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- Little.
When her brother was born, Hamuko was twelve, and she didn’t like it.
She had grown up a single child for so long, to a point where the arrival of her sibling made her angry. Mom and Dad cared so much more about this crying gremlin, who’d wake up her at night with his wailing, than about her, just because “she could manage herself, but her brother couldn’t”. Who even becomes an older sibling when they’re already twelve? All of her friends at school had been big sisters much earlier than this, if they were - but there Hamuko was, twelve and newly an older sister who now had to be a role model or whatever for a gremlin.
Still, she did grow some fondness for said gremlin. Her brother was somewhat of a typical boy: rough around the edges, obsessed with sports and with very little awareness of the mud he’d be covered in after a nice afternoon of playing outside. That was at first glance, because as Hamuko gradually found it after starting medical studies in Sapporo, her brother was also a born leader; which has always come to a surprise to her friends.
Really? Your little brother? I thought older siblings were always the leaders.
He wasn’t one of those bratty younger siblings that only get their way by being so demanding. No, Hikaru was an actual leader. He had the aura, the authority and, most of all, the respect of a well-loved, almost revered captain. He was representing Hokkaido brightly, guiding a nobody team to the highest stage they could reach, without anyone doubting his orders. It was almost unbelievable, when described by her parents. Surely they were exaggerating, Hikaru had never shown any talent for sports, only massive interest for soccer.
Hamuko only found how wrong she was in that regard when she watched her own brother win Regionals, then Nationals; and finally, seeing him on a big screen with their parents win an international title. Then two. He wasn’t even captain, those times – he just fit in so naturally, guided the men around him, that he didn’t need to. He may not have been Japan’s captain, those times, but he was Furano’s, he was theirs.
She couldn’t have been prouder of her little brother every single time.
- Right-hand.
When Kazumasa first met Captain, they were both starting elementary school, and he was already in awe of his very own classmate.
Captain has always had an aura to him, if you ask him. Even on the playground, he’d be the one who’d speak calmly and set things right among the other kids, when threatening to get a teacher involved wasn’t enough to qualm an argument. Even grown-ups seemed impressed at how impartial he could get at times, despite being impulsive at other moments.
Kazumasa didn’t get it, when he was seven and arguing with Kaneda over who would play Kyosuke Kano and who’d play Rodrigo, but later on, he’d realized his Captain was just the sort of people who lived and breathed their passion, and anything outside of it allowed him to be cool-headed even in the hottest of situations. It was just the sort of things Kazumasa himself was unable to relate to on a personal level, but could get behind, in a way. After all, it’s also the kind of stuff you understand on a surface level, the concept being just easy and pragmatic enough to be put into words.
Throughout the years, as they all matured, this impression only strengthened. Captain would always lead their team down the right path, without fatiguing, without losing patience. He’d always be on deck, push through pain until it caught up to him, and every single time, their manager would worry, their coach would chide him, and Captain would just laugh it off and get back to his feet, telling them not to think about him, only focus on what mattered.
Kazumasa is also certain Captain has never thought he mattered on a personal level to all of Furano’s team. Even when they were in high school, he’d still pull those stunts, run like a madman even when everything hurt and hope was lost. In those moments, Kazumasa never knew how to react, nor what to think, because yes victory mattered, and so did team morale – but so did Captain, and he never thought about himself.
Sometimes, it keeps him awake at night, it’s done so ever since he was perceiving enough not to believe everything Captain said as reassurances. If it hadn’t been for Fujisawa, for the guys or for himself, who’d have watched over him? Would he have crashed and burned out like a falling star?
Kazumasa didn’t like those thoughts, especially when they came to be justified – but as Captain said, things always went right in the end, and he got up, even if it was from things that folded him in half right before that. He’s seen this guy’s knees buckle up and his eyes roll inside his skull at least once a year, because nothing could stop him, not even his own limits, and Kazumasa always stared in awe and sickening concern all the same.
Because that’s what a right-hand man does, doesn’t it? He watches over his leader and follows orders. He gives feedback when asked, that may or may not be requited, may not be taken into account. It’s how things are, and who is he to go against that?
