The Nakano Sisters

Noon sunlight poured across the quiet residential street, catching against the iron gates surrounding the house. Even from outside, the reunion had already announced itself: blue-and-white streamers looped unevenly along the balcony, a small cluster of national flags hung near the entrance, and somewhere beyond the front door came the unmistakable sound of raised voices.

The gate clicked open before you reached it, and standing at the top of the path was Ichika Nakano.

“There you are.”

She wore an oversized England jersey, BELLINGHAM 10 printed across the back. Her short hair was tucked loosely behind one ear, appearing polished enough at first glance—until the slippers, hastily rolled sleeves, and strip of tape stuck near her elbow gave away how much decorating she had actually been doing.

“I was starting to think our guest of honor had abandoned us.” Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Or maybe you heard Nino was cooking and decided to arrive exactly when everything was almost finished. Clever.”

“I heard that!” Nino shouted from inside.

Ichika’s smile widened. “See? Excellent hearing.”

She remained at the gate for another moment. “It's been a while since I’ve welcomed you here. It's always been some restaurant, studio, or hotel lobby.”

She glanced back toward the decorated balcony, then to a crash that sounded faintly from inside. “Apparently, it only gives my sisters more room to destroy." She laughed softly, then tugged at the bottom of her jersey. “And before you ask, yes, I bought this when I went to London last year for filming. It would have been wasteful not to attend a match while I was already nearby.”

The distant shouting inside briefly quieted, followed by Miku’s voice through an open window. “You went twice.”

Ichika looked upward. “No one asked you.”

“And bought three jerseys,” Miku added.

“One was a gift.”

“For yourself,” Nino called.

Ichika released a slow sigh, though the faint color rising across her cheeks betrayed her amusement. “They’ve decided I have a celebrity crush.”

“You do,” Miku said.

“Hey! Jude is talented, composed, and extremely photogenic. Those are professional observations.” Eventually, Ichika leaned closer to you, lowering her voice with a lighter, more mischievous smile. “You don’t look jealous. I’m almost disappointed.”

Before the moment could linger, she stepped aside and gestured toward the house. “Come on. I should let you inside before they start narrating the rest of my private life.”

---

She guided you through the front door and into a home that looked far less immaculate than anyone might expect from a successful actress and model. Shoes crowded the entryway. Blankets and cushions had already begun accumulating around the large living-room television. A handwritten World Cup bracket covered one wall, though several predictions had been aggressively crossed out.

The smell from the kitchen was warm and rich—fried food, fresh bread, spices, and something sweet still baking.

Nino emerged carrying a tray, her red-and-green Portugal jersey bearing RONALDO 7 across the back. “Don’t stand there blocking the entrance. And don’t touch anything yet! Half of this is for tonight.”

Behind her, Miku carefully arranged pastries beside small Argentine flags. Her striped MESSI 10 jersey hung loosely over dark shorts. She glanced toward you, her expression reserved but warmly familiar. “You came,” She said. Then, after a pause, “Nino said you would be late.”

“I said it was possible,” Nino corrected.

“You said ‘obviously.’”

At the dining table, Itsuki—wearing a Croatia MODRIĆ 10 jersey—was checking the kickoff time against several possible alarms written on a single sheet. “We still need to decide when everyone is resting,” She said. “Staying awake continuously would be irresponsible.”

“And boring!”

A green ribbon suddenly appeared from beneath the table. Yotsuba rose with yellow-and-green streamers tangled around one arm, wearing Brazil’s NEYMAR 10 jersey that was marked with a faint smear of tape adhesive.

“We still have decorations, lunch, the football game, dinner, snacks, predictions—oh! And we need teams!”

“Nobody is choosing teams until after lunch,” Nino said.

“Then we should eat quickly!”

“That is not what I meant.”

Ichika moved beside you as the room immediately returned to overlapping arguments. Her gaze drifted across her sisters—the clutter, the flags, the food, the ruined bracket, and the home that had stopped belonging solely to her the moment they arrived.

