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There are three simple facts of Reo Mikage’s life and they are this: the sky is blue, the grass is green and Bachira and Isagi are hopelessly, obliviously in love.
Thankfully, moving halfway across the globe and playing for a team on a separate continent entirely has reduced his interactions with them to once or twice a year–three times if he’s unlucky. Unfortunately, the World Cup does the metaphorical equivalent of throwing a giant, planet-sized axe in his plans.
Reo is forced unwillingly and unfortunately into their proximity for two weeks straight–which really, should be considered a crime against humanity. And because fate has a personal grudge against him, the frontal assaults against his sanity begin the moment he steps off the plane.
Nagi is still knocked unconscious from the jet lag and Reo has to half-drag, half-carry him off the plane. Fuck the people at the baggage claim who whip out their phones and start mumbling amongst themselves–Nagi’s a treasure and he would do this much and more for him without a second thought.
His thoughts are shattered by a sadly familiar voice ringing out in the crowded room. A few of their old Blue Lock teammates had offered to pick them up at the airport and Reo had known that Bachira’s flight would be coming in around the same time as them, so in hindsight he should have seen this coming.
Unfortunately, no amount of foresight can prepare him for the way Bachira uses his luggage as a stepping stool to completely launch himself at Isagi. Manners? Possible bystanders? Basic respect for the poor people in your proximity who are forced to witness such a blatant display of PDA? Clearly, none of those exist in Bachira’s world.
“Isagi!” Bachira laughs, clinging onto him like some sort of wayward koala. Ha. Reo readjusts Nagi on his back and yanks their luggages off the carousel. He kicks them in Chigiri’s direction because if the bratty princess has two free hands and won’t do something useful like drive them, he can at least carry the bags.
Chigiri raises an eyebrow and scoffs before walking off. Reo scowls at his back and hopes Kunigami dumps him.
“Isagi!” Bachira calls out again and Reo is sadly reminded again of their very loud, very obvious and very gay existence. He’s still clinging onto Isagi’s back like a leech and what’s even worse is that Isagi looks like he’s actually enjoying it. A pair of absolutely crazy idiots.
“I missed you!” Bachira says and Reo just gapes in response. Add a cheesy pop song and some lighting effects and you have the finale scene of some B-rated chick-flick. Really, Reo doesn’t know why him carrying Nagi off the field after practice makes the online headlines but Bachira jumping on Isagi like long-lost lovers reunited after a war is deemed socially acceptable. Three years in the running and he’s still winning “JFU’s Gayest Player”, as decreed by the mob of people on Twitter that are way too interested in his love life to be considered normal.
Isagi smiles as he slings Bachira’s duffle bag around the arm that isn’t currently being pinned under his weight. He laughs and Reo can’t think of a more awful, more horrible or more off-key noise.
“We saw each other last month,” Isagi replies and such a straight-forward declaration should not elicit that wide of a smile. They’re also moving at a pace of 0.1mph and Reo suppresses the urge to scream because really, couldn’t Bachira and Isagi have picked a better location than Terminal B for their teary-eyed reunion?
“That was soccer,” Bachira says, mouth pulled into a pout. “This is different! I have you all to myself for a whole week!”
Isagi’s face twists with confusion and Reo rolls his eyes. At this point, he’s learned not to trust anything that comes out of Bachira’s mouth. He’s the textbook definition of batshit crazy.
“We’re here to play for Japan,” Isagi replies, still smiling through the confusion because he’s an idiot. Bachira laughs again and Reo thinks the sound is going to haunt him in his dreams.
“That’s what you think!” he says. What. What is that supposed to mean? They’ve literally all been summoned back to play for Japan and that’s an indisputable fact.
Reo feels a weight shift on his shoulder and he turns his head around instinctively.
“Oi, Reo,” Nagi mumbles, stirring awake. “Why aren’t we moving?”
Reo glares at the pair of idiots standing in front of them.
“Because the circus is back in town and they’re blocking the whole walkway.”
Zantetsu puts down the travel brochure he’d been reading when the group from the airport finally returns. Raichi had yelled at him earlier about it being upside down or something but when he flipped it over, it had made even less sense. Whatever. As long as he pushes his glasses up and uses fancy English words like “anemones” and “oddities”, no one will suspect a thing.
