20. Runt of the Litter, Cracking

Y/n hummed in dissatisfaction. His nose still hurt like it was mimicking being broken into a thousand pieces. Even so, he kept on.

He had finished tying his laces and fixed up his shin guards a couple minutes ago, and now he resorted to ignoring his bruised nose. His abdomen was in pain, slightly yellow in some places. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thrown up after waking up. His stomach was agitated but he didn't really care.

He stretched out his legs, lunging forward as low as he possibly could. He bent his body in ways that looked sickening, as if he were about to tear off a limb. He arched his back and twisted his body, pops echoing as he did so. He put an ankle on his knee and pressed down until his hip popped, too. He repeated the action for his other leg.

He walked over to the many balls, all twelve in the giant drawstring bag like Ego had said. He reached two fingers from each hand into the hole of the bag and pulled it open. The balls poured out to his feet, bouncing against each other.

He picked one up with his foot after tossing the bag astray, juggling it effortlessly. He still hadn't utilized what he was trained to be capable of, but he had no need for it. He constantly looked at how others were improving so quickly, and he grew agitated. Had he not grasped what was so necessary?

Ego had had countless discussions with him, yet he couldn't apply it. It was like something was stopping that growth. That change had halted so unexpectedly that it pissed him off.

"'Don't work yourself until you pass out'," he whispered breathily through gritted teeth. "'Don't push yourself too hard or else it'll bite you in the ass'... Who does he think he is?"

He chopped the ball to the right as his legs worked seamlessly and fluidly, throwing him forward to catch his balance. His torso had been too far forward and his legs couldn't keep up.

He tumbled, his side rolling over the ball until he collapsed on his stomach. He lost balance so quickly and so easily. He grunted, pulling himself up. His irritation had gotten the best of him and he tried to boot the ball elsewhere only to step on it and have his lower back fall ruthlessly on the ball. He sat up and carded his hands through his hair, crossing his legs as he sighed.

"Damn it," he mumbled, "maybe my career's gonna go up in flames..."

He shook his head and grabbed a fist full of hair, gritting his teeth and furrowing his brows. "I'm not improving. There's something that won't let me improve. Man, I just want to go home... I want it to be how it was before this 'Blue Lock' shit."

He remembered Isagi, how he jumped from nearly three hundred to under a hundred. That big change made him quiver. He was reminded of how Rin constantly tried to keep him under a spell. How it almost worked every single time.

He looked at the ball in front of him. "You."

The ball didn't respond. As if it would have anyway.

"You got me into this mess," he whispered, his body tense.

His back hurt. His face hurt. His stomach hurt. What more could he possibly hurt? It's not like he cared about his body anymore. He just cared about improving.

He stood up.

"This improvement bullshit. It's pissing me off."

🥀🥀🥀

"Woop, woop," Bachira hummed as he messed around with a stray soccer ball.

He thought back to Y/n's rough turn. The look in his eyes. He seemed more scared of being beaten than anything else. It looked like he was having trouble with having fun.

Even so, he digressed. He brushed it off as nothing more than a miscalculation of emotion, which happened often.

On the cold concrete floor of the hallways throughout Blue Lock, Bachira kicked the ball at the wall repeatedly, almost as if he'd been programmed to do so.

"Bachira," Aryu started, his voice unapologetically dramatic as always even in inquiry, "do you know where Y/n is?"

Bachira's bright, wide yellow eyes looked at Aryu as he stopped kicking the ball. He shook his head. "No. But I have a feeling he's on one of the training fields."

"Understood," Aryu replied, tucking some hair behind his ear.

Aryu rounded many corners, checked many practice fields, and even checked out the locker rooms. It wasn't until he had reached far from his original position that loud pounding came from behind the thick walls. An individual who was profusely swearing and complaining loudly about falling short was...definitely...on the other side.

Aryu entered the room and his eyes were wide.

Y/n was covered in sweat, hair sticking to his face. His legs were shaking and his bruised nose was scrunched, his disposition vexed. Anger was practically radiating off of him. His bodysuit was ripped up and his skin was scratched, bleeding slightly.

