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Isagi wasn’t a troublemaker. Really.
After all, after spending seven years with people like Bachira and Shidou, he had voluntarily taken on the role of the group’s protective mother hen.
With Bachira, it was like trying to corral a golden retriever hopped up on caffeine. The guy had an almost supernatural ability to attract weirdos, climb things that definitely weren’t meant to be climbed, and turn any situation into a social experiment gone wrong. Isagi had become an expert in yanking him back by the collar and muttering apologies to offended bystanders.
The real challenge, though, came when alcohol was involved. Bachira didn’t handle drinks well. He got louder, friendlier, and somehow even more reckless.
Shidou, on the other hand, drank like he was fueling a fire, and the combination was, literally, explosive.
Isagi had developed a sixth sense for disaster whenever the two of them stumbled too close to the bar, and he never let his guard down.
For this reason, he always feels a strange, uncomfortable sensation whenever he’s called in by his manager or PR team.
His parents never had a bad word to say about him. Neither did his teachers or coaches. He was the responsible one, the rule-follower, the golden boy who made everyone proud.
But getting scolded at 24 years old? That made him feel like he was back in school, sitting outside the principal’s office. And he hated it.
Even though, he thinks with a resigned sigh, by now he should be used to it.
In the four years he’s played in Munich, Isagi has managed to keep his PR team constantly busy. Entirely against his will, of course .
First, there was the accusation of ableism after a heated on-field spat where Isagi snapped at an opposing player to “stop whining” when they requested a substitution for an injury. The clip went viral within hours, igniting social media debates about sportsmanship, respect, and whether Isagi was the poster boy for everything wrong with modern athletics.
Then there was the “threat.” He still rolls his eyes every time he thinks about it. Some genius accidentally left a mic on after a brutal loss, and suddenly, the world lost its collective mind over him muttering a few not-so-gentle words to the opposing team.
And then there was Kaiser.
Kaiser was a problem Isagi couldn’t fix, no matter how hard he tried. Their rivalry started off all professional, just two elite players battling for supremacy. But, of course, things got complicated.
From there, the tension only ramped up. Photos of the two of them nearly throwing punches during practice somehow magically made their way online, followed by the delightful rumors that Isagi had refused to pass to Kaiser during games... because, you know, spite .
Because, obviously, Isagi had nothing better to do than sabotage his own team just to mess with Kaiser. Right?
Isagi takes the blame. Every single time. And he apologizes to his manager, too, like clockwork, whenever a new scandal blows up. But honestly? At this point, he’s stopped pretending to be surprised.
Chigiri used to roast him about it nonstop when they were seventeen. For a solid two months, he wouldn’t call him anything but “slursagi”. Back then, Isagi used to get offended. Now? He thinks that nickname might not be so far off.
Bachira keeps insisting it’s the “monster inside him” that comes out when he’s truly giving it his all, and that it’s actually great to see how passionate he is about winning every match. Which is exactly the kind of thing someone like Bachira would say.
And sure, Isagi appreciates how his best friend can slap a bright side onto literally anything. "You didn’t insult him, Isagi, you just motivated him aggressively!"
But let’s be honest—no amount of sugarcoating is going to cut it for the trail of offended people he’s left behind over the years.
But at this point? He’s stopped losing sleep over it.
Speaking of Bachira, Isagi has a vague idea why his manager called him into the office so early this morning.
In three days, Bastard Munchen will face Barcha in a charity match, and they’ll be spending two days in Barcelona to raise funds.
Isagi is genuinely happy to see his best friend again. It’s been four months since they last saw each other in person, only video calls and messages since then. But he thinks he knows why his manager doesn’t share the same enthusiasm.
Bachira, despite never having the kind of problems Isagi has—if anything, he’s loved all over Europe—has had his fair share of newspaper covers. From Milan to Madrid, and especially in Barcelona, Bachira’s name is as likely to appear in sports columns as it is in gossip magazines.
Nightclubs, private parties, alcohol, vomit. A lot of vomit.
Isagi thinks he’s seen Bachira naked more often in tabloids than in real life. And he’s seen him naked plenty of times—his friend has never been particularly shy.
Not that Isagi has ever complained.
And, of course, when Isagi goes to visit Bachira, he gets roped into this mess too.
They’ve known each other for seven years—seven long years in which Isagi has learned one undeniable truth: it’s really hard for him to say no to Bachira.
