - and then walked off in another direction entirely?”

The Competitor turns toward the sea, as if the horizon might have a counterargument. “That was the only right thing you did that night.”

The Child shifts his weight, the wood beneath him groaning faintly. “But Hiori isn’t like Nii-chan.”

“They’re all like that before they leave,” the Competitor answers, still not looking at him. “And he will. Because everyone does. That’s why we don’t give them the chance.”

The Joker pushes off the piling, strolling a few steps closer, barefoot steps making no sound. “So what’s your plan? Ignore him? Pretend none of it ever happened? You really think you can go back to playing like he’s not in your head?”

“Yes,” the Competitor says.

The Child lets out a small, humorless sound. “You can’t even go one match without looking for him on the pitch.”

The Joker tilts his head, grin sharp, eyes teasing. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you held on to him saying he finds playing with you fun. You’ve been turning it over since he said it.”

“That’s because- it’s bait,” the Competitor fires back. “It’s how they hook you. Remember, Sae did the same thing.”

The Child’s voice cuts through, sharper now. “You’re not angry at Hiori. You’re angry that you liked it.”

For a second, no one speaks. The gulls wheel silently overhead. The water laps at the dock like it’s waiting.

The Competitor turns at last, meeting the Child’s gaze with cold precision. “Liking it makes it harder to win. Harder to walk away when the time comes. That’s the truth. You want to gamble on someone not betraying you? Fine. I fucking won’t.”

The Joker folds his arms, leaning slightly, watching like he’s amused at a puzzle only he understands. “You’re scared.”

“I’m realistic,” the Competitor corrects.

“You’re terrified,” the Child says, almost gently. “Because if he stays, you’ll start needing him. And if he leaves, you’ll break.”

Something flickers in the Competitor’s eyes - a crack in glass that’s gone as soon as it’s there. He looks back out to sea. “We’re fucking done here.”

But the Joker isn’t finished. He steps closer, just enough to cast a long shadow over the dock’s planks. “You’re not done. You’re going to see him again. You’re going to train with him again. Because deep down you want to. Call it strategy, habit, whatever you need, but we both know you’ll follow that thread until it snaps like a weakling.”

The Child doesn’t move. “And when it snaps, you’ll hate yourself more than you hate him.”

The Competitor’s hands curl into fists in his pockets. The wood underfoot feels suddenly unstable, the tide shifting harder.

From somewhere far out, the whistle blows.

It echoes down the dock, through his chest, until it’s too loud, too close-

**

13 days before Nigeria VS Japan

Rin wakes as if someone yanked him out of the dream. The dock dissolves before he can grab it, leaving only the cold, stale quiet of his dorm room. His chest is tight. Pulse hammering.

Four beds lie in semi-chaos: Shidou’s sheets in a heap, Bachira’s blanket half-fallen, Isagi’s jacket gone, Barou’s mattress perfectly made as if mocking him. 

Everyone has already got up. The room hums with the faint buzz of the vents, pressing in, shrinking the space around him.

He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders taut, letting his eyes trace the walls like searching for a crack, a loophole, some escape. There isn’t one.

Blue Lock’s walls don’t give.

The dream presses on him, unshakable - the same one he had yesterday. 

Right after he decided to never train with Hiori again.

Last night broke the pattern.

Broke the deal. Ignored the three messages blinking on his phone:

Sheep23 : Training tonight?

Is the one Hiori sent at 10 pm

Sheep23: Are you going to show up?

Came at 11:30 pm.

Sheep23: We should talk.

Was the last one at 1 am.

All the messages were left hanging. Rin didn’t even attempt to reply. Couldn’t.

Two nights ago, the thought of Hiori calling him a “friend” had nearly suffocated him. He started panicking like a weak loser. 

The attack brought a storm of heat and fear of everything he hates in himself. He had ripped himself away before Hiori could see him like that. Pathetic. Embarrassing.

Yesterday, he kept his distance. Ignored the messages. Stayed away. Tried to protect himself, to stay clean.

And now, the dorm feels smaller, the silence heavier. He finds his sneakers under the bed and shoves them on, laces tight, hands clenching until the ache in his palms reminds him he’s alive.

He grabs his water bottle, drinks deep, empties the rest into the trash without thinking. A splash too loud.

He slings his bag over one shoulder and moves down the corridor toward the training wing, counting steps under his breath. 

Sharpness is easier to carry than the weight of what’s in his chest. The look in Hiori’s eyes. Every thread of it coils inside him like a wire.

By the time he reaches the pitch doors, he’s not calmer. But he’s ready. Sharp. Alone and determined to stay that way.

Projector lights spill pale graphics across the turf, a half-finished setup for whatever sadistic drill Ego’s cooked up this morning. 

Players are scattered in twos and threes, stretching, tugging on training tops, talking too loud for this early.

Rin ignores all of it. He crosses to the far wall, drops his bag with a dull thud, and ties his laces properly this time. The air feels thick, like it’s pressing him lower into the floor. His hands remember the dock - splinters, salt - and he clenches them until the phantom fades.

“Rin Itoshi. Isagi Yoichi.”

Anri’s voice comes flat over the PA.

Both names echo at once. Heads swivel instantly.

Isagi’s crouched mid-stretch across the turf. He straightens, confused for half a beat, then cuts his gaze sideways at Rin. 

That annoying look - half measuring, half wary - grates more than the announcement itself.

The security door at the end of the room hisses open. The light above it glows red.

Ego’s office.

Isagi gets moving first. He jogs over, towel looped around his neck, expression pulled tight in something between excitement and nerves. 

Rin follows without a word. He doesn’t quicken his pace, doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him hurry.

The walk down the corridor feels longer than it is. White walls. Cameras blinking. The quiet tap of their footsteps too close together.

Isagi tries once, low, like he can’t help himself: “What do you think it’s about?”

Rin doesn’t answer.

The door slides open at Ego’s clipped “Enter.”

The air in Ego’s office is colder than the hallway. Screens glow pale, grids and graphs bleeding down the glass wall like veins. Rin sits left, Isagi right. The chairs are too close together, like Ego does it on purpose.

Ego doesn’t waste time. “You already know you’re both starting against Nigeria. That’s not why you’re here.”

Rin feels the words settle low. Isagi shifts, waiting.

Ego flicks his wrist, a new set of stats blooming across the projection - not goals, not heatmaps, but comparative charts. Rin’s and Isagi’s names are locked side by side at the top.

“You are this team’s twin aces,” Ego says. His tone is flat, clinical, like he’s reading out a lab result. “Not primary and secondary. Not leader and shadow. Equal. Two main weapons sharpened for the same target.”

Rin’s jaw tightens. Equal. His pulse kicks sharper. He doesn’t let his face move, but his teeth are pressed so hard together he can feel it in his temples.

Isagi breathes out, slow. Then he nods and says “Yes, sir.”

Ego doesn’t blink. “Your profiles diverge. Rin, your cold-blooded precision. Isagi, your situational adaptability. Both indispensable. Since this is a precarious setting, make sure it works smoothly. You’re not here to overshadow each other if it means forfeiting victory.”

The last words were said looking directly at Rin. They spike through Rin’s chest like a nail.

He hears his own voice before he knows he’s speaking. “This is fucking stupid.”

It comes out flat, edged. A reflex, not a thought.

Ego’s eyes narrow just a fraction, like he saw it coming. “The data says otherwise. And I’m looking for maximum benefit.”

More screens slide into place. Passing matrices, expected conversion rates. Lines webbing between their names and the midfield.

“Isagi thrives with Bachira. His transitional efficiency maximizes Isagi’s reading. And you-” Ego’s wrist flicks again. A new name sharpens in the corner of the display.

Hiori Yo.

“Your highest offensive synergy has been with Hiori. His adaptive flow raises your strike efficiency by seventeen percent. That’s not a margin you can dismiss.”

The name pulses once, blue and bright, like it wants to burn itself into Rin’s eyes.

The world is fucking plotting against him again.

His chest spikes hot and cold at once. His face doesn’t move, but every muscle in his leg goes tight.

Isagi notices.

Of course that fucker notices. Rin feels the glance, quick and cutting, from the chair beside him.

Rin doesn’t give it space. “I don’t need him either.” His voice drops harder this time, more venom than steel.

Ego doesn’t look impressed. “Need has nothing to do with it. Efficiency does. You can reject the term all you like, but you can’t argue the numbers. Not even you.”

Rin’s nails bite into his palms where his hands are hidden in his lap. His eyes stay locked on the graphs, not the name glowing at the edge. “I can win without him. What happened to all your egotistical shit?”

Isagi leans back slightly. Rin catches the movement out of the corner of his eye - not smug, not mocking, just watching. But the watching feels worse.

Ego cuts across them both. “You will win with whoever maximizes the team’s probability of success. You are both main strikers because the axis requires both points. And the midfield does as well. Without balance, the spearhead breaks.”

Each word scrapes harder than the last.

Rin’s throat feels dry, but he forces his voice even, low. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t break.”

Isagi is quick to jump over “I will.”

“See that you both do,” Ego says.

The meeting ends like a blade coming down. “Dismissed.”

The door slides open behind them.

They stand. Isagi slings his towel over his shoulder. His expression is steady, unreadable. But when Rin steps through the doorway, Isagi’s voice follows, light but pointed:

“Hiori? What’s with that?”

It’s casual on the surface. Too casual. 

Rin doesn’t look at him. “Shut up.”

Isagi doesn’t push. Just walks beside him, quiet steps in the corridor, but Rin can feel that glance still there, tucked under his skin.

Every stride back toward the scrimmage hall, Rin repeats it in his head like a shield:

I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.

The worst part - the part he can’t choke down - is knowing that Isagi - his rival out of all people - saw it too.

As if now that there’s a witness it’s hard to pretend it never happened anymore.

The door seals shut behind them with a hiss that feels too final. The corridor stretches long and sterile, the lights buzzing faint overhead. Their footsteps echo in tandem, too close, too loud.

Rin keeps his eyes pinned on the end of the hall, shoulders tight, hands shoved into his pockets. 

The silence is almost enough to hold. Almost.

Then Isagi says it. Because he just can bring himself to shut the fuck up:

“I just want to understand.”

Rin’s step doesn’t falter, but the name lands like a stone in his stomach.

He doesn’t answer.

Isagi’s voice edges sharper. “You’ve been sneaking out. At night. We've seen you several times. And I’ve bumped into Hiori at the same hours too.” Rin doesn’t look at him.

“It’s not hard to connect the dots.” Isagi adds as if to gloat for solving an impossible equation.

Heat spikes in Rin’s chest. His stride stays steady, but his jaw clenches hard enough to ache. “Mind your own damn business.”

Isagi doesn’t slow. If anything, he closes the distance between them, matching Rin’s pace like he’s not going to let him run from it.

His tone is defensive now, protective in a way that grates. “I don’t care about what you do or don’t. But Hiori’s my friend. If you’re dragging him into something- ”

Dragging him in?

Rin’s thoughts snarl against themselves. I’m not dragging him anywhere. I stayed away. I cut it off before it could turn into anything. That’s the point. That’s what I decided.

But the pressure keeps building, pounding hot against his ribs, until the words rip out before he can stop them.

“What I do with that bastard doesn’t concern you.”

It’s sharp, ugly, too loud in the empty hall. The syllables echo back at him off the sterile walls, harsher than he meant, harsher than he believes.

Isagi stops dead. Turns on him. His eyes are narrow, steel-blue and cutting. “Don’t call him that.”

The warning in his voice is quiet, but it lands harder than a shout. A line drawn in concrete.

Rin meets his glare, blood pounding in his ears. “I’ll call him whatever I want.” His voice is flat, blade-thin, but his chest feels like it’s going to split open.

Isagi doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. “Then you don’t know him at all.”

The words hit like a body check, unexpected and heavy.

Rin jerks his gaze forward, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, feet striking the tile harder. “Stay the fuck out of it.”

For a moment, there’s only the hum of the lights and the sharp echo of his steps. 

Then Isagi’s footsteps start again behind him, quieter this time but steady, shadowing him all the way down the corridor.

The noise of the scrimmage hall filters closer, the normal chaos of Blue Lock waiting to swallow them whole.

Rin keeps walking, faster, like he can outrun the conversation, outrun the word still burning sour on his tongue. 

Bastard.

It doesn’t fit Hiori. Not even close.

But better to let Isagi think he doesn’t care. Better to sound cruel than to look weak.

And yet the word clings, bitter in his mouth, heavy in his chest, refusing to let go.

**

As they enter the pitch again the noise grates harder, each laugh or shout sticking under Rin’s skin like splinters.

The team drills really are chaos incarnate. The projector spits graphics across the turf, Ego’s disembodied voice layering over Anri’s instructions, whistles cutting sharp. 

Players crash into each other with the usual feral intensity.

Bachira snakes through a cluster of defenders humming to himself, toe-flicking the ball between legs that are too slow to catch him.

Otoya bellows like his lungs are a war drum, chasing shadows he can’t pin down like a loser ninja.

Nanase stumbles over his own recovery sprint and eats turf, cursing into the grass until Kurona yanks him back up.

Aryu body-checks Gagamaru for no reason other than to laugh at the sound it makes.

Barou explodes at anyone within shouting distance, king’s pride slicing through the din.

It’s noise stacked on noise.

Normally Rin can tune it into rhythm, let the roar blur into a beat that sharpens his play. Today, every sound comes jagged. His movements are precise, but brittle. His first touch is clean, but the passes leave too early, the shots skim too close to the post.

“Oi, Itoshi!” Shidou yells after Rin ignores a feed, grin carved wide like a scar. “Wake up or I’ll put you to sleep myself!”

Rin doesn’t bite. He just drives harder into the next sprint, teeth clenched.

🎶🎶

And still, he feels it. That weight. That gaze.

Hiori’s.

The midfielder isn’t sulking. He isn’t avoiding him in some theatrical way. Passing crisp, positioning solid, expression unreadable. No cracks, no tells.

But his eyes - every time they flick in Rin’s direction - they burn like a cold, clean, surgical fire.

Rin pretends not to notice. His chest knows better.

The drill shifts again, rotations fast, Anri calling assignments like a general mid-battle. Rin gets shuffled across the pitch. And that’s when he sees it.

Ball slips to Hiori. He controls it instantly, head lifting once before sliding it forward into Karasu’s stride. Karasu cuts sharp, skimming past Isagi, and threads it back.

Goal.

They both meet in the centerline with a dap.

Sharp. Familiar.

Familiar because Rin still remembers the sound against his own palm two nights ago. The first time in months his chest had felt light instead of heavy.

The smile he hadn’t meant to give.

The clap echoes too loud in his head.

And then Karasu pulls Hiori into a half-hug. Quick, casual. 

Like it’s nothing.

Rin’s breath snags.

Not because he wants it - no, never - but because his body stupidly allows itself to imagine it. 

Imagines the rush, the pulse, the proximity.

Imagines how he would’ve recoiled, how his shoulders would’ve locked, how the adrenaline would’ve made the reaction too raw, too real.

The thought makes him sick.

Disgust curls sharp in his gut. He scolds himself before it can root deeper. Pathetic. Weak. Stop.

But the image lingers anyway. The sound of the dap. The phantom weight of an arm slung quick across his shoulders. 

His brain betrays him with the imagining of it, and he hates himself for even letting it spark.

“Move, Itoshi!” Aiku roars as Rin misses a cue, too slow by a half-second.

Rin snaps back, bursting forward to intercept, snapping the ball clean out of Chigiri’s stride and driving it upfield. Sharp enough to shut Aiku up for now.

Shidou scores twice and celebrates like a madman, baiting everyone into tackling him. 

Isagi accuses half the pitch of being lazy trash. 

Barou threatens to kill him. 

Niko mutters corrections no one listens to.

And through it, Rin moves like a blade too honed, edges slicing too close to brittle. His passes are on point but joyless, his shots clean but hollow.

He doesn’t look left, doesn’t look right. But his body knows. He can feel Hiori piercing him with his icy irises. Still threading passes to Karasu.

Still giving him that same fucking dap everytime.

Did he train alone last night?

Or did he just give up and go to bed?

Will he try again tonight?

Will Rin?

The questions gnaw until his jaw aches.

By the time the whistle finally blares, his shirt sticks to him with sweat, lungs burning, every muscle wired tight.

He should feel good. He should feel sharper for it. Instead he feels like his skin doesn’t fit.

The others unravel into post-training chaos. 

Rin stalks toward the tunnel, faster, as if the sheer pace will stop his brain from circling. The noise of Blue Lock clatters around him, louder than ever, and yet all he can hear is one sound.

The echo of their palms meeting two nights ago.

His fists curl tight in his pockets. He walks faster, until the pitch is behind him and the corridor swallows the noise.

But even here, in the sterile hum of Blue Lock’s halls, it doesn’t leave him.

The thought that disgusts him most of all-

How close he’d been.

How close he still is.

//

The first thing Rin notices is the quiet.

The dorm feels muted, as if someone pulled a blanket over the entire facility. The air is too still, too heavy.

Barou’s bed is military-flat, shadow neat under the faint exit sign glow. 

Shidou’s usually ragged snores have steadied into something almost childlike, mouth slack, chest rising with a rhythm Rin doesn’t trust. 

Bachira’s mess of limbs spills half-off his mattress, tangled in sheets that still twitch now and then as if he’s chasing something in a dream.

Even Isagi - the one who grinds his teeth through late-night video reviews - has gone quiet, breathing shallow and even.

Rin lies there staring at the ceiling, blanket kicked down around his waist, eyes open to the dark.

The ache in his body hasn’t let him rest.

Not pain exactly - pain would be clean, would have a source he could attack and carve out - but this restless hum in his bones, like there are drills wired into his nerves that won’t shut off. 

Hiori hasn’t left any messages tonight. He probably gave up and went to sleep.

Rin’s calves twitch with phantom sprints, his toes curl like they’re bracing turf, his chest fills and empties on some invisible whistle.

He doesn’t need to check the clock. His body knows it’s late. Knows that this is usually the hour when-

No. He cuts that thought before it finishes.

Still, the muscles in his shoulders draw tight when he stays in bed too long. The air in the room is stifling, hot with recycled breath. Each inhale tastes secondhand.

He turns once. Twice. The mattress creaks, accusing him.

Finally he swings his legs over the side. The sheets drag at his ankles like they don’t want to let go.

He pulls his hoodie over his training top, movements sharp enough to make the zipper catch once before it gives. 

Sneakers wait under the bed, laces loose. He knots them carelessly - too tight, digging into the top of his foot -but doesn’t bother fixing it. The bite feels right. 

Punishment or reminder, he isn’t sure which.

The door clicks behind him, and the sound is too loud in the hush.

For a second he freezes, waiting for Isagi’s accusing voice, a mock, a taunt. Nothing. Just the drone of the vents, the soft hum of lights overhead.

The hallway stretches pale and endless in both directions. Each panel of light above him carves out a fragment of shadow, stretching, collapsing, stretching again with every step.

The cameras in the corners blink red. He ignores them. He always ignores them.

By the time he reaches the pitch doors, his pulse is steady, breath even. He tells himself it’s just drills. He tells himself he doesn’t expect anything.

🎶🎶

The door swings inward with an imperceptible thud.

Cooler air greets him - sharper, tinged faintly with the chemical-clean scent of turf. The vast room yawns open in shadow, goalposts looming pale at opposite ends. It’s empty, just as it should be.

Then he hears it.

Tap.

Roll.

Strike.

The sound cracks through the silence, sharp and sure.

Rin stills.

His eyes take time to adjust. Slowly, shadows bleed into outline, outline into motion.

And there - across the field, body caught in the weak spill of light from a high window - is Hiori.

The ball glides under his feet like it belongs there. Not heavy, not forced. Just fluid, each touch clean as water rolling downhill. Pivot, stop, reset, spin. 

His posture loose, head lifting every so often as if he’s measuring defenders only he can see.

Rin’s throat goes tight.

He knows that rhythm. Knows it too well. It’s written in his own body from nights past - the way the drills flow smoother with two, the way Hiori sets the tempo without words.

But tonight, he isn’t waiting.

Hiori’s hair sticks damp to the back of his neck, strands catching silver where the light breaks.

His training top clings dark to his shoulders, the hood shifting with each turn. Rin can’t see his face.

That’s why he tells himself it’s okay to linger on the doorstep for a while.

Rin starts cataloguing details without meaning to. The exact angle of Hiori’s elbow before a pass. The subtle lean in his shoulders when he commits to a strike.

They’re things Rin has memorized before, during nights when the only sound was the soft echo of two pairs of sneakers cutting the turf. 

But seeing them now, unpaired - seeing them continue without him - twists something sharp in his chest.

Coming here was a fucking mistake.

Every nerve in his body screams to run forward, toward the pitch. To cut in on the rhythm, to demand the pass before Hiori even thinks about it. To re-thread that line between them.

His fingers curl into fists, nails carving half-moons into his palms. He forces himself backward instead, deeper into the dark, away from the pull.

But his eyes don’t leave.

He told himself silence was clean. That cutting it off was victory. So why does it look like loss carved into every smooth pivot of Hiori’s body?

At last he rips himself away, turns, makes sure the door is closed behind him. 

He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t risk it. His jaw is locked tight, and every nerve is a live wire.

The silence that follows should be clean. Final. A blade slicing through the tie. But all the way down the long stretch of hallway, shadows folding and unfolding at his heels, the rhythm follows him anyway.

Tap.

Roll.

Strike.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched, head low like he can force the noise out with posture alone. His breath fogs faint against the chill of Blue Lock’s corridors.

The thoughts crash on him like an avalanche: What if Hiori saw him? What if those icy eyes lifted at just the wrong moment, catching Rin retreating like a coward, slipping away without a word?

He scowls at the floor, every step sharper than it needs to be.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if Hiori decides to stay, if he trains alone until his lungs burn, or if he shrugs and heads back to bed.

None of it matters.

And yet-

They had a plan. They’d sketched the outlines of something precise and terrifying, a link-up that could cut any defense in two. 

For two weeks straight they’d been sharpening each other in secret, crafting angles and rhythms no one else could track.

And now Rin’s the one walking away.

And Hiori is - what? Left holding it? Left waiting?

His teeth grind. His shoulders draw tighter, fists clenching in his pockets until the fabric strains.

His dream claws up from memory unbidden: the dock, the three voices that were all his own. The Competitor, the Joker, the Wounded Child.

The contradiction makes him want to split himself open.

But the World Cup is too close, the stakes too sharp, the risks too fatal. Hiori had made him lose his edge - panic crawled his chest raw, words slipped out he didn’t mean but couldn’t take back.

He presses his back against the wall halfway down the corridor, just for a second, like he needs it to hold him up.

He shuts his eyes, but the dark only makes it louder. Breathing feels like a chore.

He jerks himself upright, pushes away from the wall, strides harder toward the showers. 

He doesn’t let himself slow until the locker room door seals behind him with a hollow hiss.

The showers are mercifully empty. Just the hollow drip of pipes settling, the scent of chlorine and detergent lingering in the damp. The tile catches the faint glare of the overhead lights, pale and unforgiving.

He doesn’t undress so much as strip with precision, each piece of clothing peeled away like he’s discarding something more than sweat. 

Socks clinging damp, shirt tugged over his head too rough, waistband snapped against his hip when he shoves it down. 

The spray hisses alive when he twists the handle. Steam crawls slow along the tile, fogging the glass in soft patches, swallowing the sharp corners of the room.

The first shock of water isn’t cold, but it makes him jolt anyway. The heat needles into his skin, carrying the burn of exertion away only to leave something heavier behind.

He presses his palms flat against the tile, head tipped forward, hair plastering against his forehead as the stream pounds across his shoulders.

For a few seconds, it’s just noise. White, crashing, relentless noise. He almost convinces himself that it’s drowning everything out.

You’ll break if you let it happen again.

The water sluices down his face. He shuts his eyes harder.

He knows how this ends. He knows what it means to lean too far toward someone else’s gravity. Sae proved it. 

Shared. Dreams. Don’t. Last.

He digs his nails into the tile grout until his fingertips throb. Stays there until the spray cools. Until steam thins. Until the ache in his body settles into something bone-deep.

When he finally shuts the water off, the silence returns, heavy and absolute. He stands dripping for a beat, hair dark and clinging, towel rough against his shoulders when he drags it over himself. 

Each movement is slower now, the fight drained out of his muscles, leaving only the hollow edge of what’s left behind.

The mirror above the sinks is fogged, but enough of his reflection cuts through to make his jaw clench. Eyes ringed in fatigue, mouth set hard. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t want to.

Clothes back on, bag slung over his shoulder, he pushes through the door into the corridor again.

And freezes.

The air in the corridor is heavy, damp still clinging to Rin’s hair, shirt sticking faint at the collar. He should keep walking. 

But ahead - that silhouette.

Hiori moves with an ease that grates. Shoulders loose, towel dangling lazy at his neck, steps neither hurried nor hesitant. Like the hour belongs to him. 

Like silence bends out of his way.

Rin stays rooted at first, watching. The figure shrinks, lengthens with the stutter of fluorescent lights above, shadow stretching. 

And then - Hiori veers. Not toward the dorms. Not toward the pitch. 

Toward the stairwell Rin has noticed a dozen times but never bothered to map.

He knows that stairwell. Knows it because he’s seen him with Bachira, Isagi, Kurona slipping down it at odd hours. 

He’d clocked it without meaning to - their laughter trailing down those steps in the morning, their faces carrying that post-something glow Rin never wondered about. He’d filed it away as useless detail. Not part of his orbit.

But now Hiori is heading towards it alone. 

Something stirs sharp in Rin’s gut. Not curiosity exactly. More like the sick pulse of compulsion. He tells himself it’s tactical - recon, nothing else. 

Just to see where it leads.

So he moves.

Footsteps muffled, breath low, he follows.

The stairwell yawns open, concrete and shadows stacked tight, light falling in stripes. The air smells faintly of metal and dust, cooler than the rest of the building. 

Rin keeps his distance, just close enough to catch the movement ahead - the slant of Hiori’s shoulders, the subtle drag of his hand along the railing like he’s done this a hundred times.

By the time they reach the top floor, Rin’s pulse is drumming. Not from exertion. From the way it all feels deliberate. Inevitable.

Hiori stops at the last door.

It’s industrial steel, painted dull gray, a latch that looks like it would shriek if handled too roughly. Rin braces for the noise - but Hiori doesn’t give it.

He lays his hand against the handle, angles it in some practiced weird way, and eases the door open with a quiet click. Like the door wants to let him through.

And then he’s gone, stepping into whatever’s beyond.

Rin freezes.

