Chapter Text
Tokyo always sounded different to Aiku after a match week. The air a little sharper, wind snaking between high-rises like it wanted to whisper secrets. He’d been walking incognito, mask pulled low, trying to enjoy his rare off-day without being asked about interviews, sponsorships, or captain responsibilities. Just a tall man with a paper cup of café coffee, wandering.
He almost didn’t catch it at first.
A flicker of reddish-salmon hair up ahead, styled different but still unmistakably uncommon. A figure stepping out of a taxi; long coat, scarf draped elegantly, cheekbones sharper than he remembered, frame narrower, almost fragile compared to the lean athletic build in his memory.
Aiku glanced once…
…twice…
…and his heart jerked.
No way.
Sendou used to occupy space loud and bright, obnoxious in the way only somebody full of life could be. Laughing too hard, bragging too much, shouting his ambitions at anyone within range. The guy in front of him now was silent, his movements smooth and practiced. Like he’d rehearsed how to take up as little space as possible. Like elegance had replaced volume. Like heat had evaporated.
Aiku slowed his step.
The man turned slightly, the wind pushing aside the fluffy fringe long enough for pale red eyes-- tired, soft-edged, framed by lashes Aiku remembered teasing him about—to meet his for a second.
Sendou froze first.
Aiku froze next.
And then Sendou broke eye contact instantly, head bowing, angled away, a subtle pivot as he tried to slip into the crowd like he never existed.
That, more than anything, confirmed it.
Only one person Aiku knew could look so expressive in a split-second and then hide it all like slamming shut a door.
“…Shuuto?” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark it. Just spoke it—quiet, the kind of quiet that lands harder because it carries weight he never admitted he still held.
Sendou’s shoulders tensed before he slowly turned back, every line of him controlled.
“Oliver. Long time.”
Not the brash greeting Aiku remembered. Not the chest-thumping, “Hey, captain!! Did you see my last match??” Not even a sarcastic, “Tch, still ugly as hell, Oliver.”
Instead--cool, polite. A little empty.
Aiku stared. Harder than he meant to.
“You look—” He stopped himself before blurting thin. It wasn’t his business. He didn’t have the right anymore.
Sendou lifted a shoulder faintly. “Work’s demanding.”
“Modeling, right?” Aiku said. He remembered a tabloid headline he hadn’t thought twice about months ago. “You’re everywhere these days.”
“I try.” Sendou tucked his hands into his coat pockets, eyes sliding away as a gust of wind hit them. “It pays.”
Aiku’s chest tightened. That’s not the Sendou I knew. The Sendou he knew didn’t do anything unless he could brag about it for weeks. He didn’t settle for paying jobs—he chased glory. He chased recognition. He chased impossible things.
“You… disappeared,” Aiku said. It came out gentler than he intended. “From everyone. Even from me.”
Sendou didn’t fidget—but something in his jaw flexed, a tell of discomfort he probably didn’t realize he still had.
“I needed a clean break,” he said quietly. “Football wasn’t for me anymore.”
“But ghosting?” Aiku’s lips twitched downward. Not angry—just confused. “We were friends.”
The word landed heavier than he expected. It almost startled him.
Sendou blinked once at it—slow, unreadable.
“We were teammates,” Sendou corrected softly. “And you were the captain. You had a future to chase. I didn’t want to be extra weight.”
“That’s not how it was,” Aiku frowned.
“Doesn’t matter.” Another tiny shrug. “It’s done.”
He said it with such finality—like he’d rehearsed that line, too.
Aiku stepped closer before he could stop himself. Not invading space, but enough to see Sendou’s face without the interference of passing crowds. Enough to notice how sharp his cheekbones had become. How pale his lips were. How quiet his eyes looked.
“You changed.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah, but—” Aiku’s voice dropped even lower. “You don’t look happy.”
That made Sendou still completely, fingers curling just slightly inside his pockets. A tiny hitch of breath followed—a subtle catch Aiku only noticed because he used to read this boy like a book during U-20.
“I’m fine,” Sendou said, smooth and evasive.
“You’re thinner.”
“People change.”
“You’re avoiding looking me in the eye.”
Sendou’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and defensive—just for a second. Just enough to reveal the exhaustion under the surface before he could bury it again.
“…Oliver,” he murmured, tone tipping between tired and annoyed. “Don’t start.”
Aiku didn’t smile. Didn’t joke or deflect.
He just looked at his old best friend—really looked—at the man who used to shout about marrying actresses and scoring hat-tricks and becoming a legend. At the man who now moved like a porcelain figurine that learned how to breathe.
“…Why didn’t you tell me goodbye?” Aiku asked. “Out of everyone, Shuu… why not me?”