So yeah, he gets why his manager is worried. Slapping the label “party animal” next to “aggressive” and “offensive” wouldn’t exactly do wonders for his image. Isagi gets it. Really, he does. That’s why he promises to be on his best behavior. On the field, he’ll play nice—it’s just a charity match, after all. In interviews, he’ll stick to the script and talk only about charity and nice things.
He’ll stay in the hotel all night. Maybe he and Bachira can order room service or watch a movie—something quiet, something safe.
He’ll steer clear of Kaiser as much as humanly possible.
No journalists, no photos, no scandals.
He swears it.
On the plane, Isagi is visibly tense. Despite the countless flights he's been on, every time turbulence hits, it still freaks him out.
He shuts his eyes and grips the armrests so tightly his knuckles turn white. It’s stupid, he knows it is, but logic doesn’t do much when the plane jolts and his stomach drops.
Hiori, sitting next to him, doesn’t say a word. He’s seen this before and knows better than to make it worse.
Isagi tries to focus on something else—anything else. Winning the World Cup again, lifting the Champions League trophy, seeing Bachira again after so long. He pictures Bachira’s grin, the way it always feels like the sun’s shining directly on him when he smiles. Playing with him again, running beside him on the field. That’s better. That’s-
A voice cuts through his thoughts. Sarcastic, sharp, and absolutely unwelcome.
“Jesus, Yoichi. Still shitting yourself over a little turbulence? Pathetic.”
Isagi doesn’t even have to turn around. He knows exactly who it is. Kaiser. Of course it’s Kaiser. Because who else would pick right now to be a pain in the ass?
He’s tempted to turn around and snap, but he stops himself.
What are the chances someone’s filming this exact moment anyway? No, he can’t go there. He can’t start thinking like that.
Instead, he jams his headphones in, cranks the volume to max, and presses play on the Spotify playlist he shares with Bachira—something, anything, to drown out Kaiser’s annoying voice.
In the end, they survive. The plane doesn’t crash, and Isagi doesn’t kill Kaiser. A success.
As soon as they get on the bus that will take them to the hotel, Isagi turns off airplane mode.
Hiori laughs quietly as he watches the phone screen fill up with notifications. All from one person.
good morninggggg!!!
im so happy that we’re seeing each other today
i could piss myself
otoyas taking me to mcdonalds
but dont tell anyone
god i would go to war for their pancakes
i burned my shoulders at the beach
they hurt like hell
but dont use it against me when we play
it would be really mean
how the fuck is my phone at 5%???
shit, i fell asleep watching instagram last night
guess ill see you at the game then
travel safe! <3
Isagi’s cheeks begin to ache from smiling too much, and he feels his heart swell, doubling in size, as he looks at the selfie Bachira sent him.
Bachira’s cheeks are puffed out, clearly mid-bite of a stack of pancakes, with syrup dripping at the corners of his mouth. Isagi can practically hear his laugh just from looking at the picture.
This is the effect of Bachira Meguru.
After shooting back a reply—“Nice. The image of elegance”—Isagi shoves his headphones in, cranks up his playlist, and slumps against the cool window of the bus.
His eyes wander out as the city of Barcelona stretches out before him. The streets are buzzing with life, people walk along the sidewalks, cafes are packed, and the air feels alive with energy.
Warm and bright.
So different from Munich.
If Isagi had to find one flaw with Barcelona, it would definitely be the heat.
On the bus and in the hotel, they were saved by the cool blast of air conditioning, but as soon as they step off and enter Camp Nou, the suffocating heat hits them like a wall. The air is thick, heavy with warmth, and it clings to his skin as if it has nowhere to escape.
Isagi feels it immediately, the sticky sensation of his shirt clinging to his back, his shorts sticking to his legs. He tries to adjust the collar of his polo, but it feels useless.
He’s already sweating, even though the game isn’t set to start until 16:00.
They had to arrive at 13:00 for interviews, press conferences, and warm-ups, but every minute spent in this heat feels like it’s draining him just a little more.
Isagi doesn’t dare to think about how it will be after 90 minutes of running on the field.
Isagi doesn’t even have time to take in the surroundings, it’s been ages since he’s been in Barcha’s stadium, when he’s suddenly swarmed by journalists.
Cameras are shoved in his face, microphones thrust in front of him, blocking his path as the barrage of questions begins.
“Talk to us about today’s match.”
