Notes: Part 2 of "Rise up, let me see the sun". It's best to read part 1 before this, but in a nutshell, Fudou joins Raimon High and makes friends with Kazemaru. A commission for June!

Let me see the sun

Kazemaru sat on the bench of the Raimon High Football Team with his head resting on his hands and his gaze pointed firmly towards the pitch.

Next to him, Kurahashi, a third-year and Raimon's first-string goalie, was getting his shin tended to by Kana-chan, a second-year sempai and one of their managers. Natsumi hovered worriedly at the edge of his vision, fetching bandages and cooling spray for them. One of the opponent forwards had crashed into Kurahashi a few minutes earlier and he'd hobbled off the field. Now he was quiet, but the sounds he wasn't making tugged at Kazemaru's attention far more than the action on the pitch.

It was, needless to say, pretty bad.

Endou had been subbed in, and Kazemaru was now the only first-year on the team who hadn't been sent onto the pitch. Handa had been made starter twice last month when one of the attacking midfielders had been out with stomach flu. And Gouenji and Fudou were regulars, of course, though Fudou seemed to treat the privilege with a disdain Kazemaru couldn't understand at all.

Kazemaru had no doubt that he would have been given some play time by now if he had been willing to play midfielder. (Probably.) But the idea of leaving his position just hadn't seemed right. You could call it his pride as a defender, or an aversion to trying new things, or just plain not being good enough (and he had thought all three, at different times but still regularly without fail, during the past few months) – whatever it was, it rankled at him with every game that passed. Kazemaru knew that his sempai were physically stronger than him and that they knew their tactics better than he did, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. From him.

Making up for his inadequacies had been easy with the Aliea stone, back when he'd been in the Dark Emperors. But oh, how Kazemaru hated how quickly that memory bubbled up every time he felt doubt. He never wanted to think of that time ever again. He'd never repeat that mistake ever again.

He needed to improve himself. To give himself an edge. Kazemaru's weapon was his speed, but he needed more than that.

"You're being too hard on yourself," Fudou commented over lunch the next day (Kazemaru mourned silently for half his grilled steak). "You've been playing for what, a year and a half? No one expects you to be Beckenbauer."

"A what?"

Fudou gave him an aggravatingly patient smile. "Franz Beckenbauer? Legendary fast as all hell German defender? But actually, nah, Roberto Carlos is probably a better fit for you."

"Who?"

Fudou blinked. Then his expression softened. Kazemaru had the distinct feeling that he had just transcended the barrier in Fudou's mind between 'stop fucking with me' and 'there is no hope'.

"Roberto Carlos played for Brazil from the 90s to a couple years ago. Like the mid-2000s," Fudou said. "He's one of the legends along with Ronaldo and Ronaldinho. He's a defender, a left-back actually, but his shots… you can't make them up, they're even wackier than Beckham's." (Kazemaru was relieved to know, at least, of David Beckham.) "Go Google his free kick against France in 1997, it'll blow your mind. And he was fast. They say he could do a hundred metres in ten point something seconds. He flew up and down the left wing defending and counterattacking like it was nothing. Completely phenomenal."

"Riiight." Kazemaru didn't think he'd ever seen Fudou talk for so long at once before. Scratch that, he didn't think he'd ever seen Fudou get so animated before either. Kazemaru had only played for just over a year and his knowledge of football was so shallow, you could scrape it off with a spoon. But Fudou? Fudou knew his stuff.

Fudou gave him a weird look, half-pitying and half-dismissive, then shrugged and reached into his bag. He took out a bun, tearing the wrapping open and demolishing half of it in one bite.

"I'm just saying," he said after swallowing, "you'd probably do better aiming to imitate Roberto Carlos. You're fast, and I've seen you take good long shots. If you just worked on your technique –"

"Fudou," Kazemaru interrupted him, "how long have you played football?"

Fudou's eyes narrowed, but he answered Kazemaru's question. "Since I was five, why?"

Kazemaru swallowed. "Well, there's something I was wondering…"

Of course, one question became two became five, and they spilled out of his mouth quicker than he could process them. The moment Kazemaru was done with asking one, three more formed in his mind. Fudou listened to his outburst steadily until he was finally finished.

