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“Oh. I-I mean, it’s fine if you uh—if you don’t want to. But at least tell me when’s your birthday?”
A question going unanswered, shouted from behind him in bad, broken German. Filtered by the microtranslators, dissolving into compressed audio, like small segments of static.
With every stomp down the front steps of Bastard München’s clubhouse, the snow crunched under Kaiser’s boots.
Back then, he’d hunched his shoulders, burying in his scarf as he walked away with his hands balled into fists in his pockets. Sour. Bitter.
It was not Isagi’s place to be asking questions like that. Personal questions. Meaningless questions. Questions Kaiser didn’t like to answer. They weren’t close, not buddies, barely teammates.
He couldn’t shake the image of Isagi standing there like an idiot. Part of him found it satisfying, but another part was deeply infuriated, simmering in unforgiving frustration.
After the series of catastrophic events in the NEL, how could Isagi possibly believe Kaiser would ever want anything to do with him?
Following the conclusion of the U-20 World Cup, their individual offers and transfers were next in the priority ladder.
Bastard München’s first team had been walking on eggshells. Hours ticking down and days marked off the calendar, until it was time for Kaiser to transfer to Re Al in February, and for Isagi to replace him, despite their strongest having been observed when the two fought alongside each other.
Five years ago; a faded memory. Kaiser had gone home irritated, with the sound of treading on fresh, built-up snow echoing in his ears. Yet not quite overtaking Isagi’s voice, strained with anxiety and suspense, making rounds in his head.
“I know we didn’t exactly, uh… start off on the right foot. Doesn’t change that I respect you as a player—that is no secret. And I am not the type to hold anything against others off the field.”
Kaiser had crushed the glass of water he was holding, hand tensing instinctively, like it was the memory and tone of Isagi’s voice he was trying to get rid of.
However, not even its brittle scream of shatter could stop his brain from replaying the rest of the striker’s words. Kaiser wanted to put a crack right in their middle too. Hoped they’d be as fragile as they sounded.
“It’s my first winter in Germany. That I’m also, willingly, spending alone. It’s probably indiscreet, but I heard from the others you’ve got your birthday on the 25th.” Isagi had scrunched up his nose amidst the chill of December, rubbing at it with the back of his sleeve as he sniffled softly. His gaze was stuck low, darting between their feet. “If you haven’t made any plans, you could… join me at my new place next week…? I’m putting up the tree. Like, decorating it.”
Isagi had given up mid-sentence trying to remember proper German sentence structure, and switched to Japanese, shifting his weight slightly to the left to check if Kaiser was still wearing his earbuds.
“Just for good luck. Might be hard to put our disputes behind us, but it wouldn’t hurt us—or I guess, me—to try.”
That had pulled a scoff out of the older man, leaving a misting breath to curl in the evening air, joining Isagi’s own.
There, under the cool beam of the floodlight, Kaiser’s face had twisted into a mean scowl, and as he turned on his heel to leave, he caught a glimpse of the cobalt residing in Isagi’s eyes.
A bottomless blue that didn’t shine with the expectation he’d say yes—only something that spelled he could already tell Kaiser would turn the idea down and break both of their weak hearts. Like an unchangeable ending written by fate on a sticky note he’d found on his fridge earlier that day.
Kaiser would’ve strangled the courage itself before it had the chance to bloom and lead to this farce. He would have been harsher, rude, awful, more brutal. Should have been.
Because goodwill felt like a trap.
Anything to keep him from caring about those trivial things that Kaiser has always treated as such, to keep Isagi away, at a distance he can control and feel invincible in.
The smoky huff of a displeased exhale dragged behind him as he moved away from the deck where Isagi remained rooted. He should stay there forever. At least then, it would be easier for Kaiser to avoid him.
“Good for you, Yoichi,” he’d spat out, aggravated, voice laced with venom, so much he could taste bile as his stomach churned in distress. “Your parents raised you to be a good man, taught you how to ‘put it all behind you’. And it’s not my birthday. No need.”
Pacing back and forth the boundary of that memory, Kaiser lingered awkwardly in place, dazed, shards of glass rolling at his feet, across the kitchen floor.
It was somewhat vivid but fuzzy at the same time, as if his memory was rejecting the image, the recollection of their first and last interaction away from the pitch and out of uniform.
Why do you care?
He recalls catching himself staring at the cut adorning the middle of his right palm. Not too deep, its sting barely there.
An insignificant wound. Excreting crimson in little globs at different spots.
It didn’t hurt. It was just there.
How laughable that glass had managed to break skin.
Faintly, deep in the dark corners of his mind—not his frozen heart—Kaiser wished he had snapped his head around one last time, if only to revel in the petty satisfaction of seeing embarrassment settle on Isagi’s face.