“Which charity will the funds be going to?”
“Did you hear what Rin Itoshi said about you?
“Is it true that you and Kaiser fought during practice?”
Isagi’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding together as he fights the urge to snap. He takes a deep breath, mentally counting to ten—more like ten thousand—and pushes the irritation down. He forces out a smile, tight but controlled.
“Yeah, today’s match is going to be great. We’re here to raise funds for a good cause, but we’ll still give it our all, like always,” he says, his voice dripping with sweetness as he shoots a look at the camera in front of him. He can almost feel the lens pressing into his face.
He won’t answer the scandal questions. Not today. Not when he can feel the weight of it all pressing in on him.
His smile falters for a second as he catches Kaiser’s smirk in the crowd of journalists, the bastard looking far too pleased with himself.
Isagi’s blood boils, but he bites his tongue, pushing it down.
No scandals. He promised.
Isagi doesn’t spot Bachira until an hour before the match.
After managing to slip away from the journalists, Isagi changes and joins his team for the warm-up.
And there he is.
Standing in front of a camera, chatting about who knows what. Not that it matters—Bachira could be explaining black hole theory, and Isagi would probably still be hooked. He seriously needs to get a grip.
Summer looks good on him.
Bachira’s skin is tan, and Isagi bets his face is dotted with freckles. His hair is a little longer, tied back in a loose, messy half-ponytail, with a few strands escaping. His golden, bright eyes narrow as he smiles at the journalist, and to Isagi, it feels like he’s staring directly at the Sun.
Isagi is distracted, he knows, who wouldn’t be?
Then, a ball hits him square in the back, jolting him out of his trance.
He grits his teeth, already guessing who’s behind it—and, of course, he’s right.
Kaiser and his bitch are standing a few feet away, snickering like kids who just pulled off the world’s dumbest prank.
Kaiser gives him one of those smug half-smiles, the kind that makes Isagi’s fingers twitch with the urge to punch something. Preferably his face.
But Isagi’s better than that—or so he keeps telling himself. Over and over, like some kind of mantra. He’s mature. He’s focused. He’s not about to throw hands an hour before kickoff just because Kaiser’s an asshole.
So instead, he forces himself to turn away, rolling his shoulders like he doesn’t even feel it, and heads toward Hiori and Kurona. Back to the drills.
No scandals. He promised.
Bachira crashes into him just as Isagi’s trying to catch his breath, water bottle in one hand and a mouth still half-full of water.
Despite the surprise, seven years of reflexes kick in, and Isagi’s hands automatically grip Bachira’s thighs to keep him from falling.
“Finally!” Bachira yells, loud enough to make Isagi wince. His arms lock tight around Isagi’s shoulders, and he’s practically hanging off him. “I couldn’t shake off those damn journalists.”
Isagi turns slightly to the right, tilting his head away to avoid going deaf, but a traitorous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? And your first instinct was to ambush me?”
Bachira laughs, unbothered, and just squeezes him tighter. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, I can totally imagine how much you missed me,” Isagi says “I mean, we only talk every single day.” He tries to sound annoyed, but the way his fingers dig just a little deeper into Bachira’s thighs gives him away.
Bachira hops down from Isagi’s back, and Isagi turns to face him. And finally, he can see his best friend up close, in person. Up close, he’s even worse—or better.
Exactly like Isagi thought, his skin is scattered with freckles, tiny ones across his nose and cheeks, like the summer’s been showing him off. His eyes, though—they’re the same as always. Big, golden, and impossibly bright.
It’s stupid how much Isagi notices. Stupider how hard it is to look away.
“So? You should miss me every moment I’m not with you” Bachira replies, a small pout on his perfect face, and Isagi is already giving in.
He digs through the depths of his mind for that little bit of dignity he has left, the one that Bachira Meguru hasn’t already turned to dust, and answers.
“I’m glad we’re seeing each other again after so long,” he smiles genuinely, placing his hand on his friend's bicep. He remembers that his shoulders hurt.
A genuine smile appears on Bachira's face as well, and for a few seconds, they just stand there, locked in each other's gaze. The world around them disappearing.
The match isn’t anything special. There are only three moments, in Isagi’s personal opinion, worth mentioning.
First, Bachira dribbling past Kaiser and Ness, even though it ended with the first Barcha goal, and Kaiser’s confused, defeated expression—Isagi really hopes every camera in the stadium caught that moment.
