Chapter Text
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December 20, 2027, 10:45 PM.
Isagi leaned heavily upon his suitcase, awaiting a taxi beneath the chill of the night sky, when a sudden realization washed over him: in his haste, he had neglected to secure lodging. Drawing his phone from his coat, he dialed a familiar staff member, only to be met with the expected reply—all rooms were occupied. With Christmas drawing near, the city swelled with travelers, and respectable hotels were in high demand.
A car arrived. With a reluctant sigh, he slid into the seat, closing the door as his fingers danced across the glowing screen of his phone.
"Unbelievable, it’s Isagi, right?"
The driver recognized him at once, his face brightening with unmistakable delight. Isagi had not anticipated such a warm reception in Madrid. He recalled his last visit after a match, when a server had set down his ice cream with a pointed clash. Scoring against ReAl Madrid while wearing Barcha’s number eleven in the El Clásico had sown lingering resentment among many fans. Isagi answered with a courteous, uneasy laugh, silently pleading that the man’s goodwill would not turn, throwing him out into the street.
"Where to?" The driver guided the wheel with one hand.
" Uh… actually, I’m still looking for a hotel," Isagi confessed, rubbing the back of his neck in mild embarrassment.
"Oh? No place to rest yet? Then where shall we go?"
"Toward the city center, for now. Don't worry about the fee," Isagi replied, scrolling past several vacancies with reluctance. His agent, Levi, had admonished him time and again to choose only establishments of repute and high security when traveling.
"Are you here to visit Michael?" the driver asked him.
To be honest, Isagi was used to people linking him with Kaiser—speculations and fantasies about the nature of their relationship were endless—but that didn’t mean he was willing to answer a stranger’s question honestly.
"I... came to Madrid to visit Sae, for my teammate Bunny."
"Is that so?" the other man drawled, a note of skepticism lingering in his voice.
And what if it were not? What then would you do? Isagi pressed his lips together.—Ah, perfect. This five-star hotel still held a room, though it lay a fair distance from here.
Alighting from the taxi, he could not help but muse: next time, I shall simply say I am here to visit Sae on behalf of Rin. Mentioning Catalonians too frequently may well invite an assassin’s blade from some radical fans.
By the time he emerged from the bath, the hour had long slipped past midnight. In the group chat, Hiori posted a blurred photograph.
Isagi-kun, you were spotted arriving in Madrid late night by watchful netizens.
As expected, at such an hour, Hiori was the only person awake in that circle—likely immersed in some video games. Isagi answered with a cute “goodnight” meme, drew the blankets close about him, and within mere breaths, surrendered to darkness.
He was profoundly wearied. By the measure of statistics, in that final match before winter break, Isagi Yoichi had traversed twelve thousand meters upon the field, bestowing two goals and one assist—an outstanding offering.
The commentator’s voice had trembled with fervor: “Isagi has been nothing short of possessed this season! A flawless engine of attack! The demon king from the East advances unchecked—ten consecutive matches adorned with his strikes, guiding FC Barcha to La Liga’s summit and sealing the season’s first half in perfect grace!”
And yet, he had declined the team’s after party solely to board the day’s flight.
He slept deeply, dreamlessly, until a slender blade of dawn, piercing through the curtain’s veil, disturbed his resting lids. Isagi stirred drowsily from the warm, enfolding embrace of his bedclothes.
With morning’s arrival, Isagi followed the address Sae had sent and made his way to the hospital. Sae cautioned him to enter quietly by the rear door, lest he invite the spotlight’s glare. Fortune favored him; no guard halted or questioned his passage, as though his coming had been expected. Still, a quiet unease lingered—were the hospital’s safeguards perhaps too gently loose?
Upon the bench outside the ward, Ness’s unsteady form came into view. Isagi felt no surprise at encountering him here—the Bundesliga season in Germany had ended early before the winter break, so surely the other already visited Kaiser yesterday.
Back in Munich, not long after joining the senior team, Ness often bared his teeth toward Isagi. The Japanese youth, however, harbored no will to engage, which only fanned the fury of Bastard’s magician. Gradually, as the team’s harmony deepened and its rhythm found firm footing, Ness gave up his one-sided conflicts, and their coordination upon the field grew fluid—at least the faithful supporters were content.
Clearly, Kaiser’s injury had left Ness utterly spent. He passed a hand over weary eyes and offered Isagi a nod in silent greeting.
“How is he?”
"Torn meniscus, ACL damage. The doctor says it’ll take about six months to recover."