Then he said, "Well, that's a lot of questions. It's going to take ages to answer them all. You free after school? Wanna go to McDonald's?" His eyes glinted. "Your treat?"

"Yeah." Kazemaru was only half-aware of what he was saying. He felt overwhelmed and drained, but it was the good kind, like he'd just finished a 400-metre sprint. "Sure."

Kurahashi-sempai's fracture ruled him out for the rest of the season. Since he was a third-year, it was more like the rest of high school, hell, maybe even his entire life. It had been painful to sit through his brief announcement and watch the workings of his face as he wobbled on his crutches. Watching Raimon go down to Shonan High in the round of 16 and get eliminated from the Inter-High qualifiers without Kazemaru even having seen a minute of play was a cakewalk in comparison.

And so life went on. The seniors retired to focus on their life after high school, whether it meant studying for entrance exams or hunting for jobs, and the team started preparing for next year's competition. A second-year sempai became captain, Endou became vice captain (and, of course, the new first-string goalie), and Kazemaru became more aware than ever of the clock running down his high school days.

Kazemaru and Fudou kept up their weekly McDonald's trips well into the summer months, where they argued (well, Kazemaru asked, and Fudou snidely answered) about the J-League, the Premier League, the Champions League, the national team, the best tactics, the best players, and everything else about football that Kazemaru could think of until the sun went down. If Fudou noticed Kazemaru asking even more questions than usual following their elimination, he didn't say anything.

And then, barely days into the summer vacation, Kazemaru received an invitation to the AFC U-16 Championship national team.

He stared at the JFA logo at the top of the letter, as blue as the uniform he'd worn the last time he represented Japan, and then at his name printed neatly a bit further down. He read the letter from top to bottom one more time and a flash of confused panic rushed through his head.

Kazemaru took a few, deep breaths. Folded the letter and put it into his pocket.

Then he slipped on his shoes and headed straight to Fudou's.

Kazemaru's parents had dropped Fudou off at home after a game a few months before and that was how Kazemaru knew which street and which apartment his friend lived in. He rang the doorbell, then rang it again. After ringing it one more time Kazemaru figured the doorbell was bust and rapped on the door.

Two more rings (Kazemaru was, if anything, an optimist) and very sore knuckles later, a bleary-eyed Fudou answered the door. He took one look at Kazemaru and narrowed his eyes, but let him in.

Kazemaru didn't know what he'd expected to see in Fudou's apartment, but his first impression was that it was… incredibly empty. He walked in to see a small sitting area where Fudou's laptop was set up. Further into the apartment was an open kitchen, where a few packs of instant noodles and not much else sat on the countertop. For Kazemaru, whose mum loved to have magazines and snacks and ornaments in every nook and cranny she could fit them in, it was jarring.

"What?" Fudou asked, and Kazemaru realised he hadn't said a word since he entered Fudou's flat. Nonetheless, he couldn't stop looking around, at the small fridge and bare tabletops, at the cupboards whose doors lay slightly ajar not because they were full to bursting but because the person using them had been too sloppy to close them properly. Kazemaru thought about how Fudou always stole his lunch, how the only thing he had ever seen Fudou eat was bread from the canteen downstairs.

Fudou cleared his throat. Kazemaru jolted back into his own skin.

"I heard about the team selection," Fudou said. "Congrats."

"Thanks," Kazemaru said. Then the detachment of Fudou's tone hit him. "Wait, you weren't picked?"

Fudou rolled his eyes. "Obviously they found someone else to play second fiddle to Kidou-kun. It fucking sucks. But there's still the U-17s."

"What?" This was wrong. This was all wrong. Fudou was the one who had accumulated a whole season's worth of experience as playmaker on the field while Kazemaru (and Kidou) had been rotting on the bench. "I haven't played even one minute. This doesn't make any sense at all."

