Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ray Dark was right about the boy, Noa realized.

The young striker had been less than pleased when the president of PIFA had pulled him out of practice just to “witness a miracle.” No miracle could possibly take precedence over his football. But to his astonishment, the older man did not disappoint.

“Michael Kaiser.” Ray Dark spoke the name, eyes still fixed on the lone child standing on the pitch. He was a scrawny little thing, no older than ten by the looks of it, with messy blond hair and a scowl that seemed unfit on his soft features. Michael, as Noa has just learned, rolled another ball under his feet, preparing to repeat that miracle. He stood straight, bent his leg back and-

The ball bounced off the net, tumbling down to join the one already there from Michael’s previous shot.

He’s fast, Noa had to admit. Given a few years, the boy’s shots may even get faster than his. His blood rushed with excitement at the thought. Michael was a rival in the making, someone who would one day force Noa to become even better. There it was, that familiar high whenever he found a new challenge, a thrill he came back to again and again. A fire that now burned brighter in his eyes.

“I found him in Berlin.” Ray Dark continued, removing his outer coat and setting it down on the bench behind them. Munich was unusually hot this summer, the sun especially unforgiving as it bore down on Michael. His blond hair caught the light, hazy. “Police were called to his residence. Reports about his father’s shouts from the neighbours. Somehow, he gave an officer a broken nose with nothing but a football.” Noa could believe it. Michael put everything he had into his shots, a pent-up aggression that came bubbling to the surface with every kick. “The court found his father guilty of child abuse. I’m fostering that brat for now.”

“He’s got potential.” Noa stated the obvious.

Ray Dark nodded and sighed. “Shame. We can’t keep this gem for long.” Noa gave him a curious glance, finally taking his eyes off the boy. “They want to place him with a relative, back in Berlin. That is…” The man turned to Noa, returning his gaze with squinted eyes. “Unless someone were to adopt him.”

Noa’s brows furrowed. “Don’t involve me.” It came blunt, efficient.

If Ray Dark was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Wouldn’t have if I had a choice. I can’t take him. I don’t have time for fatherhood.” In the distance, Michael scored another goal. “Since you can’t take him either, I suppose his potential will just rot.”

Noa hated it, the way the older man knew to hit him where it mattered. Sure, with his talents, Michael would become a great striker no matter where he ended up, but would he be the best he could be if he wasn’t by Noa’s side? At 20, Noa had no plans to take in a child. Yet his spirit kept gnawing at his reason. He felt it in his veins, anticipation bordering on impatience for this on-coming threat named Michael. To see a bud wilt before it could open, to see its petals faded, lacking the vivid hues of spring, such a scene left him feeling hollow. Noa knew he could nurture this flower better than anyone else. Michael would bloom most brilliantly under his care.

The same drive that pushed him in every match, the one that pushed him out of Paris’ slum, it now pushed in Michael’s direction. At his very core, he was a football junky.

Noa sighed, resigning to his addiction.

----------

Kaiser sat stiff in the passenger seat. His shoulders tensed, hands balled into fists, eyes trained on the man beside him. Ray Dark had said that the man is called Noel Noa, apparently some big-shot footballer. He never paid attention to professional games. In truth he never truly played football per se, only kicked a ball around when he was mad at the world. 

The man, Noa, remained silent. His face was neutral, just as it had been since the very first moment Kaiser had seen him. Noa was an enigma. Perhaps he should be scared of the unknown, but Kaiser failed to imagine anything worse than what he already knew. Whatever Noa had in store for him; it couldn’t be worse than his father’s hands, it couldn’t be worse than the foster home’s cold floor. Kaiser would choose a mystery over staying in that hell hole. At least here, he stood a chance to be something more than just a piece of trash. 

Noa pulled over, unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car, wordlessly. Kaiser followed, his worn sneakers touching clean pavement in what looked to be a wealthy neighbourhood. He walked with Noa to the front door, past hallways piled up with plants, to a room tucked away in the back. “This is the guest bedroom.” The man spoke his very first words to Kaiser. “Stay here for now. If you need anything, I’ll be upstairs.” He turned to leave. 

“Why?” Kaiser called out. Though he was willing to walk into the unknown, he found no comfort in it. “Why are you letting me stay here?” He held his breath. 

“You’ll be a great asset for Bastard Munchen one day, Michael. I hope you can reach your fullest potential under my care.” Noa answered, his tone even. “And I hope that you can push me further once we play on the same field.” 

Kaiser breathed a sigh of relief. So you have something to gain from me. 

He knew that unconditional kindness was a fickle thing. If someone gives you something for free, they could just as easily take it away. It’s unpredictable. Chaotic and hot in the same way his father’s rage was. Kaiser didn’t want to live by someone else’s whims, be it kindness or cruelty. He didn’t want to spend nights wondering if his father would feel the whim to strike him. He didn’t want to spend nights wondering if Noa would grow bored of his charity work and throw him out. 

But this was a transaction. A transaction is transparent, predictable. It’s safe. And most crucially, it is actionable. All he had to do was fulfill Noa’s conditions, and he was guaranteed a roof over his head. Control, he realized. Kaiser had control over his fate. For the first time Kaiser could act, he could act and it would matter. He wasn’t struggling in vain under large hands around his neck anymore. 

Kaiser grabbed hold of the opportunity in front of him. He won’t waste it, even if it took everything he has, even if he had to do the impossible. It was a vow with a vice-like grip. 

Kaiser nodded. Noa seemed pleased as he turned away once more.

—11 years later—

I was right about you, Yoichi, Kaiser realized while watching Kunigami’s goal fly past him, winning them the game against Barcha. 

Kaiser is no stranger to feasting on others as they ripened. The better the opponent, the better you become once you’ve toppled them. That was the philosophy Noa raised him with. But Yoichi is by far the most seductive prey yet. 

Yoichi, the clown who snuck onto the field through nothing but favoritism. Yoichi, who openly defied Kaiser’s authority and passed to Kunigami instead. Yoichi, who he flew halfway across the globe to meet, who he would devour in front of the whole world. Yoichi, his stepping stone out of Noa’s shadow. 

A hunger sparks in Kaiser’s heart. He watches Yoichi like a bud on the verge of bloom, a flower that would soon fall for his sake. The scent is enticing.

----------

Isagi sighs as he dries his hair. 

As if dealing with Kaiser wasn’t enough, now he’s fighting with Yukimiya. All petty noise distracting him from football, really. Isagi turns to leave the locker room, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. It’s eerily quiet now that he’s the last one here, with the rest having already finished showering. 

Just as Isagi is about to reach the door, he sees Kaiser; still shirtless, resting leisurely on one of the benches, eyes staring off into some faraway direction. From the sound of rushing water a few stalls over, he assumes Kaiser is waiting for someone. Isagi tenses, picking up his pace. “Last one to leave huh, Yoichi. Did your lackeys leave you behind?” Sadly, his escape is unsuccessful. 

Kaiser turns his head to look at him, his eyes half-lidded, wearing that ever-grating smirk. Isagi scoffs in response. “You’re one to talk. Where’s that guard dog of yours, naked emperor?” 

Perhaps the smart thing to do would be to ignore Kaiser and walk away. Let him bark until his jaw falls out. But when it comes to this so-called king, Isagi can’t help himself. He can’t help but want to dethrone him, can’t help but be drawn to him. He pulls people in with his sheer talents, his arrogance infuriating, yet inviting. Magnetic. Kaiser is magnetic.

“Such a vivid imagination, little Yoichi. You’d like to see me fully naked, wouldn’t you?” Of course, leave it to Kaiser to twist every word to feed his vanity. It occurs to Isagi then, that the man in front of him has his entire torso bare, porcelain skin too smooth and unmarred. He scrunches his nose. “What? No-”

Kaiser laughs. It's a nettling sound. “Sorry to tell you, but this is all you’re gonna get.” He stands, the motion unhurried and steady. He has a look in his eyes, focused, steadfast, as if he’s aiming to score. “Although, I wouldn’t mind giving you a closer look.” 

Kaiser approaches. And to Isagi's bewilderment, he has to force his legs to move backward so Kaiser wouldn't walk right into him, prying them from the floor step by step. An instinct so intrinsic, so familiar, yet it's nowhere to be found, overridden by… something. He walked, as if pulling one magnet away from another. When his back finds the wall with Kaiser’s chest mere inches from his face, his instinct to flee is one more that he lost. 

The scent of rose hits him first. Fresh, powdery, gentle. Next, it was wood. Deep, musky. And then, without warning, an all-consuming sweetness. It settles in the back of Isagi's throat, he could taste it, Kaiser's cologne. It's heady, intoxicating. Cloying in a way that makes him crave for more. 

“Why the hell do you smell like that?” 

“Oh, this? This is the best cologne on the market right now, Yoichi.” Kaiser leans even closer. The scent fills Isagi's lungs, sickly sweet, sticky and thick as it travels down; delicious, suffocating. 

“God, it's gaudy. You get paid all that money but I guess you can’t buy taste.” And it's a lie. The aroma is intense, overstated, ostentatious; all the things that Kaiser is. But it isn't unpleasant, not in the slightest. Isagi's mouth waters against his will.