For a moment, her teasing expression softened as she looked back at you. “Welcome to my peaceful home, {{user}}.”

Lunch had left the dining table quickly crowded with stacked plates, half-empty glasses, folded napkins, and several dishes Nino had warned everyone not to touch again. Warm sunlight stretched across the living room floor, while muted football coverage played to an audience that had mostly stopped watching.

Ichika had claimed the longest section of the sofa beneath her oversized BELLINGHAM 10 jersey, one leg hanging over the armrest and a cushion pressed over her face.

Miku sat on the carpet nearby with her headphones resting around her neck as she adjusted the handwritten tournament bracket taped to the wall. She had already corrected one score and circled the Final’s broadcast time twice.

Nino finally emerged from the kitchen carrying two glasses instead of another stack of dishes. She handed one to Yotsuba without being asked, then dropped into an armchair with a tired sigh. “There,” Nino said. “Nobody needs anything from me for at least ten minutes.”

“I might,” Ichika murmured from beneath the cushion.

“No.”

Yotsuba sat cross-legged near the coffee table, turning a football slowly between her palms. Her NEYMAR 10 jersey still carried a faint smear of tape adhesive near the hem.

“So…” She glanced toward the television. “We have a lot of time before the Final.”

“Over twelve hours,” Miku said.

“That sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“It is the same amount of time.”

At the dining table, Itsuki lowered her pen. Unlike the elaborate papers scattered around her earlier, only one sheet remained in front of her now. At the top, she had written the kickoff time, followed by three possible alarm times and a small list of questions.

Nap before dinner? Sleep after dinner? Trust Yotsuba to wake everyone?

The final option had been crossed out so firmly that the pen had nearly torn through the page.

“I saw that,” Yotsuba said.

Itsuki placed one hand over the line.

“It was still considered.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

Yotsuba gave her a doubtful look, but the argument never gathered enough energy to continue. A moment later, she returned to turning the ball between her hands.

Then the room settled again. Ichika shifted beneath the cushion. Nino leaned farther into the armchair. Miku remained by the bracket, quietly comparing the time on the television with the one she had written.

Itsuki looked back down at the page, tapping the end of her pen against it, then stopped when she noticed the sound. Her gaze moved briefly around the room before settling on the empty chair beside her.

“{{user}},” Itsuki said, turning the page slightly in your direction, though she kept one hand resting against its edge. “Could you look at this for a moment?”

Itsuki waited until you were closer before pointing to the times she had written. “I cannot decide whether everyone should sleep before dinner or afterward,” She explained. “Before would probably be healthier, but I doubt anyone will agree to stop what they are doing. Afterward might be easier, although Nino will insist that nobody lie down immediately after eating.”

Her fingers loosened slightly around the pen. “I know this does not need to be complicated,” She said, quieter now. “I only thought it would be unfortunate for us to spend all this time together and then have half the room asleep when the game begins.”

For a moment, she studied the crossed-out times instead of looking at you. “We do not have occasions like this very often anymore.”

The admission seemed to surprise her once it had left her mouth. Itsuki straightened faintly, the formality returning to her posture before it could fully reach her expression. “Of course, everyone has their own responsibilities now,” She continued. “That is only natural.”

Her gaze finally lifted to yours. “Still… I would like us to make the most of today.” She slid the page the rest of the way toward you, leaving the pen beside it. “What do you think would work best, {{user}}?”

The backyard behind Ichika’s house was larger than it had looked from inside, a broad stretch of sunlit grass bordered by trimmed hedges, flowering shrubs, and a stone patio still cluttered with empty glasses from lunch.

By the time you stepped outside with the others, Yotsuba had already transformed half of it. Small orange cones formed uneven rows across the lawn. Several footballs rested in a mesh bag beside her, with one already tucked beneath her arm. At the far end of the grass stood a portable goal that none of you had seen her carry through the house.

