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It’s been four months since they broke up; since Hajime has even seen Tooru, still too heartsore over their separation to trust himself fully in Tooru’s presence (it was a mutual agreement, dammit, why can’t he just accept it). University has kept him busy—and given an array of viable excuses to refuse all of Tooru’s attempts at convincing him to visit—but, as it always is with Tooru, he got his way in the end. With the end of a semester and no real reasons left to decline (no real desire to, either) Hajime finds himself on a two-hour train ride early Friday morning, a duffel bag at his feet and hammering heart in his throat.
A whole weekend together with Tooru, just the two of them. This isn’t any different than when we were kids, he reminds himself firmly. We’ve done this hundreds of times. Stop being an idiot.
Just because they’re no longer a couple doesn’t mean they aren’t still best friends (even though reverting back had been hell and Hajime can still taste the bitterness of having to bite back ‘I miss you’ every time Tooru managed to keep him on the phone for longer than five minutes). They texted throughout the weeks, Skyped a few times a month, and talked on the phone when Hajime’s guilt over ignoring Tooru got the best of him.
(And yeah, he also wanted those moments for himself too so he could think back later and remember the cadence of Tooru’s voice in his ear when the loneliness became particularly unbearable.)
The train jostles him as it brakes, slowing its momentum as it pulls into the station, pulling him from his thoughts. Immediately he looks out the window, searching the platform for a familiar head of brown hair (it’s almost summer, there’ll be just the slightest bit of gold highlighting those soft waves—) but he finds no one resembling Tooru. There are so few people this early; he would have been easy to spot (never mind Hajime’s uncanny ability to find him no matter the crowd).
With a huff (is that dumbass seriously still in bed? Just because Hajime knows the way…) he slings his bag over his shoulder and exits the train with a frown (it is not a pout). Jogging up the stairs to the main street, he pulls his phone from his back pocket as he makes for Tooru’s apartment without a second thought.
He types into their messenger: y’know if you need your beauty rest so bad i’ll just get back on the train nbd. It sounds petulant even to him but he sends it anyway, stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket this time. He’s barely released it when it vibrates three times in quick succession with a response. Pausing at a crosswalk, he pulls it out again to read.
Tooru:
[Today 08:03 AM]
Noooooo Iwa-chan!! (ಥ ﹏ ಥ)
i’m sorry i didn’t pick you up but i promise i have a good reason!!
Now hurry up the food’s getting cold~~
Food? Hajime wonders, quirking a brow at the mention. No witty comeback on the beauty sleep comment either. Huh. Shrugging to himself, Hajime makes his way across the street—and if his walk is a little brisker than before, well, no one has to know.
He makes it to Tooru’s apartment, quicker than if Tooru had actually come to pick him up, but hesitates at the door. Should he knock? He’s never needed to knock before. He still has a key (“for emergencies, Iwa-chan” was Tooru’s insistent reasoning that he keep it once they’d separated) but he doubts the door is actually locked, especially considering Tooru knows he’s on his way. He could just walk in; it’s what he used to do and likely what Tooru expects.
This is stupid, he chides himself as he grips the doorknob firmly. You just can’t kiss his stupid face anymore, that’s all. Everything else is the same. With a decisive nod, he turns the knob and enters the genkan. The warm, earthy scent of coffee washes over him the moment he steps inside and he hums, pleased.
Hajime toes off his sneakers as he calls, “Yo, I’m—”
“Iwa-chan!” A shout from the kitchen and the pounding of feet are all the warning he gets before Tooru is suddenly launching himself at Hajime; he gets a glimpse of that achingly beautiful smile and enough time to toss his bag to the floor before Tooru is on him, arms around his neck and giggles in his ear.
“What the hell, Shittykawa?!” Hajime exclaims, arms coming around Tooru’s waist nonetheless (and perhaps against his better judgement—he really ought to dump this overgrown child on the floor before he does anything stupid—but it feels so good to have Tooru back in his arms, even for just a moment). He doesn’t get much time to enjoy the feeling of Tooru pressed fully against him though because he pulls back at Hajime’s gripe, pouting.
“Can’t I be excited? It’s been months,” Tooru complains, turning his head so that his nose is in the air. Hajime rolls his eyes, untangling Tooru’s arms from around his neck so he can pick up his discarded bag and shoulder past the dramatic boy. The butterflies from just seconds ago disintegrate as guilt churns his stomach.
“I literally talk to you more than my own mom,” Hajime replies, making his way towards the living room to stow away his bag. Any other time he’d dump it on Tooru’s bed but that doesn’t seem appropriate anymore.
Tooru makes a pleased sound from behind him but doesn’t press the subject, his footsteps fading in the opposite direction towards the kitchen. Hajime turns to follow just as Tooru calls over his shoulder, “Oh, I made coffee; you didn’t have any before you left since it was so early, right?”
Gods bless, Hajime thinks, inhaling deeply as he enters the kitchen. Tooru doesn’t really look the type to cook but damn can he make great coffee. He rarely drinks it himself—too bitter for his sweet tooth—but he learned back in high school how to make it exactly to Hajime’s preferences (probably to pacify his morning grumpiness but it worked regardless and Hajime won’t complain about free coffee).
He immediately heads for the coffee pot. Tooru’s already got a mug in his hand—yep, still using that obnoxious alien one—and a bottle of creamer next to him where he leans against the counter. Hajime eyes it warily as he pours his own cup. He doesn’t miss the way Tooru’s lips twitch upwards in amusement.
“You gotta taste it Iwa-chan! It’s my new favorite,” he says cheerfully, picking up the bottle and offering it meaningfully. Hajime squints to make out the flavor—Peppermint Mocha? the hell?—and brings his mug to his lips as if that’ll somehow deter Tooru from forcing his latest craze onto him.
