Chapter Text
When Fubuki calls back, it takes Someoka a good ten seconds to recognize his name on his phone screen. He has been staring for about fifteen minutes, chin dug into the edge of his window, at the floodlights of the training ground below. As soon as the light grows too intense, he closes his eyelids; and as soon as the white globules fade from his retina, he opens his eyes again, just to damage them anew. It is the vibrations of his phone that finally pull him out of this episode: in the small bedroom, the hammering of the device against the MDF desk echoes as loudly as an entire grandstand stamping their feet.
Someoka lets out a curse. His eyes burn and he wonders whether they are playing tricks on him. Fubuki's calling, apparently. His stomach knots as he scrutinizes the letters forming his name. They sparkle between the vibrations and the flakes of light in his field of vision. The last ring of the call ends at the very moment he lifts his thumb to answer; the screen goes black again.
Someoka drops his phone, then rubs his eyelids until his fingers grow damp. The device buzzes again: he startles. “No way.”
He picks up the phone to quiet its jackhammer noises. It's Fubuki again. Unless his eyes are still screwing with him. “What kind of stupid contact photo is that.” Again, it takes him a moment to understand the image on display. It is an old photo, dating back to middle school; not very good quality, taken with the old phone he got from his mother, which automatically backed itself up in his contacts when he got a new one. Shot during a two-man penalty practice on the side, outside of classes and of the others. In the middle, Someoka, sprawled on the embankment of the field, out of breath from hitting and retrieving the ball; below, Fubuki, innocent smile, back when his face was still round, who took advantage of the moment to steal his phone and pop outa series of selfies behind his back. Someoka remembers scolding him when he discovered the fifty or so selfies polluting his gallery. Catching sight of the metallic tip of the observation tower in the background pierces him with nostalgia. He lets out a heavy sigh, then resigns himself to answering.
“Hello?”
“Someoka?”
Of course, it is Fubuki. Someoka shivers.
“Yeah, Fubuki? Hi.”
“Someoka! You okay? You doing well?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Oh. Oh okay, I was scared. I saw that you’d called me.”
Hearing Fubuki’s voice feels strange. It is not like as he knows it - muffled, distant. For good reason, though.
“Oh, right.”
“You wanted to reach me?”
“Uh…”
The young man hesitates about lying. The emotion from a few hours ago has not faded - his ire has. Someoka feels like he is turning into a grandpa: hearing the real voice of the real Fubuki here and now thanks to human technology seems unbelievable. For all he knows, the two guys in the rooms next to his could hear him too.
“Yeah, well… I had a question for you a bit earlier, but, uh… it’s, all good now.”
“You serious?”
“What?”
“You have a question? I was scared, Someoka! I wake up, I turn on my phone, I see two missed calls! I thought you’d had an accident!”
Someoka stretches his neck, stiff from twisting it over the window ledge. That is how Fubuki is: when he gets worked up, his voice shoots into the high register, and his credibility plummets.
“Ah, uh, no. Sorry? Don’t worry.”
“Don’t call me like that at two in the morning, I thought you’d been hit by a car or something like that! Leave a message!”
Someoka throws a quick glance at the night sky through his window, aggressively pushed back by the training floodlights. He does a quick time calculation and feels his cheeks burn. Fubuki did not pick up earlier because he does not give a crap about him, but because he must have been snoring.
“Yeah, no, sorry. I… it’s fine, don’t stress over something so small.”
“Sorry, I… I can’t help it.”
Someoka pulls at the skin on his forehead. What a fiasco. Months and months without talking.
“No, no, don’t worry. It’s… it’s nice of you to be that considerate.”
“So. What was your question?”
Someoka raises his eyebrows.
“Oh. Uh.”
On the other end of the line, Fubuki, far, very far away, keeps silent while waiting for the answer. Someoka hears him breathe, in that slightly rough way when his nose is congested.
“Yeah, so, uh,” he says, feeling his temples damp under his fingers. “You wouldn’t want to… teach me how to snowboard?”
“What?”
Someoka snaps his fingers. “Snowboarding.”
“Snowboarding?” Fubuki repeats.
“Yeah, uh…” - Someoka slaps his forehead - “…snowboarding. Since you’re good at snowboarding. I figured you could give me some tips. You taught me a bit a long time ago. I’ve forgotten everything since.”
“You want to go snowboarding?”
“…Yes.”
