Archive of Our Own

It's too warm. Too sunny. 

And yet, it doesn't matter. Because all Isagi Yoichi can focus on was the boy in red and black. 

In all honesty, Isagi tried to avoid going out today. He laid flat on his back, arms behind his head as he stared at the same ceiling that looms above his bed every day. His eyes, dull and sunken, didn't have the energy to keep themselves open. His body was tired. Exhausted── even, from the two hours of sleep he barely managed to scrape before reality rose to the surface once again, forcing him awake.

It was the same thing every day. He'd go to bed, maybe around eleven, and try to sleep. At first, he did anything and everything. Bought a nightlight. Listened to a relaxing playlist. Lit scented candles── which was pretty dangerous──  but he was desperate. But every time, as if he was programmed to, he woke up and stayed up. 

If it was up to him, he'd continue rotting in bed and let his Saturday waste away so that Monday would come faster, and he'd have something to do other than basking in the stench of his own pathetic emptiness. But his parents are back from their honeymoon, and all they want is for him to get out of the house and do something.

"Do you see how much sun there is? Go absorb some vitamin D. You're a little pale."

"I heard your school's football team has a match today with a rival school. It starts in thirty, so you can still get there before it begins!"

Isagi didn't feel like getting up, or watching any sort of football. He isn't interested in any sports, for that matter. But he'd rather go there than have his parents on his back. So, he took a shower, put on a hoodie and headed out.

Half-way into the walk, he regrets wearing a hoodie. The fabric sticks to his skin, sweat pooling at his wrists, and his face feels all warm and flushed. The heat made him even more irritable. Pair that along with two hours of sleep. Yeah, Isagi was not a happy guy at the moment.  

Soon enough, he gets to the school. He's realizing now that he probably took too long in the shower, because the second half has already started. He buys a drink and heads to the bleachers, sitting alone. 

From what Isagi could see, their school isn't doing too well. They're struggling to keep hold of the ball, while the other school already had scored two goals. Even if Isagi isn't interested in the sport, it's mildly upsetting to see your school losing. 

Looking at the team, Isagi frowns. His school is known for having really good players, but almost all of the players he recognized were benched. Furrowing his brows, he tries to understand the intentions behind it, when something catches his attention.

There's someone on the field, hands on his hips with his head down. He suddenly throws his head back, and Isagi freezes at the wide, beaming grin that has his lips captured. His eyes widen, and Isagi's afraid he's never seen such a colour. Yellow eyes—but not merely yellow in any ordinary sense. There’s the obvious gold, bright and declarative, but beneath it flickers something subtle. An undercurrent of amber, like light caught in the moment before it fully ripens. It is the kind of color that seems to shift depending on how one dares to look at it, never fixed, always unfolding. Isagi thinks── absurdly ── that no colour should look that alive.

In them lies a strange parallel to the sunflowers themselves, those quiet devotees of light. Just as the flowers turn instinctively toward the sun, these eyes seem to hold its memory—less a reflection than an absorption, 

Maybe Isagi’s being weird.  But to call them “yellow” feels almost reductive.

A strange sensation rushes through Isagi── not sudden like a jolt, but spreading, slow and invasive, as though it seeps into his chest and settles somewhere he cannot quite name. It is not fear, not entirely, nor is it curiosity alone, but something tangled between the two.

In that moment, Isagi is profoundly, almost helplessly confused. His thoughts aren’t forming cleanly; they’re fracturing, overlapping in a messy array. He searches for logic, for some familiar pattern to anchor himself to, but finds none. Instead, he’s left staring. Left wondering. How can someone smile like that── so freely, when they’re losing?

The contradiction gnaws at him. A smile, in his understanding, belongs to accomplishments, to feats, to the satisfaction of being ahead. Yet this── this doesn’t correlate.

And funny enough, that’s what unsettles him most── not just the smile itself, but what it implies. That there exists a way of thinking, of feeling, that lies completely outside his understanding. Maybe Isagi Yoichi is just simple-minded, unable to think from anyone else’s point of view. What do you call that, Egocentric? Well, whatever it is, Isagi can’t be too far off. Isn’t it as simple as the winners take it all?

The boy’s face glistens with the sheen of sweat, and he runs a hand through his bangs. That's when his gaze flickers to Isagi, and Isagi visibly flinches, yet he doesn't look away. He can't. Not when it feels like the sun itself has decided to look back.

The boy tilts his head, almost curiously, before that same smile tugs up at his lips again, and then he rolls his shoulders back smoothly before turning away. 

For the rest of his match, Isagi sits up in his seat, attention piqued. The game seems to have taken a huge turn. The boy, in simple terms, is nothing less than incredible. He’s fast. Not in the way others were── forced, practiced── but like the ball belonged to him. Like it kept finding its way back. There was a beat. A rhythm to his plays. Like he's following a tune only he can hear. At that moment, Isagi knew that boy was destined to be on the field. Belonged under the hot, burning sun with the grass at his feet and the ball maneuvering between his feet. 

"Gosh, look at him go."

"His dribbles are insane."

"He's so cool!"

The game ends with 3-2, in Isagi's school's favor. The cheers are loud enough to snap Isagi out of any stupid reverie he allowed himself to entertain in. As they bowed their heads in gratitude, Isagi finds himself a little dazed. 

He goes home, sweaty and a little drained. Even though he wasn't playing, being in the sun is enough to make him tired. He peels off the hoodie sticking to his skin, ruffling his hair as he sighs. 

--

Monday comes slower than he would've liked. 

It's still warm, but Isagi wears his tie and blazer anyway. He gets to school a little earlier than usual so he can get some studying in. But as he approaches his classroom, he notices the door is already open. Someone got here earlier than him? Unusual, sure, but generally none of his business. He enters inside, closing the door behind him, only for his breath to still. 

The boy from before. The boy who suddenly flipped the game around yesterday and scored three points. The boy who smiled like the world was something he held within the pads of his fingers, is here. Not only is he here, but he's asleep, lying in his seat, with his head buried on his table. The curtains are already opened, rays of sunlight gleaming through the cracks. 

For a moment, just a moment, something sharp twists under his ribs. Something quick, and ugly, and familiar. It overcomes everything else rational. He should be thinking about why the guy is here in the first place, or how he's practically in the presence of a prodigy. But instead, he's thinking about how unfair it is that he can sleep so easily. His chest rises and falls with even breaths, eyes fluttered closed. He looks so peaceful. So at rest.

Nothing like how Isagi looks.

Isagi doesn't look ideal. Messy, dishevelled hair still damp from a rushed morning shower. The droplets of water cause his collar to be slightly soused, and his neck itches from the feeling. His eyes are still heavy, accompanied by deep-set bags that he's certain makes him look like a sleep-deprived maniac who has survived several internal wars. And there's already the subtle spike of pain in his temple which is the telltale sign of an incoming migraine. Sleep is a privilege he’s been denied, and he finds himself slightly resenting people who have it easy.

Before he can dwell on it any longer, the boy's eyes flutter open, and Isagi inwardly winces, face warming up upon being caught staring once again. This guy seems to always be able to sense when he's looking at him. Is it an instinct or what?

"Hey, you're finally here!" The boy stands up, smiling again. Isagi's brows furrow. "I was waiting for you."

"Uh. . . you were?" Isagi questions hesitantly, and the boy nods, approaching him.

 The boy stands slightly taller, enough that Isagi has to tilt his chin upward to meet his gaze. Isagi braces himself for something ordinary—predictable, even. A hand extended forward in polite introduction, or the casual weight of a pat against his shoulder. Something with boundaries.

But the expected never comes.

Instead, the moment fractures.

The boy steps in── no, closes in── riddening the space between them so suddenly that Isagi doesn’t even register the movement itself, only its result. A hand rises, and before Isagi can process it, it’s there── cupping his face with a startling, almost casual intimacy. His palm, Isagi thinks, is cold. Much colder than hands should be, like there’s something that has seeped inside and replaced the supposing warmth with something cloying and uninviting. His thumb drifts beneath Isagi’s eyes, brushing lightly across the faint softness there, tracing the shadows like they’re more than just darkened, sagged skin. As if they represent something.

“You’ve got such deep eyebags,” the boy remarks, voice light with an ease that feels almost absurd in its normalcy. “Do you even sleep, or what?”

For a single, suspended second, Isagi’s mind empties—and then floods all at once.

Confusion crashes into him, sharp and disorienting. Because one—how did he get so close? Isagi doesn’t remember seeing him step forward. Doesn’t remember allowing this proximity. And two—why is he so close? The question echoes louder, heavier, tinged with something bordering on alarm. This isn’t normal. This isn’t how people act. There are boundaries, unspoken but understood—and this boy has crossed all of them without hesitation.

Heat crawls up his neck first, then spreading across his face, colour blossoming across his cheeks in a way that feels both involuntary and humiliatingly obvious. His body reacts before his thoughts can catch up, flinching backward as if burned, the sudden movement breaking the contact. His hand snaps up, striking the boy’s away with a sharp, reflexive motion.

“H-Hey, what was that for!?” His voice stumbles over itself. 

“Huh?” The boy’s response is very, clearly, unbothered. 

“You don’t just──just go so close to someone and touch their face like that!” Isagi protests, words coming faster now, though they still feel clumsy in his mouth, struggling to keep pace with the chaos in his head. “We don’t even know each other…”

“. . .True.” The boy hums, as if considering the statement for the first time, though it hardly seems to matter. Then, with a sudden, easy grin, he hooks his thumb toward himself, a carefree expression once against adorning his features “Okay, well, I’m Bachira Meguru!”

And somehow, impossibly, that only makes it worse.

Upon the words, Isagi pauses in realization. He knows that name. It's on the surface of everyone's lips. The type that roams around classrooms and hallways. So he's popular popular. And he's just casually talking to him, right now. 

"So? Don't leave me hanging. What's your name?"

"Oh. . Uh, Isagi Yoichi."

"Ah! You're the guy with the good english grades. Rin-chan talks about you sometimes!"

As in Itoshi Rin? That isn't exactly something for Isagi to be glad about. 

"Yeah, anyway── why are you here?"

"Well it was you who locked eyes with me during my match, wasn't it?" Bachira asks, as if he explains everything,  and Isagi can't help the frown that his lips morph into upon his amused tone. "You looked interesting. So yeah, I decided we’re friends."

"Friend?" Isagi can't help but repeat, the word sounding weird on his tongue. Well, that's pathetic. It's not like Isagi doesn't have friends. He's just not close with them because after a while, people leave him behind.  They realize he isn’t fun to be around. And he’s forced to hang onto unfinished conversations and lingering gazes . "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Hm, why not? It's always a good idea to make more friends. And you were admiring me, right?"

Isagi takes a deep breath, trying to calm down his warm face. This guy is a little cocky, isn't he? He can't just tell Bachira that the reason he doesn't want to be his friend is because Bachira's just everything someone could want in a person. And that standing beside him would be just pathetic, and even though Isagi Yoichi has a low self esteem, he's not that desperate to put on such a display. 

"So what if I was admiring you? I mean── I just. . .We wouldn't be good friends. I know so." He sighs, and isn't really a lie. Isagi doubts Bachira would actually find him interesting and not get bored of him eventually. "Please don't approach me anymore."

Even Isagi can tell he says it too quickly for it to sound true.

Bachira's about to say something, but Isagi slides past him before he can do so, throwing his bag under his seat and curling into his seat. He buries his head in his arms, facing the direction of the windows. The sun is blinding, but its better than seeing what type of expression Bachira is doing.

After a few seconds, he turns back around, thinking that Bachira may have left. But the male is still standing there. He doesn't look offended, or upset. Just. . . curious. Which manages to mess with Isagi's head even more.

"Hm, I'll see you later, my little admirer!" 

Isagi physically recoils at the endearment. Bachira waves at him, his tongue sticking out before he runs out of the classroom.

How childish, Isagi can't help but think. 

--

The next time Isagi sees Bachira is in the hallways after school. 

He had just finished cleaning duty, and it took a little longer than it should've since the people that were assigned with him decided to ditch and leave it all to him. Exhaling, Isagi's fingers hook around the straps of his backpack, already planning to finish up some studying and homework once he gets home.

The hallways are mostly empty, but there are still a few people lingering around. Isagi pays no mind to them, keeping his head down as he always does. But then he hears the sound of feet padding against the floor in a rushed motion, along with slight, murmured curses. Looking up, Isagi notices Bachira jogging down the hallway, accompanied by about four people.

 His eyes can't help but linger on them for longer than they should. He can't help it. They all compliment each other, fitting the puzzle pieces their souls hold. Bachira's chatting loudly, hands moving animatedly and dramatically with every word. Some are listening to him. Some aren't. But it doesn't matter, because there's a sense of understanding that surrounds them anyway. It's almost effortless.

Once again, Isagi feels his chest coil with something bitter. His fingers tighten around the fabric, and he tries to pretend he never saw them.

But he feels them quiet down as they get closer, which is probably the worst thing that can happen. Did they see him looking at them? Did his jealousy show on his face? 

"What is it, Bachira?" One of them asks, their tone seemingly irritated.

"We're already late for practice." Another one says. 

“. .Just leave him.”

Bachira ignores them, skipping forward and leaning in front of Isagi with a tug of his lips, "Hey, Isagi-chan!"

Isagi stiffens, before he inwardly groans, "Don't call me that."

"Why? It's cute." Bachira says without a second thought, before changing the subject, "Anyway, why are you still in school?"

Isagi considers ignoring him and walking past, but he doubts it'll make Bachira quit. In fact, it might even encourage him to try to talk to him more. "I had cleaning duty."

"Oh. Makes sense." He hums, "Well, we're heading to practice. Want to come along and watch?"

"..Why would I do that?" Isagi questions.

"I dunno. You look like you'd like the sport."

"Listen." Isagi finally makes eye-contact with the honey-eyed boy, who perks up, "I don't like sports. And I already asked you to leave me alone."

"I guess so. .  but── hey, wait!" Bachira calls after Isagi, who takes the chance to duck under Bachira and narrowly escape him. He doesn't meet the eyes of Bachira's friends, and keeps on walking down the halls like he's been doing. 

Eventually, everything becomes silent again, and he's back to being in solitude.

'That guy is seriously relentless.'  

--

Isagi has always been a little observant. It's in his nature, taking note of his surroundings. The way people interact. The small, unnoticeable habits that people do without realizing it.

Before, that had never really been a problem. It helped him to understand his environment more. It kept him out of trouble too. Knowing who got offended from gazes that lasted too long or grins that widened too wide. 

But now, it's daunting. Because Isagi Yoichi finds his gaze always falling back to the insufferable Bachira Meguru. 

He sees him more often. Amidst busy hallways. In the middle of fevered crowds. Behind the windows of offices for lunch detention. But most especially in the field. Mornings before classes. After school when the sky is dull. Among the heat of the afternoon lunch. And every time, Isagi would feel drawn to the boy who never wore his blazer. He just always looked so happy. Like he had everything he ever wanted.

And Isagi shouldn’t care.

He shouldn’t notice Bachira's habits. Like how quickly he changes topics when he gets bored. Or how his fingers unintentionally crave the physical contact of someone else. Or how there’s always a brief moment where his shoulders rise── just a little too sharply── before he smooths it out.

But he does.

Bachira also keeps approaching him. It annoys him a little, especially because other people keep asking how he knows Bachira, and why he keeps getting approached by him. And every time, Isagi would try and think of an answer. But he couldn't. Because he still doesn’t understand why Bachira had taken interest in someone like him either. 

"Say, if you come watch me at practice. . You can tutor me in English!" 

Isagi resists the urge to scowl right there and then. It's lunch, and Isagi's sitting under the staircase, which has been his spot for two years. And now, Bachira Meguru somehow managed to smell him out and find him. He's crouched down, hands on his knees as he bats his lashes at Isagi.

"..I get nothing out of that."

"Uh, yeah you do! You get to admire me from a closer view."

"Are you mocking me or what?" Isagi frowns, and Bachira giggles like a giddy child. 

"Nah, you're just funny to tease." Bachira admits, "So, what do you say?"

Isagi closes his bento, shoving it in his bag, "Aren't you friends with Itoshi Rin? He's way better at English than me."

"Mhm, well, yeah. But Rin-chan always hits me when I get something wrong. He said I'm too stupid to be taught."

