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It is inevitable. But god, it hurts so bad.
Years of slaving away in local tournaments that did more harm to his mentality than inspire him, and months, and months of honing his ego at Blue Lock were still not enough to make his one dream a reality. To make matters worse, that single point separating the victor from the defeated was agonizing to look at. The scoreboard itself felt like a physical blow, a mockery of everything he was worth.
He was barely under the league of U20, still young and overflowing with potential, yet Isagi Yoichi carried the heavy hope of an entire nation on his back. God, it's suffocating, but he thrived in it. Blossomed in it. The constriction below his ribs was so tight he wished his own bones would snap and pierce his heart—anything to numb the hollow ache. Perhaps then, his chest would open up and the world could finally see the beating heart they praised so much. For now, he could only give in to the crushing weight of the moment.
In the center of the field, after Japan fell to France by a single, cruel point, Isagi Yoichi let the tears fall.
The match had been a gauntlet. The victory against England had made Isagi’s heart swell with hope, especially seeing an old rival like Nagi Seishiro join the fray under the Buratsuta Three banner. But the French had clearly taken a grudge into the championship match. It was Hugo who had surged forward to score that final, decisive point.
That one damned point.
Isagi stared at the grass, convinced the world would laugh at his failure. He felt small. Maybe if he had been taller, or if his legs and torso had been longer, Japan would be holding their first World Cup. He had done everything possible with the body he was given, but in the face of France, Loki and Hugo’s towering athleticism, it felt insufficient. He was so lost in the static of his own thoughts that he couldn't hear the stadium around him.
He didn't realize that a soft, jagged sniffle had been caught by the field mics, or that his face was currently being projected onto the gargantuan screens.
He looked solemn, his eyes cast downward as if searching for the ghost of the goal he missed. His tears didn't come in ugly, frantic sobs; Isagi refused to let his rivals see his emotions, so instead they were silent, crystalline tracks that caught the stadium's high-intensity floodlights like diamonds against his flushed skin. His dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead and framing a face that looked hauntingly ethereal in its grief. The raw sincerity of his heartbreak made him look less like a defeated football player and more like a fallen icon of tragic beauty.
God damned it, Isagi’s ego screamed at him to stop embarrassing himself further. He's better than this, fuck, he knows it. But he's overwhelmed and exhausted, his heart separated from his mind, and try as he might, his emotions are all over the place.
Amidst the chaos of his swirling emotions. Isagi Yoichi failed to notice the commotion going on around him.
The stadium fell into a stunned, magnetic silence. Tens of thousands of fans held their breath. The reporters on the side looking at him, surprise, admiration, and pity on their faces. But one thing is clear.
Isagi Yoichi looks pretty when he cry.
"He looks beautiful," Jyubei Aryu whispered from the sidelines, his own obsession with glam momentarily silenced by the sheer aesthetic perfection of Isagi’s sorrow.
Even the commentator, mid-sentence, stumbled over his words. "He... he looks... pretty," the man muttered into his live mic, unable to look away.
Anri’s own eyes are brimming with tears, her mouth agape, she knows how heartbreaking it is for the boy. Yet she cannot deny that Isagi Yoichi, looks ethereal while silently fighting his tears in the middle of the field. Whereas Ego is staring at him, no one can tell what he’s thinking except the slight shake of his right hand.
Within three minutes, the image was trending globally, spreading across feeds like a digital wildfire. The “Pretty Boy Crying” had enchanted the internet, turning a moment of athletic heartbreak into a universal aesthetic. The livestream had hit a staggering 245 million concurrent views, with the world collectively holding its breath as the cameras refused to cut away from the high-definition tragedy of Yoichi’s face.
Damn it, Yoichi thought, sniffing as he realized he was crying in front of millions. He felt a wave of humiliation wash over him, wishing a stray ball would hit him in the head and end the embarrassment right there.
"Yow!"
"Wipe your tears, peasant."
Suddenly, the blinding light of the stadium was eclipsed. Two massive shadows moved in, physically blocking the front cameras that were trying to zoom in on Isagi’s damp face.
Isagi’s eyes blew wide, a fresh blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears as he looked up. Isagi felt shame crept up on him as he wiped his tears away. Fucking hell, so he is actually crying.
Barou Shouei stood in front of him, his broad back turned to the media, glaring at a cameraman with such lethal intent the man actually stepped back. On his other side, Shidou Ryusei leaned back against him, shielding Isagi’s profile while flicking an arrogant hand at the hovering drones.