But, in the end, all he could hear was the hurt that made his voice crack, reaching him scared, tattered, and uncertain. And it wasn’t from the wind, nor the translators hissing between syllables as he put distance between them.
“…it’s fine if you uh—if you don’t want to… At least tell me when’s your birthday?”
Why would that matter to Isagi? It didn’t matter to Kaiser.
That insignificant wound had closed up sooner than the team’s medical staff could prompt him to replace the bandages not even a week in. A thin, pink ridge spanned across his palm, bordering on disappearing.
A reminder; the knell for something as simple as momentary pain, a chance, everything broken between them, vanishing.
Little did Kaiser know the inner turmoil, some form of intricate tension and a strong interest he would never manage to justify with logic, following that minor wound and even more insignificant question, would be much harder to ignore—let alone heal.
Winter envelopes the world with the delicacy of a veil, leaving snow to fall softly along the streets until the buzzy atmosphere that chokes them the rest of the year is brought down to a hush.
Strings of careful movements, voices muffled by the thickness of bulky scarves.
It descends like absolution, rather than catharsis. It offers mercy. The snow bears a bleakness that lasts long enough to make one forget their desolation, or find comfort in the lack of color—those moments suspended in time and ice.
Kaiser mulls it over every winter, though hasn’t quite managed to figure out if he likes it more because it fulfills the life-long mission of fitting in—effortlessly in the way it covers everything and places itself anywhere—or because it forces the lively crowds to scurry indoors.
The silence hums. His breaths fog. The press of black boots against the fresh layers of snowflakes melding into each other creates a rhythm within the stillness.
Crunch. Tap. Crackle. Tap.
The silence wraps around those gentle thumps and crunches, and in the same manner the snow keeps a record of his steps forward in the form of imprints, the snow may offer mercy as it accumulates but doesn’t dismiss the pulse of the world beneath that continues to beat.
When the time comes, it will melt away and clear the path for all to carve new trails, unburdened by the fear of slipping, confident in one’s own footing.
Kaiser can’t help but wonder if its tentative nature is a lesson for the dejected. Perhaps the snow is far more fragile than the one who’s broken beyond repair, and perhaps therein lie its palliative qualities.
The snow and gray scenery and chill lingering in the air, prickling on his lips and cheeks, do little to distract him from his endless abstract thoughts.
If he were faced with his therapist, he’d quickly rush to add he’s not hung up after such a long, heartfelt ramble. In turn, she’d tilt her head down to peer over the frame of her glasses, eyebrow raised in challenge.
You’re not hung up. Yet you dwell, she’d say, as if there’s a difference. He definitely thinks they’re different.
Before the warm glow of his destination, he halts—knocking the snow from his boots with firm taps against the pavement. Chunks of white shake loose from the grooves of the lugs.
Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open, gaze immediately flicking up to the owner behind the counter who greets him without a word.
They exchange a knowing nod and a warm smile, and Kaiser can’t help but notice that the lines creasing into his cheeks and around his eyes appear deeper now. Proof of the subtle flow of time.
Rich pine mingles with sweet cinnamon and aged wood, imbuing the store with several comforting, festive scents. Kaiser is dragged forward to the aisles on the right, their expanses brimming with brand new batches of handmade Christmas ornaments.
Advancing in measured strides, he lets his senses take it all in. Tracing the edges of wooden angels and twisted crystal icicles in shades of ivory, gold, and champagne—their surfaces smooth under his fingertips.
Just as he approaches the resin ornaments sharing a shelf with the hand-blown glass baubles, his phone vibrates in his coat pocket. For a second, he debates ignoring it, but the caller ID on the screen has him picking up reflexively.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Kaiser. Should I be wishing you an early Happy Birthday for tomorrow, sir?” His sports agent’s—Hans—voice is light, teasing, very well aware Kaiser despises references to such an uneventful day.
Kaiser huffs a laugh, stiffer than he wants it to be, more out of habit than amusement. “No,” he replies flatly, “and don’t call me that.”
An unmistakable chuckle filters through. Kaiser can just picture Hans leaning back in that leather chair of his, probably wearing a smug smile and shaking his head disapprovingly.
“You’re no fun. I suppose you're out doing important things?”
Glancing down at the ornament in his hand, a gaudy reindeer painted on it, Kaiser drags his thumb absently over the shiny surface. “Can never be that important a day before Christmas. I’m picking out ornaments last minute. The kind that look better under the light of the store than on my tree.”
“Ah, your annual noble pursuit.”
Even though he can’t see him, Kaiser shrugs, feigning cold indifference. “I guess so.”
