#bluelockgen11

You grew up side by side, practically attached at the hip. Sleepovers became normal. Sharing hoodies became normal. Sitting on his lap because there wasn’t enough space became normal. Everything about the two of you felt natural, effortless.

When you were younger, physical affection meant nothing between you. Holding hands while crossing the street, hugging each other after long days, leaning against him during movie nights—it was all innocent. Hugo never thought twice about it.

Until you both got older.

Because as the years passed, the two of you changed.

You matured. Your features softened and sharpened in all the right places at the same time, your body no longer resembling the awkward girl he used to run around with as kids. And Hugo changed too—broader shoulders, rougher hands, a deeper voice, a stronger presence. The two of you weren’t children anymore, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

At first, he didn’t notice when things started affecting him differently.

Not when you’d casually sit beside him with your thigh pressed against his during long car rides.

Not when you’d throw your arms around his neck from behind after he came home exhausted from training.

Not when you’d wear his shirts around the house, the fabric hanging shorter on you than it used to.

But slowly, those little touches stopped feeling innocent to him.

Your hand lingering on his arm suddenly made his heartbeat stutter. The way you’d absentmindedly play with his fingers while talking made him lose focus entirely. Even something as simple as you laying your head on his chest during movie nights had him staring at the ceiling for hours afterward, unable to sleep.

And the worst part?

You had no idea, or so he thought so.

To you, it was still Hugo. Your best friend. The person you trusted most in the world.

But to him, every touch started meaning too much.

Especially because you were so comfortable with him.

You’d crawl into his bed without hesitation when you couldn’t sleep. You’d fix his hair while talking to him up close, your face inches away from his. Sometimes you’d grab his hand in public without even thinking, and Hugo would have to force himself not to squeeze back too hard, not to think too deeply about how perfectly your fingers fit between his.

He hated how affected he became.

Hated how his mind wandered whenever you sat too close. Hated how protective he got whenever other men looked at you too long. Hated how he started comparing every woman to you without even realizing it.

Because somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his best friend.

And Hugo knew he was completely fucked the moment those harmless little touches—the ones that once meant nothing—started driving him insane.

Hugo genuinely tried to ignore it at first.

He told himself it was temporary. Just hormones. Just stress. Just the result of spending too much time around you.

But it kept getting worse.

Painfully and physically worse.

Because you were still the same with him—completely unaware of what you were doing to him.

You’d plop down beside him after showering, hair still damp, wearing those tiny sleep shorts like it was nothing. You’d steal his hoodies and stretch in them lazily while talking, the fabric slipping off one shoulder without you noticing. Sometimes you’d climb onto his bed and rest your head on his thigh while scrolling through your phone, entirely oblivious to how hard his dick was.

And Hugo hated himself for reacting the way he did.

You were his best friend.

His best friend.

But his body didn’t seem to care anymore.

There were nights when he had to physically leave the room because you had become too comfortable with him. There were also nights when he would lock himself in the bathroom, stroking his dick and clutching the panties he had stolen from your laundry basket as if he were losing his mind. He felt disgusted by his behavior at times, especially because you had trusted him so much.

Meanwhile, you just kept touching him so casually.

Your fingers brushing against his stomach when you reached for something.

Your legs thrown across his lap during movie nights.

Your sleepy voice mumbling his name while half-asleep beside him.

Every little thing chipped away at his self-control.

Hugo wanted you in ways that terrified him.

It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It wasn’t some small crush he could bury under years of friendship and self-control. No—this was hunger. The kind that sat heavy in his chest (and dick) and followed him everywhere, turning every little interaction with you into torture.

Because you were so unaware.

So soft with him.

And Hugo was starting to lose his mind over it.

Sometimes he’d catch himself staring for too long. Watching the way your lips moved while you talked, the way your shorts rode up when you curled beside him on the couch, the way your body fit so perfectly against his whenever you hugged him. His thoughts would spiral instantly, filthy and relentless, before he could stop them.

He started clenching his jaw constantly around you.

He detested how every time these moments end and he returns home, he begins stroking his cock, fixated on the events that transpired.

Looking away whenever you bent over near him because he knew if he kept staring, he’d think about things he absolutely shouldn’t.

But it didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

Not when you’d absentmindedly sit on his lap like you used to as kids, completely oblivious to the way every muscle in his body immediately locked up. Not when you’d wrap your arms around him and press yourself close without hesitation, your warmth sinking into him so deeply it drove him insane afterward.

And God, your voice.

The sleepy little tone you used with him late at night nearly ruined him every time.

There were moments where Hugo genuinely thought he was going to snap.

Like the night you crawled into his bed after a nightmare, wearing one of his old shirts. You climbed beside him without a second thought, pressing close to his chest like you always did. Your leg tangled with his instinctively, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt while you mumbled his name sleepily.

Meanwhile, Hugo was fixated on the ceiling, his entire body on fire. He was worried you might notice the pent in his shorts.

Because all he could think about was you.

How warm you felt.

How good you smelled.

How easily he could wrap an arm around your waist and pull you impossibly closer.

He felt pathetic for how badly he wanted you.

Sometimes he’d leave after being around you and immediately feel consumed by guilt, because no matter how hard he tried, his mind always wandered somewhere dangerous. He started having to avoid touching you for too long because even the smallest contact affected him now.

Your hand on his chest.

Your nails dragging lightly across his arm.

Your thighs brushing his when you sat too close.

Everything made his thoughts turn dark and needy.

And the worst part was that you still trusted him completely.

You’d smile at him so sweetly while he sat there internally fighting himself apart. You’d look at him with those soft eyes while he struggled not to think about kissing you senseless. Sometimes you’d lean into him so naturally that Hugo had to physically hold back a groan.

