Chapter Text
As the waves renewed the sand's moisture in spasmodic impulses, Shidou felt the dozens of small scrapes on his arm throb like a choir, though he hardly cared. He preferred to savor the sensation of throbbing, burning, and trembling in his skin, which was healing in such a natural, animalistic way—aren't all injuries wild? While he observed the whole scene, he caught a tone that was very hard to achieve in day-to-day life. Charles Chevalier stretched out on a fishing boat bogged down in the sand; the shimmering colors of the sea, with its glints reflecting every ray of sun, gave him a vivid air—almost too healthy, floating—despite the bandages rising from his right hand to his shoulder. Below, one of his feet dangled outside the boat; Ryusei noticed the soaked gauze, a dirty, brownish tone at the tip of the foot, but did little more than smile. His eyes were already used to the face covered in scabs where the cheek had been flayed. It was light; the weather was pleasant and Chevalier’s scenery was as cheerful as a summer painting by Monet, his face in half-shadow, covered by the parasol he’d jammed into one of the boat’s edges to hide from the white midday light.
Charles felt his wet feet cool against a gentle breeze emanating from the sea, as if it stayed close to the water. He liked the sensation of the gauze unraveling in the water, of the small grains of sand infiltrating the white limbo of his bandages. He ran a hand over his face, felt his mangled cheek, and remembered how they cleaned his cuts non-stop at the hospital every day; all that sanitary shit annoyed him. He had the urge to go out and roll in the garden of that clinical-white prison. To walk through the glass entrance door and let another hundred shards of glass—like those from the shattered car window—pierce his skin all over his body.
Finally, the rigid cleanings ceased. There had been some nuisances until then, like the police questioning and Loki’s insistence that he return to their apartment in Tokyo until the World Cup drew near, so they could evaluate Charles under the best recovery conditions so he could play for France. As it happened, Charles vehemently refused; he wanted, as usual, ready to swim against expectations, to spend his recovery time with the man who had caused his accident: Shidou Ryusei.
Shidou saw no problem with it, and perhaps there was even a certain renewed sense of responsibility in his relationship with Chevalier: after all, Ryusei himself hadn't suffered any serious injury beyond a few scrapes and scratches, while Charles had some deep cuts, along with dozens of small shards of squared safety glass piercing his skin, as well as a dislocated and, as if that wasn't enough, broken arm. Not to mention a certain laceration on his foot, Loki’s biggest object of concern. However, the doctors said, with their mechanical voices, that there would be no permanent sequels of any kind, not for Charles, nor even for Rin, who had been tossed from one side of the car to the other like a ping-pong ball.
At that moment, Rin let himself be bitten by the many tiny mosquitoes, with their thin needles, that hung around the brush preceding Kamakura beach. Those small green tufts that were remnants of the mountain forests. He lay stretched out on the ground, part of his body on the cloth Sae had laid down and part on the dirt, staining his white t-shirt brown. Every now and then, he felt ants crawling up his arm; maybe it was some other bug—he did nothing about it. Small insect bites wouldn't hurt him as much as the massive patch of bruised flesh on the side of his ribs, the wrist broken the moment he tried to brace himself against one of the car doors, or the persistent tugs in his hip which, from what they said, should eventually vanish with proper rest. The real problem was the shin; Rin didn’t even know what happened, only that it got stuck somewhere in that massive hunk of iron called a car, and now he can barely walk.
However, no physical pain compared to the emotional malaise that afflicted him—the humiliation of being in the situation he’s in, where the only thing he can do is let his mind wander far away when he needs Sae’s help to eat, to change his fucking clothes, to take a bath. Every second makes him want to claw at his own skin, to flay himself. He reaches out his left hand to scratch inside the gap of the cast on his wrist, scratching violently, wanting to feel a sharp pain that reminds him his bones are cracked, snapped like twigs. His nails dig into his right arm, the skin turns red, though he can still feel an insect crawling up his left leg.
