Archive of Our Own

Germany’s World Cup camp is already buzzing with first-match nerves when you enter Ness’s suite.

The first thing you notice is that he has prepared.

The television is already on, the opening-match coverage glowing across the room, the stadium in Mexico City roaring through the speakers while flags flash over the screen.

On the coffee table, room-service plates are arranged with almost embarrassing precision.

Chips, sandwiches, fruit, chocolates, three sauces lined up like they are waiting for tactical instructions.

And Ness stands beside it all in Germany training pants and a soft white shirt, looking far too proud of himself.

You stop in the doorway.

“Alex.”

His smile is instant. “Hi.”

You stare at the table.

Then at him.

“Did you prepare a royal banquet for the first match?”

His ears go pink. “It is not a royal banquet.”

“You folded napkins.”

“They came like that.”

“You could have unfolded them.”

“Why would I unfold napkins?”

“Because this is football, not a peace treaty.”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

Then he looks at the table like, for one terrible second, he is actually considering whether he has overdone it.

You step inside before he can spiral, toeing off your shoes near the door. “So this is where Germany keeps its emotional support midfielder.”

“I am not—”

“You are. Look at you. You have little grapes.”

“They are not little grapes. They are just grapes.”

“You put them in a bowl.”

“Where else should I put them?”

“In your hand like a normal person.”

His expression turns genuinely pained. “That is not how you serve snacks.”

God, you love him.

Unfortunately.

Ness is too easy to tease.

Too easy to love in all the strange little ways you pretend are accidents.

You walk past him and drop onto the couch.

The opening-match coverage glows across the suite, the stadium in Mexico City loud enough now that the room feels less like a hotel room and more like the edge of something huge.

Flags ripple over the screen.

Fans sing.

The commentators talk too quickly.

Every few seconds, the camera cuts to players warming up beneath the lights.

Ness remains standing.

You look up at him. “What?”

“I was going to bring the drinks.”

“You can do that sitting down.”

“I cannot bring drinks sitting down.”

“Then crawl.”

He stares at you.

You smile sweetly.

His expression does that thing again, the little offended crease between his brows that makes him look both wounded and hopelessly fond.

“You are mean.”

“You keep saying that like it’s news.”

“It hurts every time.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“No,” he admits, too softly. “It doesn’t.”

There it is again.

That terrible, gentle honesty he says like he has no defense against you at all.

You look away before it can settle too deeply in your chest.

“Come,” you say, patting the cushion beside you. 

For one second, he looks almost surprised.

Like after all the little insults and crimes against his snack table, he still somehow does not expect to be wanted openly.

Idiot.

You roll your eyes and reach for his wrist. “Don’t stand there looking like a sad decorative candle.”

A laugh slips out of him, light and helpless, and he lets you pull him down onto the couch beside you.

He sits close at first, but not close enough.

Absolutely unacceptable.

You make an irritated sound and grab the front of his shirt to tug him closer.

“C’mere.”

He lets himself fold into you, careful at first, like he is still asking permission even after you are the one pulling him in. His shoulder presses against your side. His knee bumps yours. His warmth settles beside you, familiar and soft, and something inside your chest loosens in a way you refuse to name.

You shift, guiding him down until his head rests partly against your shoulder, partly near your chest, close enough that you can reach his hair.

His breath catches.

You pretend not to notice as you look down at him.

His eyes are on the television now, but his face is softer than before. Pink still lingers at the tips of his ears. His lashes lower whenever your fingers brush too close to his temple. He looks happy in the most dangerous way.

Careless with it.

You slide your fingers into his hair and you feel it. The slight drop of his shoulders. The tiny exhale. The way his body gives up its carefulness and leans, just a little heavier, into you.

Your fingers move through the soft brown strands, slow and gentle, combing them back from his forehead.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say.

His eyes flutter. “I know.”

To Ness, things matter. Ritual matters. Sitting with you matters.