“No way, it’s probably not even coffee at this point,” he replies, rolling his eyes.
“It tastes like Christmas in a cup!” Tooru chirps, replacing the bottle on the counter before sipping from his mug carefully, brown eyes watching Hajime over the rim. “And it’s at least three-fourths coffee, thank you very much.” Ah, there’s the snark he’s been waiting for. Hajime leans back against the counter, crossing his ankles as he lets the familiar atmosphere wash over him. He already knows where this is headed but he doesn’t mind playing along—it’s been months, after all.
“You’re going to crash from the sugar high later,” he warns, smirking. Tooru sticks his tongue out at him.
“C’mon, you liked the hazelnut flavor!” He practically shoves his mug under Hajime’s nose, insistent. Hajime makes a show of sighing as if it’s a great burden before he takes the ugly green mug, their fingers brushing at the handle (and it does not send tingles through his wrist, he’s not in some shoujo manga, damn it). He sniffs it first, gaining an eye-roll from Tooru, before taking a sip.
It’s not bad, and there’s definitely more coffee flavor than he was expecting since it’s Tooru, but he much prefers his plain black coffee.
(Or hazelnut, if the mood strikes him, which it often may if the large carton of creamer sitting in his refrigerator back home is any indication.)
He scrunches his nose in distaste and shakes his head. “Ugh. You can keep your ‘Christmas in a cup’.” He hands the mug back, licking the lingering flavor from his lips and missing the way Tooru’s eyes follow the motion as he scolds himself that ‘this does not count as an indirect kiss, grow up’.
“Still a grumpy old man; I see university has taught you nothing in the ways of taste,” Tooru sniffs, putting the creamer back into the refrigerator before moving to sit at the table where a sizeable breakfast awaits. Hajime was so focused on the coffee he barely noticed the obvious reason that kept Tooru from meeting him at the station. He joins him at the table and eyes the rice with noticeable concern, mostly just to tease.
“Is this even edible?” he asks. Tooru harrumphs, crossing his arms as he pouts. Hajime bites back a grin, knowing what’s coming next.
(He’s missed riling Tooru up and watching his dramatics.)
“Iwa-chan is so unappreciative! After I stayed up all night planning our weekend together, woke up early to cook breakfast and made sure you’d have coffee after your long ride, this is how you repay the fruits of my labor?” Tooru scoffs, picking up his chopsticks with a flourish. “Unbelievable.”
“Shut up and pass the natto,” Hajime laughs, nudging Tooru’s ankle with his foot in a silent ‘I’m just kidding’ as he follows suit. Tooru makes a face but hands it to him anyway, knocking his ankle back in reply. Hajime thanks him for the food and tries not to groan at how good it actually is. It’s been too long since he’s had a proper meal.
“So, how’s the life of a sports med student?” Tooru asks casually in between bites. Hajime does groan then, tipping his head back with exasperation, while Tooru chuckles at his grief.
“Can we not talk about the living hell the next few years of my life is gonna be?” he grumbles, stuffing rice into his mouth to delay a real answer. Tooru only smiles expectantly at him until Hajime caves, saying, “It’s fine, I guess. Busy, exhausting.”
“But worth it,” Tooru adds, tone oddly firm if not a bit wistful. Hajime studies him curiously for a second, trying to decode the meaning behind such a comment, but he only finds honesty in the relaxed set of Tooru’s shoulders and the slight upward quirk of his lips. So he nods in agreement, echoing softly, “Yeah. Worth it.” and purposefully ignores the part of him that whispers except for losing you.
He turns the topic to Tooru’s life, partially to remove the spotlight from himself and partially because he’s genuinely curious about how his friend is getting along at university. Texting isn’t exactly the best medium to gauge the real emotion behind Tooru’s countless stories (and Hajime would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching those brown eyes light up as he gushes over the gym, of all things).
They fall back into their easy rhythm as they finish breakfast, genuine interest laced with teasing banter, and it all feels so right that Hajime’s chest aches.
“So what’s the plan?” he asks as they’re cleaning the dishes. Tooru washes and rinses while Hajime dries and puts them back in their proper place. “I know you, there’s probably a whole itinerary for the weekend.”
“It’s always a good idea to have a plan, Iwa-chan!” he chirps, flicking water at Hajime’s chest. Hajime considers angling a plate just so next time he gets one. “It’s not my fault your tiny brain can only handle one activity at a time.”
Hajime forgoes waiting on a plate and simply grabs the detachable hose, making sure to point it directly at Tooru’s face as he squeezes. The spluttering shriek it gets him is like music to his ears.
A few minutes of surprised squeals, hollering, and fighting over the hose later, the kitchen is well on its way to doubling as a pool and both boys are soaked. But Hajime’s cheeks haven’t hurt this way in four months so he doesn’t really care that his phone and wallet could possibly have minor water damage.
“You can shower first,” Tooru offers, still breathy with lingering laughter, water dripping from his now lank hair onto his nose. The way it wrinkles from the sensation is unfairly cute, so Hajime averts his gaze to focus on wiping down the counter with his now ninety-percent-saturated hand towel.
“You sure? We both know you’re gonna take longer to get ready than I am—wherever we’re going.”
“Iwa-chan is my guest! I can’t just leave you here to mold,” he grins as he takes the cloth from Hajime to shoo him out. “Besides, we’re not going anywhere until after noon, so I’ll have plenty of time to recreate perfection.” He winks cheekily.
Hajime rolls his eyes, shoving good-naturedly at Tooru’s shoulder when he passes. He hears Tooru blow a raspberry at his back as he turns the corner but chooses to ignore it in favor of the hot shower that awaits.
