Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for.”

— Martha Gellhorn

On Friday, July 20th, 2012, the third years of the Aoba Johsai boys volleyball team convince the birthday boy, who has also now been their captain of one school term, to buy a round of ramen at the nearby place with the unoiled door hinge as well as snacks from every single Lawson’s of the three they pass by on the way to their stops.

On Saturday, July 21th, 2012, Issei goes over to Takahiro’s house and finds him lying on his stomach in the backyard, where the sprinklers have completely soaked his legs.

For a moment, he admires the view.

Then he crouches down next to him and says, ‘Hey.’

‘Issei,’ Takahiro acknowledges woefully, soft cheek pressed to grass. ‘Hi. Could you be a bro and reangle the sprinklers?’

‘Sure,’ Issei agrees, and aims the sprinklers so his whole body is soaked, not just his legs.

‘Thanks,’ he says, or attempts to, and really just manages a spluttering noise. A flash of pink tongue as he licks water off his mouth, then he adds, ‘You’re the best.’

‘No prob. I’m going to go get you a glass of water,’ Issei tells him. ‘Because I know the amount of non drinkable water on you right now is making you thirsty.’

‘I love when you explain your thought process,’ Takahiro responds. ‘It’s always so exciting. So, so weird but you make it sound so normal. Also it’s always about me.’

‘True statement,’ Issei admits. ‘Be right back.’

Issei goes and gets him a glass of water. Since he’s doing it anyways, he drops in three ice cubes, because Takahiro’s flushed neck had him a bit worried, and since he’s in the kitchen, he says hello to Takahiro’s mother, who’s poring over a pile of travel logs at the kitchen table with a cup of green tea gone cold, as if she’d ever take time off from her florist chain business.

‘Tell Takahiro he’s dirtying my iridescent grass with his teenager filth,’ she instructs.

Issei nods obediently and says, ‘Yes, Hanamaki-san,’ even though they both know he’s going to start laughing halfway through the message and all the snide will be lost.

A beat, then— ‘He’ll get the point,’ she decides; there’s a smack as she opens out her brochure, and she goes back to luxury hotel perusal.

Issei lopes back to the garden and Takahiro hasn’t moved an inch from his spot. 

Approaching with one hand in his jean shorts pocket, the other holding his glass, Issei asks, ‘Are you sick?’

‘Hah.’ Takahiro flips over, and gives him a baleful look. There is a blade of grass stuck to his cheek, dirt on his forehead. His top’s ridden up way too much for Issei’s continued mental health. ‘Am I sick. Am I sick! I was on the shitter for two goddamn hours after I woke up.’

Issei makes a hum of understanding. ‘Now those SOS texts make more sense.’

‘I was literally dying and you have no sympathy. ‘Cause you’re heartless.’

He offers Takahiro the cool glass of water, and watches as he sits up with a miserable noise, his torse a ragged curve, white shirt sticking to his pale chest and fingers shaky as he reaches out. 

Issei reaches forward too, to cup firmly at his left trap, and rubs indolently at the knotted muscle with his thumb. ‘I mean, I told you not to get that fifth pork bun.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Takahiro replies after he’s drained half his water, and flips the remains of the glass upside down over Issei.

Issei doesn’t even flinch as the cap of his scalp soaks instantly, only scrunches his nose when it drips onto his forehead. He opens his mouth, sticks his tongue out to let the water stream in, so he can at least get something out of it. 

When he’s swallowed and glanced up, Takahiro’s face is flushed pink and he is staring at the insides of his glass as if they hold all the secrets of the universe. 

Issei stares at him in much the same way.

This is the intense, imperative, and soon to be infamous moment, weak stomached and flush cheeked and being watched as carefully as he is, like he’s a very expensive and very pretty set of china teacups, or something, that Takahiro comes to a really fucking great decision all on his lonesome. Big boy shit. Adulting, like. He’s coming into his own.

He reaches this decision with the empty glass of water cupped in his hands, fingers overlapping and knuckles all white. And he comes to it under great duress, which is what one is under when one can feel Issei’s obsessed gaze upon oneself and it makes oneself, him, actually, Hanamaki Takahiro, the one and only, it makes him hotter. 

It makes him heat up and unfurl like a water lily.

The sun beats down from the sky and he swirls the last few collected droplets of the water as idly as he can be with that gaze as steady as it is.

He is Hanamaki Takahiro, and he spent two fucking hours hurling this morning, and his tummy still hurts, and his best friend is staring at him like he’s something desirable.

The sun shifts in the clouds and reminds him that this decision that he’s come to, he comes to it at the near peak of summer. Because that is when the sky is bright with potential, or something. 

Because this is the pivotal moment when he is looking up at a figurative mountain that has been growing since the first day of first year, and Issei’s figure is at his figurative side and looking at him with those beautiful cliffside eyes instead of at the journey ahead, and Takahiro decides he is going to climb this fucking mountain. By hook or by crook.

And the fact that he comes to it in summer is important. Because he’s impressed with himself.

The point, of course, of summer, the reason summer exists, is as heavensent excuse, a line tossed down by God himself to reel Takahiro in. A stern reminder to get a hold of himself. 

It’s too hot, so turn down the invite. It’s too hot, so don’t sit that close to him. It’s too hot, so the full body flush is just sunburn. It’s too hot so just chill out.

Then air conditioning was invented and Matsukawa Issei’s horrifying interest in doing back muscle exercises in tight white vests began and going-to-a-pool-without-adult-supervision was pioneered and then. Takahiro’s hands are spread wide and skyward in holy appeal. Then, all bets were off, so to speak, because then, then he simply had no excuses left. They withered away. No bullshit reasons remaining to hold it off.

For two grand, industrious years, years of getting to know how Matsukawa (Life Ruiner) Issei ticks and how the line between them slims and how the look in his dark eyes thrums; Takahiro’s been making excuses. Summer, fall, winter, spring, he's got the goddamn receipts of it.

It is the line, pulled taut between them. Issei buys him dinner and Takahiro pulls him into his bed and Issei presses a hand to his side to make him flush and Takahiro pokes a finger to his tan throat to watch it bob.

Example A: five weeks ago, Issei’s cousin Yamato’s eyebrows had risen when Issei got him a bowl of cherries from the kitchen and then they’d risen higher when Issei handfed him six of them in a row and then they’d scrunched together in absolute fucking disbelief when Issei wiped juice off his chin and sucked it off his thumb on apparent reflex.

Takahiro had immediately shoved him off and said desperately, ‘That’s enough cherries for today, I think!’

The point of this summer with its aircon and cool pool and dark eyed looks, is that Takahiro caves and stops making excuses.

Fuck, he even makes the first move.

This is how it goes, after the water has dried off on Issei’s dark brown skin.

The afternoon sees Takahiro’s pearl pink Gameboy Advance, three ancient Archie comics brought out to the garden, two spontaneous wrestling contests, Issei’s shirt somewhere on the porch, and Takahiro remarking, ‘So summer break starts today.’

‘I know, Hiro,’ Issei replies patiently. ‘That’s why you made me take my shirt off.’

‘Wrong,’ he says. ‘I tore off your Twilight merch from hell because it just made me feel—’ 

He flounders silently, wrist and spread fingers swiveling this way and that as if to beckon ideas. His nails are growing long.

‘Unbearably horny,’ Issei suggests, stretching out languidly.

‘No,’ Takahiro dismisses instantly. ‘I like you better in suits. No, it made me feel sick to my core, to my—to my fuckin’ soul. I got rid of it because it was gross.’

Issei props himself up on his elbows, grass and soil digging into his skin to fix him with a suspicious look. I like you better in suits? A more suspicious-look garnering sentence has probably never been spoken.

But Takahiro doesn’t look like he’s about to start asking for food or a massage or anything expensive, he’s just— looking, looking right at Issei’s homemade ta’wiz, the protection charm tied around his neck, both the unassuming black amulet and it’s spools of black string gathered at his collarbone in a sort of itchy way, so Issei gives up and slumps down against the ground again.

The amulet bounces off, lands between his pecs. Now his pecs are itchy. He stares up at the sky. ‘Sure. You tell yourself that.’ Then, because he can’t resist teasing, ‘Why’re you looking at my chest?’

‘’Cause it’s summer break, fuck, I’m allowed to indulge, aren’t I?’ Takahiro says, blatantly flirty, which is, well, Jesus, he’s being sweet today. Issei’s lips curve upwards. ‘That’s not the point, nobody cares if you’re shirtless. The point is where are we going today.’

‘My place?’ Issei offers, swatting a fly away from his shoulder and praying for more of that good-good. ‘Captain said he isn’t at home so we can’t fuck around in the Oikawa family pool.’

‘Fucking tragedy of tragedies. Also no, 'cause your place, my place, that wouldn’t really make a difference, y’know.’ His legs are up in the air, calves bare to the light breeze. He’s not wearing shoes. Issei watches, as Issei is wont to do.

Issei also responds, because that’s his job. ‘We could go to the gelato place.’

‘Too bougie.’

‘We could go get shakes from McDonald's.’

‘I’m not letting you eat a burger in front of my delicate stomach.’

‘We could go to the gym with Hajime.’

‘Are you trying to make me cry?’

Issei’s lip quirks up, and then he lets his final, true suggestion drop, enticing in both simplicity and the lack of effort required. ‘Let's just stay here.’

Unbidden comes the thought; all summer long.

Takahiro sighs, a light, huffy thing, like he could respond in so many different ways and call out the blatant manipulation—which, really, Issei is sort of noticeably bad at when it comes to him but it’s also necessary when it comes to him because he thinks mind games are hilarious because he’s so nuts—but he just can’t be bothered to choose from the plethora of comebacks in his arsenal. Issei can practically hear him closing the inventory.

‘Okay,’ he agrees through a yawn, in the end.

Issei would’ve cheered if he wasn’t as half-asleep as he is.

His shoulders do this little bounce and shuffle, back rolling with the movement, legs still stuck high in the air. Then his pink head knocks into Issei’s and his body heat is a lean line and Issei, arms folded behind his head and face tilted up at the blue, blue sky, can’t help but grin broadly.

The soles of Takahiro’s feet are curved smooth, and covered in soil and flecks of grass. His breathing is a soft, slow sound next to him.

A breeze drags over them, the willow tree in Takahiro’s backyard sways.

‘Okay,’ Issei echoes, and Takahiro sighs again.

Chapter Text

The first day of summer break had been fairly cool, a reprieve from the humidity of the previous month. It’d rained in the morning, which Takahiro had acknowledged in a faint, half-conscious and grumbly way when he'd turned over on his side somewhere around eight A.M to hear it tapping against his window.

As a result, it's easy the rest of the day, breeze ruffling his shirt and the windchimes at his porch and the crown of Issei's sweet, frizzy head of curls, every now and then. They don’t do anything the whole time he’s over, just sweet, blissful nothing and Issei stays the night because the scented candle his sister got Takahiro last month apparently smells ‘too good to resist.’

The next day, though. Day Two.

‘I’m burning alive,’ his seven year old sister says solemnly.

Issei tips the tube of aloe vera at her from his position crosslegged at Takahiro’s left, where he’s rubbing gel into Takahiro’s sun-reddened nape. ‘Ah, Umi, I know you want to be like onii-san but the lobster impression is just sad. Put on sunscreen before coming outside.’

‘She doesn’t know the meaning of impressioooon,’ Takahiro drones. ‘She’s just a toooddlerrr.’

The probably-a-bit-older-than-toddler snatches the aloe vera and says haughtily, ‘I do. And I’m seven, toddlers are littler than that!’

‘I always talk to Kenta and my little cousins like they’re my age,’ Issei says, in his joke sensei voice, or his very real older brother voice. They blur together. ‘I’ve heard it’s good for their growth.’

‘I’m already growthened,’ Umi announces.

‘You hear that? Who cares about helping her, she’s growthening too fast anyways,’ Takahiro bemoans. ‘We should be plotting against her aging, not speeding it up. Soon enough she’ll be dying her hair green and listening to eighties rock music. Or worse, playing Minecraft.’

‘You sound like an old man. At least Minecraft isn’t a shooting game. Umi-chan, the aloe,’ Issei reminds. His thumb rubs a long, firm line up Takahiro’s spine and he nearly moans.

‘But it’s icky, Issei-nii,’ Umi says, lip wobbly. She’s stood miserably next to them and is staring miserably at the tube of gel and has a general air of misery about her little person. ‘It’s icky, and it’s yucky. Yicky.’

‘Ohhh my freaking god, say real words or shut up, Umi, holy shhhhiiiih,’ Takahiro slurs contentedly into his forearms. Issei’s fingers dig into his muscles, steady and warm, his palms so big and perfect. Takahiro would probably let him massage his feet if he offered. He’s got magic hands.

‘No, you shut up!’ Umi says bitchily. Then she whimpers, because, ‘Onii-chan! Talking makes my nose hurt!’

‘’Cause you suck.’

‘You suck butts!’

‘She’s definitely your sister,’ Issei quips, and presses his flat palm between Takahiro’s shoulder blades when he mumbles a threat and tries to get up.

Takahiro just goes down with a sigh, because it feels so good.

Umi stands there complaining about the sun and about her peeling nose and about her sensitive skin and about Issei’s Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck tee shirt for ten long, horrible minutes.

‘It’s Bugs’ birthday next week,’ Issei says, impassive.

‘Why does he know that, Taka-nii!’ Umi wails.

Then the heat proves too much for her and she troops back inside the house, door swinging shut.

Issei’s hands immediately move lower.

Takahiro narrows his eyes. ‘Just what d'you think you’re doing, buster?’

‘Giving my best friend a massage,’ Issei answers innocently. His stupid-big hands squeeze at the dip of Takahiro’s waist.

Takahiro squirms restlessly. He’s ticklish, and Issei had the forethought to bring a blanket outside this morning but Umi sprinkled crumbs from her jam tart biscuits earlier and they’re rubbing into his skin, which is making this ten times less sexy than it should be. ‘Doesn’t feel like a massage to me.’

His hands squeeze, again, lasting a bit longer this time. ‘What, you’re not feeling relaxed?’

‘’Cause you’re fondling the wrong parts, probably,’ Takahiro says, as smarmily as he can.

‘Fondling,’ Issei repeats distastefully. ‘That’s not even funny, it just..’

‘Yicky, isn’t it.’

‘Icky and yucky,’ he agrees.

‘Would you rather I said groping? Molesting?’ he inquires, even though that one’s a bit mean. 

‘Mm. Maybe.’ Issei’s hands slip up his shirt and the way his fingers spread and flex, it’s like he’s trying for every inch of skin he can possibly touch. ‘Your pants are kinda in the way, though.’

‘Oh?’ Takahiro flips over and swings his right leg across Issei’s thighs, left on the other side so Issei’s sat between them and his heels are pressing in the blanket. Sits up and grins at him. ‘I could take ‘em off for you, baby.’

And Takahiro's known him for two beautiful years but has never seen the expression on his face that he sees now.

Utterly lost. Heavy, bitten lips parted. Eyebrows fully slack. Hands loose at Takahiro’s hips.

‘Huh?’ he says, voice faint.

Takahiro lets his smile widen.

Issei sways in closer, lips shaping into an oh, a lovely, round forever-curve, an adorable wrinkle between his eyebrows and his throat bobbing. His eyes dilated, his hands a bit trembly— 

‘ONNIICHAAAAAAAN! ISSEIIII-NIIIIIIII! COME INSIDE IF YOU WANT MORE LEMONAAADE!’

Issei’s head falls down to thunk against Takahiro’s chest with a low groan like he’s been sucker punched, and Takahiro threads his fingers into his hair and laughs openly, because he really, really has all summer.

All summer with that look, with this guy. Issei yanks him up with two long fingered nail-bitten fond-of-squeezing hands wrapped around his elbows and Takahiro grins at him lazily, fists the fabric of his stupid Looney Tunes graphic tee.

Takahiro whispers, ‘Thanks,’ as absolutely sweet and loving as he can. Which isn’t that much because his voice is trembling with laughter.

‘You got it,’ he says, his face absolutely impassive, voice coming out hoarse, heart straight-up pounding against Takahiro’s knuckles.

Takahiro punches him with the jut of them and turns around with one last light tug on the fabric, just to make sure Issei trails after at his heels, just to get that rush.

All fucking summer, he thinks giddily.

Chapter Text

This summer, Issei has been reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy into late nights before turning in to bed, because his sister gave it to him for his birthday in the spring, and because his father had remarked that it was a pretty good novel, and because he’s hoping it’ll give him some insight as to where Takahiro is going to fuck off to when this school year ends.

The version he owns is a faded paperback, with his sister’s annotations scribbled in soft pencil into the brown-white of the paper. It’s odd and jumbled and he can’t tell if there’s pages missing in the chapter he read last night or if that’s just how fucked the plot is.

This summer, Issei has spent two mornings so far waking up in Hanamaki Takahiro’s room, and equal mornings waking up in his own.

This summer, Issei thinks he’s been hallucinating.

‘Is sei,’ Takahiro says, feet kicking slowly in the air. ‘Get up… We have to go to practice todayy.’

Issei’s current hallucination (first of the day) is a barefooted, dreamy Takahiro lying in his bed on his front against Issei’s front with Issei’s blanket tangled between their bodies and with, again, his feet kicking slowly in the air. His hair is mussed, his skin is the color of Issei’s mother’s favored face-cream. There is a slow blink that he does, now, as beautiful as anything, his lashes heavier than usual in the low, clouded morning light. The scene is domestic and moreover, intimate—far, far more than Takahiro usually lets it be.

He figures, it might not be a hallucination, because any dream!Takahiro would want to stay in this position for ever and ever and would never think to bring up volleyball practice.

But it is, after all, the real Takahiro that Issei wants, as badly as a toothache, and any dream!Takahiro would thus be modeled after him, and the real Takahiro is an insufferable asshole who never gives Issei anything. So this could still probably be a hallucination.

Then the Takahiro lounging on his front, who is, again, pressed against Issei’s front, wraps those arms tighter around Issei’s shoulders and nuzzles that face against Issei’s throat and mouths, ‘Is seiiiii…’ like he’s aiming for kill.

Issei shivers full-body, and he knows Takahiro feels it because he feels his wicked smile.

Because the real Takahiro is a terrible, awful, insane contradiction. And he probably wants Issei six feet under.

He lets his hand dip into the small of his back, lifting up the fabric of his shirt to slip his way against bare skin, dares to let his other hand smooth up Takahiro’s firm, fuzzy thigh and murmurs, ‘Do we have to go?’

A soft laugh, which sounds like, indescribable, a kind of sound Issei would follow after blindly for its beauty.

‘Yeah, we kinda do. You wanna go to nationals, don’t you?’

Issei’s mouth twists unhappily, and he buries his face in Takahiro’s hair, tufty and dye-rough and scruffed short. ‘I want to stay in bed with you more.’

Takahiro sighs out, slow with contentedness. Issei’s chest burns. ‘We spent all day yesterday doing that, Issei.’

Issei makes a grumbly noise. ‘’m wanna do it forever.’

‘That’s sweet.’

Breathes him in. ‘Mm. You’re sweet.’

‘Yeah. Being too sweet, aren’t I,’ Takahiro muses, and then Issei is left grasping at air as Takahiro rolls off him and stands, hands on his hips next to the bed.

‘Noooo,’ Issei moans. ‘No, no, no, come back.’

Takahiro opens the curtains, and Issei curves over wretchedly into the sheets and groans, trying to bury himself in the warmth of him that was just there, fuck this life and the next.

‘Up,’ he says, hopping on one leg as he pulls on socks. ‘Up, up, get up! Sweet time’s over, I’m making you an omelet.’ 

Issei gets up somberly, because he likes chasing after Takahiro’s just there warmth but he likes his omelets, too. They’re really, really good.

On the train ride to the school building, which they really shouldn’t have to see during break, Issei voices that he thinks forty two refers to the percentage of resting time the human body requires in a day. Takahiro voices that he thinks it’s a marijuana reference because he refuses to believe the author thought that hard about it.

‘It’s obviously talking about the forty two essential nutrients our body needs!’ Tooru interrupts enthusiastically in between stretches, without being asked.

‘It’s obviously a random number off the top of this Adams’ douchebag’s head,’ Hajime says mid jog, after being goaded into giving his guess.

‘It’s obviously unrelated to volleyball so go fuck yourself,’ Coach Irihata says when Takahiro tries to manipulate him into answering. ‘Finish your drills. I need a fucking drink. God damn this heat!’

‘It’s obviously the humid weather just getting to everyone,’ Takahiro reasons in the locker room, when no one else has an answer, not even newbie blocker Kindaichi who is unhealthily obsessed with talking to his upperclassmen, like Issei with Takahiro levels of addicted, and is also, apparently, an Iwaizumi Hajime fanclub OG member.

‘Stop talking to other people and help me with my laces,’ Issei says unhappily, and Takahiro kneels down for it because newbie blocker Kindaichi is also astoundingly easy to embarrass.

And also because he’s insufferable, unbearable, and just considers it his civic duty to give Issei inappropriate public erections.

And he looks really, really good today. 

‘I didn’t even know Matsukawa knew how to read,’ Kunimi voices, as he buttons his shirt wrong.

‘Matsukawa- senpai, Akira,’ Kindaichi mutters. ‘Or at least san.’

‘I didn’t know that, either,’ Hajime agrees, and adds gleefully, 'It's shocking, actually,' because him and little children like him are all Issei’s biggest haters.

‘I knew,’ Takahiro says loyally, petting his hair. ‘It’s okay, Issei, just ignore those bozos. My poor baby.’

Issei looks at a disbelieving, pantsless Tooru, who’s bewildered gaze is latched onto Takahiro’s hair stroking and affectionate look and general shameless niceness, and tells him, ‘I am as confused as you are.’

He recovers quickly. ‘I think it’s great that Makki has moved past from his tsundere phase.’

‘Your best friend is Iwaizumi Hajime,’ Takahiro says scathingly, without pausing in the hair stroking. Issei abuses his newfound PDA privileges to kiss the top of his head.

Tooru complains the entire first half of practice.

There’s something about Issei in the aftermath of things, like volleyball matches, like long days, like spontaneous bouts of wrestling, something about him that makes Takahiro’s heart pound.

He just fits in the calm. Like so—

The way they’ve decided to do club practices this summer is loose, yet carefully curated. In the morning, coach shows up and runs them through the same heavy duty drills they’ve been doing all first term. In the evening, Tooru will call them up and they will divide into shuffled teams and play a random sport with on the spot strategizing. After that, they will all get ice-cream. 

On the very first day of this new plan, the team shuffling leaves longsuffering looks on all but two, elated faces. He figures it’s true with some things, that the novelty never fades, and half-wishes he’d known Issei his whole lifetime.

So they’ve just lost, then, ten to three, against Hajime and Tooru’s team, not at volleyball, for once, but at football, which Takahiro considered a stupid idea from the get go, honestly. He’s just not very good at kicking. And he has mixed feelings about grass.

Issei is slumped on the ground, elbows resting on his knees and head hung between his loosely propped legs. He’s breathing heavy, brown neck slick with sweat, cropped curls at his name gone damp with it. His bangs are soaked from it. He looks like he’s about to start steaming.

‘God,’ he mumbles, half slurred, and even that is outrageously sexy. ‘Never again.’

Takahiro is spread out like a starfish on the football ground at just enough of a distance that Issei is a view. The other upperclassmen are all lying about in similar, equally dead positions, except Motomu who somehow fucking finessed his way into being umpire.

‘I can just hear my friends in football mocking me,’ Yuda whispers.

‘I don’t have any friends,’ Heisuke says, ‘but I can hear yours mocking me, too.’

‘I feel exhausted,’ Takahiro says hollowly. ‘I’ve genuinely never been this tired.’

‘Same, bro,’ Motomu agrees.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Issei says, dull. ‘You shut your bitch mouth. You douchebag. I’m fucking dying.’

‘Aw, Matsun, chillax!’ Tooru says in a sympathetic tone that doesn’t match his sadistic words, capping his water bottle and looking fresh as a fucking fairy. ‘You literally scored each of the goals your team got! You did so well!’

Takahiro can’t see Issei’s eyes on account that he’s slumped, chin to his chest. Issei is one of those childhood football boys, who grow up kicking around the ball at five P.M on the dot with their neighborhood friends till late into the night, but he doesn’t remember any names, ever. Which makes stalking difficult, as you would imagine.

‘Ah, is Matsun alive?’ Tooru asks, when the silence has gone on too long.

‘I don’t think so,’ Yahaba says critically. ‘He looks gone, senpai.’

‘I’ve never seen him in this state,’ Watari adds.

‘I don’t notice any change,’ Hajime decides.

‘If all you blockheads would shut up and leave him alone,’ Takahiro says, lifting his head and raising his voice. ‘Maybe he’d respond to all your heartwarming thanks. Y’know, for making this game interesting?’

‘OOOOOH, SNAP!’

‘Hanapippi got mad!’

‘Look at you defending your little boyfriend!’

‘Oikawa,’ Issei manages. Everyone pauses. 

He holds up his hand for a continued pause, dead silent. Takahiro stares at his slack fingers. One long, ragged inhale later, Issei finishes; ‘Weren’t you supposed to treat us or something?’

All eyes turn to Tooru expectantly.

‘I always regret mocking Matsun,’ Tooru says wistfully. He springs to his feet, weary hand going to pat his back pocket. ‘Okay, anyone who wants to choose a flavor, come with me!’

Half the team follows after him, and Takahiro manages a pitiful grunt when Tooru shouts a goodbye. Thankfully, only the most worn out people are left.

‘They’re gonna turn it into a jog,’ Yuda mumbles.

‘Trust,’ Heisuke replies.

‘My feet hurt!’ Takahiro moans.

‘I’ll massage them for you,’ Issei offers, because even when he’s dead tired he’ll never miss a chance to leap at Takahiro’s body.

Takahiro rolls over and stares at him properly. ‘Oh, will you?’

‘With fucking baby oil and everything,’ he promises.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Yahaba says, sincere. ‘Oil and feet, you are both disgusting.’

‘Watch how you speak to your seniors,’ Takahiro tells him, and then shuffles his way over to Issei, pressing his chin to his shoulder. Issei turns, just barely to touch his left cheek to Takahiro’s right.

‘Tired?’ he says quietly.

Takahiro lets his eyes slide shut, exhaling through his nose. Issei hums, lifting his hand to spread across Takahiro’s back, thumb rubbing just slightly.

‘We should get someone to give us a ride,’ Takahiro says.

Issei’s lips jut, considering. Takahiro tips his head to the side so he can gaze at the way they move when he drawls out, ‘Or we could get a taxi.’ 

‘Ooh, smart.’ He definitely doesn’t seem in the state to hang out with anyone else. Then again, ‘But you’d have to pay. If Motomu gives us a ride it’s better in the long run.’

‘Mm. And we get to double mooch. Nice to see you finally being considerate about my wallet, by the way.’

Takahiro loves how even when they’re both dead tired, hardly able to move, Issei can still make a smile curve up his lips. ‘Like I said, better in the long run.’

‘So sweet.’

‘Like your own personal Hi-Chew.’

‘Oh, because when we do it together you never let me finish first?’

‘No, because Hi for Hiro… And do what together, that was a reach. You suck.’

‘I got the Hi thing, for the record. I would give you the best blow job,’ Issei promises. Takahiro is, at this point, completely draped over him, leg in his lap and an arm around his shoulders, sleepy face in Issei’s sweaty neck and Issei’s head is bent low as he whispers in his ear. So he must feel it against his chest when Takahiro laughs, and Takahiro definitely feels a hard pressure against his thigh.

Takahiro lifts his head.

Issei doesn’t even look shy. Maybe he’s too tired to be shy. Takahiro smiles at him, slow and pleased because it’s nice, having confirmation when all they do is talk shit. And it might be the long day they’ve had, making him feel like mocking him isn’t doable with these energy levels, or it might be the decision he’s made to finally let himself have this, instead of laugh it off. 

Issei's gaze is steady and dark, and he settles back, nose smushed against Issei’s throat and smile pressing against his skin.

Whatever it is, neither of them make much of a fuss about it, even though it’s proof. That’s not what they’re about.

A broad hand pets through his hair, and they make exceedingly absurdist jokes about Issei’s hard-on until it’s receded and when Tooru troops back with ice lollies it’s all Takahiro can do to not choke laughing on his. Tooru looks confused. Yahaba, who had been sitting closest to them, looks pained. Issei, with his heavy eyes, sugary mango dripping down his wrist because he’s busy staring at Takahiro’s mouth, just looks like the perfect guy.

The walk home is syrupy slow, and Issei lets Takahiro flip through the end of the novel while they stand on the train, swaying to the side. It’s probably too hot to cling to each other so Takahiro won’t slump but Takahiro has been unreasonably sweet these last few weeks, like butter melting in his mouth, so he clings and Issei clings right back. Trying not to think about the boner he just fought off.

The train rattles. The aircon is working for once. The businessman who hates them is asleep. Takahiro is— 

‘This book genuinely sucks.’

—loud, prettymouthed, complaining about something he doesn’t really give a fuck about. Everything is right in the world. 

‘It’s not so bad,’ Issei says peacefully.

‘It is. It is so bad. I am telling you it’s bad, so believe you me. What, this Doug guy, ugly name by the way, what was he on? Crack? He couldn’t have been sober. None of this makes sense,’ Takahiro expresses. He’s squinting down at the page, back to Issei’s chest. ‘Also, are there pages missing?’

‘Maybe,’ Issei admits, ‘but it’s really not so bad. It’s sort of profound if you think about it.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Takahiro says tenderly. ‘Shut the actual fuck up. Profound. Why can’t you be obsessed with something sexy?’

It’s a rhetorical question. 

‘I’m obsessed with you, aren’t I?’ Issei replies.

Takahiro goes dead silent. 

Issei leans over his head to peek at his face, curious, and he tries to hide with the book and a flailing arm but Issei catches the pink ears and the slow blush rising over his face and all over his ducked neck and—

‘I hate you,’ he’s moaning. ‘Shit, in public, really.’

Issei grins, broad and delighted. ‘Aw, Hanapippi, you’re so cute.’

‘Stop talking or I’ll make you regret it. Can you not say things like that—’ 

The businessman is awake, now, and he’s looking miserable and balding and glaring at them, as usual. Issei is too busy half gloating, half endeared to care.

‘You’re bright red, like the color of an apple,’ he describes, which is only a slight exaggeration, 'it's so fucking cute—' and Takahiro digs an elbow into his side.

Issei huffs out a laugh through the pain and gets a pinch in his arm, too, just for good measure or something and Takahiro repeats, ‘Hate you. Immeasurably. You’re such a douche.’

‘There’s a joke in there, about Douglas Adams,’ Issei muses, rubbing his side and slipping his arm back around Takahiro’s waist where it belongs. ‘Douchelas Adams. Doucheless.’

‘Well, when you say it like that they might as well’ve named him Richard,’ Takahiro says, and Issei laughs as quietly as he can.

‘Adams is an okay surname, though. Objectively. If Oikawa was white, Adam could be his name.’

Takahiro exhales through his nose, amused. ‘Jesus, I hope not. White Oikawa. He could be blonde.’

‘Oh, I could see him as a blonde.’

‘Blue eyed, definitely. He’d wear even more blazers and vests than he does now. Boat shoes, even.’

‘Sometimes I genuinely wonder about his ethnicity,’ Issei confesses. 'Even though we've met his parents.'

‘Mm. Same,’ he agrees. ‘Douglas still sucks, bee-tee-dubs. Sounds so fucked. What parent gives their kid that kind of a life?’

‘If you had a kid, then,’ Issei prods. ‘What would you name it.’

‘Takahiro Junior,’ he says, so immediate it's like he's had that one ready for a while.

Issei's grin splits his cheeks. ‘That is so fucking horrible. I’m not raising a kid named Takahiro Junior.’

‘Fine.’ Takahiro rolls his eyes. ‘And I’m ignoring that second part. It’d have to be a cool name, so it’d start with either K or J or T.’

Issei gives him a frown, for several reasons.

‘Issei is the lamest name on planet Earth,’ Takahiro tells him earnestly, and his frown deepens.

‘Whatever. Uhh. Kenji.’

‘No, that’s bad. It can’t have K and J both,’ he explains, half shifting so his shoulder is tucked into Issei's chest. ‘It’s one or the other. The ken part is good though.’

‘Kenta,’ Issei says on instinct, adjusting his hold on Takahiro. Then he shuts his eyes. ‘No, nevermind—’

‘Issei, I would absolutely name my firstborn son after your twelve year old brother,’ Takahiro says sincerely, ‘but if I can’t have a Takahiro Junior no one can.’

Issei sighs, and adjusts his hold around Takahiro’s waist so he doesn’t slip and crumple against the train floor like he has dozens of times in the past two years. ‘Kenta’s like, fifteen now. Issei Junior would be better, anyways.’

After a while, in a tone that’s more serious than the conversation’s been so far, Takahiro says, ‘Kento.’

The train pulls to a stop.

Issei says, very slowly, ‘Did we just decide what our future kid’s name is gonna be on the fucking train?’

‘Who says it’s our kid?’ Takahiro inquires, tugging him to move. ‘Not me, I’m not having kids with you.’

‘Nice save, baby. We already said kid, singular, thanks for confirming you’re having a kid with me,’ Issei says, feeling sort of smug, letting his hand rest at Takahiro’s back as they move towards the door.

‘Holy fucking shit, nobody cares about your future kid, can you two move!’ says an exasperated voice behind them.

There’s a surprised pause, like he’d forgotten they were in public. Then;

‘Hey DICKHEAD, mind your own BUSINESS and for your FUCKING information, I care about our future kid—’ Takahiro’s hollering, and Issei chokes on a laugh as he pushes him along, free hand wrapping around his so he doesn’t accidentally start a fistfight messing with the businessman who already loathes their guts.

Takahiro’s fingers interlace with his easily, cool and soft against his skin. He’s wearing Issei’s skull ring on his right middle finger while he flashes the other at the mortified inside of the train carriage. He just admitted it’s their kid, them, just Issei and Takahiro against the world.

His heart is pounding.

Chapter Text

9:03 A.M, Today

Takahiro frowns at himself in the mirror inside the Zara changing room. The pants are noxic green, a bit loose at the thigh, wide leg and flaring at the ends. They make him look obnoxiously tall. He hums and haas at himself, plucking at the fabric, until he looks less like a cheap mannequin and more like an unripe banana, and on top of that starts to feel a bit sick. The shirt, though. The shirt is a blessing. 

He pulls on a translucent white hoodie from one of the metal hooks on the wall, made of this thin, almost gauzy material, purely for aesthetic purposes, obviously. Takahiro finds it a bit ridiculous, a hoodie made translucent thin, but he zips it up anyway so he can make a ‘grand reveal.’

Flings open the door and raises his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

Issei, sat on a stool in front of his door because he tried on the one shirt he wanted and is already done, drags his eyes all the way up from his heels to his face and says, deadpan, ‘No.’

Takahiro unzips the hoodie, tosses it at his face and says grandly, ‘How about now?’

Issei crosses his arms and repeats, ‘Hell no. Do you look like I’m letting you leave the store with that on, let alone the house?’

Takahiro peers down at himself. ‘What, is it too sexy? You’d get too jealous? I knew it. You’re just so possessive about me. I bet you’d want me tied to your bed if I tried going out in this. Just admit it already. You’re a caveman. You should be sent to jail for the insane behaviors you exhibit. A looney bin, even, if you’ll excuse my little joke.’ It is Bugs Bunny’s birthday today, after all. If anything, Issei should appreciate the joke.

‘You look like an insane person,’ Issei informs him instead of saying you’re so funny fuck me right here, quite unfairly if you ask Takahiro. ‘That is the most hideous shirt I’ve ever seen and I want to bleach my mind. Take it off.’

Takahiro tosses his arms in the air, dropping the haughty act in his frustration. ‘It’s just Mike Wazowski, holy shit, Issei, get over Mike Wazowski! He’s not that bad!’

‘He’s the ugliest, nastiest little bitch ever and Monsters Incorporated sucked grotesque balls,’ Issei says, because he’s the insane one, and waves a hand in the air like a spoilt, mean old man with ugly eyebrows refusing his heroic, superstar wife’s fantastic homemade cooking. ‘Take it off. No. Next.’

Takahiro glares, hands fisted at his sides. ‘You know, I’m not always gonna cater to you! I get mad at you sometimes! Maybe I’ll buy this and wear it when I’m mad!’

‘Next.’

‘And who even says grotesque, out loud!?’

‘I said NEXT.’

Takahiro stomps his way back inside the changing room.

Taking breaks from Issei never works out well. They’ve only seen each other at practice for the past few days, because Takahiro was starting to go a bit crazy and needed to clear his head. Every second next to Issei is a rush and the moment they’re apart he feels itchy and irritable like it's an actual addiction, being next to him. Like he’s a living, breathing nicotine patch. 

It had gone like so—he’d woken up thirsty in the middle of the night on Wednesday and reflexively checked his phone, the old Motorola one he uses for messages and calls but Issei hadn’t texted since saying goodnight, and he’d rolled over again, kicking his sheets off his legs in a fit of irritation, eyes squeezed stubbornly shut.

Then they’d opened into the bleary morning and his phone was buzzing, text after text after text and then a call, too, and he’d felt delirious with happiness. Warmth in every inch of him as he showered and shoveled down eggs on rice and ran till he found Issei at the street with the bus stop, phone in hand.

He’d been stood there, tall and dark, one hand in his pocket and the other typing. 

Within seconds Takahiro’s cell lit up with yet another LINE message, this one reading at the stop I cant wait to see u.

Takahiro had jumped him and Issei'd caught him and they'd swung around, both of them laughing for no real reason like a romance anime. Just pure unadulterated joy. Being with him is every nerve alight and when he’s gone it feels like Takahiro ought to just die because that’s how pointless existence is, so he’d tried to hide away after that realization. Within the twenty four hour clock though, it was abundantly clear—fuck all if it’s unhealthy, Takahiro would rather fifteen minutes with Issei all to himself than another boring second. 

Because it’s so, so boring when he isn’t there. The hours drag on and his family shares looks and the TV is dry and there’s no good music and in the mirror he looks practically comatose, it’s just torment, plain and simple. Hajime gives him shit for his resting douchebag face. When Issei’s around, Takahiro spends every other second fighting off a smile.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s that deep on Issei’s end of the swimming pool.

When he comes out he tosses a pile of clothes at Issei and says briskly, ‘Let’s go.’

Issei removes the Monsters Incorporated t-shirt from the mountain of fabric with aggravating ease, like a demonstration of how perfect he is, and says, mildly, ‘Okay.’

Takahiro seethes at the counter.

He’s slightly soothed when they leave the store, though. Marble Road is undoubtedly the best shopping street in the prefecture. His fashion-conscious okaasan and sister both consider it their favorite place to shop, and maybe it’s just nostalgia but it’s probably in Takahiro’s top five places to be, too.

Issei likes it too, because he enjoys gawking at big label stores and getting Takahiro to take his picture when he ‘shakes hands’ with a mannequin. The first time he’d done that Takahiro had fallen in love and he hasn’t crawled himself out of the pit since.

Their first stop is the lotto, where they get just one ticket and Issei waves off the counter lady asking if they’d like a second. He reasons, ‘Like our fates are shared.’ Takahiro kicks the back of his leg because that’s cheesy, and then tucks the ticket behind Issei’s clear phone case.

They go from window shopping to hopping inside just to see which would be dangerous but really, Takahiro never spends much unless he’s online shopping. Aoyama has a crocs collection lined up next to women’s business suits and it’s only marginally appealing to joke about buying before they’re peer-pressured out of the storefront. There’s that gourmet coffee place with a giant sandwich poster that Issei makes eyes at, so Takahiro promises they can stop before leaving. He’s not even remotely interested in anything besides fucking around with Issei to repair his less than stellar mood until they pass by a glasses rack inside one of the stores, one of those classic rounded ones you can spin for more selection.

Takahiro spins around on his heel when it registers a second late.

Issei's thumb, hooked into his belt loop, is yanked along with the motion. 'The fuck are you—'

He stops with a skid in front of the wacky sunglasses and Issei says, 'Oh, for the love of god.'

He pushes the wheel delightedly, and more shiny, cheap sunglasses spin round to face him. So many colors, iridescent, the white overhead store lights gleaming off of plastic rims. His eyes rove greedily over squared, see through frames, oversized rust-orange goggles, butterfly winged edges on Barbie pink shades. Classic red, gorgeous movie star white, obnoxious lime green. His little magpie heart is bursting with love.

Buy us, they whisper. Take us away from here.

'Takahiro,' Issei says. 'You nearly ripped my arm off to come look at some fuckass hundred yen shades?'

'Issei,' he says, earnest. 'They're all so beautiful. How.. how am I supposed to choose?'

'I'm not wasting our cash on any of these.'

Hah. 'Sure you aren't.' Takahiro scans his options with the eye of a critic, a genius, a man used to cutting through weeds and sifting through coal. He found Issei in a school full of pampered rich kid blockheads before the bell rang on the first day, this shit is elementary.

'I'm serious.'

‘I believe you.’

‘No, like I’m dead serious. No way, we’re on a budget. Neither of us have jobs this summer and there’s not a single pair that’s worth paying for. Think of the creampuffs, Takahiro.’

Takahiro scoffs, because what does he know? There was a point, several months ago during which Takahiro was always thinking of creampuffs. He couldn’t stop. It had been Tooru’s fault, that enabling bastard. 'Okay. Good thing we won't have to, then.'

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Weeee woooon’t haaave toooo paaaay,’ Takahiro repeats, slow like he’s dumb.

Issei's hand rises up to spread a wide palm and fingers against his side, leaving gooseflesh in his wake—Takahiro plucks out the movie star pair of glitzy white cat eyes and sticks them on his head just in time as Issei’s hand fists in his shirt fabric, spinning him to face him up close like he's that incredible sunglasses wheel.

'Hiro,' he murmurs, nose brushing Takahiro's, arm still wrapped around his waist. 'You are not shoplifting from 3 Coins, where everything already costs nothing.’

'Issei,' Takahiro whispers, and reaches up to nudge the side of his new frames so they drop down smoothly over his eyes. 'Who's gonna fuckin' stop me?'

Issei is apparently too cool to say me, asshole. He just looks down at him for a beat, then plucks the sunglasses off his face.

Takahiro spends two embarrassing minutes trying to reach for them where Issei’s holding them high above his head, just barely out of Takahiro's reach, laughing because he’s a douchebag, such a fucking douchebag and then Takahiro gets sick of it and just yanks him down.

They are, once again, nose to nose. It’s becoming a theme.

This time, though, Issei sucks in a breath and he isn't even hiding that his eyes are heavy lidded, lashes fluttering and gaze dark on Takahiro's mouth.

Never let it be said that Takahiro isn't a forgiving guy.

He braces his hand on Issei's shoulder and presses a long, sweet kiss to his cheek.

With the other, he takes the shades from Issei's slack fingers, and steps back with his new cat eye sunglasses sitting cool on his head like they belong there.

And there they remain, going perfectly with his jeans as he rings his purchases up at the counter and makes idle chit chat with the cashier.