Sharing the first match matters so much that he turns a hotel suite into a tiny, ridiculous celebration.

You scratch lightly at his scalp.

His eyes close for one dangerous second.

“Oh?” you say.

They open immediately. “What?”

“You like that?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

On the upper floor, in a larger suite that Germany has apparently decided belongs to Michael Kaiser’s ego as much as to Michael Kaiser himself, the World Cup’s opening match is also playing on television.

Technically.

You are not watching it.

The broadcast glows across the room, painting the walls in flashes of green pitch, bright flags, stadium lights, and screaming fans, but the volume is low enough that the commentators sound like distant ghosts.

Which is probably for the best, because Kaiser is much louder against your mouth.

He is sprawled beneath you, naked under the tangled white sheets, one arm hooked lazily around your waist as if he has any intention of letting you move. His hair is a ruined mess against the pillow, gold strands sticking to his forehead, his skin still warm under your palms. He looks shamelessly pleased with himself.

Worse.

He looks beautiful.

That is always the problem with him.

He looks like someone designed him specifically to make arrogance seem justified.

You are lying half on top of him, one knee between his thighs, your hand braced against his chest while his fingers drag slow, possessive lines up your spine. His mouth follows yours when you try to pull away, biting lightly at your lower lip like he is personally offended by the idea of distance.

“Michael,” you murmur against him.

“Hm?”

His answer is not really an answer. It is a vibration in his throat, distracted and lazy, before he kisses you again.

You let him.

Obviously you let him.

For one more second.

Maybe three.

His mouth is hot and familiar, smug in the way only his can be. You feel him smile when you nip at him in return, and his hand tightens at your waist.

On the television, the stadium noise swells.

You turn your head, breathless. “Michael.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “What?”

“It’s about to start.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” He pulls you closer, his nose brushing your cheek. “Means we still have time.”

You laugh once, disbelieving. “We do not still have time.”

“We have five minutes.”

“You always think we have five minutes.”

“Because I know what I can do in five minutes.”

Your face warms despite yourself. “You are disgusting.”

His smile is slow. “You love that about me.”

“I love football too, unfortunately, and the first match is about to start.”

Kaiser’s eyes flick toward the television for half a second.

Only half.

Then back to you.

The disrespect is almost impressive.

“The first match is not even important,” he says.

“It is still the first match.”

“So?”

“So it is sacred.”

He blinks at you.

Then his mouth curves, wicked and amused. “Did Ness teach you that?”

You smack his chest.

He laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again.

“You are becoming sentimental about football.” His eyes gleam. “My influence is devastating.”

“Your influence is not the reason I want to watch the opening match.”

“No?”

“No.”

You look at the television, where the camera is cutting across the stadium, the crowd already shaking with color and noise.

You point at the screen. “It’s the drama.”

He lets his head fall back against the pillow and closes his eyes like you have personally wounded him.

“Mute it until the anthems are over.”

You stare at him.

“Michael.”

“No.”

At France’s World Cup camp near Boston, the lobby has slowly stopped pretending to be a place where anyone is working.

Technically, there are laptops open.

Technically, staff members are gathered around low tables with tablets, notebooks, match reports, coffee cups, and enough cables to make the whole room look serious.

But the opening-match coverage is playing on the large screen across the lobby, and nobody’s eyes are where they should be.

Not really.

Every few seconds, someone glances up.

A player pretending to check his phone looks at the television instead.

One of the coaches stops mid-sentence because the camera cuts to the stadium in Mexico City, bright with flags and noise.

Even the staff near the reception desk have started standing a little too still, watching the broadcast like they are not doing exactly that.

The World Cup is starting.

You sit on one end of a long couch with your tablet balanced against your knee, stylus in hand, half-reading the notes from France’s last training session and half-watching the screen from beneath your lashes.

A few seats away, Hugo is doing almost the same thing.

Almost.

He has a notebook open on his lap, head slightly bowed like he is actually focused. But he has not turned the page in seven minutes.

