Archive of Our Own ^beta

They won. 

They won against the U-20 team. Itoshi Rin had defeated Itoshi Sae—his brother, his rival—another worthless piece of scum that covered his way to victory—

“Maybe he can reform Japan’s soccer; Isagi Yoichi, he might actually have what it takes.”

Those words burned through him like fire on a stick. 

Why him?

What did Isagi have that he didn’t?

Sae acknowledged Isagi. Not him—not his profound skills—not his trance— him. Isagi Yoichi. 

Losing himself on the field meant nothing. 

He could—his brother would never recognize him. 

“Shut up,” His voice rumbled with something so dark, so full of rage and hatred, that it didn’t even sound like Rin anymore. He was a shell of who he was before the match. “Just die all ready.” His words reeked of disdain and hate. 

Who was Itoshi Rin without Itoshi Sae?

He loves Sae. 

He hates Sae. 

Who is he without Sae?

“I’ll never forgive you for this.” His voice cracked— he didn’t intend for it to—he didn’t know it was going to—it just did. “From this moment onwards… you’re a rival that I have to destroy.” Green eyes stared through Isagi, once his superior, and now, someone he never wanted to play alongside again. 

He used to respect Isagi. His spatial awareness and ability to morph his playstyle with anyone on the field. But now he can only look at him and think my brother acknowledged him, not me.  

“So don’t forget… I’m going to kill you no matter what,” His nostrils flared as his tone fumed. He needed to beat everyone he played against and for— clamp them against the heel of his foot and demolish them—make them afraid of the field so he could be victorious. 

A mound of dead soldiers is all they’ll ever be. 

And he will be the one that kills them all. 

“I’d like to see you try,” Isagi turned around, eyes glowing in rivalry and determination. He walked away into the corridor, joining the victory feast. 

Rin is alone. 

He is sulking in his anger, melancholy , and hate. 

No matter how much he trains, how hard he punishes himself, how much he studies and evolves himself on the field—he is not good enough. Not for Sae. Not for Isagi. Not for Bachira. No one. He will never be good enough. 

He could deprive himself of humanity all he wants; the overworking until his body gives out, the nutrients—every calorie deemed a failure—forgetting sleep, avoiding people; and not socializing. He will gladly become inhuman if it means being something to his brother. 

He did what Sae did and more. He copied his regimen, his diet; how much he’d eat, when he’d eat it, throwing it up if it was too much or if he felt too full— too heavy to play. He pushed himself further to become Sae— so Sae would have a reason to endorse him.

But he didn’t. 

He looked at, he respected, he complimented Isagi Yoichi.

A heavy, dark, and disgraceful aura surrounded his being—he was being engulfed by it. His obsession, his broken adoration, his worthless pity. 

He’s lukewarm. Nothing but a commoner just like his brother said he was. 

“I don’t need you in my life anymore. Piss off, Rin.”

The snow came back. 

On top of the burdensome ambiance around him fell snowflakes. Snowflakes he once found comforting—a reminder of his older brother—what he strived to be, to become—whose shoes he would fill when the opportunity presented itself. 

But now that moment is gone. 

It will never come because Sae doesn’t want to be The World’s Best Striker anymore.

He wants to be a midfielder. 

Rin will never get the chance to stand behind his brother—right below the throne. He will never get to hold a silver trophy beneath Sae’s gold one—he will never get to hold his hand up high while standing a step beneath him—he will never— 

Everything he was fighting for was gone. And it only took one game. One match. One play. 

The snow got heavier—Sae was getting heavier and it hurt. 

He needed to leave. 

It’s not safe here. 

He’ll be left again if he doesn’t— 

Unlike his trance state, this state felt… so lonely and desperate—he recognized it from a mile away, yet it was so pitiful, so inconvenient that he didn’t bother titling it. Emotions are a waste of time. Feeling them—drawing attention to them—and fueling them has only slowed him down. So he repressed—suppressed and repressed them until they were silent.