Despite it all, and because he truly loved being so, Kazumasa will miss being Captain’s right-hand man, but if they ever come back together as a team, national or not, they’ll get back into their usual two-man dance of leader and lancer.
- Vitriolic.
When Kojiro first met Matsuyama, they were twelve and fighting for a spot in the finals of the Nationals.
Honestly, Kojiro couldn’t have cared less about whoever was going against Meiwa, that day – only Nankatsu mattered, and they were the next step ahead. Smashing Wakabayashi and Tsubasa, winning the tournament, getting that scholarship, that was what mattered. The Hokkaido idiots on the other side of the field? Just some hurdle. Their captain? Just a screaming jerk who’d go on and on and on about teamwork. Annoying as hell, that was it.
Except… Matsuyama was far from only being a screaming jerk obsessed with teamwork, and Kojiro almost paid the price for his own ignorance.
Would twelve-year-old Kojiro admit that, actually, he was taught something that day? He did, in fact, and it comes to a surprise to him even to this day. Back then, he had too much at stake, too much rough pride to admit to weakness, yet there he was, complimenting his teammates on a job well done, without shame pulsing through his veins as he did.
He begrudgingly respected Matsuyama, he supposes. The guy had guts, he couldn’t say otherwise, and his team always managed to get into Nationals, even if it was to lose to the heat. He liked him far less when he started butting his personal beef with Kitazume, yet when he watched Furano lose in the semifinals, that summer, all he could think about was how Matsuyama, the losing captain, was the true warrior on the field.
Nowadays, Kojiro would mostly say good things about his fellow expatriate. There’s a reason why he’s their de facto vice-captain and not anyone else when they play as Japan: outside of his natural leadership that, dammit, Kojiro never really has had until middle school rolled around, he also has the wits and determination to pull it off. You could thrust the armband on his lap without warning nor explanation of any kind and he’d just nod. He just does it and never complains. Gamo put him through hell, yet all Matsuyama had to say was that he’d take the mantle from him and take care of the team; and then he did.
As always, he just does.
It’s just one of the ways where their personalities tend to clash. In elementary, thtey may’ve had similar ways to pull off great feats, but it’s obvious Kojiro is a sanguine person who has trouble controlling his emotions, whle Matsuyama… he’s not sure he’s much of an open book. Sure, when he says something, he thinks it, and that’s why he phrases things in such a crude manner sometimes – but who’s to say he doesn’t think so many other things behind his words?
Or maybe Kojiro is reading too much into the guy. That does sound too deep for someone who had beef with him because of a slap, only not to realize he had gotten retribution when he slapped him back. Maybe he just cannot rationalize that someone would accept to do so much, only to always push credit or merit onto someone else.
It’s enviable, yes, in a manner that Kojiro doesn’t want for himself.
What’s certain to him, at least, is that Matsuyama is a guy he wants to face off against again and again. He’s never the same player twice: whenever you face him, he’s grown just a bit more, his eyes sharp, so do his moves. He may not be a rival per say (who’s he kidding, he’s a rival), and perhaps he’s even better as a teammate than an opponent… yet it doesn’t change anything.
If anything, Kojiro’s just glad to have met and befriended the guy.
- Opposite.
When Jun first paid attention to Matsuyama, they were already in middle school, and they became faster friends that he’d have expected.
They had virtually nothing in common, after all, from their social background to their innate abilities in sports. Perhaps the one thing they did share, more than soccer as a main centre of interest, was a taste for hard work and one’s merit happening due to blood and tears.
Unlike most people, Matsuyama didn’t assume he had gotten everything from birth and didn’t have to work through most of his life to even be able to play. No, instead, what Matsuyama would do is put it in his own perspective, qualifying their efforts of different in kinds but similar in importance; and God be damned, Jun always found his addition pertinent to the debate. For someone who couldn’t relate to innate talent nor chronic illness, he was surprisingly, refreshingly clever on the matter.
(No pun intended, even Matsuyama would’ve been the first to go for it).
