Chapter Text
◆◇◆
Outside the stadium parking lot’s fence, two fans—one draped in red of Bastard Munchen, the other in Monchengladbach black—were locked in a clumsy, grappling scuffle.
Ten minutes earlier, Bastard’s players begun spilling into the parking area, arms slung around shoulders, chatting and laughing without a single care. Yoichi broke an energy bar neatly in half, offering a piece to Kurona as they walked toward the team bus, ready to depart. Munich had sealed a clean 4–0 away victory, and the ever-shifting dynamic between Kaiser and Isagi—rivals, also collaborators—had once again hightlighten the show. The winning side was in high spirits; cool night air brushed away the last traces of stadium heat. It should have been a flawless evening.
Fans lingering near the bus were nothing out of the ordinary. Isagi would often pause without a second thought to sign autographs—a habit Kaiser openly ridiculed.
And of course, being targeted during away games wasn’t exactly rare either. Professional players grew used to it. Kaiser had been called “girly” over his sharp red eyeliner—conveniently ignoring the bulging veins and defined muscle beneath—and Isagi had weathered racial slurs more than once. But as long as they answered beautifully on the pitch, none of it ever really stuck.
Now, though, a middle-aged Borussia fan, cap flipped backward, was snarling insults at Isagi after his team’s bitter defeat—even thrusting a rigid middle finger toward him.
“Fcking fag! Get out of football!”
Kaiser moved on instinct, stepping smoothly beside Yoichi, blocking the heckler’s line of sight. Then, a Munchen fan wearing No.11 jersey charged in, swinging a wild punch at the man while yelling, “Don’t you dare insult Yoichi!”—and just like that, the two were tangled and thrashing.
“Isagi, get on the bus, come on,” Kurona whispered, tugging at Isagi’s sleeve, urging the dark-haired striker to turn away. Staff and police would handle the mess.
The Munchen supporter was slimmer and soon found himself caught in a rough chokehold. Bystanders erupted into panic, rushing to pull them apart as security hurried over.
But Isagi slipped past his teammates, his face etched with concern as he moved closer.
“Stop it. Now,” he cut through the noise in German, his voice like a blade.
Security wrestled the Borussia man to the ground, though he still managed to twist his head and sneer viciously up at Isagi.
“Look at this short-ass queer, all talk. No wonder even your fans are pathetic.”
Isagi drew closer, laying a gentle hand on the shoulder of his fan, who slumped breathless against the fence. After a quick, assessing glance to confirm the man was fine, Isagi released a soft sigh of relief.
His sharp gaze shifted to the opposing provocateur, turning cold. “Your team just let in four goals.” he stated, his voice devoid of heat. “Save the barking for the police station, you loser.”
In an instant, the icy aura around him vanished completely. Softly, Isagi asked the dazed supporter if he needed to go to the hospital.
“N-No, I’m alright,” the fan stammered, waving off a staff member. He looked up, eyes wide. “Yoichi… I know you’re not what he said. All those rumors… they’re lies.”
The words came out raspy, more a shaken murmur to himself than a statement meant for anyone else.
The dark-haired youth lowered his eyes, a silence settling over him.
“…Right?” The fan suddenly reached out, fingers grasping toward Yoichi’s arm.
Out of nowhere, Kaiser’s hand shot in, slapping the man’s away with a sharp crack. The fan yelped, a vivid red mark already rising on his skin.
“Kaiser—” Isagi started, hesitation in his voice.
“Didn’t you hear someone calling you to get in the bus?” Kaiser cut in, a cold snort punctuating the question.
The fan’s stormy gray-brown eyes, however, remained fixed intently on Yoichi. The whirlwind of scandal had caught everyone in its path—even Isagi Yoichi’s most devoted fans couldn’t, and didn’t want to, believe the carefully concealed taboos lurking beneath the grand banners of the football world.
Isagi closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. His sea-blue gaze, like a night ocean, now held steady glints of reflected gold. All traces of turbulence were gone, replaced by a resigned calm.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice clear and final. “It’s all true.”
At night, he hadn’t checked his phone, but the evidence was everywhere: in the unnatural hush on the team bus, the furtive whispers that died when he neared, the loaded silence and hesitant, sidelong glances from his teammates.
When getting off, a few normally friendly colleagues approached. Some offered comforting pats on the shoulder, others muttered clumsy words of encouragement. Isagi accepted them all with polite thanks. Some other teamates, however, practically scuttled away into the hotel entrance as if avoiding taking a stance.
