Chapter Text
“fuuuuuck. Yocchan, don’t pass the baaa—he passed it. Fuckin' idiot.”
An unnamed adolescent slouched over his desk, a tattooed left hand splayed out on the side of his face, tapping his cheek—the other, which was just as tatted, hanging over the edge of said desk.
The computer he was staring at cast a sickly blue light across his face, hollowing his cheekbones and emphasizing the fogginess in his eyes.
The atmosphere of his room was thick—dust settled in every corner and on every stationary object. Mold grew in discarded cans of soda, fuck, the only reason roaches weren’t scuttling around his room was because he was fifty stories high in the air—quote en’ quote “living it up” in a penthouse.
What a damn joke.
He hummed under his breath and leaned down further, notching his head into the crook of his arm, cheek scratching against the rough lint of his sweater. His unwashed hair–god, it must have stunk to anybody who wasn’t used to the smell–fell across his face, blocking his vision.
This man—formerly world famous, with a bright future and devoted fans—was now nothing but some fading shut in with no ambition, no ego, nothing. He just rotted away, popping pills and washing them down with soda’s, or whatever other liquid he could get his hands on…
Like what he was doing right now.
He reached for a baggie of unnamed white pills (probably painkillers, if he remembered correctly), knocking over an empty can of whatever drink he bought through his grocery app, ripping the plastic of the bag open with force that only a drug addict craving a fix could have—grabbing a few and shoveling them into his mouth, cracking open a lukewarm r*dbull to chase it with. It was probably dangerous to mix two types of stimulants (it is), but who cares anymore.
The painkillers were already kicking in, blurring his vision. Or maybe his eyes were just unfocusing naturally from all the damn time spent staring at that computer.
What was even going on—on the screen? The reporters were interviewing some white haired kid with a beauty mark, Kira something. Whatever, he was irrelevant (it should have been Yoichi).
He could vaguely feel a muscle cramp starting in his right leg, something that’d hurt like hell usually, but he was on meds, so who cares!
Reaching out, he grabbed his phone, the device almost falling from his feeble grip. It was left open to a player tracking website, where he had been reminiscing on his past.
Jersey no. 8 | Isagi Yukio
<CLUB> | Re-Al Premier League (former)
Market Value: €8.00m
Nat. | Japanese
Age | 18 (currently) ; 17 (last appearance on the field)
Main Position | Center Forward
Secondary Positions | Attacking Midfielder, Left Winger
Achievements | (trophy 1) (trophy 2) (trophy 3) (trophy 4) (medal 1) (medal 2) (idk yo what medals do “footballers” have?) (yes I am a dirty American raaaahh eagles wtf is a kilometer uuuuuuhggg I hate British people idk) (Yukio hella prestigious wowowww look at these trophies wooaaah) (I should write more kinktober chapters) (pls comment) (check linked strawpage OR caard for my yukio based tiktok trust)
Profile views: 9.14m ; 12,011 today
Last updated: June 12, 2018
It was amazing, really. Yukio had been off of the market for almost a year now—not even participating in most matches, and yet he was still popular enough for people to consistently update and look at his profile. Not like it would matter soon anyways though. He’d be dead in a matter of days.
His eyes started closing, arms going limp, body relaxing. It was time to slee—
RRRRIIINNGGG! RIIIIINNNNGGGG!
“…?”
His head turned up slowly as his phone buzzed incessantly somewhere on his cluttered desk. Reaching a sluggish arm out, he felt around until he found it, looking down at the caller ID.
Unknown Number.
“…from… Japan?”
The dark haired man sighed deeply, declining the call without hesitation. No point in answering it. Nothing good ever comes from curiosity.
“Hopefully my number wasn’t leaked,” he muttered, setting down his phone again.
Ding!
“… seriously? who the hell..?”
Yukio had a right to be confused. He wasn’t using an official email, nor was any of his contact information available to the public. There was no way for somebody to have found his email, let alone his number. Unless..
His eyes widened as he read the email. God fucking damnit. What the hell was this asshole doing, contacting him? Yukio had made it clear he didn’t fuck with soccer or that guy anymore.
It’s Ego. Pick up your phone.
“…Blue lock organization… is this what getting your ass kicked by Noel Noa does to you…?” Yukio vaguely remembered there being buzz a while back about some new organization—facility, whatever, being built for the purpose of furthering Japanese soccer, but he hadn’t cared much for it at that time. Sae was the type to be interested in this shit, not him.
“Strange fucking name.” Well, no matter. He’d just deny whatever strange proposition Ego had for him anyways. There was no point in trying to stop the madman from contacting him.
He answered the call, setting his phone to speaker—a foot coming up to push himself away from the desk, the office chair he was sitting on rolling back through the piles of junk and clothes on his floor.
