Chapter Text
Isagi Yoichi and Michael Kaiser are fated mates.
In the seventh year of his career, Isagi Yoichi suddenly underwent his second differentiation. In the middle of a match against Bastard München, he writhed in Bachira’s arms, clinging tightly to his dearest friend. His arm looped around Bachira’s neck, pulling himself even closer, a foreboding urge whispering to Isagi: if he didn’t speak his heart now, he might never get another chance.
But before Isagi could utter a word, Kaiser yanked him away from Bachira. The honeyed pheromones that once lingered in the air vanished before his eyes. Instinctively, Isagi tried to kick Kaiser away, his intuition screaming at him to run, to flee before those suffocating pheromones could coil around him. Chains of fate clamped down on Isagi Yoichi, forcing him to confront the overpowering, unrelenting scent of roses.
Bachira, Bachira, Bachira.
He remembered the moment they sat together, watching Mount Fuji; the pale dawn light brushing the summit, the breeze tousling Bachira’s short, golden-brown streaked hair, the way his smile lit up half of Isagi’s world. Bachira might have forgotten, but Isagi Yoichi had engraved every second of it in his heart.
As Bachira’s figure blurred in his vision, Isagi knew his emotions were being stolen away. Fate, that wretched thing, was eroding the tender affection he held for the one he loved most, all to deliver him into Michael Kaiser’s arms. They had no choice, because fate decreed that Michael Kaiser and Isagi Yoichi belonged together.
Belonged.
Chewing on that word, Isagi Yoichi struggled, desperately trying to recall everything about Bachira. He couldn’t forget; Bachira was the living fragment of his soul, the missing piece that reconnected his long-stilled heart. Bachira had been the first to reach out, to pull Isagi from the mire of his own despair. The day Isagi won the World Cup, they had shared a friendly kiss in the euphoria of victory, a fleeting brush of lips that awakened something dormant in Isagi. A hunger he couldn’t suppress.
They had never been lovers. Bachira’s feelings for him were pure; like the snow in Berlin, seemingly pristine but tainted beneath; like the sun, scorching yet life-giving. Isagi Yoichi was the Evening Star, lingering in twilight, waiting for a dawn that would never belong to him.
He was the one hiding behind the horizon, cradling his little sun in secret, walking side by side on that beautiful path. Sunset was the most breathtaking scenery, they were so close, yet his love was buried alive by Berlin’s winter.
Darkness swallowed Isagi Yoichi as he collapsed into Kaiser’s embrace, the arms of the man he despised most. The gears of fate turned, binding them together.
No one could escape, no one could stop it.
From that day on, they were inseparable. Under ABO law, Isagi was forcibly transferred to Bastard München, his family moving his belongings to Germany, where he would live with Kaiser. All because of that damned fate.
Berlin’s winter was never beautiful. Their hands intertwined as they walked the empty streets, the ashen gray of the city reflecting in Isagi’s sapphire-blue eyes. The melancholy of this place could never penetrate the part of his soul already stolen by a radiant sun. The warmth of their clasped hands did nothing to soothe the longing in his chest; until Kaiser tightened his grip, squeezing Isagi’s palm.
Over the years since his differentiation, Kaiser had changed. He chose silence, accepting the fate imposed on them. He held Isagi through every painful heat, never pushing further, enduring it all without complaint.
Not all fated pairs were happy. They only pretended to be. Isagi Yoichi had once tried to run away from Berlin, away from Germany, back to his homeland, back to Bachira. But fate was a cruel whirlpool—car troubles, flight cancellations—stranding him in the freezing cold for seven days. In the end, he surrendered, abandoning his futile hope and returning to the home he shared with Kaiser.
Kaiser was always there. He never chased, never forced Isagi to do anything. A lavish meal, long gone cold, waited on the table. When Isagi returned, Kaiser took a towel, wiping the snow from his hair, then pressed a warm heat pack into his trembling hands. He studied Isagi for a long moment before leaning in, brushing a kiss against his frozen lips.
The thick rose pheromones made Isagi grimace. He didn’t respond. Kaiser didn’t push further, just a press of lips, transferring pheromones, nothing more. They had never shared a proper deep kiss. Westerners worshipped lust, treating sex as pleasure, but Isagi came from a culture that valued harmony between body and soul. If not for his heats, Kaiser would never have taken him to bed. He usually just held Isagi, burying his face in the crook of his neck, pressing tender kisses to his cheek, so affectionate it ached.
They had tangled in the sheets, surrendering to the pleasure fate granted them. But when their hands intertwined, when the bed creaked and snow whispered against the windowsill, Isagi Yoichi always imagined another future: one where Bachira was his fated one.
Once, he tangled his fingers in Kaiser’s golden hair, the only shade close to the one in his memories and pressed a reverent kiss to it. Kaiser, moving above him, suddenly stilled. They had an unspoken rule: lights off during sex. But the streetlamp’s glow slipped through the window, and in the dimness, Isagi saw the silver strands in that golden hair and Kaiser’s hidden expression. That night, Kaiser abruptly left, vanishing into the cold. He never explained. Isagi never asked.