He imagines, with a certain distance in his gaze, a swarm of ants engulfing his leg, as if his flesh were nothing more than the dirt of an anthill. He tries to imagine the situation because, besides giving him a strange pleasure, it distracts him from memories that repeat in his mind. It turns out Kamakura has been very silent since he arrived; this part of the beach holds only distant sounds from one community of humans or another—what they call society, a cluster of people. But the sounds that truly predominate are the rustling of leaves as the wind blows. The water sweeping the beach in gentle waves and crashing against some rocks somewhere, sometimes against boats. And between the rustle of the small line of brush behind him and the sound of his clothes folding, Rin remembers, in quick flashes, Sae’s gazes at him while he was slumped, shirtless on the hospital stretcher. The small scars that permeated that soft part below his ribs.
Then, how his face maintained that same particular air while they handed him Rin’s medical profile, the almost mundane way he told him to get dressed the day they returned to the house in Kamakura. And how he suddenly realized he would have to help him with that, when the nurse appeared teaching him how to avoid pain points; they treated Rin’s body like a new machine—one must not press these buttons, they cause pain; lift the arms this way instead. Rin couldn't bring himself to say anything at the time; he was somewhat paralyzed by the sudden, intimate confidence with which Sae touched his body—expressionless, light as usual. Besides, the pain meds made him numb, a bit too slow in his thoughts.
For whatever reason, one that escapes Rin’s understanding, Sae also allowed Charles and Shidou to settle in and, consequently, annoy him.
It was exactly because of Charles’s demands and whining—his bratty laments and childish blubbering about the beaches of Lorient—that they decided to spend an afternoon on the Kamakura coast. Rin wanted to stay behind, but Sae stared him down with that familiar expression that conveyed silent demands, so he ended up going; in the end, the experience wasn't entirely negative. He liked the sensation of things scratching his skin, the way his bruised flesh pulled in sharp stabs of pain when he made the wrong moves; there was a very clear and pleasant contrast in his head between the weight of his body and the lightness of the world around him—feeling capable of distancing himself from his surroundings.
Being hurt made him feel more justified. When he distractedly dug his nails into his arms, he thought about the morbid brutality of death slowly crawling over his body; he ground his teeth with hatred throughout all these actions, knowing he was sick. He had some awareness of his diseased mind, feeble in some important areas. Maybe he was crazy, born that way from the womb, with all his wild childhood habits—the urge to hurt himself, to destroy others and himself, to feel. But despite the strength of this evident sense of insanity, he always seemed incapable of truly trying to heal, of treating this madness or surrendering to it. It was too intangible a subject. However, now, injured, while his cells moved back into place after a great displacement, a great pain, the situation seemed fairer. He didn't need to remain completely sane, awake for another day. He could disconnect; let this air of rest, of incapacity, consume him.
Because of this, he didn't mind lying in the middle of the grass, even if a scorpion were to emerge from among the ants and pierce his skin with some venom. Let him agonize right there until his premature death. The feeling might seem contradictory to his thoughts, Rin knows, but he was feeling very much alive; he finally seemed capable, in those moments, of conceiving life with clarity. He was in the present, living this exact day, hour, minute, and second. He didn't think about what would become of his soccer when he recovered, he didn't think much beyond his current state, he didn't dream of the day of recovery when he would return to the pitch, he didn't worry about the World Cup. He was satisfied to think that he hadn't given up on that exhausting and unpleasant journey of crushing Sae—he couldn't give up on his own, admit to something he didn't know what—he was simply forced to stop. External forces. That kind of situation.
The whole thing had an air of the everyday, yet it was unreal. Rin didn’t know why Sae would allow Shidou and Charles to stay with them in Kamakura when he didn't even seem capable of tolerating his own family at home. It crossed his mind quickly, more an impression than a thought, that Sae might have some longing for the house, a small throb of familiarity that prompted him to spend time again in the place where he grew up. But it’s very hard to convince yourself of a thought of that nature when, looking a bit ahead, in a beach chair and under a parasol stuck in the sand, Sae remains the same. The same face, the same attitude, the same air. And yet, he manages to look like an alien with every action he takes. There is never any expression on his face, and as much as Rin knows Sae feels things, he can't believe it.
