The Distance Between Stars

The front door clicked shut—way too loud for what it was. Rin stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, spine stiff. He'd heard the taxi five minutes ago. Watched from the window as this stranger paid the driver, then stood on the curb for a long moment, staring at the house like he'd never seen it before.

Sae looked thinner. His hair was longer, fell into his eyes, and the hand that pushed it back trembled. He wore a dark coat way too heavy for the mild autumn, and his shoulders curved inward as he climbed the steps.

Rin didn't move. Didn't speak.

Sae took off his shoes in the genkan with this slow, methodical care. When he straightened up and saw Rin, he flinched—tiny, almost invisible—then his mouth twisted into something that tried to be a smile.

"Rin. You're home."

"Where else would I be?" Rin's voice came out flat. "This is where you left me, remember? To go chase some impossible dream."

The words just sat there. Sae's smile faltered, then dropped. He walked past Rin into the living room, and Rin caught a whiff of something foreign on him—cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, mixed with that sterile airport air.

"You're shorter than I remember," Rin said to his back.

Sae stopped. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. "I'm not shorter. You've grown."

"Huh. So I did something right while you were gone."

Silence stretched. Sae turned, and for a second Rin saw something raw in his eyes—something that made his chest ache before he crushed it under contempt.

"I'm going to make dinner," Sae said, quiet. "I learned to cook a few things in Spain. Paella. Maybe you'll like it."

"I don't eat that garbage."

Sae's hands clenched at his sides, but he nodded and walked into the kitchen. Rin stayed where he was, listening to pots clatter and the gas stove hiss, and felt something bitter settle in his stomach. Good. Let him see what he'd broken.

---

The first week was this stiff dance of avoidance. Sae tried, clumsily, to fill the spaces Rin left open. He cooked elaborate meals that sat on the counter untouched. Ran a bath each night and called out, "There's hot water," and Rin never answered. Asked about school, about soccer, about anything, and got one-word replies.

Rin watched Sae's attempts with a cold, analytical eye. This wasn't his brother. This was a hollow imitation—a puppet going through the motions, trying to paper over three years with a few recipes and a warm bath. The Sae he remembered had fire in his eyes, a razor tongue, filled any room he walked into. This Sae moved like a ghost, tiptoeing around like he was afraid to leave footprints.

On the eighth night, Rin came home from training and found Sae in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes. The sleeves had ridden higher than usual, and Rin's eyes caught on a flash of pale, scarred skin on Sae's inner forearm—a thin, silvery line that didn't look like any surgery.

Sae noticed him staring and yanked the sleeve down, movements jerky. "How was practice?"

"Fine." Rin dropped his bag by the door. "What's that on your arm?"

"Nothing. Old injury."

"Let me see."

Sae's laugh was brittle. "It's really nothing, Rin. I fell during a match."

"You never used to fall. Not like that."

The air crackled. Sae turned back to the sink, his grip on the sponge white-knuckled. "People change. You'll learn that."

"I don't want to change. I want to be the best striker in the world. That hasn't changed." Rin stepped closer, voice dropping. "But you—you don't even want that anymore, do you? You gave up. For what? Some stupid career in Spain that didn't even make you happy?"

Sae's hand was shaking now. The plate he was holding clattered into the sink, and he gripped the counter's edge like he needed it to stay upright. "You don't understand."

"Then make me understand." Rin's anger flared—hot, blinding. He grabbed Sae's shoulder and spun him around. "Explain it to me like I'm stupid, because apparently I am. Explain how my brother—the genius who was supposed to be the best in the world—came back a broken, pathetic—"

Sae's face crumpled. "Rin, please—"

"No!" The word tore out of Rin's throat. "You don't get to come back here and act normal. You don't get to cook and clean and pretend you're my big brother. You threw that away when you left. You threw us away."

And then his hand moved on its own. The slap cracked across Sae's cheek, echoed through the kitchen. Sae stumbled back, hand flying to his face, eyes wide and shimmering with tears he couldn't hold back.

"You think you can just act normal?" Rin yelled, voice cracking. "You think you can fix everything with a goddamn bowl of rice?"

Sae didn't answer. Just stared at him with that shattered expression, tears spilling, and then he turned and fled. The bathroom door slammed shut, and Rin heard the lock click, followed by a sound he hadn't heard since they were kids—muffled, wrenching sobs.

He stood in the kitchen, chest heaving, staring at his own hand. The sting of the slap still tingled on his palm. He'd never hit anyone before. Not like that.

The sobs continued behind that door for an hour. Then two. Rin sat on the stairs, head in his hands, listening to his brother break apart in the dark.

---

Sae didn't come out until morning. His cheek was red and slightly swollen, his eyes puffy, rimmed with exhaustion. He didn't look at Rin as he walked to his room and closed the door.