You know because you have been checking.

His brow is drawn in faint concentration, but his eyes keep flicking toward the television every time the crowd noise swells. His knee bounces once, stops, then starts again.

You smile to yourself.

For someone trying very hard to look professional, he is doing a terrible job.

Not that you are any better.

Your own tablet has been on the same heat map for far too long, and instead of analyzing it, you have mostly been pretending not to notice the way Hugo keeps looking at you whenever he thinks you are too busy to catch him.

You look back at your tablet before your face can do something stupid.

The television roars again.

The players on screen are moving through the tunnel now.

The lobby shifts.

Subtly, at first.

Then all at once.

Someone turns the volume up.

A physio leans against the wall with his arms crossed. One of the staff members abandons his laptop entirely. The room, which had spent the past hour pretending to be disciplined, gives up.

The first match wins.

It always does.

Then, from behind you both, a voice says, “Boring.”

Before you can react, a hand reaches over your shoulder and plucks the tablet straight out of your hands.

“Hey—”

At the same time, another hand snatches Hugo’s notebook from his lap.

Hugo jolts. “Julian!”

Julian Loki steps neatly between the back of the couch and the low table like he owns the entire lobby, your tablet in one hand, Hugo’s notebook in the other, looking down at both of you with the expression of someone deeply disappointed.

He glances at your tablet.

Then at Hugo’s notebook.

“Boring,” he repeats.

You stare up at him. “That is work,” you say.

Or at least, you try to.

It comes out wrong.

Too fast. Too guilty. Too much like someone who has absolutely not been analyzing anything except the angle of Hugo’s face whenever the television light catches his cheek.

Loki looks at you.

Then at the tablet.

Then back at you.

“Work,” he repeats.

You lift your chin. “Yes.”

He turns the tablet around so you can see the screen.

The heat map is still open.

In the corner, written in your own handwriting, is one note.

hmm

Your entire face burns.

Because Hugo is close enough to read the single, useless note sitting in the corner of your screen, the one you apparently wrote while pretending to be a serious analyst and not a person whose brain had briefly emptied itself the second Hugo looked thoughtful under television light.

He does not say anything.

That might be worse.

His eyes flick from the tablet to you, quick and quiet, and then he looks away with the sort of mercy that makes you want to disappear into the couch cushions and never return.

Loki, however, has no mercy.

“Yeah,” he says.

Like it explains everything.

You reach for the tablet. “Give it back.”

“No.” He tucks it under one arm and walks around the couch instead, completely unbothered by the glare you send after him. “It’s starting.”

He drops onto the couch next to Hugo without asking, forcing him to shift closer to you.

His knee ends up closer to yours than before.

Close enough for you to become painfully aware of it.

You turn your head toward the television immediately.

Safe.

The television is safe.

The opening match coverage fills the lobby, the camera sweeping across the stadium in Mexico City, flags bright under the lights, the crowd already loud enough to make everyone in the room sit a little straighter.

More people are drifting in now, drawn by the noise. Players, staff, coaches, substitutes, everyone who had pretended for the last twenty minutes that they were busy.

Loki leans back, your tablet still in his possession, Hugo’s notebook now abandoned on his lap like stolen evidence.

“Finally,” he says again, eyes on the screen this time. “They’re lining up.”

Hugo finally looks up properly.

His eyes sharpen on the movement on screen, on the players, the tunnel, the shape of the line forming before the anthem.

“They’re starting with that midfield?” he murmurs.

Loki tilts his head. “Looks like it.”

“Interesting.”

You glance at Hugo despite yourself.

He is not looking at you now.

Good.

That is good.

It gives you one second to breathe.

Then he says, still watching the screen, “The left side might be exposed if they push too high.”

You look at the television.

Then at the shape of the players.

Then down at the ghost of your own failed heat map currently trapped in Loki’s hand.

You clear your throat. “Only if the fullback keeps stepping inside.”

Hugo turns his head slightly.

