Chapter Text
When they married, newly-renamed Isagi Iyo left the music world behind. The trophies, certificates, photos, and her beloved violin collection was left to gather dust in a storage closet in their new home. When she was pregnant, her husband suggested that she try music again.
She's not stupid, of course, Iyo can tell her husband's attempt into mitigating whatever inevitable postpartum depression she might develop, as it runs in both of their families.
Still, Iyo indulges him.
Isagi Yoichi is her first born son, who looks nothing like her. That alone is disappointing, but is quickly smothered by maternal instincts, and an overwhelming and aggressive urge to—... to hold her son close and never let him go. It's a familiar feeling, that suffocating desire bursting out of her chest, that which made her feel alive.
She felt it once on stage, a long time ago.
Iyo wants at least one thing her son to inherit from her. And so that first night in April 1st, as Yoichi slept behind that crib, Iyo prayed. She prayed that he would grow healthy, strong, and kind. She prayed that one day, he too, will feel what she felt, that ever burning passion. She prayed, that he will inherit something from her.
Isagi Yoichi, her first born son, the world's purest. She will give him everything, the childhood she never had, a present mother, a loving father, and the freedom to pursue what he loved.
Months and several parenting trials and tribulations later, Iyo can finally start.
She buys a second-hand upright piano, some books on beginner's music theory for kids, and even dug around that storage closet to find her old kid-sized violin. When her husband "cleaned" up the said storage closet, by displaying the trophies and medals, Iyo only smiled. Her son needed to know she was the best, after all.
Isagi Yoichi is five months old, already babbling, no longer just crying to communicate.
Iyo hasn't played in a long time, so she's a bit rusty. Therefore, until her little Yoichi can have the muscle coordination, she'll knock off the rust.
Her child's observant and curious eyes watch her from his crib. Iyo coos and smiles at him for a bit, before dropping the smile focusing, cracking her knuckles and sitting down, piano in front.
A simple and lively piece, Liszt's Liebesträume No. 3 in A-Flat Major. This was the first ever piece she played on stage, it holds a lot of sentimental value to her. She knows the notes, the sequence from heart, she carved it into her bones, after all.
Iyo feels it again, like the world is closing in just her and her instrument, like nothing else exists, the melodies flowing, existing, her entire body deconstructing into fluttering music sheets.
When she finished, and the world slowly came back into view, she hears Yoichi babbling, reaching for her.
Ah, no, not her. The piano.
Iyo stands with a smile, lifting Yoichi up with laughter, "You want to play, Yocchan? Want to play like mama?"
Yoichi giggles, filling the room with much more delight than her piano had.
They both sit on the pianist's stool, her son on her lap, his hands smacking the keys with all the grace of a toddler. Iyo resists the urge to laugh when Yoichi inevitably produces garbled sounds from the piano, none of the graceful melodies Iyo had. She resists harder as Yoichi cries at this dilemma, looking at her through teary eyes as if saying, Why doesn't it sound like before?
"Watch carefully, little Yoichi," Iyo says, doing a simple do-re-mi.
Yoichi quiets down, entranced.
She does it again, and his short hands make a grabbing motion.
"This is your first lesson," Iyo says, with uncharacteristic seriousness, like her old teacher said, and his teacher before him.
Iyo grabs Yoichi's hand, and they both press down a key, a clear note ringing out.
"This is the note C," Iyo whispers.
They press down together to the next key, "This is the note D."
"And this is E." They press down on the last note.
Iyo lets go, looking down on Yoichi, "Now, you try! C!"
Yoichi does nothing for a good few seconds, then, face scrunched in adorable focus, presses down on C.
Iyo resists the urge to jump, smile aching her cheeks. "Okay, okay, now, D!"
Yoichi presses down, slowly, carefully, sound resonating to his obvious and delightful babble.
"Okay, now—"
He presses down the E key before she can even finish saying it, and Iyo can't help it, the stool they're sitting on is pushed aside as she jumps up, lifting Yoichi and spinning him around, his laughter ringing more joy than the piano ever had.
"Well done! Brilliant! Bravo to little Isagi Yoichi—the audience calls out for an encore! One day you'll take the Tokyo Philharmonic by storm! You'll be the next Lang-Lang, the next Hilary Hahn, the next Hino Iyo—!"
The name slips out and Iyo freezes.
Ah.
She hasn't called herself by that name in a long time. It... it saddens her. To give up music. Iyo told herself that she won't regret it, and yet, holding her child, his curious bright eyes... the bitter regret forming in her mouth.
She wouldn't have traded music for anything.
Not even for your own child?
Some dark part of her says yes. Not even for Little Yoichi.
"Pft."
