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1
The very moment Julien Loki collides with him, is when Vivien Hugo believes in destiny.
To fully realise your dream, ascertain your aspirations, and begin carving out a path to fulfill them, is intrinsic to human nature. Hugo, of course, is no exception. He already knows his most suitable dream: to challenge the impossibility of winning the world cup multiple times in his lifetime, alongside a world-class striker as his number one. Up until this moment, Hugo continues pursuing this dream, even when its inconceivability confronts him.
So, when this charismatically audacious life-form, gracefully swats away some nameless self-proclaimed striker (who was uncomfortably close to Hugo), and apologises through declaring his own equally ambitious dream, Hugo falls embarrassingly hard.
The moment Loki and Hugo sit together—back to back, with the astroturf brushing against their palms—is when Hugo understands what destiny is: sharing the same lifelong dream, even before meeting.
After a miracle, or perhaps a later mundane observation—the air of nonchalance Loki carries himself with; the seemingly effortless goals, achievable only with countless hours of practice—Hugo approaches him with one question.
"Hey, Loki."
Loki hums in acknowledgement, lightly juggling a ball between his feet. Hugo takes this as a chance to continue.
"Do you believe in destiny?"
"What?" Loki bursts into bubbly laughter, "Is that a pick-up line?"
Paris is the city of love, after all. Still, Hugo refuses to take the bait, and casts his gaze forward instead. He observes Loki stopping the ball with his foot, in time with golden rays dipping down into the horizon, illuminating the sprinter in resplendent hues.
Hugo blinks. Perhaps his philosophy isn't entirely straightforward. Hugo is familiar with blatant ignorance from others, where individuals dismiss their personal suitability to spark embers for unattainable dreams; still aware of his own lack of tact, even with his natural sensitivity. Though, Julien Loki is simply no other person, and entertains his inquiry rather than rejecting it.
Hugo wears a serious expression. "Destiny is something I never fully understood, until I met you."
He would never admit something untrue; even so, Loki blooms into a soft pink. Surely, its the sunset behind that casts a warm glow, rather than Hugo himself.
Hugo elaborates, "I knew of its existence, where the talentless use destiny to delude themselves into mistaking unsuitability has their birthright. I find their superficiality utterly frustrating. We're born into this world with a purpose, and mine, my most suitable destiny is to win the World Cup four times—and I need a number one to bring along."
"Bring along? I'll be that number one, and you need to keep up with me," Loki pauses to lean in closer, "We share the same destiny, after all."
His tonal inclination affirms this as a universal truth, while simultaneously unravelling an inner epiphany. For Hugo, his inward realisation is to determine whether his destiny with Loki transcends beyond the world of football. The elation of being understood by him is exhilarating; yet he exercises self-restraint, refusing to further examine his budding affection for a certain striker. Hugo now meets a golden gaze, ready to confront an entirely different impossibility.
2
Days pass since his inner self-discovery. The earth still spins, the sun sets before the moon rises, time ticks forward clock-wise, and Hugo is quite fond of Loki. Hmm.
Hugo flips back a page (blank, of course), and ponders on his seemingly newfound admiration for Loki. The burden of his destiny, which he is naturally suitable to fulfill, feels lighter with Loki chasing that same ambition; side by side.
He bites his cheek, in attempt to focus, though his gaze idly lingers on the page regardless. Loki is a natural-born phenomenon; he captivates the world around him simply by existing. It's logical for humans to awe in wonder at the utterly talented, and consequently, it's logical for him to be in awe of such aptitude, Hugo rationalises with himself.
"I thought you were reading something. Do blank pages really capture your attention?"
The man in question quickly shuts his book, as if his thoughts would read themselves out loud to their audience of two. Hugo glances at the leatherback cover, before he shifts his attention towards Loki—who sits beside him, and looks back at Hugo with a sharp gaze.
"You're right. I'm not reading at all."
Hugo finds it strangely unnerving to express vulnerability of any extent, even around Loki, though the latter benevolently waits for him to continue.
