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Isagi Yoichi often wondered if his heart could actually physically burst from the sheer, concentrated pressure of living with Itoshi Rin and Bachira Meguru. It wasn't just the professional intensity of being top-tier strikers; it was the domestic reality of being caught between a silent, smoldering volcano and a sentient firework.
Currently, Isagi was pinned. He was sitting on the living room floor of their shared apartment, his back pressed against the sofa where Rin was ostensibly reading a book. Bachira, however, had decided that Isagi’s lap was the only acceptable place to exist. Bachira was humming—a low, vibrating sound that Isagi could feel in his own chest—as he scrolled through his phone, his dark hair messy and smelling faintly of the expensive shampoo Rin bought but pretended he didn’t.
"Isagi-kyun," Bachira chirped, suddenly sitting bolt upright. The movement sent his elbow into Isagi’s ribs, but he didn't seem to notice. "I had a vision. A culinary revelation! The Monster is screaming for a masterpiece."
Isagi felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his spine. "Bachira, the last time you had a vision, we had to open all the windows because you tried to caramelise cheese with a hair dryer."
From the sofa, a sharp thud echoed as Rin closed his book. "If you set off the smoke alarm again, Meguru, I’m locking you in the equipment shed at the training grounds."
Despite the harsh words, Rin didn't move. In fact, Isagi could feel the heat radiating from Rin’s legs behind him. Rin’s hand drifted down, his fingers ghosting over the collar of Isagi’s shirt in a gesture that was so quietly possessive it made Isagi’s breath hitch. Rin had a soft spot for them that was a mile wide, masked only by his sharp tongue and a permanent scowl. He lived for these quiet moments, even if he spent them threatening to exile them.
"No smoke this time! Only flavor!" Bachira scrambled to his feet, dancing toward the kitchen with a grace that was terrifying.
Isagi turned his head back to look at Rin. Rin was looking down at him, his teal eyes softened at the edges, a look he only wore when the world was shut out. He looked tired, but the way he looked at Isagi—with a depth of affection that felt like being submerged in deep, dark water—was enough to make Isagi forget how to speak.
"He’s going to poison us," Rin muttered, though he reached out and ran a thumb over Isagi’s cheekbone.
"He’s just... creative," Isagi whispered, leaning into Rin’s touch. He was drowning in it—the way Bachira’s energy lingered in the air and the way Rin’s presence anchored him. It was a lot. It was too much. It was perfect.
Then, the sounds from the kitchen started. It wasn't the sound of cooking. It was the sound of jars opening. Many jars.
"Ta-da!" Bachira reappeared, holding a plate with the pride of a five star chef.
Isagi’s internal brain immediately flagged the contents as a threat to national security. On the plate sat a stack of standard salt andmvinegar potato chips. But they weren't plain. Each chip was topped with a generous dollop of chunky peanut butter, a single slice of spicy pickled jalapeño, and—the crowning jewel—a drizzle of chocolate syrup.
"The Bachira Zesty Crunch!" Bachira announced, sliding back onto the floor and looming over Isagi. "I call it.. the gay gay gay gay.'"
"The only dilemma is whether to call a priest or a doctor," Rin said, though Isagi could hear the faint, treacherous tremor of a laugh in his voice.
"Try it, Isagi-kun! Say 'aah'!" Bachira’s eyes were wide, shimmering with that chaotic cuteness that made it physically impossible for Isagi to hurt his feelings. He looked like a puppy presenting a very gross stick. He was vibrating with excitement, his head tilted to the side, waiting.
Isagi looked at the chip. The vinegar smell was fighting the chocolate, and the peanut butter was acting as a bridge between two worlds that should never meet. He looked at Rin for help.
Rin simply leaned forward, resting his chin on Isagi’s shoulder, his breath warm against Isagi’s ear. "Do it, hero. Show us that heart you’re always talking about."
Betrayed. Isagi was being betrayed by the man he loved for the entertainment of the other man he loved. With a shaky hand, Isagi opened his mouth. Bachira didn't hesitate, sliding the monstrosity onto Isagi's tongue with a triumphant grin.
The explosion of flavor was instantaneous and violent.
First, the vinegar burned the roof of his mouth. Then, the cloying, sticky sweetness of the peanut butter glued the flavor to his tongue. The chocolate syrup added a bitter, sugary layer that clashed with the spicy heat of the jalapeño. It was a war zone. It tasted like someone had dropped a grocery bag in a gutter and called it a snack.
