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“How was your flight?”

Chigiri’s tone is cool, casual, as if he’s meeting Kunigami for lunch instead of greeting a friend he hasn’t seen in a year. He leans across the railing at Arrivals, sipping a Starbucks frappuccino. A black baseball hat obscures his sharp features, and Kunigami wants so badly to rip it off, see Chigiri illuminated in JFK’s neon white glow. Instead, he taps its brim with a soft, tender smile.

“You came a much longer way than I did, and you had to wait. I should be asking you.”

“Hey!” Chigiri spits, adjusting his hat. Despite the exhaustion of his flight from Tokyo and the bags under his eyes, Chigiri manages a smile back, small but sincere. It’s been years since they first met in Blue Lock, but it still makes Kunigami’s stomach do somersaults, his heart do unfettered flips.

More than anything else, Chigiri’s smile is a cool, breezy relief, a burst of window fan air in New York’s humid summer. Kunigami wants to grab his shoulders and tell him he’s glad he’s here, or throw his arms around Chigiri and feel his old friend’s warmth. But panic stabs through him, fear that touch might be too much, too intimate given the trip’s circumstances. So he settles for a friendly wave, and:

“Nice to see you too.”

It’s been months of quiet worry and anxious fretting, and it’s so, so good to see Chigiri—back slouched, eyes uncharacteristically dull behind those long, thick lashes. But he’s still Chigiri, still the same, snarky person Kunigami once knew, raising an eyebrow as Kunigami shoves his suitcase under the steel railing. And when Kunigami climbs between the bars, like a child at a supermarket instead of a professional footballer in his twenties, Chigiri laughs.

“So keen to get out of here? You’re the one who kept me waiting.”

Kunigami groans, surfacing on the other side of the metal bar. “Asshole. I told you to take a taxi to my friend’s place first. She left the key under her doormat. You could have gotten in.”

Chigiri snorts. “And what, leave you stranded with your half-assed English? You’d never make it out without me.”

“My English isn’t that bad.” It’s good enough that he can converse with his teammates in Leipzig, at least. Kunigami slaps Chigiri’s back, and Chigiri kicks his ankle in retort. For a split second, there’s no distance between them. They joke and chatter as they push through the crowd, catching up on their journeys, their families, anything but football. Chigiri’s barely limping and drags his gray suitcase along on its pink wheels, keeping pace as they step out into the rideshare pickup area. The sun burns brightly on Kunigami’s skin, and the sky is clear despite the thick, muggy scent of city dirt. Kunigami can almost pretend things are okay.

Chigiri calls for an Uber on his phone. “Three minutes. Red Nissan Versa Note,” he says, like either of them know jack about car models. He stretches, leaning against a black-and-white sign advertising what’s presumably a dating app: Kunigami can’t be certain. What the hell is “Lex”, and why does it look like a newspaper ad if it’s for meeting hot singles in the area?

Fuck, maybe Chigiri’s right. Maybe Kunigami’s English is half-assed, though even in their native language, he's much better at speaking than reading or writing. Which reminds him, he does have some messages to write. Kunigami shoots his parents a text telling them he’s landed. Next, he fires off a message in his group chat, telling Bachira and Isagi he’s picked up their precious cargo. They’ll be glad to know Chigiri landed safely, even if Chigiri won’t tell them himself.

Kunigami’s the only one who’s heard from him lately.

The maroon car that pulls up is smaller than Kunigami expected. The Uber driver rolls the window down, blinking at their suitcases. “Get in quick,” she says in a distinctly non-American accent, “I can’t wait long here. One of your bags needs to go in the front seat: there won’t be enough space in the back.”

“Sure.” Kunigami pops the front door open, chucking his carry-on and suitcase in. Chigiri makes his way to the trunk. Before Kunigami has time to think, he’s sprinting towards Chigiri, who’s hoisting his too-large suitcase into the back. Kunigami grabs its handle.

“Need help?”

Chigiri bats Kunigami’s hand away. The warmth that lingered between them dissipates in seconds, giving way to Chigiri’s icy, venomous tone.

“I’m injured, not a fragile little flower. I’ll manage my own bag. Go find another maiden to save, hero.”

Kunigami raises both hands in protest, but doesn’t say more before getting into the Uber. Chigiri climbs in behind him. The car ride to his friend’s in Brooklyn is quiet, tense. Chigiri’s a prideful person, and the last thing Kunigami wants to do is kick him while he’s down, treat him like he’s glass. Even if Chigiri is balling his hands up into angry fists, and Kunigami can’t help but wonder how close he came to shattering.

He can’t imagine being in Chigiri’s shoes. Making it out of Blue Lock, signing with Manshine City’s U-21 squad, and having two marvelous, beautiful seasons with his name splayed across headlines. Getting signed by Liverpool for their first team, and snagging a spot on their starting lineup during his debut year. Falling the wrong way after a hard tackle during the FA Cup Final, millions of eyes watching his ACL rip apart.

Chigiri’s career unraveled to a maddening crowd’s cacophony, screeching fans more invested in the game’s result than the end of his World Cup dream. Kunigami wonders what Chigiri thought as he was carried off in that stretcher, clenching his leg in agony, tears streaming down his face and swearing up a storm. Liverpool went on to win 1-0, on a goal he scored.

It’s been a year since.

Last Kunigami heard, Chigiri flew back to Japan for surgery. The result was as they knew and feared. Chigiri will walk normally, even run and jog, but never play football again. He subsequently fell off the face of the planet, ignoring calls, texts, even a gift hamper that Raichi of all people sent to his parents’ home. Kunigami was stunned when Chigiri actually responded to a last-ditch email he sent just three weeks ago, agreeing to meet in New York City. “Just like old times.”

Though it probably won’t be. Not as Chigiri forlornly stares through the car’s tinted windows, eyes glazing over a billboard for a Hayley Kiyoko concert. It takes Kunigami a split second to realize it’s at the MetLife Stadium, where the 2026 World Cup will be played. Kunigami wants so badly to take Chigiri’s hand, squeeze it and assure him things will be alright.

Sympathy will make this worse. Kunigami turns away, taking note of Brooklyn instead, the brick-wall buildings with steel fire escapes, the concrete sidewalks and grid-like roads. He counts down the seconds before the car pulls up at his friend’s in Sunset Park. Chigiri gets out of the car, marching towards the trunk to fetch his suitcase himself.

Kunigami grabs his bags and heads towards the nondescript black door, nestled between a deli and a liquor shop. His friend was right—the building door’s meant to be locked, but it opens anyway, leading to a shabby, tiled staircase. He hoists his bags up the stairs, fighting the urge to check on Chigiri. He’ll manage, Kunigami reminds himself.

Injured, not a fragile flower. Injured, not glass.

Is any part of this a good idea? His friend from New York needed a place to stay in Leipzig over the summer. Kunigami had offered a swap—she and her roommate could crash at his place, he’d crash with Chigiri at hers. He hadn’t accounted for stairs being hard on Chigiri, especially three flights with no elevator to speak of. Add a too-big suitcase and his pride weighing heavier than any airline’s first-class baggage limit. Kunigami’s just glad Chigiri makes it up without collapsing.

Kunigami reaches under the dusty welcome mat to grab two sets of keys, tossing Chigiri one with an anime keychain before opening the door. They’re greeted by small, scuttling footsteps across wood flooring, and a loud, anguished meow.

