Archive of Our Own ^beta

As always, everything begins and ends with Oikawa Tooru.

After all, Tooru is the reason Hajime is getting shitfaced on a Sunday night. Well, not entirely, but he’s halfway there. And so is Tooru, along with most of their friends and acquaintances. He doesn’t remember who chose this bar, all he remembers is someone hooking their arm around his neck and yelling that it was time “to let loose” after the game ended while the majority of the players had begun to gather outside.

Approximately thirty seconds after that, someone else shoved Hajime’s jacket into his arms and pulled him far, far away from the Ota City General Gymnasium and into the belly of the district’s nightlife.

The adrenaline spurred on by the All-Star match has long since worn off, replaced by something much sweeter. Something that lasts a little longer. He finds it at the bottom of a beer glass and between the second and third Highball someone ordered for him. (Likely Tooru).

As Hajime observes him now — and by extension the entire group — he can’t help but smile. Tooru is prattling on about some beach volleyball match he and Hinata played last time he visited São Paulo. (“It’s insufferable how good he is.”)

Next to him, Hinata beams, recounting their supposedly magnificent victory before sagely telling Tooru that he still has much to learn. Naturally, Tooru cackles and all but puts him in a headlock for a few seconds. They sport matching grins, cheeks stained red and voices far too loud. Hajime finds that he doesn’t quite mind.

At some point, Hinata manages to escape Tooru’s hold — snickering as he relocates — and lowers himself next to Kageyama once more. Most of the players who’d participated in today’s match chose to engage in some innocent, post-game, drinking. Some showed up a little later while others were jumping to dive into the nearest bar.

Hajime’s never been to this bar before and he’s not sure who chose this particular establishment, but it’s on all accounts a decent place. Large, colorful; the type of interior you’d see in a commercial in the eighties or early nineties. As if time itself had stopped right here.

Hajime likes it. He’d simply followed the group, ducking into some alleyway he’d never seen before, chasing the sound of familiar laughter and energetic shouting.

The shouting persists — a dozen voices overlapping and bleeding together. A song he doesn’t recognize reverberates through the bar’s speakers and he momentarily glances at one of the small tv-screens placed on a high shelf. The music video doesn’t match the song, he knows that much, and the appliance itself looks like it hasn’t been replaced since 1992.

Strobe lights flicker across the screen, followed by a dozen images that move far too fast. Red lipstick, white doves, a nightclub, a city skyline, dirty sneakers, numerous cars, a puddle of water, an empty beer bottle, people kissing, an orange-and-pink sky. It’s almost hypnotizing.

If not for Tooru’s voice, Hajime probably would’ve kept staring for another few minutes.

Instead, he glances to his left and meets his best friend’s gaze. His best friend who reeks of whiskey and sweat and victory.

“Another one?” Tooru asks, his arm draped across the back of his seat, right behind Hajime’s head, and a pointer finger aiming at Hajime’s near-empty glass. Hajime glances at the drink, his fingers curled around the glass, and he nods before downing the remaining liquid. It glides down his throat with a satisfying burn and he sinks further into his seat, limbs feeling a little heavier than before.

Next to him, Tooru cranes his neck to glance at the bar counter. Hajime hears him shout something and when he follows Tooru’s gaze, he realizes that he’s shouting their orders at Kuroo, who’s leaning against the counter to order another round of drinks. Tooru holds up two fingers and Kuroo merely waves a hand.

Across from them, multiple discussions happen simultaneously. Hinata is explaining something to Kageyama while Bokuto laughs at something Aran says, and it seems that Atsumu is part of the conversation too — based on the hand gestures he’s making. Hajime thinks Yaku is shouting something, causing Hoshiumi to shake his head in disagreement, while Komori apparently agrees with whatever point Yaku is trying to make. Sakusa looks skeptical, Ushijima appears somewhat puzzled as he takes a sip of his beer. They share a confused look.

(Hajime snorts).

Another drink materializes in front of Hajime when Kuroo returns, and he raises his glass seconds later while Tooru does the same. “To another All-Star match,” Tooru decides, causing Hajime to chuckle. It’s the fourth time he’s heard him say that.

Now that Kuroo has joined the table once more, Tooru has to move a little closer to Hajime in order to make some room for the man responsible for today’s festivities. His knee presses into Hajime’s own as he slides his body sideways and Hajime nearly chokes on his drink when Tooru accidentally elbows him in the ribs.

He shoots Hajime an apologetic glance, one that appears to be quite genuine, and briefly pats Hajime’s thigh; fingers digging into his muscle afterwards.

And there it is again: the smell of whiskey and sweat. However, this time, with Tooru’s body only centimeters away, millimeters even, Hajime notices something else. His cologne. Something rich and warm, with a hint of jasmine. It floats towards him, temporarily interrupting all and any thoughts that had been drifting along the waters of his mind.

Eyes glide along the column of Tooru’s neck, watching the muscles shift and move with each word that spills from his lips and each sip of his drink. A grin, wide and taunting, is aimed at someone across the table, followed by laughter. It’s a sound Hajime’s become intimately familiar with in the past twenty-something years of knowing Tooru.

(Briefly, he imagines being on the other end of that grin).

Wisps of warmth travel through his chest. They crawl up the back of his neck, bleeding into his cheeks, and Hajime is quick to raise his glass to his mouth again, which feels awfully dry.

Jesus, he needs to get it together.

Of course Tooru chooses that moment to glance at Hajime, as if he’d heard Hajime’s thoughts, his hand still resting on Hajime’s thigh and his skin glowing beneath the bar’s lighting. Shades of neon drape across his form. Pinks, purples, greens, blues. Iridescent hues. A hint of pink catches his bottom lip just as Tooru says, “Right, Iwa-chan?”

Briefly, Hajime wonders what the fuck Tooru’s talking about, but then he remembers something about rankings and international players, and he simply nods. “Yeah, totally.”

Across from him, someone groans in annoyance — likely Atsumu — while someone else releases a loud laugh. There’s more chatter, more laughter, more drinks, and Hajime loses himself in it. He tries to ignore the hand on his thigh, fighting the urge to glance down to see whether or not Tooru’s fingers had burned five holes into his jeans.

His heartbeat feels oddly heavy, as if his heart is working overtime to push all of his blood through his body. A wrecking ball slams into his ribcage repeatedly, pounding against his chest, and for a moment, he’s quite certain everyone can hear it.

Especially Tooru.

Tooru who’s dressed in a light blue t-shirt that clings to his body and whose sleeves ride up with every movement of his arms, allowing onlookers a view of nothing but smooth, tanned skin covered in freckles. Unfortunately, Hajime is one of those onlookers. He watches, watches, watches the muscles of his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders; remembering the way each muscle flexed with every powerful jump serve he’d performed a few hours ago.

During the match, Hajime had stood at the sidelines — watching the numerous players and chatting with the other members of the staff — while Tooru moved across the court with the kind of speed and grace one could only expect from an Olympian-level athlete. He’d seen that familiar look of concentration, all that intensity trapped within the brown of his eyes, and found himself unable to look away; utterly enthralled by each and every movement of his best friend’s body.

Sweat gathered above Tooru’s brows, clinging to his skin as though it never wished to be parted from him. Beneath the gymnasium’s harsh lights, he looked utterly radiant. It left Hajime speechless. He was all powerful muscles and hunger — a wild, sharp grin cutting across the lower half of his face.

A predator approaching its prey.

Tooru’s playing style may have changed over the years, but Hajime knows his movements as well as his own. He knows when Tooru favors his left leg over his right and the exact angle of his right shoulder, forearm, and wrist before his palm connects with the ball.

Even when he’s no longer by his side on the court, each breath that travels through Tooru’s chest, syncs up with Hajime’s own. He exhales, Hajime exhales. He inhales, Hajime inhales.

Ten years apart and different time zones could never erase that.

What they have is unique. He knows it, Tooru knows it. To describe it would be impossible for it’s a sensation that simply cannot be categorized. It’s years worth of stolen glances and unspoken desires. Too intimate whispers of one another’s names, embraces that last longer than they should, and thinly veiled confessions spoken in hushed tones.

Hajime knows the lines of Tooru’s palm like a painter knows each brush stroke they dragged across their canvas. He could categorize each of his smiles and laughs, and translate the subtle twitch of his upper lip and furrowing of his brow into a sentence Tooru hasn’t even begun to formulate. Each of his memories include Tooru in some way or another, lingering in the background of a faded picture or coming into full view within one of the many movies Hajime mentally plays on loop at night.

Many days and nights were spent in the bedroom of his childhood home in silent reverie as he reminisced on the countless smiles Tooru had thrown his way and all the places he’d touched Hajime throughout the day. Fingers would linger on the back of his hand, the crook of his elbow, the back of his neck, the spot between his shoulder blades, and the side of his face.

And, for him, that was enough. At least, that’s what he’d tell himself at the time. He did not give in to the greed that had settled in his stomach — the hunger inside of him that longed for more than two-second touches and fleeting smiles.

There were times when they’d sit together on the couch, or on his or Tooru’s bed, bodies pressed together while watching one of their favorite movies, and Hajime would cast quick glances towards Tooru’s hands, imagining what it would be like to hold them now that they were older. Sometimes it felt like Tooru wondered the same. He’d press the back of his hand against Hajime’s, almost like a silent invitation, and Hajime remembers the way his breath would stutter in his chest and how the back of his neck would feel awfully warm.

