Chapter Text
Chigiri had always felt the weight of expectations that came with being an alpha, but they never seemed to fit him quite right.
Alphas were supposed to be dominant, assertive, the natural leaders in any room.
They were meant to exude power and confidence, their presence alone commanding respect. But Chigiri didn’t care for any of that. He wasn’t the posturing type, didn’t need to puff out his chest or stake his claim on everything around him. He was quiet, distant even, and it threw people off.
More than anything, it was his appearance that confused everyone. With delicate features and long, flowing red hair, people often mistook him for an omega at first glance. He’d gotten used to the soft, curious looks from people who assumed he was something he wasn’t. Omegas were supposed to be the beautiful ones, after all. They were the ones who caught people’s attention with their grace, their gentleness. But when people got closer to Chigiri, the illusion shattered quickly.
He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t soft. He was rude, uncouth, and brash in ways that made people do a double-take when they heard him speak. He didn’t care much for social niceties or trying to fit the ideal alpha mold.
People’s assumptions about him irritated him more than anything, and he didn’t bother hiding it. If someone made the mistake of commenting on his looks, trying to place him in the omega box, they would be met with a cutting remark or a harsh glare. Chigiri didn’t have time for people’s expectations, especially when they tried to define him by how he looked rather than who he actually was.
The confusion he caused seemed to ripple everywhere he went. Alphas, especially the more traditional ones, didn’t know what to do with him. They couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t trying to prove himself, why he wasn’t competing for dominance in every interaction. Some of them even assumed he was weak, too withdrawn to be a “real” alpha. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chigiri didn’t need to puff out his chest or throw his weight around to prove he was an alpha. His strength was more subtle, more internal, and it manifested in the way he carried himself — self-assured, even when others doubted him.
It wasn’t that Chigiri was incapable of being aggressive or taking control when he needed to. He just didn’t see the point in performing for other people’s expectations. When he did get angry, it was quick, sharp, like a sudden storm that took everyone by surprise. His temper could be fierce, and his words even fiercer. But he wasn’t about to waste that energy on posturing or trying to fit into the alpha archetype that everyone seemed to expect of him.
Football, though, was where the truth of him really shone. On the field, he didn’t hold back, didn’t feel the need to temper his instincts. He was fast, brutally so, cutting through defenders with a speed that left them scrambling.
There, in the heat of the game, there was no need for words, no need for posturing. His skill spoke for itself, and it was undeniable. His brashness and refusal to conform might have made him a strange fit for the world of alphas, but in football, it set him apart.
People could think what they wanted about him — Chigiri didn’t care. He knew who he was, even if no one else did. And while the world might have expected a more traditional alpha, they’d have to settle for the rude, sharp-tongued beauty who did things his own way.
Chigiri twirls his phone between his fingers, the faint glow of the screen catching in his sharp eyes. Across the room, Isagi is hunched over the kitchen counter, fussing with a small pile of dishes as if it’s the most important thing in the world.
“If you’re going to sit there and judge, you could at least pretend to help. This whole ‘we’re cohabitating and things are going well thing isn’t going to sell itself.”
Chigiri arches a brow, his amusement barely contained. “Oh, but I am helping. I’m playing the role of the laid-back, devil-may-care fiancé. Isn’t that what everyone thinks of me?”
“Yeah, and I’m supposed to be the lovable, hardworking guy who balances you out, right?” Isagi mutters, leaning back against the counter. His arms cross over his chest, the damp dishtowel hanging from one hand. His eyes flick to Chigiri, who is now fully watching him with a mix of curiosity and faint exasperation.
“Exactly,” Chigiri quips, his smirk deepening. “I think we’re nailing it.”
Isagi groans, running a hand through his hair, which is still damp from his earlier shower.
Chigiri chuckles softly, tilting his head back against the couch as he stretches. “Relax, Yoichi. It’s not like we’re strangers. We’ve known each other for years. And let’s face it, I’m the best fake mate you could ask for.”
Isagi snorts, his lips twitching as if he’s fighting a smile. “Oh, yeah? And what makes you such a great catch, Mr. Perfect?”
Chigiri sits up slightly, one hand sweeping through his long, crimson hair with practiced ease. “I’m charming, athletic, and drop-dead gorgeous. Obviously.”
Isagi rolls his eyes, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze now. “You forgot humble.”
“Ah, right. My humbleness is legendary.” Chigiri’s grin softens as he meets Isagi’s gaze. “But seriously, we’re doing fine. No one’s questioning it. My mom practically cried when I told her about it.”
“Your mom cries at everything,” Isagi points out, though his voice lacks bite. He sighs, his posture relaxing as he leans back against the counter. “I just… I don’t want this to blow up in our faces. What if they figure it out?”
“They won’t,” Chigiri says firmly, standing up and crossing the room in a few smooth strides. He stops a foot away from Isagi, his gaze steady and confident. “We’ve got this. You’re overthinking.”
Isagi hesitates, his eyes darting to the side before flicking back to Chigiri. “Maybe. It’s just… a lot, you know?”
Chigiri shrugs, his expression softening. “Yeah, it is. But you’re not doing this alone.”
For a moment, Isagi says nothing. He stares at Chigiri, his brows furrowed slightly, as if he’s trying to find some hidden meaning in his words. Then he exhales, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re weirdly good at this.”
“At what?” Chigiri asks, tilting his head.
Isagi shrugs, his smile growing just a bit. “At making this whole fake thing feel… less fake.”
Chigiri’s lips twitch into a faint smile of his own. “Well, maybe I’m just that good. Or maybe…” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You’re starting to fall for me.”
Isagi snorts, shoving him lightly. “In your dreams, prince charming.”
Chigiri laughs, stepping back but not before winking at Isagi. “You better hope no one else thinks so, or we might have to start planning a real wedding.”
Isagi groans again, but this time, there’s a warmth to his expression that wasn’t there before. He shakes his head, tossing the dishtowel onto the counter. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”
Chigiri grins, flopping back onto the couch with all the grace of a cat. “Admit it. You love it.”
Isagi shakes his head, his smile lingering as he turns off the kitchen light. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still here,” Chigiri calls after him, his voice laced with laughter.
Isagi doesn’t respond as he heads to their shared bedroom, but Chigiri catches the faint sound of his chuckle as he disappears down the hall.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old apartment building settling for the night. Chigiri is sprawled across the couch, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, flipping through a magazine that he’s clearly not paying attention to. Isagi sits cross-legged on the floor, his back leaning against the coffee table, absently tapping his fingers on his knee as his thoughts swirl.
It starts as a quiet murmur, almost hesitant. “Hey… what’s the plan after this?”
Chigiri barely looks up, turning another page without reading it. “After what?”
“This.” Isagi gestures vaguely between them, his expression serious. “After we’ve convinced everyone we’re doing great. People are going to start asking why we haven’t, you know, taken the next step.”