To be honest, he hadn’t wanted any special treatment; what happened in the parking lot was just a frustrated, weary, pessimistic eruption—it wasn't an invitation for a global broadcast.
Kaiser didn’t speak a word to him; they hadn’t even exchanged a glance. In the week since the rumor mill churned into overdrive, the temperature between them had plunged into an arctic silence—a cold war unilaterally declared by Kaiser.
Back in his hotel room, Isagi tossed his phone onto the bed and made a beeline for the shower. By the time he emerged, lazily dragging a damp towel over his soft black hair, the device had been shuddering across the nightstand for a solid twenty minutes.
His roommate, Kurona, clutched a pillow and pointed at the phone vibrating across the nightstand. “Seems urgent. Really urgent.”
Naturally, Isagi knew he was about to face a storm from his agent and the PR team.
On the line, his agent—Rei, an outstanding Japanese-mixed woman in her early thirties—frenziedly toggling between near-hysteria and utter exasperation, gave Isagi a vivid display of her frayed nerves.
A genuine pang of guilt struck him. When he’d first landed in Europe, homesick and green, he’d signed with a then-inexperienced Rei. Over the years, she’d clawed her way up, tirelessly managing everything off the pitch so he could devote himself to football—a debt he never took lightly. Never in her career had she faced a PR crisis quite this terrible: Isagi Yoichi, the footballer famed for his single-minded focus and famously dull private life, had just casually outed himself to the world, setting the digital internet ablaze.
“Isagi-kun,” Rei’s voice wavered, teetering on the brink of tears, “didn’t we agree you would say nothing on this?”
“Well…” Isagi sighed, the weight of it all pressing down. “I’m truly sorry.”
◆◇◆
At the heart of the hurricane was a British singer named Jude. The young artist born in Liverpool often mentioned his heritage: a quarter Korean, a quarter Latin, and the remaining half a blend of Anglo-Saxon roots. His very name was a nod to the Beatles’ iconic track “Hey Jude”—one of the musical symbols that helped define the city of Liverpool itself.
His second solo album had stirred great discussion in the English-speaking market, resonating with a clarity that few newcomers achieve.
Whether a stroke of promotional genius or simply a moment of raw courage, he chose the album’s release day to step into the light, confessing that the songs drew from his own romantic experiences.
The audience was swept away by the aching intimacy of music—nearly half the tracks tracing the arc of fevered love and painful heartbreak. It left everyone wondering: just what kind of enchantingly devastating ex could mark such depths into this young artist’s soul?
Though the singer never specified whom the songs were about, the internet was never going to sit quietly. Armed with digital magnifying glasses and boundless fervor, netizens embarked on a grand hunt for traces of this this mysterious former flame. Within three dizzying days, after a whirlwind of clicks and deep dives, after a whirlwind online sweep, social media was turned upside down, and a messy pile of so-called “clues” gradually pointed toward an unexpected suspect: a football player.
On TikTok, people proudly unveiled the fruits of their collective detective work:
“First, we’ve established the romance in Jude’s songs bloomed in 2022…”
Comments and live-stream captions soon overflowed with buzzy speculation:
“Isagi was on loan to Everton back then—timeline and location totally match. After he returned to Munich, they broke up a while later because of the long distance. It has to be that!”
“Jude said his ex helped make his musical dreams come true—are we talking financial angel, or just emotional cheerleading?”
“I dug up some old Instagram posts—isn’t this blurry figure against the glass window Yoichi? The little ahoge on his head is kinda obvious.”
“Since when did a mixed-race Brit develop a sudden hobby to My Neighbor Totoro? He never posted about Japanese anime before.”
“And in that street snap, Isagi was wearing that branded scarf—days later, Jude wore the exact same one in a smoky bar performance pic.”
“The bar’s name matches a location Isagi once tagged in his Stories! Coincidence? I scoff.”
“The lyrics are way too obvious…anyone who knows Isagi would decode it instantly.”
“Right, you can tell from the songs the ex is an athlete—Track 2 openly praises a perky butt, it’s blushing-level direct…”
“‘He’s No. 11 to the world, but No. 1 in my heart’… I’d call that lyric conclusive evidence.”
“Honestly, this album is all love-hate tension—bitterness, sweet nostalgia, even two apology tracks. Makes you wonder what really went down back then.”
