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0 KILOMETERS, FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

The day Hajime returns to Japan from the Philippines for the first time, he finds Oikawa sitting on his doorstep, worn volleyball in his hands and freshly dried tears on his face.

He looks up at Hajime with big, glossy eyes, his lower lip trembling, and the world narrows down to just the two of them as Hajime surges forward and throws his arms around him.

“Dummykawa,” he whispers into his hair. Some of the brown strands get caught in his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

Oikawa doesn’t respond, only hugs him tighter so he’s just barely able to breathe. Hajime’s nose feels cold and wet, which makes no sense because he’s doing his absolute best to hold back tears.

“C’mon, you two,” comes Mama's fond voice behind them. “Let’s go inside. It’s snowing.”

Hajime extracts himself slowly from the mess of brown hair and tilts his face upwards. Sure enough, the sky has opened up, tufts of white falling around them in slow motion. Oikawa, too, finally loosens his embrace to look around in wonder, snow catching on his long eyelashes. Hajime finds himself thinking of the plastic snowflakes strung along the shop windows in Iloilo, bright and twinkling and never melting.

They leave their luggage in the entryway. Oikawa doesn’t let go of Hajime even when they’re inside, stubborn hand curled around Hajime’s own as they wander into the kitchen where his mother had brought out the pack of tablea to prepare warm drinks.

“You must be cold, Tooru-kun,” Mama says. “How long were you waiting outside?”

Oikawa begins to blubber. “I—I thought your flight was arriving at six in the morning, and Nee-chan said the train from Tokyo usually takes two hours, so…”

Hajime’s eyes widen. Their flight from the airport in Manila had been delayed by nearly an hour, causing them to miss the last train scheduled before lunchtime, meaning…

He whips around to face Oikawa in wide-eyed panic. Oikawa doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Mama tuts. “Oh, Tooru-kun. I’m so sorry. Our flight was delayed, and we had no idea you’d be waiting here!”

Hajime swallows around the thorn of guilt in his throat, because he had supposedly known. It had been the last thing Oikawa had told him before he’d left, pouting and holding back tears because how could Iwa-chan leave him here for three whole weeks, what about volleyball training, who was going to stay up to wait for Santa Claus with him, when was he coming back?

You just said it yourself, Hajime had said. I’ll be back after three weeks.

But I need the exact time, Iwa-chan! Oikawa had argued. I’ll be the first one to welcome you on your doorstep, waiting for my very late Christmas present!

“Here you go, anak, this should help you warm up,” says Mama as she hands Oikawa the first steaming mug. Hajime’s head snaps up at the Filipino term of endearment, but Mama doesn’t seem to notice. “This is called tsokolate de batirol.”

“Chocolate?” Oikawa asks, lifting the mug curiously to catch a whiff of the frothy drink.

“That’s right,” Mama smiles and pats Oikawa’s pink cheek. “The chocolate comes from the tablea, which is a tablet of ground roasted cocoa beans, and the batirol is the wooden whisk we use to mix everything together.” She makes a show of whisking Hajime’s portion with the batirol until a layer of bubbling froth spreads over the top. “I added a little more sugar and milk for Tooru-kun, but I can put in some more if it’s still too bitter. And here’s yours, Hajime.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Hajime says, at the same time Oikawa says, “Thank you, Okaasan!”

The two of them finally exchange a glance. Oikawa’s eyes are the same molten brown as the hot chocolate, and just as warm. Hajime feels something like a knot in his chest loosen.

“Cheers?”

“You’re gonna burn your tongue if you drink it now, dummy,” Hajime says. He lifts his mug to his lips and blows on it gently.

Oikawa wrinkles his nose. “Gross! That’s definitely got all your saliva on it now.” He mirrors the action anyway, blowing with much more force than necessary and probably twice as much saliva.

Once their drinks seem cool enough, Hajime lifts his mug towards Oikawa’s in invitation. “Did you know people also say kampay sometimes in the Philippines?”

“That’s mostly just your titos,” Mama laughs. “But yeah, we do.”

“Really?” Oikawa lifts his mug in return. “That’s awesome! Okay, Iwa-chan, let’s go—kanpai!”

Their mugs knock together with a clang before they both take a sip from their respective drinks. Hajime is delighted to find that the tsokolate is just as wonderfully rich as the one his lola had made for him and his cousins just a few days ago, creamy even with the difference in milk. Warmth pools in his stomach as he watches Oikawa’s expression morph into one of delight as he downs nearly half the cup in one go.

“Waaa! So good!” Oikawa cries. “It’s so much more chocolatey than the vending machine ones!”

“I’m glad you like it, Tooru-kun,” Mama smiles warmly. “Would you like some more?”

“Yes, please!”

Mama swiftly takes the cup and refills it. “Here you go.”

“Oi, careful, it’s still hot—”

Oikawa promptly sputters, tears pooling once again at the corners of his eyes as he sticks out his swollen tongue. “Oww…”

Hajime sighs. “What did I just tell you?”

Later, with hot chocolate warm in their bellies and necks properly wrapped in scarves, they return outside to find the world silvered over. Snow clings to the bare branches of the persimmon tree, and the pavement that had been visible only a little over an hour ago is now completely covered in white.

Oikawa laughs, a tinkle in the quiet winter air, and reaches down to scoop up a handful of snow. It falls like powder through his fingers easily.

“The winter waited for you, Iwa-chan,” he declares, starry-eyed and smiling. The sun lights a stripe of white-gold in his hair, and Hajime fights the urge to smooth it over.

“Thank you,” Hajime says, looking straight at Oikawa. “For waiting.”

Hajime reaches into the pocket of his jacket and brings out his hastily-wrapped present. Oikawa leans over immediately, resting a cold chin on Hajime’s shoulder. “Is that for me?”

“No, it’s for Mama’s new pet cat.”

Oikawa pouts.

“Yes, dummy, it’s for you,” Hajime sighs. Oikawa immediately perks up in delight, just like Mama’s pet cat whenever Hajime brings out her favorite toy. Maybe he could tell Mama to name her Tooru, because they were so alike.

Oikawa doesn’t take long to unwrap the present, although he does fumble a little with the thick gloves Mama had given him to wear.

“A DVD?” Oikawa’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute—Lilo and Stitch?”

“Yeah,” Hajime grins. “You wouldn’t stop talking about it since we watched it in the cinema, so I figured I’d get you a copy so you can watch it as many times as you want.”

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa's lower lip begins to wobble, and Hajime is horrified to see fresh tears building up at the corners of his eyes.

“Are you seriously going to cry after I just gave you a present?!” Hajime near screeches. “What, do you not like it?”

“I do!” Oikawa wails. “I like it so much, I think we could actually watch this movie together every day—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Every week, then,” Oikawa sniffles. He lets himself collapse fully against Hajime’s side. Hajime grumbles but makes no move to push him away.

Oikawa sighs a little, a puff of breath that crystallizes in the air. “How was your trip, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime peers at him cautiously. “Really great,” he says, after a small pause. “Christmas in the Philippines—I don’t think there’s anything like it.”

Oikawa hums, a sign for Hajime to continue.

“There are lots of lights everywhere,” Hajime says. He’d thought some festival had been going on when they drove through the province for the first time, parols hanging from every streetlight and the clear voices of the townsfolk ringing with laughter. It was livelier than anywhere Hajime had been in Sendai, and that had just been a normal day. “It’s almost like every house has its own Pageant of Starlight. But there are tons more decorations than just the lights. Mikha’s house even has a Christmas tree—”

“Who’s Mikha?” Oikawa cuts in, tone almost demanding.

“My cousin,” Hajime answers, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “She’s also in fourth grade like us.”

“Oh,” Oikawa exhales. “Is she pretty?”

“Doesn’t matter ‘cause I’m not introducing you to her,” Hajime grumbles.

“Aww,” Oikawa pouts, though Hajime thinks he doesn’t look disappointed at all—in fact, he looks rather satisfied.

Hajime decides not to question it. “Her older brother, Kuya Mark, taught me how to make a parol. Maybe we can…” He drifts off, suddenly feeling the back of his neck grow warm. He loosens his scarf with a small frown. “Make them sometime.”

“You mean the star lantern Okaasan usually hangs on your door in December?”

Hajime nods in response, pleased at the fact that Oikawa was able to remember the Filipino word.

“That’s so cool! I wanna make one for our house, too!" Oikawa says excitedly. And then he slumps. "Nobody except Iwa-chan’s family ever decorates for Christmas around here," he laments.

“Well, Christmas is a really big thing in the Philippines. Big enough for the celebration to start in September.”

“September?”

“Yep. But families usually gather on Christmas Eve for a really big dinner. Noche Buena.” Hajime smiles at the recollection. “That’s how I was able to meet Mama’s family—my lola—that’s her mom—and all her kids and grandkids.”

“Okaasan comes from a big family, doesn’t she?”

“She’s got…” Hajime counts on his fingers. “Two sisters and three brothers.”

“Wow,” Oikawa says. “No wonder it’s so hard to keep track of all of Iwa-chan’s cousins!”

“You don’t need to keep track of all fifteen of them.”

“But I want to,” Oikawa insists. “I wanna know everyone in Iwa-chan’s family.”

“Uh, why?”

“‘Cause I’m your best friend, duh!” Oikawa chirps. “Do you think I could be invited to one of your family reunions? Or is it family members only?”