Bachira and Isagi are the first ones to burst through the doors, their hands interlocked as they hit the lobby. Isagi has a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and he’s laughing–presumably at something Bachira said.
Zantetsu nods as they walk past him.
“I’m glad to see you two finally combusted,” he says and Isagi shoots him a confused look before Bachira drags him to the front counter. Reo trails behind them with Nagi on his back and he shakes his head morosely in Zantetsu’s direction. It’s the most depressed he’s looked since… well, since Nagi dumped him back in Blue Lock. He hadn’t been there for it personally but Ego had turned the earlier stages of Blue Lock into a limited-edition short film after the TV show exploded. Fan-edits of Reo and Nagi appear on his For You page on a daily basis and he makes sure to send each and every one of them to Reo to keep him updated.
“Don’t even bother,” Reo mutters darkly. Zantetsu frowns.
“They say jealousy is not good for your eyes,” he says and Reo squints at him like he’s trying to decipher the words. Ha, he must be getting quite clever if even Reo is having trouble understanding him.
“It’s ‘jealousy is not a good look on you’,” he finally spits out. The weight of his glare is easily countered by Nagi’s snores from his place on Reo’s back.
Zantetsu blinks at the familiar sight. At least some things haven’t changed over the years.
Kunigami would really like to take his ears out, run them through the $1 laundry that the flier on the wall keeps advertising and then shove them back into his skull.
“Oh, we don’t need two separate rooms!” Bachira says again to the poor employee manning the counter. Kunigami feels for her, he really does, but you couldn’t pay him any amount of money to switch places.
“But the manager said–” the woman starts and then stops. She rubs her eyes as if that’ll make the problem magically disappear. It won’t. Kunigami should know.
It’s 1 am here in Japan and they’re all jet lagged as hell, minus the person metaphorically bouncing off the walls and literally bouncing on the carpet. Isagi’s gone stock-still since the initial proposition and the employee’s expression is starting to crack after probably realizing that she isn’t getting paid nearly enough to deal with this shit.
“We’re sharing… a room?” Isagi echoes, having finally found his voice again after five minutes. He doesn’t sound necessarily appalled at the idea, just shocked with a tinge of wariness. Kunigami doesn’t know if he should take this as a symptom of the early stages of insanity.
“Come on, Isagi, it’ll be just like old times!” Bachira says, eyes going wide as he tugs on Isagi’s sleeve. And ah, Kunigami recognizes that expression–it’s the same one Chigiri wears when he wants that lotion whose international shipping accounts for half the price or that ridiculously overpriced coffee he always gets from the cafe down the street. Bachira sets the trap with a trembling lip and slight frown and Isagi falls right into it.
“Okay,” he relents and the woman at the counter finally caves, checking them into a room with probably the last vestiges of her sanity. Kunigami sends out a mental F in the chat for their fallen soldier.
“It’ll be just like Blue Lock!” Bachira calls out as they start up the staircase and that raises a whole new host of questions in his mind. Were Bachira and Isagi sharing a futon at Blue Lock? Does this mean they were also fuck–
Never mind. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to know. Ever. What he does know is that despite their blatant, borderline cavity-inducing displays of affection over the past two hours–god, how it’s only been 2 hours, he has no clue–Bachira and Isagi are in fact not dating. Not dating yet, at least.
Chigiri had gotten curious on the ride back and of course, instead of providing GPS directions like a helpful co-pilot, he’d chosen to repeatedly text Kunigami about Bachira and Isagi’s questionable situationship–which had almost caused the car to swerve into a tree when he tried to read the topmost message.
To avoid any future car crashes–and more importantly, the legal nightmares they would ensue–Kunigami had put the whole topic to bed by asking about their relationship statuses in the most pained and most stilted voice imaginable. His only saving grace might have been that Reo and Nagi were asleep in the backseat because he had no intention of hearing their soap opera of a life retold for the millionth time over.
“I’m not seeing anyone right now,” Bachira had replied instantly. His smile remained unwavering as he turned towards Isagi. “You?”
