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He helps him pick out the ring.
“Honestly, it all kind of looks the same to me,” Endou says, peering down at some gaudy, diamond-encrusted monstrosity, and Shuuya hurriedly directs him towards a more low-key display case. He points out a ring made of white silver, with a single, vibrant emerald inlaid and delicate, vine-like etchings on the band.
“Green is her colour,” Shuuya says, when Endou looks at him questioningly.
“Really?” Endou says. He rubs at the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh. “Man, I’m so awful at this… I think just about everything is her colour. She could wear the ugliest clothes in the world and I wouldn’t notice a damn thing.”
There’s something in the way he says this that gives Shuuya pause. He’s heard countless “I love you”s between them, but never anything so tender, so affectionate and nervous and hopeful. Nothing has ever sounded more like a confession. Shuuya’s throat feels tight. There’s a low, steady ache threading its way through his chest. He forces himself to smile.
“I never knew you were such a sap. You’re going to be insufferable until the wedding, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” Endou laughs. “Sorry about it. But… you know I still have to ask her, right? It’s not a done deal just yet.”
“Idiot,” Shuuya says, his voice soft and pitiably fond. “Who would ever say no to you?”
.
.
He dances with Fuyuka at the reception.
Both of them keep glancing over, across the room to where the newlyweds are swaying together. Natsumi’s dress is long and elegant in its simplicity, with full skirts that almost brush the floor and a single flower made of silk sewn on to the bodice. Endou’s suit jacket was fitted hastily – it’s a bit too short at the wrists and a bit too long at the hem. His tie (improvised last-minute after an incident with an exploding pen) doesn’t quite match the rest of his outfit. On anyone else it would be laughable, and yet somehow it only adds to his charm.
“I’m happy for them,” Fuyuka says, smiling softly. She sounds wistful and wholly sincere.
“… So am I,” Shuuya says.
And the worst part is that he means it. It would be so much easier if he could be bitter. If he could hate their happiness. If he could lose himself in jealousy and wrap himself up in ugly, twisted feelings, letting self-pity rot away his thoughts. That, at least, would be something to cling to.
But even now there is only a kind of quiet resignation. A voice in the back of his mind saying “this is right, this is how it should be, she’ll make him happier than you could ever hope to.”
As he and Fuyuka turn, he sneaks one more surreptitious glance.
Endou whispers something in Natsumi’s ear. She laughs, and even from this distance Shuuya can see her eyes brighten. Their bodies fit so perfectly together. She is just the right height to lean her head against his shoulder. Endou’s hand is resting on the small of her back, fingers tightly curled like he’s afraid she might slip away if he’s not careful.
The song ends, but neither of them seems to notice.
.
.
A few weeks after the wedding, Endou texts him an address.
our new place!! the message reads. it’s the one a few blocks from raimon – i showed you the pics, right? we’ll be settled in fairly soon so feel free to drop by whenever. (maybe in-between mealtimes would be best so natsumi doesn’t have a reason to cook…)
Shuuya stares at the message for a time, a heaviness in his heart. His finger hovers over the ‘delete’ button.
But in the end he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead he creates a new folder – names it “For When It’s Over” and puts the message inside for safekeeping.
“Gouenji-san, is something wrong?”
Toramaru has returned from paying the bill. He’s looking at him curiously from across the table.
“… No,” he says, snapping his phone shut and sliding it back into his pocket. “No, sorry. You were saying…?”
“I was saying that we should really consider letting the others know about this. I realize it’s important to assume a low profile, but keeping them totally in the dark seems strange… No one in our group would ever give us away to Fifth Sector. You know that, right? At the very least you should tell Endou – ”
“No,” Shuuya says. It comes out sharper than he means it to. “It’s better this way. Our cover has to be flawless if we’re going to pull this off, Toramaru. The less people who know, the greater our chances of success. And I do trust everyone in our group. Implicitly. But even the strongest people are susceptible to coercion. By keeping them unaware, they have less chance of being caught in the crossfire.”
