Archive of Our Own ^beta

i.

Crowds make him fidgety - being surrounded by people has always been an unpleasant feeling. He can cope with human presence, but the noise, the screams, and the loud cheers make Hajime frown more than usual.

He sits right in the middle of this living, breathing mass of black and red, center-top of the stands in a huge baseball field. The sound doesn’t reach that well here. Hajime is glad for what little solitude it provides. The exit's nearby, so he won’t have to deal with the fear of getting torn to shreds once the black-red dragon rises at the end of the game.

Hajime’s slouched forward, a bottle of water squeezed lightly between his fingertips, half of his attention focused on the game. He’s never appreciated baseball much, however, he leans in even further when one baseball player in particular leaves the dugout - the main reason why he’s sitting here to begin with.

The crowd roars appreciatively as a change of players is announced. Hajime waits for the man to occupy the batter’s box, wide back turned to the spectators, ‘K. Iwaizumi’ emblazoned on the back of the batter’s jersey in bold, thick letters. Hajime feels a surge of pride in his chest when he sees a boy no older than eight staring at the batter, Hajime's father, with big, adoring eyes. It reminds him far too much of his own childhood, back when he was just like that little kid staring at his old man as though he was some superhero and the opponent team was a bad guy that he had to defeat.

It’s the bottom of the ninth, first and second bases loaded. Hajime’s eyes flicker to the scoreboard. The fans hold their breath, but he doesn’t worry. Doesn’t need to worry. He knows his old man can do it.

His mom is somewhere out there, lost in that blur of colors, breath batted and fists clenched, unaware of her son’s presence. It’s better this way, Hajime thinks.

After all, he came here to say goodbye.

The ball flies to the center field as Hajime stands up. The crowd roars so loud that it sends tremors down his spine. He takes the last few steps towards the exit and sends one look over his shoulder.

His dad has always been a hero. The kid in the stands screams out a high-pitched ‘Iwaizumiii!’, stars shining in his eyes, cheeks flushed.

Hajime smiles.

He knows he isn’t needed here anymore.

“Kenta Iwaizumi proves himself once again and takes his team to the semi-finals!”

Hajime takes the duffel bag, his keys, and hides the wallet in the folds of his thin jacket. His parents aren’t home. He didn’t expect them to be, which makes it easier for him to step outside and stick the goodbye letter to the door.

The dried grass smells of fading summer days, alluring and pleasant, yet he feels a little melancholic. Perhaps it’s because he's finally leaving the house that has served as his family home for the last twelve years. Maybe it’s because the lawn and the garden smell just like the fields by their old home back in Miyagi prefecture, Japan. It’s a distant memory ingrained into Hajime’s heart, etched into his longing mind.

It feels nostalgic, like forgotten friends, shared happy moments, and the long days that they spent together. They probably don’t remember him anymore, and to be completely honest, neither does Hajime. He’s forgotten a lot of things - like what their old house smelled like, how true Japanese food tasted on his tongue, and how the language sounded to his ears.

But those are precious memories locked inside his head, fond memories of his homeland. This is his home now.

This was his home until a few moments ago.

He crosses the short distance from the porch to the gates, almost completely hidden by a luscious hedge that his mother had nurtured and taken care of during the heat wave. She was pretty damn proud of it, too.

He’ll miss his parents. He’s a bad son, he thinks, for leaving so suddenly without a single warning, but he knows that they would’ve tried to stop him. He’ll miss mom worrying over everything, and his dad, who was far too famous to stay home for longer than three hours.

Last summer when he'd stood on the platform in front of his high school, his mother shedding tears over the fact that her little boy was all grown up, Hajime had accepted the diploma and finally made up his mind.

The road is calling his name.

One last look at the sparkling white two-story house and he’s out.

ii.

There’s no set destination in his mind. United States of America spans vastly before him, and Hajime Iwaizumi wishes to see all that it has to offer. The problem is money.

Or rather would be, if he was young and stupid, but he’s been preparing for this for a quite while, having saved up just enough to buy himself an ancient, shitty van barely holding together. It’s off-white and attracts dust like metal to magnet, he kind of hates it, but it’s better than nothing, considering that it doesn't require too much diesel. It’s better than those piece of shit hippie vans with rainbow-colored weeds painted on their sides, gaudy seat covers, and fuzzy dices hanging off their mirrors.

Hajime has always imagined himself traveling on a badass motorcycle, but L.A.’s weather is a bitch to predict, so a solid roof above his head is the best choice.

He spends the first night of his journey treading the streets of his second hometown, moping around and being sentimental. Will he ever return here? He’s not sure.

He doesn’t want to return. Doesn’t feel like he belongs here.

At 4 a.m., Hajime reaches his favorite location, feet buried in the sand, cold water lapping at the soles of his feet, rising up to his ankles. He’s not alone - it’s not the type of city where Hajime can find solace anyways - but he feels calm. He wonders what his parents are doing and how long it'll take for them to notice that their nineteen-year-old son is gone.

Hajime looks up to the sky. Sometimes he wishes that he could see the stars.

He calls some of his friends to say his farewells. The phone beeps periodically while Hajime enjoys the wind on his face, the scent of salt lingering in the air.

They don’t pick up.

iii.

During the first few weeks, he spends more time outside than in his shitty van that he had christened ‘Pissbaby’, because sometimes it simply refused to come back to life - as in, Hajime had to sweat and curse a whole lot in order to start the engine. Maybe he made the wrong choice when he bought it.

“C’mon, work. What the hell do you want, you piece of useless scrap!?” Iwaizumi yells, hitting the wheel with some force. Raw exasperation bubbles to the surface when the van stubbornly refuses to oblige its master. “You’re even more whimsical than a picky girl!” he mutters darkly, as if the vehicle is a person that can actually understand human language. The engine purrs playfully. Hajime bumps his forehead against the ratty leather cover of the steering wheel.

He drives to San Francisco just because. Even more time is spent moping around and staring off into the ocean, knowing that somewhere far, far away, the same ocean is eroding away the pale, sandy beaches of Japan.

Next morning, he buys the greasiest hot dog he’s ever had, and drops by a souvenir shop. He thinks that he should start collecting postcards.

He wants to sell Pissbaby to some stoner and buy himself a more trustworthy car, but in the end, he cannot. He already considers it a friend, as weird as that is.

“You’re fucking welcome,” Hajime grouches as he drives off into the night, orange streetlights akin to a shapeless mass of neon blobs.

His Pissbaby stays silent except for the steady hum of engine and the annoying techno blaring through the aged speakers. Hajime changes the radio station.

He decides to drive the entire night. He’s not feeling very tired.

Hajime’s phone rests on the empty passenger’s seat, silent. He shoots an anxious look its way, as if hoping to get a message or a call, but then he remembers that he'd chucked his SIM card into the ocean, along with his friends, family, and his old life.

iv.

Three days later, he isn’t sure where the fuck he is. It’s not like he’s been reading the signs or anything, but he never would’ve thought that it was that easy to get lost on a highway. But then, he remembers that for the past twelve years, he’s never truly left Los Angeles. Well, he’s been to New York a few times - mom called it a road trip even, though they only went there because his dad had an important meeting to attend to - but other than that, he’s been caged in that overwhelming city.

During this short trip, Hajime already got used to the fast food joints, cheap motels, and his sweaty shirt sticking to his back, the leather seat of Pissbaby. The heat gradually reaches extremes, steadily climbing to eighty-two degrees, and what the fuck, it’s almost September, so this is just plain weird. The further he rides, the hotter it gets, to the point where he has to roll down the windows entirely and chug his last bottle of water. He needs to pass a diner or a gas station soon or he'll die from imminent dehydration.

There’s nothing of the sort - only the cracked, dusty road, dirt, and endless dried grass greet his tired eyes, bleeding into the thin stretch of sandy land ahead, akin to a desert. There is no life in sight.

An hour later, Hajime's wondering whether he’s fucked this up, because where the hell is he and why didn’t he buy a map beforehand!? What a god-awful genius he is, he thinks, equal parts angry and annoyed, but then he spots something strange in the horizon. He has to squint at the road and pat the passenger seat when Pissbaby produces another unhappy sounding purr. He’ll consider himself cursed if the van stops here. Wherever this is. All he knows is that he cannot recall ever passing these lands on his brief ‘family trips’.

The first thing he needs to do before downing a bunch of water when he gets the chance, is to buy a map. A proper one. And maybe learn to read the road signs while he’s at it instead of daydreaming and brooding.

No one appears to be taking this route for either obvious reasons or, well, Hajime doesn’t really have a clue, so he has no option to stop someone in order to ask them for directions. But then the dot in the horizon takes the shape of a person seated on a suitcase. Hajime almost feels like crying tears of relief, pretty certain that the other person must be feeling the same way, caught up somewhere in the middle of nowhere. In this scorching heat, no less.

The stranger quickly shoots up, long thin limbs and all, and holds out one arm - an indication for Hajime to stop.

He’s more than happy to oblige, and so is Pissbaby, its dusty, worn tires screeching to a sudden halt.

Hajime stares at what appears to be a gift sent from heavens above. Not, not the guy who looks like he just stepped off a runway, but the faded map placed on the ground, secured by a navy-colored suitcase.

Hajime would gladly praise every deity above, but then the hitchhiker unfolds those long limbs, flexes his shapely arms in a rather distracting way - he'd probably been lounging there all twisted up for a very, very long time - slaps on a million watt smile, and comes closer, fingertips purposely skidding over the roof of the van.

The nameless man is dressed in a white, soaking wet T-shirt, and Hajime doesn’t mean wet like his sweaty kind of wet. He probably had to pour water all over himself to avoid turning into a melted, fleshy puddle on asphalt. A red baseball cap is neatly placed on top of his head, the uneven, wavy strands of brown hair poking out from underneath it damp and sticking out in different directions. His insanely long legs - is he like seventy percent leg, Hajime isn’t sure - are clad in light, well-worn jeans, and black sneakers coated in a thick layer of dust. The guy seems to be no older than Hajime, judging from appearance alone. Perhaps even younger.

