Chapter Text
The World Cup just ended.
Yes, you heard–or read, whatever –it right.
And right now, Itoshi Rin is on his way home from the train station, dragging his bag behind him with the quiet hope of finally reclaiming some peace and solitude. Just like last time, when everything had ended and he thought he’d get a break—some time to breathe without interruptions, to shut off from the world for a while. Hopefully, this time, it actually happens. Hopefully, the universe will be a little kinder to him.
But as always, things rarely go according to plan.
Because right now, walking beside him with quiet, almost unreadable steps, is none other than his one and only older brother. Itoshi Sae.
Yes. You read that right. Again.
Unfortunately, ever since Rin found out that Sae would be playing for Japan in the World Cup, it triggered a flood of complicated emotions inside him—some of which he still hasn’t quite sorted out. Resentment, admiration, confusion... maybe even disappointment. But all of that is behind him now. The World Cup is over. The media frenzy is dying down. The noise is quieting.
And what Rin craves more than anything is rest.
Like before, they were given two weeks of break time. But unlike the last so-called “rest period,” which was anything but restful—filled instead with cryptic letters from Ego and some exhausting mystery challenge that nearly broke his body and his mind—this time, Rin wants nothing but silence.
Nothing but a bed, maybe some sleep, and definitely no more of Ego’s nonsense.
Other than that, he hadn’t spoken much to Sae lately. Not during the training. Not even after the tournament. Not unless it was necessary. There were certain things—specific memories and unresolved thoughts—that Rin didn’t have the heart to confront just yet. And certainly not while standing next to his brother, pretending everything between them had already been figured out.
Eventually, they reached the end of their walk, and the familiar sight of their house greeted them like an old, quiet friend—its walls carrying echoes of their childhood, of arguments, of shared silence.
Sae was the first to step forward, raising his hand to knock on the door. His knuckles hit the wooden surface gently, but firmly.
A long pause followed. A stillness that somehow felt both comforting and heavy.
And then, the soft sound of approaching footsteps could be heard from the inside. Light, careful steps—ones they could recognize even in their sleep.
As expected, the person who opened the door and welcomed them with a soft, radiant smile was their one and only lovely mother, Itoshi Karin.
“Welcome back, my boys,” she greeted them warmly, her voice wrapping around them like a familiar blanket they hadn’t realized they missed.
Her smile hadn’t changed. Neither had the gentle look in her eyes. And without wasting another second, she opened the door wider and reached out to pull both of them into a group hug. A full, genuine embrace.
Rin would usually say, very loudly and with great confidence, that he is severely allergic to human contact. Physical affection isn’t exactly his thing. It makes him twitchy, makes his skin crawl a little—but this... this was different.
This was his mother. And family was an exception to his rule.
So he didn’t pull away. He allowed himself to fall into that embrace, arms awkwardly tucked against her back. He didn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of liked it, though he’d never admit that aloud. The only issue was the person who was included in this hug, standing beside him with stiff shoulders and an uncomfortable look on his face, his brother.
Sae clearly hated it. Or at least, hated being caught in the middle of something that demanded this level of emotional vulnerability. Rin knew this better than anyone. He was probably the only human being who fully understood that Sae didn’t like hugs. Not mentally. Not emotionally. Not physically.
He only allowed it when it was absolutely, unavoidably necessary.
And Rin figured this moment counted as one of those exceptions. Because it was their mother. If anyone deserved to break Sae’s no-touch barrier, it was her. And maybe him too, sometimes. Anyone else? Not a chance. Their grandpa, their uncle—even a childhood friend, if they ever had one—none of them could get within hugging distance of Nii-chan. But for their mom, he would quietly bear it. And Rin found it a little funny, and strangely comforting, to know some things never change.
After a little small talk in the living room, catching up with their mother, who predictably had too many things to say and not enough time to say them all, Rin finally made his quiet escape. He walked up the stairs with a yawn and pushed open the door to his bedroom, the one place in the world he still called a sanctuary.
Of course, not without hearing his mom call out again, saying something about needing to have dinner together as a family after so long, about how they haven’t had a proper meal with everyone at the table, and how she already had plans to cook all their favorite dishes. A typical motherly monologue—full of love and mild guilt-tripping.
Rin just nodded halfheartedly, muttered something about being tired, and disappeared inside his room before she could say more.
And finally, finally. He was alone.
Back in the quiet warmth of his own space.
Back where no one asked questions.
No one stirred up emotions he didn’t want to feel.
He closed the door behind him, exhaled slowly, and let his bag drop to the floor with a soft thud.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he allowed himself to relax.