A black-and-white cat cocks its head, curious. He meows again, disdainful, and Kunigami’s no cat expert, but he wonders if he’s disappointed. After all, there are two strangers in his house instead of his mother.

Thankfully, Chigiri loves cats.

He wheels his suitcase in, making a soft, clicking noise with his tongue. Chigiri’s eyes remain trained on the fat, round kitty—and the cat takes the bait, waltzing up to Chigiri and rubbing his face on his leg. Kunigami’s friend was right. Her cat really is friendly.

“This is Bobby. He’s fifteen years old.”

Kunigami bends over to pet Bobby’s back, to which Bobby responds with another loud howl. Chigiri seems to have forgotten about settling in, plonking himself on the floor so he’s closer to Bobby’s eye level. Chigiri places a finger between Bobby’s light green eyes which he promptly swats at.

“Feisty, huh?” Chigiri sings as Bobby nuzzles his face into Chigiri’s hand. Kunigami smiles. Okay, this much was a sound calculation. The cat’s presence is good for Chigiri, even if Bobby isn’t like the ones Chigiri follows on Instagram, sleek black creatures with eyes sharp as daggers. He’d send Kunigami pictures before he pulled his vanishing act.

Bobby swats at Chigiri, unprompted. Chigiri gets to his feet.

“I think he’s hungry.” Kunigami shakes his head. “His mealtime is at seven.”

“Oh, you’re just a greedy little boy then,” Chigiri says. Kunigami’s chest bursts with a soft, cozy sensation. The little hamster in his brain finally stops pacing, nestling itself in a warm blanket and closing its eyes for rest. “I bet you’ve got treats in the kitchen. I’ll get you some.”

With that, Chigiri’s off, suitcase and Nike Air Jordans still smack dab in the middle of the hallway. Kunigami groans.

“Oi, clean up after yourself, princess!”

“I’ll do it later,” Chigiri hollers back, playful and light. That lightness is reassurance, a promise that things might be okay.

_____

They get okay American-Chinese takeout, watch YouTube videos on the living room TV, and pass out around ten. Kunigami’s alarm goes off at five forty-five, and he groans, rubbing his eyes and staring out the window. The sky’s a soft gradient of orange and blue, light filtering through a dusty cloud to cast the world in a beautiful, hazy glow.

Time to hit the gym. There’s no slacking during the off-season, especially if Kunigami wants to eat and drink like he’s on vacation. Chigiri’s still asleep in the other room, so Kunigami slips out the door, hoping desperately that Bobby won’t meow up a storm before it’s fully bright out. There’s a Planet Fitness nearby, and even if it isn’t RB Leipzig’s state-of-the-art facilities, it’ll make do.

Kunigami jogs to the grocery store when he’s done, picking up eggs and bacon and ingredients for pancakes. He buys a massive carton of orange juice, marveling at how things really are bigger in America. And despite Chigiri’s jabs about his English, Kunigami makes it out alive, even if the little old lady behind the counter kept trying to make conversation. Chigiri’s awake when Kunigami returns, lounging on the living room futon, reading a book with Bobby curled up beside him.

“You’ve made a new friend,” Kunigami says, setting the food on the kitchen table and then coming back out. He plops himself on Bobby’s other side, scratching him behind his floppy left ear.

“He loves me.” Chigiri shuts his book. Kunigami catches a brief glimpse of the cover—it’s something in English, Things Fall Apart. He certainly hopes Chigiri doesn’t see the title as a metaphor for his life.

“I’ll make breakfast in a bit. Slept well?” Kunigami’s learned to adjust to time zones quickly, thanks to all the international travel he does for games. Chigiri definitely had the same training.

“Still got it. I only got up when this guy,” Chigiri pets Bobby’s neck, “woke me because he wouldn’t stop screaming for breakfast.”

“Bad kitty.” Kunigami says. Bobby meows a little mewl of self-satisfaction. “Any idea what you want to do today?”

Chigiri shrugs and leans against the futon.

“Tourist stuff, I guess.” Chigiri frowns. “I don’t care, as long as we get some coffee on the way out. I haven’t given it too much thought.”

Of course he hasn’t, Kunigami realizes with a jolt. They’d been thinking of New York, and the United States, as the next World Cup’s location—the ones they’d get to play in and win. Chigiri probably hasn’t considered it as a tourist destination. Kunigami bites the inside of his mouth, taking a deep breath.

He can’t show Chigiri pity and get snapped at again. It might just kill him.

“Let’s do that.” Kunigami raises his fist for Chigiri to bump, and Chigiri takes it up. “My friend says there’s a bakery down the road. It also sells iced coffee. We’ll get some after breakfast.”

Kunigami isn’t much of a coffee guy, but this Mexican bakery’s stuff is fantastic—just the right amount of bitter with rich, creamy milk. Chigiri finishes his as they arrive at the subway station, tossing the empty plastic cup into an overfilled trash can.

The New York subway is dingy and dirty, a sweltering spider web of tunnels and trains that threaten not to arrive. Kunigami loves it. There’s a charm to how it sprawls across New York’s boroughs, exploding across the city in bursts of color he barely understands. They take the express train to the Empire State Building, where they buy overpriced tickets for the next elevator up. They grab a bite in Koreatown after they’re done, where Kunigami has the best tteokbokki and beef bulgogi he’s ever had. They wander around Macy’s, which is disappointing—it’s just like any other department store, only with signs in English and the hurried, frazzled cashiers struggling to help tourist after tourist. They leave empty-handed.

Kunigami does most of the leading and directing, mapping them from one tourist hotspot to another, aided by Google and a sweaty, middle-aged, street cart hot dog seller. It’s a short walk from Macy’s to Times Square. They head there after Chigiri grabs his second coffee of the day, a vanilla latte from a corner Starbucks smaller than Kunigami’s childhood bedroom.

How does Chigiri drink hot coffee in this horrible, humid heat? Kunigami’s red Nike T-shirt clings to his back as he sweats through it. He grimaces as they step out of the air-conditioned Times Square LINE store, back into the maddening crowd of tourists swarming through the streets.

“Times Square isn’t really a square,” Kunigami remarks, before realizing how stupid he sounds. Who even says that? He flushes, suddenly self-conscious, and it hits him that Chigiri’s the only person who makes him feel like this—the only person who causes Kunigami to hesitate before speaking, to rethink every word that falls from his lips.

Thankfully, Chigiri laughs, clapping Kunigami’s back.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

The knots in Kunigami’s stomach dissipate when he notices Chigiri’s upturned mouth, his half-closed eyes, the dimple in his left cheek. He wants to capture the mirth in Chigiri’s expression forever and hang it in the Louvre. Instead, Kunigami elbows Chigiri back, jostling him right into a man wearing a Sonic outfit.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“It was an accident,” Chigiri spits back in perfect English. Kunigami grabs Chigiri’s shoulder. He’s never been more thankful he’s unlikely to be recognized, thanks to football’s relative unpopularity in the United States.

“Sorry!” Kunigami sputters. The man grumbles, making his way down the street.

It takes a second too long for Kunigami to release his grip on Chigiri. Another second too long for Chigiri to pull away. And perhaps this is Kunigami’s imagination, but Chigiri’s gaze lingers on him for a second too long as well, like he has something on his mind he can’t quite take shape of, a feeling that won’t materialize into words. Perhaps.

Chigiri casts a sharp look towards a too-big, too-bright screen above a building, boasting a Coca-Cola ad. He marches in that direction, stopping in front of giant, red, glass steps, so shiny they reflect the afternoon light. Chigiri heads behind the structure, and Kunigami reads the letters on the signboard. “tkts”, all in lowercase.