Emotions will kill you on a battlefield.

Soccer is a game about life and death. Win or lose. 

Until it all spilled out. 

He leaned on the edge of the bench, forcing himself to stand up and discard the towel on his head. Everything was automatic. Him grabbing his bag, him packing his things, him changing from his uniform to a pair of casual clothes; grey sweatpants and a black hoodie.  

A pain banged through his chest. 

“You’re an eyesore of a younger brother.” 

He grabbed one of his wrists, pressing his nails against his veins—anything to make his thoughts stop. They were too loud. Too inconvenient. Too much for him to deal with. 

Pressure, more pressure on top of pressure—nails piercing through his skin until the fog cleared just enough for him to breathe. 

This was his chance to escape, and he’d be a fool not to take it. 

His bag flew over his shoulders, promptly hitting him on his back—a nice wake-up call for him to get going while everyone was distracted with dinner. 

Ceiling lights too bright greeted him as he exited out of the locker room, and in the distance, he could hear chattering and victory celebrations. He wasn’t a part of that. He was not meant to be in that equation because he didn’t score against his brother. 

What did he contribute when he didn’t even meet his goal?

His straight black hair obscured his face meaning no one could read the expression he had—not even he knew. He keeps his face neutral at all times—unreadable to the human eye—but that’s not the case right now.

He knows his face reeks of emotion. 

He’s been weak enough for one day. 

Automatic doors close behind him as he makes it to the frisk outside—the cool sunset air hits his face. 

The Blue Lock Stadium is on a very high hill surrounded by trees and a long, curvy road. He can’t escape here, not without unwanted company staring—gaining unnecessary attention and cameras on his face. 

There are a bunch of taxis lined up in the parking lot—waiting for people to board them. Most people have already left, if he keeps his head down low, he could get away as a guest. 

Rin walks up to one of the cars—opening the door to the back seat and sitting down. The windows on the front aren’t as dark—people could see him. 

“Where to, sir?” The driver asks, starting up the vehicle and revving the engine. 

Rin is staring at his hands, trembling in… anxiety? Fear? Guilt? Those emotions are foreign to him, and he cannot waste time on feeling human morals. 

“Sir? Is everything—”

“Downtown Ichikawa City,” Rin breathes out, forcing his voice to be as calm and nonchalant as possible. “And don’t be slow, will you?”

“All right,” The driver replied, putting the car in drive and leaving the Blue Lock parking lot. 

Now he’s free. 

He’s alone and no one knows where he’s headed.

“Hm? Where’s he headed, I-sa-gi?” Bachira tilts his head, sipping on a can of apple soda. Tonight is the only night they were allowed to go off their Ego-mandated diets. “Shouldn’t you follow him?” 

Isagi, mouth stuffed full of food, cocks his head in confusion. “Didn’t you see him? He sure as hell didn’t want to be followed.” He swallows, not being able to help but look at the doors the younger soccer player had left out of. 

Bachira pursed his lips, rocking in his seat—he had always been incapable of sitting still unless he was sleeping. “You should think more about it~” 

“What are you talking about?” Isagi blinks his eyes in confusion.

“Since when has Rin-chan ever gone anywhere without doing his meditation or yoga?” Bachira points out, innocently humming to himself as if he’s stated the obvious. 

“Uh—well-”

Bachira pops his lips. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stall~” 

It is true that Rin never leaves without meditating, doing yoga, or working out after a match—whether it be practice or a game—but how does that make Isagi’s problem? Rin was stern about killing him in the locker room less than an hour ago.

“Am I his guardian now or something?” Isagi sighs, getting up from his seat because, even though it was small (and possibly dismissable,) Rin doesn’t leave without doing or completing his routine. The fact that he didn’t do it was enough. 

