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In Bachira’s mind’s eye, here’s how Chigiri’s realtor sold him his apartment: she started by whisking him into the unit and flicking on the warm lights. “A freshly-renovated three bedroom unit nestled in the heart of King’s Cross,” she might have said in perfect English, British accent posh and poignant as the polished marble counters, heels clicking as they scraped against pinewood floors. First, she’d take him to the master bedroom, then the now-gym, and then the little space where Bachira’s squatting. Finally, she’d waltz Chigiri to the living room to show off the large windows offering natural light.
“How do you feel about the view, Mr. Hyoma?” the realtor might have asked, using his first name like they’ve been best friends for years, over-familiar in the way Westerners so often are. Not that Bachira’s one to talk, but there’s a difference in the way people act in these parts, how they hide their feelings behind enthusiastic “Hello”s and “How are you”s, neither of which are an actual invitation to tell them how you’re really feeling on a random Wednesday morning. Nobody actually wants to hear about how Bachira’s love life is in shambles, or how his career is falling apart; at least he’s used to Japan’s cold politeness, as opposed to San Sebastian’s friendly veneer.
London is supposedly neither of these things. This year will be quite the adventure.
Bachira sinks down on Chigiri’s couch, admiring the fine ivory leather. How does he keep it clean, especially knowing how messy Chigiri was back in Blue Lock? Maybe dating Kunigami has done him some good, or more realistically, Chigiri probably hires a cleaner to help tidy up. Meanwhile, Bachira’s still getting used to the luxuries a professional footballer’s salary affords him. Even with the pay cut he’s taking by living in a more expensive city, even though he’s still paying off his San Sebastian home and the mortgage on his mother’s new place, Bachira has more money than he knows what to do with. On top of that, Chigiri isn’t even charging him rent.
Chigiri’s too-expensive luxury couch? Bachira’s couch too, he supposes.
Bachira’s not quite used to the idea. His new couch, his new room, his new home, with Chigiri. He’s only been in London for a day, most of which was spent moving boxes and unpacking his belongings into the guest room, and this apartment still firmly feels like Chigiri’s space, not his. There’s the dog-eared novels in both English and Japanese, stacked in haphazard piles on the dining table and kitchen counter, a few strewn across the couch and coffee table for Kunigami to clean up when he visits. In turn, Kunigami’s RB Leipzig jacket hangs off a peg on the coat rack, and Bachira knows it’s his because it’s two sizes too big for Chigiri. Most egregiously, and most offensively, there’s a pile of football magazines on a side table in the bathroom, which Chigiri apparently reads while taking a shit, instead of using his phone like a normal human being.
The thought’s enough to make Bachira laugh, and he surveys his surroundings one more time, takes in each reminder that he’s just a one-year guest in Chigiri’s home. Chigiri turns to stare at Bachira from the open kitchen, where he stands by the half-open refrigerator door. He’s carrying two champagne flutes in one hand and a bottle of something too fancy in the other.
“What’s so funny?”
“This place. It’s so… you.”
“I’d sure hope so. I bought it.” Chigiri shuts the refrigerator door with his right foot, and walks over with the glasses and alcohol. He sets them on the pine coffee table, using a hardcover copy of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous as a coaster. Chigiri pours Bachira a glass, and then himself.
“Welcome home,” Chigiri says, raising his glass. Bachira blinks.
Home. A tenuous concept. Bachira had thought he could make a home out of any place once upon a time, had even thought of Blue Lock as home at one point. There was no better place for him, a wonderland revolving around football and only football, around friends who lived, breathed, and would die for the sport. Friends, which he had for the first time, who scattered across Europe as soon as Blue Lock was over. Europe’s been the same, crushing loneliness all over again, amplified by chatter in languages Bachira can still barely speak, the same solitude that first made the monster manifest.
So come to think of it, nowhere’s really been home since the small apartment Bachira lived in as a kid. And since he bought his mother a nicer place as soon as he could, upgrading her to a spacious three-bedroom apartment in Shin-Chiba for more studio space and a place to call her own, with no landlord to be beholden to, no overdue rent bills she struggles to pay… Home for Bachira doesn’t exist any more.
The thought is sobering, to say the least. Bachira picks up his drink. It’s fizzing. He’s never been much of a champagne guy, but it’s apt for celebrations, and Chigiri’s had plenty to celebrate over the years. He wishes he could say the same for himself.
“Welcome home to me,” Bachira says, clinking his glass against Chigiri’s. He beams up at Chigiri, bright and radiant. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
In hindsight, a lot of Bachira’s problems start and end with the monster, which is hysterical, considering he doesn’t really need that guy any more. Bachira pried its shadow from his body years ago, during Blue Lock’s second selection, when he’d stared Isagi down across the football field and declared that he could play without him. Fear was something Bachira thought he’d discarded, loneliness a specter he’d exorcised from his being. The monster, in turn, is nothing but a juvenile apparition, a childhood playmate concocted in desolate solitude.
Only Bachira still sees the monster, mostly when he’s not careful. He saw it in his childhood apartment’s living room, surrounded by boxes and the beast’s hollow grin. He saw it when his coach at Real Sociedad led him into the dugout after another fruitless training session, placing a hand on Bachira’s shoulder—and the monster took the other. And Bachira saw it when he packed up his townhouse in San Sebastian, blinking back tears as he realized this was real, this was happening, and he was making a move marking the death of his career: Blue Lock’s Meguru Bachira, going on loan to a third-rate Premier League club barely struggling to keep afloat.
When he and Isagi were tangled in his sheets back in San Sebastian, lips crushed against each other’s, Bachira’s hand wrapped around Isagi’s cock, Bachira chased the monster the whole time. Dark shadows lurked in the corners of Bachira’s vision, a honeyed voice guided Bachira in his ear. Isagi’s hands fumbled at Bachira’s waist, his tongue twisted into his, and the monster loomed over them as Isagi pretended to enjoy kissing.
