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“It’s okay.” Bachira lies to him, murmuring so quietly. It's unlike him.
Faintly, a church bell rings.
“It’s okay. Isagi, it’s…we’re going to be fine. Thank you. Thank you .”
There is no blood on his hands, but Isagi knows he’s been stained.
-----------
His waking hours are an electric haze. He feels like a live wire; jolting, antsy, flinching at the barest of movements. It's so easy to lose yourself in the mechanical fog of everyday life. A puppet is nothing without his strings, after all.
It's not madness. Isagi does not pray to a God. He doesn’t meet the barest requirement of having lost one's sanity. In fact, Isagi questions, was he ever truly sane?
Bachira is smiling at him. Unlike his usual wild self, it seems restrained—painful, even.
They spend the first few months like that. Distant and yet so cold to each other. At every waking moment, Isagi could reach out and graze Bachira’s hair. They’re so near. And too far away all at once.
He hasn’t felt himself in a long time. Yet, with Bachira, that roaring thunder quells slightly.
Bachira smiles at him, and Isagi feels puzzle pieces of himself slot into place. There’s no way I was ever really sane.
—
They’re 23.
Nothing happens.
Isagi has moved on. He lives normally. He drinks on weekends, sometimes too much. He tried to change his image and realized he was just a boring guy. He joins a local team on weekends, kicking around a soccer ball in a dissociated state relieved an itch in his skull.
Nagi goes pro. So do most of the others. Isagi was even a pro for a while. Soccer had a short lifespan like that.
Isagi doesn’t go back home. The real Isagi would never return, and he knew that.
The man in front of him tucks a strand behind his ear. There’s still a shock of blonde hair hidden beneath layers of warm brown. His face is sterner, hardened by age. A glance at his hands reveals years of work within each callous. There's new microscopic scars etched in his temple. Gently, this man had begun to heal.
Isagi does not dare to breathe. Does not dare to contaminate his air. It is not worship. It's an obsession. It's gross, and ugly, and filthy.
Bachira does not smile. Not this time.
He awkwardly raises a hand to wave.
…Isagi pretends he doesn't see it. He can blame it on the drinks.
—-
“-gi, Isagi.” The boy is standing over him. When did Isagi get on the ground?
The grass turf is purely verdant.
Isagi’s gaze drifts over to the figure floating in the distance. What was his name?
“Isagi, come back to me.” A touch on his cheek snaps him back. Bachira sighs, “ There you are. Look at me.”
The scene is immaculate. Not a scratch on either of them. Bachira sports a blooming dark flower on his shoulder. It's easy to hide.
No one questioned them.
No one said anything.
—-
“Dude, what gives?” Reo snorts. They trade drinks around the table. In moderation, strict diets and all that.
Bachira’s face blooms red.
Isagi’s does the same, wiping vomit off of his face.
The bottle landed on them. Bolstered by stupid pride and liquid courage, Isagi pressed himself against Bachira. The warm body quivered, then went limp. Its warmth seeped into him, bringing tears to his eyes. It moaned, whether in pain or pleasure? It was unclear. Isagi pulled back, tasting iron. He vomits.
Bachira’s teeth were coated in rich blood. Isagi doesn’t remember how he got home.
“He’s so weird.” Reo rolls his eyes. Nagi hums in agreement.
—
Would you believe him if he said nothing happened?
It's a stupid notion to keep repeating, he knows this. His therapist told him too. People online (it was a low moment) also agreed.
A message from his phone dings. What do you think he did?
He opens it. It reads: Hey :) back in town for a while. Wanna catch up?
Like last time went so well.
Isagi puts on his nicest jacket.
And gloves. Thick, leather gloves. It's spring.
–
Isagi shrugs on his jacket quickly. He tosses all their garbage in the trash.
He’s still knocked out in bed. Isagi recalls lapses of pleasure. Of heat, warm and tender.
The kisses this time were anything but gentle.
Bachira huffs and rolls over.
Isagi thinks about staying… he doesn’t.
—
It's not like he wants to die. He would miss many things. The spark of citrus, the smell of ozone, soccer, mainly soccer.
Isagi’s always been sensitive. He sniffs out petrichor a day before rain falls, he can catch a falling shelf no one saw, he can tell when someone is lying, the list goes on.
