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The apartment is quiet when Isagi gets home, the kind of quiet that hums instead of echoes. Kaiser must have stepped out—probably the store down the block, probably for something stupidly specific. Cumin instead of caraway. Heavy cream instead of half-and-half. It’s Kaiser’s night to cook; there’s a rhythm to it now, an unspoken schedule they’ve fallen into without ever meaning to.
Isagi toes off his shoes and checks the kitchen anyway. The counter is half prepped, cutting board rinsed and propped upright, a pan warming on low like it’s waiting for permission. He smiles to himself and heads for the bedroom to grab clean clothes before his shower.
The light is off in there, curtains pulled just enough to let the city bleed in. He navigates by memory and it’s only when he’s passing the nightstand that he stops.
There’s an envelope where there usually isn’t one.
Plain paper. No stamp. His name written across the front in familiar, precise strokes.
Yoichi.
His chest tightens before he even understands why.
He tells himself that it’s probably nothing. A note Kaiser forgot to give him. Something old that got unearthed and never put away. But the address of it, the way it sits there like it’s meant to be found, tugs him closer despite himself.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.
Isagi picks it up anyway.
He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t even lean. He just stands there, envelope already open—Kaiser never sealed his letters, a habit left over from a country and a life Isagi’s only heard about in pieces—and unfolds the paper with hands that are steady in a way that feels practiced.
The handwriting fills the page. No crossing out. No theatrics. Just Kaiser, laid bare in the way he only ever allows himself on paper.
Yoichi,
There are things I do not tell you because they are small and because they are ugly, and because you have spent so long teaching me that love does not need to be earned through suffering.
I found your old diary entries last week. The ones from before me. I wasn’t searching for them; they were buried in a box you never unpacked when we moved. I should have put them back right away. I didn’t. I read them.
This is where I’m supposed to say I’m sorry. I am, but that’s not what this letter is about.
You were in love with him.
Kaiser writes it plainly, without qualifiers, without accusation. Isagi’s throat works around the sudden ache there.
He keeps reading.
You loved him immediately. That is what unsettles me the most.
You wrote about the first day you met him—the way you trusted him without thinking, the way your guard never even tried to come up. You jumped in with both feet, like the decision had already been made for you. One moment, and he was there. One day, and you were his.
With me, it took months.
I remember those months clearly. I remember watching you hesitate, watching you analyze us the way you analyze the field, turning me over in your head from every angle before you allowed yourself to commit. I told myself that was good. Healthy. Earned.
An extra space.
Still, some nights I can’t stop counting the time.
It only took him a day to have you in a way that took me so long to reach. That difference sits in my chest no matter how much I try to logic my way out of it. I know people change. I know circumstances matter. I know you are not the same boy you were then.
You loved him loudly. Messily. You wrote about the way he filled rooms and how you learned to breathe around him instead of against him. You wrote about the way he held your hand like it was a promise and the way you let yourself believe that promises don’t change shape.
I know how that ends. You told me how that ends. I know you chose to let go together. I know you are older now, different now, with me.
I know all of this.
Isagi closes his eyes for a moment, paper soft between his fingers. He can remember those entries, written late at night, knees pulled to his chest, Bachira’s laughter still echoing in his ears even after he’d gone home. That version of himself feels distant now, like someone he shares a face with but not a life.
Still.
Knowing does not stop the comparison.
This is the irrational part. This is the impossible part.
Kaiser’s pen presses harder here, the ink slightly darker, as if even memory of writing it takes effort.
Sometimes I want your heart in a way that is not real. In a way that would mean breaking you apart to keep you.
I want it untouched by anyone who came before me, as if love is a shiny toy in a plastic box to be bought and not something you grow into and out of and carry forward like muscle memory.
I want to believe I am the only one you have ever loved, not because I doubt you now, but because jealousy is easier when it pretends to be logic.
The next few lines come in a smaller, more rushed font.
It is small. It is ugly. It embarrasses me.
I am jealous of someone who is still here. I am jealous of someone who makes you laugh in a way that is different from mine. I am jealous of a history I do not own.
I like him. He makes me laugh, too. That might be the worst part.
Isagi lets out a breath that shakes a little despite himself.
He knows this. He knows all of this, in fragments and instincts and the way Kaiser sometimes goes quiet when Bachira sprawls across their couch like he’s always belonged there, when Kaiser's the one who sent the invite. He knows in the way Kaiser’s hand tightens for half a second before relaxing when Bachira slings an arm around Isagi’s shoulders and joins in the tussle. He’d felt it before, filed it away gently, trusting that Kaiser would tell him when he was ready.
I am not afraid you will leave. I am afraid that loving you means accepting that you did not begin with me, and sometimes I want to be selfish enough to pretend you did.
I won’t ask you for that. I won’t trap you in something artificial and call it devotion. You deserve better than to be loved like an object that can be kept pristine if handled correctly.
I am writing this so I can throw it away.
If you ever read it, you will be upset with me. You will say we should have talked. You will say this is not something to be ashamed of.
You will be right.
That doesn’t make the feeling less mine.
—M
The paper trembles as Isagi lowers it.
For a long moment, the apartment is quiet again, but now it presses in on him, thick and heavy. He folds the letter carefully, exactly along its original creases, and sets it back where he found it. He strips his clothes off mechanically, drops them in the hamper, and turns on the shower.
The water is hot enough to sting.
He stands under it longer than usual, lets it drum against the back of his neck until his thoughts lose their edge. He isn’t angry, not really, but there’s a sharpness to his chest that feels close to it. Not at Kaiser’s jealousy. Not even at the insecurity. It’s the fact that Kaiser carried this alone, hid it away like something rotten he was ashamed to be seen holding.
