Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

                                                                                                                         🌱

Heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, Isagi Yoichi skidded around the corner, his school bag swinging wildly. He hit the classroom doorframe with a desperate gasp, sliding into his seat just as the final, unforgiving bell shrieked. A second later, and he would’ve been done for. A fifth agonizing tardy in just a few short weeks of his second year. He sank into his chair, trying to breathe, his heart desperate to escape his chest. Jesus..- Or whatever God is watching from above, please spare me the lecture from Mr…—

Isagi pondered, before said person entered the room, a cold, calculating expression on Mr. Togami’s face. "Take out your textbook, page 43. Also, turn in the homework from yesterday if you haven't already." Isagi swore his heart stopped. What homework?! He swallowed, a sensation of dread building up. Isagi already had about 4 missing assignments, and that was only in math. But it wasn’t his fault! He was so busy with life outside of school, he didn’t have time to work on anything else.

Isagi’s mind was racing, desperately scrambling for an excuse that didn’t sound like absolute garbage (a futile effort). Suddenly, the chaotic chatter in the classroom died as the door slid open. A chilling, icy sensation spiked down Isagi’s spine before he even saw who it was. Looming in the doorway was a figure so tall his head nearly brushed the frame. Is this guy really in his second year of high school? The raw envy hit Isagi hard. It was completely unfair. Hidden under a deep hood and a curtain of stupidly long, tea-green bangs that shrouded his eyes, the boy looked more like a predator than a student.

As the teacher introduced him as Rin Itoshi, a transfer from Kamakura, a small bit of recognition hit Isagi. Hm.. That name feels familiar. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating, as Mr. Togami waved the student toward a seat and resumed the lesson.

Isagi pulled out his textbook with a long, suffering sigh, like the paper itself had personally offended him, and sat through the lesson, at least physically. Mentally? He was already on the field, cleats digging into grass, chasing a perfect pass. Soccer practice was the only thing looping in his head. And, unfortunately, so was the new kid. But that's just how Isagi was. Curious about everything and everyone.

Is he into soccer? I mean, look at him. That build? Lean, muscular… unfairly tall. That’s athlete material right there. If he doesn’t play, that’s honestly a waste of resources. Why’d he even transfer here? Rin’s prefecture is definitely better. Like, objectively. But okay, not my business. Isagi rested his chin in his hand, eyes unfocused as his thoughts spiraled.

He was zoning out.

Again.

He seems scary… but maybe that’s just his vibes.Yeah! Vibes can be misleading. I shouldn’t judge someone by how they look. But man, he’s so tall. Like, unfairly tall. I wonder if–

“–Yoichi Isagi!”

He jolted like he’d just been hit with a lightning strike. “I– uh, yes sir?!” Isagi blurted, nearly knocking his pencil off his desk as he snapped upright, heart racing. His eyes met his teacher’s, and immediately regretted it. Mr. Togami looked like he’d aged five years solely because of Isagi. “How many times has it been this month?” he said flatly, clearly holding back a sigh. “Your constant zoning out. Focus. I called on you to solve the second equation on this page.”

Isagi’s soul left his body. Not only had he not been paying attention at all, but he wasn’t one of those cool, mysterious, genius protagonists who could daydream for ten minutes and then casually solve an impossible equation like it was nothing. No, he was painfully, tragically average. He could feel it, every single pair of eyes in the room slowly turning toward him. A few quiet snickers. Someone clicking their tongue like, here we go again.

Great. He already had a reputation (and definitely not a good one), and now it seemed to have gotten worse.

Isagi slowly looked down at his textbook, and grimaced. Isagi’s brain scrambled like it had just been thrown into a blender. Numbers swam across the page, mocking him. Was that a minus sign? A letter? Since when did math start using the alphabet? He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again… nothing. Not a single intelligent thought survived. This was it. This was how he died. Not on the soccer field, not in some dramatic, heroic moment, no. He was going to perish in a classroom, taken out by a second equation. Just as panic began clawing its way up his throat–

“It’s -6, you idiot.”

The whisper came from behind him, low and sharp, like it had personally lost patience with his existence. Isagi froze. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around, to look, to confirm who had just saved his life (and insulted him in the same breath), but he forced himself to stay still. If he turned around now, it would be painfully obvious. He needed to pretend he actually knew this. He swallowed hard, voice coming out way less confident than he hoped.

“Um… -6…?” There was a pause. A terrifying, judgmental pause. Isagi was approximately three seconds away from flatlining. His heart was pounding so loud he was convinced the entire class could hear it echoing off the walls. Alright, maybe he was a bit dramatic, but can you blame the kid? Well.. on a second thought, you probably can. He did just zone out for the past 30 minutes. Mr. Togami raised an eyebrow, just a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual tired expression. Then, he nodded. “Well, alright,” he said. “But try not to space out again. There’s a math test on Friday.”

A test.

On Friday.

Isagi felt his soul quietly pack its bags and leave his body. Mr. Togami had already turned back to the board, launching straight into logarithmic functions like he hadn’t just casually ruined Isagi’s week. Chalk scratched against the board in neat, confident strokes; symbols and numbers appearing faster than Isagi could even process them. Meanwhile, Isagi exhaled slowly, like he’d just survived something life-threatening, and slumped back into his chair. His heart was still beating way too fast for someone who had technically done nothing.

Carefully, casually, he turned around to look at his savior. …And froze. Of course it was Rin. Rin sat there like he hadn’t just intervened in someone else’s near-death academic experience. His gaze was angled out the window, distant and bored, like the clouds were offering him more stimulation than the lesson ever could. Meanwhile, his textbook was the complete opposite, filled with neat, precise writing, every equation solved flawlessly. Not just caught up, he was ahead. Way ahead.

Isagi couldn’t even see his full expression through those bangs, but somehow, that made it worse. He just looked like he found this entire class painfully easy. Like this was kindergarten-level stuff. “Pstt! Rin. Thank you,” Isagi whispered, leaning back just enough for his voice to reach him before quickly turning around again, as if prolonged eye contact might kill him.

No response. Not even a glance. …Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Fifteen minutes later, the bell rang. Freedom. Isagi mentally shouted Yes! so loud it could’ve echoed through the building, already shoving his things into his bag at record speed. The second his backpack hit his shoulder, he was out of his seat like his life depended on it. Honestly, it kind of did. Anything to escape math. He hated math. Deeply. Passionately. With his entire being.