“You think so?”

The question is simple.

And still, because you are apparently doomed, it makes your stomach flip.

You force yourself to nod. “There’s space behind him if the winger times it right.”

Hugo looks back at the screen, thoughtful. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Maybe.

He says it like he is actually considering your point.

Like your opinion matters.

Which is stupid, because of course it matters.

“Can I squeeze in?”

You glance up.

One of the staff members stands there with a drink in hand, already looking apologetic.

Around the lobby, seats are disappearing fast.

People are settling wherever they can, on armrests, on the floor, against the wall, leaning over the backs of couches with open packets of snacks and half-finished coffee cups.

“Yeah, of course,” you say, shifting without thinking.

There is not much room.

So you move closer to Hugo.

A careful inch.

Then another, because the staff member sits down beside you and the couch dips under the added weight.

The space between you becomes so small that you can feel the warmth of him beside you.

You keep your eyes on the screen.

The players are walking out now, and the lobby reacts as one body.

A few players move closer, crouching near the coffee table. Someone’s knee knocks lightly against the edge of the couch.

The room smells like coffee, fabric, cologne, and the faint salt of snacks being passed around.

It is crowded now.

Warm.

Alive.

You shift again when someone steps behind the couch.

This time, your shoulder brushes Hugo’s.

A passing touch.

Still, both of you go still for half a second.

Then you both pretend not to.

Very professional.

Very doomed.

You look at the screen.

Loki keeps talking about defensive structure like nothing happened, because to him, nothing did.

“You agree?” he asks, glancing at Hugo.

“With what?” Hugo says, a little too late.

Loki pauses.

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was.”

“No, you weren’t.”

In Chattanooga, Bunny is already on the couch when you come out, the opening-match broadcast glowing across the room and the stadium noise spilling through the suite.

“Hurry up,” he calls, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s starting.”

“I’m coming,” you call back.

By the time you reach the couch, he is already making room for you without thinking, shifting to the side, lifting his arm, letting you slip in beside him like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Like it still is.

You sit close enough that your thigh would touch his if you were real.

The thought hurts.

It always hurts.

But Bunny only smiles when you settle next to him, his eyes bright with that easy warmth that still undoes you, and sets the drink he already got for you even though neither of you needs to say how impossible that is.

“There,” he says softly. “Better.”

On the screen, the players are lining up. The crowd is roaring. The first match is moments away, and the whole room feels filled with that restless, electric excitement that comes with the beginning of something huge.

You look at him.

He looks at the television.

And then, just for a second, his expression changes.

Softens.

He leans back into the couch and glances at you with a smile that does not quite hide the sadness behind it.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he says.

He says it so simply.

You try to smile back. “Of course I’m here.”

His gaze lingers on you for half a second too long, like he is trying to memorize something he already knows he cannot keep.

Then he looks back at the screen.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Just…”

He exhales, slow, careful.

“I like doing this with you.”

The stadium erupts through the television speakers. Flags wave. The camera cuts over painted faces and singing crowds.

The world is beginning, loud and bright and alive, and beside you Bunny keeps his eyes fixed on it like that is easier than looking too directly at what you are.

Or what you are not.

You turn toward him a little. “You can just say you’d miss me watching football badly without me.”

A laugh slips out of him, quiet and real.

“I would,” he admits. “You talk through half of it.”

“I make it better.”

“You make it louder.”

“That too.”

He smiles again, and this time it stays.

For a moment, it almost feels normal. 

Like he is just sitting beside his girlfriend before kickoff, waiting for the first whistle, happy and warm and whole.

But then his hand moves on the couch cushion between you, stopping just short of where yours rests.

Not touching.

Never being able to.

And the silence around that almost-contact says more than either of you does.

Bunny swallows once.

“Even if you’re not really—” He cuts himself off. Then, still looking at the screen, he says very quietly, “I’m still glad I get this.”

You look away before your face gives you up.

On the television, the national anthem begins.