Perhaps his ride broke down? Clearly, he hasn’t been sitting out in the sun for too long, either - his face doesn’t have a hint of stubble or sunburn, and his smile is pearly white, Hajime notes - but when he does a quick once-over of their plain, barren surroundings, he sees nothing aside from a tumbleweed or two.

Hajime catches a glimpse of his own reflection. An unpleasant view, reflected off the surface of the man’s oversized aviator shades. This ongoing Odyssey across the US of A has left him looking rough. 

The hitchhiker hums in greeting, pleased. Hajime’s eyebrows shoot all the way up to his hairline.

“Either you’re lost or, well, you’re lost,” the guy chirps far too joyfully, clapping his hands excitedly before leaning in. Hajime unconsciously pulls back, hands tightening on the steering wheel. He doesn’t like the man already. “Aren’t you lucky?”

Briefly, he considers driving away. He can find another friendly highway creep some other time. “How am I lost? It’s a highway. It’s bound to end sometime.”

The stranger looks off into the distance, lower lip sticking out just the tiniest bit. For a second, he seems contemplative, but Hajime can’t see his eyes, so he can’t be sure. “Hmm, I guess it was just a feeling then.”

“What are you, some fucking mind reader?” Hajime frowns, a sour expression twisting up his face as he rewards the other man with a stink eye. It's thoroughly ignored.

“Possibly.” The hitchhiker flashes Hajime that annoyingly fake smile, seemingly unperturbed. “My services don’t come cheap. Since I already used my awesome mindreading powers on you, how about you give me a lift?”

Hajime considers it. The guy finally seems to notice his judgmental look. With a burdened sigh, he takes off the ridiculous shades, and Hajime gets greeted by a pair of beautiful, chocolate-colored, doe-like eyes. Their shape practically screams of Asian descent, and if he listens carefully enough, he can pick up some foreign accent lacing his pronunciation. Hajime’s heart flutters, pleasantly surprised. If he were any less of a down-to-earth realist, he would've thought that this must be fate. “I swear that I’m not some creep who is going to stab you, dump your body somewhere, and then take your ride.” The hitchhiker pats Pissbaby’s roof again, pitying. “It’s not worth it.”

“So you’d do it if it was.”

“Most likely!”

“Now I definitely feel like refusing,” Hajime murmurs, but he really needs that map and some guidance. This man didn’t simply drop out of the cloudless sky, he had to get here from somewhere.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be a downer like that. Isn’t taking in complete strangers on road trips far more exciting?”

“Not if they’re complete psychopaths.”

“But didn’t I just say that I’m not one?” The hitchiker pouts, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Tell you what. You take me with you, and I navigate. That way you’ll know where you’re going.”

“Who says I’m lost!?” Hajime bristles, and the other man has the nerve to laugh at him. It’s a rich, smooth sound that fuels Hajime’s rage even more.

“You have that ‘little lost lamb’ expression etched on your face. ‘Sides, as you can see, no one ever goes down this road for a good reason.” He spreads out his arms as if to prove a point. “And that’s because it ends in another…” He raises a hand to his eyes, frowning. “I’d say nine miles. Ten at most.”

Now Hajime feels like a complete fool. He should’ve noticed the state of this supposed highway. It's obviously been out of use for a some time now, more akin to those dirt roads in cornfields than anything else. His pride won't let him to admit this out loud, but he knows that this strange man has the upper hand. Judging by the smug smirk, Hajime is aware that he knows this as well. He wants to slap that cheeky grin away.

“Well?” the stranger chimes. “I’m waiting.”

Hajime knows that he'll most definitely regret this. A lot. “Where to?” he asks, reluctantly, as the guy beams at him.

“No set destination, captain. Wherever you take me is fine.”

“So I’m allowed to drop you off in the middle of nowhere?”

“We’re already standing here, so I don’t see how that’s a problem. I’ll behave! You won’t even notice that I’m here.” He winks playfully, all smiles and pretentious ass-kissing.

“No radio hogging, too.”

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die,” the man salutes and then walks away to pick up his really fucking small suitcase. He folds the map, pretty much skipping to the other side of the car, while Hajime collects his travel pillow and useless phone. The nameless guy makes himself comfortable as he tries to start the engine. Frankly, it seems that Pissbaby is no longer acting like a true pissbaby now that there’s another passenger inside.

‘You like this guy, don’t you?’ Hajime questions bitterly inside his mind. The van, of course, doesn’t answer. Iwaizumi side-eyes his self-appointed travel companion busy ogling himself in the mirror, hat thrown on the backseat, hair cut in a stylish, and not at all young Justin Bieber-esque, like Hajime had initially assumed, way.

“This heat is the worst. I thought I was going to fry out there,” he complains, running lean fingers through his hair to give it a more tousled look. Hajime sort of feels uncomfortable, throat tightening. “I thought I would have to hike all the way to Kansas or something. Thank god, a complete weirdo showed up. I’m so lucky!”

“A weir—do you want to die!? Why were you hiking in the first place?” Hajime asks without putting much thought into it beforehand. It naturally rolls off his tongue, and when he sees the guy visibly stiffen, he’s almost certain that he didn’t imagine it.

“What can I say? I like adventure,” he answers plainly with forced cheerfulness, but Hajime does not pry. The stranger is obviously touchy-feely about this and is quick to change the topic. None of his business, then. “So, since we’re gonna be travel buddies from now on, how about you tell me your name?”

He doesn’t want to. Not that he truly doesn’t want to, but Hajime realizes that his last name might ring a few bells in this stranger’s head, and he absolutely cannot let that happen. How many Iwaizumis are out there? A few for sure, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He’s running away from his old life, remember?

“Hajime,” he says plainly. He looks back to the road stretching out before him and then back to his new companion. Pissbaby makes a sound as if to confirm that it’s not a lie.

He can feel the man's intense stare probe the side of his face, curious and calculating. “Simple. I like that,” he hums in approval. Iwaizumi does not need to turn to know that he's grinning again. “I’m Tooru. Just Tooru,” the strange man – Tooru – says lightheartedly and sighs. “Nice peach fuzz by the way, Hajime,” he then adds, voice alluring, smile just a tad too sultry.

Iwaizumi glares in response, self-consciously scrubbing at the stubble peppering his jaw. He'd spent far too much time on the road. Tooru laughs, content, and Hajime wants to hit the brakes hard enough for him to hit his head against the windshield, but it would be too much stress on Pissbaby, so he refrains.

Tooru, with his long legs and flirty smiles, is a problem, Hajime realizes belatedly.

v.

Tooru is a menace to his sanity.

And it’s only been a day.

The self-satisfied, shit-eating grin that he shoots the driver's way once he holds out a water bottle - even though they’ve been arguing over directions and destinations for a good ten minutes now - infuriates Iwaizumi more than this shitty van. Tooru knows that he cannot refuse. Tooru also knows that he’s been aimlessly wandering around for days.

“Don’t slobber over it. That would be like an indirect kiss,” he mock warns Iwaizumi, who does a spit-take, droplets of water covering the windshield.

“Never mind, you can keep it,” Tooru wrinkles his nose, disgusted, as Hajime coughs violently.

He is in a possession of a nasty attitude which brings out Hajime’s usually well-managed anger and that's certainly an achievement. They fight over dumb stuff, fight over the radio, and then fight over the directions some more. Tooru acts like a huge know-it-all, and honestly, Iwaizumi acts like one too, only if it’s out of spite.

By the time the sun sets and they are out in a normal highway, on their way to Kansas, he’s losing 3-to-11.

“Hey, don’t change the station!” the menace whines for nth time that day. Hajime is this close to stopping the van and kicking him out. Naturally, he doesn’t listen, eyebrow twitching. “I liked that song!”

“No lording over the radio, stupid. You agreed to it.”

“Boo, you’re no fun. 'No-fun-allowed' Hajime. I bet all of the girls adore you.” Tooru smirks slyly. Hajime already knows that his... travel companion is not-so-subtly trying to get under his skin. Besides, his facial expressions aren’t too hard to read. “No, wait, I bet you’re the soul of parties!”

“Damn it, if you don’t shut up within the span of the next five seconds, I will stop this van, I swear to—“

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Pissbaby coughs, sneezes, and the engine dies.

They stop.

Both of them stare, eyes wide. One minute passes. Then another. Tooru blinks slowly and Hajime’s—

Hajime is done.

“Motherfuc—“

“Well, look on the bright side! There’s a motel nearby.” Tooru points at a bunch of neon lights flickering in the distance. “You could use a break from driving. And a shower. Definitely a shower.”

“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?”

“You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“What!? I’m not sleeping on the floor, do you have any idea what that stuff does to my back!?”

“Then don’t sleep at all for all I care,” Hajime growls and resumes toweling his hair. He really did need that shower. He feels like a brand new person. Tooru had been half-lying on the bed, sprawled horizontally over the mattress, feet planted on the inlaid floor, a magazine held in hands. When Hajime exited the shower, Tooru froze up, the magazine slipping out of his grasp to neatly smack him across the face. Hajime merely rolled his eyes at those antics, writing it off as one more quirk of Tooru species.

That weird staring and awkward silence had gone on right until Hajime announced that he was taking the bed.

“I hiked like fifteen miles today!”

“I was driving for four days straight. You said that I needed a break.”

“I haven’t slept since Wednesday!” Tooru whines, eyebrows knit. “At least be fair and let’s settle this with a game or something.”

The moment he says that, they immediately jump back for some extra space between them, expressions serious, words united.

“Rock, paper, scissors—“

How the hell did it end up like this?

Hajime craves sleep. He’s never felt so relaxed, not since he left home and his amazing bed. By now, his muscles are pretty much asleep, but his mind is working overtime, and he can’t even close his eyes, staring off into the distance, focused on nothing in particular.