The hallway was already packed. Students spilling out of classrooms, voices overlapping into a loud, constant buzz. Lockers slammed open and shut, sneakers squeaked against the floor, someone was laughing way too loudly down the hall. It was chaotic, but at least it wasn’t math. Isagi weaved through the crowd, dodging people with the instincts of someone who’d spent way too much time on a soccer field, until he finally reached his locker. And there he was. Bachira. Leaning casually against the lockers like he’d been waiting for entertainment, phone in hand, bangs falling into his eyes. The second he looked up and spotted Isagi, his entire face lit up, eyes bright, grin spreading wide like he’d just found something fun to mess with.

“Isagi!” Bachira practically launched himself at him, throwing an arm over his shoulder with zero regard for personal space. “Yo, how was math?”

Isagi groaned instantly, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to erase the memory. “Don’t even get me started. It’s the worst.” Bachira snorted, already shaking his head. “Yeah, we know that. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“…You’re actually the worst.”

“And yet, I’m your favorite,” Bachira shot back effortlessly. Isagi rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips anyway. He reached up, pushing Bachira’s arm off just enough to open his locker, shoving books around like they personally annoyed him.

“Oh, right. There’s a new student,” he added, glancing over. “Rin. He saved my ass during math, fortunately.”

Bachira’s eyes immediately lit up, interest sparking like someone had just handed him a new toy.

“Oh yeah?” he leaned in slightly, grin turning curious, almost mischievous. “What’s he like?” Then, with absolutely zero shame: “I mean, what does he look like?”

Isagi let out a quiet, tired sigh, the kind that carried the weight of too many thoughts and not enough energy to sort through them. He leaned back against the cool metal of his locker for a second before answering. “Dark hair,” he started, a little slower this time, like he was piecing the image together as he spoke. “Tall, like, really tall. And… I don’t know, he’s got that athletic build. Not bulky, just… sharp, I guess.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Couldn’t even see his whole face. His bangs were covering most of it.”

As he spoke, the image of Rin sitting by the window flickered in his mind again; still, distant, untouchable somehow. Bachira’s expression shifted almost immediately. The curiosity drained out of his face, replaced with something more dismissive, like a switch had been flipped. “Oh.” He shrugged lightly. “Probably not my type then.”

Before Isagi could even react, Bachira’s mood bounced right back, his grin returning, wider this time, more animated, like he’d just remembered something far more interesting. “But you know who is?” He lifted his phone and held it up right in front of Isagi’s face, leaving him no choice but to look. On the screen was a boy around their age, soft pink hair catching the sunlight as he posed near the ocean. The background was bright and open, the kind of summer day that felt warm just by looking at it. The boy’s expression was easy, natural, like he belonged there.

“Kurona Ranze,” Bachira said, his voice softening just a bit as he looked at the picture again. “First year. I met him over the summer.” He pulled the phone back slightly, his eyes lingering on the screen. “He’s adorbs, isn’t he?” There was a small pause before he added, a hint of pride slipping through, “Got his number too. And he goes here now.”

His grin returned, but this time it felt a little more genuine, less teasing. “Feels like I hit the jackpot.” Isagi glanced at the screen one more time before looking away. The boy was… pretty, yeah. There was no denying that. But the feeling stopped there. No spark, no curiosity, nothing pulling at him the way it seemed to for Bachira. “Yeah, alright,” Isagi muttered, reaching into his locker again. “Just… make sure you treat the kid right.” He shut the locker with a dull clang, the sound cutting cleanly through the hallway noise.

“I’m gonna go. Don’t wanna be late again.” He gave a small wave over his shoulder as he turned, already stepping back into the steady flow of students moving through the halls. The noise swallowed him up almost instantly; voices, footsteps, lockers slamming, but his mind felt quieter now, focused on getting to his next class on time.

                                                                                                                                             ___

The nightmare doesn’t ask permission. It drags Rin Itoshi back into it, into the same frozen field, the same suffocating white, the same moment that never loosens its grip. The snow is heavier this time. It falls in thick, relentless sheets, swallowing the world whole until the lines of the pitch disappear, until the goalposts look like ghosts, until everything feels distant and unreal.

The cold bites straight through his skin, into his bones, settling somewhere deep in his chest where it never quite leaves. Rin stands there, unmoving at first, breath shallow, uneven, like his body already remembers what his mind is trying to delay.

Don’t turn around. Don’t look. But he does. Of course he does. At the edge of the field stands Sae Itoshi; tall, still, a suitcase resting beside him like proof that he doesn’t belong here anymore. For one fragile, fleeting second, Rin’s chest tightens with something bright. Something hopeful. He runs. “Nii-chan!” His voice cracks through the cold air, raw and unguarded as he pushes forward, nearly slipping but catching himself, refusing to slow down. His heart is racing, but it’s not fear. It’s relief, it’s excitement, it’s everything he’s been holding onto for so long finally within reach. “You’re back,” Rin breathes, the words tumbling out faster, desperate to be heard.

“I’ve been training, I didn’t stop. I got stronger. I can keep up with you now, I swear. I’ll be the second best striker, just like we planned. We can finally–”

He stops. Because Sae isn’t smiling. There’s nothing there. No warmth. No pride. Not even annoyance. Just cold, distant eyes that don’t soften, not even a little. The snow thickens, blurring the space between them, but it doesn’t hide the way Sae looks at him like he’s already decided something. “…Rin,” Sae says, his voice flat, almost bored. “You’re still clinging to that?”

The words hit strangely, like they don’t quite make sense yet, but they hurt anyway. “…What?” Rin’s voice comes out quieter now, uncertain. “I watched your games,” Sae continues, stepping forward slowly, each step deliberate, controlled. “Nothing’s changed. Same predictable movements. Same shallow plays.”

Rin’s chest tightens. “No! that’s not true,” he says quickly, shaking his head, stepping closer like he can close the gap between what Sae is saying and what he knows is real. “I improved. I built everything around what you taught me, around how we played together. You said–”

“I’m not going to be a striker anymore.” The world goes silent. Not gradually. Not gently. It just… breaks. “…What…?” Rin whispers, the word barely forming. “I’ve seen the world,” Sae says, as if he’s stating something obvious. “Strikers who are far beyond anything here. Beyond you.” Each word lands like a weight pressing down harder and harder on Rin’s chest. “I’ll become a midfielder, the best in the world,” Sae continues. “That’s the only path that makes sense.”