A small muffled chuckle behind her. Iyo spins, to see her husband—... holding a camera recorder.
She shoots him a look that says, Really? Iyo supports Isagi on her hip, "How long have you been there?" Recording?
"Didn't you tell me that it's important to record lessons, so we can compare his improvement?" her husband playfully responds, turning off the camera mid-way to greet her with a kiss.
She groans, "So you've been here the entire time?"
"You still play so beautifully, love," Issei murmurs, the kind that gave her butterflies as if she were a lovestruck teenager again.
Still, Issei had said. She smiled.
Hino Iyo never left.
That night, as Yoichi slept in his crib, Isagi Issei watched the recording of his wife and son, at that brief moment after she was spinning Yoichi around and when she said her maiden name—
Issei paused. A flicker of darkness. Like she didn't recognize her own son, so staunchly different from the warm loving mother just a milisecond prior.
Maybe, in another life, if she were a little more cruel, a little more heartless, a little more like a certain German actress named Alice Love across the world, she would have abandoned this child and continued pushing further heights in the music world, for her own, selfish ambitions.
Issei knows.
So he does what he's always done—plan. It's how he managed to capture the devil's heart, after all. So he'll ask around, what are some generic things kids are excited about these days? Something other than music, something far from it.
Years later, he buys tickets to a football game.
When they watch a football match for the first time, Iyo recognizes the change in her son. It's the same kind of change, the same starstruck look she's familiar with, when a young Hino Iyo watched Sayaka Shoji perform a solo violinist role for the first time in person. It's... disappointing, yes, that he doesn't have the same passion for music as she does, that all those lessons will slowly be forgotten.
But she refuses to be like her parents.
So Iyo hides away the music sheets, covers the piano, and gifts her son a football.
Honestly, it should be karma. After all, she did pray her son would be passionate in the things he loved. She didn't exactly specify it had to be music.
Iyo only hopes Yoichi will still keep music in his heart.
Isagi Yoichi decides this is the last time he's hanging out Mikage Reo.
The four of them—Isagi, Reo, Nagi, and Bachira—are at some upscale fancy restaurant with gaudy chandelier lights that makes his eyes hurt.
"Reo... are you paying for this?" Isagi asks, nervous in a sense that he's in an open space he doesn't belong in.
"Of course I am," Reo says. "Why? You guys don't want to? We're already here."
"I think it will be fun!" Bachira claims, but you can hear the hesitance in his voice.
"It's a hassle," Nagi groans and stands still and rooted, refusing to move as if he were a stubborn tree.
And Reo immediately folds, "Fine! We can go somewhere else."
They're walking towards the exit when Isagi spots a piano in the lobby. He gives it a brief glance, ignoring it, until he spots a brand name—
"Holy shit, is that a Fazioli!?"
His sudden outburst has everyone staring at him.
"Sorry," Isagi apologizes. Then explains himself, "That—that's just an expensive piano. I've never seen a Fazioli in person before."
"You see a lot of pianos in person?" Bachira jokes, Isagi rolls his eyes.
Reo gets a glint in his eye, and subtly, started leading the group towards the piano, "Thought you'd be more of a Steinway & Sons kind of guy."
"Steinway & Sons is the industry standard," Isagi scoffed, "You can see them in most orchestras. They're a dime a dozen."
"Exactly." Reo smiled.
Before Isagi can comprehend what Reo meant, Bachira jumped his arms on Isagi's shoulders, "Wow! I didn't know you liked piano stuff, Isagi! You've been holding out on us! Do you play? Will you play for us?"
Isagi seemed nervous, or rather, shy at the very idea, he shoves Bachira off his shoulders, "I don't think I'm even allowed. We've seen the piano, let's go—"
"Just play so we can leave," Nagi insisted, already knowing Bachira and Reo are just itching to see Isagi play. He doesn't get it. It's just a piano.
"I'm not—"
"—please, please, please? Just one song. A real one! Nothing stupid like a nursery rhyme." Bachira pleaded, tugging on Isagi's sleeve and heartstrings with his puppy eyes.
"And what if all I know is a nursery rhyme?" Isagi snarked, raising a brow.
"So you'll play?" Nagi questions. Isagi shut his mouth.
He looks to Reo, who only shrugs with a smirk. "Go ahead, no one's stopping you."
Isagi relents, "Fine, fine! One song!"
He is ushered onto the seat, his friends stepping back to give him space. Yoichi feels the stares on him, but he closes his eyes and cracks his knuckles.
Focus.
One song. Something simple. Sentimental. Something he knows like the back of his hand.
Liebesträume No. 3? No, that's his mother's favorite, not his. Something Bach? Saint-Saëns? Maybe Chopin?
The stares are drilling deeper.
Fuck it.
