Chapter Text
The lights of Berlin seem to pulse in unison along a great expanse of dark land, stretching for miles and miles below as Michael loftily peers down through half-lidded eyes, the airplane circling and angling, circling and angling, steadily making its way down into that knotted mass of city lights. Sleep compels him even now, with the promise of a quick landing as buildings come into view as distinguished shapes instead of amorphous shadows from earlier. The 10 hours flight stole the day from him, having left Tokyo at dusk only to arrive in Berlin at twilight. The sole bright side is that his mother's apartment is a quick drive from the airport, and that a warm bed is waiting for him there.
It's hard to say he missed home while he was away. He's not the type to linger anywhere, and homesickness is a foreign concept to a child raised in multiple homes, anyway. At best, he missed the food and the language, despite the translators Anri Teirei provided them. They're far from perfect, providing stilted translations that falter under the pressure that comes from running around a pitch for hours on end, day after day.
In Germany, he'll be granted a reprieve from the stress of miscommunication with temporary teammates and eternally persistent rivals threatening to usurp his status as number one in Blue Lock. It's only a brief winter break, just for the holidays while Blue Lock's management gets to work on the next phase of the program, but it couldn't have come at a better time. By now, a couple hundred striker and celebrity hopefuls alike have been sent home, either in the shame of elimination or in pride, knowing they have one of the scant few round trip tickets.
Michael will spend this Christmas with his mother, as usual. For once in her busy schedule, she doesn't have a shitty cheap romance to film over seas, nor any large projects for that matter. Michael has numerous memories of being left with babysitters over the years due to one reason or another, but they aren't accompanied with feelings of abandonment. If there is one thing to be said about their relationship, it's that they understand each other completely. Michael always knows what to expect and when to expect it. After a few days wandering the holiday shops inside the city, evading paparazzi to steal away to their favorite cafés, they'll go to their other home in Grunewald with Alois, and spend the back half of the holidays with him.
Michael is glad to be home, and is even gladder when the plane touches down and he can finally extend his legs once more.
Stepping off the escalator down to the bagging area to pick up his luggage, he immediately scans the room for his mother. She texted him that she was there, multiple times with an elaborate string of heart emojis and outdated gifs that make him smile. His mother— despite her cool reputation— is truthfully rather loud with her affection. When nobody is around to snap a cheap shot of them together, he's frequently strangled by her hugs, his cheeks peppered with lipstick kisses, and should he leave his phone for the day, he'll discover at least five messages from her wishing him luck or crying to know what's going on.
Michael Kaiser is surrounded by an overabundance of love.
Though it hasn't always come easily or straightforward, nobody could say that he was without it.
Love, he knows, is the tempo of her clicking heels picking up when they spot each other through the mountains of luggage. It's in the curve of her smile, how she clasps his hands when she reaches him. In the months he's been gone, nothing in Alice Love's demeanor has changed. And even if it's 10 at night, he's unsurprised to see her wearing four-inch heels and a straight, black alpaca winter coat that hangs down mid-calf in sleek, dramatic fashion. Despite the minimalist style, her tall silhouette is striking against the drab gray and red airport walls. Her shiny gold hair is pulled back in a low ponytail draped over her shoulder with a silk ribbon, the very portrait of a renowned actress.
All appearances aside, the only thing obscuring her identity are slim dark sunglasses and plain hat. Passerby's notice her and ogle openly, and even though they don't recognize who she is, they can tell she's a woman who's seemingly jumped straight out of Paris fashion week. Perhaps any other teenager might mind the attention she draws, but not Michael. He's all too used to her eccentricities, her half-hearted attempts at straying from the limelight. In a way, he's much the same; his own golden hair styled with edgy layers, coupled with his every-day red eyeliner makes him stick out like a sore thumb among all of the inoffensive, boring onlookers.
"They should really feed you boys more," his mother says, clicking her tongue. She brushes a hand against his shoulder, then grabs his arm. "I've read the interviews from past participants, you know. They've translated most of them— tell me you're eating more than that disgusting natto every day?"
"You're so judgemental," he says. "Besides, the natto is… Fine. Have you even tried it?"