What started as a music fandom deep-dive quickly spilled over once Isagi’s name entered the picture. The tale exploded, seizing headlines across entertainment columns and sports pages alike. A same-sex romance, a chart-dominating singer, a star athlete, football’s entrenched homophobia colliding with a new wave of rainbow activism—too many explosive elements fused around a rumored relationship, and the internet lost its collective mind. Sadly, the frenzy even spilled off-screen, affecting real-life matches.
When Isagi finally heard the full account from Rei a few days ago, his first reaction was an instinctive, bone-deep eye roll.
Rei’s voice was a soft, accusatory murmur. “You never told me.”
“Uh… you know how it is. It’s a sensitive topic for a player. I didn’t tell anyone.” Isagi scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Judging by the lyrics,” Rei ventured, “your ex seems… kind of clingy.”
“Really? Well, for the record, he’s the one who cheated on me. That’s why it ended.”
“What?!”
Isagi offered a half-shrug. Their break-up was nearly two years past—looking back now felt like sifting through someone else’s memories.
Back then, he was struggling in Munich and got loaned to Everton. Adapting to the Premier League’s physicality and pace was tough, and during that low point, he met a young singer performing at a bar on Mathew Street bar.
Feeling down, Isagi sympathized with a young artist who was dropped by their record label and had their rights exploited—he then funded the man’s independent music dreams. As for love? Perhaps it was the loneliness of two separate battles that forged a need for comfort, and they stumbled into each other’s arms without quite meaning to.
They did share moments of happiness. Isagi’s career took flight again after leading Everton’s stunning comeback against their city rivals, Liverpool. His dazzling play silenced critics in one glorious sweep, and match by match, he carved his name among Europe’s striking elite. Meanwhile, his then-boyfriend’s music cultivated a devoted UK following. He’d paint vivid dreams for themselves with eager hands; they dated and talked like any ordinary pair, fingers secretly laced under the cover of a restaurant corner plant. At least, the heart Isagi once offered was genuine—open and unguarded.
However, as a professional footballer, a same-sex relationship hung over him like the Sword of Damocles, perilously sharp and ever-present. Isagi was acutely aware of the nuclear fallout that would follow if their romance were ever exposed. Even before accepting the other's confession, he made it clear they could only live discreetly, hidden from the public eye. He knew, too, that his partner wasn't without grievances about this—coming from the relatively open worlds of music and fashion, where attitudes were entirely different, it must have felt like a retreat into a closet. But in the end, his ex-lover said he understood, and their relationship became so private that even their own agents were kept in the dark.
When his loan spell ended, Munich slammed the door on the Premier League club's buyout negotiations, and Isagi smoothly returned to Bastard München. By then, Kaiser had ascended to the throne left by Noa’s retirement, and their reunion was nothing short of glorious chaos. They were like two feral cats tossed into the same sack, trading daily barbs and dripping sarcasm in front of their teammates. Even on days when Isagi couldn’t be bothered, the blond German would inevitably saunter over and poke the hive.
Yet, contrary to all fears of locker-room poison, their clashes sparked something in the team—a perverse alchemy that turned friction into fire. In Isagi's first season back, Bastard München clawed their way to the Champions League semi-finals, sweeping away years of quarter-final heartache and sending a jolt of electricity through their supporters. The dark-haired forward lost himself completely in the game, throwing his very soul into the fray as he relentlessly dueled Kaiser for the Golden Boot.
The long-distance relationship, born in England, began to flash urgent red warnings. The slow fade of messages, the awkward, gaping silences during calls—it was a gradual march into a conversational graveyard. So, when Isagi learned of his ex-boyfriend’s cheating, he wasn't even surprised from the news. There was hurt, certainly, but it was a quiet, dull ache—nothing like the twisted, stadium-silencing pain of their semi-final defeat. He could process this. He would process this alone.
Thus, Isagi ended it with clean, surgical finality—on the very day the Englishman flew to Munich to see him.
"Yoichi, you always position yourself on that faultless monument of yours—it's always someone else who's wrong, never you. But let me tell you something," the accusation hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. "You're the bigger problem."
Jude's accusation put Yoichi on the defensive. “To be honest, what you did was almost understandable, and I truly tried to see things from your perspective. But can someone who cheated really talk so righteously and shift the blame?”
“Didn't I try to save this relationship? Coming to watch your matches, planning holiday trips, calling you on video. And what did you do? You hardly ever reached out first, every date had to be heavily disguised in the dead of night. Did you ever think about giving me even a shred of security?”