Rin lay flat on his bed, eyes half-lidded, not actually asleep, but not fully awake either. He had stayed like that for a while, unmoving, letting time pass without keeping track of it.
Maybe, even after all this time, his bed was still winning the imaginary award for “Most Comfortable Bed” he had ever tried in his seventeen years of life. A category his brain had just made up, apparently—but not an unfamiliar habit. His mind often did that, created little mental awards or categories for things that didn’t matter to anyone but him. Most forgettable training session. Best convenience store melon pan. Quietest moment in a thunderstorm. Useless categories he never kept track of, but that felt oddly comforting.
Anyway, the call from his mother, loud and clear had already bounced against the walls of the house several seconds ago, breaking the comfortable stillness. It was loud enough to stir him from his unnoticed-sleep state and remind him that dinner was probably ready.
Rin stretched his limbs lazily, letting a long yawn escape his mouth, before finally dragging himself off the bed. His socks made soft noises against the floor as he walked to the door, and he opened it with a quiet sigh, then made his way down the stairs.
The view that greeted him was peaceful and familiar—something out of a quiet evening picture book. His father was already at the dinner table, sitting comfortably with a cup of tea nearby, scrolling through some article on his phone. The light from the screen reflected off his glasses, but as Rin’s footsteps echoed through the house, the man looked up.
Their eyes met for a brief second.
And just like that, his father gave him a warm, wordless smile. No questions, no fuss. Just that look, then back to whatever he was reading on his phone.
Rin’s gaze moved to the other side of the room, where he saw his older brother helping their mother. Sae was carefully setting dishes down on the table, moving between the kitchen and dining room with quiet efficiency. Their mother, as usual, was doing five things at once—adding final touches to the food, wiping her hands, reminding Sae not to forget the rice.
Something about the scene—maybe the domesticity of it, or just the quiet coordination, made Rin feel a small twist of guilt in his chest. He should’ve helped too. It felt a little wrong to just show up after everything was already done. The guilt sat heavy on his tongue, and as soon as he reached the dinner table and stood near his mother, the words left his mouth without much thought.
“Why didn’t you call me to help?”
His mother turned to look at him, a familiar softness in her eyes. A smile slowly spread across her face, and she let out a small laugh as she reached out to ruffle his hair, ignoring how he instinctively flinched away—though not entirely. He still let her do it, even if he grumbled about it later.
“Aww, you wanted to help?” she teased gently, clearly amused.
Rin frowned a little, not answering that directly.
“I actually did,” she continued, pulling back and heading toward the kitchen again. “But Sae said you were asleep. He didn’t want to wake you up.”
Of course he did.
Rin didn’t say anything after that. He simply pulled out the chair and sat down, letting himself sink into the silence that followed. It was comfortable, not awkward. He rested his elbow on the table, gaze unfocused, not looking at anything in particular.
Just... observing.
Noticing how the walls were still the same color. How the curtains were still drawn the way their mother always liked. How the faint smell of detergent and spices and home clung to the air.
It was strange, in a good way—how much the house hadn’t changed through the years. Despite everything that had happened outside these walls, despite how far the world had pushed them apart and brought them back together again, this space stayed the same. Familiar. Untouched.
And Rin liked that.
He liked stillness. He liked routines. He liked knowing that some things wouldn’t change just because he did.
They ate in peace.
A kind of quiet warmth hanging in the air that only existed in a home where everyone already knew how the others functioned. There was no need for excessive chatter or forced cheer—just the soft clatter of chopsticks against ceramic, the scent of freshly cooked rice and fried shrimp wafting through the room, and the kind of comfort that came from familiarity.
Mom and Dad did ask a few questions here and there—simple, gentle inquiries about how they were holding up after the tournament, how the locker rooms were, if they had eaten properly during the training camps. Nothing too intrusive. And, in typical Itoshi brothers fashion, the answers came short and direct. Curt, even.
But their parents didn’t mind. They were used to this.
Used to their sons' quiet tendencies. Used to the way neither Rin nor Sae liked to elaborate unless absolutely necessary. It had always been like that, ever since they were little. The parents learned early on how to read between the lines—how to hear the unspoken thoughts, how to feel the weight of a silent nod or a passing glance.
The dinner continued in its gentle rhythm until their mother reached forward, holding a pair of chopsticks with another piece of fried shrimp pinched between them, aiming to place it onto Rin’s plate. Just as the shrimp hovered above the porcelain, a voice cut through the soft clatter of the meal.
