Chapter Text
Again, grey. The colour conquered the skies and eradicated any breath of vividity that stepped out of the lines of monochrome. Still, smoke. It never let up, not even for a second. Sae was encircled by trails of it, rising high and low. It slid into his mind, saddling his thoughts—thoughts of the past, that same old past. In that he thought of Iglesias, and he too was grey as his image was conjured through a memory. There was that scarred face and easy grin that didn’t have even a hint of spite—and it would have been easier for Sae if there was, because the feelings of animosity that brewed in his breast, like a snappish tempest on a leash, would have been more worthwhile to sustain. There was no use in hating someone who had probably forgotten all about Sae, forgotten that he had crushed a dream as easily as he breathed. It was Sae who was still sitting slumped in the cage of a time gone. In some ways, his eyes had been opened. If he’d kept them closed forever he would have humiliated himself inevitably, a half-wit dribbling a ball in the hopes of scoring— he had never been striker material, and if it had to be Iglesias who taught him that, then so be it. Many would have, in hindsight, considered this to be a good thing. However, Sae couldn’t exactly manage the same. He was currently at that bitter stage where everything was still smarting, and he was feeling far too regretful to salvage much gratitude out of his predicament.
It was this predicament that kept him in the slums of Berlin, which he was beginning to like the more he dragged his feet about leaving. The seediness of the city had charmed him in a way that Tokyo had never been able to. No one glanced at Sae for any longer than a split second, no one measured him up for a legacy he could never fulfil. Because everyone here was the same; they aimed for the same. It was just, keep your head down and keep pushing forward to the next day. The convenience store employee refused to even meet Sae’s eyes as she bagged his items, so little was the interest she had to spare. And when Sae, pathetically, kicked a ball about the abandoned park’s steel-framed pitch he was always glad that he only had the sparrows for company. Here, there were no teammates to tie him down and the feeling was great. There was absolute freedom in everything he did now, and he was basking in it.
Sae wondered whether Michael shared his love for Berlin, or if he merely regarded his surroundings with that increasingly familiar look of dull indifference. This didn’t bother Sae, as he had no need for impassioned people, but Michael stripped the joy of everything until he was met with only the bare bones of life. He didn’t long for freedom like Sae did. He was someone that liked control and only control. He went out during the day and half the night to earn money in mysterious ways that he wouldn’t even confide in Sae, and he seemed to like that he was the designated breadwinner, that he had a great responsibility on his shoulders and that his father was at his mercy. Sae was familiar with control— it was something that had shown in his play-style, to the extent that he dictated which foot went in front of the other in order to make a shot for the goalpost. But now he was tired of it. For Michael, such a glory was forever eternal.
He had stopped asking Sae about his leaving. They were used to each other now. They didn’t think of each other with respect, though. Rather, there was only a mild curiosity, something you’d spare for a particular gnarly insect on the pavement.
Once, Michael lifted a banknote and flicked it under Sae’s nose, fanning it this way and that as though he was offering a stray dog a bone. ‘Smell that?’ he asked amusedly. ‘Fresh, German euro.’
Sae pushed the slip of blue paper away from him, unimpressed. ‘You never did tell me what you do,’ he remarked. To be fair, it wasn’t as though he was dying to find out about Michael’s job, if one could potentially call it that.
‘That’s because you don't need to worry about it,’ was the wry response. ‘Why, do you want work, too? Are you poor, little Japanese boy?’
It turned out that he was at least capable of indignation after all. ‘I am definitely not poor,’ he said. He didn’t say this arrogantly, because the salary for the under-twenties’ league was not terribly immense. But he spent very little and so had a cosy amount in his bank account, ready to break out and be used for flaunting.
‘Oh, really?’
He shrugged. Ice blue eyes watched him, expectantly, but Sae had now done away with expectations. If they swapped places he was almost certain that Michael would brag about his earnings, while Sae made slightly bitter small-talk about his hard-labour job. Michael didn’t have much to be proud of, but when he did he wasn’t in the least bit hesitant to be vocal about it.
‘I play soccer,’ he said. ‘Under-twenties.’
Michael whistled. ‘Is that so?’ However, there was an edge to his features that told Sae that his supposed interest was feigned.
‘Don’t believe me?’ Sae challenged mildly. ‘I’m pretty good.’
‘Not good enough to earn tens of thousands,’ Michael sneered.
‘…. Then don’t.’ He shrugged again. If he was a shoe-in as one of the contenders for the New Generation Eleven, then Michael wouldn’t know about it.
Sae hadn’t meant for his nonchalance to work as a bait, but it had anyway and he could see the cogs begin to whir in Michael’s money-hungry brain. He soon began pushing Sae, both verbally and physically, into showing off a few drills he’d practiced to the extent that he could go over them in his sleep. And surprisingly, Michael seemed impressed. Not by Sae’s skill, though— Michael said that if that was all it took to get paid tens of thousands of euros a year then he didn’t see why he couldn’t get on that, too.
Sae said, ‘It’s not like you’re trained.’
Michael shrugged, as though it didn’t matter.
Sae’s temporary visa was just days away from expiring, now. Whether he liked it or not, Spain was calling his name. But he couldn’t go back, not yet. He had started something awful and he needed to hang around to see the nightmarish results.
The youth club captain had a brush-like beard, though he was barely nineteen. He also wore a cap that was tucked so that it covered about half his face. But there was little doubt that he was watching Michael very carefully, and perhaps with a degree of anticipation.
He had been the star of the practice match. To say that the captain had been shocked was a severe understatement. No one could have foretold that a street imp with long, bright hair that did not belong on the head of a sportsman, possessed so much power within him. The rules of the game had only been briefly explained to him beforehand, and it hadn’t looked as though he had been listening much. The referee constantly held his whistle to his mouth as he watched Michael push each and every boundary before him, though never actually committing a bona fide foul. He tore through the field with a dangerous agility, fast and violent, and his every goal attempt reeked of some kind of bloodlust. This was a play style utterly unique to him, and only a lunatic would attempt to replicate it.
There was a frantic energy as he stepped out of the pitch to grab at the captain’s collars and shake him. He demanded something better than the local youth team.
He wanted glory.
And this was Sae’s fault. Even if he hadn’t directly played a hand in the making of a would-be tyrant, he had been nevertheless a witness.
He had no idea what to make of things. Had he unknowingly conjured someone’s own Iglesias? The stunned opponents tugging at the artificial grass wore the same expression of defeat that Sae must have had, all those months ago. Almost a year now.
‘I have to go soon,’ he muttered. The sun had made an appearance at long last two days before his visa expired, and he wondered if it was deliberate.
Michael had one of Bastard München’s brochures tucked under his folded arms. His hair was as aggressive as ever, fanned out like a thorned halo. He didn’t look particularly disappointed, only vaguely surprised, as though it had only just occurred to him that Sae had obligations outside of watching Michael Kaiser become a football terror.
‘But you should stay,’ he said.
Sae…wanted to, weirdly enough. Perhaps this was simply the result of an involuntary investment. By all means he ought to stay and see what became of Michael. Even if it was just out of a need to keep tabs on someone he was potentially threatened by, returning to Re Al felt far too hasty.
So then he said, ‘Only if you get me another visa.’