Chigiri arches a brow, finally lowering the magazine to glance at Isagi. “The next step?” He leans back, one arm stretching over the top of the couch. “You mean marriage?”
Isagi frowns, his gaze fixed on a small scuff on the floorboards. “Well, yeah. We’re engaged, remember? People are going to think it’s weird if we don’t at least start planning something eventually.”
Chigiri shrugs, utterly unbothered. “You know, some people are engaged for decades.”
“Decades?” Isagi repeats, disbelief clear in his voice. He twists around to look at Chigiri fully, his expression incredulous. “You seriously think we can keep this up for that long?”
“Why not?” Chigiri counters, his tone light, almost playful. “We’re good at it. People already buy the whole act. If we stretch it out, they’ll just think we’re... sentimental or indecisive. Happens all the time.”
Isagi sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Okay, but what happens to you if you grow old and don’t actually find anyone to marry?”
Chigiri’s lips curl into a faint smirk, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Well, there’s you, isn’t there?”
The words hang in the air for a moment, weighty despite their casual delivery. Isagi blinks, caught off guard, before narrowing his eyes. “What if I’m the one who finds someone?”
Chigiri laughs, the sound soft and almost musical, as if Isagi has just told the world’s funniest joke. He sits up slightly, propping his chin on his hand as he meets Isagi’s gaze. “With how you react to people flirting with you? Eh… you can try.”
“Excuse me?” Isagi’s voice jumps, indignation creeping into his tone. He glares at Chigiri, who seems entirely unbothered by the look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chigiri leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his smirk widening. “You’re hopeless when people flirt with you, Yoichi. You either don’t notice, or you freeze up and mumble something so awkward they back off out of secondhand embarrassment.”
“I do not!” Isagi snaps, his face flushing. He shifts his weight, bracing himself on his hands as if he’s about to leap to his own defense. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“Oh, sure,” Chigiri drawls, his voice laced with amusement. “Like that time last week when that barista gave you her number, and you handed it back to her like it was a receipt.”
Isagi sputters, his ears turning pink. “That — ! That’s not — ! She caught me off guard, okay? And besides, she wasn’t even my type.”
Chigiri chuckles, leaning back against the couch again, clearly enjoying himself. “Uh-huh. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Isagi groans, burying his face in his hands for a moment before looking up at Chigiri, his eyes narrowing. “And what about you, huh? You talk like you’ve got all the answers, but I don’t see people lining up to date you.”
Chigiri shrugs, unbothered by the accusation. “I don’t need people lining up. I’m selective.”
“Selective,” Isagi repeats flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or just avoiding the issue?”
“Call it what you want,” Chigiri says with a faint grin. “But it’s working for me.”
They fall into a brief silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Isagi tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling as he exhales slowly. “This is insane,” he mutters, more to himself than to Chigiri. “We’re insane.”
“Maybe,” Chigiri replies lightly, the edge of his smirk softening. “But we’re also convincing.”
Isagi lets out a reluctant laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”
“Stuck with me?” Chigiri echoes, feigning offense. He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “You’re welcome, by the way. Without me, you’d probably be engaged to the next eligible bachelor in your mom’s eyes — even if they were a stranger — while still handing back numbers like receipts.”
Isagi groans, flopping onto his back on the floor, the tension in his posture finally easing. “I hate that you’re kind of right.”
Chigiri chuckles softly, his voice laced with a strange sort of fondness. “Don’t worry, Yoichi. If you can’t find anyone to put up with you, I’ll be here.”
Isagi’s eyes dart toward him, a mix of annoyance and something warmer flickering in his gaze. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Chigiri says with a grin, “here we are.”
Isagi huffs, covering his face with his arm as he mutters, “I’m so doomed.”
But Chigiri doesn’t respond, just watches him with a quiet smile.
Chigiri stretches languidly, his arms reaching overhead before he stands and shakes out his hair with practiced ease. “Okay,” he says, his voice smooth and teasing, “let’s go to sleep now if you’re done fighting me.”
Isagi, still sprawled on the floor, rolls his eyes dramatically, though a faint grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “I fear for the omega who learns to tolerate you,” he shoots back, his tone laced with playful exasperation.
Chigiri smirks, unfazed, and holds out a hand to Isagi. “Lucky for them, I’m not their problem. Unlucky for you, I am.”
Isagi huffs but accepts the offered hand, letting Chigiri pull him to his feet with surprising ease. He sways slightly as he stands, his exhaustion catching up with him. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a real burden, Chigiri.”
Chigiri turns toward the bedroom without comment, his steps quiet and graceful as always, but the faintest twitch of a smile betrays his amusement. Isagi follows behind, muttering something under his breath about “nighttime arguments” and “diva attitudes.” Chigiri pretends not to hear, but the shake of his shoulders suggests he’s laughing silently to himself.
By the time they reach the bed, Isagi’s grumbles have quieted. He pulls the blanket back with a practiced motion, flopping onto his side of the mattress with a soft groan. Chigiri takes his time, brushing nonexistent lint off his shirt and adjusting the pillow just so before sliding into bed with the kind of deliberate elegance that only he could manage.
Isagi sighs loudly, burying his face into his pillow as he mumbles, “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Chigiri replies, voice light, “you’re still here.”
Isagi doesn’t have a response for that. Instead, he shifts onto his side, turning toward Chigiri in the dim light of the room. His expression softens, the lingering frustration from their earlier exchange fading into something quieter. After a moment’s hesitation, he inches closer, his body brushing lightly against Chigiri’s.
Chigiri raises a brow but says nothing as Isagi continues to move, finally curling up against his side. One hand tugs the blanket higher while the other finds a spot against Chigiri’s chest, settling there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Isagi’s messy hair tickles Chigiri’s collarbone, and his breath, warm and even, fans gently through the fabric of Chigiri’s shirt.
Chigiri exhales softly, his arm slipping around Isagi’s shoulders without a second thought. “You’re surprisingly clingy for someone who acts like they hate me,” he murmurs, his tone teasing but faintly fond.
“Shut up,” Isagi grumbles, though his voice is muffled by the fabric of Chigiri’s shirt. “It’s cold.”
“Sure it is,” Chigiri replies, letting his fingers rest lightly against Isagi’s back. His hand moves in small, idle motions, the touch more soothing than he’d care to admit. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Isagi doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he burrows closer, his legs tangling slightly with Chigiri’s as he shifts to get comfortable. Within moments, his breathing evens out, the tension in his body melting away as sleep begins to take him.
Chigiri glances down, his gaze lingering on Isagi’s face. In the faint glow of the moonlight streaming through the curtains, his features are soft, unguarded, almost serene. Chigiri’s lips twitch into a faint smile, one that he doesn’t bother to fight this time.