Issei is still pressing two fingertips to his flushed, dark cheek when Takahiro hands him half his bags.

'What was that for,' he says dazedly, spurred into taking the other half, too, because god forbid he not carry all of Takahiro's stuff. Alfred wouldn't be more dedicated to making Batman's dinner. Children couldn’t be more dedicated to creating overly complex backstories for their identical Barbie dolls.

The question lacks inflection, his mouth heavy.

'Consider it a reward,' Takahiro says. 'For staring at my lips so openly.'

'But I do that every day,' Issei says, bewildered, and Takahiro almost kisses him for real.

They walk around Marble Road for the whole afternoon, like mallrats. They get into a fake argument in front of Senzokuya where Takahiro asks him tearfully if he’s getting feet pics from other boys online and Issei vows an insincere, ‘I don’t know what you mean babysweets,’ in so many different and creative ways that Takahiro almost breaks character. Then an old man gives Issei a commiserating look and he actually breaks. The sun shines bright through the clouds outside, Takahiro wrangles a touristy YEAH snapback onto Issei’s head, then complains that it won’t fit and that his head shape is fucked. Issei adjusts the velcro while telling Takahiro all about what a mean horrible person he is and when he turns it backwards it miraculously fits, and he looks really, absurdly good.

Issei has a picture of him in his wallet, a polaroid from second year in the bathroom after redying his hair and the guy at the counter looks from Takahiro to the picture to Takahiro no less than five times while Issei counts out the cash for the hat. Takahiro sticks his tongue out. The guy looks cowed.

Issei gets his picture taken in front of Dior, snapback and all, doing a rock and roll symbol with a completely unflinching baring of his teeth. Takahiro’s hands fumble with the phone as he snickers, then gets his own multiple pictures taken in front of Louis Vitton, even though he’s in the least Louis Vitton outfit ever. A trio of girls going inside give them the nastiest stink eye he’s ever seen and Issei laughs so hard at his reenactment of it he has to cling to a pillar for support.

When they’re two stores past the luxury brands, Issei’s chewing his lip. Takahiro elbows him until he spits it out. ‘Did you know Cartier does bracelets that don’t come off without a special love screwdriver?’

Takahiro stares at him in absolute bewilderment. Issei looks pained. ‘It came out a bit wrong..’

He’s still wiping tears of laughter when they’ve rounded the roofless, city street corner and gone back into the shade. Marble Road is a cool reprieve, like a shopping montage from one of his mom’s films, a team up montage from one of Hajime’s, the Tony Stark building something from scratch sequence in both the Iron Man’s; that’s Issei’s favorite. Takahiro sort of likes everything he likes. 

By the time they decide to head back it’s long past sundown and they have a single bag’s worth of purchases, and altogether it fits in Issei’s pants pocket perfectly. So does his hand in Takahiro’s. 

They swing their arms, fingers intertwined, palm to palm like holy palmers’ kiss, on the walk home. He’s never felt more brilliant inside when Issei says, observant and voice low, soft, ‘You look happy.’ He feels so, so brilliant that he tells him, ‘You make me happy.’

They’re quiet, the rest of the way, but keep touching skin. When Issei kisses his cheek goodnight, it’s at his front porch, and Takahiro watches him walk down the driveway, sneaking glances instead of walking backwards like he usually would. He grins every time he sees Takahiro looking, through the crack of the open door, and ducks his head like he still wasn’t expecting it. 

As he shuts the door and sags against it, head tipped all the way back to stare helplessly at the ceiling, he realizes he’s starting to associate intimacy with Issei. 

Chapter Text

A fun fact for the peanut gallery, announced several months ago by a beaming Oikawa Tooru; 2012 is a leap year.

('Like that affects you in any way?' Takahiro had pointed out.)

Issei has two little cousins, twins, with a birthday on February twenty ninth. He also has a lot of cousins besides. They have several group chats, one for the cousins around his age, and another with all of the younger ones, too. Issei has his phone notifications off for every contact and every group chat he's in except for Takahiro and the chats he’s in. It’s not even obsessive. It’s just largely drivel, unless he’s involved.

Back in first year, when Takahiro’s hair had been magenta and over-long instead of baby pink and cropped, and Issei’s head had been smooth-shaven, he had asked Issei why he doesn’t have a special notification bell for him.

And Issei had asked him why he thought Issei would keep his notifications on for anyone besides him. He’d said, very sincerely, and he remembers that moment in the stairwell because they’d been standing so close; who else do you think is at that level for me to tolerate those stupid beep beep beep noises?

‘I don’t fuckin’ know, your mother, Matsukawa?’ he’d said incredulously, but his cheeks had been bright red.

His phone is in current!Takahiro’s left hand and he’s snickering into the speaker, hand mussing up his hair. 

Takahiro is the only person who knows Issei’s passcode sequence and he abuses the information constantly. Issei didn’t even tell it to him, he’d just been stupidly in love and assumed he’d know, which he somehow did. Takahiro is fucking magic. 

He doesn’t actually need to be on Issei’s phone, in all honesty, considering the person he’s talking to is definitely already in his own, rather extensive contact list.

Yamato, the eldest brother of Akira and Ava, the twin baby cousins with the leap birthday, is probably Issei’s favorite cousin. He’s also Takahiro’s favorite. He’s also every single parent and relative’s favorite, because he’s just that nice and friendly of a guy.

Proof of either his innate friendliness or Takahiro’s animal magnetism, jury’s out on which; Takahiro was added to the teen cousin group chat within ten minutes of the first conversation he’d had with Yamato at the first extended family event he’d gatecrashed.*

(*Read: been invited to by Issei’s mom. He insists it was a gatecrash. Issei’s cousins think he’s fucking hilarious.)

This is usually fine, because Issei likes that Takahiro is part of his family, likes that he talks to them, likes that he’s Issei’s Hiro, but also our Hiro —except when they’re inviting him on the beach trip they’re taking next weekend, same as every summer, and pretending Issei isn’t allowed to join. 

His view on the situation; ‘I refuse to let you go hang out with my thousands of cousins alone. Absolutely not. That is my fucking line.'

Takahiro has two moles on his face—one is near his right eye, high next to his temple. The other rests under the curve of his left cheek, near the corner of his mouth. When he laughs really, really loud, the mole near his mouth gets swallowed up.

‘Why is—’ he gasps, cheeks pink and breathless, ‘holy fucking shit, oh my god, dude—the jealousy is the big deal, you’re not even, haaah! Not even mad at us excluding you—’

‘Because it’s not real, and it’s not scary, but the fucking idea of you hanging out with other guys our age…’ Issei begins, mostly faking it, and truly a bit sour. He crosses his arms and sits back on the couch as Takahiro flaps his arms around and howls with hooting laughter.

‘They’re your family!’

‘They’re honestly manwhores.’

‘Even Kiyoomi?!’

‘Kiyoomi can shove another stick up his ass before I’m letting him anywhere near yours.’

His chest is warm with satisfaction and adoration and Takahiro picks up the phone from the sofa cushion, hiccupping into the mouthpiece, ‘G-guys, Issei says I can’t go ‘cause he thinks I’m gonna fuck Yamato—’

Issei clicks his tongue, ‘Why’ve you got a fucking name picked out?’

Takahiro’s next laugh comes out on a whole new range of hearing.

He ends up smiling, lips tugging up despite himself because, that face. This guy. His laugh.

‘Ohhhh, god, dude,’ Takahiro exhales. He wipes a tear and drops back down next to Issei, curling into his side with his legs dangling over the armrest. His face peers up at Issei sideways, lips pouted. ‘Issei, I’m so sorry.’

Issei huffs out, amused as he slumps back deeper into the sofa, arm hooking around Takahiro’s neck. ‘Are you?’

‘He is,’ Yamato says.

‘Shut up, monkeyboy,’ he says, and Takahiro looks like he’s biting back giggles. Issei’s hand moves to smooth his hair down, running through it tenderly.

‘Yeah,’ Takahiro says, faux beseeching. His lip trembles. ‘Sorry Yamato is sooo much sexier than you—’

Yamato’s crackly laughter echoes from the phone speaker and Issei gives Takahiro his most deadpan look.

‘You could’ve at least said Kiyoomi,’ Issei tells him, poking at his flushed cheek, trailing his finger down to that mole. His skin is supple, soft, and squishes at the push, then pulls taut when his grin widens. ‘Yamato and I are practically identical.’

‘I like to think I’m buffer than you,’ Yamato reckons. ‘Bokuto’s been pushing us to do weights since he got captain.’

‘It’s just fat but keep thinking,’ Issei says immediately, to see Takahiro’s face screw up with the pain of trying not to laugh. ‘And I’m gonna hang up if you don’t stop talking.’

‘What’s the point of giving Hiro-kun your phone password if you won’t let him call us?’ Yamato's younger brother, Nagito says earnestly.

‘If I’d said Kiyoomi you would’ve gotten so mad,’ Takahiro replies assuredly. ‘’Cause he looks a little different, paler, and he’s taller, too. I know my boy.’

‘He’s stuck up, Hiro,’ Issei says sincerely. ‘Real haughty, sometimes. Doesn’t get his hands dirty. You don’t want a guy like that.’

‘That’s a psychological thing,’ Yamato points out. ‘He’s a hypochondriac.’

‘What kind’o guy do I want, then?’ Takahiro teases.

‘Okay, fuck. This is our cue,’ Yamato says, and the phone beeps.

Issei tosses it aside instantly, because he can call them again later but he can only fit his hand to Takahiro’s nape now. ‘Hmm. You want.. a nice guy with curly hair who does whatever you say and is your absolute favorite person.’

‘So, Yamato?’ he inquires, and Issei squeezes.

He laughs with his head tipped back and his shoulders loose, because it’s all so damn funny. Sometimes Issei thinks life really is just one big elaborate joke made up to amuse him, and Issei is the lucky guy who gets to tell it. 

And maybe he’s pushing it with favorite person, but with the way they’ve been going if he doesn’t push a little Issei thinks Takahiro might tug till he’s a heap on the floor. Because as Takahiro’s laughter trails off, eyes still mercurial, bright, and cheeks so pink, sprawled across his lap and blinking up at him, Issei knows some line’s already been crossed. Like whatever flimsy walls they’d constructed only to talk through the shoji screen have finally been torn all the way through. Like in first year, at the school building after it was empty when they’d pulled clean up duty on the same day, one afternoon a month just for them and they'd made telephones with paper cups, a long string pooling across the hallway while they talked from parallel classrooms. About everything that came to mind, just so they could keep talking.

They’d spent that whole year trying to sit at the windows looking out at the other end just to fuck around with exaggerated gestures and middle fingers, like club practice and lunch and the walk home weren't enough, because they weren't; because nothing ever is. Sometimes Issei thinks it’d only be enough to satisfy him if he and Takahiro were pressed so flush they merged together entirely, if they woke up every day with their legs tangled, if they lived to be buried in the same grave. 

Takahiro’s hand rises and he fists a loose hand in Issei’s hair, at the top of his head.

‘Thinking about me?’

‘How’d you know,’ Issei asks, aloof. As if the proof of it isn’t in the shake of his hands and the smile he’s just barely holding back.

Takahiro tugs once, idly. Contemplative, like the look crossing his face. Then he sits up and shoves his way on top of Issei, elbow weighing on his shoulder and hand yanking Issei's head back to rest against the back of the sofa. Bare knees skid down his hips into patterned cushions and Issei can barely breathe as those pretty eyes bore into his.

‘Let’s go on the trip,’ Takahiro says seriously.

‘Okay.’

‘And sleep in the same bunk.’

He wets his dry lips. ‘Sure.’

‘And skinny dip when your cousins are sleeping at night, just you ‘nd me.’

‘Whatever you want,’ Issei says, heart beating faster with every word he says. The images coming to mind, the thought of it. Adventure and the two of them.

Takahiro grins down at him, wide and secret and irrepressible, and suddenly Issei feels like they might really, actually be in the same boat, here, rocky on the same blue waves of the same beautiful ocean.

If not, he’ll find out. Suddenly he knows he’ll know, by the end of this summer. He’s sure of it.

Chapter Text

Takahiro stands in front of the line at the ice cream truck and blinks lethargically. 

‘Hey,’ Hajime says. ‘Dude. Hurry the fuck up.’

‘Hey. Asshole. I’m thinking, back of the line,’ Takahiro replies, kicking back at him dully. Hajime shifts an inch sideways just as dully, dodging.

Tooru is setting up the net in the park across the sidewalk, and Hajime is waiting impatiently for his next turn, wearing snapback to flip-flops eyesore orange. The ice cream truck is, oddly enough, also orange. Takahiro didn’t even know they made them in that color. 

It had rained yesterday, the first thunderstorm of the summer and the park is fresh with it, everything wet green and petrichor. The sky’s cleared up a bit, enough that the sun’s playing peekaboo. Issei is next to him, wet red tongue licking up at the sides of a lime popsicle. He’s wearing one of his fucking summer shirts—an insufferable black singlet, already damp with sweat at the back, his arms all overly present. The front section of his hair is growing long, curling into the eyebrow wrinkle lines on his broad, brown forehead.

The Takahiro of before this summer would have addressed Hajime for his next sentence, out of self preservation. But the Takahiro of this summer is braver, and says a general thing. Maybe next year he’ll have the stones to look Issei in the face when he’s being unbearably hot.

‘Should I get,’ he begins, tilting his head in thought, ‘the strawberry tooty frooty surprise cone. Or the milk vanilla creamsicle delight.’

‘Get the wasabi cup for all I care,’ Hajime says, already gnawing into his second classic orange melon, ‘because I really don’t.’

‘Get strawberry,’ Issei requests, crumpling up his icecream wrapper and stuffing it in the back pocket of his dark wash jean shorts. ‘I love watching you eat strawberry icecream.’

Hajime looks up at heaven. The guy behind the counter squints at him.

Takahiro crosses his arms and says, ‘Hm,’ pointedly ignoring both of them to continue his perusal. ‘Do you guys do flavor checks?’

‘No, man,’ says the guy behind the counter. ‘This is packaged, not that bougie gelato place.’

‘Yet you’ve got wasabi flavor,’ Issei remarks, drumming his fingers against the top of the van window.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ says the guy behind the counter. Issei’s good at making strangers hate him.

Takahiro fixes him with his best evil stare. ‘I want flavor checks.’

The ice cream he gets is the creamsicle, milky vanilla, dyed pink and blue and yellow and turquoise, and in the afternoon sun it's like there's this mother of pearl sheen all over the white insides of the plastic wrapper. It's melting quickly.

He doesn’t get any flavor checks, not that he expected any, despite the obnoxious amounts of money Issei offers the guy. He was kidding about that, though. Probably.

The park is blissfully quiet, a little family by the benches near the sandbox, no one on the swings. There’s a sandpit, which the other two apparently lived in when they were kids, Hajime spending a minute looking practically wistful while Tooru pretends to gag when he brings up bug catching. Takahiro tosses the volleyball to Tooru, who bumps it towards Hajime, who tosses to Issei, who bumps it to Takahiro, and they go round and round in an easy circle.

Every now and then someone misses, or flubs the toss, and they all laugh but it’s low, comfortable. 

'Do you guys ever think about birds?' Tooru asks.

'Man,' Hajime says.

'My ice cream finished,' Takahiro says forlornly. 'Now what will I eat so I don't have to participate in this conversation?'

‘You should’ve said stuff my mouth with,’ Issei tells him.

‘Then I’d have options,’ he realizes, clicking his tongue. ‘Ahh, wasted opportunities.’ 

‘Dagnabit.’ Issei agrees with a shake of his head.

'Oh my god, can you behave normal?' Tooru says prudishly. He wouldn’t know comedy if it came in the form of a volleyball pamphlet. And then, scowling, 'How did yours even last that long.'

'Thank you, Oikawa,' Takahiro responds. 'For once again proving you will never have sex.'

‘I can hear his fanclub defending him even now,’ Hajime complains. ‘The other day that second year with the blond tips called me a virgin.’

‘One of his little wannabe first year boyfriends told me I’m not worthy of his presence,’ Takahiro says, and Tooru says, ‘You aren’t.’ Takahiro ignores him and says, ‘I told him I agree and he looked so fucking scared.’

‘One day I’m gonna pretend I’m one of ‘em,’ Issei says passionately. It’s a plan he’s been meaning to get around to since their first week, and Takahiro sincerely doubts he could ever manage it, even with that poker face.

‘Oh, ‘cause that’ll show them,’ Hajime says sarcastically. 

Tooru snaps his fingers for their attention, which is just so positively Oikawa. 'Stop being a bunch of jealous brats and answer my question.' 

'Just, like about them?' Issei says, resigned. He always gives in.

Hajime sighs and tosses the ball with a bit more oomph. 'Here we fuckin’ go.’

'You guys suck, no, listen. About birds. Like, do you ever want to take care of them?' he continues. His cone wrapper smushed in hand, his face tipped up and tousled hair in his eyes. His expression is dreamy. 'Even though… though they don't need you to? Why do we make birdhouses when birds already make nests?'

Takahiro is struck quiet for a second.

'Profound for a jock,' he says, the second he recovers.

'Nice one, meathead,' Issei agrees. Then, before Tooru can pull his signature scrunched up don't gang up on me!!! face, he says, 'I do. I think about birds all the time.'

When Takahiro looks over at him, he’s already looking back. Steady, warm. 

Hajime says helpfully, 'Because Hanapippi.'

'Because your mother,' Issei says, since the moment is already ruined.

'I've never understood that nickname,' Takahiro lies openly. He tips a frown at Issei, his very fakest. He remembers Issei picking through his options very clearly, and even clearer, the scrambled explanation he’d given back then. You keep whistling and shouting and making goofy little noises. Nothing else works just right.

Takahiro had whispered a tragic, theatrical, ‘So you want me to shut up… I understand,’ but really, he’d just been shocked to be watched that closely.

Issei indulges him, though. 'It means you're a pretty little birdie, Hiro.'

‘Again with the amateur flirting,’ Tooru bitches, and throws the volleyball at Takahiro’s gut. He only barely catches it, and throws it back, just a bit pissed off. ‘It’s like being back in junior high, you guys are insufferable.’

‘Like your entire existence isn’t insufferable, but you never see me complaining,’ Takahiro mutters.

‘You complain constantly?’ Hajime comments. 

‘Shut up, Iwa, you’re worse than him in our texts,’ Issei says, which is a little bit targeting but if Tooru doesn’t stop pointing out the fact that Takahiro is gay when he’s wearing rainbow socks he’s gonna snap, honestly.

‘I’ll bring up his seven minute voice notes,’ he threatens, and Takahiro feels himself flush a bit when Issei says, sounding a bit excited, he’s a fucking child, ‘Bring them up, I want you to.’

‘I’ve never sent a voice note,’ he fibs openly, and practically serves both the ball and his own hide right into a gleeful Tooru’s waiting arms.

‘Oh, here comes the typical Makki Mattsun lalala we’re just best mates even though they’re practically obsessed with each other,’ Tooru says, practically trilling out the words best mates, so high pitched it itches to hear, and hurls the ball back.

This time Takahiro manages to kick it away just barely, from the amount of force in that throw, so it veers off towards Hajime.

‘I’ve never said best mates,’ he says irritably, and why was there so much aggression in that last toss anyways. It felt like he was on the other side of the net or something. 

Then, wildly brave all of a sudden, ‘And we’re definitely more than that.’

‘Heads up, lover boy.’

The ball hits Issei right in the gut, and he fumbles at it, too busy watching Takahiro to notice Hajime toss it at him.

Takahiro looks over, in the ensuing sound of their friends guffawing, so he sees the heartstoppingly caught look on his face.

‘Redhanded!’ Tooru crows. ‘Oh my goddd, you guys are pathetic!?’

Takahiro does this look, this little motion whenever he thinks someone just blatantly lied to his face. Usually it’s Issei, who is usually immediately compelled to prove he's dead serious. The look-motion in question goes as such—

Issei says, in the pause after his partner’s long awaited admittance that they are, indeed, partners, and his resultant stumble with the volleyball; ‘Takahiro and I aren’t obsessed with each other.’

His head tips a bit backward, first, and tilts to the right, eyes crinkled. Then his mouth goes flat and he squints up at the distance, nose scrunched, bleached brows furrowed. Then his mouth twists up, too, just utterly disbelieving. Sometimes he gets to the point where his lips part around the words what the hell, no.

Issei clarifies, ‘It’s more than obsession,’ and Takahiro’s face relaxes, serene. Like that’s what I thought.

It gets Issei unreasonably hot under the collar. 

‘Ohhhh, Mattsun. We know,’ Tooru says, smiling sympathetically, so sympathetic that apparently he has decided he is above mocking Issei for dropping the ball. He’s sure Hajime will make up for that. though.

Right on queue, ‘It’s a sickness, is what it is,’ Hajime says consideringly. Issei half-hopes his orange shirt and his orange pants would burst into flame. ‘Like a genuine disease, I would never mess up catching a ball because I was thinking about a guy. You would never catch me slacking like that.’

‘Oh, that’s because your puny brain is too pre-historic to have emotions that complex yet, Iwa-chan,’ Tooru says delightedly.

Issei passes the ball to Hajime so they can fight a bit, and closes the gap between himself and Takahiro, who’d usually smile and cheer and pick sides but now, he’s sat down on the grass. The sun is starting to peel down the sky, and he hopes Takahiro comes home with him when the day is over. 

He looks statuesque, nose pointing narrow and chin jutted. He’s sweating, but for a moment the world hangs still and he’s unmoving except a single, dewlike droplet slipping down the side of his head, from temple to jaw. He’s so pink, all over.

Issei reaches a hand out to pinch his ear, because he’s too quiet. Takahiro makes a noise, and then grasps his wrist, tugs a bit. ‘Siddown, asshole.’

He sits, crosslegged, shitty posture and facing Takahiro, who faces away, leaning back on both hands as he lets go of Issei’s. Cheesy as it is, Issei misses his touch already. 

‘What do you think,’ Takahiro says. Clarifies, head just slightly turned down, eyes firmly on the grass, fingers tugging lightly at a few sharp blades, ‘About birds.’

There’s a pause as Issei registers what he’s really asking.

About him, and flying away? ‘I’m not too worried,’ Issei tells him, and only realizes as he says it that it’s the real truth. As recent as a week ago Issei was wrung wretched like an overused dishcloth, thinking about it late at night, reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide with his head against his old, frog-patterned pillowcase and listening to this CD moaning on about catching the one feel good hit of the summer ‘cause there won't be another, tossing one of his sister’s tennis balls at the wall until he got the call to pipe down. He couldn’t sleep with it.

But now he has this feeling, only a feeling but strong like a hercules knot— ‘Birds fly southwest every winter, don’t they? They’ve got that steady going.’

Takahiro looks at him. 

If Issei is southwest, Takahiro is north like the mountains of Hokkaido. East, like Juliet.

His eyes are intent, green as the lawn, mottled and graying in the centers like the end of summer. His hair sticks to his forehead, spiking sharp. Issei could cut himself on any of Takahiro’s edges but when he reaches a hand out to see Takahiro is always soft. 

‘Yeah,’ Issei murmurs, finding himself leaning in, hand on Takahiro’s elbow and the other rising to steady himself, or just to touch so he can skeer further off kilter, on his nape. His pale skin, soaked with sweat that drips like gold in the evening sun. ‘’m not worried at all.’

He tucks him into his side, presses a long kiss to his temple and Takahiro shivers in his arms.

Sometimes Takahiro worries about it himself. 

But when he and Issei are leant into each other and the sun is setting on their legs there’s really no way he can think of anything but the feeling of him. No worries, like nothing matters. Overthinking comes and goes but Matsukawa Issei is always there.

‘Like a tree,’ he realizes.

‘Original,’ Issei says lightly.

‘And I’m perchin’, man.’

‘Oh. Oh. Perch away, birdie.’

‘Don’t call me birdie.’

He stops by Issei’s place for dinner, even though it’s always heavy on the spice and he gets a bit teary. Yasu is there, and she’s the one to greet them and tilt her jaw pointedly towards the shoe rack, which tends to go much ignored by both Takahiro and Issei’s little brother. 

‘She indoctrinated me, but then her powers ended,’ is what Issei says about it.

The meal is preluded by a quick prayer, Muslim and then Shinto. Takahiro fetches a pair of chopsticks to eat the white rice and savory red beef stew, and Kenta copies him. Issei shakes his head as he gets his fingers into the rice, eating with his right hand like his mother does. 

‘Sometimes I think you get less culture the lower you are on the sibling rank,’ he comments.

‘You’re rank,’ Kenta says succinctly. Takahiro hides his smirk with a sip of water.

Issei’s father, one hand propping up a book and the other holding a spoonful of rice, steadily losing grains every second it shakes even slightly, grunts in vague disapproval of the insult. This is immediately rendered pointless when he mutters, ‘Language, Issei.’

Issei’s lips twist up and his eyebrow twitches, but that’s it.

Yasu laughs silently, mouth still full and a loose fist in front of her mouth. Kenta doesn’t even tamp down his grin. Takahiro hopes his face is clean of humor but doubts it sincerely.

Next to him, Issei kicks him lightly with his heel. ‘Something to say?’

Takahiro shakes his head, still drinking. His mouth is the color red if it was a feeling, he’s basically panting with the heat, and he considers himself to be a poorly, fragile little baby. He drinks Issei’s water too.

‘Pooooor Hiro-chan can’t take the chili,’ Yasu drones. 

‘I wish Matsukaa-san was here,’ Takahiro says sourly, once he sets down the glass. She’s visiting a sister, and all Issei had said about her absence was that he, too, would visit his sister in a different prefecture to get away from his father. He’d phrased it as a joke, though Takahiro hadn't quite caught his face when he’d said it. ‘She always gets me milk.’

‘Issei, get him milk,’ Issei’s father says absently. Issei’s hand, already holding open the fridge door, flexes against the gray handle.

Takahiro’s eyes flicker from son to father and they narrow, a tad. Yasu continues eating, looking a bit resigned, eyebrows pinched and giving Takahiro a slight frown. Kenta doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Since he’s in between scorching bites, he takes the time to squint at the book Issei’s dad is holding aloft. It looks old, faded pages and the spine is peeling like a whitewashed wall against years of rain. The title reads The Town and the City, and he recognizes the author’s name as one he’s seen behind Issei’s fingers, long and knobby like his father’s. He wonders about that, how you can read the same books and have the same hands and still live off-course, at odds.

Like speaking of the devil, Issei’s hand lands just below Takahiro’s nape and he sets down a glass of pink milk, rosy and chilled next to his plate. His body heat behind Takahiro’s chair.

He tips his head back, hair brushing Issei’s stomach. Issei’s face, upside down but as recognizable as his own. Takahiro reaches back to press his own fingers against Issei’s. ‘Thank you, baby,’ he says, earnest, but quiet so no one else hears. 

Issei’s eyebrows soften, the crease loosening up like a stitch coming undone. His knuckles rise, space stretching between them for Takahiro’s fingers to slip into. He squeezes, and his lips are soft, smiling.

Takahiro might stick around, just for another hour or two.

Chapter Text

July bleeds out slowly, the last few evenings ragged and drawn long like a final exhale. They’re at Issei’s place on the first day of August, in the front yard with two long glasses of lemonade on the table and his little brother painting what is supposed to be an artsy donut, because it’s his favorite thing to eat, on an A4 sized printer paper. Privately Issei thinks it looks sort of like the moon in anime movies.

Takahiro is holding up a running commentary on the tweenaged kids across the street mowing their lawn (it’s going badly) and Issei is trying not to stare at his cupid’s bow (it’s going very badly).

It has quickly become evident that Takahiro has a catchphrase, this summer.

'It's so hot,' he says, every time he takes a break from his game coach descriptions of the neighbor’s chore form. Voice pitched in that low complaint of his, head tipped back to draw Issei’s tortured gaze to the slope of his neck, the bob of his throat.

‘Mm.’ He drags his eyes away, mouth dry. Over the road the lawnmower engine drones. ‘When did I last shower?’

‘Two years ago,’ Kenta says, absent but obedient, as is his duty as a younger brother.

‘Two hours ago,’ Takahiro huffs out, kicking his legs out and upward to rest them on the garden table as he slumps. It teeters threateningly, lemonade swishing in the glasses, then it steadies. ‘Your mom said you can’t shower again today. ‘Cos of the water.’

‘Maybe I can hose myself down,’ Issei muses. ‘Or just choke myself on the hose, maybe.’

‘It’s so fucking hot,’ he moans again.

‘Hosejob. Hosing. Hoe… tentacle sex.’

‘Issei, oh my god.’ Takahiro lets out his breathless laugh, the one he does when he’s tired, or happy, or slowly cooking under the sun. His cheeks are bright pink and peeling. Issei will reach for the bottle of aloe in a minute. ‘You’re so delirious from the heat right now. Don’t talk about nasty things in front of Kenta, he’s, like, five at maximum.’

‘I’m fourteen,’ Kenta announces, dropping his paintbrush in a cup of water, making a splashy brown mess, ‘and sick of painting donuts.’

Takahiro peers over his shoulder, dubious. ‘Looks kinda sorta like a dog to me.’

Kenta slaps it against his singlet-covered front, wet paint and all. ‘Never make me do art again. It’s laptops all the way.’

‘You and your Minecraft,’ Takahiro says, unpeeling the paper from his chest. From the backside, thin paper going translucent from overly watery paint, Issei sees a blur of golden yellow, dark purple. ‘Be like Takeru, he runs around in the dirt. I introduced you to Takeru, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah, annoyingly enough, you did,’ Kenta says, with the most bored look tossed carelessly over his shoulder, already pulling out their mother’s Nokia. With sass fit for a Matsukawa, he widens his eyes, and Issei assumes this is his low-effort Takeru impression; ‘What’s your favorite bug, Hiro-nii?’

Takahiro laughs with his head tipped back against Issei’s thigh and he feels delirious. He’s lying on his favorite piece of furniture, this green lawn chair that's belonged to his family for as long as he can remember, seat reclined all the way back. He’s half asleep but at the same time, sort of embarrassingly horny—Takahiro’s not even doing anything, just splayed on the grass beside his chair, leant against him. Issei counts himself lucky he hasn’t noticed yet, or he’ll never let Issei hear the end of it.

‘It’s so hooooot!’ Takahiro groans.

Issei agrees. It’s so, so hot.

Summer is just refilling the ice in the freezer tray. It’s the aloe vera tube, passed around like the bottle when Issei’s dad gets together with his college friends. It’s just the cool hiss when he opens the door to the convenience store refrigerator and removes two cans of Calpis, one for him and one for Hiro, just the pleased sigh he lets out when Issei presses the chilled metal to the side of his pretty, flushed face, goosebumps crawling up both their spines, the fuzz of barely there hairs on Takahiro’s jaw standing sharp. 

It’s tripping over shoelaces and then switching to flip-flops and then walking around barefoot and defeated, wincing when he goes outside to fetch the newspaper and even the damn porch is burning hot beneath his soles. It’s his three thinnest shirts, going through a rotation, feeling embarrassed about it until he goes over to the Hanamaki’s and finds his older sister splayed out on the sofa looking bedraggled, his baby sister on the kitchen island chewing her way through a bowl of shaved ice, no syrup, and Takahiro himself nowhere to be found. The ice-chewing, he’d stopped and joined in for, just him and maybe-toddler Umi eating ice for a good five minutes, and the reprieve had almost made up for the lack of immediate Takahiro, which he’d taken badly. He wants Takahiro there on arrival, in an I.V pump, straight to the veins, from the container, no second hand source. Texts only go so far and phone calls make him feel like he’s on a half-life, coasting through on prayers.

That had been this Sunday just gone past, an eventual good day that had started off insane—he’d wiped ice water off his chin and walked into the living room only to be welcomed inside by another Not-Takahiro and told his other half is picking up a shift at his mother’s flower nursery. A shift, for a job. He’d stared at Sakura; she’d been fanning herself with a folded up June edition of Kera magazine. She’d stared back, baleful.

‘Takahiro, doing work, in the summer,’ he’d said slowly. ‘See, I’m just not sure I’m hearing you right.’

‘There’s air conditioning at the store,’ she’d explained bad-temperedly, which had made so much more sense. ‘I wish I’d thought of it first, even if it does mean working. And under mom.’

‘Dagnabit,’ Issei had agreed automatically, and then said, bewildered, ‘I guess I’ll just.. head to the store, then?’

‘Dag-whazzit? Ugh! Do what you want, brat,’ Sakura had dismissed. ‘But if you’re staying, get your own damn fan-paper. Hands off my Kerouac.’

He’d eyed her glitzy magazine dubiously. ‘I don’t think you mean the Kerouac I wish you mean.’

‘I changed my mind, just go,’ she’d said with disgust. ‘Freaking nerd!’

Needless to say Issei had not gotten his own damn fan-paper. He’d gone to Hanamaki’s flower shop and needled Takahiro over the counter for a full two hours about getting a job, about getting a job through nepotism, about being the prettiest flower on sale, about tragically not being on sale, about whether there was a flower in the world as pink as him, and how to say let’s go to the movies in flower language; he’d even bought him the cheapest bundle of flowers he could find. 

Takahiro had been a sight for sorely missing eyes in his uniform, surrounded by trailing vines and pre-made bouquets, and had threatened to call exterminators to get rid of him before finally following him out, whining all the way about Issei being the only fucktard mountain between him and success, but with a tiny bunch of flowers in his hand, tied with a neat ribbon as pink as the flowers, as pink as his cheeks. The flowers would eventually find themselves in a little glass on his nightstand, but they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the streets.

The wandering was magical, the pink cheeks and whining even more so, but the day had ended in more sunburn, regretfully. 

In the second week of summer, Issei’s mother puts her foot down at Takahiro’s peeling red nose so they give up and take their teenagery inside.

His brother Kenta plays Minecraft on the family PC like a fully insane person. Constant and loud as fuck. The rest of the time he only speaks in soft worded snarky comments. Issei has his personal, junky Dell laptop, but he broke the screen four months ago and Takahiro gets headaches when he looks at it flickering so he starts bringing his own over whenever he remembers it exists. He has this rhythm game downloaded, Osu! Issei played it once in first year, was inexplicably good, and he’s been showing off since then.

So they move from outside to inside, Issei’s bedroom with the air conditioner on full blast because his father isn’t at home to rant about the electricity bill and his sister’s out so neither is she—and he’s slouched over the tiny, pink HP laptop Takahiro brought in his equally pink Kirby merch junior high school bag. His fingers are oversized and stark against little white keys, Ben 10 stickers all over the free space below and Takahiro’s pointy chin is digging into the meat between his neck and shoulder and it’s distracting. 

‘Faster, faster, faster, faster—’

‘Please, shut the fuck up, you total noob.’ 

‘You’re so bad at this,’ Takahiro despairs. ‘You’re not even good at trash talk, even with Kenta in your house, he’s an animal in game lobbies, and you suck, I’m so much better, give me, my turn—’

‘You’re instigating because of how long I’ve been winning. I understand, and you’ll get to play when I lose.’

A boredom sparked groan, hanging hot over Issei’s shoulderblades as Takahiro slumps behind him. 

He’s changed out of the paint-covered singlet, and now it hangs wet and dripping on the towel rack in Issei’s bathroom. He’s got on one of Issei’s long sleeves, mint green with a too-tight collar that seems to hang fine on him. It’s usually humid around this time of day but the door is closed, the window shut, and the air conditioner slowly cools up the room.

Issei cracks his knuckles as the level ends, switching to another track except a song Takahiro knows and thinks is funny this time. 

Predictably, he perks up just the slightest at the familiar bumpy, electric music. He turns his head to drawl, right into his ear, ‘Issei playing something fun, wow. This is soooo fresh to me... Only thing crazier would be if you’d suddenly start playing well.’

He jerks his shoulder up the second Takahiro hooks his chin back over it, and is about to close his eyes in regret but Takahiro just grumbles and clings through the jostle, like he wants to stay.

The wave of smugness that gives Issei has him coasting through the rest of the beatmap, brain buzzing and fingers clicking at the mouse. 

He tips his head to the side when he wins, and his cheek meets Takahiro’s mouth.

Issei’s eyes flicker wide.

The cheek kiss is over as soon as it begins but his entire body burns, even as Takahiro slips the laptop out of his hands and gives a little cheer of triumph.

‘Thief,’ Issei says, and the word is somehow wrangled out of his dry throat.

Takahiro just beams, and Issei is beginning to associate the very feeling of absolute, overwhelming happiness with that smile. He watches as Takahiro turns to the laptop and starts a new track, back to Issei’s side and seemingly content in his place, so Issei settles back into the bed too.

The energy is slow, easy, without tension. Takahiro’s smooth fingers tap away, nails painted a sparkling, iridescent sea green. The music plays on and on, track to track.

Issei falls asleep watching his hands, which he’s not to blame for. It’s a lazy summer, after all.

He’s shaken awake.

The lights are all off but the AC is whirring, and Takahiro is splayed out half on the bed, and half on top of Issei.

He blinks into the cool darkness. ‘Whazz’h’pn?’

Takahiro sounds even more asleep then he feels when he replies. ‘Get me.’

‘G—?’ 

An unhappy noise, and his body, his chest pushing into Issei’s numb arm. ‘C-cold, ’s, m’feet’re cold.’

He feels soft fleece against his own legs, and the second, thin cotton sheet he uses when the air-con isn’t working tugged haphazardly up beneath it, too. ‘D’ble’nk?’

‘Fuzzy’n isn’t—’

Issei understands. Takahiro must’ve been shivering. ‘’M got it, baby.’  

He rearranges the blankets, first tries with his legs, kicking carefully but when it doesn’t achieve anything but sad, fluffy breaths against his arm, grunts and sits up. His eyes have gotten used to the dark but the only patch of light is a slim golden rectangle at the bottom of his door so he figures vaguely that it must be late, now. When Issei was a kid his mother used to say that pepper is good for your eyesight, that it helps you see in the dark. He'd never fact checked her but every egg he's eaten since he was very small has been sprinkled generously, black on white and gold. He thinks of this hazily now, and wonders if he should try his hand at making Takahiro breakfast tomorrow.

He finds the edges of the blankets and adjusts them easily enough. Takahiro’s breathing puffs happier, now.

When he lies back down under the covers he tucks a soft, loose-limbed Takahiro right back into his chest, and Takahiro goes easily.

‘Hnnn. L’ve’ya, sei.’

He mumbles nonsensically, face buried in Takahiro’s sweet smelling hair. ‘Mmm, lv’you too.’

It never even occurs to him to turn the air conditioner off. 

Chapter Text

‘A beach trip!?’ Tooru shouts, hands clutching at his perfect hair in dismay. ‘Without us!?!?’

‘Keep it down, Assykawa!’ Hajime snaps, folding up the net in quick, practiced wrist movements.

‘It’s a family thing,’ Issei explains, sounding bored. ‘For blood relatives and in-laws.’

‘Issei, oh my goddd, don’t imply things about our relationshiiip,’ Takahiro drones, arms wrapped around Issei’s waist and chest pressed against Issei’s back. His face is buried next to Issei’s nape, cheek against dark brown, sun-warmed skin. He’s so comfortable.

‘Sorry, baby,’ he says obediently, but he doesn’t turn his face to drop a kiss on Takahiro’s head so Takahiro peeks up. Issei’s looking directly at Tooru.

He can’t see Issei’s face, so he doesn’t know what’s going on, but he can see Tooru’s, who’s stood there looking sort of like he wants to throttle them. Takahiro infers that Issei is doing that flat, blank look that pisses everyone off like no other.

‘Your relationship makes me feel sick,’ Tooru says.

‘Yours would make us straight dog sick if you had one o’ those,’ Takahiro tells him. ‘And hey, didn’t your girlfriend dump you for Futaba from football?’ He beams when Issei ruffles his hair over his shoulder.

‘Don’t say nice one,’ he adds, still beaming.

Issei closes his mouth.

Tooru flounces off to go terrorize the underclassmen.

He’s in a really, really good mood.

Coach was absent today so the morning’d been slow as hell with their captain in charge—he’s fifty times more vicious than Irihata. Tired out, Takahiro had cajoled Tooru into ending evening practice early. The only reason it’d worked at all was because Hajime had apparently needed to buy something for his mom, and the only thing that has ever come between Oikawa Tooru and his spectacular volleyball journey is, not his childhood best friend, as one would initially believe, but the vast selection of flavored milk at Lawson’s. This he considers fact.

Issei and Takahiro tag along. They usually wouldn’t, because hanging out with Tooru and Hajime when tired is fun solely if there’s an objective to steer them towards so they pick up the slack, which they can never be counted on to do. And grocery shopping may be an objective but it doesn’t include them directly—if the Boys Wonder get distracted they’ll be on their own.  

Today though, he doesn’t really want to hang out with them at all, so their tendency towards distraction is a-okay with him. And he does really really want Sangaria peach Ramune, so he gives Issei a look and Issei quirks an eyebrow, and they join Tooru and Hajime on the listless walk to the store.

It’s six P.M, fog in his vision, sweat on his nape and it’s abundantly clear that this is the hottest summer he’s ever experienced. The level of humidity has to be a joke—Takahiro doesn’t like it when other people play jokes on him.

Inside it’s cool, a refreshing relief. Hajime goes directly for the small animal section, which weirdly merges with the skincare. The three of them go for the snacks.

‘What’re you guys gonna do at the beach?’ Tooru says, pulling a packet of chips with some goofy stylized panda on it off a shelf and peering at the back. ‘Any specific plans?’

‘What does one normally do at the beach?’ Takahiro wonders aloud.

‘Not swim, certainly,’ Issei says, mid-yawn.

‘That would be so crazy absurd.’

‘I personally would like to try it.’

‘Odd.. I don’t think I could stand by and watch you.’

‘Stop it!’ Tooru demands aggrievedly, tossing the panda chips at Issei’s chest. Issei puts them back on the shelf. ‘For once, just answer me normally?’

'Ah, fine. Hiro, tell him.'

‘We’re goin’ boating,’ Takahiro tells him delightedly.

Tooru looks delighted, too. You can practically see his imagination coming to life around his ears. ‘Boating! Like in films when they row across lakes and little animals sing shalalala kiss the girl?’

‘No…’ Issei says, slow. ‘Nothing like that. For one, this is a boys only trip.’

‘Yeah, no girls allowed,’ Takahiro adds, mystified by the, honestly, super on theme Disney reference, if you take the Matsukawa cousins group chat into account, but still making time for a ten year old boy impression. He shapes a cross with his pointer fingers. ‘Zero girls.’

‘Zilch on the girls.’

‘Oh you know that’s not what I—’

‘Do we?’ Takahiro inquires. 

‘Strictly banned,’ Issei supplies, rolling over his indignancy to continue. ‘One of our older cousins who is a girl wanted to come and we had to tell her no.’

‘Because it’s strictly,’ Takahiro says, nodding more than what is necessary. 

‘Don’t get confused by the strictness, we’re forward thinkers,’ Issei assures him. ‘Keiji is girly as hell, and he’s in. But Kiyoomi’s sister? Nope. Nada.'

‘Nope and nada,’ he echoes, switching to shaking his head condescendingly.