He does not need to look at the mechanical clock to know it’s way past 3 a.m.

A soft moan resounds behind him. Hajime closes his bloodshot eyes, eyebrows furrowed. Something hot touches his back and he tries not to cringe or fall off the bed. He’s already lying on the very edge of it.

He blames everything on that piece of shit for a van. If his fucking van hadn’t died they wouldn’t have gone to this motel in the first place. If they wouldn’t have come here then the fucking lady at the front desk wouldn’t have told them that there was only one room available and that room just happened to have a single bed.

If this room had more than one shitty bed then they wouldn’t have to share one right now.

Yes. Share it.

They met this afternoon and now they were sharing a bed. Something is seriously fucked up with that logic, Hajime is certain of it.

Tooru is a heavy sleeper. Hajime has tried to kick him back to his side of the bed multiple times but the guy never woke and always inched back into Hajime’s personal space. He also mumbled in his sleep and talked utter nonsense. He kept calling out to someone in a different language, words slurred. After a while, Iwaizumi recognized it to be Japanese. He only made out words such as ‘No’, ‘Don’t eat that’ and ‘That’s not a hotpot’. Tooru also chuckled in his sleep. Well, at least one of them was having a damn good rest.

When they both threw rock in their little game of jankenpon, Tooru clapped his hands.

“That settles it.”

Iwaizumi frowned, confused. “What do you mean by that? Let’s go for another round.”

He only tutted. “Nope! We both chose rock that means we’re even. We both get the bed.”

“Like sleeping shifts or something?”

“Hajime, you’re kind of dense. We’re sharing it.”

The latter man choked on air, cheeks bright red. “I’m not sharing a bed with you!” he shouted, offended. There was no way in hell he would—

“Is there a problem? Are you afraid I will molest you in your sleep or something? Isn’t sharing a bed only logical in this situation?” Tooru sprawled back on the bed, arms splayed. “You can either argue and act shy or pick a side and sleep. Which one do you prefer?”

Hajime stilled, openly gaping at this strange being of a man. How could one not value their personal space? How was he comfortable enough to share a bed with him, grumpy Hajime, who called him a dumbass more than fifty times in the span of two hours? They weren’t even friends. Traveling companions didn’t even begin to describe it properly. They were still complete strangers who didn’t get along.

But damn, the idea of sleeping on the floor really didn’t appeal to him.

So in the end he had agreed and Tooru took the left side of the bed while Hajime took the right.

He never expected to get all close and personal with that guy. He tried to console himself that Tooru was asleep thus incapable of doing anything to him, completely unaware of his surroundings, eating his imaginary food. Every little moan Tooru let out reverberated inside Hajime’s tired mind, shook his body to the very core, made his face a little hotter than necessary.

Some time later, Tooru’s excited giggles fade and turn distressed. He starts tossing and turning. Hajime slowly rises up to a half-seated position, wondering if he should shake the man awake and end his obviously bad dream. The man lets out another agonized whine and somehow, even in his sleep, he finds Hajime’s arm and holds onto it tightly, fingers cold and clammy.

“Toshi, Toshi, no… P-please.”

Hajime watches with wide eyes as the man trembles, spotting the damp trails of tears forming on Tooru’s cheekbones. He keeps on thrashing about in their shared bed.

Unsettled by the pitiful sight, Hajime makes up his mind, hesitant fingers curling around the man’s covered shoulders to shake him awake. It’s a hard task to accomplish, because the more Hajime tries, the more Tooru’s subconscious clings to that nightmare, unwilling to let go of it.

“It’s okay, it's just a dream… Just a bad dream,” Hajime whispers soothingly, and while Tooru does not wake up, he calms down a little once Hajime shyly starts running his hands through his travelling comapnion's clean, soft hair, tenderly rubbing his scalp.

That night, he doesn’t get a wink of sleep. Instead, he makes himself a cup of instant coffee and curls up on the windowsill, sleepily staring into the distance, the neon blue and red signs of the motel hurting his strained eyes. The cup burns his palms, but he barely notices, his thoughts with Tooru and his wasteland of bad dreams. Maybe there is more to him than meets the eye. There has to be a reason why Iwaizumi found him there.

Hajime is unaware of the fact that he isn’t the only one awake.

They don’t talk about it, Hajime because he’s not sure how to bring it up, and Tooru because of obvious reasons.

vi.

Four days later, Hajime almost gets used to Tooru’s annoying ways and constant presence. By now, he knows how to tune him out whenever he rants too much about meaningless shit and how to ignore the trashy pop music blasting through Pissbaby’s speakers. He’d given up on fighting over the radio.

They got Pissbaby fixed within a few hours - Hajime had forgotten to check the oil - and were back on the road before they knew it, no particular destination in their minds.

Hajime keeps tabs on the mile count – they've wandered less than he'd initially predicted. At the end of the fourth day, Tooru checked his wallet while Hajime fell a few paces behind, eating the remains of his disgusting chicken sandwich. If there was one thing he'd missed other than the constant access to the shower and his comfortable bed, it was obviously homemade food.

“I’m low on cash,” Tooru said, throwing a dirty napkin into a lone trashcan nearby. It flew right in. “Hajime, how ‘bout we go to Vegas? I could get rich in three hours.”

The latter stopped chewing, staring into the distance contemplatively. The sun was a barely visible stripe of red and orange fading into the distance. The sky was a cool shade of cobalt blue, black clouds hanging from the direction they'd came from, the direction of Hajime’s hometown and the shimmering lights of Las Vegas. The clouds made everything feel ten times more ominous than it actually was.

“We’re not going back,” Hajime spoke up, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. Tooru stared at him with a hard to decipher look in his brown eyes. “You’re done eating? If so, get in the van, I’m driving. We’re not staying here for the night.”

“Typical,” he said, unhappy. “At least stop by a casino or something?”

“What if you lose what little cash you have on you?”

“Then you can win it back with your own! Ah, wait, no I was kidding—ouch! Hajimeee, you have so little fate in me!” Tooru complained while rubbing a sore spot where Iwaizumi’s knuckles had made contact. “I’m an expert when it comes to gambling! They don’t call me ‘Lucky Tooru’ for nothing!” he winked playfully and made some over-exaggerated action hero pose. Hajime only rolled his eyes.

“Like hell will I trust a guy who almost got us killed!” Hajime countered and Tooru grabbed his chest, feigning hurt disbelief.

“I told you there was an animal on the road! I almost had a heart attack. Plus I can’t get used to American cars. It’s the steering wheel, blame the wheel!”

Tooru wasn’t the most flawless driver out there and they moved at turtle speed whenever he offered to take over so that Iwaizumi could catch a few hours of shuteye. It had been his fault, he begrudgingly realizes, he was the one who told Tooru to drive even though the sun had already set and the visibility was total shit. If they had died together back then, then he would have been undeniably sentenced to hell for something along the lines of accidental murder.

Hajime could only sigh.

“If you lose everything and get indebted to some local gang in the process, I’m not bailing you out.”

“Mean!”

“Just being a realist,” Hajime grumbled and manually unlocked Pissbaby. “Now hop in and let’s get going already. That guy’s been staring at you for a while now, so if you get yourself kidnapped, I won’t do a thing,” he whispered, eyeing some creepy biker dude in a pornstache and shades. Talk about cliche. The guy had been keeping a close eye on Tooru, or his lower back in particular, ever since they went inside the gas station. It kind of made Hajime uneasy, while his companion didn’t even notice, like he was far too used to this kind of attention and dealt with it daily.

“Awww, you really do care,” Tooru cooed, insincere, body going lax as he fixed Iwaizumi with that indecipherable stare once again. His child-like playfulness disappeared in an instant. “Hajime, please take me to Vegas.”

It made anger eat away at Iwaizumi's heart as he snapped. “Didn’t you hear? I said that I’m not going back. If you want it so badly, just ask that creep to give you a ride on his bike! I’m sure he'll agree to it for certain offers.”

Immediately he knew that it was a horrible thing to say, completely uncalled for, too, and that he had royally fucked up. His assumptions were confirmed. His companion tensed, glowering at him disbelievingly, and to be honest, Hajime was a bit shocked by himself as well. Were his social skills that dead already?

“Learn how to face your own fucking problems head-on instead of taking it out on others, asshole,” Tooru hissed, words laced with poison and slammed the passenger door shut, flipping him off before speedwalking away, leaving Iwaizumi to stew in his frustration alone.

He could only hit his head against the wheel and groan at the slight sting of pain.

“Great, just great.”

He waited for Tooru's return for half an hour, every passing minute stabbing him like a knife of solidified guilt. The silence was strangling him and the lack of human presence by his side made him feel insecure. Thirty-two minutes and forty seconds later, Iwaizumi made up his mind and left the van to look for his annoying travel buddy.

He found him by the side of the highway on his fourth can of beer, no money left in his pockets, drunk off his ass and very obviously upset. Tooru flinched away when Hajime placed a palm on one bony shoulder and stood up far too quickly, swaying unsteadily, shivering from the cold. The wind was picking up, the massive storm clouds now rolling above their heads, getting closer with every second.

“I… won my first lottery when I was nine,” Tooru slurred and wiped at his red-rimmed eyes with the back of his sleeve. Hajime didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that his companion had been crying. He was glad that it was dark. At least now he couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. “Just coz I’m ‘Lucky Tooru’ when it comes to gambling and f-finances, it doesn’t mean that I’m ‘Lucky Tooru’ when it comes to e-everything else in my life, y-yeah? You can’t be good at everything, y-you just can’t! I—” His voice cracked and he placed one hand over his heart, grasping the material of the thin shirt. “Can get heartbroken too, okay. “

To be honest, Hajime still doesn't know how to deal with this, and he didn’t know back then, too. He tried to reach out to Tooru again, but the man only stumbled backwards, almost falling over.