“I’ll be out tonight,” Sae said.
The reaction was immediate and nearly synchronized. All the Itoshis at the table looked up in varying degrees of surprise. Because, truth be told, Sae rarely went out unless it was football-related—or for something genuinely urgent.
Which was exactly why their mother blinked at him and asked, with a curious tilt of her head and a soft smile, “Would you wanna go, Sae?”
Sae didn’t look up. He didn’t even pause to meet their gazes. He simply continued eating, answering flatly, “There’s a teammate who keeps bothering me to go out with him. I agreed on a whim.”
And just like that, the explanation was over. Clean and efficient. No names. No further details.
Rin, on the other hand, was now trying to recall . His mind immediately pulled back to that time... after everything. On the team bus ride back. The noise, the laughter, the chaotic atmosphere that always seemed to follow one person in particular.
Shidou Ryusei. That antenna-haired freak. Loud and relentless.
Rin remembered that moment too vividly—Shidou was sitting right beside his brother, spouting off nonsense in his usual manic way. And Rin, who had tried not to eavesdrop, couldn’t help but overhear how that idiot kept pestering Sae to go out with him. Saying it would be fun. Promising “something good,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.
It had irritated Rin more than he cared to admit. Not just because Shidou was loud and annoying, but because—somehow—Sae had tolerated him. Tolerated him in ways Rin didn’t even get. There were a few frowns from Sae, a few sighs, sure. But still, he let Shidou be there. Sat beside him. Didn’t shut him down the way he might’ve done with someone else.
Why? Rin had asked himself that over and over.
Thinking about Sae always made Rin spiral a little.
It had taken so much effort—so much time and pain—to even be on the same team as his brother again. And through it all, Rin had finally come to notice just how much Sae had changed.
Not necessarily in a bad way. Just... different.
More professional. More distant. He had always been serious about football, yes, but this was a new kind of seriousness. A mechanical sort of focus that treated everyone the same—teammates, opponents, even Rin himself.
And that hit Rin in a strange place.
Because back when they were still young—back when they still shared beds during typhoons and fought over who got the last slice of cake—Rin could’ve sworn Sae had a soft spot for him. He had believed it, felt it. That subtle fondness behind Sae’s eyes, reserved only for his little brother.
So to now realize that Sae’s blunt words, his sharp tongue and dismissive tone, weren’t exclusive to Rin—that they were just how Sae was with everyone —was a shock. Not a dramatic one, maybe. But enough to sting.
Though deep down, Rin knew he should’ve expected it.
He had already experienced it firsthand a year before.
He still remembered the words with a kind of painful clarity.
“You have no value.”
“You make me want to puke.”
“I don’t need you in my life anymore.”
They’d talked since then. They had cleared the air. During their last break, they’d addressed some of it—shared bitter truths and quieter moments. And Rin wasn’t going to lie. Some part of him still clung to the pain. It wasn’t that he wanted to. But those words had sunk deep, and even when forgiven, they left scars. Sometimes, they still burned.
During the World Cup, Sae treated him the same as he treated anyone else. It wasn’t cruel. Just... matter-of-fact. And through small moments—fleeting, seemingly insignificant—Rin began to understand that maybe Sae wasn’t trying to be heartless. Maybe he was just... incredibly blunt. Unaware. Oblivious to the weight of his words.
It had taken Rin several instances to come to that conclusion. Several games. Several missed cues. Several silences.
But being who he was, Rin never confronted him. Never told Sae how much some of those words still haunted him. Instead, he did what he always did—worked harder on the field. Let his resentment fester until it turned into fuel. Spent hours exhausting himself in practice. Let it all rot into grudges that never got resolved.
Until now.
Maybe now, Rin was ready to let some of it go. Not forget. Never forget. But maybe stop bleeding from the same wound over and over.
Still, what annoyed him the most was how Sae didn’t even realize any of this. How oblivious he could be to Rin’s pain. And how easily he said things that cut far too deep.
A sudden screech of a chair leg dragged him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Sae had stood up, already finished with his meal, and was now walking off toward his room to change. A few words were exchanged between him and their mother—something about not waiting up for him. His voice trailed off down the hallway.
By the time Rin finished eating—having practically licked his plate clean, not that anyone could blame him—Sae had already left the house. Gone without fanfare.
Which was fine. Totally fine.
Rin couldn’t care less.
Really.
...Okay, maybe it did annoy him a little. But whatever. He had better things to do. Like finally leveling up in that horror game he hadn’t had time for since training started.