He’s told himself countless times that it’s not his thing, that he doesn’t know who or what he's doing it for, despite the real answer prickling annoyingly in the back of his mind.
He buries the truth, persistently, under layers of denial.
Growing up, their house was never home to a Christmas tree. Their house never felt like a home should, point blank.
The only trees he’d admire from afar with a bittersweet ache throbbing down to his fingertips, were the decorative ones placed behind wide panes of lavish, brightly-lit local shops.
And that… barren, crooked thing, found in the corner of that god-forsaken bar his vile, deadbeat father would drag him to every year on his birthday. A sorry reminder of a holiday that never belonged to his broken existence.
The call idles, both parties falling silent. Hans makes a sound, an intake of breath before speaking, yet another pause—tight and nerve-wracking—swallows whatever he was about to spill.
Paper shuffles in the background. Kaiser eyes two specific sets on the shelf. One contains six fiery red ornaments of various shapes, the other blue ones, dusted in silver glitter that forms serpentine lines around them.
Speech comes an eternity, and two boxes thrown in the cart, later.
“We’ve found him, Kaiser. He signed with Berserk in August. Early, before the contract with Re Al expired. They got a ridiculous offer in.”
Kaiser’s breath hitches, step faltering mid-cart push.
“Seriously?” Disbelief stains his whisper, but so do the news inside his chest, ribs nearly tightening inward.
“Seriously. I’ve texted you the information you asked for. Don’t share it, no matter what,” Hans says, adding lines fast, as if to stress their importance. “Yoichi Isagi moved in two weeks ago. He’s in Munich—it’s his reserve apartment, main place is still in Dortmund. Laying low for the holidays.”
So two flats. If Kaiser weren’t on call he’d snort. Yoichi’s developed a taste for real estate and investments now?
The tone hangs, heavy with the meaning of something secret.
Kaiser pushes for an explanation without a second thought, “And…?”
Hans’ exasperated groan stirs Kaiser’s own nerves. “Aaaand… This is only hearsay, for lack of a better word. I mean: came-from-the-assistant-of-his-other-publicist-back-in-Japan type of hearsay. Apparently, his parents would be visiting for Christmas. But hundreds of flights have been cancelled due to horrible snowstorms—they’ve slowed the entire system. So by laying low, I mean spending it without family, most likely.”
Alone, Kaiser infers. He can’t be certain that he is spending it alone—Isagi has built a network of contacts in Germany after all—but his gut sends the intrusive signal, one he finds hard to doubt.
“Thank you, Hans. You’re… scarily good at this, you know,” Kaiser murmurs eventually, distracted, as he reaches for a cluster of crystal snowflakes, shimmering with iridescent swirls, left next to a glass figure of a round fox curled up with its cubs.
“I’m surprised you even asked. Honestly, between us two, you’re the real expert at… stalking. Remember turning the web upside down to figure out Barcha’s shoe sizes?” Hans comments casually, poorly concealing his snicker.
“You’re never letting that go, are you? It was one time!”
“Not a chance. And you owe me for this. Lunch, preferably.”
Kaiser rubs his temple, muttering indecipherable curses under his breath. He rolls the cart forward again, picking up a stocking along the way. “Alright, alright, that’s enough of your greed. Talk to you never.”
“Have a good rest of your day, sir,” Hans says, dragging out the last word in a way that has the blond making a face at his phone, before hanging up sharply.
Time passes unnoticed, attention wandering to the next shiny thing.
The echo of their conversation doesn’t fade, much like other unpleasant things in Kaiser’s life.
After a while, he stares blankly at his cart; already half-full. Is it a tradition he’s decided to adopt on the cusp of adulthood, to make the apartment feel less cold? Is it performance?
Five years. Every year since then, he finds himself in Germany for the holidays. Putting up a tree that always looks like it is missing a spark, a joy he can’t easily provide. Actually, he’s more like a joy-sucker, sucking it out of anything he touches.
If he had to keep this up for the next ten years, he’d still feel stiff and held down, not doing a good job at it at all, or ever.
Once more, he’s caught between the past and whatever lay ahead.
Two ludicrous club offers. Bastard München to Michael Kaiser. Berserk Dortmund to Isagi Yoichi.
Five years, no contact, no interaction beyond what’s absolutely necessary to the cameras and the world; competitiveness, rivalry, a 90-minute duel on the grass.
Five years, and a distance not measured in kilometers, but a snowy evening outside Bastard’s clubhouse and hushes of unspoken things that Kaiser can’t let go of.
When he approaches the counter, the cheerful owner offers well-wishes for the season that almost press uncomfortably against the weight tucked in his chest.
Kaiser gives a polite nod, barely hearing the total, receipt printing with a mechanical whirr.