Ah, season over. Isagi’s first response was an undeniably grim one, yet he bore it in silence, thankfully.
ReAl Madrid had swiftly issued a statement that the injury demanded further assessment, and the precise details had not yet been formally disclosed. Once the tidings spread, a tempest was certain to follow.
He didn’t know how to answer Ness with grace. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, "Kaiser doesn’t want to see me."
But Ness, his temper flaring, asked, "Then why are you here?"
Why had he journeyed to Madrid? Before he knew it, the flight confirmation glared upon his phone screen—what else could he do? Isagi sighed inwardly, his eyes drifting toward the tightly sealed door of the hospital chamber. "Besides, with his shitty morning temper, he is likely still lazing in bed."
"The pain is severe—he won’t sleep long," Ness retorted coldly.
Isagi turned and pressed the door handle, as though that small piece of metal in his palm bore the weight of a thousand stones.
When he entered the room, Kaiser was indeed awake. He sat in silence, reading a newspaper provided by the hospital—Isagi didn’t know whether it was the latest issue of Marca, though it counted among Madrid’s most popular fare.
The sound of footsteps drew Kaiser from his thought. He lifted his gaze, beheld Isagi, and swiftly averted his eyes.
As expected, the German player offered no welcome—he would not even meet Isagi’s glance.
"Kaiser…" Isagi spoke his name softly.
"Get out."
Isagi nearly turned to walk away at once, barely restraining the impulse to unleash his fury upon Kaiser. Once again, the German had effortlessly provoked the darkest facet of Isagi Yoichi’s nature. He drew a deep breath—Stay calm, he told himself. You’re facing an athlete who just suffered a serious injury. At least show some compassion.
"Still here?" the blond man sneered. "Happy to learn my knee is ruined, are you? No rival to contend with in the latter half of this season. A victory. Ah, let me guess—have you stationed reporters outside the hospital? ‘Isagi Yoichi visits former teammate, a display of humane sympathy’? My congratulations to your PR team,."
"Keep your disgusting assumptions to yourself, Kaiser." Isagi found no cause for gentleness now. "It seems I had nothing better to do than wander all the way to Madrid." He cursed himself for not listening to his usually sharp rationality—the wasted flight money could have taken him to Antarctica for all he cared.
Driven by the wrath kindling in his breast, Isagi strode forth from the chamber, only to collide with Ness, whose face appeared more horrible than a ghost in hell.
"You just leave like this?"
He wished to affect nonchalance with a shrug, yet his frame had stiffened to stone. In former days, Isagi might have brushed aside Ness’s taunts or offend with ease. But now, he had endured his fill of Kaiser’s mood swings and the annoying fool at his heel. He owed no duty to suffer Ness’s unreasonable accusations, much less to accept them.
"I have told you already—Kaiser doesn’t want me here. Shouldn’t you be smug about that?"
The Japanese man smoothed the crumpled cuff of his sleeve. " If Kaiser treats you poorly, that’s your problem. Don’t take your frustration out on an outsider like me." He laid deliberate stress upon the word "outsider," and for some reason, Ness’s face twisted into an almost comical expression.
"I hate you to death," Ness ground through clenched teeth. "But he wants you to stay."
Was the man mad? Isagi paid him no heed, drawing his scarf more tightly about him.
He needed to walk around, a clearing of his thoughts.
"Must my bond with Kaiser be so twisted?" Isagi lifted his gaze, tracing the flight of a few sparrows. Even in winter, the Spanish sky retained its clarity and radiance. It was far milder here than in Munich—no need to huddle by the electric hearth in Kaiser’s home, striving to thaw his near-numbed feet.
Much occupied his mind along the way. Even had Kaiser not cast him out, Isagi would still have found himself at a loss for words. A grave injury to the right leg—even after surgery and recovery—might never restore its former excellence. Were it Isagi... he couldn’t image how he should bear it.
Would he require another’s presence? Yet, if those comrades and rivals come with their sympathy, it would only stir a bitter, envious rancor. In the end, for Isagi, the company of his parents would have been enough. But Michael Kaiser... well.
As his rival, Isagi harbored no doubt that the German would rise again. Kaiser possessed a resilience beyond any other; even if fate seemed endlessly cruel, shattering him time and again, he would surely emerge from the ashes. In that arduous journey, he likely needed no one to intrude uninvited.
"Then why did I come to Madrid? To visit someone who doesn’t need me?"
