Archive of Our Own

Wake up. Warm up. Strength training. Breakfast. Treadmill. Scoring practice against the virtual Blue Lock Man. Tactics study during lunch break. Agility drill. Stretch. The match against their three opponents is near and Team Red doesn’t have a second to spare, can’t afford any distractions, anything other than honing their individual weapons in order to secure their passage to the next phase.

But that’s not why Chigiri Hyouma’s at his breaking point.

Chigiri has been hearing the same remarks about his looks his whole life –his nickname is ‘princess’, for heaven’s sake–, having soon grown tired of the unwanted attention, the unsolicited compliments, the catcalling and the dismissal of everything else about him that’s under the shiny surface, except for his speed. With Kunigami, though, it’s different. He opens doors for him, offers him half of his dessert, carries him on piggyback when he’s tired and asks about his leg but his words are imbued by genuine worry and his gestures have no affectation to them at all; ‘princess’ doesn’t sound grating when it comes out of his lips. But the respectful distance he always keeps feels like indifference to someone who’s used to people begging for his attention, no matter how many times Chigiri catches his amber eyes lingering a bit too long at the nape of his neck, his collarbone, the dip of his hip whenever he stretches and his shirt lifts up a little. He’s never been this frustrated before, to the point of reacting to Kunigami’s kindness with a curtness that’s always uncalled for and that he fears might push him even farther away.

Perhaps if the rest of his team was in a better shape he might try and forget about it, try to focus on the next game and all that might be lost if they don’t win, but at least one of them seems to be just as distressed as he is. If Chigiri’s about to go mad, Reo looks like he’s constantly on the verge of setting fire to the building. Ever since the fateful encounter with Isagi’s team in the communal bath, what little light his eyes still held then is completely gone, replaced by the ugly shadow of a resentment so deep-set Chigiri isn’t sure winning 10-0 would begin to melt it away.

The locker room empties out after the last training of the day and, like always, Chigiri stays behind stretching and watches Kunigami's broad back disappear through the doorway without so much as a backward glance after he mutters ‘see you later’. Again. He lets out a frustrated groan, eliciting an unsettled frown from his purple-haired teammate. Reo’s standing there, rubbing his towel against already-dry skin with mechanical movements like an amateur puppeteer is behind them, and Chigiri can’t stand his languid look anymore.

“He’s really got you messed up.”

Reo’s hands still. “What?”

“Nagi.” Chigiri straightens his back, rolling his shoulders. “He’s got you looking like an abandoned dog. What, you think you were being subtle? No one gets so mad about just-a-friend. It’s quite obvious you’re hurt about him leaving you because you’re head over heels for him.”

The silence that follows speaks for itself. Chigiri hopes his bluntness will cover for what’s been an embarrassing venting of his own frustrations, only projected onto whatever’s standing in front of him. He thanks God when Reo opens his mouth to reply bitterly.

“Thank you for the insight. I didn’t ask for it, but anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I have to focus on the match ahead. And you should too–”

“Oh, come on. You’re already so out of it! Spacing out, missing passes so easy a kindergartner could make,” Chigiri replies, convinced he’s not being cruel but necessarily honest: Reo arrived at Blue Lock with the confidence of someone who’s always gotten what he wanted and this hollowed out, blank-eyed shell of him was painful to witness.

Reo’s answer comes quickly and sharp like a throwing knife. “You can bet I’ll give it my all when the time comes. I can’t and I won’t lose against him.”

There it is: him, not them. Not Team White. Nagi, specifically. Possibly Isagi too, for whom Nagi abandoned him in the first place. Either way, he’s made it clear it’s personal, and Chigiri can't help but relate to his aggravation. Perhaps Reo can see it in his eyes, because he doesn’t leave and, if Reo wanted out of the conversation, he would be already. Instead he’s standing there, shoulders tight and towel knotted in his white-knuckled fist, as if waiting for him to deliver another low blow. Reo’s too pretty to look this miserable, Chigiri thinks;too proud. Too carefully put together to be unraveling over someone who walked away without looking back.

It resonates. 

Perhaps that’s why the blurry shape of a despicable idea begins to take form in Chigiri’s head, and doesn’t leave. By the following morning, it’s stretched out into a twisting, irresistible drive that nullifies everything else he should be thinking about.

Training starts again before the sun has properly decided to exist and, between the cold lights, white tiles and everyone moving half-awake and sloppily it feels like being in a fish tank. They run drills until their lungs burn (sprints, cuts, first touch). Chigiri beats both Kunigami and Reo in speed, of course, even though Kunigami always trains like his life is on the line. Relentless. Still, every time Chigiri passes him at the track there’s that look in that otherwise stern face of his: the kindest he’s ever been subjected to. Everything okay? it says without voicing it, and with the same thoughtful care with which he helps him adjust the athletic tape around his right leg. Warm, calloused fingers brush against his skin, rewrapping the tape tighter, cleaner, unbearably tender, and his brow furrows like this is the most important task in the world. Like Chigiri’s not fragile, but valuable –and he knows very well there’s a world of difference between the two.

He’d prefer he were rough, or that he didn’t touch him at all.

Kunigami finishes the wrap and is starting to pull away when Chigiri catches his sleeve, hating that his throat has suddenly dried.

“Wait,” he mutters, already feeling an embarrassing heat creeping up his neck. “Don’t rush off just yet.”

It’s a flimsy excuse. They both know it, but his teammate doesn’t question it. He simply crouches at his side and helps him stretch, encouraging Chigiri to lean on him, and he obliges. When Kunigami stands back up, they’re so close that the view of him fills his entire vision –from the pointy ends of his bright hair to the light freckles over his straight nose and his broad, broad shoulders– and it makes him dizzy.

The orange-haired player draws a slight smile before stepping away and going back to the training room, like he hasn’t just set Chigiri’s entire nervous system ablaze and made his blood boil. How can he be this dense? His chest fills up with a petty, mean feeling.

Fine.

If such an obvious,mortifying display of need from Chigiri’s won’t spur him into action, maybe something uglier will.

***

It starts small, like everything big always does. Instead of sitting in his usual spot directly across from Kunigami, he slides further and settles deliberately close to Reo, so close their shoulders almost touch. He goes as far as to reach over and pluck a piece of tamagoyaki from his tray and tease him over his protein intake. On the other side of the table, their teammate doesn’t seem to notice, or care. So the redhead maintains eye contact way longer than necessary while Reo speaks about passing patterns and defensive positioning and makes sure to let his knee bump against Reo's under the table every now and then, noting with dark satisfaction how he jumps in his seat a little every single time and stutters. The striker with bright orange hair, though, keeps at his plate and only parts his lips in order to make some sanitized comment about the team strategy.

“You’re way too tense. You'll pull something if you keep training like this,” Chigiri says as his thumbs dig into the knots in Reo’s shoulders in the gym, working small circles with the knowledge that comes from his own experience and pressing his chest against Reo’s back shamelessly.

Across the room, Kunigami glances over mid-rep and then, nothing. Simply returns to his workout without an eyebrow raised. Chigiri's jaw tightens; the urge to send a kettlebell flying to his stupid, oblivious head is overwhelming. He digs his thumbs in harder than necessary, earning a small gasp from Reo that he refuses to feel guilty about.

Later that afternoon, during the mandatory review of footage of their previous practice match, Chigiri bypasses his usual seat and drops down right beside Reo on the small couch, close enough that their thighs press together from hip to knee, and draping his arm along the back of the couch, wrapping around Reo’s shoulders –even though Kunigami is nowhere to be seen yet–. When a particularly good play from Reo appears on screen, Chigiri leans in, close enough that his hair brushes the other boy’s cheek, and whispers: "That was a good one.”

“Stop right there. Just… stop.” Reo shifts on the couch so he looks straight into Chigiri. "What are you doing?" His voice is flat instead of reproachful. He’s not angry, but confused, and rightfully so, Chigiri can’t deny it. His violet eyes meet magenta ones and drop to the hand deliberately resting on his thigh.

The redhead blinks in a poor attempt at conveying a candour he doesn’t possess. “What do you think?”

"I think–" Reo hesitates, seemingly trying to find the right words and hating everything he’s coming up with. "I think you feel sorry and you’ve decided poor, pathetic Reo needs a pity friend to keep him from completely falling apart before the match. That was the reason you offered me to join your team ,too." His voice goes brittle. "And now you’re what, playing at being interested? Trying to make me feel better about myself?"

