Archive of Our Own

The future is confusing, uncertain, and a vague blur of nothingness. Every single choice made today will alter its course, and every opportunity, taken or not, will bring it to something new. Even outside of one’s own being, every choice made by another person makes an impact on everything. Something as simple as the weather can change the course of action taken by someone important. When there is so much doubt in its very existence, what is the point of dwelling on it so deeply?

It’s the philosophy he tends to live by.

People seek out such dramatic futures. Dreaming of wealth, a financial cushion that could save them from the worst of collapses and facilitate their wildest dreams. Wishing for success, of acknowledgement from their colleagues and bosses alike of their brilliance in any field. Hoping for friends, family, bringing meaning into every single day. Waiting for love, to sweep them off their feet and into the arms of someone who will never let them go.

What a heavy trust to have in the Universe. Does it ever work out?

Michael Kaiser finds himself at a stage of life wherein, perhaps he is not the happiest he could be, but he is not struggling. A dissatisfactory sort of peace, just comfortable enough that he feels no need to rock the boat. He has enough wealth to sustain himself, success that many footballers would be jealous of, enough acquaintances that he will not find himself alone on a Friday night if he so wishes.

He cannot deny that he has always been a dreamer. Someone who hopes, even in the worst of circumstances, that there is something out there for him. That there is a light, somewhere, waiting to make his own future a bright one. But does he dare seek it out? If he does, what are the chances that the light was a lie? It is a wish, and it has never been anything more than that.

Michael Kaiser, the one who achieves the impossible. Hasn’t he done it? People could look at his history and say that, where he is today, is already an impossible feat. At the tender age of twenty one he is already so far ahead of so many people who were in his very position.

What else is there to ask for?

Even so, he is no fool. He knows all too well that avoiding the inevitable is a tactic that is fated for failure. The future will come, whether he likes it or not, and with it there will be a new future to watch out for. Even the act of not actively thinking about it is a choice, one that will impact him in ways he knows he will never be able to comprehend. No one ever will.

He almost takes solace in it. The inaction is a peace that he was never awarded, and even amongst uncertain pathways, it is a pathway, one that doesn’t look all that ugly.

So he sticks to it. And despite himself, he hopes that he will be able to hold onto this dissatisfactory peace.

And maybe, just maybe, he will hope for more, too.

The locker room is abuzz. Kaiser sits down on the bench, lifting his foot up to tie the laces. He loops them around a finger, absently processing the chatter of his teammates. It’s the usual, inane banter– where to go after they win, what plans they have for the weekend, what strategies they want to try out today (ones that the coach already discussed). In one ear, out the other. He tucks one loop under the other, pulling it tight.

People begin milling out of the room, and Kaiser puts his foot down, chin tucked low whilst he stares at the floor.

There is a terrible feeling. One that is slowly beginning to churn within his stomach. It is something akin to nervousness, but it is not that– Michael does not get nervous before a match. The feeling should be better described as something ominous, like a warning of something that will most definitely go wrong. A crawling need in his itch to run before he makes a big misstep.

A pair of shoes come to a stop before him. Embarrassingly, he recognises them instantly. Those shoes belong to the same miracle midfielder who has scored umpteen goals with him in the past– and perhaps they will go on to score even more today.

Perhaps.

Kaiser lifts his head, eyebrow raised. Sae stares right back, arms crossed. Fingers tapping at his compression sleeve, as though he is waiting for something. Kaiser doesn’t give it to him. He slows, lifting a hand to place at his thigh, balancing his head atop his palm.

“Ja,” he drawls, as though that will cut through the tension in the air.

“We will win today.”

He announces it with such confidence. Head tilted high, like he’s looking down at Michael. A rare occasion, but Michael knows it’s more than that. The lilt in his voice is familiar, the same one he uses every time he’s got a new idea in the middle of a stressful match. The same one he uses whenever he’s feeling particularly confident about something going well.

It’s in such sharp contrast to Michael’s own foreboding, he wants to revel in it. Embrace the confidence, the surety in those words, like it could save him from himself.

“Of course we will,” Kaiser replies, forcing a smile to his face. Standing up to full height lets him look down at Sae again, blue eyes locking onto teal. If only he could partake in the confidence that shines in them, too.

Sae takes a step back. Nods once, and then walks right out. The interaction may as well have never happened, and it certainly will change nothing about the actual outcome of the match.

Michael smiles, just a touch sincerely this time. He follows Sae out.

For the most part, it looks like his terrible feeling was a lie.

It’s a rare thing. Kaiser wants to believe it, so badly.

The match has been going exceedingly well. Their final hurdle before qualifying for a big league, Kaiser has already scored a goal against them. They evened it out fairly quickly, but there is more than enough time to regain a goal. Halftime comes and goes, and Kaiser is racing through the field once more, following the ball with eyes that have learned to look for it in his sleep.

His confidence starts leaving him as the match proceeds. Their defense is suddenly iron, and it takes four tries for Kaiser to even get past the initial hurdle. He’s clenching his teeth at this point, nails digging into his palms as he tries to figure things out.

The golden opportunity arises in the last three minutes, into overtime. The opposing midfielders slip up, just a touch. But it’s enough for Sae to capitalise on their mistake. Pouncing, he takes possession of the ball, eyes already searching.

Blue meets teal, and Michael should be less surprised at the fact that the confidence from earlier hasn’t wavered at all.

Sae takes a step back, twirls the ball into a nutmeg forward, and then he’s kicking it into the air.

The ball soars.

Even before it lands, Kaiser knows where to go. He’s already scrappling forward, his eyes off of the ball completely as he breaks past the first line of defenders. By the time they’ve realised, it’s already too late. The ball lands poetically right before him, a single bounce before it’s rolling forward.

