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There’s a lot Isagi doesn’t remember from childhood.
Most of his memories, sweet as can be, are imbedded in sounds, smells, textures, and not in the records of shifty, childlike memoirs. Isagi’s attention never stuck, floating from place to place, thing to thing, his senses overloaded by an ever noisy world. Every curiosity he ever had at that age fell into disregard, thrown away with a child's knack for cruelty. So he can say, with honesty, that he didn’t have a good memory for most things.
But there was one instance, one memory, that Isagi could never quite forget.
In Japan, as a kid, Isagi didn’t have friends. He was too much for them, requiring more care than children can afford to give, so they rarely bothered with him. It was a point of insecurity for him, and he burst into loud tears too many times to count, clutching his mother’s hand, asking her why he wasn’t enough for them.
His mother, a simple housewife, with soft hands and softer eyes, held him as tightly as she could, but without the weight of his father’s cologne, familiar and comforting, Isagi couldn’t help but find it lacking.
With him all the way to Europe for work, it was like the picture of their family puzzle was left unfinished. Maybe it was also that, the loneliness without his dad that contributed to him being a bigger crybaby than normal, shooing kids away before they got too close.
His mother, at her own wits end, suggested a proposal. For a time, Isagi could be with his dad overseas before coming back. The thought was scary, but the longing for the missing piece drew him out of his mom’s embrace, out of Japan’s humid weather and colorful streets, to that of Germany’s capital, where dad was staying for the next year.
Language was a barrier, and Isagi’s own shyness was the wall that cemented him an outcast. Quite frankly, things were looking the same as in Japan, only this time, he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying.
He was enrolled into a day school for the time being while dad was working, and without anyone willing to talk to him, Isagi was lonelier than ever. The only that had changed at that point, was who he ran to.
Those days, lonely and long, were trapped with the cold fingers of oncoming winter… yet, in the midst of a new monotony, a new curiosity, prettier than any before, came to light.
In the afternoons, waiting for dad, Isagi played in one of the local parks. It was well-kept, but small, and didn’t have a lot to do besides walking and playing in the grass. Isagi came here to avoid the other kids, scared to outcast himself even more.
Both in Japan and here, his one true companion was the one at his feet, white and black and carrying the budding dreams of a child. He played with himself, scoring goals with no one to stop him. His shots, with no flare, no exaggerations, were predictable, produced endlessly with the sole aim in doing it again and again. He didn’t know anything more than loving the sensation of getting the ball where he wanted it to go.
Isagi panted, running to hit the net again, only for his ball to lurch into the corner steel.
“Ah!” The ball zipped away, and Isagi set off running to get it back. “Ball, come back!”
The ball disappeared into a corner and Isagi rushed in. His eyes glanced back and forth and found it laying innocently beside the large dumpster.
“Got you!”
Isagi bent down and grabbed his ball, beaming. Just as he was about to leave, a sound stopped him. He paused, looked beyond the darkness and heard the sound again; a ragged, punched out coughing.
Even now, he doesn’t know what lead him to follow the sound. In any other instance, crybaby Isagi would’ve made an appearance and run for the hills. He wouldn’t have thought twice to turn around and leave. Yet he didn’t. He was scared, but the fear didn’t stop him. Isagi walked slowly, closer. The sound became clearer, pained, human.
Curled up and dirty, was a boy. A surprised gasp left him. The boy’s head shot up, and first thing he thought of when he saw the boy was, ‘He has such pretty eyes.’
At this age, he had very few unfoggy memories about his childhood, yet that striking gaze, so divinely clear, like the curling crest of an ocean wave, like the wide, unending sky, was one that stuck with him.
Isagi doesn’t remember what happened, but he remembers the sting of getting pushed, he remembers the scratchy tongue of chopped, screeched German, he remembers the feeling that came over him when the boy flinched and Isagi realized, with too much clarity a boy his age should have, that this was someone much more vulnerable than him.
