Tastes Like Home | Various!Blue Lock

Twenty-Three

They all heard it—there was no way not to. Still, without needing to say it aloud, they reached the same quiet agreement: act normal. For as long as their restless bodies would allow, they'd pretend nothing had changed. Each of them had already taken their turn, done what they could. There was no point in crowding her now, no point in adding more weight to what she was already carrying.

Yoichi sat tucked into his corner of the car, unusually still. In his hand was the drink (Y/n) had forgotten at the pit stop—her favorite. He hadn't even realized he was holding onto it so tightly that he'd warmed it through sheer grip.

Even Meguru—who was usually unconventionally talkative to a fault—knew to tone it down a couple of notches.

(Y/n) sat by the window, her head resting against the glass. The passing lights blurred into streaks, gold and white dragging across her half-lidded vision. 

She tried to stay present, she really did, but everything felt heavy. Her thoughts, her limbs, even her breathing came slower, like her body had decided it was done for the day, whether she agreed or not.

'Just a moment,' she told herself as she allowed her eyelids to fall.

The gentle sway of the car didn't help. Neither did the low hum of the engine, nor the warmth slowly seeping in around her. Before she realized it, her head tipped to the side... but not toward Rensuke, who had kept her quiet company this entire time. 

It landed softly against Yoichi's shoulder—Yoichi, who had been caught in the quiet tug-of-war of his own thoughts, unsure if he even had the right to be the one she leaned on when Rensuke seemed to have everything so firmly under control this whole time.

He froze. And for a moment, he didn't even breathe, afraid that the slightest movement would wake her. The drink in his hand tilted dangerously, but he didn't dare adjust his grip. All his attention narrowed to the faint weight resting against him, to the quiet rhythm of her breathing that evened out far quicker than he expected.

Even with the respectful distance he had placed between their faces, he could still smell the distinct scent of her shampoo—reminiscent of the childhood they had spent constantly playing tag with one another.

As a child, (Y/n) was never given the luxury of lotion or perfume. It would've been pointless anyway, as her chores would simply put the items' self-care functions to waste. Still, her hair was one thing she knew she could pay extra attention to, and you sure bet she did.

God, did he miss her. 

He missed the simplicity childhood had to offer: the simplicity of being there for each other and making each other smile, the simplicity of being so authentically themselves without having to worry about how the world would throw their vulnerabilities back in their face.

It was unfortunate that it had taken him this long to reach such a firm conclusion, but as he looked at her now, peaceful and soft in her sleep, something in him settled. The quiet, protective urge that filled his chest was steady and certain and enough to steel his resolve—enough to make him decide that, this time, he would no longer shrink back when it came to facing her parents.

___________

It was almost as if nature itself had taken it upon herself to warn them of what was coming. By the time the teenagers' car finally pulled into the mountain resort's parking lot, they'd already fought their way through a relentless snowstorm—one that showed no signs of letting up.

As Ba-ya held open the doors, her other hand tried to keep a sturdy grip on an umbrella in hopes that it would help shield some of the brutal snowfall threatening to leave marks on their already-freezing bare cheeks.