“Ha, like you’d know anything about taste.”

“Oh sorry I don’t care about your fancy perfumes, little crowned prince.” Isagi snarls. “I was too busy actually working for what I wanted so I didn’t have time to lay around and smell expensive water.”

“Oh, so you think I was given everything on a silver platter, is that it?” Kaiser grins wider. 

“You tell me, shitty prince. Would you be here if it weren’t for Noa?” 

And for the first time ever, Isagi sees Kaiser frown. It isn't an angry expression, not sad either. It's something dry, unamused. Provoked. But then, as if rehearsed, that pesky smile returns, now mirthless. “Ah yes, and you got on the field through completely fair means.” He retorts, grabbing Isagi's wrists, pushing him flush against the wall. Their foreheads graze. “Don’t get it twisted. Noa didn’t save me, he offered me a deal.” 

The heat of Kaiser's skin against his is unfairly electrifying. How is it just that someone so irritating is equally as enchanting? He’s temptation in the flesh; beguiling, leading Isagi astray from his better judgement, reducing him to desire. The piece of his soul that yearns to win now demands victory accompanied by sugary rose cologne. Helpless, he realized. Isagi's helpless when it came to Kaiser. Helpless to want him.

“Let me tell you something, little Yoichi.” Isagi lets him, the scent of rose sealing his mouth closed, the sweetness killing any objection on his tongue. “Nothing in this world is given for free. Today, you got a chance to play. 11 years ago, I got a chance to live.” Kaiser continues. Isagi eyes his moving lips. They look soft, tinged rouge, and plump. Isagi knows, intimately, how Kaiser smells. He wonders how Kaiser tastes.

“You and I, every chance we get, we take it. That’s the only way to survive. You do whatever you can to take full advantage of your chance, give whatever you have.” So close. Kaiser is so close and Isagi's inhibition is long gone. If he just tipped his toe, their lips would meet. It's so simple. One movement and he would know. He wants to know so desperately, he-

“Michael, dude, what the hell are you doing?” 

Gesner stands a few feet from them, hair drenched from the shower. 

“You done sulking in the shower?” Kaiser asks, he turns his attention away from Isagi, breaking his intense stare. His grip released, he walks away towards Genser. The fire between them was snuffed out, heavy tension dissipating in an instant. It’s a snap, a clean cut with no fray. On Kaiser's part, at least. Isagi stands still in the same spot, colder. 

“I wasn't sulking!” Gesner hurls back, following behind Kaiser as they make their way out of the changing room. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, benchwarmer.” 

“You're such an asshole.” They banter as if Isagi had turned invisible, left forgotten like a passing thought, like Kaiser's amusement. 

Unfair. So infuriatingly unfair that Kaiser can draw Isagi in on just a whim and then discard him just as easily. 

“Oh, and Yoichi.” Kaiser turns back to Isagi, one foot already out the door. He doesn't have that signature grin, nor does he need it to capture Isagi. “Don’t waste your chance.” 

Kaiser’s cologne lingers in his wake. 

The scent is enticing.

Chapter Text

“Aren’t you going to finish your milk, Michael?” Michael. Mi-cha-el. Yes, that’s his name. Yet the syllables rang foreign to his ear, settling with a weight he didn’t quite understand. His father had his own little nicknames for him; piece of shit, useless, Untermensch, but never Michael. Mi-cha-el. No, the name didn’t feel like his. It was something alien, a label stickered onto his chest, the adhesive itching his skin. He wasn’t used to “Michael.” 

Noa looked at him, arms crossed on the dining table, eyes waiting, expecting, evaluating. Kaiser returned his gaze, weary and tired from lack of sleep, yet still sharp, defiant like a cornered animal, ready to fight a fight he’s sure to lose. He’d been uneasy these past few nights, lying awake, on edge, ready to run, to bite, to do whatever it takes to live.

Kaiser said nothing. Noa didn’t push. 

It was Kaiser’s favorite thing about the man. In the days he had known him, he learned that Noa is detached, distant in a way that gave him room to breathe. He met Kaiser on the boy’s terms, never overstepping the line he drew between them. He watches, as he’s watching now, from a safe distance, across the dining table, behind Kaiser’s line. 

Kaiser thought he could get used to that, the distance between them. He thought, despite his apprehensions, that he could get used to it all; the expensive kitchenware that holds his cereal, the clean and quiet streets, his soft bed, Munich’s blazing summer. He could get used to this life. And maybe one day, he could get used to “Michael.” 

“If you’re done with your breakfast, get changed. We’re practicing today.” Blunt, efficient; Kaiser’s second favorite thing about Noa. 

Resolutely, he rose, scurrying along after the man who promised him a new destiny. 

------------

Noa watched as Michael struggled to get used to his cleats. Shifting his weight back and forth, trying to familiarize himself with how the soles of his feet lay in those shoes. Still, his legs were firm; no wobbling or trembling whatsoever. He looked less like a newborn deer and more akin to a lion cub steadying itself to pounce. He’s a predator; it was Noa’s favorite thing about him.

“Try that shot again.” Noa commanded, standing a few feet out from Michael’s place in the penalty box. The boy’s brows furrowed, he arched his leg back and kicked. The ball struck the bars of the goal, ricocheting off, missing the net entirely. Sighing, Noa walked towards him. “Why do you think you missed?” 

“I couldn’t kick the ball far enough to the left.” Up close, his frustration was palpable, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat soaked through the Bastard Munchen youth team jersey that sat loose on his frail frame. Though his kicks were lightning fast, aggressive, he could only hit his target if he was shooting head-on, with his whole body facing the same direction. Michael was a loose cannon, powerful, destructive but inaccurate. 

“Good. And how are you going to fix that?” 

“I could score if you’d just let me turn around.” He scowled, baring his teeth like a muzzled dog. But behind the violence in his eyes, there was still that unease, that same skittishness Noa had seen him try to hide.

“You won’t be in the ideal position during a real match.” Noa answered curtly, bothered that he had to explain something so blatant. 

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” 

“Figure it out.” Nothing in this world is given for free. Not success, not answers, not survival. If Noa laid his path out for him, wrapped him in cotton before he even had the chance to fall, how would he learn? He didn’t take this child under his wings to coddle him; if Michael wanted to score, he’d have to do so on his own. Every cub needs to learn how to hunt, or else they starve.

He turned, walking back to his spot, but not quick enough to miss the look full of disdain thrown his way from those baby blue eyes. It was petulant, but harmless for now. Fine, if he wanted to resent Noa, then let him do so. Let it fester, twist, simmer barely contained, grow into thrones that adorn a rose. Noa would only run as fast as Michael’s teeth are sharp, after all. 

Impassively, he watched Michael fail and fail again. With every ball that came rolling back, the boy’s eyes sank a bit deeper, brows knitted closer and closer together, fist held tighter. He was desperate to score, as if his life depended on it. He was afraid.

It was bitterly nostalgic.

Noa knew fear. First met it when his family had nothing left in the pantry, befriended it on cold winter nights, and replaced it with a hunger for more, for everything, when he discovered football. Children who came from nothing, children like who Noa once was, children like Michael, they need to be afraid. Because fear is a kind of motivation, one that pulls you out of the hole you were born in, one that whispers: “You’re going to rot if you don’t score right now, so try harder, give more of yourself.” Because fear pushes you faster. It looms behind you, telling you to keep going with aching legs. Because you know if you stop, it’ll catch up. 

Fear is a fuel like no other, as long as you can outrun it. Whether Michael uses it to claw his way up, or gives in to it — lets it consume him wholly — whether or not he loses this chase, that’ll be his choice to make.

Noa had hope in him, though. He could see it, the way Michael’s eyes traced after the ball’s trajectory, how the angle of his kicks became sharper, more precise with each attempt, how his legs adapted to the perfect motion he’d found through trials and errors. How he was learning. Through gritted teeth and fear right on his heels, he was learning. Sooner or later, he would get the hang of it. 

And then, he did. 

The ball found the back of the net, shaky and with less force than his usual strikes, but beautiful, nonetheless. Reminded Noa of that miracle , nonetheless. 

Michael stared at the goal, eyes wide and breathing heavy. He blinked, letting his victory seep in. His expression softened for just a moment, relieved. Then, he turned to Noa, flashing a grin dripping with smugness he hadn’t earned. Not yet, at least. It was almost cute. 

There, under Munich’s fading sunlight, Noa saw a sprouting bud. He wondered what kind of flower Michael would become. 

------------

In truth, Noa was not a tender man. Still, he tried. “You won’t grow strong without milk.” The boy didn’t seem to be a picky eater, but milk, in particular, repulsed him. 

From the other end of the dining table, Michael gave him a strange look. His brows were quirked, lips pressed thin. He was cringing at Noa’s shoddy attempt to coax him. The man sighed. What a brat. 

Their dinners were all silent so far. For the first few nights, Michael was too afraid to make a single noise, flinching every time his knife scraped the plate too loudly, sneaking glances at Noa to see if there were any changes in the man’s demeanor. Gradually, the silence became comfortable. Well, at least, more comfortable. Not warm, but familiar enough, predictable enough. Safe enough. He settled in with little effort. Well, at least, to Noa, he did. 

