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People would often say that, aside from the pit, Michael Kaiser belonged on the red carpet.
There was something poised and elegant in the way he walked, like he owned it. It was certainly different from other pro players waltzing the exact same route, fumbling and awkwardly staring at the flashes of cameras, and attending small interviews as they moved onto the venue.
Not him, a celebrity of sorts, who had the parade mastered. Perfect responses, perfect smile. The perfect façade, no matter what.
“Mihya.”
Kaiser stopped as the flashes engulfed him to wait for the star of the show, the one with whom he shared the spotlight that night, among all the celebrities and fellow sports stars. Isagi Yoichi was the real protagonist of the night, this event becoming his first formal appearance on the red carpet as one of the top strikers in the world, signed to the Bastard München.
Noel Noa had invited them both to his charity event—Isagi Yoichi as the rising star of his team and him as one of the top strikers of Germany. And so, they were duly instructed by their managers to keep it civil during the whole night.
But the pet name came off as putting.
Kaiser stopped on the side, letting a popular influencer do a catwalk while the flashes caught them until they disappeared in the venue.
That’s when Isagi Yoichi, wearing to perfection a navy-blue suit, appeared within his range of sight and walked away from the cameras to meet him. From the look of his face, the blue-haired man was clearly uncomfortable with that much attention.
“Are you getting nervous? How cute.” Kaiser teased him once they were close enough to talk without the sound of flashes and voices of the reporters as background noise.
“Fuck off.” Yoichi spat back, but his voice didn’t hold any poison or contempt.
They kept their distance from each other. In public, at least.
It was part of a silent agreement—to behave. The heated rivalry still existed, but that wasn’t the only thing there.
Still, Kaiser wasn’t used to the pet names yet—including the weird way Yoichi started to call him when he demanded his attention.
“Didn’t take you for the shy type.” Kaiser noted, his tone still playful as he signaled to Isagi a cameraman that was trying to catch them in a photo. Yoichi stiffened for a moment before he let go of his nervousness to pose along with him before a couple of snaps flashed towards them.
“There are too many flashes; I don’t think I’ve been under so many cameras before.” Isagi insisted as they finally moved across the red carpet, followed by the cameras and voices of reporters almost yelling questions about this year's Ballon d’Or nominees, Yoichi’s sudden top teamwork with the midfielder Alexis Ness, or the heated quarrel Kaiser held against Vivien Hugo that rose sparks in their last match.
“It seems you have a long way to go if you really wanna be the world’s best striker.” Kaiser mumbled, and Yoichi scowled at him as they stepped inside the venue.
A cocktail party welcomed them. The lights were warm and sober as the people already gathered in the facility were all dressed accordingly, talking in small voices and restrained laughter to not disturb the tone of the event nor the host. There was not a single thing out of place, but somehow, it was still outstanding.
Very Noa.
Yoichi looked almost out of place, looking in awe at the flashy and clean display of the party.
“Close your mouth, Yoichi. Only peasants stare like that.” Kaiser said without looking at him entirely.
“I—I'm not staring, you clown!” Isagi stuttered, embarrassed.
A waiter passed next to them with a tray full of champagne flutes, and Isagi quickly got himself a glass. Kaiser let the waiter pass without picking a drink on his own.
“It’s just—I never imagined I would be in a place like this.” The Japanese confessed right away, looking at his drink before facing upward to the people in the party.
“You get used to it.” Kaiser said dismissively, standing with arrogance, like he owned the place.
He felt Yoichi’s eyes over him.
“You look like you didn’t have any trouble.”
“I didn’t.” Kaiser said.
“So cocky.” Isagi's smug smile appeared right then.
“So childish.” The blond smirked back.
“Fuck you.” Again, there was no sharpness in his voice. And then, Isagi took a sip of his drink. “Hey, this is good.”
“Don’t drink too much, for god’s sake.” Kaiser alleged, rolling his eyes.
“But this is sweet! I don’t think I could get drunk with this!”
“That’s the trick, Yoichi. You don’t even register how much you drank until you drunkenly begin to wobble around and embarrass yourself in front of everyone.” Kaiser turned his face to see him straight in the eye, deadly serious.
He saw Yoichi gulp.
“Since when do you care?” The blue-haired one mumbled, looking away, almost defiantly.
