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–• ʙᴀᴄʜɪʀᴀ •–
A week and a half — that’s how long it took for him to finally coordinate his own piled-up responsibilities at home and during his absence with Isagi Yoichi’s schedule, so that they could find an opportunity to see each other again outside the walls of Blue Lock before their break from the outside world ended. Constant cancellations, postponements, and delays had preceded the moment when they both could finally agree on two consecutive days, so their meeting seemed doomed to fail — until Bachira’s mother grew tired of her son’s indecisive sighing caused by the repeated, unsuccessful attempts to meet. With tactful firmness, she shooed away the relatives who planned to visit them for two days, giving her son free rein; then, a few days later, she offered to drive Bachira to the station so they could wait for his guest together.
On the day of Isagi’s arrival, Bachira was restless and fidgety; he couldn’t stay still for a single minute, always finding something to occupy himself with, but time slipped through his fingers within moments, and before he realized it, his attention had already shifted to something else. The only thing that managed to hold his focus for a while was a green apple; it was still somewhat unripe and sour, and the heavy, hard bites kept him busy. He sat on the kitchen counter, kicking the cabinet door with his legs, turning the apple between his fingers and brooding over it. He watched with interest the marks his own teeth had left in the pale flesh of the fruit, the torn green peel, and the jagged, bitten edges as the apple turned in his grasp.
He only snapped out of his daze when Yu, his mother, turned toward him and, apparently for the umpteenth time, asked the same question, now with her hands on her hips. Her fingers were clean, but the baggy jeans she wore were stained with paint, and her hair stuck up in its usual unruly mess.
She snapped her fingers and waved her hand in front of Bachira’s face, and he quickly lifted his head, turning toward her. Even after all these years, he still hadn’t gotten used to seeing his own gaze reflected back at him from someone else’s face; he had eyes just like his mother’s, and though it sometimes unsettled him to feel as if he were watching his own expressions from the outside — the flash, narrowing, and sparkle of her eyes were exactly like his — he liked that they shared that resemblance. He found little else in common between them.
"I asked if you’ve packed up your room. Isagi-kun’s obviously not going to sleep on the floor, right?"
No friend had ever slept over at his place before. He’d never had friends; even those he might have called acquaintances — if there were any — he never intended to let this far into his life, let alone share his own spacious bed with them. But Isagi was something entirely different. There was no question that Bachira allowed him to take one side of the double bed.
"Right," he nodded when Yu raised her eyebrows to indicate that Bachira had zoned out again. He shook his head and took a big bite of the apple. "The whole room’s sparkling, don’t worry! It looks nice."
He loved that gentle, scolding smile that appeared at the corner of his mother’s mouth, because she knew perfectly well that Bachira was fibbing again. Though he kept his room clean, it was always in a state of chaos and clutter inside, and he somehow managed to find everything he needed in that mess. After years of struggle, Yu had finally given up on trying to make him tidy it, leaving him to his own version of order.
He hooked his toe into one of the kitchen cabinet handles, swung the door open, tossed the apple core into the trash, then kicked the hinge shut with a quick motion. When Yu shot him a reproachful look at the noise, he grinned widely and pulled his legs up beneath him.
"Sorry," he apologized, then ran a hand through his hair and tilted his head as he watched his mother sweep all the used kitchen tools into the sink. Bachira knew what it meant when Yu hung up her apron, washed her hands thoroughly, and dried her fingers on a kitchen towel.
Bachira jumped down from the counter and started bouncing impatiently on the tinted grout."
"Are we leaving?" he burst out eagerly, but didn’t wait for an answer, already slipping on his shoes. "Mom, mom, are we leaving? Hurry up, please, what if Isagi gets there before we do? We wouldn’t make a good impression!"
"Isagi-kun’s coming to see you, not me, and you’ve already charmed him enough," Yu remarked, then gently ran her fingers through her son’s messy hair. "Did you brush your hair?" she asked suspiciously as her fingers caught in a knot.
"I don’t like brushing my hair, I didn’t have time, are we going, mom?"
"You didn’t have time?" she raised her eyebrows in disbelief, and Bachira reluctantly stopped rocking on his feet. "You’ve been sitting still for the past half hour doing absolutely nothing important."
"But brushing my hair isn’t important either."
"Meguru."
"But it isn’t!"
They stared each other down for a few moments before the woman sighed, her soft fingers untangling the stubborn knots in his hair, then, with a resigned wave, she directed Bachira toward the old Opel Corsa. By the time she sat behind the wheel and started the engine, the boy was already crouched on the back seat, the seatbelt cutting a thick, sharp line across his chest as he typed at a dizzying speed that made Yu genuinely doubt he was writing anything coherent.
"You always send voice messages," she noted curiously. Bachira glanced up, embarrassed, mid-typing. His mother repeated herself. "And now you’re texting instead."
"Maybe he wouldn’t be able to listen to what I say."
"And he can read a whole codex in a few minutes?" she laughed as she turned out of their street.
"I just told him where we’ll be."
"On the platform, right?"
"Yeah, but he didn’t know that," he explained, then unclicked his seatbelt and leaned forward between the two front seats, his face popping up beside hers. "Do you have gum?"
"Sit back and buckle up. I don’t like it when you do that."
"Okay, just a sec. Do you have gum?"
"In my bag. Sit back, Meguru."
"Can I have some?"
"Yu, as a gentle warning — and clearly unwilling to continue the argument — pressed the brake pedal. Bachira obediently dropped back into his seat, fastened his seatbelt again, and held out his hand patiently, waiting for his mother to pass him her bag so he could dig out the mint gum inside. When, after a few moments, his hand was still grasping empty air, he let it fall into his lap and stretched out his leg. Yu rolled her eyes and placed the pack of gum she had found on the tip of the shoe sticking out beside her. Bachira bit his lip, reached back for it, took a piece, chewed it, and rested his head against the seatback.
The excitement seemed to have drained all his energy; he grew quiet and drowsy, and this state lasted even as they checked the arrivals board for the platform where Isagi’s train was due. Only once they stood on the platform did his spirits return somewhat — he blew bubbles with his gum, bit off the edges, and glanced at his phone from time to time, only to shove it back into his pocket with dissatisfaction. He perked up again when the arriving crowd filled the platform end to end; a wave of strangers flowed down the stairs, between the pillars, and out of the train doors, but Bachira couldn’t spot the familiar face he was searching for so eagerly.
He jumped up again and again, clamping the gum between his teeth so he wouldn’t swallow it, trying to scan as many faces as possible, but none of them were Isagi’s — until finally, he did see him. He raised his hand high, jumped once more, and shouted Isagi’s name to catch his attention.
Isagi, back turned, was being carried along by the crowd, looking completely lost as he tried to make sense of the flood of signs overhead. A large, heavy-looking sports bag hung from his shoulder, the Blue Lock logo printed boldly along its side.
Bachira started running, weaving his way through a dozen strangers’ hands and shoulders until he was close enough to reach out and grab the edge of Isagi’s lowered hood. He quickened his pace, and when he was finally within reach, he leapt onto Isagi’s back, wrapped his arms tightly around his neck, and buried his face in his shoulder.
Isagi staggered — his balance wavered for a second — then instinctively reached for Bachira’s knee to steady the boy’s weight on him, just as he had done so many times before. He leaned forward, letting his bag fall to the floor. A smile spread across his face as he straightened up, and Bachira slid down from his back, stepped in front of him, and looked up into his inexplicably blue eyes, rocking on his heels.