First thing that comes to mind? Tchaikovsky, specifically, the Nutcracker Suite, Op. 71a, number 7, Andante maestoso.
The piece wasn't originally written for piano, but his mother had a copy of the Pletnev piano arrangement for it. The music sheet was a gift for his 9th birthday, that fated day when he went to a football match for the first time, the day that changed his life.
Isagi Yoichi began playing, unaware that Nagi had long quit his game and began recording.
He focuses on the technical at first, relies heavily on muscle memory. Eyes fixed on the keys like they were players on the field. The first section is always difficult because of the double and triple note arpeggios.
You have to bring out the melody in the middle register, his mother had said. He knows he looks ridiculous, struggling over something that sounded easy, simple.
But that's the beauty of the piece, his mother said. The piece is difficult, yes, but it's a good kind of difficulty. With every passage having octaves, tenths, and even larger intervals—requiring an enormous hand span and even sharper precision to make the sound have, ironically, soft, gentle, and tender dynamics.
He brings out the sotte voce of sixths and skipping triads while simultaneously bringing out the lyrical melody. It's a difficult balance, has to be impactful without sounding harsh, the piano has to sound out thunder without hammering the chords.
Once he gets to that passage, his favorite, the easiest part, it's smooth sailing from there, that when his hands descend on the scale, low-pitch notes ominously radiating, and then, the climax—!
As if possessed by Hino Iyo, he closes his eyes, and her hands glide over his own.
He feels like he's burning, like his meta-vision showed him a clear path to a goal, and nothing is standing in his way. It feels glorious, to have the vibrations thrumming in his veins. It's just arpeggios and scales and yet—
Isagi Yoichi feels alive.
The world shifts into music sheets fluttering, a storm approaching, sheets of paper blur into puzzle pieces, connecting, pulsing, reaching into a crescendo of humanity ascending, a million hands outstretched to reach the stars. It sounds like god descending, a rapture of beauty, a terrifying clamor of trumpets.
It stretches into event horizons, until gliding and slowing down, and finally, playing the last notes.
He opens his eyes to the sight of a crowd, the cheer and clapping bringing him back, grounding him to reality.
"Holy shit!" Reo whispers in shock, "What the fuck! You're amazing! Just quit football and play piano!"
Give it to Reo to simultaneously compliment and insult you at the same time.
Embarrassment and pride make a confusing cocktail in his heart, regardless, it has him nervous and clutching his chest. Again. Pride because yes, he is Hino Iyo's son. Embarrassment because he hasn't played in a long, long time and he's pretty sure he made several mistakes, enough to remember his mother's disappointed face. That and he gathered a crowd.
"Oh my god, guys come on, let's leave—"
"—Isagi-kun! That was awesome!" Bachira jumped up and down, even as Isagi grabbed his arm, and Nagi's, who's still clapping.
"Wohh, amazing," was all Nagi said before Isagi pulled his friends out of there. Reo watched in amusement as his face kept getting to a deeper shade of red.
"Enough! Let's go!" Isagi grunts out as he pulled Bachira and Nagi, Reo not too far behind.
Almost at the door, they're stopped by a tall old man in a business suit, who opens his arms in a welcoming manner and gesture of goodwill, while subtly blocking their exit. He says, "That was an amazing performance, young man. Let me introduce myself, I am Yamamoto Takumi, the owner of this place. May I have your name?"
"Ah—I am Isagi Yoichi, it's a pleasure to meet you, Yamamoto-san," Isagi says with a bow, almost automatically. Curse his polite manners!
"Are you perhaps interested in—"
"—We really have to leave, Yamamoto-san, apologies! And thank you for letting me play on your Fazioli, but please, get it tuned!" Isagi bowed one last time before running out.
Ah, really, kids these days. Came in, made a commotion, and left Yamamoto to deal with dispersing the crowd.
"... it was out of tune?" Yamamoto asks the guard beside him.
The guard shrugged, "I didn't even notice."
[link] isagi yoichi plays the piano at local restaurant
wow... he plays so beautifully what the hell imagine being his cousin
not only is he renowned football player he's also good at piano
when you think you're good, just remember, out there, an asian kid is better
what song is this? can someone tell me?
pas de deux - tchaikovsky, piano arrangement by pletnev i think
man he should just quit football and be a pianist
isn't his mom a musician?
why am i not surprised
what? who's his mom
hino iyo, now isagi iyo, i'm assuming
y'all i'm a professional pianist and he's not even that good. he made several mistakes
wow it's almost as if he's a football player and not a professional pianist!
you'd honestly expect more out of hino iyo's son smh
ISAGI YOICHI'S MOM IS HINO IYO!?!????
