Work Text:
Nagi Seishiro knew of Mikage Reo long before he met him.
Everyone did.
Reo was a name whispered through Japan's football community like legend—the prodigy-turned-mogul, the heir to one of Japan’s richest conglomerates, who traded suits and stock markets for cleats and stadium lights. By twenty-nine, he was both a star midfielder and a financial powerhouse backing half the league's new talent.
Nagi didn’t really care about that.
At least, not until the first time he saw Reo with his own eyes.
It was at an exhibition match, a rare one open to sponsors and public figures. Nagi had only just been plucked from obscurity—sixteen, lazy, disinterested in everything except maybe his phone.
He didn’t even want to be here.
He was slumped against a wall near the back entrance, half-asleep on his feet, when the crowd shifted—and Reo stepped through.
And Nagi woke up all at once like he'd been dunked in ice water.
Because holy shit.
Nothing had prepared him for Reo in person.
Tall, lean muscle under an expensive jacket, a sharp jawline, hair loose and tousled like he hadn't even tried but somehow looked better than anyone in the room. His laugh cut through the noise—bright, easy, beautiful—and when he turned slightly to greet someone, the light hit his face just right and Nagi felt his knees lock up.
The world dulled around the edges.
His phone slipped from his fingers, forgotten.
He barely realized he was staring until Reo glanced over the crowd—and smiled.
At him.
A polite, faintly curious smile, like he was wondering why this kid was sulking in the corner.
Nagi stared back, heart hammering, throat dry.
He looked away first, the tips of his ears burning.
What the fuck.
What the fuck was that.
For the first time in his life, something—someone—hit him harder than any goal, sharper than any win.
And the worst part?
Nagi knew instantly it was hopeless.
Someone like Mikage Reo wasn't meant for people like him.
Not some bratty, half-asleep kid with no direction.
Still.
When Reo made his rounds, eventually stopping near the place Nagi loitered with a few other players, Nagi straightened instinctively, dragging his hoodie sleeves over his hands, pretending he wasn’t aching for attention.
Reo looked at him again, his violet eyes crinkling slightly with something amused—fond, almost.
"You’re one of the new recruits, right?" Reo said, voice smooth and easy like silk.
Nagi nodded dumbly, unable to make his mouth work for a second.
After what felt like an eternity, he opened his mouth to speak, “Nagi—” but his voice cracked.
Cringe.
He cleared his throat. "...Nagi Seishiro," he finally managed as his face flush with heat.
Reo blinked at him for a moment, then smiled wider, warm and devastating.
"Good luck, Nagi-kun," he said, clapping him once on the shoulder before moving on.
The spot where Reo touched him burned through his hoodie, seared into memory.
Nagi stood frozen long after Reo left, pulse thundering.
His brain slowly rebooted one word at a time:
Good. Luck. Nagi-kun.
He bent down numbly to pick up his phone, barely registering it was still unlocked on a blank text message.
Without thinking, without breathing, he typed into it:
Goal: Become someone Reo will notice.
And for the first time, Nagi thought that maybe getting up, fighting harder, giving a shit about something could be worth it.
Many months later, Nagi was almost eighteen, and he was still pathetically, helplessly in love with Mikage Reo.
It hadn't faded.
It hadn't dulled.
If anything, it had gotten worse.
He saw Reo more often now—at sponsorship events, league matches, and training camps.
Worse, Reo knew who he was now.
Talked to him casually. Patted his hair sometimes like he was a younger brother. Laughed and teased him and smiled those stupid perfect smiles that made Nagi want to commit a crime.
It was torture.
Beautiful, exquisite torture.
Because Reo still saw him as a kid.
A genius.
Promising, but not a possibility.
And Nagi—Nagi was growing into his body fast, shedding the lanky awkwardness of sixteen, putting on lean muscle, sharper shoulders, broader hands—but it still wasn't enough.
Not when he looked at Reo and wanted to sink his teeth into him and all he got in return was fond ruffling of his hair.
Not when he watched Reo laugh with older teammates, easy, casual touches, and had to shove his hands deep into his pockets to keep them from doing something stupid.
He thought he was hiding it well. (He wasn't.)
One evening, after a charity match, Nagi found himself sitting near the buffet table, lazily picking at a plate of food, when Reo slid beside him with two glasses of soda.
"You look miserable," Reo said, offering one drink out to him.
Nagi took it, muttered a thanks.
"You hate these things too, huh?" Reo said, bumping their shoulders lightly.
Warm.
Easy.
Fucking deadly.
Nagi hummed noncommittally, keeping his gaze trained on the ice swirling in his cup.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reo studying him, head tilted in that way he did when he was curious.
"You've grown," Reo said suddenly.
Nagi stiffened.
Reo laughed a little under his breath, leaning closer. His cologne hit Nagi like a blow, something fresh and sharp and utterly unfair.
"You're gonna be trouble for someone soon," Reo grinned.
Nagi clenched the cup so hard the plastic cracked.
"I already am," he said lowly, surprising even himself with the raw edge to his voice.
Reo blinked, something flickering across his face, something quick and unreadable.
Then he smiled again, ruffling Nagi's hair like always.
"You'll break a lot of hearts, Nagi-kun," Reo teased gently.
Nagi looked at him, really looked at him—saw the soft line of his mouth, the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the beautiful fucking vulnerability Reo didn’t even know he had—and knew.
Knew.
There was only one heart he wanted.
To keep.
To devour.
To own.
He just had to be patient a little longer.
Just a little longer.
When Reo walked away to mingle again, Nagi stayed behind, the sugary soda untouched in his hand, his chest aching with it.
Soon, he promised silently.
Soon.