And he, more than anything, remembers giving out his hand, and without another thought, says—
“You look like a rat. My name is Yoichi, and you are?”
The hesitation, the fear, the wide eyes. The feeling of a rough, cold palm sliding into his. It was smaller than his, missing the softness it should have, and bruised. Isagi promised to get him something to help. He was sure the boy didn’t mean to look as dirty and hurt as he did.
Isagi came back the next day, at the same time, and patched him up. He remembers the boy staring, hard, unblinking. He remembers the tenseness in his body, prepared for anything, as if he’s been hurt before.
The day after, the boy seemed weaker, and Isagi found out why when his blue eyes kept glancing to the little lunch he’d packed and left half-eaten.
From then on, Isagi always packed extra, mind inevitably circling back to the park, the alley, the boy. A new routine was born.
Isagi remembers meeting him every day with a smile so wide, the hurt echoed across his face. Isagi remember talking, always, when he used to stutter and cringe, because the boy seemed calm when he filled the space with chatter.
Isagi remembers him pointing to the ball and Isagi showing him what to do. Those eyes, so blue, had shone when Isagi passed him and scored. It reminded him of himself, and could see his mind starting to shift.
Isagi remembers playing with the boy, for the first time, no longer alone. He remembers laughing, elation so high in his heart he never wanted to stop playing, even when the boy got better and Isagi started to lose over and over again.
Isagi remembers asking, again and again, for his name, yet never getting it. He remembers the boy with dirty blond hair and clear, beautiful eyes mumbling his name, growing louder, surer, like it was the only thing he wanted to say. Every time he was called, Isagi remembers beaming at him, and gently, encouraging him to speak more, even if they couldn’t understand each other.
Isagi remembers a lot of things, specifically his time with the boy, the new feelings he felt, the friendship he never thought he’d get, blooming like a spring rose. Isagi remembers trying to learn German, only to mess up, and making the boy cringe and snort for the first time.
He remembers the warmth of friendship, the softness of someone else’s hand. He remembers thinking, ‘This is my first true friend and I never want to leave.’
But time doesn’t stop for anything, least of all the wishes of a boy.
He remembers time running out. Mom on the phone, happy, saying he’ll be coming back home. Two weeks. Dad talking about flying back with him. One week.
Isagi remembers the last day.
His friend was waiting, already at the park, playing with the soccer ball Isagi had leant him. He wasn’t dirty anymore. He was more filled out, fed by Isagi’s own hands. He was still small, but he was strong. His short hair was wet (he must’ve dunk his hair in the pond again), and he was kicking the ball on his knee.
Like a sixth sense, his friend turned his head and found him. Instantly, a smile slid onto his face, making him appear more child-like than when he wore that angry, frantic expression.
“Yoichi!”
Every day, Isagi greets him with a smile. This day, Isagi couldn’t bring himself to force it. He couldn’t stay long. If he tried, he was going to burst into tears, back to crybaby Isagi.
Instantly, his friend could tell something was off. He stopped smiling, watching Isagi carefully.
Isagi couldn’t look him in the eye. His mouth was dry. The boy was his first friend, and confessing that he had to leave him, was the hardest thing he ever had to do.
“I have to go now,” Isagi’s voice trembled, and while his words didn’t make sense to his friend, the palpable grief bypassed language.
“Yoichi?”
“I have to leave Germany,” he continued, sniffing. “Mom says I have to come home now. I was only supposed to stay for a short time. I’m not gonna be able to play with you anymore.”
He doesn’t know what the boy catches in his wavering ramble, but the ball falls out of his hands and the way those blue eyes go misty, like clouds crashing into a pretty day, makes Isagi start crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I want to stay with you, but I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”
Isagi, crying, can barely see through the tears. He’s rubbing his face, trying to stop, when the boy approaches him.
“Yoichi,” he calls, eyes blue, sincere and confused, “Yoichi.”