In the room, Bunny sits close to your ghost like he can make the moment last by refusing to look at it too hard.

And when the camera sweeps across the pitch and the noise rises into something huge enough to shake the air, he smiles faintly and says, almost to himself—

“Come on, then. First match.”

Nagi’s phone starts screaming from somewhere under the pillows in Japan’s camp.

Neither of you moves.

For three full seconds, the suite is nothing but darkness, soft sheets, the muffled glow of the television left on mute, and the violent sound of his alarm trying to drag two of the laziest people alive back into consciousness.

Then you groan.

“Fuck.”

Beside you, Nagi makes a sound that is not a word. It is barely human. Just a low, miserable noise from the back of his throat as he turns his face deeper into the pillow.

The alarm keeps going.

You blindly reach toward it.

Your hand hits his shoulder instead.

He does not react.

“Sei.”

“Mmm.”

“Your phone.”

“Too far.”

“It’s next to your head.”

“That’s far.”

You open one eye.

Barely.

The room is dark except for the television, where the pre-match coverage flickers blue and green across the walls.

Somewhere on the screen, the stadium in Mexico City is bright and alive, the crowd already roaring, flags waving, the whole world awake and ready for the first match.

Unfortunately, the two of you are still half-dead under the blankets.

The alarm screams again.

Nagi sighs like life has personally betrayed him and finally drags one arm out from under the duvet.

His hand pats around the pillow with no urgency whatsoever, misses the phone twice, hits the headboard once, then eventually closes around it.

He lifts it to his face.

Squints.

His hair is an absolute disaster, white strands sticking in every direction, his eyes half-lidded and sleepy and annoyed.

“…It’s starting?” he mumbles.

You shift closer to him, your face still half-buried in the pillow, one eye open just enough to look at the phone screen.

“Mm?”

“Opening match.”

“Oh.”

Neither of you moves.

The alarm keeps ringing from his hand.

You blink slowly. “Turn it off.”

Nagi stares at the phone like it has asked him to solve a political crisis. “Right.”

He taps the screen.

Misses.

Taps again.

Finally, blessedly, the alarm dies.

Silence falls.

You both lie there.

The television glows.

The crowd roars soundlessly because someone, probably you, probably him, neither of you remembers, muted it before falling asleep.

Nagi lowers the phone onto his chest and lets his head sink back into the pillow.

You yawn so hard your eyes water. “We set an alarm for football.”

“Mm.”

He turns his head toward you, slow and sleepy. His eyes are still barely open, but there is a tiny spark there now, faint and lazy and unmistakable.

Excitement.

Nagi’s version of excitement, at least.

The fact that he has not immediately gone back to sleep.

That alone is basically fireworks.

You push yourself closer until your shoulder presses against his side, your head leaning near his arm so you can see the phone too. “Is it actually starting-starting?”

He unlocks the screen with painful slowness. “Probably.”

“Check.”

“I am checking.”

You snort, then immediately regret it because laughing requires energy.

Nagi scrolls with his thumb, still lying flat on his back, phone held above both your faces. The light washes over his sleepy expression. His lashes cast soft shadows over his cheeks. He looks ridiculous and pretty and half-conscious.

You hate that this works on you.

“Sei,” you mumble.

“Hm?”

“The TV is right there.”

“Phone is here.”

You stare at him with one eye half-open.

The television is literally across the room. But the remote is somewhere near the edge of the bed, which apparently means it may as well be buried in another country.

You blink slowly. “You are the laziest man alive.”

Nagi’s thumb moves across the screen. “You’re watching too.”

You do not answer because he is, unfortunately, correct.

The stream loads on his phone, buffering for one painful second before the stadium appears in miniature between you.

Tiny players.

Tiny roaring crowd.

The whole opening match reduced to the size of Nagi’s hand because neither of you has the strength to sit up like functional adults.

The sound comes through low and tinny from his phone speaker.

It is pathetic.

It is perfect.