He wanted you so badly it made him irritable.

Other men touching you suddenly made his stomach twist violently. Hearing you talk about dates or flirting jokingly with someone else put him in horrible moods for the rest of the day. He started standing closer to you unconsciously, touching your waist without thinking, glaring too long whenever someone looked at you in ways he understood all too well.

Because he knew exactly what they were thinking.

He thought the same things every single day.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend he didn’t.

Hugo was close to exploding at this point.

Months of suppressing everything he felt for you had hollowed him out completely. Every little thing you did affected him now—your touches, your voice, the way you smiled at him so easily. He was constantly tense around you, constantly fighting himself, constantly trying to stay the version of Hugo you trusted.

Your best friend.

That evening, he was sitting on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone while trying to ignore the restless frustration sitting heavy in his chest. The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of traffic outside.

Then the front door opened.

Hugo barely reacted at first, You always barged in without knocking anyway.

But when he looked up and saw your face, everything in him immediately sharpened.

Your eyes were glossy with tears, lips trembling slightly like you’d been trying not to cry the entire way there.

He sat up instantly. “Hey. What happened?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you walked straight to him before climbing into his lap without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you buried your face into his shoulder.

And fuck.

Hugo nearly lost all coherent thought right there.

Your body pressed fully against his, warm and shaking from quiet sobs. He could feel your thighs against his hips, your chest rising unevenly against him while your fingers clutched desperately at the back of his shirt.

Meanwhile, his hands froze at your waist.

Because even now—even while you were crying—his body reacted to you automatically.

“Talk to me,” he said quietly, voice rougher than usual.

You sniffled against his neck. “I’m so embarrassed…”

His jaw tightened immediately.

“What happened?”

“There was this guy,” you mumbled shakily. “I thought he actually liked me and then I saw him with another girl today and…” your voice cracked, “I feel stupid.”

Something dark twisted inside Hugo’s chest.

A guy.

Another fucking guy.

And somehow you were here, crying in his lap over someone else while Hugo had spent years wanting you so badly it physically hurt.

His hands tightened unconsciously against your waist.

You didn’t notice.

You just kept clinging to him, pressing yourself closer for comfort while he sat there struggling to breathe normally. Your cheek brushed his neck softly when you shifted, and Hugo had to shut his eyes for a second because he genuinely thought he might snap.

“You’re not stupid,” he muttered.

You gave a weak laugh through your tears. “You have to say that. You’re my best friend.”

Best friend.

The words hit him like a blade.

Because he suddenly couldn’t do it anymore.

Couldn’t sit here pretending this was enough. Couldn’t keep letting you touch him like this while acting like he didn’t crave more. Couldn’t keep listening to you cry over men who didn’t know you the way he did.

He looked down at you.

Really looked at you.

Your watery eyes. Your flushed cheeks. Your lips parted slightly as you breathed shakily against him.

And something inside him finally broke.

Before he could stop himself, Hugo grabbed your face gently and kissed you.

Hard.

Like he’d been holding it back for far too long.

For a split second, he expected you to shove him away.

Instead, you kissed him back immediately.

And that completely ruined him.

Hugo let out a shaky breath against your lips, one hand sliding from your waist up to your jaw while the other pulled you impossibly closer against him. The kiss turned messy fast—years of tension and restraint unraveling all at once.

You made the softest sound against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair, and Hugo genuinely felt dizzy from it.

Because you were kissing him back.

Actually kissing him back.

All those years of wanting you, trying not to want you, trying to bury every filthy thought he’d ever had about you—and now you were melting into him like you’d wanted this too.

He kissed you deeper before he could think better of it, completely consumed. Every suppressed feeling poured into it at once: jealousy, frustration, longing, lust.

His forehead rested against yours when he finally pulled back, breathing unevenly.

And the way you looked at him afterward nearly destroyed what little composure he had left.

Your bodies pressed close as you two kissed again. You could feel his desire intensifying, and you knew he wanted more. You also knew that you were ready.

He pulls back, his eyes searching yours, "Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice soft. "We don't have to rush into anything. I've waited this long, I can wait longer."

You smile, your heart filled with warmth and affection, "I'm sure, Vi," you say, your voice steady. "There's no one else I'd rather do this with. It's only ever been you."

He looks at you, his eyes filled with surprise and happiness, "Really?"

You nod, "Really.”

He grins, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer, "Then what are we waiting for?"

He starts to unzip his pants, but his hands are shaking slightly, betraying his nonchalant facade. He pauses, taking a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

You watch him, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Vi," you say, your voice soft, "It's okay. We don't have to rush."

He looks at you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire, fear, and disbelief. "No, I want to," he says, his voice hoarse. "I've wanted this for...fuck, I don't know how long. I just...I don't want to mess this up."

You cup his face, your thumb brushing his cheek, "You won't. We're in this together, remember?"

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. When he opens them again, they're filled with determination. "You're right," he says, his voice steady. And with that, he finishes unzipping his pants, his eyes never leaving yours.

He pulls you closer, his hands gripping your hips as he positions himself at your entrance. He looks into your eyes, his expression serious. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice soft. "There's no going back after this."

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'm sure, Vi. I want this. I want you."

He takes a deep breath, and you can see the slight tremble in his hands. He's nervous, you realize. He's been waiting for this for so long, and he's nervous. The realization sends a warmth spreading through you, and you lean in to kiss him softly.

He responds immediately, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that surprises you. He pushes into you slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. You gasp at the slight pain, but it's quickly replaced by pleasure as he begins to move.

He starts slow, but it's not long before his desire takes over, and he begins to move faster, harder. You can feel the heat building between you, your bodies moving in perfect sync. You can hear his ragged breaths, his moans of pleasure, and it only serves to heighten your own pleasure.