His pulse claws high. The thought should stop here. He could turn back, let it go, pretend he never saw. That would be the clean choice. 

Rin clicks his tongue, more at himself than anything else.

Irrational rationality - that’s what this is. Dragging his legs up after Hiori when every part of him knows he should’ve just stayed behind. 

It goes without saying - his hand is already reaching.

What is up there?

Cool metal meets his palm. He grips, twists, pulls - the way anyone would.

The door shrieks.

A raw, metallic clang that echoes down the stairwell, rattling concrete, cutting the silence wide open. Rin’s stomach plunges. His own breath catches sharp in his throat.

Fuck.

Ahead, the faint scrape of movement. A pause.

And then - Hiori’s head turns.

The clang hasn’t even faded when Rin feels it - a draft cutting through the stale Blue Lock air, slipping over his damp skin, carrying a salt-sweet sharpness that shouldn’t exist here.

He blinks.

Beyond the door, the air isn’t recycled. It isn’t mechanical. It’s alive.

A…rooftop?

Wind brushes past his ears, whispering in a language that doesn’t belong to steel corridors. The faint rustle of trees drifts up from below, layered with something softer, distant - the hum of a city alive far past curfew. And above - stars. scattered sharp across black sky, raw and unfiltered.

In Blue Lock. In the prison.

His chest lurches tight.

But the shock is nothing compared to the weight of eyes on him.

Hiori hasn’t moved far -  two steps past the threshold, shadows cutting across his shoulders. The towel at his neck shifts slightly in the breeze, loose strands of hair catching the light.

His expression is priceless, surprise and confusion written all over it, but his voice comes low, tight, barely a whisper.

“Rin. Why are ya- what the fuck?”

The words slice in a confused mess.

Rin’s jaw sets. The easy answer - lie, dismiss, walk away - tangles in his throat. Instead what comes out is blunt, raw, and louder than it should be:

“What the hell is this?”

His voice cracks the rooftop quiet, jarring against the hush of night. 

Hiori flinches almost imperceptibly, then strides toward him in two quick steps, hand half-lifting as if to catch the sound before it can echo any further. His eyes narrow, urgent.

“Shh-!” His voice cuts quick, almost a hiss. “Not here. Step in. Away from the door.”

The command threads more urgency than reproach. Without thinking, Rin obeys, shifting inside, shoulder brushing the heavy steel.

Hiori reaches past him, movements practiced, slipping the latch back into place with a deft flick. 

This time - no clang. Just a muted click, quiet as a secret kept.

Rin doesn’t miss it. The way Hiori handled the door like muscle memory, like he’s done this countless times. 

When the lock slides home, silence folds in. The kind that makes every sound, every breath, carry.

Rin drags his gaze away from Hiori and lets it fall outward - past the railings, past the dark stretch of Blue Lock walls.

The world spreads open.

“Were you following me?”

His throat tightens. He doesn’t know if it’s the air, the view, or the fact that Hiori is still standing too close, his presence pressing like another unshakable question.

Awkward doesn’t begin to cover it.

“No- Obviously. I was just walking and-” He shuts up before he embarrasses himself more.

The look on Hiori’s face is open in a way Rin has never seen before.

Every detail etches itself too vividly -  the faint sheen of sweat drying on his temple, the way his posture stiffens mid-step, like someone slammed the world into pause.

His eyes are begging for answers. For an explanation. They pin Rin in place as if to say ‘you can’t run away this time’.

Rin’s chest knots hard. His first instinct is to retreat, slam the door shut, vanish down the stairwell. Pretend it never happened.

“Ya didn’t show up.”

The words still hang between them, cooling in the night air.

Rin doesn’t answer. His jaw works, once, but nothing comes out.

Hiori shifts closer, his sneakers soft against the concrete. He doesn’t press. He just… asks, voice steady but carrying a thread of something tight underneath:

“Why?”

Rin clicks his tongue, looks past him - at the railing, at the sharp scatter of city light beyond. Anything but those eyes. “I didn’t feel like it.”

The breeze pulls at his damp collar, lifts strands of hair into his eyes. He doesn’t push them back.

Hiori’s silence holds for a beat too long. Not disbelief. Not anger. Just waiting for Rin to explain himself .

When no explanation comes out, he speaks again, his tone heavier. “Rin. We made a deal.”

Rin forces a shrug, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Not interested anymore.”

That gets a flicker. Hiori’s eyes narrow slightly, not sharp but confused, like he’s trying to solve an equation that shouldn’t exist.

“Not interested?” he echoes. “What the hell does that even mean? The drills? The World Cup link-up - what?”

Rin’s throat pulls tight. He keeps his eyes fixed out past the railing, the city a blur of indifferent lights. “All of it.”

There’s another stretch of silence, this one sharper.

Hiori lets out a breath - half laugh, half disbelief, too quiet to echo. His arms fold across his chest, like he’s holding himself in place. “Is this really about that stupid celebration?”

The question spears through him before Rin can brace. His chest locks, heat flashing under his skin. He swallows hard.

“No.” It’s flat, immediate. Too immediate. He still doesn’t look at him.

Hiori studies him, the way he always does, gaze calm but cutting. 

Rin’s tongue sticks. His body aches for the simplest answer, the sharp one, the one that will cut this clean.

You’re a distraction. You’re weak. I don’t need you.

But the words snag against the memory of the dream, against the way the Child had whispered You’re not angry at Hiori. You’re angry that you liked it.

Hiori sighs, the sound pulling tight through the quiet. He drops his arms, steps closer again - not demanding, just steady, a gravity Rin can’t shrug off.

“Is it-” His voice trails, steady again. “Is it ‘cause I called you my- a friend?”

Rin’s breath hitches.

The word scrapes raw against his chest. He swallows, eyes fixed hard on the stars he refuses to focus on. His silence stretches too long, the kind that answers even when it doesn’t.

Hiori’s expression shifts, subtle but visible. Hurt, muted, not displayed for pity - just there, like he doesn’t know how to hide it.

The rooftop holds it between them, the breeze threading cold across Rin’s still-damp skin, the night sky stretched wide and endless above.

Rin presses his teeth together until his jaw aches.

He doesn’t say yes.

He doesn’t say no.

And that- 

that might be the worst answer of all. “You don’t understand-“ Rin decides to answer. 

“Try me,” Hiori cuts him off.

Rin’s eyes turn to him - sharp, incredulous, like Hiori just dared him to step into fire. His fists tighten deeper in his pockets. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you’re right.” Hiori swallows once, steadies his voice, keeps it quiet. “I don’t fucking understand. But I want to.” 

He looks wounded. Like he’s been silently resenting Rin’s rejection but wants to fight it anyway. “Make me understand”

Rin exhales hard, rough, like the sound alone might bury the thought. “I really meant what I said,” he mutters, low, the words dragging. “It’s fucking wrong.”

Hiori tilts his head slightly, not backing down, but not aggressive either. “To work well with someone?”

“To-” Rin cuts himself off. His jaw clicks, teeth grinding. Then, sharper, harsher: “To pretend it means something.”

Something flickers in Hiori’s face. His fingers twitch against the railing. He doesn’t flinch away, but the air between them shifts, tauter now, the space charged.

“Is that what ya think I’m doing?” Hiori asks. Voice slightly louder. “Pretendin’?”

Rin doesn’t answer. Not with words. But his eyes flick- too fast, too defensive - away from Hiori’s face, out toward the stars again.

And Hiori sees it. Sees the crack in real time.

“I think you’re not,” Rin mutters finally. His voice is rough, frayed, like dragging a blade over stone. “And that’s the problem.”

The words land heavier than either of them expect. Hiori’s brows pull in, not in frustration, but in something like quiet grief. 

He doesn’t speak, not yet. The wind fills the pause, cold against Rin’s still-damp hair, carrying the silence out to the edge of the rooftop.

Rin exhales again. Long, unsteady, anger curling under it but not aimed at Hiori - aimed inward, straight at himself. 

He forces it out between his teeth: “I can’t want things like that. I don’t have the fucking luxury…not anymore.”

Hiori opens his mouth. Closes it. Then, with a steadiness that almost makes Rin want to break something, he asks: “Why not?”

Rin’s head snaps toward him.

“Because I’m not like any of you,” he spits. The words are fast, hot, instinctive. “Because I don’t get to float around thinking about connections and fucking crouch celebrations and-” His voice spikes, then falters, but he pushes through it like forcing glass out of his throat. “-and people who laugh at my shitty jokes over a mic like that means anything.”

That one hangs. Too specific. Too sharp.

Hiori stares at him, chest tight. His voice dips, softer now, but steady as ever:

“…Ya remember that?”

Rin grimaces, the word a bitter cut. “Fuck.”

But it isn’t denial. And that - that - is the tell.

Something soft curls at the edges of Hiori’s chest. His voice lowers further, threading under the night air. “Ya remember what I said that night? ‘Bout… bein’ wired into someone’s head. How rare it is.”

Rin scoffs, sharp and ugly. “I told you it was gross.”

“Ya did,” Hiori says, huffing a half laugh. His gaze doesn’t waver. “But…ya didn’t disagree.”

Rin’s breath comes out sharp, uneven. His shoulders heave once, and then he spits the words like they’re burning his throat:

“This isn’t about you.”

The night stills with it. The city lights beyond blur against the sting in his eyes.

Hiori blinks, thrown, his voice catching on the start of a question. “What?”

Rin turns on him, teeth clenched, fists knotting so hard in his pockets it feels like his nails might break skin.

His voice cracks with heat, not volume, the kind that cuts deeper because it’s ragged, stripped bare. “It never was about you. That’s why-” he sucks in air, jaw locking, “-that’s why I can’t afford it.”

The words slam down between them. The rooftop holds them, echoing quiet.

Hiori doesn’t move for a second. His brows pinch faintly, not angry, not even hurt - just searching. Like Rin is a puzzle with missing pieces and he’s trying, gently, to fit them back. “Then what is it about?”

Rin’s chest knots tighter. He wants to recoil, to bite down on silence, but the air in his lungs feels like it will suffocate him if he swallows this back. “It’s-” His voice snags, harsh. “It’s me.”

The admission tastes like blood. He feels so fucking naked right now.

Hiori steps forward, slow, tentative. His sneakers scuff softly on the concrete, a sound that feels too loud in Rin’s ears. 

His voice drops lower, softer. “Rin...”

Rin jerks his head away, staring out over the rail. The city sprawls wide and indifferent below, mocking. “Stay where you are.” 

His tone is clipped, but it doesn’t land. Not when his whole body screams the opposite. His fists flex inside his pockets, trembling.

But Hiori doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t close the space all at once, either. He takes another step. Patient. Steady. The breeze tugs at his cyan hair, catching faint light, and for a second Rin hates how easily the image burns into his eyes.

The Child in him whispers: It’s okay.

The Competitor bites back: It’s weakness.

The Joker mocks him mercilessly: Don’t look so tense.

Hiori’s voice comes again, quiet, careful. “I just want to know…What did ya mean when you spoke about a shared dream?”

Fuck this. 

Fuck every moment that lead to here. 

Fuck Hiori for being so easy to be with.

“It’s all bullshit,” Rin snaps. The words slice fast, too sharp, but he can’t hold them in. His fists are tight again, shoulders rigid. 

“Connections - dreams - whatever the hell you wanna call it. It’s just words. People use it when it benefits them. And the second it doesn’t-” His throat locks, teeth grinding. He forces the words out harder, harsher. “They leave. Always.”

The air goes cold with it.

Then, as if his own mouth decided to betray him “That’s what he did”

Hiori studies him. Really studies him. The wind shifts, tugging at the loose strands of Rin’s damp hair, and still he keeps his eyes fixed anywhere but those cyan ones burning steady beside him.

Hiori’s silence stretches long enough for Rin to think maybe - finally - he’s dropped it. That he’ll let it die here.

But then, as if he placed all the missing pieces in his head, Hiori says:

“Sae.”

The name hits like a blade to the ribs. 

🎶🎶

For a second, Rin isn’t on the rooftop anymore - he’s fourteen again, sneakers pounding the pavement as he tries to keep up, breath ragged. 

Sae’s back always a few steps ahead, always untouchable. The cold dismissal in his brother’s voice: ”Don’t you dare use me as an excuse to play football again.”

The sound of the ball hitting the net. The silence that followed, heavier than any words.

It slams into him raw, too sudden. His chest seizes tight, vision flashing with the memory before it rips back into the present.

Rin’s head snaps around, eyes sharp, venom flashing up before he can even leash it.

“Don’t-” The word tears raw out of him, harsher than anything yet. His fists clench so tight his knuckles ache. “Don’t say his fucking name.”

Rin’s heartbeat hammers so hard it feels like the rooftop itself is vibrating beneath him. His jaw clenches until it aches; his fingers dig into his pockets, knuckles white, trembling against the taut fabric.

His lungs fight for air, shallow and fast, a tide of panic curling through him. 

The city lights smear into streaks of gold and white, mocking him.

Not this again. Not now. 

Shit.

Why are you so weak?

Hiori’s face changes. He steps closer, slow, measured, keeping space but holding it steady like an anchor. His cyan eyes are sharp, patient, unyielding in a way that makes Rin feel both small and impossibly large at the same time.

“This is different, Rin” Hiori says, voice low, soft. “I’m not him”

Rin swallows, chest tightening further. The words scrape raw against the memory of Sae. He wants to turn, to escape, to shrink away from the weight of it - but his feet feel glued to the concrete. 

Hiori tilts his head slightly, reading the tension in Rin’s posture. “Hey, look at me. Breathe,” he murmurs, soft, insistent. He inhales slow, deliberate. He exhales in the same rhythm. “Again. One… two… three… four. It’s okay.”

Rin bites his lip, shakes his head, instinctively pulling back, chest tightening with a suffocating mix of shame and fear.

His hands ball into fists on his hoodie. “I- can’t- ”

“Yes, ya can,” Hiori interrupts gently, stepping a fraction closer, letting Rin feel the warmth of his presence. “Please… don’t run away .”

The words pierce him. Something in his chest twists painfully. His legs jerk; he wants to bolt, to prove he isn’t weak, that he doesn’t need anyone. 

But the calm steadiness in Hiori’s gaze pins him in place. He inhales shakily, tries to match the rhythm, failing, coughing out a rough, uneven exhale.

“Ya don’t have to keep it in. No one can see ya up here. You’re safe.” Hiori says, voice soft but firm. 

No one but you.

Rin swallows, throat tight, shaking slightly, teeth clenched. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Hiori murmurs. His tone threads warmth through the cold night, grounding Rin. “…I understand how ya feel. Ya think that trusting someone is a liability. That letting someone see cracks makes ya weak. I get it now.”

Rin sways, body tense, heart stuttering in his chest. “No. No. No you don’t-” he mutters.

“Whatever happened in the past- you’re still carryin’ it,” Hiori says, almost like reading his muscles instead of his words. “Rin, I can’t make it go away. But I can be here. Right now. Like this.”

Rin’s fists unclench slightly, then ball again almost immediately. “I don’t need that,” he rasps, voice ragged, bitter, more to himself than Hiori. “I- I don’t get to need it.”

Hiori watches him, calm as ever. “Then why follow me up here? If it’s so wrong, if you think this is dangerous- why are ya standin’ here?”

Rin huffs through his nose, half-laugh, half-frustration, chest tight with adrenaline. “Because you piss me off,” he blurts. “Always- Always standing there. Looking at me like that. Like- Like you actually know me.”

Hiori blinks but doesn’t step back. “And that’s a bad thing?”

Rin scoffs a hollow breath, humorless. “Yeah. ‘Cause it makes me show up here like a fucking idiot.”

Hiori exhales, soft, steady. “That’s not true,” he says. “You’re not an idiot for seekin’ connection, you’re human. Painfully and sincerely human. Maybe ya just don’t know how to say what matters yet. ”

Rin jerks slightly, body instinctively coiling. “And what if I don’t want to?” His voice cracks under the weight of his own confession. “What if I- I can’t?”

This is so fucking embarrassing.

Hiori steps closer, deliberate, brushing the edge of his warmth past Rin. “Then we figure it out.”

Rin swallows, chest heaving. “…What if I fuck it up?”

“Then I deal with it,” Hiori replies, calm, unflinching. “I’ve got the other side covered. You’re not alone, Rin. Ya don’t have to be alone.”

Pull yourself together. 

Rin’s throat burns. His lungs are locked tight, chest trembling like he’s running out of air even though he’s standing still. His hands twitch at his sides - useless, stupid, betraying him.

And then Hiori moves. Reluctantly, as if to give Rin the time to back off. 

Rin doesn’t. 

Hiori’s hands settle on Rin’s shoulders, steady, grounding, like he’s testing the weight before committing.

Rin should recoil. Two nights ago, he did. He shoved it off, spat fire just to hide the cracks.

But now - his fingers lift, almost of their own will, and clamp around Hiori’s wrists. Hard. Desperate.

Like if he lets go, he’ll drop straight through the floor.

Air rushes back into his chest in one sharp, broken gasp. His forehead dips, almost touching the shadow of Hiori’s collarbone. It’s pathetic, humiliating – yet he can breathe. For the first time in days, he can actually breathe.

The panic doesn’t vanish. It unravels. Slowly, stubbornly, thread by thread, until all that’s left is the raw ache underneath.

And Hiori doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Just holds him there, steady, like he promised.

“I knew you’d come around,” Hiori whispers, voice low enough to almost get lost in the wind.

“Shut up,” Rin mutters, half-growl, half-exhale - but his grip on Hiori’s wrists doesn’t falter.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Hiori’s chest, warm against the crown of Rin’s head. “I’ll stay here. ‘Till it’s not loud anymore, okay?”

And that’s when it hits him - sharp, unwelcome, but undeniable. Maybe it’s fine. Not to need people, not to owe them. But this - this small, secret space carved out with Hiori - it always felt different. Not just bearable. 

It feels right. Rin doesn’t know what possesses him to let out a low, almost imperceptible “Thank you”

This time, there’s no war inside his head.

The Child doesn’t whisper betrayal.

The Competitor doesn’t sneer weakness.

Even the Joker, the cruelest part of him, sits quiet.

They don’t argue. They don’t tear him apart. They just… agree. 

This one exception.

Not teammates. Not rivals. Not the suffocating “bond” he swore he’d never touch again. Just one person beside him. 

Rin’s jaw tightens, as if grinding the thought into something less soft, less dangerous. But deep down, he knows. If anyone deserves to stand this close, to be allowed even a fraction past the walls he’s built-

It’s Hiori.

“Anytime”

Only Hiori.

Eventually, the moment buckles under its own weight. Rin shifts, shoulders pulling back, fingers loosening until the space between them stretches open.

The rooftop swallows the silence. Wind tugs at his sweat-damp hair, cool against overheated skin.

He keeps his eyes on the skyline - jagged, restless, impossible to pin down - because looking at Hiori now feels too much, like baring his throat.

Hiori doesn’t push. He just lingers a half-step away, gaze quiet but steady. The air between them hums, brittle but not breaking.

Rin clears his throat, rough, forcing his voice out. “This place. Why the hell’s there even a rooftop here?”

Hiori tilts his head, a smile still ghosting his mouth. “Bachira found it. Slipped out during drills. Said it felt too open to waste, so we started coming sometimes.”

Rin rolls his eyes. “Figures.”

Hiori’s smile holds. “He’s not wrong. It’s peaceful here.”

Rin makes a noncommittal sound - low, dismissive, but his eyes still drift across the sky. Peaceful. He doesn’t say it, but the word sticks anyway.

The quiet stretches. Long enough that Rin shifts his weight, uneasy. His hand brushes the railing, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

And then - soft, almost hesitant - Hiori breaks it again.

“I…waited. Yesterday.”

The words are soft, but they land hard. Rin’s chest tightens, a sharp, unwelcome tug pulling against his ribs. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look. Just mutters:

“Oh.”

Hiori exhales like he expected that much. Then, almost bashful, his voice lowering: “Till three a.m.”

That gets Rin to glance at him, sharp and startled. Hiori isn’t exaggerating. There’s a faint curve to his lips, but his eyes are serious, quiet in a way that gnaws at Rin’s stomach.

Rin looks away first. His jaw tightens. “…That’s- that’s so stupid.”

“Oh fuck you.” Hiori concedes with a soft laugh, but there’s no bite in it. If anything, he sounds amused. “I actually thought you’d come.

Something twists in Rin’s chest, sharp and uncomfortable. He hates the way it sticks, the way it lingers. He doesn’t owe anyone anything - that’s what he’s always told himself.

But the picture of Hiori waiting, hours slipping by, won’t leave his head.

His throat works. The words feel heavier than they should. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

There’s a pause. Then, slow, like it’s something fragile, Hiori smiles. “Ya better.”

Rin clicks his tongue, half to cover the way his stomach tugs at that look. “Tch. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

A smirk flickers wide across Hiori’s mouth, but it isn’t smug. It’s knowing.

And that - that makes Rin feel even more like a fucking idiot.

Hiori’s almost-smirk sharpens just enough to carry a bite.

“Thirteen days - technically twelve now - before we face Nigeria, and ya made us waste sweet time, Beast.”

The nickname lands deliberate, clipped. Not cruel, but cutting enough to remind Rin exactly what’s at stake.

Rin scoffs, shoulders squaring, and finally lets his eyes cut back to him - sharp, defiant, burning through the rooftop air between them.

His mouth pulls into that cocky half-curl that always shows up when he’s cornered but refusing to admit it.

“Twelve days is all I need,” he shoots back, voice low but steady, almost daring. Then, with a razor’s edge of sarcasm:

“You’re the only one worrying, Sheep.”

The words should hit harsher, but they don’t. Not with the way his tone lingers on it - like it’s sharper than it should be, but also… familiar. Like the word was shaped by something closer to recognition than disdain.

Hiori exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. The smirk doesn’t fade. If anything, it steadies. “Big words,” he says. “From someone who got oh so worried about a harmless duo celebration”

Not this again.

Rin’s mouth twists instantly, a glare sparking. “Fuck you. I’m still not doing that shit.”

It comes out harsher than he means, but it’s armour - the kind he knows Hiori won’t buy.

Hiori doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t back down either. He just lets the quiet sit between them for a beat, then hums low in his throat. “…We’ll see about that.”

Rin scoffs, sharp and dismissive, but the heat prickling up his neck betrays him.

“Not even a little crouch?”

Rin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck’s sake-”

“C’mon.” Hiori leans on the railing, elbow propped, cyan hair shifting in the breeze. There’s that lazy drawl again, the one that’s way too deliberate to be casual. “We still have two weeks. I can be pretty persuasive.”

Rin shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I’ll punt you off this roof.”

Hiori doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. His smirk just tugs wider, tilting toward a grin. “Tell me more about that.”

The silence after isn’t heavy, for once. It’s lighter. Loose. It winds between them like the night air, carrying that unspoken thing neither of them will name.

And for a moment - a fleeting, precarious moment - it doesn’t feel like they’re standing in the crucible of Blue Lock, with the World Cup looming like a blade over their heads.

It feels like something else.

Something tha goes beyond every rational fiber on Rin’s body.

An irrational feeling that makes sharing dreams again worth it.

Even if neither of them has the words for it yet

Chapter Text

11 days before Nigeria VS Japan

Games are easier than people. Always have been.

A game has rules. Clear inputs, clear outcomes. Mess up, you restart. Grind enough, you level up. There’s comfort in that - the fairness of it.

People aren’t fair. With them, there are no resets, only penalties. Expectations stacked like difficulty spikes.

His parents taught him that early: they never raised a son - they built a character class. They didn’t give love, or choice. Just stats to max out.

Hiori loves video games because they don’t leave you wondering if anyone would notice if you stopped trying.

That thought sits heavy in his chest, following him as he rounds the corner, phone loose in his hand.

The screen glows with the pastel colours of Clash Royale, his thumb flicking troops onto the tiny battlefield as if it’s second nature. 

The hallways are half-empty, bathed in thin morning air that hasn’t quite warmed the tile floors. His footsteps sound too loud, like they’re echoing in someone else’s dream. Still, he doesn’t look up - he’s busy defending a tower. The match timer ticks down.

Everyone else is already in the locker room; the distant clatter of bags and lockers filters through the air.

As soon as Hiori lifts his eyes from the screen, he spots Rin crouched ahead, adjusting the strap of his bag.

Hiori pauses, thumb hovering over his phone. The match is still running, but suddenly, it feels secondary.

Their eyes meet briefly with a flick of acknowledgment - and it’s enough.

Enough to let Hiori turn off his device and tilt his pace slightly, careful not to close the distance too much.

They fall into a rhythm, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press for explanation.

“Mornin’,” he says, soft and a bit hesitant. 

It’s not night. Hiori knows he’s testing uncharted waters.

Rin glances at him with a questioning look. “Hi.” He lets out briefly.

He then shifts his bag higher, tilting his head toward the space ahead. “Go on. Walk first.”

Hiori almost laughs. Politeness feels strange when it comes from Rin. “Don’t worry. No one’s here.” 

Then, because it feels like something he gets to do now: “Besides - I wanna walk with ya.”

That earns him a sharp look, as if Rin wants to argue but can’t quite find the reason. His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t push it.

“Suit yourself,” Rin mutters.

The hallway narrows in front of him, Rin’s shoulder brushing the small space that separates them.

Since that night on the rooftop Hiori has been overanalysing the invisible string that ties them - he’s found himself wanting to strengthen it, to weave it tighter, so that when the day comes he dares to hold on to it like a lifeline, it won’t unravel in his hands.

Rin Itoshi is a fortress where everything real is hidden, and yet Hiori finds himself drawn to that silence, that weight. An endless boss fight with no manual. A challenge that keeps him coming back.

Which is weird - because Hiori isn’t the type to hold on to people. 

People are like equations to him - predictable, neat, solvable. Each interaction follows a pattern; variables line up, outcomes are clear, and answers reveal themselves almost immediately. 

But Rin is an equation that rewrites itself every time he thinks he’s close to the solution. The more he tries to parse it, the more it complicates itself, teasing him with near-solutions that dissolve the instant he reaches for them. 

Hiori doesn’t know what to call it, only that he doesn’t want to lose it yet. 

The two of them walk in sync, their footsteps a quiet counterpoint down the narrowing hallway.

There’s something almost deliberate in the lack of words. Like Rin is saying: if you’re going to walk beside me, you better be fine with silence too.

And he really is. 

The locker room hums just ahead - voices colliding, lockers clanging, a world that feels ten steps louder than this sliver of hallway. Hiori slows without meaning to, reluctant to break the rhythm they’ve stumbled into.

Rin notices. Of course he does. His gaze cuts sideways, sharp even in something so small.

“What,” he says flatly, though not unfriendly.

