Tastes Like Home | Various!Blue Lock

Twenty-One

Reo and (Y/n) were both excellent conversationalists, albeit in markedly different ways.

Reo spoke with a kind of effortless polish, the sort that came from years of being raised among adults who valued wit, composure, and quick thinking. Conversation, to him, was almost like a game he had long since mastered. He knew how to guide it without seeming controlling, how to pose questions that sparked interest, how to smooth over awkward silences with a clever remark or a flash of light humor. Talking to him felt easy, fluid—like being carried along by a current that never quite faltered.

(Y/n), on the other hand, possessed a quieter, gentler sort of charm. She listened as much as she spoke, and when she did speak it was with a sincerity that made people feel unexpectedly understood. She remembered small details others might overlook, asked thoughtful follow-up questions, and had a way of drawing even the most reserved person into the conversation. Where Reo dazzled with confidence, (Y/n) warmed the space with genuine attentiveness.

On paper, the two of them should have produced the smoothest dialogue imaginable—and for the most part, they did. Nearly all of their previous exchanges had moved with an effortless ease, sliding along as smoothly as butter.

Yet there was something strangely disarming about placing two such practiced conversationalists directly across from one another when both had, for once, slipped into a state of genuine honesty.

Without the usual polish, without the careful social choreography they were so accustomed to performing for others, their words seemed to falter in the most unexpected ways. Pauses stretched a second too long. Thoughts overlapped. Simple remarks carried a weight neither of them quite knew how to handle.

It was as though their conversational instincts—so flawless in every other circumstance—short-circuited the moment they were turned toward each other, like some small, inexplicable glitch in the matrix.

It was about two hours into their climb up the mountain, the sky outside the windows pitch black with the late hour.

Meguru had spent the first hour of the drive talking as loudly—and as enthusiastically—as humanly possible, filling the car with a steady stream of commentary that no one had quite managed to stop. By the second hour, however, he had thoroughly exhausted himself and promptly passed out, slumped in his seat as if someone had flipped a switch.

So now they all sat in the sudden quiet, the only sounds left being the low hum of the engine and the steady crunch of tires against snow.

Reo's purple eyes landed on the girl sitting across from him, taking in her lidded eyes and how she seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. He wondered how she managed to appear so tranquil despite the troubling events that had just unfolded prior.

He had done more than enough reflecting over the past hour, staring blankly out the window while the muffled chaos behind him unfolded—Meguru and Yoichi bickering endlessly, Rensuke’s increasingly exasperated pleas for them to get it together rising above it all.

But now the noise had faded, replaced by the heavy quiet of the late-night drive.

And it seemed that, despite all that thinking, he had only come away with more questions—questions that, this time, were directed squarely at the girl in front of him.

As if sensing the attention, (Y/n)'s lidded eyes soon shot open and he found himself staring right back at her.

She smiled a little restlessly, shifting in her seat as she tried to settle more comfortably between Meguru and Seishiro.

"Sorry, did you say something, Mikage?" she inquired.

Reo straightened up, a chill running down his spine at the thought of being caught staring at her.