4
It had been a year since Isagi moved to France.
Twelve months of learning a new language, navigating a new culture, and slowly but surely finding his place in a foreign land. School had been challenging at first—the lessons were all in French, the children spoke too fast, and Isagi often found himself lost in a sea of unfamiliar words.
But thanks to Hugo's patient guidance and Loki's practical advice, he had made remarkable progress.
Now, Isagi could speak French!
Well... mostly.
The Japanese accent still clung stubbornly to his words like a persistent shadow. He rolled his Rs a little too hard, flattened some vowels, and occasionally mixed up gendered articles. But he could hold conversations, make jokes, and even argue—though arguing in French was something he was still practicing.
And—perhaps more importantly—he could play soccer so much better.
The past year had transformed him from a clumsy but enthusiastic beginner into a genuinely skilled young player. His ball control had improved dramatically under Hugo's meticulous coaching. His speed and agility had been honed by Loki's relentless drills. He could dribble, pass, and shoot with a confidence that made his former self seem like a distant memory.
His Noel Noah doll still sat on his pillow, worn and well-loved, but now it shared space with actual football trophies from local youth tournaments.
Life was good.
The only constant in Isagi's life, however, was the never-ending competition between his two best friends.
Right now, Loki was having a huge feud with Hugo.
The main reason? After a year had passed, Hugo had experienced a growth spurt.
He had shot up several centimeters, his limbs lengthening, his frame becoming taller and leaner. Where Loki had once been the taller of the two, Hugo now stood a noticeable few centimeters above him.
And Loki was not handling it well.
"How the hell did you become taller than me?" Loki pointed at Hugo, his face twisted in disgust. His golden-brown eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight with indignation.
They were standing in the park, the same field where they had first taught Isagi to play. But today, no one was thinking about football.
Hugo looked down at Loki—literally looked down—with a smirk that could only be described as insufferable.
"I told you," Hugo said, his voice dripping with condescension, "you can't be as tall as me because you have malnutrition."
"Malnutrition?!" Loki sputtered, his face reddening. "I eat more than you!"
"You eat garbage," Hugo countered smoothly. "Chips and soda aren't nutrients, Loki. They're poison. That's why you're stunted."
"I am NOT stunted!" Loki shouted, stepping forward aggressively. "You just had a freak growth spurt! It won't last! I'll catch up and surpass you, and then you'll—"
He lunged forward, grabbing Hugo by the collar of his shirt.
Hugo's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his own hands shot up, gripping Loki's wrists.
"You want to fight?" Hugo hissed, his calm demeanor cracking. "Fine. Let's fight."
"Bring it, you beanpole!"
"You're the one who looks like a bulldog, all short and angry!"
They grappled, shoving each other back and forth. Loki tried to use his lower center of gravity to unbalance Hugo, while Hugo used his longer reach to keep Loki at a distance. It was less a proper fight and more two angry cats rolling around in the grass, all flailing limbs and grunts of frustration.
Isagi watched the two children fighting from a few meters away, his expression completely flat.
His arms were crossed. His little sprouts of hair drooped slightly. His blue eyes held the weary resignation of a much older soul.
You guys are older than me, he thought, watching Hugo try to put Loki in a headlock while Loki attempted to trip Hugo's legs, but you act like kindergarten kids.
He sighed heavily, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand disappointments.
Is this what having older brothers is like? he wondered. If so, I'm glad I'm an only child.
As Isagi stood there, contemplating his life choices and the decision to befriend these two perpetual children, something caught his eye.
Movement. Off to the side of the park, near the playground.
He turned his head, curious.
And then he blinked.
"Is that kid... playing soccer with a swing???"
Isagi looked at the bizarre phenomenon in utter disbelief.
There, near the old swingset, was a child. A boy, maybe a year or two younger than Isagi himself. He had medium-length blonde hair with grey ends—an unusual color combination that caught the afternoon light like strands of silver thread. An ahoge—a single, stubborn lock of hair—stood up from the crown of his head, swaying with his movements.
But that wasn't the strange part.
The strange part was what he was doing.
The boy had positioned himself in front of one of the swings—the old wooden kind with metal chains. Instead of pushing it like a normal person, he was... kicking it.
He would tap the swing seat with the inside of his foot, making it swing forward. Then, as it came back, he would trap it with his sole, let it swing away again, and then strike it with the outside of his foot. He was using the swing as if it were a training partner, practicing different touches and passes against its rhythmic motion.
