SUMARRY: your boyfriend has been paying even less attention to you than usual, leading up to you feeling threatened by his.. cactus, which he gave more love and care.
NAGI SEISHIRO, your lazy boyfriend, had been paying much less attention to you than the usual.. which wasn’t much. his PC screen leveled to be higher priority in his eyes—fore the way he stays up on a game instead of cuddling you to sleep three of out seven days of the week.
you couldn’t name the number of how many times you’d called out to him, a whiny voice barely ringing in his covered ears as he played valorant, begging “seiii... come cuddle, you said you’d get off three games ago!”, “sei, i’m cold! you’re warm, come hug me..” and pouty whimpers of his name going in one ear and out of the other.
lately, you started feeling jealous when he would give the prickly pet cactus pokes in the morning when he wakes up and waters choki, as it felt as though he was showing that plant more love and care than he was you.
so of course, you raised the stakes. started wearing more revealing clothes, clinging to him more often than usual, being more flirty and more.
but this was getting ridiculous.
you understood that your boyfriend was quite oblivious when it came to flirting, but you made it blatantly obvious for him; sitting on his lap as he’s playing games, grinding your hips against his with no panties on—you’d grown desperate.
by now, you had a plan set in motion: steal the plant, hide it somewhere safe, get him to pay attention to you.
and by hide it somewhere safe, you gave it to reo for the time being.
as the morning rose after his precious plant disappeared, there was no movement under the covers as you rested with nagi. only as noon had nearly arrived, had he began stirring, awakening the both of you.
“g’morning..” nagi whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion as he struggled within the sheets to escape from the messy position he slept in.
“seiii... don’t go,” whining, you tugged on his sleeve, eyes heavy and clinging to him for dear life, “please..?” he simply patted your arm and sat up, not quite awake yet himself.
like routine at this point, he slowly rose, sitting up and rubbing his sleepy eyes. his head turned to look out the window and look at choki, only to be met with closed curtains. his head tilted to the side silently in question, as if the cogs were still turning in his head to process his missing plant.
“what happened to choki..?” he muttered, missing his usual good morning to the spiky plant.
“i donated choki to reo,” pouting, you huffed and sat up with him with crossed arms. this was just about the first time you ever saw your boyfriend put the effort enough to give you the most flabbergasted look you’d ever seen from him.
you’d think he was locked out of his account in a limited time event on one of his games with the look he’s giving you right now.
of course, you didn’t actually donate it to reo. he was just holding onto it for the time being.
“but why..?” he questioned, an unusual pout having appeared on his lips.
“cus! you’ve been giving that plant that you only need to water once every three weeks more love than me!” you hit him with the pillow before giving him the most important question he’d have to answer in his life.
“if i was a cactus, would you have picked me over choki?” staring him deep in his big ol’ eyes, you gave him the biggest, most sad puppy dog eyes imaginable as your bedhead messily sat at the sides of your head.
he himself even knew this was a trick question. only if he said yes would you be happy.
“..i would get both you and choki, and put a bow on you so choki could have a girlfriend.” he scratched the back of his head, his words seeming awkward.
he also probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between you or choki without the bow if you really were a cactus.
but that was probably the best answer you were going to get from him.
“would you keep me on your bedside stand?” you asked with a whiny voice, needing to know this information.
“..sure.”
“awwwww, seiii!” you hugged his arm, the sound of your giggles filling the air. most girls would probably have higher standards than this, but by this point, this was added onto the list of the sweetest things he’s ever said to you.
he ruffled your messy hair, his hand nearly getting stuck in the tangled locks. he placed a soft kiss on your forehead before muttering,
✩ a/n — wrote this on a whim and idk if it makes sense :)
✩ word count — 5.3k
✩ content — isagi yoichi x reader, pregant! reader (okay i'll stop with the pregnancy stuff ik yall are tired of it), emotionally distant! isagi, soccers literally devoured him i fear, angst, fluff, isagi still plays with BM, all characters are 18+ (22 in this fic), established relationship, not proofread
✩ synopsis — Soccer has become Isagi Yoichi's number one. You weren't even sure you were a close second anymore.
── .✦ you owe me a debt, you stole him from me.