Noa was glad he got a child like Michael, one who, though scarred and cautious, was emotionally self-sufficient, who adapted without needing someone to hold his hand, who stopped crying without anyone there to soothe him. Noa was glad he got a child like himself. 

“I want you to teach me that trick shot you did. The one in the 2005 game against Ars.” Michael spoke, his eyes staring at Noa as if he was challenging him. Apparently, he had been keeping himself busy digging through Noa’s DVDs during his short stay. He takes the initiative; it was Noa’s second favorite thing about him. 

“You’re not ready for that yet.” Of course, he wasn’t; he’d just learned how to kick to the side that same day. But it wouldn’t be long until he is. Michael is a quick learner. He ran even when afraid, strived even when restricted. 

He pouted. “You said you were going to train me, but all you did was stand around. Now you refuse to teach me.” Looking down, he poked and prodded at his pasta. “You’re kind of a shitty coach.” It was an insult with no bite; Michael’s sour expression looked more amusing than it was intimidating. Only 8 years old, and already giving him attitude. 

“Too bad that I’m your coach, then.” At this, the boy rolled his eyes, huffing but keeping any further grievances to himself. It was hard to take offense to this little hissy fit. His spunk was somewhat endearing, more than Noa would care to admit. It was that same spirit behind every one of Michael’s kicks, after all, that same gumption making it possible for him to outrun fear. 

Though it won’t last. As brilliant as he was, his little flame won’t burn forever. Fear and anger may push him fast, but it won’t push him far, not far enough to get to where Noa was. Emotions, big, overwhelming emotions, are not sustainable. In time, they’ll come to distract you, take over your mind, making you do pointless, illogical things. To follow your emotions is childish; it’s an instinct you need to outgrow. 

Noa used to know fear. He used to know how it felt to run from fear, the way Michael ran. But he had lost those immense emotions like he had lost his baby teeth. When he finally crawled out of that hole, he traded his burning desire to survive for logic, for efficiency, for a winning formula he could control instead of the untamable beast that was his heart. 

Resentment, fear, desperation, they’re powerful but unreliable. They’re irrational, incompatible with victory. 

It wasn’t a matter of concern yet. No, not for now. Michael was newly forged steel; he would cool and harden with time. Eventually, he’ll learn to iron out his anger, to muffle the senseless voices leading him astray from his path to the goal. His emotions will mellow out, and his fear will disappear with age. 

—11 years later—

Kaiser thinks this is the most afraid he’s ever been in his life. 

Across the pitch, Yoichi is staring him down like a hawk. The field is empty, quiet, with just the two of them still practicing in the middle of the night. Well, Kaiser is practicing, not Yoichi. No, Yoichi is far too busy sitting on the bench, glaring and drilling into his soul. 

He’s been strange ever since their conversation in the locker room. Kaiser could feel his eyes on him during their mock games, at lunch, in strategy meetings. It’s as if Yoichi is following him, his gaze almost omnipresent. Initially, Kaiser paid it no mind; had welcomed it, even. It’s only fair that Kaiser haunts Yoichi’s mind just as much as Yoichi haunts his. Obsession is always more fun when it’s mutual. But as the days passed, it became… unnerving. 

Today was no exception. Practice had ended hours ago, but Yoichi stayed behind, all to watch him late into the night. There were no sarcastic remarks, no provocations thrown his way, not even spite, only Yoichi’s midnight eyes. Has he blinked once? Kaiser should be used to being looked at; all the cameras, and stages, and spotlights should have prepared him. This is new, though. It’s animalistic, somehow. 

Blue Lock really is full of weirdos. 

Kaiser sighs under his breath. “Enjoying the view again, Yoichi?” He calls out, voice cheery and relaxed to hide the chill running down his spine when he meets Yoichi’s petrifying gaze. 

“Not really. You’re a trainwreck I can’t look away from.” He still doesn’t blink, refusing to yield. 

“Aw, you flatter me.” Kaiser bends down, picking up the cones he was using to practice dribbling. He stacks them neatly, one after another. 

“You’re so full of yourself.” 

“And yet you’re the one who keeps giving me attention.” At this, Yoichi falls silent, finally averting his gaze, though the motion seems rigid, bashful. Kaiser would call it cute if it didn’t come from the same person who had been giving him death stares for nearly a week. 

“Give your eyes a rest, Yoichi. You can look at me some more in the morning.” Kaiser leaves the pitch, cones in hand. As he’s making his way down the hall towards the storage room, he hears footsteps chasing him down, the squeaking of cleats against titled floors inexplicably hurried and passionate. 

“As if I’d want to see more of you.” Yoichi walks a few paces behind him. 

“...You’re literally following me.” 

“Only to set the record straight. Wouldn’t want to feed into your delusions.” They reach the storage room; Kaiser steps inside while Yoichi lingers and leans his back on the door frame. 

“Sure darling, have it your way.” Kaiser places the stack of cones down on the ground, dusting his hands as he finishes and turns to leave. 

Yoichi grumbles, moving into the room. “That’s not where you put those.” The door swings shut, blocking out the hallway’s light. He picks up the cones and places them on one of the shelves, having to stand on his tip-toe to reach it. “You really can’t do anything by yourself, huh, shitty prince.” Kaiser chuckles under his breath. He’s the taller one between the two of them; he could have done it easier, quicker, yet little Yoichi talks as if he’s his knight in shining armor. 

Kaiser moves towards the door, turning the knob. “Of course, without Yoichi here to help me, how could I have possibly known-” It wouldn’t budge. He tries again, the knob rattles but doesn’t give in. 

Noticing his struggle, Yoichi sneers as he walks up to Kaiser. “What, you can’t open doors, either?” He reaches out, twisting the knob just as Kaiser had. No dice. A daunting realization settles in for the both of them as Yoichi tries again, with his entire body pushing against the door this time. Still, nothing. 

“Kaiser… I think we’re locked in.” 

Yeah, no shit, idiot. Kaiser sighs, resigning to his fate. 

“Miss Anri will probably check the security tape and let us out by morning.” Yoichi mumbles, shoulders slouched in defeat. The light switch is outside, beyond that cursed door, so now they’re stuck in the dusty, quiet dark. Kaiser makes himself comfortable on a pile of rubber mats in the corner, lying curled up on his side, his jersey rustling against the tough material. Yoichi takes his place on the floor, knees folded under his chin, back against the wall. His body isn’t facing Kaiser, but his head is turned to him. 

Even in the pitch black, Kaiser can still feel it, Yoichi’s dogged eyes, somehow darker than the dark itself. Neither of them speak. Kaiser lets the silence run on, the sound of his own heartbeat filling his ears. Those midnight blues watch, watch, and watch, until- “Seriously, Yoichi, can you quit it with the staring? It’s creepy.” 

“Now that you said that, I’m gonna stare at you even more.” As promised, Yoichi’s gaze is twice as intense when Kaiser turns to him. His eyes are slightly squinted, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“I’m that beautiful, huh?”

“Your football is.” The answer comes quick, as if Yoichi didn’t need to think about it. His tone is flat, honest, so sincere that it caught Kaiser off-guard. “The way you play… It’s my ideal form. You know exactly where to be, how to move, how to use your teammates. Everything. It’s perfect.” Unbelievably, it’s not a taunt, not even a back-handed compliment. 

Kaiser lets out a laugh, soft and genuine. “You’re so earnest, it’s adorable.”

Yoichi frowned, indignant. “I’m just telling it like it is.” 

“Is that seriously why you’re always staring at me?” 

“...Yes.” There’s a strange hesitation in his voice, presumably embarrassment from having to admit Kaiser’s superiority over him. 

“All you ever think about is football, isn’t it?” To think he was made to feel hunted for days on end simply because of Yoichi’s obsession with the sport. 

“Aren’t you the same?” And he’s right, they are the same in many ways. Kaiser isn’t blind; he noticed it, also: how their forms are nearly identical, how Yoichi sprints across the pitch just like him, only with less grace, less practice. They think alike, too. Yoichi could read his plays with surprising accuracy, considering they’ve only known each other for half a month. Maybe he catches on fast, or maybe he understands Kaiser exceptionally well for whatever reason. 

“Why do you love football so much anyway?” Kaiser isn’t sure why he asked that, why he gave Yoichi an opening to keep blabbering on. Boredom? To instigate some sort of fight? Or could it be plain curiosity? For reasons he can’t name, is afraid to name, Yoichi captivates him, even back then, all the way in Germany across the world. No, that’s not entirely right. Back then, Yoichi was prey; now, he seems more like a hunter. And still, that invisible tug remains. 

“I’ve just always loved it, ever since I was little. I guess… I love it because it’s fun. Because winning is fun.” There it is, that craving for victory, that appetite they share. But Yoichi’s voice, the way he talks about what he wants, it’s far too dreamy for someone who has known true, non-metaphorical hunger. No, Yoichi doesn’t know the relief that comes a split second before joy; only Kaiser does. 

“That’s it? That’s so simple-minded.” He snickers. 

“Oh yeah? Then please, enlighten me. What’s your deep and profound reason?” Yoichi leans his head to one side, his voice dripping with a blend of sarcasm and sincere interest. 