‘She came out as trans last year and her window closed just like that,’ Issei explains, snapping his fingers at that. ‘She’s not allowed to come, no sirree. It’s over.’

Takahiro nods once more. ‘Precisely. Banned. Also, I’ve started to question my own gender, so maybe this is my first and last time coming.’

‘Me, I don’t even have a gender, but I’m a rulebreaker like that,’ Issei shrugs. 

‘Oh, you’re so attractive when you defy binaries...’

Tooru looks plain defeated. ‘We can never just have a conversation.’ He picks out another few packets of panda picture chips and pelts them at Takahiro as he leaves the aisle dramatically. ‘Keep them, you good-for-nothings! I'm going to look for the Bufferin, because the two of you?' He points at them dramatically. 'Give me headaches.'

'Sorry, captain,' Issei deadpans.

Tooru clutches his chest. 'And angina!' He winds the corner, returning miraculously to his normal walk and cheery expression.

Takahiro turns to Issei and says conversationally, ‘So are those panda flavored?’

Issei huffs out a laugh.

The overhead lights are a bit bright, right behind Issei’s head so he squints a bit looking at him, tipping his head to the side so they glare a bit less. This probably isn’t his favorite Lawson—that would be the one nearby Issei’s house, somewhere in between both their places, actually. Like a purgatory of sorts. The lights there are constantly flickering, some liminal space energy when it’s just them poking each other in the sides and the stoner cashier in the back room. 

This one feels like pure high school; there’s four girls from football in the makeup aisle giggling as Hajime browses and the boy’s basketball team captain was ringing up cans of soda when they walked in. The guy at the counter has shaggy hair, several piercings and eyeliner that’s so constant Hajime loudly reckons it’s been tattooed on.

Issei bitches constantly about what a massive fakeass poser he is. Takahiro is helpless because he doesn't know how to explain that not everyone is as genuinely nuts as Issei, but it is what it is.

Issei, as if to ensure he keeps being thought of, moves into his space, muscling him into the side of a drinks refrigerator, cold metal against his back. He has to tip his head back to look at him now, which is something different because they’re normally eye to eye with how much Issei slouches and their near equal height but he likes how close they are like this.

Their toes are touching. He smiles up at him. Issei was frowning, just a little. Now he frowns harder.

‘What is it?’

‘You haven’t cut your hair in a while.’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, I figured it’s too much effort to go all the way to the barber every month.’

Issei’s frown is so deep it might as well be the look he wears when they finally make a statue of him. Marble, cool and beautiful. Takahiro thinks it’s crazy how he looks like a classical sculpture, like something Greek-made and Roman-revered even when there’s all this modern era lighting and the glow of radioactive colored juice cans next to his head. In the goddamn convenience store.

Takahiro gets tired of looking at him and reaches up to pull his hair. Issei’s frown finally drops as he mumbles out a yelpy noise.

He pulls again, insistent.

‘Stop that.’

‘No.’

‘You know what your problem is?’ Issei asks abruptly.

Takahiro loosens his grip, wets his bottom lip and peers up at him with the cutest look he can muster.

Issei is unimpressed, statue-boy that he is. 'The problem with you is that you think you can get away with anything cause you're so hot.'

His attempts at cuteness die as a beam sneaks onto his face. 'You think I'm hot?'

Issei gives him this look, eyes low lidded, mouth flat. His voice is low. 'You know I think you're hot.'

His breath catches. 'Do I?'

Issei squeezes his nape. ‘Hurry up and get your drinks.’

Back to the wet lip, hoping he folds for it. ‘Aww. You get ‘em for me.’

His lips twitch, like he knows the plan and all its contingencies. ‘Tyrant.’

Takahiro sways in closer, taunting, ‘Pushover.’

Issei finally smiles, and says, ‘Whatever. I’ll get them.’

Takahiro watches him push off the side of the wall and feels him pinch his hot cheek with his knuckles and gives him a halfhearted kick in the shin as he goes, and then slumps against the stupid refrigerator.

You know I think you’re hot. And that’s the thing, isn’t it. That’s the whole deal between them.

Every time Issei says something like that, eyes intent, voice low, tone veering off earnest and straight into a confession, he falls deep into this peach pit of love, this Superman sized crater he’s been skidding down since day one. It gives Takahiro goosebumps, that tone, the look on his face when he admits it all openly. Part of him is convinced Issei does it to piss him off.

But mostly he knows that’s just Issei. His hands, the way they say everything when he doesn’t. The way he really doesn’t have to say anything, because Takahiro already knows.

At least, he really, really hopes so.

He has to step outside and take a breath of cool summer evening air.

Later it will be acknowledged that Tooru notices first, before anything's even begun. Obviously.

Later Hajime will claim he noticed first, that’s inconsequential because absolutely nobody will believe him.

Outside the conbini, Tooru holds out an arm to stop Takahiro, and when he ducks his head, brown waves fall into his eyes. He says something.

Takahiro looks skyward, the picture of irritation.

Issei watches this from behind the glass, then turns to pay. 

The bell jingles as he steps outside four minutes later, armed with a shopping bag of snacks hanging off his elbow and two bottles of Ramune, Sangaria peach for Takahiro and Hatakosen melon for himself, because it tastes sort of like 7UP.

As he steps closer, he hears just the tail end of the conversation but it’s enough.

‘—what was that thing, bee-tee-dubs, that your ex said,’ Takahiro says, pale eyebrows lifted to the max , ‘you know, when she was dumping you..? About—oh, about volleyball, and Iwa-chan over there?’

He jerks his thumb at the inside of the convenience store, where Hajime is still buying last minute groceries. Tooru’s shoulders are stiff.

‘You are so great at taking things too far,’ he says.

‘Jeez, what was it?’ Takahiro wonders, head tipped up and lips jutting slightly in faux thought. ‘Wasn’t she implying, eh, about you and Hajime, how close you are? That must’ve been weird for you,’ he says gravely, now moving steadily towards faux sympathetic. His fingers come up, to gesture vague togetherness, ‘’Cause, you and Hajime, you grew up together, you’re like, like brothers, you know, oh, the shit she was saying, you must’ve been so uncomfortable—’

‘Makki, you asshole,’ Tooru groans, strained.

‘—’s like incest,’ Takahiro concludes with a pitying shake of his head. ‘You guys are literally that close. You would never like each other. That would be wrong. That must’ve sucked.’

Issei approaches them now that Tooru is dead silent and in mourning, as it seems. ‘Hey.’

Takahiro turns slightly, looking up at him unassumingly. The streetlight tips over his cheeks like a jar of golden paint. ‘Hm?’

‘Got you Ramune,’ Issei tells him, tongue pressing into his cheek so he doesn’t react at the childish, flawless execution of Takahiro ripping Tooru down.

You deserve it, champion, he adds silently, tipping the bottle to the side in a miniscule toast that nobody will notice but him.

Issei doesn’t need to know what Tooru did to earn that ruthless display. He asks too many questions, gets too pressy even if something isn’t his business, because he’s a good friend. He also has a pretty good idea what it was about. He also knows that he’d defend Takahiro no matter who’s fault it had been in the end, partly because of course he would and partly because he likes it better that way, getting to tell him off when they’re alone, just the two of them. 

Of course, he’d prefer if they could talk through their brains, but he deals with the cards he’s dealt.

Takahiro takes the bottle, already opened and smiles at him contentedly. ‘Thanks.’

Issei watches him drink, soft wet pink on the cold glass, hair still glowing under the lamp, and says, ‘No problem.’

Tooru inhales, then says, composed like a king, ‘I’m—sorry for prying, Makki.’

‘That’s okay,’ Takahiro says simply, after swallowing. ‘I’ll never call it incest again.’

‘Please don’t,’ Tooru says, half ruined, half admiring. ‘I trust you, though. I hope you know that.’

‘Same,’ he replies. ‘And thanks for the concern. You’re really a good guy.’

Issei takes a sip from his drink, peaceful.

Hajime jogs up to them and says, ‘Alright, I’ve got my shit, let’s head.’

‘Don’t call cat food shit, Iwa, fuck,’ Takahiro complains, and Issei’s got a weary hand dragging over his face because Hajime’s arrival just ruined the moment entirely.

‘Fuck you, Iwa,’ he mutters.

‘Seriously, fuck you, Hajime,’ Tooru adds, aggrieved.

‘What! What the hell did I even do!?’

‘Just die.’

‘Did you even get me Yakult..’

‘Obviously, Shitkawa, fuck you guys?!’

‘Stupid Hajime…’

‘Stupid Iwa-chan!’

Chapter Text

Takahiro smiles. "I'm just saying, like. If there was a competition."

"Takahiro."

"For who is the person I personally find sexiest."

"Don't say it."

"It would be your cousin Yamato."

Issei sits up and pulls on his shirt. "Great. I need to go kill one of my relatives."

‘Come on Johnny, when you gonna get here?’

‘Alright, hold your pretty horses, I'll be there in a minute. You just get yourself dolled up, alright toots? And you pick a place, you just pick a place.’

‘...Um, Johnny?’

‘Yeah, Gwennie, Gwen, Gwen?’

‘You might wanna hurry, because tonight? Is theeeee night…’

‘Do you guys have to act it out every single time?’ Kiyoomi says, hands tight around the steering wheel and spotless white facemask slightly skewed.

Yamato is in the passenger seat and he’s singing the first verse loud and boisterous in fantastic harmony with the fuzzy pitch of the radio. Takahiro, who’d started laughing hysterically somewhere between Issei saying Gwennie, Gwen, Gwen and, presumably, the look that had definitely been on Issei’s face when Takahiro’s voice had slowed down like honey with that last line, only laughs harder at the complaint.

Issei is sprawled into him, head fitting into his neck and sort of resentful, but also half believes he should thank Kiyoomi because if people didn’t ruin these little moments every now and then, Issei would be ten times more humiliated than he is on a regular basis as Takahiro’s person.

He doesn’t thank him though. He reverts back to the four year old he was when he first argued with Kiyoomi and says, ‘I don’t hear you yelling at Yamato.’

‘Because he sounds good,’ Kiyoomi shoots back. ‘PSA, if Hanamaki doesn’t stop laughing like a dying bird I’m turning off the radio!’ 

An immediate chorus of booing and gasping. ‘Take that fucking back!’ and ‘I love his dying bird laugh!’ and ‘Issei’ll beat the shit out of you, Omi!’

The drive to the beach is loud and sweaty. Iwaki is a couple hours away from Miyagi, even longer because Keiji insisted they take the scenic route and the rental windows peel open and shut depending on if the outside air smells like ocean salt or like fish.   

They decided to take a single car, for some budget reason, so there’s Issei, Takahiro, Yamato in the passenger seat, his brother Nagito next to Takahiro, Kiyoomi up front driving, and their other cousin Keiji. Him and Takahiro along with the two smaller cousins are all crammed in the back. Issei’s already thinking it definitely won’t work into the next year because Nagito is, at fifteen, almost as tall as Issei had been at age sixteen. They’ll have to cave and get a jeep. He wants one so badly.

Weedily overgrown as the kid is, he’s a far sight better than Keiji, Issei will give him that, because Keiji sighs and grumbles and bitches about Issei’s elbow digging into his neck every twenty damn seconds.

‘Issei, stop it!’ he complains again. ‘Hiro-kun, can you—’ 

‘Isseiiii,’ Takahiro reprimands, ‘Stop annoying Kei-chan.’

‘Hirooo,’ Issei scolds back, ‘Stop picking sides.’

Yamato stops singing Bubble Pop Electric to comment, ‘It’s like they’ve got each other on leashes but the leashes are just attached to each other's collars.’

‘Which makes life inconvenient, as you’d imagine,’ Takahiro says somberly. 

‘Imagine if Issei stopped stepping on my toes,’ Keiji bitches once again.

‘Imagine if I pushed you out of this car.’

‘Imagine if I crashed this car and all of us drowned in the ocean,’ Kiyoomi announces. ‘You won’t have to imagine if you keep talking.’

‘Hey, Kiyoomi,’ Yamato says, very seriously. ‘There’s something—’ He reaches a finger out, stretched towards his forehead, his own eyebrows drawn with concentration, ‘Like, a bug, I think there’s a bug in your eyebr—’

‘I hate that joke!’ he groans, to uproarious laughter. 

‘Because of all the moles on his forehead,’ Takahiro explains to Issei, as if Issei isn’t the one who invented that joke, in the year 2005. 

‘Did you guys know Gwen Stefani had pink hair at one point?’ Nagito says, eyes glued to his phone screen. ‘She’s so cool.’

‘Why’d we get the discount version?’ Kiyoomi comments, still a bit grumpy. Issei kicks the back of his seat. Takahiro scoffs, like he knows Issei’s thought process and is derisive of his lame attempt to de-grumpify him. Issei slants his eyes towards him and pinches his knee.

‘I remember seeing a picture of that! Imagine if Takahiro was a popstar,’ Yamato says, feet up on the dashboard.

‘He would be world famous,’ Issei says wistfully.

‘I wouldn’t ever write any of my own songs,’ Takahiro says wistfully. ‘Kiyoomi, why’s Yamato’s toes allowed on the dashboard?’

‘We’re here,’ Kiyoomi says tersely, and parks the car.

‘Wowza,’ Yamato exclaims. Then a muffled, ‘Ow,’ when Kiyoomi yanks his legs off the top.

‘That didn’t take very long at all.’ Takahiro peers out the window, and Issei peers over his head out at the view, which is unchanged from the cliffs and houses it’s been for miles and miles. ‘Haha wait, Omi you liar, this isn’t the beach.’

‘This is the distant family member owned diner we have to faithfully stop at before the beach because Nagito and Yamato haven’t eaten since dinner last night,’ Keiji says, unbuckling his seat belt.

‘God forbid we pay for food at the huts, which are also being loaned by family,’ Kiyoomi comments. 

‘I love Mr Sakusa,’ Takahiro says happily. Issei’s going to have to make a list of his own family members to watch out for.

Yamato hops out and stretches in weird, contorted ways, his back to the diner. It’s sort of crazy to see. ‘And also, from what I remember they have a fuuucked up menu.’

‘Maybe when we get back in the car Nagito can sit next to me,’ Issei says with a lot of hope. There’s the clicks of seatbelts being undone and the slams of the car door.

‘Maybe when we get back in the car you can drive and Hanamaki can sit in the front,’ Kiyoomi says instantly.

‘Ooh, I thought you didn’t trust one of us lugs to drive, Kiyoomi,’ Takahiro says, bumping his shoulder into Issei’s as they start walking towards the diner, Issei glancing back to make sure he commits the numberplate to memory, out of habit.

‘Sometimes,’ Kiyoomi says thinly. ‘Sacrifices have to be made.’

‘There’s funnel cake?’ Takahiro demands. ‘Why wasn’t I here last year!’

‘Because Issei’s a stingy bastard?’ Yamato offers.

‘Because Issei forgot to invite you?’ Nagito suggests.

‘Because Issei cares for your health?’ Kiyoomi mumbles.

‘There’s nothing wrong with funnel cake, Kiyoomi,’ Issei says, and then flags the waitress down. 

When he looks back around, Takahiro finds himself part of a group because they’re all staring at his guy, appalled.

Issei raises an eyebrow, dark and overgrown. Takahiro likes the extension of hairs below his brow bone. ‘What.’

Yamato glances at Takahiro, then shrugs, a goofy little smile on his face. ‘Nothing, buddy. Just that, uh, the actual hour long whining session the last time I saw you forced into trying it when we were like, ten.’

‘You hate funnel cake,' Kiyoomi says flatly. ‘You refuse to eat any cake that isn’t cheesecake.’

'But you loooooove Hiro,' Yamato sings.

Takahiro would usually turn this bit into just that—a bit, an extended joke. He’s an expert at ruining the moment, but he doesn’t do that now. Instead, he keeps his gaze until Issei’s eyes find him, and then he blooms in the wake of Issei’s slow, sweet smile.

‘Oh, something’s changed,’ Keiji says, wrinkling his nose.

‘I don’t know what’s more tooth rotting, Issei’s smile or the three platefuls of funnel cake Hana’s about to inhale,’ Kiyoomi says as the waitress approaches.

Takahiro is too busy glowing to care.

The diner is nice, old and rustic and right next to a gas station. There’s less and less city and more open land, wide sky in this area, so close to the beach. He’s always liked coming out to the real country, exploring forests and finding flower fields and he doesn’t think anyone’s ever lived till they’ve spent full days on sand and boardwalk. He’s sure he’d pick the city nine times out of ten but this is a real vacation.

You can see the ocean, distant and blue through the window, and Takahiro presses himself to the glass, Nagito doing the same on the other side.

‘I want to be in the sea already,’ the kid says wistfully.

‘The water looks so gooooood,’ he groans.

Issei pulls him back with a hand to his nape and says, ‘Eat, and then we’ll go there.’

‘I’ll be too full to swim,’ he laments.

‘There’s a long drive, still,’ Yamato comments, talking with his mouth full. ‘Eat up, or you’ll end up sicking the ice creams.’

‘If you get sick I’ll kill you Hanamaki,’ Kiyoomi says sincerely.

‘If you kill me I’ll get Issei to get sick on you,’ Takahiro replies smartly. ‘Now what?’

‘Double sicked,’ Yamato says gleefully.

‘But I don’t want to get sick,’ Issei reproaches.

‘You’ll get sick if you know what’s fucking good for you.’

‘I guess you’re right.’

‘You guys make me sick,’ Keiji says longsufferingly. ‘Can we leave? I’m done eating.’

‘I didn’t even see you start!’ Kiyoomi accuses.

‘I need to use the bathroom,’ Nagito says meekly.

Yamato looks at his empty plate thoughtfully, ketchup on his left cheek and powdered sugar on his right. ‘Do you guys think I should get seconds?’

Takahiro steals one of Issei’s fries and says, ‘Sure. And then let’s go back to Miyagi with our empty wallets, since you hate the beach so fucking much.’

‘I’m not driving after this,’ Kiyoomi warns.

‘I’ll do it!’ Nagito volunteers. The no that follows is so resounding that Takahiro thinks, shoveling cake into his mouth, the neighboring tables and the wait staff must’ve all joined in. 

There’s just no other explanation.

Rooming with other people has always been a pain.

When Issei was first given his own room, he’d been relieved, because going through the grit of puberty while bunking with your nine year old brother isn’t exactly ideal. It had been Yasu’s old room, because she’d been moving in with her boyfriend for university, and it had been a pale, mint green, with a white beam light. The wallpaper is peeling under the window, now, and there is still a single light in the room but today the bulb is sun-yellow.

He’d changed the bulb halfway through first year, he remembers because he had done it himself. He remembers almost burning his hand switching it on, and he remembers Takahiro lying stomach down on his futon with tight calves swaying lazily in the air, crossed at the ankle.

Issei’s old room had been white, and he’d moved with his faithful brown bathroom slippers. He doesn’t ever wear house slippers, but when he does they are black and fuzzy. His sister’s favorite movie in the entire world is Twilight, and it has the oddest green filter.

Issei, admittedly, doesn’t know much on color theory. But everything before he changed the light bulb had been tinted morose, dank shades. Like being at the bottom of a pool.

When he’d met Takahiro—when he had changed the light bulb, so to speak—all he’d noticed was how flush Takahiro’s cheeks get. The skin under his fingernails. The scruffy hairs at his nape.

When you’re looking at one set of wrung out tan green black hues your whole life, turning your gaze towards that vibrant pink is like pulling yourself out of a pool. Palm flat against tile. Hair drenched and goosebumps rising. Blinking over and over, because it’s like you’re seeing for the first time ever.

And Takahiro is wearing new trunks with a towel over his freckled neck and he is a brilliant, unbelievable pink, and it feels like surfacing.

‘Nice trunks,’ Issei tells him.

‘Oh,’ Takahiro says. His teeth catching at his bottom lip, just for a second. ‘Thanks, they’re kinda loose. You wanted the..’

He jerks a thumb at the bathroom door. Issei’s eyes trail down to his waist, and he notices that the trunks are indeed, a bit loose. Slung low on his hipbones, hot neon against the lean, pale muscle of his stomach. 

Issei wets his mouth.

‘Issei,’ he says. ‘Your bathroom turn.’

Issei is crosslegged and on page twenty three of his father’s copy of Howl and Other Poems, his futon already rolled out and ready for tonight. It’s still early in the day, and they’ve just arrived at the beach hut. Issei, Yamato and Takahiro are sharing a room. Takahiro is shirtless and wears pink like the color belongs to him.

So he gets up, now, dog ears his page and tosses down the book, crossing the tiny, plain room in three simple strides to stand across him.

Takahiro crosses his arms and tips his head up to regard him with cool disinterest. His lobe piercing dangles—a silver conch.

‘If you weren’t so busy being flustered and trying to seem cool about it,’ Issei tells him, ‘you’d have noticed by now,’ and he leans in for this, impassive— ‘that I’m already changed.’

Takahiro’s arm-crossing is less would-be bored and more defensive now. ‘I’m only—there’s nothing to be flustered about.’

Success. ‘And yet you’ve gone all shy.’

‘Name one time, ever, that I’ve been shy.’

‘Deflection, but when we first met Oikawa’s mom and she was in that Beatles tank top we’ve seen Iwa in.’

Takahiro purses his lips. ‘Name another.’

‘When we first met Oikawa’s brother in law, and he was in that muscle-tee.’

Takahiro purses his lips harder, if that’s possible. ‘Name another and don’t say Oikawa's dad, or his sister.’

‘Mm. Right now?’

He's trying so hard not to smile. ‘Untrue, false news, listen, Issei, you have to stop bullshitting at me all the time—'

Issei can’t hold himself back from poking, pinching his adorably pink cheek. He’s never been able to, any time they're alone like this, when Takahiro’s face has gone all pink like this, his cheeks flushed just like this; from heat or exertion or irritation or excitement or embarrassment or just a damn onsen, Issei always wants to feel. Wants that red, overwarm skin under his fingertip so he can know it.

It could be because he’s so used to Takahiro’s cool, dry fingers, his cool, dry gaze. It might be because he, himself, is never anything like that shade of pink, has an entirely different coloring. It’s probably because he wants to know everything about him by heart. 

That’s not quite right, though, because Issei is a visual learner. He observes.

Looking’s just never been enough for him when it comes to Takahiro.

‘Get your hands off me?’ Takahiro says incredulously, and Issei obliges that obvious reverse psychology request to step closer and wrap his arms around Takahiro’s wet body, hand threading into his damp hair and arm wrapping tight around his instantly squirming waist. ‘Issei, stop, oh my god—you asshole.’  

Issei squeezes him contentedly and Takahiro sags.

‘We’re gonna be the last ones at the beach at this rate,’ he says resignedly, warm, warm cheek pressed to Issei’s collarbones, his pretty little head tucked under Issei’s, his breath hot against his neck. ‘They’ll think we were fuckin’.’

‘Good,’ Issei says.

There’s a long pause.

‘I cannot believe you just said—’

‘Shut up or I’ll say there were multiple rounds.’  

When he gets in the tile-sunken bath, the water is still sudsy because his guy never drains and all he can think about is Takahiro against him.

Yamato stands above them, his shadow a blissful reprieve and his voice a gleeful sound. ‘Guys, do you dare me to shove Kiyoomi in the water?’

Takahiro’s lying on his belly, arms folded over a lump of a bag which he’s using as a pillow while he makes eyes at Issei, who’s probably noticed by now but is ignoring him, because he’s cruel.

‘Yes,’ says the devil himself lazily, all slung out on Takahiro’s favorite blanket, strong shoulders and chest gleaming in the sun and arms crossed behind his curly head, which has gone damp and dry from humidity. His trunks hang low and there’s this sickening trail of hair, and there’s scraggly curls all over his chest, too, and Takahiro is planning to nap with his nose in it. It being his chest, nothing dirty. ‘In fact, Yamato, I double dare you.’

‘I’ll take that double dare.’

‘Tripled.’

‘Sold to the gentleman with the nose hairs.’

‘If you shut up about my nose hairs in front of Hiro I’ll help you with dunking Omi.’ 

‘If you try it I’ll kill you,’ the kid snaps, sunglasses slipping on his nose, which is practically soaked in sunblock. ‘Stay away from me.’

Yamato and Issei look like they’re considering it, now. Takahiro gives Issei a warning look, because Kiyoomi’s reddened skin looks like it probably hurts and he does have some sympathy in him for the children. 

As if reading his mind, Kiyoomi rolls out his shoulders, grimacing and reaching for his tie dye yellow-green drawstring bag which is emblazoned with bold black text that says Itachiyama Gakuin. He pulls out a fresh pack of wet wipes, a second pack of wet wipes, this one drastically used, a sealed bottle of Pocari Sweat, a box of facemasks identical to the one Takahiro’s mother always has in the kitchen and forces him to carry on trips, a travel sized tub of Vaseline, and then finally—

‘Woah, my mom uses that sunscreen,’ Takahiro says. ‘La rosie posie?’ 

Issei snorts, eyes still shut and arms still crossed. His left bicep looks good in this lighting. Takahiro can’t quite see the right.

Kiyoomi is unimpressed. ‘It’s la Roche Posay,’ he says scathingly, not even pausing in squeezing out three fingers worth of cream. 

‘I use Isehan’s Kiss Me Mommy! It’s for kids and I’m my kaa-san’s little baby,’ Yamato says cheerfully, finally sitting down while waving the teddy-shaped bottle around in the air. It has a little bit of product dried on the nozzle, and Takahiro grins to see it. 

‘Oh, it looks like you,’ Keiji comments.

‘I use that too,’ Nagito says, with a bit more shame. ‘Why does Kiyoomi use rosie posie?’

‘Ah, Nagito, you idiot. It’s la rosie posie, ’ Issei drawls, heavy on the bass and the sarcasm, too. He’s so annoying and Takahiro is going to jump him. ‘He clearly uses it because those are his two favorite flowers.’

‘It’s the best sunscreen in the world, actually. Dermatologists confirmed,’ Kiyoomi says serenely, rubbing cream onto his neck. 

‘Kiyooooomi, can I borrow it then?’ he says. ‘Me ‘n Issei are out of ours.’

‘No,’ Kiyoomi says, still very serene. Takahiro scowls.

‘What do you guys use?’ Keiji says, not sounding like he’s truly very interested, so Takahiro sits up and catches the mocking quirk to his eyebrow as he continues, ‘Mommy’s little codependent teddies, UV sunray protector extra Ess-Pee-Eff for you and your Bee-Eff-Eff—FUCK, Issei, OW!’

Issei’s pulled him by the leg off his chair and directly onto the hot sand. ‘It’s POS,’ he says. ‘You piece of shit. But that was a good one, I’ll give you that.’

‘It’s FFS,’ Takahiro says.

‘It’s SPF,’ Kiyoomi corrects, slicking a hand through his hair, a bit wavier than Issei’s, and clearly pretending he doesn’t know he’s ruining the joke. He’s got Takahiro’s cool new sunglasses propped on his now bare forehead. Takahiro hopes Issei picked up Kiymooi’s pair after they switched because he’s definitely lost them otherwise.

‘No, it’s definitely.. BLE,’ Nagito says, after a pause. ‘No, or, BAI—’ 

‘For what, Bad At Inventing?’ Takahiro inquires before he can finish. Nagito frowns at him and he relents immediately, lying back down, flipping to his back and comforting, ‘Aww, you’ll get better at spontaneity, I promise.’

‘Will I?’ he says miserably.

‘Aww, sure, Nagito.’

‘Don’t worry about it!’

‘You definitely will!’ Takahiro takes a second to wriggle till he’s comfortable then says, ‘Here, I’ll teach you. Say the first word that comes to your mind. Game.’

‘Volleyball,’ he says eagerly. That—Takahiro is getting sick of all these future Olympians.

‘Okay,’ Takahiro agrees, flexing his fingers and rubbing sand off his nose, seeking calm. He can hear Issei laughing at him, so he stretches an elbow out to dig him in the calf and continues, ‘Restart. Bread.’

‘Why’d you restart? Um, cash.’

‘Coin, and never you mind.’

‘Gold.’

‘Silver.’

‘Moonfish.’

‘Wow, that's good. Shiny.’

‘Sparkly!’ he says, picking up the pace. 

‘Pink.’

‘Barbie.’

‘Takahiro,’ Issei interjects, then clicks his tongue. ‘No, wait, I meant that for pink.’

‘Girly,’ Takahiro says blandly, and traces a heart against Issei’s knee very slowly, because that’s the most seduction he has in him today.

‘Huh, close minded?’ Nagito says, peering dubiously at Takahiro’s pink hair and knee to fingers interaction. 

‘Your mom.’

‘Sweet lady!’ Nagito protests.

‘Stall owner.’

‘Beachside shop.’

‘Shaved ice,’ Takahiro says, hand clamping down on Issei so he doesn’t say anything. The rest of the cousins wait with bated breath.

Nagito pauses for a second, his first pause in ages, he’s coming along so well. At this rate he could even tell a passable joke one day. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I see. You want me to go get you shaved ice.’

He can practically see Issei bristling, and smacks his palm against his knee-bone. ‘Well, maybe. But it’s up to you whether you want to get it,’ he assures.

Nagito looks out at his cousins and brother, considering. Then he stretches his legs out and lays back in the sand. ‘No thanks, senpai.’

Yamato and Keiji laugh at the drama of it all, and Takahiro claps him on the back with his foot. ‘Good job, kid.’

‘They grow up so fast,’ Issei says, as if he wouldn’t have fought Nagito in the pit if he tried to go get Takahiro food. ‘Okay, I’ll get you some. Anyone else?’

‘Meeee, me me me,’ Yamato drawls. ‘Oh, pick me.’

‘I don’t want strawberry syrup, whatever else they have or make it plain,’ Kiyoomi requests. ‘Thanks.’

‘See that?’ Issei says, getting up and grunting as his knee pops. ‘That’s a polite young man. Imagine, Yamato. Just think on that.’

‘I’m too small,’ he protests. 

‘You’re the biggest guy here?’ Takahiro points out, stretching his arm to Issei and getting yanked up by the wrist. 

‘It’s just fat,’ Issei insists, and drags him off. 

‘I know what you were doing back there,’ he says, once they’re off the edge of the beach and have stopped trying to step on each other’s toes.

‘Oh, tell me, what was I doing.’

‘Telepathically trying to convince me to do your sunblock because you’re too lazy right now to ask with your usual badgering and kissing up,’ Issei says.

Takahiro stops in his tracks, astonished. ‘I didn’t even know that’s what I was doing!’

‘I’ll do your sunblock, baby,’ comes his self satisfied reply.

‘You’re way too hot right now,’ Takahiro says dazedly.

‘Two, please,’ Issei says, holding up two fingers and putting down the coins. ‘Strawberry flavor.’

The guy nods, already churning out shaved ice into a small white cup with the shop logo on it, turning it smoothly under the tap so it gathers into small mountains. Takahiro likes watching this, leaning in over the rickety old wooden counter with his eyes bright. He’s already watched it more than ten times today with all the refills their big group wanted, and the easy, small portions of the treat he’s been getting but it must still be fun to observe because he looks content and pink.

It could, of course, be the good time he’s having. Issei feels equally satisfied, at ease. They were already on summer break, but for some reason skipping town and hanging out with nobody they know except for his cousins is a whole other kind of vacation. If lazing about on the lawn was letting loose, on Iwata beaches, him and Hiro are floating on air. Like kites in the sky.

It’s still midday and it’s a good day, black rocks and pale sand and blue water. The guy behind the counter pours strawberry syrup from a shiny metal syrup spoon onto a little cup piled high with shaved ice and the white gola is quickly dyed pink, and it’s just like when blood rushes to Takahiro’s cheeks. He watches it avidly, those same cheeks as round as the ice, and Issei drops a crumpled note onto the top of the machine, exchanging it for coins while Takahiro takes the wobbling cups with a low, delighted thanks.

It’s honestly a beautiful day. Issei’s never felt so at ease and alive, and he grins as Takahiro looks up at him.

Every now and then Takahiro runs a careless hand through his hair and it sticks up because of the sweat and he looks like a hero, dripping in sweat and flushed and hair spiked sharp. He looks like there is light pouring off of him, like it is gathered in pools beneath his skin. His cheeks are pink, rosacea and sunburn, and he keeps forgetting to reapply the sunscreen so Issei commits to wrangling him every half hour that passes. He’s got a thin blue towel slung around his neck and he keeps swatting people with it.

‘Hold your own,’ he commands, and Issei takes it obediently, still taking the time to comment, ‘If you insist. I was under the impression it was yours.’

‘False impression,’ he dismisses immediately, and then he remembers he wants it and says, ‘Wait.’

‘Ahh, caught you.’

‘Well I’ll still take some, but it’s yours,’ Takahiro says insistently.

‘Mm. Hands cold?’ 

‘Yes,’ he mutters. 

Issei takes his other hand and squeezes it, intertwining their fingers. They get to their table, small and crowded with borrowed chairs, boisterous chatter and Keiji is leant in all the way, elbows on the white plastic and a pinched look on his face as he tries to make use of the Coleman umbrella above, grey and green colors, rounded edges flapping in the breeze.

‘You know what’d make these umbrellas better,’ Yamato’s saying, going on without pausing to see if anyone will reply; ‘Lace trim.’

‘I’ll trim you into lace,’ Kiyoomi says. He sees the shaved ice cups in his and Takahiro’s hands and says, ‘God, again? You’ll get cavities.’

‘It finishes so quickly,’ Takahiro defends. ‘I just open my mouth and suddenly it’s gone.’

‘It’s foul play, clearly,’ Keiji says. 

‘I’ll have my best men on this case,’ Takahiro agrees somberly. ‘Yamato, Nagito—figure it out.’

Issei fishes a spoon out of Takahiro’s pocket which jangles with several others, a few coins and a bracelet he’d been wearing before he’d gone into the water before lunch. ‘Say ah,’ he instructs, and Takahiro’s mouth opens obediently, and Issei looks him dead in the eye as he shovels half the cup of shaved ice into his mouth in the next two, three, four seconds.

Takahiro’s mouth drops open wider, in pure betrayal. ‘That was mine!’ Issei snorts even as he feels brainfreeze coming on and ducks away, using his elbow to protect himself from Takahiro’s scrabbling hands and chokes out, ‘F’ivn’t good f’you!’

‘I think I’ve got a suspect,’ Yamato says grandly, and snatches the other cup away from the table right against Takahiro’s chest, forgotten in their mini-wrestle. Issei’s not even done gulping down the last of it before he laughs out loud.

‘Goddd, you’re all terrible people—’ Takahiro’s groaning, and Nagito says, ‘I want some tooooo,’ snatching the cup away from Yamato, it’s dripping stray strawberry syrup everywhere. 

‘You’re making a mess!’ Keiji protests.

‘As if you care—’

‘Issei, punishment is on it’s way, mark my—’

‘I want a hotdog so fucking badly,’ Kiyoomi expresses. ‘I’ve never wanted a hotdog more.’

‘Okay, I had some, let’s go into the water,’ Nagito decides, wiping his mouth happily. Issei is near tears, holding Takahiro’s arms away and still snickering under his breath.

‘I want my goddamn shaved ice!’ Takahiro bellows.    

This is probably why, he realizes, they never sit inside the beachside shop. It’s a family run, easy going sort of establishment, tatami mats and an open front overseeing the beach, for cooking and delivering food directly, the father mopping his brow and tending to the food. A teenage daughter with long hair runs around between the tables, locals gathered around plates of nitsuke and grilled unagi, workers taking lunch breaks, kids running around with floaties around their arms and flip flops, all ready for a day out in the summer. The girl’s eyes flicker across to Nagito every time she pauses by the counter to retrieve an order. He’s been looking right back, shy to a fault, hasn’t yet approached her. 

They’ve got the whole weekend, though, and Yamato keeps giving him waggling eyebrows. And he’s coming into his o wn, the last time Issei saw him he didn’t even have the little bit of fuzz creeping around his chin and jaw, and back then he’d only hung out with Kenta, who refused to come to this trip purely because he and his friends have some competition online they’re convinced they’ll win and his mother is equally convinced they’ll lose. He’d told the rest of the gang about it and Nagito had called him a little bitch, so he’s definitely not the little kid he’d been before. Takahiro had sent him a congratulatory meme of Justin Bieber.

If it comes to it, Issei’ll help the kid out, too. Of everything he knows he’s good for, reliability on being a lover has got to be near the top.

‘Get me another,’ Takahiro says, looking grave. 

Issei hooks a foot around the leg of his chair and brings him right next to himself, and says, ‘I’ll get you three if you kiss my cheek.’

‘Done,’ Takahiro says, after a pause in which Yamato stops eating, Nagito tears his gaze away from seaside store girl, and Keiji peers up from under Takahiro’s stolen white sunglasses. 

Issei looks at him and waits, looks at his eyes, daring. 

Takahiro’s face is the faintest bit mortified, but mostly he looks pleased. 

‘Go on,’ Yamato says.

Issei says, ‘Ignore him. But please. Go on.’

Takahiro kisses his cheek and Issei gets up the second those lips leave his skin.

‘You wanted a drink with that?’ he checks, half twisting around, hand already patting for a roll of cash, or any spare coins, finding Takahiro’s wallet instead. His tongue presses into his cheek, the same burning cheek Takahiro just dropped a wet kiss on like it was fucking nothing.

‘I want a slushie that’ll change the color of my tongue,’ Takahiro requests, tipping his head back and slinging himself out on the chair like drying laundry. ‘Or, no, if they have sodas I want a cream soda.’

‘If there isn’t anything good you’re getting a Sprite and you’re saying thank you,’ Issei warns, a hand dropping to ruffle his dyed hair.

‘I’ll give you another kiss if that works,’ Takahiro says sunnily, and Issei laughs, and when he’s walking away, head shaking and grin creeping up his cheeks he hears him tell the table, ‘And that’s lesson one on being smooth. Nagito, you better be taking notes, buddy.’

‘You know, there should be college level courses taught on how to handle you,’ Issei says. ‘It’s like a life skill, or something. I’d get full marks on every test. Do you act this crazy with everyone or am I just a special case?’

‘You’re the specialist,’ Takahiro says sincerely, because that answers both halves of what he said, and because he’s too busy pouring his collection of lemon seeds into Yamato’s suitcase to think of a longer response.

‘No, like, for real nuts,’ Issei mumbles. ‘Sometimes I worry for future!me.’

‘Would you fuck a me from another universe?’ Takahiro inquires, because that reminded him and he’s been meaning to ask.

‘No, of course not, unless you told me to,’ he says, exasperated as if that answer was a given. Takahiro figures it sort of was. ‘Now, are you done bullying my cousins?’

‘Yeah. Wait. Yeah. Actually no. Wait, wait, some got on Keiji’s stuff, shit,’ Takahiro mutters, scooping out lemon seeds from Keiji’s bag. It’s a nice bag. A black Adidas bag, identical to half the others, except his is actually clean.

‘How is Keiji exempt from this? Do you want him?’

Takahiro takes a minute to turn around and stare at Issei flatly for that stupid, freaky, plaintive question. ‘He’s a baby.’

‘He’s just a year younger than us, Nagito is the baby,’ Issei says, arms crossed with the kind of scowl on his face that Takahiro reckons he doesn’t even know how irritated he actually is and how much of it is exaggerated for the joke. 

He eyerolls and picks out one last seed before standing up and brushing his hands. ‘You’re so needy… No, Issei, I don’t want to fuck any of your cousins. I’m done, bee-tee-dubs. Let’s go watch a Ghibli film.’

‘We’re watching Disney’s Little Mermaid,’ Issei reminds, coming forward to palm his forehead, scowl gone and eyebrows furrowed. His fingers push back Takahiro’s bangs. ‘Are you sick? Did you just say you don’t want to fuck any of my cousins?’

‘No, I’m not, and yes, I don’t.’ Takahiro tries to look at him steady on, the way he looks at Takahiro, but they’re so close he’s going lightheaded, and also, cross eyed. ‘Can we go?’

Issei’s hand slips down, and he sweeps his thumb across Takahiro’s cheek, and he suddenly realizes how quiet the room is now. The guys must have gone out again, because it’s hushed, and there’s really no sound except that of the sea outside. It smells like salt and that heady thing Issei’s pinewood cologne becomes after half a day’s worth of sweat. 

His eyes are dark and when he looks at Takahiro from up this close, head tipped down, they’re not as low-lidded. They open up wider, dilated, focused.

‘What’re you doing,’ and it takes a second for Takahiro to realize that it’s not him that asked, it’s Issei.

‘I’m not doing anything,’ he replies, eyes fluttering half shut and skin prickling as Issei thumbs at his cheek again.

And it's true, really. He isn't. He's just stopped doing something, which was to pretend and hide and run, like some sixteen year old coward. There’s nothing like the fearlessness of seventeen—one year off from university, he’s still got time. Now he's just being very, very honest, incredibly, wildly brave. He supposes Issei isn't used to it, but really, this kind of intense reaction isn't even warranted. Takahiro thinks he just likes being dramatic. It’s gotta be all those Batman comics.

‘You’re doing something,’ Issei insists. His eyes rove over Takahiro’s face, intent and searching. He looks feverish. ‘What—’ 

‘No, I’m not,’ Takahiro says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. ‘You’re the one that’s doing something, right now. Staring at me like that.’

‘Takahiro...’ 

Issei leans in, gaze hot, and they’re really, really close, sharing exhales which makes Takahiro dizzier, like there’s something in that air, their air, and also makes him panic, in a distant sort of way, because this is not how he pictured it, so unreal in a hut by the sea with their hair still damp but they’re so close, really, his heart pounding, and Issei’s heavy lips are parted, and he’s waited so long, he’s waited forever, so if he just tilts his chin up—

‘Guys, are you coming to watch the film?’

His forehead thunks against Takahiro’s shoulder, and Takahiro breathes out a laugh. ‘Strike two.’

Then, a bit louder, ‘Yeah, we’re coming!’

A door shuts. Probably Nagito, he’s the only one that minds his own business.

‘Is this really just strike two?’ Issei says, defeatedly. Arms wind around Takahiro’s frame in a hug that is somehow petulant, Issei’s lips pouting out where they’re pressed to his neck, grumbling all the while like if he can’t—do what they were totally about to—at least he can hold Takahiro flush against him. ‘’Cause it feels like it keeps happening, Hiro.’

‘Mm.’ Takahiro presses in close too, chest to Issei’s, arms around him and fingers petting at the shorn hairs at the back of his head. He sighs a bit, reveling in his body heat, in firm muscle against him. Issei squeezes him in response. He shivers. ‘Maybe for you, buddy. I’m probably responsible for all the other strikes you’re remembering.’

‘Such a dickhead,’ Issei agrees, and they stay like that for a few, precious moments longer.

The door slams open. ‘Oi,’ Yamato says. ‘Little Mermaid time. Let’s go, girlies.’

Issei lets out a short sigh, releases Takahiro and ambles across the room to yank Yamato into a headlock and Takahiro uses their shouting and grappling distraction to turn the hallway light off and shut the door before heading out to the main room, so Yamato doesn’t see the bags out of place.

‘I don’t even fucking like Little Mermaid,’ he bitches, sitting down next to Keiji.