Sendou closed his eyes for a moment. And even that movement was smaller, quieter, than anything Aiku remembered.
“…Because you would’ve stopped me.”
Aiku swallowed. Up close, the first thing Aiku really registered wasn’t Sendou’s face--it was the clothes.
Designer from head to toe, but not flashy. Soft neutrals, quiet cuts, layers upon layers that disguised how thin he’d gotten underneath. A high-collar cashmere coat, a loose turtleneck tucked elegantly, gloves that were more aesthetic than functional, tailored trousers that fluttered with each breeze. Luxurious, sure—but the intentional layering was what struck Aiku.
He’s freezing, Aiku realised. Like always.
An ache hit him with embarrassing force.
Because it used to be him—Aiku—who’d warm this idiot up. Back when they were younger, back when Sendou would stomp around the U-20 dorms complaining dramatically about winter like it had personally wronged him. Back when Aiku would tease him mercilessly—
“You’re such a cat. Always chasing the warmest spot.”
Sendou would snap back, bright and annoyed—
“Shut up, captain! My circulation’s just too good!!”
—which made no sense, but the confidence was the point.
And at night, in the cramped dorm bunks, if Sendou shivered too hard for too long, Aiku would roll his eyes, grab him by the wrist, and drag him under the same blanket.
“Quit acting tough and get in here,” he used to mumble.
Sendou would glow red from the ears down and mutter something incoherent—but he always stayed.
Aiku hadn’t thought about those nights in years.
But looking at Sendou now, small and quiet behind designer softness…
…he wished more than anything that things hadn’t changed.
“You’re layered like an onion,” Aiku said before he could stop himself. Light. Teasing. Familiar.
Sendou glanced down at his outfit, then back up at him, a muted half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tokyo’s cold.”
“You used to come crying to my room when it got cold.”
Sendou blinked at him—slow, surprised—and Aiku realised his words had slipped out too intimately. Too reminiscent.
“…I didn’t cry,” Sendou murmured.
“You whimpered.”
Sendou looked away, ears very slightly red, which gave Aiku a burst of old, stupid warmth. For one second, it felt like the old days—a playful sting, a spark of their old rhythm.
Then someone cleared their throat.
A man had been standing behind Sendou—tall, black coat, tablet in hand, the look of someone who lived in perpetual stress.
Sendou’s manager.
He assessed Aiku with a practiced, calculating sweep. “You’re… Oliver Aiku. Japan’s representative team?”
Aiku dipped his head politely. “Yeah.”
“Shuuto,” the manager said, turning slightly toward him, “you have time for a brief catch-up. One hour.” His voice was clipped, professional. “Pick a quiet location. Somewhere low-profile. We don’t need distractions before the shoot.”
His gaze slid briefly, downward—toward Sendou’s stomach. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Sendou’s lashes lowered, his mouth tightening by a fraction.
Aiku recognized that expression. He’d seen it on overworked younger teammates, on pressured rookies, on players starving themselves to hit weight classes.
Don’t eat.
That’s what hung in the air. Invisible. Heavy.
Aiku’s jaw clenched, but he forced his tone to stay light. “A café’s fine. We don’t have to order food—just talk.”
Sendou shot him a quick look. There was something grateful in it. Something tired, too. “Okay,” he said softly.
The manager checked his watch. “One hour. Text me the location. And Shuuto,” His voice lowered, just for him. “keep your face out of the wind. Your skin’s dehydrated; don’t let it get worse.”
Sendou nodded automatically.
Aiku hated how obedient it looked.
When the manager walked away, disappearing into the drifting crowd, Sendou stood there like someone who’d had the ground pulled out from under him but refused to show the stumble.
Aiku exhaled, slow. “Is that guy always glued to your shadow?”
“…He’s doing his job.” Sendou’s voice had no heat in it, no sarcasm. “It’s easier if I don’t argue.”
“Since when do you not argue?” Aiku narrowed his eyes.
Sendou brushed a speck of snow off his coat sleeve, elegance practiced. “Since I stopped having the energy.”
That hit harder than it should have.
Aiku tilted his head, scanning him again—the perfect posture, the quiet tone, the smooth movements. Everything softened and subdued in a way that didn’t belong to the boy he once knew.
He wanted to ask a thousand questions.
He wanted to shake him and demand answers.
He wanted to pull him into a coat and warm him up like before.
Instead, he gestured down the street.
“There’s a place nearby,” Aiku said. “Small. No crowds.”
Sendou nodded and stepped forward, scarf brushing his chin, shoulders pulled inward against the wind.
He didn’t walk beside Aiku.
He walked ahead, as if distance was safer.
Aiku followed, hands shoved in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and pulling Sendou back to his side.
