Chapter Text
The only goal on Sae's mind as he approaches the U20 locker room is going back to bed.
His bed, specifically. Not some prim and proper hotel cot.
A bed that Sae picked out after weeks of online research and in person analyses (lying down). The bed he put together board by board, screw by screw. Hammer hit nail and wood stub toe, all while sitting on the floor of an empty husk masquerading as a bedroom, wrists and spine aching more with every minute of labor.
Perhaps if heated flooring had been installed instead of regular planks, Sae would not have been in so much pain during training in the morning. He had passed out on the polished wooden boards while searching for a screw that had run away, crawling around and molesting the floor. Too lazy to turn on the overhead light.
He hadn't had the funds for that back then, future with Re Al undefined.
The first time Sae laid in it was after that humiliating training experience. He had fallen asleep so quickly, he almost thought he wouldn't need a Rozerem prescription after all. Maybe that's why it remains such a marker in his memories, even though the mattress was cheap and the sheets were scratchy and dull.
It feels different — indulging in the fruits of your own labor rather than poaching or purchasing the creations of others.
That's a bit poetic. To put it in easy to hear words: when you labor for your own sake, the bruises are easy to ignore.
Sae only replaced the bedding once, about five months later. Found soft silk pillowcases being given away online, and left his building for training one day to find an extravagant fur-covered blanket hanging from a half-wall. It was still there when he returned, and he had needed to go to the laundromat anyways.
He used it sparingly, only on the coldest nights or when the team travelled anywhere colder than a Japanese winter. It took up most of the space in his suitcase. But he didn't have that many things then.
Outside of those days, Sae had the final result of many days of careful deliberation. A plain, blue-ish gray, cloud-soft duvet.
That's what Sae sees as he pushes open the door: the sky of a rainy day, decorated with miraculously plush, pearl-white puffs almost as welcoming as the bed he would watch them from.
There's nobody inside, thankfully. Sae doesn’t like listening to lukewarms complaining.
And since he went out of his way to make the journey back here longer than it had to be, he would not have been happy to see anyone still drowning in sorrow.
Sae frees his small key from the pocket in his arm compress and clicks open his locker.
He has to stifle a yawn as he shuffles through the contents, knuckles knocking against the plastic bags wrapped around his toiletries. He finds the small pocket with the saline, and lets it pour all over his fingers before he assaults his eyes for his contacts.
Sae's tired. It annoys him that he's tired. The match wasn't particularly exciting. Not one new bead of sweat for his collection of jewels. His ‘team’ was more annoying than his actual one, the opposing side had the tackiest uniform he’s ever seen, and it's only nine in the evening.
He yawns again, as he takes out his sandals and his towels. The key is hooked around Sae's pinky. How this all fits in this bag, he is still not sure. He blinks his eyes many dozens of times on his way to dump the contacts in the trash.
Then again, when isn't Sae tired?
For that lapse in the universe during a remarkable goal. For those few blinks just after your eyes stop sticking together in the morning. Other than that?
Coffee is unhealthy, and tea makes his mouth feel gross. Energy drinks are a request for future heart complications, and Sae's pulse already gets daring enough during a heated stand off on the court.
Sae checks the temperature of the water, then hooks his towels onto the side of the stall. The head of the shower is just low enough that the ends of the towels won't be completely soaked faster than he can even open his shampoo.
He lets the key slip off his finger, the clang barely audible over the sound of pressurized water attacking the tiles. Stepping into the line of fire, Sae lets his weary eyes flutter closed, only scraping his thumb a little as he cracks open the cap. A manufactured orchid fragrance singes his nostrils and untwists his muscles.
His flight is at midnight, and the hotel and airport are within thirty minutes of each other. There's no reason to rush, not really. Even if he's already wasted enough of his time on Japanese soil, he also has a reputation the Re Al PR team strongly suggests he stick to. Fine by him.
He lets the shampoo drip down his nape to his sore shoulders, scrubbing behind his ears. Prior to about ten minutes ago when he was pacing the facility and wasting his time, he had actually had another thing to look forward to outside of his bed.
Re Al and FC Barcha attend and host a lot of games outside of tournaments. Friendly, unfriendly, local, visiting. You can choose to be bitter that you lost, or you can win the next match.
Sure, the U20 loss pissed him off. But what's there to do other than playing better? Sae was beyond lukewarm back then and that loss finally whipped him into shape. He's made twice as much money since changing positions as he did all those years playing as a striker.
