Chapter Text
They were escorted through multiple doors, shuffling awkwardly through the house, trying not to hit any wall or piece of furniture. Sergi heard murmurs of conversations, muted and impossible to locate, even if they felt just a room away. Yoichi was pretty vocal about the situation and his discomfort, groaning and exhaling theatrically as they got more and more disoriented.
Sergi would have laughed at his antics if he hadn’t almost hit his head on most door frames.
After a few more back and forth, they were guided down some short stairs and crossed to a different room. The air was crispier, and it was even a bit chilly; their footsteps changed from tiles covered in rugs to creaky hardwood until their guides stopped them.
The blindfolds came off, and Sergi had to blink to accustom himself to the difference in light and huffed at the scene before his eyes.
They were inside a large basement of some kind, carved into the rock under the streets and reinforced in some places with stone bricks and mortar. To their right, a bar was almost encrusted into a little alcove, a bartender with an impressive mustache busying himself with some customers. Another bartender, a short middle-aged man, took the bags off the reluctant Yoichi, setting them behind a desk along other customers’ belongings, and escorted them to their table.
Sergi counted ten full tables, besides theirs, filled with all types of people, yet the conversations weren’t bouncing off the walls. Two chandeliers glimmered over their heads, and some odd knick-knacks were propped on shelves around the room: cans, tobacco, chocolate, coffee, but also medical supplies, dolls, shoes, and vinyls.
After bending around a column of solid rock, they sat on the comfortable armchairs of their table, the leather snugging Sergi’s back, as the bartender took a wine bottle and poured both of them less than a finger’s worth without asking. Yoichi looked confused as the Spaniard sniffed the rich aroma before letting the liquid touch his lips for a quick taste.
Maybe a little too strong, , he thought, and told the bartender to bring them something lighter.
Yoichi hadn’t said a single word, still trying to take everything in as they were left alone, his eyes roaming over the cutlery first and their surroundings next. Sergi let him calm down before he spoke, watching as the Japanese’s back relaxed further and further down into the backrest. They waited in silence for some minutes before the younger boy took his wine glass with curious eyes.
— Is everyone here an alcoholic? — he asked.
Sergi snorted at the question. — Of course not. We just like wine because we know how to do it. — He motioned the boy to try the drink, laughing quietly at the face Yoichi made as he smelled into the glass, copying him.
— It smells horrible. — he quipped, moving the glass away from his nose, but not setting it down.
— Just try it. — Sergi watched the curiosity battling with his afflicted feelings under those deep blue eyes. He tried to nudge the striker into choosing. — You’re seventeen, now is the time to try new things. Experience things that make you curious and decide what makes you happy. Having the liberty to choose is what makes teenagers able to shape themselves into what they will be in the future. And think about it, you’ll be able to brag about it to your friends. —
The words felt hollow in his own ears. A lesson learned, not by his own doing, but by knowing through others’ actions. Sergi wasn’t stupid; in fact, he would label himself as someone intelligent and with ample common sense. He knew how things were supposed to go; what cliché phrases were said where and when, through context, his mind was able to internalize those lessons. Did not change the fact that they didn’t mean anything to him. Those were words and experiences for others to live and for him to watch from a safe distance.
— You have that same smile on again. —
Yoichi’s words felt like a bucket of cold water had been dropped on his head. This boy was too damn perceptive.
— Sorry, — he said as his lips rested in a straight line. — I’ll stop. —
The hum from his companion didn’t sound very convincing, but he seemed not to want to inquire further. Slowly, he brought his lips to the wide glass and awkwardly tilted his head back, drinking the small amount of wine in a big gulp.
The disgusted expression that crossed his face made Sergi genuinely chuckle.
— Blegh. — Yoichi grimaced, tongue lolling out, eyes sending daggers in his direction. — That is fucking disgusting. How do people drink this? —
— You have to drink it in sips. It’s not a shot. — Sergi chuckled as Yoichi smacked his lips as the taste lingered on his mouth. God, how could someone be so endearingly awkward? — And usually older people are the only ones to drink wine; people under 25 are the ones who do all the insane liquor combinations. —
Before Yoichi could answer, the same bartender as before appeared out of thin air and set two plates of trinxat in front of them. Without saying another word, the man took the used glasses and poured both of them a half-full glass of a different wine in some glasses he had procured from another table. He also left an open bottle of water to the side before slinking away and morphing into the dark.
Sergi smiled at the perplexed look Yoichi gave him. — We haven’t ordered anything yet… right? —
— It’s how it works here, apparently. There is a set menu. Shit, you’re not allergic to anything, right? — His question was met with black hair shaking. After exhaling at almost blunder, he gestured to the ambiance. — It goes well with what they want to portray. —
— Portray? —
Sergi served both of them the cold water before getting comfortable in his seat. — I like coming to restaurants that try to give you a different experience than usual. You can make the place as fancy and ostentatious as you like, but you can only see someone’s real soul when they’re unapologetically themselves. The food here is good, better than your usual semi-centric local place, but they decided to try something different with their portrayal of their services.