Kaiser kicks it along, feet familiar with the dance around it. The second line of defenders approaches quickly, but they’re just late enough in their reactions that he’s ready. He’s ready to do the impossible once more. Leg curled back with familiar speed, he kicks at the ball, eyes shining. The net is right there, he can almost taste victory, and–

The defenders’ late reaction bites him in the back. His own speed bites him in the back. One of them crashes into him, a fraction of a second too late, and he’s falling, falling, falling. . . Thud.

. . . It hurts.

The world slows, narrows, into the side of his head that hit the ground with frightening force. He stays there, lying down, eyes shut as his skull throbs, the pain vibrating. It starts rippling into the rest of his head, and he can’t think, can’t even decide if it’s worth opening his eyes to see. Everything else feels perfectly fine, even the leg that gave away when he was knocked off of his balance. But his head hurts so bad it doesn’t matter, not when there is no room to think of anything but pain.

He hasn’t felt anything quite like it before.

The churning in his stomach gets worse.

Michael tries to sit up– a terrible idea. Quickly, the pain reverberates towards his eyes, away from the back of his head, and he feels multiple sets of hands grasping at him. Michael gasps, batting them away frantically, eyes forced open by the surprise. Nothing looks right, everything just slightly displaced, his vision flickering. For a brief moment, it’s almost like his life flashes before his eyes.

Did he finally get too cosy? Is this the world reminding him, once again, that his peace will only ever be uncomfortable?

A single set of hands reaches for him, and Michael makes out the vague blur of pink and white. His breath catches in his lungs. The touch is still unfamiliar, but Michael leans towards it, hands that he knows won’t hurt him, won’t wrap around his throat and squeeze. Hands that grasp him by the forearms, holding him upright.

There are words being said, but the ringing in his ears drowns them out, and he swallows down his discomfort with a heavy gasp. Michael tips forward, eyes shut again, and he feels a hand slide from his forearm around his back. Michael grasps the body before him like he would die if he let go. Leaning his head forward onto the crook of a familiar shoulder, he lets himself be hauled up.

If sitting was bad, standing is even worse.

How he managed to make it all the way to the bench, even with support, remains a mystery to him. He feels his knees give away as soon as he sees the vague blur, collapsing into it. The person with him follows right along, hands staying where they are with a stubborn hold. They sit down next to him, and Michael takes the opportunity to hide away from the rest of the world.

The darkness of shut eyes, and the breathing of a second body to calm himself comes as a reprieve. He takes a shuddering breath, head spinning even as he stays still. He can feel the world slipping away from him, slowly, and Michael doesn’t know how to stay with it. Doesn’t know how to hold on, the way Sae is holding onto him right now, and he fears he will be swept away with this into nothingness.

He thought he had braved his fears. They all come back, hurtling towards him full speed, and Michael can do nothing but keep his eyes closed as they barrel into him.

Eventually, he can hear fine. Still not coherent enough to make any meaningful additions, he doesn’t fight the medics off. Lets them fuss around, even as Sae keeps his iron grip around Michael’s shoulders. It’s only after he’s felt the compression of a wrap around his head that he feels everything retract, leaving him a sweet bubble of peace.

He breathes in, deep and long.

The darkness calls, stronger now. His head tips to the side, right back onto Sae’s shoulder.

Just for a moment, he tells himself. Avoiding the inevitable is a tactic that is fated for failure, but would it really be such a bad thing to hide away for a moment? Head still hurting, spinning, body exhausted with the weight of a match he had been cautious about from the first moment– it’s only natural that he falls prey to the familiar calls of sleep. To do so at the shoulder of someone who would not hurt him for doing so is only natural.  

If he had given it just another moment of thought, he would have realised that he had scored. They had won the game, decisively so. But it had been overshadowed with a thud, muffled by the cheers of the crowd. It was only when everyone rushed to him to celebrate that they realised something had gone wrong.

But they’d won the match, hadn’t they?

It’s a shame Michael never realised. Instead, he tucks his head down, pink hair tickling his cheek, and he lets unconsciousness wrap its dark hands around his mind and drag him further into deep depths.

A moment passes.

Then two. Then ten.

Then he loses count, and the hubbub of the world fades away. Narrowed into the space of awareness that he still does not have, of two bodies sitting together on a bench. A world of their own, one of remarkable silence.

He wakes, eventually.

But the scene is . . . different.

There is no green grass, trimmed to perfect height with two white goals on each side of the field. There is no smattering of players, white from his team and black from the opposition. There are no medics milling around him, nor are his coaches around. Everything swapped out for a smaller space, leather seats, and air conditioning blowing towards him. Hair hanging loosely around his face.

The only similarity between the scene he fell unconscious to and the scene he wakes to is the pink hair just barely in sight, and a steady shoulder under his cheek.

Michael blinks once, twice, staring at the back of said leather seats. Past that, to the glass, to the lit road beyond it. A moving car? With an unfamiliar driver, at that? He moves his gaze to the side, almost afraid of what he will find. His head doesn’t hurt, and he is remarkably coherent, and yet his mind seems to be lying to him about what he sees.

Sae sits, reclined, his gaze on his phone as though he isn’t currently acting as Michael’s headrest. And even then, this is Itoshi Sae, but it is not the Itoshi Sae Michael remembers. Sharper jaw, longer lashes, but it’s the strangely peaceful tilt of his mouth and a new light to his eyes make him so very different. Michael watches, longer than is appropriate, perhaps, and wonders what on Earth is going on.

As though he senses this, Sae looks over, and blue meets teal once more. A single eyebrow lifts slowly, and Sae tilts his head away from Michael with curiosity shining in his gaze.

“Awake yet?”

Michael blinks, slow and careful. Even his voice is deeper, but it carries a lightness to it he could never imagine from Itoshi Sae. Not quite trusting himself to answer, he manages a weak hum of his own.

Sae seems to understand anyway, if he seems a little exasperated. What had Michael been doing? How had he passed out long enough for there to be such a drastic gap in his memory and understanding?