“Anything you’d like to see, Kunigami?”

Kunigami taps his chin. Considering he isn’t exactly artsy-fartsy, it’s probably better that Chigiri picks. Otherwise, they’ll end up at Frozen and Kunigami will have to explain why he’s tearing up to ‘Let It Go’.

“We could see Funny Girl,” Kunigami offers, reading a name off the digital signboard erected by the booth. He has no idea what it’s about, but from the name, it should be hilarious. Everyone likes a good comedy, right?

As it turns out, Chigiri doesn’t.

“Absolutely not. The lead actress can’t read.”

“What?”

“Do you live under a rock? Lea Michele can’t read.”

Kunigami doesn’t know who ‘Lea Michele’ is. Her literacy, or the lack thereof, doesn’t concern him, but he takes it that Funny Girl was not the right—or, dare he say, funny—answer. Chigiri walks up to a booth and holds up two fingers.

“Two tickets to Six, please. I think you’d enjoy it,” he says. “Bright lights, pop music, and if you don’t like it, it’s pretty short.” Chigiri slides his credit card over before Kunigami can protest. “I’ll cover this one.”

Kunigami groans, but it’s too late to fight for the two-hundred dollar check. Their tickets print, Chigiri signs the receipt, and soon, they’re off to M&M World, two too-expensive Broadway tickets in hand. I’m the one who still has a football career, Kunigami wants to say, though there’s no way of phrasing it that won’t set Chigiri off. So Kunigami puts his hands in his pocket, sighing.

“Fine. Let me get dinner and everything else tonight.”

“A romantic dinner? How chivalrous.”

Chigiri doesn’t smile, and his tone is dripping with sarcasm. It’s enough to make Kunigami’s ears burn anyway.

Back in Blue Lock, he could never tell if Chigiri was flirting or if it was just wishful thinking. Even after Wild Card, even after Chigiri said he wanted to wake Kunigami’s inner hero up, even after Chigiri came back to the German stratum just to settle their score, Kunigami could never be certain. How much of that was real, and how much was just them playing the roles they were cast in? The fallen hero and the plucky princess calling his name?

Regardless, Kunigami was too busy dealing with self-loathing to think about it. Here’s his chance to make it up. So he follows Chigiri into the M&M store, where they’re assaulted by the sight of a disturbingly sexy green candy gjinka.

Chigiri finally initiated an activity, though. That isn’t lost on Kunigami at all.

_____

Chigiri’s instincts were right: Kunigami really likes Six. He also likes getting dinner with Chigiri at Shake Shack once they’re done, even if it’s hardly the romantic meal Chigiri teased him about. There’s something pleasant about eating greasy, salty burgers under too-bright lights, debating which of King Henry’s VIII’s ex-wives was their favorite. Chigiri jabbers, animated, about the show’s historical context, and Kunigami’s impressed. For a jock who claims Attack on Titan is their favorite manga, Chigiri knows a surprising amount about history and art. Kunigami could listen to him ramble for years.

“I went on a Wikipedia deep dive one night,” Chigiri murmurs, getting up to toss their wrappers into the trash. Kunigami calls them a taxi, bringing them home to a very hungry Bobby whose yowls reverberate through the apartment.

Kunigami gets back from the gym the next morning to find Chigiri awake, stooped across the dining table with his Macbook Air. His hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail, and Kunigami’s gaze flickers to the curve of Chigiri’s neck. His smooth skin seems most supple where it meets his bright hair, and Kunigami wonders what it might be like to thread his fingers through those tresses, to hold Chigiri close.

Chigiri waves, and Kunigami flinches. Had Chigiri caught him staring? If so, he doesn’t comment, tilting his head towards the kitchen. Kunigami almost wishes he would.

“I got you an iced coffee. It’s in the fridge.”

“Thanks, princess. You didn’t have to.”

“Do I look like someone who does things because they have to?”

“Fair point.” Kunigami grabs the coffee from the fridge, almost tripping over a sleeping Bobby on his way. He sits beside Chigiri, hunching over the wooden IKEA table—these chairs were designed for people much smaller than him. Chigiri hands him a guava and cheese pastry in a paper packet. Kunigami takes a bite.

It’s perfectly flaky, salty and sweet with a fruity aftertaste. Kunigami could down five of these in one go. He scarfs it down in minutes, licking crumbs off his hands, attempting to make conversation.

“Working on something?”

“Maybe I am.” Chigiri slams his laptop shut. “What’s it to you?”

“Seriously?” Kunigami groans. Chigiri’s injury is the elephant in the room. Kunigami has no idea how to approach that topic, but he’ll talk about literally anything else as long as it helps. He doesn’t have a solution to reticence, though. Frustration claws through him, red-hot. If Chigiri won’t open up, there’s nothing he can do.

Thankfully, Chigiri stretches and smiles, face lighting up with radiance Kunigami feared was long gone; sunlight pours in through the window, casting him in its bright halo. Kunigami’s momentary annoyance gives way to indescribable mirth. Sunshine bursts through his veins, warm as the morning glow on Brooklyn’s streets at dawn.

“I’m ready to head out whenever you are. We could do Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty today. Unless you have something else in mind?”

“I don’t.” Kunigami grins back. That’s more like the bossy, determined Chigiri he knows.

The Statue of Liberty is underwhelming, but Kunigami enjoys leaning across the railing during the ferry ride, breeze tousling his hair as he takes in the sprawling city view. They grab an early pizza dinner in Little Italy once they’re done. Chigiri picks at the too-greasy, too-salty pepperoni before slumping in defeat, while Kunigami tucks into the plush cheese and crispy crust. They grab dumplings in Chinatown after, and Kunigami fights the urge to lean in with a napkin when Chigiri gets chili oil on the corner of his mouth. The next day brings Central Park, where they’re accosted by a busker inviting them to dance. Kunigami grabs Chigiri’s hand under a canopy of American Elms, and he does an obliging little spin.

Chigiri’s come up with a separate list of activities, well off tourists’ guides and TripAdvisor’s beaten paths. There’s a nearby Japanese market in Industry City, and a record store peppered with 70s studio equipment. Kunigami has no idea how Chigiri learns of The Infinite Wrench, a bizarre series of one-minute plays in an intimate East Village theater, and he’s not sure “neo-futurism” will be his thing. But when the lights go down, the stage lamps blink on, and the actors pile on stage, Chigiri turns to Kunigami and beams, excited. A strange, tender feeling twists in Kunigami’s chest. He’ll sit through a hundred more weird shows for this joy.

(They still don’t talk about Chigiri’s knee. It’s better this way.)

Chigiri leads them to a thrift store by Washington Square Park, where they sift through NYU students’ brand-name hand-me-downs. Kunigami flicks through his phone and nudges Chigiri once they’re done.

“We’re near The Strand. It’s a famous bookstore around here. Want to check it out?”

Kunigami isn’t much for literature, but he’s very much for anything that makes Chigiri happy. They’re welcomed to the Strand by its bright red banners, and metal shelves on the sidewalk stacked with second hand novels. Kunigami steps inside the beige building to a labyrinth of books, floor-to-ceiling lined with poetry and literature. He’s not sure where the books end and the wooden floor begins, what the staircases might lead to, or where to head first, considering he’s only read manga in the last few years.

