Chapter Text
Chigiri drops them back off at the apartment after dinner just as the last of the sunlight disappears beyond the horizon.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at practice,” he says to Bachira through the rolled down window.
“You should come over for dinner afterwards!” Bachira offers, but Chigiri shakes his head.
“I’ve got plans with Javi. How about Wednesday?”
“Yeah! Wednesday’s good!”
Isagi wonders what happened to Tuesday, but he figures there are things that Bachira and Chigiri know about each other that he doesn’t. It’s one of the things that’s changed the most since their Blue Lock days when all of them were so wrapped up in each others’ business that it seemed like privacy was even rarer than adult supervision.
They say their goodbyes and Isagi lets Bachira roll him up the ramp and into the lobby. He’s a little light-headed, both from the jet-lag and from the busy day. This is the most time he’s spent actually doing something since the accident and he knows he’s running on empty, so when Bachira brings him to the master bathroom and asks if he wants his help, Isagi only hesitates for a moment before nodding his head yes.
Isagi lets Bachira undress him like he’s some sort of doll. It should be weird and yet somehow, it’s not. They’ve seen each other naked dozens of times in the communal showers of countless football facilities, not to mention Bachira’s own tendency to strut around without clothes as an act of freedom. Maybe that’s why he approaches the task with a breeziness that makes it mundane.
“Up!” Bachira says, with his hands clutched to the fabric around Isagi’s waist. When Isagi lifts his hips up with his hands on the arms of the wheelchair, Bachira pulls down his pants and underwear in one smooth motion. He’s more careful as he makes his way past the cast, stretching the pant legs so that they barely touch the plastic as he slides them down.
“There we go!” he says as he gets past Isagi’s feet, tossing all of Isagi’s clothes into a pile in the middle of the floor. He positions Isagi next to the shower chair and gives him a hand transferring over.
“Thanks,” Isagi says, folding his arms over his stomach. Maybe he does still feel a little exposed despite Bachira’s nonchalance. After a few weeks of inactivity, he can’t help but notice that his skin is a little looser, his stomach a little soft.
He expects Bachira to walk away and leave him to his shower, so when Bachira starts taking off his own shirt, Isagi can’t help the way his mouth falls open.
“What are you doing?”
“Eh?” Bachira asks, pausing with his head halfway through his neck-hole. “Well you can’t take a shower with your clothes on, silly!”
“Right,” Isagi says, even though his brain is still processing.
Once the pile of clothing has doubled in size, Bachira turns towards the array of knobs and nozzles on the wall and turns a few with practiced ease, sending water spitting out of the rainfall shower head and two body jets that immediately drench his hair. He stands there for a moment, face upturned towards the spray, and Isagi has to look away. Sharing a shower was one thing, a by-product of their chosen profession. But watching beads of water as they traced the contoured muscles of your best friend’s torso was something else entirely. Isagi couldn’t handle that, especially not right now when his own body was in shambles.
“Ah, this shower is so much better than the guest bath,” Bachira says before Isagi hears wet feet slap against cold tile and a silver shower nozzle is shoved under his nose. “You know, they advertised this thing as a two-person shower when I moved in, but I’ve never gotten the chance to try it out with anyone else.”
Isagi takes the offered nozzle. “Never?” he asks, heart pounding as Bachira’s legs pass by him as he turns, not quite touching.
“Nuh-uh.” Bachira turns another knob on the wall and warm water hits Isagi in the chest.
He’s surprised, not by the water, but by the fact that this is the first time someone else has been in this shower with Bachira. He knows Bachira has dated since he’s been in Italy. He’s had to listen to the frustration and disappointment in Bachira’s voice each time it’s gone nowhere or ended abruptly. Each time, Isagi has been a little bit relieved.
“It’s kind of like a gym shower, isn’t it?” Isagi says, trying to find ways to normalize this as he wets down his own hair and takes the bottle of shampoo that Bachira hands over to him. A click of the button on the side of the nozzle turns off the spray and he can free up both hands to scrub. It feels nice to get the suds down into his roots. His scalp had started to feel like it was caked in grime after two days of travel.
“It doesn’t have the same ambience,” Bachira muses. Isagi keeps his eyes firmly down at the tile, but he can hear the slap of Bachira’s hair as he flips it over his shoulders.
“You mean the ambience of Barou yelling at someone who accidentally got some soap on him and Chigiri making disgusted noises at the free hair products and Nagi begging Reo to rinse him off?”