He massages his arms, rubs the body wash in, watches bubbles appear over tiny wisps of hair. He sighs, frustration melting away. Sae doesn't know why he has to be cranky when he's tired, riling himself up when he lacks the patience for it. Pathetic.
Where was he?
Right.
About twelve minutes ago, Sae had been looking forward to another match against their rivals. It wasn't exactly the setting for the sort of football he enjoyed, too carefree and smiley. But there have been surprises over the years: acrobatic stunts and impossible saves, nutmegs and cashews. They always gave these games a unique essence of importance.
It was always nice to be surprised. Sae liked that feeling a bit too much, so he chased it when he could. Too many people he knows have gambling addictions that cost them their houses and reputations. At least he only tends to waste time with his fixation.
Unfortunately, as Sae was informed about twelve minutes ago, through the Re Al groupchat, Barcha are doing some rescheduling, no doubt in response to Blue Lock.
Sae knows the math behind the sum that is his salary, like a responsible adult should: how does that deranged, bowl-cutted perv have enough money for the entire team? Did that guy Lavinho lose a bet again?
On one hand, it's not fun to miss out on a challenge. On the other hand, Sae supposes he is tired of people and running. His last leave was for his passport renewal. Since then, all his days have been made up of interviews, or videos for the Re Al channel, or social media posts pre-prepared by the Re Al Media Team, or charity-related obligations, or training, or football games.
Sae’s not a football ‘newbie’ anymore; generally, people don’t pretend not to hear him. If he says a tactic isn’t working these days, he has a reputation as a playmaker they can't just ignore without sounding foolish. If he asks Gerard to convey to a potential sponsor that he is not interested, they don’t continue to hound him with demands. If he tells the JFU their team sucks ass, they let him make his own.
Having said that: Sae has not stayed the night in his own home for more than ten days total since New Year’s. The past year or so, he's gotten maybe three full nights of rest anywhere in the vicinity of Spain.
Maybe that's why he keeps thinking of the bed.
He isn't sure why he expected his life to be easier after changing positions, because in every field except for on the football field itself, it has been the opposite.
Sae sighs and shuts off the shower, wringing out the cold water from his hair, drying his face as water rains down from his edges and onto the tiles. Then he sets it down, and reaches for a slightly bigger towel.
He has a towel for his face, for his hair, and one large one to cover his body. Each is a different flavor of pearl white.
He used to have colored towels, but it's easier to bleach fabric than to watch the hue drain out of their stitches.
Sae bends slightly at the waist over the bench, holding his towel in a bunch at his left hip. He drops his key on the bench while taking out all of his clothes one by one, with his dry pincers. A low whistle echoes in the room, reverberates in his ears.
Sae almost drops the towel. His boxers and shirt fall back into the bag, fingers still outstretched.
“Don’t you look nice and loose~ Were my goals not explosive enough for you, Sae-chan?”
Of course, it's him.
“You were mostly lukewarm,” he replies, not looking up from his bag.
“Except for my kick?”
Sae doesn’t deny it. There's no point. People will go along with their belief anyways. That, and it was objectively one of the better plays in that regret of a match.
He throws his shirt over his head and with learned proficiency slides it on.
“Well aren't you experienced,” the horny demon drawls.
“It says more about you than me, if the ability to put on a shirt shocks you.”
There’s a low chuckle. Sae turns his head.
Shidou Ryuusei stands not two meters away, dressed in full alternative fashion, with a ring on each and every finger. Multiple on some. His top hugs his torso, shamelessly highlighting his abs and a remarkably cinched waist. His pants are more baggy, and the legs are mismatched in length. It should look trashy; pink should clash with gray.
It does not. The demon’s wild hair is pulled back with a headband, and his eyeliner is more elaborate – there are what seem to be little hearts at the ends. His shirt has openings on the sleeves, right where his arms bulge. If he flexed them…
The blond saunters towards him like a show pony, the tails of his shirt swaying gently, “Hey now, Pretty Lashes. I meant it as a compliment. Everyone knows you’re good with your legs, but shit, I love a guy that’s good with his hands.”
“Whatever,” Sae answers, fist still clenched tight. He stares at the demon arranging his limbs on the bench with increasing bafflement.
…Did this idiot get dressed, leave, realize Sae had not left, and then come back all the way here? Isn’t there security posted everywhere?
