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Reo is much older than when all he knew was a drive, a dream, and the bloody heartbeat of a highschool boy.
Reo is much older, and he can’t really hear that thumping anymore; a relentless drum that let him know he wasn’t too far, that his soul was heavily beating.
That they were together.
His gut churns—maybe in the pot of nostalgia, or wasted ambition, and dreams, and talent that he'll never see again. That radiance, how it stunned him— blinded his eyes so far he could barely see, and it only made him want more. To want, and want, and want, and want. It's all Reo's known to do.
It’s been a long time since he’s felt two heartbeats.
Now, he feels two in just his own. It has to be his own, because it’s been too long since they’ve fallen in the same step, and he doesn’t know him like that anymore. It nears impossible, the thought of it.
The visage that appears in front of him now, only five feet away, feels some or all types of wrong. That highschool boy that spent sunny afternoons with him in the warmest reluctance he's known disappears in memories that burn too hot to touch. He’s much older, too.
Nagi is.
He thinks of now. If their paths had crossed some five years before, when Reo was doing everything in his power to rid and rinse himself clean of this idiotic project, soccer, and him, his heart would’ve dropped to his ass and he would’ve left the second the white of his hair was in view.
But, well.
They didn’t. Their faces have changed and their brains have morphed and so have their souls and hearts.
So, Reo can suck it up. He can talk to him.
"Nagi."
That familiarly unfamiliar figure whips around as the sound leaves his mouth. All he can see is the ghost of the only boy he's ever known—that he used to know.
He looks too shocked for Reo to discern whether or not he's happy.
"...Reo," he says, reverently. Reo hates it.
"Didn't think you liked coming to these things," Reo says lightly, waving around at the bustle of news anchors and similarly-clad players in personally tailored suits. It's strange, to see Nagi as one of them.
"You know I don't," he mutters. He picks at the cuffs of his blazer. A habit he's never seemed to break, Reo supposes.
"Maybe you changed," Reo shrugs. The again lingers somewhere between them unsaid.
A beat passes.
"So, clubs," Reo says, because he realizes he can't stand Nagi. They've grown too much for him to still not know how to make small talk. "Not national, right?"
It's a little mean. He guesses he doesn't know how to make small talk either.
"I just want to play the game, Reo," Nagi says. He sounds a bit tired, and Reo wants to laugh. Some miserable conversation.
He nods. "So, what are you going to do now?"
"Clubs," Nagi nods after a beat. "Bastard or Manshine."
Reo stills. Then frowns.
Nagi seems to notice.
"A bid is a bid," he shrugs. Maybe a sad attempt at consolation.
"I know. It's good enough for you," Reo says.
Then,
"You were born for more, Nagi."
He hears a breath let out beside him.
"Says you."