“Awesome!”
Someoka painfully pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the contact photo on the screen. Middle school Fubuki’s face smiles at him, serene and strong-willed.
“Yeah yeah,” Someoka says in a flat voice as he presses the phone back to his ear. “It’s, uh… some friends of mine who suggested a little trip to the mountains. Soon. That’s it. That’s why.”
Fubuki yawns briefly.
“That’s so cool, when are you coming? You’re going up to Hokkaido?”
“No no, it’s… it’s… we’re going to the Alps, normally.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“Well, you know… the Alps.”
“Niigata? Nagano? I know those less.”
“No… not, uh, our Alps. The… Alps, Alps.”
“The Alps?”
“…Yeah?”
“In Europe?”
“…Yeah. In… Italy.”
Fubuki gives a light laugh.
“What are you going to do in Italy, visit San Siro?”
Someoka bites his cheek. He could take offense - but who does Fubuki think he is, Someoka is a refined guy, his interests absolutely extend to gastronomy, art, scooters. It would not be such a bad idea as a diversion. But he is talking to Fubuki. He has already lied to him once.
“No,” he says before swallowing. “I’m in Inter’s U20.”
After two seconds during which Someoka wants to throw his phone out the window, Fubuki replies.
“Oh.”
Oh means that Fubuki believes him. Impossible, however, from that simple oh, to know what he thinks of it. Someoka himself cannot believe it. Even with the blue-and-black awnings lit up at full blast by the lights of the field under his eyes. Even with the numbered bibs of the players authorized to train despite the late hour on the fluorescent green of the pitch. Even with the posters signed by the club’s seniors that he has plastered next to photos of his friends from Raimon on the walls.
“Well, darn. That’s something. Congratulations.”
“Uh… yeah. Thanks.”
“Wow. Well done, truly.”
“Thanks, Fubuki.”
New silence. Someoka wonders whether Fubuki has just sniffed.
“Yeah, that’s dope,” he declares. “I’m chuffed.”
“I knew for Kidou, but not that that concerned you too.”
Someoka does a half-turn on his desk chair.
“You saw the article he reposted on his suck-up network too?” he snickers.
“Er, no.”
“‘Dear network,’ something like that - ‘dear network, it is with immense gratitude that I have the honor of having been selected by the eminent Club of Inter, whatever’…”
“No,” Fubuki cuts in. “He just told me.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yes. I was checking in - we talked a month or two ago, I wished him a happy birthday, he told me that a few foreign headhunters often came to take notes at his matches and that he was regularly exchanging with them about opportunities in international clubs. I told him to keep me posted if any offers came in, and he did. I didn’t know it concerned as well.
"Ah, you didn’t know. Well, actually, that article also mentioned that I’d been accepted, had you clicked on it."
"I… I don’t read the news on Kidou’s pro account every day. And I don’t type your name into a search engine 24/7 either."
Someoka really hopes the reason Fubuki’s voice is so strangled is because he has just woken up. Imagining him standing at the foot of his bed gives him the feeling that he himself is tangled up in an endless day.
“How long have you been there?”
“Uh… a week and a half, roughly.”
“Oh… and when did you find out you were going?”
“About a month ago.”
“Oh… cool. That’s cool.”
Someoka stops his chair spins abruptly with his heel.
“You don’t sound like you think it’s that cool.”
Fubuki lets out an impatient sigh.
“It’s just that if you told any aspiring pro that you’d been accepted at Inter, and that your first instinct once there was to say yes to a mountain weekend to practice one of the most bone-breaking sports that exists, he wouldn’t be wrong to want to throw stones at you.”
“Fubuki, stop talking bullshit. If you wanted to, right now, you’d be at Barça, or Liverpool, with a snap of your fingers.”
“What?”
“Like, man, stop playing dense; I give you the recruiter’s number, that’s it, you’d be with us the day after tomorrow.”
“Someoka, I can’t believe it, you’re not going to go break your leg in the Alps when you’ve just started a season at Inter!”
“No! Well that’s why I’m asking you for advice then!”
“Okay!”
“Good!”
“Well, I’m delighted!”
“Great! You’re not my mother!”
“And does your mother know you’re at Inter? While we’re at it?”
“How dare you talk about my mother! Family-less Fubuki!”
Three knocks hit the wall of the room. Someoka freezes. He hears a curse in the room next door, then an unbearable silence on the other end of the line.
