Work Text:
You’ve known Michael Kaiser for almost two years. He’s your first client, though at the time you got hired he wasn’t as big of a deal.
Despite still being in the U-20 league, Kaiser’s salary is outrageous enough to make him notorious and therefore warrant a security guard. Perhaps yours is even more outrageous, since you earn a criminal amount of money when all you do for a living is tail around this annoying guy.
What makes the scenario of someone putting a hit on Kaiser believable isn’t his fame or money, though. It’s the fact that he’s murderously unpleasant. Even if nothing of note has happened to him yet, many death threats have been hurled his way. People have become deranged with hatred for him, since he put them, their favorite forward or their cousin back on the bench after a match. For sure you’ll die warding off the hitmen coming for him soon.
Tonight, Ness is not performing the commoner’s task of dragging Kaiser’s luggage along. Instead Kaiser is doing it himself (unusual), so you pull it away from him, which he allows. “Aww, I haven’t seen my pretty princess in three months. Don’t worry, I’ll do it for you-”
“Don’t speak so early into making your appearance,” says Kaiser in the most imperious tone he can muster upon coming out of this flight dishevelled and sleepy. His hair is going up in several directions in ways that have you questioning your knowledge of gravity.
You ignore the physics dilemma. “Hey, Ness.”
“Hello,” he greets back with his usual creepy smile, more so because it’s his way of being polite than anything.
“What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Did you watch the broadcast?”
“What? The broadcast? No way. I mean no offense, but I don’t want to pay an euro just to see you guys’ stupid mugs when I can barely stand to see you both for free. But like, I mean, no offense though, heh.”
Ness lets out an ‘oh’. Normally he would react differently, but all this means to him at the moment is how unaware you are of everything that’s happened over at Blue Lock.
Coming to the same conclusion and while you’re still oblivious to the tense atmosphere, Kaiser pulls you along, signalling he wants to make his leave. You oblige him, though as usual his demanding attitude is cute on paper and obnoxious in practice, rubbing you the wrong way the way he just decides something and acts on it without consideration towards anyone else. Not that you’re a pillar of cogitation anyway, which maybe makes your complaints hypocritical.
Kaiser’s silence is eerie.
You figure he’s tired from his flight, but usually he likes to posture and instigate, seeking reactions. Now he’s quiet.
The times you recreationally imagined Kaiser speechless, it was a fantasy of zen and reprieve akin to taking a painkiller when you have a headache (as his droning has sometimes caused you these), but in reality you find it unnerving. It’s weird how he hasn’t smirked or made a narcissistic remark in five minutes — unnatural restraint when it comes to Kaiser’s behavior for sure.
You think to ask if he lost or something, but you don’t value your life that little. Besides, getting your head bit off by some football diva isn’t a good look. Instead, you say, “I’m driving you with my car today,” while leading him out of the airport.
“Fine,” Kaiser says, boredom dictating over his intonation. “How has Ray Dark’s asshole been treating you?”
“It’s loose and wrinkled as usual,” you say, although to be honest you don’t talk to that man outside of phone calls and text messages. The disgusting thing you uttered goes unrewarded as Kaiser doesn’t even snort, but to be fair he’s never laughed at your jokes. “While you were gone I had to work with someone else.”
“Mm… Was it another athlete?”
Suddenly, Kaiser’s focus on you is razor sharp. His gaze on you is, again, disconcerting, so you feign ignorance to his strange stare. Though internally you’re annoyed he seems to be, what, trying to use you to spy on other football players? There’s no other purpose for this question you can think of.
“No. It was for the owner of some fancy schmancy building. They had me at the grand hall, it was so boring.”
Kaiser grows disinterested again once you answer him in the negative.
You wander out into the darkness and walk a fair bit, passing by where there’s no crossroad even though it’s moderately suicidal to do so in an area as busy as this.
“Why’d you park so far out? God, the way you walk this area is always so stupid. You had to become a bodyguard because you have no brain.”
“Yeah, I guess you have to be a football player ‘cause you’ve got no brain either. You know what they say, birds of a feather flock together.”
Kaiser doesn’t respond.
“I’m a professional. A close protection officer,” you continue with played up self-righteousness. Again, just because Kaiser thinks you’re unfunny doesn’t mean you can’t amuse yourself.
“More like you’re a designer goon. Fuck off.”
“If something were to happen to you right now, I wouldn’t lift a finger.” You wiggle your pinky at him to emphasize your point.
He rolls his eyes. You can barely make out the gesture with how late it is. “Oh, whatever. I could defend myself better than you could. And by the way, football is a strategy based game.”
“And so could we claim the same for rugby.”
“Don’t talk about fucking rugby to me.”
The two of you end up in front of your car eventually. You throw his luggage in the trunk then lock the car again and lean against the back side to spark a cigarette and smoke it slowly, keeping Kaiser out in the cold out of pettiness.
