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The so-called “midfield magician” Ichinose Kazuya is in the best shape he’s been since grade school.
There was a point, he remembers, when he was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling, absentmindedly answering the doctor’s questions, when he’d turned his head and said, scared, voice small, “Am I gonna be able to walk again?”
Football was off the table, at that point, he’d already been told. Before this, when he had screamed and sobbed to his father to tell his friends he hadn’t made it, walking was off the table; living was teetering on the edge. But then, when he had asked the question, the doctor had been silent for a few seconds, pen pausing on his clipboard, and he had said, “I can’t say yet. I’m sorry, Kazuya. We don’t know the extent of your injury.”
Something had sparked in Kazuya’s gut. “But it’s not a no?”
The doctor had eyed him for a second, then admitted: “It’s not a no. From what we see, you have a good chance.”
Now that he’s older, and he’s been around far more doctors, Kazuya thinks that might have been slightly unprofessional. Almost every other doctor he’s seen hadn’t given him that much hope for his condition. But nevertheless, it was what he needed; the ignition for his determined recovery, apathy finally getting beaten back with a stick. Promise to Aki and Domon fresh in his mind, he’d grit his teeth, braced himself, and forced his way through anything anyone in a white coat had asked of him.
He’s told he will heal the most in the first six months. Kazuya started physical therapy in month two, and blazed his way through it.
By blazed, of course, he means it was agonisingly slow. Weeks stretching out into months, filled with days spent lying in a rehabilitation facility bed staring at nothing until it was time for his exercises, after which he stayed in bed until they rolled around again. Doctors exercised his muscles for him, in the air, in the water, on treadmills, until he could eventually manage it himself; he was never fully paralysed, and they said he’s lucky for it, though he’s never felt it was true. It’s nothing short of miraculous, they told him about his recovery, though he was too young to know any of the medical terms they used; they said he could move to a less intense therapy regime a month earlier than he otherwise would have.
He had bared his teeth and said no.
And now here he stands, on Raimon Junior High’s football pitch, after a year and a half of therapy and a year and a half of relearning football, to keep that promise. To be reunited with his friends, finally, after so many years of forcing them away from him; to play football.
Pins and needles in his feet be damned.
...Mostly.
“Ichinose-kun!”
It’s one thing ignoring his own pain, Kazuya thinks; it is something else entirely ignoring someone else drawing attention to it. He stands as straight as he can as Aki jogs over to him, with a water bottle and a towel and a frown on her face.
“Are you okay?” she asks, handing him the towel and letting him rub his face dry of sweat.
He makes a questioning noise through fluffy fabric, quietly gritting his teeth at the shooting pain surging through his leg. “Fine,” he says, grinning at her as he takes the towel off his face, swapping it for the bottle. “Why do you ask?”
Aki hums, worried. “If you’re injured, you should take a break,” she murmurs instead of answering his question, as he takes a drink. “I mean, we need you for the match against Zeus...”
Kazuya laughs, wiping his mouth. “It’s just a cramp, Aki. Sorry for worrying you. It’ll sort itself out, promise.”
Her expression eases a little, but not entirely. “If you’re sure.”
There’s something else behind her eyes, some kind of tension that Kazuya hasn’t been able to ease since he got to Japan; the same that Domon has, the same Nishigaki had when he saw him at the riverbank. He’s been an official Raimon student for a week now, the transfer going through after his slightly confused parents gave their approval for him to stay with family in Japan, after his team captain in America had called him and said what the hell, Kazuya in lieu of a greeting. And it had been worth it, if only for the beauty that was the match against Kidokawa Seishuu; on the pitch with Domon and Nishigaki and Aki cheering for him on the sidelines, executing a Tri-Pegasus so perfect it formed into the phoenix he’s become.
Ichinose Kazuya, risen from the ashes. It fits like a glove.
And now, of course, Endou is spending a third of his time smacking his head against his grandfather’s notebook, the other two thirds going to running himself into the ground, and it’s all they can do to keep up with their own training—and try to keep up appearances in front of the first-years of the team. So right now, the tension in Aki’s voice and the burning sensation in Kazuya’s toes doesn’t matter.