Stepping out, the cold air hits him with the same intensity as a quiet decision forming in his head. It fills him with dread.
Is it okay for him to act on a whim? It’s so unlike him, isn’t it? But exposure is the cure to many of the mind’s fears, isn’t it? What’s the worst that could happen? What is it that he, Michael Kaiser, is so scared of?
Pondering, rooted out there, amidst flurries of snow sweeping past his cheeks, he resembles the fleeting, wistful silhouette of someone he missed his chance to get to know—but would give anything to come closer to now.
Uncertainty gives way to anticipation, and he drops his gaze to the two red paper bags, the ornaments packed in them; their colors flashy, a contrast to the gloomy black of his overcoat.
This year, the decorations won’t go on his own tree.
Doorbell.
Kaiser stares at the metal phone plate with the camera in the middle. He scans the family names again, then again, just to make sure none contain the name Yoichi Isagi.
Except for one. The narrow plastic nameplate, where a small rectangular piece of paper would be inserted, is empty.
There is no real indication this is the bell to Isagi’s place, nothing but the blank space that hints it might be the one among rows of others. If he moved in at the start of December, it makes sense he hasn’t bothered with minor details like this.
Every time Kaiser exhales, he registers the rise in his pulse, anxiety sitting heavy on his shoulders. He’s nervous. Frozen in place for the past fifteen minutes, fighting with his inner self to just press the goddamn button, who the fuck cares if the doorbell’s got a video system.
Hesitation threads itself in his gestures, pulling his hand down after each attempt he makes to ring it. He lets his stiff fist drop uselessly to his side, then lifts it again, index hovering above the bell, and drops it again. Up, down, elbow bending, arm falling limply.
If his blood could evaporate out of him, he’s sure it would’ve by now.
Imagine ringing someone’s doorbell, and the visual you are met with when you answer is a terror-stricken, fidgety Michael-fucking-Kaiser sporting a mean grimace.
Yeah, in fact, on such a busy night, he’s lucky none of the other residents have made an appearance to find his shadow, draped in black clothes, lingering at their main entrance like a creep.
The chilly breeze bites at the tips of his fingers as they clench harder around the handles of the gift bags, seeping through the thin leather of his gloves.
Glowering at the plate, he wishes Isagi had gone for a property at the opposite side of the neighborhood instead.
Less chances a house would have a whole ass multi-apartment video door phone, meaning he could simply show up at his doorstep as a proper uninvited guest should—not an awkward stalker caught in the red, digital blink of a camera.
God, every passing second is making this worse. Serves him right for choosing to pull this reckless stunt on the cursed date of his birthday.
Oh, the absurdity of it all.
He clicks his tongue, sucks a tight breath in that sounds as congested as a newborn baby’s—for fuck’s sake.
His entire being tenses when he presses the button. It emits a faint robotic whhzzz.
The seconds slip by excruciatingly slow. So slow that, for a moment, Kaiser contemplates turning around and stumbling away.
“Hallo?”
Static crackles, speaker stuffy. It was the right fucking button.
Kaiser coughs softly to steady himself, fingers curling so hard into his palms they hurt. The movement causes the motion sensor to light up. He straightens his neck and shoulders, looking straight ahead to the camera.
“It’s me.” His voice wavers. “Kaiser.”
More muffled static, though ultimately it’s pure silence.
“I—I can see that.” Then, “How did you get my address? Is—uh… Is something wrong?”
A hollow laugh, a simple huff, makes it out of Kaiser, but he’s actually panicking inside at the gruff of Isagi’s reply. Still, it carries an undertone of care. Common courtesy maybe. Considerate—in a way that stings—even to the so-called rival he hasn’t talked to in years.
He tries to play it off. “No, nothing is wrong. Uh… Sorry for showing up out of nowhere. Is this a bad time?”
The speaker groans once more, as if cringing at the painfully graceless response Kaiser just gave. On the other end of the line, Isagi’s shock and disbelief are almost palpable.
Panic is not merely firing up Kaiser’s nervous system to extreme alertness. It is clawing up to him at breakneck speed, coming to devour him along with the stupidity of his intentions. He wonders if Isagi will turn him away. Wonders if he deserves it.
“It’s Christmas day. How bad can it be?” Isagi quips with a slight edge to his tone. Kaiser holds his breath, deathly still in front of the camera. “Come up, it’s freezing out there. Fourth floor.”
The clarity of his words catches Kaiser by surprise, thinking maybe he’s imagined it, but the insistent ring of the entrance says otherwise. It snaps him back to reality so fast he’s jolting into motion, stumbling toward it to push it open before Isagi has a chance to reconsider.
