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Nerves, cheering, and anxiety. A jumble of emotions that kept Isagi trembling, on the verge of collapsing and wanting to throw up. It was nothing a football player (and especially one so young) didn't have to face, but representing your nation in a match that unites the entire world on a television or in a stadium is an experience both ecstatic and terrifying.
They were going against France. France! The favorite! The team that, supposedly, has the best youth players in current history. His heart was pumping at a thousand miles per hour, and Isagi was afraid. But he would try and he would fight; he was completely focused. Nothing and no one would push him over the edge, nor would they manage to sink his hunger for a goal.
Well, that's what he thought until he felt a massive presence behind him and everything crumbled.
Who was this guy—?
And to top it all off, his earbuds fell out from the massive block that this fucking concrete wall ended up executing. The blow and the surprise were a terrible combination.
He already recognized him. Hugo. Vivien Hugo. An impenetrable wall with the darkest, most focused gaze he had ever seen.
This guy was dangerous—
Yoichi started to feel the nerves escalating, the feeling of being between a rock and a hard place. What was he doing? What could he do? He couldn't lose. He had to come up with a plan. Think, think, think.
— Pourquoi ne deviens-tu pas numéro deux, Yoichi Isagi?
The sound floated like a chant that his ears received in a filtered way; suddenly, he couldn't hear the crowd from either country. He could only hear the marked foreign accent and his name coming from the lips of the redhead, who, unfairly, continued to mark him heavily.
Against all odds, it was the voice saying incomprehensible things to him that managed to break his concentration. It destabilized the way it slid like silk through his ears, entering and caressing his mind and his inside. It corrupted him. It was sharp, accented, and a voice way too well-placed. It suited him perfectly, if he thought about it quickly.
Neither too deep nor too high. It just was. And it had caused him an embarrassing destabilization.
The stomping they were receiving this match was a disgrace. He clicked his tongue, overwhelmed and flushed. This was no time to be thinking about voices or attractive people, much less if it was the opponent. He scolded himself, looking down at the ground and clenching his fists. Anyone would think the reason for his stress was the serious marking the French star was putting on him.
Or even being losing. That should be the most obvious thing, and to some extent, it was.
But the reason why he was so stressed was because that voice altered his heart and bewildered his brain. Shocking, but very true.
*Fuck, enough already,* he scolded himself, and the game continued. He sought to avoid him at all costs for the sake of his game, the team, and everything good he had to do. If he thought about shivers from voices with sensual accents in the middle of a decisive match, he would never forgive himself.
— Tu es vraiment douée. Cependant, il n'est pas judicieux que tu profites pleinement de ta position actuelle.
But although he tried to escape him, he couldn't. At every moment he was pursued by this boy, who could only talk and talk and talk.
— Don't you ever shut up?!
He managed to yell at him, angry and with his hormones in a twist. He felt pathetic; he didn't know if his legs were trembling from pure exhaustion or from actually having a homosexual panic. He didn't know whether to feel:
1. Proud that they sent one of their best players to tame him (that meant Yoichi worried them).
2. Stressed by the obvious crushing result that was striking them. For even with goals, he had failed his own attempts and the others weren't enough to be in the lead.
3. Extremely horny because of an attractive foreign idiot whose voice was torturing him.
What amused him the most was that, in reality, Rin confessed to him that he didn't want Yoichi to pay attention to Vivien. Because apparently, he was whispering things to him about the philosophy of being a runner-up. Yoichi mocked; of course the gorgeous prodigy had to be fucking arrogant.
— Don't pay attention to that idiot, Isagi.
He scolded him, and the shorter boy huffed. His cheeks flushed under the pressure in his stomach that indicated the discomfort of his nervousness and his growing arousal. He grumbled.
— I don't even understand him and he keeps talking nonstop! —The confession came out with a tone of voice so weary that Rin could only purse his lips and leave him alone.
Scoreboard at a disadvantage and those damn black eyes staring at him with every move. He was nervous, too much; if he had to speak, he would be stammering.
Every time they crossed paths, this guy spoke. Every time he spoke, Isagi melted and lost himself.
Damn it!
— Tu as un si joli visage… J'avoue, je me sens mal de t’avoir battue.
Yoichi, blushing and tired, decided he had had enough. He already felt humiliated enough by his thoughts of: *'What would those arms be like squeezing me in bed?'* which had stemmed from his attractive physical appearance and his voice. He didn't even understand him, but the way he spoke had him dead. And he didn't like the way those sharp, calculating eyes observed him.
