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Oikawa Tooru has always been surrounded by love.
It first came in the form of a warm embrace, the unmistakable devotion of a mother, and was promptly followed by the taste of hot chocolate on his tongue, always cherished on the colder nights of winter by both Hajime and Tooru whenever he slept over at the Iwaizumi household. It was something Hajime’s mother, Hana, always made for them both out of love.
And, then, there was Hajime.
Loud laughter that echoed, unrestrained, against the walls of the streets, always coming back to them and plastering smiles full of joy on their cheeky faces. Summers spent fighting over the single fan that Tooru’s mother had in the house, each trying to hog it more than the other. The sting of a volleyball against their forearms, the reddening palms of their hands, the illustrious glint in their eyes whenever they made a good play.
When it came to Hajime—when it comes to Hajime, love is everywhere.
It hides in the crook of his neck, resonates within the sound of his voice; it caresses Tooru’s skin every time Hajime’s hand grazes it, leaving goosebumps behind as a silent way of making itself known.
Love weaves together the most vulnerable pieces of their hearts and delicately compels them to beat in tandem to the rhythm of their fate.
A slow dance, if you will, to the soft melody composed by their quiet words, their bashful glances, and their concealed smiles. The ones that the breeze once carried away, those the waves deemed too beautiful not to take.
If you were to ask Oikawa Tooru who his first love was, his answer would resonate confidently, without a single trace of reluctance: Iwaizumi Hajime. And if you were to ask Oikawa Tooru who he is in love with right now, well—
“Shittykawa!” Hajime’s voice is loud and carries a tinge of exasperation, which makes Tooru wince and scrunch his nose before peeking his head out the kitchen door. When Hajime’s gaze lands on him, his best friend scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest, arching an inquisitive brow. “What the hell is this?”
Tooru blinks and puts on his most innocent face, batting his eyelashes and tilting his head slightly to the side, some strands of hair falling to his eyes. “What is what exactly, Iwa-chan?”
Hajime dramatically waves a hand, gesturing toward the absolute mess of bags that rests now directly before the front door of the house, having obviously been sloppily thrown into a heap when Tooru entered.
He licks his lips, trying to come up with a smart excuse, but really, there isn’t any, so he ends up settling for the sugar-coated truth. “Well, uh—our bags?”
Around five minutes ago, Tooru had been excitedly sliding the key inside the lock of what would become their house for a week, and he had been so in his head that he hadn’t even bothered to check where their bags landed after he threw them inside to Hajime’s command while he went to pay the owner.
What for? he had wondered. We’re gonna take everything out of them anyway.
That had been Tooru’s train of thought, but if there’s something he has learned in his life, it’s this: Hajime and he are, for the lack of a better word, complete opposites. Mostly. Thousands of times has he been told that that’s part of their friendship’s charm, a tight thread that keeps them together through thick and thin, and Tooru knows it’s not entirely wrong.
“You two complement each other,” Hajime’s mother, Hana, had once told Tooru when he was little. He had scratched his knee playing volleyball and, while his best friend was in the kitchen grabbing him a glass of water, Hana took care of his wound. “Where Hajime is calm and always thinks things through, you’re energetic and follow your instinct. He’s quiet about his emotions, but you always carry your heart on your sleeve. I think you guys give each other what you personally lack, and that’s a really beautiful dynamic you have there.”
At this moment, as the memory comes forth in Tooru’s mind and brings within the nostalgic warmth of old times, he is once again reminded of the undeniable truth of Hana’s words.
Hajime is tidy, always careful of where he puts his things to make sure he doesn’t lose them, while Tooru couldn’t care less. If he were to count out loud the number of times he has lost his brushes, his clothes, and even his glasses, Hajime would definitely smack him in the nape in that reprimanding manner of his.
“Sorry, Iwa-chan,” Tooru drawls out when his best friend doesn’t say anything a few beats after his previous response. He sticks out his lower lip in a pout, holding back a smile when he watches the resolve banish from Hajime’s eyes. “I just got really excited! Thought about getting dinner ready for you, since it’s already late, and I completely forgot about the bags after putting the frozen pizza in the oven.”
“Whatever.” Hajime picks up his bags, throwing two of them over his broad shoulders and busying his hands with the rest. He starts padding toward one of the rooms and, when he passes by Tooru, he teasingly asks, “Doesn’t it smell like burnt pizza? I’d go check on it if I were you.”
Tooru sniffs the air, his eyebrows furrowing together in a frown, and then his eyes widen because oh my god, it actually smells like burnt pizza. He distinctly hears Hajime’s laugh before he turns around and dashes toward the oven where he put the pizza in, opening it and grimacing when a cloud of smoke splashes directly on his face and makes him cough a few times.
“That’s karma for making me take your bags to your room!”
“You little fucker—” Oikawa coughs again, covering his mouth with one of his hands and waving the other in a futile attempt to disperse the smoke. “I never asked you to do that, alright?!”
“What were you expecting, then? For me to leave them in front of the door for the rest of our trip?”
Hajime’s voice is closer now, coming right from behind Tooru. When he turns around to look at his best friend, he catches sight of the soft curve of his mouth, the gentleness swimming in his gaze that he so firmly tries to hide beneath an idle roll of his eyes.
Then, Tooru’s gaze hones in on the way the muscles of his arms tense when he grabs a rag from God knows where and starts swinging it in the air to successfully clear out the smoke. He shoots Tooru a cocky grin, then approaches the oven with the cloth still in his hands and picks up the pizza, placing it on the counter. His nose scrunches up at the smell of it and he turns at Tooru, crossing his arms over his chest.
“So,” he begins, “was your plan to give me indigestion for the rest of the trip so that you could enjoy it all by yourself?” He clicks his tongue. “Should’ve known all along.”
Tooru pouts, bumping Hajime’s shoulder. “It wasn’t, you asshole! I just wanted to do something nice for you, but alas,” He wildly gestures toward the mess on the counter, feeling a crease settle between his brows, “it didn’t go as I planned it to.”
Hajime stares at him for a few seconds, scrutinizing his expression before barking out a cheery laugh, his shoulders shaking and eyes crinkling in that way that Tooru has secretly drawn in his sketchbook more than once. It’s a sight so captivating, so vulnerable in its own way, and it’s only for Tooru to see.
Ever since he was little, Hajime has tried to keep a stoic expression on his face at all times, chiseled features curved in an eternal frown and his smiles sporadic at best, but that’s what makes them so worth it. That’s what makes Tooru’s heart skip a frantic beat in his chest whenever he sees the white of Hajime’s teeth or catches a glimpse of the tenderness swimming in his emerald pupils—directed at him, calling out Tooru’s name.
“Dummy,” Tooru murmurs, feeling the corner of his lips twitch upward and the weight of Hajime’s gaze on him. He turns to the small bag of food they brought from their houses and starts rummaging through it, looking for something that can replace his fallen attempt at dinner. “This is our summer, y’know. Who’s gonna entertain me when I’m bored if you’re not here?”
I want to spend every single second of this week next to you, is what Tooru doesn’t say. The clandestine meaning buried deep within his previous words, the softening of his voice the only hint for Hajime to catch upon and unravel the truth.
Cold fingers wrap around Tooru’s wrist, forcing him to stop his movements, and when he turns his head to look at his best friend, Hajime has a tiny smile on his—admittedly chapped—lips. He tugs softly at his wrist and Tooru lets him drag him back to the couch, sitting him down before letting go and reaching for the old, big TV in order to turn it on. He crouches down in front of it, presses the skip button a few times before settling on a random channel where an American movie is playing.
“I don’t think the pizza is that bad,” Hajime says, pulling a face when he straightens up. Tooru giggles, then stretches one of his legs and bumps Hajime’s thigh with his toes, biting down on his lower lip to hold back a chuckle when his friend almost loses balance. “Oikawa, I swear to God, I’ll smother you in your sleep one of these days.”
Tooru arches a brow, his eyes flitting from the dip of Hajime’s collarbones to the sharp line of his jaw that is even more pronounced now that Hajime is gritting his teeth. “You’d die without me, Iwa-chan. I’m the light of your days, the love of your life—”
“A fucking clown, too,” Hajime cuts him off with a grunt before disappearing inside the kitchen again. Tooru barks out a laugh and throws his head back, resting it on the backrest of the couch as he lets his eyes wander around the house.
It’s not too big, a simple wooden house with a single room, one bathroom, a small kitchen with a big window in front of the old stove in order to air out the cramped space while cooking, and a living room the size of Hajime’s room back in Miyagi.
It’s not too big, nor is it too flashy, but it’s enough for both of them; will serve as their safe haven for what Tooru hopes will be the best week of his life. The best summer he could ever ask for, with the only company of his best friend who he considers his life partner at this point. His lifeline, the only person in the world who could make him the happiest with as much as a gentle touch.
Back in the car, Hajime had regretted every life choice he had made that led him to this day, complaining about how it was going to be hell sleeping next to Tooru for a whole week straight. Sharing a bed isn’t anything new to both of them, since Tooru is a rather touchy person—unlike Hajime—and he more often than not bullies his best friend into cuddling him, invading his personal space.
However, it is true that Tooru moves a lot during his sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time he wakes up to Hajime’s hushed cursing, words like stupid Shittykawa and hit my stomach with his elbow, the fucker echoing in the otherwise silent room. But still—Hajime had agreed this time, reasoning that it’d certainly help them save a lot of money if they simply shared a room, so it’s not like it’s Tooru’s fault. Not directly, at least; it’s not like he can control his body while asleep, can he?
A tray being placed on the small, ratty coffee table in front of the couch startles Tooru out of his thoughts, followed by a smack to his ankle that forces him to put his feet down and off the table. He hadn’t even noticed he had put it up in the first place. Tooru narrows his eyes at Hajime, whose lips are downturned in a frown and his eyebrows furrowed together.
Cute, Tooru thinks, watching the smooth movements of Hajime’s lips as he speaks—probably berating Tooru. Again. When he turns his eyes to the pizza on the tray, however, they widen and Tooru lets out a gasp, effectively cutting off Hajime’s rant.
“I-Iwa-chan! The pizza is black, how are we supposed to eat it?! Are you trying to get rid of me?!”
Hajime rolls his eyes and shrugs, plopping down on the couch to Tooru’s right. Then, he sluggishly reaches out for a slice that isn’t too burnt and smirks as he takes a bite off of it, his lips shiny with grease afterward. Tooru swallows down the sudden urge to lick it off of them.
“Rude, Iwa-chan! You took the best slice out of them all! Not fair.”
Without withdrawing his gaze from the TV—although Tooru can tell he’s not really paying any attention to the movie—Hajime lifts one shoulder in an awkward shrug and says blankly, “Wasn’t me who burned them all, was it?”
Tooru scoffs, reaching out a hand and trying to snatch the slice away from Hajime’s grip, but they’re best friends, after all; have been together since the moment they were born, so Hajime was clearly expecting this to happen and he doesn’t budge as he lifts his arm, successfully avoiding Tooru’s greedy fingers.
“Iwa-chan!” Tooru whines, jutting out his bottom lip in a pout. He bats his eyelashes again and leans into Hajime’s space, their faces so close he can feel his friend’s breath dancing across his mouth; can see the faint blush that tinges Hajime’s tan cheeks, the most beautiful form of art Tooru has ever known. “Don’t be mean. Share a little, will you?”
“Go away, Shittykawa!” Hajime complains as he presses a hand to Tooru’s face and pushes, putting some distance between them. The brunette giggles, sticking out his tongue to lick one of Hajime’s fingers, and feels the warmth of satisfaction spread over his chest when he catches sight of Hajime’s horrified face. He pushes Tooru’s face again, albeit this time using slightly more force, then argues, “You said this pizza was meant to be for me, right? So, lemme enjoy it! Don’t be selfish.”
“But Iwa-chan, were you expecting me to starve? It was obviously for me, too!”
“Tough luck.”
“You’re horrible.”
“And you’re a cry baby.”
Tooru huffs, lifting his legs from the floor and turning to tuck his toes under Hajime’s thigh. He wiggles them and ignores the laugh bubbling up in his throat when Hajime lets out a defeated sigh. “This is the last time I try to do something nice for you.”
“Finally, thank you.” Hajime takes another bite of his slice of pizza, then tentatively rests his free hand on Tooru’s knee.
For a moment, he thinks he’s going to push him away again, and the thought has a poignant wave of sadness washing over Tooru like the blade of a knife would breach his skin, but then—then Hajime’s thumb starts rubbing his skin so tenderly that a hiccup gets stuck in Tooru’s throat, and he can’t keep his heart from pounding with a deafening volume in his ears.
Hajime’s lustrous green eyes fall upon him, narrow and compelling and even a little wistful, and colors suddenly bloom in Tooru’s chest, spilling their vibrancy all over his body, clouding his senses, rendering him speechless for a single moment stuck in the promise of forever.
It lasts for a few seconds, the clash of their gazes, but it’s enough for Tooru to open his chest like a butterfly finally spreading its wings and breathe in the intimacy of the moment. Make it his, make it theirs.