— ‘Contraban’ means, surprise surprise, contraband. In the sense of moving illicit, scarce, and prohibited goods to be sold in the black market. — He gestured to the shelves filled with different random objects. — During the dictatorship in this country, the populace got extremely poor, and even common ingredients a few years back became impossible to get. So people smuggled them over from other countries and sold them at a higher price here. —
Yoichi was looking at him intently, big round eyes focused on him as he listened intently to his rant.
— …and yeah, that’s it. — he finished lamely, maintaining eye contact for some beating moment, before casting them down to his plate. — We should eat. —
— Sure. — nodded the Japanese, copying him as he prodded the shredded cabbage with his fork. — Thank you for the story. —
Their conversation continued, in an almost scripted way, during the first plate. One of them would ask a question about a random topic, and the other would rant a little under the attentive gaze of the listening party. It was nice and comfortable. A structure they had seemingly adopted from their earlier meet-up at lunch, both content to be the ranter and the listener when needed.
Yoichi was fun to converse with. The light humor and a few provocative comments elicited some good reactions. They also didn’t talk about football at all, so that was a big plus.
— Why don’t you want to talk about football? — Sergi hand minutely stopped as he was reaching for his cup. So much for not talking about it. — You always try to change the topic when I bring it up. You didn’t even let me properly congratulate you at the stadium. —
— I just don’t want to talk about it when it’s not necessary. — he shrugged as he sipped on his wine, too sweet. — It’s everything I do, so I’d like to have conversations about something else when possible. —
Here he came with his super ability to read every emotion under his facial surface. Sergi braced to steer the conversation to a more palatable direction, when Yoichi beat him to it.
— Mmmh. That’s alright then. — he dabbed his mouth with his napkin, looking assuredly at his red eyes. — What do you want to talk about, then? —
Sergi blinked, perplexed. Had it been that easy? No visible annoyance? No tricky way to circumvent it later? No loss of interest in him, as a person?
— Just like that? — he asked, unsure.
— Just like what? — Yoichi quirked an eyebrow, as if it was normal to be that kind. Realization dawned on his face shortly after, his voice softly explaining himself. — Of course, Sergi. It’s common courtesy. If you feel overwhelmed or not in the mood to talk about a topic, then it’s my duty not to overstep and make you uncomfortable. —
— Huh. — The tall boy downed what was left of his wine and went to grab the bottle to replenish it. — Never thought that could happen. —
— Dude. — Yoichi seemed to smile at him through his concern. — What kind of shitty company do you usually have? —
— Instagram bimbos that wanna weasel into my pants for my fame and money. — he responded without blinking, watching in fascination as the asian’s face contorted into complete disbelief.
— Ain’t no way. — he looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation in the secluded corner of the restaurant. — Do you not have friends to go to these things with you? —
His mind immediately went to Victor, and then promptly went blank when no other face appeared after his best friend. Whoops.
— I went with my best friend before I got called up to the first team. — Sergi snorted when he saw the excitement blossom in his new friend’s face before he tried to school it to no avail. — You want to ask that badly? —
— Yes! — The boy jokingly said through his teeth.
An idea started to form in his head as the same waiter appeared and took away their plates, setting them up for the next course. Another waiter, another older gentleman, left two steaming plates of fricandó, the tender meat coated in a thick mushroom sauce, making Yoichi look even hungrier than before. When they left, Sergi smiled to himself. This could be incredibly funny if it worked.
— Then what about a proposition? — he clasped his hands in front of his face, seated on the verge of the chair, peering intensely into those sinkholes of the bluest color with confidence. He probably looked like a con artist, trying to sell a plan or stocks that would inevitably bankrupt the victim and load his pockets with fat bills. The corresponding intensity he got back made his stomach tingle excitedly.
— I’m listening. — The wide, toothy grin Sergi got in return was enough for his sudden thirst.
— Let’s trade something. My knowledge, information, — he pointed at Yoichi with both index fingers, like businessmen did in movies. — in exchange for your future teenage experiences. I’ll answer any question you have, no matter what it is, and I won’t lie about it. And in return, I’ll get a token, a coupon, to make you do something that is quintessential teenager. You have to live a bit unseriously or you'll go crazy. —
Two oceans bore into him, trying to decipher every tick, every movement, for something that denoted his real feelings about the proposition. He got serious all of a sudden, eyebrows knitting cutely into his harrumphed nose.
— Any questions? — That was the only thing the youngest asked.