A midfielder. Not the dream. Not their dream. Rin stares at him, eyes wide, something frantic flickering beneath the surface. “...Then what about me?” he asks, voice trembling now, uneven. “You told me I’d be the second best striker, after you. You told me to chase that. Everything I did, I did it for that. For you.”

Sae’s gaze doesn’t change. “Then you wasted your time.” It’s quiet. Too quiet. Like the words weren’t even meant to hurt, but they carve straight through him anyway. Rin’s breath stutters, his hands clenching at his sides, shaking now, his entire body tightening like he’s trying to hold something together that’s already falling apart.

“…If I can’t chase that dream with you…” His voice cracks, breaking under the weight of it, his throat tightening painfully. “…then I don’t have a reason to play soccer.” There it is. Everything he is. Everything he’s built himself on. Laid bare in a single sentence. For a second.. just a second– he waits. For anything. For Sae to hesitate. To soften. To correct him. To say that’s not what I meant.

But Sae just looks at him. And says– “Then quit.”

Cold. Immediate. Final. Rin feels it. Something inside him doesn’t just crack this time, it shatters completely, violently, like glass breaking under pressure. “…What?” The word comes out hollow, disbelieving.

“If that’s all soccer is to you,” Sae continues, his voice as steady as ever, “then you’re worthless.”

Worthless.

“Just a shitty little brother chasing someone else’s shadow.”

Each word digs deeper, sharp and deliberate.

“You don’t think for yourself. You don’t play for yourself. You just cling to me like that’s enough.”

Rin’s vision blurs, his chest heaving now, breath coming in short, broken bursts as something unbearable builds behind his ribs.

“No no, that’s not–” he stumbles over the words, desperate, reaching for something–anything–that can push back against what he’s hearing. “I trained! I worked harder than anyone. I did everything you said, everything–!”

“Fine. If you score, we'll chase that dream together,” Sae nudges the ball forward with his foot. “If I score, then you stop believing in that pathetic dream, and go fuck yourself for all I care.” The challenge drops between them like a verdict. Rin doesn’t think. He can’t. He moves. Fast, aggressive, desperate. The ball feels heavier under his control, his touches just a little too sharp, a little too rushed. His vision narrows, locking onto Sae, onto the only thing that matters right now; win.

Make him take it back. Make him see you. Rin pushes forward, cutting in, forcing an opening, but Sae takes the ball. Effortlessly. Like Rin was never in control to begin with.

“No!” Rin turns sharply, chasing, his movements losing their precision, becoming frantic. He lunges again, faster, harder. “Nii-chan!” Too late. Always too late. Sae moves past him like he’s not even there, each step smooth, calculated, untouchable. The difference between them isn’t just skill, it’s distance.

A gap so wide Rin can’t even see the other side of it. Rin grits his teeth, breath ragged, snow crunching violently under his feet as he throws himself into another attempt, cutting in with everything he has left. But then Sae slips past him again. Gone. Rin stumbles, his footing giving out as he turns too fast, dropping to one knee, his hand catching himself in the snow. The cold seeps through instantly, but he doesn’t feel it, not really.

“…Why…?” he breathes, voice shaking, breaking. “Why can’t I reach you…?” Sae scores. “…Because you’re weak,” he says.

Not angry. Not cruel in tone. Just… absolute. Rin’s fingers dig into the snow, his entire body trembling now, shoulders shaking as everything finally crashes down on him at once. “You’re not the striker I need,” Sae continues. “And you never will be.”

The words echo.

Over and over.

Rin doesn’t move. He can’t. Sae turns away, picking up his suitcase like this—like Rin—meant nothing. “I’ll become the best midfielder in the world,” he says, already walking. “You can stay here and keep pretending.”

“Wait!” Rin’s voice tears out of him, raw, desperate, but his body refuses to follow. His legs feel heavy, locked in place as he reaches out.

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

Not like this.

But Sae doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. He just keeps walking.

Rin wakes up with a violent inhale, his chest tight, his heart pounding like it’s trying to break free. His hands are clenched in the sheets, shaking, his throat dry, burning like he’s been screaming. “…Tch…” But even awake, the cold is still there. And so are the words. They always are.

Rin let out a slow, tired sigh as he pushed himself upright, the sheets slipping from his shoulders like they didn’t belong to him. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at nothing, before forcing himself out of bed. The floor was cold under his feet, grounding in an unpleasant way as he dragged himself toward the bathroom. The light flickered on, too bright, too harsh. He stepped up to the sink and looked at his reflection… and immediately wished he hadn’t. That familiar sting hit him, sharp and unrelenting. His eyes. That same turquoise green. The same as him.

Rin’s expression twisted, something between irritation and quiet disgust settling into his features. It wasn’t just the eyes.

It was everything.

 The way he spoke. The way he carried himself without even realizing it. The habits he never asked for but somehow inherited anyway. Every resemblance felt like something carved into him without permission.

Pathetic.

His jaw tightened. Before the feeling could sink deeper, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face, once, twice, again, until the chill forced his thoughts to scatter. Droplets clung to his skin as he gripped the edge of the sink, breathing out slowly, trying to steady himself.

Get it together.

He brushed his teeth in silence, mechanical and detached, like he was just going through motions instead of actually existing in them. When he was done, he dried his face and reached for his uniform, the fabric still stiff and unfamiliar against his skin. Ichinan High School. Saitama. A new place. A new start. At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

He adjusted the collar, eyes briefly flicking back to the mirror before he looked away again. He still didn’t understand why his parents decided to move. The decision had come suddenly, without much explanation, like most things in his life. But he wasn’t going to question it. There was nothing worth staying for anyway. His old school had been suffocating. Empty. The kind of place where days blurred together and no one really saw you, even if they looked right at you. Not that he’d made any effort to be seen. He hadn’t had anyone there. No friends. No attachments.

And he honestly didn't expect that to change here.

Rin grabbed his bag and began packing it with quiet efficiency. Books stacked neatly, laptop slid into place, lunch tucked carefully to the side. Everything had its order, its purpose. Once finished, he slipped his headphones over his ears, letting the faint hum of music fill the silence just enough to dull the edges of his thoughts. Then he headed downstairs, the smell of his mother's cooking filling up the whole house.