His movements are close to robotic after that. The ride in the elevator doesn’t register. It’s a miracle he doesn’t fall flat on his face after he gets off it, legs not cooperating in the slightest, whole body seized by trepidation.
Isagi has left his door slightly ajar, a line of warm light spilling into the dim hallway. The shopping bags rustle against the material of Kaiser’s pants as he approaches with barely controlled steps.
Finally, with a sharp sweep, the door is pulled back all the way—revealing Isagi, bathed in that same muted, warm glow pouring from a place beyond the entryway.
Dark hair mussed, jeans faded, palms shoved to his back pockets. Unsure where to rest his eyes.
Kaiser wants to be the first to break the silence, but the simple greeting gets stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.
Isagi beats him to it. “Hey…”
“Hi.” When it does come out of Kaiser’s mouth, it doesn’t sound quite right, too breathless or too shaky. Isagi’s eyebrows pinch together, eyes narrowing when he pinpoints all three bags his visitor is carrying, expression questioning him silently.
It takes Kaiser ages to communicate, speech suddenly requiring some monumental effort. The dark-haired striker is… older now. Obviously.
Every angle on his body drives the point home, and Kaiser realizes late that he has never really looked at him as attentively before.
His shoulders are broader, figure having gained a few inches over the years. His gaze cuts underneath a messy, parted fringe, jawline sculpted, framing his face into what can’t be mistaken as anything else but maturity. A healthy, attractive adult man.
He’s not just a kid with an ambition anymore.
“Uh, again, sorry to come unannounced—”
“—Well, come in—”
They end up speaking at the same time. Kaiser is so terrible at this.
Mercifully, Isagi steps aside. “Just—Just come in.”
Too flustered to decline even if he wanted to, the other rushes inside with a nod and a low thanks. Isagi reaches for his coat as Kaiser shrugs out of it. He watches him put it up carefully on the hooks of the rack, patting it down once to smooth it out.
The scent of oranges or mandarins wafts in the air. Peeled oranges or mandarins specifically, alongside traces of fresh paint, and something distinctly Yoichi, Kaiser notes absent-mindedly.
“Sorry,” Isagi says suddenly, still facing away, “that it’s awkward.”
“No, no, it’s—” It’s normal? What is Kaiser trying to say exactly? “It’s fair. I’m the one who uhh… showed up out of nowhere. And again, sorry about that.”
He moves the bags around, straps digging into his fingers, then hands the smaller of the three to Isagi who’s got that look on his face again; perplexed. Overwhelmed? Stunned?
“Thought you might need some company. And some decent whiskey.” He shoves it at him, leaving Isagi no choice but to take it and peek inside.
“This is ‘decent’? It’s 300 euros,” Isagi shoots back, brow arched, a little wry smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll accept it as an apology and a Christmas present, but you still owe me an explanation. How the hell did you find me here?”
Kaiser rolls his eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh of defeat. He can’t escape his fate. There is not a single thing he can say that wouldn’t make him look like a modern, elite stalker.
Isagi swerves, preparing to move away from the foyer, but stops abruptly. “Oh and—Shoes off. House rule. Slippers to your right.”
“I know. I’m not some primate.”
“…Debatable,” Isagi shouts from deeper in the apartment, loud enough to carry down the hall, knowing it’ll grind his gears. “Make yourself at home.”
The blond scoffs. “I was planning to…”
A minute later, he follows into the—
Well. It’s the living room. And it’s empty. Mostly empty. Unfinished, like Isagi hasn’t had the time to settle in.
In its center, a large L-shaped sofa is angled toward the TV, a tablet tossed carelessly onto one of the seats.
In the far left corner, a hearth. The flames, strong and bright, dance and crackle as they burn through wood. The TV matches it, flickering with a scene of a random program, set to mute.
Wide window panels stretch across the length of the room, leading Kaiser’s eye to the kitchen at the back, where Isagi is already pouring them the whiskey he brought. No overhead lighting—only two soft, golden pools radiated by two tripod floor lamps.
He wouldn’t be surprised if Isagi’s bedroom was short on furniture too; only a mattress dumped on the floor and a single pillow.
At last… Kaiser scans the tree on the raised platform—a level higher compared to the rest of the house, closer to the windows.
He studies it, top to bottom. Assembled, tall and twinkling with strings upon strings of warm-toned Christmas lights. Though, the severe lack of ornaments leaves it looking rather naked.
When he talks again, his tone is softened by the view and that cursed, sore part inside him throbbing like an open wound. “Uh, so… Don’t worry about the details. How I found your address—all that. It’s not as horrible as it sounds.”
“Well,” Isagi says, drawing closer, pace sluggish. He extends a glass to him. Kaiser knocks the shopping bags to the side with his heel before taking his drink. “Might not be your definition of horrible. I bet it was illegal though.”
