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The rain in Tokyo was a persistent, gray curtain when Isagi’s flight was supposed to land. Bachira knew the exact minute, had calculated the customs line, the train schedule, the walk from the station. He’d paced his small apartment, a nest built for two that had housed only one for six long months, vibrating with a restless energy that no amount of solo keep-ups could burn off.
The clock ticked past the arrival time. Then an hour. Then two.
Texts went unanswered. Calls went to voicemail. The familiar, gnawing monster of anxiety, one Bachira usually kept caged with a smile and a dribble, began to rattle its bars. *What if he missed the flight? What if he changed his mind? What if America decided to keep him?* His mind, so creative on the pitch, conjured a thousand terrible, illogical scenarios. Each one felt more real than the last.
By the third hour, the pacing had stopped. Bachira sat slumped on the floor, back against the door, hugging a pillow that had long since lost Isagi’s scent. The excited plans for the evening—the favorite take-out place, the new highlights reel Isagi had promised to show him, the simple, desperate need to just *touch* him—had curdled into a cold, hard lump of worry. He wasn’t angry. He was scared. The world without Isagi in it, even just a few kilometers away, felt too vast, too empty.
A sound.
Not the buzzer. A direct, hesitant knock on his apartment door. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Bachira’s heart, a dormant engine, roared to life. He was on his feet in a flash, a movement fueled by pure instinct, faster than any feint he’d ever performed. He didn’t look through the peephole. He knew.
He wrenched the door open.
And there he was. Isagi Yoichi, standing in the dim hallway light, drenched from the rain still dripping from his hair and the shoulders of his jacket. He looked exhausted, sheepish, his phone clutched in his hand—dead, obviously.
Isagi’s mouth opened, the apology already forming on his lips. “Bachira, I’m so sorry, the flight was delayed on the tarmac for hours, then my phone died, and the trains were—”
The words were cut off, not by a sound, but by a sudden, overwhelming pressure.
Bachira didn’t hear the excuse. He didn’t need to. The sight of him—real, solid, here, *alive*—shattered the cold fear that had gripped Bachira’s heart for three hours. It was replaced by a surge of something so fierce and hot it stole his breath.
He launched himself forward, his hands flying up to frame Isagi’s rain-cooled face. He pulled him down, over the threshold, and crushed their lips together.
It wasn’t a gentle reunion kiss. It was desperate, a little angry, and overwhelmingly relieved. It was Bachira pouring every second of the agonizing wait, every terrifying thought, every ounce of missed longing into that single point of contact. His fingers tangled in Isagi’s wet hair, holding him in place as if he might vanish again.
Isagi froze for a half-second, stunned. Then, with a muffled sound that was part groan, part sigh, he melted into it. His own hands, cold and damp, came up to clutch at the back of Bachira’s shirt, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. The dead phone clattered, forgotten, to the genkan floor.
The world narrowed to the taste of rain and Isagi, the familiar scent of him cutting through the sterile airplane smell, the solid feel of his shoulders under Bachira’s grasping hands. The apology, the scolding, the explanations—they evaporated in the heat between them.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, foreheads pressed together, the hallway was silent except for their ragged breathing. Rainwater from Isagi’s hair dripped onto Bachira’s nose.
Bachira’s golden eyes, usually alight with mischief, were dark and intense. “Shut up,” he whispered, his voice rough. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Isagi, breathless, managed a small, wobbly smile. He traced a thumb over Bachira’s cheekbone. “I’m home,” he said, the words simple and profound.
And Bachira, finally feeling the world click back into its proper axis, pulled him the rest of the way inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. The take
Isagi stood dripping on the genkan tile, a small puddle already forming around his sneakers. The frantic energy of their kiss had settled into a thick, warm silence, punctuated only by the sound of rain against the window.
Bachira, without a word, bent and picked up Isagi’s fallen phone. He placed it on the charger plugged in by the door. Then he turned, his gaze sweeping over Isagi’s drenched state. The practical part of his mind, the part that took care of his gear and his body for the pitch, kicked in.
“You’re a mess, Yoichi,” he said, but his voice was soft, fond. He padded to the bathroom and returned with a large, fluffy towel.
He didn’t hand it over. Instead, he stepped close again and began drying Isagi’s hair himself, rubbing vigorously with the towel, his motions firm yet gentle. Isagi stood still, eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping him as the rough fabric soaked up the chill. It was an intimate, caring gesture that spoke louder than any welcome home banner.
