Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Julian jolted awake beneath the park tree, breath catching in his throat. His jacket had twisted halfway off during the night, the blanket tangled uselessly near his ankles. His legs were stiff, lips dry, and his stomach felt like it had tried to devour itself while he slept.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Yoichi was gone.

And so was the bag.

Julian scrambled upright. His heart thundered. The bundle Sophie had packed. The spare clothes. The wad of cash, sure it wasn't much but it was all he had left

Gone.

No note.

No sound.

Just a wide, empty patch of grass next to him like Yoichi had never been there at all.

He turned in a furious circle, scanning the early-morning park as if Yoichi might pop out from behind a bush with a crooked smile and an apology.

Nothing.

“Putain de merde,” Julian hissed the swears he too often heard in his household under his breath. “C’est pas vrai, il m’a laissé? Vraiment?!” (Fucking hell. This can’t be real, he ditched me? Seriously?!) 

He kicked the base of the tree hard, nearly tripping over his own foot. “I knew it—I knew he was too good to be real. Should’ve trusted my gut. Should’ve never—” He kicked the tree again, angrier now, the sting in his toes grounding him just enough to keep the rising panic from taking over.

“Connard—petit rat de rue—je te jure que si je te revois—!” (Asshole—little street rat—I swear if I ever see you again—!)

“Yo... why are you fighting that tree?”

Julian froze.

He turned around slowly.

“You… uh. Good morning?” Yoichi was standing a few feet away, hands full, a stupidly bright smile on his face and a choux pastry in his mouth. His hair was a mess, his hoodie halfway unzipped, and he was holding the bag like nothing was wrong at all.

“Oh,” Julian said flatly, “tu es là.” (You're here.)

Yoichi blinked, then pulled the pastry from his mouth to flash him that bright, harmless smile that Julian was starting to recognize as his default setting. “Did something happen?”

Julian stared at him for a full five seconds before stepping back, embarrassed. “You—you were gone.”

“I went to get breakfast?” Yoichi tilted his head, confused. “Why were you yelling at a tree?”

Julian stiffened. “I-I wasn’t yelling..”

“You totally were. Something about rats and… revenge?” Yoichi tilted his head. “Are you hallucinating? That happens, y’know. Especially if you’re hungry and sad—”

“What—no! You were just gone and I—forget it.” Julian folded his arms. “Where did you even go?”

Yoichi grinned, holding up the pastry. “I told you, I got us breakfast. You looked like you’d bite me if I woke you up.”

Julian scowled and took the offered paper bag Yoichi handed him. Inside: a warm half-baguette and a smaller roll tucked beside it.

He bit into it. Fresh. Still warm. Soft inside, crispy outside. His stomach groaned in gratitude.He was so hungry it hurt, but something else was rising in his throat too. Something like guilt at thinking his new friend abandoned him so quickly. Something that made him mumble, “Sorry for… yelling. And the tree.”

Yoichi grinned. “Hm..I forgive you, but I think the tree needs a hug first to forgive you.”

Julian rolled his eyes but he smiled, just a little. “You’re seriously weird, also—”

“…Where did you get this?” he asked mid-chew, narrowing his eyes. “It’s fresh.”

Yoichi blinked. “The bakery?”

“Like… you bought it?”

“Yeah?”

Julian stared at him.

“Do rich kids not know how bakeries work? Do you guys just have personal flour servants or something?” Yoichi squinted. 

Julian rolled his eyes. “I mean—no, I just didn’t think you had—whatever. You didn’t steal it?”

Yoichi looked mildly offended. “What!? No!”

Julian huffed. “Then where’d you get the cash? I didn’t have much left in that bag”

“Oh, that.” Yoichi scratched his cheek. “Well, sometimes I run errands or help old ladies carry their groceries or sweep up for store owners or whatever. Some people hand me a few euros for that kind of stuff.”

Julian raised a brow. “Seriously?”

Yoichi shrugged. “It adds up.”

Julian tilted his head. “But this is like… expensive bread. You’d have to do a lot of sweeping.”

Yoichi smirked. “That’s not where the real money comes from.”

Julian’s chewing slowed.

“...Then where?”

Yoichi glanced around the park, then leaned in slightly like he was about to share classified intel. “Well, good timing, actually. We were supposed to head to Colmar today.”

Julian swallowed, frowning. “Right.”

Yoichi gave a sheepish laugh. “Yeah, about that… I kinda miscalculated.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I thought I had more money than I did,” Yoichi admitted. “Took a couple wrong metros when I first arrived and, uh, I spent the rest on breakfast. Turns out navigating lost burns through transit fees. Sooo we’re kind of stuck until I make some more.”

Julian groaned and flopped back into the grass. “This is already going downhill”

“Oh c’mon, you weren’t much better off alone!”

Julian rolled his eyes. “So. How do you make money, really?”

Yoichi finished off his croissant, brushing crumbs off his hoodie. “You’ll see.”

What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yoichi’s grin widened. “We’re going tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

Yoichi simply turned on his heel and started walking, repeating himself. “You’ll see.”

Julian pushed himself up. “Wait, what, now?”

“We’ve got errands to do first,” Yoichi said cheerfully. “Come on.”

Julian rolled his eyes and jogged to catch up. “I can follow you, you don’t have to—”

But Yoichi had already reached back and grabbed his wrist, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “What are you doing?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Yoichi didn’t look back. “You walk slow when you overthink.”

Julian sputtered, remembering times where another person he thought precious to him called him out for thinking too much. “You didn’t even let me—!”

But Yoichi was already dragging him down the park path, humming like none of this was strange.

Julian blinked down at their linked hands, a faint flush blooming across his cheeks. “…I’m not gonna wander off, you know,” he mumbled under his breath.

Yoichi, oblivious as ever, just kept walking. Julian sighed and let himself be pulled forward.

…

The city pulsed around them, warm and full of life in that midday lull between lunch crowds and afternoon traffic. Yoichi walked just a step ahead of Julian, weaving through people with ease, keeping his scarf tightly wrapped around his neck and half his face.

“So…” Julian glanced at him sideways, hands stuffed into his pockets. “You ever gonna tell me where you’re from? Your accent’s..not French.”

Yoichi kicked a loose rock along the sidewalk. “Nope. Why’d ya need to know?”

“That’s not a ‘never,’ though.”

“It’s a soft maybe.”

“Is that a real answer?”

“Only if you say ‘please.’”

Julian snorted. “Forget it.”

They kept walking. The streets weren’t too busy here— closer to the quieter arrondissements. The stone buildings towered on either side, the air filled with the usual symphony of scooters, bikes, people arguing, and the soft hum of music from the corner cafés.