Sae does not admire the dedication, but he does feel vaguely flattered by it.
He really needs to get out of here. However, he is not going to let go of the towel. Sae never walks around naked in the Re Al changing rooms, and he certainly won’t do that in the vicinity of this horny demon. And god knows what sorts of surveillance is in this building.
Sae would like to say that nobody would have the audacity to risk getting sued to oblivion like that, but he stays in hotels for a living.
“Get out.”
“Sae-channn—”
His brow ticks, “I’m not changing with you here.”
“But I want your number.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Sae-channnnnnnn!!!!!1111!”
He pays no mind to the high-pitched whine or the look of pure despair. It’s very easy to ignore adult tantrums: just look away. Sae removes his hair towel, fringe immediately smacking his forehead. He runs his fingers through it. He lets go of the towel as he takes a seat, having it lay across his lower body as he fishes his remaining clothes from his bag. His knuckles are still white.
The demon is still in the same place when Sae looks up. But his pupils are the size of fruit flies. Sae sighs, awkwardly pulling out his boxers, swiftly hiding them under the towel. He can hear quiet, harmonious whistling and it irks him. He bends forward, bringing them up to his knees, wary of losing the towel.
Sae sits up, lifts himself awkwardly off the bench, just enough not to launch all the dry clothes lying on the towel onto the wet tiles. Ugh. Maybe he should have just left the building filthy. It’s not like he’s new to death threats.
As he focuses on winning the match between rubbery wet skin and cotton, his gaze slowly floats upwards. Sae’s vision is poorer than usual, but you don’t need perfect vision to tell when someone isn’t facing you.
Huh.
With his eyes trained on the demon standing at the end of the faux-hallway, Sae sets aside the towel and rises to his feet. His knee creaks. But the blond doesn’t even twitch.
It is deeply suspicious, but Sae is tired of playing games, so he just grabs his pants and socks and clean pair of shoes (his green spikes are safe in their dedicated segment of the bag) and throws them on inelegantly. Even between blinks, the silhouette in front of Sae does not change at all.
So he turns his back.
He folds all three of his towels and rummages through his bag’s many pockets until he fishes out his skincare and his hairgel and his hairdryer and his straightener and his ten year old hairbrush. He fits all those in the inch between his chest and his inner elbow, using his other hand to zip up the bag and toss it over his shoulder.
Sae walks towards, then past that silhouette, setting up his things next to one of his mirrors. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to bend to access a contact and the mirror isn’t completely filthy. Sae ruffles his hair again, separating the stubborn clumps as he adjusts the hairdryer in his grasp.
“You look really cute with your bangs down, Pretty Lashes. Just looking at your face makes me wanna cover them with—”
Two minutes or so later, after folding his hair in every direction, Sae’s head is basically dry. He could go out like this. There aren’t that many runaway hairs that light can catch onto.
“Playing football with you is almost better than sex. I would have to test it out though~”
On second thought, his fringe is too frizzy. Sae flicks the switch again.
“You are so fine, you don’t know how much strength it took for me to not to bust right there on the spo—”
Some minutes later, Sae sticks the hairdryer between his thighs. Picks up his hairbrush, watches the disjointed, desert-dry strands of his fringe cling to the bristles. As soon as that indecent voice reaches his ears, he holds his fringe in place and reaches down.
“—should play football together forever, Pretty Lashes. You’re perfect.”
Sae removes the brush. His fringe is an awkward arch, but at least it is coherent. He wipes his nape and ears with his sleeves. Sae pulls his hairdryer out of the socket, replacing it with the straightener. It’s a quick process. He unplugs the tool, setting it down by the hairdryer.
His sweater is wet at the collar. That’s fine; it will dry soon. What’s less fine is that when Sae reaches for his hair gel, he gets a fistful of air.
“Sae-chan~~~”
Sae spins around.
The demon rests on the same spot, horns dangling over his face, casting shadows over his eyes. There is a wicked smirk on his lips as he taps the container in his hand with his fingers, playing an imaginary solo on a nonexistent drum.
“You have really nice lips—”
“—Don’t touch my shit.”
A beach blond brow rises teasingly.
Sae closes his eyes to reflect. Create a smart path to his desired outcome.
Sadly, all he hears is: I want to sleep in my four-poster bed. Thus rather than acknowledge the smoke detectors going off in the back of his mind, Sae takes out the batteries and goes for the fastest route.