Toramaru slumps back in his chair with a sigh. “I guess you’re right,” he muses. “It just seems… wrong, y’know? Going it alone like this. Never thought you were the type to keep anything from Endou.”
At this, Shuuya is struck with the urge to laugh.
“You’d be surprised,” he says.
.
.
He tells himself that it’s all for the best.
He is doing what’s best for Endou and for Natsumi. His feelings, his presence… He would only be a burden to them now. A sorry excuse for a best friend, constantly longing for something he’ll never have, taking up the precious time of a newly-married man. He would sit across from them at the dinner table and force a smile, feeling more and more like an unnecessary component, a diseased limb just waiting to be severed before the infection spreads.
He is doing what’s best for soccer. While his former teammates are out there fighting, using the sport they love to strike back, his role is here, on the inside, studying and observing and pulling the strings as best he can from the shadows. It will all be worth it, in the end. Being hated is a small price to pay.
But it still hurts, when he looks at his phone and sees all the unanswered messages – from Kidou and Kazemaru and Fubuki, but mostly from Endou. His texts – casual, breezy comments about his daily life – are still just as frequent, even after months of silence in return. But every once in a while, now, there will be a “please come back soon” tacked on to the end. (There was even an “I’m sorry if I did something to make you angry” back when he first dropped off the grid. He suspects Endou may have been drunk when he sent that one.)
And it still hurts, when Endou stands before him and asks “why” in that shaky voice.
“Gouenji,” he says, angry and pleading and desperately sad, and all Shuuya wants is to close the distance and put his arms around him.
“I am not Gouenji,” he says instead, and wonders if he’ll ever be able to forget that look of betrayal in Endou’s eyes.
.
.
Sometimes, when he drives across the bridge east of town, he eases off the gas for just a moment.
He glances out the window at the riverside soccer pitch below, in hopes of seeing a familiar face there. (In hopes of seeing one particular face, if he’s being honest with himself.)
Sometimes Yuuka is in the passenger seat.
She examines her nails and smoothes the pleats in her skirt and pretends not to notice him looking, and he loves her all the more for it.
.
.
“Gouenji,” Endou says. “Let’s play soccer together again.”
The roar of the crowd – deafeningly loud just a moment before – seems strangely muted and distant now.
He grins, holding out his hand, and Shuuya takes a sharp breath as he clasps it tight. Endou’s palm is warmer than Shuuya remembers it being. Softer, too. His goalkeeper’s callouses have faded away after spending so much time on the sidelines, but his grip is still firm and unshakable. Like an anchor, Shuuya thinks.
“Yeah,” he says, and smiles genuinely for the first time in a long while.
It’s over.
Ishido Shuuji is gone.
.
.
His apartment is dusty when he returns to it. He’s continued paying his rent all this time, just for a place to come back to when it was done. But now that he’s here he’s beginning to wonder why he bothered. The emptiness is almost unsettling. The silence presses close and suffocating against his skin, stagnant air leaving a stale aftertaste on his tongue, and the nearly-year-old magazines on his coffee table give him a strange sense of displacement. As if he had slept all the time away and was just now waking up.
He thinks about going home. Yuuka would roll her eyes if he came by so soon. He can already hear her voice in his mind, saying “were you that lonely in your big old apartment, nii-chan?” But it’s been some time since he last saw his father. Father must be wondering about him, after so many months of short, evasive texts and little else. It would only be proper, to drop by and let him know that he’s alright.
But then he imagines the questions. (“Where have you been?” “What have you been doing all this time?” “Don’t tell me you were on some kind of getaway. Off ‘finding yourself’ or whatnot? Only fools bother with that soul-searching nonsense.” “Why did you turn down those contracts? I thought soccer was what you wanted to do with your life, Shuuya. You’re being irresponsible.”)