The accusation lands harder than Chigiri could have expected because there is some truth to it. He does pity Reo: he pities how helplessly in love he is with Nagi, and how those feelings have carved him hollow and left him listless. However, even if Reo had nothing of the sort going on and were simply a talented teammate of his, he’d be a fundamental piece in Chigiri’s mischievous design by virtue of being there with him. Actually, Chigiri’s the one who should be pitied, so willing to use anyone at hand to try and prove something to–

Reo’s attempt at wiggling off from under him brings him back from his musings.

“You’re right,” he blurts out. “Well, half-right. I do think you’re a  mess. Anyone can see it, and it bothers me. Not because I pity you, but because you deserve better than to waste away over someone who didn't think twice before leaving you.”

The purple-haired boy flinches away like he's been struck. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Chigiri doesn't let him retreat, leaning forward to close the distance Reo's trying to create. "When was the last time Nagi looked at you –really looked at you– the way he looks at Isagi when they play together, with those droopy eyes all lit up?"

Chigiri’s being cruel and painfully aware of it. He sees how his words drain Reo’s face of color, which then flushes hot with disbelief, rage and grief, all tangled together into a beautiful, pure expression.

"Don't you want him to realize what he gave up? What he walked away from?” Chigiri continues. He knows he’s struck gold with this approach and he won’t let go. “You have to stop looking like you’ll crawl back the second he snaps his fingers, even though you would. You have to move on, show him you’re doing just fine without him. Or fake it, at least.”

Inches away from Chigiri’s oval face, ablaze with an enthusiasm Reo has never seen in him, the rich heir’s brain blows a fuse or two. Unable to conceal his utter shock, his voice climbs up a whole octave the next time he opens his mouth.

“You have to be kidding. Are you– are you proposing we fake-date as revenge?”

The redhead’s mouth curls. “Who said anything about dating?” Chigiri shrugs, deliberate in his casualness. "You want Nagi to regret his choices and I'm offering a way to make that happen."

“Right. Out of the goodness of your heart.”

While Chigiri’s most definitely not a bad person, Reo’s voice drips with skepticism. He’s convinced there has to be something in it for him, too, or he wouldn’t simply offer himself up as bait for someone else’s romantic pursuits. Because the other option is he’s genuinely attracted to Reo and is looking for an excuse to act out on it, and that is simply out of the question: while he has no self-image issues, Reo knows very well he’s not the redhead’s type. In fact…

Understanding dawns slowly across his face as it all clicks into place.

“Kunigami,” he mutters, and Chigiri goes visibly rigid. “You want to make him jealous.”

Anyone with functioning eyes would have noticed how close his two teammates are and have been since the very first phase of selection –something he’s felt envious about more than once–; the way they smile to each other, vastly different from the simply amiable gestures they give everyone else. But why would pretty, athletic, headstrong Chigiri of all people be so insecure as to devise such a childish plan to provoke Kunigami into action? Shouldn’t it be obvious to both? The whole ordeal seems absurd to him.

But then again, Reo remembers bitterly, some people can be so oblivious to what’s right in front of them.

“So you framed it as wanting to help me but actually it’s you using me as bait,” he tries to flip it all around, teasing Chigiri for the self-consciousness he never imagined him capable of.

Chigiri tilts his head, letting his hair fall across one shoulder in a gesture he knows is a headturner, arches his brows and gives him an unholy smile, despite Reo having seen right through him. His capability for keeping a regal poise is admirable, Reo thinks, and his self-confidence is magnetic (especially for someone who has none of his own right now), and part of Reo knows this is a terribly bad idea but can't articulate why through the fog of his own heartbreak.

"Let’s say I'm trying to get a reaction. We’ll be using each other.”Chigiri leans forward, and the casual allure in his voice sends a shiver down Reo’s spine. Speed isn’t the pretty bastard’s only effective weapon. “What do you say? Partners in crime?”

Reo nods once, sharp and decisive, and he hears himself say: “Fine. It’s not like I’ve got anything left to lose.” He hasn’t done a great job trying to sound less miserable than he feels.

“Good. Let’s get under their skin.”

Reo's pulse kicks up despite himself. They’re mere inches away and he can smell Chigiri's shampoo (something floral and expensive that he definitely didn't get from Blue Lock's standard-issue supplies), see the tiny dark spots in his pink-red irises and almost hear his humming pulse. "This is insane," he whispers back, but he doesn't pull away.

From somewhere down the hall, footsteps echo (heavy, familiar): Kunigami's distinctive gait. Chigiri doesn't move away from Reo; if anything, he leans even closer, allowing his hands to return to Reo's thighs with deliberate pressure. He presses down and doesn't miss the sharp intake of breath the touch elicits. The air in the room suddenly feels clotted, charged.

Kunigami steps through the door, already pulling out his tablet to queue up the footage on the projector screen, and he's mid-motion when he registers the view and freezes. His amber eyes take in the scene: Chigiri draped against Reo's side with one possessive hand on his thigh, Reo’s flushed face and uneven breathing. It looks like he’s caught them in the middle of, well, something, which he definitely has; ironically the very thing they have agreed to make him believe.

"Sorry," Kunigami says, and his voice comes out rougher than usual. He clears his throat. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

Something flickers in his stern face: there’s a subtle creasing of the lines around his eyes, a slight tightening of his jawline and his gaze drops to Chigiri’s hand against the fabric of Reo's training pants before snapping right back up. Not jealousy, as such, but it’s definitely a certain degree of discomfort and it’s enough to make Chigiri’s heart do a traitorous little flip.

“What do you mean?” he says cheerfully, and it frightens Reo how good an actor he is. "We were just going over yesterday's plays.”

Reo achieves a curt nod. 

Kunigami moves further into the room, but there's something hesitant about his movements –they are always controlled but never this tense. He busies himself with setting up the tablet on the table and doesn’t look up until it’s time to fix his eyes on the screen. In fact, he concentrates on not diverting his gaze from it, especially not to the couch where his two teammates are, nestled up on the couch like they’ve been this familiar forever. Instead, he makes an effort to discuss their strategy and, for a while, they all manage to pay attention and actually design a team strategy. No matter how often amber eyes keep drifting back to them despite his best efforts not to, or the nervous rhythm at which Reo’s leg bounces under Chigiri’s touch.

***

They bump into Team White on their way to one of the training rooms.

It’s Chigiri and Reo alone, since Kunigami always gets there first. On the other side, Isagi, that insufferable guy Barou with him and of course the bane of Reo’s existence: Seishiro Nagi.

Who lifts his hand and motions towards them like nothing’s happened.

“Hey, Reo,” he says with his usual flat voice and an unmistakable, undeniable spark of glee in his cloudy grey eyes..

Beside Chigiri, Reo’s muscles jolt, shoulders drawn up as if he’s bracing for impact, and his breathing turns very obviously heavy, the kind that someone takes when they’re trying to swim up and not drown. Hey, Reo. Like he didn’t spend months treating him like he was the only thing that ever existed, that mattered, only to leave him the second something shinier caught his attention. Chigiri can hear his teeth grinding.

Reo deflects Nagi’s hand with a curt gesture that almost sounds like a slap. It echoes through the hallway and fades out into a woeful, suspensive silence that the rich boy promptly breaks:

“Have you forgotten? We’re rivals now, Nagi.”

The languid soccer genius blinks slowly, furrows his light eyebrows into a knot. From what little Chigiri has seen of him and what Reo has recounted, he believes he has a fairly accurate idea of just how clueless, how detached from his surroundings he usually is. Still, the gleam in his droopy eyes changes and gives away something else that can’t be taken as indifference. Although the red-hot heat flaring across and emanating from Reo’s body is probably making it difficult for him to notice.

Chigiri can no longer stand seeing him stare at Nagi with that awful, seething, wounded look in his purple eyes, so he makes a decision: he laces his fingers together with Reo’s, protective and caring, and also out of a genuine urge to shield him. At first, Reo freezes in place; then, slowly but surely, eases into Chigiri’s grip.

“Come on,” he says, tugging at him, and Reo lets himself be led away from the white-haired boy looking at them with a dazed expression.

They’ve barely gotten to the changing room before the training court when Reo stumbles and hits the nearest locker with a closed fist –his only free hand, as the other is still firmly held in Chigiri’s. The metal dents under his knuckles just enough that he feels it give; the satisfying crunch of something breaking that, for once, isn't him.

Except it is. He’s been breaking down since the day Nagi looked at Isagi like he was the most precious thing and relegated Reo to just a nuisance, an obstacle in his path to the top; background noise that did nothing but hold his potential back.

"Fuck," he hears himself say. Then again, louder. "Fuck." Perhaps if he reroutes all of his anguish into swearwords he’ll successfully push the tears pooling in his eyes back (his vision’s already becoming blurry at the edges).