‘Are you lying again, Hiro-kun?’ Keiji inquires. ‘You know I can’t tell.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be some genius analyst, though?’

‘To analyze, I need expressions. You aren’t making any.’

‘You’re just not used to him,’ Issei says, dropping on the floor in front of Takahiro, hair mussed.

‘You could sound less happy about it,’ Yamato says, looking even messier, dropping onto a futon. ‘Now shut up, it’s starting.’

By the end, Kiyoomi’s eyes are half shut, Issei’s smiling wistfully and Yamato has tear stains on his cheeks. Nagito is still chewing some snack, Keiji is out like a light on Takahiro’s shoulder. The credits roll and Takahiro says for the joke of it, in falsetto, ‘I don’t get it!’ Issei drones, ‘Stoppp.’

There is a slow flurry of teeth brushing, standing crowded in front of sinks and talking with mouth’s full of foam. Yamato walks around the room while brushing and they lock him out, and Nagito chokes on his toothbrush laughing. They roll into their futons half gone already but Issei has a sleeping bag instead. He holds it open, and Takahiro crawls in readily. 

He presses a grin to Issei’s throat and it’s almost enough when Issei kisses his forehead. Not entirely, but it tides him over, and he falls asleep in minutes.

One of the cousins snore. The wooden tiles creak. Waves crash outside.

They go boating bright and early on Sunday morning.

‘I didn’t even know they let you just. Rent a boat,’ Yamato says impressedly. ‘That’s crazy.’

‘You’re such a city slicker,’ Issei replies.

‘It’s disgusting, is what he’s too nice to say,’ Takahiro adds, lilting against Issei’s side and getting caught only barely. ‘I’m not, though.’

‘See if I ever send y’all gifts from Tokyo again,’ Yamato says, because his middle name is good-natured. Takahiro loves his smile because it reminds him of Issei’s, brown skin and white teeth, lips the same heavy shape. 

Nagito, standing the youngest at fifteen and somehow still nearly of height with the brood of identical cousins, comes back towards the group with a triumphant look and a slip of paper scrunched in his tan fist, a purple ribbon on his wrist that whips in the air. ‘Guys, I did it! I rented the boat! It’s ours now!’

‘Fuck yeah, Nagitoooo!’ he crows. Kiyoomi winces like his noise level is too much.

The water is beautiful.

Flat with the barest of ripples, glittering in the sunlight, there’s almost no breeze and Takahiro’s hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. It’s clearer today than yesterday, reflecting on the water, and hotter too. It’s annoying, and he’s planning on stealing Issei’s snapback eventually.

They climb into the boat, and it’s not like how Oikawa Tooru would’ve imagined—there’s no gentle paddling and fishes leaping up to sing, and it’s not a slow ride around the water, cruising, though that’s in the plans for later in the day. They’d seen them on the walk to the speedboats, lined up in the dock, painted flat greens and blues against white that cut through the water easily, sailless and tied with fading rope knots. But somehow against the odds, the combination of it all, brotherly looks and shoving and kicking their family-way into the boat, it’s still romantic.

Issei sits next to him and Takahiro hands him a lifevest before he puts his own on and Issei hooks an arm around him instead of holding onto the seat like the others are, and Yamato twists around to make a joke and Issei’s warm, fuzzy cheek is pressed to his as the boat pushes off the rocky shore. Takahiro rubs their skin together for a second, just to feel the stubble and they share a laugh, fingers tangling. Issei’s low laughter is the sound of the sun.

His arm wraps around Takahiro’s shoulders. Issei likes that, he’s noticed—he’s got this specific way of doing it, elbow hooked around his back, palm braced at his nape, lingering and sliding up and down the knobs of his spine. It makes him feel good, to be all tucked around him, makes him feel incredible when they’re that close. Close enough that his breath is on Issei’s neck. Close enough that Takahiro feels like he could do anything.

They’re not bare skin now, but Takahiro’s still nuzzling his neck and Issei’s still snickering at a joke they haven’t said out loud.

‘There’re gonna be fireworks tonight,’ Nagito shares, passing around a packet of chips he’d found, crumpled up in his pocket from the previous day as Keiji talks to the guy who’ll drive their boat. ‘Think we could go see them?’

‘If you got invited to a party by pretty-girl Memi-chan you can just say thaaaat,’ Yamato rags, his poofy vest orange like the bandage on his chin. He’d fallen somehow, and it might’ve had to do with the lemon seeds from the bags last night but Takahiro is feigning ignorance because Issei thinks it’s funny when he pretends.

Nagito’s scowling. ‘She said I can invite you guys if I want but I don’t want that. Her name is Umemi.’

‘Memi-chan,’ Takahiro says, beaming. It’s similar to his sister’s name, so he loves her in the way you can only love a stranger for doing nothing in particular. Plus it’s sweet to see a shy kid like Nagito feeling love in the summer, her purple hair ribbon tied around his forearm. Plum like the gardens, they’d seen them on the drive to the sea but hadn’t time to visit, following Keiji’s strict itinerary. He’s gonna drag Issei to a flower festival, his mother will probably know when those happen. 

Keiji turns around and fits himself into the seat nearest to the driver’s, and the man, wearing a fisher-style hat frontwards with some Pokémon he’s never seen before printed in groovy colors, surveys them, pausing at Takahiro’s hair and says, sardonic, ‘You guys look like a boyband.’

Yamato busts out laughing—Issei knocks his head against Takahiro’s and mumbles, ‘We’re the ones chasing gay rumors.’

‘You mean gay rumors are chasing us?’ Takahiro inquires, but Issei looks him in the eye, one brow cocked and says, ‘C’mon,’ and Takahiro breaks out in a grin, wide and he steals Issei’s hat. It’s not the new one they’d got at the shopping street last month, it’s this old one he first saw back when they were fifteen and Issei used to write down jokes in the margins while they bent their heads over the same page of math formulas in their shared study period on the rare day they didn’t sneak onto the roof instead—Issei would bring that hat in his enamel-lacking black bag and they’d both take absurd pleasure in turning it around at dramatic moments like Satoshi Pokémon when he’d get real serious mid-battle.

Issei had preferred the loud kid in the manga—Takahiro had preferred the avatar in the games, sixty four to sixty four pixels maximum. They still argue about which character is better.

Presently, he turns it around backwards, like they used to, and Issei laughs and says, ‘Oh, you’re doing the—’ before he can even pull the face and Takahiro says, overjoyed, ‘Exactly, god, you always get me—’ and then Yamato finishes small talk with the speedboat driver and says, ‘Aww, yeah, the boat’s starting!’  

They hurtle into the water. 

Issei claps a hand down on the hat so it doesn’t fly off and Nagito yells out his joy and the sun is bright, bright in the sky. The wind veers as the boat turns at an angle and their fingers are still tightly knotted, like the bigger boats to the dock, like the one in his throat when he sees Issei’s bright eyes, crinkled edges and they slip their hands into the water as they whiz along it, leaving a wave of flying, spritzing foam in their wake. Issei’s arm is still hooked around his neck by the end of it.

‘Let’s go again,’ says someone, and they go again.

Takahiro’s laughter reverberates through him from their hands, fingers interlaced tightly and wrist pressed to wrist. Issei tugs him in with the other hand so they’re facing each other and catches him when he flails, still laughing and that’s when the wave crashes in against them.

‘Oh my god,’ Takahiro says, hair soaked. His eyes are blown wide open, aglow. ‘This is way fucking better than when we go to Oikawa’s pool.’

‘You’re just a dirty thrillseeker,’ Issei accuses mildly. ‘Brace yourself, here’s another—’ 

They cling, is what they do. Takahiro shivers against him and Issei shivers right back, and the water isn’t even that cold.

Takahiro splutters a bit, snickering for no good reason not that he really ever needs one, Issei could listen to that sound on permanent loop even if it was just a recording—he rubs his jaw and mouth against Issei’s throat like he’s wiping the water off against the blanket of hair there. ‘So you’re saying the pool’s better than the fucking ocean?’ 

‘I’m saying it’s a ritual, and that comparisons never work.’

‘The Aoba Johsai pool isn’t even Olympic sized, principal-san is cheap. He’s a cheapskate.’

‘You’re always cheep-cheeping. It doesn’t have to be Olympic sized to be my favorite body of water.’

‘That bird joke again… You’re my least favorite body.’

Issei squeezes his waist. ‘You need at least thirty percent of me to survive.’

‘God, it’s so cold,’ Takahiro whispers. ‘It’s so good.’

‘Birdie, you’re not even listening to me,’ Issei tells him all doleful-like, though the effect is waylaid when he has to half-shout it into Takahiro’s hair to be heard and the next wave sweeps them out farther than they should go, the lined up resort huts and beach tables with their closed tulip umbrellas looking so far off, and Takahiro shrieks at Issei slipping his fingers into the waistband of his pink swim trunks. The sea is roaring so loudly that he’s almost drowned out, too.

‘What’re you doing?!’

‘I’m just getting a good grip, shit, are you tryin’ to get lost in the sea? There’s rocks out here, you know?’

‘Your hand is in my shorts,’ Takahiro says, disbelieving. Issei digs his fingers in deeper against his skin to prove a point. It’s so dark, sun long set, somewhere around two A.M with the guys long gone back to their rented rooms on the higher shore, and Issei wonders if they’ll find their slippers when they make their way back. He doesn’t even have his phone on him, but Takahiro is the moment Issei is hung up on, and he doesn’t want to let him pass on by.

It’s not daunting, more and more waves crashing foam white and dark, endless blue against them, just the two of them all alone on the tideline. Each roar of water brings them closer together, feet apart and holding firm against the shifting sands and Takahiro’s arms are wrapped so securely around him, his long fingers tight against the meat above Issei’s bicep, chin hooking over Issei’s shoulder and head tipping up, and he says, awed, ‘This next one’s huge.’

It shakes them, and Takahiro says an overly scandalized, ‘Issei,’ when Issei’s hand slips lower in all the haphazard confusion of limbs and saltwater and yelling.

His thumb rests up high on the absolute almost curve of Takahiro’s asscheek, fingers digging into where ass turns to thigh. His chest is shaking with laughter. 

‘I’m gonna fucking get you,’ Takahiro threatens wildly, hysterically, and Issei is planning to yank him up and run away from the next wave because they really have gone too far deep now, water threatening to shoulder level, elbows deep in the ocean but Takahiro’s fingers shove into his trunks and now he’s shouting as water absolutely floods his pants. ‘Taka hiro!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, is this bothering you, lover,’ he says, tongue rolling, and it is buckwild insane what it does to Issei’s head when Takahiro stretches out soooorry sweet and overlong and then breathes lover on the exhale of his soft, cold nightbreath right into Issei’s ear.

Issei’s turning his head down, completely and utterly breathless, heart pounding and, for the thousandth time, about to try and kiss him in a moment of heavensent hellbound courage when the next wave crashes in and then he’s spitting out a mouthful of water like a soggy dog. 

Takahiro is screaming a hoarse, extended sound of pure love-joy that continues over his shoulder and echoes in his ear as Issei gathers him up in his arms and makes a dignified break for the sand. 

They slip and fall majestically when the water’s only up to their mid-calves, bodies tumbling to itchy grain that looks blue this late at night and Takahiro’s already groaning in pain beneath him when their heads thunk against each other, painful. ‘This isn’t remotely romantic,’ he complains. 

‘My ass probably has coral reef growing in it because of you,’ Issei informs him, rubbing Takahiro’s forehead first and then his own. 

‘Reeves, I’m real sure. Let’s go back in,’ Takahiro requests, neck arching as he stretches up for Issei, to grab ahold of him, to pull him in closer. Issei’s mouth is to that same, soaked neck, tasting like salt, and everything tastes like salt, even the air, but when he turns his head, the breath he shares with Takahiro is still somehow candy sweet, sun warm.

‘Give my knees a minute. It was so hard making sure we didn’t fall into a wave.’

‘I was doing all the work with my rock solid legs while you stood there molesting me,’ Takahiro says. ‘You’re a sinner and I’m a holy man.’

‘You don’t even believe in God,’ Issei says, half a complaint, and then Takahiro interrupts him before he can continue on with anyway, I was the one doing all the work, or maybe I’ll show you molesting by saying something that turns his cold blood steaming and makes his spine straighten. ‘We should do it naked this time.’

‘We,’ Issei says faintly. ‘What—?’ 

His elbows give out.

Takahiro gets a fist in his hair and lifts him by the reeling head. Noses up along his cheek. ‘Naked.’

That makes him fucking shiver. Issei shoves him down and says again, near panting with the stress of it all, ‘What?’

The words vibrate in his head, in his familiar drawling voice, naked naked naked we should do it— 

‘Skinny dipping, remember?’ Takahiro says. Little eyebrows raised, lips spread in a delighted smile, barely visible but all he can see. ‘Just us, in the dark..’

Making sparks, his head completes.

Issei is terrified his heart is going to spill out of his ears, with how heavy it’s weighing on his chest right now. His tongue feels thick, and his brain feels liquid, and Takahiro beneath him feels like a daydream even though it’s long past midnight, fireworks faded, truth in his vision. He’s always believed, sort of trusted in the simple fact that he’s thought about it so much that if real life ever swung its impossible way around, his fantasies would straighten his back and he’d know what to say and Takahiro would call him smooth. Romantic, maybe.

Instead, Takahiro is right here between his legs on the sand and the wind blows his soaked curls out of his eyes to let Takahiro see him, Issei just knows he’s seeing everything right now.

‘Just us,’ he says again, voice soft like the round of a peach.

Issei echoes, like repeat after me calm-down methodology, ‘Just us.’

The wind flicks sheets of water up against their bare backs, the tide rushes up into their tangled legs. There’s sand gritty between his toes. Takahiro combs his fingers into Issei’s hair, at his crown, keeping his bangs out of his face like he’s a gale brought to life. Like Issei’s eyes are something he wants to see. Issei swallows past his tongue, still overlarge, past the nebulous lump in his throat. 

‘You do want to go in w’me,’ Takahiro says after a moment, almost hesitant. He pauses again, eyes dark with something unreadable as he searches Issei’s face. ‘..Don’t you?’

He scoffs a soft, breathless laugh, shaking his head at what that makes him feel. He has to be joking. Says into the lull between waves crashing, ‘Takahiro, I want it.’ 

Unbidden, Issei’s hand slides down back to where it was before, back in the water, cupping at his hip way too low to be read as anything but what it is. His other hand in Takahiro’s hair, steadying thumb behind his ear and pushing his head up closer. 

‘Believe me,’ he tells him, serious, ‘I want it.’

Takahiro breaks out in a slow, relieved smile, like he’d actually thought—like he’d worried about it. About Issei wanting him.

‘Good,’ he replies, satisfied. ‘Race ya there.’ 

He kicks out and shoves up, lips landing a brief kiss on Issei’s cheek dangerously low before he’s running off, kicking water into Issei’s eyes, leaving him in the dust and tossing his shorts out behind his shoulder. They smack wet against Issei’s face. He groans up at the night sky, a thousand brilliant stars winking above him to the heartstopping sound of Takahiro’s fading laughter.

‘Have you ever wanted to just leave?’ Takahiro asks. Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘I think about it a lot.’

(Issei’s hand, which had been inching towards his for the past three, maybe four minutes, stops in place. Takahiro doesn’t notice.)

‘What does that mean.’

It means a lot of things. 

It means Takahiro feels maudlin, sometimes. To the world, straight faced. To Issei, a smile threatening to crack through. To his mother, unprepared for anything beyond just this.

He’d had to talk her into the trip, called it a half volleyball thing, though really it’s a break from sports. She’d relented at the mention of younger teens, Keiji and Nagito, misbelieving they’d never really be alone together but if you think about it, Takahiro’s been sneaking moments since he was fifteen.

She’s strict on all of them, coddling almost, because she’s a single parent and that’s hard. He knows Sakura is an old hand at lying by now and half Takahiro’s skill at it comes from this, from avoiding difficult conversations with his mother. She would rather he stay at home, in Miyagi, and get a cushy job behind a desk, or otherwise behind the counter of her flowershop. Takahiro would rather be anybody else, and especially in the summer, when the sky is open blue instead of walled up or the ceiling of a train, he just gets the urge to move, to shift, to fall backwards into that blue. 

And there’s things he knows well, like the sports he plays, like easy cooking for college prep, like the bottle caps in Issei’s collection from last winter, like the identical bowls at every branch of his favorite ramen place, and the recipe for profiteroles and eclairs because those are the most convenient, the easiest, though he’s never succeeded—he knows the scars on his knee, the amount of mosquito bites he currently has, the different prices his hair dye of choice has cost depending on inflation and box-size. He knows a few constellations.

He knows Issei. Issei would never hurt him.  These are the things he can take with him when he goes. Because Takahiro knows he’s going to go. 

Something always has to change for things to move on, and his mother won’t but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t. He’s the change, and he’s going to move on, and the world will keep spinning.

And he just—he really just needs Issei to understand. He thinks Issei could, though. He thinks Issei will. 

To him, Issei is like the golden light in a bedroom window on a stonewall building at blue hour. Just gone sunset, twilight settling in and the whole sky pure lover’s blue, the kind a lover feels of all they are that isn’t in love, which is the warm bedroom light. The light of waking up early and flickering on a lamp, or the light of pulling your bed sheets up to your chin before you shut it off.

Presently it’s golden hour, and he blinks his stinging eyes away from the sun, ducking his head low and swinging his legs over the cliffside. It looks like Issei’s eyes. Issei clicks his tongue very faintly and takes off his own black sunglasses to prop them on Takahiro’s face, where they itch his burnt nose but the shade is a relief.

He turns his head at Issei, who’s watching the waves peacefully. 

His heart hurts a bit looking at him. He half wants to ask if Issei would like to stay here with him, in Iwaki. If they could go on an extended vacation of a gap year, just hanging out. At the seaside, or maybe they’d get bored and move on to bigger things like mountains, like rock climbing, or maybe they could go abroad, get a flight to somewhere like Australia, that impossible land, or Europe where everyone goes to backpack and live in hotels together, or just drive. Take the car and go. His cousins can fend for their own damn selves. Tooru can take home the internationals and Hajime can have America, and they’ll have the rest of the world left over. Minibars and balconies. The town and the city.

But Takahiro felt like this back home, too. And he feels like this at school, and on the train, and in parks and parking lots. As long as Issei’s around, he’s always going to feel like leaving. To take what he needs and go, because it’s right there, stretched out for him. A craggy horizon. Nebulas above.

And this is the wondrous, terrible thought, on leaving. If I leave, you’ll come too, won’t you?

Sometimes, Issei is unknowable to him. This is one of life’s hardest lessons, one he’s yet to accept, that someone who he feels naked and flayed open under the gaze of could be such a mystery and such a familiar warm light at once. So he doesn’t know, in the end. 

It’s too big for him to grasp at and try to work open. Takahiro often thinks he could’ve joined the track team, the way he runs. But the volleyball gym is where he and Issei developed complicated language together.

He tries to use this language.

‘I don’t,’ he starts, then stops, frustrated. Tries again, ‘I don’t know if I can really..’

Issei’s fingers find his before he can expel another awful sigh. He looks at him again, and this time Issei’s looking back. Steady, like how the tide is steady. His hand folds over Takahiro’s, fitted over his knuckles, thumb stroking at his skin. 

‘I know, Hiro,’ he says. 

Issei looks—solemn, which would be strange but that’s him. Steady gaze, soft mouth, warmth in the lines of his face. His curved in posture, his eyebrows, at ease. 

Takahiro feels at ease too, then. Issei knows, without saying. Because that’s really what they’re all about—not having to say the words. 

They lean against each other and Takahiron watches the sunrise, and now it’s just a sunrise. No glimmering metaphor or fraught hidden symbol.

(Beside him, Issei’s free hand clenches.

The waves crash evenly over the sand and take a little bit back, every time, and so the cycle goes.)

Chapter Text

Issei runs into the net fifteen times at practice. He knows because that bastard first year Kunimi keeps a count of it and mouths shit like NUMBER TWELVE! NUMBER THIRTEEN! FOURTEEN AND RISING every time he catches Issei’s eye. He’s such a little fucktard. 

‘So how was the trip?’ Yuda asks, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, an empty bottle of Pocari Sweat in his other hand.

Issei shoulders off his shirt, thinks of rubbing sunscreen onto pale shoulders, his cousins ragging him every time they were alone, and Takahiro carefully burying his new flip flops in the sand. Thinks of the honey-lemon morning sun and how his fate has been sealed. ‘Good.’

‘It was sooo great, Kaneo, we played beach volleyball which I suck at but I didn’t even give a fuck because Issei’s little cousin is such a legend at receives, and his other cousin is a way better spiker than Hajime,’ Takahiro says, appearing next to him like a demon, head resting against Issei’s shoulder like an even worse demon. His hair tickles Issei’s jaw, sharp and fuzzy-soft. ‘Like he beat our fucking asses, I hope he wins at nationals.’

‘Bruh,’ Heisuke deadpans, a word he picked up from Takahiro.

‘Bruh,’ Motomu echoes, appalled. He picked it up from being Issei’s seatmate.

‘Hanamaki Takahiro! That is a horrible thing to say!’ Tooru cries out, clutching his socks to his bare chest in outrage.

‘Get your moldy socks away from your tits,’ Takahiro advises, yanking the collar of a monotone Skelanimals tee down over his head. Issei tries not to have a meltdown when he realizes that’s definitely from his closet. ‘And you broke the bruh chain, say sorry.’

‘The day Oikawa says bruh is the day I jump off the third floor,’ Hajime says, slamming his locker shut and narrowing his eyes at Issei. ‘Oi. Where’d you guys hide my pants.’

Everyone glances down at his exposed knees and starts snickering. While Issei and Takahiro had been gone, Hajime had shaved his calves for ‘muscle definition’ and now there’s a distinct line of hair to no hair. Yuda ends up wiping tears and giggling the word ‘GOOFY!’ whenever he remembers.

‘What pants?’ he says, aloof.

Hajime’s eye twitches. ‘Matsukawa, so help me god—’

Issei holds his hands out, dropping the aloof for appeasing which often serves him just as well, ‘Hey, okay, why’re you looking at me, it was obviously—’  

‘You’re Hanamaki’s scapegoat,’ Hajime says matter-of-factly. ‘So are they in your bag or your locker.’

Motomu laughs loudly. ‘Shit, the accuracy!’

Next to him, Takahiro turns full body to stare up at a slightly defeated, slightly delighted Issei, himself being absolutely horrified. ‘Issei, oh my god. Am I predictable?’

Issei wraps a comforting arm around his waist and pulls them flush, Takahiro’s frame bouncing into his side with the movement, and croons into his cheek, ‘Of course not, sweetheart, you’re different every day.’

Hajime throws a shoe at them, and then another, and Takahiro shouts a laugh as he ducks, yanking Issei along with a hand clasped around his wrist. They curve like a cartoon behind one of the benches. ‘In his bag, in his bag, holy shit! Aggression, Iwa -chan!’

A third shoe, somehow. ‘Don’t call me that, douchebag!’

After the clean up is done and the gym locked up, goodbyes and heckling in equal hollered out to Mizoguchi and his girlfriend as they get into a baby blue Nissan, because everyone else likes saying goodbye and Takahiro has a lot of heckling to give, they go with the rest of the third years to the bougie gelato place where in their absence, Yuda has somehow wrangled himself a job. 

He is as mystified as the rest of them, perhaps more.

‘Kouta at the ice cream truck is furious,’ Motomu reports gleefully. Issei doesn’t doubt it.

They crowd against the counter, all the third years and a scowling Kyoutani, who’s eggplant eyeliner is smudged over his cheek but Issei is silently hoping no one tells him about it. Watari and Yahaba are tucked under a creamy umbrella at a round wooden table outside with a terribly stressed Tooru scribbling overcomplicated orders on his palm like he’s the waiter.

‘Ooh, Yuda, he’s coming for your gig,’ Takahiro crows as he comes strolling back up to them, door swinging behind him as he mutters at the ink crawling up his hand onto his arm.

‘Watch out guys, Waitooru’s on the loose,’ Issei jeers. That’s objectively terrible but still gets him a peal of laughter, reverberating through their little group in shoulder shoves and arm slaps. 

Tooru scowls at him, then lays his inked hand on his chest, insufferably fake in his earnesty. ‘Yudacchi, just ignore these bozos. I would never steal anyone’s job, and it must be another universe where I would ever do something like that to you of all people, my dear friend.’

‘Oikawa just said bozos,’ Takahiro says softly, and Motomu claps a hand on his mouth, head ducking as his shoulders shake.

‘What, are you in love with him or something?’ Hajime says.

Tooru sputters, hand dropping and amazingly, there’s clear inkjet blue text all over his shirt, a mangled mango smoothie three toppings red sprinkles on the left and so on. Heisuke snorts. ‘What the hell, Iwa-chan, no!’

Dubious and squinting, ‘’Cause you sure sound in love with him.’

‘Oh my god, I’m not in love with Yuda!!’

‘Hey, tone!’ Yuda tosses a sugar packet at him and frowns. ‘Don’t sound so insulted, I’m a catch.’

Takahiro laughs again, loud and open mouthed, and Heisuke’s gripping the counter for balance, snickering helplessly. ‘Good on you, Kaneo, self respect—’  

‘Yudafuckin’man,’ Issei tells him in English, and Takahiro slaps his shoulder, red in the face and groaning, ‘Stop!’

‘Matsukawa got funnier over the weekend,’ Heisuke wheezes.

‘Dude, remember first year when Makki and Matsu would like, try and fight each other over who’s funnier?’ Motomu says, grinning up at nowhere in particular. The classic wood based interior and flat white ceiling is nothing much to look at. ‘The golden days, man.’

‘I didn’t know it was possible for all the first years except Oikawa and Iwa to get kicked out the gym,’ Takahiro admits. ‘I would’ve bet my life savings on the opposite.’

‘That’s because you enjoy gambling as a concept,’ Issei tells him.

‘I remember that day!’ Tooru says, spinning away from Hajime, who’s jaw ticks at his stolen attention. Couldn’t be Issei, Takahiro is glued to his side. 

‘So does everybody else,’ Heisuke says flatly. ‘We were locked out in the sun for hours. I had to burn that t-shirt.’

‘’s ‘cause he always reeks,’ Issei mumbles right in his ear, barely moving his lips. Takahiro stifles a laugh and tugs his belt hook, like, shut up.

‘Okay, no, you guys left school premises twenty minutes into what was supposed to be a punishment,’ Tooru scoffs superiorly. ‘All because Mattsun and Makki had some weird friendship mating ritual over who can make Yudacchi snort the most Pocari.’

‘I nearly died that day,’ Yuda says solemnly. His freckled nose flares, and his lips twitch, and he mumbles, ‘Oh, but it would’ve been for a good cause..’

‘I don’t even remember what we said,’ Takahiro admits, half-turning to Issei, warm, still red skin catching the light. ‘What was the—’ 

Issei tilts his head, looking down at him. ‘The like, premise of it, I think was—’

‘Something to do with the Pocari?’ Motomu says doubtfully. ‘Or am I just—’

‘You’re just focusing too much on the Pocari,’ Takahiro assures, a hand tugging lightly, languidly at the back of Issei’s collar. ‘Eh, I think it was actually so contextual, so, like, specific to that day and the time period that we just won’t be able to remember.’

‘You had to be there,’ Issei agrees stoutly.

‘You assholes just refuse to publicly admit it was about me,’ Hajime complains with his arms crossed, inciting another chorus of laughter. ‘Just fucking say it, you’re always going on about me and the shit I do and how it’s so different. I’m normal, you guys are just weird.’

‘You shaved your calves!’ Takahiro says, voice shaking with laughter. ‘For the definition!’

‘It gets in the way!’ he protests heatedly, arms unfolding and fingers splaying out of frustration, vein throbbing, and then cuts himself off, teeth gritted, ‘Nah, who am I kidding, you and your noodle arms—’

‘Enough about my noodle arms,’ Takahiro warns with a pointy finger. ‘I’ll tell Oikawa what you said about his eyelashes.’

Tooru whirls around from where he and Heisuke were peering at the menu. ‘Positive or negative?’

Yuda is staring. ‘What does he mean, gets in the way? It’s hair.’

‘POSITIVE OR NEGATIVE!’ Tooru shouts.

‘You’re positively evil,’ Motomu comments, wincing. ‘We are in public, man.’

‘You need to step away from the puns,’ Issei critiques. ‘Then you’ll actually get somewhere. Where’s the timing, the control, the attention to detail—’

‘This is like first year,’ Heisuke mutters. ‘The in depth discussions y’all would have immediately after a two hour fucking, Fukurodani practice match, my bones aching, the whole bus ride back—’

‘It was so fun,’ Takahiro reminisces, because he misses Fukurodani practice matches. He likes Akinori Konoha too much, in Issei’s opinion—but he has yet to reply to Akinori's comments on his Facebook posts, which means he can’t be that important. ‘Issei made a Powerpoint about the joke scene in Japan the last night of finals week first year and he emailed that to his English teacher instead of his final essay. Because it was titled most important document of all in his document folder.’

‘That was the title?’ Yuda says, eyes wide. ‘That’s stupid .’

‘That's hilarious,’ Takahiro says.

‘Sorry if me and the rest of planet fucking Earth don’t consider comedy as the fourth pillar of society,’ Motomu’s bitching. ‘Our collective bad! This guy thinks he’s Robin fucking Williams.’

‘The only reason you know he exists is me and my essays on comedy as the fourth pillar of society,’ Issei points out. Motomu lets loose a groan of rage that’s probably been warming up since first year ended. Heisuke has a hand clasped on his mouth, shoulders trembling.

‘Full of typos,’ Tooru says darkly. ‘It was such a pain, reading through that.’

‘He’s just mad he’s not as funny as you,’ Takahiro comforts, that hand still petting his nape. Issei leans into it like a cat, grinning at Motomu, who’s shaking his head, pissed off while Hajime frowns at Tooru and says, ‘So why’d you read it?’

‘Well, Iwa-chan, I for one actually care about my friend’s interests—’

‘—bastard son of a bitch, volleyball!?’ he demands, threateningly harsh. ‘Remember that?! Your obsession that I cared about when we were six?’

‘So much has changed but your knees have not,’ Tooru replies neatly.

‘What are the other three pillars?’ Yuda wonders, chin in his hands, head flopping to the side, feet practically kicking.

A cool voice calls out, ‘Yuda-san, please get back to work.’

He goes bloodless so fast Takahiro practically keels over with the force of his guffaw. Issei grabs him, though, carries his weight and laughs along till they’re ushered out. 

At the table, Yuda has managed to wrangle himself a half hour break after apologizing profusely to his manager, and he’s still looking around all panicked at the window when they sit down. Heisuke’s hooked an arm around his neck and he’s saying, all encouraging, ‘Cm’aaawn, Yudacchi, it’s not like they’re gonna fire you man, chill it.’

‘Why wouldn’t they?’ he says, miserable, freckles looking like they’ll melt off. ‘My first week and I’m already a public disgrace.’

Takahiro’s peering contemplatively at the large chunk of fruit in Tooru’s berry ice cream, but lifts a finger to wag it and say, ‘Ahh, Yudacchi, self pity doesn’t go with your complexion, ah?’

‘Your me impression doesn’t go with yours,’ Tooru says, before pointedly biting down on the fruity piece. At this, Takahiro’s mouth falls open in shock and betrayal.

‘He grew up while I was away!’ he says, astounded.

‘He doesn’t even like that shit,’ Issei says, impressed.

‘Because he’s a heathen with food.’

‘Oikawa’s just a heathen in general,’ Hajime says nonchalantly.

Toory swallows queasily, and says, ‘It messes with the cream, you just don’t get it, any of you. And Iwa-chan, will you shut up?!’

‘Stop telling me to shut up, you shut up!’

Takahiro stares dolefully at Hajime’s ice cream instead. Hajime hasn’t noticed because he’s in a shut up contest with Tooru for what is the seventh time today but Issei probably has, because he notices everything. He’s also kind of just waiting for this to be over because he wants more of the gelato, which he can’t have until the rest leave. It’s about having principles, according to Oikawa. One scoop is one thing in the heat of the summer—two would be supporting an evil business. It’s lucky, Takahiro decides, that he doesn’t have principles. Or very few as it were.

The principles in action; they have all ordered cones out of respect for Kouta from the ice cream truck, who hates the bougie gelato in it’s bougie gelato cups from the bougie gelato place more than Issei hates Tendou from Shiratorizawa.

‘And Matsu hates Tendou from Shiratorizawa with like, the fury of hell, man,’ Motomu says. ‘So that’s saying a lot.’

‘I don’t, okay, hate,’ Issei says, hand on his chin, thoughtful. ‘Now hate, see, is a strong word. What is hate, in the end?’

‘If I show you a picture of Tendou from Shiratorizawa, your blood pressure will rise,’ Takahiro says assuredly.

There’s a telling pause, in which Motomu raises his eyebrows pointedly. 

Issei says, a bit mulish but a bit reasonable, ‘Well, that’s just because I don’t like the guy.’ 

‘So chill,’ Motomu concedes admiringly, reaching out for a fistbump that Issei gruffly returns. So cute, Takahiro thinks. He’s adorable, with that divot under his chin baring his irritation only just. His nose is slightly scrunched, only for a moment.

‘The real question,’ Heisuke says, pointing at him with his spoon. ‘Is why does Hanamaki have a picture of Tendou from Shiratorizawa in the first place?’

Issei’s arm is stretched out behind Takahiro’s back and at this it drops around his shoulders and he nudges him. ‘Answer.’

‘Now who is Tendou from Shiratorizawa, in the end?’ Takahiro says, playing with his straw and sort of luxuriating in the feeling of Issei’s overly warm forearm against the side of his heat sticky neck. And Issei’s been staring all day so it just feels right.

‘Can you all stop talking about Shiratorizawa?’ Hajime says, stretching his legs out under the table, bumping into every pair of feet and effectively reminding the gang what his shaved calves look like right now. Everyone except Tooru grins. ‘It’s my day off.’

‘Day off on hating Shiratorizawa, that’s not the dedication to the job I was promised,’ Takahiro says immediately. ‘Isn’t that right, Issei?’

‘You’re getting away with it now but I’ll be asking again later,’ Issei warns, and leaves his arm there which means Takahiro wins.

‘Okay, that’s so domestic,’ Watari says, sudden. ‘Way too domestic for two dudes who are just friends.’

Takahiro looks around at that. There are too many curious faces for his liking. Even Kyoutani is staring him dead in the eye, half his cone in his mouth. He’s chewing viciously.

Issei’s face is flat. ‘What is this.’

‘An intervention?’ Takahiro guesses, tickled despite the crawling feeling under his skin at the idea of talking about it in front of the damn kids. He’s not sure if he should shuffle closer to Issei or away.

‘Yes,’ Tooru confirms, eyes narrow. ‘Make a statement if you’re brave enough, Makki.’

‘He will for your ice cream. Ah, you ate it already didn’t you,’ Issei says, clicking his tongue. The mood lightens a tad and Hajime rolls his eyes.

‘I told you guys we should’ve gotten one of them alone,’ Watari says sourly.

‘Goddammit, Oikawa.’

‘Oh, come on!’ Tooru protests.

‘It’s just too bad, Oikawa. I would’ve really spilled the beans if you hadn’t done that,’ Takahiro says, shaking his head. 

‘If only you’d been less selfish,’ Issei hums, head tilted.

‘You guys are so boring!’ Yahaba laments, hands curled over his forehead in a groan. ‘We used to have drama in the club room, you know, and you would double it, make it funnier—last year with Tao-senpai and his two timing girlfriend, man. We used to have lives. Now you won’t even spill the beans about this one little thing.’

‘Sorry, I guess,’ Takahiro offers. ‘In our defense… Issei, defend us.’

‘Oikawa just doesn’t foster a fun work environment,’ Issei says obligingly. ‘He’s like Mr Brain.’

Motomu chokes, and then laughs, and Heisuke manages, ‘Takahiro, reel him in.’  

Takahiro drones, ‘Issei, stop being soooo funny,’ with his cheek rubbing against Issei’s arm to confirm he couldn’t mean it less. Issei nudges him and he jostles, almost smiles.

‘Stop being so rude,’ Hajime says, ever loyal. ‘That guy is awful. My mom threw a vase at the TV one time.’

‘My mom threw the remote,’ Watari says.

‘My mom threw two vases and the remote,’ Issei says offhandedly, and holds his typical steadfast eye contact with Hajime— ‘I guess she wins, against your moms.’

‘You’re so funny,’ Takahiro tells him, unable to pretend anymore. He feels like his eyes must be hearts right now. ‘Literally so funny.’

‘He’s just meaner today,’ Tooru says balefully, brown eyes hateful. ‘Even though he knows I could make or break his shit Japanese History grade.’

‘It’s summer,’ Yuda pleads. 

‘It’s hot and our ice creams are melting,’ Motomu says, and everyone takes a long lick on reflex.

It’s not too hot. Takahiro just feels a bit grimy from practice despite showering off as much filth as he could. Issei had been next to him and kept knocking their naked shoulders together, bumping into his arm to borrow the soap, sliding his fingers against Takahiro’s back. Takahiro had kicked him and they’d had to grab hold of each other’s slippery, foamy forearms so they wouldn’t slip and fall and die, and Issei had been snickering under his breath but Takahiro had been breathless. Issei naked. Issei touching him. Issei naked and touching him— 

‘Yo. Lick my nuts?’ Issei offers, holding his untouched ice cream out, decorated with crushed pistachios.

Yuda bursts out laughing. Heisuke has his face buried in his forearms. ‘God, damn it,’ Motomu says.

Takahiro leans forward and licks half the crushed nuts off his cone, letting his lips seal around it before he’s licking them, crunching some of the nuts and humming at the pistachio taste. It’s good. Not as good as his own ice cream.

Issei stares at him, eyebrows drawn together and distraught, just absolutely tormented. Takahiro grins, jaunty yet winsome.

‘I changed my mind, I want them back,’ Issei says, dead serious.

It’s Takahiro’s turn to laugh, so hard he almost chokes on the few nuts he hasn’t chewed and swallowed yet. He spits out one big piece at the side of Issei’s plate, and Issei stops it from bouncing out to the side with his thumb. Tooru makes some noise about how gross they are, and Yahaba is actively grimacing, Kyoutani is in an argument with Motomu about whether he can leave or not and he’s calling Motomu a boring bastard of a side character.

Takahiro must be crazy, because he can barely hear anything else, trying not to melt as he stares at Issei pocketing the little broken nut. His eyes flick up and catch Issei, tongue in cheek. He tries to express with his eyes how absolutely deranged Issei is.

Issei raises an eyebrow. ‘Problem?’ he asks, cool as you please.

Takahiro shakes his head, flushed and flustered. ‘Many.’ 

He focuses on his own cherry topped vanilla and remembers in May when they skipped Friday classes to board the morning train to Tokyo in their uniforms, changing in between stops with their bags lightweight and they’d hung out all day at Issei’s uncle and aunt’s, the twins running around underfoot, and Yamato had offered to cut up fruit for them but Issei had just chosen the pale porcelain bowl of cherries. Fed him one after the other, juice dripping, had talked stoically about keeping the seeds as keepsakes. Takahiro had shoved him away and played five rounds of Mario Kart to cool himself down but suddenly he wants it again, wants to keep going and kiss Issei’s fingers and ask if he still has the seeds, too—

And suddenly they’re walking home and Takahiron realizes he could, if he wanted to. He could push till that. Till they’re kissing.

He’s thinking, Yeah, it’s too hot today, but he’ll cross the line soon. 

It’s no excuse, it’s really too hot today. Issei passes him the cute and perspiring paper cup of strawberry gelato, bought after everyone had left so no one would report his greed back to Kouta from the ice cream truck and Takahiro shovels half of it down. The clouds are gathering and it’s crazy humid. They walk past the morning market and Issei is talking aimlessly about the old guy he gets lettuce from when he suddenly stops mid sentence.

‘Oh,’ Issei says, and his bent neck unfolds and he glances upwards, forehead creasing into strong lines. ‘It’s raining, I think.’

Takahiro stops staring at the gravel and looks at him and then the looming sky.

Three cool drops hit him on his cheeks, one by one. 

‘Wow,’ he utters. Stupefied. 

By the time they reach home he’s shivering, half from his wet clothes but mostly from Issei next to him and the feeling that even the universe is conspiring to get them together.

Chapter Text

They’ve reverted back to their regularly scheduled programming within the first 48 hours.

Wake up. Volleyball. Drink water. Try to make sure Takahiro drinks enough water. Fail, probably. Volleyball. Suffer through Takahiro throwing things at him to get his attention because Issei likes ignoring him to see how many things he’ll throw. Relent and chase after him while he laughs. Go home. Fuck around. Go to sleep. Wake up. Volleyball.

Not today. Routine is really them, but even more of a thing they do, an Issei-and-Hiroism, is their joint longing to escape routine, together, go as far as they can like it’s a game, seeing how far away they can run until they’re dragged back by the collars by the two hands of real life. They went to morning practice, and afterward Takahiro confided in Issei’s ear, blue veiny hand cupped around his mouth and everything, that he is terribly, deathly sick of the park where the team is forced to meet, every day. It has a weird smell, apparently. Issei had turned and whispered in the same secretive fifth grader fashion, that’s just Iwa. Takahiro had fucking guffawed.

So today, instead of joining the rest of the third years for froyo or ramen or a conbini run and more fucking volleyball, today, he watches as Takahiro hops the football field fence.

Hops is a strong word though.

Issei hurls their lightweight bags over the chain link and then rolls down his black Puma socks, picks up Takahiro’s shoes and aims high, tucks his socks inside his shoes and tosses those, too.

When he’s done, and standing back, squinting against midday heat, Takahiro is still slipping down the criss cross wire, which is unfortunate. More fortunate is that his gym shorts are slipping too, with every terrible grab at the wire. His socked feet just won’t stick inside the grooves.

‘You realize the issue?’

‘I don’t want to show you my toes for free,’ Takahiro complains, tipping his head back.

‘Is that a serious statement?’ Issei says dubiously, and his ears heat up, like they always do when Takahiro is a bit mean. He stuffs his hands in his pockets though, frowning. He was under the impression Takahiro was flirting, this summer. ‘I’ve seen everything there is to see, Hiro.’

‘You haven’t seen my dick,’ he retorts, slipping once more. His hands tighten on the wire and it sways, creaks against the hard metal railing holding it together. It seems in times of duress his character—or rather his ideals, revert. Back to square one, when he’d have to sneak flirty lines in between riffing over jokes and arguing over movies and sliding under the covers at training camps. He is well used to begging for scraps but it’s funny isn’t, how easy a guy can get spoilt, so spoilt he wants to grab that hard wire and yank till it’s tearing down and Takahiro is falling into him. He won’t even glance back with a haughty glare, he’s so busy staring determinedly at the sky as he fails to climb.

It’s as frustrating as it is adorable and illuminating. He’s leaning towards frustrated but for Issei even when he grumbles at Takahiro it’s something like— 

‘I could see your dick if I wanted to,’ he replies, eyebrow ticking up. ‘Take your socks off, you nutjob. Or I’ll take them off for you.’