“Goodnight, Yoichi,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. His arm tightens ever so slightly around Isagi, holding him steady as the quiet settles around them. The warmth between them feels easy, natural, as if it belongs there, and for once, Chigiri doesn’t question it.
Instead, he lets himself drift, his thoughts fading as sleep pulls him under, Isagi still tucked securely against his side.
Cohabitation Day 9
Chigiri is half-propped against the headboard, idly scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other rests on the blanket. His hair, still slightly damp from his shower, brushes against his collarbone as he shifts.
Isagi, however, is sprawled against Chigiri’s side, his head resting on Chigiri’s shoulder as though he belongs there. His arm drapes lazily across Chigiri’s stomach, and his legs are tangled with the blanket in a mess of limbs. He’s too comfortable to care about personal space, exhaustion making him unfiltered and, apparently, chatty.
“You know what I realized today?” Isagi begins, his voice muffled by Chigiri’s shirt.
“What?” Chigiri asks absently, not bothering to look away from his phone.
“Children,” Isagi says, his tone suddenly dark, “are the spawn of Satan.”
That gets Chigiri’s attention. His thumb pauses mid-scroll, and he turns his head just enough to glance at Isagi. “What brought this on?” he asks, half-curious, half-amused.
“My summer job,” Isagi groans, burying his face deeper into Chigiri’s shoulder like he’s trying to escape the memory. “You know, at that football clinic? Thought it’d be fun, right? Teach kids some skills, inspire the next generation, all that wholesome crap.”
“And?” Chigiri prompts, biting back a smirk.
Isagi lifts his head slightly, glaring at nothing in particular as his rant gains steam. “They’re monsters. Literal monsters. One of them tried to kick me in the shins today because I said he couldn’t dribble with his hands. Hands, Chigiri! On a football pitch!”
Chigiri snorts, his lips twitching upward. “How old are these kids again?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Isagi grumbles, waving a dismissive hand. “Old enough to know better. I’m pretty sure they’ve got a hive mind or something. If one of them smells weakness, they all gang up on you.”
Chigiri can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him. “And here I thought you were good with kids.”
“I thought so too,” Isagi laments dramatically, flopping back down against Chigiri’s chest. “But no. They’re tiny agents of chaos. They don’t listen, they’re sticky all the time, and don’t even get me started on the questions.”
“Questions?” Chigiri echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“‘Coach Isagi, why are you so short?’ ‘Coach Isagi, why don’t you have a girlfriend?’ ‘Coach Isagi, can you do a backflip?’ Like, what am I supposed to say to that? No, I can’t do a backflip, but thanks for shattering my self-esteem.”
Chigiri chuckles, the sound soft and unhurried, as he shakes his head. “Sounds like they’ve got you all figured out.”
Isagi groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t even know why I’m still doing it. I could be at home, sleeping in, living my life. But no, I’m out there, getting verbally roasted by a bunch of kids half my size.”
Chigiri hums thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leans his head back against the headboard. “You know,” he says casually, “you’re never beating the anti-omega allegations with an attitude like that.”
Isagi freezes, his eyes widening slightly before narrowing into an incredulous glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chigiri shrugs, his expression perfectly innocent. “Just saying. Kids are supposed to bring out your nurturing side, right? But you’re over here calling them Satan’s spawn. Not exactly doing yourself any favors.”
“They are Satan’s spawn,” Isagi shoots back, indignant. “And I don’t care about stupid stereotypes or whatever. I’d rather deal with a hundred penalty kicks than spend another day surrounded by those little gremlins.”
Chigiri shakes his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “You’re such a baby.”
“Says the guy who’s never had to deal with a mob of tiny, sticky humans trying to overthrow him,” Isagi mutters, sinking further into Chigiri’s side. “Next time, you take my shift.”
Chigiri laughs softly, letting his phone slip onto the bedside table as he shifts his arm to rest comfortably around Isagi’s shoulders. “Pass. I think I’d be too popular, and you’d get jealous.”
Isagi groans, tilting his head back to glare at Chigiri’s smug face. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, here you are,” Chigiri counters easily, his smirk widening.
“Yeah, yeah,” Isagi mumbles, already too comfortable again to argue further. He lets his head drop back to Chigiri’s shoulder, his voice softening as he continues, “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if I start showing up with gray hair from all this stress.”
Chigiri chuckles, his hand idly brushing against Isagi’s arm as he settles into the quiet. “I’ll keep that in mind, Coach Isagi.”
Chigiri leans back against the headboard, the glow of the bedside lamp softening the shadows of the room. His hair fans out against his shoulders, a few strands catching the faint light as he absently twirls one around his finger. He glances down at Isagi, who is sprawled across the bed like a cat that owns the place, his arm flung haphazardly over Chigiri’s lap.
“Hey,” Chigiri says, his voice low and lazy. “Can I turn off the lights now? Or are you still going to ramble about your demon kids?”
Isagi exhales a long, exaggerated sigh, his eyes fluttering shut like he’s shouldering the weight of the world. “Fine,” he says, his tone half a grumble, half a resigned mumble. “Go ahead.”
Chigiri doesn’t hesitate. He leans over, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretches to flick the lamp’s switch. The room plunges into darkness, moonlight spilling faintly through the curtains. He barely settles back onto the bed before Isagi moves.
Somehow, it’s automatic. Chigiri doesn’t think about it; his body acts on instinct, sweeping Isagi into his arms with the kind of ease that makes it feel like second nature. And Isagi doesn’t hesitate either — he shifts immediately, curling against Chigiri’s chest like he belongs there, like it’s a habit neither of them realizes they’ve formed.
Isagi lets out a soft hum of contentment as he settles in, his head tucked under Chigiri’s chin. His breath, warm and steady, brushes against Chigiri’s collarbone, and his arm drapes lazily across Chigiri’s torso, his fingers curling slightly into the fabric of Chigiri’s shirt.
Chigiri’s hand moves without thought, coming to rest lightly on the small of Isagi’s back. His fingers trace faint, absent-minded patterns over the thin material of Isagi’s shirt as his other hand curls protectively around Isagi’s shoulder. The room is warm — too warm, really — but Chigiri doesn’t mind. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s hyperaware of the heat spreading through his chest, the quickened rhythm of his pulse pounding just a little too loudly in his ears.
It’s stupid, Chigiri thinks. It has to be the weather. The summer night, thick with lingering heat and the faint hum of cicadas outside the window. That’s all it is. It’s not because Isagi is here, pressed against him, close enough to feel the faint rise and fall of his chest with every breath. It’s not because Isagi fits so perfectly in his arms, like he’s always meant to be there.