"Fuck" he groans, his voice hoarse. "You feel so fucking good."

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer, whimpering in his ear.

He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in circles as he continues to move inside you. You gasp, your body arching against his as pleasure courses through you.

"Cum for me, sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "I want to feel you come apart around me."

His words push you over the edge, and you cry out, your body convulsing with pleasure. He follows soon after, his body tensing as he finds his own release, groaning your name.

For a moment, you both stay like that, him still inside you, your bodies pressed together, your breaths ragged. Then he pulls out, gently lowering you onto the bed beside him. He turns to you, his eyes filled with a softness that you've never seen before.

"Chérie" he says, his voice soft. "I...I don't know what to say."

You smile, your heart filled with happiness and contentment. "You don't have to say anything, Vi. I know how you feel."

He raises an eyebrow, "You do?"

You nod, "Because I feel the same way."

He hated the smell of antiseptic soaked into your clothes. Hated the way your fingers had become colder over the months, even when he held them between both of his hands. Hated how weak your smile had gotten.

But most of all, he hated how helpless he was.

Because Itoshi Sae could fix everything else.

A bad match. A failing team. A broken strategy. Himself.

But not you.

Your heart was born fragile, the doctors said. A cruel thing, really—someone so full of love cursed with an organ too weak to hold it all. At first, it was manageable. Medication. Checkups. A few scares here and there. You laughed through most of it anyway, teasing Sae whenever he got too serious.

“You look scarier than the doctor,” you’d mumble from the hospital bed.

And Sae would click his tongue, adjusting your blanket with careful hands.

“Then stop making me come here.”

But he always came.

Always.

Even after overseas training. Even after exhausting matches where his muscles screamed and cameras followed him like vultures. Even when he looked half-dead himself, he still walked into your room carrying your favorite drinks and peeled fruit because you once mentioned hospital apples tasted sad.

He learned your medications by memory.

Learned the signs before an episode happened—the way your breathing shortened, how your fingertips trembled slightly before the pain began. He became terrifyingly observant. Watching. Monitoring. Waiting.

You once caught him staring at your chest while you slept.

Not your face.

Your chest.

Just to make sure it was still rising.

“You should sleep,” you whispered groggily.

Sae looked away immediately. “I am sleeping.”

“You’ve been awake for thirty minutes.”

“Tch.”

You laughed softly.

God, he would spend the rest of his life trying to remember that sound.

The worst part was that you never acted angry about dying.

You treated it like weather.

Like something inevitable.

One rainy evening, while the city lights blurred outside your apartment window, you laid against his chest listening to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Reliable.

You smiled faintly.

“I like yours.”

Sae frowned down at you. “What?”

“Your heart.”

Silence.

“It sounds healthy.”

Something inside him snapped.

“Don’t talk like that.”

You blinked.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already gone.”

Your expression softened immediately, and somehow that hurt even more.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” His voice came out sharp. Broken around the edges. “Don’t apologize either.”

He held you tighter after that. So tight it almost hurt.

As if pressure alone could keep your soul inside your body.

Sae became desperate near the end.

Desperation looked ugly on him.

He argued with specialists. Flew doctors in from different countries. Threw money at treatments with microscopic success rates. He stopped sleeping properly. Stopped eating regularly. Stopped showing up to interviews unless absolutely necessary.

Articles started calling him “withdrawn.”

“Cold.”

“Mentally absent on the field.”

They didn’t know he spent nights sitting beside your bed counting every breath you took because he was terrified one of them would be the last.

You noticed it all.

Of course you did.

One night, you reached for his face weakly and brushed your thumb beneath his eye.

“You look tired.”

Sae leaned into your palm before he could stop himself.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“I know.”

Your breathing crackled slightly.

The room was dark except for the dim hospital light beside you both.

“I think…” you whispered slowly, “I’m scared now.”

For months, Sae thought he had prepared himself.

Thought he was the strong one between you.

But hearing that tiny confession in your shaking voice destroyed him completely.

He climbed carefully into the hospital bed beside you despite the nurses protesting before, wrapping both arms around your fragile body.

And for the first time in his life—

Itoshi Sae cried.

Not prettily.

Not quietly.

His shoulders shook violently as he buried his face into your neck, clutching you like he could fuse your bodies together and keep you alive through sheer force.

“I can’t do this,” he choked out.

You stroked his hair weakly.

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t want to.”

Your eyes burned.

Neither did you.

The morning you died was painfully ordinary.

Gray skies.

Half-finished tea on the table.

Your hand limp in his.

Sae had fallen asleep for the first time in nearly two days with his forehead resting against your knuckles.

And when he woke up—

The monitor was flat.

At first, he just stared at it.

Like he didn’t understand.

Like his brain physically could not process what he was seeing.

Then he looked at you.

Your face looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

“Mr. Itoshi?”

A nurse entered quietly.

No response.

He touched your cheek.

Warm, but cooling.

“No.”

His voice sounded distant. Unfamiliar.

“No.”

The nurse approached carefully, but Sae jerked away violently when she tried touching you.

“No, she’s sleeping.”

His voice cracked harder this time.

“She’s just sleeping.”

The nurse’s expression shattered.

And Sae—

Sae kept repeating it.

Over and over.

Until the words stopped sounding real.

After the funeral, he disappeared. Not physically, Emotionally.

Training became mechanical. Interviews reduced to one-word answers. He stopped replying to messages unless necessary. Stopped caring about headlines. Stopped caring about football some days.

His apartment remained untouched. Your mug still sat beside the sink, your cardigan still hung over the couch, your slippers still waited near the door.

Sae couldn’t move them.