The stairs creaked softly beneath Rin’s weight as he made his way down, one hand trailing along the railing more out of habit than need. The faint clatter of dishes and the warm scent of breakfast drifted from the dining room, wrapping around him in a way that felt almost too gentle for how heavy his chest still was.

His mother noticed him the moment he stepped off the last stair.

She smiled and gave a small nod toward the table. “Morning, Rin. Breakfast is already on the table.” Her voice carried an easy warmth, like nothing in the world was out of place. Rin hesitated for half a second before muttering a quiet, “Morning,” the word barely forming properly as he pulled out a chair. He sat down without another glance, already reaching for his utensils, focusing on the food like it was something he could hide behind.

Eat. Don’t think. Behind him, he could hear the soft rustle of fabric as his mother untied her apron, the faint clink of a plate being set away. She joined him at the table a moment later, settling into the seat beside him. Rin could feel her gaze linger; not sharp, not intrusive, but… searching. Like she was trying to read something he refused to show.

“Are you excited for your new school?” she asked gently. Then, after a brief pause, her tone softened further. “I’m sorry the move was so sudden.” Rin didn’t look up. He kept eating, movements steady, controlled… too controlled. “I don’t care,” he said flatly after a beat. “About school, I mean. It’ll be the same. Just a different building with different teachers.”

The words came out dull, stripped of anything that might’ve sounded like hope. Silence settled between them, thin but noticeable. His mother let out a quiet sigh, the kind that wasn’t meant to be heavy but still carried weight anyway. She pushed her chair back and stood, gathering a plate that didn’t need to be gathered, giving her hands something to do.

“Alright…” she murmured. Then, more carefully, “You know Sae won’t be happy to hear you talk like that. He’s always telling you to try making friends.” A small pause. “I can’t help but agree with him.” The moment his brother’s name left her mouth, something in Rin shifted. It was subtle, just a tightening of his shoulders, a slight stillness in the way his hand paused mid-motion, but it was there. His expression hardened, like a door quietly slamming shut behind his eyes.

Sae.

Of course.

Rin stared down at his now-empty plate, appetite gone as quickly as it had come. For a second, he said nothing. The silence stretched, thick with something he didn’t want to name. Then, quieter this time, hesitant in a way that didn’t suit him, he spoke. “How is nii–” He cut himself off abruptly, the word catching in his throat like it didn’t belong anymore. His grip tightened slightly against the table. “…I mean, him,” he corrected, the distance in his voice deliberate now. “How’s he doing?” A brief pause. “He hasn’t… visited in a while.”

Rin’s mother began stacking the empty plates, porcelain clinking softly as she gathered them into a neat pile. The sound filled the space that Rin had left quiet, his earlier question still lingering faintly in the air. Before she could answer, the low, familiar sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. His father appeared in the doorway a second later, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as he stepped into the dining room.

“Morning,” he greeted casually, his voice carrying a steady warmth as he took his seat at the table, glancing between them. Rin didn’t respond this time. He just sat there, still, waiting. His mother shifted the plates in her hands, then spoke, almost like she’d been holding onto it.

“Ah, Sae is actually going to come home in about a week,” she said, her tone lifting just slightly. “He’ll be staying for the month. This year’s season has been keeping him busy, but he called yesterday.” For a moment, everything else faded.

A week.

Sae was coming home… in a week. The words settled into Rin’s chest, and before he could stop it, something small and unfamiliar stirred beneath everything else; a quiet flicker of excitement, fragile but real. It crept up on him without permission, warming something he’d long since tried to shut down.

It had been months. Months since he’d last seen him. Months since that last visit, the one Rin had spent locked away in his room, staring at the ceiling, too afraid to step outside. Too afraid to face him after everything that had been said. After everything that had broken between them.

That same tight feeling returned now, curling around the faint spark of anticipation until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Excitement… or dread? Maybe both. His mother turned away before he could react, carrying the dishes toward the kitchen.

“Now go to school, son!” she called out over her shoulder, her voice echoing lightly from the other room. “You don’t want to be late!”

Rin blinked, the moment breaking. “…Yeah.” He pushed his chair back and stood, movements quieter now, more automatic. Without another word, he stepped out of the dining room, his thoughts already spiraling ahead of him. Sae is coming home.

The words repeated in his head, over and over, like something he couldn’t quite process yet. At the door, he slipped on his shoes, fingers fumbling slightly with the laces before he tightened them a little too harshly. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped outside.

The air was cool, carrying the unfamiliar scent of a neighborhood that still didn’t feel like his. His walk to school was anything but smooth.

His thoughts refused to settle, tripping over themselves as badly as his steps did. At one point, he collided shoulder-first into someone passing by, barely managing a muttered apology as he kept moving. A few blocks later, his foot caught on a crack in the pavement, sending him stumbling forward with a sharp curse under his breath. And just when he thought things couldn’t get more irritating, something splattered against the ground far too close to him, a bird flying overhead, narrowly missing him.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

By the time the school building finally came into view, his patience was already worn thin.

And then–

The bell rang.

Rin froze for half a second, staring at the entrance like it had personally offended him. “…Great.” He exhaled sharply, frustration settling deep in his chest as he pushed through the gates. Already late. On the first day. The hallways were a maze of unfamiliar faces and indistinct chatter, students moving with purpose while he stood there, momentarily lost. He clicked his tongue under his breath, scanning the room numbers with growing irritation before finally forcing himself forward.

It felt longer than it actually was, but after what was probably only a few minutes, he found it. His classroom. Rin didn’t hesitate. He shoved the door open a little too roughly, the sound echoing louder than he intended as it cut through the middle of the lesson. The room fell silent almost instantly, like someone had pressed pause on everything at once. A sharp tsk slipped from his lips. He didn’t look up. Didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. But he could feel it; dozens of eyes turning toward him, lingering, curious, judging. It crawled under his skin, uncomfortable and suffocating, even as he kept his expression blank and his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor.

The teacher said something, his name, probably, an introduction he barely registered. Rin didn’t care. As soon as he was told where to sit, he moved, steps steady despite the tension coiling inside him. He slid into his seat without a word, setting his bag down beside him, shoulders slightly hunched as if to make himself smaller. Invisible.

That’s all he needed.

Just get through the day.

That’s it. 