His heart betrays him anyway, hammering against his ribs in a way that makes his chest feel tight. He swallows hard, tilting his head just slightly to look down at Isagi. His hair, messy as ever, is sticking up in all directions, soft against Chigiri’s chin. His face is relaxed, his brows smooth, his lips parted just enough for his breath to fan against Chigiri’s skin. He looks... peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who was ranting about satanic kids just minutes ago.
“Yoichi,” Chigiri murmurs, his voice quieter than he intended, barely more than a whisper.
“Mm?” Isagi doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move except to burrow just a little closer, his cheek brushing against the curve of Chigiri’s chest. His voice is soft, drowsy, like he’s already halfway to sleep.
Chigiri hesitates, his lips parting as though to say something, but the words don’t come. He lets out a soft breath instead, his head tilting back against the pillow as his fingers still against Isagi’s back. “Nothing,” he mutters, his voice barely audible in the dark.
Isagi hums faintly in response, too tired to press for more. His body relaxes completely against Chigiri’s, his breathing evening out into the slow, steady rhythm of someone on the verge of sleep.
Chigiri closes his eyes, letting his head rest against the pillow as he listens to the quiet. The warmth of the night presses in around him, heavy and stifling, but it’s Isagi’s weight against his chest that keeps him grounded. His heart doesn’t slow — doesn’t calm, no matter how much he tells himself it’s just the heat.
He doesn’t let himself think too deeply about it. Instead, he lets out a slow, quiet sigh, his hand brushing lightly over Isagi’s back one last time before settling. “Goodnight, Yoichi,” he whispers, the words barely audible in the stillness.
Isagi doesn’t respond, already drifting, but the soft, contented sound he makes is answer enough.
Cohabitation Day 12
The soft sound of puzzle pieces clicking together fills the room, mingling with the faint hum of the dryer running in the background. Isagi sits cross-legged on the bed, hunched over the puzzle he’s been working on for the better part of an hour. His focus is razor-sharp, his brows furrowed in concentration, as his fingers nimbly sift through the scattered pieces.
Chigiri leans back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and — by his own request — Isagi is perched comfortably between them. Without their comforter, the room feels a little too open, too drafty, and Chigiri had muttered something earlier about needing some weight on his thighs. Isagi had rolled his eyes but hadn’t argued, settling into the space like it was second nature.
At first, Chigiri had been content to half-watch, his chin resting lightly in his hand as Isagi worked. But then, somewhere between the quiet focus and the way the dim lamp light spilled over Isagi’s face, his mind began to wander.
It starts with the little things. The way Isagi’s frame moves when he shifts his weight slightly, pressing a little more firmly against Chigiri’s legs. The soft curve of his neck, barely visible beneath the collar of his oversized T-shirt. The sharp line of his jaw, illuminated when he tilts his head just so to examine a puzzle piece.
And then, unbidden, comes the realization: Isagi is small. Chigiri’s always known this in a vague, peripheral sort of way, but right now, with Isagi sitting so close, it’s impossible to ignore. His hands, slender and deft, look like they were made for precision; his shoulders, narrow but strong, are almost fragile beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. His back presses lightly against Chigiri’s chest every time he shifts, the weight barely noticeable, like he’s lighter than the blankets that had been whisked off to the dryer.
Chigiri frowns slightly, his gaze softening as he studies the boy in his lap. Despite his wiry frame, Isagi is solid, grounded — but compared to Chigiri, he feels almost delicate. It’s a strange thing to notice, considering how relentless Isagi can be on the field, but here, in this quiet space, Chigiri can’t help but see the contrast.
And then there’s the other side of it — the undeniable prettiness. Sure, Chigiri gets called pretty all the time, his hair and face a constant topic of conversation, but Isagi... he’s a different kind of beautiful. There’s something effortless about it, something in the way his lashes frame his eyes when he looks down, or the faint curve of his lips when he presses them together in thought. Even the faint slope of his shoulders and the way his shirt hangs a little loose add to it.
It’s distracting. Enough that Chigiri’s gaze drops lower, his thoughts wandering. He wonders — not for the first time, though he’d never admit it — if the rest of Isagi is just as pretty. The parts he hasn’t seen, the ones hidden beneath the loose fabric of his clothes. The thought makes something unfamiliar twist in Chigiri’s chest, an odd mix of curiosity and... something else.
“Oi, Hyoma!”
The voice jerks him back to the present like a slap. He blinks, startled, and realizes that Isagi is craning his neck to look up at him, his eyes sharp with mild annoyance.
“You okay?” Isagi asks, frowning slightly. “I’ve been calling you for, like, seven times. You’re totally zoned out.”
Chigiri blinks again, his heart giving an uncomfortable little lurch. “What? No, I wasn’t — ” He cuts himself off, the words catching in his throat as Isagi’s gaze narrows, suspicious.
“You weren’t listening, were you?” Isagi accuses, though there’s no real heat in his voice. He tilts his head slightly, his messy hair brushing against Chigiri’s chest. “What were you even thinking about?”
Chigiri curses inwardly, his cheeks warming despite himself. “Nothing,” he says quickly, a little too quickly. He clears his throat, leaning back slightly in an attempt to put some distance between them, but the angle only presses Isagi further against his legs.
Isagi squints, unconvinced, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he holds up a puzzle piece, his lips quirking into a faint grin. “Well, while you were spacing out, I figured out where this one goes. You’re welcome.”
Chigiri exhales a laugh, the tension in his chest easing. “Yeah, yeah. Great job, genius.”
Isagi grins wider, satisfied, and turns back to his puzzle. Chigiri watches him for a moment longer, the faint ghost of his earlier thoughts lingering at the edges of his mind. He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as if the motion could chase away whatever had taken hold of him.
He lets his eyes drift back to the puzzle, his lips twitching into a small, fond smile despite himself. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for himself to hear.
Isagi doesn’t respond, too focused on finding the next piece, but the warmth of his presence against Chigiri’s legs is enough to ground him back in the moment.
Chigiri watches with growing annoyance as Isagi continues to ignore him, utterly engrossed in his puzzle. The boy hasn’t glanced up in what feels like ages, his entire focus locked on the scattered pieces in front of him. It’s maddening — not because Chigiri needs the attention (though, okay, maybe he does a little), but because Isagi can so easily shut out the world when he’s concentrating.
“Oi,” Chigiri says sharply, leaning forward slightly. When Isagi doesn’t respond, his irritation spikes. “Yoichi.”
Nothing. Isagi just hums distractedly, brushing him off like a mosquito as he slots another piece into place. It’s enough to make Chigiri snap.
“Oh, for the love of — ” Without thinking, Chigiri moves. His hands close around Isagi’s waist and shoulders, and with one fluid motion, he hauls him back and away from the puzzle, dragging him into his lap.
“Hey! What the hell — ?” Isagi yelps, flailing slightly as he’s yanked off balance. He lands awkwardly, his back pressing against Chigiri’s chest as his legs dangle over the bed. “Hyoma, what are you doing?!”