When the soul and body were out of sync, a person split in two, one half craving pleasure, the other an empty cup that could never be filled. Isagi lifted a golden lock to his nose, pretending it carried the sweet honey of blooming flowers, not the cloying roses.
"Yellow."
Wrapped in blankets, Isagi Yoichi drifted to sleep in the unfamiliar warmth of Berlin’s winter. Fate had stolen his home. He curled into himself, creating a refuge in this foreign land.
Dawn broke, sunlight spilling from the east. Rubbing his heavy eyelids, Isagi stirred at the sound of clattering downstairs. He descended the wooden staircase—carved with delicate Japanese patterns Kaiser had chosen—slipped into the bee-patterned slippers Kaiser gifted him, and pulled on the sunflower-printed pajamas from Valentine’s Day. Peeking over the railing, he froze.
The self-proclaimed emperor no longer carried himself with arrogance. Isagi stumbled, slipping down two steps, landing hard on his backside. The pain was nothing compared to the shock of seeing Kaiser hunched over a pile of mechanical parts.
"The tattoo,"Isagi whispered, struggling to form words. "Where’s your tattoo?"
The blue rose that once stood proud on his skin was gone, the thorned vines erased, only red scars remained. Kaiser avoided his gaze, brushing off the question as he helped Isagi up.
"Does it hurt?"
Isagi tugged Kaiser’s hair, noticing for the first time how much of the blue had been cut away, leaving only gold. Humans always painted themselves as victims, blaming the innocent. A thousand times, Isagi had wished Michael Kaiser would disappear, freeing them both. He didn’t hate Kaiser, he hated the ABO dynamic that tore him from Bachira, forcing this bond. Kaiser was just another casualty.
"Where’s the tattoo?"
When lying, people avoided eye contact. Kaiser glanced away.
"I forgot I had an appointment last night. The tattoo was inconvenient."
"For me?" Isagi raised a brow, tapping Kaiser’s cheek. "For me?"
Kaiser laughed. A rare, genuine sound, like during the NEL when he’d watched Isagi’s struggles with amusement. Isagi felt like a clown. He didn’t know Kaiser laughed because his own life was the real joke.
"For you, Yoichi. Stop asking."*
Kaiser returned to assembling the robot. Isagi watched, baffled.
"Why are you building a cleaning robot?"
Inserting the final battery, Kaiser powered it on. "Next week’s match is in Asia. We’ll be there for about a week. You’re particular about cleanliness, so I got one for convenience."
"Kaiser."
"Hm?"
Isagi wanted to say 'You’re insane, aren’t you?'. But the words died in his throat. Maybe he was insane too. Because Berlin no longer felt foreign. Even if his heart still ached for the sunset behind Mount Fuji, Berlin’s quiet dawn had seeped into the cracks of his soul.
A whisper, sweet as honey, curled in his ear. Again and again. Isagi stood, his leg still sore, the weather still bleak. Yet, for the first time, he wanted to look up at Berlin’s sky with Kaiser.
So he said:
"Want to take a walk?"
Kaiser’s hands stilled. The rhythm broke. Isagi took his hand.
They threw on coats, pulled on snow boots, laced their fingers together, and wandered the empty streets. Snow fell, dusting the cobblestones. The temperature hovered below freezing. Yet they walked like wanderers enchanted by the beauty of a foreign land, untouched by the cold.
But even pressed close, no warmth passed between them.
To Isagi Yoichi, Berlin remained a melancholic stranger. He would never grow accustomed to it. Never.
The rose on the emperor’s shoulder would one day wither. Isagi thought: Kaiser’s pride had been shattered by fate. He was too lucid, too resigned to the truth: he belonged to Isagi Yoichi forever.
Isagi Yoichi. Yoichi.
Number One needed a Number Two; a bridge to Three, Four, Five. Without Two, One was just a lonely entity, unable to move forward or back. Kaiser and Isagi had nothing in common. They were both solitary "Ones," forced together by fate’s cruelty. From the moment they met, they recognized each other’s nature; their selfishness carved into their bones, now ripped out by fate’s merciless hands.
"Is Berlin beautiful?" Kaiser asked abruptly, staring at the overcast sky. Isagi couldn’t read his expression.
"No."
Kaiser let go of his hand. They walked side by side, Isagi rubbing his palms together for warmth. Kaiser’s body temperature was even lower than his—so cold Isagi felt nothing.
Then Kaiser said:
"Yeah. I don’t think it’s beautiful either."
"Let’s go home."
Winter in Japan was cold too, but never as lonely as Berlin. A desolate river flowed through the silence, two mismatched crescent moons forever out of sync.
Fate had chosen them; two souls who should never have crossed paths. Half of Isagi Yoichi settled into resignation. He had grown up.
Because in Berlin’s winter, that naive, misty love had been buried under dirty snow.
There would be no day of departure.
And so, no day of return.