“Arms up,” Bachira murmured, and Isagi complied, letting Bachira peel the sodden jacket from his shoulders. The damp shirt beneath followed, tossed unceremoniously toward the bathroom. Bachira’s fingers, now warm and dry, brushed against Isagi’s cool skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with familiar clothes: a soft, faded blue sweatshirt that was technically Isagi’s but had been claimed by Bachira months ago, and a pair of sweatpants. He helped Isagi into them, his touch lingering, as if re-memorizing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine.
Once Isagi was dressed in dry warmth, Bachira finally seemed to run out of tasks. He just stood there, looking at him. The worry had completely drained from his expression, leaving behind a raw, open affection that made Isagi’s chest ache.
Isagi reached for him. “Bachira…”
That was all it took. Bachira stepped into the circle of his arms, and they folded around each other. This hug was different from the frantic clutch at the door. It was deep, full-bodied, and quiet. Isagi buried his face in the crook of Bachira’s neck, inhaling the scent of his own laundry detergent and the unique, sunny warmth that was purely Bachira. Bachira’s arms were locked around Isagi’s waist, his own face pressed against Isagi’s now-dry hair.
They swayed slightly, just holding on, relearning the feel of each other. The silence was comfortable, filled with the unspoken language of six months of separation dissolving.
Then, Bachira tilted his head, his lips finding Isagi’s temple. A soft press. Then another on his cheekbone. Isagi turned his head, meeting the next kiss halfway.
This kiss was slower. Sweeter. A rediscovery rather than a reclaiming. It was the taste of home, of shared dreams on a blue-lit pitch, of whispered conversations in the dark. They broke apart only to breathe, their foreheads touching again, before drifting back together, drawn like magnets.
Between kisses, Bachira whispered against his lips, “Missed you.”
“I missed you more,” Isagi breathed back, chasing his mouth again.
“Impossible.”
“True.”
They lost track of time, standing there in the middle of the apartment, wrapped in each other and the soft, dry fabric of home. The rain outside, the delayed flight, the dead phone—it all faded into a distant, unimportant blur. The only thing that was real, solid, and true was the warmth between them, the quiet kisses, and the steady, synchronized beat of their hearts, finally back in rhythm.
The slow, sweet rediscovery began to simmer, the temperature in the room climbing with each shared breath. Bachira’s hands, which had been resting gently on Isagi’s waist, slid lower, gripping possessively. His kisses grew hungrier, more insistent, leaving Isagi’s lips tingling and slightly swollen.
He broke away, panting, his golden eyes dark with a storm of emotion. He nuzzled into Isagi’s neck, his voice a low, rough murmur against the sensitive skin there. “I was going crazy. Three hours. I thought… maybe you went to see Rin first. Or Nagi. Or anyone.” He bit down, not hard, but with a pointed edge. “The thought of you being anywhere but here… with anyone but me… after all that time…”
It wasn’t an accusation of infidelity. It was something more primal, a monster of Bachira’s own unique love—the fear of not being Isagi’s absolute first priority, his immediate, necessary destination. The idea that Isagi might have chosen to share even a moment of his return with someone else felt like a theft.
Isagi understood. He heard the vulnerability woven into the possessiveness. Instead of arguing, or soothing with empty words, he felt a surge of indulgent warmth. He’d made Bachira wait. He’d made him worry. He could give him this.
Leaning back, Isagi met Bachira’s intense gaze. He brought a hand up, his thumb tracing the curve of Bachira’s lower lip. Then, with a deliberate, yielding softness, he tilted his own head back, exposing the line of his throat. A silent offering.
“I’m here now,” Isagi whispered, his own voice husky. “Only here.”
A shudder ran through Bachira. The permission, the submission in Isagi’s posture, acted like a spark to dry tinder. The last thread of his restraint snapped.
“Mine,” Bachira growled, the word a possessive vow against Isagi’s pulse point before he captured his lips again in a searing kiss that was all claiming fire. He walked Isagi backward, not toward the bedroom, but until the back of Isagi’s knees hit the couch, and they tumbled down onto it in a tangle of limbs.