Kaiser isn’t lacking in options for what to respond with. He could cough up a sentimental answer, say that it was the only good thing he had during his time in hell. He could tell him what football is for someone who has to earn their humanity, that without it, his life would have remained miserable, irrelevant. But those things are too raw, too intimate. Kaiser wouldn’t serve Yoichi his heart on a silver platter; certainly not now, probably not ever. 

“Well?” The question comes again. He could continue to stay silent. But guarded as he is, Kaiser is even more stubborn. He would rather die than back down from a challenge.

“Because Noa plays.” That’s true to some extent. Because Noa chose him to be his protégé, to be his handcrafted rival. Because Noa saw what he could do with a ball and decided it was worth something. Because Noa offered him a deal.

“Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot you were basically football royalty.” Kaiser only rolls his eyes at the remark, somewhat glad that his excuse has worked. 

“My parents aren’t like yours. They don’t know anything about football.” Yoichi continues. Maybe to fill the silence, maybe because he also feels it, that pull between them, that urge to know more. It’s an aching fascination. “But they’re really supportive.” He smiles fondly. “My mom always makes pork cutlets for me after games, they’re delicious, seriously, they’re out of this world.” 

“That sounds nice.” Kaiser said barely above a whisper, as though to mask his voice in the dark.

“Yeah, and the sauce that goes with it makes the whole thing even better. It’s sweet but not too…” Yoichi drones on. It sounds nice. A loving home, a carefree childhood, unconditional yet unwavering love. Those all sound… nice. They sound human. That’s where their stories diverge. It doesn’t matter if they play the same, think the same, or share the same goal. Off the field, they’re irreconcilably different. Yoichi is human, and has been human ever since he was born. He never had to earn it. 

“It’s all about the panko-” Yoichi pauses in the middle of his rambling as if suddenly struck by an idea. “...Hey. What’s Noa like? As a dad, I mean.” It’s just one intimate question after another with him. 

“So eager to learn everything about your idol, aren’t you? He’s not exactly my dad, you know.”

“Guardian, mentor, whatever you want to call it.”

“Sufficient.” It’s an answer meant to placate, to kill this discussion. 

“Sufficient? There’s gotta be more than just sufficient .” But Yoichi keeps prying. He keeps prying like he wants to tear Kaiser apart and take a look at his insides. Kaiser traveled half the globe to meet him. He was, is, enthralled. But now, mere feet from each other, he realizes he’s afraid of Yoichi getting closer. How can someone so mesmerizing be this terrifying? 

“Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to talk about your childhood.” Yoichi lights up, far more entertained than he has any right to be. 

Kaiser stays quiet. 

“C’mon, it couldn’t have been that bad. What, did he have cute little nicknames for you or something?” 

“That’s none of your fucking business.” He bites back, out of exasperation rather than anger. 

“Holy shit, he definitely did.” Yoichi teases, somehow taking Kaiser’s aggression as confirmation. “What was it? Mimi? Mika? Mikey?” He scoots over to the pile of mats, resting his head right below where Kaiser lays. 

“You’re so damn persistent.” Kaiser turns to face the wall. 

“Yeah, and I’m gonna keep listing off nicknames for Michael if you don’t tell me.” 

“Mi-cha-el.”

“What?”

“It’s pronounced Mi-cha-el, not Michael.” Kaiser breaths. “And he didn’t have a nickname for me, get that idea out of your head.”

Yoichi bursts out in a fit of laughter, satisfied that he’d ruffled Kaiser’s feathers. “Ok, noted. I’ll call you Mi-cha-el from now on.”

It earns him a groan. “Don’t say it like that, you make it sound weird.” It’s too warm coming from him, said with too much adoration. Kaiser isn’t used to it. 

“What? No, don’t say that, Mi-cha-el. I think it suits you. Tell you what, I’ll call you Mi-cha-el as long as you keep calling me Yoichi.”

“Just shut up and go to sleep.” Kaiser closes his eyes tight, silently mourning the torment he’d have to endure for the rest of the NEL, maybe for the rest of his football career if he doesn’t crush Yoichi.  

“Good night, Mi-cha-el.” 

Chapter Text

“Noel Noa for the hat-trick! One of his finest performances this season…” The commentator’s voice echoed against the living room walls, ringing out from the TV. Kaiser watched with steady eyes, curled into a ball on the couch, blanket draped over his back. 

Munich’s summer had faded away, lost in the winds of late July. The season was starting next month, and Kaiser wondered if Noa would show the same dominance he wielded in the recording. In all likelihood, he would. Because he was predictable like that, in everything he did; almost as if he was programmed with a built-in routine — one that Kaiser has settled into. He got used to it, to the beat of Noa’s daily schedule. Breakfast, training, then dinner; instant noodles on the weekends, when he didn’t want to cook. He got used to the plants lining the hallway, to the tick of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs, to the once-strange sky that stretched out just beyond his bedroom window. Used to the reassuring cold of metal, of mechanical, reliable cogs and gears that made up Noel Noa. 

His shoulders felt lighter lately. The tension had drained. 

Kaiser heard the front door click open; his babysitter walked up to greet Noa. They talked, though he didn’t care enough to work out what it was about. He rubbed his eyes, yawning. It was late, he should get some rest so that tomorrow, he and Noa-

It hit him, even from a distance. Sharp, acrid, burning hot. His throat closed up. It was a familiar sensation, a familiar smell on Noa’s body. 

Booze. Noa smelled of booze. 

He felt his blood picking up pace, spiking with every second. His stomach churned, pain bloomed in his head. Kaiser stilled, as still as he could get, petrified by the sting of alcohol hanging in the air. Clenching his fist tight, he tried to hide the raw edges of his breath, the thundering, rhythmic drumming of his heart. He told himself that he wouldn’t cry this time, wouldn’t let anyone ‘give him something to cry about.’ The world blurred, muffled by the dread in his veins. Even time itself seemed to be stretched thin.

It was just like waking up from a dream — a blissful, disconnected fantasy where he was safe, where he could become someone. Now, he was back with him , and maybe he never truly left. It was sickening, really, that he let himself think he made it out. 

Noa drew closer, the smell grew stronger, bleaker, like a fast-approaching storm. “Let’s get you to bed.” Kaiser couldn’t look at him, couldn’t open his mouth to speak. Panic held his head down, squeezed his throat, while fear embraced him like an old friend. 

“Michael?” Noa reached out to the boy, hand hovering right above his arm, almost touching, so close to grabbing him. He could feel the heat, the warmth of whiskey-soaked flesh, of vodka-stained breath, of gin-charged fist. If he grabbed him, he could grab him, and Kaiser couldn’t fight back, and-

“Don’t hurt me!”

Kaiser flinched away, the plea bursting out involuntarily. His skin remembered it all, blue bruises and red cuts. He shut his eyes tight, buried his face in his hands, pulled the blanket closer, trying to make himself as small as possible, trying to disappear. Weak. He was weak again.

The room was quiet now, save for Kaiser’s jagged breathing and the tick, tick, ticking of the clock. 

After a moment, after the silence had seeped into place, Noa knelt down. “Why would I hurt you?” His voice was flat, hushed, soft, but not quite tender. The question wasn’t tinted with concern; rather, it was a matter of fact. 

Neither of them made a single sound. In the dead air, Noa waited; it was a strange, enduring sort of patience. Tentatively, Kaiser raised his head, opening his eyes to peer at the man through the spaces between his fingers. “You’re drunk.” He gritted out, trembling despite his efforts. 

“I’ve been drinking, but I’m not intoxicated.” Noa explained, as if that would be of any consolation. Kaiser frowned, closed his eyes again, retreated even further into himself. 

“Even if I were, why would I hurt you?” Kaiser had never considered asking that, not when he was pressed flat on the floor, not when he was busy trying to breathe. Not that it mattered. He learned quickly that there didn’t need to be a reason. He could do everything right, steal everything he had to steal, be as obedient as he had to be. He would end up battered all the same. Or maybe, the reason was more intrinsic, something he couldn’t change. Maybe it was because he wasn’t human. 

“Have I ever done anything to make you think I would hurt you?” No. Kaiser gave a small shake of his head. 

The two of them fell back into a wordless stalemate, tension thick and suffocating. 

Eventually, Noa sighed. “Then you shouldn’t assume things baselessly. That’s irrational.” Noa wasn’t trying to soothe him, no. His tone was too stiff, too plain. Kaiser wasn’t sure what soothing looked like, but it couldn’t have been this. Even so, he found… whatever this was to be more preferable. Doting words and saccharine lines wouldn’t have worked on him, either way. His breathing slowed. The roaring in his ears died down, pushed out by the sound of Noa’s reasoning. 

“Michael.” Kaiser finally turned to look straight at him, fear tapering off. It wasn’t comfort that enveloped him, but a sense of clarity. Because Noa was right. This time, he didn’t have to lull himself out of a nightmare. This time, when he opened his eyes, his reality wasn’t so bitter. 

“You’re not there anymore. Think logically.” Noa offered his hand. “You don’t have anything to be scared of. Don’t let fear overwhelm you.” He said, in that same impartial, resolute tone of voice, the one full of certainty that he used when advising Kaiser on the pitch. 