“No but seriously, I can’t believe it,” Fubuki finally declares. “The dragon of Raimon is in Milan.”
Someoka catches his breath in three small whistling inhales. He hopes the guy next door wasn’t trying to sleep.
“You think I have a chance here?”
“I don’t know what it’s like!”
“Ok, so try imagining!”
“Yes, of course. Someoka, of course. You being there surprises me, but at the same time, not really. I don’t know. I picture you with a little mustache kneading pizza dough.”
“Tss.” Someoka runs a finger over his still beardless chin. “You’re a real yokel.”
“Well, tell me then. What’s Italy like?”
“It’s… it’s not the same. We play football. Al calcio. I don’t know,” Someoka exhales, resting his chin on the edge of his window. “I’m in their youth center in a really shitty industrial district. It’s gray, it’s cold. We arrived at the airport at night with Kidou. I haven’t really had time to do any sightseeing.”
“You’re there for football, right?”
“Yeah. But… it’s… a different atmosphere. There are tons of pitches, press rooms, masseurs, cold therapy rooms. It’s not that old sock-smelling shack back in Raimon.”
“I can imagine! That’s amazing, Someoka.”
“Yeah, it’s… it’s great.”
“But do you like it?”
“Yeah. Yeah yeah.”
“From the way you talk about it, it doesn’t sound like you like it that much.”
“It’s just that it’s… Inter, you know. I would never have imagined, in my life, something like this.”
“You’re going to beat them all.”
Someoka rolls his eyes - Fubuki is so corny.
“The Inter's going to beat my ass, yeah.”
“Don’t say that...”
“But like, I’m not Kidou! I’m not Gouenji, I’m not Endou…”
“Can someone throw stones at him…”
“…I’m not you!”
“Throw stones at a wall and wait for them to bounce back at you,” Fubuki bleats bluntly. “You’re not made to play at JEF United your whole life. Bright yellow doesn’t suit you.”
“I was seriously going to stay at Raimon my whole life, I almost repeated a year.”
“Oh damn?”
“Yeah, I… well, training, matches, it takes time, you know.”
“I don’t know, I put everything on hold before exams. Football, snowboarding, everything.”
“But what are you doing now?”
“Me? Me, I’m at home.”
Someoka is only half surprised by that answer. Over the past few months, he has often looked online for news about Fubuki, incapable of spamming his whole life story on social media. In the news tabs appear articles about junior team matches from his hometown, his name coming up as coach of the younger players, often accompanied by flattering quotes about his team’s talent. News that aren’t uninteresting, the Alpine school enjoying an excellent national reputation, but which often leave Someoka perplexed.
“And what else? You play? You coach?” he asks in as neutral a tone as possible.
“Whoa. Uh, yeah. For example today - well, I’m going to go back to sleep a bit, it’s really early, but I’ll hit the pitch. Then I think I’ll do some grocery shopping. Then help a neighbor shovel snow. Maybe I’ll watch a movie tonight.”
"Good old Shirou Fubuki."
“Yeah. Easy. I’ll probably make a chickpea curry for dinner.”
Someoka starts rubbing his eyes again. The aches tearing at his thighs will still be there tomorrow. Good old Fubuki, with his raspy half-asleep voice. His house near the river must still be slumbering at this hour, lulled by a blanket of fresh powder brought by the endless winter night.
“Fuck, man… the rice here… we have a cafeteria, and I don’t know what they do with the rice, but… it’s hella weird, their rice. I should’ve brought my own. I should’ve brought a cooker. I don’t know where I would’ve put it, but I’d be happy to have it. It’s awful. I want to go home.”
“Darn. That bad?”
“I’m joking, don’t whine.”
“I don’t know. I’m glad to hear from you, especially since… you did have some pretty huge news.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s just that… I don’t know if I’ll manage to adapt to this environment.”
“What’s the hardest part? the distance? life there?”
“Yeah, no… I don’t know. The scale.”
“The scale?”
“Yeah… The city is small, but… it’s… it’s not a small club. I don’t know if I’ll manage to prove myself. That’s all.”
“I personally don’t doubt it.”
Someoka presses his forehead against the icy window. Easy to say, when hibernating in a hideout in some backwater of Shiribeshi. He doesn’t tell him. It has been too long since they last spoke; he isn’t sure he can tease him like that.