Chigiri doesn’t answer immediately, his breath catching as the full weight — or lack thereof — of Isagi registers. He’d moved him so easily, like he weighed nothing at all. His hands, still resting on Isagi’s waist, tighten reflexively, his fingers brushing against the jut of Isagi’s hips. There’s hardly any resistance, no real muscle to stop him if he wanted to pull Isagi closer.
Isagi squirms in his hold, twisting around to glare up at him, his dark eyes sharp and blazing with irritation. “Let me go! I was in the middle of something!”
Chigiri doesn’t release him. His chest feels tight, his mind stuck on one single, absurd thought. I could hold him down right now.
The realization blindsides him, hitting him like a freight train. Isagi’s so small, so ridiculously easy to control, and Chigiri knows with a startling clarity that if he wanted to, he could pin him down on the bed. The image forms unbidden in his mind: Isagi beneath him, struggling, his body taut with resistance but utterly overpowered. He’d glare, of course, his dark eyes burning with defiance, his cheeks flushed from the effort of fighting back.
Something sharp and inexplicable twists in Chigiri’s chest. His hands twitch against Isagi’s sides, and he has to physically stop himself from tightening his grip.
“What’s your problem?” Isagi snaps, his glare intensifying as he wriggles again. He tries to push Chigiri’s hands away, but his strength is laughable, his fingers barely managing to nudge Chigiri’s grip.
Chigiri blinks, snapping himself out of his spiraling thoughts. He forces a smirk, masking whatever strange storm is brewing inside him. “You were ignoring me,” he says smoothly, his voice steady despite the heat creeping up his neck. “I couldn’t have that.”
“Are you serious?” Isagi huffs, his body tensing as he tries to sit up. “You couldn’t just ask me to pay attention to you like a normal person?”
“I did,” Chigiri counters, his smirk widening slightly. “You ignored me.”
Isagi groans, flopping back against Chigiri’s chest in defeat. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, his voice muffled as he drags a hand down his face.
Chigiri chuckles softly, though his mind is still racing. His eyes flicker down to Isagi’s neck, the soft curve of his jaw illuminated faintly by the bedside lamp. He looks so annoyed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he glares off into the distance, and yet — Chigiri can’t help but think how good he looks like this. Frustrated. Held in place. Utterly at his mercy.
The thought refuses to leave. It claws its way to the forefront of his mind, vivid and insistent, until he has to close his eyes for a moment to will it away. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Are you done?” Isagi grumbles, his tone impatient as he tilts his head back to look up at Chigiri. “Or are you just going to sit there all night holding me like I’m some oversized cat?”
Chigiri meets his gaze, and for a moment, his breath hitches. Isagi’s eyes, sharp and full of irritation, seem to pin him in place. His cheeks are faintly flushed, his hair sticking up in messy tufts from where he’d been leaning forward over the puzzle earlier.
Chigiri smirks again, more to hide his spiraling thoughts than anything else. “Maybe I like holding oversized cats.”
“You’re the worst,” Isagi mutters, though he doesn’t move to get up again. He crosses his arms, shifting slightly to get comfortable despite himself.
Chigiri doesn’t respond this time. His smirk fades as he lets his gaze linger on Isagi, his mind still caught on the weightlessness of him, the way his body feels so small and light against his own. The thought doesn’t leave, no matter how much he tries to push it aside.
Isagi is glaring now, but Chigiri’s mind is elsewhere, imagining those same defiant eyes burning up at him from below, challenging him even as they silently acknowledge that he’s already won.
The room is silent now, save for the faint hum of the dryer in the next room. The puzzle Isagi had been working on earlier sits abandoned on the floor, the half-completed pieces a quiet testament to his persistence. Chigiri, still propped up against the headboard, watches the slow rise and fall of Isagi’s chest as he sleeps.
Somewhere between their playful argument and now, Isagi had passed out. He’s sprawled across the bed, one arm tucked under his head while the other rests against Chigiri’s thigh. His shirt has ridden up slightly, just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach — a flat, pale expanse of skin that catches the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
Chigiri swallows hard, his gaze drawn to the sight despite himself. Isagi’s breathing is steady and quiet, his body completely relaxed in the deep pull of sleep. There’s something disarming about seeing him like this, stripped of the sharp focus and fiery determination that defines him on the field. Vulnerable, Chigiri thinks, the word settling heavily in his chest.
He sits up slightly, his arms draping loosely over his knees as he leans forward. His eyes trace the faint contours of Isagi’s stomach — the subtle dip of his navel, the soft line of muscle visible even in the dim light. It’s not like Chigiri hasn’t seen Isagi shirtless before — they’ve been teammates for years, after all — but this feels different. Intimate, in a way he can’t quite put into words.
Isagi shifts slightly in his sleep, his head turning just enough that his messy hair falls into his eyes. The movement pulls his shirt up a little higher, revealing more of his waist, the faint curve of his hipbone just barely visible above the waistband of his shorts. Chigiri’s breath catches, his fingers twitching against his knee as an odd thought flits through his mind: He’s so… defenseless.
It’s strange to think of Isagi that way. On the field, he’s a force of nature — unyielding, relentless, always pushing himself and everyone else to the edge. But here, like this, he’s... soft. Fragile, almost. Chigiri’s gaze lingers on the faint rise and fall of his stomach, the way his body looks so small against the wide expanse of the bed.
The thought unsettles him, makes his chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t entirely understand. Isagi trusts him, Chigiri realizes suddenly, the weight of it hitting him like a physical thing. He’s here, completely at ease, utterly unaware of the world around him. Utterly unaware of me.
Chigiri’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze dropping to his hands as he flexes his fingers absently. He feels... strange. Like he’s teetering on the edge of something he doesn’t quite want to name. His heart beats a little too fast, his palms just a little too warm, and he can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the room or the way Isagi looks right now — so open, so trusting, so completely vulnerable.
A faint sound escapes Isagi’s lips, a soft sigh as he shifts again, curling slightly onto his side. His shirt lifts higher with the motion, and Chigiri’s eyes flicker to the exposed skin before quickly darting away. He swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair as he forces himself to lean back against the headboard.
“This is stupid,” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. His gaze drifts back to Isagi anyway, drawn to the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, the way his lips part just slightly with each quiet breath.
Chigiri exhales slowly, his head tipping back against the wall as he closes his eyes. He tells himself it’s just the warmth of the night, just the lingering adrenaline from earlier. He tells himself not to think about how easily he could touch Isagi right now — how easily he could brush his fingers over that soft, exposed skin and see how warm it is beneath his palm.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t let himself act on the thought. Instead, he lets the silence stretch, his chest rising and falling in time with Isagi’s steady breathing. It feels safer this way — watching, wondering, but never crossing the invisible line that separates them.