The blond’s lips curl to a smile, eyes fixed to the amber liquid rippling between cubes of ice, its aroma rich and commanding. “It wasn’t illegal.”
Isagi does not look convinced one bit, if anything grimacing like he’s chastening himself; I knew I shouldn’t have discussed my Christmas plans with that assistant.
He plops down on the edge of the sofa, a tired noise escaping him. Takes a sip. So does Kaiser.
It burns.
“So? What’s all this?” he asks eventually, pointing to the bags with his eyes. “Did a department store explode?”
“Sort of.” Kaiser reaches down, digging a box out and passing it to him.
The apartment is quiet. Isagi’s nail grazes along the side flap of the transparent box, easing the seal open. He removes one of the glass ornaments—red, spherical, the curve at the bottom a lively orange—and turns it over in his palm.
Examining. Searching for something to say.
“I haven’t gotten around to decorating this year. Wasn’t sure if I would. Haven’t done it the past four winters.”
Fidgeting, nail tracing over the skin of his thumb, Kaiser nods. Not to show understanding, just to hide a sliver of confusion. “Not a fan?”
“No, don’t get me wrong, it’s fun, but… Whether I set it up or not doesn’t matter to me. Christmas is celebrated for commercial reasons in Japan. It’s different in Europe.”
Another noncommittal nod and a hum that matches it, enough to stay engaged. The realization creeps in, and it’s unpleasant; Kaiser doesn’t truly know Isagi.
Beyond textbook definitions and rules, Kaiser doesn’t have a real understanding of how relationships work, how they develop, how they’re maintained.
Therapy has made it clear: even in adulthood, his emotions, their intensities, his perceptions, are the same as those of a small child. Here, where Kaiser expected Isagi to show the same enthusiasm to set up a tree as years ago, Isagi doesn’t appear particularly interested.
Whatever he thinks he knows about him are glimpses, curated and presented for others to interpret as they see fit. Kaiser, himself, does this a lot too, doesn’t he?
He considers joking about media training getting to Isagi, but decides against it, feeling humor now would come in bad taste. Their conversation is already thin and dry as it is.
“I bought too much this year.” A lie. Diversion. It’s almost automatic for him. “There’s variety in here, and your tree’s looking bare as fuck.”
Isagi laughs, the line of his shoulders untensing, just barely. Kaiser congratulates himself for it. Maybe he’s not horrible with relationships if he’s making progress with his rival of all people.
Standing up, then crouching down at his feet, Isagi digs through the bags, awe growing with each box he pulls out. At one point, he pauses to ask if they’re all handcrafted—their authentic, artistic shine too striking to overlook.
They agree to go with gold and blue for the tree. Isagi becomes caught up in a serious interior design conflict, so the porcelain angels and iridescent icicles are pushed aside for the time being—essentially saved for the rest of the house.
Slowly but surely, that edginess thaws, melting into more casual, gentle conversation. Isagi nearly trips over one of the plastic containers, but Kaiser—with the reflexes of a god—seizes him by the elbow, steadying him before he faceplants.
“Go on,” the older man encourages, holding out a bauble at eye-level, “the first is yours.”
Isagi takes it between palms, too careful, as if the slightest pressure could shatter it.
Reaching up, he places it somewhere around the top part, having to stand on his tiptoes to find the perfect spot. Typical Kaiser doesn’t miss the chance to tease him about it, which earns him a fierce You jerk! and a punch to the arm.
It goes like this. One here, another there, slow and unhurried. Kaiser, then Isagi. Higher, lower. The bristles of the artificial branches crunch faintly as they slide metal hooks and golden strings on their tips.
Isagi steps back to examine; barely one third of it done, he assesses. Brings his drink to his lips. His attention shifts to Kaiser suddenly, glancing over at him, vision half-obscured by the rim of his glass.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Kaiser is taken aback, but forces a smile, the best one he can possibly achieve at present, not dealing with crowds and cameras and flashes. “No. Just. I don’t know. Maybe a chance to do something right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Isagi’s bottom lip quivering, gaze dropping to the side. Not wanting to ruin the fragile atmosphere for once, Kaiser resists the urge to probe.
“It’s been weird between us for years,” Isagi mumbles after a long pause, frowning.
A rush of cold rocks through him, nestling in the pit of his stomach.
The reply hangs, there, it’s on the tip of his tongue, wriggling underneath the enamel of his teeth. What if this ruins it? It’s not the right sentiment, not the appropriate line. Think of another. Don’t strain it further.
“Does it have to be forever?”
Isagi says nothing.
Predictable.