Then Julian froze.

Three men. Too clean and too curious about the crowd.

Private investigators. Again. 

Julian didn’t think as he bolted in the opposite direction.

“Wha—HEY—Julian?!” Yoichi yelped behind him, bewildered.

But Julian was already sprinting. The moment he heard shoes slamming pavement behind them, his instincts screamed.

Except Yoichi hadn’t moved.

“Ah, no—Yoichi—!”

Julian turned just in time to see one of the PIs clamp a hand down on Yoichi’s shoulder.

Yoichi went rigid. Eyes wide. The moment authority touched him—he froze. Not with fear exactly, but like a kid who’d been yanked too many times by adults who had the final word. His arms stiffened, feet planted, eyes darting like a cornered cat.

Julian’s pulse spiked and without thinking, he lunged.

“Don’t touch him!”

He grabbed Yoichi’s arm and tore him away, nearly sending them both stumbling into a trash bin. Yoichi tripped over his own feet, eyes still saucer-wide as Julian yanked him hard.

“MOVE!”

Julian pulled him down the alley—dodging an open door, hopping over a crate—and into another street, where cars honked as they dashed between bumpers.

“JULIAN, I DON’T THINK THIS IS LEGAL—”

“Neither is kidnapping me, but that’s not stopping them is it!?” Julian snapped, ducking through a fence. “So shut up and follow me!”

Yoichi scrambled behind him, nearly getting caught in the wires. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

Another shout behind them—closer now. Julian spotted a metal staircase bolted to the side of a building. Fire escape. Perfect.

“Up!”

“Wha—no—NO!”

But Julian was already halfway up. Yoichi followed, whining the entire time as he scrambled after him.

“This is—this is dumb! I’m too short for this! I don’t do cardio!”

“You ran the field like a demon yesterday!”

“Not while being CHASED by BIG MEN IN BIG COATS!”

Julian laughed—genuinely laughed—as they pulled themselves up to the rooftop. His heart thundered in his chest, lungs burning—but he felt alive.

The rooftops of Paris were uneven and wild, stitched together like patchwork across old stone and modern flats. Slanted tiles, wide vents, rusty drain pipes. But Julian moved through them like he was born in the gaps between buildings.

The first jump was easy—just a narrow divide between two terraces. He vaulted the railing, feet landing light on old cement. The wind whipped against his ears, and he could hear Yoichi huffing behind him.

“Julian—! I’m gonna—DIE!”

“Stop shouting and tuck your knees next time!”

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

“It means stop wasting energy screaming and run!” Julian didn’t wait for him. His body flowed forward, a rhythm carved from instinct—vault over a duct, pivot on a loose pipe, use the momentum to launch off a wall ledge. He grabbed a metal gutter and swung onto a fire escape. A second later, he flipped backward, using the railing as leverage to drop to the next lower rooftop.

Yoichi landed behind him with a crash and a yelp, sliding on his knees. “Oh my god—MY BUTT—”

“Focus!” Julian snapped, yanking him back to his feet. “See that antenna? Run straight past it, then jump to the left wall and bounce off it to the next roof.”

“I-I don’t know if I can—!”

“Do it or get caught.”

Yoichi screamed and ran. 

They jumped over a narrow rooftop gap—Julian cleared it like he was made for it. Yoichi nearly clipped the edge, flailing and grabbing Julian’s sleeve with a shriek.

“I ALMOST DIED—!”

“You’re fine,” Julian grunted, yanking him upright. “Keep going!”

They clambered over vents, sprinted across flat tarred roofs, vaulted onto the next building—Yoichi screaming every time he had to leap more than two feet.

“I’m not a parkour guy! I play midfield!! I play with my feet not my SOUL—!”

“You’re doing great!”

“I DON’T LIKE THIS!”

The shouting behind them faded slightly.

They were gaining ground.

They raced across a sloped roof covered in slick tiles. Julian dropped into a controlled slide, knees bent, jacket catching air behind him. He skimmed the edge and jumped—grabbing a rusted drain pipe like a rope to swing down and across a narrow gap.

Yoichi barreled after him, flailed mid-jump, and caught the pipe with all the grace of a panicked cat.

“Why is it WET—?”

Julian grabbed his arm before he could slip. “Don’t ask questions, keep climbing!”

Another wall. A row of flowerbeds. Julian stepped on one mid-sprint to launch up the next building. Yoichi knocked the whole pot over.

“We’re killing the plants, Julian—!”

Julian laughed under his breath, his breath ragged. This was it. The adrenaline. The danger. The exact kind of edge he didn’t know he liked.

Because up here? There were no names, no titles, no legacy expectations.

Just how fast you moved.

How far you’d leap.

How high you’d fly.

And it felt natural as could be.

One more rooftop, wider than the rest. Up ahead—a large arched window, thrown open with wind billowing through lace curtains. It was cinematic honestly, too perfect.

Behind them, the agents had finally caught up. Their shoes scraped hard across the tar behind them. One yelled, “There—window! They’re going for it!”

Julian didn’t look back as he sprinted toward the edge.

The wind screamed past his ears and Yoichi stumbled beside him, crying in panicked Spanish, “I’M NOT— N-NO QUIERO MORIR, CARAJ—!!”

The ledge rushed up and the window glowed with the illusion of escape.

Julian grabbed his hand. “Do you trust me?”

“NO!”

He jumped anyway. Julian yanked Yoichi with him—and Yoichi screamed the entire way down.

“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—”

They vanished over the edge except it wasn’t a leap through the window.

It was a drop.

Straight down.

Not far below the ledge—hidden by shadows and a slight overhang—was a service platform. A flat slab of concrete barely wider than a doorway. No one would look there. Not from above.

They landed hard.

Julian’s knees buckled, but his body knew how to roll with it. The concrete of the service platform cracked beneath their weight, but held. He landed crouched—perfect. Yoichi hit the ground like a cat tossed off a shelf. Not injured, but very, very upset.

And screaming.

“AUUUGHHHHHHHHHH—!”

“Shhh—!”

Julian lunged, clamping his hand over Yoichi’s mouth before the kid could scream the whole arrondissement awake. But Yoichi wasn’t done. His limbs flailed in confused panic—his brain still convinced they were mid-air. His legs kicked uselessly, his hands slapped at Julian’s arms like he could claw his way free of gravity itself.

Julian pressed forward, pinning him back against the wall. One hand muffling Yoichi’s mouth, the other wrestling both of his wrists down and holding them in place.

“ Shut up, ” Julian hissed, nose practically touching Yoichi’s. “We’re not falling. We made it.”