“Er…” Hajime rubs the back of his neck. One of his cousins had brought his girlfriend, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell Oikawa that. He recalls feeling a little sorry for the girl, who'd seemed uncomfortable with all the teasing from his cousins and interrogations from his titos and titas. Maybe Oikawa would be able to deal with it, glittering personality and all, but Hajime didn’t really want to risk it.

It doesn’t stop something from tugging in his chest at the thought of spending Noche Buena with Oikawa by his side. Hajime knows he’d definitely love the sweet spaghetti and the silky, syrupy leche flan Tita Angel always brings for dessert. Mikha would probably invite him to join in the karaoke after dinner, and Oikawa would have no qualms at all with grabbing the mic and stealing everyone’s attention, even though his voice isn’t even that good to begin with—just loud and dramatic. He’d probably drag Hajime to join in on some dumb duet, too, just to embarrass him, but also because they did everything together, no matter what.

Lost in his daydream, Hajime doesn’t even realize he hadn’t been able to answer until Oikawa lets out a petulant huff.

“Fine. I’ll just ask Okaasan myself.”

Hajime grunts. “I don’t even know when we’re going back to the Philippines next.” The admission somewhat disheartens him—he thinks he wouldn’t mind spending every Christmas in the Philippines if he could, if not for the fact that he'd have to spend it away from Oikawa.

Oikawa, of course, picks up on his dejection immediately. “I’m sure it won’t be too long,” he says tentatively.

“Yeah. Hope so.”

“Just make sure to come back, okay?” Oikawa says, tone teasing. But there’s something about his grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, fogged over like the house windows in the winter air.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You seem to like it there,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve never been outside Japan, so I wouldn’t really know what it’s like.”

“Uh huh.”

“But if I had the chance to see some beautiful place like, I don’t know, South America, maybe I’d want to move there too, you know?”

“You think I’d move to the Philippines?”

Oikawa falls silent at that. “I guess,” he admits. “It’s Okaasan’s home country, right?”

“Right.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen for a split second before he tries to pick up the pieces of his broken expression, holding them together with a plasticky smile. “I’m always right.”

Hajime bumps his shoulder, enough for Oikawa to make a small noise of complaint—but not enough, never enough to hurt him. “You’re wrong about me moving, though.”

“I know,” Oikawa breathes. “It’s silly. Sorry. I just—”

Hajime wraps his arms around him. Oikawa goes still for a moment before he embraces Hajime in return, his chin slotting perfectly into the space above Hajime’s shoulder.

“I don’t know how you expected me to tell you the flight was delayed, dummy,” Hajime murmurs. He can’t see Oikawa’s face, but he imagines it might look a bit softer, now. He focuses instead on the melting snow slowly sliding off the branches, and decides, with some newfound spark of determination, to not let the boy in his arms slip away so easily. “But I’m sorry I didn’t find a way.”

Oikawa sniffles. “You could use Okaasan’s Nokia next time and ask her to text my mom.”

“Okay,” Hajime says. “Okay. But you gotta remind her to charge it, and I’ll remind Mama too. You know how forgetful they both are.”

A laugh. “Yeah.” And then, “I was scared, Iwa-chan. I was scared you weren’t coming back.”

Hajime slowly extracts himself from the embrace to look Oikawa dead in the eye as he proclaims: “You’re stupid.”

“Hey! That’s a bad word! I’m telling Okaasan!”

“You’re a dummy,” Hajime amends. “Why wouldn’t I come back? Did you think I’d just leave you and the rest of our team like that? Who’s going to spike all your tosses after everyone else goes home?”

Oikawa smiles at him weakly. “I think Iwa-chan could play volleyball anywhere if he wanted to.”

“But I want to play with you,” Hajime tells him earnestly.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Do you think we could play right now?”

“In the snow?”

“Why not?” Oikawa grins. “You can’t do that in the Philippines.”

Hajime snorts. “Definitely not. You can play beach volleyball there, though.”

“Well,” Oikawa smirks, “Guess you’ll have to bring me with you next time, then, since there’s no one else Iwa-chan wants to play with.”

They don’t end up playing any volleyball after that, because Hajime grabs a handful of snow and lobs it at Oikawa’s forehead, and Oikawa wouldn’t be Oikawa if he didn’t retaliate with ten times more fervor, laughing with his teeth bared, grin bright enough to seem blinding.

17,886 KILOMETERS, PRESENT DAY (2019)

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you. Goodbye, Iwa-chan.”

The line gets cut off with a beep before Hajime has a chance to protest.

He stares at his phone for a good three seconds, the enthusiastic green bubbles of Oikawa’s earlier messages glaring back at him tauntingly, before he lets his head fall onto the table with a groan. The plastic covering sticks uncomfortably to his cheek. He barely registers the creak of footsteps up the stairs—the noisy wooden plank on the fourth step finally got repaired after all—before the sharp tap of a foldable fan on his shoulder makes him jerk.

A laugh. "Nagulat ka?”¹

“‘Di naman,” Hajime forms the words in his mouth, and finds that they’re still able to take shape somewhat easily. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “‘Musta?”²

Mikha’s expression, Hajime finds, has changed little over the years. Sure, she may have stopped being taller than Hajime after they both entered their teens, and she may have also chosen to finally let her natural curls flow instead of having them rebonded on a regular basis, but the sparkle in her dark eyes and the half-pursed, half-curved smile of amusement on her lips are as constant as ever.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Mikha says, plopping onto the very edge of the seat beside Hajime’s—a smart move considering how bare, sweaty legs on a Monobloc usually make for a very uncomfortable sensation. Hajime knows this, which is why he’d elected to borrow basketball shorts from JT to wear instead of his usual, shorter workout ones. Unfortunately, it didn’t really make much of a difference in the stifling heat. “Law school and stuff.”

She unfolds the fan, angling her shoulders so that the flapping motion sends little puffs of air towards Hajime’s face. He nods at her gratefully.

“By the way, did I tell you I decided to shift from accounting in college?”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. I took up journalism instead,” Mikha grins. “The enlistment process was hell, but at least I actually enjoyed my subjects. Also, Kat and I broke up after graduation.”

“That’s great—wait, what?” Hajime frowns, even though he’s not exactly sure which Kat his cousin is talking about. There seemed to be a surplus of them in Mikha’s various social circles, even back in high school. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mikha waves a hand. “We’re still roommates, so it’s chill.”

Hajime’s frown deepens. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Mikha shrugs. “It’s a good idea for my bank account. And for, y’know, my personal needs…”

“No way.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You sure you two are really broken up?”

Mikha only winks in response. “How about you? Staying strong with that boyfriend of yours?”

Hajime colors. “Oikawa’s not my boyfriend. He’s my—”

“Best friend, yeah, yeah,” she snorts. “Bespren lang daw,”³ she mutters under her breath.

He pretends not to hear anything. “Yeah, well. Except for the fact that he just hung up on me because I told him I’m still gonna be in the Philippines when he plans to go back to Japan next week, we’re fine.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Hajime replies gravely.

“That sucks,” Mikha says.

“It does,” Hajime agrees miserably. “It really does. And the stupid thing is he’s probably partly upset because he thinks that I’m not upset over the shit timing, which I am, but I’m not gonna complain because I’m not an overgrown brat like he is.”

Saying it out loud almost makes him feel bad, because he knows Oikawa’s upset for a valid reason: they had talked about his return to Japan months before, and he’d planned to get tickets when the price graph hit its annual low. It would have been a completely different story if Oikawa had already booked his flights. But too many things had aligned outside of their plans: Hajime’s first vacation from his new job as a trainer for the Adlers, the limited time airline promotions, and finally, Mama’s retirement to seal the deal.

And so he’d booked the last-minute tickets for a two-week trip to the Philippines with his mother. He’d texted Oikawa about it, not thinking it would be a big deal, until he’d landed at Ninoy Aquino International Airport with about fifteen missed calls from his best friend. He’d waited until it was an acceptable time to call him back (just right after his evening training), remained calm and patient all throughout Oikawa’s ten-minute rant about how he’d “been masterminding my schedule for months! What if I already booked the tickets? What would you do, then, huh?”

Hajime had replied, “Oikawa, nobody’s stopping you from visiting Japan. And before you ask—I can’t cut my trip short for you. I’m sorry.”

Oikawa after that had been silent, and Hajime had immediately known that it'd been the wrong thing to say, even if it was the truth.

“Well, I wasn’t going to ask you to, Iwa-chan!”

He’d ended the call shortly after that.

Hajime lets out a groan, at which Mikha raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Either she’s oblivious to Hajime’s internal dialogue, or had simply chosen to ignore it. He appreciates it either way.

“So, the reason you don’t wanna complain is not because you’re actually happy to be here?”

Hajime swats her arm. “Of course I am,” he answers, fully meaning it in spite of everything.

“Dapat lang,”⁴ Mikha scoffs, whacking him back playfully with the now-folded fan before standing.“C'mon, Jimboy. It’ll do you good to get your mind off this whole thing for a bit. Let’s go help Lola Neneng set the table.”

It doesn’t matter that Hajime doesn’t return to the Philippines often as he used to—in fact, his last few years in California had made it nearly impossible for him to go back—his lola will always save him a seat beside her at the dining table, the same one he’s occupied since he was very young.

“Go sit there, apo,” Lola Neneng says as Hajime retrieves the stack of plates from the cabinet. “I’ll just finish preparing our food ha.”

She disappears into the kitchen again just as Princess, the family’s eldest cousin, emerges from the kitchen with a pot of steaming white rice. “Oh, Jimboy! You’re here!”