“That’s the one,” Bachira says with a giggle. “Emil always manages to make one joke about dropping the soap and Raf splashes the people next to him on purpose just to discourage anyone from using the shower heads next to his.”
“I played with a guy, Sandor, who refused to share a shower room with anyone, even if there were dividers, so he would have to wait until everyone else was done, even if it made us late.”
“Eh? Why would he do that? That’s so weird,” Bachira says, handing over a bottle of soap and a wash towel.
“I don’t know,” Isagi admits. “We were only on the same team for a couple of months before he got loaned out. I think he was just shy.”
“Or maybe he had a secret he didn’t want anyone to see!”
Isagi pauses in his scrubbing. “Like a tattoo?”
“No! Tattoos are so cool! If I had a tattoo, I’d show it off to everybody! But what if I had a really hairy mole? Or a vestigial tail! Actually no, I’d probably show that to people, too.”
Isagi laughs and turns his attention to his leg. The 3D-printed plastic is waterproof, which means he doesn’t need to worry about it, but it still makes it nearly impossible to wash the skin underneath the spokes. He uses the towel to lather up as best he can before turning the spray nozzle directly down against the cast, letting the water blast its way into the gaps.
He nearly jumps in surprise as the water turns cold and looks up to see Bachira adjusting one of the knobs on the wall. The cool water is a blessing, blasting away the itchiness that never seems to go away and Isagi relaxes into the low back of the shower chair.
“Good?” Bachira asks, chuckling at the satisfied sigh Isagi lets out.
“Perfect.” Isagi grins back at him. It really is, even if it’s a little embarrassing to know Bachira has been paying so much attention to him, that he feels like he needs to. Everything since the accident has been one sort of struggle or another. Spaces were always too small and cramped, mundane objects became insurmountable obstacles, and nothing seemed to fit anymore, like somehow he’d managed to fall out of sync with the world itself. But sitting here, next to Bachira gossiping about their teammates in the shower, it feels just like it did when they’d just finished a game.
“Will you scrub my back?” Bachira asks, holding out a loofah and turning around.
“Sure, but you’ll have to come down here. And warm up the water first.”
Bachira does what he’s told and kneels down in front of Isagi, back turned. It’s not the first time he’s done this for Bachira, though usually they’re on the same level. But it’s a good feeling to know that he’s not completely useless, that there are still things he can do for other people, that he isn’t just a burden.
He washes the conditioner out of Bachira’s hair while he’s there as well, running his fingers liberally through the silky strands to get it all out. His hair is longer than Isagi has ever seen it, falling just between his shoulder blades when wet. It looks good, especially when Bachira has it tied up, but Isagi isn’t sure he likes the reminder of how easily things can change. He’s careful to keep the spray directed away from Bachira’s face so he can keep chattering about the best tattoos his teammates have and what he might get for himself one day.
“I can’t decide,” Bachira laments. “Every time I think I know what I want, I come up with something even better.”
“Then it wasn’t the right thing to begin with,” Isagi assures him. “Whatever you land on, I’m sure it’ll be the right choice, something that really represents you.” Isagi pats his shoulder to let him know he’s done.
“I guess,” Bachira says, standing up again.
“Do me?” Isagi asks, pointing at his own back.
He leans forward in the chair as Bachira soaps down his back.
“How about you? Have you ever thought of getting a tattoo?”
“Me?” Isagi thinks about it for a second. “Not really. You can pick one for me, though.”
“Really?” Bachira says with a delighted laugh as he rinses off Isagi’s back.
“Yes, I trust you.” In fact, he’d prefer it if Bachira chose something bizarre and eccentric, the better to remind him who put it there.
“I’ll have to think of something good, then!”
Isagi waits as Bachira turns off all the nozzles and the shower goes quiet except for the sound of water spilling down the drain. Bachira disappears for a second and shows back up with a towel for each of them. Isagi dries himself as best he can while seated before tucking the towel around his hips for Bachira to help him get back into the wheelchair and bring him into the bedroom.
“I’m going to go change,” Bachira says, pausing in the doorway.
“Go, I’ll be fine,” Isagi assures him, and Bachira disappears with a little wave.
Getting dressed is a lot easier than getting undressed, especially with sleepwear, though Isagi does take an extra few minutes pressing the towel against his cast, trying to catch as much water as he can. When he’s done, he leverages himself upright and wipes off the chair as best he can before grabbing his crutches from where Bachira has leaned them by the side of the door.
He’s still tired, but the shower has at least woken him up so he doesn’t feel like he’s about to fall over anymore. He can hear Bachira in the living room and he leans against the wall of the hallway watching him for a moment.