"Ya did well! My cells are bursting just thinking about that final drive!" Shidou cackled, his voice loud enough to drown out the sudden wave of questions from the reporters trying to take a closer look at Isagi.
"Stop making that pathetic face," Barou growled, his voice low and gruff, yet he stayed rooted in place like a royal guard. "A King’s shadow is not broken. Stand up and look at the scoreboard then remember how it feels to want to crush it."
Barou let out a “Tch,” as he tried to crane his neck to block the cameras, “Stop looking, you vultures," he growled, his Kingly aura flaring to protect his peasant from being exploited in his weakest moment.
Shidou leaned back further against Isagi’s shoulder, using his own frame to shield the boy from the side-angle cameras. He flicked a middle finger at a hovering drone, his eyes flashing dangerously. "The show’s over, losers. This explosion is private. Get lost!"
For a moment, the two most volatile players in Blue Lock were the only thing keeping Isagi’s grief from becoming a public circus.
Bachira ran toward them, concern fueling his every move. His knees ached after a bad fall earlier in the match, but that was nothing compared to the sight of Isagi crying. His partner crying.
“Isagi!” he screamed, pulling down hard on Yoichi in a desperate, grounding embrace. Kunigami and Chigiri followed closely behind, their faces tight with worry. Reo was the next to step in, pressing a handkerchief into Isagi’s hand. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically strained.
Isagi nodded, grateful for the weight of Bachira’s hug keeping him anchored to the earth. Kunigami sent him a knowing look, patting him on the back with a heavy, silent hand, while Chigiri looked around at the mounting commotion. The stadium was a whirlwind of noise and flashes of cameras. “We should head back,” Chigiri urged, trying to shield Isagi from the prying eyes of the crowd.
The media was busy congratulating France, but the cameras remained fixed on Isagi. Nagi and Rin both tried to step closer, their usual stoicism replaced by a visible, restless energy.
“Pull yourself together,” Reo whispered against Isagi’s right ear, holding his arm, standing tall to block the nearest lens. “You did well.”
Hiori and Kurona both patted his back as they moved. Yukimiya assisted Isagi from behind. In the haze of his grief, Isagi couldn't even tell whose hand was on his waist, guiding his steadying steps. I’m so fucking pitiful, he thought, the salt of his tears he can taste through his mouth.
Rin stood frozen, a rare look of genuine shock on his face, while Nagi watched with a dazed, unreadable stare. Even Sae, Japan’s crown jewel and the mastermind of their midfield, was caught by the roaming cameras. He stood perfectly still, staring wide-eyed at Isagi.
They had conquered Spain, thereby settling his feud with Bunny Iglesias; they had dismantled England. But they had lost the championship to France by a single point. Sae had prepared himself to walk away, convinced he was done with this level of investment in Japan's future, but seeing Yoichi shed tears in front of millions stirred something deep and jagged within him.
@BLTV Official Page: Have you ever seen such a dramatic fall of tears? Isagi Yoichi left in tears as Japan falls just short of the title match
@footbolball_: oh my god everyone is officially whipped for Isagi
@knsr: pretty man cry, pretty man warm my heart
@isagikawaii: WILL FOREVER SUPPORT THE WORLD’S NO. 1 STRIKER!!
From the German stratum, Michael Kaiser watched it all. He stood as a silent witness to the ethereal breakdown of the shittiest—prettiest—player he’d ever known. His breathing came in ragged sighs; seeing Isagi Yoichi cry sent a surge of adrenaline through him. Fuck, it’s delicious. That crying face was more satisfying than any goal he’d ever scored. He closed his eyes, determined to keep his wits about him as he heard his teammates call, but all he could see was the damp, flushed face of the pretty boy crying in despair. Though it made him frown that he was not the one to utterly crush Yoichi's spirit.
Across the Spanish stratum, Bunny Iglesias crossed his arms as he leaned against the bench, eyes glued to the screen. A sharp, bitter spark of jealousy flared in his chest. Mierda, Isagi Yoichi has too many people caring for him. He watched the way Bachira clung to him and how Reo hovered like a bird hiding its mate.
A tight-lipped smile made its way to Bunny's face as he watched the reporters swarming every team, but he was in no mood to be interviewed. His grip tightened on his own arms. It felt wrong. That raw, vulnerable version of Isagi shouldn't have been broadcast to millions on a giant LED screen. It should have been private. It should have been a sight reserved for him alone, not shared with every shitty spectator in the arena.