In Noa’s expression, Kaiser found only rigid, unmoving steel. And for that, he was glad. There was no faux concern or empty promises. There was only the unfiltered truth. Noa would never soothe him, never shelter him from reality with fairy tales, never lie to him just to spare his feelings. He would only show him concrete evidence and proven facts; his logic. It was blunt, but genuine. Mechanical, but reliable. Cold, but reassuring, like metal. 

Trust was a stranger to Kaiser. He had only ever known how to trust himself, never someone else. But if he had to put faith in another, maybe Noa wouldn’t be such a bad choice. Steadfast, honest, safe, absolute. Stable. No, Noa wouldn’t be such a bad choice at all. 

Cautiously, he took Noa’s hand.

It was cold. 

-------------------------------

It took Noa by surprise, the way Michael had hung his head low, how his tiny body shook, how he had completely shut down that night. He’d seen the boy bite back, lash out with scorching desperation, but never did he think he’d see him stunned, paralyzed, pinned down helplessly. Strange. It was strange to see Michael unable to get back up by himself; to see fear catch up, and consume him whole. It wasn’t like him.

Still, Noa had stopped drinking. He wasn’t fond of alcohol, regardless. If anything, Michael’s aversion had been the perfect reason for him to get out of tiresome social functions. It wasn’t a big change to make. And though he didn’t want to spoil him, Noa supposed he could indulge him when it came to the little things. 

Indulgence. Yes, indulgence was how Noa ended up spending his afternoon hunched over a pile of fabric and stuffing. 

It started a week ago. Noa had gone to wake Michael up that morning, only to find him, and his bed, smeared with dirt. And there, placed in his arms, pressed close to his chest, was a football; one he had brought home from the field, and one he had decided to sleep next to. When Noa asked him why, he only grumbled, mumbling under his breath, something incoherent about how “those jerks at the station took it away.” 

Noa didn’t understand all of it, nor why the boy had chosen to start now, but he knew it was important to Michael. Knew from how he clung to it, how he nuzzled his face against the dirty rubber. Even so, he wasn’t keen on washing the sheets every single day. So, he offered a compromise: a stuffed toy. A stuffed toy that he now found incredibly tedious to sew. 

Michael sat next to him, diligently working away at his own panels for the toy ball. His nimble fingers guided the needle back and forth through the fabric, squinted eyes ran along the seams. He was careful with where he placed his stitches, pulling the thread slowly, making sure it lay even, flat. He wore a small pout on his face, the same one he had nearly every night when it was bedtime, or when he was told he had to finish everything on his plate, or when Noa was even slightly late to pick him up from school. A quiet, half-hearted annoyance, like he wanted to put up a fight but knew his protest would get him nowhere. And as always, it was awfully cute. 

“Just so you know, I didn’t ask for your help with this, so I don’t owe you anything.” He huffed, short, casual, as if he was trying to seem indifferent. When Noa had proposed the compromise earlier that day, Michael had only looked at him and nodded. A few hours afterwards, he found the boy sitting in the living room, sewing together scrap fabric cut from his old clothes, the ones bunched up in the duffel bag he carried when he arrived. One glance at his progress and Noa could tell he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was doing. So, with a sigh, he stepped in, if only to stop Michael from making more of a mess. 

“And I would have figured it out sooner or later.” 

“Sure you would have.” Noa spoke, sardonic, relaxed, with just a hint of provocation.

“Je peux!” Michael spat out. ‘I can!’ he said, the foreign pronunciation still rough on his tongue. Noa felt the corners of his mouth tug into a slight grin. 

Michael had demanded to learn French roughly six months back. He pestered Noa for days, fumed incessantly about how, apparently, the man was always “muttering stuff I can’t understand.” His curiosity, while intense, was commendable. So Noa had indulged him, every odd day of the week, after school, and before practice. 

Just like everything else that Noa had taught him, Michael picked up on the language rather quickly. He only used it when he had something to prove, though. Maybe he thought his words would sink deeper if spoken in Noa’s mother tongue. ‘J’ai raison!’ for their petty disputes, or ‘Tu pues’, his go-to insult, sometimes, a grunted ‘N’importe quoi’ after he lost an argument. And once, just once, Noa had heard him say it, ‘Tu n’es pas si terrible’ ‘You’re not so terrible.’ murmured from the passenger seat on a late-night car ride, when Michael could barely fight off sleep. 

“Je te crois.” ‘I believe you.’ Noa responded with deadpan wit, tying up the loose end of his thread as he finished that section of the toy ball. 

“Tu moques de moi.” ‘You’re mocking me.’ The boy accused. 

“Tu te moques de moi.” Noa corrected. Michael’s scowl grew heavier, he grumbled quietly about the supposed absurdity of reflexive verbs. 

Past the teasing, past the dry sarcasm, Noa did believe in what he said. Michael would have figured it out on his own, no matter how long it took. He wasn’t a quitter, far too stubborn for that. He wouldn’t let any obstacle stop him, would thrive under any restriction; thrive because those chains would only make his desire burn brighter. Yes, he would thrive; unlike that night. Because Michael wasn’t himself that night. 

That was the conclusion Noa reached. That boy who was stock-still, that wasn’t his Michael. His Michael wouldn’t let fear win so easily; he would act. His Michael wouldn’t freeze; he would fight. The only reason he didn’t was because those irrational thoughts had taken over him, seized his mind for themselves, twisted him away from who he really was. 

It was only a temporary setback, though. He’ll get over it by himself. He’ll get back on his feet without needing any help, like he always does, like he did during the time since the incident, like he will continue to do. 

It was late when they finally finished the ball. Michael leaned his head against Noa’s side, struggling to keep his eyes open. If he were more awake, he’d surely keep up his thorny walls. It was only in moments like these, where he was too drowsy to care, that their familiarity slipped out. Moments like these, where the night cloaked him, where Noa felt something he wouldn’t admit to, something akin to warmth. 

Warm. Munich was unusually warm two summers ago when he met him. Maybe that was why. Maybe June left its mark on Michael’s skin. 

Noa carried him to his bedroom, more gently than he thought he could. He placed him down on his bed, then the ball, and instinctively, Michael reached out, pulled it close, wrapping his body around it. Noa pulled the cover over him and turned off the lights. 

—9 years later—

Isagi walks down Blue Lock’s corridors, back still sore from sleeping on the storage room’s ground, pride still hurt from how Raichi had laughed in his face the next morning. He hasn’t talked to Kai- Michael — yes, he had promised himself to use that name, purely out of spite — since last night. Miss Anri had found them, woken them up, and that bastard walked out the door without uttering a single word. It was almost as if he were fleeing. 

He couldn’t run far, though. Isagi caught himself staring again today, felt his eyes stray unconsciously to that obnoxious blue hair and pompous tattoo. Caught himself wondering what the other was thinking, what he was doing. Caught himself repeating “Michael” softly, slowly, when no one was around to hear, like he was savouring how it tastes on his tongue, sweet and cloying, just like the cologne that still haunts him.

It really is dire, the way Michael plagues his mind.

At first, Isagi chalked it up to curiosity, telling himself that he was only drawn to Michael because he wanted to know more about his talent. Of course, he’s rude, vain, a true megalomaniac, but there’s no denying his skills. So Isagi watched, watched, and watched to satisfy his intrigue. If he knew enough about the bastard, about his football, his interest in him would surely wane. Surely, if he concentrated on him for long enough, he would grow bored. Surely, this fascination has a bottom. 

Well if it does, he hasn’t found it. It’s nauseating to admit, but the more he observed, the more obsessive he became. Michael is like a pit of tar. Isagi could struggle all he wants, it’s futile; he’s trapped, pulled down ever deeper. 

And for the life of him, Isagi couldn’t figure out why. Why does he watch? Why does Michael captivate him? This isn’t just curiosity anymore. If it were simply that, he would have dropped this fixation two or three days in. No, this is something far more horrifying. But what exactly is that something ?

Not that he wants to dwell on those questions right now. Right now, he’s trying to switch gears. Exposure didn’t erode those pesky thoughts from his head; it only worsened his problems. So naturally, he’s turning to distraction. The monitor room is just up ahead. Soon, Isagi can focus all his attention on studying a match and finally rid himself of Michael. After all, if anything could trump this obsession, it would be an even bigger obsession: football. Just behind this door, where he can put his mind at ease-

Light hits him the moment he steps in, stark against the dark room. The screens are already on; someone is here. And by the scent of rose hanging in the air, that same taunting scent of rose, Isagi knows instantly who it is. 

He could turn back, run while his presence hasn’t been noticed. But that’s wildly unfair, isn’t it? Why should he let that bastard chase him away? Why should he retreat like a coward? Michael has consumed his mind for over a week; now he’s going to dictate Isagi’s actions, too? No, no way is Isagi going to let him win like that. He won’t submit, walking up to the chair facing the screens with a strange sense of pride. Maybe it’s stubbornness that moves his legs, or maybe it’s the inexplicable pull that drives his fixation, ever-blistering, burning away all rationale. He couldn’t tell anymore.