Because moving them meant admitting you were never coming back.

Sometimes he swore he heard you humming in the kitchen.

Sometimes he turned around expecting to see you asleep on the couch.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he reached across the bed searching for your body before reality slammed into him all over again.

The grief made him hollow. Heavy. Rotting from the inside out.

He stopped understanding time. Days blurred together until Rin finally showed up one evening and froze upon seeing him.

Sae looked awful. Sunken eyes, unshaven, blank.

Like someone had carved everything human out of him and left behind only a shell wearing his face.

Rin opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then quietly;

“…You need to eat.”

Sae stared at the wall.

“She used to remind me too.”

And that—that was the first moment Rin realized his brother was truly destroyed.

Months later, Sae still talked to you sometimes.

While standing in empty rooms.

“I scored today.”

Silence.

“The pass was shit though.”

Silence.

“…You would’ve complained about my attitude.”

More silence.

And somehow that was the cruelest part—the world kept moving; people still laughed outside, trains still ran, matches still happened.

But yours didn’t.

Your world ended while everyone else continued living like nothing catastrophic had happened.

Like you had not taken entire galaxies of him with you when you left.

And Sae hated them for it.

Because how dare the world keep spinning—when you no longer existed in it?

Sae Itoshi sat alone in his apartment, the silence deafening. He looked around at the empty rooms, the untouched furniture, the dust bunnies growing in the corners. It felt like a museum, a place where time had stopped. And he hated it.

He hated the way the sun still rose every morning, like nothing had changed. He hated the way people still smiled at him, like they didn't know. Like they didn't understand.

He hated the way he still felt so fucking alone.

He picked up the framed picture of you two, your smiles wide and carefree. You were sitting on the edge of a cliff, your legs dangling over the side. Sae remembered that day. The wind had been strong, your hair whipping around your face. You had laughed, your eyes sparkling with joy. And Sae had felt invincible, like nothing could ever hurt you. Like nothing could ever take you away from him.

But it did.

And now, Sae felt like a stranger in his own life. Like a ghost haunting the shell of his former self. He looked at the picture, your face frozen in time, and he felt a pang of jealousy. Jealousy that you were at peace, that you were no longer suffering. Jealousy that you had left him behind.

He put the picture down, his hands trembling. He knew what he had to do. He had to end this. He had to end the pain, the loneliness, the constant reminder of what he had lost. He had to end it all.

The room is silent, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Sae Itoshi sits on the edge of his bed, a small bottle of pills clutched tightly in his hand. He stares at them, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows what he has to do. He has to end this. He has to end the pain, the loneliness, the constant reminder of what he has lost.

He unscrews the cap, his hands shaking slightly. He pours the pills into his palm, his eyes fixed on the tiny white discs. They glint in the soft light, innocent and harmless. But he knows better. He knows the destruction they can cause.

He takes a deep breath, bringing the pills to his mouth. He hesitates for a moment, his mind flashing back to a time when things were different. A time when he was happy. A time when you were still here.

But that time is gone. And he is left with nothing but pain and loneliness. He closes his eyes, his heart aching, and swallows the pills.

Sae Itoshi collapses onto the floor of his bathroom, his body wracked with pain. He had taken the pills, all of them, and now he's paying the price. He can feel his heart slowing, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. He knows he's dying, and he's terrified.

But amidst the fear, there's a strange sense of peace. He's finally going to be with you again. He closes his eyes, his mind flashing back to the last time he saw you. Your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes sparkled with life. He misses you so much.

He reaches out, his hand trembling as he tries to touch your face one last time. But there's nothing there. Just empty air. He opens his eyes, looking around the room, hoping to see you, to hear your voice one last time. But there's nothing. Just the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his body convulsing as the poison courses through his veins. He's dying, and he's alone. And he's never felt more miserable in his entire life.

Suddenly, amidst the crushing pain that engulfed his body, he recalled your voice so vividly that it caused his throat to tighten.

“Please… live for me.”

You said it often. Softly, like it wasn’t something that would outlive you. And long after you were gone, it stayed—less a memory than a wound that kept reopening, a reminder that you were still speaking to him from a place he could never follow.

Sae squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry, my love," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Forgive me for being selfish. I just can't live without you."

A tear slipped down his cheek as his eyes fluttered shut.

“…Please wait for me,” he breathed.

Then softly, like a prayer spoken only for you:

“I’m coming home.”

And alone in the silence of the apartment that had once held all his happiness—

Itoshi Sae followed you at last.

Isagi Yoichi

You were supporting your boyfriend, Yoichi Isagi, on one of his most important match days. The stadium was loud and overwhelming, but your focus never left him. You were sitting high in the stands wearing his oversized jersey, the fabric still carrying his scent, making it feel like he was somehow closer even from the field.

Every time he moved, you followed him instinctively, reacting to every pass and run like you were emotionally inside the game with him. When he scored the first goal, you immediately stood up and cheered loudly, not caring how many people around you were shouting too. “LET’S GO!” you yelled, your voice full of pride. He glanced up at that exact moment, and you caught it—the small shift in his expression when he saw you, in his jersey, cheering just for him.

The match only got more intense after that. Isagi kept adapting, reading everything as it unfolded, and you stayed locked onto him the entire time. But then Rin Itoshi started taking over. Every touch of his shifted the game, pulling everything into his control.

In the final moments, Rin made the decisive play and scored the winning goal. The stadium exploded. You jumped up with everyone else, clapping and cheering, caught up in the energy of it all. From the field, Isagi saw you—your smile, your reaction—and even if it wasn’t about Rin, it still lingered in his mind.

After the match, he walked over, still catching his breath. “Hey,” he said. You lit up immediately, stepping closer. “You were amazing today, seriously.” He nodded, but his expression didn’t fully match. “You were really loud when I scored.”