They let the moment pass in silence, clipping ornament after ornament—but Kaiser feels obligated to not just let it pass. He’s downright not fond of shitty, awkward scenes, despite being the cause of most of them in his life. That certainly has its charm too, but it’s just not ideal right now.
Honestly, he’d much prefer if Isagi were provoking him, trading insults the way they do on the field every so often. It’s a pattern he’s familiar with, it’s comforting compared to this… tongue-tied Isagi.
“Not expecting any other guests on this festive evening?” Kaiser tries again.
“Uh, not really. My, uh…” Isagi struggles, trailing off, fumbling with one of the glass decorations, almost dropping it. Begrudgingly, he lets the sentence out. “My—My parents would be visiting. For… Another fresh start in Germany I guess, I don’t know. But the snowfall in Japan has been… The weather hasn’t let up.”
Kaiser already knew that, but it still feels empty when Isagi stammers through it, like he’s hiding between words, not revealing more than he should.
They don’t talk about previous championship titles and face-offs.
They don’t talk about December 25th being Kaiser’s birthday.
They don’t talk about their contracts.
They don’t mention how they’ve both found themselves back in Germany.
Ah, it’s the distance.
The distance is spoiling it. That’s the part he detests. What a fool he is, for thinking it would be easy. Nothing comes easy to Kaiser aside from the occasional cocky grin, the petty taunts. Those might be easy.
The distance hurts. The distance harms. The distance is as physical as it is emotional. Individual differences. Countries, borders, contracts separate them. Cultural factors.
And yet.
Despite the agony and setbacks, Isagi has made his efforts, right? He left home to pursue his career, went all-or-nothing for professional European soccer, for his passion and driving force. He picked up other languages when needed, dipping his toes in, going out of his comfort zone to satisfy his curiosity.
And back then, so long ago that Kaiser should’ve forgotten about it, he’d even extended a hand to him. Twice. Kaiser didn’t take it either time; slapping it out of sight the first, walking away wallowing in anger and misery the second.
“Your German is great now,” Kaiser blurts out, and it’s such an absurdly clumsy attempt at small talk, the cringe washes over him the instant the words leave his mouth.
Isagi releases a short breath through his nose, humorless. “I’d hope so, after all this time.”
“You’ve got the accent down. Always made it look easy. Language. Soccer. Fitting in.”
Isagi glosses over the tail end of his sentence entirely. “Used to rehearse every syllable before I spoke. I do it for Spanish and French now, funnily enough. Still keep up with my monthly German revisions. Never skipped a lesson, not even when I returned to Japan for a while.”
Shit. The dreaded topic, the elephant in the room for media and fans alike.
Yoichi Isagi’s year-long disappearance from the world of professional soccer.
No one knew the reason. He’d vanished one day, only to resurface in Japan. Seen coaching children from time to time. The waves of baseless rumors whispered of injury, family emergency, a more complicated truth. Whatever it was, it had been sealed tight, kept under wraps.
“So… What was the reason? For leaving for a year.”
Isagi winces at that, swallowing dryly once, reaching for a quelling swig of his whiskey. Visibly thrown back into distress.
“I thought personal questions were off-limits for us.”
The retort, strategic and disturbingly direct, pierces Kaiser into the chest, straight as an arrow. All he manages is a shake of his head, anxiety stirring his insides, tightness lumping in his throat.
It’s clearly a jab. About that night.
“In your last media briefing before leaving, you said it’s nothing but a wellness break—that’s all. It was not my intention to pry deeper.”
Isagi’s expression is unreadable, and he sidesteps once, shrouded by evergreen branches.
“Do you believe it was a break?”
The question douses Kaiser in a cold splash of water. He is not equipped with the right skills to fill the gap that follows. It dangles like the blade of a guillotine.
Every attempt at shallow kindness risking another wound.
Isagi on the other hand has somehow maintained his poise, laser-focused on locating empty spaces to fill on his tree.
“I’d believe a statement from you, here, now, as long as it’s honest.”
At that, the space vibrates with Isagi’s burst of laughter, body bending, head thrown back.
Which startles Kaiser down to his core, glass bauble nearly slipping from his hands.
Curious, his stare darts to Isagi’s direction in hopes to sneak a look at this Yoichi in particular; a laughing Yoichi.
Curious, hungry eyes, threatening to pop out with how badly his heart clenches for a reason unknown. Momentarily, he hears it pressure him into committing the image to memory, printing it if possible to cram it into a pendant he’ll lock inside the hutch of his desk for the rest of his life.
Like mafia godfathers do in the movies, except instead of a gun or classified documents, it’d be Kaiser’s unfading regret and his locket.
Those old memories taste like rust. Avoiding him one day, and the next. Meeting on the pitch, keeping blazing emotions to the pitch. Final whistle, stiff handshakes, avoiding again.
