Twenty-Eight Tablets

The room was dim. Just one lamp on the nightstand. Sae sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders heavy. In his hands, a bottle of painkillers. Twenty-eight tablets. Each one a promise of silence. Next to it, a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He’d bought it three blocks away from a convenience store. The cashier didn’t even blink at a teenager buying alcohol.

He uncapped the whiskey first. The smell hit him—sharp, medicinal. Nothing like the Spanish wines his teammates used to toast after victories. Victories. He almost laughed. There hadn’t been many. Just the hollow echo of his own footsteps, the sting of snow melting into his shoes, the weight of a country that never wanted him.

He counted the tablets. Let them fall into his palm, one by one. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. A small white mountain. He stared. His hand trembled. So easy. Just wash them down with the whiskey, let the numbness creep in, then nothing. No more whispers. No more slurs. No more shame.

He brought the bottle to his lips.

The door opened.

“Oi, Sae.”

Rin’s voice cut through the quiet. Sae froze, bottle still at his mouth, pills clutched in his other fist. He turned his head slow. Blank expression. But his eyes—those deep, guarded eyes—flickered. Panic, maybe.

Rin stood in the doorway. Still in his Blue Lock tracksuit, hair damp from a shower. He’d only come because their mother begged him. Please, Rin. Your brother is home. Just talk to him. He seems different. Rin had scoffed. Different. That was one way to put it. Sae had ignored him for months. Ever since that night, since he’d crushed Rin’s dream with a single sentence: “You’re not good enough to be a striker.”

But now, standing here, Rin saw something he hadn’t expected. The bottle in Sae’s hand. The pills scattered across the nightstand. The exhaustion carved into his brother’s face like grooves in old stone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rin’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous.

Sae set the whiskey down carefully, like it was made of glass. “None of your business. Get out.”

“Don’t tell me to get out.” Rin stepped forward, eyes fixed on the pills. “Is that what I think it is? Are you trying to—”

“I said get out.” Sae’s voice cracked. He grabbed the pills, tried to shove them back into the bottle, but his fingers were clumsy. A few tablets fell to the floor.

Rin lunged. Snatched the bottle of painkillers from Sae’s hand, then the whiskey. Sae’s head snapped up—anger, or maybe desperation, flashing in his eyes.

“Give them back.”

“No.” Rin’s heart pounded. He’d seen this before. Not in person, but on the news. Documentaries about athletes who burned out. Same hollow look. Same trembling hands. “What the fuck, Sae? What happened to you?”

Sae’s jaw tightened. He turned away, stared at the wall. “Nothing you need to worry about. You’re a striker now, right? Focus on that.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t push me away.” Rin’s voice wavered. He was angry—angrier than he’d been in years. But underneath, something else stirred. Fear. “You’re my brother. I came here to yell at you. To tell you how much I hate you for what you said. But this—” He held up the whiskey. “This is not what I expected.”

Sae laughed. Dry, bitter. No humor. “You never expect anything from me, do you? That’s fine. No one does.”

Rin sat down on the bed opposite Sae. Two feet between them. He placed the whiskey and pills on the nightstand, out of reach. “Tell me what happened. In Spain.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Liar.”

Sae’s hand shot out, grabbed Rin’s collar. For a moment, Rin saw the old Sae—brilliant, arrogant genius who could bend a ball to his will. But the eyes were wrong. Glassy. Unfocused. Rimmed with red. “You don’t know anything,” Sae hissed. “You think you can waltz in here and play the hero? You’re just a kid. A naive, stupid kid who doesn’t understand what the world is really like.”

Rin didn’t flinch. Held his brother’s gaze. “Then make me understand.”

Sae’s grip loosened. He let go, slumped back. Shoulders sagging. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“It does,” Rin said, voice thick. “You’re my brother. It matters.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating. Outside, the city hummed—car horns, distant laughter, neon buzz. But in this room, only breathing. The tick of a clock.

Finally, Sae spoke. Barely a whisper. “You don’t know what it’s like to be alone in a place where no one wants you.”

Rin waited.

“At first, I thought it would be exciting. New country. New league. Best players in the world.” Sae’s eyes drifted, unfocused. “But they never let me forget I was different. The way they looked at me. The things they said.”

“What things?”

Sae didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled up his left sleeve.

Rin’s breath caught. There, on the inside of his forearm, faint white lines. Scars. Some old, some newer. A roadmap of pain.

“I started doing this after the first season,” Sae said flatly. “It helped. For a while.”

Rin’s hand moved instinctively, reaching for his brother’s arm. But Sae pulled away, covered the scars with his sleeve again. “Don’t. You don’t need to see it.”

“Sae...” Rin’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Mom? Dad? Me?”

“Tell you what? That I was being called a ‘Puta Japanese’ every time I stepped on the field? That my own teammates laughed and joined in? That the fans threw coins at me during practice?” Sae’s voice rose, raw and trembling. “That I spent nights crying in a bathroom stall because I couldn’t understand the language and no one would help me?”

Rin’s fists clenched. He wanted to punch something. Break the wall. Scream. But he stayed still.

“I thought I could handle it,” Sae continued, quieter now. “Thought if I just played well enough, they would respect me. But it didn’t matter how many goals I scored. How many assists. To them, I was always just the Japanese guy. The foreigner. The one who didn’t belong.”

He picked up the whiskey, stared at the amber liquid. “I stopped caring about soccer. About everything. This was the only way I could make it stop.”

Rin reached out and gently took the bottle. This time, Sae didn’t resist. “It’s not the only way,” Rin said softly. “You can come home. You can quit. You don’t have to go back.”

“I have to. Signed a contract.”

“Fuck the contract. You can break it. There are ways.”

Sae shook his head. “You don’t understand. Soccer is all I have. If I lose that, I have nothing.”