But Yoichi’s eyes were shut tight, and he kept trembling and making these tiny, shrill, whimpery noises like the fall was still happening in his head, he mumbled under Julian’s palm.

Julian didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in closer, pressing his forehead lightly to Yoichi’s, forcing him to feel that they were grounded. That they were okay. Yoichi’s chest rose and fell fast, but slower now. His arms, though trembling, stopped jerking.

The voices above them were still.

One pair of shoes scuffed near the ledge.

“They went in.”

“You sure?”

“Well They’re not on the roof anymore and I didn’t hear a splat .”

“Think we can catch them at the bottom of the building? They can’t hide in that room forever, and I’m not jumping that window.”

Julian tensed—but Yoichi froze entirely, another whine building in his throat. Julian pressed his hand firmer over his mouth and locked Yoichi’s wrists harder into place. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered.

Yoichi whimpered but nodded.

The shoes moved. Then silence. They were gone.

Julian exhaled slowly, hand still holding Yoichi’s, breath coming hard but steady. The adrenaline in his veins felt like fire, and the proximity—Yoichi's wide eyes, his pink, panic-blotched cheeks, the way his back was pressed firm to the wall—it did something to Julian's blood he couldn’t name yet. But he liked it.

Yoichi blinked open watery eyes, breath hitching through his nose. Julian hesitated, then finally pulled his hand off his mouth, switching to holding both of Yoichi’s wrists gently—one in each of his palms.

They stared at each other.

Too long.

Julian’s gaze flicked to the tears rimming Yoichi’s lashes. His throat tightened. Ah no, was he crying? His hands twitched like he wanted to raise one, wipe it away, because no 8 year old was emotionally ready to calm another one up after a damn rooftop chase.

But Yoichi swatted his hand away with a weak little shove and immediately burst into theatrical yelling.

“You–! You could’ve warned me we weren’t gonna jump, you big jumping dummy!”

Julian blinked.

“I—I thought we were gonna die! My soul left my body, I saw my ancestors , you—!”

“Yo—”

“I thought we were gonna die—!”

Julian started snorting.

“Don’t laugh at me! My knees gave out! I–I PEED A LITTLE!”

Julian collapsed sideways, practically choking with laughter now.

“I hate you! You lunatic runaway prince—!” Yoichi flailed, punching his arm repeatedly. “SHUT UP! STOP LAUGHING! I’M TRAUMATIZED—!”

But Julian couldn’t stop. Not when Yoichi’s eyes were all wide and wet and indignant, not when he was waving his arms like an angry baby bird. Julian howled, wheezing so hard his stomach hurt.

Yoichi’s face puffed red. “I HOPE YOU FALL OFF THE NEXT ROOF AND BREAK YOUR STUPID PERFECT TEETH—!”

Julian rolled onto his back, hands covering his face. “Oh god, you looked so dumb—!”

“ YOU LOOK DUMB!!”

“Like– like a baby trying to fly—!”

“I am a baby and I’m not meant to fly!!”

Julian cackled harder. Yoichi kicked him in the shin. Julian yelped, but it only made him laugh more. Eventually, they lay there—panting, red-faced, shoulders still twitching with aftershocks of laughter and fear.

Yoichi wiped his face furiously. “That was the worst day of my life. ”

Julian turned his head and grinned at him.

“No,” he said. “That was freedom. ”

“Weirdo..” Yoichi glared at him, his hair sticking to his forehead, dust clinging to his coat, knees scraped. “…Okay,” he panted. “Maybe it was kind of cool though.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Admit it. You liked it.”

“I THREW UP IN MY MOUTH, JULIAN.”

But he was smiling now, barely, even as he kicked at Julian’s leg again.

Julian chuckled, eyes drifting upward toward the skyline beyond the ledge. He didn’t say it, but it was written across his face: For one second, they had flown and boy did he feel free.

…

Their escape left them both winded and ragged, but not broken. The rooftops, the chase, the jump—it all faded now into an aching pulse in their legs and a sharp, gnawing emptiness in their stomachs.

“Okay,” Julian muttered, catching his breath as they weaved through quieter streets, “That travel and chase took up our whole morning..”

Yoichi, still glowering, his cheeks flushed and knees scuffed, muttered, “I’m hungry..”

Julian’s stomach growled in agreement. “I know a place, we still have a few euros after that bread, right?” Yoichi gave him a happy nod.

They made their way toward one of the back corners of the arrondissement, near a bus stop with torn flyers and a pharmacy that hadn’t replaced its flickering sign in years. Nestled between a laundromat and a shuttered phone repair shop was a narrow café with sun-faded plastic chairs and tables that wobbled if you leaned too hard.

Julian led them inside without a word. It smelled faintly of bleach and old grease, the air warm and heavy with spice. A battered chalkboard menu leaned against the wall, half of it written over in ballpoint pen. In the corner, a radio crackled through distorted jazz.

The server behind the counter barely looked up. She was always like that—graying hair pulled into a messy bun, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, the type of woman who’d once told him in a flat voice that if he wasn’t ordering in the next ten seconds, he could get out.

Julian respected that. She respected his coin. That was the Parisian social contract.

“Deux, (two)” he said, sliding what little cash he had onto the counter. She nodded once, no smile, and went to scoop out their portions.

He and Yoichi collapsed into two sagging chairs on the patio. Moments later, two bowls of lentil stew and some dense flatbread were plunked down with the efficiency of someone who had no time for children, whether they paid or not.

Julian bit into his food slowly, savoring each bite without looking like he was savoring it. Yoichi, on the other hand, went at his bowl like a man starved—spoon clattering, eyes fluttering shut at the warmth. He was halfway done before Julian had swallowed twice.

Then Yoichi jolted up. “Wait!”

Julian blinked as the boy darted back into the nearby café and returned with a small paper bag crinkling in his arms. He opened it like it was sacred and pulled out a single golden choux, biting into it with a delighted hum.

“You like choux a lot, don’t you?”

“Mhmmm”

Cream oozed out the side and dusted sugar clung to his cheek, but he didn’t even blink. His eyes fluttered shut, a blissful hum escaping him as he chewed, feet tapping lightly under the table like he physically couldn’t sit still when something tasted good.

Julian stared, spoon halfway to his mouth. Not because he wanted to. Just… instinctively.

There was something absurd about Yoichi. The way he bounced with every bite, like he couldn’t contain the joy of food. The way his face scrunched up whenever he hit the filling. The way he licked his fingers in a hurry, almost like he thought someone might try to take it from him.

Julian didn’t know why he noticed that. He shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing as he tried to rationalize it away.