“Hi, Ate,” Hajime greets as he sets down the plates on the dining table.

“Tangkad mo na!” she exclaims as she comes up beside him and places the pot on the table. “I don’t even want to stand next to you anymore! Ano na height mo?”⁵

Hajime chuckles and takes the compliment, since he often gets told the opposite: mostly by Oikawa (the bastard), sometimes by Matsukawa and Hanamaki (the menaces), and occasionally by his friends in California (he shudders at the memory of his old roommate’s fourteen-year-old, six-foot-three sister patting his head against his wishes). “Around 5’11’’, I think?”

Princess, bless her heart, looks absolutely awed at that. “I keep telling JT that if he wants to play basketball seriously, he’s gotta be at least as tall as you,” she says. “I seriously thought you were at least six feet!”

“Nah,” Hajime answers amusedly. “Oik—most of my friends are, though.”

“He got nerfed by Tita Risa’s genes,” Mikha pipes up. The clanging of cutlery nearly makes him jump as she pries another drawer open to bring out the spoons and forks.

“I heard that!” Mama yells from the kitchen.

“Sorry, Tita!” Mikha yells back. “Do you need help with the lumpiang toge? I’m coming!” She dashes into the kitchen, but not before pushing the cutlery into the hands of Simon, who had just emerged from upstairs and had the dazed appearance of someone who had just woken up.

With nothing else to do, Hajime follows Mikha into the kitchen. It’s even more humid inside, with steam billowing out of soup pots and the sizzle of hot oil in the air. He catches whiffs of tamarind and fried garlic, bagoong and patis, and it’s more than enough to make his stomach grumble in anticipation. He’d missed this, he realizes, even with the surplus of Filipino stores and restaurants in California, because nothing could really beat this: the busy buzz of preparation, home-cooked food garnished over with conversation.

At the stove, Lola Neneng stirs the sinigang in a large pot simmering over a low fire. At the center table sit Tita Angel, Tita Kristine, and Tito Jun. Hajime’s own mother stands across them, an array of mixed vegetables and lumpia wrappers spread out before her. “Ah, you two. Could you help me wrap these while I fry the rest?”

“Sure po, Tita!”

“Of course, Mama.”

“Why are you so sweet to your Tita, ha?” demands Tita Kristine, Mikha’s mother. “You’re not even half as helpful at home.”

“Mom!”

Mama chuckles. “You’re like Hajime’s best friend Tooru. He’s so polite and kind every time he comes over, but Hajime insists he’s anything but.”

Hajime flushes, trying to ignore Mikha’s evident smirk at the corner of his eye as he takes one of the wrappers and scoops up a generous amount of vegetable filling. “Believe me, Mama.”

“But he even helped me prepare turon that one time,” Mama says.

“Is he also Filipino?” Tito Jun asks.

“No,” Mama hums over the sizzling of the frying oil, “but he loves his Filipino food. And his Filipino neighbors,” she adds with a wink.

Mikha nudges him so hard that Hajime nearly drops the half-wrapped lumpia in his hands.

“You should invite him here sometime,” Mikha says, feigning innocence with a smile.

“Let him try Lola Neneng’s cooking,” Tita Angel agrees.

“What’s that?” Lola Neneng asks.

“We were saying that Hayme’s friend in Japan should come visit to try your food.”

There’s a sudden, sinking feeling in Hajime’s stomach as he remembers the earlier call that had been cut short. Vaguely, he wonders if Oikawa had decided to book the tickets to Japan yet. Somehow, the thought of him possibly having done so—without Hajime to meet him there—makes fear clench irrationally around his heart.

“Hayme's what?”

“Friend, Ma,” Tita Angel repeats patiently. The emphasis on the word does nothing to soothe him.

“It isn’t that long of a flight, isn’t it?” Tita Jun says.

“Ah, but Tooru is all the way in Argentina, now. He’s playing for their National Volleyball Team,” Mama says, full of pride.

Tito Jun lets out an appreciative whistle. “Wow. And this boy is your best friend, Hayme?”

“Yeah,” Hajime answers earnestly. “Since we were kids.”

Mikha gives him another kick in the shin. This time, Hajime lets out a yelp, earning them both a hard stare from his mother.

“Ah, just go outside and entertain your cousins,” she finally sighs. “The two of you are too slow. Jun, Angel, Ate Kris, come on and help me instead.”

Hajime makes sure that Mikha sees the stink eye he shoots her before heading over to the sink to wash his hands, the smell of garlic lingering on his fingers.

The dining room is much fuller when they emerge from the kitchen, with more of their relatives appearing to have arrived. Hajime goes around to greet them before settling down, his usual seat the only open one remaining.

He gently taps thirteen-year-old Sophia (a teenager! Hajime swears she’d only been in kindergarten the last time he’d seen her) in the chair beside him and asks her, “Sophia, who usually sits here when I’m away?”

“Whoever Lola wants to interrogate the most,” Sophia answers bluntly. “Good luck with the interview, Kuya.”

“Bro,” says Simon from across the table, “she made me sit there when Mom told her that I got a new tattoo.” He shudders, just as Mikha and a couple of others burst into snickers. “Kinabahan talaga ako, pisting yawa.”⁶

“Huy!” Princess hisses. “May mga bata!”⁷

“Ay, sorry.” Simon flashes an apologetic smile at Jasmine, the youngest in the table, who responds with nothing but an unimpressed blink.

“How’d it go?” Hajime asks.

“Well, on the bright side—”

“On the bright side?” Mikha repeats, voice pinched and pitched up by an octave.

“Shut up,” Simon hisses, earning him a sour look from Mikha. “Lola wasn’t actually upset about the fact that I had a tattoo. It was more about the, uh, design.” He rolls up his sleeve to reveal a beautifully inked white and yellow flower.

“That’s actually really cool,” Hajime says.

“Thanks,” Simon says sheepishly, “but apparently it’s the wrong number of petals for a kalachuchi flower. It’s supposed to be five, not six.”

“Ang shunga, diba?”⁸

“Mikha!” Princess snaps again, hands flying to cover Jasmine’s ears.

"It's true!"

Hajime resists the urge to laugh. “Well… it’s not a bad-looking tattoo.”

“Oh, by the way, Kuya,” JT pipes up, “handa ka na bang tanungin kung may girlfriend ka na?”⁹

“Ooh, do you?”

“For sure,” Princess scoffs. “Crush ng bayan ‘yan eh.”¹⁰

Hajime flushes. “Ah, I’m single, actually.”

Everyone gapes at him in shock, except for Mikha, who smirks at him knowingly.

“Weh?!”

“‘Di nga!” ¹¹

Hajime folds his arms together. Before he can say anything more, the kitchen door swings open again, and the dining room falls silent in near reverence as the mouthwatering aroma of sinigang fills the air.

“Ay, ay, ay. Why are you all pestering Hayme about his love life? Have any of you even congratulated him for finishing his Master’s degree?”

The announcement is met with whoops, claps, and cheers as the steaming pot of sour and savory soup goes to the center of the table, right in front of Hajime, and it's better than any other congratulations he can think of. A moment later, Lola Neneng settles down beside him with a proud smile. “For you, Hayme. Your favorite.”

“Thank you po, Lola.”

“Anything for you, apo,” she says. “Now, tell us all about school in the States, eh?”

8,927 KILOMETERS, SIX YEARS AGO

Hajime spends his first night in California sprawled out on a couch in a house in Long Beach, watching the whirr of the ceiling fan above him. The exhaustion from a day’s worth of travel weighs down on his limbs, surrounding the hollow ache in his chest shaped a lot like his childhood home.

“Can’t sleep?”

He sits up almost immediately, the thin Power Rangers blanket draped over his legs quickly sliding off and pooling on the floor. He bends to pick it up right away before facing the woman in front of the staircase, her tiny silhouette backlit by the dim light coming from the second floor.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, inclining his head in apology. “I guess it's jetlag? I slept a lot on the plane. The couch is very comfortable, though.”

“Oh, I know,” Tita Jocel replies with a small smile. “Miguel falls asleep there all the time after school.”

She pads towards the kitchen. A shard of light escapes the refrigerator as she retrieves a pitcher of water and pours it into a glass.

“Do you want some water?” she asks Hajime.

Hajime shuffles to get off the couch. “Oh—thank you, yes, I can just pour one myself.”

Tita Jocel fills up a glass for him anyway, and Hajime thanks her again quietly as he approaches the kitchen island.

“I usually wake up at this time, actually,” Tita Jocel tells him. A quick glance at the clock on the kitchen wall tells them that it’s half past four in the morning. “I guess I got so used to getting up early for the school service when I was a little girl that my body never got rid of the habit, even with the change in time zones.”

“You rode the school bus with Mama, right?”

“Her house was exactly one stop ahead,” Tita Jocel answers, a wistful smile on her lips. “We rode together all the way from first grade to the end of high school.”

Something tightens around the hollowness in Hajime’s chest. The end of high school for him was still fresh, the few months that had passed since still not enough to smooth over the reality that he was now going to university on the other side of the Pacific. He wonders if he, too, will never be able to quite shake the part of him that would look outside the window to Oikawa’s across the street, to check if he was all dressed up and ready for their morning walk to school.

“It’s been nearly thirty years,” she muses, “but I still miss it.”

“The Philippines?”

Tita Jocel nods. “I spent my whole childhood there. Indi ina madula, bisan pa madamo ang magbag-o.”¹²

It’s something Hajime knows, in a thousand different iterations, like you can take the boy out of the country but you cannot take the country out of the boy, or—

Even if the team changes, that will never change.