'Sounds about right.' Isagi silently agrees in his head. He sighs, looking back up at Bachira reluctantly. "If I watch you practice this one time, and I tutor you until we have exams, will you leave me alone?"

"Uh, alright! I can do that!" Bachira nods, and before Isagi can say anything further, Bachira grabs his wrist and pulls him up, "Now, let me walk you to class!"

"H-Hey, wait!" Isagi yelps, his face reddening as he's dragged up the stairs and interlocked arms with. Bachira walks him through the halls, not paying attention to the eyes that automatically fall upon him. Bachira starts talking about the most pointless things. Like what dream he had this morning. And how his favorite  ice-cream store is closed. And Isagi just tries not to notice the stares. Because gosh, people are really staring. 

Eventually, Isagi spots his classroom coming into view and points at it, "..That's my classroom." 

"Okay, well, I guess I'll see you later, Isagi-chan." Bachira smiles, waving at him before skipping down the hallways and conversing in a conversation with a random student.

For a moment, just a moment, Isagi's gaze lingers on Bachira. 

--

Isagi shows up a little more than fifteen minutes into practice.

He was kinda hoping the sun would've died down a bit, but it didn't. But at least he's here?

The football team is fully immersed in their drills, running up and down the field like the heat doesn't bother them. Isagi slides off his blazer, sitting down on the bleachers and putting it beside him. He bought an iced tea from the vending machine on his way here, and he presses the cold drink against his cheek. 

His eyes scan over the field. Everyone looks focused. Some seem tired, others not even fazed yet. And there's Bachira, eyes wide with a toothy grin as he tries to outpace a very pretty-looking red-head. 

As they finish up drills, Bachira finally looks up and immediately locks eyes with Isagi, who winces internally. Bachira's eyes light up as his hands shoot up, waving enthusiastically. Isagi gives him a small wave back, feeling awkward.

His embarrassment deepens when some of the other players follow Bachira's gaze, giving him curious looks.

When the practice matches start, Isagi can't pretend to look at his phone or read anymore. He watches everything. The players are disgustingly good. Good to the point Isagi's sure they'd all be going pro one day. 

Bachira, especially, is just effortlessly skilled. It's as if the ball is a part of him. It can go anywhere and everywhere, but it always seems to fall back beneath his feet. Sure, there are others that are just as──  if not, even more so, impressive. But at the end of the day, Isagi's gaze always falls back to Bachira.

Practice finishes a little after six, and Isagi's surprised he stayed for the whole time. As soon as the coach, who looks like he's never slept a wink in his life, finishes his talk, and the players start dispersing, Bachira instantly runs up to him as if he hasn't just more than three hours of training. 

"Hey, you came! You watched me, right?" Bachira asks giddily, "How was I?"

"Uh." Isagi meets his gaze awkwardly, rubbing his nape, "Yeah, I have to admit. You were crazy good out there, but── "

"I know right!" Bachira grins, cheeks pink. His face is slightly shiny with a sheen of sweat layering it. Up close, his breath is warmer than it should be── uneven, like he hadn’t quite caught it back yet.  "Anyway, let's get ice-cream──"

"Maybe I haven't been clear." Isagi interrupts him, and Bachira trails off. "I. . I don't want to be friends with you, okay? So just. . leave me alone."

Bachira doesn't reply. He doesn't grin, or pout. He just stares at him, with those big, yellow eyes, flickering with confusion. Isagi grabs his bag, scoots past the teen, and walks down the stairs of the bleachers. He doesn't look back. 

But for a second, Isagi almost stops walking.

 Almost turns around.

But almost has never been enough.

--

Meanwhile, Bachira hasn't moved from his spot. 

He stares at Isagi's retreating figure until it completely fades into the distance. 

"Hey, Bachira, let's get changed." Kunigami puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Okay." Bachira nods, letting the ginger walk with him to the changing rooms. 

The locker room hums with quiet noise── fabric shifting, lockers creaking, the low murmur of voices blending into something almost indistinct. In the middle of it, Chigiri idly twirls a lock of his long hair between his fingers.

“So, Bachira,” he begins, tone light but edged with curiosity, “who’s that guy you’re always around?”

Bachira Meguru tilts his head slightly, as if the question takes a second to land. “Hm? Oh, you mean Isagi?” he replies, casual── too casual.

“I’ve seen you bother him a lot,” Reo adds, glancing over as he adjusts his clothes. “He doesn’t seem to like you.”

“I can see why,” Rin mutters under his breath

For a fleeting moment, something flickers across Bachira’s face── a small crack in the easygoing expression he usually wears. His lips press together, the faintest hint of a frown forming before he exhales and lets himself fall backward against the bench. The wood creaks under the sudden weight, grounding him in a way his thoughts clearly aren’t.

“Yeah, well. . .” he starts, voice softer now, less certain. His gaze drifts upward, unfocused. “I dunno. I guess I wanted to be selfish for once.”

The words hang there, heavier than they should be.

“But yeah,” he continues, an almost careless shrug following, though it doesn’t quite mask what’s underneath, “it wouldn’t be fair if he got attached to me.”

“Don’t say that.” Rin’s voice cuts in immediately── sharper this time.

Chigiri doesn’t hesitate either. In one smooth motion, he swings an arm around Bachira’s neck, pulling him in. “Bachira, we already told you,” he says, his tone warmer now, steadier── something meant to anchor. “You’re gonna get through this. We are gonna get through this.” His grip tightens just slightly, enough to be felt, enough to matter. “So keep that chin of yours up.”

For a moment, Bachira just. . looks at them.

Not with his usual restless energy, not with that unpredictable spark that so often defines him── but quietly, almost searchingly, as if trying to reconcile their certainty with something unresolved inside himself. 

Then, slowly, his expression shifts.

The tension in his features eases, the earlier flicker smoothed over, replaced by something softer. His lips curve upward into a smile, familiar in shape even if it lacks its usual brightness, like a reflection of what it should be rather than the real thing.

“I know that,” he says.

And though the word is simple, it lingers.

–

It’s no later than two in the morning when Isagi gets a message.

For a moment, he stares at his phone, dazed. He doesn’t have too many apps. The ones he does have rarely send any notifications. The only numbers he has are his parents and old friends from his middle school that he keeps just so he can look back at their old messages and relish all the moments they had together before they collectively moved on. 

After a few seconds, he sums it up to his imagination, and his head falls back against the pillow with a thump, trying to empty every uninviting thought that lingers in his mind. 

Ding

It comes again, and Isagi shoots up. Yeah, he is not imagining that. The blanket sinks down to his hips, and he rolls back his shoulders stiffly until he hears a pop, relaxing once again and reaching for his phone.

His face scrunches up reflexively at the blinding glow from his lit-up phone. Blinking a couple of times, he opens up his phone, and his brows knit together as a result of the confusion that rushes through him.

It’s not a number he recognises. Since he doesn’t have it saved either, he can’t see the profile picture. Irritation claws at the rims of his foggy understanding of the situation. 

He presses on the message, and his eyes scan over the messages for less than a second before everything clicks.

xxx xxxx xxx; hihi, isagi-chan
guess who this is (๑>؂•̀๑)

You’re joking.

It takes Isagi everything inside of him not to send his phone flying across the room and watch it crack against the wall. He only manages to stop himself because if he did, the sound would be bound to wake up his parents, and then he’d have to explain why he isn’t asleep, why he threw his phone, and why it’s broken.

His fingers still, and his skin crawls as a shudder runs down his spine with nerves. He’s genuinely freaking out, failing to come up with a reasonable explanation for this. No one in their current school has Isagi’s number. Is Bachira a stalker or what?

Pathetically enough, as much as creeped out Isagi is, he’s equally flattered. A weird, fluttery warmth engulfs his chest, and his lips tremble with the weight of trying to hold back a smile. 

His fingers shake as he hesitantly types back a message.

Isagi Yoichi; How did you get my number?

xxx xxxx xxx; you’re supposed to guess who i am first (¬､¬)

Isagi Yoichi; Bachira, right?

xxx xxxx xxx; was it that easy (｡﹏｡")

Isagi Yoichi; Kinda. Now talk.

xxx xxxx xxx; I just asked the teacher for your number and lied we have a project.

Of course he did. .

Isagi Yoichi; Of course you did. 

xxx xxxx xxx; what’s that supposed to mean (˶ ｰ̀ ⤙ｰ́ ˶) 

Isagi Yoichi; Nothing..
Anyway, why are you awake?
And what do you want?

xxx xxxx xxx; well uhh
we’re still up for you tutoring me in english
right?
coach said that if i fail this test, i can’t go to
the training camp
which would suuuuckkkk

Isagi Yoichi; Yeah ig
What days can you do?
And what time?

xxx xxxx xxx; weeeellll
ive got practice almost every day
but i can do wednesdays after schools

and saturdays
at like
morning

Isagi Yoichi; Mkay
Tomorrow after school
Go to the study cafe by the park

xxx xxxx xxx; You’re the best
Isagi-chan ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

Isagi Yoichi; Thanks??

Just as Isagi’s about to put his phone down, another message comes through.

xxx xxxx xxx; oh, and don’t forget to save my number
mine for you is
my little admirer
so make urs just as cute ( > 𐃷 <  )

Isagi huffs out a sigh, unsurprised that’s the name Bachira decided to pick for him. He clicks on Bachira’s profile, editing the name.

For some reason, his mind instantly settles for Irritating Bumblebee, only that it’s in english. He can imagine Bachira staring at the words, brows furrowing as he tries to understand what it means. The thought involuntarily tugs his lips awkward. And when he realises he’s smiling, he pinches the skin of his wrists until pain shocks him back into rationality

He puts his phone down, easing himself back under the blankets before curling onto his side. 

Isagi tries to close his eyes. But every time he does, images of Bachira’s stupid face invites itself into his usually empty headspace. 

Damn you, Bachira. 

–

School goes by far too fast for Isagi’s liking, moments feeling like fractures rather than something he actually lived through. When the bell rings at three, and the teacher’s voice eases into a relaxed tone as they tell everyone to have a good day, Isagi can feel his heartbeat in his ears. His finger stills around the strings of his faded blue hoodie.

It’s stupid, yes. Thinking so hard over something as simple as tutoring someone over baked goods and coffee. But Isagi’s pretty weak in the social category. So something like this does feel like a feat. 

He puts his things into his bag slower than usual, ignoring the familiar, yet distinct buzz of nerves that makes its way up his fingers and curl around his wrist, just so he can have that sense of control. 

Isagi stands up, swinging his bag over his shoulder before walking to the door, forcing his face to stay neutral. However when he opens the classroom door, the shock that morphs into his expression isn’t something he can control.

He yelps, backing up as Bachira’s easygoing smile meets his face first.

“Hey, Isagi-chan!” 

“W-What the── why are you . .”

“I know you said I should just head straight to the cafe. But it’s more fun if we walk there together, right?” 

Before Isagi can even muster a response, Bachira’s hand wraps around his wrists, pulling him out of the classroom and down the hallways. Isagi knows Bachira’s pretty speedy, but even at this pace, Isagi can feel himself getting dizzy. 

They run down the stairs and out the doors, the hot sun hitting them all at once. Isagi winces at the brightness of the sun, but Bachira just laughs, relishing in it.

Isagi tries── attempts── to enjoy the sunlight. To let its warmth seep into his pale skin and give him some sort of satisfaction.

But all he can focus on is the coldness that settles into his palm from Bachira’s touch.

—

The faint hum of the light music playing in the background of the cafe is grounding. Soft, yellow lights fill the room with a gentle glow, and Isagi’s throat tightens around the words he wants to say. 

Isagi tilts his head up slightly, his gaze falling upon Bachira. The boy sits opposite him, face scrunched in an unusual focused expression that Isagi genuinely thought he was incapable of making. 

Bachira’s fingers tighten around the pen for the last few words he writes before he drops it, exhaling with a relieved chuckle. He flexes and relaxes his hands, yawning.

“Are you already tired?” Isagi frowns, “It’s only half-past four.”

“In my defense, I’ve never studied for an hour and a half.” Bachira mumbles, lips forming into a childish pout that causes Isagi’s expression to drop into one of unimpress. Regaining back his energy, Bachira grabs his paper with a proud, almost smug grin. “Take a look at my work, sir.”

Isagi sighs, taking the paper from Bachira’s hands. Their fingers brush, only briefly, and yet Isagi finds himself freezing. 

His hands are still so cold.

Bachira doesn’t seem to notice, too interested in his bacon sandwich. Isagi grimaces, wondering how the other male can stomach something so salty. Shaking his head, he turns back to the paper, eyes reading over the words.

With just a quick scan, Isagi can already spot some mistakes. He grabs his pen, which leaks a bright red in comparison to Bachira’s. He corrects everything before giving it back to Bachira. 

Isagi watches as Bachira’s expression almost comically falls, eyes widening as his lips curl downwards into a disappointented── mostly disbelieved frown. 

“Seriously? I thought I did better this time. . this is so stupid!”

As Bachira complains about his mistakes, Isagi feels a rush of anticipation to speak. Clearing his throat, he forces himself to look straight at the male opposite him. “Hey, Bachira?”

“Hmm, what is it?” Bachira questions, “If you’re going to scold me── “

“Your hands.” Isagi says, a little too quickly. He watches as Bachira pauses, and something momentarily flickers in his eyes. Like words reflected in his gaze instead. However, it dims just as quickly. “I’ve noticed that they’re cold. Like, really cold. I’m no expert on what’s normal for temperature. But──”

“I’m sick.”

Isagi trails off, the words failing to register properly in his head for a moment. It isn’t something you consider. Not to someone you know. Isagi hears about it all the time, people’s bodies failing them in cruel and unforgivable ways, dying to something they can’t control. 

Despite knowing how common it is, Isagi never would’ve guessed Bachira Meguru, a boy carved from gold, is a victim of something like that. When it finally does register, Isagi feels his skin crawl. 

“You’re sick? What do you. .”

“Terminal.” Bachira clarifies, already going back to finishing his sandwich. “Doctors say they’ve never seen someone like me. They don’t know how to fix me.”

The silence between them is something Isagi imagines, because it isn’t silent. The music is still playing, and the sound of pens against paper still fills the room, and low chatter still hums around the room. And yet, Isagi thinks it's never been so quiet. His thoughts have never been so. . open; nude ── practically, echoing against the silence of everything else.

“You. .” Isagi tries not to let his voice falter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think── “

“Yeah, people don’t usually think.” Bachira leans on his arm, cheek pressing against his palm. “They look at me and think, oh, he’s so giddy and cheerful. I’d never guess that his body is rejecting itself inside.”

Isagi doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing in this situation where the words that come out of his mouth would sound right. No one wants apologies. 

“You must be pitying me right now.” Bachira says casually, and Isagi flinches. “If you feel bad, buy me another drink. I think I’d like uh. . iced tea this time! Since you already bought me a hot drink.” 

For a second, Isagi just stares at Bachira, trying to decipher what he must be feeling. But there’s nothing. No cracks, no facades. Just bright yellow eyes and amusement hidden behind a subtle smirk. 

Isagi turns back to his notebook, “..I’ll get you hot chocolate.”

“Mhm. . better than nothing!”

— 

They leave the cafe when the sky dulls into a milky orange.

Bachira, Isagi notices, is quieter amongst the slight chill of the evening. His shoulders are almost curled inwardly, like his body is trying to make itself smaller to preserve warmth. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his pants, and every few seconds, they tremble slightly.

But Bachira doesn’t even seem to notice his own body’s reactions. He’s too busy staring up at the sunset the sky has morphed itself into, and the colours that come with it. 

“Heh, I really need to work on my english.” Bachira notes.

“Yeah, you do.” Isagi agrees. 

“So, where’s your house? I’ll walk you there.” 

“Hey, you really don’t have to──”

“Let me.” For a second, just a second, Bachira’s expression is unreadable. Eerily, but also worryingly. And then, he smiles. It’s softer than his usual smiles, faded around the edges. “I want to.”

Isagi can’t argue against something he wants to do. And after everything he’s heard today, denying him of doing something so trivial would leave his stomach up in knots from guilt for weeks. So to save himself from hours of recalling this very moment, he doesn’t say anything in retortment. 

“It’s two blocks down.” 

“Down there? I don’t live too far from you anyway.”

‘Sure you don’t.’

Isagi doesn’t say much from then. He lets Bachira speak about all the stupid things he entertained himself during the week, responding with sarcastic remarks that, for some reason, had Bachira giggling. 