"Surprised you, didn’t I?" he asked with playful pride. His hands clasped behind his back, he leaned dangerously far backward and forward again and again. He spoke again so quickly that it seemed he didn’t really care for Isagi’s answer. "I hope you had a good trip. Come on, Mom’s waiting for us."
"He picked up his sports bag and headed back the way he’d come only a few minutes earlier. The crowd that had spread out before was beginning to thin, and by the time they reached Yu, it had almost completely dispersed. The woman stood a few steps away from the escalator, and at their arrival, a neat, gentle smile formed on her face — one that remained even when Bachira threw himself into the back seat of the car beside Isagi and tucked his legs beneath him.
Isagi’s eyes wandered curiously to a pale pink paint stain on the back of the front seat’s upholstery, then caught on a green spot a little farther away. The longer he looked at the inside of the old Corsa, the more colorful paint marks he discovered — spots that, with the jolts of the ride, sometimes seemed to form patterns before breaking apart again, drifting farther from each other.
Bachira, of course, wasn’t interested in the stains; he already knew most of them — many were his own doing from wild experiments when he’d hidden from his mother’s watchful eyes with a random tube of paint, determined to make something himself. Whether Yu caught him in time or not, she always found him covered in color from head to toe, with clumps of dried paint in his hair and a cheeky, innocent smile as he wiped his fingers on his pants.
At seventeen, Bachira was still just as scatterbrained and playful as ever. On the way, he reached for the window crank and rolled it down completely, leaning halfway out of the car without fear to point at everything that sparked some childhood memory. The wind whipped his shirt and hair harshly, and he only agreed to sit back properly — like a decent person — when his mother firmly called out to him. He flopped back into his seat, fastened his seatbelt for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and suddenly turned to Isagi with a burst of excitement.
"I already know what I’m going to show you today! You’re not tired, right?"
He glanced up at a strand of hair that had fallen into his face, blew it away in irritation, then locked his gaze into Isagi’s blue eyes. Isagi shook his head.
"Perfect! Two days isn’t much, especially if we want to play, too."
There was no question about it; Isagi wouldn’t have objected anyway, and Bachira took his silence and the gentle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as agreement. He responded with a broad, radiant grin of his own, pleased with Isagi’s unusually calm demeanor, before using a sudden turn of the car to lean across in front of him. He braced himself against Isagi’s thigh and pressed up against the window on his side. His nose squished from the movement, and his breath left small foggy patches on the glass as he exhaled sharply in excitement. His fingers dug lightly into Isagi’s leg to steady himself, while his other hand pressed against the window, leaving faint prints behind.
"I fell off my bike there once. I still have the scar I got from it."
"The one on your neck?" Isagi asked, curious. He remembered that scar; Bachira often ran his fingers through his hair to ruffle it, and in doing so, they would sometimes glide briefly over the small, barely noticeable mark on his skin.
"Yeah, that one. You remembered!" Bachira turned his head toward him for a moment. He had only once told Isagi about that biking-and-cat incident, and he was surprised the boy remembered it, but he quickly became too excited to dwell on the topic. He rolled down that window too and stuck his hand out to point at a neat, powder-colored shop hiding behind a balcony. "That’s my favorite pastry shop. I’ll take you there — you’ll like it."
"What do you usually get there?"
"Marzipan figures. I bite their heads off. That’s the best part."
Isagi furrowed his brows but said nothing. He knew that if he questioned every odd thing Bachira did, or even got hung up on half of them, the next two days would be unusually strange. He had no intention of making things difficult for himself, and somehow hearing Bachira talk about biting the heads off marzipan figures felt strangely natural. That sort of wild, carefree behavior suited him, so Isagi didn’t press further; he liked that, unlike many others, he wasn’t fazed by some of Bachira’s quirks — it made him feel that the two of them were closer than he had realized, which left him satisfied.
He shifted his leg under the firm weight, but it seemed to perfectly suit Bachira to rest on his thigh. Not even a sharp brake jolted him out of his constant chatter. With a few nimble movements, he leaned back onto Isagi again, seemingly unaware that the boy’s nose had bumped against his side multiple times, as he rattled off memories at a pace as if afraid he’d only have Isagi’s attention until the end of the car ride.
***
Bachira and his mother lived in a small, two-story house in the suburbs. From the outside, the house was simple, with an overgrown garden, a cobblestone driveway, and windows plastered with stained-glass stickers welcoming visitors. The gate stood open for them, and Yu didn’t close it behind them even after everyone had gotten out of the car. Isagi could hear the trickle of a garden pond somewhere, but he wasn’t sure which way to turn to find its source. They walked past thick-stemmed green plants, oleander and rhododendron bushes, some branches heavy with flowers whipping wildly into their faces. Bachira passed through them with the ease of someone at home, shooing a bee from his face, plucking a flower at one point, scattering its petals, and flicking the yellow, prosaic stamen toward a cat hiding under one of the bushes, watching as the animal batted at it with its paw. He skirted a flower bed along the wall that was overrun with just grass and dandelions, kicked a pebble aside, and swung the Blue Lock sports bag slung over his shoulder; when his mother opened the front door, he disappeared into the shadow inside and dropped the bag to the floor with a satisfied, muffled sigh.
Isagi closed the door behind him and looked around the small entryway shyly. It was a compact, crowded space, filled with a cozy clutter, and Isagi was sure the rest of the house would be just as invitingly scattered. A strange, sudden warmth welled up in him at the sight of the yellow-painted walls, the shoe cabinet plastered with stickers, the Tiffany lamp, and the piles of shoes and slippers left haphazardly about. That unfamiliar sense of comfort deepened as he moved from the entryway into a short hallway and then into the living room. He liked the bulky, paint-splattered brown armchairs that looked perfect for lounging all day, the fringed rag rug that swallowed the sound of footsteps, the randomly hung pictures of Bachira on the walls, children’s drawings visible through the paneling, and the delicately crafted paintings leaning or hung in contrast to the rest of the room. Isagi stopped in front of one painting, studied it for a while, then moved on toward the kitchen when he heard the fridge door open and the clinking of glass inside. He wasn’t even surprised by the sight of the refrigerator, crammed to the brim with magnets, photos, stickers, and soccer cards. The whole kitchen and the entire house felt just as homely and safe as Bachira himself.
When Bachira saw Isagi enter the kitchen, he jumped down from the counter, his feet landing softly on the kitchen tile as he headed toward the exit.
"I’ll carry your bag," he announced before disappearing around the kitchen corner.
"Keep things tidy!" his mother called after him. Bachira heard her pull out a chair and offer a seat to Isagi.
"All tidy," he called back over his shoulder as he reached the halfway point on the stairs. His heels clicked sharply with every step, and the screwed-together wooden panels groaned in protest as he tromped up the steps.
His room looked like a bomb had gone off; the bed stood unmade in one corner, his clothes were folded into crooked piles scattered across the carpet, half a slipper had slid aside, stuck under the opening door, and the desk surface was completely hidden under stacks of papers, books, and notebooks. Bachira looked around with satisfaction — by his own standards, everything was quite orderly — then lightly dropped the sports bag to the floor, grabbed the door handle, and twisted out of the room. Just before the latch clicked, he paused, his hand frozen on the handle. A strange, unfamiliar feeling gripped him, stopping him in his tracks. He cast uncertain glances at the curling posters on the wall, his cotton bedding patterned with black stripes on white, the mismatched curtains, the fluffy, worn rug covering part of the laminate floor, his rolling chair, and the stickers covering his wardrobe. He loved his stickers, having collected them since he was very young, even keeping ones he had acquired by peeling off soda can labels, yet now he felt the urge to scrape them all off one by one and toss them into the trash. The thought made him purse his lips. Isagi certainly hadn’t expected the room of a ten-year-old when he agreed to visit. He probably imagined a neat, simple, and orderly space.