He takes his time, letting the hot spray ease the tension in his shoulders from his long ride (and yeah, some of it is from being so close to Tooru again too) and only realizes after a few minutes that he forgot his toiletry bag in the living room. He considers calling for Tooru to grab it but after a glance at the plethora of shampoos available, he’s surprised (but also not, somehow) to find his preferred brand sitting in a corner. He can’t help, or stop, the grin that forms as he takes it; Tooru has a bottle of his body wash right next to it too.
It shouldn’t touch him as much as it does—their living spaces have always been a mix of each other’s belongings, ever since Hajime can remember—but he can’t deny the warmth spreading through his chest as he picks up the bottle. Squeezing some into his palm, he realizes the bottle isn’t new—far from it, actually, nearly half is gone—and the warmth in his chest flares. It’s one thing if Tooru went out and bought Hajime’s brand because he knew he’d be visiting; it’s another to see he saved Hajime’s old bottles rather than throw them out after their separation.
Fuck, he laments to himself, scrubbing roughly at his hair, eyes screwed shut.
He knew getting over Tooru would be difficult, maybe borderline impossible, but Tooru sure doesn’t make it any easier.
Though, if he’s being honest, that’s always been Tooru’s way, hasn’t it?
Hajime spends the rest of his shower with his face tipped up into the water, teeth grit as he pretends the hot prickle in the corners of his eyes is just a result of the shower spray.
Thirty minutes later, Hajime’s lounging on the couch with a controller in hand as he absently sneaks through an amusement park, the forlorn weeping in the background a warning to keep his distance. He’s painfully aware that, just down the hall, the shower has turned off. His character stumbles into an abandoned car, setting the alarm off, and then a horde of zombies preoccupies his attention enough that he misses the telltale squeak of the bathroom door opening.
“Ugh, really Iwa-chan?” Tooru suddenly complains from behind him. Hajime does not startle at the sound of his voice so close. The hairs on the nape of his neck do not stand on end. “You know I hate this game.”
(He does, which is why Hajime was surprised to find it still on the shelf at all now that he’s not around to play it on a regular basis.)
“Only because the Witch gives you nightmares,” Hajime goads him, grinning to himself at Tooru’s grumbling. He’s doing pretty well against the horde until a glimpse of white to his right distracts him.
He hasn’t learned yet if it’s scientifically possible to choke on your own tongue, but he’s pretty sure that’s what happens to him when his gaze lands on Tooru’s bare torso. Stray droplets of water ease their way down the various ridges and curves that make up his chest until they’re caught in the low-hanging fabric of the towel tucked snugly around his waist. They glisten prettily against his skin, bright and alluring in the glow of the sunlight passing through the window. (Doesn’t this fool have curtains? Does he just walk around half-dressed for the world to see? Fuck.) More drip enticingly from the ends of Tooru’s damp hair, longer than Hajime is used to seeing as it curls slightly at the base of his neck. His bangs fall over his forehead almost artfully—it’s unfair how Tooru doesn’t even have to try to be attractive, ugh—as he hums thoughtfully while browsing his game collection.
With significant effort, Hajime tears his gaze away, mouth dry and throat tight as he tries to will away the flush he can feel burning the tips of his ears. He turns his focus back to the game, determined to seem nonchalant—they’ve seen each other in various stages of undress since they were toddlers, this is nothing new—only to find his character has met his grisly end. Figures. Hajime feels rather like he’s flirting with his own right now.
“Shit,” he mutters, glowering at the screen. Tooru chooses that moment to kneel in front of the console, bare back on full display, and plucks the disc from it before replacing it with whatever he’s chosen. Hajime’s helpless against watching the way the muscles of his back and shoulders move fluidly beneath his smooth skin.
“Hey, I was playing that,” he grouses halfheartedly, determined to focus on something, anything, else. Tooru snorts, standing and turning to face Hajime directly as he raises his arms in a stretch, muscles pulling taunt. Hajime grips the controller with both hands until the plastic creaks with strain beneath his grip and prays whatever expression he’s wearing doesn’t betray his internal screeching.
“Badly,” Tooru answers snidely, eyes sliding open to pin him with a smug look. If he notices that Hajime’s quietly dying on his couch he doesn’t say anything; instead, he lowers his arms to fold them behind his head so he can smirk at his best friend.
Mentally shaking himself, Hajime’s embarrassed by how much effort it takes to wrench his gaze away (again) from Tooru’s toned arms to respond as casually as possible, “You’re just jealous because you always get killed by a Tank.”
Tooru harrumphs, striding towards the bathroom to finish getting ready, apparently deciding against dignifying that accusation with a response. Probably because it’s true, Hajime thinks with a smirk of his own.
With his heartbeat finally beginning to return to normal, he turns back to the TV to see what game Tooru’s chosen. He’s unsurprised to find the colorful title of Mario Kart lighting up the screen.
It’s about fifteen minutes later before Tooru’s plopping himself on the couch next to Hajime, close enough that their thighs press together. (He’s decided to clothe himself this time, much to Hajime’s relief.) He grabs his own controller and levels a confident grin at his best friend, one perfectly shaped brow raised as he asks cheerfully, “Ready to have your ass handed to you?”
“Ready to eat those words?” Hajime snips back, lips turning up in a matching grin. Tooru laughs, starting the game without another word.
The next hour is spent hurling playful insults along with shells, jabbing elbows into ribs or holding a hand over one another’s eyes in an effort to pull ahead. When Tooru reaches out to dig his fingers into the inside of Hajime’s thigh, he seizes at the sudden ticklish sensation, yelping as he lurches and drops the controller. Tooru crows in victory as he takes the lead, cackling like a madman.