However, Kaiser knew that question was a trap. “Since I know you enough to believe I’m going to carry you back to the hotel if you pass out, and I won’t.” He warned.
The remark on the tip of his tongue was enough for Isagi to flinch, almost outraged by his implicit threat. “Whatever. I’m going to look for something to eat.” The Japanese declared, side-eyeing him, already walking away from him.
Kaiser followed Isagi Yoichi moving around the people until he couldn’t see him anymore. That’s when he finally let himself study the people congregated in the place—trendsetters and people that believed themselves influential enough to be on Noa’s special guest list.
They probably didn’t care enough about Noa's altruistic endeavors, as they surely didn’t care about soccer—that was the whole point of these kinds of events; they weren’t about soccer at all anyway—but about impressing the right people with any other charm they had.
And Michael Kaiser knew the game—it was the reason he was there.
A show to please the people.
And that’s what he could do the best.
A couple of people reached for him and greeted him, glad to see him thriving and well. Kaiser returned the gesture effortlessly.
The smile on his lips didn’t falter—it was perfect, clean. A glimpse of faked gentleness over sweet words as an influencer got closer and asked for a photo, he conceded minutes later.
This was his second nature.
He carried it in his veins.
Perfect. Simply perfect.
“Oh, Michael!”
The voice of a woman broke the flow of the night. Soft, close. Right behind him.
His face didn’t betray the surge of coldness running through his veins when he realized he took a moment longer than common courtesy to turn around. It was a mistake he quickly attempted to correct when a perfect, manicured, and velvety hand was already on his shoulder.
Kaiser turned to his side in an almost mechanical motion, slow enough for himself to realize it, his mind rushing to assess that no one had noticed his sudden stiffness.
It was weightless. Her hand.
It shouldn’t be.
“I wasn’t expecting to meet you here.” He should have smiled, but his lips felt heavy, unable to concoct even an educated gesture.
He met with a reflection of his own face—same gestures, same curve on the smile—except for the scarlet eyes and the curtain of evenly colored blonde hair that blocked his sight as the woman leaned closer to trap his attention.
It was wicked and filthy. As the touch on his shoulder, as her eyes all over him.
“How long has it been? It feels like a lifetime since the last time I saw you.” Her voice was velvety and crashed down his defenses; the sound traveled through him as she evaded elaborating further on his observation.
‘Roughly ten years,’ Michael Kaiser recounted bitterly to his insides—about that time he became a promising star in soccer, ready to take on the world, and thought he could reach her, only to be thrown into the despair of becoming the boy with the blessed name, cursed to never be loved but hated.
“Really? I didn’t notice.” He stated instead, his tone even and unimpressed as he faced away.
“I see you’ve turned into a fine young man.” She observed, her hand caressing his shoulder without letting him go.
Kaiser closed his eyes.
She was too close.
‘Not again.’
“I’ve always been.” His voice came out almost immediately, out of reflex, as his sudden outburst of arrogance showed on his crooked smile.
“Of course. I gave you that pretty face after all.” The woman declared with certainty, her confidence eclipsing his own pride.
The same words, the same voice, the same tone.
Nauseating. It crawled on his skin before he could ever register.
The feeling skyrocketed instantly, right before Kaiser felt her hand squeezing his shoulder and sliding down his biceps in slow motion, as if she were assessing his growth before it landed on his forearm.
Kaiser froze in place despite feeling something didn't fit. He brushed it off.
He couldn't come up with a clever response afterward—which made things worse, because now, instead of leaving, she was getting closer.
“I’m surprised to see you here; I thought you didn't like these kinds of events.”
He didn't—not anymore at least. That was the whole point of his career. To become a showman and entertain—even if that meant disappearing as soon as he was spotted by the media to assess he was there.
But she couldn't possibly know. Not that he cared.
“I couldn’t refuse. Noa used to be my mentor.” Kaiser wasn't sure how he got the temper to reply.
“Hmmm-hmm. What a dependable boy.” She said so casually, it should be forbidden.
The thing was—he wasn't that fifteen-year-old boy who chased stupid dreams anymore.
He was a grown man now.
His hands clenched into fists; still he didn't push her away.
“Maybe we could catch up later?” It wasn't a question; it was a suggestion. She said it so naturally as she leaned closer to his ear, whispering only for him to hear.
Kaiser felt the dread crawling underneath his skin as a shiver ran down his spine and the air struggled to get into his lungs—
“Kaiser.”