Chigiri, of course, has a rough idea. He heads past a tower of postcards and a shelf of souvenir shirts, through a hall of self-help books up a short flight of stairs. Kunigami shadows Chigiri through the maze, watching him pick books up and thumb through their pages. Chigiri ventures past halls of hardcovers and masses of magazines. Kunigami follows, enraptured, as Chigiri leaves through journals and paperbacks, a helpless passenger to his literary whims.

Chigiri finally pauses in front of a red sign saying “POETRY”. He grabs a book with a black-and-white cover, passing it to Kunigami.

“I know this isn’t your sort of thing,” Chigiri says, “but check this out.”

Kunigami leans against a wooden shelf and glances at the cover. The book’s title spells Crush in capital letters, and Kunigami’s cheeks burn red. Is this a signal, the sign Kunigami’s been half-hoping, half-fearing for years? Or is this just a book Chigiri wants to share?

There’s one way to find out. Kunigami flips the book open. His English isn’t that bad—there’s poetry inside, he’s surmised that much, but it’s packed full of metaphors he’ll need time to digest.

“You’re more cultured than I thought, princess.”

“I used to read a lot. Then football took over my life.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned football since they got here. Kunigami wants to replay that last sentence, pick it apart like a literary text, linger on the pointed resentment in Chigiri’s words. Once again, Kunigami’s left speechless and searching for something to soothe him, but Chigiri shrugs and takes the book back.

“There’s comfort to be found in stories. There are good one in poetry, too. You just need to know where to find them. Try this one. It’s called ‘Litany’—”

Kunigami’s happy to entertain Chigiri, but he’s already uncertain. “What’s a litany?”

“A long list. Usually complaints. This one’s different. ‘Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out’. Here, I’ll read it for you.”

With that, Chigiri launches into the first verse, English sharp and fluent, verbiage crystal clear. Despite Kunigami’s initial misgivings, this is a pretty fun poem, with heroes and dragons and fights. The protagonist denies that he’s the princess, instead trudging through mud, breathing fire, and eventually getting stabbed to death. Perhaps it resonates with Kunigami. Or perhaps he just likes the sound of Chigiri’s voice, even when it’s forming in the shape of words Kunigami barely understands.

It’s easy to see Chigiri mirrored in the poem, to see how he’s familiar with loving the wrong way. Chigiri finishes with a line about wanting more seats reserved for heroes, and another asking for forgiveness to come inside. He slams the book shut once he’s done, flushed. Kunigami sucks in a deep breath.

This is the closest they’ve come to a real conversation. It’s progress, of a sort, even if it’s hidden behind layers of metaphor and scattered text, rhythm and rhyme.

“It’s good,” Kunigami volunteers.

“I told you you’d like it.” Chigiri’s voice drips with smugness. “It’s about heroes, and it’s gay.”

Kunigami’s eyes go wide, his lips part in surprise, and he sputters, brain blanking. Surely he wasn’t subtle, especially when he’d wondered if Chigiri was flirting back in Blue Lock, but they were just teenagers, after all—

“I mean. Me too. Now I don’t have a pro career to worry about,” Chigiri laughs bitterly, “I can actually talk about it.”

“Uh,” Kunigami stumbles. He hasn’t thought too hard about the consequences of being publicly queer, given that he isn’t particularly interested in dating. Or well, he thought he wasn’t. So why is it that when he’s near Chigiri, his old crush rears its embarrassing head? Kunigami’s neck and ears are burning, and his heart pounds so quickly his chest might explode. “I’m bi, but yeah.”

“Figures.” Chigiri flutters his lashes. “You just like pretty people, don’t you?”

Chigiri isn’t wrong. Specifically, Kunigami really likes the pretty person standing beside him, flicking through the book with a smirk. Two can play this game. Kunigami reaches over to snatch Crush from Chigiri, who emits a shocked gasp. Kunigami grins, triumphantly marching to the cashier.

“Here,” Kunigami says once he’s done paying. He hands Chigiri the book, wrapped in a brown paper bag. “I wanted this to be from me.”

Chigiri’s not the only one who can speak in code.

_____

Kunigami and Chigiri spend Saturday museum-hopping. They follow a Japanese audio-guided tour at the Met before heading to the MoMA, where they double over laughing at an art installation. Apparently, declaring a giant pink plank “art” is too abstract for even Chigiri, who loses his mind at a plaque proclaiming it “a barrier between life and death”. They then hop on the subway to the Museum of Natural History, where Kunigami takes way too many photos with the T-Rex fossil, flashing peace signs at his selfie camera.

Smorgasburg at Prospect Park is unexpectedly busy the next day. Tourists and locals are jammed against each other, pushed far too close in the summer heat. Overpriced coconut water and too-sweet lemonade are Kunigami’s saving grace, and he knocks the sweet drinks back, wondering what RB Leipzig’s nutritionist would think.

Chigiri leans against a tree and licks teriyaki sauce off his fingers, half his ramen burger still in its grease-stained paper package. The late morning sun shines through the gaps between the leaves, casting shadows across his sharp features. Kunigami can’t help but stare. Even in this weather that makes Kunigami want to melt into the dirt, Chigiri’s effortlessly beautiful in his linen button-down and black shorts, long hair tied back. His gaze meets Kunigami’s.

They should really talk about this, shouldn’t they? In Kunigami’s occasional fantasies, Chigiri was the first to broach the subject. He’s always been more forward, with his forthright declarations and his once-determination. But even as Chigiri gets sassier, even as life slowly pours back into his eyes, this might be too much to expect. Just because Chigiri’s willing to spend fourteen dollars on novelty food doesn’t mean he’s sorted his feelings about his shattered career, let alone a crush that might or might not be wishful thinking.

Though Kunigami suspects his instincts are right. He might be dense, but he’s not a complete moron. Chigiri crumples his half-eaten burger in its wrapper.

“Had enough to eat? I’m done.”

Chigiri’s finished? Kunigami’s barely gotten started. He casts the rows and rows of food stalls another glance, colorful tents shielding vendors from the sun’s unforgiving glare. The air smells like salt and honey, and Kunigami could go for way more food.

“Give me a little longer? I went to the gym today.”

“You go to the gym every morning.” Chigiri steps out from under the shade. “But sure, let’s take another look.”

They take another leisurely loop around the market, Chigiri taking his sweet time to peruse every stall. Kunigami tries poutine, which he adores—the person who first dumped gravy and cheese curds on fries was a genius. He likes fried Oreos a little less, and a single bite of a donut burger contains enough sugar and oil to last Kunigami a week. They finish with light, refreshing coconut ice cream before visiting the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and the Prospect Park Zoo.

The sun doesn’t let up all day, and Kunigami’s grateful, though slightly suspicious, when Chigiri suddenly slumps onto a park bench. He’s used to running for ninety minutes or more with barely any rest, but walking around in this suffocating, humid heat is a different ball game altogether, pun fully intended. He sits beside Chigiri.

“How are you holding up?” Kunigami asks.

“I’m fine.” Chigiri squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. It doesn’t take a genius to tell no, he’s not fine at all, and Kunigami narrows his eyes. He might have to press the matter. Or not. Chigiri grimaces, lifting his right leg onto the park bench, flexing it back and forth. He groans, brow furrowing, and something deep and painful wrenches inside Kunigami. Ah.

They’ve been on their feet for days, and Chigiri’s still recovering. No wonder his bad knee is giving out. Kunigami checks the time on his phone: it’s five p.m. Too early for dinner for most, but not for two guys who had brunch at ten. Or for a guy who wants to leave the park, and his friend who’ll start making stubborn excuses.