As they grew older, Hajime’s bravery grew with him, because Tooru moved to Argentina and Hajime traveled between Japan and America. Gone were the days of spending hours and hours together. Instead, they had to make due with video calls and sporadic visits. He knew that the time they had together was limited — Tooru knew it too — and he started appreciating all those fleeting touches a little more. Hugs lasted half a second longer, palms would subconsciously seek each other out, and Hajime’s shoulder became a permanent resting place for Tooru’s head.

(And vice versa).

It’s why Tooru, now, easily reaches for Hajime’s thigh under the table without batting an eye and why Hajime feels comfortable enough to snake an arm around Tooru’s waist after another sip of his drink. Tooru leans into him, a steady comforting presence against Hajime’s side, and Hajime holds onto this moment — grabs it tightly with two hands and allows himself to live in a reality where he has everything. He’ll give in to those unnamed emotions, pulling them briefly to the surface rather than hiding them behind a veil of indifference.

For a moment, he is able to pretend.

Come morning, when the sun peeks above the horizon and casts its unforgiving light into the darkest corners of his bedroom, he’ll rid himself of any lingering thoughts; washing them off his skin beneath the scalding hot spray of his shower. The water will erase the guilt that has seeped into his pores, the longing that hides underneath layers of muscle and bone; it can burn away that which must not be named — not now, not ever. He’ll tell himself not to cling to intoxicated memories and the smell of jasmine, willing the images to bleed from his mind and forcing them to disappear into the drain beneath his feet.

Reprieve will come, curling its fingers around his heart and allowing him to breathe. Then, and only then, can he return to the life he knows. One in which Tooru does not wake by his side with smiles dripped in sunlight.

Hajime is a horrible actor, but for now, he’ll pretend.

At some point throughout the night, it’s just the two of them. Some of their friends have left the bar, while others are huddled together in a corner or fucked off to the restroom to do God knows what.

Hajime does not feel the urge to meddle in their personal affairs — not when he and Tooru are currently sitting at the counter on two barstools with only centimeters of space between their bodies.

Should everything and everyone fade away right now, he’d be entirely okay with that. After all, the only thing he’s able to focus on right now is the hypnotic blink of Tooru’s eyes. A billion little stars are buried within the warmth of his gaze. He can feel it on his own skin, burning a path across his arms, shoulders, neck, and eventually his face.

Alcohol has been replaced by water, which is probably a good thing because his eyelids feel awfully heavy. They’re ready to fall shut at any moment. He wonders what he must look like right now, but that thought is swiftly pushed aside with another sip of water. “You did good today, y’know?” Hajime says, lowering the glass after emptying half of it. Across from him, Tooru does the same before running the back of his hand across his mouth.

(If Hajime’s gaze lingers a little too long on Tooru’s lips, no one could blame him).

“I know,” Tooru replies, without false bravado. The grin he wears is honest, disarming in every right. It’s not the practiced, charming smile he presents to the fans and the numerous cameras — nor the taunting smirk he reserves for his opponents or photoshoots for some magazine Hajime has heard of once or twice.

No, this particular smile is reserved for those rare moments when it’s just the two of them. There’s nothing to hide here; nothing Hajime hasn’t already seen and deemed worthy of love. It’s one-hundred-and-fifty percent Oikawa Tooru. Dazzling, brilliant, maddening, and utterly, utterly beautiful.

“Always so humble,” Hajime snorts, finishing his drink with a roll of his eyes. The words cause Tooru to nudge Hajime’s knee with his own. He lifts his glass once more, swirling the remaining liquid for a moment and Hajime’s gaze is — unfortunately — drawn to Tooru’s throat when he tilts his head back and takes a few final gulps.

“You don’t like me for my humility, Hajime,” Tooru points out, lips a little shiny when he lowers the glass once more.

The bartender swipes their empty glasses, offering Hajime a look that translates to ‘another one?’ but Hajime merely shakes his head in reply. His gaze cuts back to Tooru, whose knee is still pressed against Hajime’s leg and whose chin now rests in the palm of his hand while his elbow is propped up on the counter.

Hajime is unable to stifle a chuckle, releasing a long-suffering sigh afterwards. “Enlighten me, by all means. Why do I like you?”

“Well, obviously, we don’t have all night, so I’ll have to keep it short.”

“Obviously.”

Tooru laughs, the sound slipping easily past the stronghold of Hajime’s defenses. His heart is unguarded, wide open and waiting for the finishing blow. It comes in the form of a head tilt from Tooru and a knowing smile. “You like me because I make you smile.”

The answer is surprisingly honest, and, frankly, quite accurate.

“Not entirely untrue,” Hajime supposes with a shrug.

Naturally, Tooru scoffs, nudging Hajime’s knee again, and Hajime fights the urge to reach out and place his palm on Tooru’s leg. “You can never just say ‘yes, Tooru, you’re absolutely right, Tooru’, can you?”

Hajime shakes his head. “I’m physically unable to.”

“I should get new friends.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Hajime counters, gesturing around the bar. “Most of your friends have left, though. I think I saw Hinata and Kageyama duck into the bathroom together.”

Tooru merely shakes his head at that, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Went back to their hotel,” he tells Hajime. “To spend some quality time together before they both hop on their planes back to Italy and Brazil.”

Hajime doesn’t miss the suggestive wiggle of Tooru’s brows.

“Still doin’ the long distance thing I see,” he says thoughtfully, to which Tooru nods. For a moment, he looks contemplative — as though he’s sifting through years worth of memories. Eventually, he tells Hajime about a past conversation with Hinata when he visited Brazil sometime ago. They’d discussed combining their personal lives and professional lives — from outgrowing friendships to finding time to embark on romantic endeavors.

From what Hajime knows, Tooru’s dating life has consisted of the occasional fling. And a very, very short relationship once.

Hajime hated it.

The guy was, unfortunately, pleasant, kind, and ridiculously attractive. (“I wasn’t in love with him, though. It was unfair of me,” Tooru told him).

“It works for them,” Tooru explains, hinting at Hinata and Kageyama’s relationship. “But Shoyo wouldn’t be Shoyo if he wasn’t already planning his next move. He said he might give Europe a shot at some point. Partially because he likes a new challenge and partially because of Tobio.”

Hajime remembers Hinata’s many trips between Japan and Brazil and how playing in the Brazilian league seemed to be perfect for him, based on the stories he’d heard from both him and Tooru. “It’s like he was born to play there,” Tooru had said approximately a year or two ago.

Nevertheless, he understands the urge to be closer to the person you love.

Even just a little.

God, maybe he does need another drink.

“The European leagues are pretty good from what I’ve heard,” Hajime supposes. “Kageyama and Yaku seem to like it as far as I know. Ushijima too. I think he’ll do great.”

Tooru releases a hum, long and thoughtful, while offering Hajime another nod. His chin still rests in his palm and the smile he’s wearing is equal parts smug and amused. And completely insufferable. “Go on,” he presses, “ask me.”

A sigh climbs up Hajime’s throat, gaze momentarily dropping to their legs. He wonders if he’s imagining the warmth of Tooru’s skin seeping into his own despite the layers of fabric between them. When he raises his head again, his fingers curl around an abandoned coaster to his left. He flips it once, twice; a question tumbling from his lips, “Would you ever consider moving to Europe?”

“Absolutely not,” Tooru answers promptly, snorting a laugh half a second later, very clearly amused by his own wit. Hajime finds the sight of it equal parts adorable and, once again, insufferable. “Okay, okay, that’s a lie. I did get some offers, though. I told you, right?”

Hajime nods, fingers still idly playing with the coaster. “Berlin, Madrid, Warsaw,” he recounts, remembering their conversations about Tooru’s future plans after receiving a bronze medal at the Olympics in 2020. “Those still on the table?”

It’s weird to imagine Tooru without his signature San Juan blue jersey — a color that has become so synonymous with his name in Hajime’s mind. Perhaps, Europe would be good for him. A change of scenery. A new challenge for him to sink his teeth into. After all, Tooru’s hunger is never completely satiated. Not entirely.

“They are,” Tooru confirms, “so were a few others.”

Hajime frowns, dropping the coaster he’d been holding for the better part of six or seven minutes. Somehow, the smile Tooru aims at him seems less smug and more nervous instead. “Why are you acting mysterious all of a sudden? Go on, tell me.”

Hajime mentally sifts through a list of teams he knows would be rather interested in having Tooru in their starting line-up. The list seems endless. He can picture a rainbow of jerseys that would undeniably suit him; the name Oikawa printed in big, bold letters on his back while the cheers of an energetic crowd echo through the stadium.

(A selfish part of him wonders if he would ever don a red jersey.)

“I received a few offers here,” Tooru says then, quietly interrupting every single thought that had been floating through Hajime’s mind up until that moment.

Hajime feels his lips moving, but he doesn’t register a single word that falls from them. He thinks he says something along the lines of ‘Here? As in, Japan?’ and watches as Tooru offers him a gentle nod, teeth worrying at his lower lip. Deep within Hajime’s chest, his heart knocks against his ribcage repeatedly, and he wonders if his heart rate has passed the one-hundred beats per minute threshold.

It certainly feels like it.

“In Shizuoka, Sendai, and… Tokyo,” his best friend answers after eighty, ninety, one-hundred heartbeats. Hajime’s throat feels dry. God, he should’ve ordered another glass of water after all.

“And what did you—” he begins, licking his lips. “What did you say?”

The silence between them is deafening. It stretches and stretches as another upbeat pop song blares through the speakers of the bar; the singer expressing her love for a person she could never have. It sounds oddly cheerful despite the lyrics, and for some reason it reminds Hajime of the songs his mother would play on the small green radio in their kitchen. He remembers summers in Sendai, opened windows, the sound of Tooru’s high-pitched laughter.