Downstairs, in a larger suite that has somehow become less of a room and more of a battlefield, Sae Itoshi is trying to watch the opening-match coverage with the calm dignity of a man who clearly forgot he has a child.

Ren is on the floor in front of the television.

He has two pillows, one blanket, three toy cars, a stuffed dinosaur, and a plastic bowl of snacks he has already spilled twice. His little feet kick lightly against the carpet as the camera cuts across the stadium in Mexico City, flags flashing over the screen, the crowd roaring with the kind of noise that makes even the walls feel excited.

You stand near the coffee table, trying to decide whether the pile of napkins is enough for one child.

Probably not.

Sae sits on the couch with one arm stretched along the backrest, looking perfectly composed in a dark shirt and loose pants, his hair still damp from the shower. He has the expression of someone watching tactical information, not a worldwide football celebration.

Which is exactly why you keep looking at him.

“You’re excited,” you say.

“No.”

Ren turns around immediately. “Papa is excited.”

Sae’s eyes flick down to him. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Ren insists, pointing one tiny finger at him. “Your face is doing it.”

You press your lips together.

Sae looks at you.

You look away before you laugh.

“My face is doing nothing,” Sae says flatly.

Ren squints at him with the seriousness of a very small detective. “It’s doing happy.”

You laugh.

Sae exhales through his nose, which is the closest he gets to openly surrendering.

“Ren,” he says.

“What?”

“Watch the match.”

“It didn’t start.”

“Then watch it not start.”

Ren considers this.

Then nods like that is reasonable and turns back to the television.

You walk around the coffee table, picking up one of the toy cars before Sae steps on it and ends an international career before kickoff.

“You know,” you say, “for a man who claims he is not excited, you changed the channel twenty minutes early.”

“I don’t like missing things.”

“The match hasn’t started.”

“The coverage has.”

“Oh, of course. The sacred coverage.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t start.”

You smile sweetly. “I would never.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, unimpressed and too pretty under the warm hotel lights. Then his gaze drops to your mouth, quick and quiet, before returning to the screen.

You know that look.

It still gets you.

Unfortunately.

Then—

Knocking on the door.

Ren shoots to his feet like someone has announced the arrival of a national treasure.

“Ren,” Sae says, but it is already too late.

Ren is sprinting.

You hurry after him before he can fling the suite door open to the entire hallway, catching the back of his shirt just in time.

“Tiny man, wait.”

“But—”

You glance back at your husband. “Did you order something?”

“No.”

Another knock.

Ren bounces once, still held by the back of his shirt. “Mama.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” You guide him backward with one hand.

You reach the door and glance through the peephole.

And pause.

Because standing in the hallway, holding two pizza boxes in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, is Rin.

He looks exactly as he always does.

Unamused.

And carrying enough pizza to ruin Sae’s quiet day.

You open the door.

Rin’s eyes flick to you first.

Then past you.

Then down.

Ren, still half-hidden behind your leg, stares up at him.

For one very rare second, Rin’s face changes.

Well, this is Rin. A meteor could hit the hotel and he would probably blink once and call it annoying.

But his eyes soften.

“Hey,” Rin says.

Ren’s eyes go huge.

Then he shrieks.

“UNCLE RIN!”

He launches himself forward before you can stop him, wrapping both arms around Rin’s leg with the kind of force only a small child can produce without warning.

Rin looks down at him.

His expression remains mostly blank, but you can see the tiny panic behind his eyes, the familiar Itoshi inability to process affection when it is attached to a child and moving at full speed.

“You’re loud,” Rin says.

Ren beams up at him. “You came!”

Rin lifts the pizza boxes slightly. “And I brought pizza.”

Ren whips around toward the suite. “PAPA! UNCLE RIN BROUGHT PIZZA!”

Inside, Sae goes very still.

You do not even need to look at him to know.

Rin’s gaze slides past you toward his brother, and whatever softness had been there for Ren sharpens immediately into something colder.

