Archive of Our Own ^beta

By the time Ryusei finishes showering, Itoshi Sae is dressed (and moisturized) and sitting on the locker room bench with his legs crossed, staring directly at him.

Ryusei grins lasciviously and drops his towel, flashing him. Itoshi Sae doesn’t bat an eye. When Ryusei pulls on a shirt and a pair of shorts, he stands, crooks a finger at him, and walks out of the locker room.

“Run, dog,” one of the U-20 losers mutters, to the snickers of a few others. Bitter, Ryusei thinks. Itoshi Sae certainly didn’t want to play with any of them. He shoves his dirty clothes and cleats into his bag and follows him out in his shower slippers, grinning from ear to ear.

Itoshi Sae is a rippling black form in his trendy little Spanish parka with his designer sports duffel over his shoulder. Ryusei catches up to him in a few hasty strides, leaning over his shoulder as they walk in the direction of the VIP parking lot. His face is cool as ever, without even a sideways glance at Ryusei. He could get off on this type of being ignored.

“You owe me a number,” he reminds him. After he showered, was what he said.

“You’ll get it,” Sae responds. “Don’t be so impatient, demon.”

He supposes it’s not like Sae ditched him while he was still cleaning up in the locker rooms. Still— “Where are we going?”

This time Sae does give him a glance, though it’s more at his body (probably his clothes, but he can hope) than him. And finally, at his wet slippers.

“Nowhere fancy, apparently,” he mumbles. More clearly, “I’m hungry. I’m getting food. And since I have your leash for now, I suppose I have to feed you too.”

Ryusei supposes that technically, his passport is back in his childhood bedroom in a box with some unused checkbooks, empty wallets, and his expired driver’s permit. It’s not like he’s really being kidnapped any more than he had been when the Blue Lock doors had shut behind him, but then again, Itoshi Sae stinks of zaibatsu and prep schools and who knew what kind of laws money could break?

But Itoshi Sae’s manager is meeting them with a tablet and a clipboard, and a valet is pulling up in a nice car and opening the door for him, and the interiors are leather. So Ryusei gets in the car.

There’s a bag there waiting for him, which Itoshi Sae carelessly nudges toward him with one insured-for-millions foot, and when Ryusei looks inside, it’s his phone and the clothes he came to Blue Lock in. A bit like being released from jail.

“You have a break,” Sae explains, before he can jump to any conclusions about being kicked out. He turns his phone on, opens the contacts. Holds it out. When Sae takes it from him, their fingers touch and Ryusei’s dick jumps in his shorts. Not his fault—the guy has some soft skin.

“Boring,” he announces, when Sae returns his phone with his legal name typed in with no flourish or sense of humor. He adds a few emojis and shows it to him. “What do you think?”

The slight parting of Sae’s lips feels like a win, even when followed by, “Do you?”

“Hmm?”

“Think?”

“Never,” Ryusei declares. “All instinct, baby.”

Even his faint crinkle between the eyes feels like a win. Ryusei’s gonna cause the first wrinkle on Itoshi Sae’s face if it kills him.

Instead, he juts his chin at the bag. “Put shoes on,” he demands. “I’m not walking into a store with you like that.”

He says a few things to the manager, driving. It sounds a bit like a discussion of food places all out of Ryusei’s price range. The manager doesn’t ask for Ryusei’s input at all, but that’s alright. He eats what’s in his Petri dish.

They don’t eat at the store, but Sae throws him a protein bar. The other disappears under the collar of his massive parka, and Ryusei can vaguely see his cheeks stuffing up. Jeez.

“There’s an All-Asia invitational match in Osaka,” Sae informs him. “I want you to play with me in it. There’s plenty of space in my hotel, or I’ll have you dropped off at home if you’re uninterested.”

Bastard. He knows full well Ryusei is interested.

“You’ve got my leash, my tall glass of sweet and refreshing strawberry milk,” he reminds him. It earns him a quiet hum and Itoshi Sae folding his legs so that his foot rudely kicks one of Ryusei’s widespread knees.

Itoshi Sae chews with his mouth closed, until he’s watching a soccer game on the TV. Then he does all sorts of uncouth shit; chewing with his mouth open, talking with his mouth full. Pointing with his utensils, even jabbing Ryusei in the thigh with his very strong and sharp feet when he wants to emphasize something. Ryusei wonders if Sae likes his teammates, back in Spain or whatever. If this is how he acts in his natural environment. He’s inches away from grabbing Itoshi Sae’s very expensive ankles and pulling them onto his lap, or just squeezing the sole of one foot to see what sort of sound the guy makes. He’s wearing a stupid little shirt made from thin cotton with a hood and short sleeves, and the weight of the hood drags the wide collar down in the back until Ryusei can see the first knob at the nape of his neck and perhaps one or two vertebrae past that.

The soccer game on TV is less interesting than that.

“Pay attention,” Sae tells him, perhaps the third or fourth time he makes a comment on one of the players and Ryusei forgets to respond.

“Ah…nah,” Ryusei says. His food’s done. So’s Sae’s. It’s pretty clear which team is going to win the game, but with Sae gazing at him like that from the other side of the couch, with his mouth slightly open, Ryusei couldn’t care if the underdogs scored ten goals in five minutes.

“You’re surprisingly full of restraint,” Sae says.

Practically a green light. A pass roaring towards his territory. He gets his knees under him and slides between Sae’s legs. His hands land on the cushions on either side of his ribs. Itoshi Sae gives him an odd look, a bit like Ryusei is still strapped up in a straight jacket and a muzzle and Sae is deciding what to do with him.

Ah, fuck yeah. Sae’s hands land on his shoulders—a bit gently, but that’s alright. Maybe Sae isn’t—

The beginnings of a grin get wiped off his face when he rotates one hundred and eighty degrees violently and lands on the floor next to the couch on his back, Sae pinning him down with knees cinched at his hips and hands using his t-shirt as a rein.

“Ow,” Ryusei groans. He’s fine. The couch was a rich-people-hotel low one, irregularly close to the floor. He’s also fine, because like this, Sae-chan is sitting on his lap.

“Thought you liked it rough,” Sae asks. Fuuuuuck. His hands come up to Sae’s hips and he squeezes them, then reaches around back for a feel of his ass. This time Sae slaps him sharply across the face and Ryusei’s dick perks up instantly.

“Again,” he says with a warm cheek. His eyes find Sae’s face. He’s almost just as cool and collected as usual—almost, except for the slight gap between his lips, the faint wetness at the center of his mouth betraying his concentration. Ryusei’s blood pools between his legs and his hands squeeze involuntarily.

It earns him another slap. This time he moans when it lands, and Sae’s throat works ever so slightly as he watches him. Ryusei grins. He curls his fingers in the waistband of Sae’s shorts. “Hit me harder, my little mochi snack,” he requests.

Itoshi Sae doesn’t get up from his lap. Ryusei isn’t holding him very tightly. Itoshi Sae doesn’t reprimand him—he doesn’t even look disgusted. Ryusei would know. He’s pretty familiar with Sae’s look of disgust.

Itoshi Sae bats his eyelashes. “Not if you want it that bad.” Ryusei doesn’t even understand what he’s talking about, for a heartbeat.

Fine, he thinks, when he gets it. He’ll just act out enough to earn it. Sae-chan’s clothes are loose and easy to pull at, slip easily over the curve of his hips and soft skin. Sae holds his gaze until Ryusei hits a wall—or himself, where he can’t get the shorts off any further without moving Sae off himself—and then he stands, his clothes still askew, and looks down his nose at Ryusei left behind on the ground.

“You strip,” he says, haughty. Well, okay. Ryusei doesn’t have a problem with that. He gets his shorts off in a flash. Drags his shirt over his head. He doesn’t have any underwear to worry about—Sae had been too impatient in the locker room. He grins at him when he’s naked, leaning back on his hands and baring himself for the little prodigy.

“I thought I noticed that,” Itoshi Sae says. “Why don’t you have any tan lines?”

“You been looking, princess?” Ryusei asks, all cocky-like. Sae just gives him a sneer. He kneels gingerly over Ryusei’s lap.

“Hard not to when you flash me,” he says. Fair, but Ryusei’s got his mind on other things now.

“Fair’s fair,” he argues, plucking at Sae’s clothes now that he’s got a better position for it. “You too, or am I just your personal stripper?”

“And if you were?” Sae asks, but he doesn’t stop Ryusei when he yanks his shorts down. His goddamn stupid shirt is too oversized. It falls over his lap, revealing nothing except thighs that Ryusei’s already seen, so he yanks that up next and holy hell, does Itoshi Sae have the prettiest junk ever.