He thinks of a teal and white jersey crammed into the corner of a luggage shipped to this very side of the Pacific, across the equator. My blood will always run blue, Oikawa had told him proudly as he stuffed the shirt into the already full luggage.

He thinks, now, of a sky blue jersey in place of Seijoh blue. Oikawa, as always, had been right.

A question lodges itself in his throat.

“Does this—does this feel like home to you?” he blurts suddenly.

“Of course,” Tita Jocel answers without missing a beat. “Well, the Philippines will always be home to me, in one way or another. But California—I made this place my future, and now it is my children’s, too.”

She smiles at him, as if saying, it could be yours, too.

“What does your Mama say, about Japan?”

“She said it was a ridiculous thing for me to ask,” Hajime says, the conversation still vivid in his head. It had been a little after Hajime’s first visit to the Philippines, after he’d discovered that his mother was capable of laughing louder than he’d ever heard before, but only in the company of her siblings.

He remembers her setting down her coffee cup to take Hajime’s face in her hands. “She told me that—

—home is here with you, anak.”

Hajime thinks, at least, no matter how much he loses his way, he will always have this to hold on to: the sound of his mother’s voice, tender as it calls him in her native tongue. Anak. Son. 息子.

“Ah, Risa,” Tita Jocel sighs. Her gaze lingers on Hajime, as if searching for her childhood best friend in his features. “You have honest eyes, just like her. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you were born.”

Her hand drops to the table, fingers almost reaching towards Hajime before curling again around her glass. Something wells up in Hajime’s chest.

“Thank you for being here now,” Hajime says around the tightness in his throat.

“Of course,” Tita Jocel smiles. “I know this is our first time meeting, but you are like a son to me, Hajime. I would do anything for you and your mama.”

And there again is the welling, so great and immense that Hajime has no choice but to let it spill over. He doesn’t know what else to say except thank you, over and over, because all his other words are spent longing for his mother in a language she had borrowed, made her own, and given to her only son.

“Growing up in the Philippines, you’re taught to value family above all else,” Tita Jocel tells him, once Hajime has wiped away his tears. “But growing up with Risa, and then growing up away from her, taught me that there are some people who are worth just as much.”

Hajime tries to picture a younger version of his mother and her best friend, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, a glimmer of a youth well-spent. He tries, but instead of the wide roads of Iloilo he sees the tree-lined streets of Sendai, and it’s Oikawa by his side, a vision so bright and raw and real that it lights him up from the inside and makes him ache.

“Love and family and home—they don’t have to be bound by blood alone. Love, especially, since there is so much of it, and so many different kinds.” She smiles at Hajime knowingly, as if she can see the string that ties him across the equator—almost identical to the one she shares with his mother, if not for the stark difference in color. “If your heart is anything like your mama's, then I’m sure you already have it in abundance.”

3,043 KILOMETERS, PRESENT DAY

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Still no answer?” Mikha asks, pausing with her half-eaten hamburger hovering inches below her chin. Hajime’s still lies wrapped on the tray in front of him.

Hajime shakes his head, not wanting to answer through gritted teeth. He tamps down the urge to toss his stupid, useless phone, reminding himself past his rising frustration that it still is the only thing that can connect him to Oikawa right now, if only the bastard would actually answer the goddamn thing.

“Kuya Jimboy,” Jasmine pipes up suddenly, “can I have your Yumburger if you aren’t gonna eat it?”

“Go ahead,” Hajime says as gently as he can, pushing his tray towards her.

“Yay! Thank you!”

Mikha makes a tutting sound. “Nako, Jasmine. Stressed na nga si Kuya, kinuha mo pa yung burger niya.”¹³

The smile on Jasmine’s face drops as she looks up at Hajime with wide eyes. “Are you stressed, Kuya? Do you want to have my peach mango pie instead?”

“It’s fine, Jasmine, thank you.”

“Jas, go play first with the others,” Mikha says sternly. “Kuya Jimboy and I are talking about something important.”

Jasmine looks more eager than undeterred at that, looking up at them with eyes that are practically sparkling. “Is this chismis?”

“Marites ka talaga, ‘no,” Mikha sighs. “Seryoso, Jas. Wag nang makulit.”¹⁴

She slumps, but slowly stomps away anyway, making sure to show her pout over her shoulder every few steps.

“So,” Mikha says, “what’s the deal? You think he’s ignoring you?”

Hajime lets out a muffled groan.

Over twenty-four hours had already passed since Oikawa had dropped their call, and sure, Hajime had expected him to sulk in silence for a while, but that never lasted more than a day. It was an unspoken agreement between them, to not let their connection fizzle out with the distance.

Unfortunately, it seemed like Hajime had underestimated the extent of Oikawa’s pettiness.

“He didn’t even ignore us this long when Hanamaki spilled coffee all over me last month,” he mutters.

“Why would he be mad about that?”

“Because I was wearing his favorite sweater,” Hajime grumbles. “He lent it to me the last time he visited Irvine from Argentina, before I moved to Tokyo.”

“...You are the most useless person I’ve ever met.”

“Excuse me?”

Mikha crosses her arms. “What did you text him?”

“I asked him if he’d booked his flight to Japan yet.”

“And?”

“I also told him that I’d kill him if he decides not to because his parents have been waiting for ages for him to show his stupid face back home.”

Mikha simply stares at him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You didn’t tell him that you miss him like a bitch, or something?”

Hajime nearly chokes on his pineapple juice. “Why the hell would I say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Hajime,” Mikha says, with enough sarcasm injected into his given name to make him wince. "Because you so obviously do?”

His first thought is this: deny. Deny, because he doesn’t want to acknowledge the part of him that misses Oikawa. Because that’ll lead him to the deeper, darker part of him that wishes for impossible things like him and Oikawa being together forever, maybe, or at least not having to deal with shitty time zones and exorbitant plane fares and things like finding the perfect timing when they’ve never had to work for that at all, before.

God, this would’ve been so much easier if he were loaded.

But Hajime was raised to be honest, and even if he tried not to be, it’d probably show on his face, anyway. So he sets down the cup, turning it around because he isn’t exactly in the mood to see Jollibee smiling up at him, and says: “Isn’t it selfish of me?”

Mikha looks at him like he’d just swallowed a lizard. (The stray dog who lived in their house had just done it yesterday, so the expression isn’t really new.) “To miss him?”

“To want to see him.” To want him for myself. To want to be the person that he returns home to, wherever in the world he may be.

“Parang tanga ka rin pala,”¹⁵ Mikha deadpans.

“Wow, thanks ha.”

“I thought you were more sensible than this. But I guess love can mess up the best of us.” She shakes her head, and Hajime prays that she doesn’t comment on the rising flush on his face that’s about to turn him as red as the Jollibee mascot.

Still, he doesn’t deny.

“You know,” Mikha says, “I’ve never met this Tooru, but from what I’ve heard from you and Tita Risa, he’s probably as far gone for you as you are for him, honestly.”

“You don’t know that,” Hajime grits out, even as a traitorous part of his chest flares up with something like hope.

“I’m your cousin bestie,” insists Mikha. “I think I do.”

“What the hell is a cousin bestie?”

Mikha waves her hand. “Stop trying to distract me. And yourself. Listen. He obviously wants to see you as much as you want to see him—it’s the whole reason he’s sulking right now, isn’t it? So I don’t see why you think wanting to see him is selfish when he’s already willing to give his time to you.”

Hajime pinches the end of his straw. “He shouldn’t have to, though. He’s busy with training on a whole other continent. He’s going to the fucking Olympics next year—”

“Holy shit? I didn’t know the lineups were out this early.”

“They aren’t,” Hajime amends, “but he will be there. I’m sure of it.”

Mikha opens her mouth as if to say something, and then closes it with a small smile on her face. “You really have a lot of faith in him, don’t you?”

“I do,” Hajime says, fervent. He feels like he could run a whole marathon. “I’m so fucking proud of him, Mikha. He’s going to get everything wants, because he deserves it, because of how fucking hard he’s worked and he still keeps going.”

He inhales. “And still, even with all that, I still wish I could be a part of that. Of what he wants.” His voice catches on the last word.

“There isn’t anything wrong with that, Hajime,” Mikha says, and Hajime thinks, maybe there isn’t, maybe there’s something better for the both of them whenever they’re together, in weighted touches and hugs that last longer each time they meet, if only their meetings weren’t so few and far between.

“I just wish he could adjust for once,” Hajime blurts out suddenly, and it feels like something ugly is wrenched out of his throat. Heat once again climbs up the back of his neck, which doesn’t help him at all because the weather is already much too humid for his comfort. “I’d do anything for him, you know? And he’s also done so much for me.”

He thinks of every hand on his back, every late night call in California, Oikawa’s voice anchoring him to home more than anything else ever could. He remembers every moment that Oikawa had remained for him, even when he was little, waiting on his doorstep to welcome Hajime’s arrival with the snow.

“But the selfish part of me still wishes we could’ve worked out another plan, or that he could’ve waited for me, maybe.” That he could’ve come here goes unsaid, because as much as he’s outwardly rejected the idea of Oikawa coming over to embarrass himself and Hajime in front of all of his relatives, he’d still wanted to show him this: a part of his family. A part of his home. And he’d wanted to share it with Oikawa because Oikawa, too, was a part of his, not quite in the same way, but important to Hajime all the same.