“Listen, let’s go back. You’re drunk and—“

“Damare, Hajime,” he hissed in Japanese, annoyed. “I can accept the problems I have. Then why can’t you? Why are you running away from them? Why are you here today?”

“Why are you?” Iwaizumi countered the litany of questions with one of his own. He couldn’t be bothered to turn on his brakes, mind somewhere far away and common sense an unfamiliar concept.

Tooru sauntered forward and pushed his hands into Iwaizumi’s shirt, pulling him close so that there was barely an inch of space between their flushed faces. The brunet had a few inches over him and no matter how much Iwaizumi tried to see a single flaw in that handsome face, he couldn’t. Even the crease between those thin eyebrows didn’t ruin anything on that canvas painted with a frustrated kind of sadness.

A storm, Hajime had thought briefly as he finally took a good look at those dark eyes, usually sparkling with mischievousness. An unpredictable storm that could end you if you weren’t careful enough.

And Hajime wasn’t careful. Never has been. He’s only a little kid running around in a field of tall grass while the thunder is grumbling warnings above his head, threatening to strike him down with a flash of lightning if he doesn’t dive for cover on time.

Instead he chooses to sit around, come what may, patiently waiting for the clouds to disappear and for the sun to shine again.

That night Tooru had been a raging storm at its worst. Overwhelmed, he pressed their foreheads together, bitter tears rolling down his cheeks to leave hot puddles all over Iwaizumi’s cheeks, the tip of his nose.

“Because the great and wonderful ‘Lucky Tooru’ is actually breakable.”

He passed out from stress and inebriation, falling forward into Hajime’s waiting arms.

Another night spent driving while listening to the sounds of Tooru’s muffled sobs and muttering, tossing to the sides, hands reaching out to something or someone that isn’t there.

The rain mercilessly beats against the van’s roof, cleaning it, yet at the same time, leaving it dirtier than before. Hajime feels like he can relate.

He turns up the volume louder.

They have to make a two-day stop until Tooru feels well enough to keep on going. Hajime pays for the room and lets Tooru take the bed while he aimlessly drives around, buying postcards and medicine.

vii.

“Um… Unadon!”

“Unagidonburi!”

“Isn’t it the same word? That’s cheating.”

“It’s not, it’s not! Your turn.”

“So it’s ri… ri… ririri… rin…? What’s Japanese for ‘apple’? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I forgot.”

“Seriously, Hajime? You forgot the word for apple but you remember ‘rice with broiled eel’?”

“Shut up! Just tell me the word.”

“It’s ringo. Riiiiingo. Rin—GO, RIN—”

“You can stop now. Let’s not play any more Shiritori, I’m getting seriously hungry here.”

“Aaah, I’m starving. How much until the next stop point?”

“Twenty-five miles last time I checked.”

“I’m going to starve to death,” Tooru complains and tries to get comfortable on the passenger seat. “Wake me up when we’re there.”

“Now I won’t do it on purpose,” Iwaizumi teases and it works.

“Hajime, crawl back into the hell hole that you came from,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. Hajime is ready to retort something sarcastic, but before he can, Tooru speaks up. “Do you miss it? Japan that is.”

It’s actually a very good question, Hajime concludes, as he carefully thinks over it. He can barely remember that country. His voice no longer has a hint of accent to it, and one might think that he’s been living in the States his entire life. Why Tooru had assumed otherwise is beyond him. Yeah, maybe he really does miss it on some deep, emotional level, but the thing is that there’s no one truly waiting for him out there. He’s uncertain as to when his train of thought had changed like this, but he knows that he hadn’t been thinking this way before Tooru crashed into his life.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, eyes fixed on the road. “It would be nice to visit, but I’m not sure if I’d like to stay there.”

“That’s a good response,” his travel buddy nods.

“And what about you? Do you miss it? I’m assuming that you haven’t stayed here for as long as I have.”

Tooru’s silent for a while, and right when Hajime is certain that he won’t be getting a response, he speaks up again, contemplative. “I don’t. I used to, though, but not anymore. I miss it almost as much as you miss those four walls surrounded by journalists twenty-four seven, Hajime Iwaizumi. And I’m certain that you do not miss that or L.A. in any way.”

Hajime’s foot hits the brakes so suddenly that Tooru has to hold onto the seat, a squeal of surprise escaping him. If he’s surprised, then Hajime is completely flabbergasted, body going cold and numb. “How do you know who I am?”

“Why didn’t you ask properly instead of trying to scare me to death? Jeez!” he growls unhappily, but Iwaizumi couldn’t care less. His identity has been discovered. His mind jumps to the most unlikely conclusions. What if Tooru is a spy, one of those journalists paid an insane amount of money to travel with the runaway son of America’s most valued baseball star? What if Hajime’s been fooled all along? That thought makes his heart plummet down to his heels.

Tooru stares at him, bemused. “You look like I just killed your family before your eyes. I’m not here to sell you out or anything, Iwa — can I call you Iwa? Hajime’s too much of a hassle – so you can calm down.”

“F-For how long did you know?”

“All this time. You never questioned me so I pretended that I didn’t know.”

“And you haven’t said a single word!?” Annoyance gnaws at Iwaizumi. God damn that Tooru.

“Did you want me to? Wouldn’t that have made things awkward? I thought you wanted anonymity. An escape.”

He sounds so honest that Iwaizumi feels guilty for snapping at him like that. Again. But this is one huge step forward and at least three steps back. He kind of feels betrayed though a part of him is glad that Tooru treats him like a normal person instead of the son of a world-wide famous power batter. “Just who the hell are you, Tooru?”

The brunet rewards him with a lovely sort of smile that never fails to pluck at Iwaizumi’s heartstrings. “A random passerby that you picked up on the side of the road. You gave me a new purpose. A goal. Offered me to travel with you—“

“I didn’t—“ Iwaizumi tries to interrupt, embarrassed.

“Iwa-chan, there’s nothing left for me there. Just like there’s nothing left for you. So why would I miss Japan or my old life when I have this? Just the two of us and Shiro on the road.”

Hajime’s heart combusts into a bunch of tiny particles and his face radiates heat. He’s too ashamed to look at Tooru. “First of all, cut the Iwa-chan and don’t name my van however you wish.”

“Ah, it’s ours now!”

“It’s not!”

“It so is! And I named it Shiro!”

“Its name is Pissbaby.”

More blushing.

“Iwa-chan, you’re so cute, you named it! Though Pissbaby is plain rude, it’s a valued traveling companion.”

“I will call my damn van however the hell I please and if I say that it is Pissbaby then it is. And you’re like the talking house pet, but more annoying. See? I named everything.”

They act like they’re five and it’s everything they ever wanted.

“You never answered me. How the hell did you know who I am? There are a bunch of grumpy-looking Asian guys out there, how’d you know I was ‘the one’.”

“You left your passport on the seat so I checked it out. I had a feeling that I’ve seen you somewhere before. By the way, my nephew is a huge fan of your dad. Can you give me an autograph or something?”

“Die.” Iwaizumi takes a sip of his cola and gives Tooru the keys. He gladly accepts them. “Is it weird when I say this but I think I’ve seen you somewhere before as well?”

Tooru gracefully stretches his legs and looks to the side. “Maybe you have.”

ix.

The purr of Pissbaby’s engine lulls Hajime to sleep within minutes. He’s pretty sure that he gets no longer than five minutes of shuteye when he feels Tooru’s fingertips probe his cheek. The touch is strangely intimate, barely ghosting over his skin, lingering. Hajime’s right cheek is plastered to the window and his neck is sore with discomfort. He wants to rest for a few more minutes, but Tooru’s gentle touch turns into light slapping that forces him out of his dreamy state.

“We’re here, Iwa-chan,” he mumbles, slapping Iwaizumi’s face some more right until he catches Tooru’s thin wrist, grip tight enough to warn him to stop. Hajime lazily opens one eye, surprised to see that the sky is now black. He’s been sleeping the entire day.

“Where’s ‘here’? Seriously, where are we?” he croaks, barely holding back a jaw-breaking yawn. Tooru gets out of his personal space.

“Stockton state park,” the menace chirps the random string of words excitedly.

It doesn’t ring a bell in Hajime’s tired mind. “Huh? Doesn’t explain a thing.”

“Jeez, Iwa-chan, you’ve been living here for years. Have you ever bothered to learn some basic geography or find some nice places to visit?”

“If I wanted to be a geographer, I would’ve done better in school, and look at me now.” Hajime pushes himself up, rubbing his stiff neck. “Why’d you bring us here? Where are we anyways? Ah, which state is it?”

“Iwa, we’ve been in Missouri for two days now, what the hell?” Tooru states, eyebrows raised. “How does one miss something like that? How'd you survive for that long? You would be lost without me.”

Hajime clips him on the back of the head. Tooru falls out of the car, disgruntled. “You should sign up for anger management classes.”

“You should sign up for classes where they teach you how to keep your mouth shut when talking to those who happen to have anger issues,” Hajime groans tiredly, stepping outside. It’s a quiet place, not a single sign of civilization nearby. The road is rocky and the ground is uneven. In the distance, he spots the faint outlines of hills covered with tall trees. Before the travelers stretches a huge lake filled with pitch-black water. Hajime nods in appreciation. It’s definitely a nice change. The wind is cool against his skin, but not unpleasantly so. Tooru seems to be thinking the same when he starts stripping and running towards the water, leaving clothing in his wake.

“Wait, you dumbass, don’t—“ Hajime shouts after him, but it’s too late. Tooru doesn’t stop, diving into the black depths, only to resurface a few, very long and tense seconds later, shaking his head to the sides like a dog. Hajime has to squint to make out his form in the night - their only source of light is Pissbaby’s headlights that do not reach that far.

Tooru lets out a content laugh. “This feels great! Fancy a swim, Iwa-chan?”

“Wha—are you crazy!? It’s like 57 degrees out here!” he rubs his upper arms to warm himself and prove his point. “The water has to be freezing.”