Sae leaning back in the chair, with a clip holding his bangs up—what a domestic image, Rin thinks, ironically. Shidou thinks the same, though with an air of pleasure, a certain happiness. He looks back at the scene: Rin stretched out on the grass, half-dirty, half-clean, like a wild animal, as beastly and as beautiful as his madness on the pitch, yet strangely demure, repressed in some way. It makes Ryusei think of "Waves at Matsushima"; it seems fitting for the image he projects, but he's not sure. A contrast to Sae, certainly, just as integrated into the environment in a repressed way as Rin, but Sae has a certain softness where in Rin there is madness and savagery—a rigid but comfortable logic. Maybe Joaquín Sunyer? Shidou chews on the idea. No, better Anglada Camarasa. The expressionlessness; it’s impersonal when he draws those elegant women. It’s similar to Sae in feeling, or similar to how Shidou sees him. Sae is a painting of a soft face, but with strong colors.
Shidou smiles to himself—what a promising interval this is going to be! Of course, he still needs to find a proper way to compensate Charles for the huge mistake he made; it’s unfair that he harmed him and, despite everything, RinRin. He didn't like hurting people when he didn't have the direct intention of punching them until they were dizzy, in a direct fight, a fair discipline between two living beings. And more: Shidou would never forgive himself if he turned two figures like Charles and Rin into dull, inert subjects. The worst thing there is, is to strip away an individual's essence, to let them die not literally, but in the soul. To let them fall into a limbo of permanent incapacity, of self-castration. That kind of thing gives him the chills!
For a concrete happy ending to the story of the accident—the explosive crash—Charles was actually quite happy. A bit moody and grumbly during his time in the hospital bed, being cleaned, sealed with all sorts of bandages and ointments. However, once freed, he seemed to be at a peak of electric charge, cheerful despite the crutches he used to keep one foot off the ground. He asked if he couldn't use a wheelchair and begged Shidou to let him go down a narrow, sloping street with it. In short, Charles came back marvelling at the world, rejoicing in feeling and exploring colors, smells, and textures like a city dog when it goes to the countryside. When he was able to go to the hospital garden for the first time, his eyes almost sparkled. In contrast, Rin seemed more detached, as if floating in his own space. Shidou asked; they told him Rin hadn't hit his head or anything of the sort. It could be shock, a more psychological matter. Ryusei grunted and walked away toward the vending machine to get some hot tea for Sae.
The period they shared in the hospital—Shidou accompanying Charles despite Loki’s initial disapproval, and Sae keeping an eye on Rin as the responsible relative present—was a very pleasant coexistence. Sae didn't seem annoyed by Shidou’s presence, despite the accident. Perhaps he thought that kind of attitude wasn't practical, and, who knows, he might have been convinced of a sense of responsibility on Shidou’s part when he decided to stay at the medical center. It was always a performance of flirting, without the full flirtation, like the foreplay of the foreplay; they would stare at each other before entering one room or another, a polite exchange of teas and coffees in the morning. Shidou would always smile, and Sae, as if there were a great meaning to it, would not flinch.
Sae never flinched unless it was too much, even if his "too much" was a line between shaking hands and shaking hands while squeezing them. And despite the details that might sound inconvenient, rude, or unpleasant, Shidou felt attracted, somewhat enchanted by that serene way of being, however fleeting. It was like having a bird in your hands; you can't squeeze too hard—let it move its body in its own time, let it decide its own space—and even if you do everything right, the creature will decide when to leave whenever it wants. And in that way, the moments you let that little creature perch in your hands will be special, like magic.
Shidou noticed, as the days grew increasingly sunny, that Sae was indeed a silent creature by nature. Whether in the hospital corridors, on the garden grass, on the beach sand, or on the wooden floor of the house in Kamakura. One could hear the noises of Charles watching whatever movie on TV, wrapping himself in blankets on the sofa or the rug, even the few times Rin joined him and put on some horror program—The Shining, Rosemary's Baby, or the 2006 film Sakebi. Shidou made his own noises: music creaking from his phone, the grunts of his daily workouts. Rin left the rustling of fabric and grumpy mumbles wherever he walked, while Charles was sonorous by nature. However, Sae simply wasn't.