Isagi had not expected to find himself once more before the hospital’s discreet side entrance that afternoon. He should not have overestimated his own sense of direction. After mustering the energy to wander through the unfamiliar streets and immerse himself in the local ambiance, he had somehow become utterly lost.
Adopting the philosophy of making the best of a situation, Isagi stepped into a Japanese restaurant and ate until comfortably full, feeling at last a slight easing of the weight in his chest. Taking a taxi back would have settled everything neatly, but stubbornly refusing to ask for directions and wandering aimlessly had led his luck to a new low—forcing yet another encounter with the hospital.
Frustrated, Isagi tugged at the twin ahoge upon his head—the usually cherished cowlicks now innocent victims of his irritation. He strode resolutely toward the ward, paying no attention to whether the sound of his footsteps exceeded the hospital’s decibel limits. Ness was nowhere in sight. Good. Yoichi had no patience left for that vexing magician.
Kaiser was napping. When silent, he seemed perhaps one percent more tolerable. But to sleep past three in the afternoon? What a pig.
Just as the thought crossed Isagi’s mind, Kaiser, as though telepathic, opened his blue eyes. They widened slightly, clouded with dazed disbelief, as if he could not fathom Isagi’s return.
Isagi stood motionless. At worst, he would endure another harsh tirade, and then he could retaliate with full force.
Kaiser remained silent for a long while before murmuring, "I didn't expect you to return."
Isagi replied, "Neither did I. Are you still kicking me out?"
The German fell silent once more, uttering not a sound.
Isagi slowly moved to the bedside, studying the shape of the leg outlined beneath the sheets, and asked, "When is the surgery?"
"In two weeks."
Ah, how does one keep the conversation flowing? When teammates from Bastard or Barcha were injured before, he could basically chat effortlessly, offering comfort—urging them not to worry, assuring them all would be well, expressing eagerness for their return to the field, promising to wait for them, and such sentiments.
Why did all those words fail, when face to face with Kaiser?
His complexion was several shades paler than Isagi remembered, a faint stubble dusting his chin. Though those deep-set eyes and sea-blue irises still held the beauty the world so praised, one hesitated now to guess what pain and despair lay hidden within them. The Kaiser Impact—that weapon of his pride—had been stripped away, leaving behind only the residue of resentment and bitterness.
Yoichi’s gaze drifted downward, tracing the lines of the blond man’s tense arms, his tightly curled fingertips. In a daze, a sudden longing rose in his heart—to reach out and clasp them firmly.
—If he were to step forward and take Kaiser’s hand, would it be enough to impart even the slightest warmth?
But the thought soon turned, and he felt it inappropriate. Years of cold silence had rendered even civil conversation a rare luxury—why invite humiliation now?
Instead, he forced his tone into lightness. "What would you like for dinner?"
"...My assistant will prepare awful nutritional meals anyway."
Kaiser glanced at him sidelong. "What exactly brought you all this way?"
Yoichi considered the purpose of his visit with earnest care. "...I am not certain. Perhaps only to see you."
"Seen enough? This worthless body of mine."
"……" Isagi, who was seldom at a loss for words, found himself speechless. Was this Kaiser drowning in self-pity, or merely vexed by his presence?
He faltered, the words stumbling out. "Don’t sell yourself short. You still have next year's European Championship. What matters now is focusing on recovery, not letting negative thoughts consume you. "
"Old, clichéd motivational talk—I’ve heard it all till my ears are calloused." Kaiser bit his lower lip. "I’ll accept your Japanese courtesy, flashy but hollow as it is."
The reply was no surprise. Isagi deliberately ignored the bitterness rising in his throat. Since his transfer to Spain, the accumulated strife and indifference between them had formed a glacier, thick and unyielding. Even if he wished to melt it, there was no simple path through.
"Then I..." he struggled to say, "should take my leave."
At his words, Kaiser’s frame seemed to stiffen for an instant—so brief it was nearly imperceptible. Isagi told himself it must be the discomfort of the injured leg.
"Take care of yourself."
Once again, he fled, unable to bear the heavy silence of the hospital room.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he ordered stew at the restaurant, letting his belly soak in the warmth of winter’s comfort. Isagi had always loved the seafood pasta in Barcelona’s restaurants, so he chose the same dish here. With this hearty dinner, he resolved to cherish the rare indulgence of his break, setting aside, for a moment, the strict plans laid out by his nutritionist.
Opening social media, he found fans weeping and wailing—some offering prayers for Kaiser, while radical haters reveled in schadenfreude. ReAl’s official account was flooded with comments pleading for an update on the injury report.