By the time they reach Isagi’s house, Bachira stares at it for a few moments, as if he’s making a mental note in his head, before humming and starting to walk off, “So──”

“Wait a sec.” Isagi pulls down the zip of his hoodie, sliding it off before holding it out to Bachira. “You’re practically shivering. Wear it home and to school tomorrow. It’ll. . ease my mind.”

Bachira’s eyes widen for a split second, fingers reaching out to the fabric, but faltering. His eyes meet Isagi’s, and the way he’s looking back at him contradicts his very own words so much it brings a smile to Bachira’s face. Bachira grabs the hoodie, wearing it. He tucks his chin into its collar, cheeks flushing the faintest pink. 

“Thanks, Isagi.”

–

It starts like that. Every Wednesday and Saturday, they sit tucked beside the café’s tall windows, sunlight spilling across their table as they work through English questions, accompanied by drinks too sweet and sandwiches too salty. It’s a routine that Isagi finds himself growing used to.

During those sessions, Isagi finds himself perceiving Bachira in different lights. At first glance, he’s still the same—scatterbrained, irritating, the kind of person who lets words slip in one ear and out the other without a second thought. But if Isagi looks closer, really looks, there’s something else there. Something steady. Something real. 

Bachira cherishes his friends. Much more than it seems. Part of Isagi finds himself wanting to be important to someone like that. To bachira like that. Because Bachira is strange in a way Isagi can’t quite explain. Bachira is the ideology of someone who can walk through hell and remain pure inside. Like an angel who somehow learned how to survive in a world that doesn’t deserve one.

And despite himself──  despite every instinct telling him not to get pulled in── Isagi does.

He falls for the boy with honey-yellow eyes and a grin that could reach miles. Not romantically. Romance is unfamiliar territory for him, something distant and foreign.  But Bachira draws him in all the same, in ways Isagi can’t quite name.

–

“So you really don’t do anything fun?”

Isagi looks up from his notebook to find Bachira staring at him idly, fiddling with one of the pens he stole from Isagi’s pencil case. 

He frowns, feeling rather offended by Bachira’s assumption. “I do. . some fun things.”

“Oh yeah?” Bachira purposely raises a brow, tilting his head as he leans on the table, “Like what?”

Isagi frantically searches his thoughts and memories for something that he occupies himself that isn’t lying in the same bed for hours, trying to motivate himself to get out of bed and do something meaningful. After a few silent moments, Isagi sighs, a defeated expression etching itself onto his features.

“Wow. That’s really sad.” Bachira says. Worst of all, his voice is more surprised than amused or taunting. “Hey, why don’t you join the football club? I mean, the team and the club train together. But you won’t actually be on the team unless the coach lets you.”

“I──” Isagi trails off. It's in his instincts to refuse and reject anything that isn’t in his comfort zone, which is literally everything that involves putting extra effort. But, in all honesty, football’s a sensitive topic for him. 

Like most kids, he grew up admiring the talents and skills celebrities and athletes displayed online. Isagi, specifically, had a cloying infatuation for football players. He’d spend all of his time cooped up on the couch, curling a pillow to his chest as he watched prodigies dominate the field they played in.

Naturally, Isagi aspired to be like them. For many years, football was his motivation. His goal. He could even say his reason for living. He wanted to be just like those players on TV, running with the weight of the world on their backs.

However, all it took was one game to crumble it all.

Well, it wasn’t just one game. It was weeks of trying and working and fighting, just for a single chance to prove something. But all of Isagi’s efforts were in vain. The memory of himself on his knees, struggling to keep tears at bay as his fingers curled around damp grass has lingered for too long.

“When are tryouts?.” 

“I knew you would say── wait what?” Bachira’s eyes widen, genuinely taken by surprise.

“Yeah. I want to try something new. That’s what life’s about, right? Trying again?” Isagi smiles. It's a small smile, barely more than a ghost of what he’s actually feeling. But it's enough to make Bachira’s heart flutter with something distinct. 

–

When tryouts come, the sun is no hotter than it’s always been these past couple of weeks. Isagi can feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest, nerves running through his veins as he reminds himself to keep his composure.

Bachira stands with the other members of the team, who are required to watch the possible new recruits. Oddly enough, he feels a strange consciousness of worry that’s bubbling on the surface of his emotions. He doesn’t usually get like this, but his eyes train on Isagi’s, trying to decipher what he’s feeling. 

“Bachira, you okay?” Reo questions, snapping Bachira out of his thoughts. He barely manages to cover his flinch, blinking a couple of times until the question registers. 

“Uh-huh.”

“You aren’t as giddy as usual.” Chigiri hums, looking out of the field before he stretches a hand out subtly, “Is it because of that guy? What’s his name again. .”

“Isagi Yoichi.” Yukimiya speaks up from where he stands with Otoya and Karasu, “I didn’t think he would be interested in sports.”

“How do you know him?” Kunigami asks with relative surprise. 

“We worked on a project together once. He’s pretty awkward, but seems like a good guy.” Yukimiya explains, shifting his gaze. “Bachira, you guys are friends?”

“Hm. . yeah, we are! He also tutors me in English. And he buys me hot chocolate.” 

“That’s nice of him.” Reo smiles.

“Do you think he’d buy me a hot chocolate if I asked him?” Nagi questions, earning him several sighs and unimpressed looks.

“Don’t milk the guy.” Kunigami shakes his head, before his focus returns back to the field. Bachira does the same, his eyes falling back on Isagi. 

Throughout the evaluation, Bachira makes a few conclusions. 

1. Isagi definitely has played football before. He has good technique and a really weird understanding of the field. When it came to the matches, he was able to figure out most of the players on his opponents team. Sure, when it comes to physical abilities, he’s on the short side of the stick. But his game intelligence is definitely on another level. Even Bachira can see that. 
2. Isagi has a pretty smile. Isagi doesn’t smile much, unfortunately. He’s usually either neutral, surprised, or embarrassed. Sometimes, he’ll give a small, little slip of his lips when he finds something amusing or stupid. That thing is usually Bachira. But Bachira has never seen him like this before. He’s on the ground, trying to catch his breath. His face is flushed pink, breaths coming in sharp, uneven puffs. Despite it all, Isagi’s eyes are bright. No, not just bright. They’re sparkling. Gleaming. When Isagi smiles, really smiles, his eyes crinkle just slightly. He’s grinning so widely, huffs of laughter escaping with every strained breath. Bachira isn’t a very descriptive person, but he knows that’s the look of someone who’s in love. And Isagi Yoichi might be── must be──  in love with football. 

“He’s good.” Chigiri admits, “And smart. We need more of that, since most of our players are lacking in that department.”

“What are you looking at me for?” Otoya snickers, and Chigiri rolls his eyes before walking off with Kunigami.

When a hand hits Bachira smack in the back, he winces, falling forward and catching himself unsteadily. He look back with a pout, “Hey, Rin-chan, what was that for!?”

“Stop staring at him like that. You look like a love-sick dog. It’s disgusting.” Rin says bitterly. Before Bachira can even respond, Rin turns on his heel and walks off to the locker rooms.

Scowling, Bachira, ruffling his sweaty bangs, brushing them out of his face before heading to Isagi. 

“Yo, Isagi!” Bachira grins, sticking a hand out.

Isagi looks up at him, staggering off the floor to connect his palm with Bachira’s. “Hey!”

“You never told me you played before.” Bachira smirks, and Isagi looks away with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Just a little bit when I was younger.”

“Well, if you get on the team, you can be my number one assistant. I’ll score every time you pass!”

Isagi stays quiet for a few seconds before he scoffs, “Yeah right. You’ll be the one passing to me.”

Bachira’s unable to stop himself from smiling. His cheeks already hurt from how much he’s done that today. “Oh yeah? We’ll see about that.”

They do what they usually do. Bachira walks Isagi home. Isagi gives him his hoodie, claiming that even if he’s sweating, he could still get sick. So Bachira takes it, waves Isagi goodbye, and then walks home.

That night, sleep doesn’t come so easily.

He lays curled up under the sheets, feeling tremors violently run through his body. Nausea churns, just slightly, in his stomach. And even though he didn’t eat much, he regrets eating at all, because now all the food sloushes uncomfortable inside of him.

Bachira looks up at the ceilings, thinking about everything that happened today. His mind settles on the thought of Isagi, because despite the pain he feels, it brings him comfort. Enough comfort that he feels his eyes grow heavy with the embers of sleep. 

Just before he does so, though, he sits up and grabs the hoodie that he left on his chair. He slips his arm through it, pulls up the zipper and pulls the blankets over him.

That’s when he finally manages to ease into a slumber. 

–

Isagi’s certain he’s gone two steps too fast.

He’s close enough to Bachira to call him a friend now. Not the ‘we exchange smiles in the hallways’ kind of friend. But the type where Bachira can slump down against his shoulder after training, clothes damp with sweat and the dull sky hanging over them as they share thoughts.

Joining the team has changed him in more ways than none. He managed to be a reserve, not someone worthy of being recognised just yet, but someone. 

It should’ve been common sense, but joining the team also means more connections. Allies──that’s the better word for it. Bachira has a lot of friends. He talks to everyone, and everyone talks to each other. Some are quieter, more closed off. Others are loud, easy to approach. But at the end of the day, they move as one. A team.

And somehow, Isagi finds his way in.

It’s easier than he expected──maybe a little too easy.

Take Chigiri, for example.

He keeps a certain distance. Not cold, but careful. Like he’s always holding something back. His words are measured, his expressions subtle, but when he does speak, there’s weight behind it──an honesty that doesn’t bother with pretending. Around Bachira, though, that restraint softens. Not completely, but enough. Enough that Isagi notices the small things: the way Chigiri doesn’t pull away when Bachira leans too close, the way he responds instead of ignoring him. There’s trust there. Quiet, hard-earned trust──the kind that isn’t given lightly.

At first, Chigiri doesn’t say much to Isagi. He observes more than he speaks, eyes flicking toward him during practice, during breaks. But then Isagi starts to notice it──the faint curve of amusement at the corner of Chigiri’s lips when he gets too caught up in his own thoughts, the way he lingers just a second longer after Isagi says something unintentionally blunt.

“You overthink everything,” Chigiri says one day, brushing his hair back with a quiet huff. “It’s kind of funny.”

Funny.

Isagi isn’t sure how to respond to that. But there’s no malice in it. If anything, it feels. . light. Like Chigiri isn’t laughing at him, but watching him with a quiet sort of curiosity.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Kunigami is the opposite in all the ways that matter.

He’s straightforward to a fault──what you see is what you get. There’s no guessing with him, no hidden layers to peel back. He believes in things──justice, effort, doing what’s right──and he holds onto those beliefs like they’re unshakable. At first, Isagi thinks someone like that wouldn’t mesh well with Bachira’s unpredictability. But somehow, it works. Kunigami grounds him, keeps him from drifting too far. And Bachira, in return, pulls reactions out of him that no one else can──annoyance, exasperation, even laughter. It’s loud, unfiltered, and real.

From the beginning, there’s something almost instinctive in the way Kunigami treats Isagi── he’s already decided what role Isagi plays in his life.

“Eat more,” Kunigami says one afternoon, pushing an extra portion toward him without hesitation. “You’re too skinny.”

“I’m not──”

“You are.”

There’s no room for argument.

Kunigami looks out for him in small, consistent ways──correcting his posture during training, offering straightforward advice without overcomplicating it. There’s no hidden meaning, no layered intention. Just honesty.

It reminds Isagi of something he can’t quite place at first.

Later, he realizes──it feels like having an older brother. The kind who doesn’t say much about caring, but shows it anyway.

Then there’s Reo and Nagi.

Reo is sharp. Observant in a way that feels deliberate, like he’s always evaluating, always aware of the bigger picture. He’s social, but not careless about it──every interaction feels chosen, intentional. He knows how to read people, how to talk to them, how to place himself exactly where he wants to be.

Around Bachira, though, that polish cracks──just slightly. There’s a hint of genuine amusement there, like Bachira is one of the few variables he doesn’t bother trying to control.

Reo doesn’t pry, but he notices.

“You’re adjusting pretty quickly,” he says once, offering a small, approving smile. “That’s good.”

It’s simple. Casual. But coming from someone like him, it carries weight.

There’s a quiet kindness to Reo──not loud or overwhelming, but intentional. He makes space, smooths edges, makes people feel like they belong.

And with him, Isagi does.

Nagi, on the other hand, barely tries at all.

He’s detached──almost frustratingly so. Conversations slide off him unless they directly interest him, and even then, his responses are minimal. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking──if he’s thinking much at all.

But Bachira doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, he leans into it──talks enough for the both of them, fills the silence without expecting anything in return. And strangely. . . Nagi listens. Not always with words, not even with clear reactions—but he stays. He doesn’t walk away.

And for someone like him, Isagi realizes, that probably means more than anything else.

Most of the time, Nagi looks half-asleep, barely reacting unless something directly involves him. Effort seems like something he avoids on principle.

So when Nagi starts paying attention to him──even just a little──it stands out.

“You’re weird,” Nagi says one day, eyes half-lidded as he watches Isagi scribble notes faster than he can process them.

“. . .What?”

“You think too much. But it’s kinda interesting.”

That’s it. No elaboration. No follow-up.

But after that, Isagi notices the difference──the way Nagi’s gaze lingers during practice, the subtle shifts in attention whenever Isagi speaks. It’s not obvious, not something anyone else would point out.

But it’s there.

Interest.

And from someone like Nagi. . . that’s something.

So yes, Isagi somehow managed to slip into their tight group. He doesn’t spend lunch alone anymore, staring outside as the only conversations he hears are the ones going on in the hallways when others walk past.

Most of the time, now, he eats outside on the wooden benches near the field. Funny enough, its positioning is right behind a large oak tree, nicely blocking the direct hit of the sunlight. Isagi wonders how excited they would’ve been when they first found the spot. 

Everything is a heavy shift to how he used to be less than two months ago. The climax of it all? Bachira Meguru.

Speaking of Bachira, two months ago, Isagi Yoichi would have never──never──imagined a situation where Bachira would be in his bed.

The thought alone feels absurd in concept, almost laughable in how far removed it is from the version of himself back then. And yet, here he is──tracing the fragile thread of events that led to this.

It started, as many things do, with something small. A conversation. Or rather, the absence of one.

On the walk back from the café, Bachira had gone quiet.

Now, silence in itself isn’t unusual. For most people, it’s natural── comfortable. But Bachira isn’t most people. His presence is usually restless, so when five whole minutes pass without a single comment, without even a hum, it doesn’t feel like silence──it feels like something wrong.

Isagi notices. Of course he does.

He finds himself glancing over, waiting for the usual spark to return, for Bachira to say something random, something nonsensical──anything to restore balance. When it doesn’t come, a faint unease settles in his chest.

He’s just about to break the silence himself when Bachira beats him to it.

“You know, I’ve always been curious about why you look so tired all the time.”

Isagi doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly, at least. He’s been told that before── heard it phrased in different ways, wrapped in concern or blunt observation. 

“Well…” he starts, his tone almost detached, as if he’s reciting something he’s already come to terms with. “Sleep doesn’t come easily for me. I probably have insomnia or something like that.” A pause. “I used to take sleeping pills, but the headaches I’d wake up with weren’t worth it.”

There’s a brief silence after that—one that feels different from before. Heavier. More deliberate.

“. . .That sucks,” Bachira says finally, softer than usual. “So what, you barely sleep?”

“I get a few hours,” Isagi shrugs lightly. “Four at most. So it’s not all bad.”

It’s a deflection, and they both know it.

“Well,” Bachira hums, tone shifting──lighter now, but with something oddly intentional beneath it, “I heard that physical contact can help someone.”

The words click into place a little too quickly.

Understanding hits Isagi all at once──and with it, heat.

It rushes up his neck, floods his cheeks, burns at the tips of his ears until they feel almost painfully warm. His body reacts before his mind can fully catch up, embarrassment blooming so vividly it’s almost overwhelming. And the worst part? Bachira notices.

The quiet snicker that follows only makes it worse.

“What do you──what are you implying?” Isagi asks anyway, clinging to the faint, desperate hope that maybe──maybe──he  misunderstood.

“I’m saying we should sleep together, Isagi-chan.”

And there it is.