“Nothing.” Hiori’s lips curve, faint, betraying him. “It’s just… quiet here. I like it.”

Rin exhales through his nose, a sound halfway to a scoff. But he doesn’t speed up, doesn’t shove past him into the noise. If anything, his steps sync close.

They reach the corner of the hallway, the chatter from the locker rooms swelling like a tide. Rin tilts his head toward the door: “You go first”

Hiori nods “Ya act like we’ve just committed a crime”, he sais to let the moment hang a fraction longer. “Don’t give me ideas. Half those tepid idiots are already dead weight.” Rin surprisingly adds.

Hiori laughs, savouring the tranquil gravity that engulfs them. 

Then he steps forward. 

The moment collapses as soon as the door swings open. Noise slams into him - cleats on tile, jerseys half-on, laughter thrown across the walls.

🎶🎶

Bachira is the loudest, naturally. He sits cross-legged on the bench, grinning as he spins his water bottle like a top. “Alright, bets! Who’s scoring first against Nigeria? Don’t be cowards -  put something on the line!”

“First?”  Aiku scoffs, adjusting his shin guards. “Easy. Isagi. Guy smells goals like a bloodhound.”

Isagi half-laughs from where he ties his boots. “Not sure if I like that analogy.”

“You should,” Sendou drawls, leaning against the lockers. “Means you’ll get us on the board before they even know what hit them.”

“Oi, don’t count me out.” Bachira jabs a finger at his own chest. “I’ll dance through their whole defense before Yoichi even smells the ball.”

“You?” Barou’s voice cuts sharp from across the room. He sits on the bench like a king on his throne, towel draped across his shoulders, disdain radiating. “You’re all talk. I’ll be the one scoring - if Ego’d been smart, he’d start me instead of wasting time on your circus act.”

“Cry harder, Barou,” Otoya chimes in lazily, checking his hair in the mirror. “You’re benched. Again. That says enough.”

The bench roars in laughter, Shidou’s voice makes a show among them. He kicks the back of the lockers with his heel, grinning like a wolf. “Pathetic. None of you losers are touching my numbers anyway. If I’m out there, I eat their backline alive. Four goals by halftime. Minimum.”

Rin - who just got in and is sitting a little apart as always - makes his voice slice across the chatter:

“Don’t make me laugh”

The room quiets just enough for Shidou’s grin to stretch wider. “Ohh, so it does speak.” He leans forward, eyes wild, licking his teeth like he’s already tasting blood. “What? You think you’ll outscore me? Don’t make me laugh.”

“You’re not even on the damn field, cockroach,” Rin snaps, knotting his laces tighter, knuckles pale. “Stay in your fucking lane.”

“Oooh,” Bachira sings, eyes wide. “Catfight!”

“Pathetic,” Barou mutters, though his scowl suggests he’s half a second away from biting too.

Karasu’s chuckle slips through the noise. “Relax, Itoshi. He’s just jealous he won’t get the chance.”

Shidou snorts, throwing his arms wide like he’s the only sane man in a room full of idiots. “Jealous? Please. You should all be jealous of me.”

The noise rises again, overlapping, everyone talking over everyone, until Niko’s sharp voice cuts in: “You’re all forgetting something. Nigeria’s defense isn’t a joke. Predicting who’ll score first is one thing, predicting if you’ll score at all is another.”

Aryu flips his hair dramatically, shining even under the harsh fluorescent light. “Not when you’ve got me holding the line. They won’t even get close enough to touch you, darlings.”

“Just don’t trip over your own hair,” Yukimiya mutters, drawing a laugh out of Gagamaru as he stretches his long limbs by the door.

“Alright, alright.” Chigiri raises his hands, trying to calm the storm. “Let’s get serious. Scoreline predictions. Winner gets bragging rights.”

Aiku smirks while sliding his shin guards into place. “Yeah, brag while you can. Who knows if we’ll even be playing domestically once the real thing starts. Heard Ego’s cooking something.”

Bachira leans in, wide-eyed: “Cooking what?”

“Heard or hallucinated?” Karasu drawls.

Aryu flips his hair: “Ugh, don’t tell me you’re starting rumors again. I haven’t even finished planning my Europe outfits-”

What are they talking about?

“Europe?” Hiori blinks, but no one picks up on it.

That betting’s already got everyone’s attention.

“Three–one,” Kunigami says instantly, without looking up from adjusting his ankle tape. His tone is cool, confident, like the numbers are already carved in stone. “Us, obviously.”

“Two–nil,” Karasu offers, voice casual but eyes sharp. “Rin and Isagi.”

Isagi blinks, caught between pride and nerves. Rin doesn’t react at all.

“Five–three!” Bachira announces, bouncing on the bench like a child on sugar. “Messy and fun as hell. And I score two.”

“You mean you miss two,” Rin mutters, while putting his cleats on.

Then Hiori, who’s been quiet through the noise, finally speaks. “Three–one,” he says, calm, almost absentminded. “ One Goal from Isagi and mayne two from Rin.”

That stills Rin’s hands. Just for a second.

Isagi gives him a sideways glance. “Only one for me, huh?”

Hiori nods, adjusting his wrist tape with meticulous focus. “Statistically, it makes the most sense. Rin’s positioning against high-press systems like Nigeria’s leaves space at the near post. If the midfield feeds him right, he’ll convert.”

There’s nothing emotional in his voice -  just numbers, logic. But the way he says it carries weight.

And Hiori feels it.

Feels Rin’s gaze on him, steady, unwavering, like he isn’t just making a bet but stating a truth.

For a moment, the locker room noise dims under it.

Then Shidou cackles from the back, breaking the moment. “Look at that - what are you, a computer?”

“Better than being a lunatic,” Karasu shoots back in his defence.

Chaos erupts again - arguments, laughter, mockery bouncing off the walls until the tension snaps back into noise. The storm carries itself until Ego’s announcement blares overhead, summoning them toward the tunnel.

One by one, they filter out, still talking, still jostling.

Hiori lingers, towel slung over his shoulder, when a voice comes low beside him.

“You’re confident Rin’s gonna score.”

He looks up. Isagi stands there, arms crossed, expression steady but searching.

Hiori tries for casual. “I just placed the safest bet.”

“Mm.” Isagi’s eyes narrow, not buying it. “Or maybe it’s because you’re gonna make sure of it.”

What the fuck?

That catches him off guard - enough for his composure to slip. “What makes you say that?”

Did Isagi find out about them? 

The striker shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Because I know you. And because of Ego’s last meeting.”

Hiori stiffens. “Ego- talked about me to you?”

“Not in a bad way,” Isagi sais quickly, reassuring. “He basically assigned you as Rin’s midfielder. Said you’d make him better, that… the two of you were compatible.” His grin softened into something fond. “Like me and Bachira. Bachira’s mine, of course.”

Hiori blinks. 

Ego had said that? Out loud? To Rin? And…Isagi?

His mind spun with the memory of Rin’s exhaustion, his sharp edges, how hard he’d been pushing himself these days. 

The idea that Ego has forced their partnership into the open first… it settles something deep in his chest.

“Did Rin say something?” Hiori asks before he can stop himself.

Isagi scratches his cheek. “He was in a bad mood. Tried to brush it off. But didn’t deny either.”

A ghost of a smile touches Hiori’s mouth. Of course he did. Rin would never admit needing anyone. But still, he’d shown up. Again and again.

“We’ve been workin’,” Hiori admitted. “Buildin’ flow.”

Isagi’s whole face lights up. He jabs a finger at him like he just solved a puzzle. “I knew it! I could see it on the pitch.”

Heat rushes to Hiori’s face despite himself. “You’re annoyingly perceptive.”

“Don’t act like it’s a bad thing.” Isagi grins. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Maybe.” Hiori turns toward the end of the hall, then looks back, more serious.

“So what is it? You two friends now?”

The words feel like someone yanked the floor out from under him.

Hiori blinks, caught completely off guard. “…Friends?”

Isagi crosses his arms, patient but relentless. “Yeah. You and Rin. Don’t act like I’m crazy. You’re being kinda weird about it.”

Hiori laughs, soft and strained, as if that might dissolve the question. “It’s… complicated.”

Isagi’s brow arches, unconvinced. He looks like he wants to press, but doesn’t -  just tilts his head, watching Hiori with that unnervingly sharp curiosity of his.

And Hiori leaves it there on the surface.

Complicated.

Because how else do you explain a change that doesn’t feel like it happened in one moment, but in hundreds of smaller ones, stitched together until you realize the fabric’s different now?

The truth - the one he swallows - is that Rin isn’t the same with him anymore. Not since the first breach that cracked him open.

It was awkward at first, sure - Rin showing up to training with his shoulders tight, his jaw set, like he was bracing for a mistake that hadn’t even happened yet. 

But after that the stiffness has melted, slowly, stubbornly.

Now Rin doesn’t just tolerate him. He seeks him out.

When the ball moves right between them, when the angle clicks and the pass threads sharp into space, Rin doesn’t just grunt or nod. 

He actually turns, dap ready, or fist bumping Hiori’s like it belongs there. 

Not big, not flashy - just steady. Like a small vow, over and over: this works. We work.

And then there are the smiles.

Yesterday’s one caught Hiori so off guard he nearly forgot to breathe. It was late, their third set of runs, and he was still thinking too much about angles and spaces instead of playing. 

Rin noticed. 

He stopped mid-stride, frowning.  “You’re not a fucking calculator. Stop solving and just play.”

Hiori blinked at him, heat prickling the back of his neck. He muttered before he could stop himself, words spilling quick, clipped, a little defensive:

“But it’s not just solvin’. If ya draw their press as a function - say, their wingers cut at a 40° angle - then the gap behind the pivot looks nonexistent until ya plot the trajectory. Once ya map it, though, the probability curve basically guarantees a passing lane. That’s not overthinkin’, that’s just… math confirmin’ instinct...”

He realized he’d gone too far the second the words left his mouth. He’d braced for Rin to roll his eyes, snap at him, shut him down.

But Rin just… stared. Expression unreadable. Then - small, sudden, almost unwilling - the corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

A smile, quick as it came. “You sound ridiculous, Sheep.”

Rin Itoshi never smiles. Everyone knows that. But whenever Hiori catches him slipping, even just for a second, it’s always at him - and maybe he’ll never get used to it.

Because it always burns itself into Hiori’s chest, proof Rin trusts him enough to let something soft slip through, even if only for a second.

That’s why he looks at Isagi now, steadier than he means to, and says, “Don’t tell anyone.”

Isagi tilts his head, half-grinning like he knows more than he should. “Not even Bachira?”

“Especially not Bachira.”

Isagi laughs under his breath. “You know he’ll wheedle it out of you eventually.”

“No,” Hiori says, firmer this time, surprising even himself. “Promise me. Not him. Not anyone.”

Isagi studies him for a beat, then sighs and holds up his hands. “Alright. I promise.”

Relief unknots quietly in Hiori’s chest.

“Good,” he murmurs, and his mouth almost curves before he can stop it. “Thank you.”

Isagi’s grin softens, turning wry but not mocking. “Just make it count out there, yeah? If you’re betting on Rin… back him up. Otherwise, all this sneaking around won’t mean a thing.”

Hiori slaps him affectionately in the back of his head. “Who do ya take me for, number one? I’m startin’ for a reason.”

Isagi lets out a laugh “Just know I’ll score more than him.”

Hiori smirks, “We’ll see ‘bout that.”

//

The lounge is too bright for Hiori’s liking.

Sterile light bounces off glass walls and white tile, making it impossible to pretend you’re not under constant surveillance. Even here, in the recreation area, cameras glint like tiny eyes in every corner.

Privacy is a myth in Blue Lock.

Not that it stops Isagi and Bachira from curling into their own world.

The pair have claimed one end of the couch, Bachira sprawled sideways with his head against Isagi’s shoulder, fingers drumming restless patterns along his thigh like he’s still juggling an invisible ball.

Isagi tolerates it with his usual half-exasperated, half-indulgent expression, swatting him away only to have Bachira lean back in harder.

Across from them, Karasu slouches with his legs crossed, perfectly composed, while Otoya leans against his side like a bored cat.

And then there’s Hiori.

On the armchair wedged between them.

Left stranded fifth-wheeling by a sleepy Kurona.

That damn traitor.

He perches there, quiet but aware, taking in the chaos around him. It’s not exclusion - he just hasn’t found a way to dive in yet.

Watching is easier - always has been - and, honestly, right bow it was even kind of entertaining.

Bachira breaks the lull first, of course. “Sooo,” he sings, swinging his legs, “World Cup. Who do you think’s gonna flop first?”

Otoya perks up, as if this is his area of expertise. “England. Always. Their whole brand is choking.”

Karasu smirks. “Bold talk, considering you’re not even starting for us.”

Otoya gasps, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Et tu, Tabito?"

The smirk doesn’t fade. If anything, it softens into something slyly affectionate. “Relax, idiot. I’m saying Ego’s blind. You’ll get your chance.”

Hiori watches the exchange from the corner of his eye. The way Otoya’s pout cracks, the way his shoulders loosen under Karasu’s voice. It’s smooth, practiced - comfort offered without ever looking like it’s intentional.

Bachira laughs like a gremlin. “Don’t worry, Otoyaaa. If you don’t play, you can be our cheerleader. Shake the pompoms, show some thigh-”

Isagi shoves his face into Bachira’s hair before the sentence finishes. “Do not encourage him.”

“Oh I’d rock it,” Otoya says, unbothered. “Silver fringe skirt, little crop top, you’d all cry from jealousy.”

“I’m picturing it,” Karasu murmurs, with a smirk.

Kill me now, Hiori thinks.

“Actually-” Bachira’s eyes snap open wide. “I’d make a great cheerleader too! Sparkly skirt, glitter everywhere, boom - morale skyrockets!”

“You’d terrify the audience,” Hiori says flatly, before he can stop himself.

Bachira gasps, delighted. “He speaks!”

“I’m just sayin’,” Hiori adds, eyes still on the floor, “there’s a reason professional teams don’t hand out maracas to their forwards.”

Otoya barks a laugh. “Oh, I like this side of you, Hiori. Cold-blooded. You’d make a great co-cheerleader. Deadpan snark, I’ll do the thighs, you’ll do the dry commentary. Balance.”

“You and Hiori in a skirt,” Karasu drawls suddenly, dark eyes flicking over Otoya with the kind of lazy precision that makes his words feel deliberate. “Yeah. That’d work. I’d totally cheer for that.”

“Shut up, Crow. You’re talking in front of the children,” Otoya shoots back, though his grin gives him away.

“I didn’t say anything weird,” Karasu says smoothly. “Yet.”

The laughter echoes sharp against the glass walls. Too bright. Too loud. A warmth he’s trying to get used to.

🎶🎶

Hiori folds his arms loosely, gaze drifting to the ceiling where the cameras blink red.

That’s when Hiori’s phone buzzes against his thigh.

He almost ignores it - habit - but then he catches the name on the screen.

Beast10: what time

Beast10: training

His stomach dips. Rin.

That’s new.

Normally, Hiori is the one to reach out first, fumbling an excuse about warm-ups or timing, pretending it isn’t about wanting to have a Dead by Daylight marathon. 

Hiori glances at the clock in the corner: 10:13. They still have plenty of time.

He leans back into the armchair, thumb tapping.

Sheep23 : It’s too early

The reply comes fast, clipped like everything Rin says.

Beast10 : I’ll be on the pitch by 11

He thumbs the screen open, careful not to let the glow catch Bachira’s greedy eyes.

Sheep23 : i’m in the lounge right now

Sheep23: with some people

Sheep23 : I’ll wait till they go to sleep

The typing bubble pulses, then Rin’s message hits.

Beast10 : socialising with the lukewarms?

Beast10 : disgusting.

A laugh breaks out of him before he can smother it. He tilts the phone away from prying eyes, quick fingers firing back.

Sheep23 : bold words for someone asking me to leave them to train with him.

Sheep23 : never seen u text first before.

Sheep23 : monumental day.

Beast10: shut up.

Before he can answer, Bachira leans over, cat-quick, eyes darting. “Why are you laughing Hioriiii? Don’t tell me you’re playing your games while we’re right in front of you.”

Then Karasu decides to play the big brother role, side-eyeing Hiori with a faint smirk. “Kid’s on that phone like it’s glued to his hand.”

Hiori forces himself not to stiffen. He flicks his gaze up, deadpan. “Relax. Just this level and I’ll be all yours.”

Otoya leans forward with interest. “Level? Don’t tell me you’re one of those sweaty leaderboard grinders.”

“Better than bein’ one of those sweaty hair gel grinders,” Hiori mutters under his breath.

The room cracks up. Bachira slaps his thigh, shrieking. Karasu’s smirk sharpens into something sly. “Clocked him.”

“Stop gaming. Some people actually want to talk,” Isagi adds, half-teasing.

His mind flicks back to the locker room. Isagi’s sharp, perceptive gaze that never lets him get away with half-truths. Hiori always liked that side of him.

Still, he’s already seen more than he should.

Maybe it’s better Rin knows. Better to say it outright now, while it’s still in their hands.

He inhales once, steadying his thumb.

Sheep23 : isagi knows.

The second it sends, doubt churns in his chest. Will this make the deal waver?

The reply comes fast.

Beast10 : ???

Hiori’s pulse kicks. He types again, slower this time, making the letters deliberate.

Sheep23 : about us

He rethinks the wording while the typing bubble lingers, then Rin’s answer lands, clipped and heavy as a hammer:

Beast10 : i know.

Beast10 : don’t care.

Hiori blinks.

That’s it?

No sharp retort, no explosion? The knot in his stomach loosens, strange relief blooming in its place.

Sheep23 : i made sure he won’t tell.

Beast10 : good.

Beast10 : don’t be too late.

He lets the phone slip onto his lap, exhaling into the chatter that fills the room. 

He almost misses it when Otoya leans in out of nowhere and kisses Karasu, quick and shameless.

The room explodes. Bachira screeches, Isagi swears into his hands.

“Disgusting,” Hiori deadpans, snatching a throw pillow and swinging it straight at them.

Otoya catches it on his chest like a prize. “Relax, Hiori, you’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of needin’ disinfectant?!” Hiori shoots back.

The laughter roars again, too loud under the glass ceiling. Hiori sinks deeper into his chair, half-smiling despite himself.

Don’t be too late.

//

Hiori slips. 

It’s muscle memory by now, the routine of meeting Rin past midnight when the rest of the building is forced into stillness.

The automatic doors to the indoor pitch part with a sigh. 

In the middle of the turf, a ball keeps time against the air - tap, rise, hiss - caught and released by Rin’s right foot like gravity obeys him first and physics second.

Shoulders square, chin slightly tucked, eyes cutting up only when the ball skims the line of the ceiling.

A metronome disguised as a boy.

Hiori steps under the arc and tips his head. The ball kisses his hair and settles on his crown a heartbeat - then he flicks it up and back with a neat nod.

Rin doesn’t flinch.

He just tracks the rebound, ankle tightening, and skims it back at a meaner angle.

“Tch.” His gaze slides over that familiar knife’s edge. “Ask before you steal.”

“Ya basically sent it to me,” Hiori says, deadpan, and meets the ball with the flat of his laces.

Rin’s mouth barely twitches. He returns the ball with a tiny slice of spin that wants to roll off Hiori’s boot.

Hiori adjusts his ankle half a degree, kills the rotation, and sends it back tighter.

“You hesitated,” Rin says. “That will cost you.”

Hiori rolls his eyes, letting the ball skim down his shin before flicking it back up with the edge of his boot. “Ya notice everythin’ except your own damn mistakes.”

Rin snorts- not a laugh, never that, but the closest he gets. “What damn mistakes?”

Get off tour high horse. Hiori’s mind teases.

“That last touch was driftin’,” He says instead, tone even. “I had to save it.”

The ball zips faster now, both refusing to lose ground. Every touch comes like a point scored, but the rhythm between them stays seamless. 

“It’s off your plant foot,” Rin says finally, almost bored.

Hiori’s return is immediate. “And ya follow through one frame too long. Compensatin’.”

“For you, dumbass.”

The words hit harder than the volley, blunt and unfair in how honest they are. Hiori misses a beat - not the ball, just his breath.

This condescending bastard.

He kills the spin, lifts the ball neat and perfect, and says quietly: “Your precision’s not as untouchable as ya think.”

This time, Rin’s mouth twitches for real. Challenging.

There it is.

“Now those are big words. Talking to the number one striker here.”

“Come on, Beast, I already lectured ya on how strikers need someone who can actually thread the pass. Without me, your ‘precision’ ends in the stands.”

The ball slaps his instep, rises, and snaps toward Rin with the kind of spin that dares him to mishandle it.

He doesn’t. Rin never does.

“Tch. No point threading needles if no one’s there to stitch the net.”

“So you’re saying your whole career rests on me handin’ ya the thread?” Hiori’s voice is smooth, almost casual, though his touch on the ball is anything but - sending it back with just enough spin to make Rin shift his stance.

Hiori’s gaze sharpens, words slipping out quieter, deliberate:

“Then again, that is why I placed that bet this morning. Ya will score against Nigeria.” A small pause, then- “I’ll make it happen.”

The ball moves faster now, touches tightening like a conversation picking up pace.

Rin’s jaw flexes. Gaze colliding with Hiori’s while still controlling the ball perfectly. “You didn’t need to put money on me.”

Hiori tilts his head faintly, the ghost of a smile at his mouth. “I put faith on us.”

That earns him silence - not agreement, not denial, but the kind of silence that means Rin hasn’t dismissed it. And that is everything.

They keep the volley climbing, unbroken.

Then Hiori speaks again, lighter, letting the words slip in like another ball to juggle:

“You’re precise, Rin. No one doubts that. But…” He angles the ball back with a flick of his outside boot, just tricky enough to test Rin’s balance. “I genuinely think I’m sharper.”

That gets him the twitch at Rin’s mouth, the one step below a laugh. “You’re out of your depth.”

“Am I?” Hiori meets the next pass calmly. His eyes glint. “Then prove it.”

Rin narrows his gaze. “What are you playing at?”

Hiori’s voice doesn’t falter. Outside, smooth. Inside, his pulse drums hot, certain: yes, this is it.

“Let’s make it a drill. We keep jugglin’ with no drops and no breaks. Here’s that hard part: we do it while we ask each other questions. You’ll have to hold precision while your focus gets pulled in every direction. Just like it will against Nigeria.”

The ball slaps leather-to-leather between them, louder now, as if echoing the challenge.

Rin’s chin dips, unreadable. “You’re trying to trip me up.”

Hiori’s return is clean, unyielding. “I’m tryin’ to make ya sharper. Unless you’re worried about slippin’.”

He watches the glint in Rin’s eyes shift, steel cutting sharper, the silence stretching taut.

Then Rin exhales through his nose, a sound that isn’t surrender but isn’t refusal either.

“Tch. Fine. You start.”

And inside, Hiori’s chest lights like a flare.

Got him.

The ball hangs in the air for a breath, leather hissing faint against fluorescent light. Rin catches it clean, his ankle locked, and sends it back with the same ruthless precision as always.

Hiori steadies his breath, the rhythm in his body matching Rin’s. 

What he really wants is to watch Rin juggle under pressure, to see if the cracks show. To force him to hold form with more than just his body.

“Alright,” Hiori says, voice deceptively mild as the ball lands on his instep. “First one. Favorite animal.”

Rin’s brow twitches. “Seriously?”

“Rules are rules,” Hiori returns, as if this has been established. “No overthinkin’. Answer.”

Rin volleys the ball back with his thigh, eyes cutting to Hiori. “Owl.”

Hiori raises a brow. “Why?”

Rin’s mouth tugs faintly. “Mind your own damn busine- Is elaborating part of this game?”

Hiori leans into the volley, cushioning the ball so it barely kisses his boot before flicking it back. “Just answer the damn question, Beast.”

Rin’s gaze flicks away, almost annoyed at himself for entertaining it. “Don’t know. Something about their eyes.” His shoulders move in the barest shrug. “Wide and sharp. Like they don’t miss anything.”

Hiori feels the smile on his lips when he says: “That actually fits ya.”

“Shut up.” Rin hums, already angling the ball higher. “My turn. Uh- Favorite hot drink.”

“Coffee.”

The ball zips back and forth, faster now.

“Fucking hell,” Rin mutters, like he expected it. “Not that bitter shit.”

Hiori blinks, then narrows his eyes. “Wait- ya hate coffee?”

“Sae’s obsessed with it.” Rin says it like it’s law. “I used to tell him it’s burnt water pretending to be deep.”

For a split second, Hiori is caught off guard by how casually Rin drops his brother into the air between them. 

Because lately Hiori keeps catching himself thinking about Sae. About the storm Rin carries with him, the shadow of it. 

Hiori still doesn’t know the full story, doesn’t know everything that broke between them. But he knows Rin trusted him with the aftermath - held onto him instead of pushing him away.

The laugh breaks out of him before he can stop it, sudden and bright, and it startles even him. “Which one’s yours then?”

Rin looks at him as if to ask if that’s a rhetorical question. “Green tea- obviously.”

Hiori almost misses his timing - not from the ball, but the sheer force of disbelief. “You’re kidding. Coffee is leagues above tea.”

“Tea is superior in every way.” Rin’s voice is clipped, precise, like his passes.

Hiori lets out a mock gasp, hand almost twitching as if to clutch his chest. “Coffee is the gods’ elixir.”

“Coffee drinkers are always so fucking pretentious - it fits you now that I think about it.” Rin angles the ball so sharply it forces Hiori to stretch.

Hiori catches it with his chest, exhaling hard but steady. “Unbelievable. Tea is just flavored water. Coffee has- character. Strength.”

“Bitterness isn’t strength.” Rin’s voice cuts, but there is something under it, the ghost of enjoyment in arguing. “It’s annoying.”

“Says the most bitter person I know.” Hiori shakes his head, sending the ball back clean. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

Their rhythm never breaks. If anything, it tightens.

Hiori’s turn. He steadies his breathing. “Favorite school subject.”

Rin doesn’t hesitate. “P.E.”

Hiori rolls his eyes, angles the ball with a deliberate flick. “Comin’ from the football player. Come on, gimme somethin’ actually hard to guess.”

“You’re annoying.” Rin’s return is sharp, as if punctuating the insult. “Fine. Art.”

That catches Hiori off guard - not the answer, but the lack of hesitation. He smooths his face, smirk forming before he can stop it.

“Now that’s interestin’. Might ask ya to paint me like ‘one of your french lovers’ someday.” 

“Don’t make it weird.” Rin’s tone is sharp enough to cut, glare sending daggers.