Bachira settled over him, caging him in, his weight a delicious, anchoring pressure. His kisses trailed from Isagi’s mouth to his jaw, his throat, marking a path of ownership with lips and teeth and tongue. Every touch screamed *mine, mine, mine*, a physical echo of the desperate chant that had filled Bachira’s head for three long hours.
And Isagi, beneath him, let go. He surrendered to the onslaught of sensation, his hands fisting in Bachira’s hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him closer. He arched into the touches, answering the possessiveness with a willing, breathless acceptance. He gave Bachira the reassurance he needed in the oldest language they knew—the language of touch, of breathless gasps in the quiet apartment, of two heartbeats syncing into a single, pounding rhythm that finally felt like home.
The world had shrunk to the space of the couch, to the heat of Bachira's skin through the soft fabric of the stolen sweatshirt, to the desperate, claiming rhythm of their kisses. Isagi's yielding had stoked a fire in Bachira that was all-consuming, a need to erase every inch of distance, every second of separation.
Bachira's hands, which had been mapping the planes of Isagi's back through the sweatshirt, grew impatient. He broke their kiss, his breath hot and ragged against Isagi's lips. His golden eyes, usually sparkling with playful light, were molten with a fierce, single-minded intensity.
"Off," he muttered, the word more a plea than a command. His fingers found the hem of the soft blue sweatshirt and began to push it up, revealing a strip of Isagi's stomach, pale in the dim room light.
Isagi didn't hesitate. He helped, raising his arms, allowing Bachira to pull the fabric up and over his head. It was discarded somewhere behind the couch with a soft *whump*. The cool air of the apartment kissed Isagi's bare skin, raising goosebumps, but they were immediately chased away by the searing heat of Bachira's palms sliding up his sides.
Bachira stared down at him, his gaze a physical caress. "So perfect," he breathed, his voice thick. "Mine." He bent his head, not to Isagi's lips this time, but to the hollow of his collarbone, laying a hot, open-mouthed kiss there before his tongue traced a path downward.
Isagi gasped, his head falling back against the couch cushion, fingers tightening in Bachira's hair. The possessive devotion in every touch was overwhelming, a tide pulling him under.
But Bachira wasn't done. His own movements were hurried, fueled by a hunger too long denied. He shrugged out of his own shirt, the fabric joining the growing pile on the floor. Skin met skin, and they both shuddered—the contact was electric, a circuit finally completed after months of disconnection.
Bachira’s kisses grew more frantic, more focused. His hands roamed, relearning every contour, every scar, every familiar and beloved part of Isagi. They slid down to the waistband of the sweatpants he’d just given Isagi. His eyes flicked up, meeting Isagi’s hazy blue ones, a silent question burning in their depths.
Isagi, breathless, his chest rising and falling rapidly, gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. His own hands came down to cover Bachira’s, not to stop him, but to guide him. "Yes," he whispered, the sound swallowed by the rain and their shared breaths.
That was all the encouragement Bachira needed. With a reverence that contradicted his earlier desperation, he eased the remaining barrier away, his touch turning from possessive to worshipful. The last of the distance vanished, leaving only heat, and skin, and the profound, intimate truth of their reunion. The outside world, the past six months, the missed flight—it all dissolved into irrelevance. Here, now, there was only this: Bachira and Isagi, finally, completely, home.
Isagi's breath caught in his throat as he stared up at Bachira, taking in the vulnerability beneath that fierce demand. Six months of separation had left scars on them both. He reached up, fingers tracing the sharp line of Bachira's jaw, thumb brushing across his lower lip.
"You already are," Isagi whispered, his voice raw with honesty. "You always have been."
A tremor ran through Bachira's body, almost imperceptible but Isagi felt it where their bodies connected. The golden eyes softened, a hint of moisture gathering at their corners.
"Even when you were gone," Isagi continued, "when all I had was your voice through a phone, or those ridiculous selfies you'd send at three in the morning—" he smiled, remembering, "—you were still my priority. My constant."
Bachira dipped his head, pressing his forehead against Isagi's, eyes closed as if to savor the words. His wild hair fell around them like a curtain, creating a private world where only their breathing existed.
"I missed you so fucking much," Bachira confessed, the words a hot whisper against Isagi's skin. With a deep breath, he positioned himself, feeling the weight of Isagi beneath him, the warmth radiating from their bodies.
