Chapter Text
Sae wakes up in his room to the loud ringing of his phone, because a certain manager whose number bypasses his Do Not Disturb had decided to check in on reminders earlier than the usual this morning. He swipes his screen open and sees that it’s you (as well as a calendar reminder for a something at 11AM today which he opts to ignore), because of course. At the back of his mind, there is a sensation of a faraway memory brushing his consciousness upon seeing your name, the feeling not unlike when you see a person for the first time in a long time. Like in a dream, or an old, old memory—he can’t quite decide. When he closes his eyes once again, he thinks he could feel that memory, that sensation, getting closer and closer.
Another round of ringing and he’s up sitting on his bed, swinging both legs to the floor, sighing because he knows he really should’ve set his alarm an hour earlier this morning (as was your advice). He looks around his room, catching the momentary glint of a pair of cufflinks at his bedside table. He hasn’t even opened his window to let fresh air in.
He clicks Answer, putting you on loudspeaker.
“I hope you’ve at least opened the window to let the morning air in?”
He doesn’t speak right away, choosing instead to let his yawn run its due as he slowly half-settles back into bed, propping his head and shoulders up by his elbows while his feet settle flat on the cold floor.
“Well, good morning to you, too.” His voice comes out a little graver than the usual as he stretches his neck back, his face to the ceiling.
“Yes, good morning, Sae-kun. And welcome home,” goes your greeting, even though the two of you get on these calls on a daily basis and it hardly registers any difference anymore whether he’s in Spain or his home country. Other than the fact, of course, that in these coming days, you get to see each other in person. He can sense a little of that AM grogginess in your voice that tells him that, even for you, a call this early isn’t the norm—which really isn’t, and is a fact he can take relief in, he supposes. Still, you softly clear your throat and that’s how he knows you’re ready. You, thankfully, always are, even and especially when he’s not.
He gets out of bed as he listens to your first set of reminders, settling his phone on the drawer by the window. Out of habit, he turns his camera on, as is the customary in his calls with you, but then quickly realizes at the exact same moment that he hasn’t got a shirt on. He inches out of the camera’s view at the last second, managing to grab a t-shirt from the nearest chair to briefly slip into. In an efficient succession of movements and now fully dressed, he adjusts his phone so you can still follow where he is, as he stands by the balcony, ready to slide the glass door open to the side.
Sae finally welcomes the 6AM air into his lungs.
“Oh, speaking of salted kombucha,” even though there hasn’t been any mention of kombucha at any point in your laundry list, he meets you at the same train of thought, “Hi Bros just called and wanted to supply your favorite morning drink for you. Wanna hear what they got?”
His salted kombucha, after all, is somewhere right there in his morning routine—perhaps sans the morning yoga and meditation this time—a routine you know by heart.
“‘Wanted’?”
There is that brief, thoughtful hum in your voice that to him always kind of sounds like the initial note of a melody. Like you’re about to actually hum the beginning of a song. It never lasts for more than a moment, but he knows it means you’re giving your words some thought; like that one, singular note you could recognize a song by. “They’re suggesting an eventual endorsement, Sae-kun—and I’m only saying could, because I told them no promises as of yet. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, so please think it over.”
Sae narrows his eyes at the random sticky note that greets him on his refrigerator door, a note, judging by the handwriting, you’ve let for him while he’d been away. Possibly earlier last night just before he’d arrived. “11AM int. for NBHK. pls don’t be rude to mr. octopus,” it simply says, Mr. Octopus being the radio host slash sportscaster he’s supposed to have an interview with today, whom he’d one time called ‘octopus’ in a rant, which you thought was very rude (and had you chuckling for a good minute behind a clipboard when you thought he wouldn’t see).
One compromise he’s agreed with is that he’d at least hear out your case for every potential offer that comes his way—offers that only keep growing in number, though he also knows you know which ones to filter.
“Do I need them?”
“Well, not really. Although…you did mention the other day that you’d like to try out a new kombucha brand, with a little more variety this time? Nothing on the table as of now, but already they would like to give you free samples just so you could try them out. That one isn’t standard considering who they are, as you know.”
“No offers. Just you and me talking. Only free samples.”
“Of course. Just you and me for now.”
He only realizes once he closes his fridge that you still have not turned your camera on. He figures maybe it’s an off-cam kind of call today then, as he walks over to the table where his phone is now propped, about to switch it off back to only voice. He changes his mind at the last second, however, proceeding, instead, to uncap his bottle of kombucha.
“Also, Mrs. Yasumori sent you four boxes of chocolates. Should I have them delivered home?”
“Again?” And four? He’s very confused.
“Yes, the same ones like last time. Just more of them now.”