“Oh you think that’s funny, huh?” Hajime lunges low to tackle him at the waist, pushing him down into the couch cushions as he sets about drumming his fingers up and down Tooru’s sides. The shriek he gets is equal parts rewarding and painful in its pitch, but he refuses to let up. Instead, he jabs his fingers under Tooru’s armpits and wiggles them until his best friend is laughing uncontrollably.
“Iwa-chan, y-you brute!” he yells, squirming beneath Hajime’s heavy weight and shoving uselessly at his shoulders. Hajime laughs, face smushed uncomfortably between Tooru’s bony shoulder and the back of the couch but he doesn’t back down, merciless in his tickling.
(He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t partly revenge for Tooru’s towel stunt earlier, but only he needs to know that.)
“Say uncle,” he demands, squeezing the tender area just under Tooru’s ribs. Whining, Tooru's hands stray from Hajime’s shoulders in favor of grasping the fabric of his shirt instead, chest heaving beneath Hajime’s as he tries to catch his breath.
And it strikes him like lightning then, how close they are. Their bodies are slotted together from head to toe, chests flush and cheeks touching; Tooru’s thighs still cradle his hips after an unsuccessful attempt to kick him away. He can smell the sandalwood of Tooru’s cologne, a brand he’d bought him for his birthday two years ago; can feel the puff of his breaths as they warm the curve of Hajime’s ear. Heat floods not only his face but his gut, searing and overwhelming in its intensity as memories he’s worked tirelessly to suppress rush to the forefront of his mind. He hasn’t been this close to Tooru since—
“Fine, fine! Uncle,” Tooru huffs, voice significantly softer, an underlying breathy quality that wasn’t there before. Torn between thankful and disappointed, Hajime releases his hold and pushes himself off of Tooru, moving back to give him—both of them, really—room to breathe. He makes sure there’s no part of them touching.
Tooru pushes up on his elbows to level a mock-glare at him, one hand coming up to fuss with his disheveled hair. “That was uncalled for, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime huffs. “Oh, and using underhanded tricks isn’t?” They both know Tooru had chosen his inner thigh because it’s the only place he’s even remotely ticklish.
“I did no such thing,” is the innocent reply, but the tilt of his lips belies his amusement. “Anyway, it’s about time we leave.” He pokes Hajime one last time in the side with his foot, giggling when Hajime tries to grab it, rolling off the couch before he can get a good grip. It was a halfhearted attempt anyway; Hajime’s not sure he could handle another round of close-quarters grappling right now. His heart is still fumbling around in his chest as it is.
Tooru flounces off towards his bedroom, presumably to adjust his appearance now that Hajime’s ruffled him, so he takes the opportunity to breathe—long and deep.
Get a grip, he tells himself sternly. You can keep it together for two days, can’t you? You did it for four years before.
Even as he thinks it, he knows it’s different. Before, when he’d kept his feelings for Tooru tucked behind his ribs alongside his smitten heart, he hadn’t known. He’d only imagined, fantasized about what life with Tooru by his side could be like. Now, he knows exactly how amazing that life is—and how painful it is to have to let it go. He’s got fissures all over that traitorous muscle to remember it by.
It’s for the best, he reminds himself, brow furrowed in a determined scowl. We both agreed that it’s for the best. He pats his cheeks firmly, draws in another deep breath to strengthen his resolve, then stands so he can get ready to leave.
Tooru’s “plan”, as it turns out, is dragging Hajime all across Tokyo to serve as his baggage mule while he shops. Hajime wishes he could be surprised but Tooru’s always treated shopping like a hobby so this is definitely not the first time he’s found himself in this situation.
“Don’t give me that look,” Tooru scolds, sticking a finger in Hajime’s face threateningly. He wrinkles his nose, nipping at the offensive digit. Tooru yanks his hand back with a huff, cupping his finger protectively as he adds, “We’re getting stuff for you too, y’know.”
“Stuff I don’t need,” Hajime grumbles, shifting the bags in his hands as they walk. Many of them are full of volleyball gear or workout clothes but a few contain garments Tooru had chosen for Hajime. He’s still unsure what to think of the hedgehog printed socks but, as usual, somehow Tooru had his way.
(He’d just looked so giddy at the sight of them, holding them up with a genuinely excited smile that made his eyes crinkle over his rosy cheeks. Hajime’s heart hadn’t stood a chance.
Not that it has for a long, long time now. Maybe hasn’t ever had one.)
“Nonsense!” his friend declares, clapping his hands together with a wide smile. “I’ve seen your closet, Iwa-chan, you need all the help you can get. Luckily your best friend just so happens to be a fashion icon.”
Hajime snorts, unable to help the laugh bubbling up and out of his mouth at such a bold claim. “I don’t want to hear that from the guy who willingly wore plaid shorts out in public. With tube socks.”
Tooru squawks at the reminder, face flushing a bright cherry at an impressive speed. He shoulder checks him, complaining, “You know Makki dared me!”
“Mmhmm,” Hajime hums, playing at disbelief. “Then why are they still in your dresser?”
Tooru launches into a defensive tirade that leaves Hajime grinning, poking playfully at his fashion sense until they’re bantering easily between stores. Before he knows it, the sun is setting and his stomach is loudly demanding compensation for all the energy he’s spent today.
“Oikawa,” he groans, slumping against the wall of the twelfth changing room of the day. The surname feels wrong on his tongue now, but he forces himself to use it. “C’mon, I’m starving.” His feet feel like lead and he’s lost track of how long the fingers of his left hand have been numb. His stomach rumbles grumpily as if to punctuate his statement.
Tooru’s chuckles are muffled through the door but audible nonetheless. “Almost done,” he promises warmly.
True to his word, they’re exiting the last store in a few minutes and are on their way down the street to the nearest restaurant. It turns out to be a cozy barbeque joint, all soft lighting and private booths with plenty of space for their multitude of bags. Hajime sighs in relief as the last plastic handle slides off his tired wrists.