When he finally looks up, Mikha is sipping on the rest of Hajime’s pineapple juice with a half-amused, half-exasperated look on her face, as if she can’t quite believe the stupidity of everything she’d just heard.

“You know, for two best friends, I thought you guys would have better communication than this,” she muses after a particularly loud slurp.

“Me too,” Jasmine exclaims, turning around in the chair behind Hajime so suddenly that he nearly has a heart attack. “But I guess it’s harder when you have a crush on your best friend, ‘no?”

“Ang chismosa mo talaga, Jas!”¹⁶

The thing is, the two of them called each other so often that Hajime had never really seen the need to send Oikawa voice messages. Oikawa, on the other hand, still sent them whenever he felt the need to immediately describe in grotesque detail whatever situation he’d gotten himself into. He’d act like it was an issue of utmost importance (which, to Hajime, it always was—not that he’d ever admit it) and demand that Hajime listen and give feedback as soon as possible.

Phone in hand, he tries to recall how Oikawa had started his most memorable voice messages, but the only one he can think of is the one that’d involved about ten seconds of high-pitched screeching and also taught Hajime to never open anything from the idiot in public. He has the sudden image of Oikawa picking up his phone, pressing record, and decidedly screaming into it, and he thinks he could die again from secondhand embarrassment if he weren’t already so flustered himself.

“Hey, Shittykawa,” he croaks out for the umpteenth time into his earphone mic. “First of all, I hope you know that this is all your damn fault because you won’t fucking answer your phone, by the way. God. Why the fuck is this so embarrassing? Bwiset.”¹⁷

He deletes what he thinks might be Recording Number Twenty-Three and buries his face in his hands with a groan. And then he throws a glance over his shoulder at the door behind him, praying that none of his relatives had been awoken by his outburst. Thankfully, no one makes themselves seen except for a small lizard, which crawls hurriedly across the wall before disappearing through the space between the top of the door and the ceiling.

He takes a deep breath and casts his gaze to the moon overhead, its glow hazy behind a curtain of clouds. It isn’t exactly a quiet night—he hears his cousins shouting over a game of sungka from the upstairs window, and a party going on somewhere in the next street, with garbled speakers blasting a remix of Dalaga and the neighborhood dogs barking in chorus—all the sweet sounds of home.

“I wish you were here, Crappykawa,” Hajime says into the recording he hadn’t even meant to start. “I was really excited for your visit to Japan, ‘cause I fucking missed you, you know? But I know you’ve always wanted to visit the Philippines too, and I would’ve dragged you here if I could. Though there’s no way we’re playing beach volleyball in Manila Bay.” He snorts.

“Ah, you’re probably on your way to Japan now ‘cause you’re only offline this long whenever you’re on a flight. Try not to die, or I’ll kill you.” A pause. “I’m sorry I couldn’t push through with our plan. I’ve already looked through the flight rescheduling options and I can go back a couple days earlier. Just tell me how long you’ll be there, and I’ll go see your stupid face.”

He chances another glance at his phone. One minute and thirteen seconds. Oikawa’s LINE profile picture grins up at him, complete with the mandatory peace sign and tongue stuck out, so achingly him that it makes Hajime feel like he’s been gut-punched even though he’s already seen the photo a million times.

“I really fucking miss you, Tooru,” Hajime exhales. “Stay safe, you idiot. I’ll see you soon.”

And before he can hesitate or torment himself any further, he ends the recording and clicks send.

17,233 KILOMETERS, ONE YEAR AGO

It isn’t until the first day that Oikawa is back in Argentina that Hajime allows the weight of his departure to sink in, watching the soapy dishwater swirl down the drain in the kitchen of his childhood home.

He picks up his coffee mug next and rinses it, pumps a dollop of dishwashing liquid onto the soft sponge, and begins to scrub. Foam bubbles up almost immediately, the citrusy smell of calamansi overpowering the bitter scent of coffee as the last of the grounds are washed away.

“Mama,” he calls, “Is this Joy from the Philippines?”

“Ah, you recognize it!”

Hajime shakes his head in amusement. “I can’t believe you still hoard this stuff.”

“It’s much cheaper than the dishwashing liquid here,” she replies. “And I like how it smells.”

“Hmm. Me too, I think.”

A second later, she comes over to set her mug on the counter beside the sink, then pushes herself up to her tiptoes to press a light kiss to Hajime’s temple.

“Thank you,” she says. “Nobody else likes to wash the dishes when you’re away.”

“Ah, so that’s why you asked me to stay the weekend.”

That earns him a flick to his head.

“Loko ka talaga.”¹⁸ Mama shakes her head exasperatedly. "It’s because I missed you, Hajime."

“I missed you too, Mama,” he replies softly.

“I asked you to stay a bit longer because I knew you were going to run off after Tooru-kun left,” she says, and all of a sudden Hajime feels dizzy, vision spinning like the soap bubbles swirling down the drain. “It’s a shame he had to go so soon.”

“Ah, well.” He tears his gaze away from the bottom of the sink, refocuses it on the Boston fern hanging from the wall outside the sliding window and how its green leaves bob in the breeze. Breathe in, breathe out. The corners of his mouth lift up, in spite of everything. “The National Team is waiting for him.”

Mama hums at that. “Galing.”¹⁹

Pride blooms around the ache in his chest. He wills the pain to subside, feeling betrayed by his own emotions, feeling like he’s betraying Oikawa.

He hears the scrape of wood against the floor as Mama pushes her chair back underneath the table. “Let’s take a walk? I need to pay our gas bills at the konbini.”

He shuts off the faucet and shakes off the last droplets of water from the mug. “Alright, Mama.”

The quiet of their neighborhood had never really been apparent to Hajime, when it had been all he had known, except on the occasion that he’d come back from the Philippines and find the morning air too still without the voices of his relatives arguing over the breakfast news, or the evenings strangely peaceful without the sound of his neighbors belting Aegis songs into their crackling karaoke mic. The rooster’s morning crow would be replaced by the sound of crows themselves, and the reality of his day-to-day life in Miyagi would settle in.

The pocket of Tokyo he’d chosen to live in now was like an in-between of sorts. It was noisiest in the summer, when the windows were cracked open, allowing the clamor of commuters stopping by the curry restaurant on the first floor to drift into his apartment along with the aroma of cumin and coriander. The evenings were a little quieter, his late nights often peaceful until they got too late, since his next-door neighbor had an unfortunate habit of playing his guitar at exactly one in the morning. At first, he had also been bothered by the ever-constant rumble of the train tracks on the Chuo line and the wail of sirens across the city, but they, too, had faded into the background as the weeks bled into months, and Hajime was absorbed into the blur of life in the capital.

Now, the clarity of stillness hits him, like falling from a waking dream, and he thinks he understands now what it means for silence to be deafening. He wonders if this is how Oikawa had always seen their hometown, beyond the quiet safeguarded by the mountains behind them, a kind of stillness that had been against his very nature. Oikawa, who was always moving forward. Oikawa, who had not been in the window across the street that morning when Hajime had looked outside his own.

And Hajime supposes it’s a part of this floating half-life, this constant uprooting while trying to remain anchored to roots spread far and wide, for some things about him to change so much that the quiet of his hometown feels almost foreign, while some things like habits never will.

“Ah, look,” Mama says, as Hajime’s steps take them to a dim shop window, “that used to be your favorite tonkatsu restaurant, remember? They converted it to an izakaya earlier this year.”

Hajime stops walking. Lets the phantom smell of crisp, golden panko wash over him, the taste of meat so soft it practically melted on his tongue. “No way.”

Mama gives him a sympathetic pack on the back. “Shall we have tonkatsu for a late lunch later? I’m sure I can cook it with much less oil, too.”

Hajime smiles, because as much as he mourns the loss of the restaurant, nothing could really beat his mama's cooking. “Thanks, Mama.”

“Let’s stop by the supermarket, then.”

It’s a bit busier in the supermarket, with an assortment of middle-aged workers and college students, probably, judging by the concerning amount of instant noodles and bottled coffee in their baskets. Hajime almost feels like a little kid again as he trails his mother around the aisles, except they seem a lot narrower than he remembers. But the weekend sale jingle over the intercom is the same one Hajime remembers subconsciously humming to himself alone in the UCI dorm, back when he had not yet been able to locate the closest Asian store and had been sorely missing the flavor of dashi.

Mama picks up a bottle of the stock now, handing it to Hajime for him to carry in their basket. Hajime watches as she lingers in front of the row of sauces for a few more seconds before moving away with a sigh.

“I really wish they had patis around here,” she mutters. “I wanted to make arroz caldo this weekend, too.”

“If I’d known we’d run out of patis I would’ve bought some at Donki,” Hajime says. “We can go later, if you want.”

“Ah, right, you went there with Tooru-kun,” she hums. “Did he buy lots of pasalubong for his teammates?”

“Yeah, but the amount of souvenirs was nothing compared to the year’s worth of Milky candy he bought for himself,” Hajime says, almost scoffing at the memory.

Mama laughs at that. “I guess he’ll have to come back to restock, then.” Her eyes are soft and knowing as she looks at Hajime, who takes her words as an offering of comfort. He holds onto them, as they wander past the bread island and Mama almost reaches for a packet of milk bread before shying away, and wonders how many more of these habits are ingrained into the fiber of her muscle, and how long these things stay.