Bachira wishes the monster’s resurgence wasn’t connected to his career falling apart. It’s almost funny, how both events devoured Bachira in their suffocating grip, a one-two punch combination of incredible failures. A part of him’s almost glad he has the monster back. Though Bachira mostly wishes it would get out there on the football field and fix his ability to kick a ball, not taunt him in his personal life when he’s already feeling isolated.
Training with his Crystal Palace teammates the first time is fine. Bachira’s English sucks, and Mikage Corp’s translation earbuds still aren’t approved for public use. At least Bachira remembers just about enough from school to say hi, introduce himself and say he loves football. The team cheers, clapping him on the back in sportsmanlike camaraderie, and Bachira can only hope that maybe he’ll find someone who he’ll pass the ball to with as much joy as he once did, with Isagi.
He doesn’t need Isagi, either. He’d established that back in Blue Lock.
Bachira has never felt like he needed Chigiri more than he does now. Really, he should be more used to being alone, considering it was just him and the monster for the longest time. Nevertheless, it’s comforting to have someone who speaks his language in his space, to not have to squeeze his words through the mesh filter of a language barrier and have them stumble from his lips, clumsy and wrong. Chigiri leans back against the couch, staring against the ceiling. They’ve had two weed gummies each that Chigiri claims haven’t hit, but Chigiri muses, “I’ve got to make a name for myself before my leg implodes,” and it’s a moment of weakness only substances could induce.
Bachira nods, closing his eyes. The world around them has slowed down for a minute, allowing him the chance to breathe. English pop music blares from the wooden record player, a new fixture in their living room, a find they’d gotten a bargain for in a dingy Shoreditch Market music shop. Life is good for them,
Not that Chigiri’s overall situation parallels Bachira’s. Bachira might not have a ticking time bomb within his body, Chigiri’s greatest blessing and most malevolent curse. But Chigiri’s lived in London for four seasons and has made headlines as Arsenal’s top scorer for the last two. He’s garnered adulation and accolades and championships to his name. Two goals that led to a Champions League victory cemented Chigiri’s name on the record of Arsenal greats, and Bachira’s happy for him.
Chigiri doesn’t chase the high of companionship, won’t get drunk on its absinthe, has no beasts made manifest of his misery. A couple of his teammates from Arsenal, and of course, Kunigami, seem to be all the friendship he needs. Chigiri has always been fairly academic—hell, he even reads in English for fun—communicating with his teammates doesn’t seem to be an issue.
Football career? Check. Love life? Check. Bachira knows it’s useless to compare, but it’s difficult not to when Chigiri’s success is constantly paraded in the media. Green has always been Isagi’s color, not his. It doesn’t suit Bachira’s monster’s eyes, but neither does failure.
Both are temporary, of course. They have to be.
London is an incredible city.
Bachira loves how it brims to life atop haphazard cobblestone paths, street lights blinking awake at sunset, greeting nightfall with their iridescent shine. He doesn’t mind the dirt, or the grime, or even the way smog practically chokes commuters in the Tube—there’s a character to the city that so many others loathe, one Bachira’s ready and willing and desperate to embrace.
His English is awful when he’s sober and abysmal when he’s drunk, but Bachira agrees to go out to a bar with some of his teammates anyway, grabbing one of Chigiri’s cable sweaters on the way out. The conversation is stilted, but it’s nothing the bitter aftertaste of beer can’t fix, though Bachira’s not sure it makes him much better at the language. It doesn’t stop him from attempting to string sentences together, even if he has a toddler’s proficiency and the alcohol tolerance to match. “A round of drinks on me,” Bachira says, forming words in an approximation of the syllables his teammates used. He heads towards the bar, sneaker soles half-sticking to the floor with each step, and it’s there where Bachira jostles up against the rest of his evening.
“Excuse me,” Bachira says, pushing against him to hail the bartender over. The stranger’s brow knots in confusion, blue-grey eyes piercing and impertinently sharp.
“You sound like me,” the man says in Japanese. “Are there many of us living in London?”
Bachira blinks back, surprised—it’s been a long time since he’s heard the familiar tones of his language in a voice that isn’t Chigiri’s, or muffled and digitized over the phone. He turns around to face him. The stranger’s taller than Bachira’s usual type, and a little more muscular, but he has the same dark hair, and a familiar flame burns bright in his eyes: this is playing with matches, too reminiscent of a terror Bachira shouldn’t set fire to any more.
Bachira loves the one-night thrill of danger. He leans back against the bar and smiles.
“Not enough. Nice to meet you. What are you doing here?”
Bachira doesn’t get a name, which makes things easier. Turns out the man’s a Japanese tourist on vacation, and Bachira likes him. He likes him very much! The conversation flows easily when they can bond about training and sports, even if the stranger’s far, far more invested in volleyball than Bachira will ever be. His concentrated focus is potent as the tequila shots Bachira buys them. It makes Bachira’s heart ache in a way he can’t quite describe, an emotion teetering far too close to yearning’s painful chasm.
The monster’s shadow blurs into Bachira’s inevitable blackout, so of course Bachira brings the handsome stranger home. He doesn’t remember the rest of the night, nor how and when his dalliance leaves. It doesn’t matter. What matters is Bachira slowly fading back into reality, hung over and keeled against Chigiri’s kitchen counter, Chigiri placing a glass of water in front of him.
“Do you do this often?”
Bachira laughs, sheepish. “A little. I try not to make it a habit.”
Key word being try. It’s difficult, when Bachira’s got the monster’s hunger to sate, when there’s an emptiness in the cavern of his chest only filled by alcohol and bad decisions. Chigiri raises an eyebrow, disbelieving.
“I don’t care and I don’t judge. Don’t wreck anything in the house, and be safe.”
But Bachira knows that Chigiri saw what he saw in the other man. Short, dark hair with bangs, an athlete’s fine, sinewy build. More than that, the sharp intensity of his gaze, one the monster drew Bachira towards the very first day in Blue Lock, luring him to his new best friend.