His full presence could be like a vacuum, it was so silent; it was hard to tell if he was home or not. His footsteps barely resonated when he walked; he woke up too early to make tea and drank it in complete silence, scrolling through his phone or reading a sports magazine. Shidou also noticed that Sae simply didn't consume any media—or almost any media—that didn't involve football in some way. Sometimes he was completely oblivious to popular knowledge, though he was strangely good at mathematical calculations. Shidou observed from afar how fast Sae calculated the proteins and calories consumed, and how quickly he would discard a certain amount of food that exceeded his ideal intake. He always had a rough speculation of how many calories he burned while walking or running across the Kamakura bridge in the morning, though no one saw him leave, only return: he didn't announce the measurements and calculations he made out loud, but Ryusei saw him jotting them down in a tracking app every now and then.
On a fresh Tuesday morning, almost cold, with a gray sky and the curtains closed, Shidou woke up as early as Sae. It was about five in the morning; Shidou was shirtless, as he liked to feel the fresh morning air on his skin, and although he received some complaints and grumbles from Rin, Sae, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered. One couldn't even see a subtle difference to suggest he’d noticed Shidou’s bare chest—not when he seemed more interested in the steam rising from his teacup, or the news from some online journal, sometimes answering messages from clubs.
Shidou went downstairs—he and Charles slept upstairs, not in the living room as previously planned. As it happened, the Itoshi parents hadn't been interested frequenters of the Kamakura house since Rin became independent enough not to die if left alone, and since both sons, experts in the football media, became more than enough of a money source for a generous house anywhere in the world. Not that they had faced any financial difficulties before their sons' formal football careers, but Mr. and Mrs. Itoshi's room was, in fact, quite comfortable to live in. Shidou and Charles were sharing it, as neither of them cared about the need to sleep in the same bed and, frankly, didn't even mind tangling limbs in the sheets or sharing cozy hugs on film nights when it was a bit cold.
At the bottom of the stairs, his eyes rose to Sae, resting like one of those marble statues that create a soft illusion of fabric and flesh. Steam spiraled out of his cup as he poured another bit of tea. Shidou didn't say "good morning" or "hello" or "did you sleep well." Sae barely looked at him; in fact, Itoshi didn't look up until he had finished serving his tea—and what a strong scent of jasmine hung there, like in a dream—and then ran his hands over his sweater and opened a sports news site on his phone. Only then did he raise his eyes to acknowledge Shidou's existence.
Ryusei wasted no time; he blinked once and suddenly ran back upstairs. When he returned, he was holding a massive sketchbook; Sae thinks he’d only seen sketchbooks that size in primary school. The two pencils he held in his other hand were sharply pointed, as if the graphite had eaten away the wood. Sae observed from afar, this time not so ignorant of the world outside his eyes, organs, and brain. Although he noticed Shidou sitting on the stairs and heard the sound of pencil against paper, along with the usual morning noises, he said nothing. Not for several good minutes, until he finished drinking his tea, until he reached the end of the news page, until he had answered the most recent messages from the coach and his team, Real Madrid. While he did each of his small morning tasks, the faucet dripped every few seconds, perhaps minutes. Shidou concentrated on that sound, the sound of his pencil, the waves, and the faint chirping of birds that must have been perched on the poles and trees near the house.
Finally, Sae looked back at him, like a forest creature observing an unknown animal, and Shidou smiled.
"I'm drawing you," Shidou murmured, erasing a small edge. The sound of the eraser was more pleasant than that of the pencil, Sae thought.
"I know," he replied.
"Are you going to keep it in your room when I'm done? The drawing?" He had a distracted air.
Sae went silent, and although his expression was the same blank canvas as always, the lack of immediate words suggested a line of thought forming in that head—and what a marvelous head, Ryusei thought.
And then, Sae answered simply: "I will. If it's good."
Shidou nodded, joyful.
"How will you know if it's good?" The sink water was taking longer and longer to drip, he noticed.
"I won't know if it's good. I don't understand art." Sae was so sincere, so brutally honest in these situations; Shidou was enchanted. "However, I will know if it's beautiful. I don't know much that isn't related to football; outside of my career, my life is repugnant. But I can have a good aesthetic sense."
His voice had a monotonous but intriguing timbre. What a serene way of being.
"You do. And it doesn't seem repugnant to me."