Tooru makes a strange sound across the table but as Hajime looks up to see why, he’s distracted by the gentle grasp of fingers wrapping around his sore wrists. He startles as Tooru pulls them across the table towards himself, inspecting the red lines critically.
“Iwa-chan, you should have said something,” he scolds softly, rubbing his thumbs soothingly over Hajime’s steadily increasing pulse. “I could have carried more.”
Hajime clears his throat in an effort to avoid revealing just how wrecked this simple touch has made him. “It’s nothing.” Tooru hums low in his throat, clearly disbelieving, as he continues that gentle sweeping with his thumbs.
It shouldn’t affect him so much except it does. It’s such a nostalgic gesture, one Tooru’s indulged in countless times after days just like this one. He can practically feel one of the fissures cleaving deeper.
He’s saved by the waiter, using the opportunity to draw his hands back and tucking them safely under the table on his lap. They order eagerly, arguing only briefly over what to get before compromising, then falling easily into conversation. They talk more about university, volleyball, reminisce about Miyagi and Aoba Jōsai. Hajime gripes about his roommate while Tooru laughs at his misfortune; Tooru tells him about his university team, his analysis of their skill, and how he gets along with them.
They compete over the best bits of barbeque, chopsticks battling over the grill until one emerges victorious—usually Hajime, thanks to his quick reflexes, though he suspects Tooru’s allowing some of his wins as a reward for being a good sport all day.
By the end of dinner, Hajime’s fluctuating between content and suffering. He wishes he could simply enjoy this visit with his best friend for what it is but it’s so painful at times like this, where nothing and everything has changed.
And then Tooru huffs a quiet laugh, gaze unbearably fond as he leans across the table with an outstretched hand. He tucks his fingers beneath Hajime’s chin to tilt his head towards the light, thumb swiping with agonizing slowness across the edge of his bottom lip. In the next second Tooru’s sitting back, thumb against his lips as he licks away the excess sauce. His eyes are half-lidded, soft in the low light of their quiet booth, that breathy quality back in his voice as he teases affectionately, “So messy, Iwa-chan.”
Something in his gut clenches at that look, that tone. (Does he know how he sounds? He must, right? Even Tooru can’t be that oblivious, can he?) Heat blazes up through his chest until he knows his face and neck are positively saturated in a telling red. Thankfully the dim lights disguise most of his flush, and he can probably blame the alcohol for the rest, so he thinks he’s in the clear as he only slightly fumbles through his escape, using the excuse of needing the bathroom. Tooru says nothing, only smiles as he retreats.
After a good splash of cool water to the face followed by a stern mental lecture while glowering at his reflection, Hajime feels up to returning to their table. He finds Tooru waiting patiently for him, most of the bags in his hand. It’s then that Hajime belatedly realizes his retreat afforded the perfect opportunity for Tooru to handle the bill, much to his chagrin. He grimaces, leveling a faux-glare at his too-innocent friend.
“Ready to go, Iwa-chan?” Tooru asks pleasantly, tilting his head in that adorable way he has.
Hajime steps forward to snatch as many bags as possible out of his hands, grumpy over playing right into Tooru’s game. He ignores the vehement protests, tossing a snarky “You should have let me get the bill, Stingykawa” over his shoulder as he makes for the exit.
“How is my footing the bill stingy?” is Tooru’s baffled objection, footsteps hurrying to catch up to Hajime’s long strides. They make for the train station, bickering all the while over who should have paid.
“I’m crashing at your place all weekend, it’s the least I could—”
“You’re not crashing, you’re visiting! As a good host it’s my responsibility—”
“Shut up, you literally bought me so much crap today—”
“You need better shirts, Iwa-chan!”
By the time they’ve boarded the train, Hajime’s managed to push his earlier distress to the back of his mind, determined to ignore the insistent voice that questions his every action. He’s full, satisfied, (maybe a tiny bit tipsy) and sleepy; the constant mental battle with himself has exhausted him just as thoroughly as half the day shopping tends to. Tooru’s chattering away quietly to his right, something about a new documentary he’s been watching. It’s soothing, his voice; a low timbre Hajime’s heart, bruised as it may be, instinctively recognizes as safe and home and love. It lulls him, a blanket of familiarity that covers him in warmth until his eyes grow too heavy along with his head. He tips over until he’s resting on Tooru’s shoulder, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips.
Distantly, he notes Tooru’s rambling stumbles to a stop. “Iwa-chan?” he whispers. Something in his tone is almost hesitant.
“’m listening,” he slurs, adjusting slightly so he’s more comfortable. He breathes in deeply, the scent of sandalwood filling his lungs.
“Okay,” is Tooru’s quiet reply, accompanied by a gentle hand grazing the fine hairs on the back of Hajime’s neck. He scratches his nails against the sensitive skin there, just the way Hajime likes, and talks until sleep overtakes him completely.
When they get back to Tooru’s apartment, after much sleepy stumbling on Hajime’s part, they have just enough energy to drop their shopping bags on the coffee table before dragging themselves to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Even half-asleep as they are, they move around one another effortlessly; a dance they’ve perfected over the years that not even exhaustion or uncertainty can disrupt. Before long, Tooru’s taking Hajime’s hand and leading him to the bedroom.
“Tooru,” Hajime grumbles, stopping in the hall. “Futon.”
“Too much effort,” is the lazy reply coupled with an insistent tug on his hand. Hajime doesn’t budge, brow furrowed as his exhausted brain tries to remember why he needs a futon at all.
His struggle is interrupted by Tooru grasping his hand with both of his, his touch warm and comforting.