By the time he steps out, steam curling around him, his resolve has settled into something quieter.
He gets dressed. Kaiser is still gone.
By the time the front door opens, Isagi is leaning against the counter, towel draped over his shoulders, listening to Kaiser grumble under his breath about the store being out of the good tomatoes. He doesn’t say anything yet. Just steps forward when Kaiser gets close, threads his arms around his waist from behind, presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Kaiser smiles into it easily, the casual affection folding around him like a well-worn sweater. “You’re early,” he murmurs. “Give me five minutes.”
Isagi does. He sets the table. They eat. They talk about training, about a clip Ness sent that Kaiser pretends not to be proud of, about how Chevalier and Shidou were texting strings of nonsense emojis earlier in the day.
Easy. Warm. Real.
Later, when the dishwasher hums softly and the game footage is queued but not yet playing, Isagi turns to him.
“Michael,” he says, gently. “I read the letter.”
The silence that follows is immediate and total.
Kaiser’s shoulders tense first. Then his jaw. He doesn’t look away, but something shutters behind his eyes, defensive and braced.
“I wasn’t supposed to leave it out,” he says finally, voice flat.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have-”
“I know,” Isagi repeats, and then, softly, “I’m glad I did.”
That makes him look. Really look.
Isagi steps closer, takes Kaiser’s hands in his own. “You don’t get to decide what parts of you are too ugly for me,” he says, not unkindly. “Not after all this time.”
Kaiser exhales, the fight leaking out of him. “I didn’t want to want that,” he admits. “I don’t want to be that person.”
“You aren’t,” Isagi says. “You’re someone who got hurt by a thought and tried to deal with it alone.”
“I wasn’t supposed to leave it out,” Kaiser repeats.
“I know,” Isagi answers. His voice is quiet, even. “You weren’t supposed to show me something you didn't want to share yet.”
Kaiser exhales through his nose. “Then don’t,” he says flatly, already building walls again. “You don’t have to reassure me. That wasn’t why I wrote it.”
“I’m not reassuring you,” Isagi replies. “I’m explaining something you couldn’t see from the inside.”
That makes Kaiser pause.
Isagi steps closer, slow enough that Kaiser could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, Isagi takes his hands, warm and familiar and real.
“You’re right,” Isagi says. “It was immediate with Meguru.”
Kaiser’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“The day I met him, it felt like recognition,” Isagi continues. “Like we were already moving at the same speed before we knew the rules of the game. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. I just… jumped.”
His gaze drops for a moment, the memory flickering sharp and bright—Bachira’s grin on that first day, the easy gravity of being pulled into his orbit, the way it felt safe to just follow his instincts back then.
“But that wasn’t depth,” Isagi says, lifting his eyes again. “That was momentum.”
Kaiser’s brow furrows slightly.
“With you,” Isagi goes on, “I was scared.”
Kaiser lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You didn’t act like it.”
“I did,” Isagi says simply. “I just hid it better.”
He squeezes Kaiser’s hands once, grounding them both.
“By the time I met you, I knew what it meant to lose something that felt inevitable. I knew what it felt like to grow apart without anyone being wrong. And I knew that if I let myself fall the way I had before, it would change me again.”
Isagi smiles faintly. Not sad. Just honest.
“So yes. It took me longer.”
Kaiser looks down between them, throat working.
“But when it happened,” Isagi says, voice steady, “it wasn’t an instinctive jump.”
His thumb brushes over Kaiser’s knuckles, slow and deliberate.
“It was a deliberate choice.”
That makes Kaiser look up.
“I didn’t wake up one day already in love with you,” Isagi continues. “I realized it the night I stopped imagining my future like a solo match. You were just… already there. Sharp. Stunning. But also, certain.”
His mouth curves, softer now.
“I loved Meguru like a storm. It rolled in fast. Beautiful. Gone when the season changed.”
Then, quietly: “I love you like gravity.”
The words sit between them.
“It didn’t take longer because I wanted you less,” Isagi finishes. “It took longer because I wasn’t willing to be careless with something I wanted to stay.”
Kaiser closes his eyes.
For a moment, Isagi thinks he might pull away, but instead, Kaiser leans forward until their foreheads touch, breath unsteady.
“So I wasn’t second,” Kaiser murmurs.
“No,” Isagi says immediately. “You were after. That’s not the same thing.”
Kaiser lets out something that might be a laugh if it weren’t so fragile. “I hated that it took him a day,” he admits. “I hated that it took me months.”
Isagi tilts his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Kaiser’s temple.
“I needed a day to recognize him,” he says. “I needed months to trust myself with you.”
He pulls back just enough to meet Kaiser’s eyes, squeezes Kaiser’s hands once. Firm. Certain.
“My heart isn’t unused,” he starts again, voice steady. “It wasn’t clean when I gave it to you. And it still chose you anyway. Still does every day.”
Kaiser swallows.
“I don’t want it in a plastic box,” Isagi adds. “I want it here. With you. With all the fingerprints and dents and history it comes with.”
Kaiser leans forward, forehead resting against Isagi’s. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, stripped down to the bone.
“I know,” he says. “I just needed to write the wanting out of my system.”
Isagi kisses him then, slow, reassuring, present.
Later, when Kaiser slips the letter back into its envelope, he doesn’t throw it away.
He keeps it.
Not as something shameful, but as proof that love doesn’t have to be immediate to be irrevocable.