Sae dismissed it with a slight nod, almost non-existent, likely unconscious, declaring the conversation over.
"I'm going for a walk soon; you have about six minutes," he noted, without moving.
Shidou murmured an understanding. He felt good sharing a morning with Sae. He had always intended to get to know him, talk to him, have one of those eternal and unpretentious moments ever since they met with Blue Lock. But he hadn't thought, in any personal expectation or concoction, that he would be invited to sleep here, that Sae would actually keep his word and give him his number, that he would allow an enthusiastic conversation or two. There was the possibility he was thinking too far ahead, imagining with too much positivity, but he could speculate that, by Itoshi standards, Sae liked him. If not him, then his presence, or his game, or his conversation.
Shidou is in love, in the purest sense of passion: uncontrolled. He doesn't want to love Sae in this instant, or perhaps he does; however, his priority is to devour him, to dissect and steal every part of his dry and wonderful indifference, of his peaceful and almost tedious existence off the pitch, beyond the logical magnitude within him. His passion—not love, not yet—makes him burn. Love, the best kind of love according to Phaedrus in Plato's Symposium, is that which is capable of instilling some virtue. There is nothing virtuous about Shidou’s admiration; in truth, if he could describe it precisely (he couldn't), if he could come close to a precise description, he would say it is an almost ugly scheme, repulsive, yet beautiful for being so. Futile and momentary, though eternal in memory.
That is what he is thinking about when the door closes behind Sae, making almost no noise. Not necessarily thinking—he has thoughts in words, yes—but the whole thing, the magic itself, is almost a feeling, an impression far too strong. When he was younger, he read and learned much about philosophy, art, and even some literature. He paid attention to those classes in school, read a book or two when he had the chance. But nothing, no literary intellectuality, compared to the ecstasy of this quick impression of understanding. For some reason, something tells him that Sae is an equal. Maybe not with the same ways, you know? The same uses, but something tells him that Sae is capable of understanding a thing or two in this very specific aspect of feeling.
He places the pencil at the corner of the stairs, a small noise following, as he observes the drawing from above. It was delicate, an almost angelic image of the peaceful, silent, and austere face. Many lines remained incomplete, but they guided the imagination to the shape of the face, the eyes, the eyelashes, and the hair. As if the drawing—the figure of Sae—might disappear if you didn’t look closely. Satisfactory, Shidou thinks. He is going to leave the paper on Sae’s desk. Before that, he leaves a kiss on the paper, of course.
During the common part of the morning, at ten, Sae returns. Shidou leans back on the sofa to receive him, nodding his head. Rin is watching A Clockwork Orange after losing a bet to Shidou—if Shidou had lost, he would have had to watch The Shining (again). Charles is playing some kind of ranking game on his phone, his feet resting on Ryusei’s lap, because Chevalier’s bandages were always dirty, as he always found a way to roll in the grass and sand like a dog.
Shidou notices that Rin’s eyebrows are furrowed at the film, while Sae walks to a part of the room and observes the television from afar.
"There are too many scenes of exaggerated violence," Rin says. "It takes my focus away from the story."
Shidou snorts, half-amused and half-impatient. Rin is grumbling because they weren't watching the movie he wanted; he was a bit spoiled and demanding at times. Perhaps bossy, rather than spoiled.
"It’s because the protagonist’s violence is exaggerated," he explains, distracting himself with the new perception. "Spoiled and demanding," he repeats mentally. He peeks behind him and sees only a trace of Sae’s shadow disappearing upstairs, probably for a shower after his run.
But his thoughts do not disappear with Sae; they complete themselves: what kind of life have the Itoshis lived until now? What was their childhood like? How did the parents raise them? What did they play? Did they fight a lot from an early age? What kind of education did they receive, what interests did they nurture, how did they behave?
He could perceive that the house was very airy and fresh; there was considerable space for two children to play. It had a very domestic air, though a bit fragile too, preserved in a way that whispered "care," but also evidenced little use. Like a staged domesticity, or else, a rigid one. There were soft-colored curtains, as well as well-kept wooden furniture, soft rugs, and duvets smelling of fabric softener. But most of the dishes were always in the high cabinets, without easy access, the kitchen seldom frequented and, if Shidou remembers correctly, he doesn't think Rin and Sae have used the dining table together even once since they arrived in Kamakura.