The dryer buzzes faintly in the next room, breaking the stillness. Chigiri’s eyes snap open, his gaze flickering to Isagi one last time before he exhales softly, his fingers curling against the blanket.
“Idiot,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and almost fond, before settling back into the silence.
Cohabitation Day 18
“Have you thought about it? Having kids?”
Chigiri’s voice breaks the quiet, smooth as ever but laced with something sharper, something unmistakably deliberate. He’s propped against the headboard, one arm draped lazily over the blanket, while the other spins a strand of his damp red hair between his fingers. The bedside lamp casts a soft golden glow over him, its light catching the edges of his crimson hair and turning it molten. His gaze, bright and pinpointed, flickers over Isagi’s face, studying every twitch and stumble like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
Isagi, who had been sitting near the edge of the bed, instantly stiffens. He twists to look at Chigiri, brows pulled together in disbelief. “What?” The word falls from his mouth flatly, as if he’s convinced he misheard.
Chigiri shrugs, his movements slow, deliberate. “You heard me,” he says, voice light. There’s a playful edge to it, one that makes the air feel heavy. “Have you thought about it? Kids?”
Isagi stares, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. His brain refuses to catch up with reality. “What’s spurring this on?” he finally manages, his voice strained and suspicious.
Chigiri shifts just slightly, stretching his long legs out further, the fabric of the blanket creasing over his shins. “Your clear love for children, of course.” He says it so casually that the sarcasm slips in like a knife, quick and clean.
Isagi jerks upright like he’s been slapped. His face ignites instantly, the heat rushing up his neck to bloom violently across his cheeks. “ Hyoma! ” he sputters, his voice cracking. “I told you — that was one bad day! That doesn’t mean anything!”
Chigiri’s smirk widens, smug and knowing, his crimson eyes gleaming. He looks impossibly relaxed, his lean frame draped across the bed like it’s all a game to him. “One bad day?” he echoes. “Didn’t you call them ‘Satan’s spawn’?”
Isagi groans loudly, dragging a hand through his already messy hair, pulling at the strands as though the physical movement might shake this conversation out of existence. “That’s because they are! ” he snaps, jabbing a finger toward nothing in particular. “Sticky, loud, feral monsters! You try coaching a bunch of kids for an entire summer and tell me how saintly you feel afterward!”
Chigiri hums in response, tilting his head to the side. “You sound traumatized, Yoichi.”
“I am traumatized!” Isagi shouts, throwing his arms out in a gesture so exaggerated it nearly sends him off balance. He regains his footing just in time, then shoots Chigiri a sharp look, his cheeks still glowing. “Which is why I don’t think about — ” He cuts himself off abruptly, as though even saying it aloud would be dangerous.
Chigiri’s gaze sharpens ever so slightly, his smirk turning razor-thin as he leans his head back against the headboard. “Don’t think about what? ”
Isagi shifts, visibly flustered now, like the question itself is crawling under his skin. He clenches the edge of the blanket in his fist, twisting the fabric without realizing it. “You know what,” he grumbles, glaring down at the crumpled mess of cloth in his lap. “That’s just — It’s not something I think about, okay?”
Chigiri doesn’t let up. If anything, his expression softens with something worse: mock curiosity. “Really? Not even once?”
“No!” Isagi snaps, too quick, too loud. He tries to look anywhere but at Chigiri, his gaze bouncing from the lamp to the folds of the blanket to his own socked feet. “Why would I — ? It’s ridiculous!”
For a moment, Chigiri is silent, though the teasing lingers heavily in the curve of his mouth. Then, with a slow stretch of his legs and a lazy push of his shoulders against the headboard, he says it — low, quiet, as though the words aren’t about to explode in Isagi’s brain.
“Really? That’s kind of surprising,” Chigiri muses, almost to himself. His crimson eyes flicker briefly to Isagi’s face again, catching every detail — the burning cheeks, the wild stare, the way his mouth is partway open as if to interrupt a sentence that hasn’t come yet. Chigiri’s smirk curves upward just slightly, and then he adds the final blow:
“You'd probably look really cute with a belly.”
For a second, there’s nothing — no sound, no motion, no air. The room freezes like someone’s taken a snapshot of it.
Isagi opens his mouth, his jaw working furiously as he struggles to get a word out — anything, anything — to throw back at Chigiri. His arms flail awkwardly at his sides, his legs half-tangled in the blanket as he shifts to sit upright. “Hyoma, what the — what does that even mean?! You can’t just — !”
But Chigiri moves before he can finish, quick and deliberate, his crimson hair brushing softly over his shoulders as he reaches out.
“C’mere,” Chigiri mutters, his voice calm and final, leaving no room for argument.
“Wait — hey!” Isagi yelps as Chigiri’s hand hooks firmly around his wrist, tugging him forward with no effort at all. His balance tips instantly, his body lurching as he tries to resist, but the blanket traps his knees, leaving him powerless to escape. “Hyoma, hold on — wait! ”
Chigiri doesn’t wait. In one smooth, practiced motion, he pulls Isagi straight down beside him, ignoring the half-hearted protests sputtering from his flustered mouth. The mattress dips with their combined weight, the blankets shifting as Chigiri leans back against the headboard, dragging Isagi with him like it’s second nature.
“Quit fighting it, Yoichi,” Chigiri says smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement lingering in his voice.
“I’m not — fighting it!” Isagi argues, though his voice cracks halfway through, muffled by where his face has been forced awkwardly against Chigiri’s shoulder. His body stiffens automatically as he tries to push himself up, only for Chigiri to wrap an arm around him like an anchor.
“Hyoma — seriously, what are you — ”
“Relax,” Chigiri interrupts softly, shifting them both again until they settle more comfortably into the bed. His voice is calm, unbothered, like he’s dealing with a particularly fussy cat. He adjusts the blanket with his free hand, tugging it up over Isagi’s legs while his other arm stays firmly in place, holding him where he is.
Isagi freezes mid-protest, caught completely off guard by the ease of it — how Chigiri’s arm settles so naturally around him, the warmth of his chest pressing gently against his side. His heart thuds wildly against his ribs, too loud in his ears as he stares at the darkened space of the room, too stunned to keep struggling.
“Hyoma…” His voice comes quieter now, hesitant, but he can’t find anything else to say.
Chigiri sighs, soft and content, like he’s already settled for the night. “You’ll sleep better if you stop squirming,” he says, his tone dropping lower, quieter, the teasing finally fading from his words.
Isagi swallows hard, his throat tight. “I’m not — ” He cuts himself off abruptly, his cheeks still hot, the last of his argument dying before it even has the chance to form.
Chigiri doesn’t press for a response. His breathing evens out slowly, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against Isagi’s arm with each breath. His hold stays loose — just firm enough to keep Isagi close without pinning him.