Rin didn't go to school. He sat in the hallway, staring at that closed door, replaying the sound of those sobs in his head. Something was wrong. Deeper than a failed career. The Sae he knew had never cried. Not when he broke his wrist at twelve. Not when he lost the national championship. He swallowed pain like it was nothing.

But last night, he shattered.

Rin stood up, walked to Sae's door, and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He turned the handle—unlocked—and pushed it open.

The room smelled musty. Stale air and sweat. Sae was curled on the bed, facing the wall, breathing shallow. Asleep, but even in sleep his brow was furrowed, his hands clenched into fists at his chest.

Rin's eyes scanned the room. Sparse—Sae had barely unpacked. But there was a duffel bag in the corner, half-open, spilling clothes. And next to it, a small cardboard box Rin hadn't noticed before.

He moved quiet, heart pounding. The box was taped shut, but the tape was old and peeling. He pulled it open with careful fingers.

Inside were mementos. A Barça keychain. A torn ticket stub. A photo of Sae with a group of players, all smiling, but Sae's smile was tight, his arm wrapped around a shorter stocky guy with bleached hair and a cocky grin. On the back, in Sae's handwriting: Bunny & me, 2016. 15 years old.

Rin frowned. He'd never heard Sae mention anyone named Bunny.

Beneath the photo were hospital discharge papers. Paciente: Itoshi Sae. Fecha: 12/03/2017. Diagnóstico: contusiones múltiples, abrasiones, laceración en el muslo derecho. Multiple contusions, abrasions, laceration on the right thigh.

Rin's blood went cold. He dug deeper, hands shaking, and found a folded piece of paper—a police report written in Spanish but with enough English to parse the details.

Asalto. Victim suffered homophobic and racial slurs. Suspects: three males, believed to be local fans. Physical assault occurred outside club at 2:00 AM. Victim was found unconscious.

And then at the bottom, a note in a detective's handwriting: Victim refused to press charges. Requested case closed.

The floor dropped out from under him. He turned back to the photo, staring at the grinning boy—Bunny Iglesias. An arm slung possessively around Sae's shoulders. Sae's empty eyes.

He needed to see. Had to know.

He found it when he gently lifted the corner of a tissue—a single clean blade, the kind used for shaving. And when he pulled back the waistband of Sae's jeans hanging over the chair, he saw it.

A scar. Deep, jagged, still pink and puckered. Letters carved into the skin of his inner thigh.

JAPANESE WHORE.

Rin's knees buckled. He caught himself on the bed frame, gasping. Nausea rose in his throat. He stumbled out of the room into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet, body heaving with dry sobs that weren't quite tears.

---

He found the bracelets next. Two thin leather cords—one black, one white—hidden in the pocket of a jacket Sae never wore. He'd seen them in the photo, wrapped around Sae's wrist. White and black together. An anti-racism symbol, he realized. A badge of resilience.

Or a reminder of what he endured.

Rin spent the next three days locked in his room, searching. He looked up old Barça matches on his phone, studied the footage, looked for Bunny Iglesias. He found him. Stocky, loud, always close to Sae on the pitch. They played together—a midfielder and a forward—and in every clip, Bunny had a hand on Sae's shoulder, his waist, his neck.

In one match, just as a free kick was being set up, Bunny leaned in and whispered something in Sae's ear. Sae went rigid. His face drained. When the ball came to him, he lost it instantly—clumsy touch, stumble, possession gone. The camera cut to Bunny, smirking.

Rin's hands curled into fists. That wasn't a teammate. That was a handler.

He searched deeper. Found medical receipts from a private clinic. Anxiety medication. Prescriptions for sleep aids. A therapist's note: Patient avoids discussing relationship. Shows signs of severe emotional abuse. Age on the form: 15.

Fifteen. Sae had been fifteen when he started with Barça's youth team. Fourteen when he first met Bunny. Three years of manipulation and abuse, while Rin was in Japan, training alone, hating him for leaving.

He hadn't hated him enough. He hadn't hated the right people.

That night, Rin took the black and white bracelets from Sae's jacket and wrapped them around his own wrist. They were tight, cutting into his skin. He left them on.

---

It took him two weeks to find Bunny's number. It was on an old contact list Sae hadn't deleted from his Japanese phone—a single entry under "B." Rin dialed before he could talk himself out of it.

The line rang four times. Then a lazy, accented voice: "¿Dígame?"

"Bunny Iglesias."

A pause. Then a slow laugh. "Who is this? His little brother? I heard he went back to Japan. Finally grew a spine, huh?"

Rin's voice was ice. "What did you do to him?"

"What did I do to him?" Bunny's tone was mocking, light. "I loved him. I made him feel special. He was a lost little Japanese boy in a big Spanish city. I gave him everything."

