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There's something monstrous boiling under Rin’s skin.
It's fine.
Well, will be fine.
Rin has long since accepted this feeling when it comes–and it always does; the creeping sensation up his spine and coiling around his skin. Anger likes making a home in Rin’s body, carving out a hollow spot it can fill until it overflows. It's the kind of routine Rin has come to know well, like one knows every other part of themself; all instinct, and so the heated sensation is a familiar one. One that’s walked step-by-step with him up until this point.
Usually, in the past, when he felt that chasm start to fill, the answer was obvious; a call-and-response.
Something involving split knuckles and words he can't take back. Something good. Something worse.
Not now. Not anymore. Even if he wanted to.
Sometimes (most times), Rin misses it–the catharsis.
He gets something close to it, most days. A particularly good crash on the field. Practicing and watching his teammates get obliterated. Crushing Isagi at those stupid games he likes, like Mario Kart or Connect Four–that one especially because Rin has learned he is frighteningly good at Battleship and Isagi clearly fucking hates it, which is always nice. There are many small ways.
But Rin misses the big ones. The ones he knows weren't (aren’t) healthy. He’s not stupid. But it doesn't have to be good to feel good, and Rin likes feeling good, and sometimes feeling good for him is feeling bad.
It’s never made sense. Not that it has to, to feel real.
And so Rin always finds himself here again.
Rolling out the same yoga mat onto his living room floor. Toeing off his indoor slippers with the fluffy owl on the front. Stripping off his sweater and tossing it onto the couch, feeling the flex of his compression shirt on lithe, now-exposed muscles.
He hadn't bothered to shower after today’s game. Sweat still sticks to his neck; which is normally deeply irritating but now he can't find it in himself to care. He knew nothing would help him cool down the same, and the thought of his teammates hearing him slam his shampoo bottle into the shower wall made him wince. He still has some of his pride left.
That's what this is for.
Allegedly.
It still doesn't feel any less humiliating. Rin is sure he’s lost count of how often he’s defaulted to this routine now, the same thud of foam on hardwood, the ache in his muscles when he starts. Still, it’s not totally ineffective, and so he settles into it.
Well, as much as Rin can settle.
After all, he’s waiting.
He’s not supposed to. That kind of defeats the point of the whole thing. But he does all the same, somewhere in the back of his mind.
Itoshi Rin has never been all that good as reigning in his impulses. So, even if he’s supposed to be clearing all his thoughts and feeling his body one limb at a time, he’s still thinking about it. Just a little.
Even as his mind runs though it, even as he starts his stretches, Rin does not give these thoughts a name. Rin is supposed to be patient with his wants–not because his shitty coaches always tell him so. Not even because shitty Isagi tells him so. But because patience is always rewarded, and rewards are winning and Rin likes to win.
Luckily, there’s no need to wait long. He’s halfway through the beginning of his breathing exercises when he hears it. It always starts with the same thing: the door. The door never opens slowly.
There’s a padding that follows, a soft tread Rin knows well.
Then the unfurling of what is most certainly another foam mat to his left. Rin imagines it in his mind: grey. Striped, for some reason Rin cannot comprehend. Worn. Then Isagi’s uncertain feet, stumbling into position.
Rin does not wait for Isagi. Rin does not wait for anyone. But he does feel something close to vindicated at the universe. For answering him.
His eyes are closed–that’s allegedly the important part, the darkness–so he can't technically be sure it’s him. But he is. Rin doesn't need his sight to see Isagi.
But he’s not supposed to see Isagi–or think about it, at the very least. Both because Isagi doesn't want it recognized and Rin isn't supposed to want that either. He’s supposed to be breathing.
In through his nose and out through his mouth. It feels like he’s pulling something from his chest every time. Something he doesn’t want coming to light, or, more accurately, that doesn’t want to be seen.
Isagi starts doing something at Rin’s side. It’s the kind of loud that’s trying to be quiet. Pointedly, Rin ignores it.
In. Out.
Without much feeling, Rin runs through the anger still waiting for him. Lets it slide up his body, coil around his throat.
This is supposed to be the healthy part. Following the thought, finding the cause, or whatever, and so Rin does.
He's mad about losing today. That part is obvious. Anyone would be.
Perhaps, more specifically, he’s mad that he lost. There's an important distinction somewhere in there. Mad that his legs hadn't moved fast enough. Mad that his teammates hadn’t either, even though that was their whole fucking job. Mad that his second-to-last shot was blocked by that stupid fucking defender that had been trailing him the last half of the match like a parasite. Mad about a lot of things, actually, and pretty fairly mad because if everyone was going to play like that–no, if he was going to play like that–then what the fuck was the point of–
Fuck, he’s supposed to keep his breathing even.
But Rin is supposed to do so many things, isn’t he, and god, isn't he tired of it? The stupid fucking checklist of how everything should go, how he should respond. Well, he thinks as he moves, clearly all the things he’s ‘supposed’ to do are either wrong or a huge fucking waste of time because all of that ‘supposing’ and he still can't score a fucking goal.
