Chapter Text
You can't put your existence into proper words. At times, you believe it's a blessing. However, you can't shake off the inkling that you're not supposed to be this way — you're convinced something must have gone wrong at conception for your mother to birth such a creature like yourself, horrible in more ways than one.
You're in a state between constant awareness and detachment, paralyzed into this rigid, unchanging shape. Your very being is thorn between feeling and numbness, between being real and not.
You wait for the catharsis, for the transfiguration to arrive and cleanse you of your impurities, as well as remold your evils into purity. It never does, and you end up sinking more into being alive, but not as a mere human being.
You're something more vile and primal, but not quite monstrous and bestial. You're controlled, all-consuming and all-seeing, with an inability to hand over the reins.
You're something like God, except you're made of flesh and blood.
The world has been yours from the start, and you'll force it to bend to your will if need be.
After all, there's no greater desire than the one for power and omnipotence — and there's nothing you could possibly hunger for more.
Evil lies awake in the obsession with dominance and superiority.
"[Name]-chan, what do you think?" Junko asks you, shoving her phone in your face, uncaring of if your retinas get burnt.
You spare the screen a half-hearted glance, your cheerful demeanor not faltering. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me. What do you think of Itoshi Sae? He's totally hot. I heard he's coming back in less than two weeks." Junko gushes, continuing to scroll. The way in which her nails scratch her phone screen irks you. "The Japanese Football Union said it had a big project coming up! They haven't revealed it yet, though..."
"Careful. You'll bump into a pole," you warn, but do nothing to prevent it from manifesting into existence. Junko slams against the pole, nose-first, before collapsing onto the ground.
She cradles her nose delicately, "I'm okay! I'm okay! No blood!"
Yet. You don't mention it out loud, but keep on watching her squirm like a roach. After a beat, you extend your hand out to her and help her to her feet, dusting off her clothes.
"But to answer your question... I can't say I think anything of him. To be honest, he looks a bit plain for your taste." You respond, picking up where you last left off the conversation.
"Ugh, don't assume I'm so shallow! That hurts, [Name]-chan!" Junko scolds hastily, twirling a finger through her bleached hair. "I meant as a player."
You raise your eyebrows, caught off guard by her interest in your evaluation of Itoshi Sae, of all people, though you shake your head. "I've never seen him play, so I can't really say."
Junko sighs in disappointment, solemn.
You hesitate before looking up at the sky, under the guise of pondering. "But if he really was a genius player, he'd stay here. He left the country not because the rest weren't to his liking, but because, deep down, he knew he couldn't control them the way he wanted to. Because he wasn't the kind of player he aspired to be, and hoped that going abroad would fix it."
Junko winces, but she appears to be satisfied nonetheless, "Harsh criticism. I'd expect nothing less from you, [Name]-chan." Her eyes trail after a school bus, which dumps a sea of football players out into the wild, all of them visibly nerve-racked. She cocks her head, noticing a stadium nearby.
Tugging on your sleeve, she points at the arena mischievously, grinning. "One of my faves, Kira Ryousuke, is playing! Wanna watch the game?"
You're about to refuse, not in the mood to withstand her fangirling, but your eyes zero in on a plain boy amongst the huddle of football players, who is in no way special regarding appearance and presence.
You can't quite put your finger on it, but for some reason he sticks out like a sore thumb. To you.
He's intended to be something more than just a face in the crowd, filling up space. Your bloodlust spikes — you're not threatened, but you're led to acknowledge that a legacy is born here today. You're uncertain if it's yours or his.
You nod at Junko, lacing your fingers together in front of you, peering at her through your lashes. "I'd love to."
You wouldn't say you're necessarily into football, or anything sports-related at all in general. Quite the contrary, you've always been of the opinion that football is too overrated and needlessly praised.
Which is exactly why you can't tell what you're doing here in the first place, located somewhere in the stands amongst hundreds of people other than yourself, watching the match between Ichinan High and Matsukaze High take place and unfold in quick-paced, dramatic fashion.
Considering this match's winner is supposed to move on and star in the national tournament, you suppose it can be described as befittingly intense. Perhaps a touch bit desperate and frantic.
To you, though, it's not as notable as most people would choose to refer to it as. None of these players manage to catch your eye, either, which doesn't faze you.
You never were the impressionable kind to begin with.
Until you saw him. The 'him' in question currently driving you to the brink of insanity, given how he was being shut down unsparingly by the opposition.
Why aren't you scoring? What's wrong with you? You clench your jaw in irritation, blankly observing Isagi dashing across the field to steal the loose ball only to get elbowed out of the way by the opposing team.
