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Summary
He’s barely finished scraping the charred eggs from the pan when there’s a knock at his door. Maybe he’d finally be slashed, out here in the middle of nowhere.
He limps toward it, the old injury throbbing faintly, a reminder of the match that ended everything. The memory flashes; the fake plastic of turf, the blinding stadium lights, Isagi’s face looking down at him, worried and horrified.
When he opens the door, Isagi stands there, drenched from the rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He looks as if he’s just emerged from the ocean, entirely soaked to the bone, and he looks exactly the same as he did when he was sixteen- his eyes still carry that unsettlingly clear blue, like water so deep you might drown in it if you looked too long. “Hey,” Isagi says, his voice soft, cautious.