As the final chorus sets in, Tooru’s chest expands with a deep inhale. “I accepted one of them. Here, in Tokyo.”

For a moment, Hajime thinks he might slide off the barstool and drop to the dirtied floor of the bar.

Tooru must think so too, because his hand is on Hajime’s forearm and his brows are pinched together while that nervous smile finds its way onto his face once more. “Hey — you okay?” he asks, his grip surprisingly tight and his fingers surprisingly warm.

“Yes,” Hajime forces out, blinking a few times and remembering that he should feel something along the lines of elation, joy, and pride. And it will come, he knows it will, but for now there is nothing but mild shock and disbelief.

He searches for answers in the lines of Tooru’s face, something that tells him that Tooru’s words are false — nothing but a lie he concocted to toy with Hajime’s heart, which is definitely beating one-hundred-and-twenty beats per minute right now. Instead, he finds concern and… a twinge of sadness masked behind a smile that’s being kissed by pink neon lights.

It’s the truth, he realizes.

“You can say something, you know?” Tooru chuckles. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Quickly, Hajime nods. He’s not sure how he’s able to move his head and he thinks he might hear his pulse in his ears. The rhythmic thumping is almost overwhelming, but he forces himself to focus. On Tooru. And the very real possibility that Tooru is moving to Tokyo.

Where Hajime has lived for the past two years.

“Yeah — I’m good. Just… surprised.” A pause follows his words, oxygen returning to his lungs in a rush. It glides through the front of his chest and he feels the corners of his mouth rise in a careful, hopeful smile. “You accepted the offer in Tokyo?”

“Yes,” Tooru answers, his grip loosening around Hajime’s arm. “You don’t seem excite—”

Hajime doesn’t allow him to finish the sentence. “You’re not fucking with me, right?”

There’s a brief shake of Tooru’s head, confusion tugging at his features and eyes growing wide. “No, I’d never lie to you about this,” he answers quickly. For a moment, it looks as though he wants to say something else, but once again Hajime finds a way to interrupt him. Not with words, though.

He does slide off the barstool, but his body doesn’t land onto the ground. Instead, his feet settle on the wooden floor as he leans forward to wrap his arms around Tooru’s neck. It catches Tooru off guard, who nearly loses his balance, but manages to stabilize himself at the last moment with a quiet ‘oh shit, Iwa-chan’.

His body goes rigid in Hajime’s arms for a single heartbeat, then, there’s an arm around Hajime’s waist and the sound of Tooru’s silent laughter in his ears. “I take it you’re excited.”

“You asshole,” Hajime mumbles into his own arm, cheeks hurting now that he finally allows himself to smile. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He wonders if he’s imagining the subtle tightening of Tooru’s grip around his middle. For some reason, it reminds him of the hug they shared approximately ten years ago, when Tooru had packed his belongings and decided to hop on a plane to the other side of the world. Hajime remembers inhaling the scent of whatever hair products Tooru had used that morning, forcing himself to bury the words that threatened to escape his heart via his throat. He swallowed them down, replacing them with ‘good luck’ and ‘you’re doing to do great’ and ‘we’ll call every week, idiot’.

It felt like swallowing glass.

However, they’re not eighteen anymore. And Tooru isn’t leaving this time. So Hajime hugs him just a little tighter.

He’s allowed.

“Because I wanted to see your face in person when I dropped the news,” Tooru chuckles. “Which was absolutely worth it. Even though it looked like you were about to puke for a minute. Would’ve been kinda funny.”

“Felt like it, too.”

More laughter.

Hajime’s chest feels light.

At some point, he pulls away from Tooru to lower himself onto the barstool once more. A surge of warmth washes over him, every part of his body feels alight. His face must be awfully red.

He finds that he doesn’t care.

“You asshole,” he repeats, running a hand over his face and briefly concealing his mouth and jaw behind his palm. Said asshole beams at him, cheeks stained crimson. Hajime should look away from that thousand megawatt smile lest he gets blinded by its brightness.

He shakes his head, a chuckle of disbelief climbing up his throat. “Who else knows? Your sister? Your mother?”

“Just you,” Tooru says, still grinning widely and pushing his hair away from his forehead. His fingers disappear into soft brown strands and he exhales roughly, shoulders sagging with obvious relief. Hajime thinks he looks way too fucking gorgeous. “I wanted to tell you first.”

A part of him feels flattered, honored even, while another part of him gives in to the mild annoyance that crawls through his body. His hand finds Tooru’s shoulder, pushing him back gently. “What kind of son are you? Call your mother, Jesus,” he scolds.

“At three a.m.?! Oh, sure, let me call her right now—”

“Fine, fine, call her tomorrow.”

“I thought you’d be more excited about being the first and only person I’ve told thus far. Aside from my manager, obviously.”

Hajime remains silent at that, fighting the urge to place a palm across his chest to determine whether or not his heart is still situated in its rightful place, shielded by approximately twenty-four ribs. If it had, somehow, left his body altogether, he wouldn’t be surprised. His left hand rests along his left thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle while he assesses the foreign sensation that swims through his chest. It trickles down until it finds a home somewhere in his abdomen; a subtle flutter he’s come to recognize as hope.

He knows better than to entertain these thoughts. Tooru moving to Tokyo doesn’t mean anything other than that they’ll be much closer in proximity and that they’ll be able to see each other more often and that Tooru can visit Hajime’s apartment whenever he wishes to, and vice versa, and—

A long exhale spills from Hajime’s lips. It’s futile to lie to himself, he knows that much.

He’s hopeful, absolutely fucking hopeful.

“I am excited,” he tells Tooru, honesty coating his words. “I’m also a little overwhelmed. And drunk. I just—never expected this, y’know?”

Elation and excitement briefly makes room for confusion. Hajime frowns. “You love Argentina. You love living in San Juan — you love your team. You flew halfway across the world to chase the man you’ve been looking up to your entire life and got him to train you,” he points out. “Why turn away from that?”

The words cause Tooru’s gaze to soften. He smiles, hand slowly reaching for the abandoned coaster Hajime had been fiddling with for a few minutes. “I’m not turning away from it,” he explains, “I had a conversation with Shoyo. About the future. About what’s next for both of us. He told me about Europe and Tobio, and I felt somewhat inspired. Ten years is a long time, Hajime.” His fingers glide across the surface of the coaster and Hajime watches as Tooru’s gaze settles on his own hand, observing the movements of his fingertips. “I’ve learned much, I’ve grown a lot. There were highs and lows; victories and losses. I’ve cried tears of joy and tears of frustration. You know it all.”

A deep inhale follows.

“I was happy there — I am happy there — but I also think it’s wise to keep challenging myself. To keep growing as a person and as an athlete. And to do that, I have to do something that scares me. Just like how deciding to leave Sendai scared the shit out of me, leaving San Juan scares me, but that fear motivates me too. It grounds me, y’know? It feels exciting to start over.”

For a moment, Hajime finds himself unable to utter a single word. He processes all that Tooru has told him, imagining the way his days will be filled with approximately seventy percent more Tooru. Texts, phone calls, regular visits, crashing at each other’s apartments, going to dinner together, grabbing drinks together, running errands together.

It feels oddly familiar. A routine they’d established ten years ago.

He understands Tooru’s urge to reinvent himself and find new ways to grow. His roots have settled into two different continents, spreading through the soil and blooming into something wonderful to behold. It’s a constant reminder that love can take many shapes and forms. Perseverance and hard work are words that are often put together when describing him, but Hajime thinks that Tooru’s love for the sport is what truly makes him great. His tenacity is admirable — absolutely superb — but the passion he puts into every move, every training session, is utterly beautiful.

A sound pulls itself from Hajime’s throat; a chuckle of some sort. He finds that he’s unable to categorize it.

Their knees are still touching. His skin still burns.

“Well,” he begins, “I hope you’ll be happy here too.”

Tooru releases the coaster from his grip, gaze no longer aimed at the counter. His smile widens when his eyes find Hajime’s own. “I think I will be, Iwa-chan.”

— ༉‧₊˚✧

Tooru’s head is spinning.

It feels like the universe has expanded tenfold within this breath and the next one.

Part of him can’t believe that he finally told Hajime the news.

It still feels a bit unreal.

That said, this entire day — and night — has felt utterly unreal. A few days ago he was still in San Juan, peering inside his fridge and wondering whether or not to make a quick trip to the grocery store. He made breakfast, visited the gym, watched some show Matsukawa couldn’t stop talking about, and spent a majority of the time wondering about his (temporary) teammates for the All-Star match.

Would Kuroo put him in a team with either Tobio or Ushijima? What are the spikers like? How many more setters had been invited? Would he be able to play alongside Shoyo or against him?

In the end, the game turned out to be a lot more entertaining than expected. Strangely enough, it almost felt like a repeat of their match during the Olympics back in 2020. Sure, the stakes were much lower this time around, but that did not matter to any of the players. A match is a match, which means that each of them will find a way to push themselves a little further than they did the day before. Whether they’re competing for trophies and medals or nothing at all, the insatiable hunger that each of them feels in the pit of their stomach continues to burn as long as they remain on the court.

He’d seen it in the brightness of Shoyo’s eyes, caught it in the wild grin that had settled on Atsumu’s lips, and heard it in the shout that ripped itself from Bokuto’s chest. Tooru had observed each of them, pulling at the strings much like a puppeteer performing for an audience. Whether he was on the court, commanding the flow of the game, or standing near the bench, analyzing every move.

Conversations flowed surprisingly easy and they quickly learned to fall into a flow of movements that seemed almost practiced. For some of them working together had been second nature, given that they’d played together for years, but for Tooru — who was on all accounts an outsider — it required some adjustment. He adapted, tailored each of his tosses to the specific needs of each player as best as he could, and carefully observed both their strengths and weaknesses.