“You have me.” Rin’s voice was barely audible. “You have Mom. Dad. A family that loves you, Sae. Even after everything you said to me... I still want you to be okay.”

Sae looked up, met his brother’s eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, slowly, Sae’s lips twisted into something that might have been a smile. “You’re still so naive.”

“Maybe.” Rin smiled too, but it was sad. “But I’m not going to let you die.”

He stood up, carried the whiskey and pills to the kitchen. Emptied the tablets into the sink, watched them swirl down the drain. Pour the whiskey out. The smell filled the room—acrid, bitter.

When he returned, Sae was still sitting on the bed, head bowed. Rin sat down beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

“I have a match tomorrow,” Rin said. “Against your team.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to win. Prove I’m a better striker than you.”

Sae let out a quiet laugh. “You’ll never be as good as me.”

“We’ll see.” Rin nudged his shoulder. “But after the match... we need to talk. Really talk. And then we need to get you help. A doctor. A therapist. Someone.”

Sae didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away.

---

The next few days were a strange, silent dance. Rin stayed at the apartment, slept on the couch, watched Sae with hawk-like vigilance. Sae moved through the house like a ghost—shower, meals, TV in a daze. He didn’t mention the pills, and neither did Rin. But the tension was palpable. A live wire.

Rin spent hours watching old footage of Sae’s games. Early ones from Spain’s youth league were electrifying. Sae glided across the field, his passes like ribbons, his vision impossibly sharp. A maestro. A conductor of chaos. But as seasons progressed, Rin noticed the change. The dribbles got safer. Passes more conservative. Sae’s eyes, once burning with ambition, grew dull. He played like a man afraid of making a mistake.

The contrast was heartbreaking.

On the night before the match, Rin found Sae standing on the balcony, staring at city lights. He joined him, leaned against the railing.

“You don’t have to play tomorrow,” Rin said. “Sit out. Tell them you’re sick.”

“I can’t. Coach will bench me anyway.” Sae’s voice was flat. “I haven’t been playing well. They’ve been threatening to send me back to the reserves.”

“Then let them. It’s better than—”

“It’s not better.” Sae turned to face him, expression unreadable. “You don’t get it, Rin. Playing is all I have left. If I can’t even do that, then what am I?”

Rin didn’t have an answer. So he just stood there, shoulder to shoulder with his brother, and watched the night pass.

---

Match day.

Stadium packed. Thousands of fans—cheers, whistles, chants. Blue Lock’s team lined up opposite Sae’s Spanish club. Rin’s heart hammered as he scanned the field, found Sae among the white jerseys. He looked small. Diminished. The genius striker who had once seemed invincible now looked like a frightened boy.

The whistle blew.

First half was a slog. Blue Lock pressed hard, their aggressive style clashing with the Spanish team’s technical possession. Rin played with singular focus, eyes always tracking Sae. His brother moved cautiously, avoided tackles, passed sideways instead of forward. The Sae who had once dribbled past defenders with contemptuous ease was nowhere to be seen.

Halftime. 0-0.

Rin sat in the locker room, catching his breath. His teammates strategized, but his mind was elsewhere. He remembered Sae’s scars. The empty pill bottle. The tremor in his voice.

I have to win. For him.

Second half began. Blue Lock came out with renewed intensity. Rin received a pass from Isagi, spun past a defender, drove toward the goal. He saw Sae closing in—his brother’s eyes wide, almost pleading. But Rin didn’t stop. He feinted, cut inside, unleashed a powerful shot. It curled past the goalkeeper, into the top corner.

The stadium erupted.

Rin sank to his knees, breathless. He looked up, searching for Sae. His brother stood still, midfield, staring at him with an expression Rin couldn’t decipher. Pride? Envy? Pain? Something in between.

Then a voice from the stands. Harsh. Mocking.

“¡Puto japonés!”

The words sliced through the noise. Rin saw Sae flinch. Then another voice joined in, and another. A small group of Spanish fans chanting, faces twisted with hatred. The words hit Sae like physical blows. His shoulders hunched. He looked at the ground, hands shaking.

The referee did nothing.

Rin’s blood boiled. He started toward the sideline, but a teammate held him back. “Don’t. You’ll get a red.”

“They’re abusing him!”

“We can’t do anything. Focus on the game.”

The match continued. Sae was a shell. The coach substituted him out five minutes later. He walked off the pitch with his head down, never looking back.

Blue Lock won, 2-1.

---

After the match, Rin searched the stadium corridors. Found Sae in an empty locker room, sitting on a bench, still in his sweaty jersey. Face buried in his hands.

Rin sat down beside him.

“I heard them,” Rin said quietly. “The fans. Is that what it’s always like?”

Sae didn’t answer, but his shoulders began to shake.

“You don’t have to hold it in anymore,” Rin said. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

A sob escaped Sae’s throat—raw, broken. He lifted his head, and Rin saw tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for everything I said to you. I was... so bitter. I wanted you to hurt the way I hurt.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I pushed you away, it would be easier. But it only made everything worse.” Sae’s voice cracked. “I can’t do this anymore, Rin. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay.”

Rin wrapped his arms around his brother, pulled him into a tight embrace. Sae stiffened, then melted, burying his face in Rin’s shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time. Years of pain slowly easing.

“I’ll help you,” Rin murmured. “We’ll get you help. And I’ll be here. Always.”

Sae nodded against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

When they finally pulled apart, Rin noticed the scars on Sae’s arm again, peeking out from beneath his sleeve. He gently took his brother’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

Sae’s eyes were red, but for the first time in months, they held a glimmer of something other than despair. Hope.

“Let’s go home,” Rin said.

Sae nodded. Together, they walked out of the stadium, leaving the noise and the hatred behind.