“Heeeellllloooooooooo.”
Yukio drawled, voice hoarse from the lack of use. It felt gross to speak. Like waking up with a dry mouth and breath you know smelled bad—but worse. When was the last time he brushed his teeth?
”You sound like shit.”
“…wow. Polite as ever, huh?” His eye twitched, spinning around on his chair--clicking his tongue in irritation before he spoke, swallowing to soothe his voice before speaking up, “What do you want.”
A chuckle from the other side. It was smug... how annoying. Everything was annoying. He couldn't wait for next week. Everything would be much more peaceful then.
”Yukio, are you really going to kill yourself? Already? At the ripe young age of eighteen?”
He stiffened at Ego’s words, body going rigid—sobering up almost immediately.
“What the FUCK do you think you’re talking about?” How had he found out? Yukio had literally only thought of the idea—and ordered a lethal amount of heroin, but that wasn’t important—how the hell did Ego find out?!
“Ah. So I was right. That’s rather disappointing.”
What was Ego even talking about? Disappointing? Seriously?
Yukio grit his teeth, glaring ahead—scooting his chair forward to search up information on Blue Lock.
“I went out on a limb and assumed that you were planning a suicide. It was a complete and total guess—but to think you’re actually doing that pathetic shit… you’re really falling off,” Ego mumbled, droning into the phone, Yukio could almost see that condescending expression on his face, and god. If he could reach through the line and slug Ego in the chin, the man would have a broken jaw by now.
“Get to the damn point, bowl cut.”
What was it to him, anyways? The two weren’t close, and Ego knew that Yukio couldn’t stand him—so what was the point of him doing this..?
“Fine. I’m starting a program, Blue Lock. You’ve probably heard of it. We need more support to get off the ground. Social status, a poster boy, as one might say.”
“I’m not interested in being some puppet for your bullshit experiment,” Yukio stated firmly, already reaching for the end call button, “figure that out on your own.”
“Yukio,” Ego suddenly spoke, cutting off his train of thought. “You don’t really want to die, do you?”
Huh?
“You just have nothing better going on. No clubs will take you due to the reputation you’ve built for yourself—and you don’t even want to begin attempting to end your drug addiction. It’s all too complicated, too overwhelming, right?”
Huh?
“I’ve got it all figured out for you, Yukio. A private, good rehab center with no shitty group therapy, cleaners to fix the mess you’ve most definitely made of your home—with a contract that will prevent them from even speaking of cleaning your apartment. I know how scared you are of fucking up that social status even more.”
HUH?!
“At Blue Lock—after your rehab, obviously—you won’t even have to worry about interacting with other professional athletes. I’ll pay for everything you need to prepare, and you’ll be paid for even staying at the facility. I just need you to rebuild your playing ability.
“what…?” Yukio didn’t even realize he had spoken out loud until Ego scoffed.
“What do you mean, what? This is the offer of a LIFETIME, Yukio. All you need to do is agree and sign the documents I sent you over email. You can do all of it digitally. Fuck, don’t tell me you’ve grown agoraphobic? Socially anxious?”
God, Ego was doing that again. Taunting Yukio, knowing that the striker would refuse to take that kind of doubt and disrespect—betting on Yukio’s argumentative nature (or just general hatred towards Ego) to prove him wrong.
And he’d be damned, because it was working. It was working disgustingly well.
“You are such a fucking bitch,” Yukio sneered, already going to look through the emails he was sent—no hesitation whatsoever, “such a fucking bitch. Suck my goddamn dick.”
“Is that why you’ve already sent back those documents?”
”Shut the fuck up.”
Yukio had another chance. He had another chance—and he’d be damned if he didn’t take it.
“Just you fucking wait, Ego. You’re dead.”
.
.
.
He had three days before the people from the rehab facility came to pick him up, and Yukio was determined to make a good impression. He had let himself go.
First off—brave his fear of the world and agoraphobia. He hated to admit it, but Ego was right. He had developed agoraphobia from his time spent inside.
“I’ll make sure that asshole is never right ever again,” he mumbled to himself—shaving the stubble he had grown—standing in the guest bathroom, the least dirty part of his home.
Honestly, the worst part was just his bedroom and the connected bathroom. He didn’t leave it for anything—buying even a portable cooking set so he’d have to leave it less.
The rest of the penthouse was fine. Really dusty, but… fine. Sure, things were dusty and all of his plants had died, but Yukio had gotten surprisingly good at keeping his filth contained. One of the only good things to come out of his time at the Academy. Learning how to lie and keep things to himself—how positive!