He lifts his head away from Sae’s shoulder, and watches for his reaction. But it’s a waste of time– there is no reaction to speak of. Sae simply lets Michael sit up straight, and reaches a hand into his pocket. Offers him a phone with a metallic blue case– is that his?

Surely not. His phone is nowhere near as fancy as this one.

Michael stares at it for long enough of a second that Sae seems to stare right past his eyes into his soul. Still, he waits with the phone outstretched. Michael takes the hint.

The phone case is warm in his hand, and he turns it round in his hand a few times before he lifts his gaze back to Sae. Predictably, Sae’s eyes haven’t left him, his phone turned off and arms crossed. He still says nothing, but the question is written all over his face.

There is comfort to be found in that. That Michael, even in his confusion, his total lack of context, he can still read Sae like a book.

He makes a lazy shrug of his shoulders. In another example of terrible timing, he realises that his body feels strangely foreign to him, too. Shoving that realisation away for later, he attempts to keep his iron grip over his dignity still.

“Tired,” he offers, lips tilting up in a familiar grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Sae narrows his eyes at the answer, as though he doesn’t quite believe it, but not with enough heat that he wants to poke past it. Letting the matter drop, Sae nods and turns his face back to his phone, tapping the screen open.

Even Michael’s voice sounds wrong to his ears.

Enough of that. Michael turns his gaze back to his(?) phone, tapping on it once. The screen lights up, a simple blue rose on the lock screen.

Definitely his, then. He sucks in a quiet breath, dragging the screen up to spot the lock. There is a fingerprint scanner, thankfully, and he saves himself the trouble of having to wrack his addled brain for a possible new code.

All for naught. Michael stares at the screen wallpaper, and his mind blanks. A blissful sort of confusion, compounded over and over with each new realisation.

Firstly– this is a photo of Sae. Bracketed against a sunset, golden light shining past him as though he is the source of the light. Hands tucked into a brown coat, scarf fluttering in the wind. But most importantly, the teal of his eyes is brighter than anything Michael has seen before– and the lightness of his gaze is directed right at the photographer.

Michael’s heart squeezes.

Secondly– the date shatters him anew. The exact date of the match, of the day he remembers last. But the year is all wrong.

It has to be a dream, surely. There is no other explanation for why his phone reflects back a date five years into the future.

He finds himself endlessly thankful that Sae is on his phone, occupied and otherwise too busy to watch Michael fight a war with himself internally. Blinking rapidly does nothing to dissipate this vision, this dream, and pinching himself did nothing either. He sucks in a shuddering breath, turning his phone off and placing it on his thigh.

There are no gloves on his hands. He’s wearing a white button up, rolled up sleeves, but there are no gloves despite the relatively fancier slacks. One glance at Sae shows a similar getup, which begs the question– what is going on? Even if he chooses to indulge the delusional notion that this isn’t a dream, he has no context to what is going on. There are no latent memories to dig through.

Clearly he isn’t fighting a head injury anymore, because his thoughts come to him clearly. Michael flips the phone back up, unlocking it to tap into his calendar. If twenty-six year old Michael Kaiser is anything like twenty-one year old Michael Kaiser, then his calendar must be disgustingly organised.

It is. He takes a deep breath, and scrolls through the dates.

Break week– but there’s practices allotted across the month, and flights around the world still visible. Clearly, he’s still a football player. Michael doesn’t question the rapid beating of his heart at this realisation. Adrenaline? Serotonin? He’s stopped figuring himself out. But this day in particular reflects nothing at all, barren from any sort of important plans marked. Then why—

There is a hand, grasping at his chin. Michael turns, almost instinctively, following Sae’s touch to stare into his eyes.

Sae isn’t wearing gloves, either.

His gaze is narrowed, and he’s leaning forward from where he is seated. One hand braced on the seat, other lifted to hold onto Michael’s face, as though he will dissipate if Sae lets go. Michael sucks in a deep breath, and wonders what kind of a person twenty-six year old Michael becomes for this to be commonplace.

The treacherous heart that sits in his chest decides to beat faster.

“You’re acting strange,” Sae murmurs. It’s then that Michael realises that, even in his confusion, his total lack of context, Sae can read him just as well. “Are you sick? You seemed fine before we left, so clearly it’s something that happened after your little nap just now. . . “

He’s barely comprehended his circumstances, and he’s already so close to giving himself away.

The crux of the problem is so simple, and yet so complicated. Michael Kaiser does not think of the future, there has never been one to envision. There has only been the present, and the day after that. Never a long term goal, never a thought spared to a life beyond the immediate. But here he is, thrust into the body of a him multiple years forward, and he simply does not know who he is anymore.

(Did he ever?)

“Not sick. I feel fine,” he decides to start with. Keeps his gaze as neutral as he can, retaining the sleepiness to his tone. If he can’t lie to Sae successfully, then he can simply spin the truth into something believable. There are only so many drastic changes that can happen to a person, right? Surely his reactions to exhaustion haven’t changed so very significantly.

“I really do think I am just tired,” Michael adds with a little chuckle, keeping his eyes on Sae. Sae, whose gaze sharpens, eyeing Michael with all the suspicion of a stray cat.

“This is why you should not nap in the car.”

“My mistake, darling. So much worry for me, how noble!”

Too far? Pet names were absolutely a norm five years ago, has anything changed? Does Sae have a beloved now who would hate Michael for saying any such thing? Does Michael have– well, that is severely unlikely. Perhaps he is simply–

Sae groans, leaning back away from Michael into his seat. “If you’re being obnoxious about it, then I suppose you’re alright. But you better not wake up sick tomorrow and expect me to take care of you.”

Take care of him–?

Michael laughs. Laughs, light and carefree.