He wants to go home, but you’re ontologically evil.
He stands next to you to practice his most judgmental, disdainful look while he watches you blow puffs in the air with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The air is somewhat biting and the street lights provide some visibility on this part of the street.
“I don’t see how you’re supposed to protect me if you contract lung cancer,” says Kaiser again, probably trying to get back at you for not letting him into your vehicle before you started smoking.
You blow up another one. “I don’t see how you’re supposed to run across the field with all this secondhand smoke I’m giving you either, man.”
“I didn’t miss Germany in general, but one thing I especially didn’t miss was you.”
You’re about to continue with your no script comedy routine until a car whizzes down the road, the wheels creating such an obnoxious noise when hitting the pavement you can practically smell that fresh parking ticket scent wafting by your nose and you’re not even the driver. However, you don’t have much time for puzzlement because the person inside of the passenger seat screams out an indignant ‘MICHAEL KAISER!’ and something comes hurling out of the open window right towards Kaiser’s face.
Despite your solemn vow to not do your job, on reflex you move your hand out. What hits the back of it and then splatters all around in the air is not deadly or even dangerous despite startling you… It’s more perplexing than anything.
“Ew, what is that?” Kaiser asks, looking at you in disgust as if you decided to smear food over yourself voluntarily.
You blink dumbly. The car is long gone now and you bring up your hand to your nose to sniff in a manner more loud than necessary. “I think it’s kidney pie?”
“Ugh.”
You put out your cigarette and unlock the car. “Dude, your hair is so bad people recognize you at night.”
“There are lights. And besides I’m sure I have a couple, maybe even a dozen fans who’ve gotten a haircut like this just because of me.”
Kaiser reaches out to open the door, but you scream out ‘NUH UH’ and bend forward to open it for him instead, gesturing afterwards. “After you,” you say in a manner you believe comes across as gallant.
He complies and you close the door after him before making the tedious walk to the other side. The pie reeks of urine like it was procured from one of those shady liquor stores that also sell random frozen food. Pieces of it flew to the side of your face and then there’s the mess on your hand up to your sleeve, too.
Once in the driver’s seat you reach around until you find your wet wipes and try your best to get everything away.
“You smell like shit,” says Kaiser conversationally.
“God, I know. I got this suit to the dry cleaner’s ‘cause you were coming back. Can you believe it? The dry cleaner’s. I knew I shouldn’t have washed it at all.”
Throughout your ramble Kaiser stays silent.
“Are you alright? Oh, you have some on your face too.” You turn towards him when you’re done and pass him the wet wipe package. Now you have so much disgusting garbage to throw out.
“It’s not a big deal. Besides, you took the hit anyway.” Kaiser presses his forehead to the window and gazes out into the street forlornly.
“No, I don’t mean about the pie. I mean, you’re just… acting different.”
His eyes return to you, narrowed, glaring with a misplaced sense of petulance at you for asking a common courtesy question and pointing out his bad mood. Without answering and after a few uncomfortable seconds, he goes back to staring out of the window and begins dabbing his face with one of the wipes. What a buzzkill.
Kaiser picks at his cuticles while you start up the car. He doesn’t even complain when you put on some early 2010s hit you know he doesn’t like.
The drive back to his apartment complex is unpleasant. You park, get out, hold the car door open for him and pass him his luggage too. Usually you’d retreat to the car after this point, but now you walk him to the entrance instead.
You know Kaiser lives up there on the last floor in a penthouse he decorated in an ugly way when until a bit before Blue Lock he still lived in the Bastard Munchen dorms.
How funny that sometimes you look at him and you don’t know what to make of him. Is he childish? Is he beyond his years? Acting infantile and sulky, but walking around with a bodyguard and having the mortgage on the top of this overpriced six floor building, earning six figures? Maybe he’s neither, nothing, an in between. It doesn’t matter to you. You were nineteen too, not long ago even.
“You don’t need to worry about me over some shitty pie,” says Kaiser, noticing the change in routine with you following him to the entrance.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just trying to get my daily steps in. I’m aiming for twenty thousand every day from now on.”
You smile at him and wave him off. Kaiser retreats inside after one last impassive stare at you. You think he might’ve been unsatisfied with what you said, but you’re not sure why because you always talk to each other like this.
Later on a cinematic photo capturing the incident leaks and goes around. It’s HD to the point of an uncanny valley element, capturing your pores and dumbstruck faces, the way Kaiser is gawping at you which you hadn’t noticed while it happened.
Articles go around, one of them titled ‘Security Guard Heroically Saves Michael Kaiser From Rotten Pie Attack’. Of course, you can’t brag about how famous you are now to your friends, though, they’ll say you’re a tool.