He’s shaking his head. “I can’t, I can’t stay.” The boy’s hand is firm as they cup his face, smooshing his cheeks. A sudden giggle bursts out from him.
Isagi smiles. “I’ll miss you!”
The boy’s eyes widen as Isagi hugs him suddenly. Isagi had never initiated contact before since he was always fearful of getting pushed again, but this was the last time he was even going to see his friend, so he decided to take that chance.
The boy is soft all over, with soft, fluffy hair, soft skin, and a soft heart, as he slumps into Isagi, cheek to cheek, and stays there. Isagi takes the comfort and gives it too, reluctantly putting space between them when it lasts too long.
“I made something for us,” Isagi tells, hand in his pocket, “It’s nothing much, but it’s a bracelet I made so you can remember me.”
There were two, a blue bracelet and a yellow one. “The blue is yours,” Isagi says, wrapping it on the boy’s wrist, which was still worryingly thin. “The yellow is mine. I made it after your hair.” Isagi blushes, embarrassed. “I want to remember your hair color. It’s very pretty.”
The boy seemed shocked by the bracelet, looking at it with a glow in his eyes. Isagi tied his bracelet on more hastily, the strand dragging like a half-tied rope.
When Isagi glanced to the sky, he thought the sun might be setting quicker, like time was running away from him. It made him anxious. He felt so comfortable around his friend. When he went back to Japan, would he be able to make friends again?
Before Isagi left, there was one thing he had to do.
“Let’s play,” Isagi suddenly told, childish face serious. “This is the last time, so I’m definitely going to win.”
The boy recognized the word play and perked up. Yes, this was the last game, so Isagi had to give it his all.
Isagi remembers the sweat on his brow, the buildup of tension in his legs, the anxiety that swirled in his gut the longer they played. Isagi remembers the razor-sharp smile on the boy’s face, the speed he ran with, the fierce power behind his kick every time he found an opening and scored one over him.
Isagi, with red-rimmed eyes and a heavy stone sitting in his chest, still couldn’t help the awe that came to him every time the boy shone like that.
The game ended with him losing again, the ball rolling back to his feet from the post at the last moment. He had grabbed it, and thought—why not leave his friend a piece of himself here?
“You can have it.”
Isagi remembers feeling the urge to cry again, yet acting strong. The boy was more subdued after the match, as if he finally understood what Isagi meant by Isagi handing him the ball when Isagi almost always took it back home at the end of the day.
Isagi remembers making a promise.
“I promise I’ll remember you.”
Isagi remembers thinking, ‘Will you remember me too?’
He really hoped he did. Isagi was giving him a piece of himself. Isagi hoped he would take care of it.
He remembers leaving the park, leaving the boy. He remembers leaving only half, not whole. Not anymore.
Isagi remembers a park, a boy, and his breathtaking blue eyes.
Isagi remembers losing his first friend.
“I came here to meet you, Blue Lock’s Hero.”
His course was void, his shot blocked by another player. Someone approached him, the foreign language translating into Japanese automatically the closer he got.
Isagi barely managed to move back before his chin was grabbed. Isagi gasped and when he glanced up, his vision shifting to hone and focus on the beautiful blue eyes cutting into his soul. His mind collapsed. And suddenly, old sensations ran through him, the earliest of all of his memories.
“Yoichi,” the man breathed his name like a prayer, like it was the only word he knew. He was tall and intense and invaded his space with no hesitation. His hair was blond, the tips dyed blue, and he had a tattoo curling up his outer palm. On his wrist, was a little blue string, frayed and old. “It’s been so long. Remember me?”
Isagi’s heart trembled.
I remember you.
“You… it’s you.”
The boy smiled, and it was crooked, wide, his nose scrunched up the same way it did when he was being extremely expressive.
“Yoichi. Let’s play again.”
A sudden, explosive joy burst into his heart. He didn’t realize how long he’d been waiting for those words, and for them to come from his first ever friend, Isagi just barely kept upright as he was overwhelmed by emotion.