Isagi hadn’t failed to notice that Rin was acting a little different. He seemed more on edge, more defensive, and more expressive..? Rin has always been emotionally inept and seeking revenge, but he doesn’t lose his cool like that unless it’s about his brother. 

To Rin, everything seemed to be “All or Nothing.” That mindset—that way of thinking was drilled into that thick skull of his. If he didn’t give it his all, then he’d drive himself into nothingness—spiraling out of control until not even Ego could control him. 

It’s like what happened in his trance—he becomes so neurotic, so hyperfixated on achievements, results, and goals, that he loses sight of everything else. 

Isagi, though only unlocking that part of himself in-game, knows what that feels like. 

To feel that outside of the game—to go out in public alone like that… 

“We need to get going,” Isagi walks out of the dining room fast. He can hear Bachira briefly filling in another player (most likely Nagi) about the situation before he catches up to Isagi. 

Isagi runs out the doors, just in time to see Rin get into a taxi car and drive away. 

“Fuck, we just missed him,” He pants, out of breath as anxiety fills his chest. 

Rin wasn’t acting like Rin. 

“D’you think we could call his brother or something? Sae?” Isagi places his hands on his knees, trying to think of places where Rin would go. He can’t think of anything because all of their conversations have been soccer-orientated.

Bachira gives Isagi a look like he shouldn’t even be asking that question. 

“Oh, right, yeah, brother rivalry,” Isahi says sarcastically, lifting his head to spot another taxi. “We’ll just follow him.”

“Are you a stalker now, Isagi?” Bachira teases. 

“It’s either we follow him or do nothing, and you’re the one who kickstarted this mess in the first place!” 

“Me? I simply told you what I observed~ For someone who over-analyzes, I’m surprised you didn’t notice something in the locker room~” 

Isagi rolled his eyes, biting his lip and peeling off the skin. The light blow of the air outside swept across his face.

“We were arguing… kinda. Okay, it would’ve happened if people were there . I just congratulated him—” 

“You congratulated him on passing to you because you were able to score against the U20~” They both begin walking to the car, with haste while keeping their expressions calm and composed. “Rin-chan wanted to score against his brother, he couldn’t, but you scored against Sae-san.” 

“We won in the end, didn’t we? That’s what he wanted, right?” Isagi opens the doors to the backseat, hurrying to tell the driver to follow the taxi that just left. 

“Mhm, maybe in general~ But you know Rin-chan; he wants to beat Sae-san~” 

“And he did—!” 

Bachira shakes his head. “Not him, you beat his brother.” 

“How did I—?” 

“You made the score. I think in Rin-chan’s mind, he lost because he didn’t score against his brother~” Bachira sticks out his tongue, winking at him. 

Even though Bachira is estimating and is pulling these assumptions out of his ass—it does sound like a possibility—an explanation for Rin’s behavior and what went on in the locker room. The reason why he was filled with rage, hurt, and desire. The reason why he formally declared Isagi a rival. The reason why Rin left—

The puzzle pieces were all starting to fit together now, solving each other like they do on the soccer field. 

It’s all starting to make sense.

Was Itoshi Rin ever a complicated person to begin with? Or were his baseline emotions just so uncharacteristic of him that no one saw the underlying issue?

The taxi drops him off by the oceanside. Coincidentally, it’s the same place he and Sae kicked a soccer ball at a van and ran away from when they were kids. Back when they truly knew about each other. Truly cared for each other. Truly fit together. 

Back when times were much simpler. Before Sae left for Spain. Before Sae left for four years. Before Sae changed his mind about becoming the World’s Best Striker. Before Sae called Rin worthless and unnecessary. Before Sae told him to quit soccer. 

They were supposed to become the best together. They were supposed to fulfill their dreams and be there for each other. But now…? 

What was Rin supposed to do when his brother won’t even acknowledge him? 

He was the only one on the field able to stop him. He was getting up to his level and more. Rin was the one obliterating his teammates and using their weapons against them. 

