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Sae never needed words to understand Rin.
Even as kids, Rin’s emotions were always too easy to read. When he was excited, his eyes would sparkle, his entire body buzzing with energy. When he was frustrated, his lips would press into a tight line, hands clenched into fists at his sides. And when he was hurt—really hurt—he wouldn’t say anything at all. He would just stare at the floor, biting his lip, pretending he was fine.
Sae knew that look well.
He saw it when he left for Spain. Rin had smiled that day, trying to act mature, but his grip on Sae’s sleeve had been too tight. His voice had been too controlled.
"You’ll be back soon, right?" Rin had asked, trying to sound casual.
Sae had hesitated for just a second before ruffling Rin’s hair. "Yeah. Soon."
It was a lie. They both knew it.
When they met again years later, Rin was taller, stronger, sharper. He no longer looked at Sae with admiration—only resentment.
Sae acted like it didn’t bother him. Like it didn’t sting when Rin glared at him, spat words meant to wound, challenged him at every turn. He let Rin hate him. If that’s what his little brother needed to move forward, then so be it.
But there were moments. Small, fleeting moments.
Like the time he caught Rin glancing at him after a match, thinking Sae wouldn’t notice. Or the way Rin still clenched his fists when frustrated, just like when they were kids. Or the fact that, despite all the hatred, Rin still wanted to surpass him.
Rin had never truly let go of him.
And Sae? He had never stopped caring.
He just wasn’t sure if Rin would ever believe that.
Sae never let emotions get in the way. He was logical, composed, always looking forward. That’s what made him different from Rin.
Rin was all heart.
Even now, standing across from his younger brother, Sae could see the fire burning behind his glare. That stubborn, desperate need for recognition. Rin still thought of him as the finish line. Still chased after him, even if it was fueled by hatred now.
Sae didn’t react to the anger, the accusations, the resentment in Rin’s voice. He just let him talk. Because he knew—knew that beneath all of it, Rin wasn’t just angry.
He was hurt.
And it was Sae’s fault.
Sae never told Rin why he left. That it wasn’t because he wanted to abandon him, but because he had no choice. That Japan couldn’t give him what he needed, and he had to go before he lost his chance. That he had spent nights in Spain staring at his phone, wondering if he should call, if he should check in—only to stop himself every time.
Because what would he even say? I miss you? I wish things were different?
Sae wasn’t good at that. He had never been good at that.
So instead, he let Rin’s anger fester. Let him turn his love into hate, because at least it kept Rin moving forward. At least it made him stronger.
But sometimes, late at night, when the world was quiet and he didn’t have to pretend, Sae let himself wonder.
If Rin ever missed him. If there was still a part of his little brother that remembered the late-night snack raids, the one-on-one matches at sunset, the hand on his head after a game well played.
If there was still a chance to fix what had been broken.
But then morning came, and Sae pushed those thoughts away.
Because he had never needed words to understand Rin.
And he knew, deep down, that Rin wouldn’t want to hear them. Not yet.
Sae knew Rin still watched him.
Even when Rin pretended not to care, when he scoffed at interviews, when he turned away at the mention of his name—Sae felt it. That weight of expectation, of something unresolved, pressing between them like an unspoken truth neither wanted to acknowledge.
And maybe that was the cruelest part.
Because despite everything, despite all the bitterness, all the years apart, Rin still cared.
But Sae had no idea how to reach him anymore.
Their next match should’ve been just another game. That’s what Sae told himself as he watched Rin take his position, shoulders tense, eyes burning with quiet fury.
But it wasn’t just another game. It never was. Not with Rin.
Because when Rin played against him, he wasn’t just trying to win. He was trying to prove something. To himself, to Sae—to the part of him that still clung to an old promise Sae had broken long ago.
Sae understood that.
So when the match started, he didn’t hold back.
He cut through the field with precise movements, his body responding like second nature. He barely registered the others around him. His focus was singular—watching Rin, testing him, pushing him to his limits.
And Rin pushed back. Hard.
Sae felt every ounce of frustration, every unsaid word, in the way Rin moved. It was like he wanted to carve his anger into the game itself, leave a mark that Sae couldn’t ignore.
And for the first time in a long time, Sae felt something stir in his chest.
Not regret. Not guilt.
Something closer than that. Something warmer.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was something else.
But when the game ended, when Rin stood there panting, glaring at him with exhausted defiance, Sae couldn’t stop himself.
He reached out—just slightly, just enough to brush a hand against Rin’s head.
A familiar gesture. An old habit.
Rin immediately swatted it away, face twisting in irritation. “Don’t touch me.”
Sae only smirked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Still dramatic, huh?"
Rin’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t walk away.
And Sae knew, somehow, that was enough for now.
Rinn didn’t say anything.
Even after the match, even after they both stood in the hallway, breathing hard from exertion, Rin didn’t speak. He only stared—sharp, guarded, the way he always did when Sae was near.
Sae could’ve walked away. He could’ve let things stay as they were, let the silence stretch between them until Rin finally stormed off like he always did.
But for once, Sae stayed.
“You did well,” he said, voice even.
Rin’s fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. “Don’t patronize me.”
Sae sighed. Same old Rin. "I’m not.”
Rin didn’t believe him. That much was obvious in the way his expression tightened, in the way his shoulders went rigid, like he was preparing for another fight. And maybe that was what he expected—that Sae would throw another cold remark, another indifferent smirk, another reason for Rin to keep hating him.
But Sae just stood there, watching him.
And for the first time in years, he saw it again.
Not just anger. Not just resentment.
But Rin.
His little brother.
The kid who used to chase after him with wide, excited eyes, who used to laugh at his jokes, who used to believe in him before everything fell apart.
Maybe that Rin was still in there somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t.
Maybe Sae had lost him for good.
But still—he had to try.
“You’re stronger than before,” Sae said, finally. “But you already know that.”
Rin scoffed, looking away. “You’re so annoying.”
Sae smirked slightly. “Yeah.”
Silence stretched between them again, but this time, it felt different.
Less suffocating. Less final.
Rin exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck before muttering, “...Next time, I’ll crush you.”
Sae’s smirk widened, but there was something softer beneath it. “I’ll be waiting.”
And just like that, Rin turned and walked away.
Sae didn’t stop him.
Because for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to relief.
Because Rin still had something to prove.
Because this wasn’t the end.