Chapter Text
Most of the time, Isagi wonders if people can understand him clearly. It's not because he has a hard time explaining himself, but because he wonders if people can understand what he means exactly.
Isagi is not a bad communicator. If he's at fault, he says sorry. If he's pissed, he'll say "damn" or "fuck," depending on how irritated he is. If he's happy, he’ll say that he is joyful.
The problem, sometimes, is that people simply misunderstand him. And Isagi finds it exhausting to correct whatever notions people form about him. A good example is back before he joined Blue Lock, he said he wanted to be a striker at the nationals; his coach laughed in his face and told him he was better suited to play as a midfielder instead. He communicated exactly what he wanted, but the man still misunderstood him.
A particularly exhausting match had Isagi catching his breath, wheezing as he pumped his lungs full of oxygen, closing his eyes in exasperation. Bundesliga, interviews, magazine photoshoots, and endorsements, one right after the other, Isagi would be lying if he said he wasn't tired.
He’d spend ninety minutes sprinting until his lungs burned like they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper, only to be shoved into a suit for a magazine photoshoot that lasted six hours.
He is constantly translating himself: translating his plays for his teammates, translating his "ego" for the media, and translating his very existence for a public that wanted to consume him. He felt like a piece of gum that had been chewed for too long; the flavor was gone, and he was just being stretched thinner and thinner.
He was tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. It was a weary echo in his ears from the constant flash of cameras and the relentless drone of reporters asking the same five questions in three different languages. His brain felt like a browser with fifty tabs open, all of them playing a different video of his own highlights. Every muscle fiber in his legs felt like it was being pulled by a violin bow, taut and vibrating with a fatigue that had moved past sore and straight into numb.
Because of the fame brought to him by Blue Lock and solidified by joining the professional ranks of Bastard München, false news had started spreading. The media was obsessed with Isagi in a borderline creepy way. One tabloid claimed he was spotted in a gay bar; another insisted he was "sleeping his way to the top," which made no fucking sense —he was literally the top-ranked player.
Then came the gala to celebrate the pre-championship of the Bundesliga and by some extent, the Copa del Rey and the UEFA cup. Isagi, as always, was invited. He was tired of the suit pinching his shoulders, tired of the fake pleasantries, and most of all, tired of the world projecting a version of Isagi Yoichi that he didn’t recognize. He just wanted the noise to stop.
Fuck, maybe Isagi could take more time off next season.
Looking around, he saw the chaos of the world's elite. Bachira was busy holding a one-sided, high-energy conversation with Bunny Iglesias, who only responded with a tight-lipped, pained smile as if he were praying for someone to take away his misery.
At a nearby table, a literal disaster is brewing: Kaiser, Rin, and Sae were actually sitting at the same fucking table while Leonardo Luna chirped away about something. He didn't even want to look for the other coaches, but in the periphery of his vision, he could see Nagi, who's seated beside Hiori, Reo, Kunigami and Yukimiya, staring at him with that blank, unblinking intensity.
Across the table, he can also see Hugo sitting perfectly, a book in his hands. While Loki is striking up a conversation with Shidou and Charles.
Further to the right, Barou and Aiku are leaning over to Karasu, who's showing them something on his phone.
The room was spacious, but the music wasn't loud enough to mask the rising murmurs of gossip. A waltz played in the background, making it feel like a stiff private gala rather than a real party. Isagi checked his watch: quarter to midnight. He bit his lip, already dreaming of a quick bath and passing out straight to his bed.
Erik Gesner, one of his Bastard München teammates, sauntered over. Out of the corner of his eye, Isagi saw Ness clutching a glass of wine so hard it looked like the stem might snap.
Gesner approached Isagi, who was sitting alone; he had already told Bachira he needed space, and Bachira, bless him, had announced loudly to everyone that "Isagi is exhausted, so leave him alone!" before skipping off to strike a conversation Bunny and Lavinho.
Gesner had been genuinely bothered by the "gay bar" article. He wasn't homophobic —atleast that's what he thinks (nevermind he calls people and the Blue Lock guys, smegma), and honestly, it wouldn't be a surprise if Isagi were into men, or if men are into Isagi Yoichi.
Isagi is, objectively speaking, damn pretty— but curiosity was eating Gesner alive.
“So Isagi, how are you?”
Isagi blinked, offering a polite, practiced smile.
“I’m okay. Just tired.”
