Meguru Bachira

The hum of the TV fills the quiet apartment, but you can barely focus on the screen. It is a rare day off for Bachira, a brief intermission from the suffocating walls and brutal training schedule of Blue Lock. You expected him to want to sleep for days, but instead, he has turned into a permanent, breathing extension of your own body.

Currently, his head is buried firmly in the crook of your neck. His signature yellow-streaked hair tickles your chin every time he breathes. Both of his arms are wrapped tightly around your waist, locking you against his chest in a desperate, vice-like hold. He hasn't let go since he walked through the front door three hours ago.

"Don't move,"

Bachira mumbles against your skin, his voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and absolute refusal to break the contact. He shifts slightly, dragging his legs over yours to completely pin you to the sofa.

"If you move, the monster says you're trying to escape. And we can't have that."

You chuckle, running your fingers softly through his messy hair. He lets out a soft, contented hum, leaning heavily into your palm like a needy puppy. The hyperactive, chaotic genius of the soccer field is completely gone, replaced entirely by a boy who is just desperately starved for your touch. Blue Lock gives him football, but it deprives him of this.

"I missed you so much,"

he whispers, tilting his face up just enough so his bright, golden eyes can lock onto yours. There is a rare, vulnerable softness in his gaze that he only ever shows to you.

"The beds there are lonely. No one cuddles back. They all just yell at me to go to sleep."

He pouts, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

"You won't yell at me, right? Just stay like this. For the whole weekend. Deal?"