Sae Itoshi & Rin Itoshi

Love was a cheap high, a flickering neon sign that promised warmth but ultimately just buzzed until it gave you a headache.

For you, relationships were never about the "happily ever after." They were about the initial rush—the dilated pupils, the racing heart, the frantic fumbling of clothes in the back of a car or a high-end hotel room. You were a dopamine junkie, and commitment was the tolerance that eventually killed the buzz. Your routine was a well-oiled machine: find a target, enjoy the chase, indulge in the physical peak, and then, the moment the conversation started drifting toward "the future," you vanished.

Cheating had always seemed like a chore. Why bother with the logistics of two people when you didn't even want one? A copy-and-pasted breakup text was cleaner. “I’m just not in a place for something serious right now. You deserve better. Good luck!” Block, delete, move on.

That was the rule. Then came the exceptions. And the exceptions happened to be the most volatile, talented, and arrogant brothers in the world of football: Sae and Rin Itoshi.

It started in Madrid.

The air in Spain was thick with heat and the scent of expensive cologne. You were there on a whim, riding the coattails of a previous "amusement" before cutting him loose in a tapas bar. That was when you saw him. Sae Itoshi. He wasn't hard to spot; he carried himself with an aura that sucked the oxygen out of the room. He was the "New Generation World 11" midfielder, a prodigy who looked at the rest of the world like they were dirt beneath his cleats.

You approached him not because you cared about soccer, but because his arrogance was a challenge. He was a wall of ice, and you wanted to see if you could make him melt—or at least crack.

"You're staring," he had said, his voice a cold, melodic drawl. He didn't even look up from his drink. "It's pathetic. If you want an autograph, go find my agent."

You didn't flinch. Instead, you leaned in, your voice a low hum against the shell of his ear.

That got his attention. His turquoise eyes, sharp and calculating, raked over you. He didn't smile—Sae didn't seem to possess the muscles for it—but the way he stood up and gripped your wrist was an answer in itself.

The sex was, predictably, incredible. Sae approached intimacy the way he approached a match: with clinical precision and a terrifying amount of stamina. He was demanding, vocal in his critiques, and utterly dominant. But in the quiet moments of the early morning, something strange happened. You were reaching for your phone, already drafting the "it was fun, but goodbye" text in your head, when he reached out.

"Where are you going?" he demanded. It wasn't a question; it was a command. His hand anchored your hip to the mattress.

"Sit," he muttered, pulling you back into the heat of the sheets. "You’re staying. I haven't decided if I'm done with you yet."

Usually, that would have been your cue to run. But something about the way this beautiful, heralded monster looked at you—as if you were a trophy he had no intention of putting in a display case—kept you there. For the first time, the dopamine didn't dip. Sae was a shit human being—condescending, cold, and dismissive—but he was a thrill. So, you stayed. You became the partner of the great Sae Itoshi.

The holidays arrived, and with them, a necessary trip back to Japan to visit your family. Sae didn't care for the sentimentality of Christmas, and his training schedule was grueling.

"Don't get fat on rice and home cooking," he’d said at the airport, his version of a heartfelt goodbye. He pressed a hard, lingering kiss to your lips. "And answer your phone when I call. I don't like waiting."

You teased, though your mind was already wandering toward the freedom of being away from his suffocating presence for a few weeks.

Japan was supposed to be a reset. But destiny, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.

During a shopping trip in Shibuya, you ran into an old friend from high school. He was with a group of guys, all of them tall and athletic. Your eyes immediately locked onto one of them. He was a similar image of the man you’d left in Madrid, but younger, his features sharper, his gaze even more murderous.

"Oh, {{user}}! Meet the crew," your friend chirped. "This is Rin Itoshi."

The man—Rin—glared at you. "You're blocking the path," he snapped. His voice was deeper than Sae’s, rasping with a permanent edge of irritation. He looked at your outfit—a stylish, slightly expensive coat you’d bought in Spain—and sneered. "Standard. You look like every other boring person in this city. Move."

You felt a jolt of electricity. It was like a physical blow. Itoshi. The eyes were the same. The attitude was the same, only more fermented, more bitter. You found out through your friend that he was indeed Sae’s younger brother.

Sae had never mentioned him. Not once.

The realization didn't make you feel guilty. It made you feel alive.

Over the next week, you maneuvered yourself into every group hangout your friend organized. Rin hated your presence. He insulted your intelligence, your "lukewarm" personality, and your persistence. But you knew the Itoshi brand of arrogance. You knew that underneath that frost was a furnace.

The breaking point was a party at a crowded apartment. The music was too loud, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and sweat. Rin was in the corner, looking like he wanted to murder everyone in the room. He’d been drinking—rare for him, but he seemed driven by a dark mood.

You found him on the balcony, staring out at the Tokyo skyline.

"Go away," he growled as you approached. "I can smell your pathetic need for attention from here."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and electric. Then, Rin started to talk. It wasn't the arrogant Rin you’d grown used to. It was a broken boy. He spoke about Spain. He spoke about a promise made on a snowy field, about a brother who had abandoned their dream to become a midfielder, leaving Rin behind in the dust of his own expectations. He spoke about the "ego" he was forced to find because his brother had crushed his heart.

He didn't know you were the person sleeping with his brother. He just saw someone who was listening.

When you reached out to rub his back, a small gesture of comfort, Rin didn't pull away. He froze. "You're a nuisance," he growled, his breath smelling of bitter alcohol. "You're in my head. Why are you in my way?" Then, with a feral sound that was half-sob and half-growl, he lunged. His mouth crashed against yours—messy, desperate, and tasting of alcohol. It wasn't the practiced, clinical kiss of Sae. It was a war.