Shuuya suppresses a shudder. Perhaps… he will visit his father another day. But god, he can’t possible stay here by himself all night. After almost a year of pushing people away, all he wants is to be with someone. It’s a desperate, restless sort of feeling. All he wants is –
His phone beeps. He glances down and smiles at the name on the screen.
you never came to see our place back when we first moved in, Endou’s message reads. you’re gonna stop by soon right? (it’s all messy now, sorry. but that’s on you for not visiting sooner! it would’ve been clean if you weren’t always so damn late!!)
Shuuya laughs weakly. As he re-reads the message again and again he can feel his common sense gradually crumbling.
Yeah, he types in return. That sounds good. Do you mind if I come by tonight, actually? Or is that too soon?
Endou’s reply comes just a few seconds later.
of course i don’t mind, idiot! just bring some wine or something. i’m going to subtly suggest carry-out to natsumi but if that doesn’t work you’re gonna need the alcohol to get through dinner…
(At the liquor store down the street, Shuuya buys the most expensive bottle of Merlot he can find.
“Meeting someone special?” the clerk says with a knowing smile, and Shuuya hesitates before nodding.)
.
.
They both look so pleased to see him.
It’s strange. He’s spent so long imagining what it would be like if he were to visit them. Imagining the conversation turning strained and awkward. Imagining Natsumi looking at him with those sharp eyes like she knows, like she’s peering into his thoughts and judging what she sees there. Imagining himself as little more than a third wheel. A nuisance.
And yet their expressions when they open the door to greet him are truly, undeniably happy. As soon as he steps inside Natsumi is putting a hand on his arm.
“It’s so good to see you, Gouenji,” she says warmly. “Are you alright?”
He blinks, taken aback. “I… Yes. I’m fine. Do I look strange…?”
She laughs. “No, no. Although the hair is a bit shocking. You’ve just been through quite a lot as of late. It’s in my nature to worry, you know.”
Shuuya swallows hard.
“Yes,” he says again, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. “I’m alright. Thank you for your concern, though.”
“See, what did I tell you?” Endou says, returning from putting the wine in the kitchen. He grins and slings an arm around Shuuya’s shoulders. “He’s doing great.”
The closeness between them sends a thrill down Shuuya’s spine. It takes everything in his power not to lean into Endou’s warmth.
“You want the grand tour? Not like there’s a whole lot worth showing off, but…”
“I’d like that,” Shuuya says with a faint smile, and is promptly led down the hallway to the first door on the left. The three of them crowd into the cramped little study, Endou griping about the poor state the floorboards had been in when they’d moved in, how he’d had to fix them up himself, and Shuuya tries to pay attention. Really, he does. But in reality he’s watching Endou’s hands – gesturing as he speaks, like he tends to do when he’s thinking out loud. He’s watching Endou’s mouth – the way his lips curve into a pensive frown.
“Mamoru,” Natsumi says with a sigh. “You’re boring Gouenji half to death with all this home improvement talk. We’re never going to get through the whole house if you keep rambling.”
“No,” Shuuya says, a bit too quickly. “It’s fine. I don’t… I don’t mind.”
“Nah, she’s right,” Endou laughs. “My bad. Can’t keep standing around here forever.”
He sees the rest of the house over the course of the next few minutes (except for those rooms that Natsumi deems “too untidy for guests,” grimacing as she slams the doors shut). He tries not to think too much about the way Endou keeps putting a hand on the small of his back, whether steering him in a particular direction or merely pointing something out. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. Endou has always been a… hands-on type of person. Before, he would often touch Shuuya’s arm or his shoulder to get his attention. This is simply a logical progression.
But nevertheless, by the time they return to the kitchen Shuuya’s sanity is hanging on by a very thin thread indeed.
“This is a top-shelf brand,” Natsumi says, staring wide-eyed at the bottle of Merlot. “How much did this cost you??”
“Ah… Not too much,” Shuuya lies. “There was a sale.”
She raises an eyebrow, seemingly unconvinced, but in the end she simply shrugs. “Well it’ll go nicely with dinner either which way,” she says. “Speaking of, I hope you like pork cutlets? It’s only my second time making them, but I think they came out nicely enough…”
Across the room, Endou gives him an apologetic look.