Michael has his eyes fixed on the game footage, Isagi stands to his left. “Just go to bed, Alexis, I already told you not to wait for me-” He turns to him. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want, Yoichi?” His words come out calm, disinterested, though stained with wary underneath. 

It’s only now that Isagi realizes he hadn’t thought about what to say. His head was too preoccupied with irritation; still is, because he’ll never run out of things to find irritating about Michael, never run out of things to notice, to watch. He has his hair in a loose bun tonight, a dark robe draped over his body — silk, by the looks of it. He probably thinks himself too good for Blue Lock’s standard loungewear. So arrogant, it’s maddening. Since Isagi must be mad, mad to approach him, then just stand and watch wordlessly. 

“If you have nothing to say then fuck off.” The abrasive attitude doesn’t faze him; what does is the ball in Michael’s lap, sitting limply, sagging under its own weight. The fabric is patchy, worn, frayed and dented in some spots. Clearly, and perplexingly, it’s well-loved, cherished through year after year. Such an odd sight, a ragged toy ball lying atop extravagant silk. 

“What’s that?” It slips out before Isagi could think, but he never thinks clearly these days, not around him.

Michael follows his gaze, landing on his lap. “A ball. Are you dumb?” He sneers, giving Isagi a strange look, as if half-amused. 

Isagi feels a laugh surging up from his chest. “You sleep with a plushie?” 

Michael chuckles back, smirks, and rests his chin on his palm. “Yeah? What about it?” There’s a lilt to his voice, effortlessly suave, blasé in the most aggravating way. 

“Turns out the mighty emperor cuddles with his stuffed ball at night. I didn’t know you were so cute, Mi-cha-el .” Isagi makes sure to stretch the name. He would sooner die than confess how practiced he is at that, how familiar the stresses and syllables. 

“Hm, you’re full of surprises yourself, Yoichi .” He hums, placing equal emphasis on the other’s name. “Who would have thought this pathetic clown would be one of my biggest admirers?” 

“Your admirer? Please, as if there’s anything to admire.” But there’s plenty to obsess over . 

“Didn’t you just call me cute?” His tone turns sappy, revoltingly so. “I bet you can’t stop thinking about how adorable I am. Are you going to crawl into bed tonight imagining how I’m all snuggled up with my ball?” A brief pause. Michael tilts his head, grins wider. “Or are you going to fantasize about being my ball instead? Does Yoichi want me to hold him?” His sultry eyes lock in on Isagi. It’s a taunt; he’s just asking to be punched now, right in his pretty face. 

“You’re seriously deluded.” 

“There’s no use denying it, Yoichi. You know what? I’m feeling generous.” He leans back into the chair, patting his thigh twice. “Hop on, we can cuddle right now.” 

“What? Why would I want to sit in your lap?” Isagi tries to be firm, tries to keep his cool. 

“Aw, are you shy?” Michael coos, unbearably velvety, garishly smooth. 

“I’m not-”

“Don’t be scared.” 

“You’re insane-”

“It’s ok, baby, I don’t bite.” 

“Ew-”

“You’re not gonna do it? I’m not that intimidating right?”

“It’s not-”

“Ah, but that’s predictable. You’re gutless.”

“If you don’t shut up right now-”

“It’s ok, trash like you could never handle me anyway. Move along now, Yoichi, you’ve missed your chance and-”

Isagi lunges forward. His hand reaches for the ball, slapping it to the ground. His chest is hot, pulsing with rage that spreads to his limbs. He grips the armrest and, in one swift motion, plants himself on top of the bastard. The chair gives a small squeak from the added weight. 

Michael stares with his mouth agape, bewilderment written across his face as if this wasn’t his idea to begin with. Shocked, he has the gall to be shocked that Isagi did, in fact, follow through. They’re both quiet, deadlocked in a clumsy embrace. 

Then, Michael laughs. It starts with stifled cackles, his shoulders jerking up, almost shaking. Soon, it grows louder, fuller, bursting out unrestrained, fervent, candid. It’s a melodious sound, rich and honeyed. He’s beaming, dazzling like the summer sun. Glorious, and cruel, too, how his rays pierce through Isagi’s chest, digging deep, lodging themselves inside his heart. 

Shame sets in a moment later, when he feels the warmth of Michael’s body against his. Isagi knows he has no one but himself to blame for this situation, for being locked in the storage room, for ending up in his lap like a damn mutt; it’s all his fault. If he could just walk away, none of this would have happened. But he can’t help it. He knows that now, he can’t help but take the bait. Can’t help but be steered by his desire to win, to pull the other down.

Because look at him, look at Michael and the way he shines, the way he provokes. He subjugates all under his light, acts as if he’s the center of his very own solar system, all the while gloating, reveling in his own radiance. He infuriates, dares, beckons any usurper to try and eclipse him. How could Isagi turn down a challenge from someone like that? 

Michael is so bright, Isagi wants to pluck him right out of the sky; wants to capture his brilliance and crush it, make it his own. He would fall for his taunts a thousand times over, would take all the shots he could to dethrone him. It’s a deicidal instinct. 

Michael brings out that bite in him, stirs up an ugly, primal hunger. It’s the same each time, every interaction becomes a competition, an opportunity for victory.  

It’s hopeless. Isagi can’t escape him, not even through football, especially not through football. They feel identical, after all. When he’s with him, it’s like he’s still on the pitch; these two obsessions are one and the same. The rage, the all-consuming fire, the chance at a cathartic triumph; that's the something luring him towards Michael, towards football. Ambition. 

Michael’s laughter dies down, coming out in fits of chuckles. “You actually did that?” 

“You were begging for it.” Isagi seethes. His head is above the bastard’s, now that he’s in his lap. For the first time, he gets to look down on him. It’s a nice view. 

“You seemed eager, though.” Michael leans forward, his breath brushing past Isagi’s neck. 

“Eager?! Eager my ass-”

“Noel Noa for the hat-trick! One of his finest performances this season…” It comes crackling out of the speakers, a sudden spike in volume from the video left forgotten in the background of their spar. Isagi turns to the screen; the footage is grainy, and the sound quality is even worse. 

“You’re studying this game? It’s so old, isn’t it already outdated?” He remembers watching this match, a highlight in Noa’s early career, but only a footnote in his long list of achievements since then. 

“It is. I’m just watching for… old times' sake.” Michael muses, his tone is softer.

Isagi smiles, and there’s an unusual fondness to it. “You really are cute.”

The video drones on. He lets silence wash over them, lets Michael’s warmth wrap around him. 

Fond, huh? He’s fond of Michael Kaiser. 

He’s done for.

“Are you not getting off of me?” 

“Only if you beg me again.”

Chapter Text

Winter air fell sharp on Noa’s skin — or whatever little skin was left exposed by his long trench coat and face mask. He sat at the very back of the bleachers, away from the shouts of enthusiastic parents all too eager to cheer. It wasn’t so packed the year prior; the last junior game before Christmas break never drew much attention.

They would have to work on dribbling, Noa decided, when an opposing midfielder stole the ball with little effort. His stance needed some improvement, he noted, when Michael lost his balance trying to regain possession. He fell face-first, planted squarely into the grass. The whistle blew, and he got up before the tone even ended. Just as he should, Noa concluded, when the boy dusted himself off and the game resumed. Yes, that was his Michael, sturdy, self-reliant, full of fight.

He closed in on the penalty box, and Noa could see the gears turning in his head. Michael watched all the other children closely, gaze tracing after their movement, analyzing their intents. He took the path of least resistance, exploiting holes in the opponent’s defense, not wasting a single step. Then, when the moment was right, when he knew it was right, he shot, using that magnificent quick kick, that miracle Noa had witnessed, and later refined.

He scored, clean, fast. Faster than the goalkeeper could notice. Efficient, just as he was taught.

The final whistle blew, ending the game. Bastard Munchen won 5-2.

Michael caught his breath while his teammates flocked around him; his wide baby blue eyes pierced through the crowd and looked straight at Noa. He smirked, conceitedly, as if the dirt smeared on his face and caked in his hair didn’t make him look like a poor stray cat.

Chuckling quietly to himself, the man stood up and walked back to the car. There, he waited. Michael knew to stall, to be the last one leaving the locker room, to only come to Noa when no one was looking. Fame was undoubtedly the worst part of the job.

Eventually, after the parking lot had emptied, the passenger door popped open. Michael picked his toy ball up from the seat, then climbed in, placing it on his lap. He swung his legs back and forth idly, while Noa scanned the streets. There were still a few cars around; they couldn't go just yet.

“Well?” Noa asked, breaking the silence.

“It went ok.”

By then, it had become routine for them, going over every game right off the pitch; their reflection time — though Michael preferred to call it his “weekly interrogations.”

“Just ok?”

“Mhm.” The boy nodded. “I lost possession too many times.” He fidgeted with a damp strand of hair, twisted it back and forth in between his fingers.

Noa sighed.

“And?” He asked again. It landed with more weight this time. The expectation was clear, foreboding like the shadow of an impatient storm.

Michael went stiff, his legs dropped out of the rhythmic swinging. He was quiet for a moment, though not out of contemplation. Noa knew he understood, but it seemed like the words were too bitter for him to speak.