Hugo thrums his fingers against the book cover, "I just use this to organise my thoughts."
Loki muses, leaning in closer, "As opposed to writing? What's got you thinking harder than usual?"
It's more like who, but Hugo prefers not to correct him. He drifts his attention down to Loki's collarbone, smoothing out a wrinkle on his jersey.
"It's nothing you need to worry about."
The end of their national team training camp steadily approaches, with one day remaining before the players return back to their respective clubs. Even within the short amount of time Hugo has known Loki, he considers him as his closest friend in the team—not to imply Hugo can't necessarily get along with others; he can, so long as they are somewhat receptive to his blunt delivery. Though, the locker rooms whisper of his softer treatment towards a particular striker.
Hugo steps outside, meeting a crisp breeze before Loki follows straight after, leaving the door behind slightly open. Loki clasps his shoulder, faintly beaming with pride.
"Are you excited to leave?"
Loki scoffs, "More than I thought I would be. I have an offer from PXG, a full-on professional contract."
Hugo smiles softly. Loki continues to readily affirm his own aptitude; playing professionally from the get-go is no small matter, a natural achievement for someone on track to becoming the best in the world. Hugo is simply happy for Loki. Though, he valiantly ignores how his own contract expiry looms over him.
"Coach says you play for PXG, but we wouldn't be playing for the same age bracket." Loki pauses to smile back, "Though, he plans to negotiate with the club first. Besides, it's not my first time playing a bracket above."
"I'm not playing."
"No." Loki states this definitively. "You are still playing. Would destiny make you quit forever?"
A raindrop lands on his jersey. Hugo furrows his brows. "That's not what I meant."
Half a year prior, Hugo would be almost indifferent to his decision; he got along amicably with his team, though he wasn't necessarily fond of anyone. It was simply logical for him to, at least, consider a certain offer.
"I'll be moving to England. At the beginning of the year. I signed a pre-contract with Arsenaly."
Loki clicks his tongue. "You're still playing for PXG until your contract expires though. How many months do you have left?"
Hugo stiffens. He drifts his gaze to the grass below, which delicately holds up descending droplets. "As soon as the transfer window opens, I'm going straight there. My contract expires this week."
Loki appears ostensibly indifferent; yet he dims slightly at this reveal. Hugo bites the inside of his cheek. It tastes metallic. The air between them becomes frigid, rain sprinkles down as Hugo picks up pieces of his heart to stabilise it, "France is only a train ride away. I'll still be in Europe."
Loki steps closer to Hugo, before whispering into the wind, for only him to hear. "…I'll miss you, then." Those words collide together with a damning finality, and Hugo refuses to concede to it.
"Don't say that, please."
Loki gazes back with uncertainty—it's an ill-fitting expression. Hugo needs to amend this, "If it's the most suitable, destiny will bring us back together. There is no need to miss me, when I will return by your side."
Loki, ever so merciful, doesn't question if Hugo would miss him—the answer is clear, and subsequently, doesn't question if Hugo is reassuring both Loki and himself.
"You better uphold that promise."
"I'm not promising anything," Hugo feels his voice wavering, "It's simply our suitability that guarantees it."
If it truly is their most suitable destiny to play together, Hugo vows quietly, there is no way their connection will tether.
He doesn't consider himself an outwardly expressive person, and yet, his eyes have a glossy sheen, moments away from complimenting the pouring rain. Hugo braves a taut smile, putting up his fist, and Loki softly bumps it before splitting off.
3
A full season passes, where autumn branches gently dance in the breeze and lost leaves wander onto the pitch.
Hugo adjusts to his team; their physique and speed are compatible with his thorough calculations, half the time his teammates are receptive to his ideas, though for the other half, they brute force victory with ad-libs. He tells such to Loki, who giggles through blue text bubbles.
Hugo crosses his legs on the bench, delicately holding his phone, before his teammate briefly glances over. "Is that your girl?"
"Huh?" Someone else chirps up, "Are you sure he swings that way?"