The world was in uproar. Once again, Isagi’s thoughts drifted to that sterile white hospital room, to Kaiser sitting upon the bed, his face expressionless as he read the newspaper. His slightly dry, neglected blond hair, streaked with blue, fell across his brow, and his legs lay hidden beneath the sheets.
A season written off.
A running stride forcibly halted, a career path fraught with misfortune—the simmering frustration and sorrow faintly visible in those blue eyes, armored by a hardened shell.
Unconsciously, tears spilled from his eyes. How dreadful—Isagi Yoichi was weeping because of Michael Kaiser. Had it been Bachira, Chigiri, Kurona, or even Nagi, such tears might have made sense. But for Kaiser—
He hurriedly pressed his palms against the tears trickling down with gravity. The tomato soup was delicious—it must not be tainted by this salty, unsightly liquid.
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Yoichi could not recall the last time he had wept. As an adult, his heart had grown ever tougher, ever more resilient.
In his first season with the senior team, Noa transferred elsewhere, and Bastard München was thrown into turmoil. They lost the Bundesliga title, and the Champions League slipped beyond reach. A torrent of accusation was hurled at Kaiser and Isagi, the two forwards. Fans questioned the coach’s excessive trust in newcomers and accused the management of letting Noa go. Those who already despised Isagi seized the chance to revel, to kick him while he was down—it seemed the whole world was laughing at the fallen former giant.
The final match of the season bore no relation to victory or defeat, for the championship had already been secured by another team. In Munchen’s locker room, their teammates paid little attention to the score. In the dust-settled conclusion, they were already charting summer voyages and dreaming of calling their beloveds once the whistle blew. Perhaps they were merely disheartened by the dismal ranking, like white-collar clock-punchers with naught to anticipate, naturally incapable of summoning any surplus passion.
"Let's continue our match of goals," Isagi challenged Kaiser.
And so, their contest for scoring persisted. Though goals throughout the season did not guarantee triumph, and the scoring records of these two youths had indeed drawn fans’ reproach as neglect of duty. Yet, for reasons unknown, Isagi felt that clinging to this rivalry with Kaiser was like casting an anchor—giving him a sense of control amidst the stormy seas of the professional world, preventing him from losing his way completely.
In the season’s closing match, Kaiser played with a wild, reckless fervor. Kaiser Impact grazed the right ear of the opposing defender, unleashing a thunderous strike that buried itself in the net.
I should be the one in command. Isagi seemed to hear the arrogance ringing behind that goal. Unwilling to lose, he swept his sweat-drenched raven locks aside, resolved that the next goal must spring from his own foot.
And when Yoichi slipped past the enemy’s guard, turned with fluid grace, and unleashed a lightning volley, his gaze naturally found Kaiser biting his lip—a blend of fury and twisted amusement.
A surge of exhilarating, competitive hunger swept through him, and he could not help but crook a finger toward Kaiser, a silent lure to pursue, even as he himself would turn the tables and devour his teammate’s thick, simmering fighting spirit.
Bastard won, 5-2. Yet the press claimed that Munich's victory was granted only by weak opponents; fans fretted over the fraying defense; the coach, with measured calm, dissected the team's virtues and flaws, spoke of reshaping the lineup, and vowed to reclaim the crown come the next season.
For Kaiser and Yoichi, none of it held meaning—their gaze was fixed solely upon today’s duel, locked at 2-2, an infuriating tie. Isagi seethed at the outcome: the team’s display had been dull, his own season was criticized for inconsistency, and in their final contest, he had failed to outscore Kaiser.
Every one of these grievances, he knew, burned just as fiercely within Kaiser.
One by one, the other players gathered their belongings and drifted away, minds already wandering toward sun-drenched holidays, until the locker room stood empty save for the two of them.
From youth academy to the senior team, they had gradually forged a space between them off the pitch—a space that always, inevitably, circled back to football. When Kaiser first tasted the top flight and found the net elusive, when Isagi faced prejudice in the youth ranks, each had sought out the other without a word, meeting on the field to play out their frustrations.
Never could they have called it “getting along.” Their exchanges remained charged, bristling with tension, nothing like what one might name “friendship”—and yet this very dynamic had endured, tracing all the way back to Blue Lock.
“Bastard’s shape lacks balance,” Isagi’s voice cut through the quiet. “Though it may sound arrogant for a newcomer to critique the team, still…”
Kaiser did not answer. Isagi glanced curiously toward the blond, who sat on the bench, shirtless, a towel draped over his head.