Takahiro twists and turns and groans, but toes his socks off, careless, and Issei shoves them in his back pocket and makes a point to bore holes into the pale soles of his feet as Takahiro, suddenly agile, climbs higher and higher, hopping over the top and landing like a cat.

‘Nice,’ he comments, dusting himself off with dignity, as if he hadn’t struggled for minutes. ‘Your turn.’

Silently, Issei climbs and makes the jump with little fanfare, feet hitting the grass solidly, the impact reaching his knees evenly. The grass is prickly and dry and makes his toes wriggle automatically. Takahiro calls him a monkey with the sulkiest scowl. They leave their shoes and socks in a haphazard pile without a glance, making their way for the closest goalpost. 

Issei sits cross legged with his back against one of the white, chipped steel pole edges of the goal. Takahiro hangs with two hands from the long pole connecting the ends at the tallest part of the net, swinging his legs idly. His left shin has a thin, fading scrape on it, jagged and pink from slipping on rocks at the beach on the weekend. 

He whistles a little tune, which was once his thing, whistling, something he spent two weeks coaching Hajime on back in second year. Tooru had warned him Hajime wouldn't learn easy but Takahiro, once he sets his mind on something, is hard to dissuade. The most Hajime can do is a hard two fingered call for attention. Not everyone has Takahiro’s innate ability to pick up the randomest of skills; nor his ability to carry a tune.

Issei pulls five packets of chips out of his school bag in procession like a very solemn clown with handkerchiefs and tears one open. 

‘If you hang from your legs I can feed you upside down,’ he says.

‘I am not hanging from my fucking legs,’ Takahiro replies, as if he has the lower body strength to do this at all. ‘My shirt would fall to my neck and you’d see, like, everything. No way.’

‘Again,’ Issei drawls, starting to see this as a game. ‘I’ve seen everything already.’

‘Not yet.’ Takahiro drops to the ground and falls onto his back, stretching his arms out to fruitlessly try to grab onto the netting with his hands. He’s squinting up at nothing in particular as he inquires, ‘What flavors did you get?’

In the process of falling, his shirt falls to his neck. Well, not to his neck—but it rucks up a fair amount, by design, and Issei looks with heavy interest at his stomach, tight and flat and oh so pale. There’s freckles there. In the sunlight, and in the summer, his color isn’t as ghostly as it is the rest of the year round. It’s kinda creamy, instead. Issei doesn’t like cream. Takahiro likes cream. Issei still wants to lick his stomach. 

‘The ones we eat, I think,’ Issei says idly. Bizarrely, he’s thinking, me liiiikeyyy. As if a little bit of skin renders him prehistoric, jokewise.

‘Stop looking at me,’ Takahiro complains.

Issei doesn’t look at his face, because he wants Issei to look at his face. Instead he smiles at the not-there bumpy outline of his ribs. They shift, under his eyes, not uncomfortable—but just drawing all the more attention to the fall of his shirt. It’s going higher. Any second Takahiro’s nipples will be out. Issei might die before that.

‘You like me looking,’ Issei says. Then, ‘I feel like I can see your bones.’

‘The second I moved I knew you would say something about my bones,’ Takahiro says, longsuffering. He turns away. ‘You damn creep. With your anatomy textbooks. And your bone fetish. Why can’t you just ogle nipples like a normal person.’ Now it’s just his back. And that’s sexy, too—faint muscle over the wide planes still hiding under his shirt, the graceful shifting of his shoulder blades, it all narrows down neatly into his small waist and hips, the sharp jut of his hip bone barely visible. His loose board shorts are a pale blue and Issei feels a bit voyeuristic, looking at him, a bit like a pervert. 

But that’s the game—Takahiro is putting himself on display to tease in every way possible. He glances over his shoulder to check if Issei is putting himself through the wringer for having the balls to look, just like he’d intended—and Issei frowns at him, now, because he is. He feels bad for looking. 

‘Don’t feel bad for looking,’ Takahiro says, and at this angle his face is mostly pink cheeks and chin.

Issei’s lip quirks up. ‘Really?’

‘I mean, since my shirt’s up, anyway,’ he allows graciously, and turns away, cheek to the grass with a shrug. His nape is red.

‘Oh, since it accidentally rolled itself up,’ Issei says, eyes flickering back down.

‘Exactly.’ 

‘I thought you hated grass.’

‘You like the football field.’

‘I like your back. It’s got a couple moles on it.’

‘Do you like my tummy?’ he asks, rolling over and raising both eyebrows.

Issei takes another peek at it and says, solemnly, ‘It has freckles.’

‘So?’

‘I love it.’

‘You’re kinda lame, Matsukawa,’ Takahiro says, like this is some serious, new thing he’s noticed. He turns and lays down, on his belly, and now his legs are in the air, kicking slowly back and forth. His calves. The muscle, there. The arch of his back, the pale, prominent tendon behind his ankle—his sharp and winning smile.

‘You’re kind of a tease, Hanamaki,’ Issei replies, wondering where to look. There’s so much to look at. And he’s supposed to be looking. 

‘Don’t call me Hanamaki.’

‘Don’t call me Matsukawa.’

‘Feed me chips.’

‘You feed me chips.’

‘Stop copying me.’

‘Okay fine, I’m sorry,’ Issei says, and this makes Takahiro dissolve into snickers.

They both sit cross legged then, on the grass, knees kissing and feeding each other chips. Issei’s unable to take it seriously when Takahiro gives him the first airplane, his hand spinning and gesturing around Issei’s head and his shoulders shaking with laughter whenever Issei fails to bite down.

They end up wrestling for it and it's after a good minute of scrabbling that Issei triumphantly grabs his wrist and his mouth closes around dry salt and vinegar flavored potato chip. ‘Finally.’

‘That’s definitely not allowed,’ Takahiro informs him. The last packet finishes far too quickly and they look at the shiny, empty plastic chrome insides for a long moment.

His voice is sad. ‘There just used to be more.’

‘It’s cheap. Cheap and dirty.’

‘If it were me selling these I’d be ashamed.’

‘Well you could sell anything. If it were you I’d buy packets only a quarter full.’

‘Because you like me,’ Takahiro teases, leaning in with his head tilted, a lazy grin.

‘Mm, I do, do I?’ Issei teases back, nosing at his forehead playfully. This gets a small noise from Takahiro that he puzzles over before ducking his head sideways and down to check and— 

‘You’re giggling,’ he says, momentarily dumbfounded.

Takahiro covers his face with his hands. ‘Oh my god.’

‘You’re…’ A grin stretches slowly over Issei’s face. He feels kind of lightheaded with pride. He knocks his knuckles against Takahiro’s pale hands and says, tender, ‘Come out, don’t get embarrassed. It’s okay. I won’t make fun of you.’

Takahiro peeks. His face is burning and his eyes are creased from laughter. ‘Shut up already, god...’

‘I didn’t say anything,’ Issei drawls, head still tilted as he observes a flushed, flustered Takahiro, the state of him, all because he’s reacting to Issei flirting with him, like he likes him. Like he’s got a crush on Issei, or something.

‘Do you have a crush on me?’

Takahiro groans, and winds one hand in Issei’s shirt collar to shake him angrily. The other hand stretches, long fingers parting to fail at covering his still burning face. ‘Stop it. Holy shit. I can’t believe this.’

‘Come on. Tell me,’ Issei coaxes. He peels the hand away and holds it afar, fingers tightening around his wrist over the many beaded bracelets on it today. Now Takahiro is showing Issei one, brilliant pink cheek and half of a twisted smile.

‘You’re annoying,’ Takahiro sighs.

‘Look here, pretty.’

Takahiro looks over at him. His eyes are wider now, less creased from laughing, but they’re dilated. Like in movies. Like in cartoons. His hair sticks up a bit. Behind his freckles, a healthy flush still blooms.

‘I didn’t know you could get shy,’ Issei whispers.

‘Stop smirking at me.’

‘Who’s smirking? I’ll be serious.’ He drops the smile and stares, properly appreciating it. His bright eyes are darting here and there, but suddenly coming to a stop on Issei’s, now that he’s not grinning anymore, and they seem wider now. His hand is slack in Issei’s, the other one loosely clinging still to his shirt collar. Issei’s other hand moves before he can think about it and grasps his chin.

Pulls him closer. They’re sharing air.

‘I like when you get shy on me,’ Issei breathes.

It’s like Takahiro is gonna faint on him, that's the face he's making. Lost, until he sucks in a breath. His lips are parted. His eyes are blown. The game’s won. The show’s over. No tricks left and he’s Issei’s. Issei leans in.

Then they’re both yelping because they’re sprayed head to toe with freezing cold water.

‘What the fuck!?’ Takahiro hollers. 

Issei splutters, wiping a hand down his grimacing face. The spray continues relentlessly. ‘What the fuck is this.’

‘It’s—’ Takahiro squints, leaning over Issei with a palm braced on his shoulder to glare at the field while Issei rubs at his eyes with his palms. He groans. ‘Oh my godddd, the lawn sprinklers are on.’

‘You’re joking.’

Aoba Johsai's fields have recently been installed with automatic lawn sprinklers and apparently they're timed to kiss-o-clock. They’re sat right in front of the net so there’s one aimed directly at them. Issei’s black jeans stick uncomfortably to his legs. Takahiro’s clothes cling sexily to his body. Issei leans back to check him out better and promptly gets another faceful of water.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Issei says, unable to believe it. ‘That’s the—’

‘The zillionth time,’ Takahiro agrees. He starts to laugh, though, and, resigned, Issei threads a hand into his hair so he can laugh it all out in Issei’s neck. His face is wet, too. They sit there getting drenched and talking shit about football and doing things the new way and technology versus the world until the sprinklers time out and Tooru comes to find them.

‘You deserve this,’ he says plainly, hands on his hips.

Takahiro slicks his hair back, forehead pale and glistening and says, prim, ‘I enjoyed myself.’

‘And you, Mattsun? Did you enjoy skipping practice too?’

Issei thinks bitterly about the smiling lips he almost kissed. ‘Yes,’ he says, completely miserably. ‘It was great. I’d do it again.’

‘I’m sure you would,’ Takahiro says. When they climb over the fence again, Takahiro’s pretty, grassy feet don’t slip on the wire, but Issei’s do. Because he’s still thinking about it.

Chapter Text

‘It’s so hot,’ Issei says blankly, as if unable to comprehend how hot it is. It’s not even that hot. The living room ceiling fan is just broken.

‘Sorry,’ Takahiro says, just as dull.

‘Fuuuck,’ he lets out, a half groan of desperation, scuffing his hand over the back of his head like he can rub away the sweat caked in his scalp . ‘Don’t make jokes, it’s too hot to laugh.’

‘All my fault,’ Takahiro agrees. His face is mushed against the white, cool top of the portable air conditioner they lugged out of the garage.

He listens to the humming of the machine silently. 

‘In the perfect world,’ Issei says slowly, eyes unfocused and towards the blurry colors on the television screen, ‘We would totally be making out right now.’

Takahiro manages a scoffing, miserable noise, and even though it’s stupid upfront and a fabulous opportunity to flirt back he reverts back to his pre-summer self, that’s how hot and ruined he feels. ‘God. Don't even joke about that.’

‘Hn.’ Issei blinks twice, then again, as if trying to clear his gaze. Then he braces his hands on his knees, stands with a grunt. ‘’M gonna take another fuckin’ shower.’

‘Mmf.’ Takahiro scrunches his eyes shut, sweat making his goddamn lashes damp. ‘I’m gonna try and shove myself into the AC unit.’

He’s gone for maybe five minutes. During that time Takahiro’s chest starts to get cold, with the aircon directly against it and his My Little Pony; Friendship Is Magic t-shirt thin and damp from perspiration—but his back and nape are still heated, his scalp still overwarm. He’s all hot-cold, and turns his head over to cool his other cheek against the metal. 

Issei’s brother left the PC on before he left to go see friends, so Issei could keep playing his hacked big-screen version of the Gameboy game Pokémon Emerald for him, and it’s in his line of vision now, on the living room table. The little pixel boy avatar stands at the edge of the first town on the map, sweet theme music playing on endless loop.

He half dozes off. His eyes flutter open only when Issei comes back, at the sound of his feet landing soft on the mahogany floors. He’s wearing these shorts that would go down midthigh if they weren’t hitched so low on his hips, all thin, worn material, a faded shade of mustard-tan linen. They might’ve been cargo shorts once, but they’re so worn one of the pockets has been ripped straight off, threads and undone stitching in a visible square patch outline, a shade darker than the fabric itself. His torso is gloriously bare, deep brown and soaking, dripping little streams of water that should by all rights steam in the impossible August heat. He’s like some dream, some made up fantasy. There’s the dipping V of his pelvis. There’s the ringlet curls tumbling into his eyes. There’s that unbearable talisman forever stuck around his neck, black string begging Takahiro to yank him in close.

For some reason, even with all the broad, faintly muscular chest on display prime for ogling, Takahiro’s gaze feels superglue stuck to his knees. They’re knobbly, like his knuckles, prominent and so brown. He’s particularly dark this summer, because they’ve practically spent all month out in the sun. It looks so good, he looks so, so good. Takahiro wants to gnaw on his knees.

‘Hey, should we make popcorn, or will the heat intensify?’

Takahiro is, of course, still selfishly full body slung against the aircon, arranged like an artful, floppy snake, and he blinks up at him, head lifting slightly, neck cramping to take in the dripping wet skin at his jaw, the dark slashes of his thick eyebrows. A single droplet of water slips down wrinkling forehead to damp brow and he wipes it with a fat thumb before it can leak into his eye.

And Takahiro’s thinking, god, can we just do it already. Can we just get this show on the damn road. This beautiful, colorful caravan show. Kites and music and booming laughter. He’d put his own foot on the gas if he could, he’d crack the harness, rev the engine. He’s always been a backseat driver.

‘Oi,’ Issei says, his mouth slick red, face scrubbed clean of both sweat and expression. ‘Hiro. Popcorn.’

‘Issei,’ Takahiro says, and now he’s thinking, fuck it, he’s gonna make Issei just beg for a kiss. On his damn knobbly knees. Because what the fuck, Takahiro had just been about to crumple like the townhouse, country home villa of cards they’d made with Issei’s UNO deck last week and the asshole is going on about fucking popcorn which would just stink up the house which smells like beautiful brown masala chai right now. Like boiling that little saucepan of milk didn't intensify the heat. Fucking hell. Fucking hell, he thinks, because it’s unbelievable. A whole month’s worth of shy glances and coy smiles and flirting, willful will-they won’t-theying down the drain, never to be seen again, and then they’ll have to fuck off for university and he’ll never get another chance— 

Then Issei bends slightly, head hung low, abs flexing tight with the movement and drawls, ‘Baby, you in there?’

Takahiro’s never been so out of it in his entire fucking life. No, Issei. He isn’t. Baby's not in here. He’s somewhere else, in the corner, and he couldn’t come back if he tried. He’s gone up. He’s in God’s hands, now. In fact even God has likely forsaken him, that unreliable bastard of bastards.

Then Issei’s right hand lands in his hair, his left fitting itself along the line of skin between his neck and his ear, holding him in his big, beautiful hands and Takahiro melts into him with a pleased sigh. 

What was that about God’s hands? He’s too busy floating to be mortified.

‘You’re like some kind of domestic animal,’ Issei muses, head tipping back and to the side in lazy observation. His Adam’s apple is sort of rounded. Suckable. Takahiro’s is more sharp. Takahiro is baking alive. Takahiro needs to get a grip. ‘A baby rabbit in a cardboard box, maybe. Or a cat if you want. ‘cept cats like the heat, don’t they?’

‘I like the heat,’ Takahiro manages to protest, because fuck rabbits. One time Issei caught him screwing salad corn onto a fork (bigger bites, less questions) and he’s been relentless since. His head feels heavy, and he’s glad, then, that Issei’s broad palm is holding it up.

Issei makes a softly mocking noise, amused. His hand smooths over Takahiro’s forehead, petting his hair back. The hairs on his calves are stood upright with the chill air of the air-con, three faded over, purpling bruises on the bone line of his left leg. Takahiro remembers he had fallen and scraped himself badly, remembers the wetness of the alcohol pad, medical tape unrolled on the bench he was straddling while Issei let him clean the wound. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. His eyes flutter shut, absolutely no energy. ‘Sometimes. ‘s napping weather, right.’

‘D’you wanna take a nap, kittyboy?’

And it’s hot, and it’s cold, and he’s hot and cold, and maybe he doesn’t like the heat but he likes this, likes Issei so badly, likes that he’s being cupped in Issei’s hands like water from a birdbath, like Issei’s trying to keep him there, pieces of his mind dripping away and it’s summer, and it’s hot, and Issei sounds so totally tickled that he got to say that shitty sentence that Takahiro gives up everything he stands for and asks, ‘I d’know, do you wanna kiss me?’

The world stills.

‘Desperately,’ Issei tells him.

Takahiro glows.  

He turns his head away again, so his other overwarm cheek is against the blissfully cool metal, and so Issei won’t see his flushed, pleased face. ‘If you can manage to pick me up, sure.’

Issei manages to pick him up pretty easily. Princess style, which might’ve been the obvious choice for ease’s sake but it also feels nice, his ear to Issei’s thumping heartbeat, his forearm hooked under Takahiro’s knees, sweating thighs pressed together and Issei doesn’t even joke about how his back will break at the strain like he usually would, he just takes long, heavy looks at him and takes them silently through his house and lays Takahiro down on his bed so carefully, like he’s some small, bite-sized thing to be taken care of, and he closes the bedroom door and the blinds then lays down next to him.

Takahiro rolls till he’s a starfish, slung out on his favorite, hot, hard rock, till his arms are hooked over Issei’s head and his fingers grasp loosely at his pretty, sweet smelling hair. Everything about him smells good, feels good.

‘You’re my starfish,’ Issei says, voice low as if this is meaningless.

And because he’s a mindreader, which obviously means he deserves the world, Takahiro is swayed enough to begin, very quietly, ‘I want.'

He pauses, and then suddenly—  

And then suddenly, he’s wide awake.

And then suddenly he’s burying his burning face in Issei’s neck in utter mortification because no way, holy fucking shit. Glad he caught himself, because what a colossally terrible idea. It’s one thing for Issei to, to go ahead and admit things, it’s a whole other for Takahiro to do the same. There’s time and place and he’s going to make it a perfect dream.

And because he’s the perfect dream boy, Takahiro’s perfect dream boy who he probably dreamt up, actually, probably made him up in his head, brought him to life somehow, Issei says, comforting and a bit cocky, ‘I know, baby.’

Takahiro breathes out a sigh, relieved, and kicks Issei as best as he can. ‘No you don’t.’

‘I sort of don’t,’ he says, and then his hand squeezes at Takahiro’s hipbone, like it’s okay, and then they sleep for fourteen hours straight.

When he wakes up, his head cooled down considerably, he sees Issei’s face and he knows.

Chapter Text

In the end, it boils over like a simmering pot.

Issei had long thought it would take a miracle. Turns out it was always going to happen—he was just a couple steps behind till Takahiro yanked him over the finish line. Now he’s finished. Done for. It’s over.

Chronologically, it goes like this. Takahiro comes over and they’re having toast and eggs. They’re playing footsie under the breakfast table and Yasu’s kicking them both. They’re playing the 2010 FIFA and Takahiro is calling all of the players uggos. They’re on Issei’s balcony, because Takahiro is gathering evidence for his theory that it’s windier the higher up you go. They’re dragging the empty laundry basket outside, setting it upside down as a makeshift table to put the lemonade pitcher on while Issei picks his brain about what makes someone an uggo or otherwise. The ice is melting, the glass all fogged up.

They’re on Issei’s balcony, Issei on his lawnchair, Takahiro sitting on his legs all sprawled out, it’s midday and no one is watching. He’s deflecting, and then calling Issei ‘otherwise’, then there is a comfortable lull.

Takahiro swings his leg over Issei's lap.

Issei’s mouth goes dry.

‘Hey, so,’ Takahiro says casually. His arms drape over Issei’s shoulders. ‘How desperate do you feel, right now?’

All summer, he’s been convinced he’s imagining it. Through conbini aisles and fingertips tracing skin and sitting thigh to thigh and arguing over the crossword and looking up at the same time when one of their names is called and the wild new game of trying not to look at each other’s lips and saying, caught you when they catch each other at it, caging him against walls and tugging on his earlobe, being pulled by the beltloop and getting called otherwise, when the options are ugly or otherwise, and that damn evening at the beach, as if this is normal, as if it’s allowed, as if he hasn’t been pushing for it and being denied, as if this, all this, has been leading up to something so stupendous and unbelievable he hasn’t allowed himself to think it was really gonna happen— 

I d’know, do you wanna kiss me?

Takahiro’s lips curve upward, pink and easy.

Desperately.

‘Hiro,’ Issei says.

His smile widens.

All summer. A haze of unreality falling over him.

‘Is this some kind of fucked up con,’ Issei says hoarsely, because he has to ask, even if it pits his chest like a small, squeezed cherry to ask out loud. ‘Are you, what, are you playing me? Is this a bit?’

Takahiro threads long fingers into the short curls at the back of Issei’s skull where the two tendons are, he likes fitting his hand there and Issei likes feeling it, tugging so light it almost matches the thoughtful, breezy look on his face.

They’re on Issei’s balcony. It’s not very much windier the higher you go. He is in Issei’s lap.

‘Hm. Would it be easier to comprehend if this was a bit?’

‘No.’ Issei swallows, his fingers flexing. ‘No, I’d probably cry.’

Takahiro’s eyes are low lidded, wet white lightning scouring his skin, his weight shifts just a bit and Issei exhales raggedly, shifting right back. ‘Mm. Crybaby.’

On instinct he lets his eyes flutter to almost-shut, wets his mouth, half a joke and half terrified. ‘Dude. Don’t insult me when you’re on my dick. Anything could happen.’

Takahiro lets out a short laugh, just as breathless as Issei feels. His torso is practically looming, skin and skin and skin and his arms arranging themselves around Issei’s shoulders, wrists crossed and both hands in his hair. His breath is hot, his voice lilting and amused, so slow and dragged out, ‘You’re so fucking funny, Issei.’

Issei tips his head back feeling tenderized and tries to remember a prayer, any prayer, tries to remember how to open his mouth and breathe. He’s blinking up at the wide, clouded sky, the edge of the sloping roof top above the terrace, the scratchy twine material of his lawnchair digging into his nape and the skin behind his legs. ‘Hn. Is that why you’re in my lap?’

‘That and a few other things,’ Takahiro agrees, nodding as if everything is easy and normal, right now. ‘Funny, handsome, always texts back quickly..’

Issei takes his cues from him and replies, ‘Not too smart though, huh?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ he says, then his fingers tighten and he jerks Issei’s head back down and Issei swallows a pathetic noise. Those green-grey eyes, boring into his. 

‘If you were smart you’d look at me,’ Takahiro says, gaze intent.

Issei almost closes his eyes again, face so hot he’s burning up. ‘You’re fucking—oh my god,’ and he sways in closer to press his parted lips to Takahiro’s pretty cheek, smooth skin.

It curves under his mouth, rounding all sweet and hot and Issei rubs his forehead against soft hair when he says, delighted, ‘No, but I’m fucking you, hopefully.’

Issei finally comes to his senses and fits his hands against Takahiro’s waist, and he’s struck dumb with how it feels. ‘Just for the record, I knew you were seducing me.’

‘Just for the record, ‘cause I’ll pretend to be shocked later—I’m not actually surprised that you let me,’ Takahiro replies, and tugs him back again, his other hand coming up to cradle Issei’s jaw as he says the next part, solemn and mocking and earnest all in one, ‘Because that’s how funny and handsome and quick at texting you are.’

‘If you’d let me woo you my way we could’ve had the most fucking romantic first kiss,’ Issei says, little cherry heart in his throat.

His smile, wide and sunny. ‘Uh huh. What, in July-August of twenty thirty two? When you’ve got wrinkles and a beard and I’m running out of shades of pink?’

Issei thinks they would be able to name at least fifty new shades of pink if they’d just see Takahiro like this, but he doesn’t want anyone to ever look at him. He says, tipping his head back and eyebrows vaguely folded in pretend confusion, ‘What’s this about a beard, now?’

‘Shut up.’ Takahiro’s smile comes through slightly bitten lips, now, pressing slightly because he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Again, though. How desperate are you, on a scale of one to ten?’

‘Takahiro,’ Issei says, hands still braced on his hips, thumbs hooked under his shirt, ‘I don’t think I knew the meaning of the word before I met you.’

He gets two long fingers stroking over his cheek, like a reward for being honest. And his eyes aren’t wet, but they’re bright and aglow.

And then Takahiro’s mouth is on his, and his brain completely shuts down.

It’s one P.M. They’re on his balcony, the wooden doors shut like they’re in their own little world. Issei’s green lawnchair is scratchy against his lower back where his shirt is a bit rucked up and Takahiro’s thighs are lean and heavy through his thin denim shorts, his cool, dry fingers are pressing at Issei’s skin, his breath coming in hot little pants between kisses.

The afternoon sun is hot, there is the faintest breeze. Takahiro’s mouth has the faintest traces of the peach juice his sister had strained out at home yesterday. There is a supercomputer cataloging every miniscule detail of this moment in his head.

When they split apart, the sound of it is wet and Issei noses at his cheek, whispers, ‘You’re so pretty.’

A breath of a laugh. ‘I didn’t even do anything, pretty or otherwise, like—our eyes’ve been closed for ten minutes.’

‘Still pretty. Or otherwise. Just ten minutes, shit. Get back here,’ and he finds Takahiro’s perfect mouth again, thinks he could spend years seeking it out across several planets’ worth of a trek all for a shot at a single kiss.

His eyes are closed for the next ten minutes, too, and then he remembers he has to see, and then he stares at Takahiro though his sweat-damp eyelashes, stretching out against him and all that’s in his viewfinder is him on Issei on the lawnchair with his exertion red forehead and glowing pink cheeks and slick throat gleaming in the sun and lips red from kissing instead of the various fruits and drinks and meals they’ve shared this summer and Issei never, ever wants to leave.

Chapter Text

From then on, there’s a very specific change in how Issei looks at Takahiro.

Before, he was always taking long glances and when Takahiro would catch him, he’d keep at it but there’d be this resignation in the set of his mouth, this haze over his dark eyes, thick lashes fanning downwards. Like he was thinking this is all I have, or he’s probably making fun of me, or some other overdramatic, pretentious, angsty bullshit. And occasionally, when those eyes look mildly amused, he’s got something on his face.

After, his gaze is clear and intent and blown away. Like he’s never seen anything like Takahiro before. Like how he was when they’d first met, but dialed up to a thousand. Like he knows he gets to touch, now, and is in absolute disbelief.

His lips are just constantly parted, eyes always a little wider, a little more focused. So openly wanting. He’ll bump into doorframes looking at him. Takahiro is basking in it, shivering with it and staring right back—same look in his eye. Same feeling of wonder.

There was a laziness setting in, before, this lanquidity because summer is halfway gone and it felt like there wasn’t much left to do but sit slumped on the sofa and watch reruns of Long Vacation while the surrounding clusters of empty Ramune peach and lime flavor bottles accumulate.

But now it’s different. Because now—

‘We’ve seen this episode before,’ Issei remarks.

Takahiro bites back his grin, because they’ve only been quiet for twenty something minutes and he knew Issei, mister quiet, mister introverted, mister laid-back would break the silence first.

Because now, the laziness is gone, and everything is fresh and new and tinged with an edge of desire so even sitting on the living room sofa is exciting, heat fizzling in his hands and belly flipping and squirming in on itself because he’s next to Issei, and Issei is looking at him, and they’re both thinking about the same damn thing.

‘Hiro.’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’ve seen this,’ he repeats.

Takahiro meets his eyes.

Issei’s looking at him like it’s never occurred to him to look at anything else. Like he could run out of breath from it. Head lolling against the sofa backrest, eyes dilated. His thin white v-neck looks plain unnecessary, inconvenient, skin dark and tempting beneath it. A patch of fuzzy hair at the center of his chest where the shirt dips. 

Takahiro tilts his head slightly. ‘So?’

‘Sooo,’ he says, slow and drawn out, lips rounding around it, rolling the word around in his mouth. He says most things like that, lax, unhurried. ‘Let’s do something else.’

It has been a day since their first kiss. Takahiro raises his eyebrows. ‘Like what?’

Issei lifts himself only to cut through the distance between them, dropping back down and then they’re thigh to thigh, which is exciting in new ways. His arm stretched over the sofa behind Takahiro’s head which is so familiar. He’s still looking right at him. Intense. Wanting. He’s got the beginnings of stubble. It’s dizzying to imagine how it’ll feel, knowing it could happen any time now after it’s happened. ‘Like something fun.’

Takahiro makes the executive decision to turn his head casually to look back at the screen, where Tomoko Yamaguchi is leaning at a window, watching the street, the main male lead next to her and watching her face. It’s not even noon. They had breakfast together, two eggs each, Takahiro had put them in the water to boil and Issei had stood bravely between his legs and tried to ask when they’d kiss again with his eyes. Takahiro had pretended to be shy. There is a vague plan to see the Wonder Duo later. The many other texts in his phone pile up unanswered, unknown to Issei. Nothing makes him feel this way.

His arms are crossed, but he lets his shoulder press against Issei’s side, just slightly. He pulls back and it’s like he pulls Issei with him, that’s how fast Takahiro’s tucked practically into his frame. He actually feels shy, now, really, properly shy. Until recently, Takahiro has never been shy a day in his life. On the first day of preschool he told four of his classmates that their parents would never come back. On Issei’s first day he cried for two hours and then fell asleep till his sister came to drag him home. He’s the one that’s supposed to be shy.

Issei is looking, and there is nothing shy about the way he’s doing it.

‘Hm. We could put something else on?’

Issei’s knee nudges against his. ‘We could. Or.’

Takahiro waits, smile tugging at his lips when Issei’s foot hooks around his ankle. ‘Or?’

‘Or…’ His other hand lifts up, thumb and pointer turning Takahiro’s chin towards him. Takahiro feels a thrill go up his spine at the bold move.

His eyes are so dilated, lips red. He’s looking down at Takahiro, arm wrapped around him securely. ‘Or we could…’

Takahiro leans in, just a bit, blinking despite himself, once, then twice, trying to dislodge the heat but it’s there, it’s drowning him. ‘We could..?’

Issei’s nose presses against his cheek, nuzzling. His hand slips down to Takahiro’s forearm, stroking at his skin. ‘Could do something better.’

‘What, better? What could we do.’ It’s taking everything to keep his arms crossed, to keep his voice steady, on the edge of trembling, pretending like Issei’s lips aren’t scant inches from his. They’re meant for each other in that Takahiro tells tales tall as cliffs, and Issei has those eyes of his. He has that craggy, immovable look to him. Takahiro still wants to drag him everywhere he goes. How’re you supposed to move mountains, though? All he can do is try to carve himself into him. Or climb him like a— 

Issei lifts his hand and presses a soft kiss to his slack palm, doting, and it lingers. ‘Mm. You tell me.’

Takahiro is inspired. ‘We could sit around and talk about shit.’

‘Talk?’ he repeats, after a long pause in which their fingers intertwine. His breath fans out over Takahiro’s skin.

Like they’ve been doing all summer. Talking about school and volleyball and comics and stars and the world and how they know it’s going straight to hell, everything going downward at a steady, burning pace, like a comet. It’s the year the world is supposed to end, and maybe this really is his very last chance. He teases instead of taking it, ‘Uh huh. We could—’

Issei’s voice is gravel. ‘I don’t wanna talk.’

Takahiro has to swallow.

‘We are,’ he says, and kisses the hollow of Takahiro’s throat, not very apologetic, ‘always talking. I’m not even good at it.’

‘Well I wouldn’t feel too bad about that.. I’m not the best at it either.’ 

Issei huffs a laugh. 

‘Shut up. Talking is,’ he swallows, Issei’s mouth practically laving at his neck, now, and the soft-rough feeling of his stubble, ‘is, not exactly what we’re about, Issei.’ It’s crazy.

‘Mn, so what’re we about then.’

‘Kissing,’ he decides, tangling a hand in Issei’s hair at the back of his skull, all of a sudden recalling when his head was smooth shaven back in first year, how far they’ve come since then. Issei’s got a faint grin pressing against Takahiro’s gooseflesh skin. 

‘What a good idea,’ Issei drawls, voice slow with success, and noses up under his jaw. Takahiro is shaking, barely holding on. ‘I guess you do have the lips for it. Pretty lips.’

‘The prettiest, yeah—can you—just, fuck. Kiss me,’ he says, and reaches for his mouth, and Issei’s grin is long gone and his quiet noises are long drawn when Takahiro is kissing him. And he responds with a heat, groaning after a moment, his hand clutching at Takahiro’s jaw like he couldn’t bear to be parted, right, like he wants to be in this long, long moment. Takahiro can’t hear the TV over the sound of his blood rushing and sitting in his lap and mouth parting for his tongue and—

For a moment Issei’s mouth is all he knows. You should stick to what you know but he pulls back, panting, and says some bullshit anyways, because it’s a fault of his, that he loves talking to Issei, that he loves his reactions, that he loves teasing him so much. It’s the end of the world this year and he’s doomed to being himself.

So as usual, he's got a fiendishly clever plan in his head. Issei's always gone along with those.

Takahiro pulls back, panting, and says, ‘Hey, Issei, hey. Hey.’ Still pressed close, lips brushing his eyebrow a bit, and he pulls back further, however reluctant, for his next, splendid, movie-star line, ‘You know this is just a summer fling, right?’

Issei’s eyes close briefly, which is Issei for 'wildly annoyed but resigned.’ His face is a bit tighter than usual, but Takahiro chalks it down to the make out interruption. He almost grins. That’s the whole point, of course. Ruining the moment, making him frustrated, so he gives it harder.

'Like we're still just friends. I’m not yours. This, this kissing business doesn't change anything,' he adds, pointer finger gesturing between the two of them, chest to chest. There's barely even any space to gesture, it’s all blatant untruths. He is gesturing at nothing.

Issei exhales, says, 'Is that right?'

The fan creaks. The TV makes white noise. His feet hang off the couch, and Takahiro holds his gaze, and ends up biting his lip to hold back the no.

Issei’s eyes follow the movement, flickering down and then back up to his eyes when Takahiro blinks, to his cheeks where he’s feeling hot, and then Issei says, softly, ‘Okay.’

Nonplussed, a bit dazed, ‘Okay?’

‘Mm. You’re off-limits.’ Issei punctuates this with a bruising kiss, then, beautiful, amazing, exactly what he’d wanted, ‘I can’t have you,’ another, slicker kiss, god, fingers spanning around Takahiro’s sides and thumbs pressing into his stomach up the fabric of his tee, and he bites down, suckling on Takahiro’s bottom lip before pulling back, just an inch or so, hovering over his mouth, breathes, ‘We’re never gonna be together.’

He’s so mind numbingly attractive that for a second Takahiro forgets every word he knows. He’s shaking. His toes are curling. This close, Issei’s eyes are pits, like sockets to skulls, boring into him.

‘Glad you got the memo,’ he manages, and then he can just barely suck in a breath as Issei lifts up his shirt.

After a while— 

‘It’s funny you say we’re not about talking,’

‘Is it.’

‘Honestly I feel like all we ever do is talk.’

One last dark glance upward. ‘Maybe you should shut up for a bit then.’

Maybe, he thinks, and he isn’t thinking for very long.

Oikawa is really a paradigm of people, this collage of annoying old man versus athletic movie-star boyfriend. He wears soft, comfortable sweater vests with his undershirt sleeves folded up to his elbows, props his glasses on his head like so, like Issei’s balding grandfather does, but his head’s full of perfectly coiffed waves. He smiles brilliantly whenever Takahiro so much as passes the salt, or the ketchup, which might be on him for setting his expectations so low. In the same five minutes he’ll flail and fall to the ground arguing with Hajime over the zaney childhood picture of them in his plain blue leather wallet, which is packed with debit card, ATM card, his school ID, a modest amount of cash and enough identification to make their local police officer wet himself.

‘I want to know what’s happening in that picture so badly,’ Issei says quietly.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more,’ Takahiro confesses. And then, after a moment of watching Tooru and Hajime scuffle near the bathroom entrance, asks, ‘Theories?’ 

‘Oh, Iwa’s eating mud.’ Final, like. He is assured of that much.

‘I’ll take that bet,’ Takahiro mutters, doubting it. It is more likely that it’s cute, which is precisely what would make it embarrassing. They’ve just named a total of coins that they will later undoubtedly spend on joint meals anyways when Tooru says loud enough that they hear it, along with the rest of the room, ‘Oh, why don’t you just go find a table, Iwa-chan, since you so obviously hate me and don’t want to hang out with me!’

‘SURE,’ Hajime responds, with a lot of vicious, fake relief. Tooru looks staggered as they part, and stands there winded a moment before he remembers he has to go to the counter.

Issei stands and says, ‘I’ll just make sure he gets our orders right.’ 

When he glances back, because he always does, always will, he catches Takahiro looking away and saying to Iwa as he sits down, ‘I’m only gonna say this once. Issei and I are—’

He doesn’t hear the rest. But it’s enough to bring a pep to his step. 

He stands beside Tooru, who is humming a tune. The counter bell jingles twice. The guys frying the pancakes aren’t wearing hair nets. Everything is yellow, bright duck yellow.

‘So what’ve you two been up to?’ Issei asks, nonchalant. Presses the bell again and gets a glare for his troubles.

‘Mostly the same. Ah, it's always busy at my place this time of year…’

‘Sure, sure.’ His goddamn pool.

‘Yeah.. And you know how Hajime's grandfather passed? His uncles are fighting over the house, these days,’ Tooru says, in a tone of disdain. He smacks the menu card against the counter once, twice, rhythmic. ‘That’s been going on.’

‘Oh.’ That is actual news. Issei turns to properly look at him and prompts, ‘So, his dad not dealing with it well?’ Hajime’s father is similar to Hajime in most ways father and son can be, including Hajime’s low temperament for drama.

‘No, no.. Iwa-san is fine.. Iwa-chan's cousins came over to pick a fight this weekend though,’ Tooru says, still absentmindedly playing a tune with the menu. 

Issei’s eyebrows fly up. ‘Shit, man. You were there?’

‘Of course they were no match for us, don't worry, Mattsun! It was the old five against one but what’s numbers against the power of friendship?’ He pauses, and adds, ‘Plus Iwa-chan’s raw, manic brutalism.’

‘Nothing, I suppose.’

‘And we have bigger problems. Like the gas leak at my house! And babysitting my nephew, and I could never forget preparing for nationals of course!’ he ends cheerfully, with a bright, enigmatic smile.

Issei drags a hand over his face instead of asking about the gas leak. Should he offer condolences? It’s a bit overwhelming just hearing about it. ‘Right. Well… Sounds like a lot.’

‘Same old, same old,’ Tooru says, shrugging it off. He drums his fingers against the menu, looking around with a faint grin. ‘What about you?’

‘I guess Hiro's being a bit less mean to me today,’ Issei offers, after a long, embarrassed silence in which he wonders if anything of note ever happens to him. ‘And I finished yesterday’s crossword..’

Tooru smiles benevolently at the disgruntled guy behind the counter as he finally makes his way over. ‘Oh, so, just the same old Mattsun and Makki, then.’

And he kissed me, Issei thinks of admitting. Twice. Once yesterday and then again today. Which is the most of note thing to ever occur in his life. But it’s too scary to say so he just gives the order for the pancakes and omurice and they stand in solemn silence.

‘OK. So you fucking,’ Hajime says flatly, across the table at 38 Mitsubachi, after a minute and a half of a rushed but detailed explanation, one he’s not given anyone yet, not his sister, not his mother, not Konoha Akinori even though he’s probably suspicious considering the comments he dropped on Takahiro’s admittedly mysterious Facebook post about the beach trip—the caption had been he wanted my lemon seed -_- . 

Anyways. No one, he’s told nobody.  

Not even his online friend Tumblr user Yachi ‘starstudy’ Hitoka, a first year senior high student whose color coded notes taught him half the Japanese History he knows, who he had then taught internet safety to. She would have responded better. Any one of them would have responded better. Tooru would have responded better.

‘No,’ Takahiro says, in the same tone. ‘That’s premarital sex and Issei is a maiden. Get real, bro.’

‘So you fucking,’ he says, again.

Takahiro clicks his tongue. ‘What’d I just say—’ 

‘You know what you guys’ problem is?’ Hajime says abruptly, and this is why, in the end, Takahiro told Hajime. Because Hajime responded like this instead of congratulating him for being so brave, which is what every single one of his other simpering friends would have done. ‘Like, the problem you’ve always had, since first year?’

‘We have no problems,’ Takahiro informs him. ‘You and cap’n are the ones with the issues. All tension and drama and the food court argument last month, the fight with your cousins, yeah, I saw that on Snapchat, and those pre-practice match bitchfights... It's toxic, ai-em-oh.’ He’s thinking in particular about the one spat they had in front of that team with the duck yellow uniforms last March, and finds himself glaring down at Hajime just remembering the second hand embarrassment.

Hajime ignores this and says, impassioned, ‘Your problem is that you have no boundaries.’

‘That’s like the opposite of a problem,’ Takahiro decides, pointing his finger after a pause where he narrows his eyes at Hajime and Hajime stares back, thick arms crossed. He looks sort of stupid in the tiny, cutesy chairs, nose scrunched and shoulders hunched. Not as stupid as Issei did. ‘You’re wrong. Like, dead wrong, Iwa, I’m pretty sure that’s the best thing about us.’

‘No. You’re wrong. It’s a serious, serious issue,’ Hajime says stubbornly. ‘Because innocent fucking people, you know, like the juniors, or that waiter from that diner you guys are obsessed with, or the ice cream truck guy from our school or Matsukawa’s old lady neighbor or I don’t fuckin’ know, me, have to fucking—bear witness to your bullshit. It’s been like a three year long you may kiss the groom moment. That’s how it feels. Like you two are twiddling your thumbs and I’m in the damn pew.’

‘I’m sure,’ Takahiro agrees, and feels privately astounded that Hajime still doesn’t know Kouta’s name, considering the amount of cash the four of them have given him in tips this summer. You could get a plane ticket with that kinda cash. ‘Oh, but it’s real swell to be me.’

‘In the pew,’ Hajime insists. ‘And Shittykawa is next to me, bawling his fucking heart out.’

‘I’d start believing in marriage just to see that crybaby at our wedding,’ Takahiro admits, lips curving upwards when he says our wedding, not unable to say it like he would’ve been this time last year, not borderline hurling at the mention of it like he used to in first year.

‘Eat dick,’ Hajime says. ‘Like, for real. I’m so glad I wrote that speech as best man back in first year—’

‘When you got that new ink pen, I remember.’ Yeah, that had been the day he’d been borderline hurling.

‘—because I’m pretty sure this is post marital. This is the fucking honeymoon.’

Takahiro sits back in stunned silence for the two minutes it takes Tooru and Issei to come back with their order of breakfast in the afternoon.

Issei drops down in the seat next to him and presses the sole of his sneakered foot against Takahiro’s toes under the table. ‘Hey.’

