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It started with a pass in the middle of a scrimmage.
Bachira had looked over his shoulder. Grin wide, hair a mess of gold and black in the wind and kicked the ball just so. Not flashy, not loud, just right.
And Isagi had caught it like he was born to.
Later, in the locker room, sweat clinging to the inside of his shirt and laughter echoing off the tile, Bachira threw an arm over Isagi’s shoulders and said, “We could be dangerous together.”
He meant on the field.
He didn’t know he meant everything else too.
That year, they lived on the same floor in the dorms. Just down the hall. Close enough to hear each other’s door click shut at 2 a.m., close enough to share dinner when one of them forgot to eat.
Which was often.
Bachira lived off instant noodles and sugar packets.
Isagi made rice and eggs and too much miso soup.
It balanced out.
“You’re going to die by the time you’re twenty-five,” Isagi muttered one night, watching Bachira pour chocolate syrup directly into his mouth from the bottle.
“Bold of you to assume I’ll live that long,” Bachira grinned.
Isagi tossed a rolled-up pair of socks at his head.
They weren’t dating.
They didn’t call it anything.
But Bachira liked to crawl into Isagi’s bed during study week. Said his own room was too cold. Said Isagi smelled like warm laundry and dreams. Said nothing at all, sometimes, just curled into his side and fell asleep mid-sentence.
Isagi never told him no.
Late one night, they lay back-to-back under a thin blue blanket, legs tangled, silence stretching between them like thread waiting to snap.
“Do you think we’ll go pro?” Bachira asked, quiet.
Isagi turned his face into the pillow. “I think we’ll try.”
“That’s not the same.”
“I think we will.”
Bachira was silent. Then: “And if we don’t?”
Isagi’s throat tightened.
“We will,” he repeated.
Because the thought of failing felt too much like leaving. And leaving meant losing this.
They kissed once.
After a tournament, the night they lost by a single point. It was raining, and they sat on the fire escape behind the gym, soaked through, heads bowed like the sky had punished them personally.
Bachira looked at him like he was asking for something wordless.
And Isagi gave it.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t planned. Their lips met somewhere between grief and comfort, and neither of them said a thing after.
They didn’t kiss again.
But they got close.
They spent too long sitting on the same futon, knees touching. They fell asleep with their hands intertwined on the train. Bachira once took Isagi’s phone and added himself to his emergency contacts. “In case you get hit by a bus or something,” he said, grinning.
Isagi didn’t remove him.
One night, spring creeping in and windows cracked open. Bachira sat cross-legged on the bed, sketchpad in his lap, pencil tapping restlessly.
“Hey, Yoichi,” he said.
Isagi looked up from his notes. “Hm?”
“If we weren’t doing soccer… what would we be doing?”
Isagi blinked. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Business major? Office job? Dying inside, probably.”
Bachira snorted. “Wow. Inspiring.”
“What about you?”
Bachira didn’t answer right away.
“I think I’d still be drawing,” he said eventually. “Maybe painting murals. Or tattooing strangers with ghosts.”
Isagi smiled. “That suits you.”
Bachira looked at him for a moment. Long. Quiet.
Then said, “You’ll stay with me, right?”
And Isagi—tired and warm and 21 and unsure said the only thing he could.
“Of course I will.”
Five years later.
The convenience store lights are too bright.
That’s the first thing Isagi notices when he steps inside.
The second thing, the one that nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs is the boy crouched by the instant noodle aisle, hood half-up, fingers tracing flavors like it matters.
Except it isn’t a boy anymore.
And he’s not just anyone.
“Bachira?”
The name slips out before he can stop it.
The figure freezes.
Then turns.
And yeah, it’s him.
Still with the same mess of hair, the same sleepy posture, but different now too. Older. Leaner. A little more shadow under the eyes. Still brilliant. Still blinding.
“Yoichi,” Bachira says, blinking.
And the years between them shrink to nothing. And also everything.
It’s raining outside. Because of course it is.
They walk out with bent umbrellas and a bag of snacks neither of them are really hungry for. The street smells like concrete and wet asphalt and the way time used to feel.
Isagi clears his throat. “You’re back in Tokyo?”
“For now,” Bachira says. “Visiting. Helping a friend with an art show.”
“Still drawing?”
“Still breathing.”
Isagi huffs a laugh. “That bad?”
Bachira shrugs. “That real.”
They fall into silence again, walking with that awkward distance you leave for ghosts. Not strangers, not lovers, not enemies. Just almosts.
They sit under the awning of an old shuttered cafe, rain drumming soft against tin above them.
Isagi rests his chin on his palm, watching the downpour. “I thought you moved to Kyoto.”
“I did. Still there, mostly.”
“Hm.”
“You?”
Isagi laughs without humor. “You want the truth or the version I feed my parents?”
Bachira smiles, but it’s tight. “Let’s try the truth this time.”
“I quit,” Isagi says. “Soccer. After graduation.”
Bachira doesn’t react.
“I work at a sportswear company now. Marketing team. Eight to five. Water cooler and everything.”
“That’s… not you.”
“I know.”