You grinned. “Obviously. I was cheering for you.” A pause. Then, quieter, a little sulky, “You were loud for Rin too.”

You blinked, then tilted your head, a small teasing smile already forming. “Ohhh… you noticed that?” He frowned slightly, looking away. “…It looked the same.” You stepped closer, clearly amused now. “You were watching me that closely?”

He didn’t answer right away, which was basically an answer. You let out a soft laugh, reaching up to fix his hair a little. “Wow. Scoring a goal and still keeping tabs on me? Multitasking king.”

“…I’m serious,” he muttered, though his voice softened a bit. “I know,” you said, still smiling, “that’s why it’s cute.” He glanced at you again, a little more flustered now. “…It’s not cute.”

“It is,” you insisted lightly, then leaned in just a bit. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not—”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. That shut him up instantly. You pulled back with a grin. “That was for your goal, by the way.”

He blinked, still processing. “…That doesn’t change—”

“And this,” you added, leaning in again—this time closer, brushing a softer kiss near the corner of his lips, “is for being dramatic about it.” He froze for a second, the pout still there but weaker now.

“…You still cheered for him,” he mumbled, though there was barely any weight behind it anymore. You laughed softly, leaning into him. “Yeah, because it was the winning goal.”

Then you looked up at him, eyes softer but still teasing. “But I don’t wear his jersey, do I?” That made him pause. You tugged lightly at the fabric you were wearing, raising a brow. “Or did you miss that too while you were busy watching me?”

“…I didn’t miss it,” he muttered.

“Good,” you said, smiling. Then, quieter, more sincere under the teasing, “Because you’re still my number one.” His shoulders relaxed, the last bit of tension fading as he looked at you properly again. “…Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A small pause—then he stepped a little closer, like he wasn’t going to let you pull away again so easily. “…Next time,” he said, still a little stubborn, “cheer louder for me.”

You laughed, bumping his shoulder. “I already did.”

“…Then make it obvious.”

You smiled, leaning into him again. “Fine. I’ll embarrass you next time.”

“…Don’t go that far,” he muttered—but he was smiling now, just a little.

Rin Itoshi

Rin said it was just a study session. That’s how he always framed things—clean, simple, no emotions attached.

Real Madrid was playing, Sae Itoshi was on the pitch, and Rin sat beside you with that familiar sharp focus already set in his eyes. Notebook open. Pen ready. Like he wasn’t watching his own brother, but analyzing a problem he planned to solve later.

“If I face him again,” Rin said quietly, “I need everything. His timing, his decision-making, his patterns.”

You hummed, leaning into the couch beside him. “Got it. I’ll behave.”

“Good,” he said, eyes fixed on the field. “Don’t distract me.” You scoffed a little at that. “Since when do I ever?” Rin didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched like he disagreed.

The match started.

At first, it really was calm. You watched properly, trying to stay quiet while Rin tracked every movement like a machine. Sae was smooth from the very first touch—clean control, effortless pace, like the ball obeyed him more than he played with it. You leaned forward slightly. “That first touch was crazy…”

Rin wrote something down immediately. Sae split through midfield later with a pass that carved the defense open. You couldn’t help it. “No way… that vision is unreal.” Rin paused mid-note. Then kept writing. A goal came shortly after, built entirely off Sae’s pass.

You clapped softly without thinking. “That’s insane—Sae’s really—” Rin clicked his tongue. You stopped mid-sentence, blinking at him.

“…What?” you asked. He didn’t look at you. “Focus on the structure, not the outcome.” You stared at him for a second, then the screen. “I am focusing. I just said it was a good play.”

“It’s a study,” he repeated.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re being weird.” Rin finally glanced at you—just briefly. “I’m not.” But the way he said it wasn’t as sharp as usual.

Sae made another perfect pass. You murmured again, softer this time, “He’s kind of on another level…” Rin’s pen stopped. This time, he didn’t write anything.

“…Of course you’d say that,” he muttered. You frowned a little. “Say what?” But he didn’t answer. Still, you noticed it now—the way his focus was there, but slightly off. Like part of him wasn’t fully on the pitch anymore.

Another play. Another perfect read from Sae. You opened your mouth again, then stopped yourself. Then you sighed. “Okay, I’m being annoying, aren’t I?”

Rin blinked once. “You’re not.” That surprised you more than anything. You shifted closer to him slightly. “You’re just jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said immediately. Too fast. That made you smile.

The match continued, but your attention drifted more to him now than the game. His jaw was a little tighter than usual, his grip on the pen more controlled than relaxed.

So you leaned in a bit, voice softer. “Rin.”

“What.” You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him.

“…You’re cute when you’re trying to pretend you’re not affected.” That got a small pause out of him.

“I’m not—” You didn’t let him finish. You leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

Rin froze.

The pen in his hand stopped mid-air, and for a second, even the stadium noise on the screen felt distant. You pulled back slightly, watching him. “See? Fixed.”

“…Fixed?” he repeated, slowly turning his head toward you. There it was—his expression still composed, but the tips of his ears faintly red now that you’d noticed.

You nodded like it was obvious. “You were being grumpy.”

“I was not—”

“You were,” you interrupted gently, smiling now. Then Rin looked away, back at the screen, trying very hard to regain whatever focus he lost.

“…Focus on the match,” he muttered. But his voice wasn’t sharp anymore.

Sae made another clean pass. You expected Rin to comment on it. Instead, after a pause, he said quietly,

“…That was decent.” You blinked. “Decent?” He clicked his tongue, but there was no real bite to it. “Don’t start.”

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder this time. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“I’m not.” But his hand subtly moved closer to yours on the couch.

