*ੈ✩‧₊˚ come a little closer
featuring. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, barou shouei, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, shidou ryusei
warnings. established relationships, physical affection, clingy blue lock boys, pure fluff ♡
the little ways they ask you to hold them, even when the words never quite leave their mouths.
Yoichi has been standing beside the couch for nearly five minutes.
At first, you assume he is simply too absorbed in recounting his training session to sit down. He returned home flushed and slightly breathless, his damp hair clinging to his forehead while his hands shaped invisible formations in the air. The story has already moved through three different plays and at least six players, yet he remains beside you, shifting his weight whenever you glance up.
“And then I realized the defender wasn’t actually protecting the space behind him,” he explains. “He was trying to make me think that was the opening so I would—”
You wait, but Yoichi only looks toward the empty cushion beside you before hurriedly returning his attention to your face.
“Oh. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So I would choose the route he wanted.”
He finishes the explanation, then asks what you are watching. A moment later, he wonders whether your drink is still warm. When he follows that with a question about whether the blanket is comfortable, you finally lower the remote.
His posture straightens. “Hm?”
“What?” The denial arrives far too quickly. “No, I was just telling you about practice.”
“You finished that story.”
“You’ve been hovering beside me, asking questions about my blanket.”
His face warms. “I wasn’t hovering.”
You lift the blanket and open your arms.
Yoichi stares at you for less than a second before surrendering. He drops onto the couch and folds himself into your embrace, arms circling your waist as his face disappears against your shoulder. A long breath leaves him, carrying away the tension that had remained in his body since he walked through the door.
“There you are,” you murmur, sliding your fingers into his hair.
“You were waiting for me to notice you.”
“I didn’t know I wanted a hug.”
“Okay,” he admits into your shirt. “I knew.”
You smile and press a kiss to his temple. Beneath your touch, his shoulders gradually loosen and his breathing becomes slower, the restless thoughts that followed him home finally quieting.
After a few minutes, he begins describing the play again. This time, his voice is softer, the words losing their hurried rhythm as he settles more heavily against you.
By the time he reaches the ending, his eyes are closed.
You do not tell him that he has already explained it twice.
Sae does not ask for your attention. He simply decides that he has it.
You are halfway through a chapter when he comes to stand in front of the couch, glances at the book resting across your lap, and takes it from your hands.
He folds the page carefully enough to preserve your place, sets the book on the coffee table, and lowers his head into the space it occupied.
The entire process happens with such calm certainty that you can only stare at him. Sae closes his eyes, maroon hair spilling across your thighs as one hand comes to rest beside your knee.
His eyes remain shut. “Then what is?”
After a moment, he tilts his face slightly toward you. “Can I lie here?”
“You are already lying here.”
“So the question is unnecessary.”
You narrow your eyes, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth reveals that he knows exactly what he is doing.
Sae’s affection often arrives disguised as entitlement. He takes your hand while walking without warning, draws your legs across his lap when you sit too far away, and removes anything separating him from your touch as though it has personally inconvenienced him.
Now he lies perfectly still, waiting beneath your hand without admitting what he wants.
You make him wait a few seconds longer before threading your fingers through his hair.
The tension leaves his brow almost immediately.
“You’re spoiled,” you murmur, lightly scratching your nails over his scalp.
“You’re the one doing it.”
The answer is so matter-of-fact that warmth rises beneath your skin. Sae opens one eye, notices your reaction, and closes it again with quiet satisfaction.
When you eventually stop to reach for your book, his fingers close around your wrist.
“And now you’re occupied.”
He presses his head more firmly into your lap.
You laugh softly. “You really can’t say you want attention, can you?”
“That still isn’t asking.”
Sae opens one eye again. “Keep going.”
It is not quite a request, but it is close enough. Your hand returns to his hair, and his eye falls shut immediately.
“Next time, you’re asking properly.”
The next time, he simply places your hand on his head himself.
Apparently, that is the best compromise you are going to receive.
Rin waits until you pass close enough on your way to the door before reaching out and catching your wrist.
You glance back, expecting him to tell you that you have forgotten something, only to find him still seated on the couch. His fingers rest loosely around your wrist while his gaze remains fixed on the television, as though stopping you from leaving requires no explanation at all.