Even if pinching himself did not awaken him from his slumber, there is no doubt that this is a dream. Not a single world exists where the possibility of Itoshi Sae taking care of a sick Michael Kaiser is a reality.

He wonders if the self-deprecative note in his voice is as obvious to Sae as it is completely absent to him. If twenty-six year old Michael Kaiser laughs like this, in the face of genuine care shown to him by people who have better things to do. If he has grown at all, into a body that has filled out over the years. But more importantly, into a mind that feels so strangely satisfied.

Has that dissatisfactory peace finally left him, then? Has he found something worth living for, truly looking towards tomorrow for?

Sae is giving him a side eye, his lips twisted into an odd expression of concern. He opens his mouth to speak, another retort undoubtedly, but Michael is saved by the slow stop of their car.

They pause. Neither of them is quite willing to break this position they’ve found themselves in. A stalemate, borne not out of a lack of moves, rather the inability of each party to make any moves. Blue meets teal, one more time, and Michael cannot help but wonder about how often this must have happened in these years between his memories.

. . . He’s phrasing it as though it isn’t a dream. Obviously it is. Nothing here is real.

Sae breaks first. He turns towards the driver, offering him a curt nod, and words spoken in Spanish that Michael only vaguely understands. The door makes a familiar click as it unlocks, and Sae is quick to push it open. Hopping out, he holds the door open as he stares back inside, an eyebrow raised at Michael.

Ah.

Michael scrambles to pocket his phone, and he slides out of the car, feet landing next to Sae’s.

This is when he realises– he’s taller. Is it possible to grow taller after reaching the age of twenty-one? Why is it that the world looks different from here, in a mind that hasn’t aged but a body that has? The blond hair that comes to his shoulders stays the same, but the cut is so much cleaner. The choppiness of self-cut hair traded for something a little neater, a little more uniform. Blue dye, he thinks with relief gripping his heart, is still his dye of choice. It coats the ends of blond strands the same as ever.

The chill of the air slowly starts biting into him. Sae is reaching back into the car for something, and Michael takes the opportunity to look around. Eyes roving over familiar buildings, lights flickering in some windows, but turned off in most. The distant sound of the city centre is a low background noise to the quiet of these streets. They don’t look familiar, not anywhere Michael ever remembers being– but somehow his hand reaches for his other pocket, and he can feel an unfamiliarly familiar set of keys sitting right there.

How strong is muscle memory, really? How much can one lie to themselves within a dream?

Sae lifts his head, closing the door behind him, and Michael spots the coats laid over his arm. It takes him another moment to realise that there are two coats with him.

Michael opens his mouth, and closes it again. Sae lifts an eyebrow.

“Not opening the door?”

“Ah. I . . . “

“Don’t tell me you forgot our keys,” Sae deadpans, eyes half lidded once more as his gaze turns icy. Michael suppresses a shiver, and shakes his head.

“. . No, I have them.”

“Well then.” Sae makes a sweeping gesture forward, and Michael turns around for the first time to find the building behind them.

It’s protected well enough, Michael supposes. He pushes the glass doors open, sparing a single glance for Sae behind him before he walks forward.

How does twenty-six year old Michael Kaiser walk? Is it with a swagger, the way he did when he was nineteen? Or was it with the slightest touch of a slouch, the way he did as a teenager, and then at twenty? Is it with the slight slant to his shoulders, the ramrod straight posture without any of the pride, like he remembers at twenty-one?

Turns out, the answer lies in his muscles, and not in his mind. His shoulders stay perfectly aligned, back just the right amount of straight without excessive strain. It feels like the weight equivalent to multiple years has been taken away from him, and he can hold his head high without any questions whatsoever. It is an. . . odd feeling, to experience. Knowing full well that just a few hours ago he was battling such a furious churn in his stomach that it threatened to ruin his whole game.

It’s then that he pauses to think of the outcome of the game. Did they win? How bad was his head injury? Is this a result of that? What happened to–

Sae shoves him, hard.

“Hey–!”

“Move, did you fall asleep standing? Get to the elevator.”

Michael obliges, even if he mumbles a protest under his breath. Walking into the elevator, he stares at his reflection in the mirror placed within. Watching out of the corner of his eye as Sae goes to punch in a floor number– a good thing, for he most certainly doesn’t remember that.

There is no doubt about the age on his face. He looks so. . . . relaxed. Old, but like one of those people who age with all the satisfaction of a well lived life.

It is so very foreign, he almost wonders if he isn’t in his own body in the future, but a different person altogether.

His eyes remain clear, free of the fogginess he remembers seeing so often. Blue shines right back at him, bracketed with an eyeliner drawn with confidence. The lines of his jaw are sharper, but there is a muscle to his frame that seems so much healthier than it used to. He lifts a hand to his cheek, almost in awe of a man who looks exactly like him, and yet nothing like him at all.

Sae’s brow lifts even higher into his hairline.

“Are you high, Mihya–”

Michael lets out a surprised scoff, his breath catching his throat. He whips his head back to Sae, eyes wide in alarm. “Nein, I am most certainly not, why would you suggest such a thing?”

Sae stares right back, unprovoked. “You just touched your cheek as though you were enamoured with yourself. Has your narcissism really gone so far?”

It’s so easy. Five years and yet their banter sounds exactly the same, as though absolutely nothing has changed between. Except everything has, because Sae has Michael’s coat draped over his arm right alongside his own. Everything has, because Michael heard our keys, not your keys. Everything has, because Sae is right here with him, on his way to their presumed home, and Michael does not know what to do with this information.

“Oh please,” he tries, aiming for a standoffish tone. “I am nothing but objective about my beauty.”

Isn’t it strange, to say such a thing? Michael has never seen himself as bad looking, but the way he holds himself today feels so much more alluring than he remembers. As though a few years and a lighter set of shoulders could truly fix such a thing.