“Hang in there, I know you. You’re going to become even stronger than you already are, I really can’t wait to follow your progress.”
“Stop it, you’re going to make me blush.”
“You blush easily anyway.”
“Okay, so, Shirou, would you do something for me?”
“Of course, Someoka.”
Someoka exhales so hard that the glass turns slick with fog.
“I didn’t make exceptional first impressions at my first training sessions,” he euphemizes. “I won’t have the jet lag excuse for much longer, so I’d just like you to keep to yourself the fact that I’m there. I don’t want the information circulating among people we know.”
“What, so nobody knows that you’re, uh, where you are?”
“No, not really. In fact, you’re the first person I’m telling.”
“You… you didn’t even have a farewell party?”
“With my fam, briefly.”
“You didn’t even tell the old Raimon guys?”
Exposed by Fubuki, the situation does sound a little ridiculous. Kidou, on the other hand, had decided to organize a small farewell dinner for himself, including Someoka - who had declined, afraid that news of their double transfer would leak. What is he thinking, not even having shared it with Endou? with Kazemaru? He has no idea. One day when he was walking with Aki and Domon, both had confided, in passing, their grief over Ichinose, who had chosen to fake his death for years after his accident when they were kids rather than face them by admitting he would never be able to play football again. Someoka had thought the car must have hit Ichinose in the corner of his brain where he stored all his common sense - and that explained why he sometimes found the guy a bit nuts. But now that he finds himself at Inter, each passing day brings him a little closer to the mindset of that lunatic Ichinose.
“No… can you imagine how much Natsumi would be on my back otherwise? We haven’t even played a single match there yet and she’s already forced Kidou to do three interviews for the school paper, and he’s only played three months under the Raimon jersey. Just with him, it’s a huge publicity boost, so imagine with me.”
“Mama mia; she’d name an entire gym after you.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t exaggerate. One row of bleachers at most. She’d force me to make Inter put the school’s name in huge letters on our jerseys.”
“You really haven’t told anyone else?”
“You’re the first I’m admitting it to. Keep it secret, please. Tsunami, Tobitaka, and Fudo know, because Fudo is a huge snoop who reads everything Kidou posts online to make fun of him and he forwarded it in our group chat. But he promised he wouldn’t say anything; Tsunami is spaced out and Tobitaka doesn’t give a damn about pro football, so apart from them, people don’t know.”
“Okay. Alright.”
“Thanks. Thanks, Shirou.”
“You’re welcome. You still have your group chat with the three of them?”
“Yeah! We have a band.”
“I know. Is that still a thing?”
“It’s more of a hassle since we finished school because we’re all busy, but yeah. I thought I was sending you invites to our concerts. You never came!”
“I went during the FFI days, now it’s too far. I can’t believe Tsunami makes the trip every time.”
“You have the train too. Come to the big city sometimes.”
“You come to my place instead of going to tear your ACLs on Mont Blanc.”
“You come to Mont Blanc!”
“You’ll put me up in Inter’s locker rooms.”
“That’s it, and we’ll sleep head to foot in my single bed, unless they kick me out before then.”
“Eww, awesome.”
Knocks echo again on Someoka’s wall. Why did he say something like that? He’s also pretty sure Fubuki has cold feet.
“I’m going to have to leave you, my neighbor probably wants to sleep and he can hear me talking. Our sleep schedule is precise down to the minute.”
“Okay. I understand.”
“Cool.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, well… it was nice talking to you.”
“For me too, Someoka. Even if it’s early for me.”
“Ugh, then go sleep! As if I were putting a gun to your head to make you call me back now.”
Fubuki seems to think for a few seconds.
“I won’t say anything to anyone about your activities until you win the Ballon d’Or, I promise. But am I going to have to ask Kidou to secretly film you to see how you’re doing over there?”
“No, don’t worry. I… well, I’m glad to hear from you too. I’ll talk to you again later, if I have time. It’s exhausting. Send pictures of your curry.”
“But I’d rather not teach you how to snowboard, though.”
Someoka hears a smile in his voice.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I… I’ll keep you posted on all that. No fail.”
“Great. Bye. Sleep well.”
“You too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“See you soon.”