Isagi spotted him in the distance, and he felt a cold shiver run down him when he noticed a woman was clinging to Kaiser so closely.
It felt wrong.
It was wrong.
Michael Kaiser valued his personal space in public. Not even Ness dared to step further into it whenever they met at public events. Not even him, who was—
No one should be the exception.
So he stepped in, looking at the blond and disregarding the woman next to him, not even glancing at her. He focused only on Kaiser, who turned around to meet his eyes for a fraction of a second before facing away.
Enough for Isagi to notice the hand of the woman in his arm. Beautiful, her facial gestures almost a carbon copy of Kaiser—or was it the other way around?
He realized a moment too late who she was, but he didn’t back off. There was something in the way Kaiser's blue eyes darkened all of a sudden; he couldn’t explain why.
“Ah. Yoichi.”
“Oh?” Isagi felt the dauntless stare of the woman scanning him up and down, shamelessly. “A friend of yours?”
Isagi already knew who she was, despite Kaiser never talking about his family. However, this couldn't be ignored.
So, Isagi waited.
Kaiser always had something to say about him. Something unpleasant, or maybe something unnecessary. He could already picture it—the teasing, the wicked smile, whatever that could become humiliating in its own way. This seemed like the perfect chance to do so.
Or perhaps Michael Kaiser would say something way worse—more personal and private—using that light tone he tended to use when something wasn’t important.
As if he was nothing. Irrelevant.
Isagi was aware that was wishful thinking and the last one would never happen. Kaiser wouldn’t do that. Not like that. Not right there. He knew that all too well.
Still, Kaiser didn’t say anything else—not a snarky remark, not a clever comeback, not a blatant refusal of acquaintance between them. Instead, he had become delayed.
He saw the blond blink so slowly; there was no way that could be normal.
Something was off.
“I—I just met with Noa, and he wants the press to take some photos with us.” He stated with careful consideration, noticing the judgmental gaze of the woman staring at him with interest.
“Right.” Kaiser replied quickly—way too quickly—and without further explanations or polite farewells, the blue rose walked towards him, passing him by, letting the hand on his forearm fall coarsely.
There was something in his shoulders and his posture that gave him away. Michael Kaiser looked exactly the same, but Isagi could tell something was not.
The woman didn’t pursue, just smiled with a perfect curvature, rehearsed—no matter how alike they were, it would never be as Kaiser's—and something inside Isagi just clicked.
“See you around then, dear.” The woman didn’t move forward, asserting her dominance in the place, before turning on her high heels and walking away.
Isagi paid no mind to the woman anymore—he was busy staring at Kaiser, who was already striding away, following the path he walked before, and Isagi began his pursuit, trying to keep up with his pace.
“Kaiser.” He called for the blond man as he avoided crashing between guests with cocktail glasses.
His steps never seemed to shorten the distance.
“Kaiser—” He tried again, but the blond didn’t stop, dodging people so effortlessly that Isagi almost feared he would lose him amidst the attendees.
As if he didn’t want to be reached out.
“Mihya!” He finally called, and Kaiser came to a halt immediately.
Isagi caught up with him at last, standing in his way, watching him intently.
He looked upset.
No. He seemed unsettled.
“Hey—” Isagi began, studying the stiffness in the blond’s posture and unable to voice exactly what was bothering him with all this exchange.
“I’m fine.” Kaiser interrupted him so fast, Isagi couldn’t even protest; then he turned around to keep going.
But the Japanese striker didn’t give up and took him by the shoulder.
Kaiser’s immediate reaction was to flinch and push him away. Both went quiet for a moment while the party kept going without them, ignoring their existence with soft murmurs of small talk and lively chatting.
The blond realized his mistake a second too late, since Isagi stared at him, bewildered.
“Mihya—”
“I said everything’s fine. Let’s go, Noa is waiting.” He insisted tensely, his voice rougher than before, prompting him to keep walking.
“I made that up.” Isagi confessed, and Michael finally turned to see him straight in the eye, his facial gestures now difficult to read. He saw the troubled and avoidant expression on Kaiser’s face next to his own mother, and Isagi Yoichi just knew he had to do something, even if he didn’t know exactly what the hell was happening.
The silence settled between them.
“Wha—?” And that’s when Michael Kaiser finally laughed. The sound came up dry, bitter, wrong. “Are you fucking for real?”
