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Chigiri had always liked pretty things.
Well, he’d learned to like pretty much anything his sister did, really. With a divorced mother working full time to provide for both of her children, Chigiri’s sister had taken care of him since his childhood. When he was still a kid, and he couldn't be left home alone, his sister usually brought him along. Karaoke with her friends, clothes shopping, the hairdresser, … She never objected or acted like it was a bother. She’d joke with her friends about how it was a pain, but Chigiri knew she didn't mean it. She never did.
So, he’d sit next to her, several other high school girls chatting around him, and quietly admire the way their manicures were crafted, hands delicate, pretty, soft looking. When she’d get him to shop with her, making her kid brother hold her bags, he’d look at the glistening fabric of one top, the frilly hems of a skirt, and would listen to his sister’s satisfied humming after a successful price negotiation at the market.
One time, an evening where their mom was working, and he had actually become old enough by her standards to be staying home alone (he’d never admit he missed the small glimpse of his sister's world he'd been able to grasp), she came home crying. The pink haired girl was a mess: mascara running down her cheeks, bag and coat thrown on the floor as she made her way towards her room, while insults were being muttered between sobs.
He’d never seen her like this; sure, he’d seen her get angry at stupid, meaningless things or seen her cry when the dog died in a movie. But his sister was strong. She hadn’t cried when she got rejected from her dream school, or when her best friend ditched her for someone else after almost 10 years of friendship. She’d secluded herself in her room until the next day, and neither Hyoma or his mother had heard anything. The next day, she’d acted as usual, and maybe Hyoma did notice her hands looking prettier than the day before.
However, this time, it was loud. She was in her room, sobs muffled by her pillow, but still audible from the couch where Hyouma was initially laying on. He was clueless about what to do, what to say; should he even do anything? Maybe he should just let her cry it out, not ask any questions, let her pretend it never happened.
But then, he remembered the sight of her sister’s manicured nails, a pretty pink color, perfectly round, not too long or too short, the morning following her dream school’s rejection letter. So he got up from the couch, and went to the bathroom, where his sister’s nail polish collection stood, proud and tall, next to her makeup in her drawer. Hyoma then took several bottles of colors he thought would look good together, got out of the bathroom and started to climb the stairs leading to his sister’s room carefully, as quietly as he could.
Still hesitating, he decided to knock.
The quiet sobbing stopped. He heard footsteps approaching the door. His sister opened it, still looking like a mess, black mascara and eyeliner smudged all over her eyes and cheeks, hair sticking on her forehead.
None of them had really said anything. They stood there for a while, tears still running on the older girl’s cheeks.
“I bought you these.” Hyouma said with a slightly shaking voice, breaking the silence between them.
She looked at the small, glittery pink bottles he was holding in his hands. Her face was unreadable, gaze focused on the items in her brother’s hands.
And so, she let him in.
“My boyfriend” she started, after sending Hyoma to get the rest of her nail care equipment. “He broke up with me.”
Not knowing what to say, Hyoma nodded. They were sitting on her bed, the nail care tools spread out on the sheets. She was preparing her nails, trimming them and pushing back her cuticles carefully.
Suddenly, she raised her head and looked at her brother expectantly, as if a life changing idea had just gone through her head.
“Give me your hands.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to do your nails. So, give me your hands.” She held out her own for Hyoma to place his palms onto, still holding his gaze, something shining in her eyes.
“I’m a guy, I,” he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I can’t wear that.”
She huffed. “Says who? Everyone deserves pretty hands.”
Pretty. He’d often been called that. By his family, his classmates, the grandmas at the supermarket. Sometimes mockingly. He never really understood why until he realized that ‘boys weren’t supposed to be pretty’. That ‘looking like a girl’ was a flaw.
He looked at the wall in front of him, covered in idol posters, a picture of him holding a soccer award he’d won last year standing proudly on her drawer. He didn’t even know she had one. He tore his gaze away from it, an awkward and strange feeling settling into his gut.
“Say, why do you like… this? So much.”
“Huh?”
“The nail polish. The- the pretty skirts. Everything.” He paused. “The things you do when something happens. Do they really make you feel better…?”
She dropped her hands, letting them rest on her uniform skirt. The air in the room shifted, and Hyouma briefly wondered if he should’ve kept quiet.
Nevertheless, she looked at him just as she always did, her gaze kind and full of something a bit too full of affection for him to handle.
“I mean… kind of? I guess it’s a bit hard to explain.” she laughed lightly, her voice a bit hoarse from all the crying she did. “When I’m a mess, like this, when my mind or my heart are in shambles, I feel like crap. Because, you know, it’s not as if I can just, in this case, ask my boyfriend to love me again, can I? I can’t just fix it. So I take care of what I can.”