Makes sense. Just as pretty as the rest of him.

Goddamn.

Might be the hotel lighting, but Sae-chan looks like he’s turning red. Cute as fuck. Ryusei always thought it was dumb, those cartoons where a guy passes out from a cute girl doing something cute, but that was before he got his hands on soccer superstar Itoshi Sae. He’s a wiser man now, more worldly and learned. Ryusei drags Itoshi Sae forward by the hips and junk meets junk but he gets to kiss him, which is nice, even though Sae’s going concave and kind of squirming where their hips meet because yeah, Ryusei’s being a bit weird and messy about this. But he relaxes soon enough and lets Ryusei kiss that pout off his face, and besides, Sae-chan’s the one who took zero to a hundred by slapping him a couple times instead of kissing him, back when Ryusei’s full intention was just gonna be to kiss him on the couch like a totally normal person, which Ryusei totally is.

Sae’s definitely the weird one here, but Ryusei doesn’t mind it, especially not when Sae scrabbles at one of his hands and grabs his wrist to shove it around towards his ass again, which Ryusei is happy to do. The ass on Sae-chan, after all. You don’t run around a field that much without getting a bubble butt, and midfielders did the most of that. And the cute little noises Sae makes whenever Ryusei squeezes him? Almost better than getting another sharp slap across the face. He puts a stop to Sae-chan sucking on his tongue and pulls away. The pout comes right back, but that’s okay, because Ryusei might be pavlov’ing himself into getting twice as hard every time he catches sight of that pout.

“What,” Sae says.

“Just checking something,” Ryusei tells him, and leans back with the help of Sae’s weight on his hips (not just to flex his impeccable core strength and killer eight pack) and fumbles at the handle of the drawer in the couch-side stand. It’s empty. That’s embarrassing. He checks the next one. Bingo, lube. Sae’s face when he shows him is priceless, wrinkling in the center above his nose like Ryusei’s just shown him a bug.

“How’d you know that would be there?”

“I didn’t,” Ryusei admits. “Didn’t see drawers in the coffee table, though. Thought there was a good chance.”

“How often do you have hookups in hotel rooms?” Sae asks.

“Never,” Ryusei tells him honestly. Whether or not Sae believes him, well. He leans back again and feels around the still-open drawer. “Oh, bingo.” He pulls out a box of variety-size condoms.

Sae doesn’t look impressed enough with Ryusei’s amazing resourcefulness. Ryusei can fix that. “Oh, damn, looks like they’re a little too small for me,” he says, waving the biggest size in front of Sae’s face.

“Want me to hit you again?”

“Badly,” he says. “Can I fuck you? Want me to say please?”

Benefits of long lashes include: Ryusei catches it when Sae’s eyes flicker, hesitating. The slight parting of his lips when he breathes in.

“Yes,” he says. Ryusei takes it as an answer to both.

“Please,” he murmurs, dropping the condom on his chest, snaking his hands around Sae’s hips, kissing the skin under his jaw. “Please, please please please—“

Sae’s smack catches the side of his head. It’s light, barely there. “I already said yes, demon.”

Ryusei grins into his neck where Sae can’t see.

Itoshi Sae doesn’t make a face when Ryusei enters him. Ryusei thinks to himself that the only way he knows he has an effect is just by how still Itoshi Sae keeps his face, the iron-clad commitment to a look of boredom and indifference. Like Ryusei can’t feel the way his body flutters around him, can’t see the quickening in the rise and fall of his chest. As if keeping his face still balances out the way that his blunt nails dig into Ryusei’s forearms. Itoshi Sae settles into his lap without a whisper of a sound, and Ryusei’s grin is wide enough to span three damn continents.

He glances up and catches Ryusei’s grin. His frown deepens. “What.”

“You’re really cute.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I mean it,” Ryusei says. “I can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you. You’re so goddamn hot and beautiful that you should probably be like, a marble statue in a museum somewhere instead of letting me get fingerprints all over you.”

Sae’s unimpressed. From the neck up. Down below, Ryusei can feel his heartbeat pick up. “Are you getting fingerprints on me? Did you eat with your hands, demon?”

“I secrete—“

“Please, no.”

“Want me to shut up?”

“Badly,” Sae tells him. His thighs tense, and he starts to rise. Smart boy, if anything were going to shut him up it would probably be Itoshi Sae riding him. Too bad that Ryusei isn’t ready to shut up just yet. His hands grip tight along Sae’s hips and he holds him still, flush to Ryusei’s lap. A little murmur escapes Sae’s throat as his legs fail out. Ryusei’s grin: four continents.

Sae glares at him.

“I think they should make little plushies of you,” Ryusei continues, since he still has free reign of his tongue. “And sell them at soccer matches. And theme parks. And airports. And then because you like me so much you could special order a giant sized one for me and I could have a giant Itoshi Sae plushie to cuddle for when I don’t have the real thing with me—“

“I’m cuter when I’m getting fucked,” Sae interrupts. The flush spreading across his cheekbones betrays him.

“Roger that,” Ryusei says. He grips Sae tight and tries to raise him and totally fails. Sae has his legs locked around Ryusei’s waist to prevent even a centimeter of movement, and gives him the Itoshi-equivalent of a shit-eating grin; a slight, condescending scrunch of his eyes when Ryusei meets his gaze. Ryusei realizes the predicament. He’s going to get wound up by this stalemate a lot sooner than Sae is, in this position, and no matter how strong his arms are they’ll never be able to compete with Sae’s lower body.

Sae’s mouth falls lax with a sigh. His knees loosen on either side of Ryusei’s hips, and Ryusei takes the white flag and runs with it. This time Sae doesn’t stop him when Ryusei raises and lowers him onto his cock and Ryusei doesn’t tease him, not when Sae is slick and warm around him and his hands land on Ryusei’s chest, fingers spread out wide and shifting like he’s trying so badly to keep his balance. Ryusei bounces him a little harder and Sae’s thighs tense. He draws them up close and starts to meet Ryusei with each thrust, his muscles rippling under his skin. His stomach folds over at the bottom of each surge. Ryusei’s pulse pounds at every swell of his belly, every crease between his hips and thighs. He looks up just in time to see Sae’s eyes flutter and roll back, and grabs him hard to pull him down on his cock.

“Sae-chan,” he calls, not daring to look away from his face. The locks of hair framing his cheekbones sway forward.

“Hmm,” Sae responds. He blinks and meets Ryusei’s eyes.

“You can play it cool as much as you want,” he tells him, slowing to a grind between rolls of his hips, “but I can see how much you like it.”

Sae’s teeth come out to play; he bares them in a sneer against Ryusei. Five continents. Sae gives up on keeping his balance and his hand flashes forward to slap Ryusei again, and he moans, loudly, when the sting registers in his brain and feels his cock twitch inside Sae’s body. By the widening of his eyes, Sae can feel it too.

“You’re talkative,” Sae scolds, his hand returning to Ryusei’s chest.

“You’re very not talkative, Sae-chan.”

That pout returns. “Do I need to be?”

Whatever the opposite of a silver tongue was, that was Sae. Smooth like glass on the pitch and smooth like a divorced businessman’s cheek everywhere else. Ryusei brushes his thumbs along the insides of his hips and Sae shivers and squeezes down on him.

“Want an excuse to be loud?” Ryusei asks.

They make it back to the couch, somehow. Second half of the game, round three. Whatever. Itoshi Sae cuddled up in his arms even though Ryusei is sure that if he mentions ‘cuddled’ and ‘Sae’ in the same sentence out loud he’ll get something much worse than a slap. But again, Sae-chan cuddled up in his arms and his warm little body hugging his cock and his forehead right at the perfect height for Ryusei to dip down and kiss it, earning him a sleepy glance from above too-long eyelashes. All he needs now is a cold beer or something, right?

And all for a hat-trick that he definitely didn’t pull off.

Ryusei, being the pure and natural being that he is, rises with the sun. Itoshi Sae, being the perfect adorable boy genius that he is, grumbles angrily when Ryusei starts moving in the morning and buries himself definitively under the duvet. Ryusei leaves him be. The hotel has an extended balcony, one entrance through the bedroom and wraps around to another entrance through the living room. Ryusei walks along till he gets to the patio furniture, breathes in the fresh morning air, fills his lungs, and then shrieks out “YEAHHHHHHH BOIIIIIIIIIII!” for as long as he is humanely capable of.

Then, satisfied, he lies down pure naked on the balcony furniture to sunbathe.

Sae finds him like this half a minute later, the duvet still wrapped around himself, and looking just as cranky as Ryusei expects of an Itoshi.