“You can call me Michael, okay?”
“Oh,” Isagi mumbled, his cheeks red, just as the boy’s smile got bigger. He finally had a name. A piece slots into place. Yoichi. Michael.
There was a loud buzzer and when Isagi remembered what the German did, Isagi’s jaw dropped with fury.
“You—you piece of shit! You blocked my shot!"
When Michael laughed, the memory of a younger version of him overlapped.
He was still a rat.
After that, it’s almost like they never even parted ways ten odd years ago.
“Yoichi.”
“Yoichi.”
“Yoichi~”
For one thing, the man was super clingy.
Isagi squirmed in his arms, his cheeks and ears flushed as Michael hooked his chin over Isagi’s shoulder and hummed in his ear. Isagi was reviewing his performance, yet Michael was being way too needy again.
“Stop it!” Isagi huffed, yet was unable to put more heat behind his words. Every time Isagi got annoyed at him, Michael’s eyes went wide and Isagi couldn’t be mad at him anymore.
“I want you to pay attention to me,” he said without shame. Isagi smacked his arm, but could only shiver as Michael tightened his hold, breathing into his nape.
“I already told you,” he mumbled, “I need to beat you, and you’re not helping that by being a leech.”
“Beat me? Yoichi is so cute, you’ve never beaten me before.”
“That’s only because you got really good after I taught you! Before that, you couldn’t even score!” Isagi suddenly yelped as the idiot pinched him! Isagi can't believe he ever thought he was cute.
“Don’t talk about my dark past, little Yoichi,” Michael scolded, mouthing up his neck again like some incessant fly. “Or else, I’ll let those losers know just how much of a crybaby you used to be. Remember when you burst into tears because I hid from you when it got dark? I bet you thought you'd get kidnapped.”
He wouldn’t.
“Bastard…” Isagi pouted. “You’re not cute at all.”
Isagi shivered as Michael’s hot breath peppered his skin. His lips were soft and kept brushing his skin. It was maddening.
“Cute? You’re the cute one here, Yoichi.”
Isagi bit his lip. Seriously. If Michael kept talking like that, there was no way Isagi’s heart was going to stay calm.
Isagi twisted in his arms, pushing at his chest, yet the idiotic blond brought them closer—too close, as Isagi froze and his brain turned to mush with Michael right in his face. Way too close.
“Yoichi,” Michael sung, staring at him, “What are you thinking about now?”
“Nothing,” he replied, too fast.
His lip twitched. “Doesn’t look like nothing. You’re thinking something interesting. I can see it. You want something, something I can give you...”
Isagi’s mind spun. What did he mean? Did he know?
“Michael, what…” Isagi blushed under Michael’s focused and attentive gaze. His heart was thumping out of his chest.
He tilted his head, that light in his eyes glowing brighter. “That. That look. So cute. You’re unfair, Yoichi. I’m trying to not scare you away, but you’re making it extremely hard to control myself.”
Isagi shook, a light going off in his mind. He blushed harder. No way… did Michael want to…?!
“Then don’t.”
Michael blinked.
Isagi internally screamed at himself. Why did he say that?!
“Do you mean that?” Michael asked, his gaze dark and searching. It was like looking into the darker side of the sea, unable to find the bottom.
Isagi, after a second of hesitation, nodded.
“Yeah.”
His breath got caught in his throat as Michael got closer. He’s never kissed anyone before, didn’t think he’d ever get to, but suddenly, it was all he wanted to do.
“Yoichi,” Kaiser mumbled near his lips. They were magnets and they couldn’t be repelled away even if they tried.
“Yeah,” Isagi replied back, breathy. They were almost… Michael was going to…
“…”
“If you want a kiss that badly,” Michael mumbled, his voice growing even and teasing as he pulled back, “Then you better start scoring.”
Isagi’s eyes snapped open, shocked.