"Reo." Chigiri's voice cuts through the spiral. "Breathe."

He feels his warmth in his hand (the fisted one has begun to burn). When did that happen? When did Chigiri grab him? Before or after Nagi looked at them with those wide, confused eyes like Reo was the unreasonable one? The tears come anyway, hot and humiliating, tracking down his face before he can even think of wiping them away. He tries to yank his hand free but Chigiri won't let go and instead holds on tighter.

"You need to calm down." Chigiri's other hand comes up to his shoulder, grounding. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Good." Reo sounds jagged and mean, the words squeezed out of him as if by force. "Maybe then he'd actually fucking notice."

His teammate’s grip shifts, becoming gentler but no less insistent. "He did. Didn’t you see the look in his eyes? What did you expect, anyway? You’ve seen him for five seconds, we held hands. It’s a start."

"It's pathetic." Reo finally looks at him, really looks, and finds Chigiri studying him with those sharp magenta eyes that see too much. “I’m pathetic, and I hate myself for it.”

They stand alone in the empty changing room for a good while –Chigiri's hand warm in his, tracing soothing circles on its back– until Reo's breathing finally evens out, his tears stop flowing and he's left feeling hollow and wrung-out and deeply, profoundly embarrassed. He’s not going to apologize for it, though.

“This won’t do,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve and barely aware of what he’s implying. “We have to kick it up a notch.”

As always, there’s nothing on Chigiri’s face that speaks of aversion or criticism: he’s never judged Reo for his feelings, only for how he chooses to react to them, so the purple-haired boy has come to be at ease when they’re alone. Which is good for building the trust needed for their joint strategy.

"You’re right. But if we’re to do that, we need to rehearse.” He watches as Reo’s face flushes the same deep red as his hair. “Yeah, rehearse. We just held hands and, that look on your face right now? The deer-in-headlights thing? That's not exactly selling it."

The locker room suddenly feels too small and too quiet, with only the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. Chigiri’s standing close enough for Reo to see the fine lines of his muscles down his neck and underneath his tight-fitted training shirt.

“How are we supposed to…?”

“First lesson, proximity. You need to stop flinching every time I touch you."

“I don’t–” Reo begins, and immediately proves Chigiri right by jumping in place when the redhead cups his face in one hand. It’s satisfying, though, to see his breath hitch slightly too. It’s weird, but of course it is, and that’s precisely the point: to get used to the weirdness so it doesn’t feel weird later, when it matters. It’s also painful to compare to what used to be Nagi’s insistent touch. Far from Chigiri’s delicate pressure, Nagi has little to no idea what personal space is at all, and Reo has never scolded him for it, so he always rests his head on his lap while playing games on his phone, asks him to carry him on piggyback and put him to bed when he’s sleepy, which is all the time, and– Reo realizes he should be thinking of all of these in the past tense. He manages to bring himself back to the present moment, with Chigiri, who’s right there, ghosting his thumb over his lips.

“Second lesson, stop looking away; that reads as discomfort,” Chigiri reprimands him, as matter-of-factly as he says everything else. “It’s not like I’m difficult to look at, is it?”

Reo obliges and notices his eyes are lighter than he remembered: more pink than red under the cold lighting, fringed with lashes that are girly-long, and he notices a few tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks that Reo doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. “You’re so full of yourself,” he scoffs. Sheer deflection. The objective truth is, Chigiri’s absolutely gorgeous, making it all the more difficult to stay cool. Besides, this is the longest they've ever just stared into each other’s eyes like that. It feels strangely intimate, more so than all those other times they’ve shared the couch with their legs casually tangled.

"Okay," Chigiri says once he’s satisfied with the time Reo has managed to keep his eye contact. "Now for the awkward part."

"The staring contest wasn't the awkward part?"

"Not even close. If we want really dense, oblivious people to notice what we’re doing, we should jump straight to the point. We should make out." Chigiri’s trying really hard to keep up his nonchalant facade, but his voice has trembled slightly, which makes Reo feel a bit better about his own blood hammering violently against his pulse points. “Have you… ever…?”

Reo's heart is beating  so loud he's sure Chigiri can hear it. “Of course I have. Well. Once.”

“I mean, we don’t have to, but I think it would be more convincing–”

“No, it’s fine, I get it. I think so too.”

Absolutely ridiculous. An absurd conversation to be having. It’s been so long since the last time Reo kissed someone –a cute but not particularly bright girl in high school who had bragged about the fact for weeks until Reo had to all but extort her into shutting up. He doesn’t recall it as a particularly thrilling experience, born out of the silly teenage need of not staying behind his classmates and friends, and after the fact he has often imagined how it must feel to kiss someone you actually really like. At first he pictured abstract figures vaguely resembling a person, mere representations of the idea itself; lately, the figures had pale skin and white hair, doe eyes and the scent of jasmine laundry detergent about them. He shakes the image off his head.

“I’ve done it a few times so… maybe just follow my lead,” Chigiri leans in slowly, as if wanting to give Reo the chance to get away. But Reo won’t back off, even though he would have never imagined, not in a million years, that the second person he’d ever kiss would be Chigiri Hyouma.

It’s quite chaste at first: just a soft press of lips, testing and tentative. Chigiri's mouth is warmer than Reo expected and tastes faintly of the energy drink they'd had earlier, fresh and sweet. It lasts maybe four seconds before Chigiri’s the one to pull back.

“Not too bad,” he says. “For a twelve-year-old.”

Reo watches Chigiri’s eyelashes flutter closed and his stomach flips a little, and even though his brain has begun to supply him with a dozen reasons why it’s a terrible idea to go on –they’re supposed to be training, his cheeks are still wet from crying and his heart still aches–, he finds himself diving in for more. To hell with it, he thinks.

The second kiss is longer, as Reo tries to actually participate instead of just being on the receiving end: his fingers thread into silky red hair, he opens his mouth against Chigiri’s and feels, more than hears, the small sound Chigiri makes in response, the vibration of it, and the sensation sends heat cascading down his spine. He tastes genuinely good, and perhaps it’s compared to Reo’s inexperience but it rings true that he’s had more than one go at this sort of thing. 

The angle shifts and suddenly Reo can taste him properly in all his warm sweetness. At the same time, Chigiri's free hand finds Reo's hips and hooks a finger in the hem of his sweatpants. A pleasant buzz starts building in his chest: endorphins, probably, or adrenaline, or both at once as part of the physiological response his body's decided to put in motion without consulting him. The ache in his chest isn’t gone but he’s acutely aware of everywhere Chigiri’s touching him and his attentions feel so much better than his earlier sorrow.

When they pull apart the second time, Reo can't speak, can't think. His entire world has narrowed to the lingering warmth where Chigiri's lips had been against his.

"We should–" he swallows. "We should do it again. To make sure."

It’s Reo’s mouth that searches for Chigiri’s and starts a third, hungrier kiss that takes them both by surprise (which is beyond stupid, all things considered). The redhead ventures his tongue into his mouth and Reo gasps into him, closing his eyes –he has, indeed, kept them awkwardly open until now–. No wonder, with those looks and straightforward, confident charm of his. Reo finds himself tangling his hands into his long red hair and his tongue moving out of its own accord as he presses against his teammate. There, he can feel Chigiri’s chest heaving up and down, and his body responds accordingly. 

It would be so easy to pretend that it’s not Chigiri’s lips on his jaw, at his neck, nibbling at his ear and ghosting over his mouth, although his hair feels silk-smooth and smells too sweet for Reo to be fooled, his lashes are too long and he blushes too pink. It doesn’t hurt that he’s one of the most attractive guys in the whole Blue Lock building, though: his slim neck and refined features are nothing short of breathtaking, he’s looking at Reo with clear intent, like he’s something to be sought after, chosen, and Reo finds himself wanting to let go and dive right into this feeling. When Chigiri's hand fists in his shirt, pulling him closer, he goes willingly, mindlessly. Reo shivers despite the stuffy heat of the locker room, which he doesn’t notice –the only smells he registers are that floral shampoo Chigiri uses, mixed with something faintly spiced that might be his deodorant or cologne, or just the natural scent of his skin. It's overwhelming in the best way, crowding out everything else until there's nothing but the slide of Chigiri's mouth against his, the gentle tug of fingers in his hair and his own  thundering pulse in his ears.

A locker squeaks somewhere across the room, loud and metallic, and the two spring apart like they’ve touched a live wire. For a moment they just stare at each other, wide-eyed and breathing hard, with their hair noticeably dishevelled where the other’s fingers have been threaded and their lips swollen, silly-looking.They wait for someone to round the corner and find them, but no one does, and they hear the door at the farthest end of the changing room close with a thud. 