“Did you need something?”
You look pointedly at his hand.
Rin’s grip tightens by a fraction. “You forgot your phone.”
The faint crease between his brows suggests your preparedness has personally betrayed him.
The two of you spent the evening watching match footage he initially insisted you would not understand, although that did not prevent him from explaining every tactical decision in painstaking detail. When you announced that it was getting late, you expected his usual clipped goodbye—not to be detained at the doorway without explanation.
“Why are you holding me?”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, he seems to consider inventing another missing object, but eventually his thumb brushes once across the inside of your wrist.
“You can stay a little longer.”
The words are delivered flatly, as though he is granting permission rather than making a request.
“That isn’t the same thing.”
You release the door handle and return to the couch, deliberately leaving a narrow space between you.
It survives for less than a second.
Rin catches you around the waist and pulls you down beside him, one arm settling firmly around you while his other hand retrieves the remote. He resumes the footage as though nothing unusual has occurred.
“You dragged me back here.”
“You stopped me from leaving.”
His arm tightens when you shift.
Smiling, you rest your head against his shoulder. Rin adjusts almost imperceptibly, arranging you more comfortably while his thumb begins tracing slow lines over your side.
“You could have asked me not to go,” you murmur.
“You told me I could stay.”
The tips of his ears turn red, though his expression remains fixed on the screen. A moment later, his cheek settles lightly against the top of your head.
“You’re clingy tonight,” you whisper.
“You caught me at the door.”
“You were leaving too early.”
His hold becomes firmer. “Exactly.”
The argument makes no sense.
You remain tucked against him anyway.
Barou has been glaring at you for ten minutes.
You notice almost immediately, but pretending otherwise is much more entertaining.
The two of you sit at opposite ends of the couch, your attention fixed on your phone while Barou watches a match on television. Every few moments, you feel his gaze leave the screen and land on you, growing more irritated each time you fail to acknowledge it.
Eventually, he exhales sharply.
“You’re blocking the lamp.”
“Your things are everywhere.”
Your phone is the only object beside you.
Barou’s expression darkens. “Are you going to sit properly or not?”
You glance down at yourself, then toward him. “What exactly is wrong with the way I’m sitting?”
The confession escapes before he can stop it.
Silence settles between you.
Barou’s jaw tightens as he realizes what he has said, but it is already too late. Your smile grows slowly.
“I wanted you to stop taking up the entire couch.”
“You have more than half of it.”
It is not a request. Barou reaches across the empty cushion, catches your ankle, and pulls until you slide toward him with a startled laugh. Once you are close enough, his arm circles your waist and arranges you against his chest exactly where he wanted you from the beginning.
“You could have asked,” you say.
“You complained about a lamp.”
“You should have understood.”
“You are not nearly as subtle as you think.”
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
Barou drapes the blanket over both of you, tucking it around your legs with more care than his irritated expression suggests. His hand settles against your side while he resumes watching the match.
When you shift experimentally away, his fingers tighten.
“I wasn’t distracting you from the other side of the couch?”
Barou looks down at you, red eyes narrowing.
His arm locks more firmly around your waist. “Try it.”
You laugh and settle against him, resting your cheek over his chest. Beneath your ear, his heartbeat remains steady, though the hand at your side slowly begins tracing absent circles through your shirt.
“You’re needy,” you murmur.
“I always want you close,” he says before turning his attention back to the screen. “You should know that by now.”
Your smile remains for the rest of the match.
Meguru does not say that he wants a hug.
He stands across the room with both arms stretched toward you and calls your name until you understand.
At first, you ignore him. You are trying to finish a message, and his arrival has already been announced by the sound of his shoes being abandoned somewhere near the door.
He is standing in the center of the living room with his arms still extended, fingers opening and closing impatiently. His hair is tousled from practice, and his smile is bright enough to make his intention obvious despite his refusal to voice it.
“That is your name,” you say.
He wiggles his fingers at you. “You.”
“You have to be more specific.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an order.”
Meguru gasps. “It’s an invitation.”
You attempt to return to your phone, but he begins calling your name again, changing the tone each time—singing it, whispering it dramatically, then drawing it out until you start laughing.