— Yep. —
The boy mused about it for some time, tapping with his fingers the tablecloth in a rhythm Sergi didn’t follow. After his contemplation, Yoichi crossed his arms while resting them on the table and pointed at himself. — Okay… but you can say no to any too invasive question you don’t want to answer, and I can say no to any weird thing you want me to do. —
Sergi didn’t have to think much about the add-on. — Sure, I’m fine with that. Shake on it? —
Yoichi nodded, and they shook hands firmly over their filled glasses, retracting slowly back into their seats.
— C’mon, shoot. I know you have been dying to ask something. — he smiled at the light blush that flushed he boy’s cheeks.
— …I forgot. — he flushed an even deeper red and groaned into his hands when Sergi chuckled at the reaction. — I have my notes in the bag, and it’s back there. I’m sure I can quickly go to get it, please. —
— Nope. — Sergi almost laughed in Yoichi’s face when he pulled back his hands to look at him in horror. — I’m sure you have at least one good question in your head. —
The Japanese player thought long before he snapped his fingers and smiled at him.
— Do you use Metavision to process the game? — he asked in a murmur, as if it were some kind of illegal conversation.
Sergi just looked at him, confused. — What? —
— Ah, sorry. — he waved his hands around as he tried to explain himself. Sergi was hating his stupid idea already. — It’s a way to read the field using your peripheral vision. I analyze what the players are doing and then try to act on what I think they’ll do. Where a pass might go, how they’ll dribble, and in which way a defender will lean to stop someone. It’s like guessing what someone will do in the next few seconds, like looking into the future! —
— Oh, cool. — Sergi tried to remember if he had heard someone say something along those lines. — No, I don’t think I do that, seems tiring as hell. —
The saddened look that crossed Yoichi’s face made him try to continue the conversation. — I’ve heard of people doing things like that, Nesta and Bosque for sure think like you. Honestly, they are like supercomputers. Oh, I believe your fellow countryman Sae does it too. —
— Aw, man. — Yoichi frowned at his response nonetheless. — I thought you would have it, since Kaiser and Hiori do it. Noa apparently too, but he reads so far ahead it’s impossible to know if that’s true. —
Sergi was not curious one bit, but he felt he should expand a little more for his new friend.
— I mean, — he could laugh at how Yoichi immediately perked up as he spoke. He was sure that if the boy could, he would be writing down every one of his words. — I do read my opponents, but I do it more broadly, I guess. The things you say come more naturally to me, I guess. I like to think that I know my abilities, and I know how to operate inside that area offensively. It’s already a lot to think about the team’s schemes; if I had to add that constant stream of thoughts, I would go nuts. —
— So you are a genius… — muttered the smaller boy as he ate, not dejected with the answer. — Shouldn’t be surprised anyway. —
What was this man blabbing about? Was talking about football always this confusing?
— Uh, thanks? — he said around a forkful of meat.
— Sorry. It means that you are biologically more apt in some areas than others. You still have to train it, but your body and mind have an instinctual superior level of how to grasp things and do them. — Isagi made a show of putting his hands and mimicking the bars of a chart, one lower than the other. — Think of Loki. He’s extremely smart, can read the game very well, but what makes him a genius is his speed. It’s a genetic advantage, being a genius. You must have the same predisposition for your jumping ability and your physique. —
— So Darwin’s theory with extra steps. — Sergi thought he was grasping the concepts Yoichi was throwing at him. Some things were still a bit unclear, but he managed to follow the conversation.
— Yes! Something like that. — Yoichi smiled brightly at him, trying not to make a mess with his plate as he ate. They took some bites before the boy talked again. — Honestly, if you had Metavision or something similar, you would be invincible. —
— Sure. — Sergi shrugged and took a sip of the red wine, his glass almost empty.
— You don’t care? —
The question came from a baffled Yoichi. He looked as if Sergi had said something sacrilegious, like a sixteenth-century peasant being told their allmighty God didn’t exist. For the first time, Sergi could see somewhat what Yoichi from Blue Lock could be, a simmering anger under those expressive eyes, mouth morphing into a rigid line. It was as if his own fire was bewildered that someone else didn’t take his words seriously. That it was a sin to be passive about improving, to not try to be better.
— Is that another question? —
— Sure. — Yoichi grumbled.
Sergi’s soul had been laid to rest a long time ago. No incensed, football-loving sicko would even stir his peaceful slumber.
— Not really. — he smiled at his companion, dead eyes and falsehood wafting out of him like spoiled goods. — I’m already good enough at what I do; I don’t really need to improve, just polish my game. Not everyone likes an uphill battle, Yoichi. —
— But I need you. —
The words hung over them in a lull, careful themselves on how they would land. Yoichi’s statement was said with so much conviction and fervor that Sergi could only hear it as the absolute truth.
— Are you asking me to go out with you? — he tried to joke. Yoichi didn’t let him.