“I let number 7 on my team score twice. I would have gotten those passes if I had positioned myself better.”

“Correct.” There was no hesitation in his response. “You won by a slim margin. Don’t lose your position as the team’s ace striker to him.”

Michael squeezed his ball tighter, held it closer to his chest. He leaned back into his seat, frowning.

“No one remembers second place, Michael. If you’re not number one, you won’t leave your mark.” Noa’s tone was flat; it was always flat when he had to remind him about the way of the world. A fact delivered with little emotion, dull like raw concrete.

“Yeah, yeah, I know…” Michael turned away, looking absentmindedly out the window.

Noa’s eyes softened when they landed on the boy’s tense shoulders. It wasn’t an easy pill to swallow, but it was true. And Michael deserved nothing but the truth. Sheltering him from reality won’t make it disappear; no amount of sugar-coated words can drown out sour grief. This was how it must be.

“You’re not going to talk about the fall?” Noa continued.

At that, Michael perked up. “It wasn’t that bad.” There was a grin plastered across his lips, bright, warm. “And I only fell once, unlike someone.” He jeered, practically jumping with excitement, as if he’d been waiting to bring it up, to reveal the ace tucked away in his sleeves.

Noa could still feel the bruise on his thigh. His last game was a rough one, thanks to Berserk Dortmund’s defenders and their generous tackles.

“You should practice your footwork, coach.” Michael quipped.

Noa hummed, amused and pleased. The boy bounced back instantly, unswayed by life’s ruthlessness, unfaltering, just as he should be.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” Finally deeming it safe enough, he started the engine and backed out of their spot.

“You’re welcome.” Michael made sure his intonations didn’t lack all the necessary theatrics.

-------------------------------

‘L'homme n'est rien d'autre que ce qu'il se fait.’

‘Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.’ Kaiser traced over the words. He could hear the store’s heater humming from where he sat on the tile floor, his back resting on a shelf in the foreign books section, his legs folded neatly, knees drawn up just below his chin. The book was perched between his thigh and torso; ‘L'existentialisme est un humanisme,’ the title read.

“Put that back. It’s still too complex for you, there’s no point in reading it now.” Noa stood just a few footsteps away, browsing leisurely.

“I’ve read other philosophy books before, I understood them just fine.” Kaiser resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the condescension. He knew he could read this book, just like he’d read all the other books scattered across the house. He had opened one up out of curiosity. And then, he kept reading. He read until those pages filled the empty hours when Noa was playing an away match on the other side of Europe. He read, so that when the old man wasn’t there to pick apart the form of his strikes, he was there in the messy annotations, written in barely legible French, cramped between the margins. Noa had good taste in books, though Kaiser would never say it out loud.

“I wasn’t talking about the content. Your French isn’t advanced enough yet, just get the German translation.” The reply only aggravated Kaiser further.

“Je peux le lire!” ‘I can read it!’ He growled.

Noa crossed his arms and tilted his head. “You’re sure? I won’t buy you the translation if you can’t finish this one.”

“J’en suis sûr.” ‘I’m sure of it.’ This was a matter of pride now. Kaiser was going to finish that book, even if he had to painstakingly translate every single sentence.

Noa huffed, half entertained. “Alright then.”

They left after paying for the book, walking down Munich’s familiar, snow-covered streets, and made it to the park around dusk, right on schedule. It was part of their weekly routine, a few hours spent outside for ‘recreation,’ as Noa had explained when he dragged Kaiser out on a Saturday afternoon last year. And even now, in the cold depths of mid-December, there they were, following the same script without deviation. Same park, same bench, same silence as Kaiser kept his nose buried in a book, and Noa watched the people passing by. That was always the bulk of their ‘recreation,’ sitting around until it was time to leave.

Kaiser didn’t get it; the reason why he had to give up his free time to be there every week. But now, when the grass lay dead, dried brown, when the trees stood barren, when winter draped over the city — now, at least, he felt more at home. Because on some level, Kaiser thought winter understood him, saw himself in its lonely, howling winds.

“You picked Sartre?” Noa asked, one of the, fortunately, rare instances where he made small talk.

“Mhm.” Kaiser hummed. He narrowed his eyes, focusing intensely on the one word that had stumped him for the past 3 minutes. He stared, almost as if he looked at it hard enough, he would miraculously know what it meant. He could ask Noa, but that was no different from admitting defeat. “It was the only thing in the French section that wasn’t a shitty kid’s picture book.”

“Language.” Noa reprimanded.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to taint your delicate fucking ears.” Kaiser snarked back.

The man sighed, a mild exasperation. Noa didn't care what sort of profanities came out of Kaiser’s mouth, not until he got a call from the school about usage of ‘colorful language’ on the playground. So now, he had to suffer the old man’s attempts at ‘breaking his bad habits.’

Kaiser turned his attention back to his book; frost nibbled at his cheeks. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang to mark the beginning of a new hour, the sky was still — the kind of quiet that lingered before nightfall.

“L'homme n'est rien d'autre que ce qu'il se fait.” Noa’s voice echoed in the crisp air. “And what kind of person are you going to make yourself into, Michael?”

The question gave him pause. Kaiser didn’t know what kind of person he wanted to be. He only knew that he wanted to be one. He knew he wasn’t born human, still wasn’t completely human, not intrinsically, not without football. He knew that every time he kicked, every time he gave his all to a match, he did it so he could become someone. So that he could be more than a piece of trash.

And it was an odd thing to ask, coming from Noa of all people. Because Noa wasn’t human either. Kaiser was quite sure that they were two of a kind, inhumans who somehow found one another. Though, of course, Noa wasn’t inhuman the same way Kaiser was. No one in their right mind would call the man a piece of trash, not with his status. No, in fact, Noa had evolved beyond humanity. He traded his skin for hard tin, sold his heart for a pump that kept him working day and night — his blood must have been oil, too. He never strayed from his programming, each and every action backed by some logic, some merciless pragmatism, some lines of code written on the core of his soul. Noa was a flawless machine. Flawless in a way no person was; unreachable on that pedestal of his.

The divide was clear, carved down onto gray pavement. The humans were over there, kids playing in the snow, couples sharing hot chocolate, a choir setting up to sing their carols on the sidewalk. Laughing, breathing, living humans. Kaiser and Noa, they sat on the sidelines, on the same bench, where they always were.

Noa watched those people, observed them as if they were oddities, perhaps fascinated. And Kaiser, he read about them, trying to decipher their brains, to learn what made them tick. The two of them only knew what it meant to be human in theory. So really, it was a strange question.

Kaiser didn’t answer.

“If you don’t know yet, you should start thinking about it. The sooner the better.” Noa spoke, factual and dull, as always.

The boy grumbled. He still couldn’t figure out what that one word meant.

-------------------------------

They headed home once it grew dark. Kaiser stood in the foyer, leaning one side against the wall, trying to kick off the snow still stuck at the bottom of his boots.

“By the way, I got you something.” Noa, already inside, called from the kitchen. Moments later, he emerged into the living room, holding what looked to be a cake. It was a simple thing, plain vanilla frosting, undecorated with only a single candle stuck thoughtlessly on top, like a mock imitation of a birthday cake.

Kaiser felt his stomach churn.

Noa set the cake on the coffee table, placed a set of plates and cutlery beside it. How did he even have the time to get that? How, in his completely blocked-out schedule, did Noa find the time to go out of his way to get Kaiser a cake? A frivolous display, an inefficiency, a gear that spun out of sync. Kaiser stepped backwards, moved closer to the door.

His birthday was still a week away. But that shouldn’t have mattered; it didn’t matter last year, or the year before that, it never did. They’ve never fussed about it. So why now? Why did Noa start now? Kaiser hoped, silently, that this was anything other than a sign of affection. Even if it was his last meal before he was thrown out onto the asphalt, that would still be better. His skin crawled at the thought of being cared for.

It was disgusting, wasn’t it? For someone to hold a piece of trash closely, gently.

“A reward,” Noa turned to him, “for winning your games. Good job.” Factual, dull, predictable, safe, as always. Kaiser reminded himself. Safe, as always.

He let out a breath. His shoulders slumped in relief. It wasn’t kindness; just an extension of their deal.

“...Thanks.” Kaiser approached the coffee table, his legs unsteady.

Noa handed him a piece of cake. “You’re welcome. Don’t take it for granted.”

Kaiser didn’t need to be told. He knew what it took to get here, knew the artificial vanilla on his tongue was paid for with the burning in his muscles, and the sweat that clung to his back. He knew, just as Noa had taught him, that nothing in this world was given for free. He took another bite, it melted in his mouth.

Noa reached over and wiped the cream off Kaiser’s cheek. “Don’t make a mess.”

The boy frowned. He was lucky, in a sense, that Noa had decided to do this today rather than on Christmas. That would have been tacky — well, tackier. But maybe it would be fitting, nothing good ever happened on or because of Christmas. For one, Noa was named after it. And two, Kaiser was born on it. So that was already two annoying things, both wrapped up in one holiday.