“I’m not seeing anyone either,” Isagi had mumbled back and then they shared a laugh about being lonely together because they’re absolute geniuses when they’re on the pitch but absolute fools when they’re off it.
“This can’t be real,” Kunigami mutters to himself in the hotel lobby, even as he watches the very real figures of his former? current? teammates disappear up the staircase. Chigiri laughs at his misery and glides onto the next topic effortlessly–something about the shitty hotel shampoo–because he apparently developed an immunity to idiots in love after his time on Manshine City.
Chigiri had said he already paid his dues after having to handle Reo and Nagi on his own for a year straight. Kunigami stares at the end of the hallway and wonders if this is karma finally coming to collect its debt.
Bachira leans against the headboard, tracing the washed-out tag of Isagi’s luggage with one finger, and decides that this has to be, hands-down, the best night of his life. They’ve seen each other in passing and on the pitch over the past few months but it’s been years since they’ve been like this–alone and side-by-side. It’s like a long-overdue sleepover.
Isagi wanders while he brushes his teeth and he’s leaning against the wall in his bathrobe now, watching as Bachira flicks through a series of TV channels he can’t be bothered to pay attention to.
“Would you ever want to live on a farm?” Isagi asks as some commercial about barn houses and horses fills the screen. There’s country music blasting in the background and Bachira hums. It seems too quiet, too still there–even if he were to go post-retirement, it still seems too monotone . Static floods his brain.
But. There are sacrifices Bachira is willing to make. Isagi is the type of person who can make even a grid-like orchid or ordered rows of crops interesting–inventing new ways to probably climb trees and harvest with maximum efficiency.
“I don’t care where I go as long as I’m with you,” he replies. There’s honesty and happiness laced doubly into his tone and Bachira doesn’t miss the way Isagi’s cheeks pink. He mumbles something noncommittal about rinsing his mouth and ducks back into the bathroom.
When he finally resurfaces–color restored and hair matted to his forehead–Bachira realizes something critical that he honestly should have noticed at first glance.
“Your sprout is gone!” he cries, pointing at his head. Isagi spins around and around–looking everywhere but the point of interest.
“My sprout?” he echoes, dazed. He keeps staring at the windowsill like a potted plant will magically materialize there. “What’s my sprout?”
Bachira laughs and tries to mime the haircut on his head. He slides two fingers apart and points them upwards on top of his scalp. Isagi stares.
“I don’t,” he starts and then stops, fumbling to swallow. “I don’t think I always have that? Not enough for it to be given a name, at least.”
Bachira laughs and pats the space on the bed beside him as he jiggles his phone out of his pocket.
“Come look,” he says and Isagi sighs before crawling onto the mattress next to him. He still smells like the mint shampoo the hotel gave them and Bachira breathes in deep as he snuggles in closer to his side.
“‘Where’s Waldo’ Isagi-sprout edition!” he announces and pulls up the first photo. It’s from one of Bastard Munchen’s most recent games and it shows Isagi standing in the center of the field, fist pumped up into the air. “Sprout!”
Isagi squints at the screen like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. The pixels don’t lie though and they both stare at the little tuft of hair on the top of his head.
“Okay, but that’s just one–”
“Sprout!” Bachira calls again, already swiping to the next photo. It’s an older one from their Blue Lock days and it shows in the way Isagi’s jersey hangs loose around his limbs. It’s different from the way he looks now–cloth snug around his arms, glistening as he runs under the spotlights of the stadium. Bachira jabs an elbow into Isagi’s side and he yelps.
“What was that for?” Isagi asks and Bachira laughs, already swiping to the next slide.
“Just felt like it,” he says and Isagi shakes his head but doesn’t press any further. Perks of being old-time friends, he supposes, although their thoughts have always been intertwined, hearts beating in sync ever since their first match on Team Z.
Twelve pictures–and twelve sprouts–later, Isagi eventually caves and buries his face into the duvet.
“So maybe there is a sprout,” he sighs and Bachira laughs again, flipping over onto his back. His head dangles dangerously over the side of the bed but Isagi yanks him back with one arm before he falls too far. “Where’d you even get all these pictures from?”