But of course, life refused to leave him alone, even here. Fifteen minutes in, and the classroom still hadn’t settled the way he wanted it to. The lesson droned on at the front, steady and dull, but underneath it ran a constant layer of quiet whispers. Low murmurs. Soft, persistent, impossible to ignore.  About him. Rin could feel it without even looking, glances thrown his way, curiosity lingering just a little too long. New kid. Transfer. Something different to stare at. His eye twitched slightly. Annoying.

He rolled his eyes to himself and leaned back just enough to create distance, his gaze dropping back to the textbook in front of him. Every page was already filled, every answer written cleanly and without hesitation. He hadn’t needed more than a few minutes.

It was all too easy. He’d seen this before, learned it, memorized it, moved past it. Sitting here now felt like being dragged backward through something he’d already outgrown. A waste of time. Rin let out a slow, quiet breath through his nose and glanced at the clock mounted above the board. Eight hours. Eight more hours until he could leave. His gaze shifted, drifting toward the window. Pale light spilled through the glass, soft and distant, a reminder that the world outside was still moving while he sat trapped in here, listening to numbers and voices blur together into nothing.

His thoughts began to slip, loosening at the edges–

“Uh… Isagi. Solve problem number two.” The teacher’s voice cut cleanly through the room. Rin blinked once, his focus snapping back. For a moment, there was silence. No chair scraping, no voice answering.

He frowned faintly, eyes flicking around the room in mild curiosity. Isagi?

“Isagi?” the teacher repeated, sharper this time, already stepping away from the board. Still nothing. Rin’s gaze shifted slightly, almost absentminded, until he realized the person directly in front of him hadn’t moved at all.

…Oh.

So that’s him.

“Tch– Yoichi Isagi!”

The name was snapped out with clear irritation, and Rin saw it instantly, the way the boy in front of him flinched like he’d been struck, shoulders jerking, head snapping up too fast. “I– uh, yes, sir?!” The panic in his voice was obvious. Embarrassingly obvious.

Rin’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, watching from behind without meaning to. The teacher’s expression tightened, something between exhaustion and annoyance settling across his face like this wasn’t new, like this had happened one too many times already. “How many times has it been this month?” he said, voice edged with frustration. “Your constant zoning out… Focus. I called on you to solve the second equation on this page.”

The classroom grew quieter, the earlier whispers fading into a different kind of attention now, one focused entirely on the boy standing at the center of it. Rin leaned back slightly in his chair, resting his chin against his hand as he watched, uninterested but… not entirely.

So I was right.

Another distraction. 

Just a different kind.

Rin watched as the boy in front of him, Isagi, slowly lowered his gaze to the open page, movements stiff, almost reluctant. He didn’t need to see his face to picture it. The hesitation. The uncertainty. That blank, scrambling look people got when their minds went completely empty under pressure. Around them, the classroom shifted. A few quiet snickers slipped through the air, poorly hidden behind hands and lowered heads. Someone whispered something just out of earshot. The tension wasn’t loud, but it was there, pressing in, sharp enough to notice.

Rin exhaled softly through his nose, irritation settling in.

Pathetic.

There was a brief pause, just long enough to stretch uncomfortably, before Rin leaned forward slightly, resting his arm against his desk as he tilted his head closer. “It’s -6, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough not to carry, but edged with clear annoyance. The reaction was immediate. He saw Isagi’s shoulders tense, a subtle jolt running through him like the words had physically landed. And just like that, Rin leaned back again, pulling away as if the interaction had never happened, his gaze already drifting back toward the window.

Honestly… how do you not know that? It's the easiest problem on the page.

“Um… -6…?” Isagi’s voice wavered as he gave his answer, uncertain, like he was stepping onto thin ice and expecting it to crack beneath him. Rin didn’t bother turning. The teacher paused for a fraction of a second, just enough to register the surprise, before smoothing it over, his expression settling back into something neutral. “Well, alright,” he said. “But try not to space out again. There’s a test on Friday.”

Just like that, the moment passed. The lesson resumed. Chalk met the board again. Voices returned to their usual rhythm. Rin rested his cheek lightly against his hand, eyes unfocused as he stared out the window once more, letting the outside blur into something distant and unimportant. A few seconds later, “Pstt!”

His attention flickered, barely.

“Rin, thank you.”

The voice was quiet. Full of relief and gratitude. Rin’s eyes shifted slightly, catching the movement in his peripheral vision as Isagi turned just enough to look back at him. There was something different in it, something soft, something earnest in a way that didn’t quite match the awkwardness from earlier. And then, just as quickly, he turned back around. Rin said nothing. Did nothing. But something lingered. His gaze, almost against his will, drifted back to the back of Isagi’s head. Messy hair, slightly uneven posture, shoulders still carrying that faint tension from before.

Weird.

A faint crease formed between Rin’s brows. Why does that bother me? Why did he even care enough to–

He clicked his tongue softly and looked away again, sharper this time, as if physically cutting the thought off before it could go any further.

It doesn’t matter.

I’ll forget about him anyway.

Just another face in a place he didn’t plan on remembering. After around 20 minutes, the bell rang sharp and sudden, cutting cleanly through the classroom like a blade. The effect was immediate. Chairs scraped against the floor, voices rose all at once, and the stillness from moments before shattered into movement. Rin barely reacted. He had already anticipated it, but his eyes shifted forward just in time to catch Isagi in motion.

It was almost frantic.

Isagi scrambled to gather his things, hands moving too fast, fumbling slightly as he shoved papers into his bag without much care for order. A pencil nearly rolled off his desk before he caught it, his movements rushed, uneven, like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Rin watched, unimpressed.

Damn. He must really hate math.

Or maybe he just hates being put on the spot like that. Either way, it was… obvious. Within seconds, Isagi slung his bag over his shoulder and was already halfway out of his seat, slipping through the crowd of students pouring toward the door. He didn’t look back. Didn’t linger. Just gone.

Rin’s gaze followed him for a moment longer than necessary before he looked away, clicking his tongue quietly under his breath. (How many times has he done that, exactly?) Then, finally, he stood. Unlike the chaos around him, Rin moved at his own pace; calm, measured, unaffected. He packed his things neatly, sliding each item into place with quiet precision. No rush. No wasted movement. There was no reason to hurry. By the time he stepped out into the hallway, the building had already come alive.