Chigiri’s no fool, and subtlety has never been Bachira’s strong suit. Bachira stretches and sighs, and takes a long sip of water. For once in his life, he lets silence fill the space around him, chugging water while his old friend rubs circles into his back.
On the plus side, Bachira’s new teammates are pretty cool. Communicating with them is still a Herculean task, and he’s pretty sure he’s the bane of his new English tutor’s existence, but football always speaks when words fail. At the very least, they receive his passes with a passionate fervor, blood pumping with excitement as they try to cobble a cohesive playstyle together.
Bachira finally manages to score in his third match for Crystal Palace, a second-half header from twenty meters from the goal, shot from an angle the commentator describes as “incredible” and “surreal”. The fans go wild from their stands. They leap to their feet, screaming Bachira’s name, and he feels his heart soar for a minute when his teammates hoist him on the shoulders, running up and down the field in celebration.
It doesn’t stop Crystal Palace from losing 3-1. His goal is good, but not good enough.
“It’s hard to lose more than we win, Chigirin,” Bachira whines, slumping against the soft comfort of Chigiri’s couch. “Then again, being an underdog is a little fun, don’t you think? It’s kind of like being back in Team Z.”
They were the worst players in all of Blue Lock, they’d once been told. Now look where they are. Isagi, once ranked last in the program, now the Bundesliga’s darling and Bastard Munchen’s poster boy. Chigiri with his broken wings, fresh off scoring two goals in a top-tier Premier League match against Manchester United. Kunigami, the Wild Card returnee, making headlines for RB Leipzig, cementing them in football’s top flight despite how fresh and new their club is.
Bachira? He’s working his way back up there. He wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try.
Chigiri sets his grilled chicken salad down on the coffee table, placing a hand on Bachira’s shoulder.
“Looks like you’ve got to win for them, then.” Chigiri grins. “Just not against us.”
Crystal Palace doesn’t stand a winter’s chance in hell against Arsenal, not in any universe, but Bachira wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try. He laughs, throwing a french fry in Chigiri’s direction, which Chigiri deftly dodges.
But there’s one big difference between playing for Crystal Palace and Team Z. They seem similar enough on the surface: failure for Crystal Palace means relegation from England’s top flight, and Bachira can subsequently kiss his World Cup dream goodbye. Both situations have Bachira playing from the bottom, walking a fine tightrope between success and sudden death.
Back in Blue Lock, Bachira had found the fear intoxicating, basked in the thrill of elimination’s danger, relishing in the joy of defeating the odds. After all, growing up, playing for Japan had been nothing more than a pipe dream. That wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to a painter’s son, not when he struggled to connect with his teammates and his mom barely scraped by to put food on the table. Every match brought him closer to playing professionally than Bachira ever thought he might.
Blue Lock teased him by showing Bachira he could achieve the impossible. He let go of the monster, made actual friends, and somehow made it through to Spanish football’s top flight. Bachira then destroyed his career and his friendship with Isagi in one year, and a spot on Japan's World Cup team feels like it’s slipping through Bachira’s grasp.
The prospect of losing isn’t fun, or exciting any more. For the first time in his life, Bachira knows he can’t afford to fail.
Okay, maybe part of Bachira chases a monster as much as his monster’s chasing him.
Bachira won’t chase the same beast he saw in Isagi: look how that turned out. But there’s something tantalizing about people with a driving force, a hunger in their spirit Bachira finds impossible to resist. He can’t help but be drawn to them.
Kunigami’s visiting Chigiri in London, so Bachira slips out the door to meet his teammates at a nightclub. It’s an excuse to get to know them better through dance’s universal language. That, and if he has to see Kunigami and Chigiri making doe eyes at each other, Kunigami’s hand wrapped protectively around Chigiri’s waist, it might surface some emotions in Bachira he’s not sure he wants to deal with. Even Bachira will have a hard time being gracious in these circumstances.
Seeking out other people’s monsters feels counter-intuitive, but Bachira finds her anyway, a girl with shocking white hair dancing with her friends, throwing her hands in the air and swaying to the beat like it could be her last hurrah. Their eyes meet, and Bachira knows the hunger dancing inside hers. It’s desperation. She pauses, and he walks up towards her and clumsily offers to buy her a drink.
“I’m Bachira. Meguru,” he says, correcting himself. “What is your name?”
Her name matters much less than her story. They end up talking at the bar for a while, and a different beast looms across her, one borne from the knowledge that she only has so long to prove herself. A different monster, but it will do, and his longs to consume it, to feel hers in its cloying embrace. Bachira takes her home late at night, the sound of her begging crisp and clear and louder than he’d expect from someone so small.
He’s sober enough to remember this tryst, at least. She slips out the next morning before Chigiri and Kunigami can notice, but it’s clear that even if she was not seen, she most definitely was heard. The designer eyebags Chigiri’s sporting in the morning could be worth thousands on Oxford Street.
“If you’re going to fuck after two in the morning,” Chigiri snaps, “Can you get your bedmates to keep it down?”
When all fails, try to make a joke. Bachira sits up on the kitchen counter and swings his feet. “I didn’t know you were heterophobic.”
“I know you’re bi. That’s not funny,” whatever, Chigiri, it is pretty funny, “And that’s not the fucking problem.”
“Queer, actually.” Bachira doesn’t particularly feel the need to go into specifics when it comes to his sexuality. “But okay, I’ll use a gag in future. Sorry about that,” Bachira says, and his face does fall for a second, “I hope you get to nap a little more.”
“Yeah,” Chigiri sneers, “I’ll do that.”
With that, Chigiri storms out of the kitchen, leaving Bachira alone with a cold, clammy sensation that grips his chest and back. He fucked up, even if he didn’t intend to, and it would be helpful if the monster wasn’t shadowed across from him, mouth twisting into a menacing grin, almost as if its was its plan all along.
“Shut up,” Bachira mutters, even if the monster isn’t speaking, even if no-one else can see its horrors. The sound of Kunigami’s footsteps against the pinewood floor interrupt him, and Bachira snaps around to see him in the hallway, shirtless with a crimson necklace of hickeys sucked into his neck. Kunigami waves.