— You are the closest there is for me to improve further. To stand shoulder to shoulder with the upper echelon of players. To get closer to being the best in the world. — Again, that sure faith in oneself was nauseating to Sergi. How could someone believe so much in themselves, to the point of delusion?
— You are not strong enough. — he answered instead.
— I know. — was his response.
— You have played exactly one full 90-minute match. — he objected.
— I know. — he said.
— You have never played under a system. You don’t know how a normal team behaves. — Something was pulling at his chest uncomfortably.
— I know. — his eyes made him afraid of drowning. — That’s why I have to believe. —
Sergi shuddered under that overwhelming gaze, pure certitude, like the angel of death appearing in front of him. The hole was deep, and he couldn’t see the wet dirt walls of the cylinder, only a pinprick high in the sky of white and blue. His legs were tired of disuse, and he wouldn’t be able to hop out. He knew this.
— You are a strange man, Yoichi. — he said instead. Not today, not to him. Victor had already been his confidant, his best friend, and almost died because of it.
— First time someone has said that to me. — The uncharted depths of the ocean receded to an inoffensive lull in the tide of the sea. — They usually want to punch me, then threaten me. —
— That doesn’t sound normal. — Their food had gone ignored.
— Normal is boring, isn’t it? — Yoichi hadn’t looked down at his plate once in the past minutes. Sergi didn’t agree with the sentiment, boring sounded nice.
— Well? — The younger boy asked, skewering some meat before asking. — What is it that you wanted me to do? —
Sergi smiles at the opportunity to return to safe land.
— Drink the entire cup. —
Stormy eyes glare at him. — No way. —
Yoichi then gets somewhat drunk for the first time.
Sergi brings the yawning Japanese to his hotel before turning and walking back to his apartment on the other side of the city. It’s an entire hour of strolling near clubs and nocturnal people, avoiding the shadier places to not get mugged. He decompresses, leaving his head blank and only feeling his tired knees grind in protest.
Fluorescent light disappears as he turns and stops at the front of the apartment, the facade a beautiful white neoclassical wonder. He comes through the foyer, nodding to the almost asleep guard, and enters the last elevator. It’s late, so the entire building is silent, but he doesn’t let that relax his wired body.
The doors open with a soft chime, and he slowly stalks to his front door, number 19 in gleaming gold. There’s no light coming from under the wood, so he lets out an exhale and introduces the key to open it. He doesn’t turn any lights on as he drags his feet around the house, shedding his coat and shoes in practiced motions. Sergi peers into the living room out of habit, shoulders sagging in relief when he doesn’t see a figure in the plush white leather armchair. She’s probably asleep already. He notices the blue and red scarf draped over the sofa, but doesn’t let it affect him.
He returns to the hallway and goes to the kitchen, the door closed, a soft orange glow peeking from under it. He knows it’s his mother’s caretaker, Lucía, and enters after knocking softly.
Lucía is sitting on a chair by the dinner table, looking a bit disheveled, and a steaming mug in front of her, a packet of tea left open next to it. She opens her hooded green eyes to watch him enter in silence, waiting to talk to him after he’s procured a glass of water for himself. Sergi doesn’t sit anywhere; he never does in this room, so the white-haired girl turns slightly to face him.
— Enhorabuena. — She drawls, obviously tired.
(Congratulations.)
— Gracias. — he notices a streak of orange on her tight hairdo. — Mola, la mecha. —
(Thanks. Love the strand.)
She doesn’t humor him and levels him with a glare. — Se ha quedado despierta hasta tarde para verte. — For being a twenty-five-year-old, she’s run ragged. Sergi hopes that when she finishes her master’s, she will get on the first flight out of the country. — Hemos celebrado tu gol juntas. —
(She stayed up later than usual to greet you. We celebrated your goal.)
Sergi sips on his water before setting it down on the granite slab of the kitchen island.
— ¿Acaso se ha acordado de mi después de la media parte? —
(Did she even remember me after halftime?)
He doesn’t wait for an answer and turns to walk out. He had seen in her eyes that she had lied to him about his game. Her mother hadn’t seen a game of his in years. Lucía’s voice stops him before he can exit the room.
— Se ha puesto a llorar y he tenido que quitarlo. — she takes her mug to her lips but doesn’t drink out of it. — Deberías pasar un rato con ella, ¿sabes? Hace tiempo que no tienes una conversación decente con ella. —
(She started crying, and I had to turn it off. I put her an arctic documentary. You should spend some time with her, you know? It’s been a long time since you had a proper conversation with her.)
Sergi looks back at her before walking out.
— Quédate en el cuarto de invitados, es muy tarde como para que vuelvas a tu casa. — he says as a goodbye.
(Stay in the guest room, it’s too late to go back to your home anyway.)
Sergi ignores the long sigh he hears and walks to his bedroom, avoiding looking into her mother’s door and locking his own as he enters. He hits the mattress and falls immediately asleep.