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Iwaizumi looks particularly dazzling under the night sky. He sings, his fingers deftly plucking at the guitar that now fits perfectly against the curves of his bodies like an extension of himself, broadcasting what he physically cannot to the people who crowd the shores of Newport Beach.
It’s the first time Akaashi has ever left Japan, being here on the coasts of Irvine, California. He’s surrounded by people who don’t feel familiar, a place that doesn’t feel familiar, even the sand that slips into the space between his soles and slippers feel different from what he’s accustomed to.
And then, there is Iwaizumi Hajime, the only thread of familiarity in this strange but exciting place. It is a voice that chuckles from the other end of the phone when Akaashi tells him what the literature course is like, it is 30 different tracks and recordings that accompanies Akaashi in his flat as he brushes his teeth, cook, read, and waltz within the confines of his tiny dorm alone with an imaginary dance partner.
The song makes its way through the gaps of the crowd, the steady thrums of the bass and percussions reverberating through the sand and directly into Akaashi’s heart. As he watches, he can only think how happy he is right now, how he is exactly where he should be.
“It’s about you, even though your miles and miles, then an ocean away. But it’s also about me, who would walk down an aisle with that smile, whose heart will never sway.”
The whole band is spectacular, really. It is obvious that the feelings and heart projected into the song are a perfect blend of technical excellence and musicality, but could you really blame Akaashi who only had eyes for Iwaizumi?
“Please come to me, please stay here with me, please tell me you love me,” Iwaizumi sings, but the words and the guitar riffs he plays ring over and over in Akaashi’s head, like he’s saying it to him only.
So softly, he hums along, letting himself dive into the bliss of this magical night under the stars, next to the ocean who gently laps away at his worries, the palm trees that sway, listening to the singing of this person he loves.
There are no obsessed fans that lurk around after the show ends for autographs or to profess their undying love for the band. The band is, after all, simply a group of students who fell in love with music. The only people they attract are the like-minded ones, and perhaps that is fine. It means Akaashi gets to see Iwaizumi faster. It means he gets to be the only one who professes his undying love for the band and perhaps one specific band member.
“Hajime,” Akaashi calls out to Iwaizumi, who is buried under his guitar, still hanging on his shoulders, and his flock of bandmates who evidently adore him very much. There is a lot of noise, from the congratulatory cheers, to the dispersing crowd chattering about the groundbreaking miracle they had just witnessed, but Iwaizumi’s neck snaps towards the source of the voice at the first second.
“Keiji,” he mumbles in disbelief. “You’re here, how … why … when ….”
It’s a sight for eyes, seeing the guy — who did not cry when he got a full scholarship for a university across the globe, who did not cry when he had to leave his boyfriend behind, who did not cry when he just nailed his first live concert in his life — come undone at the sight of Akaashi, with a glimmer in his eyes that he would eventually deny as tears.
Akaashi closes the three meters between them in a few strides, and pulls him into a kiss.
There are still a lot of people there, the crowd, the crew, the other band members who Akaashi knows by name and presumably vice verse, but as Iwaizumi deepens the kiss, running his firm hands over Akaashi’s hair, he can’t find it in himself to remotely care.
It’s eleven at night when everything is fully wrapped up. Iwaizumi leads Akaashi to a battered car Akaashi didn’t know he owned, and whisks him off for dinner.
“You have a car?” Akaashi asks amusedly.
“Yeah’s, it’s a pain in the ass to get around without one here.”
“Isn’t it expensive, you broke college kid?” Akaashi jabs him in the waist and Iwaizumi shrinks.
“Stop that,” he hisses, but Akaashi only laughs as they zoom off into the night.
“What are we getting?”
Iwaizumi’s eyes gleam like emeralds in the night, “The hella authentic American experience, baby.”
“Only you manage to make fast food sound so enticing.”
“That’s why you’re here,” he says proudly. There is a lingering ‘That’s why you love me’ left hanging, unsaid, but it spreads and fills the spaces in the car, the way a spray of perfume fills the room, not too faint, not too much that it fills sweet and sickly, but just right in a refreshing way.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
“I enjoy everything with you in it.”
“That’s not a compliment for the band, the guys will be disappointed in their number one fan,” Iwaizumi chuckles.
“I loved your arpeggio cadenza in the third song, loved the variations of the drum lines in the fifth, and loved the chord change in the sixth that wasn’t there in the recordings you sent me last month, satisfied?”
“And me?” Iwaizumi asks.
The palm trees fly on outside the window on the empty highway. He watches Iwaizumi in the driver’s seat, all chiselled and tanned from his days here in faraway America, and he thanks himself for every good thing he has ever done that has led him to this moment, here with Iwaizumi.
His hand wraps around Iwaizumi’s that rests on the gear stick of the car. “No, not at all,” he murmurs, a lie.
“Same goes for you too, then,” Iwaizumi beams at Akaashi, and he knows it is also a lie.