Sauntering into the laundry room, Yukio began packing (throwing fresh out of the dryer clothes into his newly bought suitcase). Same day shipping was a miraculous thing. Ego had sent Yukio a disgusting amount of money, and god forbid if he wasn’t going to spend it on much more expensive—and much baggier clothes to hide his thinner, now less toned figure. Shit— he was actually growing a belly. Fuck.
This was actually the first time he had noticed his unprecedented weight gain. His entire life had been an amalgamation of routines and constant monitoring of his figure and athletic ability—every pound gained or lost was planned.
That was to say, this was kind of thrilling. It was stupid, but he felt a bit… rebellious, for gaining weight.
“God, I’m so fucking corny,” he mumbled, laughing under his breath. Looking through his sink cabinets, he realized that…
“All of my skincare is expired,” Yukio murmured disappointedly. Oh well, he’d just buy more… Did they allow skincare at rehab..? Well, Ego did say it was different from the usual ones, so, no need to worry he supposed.
Doing anything that he could think of, Yukio busied himself—attempting to distract from the constant stream of nervous thoughts invading his mind. It had been months since he’d left his home, and not even his natural beauty (heh) could distract from the hollowness in his eyes.
He could really go for a xanax right now. Just one—before the facility. It would be the last one he would take, really.
Yeah. Just one more.
Or maybe two.
Hm. Decisions decisions.
.
One more day before Yukio’s contract begins, and there was one more thing that he needed from Ego, before he left. He rang Ego’s number, pacing nervously around his room.
“Why are you calling me again? Getting cold feet?” Ego’s voice rang out the moment the call was accepted, a mocking lilt to his tone.
God, did the taunting ever stop..? Yukio let out an annoyed breath as he stopped pacing, clicking his tongue.
“My younger brother.”
”What about him?”
”Add him to your program.”
Yukio knew this was a bit of a high ask, especially to Ego. The other man was dead set on his ‘soccer integrity,’ and would definitely refuse Yukio’s request if Yoichi wasn’t up to his standard. Only the quote: “most promising” were allowed even a chance in Blue Lock… and in Yukio’s opinion, Yoichi was…
Well, Yukio didn’t have much faith. Call him a bad brother all you want for that, but Yoichi wasn’t naturally talented—nor was he exactly social… and he didn’t have much fanservice value. Soccer wasn’t simply skill, it was media and social presence. If Yoichi were to become a world class striker like he wanted to through the conventional way of going to nationals, attending interviews, and finding sponsors? His dream might as well stay unrecognized for the rest of his life.
—But, Yoichi wanted to be a professional player, and Yukio wanted him to follow his dream. No matter how shitty Ego was, Yukio trusted his expertise, and trusted that Ego wouldn’t let Yoichi turn out like him… if Yoichi was even let in. The older man was professional, and had a surprising amount of integrity—especially compared to all the people in places of power Yukio had met… even if that set the bar about as low as hell itself.
Ego had paused on the other side of the line, and Yukio could hear muffled shuffling and speaking. This was surprisingly nerve wreaking.
“I’ll see to it, but you’ll owe me one,” Ego responded coldly—before hanging up.
Thank god.
Yukio might have to thank Ego when they met up in person again… but probably not.
“As long as he’s safe,” Yukio mumbled to nobody in particular, setting his phone down on his kitchen counter.
.
.
.
The workers who came to take him to the rehab facility weren’t bad at all. In fact, they were quite personable. But maybe he just couldn’t really decipher anything that was going on—considering he had ended up taking four xanaxes before they had arrived. Yesterday, he had taken LSD, and the day before (when he realized his weight gain), he had taken some more xanax. In fact, he’d finished his entire stock.
Well, the best way to not relapse was to not have any drugs, he supposed… not like there would be anything for him to take at the rehab anyways.
His speech was a little slurred—probably. He couldn’t distinguish it from the way he normally talked (what kind of speech was even considered normal for him? Had he ever ‘normally’ spoken his mind?), so he didn’t care.
The windows were blacked out, and Yukio’s suitcase was carefully placed in the trunk. He’d almost think he were being kidnapped if not for the ID’s the staff had shown him, and the kindness that they were treating him with.
So nice. That’s what they were. Too nice.
He couldn’t trust them. No matter how kind somebody seemed, they always wanted something from him. Always.
Yukio stiffened a little in his seat, leg shaking nervously. One of the workers turned around to reassure him, but he waved her off. They couldn’t be trusted. He had to be on guard. Everyone was the same.
He needed to scope them out—to morph himself into someone who they would like—so that they would leave him alone.
god, that bitch wouldn’t stop talking.
Yukio took a slow breath, head knocking against the window—shoulders slumping down.
Dear Buddha, what had he gotten himself into.