The sun is high in the sky when the automatic glass doors open for their exit, the wind coming to meet them head-on. He thinks of the sun casting a shadow on the other side of the Earth, across a distance of twelve hours, and wonders for the millionth time how different the stars must look there, turned all upside-down. Hajime is convinced now that they cannot be anything but breathtaking, for Oikawa to choose a future underneath them.

“Ma,” Hajime begins, “when did you…”

The question dies on his tongue half-formed. Really, it’s something Hajime should know the answer to, having flown halfway across the world to build himself a place that had grown from the four walls of his dorm room, falling asleep to his roommates’ snores and the sounds of music blasting through paper-thin walls. He’d smoothened out the edges of his accent and made a name for himself with a different alphabet, letting his roots spread even wider until he could pave not just one, but many paths for himself, some of them leading farther than the others, and yet.

He doesn’t think there had ever really been a choice for him, no matter what far-flung destinations he could have chosen to reach for instead. He’d spent his time in California always living in the present, each moment something that had to come to him and something that would come to pass. A journey, before the return.

“When did you know?” Hajime asks again, reforming the words in his mouth, voice cracking underneath their weight. He feels like a child again, but this time the one who’d gotten lost in the vast aisles of the supermarket. He’d tried to find his way home back then. He doesn’t know if he knows how to now.

“When did I know…” And of course Mama is understanding, gaze softening as she reaches to brush a gentle hand against Hajime's cheek. Because if anyone would understand, it would be Mama—born and raised in Iloilo, studied in Manila, fell in love in America and left it with a broken heart. Mama, who returned home just to leave it again, and start anew in Japan.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t think it’s something you just know right away. It’s something you have to choose, at first.”

And Argentina had given Oikawa a choice where Japan had not.

“The choice is never easy,” she continues, as if reading his thoughts. Knowing, always. Because it wasn’t only Hajime she understood, but also Oikawa: the boy she had known for almost as long as her own son; who had made the same choice she had, even if their outcomes had been the opposite—one anchoring herself to Japan, the other freeing himself from it.

“Choice requires sacrifice. It requires giving something up. But there are some things that can never, ever, be taken away from you, Hajime. There are things that you will always carry with you, and things that will remain for you to return to. All the people you love, scattered across the globe like beacons.”

He thinks back to that night in California, his mother’s best friend’s words, and understands now why his heart must be like his mama's—to make space for all the love that existed across borders. Not half, but double. Perhaps even more, now that he’s lived yet another life all the way in California, where he’d found love of the friendship kind—not quite the same as the one he’d found in Seijoh, but still enough to fill in the dusty crevices in a heart that had been spread thin, only beginning to grow around its biggest space.

“Beacons, huh,” Hajime muses. “I think I like the sound of that.”

He thinks of what the spaces in Oikawa’s heart might look like, his map of beacons bright enough to match his own luminosity. Hajime knows he has a corner in there, somewhere. Pinpricks of light in Irvine and Miyagi and Tokyo and Manila, a moving fixed point, one that Oikawa can always return to, wherever in the world he may be.

Hajime takes his mother’s hand, and begins to move forward.

21 KILOMETERS, PRESENT DAY

The sound of a phone ringing jolts Hajime awake. In his first few seconds of wakefulness, he registers the noisy creak of the electric fan, the sweatiness of his legs underneath a thin blanket, and the arm slung haphazardly across his neck, before finally opening his eyes to the white plaster ceiling.

Beside him, Simon lets out a loud snore. Hajime carefully moves away his cousin's arm before sitting up groggily. The pillow on his right is surprisingly empty: JT was usually still asleep when Hajime woke up, leaving Hajime to maneuver between two unconscious bodies before leaving the makeshift sleeping area, which consisted of two mattresses laid side-by-side on the floor. Now, though, he simply rolls over on his side and rises from the bed.

The ringing continues somewhere in the background. He searches around the scattered pillows and pooled blankets until he finds the unidentified phone plugged to the wall socket. He tries to tamp down the disappointment that it isn’t his, even though he already logically knew that the ringtone wasn’t his.

Still, he’d been hoping for a call from Oikawa today.

He looks around the room again, three out of its four other occupants already gone, and concludes that the phone must belong to Simon. The flashing caller ID reads: panget.

He picks it up.

“Bwiset ka talaga, Simon, sabi ko nga ba hindi ka gigising nang maaga eh—”²⁰

“Mikha?”

“...Hajime?” Mikha lets out a groan. “Ah, man, I woke you up instead, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Hajime admits. He tilts away the phone for a bit so he can read the time: exactly quarter to seven. “It’s fine. I would’ve gotten up soon anyway. Are we going anywhere today?”

“Nope!” Mikha says cheerfully. “Just stay right there.”

“Uh, okay?”

Behind him, Simon lets out a loud groan. “Wha’ time is it? Is it six-thirty yet?” he slurs.

“Morning,” greets Hajime. “Almost seven, actually.”

Simon shoots up suddenly, all bleariness gone from his eyes. “What?!”

“Is that Simon?” Mikha asks, voice pitched and on the edge of snapping. “Can you give the phone back to him, please?”

“Okay, sure,” Hajime says, suddenly feeling a bit lost. He hands the phone to Simon, who seems to hesitate before accepting it gingerly.

“Hey, Mik—”

He winces as Mikha’s voice dissolves into yelling on the other end of the line. Hajime can barely grasp her rapid-fire Tagalog, especially since Simon hadn’t switched to speaker mode, but he’s able to make out a few bits and pieces like “we waited for you, you little shit,” “so fucking traffic now,” and “going to be eaten alive by the taxi drivers—”

“Is everything okay?” Hajime asks once Simon ends the call and flops back onto his bed with a sigh.

His cousin shoots upward immediately. “Uh, yes! I was, uh, just supposed to bring Ate Mikha to an important meeting today. But I woke up late, haha, my bad—”

“Important meeting?”

“At the palengke,” Simon clarifies. “Uh, about lowering the price of the…vegetables.”

"You mean... the market?" Hajime asks in growing confusion.

Simon nods vigorously.

“That's a five-minute walk from here.”

Simon winces again. “Yes, I was supposed to escort her,” Hajime raises an eyebrow at that, because Simon was a five-foot-one college freshman and seven years younger, “and then bring her and Jasmine to SM to go shopping at the department store.”

“Oh,” Hajime frowns. “I thought we weren’t going anywhere today.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door, followed by Tito Jun pushing it open. “Ah, there you are, Simon. You’re an engineering student, right? Can you help Jasmine fix her toy car? It stopped working because she dunked it in bathwater, and now she won’t stop crying.”

The sentence is punctuated by a loud wail coming from downstairs. Hajime watches Simon’s expression flicker from astounded to scandalized to helpless before he says, “Ah, s-sure po Tito. Be there in a bit.”

Once the door closes, Hajime turns to face him with a scowl on his face. “So, are you going to actually tell me what’s going on, or…”

Simon visibly gulps. “Maybe we should help Jasmine first?”

Hajime sighs. “All right. Just let me brush my teeth first at least.”

After two hours of tinkering with the battery and assembling and reassembling the tiny plastic gear, Hajime thinks they’ve all reached a pretty solid conclusion: never ever dunk your toy car in bathwater.

“Kuya Mong,” Jasmine starts, with the pitiful look of someone finally accepting defeat, “what about we go drive your car instead?”

“I hope you’re not asking to be in the driver’s seat, Jas,” Simon says.

Jasmine tugs on her pigtail with a scowl, as if she had actually considered the prospect. “What about in the passenger seat? I’m already seven years old!”

“Mmm, okay,” Simon agrees. “But we’ll have to wait for Ate Mikha to come back with the car from the airport, okay?”

“Okay!”

Hajime furrows his eyebrows. “What are they doing at the airport?”

“Ah, Kuya Mark just arrived from Iloilo,” Simon says with an air of nonchalance.

“So the palengke and SM thing…”

“Oh, I just got confused earlier,” Simon clarifies. “Woke up disoriented and everything, and then Mikha started yelling in my ear, so…”

“Fair enough,” Hajime says. “Who’s driving, by the way? Aren’t you the only one who actually uses the car?”

“Your mom is, actually,” Simon says, which is the most surprising thing Hajime’s heard the entire morning.

“But her Philippine license expired ages ago!”

“I mean, I’m sure the Japanese one works too, right?”

“No, Simon, you don’t understand,” Hajime grabs his cousin by the shoulders, panic rising in his voice. “Mama cannot drive. She’s—she drives like a madman.”

Simon looks unfazed at that. “Well, she’s just like every other damn driver in this city, then. Where do you think she learned to drive?”

Hajime releases his grip. “Has Mikha texted or anything? Do you think they’re okay?”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Simon assures him, right as the blaring sound of a car horn makes them both start. “See? They’re here.”

The breath Hajime had been holding comes out in a long exhale. “Thank god. You coming down?”

Simon hums, lips pursed as if trying to hold back a smile. “In a bit.”

Hajime reaches the front door just as the car pulls into the driveway in a billow of fumes, making him cough. He pulls up the neckline of his T-shirt to cover his nose and squints through the tinted windows; he can clearly make out Mama’s silhouette through the driver seat window, and the vague outline of a man in a baseball cap in the passenger seat next to her.

Mikha is the first to leave the car. The grin on her face widens tenfold when she spots Hajime. “Jimboy! You’re here!”

“Uh, where else would I be? You told me to stay right here, remember?”

“Masunurin naman talaga si Jimboy,”²¹ comes Mama’s voice from inside the car.

“Mama, you scared me,” Hajime says. “I didn’t even know you could drive here.”