You always loved airports at night.
Maybe it was the glow of terminal lights against the glass, how everything blurred when rain kissed the windows, how strangers moved in slow choreography—some chasing arrivals, some dragging the weight of goodbyes.
It felt poetic. Like life paused in limbo.
You liked that space between here and there.
The last time you stood at a gate like this, you were eighteen and crying into the fabric of his old high school track jacket.
It still smelled like the detergent his mother used—floral and cheap and comforting.
His hair had been a little too long, curling awkwardly around his ears, and he was so nervous he kept squeezing your hand like he was trying to memorize it.
You’d whispered, “Don’t forget me,” into his collar.
And he’d pulled back just enough to look at you—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, the kind of serious only Yoichi could be.
“I couldn’t if I tried,” he promised. You kissed him like you believed him.
That was the night soccer took him away once again.
And now, four years later, you stood beside him again in another terminal halfway across the world, married, older, quieter.
His hand was no longer in yours.
It hovered beside you, clenched around his phone, thumb tapping mindlessly as the screen replayed the last match. Again and again.
You glanced at the image. You recognized it instantly—his team had lost.
You could tell by the way he blinked slower than usual. The way his jaw clicked every now and then, like he was chewing his own frustration.
You didn’t speak. You’d learned not to on days like this.
When you landed, he didn’t offer to carry your bag. He didn’t even notice you struggled with the heavy zipper as you adjusted the handle.
It wasn’t on purpose. That was the cruelest part.
None of it ever was.
You moved across the world for him. Left your family, your hometown, your college friends. All of it, without regret.
That was your choice.
But loving someone like Yoichi came with unspoken terms.
You’d grown to understand that every time he stepped onto the pitch, he gave a piece of himself away.
The problem was…he never brought all of himself back.
The apartment in Germany was too quiet for a game day.
Muted walls, blinds drawn halfway, city lights bleeding through in dim gold slivers. The couch had a permanent dip on his side now, molded by long nights of post-game reflection.
You always sat on the other end. Close enough to be near him. Far enough not to interrupt.
You cooked anyway. You weren’t sure why anymore.
Maybe because he needed routine. Or maybe because you did. Maybe it was one of the only things you could control.
The timer on the rice cooker dinged softly. You stirred the soup twice clockwise, the way his mom taught you, and poured it into the bowl with a practiced hand.
Your fingers moved on autopilot, mind elsewhere—on the way he hadn’t said a full sentence to you since yesterday, on the two lines that had appeared on the pregnancy test this morning, on the ache in your chest that didn’t seem to go away lately.
You placed the tray on the table. He was already seated, eyes locked on the TV.
He’d changed into his sweatpants and that faded FC Bastard München hoodie—the one you used to steal to sleep in before it stopped smelling like him and started smelling like his stress.
“Dinner,” you said gently, the word slipping out like a question.
He didn’t respond. Not because he was upset. Because he was watching. Studying. Dissecting every angle of his mistake.
You could hear the commentator's voice describing the play in German, but Yoichi didn’t need words. He already knew what he did wrong.
He was reliving it. Frame by frame. Thought by thought.
You sat across from him and ate in silence.
When you were eighteen, he would’ve teased you for using too much soy sauce.
He would’ve touched your ankle under the table.
He would’ve told you his dumb post-match jokes in that awkward way of his, hoping to make you laugh even when he lost.
Now, he barely remembered you were there.
You kept your eyes on your food. The chopsticks shook slightly in your hand. Not from fear. From restraint.
You weren’t afraid of him. Not Yoichi. Never.
But you were afraid of this... version of him.
The one who had slowly, unrelentingly, replaced the boy you loved.
He hadn’t always been like this.
Back in high school, he used to skip his cooldown jog to walk you home.
He carried your books in his soccer bag and bought you taiyaki after every match.
He used to call you at 1 AM just to say, "I can't sleep if I don't hear your voice."
He kissed you like he had time.
Like he didn’t know the world was coming for him, teeth bared, ready to chew him up and spit him back out as a star.
Now, he kissed you in fragments—when he was euphoric from victory or desperate after a loss.
He kissed you like he was trying to remember something he used to be.
There were good days. Of course, there were.
