#e21

Like a well-oiled machine, the Shin family preps the coming week’s breakfasts and lunches together every Friday night. Seijuro’s mom washes and weighs out the ingredients, Seijuro chops them, and his dad is in charge of the stove.

It’s so well-organized, that it’s with careful consideration and much gravitas, that Seijuro says, very seriously, “I’d like to make extra. For—my friend.”

There’s a pause as Seijuro’s parents glance towards their son and then back at their work. A peculiar request from their, frankly, peculiar boy.

“Of course,” they say, hiding smiles, remaining nonchalant. They were young once, too.

That is how Seijuro ends up with two onigiri for Sena, which he presents to the running back as if it’s nothing—as if onigiri have little legs and make their merry way, by happenstance, into lunchboxes—during a lunch break in their Youth World Cup training camp.

Sena weakly mumbles protests, caught between politely declining and politely accepting, unsure which one is the most polite.

“You should be increasing the amount of simple carbs you eat during intense training,” Seijuro says. “When you deplete your glycogen stores, your body has to metabolize slower burning fuel. Slower fuel, slower movement.”

In that moment, there has never been a more rapt student than Sena, eyes wide and serious, drinking in every word Seijuro says despite their loud teammates starting to trickle in around them as lunch starts.

“Okay,” Sena says, quietly. “Thanks.”

Seijuro hands them off.

The onigiri switch hands, parchment crinkling slightly, and their fingertips brush during the exchange.

Deimon’s receiver sits between Sena and Shin, and Yamato sits on Sena’s other side.

Seijuro is finely tuned to his body the way a surgeon knows her scalpel. Any deviations are noticed immediately, and if needed and appropriate, corrected. As he eats methodically, he takes stock of his body.

Heartrate, elevated.

Breathing, dysregulated.

Nervousness is not completely unknown to Seijuro, but it’s rare, and in any case, he keeps checking in on himself, knowing his dataset is incomplete. So he continues.

Face, warm. Blushing, slightly, maybe.

Mind, singularly fixed on Sena.

Especially how just now was the only time he's ever—touched Sena's hand like that—which would not have this affect on him, surely—except that it was Sena's hand. Sena's bare hand. They'd taken their gloves off and washed their hands for lunch, so both of their hands were bare.

When Deimon's receiver gets up for something, Yamato is still chatting with Sena. Seijuro waits for a lull in the conversation, and reaches out again, across the meter of space between them, and with his bare hand, gently nudges Sena's elbow, right above a scrape of turf burn from earlier in the day.

Sena’s face turns to him immediately. Seijuro's stomach flips—pleasantly, the same way it does as a rollercoaster starts cresting downwards from its apex. The weightlessness, the lightness. A thrill of excitement at what's to come. He soaks in Sena’s attention, sitting a little taller. His fingertips have a pulsing neon-buzz.

"What did you think?” Seijuro asks, though he knows the answer. His family has been working on their recipes for years and the macros are perfect.

"They’re so good," Sena says. He fiddles with the washi tape: footballs on a green and white background. “I don’t think I’ve seen these at the convenience store…?”

Seijuro picks up the cue, hesitating only briefly, “They’re—homemade.”

“No way! That’s amazing!” Sena adds, voice quieter and contemplative, “Shin-san is amazing.”

Seijuro doesn’t have a chance to respond—which is for the best—because their coaches call to regroup, and this time Sena and Seijuro are in separate groups for the rest of the day and don’t have a chance to—talk, he guesses, though neither of them are particularly talkative—see each other, except for watching Sena, already showered and changed, walking home with some of his Deimon teammates. They cling casually to him: they slap his back or they grind their knuckles into his hair or they bump his shoulder—in a friendly way, Seijuro is sure. They touch Sena casually and none of them seem to be stuck on it or think twice about it.

Seijuro is about to turn away when he notices Sena’s red water bottle. There’s a small green and white sticker with a cartoon football on it now.

“Shin?” he hears Sakuraba ask. “You ready to go?”

“I was getting my backpack,” he answers.

That is the first day of their training camp. On Sunday, Seijuro does the same thing. The nudging. The onigiri. Their fingertips meeting once more. He finds himself leaning over Sena during huddles to read the whiteboard play, close enough that Sena’s helmet sometimes bumps into Seijuro’s jersey; or sitting next to Sena on the bench during lessons, their legs touching along their thighs as the coaches make them squeeze in as many players as possible. If they are in the same group, then wherever Sena is, Seijuro is right there, close enough to be a second shadow. Though to be fair, twice Seijuro turns around, thinking he’s by himself, and bumps into Sena.

“Ah, sorry, Shin-san,” Sena says, accompanied by a half-step backward.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seijuro says. Bumping into Sena doesn’t hurt, but his mind hyperfixates where Sena’s arm brushed against his. Again, he finds his heartbeat increasing, badum, badum, badum.

“I told my mom about your homemade lunches. She was really impressed.”

“Please relay my thanks.” Seijuro thinks: he talks about me to his family. And then all he thinks is Sena, Sena, Sena.

Sena nods. “And—ah… Could you wait a bit after practice? We probably won’t see each other again until we’re at the airport next weekend, so…”

“Okay,” Seijuro says, understanding that Sena might have requested anything else and he would have agreed just as easily.

For the rest of that day, Seijuro is hyperaware of Sena. Or rather, they are hyperaware of each other since it’s their eyes that meet when something funny happens and or when they have to find a partner for a drill. And, if Seijuro could get embarrassed, he might be embarrassed that their synchronicity is noticed, sharply, by their coaches when one of them comments, “You two have good chemistry for this play. We’ll have to use it more during the tournament.”

When camp ends, finally, Seijuro hurries through his routine.

“I need to talk with Kobayakawa about something,” Seijuro tells Sakuraba and barely waits for a reply before exiting the locker room.

Away from the growing crowd of teammates waiting by the main entrance, Seijuro spots Sena by the bleachers, alone. Seijuro walks over.

“Right,” Sena mumbles, opening his backpack and taking out a small, soft-walled cooler. Sena pulls out a small glass jar of honeyed lemon slices. There’s a dark blue ribbon tied around the lid. “I just—wanted to say thanks—so, I hope you like these. I heard they’re good for hydration. Ah, and honey is a simple carb. I think. So that’s good! I made them last night so it probably needs a little longer, but I didn’t want to… keep waiting…”

Sena holds out the jar.

Seijuro easily reaches out and accepts it, consciously letting his fingertips brush Sena’s wrist. No feigned politeness, no hesitancy. He wants it, simple as that. “This will be very effective for recovery. Thank you.”

Sena zips his backpack and nods his head. “Great! That’s great to hear! Okay! So! I’m just gonna, uh…”

Their training camp is a long way from Seijuro’s house, and he already has a pre-portioned balanced dinner waiting for him. 

Neither of which stop him from asking: “I’d like to discuss our play more. Do you have time now?”

Sena, starting intently at his shoes, nods. “I heard there’s a good cafe nearby.”