“Oh!” Bachira sits up at that, swiping back to the Instagram home page. “This account!”
Isagi goes quiet, his eyes wide as his mouth flattens into a thin line.
“Bachira,” he says finally and damn has he missed the way Isagi says his name, voice dipping into something soft on the last syllable. “This is a fan account. Of me. ”
“Well, yeah. Why else would it have that many pictures of you?” Somehow, this response seems to elicit only more confusion out of Isagi and Bachira wonders if this would be a good time to show him the other 7 fan accounts he’s following. He looks like he’s on the verge of combustion though so he eventually decides against it.
“Why are you following fan accounts of me?” Isagi asks instead. His voice sounds halfway between choked and confused.
“Because I’m your biggest fan!” Bachira replies with a laugh. Really, for someone so smart, Isagi can be a little dense sometimes. Isagi chokes on the words, muttering something to himself as he stares at the carpet. “We haven’t even gotten to the reels yet.”
“The reels…” Isagi echoes dully but lets Bachira tug him closer all the same. He drops his head onto his shoulder and Bachira snuggles into the warmth as he presses play.
Thirty-one saved reels later, Isagi’s concentration starts to finally crack, yawning as Imagine Dragons’ “Natural” blasts out of the phone speakers.
“It’s getting late,” Isagi murmurs, right beside his ear and Bachira does his best to not to shiver at the noise. (Spoiler alert: he fails.) “We should go to sleep. We have a press conference tomorrow.”
Darn. They were just getting to the good ones too. Bachira loves any and all fan edits of Isagi but the older ones occasionally have him too and those warm his heart in a different way that he can’t explain.
“Five more minutes?” he pleads, tugging on the sleeve of Isagi’s bathrobe. Isagi stares back at him, struggling to harden his features into something remotely stern.
“Only five ,” he relents and Bachira grins.
They spend the next hour watching clips from @bachisagi_bae.
Chigiri looks deep into the recesses of his coffee cup and takes a long swig. It is way too fucking early in the morning to deal with this shit.
Bachira and Isagi emerged from their shared hotel room–which is scarring enough for one morning–ten minutes before they stopped serving breakfast. Isagi mutters something about someone being unable to wake up even though he told them to go to bed early and gives Bachira a look charged with more sincerity than intensity
“But we were having so much fun last night!” Bachira laughs and Chigiri spits out his coffee. That’s one image he never ever wanted in his head and one he’ll now never be able to erase.
Of course, neither of them has ever been the type to do things halfway so it doesn’t stop there. Bachira’s wearing one of Isagi’s sweatshirts which Chigiri knows because a) it’s too neutral-toned for something from Bachira’s closet and b) it has “ISAGI” in bold, block letters going across the back.
It’s ruining his breakfast and he tells Kunigami as much. He gets a pointed look at his own clothes in response, which really isn’t fair at all. So what if he’s wearing Kunigami’s old high school sweatshirt? It’s not his fault that he wears it better.
“Isagi, open wide~” Bachira calls out, waving a forked sausage with way too much enthusiasm for 8 in the morning. It reminds Chigiri of things at Blue Lock that he desperately wishes he could unsee.
Isagi’s jaw drops–on reflex or shock or maybe conditioning–and Bachira pops the food into his mouth, satisfied as he wipes some sauce off with a napkin. Chigiri doesn’t bother trying to stifle his groan. He can only deal with so much gay shit in one sitting and Reo and Nagi fill the quota by just existing.
Aryu throws his hair over one shoulder and it hits Tokimitsu square in the face.
“Jealousy is not a very glam look on you,” he says and it takes all of Chigiri’s self-restraint (read: Kunigami) to not launch himself across the table at him.
Raichi tugs his jersey over his head and kicks the locker door closed. Ten minutes to kick-off and he can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heartbeat hammering in his ears even if this is far from his first run on the pitch.
“Are you nervous?” Gagamuru asks, eyes wide and slow as they follow him around the room. Raichi scoffs at the thought.