“I’m hungry,” Kunigami lies. “Want to grab an early dinner? My friend mentioned a spot in Brooklyn Chinatown she really likes.”

“So soon?” Chigiri winces and stretches his leg out, pushing down on his knee with the ball of his hand. A stinging pain tugs at Kunigami’s heart. Chigiri would probably rather die than let Kunigami princess carry him, but it doesn’t stop Kunigami from fantasizing.

“We want to get there before it’s crowded.”

Chigiri grits his teeth, begrudgingly calls them an Uber, and limps out of the park with Kunigami trailing after him. They arrive at the restaurant minutes before the dinner rush floods in. Kunigami’s glad for the air-conditioning, and the ice-cold water in plastic cups. It’s definitely not hotpot weather, but Kunigami worked up an appetite in the car ride; the prospect of all-you-can-eat food always appeals.

“Do you know what soup base you’re getting?” he asks, propping his elbows on the glass tabletop. Chigiri’s been quiet since they entered the car, and Kunigami doesn’t want to bother him, but he doesn’t want to just leave him be, either. Chigiri shrugs.

“Dunno. Bone broth, maybe.” Chigiri turns to stare at the rows of old Chinese cassette tapes, perched on a wooden shelf. Kunigami nods, perusing the menu.

“I’ll get the house special spicy.” He hopes his friend’s place has decent plumbing, since he’s making choices he might regret tonight.

The spicy soup is hearty and salty, with the right amount of chili oil and peppercorns to numb Kunigami’s tongue. He hums happily, stirring thinly-sliced lamb into his individual pot, making sure to serve Chigiri as well. The taro root absorbs the chili oil perfectly, and Kunigami sinks his teeth into it once it’s cooked, relishing the spicy softness traveling through his mouth.

“Eat this,” Kunigami says, fishing another chunk of taro from his pot into Chigiri’s side bowl. Chigiri picks it up with his chopsticks.

“Thanks.” He tries it, and his eyes widen with delight. Score. “I should have gotten the spicy. Mine is good, but yours is better.”

Kunigami snorts. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“You won’t hear it again.” But there’s mirth in Chigiri’s voice now, and while he isn’t smiling, his mouth’s no longer set in that determined, frustrated line. He fishes a piece of pork from his plate and sets it on Kunigami’s. “Try mine.”

Kunigami isn’t sure he likes the spicy soup better than the bone broth, but that’s testament to how good this place is. Chigiri’s quiet for the rest of the meal, but Kunigami’s just glad he’s enjoying the food. They get two more servings of beef and a large bucket of mushrooms, followed by a plate of tilapia that Kunigami polishes off alone. Kunigami’s stuffed when he calls for the check. Chigiri grabs it before Kunigami can react, squinting at the paper.

“Ugh,” he groans, slamming it onto the countertop. “They’re making us calculate the tip. What’s twenty percent of eighty-four dollars?”

“Your phone has a calculator on it,” Kunigami says gently.

Chigiri folds his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Too difficult.”

“I thought you were good at school.”

“I was,” Chigiri mutters, “but not at math. We’re functionally high school dropouts. Why do I have to know shit about percentages?”

Kunigami laughs, loud and unbridled. It’s incredible howhe loves spending time with Chigiri, even when football is off the table, even if Chigiri’s stumbling through an angry, depressed fog, gasping for air and then being pulled underwater. Kunigami wants so badly to reach for Chigiri in that pitch-black ocean and swim him to shore. But much as the princess wished to wake the hero so many years ago, the hero first had to have the courage to take his hand. Chigiri will surface when he’s ready. All Kunigami can do is call to him.

Well, Kunigami can also snatch the check, saving Chigiri from the arduous task of tipping. So he does.

Their place is only a twenty-minute walk away, but Kunigami gets a taxi. He takes Chigiri’s hand up the stairs, and he’s not sure if Chigiri takes it back for physical support, or for something more. Still, Kunigami squeezes Chigiri’s palm, relishing how warm it feels in his, how nice their fingers feel locked into each other’s.

They’re greeted by pattering footsteps, and the dulcet cries of Bobby screaming for dinner.

Chigiri turns in early. Kunigami fetches him water for painkillers, and fresh cherries he bought from the family-owned grocery store next door. Chigiri doesn’t say much, but doesn’t snap at Kunigami to leave when he lingers, sitting, worried, at the edge of his bed. He tilts his head towards the empty pillow, almost as if he’d like to ask Kunigami to join. But Kunigami’s no mind-reader, and he certainly doesn’t want to assume when Chigiri’s so brittle, so vulnerable.

Silence hangs between them, thick and tar-like. Kunigami wonders if the fog’s lifted enough that Chigiri might see him waiting. Instead, Chigiri buries his face in his pillow, turning so his back faces Kunigami. That’s Kunigami’s cue to get up.

“Sleep well, Chigiri. Take tomorrow slow.”

Kunigami regrets the words as he speaks them. Will Chigiri protest, make some snide comment about not needing sympathy? Kunigami glances back at Chigiri, curled up into a ball, wrapped around the spare pillow.

Chigiri offers nothing of the sort.

“Good night, Kunigami. Hit the light switch on your way out.”

_____

The next morning, Kunigami grabs iced coffee and pastries on his way back from the gym, leaving the star-struck bakery aunty an autograph and a fifty-dollar tip. He’s just grateful it’s taken this long for someone to recognize him. Bobby’s resting on Chigiri’s lap when Kunigami returns, purring while Chigiri feeds him treats. Kunigami reaches over to pet Bobby, who nips at his fingers.

“Don’t overfeed him.”

Chigir scratches Bobby behind his ears.

“When you’re this old and this cute, you can eat whatever you want. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s enough.”

Kunigami snatches the bag from Chigiri, who yells. Kunigami shoves him against the futon. He knows better than to roughhouse too hard, but at least Chigiri laughs as he swats at him, trying to grab the treats back. Bobby hisses, strutting away now he’s no longer the center of attention.

Kunigami gets them lunch from a Brooklyn Chinatown dumpling spot, where he’s blown away by the volume of food they get for under ten dollars. They chow down on pork and chive dumplings and noodles in wonton soup, watching One Piece lore videos and getting into heated discussions about whether it’s better than Attack on Titan. It’s an impassioned debate, but when Chigiri agrees to check out the first few episodes, Kunigami knows he (and Zorro) have won.

Chigiri pops more painkillers and naps. Kunigami walks back to Industry City, stopping for Earl Grey cake and lavender lemonade before picking up souvenirs for his family. He returns to the slow indie music, and the tap-tap noise of Chigiri’s laptop, which he shuts as Kunigami walks in. Kunigami knows better than to ask.

“This area’s named after Sunset Park, but we haven’t even checked it out,” Chigiri says. “I’m going on a walk. Join me?”

Chigiri’s clearly feeling better, so Kunigami sets his gifts down, feeds Bobby dinner, and they head out. The evening sun illuminates the streets with a warm filter, sprawling streets glowing like Instagram shots. Kunigami snaps a few photos on his phone, resolving to send them to his family and teammates when he’s back on WiFi.

