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Times like this are what prompts Tooru to think he probably should have run for a student council position. Or year-level rep, at the very least.
It was easy to ignore before, what with the constant bustle of hovering parents and uncomfortable kids, but now with all the blue overhead lights flashing around at him, coupled with warm oranges and yellows and occasional flashes of green, he thinks it’s glaringly obvious just how ridiculous it was that Seijoh was not only holding a promenade after god knows how long; but that they had decided to do it in the gym.
Airi nudges his elbow playfully, like she knows he can’t wrap his head around the white monobloc chairs stacked at one corner, waiting for use, and he glares at her without venom. This was one of the girls who didn’t fawn over him anyway, who was a close friend and at the moment, his prom date. She goes back to sipping her drink in the paper cup— a paper cup— that was provided at one of the buffet tables, and then promptly excuses herself to go dance with better company. By ‘better company’, she means ‘the girls’—her group of friends, huddled at one side of the gym, either ditching their dates or having come without any.
“Use protection,” he cheers, and it earns him a smack to the elbow again before Airi is venturing out into the crowd completely. Tooru watches the top of her head until it disappears into the sea of people and lights.
Iwa-chan is probably somewhere on the dance floor with his own date. A friend of Airi’s who was more reserved, and who got along well with Hajime. It was a convenient set-up, to go with each others’ friends. The teachers didn’t quite yet allow the whole same-sex thing. Who cared? In there—in the gym that was less a gym and more a function hall, actually—there were no prying adult eyes, no judgmental stares, no teachers saying Hey, stand at least two feet apart. It was less about them respecting the students’ privacy though and more about Tooru leading some sort of revolution, barricading the place from the inside. He was popular and pretty enough that everyone saw truth in his actions and followed suit.
He supposes, now, as he brings his punch to his lips, that if they’d rented out a function hall elsewhere it would have been more difficult to do that, so he tries to appreciate this instead. This old building; with its high ceiling and abominable space that was bigger than the other gyms. He and the volleyball team practiced here sometimes, and it was always a little weirder to do it.
Tooru doesn’t know if it looks bigger or smaller, with all these people milling about. He tries to let the steady music get to him, but everything seems a little muted when he’s very busy thinking instead of feeling, and he knows he must be giving off some sort of weird vibe if he wasn’t being approached every now and then for a dance.
He realizes the song is actually a fast one.
Lively and upbeat, there is a conga line snaking its way through the room to the tune of Superbass, which means it’s really just going like a train ready to run everyone over. At some points in the song, the line slows down so everyone can do their own renditions of rap-dancing, as in dancing vehemently as they follow Nicki and try to outdo each other. It’s a very heartwarming sight—Tooru has always loved to see groups of people doing just anything . It’s the same kind of warm he feels, almost, when he sees his volleyball team working together.
Ah.
The thing about parties—and no, prom is not a formal event, it’s a party, this is a party—is that when the music switches or fades into something else it’s hardly ever noticeable when you’re spaced out as Tooru is, watching Hajime when he’d caught sight of him somewhere in the conga line. He’s laughing now, sleeves rolled up and tie loose on his neck, nape glistening with purple, magenta sweat. He looks beautiful like this, and it’s no secret to anyone who spends enough time peering. Tooru is one of those.
He watches Hajime’s expression morph into recognition at the near-end of the song, probably remembering what Tooru had hijacked the playlist for to put next. He’d done it with him and Makki and Mattsun present, after all, and giggled like hell was about to freeze over when he got access to the google sheet. Mamu-chan needs to change his school email address’ password into something other than my name now.
Hajime meets his eyes from where he’s standing, surrounded by warm bodies and bathed in white for a moment, and then sea green. The smile he flashes Tooru is nothing short of wide and inviting, eyebrows raising in almost-question. Almost, because he already knows the answer.
Tooru stays still as Hajime weaves his way over. The last chorus to Superbass plays loudly through the speakers.
Wordless, he offers Tooru his hand, and Tooru takes it, just as quiet but all smiles.