“Eight o’clock, not nine o’clock, it is almost eight o’clock,” Bachira sings tunelessly to himself as he wanders around plucking stray mugs out from behind lamps and figurines. Empty food wrappers get crumpled into one of the mugs and stray socks disappear into his pockets. There’s something secretive about the actions taken in the underglow of lamplight, like a part of Bachira that Isagi isn’t meant to see.
The mugs get placed in the dishwasher, the trash in the wastebin, and Bachira comes out of the kitchen with a damp rag, still humming off handedly.
It’s clear the moment he catches sight of Isagi. His eyes light up, twinkling in the half-light. “If you keep lurking in the shadows like that people will start to think you’re up to no good.”
Isagi chuckles, taking a few steps forward into the living room. “Do you usually clean this late at night?”
“Well, I was a little busy earlier,” Bachira says with a wink. “I usually call Yuu around eight and she gives me this look if the apartment is too messy.”
“Can I help?” Isagi offers, looking around to see what else might need to be done. There’s a cardigan draped over the arm of the couch and a stack of mail sitting on the corner of an end table, but he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
“Nope! I’m almost done,” Bachira says. “Just sit down and relax!”
Isagi does as he’s told, pulling the cardigan into his lap and folding it into a neat square, letting his fingers dig into the soft knit wool as he watches Bachira wipe down the coffee table. As he turns around to lob the dish towel towards the kitchen island, Isagi notes the growing wet patch on the back of his shirt.
“Come here,” he says, reaching out to tug the towel from around Bachira’s shoulders and tossing it over his head.
“Hey!” Bachira protests, but kneels down in front of the couch for Isagi to scrub at his hair, making sure to catch the long strands at the back. When he’s done, Isagi uses his fingers to comb through the curls, settling them down into some semblance of order.
“Are you growing out your bangs?” he asks, parting the fringe so it doesn’t fall in his eyes.
“I dunno, maybe.” Bachira shrugs, pulling on one strand that’s long enough to reach his mouth. Isagi frowns, he’s never known him to be so indecisive before. “Do you think it would look good?”
Isagi is tempted to say no, but Bachira looks up at him with such wide eyes that he can’t bring himself to lie.
“I think anything looks good on you.”
“Really?” Bachira asks softly, unblinking.
Isagi swallows, suddenly aware of how close they are. The glow of the table lamps are reflected as floating orbs in Bachira’s irises, two spots of gold like medals hanging just out of reach. Except Bachira is leaning on his elbows at the edge of the couch, the edge of his t-shirt sleeves brushing across Isagi’s thighs, face tilted up like a prize, and all Isagi would have to do is extend one arm and maybe, just in that one moment, he could close his hand around something that feels like winning.
There have been other moments like this, when Bachira has smiled at him just the right way, when they’ve held each other just a little too long and close after a victory, when they’ve woken up side by side on the same bed in a double room after falling asleep watching a movie or talking late into the night. Isagi has always stopped himself for a few simple reasons. By the next night, they would be separated by hundreds of miles of land and sea and it would be months before they would see each other in person again. They were both busy people, only occasionally managing to carve out matching time slots to call and catch up. That was no way to have a relationship, especially with someone that deserved so much more.
Time and distance aren’t an issue now, but Isagi stops himself anyway. He’s already imposing himself so much, the thought of asking for anything more fills him with shame.
A sharp ring cuts through the air and Bachira stands up a little too quickly, practically tripping over his own feet as he lunges for his phone.
“Yuu! Look who it is!” Bachira says in lieu of a proper greeting as he swings the camera around to capture Isagi, who just barely manages to summon a smile in time for his close up.
“Yoichi!” Yuu’s voice is a spot of cheer that brightens up the whole room. “I’m so glad to see you again! I hope that Meguru has been treating you well.”
“I couldn’t ask for better,” Isagi replies sincerely. “It’s good to see you too. How have you been doing, Bachi - I mean Yuu?”
He sees her eyes crinkle at the corners. It still feels kind of weird to call her by her first name, but she’s finally worn him down after several years of insistence.
“I’m trying to get back into the swing of things. I started a sketch last night that might actually go somewhere this time.”
Isagi gives her what he hopes is an encouraging smile. There was a fire in the Bachira home back in April, a freak electrical accident that turned the whole thing into a charred mess. Luckily no one was there at the time, but Yuu had lost about a dozen half-finished works she’d been keeping at her home studio. Isagi’s parents had even offered to have her stay at their house for a while, but she’d ended up in a small apartment halfway between the house and her studio space in town where it’d be easier to supervise the clean-up.