Hiori laughs out loud. He notices he does that a lot when Rin’s around.

He lets the volley fill the silence, his mind marking the moment.

Rin breaks it first. “My turn. Favorite holiday.”

“Halloween.”

Rin clicks his tongue, immediate. “Should’ve fucking known.”

“Got somethin’ against Halloween too now?” Hiori asks, feigning casual, though his pulse quickens at how fast Rin snaps back.

“Everyone pretends they’re horror lovers for one night. Costumes, masks, fake blood. Annoyingly performative.” Rin’s volley comes sharper, angrier, as if punctuating every word.

Hiori absorbs. “That’s fair.” He tilts his head faintly, the ball kissing his boot before rising again. “Ya already know I’m actually into horror though- I only like it because it’s the one holiday that doesn’t mean family time.”

The ball arcs higher.

Rin’s eyes narrow, faint confusion flashing like static, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t break stride.

Hiori is grateful for that.

His throat feels tight for a second, but he pushes the air out evenly, sending the ball back.

He shifts tone, smooth, dismissive. “Next question is mine.”

Inside, though, he thinks: maybe someday. If he’ll ever tell Rin about his parents, it won’t be now.

Because for now, it’s enough that the ball still hasn’t touched the ground.

“Tell me,” Hiori says, letting the ball roll across his chest before he nudges it up with the outside of his foot. “When and why did ya start playin’ football?”

Rin freezes mid-trap for a heartbeat, lips pressing into a straight line. Tap, flick - the ball rolls down, up, caught, sent back with precise balance.

“Two questions in one. That’s cheating,” he mutters, voice clipped, but there is the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth.

Hiori smirks, letting the ball linger on his thigh a second longer than necessary. “One without the other is flavorless,” he teases, tapping it lightly back to Rin.

Rin exhales, sharp and short, and mutters, “Fine. Five. I was five.”

The ball bounces against Hiori’s chest; he catches it with ease, eyes flicking to Rin’s.

Rin’s next touch is sharper, heavier, a little impatient. “It was my- Sae’s match. I ran onto the middle of the pitch, and took a shot.” He lets it drop to his foot, controlled, precise, but a flicker of something unsaid dances across his features.

Hiori’s brow lifts slightly. “And he didn’t…” He lets the rest hang, letting Rin fill it in without nudging.

“He didn’t get mad,” Rin intercepts. He angles the ball up with the inside of his foot, letting it float back toward Hiori. “He… praised me. Told me I could play with him from now on.”

The ball rolls across Hiori’s thigh, and for a moment he lets it hang in the air, caught, then sends it back in a soft arc. “And ya did.” His voice is careful, low, a thread pulling gently.

Rin’s eyes flick up, something vulnerable hidden beneath the usual bluntness. “We did. We were strikers for the Kamakura team.”

Little Rin, Hiori thinks.

Five years old, barreling onto a pitch mid-match, sneakers scuffed, arms flailing. Too small to know the world might hit back.

Was he as closed off as he is now?

Had the weight of expectation built his wall?

Hiori catches the ball with a soft tap, letting it hover a fraction longer on his instep. He lets the thought slip out, muttering just enough for himself to hear. “I’m genuinely picturin’ little Rin now.”

The next pass slams harder than he expects.

He barely keeps it up, chest and thigh working in quick sync, sending it back without breaking stride.

“Stop being fucking weird,” Rin snaps again, a flicker of amusement hiding under the edge.

Hiori lets out a dry chuckle, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He does feel weird this time though.

Because there is an unknown protective ping in his chest.

The ball climbs, suspended between them, and Rin’s voice comes sharper this time, curiosity threading through it. “Why did you switch to midfield?”

Hiori’s chest tightens - the quiet comparison to Sae tucked in the subtext.

“Ya want the short or long answer?” he asks, flicking the ball lightly back, letting it spin against Rin’s thigh.

Rin doesn’t pause, perfectly catching it, flipping it up, sending it back. “Ball’s not dropping anytime soon.”

Hiori inhales. The rhythm of their juggling becomes a slow pulse in his chest.

He thinks of his parents, briefly, a ghost of memory flaring behind his focus: the expectations, the quiet corrections, the narrow gaze that always measures him by goals scored, not the space he can command.

“Freedom,” he says, letting the word hang, letting Rin feel the weight of it. “Bein’ a striker… feels narrow. You’re only useful if you score. Expected to be in the right place at the right time. Always.”

He lets the pass skim the ground, angled high, letting the physical rhythm underline the confession without spelling out the shadows behind it.

“In midfield, I choose. I can score if I want to, or I can create chances. Use my brain, my whole self. And if a striker can’t keep up…”

The ball spins, caught, rolls across his foot, launched back into the air with calculated ease. “…I just stop passin’ to him. I get to discard whoever doesn’t understand my calculations.”

Rin’s chest trap is clean, a flick back, but his eyes widen fractionally. “Is that a fucking threat?”

Hiori smirks. “Don’t make me lose money.”

The ball lifts; the air hums. Their shoes whisper on the floor. Hiori times his breath to leather and light. This is usable - Rin loose, precise, talking. 

Keep it moving.

“So,” Hiori says, letting the ball brush his laces and rise again, “favorite movie?”

Rin doesn’t even think. “The Shining.”

Hiori can’t help it - the laugh that pulls low in his chest and stays there. “That tracks.”

Rin’s eyes cut over, sharper than his touch. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… ya know. Isolation. People goin’ crazy.” Hiori nudges the ball up with a clean flick, grin widening a fraction. “Feels on brand.”

The ball doesn’t get to Hiori when he adds: “Never actually seen it, though.”

It lands like a mis-hit in the air- silent, then catastrophic. 

Rin’s ankle freezes a millisecond too long. The ball kisses the top of his boot, skids.

Drops.

The echo cracks the court. Once. Twice.

Hiori’s brain lights up with something juvenile and bright - oh. 

Oh, he dropped it. He dropped it. I win-

While Rin straightens too fast, a frown cleaves in.

The ball is still rolling when the heat visibly catches the back of Rin’s neck.

“You’ve never- what the fuck do you mean you’ve never seen it?”

His voice ricochets off concrete.

Hiori blinks, genuinely startled by the volume, then schools his face into blank innocence because that makes the next part funnier. 

He lifts one shoulder in the laziest shrug known to man. “I mean… I haven’t? I know the axe thing, the twins in the hallway. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Rin’s pitch climbs, disbelief stripping it raw. “That’s it?”

Hiori tows the runaway ball back with his toe, balancing it idly, the picture of terrible nonchalance. 

“That’s it…?”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Rin is actually flushed - just there, along the cheekbones - like this is the hill he’ll die on. 

Hiori wants to laugh again, badly. He doesn’t.

Yet.

Rin barrels on, hands cutting the air once before he folds them hard across his chest, like he needs somewhere to put all the outrage. “You like horror. We’ve talked about it a dozen times. You go on about fucking practical effects, about atmosphere over jump scares. You lectured me for ten minutes on why fake blood should be orange-tinted for better contrast- And you-” he trips, incredulous, “-you’ve never seen The Shining?”

Hiori watches him.

🎶🎶

The way Rin’s shoulders notch forward, the way his eyes won’t sit still because they’re bouncing between Hiori’s face and the sin of it. The way sweat gathers at his temple and he doesn’t notice. 

Hiori is still idly juggling, lazy touches, the tiniest show-off to underline the fact that the game is technically over and the scoreboard says 1–0.

It’s almost obscene that Rin doesn’t care.

“It didn’t make your top five when we ranked slashers last night” Hiori offers, deadpan, as if that has anything to do with tye conversation. “And slasher isn’t even Shining, I know, I know- don’t yell-”

“You know the entire ‘long hallway’ shot thing? That came from The Shining,” Rin snaps, like the sentence might physically shove the movie into Hiori’s skull. 

“Tracking shots? The way dread builds from stillness? All of that is Kubrick. Shining. And you-” he stops to glare, genuinely wounded, “-you’ve been walking around talking about horror without watching it?”

Hiori lets his mouth soften because Rin looks like someone told him the sun is fake.

“Ya done?”

“No.”

It fires out fast, automatic. His arms tighten across his chest. “I could write you a list right now about why that’s- that’s-”

“Blasphemy?” Hiori suggests, just to stoke it.

“Yes!” 

Rin barks, then realizes he’s agreed and scowls harder, which is exactly the kind of contradiction that makes Hiori’s chest feel complicated.

They stare for a beat. Fluorescents hum. 

Somewhere far back in Hiori’s mind, a small, smug scoreboard keeps flashing. 

He says, very calmly, “So…I win.”

Rin blinks. “What?”

“The ball,” Hiori reminds, toeing it up once, lazy backspin. “Ya dropped it. That means I win the question drill.”

Rin’s scowl whips toward the floor where the crime took place, then back up. 

He looks personally betrayed by gravity. “Not having watched The Shining makes you the loser by default.”

Hiori’s laugh gets away from him this time, warm and unhelpful. “That’s not how the game works.”

“That ‘game’ was so stupid it didn’t need rules in the first place.” Rin spits the words out and steps in, closing the distance like he’s defending a ball that isn’t there.

They’re suddenly close enough for Hiori to see the ragged edge of one of Rin’s lashes, the faint heat of breath from argument alone. 

Hiori can feel the thud of his own pulse get loud, which is ridiculous.

He tells himself it’s just to keep the argument going. To keep Rin open like this. 

But Rin doesn’t stop walking.

His strides are clipped, almost impatient, carrying him toward the far end of the pitch like escape is a valid strategy. “I’m not-” he cuts himself off, suspicion thick in his voice. “You’re enjoying this.”

Hiori tips the ball from thigh to chest, chest back to thigh, letting the rhythm go showy now.

 If Rin won’t care about the score, he absolutely will. “Well- ya did just drop the ball because I said three words about a movie.”

Rin’s glare comes over his shoulder, but there’s no venom left in it.

Just a scalded sort of frustration. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

And with that, he turns away again, longer strides eating the turf.

For a second, Hiori watches his back. He could let Rin go - let him stomp off, let the air cool, let this dissolve into another unsolved equation.

But something in the tension of Rin’s shoulders tugs at him. The way his body looks like a wall that might crack if someone pressed, just once, in the right place.

So Hiori jogs forward, catching him in a few strides.

His hand moves before thought can stop it. He brushes Rin’s forearm, fingers curving just enough to slow him, not trap him. 

A tether, not a cage.

Rin halts mid-step. Doesn’t flinch. 

Doesn’t yank free.

The pitch goes quiet except for the hum of the floodlights and the faint roll of the abandoned ball somewhere behind them. 

Hiori feels the heat of Rin’s skin beneath his touch, the tight coil of muscle there.

Feels the way Rin stills… waiting.

“I- I’ll make up for this high treason,” Hiori decides to say, voice pitched soft, almost careful.

Rin turns his head, eyes finding him. And there - just for an instant - the mask slips. 

His glare is gone, replaced with something caught between indignation and bewilderment, and the faint flush rising over his cheekbones betrays him.

Hiori soaks it in.

Not with cruelty, not with glee - but with the sharp, quiet awareness of what it means. 

Rin doesn’t let people see him like this.

Not frustrated and flustered in the same breath, not pink-cheeked under the floodlights.

He doesn’t let anyone hold him still.

And yet, he’s letting Hiori.

The thought hums under Hiori’s ribs like an answered riddle, rare and startling. 

Then he lets his hand drop, the contact dissolving. The ball rolls once against his foot, then back to his hands. He tilts his head, voice soft, measured.

“Ya know… we could just… watch it later.”

Rin freezes mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “What?” 

“Yeah,” Hiori continues, letting the ball spin lazily between his palms. “Screenin’ room’s empty after drills. Could even grab popcorn if ya-”

“No.” Rin cuts him off, flat, immediate. His jaw tightens; arms cross over his chest like a shield.

“We’re training. And I don’t have the patience to sit there while you ask stupid questions.”

Hiori tilts his head, amused, letting the ball bounce once on his thigh. “It’s to see if the hype lives up to the legend”

Rin huffs, barely hiding the twitch at his temple. “…I know it by heart. I don’t need a repeat performance.”

“That’s the point,” Hiori says, deliberately slow, letting each word land. “Ya know it, I don’t. Could be fun to compare notes.”

Rin doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away. “…Fun,” he mutters, a little bitter, a little curious. “You mean… arguing the details?”

“Exactly,” Hiori says, letting the grin tug at his mouth. “I get to pick the bones out, ya get to roll your eyes, everyone wins.”

Rin glances away, jaw tight. “I- we’ll see. Let’s practice our move for Nigeria first. And don’t you fucking talk throughout the whole drill.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,”

**

The pitch still thrums faintly in Hiori’s legs when he leaves the showers.

Rin is still there - so the midfielder comfortably finds himself - towel over his shoulder - fiddling with the popcorn machine like it’s part of a routine.

Hiori pulls out the plastic-wrapped bags, chuckles quietly - miracles do happen - and lets the smell of butter and microwave hum fill the room.

The quiet and the hum remind him of the first time he and Rin played Dead by Daylight, awkward and trying not to get caught.

He shakes his head, slightly amused at himself.

Is this… normal?

He’s not usually the type to hang out with someone else like this, to watch movies and share food.

But it feels…good.

He fiddles with some cables and cues the screen up - The Shining, menu looping.

Hiori sprawls on the couch, bowl on his stomach, screen painting his face in pale light.

Legs stretched, back sinking deep, he allows himself a small, quiet ease.

He’s going to watch a horror movie with Rin. At 2AM. Ten days before the World Cup starts. 

He flicks a kernel up into his mouth, quiet crunch covering the warmth rising in his chest.

For a second he imagines an alarm going off, Ego barging in, pointing dramatically at the popcorn, yelling about discipline while Rin just shrugs and throws him a kernel like a peace offering.

The sound of footsteps in the hall breaks the illusion. Firm and familiar.

Hiori’s grin curls slow. 

The door swings open with more force than necessary.

Rin steps in, hair damp from the shower, a dark hoodie thrown over loose sweats. Water droplets still cling to the ends, trailing faint spots onto the collar.

He looks…

…less like Blue Lock’s razor and more like a boy dragged into domesticity against his will.

He freezes a step inside, eyes narrowing on the screen.

“You were serious.” His voice lands flat, disbelief folded into the edges.

Hiori tips a kernel between his fingers, expression perfectly mild. “What gave me away? The popcorn or the perfect silence I kept on the pitch?”

Rin’s gaze flicks to the bowl on Hiori’s stomach, then back to his face, and Hiori swears he sees the tiniest hitch in his scowl.

Like he isn’t sure whether to stay mad or not.

“You actually-” Rin starts, cuts himself off, and drops onto the far end of the couch with the kind of force that makes the cushions groan.

Arms folded. Legs sprawled with territorial precision.

Hiori bites down a smile. So much for sitting alone.

“Relax,” he drawls, tossing a kernel into his mouth. “Consider it… penance. For my cinematic sins.”

“You make it sound like you’re confessing,” Rin mutters, glaring at the screen like it has personally wronged him, water tracing down the line of his jaw.

Hiori’s eyes linger longer than they should. He pops another piece of popcorn before he can be caught. “Maybe I am. Forgive me, Father, for I have not Kubricked.”

Rin groans. “Shut the fuck up.”

But the corner of his mouth twitches - barely, like a secret. Hiori’s chest buzzes with triumph.

He’s collecting smiling-Rin images like well earned trophies.

For a few moments, the only sound is the film menu’s loop and the soft rustle of Hiori’s hand in the bowl. Then Rin shifts, sharp eyes cutting sideways.

“Are you planning to hog that entire thing?”

Hiori blinks. “This?” He looks down at the popcorn, then back at Rin, innocent as sin. “Thought ya didn’t have the patience.”

“I don’t.” Rin’s scowl deepens, but his knee bounces once, betraying him. “But I’m not watching two hours of you chewing next to me either.”

Hiori snorts, sliding the bowl onto the middle cushion, halfway between them.

Neutral ground.

Rin eyes it like it’s a trap but reaches anyway, fingers brushing the rim, dangerously close to Hiori’s.

He busies himself with the remote instead. “Alright. Let’s see if your holy scripture holds up.”

The movie flickers to life, that aerial shot of a lone car winding through mountains. 

Isolation sprawling wide.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hiori sees Rin shift again - leaning forward, elbows on knees, gaze sharp and hungry.

And just like that, the room is different.

The opening credits wash the room in cold blue light.

Mountains, rivers, a single winding road.

Hiori knows he should be watching - should be cataloguing the way dread creeps in through nothing but distance and silence.

But his attention snags somewhere else.

Rin sits forward, body coiled like the movie has hooked a wire through his chest.

Eyes sharp, darting with the camera’s movements as if he’s memorized each frame.

The kind of intensity he usually reserves for drills now pours into celluloid ghosts.

And when Rin finally speaks - like the thought can’t stay caged - Hiori almost laughs out loud.

“This shot-” Rin gestures sharply toward the screen, fingers slicing air. “-tracking over the car. It looks simple, right? But it’s deliberate. The isolation. You’re already trapped before you even see the hotel.”

Hiori tilts his head, pretending to study the mountains. “Mhm.”

Rin’s voice sharpens. “Every decision Kubrick makes- it’s meant to unnerve you. Like, the way the music doesn’t match the landscape? You should feel awe, but instead you feel dread. That’s on purpose.”

Hiori lets the corner of his mouth twitch.

He’s seen Rin explain plays, critique spacing, lecture Bachira until his throat goes raw. But this - this is different. 

He isn’t yelling to correct anyone. He isn’t trying to prove dominance.

He’s just… lit up.

And Hiori finds he likes it. Maybe too much.

“Ya know,” he says mildly, plucking a kernel and tossing it between his teeth, “I’ve never heard ya use this many words in one sittin’.”

Rin’s head snaps toward him, scowling immediately. “It’s a good damn movie.”

“Clearly,” Hiori gestures vaguely, smile suppressing. “Feel free to share your knowledge.”

The scowl deepens. A flush crawls high on Rin’s cheekbones, visible even under the screen’s glow.

He tears his gaze back to the film like that could erase the moment.

Hiori chews slowly, smugness humming under his ribs. He doesn’t push further. 

Onscreen, the Overlook looms into view - grand, suffocating, endless windows reflecting endless sky.

Rin leans forward again, elbows on knees, words spilling like he’s rehearsed them.

“This is genius. Wide shots everywhere. You think space means freedom, but here it’s a prison. People always think horror is about shadows and tight corners, but this-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “This is worse. You can’t escape. Too much space eats you alive.”

Hiori glances at him sidelong. “Sounds like a metaphor for Blue Lock.”

“Wha-” Rin freezes. Just a beat. Then his jaw works, tight, before he mutters, “Yeah… kind of.”

Hiori leans back, stretching out, letting the cushion dip closer toward Rin’s side.

The popcorn bowl rests between them like a truce. Their fingers brush again when Rin reaches in, this time neither of them pulling away fast enough. Hiori pretends not to notice.

Onscreen, Danny pedals his tricycle through hallways that seem to stretch forever. The wheels hum against carpet, then rattle on hardwood.

Rin’s hand twitches with each cut, following the rhythm, breath catching just slightly when the twins appear at the end of the hall.

Hiori should really be looking at the screen.

But the way Rin’s lips part faintly feels like a rare crack in the armour he wears like second skin.

And then the camera cuts.

Two girls stand at the far end of the hallway. Identical faces staring forward, pale and expressionless, like dolls left too long in a corner.

The screening room seems to shrink.

Beside him, Rin goes still.

Hiori already knows this shot; it has lived on the internet for decades. 

But for some fucking strange reason his eyes fixate on Rin’s lashes.

Hiori notices them before he can stop himself. Lower, heavier than he expects, catching the light in a way that draws his eye and refuses to let go. Too long for the face Rin wears. Almost soft.

Hiori’s chest gives a strange little pull, and he realizes with a start that he’s been staring too long.

He should look away. Back to the twins.

But his head tilts instead, just slightly, as though angling for a better view. His breath feels heavier than it should, like he’s run too fast on the pitch.

And then Rin turns.

At the exact same second, Hiori does.

The collision is sharp, unguarded, like slamming into someone around a blind corner.

Their eyes lock, both caught mid-movement, and suddenly they are too close.

Closer than he realizes.

Close enough that Hiori feels the faint warmth of Rin’s breath skimming across his cheek, fragile against the cold hum of the air conditioning.

Close enough that the point where their focus meets feels like a wire pulled taut, stretched so fine it could snap.

Neither of them moves.

🎶🎶

The twins still stand frozen on the screen, their voices spilling into the room, eerie and sing-song.

Rin murmurs, “You said you knew this scene.”

Hiori swallows. “I did.”

Rin’s gaze darts once - down, then up again. As if he hasn’t meant to notice how close it is.

Then he quietly says: “It’s great.”

His lashes flicker with the movement, too long, too dark, and Hiori’s pulse stutters for reasons he doesn’t want to name.

Hiori nods, voice quiet, almost caught in the space between them.

“Really great.”

Rin swallows.

His lashes dip once, lift again, and the words come out rough, unpolished, as though yanked out of him against his will:

“They-uh-” His voice cracks just slightly. He clears it, scowl twitching at his own betrayal.

“They’re not supposed to be scary. It’s… the symmetry. The… wrongness of it. That’s what gets you.”

Hiori blinks.

It is nonsense - half critique, half scramble for air - but Rin has said it like it matters, like the explanation is armor against something he can’t name.

And before Hiori can stop himself, the whisper slips out - low, almost conspiratorial, meant only for the narrow space between them.

“Tell me more about it.”

Rin’s head jerks slightly, eyes flicking to him like he’s been caught. Breath stutters once, audible in the silence.

“Please”

For a moment, Hiori panics - too much, too close, too revealing.

But then Rin’s gaze softens, and something in his expression shifts.

He looks at Hiori the way he looks at the screen: intent, locked-in, unable to look away.

And when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, low enough that it brushes like static along Hiori’s skin.

“It’s the trick.” His eyes flick back to the screen, to the endless corridors swallowing Danny’s tricycle whole. “It’s geometry. You think you know the map, and then you don’t. You’re already lost before you realize it.”

Rin leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice dropping as if confiding something meant to stay secret.

“That’s why it works. Because it doesn’t need to chase you. The hotel doesn’t have to move. It just waits. It traps you in silence and space until you…” His jaw flexes, throat working around words he hasn’t planned to share. “…until you start to come apart on your own.”

Hiori realizes, with a slow curl of heat, that Rin isn’t just describing the Overlook anymore.

He is unraveling in real time, caught between explanation and confession, hiding in Kubrick’s architecture because it’s easy.

“It’s not…” Rin’s voice falters, then presses forward, stubborn. “It’s not the blood or the axe or whatever people make fun of. It’s the silence. How you’re alone, but it still feels like the walls are watching.”

His gaze flicks sideways, sharp and searching, landing on Hiori for half a beat too long.

Then Rin tears his eyes back to the screen, scowl trying and failing to reassemble itself. “That’s why people don’t get it. They… they laugh. They talk. They ruin it. Like if they make enough noise, it won’t get to them.” His fingers curl tight in his hoodie sleeve. 

“But it still does,” Hiori murmurs, almost reverent.

No one had ever named it before, the way he felt - constant, gnawing, like a low-frequency hum that only he could hear.

Rin just carved it open with perfect precision.

“Noise is overrated,” Hiori adds, words slipping like confession. “All kinds of interference are.”

For the first time, Rin doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t snap back or hide behind sharpness. His stillness says it all - yes, he gets it.

Hiori exhales, a thin laugh catching in his throat. “Sometimes I..fantasise about death. One that means absolute silence. No afterlife, no judgement. Just… my soul driftin’ in endless nothin’.”

Rin’s voice comes quick, almost too quick: “That’s not bad.” His eyes cut toward the flickering screen, but not before Hiori sees the honesty in them. “I hope death feels like this.”

The air tilts - too sudden, too deep.

The conversation dives before either of them meant it to. Hiori feels the jolt in his chest, like stepping off a stair that wasn’t there.

Rin turns away, retreat sharp, profile lit ghostly by the television’s glow. “Can I say something weird?”

Hiori forces a crooked smile. “Does it get any weirder than this?”

Rin’s lips twist, caught between scorn and hesitation. “I’ve watched this movie a thousand times. Never once with someone else.”

Hiori stomach flips, a visceral lurch he wasn’t ready for.

“Did ya… like it this time too?”

The question feels strange the moment it leaves his mouth, too bare, too eager.

Rin blinks, unreadable. “It felt like all the times I watched it alone.”

Rin invited him into his solitude, only to declare it unchanged.

That was the highest form of closeness Rin could offer - letting him exist in the one place he guarded most, and finding it untouched, unspoiled.

It lands in Hiori’s chest like a secret gift.

To be here, in this stillness Rin treasures, and not disturb it - that feels worth more than any clumsy affirmation.

“That’s good,” Hiori murmured, certainty lacing his voice. “It means I didn’t get in the way.”

Rin’s gaze cut sideways, sharp but lingering, as if weighing the truth of that statement.

“You never do.”

The words reverberate inside Hiori, quiet but seismic.

Onscreen, the film crashes toward chaos - an axe cleaving, a scream tearing through the speakers - but here, in their corner of silence, it all feels distant, irrelevant.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

So they watch the rest in silence.

Not the heavy kind, not the suffocating wrongness Rin had named, but something sharper, cleaner - like a rule quietly agreed upon between them.

When the credits roll and the room finally empties of sound, Hiori sits with the thought circling back.

Games are easier than people. Always have been.

But maybe this wasn’t about easy or hard.

Maybe it was about finding someone whose silence didn’t clash with yours.

A kind of compatibility rarer than fairness.

And, Hiori realises, infinitely more valuable.

Chapter Text

9 days before Nigeria VS Japan

As soon as Rin opens his eyes he decides to have a productive morning.

He wakes before the cafeteria fills, before voices rise in the corridors, before the building starts humming with too much life. 

The thought of sitting in that room - steam from trays curling into the air, syrup and grease clinging to everything, the metallic scrape of cutlery against plastic plates - sours his stomach. 

Noise for the sake of noise.

So he skips it.

Every footstep Rin takes echoes off the walls, crisp and solitary, a metronome to his measured breathing. Somewhere in the distance, a drip of condensation hits the floor with a hollow ping, but otherwise the hall is silent, save for the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.

Once he reaches the room he was searching for, he rolls out his mat on the cold stone, smooths the corners down. 

He pulls his hoodie over his head, cuffs tugged neat at his wrists. He kneels, closes his eyes. Inhale. 

Hold. Exhale.

Stretch. Bend. Flow.

His muscles ache pleasantly as he folds forward, hands sliding until palms press flat against the mat. 