“You can come sit on the bench with us until it feels better,” Aki offers, and Kazuya smiles and shakes his head.
“I’m good, Aki,” he reassures her.
She doesn't look fully convinced. There's a small moment of hesitation in her stance, the way she shuffles her feet just slightly. She opens her mouth to say something, expression pensive, but for some reason...
“Alright, Ichinose-kun,” she says finally, and Kazuya can tell it wasn't what she was originally planning on. “Be careful, though.” She looks at him with that slightly guarded face one more time before she leaves to return to her place next to Otonashi.
He breathes in. The small break, standing there, is enough for him to keep going, he thinks—ignoring the burn when he puts any significant weight on his leg, that is. But Aki’s behaviour gives him pause, makes him stretch instead of continuing to run as he tries to think it through; she can say anything to him, and she knows it, right? It's not just her, either; he can hear the same tone in Domon’s voice, picking it out to inspect it against the light and finding only dull restraint with no answers. Everything he does with them is the easiest it's been in years, and yet...
“Ichinose.”
He jumps a little, cursing himself for it as he turns to find Kidou walking up to him, cape billowing behind him as he does. Kidou is, perhaps, one of the more interesting members of Raimon that Kazuya has met since arriving here. He had heard about him beforehand, of course: the genius midfielder captain of Teikoku—he hadn’t been expecting to find him at Raimon, but he’s not complaining, and he’s certainly not complaining when they’ve found a kind of camaraderie in their small amount of time playing together. He’s one of the only players he’s met who can keep up with him, who can read his movements and can not only see the chess game in Ichinose’s head, but play it, and play it well. So, he straightens up and throws on an easy smile as he approaches.
Kidou raises an eyebrow at him above his goggles. “I was going to ask if you would like to help me and Gouenji with Emperor Penguin, but if you’re actually injured as Kino says...”
“I’m not,” Kazuya says quickly. “What do you need help with?”
—
As it turns out, completing the shot.
He’s kind of honoured, even as Kidou explains how the more people they have trained to complete Emperor Penguin, the better chance they have of pulling it off. Gouenji and Someoka are the only two they have at the moment, so if either of them aren’t available for the shot, there’s no way for it to succeed—and considering its Kidou’s signature technique and one of Raimon’s strongest, they’re better off safe than sorry. Someoka is off on the other side of the pitch practicing Dragon Crash, and so Kidou and Gouenji demonstrate the move for Kazuya with only one side available, readying in front of the goal without saying a word to each other. He watches close, from the sidelines, as the penguins spring from the ground and rush forward with Kidou’s kick, Gouenji ready to kick it again in front of him, zipping yellow crackling around the ball like lightning.
With only two people, the charged energy peters out before the ball reaches the goal. It still flies in, Kazuya tracing the trajectory, the speed, but any trained goalkeeper could catch it without a second thought, penguins dissipating into the air before it even reaches the penalty area; it would be child’s play for someone like Endou. So, nodding, he gets into position next to Gouenji, who casts him a glance. “You don’t want a second look?” he asks.
“Nah, I got it,” Kazuya says, grinning, looking back at Kidou. He gets a smirk back in return, an acknowledgement of ability.
He watches Kidou whistle around his fingers, sees the line he’s taking as he winds up to kick the ball—straight down the middle of himself and Gouenji, direct, easy, practiced. Kazuya never used to be a fan of hissatsu techniques like this, not for the past three years; he relies on himself for Spiral Shot, and himself alone, as he has done since the crash. Yet, using Tri-Pegasus as he had done with Endou and Domon had reminded him of the strengths they could possess—the ability to rely on your teammates to reach something greater, the phoenix bursting out of him as they burned through the sky. Raimon seems to be a big fan of these kinds of techniques—something that Kazuya will have to get used to, rewire his brain for.
He stares down the ball as it shoots towards them, time almost seeming to slow down as it does. He can see the traces of energy like an arrow shooting towards the goal, sharp and piercing and ready for the extra power he has to give it. So, together with Gouenji, he crouches, winding up, muscles taut and ignoring the sting as he shoots forward like a spring and slams his foot into the ball.