“It’s not, though,” Tooru calls back from the lake, swimming in lazy circles and trying his best to lure in Iwaizumi like some sort of siren luring sailors to their inevitable deaths. “It’s pretty warm, actually. What is it, Iwa-chan? Scared of a little water? Can’t swim? You can tell me, I won’t judge.” Tooru’s white teeth flash in the darkness, a blatant provocation, as he splashes around like a cat drowning in a puddle.

Iwaizumi takes off his shirt, rolling his sore shoulders. Damn, he’s stiff all over.

Tooru cat calls and cheers so loudly that it disturbs the night life. “Free gun show! Free gun show!”

“Yeah yeah, keep shouting, idiot. I hope a bear shows up and eats your bony ass. Won't have much to feast on.” Iwaizumi peels off his jeans, glaring when the other says ‘Damn son, have you been lifting?’. He has. For multiple years, in fact, the handful of trophies in his childhood bedroom proof of his physical prowess. “I’m fucking warning you, watch your back or I will drown you.”

“First you'll have to get in here, big boy,” Tooru cackles, swimming further away.

Iwaizumi runs in after him, determined, however, his determination takes a nosedive once the freezing water reaches above his knees. “Shit, fuck no, it’s cold!” His teeth click together as Tooru crawls closer, his fingers touching the rocky bottom of the lake.

“I don’t know, seems pretty normal to me. Warmer than my morning showers, that’s for sure.”

“Are you fucking ice-diving every morning then?”

Tooru splashes him with cold water in response.

Iwaizumi pounces.

They have an all-out water battle, which Iwaizumi absolutely owns at, and twenty minutes later they're far too cold and tired to continue, aimlessly floating on their backs. When Hajime makes his way towards the shore, Tooru raises his head from the chilly water, rivulets streaming down his lean neck. “I… wanted to see the stars,” he confesses silently, as though he’s afraid someone might overhear. “And take a dip in the lake before it gets too cold, but mostly to see the stars.”

The sky is clear that night, millions of white specks sprinkled on a dark blue, satin-like surface.

“Keep your eyes open. You might spot a shooting star, dumbass,” Iwaizumi says, the insult sounding far too affectionate, even to his own ears.

“I see them all the time. The stars, I mean.”

“Whenever I hit you?”

“Witty, Iwa-chan. Very much so.”

“Whatever, weirdo. Get over here before you catch a cold.”

“…Do you want to leave?” Tooru asks, cautious, yet follows.

By now Iwaizumi knows what that look means. He takes the towel that Tooru had placed on Pissbaby’s roof, steps closer to him, and drapes it over his head, toweling the brown locks with some force. “We can stay a bit longer if you want.”

They change into thicker clothes immediately, and after warming up for a bit, return outside, backs pressed against Pissbaby’s rusted side. They don’t talk, only sit in comfortable silence, which is rather strange, lost in their own thoughts. Somewhere around 2 a.m., Hajime feels a certain weight press down on his shoulder, and looks to the side, only to find that Tooru had dosed off. His breathing is steady and he seems to be having a good dream for a change, if the content sighs that he lets out every once in a while, are anything to judge by.

Hajime slowly shakes him. Tooru mumbles sleepily, fingers curled in the sleeve of Iwaizumi’s thick sweater. He doesn’t fully wake up when Iwaizumi ushers him back inside and immediately doses off once Pissbaby’s engine starts purring.

Iwaizumi keeps his eyes on the road, but his mind's elsewhere, and once Tooru starts mumbling the usual litany of ‘Please don’t’s, he carefully laces their fingers, squeezing lightly.

“It’s just a bad dream… I’m here…”

It feels a bit strange, foreign, but Tooru gradually calms down, bony hand warm and pliant in Hajime’s bigger, rougher one.

He spends the rest of the night trying to come up with a proper name, a proper term for this strange relationship that he’s sharing with Tooru.

x.

When Hajime sees the magazine stand at some random convenience store, he freezes. People probably think that he is an impressive wax statue and their stares betray concern. Hajime quickly snatches one of the mags from the rack, the search for provisions momentarily forgotten, pretty much throwing the cash at the cashier’s surprised face, and storms outside where Tooru is waiting, his usual shades and cap in place.

Hajime is almost breathing fire.

Tooru looks up from the newspaper, which is conveniently covering half of his face. “Iwa-chan, you’re quick today. Did you get—“ He stops mid-sentence, confused. A flock of giggling teenage girls stand to the side, phones out and directed at Tooru’s back.

“When were you going to tell me?” Hajime throws the mag at him. Tooru fumbles to catch it before it hits the ground.

On the cover, he sees an airbrushed photo of himself from the last photoshoot that he'd attended right before he decided to run away. One of the flashy headers is screaming ‘The mysterious disappearance of Tooru Oikawa: Rumor or reality!?’

Tooru swallows heavily, his throat constricting. “Iwa-chan, I can explain.“

“It better be a damn good explanation, too,” Hajime spits, hurt. “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not—“

“Learn to face your problems.” The other air quotes, turning on his heel.

He quickly walks away, intent on putting distance between them.

Tooru Oikawa leaves him alone for the next few hours. Whenever Hajime closes his eyes, he sees the sentences printed in that pretentious magazine, words sensational, fake. He knows that he'd seen Oikawa somewhere before, so his first impression wasn’t entirely wrong. Apparently he is a really famous model, the pride and joy of ‘Q management’.

In that horrible magazine, multiple unreliable sources assureed the man's many, many adoring fans that Oikawa was currently on sick leave, yet his apartment in the heart of NYC stood completely empty and nobody had seen the model for weeks – weeks that he'd spent traveling with Kenta Iwaizumi's runaway son.

Hajime feels betrayed and stupid. He should’ve looked into this. Did Tooru not trust him? Did he not earn his trust over these weeks?

Was it naive of Hajime to think that some strange thing was budding between them, steadily growing and shaping into something beautiful, something that had flourished the night Iwaizumi held Tooru’s hand, only letting go of it whenever he needed to shift a gear and turn a particularly sharp corner.

He stands up from a stool located at some bar, pays for his non-alcoholic drink, and leaves.

He finds Tooru curled up by the Pissbaby. It seems that he hasn’t left for a while. The sun is almost setting when Hajime awkwardly stops nearby, shifting his weight. The brunet doesn’t look up.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Oikawa says and slowly stands up, dusting off the back of his jeans - the same jeans he'd worn on the day they first met. “But let me get my stuff first.”

Hajime eyes him, jaw-slack. “Huh?” And what does the guy mean by that? Is this the end of their journey? Are they going their separate ways now?”

“There’s something in my suitcase which will… help me explain some stuff. Just open the van.”

Hajime obliges. Tooru falls into Pissbaby and goes through their mess of bags dumped on the backseat. He emerges a moment later with a crumpled magazine held in one hand. The magazine somehow seems familiar to Iwaizumi. He can’t put his finger around it, though.

“I want to make this as short as possible, so listen closely and don’t daydream like you tend to, Iwa-chan. I sure as hell won’t ever be talking about this again.” He hands over Iwaizumi the mess of crumpled papers flipped to an article on page eight. Tooru handles it with the tips of his fingers as though the magazine's causing him physical pain. “Read this first. There might be less to explain.”

It’s an article about a famous volleyball player and his ‘shocking love affair’ with some unknown girl. The photos are blurry yet reliable, showing the two of them holding hands and kissing. The man is wearing what Iwaizumi recognizes to be the usual disguise that his own dad wears whenever he leaves the house - the same thing Oikawa's always worn in public, yet Hajime never paid any attention to it - bending down so that the girl doesn’t have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him properly.

It looks like any other gossip article. Iwaizumi does not understand how it’s relevant to Oikawa at all, right until his eyes catch the name Ushijima Wakatoshi and it all falls into place.

“You didn’t tell me you were dating Ushiwaka,” Iwaizumi says, slightly taken aback.

Tooru stares at him incredulously. “How’s that rele—how do you know him?”

“I’ve been a huge fan of volleyball my whole life. Not knowing this guy is like not knowing that the sky is blue.”

“Oh, and you would know that, wouldn’t you?” Oikawa snaps, voice full of contempt. “Do me a favor and never talk to me about volleyball ever again.”

Hajime nods and he means it. Tooru is far too disturbed to even look at the mag properly, the same mag he'd found on a coffee table all those days ago when Pissbaby broke down and they had to share a room and a bed at that rundown motel. The mere idea that Oikawa’s been dragging around the proof of his ex’s unfaithfulness hurts Hajime even more than any of the fake smiles and grins that have been forced on him that day. Just the thought that Tooru couldn’t bring himself to let go this stage of his life, despite all of those lecturing speeches that he'd pulled on Iwaizumi ass, seems insane.

“So what’s your tragic backstory, dumbass?” Hajime asks, leaning against Pissbaby’s dirty side, looking into the distance. “Don’t tell me that all of this happened just because of some shitty dude who cheated. You’re better than that.”

And Iwaizumi is wrong, so very wrong, because the great and wonderful Tooru Oikawa really is breakable.

xi.

“We’re going to New York.”

“Iwa-chan, we shouldn’t go there. I don’t want to go there.”

“We're going and that’s fucking final. I don’t care if I'll have to drive the entire time without any rest. I’m going even if it means tying you up. We'll end this stage and turn another page in your life, okay? Just me and you. Now quit crying.”

It fucking hurts, seeing Oikawa dead-eyed and so thoroughly broken. It’s a view Hajime does not wish to see ever again, because a single look at that lovely face twisted up with lingering sadness, downright tears him in half.

He can’t blame him for the tears. Oikawa really loved that guy, unworthy as he was.

Hajime's mind cannot seem to let go of the vivid mental image of a five-year-old Tooru standing in front of a tall mirror with a happiness coloring his kid-like face, as he poses, almost drowning in his dad’s brand new Armani jacket. He feels as though he’s reliving Oikawa’s childhood alongside him. In fact, he cannot help but be a little upset that he never had the chance to get to know the man before, never had the chance to support him, cheer him on, tell him that losing is okay and that it’s a part of human nature.

