Chapter Text
Prelude
May 31, 2025 — Cra de S. Jerónimo, 34, Centro, 28014 Madrid, Spain
They were just about to order another onset of tequila shots, when Leonardo Luna insisted the next round of drinks was on him.
From the moment he had joined Re Al, Michael quickly learned which battles he should pick and which ones to forfeit. This was one of them.
It was the calm before the storm. With the way his lips were upturned, eyes predatory in how they crawled all over his teammates—that meant the offer was indisputable.
Whenever he got like this, Luna wouldn't take a no, and certainly no disobedience. Specifically from a crimson haired midfielder, who'd always be the first to decline. That one who sat at the head of the table, his teal eyes glaring ahead. Who, in the most surprising turn of events, had just scored the final goal in the Champions League finals.
Michael downed the last sip of his drink, before settling the glass down.
(It wasn't the first time Itoshi Sae had scored a goal by himself. Ever since the U-20 world cup, he'd been more on the offense, spurred on by Blue Lock's egotistical philosophy. He'd never fully morphed himself into a product of Ego’s, but playing alongside 25 goal-hungry machines certainly left its mark.)
Tonight, Re Al had cinched a 4-3 victory in the Champions League finals, and it was Sae’s curling, match-winning goal—a pinpoint shot that grazed the bottom left corner—that sealed it.
Only that it should've been Luna’s.
Instead, the blonde ended up nothing but a mere witness to Itoshi’s breathtaking shot, sparing the Los Blancos from penalty shoot-outs. Michael hadn’t been as furious as he expected, at not being crowned the MOM of tonight's game. But being the top-scorer of the tournament served as a sweet distraction, as much as the linger of what he was promised afterwards.
A deep sigh next to him. “What are you choosing?”
“I don't know, love. You choose,” Michael mused. "It's not on me anyways.”
Yoichi giggled, before his head slumped on Michael's shoulder. Michael’s eyes fixated on the menu. Should he settle for an Agua de Valencia? Or another Sangria? But Yoichi hated them. Maybe a Rebujito then? He glanced towards his fiancé, head nestled in the juncture of his neck, blinking away the drowsiness from the alcohol.
Water it is.
If Yoichi were to deliver on his promise, he needed every ounce of stamina.
Next to them, his teammate Enrique was snorting at something Alexis was saying. Both he and Yoichi had been invited on Michael’s account, as Bastard München’s miracle duo (nicknamed “Glücksbringer”) and the closest people in his life. And now Alexis was turning towards Michael, flushed and practically vibrating out of his seat.
“Micha, I can't believe you never told him that story!”
Michael furrowed his brows. “What story?”
“You know—the virginity spell!”
And then something truly miraculous happened—suddenly Yoichi sat up, wide awake, his posture impeccable. And dreadfully ecstatic. The corners of his mouth quivered, his eyes nothing but sparking full of mirth and Michael just knew—ah, there we go again.