Chapter Text
July 2023
Six months...
"- is long enough for you to learn Italian." Bachira's voice is excited over the phone. His newest idea is still buzzing through Isagi's head.
"My doctor is here," he argues.
"There are doctors here, too."
"I won't be able to drive."
"We have Car2Go!"
"I can't even take a shower by myself!"
The pause makes Isagi think he's finally won the point, but then-
"Yocchan, it's not like I haven't seen you naked before. I already told you, I will take care of whatever you need, and Panther-hime said he would help out too! Even if you need help wiping your-"
"Absolutely not!" Chigir's voice is sudden and distinctive. "But that doesn't mean I'm against you coming here," he adds quickly. "We can compare scars."
Isagi can't help but laugh. It feels nice. It's been a while, probably since before the surgery.
"Alright," he says, before he can overthink, before he can forget the excitement in Bachira's voice, "I'll book a flight. And don't worry, I can still wipe my own ass."
-
Between Chigiri's hair and Bachira's brightly colored outfit, it isn't hard to spot the two of them through the airport crowd.
"Yoichi!" Bachira shouts excitedly as he rushes forward. Isagi has a brief moment of panic that Bachira is going to jump on him out of habit, but his friend stops himself just in front of the wheelchair before leaning down to wrap his arms around his torso. Isagi has to crane his neck all the way back to get his chin over Bachira's shoulder, an awkward angle that presses the top of the wheelchair into his spine, but he doesn't make a move to push him away.
"You haven't changed one bit," Isagi murmurs into his ear as he clutches onto the soft fabric of Bachira's t-shirt.
Bachira is beaming when he stands back up. "Neither have you!"
Chigiri walks up at a more sedate place. "Yo," he says, also leaning down for a pat on the back. "How're you feeling?"
"A little tired," Isagi admits. "It was a long flight."
"Then we should get out of here! Here, I can push you!" Bachira takes over from the attendant who's been kind enough to ferry Isagi through the terminal.
Chigiri motions towards the front of the lobby. "I'm parked right out there."
Bachira wheels him through the front of the building, slowing down to make it over the door tracks, while the attendant follows behind with Isagi's luggage. He hadn't packed much, only one suitcase, which turns out to be a good thing because Chigiri's car is not built for trunk capacity.
"Whoa." Isagi gasps. "Meguru told me you bought a car, but he did not tell me you got this."
Chigiri smirks. "You like? Ate up my entire signing bonus and then some." He pats the top of the gleaming silver Maserati like a proud parent.
"The big meanie won't let me drive it," Bachira sticks his tongue out at Chigiri.
"Of course not. You barely passed your driver's test."
"I've gotten better! I've been practicing!"
"On what? Your moped? That doesn't count!"
Isagi lets their bickering that reeks of familiarity and repetition wash over him like a warm wave as he is helped into the passenger's seat by the kind airport attendant who has been his companion since the gate. The seat has been pushed back as far as it will go, and even then his cast barely fits into the foot well. He thanks his attendant as she folds up the wheelchair and prepares to head back inside to help the next person.
It only takes a few more moments for the trunk lid to slam closed and for Bachira to clamber over the center console into the backseat like he's done it a million times before. Chigiri hangs up his sunglasses over the front visor and taps the touchscreen to pull up directions.
"Did you eat?" he asks, fingers scrolling down the pre-programmed addresses. "There's a great little croquette place on the way back to Bachi's apartment."
"Ah, I had some ramen on the plane, but I'm not really that hungry. I think I'd rather just get settled in."
"Yeah, let's get you home." Bachira's arms snake out from the back seat to wrap around Isagi's chest.
Home. The buildings that drift by as they cruise along the freeway hold no sense of familiarity. The road signs and billboards are in a language he can not read. The sky is a far brighter blue than his internal clock tells him it should be. And yet, between Bachira's bright chatter and Chigiri's witty remarks, he feels a sense of belonging that he hasn't felt in years. Not even in the room he grew up in, not even with his parents right on the other side of the wall. He never has been to Milan before, but for the next six months, maybe it can become something like a home.
---
Chigiri drops them off at the entrance of one of the more modern apartment buildings closer to the edge of the city. Bachira waves him off his offer to come up and help, insisting that they could manage on their own. There are two steps heading up to the door which Isagi finds more difficult to navigate than he'd like. Bachira hovers behind him and doesn't point out the long ramp up the side. He shoulders Isagi's backpack easily and has one hand wrapped around his suitcase handle. He holds his other hand tensely at his side, as if ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
Isagi is sweating a little from both the summer heat and the exertion by the time he makes his way into the air-conditioned lobby.