It wasn’t that Yoichi was… cute . No. He was just weird-looking. Small. Chaotic. With that mop of hair and those wide, twitchy eyes and the way he always leaned forward when he got excited about something. It made him look—

Julian paused mid-thought.

It made him look like a rabbit. Like a scruffy little street rabbit that had somehow decided to trust him.

Julian looked away fast, heat prickling faintly at his ears. That was a dumb thought.

“Julian!”

He startled, blinking rapidly.

Yoichi was staring at him, cheeks still puffed with pastry, a suspicious amount of powdered sugar smeared across his nose. “Are you broken or something? I called your name, like, four times.”

Julian coughed into his fist, suddenly way too aware of how long he’d been staring. “Sorry. Was thinking.”

Yoichi snorted and hopped to his feet, shoving the last bite of choux in his mouth. “Come on, we’ve gotta go. Still need some euros before we can head to Colmar. You think favors do themselves?”

Julian sighed, dragging the last of the bread through his bowl before rising. “The stuff you were doing at the market? Fine…”

Yoichi was already halfway down the block, scarf flapping behind him, bouncing with so much energy it was frankly unfair for someone who looked like he was made of paper.

Julian tossed the pastry bag into a trash bin and jogged to catch up, already regretting letting Yoichi waste what little money they had on any sugar at all.

And still… smiling a little.

…

It had taken them all morning and most of the afternoon. Yoichi barely slowed down once.

From bakery to corner store, flower stall to side street café, they crisscrossed half the arrondissement—running favors, sweeping up crumbs, helping old women carry their bags or watching someone’s cart while they ran an errand. Julian, ever the reluctant accomplice, had even smiled at people. Smiled. Repeatedly. His face hurt from pretending to be pleasant although it was something he should’ve been used to for all the time he did it at the Vermeil estate. It seemed he’d gotten rusty that quickly.

Meanwhile, Yoichi seemed to only gain energy the longer they ran around. He beamed at every vendor, waved at dogs, laughed like they weren’t working for literal scraps.

Julian didn’t know how he hadn’t passed out.

“Okay, I think we’re good,” Yoichi chirped, skipping—actually skipping—down the cobbled lane toward the plaza. “We’ve done enough to cash out.”

Julian trailed behind him, groaning as he finally collapsed on the edge of the square. “Good,” he panted. “I’m starving. Please tell me we’re not broke anymore.”

Yoichi flopped down beside him with a happy little bounce, rummaged through the coin pouch they’d collected through the day—and then grinned proudly as he presented the count. 

“Six—

–teen euro fifty-two.”

Julian stared at him. “Sixteen.”

Yoichi nodded.

Julian blinked. “Point fifty-two.”

“Yep!”

Julian just stared, absolutely deadpan.

Yoichi tilted his head. “...What?”

“Are you messing with me?” Julian asked, his tone frighteningly even.

Yoichi blinked. “No?”

Julian stared at the ground for a second. Then, very slowly, he lay down flat across the asphalt in the middle of the square, limbs splayed out like a kid giving up on life mid-tantrum.

“Sixteen euro,” he muttered at the sky. “We’re gonna survive in Colmar on sixteen euro.”

“I mean…” Yoichi scratched his cheek. “What were you expecting? We swept sidewalks and delivered soup for a florist. It’s not exactly high-stakes, high-pay work.”

“I should never have followed you.”

“Aw, come on,” Yoichi said brightly, leaning over and poking Julian in the forehead. “You’re being dramatic.”

Julian just covered his face with both hands.

Yoichi crouched beside him, not at all deterred. “Besides,” he added with a grin, tugging on Julian’s jacket sleeve, “now’s when we make the real money.”

Julian peeked at him through his fingers. “You said that earlier.”

“No, earlier was pocket change. This time, we’re going big. Enough to last us a while. Enough to eat well in Colmar. Enough to maybe… not have to do chores every single day just to survive.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “And how exactly are we gonna do that?”

Yoichi’s grin widened. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

He grabbed Julian’s sleeve again and tugged, practically dragging him toward the edge of the square.

Julian reluctantly followed, brushing dirt off his pants. “Wait, where are we going now?”

“Gotta get you a new look first,” Yoichi said without even turning around.

Julian frowned. “What? Why?”

Yoichi gestured broadly as they stepped onto a narrower street lined with thrift stalls and discount racks. “Because we’re heading into the 19th arrondissement. And even though you look like you rolled out of a trash can—sorry, not sorry—your clothes are still branded. Still expensive. You might’ve dirtied them up, but people can tell. That’s why the investigator guys spotted you so fast y’know.”

Julian blinked. Then looked down at himself.

Oh. 

“Oh,” he repeated.

Yoichi glanced over his shoulder with a knowing smirk. “Yeah. You kind of scream 'rich kid on the run who’s never climbed a fence before.'”

Julian scoffed. “I’ve climbed a fence, and ran across rooftops with you just earlier”

“Yeah, yeah, but if you wanna walk into where we’re going next without turning every head? You’re gonna need to dress like you live here. Not like you just escaped a boardroom.”

Julian grumbled but followed him toward the stalls anyway.

…

Yoichi rummaged through the battered backpack he’d been hauling since the park, tongue poking slightly out the corner of his mouth in focus. “Aha!” he said, triumphantly pulling out a scrunched-up bundle of clothes. “Here you go, some of my bigger clothes”

Julian eyed the wrinkled heap of fabric with the kind of disdain normally reserved for things like chewed gum on designer shoes. “That looks like it’s been buried under cement.”

“Correction,” Yoichi chirped. “It’s been folded beneath my socks. Big difference.”

Julian stared at him.

Yoichi grinned and held up each item one by one with far too much pride. “Look! T-shirt. Oversized. Rips in the hem already there—very intentional. Pants—baggy. Drawstring waist. Fashionable and you won’t flash the world if you try to climb something. And this”—he produced a scuffed black jacket with frayed cuffs—“is vintage.”

“That’s not vintage,” Julian muttered. “That’s moldy.”

“You want to blend in or not?” Yoichi asked with that signature bright-eyed confidence that made arguing somehow feel like losing even when you were technically right. 

“You literally traded newer clothes for me yesterday, can’t I just wear those?”

“Nobody’s gonna take you seriously there since those look pretty good still..”

Julian rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t fall over, but he did as told, ducking behind a nearby alley door frame to swap out his still-somehow-crisp clothes for the ones Yoichi had scavenged ages ago.

When he emerged, sulking and dressed like a mall rat with unresolved anger issues, Yoichi actually took a step back and clasped a hand to his chest. “You look like a real street rat. It’s perfect.”