The elevator makes a convenient ding at their– their– floor before Sae can get another word in. He seems to acknowledge it, too, an exasperated roll of his eyes as he strides out. Michael follows a step behind, taking in a foreign floor. Sae comes to a stop before a certain door, and Michael takes it as his cue to slide the key into the keyhole.

It gives away with a click, and he shoves at the door slightly, watching the room as it opens.

Michael has never been good about houses, about homes.  He has never been good with people. It was simply easy to fool people into thinking so with a charming smile and a smooth word.

The first house he’d ever known had been strewn with alcohol bottles, dripping liquor over the floorboards. Grime on the floor, uncleaned from days of neglect. The stench in the air, stuffy from days of closed windows. The bread in the kitchen, already a rarity, is often stale. That very stale bread that would fill his stomach for a few days on end. The TV rumbles on with unwanted noise. His father, seated on the disgusting couch, drinking away his sorrows. Michael, forced to find other ways to keep himself alive.

That was no house. It was a prison of its own kind.

Short lived, even as the prison was, it remains burned into the back of his eyelids. Cold, dark, dreary, and a manifestation of every fear he ever had. Chained to a reality he never wanted to exist in. Handcuffs wrapping his hands behind his back, dried blood caking half his face where it hadn’t yet been tended to. In all honesty, Michael had almost resigned himself to spending the rest of his life there.

Ray Dark had changed that.

Bastard München’s dorms had been such sweet reprieve from the violence. Michael had been so desperate to do something, anything, to get away from that house. People there were welcoming, offering him food so openly and sharing conversations with joy painted over their faces. Back then, lost and frustrated, he hadn’t been able to understand. How did people exist with such positivity?

He understands now, so many years later. It was because they were wanted in this world, by themselves or by someone else. He had never understood the feeling of being wanted, so all he could do was focus on being a target of hate. Both are better than apathy, after all?

Michael Kaiser, never loved by the world, would accept hate instead. So long as he left an impact, an impression on people, forcing his existence into assured belief so that people would not be able to forget him. Proving that he was someone in this world, even if unanchored and floaty. There would be something to look at, when they thought of the name, Michael Kaiser.

The beginnings of dissatisfactory peace took a hold around his heart. A vice grip, of knowing that he was not at rock bottom anymore, so there would be something to lose if he fell. A fear of asking for more, seeking out more, knowing that it would risk the little he has now.

New Generation 11 Camps, annual as they were, had been the beginning of something more. Michael, perfecting his impact shot, avoidant of change still, had found such a varied group of people. People who, like him, had grown comfortable in their positions, and no longer wished to ask for more. People who were thirsty, hungry for something bigger, something greater. A lot of them resigned, not out of their own will, but out of exhaustion.

Amongst all of them was one goldmine of a midfielder. A midfielder who had not been one, to begin with, but had still shined brighter than anyone at his role.

I will only pass to you, the Japanese man had said, if you deserve it.

Kaiser, so used to Ness, so used to his reliable dog, felt his jaw drop to the floor. Here was someone who refused to be satisfied with what Michael was today, pushing him to be better. As if his shots weren’t already the talk of the camp, hadn’t already caught the attention of so many. He had almost written it off as a given that he would be passed to.

The audacity to say such a thing to the best striker in the camp.

But oh, to deserve Itoshi Sae’s passes. To be deserving of something so glorious. Like threading a needle, finding a vein, injecting straight dopamine into his veins. The sound of his kick would precede the most gorgeous, soaring pass, landing at the tip of Michael’s cleat as though drawn magnetically. Just in time for Michael to shoot, a surefire straight line towards victory.

Towards glory.

In those moments, to receive the combined brilliance of Sae’s pass and a gorgeous goal, Michael feels on top of the world. That he’s done something impossible, permeating through the air like lightning was just caught in a bottle. Left an impact on the world bigger than anything he could have ever dreamed of.

He would burn himself into a crisp again, and again, and again, just to recapture that lightning in his bottle once more.

Michael does not believe in fate, in destinies. It would be too depressing, too easy to fall into the pits of despair if he did. Tell himself that he deserved nothing better than a house filled with liquor and dried blood over his face. If he had accepted that, he would have given up long ago. Even before he knew what it meant to have an identity of his own, wishes of his own beyond survival.

Michael Kaiser does not believe in fate, or in destinies. But leaving Bastard München to join Re Ale, playing by Sae’s side, had felt exactly like red strings intertwining together.

Michael blinks into the darkness of the entrance, squinting at the space beyond. Sae enters behind him, flicking on the lights from the switchboard he’d missed. Michael looks back just in time to see Sae drape their coats over the rack at the entryway.

Sae shoots him a questioning look, eyebrow raised as he toes his shoes off. Lining them up together, Sae walks inside with the ease of someone who belongs here.

Does Michael really belong here, too?

He doesn’t let himself brood over it. Following suit, he tugs his shoes off, his lips quirking up slightly at the motion. He can almost hear Sae, his Sae from the past (the present?), chastising him for not taking off his shoes when he visited the Japanese man one day.

It’s a modest house. One brought together by luxury, but not one that flaunts it.

“I’ll handle dinner,” Sae calls from inside, and Michael’s heart does a weird little flip in his chest. “You can do dishes later.”

Oh.

Michael wasn’t an avid television watcher. It would be awkward, after all, to turn towards a soap opera channel and find his own face staring back at him. But he’s caught glimpses, small sights, through the people surrounding him. Be it Hugo’s inane novels with ridiculous covers, or be it Lorenzo’s penchant towards soap operas, or even just background noise of advertisements as he passes through the streets. He’s been exposed to his fair share of fictional romances.

Never before has he been exposed to such domesticity. The simple act of trading chores, of cooking for one another. Maintaining a household together, living a life together. The very stability that he’d stopped himself from craving. A security that only came with time and consistency.

He pinches himself again, twisting the skin of his hand. It does nothing but hurt in a twinge of reality.