Then Isagi scores the equalizer. Nothing spectacular. It’s the kind of goal that doesn’t get the spotlight, but it gets the job done. The crowd roars, and for a second, he allows himself a brief, quiet moment of satisfaction.
And then there’s the third. Bachira casually wiping the sweat from his forehead with his jersey, flashing a bit of his sun-kissed skin to all the lucky souls who happen to be watching the game at that exact moment—at least, in Isagi’s totally unbiased opinion, it’s one of the highlights of the match.
Isagi might even go as far as to call it one of the greatest moments in football history. But, yeah, that’s probably pushing it a bit.
In the locker room, everyone’s chatting about their plans for the evening. After all, it’s rare for the whole team to be together and actually have the chance to hang out. And in Barcelona, no less.
Hiori and Kurona ask Isagi if he wants to join them, suggesting they hit a club and have some fun for once, since they don’t have to wake up early for training the next day.
But Isagi is categorical, declaring that he’ll be spending the evening in the hotel, as highly recommended by the five people who’ve been managing his chaos for the past four years. He gives himself a mental pat on the back.
Shortly after stepping out of the shower, Isagi gets a message
uff, we barely saw each other today
want to go out tonight with me and otoya?
And Isagi had said he wasn’t going out. How was it again? Oh right, categorical.
Sure, what time?
Before he can even put the phone down, Hiori, who’s been lounging nearby, glances over and smirks. Kurona looks at him and shakes his head.
Isagi just stares at them, already resigned to his fate.
“So, we’re going out today, then?”
Isagi wasn’t a virgin.
He’d never had a serious relationship, but he’d definitely had his fair share of one-night flings and a couple of casual hookups.
Still, as he stood in front of the mirror for what felt like the hundredth time, trying on the same black shirt with a different pair of pants, cursing his past self for not packing more clothes, he still felt like that same seventeen-year-old with his first crush.
Even though, deep down, he knew Bachira and the people he’d slept with were in entirely different categories. It would almost be an insult to even try to compare Bachira with girls he barely remembered the names of.
As if reading his thoughts, Hiori, sprawled out on his bed with his phone in hand, asks, "Why haven't you two ever hooked up?"
"Why haven’t you and Karasu ever hooked up?" Isagi shoots back, maybe a little too fast.
Hiori looks up from his phone, raises an eyebrow, “You know you’re not supposed to answer a question with another question, right?"
Isagi sighs and drops onto his bed.
"It's complicated. We've always had shitty timing. Or maybe he doesn't like me as much as I like him. And then, we both have to put our careers first. If we started dating, it'd be a whole fucking scandal. Even when he came out six years ago, a lot of people gave him shit."
“Oh, yeah, I remember. The first time you went off on the journalists,” Hiori says with a half-smile.
Isagi remembers that time like it was yesterday.
Bachira had decided to come out just after winning the U20 World Cup, and even though the whole team had his back, some people just couldn’t keep their mouths shut. And even though Bachira usually gave back as good as he got, Isagi still felt like he had to defend his best friend.
At the time, Isagi didn’t have a PR team, so he just said and did whatever the hell he wanted.
Good times, really.
But now wasn’t the time to get lost in memories. He had more important things to focus on.
"You don't need to overthink it, man. Bachira would jump on you even if you were wearing trash bags," Hiori sighed, going back to his phone.
Hiori always thought the worst of him, but that wasn’t his goal for the night, really. He needed to keep a low profile, have a bit of fun—moderately—with Bachira, and then head back to the hotel.
No scandals.
Isagi, Hiori, and Kurona arrive in front of the club slightly early, absolutely not because Isagi booked the taxi an hour earlier than they were supposed to meet.
Bachira and Otoya show up five minutes late, even though Isagi is pretty sure Bachira’s apartment is just around the corner from the club.
Isagi and Otoya haven’t really talked much.
Isagi knows Otoya is Bachira’s closest friend in Spain, and while he's grateful Bachira has someone who’s always there for him, a part of Isagi can’t help but feel a little jealous every time he sees them exchange a smile or talk about something that Isagi doesn’t know. He knows he has no right to feel that way, really.
His rational side reminds him of it every time he sees a picture of Bachira hugging one of his teammates, Bachira doesn’t belong to you, stop being a greedy asshole .
Bachira hugs Hiori and Kurona first, and finally, Isagi.