HOLY SHIT WHAT SHE HAS A SON?
omg hino iyo got married and had a kid??
that devil? no fucking way
SHE'S ALIVE?!??
who tf is isagi yoichi
better yet, who the hell is hino iyo
how tf did you people even KNOW his mom is hino iyo, y'all are weird and stalkers
IT'S IN HIS WIKI PAGE, he said it in an interview
proof?
[link] video excerpt:
Interviewer: ... and you do have any other hobbies or interests outside of football?
Isagi: I like to go on walks, play the piano, sometimes the violin.
Interviewer: Oh? That's interesting, you've never shown an inclination towards music before.
Isagi: I enjoy it, but not as much as football. It's still my favorite past-time, my mom taught me when I was a kid, and I play whenever I'm homesick, cause it feels like she's with me.
Interviewer: Your mother taught you? She must have been a wonderful musician.
Isagi: Of course she is, she's Hino Iyo, one of the greatest.
when was this interview T-T
i'm not a football fan, and isagi yoichi looks nothing like hino iyo, but by the gods do i recognize that finger technique anywhere
this guy's the creep OP is looking for, how tf do you recognize someone by FINGER TECHNIQUE
no isagi does look like hino iyo, it's literally just the hair and eye color that differs. if isagi had brown hair & eyes, he'd be her exact clone
lowkey i thought her eyes were red
same
in what world are red eyes normal except if you're sick?
sick af on the violin maybe EYYYYY
can anybody tell me who the hell is hino iyo already and why is she such a big deal
her wikipedia page is open buddy
literally the greatest pianist/violinist ever, right up there with hilary hahn, she won a shit ton of competitions during her youth, later started doing compositions during her adulthood, won several awards for them, etc. etc.
the tokyo philharmonic begs her to visit every year. they replay her performances and teach them to students on what the standards are for a pianist/violinist. she's THAT good
isagi yoichi is officially a nepo baby.
this is the most dogshit take i've ever seen
just because someone's parent has a blue link in wikipedia doesn't mean they're a nepo baby??
lmao in what fucking world does music have anything to do with football. is hino iyo going to put you to sleep midmatch?
tf do you mean "put you to sleep"
classical music is boring and sleepy
you should watch hino iyo playing vivaldi's winter. you'll change your mind
hino iyo is a musician. isagi yoichi is a football player. what the fuck are you talking about.
we're talking nepo babies? mikage reo is right there.
itoshi rin is right there too... but is it really nepotism if they don't like you tho
OFFICIAL NEWS: Tokyo Philharmonic announces Special Guest Performance by Isagi Yoichi and Isagi Iyo (Formerly known as Hino Iyo) on January 11th at the Tokyo Cultural Theater Center
my GOATs coming to play!!!
isn't he supposed to be training for the world cup....
i for one think this is an adorable mother & son duo
lmao you haven't watched any of hino iyo's performances or interviews have you sweet summer child
THE DEVIL OF THE ORCHESTRA IS BACK!!
NO fucking way you guys called her that. NO SHOT
deadass you need to watch this interview: [link] she was a stand-in judge at this one competition and she made all the contestants CRY
the devil of the orchestra and the demon king of blue lock.... is the husband/dad a fucking saint now or what
last i heard he's actually normal. like boring normal. iirc isagi yoichi said his dad was a teacher?
so all that trash talking came from his mom...
he's a professor at tokyo university, iirc he's in the philosophy department?
ya no lol my friend's in his department and he's super strict and ruthless
my brother was flute in the tokyo philharmonic orchestra back when hino iyo was active and he still gets nightmares during the time hino iyo made her debut on her original compositions. devil is an understatement
wow like mother like son
bruh same, my sister was in the ballet department and even they had horror stories about hino iyo coming to haunt them
kaede. what are you doing here
hii niichan!! hehe
you know how some people say paganini was so good at the violin, people thought he sold his soul to the devil? yeah. people though the same thing for hino iyo, except, she is the devil.
Isagi Iyo saw the video, who hadn't, at this point? Her son had suddenly been thrusted into a world of fame, that damned football organization made him the poster boy of all things. Thankfully, she has experience with that kind of fame, and they talk about how to manage it. Call it PR training, if you will.
He's resting in his room after a long day, and Iyo has rewatched that video again and again, the home's telephone ringing snapping her out of it.
"This is the Isagi Residence speaking," she introduces.
Silence, at first, then a man's voice, "Iyo, how are you?"
Iyo scowled. She thought she blocked this number already, the Executive Director of the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra, Fujimaro Goro, also known as, the biggest pain in her ass.
"Before you hang up, just hear me out. A man by the name of Ego Jinpachi reached out to me for a... collaborative marketing opportunity, of sorts."