Isagi folds in on himself instantly, doubling over as if physically struck by the words. His breath catches awkwardly in his throat, and for a second, he can’t even tell if he’s trying to breathe or laugh or just survive the sheer force of his own embarrassment. He buries his face into his arm, as if that might somehow hide the burning reality of his expression.

Above him, Bachira loses it completely.

His laughter spills out, unrestrained and bright, echoing into the sunken night as he clutches his sides. He wipes at the corners of his eyes, still grinning so widely it borders on ridiculous.

“You’re so funny to tease, you know!”

“Bachira. . .” Isagi lifts his head just enough to glare, his expression tight with irritation despite the lingering heat on his face. “That isn’t funny, you idiot.”

“Well, it wasn’t a joke,” Bachira replies easily, as if that somehow clarifies everything. “I really am suggesting it. And it’s true! It’s literally been proven.” He tilts his head, his smile softening into something more earnest──though no less unsettling. “How about we try it? It doesn’t have to be weird.”

It doesn’t have to be weird.

And yet, somehow, it already is.

Despite that── despite how utterly strange, how completely out of his comfort zone it feels── Isagi finds himself agreeing.

Even now, he’s not entirely sure why.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the quiet sincerity beneath Bachira’s chaos. Or maybe it’s something else entirely──something he hasn’t fully confronted yet.

By the time they reach his house, the decision feels less like a choice and more like something he’s already committed to.

He lets Bachira in, a small, almost guilty relief settling in when he remembers his parents aren’t home. They wouldn’t understand ── not the situation, not him. They don’t even know he still struggles with sleep.

It’s early enough── around  seven── so Isagi makes dinner, if it can even be called that. Ramen. Simple, familiar, requiring little thought. Cooking anything more feels like too much effort, too much energy he doesn’t have.

While he works, Bachira moves about the space with ease, washing up, changing into a spare set of Isagi’s clothes as if he belongs there. As if this isn’t unusual at all.

They eat in front of the TV.

Isagi initially puts on a new thriller series──something sharp, engaging, something that might occupy his thoughts later, keep them from drifting into places he’d rather avoid. But somewhere along the way, that plan dissolves. They switch to an old, niche drama──nostalgic, oddly comforting──and before Isagi realizes it, he’s laughing. Actually laughing.

Time slips.

It isn’t until around eleven that reality snaps back into place.

School. Tomorrow. Responsibility.

And Bachira──Bachira isn’t like him. Bachira sleeps. Bachira functions. It feels wrong, somehow, to drag him into this half-broken routine.

So they move to bed.

And that’s when it becomes real.

To call it awkward would be an understatement.

Isagi gets in first, movements stiff, deliberate. He pulls the blankets down and immediately shifts toward the wall, pressing himself against it so firmly it’s as if he’s trying to disappear into it──like reducing his presence might somehow make the situation less overwhelming.

Then Bachira climbs in after him.

The mattress dips. The covers lift, then settle over both of them.

And suddenly, everything is loud.

Not in sound──but in sensation.

Every shift of fabric, every breath, every subtle movement feels amplified, sharpened in the quiet. Isagi becomes hyper-aware of his own body──his uneven breathing, the slight tremor in his fingers, the tension coiled tightly in his chest.

This is weird.

Sharing a bed with someone──anyone──already feels unfamiliar. But Bachira? Someone so unpredictable, so unrestrained?

It feels like stepping into something he doesn’t fully understand.

He closes his eyes, trying to will himself into stillness, into calm──trying not to think.

Then the bed dips again.

Closer.

He doesn’t need to look to know. He can feel it──Bachira inching nearer, closing that distance the same way he always does, effortlessly, without hesitation.

It takes everything Isagi has not to bolt.

Then──

Arms sneak around his waist.

The contact is sudden, grounding, real. Isagi lets out a sharp yelp as he’s pulled backward, his back meeting a firm chest. The warmth is immediate, almost startling, and for a split second, his mind blanks entirely.

He’d forgotten.

Or maybe he’d just never thought about it this way──that Bachira isn’t just chaotic or strange or unpredictable.

He’s an athlete.

Strong. Solid. In a way that’s impossible to ignore at this distance.

“With how much you’re trembling,” Bachira giggles softly, voice right by his ear, “someone would think you’re colder than me.”

Isagi’s face burns again, brighter this time, the heat spreading uncontrollably.

They fall into silence.

But it isn’t empty.

It’s full──of warmth, of tension, of something unspoken threading quietly between them.

Then Bachira speaks again, softer now.

“Remember how I used to call you my admirer?” he murmurs. “I think I’m actually the one who admired you.”

Isagi freezes.

“. . .Me?” The word slips out before he can stop it, quiet but incredulous. “How could──why would someone like you admire someone like me?”

He genuinely doesn’t understand.

He keeps to himself. Barely talks. The kind of person people forget is even there.

So why him?

“You reminded me of my younger self,” Bachira admits, his voice quieter still as he nuzzles lightly into the crook of Isagi’s neck.

The contact sends a shiver down Isagi’s spine── rising instantly, his fingers curling instinctively around Bachira’s wrist as if grounding himself.

“All the other kids thought I was weird,” Bachira continues, the words softer, more distant, like he’s reaching back into something he doesn’t often touch. “I didn’t think like them. So I was an outcast right from the start.”

“You? An outcast?” Isagi lets out a faint, disbelieving breath──almost a laugh, though it lacks humor. The idea feels foreign, impossible to reconcile with the person he knows.

“Sounds crazy, right?”

Bachira lets out a quiet breath against Isagi’s neck, softer now──stripped of its usual playfulness. There’s no laughter this time, no teasing lilt to cushion the words. Just something honest. Something that lingers.

Isagi doesn’t respond immediately.

Because it does sound crazy.

The Bachira he knows──the one who laughs too loudly, moves too freely, says whatever comes to mind without hesitation──doesn’t fit into the shape of someone who was ever pushed aside. If anything, he feels like the kind of person who pulls attention toward himself, effortlessly bending the space around him.

And yet. . . the way he said it.

There’s no exaggeration in his tone. No performance.

Just fact.

“. . I used to talk to myself a lot,” Bachira continues after a moment, voice dipping into something quieter, “Well── not really ‘myself.’” A small pause. “I called it my monster.”

Isagi’s fingers tighten slightly around Bachira’s wrist, not enough to stop him──just enough to show he’s listening.

“It was easier that way,” Bachira says. “Having something that understood me, even if no one else did. Someone who saw the game the way I saw it. Someone who didn’t think I was. . weird for it.”

There’s a faint shift behind him, like Bachira’s gaze has drifted somewhere far beyond the room.

“But other people didn’t get it,” he adds, almost absentmindedly. “They’d look at me like I was saying something wrong, even when I wasn’t.” A quiet exhale. “So after a while, I stopped trying to explain.”

The words settle heavily between them.

For once, Bachira isn’t filling the silence.

He’s leaving it open.

And Isagi finds himself stepping into it before he can second-guess the impulse.

“I think I get that,” he says, voice low, hesitant──but sincere.

It surprises him how easily the admission comes out.

“I mean── not the ‘monster’ part,” he adds quickly, a faint awkwardness slipping back in, “but. . . the rest.”

He swallows, gaze fixed somewhere ahead, though his eyes aren’t really seeing anything.

“I’m not good at talking to people either,” Isagi admits. “It always feels like everyone else just knows how to exist around each other. Like there were rules I never learned.”

He lets out a quiet breath.

“So I just. . keep to myself.”

The room feels smaller somehow. Warmer. Not suffocating──just closer.

Behind him, Bachira hums softly.

“That’s why,” he murmurs, almost thoughtfully, “when I saw you. . it felt familiar.”

Isagi’s chest tightens──subtly, but enough for him to notice.

“You had that same look,” Bachira continues. “Like you were watching everything from just a little too far away.” His grip shifts slightly, not tightening, just adjusting── settling. “But when you played. . .”

There’s a hint of something returning to his voice now. Not the teasing, not the chaos—but something brighter. Sharper.

“You weren’t distant at all.”

Isagi’s breath catches, just for a second.

“. .You’re weird,” Isagi mutters after a moment, the words coming out quieter than intended.

But there’s no real bite to them.

If anything, they feel. . incomplete. Like they’re trying──and failing──to fully capture what he means.

Bachira laughs softly at that, the sound low and warm.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “I know.”

There’s no defensiveness. No denial.

Just acceptance.

And something about that── about how naturally he says it── makes Isagi’s chest feel… lighter.

The tension that had been coiled so tightly in his body begins to loosen, little by little. His shoulders drop a fraction, his breathing evening out without him consciously forcing it.

He’s still aware of everything──the warmth at his back, the steady presence behind him, the arm resting loosely around his waist.

But it doesn’t feel as overwhelming anymore.

Just. . there.

“. . . Hey, Bachira,” Isagi says after a while, his voice softer now, quieter in a different way.

“Mm?”

“Thanks.”

The word is simple. Barely more than a breath.

But it hangs there, carrying more than he can quite put into language.

For a moment, Bachira doesn’t respond.

Then—

His grip shifts slightly, not pulling Isagi any closer, but not letting go either. Something in-between. Something steady.

“Told you,” he murmurs, a faint smile audible in his voice, “it wouldn’t have to be weird.”

Isagi exhales quietly.

And for once. Just this once──

It actually isn’t.

–

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He does remember sinking back into warmth, and the edges of his consciousness fogging slightly. But the idea of actually sleeping throughout the night is so absurd to him that he jolts awake when his alarm blares loudly.

At first, everything is distorted. The night comes in small fractures first, and he’s barely able to distinguish the blurred lines between his imagination and reality.

It takes a second── well, more than a second, for everything to click. And when it does, he finds himself gaping. Because not only did he actually fall asleep, but it’s eight in the morning. He went to bed at eleven.

That’s over nine hours of sleep.

The realization doesn’t hit all at once── it blooms.

Slowly at first, like something fragile testing the edges of belief, and then all at once, overwhelming in its certainty. Nine hours. Nine. The number repeats in Isagi Yoichi’s mind as if it might slip away if he doesn’t hold onto it tightly enough.

For a second, he just lies there.

Still.

Disoriented not from exhaustion──but from the absence of it.

His body feels. . light. Not in the way it does after too little sleep──hollow and dragging── but genuinely light, like something heavy has been quietly lifted off him without permission. There’s a warmth unfurling in his chest, spreading outward in slow, steady waves, settling into places that usually feel tense, tight, restless.

His fingers twitch against the sheets.

Then tremble.

And before he can stop it── before he can even question it──a grin breaks across his face, wide and unrestrained in a way that feels almost foreign.

It worked.

It actually──really──worked.

The thought sparks something almost giddy inside him, a bubbling, unfamiliar excitement that makes his chest feel too full. For once, his mind isn’t clouded by fatigue or dragged down by the weight of another sleepless night. It’s clear. Bright.

Alive.

Almost instinctively, he turns his head──like he expects to confirm it, to see the source of it still there.

But the space beside him is empty.

The warmth lingers, faintly pressed into the mattress, but Bachira Meguru is gone.

The absence registers slowly, confusion threading through the edges of his lingering excitement. His brows knit together slightly, the beginnings of a frown forming as he pushes himself upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.

It’s quieter than it should be.

He reaches over to silence his alarm, the sharp sound cutting off mid-ring── and that’s when he sees it.

A bright yellow sticky note, slapped haphazardly onto his bedside.

It’s almost impossible to miss.

Isagi blinks, then peels it off carefully, his eyes scanning the messy, energetic handwriting:

‘Hey hey, hope you slept well sleepy-head XDD
I didn’t wanna wake you up
You just looked so adorable ˃ᴗ˂
I had to go home to get ready for school
Cya at practice’

There’s a pause.

Then something in his chest lifts again.

It’s different this time. Softer. Warmer in a quieter, more lingering way.

His lips curve upward without him realizing, the smile returning── smaller than before, but somehow deeper. There’s a lightness to it, an almost embarrassing kind of happiness that settles under his skin, making his thoughts feel just a little bit brighter.

It’s ridiculous.

It should be ridiculous.

And yet──

He finds himself smiling even more.

It isn’t just the note. Not really.

It’s everything. The sleep. The warmth still lingering in his body. The memory of last night—awkward and strange and unfamiliar, but. .not bad. Not bad at all.

For once, he doesn’t wake up dreading the day.

For once, he feels. . good.

Almost too good.

Riding that high, Isagi shifts, pushing himself out of bed──

And freezes.

The clock.

8:00 AM.

His brain stalls.

Then rapidly── violently── catches up.

Eight.

In.

The.

Morning..

His eyes widen.

He has──at most──twenty minutes.

The warmth? Gone.

The clarity? Replaced instantly with panic.

“I’m screwed.”

–

An arrangement is put in place.

If Isagi messages him, Bachira will sneak through Isagi’s window and sleep with him. Isagi tried not to make it often. Only when necessary. Like before exams or on Sunday’s so he could be a little more prepared for the week. 

It works a little too well. So well to the point Isagi finds it a little embarrassing that something as simple as having someone next to him could practically cure years worth of sleeping issues. 

He’s certain others notice the change in his presence. Chigiri’s keen on his assumption that Isagi is using some sort of cleanser because his skin has never been so bright.

Reo says his eyebags are a lot less prominent, and that he doesn’t look dead inside.  

Even Rin mentioned how he doesn’t seem like he’s lagging behind. Even if his words come with a slight threat, Isagi will take it like a compliment anyway.

According to Shidou── a third year on the team who had no idea what was going on── everyone being so energetic called for a celebration. So with some coaxing, the coach took everyone out to a restaurant.

The team took advantage, getting bruised pork ribs and extra salty fries lathered with creamy sauces. Isagi, for once, ate like a champ, devouring anything that was offered.

Kunigami had to pull him away from his plate a couple of times, telling him to calm down before he choked, which honestly was rather humbling when everyone else found it amusing.

By the time they all finished, the night was dark. Everyone said their goodbyes before heading on their way. Isagi, of course, walks beside Bachira as they relish the memories of the day.

“I don’t even know how I managed to get up. I ate way too much.” Isagi mutters, tone light yet slightly regretful in a way that scolds him inside.

“I’ve never seen you like that, you know. Who knew all you needed was a few more hours of sleep for the real you to come out.” Bachira grins, his head falling back so that he can admire the stars that faintly glimmer amongst the night sky.

“It wasn’t just a few more hours of sleep.” Isagi admits, also averting his gaze to up above, admiring the way the purple seems to fade into darkness. “It was you.”

“Me?” Bachira repeats, startled. “I didn’t. . .”

“Sure, before I met you, I was heavily sleep-deprived. But I was also lonely. Pathetically so. I craved friends. I craved someone. But I was so used to being left behind── to being forgotten. . So when you started approaching me, I was scared that the same thing would happen.”

Bachira lowers his head back down to stare at Isagi. To really look at him. Isagi also stops looking at the sky to gaze into Bachira’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Bachira. For coming into my life.” 

Isagi starts walking again, expecting Bachira to follow along. He’s five steps in when he realizes Bachira is still standing there, frozen.

Bachira’s eyes are wide. Not with fear, or flattering, or with surprise. But with something. . different. Something that can’t be simply with words. For the slightest second, something else flickers in his eyes. It’s hesitance. But it's quickly replaced by a warm look of longing, one that's accompanied by an equally cheery grin. 

He rushes to catch up with Isagi, linking arms with the blue-haired male.

—

When Bachira collapses, the first thing Isagi feels is confusion.

It was practice, and everything seemed to be going well. The sun was dying down, heat smoothened amongst as autumn began to settle in. Sure, the leaves hadn’t taken the colour of orange and healing yet, but you could feel it through the small things. Like the occasional chilly breeze that swept through the trees and dragged a slight shudder down your spine.

Everything was normal. Ego was pushing them past their limits, and Isagi had grown used to the burning in his lungs and the strain in his calves as he fought to be more than just ‘average’. 

Chigiri had the ball, zooming past defenders and leaving them stunned in their path, too slow to react. Without thinking, he passed the ball, and Bachira, who was supposed to receive it, sprinted forward.

Isagi had sped up a little too, looking behind as he observed his next move ── how his positioning could get a goal. 

So when he turns his gaze back forward to perceive the next set of movements, he doesn’t understand why Bachira’s falling.

No, falling’s an understatement. Bachira crumples, body hitting the damp grass with a thud that hits Isagi straight in his chest. He’s still on the ground, and from Isagi’s distance, he can’t tell if Bachira’s still breathing or not.