Out on the dancefloor is not much different with Tooru still swimming in his own mind. Iwa-chan leads him there by the red string and keeps him from floating away, positioning them before the next song even starts. It must look weird, for their arms to be around each other in the middle of can’t you hear that boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass? He got that super bass
Boom, badoom, boom, boom, badoom, boom, bass
Yeah that's that super bass
There is shuffling before the next song filters in; the tell-tale sign of everyone single retreating to their seats, or the dessert booth or to the balconies. Out of the corner of his eye, Tooru catches sight of Airi, already taking place in the corner with another girl. He smiles.
The hands on his waist squeeze gently, and Tooru flits his attention back to Iwa-chan, who he thinks is giving him too fond a gaze. The piano intro starts just as gentle.
(When you smile…)
“Hey,” Hajime says.
(Everything’s in place)
Tooru smiles. “Hey.”
(I’ve waited so long, can make no mistake)
“How’s your night?” Hajime asks, and it’s ridiculous almost, that Tooru lets out a little huff of a laugh.
“Just about as good as yours. You?”
Iwa-chan smiles. “Just about.”
Tooru and Iwa-chan, when they dance, rarely keep quiet, except for those moments it’s necessary and maybe they need to pause to think. Usually there’s a hushed exchange, a small discussion, and that’s how it is now—a little in a rush, maybe, but Tooru decides the world isn’t gonna stop turning.
(While we’re young, come away with m…)
“Hey, Iwa-chan,” he says. “You think any of this is gonna change? When we’re older?”
He looks around the gymnasium then; at everyone there. A sort of gesture: All of this?
Hajime’s expression is thoughtful.
(Keep me close and don’t let go)
(Inch by inch…) “Shittykawa. Things are already changing,” he answers. (Feels like a fairytale…) “But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing.
(Take my heart, this is the mo…)
“Are you worried about Argentina?”
“Yeah.” (I’m moving closer to you)
(I’m moving closer to you)
(Who’d have thought that I’d breathe the air)
They’d had this conversation before, but it hadn’t been as serious, Tooru parkouring over the most important thing Hajime wanted to tackle. It was difficult, it was always going to be, but at least now Tooru has yielded to the feeling, real as it was when it creeped up on them and almost as tangible as Hajime’s vest. It’s uncomfortable, suddenly, and he wants to shed it. Shed all of him, actually, to Tooru. Show him he’s not alone in this.
(Spinning ‘round…)
“I’m worried about California too,” he admits at length, glancing somewhere past his best friend’s shoulder before holding his gaze again. “It’s far; you won’t—
(I hold my breath…)
“—be there. And I won’t be there, in Argentina.”
(Break my fall and don’t let go)
“...Yeah.”
“But you know,” Iwa-chan starts, eyes bright and full of conviction. He squeezes Tooru’s sides. (Inch by inch…) “I’m not going anywhere, not really.” (Feels like a fairtyta…) “Haven’t we already told each other we can count on that?”
(Take my heart…) Tooru puts a little more weight on Hajime’s shoulders as if to tell him that’s silly, but his hands rest on his nape, caressing lightly and squeezing sometimes, hopeful. (...this is the moment)
(I’m moving closer to you)
They sway. It’s a little haphazard on the dance floor, bodies all moving against each other like the chaos of waves, but it’s a nice feeling, to be cushioned against something, to know that wherever you’re knocked something will catch you, and you’ll never break despite a fall. Hajime keeps Tooru close to him anyway, because he’s not going to let him be swept away by the sea—whether it’s people—nor the oceans, Pacific or Atlantic. Tooru doesn’t fight it, doesn’t fight anything, really, and let himself be carried, anchored, and carried. But he braces Hajime, too. He won’t let him go either.
Their gazes drift around to the people with them as they move. Tooru knows Iwa-chan is in awe of it too: the community in spaces and in times like this; people just coming together, no care in the world, and just being . High school was like that for them—a new beginning, and somewhere they’ve carved a place in for themselves. Everyone else is the same, they both know—all of the seniors here are probably thinking the exact same things, or thinking in fragments of them. Seeing themselves leave as well the things that were left to them. Trying to visualize the future.