Hugo, whom the media hailed as the destined genius, was staring at Isagi’s back. Mics were shoved in his face, but he couldn't have cared less. Loki looked at him in palpable confusion when Hugo suddenly turned and walked toward the tunnel where Yoichi had disappeared, leaving Loki to deal with the reporters alone.
Fuck. Hugo had never seen someone look so sincere. He had never seen someone get so close to defying their destiny, and he had never known someone who so fundamentally disagreed with his philosophy. To Hugo, oh, to Hugo, it is enchanting. He didn't just want the win anymore; he wanted the person who had nearly taken it from him.
Hugo approached the Blue Lock group near the tunnel entrance, his massive frame casting a shadow over them, determined to touch Isagi, again. He didn't even get two steps before Nagi Seishiro shifted, his eyes turning cold as he blocked the path.
“Fuck off.”
The air turned instantly tense, two towering figures about to collide. Hugo didn't move, his gaze looking right over Nagi's shoulder toward the boy still clutching a handkerchief. Behind them, Bunny was already closing in, his deep red eyes narrowed as he joined the standoff.
Hugo didn't flinch at Nagi’s words. He stood like a monolith, his French jersey damp and clinging to his frame, his eyes fixed entirely on the boy trembling between Bachira and Reo and other people who he cannot be bothered to name.
To Hugo, Nagi was just an obstacle, a minor detail in the face of the sincerity he had just witnessed on the big screen.
"Step aside," Hugo said, his voice a low, melodic thrum that vibrated through the hallway.
Nagi didn’t move. His usual lazy posture vanished, his grey eyes turning into cold, sharp flint. "I said fuck off. He’s tired. He doesn’t need a shitty philosopher hovering over him right now."
A sharp, mocking laugh echoed from the shadows behind them. Bunny sauntered into the light, his deep red eyes dead unlike his smile. He didn't look at Nagi; he looked at the way Bachira’s hands were still buried in Isagi’s jersey. It made his skin crawl.
"Quite the fan club you've got here, Isagi," Bunny murmured, his voice dripping with a bitter edge. "It’s a bit disgusting, really. All these people coddling you like a newborn child."
“You looking for a fight, scar-face?” Barou growled, stepping into Bunny's space. Beside him, Shidou let out a jagged laugh, cracking his knuckles in a threatening snap. Bunny’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, neutral stare.
As he took a small, heavy step toward Isagi, a grip on Isagi’s waist tightened instantly.
It was Rin. His aura flared, exploding into a dark, suffocating pressure that made the very air in the hallway feel thin. He stepped forward, eyes narrowed into lethal slits as he glared at the New Gen XI strikers.
"You’re all lukewarm," Rin hissed, his voice a jagged vibration of pure malice. "If you take one more step toward him, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Michael Kaiser sauntered toward the group, the blue rose on his neck vivid against his pale skin. He wore a sharp, mocking smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“Just a little concern for my Yoichi here, yeah?”
Death glares from multiple people are sent his away, but Michael's expression shifted into a dark frown as his gaze landed on Bachira, Rin, and the purple-haired motherfucker currently shielding the boy.
"Get your shitty hands off him."
“Crowding the nest, are we?" Karasu’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and mocking. He stepped up beside Hiori, his shoulder bumping his former teammate's as he stared down Kaiser, Hugo, and Bunny. "You New Gen elites sure have a lot of free time for a bunch of winners." He sneered, "I would've thought a victory lap would be more interesting than cornering a tired crow in a hallway."
The hallway became a cacophony of overlapping threats and low snarls. Tensions escalated until the air felt like it was about to catch fire.
Hugo and Nagi remained locked in a frozen stare-down, neither willing to blink. Bunny kept that sharp, taunting smile directed at a pissed-off Barou and a frowning Shidou, while Rin stared Kaiser down, the latter cracking his fingers as if preparing for a fight.
Karasu stood tense; as much as he wanted to punch them all square in the jaw, Isagi remained the priority. Hiori, Kurona, and Yukimiya kept their wits, scanning the exits. Chigiri and Kunigami remained as Isagi's anchor, while Reo and Bachira shifted their weight, fully prepared to engage the moment anyone made a move.
But the core of their argument is currently losing his damn mind.
