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Issei finds out at lunch on a Friday.
They’re in the cafeteria, the buzz of conversation ringing in his ears. Tooru and Hajime are sitting across from him, lost in their own little world of baseless banter. Issei tries (keyword: tries) terribly hard to enjoy the bento in front of him, but every time he brings the wooden chopsticks to his lips, Tooru would say some snarky remark that riles Hajime up even more. And they’d pause, coax Issei into picking a side, and resume their squabble without waiting for his input.
Whatever it is they’re disputing about, Issei doesn’t know—or care. He’d stopped trying to make sense of anything Tooru and Hajime did as soon as he met them. They were eight then—Issei, the new kid on the block, was perched alone on the swings until a beaming Tooru, covered in mud, reached out a hand for him to take. Hajime had followed after him, swatting it away (“Idiot. Your hand is dirty”). Ever since that day, they’d knock on Issei’s door asking him to play (along with Takahiro, who had been there since the beginning). Issei didn’t question why Tooru always clutched the hem of Hajime’s shirt as they walked to the park, the latter standing tall and proud in front of him like an iron wall. He’d already felt it was a form of normalcy between them—with Hajime always ready to shield Tooru from anything that could hurt.
“Iwa-chan, would it kill you to agree with me?!” Tooru’s yelp makes Issei drop his chopsticks on the floor. Fan-fucking-tastic. He ducks under the table to grab them. “You’re just saying that to spite me!”
“You asked for my opinion and I gave it! What else do you want from me, Shittykawa?” Issei’s egg rolls are getting cold. He shakes his head and sighs, reaching for the chopsticks near Hajime’s shoe, and then—you’re kidding. Issei blinks once, twice, (a couple of times) before his face goes slack at the sight in front of him.
They’re holding hands. Under the goddamn table. While they’re in the middle of an argument.
Hajime is rubbing circles on Tooru’s palm with the pad of his thumb.
Issei straightens in his seat and looks at the both of them, still too preoccupied in their quarrel to notice. Hajime is smiling at Tooru, even when he’s talking Hajime’s ear off, a soft glaze in his eyes like Tooru is a fucking gift sent from above. Do they even know how obvious they are?
Issei pinches Takahiro’s leg, who’s scarfing down the last of his food next to him. He curses under his breath, to which Issei raises a brow in response, motioning to the bickering idiots before them. Takahiro nods. Issei taps a finger on the back of his wrist. Takahiro mouths, since last month.
“—right Mattsun? Makki? Tell me I’m right.” Tooru is staring at them expectantly.
“Yes, Oikawa. You’re right.” Issei and Takahiro deadpan, absolutely not a clue of what Tooru is talking about, as if this isn’t the first time he had pulled something like this (it isn’t).
A proud smirk plays on Tooru’s lips. “See, Iwa-chan. Told you. Naruto is better than Dragon Ball Z.” So this is what they’re fighting over? Issei wonders why the lunch period seemed to drag on forever.
“Fine.” Hajime concedes, “You win.”
The triumphant sneer on Tooru grows wider and he folds his arms across his chest in victory. Issei doesn’t miss the way Hajime tries to bite back a chuckle, emerald irises glued to the manchild beside him, sickly sweet and dripping fondness. He can tell Hajime never cared about whether or not he lost in the first place, rather, maybe he’d dragged it on for that long because he liked watching Tooru get so passionate.
“That’s 357 wins and 26 losses.”
“You keep track of how many arguments we’ve had?”
“Mhm.” Tooru pops a ball of rice in his mouth. “Since like, birth.”
“First of all, there’s no way we’ve had—“ Hajime pauses to count on his fingers. “—384 fights in our lifetime. Second of all, you’re telling me that in seventeen years, I’ve only won 26 times? Impossible.”
Dumbass, Issei thinks, you probably let him win.
Tooru shrugs. “I’m just that good.”
“Why do you keep track anyway?” Issei pokes at his forlorn egg roll, cold and mush under his fingertip, no longer good for eating.
Tooru shrugs again. “It’s a best friend thing.”
“You don’t track ours.” Takahiro retorts, matter of factly, like trying to catch a deer in headlights. He scores— Tooru awkwardly shifts to share a glance with Hajime.
“That’s because….” He scans the room as if trying to search for an excuse. “That’s because Iwa-chan is like my brother! Sibling rivalry, duh. It’s our thing. Right, Iwa-chan?” Tooru playfully punches Hajime’s shoulder, the giggle spilling from his mouth so incredibly awkward it hurts.