The name is familiar, Yoichi's current... coach? If this concerns her Yoichi...
"You have five minutes to convince me," Hino Iyo deadpans, already regretting giving the man a chance. She knows types like these, give an inch and they'll take a mile.
"I won't waste any words, then. In short, perform any piece you'd like, as the violin soloist, of course, and your son on the piano as accompaniment. What you'll get in return is special insider information on the what's next for the Blue Lock project. I do recommend taking the deal so you have ample time to prepare."
Prepare. Prepare for what?
"As a treat, I'll let something slip. It concerns foreign football teams coming here to Japan. Your son might be influenced to join one of them. It might be hard for him, you know, in a foreign country, all alone. Wouldn't it be nice for his mother to be at least nearby? Maybe doing performances for the Royal Paris Opera House again. Or the Berliner Philharmoniker. Or doing special guest lectures in Juilliard?"
Her scowl deepened. The offer is tempting, but "I'm not some hovering helicopter parent. If my son wants to join a foreign football team, then he could do it without me." Besides, times are changing. It wasn't like back then when Hino Iyo was touring the world, cheering for her like some exotic oriental pet, then calling her Chink behind her back.
Even if anything like that ever happened, her son is strong and can deal with them himself.
"I know, but once word goes out that your son has picked a foreign team, those foreigners are going to come running with the same offers I'm making. I know you'll refuse, so here's a few choices: One, I can try and get them off your back, or two: tell them you're already taken by Tokyo, and the most I'll make you do is just stand there and look intimidating for the new blood to be baptized. Nothing less, nothing more."
...
It's just one performance. With her son.
Her son, who is a football player.
Right, she forgot about that, Iyo states, "My son is not a musician."
"... But he can play, no?" asks the Director, like he's asking if the sky was blue.
"He can play football, yes. Piano? He can play. Disastrously. You've seen the video, no doubt. His arpeggios are awful. You have better luck with him playing with his feet. On a field. With a ball. Where he belongs." Not on stage. Not with me, left unsaid.
"You've shaped lumps of coal into diamonds before with less time and less stakes. You can do it again. And give your son a little credit. The piano was out of tune."
... It's tempting. It's something she's dreamed of ever since she was pregnant, playing on stage with her child.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her husband, leaning against the door. Eavesdropping, as usual. He gives a nod, as if saying "Up to you" or "You have my permission" then cocking his head upwards, gesturing at their son in his room, "You should check on him first."
As if that mattered. Yoichi will do anything she asks him to.
With a deep breath, Iyo makes her demands. "Beethoven. Violin Sonata No. 9, first movement. I want a Stradivarius, the Viotti, and a Fazioli for my son."
Silence, she could hear him stutter, mouth agape. "... the Fazioli, we can do. But the Viotti is in the Chimei Museum. In Taiwan."
"Do you want me to perform or not? Get me the Viotti or get out of my sight."
Iyo hangs up. Your move, Director.
... But knowing his stubborn money-grubbing hands, he'll actually do it. She turns and shouts, "Yocchan! Come down here, let's talk for a second."
"Wait a sec!" was her son's reply. She could hear him stumble around for a bit, then his footsteps out in the hallway and down the stairs—"Yes, mom? Is this about the video?"
"Somewhat. You'll be performing with me at the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra. Beethoven, Violin Sonata 9, first movement. You remember, yes? Let's get to practicing. And finding you a fitted suit."
"Ah. Yes?"
Isagi Issei facepalms.
BLUE LOCK GROUP CHAT
Bachira: @Isagi Yoichi @Isagi Yoichi
Bachira: WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US THAT UR MOM IS LIKE, SUPER FAMOUS
Isagi: It just never came up? I guess?
Isagi: Also @Nagi Seishiro fuck you for recording me without my consent but also send me an unedited copy cause my dad's asking for one
Nagi: 👍
Aryu: Isagi, your playing is simply marvellous! If you ever quit football, please consider 'musician' as one of your careers
Karasu: Yeah, you're Mr. Ordinary on the field, but Mr. Extraordinary on stage
Isagi: ? I'M NOT QUITTING FOOTBALL GUYS
Chigiri: jus saying. you're good at it. like. crazy good. way better than you are at it with football
Isagi: CHIGIRI?
Isagi: I was going to say the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra invited my mom to perform and I was going to be the piano accompaniment, and I wanted to invite you guys to watch
Bachira: awwww we'd love to watch you perform!
Isagi: Thanks, Bachira, you're all invited
Isagi: Except Chigiri and Karasu, you guys can go fuck yourselves
Karasu: @Hiori You sneak me in
Hiori: gotchu
Isagi: right in front my face?