“Yo. Morning.”
“Morning,” Bachira says, and he squeezes out a smile. “Not going back to bed with Chigiri?”
“I’ve got to leave for Chigiri’s game in the afternoon, and I wanted to see you.” Kunigami steps into the kitchen. “I thought we’d get to hang out a little more after dinner. Wanna go out for breakfast if you’ve got time?”
Realization hits Bachira like a football to his face, an unanticipated header he was somehow expected to return. Kunigami was also here to see him. Bachira completely failed to take that into account.
“Ah, yeah,” Bachira nods, “Let me get changed and we can head out. There’s a spot downstairs I know you’ll love.”
It isn’t like him to minimize himself. Bachira Meguru is bright yellow and garish and loud and upbeat, and in Blue Lock, he met enough people who were willing to cast their gaze towards him in spite of that. So why is it that he’s expecting his friends to turn away, now? What’s wrong with him, and who has he become that he’s pushing them away?
Bachira doesn’t have the answers. He throws on a shirt and sneakers, runs his hands through his hair, and deems himself ready for breakfast without brushing his teeth.
Insomnia rears its ugly head amongst the pit of snakes in his stomach, twisting through his body in sleepless exhaustion and enervated panic. It’s inconvenient, and Bachira groans as he twists between his sheets, his weighted blanket doing nothing to assuage the growing shadow inside him. He can’t afford not to sleep. Not when has a game against Wolverhampton in two days, one Crystal Palace might actually be able to win.
At least his match isn’t tomorrow. Small blessings, at least. Bachira sighs and grabs his phone from where it sits by his dresser. He thinks about calling his mother, but she might question why he’s still awake, and he doesn’t want to tell her the awful truth. He’s exhausted all his energy in the Korean cookie gacha he’s been addicted to over the last few months. That leaves him two options: log into LINE and bother the group chat, or scroll social media and spiral into existential dread.
For once in his life, Bachira exercises enough self-control to not send his friends “u up” at four in the morning. Most of them should be sleeping, anyway. Instagram also sounds like a horrible idea at this hour: the last thing he wants is to see Yukimiya’s third yacht. Twitter is a bad idea even in the light of day, which leaves Bachira no choice but to flip to his Photos app. Might as well delete some pictures and get some storage space back, huh?
His iPhone’s Memories function surfaces a seventeen-year-old version of him, wearing a Blue Lock jersey and beaming into the screen.
One of his arms is slung around Isagi, and another around a scowling Rin. Chigiri’s waving in the background, Karasu flashing a peace sign in the back. It’s a picture from right after the match against Japan’s U-20 team, Bachira realizes with a jolt, taken by his mother. It was the first time she’d seen him play football with people he called friends, with people who embraced Bachira’s vicious gaze and monstrous desire instead of averting their eyes. His mother beamed back at him on the other side of her phone camera, her own smile shining radiant as the afternoon’s sweltering sun as she counted down— “Three, two, one!”
The loud, clicking sound of her phone camera’s fake shutter filled the air. Bachira’s mother’s eyes met his, and she lifted her arm to her face, dabbing away tears.
Until then, it hadn’t really struck Bachira that his life experience was anything but normal—surely he wasn’t the only person out there with a friendless childhood, an imaginary playmate his only close companion. But as Rin squirmed out of Bachira’s iron grip, muttering something about this being a waste of time, and Isagi laughed, running off to grab Chigiri for a photo, cold, inexorable, realization briefly took over.
The look in his mother’s eyes hadn’t been just happiness. It was relief.
Nothing in the world could have taken away from what a good day that was, of course. Not even that. In his selfish, optimistic seventeen-year-old mind, this was a minor blip in an otherwise perfect day. Bachira remembers the swelling sensation of victorious triumph that bubbled in his chest, the way he’d wrapped his arms around his mother in a clammy, sweaty, hug.
“Come along,” he’d said, tugging at her sleeve like a child on the playground, “I want you to meet all the friends I’ve made! I don’t need the monster any more.”
Yet, almost seven years later—in Bachira’s lonely bed, in Chigiri’s London apartment, in four-in-the-morning’s cruel, unrelenting chill—the monster peeks out to greet him. Bachira sees its shadow creep against the wall, reflecting in his phone screen’s too-bright, blue light glare. The apparition’s simultaneously a familiar comfort and a menacing threat, its grin welcoming and horrific all at once.
But there’s one big difference this time, and it’s that the monster isn’t his friend.
Bachira sighs. Impulses: 1, self-control: 0. He x-es out of the image, opening up LINE to see who’s around. Understandably, most of his friends from Blue Lock are out cold, save for Isagi, who has a little green circle by his name. Bachira blinks, surprised.
meguru !!: not like you to be up so late
yoichi: Woke up to get some water. Are you ok?
meguru !!: just peachy! you around?
Isagi doesn’t need to be told twice. Bachira doesn’t let his phone ring more than once before picking up. The object of his affections’ voice travels across the receiver, clear and assuring, and even after everything, it’s funny how much Bachira likes talking to Isagi, how much even this sends his heart racing like a striker approaching their goal line.
The monster perches at the edge of his bed, silently staring at Bachira while he chatters about a TV show he watched, his upcoming games, anything but San Sebastian and what transpired between him and Isagi. It suits them all just fine.
The only downside to the English Premier League’s lack of a Christmas break is training in the frigid weather. Chill wind nips at Bachira’s face as he rushes down the football field, frostbite pinching his ears while he shoots his teammate a pass. London’s cold winters are devastating compared to San Sebastian’s milder embrace, the clouded skies blocking out any sunshine and potential warmth. Bachira spends most of his days after training collapsing into bed and watching TV for hours on end, only surfacing for food when Chigiri raps at his door to check if he’s alive.
Truly, getting to play is the highlight of his week, even if the scores are very rarely in Crystal Palace’s favor. Anxiety grips Bachira every time he glimpses at the league table, watching his team tango with the threat of relegation. They’re barely hovering above the bottom three. Bachira knows his goals have helped, but he’s not sure it’ll be enough to catch Ego’s eye when selecting players for the World Cup. Especially not when he’s up against top-flight players like his peers.