He did not just say that. There’s no way he just said that. Hajime doesn’t reply, visibly tensing. Issei can see the tight clenching of his jaw, his cheeks burning a deep scarlet. Issei and Takahiro try (desperately) not to laugh, Tooru avoiding Hajime glaring daggers into the side of his face.
“Anyway, lunch is over! Let’s go back to class.”
Hajime stands up first and says through gritted teeth, “Sure, lead the way, bro.”
-
Maybe Issei has known all this time and chose to brush it off—this budding romance between Tooru and Hajime that he’d mistaken for something entirely platonic. Maybe it’s because they’d been friends for so long that Issei never considered their relationship to ever go further.
Or maybe he was just waiting for when they’d finally cross the line.
The three of them (and Takahiro) had been a group for ten years now, but there was a space between them and Tooru and Hajime, the sort of distance where labelling whatever it is they had as something so modest like friendship would be a grave dishonour.
With Tooru and Hajime, there was always more and beyond and limitless. Issei has been witness to this all his life—the instances where Hajime would sit outside the gym after hours, waiting for Tooru who was working himself dry practicing serves and sets. Or when he’d accidentally seen Hajime wiping Tooru’s tears with the paw of his sleeve, touching their foreheads together, Hajime’s palm fitting snug around the nape of Tooru’s neck—such a private and intimate moment that Issei had felt guilty for being a passerby. That was the first time Issei had seen Tooru cry and he realized then, that these were two people whose walls could only be broken down by each other.
Issei had probably known it before they knew it themselves—that Tooru and Hajime were bound by a current stronger than a mere childhood affinity. That this is a connection so utterly immeasurable, he isn’t sure if it could ever truly be defined.
And he isn’t surprised, not in the slightest, that they ended up the way they did. Because it’s the only future Issei sees for them—in every lifetime, there is a Tooru and a Hajime and a forever that lingers.
“How long have you known?” Issei asks Takahiro as they glimpse back at Tooru and Hajime metres yonder. Tooru is trying to hold Hajime’s hand while the raven haired boy dismisses his attempts. Issei can almost see the pout on the younger’s lips and Hajime’s ‘tch’ as he fails to resist and intertwines their fingers anyway.
“I’ve always known.” Takahiro has a mellow gloss in his eyes.
“Yeah?” Issei chuckles. “I think I have too.”
-
Issei is tired.
Really, he’s exhausted. He doesn’t know how much more of this terrible acting he can take as he watches two of his best friends pretend they aren’t disgustingly in love with each other.
Summer break is just around the corner, which means Issei has known about their not-so-secret relationship for almost their entire senior year, and Tooru and Hajime have yet to say a word about it. The only reason why Issei hasn’t told them that (1) he knew and (2) that they suck at faking it, is because he wanted Tooru and Hajime to do it on their own accord whenever they felt comfortable.
But this—this has to stop.
Tooru and Hajime haven’t talked to each other in three days. Three excruciating days of Tooru clinging to Issei like a lost puppy (he follows him even in the bathroom). He doesn’t think he’s seen this much of Tooru in their ten year friendship, and he’s a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Tooru sports a permanent pout on his lips that Issei tries not to smack off his face, like a kid whose favorite toy was taken away from him.
At lunch, Hajime sits beside Takahiro, and the tension is so palpable, Issei feels it in his ribcage. Tooru picks at his food with his head hung low, while the rest of them sit in agonizing silence, the cafeteria much quieter without their usual banter. Hajime feigned disinterest, but Issei doesn’t miss the longing on his face as he stares at Tooru when he isn’t looking. (Eat, Shittykawa, Issei can hear Hajime’s thoughts from across the table). Dear god, Issei inwardly sighs, just make up already.
At practice, Hajime asks Shigeru to set for him. Whenever Hajime spikes a really good toss, he’d ruffle Shigeru’s hair, the younger’s cheeks tainted with a light shade of pink. From the other side of the court, Issei can see Tooru grip the ball so tight his knuckles turn white. He huffs (like a child), throws the ball in the air, and runs up for a jump serve, a piercing smack echoing through the gym as soon as it strikes his palm. It would’ve hit Shigeru’s head if Hajime hadn’t pulled him aside—totally not deliberate on Tooru’s part (it was). Tooru fakes an apologetic smile—“My bad, Yahaba-kun!”—and turns on his heel, muttering profanities under his breath as he walks away. Issei and Takahiro share a look after watching the scene unfold in front of them, unable to contain their laughter at the sight of Tooru and Hajime’s middle school-esque lovers’ quarrel.
It’s when Tooru asks him for the most absurd favor that Issei finally snaps.