Sae rises from the couch like a man preparing for war in expensive loungewear.

“I didn’t invite you,” he says.

Rin steps into the suite anyway. “I know.”

You close the door behind him, already biting your lip.

Sae’s eyes drop to the pizza boxes. “Then why are you here?”

“Ren likes pizza.”

Ren, still attached to Rin’s leg, nods violently. “I do.”

You make a small sound.

Sae looks at you.

You look away, deeply innocent.

Rin walks toward the coffee table with Ren clinging to his leg like an extremely happy ankle weight, adjusting his steps around him, which is somehow funnier than anything he could have said.

Ren looks up at him, delighted. “Did you bring cheese pizza?”

“Yes.”

“And juice?”

Rin lifts the plastic bag.

Ren gasps like Rin has just presented him with the World Cup trophy.

“You are the best.”

Sae’s head turns slowly.

Rin sets the pizza boxes on the coffee table and says, deadpan, “He said it.”

Sae’s voice lowers. “He is five.”

“He has standards,” Rin says.

“He likes anything with cheese.”

“That’s a standard.”

Sae’s eyes narrow.

There it is again.

That thin, familiar tension that always slips into the room when the two of them are too close for too long.

Not hatred, not really. Something older. Something with too much history under it to be handled cleanly.

You know better than to let it breathe too long.

So you step between them with a bright little smile and clap your hands once.

“Okay,” you say. “Pizza before bloodshed.”

Ren looks up at you, horrified. “Blood?”

“No blood,” you correct immediately. “Only pizza.”

Rin’s mouth twitches.

Sae gives you a look.

You ignore both of them, because this is your house now, even if technically it is a World Cup suite and there are probably three staff members outside pretending they cannot hear the Itoshi family preparing for civil war over cheese.

You reach for the plastic bag in Rin’s hand. “Thank you, Rin-rin.”

Sae looks at Rin with the faintest, cruelest hint of satisfaction. “Rin-rin.”

Rin’s eyes cut to him. “Shut up.”

“Bad word!” Ren announces instantly.

Rin stops.

Sae looks far too pleased.

You point at both brothers. “No. Absolutely not. We are not teaching Ren bad words before the opening match.”

Sae leans back slightly, watching you with that quiet, unreadable expression you know too well. The one that means he is amused, but refuses to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Rin looks away first, jaw tense, but he does not leave.

That is something.

With Rin, staying is always something.

You soften your voice a little. “Come on, Ren. Let Uncle Rin sit down.”

Ren looks down, as if only now remembering he is still wrapped around Rin like a tiny human shackle.

“Oh.”

He lets go, then immediately grabs Rin’s hand instead.

Rin goes still again.

He does not know what to do with it.

That is the thing about the Itoshi brothers.

Impossible in opposite directions.

And yet there they are.

Your husband pretending he is not watching.

His brother pretending he is not pleased.

Your son holding Rin’s hand like love has never been complicated a day in his life.

You glance at Sae.

He meets your eyes.

For a second, the room quiets between you.

You do not have to say it out loud.

Be gentle.

He understands.

His gaze flicks to Ren’s hand around Rin’s fingers, then back to the television.

His voice, when he speaks, is flat but not sharp.

“Sit down before the match starts.”

Rin looks at him.

For a moment, you think he might say something difficult. Something that will make you have to start handing out napkins like peace treaties again.

Instead, Rin only says, “Fine.”

Ren cheers.

Like he has personally negotiated international peace.

You smile and guide them toward the couch. “Ren, you sit in the middle.”

“Between Papa and Uncle Rin?”

“Yes.”

His face goes bright. “Like a sandwich.”

Sae says, “Do not call yourself a sandwich.”

Ren climbs onto the couch. “I am sandwich.”

Rin, without missing a beat, says, “Better than being a pizza.”

Sae’s eyes slide toward him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Rin looks at Ren’s delighted face.

Then back at Sae.

“Too late.”