Briefly, he thought of his own teammates, remembering the movements of their bodies, the sounds of their voices, and how different they were from the men surrounding him. Different, yet eerily similar.

It was oddly refreshing. Like putting together a puzzle on a time crunch; individual pieces slotting together until they form a masterpiece that leaves one feeling accomplished, satisfied, and a tad vindicated.

He holds onto that feeling now, hoping it will nestle itself somewhere deep inside of him and remain there until he’s packed all of his belongings and moved them across two oceans and two continents. Leaving Argentina feels daunting yet exciting. On occasion, he wonders if he’d been right to accept a position on the team in Tokyo.

“It scares me,” he’d told his sister over the phone long before he’d accepted the offer, observing the numerous stars from where he’d been standing on his balcony in San Juan. “Potentially starting over again.”

“I’m proud of you,” was her reply, the smile in her voice traveling through the radio waves of their phones. “You know you inspire me, right?”

Even though she’d been unable to see him, he ducked his head in response; a chuckle escaping his throat. Many of his first nights in San Juan were spent messaging and calling his sister. He expressed his doubts and fears, wishing she wasn’t thousands of kilometers away, and each time she would find a way to pull him out of that too large crater he’d built for himself.

I’m proud of you.

Simply hearing her voice soothed each of his nerves, pushing away the devils hiding in the night.

Ayame had been one of the first people who taught him how to be brave.

The other person was Hajime.

Hajime, who nearly fell off a barstool after Tooru’s revelation. The warmth of his body clung to Tooru’s skin after his best friend pulled him into an embrace and he still feels some of that warmth now. It dances along his forearms, gathering around his wrists, and slides down his fingertips.

His head feels a little light, which could be blamed on the numerous alcoholic beverages he consumed and on the smile Hajime had thrown his way five minutes ago. How many more of these smiles will he be able to witness in person from now on? Greed expands within his chest, longing for the lopsided grins Hajime offers him, or the insufferable smirks he wears whenever he wins an argument. Then there’s the gentle rise of the corners of his mouth, hidden from the world, but reserved for Tooru’s eyes only. Something far too intimate to share with others.

It’s the smiles he sees at nights in bed when his eyes fall shut; the ones that make regular guest appearances in his daydreams.

He wishes he could bottle it. Instead, he fiddles with the coaster to his left once more — just to give his fingers something to do — and tries not to focus on the gentle press of Hajime’s knee against his own. Briefly, he imagines running a palm along the length of Hajime’s thigh, squeezing the strong muscles hidden beneath a layer of denim and cotton. He wonders what kind of expression would bloom across his face.

Would his skin color red?

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen Hajime blush. Many of Tooru’s memories include a red-faced version of his best friend, cheeks stained with color; either out of embarrassment or poorly-repressed fury.

(Admittedly, it’s one of his favorite things).

He momentarily observes the sharp angle of Hajime’s jawline when Hajime glances at the bartender and shakes his head at whatever the man had said. Tooru’s eyes then follow the lines of his neck until his gaze settles on Hajime’s shoulders, noticing the way the fabric of his shirt drapes across his form.

It’s strange how every time they meet in person, there seems to be something different about Hajime. Something he can’t quite put his finger on. Oftentimes, it’s something subtle; a slight adjustment of his current hairstyle or a different pair of earrings, but tonight Tooru finds it exceptionally difficult to pinpoint what had exactly changed about Hajime.

It’s something that leaves him equal parts intrigued and frustrated.

Hajime always mentioned how Tooru had a knack for reading people, peeling back layer after layer until there was nothing but the core — something for him to poke and prod and watch as it began to bleed. (“You always make me sound like some scheming, dastardly super villain.” “Who says you’re not?” “Touché.”)

It’s true. Partially.

However, Tooru is less interested in making Hajime bleed. There is much he knows about him already. Secrets and lies. Half truths and hidden desires. He knows which words will pull a laugh from his chest, and which ones will make him scoff and roll his eyes.

Currently, he wonders which words would pull the breath from his lungs in a gasp and render him speechless in a way that is so very satisfying to witness.

He probably shouldn’t be entertaining these thoughts, seeing as most people usually don’t fantasize about their best friends, but Tooru allows himself to be a little selfish on occasion. He always has.

In the darkness of his bedroom, he’d summon a number of images, dissecting various parts of Hajime over and over.

His lips, his eyes, his jaw, his nose, his eyebrows.

Hands. Arms. Shoulders. Legs.

It began the summer they turned sixteen, when it seemed as though Hajime grew a couple centimeters overnight and suddenly possessed a raspiness to his voice Tooru was unfamiliar with. It ignited something inside of him. Pushing it aside was futile, because more often than not, Tooru’s gaze would be drawn towards Hajime’s back — noticing all the ways his best friend’s body had begun to subtly change and grow. He was taller — bigger.

Every summer that followed, he became incredibly aware of Hajime’s physique and the way he began to carry himself. Suddenly, each little mannerism that made Hajime so typically Hajime left Tooru’s skin feeling unusually warm. He’d avert his gaze whenever Hajime raised his arms to stretch his limbs, or used the bottom of his shirt to wipe at the sweat that clung to his skin.

Tooru’s body underwent the same changes, shedding layers of his youth until he emerged from his chrysalis a man anew. As expected, Hajime noticed it too, and Tooru caught the stares and the not-so-subtle glances. Oftentimes he’d wonder if Hajime’s mind was filled with thoughts and images that matched Tooru’s fantasies. Did he spend afternoons and nights thinking of all the ways Tooru had changed? Did he, like Tooru, grow curious about the skin that stretched across his muscles, and how it would feel against his own fingertips?

None of these questions made it past Tooru’s lips. Instead, he merely observed Hajime from a distance, fascinated by the sight of him in Tooru’s childhood bedroom, in the Aoba Johsai locker room, and later on the screens of both his phone and laptop. He kept quiet, swallowed each word no matter how much his throat ached.

And now they’re here. Ten years later. Twenty-eight instead of eighteen.

At twenty-eight, Tooru feels as though he might explode.

He wonders if it makes him a desperate man.

The greed he carries with him grows once more, nearly escaping the cage Tooru had built inside of his chest. He wills it to shrink, but alas, it wraps itself around his arm like an invisible force and pushes against skin and bone until Tooru’s hand settles atop Hajime’s arm.

He doesn’t even notice he’s squeezing him until Hajime offers him a questioning look. “You okay?”

Tooru smiles. “I think I’m ready to go.”

Which is how approximately fifteen minutes later, they exit the bar after saying goodbye to the handful of friends and acquaintances that stayed behind.

They manage to catch a cab back to Hajime’s apartment, with Tooru not quite realizing how drunk he is until they both stumble through the front door, hushed laughter falling from their lips amidst Hajime’s quiet shushing. “Don’t wake my neighbors,” he warns.

“Your neighbors will be fine. I’m sure the lady in apartment 142 would love for you to wake her up.”

Even in the dark, Tooru is able to catch the way Hajime’s smile twists into a grimace. “Gross. Definitely not.”

“I’ve seen the way she looks at you,” Tooru laughs, attempting to remove his shoes and utterly failing at it. He allows his back to fall against the door, observing Hajime who seems to have no problem removing his sneakers. It must be magic, Tooru decides.

Snorting, Hajime drapes his jacket across the coat rack. “What, you jealous?”

Instead of replying immediately, Tooru allows himself a moment of silent observation; gaze following the movement of Hajime’s arms as they reach up. The fabric of his shirt glides across his upper arm, allowing Tooru a glimpse of the skin that hides beneath. It would be so easy to reach for him now, to steal some of that warmth and capture it between his fingertips. Perhaps he shouldn’t have drank so much, because his lips move before his brain is able to catch up.

“Maybe.”

He instantly regrets it. Alcohol has always made him bolder and more reckless.

That single admittance causes Hajime to fall silent, if only momentarily. His brows are pinched together in a way that’s oh-so familiar to Tooru. Beneath layers of skin and bone, his heart thrums. Every thud feels merciless. “Of what? Don’t you get enough attention already?”

“It’s not about the amount of attention,” Tooru points out, managing to kick one of his shoes off at long last. “It’s about the person it’s from.”

He should stop talking.

“M’way too drunk for your riddles tonight,” Hajime murmurs, running a palm across his face. “Take your other shoe off. I need some sleep.”

Are they riddles or is Hajime merely ignoring what’s in front of him?

At night, Tooru dissected sentences, pulled them apart word for word, and turned each syllable over in his mind. He’d stare at his ceiling, searching for patterns whilst remembering the feeling of fingertips running across his knuckles; strong hands applying KT tape along his shoulder and knee.

Fleeting touches lasted an eternity in his mind. Greed continued to grow.

He feels it now: an utterly frustrating sensation. One where everything is within reach, yet slipping between his fingertips. He wants, he wants, he wants.

“Come help me,” he says, quietly.

“What’s wrong with your hands?” Hajime’s response is equally quiet as he takes a careful step forward. “Lazykawa.”

“They worked hard today. Didn’t you see? I have the callouses to prove it.”

“I saw. I watched every serve.”

Tooru’s back is still resting against the door when Hajime comes to halt in front of him. The familiar scent of his cologne bleeds together with the smell of beer and sweat. It should repulse him, but it only pulls Tooru in, tugging him closer and closer. For a moment, he imagines Hajime observing him from the sidelines, pride gathering in the center of his chest as Tooru does what he’s meant to do; command a game and lead his players to victory.