“What the fuck did you just do,” Sae asks, half-asleep.

Ryusei manually dilates his pupils until his eyes are big and round and dewy. “Wasn’t me.”

Sae manages to scoff and click his tongue at the same time. Perhaps sensing that he’s at a circadian disadvantage, he retreats indoors and leaves Ryusei to his sunbathing. Uninhibited, Ryusei proceeds with his agenda and eventually turns over to sun his buns.

Sae hasn’t emerged by the time Ryusei’s decided he’s maxed out on vitamin D. He finds expensive water bottles in the fridge and downs one, and pokes at the fruit on the counter to determine its authenticity. Then he decides he’s bored without Sae. He creeps back into the bedroom to find the lump of blankets and wriggles into the cocoon, snuggling up to Sae’s barely-awake form.

“Sae-chan,” he coos to a half-hearted grumble. “Isn’t my skin so nice and warm?”

“Fuck off,” Sae manages.

“What are we doing today, my angel? My lucky pink clover?”

“I’ll kill you,” Sae warns him.

“My poisonous little chunk of cheese. My tempting bait resting inside of a mousetrap. My lover with thighs of steel—“

Sae wraps one of the aforementioned thighs around his hip, and Ryusei has a mere moment to feel excitement before being flipped over and having an expensive down pillow fitted to his face, Sae pressing down with all of his body weight in an attempt to suffocate him. Ryusei thinks it’s a loss—he would have much preferred death by thigh, no matter how high quality the pillows were. He flails blindly in the air before going limp, and through the pillow says “This lifeform—is—exterminated—”

As Sae lifts the pillow, he rolls his eyes back in his head and sticks his tongue out. He wonders if Sae’s fighting a smile.

“Sae-chan.”

Nothing. Even the manager doesn’t look at him.

“Sae-chan.”

The only sound is the train carrying them towards Osaka and the distant chatter of the dining car.

“Itoshi Sae-sama.”

Sae’s uber-long eyelashes flicker. He still doesn’t meet Ryusei’s gaze. Ryusei decides the ante must be upped or whatever the fuck that saying is.

“Pretty boy.”

“Zip it, demon.”

As good as. He sidles over to Sae’s seat. The manager tactfully puts on a pair of headphones. “What are you doing?”

“Looking through your health stats that I got from Blue Lock.”

“For real?” He squints at Sae’s tablet. It’s mostly a bunch of numbers and labels he doesn’t recognize, but there—on the header in the top left corner—is his name, followed by a code that he thinks might be his social security number. Or his Blue Lock number. It looks vaguely familiar.

“Should I know… why?”

Sae highlights something with an efficient tap. Ryusei wants to stick his finger in his mouth. “I’m checking to see if you have any STDs.”

Oh, huh. “Do I?”

“No. None as recently as two weeks ago.”

Right. His most recent checkup in the big blue prison.

“Have you slept with anyone since then?”

Well, technically: “Just you, my darling sweet pea.”

“Don’t call me that.” Sae doesn’t give him even a sideways glance. “I’m also clean. I’ll show you paperwork if you’d like. Next time, don’t use the weird mysterious hotel condoms.”

Ryusei thinks this might be giving him more whiplash than the time he tried to punt a soccer ball out of the back of a moving truck. He glances at the manager. Not even a pink neck. He’ll have to find out the brand of those headphones. “So…no condoms at all?”

Sae gives him a delicate and patronizing sniff. “Up to you, I suppose.”

Ryusei decides to risk it. Not like Sae can kick him off a moving train. Sae’s leg twitches when he runs his palm down the top of his thigh, but he doesn’t hit or otherwise try to dissuade Ryusei from touching him, and Ryusei manages to steal a kiss off his cheek while Sae sulks pointedly at being found out to be a kinky little freak.

“I’m growing on you,” Ryusei gloats.

“Like bacteria,” Sae agrees.

Sae’s ass looks really good in the uniform shorts.

Sae’s ass feels really good in the uniform shorts, though that likely has more to do with Sae’s ass and less to do with the uniform shorts which they’d received shortly after arriving at the venue, pulling up stylishly late. They had the entire locker room to themselves, everyone else already warming up on the field. Ryusei had been antsy, eager to get there himself, and Sae had cooly pointed out that most of them were chatting about mundane things and that there was absolutely no rush.

Which was why Ryusei now had Sae pinned against the tiled locker room wall, grinding into his perfect little ass through two pairs of borrowed uniform shorts, with one hand stuffed down the front of Sae’s briefs. Sae didn’t seem to mind, much. He had his head dipping between his forearms, creating an echo chamber for his rapid panting.

“Let me fuck you.”

“No.” No hesitation. “You’re too big.”

“Aww, angel…”

“Not a compliment. Don’t get distracted.”

“Can I fuck your thighs, Sae-chan, please, please—“

“No. You’ll get my uniform dirty.”

“Fuck, you’re ice cold,” Ryusei gasps. “I wanna get you pregnant so bad.”

Sae’s incredulous scoff comes in contrast with the sudden squeeze of his thighs around his knuckles. “Not possible.”

“Anything’s possible with you, baby,” he croons. “Fuck, Sae-chan, just lemme try. We can make a whole new lifeform together.”

“Did you lose ah-all the blood to your brain?”

“Yep, fuck, yeah. It’s all in my dick. Angel, don’t you want a little baby in your belly? All knocked up while you’re running around the pitch ‘n’ scoring goals?”

“I don’t score—“

“Wanna think about my baby in you every time I score a goal? Think about me coming in you same way I put a ball in the goal?”

“You fucking perverted freak, am I a hunk of metal and net?”

“Mmmm, you’re my goal, baby—“

Sae makes the dumbest, cutest little squeak when he comes. Ryusei wonders if it’s an effect of Sae trying not to make any sound at all. He pulls him back from the wall, hungry to see his face soft and hazy, and gets a split second of a glimpse before Sae hardens and shoves him off, stumbling over to the sinks. Ryusei sinks back onto a bench.

“Wash your hands,” Sae instructs, cleaning himself off with a handful of wet paper towels. Ryusei spreads his legs so that his bulge is fucking unmissable when Sae glances over at him. “No time,” he says. He dries himself off.

“Pretty boy,” Ryusei whines. Sae ignores him, pulling on those sexy little gloves that blend in with his compression shirt. Ryusei gives up. The gloves are on. He dutifully washes his hands. Sae waits for him just long enough that when they exit the locker room, Ryusei is half a step behind him.

He’s still sporting a boner that’s impossible to miss in these pale, away-team shorts. Whatever. Let the world see how hard he is for Itoshi Sae.

The game goes well. Ryusei scores a hat trick in the first half before the other team even thinks of trying to shut him down, and by the third goal Sae doesn’t even try to kill him when he jumps on him for a hug.

Sae-chan is kind of like a triceratops. His hair, at least. Two floppy bangs in the front and the rest of it spiked up in the back. He wonders how fucked out he’d have to get Sae-chan to survive mentioning that to him.

His fourth goal is special. He’s faster than the pass, but if he slows his approach or tries to double back he’ll lose his momentum.

“New Shadow Style: Simple Domain.” He chooses to do a cartwheel punctuated by a header into the goal. “P.A. Killah!”

When he jogs towards Sae, a little dizzy, Sae dodges his lunge for a hug. He’s about to complain until the hardest smack he’s ever felt lands on his ass and he falls over.

“Good goal, demon,” Itoshi Sae’s voice floats above him.

“Thank you my sweet adzuki bean,” he mutters into the grass.

When Ryusei scores his fifth goal in the final three minutes after a swift fifty-meter pass from Sae, he thinks it feels better than an orgasm. He hopes Sae-chan saw his backflip.

“Itoshi Sae, my darling cherry blossom of spring,” Ryusei croons, feeling him up in the back of the locker room, “this can’t all be sweat. I mean, look at you, you’re fucking cool as a cucumber. You’re telling me you got this worked up just from playing with me?”

“God, Ryusei, shut the fuck up! Sorry that you’re hot, I guess??”

“Oh, shit,” Ryusei breathes. “You are worked up. Sorry, baby, lemme take care of you, lemme fuck you.”

“Shut up and do it, then!”

“Initiating Operation Creampie Itoshi Sae,” he mumbles, which earns him a swift smack to the side of his head. But by then he has his hands down the front of Sae’s briefs, and wow he’s wet, and almost burning to the touch. Ryusei wraps his hand around Sae’s dick and the hands that are digging into his shoulders flex and loosen, and Sae’s face scrunches up as he bucks up into Ryusei’s grip.