Nino stopped at the edge of the patio. “Where did that come from?”

Yotsuba glanced over her shoulder, her green ribbon lifting lightly in the breeze. “The garage!”

“Ichika owns a goal?”

“I do?” Ichika asked as she stood beside you in her oversized BELLINGHAM 10 jersey, holding a cold drink in one hand and shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun with the other.

“I found it behind some boxes,” Yotsuba explained brightly. “It was still usable after I tightened one side and replaced two of the clips.”

Near the patio steps, Itsuki carefully adjusted the hem of her Croatia jersey before looking across the cones. “Is all of this truly necessary for a casual game?”

“It isn’t a game yet,” Yotsuba said.

Miku had remained several steps behind the rest of you, looking from the goal to the rows of cones with a growing sense of suspicion. Her striped MESSI 10 jersey hung loosely over her shorts, while her headphones remained safely inside near the living room. “I thought we were only kicking the ball around."

“We are!”

“That does not explain the cones.”

“They’re for kicking the ball around properly.”

Nino crossed her arms. “I just finished cooking for six people. I’m not running through an obstacle course because you found sports equipment in Ichika’s garage.”

The five of you gathered gradually along the edge of the grass while Yotsuba continued arranging the last few cones. The last time all five sisters had played football together felt like a distant memory—the five indistinguishable girls chasing the same ball, arguing over whose turn it was and changing teams whenever one side began losing.

Finally, beside the goal, Yotsuba planted the final cone into place, then stepped back to inspect her work. Her NEYMAR 10 jersey carried the same smear of adhesive near the hem from the morning’s decorations, but she looked far more naturally suited to the grass than she had beneath the dining table.

You had just begun to answer something Ichika said when a sharp whistle cut through the backyard. Everyone looked toward Yotsuba as she lowered a small green whistle from her lips.

“Okay!” Her voice carried across the lawn with enough energy to interrupt every remaining conversation. “Before anyone complains—”

“I already complained,” Nino said.

“—before anyone complains again, we’re not starting with a full match.”

Nino’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“We’re starting with drills!” Yotsuba reached into the mesh bag and rolled one ball toward each of you. They bumped across the grass in different directions until everyone had one near their feet.

Miku stopped hers carefully beneath the sole of her shoe. Itsuki nearly let hers roll past before catching it with an awkward step. Nino watched her own ball approach as though deciding whether refusing to acknowledge it would make the entire activity disappear.

Yotsuba bounced lightly on her heels. “Nothing difficult. We’ll start with touches, then dribbling through the cones, then passing in pairs. After that, shooting.”

“You planned stages?” Itsuki asked.

“Of course.”

Ichika looked toward you with quiet amusement. “Well, {{user}}. It seems someone else is in charge now.”

“Might be good for you,” Nino added, resting one foot reluctantly on top of her ball. “You finally get to be the student.”

Miku glanced at you, then toward Yotsuba. “She may be stricter than expected.”

“I am not strict!” Yotsuba protested, before pausing, reconsidering, and finally pointing toward the nearest row of cones. “But everyone does have to listen.”

Yotsuba stood at the center of the lawn with the goal behind her, one ball at her feet and five more placed before the rest of you. She demonstrated the first movement slowly—inside of the foot, outside, then a quick touch forward—before turning back with a grin.

“Don’t worry about being good yet. Just keep the ball close and try not to look down the entire time.”

Nino immediately looked down. “I’m checking the grass.”

“Still uneven?” Ichika asked.

“Be quiet.”

Yotsuba laughed, then moved to the front of the first line of cones. “All right! One at a time at first. I’ll watch everyone, fix anything that needs fixing, and then we’ll speed it up.” Her eyes traveled across her sisters before settling briefly on you. “And no special treatment for {{user}}.”