Julian muttered something that definitely wasn't complimentary. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and brushed a strand of hair out of Yoichi’s eyes.

Yoichi flinched.

Julian paused, hand still half-raised. “What?” he said, smirking. “I let you dress me like a hobo, but I can’t even fix your stupid hair?”

“I—!” Yoichi puffed up instantly, cheeks blooming scarlet. “It’s messy on purpose! I need it that way. It’s my—my image!”

“Oh yeah?” Julian said, flicking the ends lightly. “You aiming for stray alley cat or small lost rodent?”

“Shut up!” Yoichi batted his hands away and deliberately mussed his own hair worse than before, making sure his V shaped sprout was still intact though. “It’s cool.”

Julian raised a brow. “You look like you lost a fight with a ceiling fan.”

Yoichi scowled but turned abruptly. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”

“To?”

“The matches. Over at the 19th.”

They walked through the winding veins of the arrondissement, the streets shifting from residential to gritty, layered with the unspoken pulse of something brewing beneath the surface. Eventually, Yoichi turned into a quiet alley, narrow and dim, graffiti crawling across every visible inch of wall. Tags, art, declarations, warnings.

The air smelled faintly of spray paint and damp metal, Julian slowed beside him. “Yoichi…?”

“Almost there,” the other boy said, his voice softer now. Less playful.

The alley opened into a broader dead-end courtyard, fenced in on all sides by broken-down buildings. A crowd had already gathered—teens and older kids, maybe twelve to seventeen, clustered beneath a flickering streetlight that made everything feel twice as cinematic and ten times more dangerous.

Julian stared at the building behind them. It was old. Once maybe a warehouse, now hollowed out and sagging. The windows were boarded up, the door hung crooked in its frame, and yet—

From inside came music. Shouting. Laughter. The crackle of someone testing a speaker. The pulse of bass like a heartbeat in a forgotten ribcage.

“What is this place?” he asked, voice lower now, uncertain.

Yoichi turned to him, expression gleaming with something sharp and eager.

“This,” he said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, “ is street football haven .” And then he walked forward into the crowd like he belonged there.

Julian took one last look at the broken windows and the flashing lights inside and followed.

…

Inside the warehouse, the air buzzed with heat and adrenaline. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, half of them broken, casting the makeshift arena in a patchwork of brightness and shadow. Spray-painted lines marked the boundaries of what once might’ve been a shipping floor, now transformed into a cracked but sacred pitch. Speakers rigged to the corners pulsed with heavy beats. Crowds—mostly teens, some barely older than Julian and Yoichi, some stretching into their late teens—lined the sides, perched on crates, hanging off metal scaffolding, shouting and placing bets with crumpled euros.

It was chaos.

It was perfect.

Julian was still stunned, barely able to take it all in when Yoichi tugged him by the sleeve and pulled him toward a table crowded with loud teens and even louder cash.

“Okay,” Yoichi whispered, slipping something into his hands. A wad of cash. “How this works is everybody here gets a turn to play if they want, and if you’re not playing you can bet on other kids who are, for fun. You're gonna bet on me and that’s how we make enough to enjoy Colmar!”

Julian blinked. “What? Isn't that—?” 

“Gambling? Yeah, but it’s fine, it’s part of the fun, we just like havin’ something to do while we wait for our turn to play.”

Julian stared down at the cash. “How much is this?”

“Our sixteen euros and some coins, duh” Yoichi said, like it was the answer to a math problem he solved in his sleep. “Our entire wallet.”

“You cannot be trusted with our money ever again.”

“Correction,” Yoichi said, rocking on his heels. “I’m a strategic risk-taker who made most of our money in the first place . Besides—look at me.” He stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with an exaggerated twist. “Do I look like I’m gonna lose?”

Julian opened his mouth, about to say you look like a slightly damp hamster in sneakers , but stopped short and sighed. “If we go bankrupt, I’m selling you for parts.”

“Trust me! I won’t let us down,” Yoichi called, already jogging off toward the player line.

Julian moved to the makeshift betting table the kids seemed to set up for their fake little FC, sticking close to the edge as he handed over the cash. The older girl handling the bets raised a brow at him.

“New face, which team?”

“Whichever one that kid’s on, the one with the scarf”

She smirked. “Asian kid with the bunny legs? He’s new y’know, we’ve only seen him a couple times since last week, he’s not played yet, just good at bets.”

“I wouldn’t say bets are all he’s good at, he’s small but fast,” Julian said with a shrug. “Don’t blink.”

…

The introductions and beginning of the matches was a freestyle showcase—solo tricks, footwork, balance. Just a warm-up, something to impress the younger crowd and give the kids some insight on who they wanted to bet on in the main game. Yoichi took to it with the kind of energy that left Julian dumbstruck.

He weaved the ball around his body with terrifying ease, popping it from heel to shoulder to chest to head, balancing it while he grinned wide at the hooting kids near the sideline. One of the older boys tried a fancy spin—but it was showy without control. Yoichi responded with a sequence that flowed like a river—low flips, tucked rolls, absurdly clean stalls on his neck and knees, topped off with a scorpion kick that made the room explode .

Julian blinked. “Huh, that’s pretty—”

Yoichi threw him a wink from the concrete pitch.

That was introductions over, bets placed based off of appearances and skill showcasing. Now came the main event.

The five-a-side game.

Yoichi got slotted into a team with two other regulars and two newcomers, making him one of the youngest in a group of 13-year-olds. Julian caught the way people looked at him—amused. Dismissive. Someone bet against him loudly enough to make a nearby group laugh.

Julian gripped the table edge. “Stupid.”

The five-a-side game didn’t begin so much as it erupted.

There was no whistle, no coach’s call, just a signal from the corner and a blur of motion. The ball snapped into play like a gunshot. Within seconds, shouts rang out from the perimeter, a hundred voices overlapping into a singular wall of sound that hit Julian square in the chest.

No jerseys. No bibs. No color-coded uniforms.

Just movement—quick and volatile, teammates called out by instinct, by memory, by raw speed of recognition. Julian’s eyes had to flick faster just to keep track of who was playing with who. Every second counted. If you weren’t sharp, if you weren’t hungry, you were getting swallowed whole.

Yoichi was already in the fray.

And Julian couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Yoichi darted across the cracked floor like a spark on gasoline. He didn’t look like he belonged among the older, taller players—until the ball touched his foot.

And then he owned the space. He tackled like a dancer. Passed like a con artist.

It wasn’t football as Julian had been taught. It wasn’t passes drilled into muscle memory or precise spacing taught by systems. This was raw. Fast. Dirty.

It was a street jungle with concrete for grass and rusted pipes for sidelines.