Isagi’s vision is a blurred, kaleidoscopic mess. He couldn't distinguish the faces in front of him anymore; the world had dissolved into smears of jersey colors and harsh fluorescent lights. He swore he heard the voices of Hugo, Bunny, and Kaiser, but the sounds were muffled, as if he were underwater. His teammates were cursing but their words were drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
He bit the inside of his cheek, but the sharp pain felt distant, barely registering against the sudden, throbbing pressure in his skull. He felt dangerously light on his feet, and the strangest part was that he couldn't feel his face anymore.
His skin felt static.
"Fuck off. All of you," Sae’s voice cut through the haze. The words weren't loud, but they carried the weight of an absolute command. "You’re making the hallway smell like desperation. If you want to obsess over a striker, do it on the field where it actually matters. Right now, you’re just standing in the way of Japan's recovery."
Sae turned his back on the rivals, his gaze flickering to Isagi for only a second—a look that was sharp, demanding, and silently possessive.
"Move, Isagi. We're leaving."
A sharp gasp broke the silence. Hiori, now at Reo’s side, reached out frantically to wipe a dark, hot liquid dripping from Isagi's nose.
“Fuck! Isagi, you're bleeding!”
Isagi stared blankly at the red staining Hiori’s fingers. For a second, he felt like he was meeting his maker. He feel so, so fucking light. Is this evolution? Euphoria? He couldn't name the sensation, only that the ground didn't feel solid anymore.
He heard Bachira calling his name, a desperate, echoing sound from miles away.
Before anyone could reach him, the lights of the tunnel in his mind flickered into black.
Isagi Yoichi fainted before he even hit the floor.
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Isagi didn't open his eyes immediately. He felt heavy, not the airy, dissociated lightness from before, but a grounded, exhausted weight. His nose felt dry, and there was a faint, lingering taste of iron in the back of his throat.
"You're awake," a soft voice whispered.
Isagi opened his eyes to see Anri sitting on the edge of a white medical bed. Her usual professional composure was frayed; her hair was slightly messy, and her eyes were wide with a mix of relief and intense bashfulness.
"Ms. Anri," Isagi rasped, his voice cracking. "The game... did I—"
"You fainted, Isagi," she said, quickly handing him a glass of water. Her hands were shaking just a little.
"Total physical and emotional collapse. The doctors said your brain basically 'overheated' from the stress. You’ve been out for five hours."
Isagi nearly choked on the water. The first sip felt like a thousand needles scraping his throat, and partly because he is shocked at what he heard.
He suppose he pushed his body to the limits. The breakdowns in the bathroom where no one can see him, the pressure of being number one, the tantalising torture of himself against himself in order to be the best.
Well, it all came crashing down at Isagi.
And Isagi Yoichi knew, he disappointed Blue Lock, he failed—
“You’re the most valuable striker in the world Isagi.”
Isagi blinked, his eyes sting from the rapid movement. He isn't sure if Ms. Anri is just using it to comfort him or not.
Anri pursed her lips, looking down at a tablet in her lap. She looked like she contemplates telling Isagi the news. "Isagi, you haven't seen the news, have you?"
She tentatively turned the screen toward him.
Isagi’s heart did a slow and painful somersault.
The top trending topic on every social media platform wasn't "France Wins." It was #IsagiYoichi, #BlueLockAngel, and #PrettyBoyStriker. The lead image on the World Football Daily was a high-definition shot of him in the middle of the field, tears falling down dramatically against their lost in France.
Apparently, news of his exhaustion made it's way to the media too.
@SoccerWorldGoals: The heavy cost of being the best. Isagi Yoichi collapses after a historic performance. Is he okay?
@JFU_Official: Medical update: Isagi Yoichi is stable. Thank you for the global outpouring of support.
@notksr: (Retweeted a photo of Isagi) —Rest up, Yoichi
@igansshr: unbelievable how beautiful can one succumb to pain
"You're trending globally," Anri said, her face turning a bright, frantic red. "The clips of you crying have over 270 million views. Modeling agencies from Milan and Paris are blowing up our phones.”
Isagi stared at the screen, then slowly pulled the white hospital sheet over his head. A muffled, horrified groan escaped him.
"I'm a meme," he muttered from under the covers. "I'm a pretty boy meme. My career is over."
"It's not over!" Anri squeaked, her face heating up as she looked at the lump under the sheets. "It's just... well, different now. You aren't just a striker anymore, Isagi. You're an icon."