Bachira shook himself, intending to close the door again, but the itchy sensation that had settled under his skin a few minutes ago compelled him to quickly tidy the clothes on the floor, straighten the bedding, crack open the window, and casually fluff the edges of the flattened rug with his foot. He hurriedly organized the stacks of paper on his desk, then left the room, closed the door behind him, and peeked back in to see how it looked. He tilted his head, critiqued the result, finally shrugged in resignation, and, before the thought of fully rearranging the room occurred to him, truly closed the door and ran down the stairs. Isagi sat in the kitchen, while Yu was pushing a delightfully excessive amount of sweets toward him — enough, at a glance, to ensure that Isagi wouldn’t be able to keep up with opponents in a match later.
Bachira plopped down on the chair beside Isagi, wearing a smile as he watched the boy politely try to dodge the mountain of desserts. With a sidelong glance at Bachira, Isagi immediately let it be known he wanted something from him. Ignoring that, he turned to Bachira with pleading eyes, sincerely hoping the boy would save him from eating too many sweets, but Bachira shook his head cheerfully, dismissing the silent request.
"If you’re ready, we can go," he added with a frothy grin, resting his chin in his hand. "She won’t let you leave until you’ve eaten," he whispered to Isagi, who resignedly turned to the plate. Wonderful slices of chocolate brownie sat stacked, all dusted with a thick layer of powdered sugar, and Bachira could see the effect it had on Isagi, who normally ate very healthily. Amused, he watched as the boy took a slice, secretly brushed off some of the powdered sugar, then bit into it with a satisfied sigh, as if he hadn’t tasted such sinful things in ages. Beyond the first piece, there were at least two more; Yu didn’t allow them to move an inch without finishing, even when Isagi tried to argue after the second slice that he couldn’t fit another bite.
The warmth from the brownies lingered on his face even as they wandered the city streets, and Bachira clicked his tongue. He hadn’t seen Isagi this relaxed in a long time — if ever — which made those few sweets feel far more significant than they ever had before.
Despite their earlier excitement, they wandered aimlessly through the city, walking down the main street and through hidden, narrow lanes. Sometimes they balanced on the curb, walking one behind the other; other times they deliberately took up the entire bike lane, strolling side by side, then quickly leapt aside as cyclists rang their bells at them. Bachira waved at them when the cyclists swore under their breath. They passed by inconsequential buildings and places adored by Bachira, including a high school with a chipped brown fence along the sidewalk. He ran his fingers along every rail; his fingertips tapped the metal, sending a chime-like vibration through them.
They walked past the now-closed pastry shop, peered at the foam- and plastic display cakes set up in the dim window, and at the upside-down wrought-iron chairs in the dining area. Bachira again promised to take Isagi there the next day. They tossed around trivial topics between them, finishing each other’s incomplete sentences like old friends who understood each other with just a glance. They turned right or left without prior discussion, Bachira faithfully following his companion’s random choice of direction, sometimes kicking a stone ahead or leaping over benches and small trash bins for seemingly no reason. He ran ahead, leapt onto one of the low marble blocks lining the town square, waited until Isagi passed by with an acknowledging smile, then dropped lightly from his back and continued on Isagi’s right. He only distanced himself when they neared the playground; then he ran ahead, opened the gate, and took one of the swings. He pushed himself until he soared high, then leaned sharply back and let his head fall backward. He only slowed when Isagi sat on the swing next to him, and he gave a small push himself. They swung silently side by side until Bachira could hold back no longer and voiced the question that had been on his mind ever since he first spoke with Isagi outside of the Blue Lock world.
"Are you waiting to go back?"
Isagi paused on the swing, feet on the ground, rocking back and forth as he thought. He had intentionally avoided this question until now, so no answer had formed in his mind.
"I mean," Bachira continued, caught in the moment, "I don’t know how to put this… Don’t you miss the air?"
"The air?"
"Yeah." He scraped the dirt off the swing’s rusty chains, then shook it from his fingers, as if stalling for time. "There are windows here. I can open them if I want, or close them if I want."
He turned to Isagi, trying with patient eyes to convey even a fragment of his thoughts. The Blue Lock building didn’t have many windows, but Isagi strongly doubted that Bachira really wanted to talk about hinges, glass, and handles.
Bachira scraped the swing again.
"I’m trying to say that sometimes — but only sometimes — I’d like to be somewhere else."
"Like?"
"Like there."
Isagi exhaled long and good-naturedly.
"You're unusually complicated," he said encouragingly, glancing at Bachira from the corner of his eye, who was biting his lip and seemed to be somewhere far away in his head.
Although one night — when neither of them could sleep — Bachira had confessed that he had banished the monster that had been helping him, Isagi still felt that the monster's far-reaching, suffocating hand sometimes touched Bachira. At those times the boy fell into silence; his movements slowed, became intermittent and stiff, and his gaze hid behind a swirling mist.
"I like that in our friendship we don't have to put on airs," Bachira blurted out suddenly, in a way that made Isagi know he was trying to find another route to the thing he wanted to talk about. "Sometimes I feel closed in. I miss the outside world, my mom, my room, my own clothes — sometimes I want to be in jeans or put on one of my own sweaters. I want to let hot water run over me for twenty minutes and not worry in the shower that I'm stealing the chance from someone else. I want to post on Insta and sleep until ten, to start a day without feeling my own fate hanging over my head; I can't stand that every day I'm gambling with my own future. The fact that it's good with you often helps and chases these thoughts away, but then I'm left alone and..."
He stopped, mouth open and breathless.
"And everything comes to mind. Everything. And then I'm weak. Do you feel that too?"
He turned to Isagi suddenly and fiercely, though his movements were weak; he looked at his friend as if expecting explanation and reassurance from him. "You feel that too, right?" he asked again when Isagi was silent. He leaned forward, his hope turning icy and frightened.
Isagi nodded and suddenly, lacking words, that strange urge settled on him that he had to pull Bachira close to calm him. "I want to be happy and not only from ruining someone's future and dreams."
"That's not what we rejoice in."
"We both know that's not true," he leaned in, weakly and almost forcibly, as if ashamed even to think what he said. His voice floated between them like a gray wisp before he chased it away with his next words. "Their failure is our advancement. I shouldn't have to explain that to you."
"No, you shouldn't," Isagi replied sharply, and Bachira understood that although he had spoken freely until now, this time he must be silent. It seemed Isagi had, since his arrival, planned to speak seriously for the first time, not just listen to his friend's words and explanations. Bachira sincerely hoped he hadn't angered him; he wanted nothing less than Isagi's anger or hurt.
Isagi hooked his gaze into Bachira's with such authority that the boy couldn't look away; entranced, unmoving and fixed, he stared into the blue irises. In the dim light they looked almost black, as if swallowing the scant light that fell on them. Seemingly Bachira's words hadn't set him in motion, but Bachira was sure that wasn't the case. Isagi was too sensitive and gentle to pass by someone's vulnerability without word or feeling, especially when it concerned his friend. Bachira wanted to believe that Isagi considered him a friend, but the sudden doubt that flooded his veins and blood even took that assurance from his grasp.
