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sanzu-sanzu-sanzu · 10 months

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Hungry Hearts 5

Itoshi Sae X F!Reader

You are Itoshi Sae’s Manager. Fielder of dumb reporter questions and keeper of his schedule. Among many others.

Timeskip. Sae is 24 and is officially a representative of Japan.

slowburn + idiots in love + romance + friendship/gen

MASTERLIST

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Chapter 5: Table for Two

Day 1 of the Japan League All-Star Football has you running around in your trusted Chucks within the operational halls of the stadium at 6 AM in search of one, good functional room, meaning one equipped with coffee, good ventilation, minimal noise, bathroom, and everything one might need in the completion of hours and hours of paperwork. Paperwork pertinent to the events unfolding in the 2-day affair. You pick the spot at the farthest end of the wing, in what you believe to be a makeshift office with just the right amount of noise and traffic, with the remaining available desk and chair that could’ve still been a little higher and suited for your frame, maybe…but this’ll do. You could manage with a little back ache in the coming days.

It’s going to be a very long day, to you and to everyone, and the morning has barely even begun. As for your other responsibilities, you’ve had everything else sorted out and ready way before 6 AM, of course, so that when the time for parting finally came around, Sae simply gave you a sleepy thumbs up as confirmation that everything’s good before he’s practically shooing you away, and then you’re off.

You’re in the middle of a particularly lengthy task when your screen is suddenly blocked by a heavy-looking takeout bag, making you almost jump out of your seat. You look up to see Sae beside you, leaning against the wall, his head turned away like he’s surveying the room. By now, it’s gotten empty—you haven’t even noticed anyone leaving, nor arriving—and if he’s found whatever is of interest to him in this room that he’d come all the way for, you don’t see it in his face. He simply takes the water bottle he’s propped at the crook of his arm to his mouth.

It’s lunch, you just realized.

“Oh—hey,” you hesitantly take the container box away from your screen, holding it by the twine handles, “do you need me to—“

“It’s yours. Eat,” Sae says without looking, his voice slightly muffled by his uncapping of the attached lid with his teeth. He places his other hand in his pocket while he crosses his ankles, like he’s got no actual plans of leaving anytime soon.

You turn your eyes to the box, still clueless as to why he is doing this when you spot the neat tag with a typewritten ‘ITOSHI SAE, JPN 10’ on the side along with a string of the event’s official sponsors. This is food designated for the National Team players, and, for obvious reasons, he can’t be giving this to you.

“But...this is yours.“ You turn your questioning look back to him (it’s starting to strain your eyes and neck, having to look up at his face from this angle). “You should be eating.”

As if you’ve just successfully communicated your discomfort, you watch as he bends his knees to crouch beside you to try to get into a more comfortable position. With an arm resting against one knee, he leans his head back against the wall. “There’s always food in the mess hall, I’m sure they’ll have something for me.” Before you could reason out, he tilts his head to shift his gaze to you, his expression suddenly turning stern. “Did you even take a break?”

You opt to postpone answering his question with a subtle wave of your hand. “Alright. Uhm. What time is it? You better get there then.”

His staring does not waver. “Well, not to pressure you, but I only got ten minutes before I’m needed in the conference hall,” and you can only gape in response.

“What are you even—so you should be heading to the mess hall now.”

The nerve of this man to raise his eyebrow like you’ve just missed out on something obvious. “Then eat. I’m not leaving until you’ve cleared all that.” And keep his voice calm while at it.

“What?—“ is all you can ask in disbelief, except you don’t have time to argue now, not anymore, if what he says is true. The one missing thing in this room, apparently, is a wall clock, so you’d have to take his word for it. “Fine. Fine.” As you stand and quickly slide your laptop into your bag, you also catch him pushing himself against the wall at the same time as you do. “We’re both eating at the mess hall.”

You narrow your eyes at the strangely satisfied look on his face, an expression that quickly turns into a frown at your sudden ‘Ow!’ as you turn your neck, grimacing in pain. A discomfort you do your best to ignore.

His scolding, though, not so much. (“That’s what you get for sitting on that awful chair.”)

Said mess hall is no less frazzled than you are when Itoshi Sae suddenly comes in, following closely behind his visibly unhappy manager, searching for food. In the brief commotion, you are quick to the understanding that they all seem to have taken it that everyone—from players to staff—has already been accounted for re: food, so what you’ve both stumbled upon is in fact the lunch crew in the middle of packing, or whatever’s their equivalent of winding down. You have no idea how they all manage it, but, somehow, before you can even make your offer of just giving Sae back his own food—and because they’re not about to let a football star go hungry—food was, of course, successfully acquired.