“Yeah.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Someoka pulls the phone away from his ear and runs a finger over the greasy halo left by his skin on the screen. He stretches his neck comfortably, wipes the corner of the window where he left fog, then looks once more at the training ground still active. Did he say anything weird? Fubuki seemed happy to talk to him. His voice doesn’t seem to have changed. Someoka hadn’t imagined him drastically transforming over the space of a few years, but still. If he had known that restarting the conversation with him could be this natural, he wouldn’t have hesitated to call him for months now. Good thing he hasn’t changed his phone number.
Heart pounding, Someoka jumps to his feet. The overall fatigue of the day throbs through him, and all he wants is to crawl into bed. But he slips on his slippers and crosses the narrow passage leading from his desk to the door of his studio.
In the residence hallway, he only passes one or two guys whose first names he hasn’t remembered. He greets them with a nod, then keeps going. From some rooms, music leaks softly from speakers. Others are playing video games. Reaching the very end, he knocks gently on the last door; a vague “coming” reaches him through the wall.
The door swings wide open after a few seconds onto a stranger, whom Someoka has trouble recognizing against the backlight.
“*Hi. What?*”
“Ah, *no.*”
“*What?*”
“*I got the wrong door. Sorry.*”
The occupant, wearing a jersey from a previous season as pajamas, shrugs and closes the door. Someoka shifts his weight from one foot to the other - it’s one of the midfielders from their class, whom he doesn’t know well. If it’s not that door, it’s probably the one next to it. Someoka knocks again, then waits, wiggling his toes. He hopes it’s not frowned upon to wander the halls during rest time.
"Sì? Oh, hi, Ryoga.”
It is indeed Kidou who appears in the crack of the door. Without his glasses, and his hair loose. Someoka could count on one hand the times he has already seen him like this.
“'Sup, Yuuto. Got a minute?”Kidou opens the door wide and raises the hand not holding the handle to show a phone.
“I was on a call. One second, it’s Ryoga,” he murmurs to his interlocutor.
Someoka’s eyes widen.
“Shit! You’re with Haruna?”
“No, Sakuma,” Kidou reveals, turning the screen toward him.
“Oh, okay. Wow. What is he doing up at this hour?”
“What’s it to you?” Sakuma’s drawling voice rings out on speaker.
Someoka gives a small wave to the camera.
“Hi, Sakuma. Still, uh… still doing okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll put you on hold for two seconds,” Kidou whispers. “Can I help you?”
Someoka rests his elbow on the doorframe.
“Yes… I had a small question for you…”
“I’m listening.”
“Would you maybe feel like going for a, uh… a weekend in the Alps, sometime in the coming weeks?”
“A weekend in the Alps?”
Kidou blinks, completely confused. Maybe he blinks like that all the time in daily life, secretly, behind his glasses.
“Yeah. Since we’re here. There’s quite a lot of snow this season. We could, uh… go up high, I don’t know. Drink mulled wine. Make red blood cells.”
“Uh… would you like us to discuss this inside?” he suggests, stepping aside. “I think the people next door are sleeping.”
Someoka nods and slips into Kidou’s room. Instead of the faint smell of dampness and badly dried jerseys that hangs in his own, the room carries a woody ambient fragrance, coming from a diffuser set on the shelves along the back wall. Kidou has brought linen bedsheets and real wooden photo frames from home, warming up the repetitive furniture of the residence a little. His window looks out onto the cubic facade of the training center’s pool, and even if constantly seeing people training on the field gives Someoka a bit of the blues, maybe he is not so badly off.
“So you want us to go to the Alps? Together?”
“Yeah… yeah yeah. Why not?”
“How would we get there?” he asks, picking up a leather notebook from his bedside table.
“Uh, I don’t know. By bus? Or by train? Or by car?”
“Do you have a car?”
“No, but… I have a license. It must be possible to rent one, maybe. Like accommodation on site, too.”
“Aosta side? Or Le Dolomiti?”
“That… uh… that will depend on what activities we feel like doing.”
“Skiing, for example?”
“Why not.”
“Oh really,” Kidou comments, leafing through the pages of his notebook. “I didn’t know that was really your thing.”
“Yes, but… I thought it might suit you.”
Kidou does not react.
“What date would you like to do this?”
Kidou’s fingers stop on a double page. Someoka notices that a complex pen holder sits on his desk, something that would suit a minister better than a guy who graduated from high school the previous year. Then again. Given the school Kidou went to… maybe Someoka guessed right by suggesting a mountain trip. The Royal Academy seemed to have the budget to go on ski trips every year - unlike Raimon, where the only notable school outing had been a visit to a wastewater treatment plant in their final year, which had led Kazemaru to hypothesize that the principal was diverting educational funds to pay for his golf club membership.
