Rin knows that he is staring. He does not give a damn.

You’re a blurry figure in his vision. Itoshi Sae: the name was associated with some sort of mythical idol in his mind, his networks of neurons whispering ‘amazing, soon-to-be-number-one-striker, brother’ upon glimpsing at your face, at your glory. And then, a few days ago, you ripped out those neurons, enforced that you were a horrible person who didn’t give a single care towards him anymore—who probably never gave any care towards him—and asserted that you were a midfielder now.

A midfielder.

Rin clutches his chopsticks in hand with a grip that might just break them with a modicum of more force. If he stares at the amorphous stain at the other side of the table any longer, then a nerve will definitely burst. That wouldn’t be good.

Distractions.

There were better things to do than ruminate on this all dinner long. His gaze breaks from your alien body, and it settles on the bowl in front of him. Mama cooked her heavenly taichazuke. Rin just needs to eat it. He lifts up his chopsticks, and he feels anger waft through him once more. Distractions? What is he kidding—you’re chatting with Papa about what you did in Spain, and already his brain is plunging off into the deep end.

How could you be so—so, just, detached after what you said to him? How could you be sitting there, normally, eating your food—whilst he’s barely picking up the pieces of his heart from the ground?

Rin spears his chopstick violently into his side of takuan. He’s staring again. This’ll be a long, long night.