For a second, everything freezes. Time── especially, seemed to stop in its place, and a cold, prickling sensation crawls all over his skin. A shudder runs down his spine, like lifeless fingers dragging its nails across his back. That’s when it registers in his mind that Bachira is on the ground, probably unconscious, and he isn’t moving. 

Panicked, worried yells echo amongst the field. The sounds of shoes thudding against the grass is too faint. It’s nothing compared to the sound of his heavy heartbeat, thudding against his chest like an army cry. 

He wants to move. Oh, he so desperately does. He knows if he opens his mouth, words will fail to come out. And if he takes a step, he’ll surely stumble. But he still wants to try. He wants to run to Bachira, just to make sure he’s breathing, and then figure out what the hell is going on.

“Isagi.” A hand grabs his shoulder, and he flinches, head snapping back. Standing there is Chigiri, eyes dulled over with concern. But he didn’t look too surprised. In fact. . “You can’t just stay frozen here. Come on.”

Chigiri jogs ahead, heading to where people crowd Bachira. Swallowing all the fear down his throat, he follows.

“Is he okay?”

“Not again..”

“I thought he was doing better!”

“Gosh, he’s so pale.”

Kunigami’s cradling Bachira in his arms, muttering low words to the coach, whose expression is unreadable. Isagi can’t see much of him, but Bachira’s face is completely hidden in Kunigami’s shoulder. He’s shaking, hard, and Isagi feels a sudden urge to interlock their fingers.

Kunigami lays Bachira flat on the grass, his fingers curling around Bachira’s calves and lifting his legs up. 

 A few moments pass, and Isagi feels his breathing stutter upon the slight twitch of fingers from Bachira. His eyes flutter open, slowly, as if they’re trying to adjust to the environment once again, before they stay open, 

“Huh . . what. .”

“You fainted.” Kunigami says in a low voice. He turns his head back to everyone else, “Go back to training. Don’t crowd him.”

The murmurs disperse almost immediately, as the other members of the team start to return back into the greater stretch of the field. Chigiri and Reo, however, proceed to stay. As well as Isagi, who isn’t sure if he’s excluded from everyone else, but unless he’s directly told to leave, he’ll be staying.  Ego, the coach, sighs, rubbing his temple almost tiredly before saying, “I thought I warned you about this. Do you feel nauseous?”

“Sorry coach.” Bachira sighs, putting a hand on his forehead, “I just feel hot. And my head hurts.”

Ego doesn’t say anything else. He just gives a look to Kunigami, who nods and stands up. “Come on, I’ll take you to the nurse—”

“Wait.” Bachira interrupts, causing Kunigami to pause, “I want Isagi to take me.”

“Isagi?” Chigiri repeats, and Isagi’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. 

“Bachira—”

“C’mon, help me up.” Bachira says, his voice a little whiny, as he stretches his hand up. Isagi stares at it for a few seconds before slipping his hand into Bachira’s, carefully pulling him up and guiding him down the field until they reach the hallways and the nurse’s office.

Bachira isn’t saying anything. His skin feels warm, yet there’s still a slight chill lying beneath. Isagi wishes that he knew more about this. That he understood. So that this overwhelming, cloying wave of fear wouldn’t keep choking him. He’s still so confused.

They get to the infirmary, and Isagi opens the door for Bachira, letting the male in.

The nurse turns towards them at the sound of footsteps, a neutral expression instantly turning surprised, the browns of her eyes almost fading grey as she walks towards them, “Gosh, dear, are you alright?”

“Uh, well, I’ve been better.” Bachira sighs loudly, slumping on one of the cots with pure exhaustion. Now, Isagi can clearly see how drained his friend looks. And Isagi’s wondering how Bachira managed to even stand. “Fainted again.”

“Oh, no you were doing so well. I guess your luck ran out.” She says pitifully, kneeling down and rummaging through her cabinets, “Lay back. Legs up.”

“Yeah, okay.” Bachira complies, and Isagi moves to help guide Bachira onto his back and lifting his legs. Bachira adjusts Isagi’s hands, before exhaling, keeping an arm over his eyes. 

The realization that Bachira having just a comfortable relationship with the nurse probably means he’s been there a lot sends an awful dread through his bones.

As she takes his temperature and heart rate, Isagi moves to wait outside. Now that he’s alone, with nothing but silence and the cold hard walls to lean on, he crouches down, running his fingers through his hair.

His chest seriously aches, and he resorts to digging his fingers into the skin of his wrists to try and calm himself down.

A few moments later, the door reopens, and the nurse stands there with a heartfelt expression.

“He’ll be fine.” Her voice is kind and gentle, “He’s been overdoing it lately. Would you be willing to walk him home? Just to keep an eye on him?”

“Sure.” Isagi says, a little too fast, yet the nurse doesn’t seem to notie.

She smiles, just slightly, before disappearing back into one of the rooms. Shaking his head, Isagi grabs the door knob, twisting it open and walking down to the end. 

There, lying tiredly, curled up in the cotton-white-cot that’s pressed against the grey walls of the infirmary, is Bachira. He’s staring up at the ceilings, with eyes that seem more dull than usual. His complexion’s a shade lighter, and there’s the slightest pinkish hue upon his cheeks.

When Bachira notices Isagi coming his way, he props himself up on his palms and grins, “Isagi-chan. You’re still here? I thought you would’ve gone home already.”

Isagi blinks. He shouldn’t be surprised by the way Bachira’s acting. Bachira’s always smiling, and never takes things too seriously. But when he sees his face, all Isagi can think of is how he fell. As if life itself was drained out, leaving nothing more than a lifeless corpse.

Isagi wants to scream. Oh, he really does. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans over, knees pressing into the futon of the cot, before his hands hesitantly move to cup Bachira’s face.

His skin feels wrong— too cold, like something that’s forgotten how to be alive. Not just his face, but all of him carries that same hollow chill, as if the warmth had been stripped away piece by piece. It unsettles him in a way he can’t quite name.

It’s nothing like Isagi. Isagi has always been warm— steady in a way it's almost naturally grounding;  unmistakably human.

So he stays close, hoping that warmth might transfer somehow. That it will sink into Bachira’s skin, soften the sharp cold at his face, trail down his neck, settle into his shoulders, and slowly spread further. That, little by little, something will return.

So that the next time Isagi reaches for him, it won’t feel fragile.

Bachira’s breath stutters, an expression of surprise morphing onto his features at once. Isagi almost feels him flinch. From the looks of it, Bachira’s speechless. Well, he’s probably trying to say something. The way his lips faintly open, just to close again, tells him that. But he can’t.

After a moment, Isagi shifts closer, his arms lifting to rest loosely around Bachira’s neck . The movement draws a quiet, surprised breath from Bachira, but Isagi doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in, pressing his face into the curve of Bachira’s neck, as if trying to anchor him there. His fingers hook into the worn collar of Bachira’s jersey, gripping lightly— something steady, something real— while he stays close, refusing to pull away.

Bachira smells of sweat and green apples. It’s overall a nice scent.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Bachira to act in mutual, a breathless huff of  laughter escaping his lips as he wraps his own arms around Isagi’s waist. “You know, you’re clingier than you let people on.” 

“Don’t.” Isagi whispers, eyes wet. And Bachira blinks, almost startled, before he smiles. 

“Don’t cry, mkay? I’m fine.” Bachira raises an arm, gliding his fingers through the ahoge of Isagi’s hair. “I’m just a little tired.”

After a few seconds, Isagi pulls away hastily, wiping at his eyes with a sudden realization that he’s crying. Well, he’s tearing up. And Bachira, the one who actually passed out, is over here all relaxed and amused.

He pulls away, pushing himself off the bed as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, “Uh, anyway. . . the nurse said I should walk you home. Are you ready to go or—”

Bachira nods, pushing himself up and onto his feet without a second thought, “Yeah, let’s go.”

They walk side by side, slipping out through the school gates and into the open streets beyond. Their steps fall into an easy rhythm, unspoken but shared.

Bachira doesn’t say much. Neither does Isagi. 

But the quiet between them doesn’t feel strained. It settles around them naturally, like something understood rather than avoided. As if Bachira senses the weight of what just happened, the way it must’ve shaken Isagi, and chooses—without needing to say it—to give him space.

Time to think. Time to catch up with everything that’s already changed.

For once, they walk past Isagi’s house. Isagi learns that Bachira, in fact, was not lying about his house being close by. It’s three blocks down, though, and it's a small, white single family home that’s dimly lit up by the two lampposts close by. 

“Well, this is it.” Bachira huffs, “At least now you know where I live.”

“Yeah. .” Isagi nods, before turning on his heel, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow—”

His words are interrupted by the sudden hand that grabs his wrist. Isagi falters, looking up at Bachira, who’s practically oozing at him with pleading, big eyes. 

“Stay with me?”

“What do you mean? I—”

“My mom won’t be home for a while. I’ll get lonely.” 

Isagi feels the familiar heat of irritation mixed with embarrassment crawl up his neck, as he has to look away from Bachira’s cloying gaze, “You really need to stop talking like that.”

“Hmm, or what?” Bachira smirks, purposely leaning forward, close enough that their nose almost brushes. Isagi, once again, finds himself blushing hard. He yelps back, eyes furrowing as his face grows hot red.

“Stop that!”

“Sorry, Isagi!” Bachira giggles, however his tone is barely evident of anything sorrowful or regretful. Scowling, Isagi starts walking towards Bachira’s front door. Giddy, Bachira quickly rushes past him, grabbing his keys and unlocking the door. Isagi has to shove down the urge to tell him to slow down. 

When Isagi enters inside, there are two scents that hit him first. One; lavender. It’s light, but clear amongst the house, fraying at the edges of Isagi’s smelling abilities almost playfully. The type of scent that you’d crave after a long day, where your head would ache and light would feel too bright.

The second thing, fainter, is paint. It comes and goes, but it lingers around across the hallways like a ghost. 

Bachira leads Isagi straight to the kitchen. As Isagi looks around, he hums in approval. Bachira’s house is pretty nice. And he wonders why he’s never come here before.

“Do you like chinese?” Bachira slumps against one of the stools, taking out his phone quickly. 

Isagi nods, putting his bag down by the couch.

--

Bachira falls asleep relatively easily. 

He curls himself into Isagi’s chest, jaw relaxed as his fingers faintly hang onto the hem of Isagi’s hoodie.

Isagi keeps an arm draped around Bachira, absentmindedly threading his fingers through the soft strands of his hair. The motion is slow, almost careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

He studies him like this— quiet, unguarded —and it strikes him how different Bachira looks. Peaceful, almost. Stripped of the usual restless energy, there’s something softer in the way he leans in, something entirely open.

Vulnerable.

For a second, Isagi just stares down at him. At his features. His eyes, despite being closed, are framed by lashes surely thicker than his. They’re long too, not to an incredulous extent, but enough that it's noticeable. 

His nose is just cute— small, slightly rounded, and button-like, scrunching up whenever he grins. It complements the rest of his face the way a finishing touch ties everything together, softening his expression and bringing out how pretty he is.

Isagi brings a hand to cup Bachira’s face, thumb pressing against the chub of his cheeks, before moving down to his jaw.

Then his lips.

His lips are soft. Really soft. Pink, too, and Isagi finds himself internally scowling at how annoying Bachira’s face really is.

“You’re just too cute.” Isagi huffs.

It takes him a second to realize he said those words outloud, and he inwardly flinches, wanting to slap himself hard. But before he can dwell on it any further, Bachira groans, fingers hooking around Isagi’s collar and pulling him back down.

Isagi’s head hits the pillow, and he blinks, a little startled, staring down at Bachira who’s still fast asleep.

Were those reflexes or. .?

“Stop staring at me and sleep already.” Bachira’s eyes flutter open, just for a few moments, just enough to make Isagi’s breath still in his throat, before they fall back closed.

The hell?

--

The first argument they have in their friendship isn’t pretty.

The plain fact is; Bachira doesn’t do well with coddling. He’s wild in a sense; unable to restrict himself to subtleness. And Isagi opposes that character in everyway. Stress gets to him easily, and he’ll find himself overthinking every aspect of a situation.

So with Bachira’s collapse still thrumming low in their memories, things were bound to clash eventually.

The kitchen light buzzed overhead while rain tapped against the apartment windows in uneven rhythms. Isagi stood at the counter with two mugs of instant coffee going cold between his hands, watching Bachira curl up on the couch. 

His shoulders are stiff in a way, as if he’s overworked them.

Isagi sucks in a breath.

“I think you should stop going out so much.”

At first, Isagi isn’t even sure that Bachira heard him. He doesn’t turn around. His body doesn’t tense up. He doesn’t even respond. 

Before Isagi considers repeating what he said, Bachira turns his head to meet Isagi’s gaze. 

“Don’t, Isagi. Don’t go there.” 

“Don’t go where, Bachira? Because you— we — have been playing games about this entire thing, acting like your body didn’t give up on you.” 

“I’ve got it handled, alright?”

Isagi sees it when Bachira’s brows furrow the slightest bit, and the faint widening of his eyes should have been the signal for Isagi to stop. “You sure about that? Because someone who got it handled would be over here shivering with three blankets on.” 

For weeks, they’ve danced around it. Around that night. Around Bachira collapsing on the field with his body finally giving out after pushing himself past every limit he had. Around the nurse’s hushed words that warned that things don’t always get better.  Isagi had hidden his anxiety well enough for Bachira to not notice anyway. But Isagi couldn’t lie to himself. Not even if he tried too. 

Bachira hated being watched now.

And Isagi couldn’t stop watching him.

“Seriously?” Bachira laughs once, humorless. “It’s not your call to decide whether I’m doing a good job. You’re supposed to be my friend, not another way for the world to remind me I’m not normal.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It kinda is.”

The room went still except for the rain.

Isagi opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Because maybe Bachira was right.

Every time Bachira ran too fast, Isagi noticed. Every time he skipped meals, every time he rubbed absentmindedly at his chest, every time he went quiet for more than a few minutes—Isagi catalogued it instinctively now. Like if he paid enough attention, he could prevent another collapse. Like vigilance could rewrite fear.

But fear doesn’t work like that.

“I’m trying to help,” Isagi says quietly.

Bachira scoffed. “You’re trying to control things.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It was never fair in the first place. Just let me deal with it!”

“ Don’t you know what you’re askng of me? You push yourself until your body shuts down and then expect everyone else to act normal after? I can’t do that, Bachira. I can’t pretend I’m not waiting for it to happen again.”

Bachira flinches at that. 

“You just. . don’t. . get it.” He says quietly.

“Get what? All I’m trying to do is make sure you don’t end up—”

“I’m already going to end up dead!” 

Isagi freezes.

“Everyone dies one day. I’m well aware that I’m not immortal. But don’t dictate the time I have left. That’s not what I need.”

For a second, Isagi can’t speak.

Because beneath the anger, beneath the exhaustion and frustration, there’s fear sitting there too. Raw and ugly and human. Bachira’s fear doesn’t look like Isagi’s. It never has. Isagi curls inward when he’s scared. He plans and panics and overthinks until he suffocates himself with possibilities.

Bachira runs.

He laughs too loud. Smiles too hard. Keeps moving because if he stops, maybe the silence catches up.

And suddenly Isagi understands why Bachira’s been avoiding him lately.

Not because he was annoyed.

Because every worried glance felt like a countdown clock.

“Your parents are coming back soon, right? I’ll head out.”

“No I— hey, Bachira wait–!”

The front door slams shut, and Isagi’s left with a hand half-outstretched in the air. A swift curse leaves his lips as he presses the heels of his palms back into his eyes. 

The truth is simple.

Bachira runs from fear.

And Isagi drowns in it.

– 

They don’t talk for a while after that.

The only conversations they share are hurried, stolen glances in crowded hallways and faint words catched upon unfinished conversations. It was so painfully obvious that their relationship was strained, and yet, every time Isagi would try to approach Bachira, his mouth would get all dry and the words he imagined he’d say would falter before they could even leave his throat. 

For a while, he felt like he was all alone again. But it was worse than that, because he was sick to the brim with guilt bubbling to the surface of all his emotions. 

“You’re pulling away from us.”