Is this the life, that future Michael lives? That he may get to live, someday? One with real, satisfying peace, a solid foundation beneath his feet that doesn’t require him walking over eggshells? A reality where he can live, truly, and not think about his survival?

Oh, god.

Belatedly, Michael realises he never replied to Sae. Sae, who is staring at him again, head peeking outside the entryway to what he assumes is the kitchen.

“Michael, are you–”

“Fine,” he says, more force in his tone than he’d expected. Michael straightens up, blinking out his nervousness with a hasty laugh. “I am simply thinking, Sae. Do not bother your pretty little head about me. I will freshen up and then keep you company, ja?” ” A dismissive wave of his hand, and then he’s stepping into the house.

Sae’s eyebrows knit together in clear suspicion, eyes still focused on him. He runs his gaze up and down, like he’s looking for any physical signs to suspect rather than just however off Michael must feel to him.

He wonders what Sae expects Michael to be like. Lovey dovey? Has he learned how to be affectionate in any sincere manner? Or does he still hide behind layers of charisma, ones that he had to fight tooth and nail to wear? Perhaps he expects Michael to be sharper, more honest. Without the flourish of drama, with the flourish of a tired man.

“Freshen up,” Sae repeats with a nod, when his scan proves to be futile. But the suspicion has not yet left his eyes. “Then we will eat dinner, and you will talk, because you are lying, and you will tell me why.”

Ah, dear. Michael stares after him, opening his mouth to protest. And yet, somehow, it seems Sae really does know him all too well, for his hand goes up before a single word escapes Michael.

“I do not want more of your deflections, Mihya, go clean up,” Sae says, and then he disappears into the kitchen.

Michael suppresses a groan.

What is he supposed to say? Hallo, Itoshi Sae, I am not the Michael Kaiser of your time, in fact I am from the past! Is he your Michael Kaiser? I would not know, for we are not together where I hail from! I am disoriented by the fact that this version of me lives a life happier than the wildest of my dreams, and all you did was offer to cook for me!

He cringes. Even that internal monologue sounds awfully depressing.

Instead, he moves. Past the couches, feet tapping on the wooden floor louder than he ever remembers walking. That isn’t a quirk of his– it’s a quirk of this Michael, and oh, what a strange realisation that is. Past the shelves lined with photos, books, medals, and trophies, none of which Michael can stomach looking at right now. Towards a hallway with multiple doors.

. . . Sae is in the kitchen, right? Surely he will not realise if Michael walks into the wrong room a few times.

Even as he thinks it, he finds himself drawn to the room at the end of the hallway. Almost on autopilot, he twists the knob and pushes the door open.

The bedroom. Of course.

His bedroom, the one he remembers, is drab. A clinical white bed, the rare splatter of blue where he felt it too depressing to leave things monochrome. His living room had been extravagant, dressed to the nines with all the charisma he lacked so dearly within the comfort of his safest room. The apartment itself had been but an abode for him to rest, and even that had been so much more than he ever thought he could ask for. Decorating it had been a chore more than a wish, and there were hardly any trinkets to display when his life was so monotonous.

This room is nowhere close to extravagant or fancy, either. Still, Michael stares at the singular bed, two matching nightstands on the sides. The singular cupboard in the room sits on the far wall, its large doors slightly ajar, and Michael almost fears finding out if they share their space there, too. The window opens out to the streets, a peek of plants at the windowsill just enough to give the room a fresh feeling.

Michael takes a step forward, and then another. Runs his eyes over the dresser and mirror atop it. A delicate silver paint that, somehow he knows was Sae’s choice more than his. This time when he stares at his own face in the mirror it comes as less of a shock. He shifts his gaze down, spotting two sets of comfier clothes laid over the dresser.

Somehow, it is that sight, of his and Sae’s clothes tangled together, that feels like a brick to the chest.

They live together. They have been, for a clearly long time, because Michael glimpsed the photos next to the trophies, saw his own face stare back at him, next to sharp teal eyes that have been following his moves for so long. How did this happen?

(How did he get so lucky?)

The air that left his lungs violently returns with full force as he manages a sharp inhale. Drags out the bigger shirt between the two, the longer pants, and he changes faster than he ever has in his life.

Their dinner table is quaint. Four seats of which he can tell all four are used, but Sae has already picked out which seats are theirs for the night. Somehow it feels just right to slide into one of them, facing the other as he waits for Sae to join him at the table.

It doesn’t take him long. Freshened up and changed, Sae slides into the seat across Michael with practised ease. Takes a hold of his fork, twirling it around the pasta he’s made for them tonight. His face contorts into an appraising look as he chews, nodding once as though he’s deemed it a meal worthy of his own standards.

As though he wasn’t the one who cooked it.

Sae looks at him then, with that piercing, sharp gaze. A delicate eyebrow lifts into his hair, and he makes a motion with his hand for Michael to speak.

Michael. . . hesitates. Looks down at the pasta, twirling his fork around it thoughtfully.

It’s a simple one. The pasta is put together with a few pre-cut vegetables, the sauce a simple tomato based one. But he can smell the flavour wafting from the kitchen, still, and the oregano left on the kitchen counter. Everything about the dinner is simple, but it was made by Sae’s hand for two people.

And therein lies the crux of the matter.

Lifting his head, Michael turns his own gaze towards Sae, locking eyes with a confidence he did not have before this moment.

It is a dream, he reasons with himself. It feels real because of the head injury, and it will dissipate the second he zones out for long enough. The next time a big shock hits him, he will return to the field, grass under his cleats and a head of pink to look at whilst he recovers.

But if it is a dream, what is stopping him from indulging?

“I had a dream, in the car,” Michael starts. “And it did not feel like a normal dream.” Let alone the fact that he is still living that very dream.

Sae hums once, but he adds nothing. Twisting his fork between his fingertips, he keeps his focus on Michael.