“So sticky, Sae-chan,” Ryusei blurts out. “You poor thing.” He expects another smack, somewhere, but the firm grip he has on Sae must be doing something because all he gets is drawn closer. He twists his wrist and drags the sticky hand up Sae’s warm shaft.

“Fuuuu-uuuck,” Sae moans. “C’mon, just—“

“Here?” He repeats it, runs his thumb over the tip. He knows his hands are calloused. Sae seems so soft and expensive and moisturized, like someone as rough around the edges as Ryusei would hurt him to touch. But Sae just thrusts into his palm, chasing him, panting into his ear.

He’s eager. He’s a total mess. All of the above could and should be applied to Ryusei as well, and he ruts his hips against Sae to remind him that unlike certain spoiled little princesses Ryusei has not in fact gotten off yet.

Sae digs nails into the back of his neck. Ryusei manages to peel his shorts down his thighs, marveling at the sticky mess he’s made between his legs. The fabric itself is practically soaked through. Sae’s face is a blur of pink squished up against Ryusei; he works one finger into him, then two—by three, Sae is snapping at him to hurry up.

Ryusei’s not one to muffle himself. He groans loud enough to drown out Sae when he comes inside, and Sae’s legs tremble around his hips while he holds tight to Ryusei’s neck. They shower together and Sae swats away his hands whenever Ryusei tries to (helpfully) clean Sae up (grab his ass) and Ryusei is miffed until they get back to the bench and he catches sight of Sae fiddling with a plug when he thinks Ryusei isn’t looking.

“Want a piggy back ride back to the car?” Ryusei offers as Sae wipes a wet cloth over the inside of his thigh.

“No,” Sae replies immediately. He dons his designer parka and grabs his bag. “Heel.”

And then walks out of the locker room. Ryusei might be a little bit fucked.

They pull off the highway and end up in Numazu Port by early evening. Ryusei’s never been here—his face is pressed to the window glass from the moment they get into town. Sae is asleep in an eyemask and earbuds with strict instructions for Ryusei not to disturb him. Ryusei thinks about the plug and what it’s holding in place and decides to be obedient for once.

“Shidou-san,” Sae’s manager asks from the front seat, “We’re spending the night here, I’ll drop you two off at the AirBnB and drop by the store. Do you need anything? I can grab you toiletries or snacks if you like.”

Ryusei peels his face from the glass. “You’re being awfully nice to me, megane-chan. Should I be worried?”

The manager doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but Ryusei sees the slight tightening of his cheek that indicates a poorly-hidden smile. “Gotta be honest, kid,” he says, “Sae-chan seems pretty happy with you around.” Fuck yeah, Big Win for Ryusei. “So I’m inclined to be nice to you too. That kid doesn’t smile enough.”

That was adorable. Ryusei’s melting. Who knew Sae-chan had such a tender, soft-hearted, beautiful and kind manager? “Oh-em-gee.”

“Don’t tell him I said that,” the manager insists. “He’ll be mean to me.”

“You got it, Mr. Blue,” Ryusei promises.

“Eh?”

“You know? I’m blue dabadidabadie, dabadi, dabadie, dabadidabadie…”

“Huh…” They stop at a light and the manager glances at him over his shoulder. “For some reason I thought you didn’t know my name.”

“I definitely don’t,” Ryusei tells him. “Anyways, can you buy some lube?”

“No.”

The AirBnB is right on the water. The manager promises to return shortly with some things from the store, and they herd a sleepy Sae into the house along with his bags. Ryusei tries to grab the manager’s bags and he explains that he’s staying in another spot instead of with the two of them. Ryusei wonders whose decision that was. Sae wanders over to the deck on the far side of the house and Ryusei joins him there. Numazo Port smells like salt and fish and the sea—the house is next to a dock of houseboats. They’re walking distance from an outdoor market, and if he concentrates he can hear music through the sounds of slow town traffic. The sun has only just set and so the sky is still a gentle periwinkle color, the chairs outside still dry and warm. Somewhere Sae has procured a fluffy blanket. His head pokes out of the top of a mass of cream fluffiness. Ryusei spots a hammock. He figures out how to hang upside down over it. He figures if Sae wants to talk, he will, but Sae is content to watch the sea and so Ryusei, too, commits to his own version of meditation: being free from everything, becoming nothing. He can feel the space between his vertebrae expanding. His muscles melt and lengthen. His hips crack open and disjoint. His cells become still, then move in tandem with the waves not thirty feet away.

The manager rings the doorbell and the calm recedes. Sae rises from his state of stillness, and so, likewise, Ryusei executes a perfect hanging-crunch and lands on his feet, promptly earning a vicious bout of vertigo.

Dinner is a quick jaunt down the road, followed by a quick stop at a quaint convenience store where Ryusei buys lube, to the slight flush of Sae’s ears. After dinner, Sae spreads out a yoga mat in the bedroom. It’s cold outside, so Ryusei follows him around the AirBnB in hopes of entertainment. He finds it easily as Sae bends himself into impossible shapes before him.

“My hips feel tight,” Sae explains.

“I can help with that.”

“No, you can’t.”

Ryusei shivers. Frostbite. He settles for watching as Itoshi Sae tucks one leg under the other and then rotates his entire lower body seven-hundred and twenty degrees to the left. He feels warm again.

“Come here,” Sae beckons. His legs unfold and fall into Ryusei’s lap. “Same stretch, other direction.”

“Changed your mind? You like being contrary or something?” He folds Sae over until a little huff escapes him and his legs don’t go further.

“Testing your usefulness.”

“And?”

“It’s alright,” Sae answers. Ryusei slides a hand down Sae’s bare shin to his ankle. Either Sae doesn’t mind, or he’s incapable of hitting him. “Up.”

He releases him. Sae swings his legs to the other side and Ryusei repeats the stretch for him. Like this, he’s most helpful if he shuffles close and presses his dick up against the thick underside of Sae’s ass, which happens to be delightfully warm through the thin material of his cotton shorts.

“Do you do yoga, demon?”

“Yep, every Tuesday morning before my matcha and whey smoothie,” Ryusei says. Sae flickers his unimpressed, overly-long eyelashes at him. Ryusei cackles. “C’mon, angel, I’m not into that kind of shit. I’m all, you know, aliens and gyaru and tentacle hentai shit, not holistic self-care-core. I do my stretches and that’s it.”

“Switch,” is all Sae says. Ryusei lets the yoga question pass by and preoccupies himself with seeing if his hands can wrap all the way around Sae’s knees (they can’t.)

“Look up the frog pose,” Sae tells him eventually. He slips out of Ryusei’s grasp. The yoga mat is rolled up and put away while he finds his phone, Sae pattering around in the background. No more stretching, huh?

“Oh, hot,” Ryusei admits, flicking through the images of various frog stretches. “So you wanna do this or some…thing…” He stares at Sae, who is stripped bare and sitting on the bed with his legs crossed. With his hands propped up behind him, too.

“I wouldn’t dream of making your alien, gyaru, tentacle hentai ass become involved in yoga poses,” Itoshi Sae tells him with a straight face, and Ryusei would focus more on his prissy million dollar mouth saying words like that, or his cool eyes tracking upwards as Ryusei stands and approaches him, but he’s busy deciding what to touch first: thighs, knees, dick, face, thighs (very tempting), waist, tits—

Sae’s foot lands in the center of his chest and stops him. “Clothes off,” he demands.

His thighs are thick enough with muscles that they still obscure his hole from view with one leg out. Ryusei lets a dopey grin crawl over his face as he digs thumbs under his waistband and drops his shorts, and Sae retracts his foot for him to pull his shirt over his head, crossing his legs again.

“Lie down,” Ryusei insists. Sae gives him a skeptical look. “In that pose you want.”

Sae doesn’t move immediately. Ryusei wonders if he’s read the situation wrong, if Sae had just been spitballing about the yoga stuff.

“Trust me,” he promises, backing off and grabbing one of the many, many pillows from the top of the bed. He’ll have to leave a note that the AirBnB should probably totally replace those, later. “Have I ever made it bad, Sae-chan?”

Sae clicks his tongue. Ryusei takes that as a ‘no you haven’t but now I’m too embarrassed to say actual words.’ He puts the pillow down halfway down the mattress and helps arrange Sae on his stomach with his knees spread, touching him everywhere he can, from his tense shoulders all the way down to his adorable soft little bubble butt. Sae gets more talkative when his face is hidden from Ryusei.

“Don’t like my face, demon?” He asks.

“Love your face,” Ryusei promises. It’s so, unbelievably true. He could stare at Sae-chan’s face for hours. “I wanna see your face after I finger you stupid.”

