52. THE DEMON AND THE GENIUS

note: ryusae canon (ig in this story ur like. their plus one. maybe. kinda. for the lols)

also this chapter is a lot edgier than the others bc the flashback is right after the whole car crash (omg its actually relevant to the story wtf) and like. yeah. don't give up on this please it all gets better next chapter.

i didn't want to make it super cringe but like UGHH idk. just stay with me guys. let me cook

*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩

THE 

second half begins frankly, and you're not surprised to see the absence of one of the U-20 players, whose name you do not remember—for them to be replaced by none other than Ryusei Shidou. Blue Lock's very own feral, horny demon.

So they're giving into the Blue Lock philosophy, huh?

You snort at the thought, and Ego sends you a look for it when you both sit down, and this time Anri stands by his side, while Kyouka, this time, is sitting by yours. You feel a little comforted knowing that if anything happens, she's right by your side, jacket zipped up all the way to her chin and sunken into the large chair.

Shidou sucks in a deep breath of the outside air, and he looks so at peace you wonder if it is even truly him. But you're quickly brought back to reality when he walks up to Rin and starts shit-talking him—just as usual. It's good to know it's still Shidou in there, after all.

Anri taps on her tablet and peers over the screen towards Ego, eyes wide with wonder, "They've changed their formation..." She tilts the screen closer to you, so you can see it—and she's right. Shidou has replaced Sendou Shuto as their ace.

Kyouka places her hands on her cheeks, lips pouted out like a fish, "So they're really going to use Shidou-kun in the end."

"How are you going to respond, Ego-san?" Anri asks.

Ego doesn't even spare her a glance as he throws his leg atop of his knee, slipping his fingers together and resting his chin on them, "We're not changing formations. They've already practised for the possibility of facing Shidou Ryusei. They won't fall apart so easily, and it's not like that decoration of a coach can use him properly, either."

As much as you hate to admit it, Ego is right. The coach looks ridiculously smug for somebody who hasn't made a right call since the game started—it's so abundantly clear he's following by-the-book tactics, and what a surprise, none of those have worked out so far.

"And besides... Shidou Ryusei, who even Blue Lock's most talented players couldn't rein in... we'll finally find out the reason he was picked... we'll be able to see The Egoist desired by Itoshi Sae. This match... is finally getting started." 

You don't even get a chance to think about Ego's words, when the whistle chirps in your ears and the match finally resumes.

Immediately, you're already face-palming. As soon as Shidou passes the ball over to Itoshi Sae, he starts going feral, running around everywhere for no apparent reason—ignoring both his enemies and teammates' formations alike. You know why, though, you really do. 

To Shidou, this isn't an 11 vs 11... it's 1 vs 21. He always does this.

It seems Sae is smarter than he lets on because he immediately links up with Shidou once the demon has paused his movements in his desired spot—even with such a narrow route, Shidou receives the ball and whistles at the redhead. He dodges Chigiri, even with his overwhelming speed, and creates a one-two passing route with Sendou to get past him.

It's practically what Rin does with Isagi on our side. I didn't expect that.

Sendou suddenly breaks the passing streak by shooting the ball in the opposite direction, towards Sae—something it seemed the players hadn't even considered, seeing their shocked expressions. As soon as his foot even touches the ball, he winds up and sends it flying over everyone, in a perfect pass all the way to Shidou.

With his signature erotic expression, Shidou leaps up to slam his foot into the ball—and it would've been a perfect goal, had Niko not been assigned this particular area as his security port. Niko, seemingly coming out of thin air, kicks the ball out of Shidou's clutches before he has a chance to actually score.

They crash down into each other, legs intertwined and the whistle chirps—Niko receives a yellow card. However, that doesn't compare to the look of pure, unadulterated rage that spreads across Shidou's features and the scream of bloody murder he lets out towards Niko.

You're surprised he doesn't try and throw down with Niko right then and there—stopped by something Sae says, and it shocks you. Even when you couldn't reel the demon in... Sae does it without an issue. I'm almost jealous.

Niko stumbles a little—you're sure he must've at least twisted his ankle with how he stumbles back, and you make a mental note of possibly taking him to the medical bay if it gets any worse if he needs to be subbed out. 