“Neglecting your feelings was my mistake,” Isagi admitted, his gaze falling. “But from the very beginning, I said this had to stay hidden, and you agreed. Everything we built rested on a foundation of silence. Don’t drag it out now to settle old scores.”
“Exactly! So being with me had to be kept in the shadows like a dirty secret, while flirting all day with your precious teammate and rival was perfectly fine, right?!”
Yoichi’s brow furrowed. “What are you even talking about? I’m not like you—I don’t treat relationships so carelessly. Leave other people out of this.”
His lips twisted into something bitter and caustic. “Oh, Yoichi, you think you’re so innocent. But let’s be honest—your heart hasn’t been here for a long time. Michael Kaiser caught it. He stole you away from me.”
What did Kaiser have to do with any of this? Isagi’s anger simmered, barely contained. “Off the field, I hardly speak to him. All the gossip online is just fans joking around. If you take that seriously, you’re being ridiculous.”
“But football is your life. You can plead innocence all you want, but the electricity when you’re around him? It tells a different story.”
That was their final exchange—an ugly, unresolved end. Later, Isagi would reflect on his own gradual, unconscious withdrawal, guilty of not pouring enough into what they had. As Jude once said, he had given more love than he’d received from Yoichi. But that didn’t pardon the betrayal.
It wasn’t the ending he’d wanted, leaving nothing but mild regret and lingering.
◆◇◆
Two days ago, Isagi laid the buried history bare before his agent. For those old friends from his Blue Lock days, he also answered their questions honestly. His agent’s PR strategy was blunt: say nothing, deny everything.
Interviews were carefully vetted, questions about romance were firmly rejected, and friendly media contacts were quietly urged to guide online conversations toward a “lack of concrete proof,” all to soften any shadows of suspicion around Isagi. Once the noise subsided, the fickle public would move on to the next trending topic, and things would settle peacefully.
Amid the rumor mill’s churn, one ever-dedicated faction inadvertently poured gasoline on the gossip—football RPS fans. In today’s global subculture sphere, a player isn’t truly iconic without at least three or five popular pairings. Though the number of these fans are modest next to the wider football-viewing populace, they are youthful, fiercely active, and impossible to miss online.
Since young blue lock days, Isagi and Kaiser had been crowned the title of “Tournament’s Best Couple.” Combined with their impressive performances as teammates at Bastard Munchen and their famously “one-of-a-kind” chemistry—Isagi privately considered the term an insult—their fanbase had only grown. The club and football associations were happy to lean into it. The Bundesliga, ever eager to join the global joke, routinely posted clips of Kaiser and Isagi tussling over the ball, effortlessly harvesting mountains of comments and reposts. Truth to be told, compared to the grumblings of anti-shippers, kiis faithful fans were far louder and more vibrantly present across the web.
Yes, a group of deeply delusional young women jumped into action the moment rumors surfaced that Isagi might be a certain British singer’s ex, rushing to deny it everywhere.
“If a blurry window reflection counts as evidence, then we might as well credit that fried pork cutlet Kaiser tweeted about months ago as Isagi’s home cooking.”
“What does a scarf prove? That style was all over Instagram as this brand’s main winter item.”
“If some insist on pushing this narrative, I’ll simply repost this gem—from Bastard’s New Year event, where Kaiser flung his scarf dramatically over Yoichi’s head. How cozy!”
“Now that’s what I call sharing a wardrobe.”
“And which No.11 are we even talking about, exactly?”
“With nearly a hundred teams across Europe’s top five leagues, not to mention the countless lower divisions, every region has its own No.11. Oh, and let us not forget basketball, volleyball, hockey, and a whole host of other sports.”
“How can you possibly be certain that the ‘11’ refers to a jersey number?”
“Yoichi has a splendid big ass, and everyone is cordially invited to admire it.”
Thanks to fans gleefully muddying the waters, both sides of the debate were sticking to their stories, making it impossible to reach a clear conclusion—aside from indirectly boosting album buzz, the whole affair had been inconsequential. Rival fans seized on the ambiguity to attack Isagi Yoichi and Bastard Munchen, only to be promptly ridiculed by Munich’s online defenders as amateurish rumor-mongerers.
To a certain degree, if Isagi had simply let the scandal fade quietly, he would face no real lasting damage.
Nevertheless, on a night after the match against Mönchengladbach, confronted by the fervent advocacy of his most devoted supporters and the poorly concealed anxiety in their hopeful eyes, Isagi felt a deep weariness settle in.