Now, it was time for Isagi to flinch, embarrassed. “I was trying to help.” He confessed then.
“I didn’t ask for it.” Kaiser huffed, clearly irritated by his now unveiled attempt to help.
“Mihya—” Isagi stepped closer, and Kaiser backed off as fast as the blue-haired striker moved forward.
“No.”
But Isagi Yoichi had enough.
Without any further words, Isagi practically sprinted straight to him right after Kaiser turned around to keep walking, his sense of direction finally lost now that Noa wasn’t an objective for the night—swaying his body, trying to find aim in his next steps.
“Hey—” He reached his shoulder a second time.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Kaiser brushed his hand brusquely. His breath hitched, just a moment, barely noticeable.
However, Isagi saw it to perfection, and he knew Kaiser knew that he knew.
The blond just huffed irritably, his hand going to his hair, combing it back with his fingers while looking around—as if looking for something, or more like avoiding something.
“Fuck. I need a drink.” And as if someone had just heard him, a waiter carrying a tray with beverages passed along him, and Kaiser took the first glass he saw with sparkling liquid before resuming his stride away from Isagi Yoichi’s attention.
“Wait a fucking minut—Kaiser.” Isagi was starting to lose his patience as he continued his walk behind the emperor before he was gone out of his safe range to discuss without causing a ruckus.
“Don’t. Fucking. Follow. Me, Yoichi.” Kaiser drew each word with such sharpness that it held a threat for whoever heard him and dared to oppose his wishes.
But the stubborn Japanese striker didn't relent. “Like hell I will listen to you!” Isagi rebuked, ready to continue his chase.
“Fuck off!” And Kaiser turned on his heels and walked away.
“Kaiser—!” Isagi resumed his pursuit when another guest got in the way, trying to catch his attention. Isagi smiled and moved away, excusing himself quickly, but only those brief seconds were enough to lose sight of the German striker.
He scanned thoroughly with his eyes the path the blond had taken, only to find he wasn’t there anymore.
Isagi chuckled, now upset. “Shit.” Then his feet moved again, set on finding the blond anyway.
Kaiser heard the murmurs of people recognizing him as he walked past the bathrooms and straight to the emergency exit with haste, his walk moving in long strides as he put his glass to his lips and drank.
The taste flooded his senses right away.
It was alcohol.
Kaiser scowled with disgust, discarding the glass on a decorative table, not daring himself to stop. He left behind the sound of the party until he saw the green display marking the emergency exit over a heavy metal door and went for it, pushing it over to leave everything behind.
Silence welcomed him instantly, the sound of the red carpet on the opposite side of the venue too far to be a nuisance. It was a bit cold outside, but it was okay. He was German, after all; he was born to endure cold. He was fine. He was Michael Kaiser; that was enough.
Then why couldn't he erase the feeling of her over him?
He pressed a hand over his arm, trying to dilute the feeling of her on him, pressing it hard. It didn't work. Next, he rubbed his arm hard, trying to rip the sensation of her touch off him. His skin burned under all the friction of fabrics, but the displeasure remained.
It was ridiculous.
Kaiser felt his head hot and light, and the air was failing to get in. His face twisted irritably, trying to breathe slower to no avail.
The floor felt unstable for a moment—perhaps it was him?—so he quickly leaned on the gray-tinted wall, poorly illuminated with white and sterile lights. He clenched his jaw.
Kaiser knew he could endure it, but he was failing—and how could he hold it all night if he was so fucking weak!? It had been enough time for him to get over it, to leave behind his shitty father, to forget about that wench that called herself his mother, and to avoid the story repeating itself. But old habits die hard because Michael Kaiser became powerless to push her away once more—as if he was still the same young, naïve teenager—when he was actually bigger, stronger.
He must've healed up from her by now, but he didn’t and he was a piece of trash, his mind chanted again, and again, and again—
And fuck air—because it was getting cold and sharp and barely getting to his lungs when he needed it the most!?
The sound of the emergency door reached his ears, followed by measured steps. Kaiser straightened his stance right away, but somehow, he didn't care anymore.
Right. He should've seen it coming.
“I told you to stop following me.”
Of course, the blue rose knew it was Isagi Yoichi who stepped forward and found him at last.
His steps grew louder the closer Yoichi got—not enough to invade his space, though.
