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Yoichi is a lot of things. An average student, of average height, average looks. A filial son. A guy with no musical talent whatsoever. A football maniac. A raging egoist. A striker.
He wouldn't call himself a homewrecker, though.
Which is why it's mildly concerning that when he's at dinner—minding his own business, inspecting the gummy string of natto clinging to his chopsticks like snail mucus—he finds himself being cornered by Mikage Reo of all people.
He tries not to stare as the guy pulls out the chair opposite him. Reo is stupidly handsome, all tall with long limbs and the kind of beauty that's equal parts money and breeding; multiple generations of hot elites choosing each other over and over again. If they'd gone to the same school, girls would probably come up to Yoichi all the time like, hey Isagi, you're in the soccer club with Mikage-sama right? What does he smell like? Can you give me his Line? Kya kya, and so on and so forth. Some people just live in a different world.
That said, Reo definitely looks like he's seen better days. The bags under his eyes can pass for designer, almost purple under the harsh overhead lights. Even his shiny, chin-length hair looks less lustrous than usual. Worst of all is the numb, resigned slope to his shoulders. No one else in Blue Lock looks like that. At least, they don't look like that and get to stick around very long.
Reo glances at him through his lashes, and the soybean Yoichi's holding falls back onto his tray with a wet splat. Yup, still handsome, though.
"Look," he starts, before Reo can get a word out. Because Yoichi may not necessarily know what this is about, but he can sure guess. "I don't know what happened between you and Nagi, but—"
"I'm not here to pick a fight," Reo says tonelessly, pushing wet spinach around with a fork. His own tray—western food, save for one small bowl of pickled radish—is largely untouched. "I just wanted to see if—" he trails off, teeth worrying his lip.
Yoichi gives him a moment. Reo doesn't seem like the kind of person who's often lost for words. It doesn't suit him. But uncharacteristic or not, that's what he is now—dejected, rejected, lost in general, wandering the halls between sessions like a ghost. He'd almost pity Reo, if that was something he was capable of.
After what seems like an age, Reo puts his utensils down and fixes him with an unreadable glare. His eyes are the colour of the plums Yoichi's grandma used to make jam out of, way back when. Not too sweet, just the way he likes it. She'd baked them into a cake, once, layers of preserve with buttery vanilla sponge for his seventh birthday out in the country. Shaped like a football, of course. Ah, he misses her cooking.
"—sagi. Are you listening?"
His mind is full of the tangy bite of plums. "Sorry. Yes?"
Reo's bruised lower lip curls. He's clearly reevaluating Yoichi's worth as a higher life-form, let alone a competitor. Ouch. "I said. Are you free tonight?"
Yoichi swallows, heavy. "What?"
"Meet me in the video playback room an hour after lights out."
And with that, Reo gets up and leaves, taking his food with him. There's something regal about the way he walks; drawing attention. He returns his fully loaded tray, tossing his fork and chopsticks into the recycling on the way out. There's a hiss as the automatic doors open for him.
Yoichi's gaze snags, unprompted, on a head of pale, fluffy hair following Reo's path across the room like a sunflower chasing daylight. Fuck's sake.
He sighs inwardly, appetite gone. After lights out, huh? Guaranteed to be a pain, potentially painful. As it is, there's an itch gestating at the back of his throat, a sure sign of a cold already in the post. All he wants is to take a long, warm bath and get to bed; maybe dream of the World Cup.
Hopefully, Reo goes easy on him. They've got morning drills tomorrow, after all.
The back of Yoichi's head slams against the wall.
Distantly, he knows it ought to hurt, but he can barely feel it, every cell in his body locked in on the sight and sensation of Mikage Reo on his knees before him, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear like some blushing ingenue in her debut AV.
"Um, Reo-kun," he says as politely as he can. It comes out kind of strangled. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Reo's long, slim fingers hook into the waistband of Yoichi's pants. "What does it look like? I'm going to suck your dick."
"I... had a feeling you might say that," Yoichi croaks, face warming. "Reo, get up. I thought you called me here to talk." Actually, he'd thought Reo had called him here to beat him up under the cover of darkness. Maybe he'd even hire someone else to do it. Rich people rarely liked to get their hands dirty, if manga was to be believed.
Says something about Yoichi, though, that he'd come anyway.
"We don't have anything to talk about," Reo says shortly, pulling down Yoichi's pants. The light from the large, muted screen throws flickering shadows across his face. "You're pent up, right? Let me take care of it."