Before he can even realize what he’s saying, Tooru’s lips move and he whispers, still bewitched by the heart of the man beside him—his best friend, Iwaizumi Hajime, “I want to paint this moment.”
The spell breaks the moment Hajime tears his eyes away from Tooru’s, the tips of his ears furiously red, a blush that spreads all the way from his cheeks to his sternum—Tooru knows, has seen it too many times to ever forget its beauty. Hajime licks his lips, parts them, and takes a deep breath. Tooru knows by the way his eyes roam all around the place that he’s feeling shy. They land everywhere but on Tooru’s face.
“W-What are we, in a movie?” he ends up saying, voice rough and a little shaky. A smile blossoms on Tooru’s face. “Paint it if you want, Shittykawa! I don’t need you telling me every time.”
“But Iwa-chan,” Tooru leans in again, feels the warmth seeping from Hajime’s palm into his body where they both meet on his knee, “this is the first time I’ve ever told you.”
If Tooru didn’t know any better, he’d be sure Hajime was about to explode from how red his face is. He groans. “Whatever. Just—don’t say things like that so suddenly, dumbass.”
“Oh, Iwa-chan, did I make you flustered? So cute!” Tooru exclaims cheerfully, threading his fingers through Hajime’s black mop of hair and brushing them backward. His chest swells with love when he sees goosebumps trailing over Hajime’s bare arms. “I will stop if you give me the rest of your slice of pizza.”
“You—” Hajime cuts himself off, blinking dumbly at Tooru before shutting his eyes closed and looking away, a full, sincere smile tugging at his lips, making his cheeks slightly puffier as he laughs. “You’re impossible, you know that, right?”
Tooru pouts. “So no pizza for me?”
If you were to ask Oikawa Tooru who his first love was, his answer would resonate confidently, without a single trace of reluctance: Iwaizumi Hajime. And if you were to ask Oikawa Tooru who he is in love with right now, well—
Hajime throws the slice into Tooru’s face, the sound of it slapping his cheek echoing against the four walls of their temporal house.
—some things simply don’t change.
🌼
The owner of the house Tooru and Hajime rented also included a pair of bikes for them to use.
“I let everyone who comes here borrow them,” she had said with a tiny smile. She was old, wrinkles unfurling around her eyes and her mouth, a telltale sign of past joy. “I recommend using it to move around since this place is not too big anyway and it’ll allow you to properly take in the beauty of our little town.”
That’s how Tooru ends up riding a bike alongside Hajime the next day after their arrival. The breeze of summer is tenacious as Tooru makes his way through it, dancing to the rhythm that the cicadas set with their song, and the rays of the sun are scorching hot where they fall against Tooru’s exposed skin.
All around him is… nature. Grass, softly billowing to the way of the wind; big trees that cast a safe haven for people and animals with their mighty shadows; flowers, bringing the place alive with their different colors—brilliant red poppies, wafting dandelions, and wild daisies. Stuck between all of it is a small dirt path, the one Tooru and Hajime are riding their bikes on. The still-fresh traces of bikes and car tires carved in the ground are a telltale sign that they’re not the first ones to go this way.
There’s something wistful about the aura of the place. Maybe it’s because, no matter how hot the air caressing his cheeks is, it still brings within a sense of relief. Or maybe it’s because Hajime is carrying his old camera hanging from his neck and Tooru knows that means new memories are about to be made. Together.
Whatever it is, there’s something about it that feeds the vigorous beating of Tooru’s heart and prompts the corners of his lips to curve upward, the tingly feeling of laughter steadily building up in his chest. Long gone are the woes that haunted Tooru back in Tokyo, the pressure of an uncertain future slowly pushing him down, drowning him in a sea of anxiety and salty tears running down his cheeks.
“This is all so beautiful,” Hajime says as he stops pedaling, using his right leg to hold both his weight and the bike’s. His slender fingers wrap around the thick, black body of his camera and he brings it to his face, a comfortable silence blanketing over them both only interrupted by the birds chirping and the sound of the shutter going off once Hajime’s finger twitches above it.
“What did you take a picture of, Iwa-chan?” Tooru asks, his voice tilting up at the end in a singing manner as he pedals toward his friend. He stops right next to him and tips his head to the side in question. “The field?”
Hajime nods, then turns toward Tooru and brings the camera to his face again. Absentmindedly, he murmurs an explanation, “The red poppies really stand out. It kinda looks like they’re embracing the path we’re on, and I like it.”
Tooru scrunches up his nose after he hears the camera’s shutter going off again, this time the lens pointing at him. “Literally no one would guess I am the artist out of the two of us. You say some really poetic stuff sometimes, y’know.” He pouts. “You make me look bad as an artist.”
“Not my fault all you do is blabber about milk bread and how annoying Ushijima is.”
“He is annoying! You wouldn’t understand,” Tooru whines, his eyes following the movement of Hajime’s hands as they drop the camera back on his chest and tighten around the bike’s handle. He imitates him, and so they resume their ride. “His paintings are stupidly amazing but he always has this bored look on his face like he knows he’s good, the bastard, and he’s flaunting his skills in front of all our faces like he’s some kind of God—”
“Oikawa,” Hajime says through a snort, directing a quick glance his way. In the captivating light of summer, his eyes glow viridescent. “You’re doing it again. Ranting about him, I mean.”
Tooru groans. A while ago, he told Hajime to stop him whenever he started ranting about Ushijima Wakatoshi because not only is it—probably—extremely annoying for Hajime to always hear the same things, but it also never fails to sour Tooru’s mood. So, with a defeated sigh, he shakes his head and speeds up a little.
“Wanna race me, Iwa-chan? The loser buys the other a drink!”
“Where even are we going?” Hajime asks, his voice growing further and further away as Tooru’s pedaling only grows faster. Then, he hears his best friend scoff and shout, “Alright, Shittykawa, you’re on!”
When Tooru turns his head to take a curious look behind him, he gasps at how quickly Hajime is reducing the distance between them. Worried—because if there’s anything Tooru is, that’s broke—he licks his lips and pats the handle of his bike. “Let’s do this, Bicykawa.”
🌼
Tooru is going to die.
By the time they reach the town—which wasn’t too far away, to begin with—his legs are burning with the strain. His breathing is so uneven that he feels an embarrassing blush creeping up his cheeks when he notices the intent and heavy eyes of Hajime on him. He isn’t even panting, the bastard, has always been way more athletic than Tooru.
“So,” Hajime begins with a smirk, and oh, Tooru regrets ever challenging him. What was he thinking about? He has known Hajime his whole life, is well aware that if there’s something his best friend definitely is, that’s competitive as hell. “You’ve lost, Asskawa. You buying me a drink, right?”
Tooru glares at him. “Die,” he spits, although his voice comes high-pitched and breathy. He leans back on the bricks of the wall behind him and sighs, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm and letting it rest over his eyes.
Hajime snorts. Even though Tooru can’t see him, he knows he has a shit-eating grin on his face right now. He can even see it in his head. “You’re the one who made the rules, not me.”
Now, if there’s something Tooru has learned in the years he has spent together with Hajime, that is that he’s extremely weak when it comes to Tooru’s whining and pouty face.
“You spoil him too much,” Tooru’s mother once told Hajime, and his best friend blushed so fiercely that Tooru thought he was going to explode for a moment.
Despite being aware of it, that trait of his never changed. When they were fifteen and their visits to the arcade were almost a weekly thing, Tooru remembers batting his eyelashes and sticking his lower lip out in a pout while telling Hajime just how badly he wanted that one pokemon plushie inside the claw machine.
No matter how many times it seemed like it was right there only for the plushie to slip from the mechanical claw, Hajime didn’t stop until he managed to get it for Tooru.
Hajime only stared at the brunette afterward; stared at Tooru’s silly and wobbly smile as if it was the best reward he could ever get, then he turned around and started walking toward a different game between huffs of, “You’re so annoying. Why am I even friends with you?”
Another occasion was when they were slightly older, around seventeen, and Tooru wanted to go to his first, proper party but was too shy to go alone—yes, Oikawa Tooru was once shy. He sat on Hajime’s bed and stared at his best friend for hours, whining about how much he wanted to go and purposefully pretending not to hear Hajime’s—negative—replies.
“Then go with Hanamaki or something, you know I don’t like parties.”
“But Iwa-chan,” Tooru cried as he stood up and padded toward Hajime, who was sitting on his chair and doing his homework, “Hanamaki isn’t you. He’ll probably just, I dunno, dump me the second we get there! It has to be you.” He pouted, petulant, and crossed his arms over his chest. When Hajime turned to look at him with an empty expression, Tooru blinked at him and discreetly tucked his chin into his chest to give him his best puppy eyes. “Please, Iwa-chan. Only this once.”
Hajime simply stared at him, as if pondering over the choices he had left, then let out a defeated sigh and lifted his index finger. He glared at Tooru as he said, “Only this once. This is not happening again.”
Tooru let out a happy squeak then threw himself into his arms. And, while Hajime pretended to be angry at him, Tooru still heard the soft snort that he let out and the tenderness lacing his words when he added, “You’re so dramatic, Shittykawa.”
All this means that it’s probably no surprise to Hajime when Tooru puts on his best kicked-puppy performance today and murmurs dejectedly, voice laced with gloom, “But Iwa-chan, I am so broke… If I bought the drinks for us, I’d only have 300 yen left.”
He watches as Hajime blinks at him, expression unchanging. The marigold rays of the sun catch in his eyes as the afternoon falls upon them, gentle and beautiful and unforgettable in a way that only Hajime could ever be. Then, he huffs and flicks Tooru’s forehead, eliciting a very real whine to escape from the brunette’s throat.
Hajime turns to walk toward the small bar in front of them after parking the bike on the bicycle racks. “I know what you’re doing, Oikawa, and it’s not gonna work this time. Go buy me a cold beer. I won.”
“So mean, Iwa-chan.”
“And you’re a brat.”
Tooru licks his lips, watching his best friend’s back as he sits on one of the outdoor chairs belonging to the small bar they had picked, a rounded and old table in front of him. Tooru merely watches the way sweat drips down Hajime’s nape and into his shirt, which is clinging to his skin like it never wants to let go of him. In all honestly, Tooru kinda gets it. If he could, he would never let go either.
The knowledge that Hajime is actually very capable of denying Tooru’s requests no matter how much he whines or pouts about them sits heavy on his mind, though, as he follows closely behind him and walks into the bar, letting out a relieved sigh when cold air hits his face.
Because then, that means that Tooru’s mother was right and Hajime has always been spoiling Tooru solely because he wanted to, not because he wasn’t able to say no to him. The mere idea has wild butterflies feverishly batting their wings in his stomach as he remembers the glowing color of Hajime’s eyes when he looked at him a few minutes ago, the poorly hidden amusement beneath the faint quirk of his brow as Tooru whined about being broke.
“Two cold beers, please. Thank you,” Tooru tells the man behind the counter. He runs a hand through his hair and fishes his small pouch from the pocket of his shorts.
Once he has paid for their drinks, he takes a moment to longingly stare at its insides. He didn’t lie before; after paying his half of the price for the house plus their weekly food expenses, Tooru has practically been left with nothing but a few yen to spend.
“So,” Hajime begins when Tooru unceremoniously drops himself on the chair in front of him. The plastic it’s made of is uncomfortably hot against his thighs and he grimaces. “What’s our next plan?”
Tooru sighs, opening his can of beer and gulping down a big chunk of it in one go. Hajime snorts, shaking his head, but says nothing. “I don’t know. It’s so nice here, I never want to go back to Tokyo. We could literally spend the rest of the day walking around and I’d be the happiest dude on earth.”
“That’d be because I’m by your side,” Hajime teases right as Tooru feels the cold touch of a shoe hit his calf. He uses one of his feet to push him away, then huffs when Hajime doesn’t relent and starts softly hitting him with both of his legs.
It’s something they’ve done since they were little kids; tease each other with touches a little too rough, words a little too sharp but glares a little too soft to carry any real malice within. It’s part of who they are, part of what makes their friendship theirs and only theirs. There are more than a few sketches of those moments waiting unfinished in Tooru’s sketchbook, too.
Moments that come to mind when he less expects them to, like that time when Tooru was reading a book and, somewhere in the middle of getting lost between the lines and actually paying attention to what he was reading, he remembered the day Hajime had called him out of his house only to be waiting for him with a hose in hand, ready to leave Tooru soaking wet in the middle of autumn.
It had spurred them to start a water fight, the skies smearing red and orange and purple with the vibrancy of their laughter, the sound of love bashfully hidden underneath empty insults and even emptier threats.
“Stop it, Iwa-chan! You’re gonna—” Tooru giggles, snapping out of his reverie when the sole of one of Hajime’s shoes ends up directly against one of his own and they both push, their chairs awkwardly supporting their weights only on their back legs. The front ones hover in the air and, faintly, Tooru prays that the bar owner doesn’t see them and kicks them out.