Isagi’s face went through a rapid-fire sequence of expressions: shock, denial, pain, and finally, a deep, hollow despair. He gagged, his eyes watering instantly.
"Oh my god," Isagi wheezed, clambering for the glass of water on the coffee table. "Bachira... that’s... that’s actually a crime. I think my taste buds are literally dying."
Rin lost it. He didn't just chuckle; he let out a sharp, genuine laugh that echoed in the room. He leaned back, his shoulders shaking, watching Isagi struggle to swallow the zesty crunch."
"You actually ate the whole thing," Rin gasped, the most emotion he’d shown all week. "Your face... you looked like you were seeing the end of the world."
Bachira, meanwhile, popped three of the chips into his own mouth at once, crunching happily. "Really? I think it needs more jalapeño. It’s a bit mild, isn't it?" He looked completely sincere, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel.
Isagi slumped against the sofa, his mouth still burning. "Only you, Bachira. Only you could enjoy that."
Rin finally stood up, wiping a stray tear of laughter from his eye. He looked down at Isagi, his expression shifting from mockery to a focused, quiet warmth. He reached down, ruffling Isagi’s hair with a gentleness that felt like a silent apology for laughing.
"Stay there," Rin commanded. "I’m making real food. If I let you two handle dinner, I’ll be the only striker left in Japan by morning."
Bachira just giggled, leaning back against Isagi’s chest. "See, Isagi-kyun? Rin-rin is going to take care of us! My food was just the opening act!"
Isagi sighed, his heart finally slowing down as the taste of chocolate and vinegar faded, replaced by the overwhelming, drowning sensation of being exactly where he belonged.
Rin moved through the kitchen with a surgical precision that would have been intimidating if he wasn't currently wearing a dark navy apron over his training gear. He was methodically dicing green onions, the knife hitting the cutting board in a rhythmic, staccato beat. The smell of dashi and toasted sesame oil began to drift into the living room, acting as a much-needed exorcism for the lingering scent of Bachira’s zesty crunch.
Isagi and Bachira were draped over the kitchen island like two spectators at a high stakes performance. Bachira had his chin resting on his crossed arms, his eyes following the movement of Rin’s hands with an exaggerated, starry eyed look.
"Look at him go," Bachira whispered loudly to Isagi, loud enough for Rin to definitely hear. "The lukewarm king of the pitch is actually the king of the kitchen. He’s being so careful with those onions. Is it because he loves us, Isagi-kyun? Is this a labor of love?"
Isagi, finally recovered from the vinegar chocolate trauma, smirked. He leaned his weight against the counter, watching the way Rin’s jaw tightened—a telltale sign that he was trying to maintain his cool facade. "It’s definitely the soft spot, Bachira. Look at how he’s simmering the broth. That’s pure devotion right there!"
Rin’s knife work didn't falter, but his voice was like ice. "It’s cause I don't wanna clean up puke. Both of you, back off. You’re hovering."
"Aww, he’s blushing!" Bachira chirped, pointing a finger at Rin’s ears, which were indeed turning a telltale shade of pink. "Rin-rin, you’re being such a softie. You’re practically a marshmallow right now. A big, grumpy, teal eyed marshmallow."
"A very gay marshmallow," Isagi added, emboldened by the domestic peace. He reached out and playfully poked Rin’s shoulder. "Admit it, Rin. You’re only making this fancy oyakodon because you saw me gagging and your heart couldn't take it. You’re soft for us."
Rin finally stopped. He set the knife down with a controlled clack and turned to face them. He looked from Bachira’s manic, grinning face to Isagi’s teasing smile. He sighed, a long, weary sound that carried the weight of a man who lived with two idiots.
"What are you even talking about?" Rin asked, his voice deadpan. "You’re teasing me about being gay? We’ve been living together for months. We share a bed more often than not. We’re all gay, you absolute dumbasses."
The bluntness of it hit the room like a physical shockwave. Bachira froze for a split second before erupting into a fit of high-pitched giggles, nearly falling off his stool. "He said it! He said the word! Rin-rin acknowledged the obvious!"
Isagi felt his own face heat up, even as he laughed. "I mean, fair point. But you’re the one currently wearing an apron and making us a five-star recovery meal. That’s a specific level of devoted boyfriend gay, Rin."