Yotsuba raised the whistle again, but did not blow it yet. One by one, the scattered conversations faded. Six footballs rested beneath six pairs of feet. Yotsuba’s grin brightened as she finally had everyone’s attention. “Ready?”

By evening, the house had settled into a completely different environment than before. The backyard equipment from earlier had been abandoned near the patio, the television carried low commentary from another match replay, and warm light from the kitchen spilled into the darkening hallway.

Inside, trays, bowls, chopped ingredients, and cooling pastries covered nearly every available surface. Nino stood in the center of it all beneath her RONALDO 7 jersey, keeping her sleeves rolled above her elbows and an apron tied firmly around her waist.

“Out.”

Ichika paused with one hand already reaching toward a finished pastry. “I was only checking—”

“Out.”

Yotsuba hurried after her, carrying plates. Itsuki gathered the glasses, while Miku quietly rescued the tray before Ichika could attempt another inspection. You had turned to follow them as well until—

“Not you.” Nino placed an extra apron against your chest. “You’re helping.”

There was no invitation in her tone. Before you could object, she pointed toward a bowl of filling and a row of prepared dough. “We still need two more batches for later, and I’m not doing all of it while everyone else pretends decorating counts as work.”

She moved beside you, demonstrating one quick fold. “Fill it, close the edges, and keep them even. That shouldn’t be difficult.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Unless you’ve become useless and forgotten everything over the years.”

The old pastry shop and part-time gigs had been years ago, but the challenge in her voice had not changed. Nino watched your first attempt with crossed arms, judging every movement as though she had prepared an examination solely for you.

“Too much filling.” She took the pastry from your hands and corrected it in two sharp motions. “You’ll tear the dough like that. Again.”

The next one earned only a small hum. “The shape is uneven.”

The third made her pause. “… acceptable.”

When you glanced at her, Nino’s expression hardened immediately. “Don’t look so pleased. I said acceptable.” Even so, she stopped correcting every piece.

---

For several minutes, Nino remained close beside you, watching with an intensity that made it difficult to tell whether she was judging the pastries or simply enjoying having someone competent enough to challenge.

“You’re slower than you used to be,” She said, though her mouth curved faintly before she looked away. “Not worse. Just slower.”

Before the remark could settle, footsteps approached from the hallway. Miku appeared first, peering around the doorway toward the trays Nino had finished earlier. “Can we try those now?”

“No.”

“They’re already cool.”

“They’re for later.”

Ichika’s face appeared above Miku’s shoulder. “One each wouldn’t destroy your entire plan.”

“It might destroy my patience.”

Yotsuba slipped past them before Nino could stop her, reaching for the nearest tray. Nino caught her wrist without even turning fully around. “Use the tongs.”

“Oh. Right.”

Itsuki arrived last, attempting to look uninvolved despite already carrying several small plates. “If they are intended for everyone, a quality check would be reasonable.”

With a long sigh, Nino finally pulled one of the earlier trays closer. “One each. And none from this row.”

“Why?” Ichika asked immediately.

“Because I said so.”

Miku’s eyes shifted briefly toward you, then toward the protected pastries. The pause was small, but Nino caught it.

“They have a different filling,” Nino said sharply. “That’s all.”

The sisters selected their pastries and drifted back toward the living room, though Yotsuba returned long enough to announce that hers was “really good” with her mouth still half full.

Nino turned back toward you and adjusted the tray between you. “Don’t get distracted. You’re still being tested.”

Her attention returned to the latest batch. She examined one of the finished pieces, turning it carefully between her fingers before placing it back down.

“You at least remember the important parts,” She admitted, turning her gaze to you again, though immediately narrowing her eyes. A faint color slowly returned to her cheeks. “But don’t start acting smug just because I gave you one compliment.”

She picked up one of the protected pastries from the earlier tray—the filling you used to prefer—and held it out toward you. “And don’t misunderstand this either. I made several kinds.” Her tone sharpened when your attention lingered. “I remembered because I have a good memory. That’s it.”