Hugo swiftly pockets his phone, deeming both of them utterly unsuitable to even acknowledge. He grinds his cleats against the astroturf, feigning indifference as he leaves—knowing his gritted teeth say otherwise.
(Still, the vibrations in his pocket alleviate his momentary irritation.)
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Hugo reluctantly concedes to himself. The physical absence of Loki, somehow, marks itself as a constant presence; even so, trivial matters are not nearly enough to tear him away from his ambitions. He continues to train with confidence, certain Loki reciprocates—with a corresponding level of dedication, of course.
Though, as his gaze drifts towards two butterflies gleaming in the sunlight above, with their flight paths intertwining, does Hugo fleetingly wonder when he will reunite with Loki again; when destiny interlaces their lives together anew.
The time difference between Paris and London is essentially negligible, with former being one hour ahead. As Loki lists today's victories with eloquent poise, akin to stating simple truths, Hugo finds the minute difference between their time-zones pleasantly fitting. Close enough to almost close the gap. Loki is naturally ahead, first, and Hugo follows closely behind in second. Even so, the moonlight casting his bedroom in a dim glow only serves as a reminder that its late, and even later for Loki.
"Shouldn't you be asleep by now?" Hugo murmurs quietly, placing his phone on a nearby pillow, ready to tuck himself into bed.
"I could say the same for you." Loki hums through the speaker, softly rustling his sheets. "Ah," he pauses thoughtfully, "Did I tell you about how presumptuous my teammates are?"
Hugo hums in lieu of a response.
Loki continues, "They keep asking if I have a girlfriend. So insistent."
Love makes the world go round, and apparently, so does any semblance of gossip sought out by nosy teenagers. Hugo stifles a laugh, finding it amusing how Loki is in a similar situation.
Though, he isn't immune to the whims of human nature—including innate curiosity.
"…Do you have one?"
At this, Loki lets out peals of laughter.
He recovers, though, still seemingly out of breath, "Oh, not at all. But, no matter how many times I say no, they believe it's true anyway."
"Oh. Good."
A hand claspes over his mouth a second too late. Hugo bites the inside of his cheek. The line stays silent. He quickly fumbles for his phone, readily preparing to rectify whatever the hell he just—
"Good?" Loki speaks with the same tone as an animal cornering their prey; even though they are countries apart, Hugo somehow feels his piercing gaze on him—trailing up his jawline before moving towards drowsy eyes, which reflect the midnight sky outside.
Still, Hugo manages to recover quickly, "Yes, precisely." He elaborates, scrunching the silk sheets enveloping him, "It's good because you won't be distracted. I need you,"
"Clearly."
"To win the World Cup with me," Hugo quickly amends. "So, you should absolutely focus on training."
"Uh huh." Loki remarks, clearly not believing him. "You just want all my attention."
Hugo huffs. "As much as you want mine."
Autumn leaves return once more; a full set of seasons pass by, with Hugo and Loki calling in the moments between them all. Speckles of light ricochet onto the counter-top, as Hugo stands, pouring water into a kettle to boil, softly murmuring to the speaker, "Our breaks line up, right? I could meet up with you, if that is most suitable."
"Ah. I won't be free."
Hugo observes Loki through the screen (clearly failing to capture his radiance), with his grainy figure drinking out of a mug. Hugo shifts his gaze towards the kettle, which reflects his slightly forlorn expression back at him.
Loki continues, "There's this project that asked me to scout players for their national team. I'll be going to Japan next month."
Hugo hears his kettle click. "Does that not sound suspicious to you?"
"It does. Have you heard of Blue Lock?"
Hugo plops a teabag into his cup, before pouring water into it, "What is that."
"I'll tell you about it when I see for myself." Loki stirs a spoon into his hot chocolate.
Hugo lets his tea steep, thrumming his fingers on the counter-top, "While you're there, get something for my sister."
Loki raises his brows. "And you want nothing for yourself?" He teasingly chides, "Where's your ego?"
"You're already familiar with it, Loki."