Shidou and Sae prepare for the free kick—the suntanned demon winds up for the kick—only for him to rush away before his foot makes contact with the ball, and Itoshi Sae appears behind the ball, sending a perfect pass right above where Chigiri slides in to catch the ball—and just low enough that Shidou can slam his foot into it without an issue.

The ball soars into the net and the sheer force of the kick pushes it so far back you're sure even if there were three of Gagamaru, he still wouldn't have been able to catch it. Shidou lands on the ground with bent knees and arms flung behind him as if he had wings—looking up to the sky and letting out a loud whoop of excitement.

It's barely heard over the cheers of the crowd around him—louder than anything you'd ever heard—somehow, Shidou's face is even more erotic than before, and you hear him mention something about blowing his load—though, you really wish you hadn't.

Chigiri stumbles to the ground and immediately, alarms go off in your head. He falls to the grass while Isagi tries to stretch out his leg, and you're sure your face is nothing short of freaked—even Ego can see it, from the way he glances at you—but you can't find it within yourself to care.

Niko stumbles and falls over as well, lifting his foot so it's not touching the ground with a wince.

Ego pushes his glasses up, and it sounds like he's mumbling to himself more than anything, "It's high time. A centre-back who, after a tackle in the nick of time received a yellow card, and has sprained his right ankle... and a swift-footed right-back who's run all over the field, switching between offence and defence, but is now out of stamina, and thanks to Shidou Ryusei and Itoshi Sae... a completely reborn U-20."

He snaps his long, deft fingers in front of your face and you're immediately brought back to reality when he peers at you from the corner of his eye, "[name]. Take them to the med-bay and make sure the injuries aren't any more than superficial. It's time... we make some substitutions."

You're frozen in your seat for a second. Then, his words sink in and even though your fingers shake, you stand up out of your seat and run onto the field, grass crunching beneath your shoes. It's so surreal. 

You haven't been here since...

Your mind fogs, and you can hardly remember the words you say to Chigiri when you sling his arm over your shoulder, calling out for Niko to follow and ignoring the panic blaring through your voice. 

You can't even think.

It's all so much.

You think you may just collapse with him. 

The loud whispering of the crowd when you help Chigiri hobble off the field, Niko hopping behind you both, and the scratchy sound of Ego's voice when he talks, asking if Chigiri has a problem with his substitution. 

It's almost taunting. For some reason, your chest hurts. He's not even talking to you, but...

*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩

You can hardly remember that day. You're not sure whether you chose to block it out from your memory, or if you just simply forget—whatever the reason may be, it's all blurry.

You hobble down the concrete pathway. Under your armpits are crutches, and around your left leg—which was significantly worse than your right—is clad in a metal brace. You receive stares from all the students who happen to pass by you, and the whispers are easy to catch. 

You remember some of these students being classmates of yours, but it's been so long that they're simply faceless background characters in your mind.

You don't care. You ignore it with all your might, even when the shame bubbles in your gut and you feel the prick of tears against your waterline.

You know what they're talking about. Everyone knows. In a high school, gossip spreads faster than wildfire. You didn't partake in it. You were nice. You always handed in your homework on time. You helped other students when they asked. You had a nice group of friends. You were the captain of the girls' soccer team.

It's laughable how everything can change within a day.

But none of that mattered now. You were nobody, except the unlucky girl whose life was ruined by one, fateful accident.

Accident.

Is anything really an accident?

Do accidents even exist?

Was this always what my life was fated to be?

Maybe this was what you were always destined to do, staring from the sidelines, watching through the metal wall of where you once were. You didn't think something like this would ever happen to you.

You watch as the midfielder—your replacement—messily passes, and the forward makes an extra sloppy goal. Somehow, it brushes past the hand of the goalie and that forward cheers loudly, hugging the side of her assistant.

You should've been there. 

You could've done something, maybe given some advice, or maybe cleaned up their leftovers. Whatever it was, you could've just been there—

"[name], is that really you?" A woman's voice rings out through your ear. Your head instinctively turns towards the source of the noise. There stands your coach, behind you, eyes wide. "You came back?"

Shame burns in your mouth and you can't speak. What can you say?