From the hallway, the faint sound of Barou yelling at Kaiser to "get lost" and Sae’s cold voice demanding silence echoed through the door. Isagi clutched the sheets tighter.
He had survived the match, but he wasn't sure he’d survive the aftermath.
The door to the medical suite didn't just open; it practically groaned under the collective weight of the players shoving their way through. Anri barely had time to stand up before a wall of Blue Lock and New Generation 11 stars spilled into the room.
"Move it, donkey!" Barou’s voice boomed, shoving past a disgruntled Hiori. "I'm not waiting in a hallway while this brat sleeps off a nosebleed."
"Quiet down, you gorilla," Reo hissed, though he was just as quick to reach the bedside. Relief on his face. "Isagi, you're awake. Do you have any idea how much of a mess you've caused? The JFU server crashed because of your fan-edits."
Shidou sauntered over, his eyes glowing. He leaned over the bed, his face uncomfortably close to Isagi’s blanket covered one. "You looked like a dying star, Yoichi! Most people just fade away, but you? You went out in a burst of white-hot biology! It made my skin crawl in the best possible way!"
Isagi peeked out from under the sheets, his face instantly heating up as he took in the crowd. While Chigiri, Kunigami, Kurona, and Yukimiya were still stuck downstairs being grilled by the press—according to Hiori, the rest had somehow broken through. Standing near the window, looking bored but strangely intense, was Sae. And leaning against the doorframe was Kaiser, who began sauntering over.
"The sleeping beauty finally opens his eyes," Kaiser purred, crossing his arms. He didn't look at the other players; his gaze was locked on the faint redness still tracing Isagi’s nostrils. "You certainly know how to make an exit, Yoichi. The world is mourning your tragic collapse like you’re some kind of martyr."
"Get out, shitty rose," Rin muttered, stepping into the space between the bed and the German striker. His aura was still dark, but there was a flicker of relief behind his cold eyes. "He doesn't need to hear your shitty monologue."
"Actually," Karasu chimed in from the back, leaning casually against a medical cart, "he probably needs to hear that he's currently the most searched person on the planet. Even fashion scouts are asking if his tear-stained aesthetic is available for a winter shoot. It’s a bit much, isn't it, Isagi?"
Isagi groaned, pulling the blanket higher. "Please stop talking about me. I just want to go home."
"Home?" Hugo’s voice was low and calm as he stepped into the light, looking down at Isagi with that same expression from the tunnel. "You can't go back to being ordinary now, Isagi. You've shown the world something too sincere to be forgotten. You can go home, but you belong to the spotlight now."
Nagi drifted in behind the tall Frenchman, his grey eyes wary. He stepped into Hugo’s space, nudging him aside to get closer to the bed. "You're being too loud," Nagi murmured to Hugo, his voice flat but protective. "Isagi doesn't like boring speeches." He then looked down, and relief flooded his face as his eyes met Isagi's. "I'm glad you're alright, Isagi. I thought you died for a second."
"I'm fine, Nagi," Isagi rasped, just as Bachira tumbled onto the foot of the bed, his eyes wide and shimmering. "Isagi! You're back!" Bachira chirped, ignoring Anri’s protests. "The whole internet is crying with you! You're famous for being pretty! Well, you've always been one!”
Even Bunny was there, lurking in the corner. He didn't say a word, but the way he stared at Isagi, made the air in the room feel heavy again.
"Everyone, please!" Anri shouted, her face flushed as she tried to usher the world-class strikers toward the exit. "He needs rest! You can fight over him at the press conference tomorrow!"
Sae finally moved, walking to the edge of the bed. He didn't offer a soft word. He just reached out and flicked Isagi’s forehead with a sharp flick. "Don't get a big head because people think you’re pretty. You're still a mediocre striker until you prove otherwise on the next games. Now sleep. You look like shit."
As they were finally pushed out, Isagi caught one last glimpse of the hallway. The New Gen XI and the Blue Lock boys weren't even looking at each other, they were all looking back at him.
Isagi gulped, the silence of the room suddenly feeling louder than the roar of the stadium. It was no longer a theory.
He is officially the most hunted man in world soccer.
Fuck, he thought, pulling the thin hospital sheet over his nose as his face heated up until it felt like it might spontaneously combust.
The next day, his hospital room was swarmed with flowers, letters, and gifts from players and fans alike.
And now, the whole world is probably waiting to see him break again, because it seemed the consensus is final:
Isagi Yoichi is devastatingly pretty when he cries.