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Otoya can't say he's never seen Karasu angry before.
Because really, is it even a day spent in Blue Lock if Karasu isn’t chewing their heads off about one thing or the other? Whether it’s snapping at their teammates for falling behind in training or getting pissy at him for leaving his clothes all over the floor, Otoya could hardly get a good night’s sleep now without Karasu in his ear nagging about something that happened who-knows-how-many hours ago.
So he had some anger issues, whatever. Fork spotted in kitchen and all that. The thing with Karasu’s temper though, is that it was just as easily dealt with if you solved whatever issue made him mad in the first place. Their teammates could usually get back into his good graces so long as they worked harder and listened to his commands. And Otoya? Well, he never really had to try too hard before Karasu was back to goofing around and smiling at him again.
(Perks of being the favourite.)
But right now, looking up at him from where he’s still sitting clutching at his leg, Otoya didn’t think it was going to be as simple as that.
Not when Karasu looked downright murderous.
It was supposed to be a simple match against Team W. They had won their previous matches by a landslide, and Otoya was feeling good about this one too. Karasu gave his usual pep talk, and then the whistle sounded and they were off.
He moved down the field like he always did, light as a feather and weaving in and out from view, unnoticed by everyone else except for the one person who truly got him. He remembers the smirk on Karasu’s face as he kicked the ball towards him in a flawless arch and the excitement that coursed through his veins as he sped up to reach it. The goal was in sight, all he had to do now was get there—
His foot had barely even made contact with the ball before he was thrown violently to the ground.
A surprised gasp gets knocked out from his lungs as something heavy crashes into his side, sending him tumbling to the grass and landing the wrong way. He was only vaguely aware of the surrounding commotion after that, more preoccupied with the sharp pain spiking up his right leg.
He winces, nonchalant mask finally cracking and falling apart.
“Foul to Team W for reckless tackling of an opponent!” The loudspeaker blares. “Red card to Azuma Hiroshi!”
Oh. Was that what it was?
Otoya looks over to see Team W’s number seven lying beside him. In hindsight, it’s not surprising that the tackle hurt so much when Azuma was so much bulkier than him. If anything, Otoya’s more surprised that his ribs didn't break upon impact.
They lock eyes for half a second before Azuma is roughly tugged back onto his feet.
“What the fuck do ya think yer doing?” Karasu snarls, fisting the collar of his jersey so tightly that Azuma’s face actually turns white.
(From the fear or from asphyxiation, it’s hard to tell.)
“It—it was an accident!” He stammers out, but Karasu was having none of that.
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” He sneers. “Ya went for his feet on purpose! He hadn’t even touched the ball yet, ya sick, slimy, son of a b—”
“Karasu.” One of their teammates pipes up, looking wary. “You need to calm down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Karasu roars, still burning a hole into Azuma’s cowering figure. His free hand balls into a fist, every line in his body tense like it was one wrong move away from snapping. “Yer a fucking coward, that’s what ya are.” He fumes through gritted teeth. “I swear to god, I’ll make ya regret it if it’s the last thing I do—”
His temper reaches its boiling point just as a lone voice cuts through the chaos.
“Karasu, stop.”
And miraculously, he does.
Heat prickles the back of his neck when intense blue eyes fall on him, but Otoya perseveres anyway.
“You’ll only get yellow-carded if you keep this up.” He says slowly, praying it’s enough to get through to the older boy. He’s never been one to stop a fight, but the thought of Karasu getting hurt on his behalf stirs up a painful ache in his chest. “The game still needs to continue, remember?”
Karasu swallows, gaze flicking back and forth between him and Azuma. “But ya—”
“I am going to the infirmary.” Otoya answers casually, moving to get up. It’s decidedly a horrible idea, because he immediately falls flat on his ass.
Karasu is by his side before he can even blink.
“Are ya okay? How bad does it hurt? Let me take ya there, come on.” He frets, arms outstretched like he’s already made up his mind to carry him all the way to the infirmary. His voice is slightly raspy (probably from all the yelling he did), but it makes Otoya feel unbearably warm nonetheless.
“You’re not taking me anywhere.” He says firmly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Anri striding up to them with a stretcher. “The team needs you, Karasu. You’re our best bet at winning now.”
Karasu still didn’t look convinced.
But Otoya had an ace up his sleeve. Leaning forward, he whispers directly into Karasu’s ear.