His back unfurls one vertebra at a time. 

Breath rattles low in his lungs, steady, controlled. The world narrows to just this: the pull of tendons, the burn at the back of his thighs, the long line of his spine.

This is better than food. 

This pain is fuel.

Every yoga position is deliberate - warrior, plank, cobra. The hoodie clings faint to his skin, hair falling loose into his face. 

It’s quiet here. Clean. 

Like the world’s holding its breath just for him.

Until it fucking isn’t.

He hears scuff of shoes on stone. Too quick. Too careless.

Rin’s eyes flick open, a frown pulling at his mouth. He doesn’t even have time to turn his head.

Cold hits him like a slap.

Water explodes across his back, soaks straight through cotton, icy against warm skin. His body jerks instinctively, breath knocked sideways. For half a second, all he can do is freeze, drenched and blinking.

And then-

Laughter fills up his ears.

It rings out sharp and stupid, echoing off the stoned walls.

Rin twists.

Bachira’s there, crouched low, water bottle dangling from his hand, droplets still pattering from the lip. His grin stretches wild across his face, eyes glowing like he’s just pulled off a perfect trick.

Beside him, Shidou is already folding in half, wheezing, laughter tumbling out so violently it looks painful. He slaps a hand against his knee, the other flailing for balance.

“Oh- fuck- your face!” Shidou gasps, choking on his own laughter. “Like- like you saw God-”

“More like a drowned kitten,” Bachira says brightly, miming Rin’s hunched shoulders, scrunching his nose, letting his mouth gape open in a perfect parody. “Meow~”

Heat crawls up Rin’s neck, hotter than the sun on the stone, hotter than the cold dripping down his spine. 

His fists curl. His jaw locks.

“…You’re dead.”

Shidou wheezes harder, nearly collapsing against Bachira’s shoulder. “Dead! He said dead- oh, he’s pissed- he’s so pissed-”

Bachira tips his head, grin widening. “Relax, Rin-chan. Morning refresh builds character!” He flicks the last droplets from his fingers in a little spray, like salt on a dish.

Rin rises slow, deliberate, water dripping from his sleeves. His mat’s ruined, hoodie plastered to his chest. His pulse hammers like it’s looking for something to hit.

Bachira blinks. “Uh-oh.”

Shidou looks up, grinning like a maniac. “Run.”

Bachira squeals, launches into a sprint across the corridor, bare feet slapping wet against the stone. Shidou takes off after him, still laughing so hard he nearly trips on his own stride.

Rin bolts.

The cold sticks to his skin but the heat in his chest burns it out. Each step slams harder than the last, breath tearing rough in his throat. 

Bachira darts ahead, glancing back with his tongue out like a child daring punishment. Shidou throws his head back mid-sprint, still hollering laughter into the morning air.

“Catch us if you can, Rin-chan!” Bachira yells.

“Move, monkey-boy- he’s foaming at the mouth!” Shidou shouts, delighted.

Rin doesn’t bother answering. Doesn’t bother wasting the breath.

He’ll answer when he gets his hands on them.

They blast through the corridors like it’s some kind of relay race. Bachira leads the charge, hair flying, bare feet slapping against the polished floor, leaving little wet streaks from the spill. 

Shidou barrels after him, half-sprinting, half-laughing, his voice bouncing off the sterile walls like an alarm nobody asked for.

Idiots. Absolute suicidal idiots.

They cut through the final set of sliding doors. The pitch opens up in front of them - vast, green, artificial turf stretching under a ceiling packed with lights that buzz faint like tired stars.

A few players are scattered across the field, warming up. They stop what they’re doing as soon as the chaos spills in: Bachira darting onto the turf with a howl, Shidou stumbling after him, and Rin - dripping, murderous, closing in like a storm.

Perfect. 

A fucking audience.

Bachira skids to a stop at the center circle, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he laughs. 

Shidou throws himself down onto the bench like he’s finished a marathon, still wheezing. “Worth every fucking drop!” He points weakly at Rin, eyes watering from laughter. “You- you look like a drowned rat, little lashes.”

Rin stops at the edge of the turf, chest heaving, water dripping off him in steady trails. 

His entire body is a razor pulled taut.

Every player watching. Some idiots are even laughing.

He doesn’t care.

All he cares about is shutting them up.

Rin doesn’t slow. He walks straight toward them, dripping, jaw set tight.

“You set yourselves up for hell,” he says flatly.

Bachira tilts his head, all wide-eyed innocence. “You…didn’t like it?”

Rin stops just close enough for his shadow to fall across them. His voice comes out low, flat, steady:

“I should snap your fucking wrists.”

Shidou barks a laugh, but it sounds thinner now, like he’s laughing to fill the space. “Oh-ho! The little monk’s got bite.”

Rin doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay locked on Bachira. 

Bachira’s grin flickers. Then he laughs anyway, light and sing-song, but there’s a nervous edge under it. “Rin-chan, why so mean? That’s scary talk!”

Finally Rin shifts his gaze, landing square on Shidou. “And you-” His lip curls, fury laced with disgust. “You laugh like a dog choking on its own shit. If you want to test me, then keep laughing. I’ll bury you right here.”

Shidou’s grin falters for a second - just a second - but Rin catches it. Satisfaction sparks hot in his chest.

“I don’t forget,” Rin adds, straightening, voice cold enough to bite through the air. “And I sure as hell don’t forgive. Both of you - watch your fucking backs.”

The warning lingers. 

Bachira’s giggle peters off into a hum. Shidou smacks his thigh, muttering something about “feisty little beast-boy,” but he doesn’t meet Rin’s eyes.

Rin turns away, finally, but the fury doesn’t bleed out. It coils in him, sharp and burning, waiting for the right moment. 

He’ll get them back. He’ll make them regret every second.

For now, training waits. But the promise hangs heavy in his mouth, bitter and certain.

The pitch is half-alive already. 

Aryu is stretching like he’s posing for cameras only he can see. Yukimiya has his headphones shoved in, nodding faintly to some beat. Kurona jogs a lazy circuit along the sideline. Aiku stands near the benches, all folded arms and watchful eyes, like he’s been here forever.

He cuts toward the center circle, where a different rhythm is unfolding. 

Not drills. Not warm-up. 

Hiori’s voice catches his ears, when he spots him he notices he's not alone.

“Ya literally missed a sitter yesterday. Two metres from the net.”

Karasu is leaning in, grinning like he’s untouchable. “Mm. But it looked good gettin’ there.”

Rin frowns. 

He remembers the shot. It didn't look good. It looked pathetic.

Hiori doesn’t blink. “Yeah. If ya ignore the part where the ball kept runnin’ without ya.”

Otoya’s chuckle drifts in, lazy and delighted. He’s orbiting the exchange like it’s theatre put on just for him. Karasu only shrugs, grin sharpening. “You’ve got an unhealthy fixation on the negative, Hiori.”

“And you’ve got an unhealthy fixation on pretending ya always look cool.”

It’s quick, back-and-forth, the kind of rhythm people slip into when they’ve done this a hundred times. But to Rin, it sounds like static. Like two radios crackling on different channels.

Karasu tilts his head, grin widening. “Ya know what your problem is?”

Hiori’s expression doesn’t move. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve never had a proper warm-up.”

Rin slows without realizing it. His boot squeaks faintly on the turf. The words are nothing on their face, but the way Karasu says them has weight. Like a punchline Rin doesn’t see.

Hiori always has a proper warm-up, he's clinically set on doing so- is the Crow that stupid?

“That’s my problem?” Hiori’s tone is bone-dry.

“Mmhm. Bet I could get you loose in under five minutes.”

The air shifts. 

A silence folds itself between them, drawn-out, waiting. Otoya leans forward slightly. Even Aryu, stretching nearby, glances over.

Rin blinks. Loose? Five minutes? Warm-up? His mind flicks to drills - dynamic stretches, sprints, maybe resistance bands. 

None of that makes sense in five minutes. 

And none of that should make Otoya smirk like that.

Then Hiori tilts his head, voice calm. “Bet ya couldn’t.”

The silence tightens. For a second, Rin swears the walls themselves lean in.

And then Shidou explodes again.

It’s laughter - violent, hacking, uncontrolled. He slams a fist against the bench, nearly tipping backward, gasping like his ribs might split. “Oh, fuck! Did you just- Hiori, you dirty little-”

Rin whirls, scowling. Dirty?

Shidou is a mess of teeth and spit, Bachira collapsed beside him, cackling high and wild.

“Shut up,” Hiori says, flat as ever.

“Shut up?!” Shidou shouts back, choking on his own voice. “Nah, nah, I don’t get to ‘shut up’ about this! That’s foreplay right there!”

Rin freezes. Fore- what?

Bachira drums his heels against the bench, sing-song. “Karasu’s got game~ Karasu’s got game~”

Otoya steps forward like he’s been waiting for his cue, arms spreading with mock grandeur. “So. When are we making this official?”

Hiori blinks, a hair slower this time. “Making what official, now?”

“This thing.” Otoya gestures broadly, grin stretching. “Clearly there’s tension. Chemistry. Foreplay-”

“That’s Shidou’s word,” Hiori cuts in, sharp and precise.

“-I think the fans would eat it up. Not to mention…we really needed a third.”

Karasu doesn’t miss a beat. “Ya volunteering, Hiori?”

“Depends on your stamina.”

A sharp, humming beat follows. Karasu’s chuckle. Otoya’s low whistle. 

Aryu drifting by like he’s on a catwalk, sighing, “Scandalous.”

Shidou is practically convulsing on the bench now, pounding it with his fist. Bachira wheezes, tears streaking his face, like this is the funniest thing in the world.

And Rin-

Rin stands just outside the circle of it, dripping onto the turf, fists curled, every muscle taut. The words slide past him like smoke, refusing to stick, yet everyone else reacts like it’s gospel. 

His jaw works, tight. 

He doesn’t get it. Not the punchlines. Not the rhythm. Not the way every glance carries meaning he can’t track.

But he knows this much: whatever language they’re speaking, it’s not football. It’s not his game.

The noise is unbearable. It’s just theatre, stupid, pointless theatre.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rin snaps.

His voice cuts sharp through the air, harsher than he intended, but it lands. Shidou wheezes to a halt mid-laugh, Bachira blinks through tears, Otoya quirks an eyebrow.

And then, from the far side of the pitch:

“Yeah, come on -  let's start already”

It’s Isagi. 

He’s jogging in with a ball under his arm, scowl carved on his face, like he’s been listening to this circus from the tunnel. His glare slices across the lot of them. “We’re here to train, not… whatever the fuck that was.”

Someone mutters about no sense of humor. Bachira hums tunelessly, already distracted, flicking water at the striker.

Aiku whistles, sharp and commanding. “On the pitch, guys. Now.”

It works. 

Players drift to their stations. Balls scatter across the turf. The noise reshapes into something familiar - the thud of passes, the smack of boots striking, the rise and fall of short shouts. 

The air clears. Training begins.

Rin exhales through his teeth, tension bleeding just enough for his focus to lock back on the game. 

He adjusts his grip on his sleeves, peels the wet hoodie off in one motion, tosses it onto the bench. It lands heavy, like a dead thing.

He lifts his head-

-and his eyes lock on Hiori.

Just for a moment. Across the pitch, between passes, Hiori glances up. There is the faintest curve at his mouth. A smile. 

Something shifts in Rin’s chest. 

His stomach twists like he’s been caught off guard mid-sprint. The irritation doesn’t dissolve, but it flickers, changing shape into something heavier, stranger.

He looks away immediately. 

Focuses on the ball, on the turf, on the rhythm of training kicking into gear. Anything but that.

But the image lingers anyway.

**

The drills sharpen. Passing grids stretch into overlap runs, touches tighter, faster. The pitch fills with the sound of football: thud of boots, smack of the ball, short shouts trading across the pitch.

This - this is where Rin feels steady. Muscle, timing, geometry. 

Football strips everything else down until it’s just decisions: right or wrong, ball or no ball, in or out. The World Cup is nine days out. 

Every touch matters. Every run has to bleed toward that stage.

He doesn’t have time for distractions.

But distractions crawl in anyway.

Karasu’s laugh spikes across the dome. “Slower than usual, Hiori. Ya  stiff today?”

“Ya ever get tired of hearin’ yourself?” Hiori answers, calm as a stone.

And yet - when the ball cycles out, Rin finds his gaze flicking again. Just once. Hiori’s shoulders turning, body fluid, voice level even with Karasu crowding his space. The same curl at his mouth.

Rin jerks his eyes back to the ball.

That's when the drill fractures. 

Hiori’s cross goes just wide of its window. Rin clocks it instantly.

He was late. Against the best in the world, that half-beat becomes a wall.

“You were a beat too slow, Hiori.”

Isagi’s voice carries sharp. 

Rin doesn’t have to look to know half the team flicked their eyes over. Isagi’s timing is perfect in the worst way: loud enough to hang, clean enough that Hiori has no cover.

“…Okay.” Hiori slows, rubbing his wrist across his mouth, calm, controlled. “I get what you’re sayin’. But I can’t pull it off right away.”

It should die there. But it never dies with Isagi. He pushes forward, hands carving the air, voice louder, faster. “If we can’t hit that quicker, it’s useless against the world’s top players!”

The field pauses. 

Karasu cuts in. “Yeah, Isagi, you’re askin’ too much.”

The way his body angles, just a little toward Hiori, is its own signal.

Rin doesn’t miss the quick glance Hiori sends his way. Not gratitude, exactly - more like surprise. Surprise that anyone else would bother to step in.

And Rin hates how exposed that looks. Like a seam showing.

“I’m not a robot,” Hiori says, softer. “And I don’t wanna get worn out before the game.”

Isagi bristles, steps closer, voice heating. “What kind of crap is that? We’re trying to win, right? What’s wrong with comparing us to the ideal?”

Typical.

Always framing it like a moral failing. Like football’s his private religion and the rest of them are blasphemers.

Hiori smiles faintly. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

Karasu - who's apparently way too talkative today - pushes again. “Bet ya could find a better way to say it.”

Rin can feel the whole team leaning toward it, subtle shifts of weight and attention. Cleats scrape against turf, the sound loud in the hush. Everyone waiting for the next move.

The weight lands on Hiori.

His half-smile is still there, but it looks thinner now, stretched like glass. Rin sees the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand hangs too casual at his side.

He knows that look - knows what’s underneath it.

Two nights ago, while the screen was strobing with The Shining, Hiori had whispered: “Noise is overrated. All kinds of interference are.”

Like a secret. Like a rule he lived by.

The words cling now, heavy.

Because he is watching Hiori hemmed in by silence that feels louder than any noise. Watching the pressure knot tighter, waiting for him to answer.

Then Aiku steps in. Like always. Voice warm, grin too easy, body sliding between them without ever looking like he’s forcing it. “Now, now… no need to fight. You’re both saying things to help us win.”

Isagi’s scowl eases half an inch. Karasu clicks his tongue, shoulders loosening.

“…My bad,” Karasu mutters.

“Same, sorry” Isagi says, it sounds genuine.

Aiku claps his hands, sealing the little truce. “See? Simple.”

But Rin feels it, still. 

The net hasn’t vanished.

It’s only been moved an inch, still draped over Hiori, still whispering in the eyes that flicker toward him: probably waiting for someone to speak up and shift the focus from him.

And Hiori hates that. Rin knows it.

Which is why Rin’s mouth opens before he’s even decided to speak. His tone steady, his words angled sharp as a blade:

“You must think you’ve become the nucleus of this team.”

Heads snap toward him. The weight shifts - exactly as he wanted. Off Hiori. Onto Isagi.

“That everything will go your way now.”

The silence sharpens. Isagi’s eyes narrow, flicker with recognition and irritation both.

Rin wipes the sweat from his face, lets his hand drop, and drives the nail in, calm as ever.

“Tch. You wannabe demon king.”

For a flicker, Rin feels the satisfaction of control. Of stripping the attention from where it didn’t belong.

He sees how Hiori relaxes his shoulders. Rin feels it land heavy in his chest.

Does he think it was defense? Does he think Rin interfered for him, after all?

The thought burns worse than any glare Isagi could throw his way.

The game kicks back into rhythm.

The ball moves again. Cleats cut sharp lines through the turf, passes snapping in tighter arcs. 

Training hums back into rhythm.

Every sprint now is a sprint against time. Every pass, every shot, has to sharpen into a weapon before they’re shipped overseas. 

A stadium isn’t just a stage - it’s a battlefield stacked with the best in the world. And if Rin doesn’t carve his name into that battlefield, someone else will.

“Tch.” He wipes sweat from his temple.

The whistle cuts through again, sharp enough to snap the air in two.

It's not Aiku’s this time. 

The sound came from the tunnel.

A cluster of staff step onto the pitch.

Buratsuta at the centre like he owns the light. 

The drills halt. 

A ball rolls to a stop at Rin’s feet, but he doesn’t look down at it. 

His gaze stays fixed forward, chest already tight.

Buratsuta arrives like he’s stepping onto a stage. He doesn’t walk so much as glide, a smile stretched wide across his face, his suit gleaming like he had it pressed for this exact moment. Behind him, assistants trail with tablets and clipboards  - vultures with lanyards.

🎶🎶

His voice booms, oily and theatrical, bouncing off the rafters. “My beautiful, diamond lumps! Looking sharp tonight.”

The team slows, uncertain, eyes cutting toward him in varying shades of irritation and boredom.

Buratsuta spreads his arms as though he’s presenting a prize-winning racehorse. “You’ll forgive me for interrupting your little scrimmage, but I simply had to deliver this myself. After all, history doesn’t knock every day - sometimes it bursts through the door with champagne in both hands!”

Bachira actually claps once, just to be annoying. 

Buratsuta basks in the quiet like it’s applause. “As you all know, the world is waiting. Our sponsors, our broadcasters, our lovely international partners - they’re all salivating to see the Blue Lock product exported onto the grandest stage of them all.”

Product. The word slides over Rin’s skin like grease.

“And because I am a generous man, I’ve arranged something… special. A little infusion of star power.” He winks, sickly-sweet. “Three players will be joining you.  The kind of talent that makes headlines before they’ve even touched the ball.”

The murmurs ripple across the team.. A few lean forward like it’s gossip at a lunch table. 

Rin’s jaw tightens. 

He already knows where this is headed.

Buratsuta lifts a finger like he’s conducting an orchestra. He lets the silence drag just long enough for it to grate. Then, with a grin too wide for his face:

“One of them will join you in the knockout stage. A name you all know. A name the world already adores. The jewel of Spain, the maestro of the midfield” 

The words drop like a blade.

“Itoshi Sae.”

Noise detonates. 

Some gasp, some cheer, some jeer. 

The bile surges hot in his throat. 

His brother’s name is not just sound - it’s a brand stamped across his skin, reminding him that no matter what he does, no matter how many hours he bleeds into training, Sae’s shadow will find him.

Rin’s fists curl so tight his nails bite through damp skin. He wants to break something. His mat. His hoodie. Someone’s jaw. Anything.

The last straw Shidou’s voice cutting sharp across the pitch, gleeful:

“Ohhh, fuck yes! My boyfriend’s back!”

Heat floods his veins. His jaw aches from clenching. 

If the antennae freak says one more word-

But the money grabbing bastard is still milking the noise. “Can you imagine the ticket sales? Brothers reunited on the same pitch, battling not as rivals but as champions of our vision. Sponsors are lining up already-”

Rin tunes him out. His throat tastes like iron.

There will be no “reunion.” There will be no “brothers” on the pitch. Not when he’s through.

If Sae’s name is going to haunt this place, Rin will carve his own over it. 

Louder. 

Sharper. 

Final.

The only Itoshi this world will remember is him.

Karasu lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Japan’s got itself a prodigy upgrade.”

Barou tips his head back with a grin, stretching out his arms like the idea itself energises him. “Guess I’ll have to try even harder if I wanna steal the spotlight.”

Yukimiya mutters, adjusting his wristband. “Better brush up on my Spanish interviews… Sae’s got half of Europe on him already.”

Even Isagi can’t quite hide the spark in his eyes. His jaw is tight, but there’s hunger underneath. “If Sae’s here… then we get to test ourselves against the very best.”

It’s a chorus of reactions - awe, nerves, excitement - all feeding into one thing: anticipation.

But Rin doesn’t feel anticipation.

He feels his stomach twist like something foul’s been poured down his throat.

And Shidou decided he wants to die today.

“Well, well, Rin.” His voice carries. “Looks like we’re getting a family reunion.”

His shit eating grin flashes. “Finally get to see which Itoshi’s the real deal. My money’s on big bro.” He tilts his head, tongue running over his teeth. 

Something inside Rin detonates.

The air closes in. The pitch tilts. Every sound in the room dulls to a low drone except for the hammer of his pulse in his ears. His vision narrows, Shidou framed at the center like a target.

In his head, it happens already:

His fist slamming into that smug mouth, teeth breaking loose in a spray of blood.

Shidou’s head snapping sideways, body crumpling against the turf.

Rin straddling him, knuckles cracking bone until his hands are slick, until Shidou’s grin is gone, erased, obliterated.

The fantasy is crisp, brutal, intoxicating. 

Rin’s fists are already curling. His shoulders coil tight, every nerve alight. He can taste the violence in the back of his throat, metallic and hot. 

Then Shidou takes a step closer.

“Come on, little lashes,” he says, the words purring out smooth and merciless. “Show me that famous Itoshi temper. Or are you saving it for Sae? You’ll get your match up soon enough.”

The last tether inside Rin snaps. 

His body lunges forward.

But Aiku is there again, almost impossibly fast, his arm snapping out across Rin’s chest and the other flared wide toward Shidou. “Whoa, whoa. Cool it, both of you.”

Shidou only laughs, leaning forward into Aiku’s block like it’s a game. “Oh, he’s been dying to hit me. He’s fucking starving.”

The air thickens.

His breath tears in and out like fire. His body strains forward against Aiku’s arm, teeth bared. 

He sees it - Shidou’s head bouncing against turf, blood blooming into green. He wants it so bad his ribs ache.

“What’s wrong, Rinny? Scared of getting outshined? Scared the better Itoshi’s back to take your spot?”

That’s it. “I’ll fucking kill you.” His foot digs into the turf.

But then- 

“Rin.”

The word isn’t shouted. But the voice that carried it invades his ears.

He jerks his head without meaning to. Cyan hair. 

Hiori is stepping in close now. His posture is calm, controlled, like he’s not afraid to be this close to a lit fuse.

Hiori’s eyes hold his, steady. “If ya swing,” he says evenly, “you’ll get benched.”

The words cut deeper than any restraint Aiku can muster.

Not an appeal to morality. Not some empty calm down. 

A fact. Cold. Brutal.

And true.

Rin’s fists tremble, his nails biting into his palms so hard it stings. His pulse is still thundering, the fantasy of violence still vivid, but Hiori’s words land with perfect weight: benching. 

Gone from the pitch. 

Gone from this.

Aiku’s arm stays braced, muscle taut, ready. Shidou still leans forward, grin twitching like he’s savoring every flicker of fury.

Rin glares at Shidou, heat blazing through him, words rasping against his teeth - words he wants to spit, to cut back sharper. 

But Hiori’s warning won’t leave him.

He drags himself back half a pace, every muscle screaming against it. 

The violence coils in his chest like a live wire, unsatisfied, burning.

But he doesn’t swing.

Shidou laughs again, lower now, leaning back just enough. “Tch. Guess you’ve got more self-control than I thought.”

Aiku exhales, releasing tension without fully dropping his guard. “That’s enough. Both of you.”

The room hums with the aftershock, the silence so sharp it’s almost a sound.

Rin doesn’t look at anyone else. Just that flicker of cyan beside him. 

Rin hates it. Hates how it worked.

Hates how much he needed it.

//

Ego’s message lands like a hammer.

All players report to the conference room tomorrow morning at 7:30. Important announcement.

No explanation. No context. Just Ego being Ego.

The corridors are half-dark, strips of light buzzing overhead. Rin’s steps echo against concrete, too loud in the emptiness. His bag thumps lightly against his hip with each stride.

Blue Lock at night feels like another country.

He pushes through the final door and the air changes. The atmosphere swallows him whole - open, cold, the pitch glowing artificial green under floodlights that hum like tired stars. His grip tightens on the strap of his bag, jaw clenched, shoulders knotting.

He hates walking into silence with his head still buzzing.

The day has been too loud, too crowded  - Sae’s shadow over him, Shidou’s chaos, Buratsuta’s smug little bomb dropped that morning. His thoughts loop like static, fragments he can’t shake.

And now Ego.

Something big. Something designed to shake them all.

Rin exhales through his teeth, sharp. Whatever it is, it won’t be good.

At the far side of the pitch, crouched by the benches, Hiori sets two water bottles down side by side. Not thrown, not careless. Placed, as if order itself might keep the night from fraying.

Hiori straightens, stretches lazily, and turns. The second he spots Rin, his face eases into something light, almost relieved.

He jogs forward.

“You’re late,” Hior breathes out. He glances at him, searching, eyes catching on the tight set of Rin’s shoulders. 

“…You okay?”

The question lands harder than Rin wants. He looks away, lips pulling taut. “I’m here to train.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Rin shoots him a glare, sharp enough to cut, but Hiori doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly, waiting, as though silence itself might pry the truth loose.

Rin exhales hard through his nose. “I’m...fine.”

He doesn’t want to talk - not about Sae, not about the heat in his chest that won’t settle. 

Something unreadable flickers across Hiori’s face, but he lets it go with a small nod. “Then let’s get to it.” He tosses the ball once, catching it easily, and jogs backward toward the center circle.

Rin follows, grateful for the motion. 

He’ll settle it on the pitch, with action, with goals. Words aren’t going to defeat his brother.

They start with simple touches, finding rhythm. Ball sliding across turf, caught, returned. The world shrinking down to the neat triangle of Rin, Hiori, and the ball.

But Rin’s rhythm frays almost immediately. His touches come sharper, too heavy. He sprints to meet passes that don’t need sprinting, cuts angles so tight he nearly clips the cones.

He strikes the ball into the net with a crack that ricochets, chest heaving already.

Hiori doesn’t try to match Rin’s intensity - he absorbs it, anchors it, gives the storm something to crash against.

“That was reckless,” Hiori says after Rin’s third blistering shot. His voice is level, naming the truth.

Rin bends forward, dragging breath through his teeth. “I need sharper touches.”

“You’re cuttin' yourself up in the process.” Hiori passes the ball back, not harder, not softer, just steady. “You’ll burn out before you even get to Nigeria.”