The moment you stand, Meguru bounces on his heels. You barely reach him before he throws both arms around you, pressing his face against your cheek and rocking the two of you from side to side.
“I was sitting three meters away.”
He kisses your cheek once, then again, scattering quick kisses over your face while you squirm in his hold.
“You saw me this morning.”
His arms tighten around your waist, all his usual restless energy softening as he buries his face against your neck. The sudden quiet tells you this was not merely another playful demand for attention. He had wanted the warmth of you, the familiarity of your arms around his shoulders.
You stroke the hair at his nape.
“You could have said you needed a hug.”
“You said my name seventeen times.”
“That doesn’t make it a sentence.”
“It’s our secret signal.”
“We have never agreed on that.”
Meguru lifts his head, golden eyes shining. “But you understood it.”
Before you can argue, he kisses the tip of your nose.
Then he beams and squeezes you again.
Apparently, the secret signal is now permanent.
Seishiro crosses the room without explanation and lowers his entire body on top of you.
One moment, you are lying comfortably along the couch, scrolling through your phone; the next, a tall football player has settled over you with his head against your chest and his arms loosely wrapped around your waist.
The air leaves your lungs.
You stare at the ceiling. “You walked all the way over here.”
“That used up the rest of my energy.”
His eyes close as though the conversation has ended.
There is another couch directly across from you, as well as an empty armchair and, presumably, an entire bed in the next room. Seishiro ignored all of them in favor of using your body as a mattress.
“You could have asked me to cuddle.”
“That sounds troublesome.”
“More troublesome than crushing me?”
You attempt to shift beneath him, but his arms tighten lazily around your middle.
Seishiro lifts his head just enough to inspect you, white hair falling across sleepy grey eyes. After considering the complaint, he adjusts his weight slightly to the side, although his cheek remains pressed over your heart.
You try to return to your phone, but Seishiro nudges his head beneath your hand until your fingers rest in his hair.
The request is so shamelessly obvious that you laugh.
“You want me to play with your hair?”
He nudges your palm again.
Your fingers begin combing through the soft strands, and a quiet, contented hum vibrates against your chest. Seishiro relaxes immediately, his body becoming heavier as every remaining trace of tension disappears.
“You could have just said you wanted affection.”
You scratch lightly at his scalp, earning another soft sound.
After a few minutes, his breathing begins to even out. His arms remain around your waist, holding you as though there had never been any possibility of choosing another place to rest.
You glance down and find him asleep.
Apparently, you are not allowed to move for the foreseeable future.
Ryusei finds you after the match while the adrenaline is still burning through him.
You hear him before you see him, his laughter echoing through the corridor as he recounts his goal to someone behind him. He appears around the corner flushed, sweaty, and practically vibrating with leftover energy.
Before you can answer, he closes the distance and catches you around the waist. The force of the embrace lifts your heels briefly from the floor, his face disappearing against the side of your neck as his arms lock securely around you.
“You’re sweaty,” you complain, though your hands have already settled against his back.
Normally, Ryusei would follow the accusation with several exaggerated kisses or another loud retelling of his favorite moment from the match. Instead, he simply remains there.
His breathing is still quick, each exhale warm against your skin, but the longer you hold him, the more the restless energy begins to drain from his body. His shoulders lower beneath your palms, and his grip changes from excited to quietly possessive.
“You’re unusually silent,” you murmur.
His mouth brushes your neck when he smiles. “Best place.”
You stroke a hand slowly along his spine. Ryusei presses closer, nearly folding himself around you despite being too tall for the position to be comfortable.
People pass at the far end of the corridor. He pays them no attention.
The version of Ryusei the world receives is explosive—loud laughter, sharp teeth, movement that never seems capable of settling. Yet once the match ends and the thrill begins to fade, he always searches for you.
He never says he needs to be held.
He simply finds your body and wraps himself around it until his heartbeat slows.
“You can let go now,” you tease after a while.
His arms tighten immediately.
“What happened to recharging?”
You laugh, and Ryusei lifts his head. His eyes remain bright, but the wildness in them has softened into something warm and private.
“You liked the goal?” he asks.
He kisses you—quick, joyful, still tasting faintly of the adrenaline he carried from the field—before returning his face to your neck.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbles.
You know from experience that he means twenty.