There’s always been something comforting about talking to Matsuyama in particular – despite, or perhaps thanks to the bluntness of his language. He wears his emotions on his sleeve and cannot lie under any circumstance, too honest for that. Jun, as a fairly snake-tongued man who’s always had to fabricate truths to serve to other people so he could get his life going, envies this, of course he does; but his comfort tramples over jealousy.
One could be jealous of his fellow national team midfielder, but Jun isn’t. He’s envious of Tsubasa, maybe Misaki, but Matsuyama never has been and never will be. They’re too much of a coin’s two faces for this to happen: what one lacks, the other has, and vice-versa. It’s all balance and no impression of inferiority nor judgement, only somewhat aggressive support and fun to be had.
They were rivals of sorts for that reason, in J-League: the physically fragile but intellectual and technically gifted offensive midfielder faced against the resilient in all aspects yet untalented defensive midfielder who articulated his entire team without question. And all of this? Cultivated, on both of their parts, because their differences was what made it fun.
Now? Well, they’re not going to share a league anymore, so bantering about hard work and showing cool moves will have to wait for European competitions or national team tournaments. Oh well, Jun can’t complain, especially not anymore: for a long while, all he could do was watch Matsuyama from the backseats and text him from time to time about high school. It’s about time they fly in their own directions, even if the mere fact they flew side-by-side at all is incredible.
If anything, being friends with this indomitable force of nature has taught Jun you could do anything with enough determination and believing in both yourself and your bonds. They may not live in the ideal world where both would shine at their brightest possible; yet it’s why they get along. They both have hurdles to overcome because the world can’t adapt to them, but who said they couldn’t try? That’s the light they’ve both chosen to follow: do their best and see where it can get them.
Pun not intended, of course.
- Beloved.
When Yoshiko first met her partner, she was her school’s soccer club’s manager and he was the captain of the team.
She had never been struck as hard as she had been by this boy, with whom she just so happened to share a class. He was taller than her, yet not towering over her either, and always had a spark in his eyes, a flame burning bright inside his soul. In fact, when she had to describe to her best friend why she liked so much about this one boy, she could only put it one way: he shines like the sun, Machiko.
Like the sun, too, he always ran warm, always training, always neglecting oh so many important things to help the team, to get victory, to achieve goals. It’s draining, at times, how careful of an eye she must have on him so she doesn’t watch him fall apart because, simply put, he will stop for anyone but himself. Pain is nothing to him as long as it’s on his mind, that’s the simple truth of it all; and it’s a frightening one when it’s the man of your life who can pull off such dangerous stunts.
It hurts her, when people associate his burning passion for soccer and lack of self-care to some sort of universal roughness, because it erases this compassion that inhabits his entire being that she loves so much about him. Yes, he’s passionate, but it’s his bonds and others who fuel that passion, and she knows it more than anyone else.
They were fifteen when he ran for his life just so he could see her goodbye. They were eighteen when he gave up on his own dream, guilt eating away at him, so he could stay at her bedside.
But like the sun, it hurts to be so close to him, at times. His words are honest to a fault, sharp as a blade because so are his feelings, and if she comes unprepared, she may get whiplash. Still, he’s never risen his voice on her, never threatened her, lets arguments explode and calms down immediately to apologize and negotiate. How would a man as crude as she’s heard him be called be this considerate?
There’s nobody that understands other people’s needs than him, to her eyes, and this is why both of their dreams are blossoming: freedom of choice is an important thing. If Yoshiko decided to go to the other side of the world, he’d try to follow, but even if he couldn’t, they’d remain together some way or the other. Perhaps the longing would sting more than it did the first time, but they’d pull it off. It’s what happens when one works on a plane and the other travels constantly for his job.
Distance isn’t a big deal, when your partner is passionate about everything that matters to him.
That’s what the hachimaki is for, after all. It’s their way to stay together even when it’s physically impossible, his own way for him to feel her presence when he needs it the most. It’s rare he relies on it, and she can count on her fingers the number of times he’s worn that old creation of hers and its later iterations; yet it’s what makes it matter so much.
And who better to slip a ring on her finger?