The city was near the beach, beautiful to look at and considerably cheerful; they must have played and walked around the neighborhood a lot during childhood, especially if they were sporty children. But Shidou’s imagination stops here; it cannot go much further in emotional senses. The Itoshi parents must not have been the best at parental care, given the result: two sons who can barely communicate properly, though highly competent in their professional careers, both evidencing a kind of lack of sanity. Rin always seems on the edge of a breakdown, an endless abyss. Shidou didn't say anything, but he saw the scars once, pale and almost harmless under Rin’s ribs, when a nurse was checking the bruises and scratches in the rib area and Ryusei was planning to take some tea to Sae.
Both remained in silence, observing. Shidou isn't sure, but he thinks that this time, he saw Sae's eye twitch. A blink and flutter as fast as the beating of a hummingbird's wing. Quite something.
And also, there was the obviousness of the current situation: Rin suffered an accident, Sae, his brother, is here, making sure the boy is eating, helping him change clothes and perform some tasks he cannot manage—though they almost always do it in an awkward silence. But there is no sign of the parents, the barely remembered and even less mentioned Mr. and Mrs. Itoshi. Neither brother mentions or even bothers with the subject, as if it were natural. Shidou doesn't mind either, but he wonders what kind of real conclusion this brings. His mind wanders, without really solving anything for now, though he knows the question will continue to fly through his mind until he gets enough pieces to answer it. The young man, the film's protagonist, is talking to the priest in this scene, and now, Rin seems to have forgotten to complain; Charles lowered his phone, taking a peek at the film. Would Loki find it improper? Shidou thinks.
Rin is scratching his arm, above the broken wrist; it’s red, the nails digging in with some force. Shidou observes but says nothing. Rin seems simply much more absorbed than his natural self. Even some of his sarcastic and moody comments seem more neutral, as if their fights were mere routine, not an action and reaction. Lately, there seemed to be no reaction for Rin, or at least, none within Ryusei’s sight. In fact, even his resistance to coexisting with Shidou and Charles was weak.
How curious, Ryusei reflects, his eyes on the scratched arms. He cannot tell if he feels any concern. What does Sae think of all this? Thinking about the personality of both, the situation with Sae must be a bit torturous for Rin, he concludes. It will be a scene to observe during the coming days.
The curtains moved slowly back and forth, swaying lightly with the wind from the slightly open windows. Sae watches them, putting on his sweater, arm by arm; it’s a soft fabric, and he enjoys the sensation. He likes the sound of these cotton clothes—the hollow sound they give to his arms and the rest of his body. He had seen a cat walking near the bridge while he was stretching; he laughed, though the laughter didn't show on his face. Afterward, he spent the rest of the morning staring at the sea on his way back; it was always pleasant to see the sea near home. He would have liked to stay a bit longer, but he had to return, or else Rin wouldn't eat, or worse, he would eat some nonsense coming from the minds of Charles and Shidou. Since he cannot exercise for now, it’s best that he has a well-balanced diet. How did Rin eat when their parents weren't home? They certainly left him money. What choices did he make from the menu? Knowing the brat, he must have ordered just anything from the convenience store near the house—nothing fresh.
He went downstairs, perceiving the "timbre" of the house—an atmosphere of serene dawn, though the sky had been bright for some time. It wasn't like this in Spain, he thinks, though for no particular purpose. If he were there, the dawn would have begun more recently, and Sae could enjoy that soft moment of sunrise without having to wake up almost at four in the morning. How repugnant. Despite this, it is pleasant to be at home, and it has been fun to have Charles and Shidou’s presence around. He has to deal with Loki sending constant messages about Charles's status, of course, and with Hugo sending messages on Loki's behalf, but these are small inconveniences. Closing the cabinet, his eyes stop to observe the desk: a large piece of paper. Shidou’s drawing, of course. It turned out pretty, and that is all Sae can think about it without sounding fake. It doesn't move him much, but it pleases him, and that is enough.
The days have had a golden appearance. Tedious and serene like his entire existence in Japan, but for now, it is even pleasant for it to remain this way.