Shaking, Rin nearly falls out of his second warrior pose that he didn’t remember getting into. He realizes, belatedly, that breathing so rapidly fucks up his core strength. Falling would be pretty embarrassing though, and his reflexes are just fine, so he doesn't. He counts his blessings.
Just as he shifts to offset the stumble properly, to catch himself, Rin feels a pressure. It’s sudden–a curl of fingers at the bottom of his ribs, assured and steadying, and gone before he can rip it away himself.
Pulse rapid, he breathes, a shaky inhale through his nose as his body stabilizes. Rin counts to eight.
And then, carefully (though he knows what he’ll see, of course he does), Rin cracks an eye open.
“You look relaxed.” Isagi says, smiling.
He's sweating a little, Isagi. He always looks good like that: when he works hard, and clearly he is, matching Rin’s pose. Exhaustion twists his features a little, frustration tensing all his muscles. There’s a barely-there shake in his fingertips. All of it suits him.
Rins jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
“Of course I am.” He says.
It might be the first thing he’s said in a while. Dryness coats his throat and he hates the way his words come out hesitant. Raw.
Isagi stretches. Rin hears a pop.
“That's good.” Isagi says.
Rin stays still, tracing Isaigi’s shape with his eyes. He can feel the rest of his body. Yoga always makes him hyperaware. Some part of him–a part he has yet to identify, other than knowing it’s somewhere in there–wants to reach out. To touch Isagi’s chest and finish this stupid routine and let that monster inside of him out in a way that’ll tear up his insides instead of making it fit in between his bones.
Staring back, the older boy tilts his head. Probably confused why Rin isn't continuing. They both know what comes next, but Isagi usually waits.
Rin pauses. “You don't believe me.”
“I do.” Isagi lies, smooth. He's so shit at it.
Something in the way he says it, maybe.
However he goes about it, whatever secret tell hides in his tone or gestures, Rin knows. He’s not all that good at reading people, admittedly, but Isagi is easier. Maybe it’s time or proximity, like the way Rin knows Sae.
But no, Rin muses, not exactly. Knowing Isagi is like knowing the weather. Something he can’t seem to control. A necessity, so he doesn’t get poured on or catch a cold. Maybe it’s not that. Maybe Isagi is like nature?
“It’s nice to see you doing this.” Isagi adds into the sudden silence, maybe noticing Rin’s wandering thoughts–which somehow manages to piss Rin off again and disregard the weather comparison entirely. Isagi has a talent for that. And the comparison was stupid anyways. Isagi isn’t like anything. He just is.
“You couldn't have stayed in the locker room a little longer? Gone to dinner with friends?” Rin prompts suddenly. If Isagi was weather, he would be a downpour. Shitty downpour.
It’s not the staring that's set him off. Rin doesn't really mind being watched. He's watched by thousands of people a week. Isagi shouldn't even register. But the idea of it–
They shift as Rin tries to get a proper stretch in his biceps. Vaguely, he remembers they had some sort of plans tonight, the two of them. Probably why Isagi’s here. Waiting.
“This is my house.” Isagi says levelly. He makes no mention of tonight. “And I said it’s nice. Seeing you.”
He shivers a little bit as he says it. Isagi doesn't like it cold. Rin doesn't really either–not when he’s doing this, at least, but it keeps him present.
Something tugs at his chest at the comment–close to an apology, maybe even guilt at ruining what was, to his distant memory, a dinner Isagi had been looking forward to. Rin hates that feeling especially, and so he snaps, “Doesn't mean you have to haunt it like a fucking ghost that’s shit at soccer.”
“Rin.” Isagi says, voice flat. It's a warning.
But Rin is still breathing–slowly, in for eight and out for eight–and already shifting to a lunge, which feels good on his hamstring, and he’s fucking relaxed, so he drops it.
Well, not entirely.
He does reach down and tug at Isagi’s annoying striped yoga mat in a horribly petty move, pulling him closer. It offsets his partner's balance just enough and Isagi stumbles, a quick thing he tries to recalibrate, engaging his core, but he’s clearly been too busy eyeing Rin to actually do his stretches properly because he doesn't–at least, not enough.
With a poorly concealed smile Rin snaps a hand out, tight around the knob of Isagi’s shoulder before he can trip any farther. He shoves him back, watching him recalibrate. Isagi’s muscles flex, and Rin follows the ripple with his eyes.
“Even.” Rin says as he lets go, though really, he thinks it’s more than even because Isagi’s balance has always been shit.
“Fuck off.” Isagi murmurs, a distinct lack of bite to the comment.
He's quiet after that. Not silent–Isagi is never silent, even when he wants to be–but subdued. He follows along with the rest of Rin’s cooldown. He fixes his feet before Rin can even comment. His breathing syncs up evenly.
All of it silent in its assuredness, this casual confirmation that this has somehow become routine for Isagi, too, just another thing shared. Another thing Rin has somehow given of himself against his will, without his knowledge.