And this time, when Sae did something impressive on screen, Rin actually wrote it down properly again. But a little less distant than before—like whatever had thrown him off hadn’t been erased.

Sae Itoshi

The U-20 World Cup stadium was vibrating with noise.

Crowds screamed from every section of the arena, chants echoing beneath the floodlights while cameras flashed endlessly across the stands. Every touch of the ball drew some kind of reaction.

Beside you, Sae Itoshi sat completely composed despite all of it.

One arm rested against the armrest while his sharp teal eyes stayed locked onto the field, posture relaxed but focused in that way only Sae could manage. Even surrounded by thousands of people, he somehow still felt untouchable.

You leaned lightly against his shoulder. “You know, normal boyfriends usually act happier bringing their girlfriend to a World Cup game.”

Without looking away from the pitch, Sae answered flatly, “Normal girlfriends don’t spend the entire match talking.”

You gasped dramatically. “Wow.”

A faint click of his tongue.

Victory.

The match resumed after halftime, and the stadium suddenly exploded louder than before.

Then you saw why.

Bunny Iglesias had just received the ball near the penalty area, instantly dragging defenders toward him.

Your eyes widened slightly.

“Oh, wait.”

Bunny feinted left before cutting sharply inside, slipping cleanly through the defensive gap before firing a shot that barely missed the top corner.

The crowd roared.

You sat up straighter automatically. “Okay, that was actually insane.”

Beside you, Sae stayed silent.

The replay flashed across the giant stadium screen, Bunny’s FC Barcha profile appearing beside his name.

And suddenly, you remembered.

Right.

The FC Barcha striker.

The one Sae constantly had to face in Spain while playing for Re Al Madrid.

Your lips slowly curled upward.

“…Oh my god.”

Sae already looked mildly irritated.

Which told you everything.

“You’re jealous.”

“No.”

Way too fast.

You turned toward him with the biggest grin imaginable. “Sae.”

“I’m not jealous of Bunny Iglesias.” The full name.

That made it infinitely funnier.

On the field, Bunny pressed aggressively the second possession switched, stealing the ball high up the pitch before nearly scoring again.

The audience erupted into cheers.

You laughed softly in disbelief. “Okay, I get why FC Barcha fans love him so much. He’s ridiculously aggressive offensively.”

“He overcommits during transitions.”

The response came instantly.

You slowly turned toward Sae.

He kept his eyes on the field, expression calm.

Too calm.

“He leaves space behind when he pushes too high,” Sae continued flatly. “And he gets impatient when midfield pressure cuts off his options.”

You blinked once.

“…You know a concerning amount about his weaknesses.”

“I’m a midfielder,” Sae said like it was obvious. “It’s my job to know.”

Right.

That somehow made this even better.

Because of course Sae would spend entire matches analyzing Bunny’s movements just to dismantle him later during league games.

You leaned closer teasingly. “So this is what every Re Al Madrid versus FC Barcha match looks like in your head?”

“He’s annoying.”

“There it is.”

“He relies too much on momentum.”

“You sound personally offended by his existence.”

Sae finally glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Because you’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Mhm.”

On the field, Bunny slipped through two defenders before scoring cleanly into the bottom corner.

The stadium exploded instantly.

Fans screamed while Bunny celebrated arrogantly toward the crowd, grinning as cameras flashed around him.

You instinctively grabbed Sae’s arm. “OH, THAT WAS CLEAN—”

Sae sighed beside you.

You looked at him immediately. “No way.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You sighed.”

“Because you’re loud.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

You burst into laughter, and Sae’s expression flattened further the more amused you got.

Honestly, it was adorable.

Especially because he was trying so hard to stay composed about it.

You intertwined your fingers with his beneath the armrest. “You know you’re still my favorite player to watch, right?”

Sae paused slightly.

The tension in his shoulders eased just a little beneath your touch.

“…Obviously.”

There it was, his quiet confidence returning.

Your expression softened instantly.

Cute. Dangerously cute.

You rested your head against his shoulder again, smiling when he didn’t move away.

On the field, Bunny’s goal replay flashed across the screen once more.

Sae clicked his tongue quietly under his breath.

You nearly laughed again. “You really hate FC Barcha players.”

“I hate him.”

Your eyes widened dramatically. “Oh, that’s PERSONAL personal.”

“He talks too much during matches.”

“Says the man who literally trash-talks people mid-pass.”

“That’s different.”

“It literally isn’t.”

Sae looked unimpressed by your amusement, but his hand tightened around yours anyway.

Warm. Firm. Possessive without him even realizing it.

Then, quieter this time, while still watching the field, he muttered,

“…Stop looking at him like that.”

Your smile softened immediately.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re impressed.”

You stared at him for a second before your chest genuinely ached from how unfairly adorable he was being.

So you leaned closer, voice softer now.

“I only look at you like that when you play.”

Sae went still for half a second.

Then his grip tightened around your hand again.

“…Good,” he said quietly.

And despite the roaring stadium, despite Bunny scoring and the entire crowd screaming around you—Sae looked far more satisfied hearing that than he ever would beating FC Barcha.

Michael Kaiser

The TV room was dim except for the bright flashes of the volleyball match—Japan vs Argentina. The crowd noise came in waves, sharp whistles cutting through every rally, the kind of intensity that made everything feel bigger than it was.

Kaiser was sprawled on the couch like he was doing you a favor just by being there.

“This is kind of boring,” he said immediately, even though he hadn’t looked away from the screen once.

You didn’t even glance at him. “You literally picked the match.”

“I didn’t pick it,” he replied. “You wanted to watch it.”

On screen, Sakusa Kiyoomi went up for an outside hit—his wrist snapping at a wild angle, sending the ball down the line like it had been fired.