He shot them all down and won the war but that wasn’t enough. 

Snowflakes hit his nose, his hands, and his shoes. It was getting heavier again and he didn’t like it. The cold was coming back which meant Sae was coming back— the thoughts were coming back— what he was suppressing was coming back, and he didn’t want it to. 

Rin looked around desperate to find something to distract him, and that’s when he saw a familiar-looking popsicle cart on the other side of the road. 

Sae would always buy them popsicles when he brought money, and Rin would win every time. He never traded in his stick because his brother said they were worthless—scum and trash. Who was Rin to go against what his brother said?

He doesn’t know when he crosses the street. He doesn’t remember pulling out his wallet and asking for the same flavored popsicle Sae would always buy him. He doesn’t remember taking off the wrapping and watching the cold treat drip on the sidewalk. 

It was like he was on autopilot while he was being held captive by his emotions and memories. 

How distasteful. 

“You only think of yourself as my younger brother.”

Rin bit his lip, gnawing his teeth into the flesh. His lips are dry like he hasn’t had water in days. 

Walking over to the metal railing, Rin climbs under and sits on the ledge—the only thing below him is a large body of water with rocks that are covered by the tide. 

He’s never done this alone, has he? 

The cool, metal bars are pressing against his back. He’s gotten taller since he’s last done this, he could easily slip under the rails and not hit anything. Now he’s too brash, too big, taking up too much space.

His feet dangle off the edge, bumping into the cement whenever they come back to him—bouncing back into the air and repeating. It’s peaceful yet lonesome. 

The waves crash into the cement wall, soaking the walls in seaweed and mud. The last round of cars is dying down as people head home for the night—spending time with their friends and family. 

He hates it. 

As second best and second born, his parents discarded him—and ignored his accomplishments so they could celebrate Sae’s with beaming light. Sae was their prodigy child. Sae is who they were proud of, not him. Sae gets all the recognition and love while Rin is left to freeze in the snow. 

No one who is supposed to care about him cares about him. 

The popsicle feels big in his mouth—each calorie melting on his tongue—he can feel them, he’s counting them. He is a codex of numbers and statistics, gains and losses, wasted potential and dismissible performances.

Ever since Sae left him—left their dream—it’s been a constant warground of defeats and pitiful victories. He’s been striving—trying to morph himself into perfection, more like a state of being that was unobtainable. He is his failure. What drives him is his need to achieve more than his brother did—he will do what Sae did and more— he will do it better all while being more elegant.

He’s just so tired. 

Rin is so tired. 

He’s tired of reaching out for a hand that isn’t there. He’s tired of waiting for the sun to clear off the snow. He’s tired of the snow falling on him and burying him in grief so deep. He’s tired of chasing after something that there is no beating. 

A loud wave crashes into the wall with significantly more volume than the waves before it. 

It gives him an idea. 

Sae is perfection; extracurriculars, academic endeavors, physical attribution, and achievements—he’s always been able to surpass Rin, but when you reach such a state of transcendence—there is one thing you can’t do perfectly. 

You can’t die in perfection. 

No matter what you do, people will spiral—it will cause turmoil and chaos both in media, friends, and family—you can’t virtue human emotions—you can’t control their reactions and actions—and that’s what makes celebrity death imperfect. 

No one cares about Rin. 

And Rin only cared about his brother. 

A brother who doesn’t care or love him. 

What reason does he have to live? 

He looks down at the sea—rocks visible when the tide thins—the boulders would kill him instantaneously, he’d only feel a shock of pain before his permanent termination. 

Rin pulled the popsicle stick out of his mouth—calories long gone being digested in his stomach. 

He remembers being six and always winning. “My luck is just too good,” is often something he would say. Sae never showed him if he won or lost—or perhaps there was nothing on his. Rin never asked, his brother knew best. 

“People who waste their luck on trivial game prizes don't have what it takes to become the best in the world. ”

Sae said that. 