The wine does go nicely with dinner, if only in the sense of dulling the pain. Shuuya – a master in the fine art of hiding his true feelings – works his way through each component of the dish fastidiously, without the slightest shudder or grimace. (Even the rice is awful – overcooked, with an odd flavor undercutting its usual blandness. How is it even possible to mess up rice so badly?) He finishes the overwhelmingly-salty miso soup and drains the rest of his wine glass.
The mood brightens considerably after the actual meal is over.
Endou talks at length about the kids on his team, a fond look in his eyes all the while. Tsurugi smiled three times at practice yesterday, he says, with the kind of pride one usually reserves for their own children. Nishizono is learning a new goalkeeping technique. Shindou’s “welcome back” party went off without a hitch, unless you count Hayami faceplanting into the cake. Hiroto stopped by a few days back and told embarrassing stories in front of Kariya’s friends –
“Mamoru,” Natsumi says, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Remember those old photos Haruna sent us a few months ago? I think Gouenji might be interested in looking through them.”
“Oh, yeah!” Endou’s eyes brighten. “I almost forgot about those. Where’d you put them, again?”
“In a box in the guest bedroom, I believe. Or possibly in the hall closet? I’m not sure.”
“I’ll go look for ‘em,” he says, pushing back his chair. “You guys hang tight for a sec.”
Natsumi seems to listen for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Her expression changes, then, easy smile fading away, and she turns to fix Shuuya with a thoughtful, piercing look.
“I’ve been wanting to discuss something with you,” she says quietly. “It seemed like an odd topic to broach over the phone, so I decided to wait until I saw you in person…”
Shuuya’s blood turns to ice. This is it, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. This is the moment he’s been dreading. I see how you look at him, Natsumi will say. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?
But the words that next leave her mouth are nothing of the sort. Instead, she says:
“Next time something like… like this happens, I want you to know that you can come to us.”
He stares at her.
“I know you probably won’t,” she sighs, frowning into her drink. “Because this is you we’re talking about, and you’ve always been this way. Keeping secrets in order to protect everyone else. And I respect you for it, in a way. I’m grateful to you, for helping return real soccer to those kids, and for all the other times you’ve put others before yourself. But I just… I don’t know, Gouenji. It doesn’t seem healthy, the way your mind works. The way you feel obligated to take sole responsibility for things, when there are people around who could help. Who would help, no questions asked, if you only talked to them. And…” She bites her lip, fingers curling tight around the stem of her glass. “I can’t help but wonder if, on a subconscious level at the very least, this was all some sort of punishment you inflicted on yourself.”
“…What?” he says. His own voice sounds strangely distant, echoing hollowly in his ears.
Natsumi’s eyes soften. “When we were children, you felt guilt over Yuuka’s accident, didn’t you? So you took soccer away from yourself as punishment. And I’ve seen you do the same thing several times since. In high school, third year, when that shot of yours broke that first year goalie’s wrist? You benched yourself for nearly a month because of that, afraid of hurting anyone else, even when the kid told you over and over that it was his mistake, that he shouldn’t have insisted on practicing with you, should have known his own limitations when he asked you to use all your strength. I’ve watched you blame yourself time and time again for things beyond your control, and I just… I can’t shake the feeling that this was more of the same. Only this time you took nearly everything from yourself. Soccer, and your friends, and even Mamoru. I don’t know what you think you did to deserve being alone like that, but I can assure you that it’s probably a bunch of bullshit.”
Somehow, amid everything else, it’s elegant Natsumi using such a crass word as “bullshit” that surprises him most of all.
“I know something like this is bound to happen again,” she continues. “You and Mamoru are always getting mixed up in the strangest circumstances. But I hope that next time around, you’ll at least… consider relying on us? When we were young it may have been necessary to keep us in the dark, but we’re all adults now, Gouenji. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to protect us anymore. It’s not…”
Upstairs, the floorboards creak, and Natsumi’s words trail off into nothing. A few moments later Endou walks back into the kitchen carrying a battered old photo album.