The park’s not too far away, and Kunigami wonders if Chigiri waited to visit on purpose—if he’d hoped to take in Manhattan’s skyline by dusk. Chigiri slowly strolls up the brick-and-pavement stairs, ambling his way up the small hill the park rests on. It’s nowhere near as large as Central or Prospect Park, but Kunigami can’t help but appreciate its homey feel: the Chinese aunties doing taichi, the children’s playground, the dry grass with footsteps treading through the dirt. He sees, now, why so many families made this area their home.

Chigiri takes a seat on a bench once they’re a little higher up, and Kunigami follows his lead, a thrill rushing through him when their shoulders brush against each other’s.

“Didn’t realize Sunset Park was so elevated.”

The view from the hilltop sprawls into Manhattan, and Kunigami spies the One World Trade Center, the Empire State. The concrete skyscrapers, majestic and imposing up close, feel like tiny, transient Lego blocks in the distance, easily snapped together and pulled apart. The city feels so small like this. The view would have been impressive any time of day, but it’s absolutely breathtaking cast in the dying sunlight, late afternoon’s haze. Ever the poet, Kunigami feels a compulsion to say something, to convey the depth of emotion this sight evokes. “Wow.”

“Just ‘wow’?”

Chigiri’s words are playful on his tongue, gentle as he rests his head on Kunigami’s shoulder. Kunigami’s heart thunders so quickly it might fall out of his ribcage. He isn’t sure what to do, not when Chigiri’s open and flirtatious one minute and private and reticent the next. Kunigami settles for wrapping his arm around Chigiri’s waist. Chigiri pulls in closer.

They remain for a few incredible minutes, Kunigami wondering if he should lean in for a kiss, or if Chigiri’s just looking for comfort during a difficult patch. Either way, he’s happy to give Chigiri what he wants.

Chigiri’s crystal-clear voice shatters Kunigami’s train of thought.

“What would you do if you couldn’t play football any more?”

“I-I don’t know.”

These are the thoughts that haunt Kunigami before he falls asleep—what would he do if his career, like Chigiri’s, ended with an anguished cry and a screaming crowd? How would he respond to being stretchered off the pitch? Wild Card already shredded Kunigami apart and stitched him back together. He’s not sure he’d be able to reinvent himself a second time.

“Probably join an MMA league.”

Wait, that’s a stupid answer. It’s physical, and a career-ending injury implies Kunigami might not be able to rely on that. And considering the things he’d seen and experienced in Wild Card, what he was willing to do to get ahead… Perhaps an alternate life as an MMA fighter might not have worked out.

Kunigami winces. Chigiri doesn’t seem to notice, slapping him on the back.

“Typical meathead hero. I can hear the announcer in my mind,” Chigiri leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Kick of a warrior, heart of a knight.”

Kunigami turns as pink as the fading sun. It’s just like Chigiri to see the best in Kunigami, even when he’s at his lowest. It gives him the courage to venture— “What are you going to do?”

“Not telling,” Chigiri says, tossing his hair behind his shoulder. Kunigami sighs.

“Fine, princess. Keep your secrets.”

“You’re not the only one who can be a cool and mysterious edgelord.”

Hurt stabs through Kunigami, red-hot and searing, a sharp contrast from the evening’s gentle warmth.

He’s mostly over what he went through in Blue Lock, and has talked extensively about his Wild Card experience in therapy, but the reminder stings. Kunigami balls his hands into fists, taking deep breaths. The last thing he wants to do is to start an argument, but he’s upset, and Kunigami won’t take that lying down.

“Take that back.” Chigiri’s depressed and lashing out, but it’s no excuse to be an asshole.

Chigiri sighs, closing his eyes.

“That was unnecessary. Sorry.”

Kunigami’s rage dissipates, vanishing into twilight’s ether. He can’t stay mad at Chigiri for long, and never could—even when Kunigami was trapped in his own torrent of rage and anger, even when he couldn’t look Chigiri in the eye.

“It’s fine. Just,” Kunigami rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t do it again.”

Come to think of it, Kunigami’s not sure he’s ever heard Chigiri apologize. They’ve both clearly done some growing up since Blue Lock. Kunigami really likes who Chigiri has become: still a little prissy, still a little spoiled, but clever and determined and kinder than he’ll ever, ever let on.

He hopes Chigiri likes the adult version of Kunigami just as much. Chigiri seems to, from the way he leans in again despite the awkward moment, taking Kunigami’s hand and gripping it tight.

“I won’t.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

They’ve danced around the topic of Chigiri’s injury since they got here. Kunigami assumed Chigiri would bring it up if he wanted, but while they’re here, while they’re being vulnerable—Kunigami wonders if Chigiri might bare his heart with some prompting.

Chigiri lets go of Kunigami. The spaces between his fingers feel empty where Chigiri’s occupied them, but that’s secondary, for now.

“It won’t be pretty.”

“That’s fine.” As long as Chigiri isn’t making relentless jabs. “Hit me.”

Chigiri slumps against the back of the bench, staring into the skyline.

“I hate you, Kunigami Rensuke. Your second chance shook out, mine didn’t. You have a career. You’ll play in the World Cup, because you’re amazing and talented and Ego would be a moron not to pick you. I’ve got to start my life all over again and don’t know what I’m going to do. I hate you. I love you, at the same time. There,” Chigiri says, turning to Kunigami. “How’s that for honesty?”

What twists inside Kunigami’s chest isn’t rage, nor pity. It’s a deep, aching, sadness that comes with realizing Chigiri’s feelings make sense, that they’re raw and real and so, so rational. Even the part where he hates him. Kunigami swallows the lump in his throat.

“I don’t blame you.”

If Kunigami wants Chigiri to open up, he’ll have to do the same. He hasn’t talked about Wild Card because of how it warped him; even now, Kunigami’s haunted by the shell of who it twisted him into. For Chigiri, he’s willing to try.

“I can tell you my side of things.”

“Sure. I don’t know shit about Wild Card. Ego never told us. As if we don’t talk to each other.”

To be fair, Chigiri hasn’t done a great job of talking to their friends as of late, but Kunigami suspects it’d be bad timing to raise that.

“I sank to a level I never thought I would. The things I did would destroy how you see me. I’m not the same person I was at the start. It’s why I’m here now, but,” Kunigami pauses. His head and heart are entering overdrive—how does he begin to say that sometimes, in his darkest moments, alone with his demons, Kunigami still regrets walking through that door?

“It’s useless to miss who I was.”

Kunigami can’t change the past, can’t wave a magic wand and make things better. All he can do now is atone. Chigiri leans forward to rest his head on his hands. Kunigami had been deliberately vague, and he suspects he didn’t say anything Chigiri couldn’t guess, but much like Chigiri and his injury, he supposes it helps to hear it from the source.

They remain quiet before Chigiri pipes up.

“I know I’m being unfair. I can’t help it. You’re still playing football. What the hell do I do?”

“You’ve got to figure that out.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Chigiri groans. “I’ve been looking at university, but I don’t want to be a salaryman like my parents. After I spent so long thinking I’d be extraordinary? This feels like a joke.”

Understanding dawns upon Kunigami. So that’s what Chigiri’s been doing on his laptop. Frankly, what Chigiri needs is something to be relentlessly passionate about—something else Chigiri can chase with as much joy as he once did sprinting down the football field.

“You’re incredible at plenty of things.” Kunigami’s certain that what he says next will sound trite, but he says it anyway. “You just need to find something to be insane about again, and then you’ll be the best at it.”

Kunigami means it with all his heart, but he’s almost certain Chigiri will be dismissive, or annoyed; to his surprise, Chigiri throws his head back in laughter. It’s warm, and sincere, and makes Kunigami’s heart do backflips. Chigiri tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Somehow, you phrasing it like that makes it better. Thanks.”