Hugo pauses to ruminate. He resolutely follows his destiny, seeking to fulfill the same ambitious dream of winning the World Cup; now with a minor amendment: winning the World Cup with Julien Loki. To win it by his side, to hold the trophy together, knowing his smile shines brighter than the golden reflection, to win it fourfold—
"I want to win the World Cup."
Loki huffs. "That's a given."
"Then tell me if this Blue Lock project really is interesting." Hugo sips his tea; the heat almost burns his tongue, "…If they have eclairs there, I want them too."
Loki hides a smile as he takes another sip. "We have plenty back home, Hugo."
Home, for Hugo, is a word that sits strangely in his mouth. He considers himself practical—just as much as he is sentimental, so he knows when to read between the lines that thread their destiny together, "I'm sure I owe you a visit."
4
The stars align, as do their schedules, though only for a day.
Hugo sits, with one leg over the other, idly observing the blur of elegant architecture as his train enters the Gare de Lyon—slinging a duffel bag on his shoulder when the service terminates. As Hugo walks out of the train carriage, a soft glow passes through the skylight above the station, and shines down on Loki as he cordially waits for him across the platform.
"Did you grow taller?"
Hugo looks down, more downward than usual to see Loki. Oh.
"Destiny demands a height difference."
Loki huffs, "You are as ridiculous as ever."
Loki leads him outside the station, where a chill winter breeze greets them; Hugo drifts his gaze towards the striker, as naturally as the earth gravitates towards the sun, and notices a warmer tint on the sprinter. Hugo brings his duffel bag closer—his football uniform is neatly folded inside, with his cleats in a smaller bag, "Heading straight to the pitch?"
Loki nods. "I have someone I want you to meet."
Hugo feels a sense of dread. He doesn't recall Loki fondly reminiscing any of his teammates, though, perhaps one now comes to mind, and Loki continues in spite of his inner turmoil. "He is quite unruly. I need you to train him."
A wave of relief washes over Hugo, and soft chuckle spills out. "Would this be your version of Blue Lock?"
"No, but, I believe your insights would be valuable to him," Loki shrugs almost lackadaisically, "I trust you with this."
The sun reflects its light onto the moon, and this light in turn, illuminates the earth below; Hugo is now responsible for training whoever this "unruly" individual is, and guide them to their utmost suitability.
"Lead the way."
Surprisingly (for Hugo, not much so for Loki), this unruly player is nowhere near the pitch. The pair now wear their respective club jerseys as they wait. Hugo rests his gaze near the goalpost, where the breeze softly blows the netting, with no other equipment in sight.
Hugo turns towards Loki. "Perhaps it's our destiny to train alone together—"
He feels something tumbling onto his back, though, as Hugo quickly stabilises himself, it starts climbing further upward by latching onto his shoulder. Hugo meets a lighter golden gaze, with eyes that auto-focus back onto him. This something is rather someone: a rambunctious teenager that greets him upside-down. "Boo!"
Loki sighs. "Charles."
Hugo adjusts his positioning so Charles rests right-back-up, more comfortably on his shoulders. The latter pats Hugo's hair apologetically, "Sorry Monsieur Destiny, but I am the one training you!"
"No." Loki wears a tight smile. "You are not."
Hugo clarifies, "I'm training you, because you also play on the midfield."
"Nah, I play on defense, actually."
Hugo visibly frowns, noting how light Charles is. "That is completely unsuitable."
Charles cackles—almost tipping over, before propping himself back up. "You don't play with us, so who says you're gonna train me too?"
Hugo crouches down, so Charles can alight safely. Charles firmly stays on his shoulders, and folds his arms.
"We'll play for the same national team later this year," Hugo gently nudges Charles to get off his shoulders, "It is best to practice together beforehand."
"I don't wanna! You can't sway me!"
"Charles," Loki swiftly cuts in, "You don't need to play, anyway."
"Oh?" Charles lands back onto the pitch, walking around to face Hugo.