Sae— 

He flips the popsicle stick around—reading the kanji engraved in the wood. 

“You lose.”

He finally lost.

Rin threw the popsicle behind him, not bothering to see where it landed. It won’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing ever matters. 

When someone is about to kill themselves—they do it while committing an act of peace—whether it’s a goodbye message or a handwritten letter, a quick text or carving something on their skin—there’s always something for people to find later, a big clue that would be the answer to all their troubles and give them a peace of mind. 

But Rin doesn’t have that. 

He doesn’t have anyone to say goodbye to. Sae doesn’t care about him. His parents were never there to say “I love you” or safely tuck him into bed. People at Blue Lock only seemed to care about him because of his advanced soccer skills—what he could do for them to help them win. 

He’s hurt himself but those scars are insignificant. They don’t hold any meaning other than to honor his brother—the person who made him draw blood or starve—the person who made him overwork himself until he was hollow. 

No one knows enough about him to care. 

If— No. When he dies here, he is leaving nothing behind. No remorse, no feelings of guilt, no grief besides his own defeat. 

He takes one last glance at the water, and gradually, the water turns into soft fluffy snow. 

That’s a beautiful way to die. 

A voice calls his name in the back of his mind—he doesn’t care to listen to it. 

And now his body is leaning off the edge into eternal bliss.

Is that…? “RIN!” Isagi starts running. 

They had just gotten out of the car, orange-yellow street lights illuminating the pier—reflections bouncing off the ocean water as cold air blew in from the oceanside. 

The sun was about to set, but at that moment time appeared to stop —time began moving in slow motion as his legs geared in overdrive. 

There’s something they don’t tell you about watching your friend commit suicide. People are less worried about the saviors and more about the victims—the person committing— when there’s a village of people garnered at the root of it all. 

Death is inevitable for all of us—but there is only one option that allows us to choose when, where, and how we want to die—and that option is suicide—the act of taking your own life. It’s a permanent decision, there is no reversing it once it finalizes itself and your body goes limp—as flashbacks of your entire life play like a movie; you remember voices, faces, experiences, memories you yearned for and ones you loathed—and as your body goes numb and your heart beat slows, there is no going back. 

When watching someone commit an irreversible act—your first instinct is to freeze. You think you’re too late, you call yourself a failure, an idiot for not noticing anything sooner, guilting yourself for not asking or saying anything. Your heart stops and it burns— it aches in failure and failed salvation—you feel the memories you had with that person hit you all at once. 

There’s a reason why people drop to their knees in disbelief. 

That is the act of admitting defeat. 

Isagi was running so fast that it felt like the sidewalk was moving for him— as if all pebbles cleared and cement smoothened. This was not his most graceful sprint, how could it be? His friend was going to die if he didn’t pick up the pace. 

With one final leap and his body toppling over the railing—he stretched an arm so far out that something pulled. He grabbed Rin’s shirt, holding it at the neckline. 

He made it. 

He saved him. 

He— 

“What? Isagi ?” Were the first words out of his teammate's—or were they rival's?—mouth. “Let go of me! Let go!”

Isagi’s grip shook as he took a pause. Rin didn’t go off the edge, he caught him. He’s not okay, but he isn’t dead . 

He forced himself to shake off the shock—the adrenaline pumping through his heart and veins. They aren’t out of the clear, not until Rin is far away from the pier. 

“I’m serious, shithead. Let go of me now!” Rin sounded like he was in distress—he’d never been this expressive before—it seemed like he needed to go— he yearned for something that was one tilt away. 

Isagi through his other hand to grab more of Rin’s shirt, having more of a firm grip than he did before. It felt safe, it felt secure—unless Rin took off his shirt, there was no way he could escape. 

He wasn’t expecting that fact to bring him so much relief.