“Give them hell for me, okay?”
The wicked glint in Karasu’s eyes is all the answer he needs.
Thankfully, the sprain isn’t too serious, although Otoya has to actively remind himself not to sit criss-cross. Anri proves to be a godsent with her first-aid skills and kind reassurance, but even her presence isn’t enough to distract him from his thoughts.
Which was weird since he absolutely hated overthinking. He usually just let the bad vibes bounce off his back so he could shrug it off and return to normal as quickly as possible. Hell, it’s not like he was even that mad at Azuma for his dirty play.
But Karasu was.
He’d stormed in like a hurricane into the fray, teeth bared and talons flashing. Unwilling to listen to reason when his entire playstyle revolved around infallible logic and careful planning. Unwilling to leave his side.
(Otoya’s heart skips a beat just thinking back to it.)
Fortunately, he doesn’t get to stew in his own thoughts for much longer when the door slides open. Unfortunately for him, it means he’s now face-to-face with the root cause of all his muddled feelings.
Post-game Karasu is a sight to behold. Sweat clings to him like a second skin, and there’s a rosy flush to his cheeks that Otoya can’t seem to tear his eyes away from. He’s panting heavily too, every rise and fall of his chest palpable through the tight fabric. Not surprising, considering how quickly the match ended. It would take a toll on anyone’s stamina. He’s just wondering if Karasu himself knows he’s left the field, because he’s still brimming with that same raw energy from before.
Otoya breaks the silence before dark blue eyes can swallow him whole.
“Did you win?”
That seems to snap the older boy out of whatever trance he’s in.
“6-0.” He replies, breathless and intense and all of a sudden surging to his side. Otoya’s arms are already wide open.
He lets out a short laugh, burying his face into sweat-soaked skin.
“And how many of those did you score?”
“All six of ‘em.” Is the answering grunt, and Otoya has never felt prouder. Nevermind the fact that this makes Karasu the unquestionable top scorer of their team, and that Blue Lock is still a cutthroat competition at the end of the day.
He beams.
“You’re incredible, seriously.” He tells him in earnest, touches lingering over his nape with badly-concealed affection. “I always knew you had it in you.”
Karasu turns a deeper shade of pink. “I—It was nothing. That was just a fluke.”
“Don’t call it a fluke.” Otoya pouts. “You’ll hurt my feelings. You scored those goals to defend my honour, remember?”
Now that the adrenaline had worn off, Karasu finally seemed to come to his senses and realise the compromising position they were still in. Backed up against the wall, with Otoya’s arms looped around his neck and Karasu’s larger frame crowding him into the cot. He made to break free from the awkward position but Otoya wasn’t letting him go so easily.
“Embarassed already?” He teases. “But you were so confident back there, swooping in to save me like my knight in shining armour. Or do you regret it already?”
“I don’t.”
Otoya blinks in surprise at the hard tone.
“I don’t regret it.” Karasu says again, sounding wearier this time. Pained eyes flicker to the bandage wrapped around his leg. “I’m only sorry that I couldn’t stop this from happening in the first place.”
Oh.
Otoya softens.
“Can I ask you something, Tabito?”
A sharp intake of breath, followed by a small nod.
“Would you be this upset if our other teammates were the ones who got hurt?” He questions gently, reaching down to lace their fingers together as he searches his expression. “Tell me.”
Karasu finally, finally gives up all pretence.
“No.” He admits.
And that’s all the confirmation he needs.
Without another word, Otoya leans in to capture his lips in a tender kiss. Warmth floods his veins when Karasu returns it with a content sigh, and he further tightens his hold around the taller boy because he thinks he might float away otherwise.
When they pull apart, Otoya’s eyes are sparkling emeralds.
“You like me.”
“Was it not obvious enough?”
He grins devilishly. “You would’ve fought for me.”
The tips of Karasu’s ears burn bright red.
“Are ya gonna hold that over me forever?”
“I like you too.” Otoya stifles a laugh. “But never try and pick a fight again. I don’t care if someone else does it, but I’d hate it if you got hurt.”
To an outsider, Karasu’s scowl never lessens. But Otoya doesn’t miss the fondness that sets into his features and threatens to overtake his annoyance.
“No promises.”
Otoya rolls his eyes.
“Okay, tough guy.” He pats his biceps appreciatively. “Now carry me back to our room, will you? I deserve it.”
“...Back to being a brat, I see.”