Fudou shrugged. "Let's be real, the U-16 coach is spoiled for choice when it comes to midfielders and especially playmakers. Defenders? Not so much." His tone was harsh, and Kazemaru couldn't help a flicker of indignation, but it was true. Even in Inazuma Japan, half the midfielders (and some of the forwards) could have assumed playmaker position if the situation had called for it. But their squad hadn't fielded nearly as many defenders, and that wasn't even counting that Tsunami and Hijikata had already turned 17. When Fudou put it that way, his selection was practically a matter of course. Kazemaru liked to think that he could hold his own when it came to being compared with the rest of the Inazuma Japan defence.

"Anyway, aren't you better off training with Endou and Gouenji?" Fudou was looking annoyed now and Kazemaru couldn't help but think that it had been a complete mistake to come here. He'd wanted to share the excitement with Fudou and make plans for Hong Kong, because that was where the tournament was going to be held this year, but instead Fudou had schooled him once again. Given him a McDonald's lecture, except this time the gap between them was much more than football knowledge and a chicken nugget set.

Wait a minute.

Kazemaru swallowed and looked around again, before settling his gaze back onto an unimpressed Fudou.

"I was..." he began, "worried. About the upcoming games in Hong Kong." Fudou's face didn't even twitch, but Kazemaru ploughed on. "So I thought I'd come ask you about tactics and the teams we're going to play. So. Let's go to Royal Host. My treat." Royal Host was pricey for a famiresu, but Kazemaru had always been partial to the omurice there and it was the holidays, so he could afford to splurge a bit.

Fudou's eyebrows rose and disappeared into his hair. "Royal Host?" he said disbelievingly. "You sure? That's some high grade shit right there."

Then, before Kazemaru could reply, his expression settled into a devious smirk. "Well, you said it. It's better than what I was gonna have. No take-backs, let's go."

They were seated in the nearest Royal Host fifteen minutes later, and Fudou immediately launched into a play-by-play dissection of each of the teams in Japan's group. Kazemaru interjected occasionally with questions and they talked and talked until Kazemaru's omurice and Fudou's fried chicken set grew cold.

At the end, as they left the restaurant, Fudou said, "By the way, when you're in Hong Kong can you get me Sakuma's number? I lost it."

Kazemaru frowned. "Sure. I mean, I can, but what if he's not called up? Get it from Kidou?"

Fudou looked exasperated, like Kazemaru had missed something obvious. "No need to worry about that," he said. "He will be."

The Japan squad assembled a few days before they were due to fly for a training camp and to let the players meet (or reunite with, as it turned out for most) each other. Kidou was there when the Raimon trio walked in, of course, because while he had been outclassed back in Teikoku High he was still the best U-16 playmaker Japan had.

Sakuma, one hand on his hip, stood next to him. Kazemaru nodded at them both and exchanged a low five with Kidou. Sakuma greeted them and immediately started talking about how exciting Hong Kong was going to be, but all Kazemaru could think about was how Fudou had been right yet again.

Japan won the tournament and Kazemaru started every game for the team. But he was conscious of a gap in their ranks every minute on the pitch.

Kazemaru landed back in Japan just as September drew to a close. The first thing he did, after having his mum's home-cooked dinners and a restful night of sleep in his own bed, was to go see Fudou. He had learned from his mistake last time and texted Fudou in advance. In fact, he had even suggested meeting at McDonald's, but Fudou had rebuffed that quickly.

come over, his LINE message had said. its my day off, i dont want to leave the house.

So Kazemaru was in front of Fudou's door again, looking at the doorbell and wondering how much he would have to bruise his knuckles to gain admission.

He knocked once, experimentally, and was surprised to hear an answering shout from somewhere behind the door. Within a minute, the lock started rattling and then the door opened to reveal Fudou. Kazemaru had been expecting him to be in pyjamas with bedhead, but this Fudou looked the same as normal (which was, admittedly, not that big of an improvement).

"Perfect timing," Fudou said, skipping over the fact that he'd expressly asked him to come over at this time. "I just made lunch."

"Awesome," Kazemaru said, then squinted at him. "Wait, did you get taller?"