“Uh-huh.” You give him time to down half of his drink because the preoccupied squint in his eyes tells you he’s still got a question in mind. “Even though you told her I don’t like sweet shit?”
“Even though we’ve told her, via her personal assistant, that you would appreciate non-sweet gifts better next time.” It is vital for you that he be constantly reminded of this thing called manners/social propriety.
He’s still frowning but, never mind. “Which ones did you get more of last time?”
You pause in thought, very easily remembering how, not even six months ago, he quite literally dropped two boxes of Namie Truffe chocolates on your lap once you were both inside the car. The confusion on his face at your initial wonder, as well as the very obvious and very restrained glee at your full realization. “I got more of the blue, and about a third of the red fruity ones. But you know, the green matchas were actually the best. Though there’s none of the blues and reds this time. I only got you matcha, 72% dark, french roast, and…all milk.”
It doesn’t take him long to decide. “Alright. Give me just a couple of each, I’d like to try some. You take the rest.”
You gasp. “All four boxes?”
“I have no use for them. You can give some to the team if you like if you plan on dropping by training tomorrow.”
“No, they are mine.” There’s only that tiny hint of assertiveness in your voice that, even though unnervingly calm still, tells him enough. He’s almost inclined to half-believe you never actually tell people they should stop sending him sweets because, more than likely, they’re bound to end up in your hands after all. He thinks—hopes—you know the pattern by now.
“What business does she have with us anyway?” Sae has to wonder. It’s been a long while ever since he’s had dealings with the Japan U-20 team, after all, i.e. the team being coached by Yasumori Houichi, Mrs. Yasumori’s husband, i.e. the only link he’ll be having with said team’s coach’s wife.
“I think she’s just being nice, she’s probably heard you’re back. Or maybe you managed to charm her at her husband’s birthday party last year.”
“Hmmmm.” He plops down on his couch, settling his head on the headrest as he closes his eyes. It’s going to be a long, long day ahead—a long week—hence the extra early call, and thinking has already made him tired. “It’s your fault then.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said to start by talking about her dog. That was all we ended up talking about, you know, for 30 minutes. Or god knows how long.”
“Well, that’s wonderful.”
“She just wouldn’t shut up.”
“And you did a splendid job, Sae-kun, I’m quite proud. I’m sure it was only for 5 minutes, though.”
He sighs in mock defeat, in that way that softly blows his bangs out of his forehead. Bangs that, this early in the day and with no one else other than you to see, he lets loose down his eyes and everywhere instead of having it pushed back. Now long enough to tickle his lashes.
You’ve once joked that he and Rin must be twins born two years apart.
“Just make sure you don’t die from all the sugar.” Only Itoshi Sae can harp a stern warning in tune to a thoughtful reprimand; you no longer dwell on which one’s which but it makes you laugh just the same.
He instinctively glances at his screen and sees the default user icon on the space where your face usually goes, and he absently thinks of why he bothers to turn the camera on for you anyway. He thinks it just became habit. In your almost-two years as his manager, there was never really any spoken rule of sorts on this, but he does remember when the two of you first started having these calls and you always made sure he could see your face. It was nothing, really, and Sae would not have minded either way, but then one morning you seemed to have forgotten about it for the first minute and when you did remember, you apologized as your face popped on his screen, saying something along the lines of, There; a little bit more humane. Sorry about that before laughing shortly. It was like you had a joke with yourself which you didn’t bother explaining but it didn’t matter because you got him in on it anyway, regardless. And so the next time, Sae decided to join you with his neutral-grumpy face on display because…it only seemed even. Or maybe he, too, did not want to be just a voice over static.
Ultimately, Sae doesn’t mind. In most busy days, after all, these calls become the only worthwhile conversation he gets to have with an actual human, even if 95% of said conversations is just you dictating his schedule and reminding him not to be a douche. And maybe laughing secretly once in a while at whatever expression you see on his face.
He blinks once when he realizes you’ve stopped talking mid-sentence.
“What.”
There’s a hint of amusement in the tone of your voice. “This’ll be over in another minute, Sae-kun, please bear with me for just a little bit longer. Next up,” he shakes his head, angling his phone so he’s staring straight at the camera, making sure you very clearly see the disenchantment in his eyes, “next up is…the sports and arts gala this weekend.”
He walks over to his bathroom to begin the rest of his routine as he listens to another round of reminders, humming occasionally in affirmation so you’re able to tell he’s listening as he brushes his teeth, washes his face, applies his morning products. He only realizes once he’s done that he’s placed his phone on the marble sink facing up so you’re probably only seeing his ceiling right now. He fixes it upright, setting his moisturizer down as he leans back on the cold wall, arms crossed.
“Program lasts for two hours, and event will likely end at eleven.” You see him patting his cheeks twice before he recrosses his arms.
“Anything else?”