There was a time where Hajime used to be one of those players. A partner on and off the court. He longs for those days, sometimes.

“What did you think?” Tooru wonders.

A chuckle, silent and a little breathless. “You know what I think. I’ve told you.”

The corners of Tooru’s mouth curve upward as he flashes Hajime a grin. “Maybe I want to hear it again.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Isn’t that what you like about me, Iwa-chan?”

Somehow, the question feels different in his mouth this time. The words feel a little heavier, pressing down on his tongue with the weight of unspoken desires. His throat burns, closing around syllables that compose a sentence he doesn’t dare speak aloud. Not yet.

They’re not surrounded by drunken friends or distracted by too loud music. The only sounds Tooru is able to hear are his own heartbeat and their combined breathing. Each inhale and exhale are perfectly timed, slow and secure. A synchronicity that feels so familiar and comforting.

“It always comes back to that question, doesn’t it?”

“Now who’s speaking in riddles?”

There’s a moment of hesitation as Hajime’s gaze drops. His hand inches forward, a finger brushing along Tooru’s own. “It seems I’ve learned from the best.”

“What else did you learn from me?”

What follows is another round of silence. A few seconds of absolute stillness in which Hajime seems to be gathering his thoughts. Fire blooms beneath Tooru’s skin where Hajime’s finger touches. Every bit of warmth gathers in that single spot. Eventually, he receives an answer. “How to be brave,” Hajime tells him, quiet yet resolute.

It causes Tooru to chuckle, a sound so quiet one would barely be able to catch it. Almost immediately, his mind provides him with a series of fast-moving images. They’re pieced together by voices and laughter; a neverending movie in which Hajime fulfills the role of the main character.

There’s a younger version of Hajime, all round cheeks, wobbly knees, and adorable pout, carrying a large net that allows him to catch as many insects as possible. It’s followed by a slightly older version of Hajime, squatting near a river bank and gently cutting a hand through the water while a fishing rod lays to his left. The gentle crackling of the small flames behind him are accompanied by bird songs and rustling of the leaves overhead. Time moves forward, replacing the sun’s rays with starlight. There’s sleeping bags and a tent and Hajime’s finger, wrapped in a band-aid, pointing at the sky.

Then there’s a seventeen year old version of Hajime in Tooru’s bedroom, head bowed over his chemistry homework and fingers tightly wrapped around Tooru’s eraser as he quietly admits that ‘he’s liked guys for quite some time now’.

In this film, Tooru can feel his lips move — forming around a very quiet ‘oh’.

He remembers that day very well.

Another scene finds them at Sendai Airport on a Saturday morning. In front of him, Hajime smiles. His hands are buried in his pockets, and Tooru wonders if he’s imagining the hint of melancholy in his best friend’s eyes.

The final scene unfolds before him in real time. Hajime, age twenty-eight, 184 cm tall, too-broad shoulders and too-kind eyes, standing in the dim hallway of his apartment.

“I think you’ve always been braver than me,” Tooru admits quietly. “You’re quite fearless, Iwa-chan.”

The words cause Hajime to shake his head, a hint of laughter slipping through his lips. It buries itself within the space between Tooru’s ribs. “Many things scare me.”

“Impossible,” Tooru counters. “Name one thing that scares you.”

Hajime’s answer does not come immediately. Instead, his hand slowly moves forward until he’s able to curl all five fingers around Tooru’s palm. The moment their palms touch, an explosion of warmth gathers beneath Tooru’s skin. It starts at the base of his neck, slowly crawling up until it reaches the tips of his ears. Some of it bleeds into his cheeks. Suddenly, he feels grateful for the darkness that had enveloped them.

“You.”

Somewhere in Tooru’s chest, his breath stutters; unable to free itself. It eventually comes out as a shaky exhale, followed by a whisper of his own, confusion dripping onto a singular question. “Me?”

‘But why?’ he doesn’t ask.

Hajime moves closer then, stepping into Tooru’s space until Tooru is able to feel the warmth of Hajime’s body against his skin. All without embracing him.

A sigh climbs up Hajime’s throat as he drops his head forward, forehead gently connecting with Tooru’s shoulder.

Tooru focuses on the feeling of Hajime’s hand in his own, familiar yet unfamiliar. A touch he’s longed for in more ways than one. His palm feels warm, smooth in some places, rough in others. It fits perfectly against him as though it were meant to mold itself into Tooru’s hand.

The weight on his shoulder reminds him of many late afternoons on the train and nights in his childhood bedroom. His heart beats wildly. Its pace is relentless, unforgiving, agonizing. Ribs begin to splinter, fragments of bone disappearing within the chambers of his heart.

It would be so easy to wrap his arm around him now, to pull Hajime closer until they are but a single being with a shared heartbeat.

“You,” Hajime repeats, pausing briefly. An inhale follows, slow and controlled, and his exhale is accompanied by a chuckle. One that notably lacks humor. He sounds tired. “It always comes back to you.”

This time, Tooru is certain that his heart might have stopped. There’s a tingling sensation in his fingertips and a gentle flutter low in his belly, as though someone had opened a window somewhere and allowed a spring breeze to find its way into his body. He’s unsure what to call this unfamiliar sensation. Not fear, not hope, but something in between.

Before him stands everything he’s ever wanted. All he has to do is summon a little bit of bravery Hajime seems to think he has. He searches for it, reaches inside an imaginary well, and pulls it to the surface.

It manifests itself in the whisper of Hajime’s name, a little shaky and so very unlike his usual teasing tone. It’s careful. Quiet. A fragile little thing.

(‘Hajime.’)

And Hajime looks at him. He looks and looks and looks at Tooru with a pair of eyes he’s seen in countless dreams. They’re painted with the colors of autumn. A captivating hue that sits between green and brown, all warmth and familiarity.

It makes him want to avert his gaze, shield himself from that intensity that burns through him like an inferno. His free hand finds Hajime’s jaw on its own. Fingers brushing along a scar near the underside of it. A bike accident at age ten, Tooru recalls.

It bled for quite some time.

Hajime looked very cool with a band-aid.

He inhales the scent of sandalwood and mint as he pitches his head forward. The warmth in his cheeks has increased tenfold, painting his skin in splotches of red.

“It’s us,” he murmurs to himself, to Hajime. “It’s not scary when it’s the two of us.”

Bravery pushes him forward, closing the centimeters of space between their lips.

It transforms, reshaping itself into relief at the gentle press of Hajime’s mouth against his own.

Briefly, Tooru wonders if he’d been wrong to kiss him. A sliver of doubt creeps into his mind, but then Hajime’s lips move as he pushes himself forward as well, and it dawns on him: Hajime is kissing him back.

He’s kissing Tooru back. Gently, slowly, carefully, as if Tooru is made of spider silk, destroyed by even the slightest touch.

Countless nights were spent ruminating about the softness of his best friend’s lips; imagining numerous scenarios in which they would get to touch one another in all of the ways he’d secretly longed for. He’d find himself staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, at age eighteen, at age twenty-eight, wondering if these fantasies could become reality.

(If only he could go back in time to tell the younger version of himself to exhibit some patience).

It’ll be worth it, trust me, he’d say.

Thoughts of the past are pushed aside by the feeling of Hajime’s hand settling atop Tooru’s hip. The warmth of his palm seeps into the fabric of the jeans Tooru had chosen to wear, burning through layers of denim and cotton until it reaches bare skin.

Simultaneously, Hajime’s lips part a little further — his tongue brushing against Tooru’s lower lip — and Tooru takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. He hears himself sigh, one of his arms winding themselves around Hajime’s neck in an attempt to pull his best friend even closer.

The front of their bodies are pressed together tightly, two hearts separated by forty-eight ribs. A breath travels from Tooru’s lungs to Hajime’s and vice versa; a delicate connection built by synchronized inhales and exhales. There is no beginning or end — there is only this moment, two people falling into each other in a dimmed hallway.

Carefully, fingers thread through the mess that must be Tooru’s hair, wrapping themselves into brown strands and sinking further and further until they press against his scalp. Hajime’s grip tightens slightly, which pulls a gasp from Tooru’s throat. The sound is immediately swallowed, disappearing between the soft slide of their lips.

Deep within his chest an explosion happens. Buried desires are unearthed, clawing their way to the surface with greedy hands until they’re able to dig their nails into all that Hajime has to offer. Tooru’s fingertips twitch where they cup Hajime’s jawline, pressing into familiar skin and thumbing at faded scars. A voice in the back of his mind tells him to follow the paths of his fingers with his mouth, and he listens.

His lips ghost across the underside of Hajime’s jaw, pulling a soft, soft groan from Hajime’s throat. The sound glides across Tooru’s skin, a touch so featherlight it leaves goosebumps in its wake. If desire is a creature that needs to be fed, he thinks it might be insatiable. For every sound and touch only temporarily satisfies his hunger. Greed is a chasm, swallowing the parts of Hajime Tooru longs to taste. More, it whispers. Please give me more. Please give me everything.

When his mouth reaches Hajime’s neck, Tooru is able to feel a pulse against his lips. The steady thump of a heartbeat seeps into his skin, finding refuge inside his chest. He bares his teeth, dragging them along soft, warm skin he knows as intimately as his own, and there’s that sound again: a slightly louder groan that’s accompanied by a gentle roll of Hajime’s hips.

He arches into Tooru, fingers tightening their grip on the brown strands he’d reached for a few moments ago, and Tooru’s breath hitches briefly when their hips press together. A knee slides between his legs, nudging upward, summoning a wave of pleasure. It rolls through him, starting at the base of his spine and sliding along his thighs until he feels a tingle all the way down to his toes.