In the blink of an eye, Bachira is at his side, saying something his mind wasn’t able to comprehend. He feels hands grabbing his waist, helping him pull so he’d have better balance on his legs. 

Rin is kicking and screaming throughout all of this—his voice begging for reconciliation and to let him free— but Isagi ignores him. He ignores his pleas’ and cries for mercy, he ignores his flaring limbs and pitiful yearns, he ignores everything Itoshi Rin is spewing. 

Once Rin isn’t verging the end of the wall, Isagi quickly puts his arms underneath Rin’s shoulders and pulls. The idiot is so damn heavy, it feels like he’s hefting up a car. 

Rin’s desperate drubbing and yelling don’t make it any easier because Isagi has never seen or heard Rin cry out in such earnest before—not unless it was something regarding his brother, even then, those emotions were out of anger, jealousy, envy, and hurt. These screams sound frantic and urgent— like a soldier trying to complete his last duty before being forced to surrender. 

With one last heave and haul, all three of them fall and crash to the ground—like dominoes falling one by one. Isagi keeps a tight grip on the younger man’s shirt—worried that if he let go, Rin would jump and he wouldn’t be able to catch him in time.

Everyone seemed to pause—taking in what just happened—the events leading up to it—the fact that Itoshi Rin was still here and wouldn’t have been if Bachira hadn’t persuaded Isagi to follow him. 

There were too many components, too many thoughts and feelings to process—yet without them, one of the members of Blue Lock—their best player—the younger brother of Itoshi Sae—would’ve died. 

“I-sa-gi!” Bachira groaned in pain, trying to pull his body out of Isagi’s fall. “Get up!” 

As much as Isagi wanted to glare and scold his cat-like teammate, there were many important things to deal with—one important thing to deal with—and it was Rin.

He got up, keeping a vice grip on the younger soccer player’s shirt, clenching his shirt because his life had depended on it a few minutes ago. 

“Unhand me, you fucking incel!” Rin yelled, beginning to tug at the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. 

Now that Bachira was free, he waltzed over to the boy, crouching in front of him with an innocent tilt of his head. 

“Whatcha doing there, Rin-chan~?” 

“Getting away from you— both of you,” Rin spat before Bachira grabbed his wrists, preventing him from taking off his way to freedom. “Don’t fucking touch me!” 

“Tch, nah-ah,” Bachira sang as he gently shook his head, “It’s against the law to go nude in public~ I thought you knew that, Rinrin!”

Rin grumbled something under his breath, most likely a curse or a swear. His cheeks gained a blush of embarrassment and frustration, upset he wasn’t slithering his way out of his older teammates' grasp. 

The sun was getting close to setting, the sky painted in dark oranges and reds—fewer clouds to accompany it—fewer cars driving by as more street lights turned on. Given the weight of the evening’s events, neither of the three could say they weren’t upset or tired. 

It was… awkward. What are you supposed to say to someone after they tried to kill themselves? Especially someone like Itoshi Rin. 

As far as Isagi knows, Rin doesn’t like comfort—or doesn’t seem like he does. He’s avoidant, only confrontational when he’s on the field or when it’s related to soccer. He’s blunt but not with his emotions—with his actions. He carries burdens as if he’s a soldier—bottling it all up until it explodes. His trance is destructive like how unresolved trauma eats a person alive. 

Or maybe… Rin has never received comfort before.

It could be that his only source of comfort was Sae before they became rivals— enemies with a close past.

Isagi is highly considering the latter.

Nothing can be without a beginning. 

Ever since Bachira’s comment, the younger player had gone quiet. Opposite of his thrashing and yelling—begging and yearning—he’s now as quiet as a mouse. 

Rin is looking at the ground, playing with the pebbles of concrete, and occasionally filing down his nails on the cement. He looks—he doesn’t look peaceful. He looks… out of it. 

“Rin?” Isagi asked quietly, loosening the hold he had on his clothes. “Rin can you hear me?” 

No response. 