“Of course not!” he spits out, kicking an open locker closed for good measure. It’s probably that fucker Nagi’s since he can’t be bothered to do anything on his own and Reo got pulled away for an interview. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” Gagamuru replies and the honest deadpan in his voice makes Raichi want to kick something all over again.
Thankfully, Bachira chooses that moment to walk in through the entrance. He’s not wearing his jersey but at least he’s wearing a pair of shorts and Raichi thinks that’s at least some character development.
Bachira full-on leaps over a bench–because who cares about potential injuries right before the biggest match of their careers–and latches himself onto Isagi’s back.
“I missed you!” he calls out happily and Raichi draws a big, black line through his thought from earlier.
Rin watches as Bachira calls “BOOM!” like a five-year old and lobs the ball right over the defender’s head. He’s making an absolute fool of Germany’s sorry excuse for a soccer team and since he still has the maturity of a toddler, of course he’s doing it with sound effects and facial expressions.
“BLAM!” Bachira yells as he does a roulette around that new “prodigy” defender. Rin swallows the sharp retort in his throat because at least he’s playing well and producing results.
He already knows where the ball is heading before Bachira even kicks it. There’s only one person that can link up that well with him, that moves like an extension of his body, already having read his erratic path and waiting at the goal for the pass.
Rin fucking hates soulmates but he can’t deny the benefits of them when Bachira lobs the ball in Isagi’s direction and he sends it flying past the goalie.
4-3. The scoreboard stares down at him in bright LED lights, flashing victory as the whistle blows. Kaiser’s tearing at the turf across the field and the World Cup is gleaming bright on its pedestal but Isagi doesn’t give a shit about any of those.
He finds him standing in the center of the field and he moves on instinct, adrenaline still burning through his system. Isagi hoists Bachira up into the air, hands wrapped around his legs as he spins them in a circle on the pitch.
Bachira gasps when he picks him up, a small note of surprise and Isagi relishes in the unfamiliarity. It’s hard to catch him off-guard and Isagi wants to do it again and again.
“We did it!” he yelps, the air threatening to swallow his words. The stadium cheers are deafening and the sweat and tears mingle as they run down his face. He laughs through it all and meets Bachira’s eyes, gold even under the fluorescent lights. “Bachira, we did it!”
They climbed through the rubble, pulled themselves through Ego’s training from hell and then fought overseas in the professional leagues–scrabbled and crawled all for this moment on the world’s center stage. They stood in the spotlight and they were dazzling. Bachira was dazzling. Is dazzling.
Isagi stares up at him again and wonders if his heart, bubbling over with victory, could be more full.
“Isagi,” Bachira breathes, fingers trailing along the back of his neck until they lock together in something solid. He grabs Isagi by the head and then he’s slamming their faces together, more like a missile than a kiss but Isagi gets the message regardless.
There’s more teeth than he thinks there’s supposed to be but Bachira’s never really been one for conventions. His heart feels like it’s leaking happiness, overflowing past the rim and Isagi smiles at the familiarity of it all.
Just when Isagi thinks he’s hit his limits, Bachira always has a way of proving him wrong. He’s pretty sure he tastes salt on his lips when Bachira finally pulls back, cheeks flushed but grinning all the same, and Isagi can’t do anything but smile back and hold him tighter.
Someone–Chigiri–makes a gagging noise behind them and that makes his composure buckle, his legs giving out underneath him. He falls over onto his back and Bachira lands on top of him, sprawled over his chest.
“Don’t even think about fucking on the pitch,” Rin mutters but Bachira just laughs harder at that one.
“ Ne , Isagi,” he says, reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair off his face. Isagi stills with the motion. “Are we dating?”
Isagi hears Chigiri groan again before he’s effectively silenced.
Are they dating? There’s undeniably something there–something buzzing in the air between them, hot and heavy like static as it crackles with every move.
“If you want,” he finally settles on and Bachira laughs again. Isagi thinks he could get drunk alone on the noise.
“If it means I get to kiss you again, then yes,” he replies and Isagi feels his cheeks flush as he locks his arms behind Bachira’s neck.
“Of course,” he mumbles and Bachira grins, unabashed and breathtakingly beautiful even after an hour-long game, before leaning in to kiss him again.