Hugo furrows his brows, glancing towards Loki. But, before he can elaborate, Charles beats him to it, "Then I'll play ♪ I'm a contrarian, you know?"
"If you'll play seriously," Hugo stands up, straightening his posture, "Then prove your most suitable destiny is on this pitch."
Charles sticks his tongue out in response.
Practice went well.
Though, Hugo was unsure of exactly what to expect, he concludes their training went smoothly, suitably even. He busies himself with packing away the field cones, while reflecting on their practice session. Charles is particularly impressive when he tries to be—sending a pin-point rabona straight to Hugo, only to surrender with his hands up moments later. He sighs, picking up the last cone on the pitch before Charles speaks up.
"Can we practice again?"
Hugo mournfully looks at the (very neat) pile beside him, which the sunset behind delicately frames. He then looks at Charles, who sits while stretching his legs on the astroturf—gazing back at him hopefully.
"I have to leave tomorrow."
Charles audibly boos him, putting his thumb down. Loki sits on a bench bordering the pitch, methodically writing notes on a clipboard. He's far enough to not hear their conversation; even still, Charles leans in to furtively whisper. "Hey, did Loki ever tell you why you had to train me?"
Hugo briefly ponders, not at all, if anything, their schedules miraculously aligned, and Loki brought up training Charles at the last minute. Though, the truth of Loki consciously hiding something from him, no matter how insignificant, doesn't sit quite right in his throat.
Hugo shakes his head.
"Loki wants me as his star passer."
Charles grins—even so, his smile doesn't fully reach his eyes. Hugo considers himself sensitive to the inner troubles of others, moreso their inaptitude; yet he recognises how insensitively blunt his delivery can be, and still chooses to be direct.
"But, you don't want to be."
Charles pouts, with his fang poking out. Bullseye.
"Well, you want to," Charles deflects, plucking a piece of grass, "It's your destiny or whatever. I don't know why, when you're here and you clearly want to be his."
Hugo waits for him to elaborate. Charles continues sulking.
"His midfielder, right?"
Charles blinks at him slowly. Never mind.
Hugo continues nonetheless. "You're a prodigal player, even younger than Loki. He sees a part of himself reflected in you, even by a margin—"
"Oh, I call bullshit."
"—Not through your attitude, but through your aptitude, acquired at your age. It's a logical conclusion to make."
"Bleh. Whatever." Charles lies flat on astroturf below. "Don't you get bored of football?"
"Not particularly," Hugo sits down, resisting the faint temptation to lie down alongside him, "I simply spend every moment following my most suitable destiny."
"Which leads you right back to Loki." Charles stares at the clouds passing by above him. "But, like, right now, playing with him is totally boring."
Hugo frowns—ready to object with a list of anecdotal evidence, before Charles continues, "It's like this: I pass the ball to Loki, he scores. Sometimes he passes to me, I score."
Plainly, Charles is a contrarian; his narration of events is unreliable, an oversimplification and almost an undermining of both of their aptitudes—omitting the innate talent and precise techniques inherent to their respective styles of play.
"How unsuitable."
Charles sighs, mouthing I know to the sky above. Hugo glances at the stray bit of grass.
"You find football boring, because your play-style doesn't challenge either of you." Hugo contemplates on this dilemma. "So tomorrow, send an impossible pass to Loki, and see if it's one he could actually reach."
"Huh? I can send a nasty pass to him anytime ♪" Charles looks back, with a gaze holding small sparks of ambition. "Can't you tell him to go somewhere unreachable instead? You're the one staying with Loki tonight."
Hugo quickly turns away, feeling his cheeks heat up.
"No way!" Charles sits up, as his hearty laughter echoes across the field, "I was totally bluffing!"
Charles shuffles closer to make a proposal, "Monsieur Destiny, how about proving that you and Loki are meant to be together?"
Hugo pauses to ponder, seeking a precise moment—the shift from simply playing together to being together; a sort of co-existence between two systems. Naturally, neither of them are co-dependent on the other, with their aptitude proving they can be independent. Though, to willingly walk the path of a shared dream together, is a journey Hugo is following through to its end—and whatever lies beyond.