The silence stretches between them, heavy but somehow easy, the darkness of the room thick and soft like the blanket around them. Isagi stares forward into the shadows, the rapid beat of his heart finally beginning to slow. He can feel Chigiri’s presence — warm and steady beside him — as if it’s pressing into the edges of his thoughts, making it impossible to ignore.
“…Good night, Yoichi,” Chigiri murmurs, the words soft and low, like they might slip through the dark and disappear.
Isagi swallows again, his cheeks still burning even as his body starts to give up its fight. “Good night,” he mutters back, his voice small, but not unkind.
Chigiri doesn’t respond, but his hand shifts faintly against Isagi’s arm — a quiet, grounding motion.
Isagi doesn’t dare move after that. He stays still, pressed against Chigiri’s side, his breath finally steady as he stares up at the ceiling. His heart hasn’t quite settled yet, no matter how much he wills it to, but he stays where he is anyway — warm, comfortable, and too tired to argue with it anymore.
Cohabitation Day 21
The faint glow of the television flickers across the dim room, the low hum of commentary blending with the distant noise of the match — cheers, quick footsteps on turf, the occasional sharp whistle. Bastard Munchen is leading, but PXG is pressing hard, the screen alive with the chaos of the game.
Isagi sits cross-legged on the floor, the bowl of popcorn balanced precariously in his lap. His gaze is locked on the TV, brows furrowed in concentration as he tracks every movement, every pass, every opportunity forming on the pitch. “Come on, come on…” he mutters under his breath, reaching blindly into the popcorn bowl without tearing his eyes away.
Behind him, Chigiri lounges on the couch with the same unshakable calm he always carries. His long legs stretch across the cushions, one knee bent lazily. He slouches against the armrest, shoulders loose, one hand idly toying with the ends of his crimson hair. The TV light flickers across his face, catching the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t seem as invested as Isagi is.
“Bastard’s spacing looks tight tonight,” Isagi mumbles, eyes narrowing at the midfield. He’s muttering mostly to himself, unaware of how far he’s leaning forward, like he might physically push the ball into the net if he just stares hard enough.
“Sure,” Chigiri replies, a little absently, twisting a lock of his hair between his fingers. There’s a long pause, a beat that stretches just a little too long, and then Chigiri’s voice breaks the quiet again — sharp and unexpected.
“Hey, how do you feel about carrying my children?”
For a second, Isagi doesn’t process the words. The background noise of the match blurs into nothing, the steady cadence of the commentators dissolving into static. It’s as though someone’s turned the volume knob all the way down, leaving only Chigiri’s voice hanging in the air like a grenade that hasn’t gone off yet.
“…Huh?” Isagi says blankly, blinking hard as he tears his eyes away from the screen. He looks over his shoulder, the motion slow and mechanical, as if hoping he misheard.
Chigiri doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t have to. He’s still sprawled on the couch, his head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips like he’s waiting for the inevitable reaction. His fingers keep twirling the strand of hair absently, but his gaze — bright, focused — flickers to Isagi, pinning him there.
It hits all at once.
Isagi chokes. The popcorn that had been halfway to his mouth never makes it, tumbling into his lap as he doubles over, coughing violently. Kernels scatter across the floor as his shoulders shake, one hand fumbling to steady the bowl while the other grips his chest like that’ll somehow help him breathe again.
“ What?! ” he sputters, his voice cracking as he finally forces air into his lungs. He twists fully around this time, legs knocking awkwardly into the coffee table as he stares at Chigiri like the other boy has lost his mind.
Chigiri still looks perfectly calm. He shrugs one shoulder, graceful and unbothered. “It’s just a thought,” he says, voice smooth, as though he’s commenting on the weather.
Isagi gapes at him, his brain scrambling hopelessly to make sense of what he just heard. “What — What do you mean carrying your kids?! ” His voice rises an octave, hovering somewhere between disbelief and panic.
Chigiri doesn’t blink. He finally drops the strand of hair he’s been playing with, his hand coming to rest casually on his knee. “You know. If I wanted people to stop bothering me about marriage. It’d be a good excuse. A solid one.”
The TV crackles in the background, the commentators shouting something about a near miss, but it sounds muffled, far away. Isagi can’t even hear the game anymore, the match completely erased from his awareness as he stares at Chigiri. “I — I haven’t even — ”
“Haven’t even what?” Chigiri interrupts, the sharp glint of curiosity flickering in his eyes as he sits up straighter. His movements are smooth, deliberate — too predatory for someone who’s pretending to ask innocently. “Finish the sentence, Yoichi.”
Isagi freezes like he’s been cornered. His face burns hot, the heat crawling up his neck and settling across his cheeks, as if his entire body is revolting against him. “Nothing,” he mumbles, looking down at the popcorn scattered around him. “Forget it.”
“ Nothing? ” Chigiri repeats, dragging the word out slowly, like he’s savoring it. The smirk on his face widens just enough to make it unbearable. He shifts off the couch in one smooth motion, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Before Isagi can react, Chigiri slides closer, folding his legs neatly beneath him until he’s sitting right across from Isagi.
The closeness makes Isagi flinch. He pulls his knees up slightly, trying to make himself smaller as he glares at the floor. “Drop it, Hyoma,” he grumbles, his voice losing its usual sharpness.
Chigiri doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He leans forward, elbows resting against his knees, crimson hair spilling softly around his face. His gaze locks onto Isagi’s again — steady, pointed — and the smirk fades into something quieter, more searching. “Nevermind, huh?”
Isagi’s grip on the edge of the popcorn bowl tightens. His shoulders hunch closer, and finally, the words burst out of him, low and shaky. “I’ve never even slept with someone, okay?”
The room falls silent again. The words hang heavy between them, too loud in the absence of noise. The TV buzzes faintly in the background, but neither of them hears it.
Chigiri’s expression falters, just for a moment. His smirk fades completely, his head tilting slightly as he processes what Isagi just said. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the sharpness in his gaze softens into something unreadable.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
Isagi clamps his eyes shut, his face still burning. He hunches his shoulders even further, muttering something incoherent under his breath as the silence stretches on. The match on the TV plays on, forgotten.
Chigiri doesn’t lean back. He stays exactly where he is, legs crossed neatly on the floor and elbows propped against his knees, as if he’s settled in for something far more interesting than the match playing behind them. His crimson gaze flickers over Isagi’s face, sharp and intent, like he’s searching for cracks in his armor.
“But,” Chigiri starts softly, his voice calm, unhurried, and just a little too curious, “have you even kissed someone?”
Isagi’s head snaps up, eyes wide as though Chigiri’s question just physically hit him in the chest. His jaw works soundlessly for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to form a response, but all that comes out is a choked sound of disbelief.
“What — What kind of question is that?! ” His voice cracks sharply at the end, and the red that was just beginning to fade from his face returns with a vengeance, blooming scarlet across his cheeks and ears.