“Just sleep with me tonight,” he murmurs, almost pleading. Hajime breathes out slowly, some instinct insisting he shouldn’t—but in the same moment it’s overtaken by a desire so strong he can’t find it within himself to resist. He doesn’t want to—he’s so tired of resisting.
So, just this once, he thinks as he lets Tooru guide him to bed, he’ll give in to his selfish wants.
He doesn’t process falling asleep again; the moment his head hits the pillow, the scent of sandalwood, of Tooru, surrounds him and his consciousness slips away.
Waking is a gradual, lazy process; Hajime can’t remember the last time he slept so soundly. Inhaling deeply, Tooru’s woodsy scent fills his senses and he can’t help but smile. There’s a warmth pressed against his back, the comforting weight of an arm slung over his waist, a knee slotted between his. Tooru’s always been a clingy sleeper.
Shifting so that he’s turned to face him, Hajime thinks nothing of burrowing in close, the bridge of his nose tucked against the line of Tooru’s neck so that every breath has a hint of sandalwood. He’s nearly drifted off again when his bedmate stirs, the hand over his waist splaying against his lower back. He can feel the gentle heat of Tooru’s callused palm against his skin where his shirt has ridden up. A pleased hum escapes him at the sensation.
“Morning,” Tooru greets, voice raspy with sleep in that way that makes Hajime’s stomach fill with butterflies. He grunts—it’s too early for things like words—reaching up instead to tangle his fingers in that soft chestnut hair the way he’s done a thousand times, cupping the back of Tooru’s head and tugging down as he tips his chin up to meet him. Their lips brush, gentle and lazy, before pressing firmly in a proper greeting.
“G’morning,” Hajime sighs in reply, too low to really count as properly speaking but still close enough that his mouth brushes Tooru’s with each syllable so that his greeting is understood. There’s a happy hum that tingles against his lips before the hand at his back presses him closer and Tooru closes the miniscule distance between them again.
Hajime gets lost in the kiss, mind hazy with sleep and love; he shifts in order to find a better angle, never once separating. He presses closer, harder— frantic, suddenly, hands roaming the familiar planes of Tooru’s chest and back, burying his fingers in that soft hair a touch too roughly as he slides his tongue against Tooru’s—desperate for more, more, he can’t stop, he won’t—not when he’s wanted nothing more than exactly this for the last four miserable months—
It strikes him then, quick as lightning and just as shocking, just what he’s doing and with who. Heart thundering in his ears for an entirely different reason now, Hajime gasps and pulls away so roughly he nearly falls out of the bed; he may have, if not for Tooru’s firm hand against his spine. Tooru makes a startled noise at the abrupt motion but Hajime can barely hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.
“Fuck,” he swears, scrubbing one hand over his face roughly, eyes scrunched shut. The bed shifts as Tooru sits up beside him, hand sliding away from his back only to take hold of the wrist to the hand hiding his face. Hajime turns his head away, ashamed; how could he do something like this? All of that hard work, the months spent keeping Tooru at a distance despite the way it broke his own heart, the steps they’d taken to act normal around one another in order to keep their friendship from shattering—
Ruined. All because Hajime couldn’t control his fucking heart.
“Hajime,” Tooru calls, low and soothing, but hearing his given name from Tooru’s mouth hurts. He smooths his thumb over Hajime’s wrist, an echo of the night before, of a thousand other times throughout their lives. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” the words feel torn from his throat, raw and heavy. Because it’s true, isn’t it? Nothing about this, about the last few minutes or the last four months, about them is okay and he fucking knows it. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, makes to get out of the bed—to get away, before he can fuck this up any further—whispering, “Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
He doesn’t get any further than turning away before a hand is on his shoulder, yanking, and then he’s on his back, gasping at the sudden shift—and then at the thunderous expression contorting Tooru’s beautiful features as he leans over him. His brown eyes blaze with a familiar ferocity, an emotion Hajime’s witnessed countless times on the court, even outside of it on occasion, but never once directed at himself. He swallows hard at the sight.
“Don’t,” Tooru warns, barely more than a whisper before it turns into a growl, “Don’t you dare apologize. Don’t make this—us—sound like a mistake.” The way his voice cracks on the last word, like his heart is breaking, leaves Hajime feeling cold with horror.
“That wasn’t—I’m not—!” The fractures in his own heart spread that much wider at the mere thought that what they have, what they’ve built together, could be wrong—broken. He knows exactly how good they are together, what an incredible team they make, pushing and pulling one another to be the best version of themselves, always. (It’s because he understands this that it hurts so damn much. Isn’t it the same for Tooru?) Frustration builds within him until it finds a release at the corner of his eyes, damp and stinging. Hajime grits his teeth against it, blinking rapidly as he glares up at the ceiling, unable to keep Tooru’s gaze.
(He hates this. He hates this.)
Tooru makes a soft sound then, a kind of distressed cooing; the mattress shifts as he moves closer, reaching out to gently cup Hajime’s face in his hands.
“Sorry love, I’m sorry,” Tooru murmurs, sweeping his thumbs beneath Hajime’s eyes though no tears have fallen. (The endearment sets his nerves on fire, the ice in his veins evaporating, his splintered heart fluttering in his chest—though he’d never admitted it, it was always his favorite.) “I know that’s not what you meant. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He runs the knuckles of one hand over Hajime’s cheek, tender as he offers a weak smile. “This is my fault, anyway.”
“Shut up, I kissed you first,” Hajime grumbles hoarsely as the stinging subsides, a tentative calm chasing it away with every feather-light press of Tooru’s fingertips. He leans into the touch furtively, unable to help indulging himself while he can.
Tooru ducks his head, shoulders raising high near his ears. His hands cease their menstruations to slip down and rest over Hajime’s stomach instead. His voice is hushed when he confesses, “Yeah, but I set you up to do it.”