Technically, he and Gouenji make the shot. The penguins throw themselves at the goal like missiles, the net stretching tight with the force of the ball, crackling energy still electrifying the pitch between them.
No one really appreciates this, though, because Kazuya can’t bite back a loud shriek as hot pain shoots up his leg, originating at the point of contact with the ball, molten lava erupting through his body as he immediately falls to the ground with a thud.
Through barely-open eyes and gritted teeth, he sees Gouenji startle next to him, hesitating as though unsure what to do, stumbling after the shot; Kidou’s footsteps dart towards him, calling his name in panic. Aki’s voice joins his, rising clamours coming from her and the rest of the team as they all notice he’s down. Unable to keep up appearances, Kazuya curls into himself like a dying spider, hands clawing for his shin, gripping it and hissing through the pain as Kidou kneels down next to him, searching. The rest of the team starts making it to where they are, worriedly murmuring, and Domon joins Kidou, skidding to his knees next to him.
“Ichinose?” he says, panting, as the pain fades enough for Kazuya to uncurl just a little.
“Ichinose-kun!” Aki cries, arriving as well, standing over him with her hands near her mouth.
Kazuya, the pain fading into a low, worrying sting, takes a deep breath and lets go of his leg, wincing at the movement as it feels like his foot is filled with lead, and digs his fingers into the dirt below, stubbornly pushing himself up so he’s on all fours, arms shaking slightly. “Ichinose,” Kidou says urgently, “are you injured?”
“I knew it!” Aki insists, voice frustrated and worried, and Kazuya grits his teeth and shakes his head.
“It’s not that bad,” Kazuya mumbles.
“You call that not that bad?” Domon says, disbelieving.
“Even if it isn’t, you can at least rest until it’s better!” Aki complains. “Jeez, Ichinose-kun, I asked if you were injured and you said no!”
Kazuya stares at the dirt in front of him, at the stark white of the lines marking out the pitch, and doesn’t answer her as he pushes himself into a sitting position, breathing deep. His foot touches the ground and the familiar fuzzy feeling of pins and needles shoots up it, bottom of his foot numb. There's a moment of quiet, a beat where the team simply stands around him in a circle, where he considers how to get out of this.
“It’s not going to get better, is it?” Kidou murmurs, shattering any plans.
Kazuya flinches; Aki gasps. “...It’ll get better than this,” he says quietly, looking up at him and away from her.
“Nerve damage?” Kidou theorises.
Kazuya takes a deep breath, and pushes it out in a sigh. “Nerve damage,” he confirms. “It comes and goes—I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Not if you push it today.”
His mouth snaps shut at Kidou’s blunt words, and he glances away from him. He can feel Aki’s eyes boring a hole into his head, unspoken questions ringing in his ears as he refuses to look back at her—or Domon, for that matter, frozen in his spot next to Kazemaru. It’s almost embarrassing; he wants to open his mouth and reassure them that he’s fine, really, he made a full recovery, like he’s been pretending all this time, but the reality is that this pain is only likely to get worse as he gets older. He knows that, no matter how much he pushes it to the back of his mind. Risen from the ashes, but the phoenix still burns—numbness and burning pain underneath his skin slowly gnawing at him.
“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Sorry, everyone. I should be going home.”
“I'll grab your bag,” Kazemaru offers, and then he's zipping off to pick it up from the clubroom before Kazuya can protest.
“I’ll walk you home,” Aki says, but before he can refuse—
“No need,” Kidou says, assertive. “I’ll walk him.”
He makes a small noise of confusion, looking up at him with his brow furrowed. Next to Kidou, Gouenji eyes him for a moment, then glances away.
“...I don’t wanna take you away from practice,” Kazuya points out. “I don’t live far.”
“It’s alright.”
Kidou’s tone offers no room for argument, and from what he’s seen of him so far, Kazuya thinks he’d probably follow him home even if he somehow managed to win said argument. A silent permission passes between them, and Kazuya braces himself as he stands up, Aki supporting his back, breathing through the protests his leg gives him, and Kidou silently steps forward to offer his steadying shoulder. “Do you have a cane?” he mutters to him.