Not even a petty glare or scoff. 

“Maybe he’s ignoring you, Isagi,” Bachira chimes in, trying to sound falsely positive. Knowing Bachira, he’s not the best equipped to deal with emotions like these. 

“He could or he’s…” Isagi’s mind went blank. “There’s a word for it, I can’t—I can’t think of the word right now, though.” 

“Rin-chan is alive and that’s good enough, right?” Bachira almost sounds nervous—frantic, even. 

Isagi shook his head, “He’s alive but he isn’t okay.” 

He looked around for any taxis that could be driving around this hour. Unsurprisingly, there weren’t. At least, not on this side of town—this side of Ichikawa isn’t active at night, or much on the weekdays. 

“Could you call a taxi or just anyone to pick us up?” Isagi asked, and Bachira nodded his head but quickly returned his gaze to the loose grip he had on Rin’s wrists, frowning slightly. 

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Isagi reassured. Bachira nodded and got up—running to an area that had better reception. 

Maybe Rin would talk now that it’s just the two of them. 

Isagi unclenched the hold he had on his shirt and waited for some sort of reaction—a response— and nothing. 

On one hand, it was relieving because it meant that Rin wasn’t going to run away or jump over the railing. But on the other hand, it was… concerning. 

He sat beside Rin, bodies almost touching—it was getting colder out and neither of them were particularly dressed for the nighttime chill. If he was asked, he could say it was to preserve body heat for the both of them so they wouldn’t get sick during their two-week vacation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He began, yet the stillness in the air predetermined that answer for him. It was futile. 

His only response was Rin filing his skin on the cold concrete, chaffing his cuticles in particular. 

“Let’s not do that,” Isagi’s hand hovered over Rin’s, but the man turned away, hiding his hands away from Isagi as he continued what he was doing on the opposite side. 

Isagi has dealt with multiple sides that make up Itoshi Rin. He’s dealt with a mad Rin, a livid Rin, a jealous Rin, a very competitive Rin, Rin in his trance state. All the sides of Rin he’s seen have been strictly on a professional level. He’s never dealt with a sad Rin or an unresponsive Rin because Rin always has something to snark or scoff about. 

This is something he doesn’t know how to comfort. 

Rin isn’t Bachira, he can’t use those same soothing strategies. 

Rin won’t accept consolation from Isagi—he’s not a nurturing mother.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Isagi starts. He’s desperate. He’s worried. He’s scared for his friend and he won’t give up—he won’t do nothing. “I don’t know what led up to you doing… that. I know you had your reasons. I don’t—I don’t know what to say because I don’t know you all that well, but you’re my teammate, and we have to look out for each other one way or another, right?” 

Rin opens his mouth—like he might say something—but he closes it again, silencing himself. 

I’m getting somewhere, Isagi thinks, so he keeps going. “I speculate that you fucking hate my ass. But just because you hate me and that we’re rivals now or whatever, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about your well-being—that doesn’t go out the drain just because some things were said. I don’t plan on leaving you, Rin. Not unless you make me leave or I die or you die, or—” 

“You don’t get it and you never will,” Rin’s voice sounds so… dead. Rin doesn’t sound like Rin at all. He’s a would-be ghost version of himself, a shell of what Isagi knows. 

“Then explain it to me—” 

“You won’t understand,” Rin clarifies, voice wavering with more hurt and venom than before. “All you fuckers only care because of my family name. You pieces of catshit care about Sae.” 

“I didn’t play alongside Sae, I played with you—I am your teammate, not his.”

“He acknowledged you, not me, you,” Rin angles his pointer finger on the ground and it snaps against the cement. 

Isagi’s breath hitches. Bachira was right. Sae is a part of this—the problem—the spiral. 

“Why—” 

“You scored against him. You took my goal,” Rin’s voice cracks, like how a person's voice does when they’re about to cry. 

