Chapter Text
Bachira curls up to him, nosing the junction of his neck and collar.
“What are you doing?” Isagi asks.
Bachira hums, looking at Isagi not with his normal gaze but with the gaze full of swirling manic energy that Isagi has only seen during matches. “I really like you Isagi.”
Isagi isn’t sure what to do with that statement, so he rolls with the punch and says, “I like you too Bachira, even if you are a weirdo.”
“Am not!” Bachira says into his neck.
Bachira is, in layman’s terms, a complete freak. He’s the type of guy that spent hours playing soccer by himself, or maybe it was more accurate to say he played soccer with himself, kicking the ball off of walls to simulate passing and dribbling through rocks while pretending they were defenders.
Isagi wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, he’s a weirdo too. Chigiri’s told him, Kunigami, Rin, Nagi, Reo, Niko, the list goes on and on. To put it bluntly, Blue Lock is the kind of facility where only weirdos thrive, and thrive Isagi has.
When the sole goal of a training program is to weed out the people who wouldn’t risk their entire careers by hinging them on a guy like Ego, it’s bound to either find or create egoists.
Bachira is one of those egoists. Isagi just has to wonder why Bachira is so… egotistical about having a special relationship with him outside of what he has with the other players. Even when Bachira had been stolen away from him by Rin, he’d turned to Isagi with that same energy he reserved for soccer and told him, “come steal me.” If that doesn’t scream attachment, Isagi isn’t sure what does.
He lets Bachira nuzzle his hair a bit more before asking, “Uh, maybe this is a weird question, but why are you so clingy with me?”
“Cuz’ I like you,” Bachira says, patting Isagi’s head. “You’re my friend, and you’re the best, and you complement me.”
“Compliment?” Isagi doesn’t really remember handing out enough praise to warrant Bachira throwing himself at Isagi every chance he got, but maybe he was a bit starved for company. He did mention that soccer had eaten up most of his time outside of school and studying.
“Yup! We go together like…”
“Reo and Nagi.” Isagi finishes.
Bachira scrunches up his nose. “Ew, no. They’re gross. Especially Reo, you’re not similar to Reo at all.”
“Are you praising me or taking a dig at Reo?”
“Both!” Bachira says proudly, smiling wide and enthusiastic at Isagi.
Isagi’s mind works in mysterious ways. On the field, he’s a cold, calculating player, able to adapt to any situation or any play. Outside of the field, his brain shuts off as if there’s no room for activities unrelated to soccer. He fumbles through conversations, sorry Kunigami, dispenses unwanted advice, sorry Chigiri, and has to dedicate his remaining brainpower to finding new and inventive methods of motivating Nagi.
Bachira liking him because of compliments and because he’s dissimilar to Reo are, in Isagi’s non-soccer focused mind, perfectly good reasons for wanting to be friends with a person and hanging off them every minute of their available time. Y’know, friend stuff. And if Isagi wants a little more from Bachira than being extraordinarily good teammates or friends, that’s Isagi’s secret to keep.
“So you like me back? A lot?” Bachira presses on.
“Of course I do,” Isagi says.
“I’m so happy!”
Close. That’s what Isagi’s mind helpfully supplies him with as Bachira untangles the stranglehold he had on Isagi’s chest and shoves him to the floor, their noses almost touching. There’s that manic energy. Twisting and turning in his eyes. Their breaths start to mingle. Bachira caresses the side of his face and Isagi starts to think that maybe Bachira hadn’t exactly meant ‘compliment’ the way he interpreted it, and then finds that he’s more excited to see if Bachira meant ‘complement.’
“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Bachira announces.
“Take the shot, striker,” Isagi says and full-body winces. That's just about the corniest thing he’s ever said. At least it doesn’t put Bachira off.
He leans down to kiss Isagi, easy and slow. His lips are chapped, their teeth clash, and they’re both sweaty from practice, but Isagi is riding the high of winning a kiss from Bachira, so none of that matters in the slightest. Bachira’s fingers slide into his hair, his legs winding with Isagi’s.
Isagi fights off disappointment as Bachira pulls away, wanting more of the taste of victory, even if victory had basically fallen into his lap the moment he’d walked into Blue Lock and felt the weight of Bachira’s first pass to him. This, Bachira’s combination play, his hugs after a match well played, his jokes and his praise, they’re Isagi’s to savor.
“You’re really good at everything Isagi!” Bachira says,
His ego immediately swells past capacity. “Does that mean I’ve won another kiss?” He asks, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Even better,” Bachira holds up a peace sign. “You’ve won two.”