Sae’s foot swings into the air like he’s trying to kick Ryusei, and it probably would have hurt if Sae were in any position to aim. Ryusei dodges easily and gets his hands under Sae’s knees to push them up, spreading Sae open and rendering him far less mobile. The cute thing. His dick looks wanton. The plug is gone, but his hole is wet and gives easily when Ryusei pushes the pad of his thumb against it.

Sae whines. His right calf and foot slide over the mattress.

“Need me to tie you down?” Ryusei offers. Not that he has any rope—or anything.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sae grumbles. Ryusei goes for the lube.

Sae ‘shuts the fuck up’ with one of Ryusei’s fingers in him. He starts talking again at two, an eloquent combination of whimpers muffled by a pillow and gasps when Ryusei curls his fingers. At three, up to the knuckle, Sae’s rocking his hips up to meet him, chasing him when Ryusei backs off. He turns his head and he’s red all over his cheeks, his mouth wet and bitten.

“Aren’t you cute,” Ryusei coos. “You got the pillow all wet, Sae-chan. You’re dripping.”

Sae’s hand is wobbling as he tries to flip off Ryusei. His eyes look glassy. Ryusei puts a knee up on the mattress for a better stance and holds Sae down with a hand on the small of his back; Sae melts under his palms like fat in a ceramic grill.

“Ryusei,” Sae murmurs when he finishes, his voice barely more than a croak.

“Angel,” Ryusei replies. He pushes his luck and pressed down on his ribs, Sae squeaks and then kicks him viciously. “Want another one?”

Sae grumbles. Ryusei peers under his legs—he looks so damn sensitive. Sae wouldn’t last a second if Ryusei touched him right now, would freeze right up like a little rabbit. The lube from his hole is spread all the way down his ass and thighs until it meets the pillow, wet and dirtied from other materials. Ryusei drags his fingers through Sae’s come. Diet of salted kombucha and other high protein, low-fat foods, huh? Sae blinks at him softly over a flushed shoulder as Ryusei sticks his fingers in his mouth and nudges him with a foot.

“Your turn,” he rasps. Ryusei helps him turn over. Sae must feel how wet the pillow is under the small of his back, but one look at his face and Ryusei realizes he doesn’t care. His cheeks are nearly as red as his hair, the corners of his mouth and chin wet with spit. He slides into Sae’s body easily.

“Ah,” Sae breathes. His eyes are barely more than slits.

“How’s this for recuperation,” Ryusei asks. Let it not be said that he’s not a yapper. Sae’s hand glides shakily up his arm until he can grab the hair at the base of Ryusei’s skull.

“Keep going,” he demands, so Ryusei does.

He likes being able to see all of Sae. The red lines on his skin from being pressed into crumpled sheets, the mess on his stomach and flush of his spent cock. Getting to feel how his thighs give against Ryusei’s thrusts. Sae’s necklace falls just under his chin. The hand that isn’t gripping tight to Ryusei twists in the sheets next to his head. Sae sticks out his tongue and drools too, Ryusei learns, when he’s fucked Sae past the point of speech.

“You make the same face as your brother,” he teases. Sae’s hand flexes in his hair. He drives in to distract him. He could drool too, if he wanted. He shifts his weight to one hand and touches Sae’s mouth, presses a thumb down on his tongue. Presses a thumb down on his chin to pull his mouth open more. Sae waits for him with a red face and hazy eyes and open mouth as Ryusei leans over him and gathers his spit, dripping it onto Sae’s tongue. He swallows and Ryusei’s cock jerks. He might actually have to figure out how to get Sae pregnant, now.

“Fuck, Sae-chan,” he croaks, sounding just as wrecked as his partner. “Here comes the big bang.”

He doesn’t last long at all. He collapses on top of Sae after he comes, and Sae, pure muscle, vaguely pats at his head and dozes as Ryusei’s cells explode and reform.

Sae’s still sleepy when they wash off and get into the bath. Ryusei fantasizes about Sae slipping under the surface of the water, necessitating Ryusei rescuing him and giving him mouth to mouth, and Sae being so grateful for saving his life that he agrees to all sorts of weird experiments to create a fusion embryo of the two of them (implanted in a prehistoric dinosaur egg, of course.) It doesn’t happen, and Sae perks up enough to start scrolling through his notifications about this or that soccer match over in Europe. Ryusei even gets his own text, detailing the date and time of Blue Lock starting.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ryusei caws. So it wasn’t shut down after all. Yet another chance for him to pay back babylashes for getting him put in a straightjacket. “Blue Lock’s starting time,” he clarifies, when Sae glances at him.

“Lemme see,” Sae says, drying off his hand and holding it out for the phone. He studies the dates, and then flips it over to look at the back of Ryusei’s phone. “Sperm design, demon? On brand for you.”

He hands his phone back to a grinning Ryusei. “I’ll be back in Spain before you return to Blue Lock, so, whatever.”

“Whatcha mean, whatever? You gonna miss me?”

“No.”

“Why are you going back to Spain?” Ryusei asks. “Vacation over already?”

“I got my passport renewed and my birthday was a little bit ago. Now I can sign to Real Madrid and reinstate my visa.” Straight, cut to the bone.

“You probably speak Spanish, huh? That’s so sexy, Sae-chan, lemme hear.”

“No.”

“Please? I’ll give you really good head if you do.”

“I don’t want you to give me head.”

“Liar, you love my head.”

“Eres tan jodidamente molesto que no puedo creer que nos catábamos,” Sae mutters. Ryusei grins. He doesn’t know that last word—the struggles of continental divides—but he can guess at it from the context.

“É, mas você gostou do meu pau, né?” He teases.

Sae’s head whips around and he stares at him, then narrows his eyes. A beat passes.

“What was that,” he asks, with all the genteelness of a drawn butter knife pointed at Ryusei’s throat.

“Portuguese,” Ryusei answers. Sae’s eyes are so pretty. “My mom’s Brazilian.” And she had never held back on scolding him in Portuguese, so he was fluent—in a strange Japanese-Brazilian-kikokushijo informal dialect.

Sae gives him the tail end of a glare before looking straight ahead again. His ears are blending in with the color of his hair, so Ryusei guesses he didn’t fully understand what he said, and doesn’t want to ask. He thinks if he told Sae what he said it would be the last thing he did before certain death.

He wonders if he can get onto the Real Madrid team. If they don’t notice how much his defense sucks, he could probably make the cut. Then he would get to hear Sae-chan speaking Spanish all the time.

“Okay,” he says with a note of finality. “Let’s go to Shibuya before you leave and have some fun!”

“Urgh,” Sae says. He stands from the now-lukewarm tub and water runs off him in rivulets. Ryusei eyes the fingerprints and hickeys along his hips smugly.

“I’ll buy you ice cream,” Ryusei promises. “My treat. Since you, yanno, put me up in a hotel and bought me a bunch of dinners and brought me to the invitational match and paid for my train tickets and—“

“Okay, enough.” Sae cuts him off from the towel rack. “Whatever. Fine. You can buy me an ice cream.”

“From Shibuya.”

“Yes. From Shibuya. In Shibuya.”

“Yay! Nothing over twenty bucks, though.” He splashes his way out of the bath and chucks his phone onto his pile of clothes. He’s about to ruin these towels. He rifles through the goods left in the drawers by the AirBnB owner.

Sae leans back against the bathroom counter. “You look a little red.”

“Cause I’m steamy hot,” Ryusei says. He wipes at the eyeliner hiding in the creases of his skin.

“No, it looks like those wipes are too strong and they’re irritating your skin,” Sae tells him. Pedant. He twists around, rifling through his toiletries bag, and then hands Ryusei a packet. “Here. Use this, I don’t need it.”

He reads the label. “Moisturizing Aloe Vera Gel. Oooh, La Rich Pussay?”

“I’ll kill you. One day.”

“Not soon enough,” Ryusei promises, and tears open what seems to be a sample packet to squeeze some of the stuff out onto his hand. It feels expensive, and he’s ridiculously delighted that Itoshi Sae’s little freebies are going on his gorgeous velociraptor face. Those brands would throw a fit.

“You look nice like this,” he says suddenly. Ryusei pauses on the patting.

“With white stuff on my face?”

Sae glares. “I meant without the eyeliner. With your hair down.” He clicks his tongue. “I’m taking it back, though.”

Ryusei has to totally change which quadrant of the galaxy his brain is in. “You think I’m cute.”

Sae flips him off before pushing off the counter with his hips, snatching his towel from the rack. Ryusei grabs his phone and follows him. He’s just as mobile as Sae-chan.