Voices overlapped into a constant hum, lockers slammed open and shut, footsteps echoed in every direction. Students moved in clusters, laughing, talking, calling out to each other as if the entire place ran on some shared energy Rin couldn’t quite tap into. He slipped into the current anyway, expression neutral, eyes scanning. Locker. Right. He adjusted the strap of his bag slightly and began walking, weaving through the crowd with quiet ease. His gaze flicked from one locker number to another, irritation slowly creeping in as the rows blurred together.

Even though his old school was much larger, he can't help but feel that this place is unnecessarily big. 

For a brief moment, he considered just carrying everything with him and skipping it altogether, but after another turn down the hallway, he finally found his locker. Rin stopped in front of it, exhaling softly as he reached for the handle. The metal door creaked open, revealing an empty, unfamiliar space that smelled faintly of dust and cold steel. Just like everything else here.

He placed his books inside with the same careful order as before, adjusting them slightly until they sat exactly how he wanted. His movements were quiet, almost methodical. Something to focus on, something predictable. Once he was done, he closed the locker with a soft click and turned, already preparing to head to his next class.

But then, something caught his eye. Further down the hallway, through the shifting crowd, there was a familiar figure standing near a row of lockers. Rin didn’t mean to look twice, but he did. Messy hair. Slightly hunched posture. From behind, it was unmistakable. …Isagi?

Rin slowed, just slightly.

Isagi was talking to someone, though Rin couldn’t make out who. Their voices were lost in the noise of the hallway, swallowed by everything else. But the body language was clear enough, Isagi stood a bit awkwardly, shoulders tight, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable, while the other person seemed more relaxed, leaning casually against the lockers.

For some reason, Rin found himself watching. Not long. Just a few seconds. But long enough to notice the small things, the way Isagi sighed, the slight movement of his hands like he didn’t quite know what to do with them, the way he seemed… different from before. Less panicked. 

Rin’s brows knit faintly. He teared his gaze away like it had burned him. 

It doesn’t matter. Without another glance, he adjusted his bag and continued down the hallway, steps steady and deliberate as he merged back into the crowd. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, the moment had already begun to fade. Just another student. Just another face. That’s all he told himself, anyway, not knowing that the person Isagi was talking about is none other than Rin.

                                                                                                                                         ___

The final bell was less of a sound and more of a starting pistol. Before the shrill chime could even fully echo off the classroom walls, Yoichi Isagi was already in motion. His hands were a blur, shoving notebooks, a half-chewed pencil, and a forgotten science assignment into his bag with reckless abandon. Papers bent, corners folded; an absolute crime against organization, but he couldn't care less. The suffocating, whispering atmosphere of the classroom vanished, replaced by an electric, pulsing anticipation in his chest.

Soccer.

The mere thought was a rush of adrenaline, washing away the lingering awkwardness of a terrible group presentation earlier that day. That was the past; the pitch was the future.

Isagi slung his bag over his shoulder and bolted, a blur weaving through the crowded hallway. "Whoa, chill, Isagi!" someone shouted, but he was already gone. He slammed through the exit doors, and the outside air hit him; cool, crisp, and smelling faintly of rain and freshly cut grass. He didn't just walk to the grounds; he ran. He needed to burn off the energy, the pressure, the sheer noise of the day. Every step felt lighter, the tension in his shoulders unraveling with every stride.

The soccer field opened up before him, a vast expanse of green, uneven in patches but perfect in his eyes. The nets hung silent and heavy, waiting. He slowed to a jog, then a walk, his breath coming in sharp, eager plumes.

"Guess I'm early," he chuckled to himself, the sound disappearing into the empty air.

He dropped his bag and headed into the locker room, the familiar, comforting scent of deep-heat cream, sweat, and fabric softener enveloping him. He changed with robotic efficiency, swapping his restrictive school uniform for the familiar, liberating weight of his training gear. He tied his laces with obsessive precision, double-knotted, tight enough to make his feet feel glued to the pitch. When he stepped back out, the sun was casting long, dramatic shadows across the grass. 

He started slow, rotating his ankles, stretching his calves, feeling the tension evaporate from his muscles. But the moment his foot connected with the soccer ball, the world narrowed. The sky, the school, the upcoming exams, none of it mattered. 

Isagi set up a line of orange cones, his eyes narrowed as he traced imaginary lines of attack. He exploded into motion, dribbling with a frantic, desperate intensity. The ball wasn't just near his feet; it was a part of him, moving in rhythmic sync with his pounding heart. Left, right, toe-tap, drag. He snaked through the cones, shifting his weight, testing the friction of the turf. He pushed the ball too far on a turn, corrected instantly, and accelerated.

Too slow.

He reset, taking them again. Faster this time. His mind was constantly firing, analyzing the spatial awareness, the angle of his approach, the exact point of contact. It was a mental chess match against himself. Then, the shooting. He placed the ball at the edge of the box, staring down the gaping mouth of the net. He took three steps back, breathing heavily. A quick, explosive approach. Boom. The sound of leather on plastic resonated in the quiet. It hit the side net, a decent shot, but…

"Too shallow," Isagi muttered, instantly retrieving the ball.

Again.

He adjusted his hips, firing a harder shot that kissed the inside of the post before burying itself in the mesh. A small, fierce smile touched his lips.

Again.

He practiced for twenty minutes, his shirt clinging to his skin with cold sweat, his legs burning with a familiar, aching fatigue. But he didn't stop. He was searching for something, a perfect, absolute strike. "Yo, Isagiii!" The high-energy shout cut through his concentration. Isagi stopped, blinking, as the world rushed back into focus. Standing there, spinning a soccer ball on his fingertip, was Meguru Bachira, his monstrous grin flashing bright in the afternoon light.

Following behind, like characters stepping onto a stage, were the rest of them. Otoya moved with a slinking, lazy grace, his eyes masked by his bangs. Karasu, sharp-eyed and critical, looked like he was already dissecting Isagi’s solo training. And Chigiri, moving with an effortless, panther-like speed, his long hair catching the wind. Kunigami, Reo, Nagi, and Shidou weren't here. 

"You’re here early again," Bachira said, letting the ball drop and juggling it deftly from foot to head. "Practicing all by yourself? That’s kinda boring, don’t you think?"

Isagi laughed, the tension in his chest finally releasing. "Just trying to get a head start, Bachira. You know how it is."

"Head start on getting tired, maybe," Karasu chimed in, tossing his bag down. "Let's see if you've actually improved, or if you're just wasting energy, Isagi."

"Two-on-five?" Chigiri suggested, stretching out with casual, lethal grace. Bachira’s grin widened, looking directly at Isagi.