The giggle he lets out is ugly and unrestrained, bordering the edge of childish, but Hajime’s smile only widens at the sound of it. His front teeth poke his lower lip, his gaze glinting with so much fondness that Tooru can almost feel it wrapping around him, embracing his heart with an intimate confirmation of something. “Dumbass, you’re gonna make me fall!” Tooru manages to croak out, suddenly very aware of the increasing heat on his cheeks and the uneven beating of his heart echoing in his ears.
“Hey, Oikawa,” Hajime softly calls with a lazy smirk teasing his lips, completely ignoring Tooru’s complaint, and oh no, he’s speaking in that tone he only ever uses when he’s about to get back at Tooru for something. Eyes wide, the brunette peeks at his friend like a deer caught in the headlights; hums in acknowledgment, bringing his beer to his mouth to take a sip. “Did I make you flustered?”
Tooru chokes, coughing and covering his mouth with his hand to avoid embarrassing himself further and spitting out the beer all over the table. Hajime puts his foot down then, which makes the front legs of Tooru’s chair hit the cobblestone floor with a loud thud and his body shake with the impact.
Still coughing, Tooru points an accusing finger at Hajime, who is very openly laughing at him, and kicks his shin. “You—You’re horrible! I can’t believe you had me here thinking you were all nice and shy for twenty-two years and yet you pull his on me now—”
Hajime’s laugh cuts him off, clear and melodic and oh so beautiful. It’s not the first time Tooru hears it, nor is it going to be the last one—but every time Hajime laughs, every time he all but lets out a soft chuckle and Tooru is the reason behind it, he feels unbelievably happy.
His heart starts beating in a frantic way, almost as if it had never really been alive until that very moment; Tooru’s resolve to keep up his indignant act melts in his tongue and it tastes sweet. Tastes like gratitude, like joy and unrestrained fondness, and Tooru basks on it.
God, he loves Iwaizumi Hajime so, so much he can’t even truly fathom it himself yet.
“You know, Iwa-chan?”
Hajime blankly stares at him with the ghost of a smile playfully hanging from the corners of his lips. He brings his can of beer to his lips, taking a loud sip. “You’re about to say something cheesy again, aren’t you?”
“I—” Tooru blushes, avoiding his best friend’s eyes and fixing his gaze on his own hands as he starts drawing invisible patterns on the moist surface of the can. “Well, maybe! I can’t help it, alright. It’s just, this whole place is really beautiful, but, um—”
“If you say it’s more beautiful because you’re with me, I’m kicking you out of the house,” Hajime warns, pointing a finger at Tooru and narrowing his fierce eyes suspiciously.
Tooru huffs, throwing another kick in Hajime’s direction and widening his eyes when the table dangerously stumbles. That was not Hajime’s leg, but the table’s. “I hope you know how much I hate you.”
I love you.
“I hope you know the feeling is mutual.”
Oh, how I love you.
Silence settles over them then, comfortable as they glance around and take in their surroundings. Tooru slumps back against the backrest of his chair as he does so, sliding down until his ass is almost hovering in the air in a lazy position.
The town looks old but that’s exactly its charm—light brown bricks that look spent line up the houses in the streets; the cobblestone under Tooru’s feet is uneven and messy; the solitary fountain not too far away from them reveals the path to the town square. From where he’s sitting, Tooru can hear the gleeful giggles of young, small children and the rough voices of elderly people chattering away the day; dog barks as the animals engage in playful fights.
It’s calm, the surface of what a mundane, tranquil life can be like, and Tooru likes it. It makes him feel welcome, reassures him that everything is going to be okay with as much as the gentle brush of the breeze against his skin or the sun beaming down at the town as if it was shining just for them. It’s nice. It’s even nicer with Hajime by his side.
“Well, um, Oikawa?” Tooru peers up at him through his eyelashes when he hears Hajime’s voice, especially since it carries a hint of nerves. His cheeks are flushed and he doesn’t meet Tooru’s eye, which only reaffirms the fact that he is jittery about something. “I know what you mean. I kinda want to treasure this moment forever.”
Tooru gasps, the sound loud and embarrassing as it cuts through the silence that comes with Hajime’s words. His eyes widen and his lips part, agape, in surprised awe as he tries to make sense of what he just heard.
Hajime isn’t one for cheesy lines or sentimentalities; that’s Tooru’s job, really, being annoying with his improvised, bad-quality poetry and deep takes on the world. So, this is new. It’s new but heartfelt so Tooru eats the words up, lets them make a home out of his chest and swell it with so much love, so much love, so much love that he feels like he’s about to burst.
He scans Hajime’s face, makes sure to take in every single tiny detail in order to later portray their beauty on an empty page of his sketchbook. The pink tinge on the tip of his nose and ears; the timid glint that shines brighter than any star Tooru has ever seen in the universe that his emerald eyes hold; the soft marks of teeth on the plush of his lower lip and the way the wind blows his hair in every direction, giving him a disheveled appearance.
If Tooru had to give art a description—no matter how many times he’s been told art resides in the eyes of those who look at it—he would, in a heartbeat, choose this very moment. The very person in front of him with his beady eyes and the nervous tapping of his nails against the surface of the table.
“Well.” Tooru decides to lean in dangerously close to Hajime, resting his elbows on the table and biting his lower lip in a futile attempt to hide how happy the words just made him. He gives Hajime a smile that he hopes conveys the bundle of emotions swirling in his chest before tilting his head to the side and questioning, his words inviting, “What’s keeping you from doing it?”
🌼
“You’re pathetic.”
Tooru sticks out his tongue, flipping Hajime off as he kicks a stone with the tip of his shoe. Hanging from his neck is his small camera, one that doesn’t compare to Hajime’s in any way. Its body is a washed gray and small, not anywhere near as heavy as the big one that is in his best friend’s hands, but it does the job.
Tooru holds it up to his eye level and turns his whole body toward Hajime, who is already looking at him through his own camera. With the swiftness of one of Tooru’s brushstrokes, the sight paints a timid smile on his face as he presses his finger over the shutter, thus eternalizing the moment forevermore.
“So rude, Iwa-chan,” Tooru sighs out. The sound of the ground crunching beneath his shoes as he steps on a few tiny stones follows him until he’s standing next to his best friend. Tooru then reaches out to take the camera—the big, bulky one—from Hajime’s hands and turns it around so that the lens is pointing at them, his index hovering awkwardly over the shutter. It trembles slightly when Tooru adjusts his body a little, throwing his other arm across Hajime’s shoulders. “Hey, smile or something! You look like you’re at a funeral.”
“I might as well be, stuck here with you.” The apples of Hajime’s cheeks flush red when he cups Tooru’s jaw with one of his hands before squeezing his cheeks with his fingers at the same time Tooru takes the picture. His lips are jutting out in a comical way and he lets out a muffled whine, bumping Hajime’s shoulder to force him to let go.
“Why would you do that?” Tooru cries out, furrowing his brows and glowering at the other. “Now the picture won’t make my beauty justice. So unfair.”
Hajime teasingly arches a brow. “What beauty?”
Tooru gasps, placing one hand over his chest, right where his heart is, and scrunching up his face in feigned offense. “You’re the worst best friend ever.”
They both return to their walk then. Tooru notices that their footsteps are in sync, the realization settling warm over his shoulders as he peers down at Hajime, whose attention is thoroughly on the aged buildings around them. “Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one,” he says, mouth curved up in a smirk. “Who else would listen to your weird artistic rants for twenty-something years without complaining, huh?”
“You do that because you love me,” Tooru points out, “and my artistic rants are actually interesting. Like, don’t you think it’s fascinating how easily you can see the world through someone else’s eyes by only looking at a picture they took?”
Hajime hums. “What’s your opinion on that, by the way? You know, the whole photography versus painting debate when it comes to portraying the way we see things.”
It feels like Tooru’s heart has grown wings all of a sudden and is batting them in a dire attempt to fly, leave the cage inside his chest and explore the natural allure of the world around it. Get to know the love clinging to Hajime’s eyelashes, see the happiness that lives in the corners of his mouth when he smiles, taste the sound of his laughter where it meets the wind.
No matter how much he pretends to find Tooru’s art talk annoying, in the end, he’s still interested in what he has to say. Hajime isn’t like him; he doesn’t breathe art with every single one of his inhales, nor does he look for it in between the cracks of old buildings, rippling waters, or chirping birds. But, still, spending so many years next to Tooru who does all of that on a daily basis has left its mark on him, so to say Hajime is completely uninterested in art would be a lie.
And, well, he also likes listening to Tooru talk about what he likes. Tooru knows this, for he has seen the look on Hajime’s face whenever he rants about art or aliens; fond, so incredibly fond, his eyes fixated on Tooru as he listens to his every word and asks him questions.
“Well, in my opinion, they’re both valid and portray things slightly differently. Painting is more subjective, since it’s impossible to recreate something a hundred percent the way it is and it’s always gonna have that personal touch by the painter. Just, you know, their essence embedded on a canvas. But with photography, sometimes it looks like you can kind of feel what the photographer was feeling because of the way the picture is taken. In the end, it was taken through their gazes and while it may be more true to reality, it’s beautiful, too; a form of art of its own.”
“So does that mean I’m making art, then?” Hajime asks with a tilt of his head, black strands coming forth with the movement to frame his face. His hair has been getting longer lately, curling on his nape prettily in a way that Tooru absolutely adores. “Looks like you’re not the only artist out of the two of us now, Shittykawa.”
Tooru snorts and nods. “Everyone can be an artist,” he states seriously, relishing the way Hajime’s eyes widen slightly as he peers up at him through his thick eyelashes. Tooru wishes he could count them all, trace the faint shadow they cast on Hajime’s cheekbones with a gentle brush of his fingertips. As a toothy grin opens its way across his face, Tooru adds, “But you know, not everyone can be as good as me, Iwa-chan!”
“Ah, yes, I was wondering when your awfully big ego was going to strike again,” Hajime sighs out dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you know what modesty is, Oikawa?”
“No,” Tooru sing-songs as a reply, throwing an arm around Hajime’s shoulders and pushing his best friend closer to him, giggling when he hears Hajime grunt but he doesn’t make a move to pull away. “You like that about me, Iwa-chan, don’t lie.”
Hajime slaps the hand that dangles over his shoulder, huffing but not denying Tooru’s words. The graze of their skin together is warm and a little bit sweaty, but Tooru still reels on it and, emboldened, he curls his fingers around Hajime’s before he can withdraw his hand, licking his lips when nothing happens. They just keep walking like that, holding hands in a slightly awkward posture, their bodies close together and fitting like two pieces of a puzzle.
🌼
“Iwa-chan, we’re gonna be out all day so please make some sandwiches for us to eat!” Tooru calls from their room the next day.
In front of him rests one of his bigger bags, almost fully stuffed already with a neatly folded towe—big enough for them both to sit on—a few brushes, his spatula, paint tubes, and a canvas that peeks out of the bag, making it impossible to zip it. He has also packed a small piece of old clothing that he uses to dry his brushes, a small bottle of oil medium, and his old wood palette that looks more like a rainbow than anything else at this point.
Today, he and Hajime are going to go painting. The place Tooru has chosen is one he found yesterday night when he went on a bike ride after dinner—completely alone because Hajime was ‘too full to move’ and sleepy.
The idea of making a painting with Hajime has always been there, roaming his mind because, in Tooru’s eyes, that’s something really romantic and intimate. Two people with two different views of the world, two different understandings of color, and different levels of technique, coming together to create a piece that will be only theirs. Something only they can read, a picture only they can give meaning to. An eternal snapshot of a moment, a place where they were happy together, filled to the brim with their remembrances as they almost spill out of the canvas.
Tooru is stupidly excited about this. Hajime doesn’t know yet that they’re going to paint; all the brunette told him was to make some food and get ready to be out all day with the best company he could ever ask for.
“Ah, Iwa-chan!” Tooru calls, footfalls loud against the wooden floor of the house as he quickly pads toward the kitchen and peeks from behind the door. “Add some watermelon too, okay?”
Hajime blinks. “Oikawa, I’ve already packed sandwiches, water, and your stupid chocolate cookies. Isn’t that enough? We’re going out for a day, y’know, we’re not gonna die of starvation.”
“You—You packed my cookies?” Tooru asks with a thin voice, his cheeks growing hotter by the second as he feels Hajime’s gaze fall onto them. That’s a detail, something he wasn’t expecting at all. The idea of Hajime considering that solely because he knows Tooru likes them is enough to have his heart doing somersaults inside his chest, the tips of his fingertips tingling with excitement. “The alien-shaped ones?”
Clearing his throat, Hajime turns around again and looks down at the bag that rests on top of the kitchen counter. “Yes, dumbass, the alien-shaped ones. You always eat a handful of them after lunch, don’t you? Figured I’d save myself some of your whining by taking them with us.”
I know you like to eat them after lunch and I wanted to make you happy, Tooru knows is the true meaning hiding beneath Hajime’s teasing words. He’s that kind of person—the demure, observant ones that take care of you in silent ways, conceal their fondness with jokes and fake annoyance; the ones with the biggest hearts out there, Tooru knows.