He really changed, Aiku thought with a sting he hadn’t braced for.
But he still gets cold.
The café Aiku picked was tucked away on a side street—wood-panelled exterior, dim lights, the kind of place where no one looked twice at passersby. Perfectly hidden. Sendou’s manager would approve.
When they stepped inside, warmth rolled over them in a soft wave. A heater hummed under the counter, and Aiku instinctively glanced at Sendou—
—and there it was.
That micro-relaxation.
The faint drop of his shoulders.
The way his fingers flexed inside his gloves, soaking in the heat like a plant desperate for sunlight.
Still the same, Aiku thought, a little painfully.
They picked a corner booth, low traffic, half-shielded by a shelf of succulents. Aiku shrugged off his coat and sat. Sendou sat opposite him, posture neat, back straight, scarf still wrapped around his neck despite the warmth.
Aiku opened the menu. “Order whatever you want,” he said casually. “My treat.”
Sendou narrowed his eyes and didn’t even reach for the menu. "You said we didn't have to order food. I’ll just have a warm water.”
Aiku blinked. “…Warm water?”
“It helps my throat,” Sendou said with that smooth, model-perfect quietness. “Cold’s bad for it.”
The excuse was clean. Practiced.
Too practiced.
Aiku didn’t buy it, but he didn’t comment—yet.
The waiter came by, and Aiku ordered himself a coffee and a small dish. When he gestured toward Sendou—
“Just warm water, please,” Sendou repeated.
After the waiter left, Aiku leaned his elbows on the table. “You can order food, you know. Seriously, my treat.”
Sendou’s eyes flickered up to him—steady, composed, unreadable.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You used to eat like a black hole,” Aiku retorted lightly. “You’d clear three plates before anyone blinked.”
A faint ghost of a smile touched Sendou’s lips, but it dissolved instantly. “Used to.”
Aiku pressed a little, but gently. “Come on. At least a snack? A pastry? Something small?”
Sendou shook his head. “I’m fine. And even if I wanted anything…” His voice softened into something that wasn’t arrogance—but a strange, brittle self-defense. “I’d buy it myself.”
“…You don’t want me paying?”
“It’s not that.” Sendou smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on his sleeve. “It’s just… I make enough.”
There was no bragging in his tone.
No smirk.
No showing off.
It was simply fact.
Aiku leaned back, studying him with that painfully sharp gaze he’d always had--reading movements, reading intentions. He didn’t compare salaries out loud, but he knew modeling—true high-end modeling—paid obscene amounts if you hit the right campaigns.
And Sendou was everywhere these days.
Good for him, Aiku thought.
But it didn’t feel like Sendou saying I’m doing great. It felt like him saying I don’t need anything from anyone. Especially not you.
“…Alright,” Aiku said finally, forcing lightness into his voice. “Warm water it is.”
Sendou gave a small nod, eyes drifting around the café like he was trying to memorize the shadows rather than look at Aiku too directly.
When the drinks arrived, Aiku’s coffee steamed between them. Sendou wrapped both hands around his glass of warm water, like he needed it more than he admitted.
Even through the layers of gloves and sleeves, Aiku could see it.
Sendou’s hands trembled slightly from the leftover cold.
He used to shove those same cold hands against Aiku’s neck in revenge for teasing.
Now he warmed them alone.
Aiku watched him for a moment. “Shuuto…”
“Hm?”
“…You’re really not hungry?”
Sendou’s lashes lowered. He sipped his water—small, controlled. “There’s a shoot after this.”
“You won’t bloat from a piece of bread.”
Sendou didn’t answer. And that silence told Aiku more than anything.
Aiku stared into his cup, exhaling through his nose. “You know,” he said quietly, “being able to afford your own food doesn’t mean you have to…stop accepting things from people.”
Sendou’s fingers tightened around the glass.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he murmured. “I’m just… used to handling things alone now.”
That hit harder than it should have. He wasn’t saying it in defiance or pride.
He was saying it like reality.
Aiku sat back, arms folded loosely, eyes softening in a way he hadn’t expected.
“You don’t have to handle everything alone today,” he said.
Just quietly. Just honest.
Sendou’s expression froze—caught between wanting to accept the warmth of those words and the rigid professionalism drilled into him from all angles.
“…Today is fine,” Sendou said finally. Neutral. Controlled.
But his voice scratched slightly on the edges.
Aiku heard it.
He didn’t push again. Didn’t comment on the water. Didn’t argue.
But he watched.
And he remembered the boy who used to let Aiku wrap arms around him when he shivered, who’d accept warmth without thinking it meant debt.
He watched the man now, hands still wrapped around warm water like it was the only heat he was allowed.
And Aiku wondered—not for the first time—
When did he stop letting people take care of him?