All he can do now is tell him that Ushijima is a dickwad who doesn’t deserve him, but Oikawa knows this himself already, and only laughs as if agreeing, but his bright eyes betray his heartbroken state.

“I came here for a fashion show. That was about half a year ago? I was supposed to stay in NYC for a month, but after the grand opening, I met him and my plans got screwed over. Fell into a trap, fast and hard, without even knowing.”

Ushijima had been smitten with Oikawa’s beauty, and they hit it off immediately, the model's exuberance and persistence easily penetrating the seemingly awkward volleyball player's many walls.

“I only wanted someone to like me for who I am, not some face on a magazine cover. I was dumb, gullible, and desperate. I’m always desperate.”

“Into extremes?”

“More than you know,” Tooru sighs and closes his eyes. “Now that I think about it, the relationship was one huge failure. It had to stay a secret. I was locked up like a trophy wife while he showered me with attention and fake promises.” His laugh is dull. “But hell, they made me happy, Iwa-chan. Until I noticed that something was up.” Tooru’s nose wrinkles as he shoots another distasteful look at the magazine. Iwaizumi kind of wants to jump into those blurry photographs and punch the guy in the face. “We got into a huge fight and I ran away, hoping that he'd follow, find me, and tell me I was wrong. A week later, this is what I see. Wanted him to reassure me that nothing had changed between us.”

Iwaizumi is amazed by what an amazing actor Oikawa is. He's been holding up so well that Hajime didn’t even get the chance to glance under that cracked mask.

He’s only ever caught Oikawa with his defenses down twice. Both times he'd been staring at the screen of his phone, the corners of his lips downturned.

The girl that’s hanging onto Ushijima’s arm is cute and petite. She has a warm, love-high smile adorning her heart-shaped face and she's everything that Tooru is not.

NYC is a maze, so he lets Oikawa take over for the rest of the drive. The man navigates the streets as though he’s been living there his entire life and they only take a wrong turn once. The sound of traffic makes Iwaizumi restrain the urge to slam his head against the window. He needs to get used to it.

Oikawa’s eyes shine brightly, finally a positive change, when he drags Hajime to some ancient glasses store.

“I need a new disguise!” Tooru chirps and flies to the stand that sells the cheapest-looking glasses Iwaizumi’s ever seen. They aren’t that well off with money but Oikawa promised to make a fortune if Iwaizumi allowed him to roam freely for a few hours. He begrudgingly agreed. “Oh, found something! Iwa-chan, close your eyes,” he orders.

Hajime closes them, but only after talking back.

Something gets placed on his face. He feels Tooru’s fingers tighten around his shoulders, guiding him somewhere.

“Okay, you can open them now!”

Iwaizumi obliges, only to find ridiculous lip-shaped, pink-tinted glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

“What is this monstrosity?” Hajime wants to sound serious, but cracks a smile.

Tooru grins, pleased. He carefully removes the glasses, knuckles grazing the sides of Iwaizumi’s face. Another pair gets slipped on. This time, they’re beer bottle-shaped. Oikawa tilts his head to the side. “Nope, these definitely suit you better. Macho Iwa-chan.”

“Well, and I think these—“ Hajime starts, voice betraying his amusement as he chooses a ridiculous pair of Harry Potter-esque glasses completed with thick eyebrows and a nose with mustache attached to the frame. “Fit a know-it-all like you.”

Oikawa looks at himself in the mirror and bursts out in a fit of giggles. “My eyebrow game is pretty strong. I hope you know that this means war. But let me take a pic first,” he says, pulling out his phone to turn on the camera. “C’mon, Iwa-chan. We don’t really have any photos together,” Tooru beckons him to step in closer and drapes a familiar arm over his shoulders. Hajime feels Tooru’s warmth seep into the fabric of his clothes, his breath fanning against the side of his face as he lifts the phone above their heads, smiling brightly. There’s a digital click. Iwaizumi stares at the shot. He kind of likes it, mostly because it captures Tooru’s genuine smile.

“I look like I’m high,” Hajime snorts.

“You always look like that. Or pissy.”

“That’s because you piss me off.”

Tooru swipes off the glasses, and puts on another pair of shades. These ones have neon-green shutters. Oikawa takes his moment of confusion to snap another pic. “Rap for me, Kanye.”

Hajime chases him, threatening to shave off his hair. Tooru’s cheerful giggling echoes in the shop and the clerk scolds them for causing commotion.

They agree to meet at Central Park at 9 p.m. sharp. Hajime really has no idea where he’s supposed to go, but Oikawa promises to call and guide him where he needs to. Apparently Central Park is a whole lot bigger than he'd initially assumed.

Oikawa disappears the moment Hajime sets a time, so he decides to do some sight-seeing himself.

It all goes according to plan until he decides to grab a bite at some place with free or at least cheap Wi-Fi access.

Hajime is a smart kid, he does his research thoroughly as he drinks his expensive-ass coffee and pokes at a parfait that he ordered for dessert. It’s the last of his money, so he sincerely hopes that Oikawa really wasn’t lying when he reassured him that he was a gambling pro, those cheap card tricks at that one diner non-counting. Otherwise, they’re screwed. They can’t go too far without any "food" for Pissbaby.

Speaking of Pissbaby…

One more reason why Hajime is in a desperate need of internet access.

Once he gets everything he needs, he bails out of the French café which is not so subtly trying to coerce him into buying more goods, and wonders whether he’ll run into Oikawa. Chances are slim, the kid is either shopping or, well, shopping. He’s probably rich already. He said that he works fast when it comes to money, and Hajime has no reason to doubt him.

He aimlessly wanders the overflowing streets of Manhattan and comes to a grinding halt when he reaches his destination, a small sports equipment shop, almost completely hidden out of view. Hajime looks at the shop’s window. A young and undeniably tired Japanese man in a desperate need of a haircut stares back. He has Hajime’s face, but the devious grin plastered on his lips is unrecognizable.

The young man will grant that wish, softly-spoken and forgotten in the dead of the night, a single sentence that Oikawa is unaware that Hajime had overheard.

After all, Tooru Oikawa is even more important than his goals.

When he leaves the shop, a solid weight pulling on his bag, Iwaizumi realizes that he’s set to go. Minor issues: he is lost and has no idea how to contact Oikawa. They’ve never bothered to officially exchange phone numbers, always minding their own business. It was like an unspoken rule, an agreement they never broke no matter the circumstances.

It makes Iwaizumi mindlessly reach into the back pocket of his jeans and take out his phone, however, he almost drops it when he notices that it’s been toyed with. It’s all the same except for the background. It's been changed, from a dull gray picture to a photo of which’s existence he was blissfully unaware. It’s a photo of Oikawa smiling for the camera, the corners of his lips barely curled upwards but his eyes are overflowing with affection. The hand that’s not holding the phone is held up near his face, fingers curled in a peace sign. In the background, Hajime's snoozing away, unaware of the fact that his companion is snapping photos of him.

Judging by their clothes, Hajime is pretty sure that this was taken back in Missouri and he belatedly realizes that he hasn’t touched his phone ever since then, hasn’t been waiting for calls that would never come. His finger hovers over the icon of his contact list and when he clicks it, Iwaizumi wants to cover his face with his hands. The throng of people circles around him, not sparing a second glance his way and Iwaizumi’s heart swells, swells, swells.

There’s a single phone number in his contact list filed under the letter ‘T’.

And at that very moment, Hajime Iwaizumi realizes that he’s so in love with the owner of this phone number it physically hurts.

When they meet up, Oikawa pretty much throws a bundle of cash into his face.

“You can thank me later,” he chirps and shakes the bulging bags. “Got some shopping done.”

“Dude, where do you plan to put all of that?” Even though Iwaizumi has reached a life changing revelation a mere hour ago, that does not mean that he’s going to treat the guy any different. “Might as well rent a fucking trailer and then attach two more dedicated to your shit alone.”

“Great idea,” Oikawa agrees, throwing his haul on the backseat. “By the way, where are we staying for the night? The money’s not a problem.” He winks playfully. Hajime tries not to let his devious smile show when he tells Oikawa to sit his ass down.

He hands him over the bag that he'd been lugging around the entire day. With a questioning and a tad suspicious look, Oikawa grabs it and then reaches inside. His eyes widen frantically as he touches his ‘gift’s’ smooth surface.

“I don’t follow,” he states, as he takes out a brand new baseball bat, the sleek wood gleaming dimly in traffic lights.

“It’s a surprise,” Hajime simply says, and takes the route that he is unfamiliar with but has memorized.

“You’re kidding, Hajime,” Tooru speaks up after a while. Heavy, anticipatory silence stretched between them the moment they'd  reached their destination, Pissbaby parked further away behind tall bushes to avoid the public eye. Oikawa’s stare skids from the bat clutched in his pale hands, to Iwaizumi’s emotionless face, then to the tall ornamented fence, made from quality metal. “I’m not—“

“Do you have the keys?”

“Huh?”

“The keys,” Hajime inquires. “To the house.”

Oikawa balks. “Y-yeah, but. Iwa-chan, you… We could get arrested for this.”

“We could get arrested for a lot of shit, man. It’s the bloody United States of America. And technically, you still live here.” Hajime reasons, gesturing to the bulking modern house. All of its lights are out, but that’s expected - after all, Hajime knows that no one's here tonight. “Consider it a gift from a friend. What you decide to do with it is completely up to you. You can either use this opportunity and get rid of your past once and for all or we can leave and never step a foot in NYC ever again.”

The quiet settles between them once more. Hajime thinks that perhaps he’s pushing this way too much and that he really, truly doesn’t understand Oikawa, what he needs and wants. 

Anxious, Tooru loudly exhales through his nose.