As he prepared himself, he felt a mix of desperation and affection coursing through him. This was more than just a physical act; it was a claim, a promise, a way to solidify their bond after the long, painful separation.
"I need to feel you, Isagi. I need to know you’re really here with me," Bachira murmured, his voice trembling slightly.
Isagi nodded, his eyes wide and earnest. "I’m here. Always. Just for you."
With that reassurance, Bachira slid down onto Isagi’s hardness, a gasp escaping his lips as he adjusted to the sensation. It was overwhelming, a rush of heat and intimacy that made his heart race. He clung to Isagi, their bodies fitting together perfectly, as if they were always meant to be this way.
The world outside faded completely, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the desperate and affectionate claim echoing in the silence of the room.
Bachira began to move, riding Isagi with a rhythm that was both frantic and fluid. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful challenge in the way he rolled his hips, teasing and coaxing Isagi into a frenzy. Isagi's hands found their way to Bachira's waist, trying to ground himself, to set a slower pace, but it was a losing battle.
"Yoicchan—," Bachira moaned, his voice cracking as he arched his back. "You feel so good inside me."
Isagi's fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of Bachira's hips, his breathing ragged. The sight above him was intoxicating—Bachira's lithe body silhouetted against the dim light, sweat glistening on his chest, head thrown back in ecstasy. Every movement sent waves of pleasure through Isagi's body, making it impossible to think of anything but the heat between them.
"Bachira," Isagi gasped, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears. "Slow down, I can't—"
But Bachira only grinned wider, that wild gleam in his eyes intensifying as he leaned forward, bracing his hands on Isagi's chest. His movements became more deliberate, more torturous.
"Don't hold back," he whispered, his breath hot against Isagi's ear. "I want everything you have."
The words ignited something primal in Isagi. With a sudden surge of strength, he flipped their positions, pinning Bachira beneath him. The shift in power sent a jolt of excitement through both of them, and Isagi wasted no time in establishing a new rhythm, one that was slower yet filled with a deep, consuming intensity.
Bachira gasped, his eyes wide with surprise and delight. "Isagi!" he exclaimed, his voice a mix of shock and pleasure.
Isagi held Bachira's hips firmly, guiding him as he thrust deeper, savoring the way Bachira's body responded to him. The heat between them was palpable, a living thing that thrummed in the air, and Isagi could feel every pulse of it as he moved.
"You feel so good, Bachira," Isagi murmured, his voice low and husky. "I want to take my time with you."
But even as he spoke, he could hardly focus on anything but the way Bachira's body rolled beneath him, the way his breath hitched with every thrust. The playful challenge in Bachira's eyes was still there, urging him on, and Isagi found it hard to resist the temptation to quicken the pace.
"Please, Isagi," Bachira begged, his voice a sultry whisper. "Don't hold back. I want to feel all of you."
With that, Isagi surrendered to the heat of the moment, letting the rhythm build between them, a dance of passion that left them both breathless and craving more.
Bachira's fingers dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks that would linger for days. "Isagi," he gasped, his voice breaking over the syllables, "don't stop."
The plea sent electricity down Isagi's spine. He buried his face in the crook of Bachira's neck, breathing in his scent—a mix of sweat, musk, and something distinctly Bachira. It was intoxicating.
"I couldn't if I wanted to," Isagi murmured against his skin, punctuating his words with a particularly deep thrust that made Bachira arch beneath him.
Time stretched and compressed around them. Minutes could have been hours as they moved together, finding a perfect synchronicity that mirrored their connection on the field. Here, though, there were no opponents, no ball to chase—just the two of them climbing toward something transcendent.
Bachira's eyes, usually bright with mischief, had gone dark with desire. They locked onto Isagi's, refusing to let go, forcing an intimacy beyond the physical. It was almost too much to bear, this raw vulnerability between them, but Isagi couldn't look away.
"Let it out, Isagi," Bachira urged, his voice a sultry whisper that sent shivers down Isagi's spine. "I want to see the monster in you. I want all of it."
With those words, Isagi felt a surge of power, a primal instinct that urged him to let loose completely. He thrust harder, faster, losing himself in the heat of the moment, the world around them fading into a blur of sensation. Bachira's encouragement fueled him, igniting a fire that burned brighter with every movement.
"Yes! Just like that!" Bachira cried out, his voice a mix of pleasure and encouragement.