“I don’t know? Next weekend?”
Kidou taps a page.
“That doesn’t work for me… I have an appointment with a tailor downtown.”
“What?”
“It would bother me to reschedule,” Kidou retorts.
“Yeah, yeah,” Someoka says with a smirk. “Fashion Killer Yuuta.”
“If you wanted to go to the mountains, would you even have appropriate clothes?”
Someoka stays silent while Kidou turns a few pages of his notebook.
“Why not two weeks from now,” Kidou declares. “What do you think? We’ll have gotten through the next matches and we’ll be freer on rest days. That would give us time to buy an anorak.”
“You’d be up for it? Really?”
“Well, uh. Yes.”
Kidou sets his planner back on the bedside table with slow movements. Someoka glances at it reflexively - all the pages for the coming months already seem annotated. Kidou is a whole other story. When they took their flight to Italy together, he had in his carry-on a bottle of water, his passport, his wallet, an eye mask, a spare pair of socks, five different travel guides, an Italian-Japanese dictionary, and his planner. He did nothing but read the books and take notes during the fourteen-hour trip - which vaguely inspired Someoka to watch the entire Godfather trilogy to pass the time.
“We’ll have to look into the feasibility of this project a bit more,” he continues, “but, uh… yes. I’d be up for it.”
Someoka clasps his hands together.
“Great! Thanks, Kidou. We’ll see about it later. You can call Sakuma back.”
“Someoka, wait,” Kidou mutters, tugging at his hair as if about to tie it back.
“What?”
“And you? Would you be free next Saturday afternoon?”
“I think so? Yeah? Why?”
Kidou lets go of his strands, which spring back over his shoulders. Someoka regrets answering yes, because he is fairly sure he will be exhausted and would rather sleep all day.
“I have an extra ticket to go see La Cena, I had booked two in advance just in case. Would you like to come with me?”
Someoka takes advantage of the absence of Kidou’s glasses to try to interpret the way he is currently looking away.
“The opera?”
“No. De Vinci’s fresco, near Cardona station.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a good opportunity to go see it, while we’re here. Otherwise I’ll ask someone else, but we could go together.”
Someoka raises his eyebrows. He is not sure what Kidou is implying. What, does he suddenly have an urgent need to do some sightseeing? Him, Kidou? As if he had to worry about being put on the spot. Someoka suddenly wants to sit on the bench behind the bed and ask him, right now, whether he is as stressed as he is, as worn out by their new life beginning. But he hesitates. Kidou is a wonderful guy, whom Someoka genuinely likes, but he has never really tried to get to know his unfathomable character more intimately. He remains a fairly reserved boy, with a complicated history and people closer than Someoka with whom to share any inner turmoil. Someoka is actually surprised that he accepts his out-of-the-blue mountain invitation at all, given that they have not really made an effort to run into each other since their arrival in Milan.
“Oh. Well, good idea. Okay. Okay, let’s do that.”
“Ryoga goes sledding ? Since when?”
Someoka turns toward the desk where Kidou has placed his phone. Apparently, he has not hung up his call with Sakuma this whole time.
“It’s fine," Sakuma continues. "I didn’t catch you coming up asking for Smecta.”
Someoka flips the device face down and turns back to Kidou.
“Great. Well, I’ll let you finish this call, and we’ll do that.”
“Uh. We’ll still need to sort out all the organizational details, though.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll take care of it.”
“Alright.”
Someoka gives Kidou’s room one last look before turning on his heels. It feels strange to him that even here, so far away, Kidou - Kidou from home - is present as well. He also seems to have bought a mushroom-shaped lamp diffusing a comfortable light for his desk - and likewise, a small moka coffee machine.
“Thanks. Should I leave the door closed?”
“Uh, yes. And, by the way, uh… thanks for suggesting this… this outing. I’m sure that if we manage to pull it off, it will be a very pleasant trip.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Well, that’s normal.”
“Great. Good night.”
“See ya.”
Someoka closes the door, from which a ray of light still filters from Kidou’s warm room. Talking to Fubuki, he suspected, did him good - talking to Yuuta too. Maybe it is because he has spent a week navigating in a bath of other languages. He will try to remember that. He'll need it to last here.