There’s no heart capable of holding as much love within as Hajime’s, he thinks as he walks closer to his best friend and presses his chapped lips to his cold cheek. He does it on a whim, really, because while both of them know how touchy Tooru is, there’s always been something extremely intimate about kisses. Any kind of kisses.
“Thank you, Iwa-chan.” He grins, then pinches Hajime’s cheek between his index and thumb and cocks his head to the side. “But, I still want some watermelon. Pretty please?”
Hajime slaps his hand and narrows his eyes at him. Still, Tooru can tell he’s trying hard to look as nonchalant as possible. The realization is welcomed by his hopeful soul, that part of him that refuses to believe he doesn’t have any chances with Hajime when he can look like this, so timid and flushed because of Tooru.
“You go get your stupid watermelon then,” Hajime grunts before he blinks at Tooru’s waiting expression. A crease forms between his brows, so Iwa-chan-like, and then realization dawns on him. He lets out a huff that sounds more like repressed laughter as he starts walking toward the fridge, where they keep half of a watermelon. “Right. Forgot you’re afraid of cutting your arm off when slicing watermelon.”
Tooru pouts. “Don’t make fun of me, Iwa-chan! It almost happened once, remember?!”
“You got a cut on your finger the size of an ant, Tooru.” Hajime levels him with a glance. Tooru, on the other hand, tries not to freak out at the naturality with which Hajime just said his name. As if it belonged there, truly, meant to be said by Hajime’s pink lips. “And you almost fainted because of it.”
Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Tooru petulantly stomps his foot against the floor and turns around with his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re so mean to me, Iwa-chan.”
“And you’re the most dramatic person I know. Now go finish doing whatever it is you were doing. You said you wanted to leave at eleven in the morning, right? Well, it’s half-past ten already and you’re still wearing your ugly ass UFO pajamas.”
Tooru flushes a bright red. He is wearing UFO pajamas, but in his defense— “They were a gift from you, asshole!” he yells across the room as he angrily shuts closed the door of their room. He hears Hajime’s laughter still, percolating through the walls and painting the world in the brightest hues of the morning with its sound.
Today, Tooru thinks as he strips out of his clothes and rummages through the closet to choose something light to wear. Today is the day I confess to Hajime.
🌼
Half an hour later, they both stand in front of a wide spring, their bikes neatly parked against a tree trunk as Tooru places the towel he brought with him over the dry ground. The sun is high as its rays beam down on them, only slivers of its warmth reaching them where they sneakily hide under the shades of trees.
“So this was your plan all along, huh?” Hajime murmurs, plopping down on the towel once Tooru has settled it and sat down on it too. He nods toward the blank canvas thrown in front of them, brushes and paint tubes messily on top of it as Tooru rummages through his bag to get the palette and spatula for later, as well as his pencil case. “I should’ve known from the second you said you wanted to paint that moment when we just got here,” he says fondly through a snort, then bumps Tooru’s shoulder with his and opens his own bag, starting to carefully place the food he brought onto the towel.
Tooru shrugs, feeling a smile dance across his face. Excited, tender, happy. “What can I say, Iwa-chan, I’m a romantic like that. You knew what you were getting into when you decided to befriend me.”
“Not really, no.” Hajime waves a hand dismissively and crosses his legs after removing his shoes, leaning closer to Tooru and taking a look at all the art supplies. “We met when we were born, Oikawa, so I did not know what I was getting into back then. I was practically forced to deal with you.”
“As if being your friend was so easy,” Tooru huffs out, smacking Hajime’s nape and smirking when he hears him groan. “I’ve dealt with you and your ugly ass poker face for twenty-two years, Iwa-chan! I’ve had to master the art of noticing the smallest changes in your expression just so that I can guess your mood.”
“I—”
“No. Shut up. We’re gonna paint now, so choose what you want to treasure forever, like you said the other day.” He watches Hajime’s cheeks tinging a pretty pink that looks softer under the sun, his lips jutting out in a subtle pout as his emerald eyes roam around the place. Knowing him, Hajime is probably regretting ever saying that sentence to Tooru; is probably well aware that no, Tooru will never let him forget that those words actually came out of Hajime’s mouth and not his own.
“What about,” Hajime begins, then points a finger to the towel they’re sitting on. Tooru frowns but remains in silence, waiting for him to continue, “us? Like—like the food, the towel, and our legs, maybe? Not anything too complicated, just—us.”
And really, Tooru could tease him. He could use this as an opportunity to get back at Hajime for all the times he has purposefully made him blush, all the times he has teased Tooru for the raw honesty in his words or the emotional meaning behind them—but, this time, he looks at Hajime and somehow knows. That he’s baring his heart open right now, admitting to wanting to treasure this very moment—the soft grazing of their thighs, the chirping of the birds singing a tune to the rhythm of their heartbeats in the background, and the weight of Tooru’s gaze on him—for as long as he lives.
Hajime is, in his own way, quietly confessing that he loves these little moments together as much as Tooru does. That his chest, too, feels lighter when he hears the other’s laughter; that he’s grateful, thankful for having Tooru by his side in the middle of a scorching hot summer, with sweat beading their foreheads and nights spent bickering in whispers about how annoying each other’s body heat is.
(“Stop trying to cuddle me, Oikawa! I can feel the heat oozing from your body.”
“Well, nothing I can do about that! Not my fault I’m this hot, Iwa-chan. Bear with it.”)
So, Tooru doesn’t tease. Instead he hums, gives him a gentle smile and starts setting everything up. Meanwhile, Hajime finishes placing all the food in front of them in a way that looks very theirs. The watermelon is closer to Tooru’s side and so are the cookies, then the sandwiches are in the middle of them—the cheese ones closer to Tooru because they’re his favorites—and there’s a bag of snacks to the right, closer to Hajime because Tooru isn’t a big fan. A bottle of water rests lying down next to it.
“Okay, this is ready,” Tooru says, turning to look at Hajime. His eyes are already on him since he finished sooner; he spent the last minute tilting his head curiously as he watched Tooru preparing everything. “Now, Iwa-chan, would you please do the honors—” Tooru picks up a pencil, then holds Hajime’s hand and gives it to him, softly correcting the way he holds it, “—and sketch what you had in mind?”
Hajime all but splutters, his eyes wide with jitters as he looks at the pencil, then at the canvas, then back at Tooru, “B-But Tooru, I don’t know how to draw! If I do this I’m gonna mess it all up—”
“Calm down, dumbass!” Tooru giggles, leaning closer and holding Hajime’s wrist firmly before leading it toward the canvas and painting a line on it. “It’s just pencil, so we can easily paint over it later. It is nothing more than a sketch, don’t worry. After you’re done we can choose the palette you want and then we’ll get started painting, alright?”
“This is so not gonna work,” Hajime mumbles as he starts drawing, his hand shaking a little. Tooru leans back, resting his weight on the palms of his hands against the floor, and looks at him as he plasters his vision on paper.
“Art doesn’t have to be perfect, Iwa-chan. It’s meant to be yours, so paint whatever you want it to be. Rules are made to be broken anyway.”
“That’s not what you say when you come crying to me because you just can’t seem to get the composition right in your paintings, though.”
“Oh, shut up! That’s a low blow. Plus, it’s different! Those paintings are the ones I’m supposed to submit with my portfolio, you know? I have to follow the rules. But art is more fun if you just let go like we’re doing right now. That’s the aspect of it that I fell in love with; how free it is.”
Hajime hesitates for a moment, looking at Tooru silently, before he bites his lower lip and shakes his head, snorting. He nods toward the open pencil case lying on the towel. “So? Didn’t you say we were gonna do this together? Help me sketch it.”
Like this, in Tooru’s gaze, Hajime glows.
🌼
When they were little and Tooru first got into painting, Hajime often joined him in the making of his tiny pieces. They would sit on the floor tiles of their houses, pink knees against the cold surface, and with nothing but an old pencil in hand they would brainstorm stories about what they were drawing.
“This is Tooru the alien,” Tooru once said, drawing what seemed to be a human with a head a little too big and limbs a little too long. “And this one is his best friend, human Hajime.”
Hajime narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows furrowing together in a scowl for one of the first times in his life. “Why am I the human? I want to be the alien!”
“But the alien is cooler.” Tooru shrugged and thought the discussion—although he never considered it a discussion in the first place—was over. However, mere seconds later, a loud cry startled him, making him jolt and peer at Hajime, who now had snot running all over his upper lip and tear tracks on his cheeks, with wide eyes.
And, then, Tooru started crying too.
“Dumbass!” he yelled as he threw the pencil at his friend, his lower lip trembling and tiny hands balled into fists. He didn’t understand why Hajime was crying, nor did he make an effort to; all Tooru knew was that Hajime had scared him a few seconds ago for no apparent reason. “Why would you do that?!”
“Because I want to be an alien too! I’m cool too!”
“But you can’t be!”
“Why not?! That’s so mean!”
“Because Tooru the alien needs his human best friend,” Tooru whimpered, furiously wiping away at his face in a futile endeavor to look more mature than Hajime. There was always some sort of competition going on between them when growing up, a silent challenge to see who could get more compliments from their mothers and, thus, be the “older” one—despite Tooru being a month and ten days younger anyway.
“What’s going on, boys?” Tooru’s mother, Masako, asked then as she crouched down in front of them and the piece of paper lying on the floor. She tilted her head curiously. “Why are you crying? This is such a beautiful painting!”
Hajime sniffled. “B-But I want to be an alien too.”
“But I already told you that can’t be! Every alien needs a human best friend. Tooru too.” Tooru pouted and crossed his arms over his chest, blinking his teary eyes and peering up at his mother in hopes that she would agree with him. He liked aliens too much to be the human friend, but Hajime didn’t really care about them anyway, so why was he so mad?
“I see. So this is Tooru the alien,” Masako pointed to the alien on the paper with her index finger, then moved it to the human, “and this is Hajime the human?”
Hajime nodded. “But aliens are cool and humans aren’t.”
“Is that so? Why?”
“Well, t-the aliens always have Oikawa’s attention and all that, so they’re obviously cooler!” Hajime’s cheeks flushed a bright red as he turned his face to the side, fixing his gaze on the empty wall in front of him.
In his lap, his tiny fingers kept playing with each other nervously. Tooru felt his tears drying at the sight of it, warmth washing over him for a reason he didn’t really understand yet, and glee settling in his chest at his best friend’s words because that meant—that meant Hajime wanted Tooru’s attention too, right?
Masako’s gaze grew softer than it already was before, drifting from Tooru to Hajime. Then, a beautiful smile blossomed on her face as she patted both their backs. “I see. Then, why doesn’t Tooru the alien bring Hajime the human to his planet from time to time? I’m sure Hajime will seem super cool to everyone there the same way Tooru does on Earth. What do you boys think?”
Tooru the alien’s world—in Tooru’s mind—was full of paint and creativity, a planet where vibrant rivers flowed in the skies, butterflies swimming through the warm waters; a planet where the soft surface of a cloud opened up paths for Tooru to take; a planet where he could manifest his most precious desires in the form of rough lines and smudged paper. But Hajime the human’s planet was different, perhaps all that Tooru the alien craved deep within but that he never noticed until he saw it.
“Then, can Hajime the human’s world be full of volleyball?”
“That’s so cool!” Tooru exclaimed cheerfully after imagining a place where volleyballs rained from the sky and they could make a home out of the tiny squares of a net. With newfound excitement and crinkling eyes, Tooru turned to Hajime and offered his pencil. “You design his planet, Iwa-chan!”
A planet where fun always came first and foremost, followed closely by the rewarding ache in your ribs after running around for too long trying to keep the ball from touching the harsh ground. A place without birds where the only melody was that of a heartbeat, the reverberation of giggles against the invisible walls of infinity.
And so, two worlds collided. Tooru started playing volleyball with Hajime, Hajime kept painting with Tooru, and as time passed by with the speed of a bullet, he understood why Hajime had been so sad, so distraught, at the idea of not having all of Tooru’s attention.
However, when they started growing older and there were one too many height marks on Hajime’s wall—another silent competition of theirs—only Tooru still held tightly onto the pencil in his hand and wanted even more different worlds to blossom in the paper; he wanted to paint the emotions he couldn’t name, give shape to the invisible, while Hajime stuck to volleyball and jumps that looked, felt a lot like flying.
Volleyball was something they could still play together, for Tooru enjoyed it almost as much as painting, but when it came to art, it eventually got to a point that Hajime’s skills simply couldn’t reach, so they stopped doing it together.
Now, as he watches Hajime’s brushstrokes slowly grow confident and the way his tongue runs over his lips every so often in concentration, Tooru can’t help the spark of familiarity that resurfaces from the embers of yore within his soul.
“Instead of looking at me so much,” Hajime begins, breaking the comfortable silence between them. He reaches with his free hand to pinch Tooru’s arm, “don’t make me do all the work. You said it’s our painting.”
Tooru hums. “I did. But Iwa-chan, it’s so hot! I’m gonna melt and die, and you’re gonna be Tooru-less for the rest of your life.”