"Monster says we play for keeps. First to three goals, loser buys drinks from the vending machine for a week." Isagi smiled, the fatigue vanishing, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated excitement. He tightened his laces one last time.

"You're on."

The official notice on the school bulletin board had been clear: Practice cancelled due to mandatory faculty meetings. To any normal student, it was a reprieve; a chance to go home, nap, or loiter at a cafe. But to the regulars, a "day off" was a foreign concept, a glitch in the system they collectively chose to ignore.

"Coach thinks a meeting can stop the itch?" Karasu remarked, shedding his school blazer to reveal his jersey underneath. "How lame."

The air was thick with the scent of dew and the low hum of the evening cicadas as they split into teams. It was Isagi and Bachira against the speed and precision of Chigiri, Karasu, and Otoya. A numbers disadvantage, but Isagi could feel the "monster" inside Bachira buzzing with manic delight at the lopsided odds. "Ready, Isagi?" Bachira chirped, his eyes widening with that familiar, predatory shimmer. "Let’s dance."

Kickoff!

Bachira started with the ball, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a suffocating tension. He didn't just dribble; he rhythmically tapped the ball, a syncopated beat that kept Karasu guessing. Karasu closed in, using his long reach and "crow" like wings to block the passing lanes, but Bachira performed a lightning-fast elastico, the ball snapping from the outside of his foot to the inside in a blur.

"Too slow, Karasu-kun!" Bachira teased, darting past.

But the defense was layered. As Bachira broke the first line, Chigiri was already a red streak on the periphery. The "Red Panther" didn't commit; he waited, forcing Bachira toward the touchline. Isagi, meanwhile, was scanning. He wasn't looking at the ball; he was looking at the space. He saw the way Otoya was ghosting behind him, trying to vanish from his peripheral vision.

"Bachira! The pocket!" Isagi shouted.

Bachira lofted a delicate chip over Chigiri’s lunging tackle. Isagi sprinted, his lungs burning as he tracked the flight. He brought it down with a dead-stop touch, a "trap" that killed the ball’s momentum instantly. The game stretched on, far longer than a standard scrimmage.

Ten minutes turned into thirty. Thirty into an hour. The score was stuck at 2-2, the next goal winning the "vending machine stakes."

Isagi felt the salt of sweat stinging his eyes. His legs felt like lead, but his brain was overclocked. He watched Karasu receive a pass from Otoya. Karasu was a master of the "hold-up" play, using his backside and arms to shield the ball from Isagi.

"I see your gears turning, Isagi," Karasu grunted, leaning his weight into him. "But you can't read what you can't reach." Karasu spun, a sharp pivot that should have left Isagi in the dust, but Isagi had anticipated the weight shift. He didn't go for the ball; he stepped into the space Karasu wanted to occupy. A collision of shoulders, a grunt of effort, and the ball rolled loose.

"Bachira! Now!"

This was it. The climax of a two-hour war.

Bachira scooped the ball, performing a daring rainbow flick over a sliding Otoya. The ball arched high. Chigiri was already retreating, his top-end speed a safety net that usually caught everything.

"You're not getting past!" Chigiri yelled, his hair flying like a crimson banner. Isagi didn't head for the goal. He ran away from it, dragging Karasu with him, creating a vacuum in the center of the pitch. Bachira saw the void. Instead of shooting, he fired a low, driven cross into that empty space.

Isagi planted his foot, pivoting 180 degrees. He saw the entire field in high-definition, Metavision kicking in. He saw Chigiri's desperate recovery sprint. He saw Otoya's shadow. And he saw the goal. He didn't wait for the ball to settle. As it skipped off the turf, Isagi met it with a ferocious Direct Volley. The contact was pure, a crisp thwack! that signaled the end of the debate. The ball streaked through the air, a straight line of kinetic energy that whistled past Chigiri’s ear and slammed into the top corner of the net, the mesh bulging outward with the force of the strike.

Silence fell over the field, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of five exhausted teenagers.

Isagi stood there, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked at his teammates; friends, rivals, monsters.

"Goal..." Bachira whispered, before collapsing onto the grass with a manic laugh. "Isagi, you're a total freak! That was amazing!"

"I'm... dead," Chigiri gasped, hands on his knees, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the loss. "I'm not buying the drinks. I don't care about the bet."

"We lost, Princess," Karasu said, though he looked just as drained, wiping sweat from his brow. "Rules are rules. My throat is parched."

Isagi looked up at the darkening sky, the first few stars beginning to peek through the twilight. His muscles ached, his uniform was ruined by grass stains, and he had three hours of homework waiting for him. He had never felt more alive. "Vending machine is that way," Isagi pointed, his voice raspy but triumphant. "And I want the expensive grape soda."

———

At first, it was only a thinning, voices unraveling at the edges, laughter stretching and fading into the evening air until it became indistinguishable from the wind. The sharp percussion of cleats striking turf softened into scattered footsteps, then into nothing at all. Nets that had quivered with the violence of shots now hung loose and slack, drifting faintly as though remembering the force that had just passed through them. Even the grass seemed to settle, blades bent and bruised under the memory of motion, slowly rising back into place.

Isagi remained where he was, watching as the others walked over to the vending machine.

His chest rose and fell with the uneven rhythm of exertion, each breath dragging in air that felt almost too cool against the lingering heat inside him. Sweat clung to his skin in a fine, glistening layer, catching the dimming light, cooling rapidly now that his body had begun to slow. It traced the lines of his neck, his collarbone, the lean slope of his shoulders, gathering and slipping downward in quiet, unnoticed paths. There was a tremor in his legs, not weakness, but the aftershock of effort, the echo of movement that hadn’t fully left him yet.

“…I’m exhausted,” he murmured, though there was no real complaint in his voice, only a faint, breathless amusement, as though the words were less a protest and more a quiet acknowledgment of something earned.

Behind him, the remnants of practice lingered in fragments. Bachira’s voice carried easily across the field, animated and bright as always, weaving excitement into even the smallest observations, while Otoya responded in a tone that suggested he was already halfway to collapse. Karasu's laughter cut in, careless and loose, and within it all, Chigiri’s sigh rose like a quiet punctuation mark to the chaos.