Yoichi didn’t hesitate. He twisted low and ducked under a larger kid’s outstretched arm, nudged the ball forward with the side of his foot and bolted after it. A second kid rushed him—Yoichi stopped on a dime, the soles of his shoes shrieking against the pavement—and spun, letting the boy’s momentum carry him right past.

Cheers burst from the crowd—wild, guttural roars, boots stomping on metal platforms, fists pounding on crates. Julian could feel it reverberate in his ribs like a war drum.

No yellow cards. No fouls.

No one was coming to save you if you got knocked down.

Twice Yoichi got slammed against the wall. The first time he bounced back with a grin. The second, he went down hard—but rolled with it, sprang to his feet, and chased the ball down before anyone else could blink. A third kid tried to trip him on a blind turn, but Yoichi jumped—a perfect, fluid vault that turned into a snap-pass across the field.

Julian didn’t even realize he was leaning forward until he felt his pulse in his fingertips.

This was football?

No coaches shouting from the sidelines. No drills. No positioning boards or fake encouragement.

Just adrenaline. Just instinct. Just you , the ball, and the need to survive.

Yoichi intercepted a wild pass with his chest and took off down the wing, his tiny frame zipping past kids who couldn’t get a hand on him fast enough. One tried to grab him, missed—and Yoichi punished him for it. Nutmeg. Left him spinning. The crowd screamed .

Julian’s throat burned and he didn’t know why.

Maybe from the shouting. Maybe from the sheer emotion clawing up from somewhere deep . Something he’d buried long ago under gold medals and rigid schedules and cold, lifeless drills.

A kind of animal part of him that wanted in .

The final goal was chaos.

Yoichi charged in from the side, juked one kid defending, rolled the ball under another, and then—just before a third could crush him with a slide tackle—jumped. Not over. Through. He hurled himself sideways, letting his body hit the hard ground and scissor-kicked the ball just as he fell.

It spun off his shoe like a bullet and slammed into the top corner of the goal.

And the room exploded.

Julian barely registered that the game had ended. He barely registered anything except his own heartbeat hammering in his ears.

No celebration dances. No photo ops.

Yoichi pushed himself up off the floor, bruised and grinning like a wolf pup who just survived the hunt. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, one sleeve torn, socks slouching down from all the running—and he looked like he’d never been more alive.

Julian couldn’t stop watching. The Yoichi on this field wasn’t the cheerful, bouncy weirdo who liked choux pastry and had no indoor voice. This Yoichi played like he was trying to outrun the world, like every second he had the ball was a second he was alive.

And Julian—felt it sear into him.

That desperate, raw, primal survival instinct.

Yoichi didn’t just play to win. He played like losing meant going back to nothing. Like if he didn’t score, the street would swallow him whole. It lit something deep in Julian’s chest. Something ugly. Something familiar .

Kill or be killed.

Win or be forgotten.

That was football here.

That was freedom .

Survival of the fittest.

And damn did he want in.

…

The match ended in a roar of stomping feet and wild whoops. Some kid smacked a metal drum with his hand until the whole warehouse echoed like a riot.

Yoichi stumbled off the cracked makeshift pitch, drenched in sweat and breathing like he’d just run a marathon uphill—grinning like a lunatic the whole time.

Julian waited at the edge, breath still caught somewhere in his throat. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just watched Yoichi, watched the steam rising off his skin in the chill air, the buzz of the warehouse still pulsing behind him like an aftershock.

Yoichi beamed when he spotted Julian and jogged over, dragging his shoes noisily across the concrete. “D’you see that last goal?! That one kid nearly took my face off!”

Julian didn’t respond right away, still caught in the haze.

Yoichi didn’t notice. He spun around, waving to a few of the kids perched on the scaffolding and greeting a group clustered by the old vending machine. He greeted most of them by name. A few slapped his back, one ruffled his sweat-matted hair.

“Nice one, Yoichi!” someone called from the crowd. “But you had your turn, lil' dude. Tell Hao I’m next and bet on me, I’ve got my rabonas down this time!”

Yoichi gave a mock salute. “Yeah, yeah, rules, rules, good luck, Rachid.”

Julian blinked. “Next? Rules?”

Yoichi turned back to him, chuckling. “Oh right. Rules here, I didn’t tell you. Everyone plays, you can bet. No hogging the spotlight.” He shrugged, a little sheepishly. “They’re not really here to get rich or anything. Most of them have places to go, even if it’s just a couch or a cousin’s garage. They do this for fun.”

Yoichi grinned. “But we do it ‘cause we need to eat, and y’know… get to Colmar” 

They made their way to the betting girl sitting on an upside-down crate, counting bills. She had a tattoo sharpied on her knuckle and a half-broken pen behind one ear. She didn’t even glance up as they approached, already scribbling notes into the corner of her crumpled ledger. “‘Grats on the first win,” she muttered, yanking a folded wad of about 25 euro from a canvas pouch and shoving it straight into Julian’s hands. “Don’t spend it all, dude”

Julian blinked. “Wait—I won?”

Yoichi grinned beside him. “You bet on me, didn’t you?”

Julian looked down at the cash, still catching up. “Oh. Right.”

Yoichi shrugged. “And this is how we make cash, dude. You're welcome.”

The crowd behind them was already shifting—new players getting ready to warm up, a few kids juggling the ball and elbowing each other playfully. The air buzzed with leftover energy from the last match. Yoichi, ever quick to move on, turned toward the pitch again, already scanning. “Okay. Next match is five-on-five again. Looks like Nino’s playing—he’s quick but he’s all instincts, no aim. I’d bet on—”

“What?” Julian interrupted, eyes narrowing.

Yoichi blinked at him. “What?”

“Why are you analyzing players?”

Yoichi tilted his head. “Because you’re gonna bet again. We still need a bit more money—”

Julian stared at him, something between insulted and smug. “Bet on me.”

“Huh?”

Julian stepped closer, his chin slightly lifted, every inch the son of an empire no matter how dirt-smudged his clothes were. “I want a turn. You said everyone gets one, right?” He glanced toward the pitch where a few new kids were juggling the ball for attention. “So bet on me.”

Yoichi’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to play?” Yoichi followed, lips pressed into a crooked smile. He wasn’t going to stop him. He wanted this, after all.

Julian didn’t answer. He was already moving, making a beeline toward the kid organizing the teams—Hao, a wiry twelve-year-old sitting on a beat-up milk crate with a makeshift clipboard and a fanny pack around his chest like he ran an empire.