Reo's the first to stumble back and put some much needed distance between them. He shoves his shaky hands into his pockets.

“I’d say that’s good enough for today,” he forces a nonchalant smile.

“Yeah.” Chigiri's already finger-combing his hair back into something resembling order and his voice sounds surprisingly steady, though his face is still flushed pink. “Kunigami is going to yell at us for being late.” Right. Kunigami. That’s what this was all about. “Do I look–?”

“Like you’ve been making out with someone? Definitely.”

Chigiri gives him a devilish smirk. “Good.”

Reo goes over to the sink and splashes freezing cold water on his face, once, twice. It helps, marginally: when he straightens and catches his reflection in the mirror, his lips are still noticeably red and his eyes too bright. He heads for the door without waiting, and after a moment, he hears Chigiri follow.

Like he expected, Kunigami's already there, running drills with a focused intensity that suggests he's been at it for a while. He glances up as they approach, and Reo sees his amber eyes track over them. Reo wonders if he’s taking in the careful distance they're keeping, their reddened faces, the slight disarray of their clothes.

His orange hair is dark with sweat, muscles flexing as he drives the ball toward the goal with brutal precision. "You're late," is all he says. Is his voice always this clipped? Is he just angry that his teammates don’t seem to be taking the drill seriously?

"Lost track of time," Chigiri replies smoothly as he takes position.

Kunigami turns back to his setup and Reo notices the way his shoulders have tensed, the way his next shot hits the goal with more force than strictly necessary. The ball slams into the net with a violent thwack that makes Reo flinch.

"Warm up first," he says without looking at them. "Then we'll run the combination play."

They run drills, practice passes, work on their synchronized plays: dribbling, cuts, coordinated attacks that should flow smoothly but feel stilted and off-rhythm. Reo can't focus; every time the ball comes to him, his first touch is heavy, and his passes just slightly behind where they should be. His skin still feels electrified and hypersensitive, like a hormonal teenager’s, and he can’t stop running mental simulations of Nagi witnessing the scene they’ve enacted in the changing room. Would it actually bother him or would he not care at all? Insecurity keeps gnawing at him. What if all this does is make things awkward with the one teammate who's actually worried about him, who’s tried to help Reo since the split?

Chigiri doesn’t seem to be faring much better. The orange-haired, relentless striker no longer graces them with gentle corrections or shares their smiles, and Chigiri’s attempts at initiating banter are met with flat monosyllabics and their signature combination –the one that requires perfect trust and coordination– fails two times; that’s when Chigiri starts to fray at the edges. He's too fast on his cuts, overshoots his marks and Reo sees him glance toward Kunigami at least three times per minute. Quick, furtive looks that he tries to disguise as checking his fellow player’s positioning, but Reo knows better. He's looking for a reaction.

And Kunigami, Kunigami does look back, only never at the same time as Chigiri looks at him, always a beat delayed, like they're playing an elaborate game of hide and seek. When Chigiri sprints past, Kunigami's eyes follow but don’t focus on the blur of his legs. When Kunigami calls for a pass, Chigiri's head turns and lingers, and Reo feels like an intruder; a defective cog in a plan he helped devise himself.

***

Team Red’s room is way too quiet.

It's past lights-out, technically, but Blue Lock's enforcement of curfew has always been more suggestion than rule, especially in the later selection phases. The overhead fluorescents are off, leaving only the dim emergency lighting that casts everything in washed-out blue-grey, and outside their door, even though the only sound there should be is the gentle hum of the ventilation system, the facility buzzes with distant footsteps, giggling and whispered conversations.

It's become a pattern over the past few days, one Chigiri's mapped with obsessive precision because he has nothing better to do while lying awake at night: Kunigami leaves for training earlier each morning (5:47 AM yesterday, 5:39 today) and returns later each evening (23:15 last night, still not back and it's currently 23:42). When he does come back, he moves with careful silence: shower, change, bed, no conversation beyond the bare minimum pleasantries that teammates owe each other. Chigiri knows because he's been pretending to sleep through all of it, watching through barely-cracked eyelids as Kunigami navigates the room like he's trying not to wake a sleeping cat. Or like he's avoiding something: him, specifically.

Chigiri’s sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression. It should have worked. If Kunigami had noticed what they’d been doing in the locker room, he would have gotten mad, confrontational, he was supposed to make a move and reclaim Chigiri for himself. But it’s likely that Chigiri, in his conceited need to feel desired, has made a fatal miscalculation: that by presenting himself as interested in someone else he’s triggered Kunigami’s flight response, instead of the fight one, and that the ever-so-heroic player has decided to resign.

"He's late again," Chigiri says into the semi-darkness. Reo's in his own bed across the narrow room, scrolling through something on his phone that bathes his face in blue light. “He won’t even look at me.”

Reo sets his phone down, propping himself up on one elbow. "Maybe that's a good sign? Like he's bothered enough that he needs to put some distance?"

“Ugh, that would be so like him,” Chigiri buries his face into the pillow. “Constitutionally incapable of being anything less than a perfect gentleman and a martyr, wanting to be respectful about it.” A pervasive idea stretches its long, crooked fingers inside his brain and twists his mouth into a bitter smile. “If he thinks he can simply ignore his way out of this, it means we haven’t bothered him enough.”

Kunigami can still be forced to react, Chigiri believes because he has to. Otherwise he has to recognise he’s made a terrible mistake. Before he knows it, he’s climbed onto Reo’s bed and is trying to share his faith in the execution of part two of their disaster of a master plan.

“Next time they see us, we have to be convincing. They have to believe they might lose us if they don’t do something.”

Reo’s frowning face looks endearing in the room’s dim blue light, and a bit difficult to read. His pupils are black and wide to the point there’s barely any violet left in his eyes, swallowed up by the dark.

“So,” he says in a rustle and leans in. “More rehearsal?”

Chigiri’s pulse races. Is he having second thoughts? Definitely. The whole plan feels like it's spiraling in directions he didn't –couldn’t– anticipate, and the prospect of kissing Reo again sits in his chest along with an uncomfortable kind of excitement. He can’t say he dreads it, exactly, but it feels wrong in a way he can't articulate: Reo’s the wrong person, he’s kissing him for the wrong reasons, and underneath all of it there’s the desperate need to browbeat Kunigami into finally admitting he wants him.

This is all your fault, you selfish hero, he thinks as he takes Reo’s face in his hands.

There is no need to test the waters, since they’ve already crossed this line once. Reo responds immediately, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Chigiri’s hands slide from Reo's face to his hair, threading through the purple strands –how he wishes they were orange instead–. He tries to imagine broader shoulders, rougher hands, amber eyes, but every time these snippets of Kunigami flash past his imagination, they disappear into Reo’s very real touch, the warmth of his skin under his fingers, his powdery scent, and it pains Chigiri to have pulled him along into this mess.

Reo loses his balance and, with his eyes still closed, pulls Chigiri down with him until they’re both lying on the narrow bed, with Chigiri’s full weight pressing Reo into the mattress. This is the kind of involvement they have to be building: intimate enough that Kunigami can't ignore it, that Nagi can't mistake it for anything else. Reo’s hands find their way under Chigiri's shirt, his palms flat against his lower back, and the touch sends a shiver through him that has nothing to do with temperature. It's been so long since anyone touched him like this.

"Sorry," Reo breathes, trying to break the kiss for a moment. His chest is heaving and his cheeks flushed noticeably even in the blue-grey light. "Got carried aw–"

Chigiri cuts him off with an incursion of his tongue, aggressive and almost punishing; for what, he’s not entirely sure. For not being Kunigami, although that’s no fault of Reo’s own. For being too willing a participant in Chigiri’s current path of self-destruction. It’s definitely not the brightest idea he’s ever had, to use another as a stand-in for the one he actually wants, and potentially ruining his team chemistry right before a crucial match in the process. But it has to work, he forces himself into repeating. The alternative –that he's doing all this for nothing, that Kunigami genuinely doesn't want him and his avoidance signifies relief rather than respectful restraint– is too awful to even contemplate.

Reo makes a sound against his mouth, something soft between a gasp and a whimper, and his fingers dig into Chigiri's lower back with enough pressure to leave marks. The redhead's hips shift involuntarily, seeking friction, and he feels the sharp intake of Reo’s breath that follows and the way his whole body goes tense and pliant at once beneath him. A thought floats above Chigiri’s haze of sensation, like fallen leaves on a water stream. This is dangerous. Loneliness has pushed the two of them into seeking comfort in each other, way past the innocent ‘practice’ they intended, and it’s so easy to simply forget: forget that this is supposed to be all fake, that they’re supposed to be imagining someone else. Forget everything except the heat between them and the way Reo's mouth is tender and eager against his.