Strangely, this still makes Rin feel something strong–which is the worst, because he doesn’t particularly enjoy the sensation, and he’s feeling it a lot tonight. He's trying to stay grounded or whatever, but isn't it kind of infuriating, that Isagi can just stand around like this? Barge into his life without comment, knowing Rin will let him stay? Let him push and snap and whatever new impulse grabs him first?
And what is Isagi even staying for, anyways? It’s not like Rin is any good right now. He can't even have his shot blocked by some incompetent goalie, or just miss fucking entirely. No, it was that stupid defender, the one with the –
“What stretches do you do for your hip flexors?” Isagi asks.
Rin pauses. He looks at Isagi over his shoulder. Well, a little closer than that. Isagi is closer. “Huh?”
“Your hip flexors.” Isagi repeats. “You got into a deeper lunge than me. How.”
He’s shifted from Rin’s tree pose, moving his leg like he’s testing the limits of the muscle himself, comparing it to his partner’s silently. Isagi has a pretty good understanding of his own body, so this shocks Rin.
If Rin were to think about what he likes about Isagi–and he wouldn't, literally never, because that would be stupid–his awareness would rank pretty high up there. It's not–it’s not something Rin lacks, because he hates the way that word feels in his throat, but it is something close. And so Isagi having that trait is usually … nice. Helpful for them.
Is Rin supposed to pick up that weight now? Now that isagi is somehow falling behind?
“Pigeon pose?” He offers. He's a bit too disoriented to be bitchy about it.
Isagi raises a brow.
“That’s it?”
Alright. Rin decides he is done being helpful. Isagi can pick up the rest of the slack on his own.
He scowls, turning on his mat. “Don't sound so fucking unsatisfied. I gave you a suggestion.”
That, and Rin had years of yoga experience on him. It just made sense he would be better. Rin was always better.
He expects Isagi to try it out right after. It would be–okay, well, it would be kind of entertaining. Not cute. Or charming, which Isagi has the unfortunate quality of being at the worst times. Especially because Isagi would suck at it.
Either way, Rin does not have to prepare for such a sight (and how not endearing it is), because Isagi doesn’t. Instead, he follows Rin dutifully as he goes through another sun salutation–from the top this time, and without any commentary.
Time stretches, easy this time. Sweat has long since cooled on his skin, and his muscles ache for relief, but it’s still simple. Almost nice. It’s a good ache.
By the end, Rin feels something close to level.
There will be other games or whatever. It's less about making his peace with it more than it is waiting.
And Rin can wait. He’ll do even better next game, and practice more and do even more stupid fucking breathing just so his pulse can be level enough to break through and score a fucking goal.
And if Isagi wants to stay by his side for it, to slide his mat next to his next week when he inevitably finds himself here again, then–no, he’s not going to continue that thought.
This was usually his favorite part, and Rin decides he doesn’t have time for shitty feelings.
Isagi huffs something as they move, a silent unit. Rin looks up. He's attempting Rin’s earlier suggestion. His footing is all wrong.
“You haven't gotten any better.” Rin lies, staring unabashed.
(Isagi has improved by miles since he started doing this–following along.)
“i’m getting there.”
Unlike Rin, Isagi seems perfectly fine with the staring. He seems far more focused on his body, the way it curls and tilts in unnatural ways, muscles tesnsing with the effort. That part, Rin watches closely.
“Jesus.” Rin groans, not even a minute in and standing before he can talk himself out of it. “Been doing this for months and you’re still just as shit at it.”
Isagi’s lips puse–clearly another comment about Rin’s poor attitude–but he doesn’t have time to finish. Because Rin shocks him first. The younger knows this, because he can feel his muscles jump as Rin grabs at his waist. He tilts Isagi’s hips, careful. Then, just as cautious, he nudges his feet apart with his own.
“Stay still.” He warns when he feels Isagi’s breath pick up. “You’re about to fuck up your knee like that.”
“Kiss it better?” Isagi asks, grin wide. Rin pushes him a little as he pulls away. Just to make sure he’s stable. Rin does not smile. He does not.
“You’re fine now.”
“Thanks.”
He does not.
“So hurry up. Before I leave you behind.”
Naturally, he won’t, but the threat remains the same. Isagi’s favorite part is always the end anyways. He's never said it, but Rin can tell. After all, it’s his too.
He lays down in savasana carefully, feeling the foam against his skin. Maybe they’ll have time for dinner tonight, if he cleans up quick. Rin had been hedging Isagi to ask him there for weeks. It’s seafood. Isagi loves seafood.
Rin doesn’t mind it. Not for him.
Isagi’s fingers brush his for a second as they both splay, and Rin tries very hard not to jolt away. After all, this is the part that’s supposed to soothe his nervous system best. No sudden movements.
Soft fingers grip his carefully.
Rin sighs. So touchy.
And, when he does, he doesn't feel that tightening around his lungs anymore. In fact, he doesn’t even notice. All he feels is the worn, steady grip of Isagi’s hand in his.