Their embrace lingers for just a second too long to be considered "friendly," but Isagi doesn’t care, and who decided hugs had to be short, anyway? He ignores the look and the half-smile Hiori throws his way.
Bachira and Otoya skip the line, casually mentioning they know the owner. Sure enough, when the bodyguard at the door spots them, he immediately steps forward with a grin, shaking both of their hands before waving them in.
Isagi, Hiori and Kurona follow right behind them.
The club is a sensory overload from the moment Isagi steps inside.
The bass rattles his bones, so loud he can feel it in his chest. It’s like the music is trying to punch its way out of the speakers and into his skull.
Isagi squints, his eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh, rapid shifts in color. The lights feel like they’re assaulting his senses.
Hiori’s right beside him, his eyes narrowed against the flashing lights, looking just as unimpressed as Isagi feels.
Kurona’s a few steps behind them, already covering his ears like he’s just walked into a war zone.
Bachira and Otoya, on the other hand, are in their element.
They glide through the crowd like they own the place, barely needing to make any effort to dodge bodies or find their way to the bar. Meanwhile, Isagi and the others are stuck in the middle of a sweaty mob, trying not to trip over people or knock into anything.
The scent of sweat and cheap cologne fills the air, mixing with the faint smell of alcohol and a hint of something sticky from the dance floor.
Isagi is already regretting this.
Isagi wasn’t exactly the clubbing type, and he definitely wasn’t used to drinking in the middle of a crowd of strangers. His manager’s voice echoes in his mind occasionally, but it’s drowned out by the thumping music that vibrates in his chest.
When Bachira hands him a shot, Isagi takes it without thinking. He swallows the liquid quickly, the burning sensation crawling down his throat. He mentally swears to himself—just this one, that’s it.
Kurona refuses everything, “Nope, nope”, claiming he can have fun without alcohol. Isagi smirks, already feeling like the night might not be such a disaster after all. If Kurona can survive this place sober, Isagi can survive with his dignity mostly intact.
So, he takes another shot as Bachira drags him onto the dance floor.
Isagi wasn’t exactly a great dancer. Flexibility wasn’t his strong suit. So, he settled for bobbing his head to the beat and watching Bachira have the time of his life.
And if there was one person who could look good even under the horrid purple lights of the club, it was Bachira.
Bachira, moving like the world was a playground and he was the only one in it, eyes shut and a subtle smile on his lips, as if the rest of the crowd didn’t exist.
His gaze drifted from Bachira’s hair—loose and falling to his shoulders—to the delicate features of his face, still holding traces of baby fat on his cheeks.
Sweat clung to the curls at the back of his neck, and despite the mess of colors on his shirt—clashing in a way that probably shouldn’t work—Isagi couldn’t help but think it was the best damn piece of fashion he’d ever seen.
And when Bachira opens his eyes, gold meeting blue, Isagi’s breath catches in his throat.
And then Bachira smiles, that dazzling grin with all thirty-two teeth, a smile unlike any other he’s seen in interviews
Isagi thinks that maybe, just maybe, this night isn’t so bad after all.
Then, of course, just as Isagi’s starting to think he might survive this, some idiot shoves him forward without so much as a “sorry” and he ends up leaning on Bachira to stop himself from face-planting.
Their bodies press together, even after all these years, even now that Isagi is five centimeters taller than him, like two pieces of a puzzle. Who cares about things like sweat or his lungs’ need to breathe? For once, Isagi just wants to savor this, to hold on to the feeling of being so close.
Maybe he should even buy a drink to that asshole.
Isagi pulls away when he hears Bachira mumble something, his face buried in the crook of Isagi’s neck.
“What?” Isagi shouts, trying to cut through the bass thumping in his chest, but Bachira just gives him that grin, the one that says I’m doing something you’re supposed to get , even though Isagi has absolutely no idea what it is.
And maybe it’s the alcohol.
Or maybe it’s the seven years of "I’ll get over it, eventually" that have made his body and mind a little too soft. Pliable.
But when Bachira’s hands gently rest on his cheeks and pull him closer, Isagi doesn’t ask any questions. He simply closes his eyes, letting himself be pulled into the moment.
“Heyyyyy Bachiiiii.”
A voice shatters the bubble that Isagi and Bachira had been in just a second ago, followed by a loud hiccup.
And Isagi’s never had anything against Otoya, but in that moment—while Otoya claps a hand on Bachira’s shoulder and shoves a yellow-orange cocktail in his face—Isagi seriously considers murder.