Just look at me. I can't play. I can't do anything.

"I didn't think you'd return, especially with..." She trails off, but you can easily put the pieces together. Of course, she knows, you think, jaw clenched hard and fingers tightening around your crutches. Everyone knows. 

That's why you keep receiving pitying looks. That's also why everybody who's seen you asked, Does it hurt? Or, Are you okay? You're sick of it. You're sick of being treated like you're weak. You're anything but weak. If you were weak, you would've died in that stupid crash.

Your coach clears her throat, she pushes her jet-black hair behind her ears, showing off sparkly earrings, "Do you... still wish to play?" Her eyes flit towards the midfielder who's taken your spot—she must believe she was discreet, but you caught it easily.

So that's why she came up to you.

To make sure you're alright with being replaced.

Right.

You can't say no. You can't say you'll play. Of course, you can't. Just look at you. Hobbling around with a metal brace—it's fucking disrespectful.

What a shit adult—you should already know the answer.

You don't want her pitying pleasantries. You would rather die than hear it again, actually, especially from somebody like her.

"You don't have to quit the team. You can stay, as a permanent substitution, if you want." She spares you a kind smile, but all you see when you look at her is shaky static—like a broken radio, her voice is all fuzzy in your ears. 

Your vision blurs around the corners and fuck—you really don't want to cry here—you lower your head and hair falls over your eyes.

She places her hands on her knees and bends down, so she can look at you properly, "Are you okay with that, [name]? Do you have a problem with this substitution?"

You really, really want to die.

Maybe you should've been finished off in that crash. At least then, you wouldn't have had to look at her disgusting, taunting smile. She's smiling like everything is fine—and everything is fine, for her. She's not the one in a metal brace, she's not the one living in a fucking shithole, and she's not the one boiling with so much rage you might snap your crutches in two.

She's not the one crying right now—you are. You're the pathetic one holding back shaky sobs as your teardrops don't even slide down your cheek—they drip to the concrete ground directly from your lashes and stain it with wetness.

You hate how much you're feeling. Everything's crashing into you at once and you feel like your lungs are filled with cotton—you can't even breathe through gasps.

But then again, it's all in your head, isn't it? You're not making a single sound. She's still smiling—like you're not crying—and a choked gasp escapes your lips before you find the strength to speak and not curse her out, "I... quit."

She furrows her brows like she didn't expect you to say that, of all things.

You suck in a deep breath and raise your head, eyes already reddening and water spilling down your cheeks—yet, you still look as tough and hard as a statue. Eyes sharp and narrowed into a blazing hot glare that burns into her like a brand, you grit your teeth, so hard they screech, "I quit. I'm done with soccer. I can't play anymore... so I quit. Don't..."

Your legs tremble. It hurts. "Don't... pity me. Let me quit, and I will never step foot here again." You spit the words out like they're venom. You don't want to be here anymore, because you might actually try and strangle her yourself if you stay.

You're filled with so much anger that you think you may burst like a kettle. So consumed with rage that you believe you might pass out. Your head is throbbing like an alarm.

She pauses as if thinking about her next words carefully, and with each excruciating moment of silence, your heart beats faster and faster, "Well, then. You can quit. It's a shame, though."

Don't you dare.

Don't finish that sentence. 

Don't.

Please.

Don't.

"You were so talented, [name]," She sighed, eyes sunken downwards and lips pulled into a taut frown against her wrinkled face. "You could've done so much more. It's too bad fate had it out for you."

Die. Go die. I hate you. Die, right now.

Your breathing picks up—or maybe, it slows down, the memory is a little fuzzy around the corners—and you think you might just fall over. The only thing, figuratively and literally keeping you upright are your crutches.

A sob wracks your breathing, but it doesn't affect her. She turns her back to you, "If you truly wish to quit, fill out a form and I promise I'll stamp it off. You can do whatever you wish from there."

She clears her throat. "Well then. Goodbye, [name]. I do hope you achieve what you want in life. It's too bad that it won't be soccer."

Go die.

You think as you hobble away with your crutches, tears pouring through your lashes like a waterfall. Your entire body is burning like you're a phoenix—and you truly, truly hope that maybe, God will be merciful and kill you on the spot.

*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