Isagi's breath came in ragged gasps, his body responding to Bachira's every sound, every plea. The heat between them built to an unbearable crescendo, and he could feel the edge of release drawing near. Bachira's body tightened around him, urging him on, and Isagi surrendered to the overwhelming wave of pleasure that crashed over them both.
With a final, powerful thrust, they both reached their peak, the world exploding into a kaleidoscope of sensation as they finished together, their cries mingling in the air, a symphony of shared ecstasy that echoed in the silence of the room.
In that moment, they were not just two bodies entwined; they were a single entity, bound by desire, love, and the promise of forever.
‐‐‐
In the quiet aftermath of their shared ecstasy, Isagi and Bachira found themselves wrapped in each other's warmth, the world outside forgotten. They lay together on the couch, limbs tangled, the soft glow of the room casting gentle shadows over their bodies. An hour had passed, but the intimacy of the moment lingered, a cocoon of comfort and connection.
Isagi, still riding the high of their earlier passion, began to ramble about his time in the U.S. "You wouldn’t believe the food, Bachira! I mean, I thought I knew what a burger was, but those places—" he chuckled, shaking his head. "They put everything on it!"
Bachira, nestled against Isagi's chest, listened intently, his warm breath ghosting over Isagi's skin as he suckled gently on the soft flesh. Isagi continued, animated and excited, recounting stories of late-night diners, the chaos of the streets, and the thrill of playing in front of new crowds.
"And the fans! They were so loud, so passionate! It felt like I was in a whole different world, like I was living a dream. I just wish you could have been there to see it, too," Isagi said, his voice filled with longing.
Bachira's response was a soft hum, his mouth still busy exploring the expanse of Isagi's chest, leaving small, tender kisses that made Isagi shiver. But then, without warning, Bachira bit down a bit harder, a playful yet possessive gesture that made Isagi gasp.
"Ow!" Isagi exclaimed, half-laughing, half-surprised. "You really haven’t stopped biting me for like an hour, have you?"
Bachira pulled back slightly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Can you blame me? You’re mine, Isagi. I want everyone to know it."
Isagi's heart fluttered at Bachira's declaration, the possessiveness in his voice igniting something primal within him. He ran his fingers through Bachira's wild hair, tugging gently to lift his face.
"Everyone already knows," Isagi murmured, pressing their foreheads together. "I think I made that pretty clear when I called you from the airport instead of going home first."
Bachira's eyes sparkled with that familiar wildness, the monster within him practically purring with satisfaction. "Still. I need to make up for lost time."
Their lips met again, slower this time, savoring rather than devouring. When they parted, Bachira settled back against Isagi's chest, tracing invisible patterns across his skin.
"Tell me more about America," he said softly. "What was your favorite part?"
Isagi considered this, his fingers still absently playing with Bachira's hair. "The freedom, maybe? Everything felt possible there. The stadiums, the opportunities..." He paused, voice dropping lower. "But I missed this. I missed us."
Bachira hummed contentedly. "What about the people? Any interesting teammates or rivals?"
Isagi chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, definitely. There was this one guy, super competitive, always trying to one-up me. But it was fun, you know? It pushed me to be better. I think I learned a lot about myself out there."
Bachira's fingers paused, and he looked up, his expression serious. "But you’re back now. That’s what matters. You’re here with me."
Isagi smiled, warmth flooding his chest. "Yeah, I am. And I wouldn’t trade this for anything."
Bachira's grin returned, bright and infectious. "Good. Because I’m not letting you go again."
They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that spoke volumes without needing words. Isagi could feel the steady rhythm of Bachira's breath against his skin, the warmth of his body a soothing balm.
After a moment, Isagi broke the quiet, his voice teasing. "So, are you going to keep doing that until I’m covered in bite marks?"
Bachira laughed, a light, melodic sound that made Isagi's heart swell. "Maybe. I think it’s a good look on you."
"You’re ridiculous," Isagi replied, shaking his head, but he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.
"And you love it," Bachira shot back, leaning in to place another soft kiss on Isagi's chest, a gentle reminder of the claim he was making.
Isagi sighed contentedly, feeling the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. In this moment, with Bachira by his side, everything felt right.
"Yeah, I really do," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
And as they settled back into their comfortable embrace, Isagi knew that no matter where life took them, they would always find their way back to each other.
—
End