As Rin got up to start cleaning the table, his mother suddenly sat back down, letting out a thoughtful hum. Her voice broke through the quiet with a tone too casual to be innocent.
“Ahh, I totally forgot to tell you two earlier,” she said, stretching her arms a bit before smiling serenely. That mother smile. The kind that always meant trouble.
Rin narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his body freezing mid-reach for a plate.
“What is it...?”
“Well,” she began, drawing the word out ever so slightly. “Your grandpa called recently...”
Oh no.
Rin already knew exactly where this conversation was heading.
The silence stretched long enough for Rin to grow uncomfortable.
He shifted slightly in his seat, letting his elbow rest on the edge of the table while his fingers lazily traced a pattern only he could understand. His eyes flicked toward his mother, who had just set down a cup of tea, then turned away again. The quiet was like a string pulled too tight—waiting to snap.
Eventually, Rin exhaled a heavy sigh, the kind that came from the depths of his chest, where reluctance brewed with inevitability. And with his father no longer seated at the table—most likely called away by a sudden phone notification or an email he just had to reply to—Rin was left exposed.
No backup. No one to shift the attention to. Just him and the sharp glint of his mother’s smile, like she already knew what he was about to say.
“You want me to meet him?” Rin asked, voice low, brows twitching. “And stay overnight?”
Another sigh. More exasperated this time. He leaned back in his seat like the chair could somehow protect him from the weight of this obligation.
It wasn’t like he hated his grandfather. Not at all. The old man was kind enough in the traditional way—strict posture, deep voice, always smelled like cedar and expensive cologne. Rich, very rich. The kind of rich that wasn’t flashy, but felt heavy—like marble hallways and silk yukata. His underlashes were long and dark like Rin’s own, a trait passed down through their mother’s side. Genetics were funny like that.
But still. Grandpa was… difficult to explain. The kind of man who could switch from sipping tea in a calm, calculated silence to ordering his assistant to book a private island just so his grandsons could have a “quiet summer.”
Dangerous. That was the word.
Not or can be in a criminal sense—though Rin always suspected the man could be if he wanted—but in the way you never really knew what was going through his mind. Calculating, observant, with this uncanny ability to read everything in the room like he was playing chess and everyone else only knew how to play checkers.
Rin shuddered a little at the memory.
There was that one time he and Sae had stayed with Grandpa in Osaka. Their parents had been caught up with work, some work conference or emergency, Rin never remembered which—and they were dropped off at the grand estate, greeted by staff in uniforms and a backyard that looked like a botanical garden. Grandpa had personally arranged for a full-sized soccer goal to be installed on the lawn. Even painted the white lines across the neatly trimmed grass just because Rin mentioned he wanted to “practice shooting.” A new ball had arrived too, still smelling of rubber and leather. It had been thoughtful. And intense.
But the summer after that?
Rin grimaced.
They were enrolled—yes, enrolled —in a martial arts crash course under their Uncle Hatori, who was a former national athlete turned spiritual trainer or something. Rin didn’t remember much, just that he was six, the dojo was always too cold, and his joints ached every night. He still remembered crying into his pillow the first night, only for Sae to chuck a pack of ice at his head and mutter, “It gets better after the third day.”
(He was lying. It didn’t.)
Sae, being eight at the time, probably picked up more from that experience. But Rin had always suspected his brother mostly just learned how to keep a straight face while in pain. A valuable skill, apparently.
Rin now stared blankly at his mother, his mouth set in a firm line. He wanted to be in his bed. He wanted to marathon horror movies and scare himself enough that he’d double-check the door locks. He wanted to play his games with the sound turned up, blanket up to his chin, with no interruptions. No “Rin, come out for tea.” No “Rin, we’re having dinner with the head of a company.” Just his room, his routine, and his unbothered peace.
And his mother was about to destroy all that.
“Yes,” she said, not even giving him the decency of a pause. “He’s already messaged me five times this week. I told him yes.”
Her voice carried the finality of a judge handing down a sentence. No appeal. No parole.
Rin blinked slowly, dragging his gaze toward her. He gave her a look that could only be described as betrayed . His mother, in turn, simply tilted her head, expression as sweet and immovable as ever.
He didn’t want to argue. He wouldn’t win anyway. He never did when it came to family matters. So he let out another long sigh—slightly louder this time for added effect—and mumbled, “When?”
There was a beat. A pause that could’ve meant many things. Hope. Pity. Delay.
“…Tomorrow,” she said eventually.
Another beat.
Rin arched a brow, slowly, deliberately. “…Night?”
“Evening.”
That was worse.