“I said, can you s-“ Tooru starts, before Issei clamps his lips shut with his fingers.
“No, don’t say it again.” Issei breathes. “I heard you.”
“So will you do it?”
“No.”
“Come on, Mattsun! It’s not even that hard—“
“No, Oikawa. I will not sing you to sleep over the phone later.”
“Why not!” Tooru whines, shaking Issei’s shoulders. What is he, five? “I haven’t had proper sleep in days because Iwa-chan stopped singing to me—“
“Iwaizumi sings you to sleep?”
“Uh-huh. Every night.” There’s a proud glimmer in Tooru’s eyes.
“Okay…” Issei drawls. Are they even trying to hide it at this point? “What does that have to do with me.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you know him and I aren’t on speaking terms right now.” Oh trust me, I know. “I need my beauty sleep, Mattsun!”
Issei sighs, prying Tooru’s hands off him. “How about you just make up like normal people.”
“Don’t wanna! I didn’t even do anything wrong.”
“I doubt that.”
“Mattsun—“
Tooru immediately shuts up as Hajime and Takahiro approach the gate. Hajime makes sure to keep his distance from Tooru, standing a little further than what they’re used to. The space between them is awkward, like there isn’t supposed to be one—like distance isn’t a thing that should exist with Tooru and Hajime, because with them, there is never one ahead. Or behind. There is only beside (when they’re so close their shoulders touch and their heartbeats sing the same melody)—and across, when they look at each other and see the world. For a fraction of a second, Tooru and Hajime lock eyes, and then promptly avert their gaze. Tooru has his lips pulled into a pout. Hajime looks like he wants to kiss it away.
“Okay, that’s it—“ Issei grabs Tooru and Hajime’s hands and entwines them together. They open their mouths to protest, but Issei doesn’t hesitate to hush them. “Make up. Now. Please. I’m willing to spend my allowance.”
“Matsukawa—“ Hajime starts. Issei jabs a pointer at his chest.
“You guys are fucking terrible actors. Seriously, it’s so obvious how much you want to talk to each other yet you torture yourselves because you don’t wanna lower your pride. Oikawa literally looks like his dog just died—no, actually he looks like a dog that died. He even follows me to the bathroom! God, can’t I piss in peace? And you, Iwaizumi,” He pauses to catch his breath. “you act like you don’t care but you always look two seconds away from pushing your manchild of a boyfriend against the wall and kissing him stupid. I don’t know what you fought about, and I’m sure it’s some dumb shit, but just make out already! You obviously want to!” Issei runs fingers through dishevelled hair, panting like he’d just tried to stay underwater for an entire hour. “Jesus, this has been the longest eight months of my life.”
Takahiro is cackling so hard he’s clutching his stomach. Tooru’s gaping at Issei, absolute horror in his eyes—he’d never seen him look this frazzled. Usually, Issei’s a smug, sarcastic son of a bitch that never lost composure, but damn, him and Hajime had really done it this time. Hajime looks as terrified as Tooru, but less so at the sudden outburst and more about the fact that Issei had referred to Tooru as his manchild of a boyfriend.
“Wait, you know we’re dating?” Hajime asks, and Issei gets the urge to throw something at him. “Tooru, did you tell—“
“Nobody told me shit.” Issei grunts. “Never even think about being an actor. You too, Oikawa. You both suck.”
Issei hears Oikawa mumble a Mean, Mattsun.
“You too?” Hajime turns to Takahiro, who’s wiping the laugh tears from his eyes. He nods.
“But we were so careful!” Tooru’s hand is still in Hajime’s, except their fingers are laced now, hanging comfortably between them like they’re meant to be there—like their hands had been lost and finally found their way back home.
“No, you were pretty bad.” Takahiro finally manages through his laughing fit. “You know the whole team knows too, right?”
“Whaaaat?!” Tooru grabs Hajime’s face, squishing his cheeks. “Iwa-chan, we’ve been found out!”
“Let gwouv me.” (Let go of me) Hajime muffles. Tooru is beaming pearly white at him as he ignores Hajime and continues to sandwich his face between his palms. Heh, heh, heh, Tooru is giggling like a two year old playing with its own feet.
“Shtov.” (Stop). Hajime tries to break free from Tooru’s grip but the younger keeps him still. Hajime places his hands on top of Tooru’s and takes them off of him. “Stop. Or I’ll kiss you.”
“God, please don’t.” Issei calls from behind them.
They ignore him, too caught up in each other to care that Issei and Takahiro are looking (then again, when are they not), or that they’re taking up space in the middle of the gates while students are trying to pass through.
