4. Something Broke

"Hey, I wanna play too!!" A young boy shouted, one arm waving frantically. His face was dirty and his knees were bloody.

But he still smiled.

"Ew, no...you're a weirdo!!" A random boy retorted, clutching the ball.

Day after day.

Y/n would ask.

Night after night.

Y/n would ask.

He would beg.

"Can I please play?"

"No!"

And that's how he turned into the player he is today.

Back when he was around ten, he was an amazing team player, helping the team score goals left and right.

He never wanted any of his own, that was selfish of him. He didn't want to be selfish, he wanted to help others relish in their own goals!

He practiced when there weren't any practices. He practiced when there was a break between classes.

He was dedicated.

So dedicated that his teammates found it extremely weird and disgusting. His dedication seemed to be revolting to his teammates and he didn't know why. He just loved soccer, so, wouldn't he want to get better all the time? Why couldn't they understand that?

Y/n's sweaty face at the beginning of practice, his burning lungs afterward.

He enjoyed every moment of it.

Sometimes, he'd even forget to stretch before he practiced.

That's how happy it made him. He was a little bundle of joy. Whenever he got his hands on a ball, he always wanted people to play with. He always had people to play with him. He enjoyed the sport more than anything in the world and wanted nothing more than to have fun.

Until they shunned him.

Until they shut him out and called his dedication revolting because of the way he pushed himself. They discarded his talent and found his love for the sport so disgusting that they could die.

Why?

He didn't know.

His ten-year-old brain couldn't figure it out.

It perplexed him terribly.

"His face is always dirty."

"He's always got scrapes."

"He looks like a zombie."

It made him cry. He cried hard. He cried about it to his mother and she soothed him every single time.

"Mommy," he sobbed, choking on his own breath as tear after tear ran down his face and into his mouth, "I don't want to play anymore. They're all so mean, a-and they won't play with me!"

His mother's heart sank. Her poor boy was being bullied just for letting loving a sport just as many others did. She hushed him and held him close, placing a kiss atop his head.

"Honey," she start softly, "I'm sure Gin'll play with you. He loves playing soccer with you. Those other kids are all just jealous that you're so dedicated to your passion..."

The small boy looked up, wiping the snot from his nose with the back of his hand and sniffling. "Really? Can Gin come over soon?"

His mother smiled. "Yes, yes he can."

But every negative word shot him like an arrow, sure to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Those wounds never healed.

Something inside him broke.

Something that held back a merciless monster of the field.

It was like a jar that consisted of his ego. Only a mere fraction of it, though.

He always had it, but whenever he was neglected, the glass cracked. Just like ice. It had gotten thinner and thinner, less capable of holding back such an intense fire that burned within, only getting more furious with each rejection.

His monster was always there. It was with him from the beginning. When he first showed interest in soccer. When he went to his first practice. When he went to his first scrimmage. His first game.

It was always there with him.

It was just locked away.

A big part of it, at least.

Pressured to stay back until the kid's morals went and got shattered by the heartlessness of others that liked the sport just like he did, it hid in a glass cage. It showed the same passion that Y/n did, just with more vigor.

Y/n's monster consisted of these things:

•Greed

For goals.

•Tenacity

Determination to beat the best.

•Drive

To keep him moving forward.

•Dedication

To get better.

•Accuracy

Passing, shooting, receiving.

After the thing keeping his monster shattered into thousands—no, millions—of pieces, he became a selfish king. One that people liked for his power and drive to keep winning, but one people hated when it came to personality.

He's not always selfish.

During school, he's awkwardly sociable if you came up and started chatting with him. He'd just forget your name as it wasn't important enough to stay in his brain. The field is just a place he lets go in. He's not afraid to lose himself on that field, because that field is something he dances upon with graceful speed.

Like he's creating art with his feet.

But he is an untamed fire.

A beast with the ability to burn bridges so bad they never light your way in the future. His feet are the sole reason people fear him.

Do you know what susurrus means? Or what it is?

It's a whispering, murmuring, or rustling.

The susurration his feet created as soon as he broke into a sprint was like a breeze.

You don't know where it's coming from until you turn to feel the direction.

That was Y/n.

He was a chilly, calm breeze.

But that look in his eyes... Could you really call it a look? He seemed possessed. He looked like he wasn't in control of his body and it acted on pure instinct. He didn't shout on the field.

He was eerily silent. He was so silent that it was loud. He was so silent yet what he was thinking got to his teammates in no time and they understood what he wanted.

They gave it to him.

Time and time again.

Game after game.

Hat trick after hat trick.

Until they stopped.

Until he was on the opposite side of the field and they kept in their places, letting the opposing team score. His heart sunk and his eyes welled with tears. His mind raced and he was drowning in the hatred of the very team he sort of believed in.

This was deliberate.

He saw it now.

They never really liked him, they liked his talent.

They never really liked him, they just put up with him so they'd win.

Until they eventually got sick of it.

They didn't care about him.

They didn't care.

Why didn't they care? Why?

He wasn't that bad.

Or maybe he was.

He didn't understand this.

Again, neglect.

The second glass seal was broken.

He tried winning that game himself.

He couldn't. He wasn't able to move freely with everyone around him. Everyone crowding him. It felt like he was being suffocated under the fluorescent lights on the field as the world around the stadium was pitch black. Everyone was about an arm's length away from him, and about a foot away from each other. They were spread out decently, eager to catch him if he was attempting to make a break for it.

They inched closer with every passing minute.

That was until he got sick of it.

Sick of being blocked by every single opponent. Sick of being abandoned. Sick of being helpless.

He shoved through them.

Not literally.

He flicked the ball up with his left foot so it went just over his head, then used his heel to send it over the mob around him.

It was perfect.

Nobody saw it coming.

Until someone was there. Blue eyes, blue hair, a decent build. Who was this kid? Y/n's eyes went wide as he lunged forward to seamlessly steal back the ball.

That didn't matter, though. Why? Because just as he was about to steal the ball, the whistle blew.

Y/n stopped in his tracks, frozen mid-pursuit as tears pricked at his eyes, threatening to spill.

He calmly stood upright, and dropped to his knees. He leaned over, forearms bent ninety degrees at the elbow as they rested on the grass. His body shook violently out of the sheer exhaustion he was experiencing, and it was shutting down quickly.

Tears fell.

He screamed as he drew his arms and knees close together. His voice was hoarse and he was shaking like a leaf.

"DAMMIT ALL, WHAT THE HELL.. I TRIED SO H..HARD. WAS THAT NOT ENOUGH!?"

He looked at his teammates.

He stood up slowly as tears continued to fall.

He looked straight at Raichi.

"You.."

Y/n's eyes were full of hatred.

He took off straight for the blonde, going to for some sort of attack that would land a person in the hospital.

A switch flipped and he fell.

All his adrenaline was gone.

He fainted.

His body wouldn't work. He pushed himself too far.

Those same blue eyes fell upon Y/n's limp figure, taking in the amount of dedication he had for this sport.

"He tried so hard," the boy mumbled. "No wonder he's amazing."