“Ah, well, I’d usually rather not,” she admits, still from inside the car. “But I can make special exceptions.”

The switch of language to Japanese is so natural that Hajime barely even questions it until he hears another voice that nearly makes him keel over.

“I guess that makes me the special exception, eh?”

0 KILOMETERS, PRESENT DAY

For a moment, Hajime is convinced he’s dreaming.

Maybe it’s the way he’s silhouetted by the sun that makes him seem like a mirage. Or maybe it’s the way he looks a bit taller, too, and broader around the shoulders, like some fragment of the stupid fantasies Hajime always tries to forget when he wakes up. Maybe it’s the way he fits himself in the picture of the only childhood Hajime had ever lived without him; fits in just like Hajime had always dreamed of.

And then he opens his mouth again.

“What’s with that face, Iwa-chan? You look like a gorilla with those flared nostrils, you know,” Oikawa says breezily. “Or should I call you Jimboy instead?”

That just about snaps Hajime out of his reverie.

“What the fuck, Shittykawa,” Hajime says, storming towards him just as Oikawa skips over, arms open wide.

"That's not a very polite greeting, Jim—"

"Don't you even dare," Hajime hisses. “Gagokawa. Bobokawa. Tangakawa.”²²

He stops him roughly with two hands on his shoulders, and the smug grin on Oikawa’s face immediately disappears.

“That hurts, Iwa-chan,” he complains, pouting. “My back has already suffered enough on that cramped ass plane.”

That makes him loosen his grip immediately. “Have you lost your mind? How many flights did it take you to get here?”

“Just three,” Oikawa replies brightly. “Stopped by Amsterdam on the way to Tokyo.”

“You were in Tokyo,” Hajime says weakly. “Was that actually part of your itinerary, or…”

Oikawa cocks his head. “Mmm, I’d say I did what I call a self-transfer.”

Realization dawns on him a little too late. He nearly recoils from Oikawa in horror. “You’d already booked the Tokyo flights. Before I called you.”

“Bingo, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa says cheerily. At the growing look of alarm on Hajime’s face, he adds, “It was supposed to be a surprise, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

“What the fuck,” Hajime says again. “What the fuck,” and again, because he kind of wants to tear his hair out.

But because Hajime’s body is a damn traitor, he yanks him into an embrace instead. Oikawa smells faintly of coconut shampoo and a lot like sweat and international travel. The lines of his body are solid and real against Hajime’s—definitely not a dream, but just about Hajime’s most annoying nightmare come to life. (Not at all his dream come true. No, absolutely not.)

Still, he cradles Oikawa’s neck in the same way he always did since he was a kid and had secretly wanted to know exactly how soft the brown curls on his nape were. Oikawa, in return, laces his arms underneath Hajime’s and clings onto his back, the spread of his fingers a burning warmth through his shirt. Like this, it doesn’t take much for them to relearn the ways they fit together, chests rising and falling in perfect sync.

“It just didn’t sit right with me when I landed in Narita and Iwa-chan wasn’t gonna be there to pick me up,” Oikawa plows on, as if Hajime’s whole world isn’t being rearranged on the spot. His chin wiggles against Hajime’s shoulder as he speaks. “And there was an empty seat up for grabs on a plane to Manila—someone had a family emergency, I think—so I took it, and now I’m here.”

He pulls away ever so slightly to grin at Hajime, blindingly bright, and says, “Surprise!”

Hajime wants to punch him. “You’re fucking insane.”

“I know.”

He looks at Oikawa—really looks at him, from the beads of sweat growing on his forehead to the barest shadow of stubble on his chin. His face is all red and flushed—probably from the heat, but also maybe because of this—their faces mere inches apart, gravity about to collapse between them.

Hajime wants to kiss him.

“Iwa-chan…”

A sharp crack sounds from inside the house, and they both jump apart in shock.

“Putang— not the fourth step again!”

“Ba’t feeling ko nanonood ako ng teleserye?”

“In fairness. Ang pogi rin ng jowa niya ah.”

“Di nga niya jowa, beh.”

“Punyeta, ginawa lahat yun para sa hindi jowa?”

“Ay, ‘teh, wag kang mag-alala. Mamaya magmomomol na sila dun sa may likod.”

“Gaga!” ²³

That night, Hajime gives up the seat beside his Lola for the first time in his life.

“This is amazing, Lola,” Oikawa exclaims in between spoonfuls of lengua and rice. Damn Oikawa and his charms. Hajime can’t even bring himself to feel any irritation—especially not when affection overtakes him at the way lola rolls off his best friend’s tongue so easily.

“Why, thank you, anak!” Lola Neneng preens, already heaping another serving of the creamy dish onto Oikawa’s plate. “Here, have some more.”

Hajime catches the barest flicker of panic in Oikawa’s eyes before he smiles even wider. “Thank you!”

And then he turns for a millisecond to Hajime with a pleading look, and Hajime scoffs.

That’s what you get for sucking up to her, dumbass, he thinks disgruntledly.

Don’t be such a spoilsport, Iwa-chan, don’t you like seeing your grandmother happy? Oikawa glares back in return.

“Lola, Tooru isn’t going to be able to finish his dinner,” he points out after a pointed eye roll at Oikawa.

“Nonsense,” Lola Neneng says. “Tooru is a growing boy, an Olympian! He needs all the protein he can get!”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Oikawa raises his hands. “Who said I was an Olympian?”

“Now, no need to be humble, Tooru! Hayme told us you were going to play for Argentina at the Olympics next year!”

“Hayme...” Oikawa repeats, slightly dumbfounded.

And then he blinks, expression clearing, then brightening as his face splits into a wide grin. Oh no.

“Iwa-chan?!”

He lowers his spoon with a pointed say-anything-else-and-I'll-kill-you glare. "What."

“You spoiled the surprise!” Oikawa says, playing along delightedly with the act. “You really are excited for me, aren’t you?”

“I’m excited for you!” Jasmine pipes up, effectively saving Hajime from saying anything embarrassing for either of them. (He’d been ready to insult Oikawa, but also to tell the truth.)

“Why, thank you, Jasmine! I’m even more excited now that I know you’re going to cheer for me,” he says with a big wink, setting off a bright red blush in the poor girl’s cheeks.

“You’re a, umm, setter, right, uh, sir?” JT asks suddenly, stuttering through his words.

“Yep!” Oikawa says brightly. “Also, no need to call me sir! Just Kuya is fine.”

“Ah, you know a bit of Filipino!” Lola Neneng exclaims.

“Barely,” Oikawa laughs. “But I did pick up quite a bit from Hajime.”

Hajime promptly chokes on his water.

“You okay, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, rubbing his back as Hajime continues to splutter.

Oh, so now it’s Iwa-chan, Hajime thinks, red-faced and glaring at Oikawa as he grunts in response.

Sophia wordlessly passes him a wad of tissue, and he accepts it gratefully.

“Kuya Tooru,” Simon waves from across the table, “you speak Spanish in Argentina, right?”

“Mhm!”

“I think Kuya Hajime should learn a bit of Spanish, then,” Simon muses, grinning. “For when he goes to visit Kuya Tooru next time.”

Hajime scrunches his nose even as his mind races at the prospect, work schedules and timetables already rearranging themselves in his brain. “And why would I do that for Tooru?” he huffs, reveling in the way Oikawa freezes up, eyes growing wide.

Unlike Hajime, unfortunately, he recovers quite quickly. “Tsk. After I went all this way to visit you? I hope you know my presence here isn’t for free, Jimboy-chan.”

This time, rice nearly shoots out of his mouth as he whips around to face Oikawa in horror. “You—”

“Oh, definitely,” Mikha interrupts before Hajime can strangle Oikawa in front of his entire family. “Don’t you know that all visitors here have to sing at least one song for us as payment?”

Oikawa grins sharply at that, already set for the challenge. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, Kuya Tooru!” JT cheers.

“Sing for us!” Princess urges.

Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hope you guys know that it’s going to be more punishment than payment for us,” he mutters.

“At least have a little faith in your best friend, Iwa-chan!”

Three hours, fifteen songs, and four heated rounds of Pusoy Dos later (Kuya Mark had, in fact, arrived from Iloilo that evening and brought back a brand-new playing card deck with him), Hajime drags a half-asleep Oikawa up the stairs, carefully maneuvers him over the now dislodged plank on the fourth step, and promptly deposits him on the floor of the shared bedroom.

“Oww, Iwa-chan…”

“Where’s your stuff?” Hajime demands. He nudges Oikawa lightly with his foot when he sees him begin to crawl towards the mattress. “Oi. You are not lying down there in your dirty clothes.”

There’s a knock on the door, followed by Simon peeking his head inside. “Kuya Tooru’s luggage is in Mikha’s room. She said she can move here so you two can use it instead.”

“Thanks, Simon,” Hajime exhales with relief. “You heard him, ‘Kawa. Let’s go.”

“Pull me up, Iwa-chan.”

“You’re such a baby,” Hajime grumbles, but he scoops Oikawa up into his arms anyway. Oikawa lets out a happy sigh, draping his long limbs over Hajime’s back.

They pass by Mikha in the hallway, her freshly showered hair wrapped in a towel and a knowing smirk on her lips. “Night, you two. No naughty stuff ha.”

“Don’t worry, Micchan!” Oikawa laughs as Hajime shoots his cousin a murderous glare. “Iwa-chan’s being extra nice to me tonight.”