You leaned forward instantly. “That wrist control is insane. It’s like he’s slingshotting the ball.”

Kaiser scoffed.

“…That’s impressive to you?” You blinked at him.

“It is impressive.”

“It’s just basic contact adjustment.”

You gave him a look. “You’ve never played volleyball.”

“So?”

You turned back to the screen. Oikawa took over the next rally—calm, precise, reading the block before it even formed, setting perfectly into space.

“Oh wow,” you said immediately. “His setting is actually crazy. He’s controlling the entire tempo of the rally.”

Kaiser clicked his tongue.

Louder this time. You finally looked at him. “What?” He leaned back like he was offended by the entire sport.

“That’s what you’re impressed by?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said slowly. “Because it’s good?”

“I could do that.”

You stared at him.

“…In volleyball…?”

“In anything,” he corrected immediately.

On screen, Sakusa scored again—another impossible angle.

You gasped. “No way, that wrist again—how is he generating that spin—”

“I could copy that in five minutes,” Kaiser interrupted.

You paused.

“…You are not a volleyball player.”

“And?” he said, smug already returning. “Talent is talent.” You squinted at him.

“You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous.” Too fast. You hummed.

The match continued. Oikawa served again, placing it perfectly into a weak reception zone. You nodded.

“His serve pressure is really smart too. He’s forcing bad first touches every time.”

Kaiser leaned forward slightly now. “…You’re talking about him a lot.”

You blinked. “I’m talking about the game.”

“You’re praising him.”

“I’m analyzing.”

He clicked his tongue again.

Sakusa spiked—clean, sharp, unstoppable. You leaned forward. “That timing is actually insane—”

“That’s enough.” Kaiser’s voice cut in sharper this time. You stopped mid-sentence and turned toward him “…What?”

He didn’t look at you immediately. “You’re acting like they’re the only ones worth watching.” You frowned slightly. “It’s a volleyball match. I’m watching volleyball players.”

Silence. Then Kaiser scoffed. “I’d be better than all of them.”

You just stared at him now.

He continued, voice getting more confident again. “That setter? Too slow. That outside hitter? Predictable. If I was on that court, this would already be over.”

You blinked once. “…You’re seriously jealous of a volleyball match.”

“I am NOT jealous,” he snapped immediately. But his ear tips were slightly red. You leaned back into the couch, amused now. “Mm-hm.” On screen, Oikawa set again—perfect deception, blockers jumping early.

You murmured, “He’s really good at reading pressure…” Kaiser’s patience snapped.

“You’re enjoying him too much.”

That finally made you pause. You looked at him properly. He was sitting forward now, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unfazed—but failing.

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you jealous?”

“I said I’m NOT jealous.”

“Sure.”

Then you leaned closer to him, voice softer now. “You’re just mad I’m impressed by someone else.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Mm.”

Sakusa scored again. You instinctively reacted—“That was—” Kaiser didn’t even let you finish. You stopped mid-sentence and looked at him.

“…Okay, what is your problem?”

“My problem?” he repeated. “You’re sitting here praising them like I’m not right next to you.”

That made you blink, and then you smiled a bit. You simply said, “Oh.” That look alone made him pause. You turned slightly toward him. Then, without warning, you reached up and kissed him.

Right in the middle of his rant. Kaiser froze instantly.

The TV kept going—crowd noise, whistle, spike—but everything in the room felt paused for a second. You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“…Okay,” you said calmly. “You were talking too much.”

Silence. Kaiser blinked once. Then again.

“…What was that?” he asked, but his voice came out lower than usual.

You shrugged. “Shut you up.” Then you leaned back again like nothing happened and turned your eyes to the screen.

“Okay, okay,” you said lightly, a bit sarcastic, “you’re the best in volleyball too. Happy?” That snapped him back.

“…Tch,” he scoffed, but the sound was delayed. “Obviously, I am.” You hummed in agreement. “Right. Sure.” On screen, Sakusa spiked again.

You glanced at it once, then back at Kaiser. He was still slightly frozen, like his brain was trying to catch up and recover his ego at the same time.

“…Don’t just do that whenever I’m talking,” he muttered finally. You smiled faintly. “Then stop bragging mid-analysis.”

“I wasn’t bragging.” You raised an eyebrow. He clicked his tongue, leaning back again like he was resetting himself.

“…I was stating facts.”

“Mm-hm.”

Then, quieter—still trying to recover:

“…You didn’t have to kiss me to prove your point.”

You leaned your head lightly on his shoulder. “It worked though.”

That made him look away immediately. “Obviously, it worked,” he said, but he didn’t move away.

And for the rest of the match, every time he started bragging again about how he’d “dominate this level easily,” his voice stayed just a little less loud— like he was still trying to pretend you didn’t have a perfect way to shut him up whenever he got too confident.

Kaiser, however, enjoyed it. He might continue bragging about it if you could silence him that way.

He noticed how you always stole the marshmallows out of his hot chocolate even though you claimed you didn’t like sweet things.

How you tilted your head whenever you were genuinely listening to someone speak.

How your fingers curled around the sleeves of your sweater when you got shy.

How you pretended to hate physical affection, yet always gravitated toward him unconsciously — knees touching beneath restaurant tables, your head finding his shoulder during long car rides, your hand brushing against his like your body had memorized him long before your heart admitted it.

And yes—he noticed your habits while he’s playing too.

How you sat in the stands during his matches, legs swinging slightly as you watched him like it was the most normal thing in the world to be watching Hugo Vivian of the New Generation Eleven miss a pass and then immediately hear you laugh.

Not cruel, never cruel.

Just that soft, breathy laugh like you found him too human for his own good.

