𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 of bluelock oneshots because we are starving for more. ー I DO NOT own these stories, there are credits before each story. Fanfics inside this book are BOYS LOVE or SHIPS not xreader.
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【!! SOME...
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Sae looks good. He always looks good. Effortlessly. Michael might have it in him to be jealous if not for the fact that he gets to appreciate the sight all night.
Uneventful black pants, a plain white button-down rolled up at the elbows, undone at the collar. One might declare him underdressed for a formal function - might, of course, if one had the audacity to approach Sae and suggest that he looks anything less than stunning.
Michael would be the first to object on Sae's behalf.
He keeps his distance, though - for now, at least. He makes light conversation with whoever happens to drift toward him, whichever journalist believes that they might drag something new from his lips after enough champagne has passed through them.
They won't, but Michael does like to see them try. Something of a game, in his estimation. A way to pass the time.
His gaze drifts often to Sae.
Itoshi Sae, simultaneously the darling of Japan and its most formidable export. A fascinating combination. Every person here should recognize how unbelievably fortunate they are to be in his presence.
And most, it appears, do.
Michael's rather attuned to the flash of cameras, enough to catch the sight of them pointed all at Sae, painting him in bright relief at odd intervals. Michael takes particular note of those who watch but don't dare to approach - of course, they recognize their inferiority, even if they fawn from afar.
The vantage point of Michael's current position allows him full view of Sae and whichever miscellaneous extras decide to try their luck speaking with him - Sae dismisses most with a few words, and Michael tucks his smirk in the corner of his lips as he takes another drink.
"So, what kind of performance can we expect from the premier forward of Bastard München this year?" some irrelevant journalist probes, and Michael lets his grin widen appropriately.
"The same as always, nothing short of perfection." It's a rote response, but the journalist won't dare to call him out at a function like this. He dips his chin, and the man gives a stiff smile before excusing himself. Michael's gaze drifts again, to-
Mm. Seems as though Sae's slipped away. Michael lets his gaze trace the room, seek the one sight he could find even in the dark, but his eyes never catch, a thorn snagged on its favored hand. No blood to draw here. Michael purses his lips, jaw set and smile tacked on with less diligence.
The room isn't particularly large, but Michael skirts the edges of it, thorough lest he miss his favorite part of dull evenings like these. The overwarm air begins to stifle as he skirts past eager, irrelevant people who apparently intend to ruin his evening. Sae wouldn't leave, not without talking to Michael first.