And as Bachira gets dragged away by Otoya, Isagi stands frozen in the middle of the dance floor, his mind a mess of frustration and confusion.
The music is still pounding, the lights still flashing, but everything around him fades into a blur.
At the last second, Bachira turns around, a faint blush still lingering on his cheeks, and mumbles half an apology.
Isagi stands there for a moment longer, staring at the back of Bachira, his heart doing that weird, uncomfortable flip again. A sigh escapes his lips, but he quickly suppresses it.
And anyway, tonight wasn’t the night. He tries to convince himself a hundred, maybe a thousand times.
He scans the crowd for Hiori or Kurona—someone, anyone, to pull him out of this mess.
Isagi had never really thought of himself as unlucky. After all, his karma couldn’t be that bad, right?
But now, as he watches Kaiser and Ness across the room in the VIP section—surrounded by bottles of champagne, lounging on plush leather sofas, clearly having the time of their lives—he starts to think maybe he needs to reconsider his whole "karma's not that bad" philosophy.
Looks like everyone’s here today, huh?
Isagi’s trying to escape Kaiser and Ness, but the club’s packed, and he’s stuck weaving through people like a pinball.
He’s scanning for Kurona ,the only responsible adult he can rely on at the moment.
But instead, he finds himself face-to-face with the bar.
He knows he shouldn’t be here. He hears his manager’s voice echoing in his head, warning him, reminding him that this isn’t the best idea.
He can already picture the headlines tomorrow: "Bastard Munich Star Gets Drunk and Vomits in Barcelona with Barcha’s Prodigy". The thought makes him cringe.
But then the music hits, louder, heavier, and it drowns everything else out. The pulsing beats, the flashing lights, the heat of the room.
And on top of it all, there's the anger and frustration he's been carrying all day—how everything's been a mess, how he's been avoiding everyone.
And then there's that tension that’s been gnawing at him since the second he saw Bachira today. It’s building up, and he’s not sure how much longer he can fight it.
So, without thinking, he grabs a drink. Then another. And another.
In Isagi's foggy memories, there are two images that stick in his mind.
Him searching for Bachira, pushing through the crowd and probably spilling his drink, either on someone else or all over himself.
And Kaiser sitting on the couch, while Isagi's standing in front of him with a bottle in hand, probably trying to look cooler than he actually is.
The liquid from the bottle somehow ends up all over Kaiser, and, of course, everyone starts shouting. Maybe Isagi's shouting too—who knows?
Then there's this sharp pain in his cheek, probably from someone punching him (or maybe he just fell into a wall, honestly hard to tell). His hands hurt, and Isagi's pretty sure he's punched something, but at this point he's not even sure what.
A huge guy tries to drag him out of the chaos, but Isagi's not having it. He somehow manages to escape.
And then... blackout. Total blackout.
Kurona finds Isagi slouched on a couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, and his pants a mess from a cocktail that somehow ended up on him. Still holding the damn glass like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Seriously, seriously?” Kurona mutters under his breath as he grabs Isagi by the arm, hauling him up. Isagi doesn't respond, he just stumbles a bit, too far gone to care.
A few minutes later, Hiori bursts into the bathroom, dragging Bachira along.
The guy’s practically sticking to Hiori, his smile all goofy and too wide for the circumstances. "Found him sprawled out on a table, half-naked. No clue where Otoya went," Hiori says with a sigh, trying to get Bachira in front of the sink to clean up.
Isagi would feel bad for his friends—he knows how annoying it is to be stuck babysitting grown men who can't handle their drinks. But honestly, right now, he’s too busy trying not to puke to care.
The battle with his body doesn’t last long. Isagi loses.
Face pressed against the toilet, Kurona hovering nearby, Isagi briefly wonders what kind of tragic comedy anyone walking in would witness. Probably the kind that ends up on a viral video.
Strangely enough, after throwing up, Isagi feels like a brand-new man. Well, not brand-new, but at least the world isn’t spinning anymore, and that’s a win in his book.
He still needs Kurona to steady him as he gets up, but his brain isn’t swirling in a chaotic blender of bad decisions and regret anymore. Progress.
He glances over at Bachira, who's sitting on the sink without his shirt on, looking like a mess, but at least not as bad as he was before.
They manage a semi-coherent conversation—at least, Isagi thinks they do.