And weirdly? Hugo thought it was cute, annoyingly cute.

Even when it was directed at him.

Because every time he misjudged a pass or mistimed a press, he’d hear it.

Your laugh.

And instead of it shaking him, it would just make him click his tongue under his breath like—Seriously? You’re laughing?

Like you hadn’t just witnessed a New Gen Eleven midfielder miss a pass.

Like you didn’t know exactly how ridiculous that was supposed to be.

He’d glance up at the stands mid-match, eyes narrowing slightly.

And you’d be there—trying and failing to look innocent.

Hands covering your mouth.

Shoulders shaking anyway.

And Hugo would think, mildly offended but undeniably fond: Unbelievable. That’s my so-called supporter.

Because Hugo never knew what you were.

His number one fan?

Or his number one hater?

You were both, apparently.

And somehow, that made you his favorite person in the stadium.

Hugo Vivian noticed it all.

Because loving you had become instinctive.

You were his best friend. His favorite person. The first voice he searched for in crowded rooms and the last person he texted before sleeping. Somewhere between late-night drives and lazy Sundays spent tangled together on his couch, Hugo Vivian had fallen disastrously in love with you.

And the worst part was—he didn’t even know when it happened.

Maybe it was the night you fell asleep on his chest while rambling about your childhood.

Or when you showed up at his apartment at midnight because you “just wanted company,” and the two of you ended up dancing stupidly in his kitchen to old songs playing from his speaker.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Maybe Hugo Vivian was always going to love you.

He knew you hated thunderstorms despite pretending they didn’t scare you. Every time rain hit your windows too loudly, you’d suddenly find reasons to stay near him.

“Hugo,” you’d mumble softly from his bedroom doorway at two in the morning, oversized hoodie swallowing your figure whole, “can I sleep here tonight?”

And every single time, he’d lift the blanket beside him without hesitation.

“C’mere.”

You’d crawl into bed beside him quietly, your cold feet immediately pressing against his legs.

“You’re freezing,” he’d complain automatically.

“And you’re warm,” you’d reply, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Then Hugo would wrap himself around you like second nature.

Like your body belonged there, like you were destined to be with him.

Like it always would.

The terrifying thing about Hugo Vivian was how carefully he loved.

He memorized your coffee order after hearing it once.

He kept hair ties around his wrist because you were always losing yours.

He saved photos of things that reminded him of you — cats sleeping in bookstores, sunsets that matched the color of your eyes, little notes you absentmindedly scribbled on napkins.

And yes, he noticed your stadium habits too.

How you always leaned forward when he was about to receive the ball, like your body could somehow influence the play.

How your fingers fidgeted whenever the match got tense.

How you always relaxed the moment he started controlling the midfield properly, like you could actually feel when he “switched on.”

Hugo loved that most of all.

Not because you understood football like a tactician—but because you understood him, even when he didn’t say anything.

He loved you in ways so gentle you almost missed them, Almost.

But sometimes, late at night, you’d catch him staring at you with this unbearably soft expression. Like he was trying to memorize you before the world could take you away.

And your chest would ache so badly it frightened you.

Because no one had ever looked at you the way Hugo Vivian did.

Like he had discovered something sacred.

One evening, the two of you ended up on the rooftop of his apartment building, city lights glittering beneath the dark sky while music played softly from his phone. Some old song by The 1975 hummed quietly between you both.

You were wearing his jacket.

He noticed that too.

“You steal a lot of my clothes,” he said lazily, leaning back against the wall beside you.

You glanced at him innocently. “Maybe your clothes just like me more.”

Hugo laughed softly under his breath.

God, that laugh.

You’d spend the rest of your life listening to it if you could.

The wind brushed against your skin as silence settled comfortably between you. The kind of silence only existed between people who knew each other too well.

Then Hugo suddenly spoke.

“You know what I realized?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

Your breath caught immediately.

He said it so casually. So softly. Like it had simply become fact.

Hugo turned to look at you then, his expression unfairly tender.

“I knew it the moment I started memorizing things about you,” he admitted quietly. “Like how you always count steps on stairs without realizing. Or how you laugh when I mess up even though you’re clearly trying not to.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

“Hugo…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered quickly, almost smiling. “I just needed you to know.”

But you were already looking at him like he’d hung every star in the sky himself.

“You idiot,” you laughed shakily, eyes glossy. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

For a second, Hugo just stared. Then he laughed—soft and disbelieving and beautiful.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

The small grin that spread across his face nearly killed you.

And then he kissed you, slowly at first.

Like he was terrified you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

His hand slid against your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek while your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie. The kiss tasted like winter air and coffee and every late-night conversation you’d ever shared.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so softly it made your chest ache.

“There you are,” he murmured.

“What?”

“The girl who laughs at me like I’m predictable.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You are predictable.”

“Liar.”

“Okay,” you admitted softly, “but you’re my predictable.”

That made him go quiet.

Then Hugo pulled you closer by the waist, like the idea of distance suddenly annoyed him.

“You’re still annoying,” he murmured.

You smiled instantly. “But you love me.”

Hugo sighed like it physically offended him.

“…Unfortunately.”

And after that, loving Hugo Vivian felt easy.

Because he became the type of boyfriend who kissed your forehead every single time he passed by you.

The type who sent you voice messages saying “stop laughing at my passes” followed immediately by “I miss you.”

The type who still noticed everything—

How you counted steps.

How you stole marshmallows.

How you laughed when he missed a pass in midfield like you couldn’t help yourself.

And every time it happened, Hugo would just exhale through his nose, shake his head slightly…

…and play better the next time, not because he had to, but because you were watching.

Note: This might be my last post until early June because my schedule is PACKED and I’m going on vacation…T-T