“I thought you were done running away.” Yoichi said, his voice firm but still low.
Kaiser held his arm as he forced himself to breathe more evenly—more like he was huffing. “You can't possibly know.” He spat, turning away from him.
“But I do.” Yoichi took another step forward. Kaiser felt the impending urge to walk away. “The first time we kissed, you ran away.”
Kaiser remembered it all too well—the bafflement, the chaos sowed in his mind right after, the weeks he went radio silent. That was until Isagi Yoichi snapped and cornered him against his apartment door—kissing him again, forcing a way in.
It must've been a mishap, a mistake. Until it wasn't—until they ended up in his bed.
One time. And another. And another. Too many times to be a mistake. Enough to lose count of them.
Still, he wasn't exactly used to this.
It felt horrible, weak, vulnerable, not him.
“Fuck you.” He blurted out, his voice rougher than before, seeking to recover the control. “Stop pretending you know it all.”
Because if he knew—if Isagi Yoichi really knew who he was—he wouldn’t see a human. He wouldn't see something worthy of consideration.
Or worse—of love.
“Of course I don’t know everything, you idiot.” Yoichi spoke, his voice confident, lighter, and lively, as if stating the obvious. Kaiser loathed him so much—where had it gone those times when Isagi Yoichi used to be an awkward teenager who flushed upset so easily when teasing was the only way through?
Now all he could see was a young man keeping up with him and teasing him back, which made things worse.
Kaiser didn’t dare to look at him when he felt Yoichi shortening the distance, leaning onto the wall, so close and next to him. He felt his presence first, and Kaiser held his arm harder, trying to keep himself in check to prevent himself from breaking further.
“But maybe I do know a thing or two about you.” Yoichi continued, and just like that, Kaiser froze when he felt the fingers of the Japanese striker touching the skin of his wrist beneath the cuff of his shirt and his coat.
“I told you to not touch—!” The brief contact burned on his skin, now that he noted it. However, it wasn't like her touch clung to his arm—as if she’d just thrown a splash of acid all over him. This discomfort was certainly different.
It was tender.
The blond had the impending urge to flinch, even if he didn’t. And Yoichi's hand didn't push any further either.
“... so I’m gonna stay here, Mihya. Whether you like it or not.” Yoichi's words felt final, nonrebuttable. His hand was still there, like an open invitation waiting to be taken by him.
Kaiser felt his stomach churn weirdly; the air came to his lungs easier this time. And it was because of him—because Isagi Yoichi could have chosen to walk away and show him how worthless he really was.
But he didn't. What did that make him?
Time slowed down as the chance existed between them, Isagi Yoichi still allowing his hand close enough for him to reach, to dismiss, to ignore. The emperor hesitated but ultimately reached out, holding Yoichi's hand doubtfully and unsure.
The blue-haired striker didn’t push his luck, just remained, waiting. Then Kaiser threaded his fingers around his, and Yoichi took the cue, holding him back, his thumb caressing the back of his hand reassuringly.
He was breathing evenly and effortlessly now, and his body—tense up until then—began to relax at long last. It wasn't entirely calm, but it felt right this time.
Yoichi made a relieved sound that was too cute to admit, but Kaiser didn’t dare to even bring it up, especially not after the Japanese striker leaned his head against his shoulder, and particularly not because he didn't push him away.
Yoichi's weight was—comforting.
Kaiser let it be.
They remained like that for a whole minute, until the blue-haired striker sighed softly, his fingers still locked into each other. “Thank you for—for letting me in.” Yoichi finally said with a small stutter, his voice gentle, almost clumsy.
“Don't say it like that—” Kaiser didn't dare to look at him, his voice already put off beneath his harsh tone.
Because what else could he say? What were the right words to show he actually was relieved someone had seen past all the façades and decided to stay anyway?
“It's not a big deal—”
“But it is. Even if you're playing dumb.” Yoichi muttered, and Kaiser adjusted his fingers around Yoichi's. The other striker did the same, reassuringly. “I wouldn't stay here if I didn't care. About you, I mean.”
“Don't misunderstand things, Yoichi.” He warned, although his voice wasn't holding any more disregard than he usually held. “I’m just entertaining a peasant; don't get too excited.”
“Right. That's why you told me to not touch you like five times, you asshole.”
Kaiser just chuckled. Isagi didn't push any further.