“Well? We can’t waste time here, someone’s bound to get suspicious.“ Of course, a huge, white van parked inconspicuously in the 'rich kid' district is bound to attract negative stares very soon. “Your answer, Tooru?”

A swallow and a nod of resolution. “I’m going, Hajime. Watch my back for me.”

“Of course.”

He will always watch that broad back. Always.

Oikawa hurriedly unlocks the front gates and the moment he sneaks inside, two dogs the size of fucking horses bound up to them. However, once they notice that it’s Oikawa, their ferocious barking turns into happy whining and tail wagging. Tooru scratches one of those beasts - a fluffy German Sheppard that’s been eating way too much - behind the ears. He coos, hugging the animal as though it’s a fluffy stuffed toy and not something that could bite your head off in a single bite.

“Cerberus, did you miss papa?” Tooru fluffs up the dog’s fur even more and gets slobbered all over in response. “Me too, baby, I missed you too! Who’s a good boy?”

Iwaizumi clears his throat to stop this little spectacle that’s supposed to be a touching ‘family reunion’. The dogs growl at him in warning. “Uh, I know that you’re enjoying yourself but don’t you think we should get a move on? We need to move fast.”

“Iwa-chan, do you have a dog? A pet?”

“No?” Iwaizumi responds, scrunching up his nose. He’s never been an animal lover. He was okay with the fish his mom kept, but he viewed them as a house decoration and nothing more. He still doesn’t understand why his mother cried when her goldfish died.

“Then you can’t possibly understand the bond a dog and its master share. Isn’t that right, Cerberus, Kira? Iwa-chan’s a big brute with no feelings!” The dogs yip loudly as if agreeing. “See?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Iwa-chan, it was a joke! Come back! I can’t do this alone!”

“No need to take off your shoes, Iwa-chan, we won’t be staying for too long.” Oikawa spreads his arms wide, a deranged smile stretching his pretty face. The dogs scratch at the door for a while, intent on getting inside, but give up shortly after. The house is considerably plain, not that Ushijima Wakatoshi seems like the type of guy who’s into décor, but Hajime had expected something more. Why not flaunt your money a little when you’re overflowing with it?

“Hey, darling, I’m here now,” Oikawa calls out to no one in particular. His voice echoes, disturbing the otherwise peaceful silence. “Why don’t you come out and greet me? Oh, that’s right you fucking can’t!” Each of Oikawa’s mirthless words is followed by a hard swing of his gifted bat. The vase that’s been resting on a small glass table shatters to a million tiny pieces, along with the table's surface. “Because you’re at your fucking big-shot match right now, leading your team to victory, hoping to come back to your bitch of a girlfriend—maybe give you a victory kiss, right? Nip on your lower lip, suck on your tongue, just the way you like!” Another swing.

Hajime hides in the shadows of the hallway, pretending that he’s a fifth wall, a pillar that’s providing the brunet his privacy. Tooru cackles like a demon has possessed him, but Hajime can still hear his voice breaking, breathing turning ragged.

“Fuck you, Toshi, and fuck your lies!” Tears stream down Oikawa’s cheeks as he goes ballistic. “I’m not your bitch, nor some bird that you could keep hidden behind these walls… l-like some fucking cage. Well, guess what!? The bird flew away! The bird found a nest and a place it can call home, the home which you could not provide.”

With those words he turns on his heel and stumbles to the stairs located at the left corner of the spacious living room, taking three at the time. Hajime doesn’t follow and closes his eyes listening to any warning sounds of getting discovered, listening to Oikawa’s fake cackling and sobs as he trashes the second floor.

He cannot believe that he let Oikawa trash Ushiwaka’s domain, that he is the one who initiated it to begin with, but he’s in love and it hurts.

Hajime has to forcefully drag Tooru away from the overgrown mutts that are seriously suspicious by now, and they get out of there so fast that Pissbaby’s tires screech against the pavement.

Oikawa is panting, his eyes rimmed red, the back of his head pressed against the seat. Adrenaline is still pumping in his veins and he smiles, exhaling through his mouth. “Fuck, that felt good. Liberating.”

It’s all Iwaizumi needs to hear as they start laughing so hard that tears form in their eyes. They wonder what Ushijima’s expression will be like the moment he gets home but at the same time they couldn’t care less because by then they will be far far away.

xii.

They stop by some parking garage at the outskirts of the town. Iwaizumi waits for his companion to get out, locks the van, and they climb to the seventh floor. Tooru looks over the ledge. Bright green lights illuminate his face as he spreads out his arms at the first gust of wind. There’s something ethereal about this view that punches the breath straight out of Iwaizumi’s lungs. Distant police sirens disturb the night. Oikawa jokes that they’re probably looking for them.

“I want to go somewhere higher,” he announces after some time, scanning their surroundings. A fenced off construction work area lies ahead, leaving barren, metal poles stretching out towards the polluted sky. Tooru wastes no time running up to it, Hajime in tow. “There, at the very top!”

“You do realize that you might get yourself killed, right?” Hajime questions, but it falls on deaf ears. Oikawa is already squeezing himself through the tiny gap in the chain link fence. He holds onto the metal bars for support and perches there, feet swinging over the ledge. If he were to lean any further, he'd plummet to his death, splatting against the sidewalk, no more than a stretch of tiny, gray rectangles. Tooru seems to be unbothered by this precarious predicament whatsoever, looking up instead of down, brown hair ruffled by the light breeze.

The look that he pins Hajime with is nothing short of pleading.

“Are you going to stand there or join me?”

“Stand here.”

“Why? Are you afraid of heights?”

Hajime glances down. They're really fucking high up and that knowledge alone is enough to make his head spin. “Not a huge fan,” he mumbles moodily.

His heart almost falls out through his mouth when Tooru quickly, carelessly, jumps up, one hand extended for Hajime to take a hold of.

He only stares, dumbfounded. “No.”

“Aw, c’mon, Iwa-chan, don’t be such a stuck-up. You helped me through this, so it’s only fair that I repay you somehow.” He’s balancing his weight on one leg now. Hajime fights the urge to close his eyes, hints of terror seeping into his core. He’s going fall, oh my g—

Tooru’s fingers curl into the sleeve of his gray hoodie, making Hajime look up, reluctant and queasy. In this dim green lighting, those dark eyes appear to be black, but they shine brightly nevertheless. Assuring. “Just try it. If you hate it, you can go back to being a chicken.”

“I’m going to push you off this ledge myself,” Iwaizumi growls in warning, placing an unstable foot on the metal. It seems to be solid and doesn’t even squeak from the extra weight. It sort of sets him at ease. “Don’t you dare to let me go,” he squeaks indignantly once his leg shakes.

“I won’t, I won’t! I got you, Iwa!” Oikawa promises.

With some help, Iwaizumi sits next to his companion, and oh wow, this really does feel kind of nice.

The wind brushes against his face as Tooru looks into his eyes, expression gentle. “Hey, Iwa-chan—“

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

Iwaizumi feels that familiar heat settle in the pit of his stomach. “D-Don’t you turn all sappy on me, idiot. It’s nothing. Uh… without you I really wouldn’t be here.”

“You’d probably be lying in a ditch of Death Valley, Shiro broken down.”

Iwaizumi wants to correct him as always, but lets it slide. He doesn’t want to ruin this strange mood. “I guess you’re right.”

“No directions to follow… I’m the same, actually!” Oikawa musses over it. “I had no idea where I was or where I was going when you found me. I just knew that I had to get somewhere. I believed in my luck one last time, and what do you know? Lucky Tooru is an actual thing! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” he laughs, strangely airy. “Thanks for giving me a sense of direction.”

By the time Tooru finishes his heartfelt speech, Iwaizumi is beet-red. “Uh… I guess the time I've spent with you wasn’t that bad. You were seriously annoying at first - and still are, to be quite honest - but… I don’t dislike it. It’s better than having no one. So thank you for your time, and—” He stops mid-rant when Tooru leans in dangerously close, their lips almost touching when he speaks.

“You say it like it’s the end.”

“I… I, uh—” Iwaizumi blurts out, wanting to say something, anything, but then there’s a distinct cough behind his back, and they both look up, startled by the unexpected intrusion.

A tall man stands behind them, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He fishes out a lighter from the pocket of his khaki pants to light the cig, the sleeve of his shirt rolling down to show a row of tribal tattoos. “Iwaizumi, yeah? Sorry to interrupt your… lil’ chat, but I’m here for the van.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows knit as he openly glares at the intruder. “What about the van?” he asks, tone cold.

Iwaizumi coughs. Shit, this completely slipped his mind.

“Go to the sixth floor, we’ll be there in a few.”

The guy spits a ball of phlegm over the rail. “Sure, but don’t make me wait for too long. I promised to be back with the van by…” He checks his shattered phone. “ 11.30 p.m., so I can give ya'll ten minutes at most.”

“Right,” Iwaizumi quips, dry, wanting nothing more than for the shady man to fuck off. He then turns to Tooru, who is, naturally, already opening his loud mouth to bombard him with questions, carefully rising from the perch. “It'll be for the best if you come along with us to pack your stuff and say goodbye.”

“What?” Oikawa gapes, visibly taken aback, lower lip quivering. “Huh- what do you mean by ‘goodbye’? Hajime, what’s going on here?”

“We can talk more once we're back on solid ground,” Iwaizumi barks, impatient, becoming slightly annoyed. With alarming recklessness, Oikawa immediately clambers over the ledge to rush after him, barely keeping up as he speed-walks away.

“We’re on ‘solid ground’ now, just like you wanted, so tell me what’s going on! Right now!” he flares up, angered by Iwaizumi's best attempts to ignore him and his heated, inquisitive stares. Achieving nothing, he grabs the mute man by the wrist and digs his heels into the dusty concrete, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Hajime only rubs his pulsing temples, exasperated. Perhaps this was entirely on him - maybe he really did phrase it wrongly. “I’m selling Pis—the van to this guy. It won’t last us much longer and you know it. I’m gonna head back and then buy us a new one instead. He promised me a cheaper price, and-“

“What,” Tooru’s loud gasp echoes in the empty parking garage. The buyer looks up in mild surprise and amusement. “You want to sell Shiro.”