“Hey, aren’t you afraid of catching cold?” Isagi frowned. Even in summer, it was reckless to remain undried after a shower.
He stepped closer, reaching casually to lift the towel and see—
—In an instant, Kaiser seized Isagi’s wrist. Stumbling forward, Isagi’s chest met the German’s head, and he found himself awkwardly straddling Kaiser. The rose tattoo seemed to pulse with a sinister, captivating glow.
“What are you—”
“Quiet, Yoichi,” Kaiser cut in, voice sharp as a blade. “We have played like shit for over half a year, and today I could only draw with you? Is there anything more disgusting than that?”
"How did you think the same?" asked Isagi, his voice tinged with genuine surprise—yet in that same breath, comprehension dawned. When it came to football, their spirits had ever moved in perfect harmony.
Kaiser's hand tightened upon Yoichi's shoulder, the force so fierce it threatened to rend the thin fabric of his shirt. A cry of pain escaped Isagi, unbearable, and he began to strike the golden head bowed beneath the towel.
"let go of me!"
Then, indeed, Kaiser loosened his grasp. But before Isagi could rise and steady himself, his back met the cold metal of a locker with a resounding clang—
—Did you lose your mind? Yoichi had no time to utter the curse before a dull ache bloomed at his neck. Why was this madman biting him?!
"...You," Isagi struggled to speak, tumbling into disarray. For Kaiser, inexplicably, began to lick the very mark he had made, and worse—Yoichi’s body answered not with resistance, but with a violent tremor. The wet, clinging sound echoed starkly in his ears, sapping the strength from his legs.
Shamelessly, Kaiser pressed his thigh against him, a sturdy forearm bearing Isagi’s weight.
"You—" Isagi finally formed words, though they were nothing like what he had first meant to say, "You’re hard?"
"Stop talking nonsense. Isn’t it plain enough?"
Thus, in the deserted locker room, their had their first time—awkward, wanting. To call it a first time felt lacking, for they had no means for penertration, and so simply sought release with hands and friction.
Isagi knew well how fierce matches could stir the body; it was no rare sight to see their teammates hardened in the excitement of victory. Besides, he himself was so stirred by Kaiser’s mouth upon his earlobe that a surge of desire—unknown in all his near twenty years—rose within him. Unthinking, he tilted his chin upward, wordlessly pleading for Kaiser to descend with a hungry kiss.
Only when their pent-up passions were spent did they grasp how deeply pressure and frustration had accumulated—the bitterness of second place in the league, the lingering sting of Champions League defeat, the helpless swallowing of pride born of their own limits and failings…
Their minds grew clouded, yet in the same moment felt cleansed, sensing the synchronized beat of each other’s hearts as though every sorrow and joy were now shared.
At twenty, confronted with such overwhelming desire, they didn’t know how to restrain themselves.
Upon returning from Japan during the offseason, Yoichi and Kaiser lost no time in visiting each other’s homes. Kaiser approached sex between men with an almost scholarly curiosity, methodically discovering how to proceed, while Isagi, torn between shame and anticipation, procured the necessary provisions.
Much like their accursed synergy on the football pitch, their physical compatibility felt divinely ordained—a flawless match. Both sides of the king-sized bed in Kaiser’s home bore sticky stains of their passion, and the dozen bottles of water stored in the refrigerator were utterly depleted, forcing them to go out and restock. Isagi sought to justify it with a touch of guilt.
"Compared to those guys partying at clubs, surely we are not too crazy, right?"
"What do you think?" Kaiser teased, his voice laced with mischief. "We have already crossed that line. If you fear it may affect your game, run up to train."
Yoichi scrambled from the bed, resolved to resume practice the following day. Bastard München’s gym stood open daily. Building endurance and honing skills before the new season were imperative.
Witnessing this, Kaiser laughed heartily. "Yoichi, I admire your enthusiasm, but I suspect your thighs will lack the strength for a proper shot these next few days."
"Go to hell," Isagi retorted, rolling his eyes. "It is you who collapse upon the treadmill."
Not long after, Isagi received a call from the head coach.
In August, during their final overnight stay at Kaiser’s abode, Isagi yearned to take the lead. Riding the German player brought an unexpected satisfaction. After a bout of indulgence, he lay flattened like a pressed botanical specimen at the edge of the bed, his breath gradually steadying, his sweat-drenched chest rising and falling. "How about changing the way we compete next season?"