“I found them!” he says. “Man, I can’t believe Haruna held on to these for so long – ” He pauses, his grin faltering a bit when he glances at Shuuya’s face. “Is… everything okay? You look kinda pale, Gouenji. You feeling sick or something?”
“… No,” Shuuya says, forcing a nonchalant smile. “Everything’s fine.”
(He stops at the same liquor store on his way home.
The clerk raises an eyebrow as he slides a bottle of cheap vodka across the counter.
“Didn’t go well?” she says, giving him a sympathetic look, and he has to think about this for a long moment.
“… I’m not entirely sure,” he murmurs.)
.
.
A week later he finds himself on their couch, watching some foreign drama, unsure of why he ever agreed to join them for movie night.
Endou is sitting between him and Natsumi. His one arm is curled around her waist. His other arm is flung casually across the back of the couch, fingertips brushing lightly against Shuuya’s shoulder. It hurts, how conscious he is of the contact. It’s probably not intentional, he tells himself, but after a brief intermission they settle back in, and once again Endou’s hand is there, barely touching but touching all the same.
When the film ends, Natsumi asks him if he enjoyed it.
Shuuya nods, and realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t remember a single scene.
.
.
It’s been a while since he last practiced for real.
His feet are strangely uncooperative, heavy and plodding against the turf as if they were weighted down, and his first few shots are pitifully weak. Endou blocks them easily, reading his movements long before he even makes them.
But with each successive kick he can feel himself gradually getting back into the swing of things. That old, familiar rush of endorphins (and something else he can’t put a name to, something he’s only ever felt on the soccer pitch) surges through him. It’s good, to be here in front of the net again. It feels right. As if the parts of himself that were knocked out of alignment are finally settling back into place.
“What are you gonna do now?” Endou asks, and jumps to catch his next shot. His breath is coming more quickly now, sweat beading on his forehead, and Shuuya feels a faint thrill of triumph. So he hasn’t lost his touch after all.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I think at least one of my contract offers is still standing, but…”
“But?”
Shuuya’s brow furrows thoughtfully. “But the idea of going pro isn’t quite as exciting as it used to be. I just… I’m not so sure that I want to leave Japan. Not yet, anyway. I feel like there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing here.”
The ball rolls to a halt at his feet. When he glances up, Endou’s expression is startlingly tender, and Shuuya’s breath catches in his throat.
“Glad to hear it,” Endou says. “Now I don’t have to sound like a selfish ass when I ask you to stick around.”
Later, they sit side by side on the slope of the riverbank. The slow-moving water mirrors the sunset, dusty oranges and pinks smudging the harsh lines of the mountains in the distance.
“Senguuji was misled,” Shuuya says, picking up a smooth stone and turning it over in his hand, contemplative. He throws it and it skips three times across the water before sinking, sending ripples outward. “‘Fair’ soccer was never the answer. He went too far in the opposite direction; tried to apply logic where it shouldn’t exist. But… he wasn’t entirely mistaken. Things were out of control before Fifth Sector came along. There’s a need for some kind of management, that much is obvious. Someone to set down a few ground rules. Someone to keep an eye on things. I wonder… if I could be that person.”
Endou is nodding. “I think you’d be perfect for that. You’ve always been keeping me in line, after all.” He grins. “Just don’t up and disappear again, alright?”
“As if I would,” Shuuya laughs. A comfortable silence stretches between them, then, until Endou says:
“I’m glad you’re back, Gouenji.”
Shuuya turns to look at him and feels his heart constrict. Endou is smiling gently and he’s so close, head tilted at an inviting angle. Shuuya can see the lighter, almost golden flecks amid the darker brown of his eyes.
“It was weird, not having you here,” he says. “Made me remember that time when we were kids, y’know? When you left Raimon for Yuuka’s sake. It was weird back then, too, and I guess… I guess I should’ve figured it out years ago. That things are just better when you’re around.”
He reaches out to put a hand on the nape of Shuuya’s neck.
And then he’s pulling him in, leaning forward to press their lips together.