“Why did you come here?” Kunigami ventures. “New York, this trip. You answered my messages after a year of no contact.”

Chigiri leans in close and bats his lashes. “Isn’t ‘I missed you’ good enough?”

Kunigami has a feeling that’s only part of the story.

“I wish I could help more.”

Chigiri’s brow knots in annoyance. That dreadful feeling grips through Kunigami’s chest, the worry that he might have screwed up again. Chigiri takes a deep breath and bites the inside of his mouth. Kunigami braces himself, preparing for the worst.

“Kunigami,” Chigiri says. “You know you don’t have to help me, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last thing I want is to be a charity case. Look,” Chigiri says, grabbing Kunigami’s shoulders, “I just want you to look at me and see the same spoiled, pampered princess. Whatever you did in Wild Card, you don’t have to make it up to anyone. You don’t have to make it up to yourself. You don’t have to save me. I want you to just be.”

Chigiri’s annoyed—Kunigami can hear it in his voice, feel it in his grip. But there’s something else belying the frustration, something soft and tender that Kunigami wants to treasure and keep close. Perhaps Chigiri is right. Perhaps there’s still a part of Kunigami that’s the same naive, optimistic hero who played alongside his friends in Team Z, just as how Chigiri’s still the same princess of days yonder. They’ve evolved, and grown, but not completely shattered.

Even Chigiri’s career-ending injury won’t change that.

Chigiri gets up. “I need alcohol for this,” he says, flexing his right leg back, and forth, and then pulling his foot to his rear. “Let’s head to Koreatown. There’s a spot there I wanted to check out.”

“Perfect.” Kunigami nods. “Let’s hop on the subway and go.”

_____

The swirling scents of gochujang and soy sauce permeate the dark, crowded bar. A waitress leads them to the end of a corner table and seats them beside each other. It’s cramped, especially for Kunigami, whose knees knock against Chigiri’s as he reaches for the laminated plastic menu. The noisy chatter and booming pop music don’t make Pocha 32 the best choice for deep conversation. But for two people who want to get drunk? It’s perfect.

“Let’s get the watermelon soju to share,” Chigiri says. “It’s in all the reviews, so we’ve got to try it.”

Kunigami nods. “It’s just half a hollowed out watermelon, right? It can’t be that big.”

It is, indeed, that big. The watermelon is almost twice the size of Kunigami’s head, swirling with ice, soju and fruity pulp. The drink goes down far easier than it should, sweet and cool and so refreshing on a hot summer night. Kunigami’s liquor tolerance is pretty good. Chigiri, on the other hand, flushes pink after his first glass, practically slamming it on the table. He leans on Kunigami’s shoulder, picking at bean sprouts and kimchi.

Kunigami hasn’t forgotten what Chigiri said about needing more alcohol. He pours Chigiri water and barley tea from the plastic canisters, which Chigiri downs between sips of his drink. The food is just okay: the tteokbokki is slightly overcooked, and the fried chicken is soggy but flavorful. Really, the alcohol is the highlight. Kunigami dabs soy honey sauce from his mouth.

“You doing okay?” Chigiri’s been quiet, focused wholly on the alcohol. If there’s one thing about Chigiri he admires, it’s his determination. Even when it manifests in hell-bent desire to drink himself stupid. Chigiri reaches his glass out.

“Give me more.”

Kunigami smacks his wrist.

“Eat up first.”

He can’t blame Chigiri for skipping on the food, but he doesn’t want him to throw up on the way home. Chigiri groans.

“How am I supposed to talk about feelings when I’m sober? Come on,” he says, wrapping his arms around Kunigami’s waist, “One more, and I’ll be good to talk.”

The tips of Kunigami’s ears flush. It feels good to have Chigiri draped over him, hanging on him like a lifeline, but the last thing Kunigami wants is for Chigiri to say, or do something he’ll regret, especially when he’s already bubbling with resentment. Kunigami hands Chigiri another glass of water. His own.

“Drink this. Then maybe I’ll let you have some.”

“An indirect kiss? So forward, hero. How can I say no?”

Chigiri lifts the water glass to his lips, gaze trained on Kunigami, vivid and intense. Kunigami’s blush spreads to his cheeks, bright as their half-eaten tteokbokki. He bites the inside of his mouth. Someone more eloquent would be able to convey the way his heart races and his chest feels like it could explode, but Kunigami only manages:

“You used to flirt like this all the time. It was nice.”

Panic grips Kunigami in its cold, clammy fist. Should he have phrased it differently? Should he have been more coy? Indirect methods have never suited Kunigami. But Chigiri turns to face Kunigami with a small, sad smile, and Kunigami’s once again reminded, they’ll be all right.

“I thought you’d never noticed.”

“I’d be stupid not to, princess.” They’d been so focused on winning, on making it out of Blue Lock with their minds and careers intact, that Kunigami never thought to take action. But now? He wants nothing more than for Chigiri to bat those lashes at him, to call him hero with the same fondness and reverence he had all those years ago. Kunigami still replays the sound of his first name in Chigiri’s voice, the way he’d called him Cyborg Rensuke with that doting lilt.

What he’d do to see that spark return to Chigiri’s eyes, what he’d give for Chigiri to find something else to be passionate, zealous, and a little unhinged about. Kunigami swallows the lump in his throat.

“I need to tell you this,” Kunigami says, wrapping an arm around Chigiri’s shoulders, “That first game after I returned from Wild Card. When you said you’d fight me like the same hero you knew, but I wouldn’t look you in the eye? It’s partly ‘cause I spent so much of Wild Card thinking about how I never kept our promise. To beat Isagi together.”

Kunigami takes a long sip of his soju. Moments like these, he wishes he was a cheaper, drunker, messier date.

“Then you came back for me. I ghosted you like an asshole all game, and you came back. It’s my turn,” he pauses for emphasis, “to come back for you.”

Chigiri looks away, but he doesn’t flinch, or wrest himself from Kunigami’s grip.

“Kunigami Rensuke, I am too drunk for this. If you aren’t careful, I’m going to develop feelings for you.”

“Why is that a problem?”

Chigiri knocks back half his drink in one shot.

“I’m miserable. I have no future, no direction, and no career. The last thing I need is to have my heart broken, as well. Though it might be too late for that.”

Kunigami rubs his temples.

“Fuck, Chigiri. Last thing I’ll do is break your heart. I’d move mountains and slay dragons for you. I brought you here as testament to that—”

“And I came to New York to watch my dreams die. Have you not put that together?”

Realization washes over Kunigami, cold and sudden, like the speeding rush of a subway train.

Chigiri toys with the hem of his button down, staring into his lap. He takes another sip of his soju, though his cup is mostly ice. Kunigami doesn’t fill it. It might be wisest not to.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop. You didn’t do anything wrong. Unless you have mind-reading powers, hero?” Chigiri finally meets Kunigami’s gaze again, a small smile on his lips, sad but wistful. “Honestly, I thought this trip would suck. But it’s been… It’s been really, really fun.”

A wellspring of relief bursts through Kunigami, drowning out his earlier panic. His heart thunders against his ribcage as he grasps both Chigiri’s hands in his, bringing them to his chest.

“Look. Chigiri, you’ve got so much going for you. Every day here has confirmed that. I knew you were smart, but not this smart. I don’t know what you’re going to do after this, but you’re going to be amazing.”