"I will," Hugo hums, "It's our destiny, after all."
Stars scatter themselves across the night sky, with the moon—barely skyward—illuminating their path forward. After seeing Charles rush off to a seven-seater car, and claiming his humble family of twelve is picking him up (clearly with some fictitious siblings), Hugo and Loki walk together, following a brick-lay pathway.
"Why did you ask me to train Charles?"
Loki hums, as if expecting his inquiry, "Charles is a star passer, who I want to bring to the world stage."
The World Cup is only four months away from now. Hugo considers how aptitude unveils a path for his most suitable destiny, and how Charles is following a similar route—with more pit-stops due to his temperamental motivation.
"Though, he needs to study first," Loki continues, "Charles is awfully impulsive. It's best for him to hone his current skills on a technical level."
Hugo nods. "Precisely—but, its not something that can be resolved in one practice session."
"Of course, that's why I will be taking Charles to Japan with me."
What. No, hang on.
"Is it for that Blue Lock project?"
"Yes. I was scouted, again, but this time to train players as a coach representing PXG. Members of our U-18 team including Charles, were invited to join as well. Oh, and representatives from other clubs in Europe."
Huh.
The idea of mere possibilities ripple together, with scenarios almost blurring into each other. Imagining if he renewed his contract with PXG, if he wasn't transferring internationally—if he didn't find it necessary to tell Loki, when the light downpour reflected the momentary interception of destiny.
Though, those possibilities are not reality. Hugo still stands alongside Loki as his equal, irrespective of the set of circumstances leading up to this moment.
"Tell me what happens while you're there."
"And if I didn't?"
"That wouldn't be suitable at all. Let me know who catches your eye—we'll be versing these players in the World Cup."
"Oh? I doubt any of them would be a threat," Loki continues walking, before stopping just in front of his house. "Truthfully, I joined to further develop Charles."
Hugo stops in tandem. "Right."
Somehow, even with the dusky twilight enveloping the sky above—Loki effortlessly exudes brilliance, in every sense of the word.
He hovers his hand near the door, before turning back to Hugo, "I'm not leaving yet, just a few weeks from now. But, you're leaving tomorrow morning."
"At least I made it here." Hugo huffs. "And you're the one who brought Charles along today."
Loki covers his mouth, stifling a laugh. "Don't tell me you think I would let him stay over?"
"...No." Hugo quickly turns away, much to the amusement of Loki.
As a gentle breeze rustles his hair, does Hugo realise something new. Hugo isn't necessarily jealous of Charles being Loki's midfielder—ah, well, he is—but, the extent of his current relationship with Charles is only on the pitch.
"You'll get sick if we stay out any longer." Hugo shuffles closer towards Loki. "It's warmer inside."
Loki shares a soft smile, making no effort to move away. "You really aren't subtle at all."
Hugo exhales, observing how his frigid breath condensates. "I don't think I ever was, Julien."
As the late wintertide leads into spring, his destiny unravels a path for them to pursue; beyond the world of football—where Loki turns the doorknob to enter, and Hugo naturally follows him inside.
5
"Do you really think you can win the World Cup?"
Bordering the pitch, and across the sideline, the scoreboard now displays a clear-cut 2-2 tie between Japan and France. Hugo leisurely sips from his bottle, before turning around to face his coach.
"No, I sure don't." Hugo points his thumb at a certain player, "Loki just can't score a suitable goal."
The striker in question scoffs. "Shut up. Hugo's passes just suck."
As their coach swiftly arranges their next formation for the second half, Hugo sticks his tongue out at Loki—who grits his teeth in retaliation. He hides a quiet snicker behind his bottle. Loki cools his expression instantly; they both amiably listen as their coach elaborates on transitioning to a more offensive playing system.
His instruction for them to show off their gifts, is one Hugo vows to follow to the letter.