The silence makes it easier for Michael to let go.

“It was more of a memory. I was . . . young, again. It was years ago. And I fell, at the end of that match against Dortmund. It was awful,” he punctuates with a laugh. His fingers tightened over his fork, and he quickly shovelled a bite of pasta into his mouth. If someone told him he would have heart problems as an adult, judging by how quickly his heart is beating right now? He would believe them in– well. In a heartbeat.

This time, Sae deigns it appropriate to give him words. “I remember that,” he says with a murmur. Tapping the fork against the rim of his plate, he looks almost. . . melancholic. “You scored the goal, and you didn’t even know until you woke up in the hospital a few hours later. You’re lucky it wasn’t anything concerning. ”

Well, now isn’t that lovely, pleasant news to hear. A perfectly even trade between winning the match and injuring himself badly enough to be worth a trip to the hospital, however brief.

Michael lets out a breath, and forces himself to nod. Staring down at the plate that looks real inviting right about now. The pasta tastes divine, but his thoughts run faster than he can follow them.

Sae takes one look at him, and understands.

“You’ve never liked talking about that.”

Michael snaps his head up, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

“What? It’s true,” Sae says lightly, as though it were nothing that he could read what topics Older Michael would enjoy discussing. “Every time someone brings it up you clam up like a turtle hiding into its shell.”

He swallows. The words stuck in his throat thicken, and he understands belatedly exactly what Sae means by clamming up. Michael doesn’t even need to reach his hand out towards the table very far before Sae slides the glass of water across to him. Taking the time to think through his words, falsifying a real story, enough so he can still slide under Sae’s radar of bullshittery.

It’s not bullshit anymore– it hits too close to home.

Home.

“Because,” Michael starts, and his voice does not waver, “When that happened, I realised– a lot of things. Things that I had not considered previously, but I could not let go of, after. I would never have thought that–”

Michael pauses, after which he sighs. The words escape him– after all, how could one put the feeling of a foggy future into speech without sounding delusional?

“When you were younger,” he says instead, and the question comes out a lot easier than explaining himself ever did, “did you ever dream of the future?”

Sae searches his expression for any sign of discomfort, and only finds thoughtfulness. Shifting his posture, he tilts his head to the side, staring past Michael in his own consideration. Michael waits.

Michael waits, because Sae waited for him.

“I did, and I also didn’t,” Sae says, and Michael’s lips quirk up at his words. It is exactly the sort of answer he’s come to expect from Itoshi Sae. “I did, because I knew what I wanted. I know what I want,” he amends, and then twirls more pasta around his fork. “But I didn’t, because, sometimes, it was a way for me to avoid the actual aspects of future that mattered.”

A profound answer. Michael ponders over it for a moment, and then two.

To think of a particular aspect of the future, and avoid everything else in a bid for stability. To not think of the future at all, and declare the existing conditions as stable.

After seeing this today, now? Nothing else Michael experienced, experiences, or will experience, could possibly top the stability of this. His heart feels full and his lungs get lighter and lighter with each word.

They say the body remembers what the mind does not. Michael knows it does– he’s flinched one too many times at the sight of angry drunk men on the streets to think otherwise. Had a flight or flight reaction one too many times to believe otherwise.

They never mentioned that the body would also remember things like these. Discussing over a dinner table, in a way Michael has never seen the sight of. His chest getting lighter and lighter, the words leaving his mouth faster and faster.

Not for the first time, Michael thinks of the real owner of this body. The one who has experienced the five years beyond his comprehension. Someone who learned how to undo the knots tying his stomach, the thorns holding onto his heart in a vice grip. Enough to live with Itoshi Sae, eat at the dinner table like this every day, and share a bedroom with him. To be deserving of something, someone, so beautiful and meaningful.

For the first time, Michael wonders if he could be the owner of this body, someday.

“You,” Sae interrupts his thoughts then, and Michael blinks himself back into alertness. “On the other hand, you’ve thought about the future a lot, haven’t you? Used to, too.”

Michael furrows his brows, lifting his fork up to his lips while he nods. The pasta has a more definitive feel to it this time. Like he’s finally tasting it for its flavours rather than eating it for fuel.

“I did quite the opposite,” he says eventually, the smile on his face rueful. “It was pointless to think about something I never thought–”

I would have.

He eats those words, stuck in his throat and sliding right back down. But he knows Sae caught them, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. Michael quickly shovels more pasta into his mouth to hide his embarrassment.

Sae’s face smooths out, and he follows suit, eating at his usual measured pace. He nods, acknowledging Michael’s words without pushing harder at something he’s clearly seen proof of otherwise, now.

And isn’t that a strange thought. That Sae has proof of a version of Michael where he looks forward to every day as it comes. A Michael Kaiser that has reasons to celebrate his own existence. What a novel concept.

“It is not like that anymore,” Michael clarifies, once he’s swallowed down all the pasta on his plate. “That is what I meant. After that match, when I woke up, I could not stop thinking about it. About what I wanted.”

What he wants.

Because, in the end, he cannot lie to himself when he puts so much effort into understanding every aspect of himself. He knows why his heart twists the way it does at the thought of laying in bed with Sae. How the domesticity of a secure life will be more alluring than any fan asking for a picture with the best player would be.  

Michael has told himself he is satisfied for as long as he remembers. That he is happy with the way he lives, the way he exists, so long as it would help him shine brighter. But Michael has also always, always been a dreamer. It would be foolish to expect that aspect of him to change.

Indeed, it never has.

Now, sitting here, five years into the future that he wants to be his future, Michael laughs. A sincere, soft sound, one that the beautiful man sitting across from him does not startle at. No– Sae watches with an exasperated sort of fondness, finishing up the last of his food.

Perhaps it is a sound Sae has heard often.