Kazuya shakes his head. “At home.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need it,” he mutters, “most of the time. It’s not exactly portable.”
“I can carry your bag,” Domon says, Kazemaru jogging back up to them with it, and Kazuya shakes his head.
“It’s my legs, not my arms,” he half-heartedly jokes, and so Kazemaru hesitantly hands it to him, slinging it over his shoulder where he’s not leaning on Kidou. “See you all tomorrow!” he says, throwing a grin that only a handful of the team reluctantly returns, before he and Kidou carefully hobble out of Raimon’s grounds together.
It’s a quiet walk back to Kazuya’s home. He should probably thank whoever’s up there that it is Kidou who offered to walk him home, over Aki or even Domon; he doesn’t particularly want to deal with what would surely be a dozen questions from each of them, alongside worried stares and why didn’t you say anythings. Instead, Kidou is a silent support; but with all the training they’ve done together, the genius midfielders of Raimon, Kazuya wonders when that silent bubble will finally snap open.
“You should have told Endou,” is the first thing out of Kidou’s mouth in five straight minutes. “I will be telling Endou, I hope you know; alongside Coach Hibiki.”
Kazuya heaves a sigh. “I know,” he mutters. “But he’s been nervous enough. I don’t want to make it worse.”
“As well,” Kidou continues, “you will need a rest day before our match with Zeus.”
He jolts at that, protest forming immediately. “Huh? But—”
“It’s to maximise the chance of you being at your best for the match the next day.” He shoots him a look. “I will set Haruna on you if I must.”
Haruna, Kazuya mouths, desperately trying to place it, searching through the two dozen names he's learned in the past week. Haruna, Haruna... It’s feminine, so it can only be so many people... “Otonashi!?” he gasps. Though he hasn't known her long, he can tell she's got an eye for the truth, and— “You really don’t have to do that, Kidou, it’s fine—”
“On second thought, maybe I should ask Kino, too.”
“Kidou.”
A tiny smirk appears on Kidou’s face, though his expression is still barely readable under his goggles. “And finally,” he continues, “I will be getting you a proper mobility aid.”
That one shocks Kazuya into a brief silence. “...What?” he says finally.
“Collapsible canes exist, you realise,” Kidou says.
Kazuya knows this, because he accidentally left his good one in America. “Kidou, I can get a cane myself.”
“And yet you haven’t.”
“Seriously, don’t spend money on that.”
“And let you keep walking around like this?” Kidou raises an eyebrow. “I may not know you very well yet, Ichinose, but I do know that you remind Kino of Endou, and I can see exactly why. I have more than enough money. I’ll see to it that the clubroom keeps a spare, as well.”
Kazuya splutters a protest, but eventually realises that Kidou has the power in this scenario, and relents.
There is another minute of silent walking, where Kazuya considers that maybe he’s able to keep going by himself now, and despite a slightly wobbly test step, he figures he can. So they turn to slowly walking side by side, pain etching its way through Kazuya’s legs, Kidou unwavering beside him.
“On the more personal side,” Kidou states when they’re on equal footing, “I would like to know why you didn’t tell Kino and Domon.”
Kazuya tenses, not looking at him, but feeling his stare bore into the side of his head, even through the goggles. If he’s honest, he would love to know the answer himself; why it’s so hard to look both of them in the eye and admit that the past three years have been hell, that he’s been weakened, that he hasn’t returned as the Ichinose Kazuya they once knew. He can’t do that to them, can’t say that maybe he isn’t as strong as he’s making out to be, because doing that would shatter the elation of him being back. It would be a reminder of all they went through. He can’t do that to them.
“I didn’t want them to worry,” he finally settles on saying to Kidou.
Kidou hums. “I see.”
There’s a small silence that Kazuya can’t bear for longer than thirty seconds. Once it becomes clear that Kidou isn’t going to break it, he finally caves, and says, “I don’t want them to see me like that.”
“They did.”
“Obviously. But...”