Reo's hands slide higher up Chigiri's back, mapping the curve of his spine through the thin fabric of his shirt, he arches into the touch and they only break apart to gasp for air. One of them, or perhaps both, is shaking; it’s hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins when they're tangled together like this.

"Do you want to stop?"

Chigiri should say yes; yell it, even. The line between mutually-beneficial, strategic manipulation and genuine need is blurred beyond recognition and they're dangerously close to using each other for real comfort. So yes, he should roll off Reo, retreat into his own bed and into the pretense that this is just innocent practice, and bury this mess along with the rest of awful ideas he’s ever had but never dared follow through to completion. However, somewhere in the building, Kunigami must be finishing his extended training session and Nagi's probably playing mobile games without a thought for the chaos he's left in his wake, while Reo's hands are still on his back, warm and grounding, and he can’t bear the thought. It feels so much better to indulge his wounded pride and find consolation in Reo’s attentiveness, particularly when the alternative is lying alone in the dark thinking about all the ways Chigiri’s fucked everything up.

"No," he says, and hears his voice crack slightly. "I don't."

Just make me forget. Touch me like I'm wanted.

And Reo understands, without Chigiri having to say anything else out loud: his thumbs press into the hollow of his hipbones, eliciting a gasp that he swallows whole, and he uses the suddenly gained leverage to flip their position so Chigiri's the one pressed into the mattress now. His mouth finds the redhead’s jaw, his neck, that sensitive spot just below his ear, and he lets him do without any opposition. They’re still thinking of their respective third parties, for sure, but now their images are blurred: a backdrop that hangs heavy behind their no-longer feigned search for solace.

Reo's fingers tighten their grip on his waist and his mouth returns to Chigiri’s, only slower in a way that makes Chigiri’s throat tight. He goes willingly, desperately, kissing Reo back like maybe if he tries hard enough he can pretend that the burning ache in his chest is being filled, mended, instead of widened. He can’t help but think, with a twinge of satisfied vanity, how good it feels being cherished like this.

Even if it’s all pretend and they’re just too lonely kids trying to fill the holes in themselves with the wrong-shaped pieces.

Eventually, exhaustion and the creeping awareness of how far they've gone catch up with them, but they don't separate. Reo stays draped half across Chigiri, with his pretty face buried in the crook of his neck, and Chigiri stays wrapped around him. Neither speaks for a while.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Reo breaks the thick, oppressive silence reigning between them.

Chigiri doesn’t motion to return to his own bed. “At least we’ll have tried.”

His last thought before sleep finally claims him is of kind amber eyes and the smile he hasn't seen in days. He tries to hold onto the image, the one thing that can keep him on track, and wonders what he’ll think when he finally comes into the room and sees Reo in his arms like that. He isn’t even sure what to make of it himself: the pleasurable physical response of his warm body against Reo’s and the contrasting emotional hollow it has left him with dance across his mind, his chest, flutters in the pit of his stomach and stays there, simmering.

***

The communal baths are thick with steam when Team Red arrives (well, two of its members.) Team White's already there and the initial tension between both is painfully palpable: Isagi tries to bridge the gap with a quite forced cheerfulness, Barou acts aggressively disinterested as always, and everyone positions themselves carefully to avoid direct confrontation. Luckily for them, the bath is large enough, sectioned into different pools and alcoves, that it's easy to maintain distance. An unspoken agreement settles over the space and they settle for acknowledgment without engagement so no conflict will ensue. At least that’s what Team White naively thinks; but Chigiri and Reo’s plans differ.

They settle near one of the smaller pools, far enough from Team White to avoid interaction but strategically placed to be visible from their angle. Nagi’s talking to Isagi with his white hair dampened to dark grey and his drowsy eyes half-lidded as he soaks in the far corner of their pool. He hasn’t looked towards Reo and Chigiri even once and his gestures are lazy and unhurried as always. Beside Chigiri, Reo goes rigid and curls his fists into the towel wrapped around his lower body. The hurt radiating off him is almost tangible; a dark cloud that envelops him and drains his face of color.

Sitting on one of the stools in front of the shower, Chigiri makes a show of working the shampoo through his long hair with slow, deliberate movements and catches Reo's gaze lingering. A few days ago the boy would have forced his attention away, flustered, but he doesn’t now, and Chigiri allows himself a small smile, hoping he takes the cue. Reo unclenches his white-knuckled fists and walks up to the neighboring stool to help him with the conditioner; his violet eyes linger on the curve of Chigiri's neck, the way water droplets trace down his collarbone, and Chigiri wonders if he’s thinking about the plan, or the way they'd clung to each other in the dark the night before. That must be his vanity speaking; deep down, what Chigiri truly hopes is for Reo to hold out until he gets Nagi back. He deserves his chance at reconciliation, and it’s not like they can keep this farce going on much longer, if their sanity is to survive. Each stroke through wet hair is careful, languid, designed to draw the eye deliberately. The foam catches the light and makes it shimmer red-gold under the fluorescents. Kunigami isn't here yet but he will be, eventually; Chigiri just has to wait and be ready for when he shows up.

He tips his head to a side, showing more of his neck in a movement that’s calculated, and performative, with the excuse of rinsing the foam off, and the memory of Reo's mouth on the exact exposed spot assaults his memory; the way it had made him gasp and arch and forget, just for a moment, that he was supposed to be thinking of someone else. The fact that they can touch each other and be so at ease is a byproduct of that intimacy, ironically: it has worked exactly like they wanted, and being comfortable around each other no longer requires much effort at all.

“Let’s get in,” Reo points at the steaming water of the bath with a movement of his head.

They rinse off the last of the soap and step down into the pool together; the water's scalding, with that kind of heat that makes the skin prickle and flush red immediately. Chigiri sinks in slowly, feeling the temperature work its way up his calves, his thighs, and loosening something in his chest he hadn't realized was tight. It truly works miracles and manages to unknot a lot, if not all, of the tension that's been burrowed in his shoulders for days. Reo’s face has gone pink as well. Cute.

"He still hasn't looked over," Reo murmurs, voice low enough that it won't carry across the water. His eyes flick briefly toward where Nagi's still talking to Isagi, completely absorbed in whatever mundane conversation they're having.

Chigiri leans back against the tile edge, letting his hair fan out around him in the water, and tries to look natural and relaxed, and not at all like his heart is hammering against his ribs with anticipation. His skin is hypersensitive with the increased blood flow caused by the heat and, when Reo’s arm brushes against his, he shudders. They’re very close; just like they intended. The water laps gently between them, creating small eddies when either shifts position. As the steam continues to rise around them in thick clouds, making everything hazy and dreamlike, Chigiri can make out the blurred shapes of Team White through the vapor, but details are obscured. He wonders if the moment to spring into action will come at all, if Nagi will eventually look their way and really see.

Before Chigiri can answer, the door opens.

Kunigami steps through, and Chigiri's heart does a violent, traitorous flip in his chest. He's still in his training clothes, towel slung over one shoulder, moving with that familiar steady grace. His amber eyes sweep the room, cataloging positions and occupants with tactical efficiency, and Chigiri watches the exact moment they land on him.

Reo must have noticed the obvious shift in Chigiri's mood, his stiffened posture, because he leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts against Chigiri's ear. “He’s here.” The remark is almost irritating in its banality. Of course he is; studiously focused on his own routine, stripping down with mechanical efficiency, and the message is clear: whatever Chigiri's doing with Reo, it's none of his concern.

“It’s now or never, is it?” Reo murmurs, eyes fixed somewhere on the other side of the room, where Nagi seems to finally have noticed them, and it’s not just vague awareness of their presence, but the very specific configuration of their bodies, their gestures and proximity. His droopy eyes have gone slightly wider, focused and fierce and gleaming in a way they rarely are outside of the playing field. Meanwhile, in Chigiri’s field of vision, Kunigami's already moving toward a different section of the bath, deliberately choosing distance: putting physical space between them like it's the most logical thing to do.

Fine.

If you won’t look, I’ll make it impossible not to, he thinks, fierce, desperate. You’ll have no choice but to see all of it.

He shifts even closer to Reo, letting his hand rest on the other boy's shoulder with casual possessiveness. "Where were we?" His voice carries just enough to be heard over the sound of running water around them and above the hot steam floating upwards, drawing spirals between them. Chigiri's hair clings to his forehead, the curve of his graceful neck, and Reo's gaze catches there (as does his breath) before his hands find Chigiri's face and he dips.