Tooru looks at Hajime, and he’s already looking back, and breaks into a dazed smile that Tooru absently returns.
There’s a lot that still needs to be discussed, but it takes a backseat for now as Hajime pulls Tooru closer to him by the waist and laughs at his surprised squawk.
He speaks above the music.
(Moving closer…)
“I don’t want to say I’ll miss you, but I will.
(Closer to you)
“I don’t really want to acknowledge the distance.”
Tooru smiles, giddy and bashful and looking a little close to tears. He takes a steadying breath.
(Moving closer…)
“Me neither.”
The last measures of the song fleet through the speakers, but they make no move to let go.
Just them both, caught in each other’s eyes, staring.
(I’m moving closer to you)
Tooru wonders, while the song tapers off into a piano melody, the same as the one in its beginning, that he really doesn’t want to let go yet. He wants Hajime, and this moment, trapped in the bubble of a promenade and floating around in the blue green lights, in the cheap yards of cloth dangling overhead, way up into the ceiling like a volleyball waiting to fall.
Except they won’t fall, because they’ve pretty much already fallen.
The song changes into something unimportant enough that it fades into the background, but it’s still a slow one, so they stay standing there, Stockholm Syndromed in each other’s limbs, not even swaying anymore. It is no longer a dance; just the company. Just the presence of each other that might not last until the end of the following year.
Hajime inhales and his forehead creases when a tear escapes Tooru’s left eye. He’s always been sentimental, no matter how nonchalantly he went about his every day, no matter how he never looked like he would’ve given a second thought to the hordes of girls who approached him, offering letters and awaiting rejection. But Hajime knows better—he didn’t used to, but he’s sure now, he did—and he chuckles very lightly as he wipes the tear away, reveling in Oikawa’s subdued wince; in knowing he isn’t pulling away because this is Hajime.
“Quit laughing,” Oikawa laughs weakly, teeth bared and making Hajime’s chest constrict with affection. This idiot, swathed in purple lights and dancing with not just him but with the yellow beams, flickering across the dance floor, was his idiot, his best friend. His first love; but for a later time.
“Quit crying,” he answers. “I’m right here.”
“Then I don’t know why I’m not bawling.”
Hajime does the only thing he knows to do; the way he himself has always liked to be soothed. He pulls Tooru down and lets him lean on him all boneless, trembling with the thrum of celebration and the nerves of knowing some things are ending too soon.
“’M not a baby,” he mumbles futilely.
“Right now you are, ’Kawa. Embrace it.”
Tooru embraces him, and Hajime just laughs, right in his ear.
“I’m not leaving.”
Tooru knows that; what he really means behind those simple words he says. Tooru knows, and yet he clutches just a little more, and wills it to be a tangible thing, in some other universe.
This hug, and this dance—the warmth of these things are fleeting. These feelings that have welled up will be compressed again, pushed into the bottomless pit that is his stomach, like Dora’s pocket in her purple backpack. Feelings that he can summon without so much as his practiced uno, dos, tres, for Hajime, if he so prompted.
He pulls away to eye his best friend; his first love, for then and later, and decides the night is too nice to end like this, to end like they don’t want it to be ending.
They’re much too good, to let themselves be trapped like that. Tooru knows that Iwa-chan understands.
∞
“Spin me,” Oikawa tells him, eyes bright and brown and beautiful.
“Eat shit,” Hajime grins, refusing. “You’re too tall.”
“I am,” Tooru’s eyes twinkle, and Hajime knows he’s lost. “You know, for a moment there, I thought I wouldn’t find you in the crowd.”
He heaves a sigh and sweeps his eyes across the venue, like taking it in a last time. It’s not quite right, they’ve still got a couple hours to go, and Hajime squeezes Oikawa’s sides again, out of focus for a moment enough to hear the song that’s playing, the one that goes I say a prayer with every heartbeat, before Tooru turns to him again.
“That’s bullshit,” he says. “You always find me.”
“You say it as if I’m always looking.”
Hajime raises a brow at that. “Aren’t you?”
“Hmm,” Tooru hums, thoughtful. “Now I always will be.”
“Shut up .”
“You asked!”