He slows down, inevitably, to palm his side carefully, which was where damage was dealt from the minor altercation. You assume that it'll bruise later.
You lower your head pensively, but your eyes don't stray from the pitch, hungrily taking everything in.
The plays you're currently bearing witness to were nothing short of sloppy. Both of these teams were like little puppies; disoriented and without purpose, just chasing after each other's tails.
Matsukaze's Kira Ryousuke is obviously the center of his team's attacks and who the rest choose to focus on, but he's not all that spectacular when left on his own, you notice. He succeeds in standing out just enough to draw attention from those around him; allies and foes alike. In that regard, you presume he can be considered some kind of genius.
Ichinan, on the other hand, doesn't appear to have a strong core. In football, decentralization could be fatal and cost the whole game. Thus, to fill that gap, their offense is chaotic and all over the place, not coordinated and well-thought out.
In a way, you find their scrambling about adorable. A smile curls slightly at the corners of your lips, yet even you can admit that you're coming off too patronizing.
But then, a question reveals itself to you, pretending to be philosophical in nature. What seperates Matsukaze and Ichinan? If they're both as equally weak as you claim them to be, why is it that Matsukaze has the edge over Ichinan when both pledge mediocrity?
You realize that you have an eager appetite for dissecting them like a surgeon does a patient.
You continue with your self-prompted cross-examination, taking it a notch further. You proceed to watch, to soak in, to digest and to learn. After all, you're best at being the best.
Your eyes silently track every movement, every hesitation and, soon enough, you're able to answer your own question once you finally have a read on the whole situation.
Matsukaze's side has a clear ruler. The players know who their star is, and work in backing up their lead actor by embracing their roles as supporting characters. Kira Ryousuke is the reason why the team is operational. They have a forward who they base their attacks on.
You understand now.
What makes or breaks a team is the ace striker. And when there isn't one present, it's the equivalent of heading into battle without a sword in your holster.
Ichinan will lose. This much you can tell, even without having conducted a proper in-depth analysis, because time had been against them from the start.
"Time to go home," you cheer.
"Don't go, [Name]-chan! It's just about to get good! Kira-kun will score!" Junko wails, watching you pick up your things in betrayal, her jaw dropping.
That's the problem. You snarl sharply in your mind. I wanted my number eleven to score. Not that nobody, Kira Ryousuke. You're sorely disappointed, but proceed to bite your tongue. Your expectations were trampled on.
You can't believe it. The more you attempt to wrap your hand around the fact, the more flabbergasted you become. For the first time in your life, you had been wrong.
Isagi has no talent; he is no winner. He is not a messiah, but a dud. You were foolish to overestimate him and place him on a pedestal.
You stand up from your seat, going unnoticed by the masses around you, other than your friend. Before you flee the scene fully, you throw one last look at the pitch from over your shoulder, curious to see how it ends.
And your world crumbles right where you stand when you do.
Isagi Yoichi pulls his leg back and prepares to launch the ball into the net. You can't concentrate on anything else other than the outright ugly, pitiless expression he's showcasing on the big screen. It petrifies you on the spot.
Time stops.
You're curious if only you're able to see him like this. Ruthless, with an insatiable thirst for victory that can neither be pardoned or overlooked.
You hold your breath subconsciously, wondering what sort of shoot he'll make as a last resort to score. It's not mere awe you're experiencing, but self-fulfillment. It feels like every second you spend waiting tests your patience, and you sense the restlessness grow inside you the longer you're depraved of the visual imagery.
However, that moment you were craving never came. Isagi passes the ball to his teammate, whose shot bounces off the goalpost.
You're not sure what kind of emotion your facial expression is attempting to convey right now, but you're aware it's far from being pretty. You're livid and close to clawing your own throat out.
You could picture it clearly; you could envision Isagi Yoichi standing at the top of the food chain, with victory written all over him. You've never been wrong before, therefore it's impossible for Isagi to betray your expectations.
He's meant to be a champion, and everything you say always goes without being put into question, so why is it that he's losing? Why are people applauding someone else?
You won't let this stand. Your pride just won't allow it. It's unforgivable to be mocked this openly. You placed your trust in Isagi, which automatically means it should have been a given that he would turn this score around.
Maybe he's simply misguided — this must be it. If that's truly the case, he shouldn't worry about a thing. You've already made up your mind, and no one can dissuade you from what you have in store for him.
You will cultivate him into something invincible, dangerous and revolting. There's not a doubt in your mind that Isagi, with you by his side, will transform into a conqueror. He's bound to leave a bitter aftertaste once you're done with him. You'll help him become a cut above the rest.