Isagi turned his head slightly, glancing back at them, not fully, not enough to be noticed, but just enough to take it in. The scene felt… warm. Not in a literal sense, but in a way that settled somewhere beneath his ribs, subtle and unfamiliar. For a brief moment, he lingered there, caught between observation and something quieter, something that didn’t quite have a name.

“See you tomorrow,” he called out, lifting his hand in a small, casual wave.

The responses came in overlapping layers; one loud, two distracted, and one half-formed, but they were there, and that was enough. He didn’t wait for more. He turned, adjusted the strap of his bag against his shoulder, and began to walk.

The sky had already begun its slow descent into evening, the blue fading into something softer, streaked with diluted gold and pale orange, as though the day itself were being gently washed away. The air had cooled, carrying with it the faint scent of grass and dust and something distant he couldn’t quite place. It brushed against his skin, slipping beneath the damp fabric of his shirt, cooling him in a way that was both refreshing and faintly uncomfortable.

Each step he took seemed to weigh more than the last, not because he was struggling, but because his body had finally allowed itself to feel everything it had ignored during practice. His legs ached in quiet protest, muscles tightening and loosening with each movement, his shoulders heavy beneath the strap of his bag. There was no urgency in him now, no need to rush, no reason to push.

For once, he simply walked. And for once, his thoughts didn't scatter, they drifted. 

Fragments of the match replayed in his mind, not as a continuous sequence, but as isolated moments, sharp and precise. Karasu’s interception, clean, perfectly timed. Bachira's pass, impossible, and yet somehow effortless. The space Isagi had failed to occupy in time, the fraction of a second that had cost him an opportunity.

His brow furrowed slightly.

If I had moved earlier…

If I’d read that angle faster…

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back just enough to glance at the sky above him, eyes half-lidded against the fading light. “I’m still not there yet,” he said quietly, not with frustration, but with a kind of steady certainty. It wasn’t defeat.

By the time he reached home, the sky had dimmed further, the streetlights flickering to life one by one, casting soft pools of light along the pavement. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him as warmth immediately enveloped him, contrasting sharply with the cool air outside. “I’m home,” he called, slipping off his shoes near the entrance.

“Welcome back, Yo-chan!” his mother’s voice answered from the kitchen, light and familiar, carrying the comforting rhythm of routine. “Dinner will be ready soon!”

His father appeared briefly, offering a small nod. “Practice go well?”

Isagi paused for a moment, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he didn’t quite know how to put it into words. “…Yeah,” he said finally, a faint smile touching his lips. “It was good.” And that was all he needed to say.

Upstairs, the bathroom light flickered on, filling the space with a soft, steady glow. Isagi stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he set his bag down and began to peel off his clothes. The fabric clung faintly to his skin, damp from sweat, resisting slightly before giving way. He moved slowly, not out of hesitation, but because his body demanded it, every motion measured, deliberate, as though even the act of undressing required effort now.

For a brief moment, he glanced at his reflection.

He wasn’t imposing.

Not in the way some others were.

His frame was lean, almost understated, built not for overwhelming force but for efficiency, for movement. There was definition there, certainly, lines shaped by repetition, by constant use, but nothing excessive, nothing wasted. His shoulders were narrower, his arms toned but not thick, his entire build carrying a quiet, functional strength. 

He turned the water on, not expecting it to be quite literally freezing. It struck him instantly, sharp and unrelenting, stealing the breath from his lungs in a sudden, involuntary gasp as it cascaded over him. The chill spread quickly, seeping into his skin, his muscles tightening instinctively in response.

“Ah, fuck!”

The sound escaped him before he could stop it, his shoulders tensing, his body flinching under the shock. But he didn’t step away. Instead, he stayed. The cold stripped everything down, burning away the lingering heat, the fatigue, the weight of the day. It forced his body awake again, forced his thoughts into sharp focus, washing away the haze that had settled over him. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as water dripped from the strands, trailing down his face and neck.

“Okay… yeah… that's better.”

His breathing steadied gradually, the tension easing just enough for him to relax into it. And then, slowly, he turned the dial. Warmth replaced the cold in a gradual shift, seeping in gently at first before fully enveloping him. The contrast was immediate, almost overwhelming in its relief. Isagi let out a long, quiet sigh, his shoulders dropping as the heat settled deep into his muscles, loosening everything that had tightened over the course of practice.

It felt so good.

The warmth sank into him, unraveling tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding, easing the strain in his legs, his back, his shoulders. His head tilted forward slightly, eyes closing as he allowed himself, for once, to simply exist within the moment. No pressure. No expectations. Just the steady rhythm of water and breath. By the time he stepped out, his body felt lighter, not fully recovered, but closer.

He shed the day’s weight, pulling on loose, worn-in clothes that felt like a sanctuary. The oversized shirt slipped over his frame with a ghostly softness, the fabric cool against his skin, while the simple shorts offered a freedom that finally allowed his muscles to stop tensing.

Downstairs, dinner was a blur of gentle murmurs and clinking cutlery. The conversation stayed in the shallow end. Small, rhythmic questions met with effortless answers, requiring nothing of him but his presence.

Back in the sanctuary of his room, a brief, flickering war broke out in his mind: the dutiful student versus the exhausted athlete. Thinking back to today's events; about the new student, his textbook filled with perfect writing and solved problems, he had this sudden sense of motivation. The way Rin saved his life, by whispering the answer to him, the way he was ahead of everybody else... Isagi lunged for his assignment, dropping into his desk chair with a determined thud. Isagi stared at the page, the black ink blurring before his eyes. One second. Five. Ten.

"…No."

He snapped the book shut. Who am I kidding? The refusal was a turning point. Instead, the pale glow of his laptop flickered to life, illuminating the focus in his eyes. A match loaded. Noel Noa. His idol. 

In an instant, the fog of fatigue evaporated, replaced by a crystalline clarity. The world outside his window ceased to exist. Time became a fluid, forgotten thing as he watched, his mind a sponge for every calculated stride, every surgical decision, every heartbeat of brilliance.

He dissected the movements, storing the data in the marrow of his bones. By the time the screen finally faded to black, the silence of the deep night had swallowed the house whole. He moved through his nighttime routine like a ghost, his mind still tracing the geometry of the pitch as he brushed his teeth. When he finally retreated to bed, the mattress rose to meet him, his body sinking into the sheets with a profound sense of finality. He stared up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, the frantic hum of his thoughts slowing into a steady, rhythmic thrum.

Tomorrow, he would be better. He had to be.