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Eyes closed, mind quiet, empty. Deeply, deliberately, feeling and acknowledging every heartbeat, Barou fills his lungs and breathes in for four counts
and out for eight.
In slowly for four
and out for eight.
In
Out
In
and out.
The only other sound that can be heard in the Relaxation Theater Room is the rustling of the digital trees of its computer-generated forest. Gentle Ocean Waves and Soft Thunderstorm are options too, but Barou always prefers Forest Relaxation; it reminds him of home. The other Uber members, having finished dinner, are probably heading back to the dorms by now — Barou makes it a point to eat early to avoid the rush and the noise — but thankfully, blissfully, Barou is spared from hearing it. Not even Sendou yelling about this or that hot actress or Lorenzo’s non-sensical noises can penetrate the theater’s completely sound-proof (and extraordinarily expensive) video walls.
After a long, noisy, and sweaty day of practice, it’s absolute bliss.
Barou takes in another breath; on the exhale, limbs heavy and loose, he imagines himself sinking into the floor that is now a cloud; and he is floating, his heart is calm, and a fake bird lets out a fake, lilting trill —
KER-CHAK!
The mechanical thud of the theater room door sliding open sends Barou hurtling from heaven and straight into a pool of ice cold water. His eyes fly open, blood already starting to simmer.
Of all the people in the entire Blue Lock facility who could interrupt Barou’s treasured wind-down routine, it would of course have to be the one person that pisses him off more than anyone else, as naturally and effortlessly as he dribbles a soccer ball. He stands there now in the doorway, already sleepy eyes looking half-closed as he gazes down from where he towers above Barou. (Barou always does forget that Nagi is taller than him; and when he remembers, it makes him gnash his teeth in irritation.) Without explanation or even a nod hello, Nagi shuffles into the theater room, the door hissing shut behind him. He makes his way to the back of the room, not seeming to notice Barou glaring daggers at him — or, as is more likely, he simply doesn’t care. Long limbs don’t so much bend and unbend as they do cascade as he sits, then sprawls on the ground like a small pond, unbothered and unabashed as if he were at home — or in the Blue Lock dorms — or the bathroom — or the dining hall —
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” Barou growls. Being so physically close to Nagi’s blithe disregard for any sort of decorum sends needlepricks up and down Barou’s body.
“Playing a game,” replies Nagi as his phone seems to magically appear in his hands.
“Get the fuck out of here, I’m stretching! You can play your stupid game in your room!”
“No I can’t. Reo and Chigiri invited Bachira and that monk kid over and there’s too many people in there. I can’t concentrate.”
The irony, of course, flies straight over Nagi’s head.
“Then go to the dining hall or something!”
“It’s so far away,” Nagi whines. “It’s too much of a hassle. This room is so much closer. Please Barou, just let me stay here, I’m tired.” Nagi’s two saucer eyes plead at Barou from beneath his curtain of bangs.
The way Barou’s heart jumps at that look — fury, he concludes, and he scowls.
“Fuck no, you’re ruining my cool-down. Hurry up and get out, you lazy scrub.”
“I’ll turn the sound off on my phone. I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
“Like hell you will!”
“I will! I already promised!”
“Fuck off, you annoying brat!”
“OK, OK, what if I just take a nap then,” Nagi says, eyes already squeezed shut.
“You — fucking fine.” At this point, Barou knows that yelling at Nagi further isn’t going to do a damn thing except piss himself off even more, and the only way he can probably get rid of this white-haired pain-in-the-ass is by physically dragging him out, which, to borrow a phrase from said white-haired pain-in-the-ass, is too much of a hassle. “Then you better be quiet and sleep and leave me the fuck alone.”
“You got it, King.”
“Shut up, you’re supposed to be asleep!”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Nagi does, it seems, actually sleep. His even, and annoyingly loud, breaths form a beat to which Barou times his own breathing, and soon, Barou is wrapped in warm serenity again. He’s loathe to admit it — and the only reason he can is probably because of how calm he is right now — but it’s… nice. Kind of. Whatever. It’s quiet, at least.
“Hey, King.”
Barou knew it was too good to be true.
“Can I change the channel?”
“No!” Barou pushes himself up from his stretch to glare at Nagi, eyes still closed, over his shoulder.
“But this forest is getting boring. It’s making me sleepy.”
“That’s the fucking point —”
“Is there a Winter Wonderland or something? I bet you’d like that, aren’t you from Hokkaido?”
“I’m from Akita, you dumbass!” Barou knows full well that Nagi is probably pushing his buttons on purpose; but like a moth to flame, he simply can’t resist. He never can, it seems.
“Oooh, really? Like where the dog is from? Do you have one at home?”
“Nagi, I swear to god —”
“How come you don’t speak with an Akita accent then? Hey, in this manga I’m reading, one of the characters is from Akita too, but he only talks in an Akita accent with his grandmother. He’s really good at his job, but he’s also really goofy. It’s really funny. You should read it sometime.”
“Can you just shut the hell up?!”
“Why are you always in such a bad mood?” Nagi pouts. Still laid out on the floor on his back, he turns his head to look at Barou with sleepy doe-eyes. “I thought people from the countryside are supposed to be nice. You know, maybe you’d have more friends if you weren’t so mean — mnmrrhhphhhh!”
It’s the only way Barou, nerves shot and riddled with bullet holes, can think of to get Nagi to shut the hell up without resorting to violence: He can’t use his fists, so he uses his mouth — though there’s still a little bit of violence when the kiss gets toothy, the tang of blood sharp in Barou’s mouth. Beneath him, pinned to the floor, Nagi squirms, thrashes his legs, pushes his hands against Barou’s unmoving chest; then, like a drowning sailor succumbing to his watery fate, he melts, and Barou isn’t sure whether the sigh he gives is one of defeat or pleasure.
They’re both silent when they finally break apart, the smack of their release embarrassingly loud in the peaceful digitally-forested room. Barou glares down at a slightly dazed-looking Nagi.
“I’m going to finish stretching,” he hisses, because he finds it strangely hard to speak. “If you say another word, I’m going to kiss you again. Got it?”
Nagi nods wordlessly, and watches, still silent, as Barou scoots backwards and resumes his previous position. Leaves rustle, the wind blows. A bird chirps. Barou takes a deep breath in.
“Hey, King.”