“I’ll figure it out. I’m on my way there.” Chigiri nods. This time, he sounds resolute enough that Kunigami believes him. “Promise.”

“What would you do right now, if you could do anything else?”

“Right now?”

Chigiri leans in to press their foreheads together. Kunigami’s voice hitches in his throat as Chigiri traces his jawline with his fingertips, holding him tender, holding him close, like he’ll never let Kunigami go again. Chigiri beams, and it’s bright and beautiful and everything Kunigami longed for.

“This is what I want.”

Chigiri brushes their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss.

_____

According to the JFA, they aren’t ready for the World Cup. Aiku’s on the starting lineup, and Sae’s a reserve, but that’s it for familiar faces on the 2022 Qatar team. Otherwise, a bunch of half-baked twenty year olds supposedly can’t face the top teams in the world. Chigiri’s absolutely livid. Maybe the JFA’s still bitter about the Blue Lock program’s success. Especially when Chigiri has talent scouts clamoring after him, offering increasingly lucrative deals for when the transfer window opens; Liverpool’s dangling him a first team spot he’s not sure he can turn down.

It numbs the pain of being stuck in England. The U-21 Premier League is on hold for winter, but training persists. It gives him something to focus on, a reminder that the next World Cup will be his turn to shine. Chigiri’s mornings are spent doing drills up and down the Etihad Stadium with his team. Then he watches World Cup games and takes notes on how to get better. Sometimes, he spends these matches with Nagi and Reo, who are kind enough to offer Chigiri a spot in front of their widescreen TV. They eat popcorn, cheer hopelessly for Team Japan, and scream at the referee’s choices.

Other times, Chigiri comes back to his small studio apartment. He showers and changes and burrows under his sheets, still unused to the frigid British winters. And then he flips his laptop open to call Kunigami.

Kunigami’s the perfect companion to watch games with. His commentary is strategic but not overwhelming like Isagi’s, funny but not overbearing like Bachira’s. It helps that he’s got a lovely baritone, crisp and crystal-clear through Chigiri’s AirPods. Chigiri could listen to him forever.

Though that’s not on Chigiri’s mind when Japan is up against Croatia. Japan’s never made it to the World Cup quarter-finals; this penalty shootout might be their first chance. Chigiri watches through his hands as Aiku misses his penalty, falling to his knees in devastated horror. He gasps, horrified, when the Japanese goalkeeper lets another ball slip through his fingers. And when Croatia scores their third penalty against Japan, the ball hitting the back of the net with confident fervor, something dark and complicated twists in Chigiri’s chest.

On one hand, Japan hasn’t broken its curse.

On the other hand, they’ve never won a World Cup without Chigiri Hyoma.

Kunigami’s silent as the screen pans to the Croatian team, cheering and holding each other in joyful bliss. Chigiri shifts, turning around to lie flat on his stomach.

“Who to root for next?” Chigiri muses. He could pick England, his adopted home, though their World Cup record isn’t much better. Kunigami heaves a sigh on the other line.

“Dammit. I thought they might do it.”

Chigiri nods even if Kunigami can’t see him. “So close, but so far. Penalties, too.”

“I know. Think Gagamaru might have caught that last one?”

“Maybe.” Gagamaru’s much taller than Japan’s current goalie; he’d have a distinct advantage. “In four years? For sure.”

“Yeah.”

The line goes quiet again. The screen shifts to a roundtable of former footballers commenting on the match, showcasing its highlights on a revolving reel. Chigiri X-es out of the tab. It’s painful to watch, even for someone as vindictive as him. He’ll read articles about the game later. Maybe even translate some of the English ones for Kunigami, if he’s feeling nice.

Kunigami groans.

“What a goal, too. Ego’s going to be so mad.”

“That’s what the JFA get for not fielding their best.” Too young, Chigiri’s ass. He could have scored that penalty, he could have received that pass in the eighty-ninth minute—he’s quick enough, greedy enough, hungry enough.

“Tell me about it, princess. I’m furious I wasn’t there to score, too.”

“Their loss.” Chigiri slides out of bed. It’s almost dinnertime; he’s technically off-season, but he should stick to his nutritionist’s proposed diet if he wants to stay in shape. Pity, because he’s craving a cheese pizza, not more boiled chicken and cabbage, which is all he can be bothered to throw together. “The end of the road.”

Kunigami laughs. “So dramatic. Better luck next time, huh?”

“Next time? Please. We won’t need luck. We’ll be standing on that field, and we’ll tear everyone to shreds with talent alone.” Chigiri flips his kitchen’s light switch on. “I’ve always wanted to visit New York.”

“See you there when we make it, then? New York City in 2026?”

Chigiri yanks his fridge open. The game is over, and so is Japan’s World Cup dream, but he’s happy to chat with Kunigami for a little longer.

“Promise.”

_____

The MetLife Stadium’s only half an hour away from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which is mind-boggling to Kunigami considering it’s in another state. American geography is still a mystery to him. He’s lucky Chigiri’s navigating, buying their tickets from a terminal kiosk and finding the right bus to board. The seats on the bus are small and cramped, but Kunigami doesn’t mind. Especially not when Chigiri takes his hand and squeezes it tightly.

“I’m ready.”

Kunigami squeezes his hand back. Chigiri stares out the window for most of the bus ride, while Kunigami catches up on texts, letting Bachira and Isagi know that the trip went far better than expected. Traffic is awful, but it’s bearable when their thighs are pressed up together, and Chigiri hooks his foot around Kunigami’s under their seats.

It’s a short walk from the bus stop to the stadium. Kunigami walks a few paces behind Chigiri, happy to let him take the lead. They’re technically not supposed to be in MetLife Stadium outside of an event or guided tour, but Chigiri knows someone who knows someone, and doors still open for him as a former Premier League player. The security guard lets them in with a smile and a wink, and Kunigami resolves to slide him a tip on his way out.

They enter the stadium via the guest entrance and stroll through the bleachers. The bright afternoon sun casts shadows on Chigiri’s face as he wanders down the stairs, contemplative, and he lifts his hand to his forehead.

“It’s ugly.”

Chigiri’s right. In daylight, the MetLife Stadium is all gray and concrete and wildly disappointing. Kunigami places a hand on his shoulder. Chigiri doesn’t pull away.

“Bet it’ll look much better when you’re on the grass.”

The field is inviting and vast, with lines for American football painted on it in white. In a couple of years, they’ll be replaced with circles and goal lines, with two nets set up on either side. Kunigami’s never cared for American football. It’ll look better when it’s fixed up.

“You okay?”

“It still doesn’t feel real. The season starts in two weeks, and I won’t be in Europe playing. I think that’s when it’ll sink in. One of my dreams is dead.”

“One of them?”

“Yeah.” Chigiri blinks back tears, staring into the clear blue sky. “You didn’t pay attention, did you? I said dreams, in the plural. One is dead. The other’s intact, and burns brighter than ever.”

“What’s the other one, then?”

Chigiri turns to Kunigami. His eyes are wet and puffy, but he smiles. It’s sad, and happy, and wistful all at once, but there’s something there Kunigami hasn’t seen in a while. Hope. It burns bright and brilliant, and forget Manhattan’s skyline by sunset, this is the most beautiful sight Kunigami’s ever seen. Chigiri grabs Kunigami’s waist and rests his head on his shoulder.

“You can figure that out.”

“You bastard.” Kunigami barks a laugh. “Yeah, I think I can.”