Tap. Trap. Strike. Tap. Trap. Strike.
His movements were fluid, almost hypnotic. His big yellow eyes—striking and luminous—followed the swing's arc with intense focus. And when he smiled, which he did frequently, one noticeable sharp fang peeked out from between his lips.
Isagi stared.
He had never seen anything like it.
Without realizing it, his feet had started moving. He drifted away from Hugo and Loki's ongoing scuffle, drawn toward the strange boy like a moth to a flame.
The blonde boy noticed him approaching. His yellow eyes flicked up, meeting Isagi's blue ones, but he didn't stop his practice. His foot continued its dance with the swing, never missing a beat.
Isagi stopped a few feet away, watching.
Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.
"Pourquoi joues-tu au foot avec une balançoire ?" Isagi asked, his French carrying the soft lilt of his Japanese accent.
Why are you playing soccer with a swing?
The boy paused. His foot trapped the swing against the ground, holding it still.
He tilted his head, the ahoge on his head flopping to one side. His yellow eyes studied Isagi with open curiosity.
"Parce que c'est amusant," he said simply, his voice light and slightly teasing.
Because it's fun.
Then, without warning, he grinned—that sharp fang glinting—and kicked the swing back into motion.
"C'est plus intéressant qu'un mur," he added. "Ça bouge. Ça change. Il faut s'adapter."
It's more interesting than a wall. It moves. It changes. You have to adapt.
Isagi watched the swing arc back and forth, and suddenly, he understood.
It's like training against an unpredictable opponent. Not a stationary target, but something alive.
"That's... actually really smart," Isagi said, switching to a mix of French and Japanese, his admiration evident.
The boy's grin widened. He released the swing and turned to face Isagi fully, his hands on his hips.
"Bien sûr que c'est smart," he declared, without a trace of humility. "Je suis smart."
Of course it's smart. I'm smart.
Isagi blinked, then laughed. The boy's confidence was so absolute, so unapologetic, that it was impossible not to find it charming.
"What's your name?" Isagi asked.
The boy tilted his head again, the ahoge swaying.
"Charles," he said. "Charles Chevalier."
He looked at Isagi expectantly, waiting for the question to be returned.
Isagi smiled. "I'm Isagi Yoichi. I moved here from Japan a year ago."
Charles's yellow eyes sparkled with interest. "Japon ?" he repeated, drawing out the word. "C'est loin."
Japan? That's far.
"Very far," Isagi agreed. "But I like it here. France is nice."
Charles studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp despite his youthful face. Then, seemingly satisfied with whatever he had assessed, he nodded once.
"Tu sais jouer ?" he asked abruptly.
Do you know how to play?
Isagi's smile turned confident. "I can play."
Charles's grin returned, sharper this time. "Montre-moi."
Show me.
They played for nearly an hour.
Charles was... unusual. His style was unorthodox, almost lazy at times, but there was a natural genius to his movements that Isagi recognized immediately. He had the same instinctive understanding of the ball that Isagi had always admired in Noel Noah—the ability to make the ball do exactly what he wanted, without seeming to try.
But more than his skill, what captivated Isagi was Charles himself.
He was a year younger than Isagi—seven to Isagi's eight—and there was something about that age difference that awakened something in Isagi. A protective instinct. A nurturing side he hadn't known he possessed.
Maybe it was because Isagi had always been the youngest among his friends. With Hugo and Loki, he was the little one, the one who was taught and guided and protected. But with Charles...
With Charles, Isagi could be the older one.
"Your form is a little off," Isagi said during a break, sitting on the grass beside Charles. "When you kick, you're leaning back too much. You lose power that way."
Charles looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Vraiment ?" he said, his tone skeptical.
Really?
Isagi nodded. "Here, let me show you."
He stood up, retrieved the ball, and demonstrated. He kept his body over the ball, his plant foot beside it, his kicking leg swinging through with precision. The ball rocketed into the makeshift goal they had set up—an old jacket hung between two trees.
Charles watched, his yellow eyes tracking the ball's trajectory.
Then he stood up, took the ball, and copied Isagi's form.
His kick was cleaner this time, more powerful. The ball hit the jacket with a satisfying thwack.
Charles looked at his own foot, then at Isagi. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Mieux ?" he asked.
Better?