“So… your nails?” He asked, tone uncertain.
“Yes.” She continued. “My nails. Or my hair, I guess.” She laughed again, a bit ironically, brushing a few sticky strands of hair away from her face.
“Plus, when something goes wrong, we tend to blame ourselves, right?" She paused a bit. Her voice was softer, almost a whisper. "Even when it’s not our fault, or when we tried our best. So, I try to care for myself instead, in the ways that feel possible and doable at the time.” Her lips curl into a small smile. “Why should I punish myself for feeling hurt?”
Hyouma couldn’t find anything to say back. So he kept quiet, and let his sister carefully, gently paint his nails a pretty pink.
When Hyouma tore his right ACL, his sister immediately came back home from college. She stayed for a week, driving him to all the appointments he had to attend when their mom couldn’t make it.
She never talked about his injury during the car rides. Hyouma didn’t want her to. Instead, she kept mindlessly babbling about her life; classes, the annoying professors, her new friends, the nice guy she’d met at a party. She talked as if the air wasn’t heavy, as if it was just a regular Tuesday, as if Hyouma’s entire life hadn’t crumbled into dust a few days prior. And all Hyouma could do was pick up little pieces of information, trying to nod or hum at the appropriate times, because he knew she was just trying to distract him, to lift off a bit of the weight of his wound, but it was not enough.
In the hospital halls, she didn’t try to help him walk. He’d hate her for it. Instead, she walked slower, letting him struggle with the crutches, as he was trying to conceal the pained look threatening to show on his face. He was proud. He’d always been.
“Hyouma?”
He felt like throwing up. Hyouma was sitting on his bed, sweatpants rolled up on his right leg, just enough for the surgery scar to be apparent. He hated looking at it. He hated it. The post-surgery cream and bandages were scattered on the floor. He didn’t want to touch them, didn’t even want to look at them.
“I’ve been calling you for a while now.” His sister said, gaze getting softer at the sight of his knee. “Is everything okay?”
Hyouma couldn’t move. All he could do was keep his eyes down, as if frozen in time and space.
His sister took a few steps into his room, and gently closed the door behind her. She picked up the cream and the bandages, and set them on her little brother’s bed. The older woman then squatted in front of him, hands resting atop of her knees.
“Can I do it?”
The question was left in the air, even given the time to disappear entirely, covered by the deafening silence in the room. He raised his head a little, meeting her eyes. Her gaze was gentle. Loving. He found no trace of the terrifying concept of pity in it. Even though he’d since long outgrown her, Hyouma felt small at that moment. Small enough, safe enough that he felt himself breathe again, like a kid falling asleep in their caretaker’s arms after a long day.
He nodded. His sister then sat herself properly on the ground, and took the bottle of cream from the bed. She carefully squeezed some on her finger. “It’s going to be cold”, she said, before massaging it onto the skin of Hyouma’s knee, paying close attention to the area the scar was on. Finally, she carefully bandaged the area, making sure it wasn’t too tight or too loose.
“Ta-da! All done.” She grinned up at him, placing the materials away.
Hyouma looked at his sister’s face, then at his knee. He couldn’t see the scar anymore, with the bandages covering it. He felt a mix between relief and… numbness. If he couldn’t even put cream on his leg, how was he going to handle the rest of the rehabilitation process?
“I don’t really…” His sister started, tone a bit unsure. “I still don’t know what’s best to say. I’m sorry.”
He wanted to tell her there was nothing she could do, anyway. To beg her to shut up, to never apologize, because what she’d done was already so much-
“But,” she continued, and pointed at his right leg, a gentle smile on her face. “This is something I can do.” So, please, let me take care of you went unsaid, but Hyouma understood it anyway.
“It's fine. Thank you." He mumbled, a bit bashfully, because this whole thing was strange, both needed and unwanted; because at the end of the day, despite all of his sister's efforts, he'd still have a torn ACL and the fear of disappearance looming over him.
Hyouma had been staring at the letter for a while now.
Selected to become a certified athlete, huh.
In the year following his injury, he’d been stuck. In the past, in his dreams, everything related to soccer felt like chains holding him back. Maybe this way, he’d finally be able to give up on soccer.
He didn’t tell his sister about the letter or the project.
Mikage Reo.
The brain of Team V. The one who was able to draw out the talent from a genius such as Nagi. Some sort of field magician. Someone they’d managed to beat, which got them a place in the second selection.
The guy sitting over there, crouched down against the wall, no white haired genius standing by his side. An almost scarily dark aura surrounding him.
“How about it, Reo? Wanna join us?”
A question from Kunigami. A common objective. Revenge.