‘What’s up with Makki?’ Tooru inquires. He’s glancing up while drooling at his plateful of pancakes.

Takahiro yanks his own plate closer, a stack taller than Tooru’s and dusted with more powdered sugar than is probably healthy. ‘Rebooting, Hajime said a.. correct… thing.’ Reeling, really. At having to admit it was correct.

‘Oh, baby’s first of the week!’ Tooru says gleefully, ducking when Hajime beats his palm against his head. They fall into a mini scuffle, before Hajime remembers his omelet is here and cuts the fight in half.

Takahiro takes a bite of heavenly, incredible pancake, fresh and hot and soaked with syrup, practically moaning into it. He realizes Issei’s side of the table is quiet a second before Issei’s foot taps against his ankle.

He looks up.

Issei’s eyebrows are furrowed, slightly concerned.

Takahiro blinks and widens his eyes, shaking his face to dispel his worry and Issei huffs out, finally starting in on his breakfast. Tooru is already humming and exclaiming over it. Hajime grunts an appreciative noise. Takahiro says, ‘Fuck, this shit is so good.’

‘Is something the matter with your food, Matsun?’

‘Omurice isn’t as good as Hiro makes it,’ Issei says, mid-chew.

Hajime chokes on a biteful of swiped berries and Takahiro can’t help but laugh as Tooru instantly slaps him on the back, even as he demands, ‘Makki makes you omurice?’  

‘Yep,’ Issei says, like he has any right to admit all of this. Like he has all the rights. Swallows and adds, ‘He’s such a good cook. He made some of my lunches last term. Remember that week in the winter with the chicken strips?’

‘But that’s not fair,’ Tooru says, aghast. ‘That’s—that’s favoritism! Iwa-chan, stop choking and tell him it’s favoritism—’

Hajime inhales, wheezy, ‘Fuck off and die.’

‘—Makki, come on!’

Issei chews with an aura of distinct smugness.

Takahiro kicks him under the table and shoots back at Tooru, ‘Oh, like you’re not being hand fed by Hajime every other bite of your meals—’

‘I’m not!’ Tooru defends. ‘We just share a plate sometimes, Makki, god—’

‘Wowww,’ Issei drawls. ‘Married behavior,’ and usually, Takahiro would’ve added onto that joke but today he just goes bright pink and says, ‘Hajime go fuck yourself.’

‘Says the honeymooners?’ Tooru says, innocuous, and Takahiro slams his pineapple juice glass on the table and demands, ‘Right, are you guys discussing our thing?’

Hajime, who is slurping at his fucking orange juice with the speed of an Olympic runner and making an I won this face, ruffles the back of Tooru’s head like he’s proud of him for that one.

‘What the hell,’ Issei says, eyebrows scrunched together and chopsticks holding up a bite of omurice that is dripping sauce onto the table. In a second he's gonna complain that there's no ketchup. 

‘Backbiting,’ Takahiro moans, crumpling in front of his plateful of pancakes. Loser pancakes. Idiot pancakes. ‘Ohhh, my god, you guys are backbiting about meee—’

‘Grow up, Makki,’ Tooru says unsympathetically. ‘One day you and Mattsun will be done with this never ending, permanent honeymoon, and finally pay attention to us, and make us omurice, and be active enough to notice when we’re all discussing your, what'd you call it—’

‘Thing,’ Hajime says helpfully, back to eating.

‘Your thing,’ Tooru says, nodding seriously, like he really needed Hajime’s help with that word. ‘In front of the whole volleyball team.’

‘Even the first years?’ Takahiro says hopelessly.

‘Yo, how do you guys both know about the thing, it literally just started,’ Issei says, bewildered, and Takahiro kicks him again as Tooru bursts out laughing.

‘Eat your shitty omurice,’ he snaps, bitterly aware of the four hickeys on his chest. They’re itchy, so Takahiro kicks him again, for good measure.

Issei pops the bite into his mouth and mumbles, ‘Okay, Jesus,’ and Hajime makes a significant face at Takahiro, like, I won this, two times over!

‘There’s like, no sauce on this piece,’ the idiot mutters while chewing.

Tooru laughs harder, burying it against Hajime’s arm, who’s eating peacefully like he’s not the worst person alive.

Takahiro stabs into his pancakes. He’s never meeting up with these fuckers again.

‘So what’re we doing for Pakistan day?’ Hajime asks.

Chapter Text

It's gettin' hot in herre (So hot)

So take off all your clothes (Ohh)

I am, gettin' so hot, I wanna take my cloooothes off..

‘Stop playing that damn song,’ Takahiro says.

‘If you’d just strip I wouldn’t have to,’ Issei reasons, propping Motomu’s boombox up on one wide shoulder and looking down at him, impassive.

Takahiro sighs, and takes off his shirt.

The Oikawa family pool is a thing of fame and mystery.

Legends say it’s been there since before Aoba castle. Folktales say it just sprang up out of nowhere sometime before the year 2008. Oikawa’s mom says her son-in-law had something to do with it but that’s the extent of her knowledge. Once she’d left the room, Takahiro had joked that he’s gonna have to fuck her son-in-law. Issei had been in a lousy mood for the next two hours.

The pool is huge, stretching half of Tooru’s front yard and probably half the size of the Aoba Johsai pool, which is practically goddamn Olympic sized. It’s one of those bean-shaped ones, the tile a classic sky blue and Hajime’s demanded food coloring to dye it green because he’s so respectful of his own heritage. 

It’s funny, the clear contrast between him and Issei—Issei probably doesn’t even remember what province his mother is from. Or what a province is.

Takahiro pulls himself halfway out of the pool, slicks a hand through his hair. Yuda’s on the other side of the pool, kicking his feet to the song playing from the boombox, Heisuke and Motomu are out getting the food coloring and eggs, because Oikawa’s mom had asked for groceries in exchange for Pakistan Independence day being celebrated by two half-Pakistani’s and a bunch of Japanese boys in her own half Japanese, half South Korean front yard.

He turns his head, and as sort of expected, Tooru and Hajime half-standing on two identical white Adirondack chairs and possibly arguing over a slice of watermelon. 

‘Yo,’ he interrupts, squinting against the combination of sun and chlorine-water in his eyes. ‘Where’s what’s his face?’

Make that definitely. ‘Your boyfriend’s in the kitchen, cutting more watermelon!’ Tooru responds, hands scrabbling in the air while his arm is hooked around Hajime’s neck. Hajime has watermelon juice streaked all over his forehead, and takes a break from swearing nastily to shout-sing a baffling, ‘PAKISTAN-A PAKISTAN, PAKISTAN-A PAKISTAN!’

Tooru tells out an aggravated yell of, ‘I DON’T KNOW ANY KOREAN NATIONAL SONGS, IWA-CHAN, THAT’S SO UNFAIR!’ 

‘—KISTAN-A PAKISTAN—’ he continues stubbornly. He’s progressed to sitting on Tooru’s head.

‘GET OFF OF ME YOU—YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE MONKEY-WACHAN—’ 

‘Why are you blockheads fighting when there’s more on the—nevermind,’ he breaks off, because they won’t listen to him anyways. 

He falls back into the water, shutting his eyes and there is nothing in the world like the feeling of being taken underwater, held down by an impossible force. Like it could swallow you whole any minute.

Beautiful summer notwithstanding. These days, Takahiro feels sea-green. 

Not sickly, not like lime, which is a fruit he’s been aware of since he met Issei with that infernal 7UP t-shirt of his, the one he never fucking took off, long weekends back in first year. Not the color of his own eyes, which are somewhere on the greyscale. Not the dark green of the flag on Hajime’s shirt today. Just sea-green, like hotel pools in brochures, like some Monet painting. Like Impressionism; or just like the ocean in Mamma Mia! which is crazy oversaturated.

Recently, Takahiro’s been a bit too aware of university for his own peace of mind, though he’s distantly aiming for a gap year, or a travel semester. He'll even settle for a post-grad trip, and hopes Issei comes with, but he’s endeavoring not to think about it.

He thinks he’ll be alone living in Tokyo in two years. Recently, he’s been trying to live in the moment. 

He kicks his feet up, eyes shut against the water and then they fly open when a familiar hand wraps around his ankle and tugs.  

Takahiro surfaces, spluttering. ‘Asshole, you scared the shit outta me.’

‘I got you more fruit,’ he says, in apology. Takahiro lets his legs float up behind him as if a mermaid's tail, relaxing at the sight of him, right here like he’s attuned to showing up whenever Takahiro’s drowning. Issei is beautiful like a film they grew up on, shielding his eyes from the sun with one splayed hand, dark brown stark against the blue sky. His swim shorts cling to his hips, that black string amulet wet and stuck to his chest. Takahiro wants to be whatever he’s praying protection for. Takahiro’s heart is crazy locked up in his ribcage, but that’s really not all. The feeling, the craze, it’s in his head, too, pins and needles, it’s in his hands, and it crawls up his arms and legs and into his chest and then explodes outwards, because it’s too much, the buzz of it, the heat, the thrumming noise in his ears. His lips part around it.

‘C’mon, you should get out before we pour the food coloring.’

He grasps the side of the pool to pull himself up, and the air is chilly. Issei’s set the plate down on the tile next to it, and lends a helpful hand that’s more a chance to cop a feel. Takahiro shivers with his warm, dry hands against his wrist and waist. ‘Are the guys already back?’

Issei entwines their fingers and pulls him out. ‘Yeah, it’s goofy new ritual time. You wanna put the CD in the radio?’

‘It’s a boombox,’ Takahiro retorts, like he has every time they’ve gone over this. Then, dignified, ‘And yes. The CD stuff is my job. Unhand me.’

Issei pulls him into his side, trails a finger up his ribs like a taunt but it results in him squealing because he’s ticklish, and they scuffle back to the rest of the team, sun hot and skin hotter.

Soon some Pakistan national anthem-y songs are playing distantly and they’re all back in the pool, now a bright, foamy green, tossing around a volleyball aimlessly.

‘So if we didn’t play volleyball, what would be your sport,’ Takahiro says, feeling in an Oikawa Tooru bonding question mood. ‘And none of you are allowed to say football, that’s so basic.’

Issei’s head lolls to the side and his eyebrows are furrowed together, creating that familiar beautiful dip in the center of his brown forehead. Takahiro smiles a little, looking at it.

‘I guess I’d go for tennis,’ Oikawa says thoughtfully. ‘Because it looks interesting on TV. But I like team sports, so I’m not sure what to do with that.’

‘You and Hajime'd make a cool tennis doubles pair. I like swimming, I think swimming should count!’ Yuda says, as if it’s not obvious from the nanny cap pulled tight around his curls, the goggles hanging around his freckled neck.

‘Well it doesn’t,’ Takahiro says, maybe unfairly, because the fold of Issei’s eyebrows deepens. ‘Too easy. Unoriginal. Pick something else.’

‘Tennis doubles do sound cool,’ Oikawa says thoughtfully, hand on chin. ‘What say you, Iwa-chan?’

‘I’m picking MMA,’ Hajime says blandly. 

‘My heart just broke into a trillion pieces.’

‘MMA counts,’ Takahiro allows. ‘But you’re on thin ice, Iwa.’

‘Oi, what!’

‘Bro, nah, how the hell does MMA count?!’

‘It just does, cry about it.’

‘Besides, like, fighting sports, does it have to involve a ball?’ Heisuke questions while the others stage a riot, because he's good at rolling with it. ‘’Cause speaking of ice, I do like the idea of professional skating. It seems heeeella fun.’

‘Skating is fine, I feel like,’ Yuda considers. ‘It involves skill, or strategy. You mean ice skating?’

‘Um,’ Heisuke says, blanking. ‘Are there non-ice skaters…’

‘You’re so stupid, Shiichan,’ Tooru concludes after a silence.

‘No one I know is stupider,’ Motomu sneers.

‘Got it,’ Issei says, straightening slightly. ‘Hockey. With the masks and sticks.’ He clicks his tongue, clok, as if imitating the sound of the stick hitting the disk.

There’s another pause, and then Takahiro says, ‘Wow.’

Hajime predicts, ‘He’s gonna reject it.’

‘That’s perfect for you,’ Takahiro tells Issei tenderly, and Tooru throws a paper cup at him, shouting, ‘BOOOOO! That is so unfair!’

‘Blatant favoritism,’ Hajime agrees stoutly.

‘I’m calling it like I see it,’ he explains. ‘Issei has hockey in him. It’s the national Pakistani sport, you know. Soooo topical. You could all learn a thing or two.’

To this Hajime responds by trying to dunk him in the water, which results in an Issei-Hajime mini wrestling match.

‘Bring back the old you! What happened to good old hater!Makki?!’ Tooru demands.

‘He’s gone fishing,’ Heisuke says.

‘He’s out to buy milk,’ Yuda adds.

‘He went to live on a farm upstate,’ Motomu announces so somberly you just know that happened to his childhood dog.

‘He’s still here, he just likes me better than you guys,’ Issei says breathlessly, finally shoving Hajime off and smiling at Takahiro all slow and warm, all shirtless and smug, dripping in the pool and Takahiro feels butterflies in his stomach. Real, true butterflies, fluttering and floaty. He can’t help smiling back, cheeks going pink with it.

‘Awww, man. The two of you are so cute. Anyway,’ Yuda says, smiling broadly, while Hajime pretends to throw up, complete with poolwater as a prop. ‘We should play water polo.’

‘What’s water polo?’ Heisuke asks.

‘God, do you know anything, Shiichan?’ Tooru asks, exasperated.

Later, when the sun is going down and a volleyball is being tossed between a few of the guys and the two of them sitting on the tile ledge, shoulder to shoulder, Takahiro traces a heart against Issei’s knee and says, ‘The hockey thing is cool.’

‘I’ve never tried it,’ Issei says, head ducked and hair curling tight. ‘Seen it on TV.’

‘You’d look cool in one of those masks.’

‘I’d have to get built.’

‘Like Iwa,’ Takahiro laments, shaking his head. 

‘Nah. Iwa’s actually strong. I’d only get built to look cool,’ he assures.

Takahiro kicks him playfully, and clings to his neck when he fakes slipping. ‘Stopp, we’re only just getting dry.’

‘I don’t know, I prefer you wet,’ Issei says all dark and soft in his ear, and pulls them both back in with a crash to the water that echoes. Takahiro is too busy gasping to shriek, but the underwater kiss is worth it. Lips to lips, nothing more. He’s not adrift, but it feels like he could still be swallowed whole.

Issei shuts the sliding door to the balcony very, very slowly, so the metal doesn’t screech and wake up the rest of the house.

Once it’s closed, he goes to lean against the railing, looking down and out at the yard. There’s that specific, dead of night quiet, nothing but the faint rushing whisper of trees talking amongst themselves and little, odd nightlife noises. 

He couldn’t sleep, because he’d turned his head and suddenly lying on the same futon as Takahiro had become impossible.

His legs, arms, his chest and how it gets flushed in patches, his bare, mole dotted back—right there, just within reach as always, except now Issei’s touched him all over. Bitten at his shoulder blades, rutted against the swell of his ass, held him down by the small of his back where darkness pools tonight. His breathing was a steady up and down lift and fall of his torso, and Issei has seen it overfast, has seen Takahiro panting and laughing breathlessly under him.

It’s a warm night but he shivers, looking up at the sky.

Sometimes he wakes up in his room and feels a sense of vertigo, a wrongness, because the walls are green and not bleached white. It's his room, but it feels strangely unknown to him, and he feels a part of him is still there, back at Takahiro's place, because he's converging with Takahiro, and they're becoming IsseiandTakahiro, and now his sense of home, reality, and belief has gotten all twisted up.

Issei's sense of belief is often the last man standing, so to speak, when all else of him feels too tired to be. But it's hard to believe that the Issei of this summer is the same boy as the one from last summer, when nothing had happened, and the same still as the one before, when they'd been at training camp for half the break and collecting bottlecaps for the rest of it—twenty seven of them, he remembers coming up with reasons to keep hanging out—and the same even still as the boy from before Takahiro.

Who was that boy? Issei can't know him. They are so far apart, like a distant star to the moon.

Tonight he had woken up and felt that vertigo, of I should be with him , then turned and saw Takahiro there, lying beside him.

He’s thinking about thankfulness, but it’s a bit difficult when he’s not sure who or what to thank or if he should be grateful for something that is bound to be taken away. Isn’t it?

Issei hasn’t been to a shrine since new year, and he’s never been big on religion anyways. They skipped Ramadan this year, not that they ever really do much. His mother instilled in him only vague ideas of god and worship, although very staunch opinions on politics and how it is best to take your chai. Doodh patti, minimal sugar or nothing—Takahiro frightens her sometimes. 

He remembers the ta’wiz around his neck, then, for thankfulness, for the prayer folded inside it, and then thinks of Takahiro, earlier tonight, with his legs folded to his chest and looking up at him, and then sees the lawnchair, lonely, folded up and leant against the terrace railing.

And on the makeshift laundry basket table beside it lies a pack of cigarettes. Parliaments, his father’s rarely used brand. He knows his mother likes both Marlboros and Pines better, the latter of which in all situations besides this, Issei would also prefer, if only for the joke of it.

Here and now, a take what you get kind of guy on a take what you get kind of night, Issei looks at the box silently, and then steps back inside to fetch a lighter. The nightlife noises are replaced with the eerie soundless inside of the house. Every footstep makes the tile tremble.

He doesn’t find one, but he does fish out the kitchen box of matches from the lime green bowl beside the stove, filled with stray buttons, marbles and honey browned rubber bands, leftover packets of ramen powder and sauce from nights when they make four packets for the three of them siblings. He can’t see anything, kitchen hollowed out of light like sockets to skulls, a dark pocket dimension of a place. But he shakes the box, and there’s a rattle.

He brings it outside, sliding the door carefully shut once again. A nudge of his thumb knuckle against the cardboard and the paper box slides open. Three sticks left. A gentle roll of his fingerpad to the paper cap on the box of cigarettes and there’s just a lonely one which he finds terribly fitting.

He strikes a match up and it sputters to death instantly, snuffed out in the nightbreeze. Just a blink of light and gone, just like that. He covers the flame with his hand when he strikes the second, cigarette already dangling from his lips. He coughs, but keeps it very quiet. Smoke floods his lungs and he’s strangely aware of it. 

The rest is fairly simple. He taps the ash off against the terrace railing every now and again, he pulls the stick away from his mouth with his pointer and middle fingers and it becomes second nature. He remembers when his parents had tried to wean him off of tea and it hadn’t worked to do anything besides give him the worst of headaches. Probably, Issei acknowledges, observing the white paper, the same will happen here. Maybe Issei was just born with an addictive personality, prone to falling victim of beautiful things that don’t need him as terribly as he needs them. His collection of vices seems to grow by the day.

When he’s smoked it down to the filter with it’s cherry red flame, Issei calls Tooru.

He picks up. ‘Yahoo~ Oikawa Tooru’s house of sin and debauch—’

‘You can’t pull that off,’ Issei interrupts, stubbing the cigarette out.

‘Ugh, Mattsun. What the fuck do you want at four A.M.’

He unfolds the lawnchair, sits on the edge with his back curved into a hunch first-year-Takahiro would mock relentlessly until he gave in and sat up straight. He stretches his legs out and doesn’t fix his posture. How rebellious I am tonight, he thinks wryly, a thought that’s been floating unformed since he picked up the cigarette. A real delinquent. Maybe he’s finally earned all those detentions.

Those are all Takahiro's detentions.

He plays with the stub, rubs his thumb to the filter. It’s not very hot anymore. ‘Remember that conversation about birds?’

Tooru exhales a breath that’s static over the line. 

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘You’d think I’d have predicted that.’

‘Mm.’

‘Well, we don’t need to talk in circles about you and Makki, now do we?’

Issei looks up at the sky and says, ‘I guess not.’ He pauses, mulling on that, then asks, having wondered about this for a while now, ‘What were you thinking when you tried to lay him out that night at the conbini?’

There’s a lull, then his response comes quiet. ‘I don’t think I would give you the same advice I’d give him, Mattsun.’

His eyebrows draw in. ‘No?’

‘Hm. No.’ A breath is drawn, then Tooru explains, ‘With me and Makki, I tell him what to do and he tells me he already knows whatever I’m telling him even if he doesn’t because he’s never gonna listen, anyways. It’s the same the other way around, in one ear and out the other. The two of us, really, we’ve never listened to each other’s advice. On the other hand, you and me, we listen to each other. So say, I tell you something like what I told him, you’d suck it into your already humongous web of overthinking and you’d get stuck in that forever and then you’d just never get anything done, would you? You’re already such a slacker.’

Issei figures he knew this, but it stings ever so slightly to hear anyways. He considers telling him that not all of them can be color coded with next-door cribs and their whole lives stretched out on blueprint in the sandbox at age seven but he just says, once he’s soaked it in, ‘True enough. So what’s your great advice for me, O Captain.’

‘The lack of respect..’ he tuts. Then his voice takes on a serious note and Issei wonders if Hajime is there in the room, or if he’s somewhere else in the house, or if Tooru is glancing out his window at plain shutters behind the glass just across his futon. A little wall between them, grooved in with makeshift footholds from climbing it over their whole lives. Sandy landing deck dents on either side of the dirt, surrounded by grass like reverse fairy circles. Issei’s seen them at it, hand over hand and making the jump easy as breathing. When they were kids, Hajime had said, they used to make the climb. It probably used to seem a huge leap of faith back then.

‘Ah, Mattsun. I think all you need to do is worry less.’

It feels a bit useless, hearing that, so he says, ‘That gives me nothing.’

‘When was the last time you thought to yourself, me and Hiro are going to make it,’ Tooru says.

Issei’s throat goes a bit dry, and his answer comes out hoarse. ‘Half—ah, half an hour ago.’ It was why he had to come out to the balcony. He was drowning with it. Poets go on and on about despair but that sort of fear has nothing on the all consuming grip of blinding hope. For a moment he had barely been able to see anything else.

‘So what more do you need?’ he implores, which is too simple to be the kind of thing that makes sense. As if understanding that, he sighs a bit aggravatedly and changes tact, ‘Think of it this way. The two of you have been all over each other for maybe an entire month now. And you could tell me what you think changed, as the crux of it, the starting point, you could pinpoint the very day, but I know the, the reason that it’s suddenly like this between you two now instead of how it was before is Makki’s mind just making itself up. You’ve barely even talked to us all summer, but have you gone more than three days without speaking to each other?’

‘What are we doing, Oikawa,’ Issei whispers, pitch rising and voice cracking slightly because that, all of that is why he’s losing it. ‘It’s so scary. I don’t—he disappeared for half a day and I called his sister. What am I doing?’

‘You’re falling in love,’ Tooru says, matter of fact. It’s almost a somber statement. 

Issei needs a bit to think about that, because he'd been under the impression he already was. He’d looked, jumped, and stuck the landing. Like the fairy circles in those sandy yards. ‘How did you know you loved Iwa?’

‘Because I looked at him,’ he says, after a pause that isn’t that long, as if he’d known the question was coming which he very likely had, and the door to the terrace creaks open. Issei turns and he’s there, and Issei rises at the sight of him.

Rumpled black Kumi Koda shirt, a hand tucked high up in it like he’s warming his fingers on his own skin. His boxers are some bright color that looks off when only visible by the glow of the waning moon and the flickering street lights outside but Issei knows him so he knows they’re pink. Leant against the door, he says, mouth moving around the word so slowly, ‘Issei?’

Issei wishes his name would melt away to nothing in Takahiro’s mouth. 

‘And it was… like he was—oh, just. No, there are no words for it. I’m sorry,’ Tooru apologizes in his ear. ‘I’m sorry. I think you just know. Sometimes you look at someone and you feel so huge, the size of the world! You think of storybook stuff and it all starts to, start to really mean something to you, you know, you feel blinded, or like you were stupid before... Looking at someone and knowing, thinking strange thoughts, it’s something like that. I looked at him and I knew.’

Takahiro’s eyes are half open, his lips chapped. Pink and green. ‘Are you comin’ back to bed?’

‘Yeah,’ Issei says, softly. ‘I’m coming back.’ Then he wets his lips, remembering the cool phone in his hand, the lawnchair next to him, the tiles under his bare feet. Remembers the world as it is, as everything Takahiro isn’t touching—other things still exist. It feels like they shouldn’t. ‘Ah, uh, thanks, Oikawa.’

‘Goodnight, Mattsun,’ he says simply, something in his voice. ‘I think you do know. And I’m so happy for you. I just hope you take it easy.’ 

The phone beeps. Issei slips it into his pocket and moves to end the distance between them, a hand going to the small of his back gently, because he must be freezing. ‘Sorry. Hi, c’mon, let’s go. Sorry I left.’

‘Volleyball doesn’t sleep?’ he complains half-heartedly, lilting against Issei. His arm is around Issei’s waist, and Issei has to swallow past his heavy tongue, and hums at his temple, quietening and soothing.

‘Let’s go to bed. You need to sleep, I know I wore you out.’

‘If you’re there, I will, otherwise I get restless,’ Takahiro says seriously, head tipping back to look at him, and Issei kisses the top of his head, lingering too long. It’s all too easy to shut the door and forget about the stub lying on the empty chair, smoke long gone. 

Inside, his bed is warm. Inside, sleep comes easier with Takahiro rubbing their legs together as he gets comfortable again. Inside, he can almost forget that he’s as in love as it is possible for a human being to be, and he can almost forget that it’s the most scared he’s ever been, and his parents run a funeral home for a living. What’s being dead against wanting to live?

Chapter Text

They're back to back, on the floor in Takahiro's living room. Issei is slumped over the crossword, slowly making his way through the half-done puzzles in the neverending pile of magazines and newspapers Takahiro's mother is subscribed to. Takahiro is playing Monster Hunter Tri on his pearl pink Nintendo 3DS. For once, his sister is home, so the rest of the Hanamaki's are all gathered in the living room, equally lazy and entirely bored. 

The radio is playing faint in the kitchen. A plate of cake rusk and a jar of peach jam, open and pierced through with a butter knife, sit on the coffee table, which has been dragged close to the sofa, two pairs of feet resting on the edge, his mother’s and his sister’s. The windows are open, dark pink curtains pushed aside. The air con is at twenty three degrees.

Umi is watching BabyTV. Takahiro's mother looks like she's becoming hypnotized by the insane shit that comes on BabyTV. Sakura is probably dirty texting her current hookup.

'What's a four letter word for beautiful,' Issei says. 

'Did you try one of my nicknames already,' Takahiro says absently. 

'I actually did, all fifteen of them,' Issei responds, clicking his borrowed mechanical pencil. He's so reliable it's dreamy. 'None of them fit though, unfortunately. It might start with J?'

'I can't think of a single four letter word that means beautiful that starts with J,' Takahiro's mother says. 'Matsukawa, you could just be wrong, as per usual.'

'And you could be right,’ he says agreeably. Sakura snorts.

‘Yes, I tend to be,’ she says. ‘Ladies, what if we turn the TV off?’

‘No,’ Umi mumbles, gnawing at her knee.

His mom looks like she might start gnawing on her knee, too. ‘Okay,’ she says.

Sakura laughs very quietly.

Issei is also quiet, in the way where he’s thinking, rather than his usual brand, and Takahiro nudges him with his shoulder. On the handheld screen the Jhen Mohran, or as Takahiro prefers to call it, This Fucked Up Dragon Asshole, tosses his avatar fifty miles off coast. He inhales deeply.

Issei nudges him back, and then Takahiro’s mother says, abrupt, ‘Matsukawa, why do you write with pencil?’

‘So Takahiro can erase it all and pretend I did it wrong the next day,’ he responds easily.

She looks unhappy at the quick response. ‘That’s assuming you did it right.’

‘Good point.’

‘Is there a reason you’re taking that tone with me?’

‘I’m sorry, Hanamaki-san, I was just a bit distracted. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

He’s like a machine. Takahiro can practically hear her mouth thinning. 'When are you getting a job, anyways.'

'As soon as school ends, because that’s what my mom said to do.'

'What's your least favorite color.'

'Aren’t all colors beautiful?’

His poor mother might snap. Sakura chimes in, ‘How many pull ups can you do?’

Issei’s shoulders twitch against his, which is a sure sign he’s holding back a loud laugh. ‘Nearly twelve on a good day.’

Kaa-san makes a miraculous comeback. ‘Can you cook?’

‘I can bake?’ he offers humbly. ‘And I make good tea.’ She hisses at the second bit. His mother is a sucker for a good cup of tea.

‘Are you good at math?’

‘Pretty good.’

‘Could you do taxes?’ she presses.

‘Pretty easily.’

‘Can you pass me a pillow?’ Sakura says lazily.

‘Here you go.’ Issei passes her a pillow from the other end of the couch.

'Thanks. Can you give me a song rec, by the way?’

Issei barely even blinks. ‘Right now I’ve got Bound stuck in my head.’

‘By The Ponderosa Twins?’ kaa-san says in disbelief, and for once she’s stunned. Takahiro can’t look up from his game but he can hear it in her voice.

Out the corner of his eye, Sakura crosses a leg over the other in a way she probably thinks is elegant and says, ‘Are you sure you don’t mean Pound?’

Takahiro says, ‘I’ll pound your face in, biatch,’ at the same time as Takahiro’s mother says, stunned, ‘Issei listens to The Ponderosa Twins?’

‘And other seventies music,’ Issei offers, shifting a bit behind Takahiro. ‘Any language, I’m not very picky.’

‘Aren’t all languages beautiful?’ Sakura mimics. Issei exhales through his nose, amused.

‘What’s this song about?’ Takahiro asks distractedly, interested in whatever made his mother crack, finally.

‘For me it’s about you,’ Issei tells him, which tells him quite a lot. 

‘It was my and my—friend’s song,’ Takahiro’s mother says, which tells him even more, and she sounds faint. ‘It’s such a strange coincidence that you would say that one in particular.’

‘Your friend, meaning your lesbian lover from the 70’s?’ Sakura inquires.

‘You had a lesbian lover in the 70’s?’ Takahiro asks, with interest, as if this isn’t entirely in character of his mother, who’s like one of the Golden Girls, a show she watches religiously. He’s mostly surprised to hear she committed to someone.

‘Stop pretending to listen and just play Monster Hunter,’ Issei tells him. ‘Or you’ll lose this level again and then you’ll be mad all day.’

An advertisement with a jingle he’s been humming all week starts rolling on the TV screen and Umi asks loudly, ‘What’s a lesbian?’ 

Takahiro starts laughing, and the dragon utterly pummels his character but he literally, physically cannot stop laughing and Issei turns sideways to hold him up and take the 3DS off his hands.

‘You’re ridiculous,’ he tells him gently.

‘Someone tell her!’ Takahiro chokes out.

‘Not it,’ Sakura says instantly, phone slipping from how fast she’s probably reporting the current happenings to her group chat.

‘Umi is too young to know about anything deeper—’ Kaa-san begins with zero confidence and a lot of mortification, and Umi says, again, even louder and persistent, ‘What is it!?’

His mother turns off the TV and says haltingly, face as pink as Takahiro’s own is from laughing, ‘Well, Umi, sometimes, a girl—nevermind, I don’t want to do this with Matsukawa present.’

Umi looks near tears. Sakura looks near tears too, for different reasons. Issei just drones, ‘Oh, come on, Hanamaki-saaaan,’ which is so beyond low effort that Takahiro actually sheds a tear.

He loves when Issei comes over. Usually it's him going over to Issei’s, and they spend the day in his front yard or in his room, air conditioner on full blast but yesterday his mother had said, ‘I haven’t seen your stalker in a while,’ which was code for her missing Issei. Your stalker, really. It was a bit nostalgic—that kind of nonchalance, that disrespect, is how Takahiro used to talk about him. To his family, Issei is still that tall, quiet boy who makes Takahiro laugh. To Takahiro, well, he's thinking less and less about the laughter, which is endless, and more about the flipping in his belly, which feels like it’s endless too. 

He could still talk about him like that, because it’s hilarious. Nowadays he just can’t be bothered to play that game. Nowadays Takahiro finds that he's been giving in easier and feels a bit like melted, stretched taffy, chewed up and gone soft in the sun. Issei’s intense gaze is the heat.

The afternoon is spent loafing around. He posted a few pictures on Facebook the previous night so he looks through the comments on those for a bit while Issei tackles the game. The crossword puzzle isn’t finished, but the spot the difference is, with the help of a bored Umi, still mad because she doesn’t know what a lesbian is and no one will tell her. As a distraction, his mother and sisters go out for ice cream, and the offer is extended to them, too but Takahiro hasn’t kissed Issei in hours, not since he showed up on the front steps with a rolled up Sunday copy of the Shimbun and a dream—so now that he’s done with that excuse they stay in and Issei stares. Dark eyed and unblinking.

Because he did before, too, but now, post kiss, post balcony, post hour long make out session in his lap, Issei is always staring. He’s just always fucking staring. Takahiro thinks Issei probably looks at him more than he looks at the whole rest of the world combined.

They’re on the sofa again. There is a pile consisting of four newspapers, all Sunday editions, six magazines, two fashion booklets, some of his sister’s, a few sports magazines he bought, and a Gunzo, god knows how it got here, teetering on the coffee table. The jam is still there, the plate is just crumbs and a knife he licked clean. All the crosswords have been completed.

He glances to the side. As predicted. Issei’s low-lidded eyes bore into his.

There’s something different about it today, though. Instead of the pure dazed elation that’s been mirrored in his own gaze for days, his eyes look clear and dark. Steady on, a bit thoughtful. Slightly searching, but content. 

Takahiro swallows, and wonders if Issei knows.

Here is a well kept secret—sometimes Takahiro wishes Issei would know. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he found out. Sometimes he wakes up from dreaming about it.

Most of the time he feels certain in his heart that Issei has no idea how bad it is for him, how entirely he’s head over heels, gut-deep in love. It’s as much of a relief as it is a source of misery.

He breaks the silence. ‘What?’

The corner of Issei’s mouth tugs up. ‘Just lookin’.’

‘Well stop.’

‘I don’t think I physically can,’ Issei answers lazily. ‘M’head’s stuck.’

‘Unstick it.’

It’s a full on grin, now. ‘You have the prettiest eyes.’

Takahiro tries to give him a flat expression, tries desperately to look unimpressed, channeling his Golden Girl mother and hoping he doesn’t look as flustered as he feels but, ‘It’s too fucking hot for this,’ he grumbles, and his face gets hotter as Issei lets out a soft laugh.

‘Mm. You’re burning up.’

‘Yeah, ‘cause it’s freakin’ hundred degrees in here,’ Takahiro snaps, and crosses his arms to scowl at the television screen.

Some American romance main character stares back just as moodily.

‘No other reason,’ Takahiro adds, because he’s a sweetheart and he loves snapping the string back at Issei and giving him more to work with. Just saying it makes him flush and turn a bit away, though. He remembers the day at the football field. I like when you get shy on me.

Issei stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, and it’s a solid, heavy presence at his back. 

‘‘Course not,’ he agrees. His thighs spread, left knee against Takahiro’s right. Like a Twister call, right hand to red and left hand to heart.

‘God, I hate movies like this,’ Takahiro says after a while. ‘Pass the remote.’

‘Sure.’ He stretches his arm out to the left and when he’s got it, tucking it into Takahiro’s palm, he’s somehow a thousand times closer. ‘Why though? You like rom-coms.’

‘It’s been forty minutes and they haven’t even touched hands. The climax is gonna be a kiss and then they’ll be together,’ Takahiro complains. He starts cycling through channels, and frowns, hyperaware of Issei’s lingering eyes. ‘It’s so stupid..’

‘Right.’ His breathing is uneven. ‘So.. Fast kissing is good?’

Takahiro’s finger stops against the button. He can’t not smile.

‘Shit,’ he says, turning, finally, to grin up at Issei’s flushed face. ‘You're the stupidest guy in the world. I seriously can't even believe that this is what I find hot.’

And he looks so handsome, with his eyes wide and dark and his forehead drawn tight, eyebrows raised. Wet tongue darting out, it's illegal. He says, dickish to the end, ‘You think I'm hot?’

Within a minute they’re horizontal on the couch and making out like the world is ending.

Out in their garden in scented air, Issei has been delegated the job of watering a bed of wispy-thin white flowers with a homemade Sakura Haruno themed watering can. He’s bearing down well, having borrowed a pair of well-fitting black sunglasses from the beechwood drawer of random things in the genkan, took off his little used summer plaid so now he’s in a thin white tank and Takahiro keeps giving him elevator eyes. He can’t do anything about it, though, because Takahiro’s mother and sisters are back and loitering in the kitchen, back door propped open with a small terracotta pot with this huge red brick in it, a thick wire stretching out across the grass to connect to a spinning fan that his baby sister is parked in front of, whispering echoing words and giggling to herself. 

So he can’t flirt and he can’t talk about Sakura Haruno, or he’ll be ragged relentlessly by Sakura Hanamaki and her mother, who claims Naruto stole her daughter’s very unoriginal name. And he kind of needs to stay in Hanamaki-san’s good books for one reason.

‘I miss the lawnchair,’ says the one reason.

Takahiro is splayed over a white chair that is lightweight but very artisan, part of a set. The other three chairs are piled atop each other like those Russian dolls, against the wall by the back door. His feet are bare, propped up on the matching table. The white table legs are too thin and curvy for it to be stable but he seems to be balancing fine, looks like a picture from one of the endless magazines inside. 

‘It’s the ideal garden chair,’ Issei says agreeably, and moves to the next bed of flowers, grass scratching pleasantly against the soles of his feet. ‘Everything else falls short.’

‘We should’ve been luggin’ it aroooouuund,’ he whines, head slung back and tossing vaguely in frustration.

‘Mn. You’re not staying in character.’ Issei likes the whining, really. It is characteristic, the way he does it, sweeter for its rarity, sexy in its needy tone. According to Best Friends (2010) however, he’s legally obligated to inform Takahiro whenever he’s being a wuss.

Takahiro sighs. ‘Why can’t I complain with heart, Issei. Must I always be aloof?’

‘You’re the one who cares so much about your infallible image. Though aloof is pushing it.’

‘The dashing Hanamaki Takahiro, that’s me,’ he says wearily, a hand splaying over his chest. ‘The public needs its shiny star. You know, I’m only me when I’m with you.’

Issei’s heart just skips a beat all on its own.

‘The crashing Hanamaki Takahiro?’ he suggests. ‘Or maybe smashing.’

‘I’ll smash you,’ Takahiro says, unmoving. 

Issei has to pause and grin. He looks so typical him, talking his typical shit, feet on the table and swaying every few seconds in the breeze. His calves are bare, in sweatpants that have been sheared off at the knee. Stray threads tickle his thighs and he keeps shifting in place.

‘I’ll smash you right back,’ he says.

Takahiro scoffs. ‘Keep watering. Sex is your reward, not your right.’

Issei keeps watering, and it’s peaceful for a time.

For a time.

‘Heyy, Hanaaaa! What’s up?’

There are things that can make your mood plummet. At that, Issei’s whole day plummets.

Takahiro sits up just a bit, turns to the gate with a smile and raises a long arm hello. ‘Orochi-kun! How’s your summer?’

Why he needs to ask, Issei would love to know. Orochi’s arm rises back, and he smiles like the douchebag he is. 

‘Not bad, not bad,’ he says affably. ‘Chilling.’

Orochi, the Hanamaki neighbor on the left. Where the ever-homophobic old man Kubo-san on the right is a source of joy, because he owns a car that is fun to TP whenever he pisses Takahiro off, which is often, nothing Orochi On-the-left does could ever redeem him. He’s trash, plain and simple. Things he enjoys include playing loud Korean pop music, eating sorbet, and making bad paintings. He especially enjoys talking your ear off about it while chewing some imported gum because he is too good for Lotte. He’s loaded, of course, and is never unsmiling. He’s two years older, lives with his parents, goes to community college, makes a lot of kiwi lemonade and owns a lot of beaded necklaces. He thinks he’s all that. 

Issei hates all of these things about him but they’re not reason enough to hate a person. And that is probably clear. Just as clear as the real reason Issei hates him.

The real reason Issei hates him is that Orochi is obsessed with Takahiro. But in the end, who wouldn’t be.

‘Guess what I’m making,’ Orochi pushes, leaning against the gate.

‘More kiwi lemonade?’ Takahiro hazards, and this asshole bursts out laughing. 

He runs a hand through his slick hair and chuckles, ‘You caught me, oh my goddd.. I’m addicted, what can I say?’

And this summer, by all rights, is Issei's. Theirs, really, the two of them, but his in that it’s finally the two of them. He should be laid back about it. But still, he finds himself putting down the watering can and walking to the table, slipping a proprietary hand to Takahiro’s nape.

‘Hey,’ Issei greets, even. ‘How’s college? Seiyo Gakuin, right?’

Orochi’s chill smile fades a bit. 

‘Yeah, man. It’s good. You kids on break too, yeah? Not doing anything crazy?’ This last bit, directed at Takahiro, lips curling back up in this grin Issei would like to get rid of. 

‘Define crazy,’ Takahiro says, and tips his head back to smile at Issei.

‘You?’ he suggests.

‘Guilty,’ Takahiro pouts.

Issei has never known a prettier face. The sight of that face soothes him when he has actual headaches. And he must be an ungrateful bastard because he responds only by squeezing Takahiro's nape lightly and boring his eyes into the asshole next door. ‘Then I’m definitely doing something crazy.’

Orochi’s chill smile fades the most it has ever faded. ‘That right, man.’

‘That’s right,’ Issei replies steadily. ‘You gonna share that kiwi lemonade with us, or…?’ Just fuck off already.

‘Play nice,’ Takahiro murmurs, lazy. Issei’s shoulders loosen, but he holds eye contact and lifts his fingers to drag up to the top of Takahiro’s pink head, more visible when he sweeps his thumb over his sunburnt ear.

‘Yeah, I’ll bring some over,’ Orochi says. There is no inflection in his tone.

Takahiro hums. ‘No need, Orochi-kun. I’ll send Umi.’

Issei’s ready to call out some friendly bullshit about you do remember Umi-chan, right and you must’ve been like twenty when she was born, you dickhead but Orochi says, uncomfortable, ‘Sure, yeah, sure. See you guys, have a good one,’ and skedaddles. Takahiro tips his jaw to the side and inhales.

Issei watches Orochi’s oily head till he’s gone back inside and then dips his chin to meet Takahiro’s gaze solemnly, half expecting to be chewed out.

‘I forgot how jealous you can get,’ Takahiro whispers.

‘I hope he never comes to see you again,’ Issei replies.

Takahiro keeps staring at him, upside down and with those wide, pale eyes, and Issei knows he’s judging but isn’t very ashamed. In this, he’s stubborn. 

‘Sex might not be my right,’ Issei tells him, hand slipping down to cup at Takahiro’s throat, thumb tracing his jutting Adam’s apple. ‘But c’mon. Getting jealous has to be. I get to do that.’

He could say, best friend privileges. But he holds Takahiro’s gaze and the only thought in his head is that he’s jealous because he doesn’t want anyone else thinking about Takahiro like that besides himself. And Issei finds now that he cannot lie about it. I want you. Do you know how badly?