It's tempting. Of course Yoichi's pent up, who wouldn't be? Stuck in a crazy freak's Japanese Prison Experiment 24 hours a day with a hundred-something high-school boys; no phones, no internet, no privacy. He's lucky if he gets the showers to himself once a week. Half the doors in this place don't even lock.
Wait, does this room lock? Are there cameras? And if there are cameras, are they night vision?
Reo's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Yoichi shivers, inhibitions crumbling. The part of him that hasn't gotten off in way too long whispers to just go along with it. It'll be so good. A hot, wet mouth. A pretty face. Just a means to an end. He and Reo barely know each other. They won't even have to talk about it.
"Reo, wait," Yoichi tries again, praying he doesn't do something embarrassing, like get hard. "What is this really about? If you wanna, um, d-do it, you have enough points to trade for an evening out of here, right? Hey—"
"Stop talking. D'you not like guys, or something?" Reo says, raising one of his little eyebrows. He's got Yoichi's cock in a loose, three-fingered hold. It twitches traitorously. "A blowjob is a blowjob, Isagi. Grow up."
Yoichi swallows, heart thundering. "It's not that."
His cock jerks again, a bead of precome forming on the tip. Definitely not.
It's just. Reo looks so...
"Then shut up." Reo wraps his lips around Yoichi, and any sense of self-control or misplaced gentlemanly virtue goes out the window.
"Fuck," he gasps, his hand flying to Reo's hair. It's as soft as it looks.
Reo hums, the corners of his mouth lifting briefly in a savage grin.
Yoichi's never had another person's hand on his dick before, let alone a mouth. He'd wondered sometimes, as virgins are wont to do, how he'd react when, if it ever happened. Turns out, it's not that hard to figure out. Maybe human beings are programmed from birth to know what to do to feel good. Like breathing. Like playing football.
"Open your mouth wider," he says on instinct, thrill wicking down his spine when Reo obeys. Has Reo done this before? Sure feels like it, the way he knows how to bob his head, hollows his cheeks just so. Or maybe he's a natural-born savant. Maybe it's his little copy trick again, mimicking things he's seen actors do in porn.
Whatever it is, it's effective. Reo is industrious, hands sliding up the back of Yoichi's thighs as he swirls his clever tongue. He looks good doing it too, his eyes half-lidded, slick lashes stupidly long from this angle.
What is this really about? Yoichi had asked.
Reo falling madly, irreparably in love with him after witnessing his direct shot for the first time sounds as troublesome as it is inconceivable. Stress relief? But Reo isn't even touching himself. Coping mechanism? Yoichi kind of misses Bachira too, but he's not sucking people's dicks in dark rooms about it.
Yoichi groans, hips rabbiting unconsciously when Reo suckles at the tip.
The likeliest explanation is that he's being used as a placeholder. A fuse; that thin strip of wire regulating current between two points of high voltage. One degree of separation away from what Reo wants, really wants.
Hm, that's a bit annoying, actually. Reo should want him.
He yanks on the silky strands again, and Reo jerks, body tilting forward as his hands scrabble for balance on the wall by Yoichi's knees. For a second, he worries that he's being too rough, but then the screen light illuminates the colour on Reo's cheeks, the dewey glaze in his eyes.
Yoichi smiles, manic. He feels like when he's on the pitch, the noise of the world falling away, everything quiet and blurry except for the clear path he has to the goal.
"You like this," he murmurs. It's not a question. Reo stares up at him silently, his eyes moist, the fight in them fading. There's a fevered flush spreading all the way down his throat, disappearing into the secret skin below his neckline. What would it be like to get his mouth on that skin, to bite down until it broke and bruised, turned the colour of plums. Reo'd have to wear his hair down for a week, probably—and even then, there's only so much you can hide.
A line of spit dribbles down Reo's chin. Yoichi's mouth moves on autopilot: "Can I—hey, can I fuck your face?"
Pretty eyes widen. Reo frowns, says something too verbose to be no. The vibrations from his words travel up Yoichi's hypersensitive cock, electric. "Oi, don't talk with your mouth full."
Reo looks off to the side, brows furrowed. The exposed shell of his ear glows red. Sexy. Yoichi'll take it.
Reo gags at Yoichi's first experimental thrust, shock apparent, but he stays still, doesn't try to move away as Yoichi picks up the pace. What a team player. What a good boy.