“What you are is terribly dramatic.” He shoots Tooru a glance with a cocked brow, cheeky. “Go take a swim or something if you’re so hot.”
The second the words leave Hajime’s lips, Tooru can see regret spreading all over his expression. He slowly turns to look at the brunette, green eyes wide where they fall on Tooru’s rapidly blooming grin. The light catches in his gaze, lighting up the side of his face in a way that Tooru can only call ethereal.
But then Hajime is huffing. Drops his brush and says, “Oh, hell no. You didn’t bring your swimsuit—”
“Iwa-chan, you’re a genius! How did I not think about that before?!” Tooru cuts him off, well aware of how painstakingly prudent his best friend can be. Every reckless thing Hajime has ever done has been with Tooru, because of Tooru. So, before he can refute and tell him to get his ass back on the towel, he stands up and starts stripping off his clothes.
It’s not the first time he’s been naked in front of Hajime, nor is it going to be the last, but this time there’s something hot burning underneath his skin, a kind of excitement he only ever remembers feeling as a teenager that easily twists into a bashful blush, covering the skin of his chest and cheeks. He can feel Hajime’s eyes running up and down his body, perhaps curious or even as skittish as Tooru feels.
It’s a moment full of silence and intimacy, one that will forever live in little details like Tooru turning his face slightly to the side only to meet Hajime’s gaze with his own or the tightening grip of Hajime’s hand on the towel.
There’s eternity in heartbeats of time, Tooru thinks before running toward the spring and letting his body fall into the water with a loud splash. It breaks the silence, disturbs the peace that the singing birds and soft billowing of the trees had created only for them—suddenly, it feels like Hajime and Tooru again.
With a gasp, Tooru’s head emerges from underwater and he shakes it much like a puppy. He cards his fingers through it to brush a few strands away from his forehead and smirks at Hajime, who remains sitting crosslegged on the towel, intently watching him from afar. Tooru wants him close, closer.
“Iwa-chan,” he sing-songs, “I promise you the water isn’t as cold as you think it is.” Hajime arches a brow and Tooru laughs. “Come on, you’re no fun! Are you not gonna join me? Because if you won’t, you know,” Tooru wildly gestures at him with his hands, “voluntarily do it, I’ll just drag you here myself. With your clothes on.”
That seems to break his serene façade, for Hajime’s face lights up as he barks out a peal of laughter and shakes his head, helping himself with his hands in order to stand up. He deliberately ignores Tooru’s comment of you’re old, Iwa-chan, as he begins to strip, too. And oh.
Oh.
This feels a little too much like getting a taste of his own medicine, Tooru thinks as he watches Hajime slowly—painfully slowly—remove his shirt. His breath catches in his throat when his eyes land on the planes of his abs, drift upward only to get stuck on his tanned chest and his clavicle. He wishes he could caress all that skin with his lips, leave tender kisses all over it as if they were permanent tattoos to be etched onto it.
When Hajime tugs down his shorts along with his briefs, Tooru has to look away because, otherwise, he might just get out of the water to run toward his best friend and kiss him, maybe blow him if Hajime is up for it. He’s just standing there, nearer Tooru with every footstep, and somehow he still looks like the most beautiful, sensual person the brunette has ever laid his eyes upon.
He makes a mental note to never forget this image. To get it engraved in his brain forever, the raw beauty of freedom, the vulnerability of showing yourself to others the way you are without all those layers of clothes to cover you up. To bare your soul and lay it on someone’s hands, trusting them with it.
“You’re impossible,” Hajime states with a grin. Then, with another splash, he falls into the water merely a feet away from Tooru, which makes the brunette fear for his life for a single second that felt like a hundred years.
“Iwa-chan!” he screams through a pout, kicking his leg underwater and giggling when Hajime stumbles, falling back. Tooru splashes water onto his face. “You had me thinking I was gonna die for a second!”
“I mean, you did tell me to get in,” Hajime teasingly says before starting to swim around, the muscles of his arms flexing with the strain and unavoidably getting Tooru’s full attention.
Out of the two of them, Hajime has always been the one who puts more effort into his body and physical condition; he works out a lot and makes sure to eat healthily—or at least healthier than Tooru—while Tooru is naturally lazy and absolutely adores junk food.
It’s in moments like this when he becomes extra-aware of that fact, though; moments when Tooru looks at his arms, then Hajime’s, and feels heat coiling up in his gut because fuck if their size difference isn’t hot.
However, because he’s nothing if not the pain in Hajime’s perfectly round ass, Tooru quickly snaps out of his obscene reverie in which Hajime carries him around while having sex and follows his best friend around as he swims. He has priorities, and pissing Hajime off is always going to be one of them.
So, when Hajime finally stops swimming and catches his breath for a second, Tooru throws himself onto him and sinks Hajime’s head underwater, laughing when he feels big hands against his stomach trying to push him away.
He has a second before the position switches, though, because Hajime is stronger and Tooru is weak when it comes to him, so he quickly finds himself underwater and squirming in his best friend’s grip, bubbles leaving his nose as he tries to hold back his laughter because Hajime is tickling him.
“You asshole—” Tooru gasps out when he emerges, kicking the other’s ankle and placing a hand on his shoulder to catch his breath. His chest heaves up and down rapidly, but there’s a smile so wide on Tooru’s face that his cheeks hurt. He’s happy. “If you really want to kill me that badly just say so, fuck, I almost drowned down there!”
Hajime arches a brow. “Thought you said a while ago that you could stay underwater for a whole minute?”
Tooru gapes at him and runs his free hand through Hajime’s messy black hair, pushing it backward and massaging his scalp with his nails as he does so. “Well yeah, but not when I’m being tickled. That’s cheating.”
“Right. Or you’re just full of shit, Asskawa.”
Suddenly they’re close, so close that Tooru can finally count his eyelashes and the small freckles on his face. Hajime’s breath dances tauntingly across Tooru’s lips, smelling like watermelon and perhaps a little like the forbidden fruit. The one Tooru knows he shouldn’t eat, the one that looks so tempting his mind simply can’t register anything else.
“Hey, Iwa-chan,” he calls as he fully wraps his arms around Hajime’s neck. Leaning in, Tooru runs the tip of his cold nose over the skin of Hajime’s collarbones and smiles softly when he feels his best friend’s skin erupt in goosebumps, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t push Tooru away; simply hums in acknowledgment, prompting him to go on. “You already know this, but I always dreamed of a summer like this. And all my life, all the time—” He pulls away and looks at Hajime in the eyes, “—I knew it was you who I was going to have it with. It’ll always be you, Iwa-chan.”
For the first time in a while, Tooru gets to see Hajime at a loss of words. He searches Tooru’s face as if looking for any trace of lies or hesitance, then licks his lips when he finds nothing more than sheer sincerity. His hands settle on Tooru’s waist, big and warm and fitting perfectly, like a piece of a puzzle finally coming together.
The gesture has a shiver running down Tooru’s spine, goosebumps erupting all over his pale skin to open a path leading directly to his longing heart. Countless times has he imagined himself in a similar situation with his best friend, countless times has he craved, ached for a touch just like this; intimate and gentle, so different from their usual brush of fingers or playful smacks.
Tenderly rubbing the skin of Tooru’s waist, Hajime tilts his head to the side before asking, “Can I say something dumb, Oikawa?”
“Iwa-chan saying something dumb?” Tooru dramatically gasps, widening his eyes and leaning even closer to Hajime as he juts out his lips in curiosity. “Should I go get the camera to immortalize this moment?”
“Shut up, freak.” Hajime flicks Tooru’s forehead, smirking when the brunette lets out a high-pitched whine. It only lasts for a few seconds, though, because then a jittery expression takes over his features and his grip on Tooru tightens subtly—just not subtly enough for him not to notice. The faint color of shyness smears across Hajime’s cheeks as if it was watercolor, pretty and enchanting. “I just wanted to say, uh, that me too.”
Tooru arches a brow teasingly, ignores the frantic thump of his heart as it greedily devours the clandestine meaning behind Hajime’s words. He wants to hear it, however; wants Hajime to say it the way Tooru always does. Unbashful, confident, the little push that Tooru needs.
“You too what, Iwa-chan?”
Hajime swallows and Tooru’s eyes follow the bob of his Adam’s apple. Hot. “You’re such a menace, Tooru. I meant that I—” One of his hands leaves Tooru’s waist to awkwardly rub at his nape, his gaze fixated on the water and completely avoiding Tooru’s. “I, too, I’m glad it’s me who you spent this summer with. It sounds selfish, but, um—yeah. It’s… it’s also you for me, I guess.”
There they are, the words Tooru has yearned twenty-two years for. They’re out in the open now, a timid confession from Hajime that he wants to remember forever. The timbre of his voice when he said it, the feeling of his shoulders tensing up underneath Tooru’s arms, the gentle way in which he looked away and the wind blew his hair. All of it is so perfect, so raw and genuine and Hajime that Tooru can barely hold himself back from punching the air out of his best friend with a kiss.
Instead, Tooru hums as if lost in thought. Bringing one of his hands to Hajime’s chin so that he can have him look at him again, he gives a smile that comes out a bit more nervous and anticipating rather than reassuring. “Can I ask you something without having you freak out, Iwa-chan?”
“Yeah,” Hajime murmurs, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek.
“Can I kiss you right now?”
Tooru watches as Hajime’s eyes widen almost comically, his jaw going slack and mouth falling agape. The apple of his cheeks is as red as Tooru thinks it can get, the blush following the line of his neck, shoulders, and chest all the way to his sternum, a trace of all the trapped emotions inside Hajime’s body that he can’t seem to let free. He all but splutters, “W-What? You—Did you just—What?”
Hajime’s face is warm when Tooru’s hands cup it, his thumb rubbing his cheekbones. A fond giggle flies past Tooru’s wet lips, his chest heavy with so much love because he already knew this would happen. “Iwa-chan, I told you not to freak out!”
“But you just—you just asked to kiss me, Oikwawa! We’ve been together our whole lives and yes, maybe I want to kiss you, too, most of the time, because you always look so damn beautiful and the way you laugh makes me want to smile until my cheeks hurt and it’s not fair b-but—”
“But?” Tooru prompts in a whisper, leaning closer and nuzzling Hajime’s jaw. He feels Hajime shudder where their bodies meet, hears his breath catching up in his throat, and God does it make Tooru happy.
It’s like he can’t fully understand Hajime’s words yet. The idea of his best friend feeling the same way as him wasn’t a terribly far-fetched one; in fact, Tooru has daydreamed about it more times than he can count with his fingers and toes. He has found himself repeating Hajime’s actions and words in his head until he fell asleep countless nights, wondering if maybe, somewhere in Hajime’s heart, there was a Tooru-shaped piece too, eagerly waiting for a moment like this one to finally, finally show itself to the world.
“But what if things change?” Hajime finishes his previous ramble with a nervous gulp. His free hand leaves a trace against Tooru’s skin as it moves slowly from the dip of Tooru’s back up to the broadness of his shoulders. When his gaze meets Tooru’s, there’s fear in Hajime’s eyes for the first time in a while. Tooru hates that, even like that, he still looks the most beautiful. “What if we change?”
Tooru tries to come up with an appropriate answer to his best friend’s worries, really, he does. But he has wanted this for so long, has dreamed of the touch of Hajime’s skin under his fingertips for so many years, that not for the first time, words fail him. Unlike the other, Tooru is confident—absolutely certain, really—that nothing will change between them after this. Because they’re Tooru and Hajime, Hajime and Tooru; the person in front of him is Iwa-chan, his Iwa-chan, and that will never change.
So, Tooru gives the only answer he can think of: he gently presses his lips to Hajime’s, nothing more than a gentle peck, and relishes in the way they both struggle to fit their mouths together at first. It’s not perfect, it’s not a kiss like those ones Tooru has watched in the movies—with fireworks exploding in Tooru’s chest and cheesy music playing in the background.
It’s quiet, a little bit messy, and Tooru feels oddly calm. Like this is where he was meant to be all along, like this is where he belongs; curled up in the space that Hajime’s arms have created just to fit him, tight against his chest, feeling their heartbeats dance in tandem.
When they pull away, Tooru takes a second before fluttering open his heavy eyelashes, butterflies flying wild in his tummy at the sight of Hajime’s eyes set on him so gently, so lovingly, complimenting the soft look the blush on his cheeks gives him.
“See, Iwa-chan?” Tooru asks, allowing a tiny smile to appear on his face as he speaks. “Nothing is different than it was five minutes ago; I’m not about to start treating you differently just because our lips have, like, touched.” Hajime snorts at the words chosen by Tooru, shaking his head softly. “We’re still Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Hajime and Tooru. You’re still Iwa-chan, who is so, so mean to me. That’ll never change.”
That seems to soothe Hajime’s jitters, because he nods and brushes Tooru’s nose with his own. “I’m not that mean to you. You’re just a mess and need to get called out on your bullshit.” Tooru opens his mouth, ready to come back with a snarky reply, but Hajime wins him to it. He cups Tooru’s jaw and leans closer, then speaks against his lips, “But you’re right. It’s us.”