When he scored, when his team won, when the crowd chanted his name and he walked off the field beaming—you saw him again.
The boy you married. He'd hold you in the locker room hallway, sweaty and breathless, whispering, “Did you see that?” like you weren’t watching every second of him with your whole heart.
He'd bury his face in your neck that night, voice cracking as he thanked you for waiting. For believing. For being here.
Those days, you let yourself forget.
But wins were getting fewer now. The game was changing. So was he.
And now, he lost more than he won.
Which meant you lost him more often than not.
He didn’t eat much that night. Just picked at the food while the replay looped again. When it ended, the room went still.
He leaned back and exhaled, frustrated.
“I should’ve passed earlier.”
His voice was hoarse. You could tell he hadn’t spoken in hours.
You nodded, gentle. “Maybe. But you’re still him, you know?”
He looked at you. Really looked.
For the first time all day, you saw him behind his eyes. Your husband.
Not the striker. Not the man the world expected him to be. Just Yoichi.
He reached across the table and took your hand. His touch was warm and grounding.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was apologizing for forgetting how to be tender.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know I haven’t been…”
“You don’t have to say it,” you replied. “I know.”
You did. You always had.
But it still stung to know love didn’t always protect you from being invisible.
Later, when he was asleep beside you, one arm slung across your waist and his head buried against your shoulder, you stared up at the ceiling and pressed a hand to your stomach.
Eight weeks. That tiny baby was already growing.
Already real. Already yours.
And you didn’t know how to tell him.
Because this man—the one who fell asleep still frowning even in his dreams—he wasn’t ready to hear it.
You could wait. You always waited. Through every loss, every silence, every ache.
So maybe you’d wait just a little longer.
Maybe after the next win, you thought. Maybe then you’ll tell him.
The morning of his next match, you woke to the familiar rustle of his pre-game routine.
The clink of his water bottle against the counter.
The zip of his duffel.
The quiet hum of him pacing the living room while reviewing formations in his head. Y
ou lay there in bed, unmoving, listening to him breathe like you used to when you were kids sharing late-night calls and falling asleep mid-conversation.
He always moved differently on game days — like he was already sprinting, even when standing still. Like the world couldn’t keep up with the storm inside him.
You rolled onto your back, your hand automatically brushing over your stomach.
Eight weeks and three days. Still just a secret between you and the slow, turning universe.
You had a plan this time.
If he won, you'd tell him.
You met him at the stadium entrance, as always. He jogged up to the gate, earbuds in, face focused but softer when he saw you.
“Morning,” he said, barely out of breath.
You held out his good luck charm — a braided bracelet you'd made in high school, black and navy.
It was frayed now, but he still tied it to his water bottle every match.
“You forgot,” you said, gently scolding.
His expression flickered—guilt, then affection. “Didn’t forget. Just wanted to see you hold it again.”
He kissed your cheek. Quick. Thoughtless. Rushed.
But it was something.
You watched him walk into the stadium, duffel slung over his shoulder, shoulders squared. You watched until the last trace of him disappeared into the tunnel.
And you whispered to yourself, Please win.
The match wasn’t perfect. But he played with fire in his veins. And this time — this time — it worked.
He scored.
One clean, brilliant strike. Just outside the box. You saw it leave his foot and knew before the net even rippled.
The crowd screamed. His name echoed, thick and powerful, like a storm had broken over the field.
He stood there, fists clenched, head tilted back toward the sky.
And for one beautiful second, he looked like the boy who used to practice free kicks in the park with you after school, sweaty and sunburned and beaming.
He won.
And for once, he smiled like it meant everything.
That night, you cooked again — something heavier. Celebration food.
You even played the playlist he made you once during your first year in Germany, the one with old Japanese love songs and soft instrumental tracks.
You set the table with two candles, flickering gently in the low light. The whole apartment smelled like home — miso and garlic and sweet soy.
When he walked in, it felt like he brought a different kind of energy with him. Lighter. Looser.
“You did it,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. “That goal was—Yoichi, it was beautiful.”
He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, still wearing his team hoodie and sweat-slick hair.
“It felt good,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was happy but didn’t know how to say it.
You crossed the space between you and wrapped your arms around his waist.