Another pause. The kind where the next word might make something break.
“You didn’t say goodbye,” Bachira murmurs.
Isagi exhales. “I didn’t know how.”
Bachira turns to look at him. “I would’ve understood. If you just told me.”
“You would’ve tried to stop me.”
“I would’ve let you go,” Bachira says, voice quieter now. “I just didn’t want to be erased.”
The word cuts.
Because Isagi did erase him. Not on purpose. But it was easier not to see him, not to say his name. Easier to pretend Bachira lived in another world with galleries and ink-stained hands and late-night murals that would never fade.
“You weren’t erased,” Isagi says finally. “You were everywhere.”
“Then why did you stop calling?”
Isagi doesn’t answer.
Because there’s no good one. Only the truth:
“I didn’t know what to say after I stopped being someone you’d want.”
Eventually, Bachira sighs.
He stands, brushing his pants off, the plastic bag rustling in his hand. “I should go.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Friend’s studio. Near Nakano.”
Isagi hesitates.
And the question hangs on his lips. Do you want to come over? Just for a while? Just to talk more?
But instead, he says, “Okay. Be safe.”
And Bachira nods.
He walks out into the rain, no umbrella this time. Just like always, as if storms can’t touch him.
Isagi watches him go.
And just before he turns the corner, Bachira calls over his shoulder:
“You’re still someone I’d want.”
Then he disappears into the city.
THEN.
It ended in spring.
Funny, because spring was when they started. First scrimmage. First kiss. First everything.
But this spring felt different. Too warm. Too quiet. Like something was holding its breath.
“You’re not coming to practice,” Bachira said one night, arms crossed over his chest. “Again.”
Isagi didn’t look up from his laptop. “I have deadlines.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
“I’ve got responsibilities now.”
Bachira let the silence stretch before cracking it with a question he already knew the answer to. “Are you quitting?”
Isagi’s fingers froze over the keys. “I’m thinking about it.”
Bachira sat down. Cross-legged, like always. But something in him was more upright. Less soft.
“You said we’d do this together.”
“And I believed that when I said it,” Isagi replied. “But maybe that’s not where I’m supposed to be.”
“Is it me?” Bachira asked, voice too quiet.
“What?”
“Is it because I’m still chasing it?”
Isagi stared at him. “No. God, no. It’s just— I’m not enough. I’m not… good enough to make it. Not like you.”
“Don’t do that,” Bachira said, standing. “Don’t turn it into some noble exit. Just say it straight.”
Isagi looked away. “I’m tired. I want a life that isn’t always losing.”
Bachira opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
So instead, he walked to the door, hand on the knob, not turning it yet.
“You could’ve said that sooner,” he whispered. “You could’ve told me before I built every dream around you.”
“Meguru—”
“I would’ve stayed,” he said, not bitter. Not even sad. Just… empty. “Even if you quit. Even if you failed. I just wanted you.”
Isagi finally stood, but too late. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need sorry. I needed you to try.”
And then he left.
Just like that.
Just like a breath that never made it out of your lungs.
NOW.
They sit at a café, years later, pretending they’ve never hurt each other.
It’s a Sunday. The air smells like old rain and clean shirts. The sky is trying to be blue again.
Bachira stirs sugar into his coffee, but doesn’t drink it. Isagi just holds his cup like it’ll anchor him to the table.
“You look the same,” Bachira says, smiling lightly.
“You don’t,” Isagi replies.
“Oh?”
“You look like you got out.”
Bachira shrugs. “Some days. Other days, I still feel like I’m waiting for the whistle to blow.”
They both laugh, but it dies quickly.
A couple passes by, laughing too loud. Isagi watches them disappear down the street and says, “Do you think we could’ve worked out? If I hadn’t quit?”
Bachira doesn’t answer immediately.
Then: “I don’t think quitting was the problem.”
Isagi blinks. “What was?”
“You never said goodbye.”
The words hit like a bruise you didn’t know was still healing.
“I didn’t know how,” Isagi says again.
Bachira looks at him, not angry. Not even disappointed. Just tired. “You could’ve just said you were scared.”
Isagi finally meets his gaze. “I was terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of loving you more than the game. Of losing both.”
And there it is. Years too late. But true.
Bachira closes his eyes, exhales.
“I wish you’d told me that before I learned how to stop hoping.”
When they part that afternoon, there’s no hug. No promises. Just a nod.
But as Isagi walks away, he hears Bachira say behind him, just loud enough:
“Yoichi.”
He turns.
“Don’t forget me again,” Bachira says.
Isagi tries to smile. It cracks around the edges.
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
If I Had Known It’d End Like This.
They drink too much.
It starts with “just one beer” after the gallery show. Bachira’s name is on the wall in block letters. His sketches hang framed behind glass like they don’t belong to someone who used to eat ketchup packets for fun.
Isagi shows up late, hands in his coat pockets, still not sure if he’s supposed to be there. Bachira grins when he sees him, not too wide, not too sharp.
“You came.”
“You asked.”
He hasn’t been in this world in years. The scent of turpentine and acrylic makes something in his chest curl. Bachira belongs here. Bright and a little strange, like a color you can’t quite name.