“Pissbaby—you know what, whatever. I made a deal. There’s nothing to be done about it.” He nods in the man’s general direction, dragging himself and Oikawa closer to their van. In this lighting, it looks so white and big that Iwaizumi isn’t completely sure that it’s his Pissbaby. Tooru continues clinging on, short, well-manicured nails digging into the flesh of his muscular forearm, the claw trying its best to keep him locked in place. Prevent him from making a mistake.

The future customer snorts, bemused, but hides it by faking a coughing fit induced by smoke.

It’s fucking embarrassing. Iwaizumi flushes, sharply turning back, only to be taken aback by the blatant rage shining in Oikawa’s doe eyes. He tries to wrench the trapped wrist away, but to no avail. Despite Iwaizumi's physical prowess, his travel companion is considerably strong when he wants to be.

“What the fuck is your problem, man!?” Hajime hisses lowly, just so that the third party standing won’t overhear them. Ashamed, he leans in closer. “It’s just a fucking van, seriously, let go.”

“No.”

“Now, Tooru.” He punctuates his words with another sharp tug.

“You’re so fucking selfish sometimes, I’m astounded!” Even in the midst of Oikawa's livid anger, Iwaizumi notices the tremble in his lower lip, the subtle crinkle of his nose. He wants to say something, anything to make it go away, to stop the impending downpour, but he is nothing more than a little kid seated in the barren lands, head tilted back to look up at the black clouds promising a severe thunderstorm, rumbling ominously in the distance.

He remains silent, fingers crossed, hoping for the rain clouds to dissipate. They do not.

Oikawa sucks in a sharp breath, and at that moment, looks broken. More than ever.

“So is this really it? You leave me with a shitty excuse and I never see you again? Do you have a heart, Iwa-chan?” Despite the forced lilt to his voice to make it sound lighthearted and nonchalant, it rolls off his tongue like something bitter, filled with spite and resentment.

Like a fishbone swallowed wrong, something unpleasant lodges inside of Hajime’s throat, making it unnecessarily difficult to breathe. He is left completely flabbergasted by the words he’s hearing, shocked by whatever Oikawa has heard. His mouth opens and closes, useless, lips forming the beginning of the word ‘What?’. However, before he can utter a single sound, he gets rudely interrupted.

“You could’ve just told me that you planned to ditch me after you helped me.”

“I—What? Tooru, I never... What? I’ll be gone for an hour at most,” Hajime stumbles over his words in his haste to clear up this seemingly horrible misunderstanding. “I’m only selling-”

Those words violently pluck on Tooru’s quivering, tense heartstrings. He hiccups, ugly and strained, and the downpour starts. Big tears roll down Tooru’s cheeks, splashing against the pavement. He looks completely lost in this oversized garage, bathed in dimmed green lights, pretty eyes overflowing with hurt, betrayal, and mistrust.

Iwaizumi doesn’t get the chance to be mesmerized yet absolutely crushed by the pathetic view, because Tooru briskly brushes past him, their shoulders bumping none-too-gently. Fearing that the other might start a fight - Iwaizumi wouldn’t be too shocked, especially taking Tooru’s current state of mind into consideration - he follows, almost tripping over himself in the process.

Once he reaches the van, his companion comes to an abrupt halt, but instead of sucker-punching the buyer, who looks more and more uncomfortable with every passing second, he reaches out to touch the van's uneven roof.

The silence is positively deafening, but Hajime knows that it's merely the calm before that blinding flash of electricity hits the ground, and he isn’t entirely sure whether he wants to be here when it inevitably happens.

For the first time in his life, the boy fears the booming thunder.

But when Oikawa finally turns around, no lightning strikes can be seen and no thunderclaps can be heard in the distance. There’s only resignation and sadness. Defeat. “You can’t sell Shiro, Hajime... You just c-can’t...” he sniffles, and it suddenly dawns on Hajime that he is the one holding everything in his hands, that he is the cause of this storm, and only he has the power to put a stop it. He watches, breathless, as Oikawa presses his forehead against the side of the van that has served them loyally as their transportation, as their home. The home that neither of them ever truly had in this country.

“Hajime, I’m not asking for much. I never asked much from you in general, so please... if this is truly the end just... leave it to me. I’ll pay you back! And then we can... g-go our separate ways.”

Ahh, so here’s that lightning, Hajime thinks dimly, regarding the pitiful view before him. Not even once has it hit him full force, as he's always been far too afraid to get too involved, to get way in over his head, unsure how to proceed.

As those pleading, horrible words leave Tooru’s mouth, Hajime finally sees him in a different light. It becomes almost too obvious that these feelings flow both ways, and yet, he still feels stupid and terribly lost. For a month now, he’s been roaming around in the dark, blindly grasping at the shadowy, fuzzy outlines of things yet to be revealed, and now it felt as though the lights have been suddenly switched on. He has to squint because his eyes fucking sting.

He deliberately approaches Oikawa, watching him flinch with every step that he takes, completely ignoring the buyer gaping at them like he’s watching the world's most entertaining soap opera - hell, Iwaizumi has completely forgotten why he was even there to begin with, all of his sharpened attention focused on the sobbing man before him.

When he reaches out, slowly, carefully, as to not startle the other, he's still unsure. When he awkwardly pulls Oikawa close to hug him, he isn't sure. If anything, it makes Tooru sob even louder, his hands twist in Hajime’s hoodie, dragging him closer until there’s no space left between them.

It doesn't last long. Hurt, he places trembling hands on the Iwaizumi’s chest, pushing slightly, but he only holds on tighter, absorbing the shivers that rake up and down Tooru’s willowy frame. The closer they get, the more they touch, the more it hurts. It feels as though they're sharing this pain, but Hajime wants this, wants to be an anchor, to always take at least some of his companion's burden.

“You can’t, Iwa-chan, you can’t, you can’t...” Tooru blubbers like a broken record, and stops trying to push Hajime away altogether. “It’s ours, it’s my home."

If Hajime were a weaker man, he probably would’ve been swept away by Tooru’s energy, irreparably broken down by grief, but he likes to consider himself at least somewhat mentally strong. He’s always been a pillar of support to his friends and family, a reliable presence, and right now, he needs to act like one more than ever. It’s almost like an unspoken duty.

From the corner of his eye, he notices the buyer slowly inching away – Hajime’s almost glad that he didn't have to snap at him to leave - and he squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling slowly. He gently combs his fingers through Tooru’s hair like he's done many times before, hoping to calm him down, continuously praying for the rainstorm clouds to disappear, return to nothingness.

“Tooru, you’re so, so stupid,” he whispers. The other’s sobs and choked breathing are akin to gunshots. Everything seems so loud and fast, almost unreal. “I would never do something like that to you, okay? So stop, that’s enough-”

Hajime ghosts the tip of his nose along the damp skin of Tooru’s jawline – it’s the most affectionate he’s ever been in all of the nineteen years of his life - tilting his head just so, enough to look into the other's eyes. His gaze is unmet, for they are closed, eyelids twitching and wet eyelashes trembling.

Tooru’s lips part slightly, exhaling shakily as if expecting something to happen.

Hajime obeys, leaning in closer. Despite the previous stress, his head feels far too quiet.

“Everything... is alright,” he mutters in reassurance, and finally presses their mouths together, nothing more than a light brush of chapped lips, so soft and gentle that it seems barely there. Barely real.

The lingering kiss tastes like salt, regret, and a little like cheap sweets.

“I’m so sorry,” Hajime says once they pull apart, mouth tingling, electricity sparking beneath his skin. “Sorry for not noticing.”

For the first time in the considerably short while that they've spent together, Tooru Oikawa, who likes sassing Hajime Iwaizumi more than he enjoys bad pop songs and vanilla ice-cream, does not make any biting remarks, only noses the shorter man's neck, messy hair tickling sensitive skin.

His hand seeks out Iwaizumi’s far rougher palm and they lace their fingers. Hajime automatically tightens his grip, thumb brushing over Tooru’s sharp knuckles.

They stand together for what seems to be hours, days, the silence sometimes disturbed by an occasional car driving by a few floors under their feet, rattling the metal. It’s dark except for the flickering white lights further ahead. Every now and then, a strong gust of wind hits their sides, messing up Tooru’s hair even further.

That's when Hajime hears them - those three little words carried by the wind, making him shiver.

“I love you, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime’s phone beeps inside his pocket.

‘lol dude, you gotta do sth about your boyfriend’

The phone gets tossed on the passenger seat as Hajime's fingertips trace the flushed skin beneath Tooru’s gleaming eyes and he kisses him again and again.

xiii.

They never say it out loud. There are no heart-warming confessions, no kissing beneath the blinding city lights, no fireworks exploding. It’s not that they’re shy or need verbal reassurance that this is real.

It's because they both know it, feel it, and for them, actions speak louder than words.

Hajime looks out to the ocean that he hates yet adores, feet buried in the same white sand of the shores that he swore to never walk again. The cold water rises up to his knees, soaking his rolled up jeans and staining them with salt residue as the wind blows against his face, unforgiving. He thinks about the night he ran away and vowed to never return to this side of the country, and yet-

Tooru stands by his side, staring off into the distance where the sun and ocean blend into one, coloring the sky in an array of pinks and oranges. The view is something that one could easily find painted on a cheap postcard with cursive ‘Welcome to San Fran’ printed on the corner.

“It’s beautiful,” his lover breathes out.

Hajime holds the man’s hand tighter.

It’s definitely a start. They’re not sure where they are going or where they’ll end up a few years from now, but it’s something. It’s more than they ever had.

It’s just the two of them and their loyal friend - an old white van parked by their side.