Michael smirked at him with a shit-eating, sadistic expression. “The longer you dawdle, the more I’ll lose interest in you, Yoichi~”
Isagi gaped as the shitty Emperor finally gave him room to breathe by letting go of him, his smile sharp and unrelentingly smug.
“Don’t keep me waiting, Striker.”
Isagi stared off at the door after it closed behind Michael.
There, Isagi vowed that he would win over the German in their next game no matter what!
When the last game ends, the score is 3-2, with Bastard Munchen superior to PxG. Isagi has been evolving through the whole league, but its with this last game that he can confidently say, that he was where he wanted to be.
He ended the match with two goals to his name and double the offer from what he’d started with. He feels like a new person, someone so far removed from the insecure, self-doubting person he was in the beginning of Blue Lock that it makes him breathless.
From then, things start to move more quickly. He’s chosen for the official U-20 team and a new training section of Blue Lock opens up like a door to prepare them for the Cup.
He realizes that as the NEL comes to an end, so does his time with the Clubs he’s come to know and improve with.
And with them was…
Isagi smiles bitterly. They were going to separate again, but Isagi knew they would meet where it counted the most—on the first podium of the world stage. As rivals to the same goal.
When Isagi lifts his gaze where Noa and the rest of the Master Strikers gather, he flinches as he catches sight of Kaiser’s burning, dilated gaze. He’s staring Isagi down and Isagi can’t understand the emotion behind them for the life of him.
Ego mentions that they had one more day before the international Clubs left.
Isagi, in tune with his instincts, feels it in his gut that someone would be paying him a late night visit.
There’s no time.
Isagi barely even gets to his room after showering before a hand snatches him and takes him elsewhere. He’s shoved in another room, a single, and all he needs is to smell the fresh scent of perfume roses to know what happened.
Michael holds him tightly, like he would disappear if he didn’t and Isagi feels a lump in his throat. It was almost cruel, knowing that this was the second time they would be separated. But this time, Michael was the one leaving him.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all.
Pulling back, Michael glares at him with determined eyes. “Yoichi, I’m going to kiss you.”
Isagi’s stomach swoops. Ah. He’s been waiting for that. He can’t speak for fear of making a fool of himself, so all he does is nod.
Kaiser holds his cheek, and this time, he doesn’t make jokes or taunts. His hand is shaking, nervous. Isagi’s heart is beating too fast to probably be normal.
Their first kiss is gentle. Their lips slot like puzzle pieces, two pairs of a kind having waited years to come together. He sighs into the feeling, warm and fuzzy like he was being cradled by the sun.
Michael doesn’t let him escape too fast. He draws Isagi back in each time he pulls away to breathe, stealing another peck, kissing him breathless. He melts with each greeting, learning the shape of each other with the tentative steps to something more substantial, more intimate.
Isagi’s eyes are half-lidded when they stop. He pants in Michael’s collarbone as the other man holds him securely.
“This isn’t the end,” he says. “We’ll see each other again, so don’t you dare give up.”
Isagi grips his shoulder, brings him down so Isagi can nudge their foreheads together.
“Never. I’ll beat you then.”
Kaiser took his right hand off his shoulder and kissed the knuckles. The blue band of his bracelet gleamed, worn and well-loved.
“I can’t wait.”
Isagi got one more kiss before leaving for his room. With it, it felt like he was leaving another part of himself with Michael. Still not whole, but more confident than before. He knew they would meet.
This was not the end.
The next day, the five international Clubs are Locked off back to Europe, having reached the end of their stay. Isagi holds onto Bastard Munchen’s offer, eagerly awaiting the newest chapter of his life.
From across the distance, blue meets blue.
Wait for me.
Months later, at a large stadium, Isagi stands with 10 others. There are dozens of teams, dozens of countries, and Isagi can only look towards one.
When he spots him, Isagi can’t help the burst of emotion in his chest. From the sea-saw crowd of people, he finds Michael and Michael finds him.
It’s like the sky meeting the ocean. With a single statement, they collide into a golden horizon.
I’m here.