There is a facade that he’s keeping up, he knows, that will shatter at some point. There are already cracks forming, just today; tiny and splintering, shards of glass shearing off. But for now, he wants them to keep this version of him in their heads. Energetic, calculating, healthy. All of which he has barely been the past three years; all of which he is relearning how to be.
“...I don’t want them to see it again,” he mutters.
“As you didn’t want them to see you alive?”
Kazuya stumbles a little, and Kidou catches him before his bad foot can make him fall flat on his face. He rights himself, briefly looking at him only to find his expression is entirely unreadable under the goggles. “You don’t get it,” he says. “Anything was better than them seeing me like that. Trust me.”
“I don’t believe I do,” Kidou says flatly. “You think being dead, to them, is better than you being alive but hurt?”
Kazuya eyes him. “When you put it like that, it sounds awful.”
Kidou stares at him, somehow making his opinion known even as he doesn’t say anything, and Kazuya is entirely taken aback by it. It’s a chess piece pushed forward into check when he hadn’t even realised they were playing, hadn’t realised Kidou had thought of his absence in any way further than how he is playing for Raimon. He opens his mouth to ask something, but finds he can’t form the question quite right, stunned by the thought that what he’s been doing for three years wasn’t just unfortunate, but his fault.
But at the same time, he knows; he knows it is, put it forth into his apology to Aki and Domon, and then raced away from them off the bench to join Endou on the pitch, pretending their friendship was restored just like that. He can see it in their eyes, even as they continue playing together—a form of distrust that he hadn’t been expecting when he’d called Aki, hands shaking, to tell her that he was getting a plane to Japan the next day. He’d been expecting open arms and a welcome back, but it had felt more like he was stepping into their lives for the first time.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” he voices softly, looking away from Kidou and trusting him to follow what seems like a non sequitur. “I just want everything to go back to normal, but... well, they've changed. Is it weird that I thought... they'd be the same?”
He trails off, refusing to look at Kidou, who just keeps guiding him, a shoulder to lean on even as they walk separate.
“If I may be blunt,” Kidou says finally, and Kazuya sets his jaw, “I doubt it ever will ‘go back to normal’. You did a terrible thing, Ichinose, and continued to do so every day you refused to tell them you were alive.” He looks at Kidou, mouth slightly open, but Kidou doesn’t look back at him—as far as he can tell, at least, eyes obscured by his goggles. “They forgave you for it, but of course there is tension. They no longer know you, and haven’t for years.”
No longer know me?
It's a strange thing to say, but after an initial immediate rejection, Kazuya wrestles the statement into something he can almost agree with. Trying to listen to Kidou instead of pushing it away, he takes a shaky breath and considers it, genuinely: that despite the feelings entangled with them, their friendship is almost new.
Kidou swallows, face tense. “You can only hope that knowing you now is enough. And, luckily for both of us, that somehow appears to be the case.”
Kazuya blinks, the statement throwing his mind for a loop before it settles, analysing. “For both of us?”
“A story for another day.” Kidou helps him hobble up the steps to his house, letting him go at the door. “I take it you are alright to go in by yourself?”
“...Yes,” Kazuya says, feeling slightly bombarded, sticking his hand in his pocket. “But, Kidou—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ichinose.” Kidou nods at him.
“Wait—”
“Get well soon.”
“Kidou!”
He pauses in his turning to leave, to presumably go back to school, at Kazuya’s sharp tone. And, honestly, Kazuya isn’t even sure what he means to say next; just knows he can't just leave that statement hanging in the air. “I...” he says slowly, searching for the words, pacing through the idea in his mind until it starts to take shape. “I’ve only ever known the you that I’ve seen this week,” he declares, “and that version is someone I’d like to be friends with.” He smiles. “Let’s keep playing together, yeah?”
Kidou stays stopped in front of him for a moment, cape lightly moving in the wind, back turned to him. “...Kino is right,” he says finally, slight laugh in his voice, “you are rather like Endou.” He shakes his head, and starts walking away. “I have a hissatsu to show you tomorrow,” he calls back as he goes. “I could use your help with it.”
“Sure!” Kazuya calls, no hesitation. “What’s it called?”
“Twin Boost.”