And when he's the number one forward in the world, he will look back at you and realize you're the one he owes it all to. You'd essentially be God.
You can hardly wait, but a skilled predator knows how to bide its time. When you place a trap, you should mask it well.
It must have been fate to witness him in action. Or rather to notice his existence. There's no other rational explanation.
You and Isagi are bound to each other.
You return to your seat, sitting back down casually like nothing happened. Junko squints at you suspiciously, holding her phone in the air and recording the game, "I thought you left."
You simply smile, impassive and repressed, cradling your cheek demurely. "I figured I could wait until the interviews are over."
Having a mental breakdown in the middle of the road wasn't Isagi's proudest moment, but then he thinks about how frustrating it is to have been two goals away from participating in the national tournament and he receives a sense of validation for acting out.
And as if his day couldn't get any worse, his nose is now clogged and he could barely breathe.
Wow. I'm such a fucking loser. Sniffling pathetically to himself, he trudges home with his bike, embarrassed beyond measure.
"I'm home," Isagi grouches, taking off his shoes.
"Welcome back," his mother greets cheerfully, leaning over the kitchen wall's pillar. "How did the game go?"
Guess. Isagi barely holds back a sigh of frustration. "We lost!" He whines, plopping down on the chair like a disgruntled, middle-aged man at a bar.
Iyo pouts, untying her apron before settling down next to Issei. "That's too bad. I even made tonkatsu for tonight."
Isagi deadpans. "You're supposed to eat it the day before." Nevertheless, today's outcome incites him to stuff his face with food and eat his disappointment away.
"By the way, Yocchan," his mother begins and Isagi gives her a curious look, inviting her to continue. "This letter came in for you today! It's from the JFU!"
"Huh?" He freezes mid-bite. It's a wonder he doesn't choke and die.
Isagi snatches the letter from his mother, reading through it with a sense of unspoken urgency, eyes growing wider with every sentence. "A player improvement project?" He gawks in disbelief.
Issei and Iyo stare at each other in visible confusion, not knowing how to react.
"That's... a good thing, right?" Iyo whispers discreetly from behind her palm, to which Issei shrugs, just as lost as her, if not more.
Isagi gulps, mouth dryer than sandpaper. Why is someone like me... chosen?
Issei was about to congratulate his son when an abrupt crash resounds from outside, essentially cutting off his trail of thought. The whole table stills, casting concerned glances at the front door, akin to a herd of deer in front of headlights.
After a brief pause in conversation, Isagi chuckles awkwardly, waving his hand around to air out the lingering tension. "It was probably just a stray cat."
"Some cat that was." Issei snorts, incredulous.
Even so, despite putting up a brave façade, Isagi still purses his lips, skeptical.
He can't bring himself to shake off the sense of paranoia creeping up on him, dread heavily weighing down on his shoulders. Isagi doesn't understand why, but it almost felt like he was being followed.
Was it just my imagination? Isagi broods.
You stop pressing your ear against the front door, having grown bored with eavesdropping. You could hardly hear anything and you're tired of standing out here in the cold, your hands numb from having to endure the freezing temperature.
You look down at the broken flowerpot, which you accidentally knocked over with your foot by being unmindful. Wordlessly, you dig your shoe into the dirt that accidentally spilled out from the ceramic's cracks before completely stepping on the flower.
It's not like it was going to survive on its own. Fragile things hardly ever do, which is why they need you to take care of them. What are you if not kind and merciful?
"It was so pretty, too. What a shame. I'm sorry," you mumble softly, though your tone isn't apologetic at all whatsoever. In fact, you can't even be bothered to emulate guilt.
You allow your eyes to wander around the Isagi estate, familiarizing yourself with his house, drinking up each detail surrounding his humble porch. You doubt this will be your last time paying him a spontaneous visit.
"A player improvement project, huh? What's the Japanese Football Union up to, these old, money-grubbing farts." You narrow your eyes in contemplation, scrunching up your brows, before grinning innocently (even though there's no one to perform for). It's all practiced. "Why didn't you just say so sooner, silly? We'll have so much fun there together. I can't think of a better setting to help you flourish, Yocchan."
You turn on your heel and leave. Just like that, it's almost like you were never even here.
Almost.
The flower lies dead, all thanks to you, withering away with the night.
The weather is cold, but you've proven that you're miles colder.
Only time will tell if Isagi will turn out to be a saviour or a sacrifice; and it's all up to you. His fate lies limp in your hands, the way it's supposed to be.