He pressed his forehead to the wall, fists on either side of his head as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe. His throat was on fire. He was so engrossed in forcing himself to improve that he had forgotten about water.

He was upset. Clearly. He was thinking back to that time where Reo had kept passing to him. Weaponizing him. He thought back to when Rin had tried to weaponize him. They were using him as a stepping stone so shamelessly.

"Y/n—" Aryu started.

"Leave," Y/n demanded.

"I just wanted to ask if you could share your training routine with me," Aryu continued despite Y/n's original demand. "You're so incredibly glam it's inspiring."

"Get out," Y/n replied sternly, his voice quivering.

Aryu sighed in defeat and turned to walk away. He ran his fingers through his hair and then twirled his long locks around a single digit.

Y/n did have a full water bottle, he just forgot about it. When he remembered it, he stalked slowly over to it, sauntering with little balance. His steps were jagged and his nose hurt whenever he tried to breathe through it.

He turned and sat down, body thumping against the ground as he opened the water bottle and began to swallow the liquid in rather big gulps. He set it down, closed it, and panted. He felt his breath grow chilly from drinking the water, the icy exhale hitting his teeth. His throat was hydrated, and he felt slightly refreshed.

But nothing would ever prepare him for the next four hours.

He twisted his ankles trying to consciously apply the advice he was given, his body smashed into walls and his skin burnt. He had slid across the artificial grass with its mocking soil, the very real rocks on the field slicing through his flesh.

His anger and long adrenaline rush were the only things stopping him from falling unconscious. His body was way past its limit, and he was trembling. His nose bled on and off, and his kicks lacked both accuracy and power. The ball would either die on the ground or hit the frame of the goal.

He wiped his shoulder with a clammy hand, eyeing the blood on his fingers. He dismissed it as something minor, because there wasn't much of the thick liquid. However, he could smell the irony scent of his blood, unaware of the increasingly worse gashes on his back.

The bodysuit hung in strands on his torso, revealing the yellows, purples, and blues of the bruises on his abdomen. Small pieces lay astray on the field.

He hugged his sides, falling to his knees abruptly. What he put himself through was gruesome. Cruel. He grit his teeth.

Tears pricked at his eyes. His fingers curled around his sides and he pressed his forehead against the ground. He was clad in both fresh and dry blood, a torn bodysuit, and used cleats. His legs were sore, rendered unusable.

His confidence had dwindled after Raichi had so graciously given him a beating all because of a small grudge.

He realized his growth had been slow and came to a stop, and he couldn't improve no matter how hard he tried. Using the advice Aoi and Ren had given him? Failed. Using an actual technique instead of brute force and pressure? Failed. His style wouldn't change, because it was, well, his. He knew that much.

His body ached and he choked back sobs. His eyes slammed shut, his body curling up a bit more.

"Just a weapon," he mumbled. "Just a fucking weapon."

He refused to keep it back any longer. If he did, he'd only burden himself with emotional stress even more.

He let out a pained scream, his voice cracking as his tears hit the ground. He coughed and choked on the saliva in his throat. He sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

"Just a"—he inhaled sharply and sniffled—"fucking weapon. That's all you guys ever care about."

He stuttered profusely, slurring his words. He kept mumbling to himself. The grip he had on his sides increased. His coughing worsened and tears poured.

He was sobbing like a child. He felt weak and vulnerable. His body was soiled by his own blood, by his own bodysuit, by his own choices.

His voice grew hoarse, his agonizing screams echoing throughout the field devoid of anyone else.

He panted, his adrenaline wearing off. He grew weary and tired, his voice almost lost. He let go of his sides and fell with a small grunt. One part of his face was pressed against the grass, tears slowing to fall more sparsely. His arms were splayed out in front of him, but he couldn't move his legs.

His body was sore, but his exhaustion didn't care. He was falling in and out of consciousness, his teeth grit slightly.

"I don't..." he whispered, eyes slowly closing, "...want to be a weapon..."

He breathed through his mouth. He had fallen asleep in a lit field, on an uncomfortable ground.