This time, the kiss is hungrier and less hesitant. The moment Hajime’s lips settle around Tooru’s upper one, he sucks on his lower lip, slowly daring to move his lips. Hajime easily follows him, establishes a pace that Tooru can’t describe with any word other than fitting because one moment it’s slow and the next it’s the most ravenous kiss Tooru has ever had.
Hands wander over skin, grazing and grabbing and curiously exploring, and Tooru doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his legs around Hajime’s waist with a little jump, giggling in the kiss when they almost fall forward.
It’s such a mess and Tooru is so stupidly happy.
When their cocks—inevitably—brush together, though, both of them suck in a breath and, taking advantage of the opening of Hajime’s lips, Tooru slips his tongue into his mouth, groaning when the other welcomes it by sucking on it eagerly. His hands run through Hajime’s hair and tug, his whole body shakes with excitement wherever Hajime’s hands touch, and soon enough they find themselves panting, Tooru rocking his hips almost unnoticeably but successfully earning him a few groans from Hajime.
He’s basking in the love oozing from their caresses, is drunk on the taste of Hajime’s lips and the sounds he makes—but then, when Tooru’s shoulders sink lower in the water and a shivers runs down his spine, he suddenly becomes aware of where they are again.
Against his will, Tooru parts and murmurs, “Iwa-chan?”
Hajime starts peppering kisses across Tooru’s neck. “Mhm?”
“I’m hungry.”
“I—” Hajime pulls away to look him in the eyes, then breaks into a peal of laughter and lets go of Tooru’s body, smiling cheekily when Tooru gasps and his head goes underwater. He waits patiently for Tooru to emerge before adding, “You’re impossible, Shittykawa. Go eat then.”
Tooru pouts. “But we don’t have a towel,” he whines. “I’m gonna freeze.”
“You brought half the house with you but didn’t think of the possibility of taking a swim in the spring?” Hajime’s voice carries a hint of amusement the way it always does, which makes Tooru grin. He sticks out his tongue and gets out of the water, not even bothering to hide his hard-on, then runs toward the towel and sits down, hugging his body.
“So rude, Iwa-chan. What if I get sick, huh? I’m not sharing my watermelon with you anymore, meanie,” he lies because he knows he will, in fact, share his food with Hajime. He can’t refuse him, and watermelon is simply too good to be missed. Almost as good as milk bread.
Tooru watches idly as Hajime steps out of the spring too, and this time, he doesn’t look away from his body. Instead, he drinks in the way his abs clench with every moment; notices the happy trail that leads Tooru’s eyes to his cock, which is thicker than his own, albeit similar in length, and rests hard against Hajime’s thigh.
“Why the hell is your dick pretty,” Tooru whines, jutting out his lips in a pout as Hajime sits down behind him. He shivers when he feels Hajime’s cold chest flush against his back then, a pair of toned arms wrapping around Tooru’s frame at the same time that his best friend rests his chin on his shoulder. “Dicks aren’t supposed to be pretty.”
“Go eat your watermelon, Oikawa,” Hajime says in response. Tooru can hear the smirk on his lips when he speaks, the gentle lilt to his voice in a teasing tone that he so dearly loves listening to. “Keep your mouth full so I don’t have to hear you spew more bullshit today.”
Tooru arches a brow and turns his head to the side, meeting Hajime’s gaze with a toothy grin of his own. “There are other ways of keeping me quiet, y’know?”
Hajime deadpans. “You’re not sucking my dick in here.”
“Oh? So dirty, Iwa-chan! I was thinking of kisses! Kissing me!” Tooru dramatically yells, widening his eyes and pressing a suggestive kiss on Hajime’s jaw, teeth grazing softly. “See? Kisses.”
“You’re—such a menace,” Hajime grunts, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink and voice a little shaky. His hands tighten around Tooru’s waist, one of them sliding up to brush and tease his nipples, which makes Tooru’s back arch and a barely-audible gasp escape through his parted lips.
The bashful sound of raw pleasure quickly dissipates into the air, getting carried away by the wind, but with one look at Hajime, he knows he has caught it with his lips the way one would catch a butterfly—holding out a gentle finger and waiting for it to perch on it, marveling at its fervent beauty before letting it go because you want to see that butterfly flutter its wings and glide the skies again; because those kind of noises are best when unbidden and free.
“I-Iwa-chan,” Tooru breathes out, watching through half-lidded eyes the way Hajime runs a hand down Tooru’s stomach slowly, lazily, so tauntingly that it’s obvious he’s doing it on purpose, solely to spur Tooru on and make him regret messing with him in the first place. He has never seen this side of Hajime before; has no idea of how exactly his best friend is when it comes to sex and intimacy, but God, he can’t wait to find out.
“Mhm?” Hajime traces his fingertips over the sensitive skin of Tooru’s inner thigh, painfully avoiding touching where Tooru wants him the most. “Looks like I shut you up alright, Tooru, and with no kisses.”
And then he’s gone, leaving Tooru’s body free and aching for more, skin tingling where his fingers had been mere seconds ago. Hajime settles back next to Tooru, still naked, and holds out the tupper with sliced watermelon inside for Tooru.
“Watermelon?” he asks naturally, with no blush on his cheeks and with even breathing. Unlike Tooru, who is very much a mess—all because of the man in front of him, the person who has been with him for a lifetime yet still manages to make him nervous, leave him to feel like his heart is about to burst inside his chest at any moment.
Tooru grabs a brush and throws it at Hajime’s face, whining when the other catches it before it touches him. Then, he snatches the watermelon from Hajime’s hands and turns away, huffing. “Keep sketching, dickhead.”
They stay quiet like that for a while, with Hajime finishing their sketch and Tooru starting to mix the colors on the palette while he eats. There’s some striking intimacy about the moment, some domesticity that Tooru has always noticed came easily to them when they were together, and he basks in it. In the soft hums that slip out of Hajime’s mouth when he draws something he’s particularly happy with; the heat of his body next to Tooru’s, so close and real and there; the feeling of belonging that washes over Tooru when they exchange a few words, bickering, tender.
“Y’know,” Hajime begins after Tooru has started painting bold colors on the canvas, “I don’t know if painting while eating watermelon like a pig is a good combination.”
Tooru rolls his eyes, bumping Hajime’s shoulder. “I don’t normally do this, alright. But this is our painting! If I get watermelon on it, then so be it. It’s part of the moment, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re such a lame attempt of a poet.” His eyes fall on the piece of watermelon in Tooru’s hand. “Can I have a bite?”
“I told you I wouldn’t give you any,” Tooru petulantly reminds him, because he’s nothing if not bitter and childish. He smirks. “Beg for it, Iwa-chan,” he sing-songs.
“Hell no.” Tooru bursts out laughing, swinging the watermelon in front of Hajime’s face and giggling when his best friend tries to bite it. “Oikawa, don’t be an asshole.”
After a bit, Tooru feeds it to Hajime, feeling his tongue lick the tips of his fingers teasingly and slowly. He gulps, then presses a kiss to Hajime’s mouth after he swallows the watermelon. “You’re such an idiot,” Hajime grumbles.
“Mhm,” Tooru murmurs before kissing him again. “But you like me, don’t you?”
“Somehow I do, yes.”
“Good.”
They then turn back to the painting, but there’s a comforting sensation spreading throughout Tooru’s body as they bicker about colors. It feels a lot like true, unabashed happiness.
🌼
After Tooru has taken a shower and it’s now Hajime’s turn, he throws on an old hoodie that Hajime gifted him a while back and clean underwear and sits cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook in one hand and a pencil in the other. The window is open, the curtain fluttering slightly with the gentle force of the wind, and the sky unhurriedly darkens outside, putting on a show as it bids farewell to the sun and welcomes the moon and its luminescent gaze.
Smoothly, as if caressing the paper, Tooru skims through the pages of the sketchbook, a loving smile plastering itself in his face as he looks at the many sketches of Hajime he has in there. Him holding a camera; looking at Tooru with a frown; crouched down on the ground to smell a rose; sleeping with a faint pout on his lips; glaring at Tooru so, so fondly. It’s almost as if Tooru’s fingers were getting stained with love now as they graze the surface of the paper, red and warm and tingly.
Once he gets to a new, blank page, he licks his lips and begins roughly sketching what he has in mind. A moment from today, lingering saccharine in his mind, fluttering in his chest. The sound of the shower running percolates through the wooden bathroom door, a hushed hum that only relaxes Tooru further—so much, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice when it stops, nor does he realize Hajime is out of the bathroom and padding toward him in nothing but a towel until a droplet of water falls on his sketch.
He jolts, peering up at his best friend, then looking down at his sketch—a sketch of them kissing—before quickly turning the sketchbook around, hiding it behind his back in a not-suspicious-at-all manner. Hajime arches a brow as he runs a hand through his ebony locks.
“What were you drawing? You looked like a dumbass in love, smiling at the paper and all.”
“N-Nothing,” Tooru replies, flushing not only at the way he pathetically stutters due to his jitters but also because Hajime is, once again, standing in front of him with nothing to cover his tan, glistening skin besides a towel around his hips. Tooru licks his lips, returning his gaze to the other’s eyes and gulping when he finds Hajime already staring at him, intent.
“Come on, Shittykawa.” Hajime leans in, bending at the waist, and the scent of his shampoo envelops the two of them in a dizzying way. Tooru wants him closer. “You never let me see your full sketchbooks. Just this one time?”
Tooru puffs his cheeks, petulant, and shakes his head as he tightens his grip around his sketchbook. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Hajime hums, straightening up and turning around. “Alright.”
Visibly relaxing, Tooru lets go of a breath and opens his mouth to speak, tell Hajime he’s sorry and come up with an excuse that sounds a little bit better than ‘I can’t show you my sketchbook because I like drawing you a lot, so it’s embarrassing.’ However, he never gets the words out, for suddenly his back hits the mattress roughly and two thick thighs cage his hips. They’re cold against Tooru’s skin, bare.
Before he can even process what’s going on, the sketchbook slides from his hands and is picked up by Hajime, who is giving him a smug look that Tooru hates but also absolutely adores, because if there’s a way in which Hajime is more beautiful than normal, that’s when he’s teasing and having fun—genuinely having fun.
“Let’s see what you keep here, Oikawa. What dirty secrets are you hiding?”
Tooru swallows the complaint resting on the tip of his tongue, aware that there’s nothing he can do or say to stop Hajime, who has always been the most stubborn out of the two of them. So, instead, he lets his body melt into the mattress and intently watches as Hajime’s slender fingers skim through the pages.
“I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable,” Tooru mumbles, taking in the way Hajime’s eyes widen slightly after falling upon what is probably one of the sketches of himself. A gentle blush spreads over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, pink.
Hajime audibly swallows, then turns the page. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” he breathes out, his voice coming out slightly choked-up, a feeble ghost compared to how loud it usually is. “I just—I don’t know what to say, you know? I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Well,” Tooru huffs, bending his knee and grinning when Hajime grunts in annoyance, his body sliding closer to Tooru’s stomach, “I did tell you not to look, but you never listen to me.”
“It’s my job as your best friend to not listen to you.”
Humming, Tooru traces Hajime’s jawline with the tip of his index finger, a touch so light but that still manages to knock the air out of his lungs—especially when Hajime’s breath hitches and he leans into the touch, eyes half-lidded. Tooru stares at his face like this; at the thick, straight lashes that graze his cheekbone, casting a small shadow; the bold longing swimming in the ocean of his emerald irises, which are peering down at Tooru almost obscenely; the parting of his pink lips, agape and waiting.
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru rasps out. His free hand goes to rest on Hajime’s bare waist and he caresses the skin there, rubbing his thumb in circles, squeezing the flesh with his fingers. “I’m gonna kiss you again.”
However, before a response can come, plush lips capture his in a heated kiss, mouths gliding together, slick. Hajime’s teeth catch on Tooru’s lower lip and pull, not too fiercely but not exactly soft either. With a whimper, Tooru wraps his thighs around Hajime’s hips and brings him closer, makes their bodies touch, sing a melody together. He revels in how Hajime’s tongue makes its way into his mouth, impatient, licking at the roof of his mouth hastily and desperately.
“How often do you think of me, Tooru?” Hajime’s voice is low after they part, his breath sending goosebumps all over Tooru’s body when it hits the skin of his neck, the shell of his ear. “How long have you been drawing me for?”
This feels like a dream, something straight out of Tooru’s deepest fantasies, the touch of Hajime lingering all over his body. He still can’t believe he gets to have him like this; that Hajime wants him like this, too. It’s exciting and new, a new world for them to discover together. And Tooru wants, he wants so much and so deeply—craves to hear Hajime say his name in between pants, the feeling of his heart beating underneath Tooru’s hand if he places it on his chest, pumping love all throughout his body.
“Always,” Tooru manages to breathe out. He squirms under Hajime, holding back a moan when his cock brushes against Hajime’s thighs and feels a press of lips to his neck, right over his pulse. “When we were kids, you became something like my muse,” he confesses, cheeks warm and eyes fluttering closed in embarrassment. “When I didn’t know what to draw, I remembered you playing volleyball, or—or lying on the grass with dirt all over your clothes, and—fuck, fuck, Hajime, you’re just so stupidly beautiful.”