And this time, he held you back.
Tight.
He smelled like grass and victory and warmth. You wanted to stay there forever.
He kissed your temple. “Thank you for always being here.”
You didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed against his chest.
Now, you told yourself. Tell him now.
You pulled back enough to look at him.
Your hand hovered over your stomach — your body ready to speak even before your mouth could catch up.
“Yoichi,” you whispered. “I have to tell you something.”
His eyes searched yours. The room felt heavy with possibility.
“I—”
But then he moved.
Still smiling, still gentle, but already reaching for his phone.
“Sorry—just real quick. They uploaded the post-match footage already. I wanna review the press angle of the goal.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
He didn’t mean to interrupt. He didn’t realize.
But the look in your eyes dimmed. Your hand dropped back to your side.
You watched him walk over to the couch, already immersed in another game, another analysis, another version of himself.
Dinner was warm. The candles flickered. Your plate was full.
But you ate alone again.
Later that night, he curled around you in bed like nothing had changed.
And maybe it hadn’t.
He whispered something sleepy into your shoulder. “Did good today, right?”
“You did amazing,” you said, lips brushing his knuckles as you held his hand against your stomach. You wanted to say it again — to try.
But he was already asleep.
And your voice caught in your throat like it wasn’t ready to fight the silence a second time.
You didn’t cry. Not really.
You just lay there, eyes open, thinking of how long it had been since he looked at you and really saw you. Not as someone who supported him. Not as his anchor or his comfort.
But as his person.
The girl he fell in love with in the empty gym after school.
The one he used to text poetry to, shy and anonymous.
The one he swore he’d never forget.
You turned your head and whispered into the dark, “I miss you.”
Yoichi stirred slightly, tightening his hold around your waist.
But he didn’t wake.
There was something strange about the days before a game.
He always moved through them like a shadow — present, but only in shape. You would speak to him in the morning and realize hours later he never answered.
You’d make dinner, and he’d eat on autopilot.
You’d sit beside him on the couch, trying to rest your head against his shoulder, only for him to lean forward and scroll through clips on his phone instead.
It wasn’t unkind. Just…empty.
And you were getting used to being second to the game. You’d started counting things in silences — like the number of days it had been since he asked you how you were.
Or the number of times you’d caught him glancing at his phone during your conversations.
You weren’t bitter. Just tired.
Pregnancy had been a lonely experience so far.
The quiet kind of lonely, where even though you lived in the same apartment and shared the same bed, it felt like you were always reaching for someone just a few steps ahead.
You wanted to believe he’d be excited. That maybe if you could just get the timing right, he’d stop the world long enough to really hear you.
So you waited again.
One more game.
He played poorly. You saw it from the first fifteen minutes.
His body was off. His passes weren’t connecting. He was late to the press. You could see it in his face — every step weighed down with frustration.
Every mistake making him spiral tighter into himself.
And then they lost.
Badly.
You watched the scoreboard blink red.
You watched him walk off the field with his head down, ignoring his teammates, jaw locked tight.
The post-game press didn’t call for him. He was too keyed up to speak clearly anyway.
You knew he’d just want to go home.
So that’s what you did.
The silence in the car was unbearable.
You sat beside him, hands clasped over your stomach, while he gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him together.
The streetlights passed over his face in quick intervals — light, shadow, light — but he didn’t say a word.
Not even a sigh.
When you reached your building, he parked and got out without waiting for you.
Didn’t open the door. Didn’t glance back.
Just went ahead and disappeared into the elevator.
You followed him upstairs with a quiet, mounting ache in your chest.
He didn’t take off his shoes when he came in. He dropped his duffel at the door and headed straight to the living room.
The TV was already on. The game was queued up.
You stood in the hallway, watching him fast forward to the 42nd minute.
You hadn’t even taken off your coat.
“Yoichi,” you said softly, stepping forward. “Hey, can we just—”
“Leave me alone.”
It was sharp. Immediate. Not yelled, not cruel — but final.
You froze.
Something in you broke.
“God,” you whispered, voice suddenly rising, chest aching. “If you can’t take the losses, why don’t you quit, huh?”
He turned to look at you for the first time all evening — stunned.
Caught off guard.