Was his football not enough to satisfy them? Why must he be pressured to explain the truth of his private life?
He had long worried how his sexuality might impact his career, and so he kept it concealed, asking his past lover to bear the silence. He had burned with quiet anger every time others like him faced baseless attacks and violence.
If he had to keep burying this part of himself, how many more lies would he have to tell—deceiving those who might otherwise despise him, trading hollow sincerity for cheap approval and conditional support?
In a moment of unguarded impulse, he admitted it.
That brief burst of courage did bring him a short-lived sense of relief, as if some invisible chain had snapped. But all too soon, as the team’s inquiries poured in and the news cycle churned relentlessly, fear crept in—a belated, cold understanding of the stakes.
He still wanted to play. He still aimed to lead Japan’s national team to their greatest World Cup achievement yet. Would all of that now be washed away by one reckless moment of honesty?
◆◇◆
The morning after the Mönchengladbach match, Isagi was ushered straight from the plane into a team meeting. Kurona flashed him a discreet “good luck” hand signal; Ness fidgeted nearby for several minutes, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly, before finally stamping his foot and hurrying ran after Kaiser, who had already turned away with stiff, purposeful strides.
Come to think of it, Kaiser hadn’t come to pick a fight for days.
On the pitch, their coordination remained seamless, but somewhere in his mind, a piece was missing, leaving a hollow ache in his chest. Maybe Kaiser, like a few others, was determined to keep him at arm’s length. Isagi slapped both hands to his cheeks—enough. He wouldn’t waste another thought on that infuriating blond bastard.
"Bastard Munchen has always been known for supporting multiculturalism and inclusivity. Our former captain was among the first to wear the rainbow armband, and the club has publicly shown support for equality through initiatives like rainbow lighting." Rei’s voice was measured as she navigated the discussion with PR and management. "We expect the team to voice its support for Isagi, to evaluate his football talent with fairness and objectivity, and base decisions on his playing for potential contract renewal on that."
"Trust me on this," the head coach interjected, chin lifted. "Yoichi is indispensable in my system. His performance will not be swayed by outside noise."
"Are we really sure about this?" A voice from management wavered. "Our principles are clear, but practice is another matter. No active player in Europe’s top five leagues has come out publicly, and we can’t ignore the conservative factions within our supporter base…"
"Should we consult the sponsors?"
"The PR team reached out to our partners overnight. Major European sponsors have no objections—they’ve aligned with sexual diversity for years. A few from other regions require further dialogue, but overall, they’ve expressed respect for the club’s position."
"Munich has made plenty of superficial gestures for years. Backing down now when something actually happens could invite even greater criticism. Just looking at the online discourse, supportive voices are currently in the majority."
Isagi sat quietly, listening to the older figures around the table debate his future. Amid all the commercial calculations, he could still detect a thread of genuine concern—a sincerity that, however measured, was real.
He raised his hand, calm and rational. Noticing the dark-haired young man’s gesture, the chairman stilled the room.
"I am truly sorry for the tremendous trouble I've caused to our team. I will cooperate fully with whatever needs to be done moving forward. However, I ask Coache and the management... please believe in my football. I will give everything I have to win the Champions League for the team this year."
"Oh, kid," Coach sighed, rising to ruffle Isagi's hair. "You haven't done a thing wrong. Loaning you out was my decision, because I believed you needed to develop in a high-pressure, competitive environment. As for the unexpected incident that occurred during that process, what does it really have to do with playing football?"
The team manager shifted uneasily, preoccupied with locker room peace. "From what we gather, not every player is... comfortable with homosexuality."
"Locker room dynamics always have undercurrents," Coach dismissed with a wave. "The staff will handle it. We'll navigate it slowly if needed."
Isagi’s gaze drifted to Noa, who seated one chair away. Since retiring, Noa had coached the youth team and quietly joined the club's management, working in the data analysis department. Strictly speaking, he didn't need to attend this meeting outside his usual scope.
"For the Champions League quarter-final first leg next week—Yoichi plays as normal, yes?" a PR officer ventured.
Coach snorted. "What do you think? If we lose to PXG without him, who’s taking the blame?"
"Well, we've also received protests from extremist fans demanding the club expel Yoichi. We're just concerned that putting him in the spotlight during this sensitive time might fuel the media frenzy further..."
"Is public opinion more important than winning? Yoichi starts next week. If he dares to lose, he can go warm the bench."