Chigiri doesn’t back off. If anything, his expression softens into something both genuinely curious and deeply amused, the faintest quirk at the corner of his lips betraying his satisfaction. “It’s a normal question, Yoichi,” he says, tone infuriatingly even. He leans forward just slightly, his weight shifting as his hair spills down past his shoulders, framing his face in flickering crimson. “I mean, you just said you haven’t slept with anyone. It’s not a stretch.”
Isagi stares at him, dumbfounded, completely at a loss. His hands clench reflexively at his knees, as though physically bracing himself against the floor. “We’re not talking about that,” he says quickly, his voice shaky but firm. He turns his face away, cheeks glowing brighter under the weight of Chigiri’s stare.
“Why not?” Chigiri presses, his grin making a slow return as he tilts his head. “It’s just a question.”
“Because!” Isagi nearly shouts, his arms jerking awkwardly as he motions wildly toward the TV. “We’re supposed to be watching the match! That’s what we’re doing, remember? Not — not this! ”
Chigiri hums thoughtfully, dragging the sound out just long enough to make Isagi’s skin crawl. He shifts again, casually leaning back on one hand as his other reaches up to toy with his hair once more. “You’re dodging the question, Yoichi.”
“I’m not dodging anything!” Isagi snaps, spinning back around to glare at him. His face is still red, his expression a mix of embarrassment and desperation. He points a shaky finger at Chigiri, voice rising again. “You’re just — you’re being weird, Hyoma!”
Chigiri chuckles softly, the sound low and easy, like he’s not even remotely fazed by the scene playing out in front of him. “You’re the one making it weird,” he counters, his voice light but deliberate. “It’s a simple yes or no.”
Isagi groans, dragging both hands through his already messy hair and letting his head drop forward, hiding his face. “ We’re not talking about this! ” he grits out, every word strained like it’s physically painful to say.
Chigiri stays quiet for a beat, but Isagi can feel his grin, can hear it in the silence. Then, finally: “So that’s a no.”
“ Hyoma! ” Isagi shouts, his head snapping up as he throws a nearby pillow straight at Chigiri’s smug face.
Chigiri catches it easily, laughing as he tosses it lazily onto the floor beside him. “Relax, Yoichi,” he says, his voice still ringing with amusement. “You’re too easy to mess with.”
Isagi glares at him, face still burning, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. “I hate you,” he mutters darkly, dropping his head back down so Chigiri can’t see the look on his face.
“Sure you do,” Chigiri replies smoothly, leaning back against the couch again. He rests his head against the cushion, eyes half-lidded as he glances at Isagi. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”
Isagi groans loudly, grabbing another pillow and burying his face in it. “This conversation never happened,” he mumbles into the fabric. “ Never. ”
Chigiri chuckles again, letting the room settle back into its earlier quiet, the sounds of the match filtering faintly back into focus. “Whatever you say, Yoichi.”
But Isagi doesn’t move from his spot, curled forward with the pillow hiding his face, his ears still flushed red.
Chigiri watches Isagi bury his face deeper into the pillow, his shoulders hunched so tightly it’s like he’s trying to make himself disappear. His hair sticks out wildly at the back, and his ears — still glowing bright red — peek through the mess like twin beacons of embarrassment. It’s such an easy target, Chigiri can’t help himself.
The smug curve of his mouth returns as he tilts his head, his crimson hair spilling lazily over one shoulder. He rests his chin in his palm, his elbow propped on his knee, and watches Isagi with the kind of slow, deliberate amusement that makes the other boy squirm even more. “You’re awfully quiet now, Yoichi,” he drawls, his voice low and teasing.
“Because we’re not talking about this,” Isagi grumbles into the pillow, his voice muffled and strained.
Chigiri chuckles softly, the sound smooth and unhurried as he leans forward again, resting his weight on his arms. “But it’s such a good conversation,” he says, his tone almost sing-song. He tilts his head a little more, like he’s trying to get a better look at Isagi’s hidden face. “I mean, I never would’ve guessed you’d be so — ”
“ Don’t say it! ” Isagi shouts, snapping upright so suddenly that the pillow tumbles out of his hands and onto the floor. His face is a blazing red, and he glares daggers at Chigiri, dark eyes wide with both panic and rage. “Don’t even finish that sentence, Hyoma!”
Chigiri smirks, his gaze sharp and sparkling with mischief. “Innocent,” he finishes anyway, dragging the word out slowly, deliberately.
Isagi lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper, his hands flying up to tug desperately at his hair. “I hate you so much,” he mutters, his voice cracking with sheer embarrassment as he sinks back down onto his knees.
“You keep saying that,” Chigiri says with a shrug, leaning back again like he’s completely unbothered. His movements are so smooth, so annoyingly graceful, that it only makes Isagi’s frustration worse. He tilts his head, crimson strands of hair falling forward again, his grin turning wicked. “You’re blushing harder than before, though. Must’ve hit a nerve.”
“I’m not — blushing,” Isagi grits out, even as his face burns so hot it feels like it might explode.
Chigiri hums softly, studying him with that same sharp curiosity, like he’s considering his next move. “You know,” he begins casually, his voice dropping just a little, “if you’re so flustered about never having kissed someone…”
Isagi freezes, his head snapping up to meet Chigiri’s gaze. There’s a pause, a beat that feels way too long, where Chigiri just looks at him — composed and smug, as always. Then, with a grin that could only be described as downright wicked, he leans slightly forward and says:
“You wanna lose your first kiss now?”
The words land like a bomb.
Isagi’s entire body stiffens, his face going impossibly red as he stares at Chigiri like he’s just grown a second head. “ W-What?! ” The sound comes out broken, cracking halfway through, and his hands shoot up as if to physically defend himself from the statement. “ Are you insane?! ”
Chigiri just laughs — soft and slow and far too pleased with himself. He leans back again, completely relaxed, like he didn’t just drop the most devastating blow of the night. “I’m kidding, Yoichi,” he says smoothly, though the glint in his eye suggests he’s enjoying this far too much. “You’re just too easy to mess with.”
Isagi groans loudly, dropping back onto the floor with a thud as he sprawls out in defeat. His hands cover his face, his cheeks still burning like fire. “Why are you like this?” he mutters into his palms, his voice small and hopeless.
Chigiri shrugs from his perch on the floor, his smile softening just slightly as he watches Isagi sulk. “Because it’s fun,” he says lightly, the teasing still dancing at the edges of his voice.
“Fun for you, maybe,” Isagi grumbles, refusing to move from his spot.
The TV hums faintly in the background, the match playing on, but the tension in the room lingers long after Chigiri’s last words. The only sound is the faint rustle of fabric as Isagi shifts to curl further into himself, his face still hidden, refusing to acknowledge Chigiri’s existence any longer.