"Hmm?" Kaiser murmured, drowsy and half-lost in slumber.
"Coach has assigned me to play as a box-to-box midfielder," Isagi’s tone was unnervingly calm, his voice roughened by exertion as he explained slowly, "I have to focus more on creating scoring opportunities for you and the other striker, thus contending less for goals myself." He paused for a few heartbeats before continuing, "How about we compete for who gets the Man of the Match instead?"
In the darkness, he perceived the German’s eyes widening. Kaiser tilted his head, regarding Yoichi with an inscrutable expression.
"Assists? Do you find pleasure in them?"
Isagi emitted a low, self-mocking chuckle. "In truth, not at all. My dream has always been to play for a team that sees me as a striker. But at Barstard, there is no turning back—victory is our only path." He blinked slowly, his gaze distant. "Without winning, we are nothing."
"Coach said that after Noa's departure, our attacking force crumbled. The team has brought in a seasoned, battle-ready player, and the announcement will be made in a few days. As for me—"
"My role is to bridge defense and attack, to orchestrate the frontline through ball control and shifts in passing rhythm, to deliver decisive passes, while also aiding in defense and making crucial steals."
He could no longer endure Kaiser’s piercing scrutiny and turned his face away. "As a striker, my performance fell short... Coach values my tactical insight and vision, he..."
—There was no need to say more. The reality that Isagi Yoichi’s identity as a "striker" remained unrecognized was irrevocable. For the revival of the team, for his own survival in the top league, he had to produce results—whether goals or anything else.
Kaiser let out a derisive laugh. "Yoichi becoming the stepping stone for my winning goal—what a perfect script, isn’t it?"
"Don’t you dare," Isagi retorted, sitting up abruptly. "I will still score. It is you who should be brought to your knees."
"Is this the hollow boast of a defeated dog who lost his place as a striker?" Kaiser suddenly reached out, pulling Isagi atop him before flipping over and pinning the Japanese player firmly beneath him. "You seem full of vigor. Shall we go again? I find myself suddenly... aroused again."
True to coach’s bold declaration, with the overhaul of the lineup and an increasingly fluid system, Barstard gradually emerged from the shadow of Noa’s absence. First, they reclaimed the league title, then fought their way into the Champions League semifinals. Though they missed the coveted trophy for two consecutive seasons, fans clung to hope, steadfast in their belief that greater triumphs awaited in the season to come.
Commentators extolled coach's sagacious deployment of personnel. Many pointed to Isagi Yoichi used to be an attacking midfielder for the Japanese national team, arguing that this positional shift had truly unleashed the full breadth of his talent.
The spectacle of Kaiser and Isagi fighting for goals faded, replaced by a cascade of instinctive tactical interplay that set each match alight. Supporters celebrated Isagi's incredible tactical intellect and reveled in Kaiser’s potent, decisive finishes. Isagi would advance to the edge of the penalty area, sowing confusion among defenders, before threading a precise through ball for a teammate to convert. Kaiser’s own style grew more fluid; he learned to assist Isagi or the other forward at just the right moment, prioritizing cold rationality to ensure the team steadily amassed points.
Perhaps Isagi was correct—victory is everything, isn’t it?
In the fevered intervals between competitions, sex was inevitably restrained, yet it must not be rushed. Kaiser and Isagi agreed that a thorough fuck would be reserved for the off-season. As an alternative, they cultivated other means to gratify one another. Isagi hardly dared to claim his private life as his own. The whispered jokes of 34+35 in the locker room, those bizarre and fantastical sensual fantasies—he and Kaiser have explored them all.
Of course, the truth must never be confessed. Thus, in the eyes of others, Isagi Yoichi remained a conservative and guileless youth, while Kaiser was likely perceived as one who seemed wild on the surface yet was privately restrained and ascetic.
On occasion, when spirits were lifted by drink and boasts turned to tales of conquering some model or starlet, a teammate might casually sling an arm around the quietly orange juice–sipping Yoichi and remarked with feigned concern, "Ah, speaking of such things in front of little Yoichi—were you frightened?"
Is this a form of prejudice? Isagi mused vaguely, not missing Kaiser’s derisive snort. The public was all too easily deceived by the boyish countenance of Japan’s ace. Consider fellow Japanese players like Aiku, whose romantic histories were notoriously tangled, or even Itoshi Rin, who was no stranger to fabricated rumors.