‘Sure,’ Takahiro says, and blinks slow and amused and sly. ‘I’ll let you have this one.’

He splays his hand out in the air for Takahiro to grab and lifts him up, Takahiro half jumping off the chair when he pulls and pressing a flat palm to Issei’s abdomen for support. He kisses Issei’s cheek, open mouthed and daring, lingering so long its hard for Issei to stay still, then tugs him towards the open kitchen door.

Hanamaki-san is looking at the bottom of her empty glass dispassionately.

‘Good news, kaa-san. Orochi On-the-left is sending juice,’ Takahiro says, slipping past the counter to wrap around his mother like a limpet.

‘Is it kiwi or pineapple?’ she asks, pushing at him with her palm. ‘Stop sticking, it’s summer, you brat.’

A wet smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘It’s kiwi lemonade, can we send Umi to go get it?’

‘Ugh. Why can’t the boy just come over.’

At that Issei raises his eyebrows. He feels a bit disrespected.

Like a hero Sakura calls out from the living room, ‘Because he has a weird crush on Takahiro!’

‘Weird,’ Takahiro repeats, and releases his mother. ‘Weird weird weird, kaa-san.’

She scrubs at her cheek in disgust and says, ‘I am not sending my baby over all the way next door, and I just sent her to shower, anyways. Sakura, you go.’

‘Why can’t Issei go?’ she groans, echoing from the hallway.

‘Matsukawa isn’t my child, I can’t send him places,’ Hanamaki-san says thinly. She doesn’t look at him. 

But you’d just love to send me away, he thinks, just as thin.

‘And Issei would end up fighting him for my honor anyways. And he’d spill all the juice,’ Takahiro says, slipping up to him and pinching his cheek. Issei lets it happen, looking at him now with his ears a bit hot at the rather obvious declaration. In front of his mother, really. Like Issei’d ever get into a fight without calling Hajime as back up.

‘Takahiro, go to the garden and make sure he doesn’t kidnap her. More than two minutes and he gets shot. Sakura, be intimidating,’ she orders, and for a second Issei has hope. Then she completes, severe; ‘So that you get as much as there is.’

‘It’s like living in martial law,’ Sakura remarks, floating past in a loose tie-dye shirt he’s seen on Takahiro, and she grabs at Takahiro’s shirt which might be one of hers in return to yank him off Issei. He goes loud and protestingly, and shoots Issei a stupid-warm look before they’re scrabbling at each other out the door.

The silence would be awkward, but it’s just cold, like the air very much isn’t. Hanamaki-san is removing a large ornamental glass jug and several tall, thin glasses from her beach-wood china cabinet.

Issei breaks.

‘Hanamaki-san.. I don’t understand.’

‘What?’

He tucks his tongue inside his cheek. ‘You have no issues with the pushy, clingy, older guy who likes Takahiro and lives right next door. But me. I’m, what. Bad for him?’ 

His relationship with Takahiro’s mother isn’t fraught so much as it is a bit strained. She’s a bit untrusting of men, of him, of any guy Sakura brings over, even as a friend. He doesn’t mind—he’s used to being the delinquent, the bad cop to Takahiro’s good. Dangerous where Takahiro is trustworthy. And they’re alike in some ways. They both really love Takahiro. They’re both easily amused by anything he does. And they both usually care a bit too much about him. 

So he’s more than a little irritated that the only other line of defense apparently couldn’t give less of a damn. 

And maybe he is hurt. Issei has been a good friend since first year and never has he felt approved of the way Tooru and Hajime were, the way casual friends from their grade are, the way Konoha Akinori manages to continue to be all the way from another prefecture.

Sometimes he just thinks Hanamaki-san could see it even back then, in first year, the first time he came over after school, trembling and bald and silent. She could tell even when he wouldn’t talk, how badly Issei liked him at fifteen. It must’ve been all over his face. In the way he followed him around. He was pretty weird, back then. He’d show up in the morning and hover. But he’s never been bad to Takahiro. He’s sat detentions for him, stood bowed in front of a screaming Irihata for him, climbed up random strangers’ fire escapes to get cool pictures of him. All he wanted in those cold, hovering mornings was to walk Takahiro everywhere. And make sure he was wearing two pairs of socks.

If that’s not enough to be better than the others, what will it take to be good for him? To deserve him? To be the perfect guy? It’s worse than the fears he has in his head.

‘Matsukawa, I’ll tell you something,’ Hanamaki-san says abruptly. She sets the jug down and regards him through reading glasses that remind him of his father’s. It’s not a good reminder. ‘And this might excite you, so do try to contain yourself. I’m uninterested in seeing you happy.’

‘Tell me how you really feel,’ Issei intones.

‘I always will, don’t worry,’ she says, but it’s probably half banter. Then she looks serious. ‘I’m telling you this purely so you realize, and don’t squander what you have like the idiot I know you and all boys your age tend to be.’ 

She pauses, then says, deliberate, with her fingers tight on the handle of the jug, ‘I am hard on you, because I take your terrible advances on my son seriously. I ignore that loon with the necklaces that don’t go with his wardrobe because him, I don’t take seriously at all.’

Issei stares at her. 

Her head tilts. Her eyes are Takahiro’s eyes, and they’re just as sharp. ‘He’s irrelevant. Takahiro doesn’t care about him, so neither do I. You, he never shuts up about. You actually have a chance with one of my children. So you, I need to watch carefully. Maybe I’m too careful… he definitely thinks so. But maybe you understand caring for Takahiro more than anyone else.’

Issei might be going in shock. He stares at her, hands numb and eyes slightly wide. Sakura and Takahiro tumble in, holding two tall, ugly jugs of a slightly frothy green liquid to their respective chests, and squabbling about how many glasses to each stomach.

‘I want five!’ Umi shouts, running in on tiny wet feet that slap against the floor, light brown hair whipping around her shiny pink face. In a few years she’ll color it like the rest of them. Dimly, Issei remembers that he’s betting on green.

Hanamaki-san beckons for the containers with spindly pale hands that remind him of Takahiro’s, it’s a good reminder, and pours them into her own jugs, then whatever is left goes smoothly into the decorative glasses. They fill up quickly, almost overflowing. When Takahiro lifts two, one in each spindly pale hand there’s already a circle of condensation on the white and blue gingham tablecloth.

Issei looks at him. Takahiro jerks his chin up, gesturing upstairs with questioning, darting eyes.

Issei picks up another two glasses and nods hesitantly at Hanamaki-san, getting no nod in return but a tipping up of her familiar pale chin, a blink of her familiar pale eyes, before following.

In a way, he thinks dimly. That was approval.

Now what could hold him back?

Chapter Text

On Sunday, Matsukaa-san puts her foot down and ear-drags Kenta outside into the backyard, where Issei and Takahiro have been lying on the grass arguing lazily about the typo in Bloons Tower Defense since breakfast.

‘OW, OW, OW! MA! I’M GOING, I AM!’

The door slams without so much as a by-your-leave. Issei sits up. ‘What happened?’

‘She snapped,’ Kenta says dolefully. The kid is crumpled on the grass, rubbing at his ear. His glasses are dislodged, pouty copy-paste mouth jutted out heavy. ‘No more laptop for the next two days, and I barely had time to tell the guys I’ll be gone. I think she’s mad ‘cause it’s Eid and we’re not doing anything again.’

Issei clicks his tongue. ‘Well. There goes your social life.’

‘Shut up, niisan.’

‘I’m being sincere,’ he defends, lip twitching.

‘Guys,’ Takahiro says, fisting a hand in the cross-shaped back of Issei’s singlet and yanking him back down to the ground to shut him up. Issei goes easily. ‘Ken, I told you should ease up on the Minecraft.’

‘I can’t. It’s my social life,’ he says, grim. Issei laughs very quietly.

‘Maybe you should do something social for Eid, at least in your family, anyway,’ Takahiro suggests. ‘Two birds with one stone. Like make cake. We could go get groceries and come back and make a lot of noise in the kitchen, your mother would have time to get over it and be over the moon.’

‘We had cake yesterday,’ Issei says, eyes falling half shut against the sky. ‘It wasn’t as good as you make it.’

‘That was storebought meatloaf, idiot,’ Kenta says, and then at a quelling look from Takahiro, amends, ‘Idiot niisan.’

‘I do make good meatloaf,’ Takahiro admits. ‘Is that all you did?’

‘Well, none of us fasted this year,’ Issei responds, squinting for a second as he tries to remember if he did, then shutting his eyes because it’s a blank. ‘Not even kaa-san, she does every now and then.’ A beat. Then he adds, ‘She did wake up early to get the meatloaf though.’

‘Otou-san gave me a hundred yen coin yesterday morning,’ Kenta volunteers.

Issei scoffs, halfhearted. ‘What a lousy effort.’ He does note the irony in this. While it is likely that his level of nonchalance comes from both of his parents, he is at a peak. Top of the game. No one functions as little as Issei. 

And then there’s Takahiro, who says, thoughtful, ‘Hm. We could still make cake.’ 

‘I think you just really want cake, Hiro-nii,’ Kenta tells him.

‘I do really want cake.’

‘We can pick some up in a couple hours,’ Issei says. ‘We need to get bread, anyways.’

They should devolve into comfortable silence, but there’s this restlessness in the air now. Takahiro makes Issei want to stand and move and go on walks. Follow him around. It’s in the heat, too, it’s in the dirt under his head. 

‘Man, I hate this backyard,’ Kenta says, tugging at grass bad-temperedly. ‘It’s so stupid. We don’t even have a tire-swing. We don’t even have a place to sit because you guys hog the lawnchair so much and then leave it upstairs. I want a bench.’

‘Let’s go to the park,’ Issei says nonchalantly.

Takahiro sits up immediately, energized. ‘Let’s go to the park!’

‘It rained like crazy yesterday,’ Kenta says, grumpy. ‘It’d be mucky as hell.’

Issei thinks about shrugging but doesn’t end up doing it. ‘Let’s not then.’

‘Isn’t there a park near here with barely any grass?’ Takahiro says.

Kenta sighs, bangs billowing out emo-ly at the breath. ‘The swings in that park are creaky and weird. It’s so annoying to listen to.’

Issei hums, head moving back against his crossed arms. His left bicep is getting tight so he shifts to the other one. ‘So let’s not.’

‘We can just take oil to fix that?’ Takahiro says, mildly outraged. ‘God, did your parents teach you two nothing?’

‘You can fix the creaky swings with oil? Don't we cook with that stuff?’ Kenta says, eyebrows high. 

At this Issei gives Takahiro a guilty look, tipping his head down, hoping his double chin isn’t too serious. ‘He spends a lot of time online.’

Takahiro stands upright in an instant and glares at him, one foot braced against his inner thigh as he reties his laces. Issei tries to look at him and not the extra inch of skin when his shorts ride up. ‘Go get shoes for yourself and Kenta, if you even know where your mommy keeps them. I’m gonna go to your garage and get the lubricant and then we’re gonna head and eat a shitton of cake after. Don’t even think about making that low-hanging fruit joke. OR THAT ONE.’

Issei’d counted four jokes in total, but as he opens his mouth to voice that he sees Takahiro’s scowl darken and decides to let it go.

He goes and gets shoes for himself and Kenta, who felt ashamed enough to get up and slink inside, possibly so he could wash his face. His little brother’s are a blue that leans towards purple and look sort of scuffed from whenever he last used them. Issei’s got his beloved black Grinch Zoom 6’s, Takahiro’s second year birthday gift because back then he’d been a hardcore sneakerhead and needed everyone to follow along, which is the only reason Issei knows their legal name. Takahiro has the Nikes he’d shown up in, clean and white as usual but for one fresh oddity—the shoelaces he just tied, one dyed green and one dyed pink. They suit the rest of his funky outfit, so Issei barely blinks and they start walking. 

Sakanamachi park is a few blocks off from the Matsukawa house, near always empty with enough ground to cover both a brightly painted, thin steel playground and just plain old grass, trees all over the plot. There’s three vending machines nearby, two bright red under a white shade roof across the street on the other end of the park, one faded and white to its right side where the residential area ends. He makes a note to pick up drinks after. 

It’s a good kids park, though Issei hasn’t been in a while. Last that his mother came was to attend a festival held in his first year, he remembers the food she brought home. There's the distinct scent of flowers, ones he can’t quite name but recognizes the look of from the Hanamaki store, cherry blossoms August dry and wooden benches all around the edges of the park.

Kenta disappears immediately and it’s only the fact that the neighborhood is generally kind and he knows the streets like the back of his hand that keeps Issei from not going to find the idiot. Takahiro beelines straight for the playground.

There’s a small group of kids, very young, running around and singing, chanting, the sound of birds only a background faded over. Another few climb over the half green half faded red crescent climbing arc, each rung a different color with a different kid clambering over it or hanging beneath, monkey-like with their mouths wide open and yelling. There’s a duo of boys sitting in a sandy patch nearby, arguing. Heads together, they’re close enough that they could be brothers but they look entirely different. It’s a bit heartwarming, really. 

The swings are empty, though not for long.

Issei’s throat goes dry as Takahiro stands on the swing seat and then hauls himself up, leg by leg, to sit with his ankles hooked under the top, black and yellow spray can of oil that Issei hadn’t even known they’d owned in hand and aimed at the swing hinges. All the children gather to watch and a bewildered mother stares warily from a distance. The other adults don’t get up from the benches but gawk like they’re at the zoo.

‘Hey pinku! What’re ya doin’!' some brat hollers.

Takahiro looks up and surveys his audience. Then lifts the hand with the spray in the air and says, rattling the bottle, ‘Making your outing worth it, buddy.’

The swing teeters as he speaks. The kids scream and the mother cries out in alarm and Issei grasps one metal pole with one hand to hold it down firm, and finds Takahiro’s thigh with the other.

Takahiro dangles a bit too low for the children to not yell again, though more in delight than terror this time, and he gives Issei a beautiful smile, hair hanging sideways. ‘You’re my hero.’

‘You’re an attention seeker,’ Issei quips. ‘Finish up here, don’t stress me out.’

‘You are already going gray,’ Takahiro agrees, and Issei bites the inside of his cheek because that’s too true for him not to let it sting.

Takahiro finishes with one hinge and starts on the other while fielding questions from the crowd of hyperactive kids. Issei looks around, inhaling the sweet air, and Kenta’s found love on a bench with some tall girl his age and a mobile phone once again in hand, though that might be Issei’s own, or maybe Takahiro’s.

‘Can I sit up there with you?’ a brown-skinned kid in dungarees shouts. Her cheeks shine in the sunlight. 

‘No, ‘cause I’m already done with the oiling up here, you’re a slowpoke. You can sit on the swing though. If we try hard enough we could get as high as I am now,’ Takahiro informs her. Then he jumps down, resulting in more yells and a slight scatter in the crowd. 

He sits on one swing and the girl sits on the other. The rest of the kids abandon them now that the party seems to be over, and the girl says loudly, ‘Someone has to push me.’

Takahiro looks stoutly away from Issei, a feigned aloofness he knows well from standing next to him with his face like that while a teacher berates them with broccoli in his teeth, and other, similar happenstances. Don’t laugh, Matsukawa. You’re such a cool guy with that poker face.  

It's practically a challenge in print on paper. Issei says mildly, ‘Only if you push me next,’ and the girl sighs, and says, rather bad temperedly, ‘Fine.’

It's tedious, pretending like he'll sit, but it’s worth a laugh.

He pushes the kid on the swing while she chatters on with Takahiro about some new cartoon they both like called Gravity Falls, which is a dorky name, and Takahiro kicks the ground to push himself up into this constant swinging arc. His hair really is getting a bit long, and Issei’s hoping he keeps it like this, because he loves it scruffy short, when it sticks up a bit looking just like dyed grass, but here and now it hangs almost to his eyes, a cute triangular tail of pink at his nape. It suits him.

‘My mom says Mabel can’t be my girlfriend,’ the girl says mournfully.

‘Absolutely correct, Maybelline is twelve,’ Takahiro says severely. ‘You’re way too young for her.’

‘Her name is just Mabel, and I’m thirteen!’

‘You don’t look it,’ Issei informs her. 

She looks a bit embarrassed. ‘Fine, I’m ten.’

‘Yeah, I figured because thirteen’s a bit too old for the park,’ Takahiro says consideringly. ‘I stopped coming after I was nine, but I was a bit of a prodigy.’

‘Yeah, you stayed in and watched children’s shows instead,’ Issei comments.

Both of them say, in the same scandalized tone and at the same time— ‘Gravity Falls isn’t for kids!’ 

What does he know, anyway. He’s just the swing pusher. 

So he shrugs and pushes, and tries not to think about the fact that Takahiro would make a brilliant father, because he’s way too young to think things like that, and saying it out loud would make Takahiro run for the hills.

More than he already wants to. He bites down a grimace. 

Once they’ve said goodbye to Takahiro’s lesbian twin and collected Kenta, who has to be yanked away from his new girlfriend, they start making their way back. Issei remembers to pause at the street across with the Coca cola red vending machines covered in black graffiti.

They let Kenta slip the coins in. Cold cans clatter to the hard metal dispenser, just 7UP for him and his brother. They look at Takahiro. ‘The options are so basic,’ Takahiro says. They walk to the white machine past the hair salon, with the big yellow 24h limes sign and Takahiro squints at the glass. He dawdles there, hums, then walks back to the other machines, and then again, like a pilgrimage. Kenta finishes his drink and Issei keeps the cool metal of his pressed to his hot nape till they’re the same temperature or thereabouts. Takahiro finally gets a Pokka peach iced tea from the red machines and once they’ve both had their first sips under the cool awning, Takahiro starts on making Kenta blush in the charming, cool older brother voice he has down pat and uses constantly on their juniors at school and Issei walks at the back of the pack as they make their way home.

Everything about him seems handmade for Issei, made with love, carved and polished to perfection, like they were meant to meet and become best friends, because that’s what they are, just best friends, if you absolutely had to put a label to it, but he never really does because Takahiro just always seems like he’s never going to be anyone's anything.

He has this glimmering quality to him. He faces skyward. Issei is the ground looking up, like a basement to a loft there’s just stories and stories between them, tales tall as cliffs but there’s no story of their own. It’s the fire escape of relationships. There for a breather, ready to leave. Issei knows now that he’s in love with him as surely as he knows his own hands. Crazily, raggedly, entirely, enough to make a guy scream and feel split open inside. Or lie down, be submerged and feel so good you never want to get up again. Irreversibly—love is now a part of him.

Nothing like it was before, when he’d just dote on him in between bits, and follow along with his jokes and be his partner in crime. It's incomparable. Whatever had been in Issei’s heart before is a candle to the forest fire it is now. In the past few weeks of summer, under Takahiro's focused attention it's bloomed like fields of flowers from his mother’s store that Issei can’t name but will always associate with him.

And now he's afraid there's just no saving it. He's going to be left broken to the bone. 

Forever changed. He’ll be completely leveled.

Because Takahiro has held him in the palm of his hand since the moment he swung his leg over Issei and gave him the kiss of his life. He could curve his fingers in and Issei would crumple like paper. He’d be crushed like glass, and the shards wouldn’t even pierce Takahiro’s Superboy skin. 

Because Issei’s got a sick, steady building feeling at the bottom of his stomach saying this is a fling for him. 

Just for the summer. And then, the rest of the school year will hurtle by in tournaments and exam cramming and a morning alarm beeping on his cheap leather watch. And then Takahiro will go out of the prefecture for university, to the stupid Tokyo boys already waiting on their turn, and he might even go overseas, and even if he doesn’t they certainly won’t land on the same choice and Issei will be left behind and probably, he’ll find himself a series of more interesting flings and that’ll be it, sayonara. See you, space cowboy.

Blurry, Issei sees himself dying on the roadside, or a bartop slurring on like Katy Perry. In silver screen clarity he sees himself alone with a new watch and new shoes and a suit for the funeral home and more grey hairs just lifelessly going about his day, which is worse than any other fate now that he knows what it’s like to be a pair. Like all religions round the world say they make them in.

He remembers that Tooru told him not to worry about it, and Yamato had advised the same. Takahiro’s mother had said his chance was the biggest. It's impossible, though. At the end of the day it's built against him, their whole thing, the invisible rules of it. If he's ever not thinking about kissing Takahiro he's thinking about whether that was the last time.

Sometimes he wonders if these three years will be like when you catch the faint scent of something sweet, apricots, peaches in the air and your head lifts and you inhale, but when you go for the next deep breath the fruits are long gone. If maybe, the rest of his life will be the moments afterward, when you try again, sniff the air but all there is is dry, fresh, cool wind, a scent you never consider less or more until there was something riding along on it and you happened to be there, breathing in. But it's gone now, the fruit punch breeze, whatever the fruit were, maybe they were mangos? and you know that's wrong but you don't know what it was anymore. All it was now is over. He'd had a dream the other night where they’d been sitting together on the moon, a new one, one for a planet that hadn't been Earth, he knows because the steady spinning globe below had been deep, heartthrob pink. He’d checked on NASA’s database the next morning and forget different shades, there aren't any pink planets to be found. Not even a one. That’s real terror—there is an entire, stupendous universe out there. And no pink planets for Takahiro to toss moonstones at. Issei feels like the terror is living in him, if he’s not becoming one with it. 

Takahiro laughs loudly, bright and unrestrained, and Issei lifts his head out of his stupor at the sound. 

‘You called her a what?’ He’s wheezing, and Kenta groans, glasses dislodged as he covers his face, hair mussing and kicking his feet at the pavement. 

‘Clearly, I wasn’t thinking!’

‘Yeah, no shit!’ His smile is wide and pink, lips stretched and face glowing. Issei feels a lump in his throat that might’ve been there all along, and he just never realized.

He’s going to leave.

Back in his room, the window open from shutters to curtain because there’s a faint night breeze. 

Stacks of Monthly Volleyball, Kerrang! a few copies of the Shinbun and Gunzo magazine under Issei’s nightstand, the odd Teen Vogue stolen from Takahiro’s house because he just needed to finish that Does He Like You? quiz. Personally Takahiro would just ask, if he didn’t already know. Issei liking him might as well be up on billboards, the lit up kind in the streets of places like Akihabara. There’s a second, unsteady pile for books, a third for comics, with random, borrowed and bought CDs stuffed in between the pages at random. There’s the Alternative Press issue Takahiro learnt about The Cab from, tucked between the Tomie movie and Issei’s scratched CD copy of Dark Water. Takahiro has it on USB because Issei’d been so irritated that day his brother fucked it up. There’s still a few copies of J-Beat and other motorcycle mags, but Issei’s recently made a hard shift to Option. He’s got this fascinated thing about cars.

‘You need a bookshelf,’ Takahiro tells him. He’s prepared to present a case for building Issei one himself.

Something flabbergasting happens—Issei doesn’t deign to reply.

Takahiro would usually take this as a challenge to bother him until he does. Issei’s been withdrawn since the park, though, or maybe earlier, so he presses his cheek against the futon and watches him.

Issei makes him feel careful. He’s never felt like this before. When they’d gone to the bakery Takahiro had gotten the brand of bread he knows Issei likes, and a small cake, coffee flavored, the kind his mother likes. Kenta had wanted a cookie but he refused to admit it so Takahiro had gotten two, and the crumbs of his own litter the tissue paper spread flat atop Issei’s nightstand. 

He’d recited the order to Issei when they’d left the bakery, Issei hadn’t wanted to come in, and Issei had looked at him with unknowable eyes and said, ‘Thank you. She loves coffee cake.’ 

Kenta had walked on ahead, cookie in hand so Takahiro had kissed Issei there, very softly at the doorfront of a bustling bakery. He’d looked really shy afterward, then blinked and he was gone again. Somewhere in his own world, overthinker supreme. 

Takahiro loves when they’re talking but he loves that look, too, because it is so Issei. It is so typically Matsukawa Issei. He’s always got that distressed dip between his eyebrows, and it just makes his dark, faraway gaze look even dreamier. Heavy and thoughtful. When he lays eyes on Takahiro, he feels like he’s being looked at by the only real person in the world. Like he’d been alone before Issei turned up.

Sick of thinking and faintly flushed, he rolls over from where he’d been on his back at the foot of Issei’s futon tossing a volleyball at the poster covered wall over and over, vaguely aiming for the little speech bubble next to Catwoman’s head where the word ass has been dutifully taped over. At least, Takahiro assumes the word reads ass. He theorizes that it must, considering the rest of the text says ‘I’m going to kick your—’ and then the plain white paper tape, and then an italicized exclamation mark. He wonders whose—redacted—she’s kicking.

Absently, he tells Issei all about his internal monologue, the tape, the text, and the fact that her skull is too big in proportion to her face but she still looks astoundingly cool.

At this Issei says, ‘It was Riddler. Tim Sale is a god.’

Takahiro is a bit ticked off, and squirms so his shirt hem rises. ‘Who’s Tim Sale.’

Maybe, Issei’s lip twitches a bit. He can’t tell, because he’s at a weird angle. ‘No one you need to worry your pretty little head about.’   

‘I’m going to kick your ass,’ Takahiro promises. 

‘Ooh, scary.’

‘You mean sexy.’

‘Like Catwoman.’

‘Do you want me to actually be sexy like Catwoman, because if you do I’ll have to get mad. I’m not wearing any of those skintight suits for any Halloweens.’

‘You’re better, don’t worry.’

‘I better be.’

‘You better believe it.’

‘Hm. You’d be a terrible shinobi.’ 

‘I’d be a great shinobi. They’re active at night and I never sleep.’

A full sentence, which is encouraging, so Takahiro rolls closer as reward. ‘Insomniac. What’s your favorite time of the day?’

‘Eleven P.M.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s the twenty third hour of the day, in military time.’

‘Oh, god.’

Issei’s bottom lip is half sucked into his mouth, and Takahiro loves when he’s just trying so hard to keep a straight face. ‘I know.’

‘You’re ridiculous, you realize.’

‘They’re our numbers, baby.’

‘Like how sixty nine were our numbers literally half a year ago.’

‘Exactly,’ he agrees, straight faced. ‘But they are our numbers. You were three in junior high, right?’

‘And you were two… Whatever. It fits. You are the shit, I guess.’

‘That’s a compliment in some slang.’

‘I know it is, I think you’re cool, remember?’

‘You’re delirious.’

‘You’re the coolest, Issei-kun.’

Issei-kun is a bit flushed. ‘We should do something to occupy your—sorry, our time with.’

‘You wanna be busy. Because you don’t like me,’ Takahiro sulks.

‘Something that keeps you so busy you won’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘With your pretty eyes.’

Takahiro bats his pretty eyes. 

Issei doesn’t look for very long but he still looks, and is smiling faintly into the pages of his book. ‘Something for that, yeah.’

‘Ugh. Like what.’

‘Like marathon a show.’

‘We already did that last summer with Cowboy Bebop though.’

‘Oh, so bottle cap collection is out too, then. We can’t be repetitive, can we?’

His smile is gone, and Takahiro says, again and with feeling, ‘Ugh. We could do puzzles.’

‘Last time we did a puzzle you said, and I quote, ‘Swampert used earthquake.’ And my mom still keeps finding more pieces under the sofa.’

That long sentence doesn’t count, because it’s a zinger. Takahiro persists. ‘We could play Mario Kart. Or something.’

‘No, I hate video games.’

‘You liar?’

‘Me liar.’

‘Funny guy.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Do you ever think about what if that wasn’t you?’

‘Who is it, then.’

‘No, like, if you were something else. Not a funny guy with a sexy mouth. If you were born a unicorn. Or an ocean creature. Or just an ocean.’ Issei would make a great ocean. Takahiro would be his moon, because he feels like he can control him, sometimes. One time Issei called him mercurial. He’s just as moody, though.

‘Oceans can’t be born, Takahiro,’ Issei says patiently, nose still buried in his book. It’s a new one, with a dragon on the cover, gray wings stretched against a navy sky. It’s got yellow pupils and black eyes, and Takahiro wants to copy it onto paper and stick it on his wall. Knowing Issei though, if Takahiro told him that he’d rip the cover off and hand it to him with a bow, straightfaced. But he completely ignored sexy mouth, like a try hard.

‘Oh, I’m sure if we put our heads together,’ he responds airily. That gets a huff of a laugh, but he still doesn’t look up. That dragon must be doing loop-de-loops to hold his attention so tightly, he thinks, but really Issei’s attention, once earned, is quite long lasting. Incidentally, so is his patience.

Still, Takahiro persists. ‘Say they could be, though. What would you name one.’

‘A better question is what ocean is being born so ill fated that we’re allowed to name it, you and me.’

‘I’m good at naming things,’ Takahiro says, thinking he could easily name the unnamable feeling in his throat, if only he had the courage. ‘I named your family dog, didn’t I.’

‘Oh, the dog my father’s yet to adopt. Almost forgot about him.’

‘How could you forget Frankentomipee,’ Takahiro reprimands, which is a name he invented two years ago, to break up an almost-argument between the Matsukawa siblings about their father about fake promises with the third part of Harry Potter on the screen, by mashing up a bunch of other names and sounds. Kenta had started laughing and Matsukawa-kun had looked a bit relieved.

Issei bites the inside of his cheek, creating this deep slant that Takahiro wants to kiss on. ‘Mm, how could I. Just further proof that I shouldn’t be naming any oceans. Not cut out for parenting, me.’

He changes tact instantly, ‘Oh but it’s just a dooog… In comparison to an ocean, which is, like, at least fifteen dogs but just one name. And, in your defense, it’s kinda hard.’

‘Yeah, in my defense, Frankentomer—’

‘Tomipee, Issei,’ he insists.

‘Tomiplease. I can’t pronounce that.’ 

‘Okay, fine, we’ll name her Matsun Junior instead,’ he says, very forgivingly. ‘What is our darling Stuart like, by the way?’

‘Well for starters, he has mermaids,’ Issei responds, somehow understanding every layer of the bullshit Takahiro is deep into now, understanding that he means the ocean, and understanding that he wants Issei’s attention and at last deciding to give it up and lower his book, if only to give Takahiro the flattest look in existence. His lip is twitching, so all is well. ‘And an ocean can’t be Stuart. You’re well aware that’s a land name.’

Takahiro lets his grin spread, finally, now that he’s gonna be looking at it. ‘And what makes you think I’m well aware what human names are land, or water, or air. That’s just nonsense, Matsukawa.’

‘What, besides you listing the other breeds of name?’ Issei asks, mouth twisting a bit wryly. ‘Proof besides that? Nothing, I guess. I’m just very presumptive.’

‘You seem to trust I already know things, it’s true,’ he agrees happily, stretching languid till his oversized, borrowed shirt collar dips over his shoulder. ‘Like I’m Xavier with the school.’

‘Cruel of you. To reference Marvel on purpose when you’re well aware I’m on a DC kick.’

‘What’re you thinking about right now, this minute,’ Takahiro demands, to keep his attention before he remembers his comics and his books and all his other interests.

Issei gives him a look, his novel fully forgotten now, spine bending as it lies open on his chest. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes? Fully.’

Issei almost rolls those dark eyes. ‘You can’t be serious, as if you don’t know.’

He’s unbearable.

‘Issei, I know you think I have superpowers but I’ll tell you the truth, they’re sort of confined to my boundless, crazy ability to lie like it’s going out of style,’ he tells him.

‘Faker,’ Issei says, presumptuous bastard that he is. ‘You total faker, you know I’m thinking about kissing your shoulder right now, it's so obvious.’

And the outrageous thing about that whole thing isn’t even the sentence itself, and it’s arrogance, the sheer absurdity of it, or his unshakable belief that he and Takahiro know these things about each other, it’s the fact that, ‘Yeah,’ Takahiro says, helplessly. ‘Okay. I knew that.’

Issei lifts his eyebrow, and tips his book just a bit to the side as if to say See?  

Takahiro stares at him. ‘But no, ‘cause it really is—’

‘So obvious,’ he says mildly. He’s such a smooth talker.

Issei’s poker face is a matter of genuine, true stress in the mind of Oikawa Tooru but all it really takes is a shift of his fingers, the barest dip of his eyes and that slight dent under his pretty mouth that means he’s biting at the inside of his lip, just a slight graze, as if to hold himself back.

Takahiro wonders if he can see the way his own throat feels red with the press of his heart in it, if the heavy lump creates a slow burning heat visible to the eye like when metal goes molten, white-hot and painful the way it feels when he looks at him. Viscerally painful.

‘Hey, could you,’ he begins, half formed and a bit nonsensical but Issei’s head is bent over his and his body is looming and their lips are crushed together like all it really would’ve taken was a look. Like his wish is Issei’s command.  

He sighs into it, shivering at the feeling that comes from finally getting what he wants. The feeling and heat and scent of it.

He turns and sees the Catwoman poster again, Issei mouthing at his neck.

He remembers the words on the panel, in the comic when they’d read it together. Vaguely, and not the whole quote, though he can hear the end of it in Issei’s low voice— the very thing I feared the most. A world in which everywhere I turned, he was there to save me.

Takahiro’s always loved and hated the way Issei’s always there. It’s exhilarating to fall knowing he’s going to catch him, but it’s more, it’s consuming, it’s stifling, it’s the feeling of being alone when he’s on his way down.

Maybe if Issei’s falling too, and Takahiro’s there to catch him the world will ease its way into steady land instead of a rocking boat.

He shuts his eyes and tries to picture falling together. 

Issei pushes him back on the bed, his hair tousled, and he breathes, ‘God, I needed this.’ Maybe by this he means you, you, us, together.

Takahiro reaches up to kiss him hard, and hopes he understands the message. 

Chapter Text

On Monday, Takahiro says, ‘Take me on a date.’

Issei stands there, bleary in Batman boxers and a pair of sweats that’s torn at the knee, holding the door open and says, hardly believing his ears, ‘Am I still dreaming?’

Takahiro says, ‘What’d you dream about.’

He scratches his belly, and for some reason he feels a bit embarrassed, admitting it. ‘Ah.. You, next question.’

‘When are you taking me on a date?’ Takahiro responds. 

He’s wearing a pale pink shirt with a smiling Jigglypuff on it, digital typeface saying fairy type which is a big fucking joke. It’s the first thing Issei sees of the rest of him besides his face, the damn ditzy Pokémon, and he already knows he’s done for from there. From there it’s all short, tight sleeves and a fitting waist that ends just in time to catch a bit of taut skin, jean shorts that aren’t short at all, frankly, but with white wings hand painted onto the pockets, which he must’ve been saving because Issei’s never seen this pair before. His trainers are pink and white, his lobe earring is a silvery star, he’s wearing white ankle socks and he has an expectant look on his face. 

It’s 6 A.M on their day off from practice. This is an ambush.

Issei leans against the doorframe defeatedly, stuffing his hands in his sweatpant pockets. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have hair clips in.’

‘I couldn’t find any,’ Takahiro says, sorrowful, and then steps closer. Issei stays still like you would when approached by a snake as Takahiro gets in close enough that they’re standing in the doorframe together and it would be dangerous, them being this close in public if it wasn’t, again, 6 A.M, and it’s still dangerous in all honesty but Takahiro, wearing fairy jean shorts and smelling like some unholy mix of Issei’s cologne and his sweet shampoo and the peaches he probably had for breakfast, they’re what he keeps eating, Issei can't help himself. He stays stiff, because it’s all lethal, just a different kind of dangerous. His own brand, like a gun as metallic as his eyes with bullets that only work on Issei. Like silver with werewolves, like iron with fairies. Issei hadn’t known anything about fairies until Takahiro and his fucked up obsession with Jigglypuff.

Takahiro is still very close, but he hasn’t said anything. He hasn't shaved his jaw and Issei wants his mouth on the sharp, barely there copper fuzz.

‘Are you trying to out-silence me? My name means quiet,’ he says eventually, hand reaching to brace himself at the top of the doorframe, which is really not that high in comparison to himself,  and Takahiro, who is eye level with his chin. 

‘I still beat you.’

‘Because I like when you win.’

‘That’s cute Issei. Really. Just say you couldn’t handle it.’

‘I couldn’t handle it,’ he says obediently.

‘When are we going out, jerkwad.’

‘Jerkwad… Losing your touch, Hiro.’

‘You’re losing my touch if you don’t watch it.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything. Jerkwad.’

‘Your neighbor is watching, I didn’t wanna be that mean.’

Issei raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look away from his eyes, is otherwise unmoving. ‘That so? Let's give old Kobayashi-san something better to look at, then.’

He goes in for a kiss and Takahiro dodges, so Issei’s mouth ends up dragging over the apple of his cheek. It tastes like sunscreen and he mumbles out a complaining, ‘Hirooo.’

‘No real kisses until we go out.’

Issei pulls back to squint at him, eyebrows high and forehead pulling. Morning sun. Pink shirt. Dangly piercing swaying just slightly. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Completely and fully,’ Takahiro says, and he even looks it.

‘Shit,’ Issei says.

‘Shit,’ Takahiro agrees.

‘I have to mow the lawn today, and then Kenta has the car… And then it’s going for a wash, shit. If I take you out Thursday can I kiss you right now?’

Takahiro looks pensive, because evidently this offer goes violently against his strict moral standings.

Issei hooks a thumb into his belt loop and tugs lightly. Raises a brow, ‘We have peaches in the fridge.’

‘You think you have me all figured out,’ he grumbles, pushing past Issei.

He shuts the door, content. ‘I’m sure I have a ways to go.’

Takahiro switches the running shoes out for one of their house slippers, which could’ve once belonged to Issei’s grandfather, that’s how old they look, brown and wizened. They’d napped for the first half of the day because after eating a peach or two, knife in hand, ass on the counter and Issei between his legs and sucking at his neck, he’d admitted waking up at five thirty in the morning to demand something he’d decided he needed on a whim had been pretty senseless. Issei’s father eventually came in to bang on the door and call for Issei to get to the goddamn lawn already, so at around two thirty, almost three P.M they get up and Takahiro switches the sleeping shirt he’d grabbed for his Jigglypuff tee again, and tosses a grin at Issei over his bare shoulder as he changes.

‘You look droolier than usual.’

‘There’s a bite mark on your shoulder,’ is his low, somewhat strangled response, and Takahiro thumbs it lightly, all fake mystified.

‘Huh. You’re right. How about that?’ 

A little noise.

Takahiro clasps his jaw and frowns, eyes casual on flushed brown cheeks. ‘I wonder who put it there?’ 

‘You’re out to get me,’ Issei mumbles.

In the Matsukawa’s front lawn, the green deck chair is already unfolded and laid out on the porch. The grass is wet and the sky is still clearing up from the rain they’d slept through like logs. Takahiro tosses himself out on it, settling back as the wires stretch and creak under his weight. He cracks open a can of 7UP, which is the one drink you can count on the Matsukawa’s to have a twelve pack of in their fridge.

Issei pushes the lawnmower out of the small, cramped shed at the back of the yard, the one shaped like an outhouse, the one they’d ducked and hid out under the shade of back in early June of their first year when they’d come back late from practice and his parents were out and there’d been this insane downpour, stretching for an hour or two. It’s impossible to believe it’s been two years since then. Issei hadn’t had his keys and the windows were shut, and the grass in the yard was mostly soft muck, squelching underfoot of their sports sneakers. It’d been dark, and they’d been toe to toe in there, lawnmower pressed to the wall lined with shelves full of tools and useless junk and the air was just motor oil and the outside rain, but his nose was brushing Issei’s scratchy jaw and all Takahiro could smell was his sweat. His clothes had been soaked and he’d been wet to the bone but he’d felt so warm. They never voiced it but they'd both known how to jimmy locks. Just stayed toe to toe and whispering jokes about hell futures where they’d be stuck in there till the end of days. Like that wouldn’t be the best kind of heaven.

Cold condensation drips down his thumb and Takahiro drags his head out of the memory and his eyes up from the green camo shorts Issei’s wearing, oversized with the string pulled taut and double knotted to hold them up, a tight black tee that’s just cropped enough to not bother tucking. It must be one of Kenta’s, fabric scant, his wardrobe stretched just as thin with summer sweat. It sticks to his muscled belly.

He tugs the chain to get the engine revving, sucking his bottom lip in then out and it looks like sex.

Not that Takahiro has had sex yet. But he licks the water droplet forming on the curve of his thumb and figures it can't be all that far off. He’s been thinking about it for days, and he’s been thinking about Issei, and how badly he needs him, tossing and turning. But last night he’d thought about it so much a fear had been born in him. There must be a goal, he decided. A sign to pass before they collect two million. Before Issei has monopoly all over him. It’s not even a joke, he needs it, a break. Something between him and giving it up to Issei, who’s never hidden it, really, if you knew how to look. And boy was Takahiro looking.

‘Hey. Remember when we got locked in there?’

There is a beat, here, as Takahiro stares at him and tries to figure out which one of them asked.

Issei’s head is jerked lazily at the shed, but now his lips draw together in a half pout of confusion at the lack of immediate response. It’s an attractive pout.

‘Yeah,’ Takahiro says. ‘I remember.’

‘You smelled good,’ he remarks, and Takahiro feels hit by vertigo. His head’s spinning.

He decides to lie. ‘I don’t remember exactly how you smelled.’

‘Wanna go back in and jog your memory?’ Issei says, eyes at half lid. 

Kinda. ‘Do you wanna get started on the lawn?’ Takahiro says right back.

Issei huffs a laugh but he relents, and good thing too because Takahiro’s skin isn’t cut out for all this redness. He’s like a steaming lobster. He’s losing it. He presses the can to his cheek and watches Issei struggle to yank the chain to turn the machine on. 

It rumbles, first muffled and then roaring all at once, and he settles back properly as Issei chances a glance back at him, offers a sheepish smile for some reason—he gets a bit awkward about chores. Takahiro does a lot of them himself but it’s easy getting Issei to do them for him, when he’s at home. A simple matter of offering exchanges.

Issei accepts stupid exchanges though. Like he just wants to go along with it. Takahiro loves and hates the way he goes along with everything, unquestioning. But questions hitch the flow of conversation or the vibe, the atmosphere, the slow spinning fan mood of their hangouts. Answers require a pause in shenanigan and often ruin the plan, which is carefully time-allotted to allow for the shenanigan to succeed. Takahiro has never been foiled in a plan. 

He feels, now, with the can chilling his face and the lawnchair familiarly comfortable, stretching under his weight but not creaking now that he’s settled, as if he gets whatever he wants. He is his own lifelong nemesis, the only thing that ever comes in between.

Issei has finished a whole line down the lawn, and he’s starting to sweat.

Takahiro cracks the can open and takes a long sip, gaze unwavering on the thick of Issei’s brown arms, dark and gleaming and as strong as the rest of him. 

Really. He gets whatever he wants. A drink and a view. 

The lawnmower engine fizzles. Takahiro lolls his head against the drink, slowly turning it in his hand so it stays cold, as a cheek-rest. Issei mutters a curse, and he can only just hear it now that the constant droning noise is gone.

He turns his head and observes the can in his hand. Off-brand 7UP. Not even the real thing. It’s funny, if he thinks about it. ‘Why don’t you guys just get C.C. Lemon. Like the rest of Japan.’

‘We’re quirky and we’re different and a regular normal poser cliche like you would never understand,’ Issei says, distracted.

‘Is it because it’s always on sale and you’re cheap?’