Chigiri: @Kunigami Rensuke sneak me in? :3
Kunigami: No
Chigiri: >:/
Mikage: don't worry @Chigiri Hyouma i'll buy tickets for all of us
Mikage: so we have a front row seat on isagi performing!!
Shidou: might bust a nut if i sit front row cause DAMN ur mom is HOT @Isagi Yoichi
Isagi: IF I SEE YOU IN THE CROWD I WILL DROP KICK YOU IN THE FACE @Shidou Ryuusei
Isagi: @Itoshi Rin PLEASE HELP ME KILL THIS GUY
Itoshi: Tch. Can't even handle this by yourself? How lukewarm.
Shidou: @Itoshi Rin as if you weren't watching the video on repeat
Hiori: eyo 👀
Shidou: yeah that's right. your big bro tells me you've been listening to little isagi's impromptu performance all day
Itoshi: You're dead.
Isagi: wow even my piano performances are critiqued by rin.
Isagi: damn i know i made a shit ton of mistakes on the video
Isagi: IN MY DEFENSE the piano was kind of untuned
Mikage: oh my god you're stupid
It's the day of the performance, and Isagi Yoichi is nervous. It's a different kind of nervous from playing against the U-20 team. Music and football are two inherently different things, though he enjoys them both, and he'll always have a place in his heart for music—winning the World Cup is his dream. He thinks of his time back in Blue Lock, how far he's come, how far he's changed, improved. His music, however, stayed the same.
Though it changed drastically these past few weeks, practicing the first movement of Sonata No. 9 like hell, more than he ever trained for Blue Lock, and that's saying something. Difference is, the discipline is self-imposed rather than forced onto him by Ego Jinpachi, because there's no way in hell is he going to dishonor his mother by playing like shit.
He stretches his neck as he wades through the rehearsal. It fascinates Yoichi, seeing a whole ensemble of an orchestra, enter and exit in swift efficiency. He realizes there's a lot going on for a performance of this scale, the lights, the sound directors, the acoustics, the stage directors, hell, even the security.
Actually, that reminds him.
Isagi Yoichi pulls out his phone and taps the shoulder of one of the guards, "Excuse me, but if you see this person, could you make sure they leave?" He shows a photo of Shidou Ryuusei. "If you need to find a reason, tell them Hino Iyo requested it," he asks with a smile.
The guard takes one look at the (purposefully picked) unflattering photo of Shidou, scrunches his face for a brief moment, and then nods.
"If you can't make him leave immediately, just keep an eye on him and kick him out the moment the does anything, if that's okay?"
"We'll make sure, Mr. Isagi. Actually, while you're here, can I get a photo and autograph?"
Yoichi smiled, "Sure," he agrees, already kinda used to being asked for photos and autographs.
He can thank his mom for that.
He can thank his mom for a lot of things, actually.
After the guard left, Yoichi is left alone, standing still as the crowd of backstage staff run around him. It gives him time to think and ponder, looking at the worn wooden floor, his straight black slacks and black formal shoes, a contrast from his vibrant blue cleats on freshly cut grass fields. He wonders, if he never found football, would he have pursued music? Sought to become the greatest violinist or pianist or whatever?
But they're inherently different. Football is a sport, there are winners and there are losers. Music is art, a form of expression. Sure, there's things like competitions, but their win conditions, the winners—it's all subjective. They can be judged by technical skill, but anyone can learn how to play (See: Him), what's defined as 'success' (as his mom puts it) is the ability to shine different, their stage presence, star quality. In short, what makes a musician unique from any other musician. Like their weapon, or their ego.
... Blue Lock has definitely corrupted him. He wants to rub his face but he'd be smudging the makeup.
Yoichi's own ego is silent right now. What he wants, right now, more than anything, is to perform perfectly.
Yoichi left his phone in the dressing room, at risk of opening the group chat and losing his shit over whatever Shidou is going to say about his mom. He sits, watching the opening group finish as he and his mom are at the sidelines, waiting to enter after the Master of Ceremonies announces them.
He's seen his mom play and perform a thousand times before, he's watched the old recorded videos, performances. But he's never really seen her like this, leg bouncing to what Yoichi recognizes as 130 BPM, the metronome beat they used while practicing. She's staring at the floor with an intense and focused look, pupils literally shaking.
"Mom? Are you okay?"
Isagi Iyo closes her eyes, and Hino Iyo opens them. The Master of Ceremonies call their names, Hino Iyo, they call her. Not Isagi Iyo. Hino steps forward, the lights grow brighter, almost blinding. She glances back at the child behind her, staring at her silhouette, a familiar and resolute look in her eyes, "Keep up and don't fuck up my tempo."
Yoichi stumbles, "A-ah? Mom?"