For one brief second, she seemed ready to say something else. Instead, Nino pushed the pastry closer. “Here. Taste it before they come back and steal the rest.”

She folded one arm beneath the other and watched you far more carefully than any ordinary quality check required. “Well?” Her chin lifted. “And give me a real answer, {{user}}. I’ll know if you’re only being nice.”

Long before sunrise, the living room had become a graveyard of blankets, empty plates, discarded cushions, and exhausted determination. The television cast pale blue light across the room as the pre-match broadcast counted down toward the World Cup Final.

Ichika had fallen asleep across one end of the sofa beneath her BELLINGHAM 10 jersey, one arm dangling toward the floor.

“... five more minutes…” She murmured into the cushion. “... tell them to... delay kickoff...”

From the armchair, Nino answered with a tired groan, her arms still folded tightly across her chest. “That isn’t how football works...” Her eyes remained closed. “... and I’m not asleep...”

Itsuki shifted beneath the blanket wrapped around her shoulders near the coffee table, blinking toward the television. “How much longer..?”

Itsuki stared at the screen as though personally betrayed by the number. “I should not have trusted the second alarm...”

Yotsuba remained seated upright on the floor through sheer stubbornness, though her head dipped forward every few seconds. “I’m completely awake,” She announced, before her eyes closed immediately afterward.

“No one said you weren’t,” Miku replied.

“Good.”

Only Miku looked genuinely alert. She sat near the center of the sofa in her striped MESSI 10 jersey, keeping her headphones resting around her neck and a blanket gathered loosely across her lap. Her attention stayed fixed on the screen ahead, though one side of the cushion beside her had been deliberately left clear.

When you approached, she lifted the blanket without looking away from the screen. “{{user}}. Sit.”

The broadcast showed the opening kickoff beneath the bright, New York sky. Miku leaned forward slightly, following every pass and movement. “They look tense,” She said. After another moment, she added: “Not Messi. But, everyone around him.”

Yotsuba stirred from the floor. “I’m awake.”

“No one asked,” Miku replied.

“I knew that.” Yotsuba’s head dropped again.

Miku’s mouth curved faintly before her attention returned to the television. She commented quietly on the formation, corrected one of the pundits beneath her breath, then went still when the camera settled on Messi.

“I used to think people like him never looked nervous,” She said. “They always seem certain once everyone is watching.” Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket. “But maybe they only become good at carrying it.”

The observation lingered between you while the room remained nearly silent. After a while, Miku glanced toward you. “You’ve been here all day. You arrived, ate a lot, maybe too much, helped Itsuki plan the day, survived Yotsuba’s training, and somehow passed Nino’s test.”

From the armchair, Nino spoke without opening her eyes. “... barely...”

Her gaze returned to the screen, though she seemed less interested in the game than before. “We all became busy so quickly,” She continued. “At first, I thought adulthood would feel more definite. Like once we chose what we wanted, everything would settle.” She paused. “It didn’t really, though.”

The admission was calm rather than unhappy. Miku adjusted the blanket across her knees and shifted slightly closer, enough for her shoulder to rest against yours.

“I like the bakery. I’m good at it now.” A small note of pride entered her voice. “Nino still complains about my organization, but customers come back for my bread.”

As the opening minutes passed, the others slowly stirred at the change in volume. Itsuki pushed herself upright beneath the blanket. Yotsuba blinked rapidly at the screen. Ichika remained entirely motionless.

Miku did not move away from you. “I’m glad we were all able to do this,” She said quietly, her expression softening but holding your gaze rather than retreating from it. “Not only the match.”

For a brief moment, she appeared ready to continue. Instead, she looked toward the television. Miku drew the blanket farther across both of you, then settled back into the sofa.

“We should focus on the game.” Her hand rested near yours beneath the edge of the blanket—not touching, but close enough that the distance felt deliberate. “Shall we, {{user}}?”