“Hah. That’s a new one coming from you.” Isagi’s profile is shadowed as he mutters feeble words, dry chuckle low in his throat. Is he mocking him?
Nevertheless, a statement from him—the truth about his absence—never comes. Kaiser admonishes himself for waiting for it in the first place.
This version of Isagi, wary and reserved, is worlds apart from the one he remembers. Or at least thinks he remembers. No matter what he says, he can’t seem to reach him.
Later, the dark-haired man adds, a little louder, “I used to wonder if you’d ever call. Or if we would just keep competing forever.”
Kaiser’s mind is prompting him to blurt out a sentence that should neither sound like accusation nor apology.
Every line left unsaid chokes him, wraps around and around and around his neck.
They are two sides of the same coin. They are nothing like each other. They are cut from the same cloth. They have roughly nothing in common.
In a single, bracing gulp, Kaiser downs the last of his drink. Welcoming the burn as if it might drown out the words he’s about to force himself to vocalize.
“That night. I didn’t realize you were just looking for a friend.”
Isagi’s tree is almost full, no longer bare and colorless. Only the bottom branches sit undressed, stealing away from a proper, finished look.
“That night…” Isagi echoes, hesitant. “I asked you to come over, help decorate. Stupid, right? I barely knew you. And I always believed I was doing you a favor. Making it easy for you to say no, shut me out.”
His confession hits harder than expected, sinks the mood. Kaiser wants to insist it’s not like that, that they can start over, try again now they’re older.
Instead, he’s rendered speechless. Hackles raised, old defensiveness tingling between his thoughts and speech.
He chews on the inside of his mouth, strain showing at every knuckle and the fingers locking in a fist.
“You’ve changed.”
Now, that’s the wrong thing to say. Truly the worst of the night.
Across from him, Isagi flares up, evident in his darkened glare, the grit of teeth.
“You—You don’t get to say that to me! You’re fucking unbelievable—”
“—You don’t want me here!” Kaiser cuts in, swift, merciless.
That lands. Isagi falters, goes still.
Kaiser feels it all bubbling up. Feels small. All of a sudden he’s catapulted to Bastard’s cafeteria, fifteen years old again; lashing out and sending food trays flying.
“So why let me in then?”
He’s cornered, embarrassed, angry, hurt that his existence is scorned so openly—when he should know better than to take offense at someone he scorned in the past, the one who has every right to treat him with minimal kindness.
Maybe this is his punishment for his awful behavior toward Isagi.
“Kaiser,” Isagi croaks his name like the mere mention hurts his vocal cords. His composure breaks, innermost secrets spilling, unrestrained. “I let you into my house hoping you’d ridicule me one last time! Not—Not this.”
Unable to move an inch, Kaiser gapes at him. The temperature feels as though it has dropped a couple degrees, room stripped at once of its blithe mood.
“What?”
Isagi’s serene features contort into an expression of undeniable sorrow. Teary and weakened.
“I’m sorry. I can’t live my life riddled with guilt—can’t love you from a distance anymore, Kaiser. It’s been too long. I tried, and—I can’t fix this, it’s—it’s tearing me apart from the inside. I’ve had to tell myself so many times that I tried, but you’ve always stayed where I can't reach you.”
Kaiser can’t tell if his hearing has processed the syllables right, given they’re drowned between Isagi’s hiccupping breaths. He can’t feel his limbs, blood running cold.
“I’m stupid, and I’m sorry. I—goddamn it—I knew it was wrong to impose my—my very unreasonable feelings on you. Never understood how I got there in the first place myself. Was it your soccer? The way you talked? Your talent to drive people away?”
When Isagi stares into his eyes—partially illuminated by fairy lights—then away, Kaiser doesn’t need to hear the concluding plea to stagger miserably backwards once and head straight for the door, refusing to look back.
“…Please just go…”
The echo chases his panicked figure as he yanks the coat off the hatrack—easily, like the hook doesn’t enjoy his presence either.
He runs, skips down the stairs, disregarding the elevator, forgetting his gloves behind.
Brain dead set on fleeing, pushing his muscles to move and exhaust themselves lest his body shut down from the shock of foreign, terrifying words and coiled affections finally unfurling.
To be directed at him of all people.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles to the wind, tears hot along his eyelids, hotter down the paleness of his cheeks.
A peculiar sense of hurt, accountability for a past mistake that led to a wound that can never be mended, surges in waves. Gutting him.
In the back of his mind, he can picture it. Isagi doubled over the hard flooring, hand over his mouth, frame wracked by mournful sobs over two broken hearts.
Hissing softly against ears, the winter wind almost whispers something back, Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday, Michael.
Happy Birthday indeed.