"By coming to Blue Lock," Isagi began, staring without blinking at the slumped Bachira on the swing beside him, "you got an opportunity. By accepting it, you signed up to trample over others as you push forward. And by punishing yourself for that, you won't get from one step to the next. It's not only you who feels like this; everyone around you struggles with the same thing, but they've made up their minds. Whether you do the same is up to you, but you have to answer to yourself."
"Do you feel that way too?" the question burst out of him more eagerly than he had intended. Perhaps if they thought the same way, it would guarantee their friendship. If they were alike in anything, then there would be no reason to doubt Isagi's care. In his mind, everything seemed suddenly so simple; he turned toward Isagi, the swing chains tense above his head.
"Everyone feels that way. You played against me so easily at the selector—what was different then?"
"I don’t know," he shook his head, feeling crushed, trying to dredge up every tiny memory from the farthest corners of his mind, yet the events of a few weeks ago jumbled together into a dense, flowing mass. He couldn’t orient himself among the scattered, disconnected images, as if trying to recall a dream faded and worn by waking. He wasn’t even sure whether Kunigami had been eliminated during the second selector or earlier, or how many rounds it took before he left Isagi’s team and entered the big three circle.
He shivered his fingers through the hair at his nape to make sense of his thoughts; Isagi’s voice pulled him back to the playground.
"Guess, and hold on," was the advice, but to Bachira it felt like an order. He didn’t mind; on the field he liked playing under Isagi’s strict instructions, though he was clearly surprised that the same decisiveness appeared here. He nodded shyly. "Choose yourself over everyone else and finally be selfish."
They sat for a long time, thick silence hanging, only the swing chains creaking as they moved slowly back and forth in a narrow arc.
"Selfish?" Bachira finally asked with a wry smile, his fingers stiff and beginning to freeze, though a faint spark of his former playfulness twinkled in his eyes. Isagi raised his eyebrows and smiled, a reassuring, strong presence that completely washed away Bachira’s earlier doubts.
"Finally, you understand."
After that, they didn’t speak; they just swung, occasionally pushing themselves off the rubber mat, stealing glances at each other without the other noticing. Eventually, Bachira shook himself, as if shedding the earlier ruminations.
"I’ve talked enough, now it’s your turn!" he said in a light, familiar tone, swinging higher, his right hand gripping nothing, just catching air. He sent a curious glance to Isagi, bending his legs, letting the swing carry him.
"What do you want to hear?" Isagi asked hesitantly, completely disarmed from the strong presence he had used moments before to pull Bachira back from his own thoughts. He watched Bachira swinging forward and back, tousled hair and knees scarred in both shorts legs; only now did he notice the light blue, generously sized, doodled-on bandages peeking from under his socks. He couldn’t have told what patterns were drawn on them.
"Really anything," Bachira suddenly braked and crossed the chains toward Isagi. "I even love that about our friendship — that we never have to explain ourselves. With you, I can always make myself understood easily, and I understand you too, I think. It’s strange that now we don’t understand each other. Maybe the chemistry only works on the field?"
"No", Isagi shook his head and replied faster than he had spoken before. "I don’t think so, I mean, friendship is a kind of chemistry too, isn’t it?"
Now he was the one waiting for reassurance, just as Bachira had done earlier. He looked up at the boy swinging high above, and Bachira laughed down at him as if the topic were trivial to him.
"It’s chemistry too that we became friends by accident, isn’t it?" he asked when no answer came apart from the laughter.
"Wrong, we became friends because I took the ball, and then I trusted you."
"But I accidentally kicked it in the last few seconds."
"There are no accidents," Bachira shook his head, but his tone was playful and relaxed, as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying and just wanted to tease. For a moment, it seemed like he had retreated behind the protective boundaries he’d been testing for Isagi inside the walls of Blue Lock.
"I didn’t mean to upset you," Isagi said suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. His eyes followed Bachira’s movements; the thought that maybe they had just stepped back on the path they’d been building frightened him.
When Bachira reached the highest point on the swing, he leapt off, landed on his feet, turned to Isagi, and grinned widely.
"I was joking," he said, tilting his head and brushing his uneven fringe from his eyes. "Not a good idea to cut my own hair."
"Your hair?"
"Yeah. But I was bored!"
He didn’t want to admit that the thought of their limited chemistry on the field had unsettled him; he tried to deflect the conversation, but the weight of their words settled insidiously between them, unmoving like a lodged weight they would have to deal with later. He had no friends, didn’t know how to act around Isagi, didn’t know how to preserve their friendship, and didn’t know what to do with the wild beating of his heart under Isagi’s searching, blue gaze. He was certain that the attachment, which had flared up too quickly, and the admiration swelling into near worship were natural parts of friendship, and he tried to cling to them whenever he found himself thinking of Isagi and untangling his feelings for him—with little success most of the time.
"If you want chemistry," Bachira suddenly spoke, when Isagi’s glance briefly flared with an unfamiliar heat, "we can play."
He pointed toward the goals pulled up on the other side of the playground. They were old, the paint peeling; one had no net, and the other had holes large enough for any player to slip through. Bachira disappeared waist-deep into a thorny bush at the edge of the playground by the fence, then straightened with a soft, worn rubber ball in his hand. The ball had once smiled back at kids with Barbie’s face, but now it resembled a grimy, one-eyed, nameless storybook character, its pretty lip gloss and pearl-like teeth almost worn away, its blonde hair greened and faded.
Bachira dropped his prize to the ground with a dull thump on the concrete. For a few minutes, the two boys just stared at Barbie’s broken necklace and missing makeup, until Bachira shrugged.
"If we kick hard enough," he began, testing a kick as the shapeless ball whizzed into the goal, "it’ll still work for one more match, right? One-zero here."
"Excuse me?" Isagi perked up; the softness had vanished from his face. "We haven’t even started, Bachira," he warned, as Bachira retrieved the ball and tossed it back between them. Surprised by Isagi’s words, Bachira looked at him.
"Not started yet? Sorry. Then let’s start now," he said, kicking the ball and stepping back to watch Barbie fly into the goal again. "One-zero here."
His cheeky, playful, challenging grin was enough to fire up Isagi’s competitive spirit; they drove the amorphous rubber as if it were a real ball, playing with the intensity of a proper match where every movement mattered. It didn’t matter if the odd sightline confused them, nor that the ball became increasingly flat from the hard kicks—they didn’t stop even when Bachira fell on the concrete, adding bigger scrapes to the ones already on his knees. He stood, shook off the mud from the previous day’s summer shower, and dribbled again. When he wiped the sweat from his eyes, the mud left streaks on his fingers and face. Only an hour later, just before midnight, when they sat resting against the goalpost, did he notice the more irregular brown streaks dried across his face. He rubbed his skin, realizing it did nothing to help, and let his hands drop resignedly into his lap.
Isagi looked toward Barbie.
"I think she’s a bit tired."
"Feeling weak?"
"Something like that," he nodded. "Draw?"
He held out his right hand to Bachira, who hesitated briefly, then grabbed it, jumped up, and pulled the surprised Isagi after him.
"Draw! I’m hungry."
Isagi nodded in agreement.
"Great, then home," Bachira said, scooping up the flattened ball and pressing it against his mud-stained shirt from earlier that evening. "Should we keep this relic, or throw it away?"