“I think you should bring a date.”
He scoffs involuntarily, side-eyeing his phone. “That isn’t a requirement, is it?” his voice laced with sarcasm.
He can’t see you smiling but something in your voice tells him you might be. “Well, no, but it’s a Valentine event and it would be nice to bring someone. So you won’t be alone.”
“So,” he starts to walk around, stretching his limbs. Perhaps he might still have time for yoga. “An event that shits on anybody without a significant other. Call me unworthy of love.”
“But you aren’t unworthy of love…”
How you miss the irony in his tone catches him off-guard. “I didn’t say I thought I was unworthy of love.”
“Ah.” Your sudden laughter catches him off-guard, too. “Of course you did not.”
He blinks it off and sighs, loud enough for you to hear, mumbling a string of incoherence only the tail-end of which you manage to catch: “…can’t believe you’re really subjecting me to such a big waste of time.”
You refrain from correcting him that it isn’t because you know that he knows and that he’s just pulling your leg. “I’ll be there if you need me.”
“Of course you’ll have to be there,” there is the smallest confusion in that raised eyebrow, as if you’ve said something that ought to have been obvious.
“The invitation is for you and your plus-one only. I’ll have to talk to some people to get me in.”
His face registers nothing even though inwardly he’s thinking that that’s just the most absurd arrangement he’s ever heard. He absently picks his phone up to hold it near his head. If you mention anything about him taking a date one more time—
“Well, then you and me will just have to go together to save you the time.”
You go quiet for one moment, two seconds tops. “Sae-kun, that’s not possible.”
It makes perfect sense, he wants to say. He decides to be difficult and is about to unleash a very brief lecture on how that’s not not possible when another possibility hits him.
“Did you get asked by someone else?”
The idea is…definitely not far-fetched, he knows. He knows from the multiple times he’s become unwilling witness to Shidou Ryusei’s uncreative attempts at obtaining your number, or Oliver Aiku’s too-friendly quips and flashier smiles directed at you on and off the field, how last year at least four guys from the national squad had tried to give you Valentine’s Day chocolates through him (“Give her yourself, you moron,” became his no-nonsense response to each and every single one of them), or how even Michael Kaiser of Bastard München had, at one point, upon hearing the news of an upcoming exhibition match with Real Madrid, had DM-ed Sae a 5-second video message of himself saying: “Don’t forget to bring your lovely manager along,” accompanied by a wink, which maybe accounted for why it had to be a video, Sae thought, but, in his opinion, still did not justify why he had to be subjected to it.
The clown might be safely tucked away in his home country at the moment but that’s irrelevant to his point. (In the end, he decided not to take you along—even though you did happen to be in Madrid with him at that time—which, again, is beside the point.)
You respond with a polite little chuckle that doesn’t really tell him anything. “It’s not like that, Sae-kun. I will be there, okay?”
He decides not to pry because it’s none of his business, even though a part of him knows that it wouldn’t take that much prying. Not that he’d even attempt anyway, nor does he even have—should even have—any interest in the matter, because you’re not his to keep.
He clears his throat when he hears you calling his attention twice. “Yeah?”
“Okay?”
“Sure. So NBHK at 11, right?” He runs a hand through his hair, clearing it out of his eyes. “Will I be seeing you today?”
“Oh.” Sae isn’t even sure what prompted him to ask, why he’d even bother, especially when he already knew the answer. It doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re both fully booked today, and possibly in the coming days, judging by your well-penned schedule and long list of reminders.
“Would you like to meet?” He hears some clicking of keys from your end. “I think if Adidas finishes early I could pick you up after your—“ some flipping of paper, “—your photoshoot with Rolex.”
“No need, just confirming.” He switches his camera off as he starts walking back to his common area. “You go on ahead. I’ll be fine.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches another thing in his apartment that is yours: at the cork board by the entrance to his living room are two shiny tickets to the upcoming Don Quixote ballet next month. Well, it’s not yours per se, because it’s technically still his, but the Tokyo Ballet director he’d bumped into at the airport on his flight back home had offered him two complimentary tickets—because apparently they knew each other—and had insisted he come. He’s made it very clear he is not interested in ballet in any capacity at all; “a shame,” the director had said. But then Sae also thought he knew just the one person who might be, and he realized just how much he pays attention.
It’s none of his business whom you decide to bring along.
“Well, that would be all,” you conclude with a blissful sigh. “I appreciate you taking this call so early. If you need me, you know I’m just a call away.”
On that final note is a familiar promise he doesn’t need to close his eyes to focus to be able to catch. Easy, like the air that he breathes.
“I know.”
.
.
.
.
.
.
To: Sae Itoshi
> booked you for a trim tomorrow am! you have time before training.
From: Sae Itoshi
> Thanks