When Reo accepted, his voice was hoarse and rough. He’d followed them wordlessly, apart from some mumbles and half assed answers to the questions Kunigami was still awkwardly trying to ask (Hyouma had given up on small talk a long time ago) to someone who was, very clearly, not doing amazing.
But this was Blue Lock. All three of them were only doing this to survive; to satisfy their ego.
Hyouma sat down at the cafeteria table with his plates. It was the evening of the second day, and they were still practicing their team comps: everything was good so far. They were good. Reo was a jack of all trades and had been enhancing both his and Kunigami’s performances, who already had good field compatibility. Reo was in front of him, chewing his food very slowly, as if it was the worst thing he’d ever had to put in his mouth. Quite frankly, he looked like shit.
Almost like a reflex, Hyouma looked over to Reo’s hand, as he was bringing the chopsticks to his mouth. It was dry. The skin around his nails was also quite damaged, and he’d clearly been picking on it, which surprised him, as Reo had always struck him as the kind of person to take really good care of himself. A rich, clean, proper and tidy guy ; that was the image of Reo he’d gotten from their match against Team V and the echo of his family name.
The walk back to their room was quiet, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the facility hallways. Kunigami had stayed back to train (just a little more, he’d said, but Hyouma knew he was still going to be there for at least another hour), and he was alone with Reo.
As they entered their shared room and sat on their respective beds, Hyouma briefly wondered if this was Reo’s first fall, just like his injury had been for him. Reo probably always got what he wanted; being left behind by Nagi must have been the very first time he’d felt that kind of despair, the kind of hurt that settles within your gut and stays. The kind that makes you lose sleep, wondering where you went wrong, what could you have done differently, if it was your fault, if the holy culprit of all the wounds you’ve ever suffered had been you all along.
Just as Chigiri had crashed hard into the grass that day, leg burning up, mind dissolving at the mere thought of the end of soccer, of his dream, of everything, maybe Reo was going through the first collapse of his own world. Hyouma remembered the ticklish feeling of his sister’s bangs falling on his leg as she gently massaged the healing cream onto his knee, circling around with her palms with all the care she could muster. He remembered the sight of the top of her head, and the feeling of her soft hands on his skin.
And so, before thinking it through, before reminding himself that this is Blue Lock, he didn’t have the time to care about others, much less to do something foolish such as take care of them, he got up from his bed.
“Reo.”
The purple haired boy, who was folding his clothes on the bed (Kunigami’s, to be more specific, as he minded the lower bunk bed way less than Mister Rich Boy. Chigiri had claimed the single bed as his as soon as they had entered the room.), turned his head around, not even bothering to speak.
“Give me your hands.”
"Huh?" Reo replied incredulously. "Why should I do that."
God, he was so annoying. "Just give them to me."
Still a bit hesitant, Reo put both of his hands towards Chigiri. The pink haired boy then went through his bag, pulling out the raspberry scented hand cream he was able to convince Ego to let him keep. He squeezed out a bit on each of Reo’s hands, feeling him shiver at the cold feeling, and started massaging the cream onto his hands. Slow and steady, he rubbed the back of them in little circles with his thumbs, then the palms. For some reason, even after he was done, he kept holding Reo’s fingers mindlessly.
“They’re really dry. It was getting dire.”
Reo looked at him, an indescribable expression on his face. Then, he gazed down at his -their- hands.
“...Thanks.”
He hummed slightly. “You’re welcome.”
“Huh? Isn’t that my hand cream?”
They’d both stayed behind to practice a bit, and Chigiri had noticed the small tube, along with Reo’s towel and sports drink on the bench of the Manshine City practice field.
“Oh, that? No, no, um…” He chuckled nervously, seemingly embarrassed by the question. “It’s mine. Putting it on calms me down, I guess.”
“Huh. Didn’t know you were a raspberry guy.”
Reo laughs lightly. Chigiri finds that he likes the sound of it. “No, not just the smell! It’s, the whole thing. The gesture probably? The circles. I don’t know, I just kind of, focus on the feeling and the scent, and it brings me back to when you did it for me and it calmed me down and- I’m sorry if that bothers you, it’s just-”
“It’s fine.” He breathes in. There’s a lump in his throat, but it doesn’t feel bad. “I’m just happy that helped.” He smiles at him. “I really am.”
He pauses for a bit. “Still, Reo…” He teases. “That commoner hand cream, really?”
“Shut up.” Reo grins. “It reminds me of you. I like it.”
A pause. Reo seems to realize what he just said, because the second after this, his face gets really red, and he quickly mumbles some kind of correction. Chigiri can’t hear him.
It reminds me of you. I like it.
Oh.