“A-ah, Julian– wait! You gotta wait your turn—! don’t just—”

Julian stepped in front of him with that same ridiculous self-confidence he used to have walking into locker rooms at the academy, arms crossed and chin tilted like the air belonged to him. 

“I want to be added to the next lineup,” he said simply.

Yoichi groaned internally. He forgot Julian was a spoiled rich brat who always got what he wanted. He should’ve expected the entitled behavior to pop up at some point.

Hao’s eyes flicked to Julian, unimpressed. “Line’s back there. Newbs gotta wait.”

Julian didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped onto the court mid-warmup and snatched the ball away from one of the players with sharp, clean precision—his form immaculate, body posture upright, like a scene straight out of an academy highlight reel. He dribbled forward once, then flicked the ball back with a polished spin move, stopping it dead between his feet before offering it back with a look that practically said try me .

“ I wanna play the next lineup ” he looked back at an intrigued Hao.

The warehouse went quiet. Then the jeers started.

One of the other kids scoffed. “Man, who is this guy?”

“He’s academy trained I bet, what, too good to wait because your parents pay for your training?” someone jeered from the sideline.

“Did your coach let you out early, richie?”

“Bro thinks he’s on TV or something.”

“Why’s he even here? Is he so bad that nobody would play with him at his own club?”

“Wait your turn, newb!”

“Hey let him play! Then get Alan to body him, haha!”

Julian tilted his chin up, cool and collected even under the laughter.

Hao snorted. “You got footwork, I’ll give you that. But we don’t care dude, just wait your turn” Julian made a move to argue again, but Yoichi swooped in, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Hey, c’mon, Hao. Just let him in early, just this once. Please?” His voice was all sugar and smiles.

“Yoichi?” Hao raised a brow “ Why ?”

“He’s with me, and—” Yoichi stepped in close, leaned over, and whispered something into the kid’s ear. The kid stared for a second—then burst out laughing. 

Hao then pointed at Julian, then at the court. “Fine. One slot. Let’s see what the academy boy’s got." The crowd jeered, some amused, some already egging Julian on. It didn’t matter. Julian was already stretching out his shoulders like he belonged there.

Yoichi just leaned against the wall with a sigh, arms crossed, watching it all unfold, having placed his very strategic bet.

The warehouse was louder now, packed tighter. Word had spread about a surprise newcomer—young, unfamiliar, obviously new to the underground.

Julian.

He stood near the center of the concrete court, bathed in the flickering overhead light of an old, humming fixture. Around him, the other kids were gathering, forming a loose ring. Some leaned on the railings overhead, others perched on crates and scaffolding. The buzz was palpable.

Julian bounced the ball lightly under his foot, trying to keep his breathing steady. Yoichi had already gone ahead, ducking between pockets of the crowd, whispering, grinning, and nudging kids to look closer.

“Kid’s got academy blood,” someone muttered.

“Look at those touches—definitely trained.”

“Probably used to wearing cleats and getting oranges at halftime.”

Julian ignored the comments and let the ball dance.

Toe taps. Rollovers. A slick V-pull into a sharp around-the-world that sent a ripple of impressed gasps through the kids watching. He pivoted sharply, bounced the ball on the side of his foot, flicked it up and caught it on the back of his neck, holding it there like it was nothing.

“Okay, okay!” someone shouted, half-laughing. “Showoff!”

Yoichi burst into a grin, cupping his hands around his mouth. “That’s right! You all better put your money down now! ”

Julian shot him a side-eye glare, but Yoichi just grinned wider, already moving back toward the betting ring. He was loving every second of this. Julian could practically see the euro signs flashing in his eyes.

“Yo, what’s his name?” a taller kid asked.

Yoichi raised both hands. “No name. Just call him ‘Golden Boots.’”

Julian groaned. “ Don’t call me that.”

“Jamie! I bet 10 euro on Golden boots!”

Julian made a mental note to flick Yoichi on the forehead for that later.

The nickname stuck. And with every trick Julian pulled off, more and more kids reached for their pockets, slapping down coins and crumpled bills.

“Yoichi’s friend, right? Maybe he’s legit.”

“Yeah, me too, me too! I wanna bet!”

Yoichi circled back to Julian with a satisfied smirk. “You’re a star, Golden boots!”

Julian sighed. The crowd had turned. Now they expected greatness.

And in a few minutes, they were going to see what happened when you took polished glass and threw it into the jungle. The match was about to begin.

…

The moment Julian stepped onto the cracked concrete pitch, he felt the air change.

It wasn’t a real field—there were no lines, no turf, no goals made of net. Instead, rusted scaffolding framed the space, dented metal poles nailed into graffiti-tagged barrels marked the ends, and floodlights buzzed overhead like dying insects.

It smelled like sweat, smoke, and rubber. The kids were older—mostly 12, some 13. Taller. Built. They moved like predators, the way street-trained kids always did, shoulders loose, knees already bent, grins sharp and hungry.

Julian didn’t flinch.

He might’ve grown up with pressed collars and finely tuned drills, but he knew football.

The first pass came his way, and he greeted it with a clean trap. Crisp. Classic. He pivoted, scanned the “field” and laid it off with a smooth outside-foot flick to his teammate’s feet.

That was his first mistake.

“Yo!” a boy barked out across the pitch. “What was that?”

Julian blinked.

The kid—Rachid, judging by the others yelling at him—jerked a thumb at Julian and turned to his team. “Bro thinks he’s in a catalog shoot. That move was straight outta some Sunday school training session!”

The boys snorted, half amused, half disdainful.

“Yo, Red, is this your cousin from Monaco or something?”

Laughter rang out. One kid pantomimed Julian’s perfect stance, puffing out his chest like a ballet dancer. Another mockingly spun and tripped himself. Julian’s teeth clenched.

“Shut up and play,” he muttered, but his voice lacked bite.

He made the next touch cleaner, quicker—but it didn’t help. His spacing was textbook. His footwork impeccable. But this wasn’t a game that cared about polish.

This was chaos.

And it moved fast .

The next sequence came hard and fast—a burst of feet slamming on concrete, wild jukes, elbows and shoulders flying in open challenge. Julian got knocked sideways, someone raked their foot over the ball and sprinted past him like he wasn’t even there.

Yoichi’s voice called out, faint from the edge of the crowd. “You okay?!”

Julian didn’t answer. His stomach burned. His pride even more.

Rachid shoved past him again and spat, “Go home, little brat. This is where we play to eat.”

A pass came to Julian. Instinct kicked in. His hands twitched just slightly—because he remembered this.

Not this street, not this grime—but the formation, the angle, the play. Back when he was still with his coach. Still being told what to do.

He blinked—and the memory flooded in. That same setup. That same pressure.