Fudou scoffed and went back into the unit. Kazemaru followed him, stopping at the sitting area and noticing that the table now had two plates on placemats and cutlery where Fudou's laptop had sat before. A hearty, sweet smell permeated the air. Fudou had gone on to the kitchen area, and Kazemaru turned there, only to pause in shock when he saw that the same counter that had been so bare the last time was now full of fresh produce.

Fudou caught him staring and snorted.

"I'm not that incompetent, you know," he said. "You think I don't know how to feed myself on a budget?"

"Uh," Kazemaru said, and thankfully Fudou waved off what other genius his brain was going to come up with with one hand, setting the rice cooker down on the side of the table with his other hand.

"You missed a lot of class," he drawled. "We have tests next week. Starting Wednesday."

Kazemaru groaned. Well, there went any hope of a relaxing weekend. "Are you serious? I'm so screwed."

"Yeah." Fudou's mouth crooked up into a smirk. "You can borrow my notes though."

He went off again, gesturing to a stack of notebooks sitting in the corner as he headed back to the kitchen. Kazemaru crawled over and flipped through them, noting the neat writing and surprising lack of doodles and gaping blanks that so plagued Kazemaru's own notes. But of course. Fudou was a scholarship student, so of course he'd actually be working to keep it no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

"You gonna come back here?" Fudou called out. "Food's getting cold."

Kazemaru allowed himself one last marvel at the notebooks (they were even arranged by subject) before putting them down and returning to his seat at the table, where a big bowl of nikujaga had joined the rice. Fudou had already loaded rice onto his plate and offered him the rice paddle. Kazemaru leaned over to take it, and the steam from the nikujaga hit him.

Kazemaru wasn't really a food person. The extent of his opinions about food ranged from "awesome" to "okay" with nothing in between. He had always taken it for granted that the best food was cooked by actual restaurant chefs and cooks and, of course, his mother.

"Dude," he said, as his brain tried to come up with words adequate enough to describe his revelation. "This looks and smells amazing. How long did it take you?"

Fudou's lips thinned, but he didn't look angry. Instead, he looked to his right and then down at his own plate.

"Just shut up and eat your stew."

They started to eat, and the first few minutes of silence weren't as weird as Kazemaru had thought they would be. Of course, the fact that the nikujaga was as delicious as it smelled probably helped a lot. Then Fudou started to ask about the tournament, which prompted Kazemaru to scramble for his gifts from Hong Kong (mooncakes from him, and some other pastry called wife cakes, for some reason, from Sakuma and Kidou). Fudou asked about the lineups, and Kazemaru obliged, racking his brains to remember the details that Fudou wanted. He offered his own analysis of the matches, which Fudou roundly rejected, and the ensuing argument (because Kazemaru had actually been there) was a McDonald's session in all but name.

When they had calmed down, and were finishing up their food, Kazemaru finally voiced a thought he'd been entertaining for some time.

"You know, I've been thinking," and already he wanted to knock the smirk off Fudou's face that had sprouted at those words, "when we played against Italy in the FFI, they had a system that was pretty similar to the one we use now, right? Catenaccio? One of the teams at the U-16s was running that, so I did some reading on it, and it's just like you were saying before with football getting more offensive. All the websites mentioned the death of the Catenaccio and all that."

"Yes, that was a while ago," Fudou said, grabbing some potatoes to go with the last of his rice. "And?"

"So I was reading about what actually killed Catenaccio and I started reading about this thing called total football. And… it just made me think of Raimon. I mean, when you get down to the basics, we just all love to run with the ball. All of us can shoot, dribble, defend, pass… and we already help each other out like it's second nature. It's a playstyle that really suits us. So I'm thinking that total football is something we should definitely try out."

And Fudou put his chopsticks down.

A slow grin spread across his face, reminding Kazemaru of mixing solutions drop by drop in Chemistry class, of the colour rippling into the beaker until the end result was wickedly bright.

"Yes," he said. "I think exactly the same."

I'm the only one who can save myself
I'll never forget that now, "all I want to be is me"

Notes: The quotes at the end of this part, and the previous one ("Rise up"), and the title, are all taken from "EXISTENCE" by SiM.

Also, Roberto Carlos is well-known not only for his speed and curl shots but also his 24in thunder thighs. Just saying!