Rin’s jaw tightens. “I don’t care about Nigeria. I care about-” He stops, words choking before he can let Sae’s name spill out again. He kicks the ball back hard, teeth gritted. “I don’t have time to waste.”

Hiori stops moving. 

He plants a foot on the ball, pinning it under his sole, and looks at Rin directly.

“You’ll beat him,” Hiori says, voice soft but carrying weight, like a promise.

Rin looks away.

“You’ll surpass him,” Hiori continues, gaze steady. “That’s what you’re doin’ here.”

Rin’s throat feels raw. He wants to spit something sharp, to slice the air between them. He forces out: “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

Hiori’s eyes soften, just a fraction, enough to be felt without words. 

Hiori continues. “You're  actin’ for the wrong reasons. Don't do it for Sae. Do it because you’re Rin. Because ya can. Because nothing else matters except your plays.”

Rin turns away, launching into another strike. Words are just words if he doesn't back them up with reality. 

Cleaner this time, less waste in the motion. The ball slams into the corner of the net, echoing.

Rin tells himself he’s steadier because he’s adjusted his form. Because he’s corrected his angle. Because he is Rin Itoshi, and that’s what he does.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. Sae is coming, and every ounce of hesitation is a step closer to failure.

Hiori jogs lightly behind him, watching, timing.  He doesn’t push back. He knows Rin’s rhythm by now - reckless, sharp - and terrifying in its intensity.

Rin catches a pass, spins, feints, and pushes off the turf with a burst that feels like flight. He sees the goal, the angle, the perfect moment-

Then he misjudges.

One false step. 

The turf sticks.

His cleat catches, ankle twists sharply, and he goes down, chest hitting first, a harsh crack against ribs that weren’t ready, shoulder slamming, head whipping slightly. 

He gasps, breath slicing, taste of copper hitting the back of his throat. A sharp sting blooms -  he feels his nose bleeding hot.

The ball bounces away.

The world tilts.

Rin pushes off the turf with everything he has. His legs coil, explode, each movement sharp and precise, a rhythm of obsession. 

He’s chasing the goal in his mind, rehearsing the perfect feint, imagining Sae on the other side, imagining every weakness he can exploit.

He wants to push up. Wants to act like it’s nothing. But Hiori is there instantly, sliding beside him, hands steady on his shoulders.

“Rin! Sit. Sit down. Now.”

Rin exhales, tries to keep it casual, voice rough. “It’s okay. Just… got a little-”

“Shut up” Hiori interrupts, calm but sharp. He guides Rin’s back to the turf, easing him down, pressing gently on his bruised side to keep him from twisting wrong. 

His eyes scan the damage with practiced precision. “You’re bleeding. Your- don’t move until I check ya.”

Rin leans back, grimaces at the sting in his ribs, the hot drip on his upper lip, but tries to keep his expression neutral. 

Hiori, however, doesn’t let him brush it off. He steps back, voice clipped but urgent. “I’m gettin’ the kit. Wait here.”

Rin watches him go, chest heaving, lungs burning. His mind is in chaos. 

And yet, somewhere under it, a faint thrill threads through him: proof he pushed too far, proof he’s moving toward his goal.

The sting he's feeling is his reminder.

Rin sits, drenched in sweat and blood, fists clenched loosely on the turf, telling himself the pain is nothing more than the taste of progress, of survival, of obsession made tangible.

The pitch hums faintly with the distant echo of their training, empty now, watching him, waiting. He lets a small, controlled smile curl at the edges of his mouth. 

I feel alive, he thinks. 

Hiori returns, steps urgently on the turf. The kit clicks in his hands, a sharp, sterile sound in the quiet dome. 

He kneels beside Rin, settling carefully on his heels, the floodlights casting long shadows over his glinting eyes - alert, assessing, almost too bright.

Rin sits on the turf, hoodie damp with sweat, hands trembling slightly as he lifts the torn cloth to dab at his nose. 

The sting makes him wince, and for a fraction of a second, he hates that he needs help. He can do this himself. He should be able to.

“…shit,” he mutters under his breath, pressing harder, teeth gritted.

Hiori leans a little closer, hands tucked at his sides, voice low, careful. “You’re not in the condition to do that yourself,” he says, gentle but firm. 

There’s no judgment in the tone, just observation, and it throws Rin off. His hands freeze over the cloth, heat crawling up his neck.

“I… I can manage,” Rin says sharply, trying to mask the tremor in his fingers. 

He lifts the cloth again, hands slick with sweat and blood. His ribs flare as he adjusts his weight, and a sharp stab of pain makes him flinch.

Hiori watches, tilting his head just so, fingers brushing the strap of his bag. His eyes  - always too sharp - catch every subtle movement, every twinge of discomfort. 

“Rin,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that Rin can feel the faint shift of air against his skin, “let me help ya.”

Rin glares briefly, lips pressed tight. He wants to refuse. He should refuse. But the ache in his side, the pounding in his head, the sharp sting of the cut across his nose - he can’t do it cleanly like this. 

He exhales, stiff, and finally nods, almost imperceptibly.

Hiori settles beside him, careful not to crowd him, but close enough that Rin can feel the subtle heat radiating from him. His fingers hover over the edge of the torn cloth. 

Rin swallows hard. 

He bites back the automatic, flinching instinct as Hiori gently presses the cloth against the cut on his nose.

“Fuck,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely audible. 

Hiori’s gaze flicks up, glinting faintly in the light. His expression doesn’t change, but the way he tilts his head, the pause in his breath, is deliberate. 

Rin’s chest tightens.

“You’re holdin’ too much tension,” Hiori murmurs, hands adjusting slightly along the edge of Rin’s nose to stabilize it. “Breathe. Don’t fight it.”

“I’ve had worse,” Rin says, voice clipped, but it’s not a denial. It’s a shield. He lets the words hang there, stiff, his body taut and trembling slightly under Hiori’s careful touch.

Hiori hums softly,  “I can tell ya have,” he says, with a small laugh. “Still, it’s better if I do it properly.”

Rin swallows, gripping his knees.

His gaze drifts downward, then catches Hiori’s fingers, careful, precise. They hover just above the cut on his nose now, moving slowly, and he notices, for the first time, the way Hiori watches him watching, like he’s discovering something new.

He flinches again as Hiori presses slightly along the bruise forming on his ribs.

“Does it hurt?” Hiori asks quietly. No urgency. No overt concern. Just soft observation.

Rin shakes his head, but the words die in his chest. 

He can’t articulate what he feels - the heat, the ache, the slight edge of thrill that courses through him at being observed so closely. 

Hiori visibly notices the subtle tension in his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls unevenly.

“Don’t try to be brave,” Hiori says gently, huffing a laugh through his nose. Rin’s eyes flick up without thinking, catching the faint glint in Hiori’s light irises. 

He’s aware of it now, painfully aware. 

There’s something in the way Hiori lingers, just enough to feel the pressure of his observation without a word being said.

Rin’s hands twitch, restless, wanting to push the edge of the pain further. 

Hiori’s eyes follow the subtle movements, flicking down to the ribs, back up to his face. 

There’s a slow smile forming, but it’s measured, almost invisible, and it makes Rin flinch in a way he can’t hide.

“Wait” He manages to let out. Hiori looks up.

“Don’t touch me yet,” Rin murmurs, almost instinctively, the words barely leaving his throat. Hiori pauses, tilting his head, and the word hangs between them. 

There’s a brief, charged silence.

“I’m not rushin’,” Hiori says softly. He leans slightly closer, careful, letting his voice brush against Rin’s ear. “Just seein’ what ya can take.”

Rin swallows. 

What is going on?

Then he nods.

The ache in his ribs pulses as he shifts slightly, testing, and Hiori adjusts in perfect harmony, fingertips brushing lightly along the sore muscle. 

The faintest touch, and Rin flinches again, breath hitching.

🎶🎶

“You’re… really sensitive,” Hiori murmurs, smirking. His tone is neutral, clinical even, but there’s something twisted in the glint of his eyes, in the tiny assessing pause before he moves again.

Rin realizes he’s staring, unavoidably, at the sweep of Hiori’s lashes. “It's just the bruises…go on.”

They’re impossibly long. 

The way they flick up when he blinks, the shadow they cast across his cheek  - it makes Rin’s chest tighten further, awareness crawling through him in slow, sharp waves.

“Why’d ya stop breathin’?” Hiori whispers, brushing the cloth along the edge of his bruise again, testing, pressing lightly.

Did he?

Hiori’s touch is steady.  The cloth brushes against the bruise at Rin’s ribs, testing, pressing just enough to sting. The pain flares sharp and white, makes his jaw lock tight.

Rin flinches, jaw clenched, and mutters again , “Fuck…”

The word barely leaves his throat before Hiori is already unrolling the bandage, calm as if the fall hadn’t rattled Rin’s bones, as if this closeness is nothing unusual. 

He tilts his head slightly, lashes lowering as he works.

“Hold onto me,” he murmurs, not looking up. 

Rin feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.

The thought of clutching at him, of relying on the solidity of his frame in this context - no. He stiffens, flushes, and snaps, “I don’t need that.”

Hiori just hums faintly, like he’s heard the refusal before. “Ya should’ve played less recklessly then” he says instead, fingers brushing against his side as he positions the bandage.

The quiet accusation makes Rin bristle. 

He glares at the ground, refusing to give Hiori the satisfaction of a reaction. “I have to stay sharp,” he mutters, breath shallow as pain stabs through his chest. “This is becoming too real. And I play at my best whenever I think about destruction.”

That gets Hiori’s eyes on him - steady, glinting in the low light.

Rin feels pinned beneath them, like the words he just spilled weren’t raw, weren’t everything he’s been holding inside.

“I know,” Hiori says quietly, voice dipped low in a way that makes the air feel heavier. “And I like it.”

His mouth curves, almost imperceptibly. “I’m just sayin’ ya should’ve saved it for the actual matches”

Rin’s breath catches.

Hiori keeps his hands moving, winding the bandage, but his voice cuts through with calm precision. “When we first forged our deal,” he says, as if they’re still on the pitch that night, “I told ya I wanted to play with ya because you score like it’s the one thing anchorin’ ya to life. I still mean it.”

Rin looks away. He remembers that. The phrase had stuck with him more than it had business doing.

The turf blurs under his vision, and his chest burns with something that isn’t only pain. “Hiori…” he says finally, his voice quieter than he means it to be. 

“I don’t want to die yet. Not when my name isn’t carved in football’s history books. Not when people hear ‘Itoshi’ and think of a half-baked midfielder instead of a top-scoring striker.”

Hiori pauses. 

The bandage hangs slack in his hand. 

Then, with slow precision, he leans closer. 

Rin feels the warmth of him before he sees it, the subtle brush of his hair as Hiori reaches up, thumb and cloth moving to wipe the blood that’s begun to trail again from his nose.

The touch is careful, unbearably gentle. 

Rin can’t make himself breathe.

“Then I’ll make sure ya never stop scorin’,” Hiori whispers, close enough that Rin feels the words against his skin. 

His eyes glint, unreadable and burning all at once. “I’ll have your back through it. I’ll help ya stay alive. I’ll be your anchor to life.”

Rin freezes. The words strike harder than the fall, harder than any bruise. 

His chest tightens with something foreign, sharp and unsteady. 

No one has ever said that to him - no one has ever wanted to be that for him.

And what makes it worse is that Rin is starting to want to be that for Hiori too. 

Wants to return the anchor, to tether himself to someone who sees him this way.

But the words won’t come. His throat locks around them.

Instead, Rin lifts his hands.

Slowly, like he’s testing the weight of them, he sets them on Hiori’s shoulders.

Solid. Real. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t break the silence. He just holds on, lets the contact speak where he can’t.

And Hiori -  steady, unflinching - finishes the bandage, his hands brushing Rin’s ribs with a gentleness that only sharpens the sting.

The space between them hums with unspoken things. 

Every brush of cloth, every intake of breath, every second of silence makes Rin’s pulse hammer harder. 

He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. He doesn’t dare look away from Hiori, not when his presence feels like the only thing keeping him upright.

For the first time in his life, Rin doesn’t feel like he’s carrying his weight alone.

And that terrifies him more than the pain ever could.

His throat feels too tight. He swallows, forces a breath through it.

He should tell Hiori to back off, to stop hovering so close, to keep his hands where they belong. 

But the words stay caught somewhere behind his teeth.

Instead, what stupidly comes out is-

“…What was that thing you said to Karasu?”

The question hangs awkwardly in the quiet, foreign even to Rin’s own ears. 

He regrets it immediately.

Hiori stills, tape pressed lightly against Rin’s side. For once, he doesn’t shoot back something quick. He just blinks, slow, like Rin’s words need a translation.

Rin mutters, eyes on the floor. “This morning.”

🎶🎶

A pause. Then: “Huh?”

“On the pitch,” Rin says, sharper now. “Before Otoya started running his mouth.”

The tape unspools once, soft against the quiet. When Rin glances over, Hiori’s looking at him like he’s speaking an entirely different language.

“Ya mean the…joke?”

“I guess.”

Hiori tilts his head. His hair slips into his eyes, but his gaze stays fixed on Rin, unreadable. 

“...Why?”

Rin shrugs, tries to sound flat. 

“Just asking.”

Something about that doesn’t land. The crease between Hiori’s brows deepens. He leans back a little, studying Rin the way he studies the field. “Ya didn’t get it or what?”

Rin meets his eyes for just long enough to make the answer obvious.

Hiori’s mouth parts. Then- “No way.”

Rin frowns. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Hiori says, tone half-incredulous, half-amused, “is that I’m tryin’ to figure out if you’re messin’ with me, or if ya genuinely-” He cuts himself off, shifts forward, voice softer now. “Ya really don’t know?”

Rin clenches his jaw. “I know what you said. I just don’t get why everyone lost their shit over it.”

A beat of silence. 

Then Hiori laughs. One short, disbelieving sound, like he can’t believe this is real. “Oh my god. You’re serious.”

The sound prickles over Rin’s skin. He takes a breath through his nose, tight. “So?”

“Alright.” Hiori sets the tape aside, sits back slightly, bracing himself with a palm on the bench. He scratches the back of his head as “So… Karasu sayin’ he could get me ‘loose in five minutes’…”

“You’re avoiding the point,” Rin cuts in.

“Because the point is obvious-”

“It obviously isn’t if I’m asking.”

Hiori drags a hand over his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.” When he looks back, his eyes are sharp but faintly amused, like Rin’s a puzzle that won’t quit. 

“It was a sex joke, Rin”

The word lands like a stone in Rin’s stomach. 

Sex?

For a second, the air thins. His lungs stall, ribs aching against the bandage. He stares at the turf, as if the painted white lines might shift into some other answer. ”That was about s-?”

“Yes,” Hiori cuts in carefully. “That’s why Shidou nearly fell off the bench laughing.”

Oh. That explains some…things.

An uninvited feeling starts spreading in Rin’s chest. His voice comes out lower. “With… Karasu?”

Confusion flickers across Hiori’s face, then he actually huffs, quick and startled. “What? No. Oh boy of course not- He’s with Otoya. I wasn’t actually-”

His pitch lifts a notch, almost defensive. “It was just an innuendo.”

Rin’s thoughts spiral before he can rein them in-

Karasu slinging an arm around Hiori’s shoulders last week.

The way they’d laughed together at cooldown, heads bent too close.

That smug grin Karasu always throws like it means something.

Heat flares under Rin’s skin before he can shove the images away. He straightens too fast, eyes snapping down to the floor. “Then…why? Why make the joke at all?”

It comes out harsher than he wants. But he doesn’t take it back.

Hiori studies him, quiet. Then that slow, irritating smile pulls at his mouth again, faint but sure. “Because it was funny in the moment. To me, anyway.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Relax,” Hiori says lightly, leaning back on his hands. “I’m not sleepin’ with Karasu. Or… anyone, for that matter.”

He jerks his gaze away, relief filling unknowingly his chest, he mutters under his breath, “I- don't care. ”

Why would he? “Do what you want.”

Hiori smirks. “Mhm, right,”

He starts gathering the medical equipment on the kit box, a small smile left hanging in his lips “Ya always take everythin’ literally”

“I don’t.”

Rin’s breath catches before he can stop it - too sharp, too sudden. His throat burns with the mistake of reacting at all.

“I don’t.”

“Ya do.”

“I fucking don’t.”

The words come out harsher than he means, so he moves before he can think  - snapping his foot out in a half-hearted kick at Hiori’s shin, more instinct than intent.

The pain shoots white-hot up his side. His breath jerks through his teeth, body folding in on itself before he can mask it.

“Rin,” Hiori says, sharp, already leaning forward. The amusement softens into something steadier, but not without that faint glint in his eyes. “Careful.”

Then, softer, edged with something close to satisfaction: “A tamed Beast. You’re at my mercy now. Ya better behave.”

“Fuck off,” Rin grits out, glaring. “Mercy my ass.”

That gets Hiori laughing again.

He reaches out a hand, and before Rin can swat it away, he’s already being pulled up  - steadied with a grip that’s firmer than it looks.

Rin stumbles, bites back a hiss, but he doesn’t shake him off. Not immediately.

And maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline fading, or the stupid relief of not collapsing again, but a smile tugs at Rin’s mouth - uninvited, fleeting. He turns his face away before Hiori can catch it, before it can be used against him.

“It’s not wise nor productive to keep trainin’,” Hiori says once Rin’s upright, his voice gentler now, like he’s making a call he already knows Rin will hate.

Rin exhales, sharp through his nose. He should argue.  But what slips out instead is quieter, stripped down: “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

The closest to an apology he’ll ever give.

Hiori studies him for a moment, unreadable. “Ya should rest. Let’s hope you’ll be better tomorrow” 

Then he just nods. “Come on. I’ll walk ya back. Just in case.”

Rin wants to tell him he doesn’t need it. But his legs feel heavier than his pride right now. So he lets Hiori fall into step beside him.

The corridors are dim, washed in the low hum of night lamps. Their footsteps echo, out of sync but steady.

Rin keeps his eyes forward, but he catchesthe way Hiori’s shadow slides beside his on the wall, stretching and shrinking with every light they pass. Somehow, without meaning to, his pace adjusts until their steps fall into rhythm. He hates that he notices. 

Halfway down, Hiori breaks the quiet. “So…What d’ya think Ego’s gonna announce tomorrow?”

He’d totally forgotten about that.

He huffs, low and sharp, eyes narrowing ahead. “Something self-absorbed. Probably about how brilliant he thinks he is. Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s just a speech on his own reflection.”

The jab is barbed, but beneath it, there’s the faintest trace of something else - his mind flicking back to the morning, Buratsuta’s little “bombshell” about Sae. 

He doesn’t mention it, but the thought lingers.

Hiori snorts, the sound carrying warmth against the sterile corridor. “Fair.”

They reach his dorm too soon. Rin slows, already bracing to mutter something quick - night, thanks, whatever - and disappear inside before the quiet can get heavier.

But the door creaks.

And Shidou - of all fuckung people -  stumbles out.

Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, eyes heavy with sleep. He scratches at his stomach with one hand, yawning so wide his jaw cracks. 

For a heartbeat he doesn’t even see them, just shuffles forward like some drunk animal. Then his gaze adjusts, narrows - lands squarely on Rin and Hiori standing side by side in the dim corridor.

🎶🎶

“Hi, you two.”

Rin freezes.

Hiori does too, though in his stillness there’s no panic, only calculation - like he’s already assessing angles, ways to steer this before it spins.

Shidou blinks again, harder, his mouth curling slow into a half-awake grin. “Waiiiit- Am I still asleep?”

“Yes, go back to bed” Rin murmures, sharper than he intends. 

Shidou cocks his head, eyes glinting even through the haze of sleep. Then his grin sharpens. “Hold on… is your nose broken, pal?” 

He squints at Rin’s face, the faint swelling, the taped bruise along his cheekbone. His expression shifts into something more alert, more awake. “Huh. You are injured.” His gaze flicks between the two of them, suspicion crawling in. “And you’re with…Hiori? At this hour?”

Rin’s chest knots. His ribs throb like they’re about to betray him, but he lifts his chin anyway. “Shut it before you wake everyone.”

But Shidou isn’t listening. 

His grin widens, feral curiosity in it now. “Wait a sec. Don’t tell me…” He leans in toward Hiori, voice dropping with mock conspiratorial glee. “You stopped me from fighting him earlier just so you could beat him up yourself?”

Hiori actually blinks at that, baffled. “…What?”

Rin’s blood spikes hot. “The fuck are you talking about?”

But Shidou just shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Guy’s half-wrecked, you’re out here together in the middle of the night… looks like a private quarrel with fists.”

Rin takes a step forward, fury twitching through his body. His lungs burn. He’s two seconds from cracking Shidou’s jaw open- 

Until a grip closes around his wrist.

Hiori holds it. Quiet, steady, the pressure subtle but firm. 

But inside, he’s already spiraling. If Shidou spreads it, if Bachira or anyone else finds out -  our training’s fucked. Hiori’s screwed too. It’s  enough that fucking Isagi knows, how the hell do I shut this roach up?

Shidou stares more at Hiori. 

His eyes flick down, clocking the contact, and something ugly curls in his grin. “Ooohhh. That explains it. You too fell for the Itoshi charm, huh?”

The bastard.

“Stop being a fucking freak,” Rin growls, teeth bared. He jerks against Hiori’s hold, but the pain in his ribs stalls him.

His fist itches for Shidou’s face for the hundredth time today.

And maybe Shidou sees it - sees exactly how close Rin is to snapping - because he takes another deliberate step closer, grin all teeth. “What’s the matter? Wanna go for round three?”

Rin surges forward, chest blazing with the urge to smash him flat-

And Hiori’s grip tightens, just slightly. “You’re both actin’ like children” he says, voice low, calm as stone. 

Then he looks directly at the tanned bastard “And you should really stop being an asshole. It’s gettin’ old.”

Shidou blinks. The grin flickers, falters. For the first time all night, he looks off balance.

Rin’s pulse is a roar in his ears, fury coiling tighter. 

Shidou’s shoulders sag a little. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling. “…Tch. Well.”

His voice roughens, losing its sing-song lilt. “Guess I went too far.”

Rin scoffs, low and sharp. “You guess?”

Shidou scratches his neck, half-awake bravado peeling off. His gaze flicks at Rin - lingers, unusually clear. “…What I said today. And what I did. It was fucked.”

The honesty throws Rin off. He feels the heat in his chest shift, unsettled, unsure where to land. “I don't need a lukewarm apology”

Shidou hesitates. Then, he turns to Hiori again with crooked smile tugging at his mouth:

“See? he's just easy to piss off.”

The simplicity cuts sharper than any excuse. Because it’s true. Because Rin knows it’s true. His jaw aches with the grind of his teeth.

“That doesn’t help your case,” Hiori says lightly, the faintest curve at his lips.

Shidou almost laughs, but it’s muted, thinner than usual. “Yeah. Guess not.” His eyes fall half-lidded again, but there’s something more sober behind them now. “Didn’t mean to be that much of a dick. I'm sorry”

Rin exhales hard through his nose, the tension bleeding slow but stubborn. “…You’re still a freak. And I'm still plotting your murder”

“Can't wait.” Shidou smirks, but softer this time. “I’ll take it whenever you’re ready.”

The air shifts - still tense, but not choking. The fight drains out by degrees.

How should they explain themselves now? 

Rin is already planning on threatening Shidou for his secrecy when Hiori decides to take matters in his hands.

“Go rest,” Hiori tells   him, firm but not unkind. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Rin pulls his wrist free, ignoring the echo of warmth against his skin. He casts Hiori a quick glance -  longer than he should - but doesn’t let the look linger. “…Night.”

He shoulders past Shidou, muttering, “Move, roach. You’re blocking the door.”

Shidou sweeps an arm wide, mock-flourish. “After you, your majesty.”

Rin doesn’t answer. 

He slips inside, the darkness swallowing him. The dorm hums with the sound of Barou’s steady snores, Isagi’s slow breath, Bachira murmuring something in his sleep.

He collapses onto his mattress, ribs flaring with pain, blanket thin over his chest. His body throbs with ache, but his head won’t quiet. 

Their secret is balanced on a knife edge now that someone else - again - has seen.

What if Shidou tells? What if he twists it? What if their nights get dragged into the open and shattered?

The thought gnaws as his eyes slip shut.

And in the last stretch of wakefulness, he realizes: Hiori hasn’t walked to his own dorm yet.

The murmur of voices lingers just beyond the door. Too low to make out, but steady, deliberate. Hiori’s tone, measured. Shidou’s, rough and uneven.

Rin frowns into the dark, chest tight. Hiori stayed behind.

To explain. To cover for him.

To keep their secret safe.

Sleep takes him before he can decide if that thought steadies him or twists the knife deeper.

//

8 days before Nigeria VS Japan 

The morning air hits Rin before the dorm doors even open - thin, cold, and sharp, slicing through the ache in his ribs. He limps slightly, each step measured, careful. 

By the time he reaches the conference room, the space is already alive. Voices ripple like restless water, the chatter low but insistent.

Players lean against tables, arms crossed, exchanging small jokes and half-smiles, all trying to fill the silence before Ego arrives.

Rin slides in almost unnoticed, head down, scanning quickly.

Kunigami leans toward Chugiru, whispering something that makes the runner snort. Isagi is at the far end, eyes bright, notebook clutched like a shield. Bachira is beside him humming something under his breath, pacing a small circle as if the motion could chase off tension.

And then there’s Shidou, lurking near the wall, rubbing sleep from his eyes, still processing the night before, no doubt.

Rin finds a spot near the back, weight shifting from one foot to the other, trying not to make it obvious that he’s still nursing the pain in his ribs. He notices Hiori a few meters away, calm, almost unreadable, and a flicker of gratitude brushes through him before he smothers it under his pride.

The hum of conversation dies abruptly when the doors swing open. Ego stands framed in the doorway, like the air itself has folded around him. Every eye snaps toward him, silence crackling in the space between his presence and theirs.

“Good morning,” he says, voice smooth, almost musical, and yet carrying the weight of a guillotine. The words hang. “I’ll get straight to the point.”

Rin tightens his jaw, instinctively straightening, trying to shed the lingering ghost of last night’s adrenaline.

Ego paces slowly, letting the weight of anticipation build like a drumbeat in their chests. “The World Cup will not be held domestically.” A flicker of disbelief sweeps across the room.

Rin’s stomach twists. He barely registers the murmurs and gasps.

“It will be in Italy.”

The words drop like ice water.

Every conversation, every confident smirk, every calculation of timing and tactics evaporates in an instant.

Rin blinks, forcing himself to focus. 