With measured steps, he reaches the Devil and aims for the flat, cylindrical container.
Surprisingly soft fingers curl gently around his wrist.
“Can I have your number, Sae-chan?”
“Did I black out on the field and miss a hattrick?”
The demon’s lips turn pouty. “But wasn’t that bicycle kick more impressive than some measly hattrick?”
Well, Sae can’t refute that logic. It was a… conspicuous goal.
Worse, the demon has a really firm ass.
Sae silently walks back to the mirror without his hair gel. At first, he is brushing aside unhappy whines and disingenuous offers. When he bends over slightly to go through his bag, he then turns a deaf ear to a well-executed wolf whistle and at least five different innuendos.
“So can I move in after the tenth goal? I’d be even sexier if I knew Spanish.”
Of course, that’s his biggest concern. Sae rolls his eyes and walks, “I’m not entertaining this until you have at least twenty under your belt.”
“Don’t worry. I have plenty more than that under my belt, so you can entertain me all you want~~~” the demon drawls, eyebrows wiggling.
Sae walked right into that one, didn’t he?
“Whatever.”
Sae unlocks his phone and scrolls through his apps, pretending not to notice the face hovering barely a centimeter away from his hand.
“What does this mean? And that? Damn, I really need to start studying. I can’t propose to you if—”
Sae cuts him off, narrowly avoiding hitting his tan, vaguely crooked nose with the bright screen of his phone. He holds back a yawn.
“Here. Do it yourself.”
When he blinks the fatigue away, Sae finds the demon is peering down at the screen, lips sucked in. His eyes are wide as saucers. Rabid as they dart between the phone and Sae’s face.
“Wait, actually?”
Sae just stares. After a few more disbelieving blinks, the little demon seems to accept the situation. His many rings make music against the phone’s sturdy case.
Sae immediately grabs the hair gel as soon as his hands are freed, returning to the mirror. With pure expertise, he runs his fingers raw through his hair until neither nodding nor twisting his neck can ruin it. He is quick with applying lotion to his face and hands and even quicker at putting every part of the entourage back into place.
“Sae-chan, I’m honored — but you shouldn’t be this trusting! I could be doing horrible things with your phone right now!”
He leans closer to the mirror, swiping away a loose lash, “Are you going to?”
“You know I’d never do you wrong~~~”
Sae shrugs, popping the cap back on his chapstick. The zipper of the bag has latched onto its own fabric, so he spends a few beats undoing the damage.
“How well do I have to play in the next stage so I can be shipped off to Spain to play with you?”
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. Sae does not know why a scout was at that specific match. It’s always clear why someone gets dropped from Re Al, but it’s never obvious why you aren’t.
“I’ll give it my all and fertilize every net I see. They’ll have no other choice.” The impish smile draws attention to dimpled cheeks. “Or maybe Sae-chan is so enamoured that he’ll vouch for me instead.”
“You have a better chance of being hired to star in a Maruko-chan episode.”
“Sae-chan~~~ You can’t lie with such a sweet face. It doesn’t suit you.”
Sae will be damned if Shidou Ryusei gets Spanish citizenship before he does. He rolls his eyes and takes his bag, eyes finding something in the mirror.
“Are you actually hard?”
The demon’s smirk doesn’t fade, but his thighs stop spreading so wide, “Your football is really explosive.”
“If the wrong crowd notices, you’ll never see a football field again.”
“Are you offering to help?”
“After that lacklustre performance? Don’t be an idiot.”
“I can make it worth your while~”
“I doubt it.”
“But how can I prove it to you if you won’t let me prove it to you?” The blond whines, cheeks puffed up and lips pursed.
Thin fingers tap impatiently against the cold door.
“Figure something out.”
Shidou clasps his hands together in prayer. He seems on the verge of another high-pitched plea. But it dies in his throat.
Sae watches him open his eyes and look at the embrace of his hands. He stretches out his fingers, their metal and jewel ornaments shimmering in the light.
Then, as if he knows the meaning of subtlety, as if nothing happened, the demon smirks at him again, “Would a hattrick increase my chances?”
“Less kicks to people’s faces would be better, so you don’t get benched faster than you get it up.”
The demon bats his eyes, “Aww. Sae-chan~~ You really like me a lot, don’t you?”
His eyes almost roll away like a bowling ball, wanting to knock all the lockers onto the audacious bug. Instead, Sae opens the door and takes a step, not wanting to touch anybody or watch anyone touch themselves in an ugly locker room.