He chases that feeling by grinding down against Hajime’s knee, attempting to stifle whatever noise crawls up his throat against the side of Hajime’s neck. Alas, his attempts to silence himself are for naught because Hajime’s grip tightens once more before pulling Tooru’s head back and away from his neck.

His own voice echoes through the hallway, a sound that sits somewhere between a strangled gasp and a moan reverberates off the walls. Almost immediately, Hajime seals their mouths together again in a hungry kiss that leaves Tooru’s knees feeling a little wobbly. He rests his full weight against the door behind him, praying that his legs continue to carry him while Hajime’s tongue explores his mouth.

One of his hands has disappeared beneath the hemline of Tooru’s shirt, fingertips dancing across his back and burning marks into Tooru’s skin. It causes him to arch off the door slightly, especially when Hajime’s hand travels up his spine. There’s a moment in which Tooru breaks the kiss to fill his lungs with oxygen and it presents Hajime with the opportunity to explore Tooru’s neck and throat with his mouth.

As expected, it feels amazing.

His gaze is unfocused when it settles on the ceiling above them, teeth lowering themselves into his lower lip with more force than necessary. Ragged breaths travel through his chest, escaping through clenched teeth and transforming into whispers of Hajime’s name.

The slow-simmering heat that had resided beneath his skin all night threatens to swallow him whole now, and every kiss, every bite, pushes him further and further towards a proverbial edge. Part of him momentarily wonders if all of this might simply be a wonderful dream — a fantasy conjured up by the desperate parts of his brain, but then Hajime pulls away suddenly and sinks to his knees.

Tooru’s brain nearly short-circuits at the sight of it.

A pair of eyes gaze up at him, half-lidded and filled with expectations, and he has to remind himself to breathe as he offers a small nod in response.

After being granted permission, Hajime’s fingers fiddle with the zipper of Tooru’s trousers. Simultaneously, he leans forward; using one hand to push Tooru’s shirt upward and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his stomach. A shiver travels along the Tooru’s spine, a tingling sensation prickling at the back of his skull while the muscles in his abdomen contract in anticipation.

His hands find the back of Hajime’s head, fingers tightly grasping the dark strands in an attempt to ground himself. It doesn’t seem to work because Tooru feels as though someone might have gently pulled him out of his own body.

Below him, Hajime presses another kiss to his stomach. And another. And another.

One of his hands tugs at the waistline of Tooru’s trousers before palming him through the front of his boxers. It causes his hips to jerk forward, which seems to amuse Hajime because he stifles a chuckle against Tooru’s skin. Naturally, there’s an insult on Tooru’s tongue, but it disappears rather quickly, replaced by a choked gasp when Hajime’s fingers slip his fingers into his boxers and stroke him twice. His own fingers twitch where they’re buried in Hajime’s hair, desperate to do something, anything.

Hajime’s palm feels smooth in some places, rough in others. His touch is delicate, but intentional, and Tooru can’t do anything except chase that wonderful sensation.

When he glances down, he’s met with the familiarity of Hajime’s eyes; hunger buried deep within the green of his irises. It’s a gaze filled with adoration. One that conveys a message Tooru has carried in his heart for nearly a decade — if not longer.

Hajime’s gaze could burn a perfect circle through the front of Tooru’s chest, destroying all that he has to offer. Especially when he maintains eye contact with Tooru and leans forward to take him into his mouth.

Tooru’s knees buckle this time.

Fortunately, Hajime is there to keep him steady. He anchors his hands around Tooru’s hips, grip tight and a gentle hum vibrating through his throat. His head moves forward, agonizingly slow, until Tooru thinks his cock might reach the back of Hajime’s throat.

He feels lightheaded, dizzy with pleasure, and he sucks in a shallow breath in an attempt to regulate his breathing.

In and out.

Heat travels along the back of his neck, finding a home in his cheeks and his forehead, while his heart trashes in its ivory cage. The sound of his own voice feels unfamiliar when he gasps Hajime’s name and it doesn’t take long for Hajime to settle into a rhythm, the movement of his head slow and careful while one of his hands wraps around the base of Tooru’s cock, stroking it in time with the bob of his head.

Tooru thinks his fingers might be trembling where they’re buried in Hajime’s hair. They tug on each strand they’re able to touch as though they are the only lifeline keeping him tethered to this realm. A flick of Hajime’s tongue against the head of his cock sends sparks of pleasure rushing through him and Tooru is unable to stop his hips from arching into Hajime’s mouth.

The sudden movement causes his cock to bump against the back of Hajime’s throat and he has half a mind to apologize when Hajime releases a small groan before pulling off Tooru with a cough.

“Shit — sorry,” Tooru says quickly, “are you… okay?”

In front of him, Hajime nods twice. Another cough travels through his chest and Tooru bites down on his lower lip, loosening his grip around Hajime’s hair slightly. “S’okay. Didn’t expect it, is all.”

He watches as Hajime licks his lips, lids heavy and eyes dragging a line across Tooru’s body — from his legs to his face. Like a pair of magnets, their gazes are drawn to one another; melting together until they are completely fused.

Tooru couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

Instead, his eyes catch the movements of Hajime’s lips as Hajime says, “You can fuck my mouth, if you want.”

It takes a moment for him to register the words, to understand what Hajime is suggesting. His own voice comes out a little shaky when he replies. “A-are you sure?”

Hajime nods, running his hands along the front of Tooru’s thighs before squeezing the muscles beneath his skin gently. And there it is again: that raw intensity Tooru wants to taste on his lips. It flashes through Hajime’s eyes, joined by something else. Honesty. Trust.

Something vulnerable.

“I trust you.” Then: “I want you to.”

Tooru thinks he might pass out.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t lose consciousness. He even nods. Once, twice. Thrice, maybe.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice cracking at the final syllable. “Okay.”

His lungs manage to draw in a breath, providing a sliver of clarity for approximately four seconds. Heat pools low in his stomach as he allows his right hand to slide down to Hajime’s cheek; palm cradling his jaw.

He uses his thumb to rub slow circles into Hajime’s skin, observing the redness of his lips. Instinctively, his thumb moves to touch it, dragging Hajime’s lower lip down and coaxing his mouth open. A strange sense of calm washes over him and fascination keeps his gaze glued to Hajime’s lips.

I want you to.

Tooru swallows, wrapping his free hand around himself and slowly guiding his cock into Hajime’s mouth and Hajime holds his gaze as he parts his lips a little further, fingers pressing into Tooru’s thighs with a quiet hum. A jolt of pleasure travels through the entirety of his lower body at the gentle vibration.

There is nothing but heat and the softness of Hajime’s tongue. Slowly, carefully, Tooru pushes further and further, his breath halting somewhere between his chest and throat. From what he’s able to see, Hajime is able to relax his jaw a little further — exhaling slowly through his nose and eyes flickering shut momentarily.

There’s another squeeze of Tooru’s thigh. Another hum. And that familiar, piercing gaze returns.

Go ahead.

The first roll of Tooru’s hips is a careful one. He’s barely able to suppress a groan and he would feel mildly embarrassed by the plethora of noises he’s making if not for the fact that Hajime’s mouth feels so damn good.

His blood thrums, pushing through his veins, and the second thrust is a little rougher. It elicits another wave of pleasure, which crests and slams into him; traveling towards every part of his body.

Tooru’s lips part around another moan just as he begins to thrust into Hajime’s mouth earnestly. He finds a rhythm that works for him, not too fast, not too slow, just right. Each slide of Hajime’s tongue and lips feels magnificent and he forces himself to glance down, analyzing every detail of Hajime’s face.

The way his lashes brush against his skin with each blink of his eyelids. The slight crease between his brows. The flush across his cheeks. The hungry look in his eyes.

How he longs to peel back every layer of the man before him. To dig and dig and dig until he finds something to dissect and take apart with careful precision. Each part holds something beautiful and interesting — something worthy of love. (Even the parts he, unknowingly, attempts to hide).

There is something about relearning the shape of someone’s heart; to hear the song within their ribcage. He wants to feel the whisper of Hajime’s desires on his lips, taste the sweetness of words laced in desperation.

Tooru wants and wants and wants.

A shaky exhale finds its way out, dragging along his throat until the moan breaks off into the first two syllables of Hajime’s name. It’s followed by a quiet warning as that familiar sensation overtakes his body. As always, it starts at the base of his spine, rushing upward and temporarily quieting every thought that might have passed through his mind. In the stillness he finds surrender.

He registers the gentle hum vibrating through Hajime’s throat, who squeezes and massages Tooru’s thighs as Tooru rides out his orgasm — stuttering breath and all.

They both pull away after another moment, with Hajime running the back of his hand across the lower half of his face while a few coughs pass through his lips. Tooru watches him, slowly sliding down the door until he’s sitting in front of Hajime, panting and dazed; momentarily wondering how a person’s mouth could feel that good.

He has half a mind to tuck himself back into his trousers as he continues to observe Hajime, flushed face and reddened lips.

Tooru isn’t sure who moves in faster.

His mouth is captured in another searing kiss, fast and rough and so very unlike the gentle kisses Hajime had rewarded him with moments ago. They remain like that, on the floor of Hajime’s hallway with Tooru half in Hajime’s lap, grinding against Hajime’s cock — which remains hidden beneath layers of denim and cotton.

“That was—” Tooru manages to mumble between kisses. “Holy shit—”

It’s not the most eloquent sentence, but it gets the point across because he can practically feel Hajime smiling against his lips, which in itself might be even hotter than what had just transpired. A pair of hands settle at the base of his spine before slipping beneath the waistline of his trousers and settling atop the curve of his ass. He feels a squeeze as Hajime pulls Tooru’s hips down a little harder, eagerly chasing the friction that could offer him some relief, and Tooru sinks his teeth into Hajime’s lips — partially to stifle whatever noises threaten to escape his own throat.