Isagi doesn’t look at him. He can’t. Not when Chigiri, whose eyes are all concerned and knowing, are gazing into his like he can read his soul. They’re sitting outside, pressed up against the heavy oak tree that stands taller and firmer than all the other trees. Isagi can tell Chigiri wants him to open up. But opening up makes him feel naked. Like he’s been stripped bare with his inner emotions all on display. And if someone were to recoil upon him in his most vulnerable element, he’d shrivel back in his cold, empty shell. 

As if realising Isagi isn’t going to talk, Chigiri sighs and glides his hands through his hair, “Bachira isn’t himself either. Most of the time he’ll at least try and fake it. But now, he’s just quiet all the time. And tired. I’ve never seen him so hollow.”

Isagi bites his lip, fingernails gripping the skin of his wrists. He hates it. He hates all of this; trying to avoid the words they said. He hates it so much, he’s willing to seek Chigiri for help. “Fuck— Chigiri I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, Chigiri looks like he’s going to say something about his use of profanity. But opts for getting up and slumping down closer to his emotionally conflicted friend instead. 

“Bachira thinks he’s running out of time. He doesn’t look like he cares, but he’s terrified, and angry, and full of hatred that he wants to escape the reality of his life. But he can’t, so he’ll pretend instead. But worry and concern brings him back.” 

Chigiri turns, only to see Isagi looking pale and regretful. “I messed up, didn’t I? I should’ve understood him better. No one would want someone constantly on their back.”

“Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself.” Says Chigiri after a minute, “No one can blame you for being protective. He is a little wild most of the time. But I doubt he’s actually mad at you. Just talk to him.”

When afternoon classes end and the usual rush of students fades into a low hum of lingering voices in the hallways, Isagi goes looking for Bachira.

Luckily, he’d witnessed Bachira accidentally launch a football into a stack of expensive school equipment that morning, so he knew there was no way Bachira was escaping at least a week of detention.

Isagi’s footsteps echo strangely through the near-empty halls. Usually, his mind would be crowded with thoughts, worries, and second guesses— especially if he was planning to talk to Bachira. But now, everything feels. . .quiet.

As he passes a classroom, he suddenly slows.

Then stops.

For a moment, he stares through the small window in the door before taking a few steps back.

Somehow, by pure luck, he’s found him already.

Bachira sits slouched in the back corner of the classroom, head buried in his arms against the desk.

Well. That saves Isagi a few hours of searching. 

Trying not to make too much of a sound, he grabs the door handle, pulling the door open and slipping through. There’s no one else other than Bachira here. The curtains are closed, so the room isn’t too bright. 

For a moment, Isagi feels his breath stutter. Does he really, seriously, genuinely want to turn back and forget all about this? Yes. But more than that, Isagi wants to fix their relationship so they can go back to how they used to be.

Isagi opens the curtains, letting sunlight light up the room, before he approaches the seat, crouching down by the table. Bachira’s body is mostly still, other than the faint rise of his shoulders that indicates he’s still breathing. Waking him up feels cruel, and Isagi hesitates, until Bachira shifts. 

Now, Isagi can properly see Bachira’s face.

His lashes rest softly against his cheeks, unmoving, like delicate brushstrokes painted across porcelain. Faint shadows linger beneath his eyes, subtle enough to miss if Isagi wasn’t staring so hard, but noticeable now in the golden wash of the setting sun spilling through the classroom windows. His cheeks are tinged pink, warmth blooming beneath pale skin like watercolor bleeding into paper, and his lips are pressed together in a small, stubborn line— as if even in sleep, Bachira’s body refuses to fully let him rest.

Before he can think better of it, Isagi reaches forward.

His palm cups Bachira’s cheek carefully, almost reverently, thumb brushing over the softness of his bottom lip in an attempt to ease the tension there.

The realization strikes him a second too late.

Heat rushes to his face so quickly it feels scalding. His breath catches. What the hell is he doing?

And yet—

He doesn’t pull away.

He can’t.

Not when Bachira looks so. . . ethereal.

That’s the only word that comes close. Pretty feels too simple. Attractive feels too shallow. Neither of them properly captures the strange, breathless pull Bachira has, like trying to describe sunlight with a single color.

Bachira looks like something painted into existence by careful hands and soft light. Like he was sculpted from sunlight and honey and all the gentlest things in the world.

His skin, smooth beneath Isagi’s fingertips, feels frighteningly delicate— as if too much pressure might bruise him like flower petals crushed between pages. He’s paler than usual, even with the warmth of the sun seeping into both of them. Despite being asleep, there’s something unbearably alive about him. The slight twitch of his lashes. The slow rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth gathered beneath Isagi’s hand.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Even closed, Isagi can remember them perfectly. Bright and molten and sweet in a way that never feels real, like raw honey held up against the sun. Whenever Bachira laughs, they crinkle at the corners with so much light that Isagi sometimes forgets what he was thinking about entirely.

Then there’s his smile.

The wide one, all teeth and mischief and joy, the kind that curls at the edges like he’s constantly holding onto some private joke with the world. It matches his laughter perfectly; bright, airy, weightless enough to drift through a room and settle into people’s chests before they even realize it.

Bachira is beautiful in the way spring mornings are beautiful.

Soft sunlight through curtains. Warm wind against skin. The feeling of standing still while the whole world quietly blooms around you.

And Isagi hates how easily he could drown in it.

Bachira’s cruel for opening his eyes.

They flutter for a few seconds, before they gaze down into Isagi’s own eyes. Isagi feels his throat close up, and something curls tightly in his chest and flutters in his stomach. He should move. He should make distance between them while spilling out apologises like he planned to.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t dare. 

He doesn’t want to let go of this moment, being able to see Bachira from so close. He wants to absorb every single detail from the flickering orange in the hues of his eyes to the shape of his button nose. He wants to ingrate it into his memory and memorise it off by heart.

Shit, he’s pathetic, isn’t he?

It takes a few moments for Isagi to remember they technically still aren’t talking. Bachira might still be upset at him, which would make the whole thing a lot more awkward than it already is. 

He should say something. Just to at least break this tense silence. But just as he gathers enough courage to do so, Bachira leans forward and wraps his arms around Isagi’s neck.

Isagi stills at the contact, fingers trembling where they hang in the air. He was so caught off guard, and he can practically hear his heart in his ears.  From this close, Isagi can smell the familiar scent of citrus from Bachira’s shampoo. It’s refreshing, like in the way rain hits warm pavement after a hot day or the breeze that rushes past when someone runs ahead of you laughing. 

He hesitantly moves his arms up to wrap around Bachira’s waist, pulling him closer until they’re both firmly pressed up against each other. Now, Isagi can hear Bachira’s breathing, low and faint, and Isagi tries not to react so much when Bachira nuzzles his face into Isagi’s neck.

“Feels like m’ dying.” Bachira says after a while, and Isagi immediately stiffens at the words.

“What do you mean by that?” Isagi questions, but Bachira doesn’t respond, burying himself deeper in Isagi’s proximity. Isagi slides a hand into Bachira’s hair, trying to ease Bachira into saying what’s wrong. “Bachira, talk to me.”

“It hurts. It really hurts, you know.” Bachira mumbles faintly, and Isagi’s starting to get really concerned.

“What hurts?” Isagi presses, hands sliding down to Bachira’s nape, only to flinch at how cold his body is. Bachira shudders, almost recoiling at the touch. “Shit– Bachira you’re freezing!” 

“Hm.” Is all Bachira says, before he completely sinks into Isagi, going limp in his arms. Isagi’s blood runs cold, and all of a sudden, a cloying, thick dread washes through him. 

“Bachira. Bachira? Hey, Bachira, wake up. What’s wrong?” Isagi shakes him. What the genuine hell is happening? Did he pass out? Is he asleep? No— no, people don’t just go limp like that—

Could he be. . 

Adrenaline slams into him all at once, and Isagi latches his hands under Bachira, lifting him up before he slams the door open and just starts sprinting down the hall. 

His heartbeat roars in his ears so loudly it nearly drowns everything else out. His thoughts tangle together into useless noise— fear, panic, denial —and his lungs burn as he tears through the halls.

Students stare as he nearly crashes into them.

Someone calls his name.

He doesn’t stop.

He stumbles down the staircase two steps at a time, gripping Bachira tighter every time his hold threatens to slip. Bachira’s head rests limply against his chest, frighteningly still, and every second that passes makes the dread in Isagi’s stomach heavier. Thicker.

His eyes sting.

His chest hurts.

But he keeps running.

The infirmary door flies open with a loud bang.

The nurse startles, turning away from another student with a nosebleed, irritation already forming on her face—

Until she sees Bachira.

“Oh my god,” she breathes immediately. “Put him down. Now.”

Isagi obeys before she even finishes speaking, lowering Bachira shakily onto the cot. The mattress dips beneath his weight, white sheets bunching around him.

And suddenly, under the bright infirmary lights, Bachira looks even worse.

Too pale.

Too still.

His lashes rest against skin drained nearly colorless, lips faintly parted as weak breaths leave him. He looks fragile in a way Isagi has never seen before, like one wrong touch could make him break apart completely.

The nurse moves quickly, checking his pulse, his temperature, shining a light into his eyes.

At first, Isagi tries to convince himself it’s fine.

That Bachira just fainted.

That he’s exhausted.

That he’ll wake up in a second with that stupid grin and laugh this whole thing off.

But then the nurse’s expression changes.

The color drains from her face almost instantly.

Without another word, she grabs her phone and dials emergency services.

It takes Isagi several seconds to process what he’s seeing.

Emergency services.

No.

No, no, no—

The room suddenly feels too small.

Too bright.

His pulse pounds painfully in his throat as he stares at Bachira lying motionless on the cot, and for the first time since this started, genuine fear crashes over him hard enough to make him feel sick.

Eventually, the sirens become audible.

Eventually, flashing red and blue lights spill across the school windows.

Eventually, paramedics rush through the infirmary doors with hurried footsteps and clipped voices, lifting Bachira onto a stretcher while wires and blankets tangle around him.

And through all of it—

Bachira never wakes up.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t even twitch.

The image burns itself into Isagi’s mind with cruel permanence; Bachira lying frighteningly still beneath harsh white lights, lashes resting against pale cheeks while strangers wheel him away.

Like a body.

Isagi tries to follow. Of course he does.

But someone stops him before he can climb into the ambulance.

“You can’t come with us.”

The doors slam shut before he can even process the words.

Then the ambulance pulls away.

And suddenly the world feels unbearably quiet.

—

By the time Isagi locks himself inside one of the bathroom stalls, his entire body is shaking.

His breaths come unevenly, catching painfully in his throat no matter how hard he tries to steady them. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, nauseatingly loud against the sound of his own heartbeat.

Bachira looked dead.

The thought repeats over and over and over again until it becomes unbearable.

He looked dead.

Isagi digs his nails into his thighs hard enough to hurt.

The pain barely registers.

His fingers find half-healed wounds hidden beneath fabric and claw into them without thinking, reopening tender skin until sharp stinging blooms beneath his hands. Warmth smears across his fingertips.

Still not enough.

He yanks down his trousers so he can attack his bare skin more easily.

His chest feels tight. Too tight. Like panic has wrapped itself around his ribs and refuses to let go.

He can’t breathe.

A broken sound tears from his throat before he can stop it, and suddenly he’s crying hard enough it hurts. He presses his sleeve over his mouth to muffle the sobs, shoulders trembling violently as air refuses to properly reach his lungs.

What if Bachira dies?

What if the last thing Isagi heard from him was “feels like m’dying”?

What if—

The stall door suddenly swings open.

Isagi startles violently.

“Oh, shit—”

A voice. Familiar. Alarmed.

Then hands grab his wrists before he can react.

Strong hands.

They yank them away from his legs fast enough to stop him from digging any deeper into torn skin.

“Isagi— what the hell are you doing?”

Isagi fights instinctively.

He twists sharply, trying to pull free, panic making him frantic and disoriented all over again. His breathing turns ragged as he shoves weakly against whoever’s holding him.

But there’s nothing behind it.

No real strength.

The fear already hollowed him out.

After only a few seconds, the fight drains from his body entirely.

His limbs feel heavy.

Exhausted.

The person holding him loosens slightly, grip shifting from restraining to careful.

Then Isagi feels a hand slide behind his head.

Gentle.

Guiding him forward until his forehead presses against someone’s chest.

Warm.

Solid.

And for some reason, that warmth breaks something else inside him completely.

Isagi folds against them bonelessly, fingers weakly clutching at fabric as another shattered sob leaves his throat. Tears soak quickly into their shirt, hot and relentless.

The person doesn’t push him away.

One hand stays wrapped around his wrists to stop him from hurting himself again while the other rubs slow circles against his back.

“Easy,” the voice says quietly.

Kunigami.

Isagi recognizes it now through the haze in his head.

“He’ll be alright.”

The words hit him hard enough to make him choke on his own breathing.

Alright.

“But he looked—” Isagi’s voice cracks horribly. “He looked—”

“I know.”

Kunigami says it softly.

Not dismissive. Not empty reassurance.

Just understanding.

And somehow that hurts worse.

“What if something happens to him?” he whispers brokenly. “What if I didn’t get him there fast enough?”

“You did,” Kunigami says immediately.

Isagi shakes his head hard.

“You don’t know that.”

Silence.

Then quieter—

“He would’ve been alone if you didn’t find him,” Kunigami murmurs. “Remember that.”

The words settle painfully in Isagi’s chest.

Because Bachira had been alone.

Curled up in the back of an empty classroom while everyone else went home.

Hurting.

Freezing.

And still trying to smile through it.

Fresh grief crashes over Isagi all at once.

He buries his face harder into Kunigami’s chest, shoulders shaking violently again as exhaustion and fear finally consume whatever strength he had left.

Time loses meaning after that.

Isagi stays crumpled against Kunigami in the bathroom stall while his sobs slowly weaken into shaky breaths and painful hiccups. Every inhale burns his throat raw. His eyes ache. His entire body feels wrung out, like panic had reached into his chest and twisted everything apart.

Kunigami doesn’t move away once.

He just stays there, steady and warm, one hand still loosely around Isagi’s wrists in case he tries hurting himself again.

Eventually, Isagi’s breathing evens out enough for him to hear things properly again.

The dripping faucet nearby.

Muted voices outside the bathroom.

The pounding of his own heartbeat.

And then—

“Isagi.”

Kunigami’s voice is careful.

“We should probably get those cleaned up.”

It takes Isagi a second to realize he means his legs.

Blood stains the fabric around his thighs in uneven patches, smeared from where he’d clawed at himself. The sting becomes noticeable now that the panic has dulled slightly.

Humiliation crawls over him immediately.

He jerks weakly away, wiping aggressively at his face with his sleeve. “Don’t look.”

Kunigami’s expression tightens.

“I already did.”

That only makes the shame worse.

Isagi turns his face away sharply, jaw trembling. He expects questions. Demands. Confusion.

Instead, Kunigami sighs quietly.

Then he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over Isagi’s lap without another word.

The simple gesture nearly makes him start crying again.

“C’mon,” Kunigami says gently after a moment. “Nurse should still be here.”

“I don’t wanna.”

His voice comes out small. Pathetic.

“I know.”

“You don’t get it.” Isagi shakes his head weakly, “They’ll contact my parents. They don’t know I do this. They’ll be devastated, and they’ll think it's their fault.”

“Isagi–”

“I wouldn’t be able to face them. Or anybody. Please, Kunigami, they aren’t recent. I only reopened them, I swear.”

“Hey listen–”

“I told them I was better. They don’t even know about my insomnia, let alone this. Fuck. You can’t tell anyone. You really can’t. Fuck fuck fuck—”

“Yoichi!” Kunigami yells, and Isagi flinches hard, recoiling back as he looks up at Kunigami with large, scared eyes. 

Kunigami sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I won’t tell the nurse. But you gotta speak to someone, okay?”

Isagi blinks at him, feeling the pressure in his chest ease ever so slightly. He exhales, shakily, nodding as he leans against the wall tiredly. He’e so exhausted, both mentally and physically. And thinking about Bachira makes him want to start crying all over again.

“I’m just gonna text Chigiri to get a medkit so we can clean you up, okay?” Kunigami says lowly, and Isagi can tell Kunigami’s purposely making his voice softer to seem less threatening. That’s enough to make Isagi laugh dryly, head hanging low. 

Kunigami’s brows furrow in response, but he takes the action as confirmation and grabs his phone, fingers gliding across the screen at an almost impressive rate. He waits a few seconds, before the crease in his brows eases. 