Isagi beamed. "Much better!"
Charles preened under the praise, his ahoge perking up. There was something almost feline about the way he accepted compliments—like a cat being stroked behind the ears, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
Isagi, noticing this, felt an overwhelming urge to pamper him further.
"Your first touch is really good too," Isagi continued, walking over to ruffle Charles's blonde-and-grey hair. "When you trapped the ball earlier, it stuck to your foot like glue. That's not easy to do."
Charles leaned into the touch, his eyes closing slightly. A small sound—almost a purr—escaped his throat before he caught himself and coughed, pretending it hadn't happened.
But Isagi had heard it.
And his heart melted.
"You're like a little cat," Isagi said, his voice soft with affection. "A football-playing cat."
Charles's eyes snapped open, and for a moment, there was a flash of something sharp in them—pride, maybe, or defiance.
But then Isagi scratched lightly behind his ear, and the expression dissolved into one of pure, blissful contentment.
"Je ne suis pas un chat," Charles mumbled, but his voice was too relaxed to carry any real protest.
I'm not a cat.
Isagi just smiled and continued the head scratches.
After a while, they walked back toward the main field where Hugo and Loki were still... well, whatever they were doing.
As it turned out, they had stopped fighting at some point. Now they were standing side by side, arms crossed, watching Isagi and Charles approach with expressions of deep suspicion.
"Who's that?" Loki asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Isagi smiled brightly. "This is Charles! I just met him. He's really good at football!"
Charles looked up at the two older boys—Loki with his dark skin and golden eyes, Hugo with his red hair and dark, assessing gaze.
He looked them up and down.
Then, with the casual cruelty only a child can possess, he spoke.
"Ils sont qui ? Tes gardes du corps ?" he asked, glancing at Isagi.
Who are they? Your bodyguards?
Loki's eye twitched.
Hugo's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Isagi, oblivious to the tension, laughed. "No, no! This is Hugo and Loki. They're my friends! They taught me a lot about football."
Charles's yellow eyes narrowed as he studied them further. Then his lips curled into a smirk—that sharp fang on full display.
"Ils ont l'air ennuyeux," he announced.
They look boring.
"Excuse me?" Loki said, his voice rising.
Charles didn't flinch. He simply looked at Loki with the same expression one might use to examine an insect.
"Tu es bruyant," he said, then turned to Hugo. "Et toi, tu fais trop sérieux. C'est fatiguant."
You're loud. And you, you're too serious. It's exhausting.
Loki's face turned red. Hugo's eye twitched again.
Isagi, finally sensing the shift in atmosphere, stepped between them.
"Charles!" he said, his voice carrying a note of gentle reproach. "That's not nice. They're my friends. Be polite."
Charles looked at Isagi, and for a moment, something flickered in his yellow eyes. Not remorse, exactly, but... acknowledgment.
He sighed dramatically, like a performer conceding to an audience's demands.
"D'accord," he said, his voice dripping with theatrical reluctance. "Pour toi."
Fine. For you.
Then he looked at Hugo and Loki, stuck out his tongue, and added:
"Mais ils sont toujours ennuyeux."
But they're still boring.
Loki lunged forward.
"You little—!"
But Isagi was faster. He stepped in front of Charles, arms spread wide, blocking Loki's advance.
"Loki! No!"
"He insulted us!"
"He's seven!" Isagi protested. "He's just a kid!"
Charles, from behind Isagi's back, peeked out with a grin that was anything but innocent.
"Sept ans et demi," he corrected, holding up seven and a half fingers. "Et j'ai raison."
Seven and a half. And I'm right.
Hugo grabbed the back of Loki's collar before his friend could do something he would regret.
"Let it go," Hugo said, though his voice was tight. "He's just a child."
"He's a demon child," Loki muttered, but he allowed himself to be pulled back.
Isagi turned to Charles, his hands on his hips. "Charles. Apologize."
Charles blinked, genuinely surprised. "Pour quoi ?"
For what?
"For being rude!"
Charles considered this for a long moment. Then, with the air of someone making a great concession, he turned to Hugo and Loki and said:
"Désolé que vous soyez ennuyeux."
Sorry that you're boring.
Isagi sighed. "Charles..."
"What? I apologized!"
Hugo pinched the bridge of his nose. Loki looked like he was considering violence again.
Isagi just shook his head, but there was a fond smile on his face.