That evening, as Isagi had abstained from drink, he took the wheel of Kaiser’s car to ferry several teammates home. After Ness alighted, Isagi pressed the accelerator, bypassing Kaiser’s neighborhood only to turn the steering wheel and circle back.
"What's wrong, Yoichi? Scared by the teammates and afraid to sleep alone?" Kaiser never missed a chance to tease.
"Just using you to warm the bed, don't get too full of yourself," Isagi replied coldly, though his hands on the steering wheel were slightly sweaty. The hateful part was that sex with the blond man had become a conditioned reflex—an irresistible, fatal temptation.
"You're quite good at playing innocent," Kaiser's hand wandered over Yoichi's thigh. "Too bad they'll never get to discover how shameless your moans are."
"I wouldn't mind letting them find out," Isagi retorted without batting an eye.
As expected, the veins on Kaiser's hand stood out. The raven knew exactly how to strike at Michael's darkest depths most effectively.
Perhaps this was revenge for last week's affair about Michael Kaiser. Isagi had once stared at the digital version of Bunte's report, seething with anger. After all, they were the most compatible duo in Munich. If Isagi was the only one losing control, wouldn't that be too unfair?
A relationship difficult to define. Neither side had any intention of turning their current arrangement—oh no, their "enemies with benefits" dynamic—into something more official.
In the football world, undisclosed same-sex encounters were one thing, but coming out publicly was entirely another. Isagi could never forget Levi's devastated wail after accidentally discovering he and Kaiser were sleeping together. After failing to force them to cut ties, Levi could only demand that they keep it a secret—"Once it goes public, both of you are doomed."
Aside from the fiery passion that ignited between them, most of the time they often held a knife to each other's throats. In ninety percent of situations (except on the field), Isagi was the gentle, spring-like Japanese youth, but in front of Kaiser, he was more likely to turn into a ticking time bomb, aggressive and confrontational.
Two self-serving individuals incapable of offering each other tenderness, inexplicably entangled in a way that couldn’t find description.
At the very least, Isagi harbored no grievances toward his present circumstances. The future of the team gleamed with promise; the regular release of pent-up desires kept his metabolism finely tuned, and the dynamic of competing and cooperating with Kaiser on the pitch, while discharging pressures off it, appeared to soothe many a shadow upon his spirit. In short, the psychologist at Bastard offered an approving nod toward his assessment results.
At twenty-three years of age, the glory of Bastard Munchen was fated to be inscribed into history.
Building upon the remarkable triumphs of the prior season, the club’s leadership redoubled their efforts in recruitment, at last achieving the ideal depth within the squad.
More crucially, the attacking core forged by Kaiser and Isagi had grown unstoppable, tempered through a hundred battles. These young warriors were honed to an ever keener edge, like a dagger driven into the heart of the foe, leaving a trail of crimson in their wake.
Upon the stage of the Champions League, they tore through the defenses of Manshine City, disrupted the systems of Chelsea, and ultimately breached the lofty fortress ReAl Madrid had erected.
The anthem of Munich resounded through the Parisian night sky.
Yoichi and Kaiser were encircled by their teammates as the Champions League trophy passed from hand to hand, each champion bestowing upon it a gaze of fond reverence. When it finally came to rest in Yoichi’s grasp, he raised the cup aloft, and the supporters erupted into a frenzy, chanting.
“ISAGI! ISAGI! ISAGI!”
Long had Isagi become a gleaming firstclass star in the hearts of Munich’s citizens, his name standing shoulder to shoulder with that of Michael Kaiser—indispensable.
A few heartbeats later, the trophy was placed upon Kaiser’s head. Amidst the fireworks that filled the heavens, it resembled a crown, a perfect complement to the title “Emperor of Germany.” Kaiser offered a smile such as Yoichi had never before seen—gentle and brimming with joy—and drew Isagi into an embrace, pressing a fleeting kiss to his temple.
In the fervent atmosphere of a championship celebration, such a pure, platonic kiss was harmless, even destined to become a cherished anecdote. But despite this, Isagi’s reason sounded a quiet alarm in that instant. The stern attitude of his agent flashed suddenly in his mind, and he nervously scanned for cameras, judging that Kaiser’s gesture had been obscure, unlikely captured headon. He could not help but release a soft sigh of relief.
—Do not overthink it. Simply savor the moment. He scoffed at his own hypersensitivity, resolving to cast all else aside.