You didn’t stop.
“Do you think I like walking on eggshells every time your team loses? Do you think I enjoy watching you become a stranger after every mistake?”
His eyes narrowed, the same look he got when someone fouled him hard and the ref didn’t call it.
You kept going.
“You don’t talk. You don’t touch me. You come home and shut me out like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one who missed the pass—”
“I need to focus—”
“I need you,” you snapped.
And then it came.
The words spilled out before you could stop them.
“If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?”
The silence that followed was thunderous.
He just stared at you.
And you stared back.
No rewind button. No replay. No edits.
You felt your throat go dry. Your eyes stung. But you didn’t cry.
Not this time.
He sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, as if the strength left his body all at once.
“...What did you say?”
You didn’t move.
“I’m pregnant,” you said, the words solid, heavy, trembling. “Ten weeks.”
Still, he said nothing.
You stepped forward, voice lower now. Sadder.
“I wanted to tell you. I kept waiting for the right moment. After a win. After a smile. After something that felt like… you were still in this with me.”
His hands dropped to his lap. Fingers clenched together. His breathing was uneven.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered. “I didn’t want the first time you heard it to be in the middle of a fight.”
He looked up slowly, his expression unreadable.
“Why didn’t you just tell me sooner?”
You shook your head. “Because you’ve been gone. You come home every night, but you’re still gone. I thought if I waited long enough, maybe you’d come back.”
That night, you slept in the spare room. Not because he told you to. Not because he raised his voice.
But because when he finally stood and walked past you, heading for the bathroom, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a single word.
You sat on the edge of the bed in the cold dark, your hands on your belly, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” even though you didn’t know who it was meant for.
You were so tired of being the one who waited.
The next morning.
You woke up to the sound of the front door closing.
He was already gone.
No note. No text. No promise to come back.
Just you and the sound of the heating kicking on. The silence stretched long, unforgiving, across the whole apartment.
You didn’t eat breakfast.
You just sat at the table, turning your wedding ring around your finger, wondering if he’d even worn his today.
You remembered the first time he told you he loved you.
It was after a loss.
He missed the penalty that would’ve sent them to nationals. He was quiet, more than usual.
Everyone else had gone home, but you stayed, pacing the field alone until you found him sitting against the fence, knees to his chest.
You sat beside him without saying a word. Let the silence hold you both.
After a long pause, he said, “I’m not good enough.”
You shook your head. “Not true.”
He turned, eyes glossy, voice raw. “But you still love me anyway?”
You smiled through the ache. “Yeah. I always will.”
He kissed you, trembling, teeth knocking against yours. And he said, “Then I think I’m gonna be okay.”
You looked down at your stomach now.
Ten weeks. And counting.
You wanted that boy back. The one who found hope in your love.
But right now… you didn’t know if he remembered how.
The silence in the apartment was almost reverent, like even the walls were mourning the words that had been said.
You hadn’t meant to say them—not like that.
Not in a scream, not with your hands trembling at your sides and your throat burning from the effort it took to say what had lived at the back of your heart for weeks now.
But Isagi hadn’t even flinched when you said it.
He just stood there in the living room after the match—shoulders slumped, hair still damp from the shower, his duffel bag half-unzipped at his feet—and said nothing.
He didn't fight back. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t cry.
He just said, “I said leave me alone.”
And so you did.
You packed a bag the next day.
You couldn’t even remember what you brought with you, only that the quiet of the hallway outside your front door felt louder than anything he’d said in the past two weeks.
You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t text him after. There wasn’t a dramatic exit. Just silence.
You stayed with a friend the first night.
Then two.
Then it was five.
No messages from him.
Not even a read receipt.
And you hated how your phone still lit up in your hand every time the screen buzzed—even if it was just your bank or a weather alert.
You hated the way your chest clenched when you saw a soccer related headline in your feed, and even more the way your eyes scanned every photo, every blurry zoom-in shot of the match, hoping for a glimpse of his face.
You saw him on a sports interview two days later. He looked tired. His smile was forced.
When the reporter asked about the loss, his jaw twitched.
They asked him if anything had changed in his routine.
He said no.
Isagi didn’t change anything in the apartment.