They ask him what happened to his face, but Isagi can’t remember.
Bachira’s cute, worried face as he holds Isagi’s hand and inspects the scrapes on his knuckles makes him think that whatever happened, it was probably worth it.
After officially declaring Otoya missing in action, the group stumbles out of the club—miraculously, all still on their own two feet.
Kurona had already called a taxi while Isagi and Bachira were still off in whatever drunk fantasyland they’d been floating in, so as soon as they stepped outside, the four survivors climbed in.
Bachira was up first to be dropped off. He didn’t live far, like Isagi vaguely remembered, and he even offered to walk home, grinning like he hadn’t almost fallen off a sink ten minutes ago.
Hiori shut that down immediately, claiming he didn’t want Bachira’s demise on his conscience. Isagi couldn’t have agreed more.
During the short ride to Bachira’s apartment, Isagi found himself plastered against the car door.
Not because the backseat was cramped—Kurona was comfortably sprawled in the front, and Hiori was half-passed out against the opposite window—but because Bachira, in all his semi-drunk clingy glory, had decided that personal space was optional.
Apparently, his seat in the middle wasn’t enough. He had to claim half of Isagi’s too.
Now he was practically draped over him, head balanced on Isagi’s shoulder like a particularly affectionate cat.
Bachira grabbed Isagi’s hand again, flipping it over to inspect his knuckles like he hadn’t already done it a dozen times. “I’ve got band-aids and gauze at home,” he muttered, and Isagi could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “If it hurts that much.”
And Isagi thought that was the best idea he had ever heard.
Isagi got out of the car with Bachira, swearing to Kurona that he wouldn’t leave again, that he’d put something on his wounds, and that he wouldn’t stay up too late.
Isagi nodded like he was actually processing all of it, but both he and Kurona knew his brain was still running on half-speed, barely absorbing anything.
He was way too focused on feeling every inch of Bachira’s skin against his, where their hands were intertwined.
“Night, night,” Kurona sighed, already tired of this whole circus, and the car drove off.
Bachira barely stepped into the elevator before Isagi was right there, close enough that their breaths mingled.
A soft “finally” slipped from his lips, but Isagi wasn’t sure if he’d said it or if Bachira had. It didn’t really matter.
Bachira’s lips, so soft. The light brush of Bachira’s eyelashes against his skin as he moved closer. His hands, gentle but firm, running through his hair, holding him in place as if he might try to pull away.
As if he could anymore. Now that all of his senses were completely consumed by Bachira and every cell in his body was chanting his name like a prayer.
Isagi hears Bachira whimper in his mouth and can’t take it anymore.
His cold hands meet the warm skin under Bachira’s shirt and leave goosebumps where they touch.
Another moan and Bachira comes off.
"Dude, I need oxygen," he says gasping, looking with his usual bright eyes, pupils slightly larger than usual, his pretty red face and his mouth kiss-bruised pink.
Isagi could, literally, come on the spot right now.
They stumble into Bachira's apartment, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Isagi almost faceplants over some random thing on the floor—though it’s not really important right now—and Bachira laughs, dragging him into another kiss before heading straight to the bedroom.
When they enter the room, Bachira finally bothers to turn on the light and Isagi takes in the chaos.
The place is a mess—clothes everywhere, random posters on the walls, and fairy lights strewn across the furniture like they just gave up on organizing.
Isagi doesn’t even get a chance to make a joke before Bachira walks him backward until his knees hit the bed, and he’s left sitting on sheets covered in pineapples.
And the moment he sees Bachira kneeling in front of him, somehow the entire room just disappears.
Funny how that works.
Isagi couldn't help but feel a twinge of embarrassment as Bachira unbuttoned his pants, revealing a painfully hard erection.
But any feelings of self-consciousness, or any other feeling really, were quickly taken over by the overwhelming pleasure that flooded through him as Bachira leaned in, his pink cute tongue teasingly poking out to taste the precum that was already dripping from Isagi's member.
After a few seconds, as if he was deciding whether the taste pleased him or not, Bachira's small yet strong hands settled firmly on Isagi's thighs as he took Isagi's length into his mouth.
He starts with the head, alternating between delicate sucking and swirling his tongue to clean any trace of pre-cum.
Isagi could do nothing but gaze at him in awe, a soft whisper escaping his lips, “God you’re so good, so pretty”.
He feels more than hear Bachira’s moan and a shiver runs through his whole body.