“Really?” Bachira cuts in, plopping down on the couch next to Isagi and turning the phone so they’re both in frame. “Can I see?”
“Maybe next week. It doesn’t look like much right now. But enough about me! What have you boys been up to?”
Bachira launches into a full retelling of their day with Isagi interjecting when Bachira’s story gets a little too wildly exaggerated. The details are off and the timeline gets muddled, but all three of them get some good laughs out of it.
“And then we got home and I helped Yoichi shower and now we’re talking to you!” Bachira ends with a grin. Isagi’s eyes immediately snap to Yuu’s reaction and he’s relieved to see there really isn’t one beyond a slight shift in her eyes that might be glancing at him or might just be catching something outside her window.
“I’m glad you two are having fun,” she says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you two together.”
Isagi isn’t sure what she means by that, but she’s moving on before he can parse it further. “Now, Meguru, can you give us a few minutes? I want to talk to Yoichi alone.”
“What?” Bachira says, indignant. “But I’m your son!”
“Yes you are, which means I talk to you all the time. I haven’t seen Yoichi in months. So shoo!”
Bachira sticks his tongue out at her but obediently hands his phone over to Isagi before heading into the kitchen. Isagi can see his curious gaze peering over at him, but he’s far enough away that he has some semblance of privacy.
Yuu’s gaze turns gentler and Isagi hates that a little.
“How have you been, Yoichi?”
“I’m fine,” he says, forcing a smile onto his face.
“I know that the past couple of weeks couldn’t have been easy,” she prompts.
Isagi isn’t sure why he tells her. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t feel like he needs to live up to anything in Yuu’s eyes. Maybe it’s because he’s just too tired to keep holding it back.
“I’m just,” he says, looking for the right words, “I don’t know what to do. Everyone keeps telling me to take it easy, relax, and take care of myself, but none of that helps me figure out what I’m actually supposed to be doing.”
Yuu hums and nods a little. “That does sound frustrating. I don’t think there is anything you’re supposed to be doing. Everything is different now, so the way I see it, you have a couple of options. You can try something completely new, or find a way to change your old routines into something that will fit your current capabilities. You have something that not many people in your position ever get to have, a clean slate. These next six months can be anything you want them to be.”
Isagi is struck by the thought that this break is some sort of opportunity and not just an insurmountable roadblock to be endured. “What if I don’t know what I want them to be?”
Yuu smiles at him. “You know, Frida Kahlo was going to medical school before she got into a car accident that broke her leg and put a pipe through her stomach. She started painting when she was bedridden and became one of the most famous artists of the 20th century. Now, I’m not saying you should become a painter, but maybe you just need to try a few things to figure it out. Heck, I’ve been trying out new things for the past three months and only now does it feel like I’m on the right path. The answer is somewhere inside, you just need to listen.”
Isagi doesn’t say anything to that. He’s always known what he wanted since he was five years old. The biggest challenges have been figuring out how to achieve those dreams and he’s not ready to abandon them just yet, not when there’s a possibility of getting them back on track.
“I guess I have a lot to think about,” he says, finally.
“Think about what?” Bachira says, sitting down onto the arm of the couch and Isagi nearly jumps out of his skin. He hadn’t noticed Bachira’s approach, which means that Bachira must have purposely snuck up on him like the nosy brat he can be. Isagi shouldn’t be surprised, boundaries have never really been their thing.
“Meguru,” Yuu chides. “It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”
“But I was getting bored! What are you two talking about and why can’t I join in?” Bachira slides forward a little as he leans into camera view and Isagi has to catch him by the waist to keep him from landing entirely in his lap, which would be a problem for so many reasons, not least of which is the mug of something hot in Bachira’s left hand.
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” Isagi promises. It’s not that he’s trying to keep it a secret, but he’s spent the entire day talking and he needs a little time just on his own to figure out a few things. Besides, he’s exhausted and his internal clock is screaming that he should have been in bed hours ago. “I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”
Bachira looks down at him with sharpened curiosity before transferring his weight to the back of the couch and letting Isagi stand up and grab his crutches. “Good night,” he calls out softly as Isagi reaches the bedroom door.
“Good night,” Isagi answers. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Bachira’s answering smile is bright and blinding.
Isagi intends to take a few minutes to evaluate what Yuu had said, to try and listen to the answer inside him, but the moment his head hits the pillow, sleep claims all his thoughts and he doesn’t wake again until morning.