Gesner laughed, “Yeah, no wonder no one wanted to approach you.” He noticed several pairs of eyes, including Rin’s and Kaiser’s, darting toward their table. He saw the white haired lazy guy and Bunny gave him a cautious loom. Hugo's posture is stiffening and Shidou raising an eyebrow. There is a smug confidence in Gesner's stance, enjoying the fact that he is the only one Isagi was talking to.
Isagi stood up, fully intending to go home, but Gesner followed suit, leaning in with a hush-hush tone.
“Hey, do you know that article? About that... uhm, gay bar you were seen at? Is it true?”
Isagi stopped. The fatigue hit a boiling point. He didn't have the energy to explain that the gay bar rumor was only a half-truth born from being hopelessly lost in the winding streets of Munich at 2 AM. He didn't have the energy to explain that the only establishment open had been that club, or that he’d only gone inside to ask for a taxi, because his phone died and no one was stopping to accommodate him.
He especially didn’t have the energy to explain his actual secret.
The truth was, Isagi didn't even have an active sex life; he was too busy dreaming about goals to bother with another person. Instead, his bedside drawer held a collection of toys and lube.
For Isagi, it is purely a stress reliever, a way to force his high-strung nervous system to shut down after a match. He’d discovered that internal stimulation, whenever he plugs two fingers in his hole, hits a specific nerve that relaxes his pelvis and melts the tension in his lower back better than any sports massage ever could.
And the orgasm that follows after anal stimulation is better than any relaxant he could take. But does that make Isagi gay? He's not sure and it doesn't really matter, because he meant what he said in an interview that gender, labels, or orientation doesn't matter to him.
What only matters to him is the ego of a person.
But looking at Gesner’s prying face, Isagi realized that explaining the nuances of his fingering-my-ass recovery therapy would only make things a thousand times worse.
He was done explaining himself. If they wanted a story, he’d give them one they’d never forget.
He looked Gesner dead in the eyes, his expression flat and dangerously sassy.
“Does it matter whose dick I ride?” Isagi snapped, exasperation in his voice. He did not mean to be rude but he really just wants to sleep for the next twenty-four hours.
“I’m still going to be the best striker in the world.”
The silence that followed is a vacuum of pure shock. As if the waltz dramatically stopped.
Sae merely arched an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Isagi’s retreating back with a newfound interest in the striker's ass. No fucking shame in Sae’s part.
Rin’s fork clang to the expensive ceramic plate, Kaiser looked like he'd been slapped, surprise on both of their features. Their usual arrogance is gone as they stare at the spot where Isagi used to be. Ness, shakily put his wine glass down the table, gulping as he did so.
Bunny’s deep red eyes are uncharacteristically dilated, and Bachira lets out a rugged intake of breath.
Luna let out a dark, delighted chuckle, musing aloud if the little egoist was that aggressive in every position. At the Manshine table, Nagi stared blankly at Isagi's back. Shit, shit, he wants to grab Isagi's waist.
Reo felt his hand tremble. What the fuck was that.
Chigiri stares dumbfounded. Kunigami stood like a crumbling statue of moral confusion, Hiori let out a gasp, eyes blinking trying to repeat what Isagi just said, and Kurona began vibrating, muttering about "positions, positions" as he struggled to process the information Isagi just dropped.
Further across the room, the chaos only intensified. Yukimiya adjusted his fogged-up glasses, he hadn't seen that coming, while Loki had a stunned look on his face to the sheer balls it took to end a career-ending rumor by making it a threat.
Charles Chevalier kicked his feet in a manic fit of giggles, desperate to see how this "wildcard" would play and he loudly exclaimed that Isagi looks pretty as a “bottom!”. Shidou, who truly felt the spark, said something along the lines of "I'm coming for you, I'll make you burst, Isagi!".
Barou, Aiku, and Karasu damn near plummet to each other when they caught what Isagi said.
Even in the shadows of the periphery, players like Hugo looked on in utter bewilderment, and a distant Kira Ryunosuke, who joined from side B and is now playing for a league in France, clutched the table napkin in his hands.
Without another word, Isagi turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the entire professional football world, from Real Madrid to Bastard München, to lose their collective minds in his wake.
Fuck it. His reputation be damned. It didn't matter; he’d score his goals and climb his way to the top regardless of what they thought happened behind closed doors. But to devour the world tomorrow, he needed to shut his brain off tonight. Because even the demi-god of soccer needs a recharge.
He had a bed to get to, and he wasn't planning on sharing it with anyone.