"Pass left, Julian! Stick to the pattern!"

In the memory, he had. Passed like a good boy. They’d won that match, but not in the fun way he wanted.

But here, now—Julian didn’t pass.

He ran .

Shot forward, ball glued to his foot, weaving between two boys before they even saw him coming. His speed wasn’t elegant now—it was uneven. Clumsy. But he didn’t stop.

A kid slid for him and he leapt—cleared him by a breath, hit the ground and kept moving.

Cheers broke out from the younger kids.

The older ones cursed.

Someone shouted, “Woah, woah he's movin' now! Golden boots on the run!”

Julian gritted his teeth and pushed harder.

Another flashback hit—another time his coach had told him to pull back, reset. Don’t risk it.

And again—in the present—he ignored it, choosing instead to chase his own high. Flipped the ball behind his heel, spun around, and hit the wall with the side of his foot to rebound it back into his lane. He surged forward, faster, the adrenaline hitting him like jet fuel.

And for the first time in years—he was smiling as he played.

Yoichi was losing his mind on the sidelines. “There it is! That’s you! That’s what I wanted to see!”

Julian’s comeback was short but bright—he pulled the game nearly level, juked three defenders, even got a shot off that clanged off the metal goalpost with a loud PANG .

But his gas tank wasn’t built for this yet.

Final minutes ticked by. His last interception missed. A kid with longer legs and quicker reflexes got the ball and sealed it with a tight shot in the corner.

Whistle.

Game over.

Julian sat down on a cracked bench just outside the warehouse, legs outstretched, chest still heaving from the game. His shirt clung to him with sweat and grime, and every bruise throbbed like it had its own pulse. He stared out at the fading light of the sky, trying to process it all.

They lost.

Wait—

They lost.

“Dammit,” he whispered, barely audible. “Dammit..”

He looked up, scanning the shadows until he saw Yoichi a few meters away crouched by an old crate, fiddling with something in the dim light. Julian pushed himself up, legs trembling, and walked over stiffly.

“Yoichi,” he said, voice hoarse. “Hey. I’m—” He stopped himself. Swallowed.

Yoichi looked up with a grin. “Yo.”

Julian’s heart twisted. He couldn’t even look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words rough and sudden. “I… I lost. That match. It was—”

“Pretty sick, though,” Yoichi offered, still grinning. “You were doing that nutmeg thing and—”

“No,” Julian snapped. Then quieter, almost choked, “Don’t—don’t try to make it sound like it wasn’t a failure.”

Yoichi tilted his head, confused.

“I lost,” Julian repeated. “And you bet on me. You bet everything. All our money—everything we made the last whole day for Colmar, I—” His throat clenched. “I blew it.”

He felt sick. His stomach churned with guilt, his chest tight. “I ruined it. All of it.”

Yoichi stood, brushing the dust off his knees, and walked over. “Why are you acting like we’re broke?”

Julian stared. “Because you said you bet everything—”

“I did.”

“Then—”

Yoichi smiled like a kid hiding a secret behind his teeth. He reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out the pouch of coins.

It jingled.

He untied the cord and tilted it forward, letting the coins spill between his fingers.

It was fuller than before.

Julian’s mouth dropped open. “Wait—”

“We doubled it,” Yoichi said casually.

Julian blinked. “I—I thought you bet on me. ”

Yoichi made a face like why would I do that and shook his head, still chuckling. “Julian, you’ve got fire, but c’mon. You’re not ready to take on feral thirteen-year-olds with rust in their veins.”

“You—” Julian was speechless. “You bet against me?”

“Well, yeah. I knew you’d lose.” Yoichi said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Julian gaped. “You knew I’d lose?”

“Of course! I watched you play. You’re fast, smart, kinda fun to watch when you stop thinking, but dude—you’re not built for this yet.”

“Why’d you think Hao let you play? I told him you weren’t gonna win since you suck, duh. You needed to get humbled y’know..”

Julian was caught between outrage and awe. “So what—you set me up to fail?!”

“I set you up to learn,” Yoichi corrected with a smug grin. “And we got sixty euros out of it because so many people bet on you, sooo…”

So that’s what the hyping him up and calling him ‘Golden Boots’ was for..

Julian stared down at the coins. “You really bet everything?”

“All in.” Yoichi dropped the pouch into Julian’s hands. “See? I believed in me. ”

Julian wanted to be mad. But instead—

He laughed.

It started low, disbelieving. Then louder, more unhinged. “You traitor,” he gasped between chuckles, nearly falling over. “You used me”

“You're welcome.” Yoichi tossed him the pouch like it was a plush toy. “That’s at least a week or two of food if we stretch it, enough to pass through and relax in Colmar so I can focus on training you. And I get to buy more choux pastries.”

Julian caught the pouch, stared down at it, then at Yoichi, then back at the pouch.

“…You're dangerous.”

Yoichi grinned like the sun. “And you're predictable.”

Julian considered punching him, then considered the throbbing in his legs.

No. Not worth it.

Instead, he groaned and let himself flop sideways onto the crate, the wood creaking under him.“I can’t believe I felt bad.”

“You should,” Yoichi teased, flopping beside him. “You lost.”

Julian turned his head to glare at him—

“But, that’s a win for me. I got you to realize it.. Your ego, it’s to play in that kind of game isn’t it? Where it’s survival of the fittest and you gotta adapt on the fly fast enough. It suits you, y’know?”

And just like that—Julian felt something warm settle in his chest.

Yeah, he lost.

But he didn’t feel like a loser with Yoichi next to him.

Not tonight. Yoichi tugged at his sleeve. “C’mon, I know a place nearby where we can crash and count our money. No rats too”

“How lovely.”

“You deserve it, my little money-loser!”

“Shut up.”

They wandered together through the side streets, Yoichi leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew every alley and shortcut. Eventually, they slipped behind an abandoned tram stop and scaled a few crates to a lofted corner behind rusted fencing—nothing but a tarp and some space to breathe.

Julian dropped onto the mat of old blankets with a quiet sigh. Yoichi, despite all his earlier energy, yawned mid-sentence, curled into the cleanest corner, and was out in minutes.

Julian lay awake for a few moments longer.

The buzz of the game still lingered in his blood. His body ached yet his ego ached more.

But when he glanced at Yoichi’s small form curled beside him, messy hair fluffed against the blankets, clutching their coin pouch like a stuffed toy—

Julian felt… something. Something warm. Stupid. Familiar.

Endearing.

He rolled his eyes at himself. “Tch. Idiot.”

Then he turned on his side and let sleep take him.

Tomorrow, Colmar, for real this time.