Tooru’s eyes soften. “You’re not mad anymore?”
“Idiot.” Hajime flicks Tooru’s forehead, the latter whimpering and rubbing the reddening spot on his skin. “I could never be mad at you.”
“We’re still here, by the way.” Takahiro chimes. “In case you forgot.”
Tooru and Hajime pretend not to hear.
“I missed you.” Tooru snakes his arms around Hajime’s neck. “I’m sorry for calling your Godzilla figurine collection stupid.”
“You can’t be serious.” Issei turns to Takahiro. “Are they serious?” Takahiro has his phone camera focused on the two idiots in front of them. He briefly zooms into Issei, catching his baffled expression on the screen. Takahiro fails to hide his chortles as Issei tries to cover his face and redirects the lens back to the couple.
Hajime is rubbing soft circles on the small of Tooru’s back, his face buried in the crook of his neck, whispering something Issei and Takahiro can’t quite decipher, but it makes Tooru burn red. Hajime reaches to stroke Tooru’s hair, hugging him tighter against his chest. Issei notes their dopey smiles, the gleam in Tooru’s eyes, Hajime in pure bliss as he holds the world in his arms like he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.
Issei thinks maybe this is what it’s like to be in love—to bask in each other’s presence even in the midst of a crowd and build a home that isn’t a house. Because for Tooru, home is Hajime’s tender touches, with each and every brush of his fingertips against Tooru’s skin a confession. For Hajime, it’s Tooru slipping him random notes in class and walking side by side in silence until Tooru breaks it with a smile, then—Iwa-chan, I love you—and Hajime replies, I know. Because he does know, and with Tooru, he never had to doubt.
“Okay, that’s our cue to leave.” Issei pulls Takahiro’s sleeve and drags him away.
“Damn, I wanted more blackmail footage.” Takahiro complains, scrolling through the video clips he took and laughing to himself.
“Where are you guys going?!” Tooru calls after them, skipping to catch up with Hajime in tow, their hands swinging behind him. There’s a different kind of glow, one that has resurfaced now that they’re back to normal, and Issei realizes how much brighter Tooru shines alongside Hajime. “Wait up, let’s go together!”
They walk towards the sunset. Tooru is giggling at the recordings on Takahiro’s phone. Hajime’s ear perks up at the vibrant sound, and Issei notices him clutching the latter’s hand tighter.
Tooru pauses, holding the screen to Hajime’s face. “Iwa-chan, look, you’re so in love with me.”
Hajime grunts—tch—but doesn’t deny. “Moron.” He says. Issei knows that translates to Of course I am.
When Tooru isn’t looking, Issei nudges Hajime’s arm. “You look different.”
“Are you calling me ugly?” Hajime jokes.
Issei chuckles and shakes his head. “You look happy.”
Hajime cracks a smile and spares a glance at Tooru, who’s grinning at something Takahiro had said, carrying the remnants of sunlight in his irises. “I am.”
Issei pats him on the back. “I’m happy for you.”
Hajime’s lips stretch wider. “Your turn.”
“Huh?” Issei raises a brow. Hajime tilts his head, motioning to Takahiro. “Oh. That’s—“
“What are you guys talking about?” Tooru wraps his arms around Hajime’s and rests his cheek on his shoulder.
Issei snorts. “We’re talking shit about you.”
“Every time you’re mean to me, I’m just going to kiss Iwa-chan in front of you.”
Issei sighs, “You’d kiss him in front of me anyway.”
“You’re not wrong.” Tooru hums, hugging Hajime’s arm tighter and pressing closer against him, if that was even possible.
“God, you sicken me.” Issei retorts, but he’s smiling.
It’s dusk when they part ways. Tooru and Hajime’s hands don’t leave each other as they continue the walk home. Issei watches them fade from view, the shadow of a forever following closely behind.
“You coming?” Takahiro chimes from ahead.
Issei saunters over to him. A comfortable silence befalls them. Takahiro breaks it.
“It’s kinda sad we can’t make fun of how stupid they look trying to hide their relationship anymore.”
Issei laughs. “Maybe love just makes you do dumb shit.”
Takahiro stops walking, and Issei swivels, confused.
“Why’d you sto—“
“Matsukawa,” Takahiro starts. He’s staring at Issei with an unreadable expression on his face. Issei doesn’t quite know why, but his heart starts racing, the hammering in his chest so loud Takahiro can probably hear it from where he’s standing.
Takahiro gulps, stepping closer to him until their faces are inches apart. Issei’s ribcage contracts. Takahiro lowers his voice to a whisper.
“I think I’m about to do some dumb shit.”