It dawns on Isagi that one of his biggest secrets has just been revealed, and both embarrassment and shame washes over him in an overwhelming wave. He curls up a little more, trying to make it less obvious that he’s bleeding. But he’s definitely getting blood on Kunigami’s hoodie, which makes him feel really guilty.

Moments later, there’s a knock on the door, and Kunigami turns to Isagi with a questioning gaze. Isagi hesitates, before nodding, and Kunigami opens the door.

Chigiri comes in with a medkit, locking the door behind him before making eye contact with Isagi. “Hey, the nurse is looking for you. You doing okay?”

Isagi nods. Shit, he wants to be literally anywhere but here. He feels so dramatic right now. Kunigami and Chigiri have been friends with Bachira for much longer, and there’s still managing to be composed. Yet he’s over here sobbing like a maniac and putting all the attention on him.

Chigiri crouches down beside Kunigami and in front of Isagi, putting the medkit down and opening it. Kunigami moves to grab the hoodie, and Isagi inctinvely recoils. Kunigami pauses, and Isagi feels his cheeks warm before he mutters an apology and lets Kunigami take it off.

Now, his thighs are fully on display; raw and bloody and messed up. He hears Chigiri faintly hiss, cursing at the sight, and it only makes Isagi feel more sick.

They don’t waste time. They don’t stare too much either. They just get to work, cleaning the cuts with antiseptics and bandaging his thighs to what they found suitable. When they’re done, Isagi pulls back on his trousers in embarrassment, stumbling up as they do the same.

They don’t say much. But Isagi follows them to the nurse, who’s busy filling out a form. Upon their presence, she looks up, relief filling her eyes at the sight of Isagi along with them.

“Oh, you’re back.” She smiles, “I–”

“Can we go see Bachira?” Isagi blurts out impatiently. He feels rude for interrupting her, but he really couldn’t care about anything else but Bachira at the moment.

“Well, it hasn’t been too long since he’s been admitted. I haven’t been given any information as of the moment. I understand you’re concerned, but his state would also be confidential since he’s a minor—”

“No worries.” Kunigami bows his head slightly, “We know his parents, so we’ll stop by tomorrow after school.”

“Alright. Don’t be too worried.” She nods, before frowning, “Isagi, you don’t look very okay. Would you like to sit down?”

“M’ fine.” Isagi shakes his head, ignoring how dizzy he is. Gosh, he’s so stressed out right now.

Isagi feels himself being stirred out of the room and back into the hallway. He presses his palms into his eyes, sadness cloying to him. He needs to see Bachira. He needs to make sure that he’s okay. 

“Will your parents be home?” Kunigami asks, “I think you need some company.”

“They will be. I’m fine.” Isagi dismisses, yet he can’t actually remember whether his parents are home today or not. 

“Okay well we’ve got like . . two lessons left. Just make it through those, alright?” Chigiri rubs his shoulder, and Isagi nods.

The next couple of classes last far too long. Isagi can hear everything. Their whispers, their gazes. Eyes falling on him, analyzing him, wondering. He knows they’re curious, and worried. But Isagi couldn’t give a shit about trying to assure them Bachira is fine, especially when can even reassure himself.

When classes finish, and Isagi walks home, he’s so, so tired. His legs ache, his chest burns, and his eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed raw. He’s so sick with every emotion simmering through him; guilt, shame, anger, fear. Some he can’t even understand enough to explain.

When he finally gets home, the house is empty.

Strangely, he’s grateful for it.

He doesn’t think he could survive pretending to be okay right now.

The second he steps into his room, the last scraps of strength leave him entirely.

His bag slips from numb fingers onto the floor with a dull thud.

Then Isagi collapses face-first onto his bed.

The mattress dips beneath him softly as he buries his face into the pillow, breathing in stale detergent and fabric softener. Everything smells normal.

Too normal.

The world shouldn’t still be moving like this.

Not when Bachira is in a hospital.

He lays there motionless for what feels like hours.

Not sleeping.

Not even trying to.

Sleep and Isagi stopped getting along a long time ago.

Instead, he just stares blankly into the dimness of his room while shadows slowly lengthen across the walls. His body is exhausted to the point of pain, but his mind refuses to quiet down.

Every awful possibility keeps replaying endlessly.

What if Bachira gets worse?

What if something’s seriously wrong?

What if Isagi had been too late?

His throat tightens painfully.

Without thinking, he reaches for his phone beside the bed.

The screen lights up harshly in the darkness.

No messages from Bachira.

Of course not.

His chest aches at the realization anyway.

There are messages from classmates instead. Concerned texts. Questions. Rumors.

Kunigami:
You okay?

Chigiri:
Any updates?

Reo:
They said he regained consciousness briefly. Don’t panic yet.

Isagi stares at that message for a long time.

Briefly.

The word digs into him strangely.

He types out several responses before deleting every single one.

Eventually, his thumb hovers over Bachira’s contact.

The bright little profile picture nearly hurts to look at.

Bachira grinning widely at the camera, sunlight catching in his hair.

Alive.

Warm.

Isagi swallows hard before typing.

Are you okay?

The message is sent instantly.

And the moment it does, dread crashes over him.

Because what if Bachira can’t answer?

The room suddenly feels too quiet again.

So Isagi curls tighter into himself atop the bed, phone clutched loosely in his shaking hand, and waits in the dark for a reply that may never come.

–

Isagi has never had pleasant memories with hospitals. 

He remembers prying hands, thick antiseptic, and cries of grief that sent you places no one really wants to go.

Isagi goes anyway.

He goes after everyone else leaves, because he isn’t sure he’ll be able to stomach enough words to have a proper conversation with Bachira. His thighs sting every time he walks, and he thinks he should’ve taken more painkillers. Even if it would’ve made him a little high.

He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, asking the receptionist for Bachira’s room number. The person quickly searches for it, before saying ‘3.29. Isagi nods gratefully, thanking her before heading to find it.

It takes him thirty minutes to enter the room. Not because he couldn’t find it— that only took him ten. But because he spent the remaining twenty minutes trying to figure out what the hell he was going to say, and how he was going to make it back out of the room without crying.

Eventually, when one of the nurses steps out of a different room, asking if he’s alright, he gets embarrassed enough to quickly step into Bachira’s room and close the door.

He turns his head, just slightly, expecting Bachira to be asleep. But no, he’s wide awake, eyes almost immediately locking in with Isagi’s. Isagi flinches, feeling his heart jump. 

Bachira’s right there.

And yet, it almost doesn’t feel like Bachira.

Because Bachira’s all toothy grins and stupid laughter and glinting eyes. But right now, he looks hollow.

His eyes are dull, shallow with exhaustion and emptiness. The bags under his eyes have worsened significantly, yet they’re a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. His lips are dry and slightly cracked, and his hair is nothing more than a complete mess. 

Bachira doesn’t laugh, or grin, or even try to talk. He’s just still, watching Isagi, almost like he’s too tired to initiate anything but still conscious enough to realize what’s happening.

Isagi gulps upon realizing he’s the one that needs to take charge this time. He walks towards the bed, sitting on the edge of it, before taking Bachira’s hands into his. He’s not sure if they’re close enough for him to do this anymore, but he tries anyway.

They feel frail against him, and Isagi hopes his warmth is reaching Bachira.

“Hi.” Isagi’s thumbs rub light circles into Bachira’s knuckles. “Sorry I didn’t come earlier. I don’t really have an excuse, other than the fact that I was freaking out about how I’d talk to you.”

Bachira doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t look away or pull away either. So Isagi takes that as an initiative to continue. “I was scared. No, I was terrified. I’ve never seen you fall and not get up. I couldn’t stop feeling guilty. I didn’t even attempt to understand you. All I could think about was trying to make sure you didn’t get hurt anymore. And yet. .”

Bachira stares at him, before he quietly says, “You look tired.”

Isagi blinks, awkwardly laughing, “Uh, well I’ve been kinda stressed out. It’s hard to sleep without you.”

Isagi feels his heart stutter at the faint warmth returning to Bachira’s eyes.

It’s subtle—fragile, even—but it’s there.

Not the glassy emptiness from earlier. Not that frightening stillness that made Isagi feel like the ground had disappeared beneath him. This is softer. Sleepy. Alive.

Bachira’s fingers weakly curl around the sleeve of Isagi’s hoodie, giving it a small tug.

For a moment, Isagi just blinks down at him, exhausted enough that his brain struggles to process it.

Then realization settles in.

Oh.

Carefully, like Bachira might break apart if he moves too quickly, Isagi pushes himself up from the chair beside the hospital bed. The mattress dips quietly beneath his weight as he slides into the narrow space beside him.

The second he settles down, Bachira moves closer instinctively.

Isagi’s breath catches.

Bachira folds himself against him slowly, weakly, tucking his face into the curve of Isagi’s neck while Isagi wraps both arms around him without hesitation this time. One hand settles carefully against Bachira’s back while the other cradles the back of his head.

Warm.

God.

He’s warm now.

Not freezing.

Not terrifyingly cold beneath Isagi’s touch.

Warm and breathing and here.

Relief crashes through Isagi so hard it almost hurts.

Bachira exhales softly against his throat, breath feather-light and uneven from exhaustion. The familiar scent of citrus and clean laundry clings faintly to him beneath the sharp sterile smell of the hospital room.

For several moments, neither of them speaks.

The room stays dim and quiet around them, illuminated only by muted evening light filtering through the blinds and the soft glow of monitors nearby. Machines hum steadily in the background, rhythmic beeps cutting gently through the silence.

Alive.

The sound is proof Bachira is alive.

Isagi tightens his hold unconsciously.

Immediately, Bachira makes a faint little noise of contentment and nuzzles closer.

The tiny reaction nearly destroys him.

“You scared me,” Isagi whispers before he can stop himself.

The words come out rough.

Too honest.

Bachira goes still for a second.

Then Isagi feels weak fingers clutch lightly at the fabric near his chest.

“Sorry,” Bachira murmurs sleepily.

“No,” Isagi says immediately, voice cracking slightly. “Don’t apologize.”

Because somehow the thought of Bachira apologizing for collapsing in his arms makes the ache in Isagi’s chest unbearable.

Bachira stays quiet after that, eyelashes brushing softly against Isagi’s neck every time he blinks slowly. He feels boneless in Isagi’s hold, completely drained of energy.

“You should’ve told someone you felt off,” Isagi says quietly after a while.

A weak hum vibrates against his skin.

“Didn’t wanna bother anybody.”

The answer makes something painful twist inside Isagi.

“Idiot,” he mutters shakily.

But there’s no real bite behind it.

Only fear.

Fear that still hasn’t fully left his body yet.

Because every time he looks at Bachira now, flashes of earlier force themselves back into his mind—

Pale skin.

Limp limbs.

Unmoving lashes.

The ambulance doors closing.

Isagi squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a second.

Bachira must notice the shift in his breathing, because he pulls back just enough to look at him.

Even exhausted and pale beneath hospital lighting, Bachira’s eyes still look unbearably soft.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Isagi can’t answer.

Not when emotion keeps clogging painfully in his throat.

Bachira lifts a shaky hand instead, brushing his fingertips gently beneath Isagi’s eye.

Only then does Isagi realize tears had started falling again.

“Don’t cry,” Bachira murmurs quietly.

That almost makes him laugh.

Because Bachira is the one lying in a hospital bed hooked to monitors after terrifying everyone half to death.

And he’s still trying to comfort him.

“You almost died,” Isagi chokes out.

Bachira’s expression softens instantly.

“I didn’t though.”

The simple certainty in his voice cracks something open inside Isagi completely.

His grip around Bachira tightens again before he can stop himself, burying his face briefly into Bachira’s hair as relief and leftover panic tangle painfully together in his chest.

And Bachira—

Bachira just melts quietly into his arms and lets him hold on as tightly as he needs.

Moments pass, and Isagi manages to calm down. Bachira’s looks up, eyes roaming over Isagi’s face in a way that feels intimate.

“What did they say about my condition?”

Isagi’s sure Bachira felt him tense, which practically reveals everything. He runs a hand through Bachira’s hair, clearing his throat which still feels a little dry. “I. . You’re getting worse, Bachira. They don’t know what to do. 

Right now, Bachira should be crying. That’s what people usually do when they find out their body is deteriorating from something not even doctors can explain. But he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even look upset. He just huffs, burying his face deeper into Isagi’s neck.

“Hey, Isagi, m’ kinda tired. Can you just. . talk? About anything. Just until I fall asleep.” 

It hurts. It hurts so much to see Bachira so strong. It’s not fair, and Isagi feels like no one deserves this. Especially not Bachira, who should be on the field, laughing and pissing everyone off with stupid, dumb remarks. Yet, he’s restrained to hospital beds and Isagi’s embraces.

“Yeah– sure. Of course.” Isagi smiles, and Bachira blinks up at him before smiling too, nuzzling his face into Isagi’s chest. Isagi goes on to ramble about anything his mind can narrow on; football players, drama in school, his own observations on the chemistry between their teammates. 

Bachira listens attentively, and Isagi feels the moment Bachira’s body loosens upon sleep taking over. Even after Bachira falls asleep, Isagi doesn’t move. He buries his face in Bachira’s hair, thumb idly rubbing circles on his nape.

It’s funny, really. But in a way, Isagi feels as if Bachira helps him more than he helps Bachira. Everything about him is comforting, and just being near him is enough to make everything feel a little better.

Eventually, Isagi’s own eyes become heavy with sleep. He should move. He should get up, pack his stuff, and go back home. But he doesn’t. He lets slumber embrace him, because with Bachira in his arms, he finally manages to get some sleep.

–

Bachira’s officially got his own room now. 

Apparently, the doctors aren’t sure when Bachira will be ready for discharge, and that he’ll be hospitalized for a while. There were very obvious cons with that, with the fact that Bachira could no longer go to school or practice or sleep over at Isagi’s anymore.

But everyone made sure to visit whenever they could. Reo and Nagi came over every weekend, making sure to bring over games and snacks. Kunigami and Chigiri came every other day and usually stayed over for quite a while. Even Rin visited a lot, usually using the excuse of bringing homework and ensuring that Bachira didn’t become dumber than he already is while in the hospital.

Isagi came every day. 

Well, he tried to. With the expectation of training, and other occasional days where he was too busy too. Bachira, of course, enjoyed his company and claimed he didn’t mind that Isagi sometimes couldn’t come.

Isagi felt pretty guilty, but seeing Bachira’s smile gradually come back was enough to ease the pressure in his chest.

Eventually, school paused and they finally had a break, to which Isagi took hugely advantage of. If you’d ever wonder where Isagi was, just know he’d be room 3.29, probably on the bed, doing anything and everything right beside Bachira Meguru.

They didn’t always have to talk. Despite Bachira usually being an active person, he very easily became burnt out nowadays. So sometimes, they’d just relish in the silence that was only broken by the chirping birds outside the windows, or the occasional chatter that lingered in the hallways.

His parents, thankfully, didn’t have an issue with him spending most of his time at the hospital. Though, they did seem pretty worried about his mental state. That’s normal though. Who wouldn’t be concerned about their child’s mental health?

At first, Isagi started to feel a little better. Bachira seemed to be doing alright. He still laughs. Still smiles. Still talks like there’s no tomorrow, and still sinks into his embrace every night.

But very, very quickly, Isagi learnt that he was a fool. And that life was unpredictable in this daunting, clawing way that just wasn’t fair.

It starts with pain.

Bachira’s more stiff. More reserved. He complains absentmindedly about gnawing pains in his thighs, aching of his back, stiffness in his shoulders. Then its his stomach. He won’t eat too much because he’ll start feeling nauseous. Won’t lie on his back because then he starts getting cramps. 

Then it’s the blood.

The first time Isagi witnesses it, he just freezes. Because Bachira, his Bachira, is on his knees throwing up more blood Isagi has genuinely ever seen in his life. He yells for the nurse, about to go and get help, when Bachira shakes his head and reaches out blindly for him.

“Don’t leave. I can’t be alone. I hate being alone.”

Isagi stares at him. He really stares at him. At his teary eyes, and his shaky figure and his frail fingers. 

And wishes Bachira never was burdened with this.

He yells for the nurse louder, before hurrying to Bachira’s side, lifting him up and carrying him back onto the bed. Bachira doesn’t let go of him. He shudders in his arms, slurring delirious phrases. 