He's impossible, Isagi thought. Absolutely impossible.
But as Charles sidled up beside him, leaning against his arm with the casual possessiveness of a cat claiming its territory, Isagi found that he didn't mind at all.
In the days that followed, something shifted.
Isagi had always been the center of Hugo and Loki's attention. As the youngest in their trio, he had been the one they taught, protected, and—though neither would admit it—competed for.
But now, with Charles in the picture, the dynamic changed.
Charles was younger than Isagi. Smaller. Needier. And Isagi, who had spent the past year being the little one, discovered a deep satisfaction in being the older one for once.
He walked Charles to school in the mornings. He helped him with his homework. He brought him snacks during their afternoon football sessions. He praised Charles's skills, comforted his frustrations, and gently corrected his occasional brattiness.
And Charles, for his part, soaked up the attention like a sponge.
He would curl up beside Isagi on the grass, his head in Isagi's lap, while Isagi practiced his French reading aloud. He would hold Isagi's hand when they walked through the park. He would demand head scratches and shoulder rubs with the imperious entitlement of a royal cat.
And Isagi gave them freely, happily, without hesitation.
This did not go unnoticed.
Hugo and Loki sat on their usual bench, watching Isagi and Charles play on the field.
Except "play" was a generous term. Isagi was gently teaching Charles a new dribbling drill, his hands on Charles's shoulders to guide his movements. Charles was leaning back against Isagi's chest, completely relaxed, his ahoge brushing against Isagi's chin.
They looked... comfortable. Close.
Loki's jaw was tight.
"He's been spending all his time with that brat," Loki said, his voice low. "He barely even looks at us anymore."
Hugo didn't respond immediately. His dark eyes were fixed on the scene before him—the way Isagi smiled at Charles, the way he laughed at something Charles said, the way his hand rested on Charles's head, fingers threading through that strange blonde-and-grey hair.
"He used to smile at me like that," Hugo said quietly.
Loki glanced at him, surprised by the admission. Hugo rarely showed vulnerability.
"He used to hold my hand too," Loki added, equally quiet. "When I taught him to run faster. He would get tired and grab my sleeve."
They watched as Charles scored a goal and immediately ran to Isagi, throwing his arms around Isagi's waist. Isagi lifted him up, spinning him around, both of them laughing.
"We lost the little sprout's attention," Hugo said.
Loki's fists clenched. "We didn't lose anything. That brat stole it."
"So what do we do?"
Loki stood up abruptly. "We get it back."
He strode onto the field, Hugo following close behind.
Isagi looked up as they approached, Charles still in his arms. "Hugo? Loki? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Loki said, his voice too casual. "We just thought we'd join. You've been spending a lot of time with Charles lately. We miss playing with you."
Isagi blinked, then smiled warmly. "Oh! Of course! We can all play together!"
Charles, still in Isagi's arms, turned his head to look at the newcomers. His yellow eyes narrowed.
"Pourquoi vous êtes là ?" he asked flatly.
Why are you here?
"We're here to play football," Hugo said, his voice smooth. "Since you're so good at it, you won't mind some competition, right?"
Charles's expression sharpened. He recognized a challenge when he heard one.
"Je ne perds jamais," he said, slipping out of Isagi's arms and landing gracefully on his feet.
I never lose.
Loki grinned, all teeth. "We'll see about that."
They played three-on-three—Isagi, Hugo, and Loki against Charles and two other kids who had wandered over to join.
It was chaos.
Charles, despite being the youngest on the field, was everywhere. His playing style was, as Isagi had observed, unorthodox. He would drift in and out of position seemingly at random, appear where no one expected him, and execute passes that seemed to defy logic.
But he was also... annoying.
Deliberately, intentionally annoying.
Whenever Loki had the ball, Charles would dance around him, his arms outstretched, making buzzing sounds like an insect.
"Bzzzz~ Trop lent, trop lent !" he would chant, until Loki's face turned purple with frustration.
Too slow, too slow!
When Hugo tried to organize the defense, Charles would sneak up behind him and tug on his shirt, disappearing before Hugo could turn around.
"Derrière toi~" he would sing-song, then giggle when Hugo spun around to find nothing.
Behind you~
And every time he succeeded—every time he nutmegged Loki or scored past Hugo—he would run to Isagi for approval.
"Did you see? Did you see that?" he would demand, his yellow eyes bright with pride.