“There was a ring on the floor in the showers.”
The smallest drop of laughter escapes along with Sae as he lets go of the weighted door.
…
Eres una obra de arte… Sae carefully secures the bud in his left ear while nodding along to whatever is being said to him by the security guard.
Something something take care of it, something something a lot of fans. As per usual. His eyes have to fight to stay open as gentle hums fill his ears.
He reaches up, wipes the sweat off his brows. Then, he nods a bit more pointedly at the bearded security guard, “I don’t want to miss my flight.”
The door opens.
“OH MY GOD!!!”
“ITOSHI-SAN, CAN YOU ANSWER A FEW QUESTIONS FOR US?”
“ITOSHI-SAN, JUST A MOMENT!”
“ITOSHI-SAN!!!”
“ITOSHI SAE!!!”
“ITOSHI-SAN, WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT YOUR FUTURE WITH RE AL? WILL YOU PLAY FOR JAPAN IN MAY?”
“ITOSHI-KUN, CAN YOU TELL US YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE MATCH?”
“WHAT ARE YOUR OPINIONS ON YOUR LOSS TODAY, ITOSHI-KUN?”
“WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT YOUR EXPERIENCE PARTNERING WITH THE JAPANESE FOOTBALL ASSOCIATION AND THE BLUE LOCK PROJECT?”
“ITOSHI SAE, WE LOVE YOU!!!”
“ITOSHI-SAN, DO YOU SEE YOURSELF AND BLUE LOCK’S NUMBER ONE – YOUR BROTHER, ITOSHI RIN – PLAYING ON THE SAME FIELD SOME TIME IN THE FUTURE?”
“WHAT CAN YOU SAY ABOUT WORKING WITH THE CURRENT U20 TEAM?”
“ITOSHI-SAN!!! ARE YOU COMING BACK TO PLAY FOR JAPAN?!!!!”
“ITOSHI SAE!” “ITOSHI-SAN!” “ITOSHI-KUN!”
Sae has grown accustomed to assaults on his eyes and ears… in the metaphysical sense only. In the physical sense? His head is pounding.
“ITOSHI SAE!” “ITOSHI-SAN!” “ITOSHI-KUN!”
He keeps walking, dodging cameras and microphones and unmonitored limbs. Various hands stick out from the swarm, polished and stained, decorated and bare, gloved and painted. All of them offer him thoughtful gifts or colorful letters. Reaching behind him, Sae unhooks a pen from his back pocket.
It’s relaxing, in a way. His hand moves on autopilot, in a pattern he used to trace over and over until it finally imprinted on his mind.
“ITOSHI SAE!” “ITOSHI-SAN!” “ITOSHI-KUN!”
Sae nods slightly at every other scream, offering barely audible thank yous when accepting gifts.
Ones that won’t require a series of inspections — his bag already weighs about as much as a preteen boy, and he brought his smaller suitcase for this trip. Also, he’s too tired to look for cameras and bugs.
It’s one thing to listen to a teammate complain about bedbugs hidden in a toy bear. It’s another thing for Sae to have to schedule any more doctor’s appointments than he is already required to have by his contract.
“ITOSHI SAE!” “ITOSHI-SAN!” “ITOSHI-KUN!”
Sae almost walks into someone’s outstretched arm and feels very relieved, only to then have a microphone nearly knock out his teeth.
“ITOSHI-SAN, WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN THE UPCOMING UNDER-TWENTY WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP?”
It’s a very charming purse— the one held in front of him. Covered in patterns of fluffly dogs and hairless cats, which were seemingly painstakingly embroidered by hand. There are several small, scratched-up pins with motivational quotes, as well as worn out stickers with silly little quips.
It has the presence of a zoo.
“ITOSHI-SAN! ITOSHI-SAN – THE PEOPLE OF JAPAN WANT TO KNOW – WHERE DO YOU SEE YOUR—?”
And it nearly falls to the dirty ground to be trampled when the reporter leaps forward and knocks into the young woman’s side. She seems both startled and resigned.
“ITOSHI-SAN—!”
He moves the microphone away from his mouth, “Stop pushing that woman.”
The reporter goes snow white and backs away. When he makes eye contact with the young woman, he can see the gratitude in her eyes as she stands comfortably again. She wears a very cushiony scarf, and a rich brown coat that looks fresh off the clothing rack. She has the perfectly groomed hair of a luxury boutique employee.