"Like that, yeah," Yoichi babbles, that familiar pressure building in the base of his gut. Reo's mouth is like a warm, perfect bath, custom-made for his dick. He's got his eyes screwed shut, jaw slack, held in place by the death grip Yoichi's got on his hair. When Yoichi yanks harder, he moans low at the back of his throat, the sound like molten gold, going straight to his dick.
It's hot as fuck, all of it, everything. Reo's so talented—he should just forget about football and his dad's multi billion-yen corporation and come be Yoichi's personal hole. Less fraught, for sure. He'd like that. Yoichi'll make sure of it.
"Gonna—" Yoichi warns, through the haze. His body feels light, like he's riding a wave, high, higher, twenty metres above this room, on the crest of wiping out 299 other careers, washing away dreams, enjoying it the whole time. No, he is the wave.
He crashes.
It goes on for a long time, his legs shaking as he spills into Reo's mouth.
By the time he comes back down, Reo is curled up on the floor, coughing. His face is streaked with tear tracks, mouth a wreck.
"Reo," Yoichi says after a beat. It's true what they say about post-nut clarity. Where did that come from, god. "Are you okay?"
Reo's voice sounds like it's been dragged along a dirt road tied to the back of a truck: "I don't like you, Isagi."
Oof. A couple of months ago, a statement like that would've rattled him—but Yoichi isn't the same person he was before coming to this pentagon prison. Plus, it sort of loses some of its bite with a glob of Yoichi's come still clinging to his lips. He mindlessly wipes it away with the side of his palm. Incredibly, Reo lets him.
"Do you," Yoichi stares at the front of Reo's standard blue pajamas, straining against his erection. There's a patch of material that's darker than the rest. "Do you want me to do you now, or...?"
"Fuck no," Reo says, propping himself up against the nearest wall, drawing his legs close. Yoichi lets out an inward sigh of relief. Highly doubtful whether he's capable of pulling off what Reo just did.
He pulls up his pants, checking for damage. There are a few suspicious streaks, but it's not too bad—Reo swallowed most of it, after all. He sheepishly wipes his wet hand on the carpet, making a mental note to avoid sitting in this quadrant of the room going forward.
By the time he's done, Reo's got the remote for the screen in his hand, switching feeds like it's no big deal. Like he didn't just make Yoichi come his brains out mere minutes ago. What the hell.
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, off-kilter. The fuck is he supposed to do now. Just leave? But Reo still hasn't gotten off; it feels like bad manners. He clears his throat. The silence is suffocating.
Then Reo breaks it.
"Is Nagi—" he starts, and cuts himself off like someone's punched the air out of him. There's that vague, lost look about him again, like a moth after a streetlamp has gone out. "Is he eating properly?"
Yoichi blinks the last dregs of orgasm daze away. "Huh?"
"Do you... wake him up in the morning?"
"Do I— No? I have no idea what you're talking about," Yoichi says honestly. He doesn't really pay attention to Nagi's idiosyncrasies off the pitch, except when Barou is yelling at them. His team has a lot of big, weird personalities. Yoichi does what he can to keep the peace, but that's about it.
"But um... Nagi has an abysmal diet, from what I've seen. Sometimes Chigiri forces vegetables on him, I think? Yeah..." He's not sure why he keeps going. Maybe because it was a really good blowjob. Maybe because he's not sure what he'd do if Reo starts to cry.
Reo nods wordlessly. There's a sense that the conversation is dead now, and Yoichi is too uncomfortable to attempt to revive it. He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. God, it's been a long night. They could both do with some sleep.
"Hey, Isagi." There's a wretched lilt to Reo's voice.
"If you ever feel like fooling around in here... come to me, alright?"
And oh. Yoichi gets it, finally. Why Reo accosted him at lunch, why he sucked Yoichi off after hours. Why he looks so fucking miserable.
Come to me. Not anyone else.
It's not him that's the placeholder.
He should tell Reo it's not like that, between him and... he should. Isagi Yoichi is not a homewrecker. Earth-shattering orgasms aside, he's a bystander at best; an unfortunate witness to a series of events that for all intents and purposes, has nothing to do with him.
And Reo looks so small, smaller than his 185 centimeters, curled into himself as a supercut of Nagi Seishrou's monster traps plays on the larger-than-life screen. It's weird. They barely know each other, but for a moment, Yoichi just wants to protect Reo from everything and everyone—himself included.
But he must not be that decent of a guy either, because he just looks away and says,
"Uh, sure, yeah. I might take you up on that."