"Lord, they're torturing you over there!" She gasps in faux-outrage. "Teenagers can eat anything, I suppose. Don't tell me you enjoy airplane food now, then I'll doubt you're my son at all."
Michael laughs at her dramatics, relieved by her presence. After being surrounded by sweaty, ugly guys from all across the world, it was difficult to feel like he could fit in. Each of them had differing motivations and vastly different stakes, all climbing towards the same goal… Only a handful of them were from Germany, with two of them getting a round-trip ticket.
"Never!" he says. "Though I'll have to get used to it, considering I'm going back in three weeks."
Stifling an excited exclamation, his mother wraps him into a fierce hug. "I knew you could do it," she says. "Didn't I say it, before you left? You'll win this dumb thing."
"I haven't won yet," he says. "But it shouldn't be long. There's only fifty of us left, and they're not very good." Michael breaks from her embrace with a yawn, covering his mouth. It seems the mundanity of their conversation has finally broken the interest of the people around them, more invested in talking with their families and loved ones flying in for the holidays.
"Well, I'm sure you're exhausted," she says. She adjusts her sunglasses on her face, pulling them down her nose so she can get a better look at him. "And I'm ready to get out of here."
Michael nods in agreement, one hand on his luggage, the other holding his carry-on bag. His mom takes the carry on out of his hand though, hiking it over her shoulder. She effortlessly leads them out of the airport, one heeled foot in front of the other, the two of them a needle and thread weaving past the clusters of people.
Cold air whips his face, drawing stray strands of hair across his eyes and obscuring his view of the street before them. His mom reaches for his hand again, her one-track mind guiding them to her car. She gracefully side-steps the trash and muck on the ground, as if she has a second sense for anything that might ruin her clothing or make her stink. It's only because of the lights pitched high into the ceiling of the parking garage that he's able to avoid it as well, speed walking to keep up with her.
Alice Love doesn't drive a family car, and never will. They're too large, too busy; they can't jerk around as fast as she wants them too, and she loathes having to be so constantly aware of pedestrians. She's a very bad driver, so she needs to see the street in its entirety. For this reason, Michael offers to drive them to the apartment when they reach her sleek black Porsche, shined as if it were brand new.
She gives him a look, her sunglasses now dangling from the collar of her sweater so Michael can see her eyes clearly. As an actress, she's a very expressive woman; a skill that she weaponizes against him. Constantly. All she needs to do is level him with a look, and Michael understands what she's trying to communicate.
"Fine, don't let me drive," he says, shrugging and stepping into the passenger side. She laughs, starting the engine. "Just don't get us into an accident."
"When have I ever?" She asks, backing out. Michael remembers the time she drove straight into a curb in an empty parking lot. Poor spacial awareness, but he wouldn't dare say it out loud. "Besides, we're close to home anyhow— you're too dramatic for your own good. Just let me take care of you, okay?"
The ride passes by in relative silence, only broken when Alice reaches to the car play to start her playlist. She's got terrible taste in music, bubble gum pop and out of place power ballads. She refuses to let him change the song; apparently, his own rock music is unbearable. It doesn't matter, he's never been picky anyway.
He's glad to be home, really. Even if it means he has to listen to Lady Gaga on the way there.
She help him unpack, once they get home. He has to squeeze through the doorway, despite not taking that much with him for the months he was gone. His mother flips the light switch on with a finger, maneuvering to click the buttons on the lamp so the living room is properly illuminated. Their apartment is small, on the top floor of the building, but nobody could deny that it was an elaborate expense. Immaculate alabaster wallpaper and high, smooth ceilings. Modern chandeliers and heavy velvet twill curtains over bay windows exposing the night sky.
Beside their front door was a long dark oak console table, where Alice dropped her keys into a small, shabbily crafted clay trinket holder, amateurishly painted dark blue and red. Michael had made it in art class, years and years ago, with all the boredom of a ten year old forced to do it for a completion grade.