Hajime redirects his glare at the man draped across his back, and adds an elbow to his stomach. Mikha’s laughter echoes down the corridor and disappears behind the door.

“I like her,” Oikawa declares once they’ve shut the door to Mikha’s room. It’s slightly cluttered, with notebooks scattered across the desk and sticky notes decorating the walls alongside dozens of Polaroid pictures, but the bed is neatly made and decidedly cozy.

“I figured you’d get along,” Hajime says, flicking the different light switches on the wall until he finds the one for the bathroom. “Menaces, the both of you.”

“Mmm. Haven’t you figured it out yet, Iwa-chan?”

“Figured out what?”

“It’s our way of showing our love,” Oikawa smiles, batting his eyelashes. Hajime throws a towel at him as quickly as he feels a flush shoot up his neck.

It’s not like that it’s not like that it’s not like that—

Oikawa only laughs before padding over to the bathroom. “Hope you don’t mind me going first.”

“Do I have a choice? You smell, Stinkykawa.”

Oikawa sticks his tongue out at him before shutting the door.

Hajime counts three seconds before he lets out a long exhale and sinks down to the floor, burying his face in his hands with a muffled groan. He continues to sit there, trying to will his heartbeat to slow down as he hears the zip of the shower curtain and the telltale rush of water as Oikawa begins to fill up the pail, humming something that sounds suspiciously like Panalangin²⁴ all the while.

Oikawa had attempted to sing the song with Hajime earlier, half-laughing and half-stumbling through the lyrics and fully looking at Hajime the whole time. There had been something tender and hopeful in his gaze, as if he’d known the meaning of what he’d been singing to him, his voice wrapping around Hajime’s heart and squeezing it until it ached. He thinks it might’ve hurt less, probably, if Oikawa hadn’t already been holding his heart for years.

He stands up and begins to gather the scattered notebooks, laying them all in a neat stack on top of Mikha’s desk, and then searches her cabinet for an extra blanket to smooth over the bedcovers. Afterwards, he picks up Oikawa’s phone, which he’d placed haphazardly at the edge of the bed.

“Oikawa, do you want me to charge your phone?” he yells.

“Yes, please!” Oikawa calls back. “My charger’s in a blue mini purse—you know, the one Mattsun gave me for my birthday?”

“Found it,” Hajime announces. He takes out the charger and plugs it into the wall. A few seconds later, Oikawa’s phone flickers to life, and a picture of the both of them greets Hajime through the lockscreen.

It’s an old photo, with its colors slightly muted and edges softly blurred, but Hajime remembers that day as vividly as ever. There are patches of snow on Hajime’s shoulder and Oikawa’s scarf, and a red flush high on both their cheeks: all testaments to their earlier snowball fight. Oikawa’s arm is thrown around Hajime’s shoulder, and their faces are pressed so close together that it’s difficult to tell where one smile starts and the other one ends.

Hajime doesn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until he releases it in a breathy laugh, cheeks warm and tingling from how long he’d been smiling at the photo.

When he can’t sit still any longer, he knocks on the bathroom door.

“Hey,” he says into the crack between the door and the wall. “I’m just gonna go downstairs and check if the gate is locked.”

“Okay!” Oikawa responds cheerily. “I’m almost done.”

The first floor is almost completely empty when Hajime arrives at the bottom of the stairs, but some light bleeds into the dining room from the kitchen, the quiet voices of his mother and her siblings drifting through the walls. Grabbing a pair of slippers from the entryway, he quietly slips outside the main door and gently closes it shut.

Outside, the night is slightly cooler and surprisingly clear: he can make out a smattering of stars just overhead, and the continuous blink of a plane gliding through the stratosphere. He raises his hand to wave at it, and briefly wonders where it could be headed. Somewhere south, it seems.

Hajime stands there until the light disappears into the horizon, and then makes his way to the gate.

Sure enough, the bolt is only barely touching the plate on the other side, and so he slides it shut, but not without some twisting and creaking. He makes a mental note to tell Tita Kristine about replacing the bolt later. Dusting off his hands on his pants, he turns around, about to head inside when he catches sight of the tire swing hanging from the mango tree and stops in his tracks.

Contrary to his word, Oikawa had to take at least ten more minutes in the shower, so Hajime decides to sit and rest for a bit on the tire: carefully, at first, to test its weight, then relaxing only when the branch doesn’t seem to strain too much. His feet remain planted flat on the ground, much to his amusement, because he remembers pretty well a time when they hadn’t even been able to touch it. He looks up, sees the leaves of the mango tree well within reach, leans back, and smiles.

“IWA-CHAN!”

“Putangina!”

The shock makes him nearly tip over backwards, but then all of a sudden Oikawa’s arms are under him, and Hajime’s staring right up at his face, heartbeat going a mile a minute in his chest. Something is alight in Oikawa's expression, eyes wild and blazing, and Hajime probably wouldn’t have been able to look away if Oikawa’s hair hadn’t still been dripping wet, droplets falling like rain onto Hajime’s cheeks.

He sits back up and wipes his face roughly with his T-shirt.

“What the hell, Shittykawa, you scared the shit out of me!”

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan, but—did you miss me?”

Hajime freezes. Oikawa is still behind him, and if Hajime listens hard enough, he thinks he can hear the thumping of Oikawa’s heart in sync with his own.

“What?”

“You missed me,” Oikawa repeats, and it’s less of a question now than a statement, spoken with breathless wonder. “You missed me, Hajime.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Hajime demands, and then suddenly the rope above him is being twisted and twisted and twisted until he’s looking up again at Oikawa, whose expression is more luminous than any singular star overhead.

“I really fucking missed you, too,” Oikawa breathes, earnest and wide-eyed and looking like everything Hajime could ever dream of, in this moment. “I was so excited to visit you, you know? I had a countdown on my calendar and everything. And even when you said you weren’t going to be in Japan, I was still excited because I realized I could surprise you even more, but I was also scared, because—”

Realization dawns on Hajime for the second time that day. “You didn’t get my voice message.”

“I only got to listen to it now,” Oikawa admits, “because I’d already boarded when you sent it. And then my phone died when I was calling Okaasan, I don’t know how they found me but thank god they did—”

“Was that why you were scared?”

Oikawa shakes his head. “No, I…” He looks up for a moment, at the leaves of the mango tree, the fragments of sky between them. “I was scared that I wouldn’t be welcomed.”

Hajime frowns. “Oikawa—”

“I mean,” Oikawa says, “this is the only part of your childhood that I was never a part of. Every time you talked about your visits to the Philippines… it felt like something special, you know? Something I would never know, no matter how much I wanted to.”

“You wanted to?”

“So much, Hajime. I wanted everything to do with you, you know?” He smiles, the lines of his face softening into acceptance. “I still do.”

Hajime looks up at him in wonder.

“And I’m really happy, because your family is so kind and warm and welcoming, but I guess I should have expected that, since they’re yours, and Okaasan’s.” He’s rambling now, hands twisting around the rope, swinging Hajime from side-to-side. “For a while, I forgot that I don’t exactly belong here.”

“Stop that.”

The swing stops turning.

“No, stop—” he sighs. “What makes you think you don’t belong here?”

Oikawa shrugs. “I’m not family. I’m not even Filipino. I’m just Iwa-chan’s friend,” he says, as if that could cover the sheer enormity of what he truly meant to Hajime.

Hajime doesn’t think any word could, whether in Japanese or Tagalog or Hiligaynon or English or any other language in the world.

“Listen to me, Oikawa. You aren’t just that.” He thinks of Tita Jocel’s words—still clear and resonant even after six years—about love and family and home, and bonds that run thicker than blood. “You’re like… family, to me.”

“Oh,” Oikawa murmurs, something like disappointment flickering in his expression, and Hajime nearly freezes up in panic.

“No! I meant, not like a brother, but—” Oikawa’s eyes are wide now, and Hajime kind of wants the earth to swallow him up. “You’re everything to me, Oikawa,” he confesses, and if there was nothing he could say to describe the extent of what Oikawa meant to him in words, then maybe everything was the closest he could get to it. “You’re home, to me.”

This time, it’s Oikawa’s turn to look at him in wonder, eyes shining so bright that Hajime worries he might be crying.

“Do you mean it?” Oikawa asks, voice trembling, hope filling the crevices between his words.

“I do,” Hajime says earnestly. “You’re the person I always want to return to. And I want to be that person for you, too.” The truth spills out of him in waves, a tide that cannot be stopped from rising, and he welcomes it with open arms. “So that wherever you go—wherever I am, as long as you’re with me, I’ll make sure you belong.”

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa whispers after a beat, leaning across the distance between them, “...are you saying that I belong with you?”

He feels his face immediately burst into flames. “Ugh, you’re disgusting.”

And because there are just some habits that cannot be erased from muscle memory, Hajime shoves him away, expression scrunching into a picture of distaste as Oikawa begins to laugh. He laughs, and Hajime can see every little crinkle of his eyes as he smiles. He laughs, and Hajime feels the gravitational force from earlier come back a millionfold, as if the two of them were galaxies instead of mere specks of dust. He laughs, until Hajime has no choice but to grab the back of his neck, yank him down, and kiss him stupid.

Hajime may have imagined a hundred different ways Oikawa’s lips might feel against his—soft and warm, full and bruising—all of it now overwhelmingly real. But no dream of his could have prepared him for the after: the sigh that escapes his mouth, the ease of that drawn-out exhale, as sweet as the relief of dropping your bags in the entryway after a long ride home.