After the show, they walk two blocks and stumble into a bar that smells like dust and bad decisions.
Bachira orders sake. Isagi sticks with beer.
They don’t talk about soccer. Or their last fight. Or the things they almost were.
Instead, they talk about dumb dorm stories. About professors who never showed up. About how the ramen shop on the corner shut down.
“Still drink chocolate milk with curry?” Isagi teases.
Bachira grins. “Only on special occasions.”
By the third round, the laughter slows. The table between them shrinks. The distance thins.
And then Bachira says it:
“I missed this.”
Isagi looks at him. Really looks.
At the new tattoo curling around his wrist. At the tiny scar by his left eyebrow. At the same crooked smile that always made Isagi want to stay.
“Me too,” he says.
Bachira leans in. “Tell me something you don’t tell anyone.”
Isagi exhales, warm breath fogging the lip of his glass.
“Sometimes,” he begins, “when I walk past a field and hear a whistle, I still look for you.”
Bachira doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just reaches across the table and takes Isagi’s hand like it’s something sacred.
“I never stopped looking for you,” he whispers.
They kiss in the stairwell.
Messy. Unplanned. Mouths moving like they’re starving, like they’re still twenty and nothing’s gone wrong yet.
They barely make it to Isagi’s apartment. Shoes kicked off in the hallway. Jackets dropped. Fingers fumbling with buttons like they’re trying to peel the years off each other.
Bachira laughs into his mouth. “We’re terrible at this.”
“Shut up,” Isagi says, breathless.
“Make me.”
So he does.
Later, Bachira lies stretched across the bed, sheet slipping low on his hips. The room smells like sweat and memory. Isagi traces the curve of his spine with slow fingers, afraid to press too hard in case this is just a dream.
“Do you think it would’ve been like this back then?” Isagi asks, voice low.
“No,” Bachira replies. “Back then it would’ve been clumsy. Fast. Too much teeth.”
Isagi smiles faintly. “And now?”
Bachira turns his head, eyes sleepy. “Now it hurts.”
They fall asleep without saying anything else.
And that, more than anything, feels like them.
Isagi wakes alone.
The pillow beside him is cold. The scent is fading.
There’s no note. No text.
Just silence.
He sits on the edge of the bed, hands in his hair, chest heavy like he’s been running in circles.
He doesn’t cry.
He just sits there, waiting for a door that won’t open again.
——
The old stadium hasn’t changed.
Grass still tries to claw its way through the cracks in the concrete steps. The field is overgrown. The paint on the goalposts is chipped. But the echoes are still there.
It’s been five years. Maybe more. But Bachira finds himself standing at the edge of the field anyway, sneakers scuffing gravel, sketchpad in hand like a shield.
He didn’t mean to come here.
But something pulled him, like the way ghosts pull. Quiet. Inevitable.
He sits on the old bench near midfield. Opens the pad. Doesn’t draw.
Just stares.
Until he hears footsteps behind him.
Isagi.
Of course.
Same worn hoodie. Same silence like gravity.
“You knew I’d come,” Isagi says.
“I hoped.”
They sit in silence. Just two bodies weighed down by a thousand words never said.
“I woke up,” Isagi murmurs, “and you were gone.”
“I couldn’t stay.”
“Why not?”
Bachira swallows. “Because it would’ve meant something.”
“It already did.”
Bachira shakes his head. “Not to you.”
“Yes. To me. Always.”
“Then why did it take five years?”
Isagi doesn’t answer.
Because there’s no fixing time. No mending a clock that never ticked right.
“I loved you,” Isagi says.
There. At last.
Bachira’s laugh is small and almost cruel. “Past tense?”
Isagi looks down. “I don’t know.”
“Then what do we do now?”
Isagi doesn’t say, We start over.
He doesn’t say, Come back to me.
He just stands. Walks over to the middle of the field. Turns back to face him.
“Do you think we could’ve made it?”
Bachira thinks about that.
About dorm nights. Ramen steam. Shared headphones. Laughter in the rain.
About kisses that tasted like ‘not yet’ and beds that always felt too warm for something undefined.
About Isagi, frozen by fear. About himself, always moving, always needing to be chosen out loud.
“I think we already did,” Bachira says. “It just didn’t look like what we thought.”
The sky is turning gold. The stadium holds the light in its ribs.
Isagi walks toward him.
Not running. Not desperate. Just… walking.
He stops in front of the bench.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“No,” Bachira says. “But I’m used to it.”
Isagi reaches out. Not for a kiss. Not for a hug. Just his hand. Palm up and fingers open.
Bachira looks at it.
Then, very slowly, he places his hand in Isagi’s.
It’s not a promise. Not a fix.
Just a moment.
And when they let go, because they do. It feels like the last thing they’ll ever get right.
Later, Isagi will stand alone in the field.
Bachira will walk away, sketchpad tucked under his arm, phone untouched in his pocket.
Neither will look back.
But they’ll remember.
In dreams. In goalposts. In the quiet ache that lives where love almost bloomed.
And that will have to be enough.