"Surprised you didn't take the opportunity to throw that thing away," he says, sitting down on the couch. His mother truthfully isn't the sentimental hoarder type, always exchanging her old frivolities for new, updated versions. They have that in common, vain people that they are. Though if one thing never changes, it's her ever revolving bouquet of roses that she keeps on the same console table by the door. She's had them there since he moved in with her, always in the same long-necked vase. Timeless, she'd tell him. It's the flower that never loses meaning. Alois has much the same fascination with roses; it's likely the reason they're attached at the hip now, over this shared eccentricity.
"Why would I do that?" She asks, shrugging her coat off and hanging it on the hall tree. She slips off her shoes, so Michael slips his off as well. In his haste to get through the door, he nearly forgot all common decency. "Besides, I like it. I've told you that, right? I like everything you make for me."
"I'm not a little kid anymore," he replies, though saying it out loud makes him feel like one. "You don't have to keep my dumb art projects around if you don't want them. I'm sure you could find something that'd actually match the table."
"Don't you ever listen? I said I don't want to," she emphasizes this by looking him in the eye when she speaks. "Now don't unpack— Alois is picking us up in a few days, we'll be at his house for the rest of your break."
"He didn't want to join in on the fun here?"
"Oh, you know how he is," she waves him off. "He hates the city. I can't blame him, I don't like staying here either. You're the odd one, to him."
"I'm sure," he scoffs.
"Don't say it like that," his mother says, sitting down beside him on the couch. "He's got a soft heart, 's all. You've got one of those too, inside that cagey little chest of yours."
He reels back. "Why do you have to say it like that?"
"Like what? Like you aren't brought to tears by stray dogs, even though they're a dime a dozen?" She asks with faux-innocence. Then suddenly, her face straightens out, something that begs his attention. "I remember when you were little, there was one time you just couldn't stop bawling after we found a Dalmatian inside of a cardboard box outside of the complex. You begged me to keep him, and your nose was all runny and red, how could I say no? Then— and you must remember this part— we took him all the way to the adoption center just to find out he was chipped."
"I was devastated," he says. "Yes, I remember."
"You cried on the way back too," she adds. A light smile plays along her face, accentuating her smile lines, the only signs of age she bears. "But I didn't get you a puppy, to make up for it. Maybe I should have…"
Michael laughs. "It's for the best. Neither of us are home most of the time, especially now."
"True," she concedes. "Though somehow, at the time I thought we'd happen on another stray, a perfect scenario, hm?"
She pats him on the back before standing up again, stretching her arms high to the ceiling before walking to the back hallway. His mother doesn't need to explain why she chose to tell him that story. She favors a subtle art, likes when Michael can reach a conclusion all on his own. For such a loud woman, she has a fantastically passive way of worming her point home in his mind so as to leave him feeling guilty. She shouts at him to get some sleep, that they'll go out for breakfast so she can treat him to a proper congratulations. Michael follows her demands sleepily, trailing after her into his own bedroom at the end of the hall.
Michael's room is just as messy as it was when he left. He's never been particular about the way his room looks, but the wrinkled sheets and haphazard notebooks and still open textbooks nauseate him, for whatever reason. Perhaps the tidiness of Blue Lock and the sanitized, minimalist aesthetics of the prison seeped into his very mindset. Then again, that's what it means to grow older, right? You start feeling the urge to clean, and home goods catalogues no longer bore you to tears.
A copy of Freud's Mass Psychology catches his eye as he's changing into more comfortable clothes. He'd been reading it for class before getting picked for the Blue Lock project, and he'd never gotten the chance to finish it. He remembers finding it interesting, but even the thought sticking his nose to the pages makes him shudder. Blue Lock has transformed him into a true jock, he accepts. And to think he hadn't taken the sport seriously until the past few years.
It's odd, how close he feels to a professional career now, so far separated from the promising life of a young actor he'd once held precious in his hands. He'd initially expected his mother to be upset with him for not wanting that life, in retrospect a ridiculous notion. Of course she wouldn't care if he did something different with his life— she's been his biggest advocate for the past decade, and she's always impressed upon him that his life was his own, and his alone to do with what he will. So what if he discovered that passion later than most? He'd proven to be naturally gifted at the sport, proved he had the drive to succeed and the attitude to win. She had nothing to worry about.
It's 11 at night, and Michael decides he has the time and energy to clean his room from top to bottom.