Work Text:
“On the Japanese team highlights, the goal by Mikage Reo has to be mentioned. The fact that someone who has played soccer for less than a year can achieve such a feat is-”
The voice of a sports reporter echoes through the living room, and Reo barely registers it among his other activities. Yesterday was their game against Nigeria, which means he has oh so many things to deal with today: Studying, some light exercise, preparing for their next game against France, checking the stock market and it goes on.
And on. And on. And on.
Every hour of the day is filled and busy, perfectly scheduled on his calendar. As it should be.
He still isn't as strong as he needs to be yet; there’s no time to lose.
So Reo continues his morning routine, one hand on his lukewarm coffee, the other typing away at the computer. In the background, a retired player speaks about his goal, complimenting his performance and the accuracy of his chameleon technique.
This should… Make him feel happy, right? Happy.
What really is happiness? In his previous life, filled with boredom, repetition, and expectations, he thought the only thing missing was a challenge — something that was his to conquest, proof of his existence as an individual.
Then Reo Mikage met soccer, and finally things clicked. Reo the soccer player, the chameleon, could find the type of happiness that the Mikage heir could only dream about achieving.
And yet, sitting on his couch, his dreams closer than ever, the old emptiness returns, familiar and relentless. Even worse now, after knowing how it feels, to exist outside the glass cage of his broken mind.
(And because, not-so-deep inside, Reo is far too aware of the exact shape of the hole in his chest).
“This is stupid! I'm just tired from the game.” Talking to himself is another old acquaintance, but a similar voice is already mocking and mourning inside his head, repeating words he's far too scared to say out loud. Locked inside his head, at least he can pretend they don’t have a live of their own.
Nothing will ever satisfy you.
The world is not the problem, you are.
You were broken from the start.
Or maybe you're not. There was a time you felt happy, right? Were things had meaning?
Shut up. Shut up. How does one quiet his own mind? He opens another file, a compilation of plays to be analyzed and promptly copied, hoping that being overstimulated will be distracting enough to make it all go away. Ground yourself in the moment, that’s what all of those self-help books suggest, right? How to be emotionally healthy with 15 easy tips or whatever.
So what if it's getting hard to breathe?
You felt happy many times, actually. Aren't you pathetic? All that joy just because of a boy that you knew for months? Even losing felt manageable when he was by your side, right?
So what if there's a lump in his throat, if his stomach hurts even though he’s barely eaten in the last few days?
And even that common, simple, cliché happiness — you couldn't keep it. Your love killed its target. Like a stupid brat overwatering a plant.
Without even noticing at first, Reo's hands start faintly touching his exposed wrist, a self-soothing nervous tick he developed after the last time he…
It's not the same. His hands are bigger, colder, and could instantly make the world stop spinning around you. Even with his career ending, you still needed him to care of you. Weren’t you the one who was supposed to protect him? How did that work out?
The urge to vomit overcomes him, and Reo barely makes it to the bathroom before collapsing onto the cold marble floor. The mess that was once his hair sticks to his forehead, his body caught between freezing and burning from the inside out, and yet nothing comes out, no matter how much he heaves, cold sweat dripping from the tip of his nose.
Whatever is poisoning him won't leave his body, won't let him heal.
Can't you see, Reo? You're the poison. With all the opportunities life gave you, you still choose to be miserable. Over and over and over again.
Was he really broken from the start? How can one even begin fixing that?
Once it becomes clear that nothing is coming out, he gets up, washing his face in an attempt at recovering some form of control. After all, Ba-ya would soon be there with his lunch, and he had to at least pretend to be in one-piece.
What would the woman do if she really saw his state? Stop him? Keep quiet and follow his whims, as was the norm? Force him to face the reality of his pathetic self? If push came to shove, she could end up confronting Ego, but that wasn’t really a significant concern.
As long as I am a useful tool, Blue Lock is not getting rid of me.