Shuuya sits there in shock for several moments until his thoughts finally catch up, the reality of the situation hitting him like a slap in the face. Panic thrumming hot beneath his skin, his lifts his hands and shoves Endou away.
“What are you doing??” he hisses.
Endou blinks.
“Kissing you,” he says matter-of-factly.
“…Why?”
Endou’s expression is hovering somewhere between bewildered and amused. “Because I wanted to?”
Shuuya stares at him.
“You’re married,” he says, enunciating the word like the sheer force of it might knock some sense into his friend. But Endou merely laughs.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and kisses him again.
Shuuya tries not to respond. Truly, he does. But god, he’s been wanting this for so long. Wondering for years what it might be like. Endou’s mouth is hot against his own, a slow, languid kind of heat, his lips soft and dry and tasting faintly of salt and sunlight. His hand is resting on Shuuya’s arm, his thumb tracing lazy circles on his skin, and Shuuya makes a sound that may or may not be a whimper. He reaches out and curls his fingers in the fabric of Endou’s shirt, pulling him closer still. Endou hums his appreciation and smiles against his lips.
And then, abruptly, Endou is breaking away, cursing under his breath. He pulls his phone from his pocket and flips it open.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “Didn’t realize it was this late… Sorry, Gouenji. I gotta head home. Me and Natsumi are going out to dinner with Souichiro tonight. Not like I can turn down the in-laws, y’know?” He frowns as he gets to his feet. “Apparently the dress code at the restaurant we’re going to is ‘smart casual.’ What does that even mean?”
Shuuya opens his mouth to say something but finds himself unable. His words are caught in his throat, the loudness of his pulse nearly drowning out the strange, muffled buzzing sound in his ears.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Endou asks.
“…Yeah,” Shuuya hears himself say. Endou smiles and claps him on the shoulder.
When Endou has gone, Shuuya considers getting up. He considers going home. But instead he merely picks up another stone – smooth on one side but rough on the other, its jagged edges scraping his palm. He stares down at it absently as he turns it over and over and over in his hand.
By the time he finally glances up, everything is dark around him. Dusk has all but slipped away, and the river is like a sheet of purplish-black.
He tosses the stone, but it only skips once before sinking.
.
.
Natsumi’s surprise quickly fades into a genuine smile when she opens the door.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He wishes he’d thought to bring a gift – his hands feel empty and awkward. “I should’ve called. I was just in the neighborhood and…”
He trails off, unwilling to commit to such a pathetic lie.
“No, no,” she says, ushering him inside. “Please don’t apologize, Gouenji. You’re always more than welcome here. Mamoru isn’t home yet, I’m afraid. He called to say he’d be running a bit late, but he shouldn’t be too much longer – ”
“Actually,” Shuuya says. “I was hoping to talk to you, Natsumi.”
She falters mid-step and turns to look at him.
“… I see,” she says slowly. “Would you like to sit down?”
They sit at the table (the same seats as last time, Shuuya realizes with a start), and Natsumi fixes him with an expectant gaze, not saying a word. Shuuya’s mouth is dry. Beneath the table his fingers curl, white-knuckled and tense, nails digging into his thigh.
“I kissed Endou,” he says.
Natsumi raises an eyebrow.
“Really,” she says, more a statement than a question. There’s a hint of humor in her voice that confuses him. “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
He stares at her.
“Gouenji, I wish you’d stop trying to lie to me,” she sighs. “I know you only mean well, but I told you already, didn’t I? Your self-sacrificing act is getting old. There is no way in hell you would’ve made a move on Mamoru without him initiating it first. You’ve been trying to keep your feelings under wraps for god knows how many years now. If you expect me to believe that you would throw all those efforts away on a whim…” She shakes her head exasperatedly. “I say this with all the love in the world, but you are both such incredible idiots. Why are men so awful at these things? I told Mamoru to take it slow. I told him to explain things beforehand instead of jumping in headfirst like he always, always does.”
She makes a frustrated noise and tosses her hands up in defeat.
“You… you knew?” Shuuya says softly.