And when Bachira looks up at him with glassy eyes, sucking and drooling all over him. Isagi thinks he’s about to combust.
Shit, not yet.
When Isagi tries to pry him off, pulling gently at his hair, Bachira whines. Needy.
A string of saliva still connects his mouth to Isagi’s cock when he asks "Why?", breathless as if he was about to cry. Eyes big and pleading.
And what was Isagi supposed to do?
“Come here,” Isagi says, patting his thigh, his breath as ragged as Bachira’s.
He’s never seen Bachira follow orders so quickly.
As soon as Bachira climbs onto his lap, he grabs Isagi’s face with both hands and pulls him for another kiss.
No trace of the previous gentleness as Bachira explores Isagi’s mouth with his tongue, tearing small moans from the man below him.
Isagi’s hands slide under Bachira’s shirt, fingertips brushing against his warm skin, pulled in like magnets.
And when Bachira smiles, pulling away just enough to slip off his shirt, Isagi can’t help but watch, frozen as if afraid that at any moment Bachira could disappear.
And Isagi has seen his friend without a shirt a thousand times. He’s pretty sure half the world has by now.
Yet, as his hands travel across Bachira’s back and then slide down to his abs, his fingers grazing the smooth skin, Isagi feels the taut muscles flex and shift beneath his touch.
And it’s not even comparable.
Isagi can feel the heat radiating off him, the slight dampness of sweat lingering on his skin, as he closes his lips on a pink pierced nipple.
And when Isagi unbuttons Bachira’s pants and glides their erections together, Bachira sighs and nuzzles his face into Isagi's neck.
And Isagi thinks he never wants to stop.
And when Bachira cries out, "Isagi, please. Please ".
Isagi can’t help but think that Bachira doesn’t need to beg. He would give him everything—everything he has, everything he is—without a second thought, no hesitation.
And when they come together.
Isagi bites Bachira’s shoulder. His shirt and Bachira’s chest stained. Bachira’s shattered moans are the only things he hears.
Isagi knows he’s ruined. Bachira Meguru ruined him for everyone else.
When he wakes up in the morning, Isagi wonders when he bought sheets with pineapples on them.
As he looks down and feels an arm resting across his stomach, he starts to piece things together.
Turning to his right, he sees a tangled mess of brown and blonde hair. Isagi can’t help but smile, because of course.
He tilts his head slightly to the left, and there it is—peace.
The calm, serene face of Bachira Meguru, fully relaxed and nestled into the blankets. A small trickle of saliva drips from his chin, and Isagi thinks he shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does.
As Isagi scans Bachira from head to toe—something he’s been doing way too often lately—his eyes catch a red mark on the pale, flawless skin of Bachira’s shoulder. Oh great. Perfect. And seriously, he hopes Bachira doesn’t bring it up. Shit, he might’ve gotten a little carried away last night.
As if he could hear the gears in Isagi’s brain creaking to life, Bachira opens his eyes, and a sleepy, half-dazed smile spreads across his face.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep as he presses his cheek gently against Isagi’s shoulder, the warmth of his skin making Isagi’s breath catch.
And for a moment, Isagi is so tempted to just lean in and kiss that smile away.
And then it hits him. He can actually do it. Finally. After seven years.
He gently cradles Bachira’s soft, round face in his hands, and without a word, he presses his lips to his. "Good morning," he whispers between each kiss, moving from his lips to his nose, his cheeks, his forehead.
As Bachira’s light laughter fills the space between them, Isagi thinks to himself that maybe he should visit Barcelona more often.
And yet, Isagi Yoichi, professional football player, 24 years old, is banned from taking any “leisure” trips for at least a month.
Yes, he’s basically grounded.
He’d love to argue that it's completely unfair. That Hiori and Kurona didn’t get so much as a raised eyebrow for going out that night. But even Isagi knows when to keep his mouth shut.
And every time someone online brings it up. Or worse, posts photos with headlines like:
“Bastard München’s Star Drunk and Vomiting in Barcelona”
“Isagi Yoichi and Michael Kaiser Throwing Punches. Again.”
“Isagi Yoichi and Bachira Meguru Together? Exclusive Photos.”
Isagi curses himself for agreeing to go out that night.
But then, Bachira sends him a selfie or a message about his day.
And, okay, maybe it was worth it after all.
But his manager doesn’t need to know it.