After all, Hugo recognises how aptitude guides his lifelong ambition; how destiny's blessing takes the form of a partner, who etches their dream into the skies until it simply becomes reality. Hugo sneaks a glance at Loki—he stands right beside him, easily returning his gaze with one of unwavering focus.
At the blow of a whistle, they both sprint down the field. Loki passes to Hugo, squaring the ball to his feet, before dropping back. A whip of red now ripples through the air—Isagi freezes momentarily, his vision flitting around the pitch. His gaze flickers between the wingers rushing forward, searching for puzzle pieces that connect to any vulnerabilities inside the midfield.
Though, any gesture of movement proves fruitless, as Hugo deftly dribbles the ball past Isagi, weaving behind him. A bout of panic from Japan's midfield travels down the pitch, easy for Hugo to dismiss, in favour of his own heartbeat—beating steady in tandem with his brisk pace, a constant assurance of his aptitude.
Kunigami—a blur of orange with streaks of white—collides with Hugo, firmly gripping his chest, cleats just missing the ball. Hugo steadies himself, muttering something about destiny; when Loki sprints past, swift and cut-throat.
Hugo shifts gears, locking his gaze onto Loki before passing forward to a spot suitable only for the world's best to reach. A soft breeze kisses his hair, alongside the buzz of adrenaline—as Hugo observes how his pin-point pass soars through the air above, before landing perfectly onto Loki's feet.
His breath hitches, a soft heat rising in his cheeks, basking in the utter radiance of Loki. The absolute certainty of his goal, embodying how the synchronicity of suitability actualises their dream—where they win this World Cup together. Hugo feels the thrum of pure elation, where glitters of gold twinkle in his periphery. He soaks in sunlight glistening down onto the field, spotlighting complete aptitude.
Hugo's gaze never wanders away from Loki, however his mind drifts elsewhere. His next choice presents itself—one made since the collision of their two paths intertwined—now blooming into a reciprocal exchange of like-minded passion; previously an illusory impossibility, and now a definite reality.
Vivien Hugo resolutely takes a step forward, to walk on another path of their destiny, transcending the white lines of the football pitch, where Julien Loki is most suitable by his side—unequivocally in every sense.
+1
The very moment Vivien Hugo passes to him, is when Julien Loki reaffirms their destiny.
To fully realise your dream, ascertain your aspirations, and begin carving out a path to fulfill them, is intrinsic to human nature. Loki, of course, is no exception. He unabashedly affirms his dream: to challenge the impossibility of winning the world cup multiple times in his lifetime as a world-class striker, with unwavering confidence in its actualisation.
So, the moment Loki and Hugo sit together—back to back, with the astroturf brushing against their palms—is when Loki rediscovers the extraordinary: through finding equally audacious company, and sharing the same adorably tyrannical dream.
Loki is quite familiar with Hugo; his philosophy on suitable destiny theory, the absolute rarity of their aptitude, his affection towards him—a mutual sentiment, of course. Even still, he utterly refuses to confess outright; although Loki bears the epithet of the God Sprinter, he favours Hugo chasing him instead. He enjoys being worshipped, after all.
Loki simply pursues his dream, as another path unravels before him, diverting from the pitch into something beyond it. Though, they both have a match to win first.
Loki breezes through the back-line, almost warping the path behind him; an imaginary atmospheric refraction, honing his focus on singular point—a position only he can reach in an instant. He sprints further down; the ball lands perfectly on his foot, fleetingly, before hitting the net violently.
Celebrations echo throughout the stadium, alongside the symphonious rhythm of his heart; the scoreboard skirting the pitch announces the birth of a legend, illuminating a lead of 3-2, in his favour. Loki leaps into the air as brilliant light follows behind; the sun above frames his silhouette, spotlighting his victory in an iridescent glow.
Loki rides the high of victory, before landing softly on the astroturf below. He crosses his arms, gripping his shoulders tightly before gazing forward; his goal—a spectacle of utter compatibility, of complete resonance between audacious dreamers.
Hugo looks back at him with the smallest sparkle in his eyes—though, when Loki glances again, he observes his own reflection as well.