He’s cold.

He’s in pain.

He’s tired.

That’s mostly what Isagi manages to catch. Isagi slides his hands under Bachira’s hospital grown, palms trying to spread warmth across Bachira’s ice-cold body.

When the nurses come in, they pry Isagi away, despite how against it the two of them are. There’s people running in and out. Yells thrown across rooms. And yet, Bachira’s still looking at him. Longing for him.

Isagi offers him a shaky smile, trying to tell him that he’ll be okay.

Bachira blinks, before he grins back.

–

“I miss football.”

Those are the words Bachira says amongst the stark silence of the room on a casual Tuesday afternoon. Isagi’s on the floor, finishing his chemistry homework, and he looks up at Bachira upon him saying those words.

“Yeah. I bet our rival schools don’t. You’re a monster out there.” Isagi chuckles, expecting Bachira to laugh back. But he doesn’t, causing Isagi’s smile to falter slightly. “Well, hey, I’m sure you’ll be back out there soon. I–”

“Could you take me?” Bachira questions, and Isagi blinks in surprise at his request. 

“Uh, well, I don’t know if you’re well enough to do that–”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be well enough to play again.” Bachira admits, and Isagi swallows down the bitter taste that floods his senses. As if noticing Isagi’s discomfort, Bachira chuckles weakly, “Sorry, I just made things awkward, didn’t I?”

Isagi doesn’t respond at first, before he stands up grins, “It’s a good thing I brought my training kit with me. Now we don’t have to buy a ball.”

–

By the time they make it to the beach, the sun has settled amongst the horizon, with colours oozing in a harmonious tone. 

Isagi looks around, noticing how its mostly empty with the expectation of a few families and couples that walk across the shore. Bachira kicks off his shoes excitedly, toes curling into the sand as he looks up and breathes in the air.

Isagi finds himself doing the same, letting the salty, fresh breeze take over his tenses. 

“I haven’t been to the beach in forever!” Bachira giggles, quickly grabbing the ball and balancing it on one leg. Isagi watches him, noticing how bright Bachira’s eyes are.

It’s a bittersweet sight, in all honesty. 

He looks more like when Isagi first really met him.

Bachira’s gaze turns to him, and he smirks playfully, tilting his head in a taunting manner, “Are you just gonna stare or are we actually gonna play?”

Isagi blinks, before his eyes narrow with mock intensity, “I was gonna go easy on you, but I guess I’ll have to show you who’s better.”

“Go ahead and try.” Bachira laughs, running across the sand with the ball in tow. Isagi quickly chases after him, frowning at how much harder it is to run in sand. He forces himself to adapt, through, ensuring to push through each stumble until he reaches Bachira.

He reaches a foot out, attempting to steal the ball, but Bachira pulls back, quickly dribbling past him. Isagi responds quickly, though, inching forward to block Bachira’s path.

Their eyes meet, just for a second, and Isagi finds himself grinning harder than ever.

They play until the sky is nothing more than blue and darkness. Until their calves burn and their chest aches and Bachira’s panting so hard his eyes are wet. For a moment, that familiar fear claws at Isagi’s throat, until Bachira looks up and starts laughing again.

It’s warm, and loud, and so Bachira that it makes Isagi’s stomach feel all bubbly.

By the end of it, they're sitting on the sand, feet resting amongst the shore as the gentle waves occasionally wash down to their ankles.

Bachira’s slightly damp from getting in the water when the ball floated too far, and he’s shivering just a little bit as the breeze hits them. Isagi grimaces as Bachira shakes his hair for the umpteenth time like some sort of animal. 

“Are you a dog or what?” Isagi scowls, and Bachira sticks a tongue out lazily.

“Well dogs are so cute, so I wouldn’t mind that comparison.” Bachira shrugs.

“Yeah well they’re also irritating. I’m pretty sure their mental age is the same as a toddler’s.” 

“That’s not true.” Bachira frowns, and Isagi smirks. 

“Search it up yourself.”

Bachira pouts, pulling his knees up to his chest childishly. Isagi fights the urge to start laughing.

Silence accompanies them for a few moments, other than the gentle waves that crash amongst them. 

 “You know, you’re kind of like an angel.”

Bachira looks at him, a little startled, before he sheepishly grins, “Are you trying to fluster me? Why do I remind you of that?”

“Well, think about it. You came into my life and practically saved me.” Isagi chuckles, “Maybe you were sent to me as a blessing or something.”

Bachira's grin falters into something confused and weirdly empty. His eyes are void of its usual chaos of emotion, and his gaze momentarily falls down to his feet, before back up at Isagi.

“Wouldn’t I be more of a curse?”

Isagi feels his stomach sink. “What makes you think that?”

Bachira shrugs, leaning back against his palms as he looks up at the dark sky. “I mean, c’mon, I won’t be here for much longer, if we’re being realistic. I’m only going to burden you with my death–”

Bachira trails off upon the firm, almost crushing grip that captures his wrist. His eyes flicker wide, startled, and he’s even more unsettled by the anger sparking in Isagi’s eyes.

“Don’t.” Isagi whispers, voice trembling, “Don’t you fucking dare say shit like that. You’re not a burden. You won’t die. We’re going to both make it to our third year, and then graduate highschool. And then college. Then we’re going to get shitty jobs and link our kids up for boring playdates. That’s the plan, so don’t think any less.”

Bachira’s breath hitches, and before any of them realize it, his eyes start to bubble up with tears. His bottom lip trembles, and he goes slack, his head dipping low. Isagi releases his grip on Bachira’s wrist, moving to Bachira’s face instead. 

Isagi feels warmth spill onto his hands, which makes him feel sick to his stomach. He guides Bachira’s face into his shoulder, where he then wraps his arms around Bachira’s shoulder. Bachira completely sinks into him, sobs dragging out of him and sounding like they physically hurt.

Isagi has never really seen Bachira cry before. Especially not like this. But its enough to make Isagi’s eyes wet as he holds Bachira to his chest. Bachira cries like he’s being strangled or drowned, gasping for hair between sobs. 

“I– wait— i-i don’t. . ‘m still young— i don’t wanna die..” He chokes out, “ —really don’t wanna die yet..” 

Isagi runs his fingers through Bachira’s hair, “You’re not gonna die. I know you won’t.”

It goes like that. Bachira sobs about how he doesn’t want to die. And Isagi reassures him that he won’t. At some point, the breeze turns  sharp and cold, and Isagi doesn’t even know what time it is. Not that he cares.  But he ends up putting Bachira in his hoodie and carries him on his back home.

Oddly enough, they manage to sneak back into the hospital room. Isagi lowers Bachira into the bed, and shit, Bachira looks exhausted. His eyes are all red and puffy, and his face is flushed from crying so much. He’s also really pale, his grip weak where it hangs onto Isagi’s sleeve.

“Sorry I took you out.” Isagi apologises. He feels like its mostly his fault. Bachira never really thinks rationally, and Isagi’s supposed to be the one who corrects him. “I—”

“Don’t apologise.” Bachira murmurs, rolling onto his sides stiffly, “It was fun. Even though I got stupidly emotional enough. And besides, it kinda felt nice, you know. Getting out all those gross emotions.”

“They’re not gross.” Isagi laughs, “They’re human.”

–

By the time two months past, Bachira can barely move,

Isagi’s packing away his stuff, his body tense with exhaustion and stress. He hasn’t been sleeping well, with the weight of exams and the fear about Bachira clinging to his every step.  The sound of his name being called by the entrance of the door catches his attention. He looks up and sees Rin by the doorframe.

For a few moments, they just stare at each other awkwardly, and Isagi almost thinks Rin’s picking a fight with him, until the taller male averts his gaze, “. . I’m going to visit Bachira. You coming?”

Isagi’s eyes widen, before he nods with a grin, “Yeah sure! I was already planning on going anyway! I haven’t heard much from him because of exam season, so—”

“Shut it.” Rin rolls his eyes, “Hurry up or I’ll leave without you.”

“I— hey, wait up!” Isagi yells out upon seeing Rin starting to walk off. He puts his things in his bag quickly, before rushing to catch up with the taller male. They walk side by side in silence for a few seconds, before Isagi starts to speak.

“Oh, we might as well bring Chigiri and Kunigami along. And I don’t think Nagi and Reo have visited Bachira in a while—”

“I already asked them.” Rin says flatly.

“Really? Are they waiting by the gates?”

Rin doesn’t reply immediately. His eyes almost seem like they are darkening. “.. They’re not coming.”

Isagi frowns, brows furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean? Why would they—”

“We all visited him yesterday. He looked horrible. He was all pale and stiff and could barely even raise his hand up to wave at us.” Rin forces the words out, and Isagi feels his stomach drop, “The doctors say its only a matter of time. Chigiri started crying the moment we left. Reo threw up in a bush on our way back. Long story short, they’re all too fucking traumatised by the sight of Bachira alone to visit him again.”

Isagi doesn’t really know what he expected. Maybe he thought that Bachira would be a little better, or at least stay the same. But he’s worsening by the second, and Isagi finds himself swallowing back his emotions.

They take a bus to the hospital, and they don’t say a word until they get to the hospital room. Isagi takes a deep breath before they enter inside, trying to brace himself for it all. 

But nothing can prepare him for how broken Bachira looks.

The room is silent except for the weak beeping of the heart monitor.

Bachira had always been loud.

Too loud.

His laughter used to bounce off walls, his footsteps always running instead of walking, his voice constantly filling every empty space around him. But now the hospital room feels suffocatingly still, like even sound itself is afraid to disturb him.

Isagi freezes by the doorway.

Bachira looks smaller somehow.

The blankets swallow up most of his body, his frame frighteningly thin beneath the pale blue hospital gown. His golden eyes, once bright and wild and alive, are dull with exhaustion. Dark circles stain the skin beneath them, and there’s an oxygen tube resting beneath his nose.

For a second, Isagi genuinely doesn’t recognize him.

Then Bachira smiles.

It’s weak. Tiny.

But it’s Bachira.

“Hey. .  Isagi!”

His voice comes out raspy, barely above a whisper.

Something inside Isagi cracks instantly.

“Bachira…” he breathes.

Rin stays near the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. He doesn’t say anything.

Isagi slowly walks closer to the bed, almost scared that Bachira will disappear if he moves too fast.

Rin suddenly speaks from the corner. “You’ve been sleeping all day?”

“A little…”

“That’s not ‘a little.’” Rin mutters.

Bachira hums weakly in response, too tired to argue.

The silence settles again.

Isagi notices it then — the way Bachira struggles just to breathe. Every inhale sounds uneven. Painful. Like his body has forgotten how.

And yet Bachira still looks at them like he’s happy they came.

That’s the worst part.

Isagi stares down at his hands. “The others wanted to come too.”

A lie.

Rin shoots him a glance but says nothing.

Bachira only smiles faintly. “Liar.”

Isagi’s head snaps up.

“They’re scared,” Bachira says softly, without bitterness. “It’s okay.”

The honesty in his voice makes Isagi’s chest ache.

Bachira was always good at reading people. Too good.

“I look. . . kinda gross right now. Not even I w—ant to see myself.”

“Don’t say that,” Isagi says immediately, too fast, too desperate.

Bachira blinks at him in surprise.

Isagi looks away.

He can’t do this.

He thought he could. Thought he’d walk in here smiling and encourage Bachira and pretend everything would somehow work out if they all stayed positive enough.

But seeing him like this— Seeing Bachira struggle just to breathe— It feels like drowning.

“. . You haven’t  been sleeping well, have you?”

Isagi blinks, “What makes you think that?”

Bachira weakly reaches a hand out, cupping Isagi’s face and brushing his thumb under Isagi’s eyes. “Your eyebags are back.”

Isagi feels his face grow warm, “Have they? I didn’t even notice. . Maybe its because I don’t have you knocking on my door at two in the morning for a cuddle session.”

Bachira cracks a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners, “There’s no reason why we can’t have one now.”

Without a second thought, Isagi slides into the bed, making sure to be mindful of all the tubes. Bachira nuzzles into him like it's second nature, burying his face in the crook of Isagi’s neck. Isagi’s hand finds itself in Bachira’s hair, running through the thinning strands. 

Isagi looks towards the door, yet Rin has somehow disappeared and closed the door. 

“You’re always so warm.” Bachira huffs.

Isagi lets out a quiet laugh, though it sounds fragile around the edges.

“Someone has to be,” he murmurs.

Because Bachira feels cold.

Not normal cold — not winter-morning cold or rain-soaked clothes cold. The kind of cold that feels wrong. The kind that settles deep beneath skin and bone like death has already placed one foot through the doorway.

Bachira hums against his neck, eyes slipping shut. The sound is soft — tired — but content in a way that hurts Isagi more than anything else in this room.

Outside the window, the sky is beginning to dim into evening. Orange light spills through the curtains in thin strips, painting Bachira gold for a fleeting moment. Like the sun itself is trying desperately to keep him here.

His fingers continue threading through Bachira’s hair carefully, gently untangling curls that have become thinner over the past months. Every strand that comes loose around his fingers feels like proof that time is cruel. That sickness is greedy. That death doesn’t arrive all at once like people think it does.

It steals people in pieces.

First, their energy.

Then their appetite.

Then their laughter.

Then the way they walk.

The way they smile.

The way they breathe.

Until one day you’re sitting beside someone you love, trying to remember what they sounded like before pain settled permanently into their voice.

“. . .You’re thinking too loud again,” Bachira mumbles sleepily.

Isagi freezes.

“You always do that when you’re sad.”

There’s a lump in Isagi’s throat so large he can barely swallow around it.

“You still notice things like that?”

Bachira opens one eye slightly, smiling weakly. “I notice everything about you.”

And fuck, that hurts.

Because Bachira says it so easily. So naturally. Like he fully expects there to be a future where he keeps noticing things forever.

Isagi presses his face briefly into Bachira’s hair so he won’t have to look at him.

The antiseptic smell of the hospital can’t fully hide Bachira’s scent anymore. It’s fading slowly, and the realization terrifies him more than death itself.

People always talk about grief like it arrives after someone dies.

But Isagi thinks this—

this helpless watching,

this slow unraveling,

this learning how to live while someone is still disappearing—

is the cruelest part of all.

“You know,” Bachira whispers suddenly, voice muffled against his collarbone, “When I was little, my mom told me dying is like becoming part of the ocean.”

Isagi’s chest tightens.

“She said people don’t really disappear. They just. . .spread out into everything.” Bachira smiles faintly. “Into rainstorms. Into sunlight. Into music. Into the wind.”

“. .Bachira—”

“So maybe it’s okay.”

“No.” The word leaves Isagi instantly.

Too sharp.

Too desperate.

Bachira goes quiet.

Isagi’s arms tighten around him carefully, like he’s trying to hold together a body that’s already cracking apart at the seams.

“It’s not okay,” he says shakily. “I don’t want the wind. I don’t want sunlight. I want you.”

The machine beside the bed continues its steady beeping.

A countdown pretending not to be one.

Bachira doesn’t answer for a long time.

Then softly—

“I guess we were doomed from the start, weren’t we?”

Isagi’s breath catches.

“Everyone looks at me like I’m already gone,” Bachira admits quietly. “But when you look at me. .” His fingers weakly curl into Isagi’s shirt. “It feels like maybe I’m still here.”

Something inside Isagi breaks so completely he thinks he’ll hear it shatter.

Because Bachira says it like it’s a gift.

And Isagi realizes, with horrifying clarity, that love is not always something gentle.

Sometimes love is watching someone become smaller and smaller in your arms while you stay powerless to stop it.

Sometimes love is memorizing the sound of their heartbeat because deep down, some selfish part of you is terrified you’ll forget it one day.

Sometimes love is realizing that the person you cannot live without is going to teach you how to anyway.

One day, the world will keep spinning without Bachira in it.

The trains will still run.

Rain will still fall.

Soccer games will still happen.

People will still laugh.

And Isagi thinks that might be the cruelest thing of all.

That the universe does not pause for broken hearts.

Bachira nestles closer unconsciously, already half-asleep from exhaustion.

And Isagi holds him tighter.

Like if he loves him hard enough, the reaper might grow merciful.

Like if he keeps his arms wrapped around him long enough, Bachira’s body will forget how to leave.

–

When Bachira passes, Isagi laughs.

They really were doomed from the start, weren’t they?