Your slippers still sat by the door, your toothbrush was still tucked beside his, your half-read book was still on the nightstand, your cardigan still draped over the kitchen chair. He didn’t move any of it.
But he didn’t touch it either.
He walked around your presence like it was a ghost—afraid to disturb it, and too stubborn to let himself miss you.
He didn’t sleep well.
The bed was too cold. Too quiet.
His dreams always hovered on the edge of something—your voice, your warmth, the way you used to curl into his side with a sigh that made the world feel small and safe.
Now it all felt vast and hollow.
And that night—three days after you left—he stood in the doorway of what would’ve been the baby’s room.
The same one you painted together.
The same one where you’d sat on the floor with catalogues, talking names and middle names and whose nose you hoped they’d inherit.
He stared at the room in silence, eyes glassy.
Then he shut the door.
Meanwhile, You…
You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when you said it.
The line that echoed, again and again.
"If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?"
You didn’t even cry that first night away from him. You just laid in bed, your friend asleep in the other room, and stared at the ceiling with guilt blooming in your chest like a second heartbeat.
Because you didn’t mean it like that.
You weren’t trying to say he wouldn’t be a good father.
You were trying to say—he couldn’t shut down. Not with you. Not with a child.
You wanted him to fight for more than just the game.
You wanted him to fight for you.
Day Five
It was raining.
Of course it was raining.
You’d left work late, shoes soaked from stepping in a deep puddle, and your umbrella had snapped back in the wind, rendering it useless.
The walk home was wet and cold and miserable—and when you finally reached the door to the apartment you weren’t even staying in, you saw him.
Isagi.
Sitting on the steps like a drenched ghost.
Hood pulled over his head. Face downcast. Knees to his chest.
You froze under the awning, staring at him.
He didn’t look up right away. Not until you stepped closer and whispered, “What are you doing here?”
He slowly raised his head.
His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. He looked exhausted.
“…I didn’t know where else to go.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
The rain dripped from his sleeves. His fingers twitched once, like he wanted to reach for you, but wasn’t sure if he should.
“Yoichi,” you breathed, “you shouldn’t be out here. You’re soaked—”
“I deserve it.”
It came out rough. Hoarse.
And then finally—his voice cracked.
“I deserved every word you said.”
You didn’t speak.
He wiped at his face with his sleeve like it could undo the past week. “I didn’t know how to handle it. The loss. The pressure. I—I kept thinking if I could just make it work, if I could just keep winning, I could fix everything. I thought I could carry it all. I thought I had to.”
You took a step closer.
He looked up at you like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.
“I didn’t mean to push you away,” he said, his voice barely above the rain. “I didn’t mean to make you feel alone. I was scared. And I took it out on you.”
Your throat closed up.
“I still want this,” he whispered. “You. Our family. I want it so badly it hurts.”
Silence fell again.
And then, softly—
“I don’t know how to be a dad yet. But I want to learn.”
You knelt beside him, rain soaking into your jeans, and reached out to cup his face in your hands.
His skin was cold, wet from more than just the storm.
He leaned into your touch like it was the first warmth he’d felt in days.
“You could’ve just said you were scared,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be perfect, Yoichi. You just have to be here.”
“I’m here,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m here now.”
And for the first time in days, you believed him.
The apartment was quiet again, but not the kind of silence that crushed your chest the way it had before.
Not like the nights he’d shut himself in the spare room, not like when you'd lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if love was enough to weather a storm like him.
This time, it was peaceful.
You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, the soft echo of your baby’s heartbeat still thudding in your ears from the appointment earlier.
You’d gone alone to many of the appointments. Been so used to being alone.
Except this time…he showed up.
Isagi Yoichi had missed three matches. The news had said “minor injury,” but everyone knew he’d played through worse.
A sprain, a sore knee, even a bruised rib once.
He never let it sideline him.
But this time—he chose to sit out.
He walked into that exam room timidly, like a guest in a stranger’s house, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie.
His eyes flicked nervously from the walls to the monitor to you. Then to your belly. Then away.
You hadn’t spoken much since the fight.
Just a few words here and there.
Texts about groceries. A quiet nod in passing.
You weren’t sure what it meant—if he was retreating again or simply trying not to mess it up more than he already had.