Ego stops pacing, the room’s collective tension coiling tight. “Adjustments will be made. Preparation will continue. But understand this: the world stage is larger, faster, and far less forgiving than you imagined.”

Rin swallows, throat dry. He feels like he’s walking through a storm, the sky above a pale, distant ceiling.

And somewhere beneath the rational part of his mind, a single, insistent thought pulses:

Italy.

Foreign fields. Strange turf. A World Cup that suddenly feels a step beyond anything he’s prepared for.

Ego’s eyes lock onto Rin and the others in a way that silences even that surge. “We must be ready.”

The words land like a blade.

Rin exhales, shallow, the world tilting around him.

The stage just grew impossibly larger. 

Rin’s gaze hunts the crowd - then finds Hiori, his anchor, holding him steady against the weight of what’s coming.

Chapter Text

8 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The calendar in Hiori’s head ticks loudly and mockingly.

He feels the word Italy press against his ribs, a cold, bright weight. Italy is miles of consequence: different environments, visas, flights, an ocean to cross. 

Eight days. 

“Why Italy?” Karasu asks, his practical voice always chews at logistics. “Wasn’t it supposed to be domestic? I thought-”

“It was originally scheduled to be hosted domestically,” 

Ego says, and his voice has a small, theatrical inflection now, the kind of phrasing you use when you’re about to explain how the trick works. 

“Plans have changed. International federations consolidated several youth tournaments for logistical reasons. The federation received a guarantee from the Italian FA - stadiums, broadcasting bundles, training facilities, period of availability that matched the global calendar. It reduced risk for the tournament as a whole. There was negotiation. There was a point where the JFA had to decide: host domestically, with uncertainty, or accept an offer that ensured optimum conditions.”

He clicks. 

The next slide is a map; lines fan out like strings on a globe. “We chose the latter.”

The room hums. 

A few players exchange looks that taste like excitement; others, annoyance. Hiori can see the practical minds - Aiku’ s, Karasu’s, Isagi’s - already lining up what they need to do. 

But there is another undercurrent: how do you call a team into a war at a new front one week before the first skirmish?

“Why are we only hearing this now?” Isagi asks, earnest. “Why didn’t anyone tell us earlier?”

Ego doesn’t blink. 

He leans forward as if he’s about to share a private joke. “Because I didn’t want you to pretend to prepare when there was nothing concrete to prepare for.” He says the sentence artfully, then sharpens. “Also there's a more practical reason: I wanted particulars. I wanted your passports.”

There it is - the word that turns the murmur into a scramble of tiny, audible noises: passports.

Yukimiya near the door asks about expedited applications. Raichi shouts, half-laughing, about the family photographer who still owes them a passport photo. 

The mood tilts like a camera dolly. 

Ego allows the noise for exactly as long as a director allows background sound, and then he snaps it shut.

“Two weeks ago,” he says, “we received the final host confirmation from the federation. I called the federation. I called our logistics partners. I made a call you all won’t like, and - before I even contemplated announcing it officially to you - I also made a dozen smaller calls.” 

He looks straight at the group, then tilts his head, like a predator noticing a weakness in the flock. 

“I called your families.”

Hiori’s mouth goes dry. 

The line runs through him like a current he did not expect to meet in public.

“The paperwork required is standard: passports, parental consent for minors, medical clearances. Nothing extraordinary.” Ego folds his hands. 

“But there were complications.” He pauses, and the silence after that pause is deliberate -  long enough that everyone feels like an intruder.

Ego’s smile is colder now.

“Some documents were missing. Some passports expired, were lost, or could not be released on short notice. Some families placed position demands on their sons in exchange for consent.” He allows the last phrase to sit in the air like a stone.

Hiori is suddenly counting chances: how many ways his parents - who he hasn’t spoken to in weeks - could delay a passport; how quickly they could escalate a condition to a block.

He feels the heat crawl under his collar. Ego’s gaze cuts sideways for the briefest moment - direct, pointed. 

Not long enough to be noticed by most of the room. But Hiori feels it like a spotlight.

Shit.

His stomach tightens. It’s him. 

Of course it’s him.

He fixes his eyes on the projector screen, lets the edges blur, pretends to study the map as if a continent will give him answers. The players around him are still reacting, tossing comments back and forth.

“Crazy,” Otoya mutters, shaking his head with a grin. “Parents trying to play coach from the kitchen table.”

“More like they want bragging rights,” Barou adds, quieter. “ ‘My kid’s the striker on the national team.’ ”

Bachira snorts. “If my mom tried that, Ego would bite her head off.”

“She wouldn’t,” Isagi says, fondly. “She believes in you.”

Hiori wishes he could vanish into the laminate, and wishes he could unhear the word families. 

Ego taps the projector remote, and the map shrinks into a bullet-point slide. White text, clean and merciless.

Don’t show it. Don’t let anyone see. 

He forces his expression flat, but inside his head it’s a storm: his parents’ voices, every silent ledger where he was always striker first, son second.

Across the table, Isagi leans forward. “So - what? You already talked to our families? All of us?”

“Yes.” Ego doesn’t soften the word. “Every player’s household has been contacted. Every passport, every condition, every clearance is on my desk. Because if any parent thinks they can decide your role for me-” 

His mouth quirks, humorless. “They are mistaken.”

There’s a murmur, a ripple of relief, maybe even awe. Ego sounds like a tyrant, but he’s their tyrant, the only one willing to put a wall between them and the outside world.

Hiori partially shares that relief. So he is going-

-but at what cost?

His parents’ voices are already in his ears, louder than the projector hum. 

From the other side of the room Rin hasn’t moved. 

He watches Ego with that same unreadable stillness, and for a flicker of a second Hiori envies him  - envies the way he can freeze the world out.

But then Rin’s eyes narrow, and Hiori realizes it isn’t calm. It’s pressure. It’s another kind of expectation, a sword hanging from a string.

The silence after Ego’s last line stretches taut.

“Fuck you mean negotiations?” Shidou chimes in, eyebrows arched, half-laughing like it’s a weird joke.

The sound of his voice jolts something loose in Hiori - the memory of last night, the conversation Rin thankfully didn’t hear.

**

9 days before Nigeria VS Japan

After Rin slipped inside the dorm, Shidou had stayed leaning against the wall, smirking like he was waiting for exactly this.

“I totally get it, man” he’d said, as if Hiori was already caught in something. “I couldn’t resist Sae too.”

Hiori’s mind went blank. 

It was signaling ‘impossible’ to every possible answer to the equation, and for some strange fucking reason he had felt himself getting hot all over. 

“What? No. What are ya-? That’s not-” 

Words were piling up like traffic with nowhere to go.

His palms itched. He didn’t know if he wanted to shove Shidou away or cover his own burning face. 

Shidou tilted his head, grin wolfish. “C’mon. You and prince charming out here alone in the middle of the night. Don’t tell me it’s for drills.” 

He said the last word almost as if it was the most absurd hypothesis.

“It is,” Hiori snapped, sharper than he meant to. “We train. That’s it.”

“Train, huh? Sure. If by drills you mean drilling each other” Shidou sing-songed.

Hiori’s mind was about to explode at that point. What’s his problem?

“No- Shidou, what the fuck. Absolutely not.” His voice had cracked, mortifyingly.

Shidou’s mischievous grin only widened. “Not even a kiss?”

“Ya really are fuckin’ weird,” Hiori muttered, heat still climbing his neck. “We’re just… friends.”

The word slipped out before he thought about it - friends - and it lingered in the air like a chord struck too loudly. 

He was - in fact - Rin Itoshi's friend. He just found getting used to it more pleasant than he thought it would be.

Shidou’s expression flickered, then curled back into mischief. “Right. I’ll ask you again in a month.”

“Don’t,” Hiori said flatly. 

Then he recalled the reason he hasn't flipped the blonde off and turned on his heels yet.

“I’m here to make sure ya won’t tell anyone.”

Shidou raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Tell what?”

“That Rin and I are trainin’ together for the World Cup,” Hiori answered, low, deliberate. “Nobody knows. We- I want it to stay that way until it matters.”

“Ohhh,” Shidou drawled, pretending to weigh the secret in his hand. “So you want the big reveal on the pitch. Explosion style.”

“…Yeah,” Hiori admitted, almost sheepish.

Shidou chuckled, tapping his lips. “My lips are sealed, Cyan boy. Since no kisses are involved, it’s not fun gossip anyway.”

Hiori had been red all the way back to his dorm, pulse loud in his ears. Shidou's words clung like sweat, refusing to leave him even when he shoved his face into the pillow .

Even hours later, lying in the dark, his brain wouldn’t shut off. He kept seeing Rin - bloodied, panting, his body weight heavy against him, the sound of his breath ragged in Hiori’s ear. 

Kept hearing himself whisper promises he never thought he’d make.

To anchor.

To hold.

To stay.

It replayed like some twisted highlight reel, the edges blurred with heat and shame.

He realized he’s always been incapable of witnessing a battered Rin without it causing any kind of reaction in his twisted brain.

He wanted to regret it all, bury it. 

He wanted to dig deeper, claw closer. 

Both truths sat like fire in his lungs, impossible to breathe around.

**

8 days before Nigeria VS Japan

It all feels like a distant fever dream clashing with the unexpected announcement - and the possibility of his parents making his life hell on earth even where they supposedly can't reach him. 

Because right fucking now-

Ego’s gaze flicks over him - sharp, dismissive. “Some parents treat basic documents as bargaining chips.”

The memory of Shidou’s grin drops away, replaced by the colder, heavier weight of Ego’s words. 

A ripple cuts through the room. 

Hiori doesn’t move, but the words crack against his ribs. 

Ego shifts, clicking the remote. The map of Italy splays across the wall: 

Milan in the north. 

Florence mid-country. 

Rome gleaming like a centerpiece.

“Your group stage,” he says, clinical again, “will be in Milan. Matches against Nigeria, France, and England - all staged at the San Siro stadium.”

A beat, then the room detonates.

“San Siro?!” Niko cackles.

“No way,” Chigiri breathes, eyes wide like floodlights.

Kurona mutters something under his breath about history books.

Ego waits until the noise peaks, then cuts it with a glance. “The knockout stage will move to Florence.”

Hiori sees Rin’s gaze sharpen toward the screen. 

Aryu reacts immediately. “This is glamtastic”

Then. Ego drops the final stop. “Semifinals and the final will be held in Rome.”

Reo whistles low. “From cathedral to cathedral, huh.”

Isagi’s knee bounces under the table. “So we’re really - like, actually- walking into Europe's biggest stages.”

“Exactly.” Ego folds his hands. “Which is why distractions are fatal. Make sure you won’t let expectations drag you under. That’s your responsibility now.”

He sweeps his gaze across them. For a second - just a second - it stops on Hiori again.

Hiori keeps his face neutral, but inside it feels like the floor has shifted under him. 

Ego sets the clicker down.

“That’s all for now. Training begins immediately. We depart in two days. You’ll arrive in Italy with four days to acclimate before the opening match.”

His tone carries the finality of a slammed door. “Use the time wisely.”

Chairs scrape. 

The players begin filing out, a stream of bodies and voices angling toward the pitch. Hiori moves with them, head lowered, as if blending into the current might quiet the static in his skull.

He’s almost through the door when Ego’s voice cuts across the room. “Itoshi. Hiori. You’re both exempt from training today.”

The ripple is immediate. 

Isagi’s brows twitch, confusion breaking across his face. Shidou, still lingering, smirks like he’s just been handed premium entertainment.

Rin stiffens. “What?”

Ego doesn’t hesitate. “You are injured. I don’t know how you managed it, but you’re not in condition to train. And with departure in forty-eight hours, I won’t have you jeopardizing a medical clearance. Go get yourself checked in the infirmary”

“It’s nothing.” Rin’s voice is sharp, defiant. “I feel fine. My nose is scratched, that’s all.”

“No buts.” Ego’s reply is crisp, cutting. “You feeling fine doesn’t change the fact that regulations exist. Try making everyone’s life easier.”

Rin’s jaw flexes, but the retort dies in his throat. He exhales through his nose, hard, the sound almost a growl, and his eyes flick toward Hiori. 

For a beat, the silence between them feels like a conversation: Rin unwilling to be benched, Hiori unwilling to let his pulse betray how much that glance unsettles him.

Then Rin pushes out the door, shoulders tight.

“You stay,” Ego says, turning to him before the air has settled. “Head to Anri’s office.”

Hiori stops mid-step. There it is.

His chest sinks with a dread that has nothing to do with passports or training. 

He swallows, nods once, and forces his legs to carry him forward.

**

The walk to Anri’s office feels like walking into a courtroom. 

The door is already open when he arrives. Anri looks up from a desk scattered with papers and cables. She softens immediately, voice warm.

“Hiori. Come in. Sit.”

He nods stiffly and lowers himself into the chair opposite her. The room smells faintly of coffee and printer ink.

“How are you?” she asks, gently, as if easing him in.

“I’m fine, thank you.” His voice is automatic. 

A pause lingers.

He can feel her eyes studying him, but he forces his shoulders square.

“Ego told me to come here,” he says, clipped. 

Anri folds her hands. “Listen, Hiori…We spoke with your parents. There have been… complications.”

His throat tightens. 

Right on the money.

“They flagged issues with your documents - passport renewal, consent forms - but when we pressed, the truth came out.” She exhales. 

“They began bargaining. They told Ego they won’t release the paperwork unless you’re guaranteed a striker position.”

The air leaves his lungs all at once. His breath hitches so hard it almost hurts. His mind rushes with static: So all this was for nothing? Am I going home? Am I even playing?

Anri sees it in his face instantly. “Hey,” she says quickly, leaning forward. “Don’t panic. Ego didn’t cave. You know him - he doesn’t bend to parents, or federations, or anyone. He told them directly that you are central to this team as a midfielder. The axis. That if they can’t see that, it’s their problem. And-” her gaze sharpens, “-you’re almost eighteen. You can make your own decisions.”

Some of the static clears, leaving a fragile kind of relief. Hiori nods, slow, but there’s still a knot coiled tight in his stomach.

“Then… why am I here?”

Anri hesitates - just enough for him to know what’s coming will sting.

“They gave us a condition. They’ll let you travel… but only if you speak with them directly. They said you haven’t called in two weeks. They feel you’ve been ignoring them. And…” She looks almost apologetic. “They asked me to put you on the line.”

The knot twists into something hotter. 

Anger, sharp and choking.

Of course. Of course they’d make this about themselves.

But if that’s all it takes to go to Italy-

His jaw tightens. “Fine.” His voice is flat, even if inside his head it’s all screaming.

Anri smiles understandingly and lifts the receiver. 

The keypad beeps sound louder than they should in the hush of the office. 

Hiori wipes his palms against his pants, slow, like he’s trying to rub the unease out of his skin. His leg still bounces under the desk. 

Calm down. It’s just a call. Survive it, like always.

The ringing cuts off.

“Yo” his mother’s voice slices through, precise as ever.

He flinches, throat dry. “Mom.”

“Well thank ya for answerin’,” The sarcasm already makes Hiori fight the need to hang up. “What is this we’re hearin’?” she demands. “That you’re bein’ fielded as a midfielder?”

His father’s tone follows like clockwork, lower but just as sharp. “Is it true?”

🎶🎶

Automatically, his shoulders draw back. The old posture, the old training. “Y-yeah. It’s true.”

A silence. Then the familiar blade:

“Unbelievable,” his mother hisses. “After everything we sacrificed to shape ya into a striker - after all the money, the hours, the blood we poured into ya- ya dare throw it away?”

His father piles on.

 “We built your career, Yo. Without us, there’s nothing. And this- this betrayal-” His voice cuts like a gavel. The man doesn't wait when he throws the next dagger. 

“We will not watch ya if ya aren't a striker. Don’t expect us to be in Milan for someone who won’t even be in the position that matters.”

Hiori's chest caves around the words. He didn’t expect it to.

Not watching? Not even watching? 

It’s absurd, it’s childish, and yet it lodges deep, because some part of him has always lived for that impossible approval.

His mouth goes dry. “Ya- ya won’t watch?” His voice cracks. “Even if I make the field? Even if…” He stops, fists curling on his knees.

“Ya heard us,” his father says, unflinching.

The ultimatum hangs between the cheap walls like concrete. Hiori’s stomach drops a fraction, then another. 

His fingers dig into the edge of the desk until his nails hurt. 

Images unspool - his mother’s hands over a bowl of bland protein, his father demonstrating a finishing technique with a patience that was really rehearsal for disappointment. 

A little boy chasing a ball because chasing it was the only way to keep the house from collapsing.

He opens his mouth. 

He closes it. 

He tries to answer with the tidy, reasoned sentences he always recycles, the ones that sound like compromise.

But the first thing out of him was small and brittle.

“Well I’m not throwin’ anythin’ away,” he says, quieter than he felt. His voice hitches. 

“The midfield is where I belong”

“Excuse me?” His father’s tone sharpens. 

It sounds like someone doubling down on a litany of expectations. 

“Ya don’t understand how rare this is,” his father presses. “A striker gets headlines. Scouts remember goals. Midfielders are background unless they make people talk. You’re throwing away the currency we built for ya.”

The words hit harder than they should. 

Something stirs in him - panic first, then anger beneath it, molten and hot.

He squeezes his eyes shut, breath hitching. This is what it’s all been for. All the sacrifices, all the nights. To stand here now, about to play in the World Cup.

And they’d throw it away just because it isn’t their version of me.

His voice comes out small, almost trembling: 

“You’re wrong.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. 

On the other end, they’re stunned - not because he yelled, but because he didn’t. Because he let go.

His mother’s voice sharpens to a hiss. “What did ya just say?”

“I said you’re wrong. And-” He forces the words out again, firmer this time, each syllable heavier. 

His pulse hammers in his ears. “If ya won’t watch, if ya don’t care, then fine. I don’t care either.”

The room tilts. 

His breath comes fast, shallow, like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t step back from.

“Ya ungrateful child,” his father snaps. “We put a ball in your hands before ya could even walk. We designed your training, your diet, your future. Every part of your life, we gave to ya. No one will support ya as much as we do.”

The words slice deep. 

His eyes sting, but the anger is stronger now, unstoppable. He leans forward, hand slamming against the desk as if to keep himself from falling.

“Ya never supported me in the first place. Ya treated me like a thing to be perfected,” he says, voice shaking and getting stronger as it goes. “Ya measured me in- in goals and- and positions. When I failed ya, ya blinked like someone surprised the world didn’t fold the way ya ordered it to.”

He takes a deep breath before letting out the most honest words he’s told them in years.

“I practiced until my knees ached because I thought if I was good enough, you wouldn’t hate each other. Do ya think I don’t remember what ya did to keep the family together? I remember everythin’.”

“You’re throwin’ away a ticket,” his mother counters. “Do ya want to sit in the stands and watch others take what you were built to do? We sacrificed so ya wouldn’t have to struggle. If you reject the striker role, ya reject everythin’ we did for ya.”

“You don’t get to decide who I am,” Hiori cuts in before he thinks. 

The words surprise his own ears with their force. He feels heat prick the back of his neck, a rising tide of something like courage and anger braided together. “Ya took my childhood and turned it into a spreadsheet.. I did what ya wanted because I thought ya cared.”

His mother’s voice goes thin and high. “We did it for your future. We did it so you would have a life.”

“Ya made your life my Future,” he snaps back. “And ya pretended it was mine.”

He’s shaking now, knuckles white against the desk.

“And here- in Blue Lock, playin’ as a midfielder- I finally felt it. I finally felt what it’s like to- to love this game. For the first time in my life, soccer feels like mine. And if that’s not enough for ya, then I’m- I- I’m done.”

His breath tears out of him, ragged. “I’m done caring.”

Silence.

Then his mother, colder than ice. “You’ll regret this.”

Followed by the other deeper voice.

“You're our greatest failure"

Click. 

The line goes dead.

Along with Hiori's heart.

The dial tone buzzes in the stillness. Hiori stays frozen, chest heaving, eyes burning, the sound vibrating in his skull. 

He wants to collapse, to be held, to be scolded and forgiven in the same breath - all the things he’d never been allowed in the cadence of training and timetables. 

Instead he gets pulled back to reality by Anri re-entering the room.

When did she leave in the first place?

“Do you want me to call them back? Make a note? Talk to Ego?” she asks, voice confidential, small.

His laugh is a noise that tastes like metal. He tries to shape the mask back on. “No,” he says. The word comes out brittle. “Don’t- just don’t. Thank ya for your patience.”

Anri’s eyes search his face for a long breath. Then she gives him a small, practical instruction: “Get some water. Don’t stay on an adrenaline high. You can rest before joining the others. If you want to talk, later-  I’ll be here.”

He forces a smile so thin it almost cuts his cheek. “I’m fine,” he lies, and the lie falls like glass. It feels, strangely, like a weapon he can hand back at the world.

He walks out.

As he drifts out of Anri’s office, every step feels heavier than the last. The corridor stretches unnaturally, fluorescent lights bouncing off the walls like static in his vision. 

Players’ voices leak through the doors of the main training pitch, distant and warped - laughs that ripple like underwater echoes, shouts like distorted signals.

His hands brush the wall, almost for balance, almost for comfort.

His feet move, but it doesn’t feel like him walking. 

It’s like the hallway is carrying him, a conveyor of unreality. 

Every inhale tastes metallic, every heartbeat a hammer. Time and space fracture.

He doesn’t think about Italy, or passports, or expectations. 

He thinks only about the words still ringing in his skull. “You’re our greatest failure.”

Then, through the fog of his own disorientation, a figure slouched against the far wall catches his eye.

Slouched against the wall, one knee drawn up, the other stretched out, headphones dangling uselessly around his neck. 

A bandage across his nose, hair sticking to damp skin. 

His shoulders sag like a bow just released.

Hiori freezes. 

The symmetry is almost cruel: both of them unmoored, not where they should be, unraveling in private corners of the world. 

Rin’s gaze lifts, sharp, cutting - unmistakably aware.

“Hio-” Rin’s voice cuts off, but it slices through the fog. 

“You’re white as a sheet.”

Hiori startles, heat rushing into his cheeks - shit. 

He hadn’t realised how unsteady he must look.

He tries to gather himself, pull on something resembling composure, but under Rin’s stare it feels like trying to stitch water into cloth.

“Hey” he manages, though it comes out thinner than intended. “What are ya doing here? You should go rest-”

Rin cuts him off. He leans forward a fraction, suspicion carved into his brow.

“No. What happened? Did Ego say something to you? Or Anri?” His voice is clipped, impatient, but Hiori recognizes the undercurrent: worry, jagged and raw, bleeding through in ways Rin probably doesn’t even hear.

Hiori shakes his head too quickly, almost defensive. “No. Nothing. It’s not-”

Rin’s expression shifts. Sharpness gives way to something almost frantic.

“Wait.” His shoulders tense, his whole body coiled like a spring. “You’re not-” His voice falters, then hardens again, low and urgent. 

“You’re not coming to Italy, are you?”

The sheer fear in his tone catches Hiori off guard. It’s too naked, too vulnerable, and for a second it stuns him. 

He’s instantly reminded of how fragile he’d looked that night on the rooftop.

He reacts instinctively.

“No.” His own voice is urgent now, hands moving before thought. 

Him steadying Rin with touch is a scene that’s been occurring a lot these past days.

He kneels, catching Rin’s arm as if anchoring him there. “No, Beast. I’m comin’. I’m coming.”

The word Beast makes Rin’s eyes flicker. He exhales, a sound torn out of him, relief punching through the tension in his shoulders. 

His head tips forward just slightly, hair shadowing his eyes. 

For one strange moment, he looks so young. Human, stripped of the armor.

Hiori feels something hot curl in his chest - warmth, yes, but threaded with ache. 

He keeps his hand on Rin’s arm, steadying, grounding, though he tells himself it’s for Rin’s sake when really it’s his own fingers that are trembling.

Rin lifts his head. 

His gaze locks on, unblinking.

“Then…what is it?” His voice is quieter, but the edge in it cuts deeper. “What did that bastard say to you?”

Hiori tries to look away, but Rin doesn’t let him. That stare pins him, sharp as a blade.

“You’re still starting, right? If he benched you-” Rin’s mouth twists, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hand curls into a fist against his knee. “I’ll take him apart myself. I don’t care if he’s the coach.”

The fierceness in his voice should irritate Hiori, but instead - against all reason - a laugh slips out. Small, cracked around the edges, but real.

His chest stutters with it, and for a fleeting moment, he forgets the sting behind his eyes.

“God, no.” he breathes, shaking his head. “You’re… you’re ridiculous. And besides, that would get ya benched too dumbass."

Something eases in Rin’s face at the sound, like he’s satisfied he’s broken through. 

He doesn’t smile, but there’s a glint of something softer.

Then Rin’s hand moves. 

Slow, almost hesitant. 

Fingers brushing against Hiori’s cheekbone. 

The touch is feather-light, unexpected. 

Hiori freezes, startled by the gentleness, the closeness.

Until Rin’s jaw hardens, voice flat as stone:

“You’re crying.”

The words land like a hammer.

Hiori blinks, confused - until he realizes the warmth on his skin isn’t just Rin’s touch. 

It’s wetness trailing down his face. 

Tears.

He hadn’t even felt them falling.

Mortification slams through him. 

He jerks back, breath catching. “No- no, I’m not-” 

He quickly evades him by getting up - his own hands fly up to his face, as if he can erase the evidence. 

His palms meet damp skin, slick with it. Great. Fucking great. Of all people, of all moments-

Rin’s knees pop when he gets up, sudden and graceless, like the floor burned him. He looms there for a beat, shoulders hunched, fists flexing at his sides, jaw working. 

Then - without warning - he reaches down and drags Hiori’s hands off his face.

“Hey, Sheep,” His voice is clipped, uneven. His eyes are flaring with something like anger.  “Why are you - what happened?”

Hiori tries to swallow the sob clawing its way up. It sticks. 

His throat tightens until breathing feels like dragging glass. He wants to tell him nothing, it’s fine, don’t look at me - but the air won’t move.

Rin’s tongue clicks against his teeth, sharp frustration at the silence. His gaze darts down the corridor, then back. 

Voices are bleeding closer - laughter, shouts, the rhythm of cleats hitting the floor. Rin swears under his breath and grips Hiori’s arm, pulling.

“Come.”

The command brooks no argument. 

The world lurches as Rin steers him down the hall, half-shoving him through the nearest door. 

The dorm swallows them whole; the slam of wood against the frame rattles the air. 

For a moment, there’s only the dull buzz of the overhead light.

“Sit.” Rin’s tone is rough, urgent, like he’s trying to wrestle the situation into something he can control. 

He plants Hiori on the bed and paces a line across the floor, hands flexing open and closed.