“You think I’m pretty without any makeup on,” he says at the back of Sae’s head.

“I definitely did not say that.”

Ryusei grins. It’s totally what he meant. He starts humming along to the tune, lurking on a kitchenette stool as Sae rummages around in the fridge.

“Do you want water?”

“I know you get me,” Ryusei sings.

“What the hell are you on about,” Sae asks, turning around, two bottles of water in his hands with silly little slices of fruit floating around in them. “Do you want water or not? I’m not a fucking mind reader, demon.”

Ryusei grins, mimes zipping his mouth closed, and holds out his hand for a bottle. It works, which is to say, it lures Sae closer, and then the trap snaps shut, Ryusei grabbing Sae and pulling him to stand between his knees.

“Let’s go all. The way tonight,” Ryusei says seriously.

“The fuck?”

“No regrets. Just love.”

Watching Itoshi Sae turn red in five seconds flat has got to be one of the most entertaining things in the world. Two heavy bottles of water are slammed into his chest with the force of a flaming asteroid and Ryusei wheezes, giving Sae an escape to walk off with his ears steaming.

“You and I will be young forever,” Ryusei gasps, clutching the bottles to keep them from smashing on the ground. He sucks in as much air as he possibly can. “You! Make! Me! Feel like I’m living a! Teen! Age! Dream! The way you turn me on!” He yells, barely on tune, loud enough that Sae will be able to hear him even if he’s gone and buried his head in some pillows.

“Shut up!”

“And don’t ever look back don’t ever look back!”

Sae slams the door open. “Also, you are a teenager. How can I make you feel like a teenager?”

“Easily, babe,” Ryusei promises, grabbing the door before Sae can close it again and sliding inside with the water bottles. “It’s all about the vibe. The emotion.” He sets them down on the bedside stands and plays chill until Sae risks coming within a five foot radius of him again. Ryusei behaves. He shakes his hair and gets water all over the bed, but other than that he behaves. And then Sae lies down next to him and Ryusei rolls over to slides his hands up his waist and sings in his ear, “I’ma get your heart racing in my skintight jeans be your teenage dream tonight.”

“Silence, demon,” Sae hisses, but he doesn’t make even the tiniest effort to remove Ryusei’s hands. Sweet fucking dreams, Ryusei thinks. He’s the luckiest lifeform in the universe.

Sae’s clothes are such BUMMERS. Sure, they look cute on him, but it’s the fucking body on him, Ryusei thinks. Thighs like that could make anything look good. He finds a pair of pink cleats. Cute, would work, but he’s not going to ask Sae to walk around the cement sidewalks of Shibuya in cleats. He gets to the bottom of Sae’s suitcase without finding a single cunty article of clothing, and flings the final scrap of cloth into the air in despair.

“Watch it,” Sae snaps. “That’s Kiton.”

“It’s fugly,” Ryusei mumbles. “It’s not making my heart explode!”

“I’d be really worried if your heart was exploding,” Sae says, grabbing the blazer from the floor and shaking it out. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Ryusei’s sulking. “I’m going commando right now.”

“Of course you are.”

“You don’t have any colorful clothes.”

“Europe isn’t known for its colorful fashion.”

Ryusei throws himself face first onto the bed. He’s so bored. He’s so bummed. Just the thought of walking around Harajuku looking like a normie is making him want to dive into a pit of lava and die. The bed dimples and Sae lies down next to him. His cheek squishes as he lays his head on his hand. Ryusei is tempted to pinch the other cheek.

“What’s the problem, demon,” Sae asks.

“I can’t bring a fucking suit to Harajuku,” Ryusei cries. He turns and stuffs his face into the pillow. “That’s not explosive. It’s boring!”

Sae isn’t fazed, but he does roll his eyes. “Do you want me to buy something? We can stop at the mall, I guess.”

“For real?” Ryusei peers out from his self-inflicted suffocation.

“You’re being dramatic.”

He sits bolt upright. “No, no. We don’t need to do that. Let’s go to my place before, I can pick out something for you there.” They’re a similar height. Ish. He has way better stuff than what they could find in a random mall.

Sae pulls a face. “Hahh? As if.”

“Pussy,” Ryusei says.

“…bitch?” Sae’s still frowning. Ryusei thought maybe he would be used to being treated like a dress-up doll, considering how many sponsorships he must have had by now. He grabs Sae’s hands.

“I’ll make you so cute, Sae-chan,” he promises. “Please, my sexy evil flawless Barbie doll?”

Flattery works on Itoshi Sae. His frown flattens a bit. “Fine.” He glances around the room. “Clean up my stuff, demon. And fold it nicely.”

Ryusei didn’t work in Uniqlo for a year to earn the money for constant hair bleaching to not know how to fold clothes. He snaps Sae’s waistband against his hip and ricochets off the mattress.

The manager-chauffer-gofer is surprisingly not bad at driving around Tokyo. His Japanese is decent too, with that sort of cute French accent to it that makes Ryusei wonder why exactly Sae-chan picked him out. But he pulls up in front of, haha, Chateau Shidou, without a single hitch in the plan and without siccing the FIFA security guards on Ryusei for stealing away one of soccer’s top stars for an afternoon of fun and debauchery.

Sae sees Ryusei’s face. “He’s taking us from here to Shibuya,” he says.

“Aw, bummer,” Ryusei says. “I don’t get to take you on the metro?”

“I’d rather die,” Sae says. He says that a lot. Ryusei shrugs and ushers Sae up to the front door before typing in the code and yanking the door open. “Honey!” He yells. “I’m HOME!” Ahh, sweet, non-prison, wifi-filled home.

His mom calls from the dining room area. “Ehh, Ryu, seu report card estáqui.”

Never mind. He’s better off going back to Blue Lock.

“Mommy,” he asks, kicking off his slippers while Sae gently unlaces his own designer shoes, “Did you watch my game?”

His mom’s footsteps echo as she approaches. “No, I was literally busy in a parent-teacher conference begging them not to expel you.” She rounds the corner. Ryusei narrows his eyes.

“Ehh, mamãe, en sério?”

“No,” his mom laughs, and grabs him for a hug. She can’t lift him off the ground anymore, but she sure does try. “I watched the game, plus you’re suspended for a year.”

Sae scoffs behind him while Ryusei’s ribs get crushed. “What the hell? Embarrassing for you.”

“Shut up,” Ryusei snaps, when he gets air back into his lungs. “Do you even have a high school diploma?”

“Yes, I graduated in three years.”

“So? Everyone does, you’re not special.” Ironic to say to the most special boy in soccer ever, but whatever.

“Who is this,” his mom asks, somehow multitasking giving Sae a once-over and flattening every single wrinkle on Ryusei’s clothes. Ryusei steps back from between the two of them.

“Nice to meet you, auntie,” Sae says dutifully, before Ryusei can introduce him. “My name is Itoshi Sae.”

“What a polite young man,” his mom says, and then hits Ryusei pointedly on the shoulder. “Do you play soccer too?”

For being Brazilian, his mom doesn’t really keep up with soccer news. In fact, whenever Ryusei brings it up she pointedly tells him that no one will ever replace Pelé in her heart and she doesn’t care for these kids nowadays. Then she reassures him that she loves him more than she loves Pelé, and if he ever wins the Olympics she’ll consider putting a picture of him on her office wall slightly higher than her framed photo of Pelé—although, now that Pelé has passed away, Ryusei thinks he’ll have to pull off something even more extraordinary to get a higher spot than him on the wall.

“Yes ma’am,” Sae says.

“Wow, Sae, I didn’t know you could be polite,” Ryusei says.

“Ryu, take a leaf out of his book, you piece of shit,” his mom says, smacking his arm once again and then retreating into the living room.

“No, mommy,” Ryusei says, following her in. He dumps the omiyage from Osaka on the table. “I want to be just like you, I only say stuff that you would say.”

“This is why your dad left us.”

“It’s eleven A.M. he’s literally just at the office.”

“No, he left, there’s a letter for you,” his mom says. “He says he can’t bear to look at you anymore.”

“He loooves me and adooores me,” Ryusei croons, beckoning Sae to follow him to the stairs. His mom isn’t paying attention to the omiyage so he throws it onto the chair she’s about to sit on. “Anyways we’re going to Shibuya, I’m playing dress up with Sae.”

“It should be the other way around, you’re ugly,” his mom says, examining the omiyage.

Ryusei ushers a snickering Sae into the staircase. “I take after my mommy.”

His mom manages to get a few smacks in before he dives up the stairs after Sae.

In his room, he holds up a hot pink mesh shirt for Sae to look at. “This one.”