“About what? Your until-recently unrequited love?” She laughs, not unkindly. “Goodness, yes. You aren’t a bad actor, Gouenji, but I am still a manager through and through. It has always been my job to notice things. And if you mean Mamoru’s sudden romantic interest in you, then yes, I am aware of that as well. We discussed it quite thoroughly the other day, in fact. Though clearly my advice to him went in one ear and out the other.”
“… I don’t understand,” Shuuya murmurs. He feels rather dazed. “You ‘discussed’ this?”
Natsumi nods, and for a time she says nothing. There is a pensive set to her features, lips pursed and eyes distant, as if she were searching for the right words and finding none to her liking.
“You know,” she says finally. “I’ve always been rather jealous of you.”
Shuuya goes very still. He wonders if he heard her correctly.
“I’m sure that must seem odd to you,” she continues. “Insensitive, even, coming from his wife of all people. But I just can’t help it. I’ve spent so many years watching you two together and wishing that I could understand him the way you do, that I could stand on the field with him and know his thoughts without being told. He always talks about ‘putting your feelings into the ball.’ How his kids are improving every day just by playing together, by getting to know each other through their soccer, and I just… I wish that I could do the same. I was never meant to play soccer. My place has always been on the sidelines, and for the most part I’m content with it. But… it’s hard, sometimes, only being able to watch from afar. A manager may see everything, but they don’t always get to be a part of it.
“I… had a feeling, a long time ago, that it might end up like this. That someday Mamoru would start thinking of you in a different light. And it seems I was right.” She smiles faintly. “If it were anyone else, I would be disconcerted by the idea of sharing my husband. But you, Gouenji… You’re different. You’re a part of him. I’ve been sharing him with you from the very start, even if he’s only realizing it now.”
Shuuya’s chest hurts. His throat feels tight as he takes a shuddering breath. Natsumi’s hand is resting on the table, ring glinting in the light, and he wonders if it would be strange for him to reach out and touch her. He wants to, in this moment. He wants to lace their fingers together and feel her warmth and know that this is real. He wants to –
He is jolted back to reality by the sound of the door opening.
“I’m home,” Endou calls, followed by a weary yawn. “Man, Kidou just kept handing me forms to sign. How does one middle school soccer club have so much paperwork? I don’t understand why – ”
He pauses in the kitchen doorway, glancing back and forth between Shuuya and Natsumi.
“Oh, hey,” he says with a grin. “You didn’t tell me you were gonna swing by!” He walks over and leans down to kiss Natsumi on the cheek.
And then tries to do the same to Shuuya.
Shuuya pushes his chair back in alarm, his entire body suddenly taut with tension. Endou blinks at him, startled, and across the table he can see Natsumi wince, massaging her temples with a quiet groan.
“Please excuse us for one moment,” she grits out, grabbing a confused Endou by the arm and dragging him into the hallway and out of sight.
“What are you thinking?” she hisses, trying to be quiet and not quite succeeding. Her voice echoes, allowing Shuuya to hear a snippet here and there. “He’s not… you can’t just… have to give him time, Mamoru… not everyone is like you… you’re his best friend, you should know this by now…”
Endou’s voice is far quieter, contrite and calming, and gradually Natsumi’s volume decreases as well. They whisper back and forth to each other for a minute, and then she peers around the corner with a stilted smile.
“I just remembered,” she announces. “We’re all out of eggs. I, uh… I’m just going to run up to the store and buy some. I’ll be back in, say, twenty minutes or so. Maybe thirty.” She narrows her eyes at Endou. “I assume that should give me ample time to sort things out, don’t you think?”
Endou’s laugh is weak and suitably chastened. He and Shuuya stand there in awkward silence as Natsumi gathers her purse. She gives them one last long-suffering look before leaving, the sound of the door closing behind her reverberating through the quiet house.
“There’s, uh… There’s a game on,” Endou says finally, clearing his throat. “Kashima versus F.C. Tokyo. You want to watch?”