Hino scowls and grabs him by his collars, the other hand gripping her violin tight, Yoichi could hear the wood creak.
"Listen to me, brat," she whispers, close and tense. "Out there, I am not your mother. I am the soloist. You are the accompaniment. So do as I say, and keep up, because if you fuck up my tempo, I will disown you. Got it?"
After the encore, they make their way backstage, the sound of applause still echoing and reverberating through the thick curtains. Hino Iyo smiles, satisfied, and then hearing—
sniff.
Isagi Iyo puts down her violin and turns to see her son crying. Immediate concern, she rushes over, brushing his bangs, "Oh, my dear, what's wrong?"
"Mom... before, before we got on stage... you scared me," Yoichi, in a rare form of vulnerability, had confessed. He used to cry a lot, when he was younger and prone to such sensitivities, and this is the first time Iyo sees her son, grown son, cry like this.
"Oh dear, I'm sorry, I get a little... intense sometimes," Iyo murmured in her little boy's hair, rubbing his back, the very act reassuring, a whiplash contrast to the women before that grabbed him by the collars. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, honey. You did amazing. Certainly improved your arpeggios by miles. I'm sorry... I really scared you, didn't I?"
Yoichi sniffled, the tears long dry, "It's okay, mom. I forgive you."
"You're one to talk Yocchan," Issei's voice cut through the moment, "You're the same when you're on the field."
"Dad!" Yoichi's face brightened as he let go of his mom and jumped into his father's open arms, small petals from the bouquet he was holding scattering onto the floor.
Hino Iyo was forced to be here. Watch some subpar quartet play for a college performance because a... friend dragged her here.
They could be actually decent, if it weren't for that cello. It grates on her ears, the way he's lagging behind, too sharp or too soft sounds. She's half-tempted to learn the cello herself just to bash it over this guy's head.
When they finished performing, her friend and the quartet go out for drinks, and she's pulled along.
After the fanfare of "You're the famous violinist!" and many photos and signatures later, Hino Iyo wants to go home, that is, until the quartet talked about their performance.
"You did great, Isagi!" the viola said, swinging his arm over the cellist's shoulders. Hino hides the scoff while she drinks her beer.
The two violinists—twins girls—both have the same expression as Hino does, "Sure, he did his best," one of them says.
Hino Iyo couldn't stand it, so she jumps up, says she'll go out for a smoke, and leaves.
Of course, she's not actually smoking. Hino Iyo sits on the curb and closes her eyes.
The streets are busy with people and groups. Some college kids, a few salarymen, a business meeting, highschoolers, a blind group date. The sound is... not that harsh. It's the generic sound of a crowd, somewhat harmonious.
"Want one?" said a man beside her. Hino opens her eyes and sees the cellist—Isagi, was it?—offering a pack of cigarettes.
Hino looks at it in disgust, "I don't actually smoke. I just wanted to get out of there."
"That's fair," Isagi says, pocketing the cigarettes. "So what did you think about m—our performance?" he asks, tone too measured and neutral.
"Less than average. Decent. Just about what you would expect from a college group," Hino tells him, truthfully and brutally.
Isagi laughs, "Well, but it's not that bad, right?" Hino almost laughs, "Considering I just started learning how to play the cello a few months back."
Hino paused, amusement dropping, "What? Months? You only started learning months ago?"
"I still have a lot to learn," Isagi nods, "Evidently, but I dream of performing on a bigger stage one day."
There, Hino Iyo observes him. He's tall, broad shouldered, average-looking with black midnight hair and blue eyes. When he played the cello earlier, it looked like the cello engulfed him. Not to mention, the oversized and poorly fitted suit, the well-hidden accent says either low-income or country boy. Well-hidden means adaptable.
He had hands with calluses, eyebags indicating late nights and poor sleeping habits, clean teeth and fresh breath says he doesn't smoke at all. The fresh pack of newly opened cigarettes suggest that it was recently bought. For her? Because she mentioned it once?
Unfortunately, what really drew Hino Iyo in were the calluses. And the hands.
In a rare moment unlike her, she says, "Hm. You're... diligent. I like that in a man."
Isagi stumbles, face red from what she assumes to be alcohol.
"Ah?"
"But you're delusional if you think that only hard work will get you results," Hino snaps back. "If you want to be a soloist, give up now."
"... I don't want to be a soloist? I just want to graduate."
Hino scoffs. Great. Even worse, a man with clear talent striving to be mediocre.
"But I admire that. I admire you, Hino Iyo. Truth be told, I've always had a crush on you. I only ever got into classical music because you inspire me."
A... fanboy.
Hino's had enough. She stands, scowling, "I inspire you? Clearly not enough. Don't insult me."