"Throw it," Isagi shook his head with a disbelieving smile, but when they stood by the trash, they exchanged a look and neither moved. Their eyes returned to Barbie, peering into the bin, then back at each other. Bachira dramatically furrowed his brow, and when Isagi quietly laughed at it, he tossed the now-useless ball into the trash. "I thought for a second you’d keep it."
"Of course, I wanted to give it to you as a gift," Bachira countered, shaking his hand; bits of mud fell to the ground. His face was still red from running, his hair plastered with sweat. "Mom would kill me if I brought something like this home. Let’s go. I’m a little cold."
"You got warm," Isagi replied, and without realizing it, reached toward his own waist to see if there was a spare tied sweater.
"A bit. This way," Bachira pointed toward a narrow street. Isagi couldn’t imagine how far they had wandered from the house since arriving; they had roamed the city all day, and he had completely lost his sense of distance. But soon he recognized the pastry shop’s display window, and from there he knew they weren’t far. Even having only seen the path once, he could have found the open gate and the tangle of oleanders and rhododendrons on his own; the old Opel Corsa was parked on the driveway, and the stickers on the house windows looked like blurred stains on the darkened glass. The air had cooled and grown heavy with sweet, floral scents, carrying the sharpness of autumn and the dew of the fading summer.
Isagi still felt the prickly chill settling on his skin even when they were seated at the kitchen table, while Bachira randomly pulled out the dinner ingredients from the overstuffed fridge. The fridge was as chaotic as the rest of the house — Isagi couldn’t imagine what to do with a halved, unusually large artichoke mixed with a box of assorted mushrooms — but seeing the packed containers Bachira laid on the table, he was certain Yu knew what she was doing when it came to cooking.
They ate slowly and quietly, savoring each bite and thinking over the day without speaking. Bachira finished first, resting his head on his arm on the table, seemingly struggling to stay awake. He blinked slowly, lazily, then yawned, closed his eyes, and his breathing evened out almost immediately. Isagi smiled. He knew no one else who could sleep comfortably at the dining table, yet Bachira surprised him again and again. The boy could fall asleep in the most impossible situations, even sitting on the communal shower bench while waiting for a free stall, simply tucking a towel under his head, pulling up his legs, and after a little adjustment, sleeping as peacefully as if it were perfectly natural. These and other little feats were just part of his repertoire, and he never understood why others were amazed by them. For him, there was no such thing as downtime — every moment had to be maximized.
He didn’t resist when Isagi gently nudged him, then traced a finger along his elbow and the side of his forearm. He lifted his head, wiped the sleep from his eyes, tossed the dishes and utensils used for dinner into the sink, switched off the kitchen light, and headed for the stairs. Hearing Isagi stumble behind him, kicking every surface clumsily and nursing his little toe, Bachira waited, then grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled him up the stairs. Only his room was upstairs, along with a tiny bathroom just big enough to brush teeth over the sink while slightly leaning out from the shower, or reach a wall-mounted toilet paper holder next to the toilet. In this tiny space, a towel and clean pajamas awaited Isagi — he was sure this was Yu’s doing, not Bachira’s. If it were up to him, Isagi would have slept in either boxers or street clothes, forgetting entirely to provide sleepwear for his guest.
Isagi nodded faintly, with conviction. Another small detail he now knew about Bachira. He had learned much about the boy, more than his teammates, and it made him feel that light, tingling sensation he’d felt earlier, realizing how well they understood each other even from half-words. In that sense, Bachira belonged to him, to Isagi — at least within the Blue Lock — and Isagi was more than satisfied. The two of them were like Reo and Nagi had seemed to the other "rough diamonds," a stable pair at first glance that ultimately proved less so. Isagi liked Nagi more than he expected and understood why the boy had chosen his team over Reo, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that despite Blue Lock’s relentless drills to instill egoism, and even though he had firmly corrected his friend on the playground, he himself could never turn his back on Bachira the way Nagi did on Reo. Perhaps once they knew each other better, it wouldn’t be so clear, Isagi thought, but he had to admit that during the qualifiers, all he had focused on was catching up to Bachira and having him back on his own team. He also quickly realized how much Bachira’s every action affected him; at first only on the field and during training, but when their play merged with their civilian lives, everything in Isagi’s world turned upside down.
Lying in Bachira’s dim room, listening to the sounds drifting from the bathroom — the toilet tank filling, the showerhead humming, and the dull patter of water in the tray — Isagi’s closed eyes were invaded by a memory that had caused him countless sleepless nights: the very first time something between them had felt so different.
During the days at Blue Lock, nights often slipped away unnoticed; in windowless rooms, on courts, and in the all-wall cantina and corridors, time stood still. It was hard to tell whether it was morning or midnight. Only scheduled meals marked the passage of time, yet Isagi’s body seemed to resent the near-constant absence of natural light. Insomnia and drowsiness plagued him in turn; when his body was exhausted, even staying awake under the evening shower was a challenge. Sometimes, though, he would lie awake while everyone else slept deeply, staring at the ceiling and cursing the lack of dreams. In such moments, he could not stay idle; he would sneak out to the practice field, intending to spend his free time productively if he could not rest. One night, he ran into Bachira on the field; the boy was lively and talkative, as if sleep had eluded him too. Only the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion, but Bachira seemed unconcerned. He practiced moves, kicked toward goal, and invented solo drills for himself. Watching him, Isagi felt an inexplicable mix of pity and empathy; despite Bachira’s usual cheerfulness and kindness, that evening he was shrouded in a deep sadness and loneliness that reached Isagi too, weighing down his spirit simply because he watched Bachira play alone.
"You're improving fast," Isagi remarked as he followed Bachira’s playful movements with his eyes for a long, focused moment. The boy twitched and turned around. When his gaze met Isagi’s figure, he smiled, as if he’d caught his friend in the act of something. "Can’t sleep?"
"Just a little," Isagi replied, stepping further onto the grass so the darkness slipping from Bachira’s figure didn’t fully cover him, and the floodlights illuminating the field cast him into light as well.
"Just a little?" Isagi asked, noticing the grass stains on Bachira’s clothes and the black smudges on his shoelaces. His shoes looked worn and weathered, just like everyone else’s at Blue Lock.
"Sometimes it’s harder," Bachira nodded, then nudged the ball toward Isagi, who stopped it by pressing his foot down on it.
As Isagi lay face down on Bachira’s bed in the dark room, inhaling the familiar scent of the sheets, he realized that perhaps Bachira was haunted by homesickness that night too, though he didn’t know who the boy could talk to about it.
"Play with me?" Bachira asked, scraping the field’s grass with his heel. His voice was questioning, but there was a challenge in his expression, as if he had already decided the answer. Isagi played along, and time seemed to flow around the field. Eventually, neither of them thought about disturbing the early morning silence; they celebrated each successful maneuver or goal out loud and immediately discussed the little details that had stirred their spirits. Sometimes they spoke over each other, trying to over-explain the other’s intentions; rarely did they get carried away like this, as a real match would continue immediately. But now, they took advantage of their own makeshift game, lingering over moments to fully discuss and enjoy them. After one such brief detour, Isagi, almost unconsciously, ran his hand down Bachira’s back in a gesture of praise before they both returned to their sides of the field. Bachira’s questioning look, which had lingered on Isagi for a few seconds, went unanswered; he tucked it away as a kind gesture, understood between friends.