"Signor Bachira," calls out the man at the lobby desk, followed by something in Italian.
"Tomasso! Si, questo e Isagi!" Bachira answers. Isagi catches his own name, but the rest goes over his head. His micro-translators are somewhere in his backpack, but he's too tired at this point to bother looking for them. He tries to look friendly and respectable, though he isn't sure he can manage that after twelve hours of travel. Luckily, Bachira waves good-bye after only a few sentences and leads Isagi towards the bank of elevator doors at the back.
His apartment is on the seventh floor and he spends the ride up talking about all the things he wants to do with Isagi while he's here, not the least of which is introduce him to all his teammates. Isagi knows most of them only in passing, though there are a few that make him question what sort of reception he'll get. Bachira is still telling him about the argument they had over whether or not they'd allow Isagi to watch them practice as they enter his apartment. Immediately inside the doors is the wide open space of the combined kitchen, living, and dining rooms. He's seen parts of this before. He's been carried through it in a dizzying display of floor to wall to ceiling as Bachira fails to steady his phone camera while he's talking to Isagi. Now, Isagi can actually get a good look at the eclectic collection that decorates the space. A stormy cubist piece hangs next to a colorful glass mosaic next to a stark charcoal sketch of a group of football players. Bachira's been picking up whatever strikes his fancy from local art fairs all across Europe. Each time Isagi has visited him, it seems like there's something new to discover.
One recent addition sticks out like a sore thumb. There's a poster by the front door. The art reminds him of Andy Warhol's renditions of famous celebrities, a figure rendered in four solid colors. White, black, cobalt blue, and neon green. His own younger face stares back at him, caught mid roar. He recognizes the reference photo. It was from the last goal during their U-20 championship match. It was a moment when Isagi had felt invincible, unbreakable. It's a struggle to remember that was once him.
"That was so hard to find!" Bachira says when he notices what caught caught Isagi's attention. "The artist only printed 50 copies for a convention in Japan last year and she didn't have any left over by the time I found out about them, so I had to track one down and paid five times what she originally sold them for."
Isagi doesn't know what to say. "I - I can't believe anyone still remembers that."
"I do. My mom has the trophy on top of the fridge in her kitchen. Pretty lucky that she grabbed it when she moved, huh?"
"Yeah." Isagi thinks of his own trophy, shoved unceremoniously into the trunk under his bed.
"Anyways, this is your room!" Bachira open the door at the end of the hallway and doesn't say anything as Isagi makes the slow, halting journey towards it. Once there, he can see one of Yuu's framed prints hanging over the bed. A photo of the painter with a young, chubby-cheeked Bachira is stuck to the bottom left corner of the dresser mirror. But most of all, he notices how empty it is.
"What's wrong?" Bachira asks. "I can help you redecorate if you don't like it."
"No, it's - it's great." Isagi shakes his head. "But, Meguru, this is your room."
"Well, I'm giving it to you for the next six months. It's the only room with an ensuite."
Isagi is a little surprised by how much Bachira has thought this through. "Well, if you don't mind, then thank you."
"Of course I don't mind." Bachira lugs Isagi's suitcase into the room over the thick carpet, plopping it down in front of the dresser. "I invited you here, didn't I?"
Isagi follows him on his crutches and sits on the edge of the bed. He rubs his neck as he swivels his head. He's still a little sore still and the long flight had done him no favors. The stretch turns into a yawn and he finds himself falling back onto the mattress. It's a lot softer than the one he's used to in Germany, certainly a lot softer than the futon he's slept on for the past few weeks.
"It's pretty late back home, isn't it?" Bachira asks, his face hovering mere inches from Isagi's.
"Yeah," is all he manages.
"OK, then you should go to sleep."
"It's early."
"You're not going to defeat jet lag on your first day, Yoichi-kun," Bachira chides him. "Go to sleep."
Isagi nods wearily. Suddenly he feels wiry arms catch him under his armpits, dragging him fully onto the bed. His head rests against Bachira's chest for a moment before he sits up, letting his friend get out from behind him.
"Call me when you wake up, no matter what time it is, OK?"
"Mmph," Isagi agrees, flopping down onto the pillow behind him. He's already asleep before the lights go off.