“Was it good?” Hajime asks, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice.

This time, Tooru’s groan is equal parts pleasure and annoyance. “Don’t sound so smug.”

“I think I’m allowed to be a little smug,” Hajime responds, pulling away to nip at Tooru’s jaw. “You looked hot.”

The compliment leaves Tooru’s chest feeling oddly warm and a little breathless. He nearly swears under his breath at the thought of more praise falling from Hajime’s lips. Suddenly, the hallway feels too cold. Too small.

“Get up,” he instructs, reluctantly pulling himself out of Hajime’s lap and hauling him to his feet in one swift motion.

A noise of surprise leaves Hajime’s throat, but Tooru merely pushes at his chest whilst leaning in to press their mouths together again, utilizing the few meager centimeters he has over his best friend. His hands find Hajime’s waist afterwards, fingers hooking themselves in a shirt he’s eager to remove.

They manage to navigate themselves to Hajime’s bedroom, where he shoves him onto the mattress rather quickly. When Tooru climbs on top of him, he grinds their hips together again

Hands settle on Tooru’s hips when Tooru pushes himself up until he’s straddling Hajime’s thighs. He reaches behind him to remove the shirt he’s wearing, tossing the garment aside like it had insulted him personally. Fingers then push at the fabric of Hajime’s shirt, sliding the front upwards to remove it for him. It requires some additional help from Hajime, but the shirt ends up joining Tooru’s own clothing item on the floor.

Immediately, his eyes roam across the front of Hajime’s upper body — observing bare skin. Each curve and ridge is mapped out by curious fingers, touching and touching as though Hajime is an oasis in a desert. It feels strange to touch him like this; to have permission to stare at him. Whatever urgency he’d felt before is temporarily replaced by a sense of calm — complete and utter fascination.

(If his mouth feels a little more dry than usual, nobody could blame him).

Briefly, he wonders how long it would take for him to kiss every part of Hajime’s body. Eyes roam across the expanse of his chest, the contours of his abdomen, the faded scar on his sternum. He observes shoulders, forearms, fingers; memorizing the way Hajime’s skin stretches across firm muscles, hard in some places, soft in others.

It’s hardly the first time he’d seen Hajime undressed and yet it feels different. This time, he’s able to look at all of him properly. He subconsciously counts each mole like he’s seeing them for the first time, lingers on another scar on Hajime’s side — right above his left hip — and quietly curses his jeans for obstructing his view of a pair of muscular legs.

In the dark, Hajime offers him a look. Curiosity and desire curl together. “What are you planning?”

A number of answers float through Tooru’s mind. He entertains each fantasy, ruminating about the endless possibilities within the four walls of Hajime’s bedroom. Eventually, he leans down, brushes their lips together in a way that is not quite a kiss, and whispers, “You’re gonna fuck me.”

The little hitch in Hajime’s breath does not go unnoticed.

Tooru smiles, reaching a hand between them to palm Hajime through the front of his jeans. As expected, it elicits a hiss. “Does that excite you?”

Hajime’s answer comes in the form of a groan. Something born from pleasure and, most likely, mild irritation. Tooru is rewarded with a glare. “Has anybody ever told you you’re insufferable?”

“You have. On many occasions.”

“I was right to.”

Chuckling, Tooru allows his fingers to wander. They disappear between the waistline of Hajime’s jeans, tugging at the front of his boxers until they’re able to wrap around Hajime’s cock entirely. “Cold feet?” he wonders, gently moving his hand back and forth. “Where’s all that confidence from before?”

Evidently, the words have their desired effect because Tooru’s back hits the mattress with a sharp, startled laugh when Hajime swiftly pushes him down and reverses their position. With Hajime hovering over him, brows drawn together as though he’s searching for something on Tooru’s face, Tooru can’t help but allow his smile to widen. Excitement thrums beneath his skin, joined by the rapid beating of his heart.

There’s something else, too. A sliver of anxiety, a voice in the back of his head whispering false truths. ‘What if everything changes?’ it murmurs.

‘Let it,’ Tooru counters, defiant. ‘I want it to.’

Above him, Hajime swallows. Brows unfurrowing, he leans down until Tooru is close enough to taste him. He doesn’t, though. A beat of silence follows, unfathomably loud in the dark room.

“You’re sure about this?” he hears Hajime ask, breath fanning across the lower half of Tooru’s face. There’s a hand on his hip, inching upward as five fingers curl around his side and squeeze gently. Miraculously, Tooru suppresses a shudder. He imagines Hajime’s strong grip around other parts of his body, wondering in which places he’d find a number of marks come morning.

Grinning, Tooru raises his chin slightly. “I just came in your mouth, I’m as sure as I’ll ever be.”

“Tooru.”

“Hajime.”

Whatever tension had manifested itself between them moments before is shattered like a porcelain cup hitting the floor. Amidst the broken fragments, within chaos, blooms relief. It comes in the form of a quiet and familiar laugh; all deep, rough, and warm. It’s infectious.

Tooru laughs with him.

After a round of silence, Hajime’s finger finds the slope of Tooru’s nose — a featherlight touch that feels a lot more intimate than anything they’ve done thus far. “I’m serious, though,” he mumbles, fond.

“So am I,” Tooru replies, winding one of his arms around Hajime’s neck. The feeling of Hajime’s skin against his own is greater than anything he’d ever imagined. It feels right in all the ways it should feel. Something so completely natural, as though this moment had been predetermined by fate itself.

A romantic at heart, Tooru allows himself to ruminate upon the possibility of things such as fate and destiny. While he is convinced that one’s story, one’s destiny, is something one must simply write and claim for themselves, he finds comfort in knowing that some things — such as this moment right here — were guided by whatever higher forces are at work. Yes, he would choose to be with Hajime of his own volition, again and again, but, perhaps, it hadn’t been just luck that allowed them to exist in this lifetime together; born just forty days apart.

“I meant what I said earlier. It’s not scary when it’s the two of us.”

Despite the surprisingly even tone of his voice, his heart betrays the true emotions that lurk beneath his skin. It thrums rapidly like the traitor it is — alerting Hajime of the excitement and nervosity that’s coursing through Tooru’s system.

Fortunately, that sliver of anxiety melts away with the feeling of Hajime’s lips against his own.

Tooru’s reassurance must have awakened a new sense of urgency within Hajime as the kisses grow more feverish with each breath that passes between them. When he grinds his hips upward, chasing the familiar friction he experienced before, he finds a new wave of desire pushing through his body. Against his lips, Hajime groans and Tooru thinks he’s blindly reaching for something without breaking the kiss.

Eventually, he does pull away, momentarily, to rummage through the drawer of his bedside table.

Then, Tooru feels a pair of hands on his hips before his jeans are pulled down rather swiftly. He makes a noise of surprise, which transforms into a startled laugh. “Eager.”

Hajime kisses him into silence when he settles back between his legs, allowing his hands to roam across the length of Tooru’s thighs. The touch elicits a shiver, leaving Tooru longing for more. Which he gets when Hajime slowly, carefully, pushes one of his fingers into him. Even with a generous amount of lube, the first press of a digit burns in a way that is both pleasant and uncomfortable.

He breathes through it, focusing on the ways Hajime rearranges his legs slightly so that Tooru’s feet are planted flat on the mattress. This allows his free hand to massage the muscles of Tooru’s thigh, evidently pulling every bit of tension out of his body with every squeeze and press of his fingers.

Tooru sighs, eyes falling shut and long breaths passing through his lips with every bit of encouragement Hajime offers him.

That’s it.

You’re doing good.

His skin burns with arousal, growing hotter as the movement of Hajime’s fingers continue. After a moment he adds another digit, pushing in a little deeper, and Tooru has to swallow a groan — hips arching upward slightly when it seems Hajime has found the right spot that makes his toes curl.

His breath escapes him without his permission, pulled from his lungs so suddenly. It disappears amidst the darkness, a dying whisper of Hajime’s name. When his gaze lands on the ceiling once more, his eyes register nothing but blackness. Tooru’s hands blindly reach for a pair of arms, halting Hajime’s movements with a quiet request.

Hajime offers him a look and Tooru can only nod in return. His hands find Hajime’s shoulders as he properly tugs him between his legs with a sense of urgency. Fortunately, Hajime understands — he understands Tooru’s need to get him as close as possible.

They’re a tangle of limbs, endless puzzle pieces slotting together, and Tooru relishes in the warmth of Hajime’s skin against his own, the fingers that bury themselves in his hair and the roughness of his palm as it slides across his side before settling on his thigh.

His heartbeat exists in many places at once and he inhales deeply when Hajime slowly, carefully, presses into him.

Briefly, it feels as though time itself stops. Everything comes to a halt except the sound of their breathing. Tooru listens to the exhale that travels through Hajime’s chest, feels it against the shell of his ear. His fingers twitch where they’re curled around Hajime’s nape, sliding upward until he’s able to grasp a handful of dark strands.

It’s all too much and yet not enough.

Their lips reunite just as Hajime gives an experimental roll of his hips. Tooru sighs into the kiss, pleasure moving through his body in gentle waves. It falls and rises, a steady push and pull.

Every nerve-ending across his body feels as though it’s been exposed. Another noise climbs up his throat, but Hajime swallows it — hiking Tooru’s leg a little higher over his hip as he pulls back slightly before pushing forward again. This time, Tooru’s breath stutters.