"It’s efficient," Rin countered, though he turned back to the stove, his movements a little faster than before. "If you’re healthy, you play better. If you play better, I have better teammates to crush. It’s all tactical."
"Tactical cuddling?" Bachira asked, sliding off his stool to sneak behind Rin. He wrapped his arms around Rin’s waist, pressing his face into the small of his back. "Is the oyakodon tactical too?"
Rin didn't even try to shake him off this time. He just reached back with one hand, blindly grabbing a handful of Bachira’s hair and tugging it gently—a gesture that was more of a caress than a reprimand. "It’s edible. Which is more than I can say for your charcoal chips."
Isagi walked around the counter, stepping into Rin’s personal space. He reached out and adjusted the strap of Rin’s apron, his fingers lingering near Rin’s neck. "Thanks, Rin. Really. For being the only one of us with actual life skills."
Rin looked down at Isagi, his expression flickering from annoyance to that deep, heavy softness that always made Isagi feel like he was drowning in the best way possible. "Just eat the food when it’s ready," Rin muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "And if Bachira tries to put peanut butter in it, I’m moving out."
"No peanut butter! I promise!" Bachira shouted from behind Rin, squeezing him tighter. "Just pure, gay love in a bowl!"
"Shut up," Rin said, but the corners of his mouth finally gave a tiny, almost invisible twitch upward. "Both of you. Just shut up and set the table."
The table was set with a domestic efficiency that felt surreal given they were three of the most lethal strikers in the world. Rin placed the steaming bowls of oyakodon down with a quiet grunt, the golden eggs and perfectly glazed chicken looking like a work of art.
"Eat," Rin commanded, though he stayed standing until he saw Isagi take the first bite.
The flavor was a revelation. It was warm, savory, and hit Isagi’s stomach like a physical hug. "Rin," Isagi breathed, his eyes fluttering shut. "I think I’m actually falling in love with you all over again. This is incredible."
"Gross," Rin muttered, though he immediately sat down next to Isagi, his thigh pressing firmly against Isagi’s. "It’s just salt and broth, idiot."
Bachira didn't bother with words. He was busy inhaling his portion, making little happy humming sounds between bites. Once his bowl was half empty, he leaned over and rested his head on Rin’s shoulder, still chewing. "Rin-rin is the best wife," he muffled. "The grumpiest, tallest, prettiest wife."
"Call me that again and I'll put you in a headlock," Rin threatened, but he reached over and moved a stray piece of rice from the corner of Bachira’s mouth with his thumb.
By the time the meal was finished, the high energy chaos had transitioned into a heavy, comfortable lethargy. They migrated back to the oversized sofa, a piece of furniture they had specifically picked out because it was large enough to fit all three of them.
Isagi ended up in the middle, the Isagi sandwich, as Bachira called it. Bachira was sprawled across his lap, his head tucked into the crook of Isagi’s neck, his breathing already slowing into deep, rhythmic puffs. On the other side, Rin was leaning back, his long arm draped over the back of the sofa, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of Isagi’s shirt.
"You're staring again," Rin said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He didn't look away from the TV, but the tips of his fingers brushed against the skin of Isagi’s waist, sending a spark of heat through him.
"Hard not to," Isagi whispered.
He felt completely submerged—drowning, really—in the sheer intensity of them. To his left, the bright, sunshine, gold affection of Bachira; to his right, the deep, cool, and steady devotion of Rin. It was a sensory overload of love. "I was just thinking about how lucky I am. Even if one of you tries to poison me and the other calls me a dumbass every five minutes."
"I don't call you a dumbass every five minutes," Rin countered, finally turning his head. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on Isagi. "Sometimes I'm busy playing football."
Bachira stirred in his sleep, reaching up to blindly pat Isagi’s cheek. "Love you, Isagi-kyun... Love the grumpy one, too..."
Isagi laughed softly, the sound muffled by Bachira’s hair. He reached out, taking Rin’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Rin’s grip was tight, possessive, and grounding.
"We're a mess," Isagi murmured, leaning his head back against the cushion.
"So what?" Rin corrected. He leaned in, pressing a brief, firm kiss to the side of Isagi’s head before settling back into the shadows of the sofa.
As the credits of some random movie rolled on the screen, Isagi let his eyes close. He was warm, full of good food, and squeezed between the two people who understood his ego better than anyone else. He was definitely drowning, but as he felt Rin’s thumb stroke his knuckles and heard Bachira’s soft snores, he decided he never wanted to come up for air.