“…Yeah, sure,” Shuuya says. He can feel himself unwind a little, fists uncurling and shoulders relaxing. He sits next to Endou on the couch and forces himself to breathe, ultra-aware of how little distance there is between them.
“Sorry,” Endou says quietly, as number eight makes a curving corner kick that narrowly misses the goal. Shuuya almost doesn’t hear him over the roar of the crowd. He glances sidelong at Endou, whose expression is soft and thoughtful, staring at the television without really seeing it.
“I’m no good at this stuff,” he continues. “And I’m not trying to make excuses for myself or anything. It’s just a fact, y’know?” He smiles and there is an edge to it, bitter and wry. “Back when you first… when you first disappeared, me and Kidou got to talking. I wondered why you weren’t answering my texts, and he said: ‘The wedding was hard on him.’ And it took me so fucking long to figure out what he meant by that. …It took me a while to figure out a lot of things, actually.”
This is all too much. Shuuya’s heartbeat is tapping out a too-quick rhythm in his chest and his eyes are beginning to sting and he leans forward to put his head in his hands, hiding his face from view.
“This is unfair,” he whispers. He doesn’t mean to say it but the words are slipping past his lips before he can stop himself. “Why would you do this to me now? You’re married, Endou. You made your choice, and it wasn’t me. You think I want to be your… your back-up option? You think I want to play second fiddle to your wife? God, I just… I can’t – ”
“Gouenji.”
Endou’s hand is on his shoulder, then, and he’s being forcibly turned to stare him straight in the eye. It’s been months since Shuuya last saw such intensity on Endou’s face – not since his audience with Ishido Shuuji. But where that look had been all shock and desperate sadness, this look is something else entirely.
“I’m sorry,” Endou says. His voice is almost ragged. “I know I’m being selfish. But I’m not just doing this to amuse myself, alright? I’m completely, one-hundred percent serious. I want you to be with me for real. I want to wake up next to you in the morning, and I want you to be there when I come home, and I don’t want anyone else to have you.” The fierce possessiveness in his words falters as he seems to be struck by an intriguing thought. “…Except for Natsumi, if you’re both interested. Which I’m starting to think she might be? She was pretty quick to encourage me when I mentioned wanting to kiss you. Is that typical?”
Shuuya sits there in stunned silence for a long moment. Little by little he can feel his anger melting away, replaced by a kind of tired bemusement. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“No, Endou,” he says. “I think most married women would be a bit put-off by the idea of their husbands kissing other men.”
“What, like this?” Endou laughs, and when he leans in Shuuya can’t help but meet him halfway. It’s different than the last time. More passionate, more demanding. Endou’s hand leaves his shoulder only to start combing his fingers through his hair, and Shuuya makes a low, contented noise, heat prickling at his skin. He traces Endou’s lips with his tongue and they part further for him, and –
Endou pulls back with a contemplative frown.
“Hey, while we’re on the topic of me being late to the party, did you know that Aki used to have a thing for me?? She told me about it a while back.” He shakes his head, eyes wide with disbelief. “I had no clue. Apparently she still had feelings for me when Ichinose first confessed to her, and that’s why she turned him down. Crazy, right?”
Shuuya gapes at him. Aki’s glaringly obvious crush on Endou had been a popular topic amongst their friend group in their second year of high school (the year in which dating finally started to mean something and relationships magically began lasting more than a month). He’s fairly sure it had even been discussed in Endou’s presence a few times.
“Oh, come on,” Endou mutters. “Natsumi gave me that same look when I told her. Was I seriously the only one who didn’t know?”
Shuuya’s lips twitch. He attempts to swallow his laughter but doesn’t quite succeed.
(Natsumi returns a few minutes later, taking a seat next to Shuuya without a word, but he can see the way she glances over at his and Endou’s intertwined hands and shares a small, private smile with herself. She stretches out and her thigh presses warm against his, and it seems neither of them are of the mind to move away.
It doesn’t look like she actually bought anything during her “trip to the market,” much less the eggs she’d so desperately needed, but Shuuya can’t be bothered to bring it up.)