Hajime licks a strip from Tooru’s collarbone all the way to his ear, suckling at his earlobe and softly nibbling at it. “You could’ve told me, y’know,” he murmurs, voice coated in desire, so dizzying yet grounding at the same time. “Would’ve saved us a lot of time. Probably.”
“If I had told you,” Tooru’s back arches off the bed when Hajime’s hand palms his cock over his underwear, “you would’ve been oblivious enough to think I meant all that as friends. I know you, Iwa-chan.” He grins, then lets his lips be captured by Hajime’s in another kiss where hands wander over skin like sailors discovering new waters, eager and a little bit desperate.
This time, their tongues meet from the very first moment, sliding together almost obscenely as Tooru wraps his arms around Hajime’s shoulders and bucks his hips, relishing the way Hajime’s lips part in the kiss, a soft groan escaping from them. Like this, with a swift motion, his hoodie is gone and forgotten on the floor, sensitive skin exposed.
“Tooru,” Hajime grunts, biting Tooru’s lip, and God Tooru wants to hear his voice like that again, could probably get high off of the mere sound of it. His hands dance over the brunette’s thighs, exploring skin and squeezing, leaving traces of goosebumps behind their wake. “Oikawa, I want to—”
Tooru whines, high-pitched and loud, when Hajime’s fingers brush the outline of his cock and squeeze softly around it. He gasps, fluttering his eyes open to look at Hajime and beg with his gaze, vision a little hazy with pleasure as the other slowly strokes him through the fabric. “H-Hajime, Hajime, I want you, please.”
“What do you want, Tooru?”
“Touch me, please, make me—make us feel good.”
Hajime suddenly snorts after hearing the words, his free hand cupping Tooru’s face. He brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, soft and sweet as he says, “I can’t believe all I needed to do to have you begging was this.”
And, just like that, the mood absolutely shatters. Tooru licks his lips, trying hard, so hard to suppress a laugh but failing in the end, because when he meets Hajime’s eyes and sees him in the same situation as him, he just can’t hold it in.
“You—” he wheezes out, hiding his face in Hajime’s chest. “You just killed the fucking mood, dumbass!”
“I’m sorry!” Hajime defensively exclaims. His voice shakes with laughter as he lets himself fall on top of Tooru, his body crushing the brunette beneath. When he gasps and smacks Hajime’s arm, his best friend only tilts his head to the side and teases, “What is it, Oikawa? Thought you said you could lift me up a while ago.”
“You’re horrible, a fucking menace to society,” Tooru complains, but he quickly gets used to the weight on top of him; warm, big, Hajime. He wraps his arms around his neck again, running his nails soothingly over his skin and feeling Hajime melt even further against him. “I hope you know that.”
“And you’re bratty as fuck, nothing we can do about it.”
Laughing, Tooru feels warmth spread all over his chest and presses his lips to Hajime’s, the kiss slow and tender.
Back when he was a teenager and he first admitted his feelings to himself, Tooru had been extremely scared. Had feared that, if he said or did something out of their ordinary, Hajime would find out and everything would change. That, if his feelings were to ever be accepted, their dynamic would change; Hajime would stop teasing him, they’d stop bickering so much, and their friendship would wilt just so that a new, foreign flower could bloom.
The idea had scared Tooru a lot, he knows now, because he never wants to lose what they have. Their friendship is cemented on trust, bickering, stupid fights and endless teasing. Love is born from the smiles they have always known how to get out of the other, from the quiet nights when Hajime indulges Tooru and cuddles him, from the silly, silly nicknames they’ve given each other.
Tooru never wants that gone. He wants Hajime to keep him on his toes the way he has always done, wants to keep being the only one to get him to do spontaneous things and live a little. He wants the insults they throw at each other under their breaths when bickering, low because, if said out loud, the words of affection that lurk beneath them would shine.
And now that he knows Hajime doesn’t want them to change either—now that he knows he, too, craves Tooru’s touch, Tooru’s lips, Tooru’s voice the same—he feels calm, his soul vibrating with happiness, hearts beating in tandem.
They won’t change. If anything is going to be different, that’s the possibility of kissing and touch each other whenever they want, however they want.
“So,” Tooru begins after a while of silence and brushes of lips, gentle pecks, lazy passion, “are we not gonna have sex then?”
Hajime nuzzles Tooru’s jaw. “You want to?”
“No, Iwa-chan. I begged for it before because I have a knack for embarrassing myself.”
“I knew it.”
“You’re horrible!”
Hajime laughs, the silvery sound vibrating against Tooru’s chest. Humming, he moves to rest his weight on his elbows again, caging Tooru against the bed and pressing a kiss to his chest, lips spit-slick and a little cold against the warm skin. “We can have sex if you want, then.”
“Okay,” the brunette mumbles, peering down at his best friend as his kisses move south, tongue teasing one of his nipples while a thumb brushes the other. “Let’s do it, then. I want—” He pauses when the realization of what he’s about to say dawns on him, his eyes widening the slightest bit as a thigh makes its way between Tooru’s legs. He— “I want my first to be you.”
He wants Hajime to be the first to ever see him without the protection of his clothes to hide his vulnerability. He wants him to be the first one to land his gaze on the parts of his body Tooru isn’t too fond of and he wants him to be the first one to touch them—learn every crease of his skin, every mole, every secret confession lying beneath.
After a second of silence, Hajime delicately captures Tooru’s lips with his—a silent way to try and portray the words his heart can’t speak just yet, breathe them into Tooru’s mouth and have them reach his soul. “So you’re a virgin? Or is it only your first time with a guy?”
Tooru feels his cheeks burn, but as much as he wishes he could break eye contact, Hajime’s fingers are tracing his jaw. It’s not worth the loss of contact. “I’m a virgin, yes. I haven’t done anything past kissing, like—ever.”
“Okay,” Hajime murmurs, teeth nibbling the junction of his neck and shoulder. Tooru lets out a breath and arches into it, yearning for more, wanting Hajime closer. “I’m glad I can be the first. It makes me happy.”
“Mhm.” Tooru follows his lips when they part after another kiss, taking the chance to sit up. He looks away when he says his next words, embarrassment heavy in his chest along with shyness and something he distinctly recognizes as excitement. “I—I have, um, lubricant in my bag. Don’t have condoms, though.”
Hajime chuckles, withdrawing his body from the closeness of Tooru’s to stand up and take his wallet from the nightstand. He holds up three condom packets, the plastic shining as the last scraps of sunlight filter into the room. “I have the condoms.”
Tooru doesn’t ask why he has them; has known for long that Hajime liked having casual sex, so it’s not weird or a surprise to find out he keeps condoms in his wallet. Still, a thought plants a venomous seed in Tooru’s chest at the reminder, poison spreading all over until all Tooru can do is wonder is what if.
What if, for Hajime, this is casual sex too?
What if he’s interpreting things wrong?
What if—
“Oikawa? You okay?” A warm touch on his shoulder startles him back to reality. Blinking his now slightly teary eyes, Tooru focuses on the sight in front of him: Hajime with a worried frown on his face, the small bottle of lube—almost all used up—in hand. He crouches down, then cups Tooru’s face and brushes his thumb across his cheekbone. “What’s wrong?”
He has to ask him. Tooru has to, even if that means things might turn awkward between them if Hajime’s response is formed by the words Tooru wishes to never hear. In hindsight, it should be pretty clear that Hajime returns his feelings; he would never risk their friendship for sex, Tooru knows that.
Plus, throughout the whole time they’ve spent together this summer, he has been constantly reminding Tooru how much he loves him with actions that mean a lot more than words. Hell, even with words. Hajime had clearly implied before that, if Tooru had confessed in the past, they would probably be dating now! That must mean something, right? Tooru is simply being childish, the whiny mess that he is deep down.
But he has to ask. Because, while actions sometimes speak louder than words, they’re still silent in the end. Tooru needs a melody to ground him to this moment, a tune both of their hearts can beat to. Together, hand in hand.
“I just—you—” He breathes in, eyes fluttering closed as he drowns in the scent of Hajime’s shampoo. “I need you to tell me this isn’t just casual sex. That… that it’s more. That we are.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happens, so Tooru decides to take a quick peek at his best friend. All worry is gone from Hajime’s expression, replaced with understanding, and his eyes are softer than they have ever been. Looking at Tooru, only at Tooru, accompanied by the faint blush of his cheeks. “Oikawa, Tooru, this isn’t casual sex. I promise you, I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.” He sucks in a breath, earnest when he leans in and hovers his mouth over Tooru’s. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”
And there it is. The words, the confession that Tooru has been longing for ever since the day he turned fifteen and realized he liked Hajime in a way he didn’t like the rest of his friends. They’re serene, saccharine; dripping with honesty as they pierce through Tooru’s heart and make it skip a beat. Big, bigger, it swells with love, about to break free from the confines of the chest it lives in only so that it can fall into Hajime’s arms instead.
“Don’t cry.” Lips press under his eye. “Don’t cry, Tooru.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against Hajime’s and biting his lower lip in thought. “I love you too, you know, in case I wasn’t obvious enough already. It just—you just made me so freaking happy, it’s almost silly.”
“When isn’t it when it comes to you, huh?”
Tooru smacks his arm, giggling when Hajime pushes against his forehead and somehow manages to have Tooru lying down on the bed again, sprawled out as he waits for him with love and desire vivid in his gaze. He makes grabby hands, blushing at the way emerald eyes drink him in. “Come on, Iwa-chan. You’re being too slow.”
“And you’re an impatient brat, as always,” Hajime grunts, trying his best to conceal the smile that blooms on his lips but miserably failing. He leans in, the force with which he kisses Tooru almost bruising as he takes and takes and takes, and Tooru gives. He gives all he has, all he is; knows it will be safe with Hajime, warm in his rough hands.
Soon enough, Tooru’s underwear is gone and so is Hajime’s towel. Tongue meets tongue, teeth meet flesh as they leave marks on each other, and hands memorize the emotions flaring vibrantly beneath their skin, the enchanting way in which paths made of moles connect one body to the other. Hajime bites Tooru’s neck and Tooru returns the gesture by tracing his nipples with his fingers, squeezing the buds between index and thumb from time to time, stealing the moans from Hajime’s mouth with his own.
“Okay,” Hajime murmurs as his kisses trail down. He presses his mouth to Tooru’s inner thigh before teasing a finger over his hole, already coated with lube. “Relax, alright?”
Tooru breathes out. “I’m—I’m relaxed, okay? Go on already.”
It’s a lie, but he’s trying his best. He wants this, he truly does; his whole body, his whole soul is aching for it, but he can’t help being a little nervous, especially since it’s his first time. Tooru trusts Hajime, though, would trust him with his life if needed, so he swallows and whimpers when he feels slick fingers wrapping around his cock, then another one prodding at his hole slowly.
One of Tooru’s hands rests on Hajime’s hair and the other one grips tightly at the bedsheets underneath his body, fabric crumbled in his fist as his eyebrows twitch, burrowing together in a frown. It stings a little, but the feeling is manageable; along with the way Hajime is lazily jerking him off, the pain is almost unnoticeable amongst the pleasure.
“How is it?” Hajime asks in a whisper, thumbing at the slit of Tooru’s dick. It jumps in his hand and he snorts, licking the tip and making Tooru let out a moan. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Tooru replies, eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure. “It just feels—weird. A little strange.”
“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.” Hajime kisses Tooru’s thigh, grazing the skin softly with his teeth as he starts to thrust his finger in and out at an established pace, one not too fast but not so slow that Tooru feels nothing, either. Somewhere along the way, the discomfort starts ebbing away to give way to more pleasure, and Tooru finds little moans escaping his lips without his consent, flying free and unbidden the faster Hajime’s finger becomes.
“H-Hajime.” He wiggles his hips. “More. I want—ah, I want another.”
“Of course you do, always so eager.” Before Tooru can let out an incredibly embarrassing whine at the words or the slightly ridiculing nature of them, the tip of another finger teases his hole and he licks his lips, brazing himself for the stretch to come.
“Nngh, ah,” Tooru whimpers, for this time it burns more than before in a way he wasn’t expecting. The pleasure is still there, making his toes curl with every slide of Hajime’s hand around his cock, but so is the pain. He winces when Hajime stops, not removing the finger but not pushing it any further either, instead peering up at Tooru through his eyelashes.
“Is it too much? We can take a break if you want,” he offers, making Tooru smile as he shakes his head. “You sure? I don’t mind, I promise.”
“No, it’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt more.”
“I’ll try to be gentler, then.”
Tooru wants to tell him he can’t possibly be any gentler; Hajime is doing his best to make this good for him, he knows, so he’s being the most careful he has ever seen him be. It has warmth spreading all over Tooru’s body in the form of love as he watches Hajime through half-lidded eyes. Slowly, the second finger eases inside his hole, and Hajime’s other hand leaves Tooru’s cock so that he can support his weight in order to press another kiss to Tooru’s lips. It’s full of spit, pants and teeth, but fuck if it isn’t one of the hottest kisses Tooru has ever had.