“No.”

He unfolds a pair of assless chaps (though chaps were, by nature, assless.) “These.”

“No.”

A leather crop top. “This one.”

“No.”

A bright orange, punk, Naruto-themed hoodie. “This one.”

“With my hair? No.”

“I have bleach and dye,” Ryusei offers.

“No.”

A studded jean jacket. “This?”

“No.”

“You’re picky, Sae-chan.”

“It’s called taste.”

“Oh, I’ll taste you alright—“ He holds up a sweater with pink heart patches. “This one.”

“Fine.”

“Perfect,” Ryusei says, tossing it towards Sae. “That’s a start.”

“The fuck do you mean, a start?”

“How do you feel about cat ears?”

“I feel like I’ll fucking kill you,” Sae says, flattening the sweater on his lap.

“That’s hot.” He opens up his non-clothes dresser. Sae refuses to respond.

“Chain necklaces,” Ryusei offers. “They’re pink.”

“Of course they are,” Sae says.

“I heard ‘of course,’” Ryusei replies, and pulls out the chunky plastic chains. Oh hell yeah, definitely explosion-worthy. “Here’s a beanie and a grawr mask so you don’t get recognized.”

“A what?”

“A GRAWR mask,” Ryusei yells, flinging the accessories at Sae. Sae catches them like they’re infected, making a face that wouldn’t be cute on anyone else.

“The beanie has cat ears on it,” he says, “give me a different one.”

Spoilsport. “Boo, boo, tomato tomato,” Ryusei says, taking it back and rustling about until he finds something tamer. “How about shoes?”

“No. I only wear my own shoes because if I hurt my feet in any way my playing ability will depreciate and the entire economy will crash.”

“Damn, Cinderella,” Ryusei says. “Remind me to ask for a footjob some time.”

Sae scoffs. “You fucking wish.”

Ryusei holds eye contact and drops his pants. Sae flips him off. Ryusei grins.

He leaves Sae to poke around his room while he changes, feeling only a slight-huge amount of relief at being able to wear his own clothes instead of a jumpsuit or some stuffy designer suits. It’s a bummer that Sae-chan is sorting through his stuffed animals instead of oogling him stripping, but he’ll get over it. He opens his vanity and spends three minutes trying to find his pink mascara. Why is it always in a black tube? His press on nails are easier to find. He spins around in his chair waiting for the glue to dry.

Sae stops his chair with a hand on the back. He looks ridiculously cute in Ryusei’s clothes. Plus his eyes are fixed on Ryusei’s bare midriff; Big Win for the Explosion Devil. Sae meets his eyes.

“Do you bleach your eyelashes?” He asks curiously. Ryusei grins at the thought. Putting bleach on his eyelashes would be crazy, even for him.

“They’re blond eyelash extensions,” he explains. “Want a closer look?”

Sae doesn’t hesitate before sitting on Ryusei’s lap and holding his face still with both hands, peering at his eyes. Fuckin’ eyelashes. Ryusei wants to touch his eyelashes to Sae’s eyelashes. A whole new level of gay. Sae’s thumb swipes across his cheekbone.

For a second after Sae kisses him, he thinks he’s just going for a closer look. His brain catches up quickly and he wraps his arms around Sae’s waist, opens his mouth. Sae’s warm and heavy on his lap and kisses him till he’s breathless, his blunt nails scratching along the sides of his head. His pants rub against Ryusei’s bare midriff and he curses the stupid sweater for being in his way. The cheap office chair creaks below their combined weight. Sae’s tongue licks between the seam of his lips and all the blood in Ryusei’s body rushes south.

Sae withdraws just far enough that their foreheads press together. Ryusei chases him and Sae presses his lips together obstinately until Ryusei pauses.

“We’ll be late,” he says cooly.

“For what?” Ryusei groans.

“For ice cream,” Sae tells him. He headbutts him gently. A bit like an impatient cat or dog.

“Ah, haha,” Ryusei breathes. How’s he supposed to stand right now? “Damn. I think I might actually have a collar and leash around here. If you want.” That’s not helping.

“We should get going,” Sae says, his fingers curling into the neckline of Ryusei’s shirt.

“Why do you love edging me,” Ryusei grumbles, and shifts to pull Sae closer and bury his face in his neck. He fills his lungs. Sae smells like expensive travel soap and expensive hair gel. His necklace rubs against Ryusei’s chin. “Okay.”

His mom isn’t in the living room when they descend. He shouts for her. “Bye mom! We’re going!”

A shout from the home office. “Thank fuck, finally! Nice to meet you, Ryu’s-friend-honey!”

“Likewise,” Sae mumbles. His hands are shoved in his pockets. “Sort of.”

The manager does a double take when he sees them.

“Not a word,” Sae hisses. The manager mimes zipping his mouth closed. Ryusei leans up into the front seat, making sure all his accessories jingle aggressively in the manager’s ear. “You need directions?”

“No, thank you,” the manager says politely. Ryusei gives him a close-up grin before retreating. He loves fucking with suits.

The manager drops them off at the edge of Shibuya with a promise to come get them the moment Sae calls. Sae waves him off with his face hidden and his ears pink, and Ryusei doesn’t waste a second throwing his arm over Sae-chan’s shoulders.

“What’s he gonna do while we’re having fun?” He asks, glancing back at the gleaming rental car and its shaded-out windows.

“Dabadie? Probably going out to eat,” Sae says. “He likes sushi.”

It’s Shibuya. Even as they submerge into the crowd of people, Ryusei is immediately approached by a street photographer. Next to him, Sae, less brightly colored and shorter, tugs his mask further up his face and sidles away. Ryusei pulls off his best Michael Jackson, junk-grabbing pose and leers into the camera with his tongue out, and the photographer eats that shit up. Ryusei exchanges cards with him as Sae lurks nearby uncomfortably.

“All done,” Ryusei promises when the photographer wanders off, and he flings his arm around Sae again.

“I’m not getting pictures taken together if that happens again,” Sae warns him.

“It’ll happen again,” Ryusei admits. “Bitches love mixed people. And I get a lot of money out of it, as it turns out. But I won’t ask you to join me.”

Sae hums faintly. Ryusei fiddles in his pocket for his Instax mini. “What about me? Can I take a pic of you?”

Sae’s eyes slide over it. “Yeah,” he says, muffled through the mask. Ryusei grins. Sae elbows him lightly.

Sae gets a low-sugar sorbet with no toppings. Ryusei gets a double sundae with a banana and whipped cream, and gives himself brain freeze. It’s worth it for the smirk on Sae’s face as Ryusei clutches his head in his hands and whines.

“What’s Sae-chan’s favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Vanilla.”

“What’s Sae-chan’s favorite dessert?”

“Adzuki bean mochi.”

“What’s Sae-chan’s favorite, hmm, beverage?”

“A mini-size blue gatorade.”

“What’s Sae-chan’s favorite outfit?”

“Sweatpants and a T-shirt.”

“What’s Sae-chan’s favorite color?”

“Turquoise.”

Ryusei pauses his interrogation to risk another bite of ice cream. Sae studies him from across the table. “You’re getting a thousand dollar-worth interview here.”

Ryusei gives him a put upon look. “And you’re not even asking me questions about myself. You’re a terrible date.”

Sae’s eyebrow twitches. There’s a crinkle above his nose. “Does the demon want to come home with me or does he want me to leave him somewhere Shibuya?”

“An excellent question! I want to go home with Sae-chan,” Ryusei answers happily. He licks the whipped cream off the side of his mouth.

He nearly loses Sae in the crowds once, and has to peer over everyone’s heads to spot his beanie peering in through a store window. He comes up behind Sae to figure out what’s caught his attention, but the store, a Sanrio store, doesn’t give him much of a hint. Sae, noticing his arrival, goes inside and makes a beeline for one of the shelves.

“Soccer Hello Kitty,” he explains, holding a plushie. Ryusei bites the insides of his lips and raises the Instax. Sae holds still, and when the photo comes out he nods approvingly.

“Want me to sign it?” He asks. “You could make a few hundred bucks off of it, at least.”

“Fuck off, I’m not selling this,” Ryusei scolds, and slips it into his pocket. Sae returns the soccer Hello Kitty to the shelf and drifts further into the store, and Ryusei lurks behind him with the intention of watching his every move, until a jingly rack of shiny keychains distracts him.

When Sae returns, Ryusei’s picked out the two most perfect matching cell phone charms for him and Sae.