“And honestly—I don’t know what her deal is, but I didn’t like the way she was looking at you.” Yoichi mumbled, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“Oh?”
“I thought I had competition for a moment,” the blue-haired man continued, scratching the nape of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “But… no.” He paused briefly. “Heh, you don’t even look that alike.”
Kaiser let out a short, mirthless laugh, tilting his head slightly toward him. “Is that so?”
“Yes!” Yoichi replied without hesitation. "I mean—you're... prettier." He finished with a little murmur Kaiser heard loud and clear.
This time, his laugh—although short—was lighter than before. “Well, that’s good to know.”
Yoichi squirmed next to him, shifting his position to glance back at the heavy metal door they’d come from before turning to him. “And now—we should go back inside if you feel any better.” He suggested at last, his hold still there, soft. “Noa must be waiting for us.”
Kaiser pulled away enough to face the Japanese striker, squinting at him. “You said you made that up.” His voice was still sharp, but it didn't hold poison anymore.
“I lied.” Yoichi confessed, shying away as he hid his face against his jacket’s sleeve.
Kaiser stayed silent for a moment, and he just tightened his grip on him. “... tch.” He groaned, facing away despite not retrieving his hand at all. “Fine.” And his hand changed the position to follow the inertia of the blond’s movement as he leaned away from the wall to walk back inside the venue, holding Yoichi’s hand between his without fault and pulling him closer.
Of course, Yoichi didn’t oppose any resistance and let him lead, walking the corridor back into the warmth of the party with flashes and lights and lively murmurs, where the world continued as if nothing had happened a moment before.
Finding Noel Noa was an easy task when he was the host of such an event—he was within the crowd of flashes and reporters covering the main stage of the event. The now retired striker saw them among the mass of people and nodded in recognition to them, landing a couple of words.
And then all the cameras turned to them as they walked to the main stage, where other soccer stars were already parading along Noa to get covered.
The flashes engulfed them right away.
“Here.”
“Michael, Yoichi, may I?”
And without further ado, Michael Kaiser returned to his full-of-himself persona, posing exactly as he was told, his face high and arrogant as always, but tightly clinging to Yoichi’s hand—
“Perfect!”
… who quickly caught up with him and posed next to him, squeezing his hand back.
There was a brief blink of silence Kaiser noticed instantly, barely a couple of seconds if anything. It was obvious what was causing the shock, despite the insistent shout of shutters flashing photos one after another in wordless concession.
A little turn of his head and he noticed how Yoichi struggled between getting closer and pulling apart, clearly aware of what the press had just caught.
The photos kept on coming anyway.
“One more!”
“Yoichi, you’re a natural!”
“N-no! It’s just—”
“Are you perhaps seeking advice from Michael?”
“Ha!? No, I don’t—!”
“Getting shy again, Yoichi?” Kaiser teased, turning away to pose along with Isagi for another set of photos, then turned away from the flustered Japanese man whose hand refused to let go, their fingers threaded in a complicated knot, weighing its implications and deciding he didn’t care anymore.
“Sh-shut up, you stupid clown.” Yoichi mumbled, his voice muffled by the sounds of the party but growing confident with the closeness between them. Kaiser was convinced he heard the glimpse of a smile coming through his voice.
Yoichi’s hand remained, holding him when he could have let him go.
The feeling wasn't thunderous or life-changing. It was just an extension of something calm he already had, but he was too blind to notice before. The blond decided he would archive those feelings for later and focused on the venue and the protocols he was asked to follow now.
The perfect façade returned to his body, which crumbs of the disaster prior still lingered—on the small tremor of his fingers, on his dry mouth, on the general tiredness his body suddenly manifested—but this time something had changed.
Because Isagi Yoichi was sharing his space and his air, in the open for everybody to see, and somehow, that wasn't bothering him in the slightest anymore.
“Oh, Ms. Love! A photo, please?” And the press quickly changed objectives for another celebrity in the party, following the figure of a woman Kaiser recognized in the distance. She crossed stares with him in a matter of a second, and he faced away as the tension returned.
Then Yoichi squeezed his hand back while he tensed his fingers but didn’t pull away. None of them did.
Instead, they adjusted their grip one last time before leaving the stage to keep up the evening with their hands locked as if nothing had happened.
And this time, Kaiser decided he was done running away and didn’t let him go.