“ITOSHI SAE!” “ITOSHI-SAN!” “ITOSHI-KUN!”
Sae clicks his pen and takes the handbag, holding it steady. He tries to make his signature look more decent than usual, because it is clearly a very cherished item and he isn’t an asshole.
“Thank you for supporting me,” he says, returning the handbag. His tone is robotically polite; like he’s fourteen and pretending he had not heard the coaches pick him apart right before another game won. His brain punches his skull.
The thank you he receives is not audible over the other shouts echoing in the night, but the wide grin is unmistakable. Sae nods at her, bows just a pinch, then finally gets back to walking. Luckily, he only has two above-average steps until he can hide in the car.
Sae accepts a few more letters on the final stretch, somehow finding more space in his hands for a slightly larger gift of sakura-flavored pocky from a recognizable face.
And then, at last, all that there is to see in front of him is CAR.
Sae allows the door to be opened for him again. He does his personal equivalent of heaving himself onto the backseat.
Life has taught Sae that there’s very few actions more relaxing than closing a door.
His elbow knocks into the window controls, but Sae is busy dumping everything onto his lap so he can remove the bag from his shoulder. The relief is instant. If he took off his sweater, he would likely see a bright red mark.
He isn’t sure how his hands can hold five letters per crevice without getting any cuts. The other day, he had cut his palm while shampooing his hair. Somehow.
As he straightens the letters against his thigh, Sae realizes finally that his music is not (likely has not for many minutes) playing.
Sae sighs and reaches for his bag, but before he can grab hold of his phone, something flies past his face.
He jumps just a bit, then follows the ghost of its trajectory to the floor of the next seat over. It is a very round – rotund, even – blobfish. It doesn’t look particularly happy.
There’s an ocean blue mark on one of its eyes, the grainy quality leading him to believe the culprit is a crayon.
Sae leans down despite his back’s protest. His fingers miss the first time, and the toy flips on its back. There is a very sloppy, lopsided, and angular heart drawn on the blobfish’s stomach.
Sae would be annoyed, however, the window was almost closed, so he’s actually kind of impressed. He makes a show of picking it up, knowing there have been cameras on him this whole time, professional and not.
His eyes scan the crowd that is close to the car, finding a lot of strangers with beards and without. Dressed formally or casually or in merchandise. Faces cold from the wind or perfectly pale. Hair tied or pulled back or combed to the side.
There’s a girl with sunset orange ribbons braided into her uneven pigtails, grinning in a way that only children and their stretchy faces can. Sae nods to her, shaking the toy slightly.
“Nice shot.”
There was no way for her – or anyone, really - to hear, but stars bloom in her eyes nevertheless. It feels rude to look away, but he has to.
Sae offers a nod of acknowledgement at the flashing lights as the car accelerates, leaving Blue Lock in the dust. Sae reaches for his seatbelt a full fifteen seconds later, when his ears have finally stopped ringing.
He untwists the latch while nodding, “Graci—thank you.”
The driver nods back.
Sae rolls his shoulder. Looks to the side, sees his suitcase that he packed an hour before the match.
He unzips the outer pocket of his bag, letting out a quiet exhale when he sees a plain green folder as well as his phone. He turns it on. Finally, Sae can wear both of the earbuds.
Cariño, eres un amor… With learned talent, Sae abuses his suitcase, hiding the letters and toys in any nook or cranny willing to take them. He almost can’t close it back up, but then he does.
There’s something about you, ba—
As quickly as it had started up, the music cuts off again, replaced by a blaring alarm.
He’s getting a call.
Can Sae not listen to a single song and relax without being interrupted?
Thin fingers twitch over the phone, before slowly tilting it off the seat.
Sae squints his eyes. Listens to the obnoxious bells chime right in his ears. The next time the screen lights up, his lips press against each other not quite hard enough to bruise.
There is a third call. There is no fourth call.
His screen goes dark, and the music picks up again. The bridge isn't as impactful as usual. The next song plays not long after. Then, before Sae can let go of the phone, a notification appears, and the light blinds him.
Mom:
Make sure to eat well once you’re home..
The car drives up the overpass, causing his bag to knock into his thigh. He drops the phone. It bounces a little when it lands. A soothing memory draws figure eights across the acres of his mind.
Sae is really looking forward to sleeping in that cold, king-sized, four-poster bed.