“Is it not strange? Back then, I would never have thought that I would be sitting across from Itoshi Sae in our house for dinner,” Michael says, leaning back in his seat. His shoulders relax, the tension oozing away with the giddy excitement that hope gives him. “But I would not have it any other way.”

Sae lets out a soft huff, sliding his plate over to Michael and stacking it on top.

“Then, if you like it so much, you can do the dishes.”

The same excited laugh escapes Michael, and he plucks both plates and forks off of the table and carries them into the kitchen. When he enters, he takes a deep breath, and knows where to reach for the dish soap.

. . . Well, it is his body, after all. It would stand to reason that he has the muscle memory of something he does often.

Michael sits down on the bed, hands by his side and head tilted up to the ceiling. The sound of running water interrupts his silence– Sae started his shower whilst Michael was finishing up dishes.  He leans back on his elbows, staring out the window towards the skyline.

In a lot of ways, Michael has not changed in these five years. His calendar is still organised to the hour, and his hair dye is still sitting obnoxiously on the bathroom countertop. His tattoo is pristine, and his sense of fashion remains the same. He still loves pasta, does not drink, and above all, lives in the moment.

But in so many other ways, Michael sees the little differences. His calendar has more than just social commitments, than football requirements. His hair is neatly trimmed, rather than a choppy show for grasping at control. The tattoo isn’t his anchor to reality anymore– he has someone else for that. He has himself for that. His love for pasta has not changed, but Sae’s version of it seems particularly appealing.

Michael Kaiser lives in the moment. He is no longer just the moment.

Closing his eyes, he lets his head hit the mattress, hands lax by his side.

Before he knows it, he’s nodding off again.

.

Unbeknownst to him, the water turns off. Sae steps out of the shower, pyjamas donned and hair being violently toweled. One look at Michael on the bed, almost asleep, and he scoffs.

Sae pads over, his steps quiet. He sits down next to Michael, carding a hand through his hair with a tenderness Michael is not coherent enough to acknowledge. Placing a soft kiss to Michael’s hairline, he whispers quietly.

“You should shower,” he murmurs, and waits for Michael to say something witty in the ensuing silence. When he receives no reply, Sae lays down next to him, eyes focused on one thing and one thing only.

Sae is no stranger to feeling a certain way about his future. Pursuing a hollow goal had been his lifeline for longer than he’d like to admit, and along the way, he’d forgotten a lot of what had made his life worth living. But eventually he found his way back. A way towards something German and cocky and so very fascinating.

Sae sighs. “What am I going to do with you,” he says, sliding closer to Michael and tucking his face into Michael’s neck. Hands wrapping around him as he, too, falls victim to the sweet clutches of sleep.

Tomorrow will come, after all. Another day to spend together, much to Sae’s adoration and chagrin.

Michael wakes up in a hospital, white lights flashing back at him. His eyes are bleary, and he attempts to clear them with slow blinks, awareness not yet settling into his bones. His head. . . hurts, but nothing bad enough to comment on. A dull ache, more than anything, and he can feel the bandages wrapped around it.

There is a familiar head of pink sitting in the hospital provided chair. His face is tilted downwards, like he was looking at his phone for a bit, but his eyes are closed now. The phone dangles precariously in his hand. Michael’s lips quirk up at the sight.

For a moment, Michael wonders if he was just giving himself a delusional sense of hope. That he had been right, and it was all a dream, something that crumbled as soon as he woke up. The head injury, even if not severe enough to give him significant damage, is still disorienting. But there is no mistaking the lightness in his chest. The feeling of control feeding his veins, not in desperation, but in hope. That he truly can, and should, seek out the life he wishes to live out.

He lifts himself up, and finds that beside his head, much of his body remains unharmed. The sheets rustle slightly as he wiggles his toes, testing his mobility.

Sae’s eyes snap open, and the hand around his phone tightens. Lifting his head, he catches sight of Michael, and straightens up properly.

“Good morning,” Michael comments cheerily. The smile on his face feels less plastic than ever.

“It’s evening,” Sae says, but the semantics escape him, too. It could be the middle of the night for all he cares. His eyes rove over Michael, scanning for any sort of discomfort. Instead he sees a man who looks lighter than in the entire duration of time Sae has known him.

That observant gaze. . . it is so familiar.

Dream or not, Michael thinks his Sae and Dream Sae are not as different as he would have led himself to belief. He sees the bags under Sae's eyes, the stiffness of his back, and the concern in every inch of his analysis, and he thinks, perhaps he should shoot his shot.

“I feel fine. Just a bit of a head ache,” Michael says, gesturing to the bandages around his head.

Sae nods, his shoulders dropping slightly. “It isn’t a concussion, if that’s what you are thinking. In fact, the doctors said it wasn’t anything c–”

“Concerning,” Michael finishes. He smiles at Sae’s surprise. It isn’t obvious– it never is. But his breath catches and his posture stills, and that is more than enough for Michael to understand anyway.  

“Were you awake when they were here?”

“No, no,” Michael assures, laughing. “I just made an educated guess.”

Not a dream, Michael's soul sings. Not yet reality, his brain whispers.

Sae narrows his eyes, but doesn’t push the topic further. Instead, he crosses his arms, tilting his chin up without breaking eye contact. “Not curious about how the match ended? I’m surprised it wasn’t the first thing you uttered waking.”

Michael thinks about it. Of course, he knows the result of the match already, but somehow the match itself had escaped his mind altogether. An afterthought to a greater realisation. That realisation involves one, very pretty pink haired midfielder, who just so happens to have eyes brighter than stars. Someone who is also very suspicious of Michael’s state of mind right now.

That realisation involves Michael, himself, and his relationship with the future version of himself.

“Later,” he says, and Sae’s eyebrow lifts up this time.

“You–”

“Sae,” Michael interrupts, his heart hopeful. “Will you allow me the honour of taking you out to dinner?”