(How much has he fallen since Blue Lock? Do Anri and Ego look at Bachira’s stats and scoff at each other? How much money was poured into his training, his career—too much! Far too much for Bachira to fizzle out into obscurity here!)
Unlike the Premier League, the Bundesliga and La Liga would rather have their players spend the holidays with their families than bleed them for every entertainment dollar they’re worth. Kunigami and Isagi suggested they visit during their winter break. Even though Kunigami says it’s because Japan is too far for a short vacation, Bachira knows it’s because he wants to spend Christmas with Chigiri, curled up in bed after Chigiri’s busy day of training, making him hot soup and noodles so he’ll have the strength for his upcoming games over Christmas week.
Isagi? Bachira isn’t entirely sure why he’d want to spend time with Chigiri and Bachira during what’s ostensibly a romantic holiday in Japan. It’s probably foolish of Bachira to embrace this regardless. Bachira throws his arms around Isagi as he approaches Chigiri’s apartment, grinning from ear to ear as Isagi drops his Blue Lock-issue vinyl duffel bag in shock. Kunigami surfaces a few seconds later with a carry-on suitcase, and it’s Chigiri’s turn to practically tug him inside.
Bachira waves at Kunigami, his grip on Isagi unwavering.
“It’s been forever,” Bachira says, sing-song, even though he just saw Kunigami when he last visited Chigiri a few weeks ago. Isagi laughs, breathless and winded, pulling away from the hug to clap Bachira on the back.
“It’s great to see you too,” Isagi says. “Uh, where should I put my stuff?”
Earlier today, Chigiri had helped Bachira shove piles of clothes and stacks of letters into his closet so there’d be space for Isagi’s tatami mattress. Even now, Bachira wades around a sea of bomber jackets and ripped jeans, clothes he’d pondered wearing and then tossed aside before going to a club with his teammates. Isagi sets his bag in a corner and slumps down on the mattress.
“This place would give Barou a heart attack.”
“Aw, it isn’t that bad. You should have seen it before we cleaned up!”
Isagi laughs, blunt as always, tapping the space beside him. “Maybe that would have given me a heart attack.”
“So mean, Isagi,” Bachira pouts, but it’s nice that things between them seem normal for the most part, all things considered. He flops down as instructed, resting his head on Isagi’s pillow, and closes his eyes. Maybe this will all be okay, Bachira thinks, especially when Isagi’s hand brushes against his briefly and they wordlessly lock pinkies with each other.
There’s still a few days before their next match, so Bachira and Chigiri decide it’s probably fine to take Isagi and Kunigami out for real food. They end up squatting for forty-five minutes in a too-busy Bayswater Chinese restaurant, pressed up against each other in the claustrophobic waiting area, four grown men forced to share the stained ruby-red velvet of three metal seats. Isagi awkwardly dodges glances that linger for too long on them, while Chigiri is immediately recognized by a loud, excited group of Malaysian college students—even in the dry, artificial, radiator heat, Bachira puts on a grin and offers a selfie.
Finally, they’re led to their table where Chigiri takes charge of ordering, getting them four plates of roast duck and pork rice. The duck is deliciously oily, its dark soy sauce drizzle salty and perfectly sweet, and the roast pork’s skin crackles between his teeth, fat melting on Bachira’s tongue. It’s especially delectable when washed down with delicately bitter pu erh tea. Kunigami orders himself a second plate when he’s halfway through his first, and if it wasn’t for Bachira’s upcoming game he’d seriously consider doing the same.
There’s no time to linger, not when they’re forced out of the restaurant by the waitress coldly slamming down their check, out into the bitter cold. Bachira wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, turning to Chigiri and Kunigami with a grin.
“Where to next?” he asks. Chigiri shrugs.
“Rensuke and I were just going to head back. You should take Isagi around.”
Isagi grins at Bachira, expectant, and that smile’s the flame that sets Bachira alight. He might as well be a book of matches, with how little it takes for Isagi to make him smile back—and there it is, his heart racing at a million miles, his brain threatening to repeat the mistakes he made with Isagi last year if he isn’t careful. But Bachira wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t promise Isagi a good time—
(Other funny things about living with a monster: it constantly demands to be fed. It’s a hunger Bachira can’t control, a desire only made worse by the sheer gravitas of his longing.)
“You bet!” he says, waving Chigiri and Kunigami goodbye before turning back to face Isagi and the rest of their night. London’s streets are inviting as ever despite the cool air biting at his nose and mouth. Bachira wishes, desperately, that he’d worn a hat to keep his head warm. Isagi looks so cozy wrapped up in his Bastard Munchen knitgear, the black and crimson yarn hugging his neck in pleated patterns, and Bachira doesn’t have the self-control to not stare, to not think about how the snow falls in soft flurries to be captured between Isagi’s eyelashes, to not think about how Isagi isn’t wearing gloves, and how Bachira might have taken his hand here if he hadn’t made things awkward one year ago—
“Where are we going?” Isagi asks, and Bachira laughs, because of course he knows where they’re headed, because he’s Bachira Meguru, buzzing with energy, brimming with excitement and unadulterated joy, and of course he knows a good place to party in London in the heart of Mayfair. The monster will lead them, but Isagi doesn’t need to know that. Instead it’s hold on Isagi, I’ll take you out and it’ll be a blast, we’re going to get absolutely shitfaced, have you heard of a place called Funky Buddha—
Funky Buddha is popping off for a Thursday night! There are so many people here, ah, sorry about that, it’s okay, madam, just a bit of your beer spilled on my shirt. Haha Isagi it smells like sweat, doesn’t it, do you want to hold my hand so you don’t get lost? Just kidding, of course, but yeah it’s a little gross. The floor’s sticky. Some drinks will help! It’s on me, since you’re visiting from so far away. Don’t worry, I know my limits, a few shots won’t hurt. Bottoms up, Isagi—
Yes, that’s him, that’s Isagi Yoichi from Blue Lock in the flesh, we’ll take a picture with you, hold on let’s get out of the crowd, Isagi are you going to carry your martini onto the dance floor? Make sure you don’t spill it on me, too. It’s rare to meet someone else who speaks Japanese in London! What, you aren’t even Japanese? Your Japanese is way better than my English, and I live here—
Isagi? Isagi? Welp, he’s gone. It’s not that big a deal, I suppose. You a big fan of Blue Lock? Oh, of Bastard Munchen! Of course, I’m not sure how many people outside of Japan would know about Blue Lock, really. I was there with Isagi, though. Or Yoichi, as you might say! We trained together. Yeah, I’d say I know him well. I could get to know you well too, if you wanted—
Bachira doesn’t remember the rest of the night. What he does remember is waking up in the monster’s chokehold to a stranger’s embrace. Sunlight sears through the window, glaring and unforgiving, a blinding reminder of the previous evening’s mistakes. Bachira sits up a jolt, eyes wide and heart racing. He doesn’t recognize the skin-beige walls, the glass and metal side tables. He’s not at home. Did he go home with that person? Did he even get their name? What happened to Isagi…
Holy shit, had he left Isagi behind?