As soon as Sae pulls the chair out right next to you—amidst the contained flurry of various hands around him clearing the stuff out of the table, fixing all that mess on the floor, et cetera, in the one room where no one like Sae was expected to be in—a media personnel appears through the door, announcing that players are to be expected back in the main hall in the next five minutes so if the on-ground staff still hanging about in the room could please get their asses back up top already, that would be great—a phenomenon that results to some questionable looks amongst everyone around you seeing as how one of said players needed for said scheduled events to even begin is in this very room, about to begin his lunch. You don’t seem to notice much of what’s happening around you at the moment, something he takes as a good thing, because if Sae gave a shit about courtesy it’s primarily because he would rather you aren’t getting any more additional cause for headache, if he could help it. And if he couldn’t? Well, there’s not many rules he knows he wouldn’t be able to pull off bending a little.

Would you give him shit for bending a rule or two? A scary thought, one he’s starting to only ponder over when he hears your low muttering to yourself, wondering something about how come lunch break schedule for players turned out to be this tight?

Sae opens his mouth to speak, catches the distress on your face, and then promptly shuts his mouth. If he tells you the truth, that lunch has always been an hour long, but it’s just now he’s only left with 10 minutes to himself because he’d spent the majority of it searching the entire maze of this venue for you, will you—

become even more stressed out, or

actually get mad at him, for real, this time?

He decides not to dwell too much anymore on which one might be worse; decides he’s also not too keen on finding out. He does, however, still got the nerve to point his fork at the portion of vegetables you’ve set aside on about a third of your plate, and calmly say: “You shouldn’t leave out the cabbages.”

Amidst all the fuss around Itoshi Sae, you humble him by simply snapping, “Eat up, Sae-kun; you got 3 minutes,” to his face.

“Yes ma’am,” he quietly muses, secretly amused. He could manage with a little sass.

Day 2, you’re not as easily fooled, and as you watch Sae enter through the door—to your surprise, or maybe not?—of today’s office in another wing, your eyes instinctively narrow. This time, though, as he drops the food on your lap, he follows up with a question: “What’s the order of interviews for today? And where is this room?” Why are you working in this cramped space?

“Right wing, Miura hall. It’s Aiku, Rin, Karasu, Isagi, and then you—what is this?”

“It’s two players per room, right? I don’t know, something healthy; yours.” He simply leans back against the table right in front of you; not resting per se and not about to leave at the same time, but also getting out of the way of a couple of passing staff who had to do a double-take at the unlikely surprise visitor in the room. “So, I follow right after Isagi. Which room will we be in?”

You almost, almost, forget that he should be aware of his own schedule by now (you’ve made sure this morning), but you decide against protesting. “It’s Conference Room 2B and it’s with Shidou, who’s after you, not Isagi. Have you eaten?”

“Well—shit.” You hear him mutter rather suddenly, not completely sure whether it’s at your sudden question or the fact he’ll be spending over an hour with the energy-draining teammate. He blinks twice, though, at the peculiar lapse in his Math—because he’s never wrong at Math.

He also notes the very slight rise in your tone. His eyes remain adamant.

“I’m sure they have something in the mess room; they always do. Come on.”

“That’s—“ by this point, you’re already standing up, have already packed your laptop. As if on your cue, he pushes himself against the table as well and starts walking towards the door, already with the understanding that you will both be eating at the mess hall again today, as if you’ve agreed on anything.

You sigh once you catch up to him.

“You can’t keep giving me your food, you know that? And where do you keep spending the rest of lunch, anyway? Lunch started an hour ago—I’ve checked.” Before you trip yourself with all the stuff in your arms he manages to take the bag of food—his lunch/your lunch—out of your hand. When you look up at his face, he’s squinting, thinking harder than he should be.

Finally, he grunts in annoyance. “Why the hell won’t you stay in one place, anyway,” he says under his breath.

“What?”

To which he doesn’t answer. For now, you decide to let it go in spite of the out-of-pocket query, in spite of your unwavering staring.

In the elevator with only the two of you as sole occupants, you squint at the paper bag still in his hand. “Is the food not to your liking,” you wonder rhetorically, not expecting him to answer.

Sae does not intend to lie but also genuinely does not know what to say, so he simply says without thinking: “Something like that.” He goes quiet when you don’t respond, but only because he’s watching your face very closely, taking stock of the wonder in your furrowed eyebrows. Wondering what you might make of it.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re so strange,” shaking your head as you look away. “I thought it was good, though. Too much vegetables for my liking, but tasty.”

He seems pleased by something you cannot pinpoint what, judging by the near-softening of his voice as well as the corners of his mouth. He crosses his arms, smugness slowly fading off his face.

“That’s great to hear.”

Sae knows, more than anyone, that if nobody were to actually stop you, you’d be working yourself to the bone. He squints at the next person who’s approached you in the twenty minutes that you’ve been up in the dugout—this time, an event coordinator (one of the local club managers) whom he knows would not hesitate dropping heavy work on anyone willing. The final exhibition match for the event has just ended and while the day is basically coming to a close, as long as there’s still cameras rolling and players scattered about being interviewed, interacting with fans, there will always be work to be done. Even from this distance, out here in the field, in the middle of what’s to be his second post-match interview, he can see that whatever the lady coordinator is asking, it’s something you’d agree to doing. Despite the fact, he knows, that your actual role for the event is by now done. (And, yes, he did read the contract management had him sign.)