For a long time, Isagi’s intentions hadn’t fully formed; his fingers moved on their own, brushing hair from Bachira’s eyes when sweaty strands slid forward, unconsciously smoothing the boy’s arm or back with the same attentive care as weeks later when Bachira fell asleep at dinner, slumping onto the table. Every such gesture felt appropriate, natural for someone he traveled such a shared path with. That Bachira did not recoil from his attentions only reinforced the feeling. By the time Isagi realized how often he had touched Bachira during the second half of the game, it didn’t matter, and Bachira seemed to enjoy it just as much. Isagi had to admit the boy was a dangerous opponent outside of soccer too; he was unflustered by physical contact, and over time even appeared to seek it. Like a wild colt guided by his own whims, he determined when his friend could approach and when not, circling around and vanishing only to reappear unexpectedly. Sparkling with mischief and eager eyes, he teased Isagi while keeping the ball, dodging without looking down. Isagi almost felt dizzy from the intensity.
"Intentional!" Bachira shouted as Isagi tried to take the ball from him, their bodies brushing tightly for a moment, hearts and warmth entwined. Isagi didn’t know if the sudden intimacy or Bachira’s unnoticed ball play was deliberate. He still doesn’t know, but he knew he no longer restrained his own restrained movements. Their bodies touched again; Isagi’s fingers briefly dug into Bachira’s slim waist, pulling him closer, inhaling his scent with an involuntary sigh before the boy pulled away. "Yellow card," he said, gasping for breath from running. A fleeting look of embarrassment crossed his face, quickly replaced by the joy of the game. He bounced from one foot to the other, dribbling the ball in place. Isagi watched him, already anticipating that Bachira would repeat his previous actions. Moments before the next goal, ignoring Bachira’s warning about the penalty, Isagi grabbed the ball, this time hugging him fully. Bachira struggled to break free, visibly flustered by the sudden closeness. Isagi kicked the ball backward at the last moment; it rolled past the field’s boundary line, bounced softly off the wall, and stopped somewhere outside.
"I told you—yellow card," Bachira muttered, his voice betraying clear embarrassment, his eyes flashing with surprise for a moment before turning curious. Isagi expected that after the initial shock, Bachira would stick out his tongue, laugh at him, move away, and resume the game with a few teasing remarks. But he remained still, tilting his head slightly, watching Isagi’s face and dry, parted lips with patient interest, as if it didn’t affect him at all that Isagi had hugged him with both arms. His hands hung by his sides, but his torso pressed willingly against Isagi’s warm, tense body.
It was the first time Isagi had seen him this close. He noticed the faint, freckle-colored moles under his eyes and one beside his nose, the laugh lines near his mouth, a small scar on his chin, and tiny freckles in his eyes. From this close, Bachira’s hair, which had looked black from afar, appeared deep brown. Isagi loved brown hair — the warm, chocolate kind — and Bachira’s hair was no exception. He wanted to smooth the rebellious strand curling over Bachira’s eye, but doing so would mean letting go of his waist, so he stayed still, letting his gaze roam swiftly over Bachira’s soft, delicate features.
"Did I win?" Bachira asked quietly. Isagi suddenly didn’t know if the question referred to the game’s score or to the fact that Bachira had broken through him, bringing out emotions he had never felt before. Naturally, Isagi kept some secrets tucked away in his room and saved a few incognito sites on his phone, but those were only superficially interesting. Bachira’s quiet panting and soft swallowing were infinitely more exciting than any scantily clad girl.
Lying on the bed, Isagi squeezed his eyes shut, recalling how fiercely his heart had reacted to Bachira’s closeness. The last thing he wanted was for anyone or anything to distract him while following Blue Lock’s training program, and he wasn’t about to think about the fact that Bachira was a boy — suddenly, that seemed the least of his concerns — or that he was one of his greatest rivals. Bachira wasn’t as cold-headed and precise as Nagi, nor as merciless as Rin Itoshi, but his thinking was so similar to Isagi’s that he had to struggle to compete seriously.
He turned his head toward the opening bathroom door. The light spilling out transformed Bachira into a dark silhouette. True to his habits, the boy was conspicuously underdressed after his shower, with only an apple-green towel drying his hair as he shuffled over and plopped onto the bed. He seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that he wasn’t alone, and after a leisurely yawn, he turned his face toward Isagi.
"I'm sleepy," he said in a slurred voice. The boyish tone and his half-closed eyes reminded Isagi of Nagi, which would have made him smile genuinely if he weren’t completely flustered by Bachira’s bare skin and fresh scent. He tried to focus only on his face, not lower, but when he felt that his features were still too revealing even in the dark, he turned his head and let out a deep sigh.
Bachira lowered the hand holding the towel and glanced out the open window, rubbing his face and thoroughly massaging his eyes like a tired little kitten. "And I’m a little cold too."
"Then get under the covers," Isagi said tiredly, lifting the edge of the blanket with one hand. Only then did he realize that there was a single sheet pulled up on the double bed. He grabbed the corner of the cover.
"Okay," Bachira agreed, then sat up, haphazardly pulling his pajama pieces from under the pillow onto himself, and disappeared neck-deep under the blanket. The rain and the early morning chill had truly cooled the room. Bachira turned onto his side, pulled his legs up, and tucked his wrists under his chin. Isagi could feel the goosebumps running down his arms.
"Do you have another blanket?" he asked before Bachira fell asleep.
"I knew I forgot something," the host muttered, then groaned as he sat up, staring ahead for a while as if thinking, before collapsing back onto the pillow and this time raising the part of the blanket closer to Isagi. Isagi looked in confusion at the dark space between the blanket lifted from the bed and the mattress.
"The warmth is escaping, come on," Bachira fidgeted and shook the blanket slightly. Isagi slowly moved closer until they were lying so close it felt as if that had been the goal all along. Bachira, surprisingly careful, threw the blanket over his friend and started adjusting his position. Isagi pouted; he knew well how active a sleeper Bachira was — constantly fidgeting, tossing and turning, mumbling in his sleep. He often had dreams; if they were pleasant, he smiled, if not, he thrashed and kicked. He was the embodiment of the worst kind of sleeping partner. At Blue Lock, he had hit Isagi in the face multiple times, probably while playing imaginary football in his sleep. It was no secret to Isagi that this night would not be a dream either, especially lying so close to Bachira — he was sure the boy would perform his usual nighttime antics of kicking, spreading out like a starfish, mumbling, and fidgeting.
"If something bothers you, tell me, okay?" Bachira asked softly. His previously dim, tired eyes now looked at Isagi with intelligent curiosity.
"Sure," Isagi replied, frowning. He didn’t understand the question. Bachira smiled kindly.
"I don’t believe you. You’re too considerate. So tell me instead what you want to do tomorrow."
The attention with which he observed every small movement of Isagi’s face was overwhelming, intimate, almost suffocating — but Bachira seemed completely unaware of the depth of his gaze. Isagi remained silent and inched a little closer to the boy. They were sharing two pillows, so his head fit comfortably, but he still drew it to the edge. The scent of fabric softener and Bachira’s smell wafted up from the bedding, making Isagi feel compelled to be honest with himself, yet he didn’t speak.
"Do you have enough room?" Bachira whispered, barely audible, as if he wasn’t really interested in the answer but just in speaking. He shifted his legs under the blanket so that his knee touched Isagi’s thigh, yet neither moved away. Bachira swallowed excitedly. "If not, you can come closer. If you want."