Like they were hungry. Eager to establish a small but very noticeable dominance.
— Just shut your mouth already. I don't even understand you! You've been talking to someone who hasn't translated a single word, you arrogant bastard. Because of you, I lost my translators at the start of this match.
He confronted him face-to-face, sick of not being able to find an opening to score.
Hugo could translate that; the blue-eyed boy perfectly saw the translators in his ears. And contrary to the reaction he expected, this idiot smiled.
What?
Why was he smiling?
Battling for the ball, this guy managed to get close. He intimidated him, imprisoned him, literally covered him with his body, and Yoichi felt ridiculously tiny.
— J'aurais dû me douter que tu ne me comprends pas quand je parlerais. J'aurais voulu te dire tant de belles choses, beau garçon aux yeux bleus.
Yoichi felt a whimper rise in his throat at the smile, the feeling of a strange invasion of his personal space, and the slightly flirtatious gaze. His eyes locked tightly with those obsidian ones.
He blinked repeatedly. He didn't understand anything, but his ears were red. It should be illegal to sound that good, fuck, fuck, fuck. He had had enough. His blush wasn't even the product of exhaustion; it was the product of his embarrassment and the way that instead of being intimidated, he was being seduced!
He was an embarrassment to his team.
Having lost and missed a goal, Isagi felt a deep depression. He wanted to break something, preferably his forehead against the wall. He was so sad that, honestly, the butterflies he had felt throughout the entire match seemed to die for a few brief moments. While wiping away the sweat and the humiliation.
— Ne sois pas vaincue, jolie joue. Tu as bien joué.
The blush returned, while out of the corner of his eye and a bit embarrassed, he looked back at him. At him. Hugo.
— I already told you I don't have earbuds that translate. You already won. Stop bothering me.
It was clear he was bitter. How could he not feel bitter after such a crushing defeat? And besides, this sexy bastard was the culprit behind his distraction... more or less.
He saw him smile again. Damn it—
— On se reverra bientôt, d'égoïste. Une autre fois, je te dirai les choses sans autant de honte.
It threw him off and made him angry. He wasn't in the mood for these things. He was going to yell at him, but the other got ahead of him.
— J'aime tes yeux. Et ton sourire. Et le fait que tu sois si petite. À plus tard.
And he took off. Leaving Yoichi angry and embarrassed at the same time, his ears venting hot air from how much he was boiling. *Petite* means small, right? It was the only thing he had understood during the entire match. That guy had the nerve to call him small? He wants him to be a runner-up, and now he calls him small?
He hurried off to the locker room, took off his jersey, and looked like a thousand demons possessed him. Out of the anger of losing? Could be.
But also because he was fantasizing. He fantasized about brutal grips, brute force, and not-so-innocent positions. A voice with a velvety accent whispering things from time to time to provoke him. Hands that lulled him with an exciting ease and black eyes that saw him with so much fixation it turned him to jelly.
Yoichi brought the towel to his face, agonizing. He controlled everything in his power to avoid getting wet and having an erection. Damn it, damn it. How big would his member be? How much could he handle? Would he tell him he's a good boy in French? Could he sink between his thighs—those huge, muscular thighs he got to see kick the ball with surgical precision—while voluntarily choking on that piece of meat?—
He slapped his own face.
It's a sin to think like that about someone you just met, damn it. The football and sexual frustration were going to end up killing him.
In agony and after a row with Jinpachi, Yoichi sat there deciding, dramatically, whether to cry, masturbate, eat, shower, and sleep. Maybe he would do them all in another order, but he definitely had to get rid of the stress.
— You know? That guy, the redhead, didn't stop flirting with you the whole match.
Yoichi turned to look at the person speaking to him in a sing-song voice: Meguru.
What.
— What?
Meguru smiled.
— Yeah, he was saying a lot of things from his strange philosophy. Things about being New Gen; to be there, everyone must be arrogant. But he was calling you by pure pet names the angrier you got.
Pure silence.
— I think he liked you! At one point, I'd say he even enjoyed cornering you and making you nervous. Well, I'm hungry, shall we go?
A stunned Yoichi thought this must be a fucking joke. He sketched a twisted, mechanical, and strange smile as best as he could and followed Bachira without saying a word, feeling his eyebrow wobble in a tic from that unerasable moment.
Perhaps his order of things would look organized with the first step being masturbating while imagining that the genius French midfielder did dirty talk in his ear.