Night in Paris was deep and boundless, a splendid hour unfurling solely for the two of them. Returning to the team hotel, Kaiser booked a separate suite. This was hardly unusual; as Yoichi knew, several players had already slipped away to bars in search of one night stands, while others had vanished with their girlfriends. The world simply assumed its two aces were untouched by romance, and no one troubled themselves over whether they shared a room.
The suite on the highest floor overlooked the distant nightscape, the Eiffel Tower shimmering like a jewel in the dark. Within, all lights were extinguished, leaving only the city's glow mirrored in the profound blue of Yoichi's eyes.
Kaiser carried him to the sofa, admiring the swaying form of the dark-haired youth. He took his time claiming Yoichi with a leisurely, assured fascination, as though all of eternity lay stretched before them. The German’s lips wandered greedily over every inch of his partner’s skin, now and then parting those pale lips that so often uttered sharp retorts.
“Yoichi, do you believe it? I think this is the happiest moment of my life.”
“Is that so…” Isagi murmured, rocked gently, his thoughts adrift. In the wake of climax, his mind could grasp nothing at all.
“I didn’t intended to tell you, but now, I suppose it hardly matters.” Kaiser stroked the nape of Yoichi’s neck, closing the slender space between them.
“Playing football with you has been such a joy. Once, I guarded myself fiercely—afraid it might soften the edge of my malice, lead to satisfaction, to defeat. Yet through these years, we have proven together—”
“Michael Kaiser and Isagi Yoichi are invincible when side by side.”
“Your pressure was the indispensable feed for my growth. And in the end, we are so alike. When we unite, when I’m indulged in the sensation you bring—the very feeling I once resisted—it becomes unstoppable.”
Kaiser’s ecstasy seeped, drop by drop, into Isagi’s very soul. Struggling to gather his scattered thoughts, Isagi slowly regained his clarity.
He listened to Kaiser’s fragmented confession, quietly attuned to the blond’s naturally warmer temperature. Unbidden, after the fervor of celebration, an endless emptiness began to seep into his heart.
A striker who shatters the cruel world alone is beautiful.
That was the realm Isagi had ever pursued. Yet, the winning goal this night did not, in the end, belong to him. On the national team, it was Rin; at the club, it was Kaiser. He was ever the "best partner" to another, never the unique "Isagi Yoichi."
"And what about my ego?" Isagi whispered, his eyes closing, certain Kaiser could not discern these muffled Japanese words.
On the day his name was nominated for the Ballon d'Or, Chigiri and Kunigami were first to offer their congratulations. Bachira cheered at the prospect of journeying to Germany to celebrate, while other rivals did not neglect to send their sharp, challenging words. Isagi turned his phone face-down upon the table.
Autumn in Munich was already swept by chill winds, and most guests had sought the warmth indoors. The terrace where the dark-haired man sat was left desolate and quiet, a rare tranquility bestowed upon him.
He had believed he foresaw the end of this tale. An attacker stripped of a striker's spirit, unable to realize his own vision, unable to impose himself upon the pitch—could such a football life continue, hiding beneath the halo of champions, veiling the limits of his growth, moving numb and unfeeling from day to day?
"Kaiser, playing football with you was truly enjoyable. But for me, it just doesn’t work."
Leaving behind half a cup of cooled coffee, Yoichi did not finish it. He stood up to settle the bill.
◆◇◆
December 22, 2027.
He awoke at six, though the day held no obligations. Isagi idly daydreamed, squandering two inconsequential hours of the winter break.
To purchase a ticket back to Barcelona would be the wisest choice. Or to share a meal with Sae—that, too, would not be unwelcome. Though he could not say whether Rin might seek him out in fury, or whether Bunny's curiosity would prove more than he could bear.
A sigh. Best not to stir trouble. Simply go.
He took his phone from the bedside table and pressed the power button. Messages from chat applications erupted, alongside several missed calls.
"Such a mess so early in the morn…" Isagi sometimes truly marveled at his peers' obsession for these digital networks.
But wait—
"Why the hell are there so many videos of me in group chats?—"
Good heavens—not only had his late-night arrival in Madrid been captured, but even that most mortifying moment, his tears in the restaurant, had now spread across the breadth of the internet.
He could not endure another moment in Madrid, nor was Barcelona any sanctuary. Isagi found himself earnestly contemplating a direct flight to England, if only to escape the glaring spotlight.
Lost in thought, his phone trembled once more. Muttering about the restlessness of his companions, he glanced at the screen:
“I’m planning to visit Kaiser at the hospital. Want to come along?” —a message from Noel Noa.