“What the hell are you on about?” Tooru hadn’t done anything, he’d literally greeted him good morning and Hajime had lost all self-control.
Tooru ducks his head lower, fingers fidgeting with the hem of Hajime’s shirt. His messy bangs hide his eyes and suddenly Hajime can’t stand it, being unable to see that brown gaze. He wants to reach up, brush the silky strands out of the way, but before he can, Tooru takes a deep breath, lifts his head with a determined set to his mouth, and speaks.
“I invited you to bed last night hoping this might happen,” he admits, voice tight with tension. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he averts his eyes.
“Hah?” Eyes wide, Hajime pushes himself onto his elbows as if being physically closer will help him understand what the hell Tooru is talking about. “What—what are you saying, that you planned this?” The idea of it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He knows Tooru has a knack for twisting things to get what he wants, he’s seen it on the court countless times, but he’s never used his skill for personal gain outside of the game. If Tooru had intentionally manipulated him—he can’t believe it, doesn’t want to even entertain the thought—
“No!” Tooru cries, snapping his gaze back to meet Hajime’s, eyes wide and frantic. “No, I didn’t—that came out wrong, I was just hoping that we might…” He groans into his hands, a flush crawling its way up his neck to stain his cheeks. He mumbles something into his palms, too muffled to understand.
“What?” Hajime asks, a bit sharper than intended.
“I miss you!” Tooru yells then, flinging his hands away to pin Hajime with a defiant, if embarrassed, look. “Gods, Hajime, I miss you so fucking much, I just wanted to sleep next to you again and pretend. And yeah, part of me hoped I might wake up this morning and be able to kiss you again but I wasn’t expecting anything, I swear.” To Hajime’s dismay, it’s Tooru’s turn to blink away frustrated tears. The sight of them has him sitting up entirely, reaching out to wipe them away the way he has countless times before. He hates seeing Tooru cry but, more than that, he despises being the reason for his tears.
“I’ve missed you too, Tooru,” he breathes, bottom lip quivering before he presses on, unwilling to pass up this opportunity, “Sorry, I know you wouldn’t—I’ve just, it’s been hell being so close to you without being able to be with you.” Tooru nods in agreement, sniffling. Hajime can’t help but smile, endeared. He slips one hand around the back of Tooru’s neck to gently guide him forward until their foreheads touch, noses brushing from the close proximity. He can feel the tension draining from the both of them at the simple touch, a kind of contentment they can’t find anywhere but each other.
“These last four months have been unbearable,” he whispers, throat constricting around the words, like a last-ditch effort to keep up the façade but he can’t—they have to talk about this, he has to get it off of his chest, even if nothing changes. “I know we agreed to it, I know—it’s for the best, for both of us—but—I’ve hated it. I miss you so fucking much it hurts.” He clutches the fabric over his heart, a sob heaving in his chest. He chokes it down, forces himself to grit out, “I just want you back, Tooru.”
He feels the gasp Tooru drags in, a sudden inhalation, like his heart’s stopped—and then there are hands in his hair and lips on his, bruising and achingly sweet. Groaning, his remaining resolve—what little there was—snaps as he presses close, returning the kiss with fervor.
Tooru’s lips are petal soft against his own slightly chapped ones, just as he remembers. Without the haze of sleep surrounding him he can better appreciate the familiar feel of them, the perfect way they slot against his as if he were simply made for kissing Tooru.
“I’m here,” Tooru breathes against his lips, a promise and a plea. “I’m right here, I’m yours, always.” He presses in again and again, a desperate frenzy, as if Hajime will change his mind if he lets up for even a second. It’s ridiculous, Hajime thinks distantly, because after all this time he must know Hajime’s heart is his.
“Tooru,” he gasps, like a prayer. His chest feels full to bursting with elation at finally, finally having Tooru back in his arms. He doesn’t want to let him go ever again—has no intention of it. For as long as Tooru will have him, Hajime is his alone.
Their desperation eventually simmers down into a languid exploration, re-familiarizing themselves with one another and relishing the freedom regained to do so without worry. Tooru pulls away to pepper kisses all over Hajime’s face until he’s laughing, swatting at his chest without any true desire for the affection to stop. He can feel the upturned curl of Tooru’s smile on his skin as he ventures elsewhere, first to Hajime’s ear where he nips teasingly at the earring there, earning himself a shiver and a warning tug against his shirt hem before trailing his lips down the slope of Hajime’s throat in that way he knows he’s weak for.
Exhaling a shaky breath, Hajime basks in the attention for a moment longer, savoring the feel of Tooru against him—his lips on his skin, the weight of him in his lap, the soft tickle of his hair against his jaw—before steering him back to place a chaste kiss against his lips. Tooru huffs, impatient and a little annoyed at being interrupted, Hajime suspects, but he wants there to be no uncertainty between them before they go any further. He leans back so he can meet Tooru’s eyes when he speaks.
“I love you,” he murmurs with a soft smile, tracing his knuckles over the swell of Tooru’s cheek. He practically melts at the touch, leaning after Hajime’s hand for more; chuckling, Hajime cups his face fully, easily giving in to Tooru’s silent plea for affection. He needs it too, this contact, a physical assurance that this is real. “I’m sorry for leaving.”
Tooru shakes his head, turning to press a kiss to Hajime’s palm before answering, “Don’t be. You weren’t wrong for putting your future first.”
“No, but you’re a part of that future,” Hajime retaliates firmly, unwilling to accept forgiveness so easily. He’d hurt Tooru by suggesting their separation, he knows, and he’s regretted that from the moment the words left his mouth. Tooru laughs a little, fondness evident in his gaze as he reaches out to take his free hand, entwining their fingers without hesitation.