Both the program and the man behind it seemed to like this new Reo more, anyway. Could it be that this was his true calling? Given the time to heal, could he be proud and at peace with this new (lack of) identity?
You can say that once you stop being scared of looking at your own face, stupid.
Rationally, Reo knows that the mirror is just showing his reflection. The same eyes, nose, and mouth. The dark circles and exhaustion expected from someone in his current state. And yet, he is unable to recognize that person as himself, as even human.
Who are you? Stop looking at me… I'm not like this, I don't want to be like this…
Can’t anyone see the difference? Is this doppelgänger that convincing? Everyone is always looking, please — realize something. See me. Help me. Tell me it’s going to be ok.
He has to get a grip, to take control of the situation.
What did the fucking self-help books say again? Ground yourself, distractions. Facial exercises. Apparently, forcing yourself to smile can trigger a reaction that actually makes you feel better. So he stares at the alien reflection, watching it lift the corners of extremely dry lips, the muscles of its face stretching oddly, like a poorly made mask.
How did he use to smile, before learning how a genuine one felt? Before that person told him that he had a pretty smile.
“Stop mocking me, I look all weird!”
“Not really. Reo looks like he’s having fun, that’s what matter, right?”
He’s too tainted by those words to remember the inauthentic version now…
Even when he pretends that nothing is wrong, leaves that name out of his thoughts and daily life, in the end it is all pointless, as his soul was probably reshaped forever by that encounter.
Chigiri joked once that they were more NagiReo than Nagi and Reo, and secretly, hadn't Reo rejoiced at that? Even when he called Nagi his treasure, wasn't he the one also learning how good it felt to be precious to someone else?
Should he just throw it all away, after all, this attempt of an independent life? He had the means to do it. Forget the World Cup; they could just move far away, chase other dreams, Blue Lock be damned. Didn’t Nagi say their time together was the treasure of his life? If they felt the same, why couldn’t they be together?
Because he broke Nagi. Simple as that. As long as Reo was around, Nagi was cursed to wither away, poisoned and ruined.
No grounding, no distractions, no forcing smiles, he was running out of coping mechanisms.
“I'll cry as much as I want for ten minutes, and that's it.”
The tears spill out as soon as he reaches that conclusion, as if they’d been waiting for the opportunity for God knows how long. At first, Reo just watches as his face goes red, eyes puffy, a mess of salty water and snot. He’s disgusting. But these feelings are real, they come from him, and in an almost masochistic way, it’s amazing. Accessing the memories that he shut down in his mental basement, just like the notebook hidden under his bed.
About his Road to World Cup, and how the last added part became his most treasured one.
with Nagi.
Hands in messy, fluffy hair, soft sighs and quiet lunches.
Promises, words, sounds.
Lemon tea and milk coffee, bike rides, and an ethereal sunset.
Pale skin and dark eyes.
He never learned what color those eyes really were, but they were always looking at him. How fragile and incredible and unmistakeably human was the Reo painted by his treasure’s gaze? He should’ve asked. Or at least voiced all the things left unsaid between tears and apologies.
If I gave you light, you gave me a soul, dummy.
I wish to make even more memories, so that the treasure of our lives can be our forever.
Don’t you know that losing you is like losing a part of me as well?
So don’t leave me alone. Don’t curse me with these words. Your mercy is far too cruel, my treasure.
Stay with me until the end…
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
His time is over, and Reo Mikage is a man of his word. So he meticulously washes his face, ignoring the tears that insist on keep falling, puts on a neutral expression, and leaves the bathroom. This mask of indifference at least is becoming easier to slip on with each passing.
Another cup of coffee. A new compilation of plays just arrived in his email. This is good, the repetition, makes the pain share space with everything else. And if his eyes linger for an extra second on that folder on his main screen, the one he can't force himself to delete?
Nobody will know. They don't need that Reo Mikage, after all.
My treasure and me 💜