Tooru’s nose scrunches up when he snorts at the bump of their teeth, which makes them both pull away slightly. When he opens his eyes, Hajime is looking at him with a tender glint on his own, his expression soft as their legs tangle together. A breathy moan escapes Tooru’s lips when Hajime crooks his fingers just right, his back arching from the bed as if yearning to be closer to the other’s body, as if all he needs is to feel all of Hajime in order to breathe.
“Haah, Hajime, right there,” Tooru cries out when fingers find his prostate, rubbing circles over the sensitive gland. “Right there, right there, yes—” He bites his lower lip in order to hold back from whining embarrassingly loud, writhing in the sheets as Hajime slowly works him open.
“Don’t hold back,” he says, voice rough. His breath is hot when it hits Tooru’s ear after lips have kissed their way there, leaving a trace of wet spit on his jaw. “I love the noises you make.”
“Fuck. That was so hot, you—you’re so stupidly hot, I love you so much.” Tears cling to Tooru’s eyelashes when Hajime slips in the third finger with a muffled murmur of me too before his tongue circles his nipple again, teeth grazing it and pulling it hard enough to send jolts of pleasure all throughout Tooru’s body but soft enough that it doesn’t hurt.
Like that, in between moans, kisses, and words of reassurance that Tooru finds hotter than he probably should, the moment finally comes when the tip of Hajime’s cock is catching on his rim after putting on the condom.
Tooru chokes.
“Oh my God,” he cries out at the first, shallow thrust. His hands grip Hajime’s shoulders for support, nails digging into his skin. It hurts, the stretch—it’s way more than the three fingers from before, and it hurts, but it also has excitement swirling in Tooru’s belly because he’s about to have sex, he’s about to make love with Hajime. “I want you, Hajime, I want you so bad.”
“I know,” Hajime breathes out, pushing forward. He slides a bit deeper into Tooru’s hole, then cups his cheek. “But we have to go slow at first, okay? I don’t want t-to hurt you and you’re so tight, fuck, so perfect for me.”
Tooru keens at the praise, fighting to open his eyes just so that he can see the face of the man he owes his heart. Without him, would Tooru have known what a love so powerful is like? Would he know how it feels for his chest to be open wide in order to gently hold the image of his lover?
Hajime with tiny smiles blooming on his face, with moles in places only Tooru knows they live; with the rough edge of his voice in the mornings and the fond roll of his eyes. Tooru owes Hajime his heart, so he wants to be good for him.
Slowly, his hole is filled with the grith of Hajime’s cock until his hips are flush against Tooru’s ass, a groan echoing in the room as he bottoms out. Tooru exhales, although it gets cut off by a kiss that, from the very beginning, starts with tongue. Wildly, Hajime kisses him stupid, hips unmoving as he waits for Tooru to get used to the stretch.
Their tongues slide together wetly, the sound of open-mouthed kisses lewd and loud in the room, spurring them on. Then, Tooru allows himself to finally relish how full of Hajime he is right now; with his tongue in his mouth, his cock in his ass, and his fingers interlaced with his in a tight, grounding grip. Together in every sense, body and soul.
“You can move now,” Tooru whispers after they part, his free hand running through Hajime’s ebony strands of hair. He hums in confirmation when the other just throws an inquisitive look at him, double-checking. “Come on, Iwa-chan. Show me what you got.”
“That’s incredibly cringy,” Hajime says, amusement thick in his voice. He slowly pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains inside, then thrusts back in in a single movement, jolting Tooru’s body from the bed. “But I’ll take it since it’s you. Everything you do or say is cringy.”
Tooru whines—whether it’s from pleasure or annoyance is unknown. He gasps when Hajime repeats his last movement, although a little harder this time, the sound of skin slamming against skin ringing in Tooru’s ears for a few seconds before his attention is forcibly stolen by lips sucking on the skin of his neck, no doubt leaving a mark behind.
“You’re s-so mean to me, Iwa-chan, even when you’re—ah, even when you’re balls deep in my ass.”
It makes Hajime laugh, although it’s short-lived, cut off by a moan when Tooru pinches his nipple. His movements become rougher, faster, as a result. “That’s because you’re a brat.”
Right then, hands are under his knees, pushing them toward Tooru’s chest and forcing him to rest them on Hajime’s shoulders. The drag of Hajime’s cock is delicious this way as it goes deeper; it hits his prostate just right, ruthlessly, and it’s unavoidable, really, the way tears finally stop clinging onto his thick eyelashes and roll down his cheeks. The way his jaw goes slack, mouth open, almost unintelligible cries growing louder with every thrust.
“Hajime! Hajime, Hajime please, oh my God—”
“God, look at you, Tooru,” Hajime pants, sliding two fingers into Tooru’s mouth. The brunette whimpers around them, his own cock jumping against his stomach at the gesture. “So sinful, so pretty for me. You’re doing so, so good. Taking me so well.”
Tooru makes high-pitched sounds as he squirms underneath him, watches as the realization hits Hajime that he’s moaning his name non-stop, even if the fingers prevent it from sounding anything like the real thing. “How do you feel, Tooru?”
The fingers leave his mouth and Tooru is about to cry at the loss when he feels them wrap, slick, around his achingly hard cock. The first stroke feels like heaven and hell all the same, so good but also tortuous because Tooru doesn’t want to come yet. He wants Hajime to come first, wants to be filled to the brim, wants to feel the results of the pleasure he’s giving his lover—
Hajime, however, clearly has other plans, because he squeezes Tooru’s cock and thumbs at the slit before whispering in his ear, “Come for me, Tooru.”
And, well, Tooru is gone. The pleasure that has been slowly building up in his gut explodes and his vision flashes white as he screams, crying as he begs Hajime to please stop I wanted you to come first even if the words fall flat to Hajime’s ears, his hand still sliding up and down, milking him.
Tooru has never come this hard in his life, thighs trembling and back arching in a pretty bow as cum spurts from his dick, falling onto his stomach. He can’t control his own body as it twitches, pleasure overwhelming him, engulfing him from head to toe as it rises, and rises, and then he falls and God, it feels like falling from Grace.
He barely registers when Hajime comes, too, filling up the condom and burying himself deeper in Tooru’s hole with a muffled groan of his name. It has never sounded as good, as perfect as it does while it falls brokenly from Hajime’s pink, abused lips.
“Hajime,” he mumbles weakly, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders and pressing kisses to his lover’s temple, then his nose, his cheeks, his lips. “Thank you. That was—that was perfect. I love you.”
Faintly, he feels the rub of a thumb against the skin under his eyes, wiping away at the tears that just keep falling, the same way Tooru has been falling for Hajime his whole life.
“I love you, Tooru. I love you so much. Thank you for letting me have you, thank you for—” He swallows, then hides his face in the crook of Tooru’s sweaty neck. “Thank you for loving me back.”
Outside, the sun has finished setting; it has taken the past with it, and when it rises again tomorrow, it’ll be to new beginnings. To a life where love lasts forever.
(“Hey,” Tooru calls later that night, after they’re both in bed, cuddling after round two. “Did I get myself a boyfriend, then?”
“Oh, shut up, Shittykawa.” And then, “You did.”)
🌼
Later that night, they find themselves cuddling outside, lying on a towel as they gaze at the stars together. Despite being summer, it really isn’t that hot; the cicadas sing, but the wind feels relieving against exposed skin, blowing strands of hair and setting a quiet atmosphere.
One of Hajime’s hand rests on Tooru’s shoulder, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his skin, a touch so warm that makes his soul burn alight. The other one rests under his head, his chest bare since he’s wearing no shirt, only his shorts. Tooru, on the other hand, is wearing one of Hajime’s shirts and his underwear because he ‘doesn’t want mosquitoes biting his tits, thank you.’
“You know, I kinda get the charm of it,” Hajime suddenly says, his voice soft as it gets carried toward Tooru’s ears. Gentle, in love.
“Hm? What charm?” Tooru pinches Hajime’s side teasingly. “Have you lost your sanity, Iwa-chan?”
“No, you dumbass.” He giggles, the sound quiet, and his chest vibrates with it. Tooru feels it against his cheek, which prompts a smile to settle on his face. “But when we got here, you said you wanted to paint that moment. Back when we went to town for the first time, too, you said you were happy you were here with me. That it was more beautiful because of it. And I… after painting us today, I think I get it now.”
Tooru makes a questioning noise, turning around so that he’s lying on his belly now, resting his chin on Hajime’s chest. Almost instantly, a hand reaches out so that fingers can run through his hair, nails softly digging into his scalp. “Oh, you do? And what exactly have you understood, Iwa-chan?”
Hajime flushes a bright red that looks rather dark under the moonlight, and Tooru sees it. A confession, resting on the tip of his tongue; an epiphany shining bright in the depth of his eyes. Tooru takes in a deep breath, readies himself to hear Hajime finally acknowledge the real reason why the brunette asked him to come here together—the real reason why he said yes.
“You know how I’ve always kinda fought against boredom, right? I like moving my body, doing things that will benefit me in the future, and being productive. When you told me to come here with you, I thought it was going to be a bit boring because there’s not much we can do here besides, I don’t know, this.” He gestures wildly to their lying bodies with his hand, snorting. Tooru instantly misses the warmth of his hand on his hair. “But… I haven’t felt bored, not even for a second. I actually think this might’ve been the most fun I’ve had in a very, very long time—and it’s not because of the place, but because I got to spend time with you again the way we used to when we were kids.”
Ah, there it is. It’s not straightforward because that’s just how Hajime is, Tooru knows, but it’s there. Back in Tokyo, before coming here for summer, Tooru had felt extremely disconnected from Hajime and his life despite seeing him almost every day. He had guessed it had to do with them choosing entirely different things to study, going to different universities and making new friends; it was meant to happen, really, as they grew up.
But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, especially when Tooru also had his romantic feelings weighing down on him, too, exhausting him because he missed simply playing volleyball with Hajime in the evenings; running through the streets on their way back home just to see who was faster; meeting up for late-night walks in spring, fighting about which flower was prettier or smelled better.
Instead, all they did was talk about their new friends, their new teachers, the new movies out in theatres or the latest news. Which, truly, it would’ve been fine because those are the kind of things you also talk about with your best friend as you grow up, right? But there was something so incredibly off about it, something that felt fake in a way that nothing ever had felt before between them before. Where were the rants about volleyball or art? Where did their terrible inside jokes go?
And so, every night when Tooru went to sleep, he thought about what Hajime had told him that da. It was like this that one day he sadly realized that, oh, Hajime didn’t really talk about himself anymore. But neither did he. Thus, the abyss forming between them grew bigger and darker, scarier and sadder, until Tooru decided to do something about it this summer.
“Just Iwa-chan and Oikawa, right?” Tooru asks. It’s only then that he notices the way his voice shakes or the slight wobbling of his lower lip. The wet tears clinging to his eyelashes as he looks up at his best friend, his partner, his lover, and whispers, “Just us.”
Hajime nods, a tiny smile hanging from his lips as he wipes Tooru’s tears with his fingers, cupping his face. “Just us. Without the pressure of our futures coming up, the weight of society on our shoulders, or the fear of how much we have changed. Enough growing up, no right or wrongs, it’s just…”
“It’s just us, our bodies naked and flush against each other,” Tooru cuts him off, feeling warmth bloom in his chest at the familiar roll of Hajime’s eyes; the one he does every time Tooru decides to hide the true meaning of his words under poetics. “No clothes to hide ourselves under, no lies; just genuine sincerity, and love. Because I love you, because I’ve loved you forever and I have missed you so much, Iwa-chan. I’ve missed you so badly that it physically hurt.”
Arms wrap around Tooru’s shoulders then, an embrace as strong as it is warm. He hides his face in the crook of Hajime’s neck, sniffling at the same time he hugs him back, holding onto him like a lifeline. Never wanting to let go ever again.
“I know, Tooru. I’m sorry. I just… I thought it was time for us to grow up, time for us to change, because that’s what I saw everyone do. I’m sorry.”
“You were right there, but at the same time you were so far away I could barely feel you anymore. I also felt the same way, like the things we used to do were so childish and not something an adult should do, so I distanced myself, and I’m sorry, Iwa-chan. But please don’t—let’s not let other people tell us how to live our lives. I’m the happiest when I’m with you.”
“I know. I’m the happiest when I’m with you, too.” Hajime kisses his temple, then pulls away to brush Tooru’s bangs away from his forehead. “I’m sorry it took us this long to talk about it. I thought this would end once we got back to Tokyo, so I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.”
Tooru sniffles, smacking Hajime’s forehead. He giggles when his eyebrows immediately furrow together in a frown, eyes narrowing as he glares at Tooru’s palm before reaching out for it and intertwining their fingers together.
“Still a brat, I see.”
“But you like this brat.”
Hajime smiles and, for the first time in a long, long while, Tooru feels at home. “I love this brat.”