You didn't stop him. You led him back to his place, the thrill of the betrayal singing in your veins. That night, you learned that while Sae was a surgeon, Rin was a monster. He played like he was trying to exorcise a demon, his movements frantic and possessive.

When you woke up the next morning, naked in his bed, Rin was already awake, watching you with a confused, dark intensity. As you moved to get up, his hand shot out—exactly like his brother's—and yanked you back against his chest.

"Don't leave," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and remnants of the previous night’s anger. "You... you're staying here today."

You smiled against his skin. You had a boyfriend in Madrid. You had a lover in Tokyo. And they were brothers who hated each other.

It was the ultimate high.

The month that followed was a masterclass in deception.

In the mornings, you would FaceTime Sae. You’d sit in your family’s kitchen, keeping the camera angled away from any mess.

You’d pout into the phone, exaggerating, wanting his attention.

"When I'm done with my training cycle," he’d reply, his expression neutral as he sat in the Real Madrid locker room. "Don't be needy. It’s unsightly. I’ve wired you more money. Buy something expensive and shut up."

You’d say you miss him, watching his eyes flicker for a microsecond.

"Hmph. Naturally."

As soon as the call ended, you’d be out the door. You’d meet Rin at the training grounds or his apartment. You’d spend hours in his bed, listening to him mutter about "destroying" his brother, all while you ran your fingers through his hair. You sent Sae photos—the kind that would make him lose his mind during practice—and then you’d delete them before Rin got back.

The risk was the lubricant that kept the machine running. Each time you kissed Rin, you thought of the way Sae’s tongue felt. Each time you spoke to Sae, you felt the ghost of Rin’s teeth on your neck. It was intoxicating. You weren't just a partner; you were the secret bridge between two warring gods.

But even the best players eventually hit a wall.

Rin had become obsessed. He didn't just want you for the sex; he wanted you as his anchor. "Why do you have to go back to Spain?" he’d demand, his eyes narrowed as you dressed. "Stay here. I'll get into the pro leagues. I'll give you everything that bastard thinks he has."

You’d say you have commitments elsewhere.

"Break them," he’d snap.

The pressure was building. Rin was texting you every hour, and Sae was starting to notice your distractions when you got back home.

"You're on your phone more than usual," Sae remarked as he held you. "Who are you talking to? If it's some mediocre loser in Japan, I'll kill you both."

You laughed it off.

Finally, Rin’s demands became too much. He wanted you back in Japan for good. You told Sae you needed another "family visit." He grumbled, insulted your lack of discipline, but eventually let you go.

The moment you landed in Tokyo, Rin was there. He didn't wait for your luggage. He dragged you to his apartment, the door barely clicking shut before his hands were on you. It was a week of pure, unadulterated chaos. He treated you like a prize he’d won from a rival, his intensity reaching new, terrifying heights.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

Then came the morning of the collapse.

You were tangled in the sheets with Rin, the late morning sun filtering through the blinds. You were drifting in that half-sleep state when the sound of a key turning in the lock jolted you awake.

Wait. This wasn't Rin's apartment.

You had moved to a small, private rental for the week to have more "privacy." But you had given a spare key to your mother. And you had mentioned the address to...

"{{user}}? Are you in there?"

The voice was like a bucket of ice water. Sae.

"I found the key under the mat. Your mother said you were staying here to 'clear your head.' Typical. You always were dramatic."

Sae’s footsteps echoed in the living room. He was here. In Japan. Without warning.

You hissed, scrambling out of bed.

Rin groaned, his eyes fluttering open. "What... who the hell is that?"

You grabbed Rin by the arm, dragging his naked, confused body toward the large walk-in closet. Telling him with a harsh whisper to get in.

"What? No! Who is—?"

The desperation in your voice worked. He stumbled into the dark space, tripping over a pile of shoes. You slammed the door shut just as the bedroom door pushed open.

You barely had time to throw on a discarded tank top and a pair of underwear. You stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, as Sae stepped inside.

He looked impeccable, as always. A long black trench coat, his hair perfectly styled, his eyes scanning the room with that terrifying, analytical gaze. He stepped over a discarded sock—Rin’s sock—and stopped in front of you.

"You look like a mess," Sae said, his voice flat. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "I decided the season was boring without you around to insult. So, I came to get you. We’re flying back to Madrid tonight."

You stammered, trying to block his view of the bed—the bed that was clearly ruffled from two people, not one.

"Don't sound so disappointed. It's pathetic." He pulled you closer by the waist, his touch possessive. "I missed this. The way you look when you're caught off guard."

He leaned in, pressing a firm, cooling kiss to your lips.

Inside the closet, Rin Itoshi froze.

Through the narrow crack in the door, he saw it. He saw the back of a man’s head—a head he would know anywhere. The posture, the voice, the way he occupied space like he owned the world.

Sae.

Rin’s blood turned to lava. His brother. His brother was the "commitment" you had in Spain. His brother was the man you had been texting while lying in his arms. His brother was the one currently kissing the person who had promised to stay with him.

Rin’s hand gripped the edge of the closet door so hard the wood creaked. His vision went red. The rivalry, the hatred, the years of feeling inferior—it all coalesced into a single, sharp point of fury directed at the two of you.

Sae pulled back from the kiss, his eyes narrowing. He sniffed the air, a small, subtle movement of his nose. He looked at the bed, then back at you.

"The room smells," Sae said quietly. His voice had dropped an octave, a sign he had found a flaw. "It smells like sweat. And someone's cheap, disgusting cologne."