"You carved words into his skin. You had your friends beat him."

The line went quiet. When Bunny spoke again, his voice was lower, harder. "He told you that?"

"I found the police report. I saw the scar."

"Then you know he was a whore who asked for it. He liked it rough, you know? He liked the attention. I just gave him what he wanted."

Rin's vision went red. "If you ever come near him again, I'll kill you."

Bunny laughed—sharp, ugly. "Threats from a kid. Cute. Tell your brother he was worthless on the pitch and worse in bed. He never should have left me. I made him, and I broke him. That's just balance."

The line went dead.

Rin stood in the kitchen, the phone pressed to his ear, the dial tone humming. His knuckles were white, breath coming in ragged hits. He wanted to scream. Wanted to smash something. Instead, he dropped the phone and ran.

---

He found Sae in the bathroom.

Sae was on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, back pressed against the tub. His phone lay on the tiles beside him, screen cracked. A news clip was playing—something about a Spanish football scandal, but that wasn't it. It was the name. Bunny Iglesias. He'd been in the news for some disciplinary issue, and Sae must have seen it.

His hands were over his ears. Mouth open in a silent scream, tears and snot running down his face. He was rocking, rocking, lips moving in a prayer or plea.

"Sae." Rin dropped to his knees in front of him. "Sae, look at me."

Sae didn't respond. Eyes wide, unseeing, fixed on some horror Rin couldn't see. He was back there. In that alley. Under their hands.

"Nii-chan." The word came out as a whisper, something he hadn't used in years. Rin reached out and took Sae's hands, pulling them away from his ears. "I'm here. You're in Japan. You're home. He can't hurt you anymore."

Sae's eyes slowly, slowly focused. He saw Rin, and the recognition broke something inside him. A sob tore out of his throat—raw, animal, desperate. "Rin—Rin, I'm sorry—I couldn't—I didn't know how to—he said no one would believe me—he said I was nothing without him—"

"Stop." Rin pulled him forward, wrapped his arms around his brother's shaking body. Sae was so thin. So fragile. "Stop apologizing. I'm the one who's sorry."

Sae clutched at him like he was drowning. "I didn't want you to know. You were supposed to be better than me. Stronger. I wanted you to be strong."

"I'm not strong." Rin's voice cracked. "I'm an idiot. I was so angry at you for leaving, I never thought about why. I never asked. I never—I slapped you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

Sae cried into his shoulder, ugly, heaving sobs that shook them both. "He took everything. He took my dream. He made me believe I was disgusting."

Rin held him tighter, his own tears falling. "You're not disgusting. You're my brother. And I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

They stayed on the bathroom floor for what felt like hours. The news clip ended, replaced by static. The night deepened. Rin didn't let go.

---

The healing was slow. The kind of slow that feels like wading through mud.

Rin helped Sae find a counselor who specialized in trauma. He sat in the waiting room for every session, reading soccer magazines he didn't absorb. Sae came out with swollen eyes, but sometimes—just sometimes—the lines in his forehead were a little softer.

They cut off contact with Spain entirely. Rin blocked Bunny Iglesias on every platform. Threw away the box of mementos, but kept the bracelets—both of them—and wore them under his sleeves.

Sae started cooking again. This time, Rin ate. The first meal was simple—rice and grilled fish—and they sat across from each other without speaking. But Sae's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

One evening, Sae asked Rin about his training. Rin answered, hesitantly at first, then with growing passion. He talked about Blue Lock, about the strikers he'd faced, about his goal to be the best. Sae listened, and for the first time, his eyes held something other than pain.

"You're going to be incredible," Sae said softly.

Rin looked at him. "I don't want to be incredible if it means losing you."

Sae's smile was small, fragile, but real. "You won't. I promise."

---

Months passed. Winter turned to spring. The house started to feel less like a tomb and more like a home. They fell into a rhythm—morning runs, shared breakfasts, afternoons watching old matches without the weight of broken dreams.

One night, they climbed to the rooftop. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like scattered diamonds. Sae sat with his knees pulled up, gaze distant but not lost.

Rin sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He felt Sae's hand slide into his—hesitant, questioning.

He held it.

"I used to watch the stars from my window in Barcelona," Sae said, quiet. "They looked the same. But I couldn't reach them. They felt like a cage."

Rin said nothing, just squeezed his hand.

"Now they feel different." Sae turned to him, eyes wet but steady. "They feel like a ceiling. A place we can both look up to."

Rin looked at the stars, then at his brother. "Then let's look at them together."

They sat in silence under the wide, open sky, two broken people learning how to be whole again. The night was cold, but Rin didn't feel it. Sae's hand was warm in his, and that was enough.

A quiet promise. A new beginning. Healing—slow, fragile, real.

And for the first time in years, Sae smiled without it hurting.