If their making out the night before was desperate and needy, charged despite being knowingly borrowed, this is nothing like it. They’re both well aware of their public being there, whose gaze they don’t so much see as feel piercing their naked skin, and even though it was always their intention to put their intimacy on display, Chigiri’s never felt this exposed. The electricity tingling at the tip of his fingers, at the back of his throat, comes from the final completion of his carefully devised performance, and the uncertainty of its result, but he has to go on with the show, and what a show he’s going to make of it.

Reo's lips are warm and familiar and they move with the practiced ease they've developed over their desperate rehearsals, no fumbling or hesitation this time, just a smooth choreography. Chigiri knows to tilt his head at the perfect angle, lets his hand slide upwards from Reo's shoulder to the nape of his neck where his wet hair curls, and for anyone watching it must look truly effortless. Like they've done this a thousand times. Which is kind of true, although it’s not been that many. The awareness of having an audience is strange, though, and the weight of Nagi and Kunigami’s attention from the sidelines keeps their motions more composed, controlled. Purposeful, still. Such strangeness coexists with the underlying impulse of getting lost in it the same way he allowed himself to last night: he can taste the chlorine in the water and the scent of Reo’s favorite shower gel. His fingers pull slightly at dark purple hair without meaning to, and Reo makes a small sound against his mouth that's definitely not part of the script, shivering despite the scalding heat. The steam, the lapping sounds of water around them and his own body’s involuntary response to Reo’s soft whimper threaten to drown him. Means to an end, even if his racing heart hasn’t gotten the memo or doesn’t quite care what difference that makes. Keep looking. Don’t you wish it were you in his place? he’d like to ask out loud.

When they break apart, Chigiri doesn't look at Kunigami –he can’t bear to see his reaction or worse, his lack of one, at least not yet. Instead, he focuses on Reo and turns his head to follow his line of sight, reaching the white-haired boy staring at them from the other side of the room. His usual look of lazy indifference has cracked, letting something else slip through, something akin to affliction.

"I think–" Reo says roughly, "I need some air," and climbs out of the bath with abrupt efficiency, not bothering to rinse off first. Water streams from his lean body as he grabs his towel, wraps it around his waist, and heads for the door. Almost as if he knew Nagi would, with a very uncharacteristic decisiveness, also get out of the water and follow him outside. Mission accomplished, or at least half of it, anyway. All that remains is for him to pray for Reo to muster enough courage to pour his heart out in the confrontation that’s surely going to follow. The door swings shut behind them, and suddenly Chigiri's alone.

The steam continues to rise around him in thick clouds, but the bath feels emptier now. Colder, despite the scalding water. He's acutely aware of the absence beside him, as Reo’s  warmth and solid presence had been anchoring him through the performance, but it’s time to put his gut-wrenching insecurities aside and finally meet the unwilling viewer whose gaze he’s anxious to read.

Magenta eyes meet amber across the steam-filled space and everything else falls into the hazy background. What he finds in them is but an open wound: the careful control, the restraint, the dutiful distance Kunigami must have been struggling to maintain have fallen apart. Shattered and replaced by a sheer, feral kind of bitterness that is etched in each and every one of his stern features. It’s what Chigiri wanted: proof that Kunigami cares, enough for his betrayal to hurt, and he has it now. The look in those amber eyes, devastated, possessive, full of all the things Kunigami's too noble to say out loud, is everything Chigiri's been trying his very best to provoke, and he’s gotten it. Jealousy, yes, and longing, and  barely restrained desire all wrapped up in a hurt so profound it makes Chigiri want to run towards him and take it all back. He never expected victory to taste so much like ash.

Kunigami stands with movements stiff and controlled like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will and shuts the door closed behind him, while Chigiri sinks further into the cooling water, lips still remembering Reo’s, and chlorine, and the sour flavor of a plan that has worked exactly as intended.

***

Reo barely makes it three steps past the bath entrance before he hears footsteps behind him, quick and purposeful in a way that's distinctly un-Nagi-like. His heart lurches into his throat. He doesn't stop walking, can't stop, because if he does he'll have to turn around and face whatever's about to happen and he's not ready, he's not–

"Reo."The voice is flat as always, but lacks its usual emotionlessness. Reo's feet falter and he has no choice but to turn around.

Nagi's standing there in the corridor, dripping wet and towel wrapped precariously around his waist and already slipping down one hip. His white hair is plastered to his forehead in dark streaks, water tracks down his bare chest and, for someone who usually looks half-asleep,  he's uncommonly alert. His grey eyes are wider than Reo's ever seen them, fixed on him with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“What were you doing with him?” Nagi doesn’t even pronounce Chigiri’s name, as if it would burn his tongue to do so, Reo notices, not without a certain cruel satisfaction.

Nagi takes a step closer, then another, moving with the same nonchalance and distinctive absence of grace he brings to everything he does except for his receptions on the field. The fact that they’re both stark naked save for a flimsy towel that can fall off any moment isn’t lost on Reo but he has more important things to focus on. Like the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

“Why do you care?” he blurts out. “You didn't seem to give a shit about me when you left me for Isagi."

“I didn’t want to leave you.”

“But you did anyway.” Reo sounds as vindictive as Nagi does defensive. He’s lashing out because he doesn’t know how to handle things better; if he did, he wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. “Why do you care what I do?”

“I had to evolve…” Nagi trails off, running a hand through his wet hair in a gesture that might be frustration. His towel slips another inch and he doesn't even notice.

“So I was holding you back, huh? I guess I was a hassle.” The question tears out of him, all the hurt and confusion and anger he's been suppressing for weeks. Nagi stays silent for a long moment as Reo watches him struggle to find the proper words. He's never been good at this;  articulating feelings, explaining himself beyond the bare minimum, identifying his own emotions, but he's trying now and that alone makes something crack in Reo's chest.

“No, Reo. I had to get good enough by myself first if I wanted to become the world’s best together with you.”

Blood rushes to Reo’s fingertips, to the pit of his stomach, runs wild up his neck and crashes against his ears like waves during a summer storm. He’s never seen such a distraught expression in Nagi’s grey eyes, and sheer shock forbids him from saying anything else, leaving Nagi space to continue.

"My life was empty before I started playing soccer with you. This… fire I felt, I had to chase it. You were already so talented, I felt I had to become better in order to keep our promise. I thought you'd understand and wait for me to catch up with you." His grey eyes find Reo's, holding them with surprising directness, and his voice fades quickly. There's a spark in them that Reo's only ever seen while they played. He also has no clue how but they’re now close enough that he can see the water droplets clinging to Nagi’s light eyelashes, smell the chlorine water on him and, vaguely, the jasmine laundry detergent he uses.

Violet vision blurs and Reo realizes with horror that he's about to cry, his throat so tight he might not be able to force any more words past it. Gritting his teeth in a poor attempt to regain control, he continues: "You’re an idiot. I never needed you to catch up. I just… needed you to want me there, with you."

"But I do." Simple, certain. Like all things ought to be, and yet the words sting like a knife between Reo’s ribs. "I thought you’d always know that, no matter if we’re apart for a while.” He goes even further and twists them with a renewed glower in his eyes, now furious instead of simply hurt; but also uncertain and scared  like Nagi’s never been. “I hated seeing you with him like that. Hated him for touching you, and you for letting him.”

Something deep within Reo breaks into a thousand splinters: all the anger, the hurt, all the desperate scheming, it all comes crumbling down under the weight of Nagi's crushing honesty. This is what he wanted, isn't it? Nagi caring enough to be jealous and voice it, to follow him out here, to actually try to explain himself instead of just assuming Reo would understand without words. Even though he knows how hard it is for Nagi to open up. Reo’s been such an asshole to force him out of his shell with his scheming but, at the same time, he’s been rewarded and now his heart feels it’s about to burst.

"Well, I hated you.” It’s only fair that Reo pours it all out in response; a bit clumsily, a bit too hoarse. “I hated you for not choosing me.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you away, Reo.” Nagi’s tone is so at odds with his usual apathy –earnest, fierce, and grows somber with possessiveness as he speaks. “But I’ll win you back. Even if you hate me, I’ll beat you tomorrow, and we’ll be–”

Reo kisses him.

They're both dripping wet, standing in a corridor where anyone could walk by and find them, their towels are slipping so low it's a miracle they’re holding on there and they don’t care about any of it. Nagi's hands tighten on Reo’s waist (when did they get there?) and pull him closer until there's no space between them at all; he’s sorely missed his brazen touch, solid and so devoid of respect for his personal space. In return, Reo twists his fingers into his damp white hair so nothing can tear them apart but their own need to fill their lungs. Nagi’s lips taste so different from Chigiri’s, and so much better than he could have imagined. They’re not as plump or soft but they feel fever-hot against his, at his neck and jaw, and they make his pulse race like he’s heard hard drugs do.