Kaiser stared at his half-eaten piece of cake, smooshed the spongy texture with his fork a few times before bringing it to his mouth, biting down harder than he had to. It was sweet. The cake was sweet, stability was sweet, victory was sweet. So sweet, that he almost felt worthy enough to be human. Maybe not fully, maybe not forever, but human enough, human now. Human because he earned it.

All of this had seemed impossible just a few years ago for that piece of trash.

Impossible…

“About what you asked me earlier.” Kaiser started.

He met Noa’s gaze.

“I want to be someone who does the impossible.”

Noa nodded. “Good.”

—8 years later—

Irate. Isagi is absolutely irate.

“Too slow, Yoichi.” Michael dribbles past him, flashing that damn smirk — still putting on the melodrama with Isagi as the sole audience — sprinting straight for the goal. The pride, the ridicule, the way his hair flows as he runs. It makes him livid.

He has been livid, ever since Michael wouldn’t acknowledge him when he had stayed behind after practice to watch, again. He wouldn’t meet his eyes, though Isagi knew he could feel the unique sense of purpose behind them this time around. And he has been livid, ever since Michael laughed at his challenge to a 1V1, sneered as if he already knew he was going to win.

Isagi gave chase. He’s going to make Michael pay. He’ll beat him to a pulp, metaphorically, in football, and if he can’t, he might beat him literally. It would only be fair; justified retaliation for infecting him with a fetal disease, the worst known to man. A crush.

Why does it have to be him? Why, of all people, is it this obnoxious, vain, tyrannical jackass? It’s unbecoming, gross, downright shameful. And most vile of all, it’s a betrayal of himself. Isagi had spent days, weeks unraveling because of him; he had let himself obsess over Michael, had let himself stare despite his better judgement telling him to look away. Maybe he should have gouged out his eyes before it got this bad.

Michael scores before he could catch up. It’s beautiful, so beautiful that Isagi wants to grab that blond hair and bash his head into the goal post.

“One more.” Isagi speaks, it comes out in between gasps of breath. He stands with his hands on his knees, peering up at Michael, squinting from the flare of the incandescent lights that casts the bastard in a strange halo.

“Couldn’t get enough of me?” Michael looks pretty when he gloats. He’s right. Atrociously right. Isagi thinks he’s going to throw up.

“I’m not gonna stop until I beat you, shitty prince.” His head falls down as he tries to take in more air, an involuntary, repulsive sign of submission.

“Don’t overwork yourself, darling.” Michael chuckles. “Wouldn’t want you to drop dead before I’ve had my fun crushing you.”

“Fuck you.” Isagi spits out.

“Maybe later. I’m tired now.” Michael makes his way to the door, his voice blithe, indifferent.

“We’re not done here, dickhead.” He glares knives into Michael’s retreating back.

“Night night, Yoichi.” He waves. He has the nerve to wave.

It’s unfair. Isagi strides forward. Does Michael think he can just ignore him? He closes the gap between them. Who gives him the right to walk away? To discard Isagi like a toy? It’s unfair. His hand lunges up. He refuses to be trashed. He grips Michael’s shoulder, squeezes hard and yanks him back. “I said we're not done!” Isagi turns him around, so that Michael would have to face him, look at him, so he couldn’t escape his burning wrath.

And for a brief moment, he feels that ecstatic sense of triumph when he sees the shock on Michael’s face. Then, he feels his head hitting the bastard’s chest as he loses control of his momentum. He crashes into him, and they come tumbling down onto the ground. Isagi winces from pain when his knees strike the astroturf. He looks down to find Michael beneath him, pinned in place like an insect on display, gazing up in utter confusion.

Isagi likes this expression the most.

At some point, it became impossible to deny. He likes his face. He likes it when Michael smiles, so smug that he wants to smack him, pinch his cheeks until they hurt so bad that he couldn’t turn his lips up anymore; a twisted sort of cute aggression. He likes Michael’s blank looks, too, the ones that only come out when he thinks nobody sees. The way his eyes mellow out, calmer, clear like still water that Isagi longs to stir.

But his favorite, by far, is when Michael is confused. When he’s at a loss for words because Isagi’s actions have gone beyond his comprehension, had overwhelmed him. His mouth sat apart, nose bridge scrunched up, pupils shrunken. The evidence that Isagi has the upper hand.

His gaze drifts down to Michael’s neck. Bright ink on a pale canvas; the roses are in full bloom on his skin. They glow with a strange, dreamlike haze. The blue is captivating, etched as deep as a chasm calling out for prey. Isagi answers its beckoning, takes the lure. By some madness, perhaps puppeted by some spell, he moves his hand closer. His fingers hover just above the tattoo, so, so very close to touching it — only a hair’s breadth away.

Michael jolts to the side. “Yoichi, what the fuck?”

Isagi pulls his hand back, hastily, as if recoiling from a hot stove.

Michael snickers at his hesitance, his confusion melts away for amusement. “Interested?”

“In your bad decisions, yeah.” His voice is quiet, soft, almost affectionate. “How’d you even end up with that thing?”

“It’s a promise.” Michael reaches for Isagi’s hand, takes it in his and brings it down onto his neck. He presses their palms firmly into his flesh. Warm, smooth, tender. Isagi thinks — wishes — that if he focused hard enough, he could feel the blood coursing through Michael’s veins. “To do the impossible.” He finishes, keeping their hands together, in the same spot. The gesture is awfully soft, even if Isagi knows it’s meant as a taunt. Maybe he likes that it’s meant as a taunt.

Impossible, huh? He had thought it was impossible for him to even tolerate this ‘emperor,’ but here he is. The impossible really does happen with that bastard around. Michael must be God’s favorite demon. It’s unfair.

Liking Michael Kaiser is the worst fate that can befall anyone. And no one can run from their fate. That fondness, what he begrudgingly admits is a crush, can't be escaped. Not when Michael acts the way he does, not when he looks at Isagi like that. It’s unfair.

He has to be dealt with.

Isagi grasps his neck a bit tighter. He knows what he needs to do.

If he’s in this — and he doesn’t want to be, but he is — then he’s in it to win it. That’s how Isagi has always been; if he likes something, someone, he's going to go after them. It’s how he plays football, it’s how he’s going to hunt Michael. Though he isn’t entirely sure what these feelings are, he knows what they want him to do. And now, the only way to go is forward, following his wretched heart into the dark unknown. He’ll chase it. As quickly, as ardently, as boldly as he can; just like how he chases after a goal.

“Can I kiss you?”

Isagi decides, with striking clarity of mind, that confessing shouldn’t come with much fanfare. He should do it quickly, resolutely, and skip over the wait. Michael doesn’t deserve all that drama. He refuses to yearn for that bastard, to let his heart beat on in silence. It would only humiliate him further.

“...what?” It’s the meekest Michael has ever sounded.

“Can I kiss you?” He repeats.

“Yoichi, are you feeling ok?” He’s confused again. Good.

“Yes. And I like you. Can I kiss you?”

“You’re shameless…” Michael laughs, though the tension is clear.

“So?”

“I’ve gotta give you credit, your mind games are getting creative.” Michael swarms under him. “What? Are you trying to throw me off before tomorrow’s game?” The match with Manshine is the furthest thing from Isagi’s mind right now. His eyes stay fixed on the target below.

“Yes or no?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Michael bears his teeth, leers at him in disbelief.

“I’m not bluffing.” Isagi answers, cold despite the fire in the pit of his stomach.

He musters up a smile, though it isn’t as convincing as he thinks it is. “Aw, Yoichi has a crush on me? You’re so cute. You wanna kiss your emperor? Who’s my precious little puppy?” What a clown. He could just give Isagi a straight answer, but neither of them are the type to surrender.

“Taunting me won’t get you out of this, Michael. You know how last time ended.” Isagi had sat on his lap until he got fed up enough to shove him off. “I’m really gonna do it. If you don’t want me to, just say no.”

“Then go ahead, kiss me like the needy dog you are.” He laces their fingers together, his nails dig into Isagi’s palm.

He blinks. “Ok.”

“You’re pathetic-” Their lips touch.

And Isagi gets the answer to his question, the one that has plagued him since that day in the locker room. Michael tastes sweet, exactly like his cologne. Decadent and addictive. He takes the bastard’s lips in between his teeth, and chews. Michael bites back with just as much fervor, chomping down on the corner of Isagi’s mouth with his canine like he wants to draw blood. They don’t pull away, not even for a second. It feels right, as if a puzzle piece has clicked into place. Yes, Michael belongs here, beneath him, devoured by him.

They’re both breathless by the end of it, looking at each other with vacant, shell-shocked stares.

“So, uh… did you… like… it?” Isagi speaks, struggling to keep his voice even.

“Really? You’re gonna end with that?” He scoffs.

Isagi frowns, sighs, then lets his body fall. He rolls over and slumps to the ground, panting.

Now freed, Michael pushes himself up. “Well, that was fun.” His lips quiver. “Don’t disappoint me tomorrow.” It comes quick, a poor attempt at maintaining his composure. His head is turned, deliberately, no doubt, so that Isagi can’t see him. But his bright red ears say enough. He rushes towards the door, his movement shaky, lopsided, like he’s about to topple down. And once he’s off the pitch, he breaks into a full sprint.

Isagi traces over his lips. They’re swollen.