Isagi moved closer as much as Bachira’s bent legs allowed; when his legs pressed firmly against Bachira’s knees, the boy stretched slightly to give more space. They looked at each other in the dark for a while before Bachira spoke again. His voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it vibrated between them.
"I saw a video of a free training session. Noel Noa."
"You’ll send it?"
"I can show it."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
Isagi nodded, but neither he nor Bachira moved.
"I like being your friend," Bachira whispered, enraptured, quietly, as if revealing some great secret. Isagi shivered; he felt that what they were doing had long passed the boundaries of friendship, and the thought pressed on his mind that he should tell Bachira since the boy relied entirely on him for matters like this — but a subtle, thin voice whispered in his ear that everything was perfectly fine as it was. Isagi surrendered to that little voice and didn’t say a word.
"Although it’s strange to imagine you do this with other friends too."
"Only with the close ones," Isagi replied, his voice soft. Bachira’s expression sharpened for a moment, then softened again.
"How many do you have?"
"I mean?"
"How many close friends besides me? Who are like this with you, like I am?"
Isagi was repeatedly surprised at how little Bachira understood about human relationships, especially friendship, and suddenly felt guilty for taking advantage of Bachira’s innocent ignorance. He shook his head slightly; the pillowcase rustled softly under his hair.
"Not many," he replied evasively. Bachira rolled his eyes; the gesture didn’t quite match his gentle features, yet Isagi liked the small movement. "Really, not many," he repeated more softly, capturing Bachira’s already focused attention. One finger of his left hand, which had been resting between them, brushed briefly against one of Isagi’s fingers, and Isagi looked down and nudged his hand closer.
"Do you have enough room?" Bachira asked again. Isagi shook his head. "Okay," he said; he hooked his fingers into Isagi’s and pulled his hand close, very close, then slid his palm down onto his own waist and edged toward him on the mattress. "And now?"
"Still no," Isagi answered quietly. He didn’t know if they had already crossed a line he never intended to, or if they were just dangerously approaching it, but he couldn’t resist when Bachira again closed some of the distance between them and inched toward him under the sheet.
"Now?"
"Better."
"Is this good now?"
Bachira’s breath brushed against Isagi’s lips, and he inhaled slowly.
"Almost," he whispered, and the hand resting on Bachira’s waist pulled the boy’s body closer. Bachira stretched his legs, so they were almost completely pressed together under the blanket, just as they had been on the field in Isagi’s memory, and their breathing was just as rapid and chaotic. They lay facing each other, lips slightly parted, foreheads touching, eyes closed, speaking only in whispers as if trying to shut out everything else around them. Isagi could feel Bachira’s pounding heart against his own skin.
"Do you have enough room?" Isagi breathed between them, trying not to flinch as Bachira tentatively pressed his palm against his arm.
"No," he muttered, his voice tinged with such desperation that it completely wiped out Isagi’s remaining sense of reason. His hand slid up to Bachira’s face, his fingers holding the boy by the jaw and gently but firmly turned his head toward him. Their noses collided; they drew air from each other’s mouths. Yet Isagi felt calm, and though he had expected to be as helpless as the eyes-closed, panting Bachira in such a situation, his mind remained clear, his thoughts cool — and that composure held even as he leaned toward Bachira’s parted lips and pressed his own against them.
He felt the boy’s fingers dig into his upper arm, then relax. For a moment, Bachira accepted Isagi’s kiss so calmly that Isagi suddenly thought he had sobered up from the intensity of the moment. He pulled back slightly, holding his breath, and looked down into those yellow eyes.
"Sorry," he murmured softly, trying to decipher Bachira's feverish, veiled gaze; he didn't seem at all like someone who was really waiting for any kind of apology, because he reached up, slowly wrapped his arm around Isagi's neck, and pulled him down to him again. This kiss was different from the previous one, bolder, longer, and hotter, forcing Isagi to lean on the mattress to keep from losing his balance and falling forward. The air was knocked out of him when Bachira bit his lip; there was something impatient in that bite, and Isagi was afraid to think that he had suddenly been given so much space. The unpleasant thought crept into his mind that he could now do anything he wanted with Bachira, but the sudden freedom paralyzed his for a moment, then the lustful shiver that washed over him as Bachira's half-raised knees pressed between his legs turned the feeling of freedom into power in Isagi's mouth, and he hummed into the kiss. Pride and satisfaction tingled his skin when he thought that Bachira willingly let only him, Isagi, do such things to him; he had never given herself to anyone else like this, yet he trusted Isagi.
His fingers, which had been gripping Bachira's waist, now turned the boy onto his back, and Isagi knelt over him, leaning in close to him again. Isagi never wanted to go this far, especially not with Bachira — although, to be honest, the boy sometimes crept into Isagi's thoughts in all sorts of situations, such as when other boys his age
His fingers, which had been gripping Bachira's waist, now turned the boy onto his back, and Isagi knelt over him, leaning in close again. Isagi never wanted to go this far, especially not with Bachira—although, to be honest, the boy sometimes crept into Isagi's thoughts in all sorts of situations, such as when other boys his age thought about the girls writhing seductively in certain magazines — but now he couldn't control himself, suddenly and urgently wanting everything he could get, which made him greedy and hungry; kissing Bachira, sucking the air from his mouth, was not enough; their hips rubbing together, his friend's fingers — if he could still call him that — first on Isagi's shoulder, and then into his hair to pull his closer to him. Only when he pressed himself against Bachira's lap could he somewhat alleviate that burning desire, while Bachira, overwhelmed, broke away from his lips and moaned quietly between them.
Isagi's mouth curved into a smile and he moved again. He basked in the satisfaction of seeing Bachira's eyes close in pleasure, then open again. He liked the quiet, gasping breaths and the way Bachira bit his own lips to stifle his moans, the fingers tugging at his hair and the five others clenching his shoulder muscles convulsively. He wanted more, he wanted to completely dominate Bachira, and a flash later, he had a clear picture in his mind of what he wanted. He leaned over Bachira's neck, bit the thin, heated skin between his teeth and pulled, then kissed the spot where his teeth had been. Bachira gasped and tilted his head back; his knees, which had been pulled up until then, next to Isagi's torso, tilted to the side. Isagi left marks on her; he bit his from his collarbone to the delicate line of his chin, pulled up the hem of his T-shirt with his hand, dug his nails into his soft skin, and then caressed the tiny crescent-shaped marks with his thumb. His hips, which until now had been irregularly squeezing and releasing Bachira's lap onto the mattress, took on a steady, slow pace, and Bachira let his shoulders drop to muffle his own bursting voice with his palm.
"I don't want you to regret it," Isagi whispered hoarsely. He took Bachira's chin between two fingers, wiped the drool from the corner of the boy's mouth, and turned his yellow eyes toward him. It took a while to get an answer; Bachira seemed barely conscious.
"I won't, I promise," Bachira shook his head and tried to bite one of the fingers holding his as encouragement, but Isagi pulled his hand away warningly. "I promise," he repeated barely audibly and let out the breath he had been holding with difficulty. "I promise, and you know I never break my word," he continued, almost playfully. He seemed to have forgotten the previous weakness and tremor in his voice, and Isagi began to suspect that Bachira had actually been controlling everything between them all along. He swallowed and moved closer to the body beneath him. He liked this arrangement, and Bachira's seductive, deep voice only added to the itchy, smoldering feeling that prompted him to move his hips again and again. "We're close friends, you said so. You said so, Isagi, didn't you?" He smoothed Isagi's dark hair away from the boy's eyes, then grabbed a strand and gently pulled his head closer to Isagi's. "I like being your friend."