He knew that helping out with managing the event was something you’d wanted to do, so he didn’t think to stop you; though, on second thought, he probably should’ve warned you on the certain people to avoid (and perhaps the selflessness to curb) the moment the League had tapped you to be on their managing staff. A big favor from you, really, one he’d butt heads with, if necessary, to ensure no JFA higher-up would abuse.

“Itoshi-san?” There’s a light jab to his abs that instantly pulls his attention back. The very instant he turns his head he’s met with Shidou’s wide, despairing eyes, wordlessly trying to communicate either the question being asked that Sae was not able to catch, or the desperation to Please, let’s wrap this up, I am ready to go home—if not both—and whatever expression Sae himself is making seems unfriendly enough the blameless reporter is already raising both palms up as if in quiet caution.

No reporter actually deserves the cruelty of a joint Sae-Shidou interview, ever.

Shidou, unprompted, inches his head a little closer and harshly whispers something only Sae could hear.

“‘You have any plans for tonight after this?’”

“Yeah. So?”

“No! He’s asking you. Dude.” In a voice that’s now barely a whisper.

“Well, what the hell was the question.”

“I just said, if you have any fuckin’ plans for tonight after this?”

Sae cannot help but just sigh through his nose, in frustration of everything, before turning to the reporter with all the blankness he could muster.

“Yeah. Sure. I’m getting dinner with my manager.”

Somewhere there’s a few muted ‘Ooohs’ and even the interviewer’s face, who was, just a moment ago, scared out of his wits, is now looking intrigued. “Dinner! Sounds awesome. Are we celebrating anything tonight?”

“Celebrating my being at my best behavior for the past two days,” a remark that earns him a few good-natured laughs. He quickly realizes it’s a mistake to look Shidou’s way because when he does, he sees nothing but the antennae-d freak’s dumb, wide grin.

Sae has to roll his eyes on live television. “And for keeping a cool head in front of people cruising to be dope-slapped,” he adds, just to watch his junior’s dopey smile turn into a scoff.

At your side of the dugout, the event coordinator is still going on about her instructions. Something with logistics, you’re told, as you nod in understanding. You no longer bother telling her that this is already out of your work’s scope because it’s already too late in the night to be calling up other people, after all. It’s not like you have any plans after this anyway; dinner could simply wait for just a bit longer. Depending on how things get sorted out.

“Are we good? You got all that, yes?” she asks, her smile as sweet as can be. You respond in kind, hoping she doesn’t catch on to how tired you are.

“Yes, of course. I’ll see what I can do.” When you turn on your heel to leave, however, your face is instantly met with a hard surface. A broad chest, you quickly realize, looking up to see Sae, his eyes hard and serious, but focused straight ahead and not at you.

“S-Sae-kun, hi.” You can only greet him timidly, before turning your attention back to where his daggers are directed. Right where you left her, the event coordinator still has that sickeningly sweet smile that right now looks a little more wide, a little more eager to please.

“Itoshi-san, good work on—“

“I think you’re done borrowing my manager for the day.” With your back almost flushed to his chest, your blood instantly stills at the cold vibrating in his voice. “Don’t you?”

“O-Of course, of course. She’s been of great help; we don’t mean to overstep.” It feels like forever, this brief standoff, in the middle of the oblivious dugout crowd and the harsh stadium lights and noise; Sae unmoving in his quiet animosity, the event coordinator closer to crumbling by the second. Five seconds tops, and then she’s bowing her head, quickly shuffling away.

You catch an almost inaudible sigh from right behind you; it takes a beat, and then another, before you feel him stepping back. When you finally turn to face him, his head is turned somewhere else, just like this morning, hands in his pockets, like he’s ready to side-step anyone who’ll mistakenly bump into him. Except no one in this field will likely jolt in surprise and run into him blind in a place where he belongs.

With Sae, you no longer try to hide how tired you are. You also do not hide the smile that colors your face upon realizing his little gestures.

“You know, I’d like to suggest we get dinner somewhere,” you begin, pausing only briefly when his eyes finally find you, “but I don’t wanna assume; I don’t know if you got anything planned for the rest of the night, after all.”

He scoffs, already slowly turning on his heel, ready to leave. “‘Course you do. You handle all my schedule.” A timely, gentle reminder that you have him and he has you, that after all the people and all the noise, you both get dinner after. He looks over his shoulder once at the sound of your laughter and to make sure that you’re following closely behind.

“Let’s go somewhere nice. I’m tired of mess hall food.”

“Hey, why are you and Shidou-san trending again?”

Sae groans the very moment you mention Shidou’s name. He slows his pace so you can walk side-by-side.

“I said no work; dinner first.”

“It’s not work, I’m just on social media—hey! Give me my phone.”

Two minutes later and you’re cracking up at the two-second clip of him rolling his eyes in front of the camera with zero context. You don’t get to watch the rest of the interview because you’re stuck laughing at that one scene—and how could he stop your laughter?—and just as you’re about to move on, he’s shoving your phone away from your face, once again, because Dinner first, okay? Dinner first before we talk work.

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MASTERLIST

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