He wouldn’t want to kill himself. He doesn’t want anything gorey, or gruesome. He’s just…bored. If the world stopped turning, he would be okay with that. Sure, he had dreams and aspirations– but was anyone actually listening? Did anyone really care? Weren’t they all just going along with the same game someone hundreds of years ago came up with…the game or the notion that there was a set way to go about things?
He doesn’t feel like he’s missing out by dying now. Maybe on bad days, he’ll hit his thighs hard enough to bruise. Or he’ll stare out of the window and imagine throwing himself off the balcony. Isagi would never really do it. That was for actually depressed people. Isagi wasn’t depressed, he was productive. He was friendly, had a house and a job and cooked himself meals. He laughed a lot of jokes and had an active social life.
But if someone came up to him with a button to end everything; were it to be as easy as lights out. Well, Isagi would at least hesitate for a moment. Isagi wanted the choice to be out of his hands.
Isagi turns twenty-five, and begins counting down his life.
–
Bachira doesn’t come over often. Not since the night they spent together.
He has seen Isagi at his worst. He comes over and they sit side by side, watching stupid shows. Even though Isagi knows he should be preparing for competitions.
Bachira presses kisses to his hair, his knuckles, his cheeks and eyelids. There is no taking expected. The sickness in Isagi recedes then, in those little moments.
He does not fall any deeper. Isagi is already going to hell. There is no salvation. No end of the tunnel. Just….a graceful fall.
Bachira makes it easier to forget the sickly thing Isagi has become.
—
It was an accident. The kid was a bully.
They were visiting Bachira’s aunt's place. It was one of their very rare days off.
He was around their age. Pretty feeble and weak looking. His knees were knobbly. He spoke with a lisp through voice cracks.
Isagi’s actions were uncalculated. Blue lock had taken his impulse control and banged it up til it no longer worked anymore. What he and Bachira had back then was friendship. It could’ve been real love.
The boy stumbles back, once and then thrice. He gasps for air. Bachira tries to lunge for him– Isagi stops him.
They argued, not even realizing that the boy had stopped his struggle. The last breath he takes bubbles through the water.
It's loud. It's a summer day, so cicadas screech loudly in their ears. They’re right by a park, so a girl cheers as her dad pushes her on the swings. “Higher!” She squeals, “take me higher!”
The boy does not move.
Isagi…lets him go.
He looks at Bachira.
Bachira’s eyes are vacant. His face contorts, mustering up emotion. He smiles (fake and watery), “I-it's okay.”
Isagi mourns not for the dead boy, but for the person he was beforehand.
—
Puffs of smoke drift in the air.
Languidly, Isagi drags another huff from the cigar.
“You’re a smoker?”
From the banisters, Bachira catches him off guard. He looks the same as when they were kids.
They’re on different planets now. Entirely different orbits.
“Yeah.” Isagi agrees. Distantly, his lungs sting.
–
“Why did you call me out?”
“I missed you, is there something so weird about that?” Bachira tries to say it jokingly, but the earnestness in his voice reveals his hurt. “You tend to forget you were my first friend.”
“Was.”
“What?”
“I was your first friend.”
“Isagi, don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not.”
—
“I’m in love with you.” Isagi slurs when they’re twenty-two and drunk off their asses. Bachira kisses him. I love you sounds an awful lot like I’m sorry .
—
“I love you.” Bachira murmurs on the night they spent together.
“I know.” Isagi hums. “You shouldn’t.”
“You threw it- ahn, mm– all away for me.”
“...”
“You…you sacrificed it. I watched your future die. How could I not love you?”
Isagi rolls over that night. “I wouldn’t recommend loving a murderer like me.”
“Oh, Isagi, who else is fit for a monster like me?”
—-
Being in his presence makes Isagi a worse person, he concludes. He’s jealous, conceited, murderous.
If he’s done it once, Isagi could do it again.
What was that boy's name again?
—
They’re 25 again.
The same spiral continues.
“I like you.” Isagi cries. “I love you. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“...I’d do it again.”
“I’d hope you would.”
It's easy for his hands to be stripped bare. The skin buzzes alive with each touch. The rush is addictive.
Their kisses taste like iron and liquor. It burns and it aches. And it feels so, so good.
This isn’t affection. It's not love, like they lie that it is.
It's a compulsion. The same type as putting on underwear in the morning and brushing your teeth. Routine. Normalcy.
—
“We’re okay.” Bachira lies, smiling. “We did nothing wrong.”
He pulls him in, and Isagi lets him.
—
“Stay. Please.”
This time, Isagi does.