Isagi is silent. 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

Soccer isn’t supposed to be a personal matter. You play to win. Not to brute out trauma. 

“I don’t apologize for scoring the winning goal,” Isagi says. “I do apologize that you’re feeling this way, though.”

“You don’t fucking get it and you never will,” His voice quivers—genuine emotion from Itoshi Rin is falling out—and now it can’t stop. “Nii-chan doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want to be the best striker anymore—I can’t be second best anymore, I have to be first. He told me to quit soccer. He told me to drop our dream. He told me we’re not brothers anymore. He—” Rin’s voice hitches. “He took everything away from me, he acknowledged you when I was right there.”

Itoshi Rin’s facade is gone. 

And now he’s akin to a terrified abandoned child. 

All Isagi wants to do is go back in time and not score the goal. Go back to when Rin was younger and be his friend. Go back in time and mend the wounds that were soon to come. 

There’s so much Isagi doesn’t know. 

He had no right to assume to begin with. 

Rin is shaking—trying to internalize a panic attack. Isagi saw it coming from a mile away. But now he doesn’t intend on leaving Rin alone until he’s safe. 

His teammate is in crisis and it’s partially his fault. 

He uses logic on the field but he can’t logic his way out of this. 

Logic can’t cancel out feelings. 

Isagi peers over and sees Bachira waving down a car, it looks like Reo and Nagi are in the front seats. Those two are familiar, but aren’t familiar with Rin—at least, not like he and Bachira are. 

The sky is dark—a midnight blue dazzled with thousands of stars. Being this close to the ocean makes it cold—Isagi’s body shivers while Rin’s shakes in consternation. 

“Rin, can I touch you?” Isagi asks, body hovering beside his scarce teammate—his teammate who's been broken the whole time he’s been here and told no one. His teammate who’s has issues that no one knows about. His teammate whose been wallowing in his anguish alone for too far long.

No response. 

Itoshi Rin isn’t responding and Isagi doesn’t know what to do. 

He goes for it. 

His arms wrap around Rin’s shaking frame—he’s broad, made of muscle, he’s huge— but hugging him reminds Isagi of a small child. He doesn’t feel strong in stature, he feels fear. 

Rin’s breath hitches for the dozenth time tonight, hands slowly coming up to touch Isagi’s—head burrowing into the man’s forearm. 

Isagi feels his hoodie getting damp with silent tears—he isn’t wailing or pleading for mercy. He isn’t defensive or angry with the world. He’s sad. He’s complicatedly sad. 

“Reo and Nagi are gonna drive us to my hotel room, okay?” Isagi explains. “You don’t gotta look at them and they already know not to ask questions. But you’re coming with me, alright? Bachira’s mom is picking him up at the hotel. It’ll just be us for the night.” 

The younger player’s head nods into his forearm. A shuddery exhale escapes his breath before he zips it shut, wiping his own tears with the heel of his palm.

Isagi helps him up, he offers his hand but Rin just barely grabs onto his sleeve instead. Vulnerability is unfamiliar to him—he didn’t have much of a support system before, if at all. 

He is forced into the middle seat, Rin on one side and Bachira on the other. Reo and Nagi chatter in the front with Bachira chiming in every once and a while. None of them ask questions, Reo doesn’t glance in the mirror once while he’s driving. 

Isagi uses his thumb to massage the back of Rin’s hand, keeping him grounded and calm—occasionally checking in to see if the young player needs anything. 

Rin never responds but stares out the window, secretly appreciative of his teammate's tender actions. 

Soccer isn’t just about scoring goals and winning. It’s about getting to know your teammates while your ego grows with each relationship. It’s about branching outside of your comfort zone and finding out things about yourself that you couldn’t have discovered elsewhere. Soccer is a competitive sport but you form a family with your team. 

Rin isn’t okay but he’s alive. 

His attempt didn’t win this time. 

Isagi Yoichi defeated it. 

And he intends to defeat every single one.