Isagi sniffed, battling the sting in his eyes. "Thank you, Coach. We won’t lose."
The sporting director tapped the table with his knuckles. "PR needs to issue a statement—support for equality, respect for private lives. Business as usual otherwise. But let’s be clear: results are the ultimate remedy. This is our best chance in years to win the Champions League. Hoisting that trophy would ease the pressure immensely. Yoichi, you know that better than anyone."
Isagi nodded, the weight and promise smeared across his cheeks.
The nerve-wracking meeting finally over, and Isagi’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion. He and his agent drifted into the training facility’s restaurant, ordering simple food—sandwiches, a plate of pasta, coffees. Isagi's appetite wasn't great, but he forced himself to eat on schedule, refusing to let his discipline slip.
"They've essentially given you an ultimatum," Rei said. "Using performance to shut down criticism means if you falter—if your form dips, if you can’t steady the locker room or satisfy the more extreme fans—you could very likely face being sold."
"Yeah, I know," Isagi replied around a mouthful of sandwich, his cheeks bulging. "I don’t mind it, honestly. If anything, the crushing pressure just makes me more determined."
"You’re really something else," Rei remarked.
She wore a look of sheer helplessness. "What player can promise to be at their peak every single season? It’s so unfair—those who mess up, cheat on their girlfriends, or drink themselves stupid get to stay or move on without a hitch, while you’re handed these impossible terms…"
"Maybe? But I can’t really explain it. Right now, this situation doesn’t feel worse than being constantly in closet… Besides, there were already plenty of people who hated me anyway."
Rei smiled. "You’ve always been ridiculously tough. Fine—we’ll see this through."
Between bites, Isagi’s gaze drifted idly to the canteen’s television screen. After a loop of adverts, the Sky Sports interview livestream came on. Isagi noted today’s guest was Kaiser—probably a scheduled appearance from earlier.
The first few questions were fairly routine. Isagi could tell Kaiser wasn’t in the finest mood; he barely maintained a civil smile and kept his answers clipped.
"We’d like to know: does your teammate Isagi’s announcement yesterday affect Bastard’s lineup planning?"
How malicious, Isagi thought. That should be a question for the team manager, yet they deliberately tossed it to Kaiser. Whatever he said, the host could twist it.
At the question, Kaiser’s face became thunderous. "What the hell kind of question is that."
The host leaned in, undeterred. "But persistent rumors suggest Bastard may bench Isagi in next week’s Champions League knockout match, considering pressure from conservative groups and the locker room atmosphere—"
"Who's feeding you that nonsense? Did you hear that from the coach?" Kaiser cut in, his voice edged with steel.
"You can’t deny such whispers exist. For instance, as a teammate sharing a locker room where you might be undressed together, homosexuality could trigger a series of psychological effects—"
On the other side of the screen, Isagi held his breath at the commentator’s harsh words.
"Spare me the amateur psychology," Kaiser snapped. "Listen carefully—Yoichi is dating me now. So if anyone even thinks about pulling him from the starting lineup, they’ll have to bench us both. Then let coach and the board explain exactly why we’re losing."
Isagi froze. The last bite of his sandwich tumbled from his fingers onto the plate.
"Wha—?!" he gasped, then hastily clapped a hand over his mouth.
His agent stared at him, wide-eyed. "Tell me you didn’t start dating behind my back. Again."
"I swear, I absolutely didn’t," Isagi raised his right hand as if taking an oath. "I never expected Kaiser to say something like that!"
A waiter who understood no Japanese suddenly began to applaud. Another diner gave Yoichi a supportive thumbs-up. It seemed the entire restaurant had been eavesdropping all along.
Fans of the Kaiser-Isagi pairing had just endured a week straight out of an emotional rollercoaster. News of Yoichi’s coming out had swept across the globe, leaving countless shippers heartbroken into the late hours, only to later cling to hope rallied by fellow friends.
"Thay guy was just an ex! Now that Yoichi and Kaiser are teammates, the one who laughs last laughs best."
"Thanks, sis—I was sobbing earlier, but you’ve given me hope again."
"Wait, you all actually ship them for real? Do you know how homophobic football culture can be? I’m more worried about Yoichi’s career."
"Don’t worry—I’ll throw hands at every hater out there."
And after Kaiser’s explosive remarks in the interview, the fandom’s mood flipped on a dime—plunging into a delirious, chaotic blend of euphoria and sheer, stunned disbelief.
"Um… I think my ship might actually be sailing? For real?"