Bachira grabs his phone. Ten missed calls, and a million more angry messages in their trip planning group chat, mostly from Chigiri and largely varieties of where the fuck are you. He leaps out of the foreign bed, throwing the white bedsheets aside, the blankets heavy as the weight of Bachira’s mounting bad decisions. He turns to his tryst, eyes wide with terror, hoping that they don’t notice behind his wide, manufactured smile. His mouth hurts. Is this how people feel when they fake it?
“I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go,” Bachira says, ordering the first Uber he can get and rushing back to Chigiri’s home.
They’ve all seen Isagi’s fury on the football field. Narrowed eyes, gritted teeth, spitting insults sharp as carving knives quicker than Bachira can dribble. Bachira thought he was familiar with Isagi’s rage, and the monster wasn’t afraid to look Isagi’s in the eye and tell him he wasn’t afraid.
Bachira was wrong. Isagi’s rage in the real world is a hundred times worse.
Bachira would almost rather Isagi snarl, sink his nails into Bachira’s shoulders, and yell, “I never want to see you again.” It would be easier to handle than this. This Isagi won’t turn that brilliant gaze in Bachira’s direction, won’t say anything outside of, “Give me a minute” as he curls up on his tatami mattress. His anger simmers under the stone pot’s lid instead of boiling over, a silent pool of chilly bitterness that Bachira can sense by just staring at Isagi’s back. Bachira lingers in his room’s doorway, trying to fight back tears.
Pathetic, the monster says, linking an arm through his. It’s your fault, and you’re the one who’s about to cry?
Bachira can’t fight the monster when he knows it’s right. There’s nothing more that he can do except hang his head and mutter, “Sorry,” before flopping onto his own bed in shame. He’s so, so glad he doesn’t have training today, but he’d hoped to spend the day wandering London’s streets with Isagi, laughing as the wind tousled their hair and the smog clogged up their lungs. A little air pollution’s nothing in the grand scheme of sprawling cities.
This? This is the worst Bachira’s ever felt, face buried in his pillow, choking on misery and a litany of apologies Isagi won’t want to hear. Bachira knows loneliness’ cloying grip, but he hasn’t known this dread like icicles through his torso, piercing him in disdainful disquietude. This is the first time he’s been close enough to a friend to be this wounded in a fight.
Bachira waits, face muffled, buried under his weighted blanket, for far too long. Isagi finally breaks the silence.
“I’m going to pee,” Isagi declares, like Bachira’s his high school teacher instead of a disgraced best friend.
Isagi settles on the foot of Bachira’s bed when he returns shortly after. A chill travels through Bachira, and the monster leans in close, its breath hot and brutal on the back of his neck. Isagi’s going back to Munich, it says, He’s packing up and heading out, and nothing you do will make it better—
“Your bathroom’s a disgrace.”
Bachira snaps up straight, back stiff as a goalpost.
“That’s it?” Bachira barks a laugh. “I ditch you in a club in a foreign country, where we barely speak the language—and that’s it?”
“It wasn’t the worst. I got an Uber home, and Chigiri and Kunigami were still…” Isagi’s voice trails off, “busy. But at least they were awake and let me in.”
The monster has nothing to say to that. Bachira’s happy for Chigiri and Kunigami’s robust sex life, especially if it means Isagi wasn’t waiting in the hallway until Bachira came to his fucking senses. He nods, picking at the skin on his lower lip, and Isagi knots his brow.
“I’m worried about you. I’ve been worried about you.”
Isagi? Worried about him? Bachira’s eyes widen with terror. No, no, no: that’s the last thing he wanted, the worst thing he could do, because nobody should cause Isagi pain. Isagi should never be sad, or upset, ever, especially not on his behalf. Isagi’s brow knots, and even in his hurt, Bachira’s lost for a split second in how gorgeous his eyes are, a dark, piercing blue, one he’s only seen paralleled in San Sebastian’s wide sky moments past twilight.
The monster, ever kind and charitable, whacks Bachira on the back and snaps him back to the real world. Bachira laughs, his voice cracking as it leaves his lips, his voice a terrified jitter.
“Is this about football? We’re not getting relegated. I’ve scored more so far this year than I did in La Liga.”
If only there was any gumption behind this thin veneer of bravado. Isagi narrows his eyes.
“This isn’t about football and you know it.”
There’s no escaping this. Bachira sighs.
“Sorry.” What else is he supposed to say? Bachira turns his gaze from Isagi, focusing on the monster looming behind him on the bed. “I’ll try to make you worry less.”
“That’s not the point.” This is more like the Isagi Bachira knows, but that’s cold comfort. “Bachira, talk to me.”