“You’re such a closet sap,” he teases, even as he lifts their hands to kiss the back of Hajime’s knuckles. “It’s okay, Hajime. I agreed to it too. We both needed time to settle into our new lives.” Lowering their hands to his lap, Hajime notes his grip is steady but tight, unwilling to let him go just yet. His smile dims some though, a shadow in his eyes as he murmurs, “I understand though, if—if we can’t go back. Be together. I know your classes are demanding and it’s hard enough to juggle a long-distance relationship by itself, but with our career choices it’s—”
“It is hard,” Hajime interrupts. “It was so fucking hard that first month, when everything was overwhelming and new—not just the classes but the, the distance. But it’s so much harder without you there. I don’t want to do this without you by my side, I never have. So—” He cuts himself off, hesitant. Who is he to ask Tooru to try again when he’d been the first to give up on them? Who is he to ask Tooru to tie himself to Hajime when he’d let go the moment things got too tough? How can he possibly ask him to trust in him, in them, again?
Hands cup his face then, warm and callused, as familiar as his own. Tooru’s eyes are bright in the milky morning light, far too understanding, his smile too forgiving. He leans in until their foreheads touch again, content to bask in one another’s presence for the moment, until he breaks it with quiet reassurance.
“Me too. You’re the only one, Hajime, the only person I want with me every step of the way. If we have to wait a little longer, that’s okay, but it’s only ever been you. It’s only ever going to be you. So,” He pulls away so Hajime can see the blinding smile on his lips, the genuine emotion in his eyes when he asks hopefully, “Stay?”
Hajime knows it’s impossible to rewrite the past but this feels pretty damn close. He’s never been more thankful for anything in his life than he is for the boy holding him in this moment, for the second chance he's been given to hold him back and never let go again.
“Always,” Hajime vows, cupping his hands over Tooru’s. “Until you’re sick of me, and even then you’ll have to put up one hell of a fight if you want to be rid of me.”
Tooru laughs at that, leaning in to kiss him long and deep, until the air between them feels electric. His voice is husky with emotion when he murmurs against Hajime’s lips, “That sounds a lot like a proposal, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime grins, kissing him again as he shifts so that Tooru’s lying against the bed with Hajime hovering over him. Pulling back, he brushes Tooru’s bangs out of his eyes so he can meet them when he says, “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“I do.” Hajime’s heart skips a beat at that and he can’t stop his imagination from conjuring up the image of Tooru uttering those words to him in front of all their loved ones as a ring is slipped onto his finger. Eyes glistening in a way that tells Hajime he’s thinking the same, Tooru clears his throat as a mischievous smirk curves his lips. He adds in a haughtier tone, “But right now I think we should make up for lost time. You owe me four months’ worth of kisses, you know. With interest.”
“Guess I should get to work on that then,” Hajime muses, leaning in to pepper kisses everywhere but Tooru’s lips, smirking at the way it elicits an exasperated groan from him. He nips at his ear instead when a thought occurs to him. “Actually, I think you owe me after all the shit you pulled yesterday.”
“Why, Iwa-chan, what ever could you mean?” Tooru asks with far too much innocence to be genuine. Hajime blows a raspberry against his neck in retaliation, startling a laugh from him.
“Oh I don’t know. Strutting around in nothing but a towel, making suggestive comments at dinner—ring any bells?”
Tooru shifts beneath him with a contemplative hum, hands smoothing down the length of his back, and Hajime knows without looking that he’s wearing the smuggest of grins when he replies, “Not at all.”
“I’ll just have to jog your memory then,” Hajime says, delighting in the too-high shriek he earns from digging his fingers into Tooru’s sides, followed by his favorite sound in the world.
Well. Second favorite, he amends a few moments later, when Tooru’s laughter evolves into needy gasps as Hajime makes good on his overdue "interest".
Sunday afternoon comes far too quickly. Hajime stands on the platform with Tooru by his side as his train pulls into the station, grip tight around the strap of his bag and Tooru’s hand. People surge around them as they file on and off the train, none-the-wiser to the turmoil churning Hajime’s stomach at the thought of boarding it himself; of being swept away back to campus, two-hours too far from his best friend yet again after only a few days of reuniting.
Fingers squeeze his, asking for his attention, so he turns to meet Tooru’s gaze. He sees his own reluctance reflected back at him even as Tooru offers a small, reassuring smile.
“See you later,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” Hajime takes a deep breath before reaching up to wrap his arm around Tooru’s neck so he can pull him down into a hug. Tooru makes a soft noise of surprise before wrapping his free arm around Hajime’s waist; the way his fingers clutch the hem of his shirt tells Hajime more than Tooru needs to say in words. He turns his head so that his face is tucked into the crook of Tooru’s neck, his words muffled against the skin of his throat when he speaks.
“I love you, Tooru.”
He feels the way Tooru’s chest hitches against his and the tremble in his fingers as they squeeze his that much harder when he whispers it back. It takes an enormous amount of effort to finally pull away. Tooru’s eyes are bright and glassy when he does, but he smiles all the same as they release each other.
“Remember to text me when you get back.”
“I will.”
“And don’t forget our Skype call on Wednesday!”
“I know.”
“And—and I’ll call you between practice too, okay?”
Hajime chuckles, reaching up to tousle Tooru’s hair as he shakes his head. “Don’t overdo it.”
The last call for his train sounds over the intercom. With a sigh, Hajime turns towards the awaiting doors. Still, he feels incredibly lighter compared to the last time he stood on this platform.
“Hajime,” Tooru’s voice makes him pause and glance back over his shoulder. His expression is achingly hopeful when he asks, “We’re in this together, right?”
It's as much a request as it is a gentle reminder. Warm with the promise between them, Hajime doesn’t try to hide his smile when he affirms, “Always.”