Isagi, caught between amusement and exasperation, would ruffle his hair and say, "I saw. It was very good, Charles."
And Charles would preen like a peacock.
The breaking point came when Charles, after dribbling past Hugo with a particularly cheeky move, looked back over his shoulder and said:
"Trop facile. Tu es vraiment nul pour un grand."
Too easy. You're really bad for someone so tall.
Hugo's eye twitched violently.
He reached out, his hand catching the back of Charles's head.
Thwack.
It wasn't hard—just a light tap, the kind of thing older siblings did to younger ones to get their attention. But the sound was audible across the field.
Charles stopped. His hand flew to the back of his head.
For a moment, he was silent.
Then his face crumpled.
"Yoo-chan!" he wailed, running toward Isagi with tears already forming in his eyes. "He hit me! He hit my head! It hurts! It hurts so much!"
Isagi caught him as he barreled into his chest, Charles's face buried against his shirt.
"He hit you?" Isagi asked, his voice sharp.
"Oui! Avec sa main! Très fort!" Charles sobbed, though there were no actual tears yet—just very convincing sounds.
Yes! With his hand! Very hard!
Isagi looked up at Hugo, his blue eyes narrowing.
Hugo, who had been standing frozen with his hand still half-raised, suddenly felt very, very small.
"Yoo-chan, it wasn't—I barely—"
"You hit him?" Isagi's voice was calm. Dangerously calm.
"It was a tap! Just a tap! He was being—"
"Charles is seven years old, Hugo."
Hugo's mouth opened, then closed. Beside him, Loki was very carefully not laughing, his shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.
Isagi walked over to Hugo, Charles still clinging to his side.
He reached up, pinched Hugo's cheek, and twisted.
"Ow! Ow, ow, ow!"
"Don't hit younger kids," Isagi said, his voice firm. "Ever."
"I wasn't—it wasn't—ow!"
Isagi released his grip, leaving a red mark on Hugo's cheek.
Charles, peeking out from behind Isagi's arm, stuck his tongue out at Hugo.
"Sert toi bien," he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Serves you right.
Hugo's hands clenched, but he said nothing.
That night, Isagi's parents hosted a small dinner. Hugo and Loki had been invited, but Charles had declined, saying he was tired from the day's football.
After the dinner ended and the guests left, Isagi went to bed early, exhausted from the day's events.
He fell asleep quickly, his Noa doll tucked under his arm, his face peaceful in the moonlight.
In the Chevalier household, Charles lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He couldn't sleep.
He kept thinking about Isagi—the way he had defended him, the way he had pinched Hugo's cheek for his sake. The way his hand felt in Charles's hair, scratching gently behind his ear. The way he smiled when Charles scored a goal.
Yoo-chan.
He slipped out of bed, his bare feet silent on the floorboards.
His father's study was down the hall. The door was unlocked—it was always unlocked.
Charles moved through the darkened room with practiced ease, heading straight for the desk where his father kept his camera. A high-end model, expensive and precise.
He had watched his father use it many times. He knew how it worked.
He picked it up, the weight familiar in his small hands.
Then he crept back to his room, slipped out the window, and made his way to the Isagi household.
The front door was locked, but the window to Isagi's room was on the ground floor. Charles had noticed it before—a small window that Isagi sometimes left open for fresh air.
It was open tonight.
Charles peered inside.
There was Isagi, sleeping peacefully in his bed. The Noa doll was clutched to his chest. His little sprouts of hair were messy, falling across his forehead. His lips were slightly parted. He looked... angelic.
Charles raised the camera.
Click.
The sound was soft, barely audible.
He lowered the camera, looking at the preview on the screen.
Isagi's sleeping face filled the frame. The moonlight gave his features a soft, ethereal glow. It was perfect.
Charles smiled, his sharp fang glinting in the darkness.
He slipped the camera into his bag—a small bag he had brought specifically for this purpose—and made his way back home.
Back in his room, he tucked the camera under his pillow, where the picture of Isagi would be safe.
He lay back down, closed his eyes, and finally, sleep came.
Yoo-chan, he thought as he drifted off. My Yoo-chan.
In the morning, he would return the camera to his father's study. No one would know.
But he would have his treasure.
And no one—not Hugo, not Loki, not anyone—would take it away.
"Le mien ♥︎"
Mine ♥︎
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This is the last chapter before timeskip
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