Bachira parts his mouth to speak, but the monster folds his arms, and Bachira’s struck, once again, with realization: Isagi couldn’t hope to understand. Blue Lock’s darling, Bastard Munchen’s star player, the heart of all their group chats and the reason Bachira fought so hard through Blue Lock before he realized he didn’t need Isagi to stand on his own. Besides, Bachira can’t possibly tell him that his rejection was part of what triggered this downward spiral.
He didn’t need Isagi in Blue Lock, and shouldn’t need Isagi now. Bachira grins, bright and wide and falsely open.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asks, and the monster bares its teeth and grins back.
Isagi finally lets him go. Bachira surfaces in the kitchen for a meal too late for lunch and too early for dinner. He grabs slices of Swiss cheese and turkey breast out of the fridge, shoveling them into his mouth along with leaves of lettuce he tears directly from its head. A good ol’ epic deconstructed sandwich. The fridge’s white light sears into his gaze as Bachira searches for his next topping, the cool air fresh and pleasant on his face, only for Chigiri to walk in and tap Bachira on the back.
“What the fuck, Bachira.”
Bachira whirls around, eyes wide. “Sorry about last night,” he sputters. The monster snarls, huffing tendrils of ink-black smoke, disapproving. You shouldn’t be on some apology tour like a disgraced influencer, he says, but Bachira pushes it away. There’s only one thing he can do to rebuild the bridges he’s done such a good job burning. “I, uh, made some poor decisions.”
“It’s been four or five months, and you’ve done nothing but make poor fucking decisions. I’m not letting you leave until you talk to me about it.”
Bachira stands, shocked, in the fridge doorway, frozen stiff as the chicken breasts in its bottom drawer. It’s a second before he can collect himself for long enough to slam the fridge door, and he leans back against it, laughter nervous.
“You’re right. I’ll stop. I promise I’ll be a better friend, Chigiri.”
Chigiri sighs, pinching his temples in exasperation.
“Every time we talk about you, and what you’ve done, and how you’re acting, it’s always ‘I’ll be fine, I’ll be better.’ And then you continue to act like a complete mess. Something’s off. Something’s been off.”
Kunigami wanders into the living room adjacent to the open kitchen, shirtless and dazed with scratch marks peppering his back. He steps backwards, ready to make his exit, but his boyfriend is quicker than he is and far, far more furious.
“Stay,” Chigiri snaps. “We’re getting the truth out of Bachira, right now.”
“I’m fine,” Bachira pleads. You sound so desperate, the monster sneers, but Bachira barely hears it over the sound of his heartbeat racing. “Come on, Chigirin, it’s just been a rough season for me. Two in a row.”
Kunigami sighs, flopping down on the couch and glancing up at the two of them.
“Chigiri doesn’t even complain to me about Nagi and Reo any more. He can’t stop talking about you and how worried he is. Look,” Kunigami says, leaning forward and resting his head on his hands, “I know what it’s like to be in a bad spot. I know what it’s like to feel completely alone.”
Bachira swallows the lump in his throat. He thinks of Kunigami in Blue Lock, about how he’d stood on the football field tall and proud and steadfast until Wild Card shattered him. He thinks of how haunted Kunigami was when they’d locked eyes across the football field upon his return, how he’d rebuked all Bachira’s attempts to laugh and joke and pry a single smile out of him; how now, even years later, Kunigami’s gaze still occasionally clouds over with that shadowed distance.
Don’t you dare, the monster chides. It wraps itself around Bachira, dark smoke covering his nose and mouth. What do you think, he’s going to understand? He’s got his career. He’s got someone who loves him, he’s got everything you want. And you think—
A red-hot, searing feeling pierces through Bachira, strange and unfamiliar as it grips him by the throat.
Even through the monster’s penumbra, he sees Chigiri’s worried gaze, his furrowed brow as he leans back against the kitchen counter. He thinks of Isagi back in the bedroom, voice trembling with concern as Bachira assured him that he was fine. Kunigami, staring up at him from the couch, resolute as he says:
“If you can’t tell Isagi, you can tell us. You aren’t alone.”
Anger. What Bachira’s feeling is anger, and fuck, he’s not sure how Isagi does this on such a regular basis, his pulse racing, his muscles tensing, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The monster grabs Bachira’s waist, and finally, finally, he wrests himself from its grip. Somehow, Kunigami’s words have given Bachira the strength to finally talk back.
“Fuck you,” he murmurs, underneath his breath so only the monster will hear. “You didn’t see him. You don’t know this Kunigami. In fact—”
The monster wasn’t there for Kunigami’s defeat, for his return, for how dark and angry he’d been. It also means the monster wasn’t there when Bachira had graduated from Blue Lock. It wasn’t there when Bachira signed to Real Sociedad. It wasn’t there when Bachira handed his mother the deed to her new house, and her eyes had brimmed with happy tears, her smile brighter than the marigolds in her paintings as she told him how proud she was.
Maybe, just maybe, this guy doesn’t know shit about him.
Somehow, Bachira wrests himself from the monster’s grip. It screeches, pitch sharp, its shadowed form mangled and twisting as it writhes in place, but Bachira squeezes his eyes shut, blocking it out as he flops down on the couch next to Kunigami. The monster screams again, but its words are jumbled, fidgeting and squirming as it rushes towards where he’s sitting:
And finally, it vanishes as Bachira starts to speak, dissipating in a cloud of light and smoke.
“I’m a fuck-up,” Bachira says, to start.
“I fucked up last year, and I haven’t stopped fucking up since. And,” he says, tilting his chin upwards, facing Chigiri who’s still standing in the kitchen, arms folded, “the worst part is I don’t know how to stop. You’re letting me stay in your place and all I do is—”
“My place?” Chigiri says. “Bachira, you’ve lived here for four months. Maybe five. You still think this is my place?”
Bachira raises his hands in protest. “I don’t pay rent! I didn’t buy the furniture. I didn’t give you anything for it. How can I call it mine?”
Chigiri sighs. He wanders over to the other side of Bachira on his couch, reaching for him. At first, Bachira expects Chigiri to slap him on the back, or to grab his arm in support, but to his surprise, Chigiri wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a tight, close hug.