The doctor greeted you both kindly.
She placed the gel on your stomach with gloved fingers and angled the wand over the curve of your belly.
You flinched slightly at the cold, but your eyes remained on the screen.
And then, there it was.
A grainy silhouette, a heartbeat strong and steady, fluttering across the screen like a drum.
Isagi froze beside you.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, his gaze fixated on the monitor, his lips parted like he was trying to speak but couldn’t quite breathe.
His hand slowly, slowly reached out and wrapped around your wrist, holding on as if anchoring himself.
“…That’s… ours?” His voice broke. Completely cracked down the middle.
The doctor smiled kindly. “That’s your baby, Mr. Isagi. Looks healthy.”
“Do we… do we know—?”
“No sir, not for another few weeks,” she chuckled gently. “But everything’s progressing right on schedule.”
Isagi didn’t respond. His hand tightened around your wrist just slightly, his shoulders shaking.
And then—he cried.
You’d seen him angry. You’d seen him gutted from losses, curled over himself with rage and shame.
But you had never seen this.
Not tears of failure.
Not tears of frustration.
These were quiet.
These were soft, genuine tears falling down his face as he watched the smallest proof that he still had time to be someone good.
To be someone better. To be a father.
When you left the clinic, he insisted on holding the ultrasound photo, cradling it with a strange reverence you hadn’t seen in months.
He even smiled—just a little—while walking with you to the car.
That was when the flash went off.
The moment the light burst across your face, your gut dropped. Then came the sound of snapping shutters.
At least five photographers, you guessed, hiding behind parked cars.
"Isagi! Isagi! Is it true you’re going to be a father?!"
"Who's she to you? Is this your wife?!"
You turned your face away on instinct, but Isagi didn’t flinch. He didn’t shove past or let you walk alone.
Instead, he looked at you with this sort of soft question in his eyes—asking permission—and when you didn’t say no, he leaned in and kissed you. Right there on the sidewalk.
His hand around your waist, the ultrasound photo held up beside your joined faces.
And twenty minutes later, the internet exploded.
Rumors. Speculation. Headlines.
Your inbox filled up with friends asking if it was true, if you were really having a baby, if he really walked away from three games just to be with you.
He didn't wait to control the narrative.
Instead, he posted the picture himself.
📸 @ isagi_yoichi
the rumors are true.
The comments poured in instantly.
Some were cruel, but most were warm. Supportive. Overwhelming, even.
You saw your name trending, saw pictures of you from high school being shared and reposted.
You didn’t expect the news to spread like this. But strangely—you weren’t afraid.
Because for once, he wasn’t hiding.
Later that night, you sat at the kitchen table together in that same apartment where it had all started—the laughter, the fights, the cold walls and broken promises.
He reached across the table and held your hand.
“I know I hurt you,” he said softly. “I’ve been hurting you for a long time.”
You swallowed, your fingers lacing with his slowly.
“I thought I had to be perfect. Or else I’d lose everything. But I ended up pushing you away every time I failed… I was trying to protect you from the worst parts of me.”
“But Yoichi… I didn’t need perfect,” you said. “I just needed you to stay.”
He nodded, eyes glossy but steady. “I’m going to leave it all on the field from now on. My anger, my frustration, my self-hate. I won’t bring that home to you anymore. I won’t punish you because I couldn’t win.”
You squeezed his hand. “You’re not just a player. You’re going to be a dad.”
His eyes softened. “I want to be the kind of father they’ll be proud of. And I want to be a partner you can count on.”
He paused, then added, “I talked to my coach. I told him I’m not playing unless I’m ready. Not just physically, but here too.” He pointed to his head, then his chest. “I need to be whole—for all of us.”
The weeks that followed weren’t perfect. But they were better.
You cooked dinner together again. He came to every appointment. He fell asleep once with your head on his chest and his hand resting on your stomach, murmuring promises into the dark.
When he returned to the field, he scored—but didn’t watch the replays.
He walked straight past the film room and into the car where you waited for him, and drove home humming to the playlist you'd made together long ago.