When they finally break apart –gasping, dizzy, foreheads pressed together, eyes unfocused but not with sleepiness for once–, Nagi pulls back just enough to look at him properly,  searching Reo’s face with some more of this very unusual, highly pleasing intensity.

“What about… your teammate?”

“It was fake.” Reo’s laugh is both giddy and a half-sob as relief washes over him, even though it feels a little bitter, too, and so, so very stupid to admit. “I wanted to make you jealous. Don’t tell me you don’t deserve it, after what you put me through,” he adds in self-justification.

Nagi blinks slowly, with his pinky finger hooked around Reo's in a gesture so small and intimate it makes Reo's chest ache, and his other hand still possessively gripping his waist. Reo feels he could melt this very instant. “So… you’re not with him.”

“No.”

They stare at each other for a beat.

"Tomorrow we'll play our best and I’ll earn you for my team." Not a glimmer of hesitation in Nagi’s silvery eyes. 

"You’re pretty confident that you’re going to win."

"Yeah. And you don’t need to ever kiss that redhead again.”

It’s Nagi who joins his lips with Reo’s again, a bit forceful, hungrily, like Reo’s a forgetful pet that needs a reminder who its owner is. Not like Reo cares at all: he’s still half-convinced this is all a dream, that he'll wake up in the training room and Nagi will be staring at him, cold and unreachable across the facility. But Nagi's hand finds his as they start walking back toward the locker rooms, their fingers lacing together with soothing familiarity, and Reo knows it's all real.

He can only hope that Chigiri’s part of the plan has gone half as well as his.

***

The corridor outside of the communal baths leads to the changing room and is blessedly empty when Chigiri rushes across it, feet bare and dangerously slippery, as he hasn’t bothered rinsing off properly or drying his hair. He slides off the wet tiles with only a towel wrapped around his lower body and an anguished expression. The phantom touch of Reo’s lips and fingers have been buried beneath the memory of Kunigami and the devastated look in his gold-flecked eyes.

You did that, he reminds himself in an exercise of self-torment. He orchestrated it to the detail, trying to use jealousy as a catalyst for a reaction he couldn’t anticipate, Chigiri thinks bitterly, because it would have worked on him. He would have responded, out of vanity and wounded pride, if the object of his affections had been openly flirting with someone else. Had, very wrongly,  assumed Reo needed the same reassurance: proof that he’s desirable, that Nagi would notice him if he paid attention to someone who’s not him and act on it. Worst of all, Chigiri’s been thoughtlessly cruel to everyone he was supposed to help; Reo first of all, whose heart could have been left in an even worse state than it was after being played with disregarding if he could handle the emotional fallout or not –thank God he’s so whipped he’s immune to Chigiri’s charms–, all because he allowed himself to be dragged into a mutually destructive path towards regaining some semblance of self-worth. All in order to crack Kunigami’s composure, to force him out of his infuriating politeness and unbearable restraint. Well, he’s accomplished the mission, and yet he feels like he’s about to throw up.

His impending sickness worsens when he bursts into the changing room and almost crashes into the lonely figure standing there alone.

“Kunigami,” he calls in a voice that’s a brittle thread.

His fiery bright hair is still damp, with water droplets clinging to his temples. He looks up at him, and the carefully neutral expression he's wearing cracks just enough for him to see the hurt underneath. Raw and unguarded, in stark contrast to the controlled power that usually radiates from his broad frame, he’s already put his sweatpants on, like he’s in a rush to get away.

Chigiri's bare feet stutter to a stop on the tile. He's suddenly, painfully aware of his state –soaking wet, barely covered, vulnerable in every possible sense like he’s never been. His lips part to speak but the words die in his throat before he can even summon them, giving Kunigami an easy opening to go for it first.

“Look, I didn’t want to meddle but…” Kunigami's voice isn’t completely steady; there's a tremor underneath it which betrays that he's struggling to maintain his composure this time. It also shows in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, fiddle with the wet towel he’s still holding. "I don't care what's going on between you and Reo, but whatever it is, keep it off the field or we'll lose."

The clinical tone makes Chigiri flinch. He has to course-correct Kunigami’s assumptions, or else… "It’s not wh–"

"I mean it." His teammate cuts him off and there's a new edge to his voice that Chigiri's never heard before, vastly different to the amiable reservedness he’s used to. "I know I have no right to. That it's none of my business what you do or who you–" He stops and takes a breath. "I've tried not to let it affect me, but I can’t help it and, if I'm distracted during the match, if our strategy falls apart because I can't focus, the three of us will lose."

The admission Chigiri’s been waiting for brings his pulse to a near-halt. At last, it’s impossible for Kunigami to hide behind his own politeness; he can’t simply brush this off, to the point that it’s having an impact on his performance, or at least that’s what he perceives; to the point that he can no longer deny it in front of the very reason of his woes. Chigiri finally has proof of what he’s been trying to put to the test for the whole week and it should feel like triumph, but it doesn’t.

"There's nothing between us," Chigiri forces out, and fights his instinct to wrap his arms around himself: the changing room suddenly feels too cold, and he's shivering despite the lingering heat from the bath still clinging to his skin, but he pressures himself into ignoring it. No way he’s going to show physical weakness, along with the emotional vulnerability that he’s surely unable to conceal.

Kunigami's expression shifts and his amber eyes narrow. "Don't tell me you're toying with Reo when he's at his most vulnerable."

"What? No!" The accusation stings worse because there's a mite of truth to it, even if it’s not what Kunigami thinks. "I'm not… it's not like that at all. He agreed to it.” Finding enough strength to argue back, Chigiri lifts his chin, as defiant as defensively. "Nagi needed to see what he was missing. We thought that, if he saw Reo with someone else, maybe…"

He stops, realizing too late what he's revealed. In front of him, the tall striker goes very still and tries to piece everything together, understanding beginning to dawn on him.

"So you were helping Reo make Nagi jealous," he says slowly, taking one, two steps forward. "You were just a prop for his scheme? I don’t buy it. You're an egoist, and you wouldn’t go that far without getting something out of it yourself. Though I guess… if you wanted Reo to take an interest in you, then–”

Enough. Chigiri can’t just watch Kunigami’s face contort into an even more pained version of itself, mistakenly convinced that he’d manipulate Reo while in such a helpless situation to get close to him out of sheer selfishness. He’d rather come clean for once than have Kunigami think that about him, and so he does.

“I never wanted Reo!”

The silence that follows is deafening. Chigiri watches Kunigami's boyish, stunning face cycle through several emotions too quickly to name them all: shock, confusion, anger, resentment, all of them fighting to overtake his kind eyes.

“You used him to play with me.”

Time to go all out, Chigiri thinks, before his body backs off from the choice his brain has taken so long to make.

“I wanted you to be jealous.” It’s never been so hard for Chigiri to keep his voice from shaking. “To drop the stupid gallantry and show me you cared.” He falters. He couldn't have imagined how profoundly foolish his plan would sound when said out loud and confronted with its intended target, how much it would hurt to reap exactly what he decided to sow. His pretty face distorts with distress; eyebrows pinched, lips trembling despite his efforts to keep them pressed into a firm line. An utter, disgraced mess. Of course he thought about talking to Kunigami, about being straightforward and showing vulnerability and risking rejection without any safety net for his fall, and he buried the idea as soon as it came to him; much easier to scheme, manipulate and gaslight everyone around him. The consequences for doing so, though, have shown to be less than ideal to face.

Kunigami’s indignation is fully present, hot and controlled but unmistakably there. “What did you think would happen? That I'd sweep in and declare my feelings while you were actively pursuing somebody else? That I wouldn’t respect your decision, try to gain your attention like you’re some prize to be won?”

No longer strong enough to withstand the downpour on his feet, Chigiri has to lean against a nearby locker, water dripping down his back and pooling at his feet, closes his eyes and tries to steady his laboured breathing. It’s all still too much and he ends up sitting on the closest bench. Then, he pierces Kunigami with drilling red eyes from under long eyelashes.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. To make you realize…” his tone starts out belligerent but eases into something more subdued as he goes. He’s very much in the wrong, after all. “I wanted you to want me. There, I said it, and I can’t undo any of it. I have been selfish and cruel, and I’ll understand if you want nothing more to do with me.”