This and another kiss made Isagi forget everything else; he no longer tried to stop herself, pushing his hips back toward Bachira and chasing that tingling sensation until it slowly built up inside her, then burned everything around her. It was replaced by a heavy, sticky fatigue; his arms, which had been resting on Bachira's head beneath her, first on his palms, then on his forearms, trembled and could barely hold his weight. He rested his forehead against the boy's and hurriedly, thirstily, took sip after sip of air to calm the lustful numbness in his body. Hhe only came to his senses when Bachira nudged his nose with his; he lifted his head slightly and his heart skipped a beat at Bachira's smile.
"There's no way you'd do this with another close friend," he said, suddenly hugging Isagi tightly. Through his pajama top, he could feel Bachira's heart pounding against his ribs. He pressed his face against Bachira's, then leaned forward and buried his face in his neck, breathing long and slow, like after a hard match, when despite his exhaustion he wanted to quickly regain control of his own body. An unfamiliar calmness came over him, like a big, warm blanket. Isagi pushed his face closer to Bachira's neck. "Don't tickle me."
"Sorry," he murmured softly and inhaled the boy's scent. He lay on his side, wrapped his arms around the other's body, and drifted so suddenly to the edge of sleep that all doubts and questions vanished from his mind. They didn't need to talk to know that from now on they would not only be a unit in the eyes of others, but also between themselves; they belonged together, and it seemed that this was now set in stone.
"Could we put this aside in Blue Lock?" Bachira began, after some rummaging around under the blanket and crumpling of the pillowcase, positioning himself between the arms holding him so that he was comfortable, while wriggling under the blanket, trying to get rid of his pants.
"What are you doing?" Isagi opened his eyes when Bachira fidgeted for several long minutes, which resulted in him kicking Isagi thoroughly.
"I'm taking off my pants."
"Why?"
"You know why. Because that's how it's full of... Yeah. I don't want to sleep like this. I'll get another pair, do you want some?"
He slid to the edge of the bed and, without waiting for an answer, as if he didn't care this time either, disappeared into one of the dark corners of the room. Isagi heard the wardrobe door open, a brief rummaging, then footsteps heading towards him, muffled by the carpet. A clean pair of underpants fell onto the pillow next to his face.
"Sorry! It's dark and I can't see."
After quickly getting dressed, Bachira sat back on the bed and pulled his knees up. He seemed to be waiting for something; leaning forward, he looked at Isagi lying under the blanket, his arms wrapped around his legs.
"What I said earlier," he began softly and cautiously as he started to fiddle with the zipper on the blanket cover. "I meant what you said at the playground... So, I've made up my mind and I'm going to be selfish.
Isagi raised his eyes, which had turned to obsidian in the darkness, and waited patiently for him to continue. He glanced down briefly when Bachira's hand, fumbling with the blanket, moved toward him, as timidly as if they had not just crossed boundaries that even adults often do not cross.
"I do require that," Isagi replied sincerely and kindly. Bachira nodded.
“Then what I want is… I mean...” He lifted his head, shaking the hair out of his eyes before resting his chin on his knees. “No, that’s not it. Inside Blue Lock, I’ll never go easy on you. No matter how good this feels now, or how great everything is when we do it together, I want to become the best striker in the world. And no one — not even you — can hold me back. I don’t just want it this way, it *has* to be this way. And you have to promise me the same, or this thing — whatever it is that’s starting between us — can’t stay as it is.”
“I promise.”
Bachira tilted his head, looking suddenly shy; his voice carried a soft embarrassment when he spoke again.
“Well, that was quick. I thought you’d misunderstand… That you’d think I don’t want to be with you. But I’m glad you didn’t.”
Isagi smiled.
“We’re on the same path. I never thought anything would change in that sense. On the field, you’re my rival — and you’ll stay that way, Bachira.”
“Meguru. Off the field, strictly off the field.” For the first time since everything that had happened, he seemed genuinely flustered. His face darkened in the dim light, and his words came out muffled against his knees, like a child’s whisper. Then he suddenly looked up, locking eyes with Isagi. “On the field, I’m Bachira.”
“On the field, you’re Bachira,” Isagi nodded.
“Strictly. Come on, say it!”
“Strictly Bachira,” Isagi repeated, barely holding back a laugh, softening it into a smile instead. It seemed that with those few words, he had finally smoothed away the last of Meguru’s doubts.
“Perfect. And now promise me.”
“What the hell is wrong with you and promises?” Isagi finally had to laugh. Meguru rolled his eyes.
“Just promise me already!” Isagi nudged his forehead and scooted a little closer on the mattress. “I’m not letting you off the hook until you do — you really should know me by now. Remember when you promised to trade me the last red bean mochi for that awful matcha one, and then you forgot and ate the last red bean mochi yourself?”
“The what now?” Isagi pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, silently praying he wouldn’t burst into giggles. That lunch — and the brief tantrum afterward that shook the entire cafeteria — was still vivid in his mind. To Meguru, every mochi — except the matcha one — was sacred and untouchable.
“The red bean mochi.”
“What did I do with it?”
“You ate it! And you promised it to me.”
“The what?”
“The red bean- Hey…” He squinted, pressing his lips into a line. “You’re joking with me, right?”
“I would never joke about red bean mochi.”
“Good. It’s the best one.”
“The what?”
“I’m not falling for it again, don’t even try,” Meguru waved off, feigning annoyance at Isagi’s little joke, though the usual playful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Isagi knew everything was fine between them. He gently touched Meguru’s finger with one of his own, the finger that was idly picking at the stitching of the duvet cover to keep busy. They exchanged a glance before Isagi spoke.
“Yoichi. On the field, strictly Isagi, if that works for you.”
Meguru’s eyes widened slightly, and Isagi continued.
“And I promise, since you care so much…”
“I care.”
“…that on the field, you remain strictly Bachira. Deal?”
Meguru didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly stretched out his legs and, with a gentle movement, slid back under the blanket to face Yoichi. He looked at him for a while before speaking again.
“I like being your friend,” he whispered, his index finger tracing Yoichi’s features with affection. He mapped out each detail — the nose, the mouth, the eyebrows, the darker shadows under his eyes, the ears, the hairline, everything he could find — then placed his hand between them and, without expecting a reply, watched Yoichi’s lips part slightly in response.
“From now on, you really are my friend.”
Bachira received Isagi’s words with a puzzled, strange smile; it felt to him as if Isagi was talking about something entirely different than before. He shifted slightly and moved closer in a trusting gesture. His large, curious eyes searched Yoichi’s face with a wakeful honesty that defied the early hour.
“I already was, wasn’t I?”
Isagi nodded, then slowly shook his head, choosing not to explain his answer. He reached between them and, with a gentle touch—like his mother used to do when he was little—closed Bachira’s eyes to guide him toward sleep. He expected the ochre-yellow irises, glowing faintly in the dark, to seek out his tired, half-closed gaze again, but Bachira obediently lay still. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t fidget, and didn’t murmur about everything on his mind. Instead, he rested calmly, sinking into the mattress with heavy limbs. Isagi quickly realized that, despite his usual liveliness, Bachira was now in a deep sleep.
Only then did Isagi find the courage to speak again.
“I’ll explain tomorrow.”