The storm hadn’t passed completely. There were still bad nights, off days, hard conversations.
starring: rin itoshi, isagi yoichi, barou shoei, chigiri hyoma, bachira meguru, reo mikage, yukimiya kenyu, and oliver aiku
RIN ITOSHI
he’s the only one who immediately believes something is off. doesn’t even question the vision; just starts planning an escape route.
has a death notebook. lists everyone’s deaths in order. doesn’t tell anyone. just glares at them when it’s almost their turn.
spends 90% of the time pissed off that he can’t just fight death himself.
cause of death: slips on a stray protein shake bottle (barou’s) in the gym, falls headfirst onto a treadmill set at max speed. gets flung into a glass wall.
status: dead. he never saw barou’s shake coming.
ISAGI YOICHI
“guys, maybe if we work together, we can—"
tries to strategize around death like it’s a soccer match. “if i just predict the next move…”
comes up with five theories. all wrong.
cause of death: tries to save bachira from a falling light fixture, but steps into a malfunctioning escalator. gets sucked in slowly while still giving a monologue about fate.
status: dead. death didn’t need a game plan, death played instinct.
BAROU SHOEI
thinks he’s stronger than death. yells at it like it’s an opponent.
refuses to change his routine. “i eat meat, i lift weights, i survive.”
almost survives the entire movie through sheer intimidation.
cause of death: microwave explodes because he reheated steak in foil. tries to stomp out the fire. gets electrocuted.
status: dead. he died screaming “i’m a king—" while he’s getting electrocuted.
CHIGIRI HYOMA
spends the whole movie outrunning his fate, literally.
has a dramatic slo-mo sprint every time something bad happens.
everyone’s like “damn he’s fast,” while he keeps dodging falling pianos.
cause of death: trips on his own hair straightener cord. gets impaled by a trophy stand he kicked earlier out of frustration.
status: dead. too fast for fate, but not for bad hair days.
BACHIRA MEGURU
“woaaah! that was close! let’s do it again!”
treats every near-death experience like a carnival ride. thinks death is just a really intense game of tag.
keeps score in his head and laughs every time something almost hits him.
starts vlogging every moment like a youtube vlog: “day 5 of dodging mysterious death traps, still undefeated!”
cause of death: tries to ride a shopping cart downhill “for fun.” cart flips, he crashes into a statue that falls on him.
status: dead. died giggling. death finally tagged him.
REO MIKAGE
tries to bribe fate. “what if i donate to charity or something?”
always carries a mini first aid kit. becomes the group's mom friend.
has the most aesthetic death. like, golden lighting and everything.
cause of death: giant chandelier falls on him while he’s fixing someone’s tie. classical music playing in the background.
status: dead. crushed by class. literally. died looking expensive.
YUKIMIYA KENYU
“i survived eye surgery. i won’t die like this.”
dismisses the premonition with a hair flip. wears protective goggles unironically and lectures everyone about safety.
becomes that one guy who triple-checks every exit, every cord, every expiration date.
probably has a laminated emergency plan labeled "for when death gets sloppy."
cause of death: goes in for a final laser eye surgery, the one meant to save his vision for good. a freak power surge causes the laser to misfire and blast straight through his skull.
status: dead. went in to save his future. left with 20/20 in the afterlife.
OLIVER AIKU
“please. i’m built different. nothing can kill me. have you seen my abs?”
too smug to die. flirts with the nurse while getting checked for a minor muscle tear.
tries to record a thirst trap before the scan. “hashtag: still hot under pressure.”
cause of death: enters the mri room with a metal piercing he refused to take out because “it’s tiny, it won’t matter.” the machine activates. magnet locks on. his body flies like a ragdoll across the room and slams into the scanner at full force. bones shatter. somehow, his abs are the only thing intact. but he isn’t.
status: dead. died hot, cocky, and magnetically humbled.
Hello everyone, today's post is serious and I don't think that I'll be able to come back to writing the things that I write anytime soon. Because, today, I don't even know if I'll be safe and sound in my own home. My country is turning into Israel and north korea. I need everyone's attention on what's happening in Bangladesh.
Please reblog this post. The pictures I've shown down below is from two days ago. Today it's worse. Tomorrow it's gonna be deadly.
romaincrisis
2087
origamiaround
amandla
gracieabrams