Maybe how affectionate Westerners are has rubbed off on Chigiri, a little. Bachira doesn’t hate it. Tears well up in his eyes as he throws his arms around Chigiri, hugging him back.
“We’ve all got money to burn. You’re paying the mortgage on your own place in San Sebastian. And your mother’s. Why the hell would I collect rent from you when I don’t need it?”
Perhaps if he was someone else, Bachira might have recoiled at the thought of Chigiri feeling sorry for him. But pride’s never been one of Bachira’s vices, and he sniffs as he pulls away, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Do you ever miss Japan?” Bachira pipes up, all of a sudden. “Either of you. Do you miss home? What about Blue Lock?”
Kunigami’s answer is certain and definite.
“Blue Lock? No.”
Despite himself, Bachira manages to cackle. “Could have guessed that much. What about everything else?”
“Home? Japan? Of course I do,” Kunigami says. “Especially when I first got to Leipzig, when I couldn’t speak German and I didn’t know anyone around me. I think I called my sisters three times a day. They both got sick of it.”
“Yeah, homesickness? That’s pretty universal.” Chigiri says, leaning back against the couch. “I’m really excited to head back home in the summer, even if my mom’s turned my bedroom into storage for her jewelry business.”
“That’s—” Bachira’s voice hitches in his throat, “that’s part of the problem. I think I’m,” and now the tears are flowing, and they can’t seem to stop, “I can’t go home any more, can I? Not since I bought my mom her new flat. Home isn’t the same any more. I can’t go back to Blue Lock, too. It was easier back there, for me, at least. All I had to do was play football and I’d have people who liked me for me.”
Kunigami tilts his head in his hand and thinks.
“Even without football, I’d have liked you for you.”
Bachira shakes his head. “You have each other! You don’t need me.”
Chigiri scoffs, twirling a strand of strawberry-colored hair and tucking it behind his ear.
“That’s bullshit. I’m not about to talk to Rensuke about art, and Isagi says my music puts him to sleep. You’re weird, loud, and obnoxious, and maybe I like that in my life. Maybe I’m worried you don’t have the same light in your eyes you used to. So what?”
“I love Hyoma so much,” Kunigami says, his voice low and quiet, “but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, and Isagi too. I wish you could see that.”
Bachira lets out an anguished wail, and he buries his face in his hands, sobbing, pulling his feet up onto the ivory, too-expensive, leather couch. Somehow, it hadn’t registered to him that there might be someone who needed him, romantic or not. All this time, he’d thought that maybe he could drown the monster out if he followed its lead: turns out, all he needed to do was to listen to the other voices calling out to him. They’ve been speaking to him all this time.
Perhaps he should have cried on Chigiri’s couch sooner. No, their couch. Chigiri and Kunigami remain by Bachira’s side, rubbing circles into his back. Isagi walks into the room a few minutes later, and wordlessly, quietly, he pulls Bachira into the biggest hug.
Crystal Palace is playing Manshine City over Christmas week. At the very least, it’s a home game, which means Bachira doesn’t have to travel to Manchester while he has friends in town. It also means he gets to see Nagi and Reo on the other side of the field, and Bachira addresses them with an excited wave, beaming widely before the referee blows his whistle, the sharp, familiar sound of kickoff.
They’ll all get dinner later, and maybe Bachira will find out why, before him, they were Chigiri’s favorite topic of conversation.
Chigiri’s playing Arsenal’s Christmas game the same afternoon, so Isagi’s the only one of Bachira’s friends cheering from the stands. It’s not a particularly exciting game, if he’s to be honest; Crystal Palace is hardly known for its flashy playstyle, or its ability to score riveting goals. But maybe it’s the Christmas spirit, or maybe it’s the knowledge that they’re staring giants in the eye, because somehow, Crystal Palace’s defense is rock-solid, impenetrable, and Bachira takes advantage of that to dribble past Nagi and Reo and Manshine’s City’s defenders to the goal line. He kicks the ball with everything he’s got, shooting for the stars, heart racing, his insides practically vibrating.
The crowd goes wild in celebration.
Bachira throws his hands into the air, screaming at the top of his lungs. In the ninetieth minute, at the most important juncture of his Christmas game, Meguru Bachira turns the tables for Crystal Palace, awarding them an upset victory against the top-ranked team in the league. 1-0.
Isagi’s waiting for him outside the dugout when they’re done. Before Bachira can say anything, before he can ask him if he liked his game or liked his goal, Isagi grabs Bachira by the waist, lifting him up and swinging him around.
“That was amazing!” Isagi exclaims, eyes sparkling with joy, voice hoarse from screaming. “You did it. I’m so proud of you. Come over here—”
Isagi sets Bachira on the ground, grabs him by the collar, and pulls him into a kiss.
It should be a good kiss, all things considered. Isagi seems to have done some practice: he knows to lock his tongue into Bachira’s, to run his hands at the nape of Bachira’s hair and to gently caress his face. But there’s something about it that feels practiced, that feels strange. And much as Bachira would like to keep kissing Isagi forever, he’s not sure this is what Isagi wants. There and then, mid-kiss, Bachira’s eyes widen with realization:
Where for Bachira, romantic love and friendship are inexplicably intertwined, completely divorced from physical attraction, perhaps Isagi doesn’t feel the latter at all.
Suddenly, the pieces start to fit together, the jagged edges of the puzzle smoothing out into a clearer picture. A chill travels through Bachira. Isagi’s been fighting a monster of his own, one he’s still struggling with, but hopefully, he can help. He yanks away from the kiss, a trail of spit lingering between them before breaking. Clearly, Isagi hasn’t put the pieces together, or he wouldn’t be trying to pull Bachira in for one more. Bachira laughs, stretching and stepping away.
Bachira links their arms together, and Isagi’s shoulders sag in relief. The corners of Bachira’s eyes crinkle in a sincere smile.
“Hey, Isagi? Let’s talk about San Sebastian.”