"I didn't mean to insult you, promise," Isagi says, placating. He took a step back to give her space, "Here, why don't we start over? I'm Isagi Issei, it's a pleasure to meet you."
An outstretched hand. Broad, wide, full of calluses.
Strangely, some part of her accepts it.
"Ego-san wants to see us form a—"
"—a symphony!"
"—a chemical reaction! Wait, huh?"
"What? Haha, yes. Chemical reaction. Ahem. I said that."
"No wait, what do you mean by symphony?"
"I mean. It's the same concept as a chemical reaction, the result of what happens when you take two or more players together and see what happens as a result of their dynamic. Symphony just... sounds better."
"Huh. I never thought of it that way."
It was one of the rare days where they didn't have training. Ego Jinpachi would have spent it reviewing matches, but he does that regardless, and he's been craving some noodles, just any kind, fresh, instant, whatever—and he doesn't know where to start looking for them. Paris is too big and too... foreign.
His roommate, a native Frenchman named Noel Noa, who he has somewhat amiable relationship with, by virtue of the fact they're both outsiders in the academy, because Jinpachi is a foreigner and Noel came from a low-income background. That's what Jinpachi assumes anyway, not like they talk that often.
The door to their room is opened, and Noa comes back, fresh from a shower.
Ego jumps from his bed and grabs a map of Paris, lays it on Noa's empty desk, and asks, "Food, where?" in accented French.
Noa just stares at him.
Then the fucker ignores him, and continues dressing as if he hadn't heard him. Ego resists the urge to bash the blond's head on the desk.
"Is your English better than your French?" Noa suddenly asks.
Ego's expression curls into disdain and mirth, "Somewhat," he answers in English, hand crumpling the map on the desk.
Noa puts on a jacket.
"Where are you going? It's late," Ego says, confused because this was very much unlike him. And he's observed the guy for three weeks now.
Noa, again, says nothing, strides across their cramped dorm to grab Ego's jacket, and shoves it into Ego's hands, "Wha—?"
"You want food, no? I am going out for food. I will show you." Is all Noa said before he's heading out the door, leaving Ego to scramble for his keys, wallet, phone—
They're walking the streets of Paris, Noa is so infuriatingly confident in his stride, Ego couldn't bring himself to comment nor ask, nor break the silence between them, so he just screams in his head, "Where the fuck are we going?"
He ends up muttering it out loud in Japanese, and Noa gives a single glance back before saying, "We're near."
Ego rolls his eyes and buries his annoyance, focuses instead on absorbing as much as possible about the area, committing them to memory. The route they're going, the bus stations they've passed, the patisseries and bakeries.
His eyes land on a billboard, a large one, advertising what he deduces to be a performance for the Paris Royal Opera House. It's eye-catching, but Ego stares for a longer period because the name on there is Japanese.
"Le soliste Hino Iyo interprète Paganini - 9 Octobre" says the text on the bottom. The image a composite of a Japanese woman playing the violin in black and white but with vibrant watercolor red-orange-yellow warmth spilling out of the violin, almost like it's on fire.
It's certainly a more modern and artistic kind of advertisement, not the kind you'd see in a fancy Opera House.
But there's something about the way the photograph captured Hino Iyo, the way her eyes gleamed mid-movement, a graceful yet intense grasp on the violin, an aura of arrogance making its way through the camera.
"Do you know her?" Noa asks, suddenly appearing beside him. Ego would have almost jumped if he didn't sense him earlier.
"Not all Japanese people know each other," Ego sneered at the Frenchman's ignorance. Noa seemed unfazed by his comment, and is staring at the advertisement with the same kind of focus Ego had.
"Hey," Ego calls out, Noa's eyes snapping back to him. He points to the text, "Translate that for me."
Noa stared at him with that same irritating blank expression, then says, "Soloist Hino Iyo performing Paganini - October 9."
Ego's face cringed at his pronunciation of the woman's name. He felt bad for her, but didn't correct Noa at the risk of offending him and not getting food.
The first word, though, "Soloist," Ego murmured. The title fits her like a glove, with what the way she looked, the way she presented herself, that is a soloist through and through.
Years later, when Ego is giving a speech to 300 teenagers, and one rushes past all of them, he's hit with a strange sense of déjà vu, as if seeing that billboard again. He remembers that teenager—Isagi Yoichi—with the same kind of eyes as Hino Iyo, gleaming blue out of black instead of red out of brown. Soloist, he remembers, fitting for both of them.
And even later in that same night, he pulls up Isagi Yoichi's file and almost laughs out loud upon reading Isagi Iyo, formerly Hino Iyo—because what are the fucking chances?
Soloist, soloist. Very fitting.
But, well. It's egoist now.