Ironically, trying to protect himself from being hurt has resulted in more pain he could have ever pictured, and not just limited to him, either. He drops his head, not wanting to face Kunigami’s troubled gaze anymore and awaiting verdict like a French aristocrat counting the seconds for the guillotine to fall on his graceful neck.

But there’s only silence for a good while.

Welp, there it goes. At least he’ll be able to sleep with not just a thoroughly battered heart, but a clean conscience, too.

After a while, he decides he’s put himself under judgement for enough time today. He motions to stand up, but then a strong hand shoots out to catch his wrist and manages to hold on even when Chigiri tries to pull away, overpowering him easily. It takes Chigiri several heartbeats to understand what's going on, as his brain can't quite process the sequence of events fast enough: one moment he's resigned to having destroyed everything he holds dear, and the next Kunigami's dropping to his knees in front of him with a sense of little-controlled urgency.

Large, still wet hands come up to cup Chigiri's face with a tenderness that contradicts the burning in those amber eyes and the disillusionment they held barely a minute ago. Up close, Chigiri can see how Kunigami's pupils have blown wide, nearly swallowing all the gold in them; he can see the rapid flutter of his pulse at his throat, the way his chest heaves with each breath and the flush creeping up from his collar –a hot red color that matches Chigiri’s face and that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with broken restraint. He looks so unbearably handsome in short distances, so much it’s dangerous, like being face to face with a tiger in a cage.

“You wanted me jealous? Mission accomplished.” His words feel violently warm and honest as they brush against his lips.

Kunigami’s mouth has none of the quavering shyness of the kisses Chigiri has shared with Reo. From the very start, he meets him with bruising pressure and all but demands he opens up for him to claim. Chigiri gasps against him and Kunigami takes immediate advantage, licking into him with a groan that vibrates through both. His fingers slide from Chigiri's face to tangle in his wet hair, to go on and thread through the damp red strands, tightening just enough to make Chigiri's scalp tingle but not hurt. His other hand remains on his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone with maddening tenderness even as Kunigami devours his mouth like he can't get enough and god, Chigiri has wanted this so badly he can’t think straight now that he finally has it. It feels undeserved, after all he’s put Kunigami through, that he has it in him to be this tender.

"I'm sorry," Chigiri hears himself mutter, and means it completely. "I'm sorry for hurting you."

"I bet." Kunigami's hand drops to his throat, finding his racing pulse with his thumb and pressing gently before grazing at it with his teeth. "And you're going to make it up to me."

The redhead’s hands come up instinctively, one gripping Kunigami's shoulder for balance while the other fists in his damp hair, pulling him closer even though there's no more space left between them. There’s only the way Kunigami's mouth moves against his demandingly, and all of his contradictions fade into a single, unified truth: that he’s everything Chigiri’s ever wanted, capable of being caring and crude, vulnerable and stone-cold, and that once he lets down his barriers, Chigiri can’t deny how enamoured he is with every part of him.

He rests his forehead against Chigiri's, eyes closed and ragged breathing. “I’m still pissed, you know. You manipulated me, made me watch you touch someone else,” he grunts, possessive, tender, words still deliciously tinged with unexpended ache that Chigiri can’t help but be a little proud, in his mean girl heart, to be responsible for. “Put on a whole show, kissed him just so I’d see it. Pretty screwed up, princess.”

The impulse of deflecting, of hiding behind wit and defensiveness like he always does, is there still, trying to elbow his way into the forefront of Chigiri’s mind, but Kunigami –tall, warm, sensitive Kunigami– is on his knees in front of him, vulnerable despite all his strength, and Chigiri owes him honesty even if it terrifies him. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s capable of uttering a single half-truth anymore.

“It felt wrong every time because he wasn’t you.”

They separate briefly, faces flushed and naked chests heaving up and down against each other, and Kunigami takes the chance to pierce Chigiri's eyes with his. Utterly disarming, making him burn inside like a smelting furnace.

“It would have worked on me, seeing you flirt with someone else. I’d have gone berserk,” Chigiri manages to let out, trying for his usual sharpness and missing by a good mile; what he’s telling is too much of a confession to mask it as anything else.

A mixture of exasperation and fondness crosses Kunigami’s features. “Instead of just telling me what you feel.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Chigiri sneers, and yelps when Kunigami's teeth find his collarbone in retaliation, although he soothes the bite with his tongue immediately after.

“You’re an idiot.” But there's no real venom in the words, just a sigh of self-punishing affection.

“I know.”

“And a manipulative, shameless little brat.”

“I know.”

Chigiri's starting to smile despite himself, despite everything, as Kunigami leans in and the redhead starts to feel his breath ghost across his lips again.

“And I must be a sick bastard, because the fact that you did all that to get my attention turns me the fuck on.”

And Chigiri lets him cradle his slim figure and memorize every curve and dip of his body that his hands can reach, every contour and response to Kunigami’s maddening, fiery gentleness. Lets him kiss him deeply and thoroughly and set the pace instead of trying to be in control like he always does; he turns off his bothersome, overthinking brain and just focuses on feeling Kunigami’s heartbeat against his chest, its steady hammering, and wraps his arms around his neck to pull him even closer, impossibly so. Kunigami’s hot tongue tastes of forgiveness, which Chigiri never thought he’d earn, and the unhurried passion with which it explores him inside and out makes his eyes sting. This is what Chigiri’s been chasing without knowing how to name: someone to see through him completely and choosing to stay.

A splash of water somewhere in the adjacent room and a series of footsteps bring them back to the real world. They break apart, reluctantly, and stay pressed together for a while. Chigiri’s towel has slipped dangerously low and Kunigami’s eyes track its slow movement with unmistakable interest before he forces his amber gaze back up.

“We should get dressed before someone walks in and gets an eyeful."

Kunigami stands, pulling Chigiri up with him, and the redhead has to grab onto his shoulders for balance as his legs threaten to give out.

"Steady there," Kunigami murmurs, and there's a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice that makes Chigiri want to kick him.

"Shut up," he mutters. He finally releases his grip and reaches for his clothes with hands that are still slightly trembly. They dress in companionable silence, or at least as companionable as it can be when Chigiri's hyperaware of every movement Kunigami makes, the flex of his shoulders and abs as he pulls his shirt over his head, the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips before he adjusts them. He catches himself staring at the same time that Kunigami's watching him right back with an expression that's entirely too knowing. When they go out and head towards Team Red’s quarters, Chigiri searches for Reo and Nagi but they are nowhere to be seen, and he makes a mental note to find Reo later for a proper debrief –assuming his ex-friend-with-benefits-or-whatever’s own drama has resolved itself in a similar way to his.

When they reach their room, with their fingers loosely intertwined, it’s like those weeks of carefully maintained distance, the hurt, all of it has melted away, leaving nothing but a pleasant sense of accomplishment. Chigiri keeps stealing glances at Kunigami's profile and the slight upturn of his lips that suggests he's equally aware of their joined hands. They’re also wrung out and tired, after all that sustained adrenaline has waned out.

Chigiri runs a hand through his still-damp hair, grimacing at the tangles.

"Here." Kunigami appears beside him with a brush. "Let me."

"There’s no need."

"I know." The taller of the two’s already settling behind him on the bed, taking a section of red hair in hand. "But let me anyway."

And Chigiri does, because apparently he's learning how to accept care without interiorizing it as a display of weakness. The gentle tug of the bristles is soothing, methodical, and he finds his eyes drifting closed.

“We’re going to win tomorrow,” Kunigami whispers. Always the rational one.

“Together,” Chigiri affirms, and instinctively turns his head around for the kiss he knew was coming. It’s, of course, much more moderate and proper (God help him otherwise). As they progress through Blue Lock’s challenges, they’ll have plenty of time to spend with each other, and Chigiri doesn’t want to rush it.

He smiles into the kiss and to himself, thinking about how a better person than himself would be consumed with remorse, probably spend the night tossing and turning over his mistakes and all the trouble he’s caused.

But Chigiri's never claimed to be a goody-two-shoes, and how can he feel remorse when all his scheming has gotten him exactly where he wanted to be?

They settle into bed properly (Kunigami's bed, because apparently neither of them can bear the thought of sleeping apart, not after today). It's a tight fit since the standard Blue Lock mattress is definitely not designed for two people, perhaps even with the intention of discouraging such acquaintanceship, but that just means Chigiri has an excuse to curl up against Kunigami as close as possible, letting the bigger striker wrap around him from behind. As strong arms encircle his waist, solid and warm, and Chigiri tangles their fingers together against his chest, his last coherent thought is satisfaction –complacent, unabashed, entirely unrepentant. In the end, his plan worked and he can’t bring himself to regret a single manipulative, catastrophic moment of it.