It starts slow, careful; nothing but gentle movements to let Tooru adjust to the intrusion and pressure. He breathes through it, commands his muscles to relax and his spine to melt into the mattress as they find a rhythm that works for them. Each push and pull of Hajime’s hips coaxes a sound out of Tooru’s throat. Teeth sink themselves into his lower lip, a tongue brushes against his own, and a pair of hands roam across his body.

He drowns in the scent of Hajime, something well-known and comforting and safe, the weight of his body, and the softness of his skin. There is so much of him.

It leaves Tooru feeling lightheaded.

His hands explore every bit of skin they can find. They run along the length of Hajime’s spine, fingers pressing into the two small indentations at his lower back before they move lower and lower. When Hajime breaks the kiss to catch his breath, his forehead touches Tooru’s gently and Tooru momentarily wonders if they might be the only two people in the universe at the moment.

A second heartbeat matches his own. He’s familiar with its rhythm. After all, he has spent many days, months, years memorizing it. A song he knows all the words to.

There isn’t a single part of Hajime that Tooru doesn’t know. He has peeled back each layer, listened to his hopes, dreams, fears, and kept hundreds of his secrets carefully tucked away. Even when their days were spent apart, thousands of kilometers away, a part of Hajime had always stayed with him.

It had gently nestled itself between Tooru’s ribs, where it began to bloom — growing a little larger each day. He feels it now, a sensation that’s much too large for his body. Some of it concentrates in his chest, spilling over when a quiet laugh passes through his lips. Hajime notices, because of course he does.

(Hajime notices everything).

He lowers his head slightly, nosing at the back of Tooru’s jaw. “What are you laughing about?”

And Tooru, well, Tooru laughs again. Quiet and hidden. It’s part joy, part relief. He laughs, because the answer to that question is so simple.

It’s something he has always known — something he is finally able to voice out loud.

Running his fingers through Hajime’s hair, he sighs, “I’m in love.”

At this, Hajime stills. He raises his head slightly, hovering over Tooru and looking at him with those eyes that oftentimes make Tooru forget his own name. It starts slow, at the corners of his mouth, but a smile blooms across the lower half of his face. Something uniquely beautiful.

It takes Tooru’s breath away; steals it swiftly from his lungs without his permission.

Yes, he thinks. I’m in love.

He reaches for that smile, fingers tracing the curve of Hajime’s lips, thumbing at the corners and pressing into the dimples nestled in his cheeks. This is how he wants to remember him each day. Smiling, eyes shining with mirth and features draped in the silver light of the moon. Tooru thinks he’s never looked more beautiful.

When Hajime lowers his head again, mouth finding Tooru’s own, he hears it, equally quiet: “Me too.”

Tooru smiles.

He smiles and smiles and smiles.

He loses himself in a haze of pleasure, a place where there is only the sound of Hajime’s voice and the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. His limbs move of their own accord, holding and touching as much of Hajime as they possibly can.

Their lips meet over and over, trapping hushed words between them, silent whispers that will be buried in the walls of this room. They create a story that is only known to them — one that has been years in the making — built on secret smiles and too-long embraces. Years of knowing one another in a way that would be difficult to explain to anybody else.

Numerous pages are filled with the words they’ve kept in their rib cages, and Tooru hopes, prays, they will never run out of ink.

One of Hajime’s hands finds his own atop of the mattress, fingers slotting together. Tooru gives a squeeze just as Hajime adjusts the angle of his hips slightly, choking on an exhale. He rocks his own hips upwards, tightens his grip, and for a moment it feels as though his heart stops for one, two, three counts.

He’s half aware that he might be mumbling Hajime’s name when that all-familiar pressure consumes him. Heat prickles across his skin, flames licking up his spine in a way that is nearly overwhelming. Hajime fucks him through his orgasm, murmurs gentle praise against his lips, into the crook of his neck, against his temple.

It doesn’t take long before Hajime’s hips stutter as well. He tenses, lips still pressed against the side of Tooru’s head when rides out his own orgasm, a groan falling from his lips. Tooru commits the sound to memory, lazily brushing his fingers back and forth across Hajime’s nape while he turns his head slightly to press his mouth against Hajime’s own.

The kiss itself is a bit clumsy, but they both laugh, and Tooru thinks that this is what life might really be about. Laughter. Endless laughter.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asks, teasing. “I just had sex with you and you’re laughing.”

“I am,” Hajime answers, pressing another kiss to Tooru’s lips. He sounds a little breathless; the roughness of his voice gliding across Tooru’s skin. “What about it?”

Tooru feigns indignation. “Grab my clothes, I’m leaving. I’m being ridiculed.”

Naturally, Hajime doesn’t listen to him. He merely shakes his head in response, burying his nose deep into the crook of Tooru’s neck with a sigh as he runs his palms down Tooru’s side. “You’re staying.”

Tooru snorts, contemplating the meaning of those words. Staying in Hajime’s bed. Staying in Japan.

Everything will change, he realizes. In a good way.

Eventually, Hajime rolls onto his side — tugging Tooru with him and pulling the duvet over both of them. Tooru buries his face into one of the pillows for a moment, sighing against the fabric. Next to him, Hajime mumbles something unintelligible before moving closer to press a kiss to the back of Tooru’s neck. “Are you sniffing my pillow, you weirdo?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tooru murmurs against said pillow, voice muffled. After another moment of relaxing — and not sniffing — he leans back against Hajime. An arm is draped across his waist, palm pressed against his stomach, and if he concentrates, he’s able to feel the steady thump of Hajime’s heartbeat against his back. It bleeds into his skin, finding companionship in Tooru’s own heartbeat.

It feels nice.

Silence wraps itself around them, pulling a myriad of thoughts to the surface. Tooru dissects them slowly — weighs the words on his tongue as he attempts to construct a sentence. Turns out, Hajime beats him to it. He feels the vibrations of Hajime’s voice against his skin when he asks, “You okay?”

A gentle nod. “Just thinking.”

“Not your area of expertise.”

For once, Tooru is too tired to feel insulted. He snorts. “I’ll smother you with a pillow.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Hajime counters. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Humming, Tooru places his hand over the hand Hajime kept against his abdomen. He slides their fingers together before raising their hands to observe them in the dark. A small scar is located on Hajime’s ring finger, right above his knuckle. Tooru doesn’t remember how that one got there.

There’s a moment of hesitation as he contemplates Hajime’s question. His answer is quiet, buried against the skin of Hajime’s hand when he presses his lips to his palm. “I just want to do this right.”

Hajime remains silent at that, which is exactly what Tooru doesn’t want. He’s about to mention that they should probably get some sleep when Hajime pulls away slightly and tugs on his shoulder until Tooru’s able to face him properly.

Tooru watches the slight crease between Hajime’s brows, resisting the urge to press a finger against it.

“What makes you think we’re not doing it right?”

As he turns the question over in his head, Tooru takes a deep breath. “I don’t know,” a pause. “I suppose I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and… have you regret this.”

“Well, I won’t,” Hajime answers immediately, frown deepening before the lines are smoothed out — replaced by something softer. Tooru watches the corners of his mouth, follows the movements of his lips, as Hajime continues: “You love me, right?”

The question feels like a sudden strike to the chest. Lightning fast and a little painful. It punches the air from his lungs, leaving him sputtering. A rush of heat gathers in his cheeks suddenly, bleeding into every part of his face until it feels like the sun is directly bearing down on him. With a dry mouth, he attempts — and reattempts — to form a sentence, the pitch of his voice a little higher than he would’ve liked. “What?” he exclaims, “I mean — yes, but you can’t just ask me that suddenly—”

And now the corners of Hajime’s mouth rise a little further, a mixture of amusement and affection dancing in the brown of his eyes. “Tooru,” he says firmly, yet oddly calm, before repeating the question. “You love me, right?”

As Tooru’s breath dances in his chest, trying to find its regular rhythm once more, he swallows. He nods. Once. Twice. The rapid beating of his heart mellows out until a steady thrum echoes through the walls of his ribcage. An answer to Hajime’s question slips between marrow and bone, settling somewhere deep inside of him. It finds freedom on his tongue, guided into the air by his lips. “Yes,” he breathes. “I do.”

Hajime’s voice cuts through all the noise in his mind, a sharpened blade that tears through whatever doubts had been lingering in dark corners. “And I love you too,” he tells Tooru. “Isn’t that enough?”

And there it is again. That calmness he felt before. A simple answer to a simple question.

He loves Hajime.

Hajime loves him.

Two fingers hook themselves beneath his chin, lightly nudging it upward, and his eyes find Hajime’s so easily. There has never been anything easier. “It’s just the two of us,” Hajime continues, quietly. “You and me.”

A part of Tooru wants to cuss him out for being so annoyingly perfect — for being able to read Tooru so easily.

It’s laughable.

Impossible, he thinks. Iwaizumi Hajime, you’re impossible.

When he closes the meager distance between their lips, two smiles trapped within a kiss, Tooru imagines a future like this. One in which he gets to fall asleep beside his best friend, wake up to smiles draped in honeyed light, and featherlight touches across his spine. He thinks of all the new words they get to whisper to each other and the affectionate smiles they’ll share. Embraces will go from lasting a little too long to not lasting long enough. Kisses will be tender and fleeting or, perhaps, rushed and passionate.

There is so much of Hajime left to explore and love — parts Tooru will get to unearth and gaze upon for the first time.

For now, he’ll start with the softness of his lips and the tenderness in his heart. The outside world ceases to exist for a moment. Noises fade away, lights are dimmed; there is only the shared heartbeat between them.

“Just us,” he whispers to Hajime. “You and me.”