He slumped back in the chair and stared at the ceiling like it could somehow save him. “Can’t even have one full day of rest…” he muttered under his breath. “Dammit.”
Rin woke up to the glory of morning light sneaking through the curtains, bright and uninvited. Any other time, he would’ve cursed himself for waking up at 9 a.m., especially on a holiday. What was the point of break if not for the luxury of sleeping in until noon?
Then again, staying up till four in the morning grinding levels in that new game was probably why he even woke up this late. His joints ached a little as he stretched under the covers. He blinked at the ceiling, groggy, eyes puffy.
His mouth tasted like dry air and sweet snacks.
Dragging himself out of bed, Rin shuffled downstairs, still scratching the back of his neck. As he turned the corner into the dining area, the warm scent of breakfast hit his nose—savory, a little salty, nostalgic. His gaze fell on the table, neatly set with bowls, chopsticks, and a teapot. Beside it, his mother stood in the middle of the room, crouched slightly, organizing her suitcase….?
Rin blinked, confused. “You going anywhere?”
His mother jolted slightly at the sound of his voice but didn’t turn to look at him right away. “Oh! Yes, your father and I are going to Canada for our honeymoon vacation!” She zipped up the case and spun around with a bright grin, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
Honeymoon. Right. Their anniversary was around the corner.
Still, Rin felt his stomach drop. Honeymoon vacation. Canada. Fun. Snow, maybe. Beautiful scenery. Meanwhile—he was going to spend his break with Grandpa.
Cool. Awesome. Fantastic.
“Wait, is it just me?” he asked, already suspicious. “Where’s Nii-chan?”
His mother waved her hand vaguely toward the hallway. “Oh, Sae messaged last night. Said he stayed over at his friend’s place since it got late. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
So Rin really was going to be shipped off alone.
“Can you take the train on your own? You’ll be fine, right?” she asked as she walked over and ruffled his hair with motherly affection.
Rin huffed, flattening his hair again but didn’t bother to pull away. “I’m grown already. I can manage!”
“Good boy,” she said with a smile, then picked up the suitcase. “We’re heading out in the afternoon. Take care of yourself, okay? And be nice to Grandpa.”
Rin rolled his eyes, but only once she turned away. If she’d seen it, she probably would’ve tugged on his ear and called him cheeky.
Now left to his own devices, Rin realized his stomach was grumbling. He glanced toward the table, eyes lighting up just a little. There it was—his favorite. Ochazuke with bream, still steaming gently. The pickled plum glistened, and the aroma of green tea hung in the air, earthy and comforting.
With no one to tell him otherwise, he padded over to the kitchen counter, reheated the tea, and poured it carefully into the bowl. The rice soaked up the warmth, softening as the fish flaked apart on top. He let out a quiet sigh.
It was peaceful. And for now, he could indulge in this one moment of quiet before the chaos of travel and grandpa’s watchful eyes.
Whatever was coming next... he was going to enjoy this one quiet, precious breakfast alone.
Rin sat stiffly in the backseat of the car, arms crossed, forehead pressed against the window as the Tokyo streets blurred past. His parents had insisted on dropping him off at Tokyo Station since they were heading straight to the airport afterward.
“We’ll call you once we land,” his mom said from the passenger seat, turning to look at him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Rin muttered, waving them off.
The station was crowded, noisy as ever, but Rin moved through it like second nature. He bought a cold drink from the vending machine, shoved in his earbuds, and boarded the shinkansen toward Osaka with a sigh. The train ride passed with him half-asleep, hoodie over his head, phone playing an old playlist of soundtracks he forgot he liked.
By the time he arrived at Osaka Station, the sun had mellowed into afternoon gold. Stepping off the train, he scanned the crowd—not for Grandpa, but out of habit. He expected a black car, maybe an old driver in a suit. Instead, three tall men in dark button-ups stood at the edge of the platform. Their stares were sharp, and even under the polite smiles, Rin caught the outlines of faded tattoos curling under their collars.
Yakuza-looking. Or maybe actual yakuza.
One of them nodded in recognition. “Itoshi Rin, right? We’ll take you to the estate.”
Rin blinked once. Then shrugged. “Okay.”
He didn’t flinch as they escorted him down the station, earning a few stares from passersby. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t bother with small talk. They weren’t chatty either. The air around them was calm, quiet—strangely respectful. Maybe they knew he was used to this.
They led him to a long black car waiting at the curb. Rin slid into the backseat, slumped into the leather, and shut his eyes again.
Whatever.
This was just Grandpa’s way of saying Welcome back.