“Whatcha got?” He asks, and Sae shows him the Hello Kitty print soccer ball in his arms. Ryusei grins. He shows him the matching charms, and Sae rolls his eyes. Sae insists on paying for the charms too. Ryusei makes a joke about sugar daddies and Sae grinds heel on top of Ryusei’s foot.

“Where now, my sweet lovely sorbet eater,” Ryusei asks, limping away from the store.

“Those shoes are too small for you,” Sae mentions.

“I’m not sure the size of the shoe is the biggest problem.”

“Did you get them here?”

“In Shibuya?”

“Yeah.”

“A couple districts over,” Ryusei recalls. “Why?”

“I’ll replace them. Wearing shoes that are too small is bad for your feet.”

Ryusei grins despite Sae adamantly not looking at his face. “So you liked being called a sugar daddy? Or you feel bad for stepping on my foot?”

“I don’t like strikers that don’t take care of themselves,” Sae snaps, “but I can admit I’m in a better position to purchase adequate footwear than most people. The least I can do is get you well-fitting shoes if you insist on dressing like this.”

“Lotta explanation when you could just say you wanna treat me, Sae-chan,” Ryusei coos. “Tell you what. I’ll accept your generous offer but in return you have to keep the sweater. Take it to Spain with you. Jack off in it whmgh—“

Sae’s hand does a pretty good job of muffling him. Sae doesn’t say yes or no one way or the other, but Ryusei knows. He’s not seeing that sweater in his closet ever again.

It’s nearly dark by the time Sae demands meeting up with his a manger to go home, and so they make their way through the stations to get somewhere with fewer pedestrians for the rental car to hit. Someone shoulder checks Ryusei on the escalator up from the train. He grabs the man by the strap of his shoulder bag and presses his face into the moving hand rail. The man immediately looks like he deeply regrets it, as Ryusei grins and leans close.

“Drop it,” Sae’s bored voice comes next to him. His hand lands on the back of Ryusei’s neck. “Drop him.”

Ryusei gives the man an extra squeeze. “Woof,” he says into his face, and the releases him so that Sae can drag him off the escalator and into the open evening air.

“I should have put that leash on you after all,” Sae says.

“Hehe,” Ryusei chuckles. That’s hot. “It’s not too late.”

“My flight is tomorrow, so it is,” Sae responds dryly.

Ryusei calculates it. He could get a solid thirteen hours on a leash, if you included sleeping in it. Well, he doesn’t like to sleep with stuff around his neck. Maybe not, after all.

“You’re coming back to the hotel with me,” Sae tells him, as if reading from an agenda. “I’m not wasting time bringing you back home tonight—I want to go to sleep soon.”

“Yeah, no other reason,” Ryusei agrees and promptly bites off the press-on nails on his middle fingers. They’re waiting against a stone wall for the manager to show up. He files the leftover nail glue off on the stone, and Sae watches him with only a mild amount of disgust.

“You’re washing your hands before—when we get back. Scrubbing them.”

“Of course, my little adzuki bean,” Ryusei promises, and doesn’t even tease and ask ‘before what?’ The manager pulls up in front of them with too-high headlights.

“Let me go to the airport with you too, Sae-chan.”

“Why?”

“I want to see you off.”

In the hotel bed, Sae curls up on his bicep with a thigh thrown over Ryusei’s hip, Ryusei’s fingers buried in him and moving slowly. Sae’s face is close enough that his forehead bumps up against Ryusei’s occasionally, or when Ryusei leans down to kiss him. But he likes watching Sae’s eyes flutter too.

“What else can I give you to bring back to Spain,” he asks aloud.

“You gave me a keychain,” Sae reminds him. Ryusei doesn’t point out that Sae paid for it—he seemed happy enough with it. A Sae style of happy. Ryusei had seen him deflating the Hello Kitty ball earlier too, his hands wrapped around Hello Kitty’s printed neck like he was choking it into submission. Ryusei had made a joke along the lines of the needle gaping the ball’s inflating hole and Sae had given him a glare and warned him not to ‘talk about kitty like that’, which was frankly adorable.

“How about a baby?”

Sae’s hand slaps his arm. The attached fingers jerk from the movement and Sae chokes on a moan—Ryusei breaks a grin.

“Want some scratches? Some hickeys? As a souvenir?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah??”

“Hmmm,” Sae sighs into Ryusei’s throat.

“Hell yeah,” Ryusei decides. He pulls his hand away from where he’d been curling his fingers in and out of Sae for the better part of an hour and pulls him into his lap, sitting up against the headboard. “Gonna remember me when you feel it on the plane tomorrow too?”

“Are you dying or something?” Sae asks. He settles his hands on Ryusei’s shoulders and sinks onto him in a smooth motion.

“My life is an explosion. I live only for my own pleasure. I—“

Sae grabs him by the hair and directs Ryusei’s mouth to his throat. Ryusei reorganizes his priorities.

One of the hickeys is visible above the collar of the shirt Sae chooses to wear the next morning. Ryusei thought he’d been careful, but—how careful could he really have been with Itoshi Sae in his lap? Sae doesn’t seem mad about it. He wasn’t mad about the faint red lines raking down his back and hips either. Ryusei flits about as he packs, hovers as he puts his things in the rental car, bounces his leg in the seat as they zoom off to HND.

“We’re leaving the rental car at the airport,” Sae mentions. “Can you find your own way home?”

“Easy-peasy,” Ryusei declares. “I mean—no, no idea. I’ll have to go in your suitcase.”

Sae pinches him. His phone jingles with the attached charm.

Outside security the manager takes the suitcases and disappears over to the bag drop, leaving them conspicuously alone. Ryusei wonders not for the first time about his surprising tactfulness.

“That was fun, demon,” Sae tells him. His hands are buried in the front pockets of his jacket. The hickey peeks out above the collar.

“Nice try, but I’m in love with you now,” Ryusei warns. Sae’s mouth thins out, but it doesn’t stop the blush forming on his cheeks. “I’m gonna text you. If you don’t want it you’ll have to block me.”

Sae’s eyes flit downwards. He rocks forward on his feet like he’s about to step up to Ryusei and then thinks better of it, and one of his arms swings forward and gently bats Ryusei in the chest. It’s the first act of PDA that Sae’s initiated, and Ryusei doesn’t even try to hide the smile breaking over his face at it.

“Got to go,” Sae says immediately, and turns and walks into the rich-people speedy lane. Ryusei watches him wind his way through the lanes, and so doesn’t notice the manager hustling up behind him.

“Nice to meet you, Shidou-san,” he says, and gives him a brief clap on the shoulder before hurrying after Sae, tickets and bagtags clutched in his hand. Sae almost looks back at him, only to quickly turn his head forward when he realizes Ryusei is still watching. Ryusei stands there until Sae disappears and a beefy looking security guard with a taser and a baton starts to approach him. He bustles off to find the train to bring him back into Tokyo, feeling a little bit like he’s just experienced the end of a whirlwind affair. His cells feel excited, shivering in place even as he stands still on the escalator. Sex and football are nice. Sex and football and entertainment are great bases for a relationship or an affair and Itoshi Sae seemed to like that well enough, and that’s okay, because he figures this will either end with Itoshi Sae totally falling in love with him or with Ryusei watching it all end gloriously as he becomes nothing.

Through the window of the monorail station, a plane takes off bearing the mark of the airline Sae said he was using. Ryusei leans his cheek against the glass, and mumbles, “and I think it’s gonna be a long long time, till touchdown brings me ‘round again t’find…”

The chime of a train arriving sings through the station above the chatter of people. Ryusei peels himself from the window and walks towards platform. “I’m a rocketman…..”

The train pulls up. He has short trip back home, and less than two weeks before returning to Blue Lock. Sae probably buys wifi for the flight. Ryusei stretches his hands out to make airplane arms and jogs to the train. ^{“Nyooooooooooom!”}

“So what are you gonna do, if soccer doesn’t work out?”

“Hey, don’t jinx me,” Ryusei scolds. He folds his hands under his head. “Become an astrobiologist.”

Tokyo was awful kinds of light pollution. Blue Lock was honestly much better stargazing, if you went to the pitch late at night and knew where to step to avoid setting off the motion-sensor lights. Both were cold enough that your breath turned to vapor in the air.

“Pfft.” Sae was giggling at him. “That’s not even a profession.”

“Yes it is! It’s the study of—“

“No, I mean—they haven’t even established extraterrestrial life, right? So are there even jobs for that?”

“Well, I guess not. I guess soccer better work out, huh?”

It wasn’t an important conversation. He didn’t need Sae to believe in extraterrestrial life, nor did he have any lofty goals for breaking into the field of space study. What was important, though, was that that was the first time he made Itoshi Sae laugh.