Hiori grips the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, head bowed. The tears won’t stop - they’re hot, relentless, humiliating.

Rin halts mid-stride. 

His jaw is locked so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. “No one can see you here” he mutters, voice flat, like he’s giving a practice drill. When Hiori just shakes, Rin snaps again, louder: “Let it out- Breathe, damn it.”

The name drops from his lips before he can stop it: “Hiori.”

That single word lands like a stone in water. It pulls everything under.

Hiori’s lungs spasm. 

He drags in a broken inhale, chest hitching, but it only feeds the spiral: they don’t want me, not as I am, maybe they never did, maybe this is all borrowed time-

Rin’s hand scrapes up through his hair, leaving it in wild spikes. He looks like he’s about to punch a wall. 

“Shit,” he mutters. Then, more desperate, crouching so they’re level: “You’re shaking. Why the hell are you shaking?”

Hiori squeezes his eyes shut, as if that could erase the sting. He can feel Rin’s stare burning into him, sharp and unrelenting, like a spotlight on everything he’s trying to hide.

Rin exhales hard through his nose, restless, out of his depth. His foot taps an erratic rhythm against the floorboards. “You’re scaring the shit out of me” he says, voice dropping low, nearly hoarse. 

And that - Rin’s helplessness, his loss in the face of Hiori’s unraveling- is unbearable.

A sob tears loose, ragged, humiliating. 

He clamps both hands over his mouth like he can shove it back inside. His shoulders curl in, spine bowed, as if he could make himself vanish.

Rin jerks at the sound. 

For a heartbeat he just stares, eyes wide, like the floor dropped out beneath them both. Then he moves.

“Fuck. Fuck- wait.” He bolts upright, pacing three steps, turning back, pacing again. His hands drag down his face, fingers digging into his jaw as if he could carve the right response out of stone. “Shit, I don’t- fuck.”

Hiori can’t look at him. 

His vision’s gone watery, the room warped around the edges. His breath saws out too quick, shallow. Get it together. Get it together. But his chest just heaves harder.

Rin swears again and darts to the desk. The clatter of plastic breaks the silence - he’s yanked up a bottle of water, nearly drops it, thrusts it toward him.

“Here. Take it.” His voice is sharp, urgent. “Drink, Hiori. Just-” He doesn’t finish, just presses the bottle into his hands.

He fumbles with it. The cap resists; his shaking fingers slip. He hates himself for it, hates how weak he looks. 

Rin growls under his breath, twists the cap off for him, shoves it back.

“Slow,” Rin mutters, crouching again, knees knocking against the bedframe. His hands hover awkwardly near Hiori’s arms, like he wants to hold him still but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. “Breathe and drink, got it?”

The first swallow burns. 

But it drags air with it, forces his lungs to stop stuttering. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still trembling.

Rin watches like a hawk, tension etched into every line of him. “Better?” he asks, brusque, but his voice cracks at the edge.

Hiori nods, even though it’s a lie. He opens his mouth - and the words tumble out before he can stop them.

“It’s not-,” he says, thin, shaking. His gaze drops to the floor, hands gripping the bottle so hard it crumples. 

Hiori shakes his head hard, like if he refuses to name it, it won’t exist. Tears still streak hot down his cheeks.

Rin’s hand lifts, hesitates, then presses clumsily against his shoulder - firm, grounding. 

His fingers twitch like he doesn’t know if he should pull away.

“Hiori” Rin says, softer now, a scrape of gravel. “Look at me.”

Rin is studying him like he’s trying to solve something unsolvable, the silence stretching thin. His jaw works once, tight, then tighter. “You said you were coming- why the hell do you look like- like you’ve already lost?”

Hiori’s grip on the water bottle tightens until plastic crumples. He wants to look away but can’t - Rin won’t let him. It’s unbearable, being seen this clearly.

Rin exhales hard, frustration bleeding into something rawer. “Tell me the truth. If it’s Ego, if it’s the lineup - whatever it is. Or you can not tell me. We can stay here until you feel better- I can-” 

He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing a step before snapping back toward him. “Just- just dont sit there and tell me it’s nothing, because I’m not fucking stupid.”

The words hit like blows - not cruel, but relentless. Hiori’s pulse is too loud, his chest hitching again. Say nothing. Say it’s fine. Don’t open the door.

But Rin’s still staring, still waiting, like the silence itself is killing him.

Hiori forces out, halting: “It’s not Ego. It’s not… Blue Lock.” His breath stutters, shaky. “It’s… me. I just-” He cuts off, throat locking around the words.

Rin’s eyes narrow, suspicion twisting into something closer to panic. “You just what?” His voice drops, almost breaking. “You’re not pulling out, are you? You’re not… quitting?”

The word quitting slices through the air like a blade.

Hiori’s breath catches - too sharp, too loud. He shakes his head fast, desperate. “No. No, Rin, I’m not quitting.” His voice shakes, but the conviction is real. “I’d never-” 

He breaks off, hand flying to his face before the wetness gives him away again.

Rin freezes. 

For once, he looks unsure of what to do - hands flexing uselessly at his sides, as if reaching for something he doesn’t know how to hold.

The silence is unbearable, crushing. Hiori’s chest feels like it’s splitting open, every word bottlenecked at his throat.

And then - before he can stop himself -he blurts, too fast, too raw: 

“It’s not the team. It’s my parents.”

The words hang there, alien and dangerous, before he even realizes he’s said them.

Rin goes still, like someone cut his strings. His mouth parts, then shuts again, his face tightening around a muscle he can’t quite control. 

For once, he doesn’t throw a follow-up demand - he just stares, like he’s trying to make sense of a problem he didn’t consider before.

Hiori’s chest seizes. The static in his head flares, louder, shriller. 

He wants to take it back, to erase the words from the air, but it’s too late.

“What about them?”

🎶🎶

His throat tightens, but the silence feels like a blade against his skin. He hears himself say, flat, “They don’t want me here anymore.”

Rin’s eyes narrow. “What?” The word comes out clipped, like he didn’t hear it right.

Hiori swallows hard. His grip on the water bottle shakes. “They- ” His breath hitches. “They don’t want me in midfield. They don’t want me if I’m not…” The rest of the sentence dies, but the meaning hangs heavy: not a striker. Not their version of him.

Something flickers in Rin’s face. Confusion. Anger. Then something quieter, something raw.

He takes a step forward, but it looks hesitant, almost clumsy - like he’s fumbling in the dark.

“That’s- what the fuck does that even mean? They’re not here. They don’t decide shit.” His voice cracks sharp, more anger than panic.

Hiori presses his palms into his eyes, hard enough to see stars. He hates being seen like this. “It’s more complicated than that, Rin. Because it’s them. It’s always been them. Everythin’. Since I was a kid-” His chest tightens, words spilling too fast now. “Every drill, every meal, every second, it was theirs. Not mine. And now they say-” His voice falters, cracking. “They said they won’t even watch me.”

The words splinter out, small and brutal.

Rin sucks in a breath.

He looks like someone just swung at him, like he doesn’t know how to block it. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, restless, useless.

Hiori drags his hands down his face, feels the dampness on his skin, hates it. His voice is shredded, thin.

“I never told anyone.” The words scrape out, almost inaudible. “I carried the pressure, the schedules, the screaming, the-” He cuts off, breath shaking. “Because I thought, someday, it’ll get better. Someday they’ll be proud. Someday I’ll be enough.”

Rin shifts his weight, like the floor beneath him is unsteady. 

Hiori continues, broken glass catching in his throat. “And now they just-” He shakes his head. “They just told me they’re done. That they won’t support me anymore. As if they ever did.” His chest lurches. “Like it’s nothin’. Like I’m nothin’.”

Then Rin blurts, too fast, too rough: “You’re lying.”

Hiori flinches - confused - his head snapping up. “What?”

“You’re lying,” Rin repeats, harsher now. But his voice isn’t cold - it’s almost ragged. “If you believe that, if you think that matters, you’re lying to yourself. Because you’re not-” 

He cuts off, jaw locking. His chest heaves once, twice, and then he growls, “Fuck. I don’t know how to say this.”

He digs his fingers into the water bottle, crumpling the plastic further, needing something to break.

The sight of him like this makes something inside Hiori ache. Rin, usually so sure in his anger, looks helpless.

“I don’t even know why I care,” Hiori spits suddenly, voice too sharp. “I fuckin’ hate them. I hate them.”

His hands claw through his hair, yanking too hard at the roots. “But right now it’s- it’s too much. It’s just too much.”

For a beat, Rin just stares. His face is tight, unreadable, like he’s choking on words he doesn’t know how to say. 

Then he blurts, raw: “It hurts because they’re wrong. Not because you’re weak.”

Hiori exhales. “What if there’s nothin’ left if I take them away?”

Rin stops dead in front of him, eyes fierce, breathing sharp. “Then you make something. You already are.” He leans closer, eyes catching Hiori’s like a blade locking onto target. 

“You’re my- my midfielder.”

A beat passes.

”You’re coming to Italy with all of us. With me. End of story.”

The words startle Hiori so much he doesn’t notice when the mattress dips.

Rin is sitting beside him now, the frame creaking under the weight.

Hiori freezes.

Their shoulders are almost brushing, like Rin doesn’t care if Hiori wants it or not. Like he’s decided silence is dangerous, and he’s going to fill it.

Rin’s fists flex restlessly on his knees, knuckles whitening, then loosening. His jaw works. Finally he mutters, low and sharp, voice like a blade dragged over stone:

“They’re fucked.”

Hiori blinks. “…What?”

“Your parents.” Rin’s glare cuts at the wall like he wants to set it on fire.

“If they pull shit like that, they don’t deserve you. They don’t even deserve oxygen.”

Hiori’s chest lurches. The bluntness hits harder than pity ever could. But Rin isn’t finished.

He exhales through his nose, sharp, irritated. Then, as if the thought drops in whole, he asks, without turning:

“You ever watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?”

The words are so out of nowhere Hiori almost chokes. “…What?”

“Just answer.”

“…Yeah,” Hiori admits cautiously.

Rin tilts his head back against the wall, eyes narrowing, voice flat like he’s talking about tactics. “Good. You remember the- the meat hook? The one in the slaughter room? That’s what I want for your parents. Hang ’em up like carcasses. Let gravity do the rest until their ribs split open.”

Hiori just stares, gut twisting. The image already alive in his mind.

Out of the many ways he imagined his parents murder this one looks really appealing at the moment.

Rin’s tone is so casual it makes the scene worse - flesh tearing, bone cracking, bodies swaying like butchered animals.

“…Rin,” Hiori breathes, torn between horror and disbelief.

“I’m serious,” Rin says, not blinking. His mouth pulls tight, anger vibrating through every line of him. “Fuck scissors. Fuck poison. Hooks are cleaner. You can’t lie your way out of steel through your chest.”

The sound that bursts out of Hiori is almost a sob, almost a laugh. His body shakes with it, helpless.

It sounds wrong, cracked, but it’s not a sob anymore.

Rin shoots him a sideways look, frown deepening. “I can help you do it if you want.”

But the edge in his shoulders softens. Just slightly. Like the sound pulled him back from something too sharp.

He clamps a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking, because what the hell is this - Rin threatening to gut his parents like a slasher villain?

It shouldn’t be funny. It isn’t funny.

But his chest loosens with laughter anyway, like something snapped under the pressure and let him breathe again. 

He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, fighting to pull himself back under control.

Rin just sits stiff beside him, watching. 

When Hiori finally drags in a shaky breath, Rin exhales too, like he’d been holding it. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension seeping out of him.

“…Good,” Rin mutters, voice low, almost sullen. “Better than crying.”

Hiori snorts into his palm. “You’re-” he can’t even get it out, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

Rin shrugs, gaze sliding away. His hands fidget in his lap, fingers drumming restless patterns on the hem of his sweats. “I don’t care. They deserve worse.”

The silence stretches, not sharp anymore but heavy in a different way. Rin keeps staring down at his knees, and Hiori realizes - he’s thinking. 

“I’ll tell you what…” he voices before stopping again.

“I’m not very good with words but- I used to hate expectations too,” he says at last. The words come out like gravel. “It’s always been Sae this, Sae that. And even if I admired him for it I was- the one left behind. I’m the one who has to prove he’s not wasting space just by existing.”

Hiori blinks, caught off guard by the shift.

Rin’s jaw ticks, shoulders taut. “So when you said your parents - when you said they don’t see you unless you’re what they want?” His voice dips, quieter, tighter. “I get it. It’s shit.”

🎶🎶

Something loosens in Hiori’s chest and tightens at the same time. 

The weight of being seen.

“But…if you quit seeing expectations as the enemy and start using them as a weapon, that’s when you’ll feel the satisfaction”

Rin lifts a hand, jerks it through the air like he’s sketching something only he can see. “It’s like… a parabola.” The word comes out stiff, awkward in his mouth. 

“They launch you up - pressure and all that shit. Higher and higher. And then when you can’t keep going…” His hand drops, sharp, like a crash. “…you just fall. Straight down. Doesn’t matter if you shatter.”

The room stills. Hiori stares at him, breath caught. 

That’s projectile motion, not a parabola, his brain whispers automatically - but the correction sticks in his throat. 

Because it’s not the math that matters. 

It’s Rin, tripping over himself to make sense of something that’s too jagged for words.

Rin huffs, almost defensive. “Yeah, I know it’s not perfect. Whatever. You get it.” He finally cuts his eyes to Hiori, sharp and burning despite the rawness underneath. 

The admission lands heavier than the analogy.

Hiori’s lips twitch, small, almost against his will. “…Wow. Rin Newton. Didn’t know ya had a whole lecture prepared.”

Rin’s ears color just faintly, his gaze snapping away. “Shut up.”

But there’s no venom, no walls in it. Just a fragile edge, as if he knows he’s let too much spill already.

And Hiori - God, Hiori feels it: his parents’ voices dulling in his head, the static subsiding, replaced by something absurdly warm. 

Rin’s jagged words, his clumsy math, his unwilling closeness - this is what steadies him.

His pinky shifts, almost without his permission, brushing against Rin’s on the bedspread.

It’s barely there - but Hiori feels it like a jolt of electricity.

Rin notices.

His eyes flick up, sharp and unflinching, levelling with Hiori’s.

Ice collides with emerald once again.

Rin doesn’t pull away.

Hiori suddenly can’t hear anything except the pounding in his ears. He thinks about moving his hand, about making it look accidental, but his body betrays him - he’s frozen, stuck in that single point of contact.

His breath steadies, slow, deliberate. He tries to force normalcy back into the room.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, voice softer than he intends. The words tumble out, clumsy and raw, breaking the fragile stillness.

Rin’s gaze slips away, down to the floor. His hand stays beside Hiori’s, stiff and unmoving, but his jaw flexes like the words themselves have landed somewhere he doesn’t know how to reach.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, clipped, as if he wants to erase the weight Hiori just gave him.

Hiori’s chest warms anyway. Rin staying is enough.

He lets himself smile faintly. “How are ya feelin’?” he asks, deliberately light, pointing at Rin’s nose, trying to carve a safer path through the quiet.

Rin’s eyes flick back to him, narrowed, sharp but unreadable. “I barely feel anything,” he answers after a pause, tone flat but edged with something defensive. “Ego was an ass.”

Hiori huffs a laugh, soft and almost disbelieving, because he can hear the vulnerability buried under the bravado.

“And your ribs?” he presses, voice lighter still, like teasing might make it easier to breathe.

Rin’s gaze holds, unbroken, and for a fraction of a second Hiori sees it - the flicker of memory, the faint tightening of Rin’s shoulders, as though the feel of Hiori’s hands pressing gauze and steadying him has ghosted back into the room.

Color brushes Rin’s cheeks.

His jaw clenches like he wants to deny it, but his voice is lower when he answers. “Everything’s fine.”

He pauses, eyes locked on Hiori’s. “If anything I’m the one who should be asking you.”

Hiori feels his own pulse climb, heat crawling up his neck, but he tries to school it into nonchalance. “I feel better,” he says, though the words are heavier than he means them to be.

Rin’s fingers twitch almost imperceptibly. His voice comes out in a whisper, rough-edged. “Good.”

“Good,” Hiori echoes, equally quiet, not sure if he’s repeating Rin or agreeing with himself.

The room feels quieter now, somehow less like a trap and more like a clearing in the storm. The tension from the phone call, the weight of his parents’ words - it’s still there, like a shadow brushing at the edges of his mind - but he can push it back, at least enough to move forward.

To what truly matters.

Training.

The team.

The World Cup. 

The mantra repeats in his head, mechanical and sharp, like a heartbeat he could latch onto. That’s his world. His control. Theirs - the parents’ ultimatums, their accusations - doesn’t belong here. 

Not anymore.

He feels his lips curving.

“…You don’t look tired anymore,” Rin mutters after a beat, almost grudgingly. “Before you looked like shit.”

The bastard.

Hiori laughs, too loud for how close they’re sitting. “How romantic of ya.”

Rin blinks. His brows knit, face dead serious. “Ro…mantic?”

Hiori freezes. Oh, shit.

He waves his free hand quickly, words tumbling out. “It’s just an expression, y’know? Like- sarcasm. People say that when somethin’s not romantic. ”

His tongue tangles, heat crawling all the way up his neck.

Rin tilts his head, unreadable, eyes still locked on him.

“…Okay”

The sound is too noncommittal, Hiori can’t tell if Rin bought it or if he’s dissecting every syllable. His pulse won’t calm down.

He clears his throat, forcing himself to break it. “…Then I better go. Team’s probably waitin’…”

He pushes himself up, almost too fast, like if he stays another second he’ll combust.

Rin doesn’t stop him.  

His gaze follows Hiori to the door.

Hiori turns just before slipping out, voice lower, steadier. “Text me if ya need anythin’.”

Rin’s eyes flicker.

“Are we seeing each other tonight-” Rin starts, but then cuts himself off, lips pressing together.

“Of course not. Ya must rest.” Hiori lingers just long enough to notice, then chuckles softly, brushing a hand through his hair, trying to ease the tension. “Uh- see ya”

Rin’s mouth twitches - almost a smile. “Don’t push yourself then.”

“You either,” Hiori fires back, softer this time. 

He doesn’t wait for Rin’s reply.

He slips out, shuts the door gently behind him, and leans on the cool hallway wall for a second, heart still racing.

He lets out a breath.

The scene is already replaying in his mind.

Rin has the ability to make him questions too many things about himself.

He makes him feel too much.

He’s seen him in a state no one has ever did.

And he handled it better than anyone ever could.

His mind betrays him as Shudou’s words echo in his head.

“You really did fall for the Itoshi charm, huh?”

What a stupid thing to say.

And think.

The hallway outside seems brighter now, filled with the chaos and energy of players moving to drills. 

Pull yourself together, moron.

When he enters the field Karasu’s teasing voice calls out immediately. “There he isss!”

Hiori joggs toward the pitch with a light smile.

“Perfect timing,” Isagi says, already gesturing to the next drill. “I need you for this one.”

“Bring it, striker,” Hiori says, and the words slip out easier than he expected.

His heart thuds - from the unsteady warmth that came from realizing: family doesn’t have to be blood. It could be the people who stay, who carry you when the rest of the world - including your own parents - tries to bury you.

Hiori’s steps toward the pitch were measured, deliberate. He inhales, exhales, letting the rhythm of his body and the sounds of the team around him replace the echo of abuse and expectation.

The neon lights gleaming in the early evening feel like it belonged to him, not them.

I’m ready.

And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe it.

//

6 days before Nigeria VS Japan

The rooftop is alive with noise.

The clatter of a dented soda can ricocheting across concrete. The scrape of shoes pivoting too fast. Laughter that cuts through the heavy heat like a sudden gust of wind.

Hiori’s in the circle, sweat slick on his temples, foot flashing out just in time to keep the can from tumbling out of bounds. He pops it upward, and the sunlight hits the aluminum so bright it looks molten before Bachira leaps in with a wild heel-flick, sending it spinning toward Kurona.

Kurona doesn’t even look fazed.

Calm, precise, like always, he angles his body and cushions the can as if it were a real ball, as if it actually has weight. His touch is soft, calculated.

Two taps, then he nudges it forward to Isagi.

“Too slow,” Isagi grins, reading the bounce before it even happens. He meets the can mid-air, flicks it clean over Bachira’s head, and laughs as Bachira yelps in mock outrage.

“You’re cheating!” Bachira protests, spinning on his heel to chase it down.

“It’s called prediction,” Isagi shoots back.

“Same thing,” Bachira says, tongue sticking out, before he barrels back into the circle.

The can rattles again.

The four of them shift seamlessly, feet striking and redirecting, their laughter and breath weaving into the rhythm of play.

The city sprawls beyond the fence, but up here it’s just them - the rooftop crew, their secret spot.

Kurona finally traps the can under his sole, holding the game to a pause. “We’re boarding in less than an hour, hour.” he says matter-of-factly.

“Which means,” Bachira cuts in, hopping forward and nudging at Kurona’s shoe until the can pops free again, “we have time for at least five more rounds.”

Isagi rolls his eyes. “Five? We don’t even have time for one. If Ego catches us late-”

“-then we’ll sprint faster than the plane,” Bachira interrupts, flashing a grin.

Kurona sighs, but he doesn’t stop chasing the can when Bachira sends it his way again.

Hiori laughs under his breath.

It’s so stupid, so reckless, so them. This rooftop has been their refug.

Now it’s their send-off. Their last taste of freedom before the world starts watching.

He steps into the circle, clips the can upward with the outside of his foot, and says, “How long’s the flight again?”

“Twelve hours,” Isagi answers instantly. “Tokyo to Milan, with time zones factored in. We leave the afternoon, we land the morning after.”

“Twelve hours stuck with all of you,” Hiori mutters, dry.

“Aw, you love us,” Bachira singsongs.

Hiori side-eyes him but doesn’t deny it.

🎶🎶

“Hey,” Isagi says suddenly, sharp, like he’s drawing a play in his head. “When we come back…”

He catches the can on his thigh, juggles it twice, lets it drop to Hiori. “…it has to be with a trophy. No matter what.”

The can hits Hiori’s foot, but his chest takes the real impact. The words lodge there, heavier than the makeshift ball. He lifts it absently, passes it on, but inside he’s agreeing.

That’s the only outcome that matters. Anything less isn’t even in the equation.

“Not just a trophy,” Bachira adds, spinning and flicking the can with his heel. “The trophy. Gold. Shiny. Heavy enough that I’m gonna swing it around like a dumbbell.”

“You’ll drop it off the plane,” Isagi deadpans.

“Nooo,” Bachira grins, “I’ll drop it on your head.”

“Moron,”Isagi mutters, but his mouth twitches like he’s suppressing a smile.

They’ve survived every chokehold Ego put them in, every elimination, every crushing pressure.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s still here. With them.

The can pings off Isagi’s shin and arcs high. For a moment all four of them crane their heads back, eyes following it against the glare of the sky. The sun crowns the aluminum in gold, just for a second.

Hiori thinks: That’s the image I want burned into me. Right here. Right now. Us, on this rooftop, staring at a piece of trash like it’s the Cup itself.

The can drops. Bachira scrambles under it, cackling, and the game surges on.

The can finally skitters off toward the fence and clatters to a stop. For once, nobody rushes to retrieve it.

They’re all bent over laughing.

Hiori wipes sweat off his brow, grinning. “We should probably stop before we’re late. You know Ego’ll ground us if we miss the bus.”

“Ground us?” Kurona repeats, eyes sparking. “Like a school trip? Are we getting matching hats too, too?”

“Please don’t give him ideas,” Isagi mutters.

“Hey, I’d rock a hat,” Bachira  says, and he strikes a pose so ridiculous that Hiori bursts out laughing before he can stop himself.

They file toward the stairwell, Bachira dribbling the can along the concrete just to hear it rattle.

The descent echoes with footsteps, with Isagi and Bachira arguing about how many hours the flight actually is, with Kurona offering the exact schedule just to shut them up.

Hiori trails a step behind, taking it in. The way their voices bounce off the walls, careless, young. 

By the time they reach the lobby, the rest of Blue Lock is already gathered.

Bags piled in haphazard towers, players slouched against walls or buzzing in clusters. It really does look like a school trip - chaotic, loud, too much energy shoved into one space.

Karasu is juggling a ball with no respect for the rules of “no playing indoors.”

Barou is yelling at him to stop before something breaks.

Gagamaru has three backpacks strapped to him like a beast of burden.

Raichi’s arguing about snacks.

Sendou is humming the national anthem way too loud.

The air vibrates with it: anticipation, nerves, excitement.

Hiori scans the room - and finds him.

Back against the wall, arms folded, gaze cool but steady.

He’s apart from the chaos, like always, but when Hiori’s eyes catch his, something shifts. Rin’s expression softens, and then he sends that sharp smile that looks like it belongs only to him.

Something clicks in Hiori’s chest.

The weight of everything - his parents, his doubts, the static in his head - slides back, replaced by something clean and solid.

This is when they prove that Blue Lock works, that Japan is the future of soccer.

Prove that these 23 guys aren’t just survivors of Ego’s system - they’re the system’s sharpest edge.

That he and Rin Itoshi most compatible duo of it.

And in Rin’s smile, he sees the same vow reflected back at him.

Chapter Text

5 days before Nigeria VS Japan

Sheep23: admit it. you let me kill you on purpose.

Beast10: i don’t throw games.

Sheep23: sure.

Sheep23: survivor main too scared to lose?

Rin tips his head back against the bus window. 

The glass vibrates with the hum of the tires on the road, faint music still looping in one earbud. His thumb hovers, then taps.

Beast10: you tunneled me

Beast10: that’s not skill it’s fucking cheap

Sheep23: i think you just wanted me to chase you

His jaw tightens. He starts to type something back - stops - deletes it.

Beast10: stop typing like that

Sheep23: like what

Beast10: like an idiot

Sheep23: :)

He can hear Hiori’s laugh from a few seats in the back, the soft one he does when he knows he’s gotten under Rin’s skin. 

The glowing text bubbles at the bottom of the chat blink in and out like a pulse.

Sheep23: anyway

Sheep23: you owe me a rematch when we’re not about to fall off the map from jetlag

Beast10: i don’t owe you anything

Sheep23: what a bad friend

Rin stares at the words longer than he should.

Bad friend.

He knows it’s a joke. 

But his brain latches on anyway, running ahead to places he doesn’t want to follow. It doesn’t take much - one wrong step and he’s already picturing how fast it could all collapse. 

He knows he’ll screw this up eventually. Just didn’t think it’d be this soon-

The typing bubble pops back up.

Sheep23: i’m kidding of course

Sheep23: you’re actually an amazing friend