There’s a telling silence.

Takahiro nods to himself. ‘It’s ‘cause you’re cheap.’

‘Every two seconds you call me out for something,’ Issei says, abandoning the engine with one last scowl and crossing the yard to try and steal Takahiro’s drink, probably.

His warm hand covers Takahiro’s. Predictable.

‘You’ve gotta say please,’ Takahiro tells him solemnly.

‘You’re like this lawnmower,’ Issei says, just as seriously, and Takahiro is so amused and so busy raising both eyebrows that he isn’t remotely prepared for the deadpan, ‘And my ass is grass.’

The laugh is shocked out of him, knees curling up and head flying back onto the stupid green lawnchair. The knock off 7UP spills a bit, and it’s only Issei’s hold on it that saves his hand-painted shorts. ‘Oh my fucking god, Issei—’

‘I’m only half joking, I think,’ is all he says, after taking a long sip.

‘You’re so funny,’ Takahiro groans, reaching up for the can back.

And it’s completely sincere, not even the put-on flattering, sort of high pitched way he’d usually say it, because it’s mockery, he’d drag the so on for longer and longer every other time he’s said it, maybe because the put-on mockery of flirting still makes Issei flush. And Issei doesn’t need to hear it from him, just being his best friend is proof of how funny he is.

But the asshole still looks a bit dumbfounded. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, Issei, shit. You’re hilarious.’ He looks at him, knees still curled up to his chest. He feels himself smiling, touching his nose to the cold can. It’s warmer now. ‘You make me laugh every day, you moron.’

‘I know that,’ Issei says faintly. He’s flushed, now, red ears, darkening cheeks, and he ducks his head a bit, mouth still. ‘I mean, I definitely knew that. Still nice to hear it, I guess.’

‘From me?’ 

He’s watching, so he sees Issei’s throat bob.

‘Yeah,’ he says, and his voice is low so if the lawnmower had still been on he wouldn’t’ve been able to hear it. ‘From you.’

Takahiro tries to bite back the grin, slumps in the chair and stretches his legs back out. ‘Good. That’s nice to hear, too.’

Issei’s dragging a hand up his face and over his hair, now, huffing out a laugh as he turns back to go start the machine again. He crouches beside it, the muscle of his calves pressing against the back of his thighs as his body folds down. ‘Good,’ he echoes, just barely audible and his face turned away, and the engine sputters back on.

Over the droning roar, Takahiro can’t talk to him anymore, which he’ll miss. He loves talking to Issei more than he loves a lot of things.

He loves looking at him too, though, and sweat is starting to drip down his nape, thickly muscled, and to the back of his shirt, soaking the material, so Takahiro presses his drink to his cheek and settles in for the ride.

Chapter Text

On the twenty third of the month, they go to the lotus festival at Izunuma and Uchinuma lakes. It’s otherworldly. 

It’s four something A.M when they wake up, and Takahiro gets ready on the phone with him. Issei can hear him flipping clothes around at a pace that has him quietly sure of the mess Takahiro will leave behind when he closes the door, and sure enough halfway through the car ride his phone is blowing up with pissed off texts from his sister.

He picks Takahiro up, his father’s Honda NSX because the lakes are a drive and the train isn’t very romantic at all.

The car is if only barely, because he spent the first five minutes in the car cleaning it up, spraying his cologne guiltily in the passenger seat and wiping down everything he could. He’s cleaned his father’s car for him before, and it’s not even that dirty, but he feels a bit anxious about it anyway. He’s taking Takahiro out. He can’t just let it be full of trash and tell him to stop whining and crack a window open if it smells. That is, of course, what he did the last time he drove Takahiro somewhere in this car, when they went to some festival with Hajime and Tooru. 

Takahiro remembers as well as he does because when he gets inside, he laughs a bit, buckling himself in.

‘Not a word,’ Issei warns, and kisses his cheek. It’s soft and supple and smells like citrus and something sweet and artificial. His orange face wash, most likely. And that cherry chapstick he hides in his desk drawer.

Takahiro just shakes his head and says sincerely, ‘I hope you get yourself a nice car one day to take care of like this.’

‘So this one sucks, doesn’t it,’ he says grimly. It’s not bad, it’s a good car, it’s just old with a bad reputation from all the other times he’s driven them around in it. He knew he should’ve rented a limo. Or a Mustang.

‘You’re an idiot.’ Takahiro is smiling, face scrubbed clean and faintly red. ‘Just drive, man.’

It’s a cloudy day and the sun lives in Issei’s throat. It’s an hour’s drive up, and Takahiro has tossed a handful of apples, pears and peaches into a white fruit net bag, stretched some places but clearly made consistent use of. He forgot a knife, but Issei has a pocketknife with a sharp blade somewhere in the dashboard. Takahiro looks for it, rooting through old CDs and cassettes and batteries, a manual for the car radio, and a completely destroyed charging cable.

‘I think that’s the charger for the house phone,’ Issei guesses.

‘You used to call me from that,’ Takahiro recalls, fascinated as he fiddles with the breaking wires. ‘It still works, right?’

‘I used it last maybe four months ago when Kenta broke my phone screen. It was weird,’ he says, staring at the open road. ‘I’m used to your voice with good speakers.’

‘I remember when you’d try to flirt with me at midnight,’ Takahiro says wistfully. He’s found the pocketknife now, and is trying out all the parts except the one they need. Issei’s stomach is cramping with nerves and hunger. ‘You’d get sooo brave, suddenly. It was probably hormones.’

‘Please don’t remind me. I’d be so embarrassed in the morning.’

‘Hey, you doing anything tonight? Hanapippi~’ he teases.

‘It was Hana-chan, those times, ’ Issei corrects, stoic. ‘Hanapippi was your school nickname. I wouldn’t have minded if it caught on with the guys.’

‘Yes you would have, but yesss, fuck, it was Hana-chan!’ Takahiro says, beaming and sitting up with his knees high and bare and pink and freckled, feet on the dash. ‘Oh my god. I loved that one.’

‘Mm. My dad used to ask who my girlfriend was.’

It’s a vivid memory. His minty bedroom walls, his laptop speakers cranked up and Takahiro’s voice in his ear. He used to stare at the ceiling and sweat through his collection of threadbare white sleeping vests, night after night waiting on that hey, Matsukawa. Back then it was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard.

Now he glances over at painted toenails as Takahiro starts slicing the apple, his pale hands skilled. A slight dampness to his pink palm and a bit of juice starting to drip. ‘You wish, right? But you’re taking me out now, so…’

‘I got what I wanted, huh.’ He opens his mouth, eyes on the road, and solemnly Takahiro feeds him a piece. It’s green and bright with flavor. He kisses Takahiro’s thumb.

They’re on a date, he thinks. A real one.

If you were to ask any Takahiro from any time period when their first date was, he would swear up down and sideways it was the time in first year when they ditched volleyball practice and the second half of the school day to loaf around at the arcade. Similarly, you ask Issei of first year, Issei of second year, Issei ten years from then on and he’d bet his life savings it was before that, it was when they couldn’t sleep the first time he stayed the night and they’d snuck out and gotten snacks from Lawson’s. The one between their houses, that liminal space. 

They could argue about it for days but neither of them would think of the lotus festival. But everything in life is about intent. And nothing before was intended, because that’s not what they’re about. It was only through circumstance that their first date happened at all. The kind of people they are, they’ll probably never go on another.

When they get out of the car, Takahiro stops, a hand braced on the gleaming smooth black roof and says, ‘I want to preface this by saying you’re allowed one joke about it.’

‘Did you get this date idea from your mommy?’ Issei inquires instantly.

‘Yeah, same place you’ll never get permission to date me from,’ Takahiro responds. 

He clicks his tongue. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She’s getting used to me.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ Takahiro tells him. ‘She’s terrible with change.’

‘I was always going to take you out at some point,’ Issei says, looming till they’re almost brushing foreheads.

‘So presumptuous.’ His flush and his smile as he shoves a palm at Issei’s chest. ‘What, did you know from the moment you saw me?’

‘Don’t say it.’

‘Ah, that’s why you tripped, isn’t it?’ Takahiro says excitedly. 

Issei turns and grabs his elbow firmly to get him closer again, and to get him to look up. ‘You look really good,’ he says sincerely.

That shuts him up. Issei’s lips on his in the next minute helps, too. A chaste thing. When they pull back, Takahiro mumbles, slurred, ‘You too.’

It’s crowded, so they make a game out of it. Slipping into alcoves, ducking behind flapping shades and wall edges, stealing kisses, Takahiro’s hand wrapping around Issei’s wrist so casually it’s a shock when he drops it as they walk into open air. Issei gets into the chase of it. Takahiro’s always been into running.

When they’re at places like this usually, Takahiro likes to talk to random strangers he finds interesting, drags on conversations that could have ended a minute in. Today he doesn’t even look at anybody else, drawling mouth sticky glued to Issei’s sensitive ear.

They toil away the first half an hour but eventually they get in line for the boats. 

‘This is familiar,’ Takahiro comments when they’re seated. 

‘Nah. This is nothing like Iwaki,’ Issei disagrees. 

‘You just think hell is other people.’

‘It wouldn’t be a quote if it isn’t true.’

‘You know what else is a quote? That one about hailing Hitler.’

‘What a great point, you won. Still nothing like Iwaki though.’

‘And why’s that?’ Takahiro turns and tilts his chin up.

Issei regards him from over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Because in Iwaki,’ he says slowly, ‘I didn’t kiss you even once.’

Takahiro smiles. ‘You poor baby.’

The boat kicks off with a cheer.

The lifejackets are yellow and the boat roof is pink. Swans spin hypnotic circles around the lake, and you can’t even see the water, that’s how many lotus flowers crowd the surface. It smells like cucumbers and honey dew melon. Takahiro leans over the side of the boat when no one’s looking and dips his hand in the water, trailing it through petals.

He wipes it off on the nice black button up Issei had ironed the previous night. ‘It’s wet,’ he informs.

Issei looks at him. ‘Really.’

Someone tosses a piece of bread and a swan is at it immediately. The resulting fluttering of white wings means three people lift their cameras and snap pictures in unison. Issei is one of them. Takahiro tilts his head and says, ‘One day this picture taking pandemic will be so much worse.’

‘You want me to take one of you?’ Issei offers thoughtfully.

‘Yes.’

He takes several.

Takahiro looks through them assessingly, and Issei says, ‘The fourth one would be good for your Facebook.’

‘Hmm,’ he replies.

Issei rolls his eyes. ‘Or you could let your friend Aki decide.’

‘You can decide when we get home,’ Takahiro says. And peeks up at him. ‘Since I didn’t get you flowers.’

‘I got you flowers,’ Issei says, already smiling.

‘These ones don’t count, they’re public property.’

They stay on the boat for a long time. The old couples smile at them and then at each other, but Issei is more or less oblivious to it. He makes note and then forgets, because Takahiro is leaning in to make an observation about the water, or undo another button on Issei’s shirt, or to say something inane.

‘Would you ever get a back tattoo?’ Takahiro says casually, after they’d discussed the possible mafia member three rows ahead of them enough that observations have run dry. This lack of inflection very obviously means he cares about the response.

Issei hums, letting him stew for a minute, before saying, ‘Nope.’

‘Asshole. You would.’

‘Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t.’

‘Fuck you. What about a neck tattoo.’

‘A neck tattoo?’ Issei says dubiously. ‘Since when do you like Yakuza though, tell me that?’

‘Don’t be so old fashioned. Neck tattoos are all the rage,’ Takahiro tells him, and Issei supposes this is true in the fucked up recesses of Takahiro’s constantly online mind. Not that he’s spent much time on the web recently that Issei can think of. ‘You should get one because you'd look really good with one. You’ve got the throat for it.’

Issei grins on reflex, head ducking like he’s fifteen and impossibly shy again, and Takahiro’s face shines with triumph which just makes Issei grin wider, peeking at him.

‘You’re being really sweet.’

‘No one’s looking,’ Takahiro breathes, his skin damp from the lake water. ‘Quickly.’

They share a kiss, soft and honey-dew melon, Issei’s tongue slowly tracing a path into his mouth, into lotus petal pink lips.

Takahiro pulls back and assesses the bare look on Issei’s face. He says, ‘You’re shy today. Like when we were kids.’

‘Let Kunimi hear you call first years kids,’ Issei remarks.

‘He can get over it. But seriously,’ Takahiro says, head tilting to the left and his fingers sliding in between Issei’s in the gentlest way. ‘You’re being way too cute, Matsukawa.’

Any other time, Issei would’ve clicked his tongue. But it rings in his ears, the call back to how they’d been with each other then. It makes him blush to his ears.

‘You’re being really mean, Hana-chan,’ Issei grumbles, and even if someone is looking they lean in for another, sweet little kiss. 

On the way to the car, holding hands now, properly, he keeps his gaze low and on their feet, Takahiro’s toenails sparkling in these pale sandals. The polish is a minty teal shade, like Aoba Johsai. Like Issei’s room in morningtime. Like the seats on the boat with the pink roof. He chances a look back at the lake, wistful.

Takahiro tugs his hand. ‘Hey. If you dyed your hair any color, what color would you dye it?’

Issei pauses, then his eyebrows crease. ‘Do you want me to dye my hair?’

‘Oh, don’t act like you’d actually,’ Takahiro scoffs.

Issei gives him a look, now. ‘I would.’

‘You would not. You’re all about staying normal.’

‘No, that’s not it. And I’m tempted to say that emo band tagline—’

‘If you do I’ll kill you,’ Takahiro says, mid laugh. 

‘Your hair is precise right now, though. Like the shade, I mean.’

‘Yeah, the package said it’s one of a kind.’

‘I bet I could find a flower that’s the exact shade.’

‘Next time,’ Takahiro says, ‘let's go to a garden.’

On the ride back, Takahiro tells Issei to park just outside of Sendai when everything is still green, under the shade of a large branched tree and then he pulls out two blunts.

‘Wow,’ Issei says. ‘But we didn’t eat lunch yet.’

Takahiro gives him a withering look. He’s heard about how you shouldn’t get intoxicated on an empty stomach, but who cares. They’re young, aren’t they? 

So he replies, aggravated, ‘Seriously? We didn’t eat lunch yet, so what?’

‘I guess we had breakfast,’ he says dubiously. ‘You got a lighter?’

This stops Takahiro short. Plan ruined. Sirens blaring. ‘Um.’

Issei is laughing quietly. He sticks a hand in his pants pocket and pulls out a plain black lighter. 

Now Takahiro stares. ‘Why do you have that?’

‘It’s kaa-san’s,’ he answers. ‘You know she smokes, right.’

‘Yeah. She does. You don’t.’

‘Not yet,’ Issei says, and flashes a lazy grin. Somehow it’s not very typical Matsukawa Issei of him. It’s a bit—

‘Wow.’ Takahiro says, starting to smile back. ‘You’re trying to impress me.’

‘I brought a pack, too,’ he says, still grinning but it’s a bit wry now. ‘Just cigarettes, though. Since. I don’t know. I thought we could try it together.’ 

‘You think I saved myself for you?’ Takahiro demands, eyebrows raised. ‘Maybe me and Iwa already smoked together.’

‘You and Iwa,’ he says skeptically.

‘Second year Iwa. Back then you and Tooru were the ones all about keeping your body pure.’

He’s smiling.

Issei gives him a reproachful look, heavy mouth jutted and thick eyebrows drawn low. ‘Don’t play with me like that…’

Takahiro’s heart skips beats like when his little sister plays Piano Tiles. ‘Don’t talk like—oh my god, you asshole.’

Issei’s lips are so red, his jaw and the sides of his mouth dark with stubble. He looks dangerous. ‘Like what?’

‘Like we’re—’ He wants to say, in some fuckass teen rom-com and you’re flirting outrageously and all I can do about it is sit here and feel defeated but that’s exactly what’s happening. 

‘Like we’re, what?’ And Christ, he’s even leaning in, still smiling that infuriating smile. Lazy and languid and terribly cocky.

Takahiro shoves his face away. ‘I hope you go to hell.’

‘As long as you’re there too,’ he says peacefully, already sitting back like he’s won. Takahiro shoves him again, for good measure.

‘Dick.’

‘Dicker.’

‘Dickest.’

‘Pass it here, Hiro.’

Takahiro passes the first blunt over. It’s pretty good, honestly, tightly, cleanly rolled, pawned off of some would-be geek in his class near the end of last semester because he could tell from the looks of his eyes, one morning, that the dude was gone. He’d told Issei about it.

‘I remember,’ he admits. He puts the filter to his mouth, and then it’s balanced between his teeth. He glances at Takahiro through long, dark eyelashes, cheeks slightly hollowed. There's hesitation in his dreamy brown eyes. Takahiro feels a bit nervous, too, but that could just be from that vision, before him. Matsukawa the bad boy, the delinquent in jeans. One of his favorite Jimmy Eat World songs plays from the CD in the car radio, his date-shirt unbuttoned too low and his sleeves rumpled. Nevermind that Takahiro is the supplier of the bad ideas in question. Still, he swallows.

Then Issei drops it back between two long fingers and says, ‘Maybe we should start with cigarettes.’

‘Sure,’ Takahiro agrees. 

So they set the blunts aside, and Issei fishes out the pack of stolen cigarettes and presents it between their seats. Takahiro unfolds the cap with interest. ‘Pine, huh?’

‘I think it’s supposed to be a good brand,’ he answers dubiously.

Takahiro pulls one out, noting that it’s a thousand times cleaner and sleeker than the hand rolled, brown paper blunt he’d got from the shifty guy at school, and holds it towards Issei’s mouth. He closes his lips around it obediently and brings a shaky hand up to light it. It’s a cheap thing, black plastic, one of those rolling wheel lighters, not the easy press a button kind. Takahiro wraps his fingers around his wrist to keep him steady. Issei catches his eye when the fire lights.

He chokes. 

Takahiro grins, sitting back to watch.

‘Oh my god,’ Issei manages. He thumps a hand to his chest. His face is a bit flushed. ‘No.’

‘Try again. Inhale. Did you not read a How To Smoke article, ever?’

This makes him choke on another laugh. ‘I did,’ he says after, his voice hoarse. ‘A bunch of. Um. A bunch of times.’ His voice is clear now. ‘It’s fine. I can do it.’

He tries again. He takes it better this time, and thin smoke billows from his lips, but when Takahiro reaches for it, entranced, he holds it away.

‘What the hell?’ he demands.

‘Let me shotgun you,’ Issei requests.

Takahiro comes up short on reasons he shouldn’t. His face feels hot. The windows are up, and the smell is gonna be impossible to get out of the car later, but he leans in obediently. 

So the first time Hanamaki Takahiro ever touches a drug it’s nicotine and through Matsukawa Issei’s red mouth, through his hot breath, billowing smoke and then again, his hand bracing itself against Takahiro’s throat, holding him firmly and tilting his head to the side, and then they kiss till it’s a nub in Issei’s hand. It doesn’t take very long at all, but lasts forever anyway.

They observe the two blunts then, which seem a bit less terrifying now. ‘Maybe we should get out of the car,’ Takahiro suggests. ‘Your dad might notice the smell.’

‘Nicotine has a smell too,’ Issei says. ‘I guess I’ll leave the windows open on the way back.’

‘These smell pretty bad,’ he tells him. ‘Pine cigarettes, that is. I didn’t know how bad it would really be.’

‘Maybe it's like cheese. The more pungent the better.’

‘Don't be ridiculous. You know, if it smelt better it'd be worth getting addicted.’

‘I think it’s not actually a good brand,’ Issei admits, with no comment on the remark about addiction and whether it is worth it. This makes Takahiro wonder if he’s destined to being this guy, this cool guy with this bad habit, and if Takahiro is destined to get used to the scent. Maybe it’ll become sexy. It probably will. Every single thing about Issei is devastatingly sexy right now. Takahiro is a bit dizzy with it.

They get out of the car, and Issei forgets the lighter so he has to open the door again while Takahiro finds a good spot out ahead on a hilly field, shin deep in blades of grass. He hated grass a month ago but maybe he’s mellowing out.

He lays down on a piece of the land that’s not very overgrown, and when he turns his head he can still see the rest of the world besides. Issei’s legs come into view and he crouches down, and the first thing he says is, ‘Do you want a blanket? I could take off my shirt.’

Takahiro thinks, but the ironing would be ruined. Takahiro thinks, do I want a blanket, really, like I’m a girl or something. Takahiro thinks, holy fuck and fists his collar and kisses him hard. So hard he thinks he might black out when Issei gets over his shock and covers his body with his own, pressing Takahiro into the dirt with the weight of his hips and his forearms deep in the grass, his wet mouth sliding over Takahiro’s like he could eat him. Takahiro likes that he knows Issei’s teeth now, the feel of them, and he likes that Issei takes over and sucks on his tongue right when his head starts getting dizzy to make it worse, and he likes that when he pulls back it’s only briefly, panting, and noses pressed to hot cheeks before they’re back at it, sloppy.

‘You should light it, now,’ Takahiro sighs warmly.

‘I wish I could roll you up and smoke you,’ Issei grumbles into his neck, into ants and grass. 

‘That’s stupid. You could only do it once.’

‘I’d kill myself after.’

‘How sweet of you. You couldn’t roll me, though. You’d have to grind me up first and that would really suck because I’d be dead too fast.’

‘I’ll just eat you alive, then,’ Issei says right into his ear, and Takahiro can’t help it that he arches his back and wraps his legs automatically around Issei’s waist, laughing even as his body floods with heat. Because he’s gotten so weak and floppy and limp, giving it up.

‘Ugh. Ughhh, shut up.’

‘Nah, ’m really gonna eat you,’ he drawls, and sucks hotly on the shell of Takahiro’s ear like he could get started on that, and Takahiro gropes over his back and ass to find the lighter and one of the blunts he’s shoved in the pocket of his jeans. They’re nice jeans. Straight cut and dark blue denim.

‘C’mon, you can eat me afterward,’ Takahiro says breathlessly, and maybe it’s the honest whine in that that makes Issei detach and pull Takahiro’s legs onto his, lips still wet and red as he lights up the blunt that’s hanging from his mouth like he’s done it a thousand times.

He looks insanely sexy. Takahiro’s eyes go half cast when he exhales smoke right into Takahiro’s flushed face, dark eyes boring right back. It smells exotic.

‘You want to do it like we did before, baby?’ 

He wants to fuck, instead. And maybe they will, he thinks dizzily. Maybe they’ll smoke this little stick down till it’s just a stub, stuff it in Issei’s pocket and tug and shove and pull each other back in the car and Issei will keep it parked as Takahiro pushes the front seats out of the way and Issei will start rubbing his hands over Takahiro’s body and Takahiro can undo all those stupid fucking buttons on that crazy clingy dress shirt till the ironing really is ruined and they can use it as a blanket and Takahiro will kiss him down till the awful, strong V at his pelvis and Issei will moan and whimper and either spill on his face or in his mouth or all over his knuckles or he won’t let it get that far and they’ll fuck properly, and Takahiro will get what’s wanted since he first met eyes with this dickhead and his shy gaze and dipped head and muscled nape and loner frame. 

They kiss so long he nearly blacks out. 

And they spend the whole long weekend, Friday, Saturday and Sunday practically locked in Issei’s room and entirely locked in orbit, like moons to planets or keys to keyholes. Takahiro doesn’t answer a single text. They go down for dinner and Takahiro calls his sister and they call his mother, too, from Yasu’s phone, but she doesn’t pick up, just sends him a bunch of angry LINE stickers. Issei’s father listens to Takahiro’s in depth thoughts on grass, and how much it sucks but is sometimes good, and how it is way better short but also deserves to grow, because that’s better for it and the ecosystem in the garden even if it goes against Takahiro’s personal principles against itchiness but it really is one of the good parts of living, and those grasshoppers who play music with their wings and hind legs are if Issei was an insect and at the end of it he gets the man asking for Takahiro’s LinkedIn, which he somehow has, an empty account logged in and everything, and Issei never has to mow the lawn again. It is the end of an era. His mother says absently, ‘Takahiro, my love, would you like to help with the cooking today?’ and Issei laughs out loud, lying on his back on the carpet, and Takahiro says it would be his honor. The honor is partly being taught how to make white chicken karahi, and partly the ease with which she’d asked. Like he lives here. Like it’s okay. 

‘I’ve gotta tell you something,’ Issei whispers, in between sweat and sheets and wet, slick sounds and panting.

‘What,’ Takahiro hiccups.

‘I’ve smoked before, one time, one of my—’ 

‘Harder, slower—what?’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, hot kisses against Takahiro’s ear, ‘sorry, don’t be mad, alright baby? No crying about it.’

He starts protesting, ‘You piece of shit, you’ve smoked before and you didn’t—tell me, hhhhhhh-harder, oh!’ And loses track.

‘Gonna complain?’ Issei breathes, nose to Takahiro’s. His furrowed eyebrows, tense, glistening forehead and this half-smirk, this stream of talk that’s low and dark and steady and unsteady at once, murmured, ‘I said sorry, didn’t I? You’re sucking me in so well, I’ve never felt anything like this, saying sorry right now, forgive me, alright? You feel like silk. It’s hot, baby, you feel so hot inside…’

He doesn’t have a single complaint because Issei’s slow, deep thrusts rock him up the bed and make his toes curl against his back. He forgets about it completely, mind blown as his peak comes at him like a dive into water.

And after. 

‘Have you answered any texts?’ Takahiro asks, head on his folded arms, lying on top of Issei under the sheets, which he’s begun to think of as their sheets, in the haze of it all.

‘I forgot about my phone until you asked for ambiance music this morning in the balcony,’ he tells him seriously. ‘When I went in to go get it, it was in my pants pocket from Thursday.’

Takahiro laughs, a sound that reverberates through his chest, Issei’s body shaking along with Takahiro’s. Issei buries a kiss in his bedhead, and inhales deeply.

‘Your hair’s like pink grass.’

‘Which is why you live in it, grasshopper?’

‘If you were an insect,’ Issei says, sincere, ‘I think you’d be a lovebug.’

Takahiro thinks it’s insane how that doesn’t even make him laugh from the pure lameness of it, or from it being a funny joke, but from happiness. ‘I’m a butterfly,’ he says, and tickles Issei’s still sweaty stomach. Issei shifts a bit, protesting but not, his palm protective on Takahiro’s bare back.

‘You give me butterflies,’ he mumbles.

So that’s their first time, and the second, a little while later. In the car with the smell of nicotine that Issei’s dad fails to ever notice, and Takahiro laughs himself sick while Issei’s literally inside of him because he can’t get over how presumptuous he is for keeping a condom in his wallet. And then they go back to Issei’s house and have a mini honeymoon where the world boils down to his bed, in the corner, and they lie sprawled naked and sweaty and tired out and talking for so long that when they have to finally move, and split apart, Issei laments, ‘Oh, this feels wrong, being unstuck.’

‘You mean not being inside,’ Takahiro replies. ‘Well I’m sorry, but that’s life. Your dick can’t always be in me.’

It really is a shame, he thinks, and Takahiro hurls a pillow at his face.

Chapter Text

Issei tags along to walk Takahiro to his place in the early evening. As they arrive, his mother’s leaving, pulling on her coat along with a hat for possible rain and red lipstick to nicely offset her dyed blond hair, so Taylor Swift complete with the bangs. Her hand’s on the keyhook while they put on house slippers.

Takahiro glances up at Issei. His dark, amused eyes say, I get my own slippers, huh.

Shut up, Takahiro says with his eyes, and also with his mouth.

His mother, struggling to unlock the door, cranes her head and says, ‘Oh, listen, Taka-chan, your sister is out with some friends and I have to go buy Umi’s new school supplies, she ran all out of exercise books last term, plus her shoes are totally done for.. Could the two of you watch her for a bit?’

‘Kaa-saaan, can’t you take her with you?’ he groans instantly. ‘She’s gonna be like play tea party with me or play cathouse with me or play My Little Pony Friendship is Magic with me—’

‘No, I can’t, she’d just get in the way,’ his mother cuts through. ‘And that request was actually an instruction. Go to her room, be a good brother. Matsukawa, if she says one sideways word about you, I'm taking Takahiro out of that school. And when I’m back I expect a reasonable explanation for disappearing with barely any texts or calls all weekend.’

She sweeps out of the house, lock clicking behind her. There's a pause.

Issei inches back. ‘Well, I’ve got to… Ah, I think I left my oven on. Back at home. So this is goodbye.’

Takahiro yanks him by the shirtsleeve. ‘Get the fuck back here Matsukawa Issei I am not pretending to be the owner of a dogpound for cats in my baby sister's weird green room all on my own.’

He gets the fuck back there.

Umi’s room is largely bright colors. Green, firstly, near-neon bedsheets that glare against the white walls. Her bathroom slippers are tiny teal crocs. She sits regally on an orange, heart shaped rug that half-hides under her futon. There’s a little table piled high with toy cutlery, fashioned out of a massive dinner plate and piles of old Vogue magazines.

'Your mother has a problem,' Issei says under his breath.

'Don't speak a word against my mother she is a god,' Takahiro says, equally low. Then he raises his voice, ‘Hey, Umi. We’re bored and we missed you.’

‘Is it five thirty yet,’ Umi says plaintively.

Takahiro pauses for a beat, mid-folding his legs up to sit on the rug. ‘Uh, no, why.. got somewhere to be?’

‘A company meeting, maybe?’ Issei suggests.

‘The team sent in a new proposal and you have to see if it’s any good,’ Takahiro adds, because when they’re together, even the bits he begins with full intention to abandon them the second his first sentence is over—tend to drag on, like the feet of a toddler in a grocery store. Like summer days. 

‘The new Winx Club season comes out in America at five thirty,’ she tells them, gracefully ignoring the company CEO bit like she’s the PR trained CEO of a company. They need to stop thinking about the made-up company.

‘Oh my god,’ Takahiro says, though he understood nothing. ‘That makes so much sense. Now I know why you canceled lunch with the interns.’

‘What’s an intern?’ she asks.

‘What’s a Winx Club?’ he inquires.

Issei covers his mouth with his knuckles and Umi says, ‘Niichan, I’ll spit in your tea.’

‘Go ahead,’ Takahiro says, staring at her across the teeny little table, arm resting on one of the children sized chairs, a soft Tigger the Tiger plushie dislodged next to his elbow. ‘Spit. I’ll tell kaa-san.’

‘Is it five thirty now?’ she pleads, and Issei says, ‘There’s an hour till then, we could pretend to eat your teddies to kill time?’

Umi’s eyes go wide and horrified. ‘THEY’RE FRIENDS, NOT FOOD!’ 

So they share a quick meal with the teddies and Tigger the Tiger, who seems to have been recently renamed Tiggy.

Takahiro is a bad brother, because the second her show comes on him and Issei vamoose out to the nearest empty room. Three guesses what they do and the first two don’t count.

Well, they get distracted in the hallway. Issei’s discovered something new, which is that he can hold Takahiro up against a wall for around fifteen minutes before his arms give out. They’re on minute seventeen and rising when the door swings open and his mother says, faint, ‘What a welcome.’

Issei, to his credit, doesn’t exactly stumble or drop Takahiro entirely. Later he will claim he could’ve kept going. As it is, his hand slips down to grasp at Takahiro’s thigh rather than carrying his weight on his forearm and the other remains up his shirt for a good ten seconds of blank, terrified staring where Takahiro’s heart thinks it’s physically capable of crawling out of his chest.

Issei’s hand dislodges itself from Takahiro’s shirt, then, very abrupt, and gets a bit tangled in the fabric before it’s safely out. Takahiro might be hearing both of their hearts.

‘I had expected a better opening line,’ his mother remarks, and sets her bags on the entryway table. The keys tinkle against each other as she hangs them up on her carved beechwood key rack, the keys to Umi’s toy chest hung beside them.

‘Though I suppose the moaning doesn’t count as sentences,’ she notes, and toes off her shoes, slipping on her house slippers and then walking right past them briskly. ‘Umi-chan, is your show on? Did you remember to press record?’

Umi shouts a yes okaa-chan! and Issei says very quietly, ‘Do I leave?’

‘Are you a pussy?’ Takahiro hisses back. ‘That’s just my mom, dude.’

‘She’s terrifying to the point you just said dude and called me a pussy.’

‘I asked if you were one there’s a goddamn difference.’

‘You’re not even enunciating your words. It’s coming out like mmmbmbmm.’

‘I’ll show you mmmbmbmm,’ Takahiro snaps, and then pales. ‘Oh my god, my mom just caught us.’

‘Yes,’ Issei says, relieved. ‘Your mom just caught us, I’m glad you’re catching on. I’m leaving.’

‘You are not leaving!’ Takahiro says, incensed. 

‘Whenever you boys are done,’ his mother calls out.

They shuffle into the kitchen, faces burning. 

‘Takahiro,’ she says. ‘Would you mind making a kettle of lemongrass tea? I know your sister would like some too, when she's home.’

‘Yes, kaa-san,’ Takahiro says meekly. Then he says, ‘Sorry you had to see that.’

‘Last week, Thursday,’ Hanamaki-san says, completely ignoring him, and now she's making deadly eye contact with Issei. Issei looks vaguely ill. ‘When you pulled up at five in the morning to kidnap my son out of my house in an ugly black Honda. Was that a date?’

‘Yes,’ Issei says, inaudible. 

‘And you paid for it?’ she says, with disdain.

‘Yes.’

She hums, and looks at him consideringly. Issei manages one glance at Takahiro, who looks back, really baffled. What she says next blows his mind.

‘And the bottle of mosquito repellent my children started using two years ago,’ she inquires, businesslike, like the CEO of a company, ‘that was your doing?’

Issei stares at her. Takahiro drops the cap of the kettle, and then the matches. The kettles cap clangs loudly against the floor. The matches just land softly. 

Issei says, baffled, ‘Yeah.. He gets bit a lot.’

‘My blood is sweet,’ Takahiro hisses.

‘Please,’ Issei replies, strained, still stuck in a staring match with his mother, which is probably why he really doesn't wanna talk about Takahiro's blood. Which he kinda has a fetish for. Takahiro should not be thinking about that sick and twisted kink because it’s reminding him of the time a few days ago when he cut his finger and Issei sucked it off. Horrible wording, he’s sweating. He's actively sweating. Why is she talking about mosquitos. Why is she—

She's talking, ‘That's all. Matsukawa, you can go home if you want. Or spend the night, you’re welcome to. Please keep in mind that my daughters sleep down the hall from you. If I ever hear noise complaints, I'm absolutely, seriously taking you out of that school. Tokyo is better for you anyways,’ this last bit directed at Takahiro with a pointed frown.

‘You're okay with this?’ Issei asks, disbelieving. Takahiro is wide eyed, holding a box of matches. Issei’s lips look just-kissed . His mom is okay with this. With them. She's okay with Issei spending the night after seeing him holding Takahiro up against the wall, mid make out.

‘Yes.’ She's staring at her nails boredly.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes.’

Takahiro finds his tongue before Issei can ask for a pinky swear or a god promise and says, ‘Do I still have to pretend he sleeps on the air mattress?’ 

Issei chokes, and turns away, a hand to his mouth and his face burning. 

‘Yes,’ she says flatly. ‘Please keep pretending. For my sanity.’ 

‘I'm so proud of you, kaa-san,’ Takahiro says, a bit wobbly. ‘Give us a hug.’

He approaches her and yanks Issei by the elbow. Her cool superiority cracks the second she and Issei make terrified eye contact which Takahiro ignores.

‘No thank you,’ she says, voice rising in pitch as Takahiro tenderly pulls her up from her chair. ‘He's not legally your anything. This wasn’t a marriage proposal, behave yourself. Away. I am not doing this. Takahiro. Taka-chan. Stop it. What is this. No—’

Issei's face is mushed between two heads of hair, one blonde and one pink. Takahiro is squeezing them both tightly. Issei and okaa-san are both motionless.

‘This is so nice,’ Takahiro sighs, enveloped in love. His mother smells like the florist’s and his boy smells like sweat and panic and weird-manliness.

‘I promise I'll be good to him,’ Issei whispers. ‘For as long as he lets me. Thank you.’

‘Please,’ Takahiro's mother says thin and muffled. ‘Stop talking. I beg of you.’

Chapter Text

There’s a week left.

This is the only thought that is spinning around in his mind, constantly, like a taunt or perhaps a warning. It’s been driving him to distraction.

‘You’re tense,’ Takahiro observes. ‘Why’re you tense?’

They’re at the nursery. There’s a fan spinning very slowly, white and wiry, the button broken probably but it’s quite cool, really. Good ventilation. Issei’s fingers are stiff against the shiny, hard material of the plant identifying cards they’re going through. There’s a drawer full of them, with a few misprints, typos in the English translations. He’s seen them strewn over the floor of Takahiro’s room.

‘Issei.’

‘I’m okay,’ he responds. He looks up, shields his eyes quite automatically from the suddenly intense glow of the sun. The ventilation might be good but the large, open windows certainly make for no shade. ‘You’re gonna get sunburnt again.’

‘That’s just part of the deal with summer,’ Takahiro remarks. He sits on the counter in black denim shorts, legs kicking. His Converse have little X eyed smiley faces on the white caps. ‘A balance. I get new hairclips or bracelets or something at the first trip to the mall. And a new bottle of aloe too.’

‘We should get another aloe, though,’ Issei replies. ‘You went through it so fast.’

‘It feels like summer barely started.’

‘It was Oikawa’s birthday only yesterday, I swear.’

A kick to Issei’s thigh. ‘Don’t be lame.’

‘Oh, sorry. I’ll be cool, from now on. Let me chill out.’ He sprays himself five times in the face with this small pink plastic bottle of water, eyes squinted, and Takahiro cracks up laughing. It’s this new bit, the spray bottle. It’s for freshening up plants, a little symbol printed on paper, pink and purple text with the logo. The paper peels at the side, dampened, like Takahiro’s sunburnt, sweaty skin. 

Issei’s wilting too.

The day is idled away, with real organization abandoned in favor of making two piles of cards, flowers that remind Issei of Takahiro and flowers that remind Takahiro of Issei. There’s a bigger pile for Issei because Takahiro likes exaggerating. These vines, they’re sooo your hair. Ahh, the way this flower pollinates is similar to your sneezes—and other nonsense. Issei picks his flowers out carefully, trying to color match his hair, his cheeks, his tongue, and for one of them, holds it up cockily, nearly the exact shade of his nipples. Takahiro vetos that one, but ends up helping Issei out with the flower to match his blush. So fresh, so deep, the wildest rose.

‘You’re the bleeding heart flower,’ Takahiro drawls, picking up the little laminated card and pressing it to Issei’s chest. 

Waits a beat, then the zinger. ‘’Cause you cry so much.’

He takes it delicately, compares the shade to Takahiro’s sly, smirking mouth, the card paper too faded to be a good match. These days Issei is all cried out.

They lock up together. Issei pokes his finger through the keychain ring. Takahiro pokes his finger too, and they wriggle their fingers as solemnly as they can. 

Their fingers look so good together. Takahiro glances up at him, standing cheek to chin, and Issei grins on reflex when they make eye contact.

From this side of the world, there’s a vivid pink acne scar to the side of his cheek, nestled near the grown sideburn hairs beside his ear. They’re a reddish color, coppery and shining. 

And it’s all he can think about, Takahiro’s endless array of colors. It’s as if he’s never going to end. Every single day, every moment they’re together Issei learns something new. A new scar, a new color, a new bruise, a new mole. A new story, a new joke, a new memory, a new moan. He’s started to blur the days, because every single day they are together. Every single day. And in between discovery and sex and arguing and bottles of Ramune he's worrying, these days, more than painfully cool, laid back slacker Matsukawa Issei ever should but always will—he's long known that when his third year of high school ends, so will his third year of Takahiro-on-tap. After that, he’s going to have to figure something out. He’s going to have to make adjustments. 

‘You’re gone again.’

He sighs, mouth falling open against his. 

Issei is on edge. Thinking about his looming deadline, which feels more like a death sentence than the reopening of school, he’d pushed Takahiro up against a wall on the way home from the nursery to kiss him near senseless, but nothing ever gets past his boy.

‘’m fine,’ is all he lets out, and kisses him again, hard and wanting. Takahiro’s responding sigh is soft and open, content where Issei’s had been ragged. His hands are fisted in Issei’s shirt, and he uses the grip to tug him closer. As if he needs to, as if a tornado could pull Issei away from him. 

He tries to muscle the question out of Takahiro’s mouth, the slight furrow in his little bleached eyebrows, deepens the kiss and it gets wet, and then Takahiro’s soft tongue is slackening, his breaths short and pitchy. 

He still ends up slapping Issei’s chest, though this time it’s for air rather than to ask him anything.

Issei drops his forehead against Takahiro’s, blinking through the haze but breathing deep, watching intently as he catches his breath. His hand splayed out on Issei’s white tee, his back dropping slightly from how it’d gone straight to meet Issei, just a bit curled over. 

He wets his lips, watching him intently.

Sometimes Issei feels so hungry. Sometimes he feels like Takahiro doesn’t want him, not really. How could he, when Issei’s a black hole, twisted up and warped. In contrast Takahiro is constantly stretched out languid. 

Green eyes flutter open, dilated just so, like the black bleeds into first grey then color, and his lips are kissed pink, so many brilliant shades. He’s got such a pretty blush.

‘Why do you always kabedon me whenever we’re this close, you asshole?’

‘Don’t laugh at me,’ Issei murmurs, soft, confessional, ‘but it’s because my knees get really weak. I just need the support from the wall.’

Takahiro stares up at him, and from the trembling looks of it he is trying desperately to keep his lips still and clamped.

Issei exhales through his nose, amused. ‘Fine, get it out.’

Takahiro has to latch onto his shirt so he won’t collapse from laughter. 

Issei holds him up with an arm hooked around his back, forearm still against the wall. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Your f-fucking face,’ he hiccups, eyes wet, still giggling. ‘You need the support, my god, Issei… Ohh, my god.’

He can’t help it, he swoops down again, and pretty soon the laughter is gasps, wet and needy and sweet, ready to be licked out of him.

Again, a turn of his face, the shlk of lips parting and Issei stifles a whine. Takahiro is panting. Issei is watching him, eyebrows drawn tight.

Then he says, ‘I love when you kiss me like that,’ whispered, so low it’s practically inaudible. Confessional, like. A little hitched. His eyes dart to the side as he says it, embarrassed.

Issei’s heart beats that much faster, and his eyes fall shut at the words, breath stuttering. ‘I’ll kiss you like that again,’ he promises.

He leans in to fulfill that promise, for as long as he can, and his eyes open when his mouth meets Takahiro’s fingers instead of that beautiful wet pink he just can’t get enough of. He tastes like the Lotte Black gum Issei’d been chewing this morning and he’d wanted a stick of, even though he prefers the Watta flavor. He smells like the rain that just passed through.

His eyes are blades that cut through every wall Issei’s ever had up. It’s so scary, and he wants it so much. How can two feelings so strong stay at battle for so long? 

‘Sure you’re okay?’

Issei’s hand flexes, where it’s tight around Takahiro’s waist. He loosens the hold carefully.

‘Yes, baby,’ he says, low. ‘’M fine. Kiss me again,’ and Takahiro’s hand drops, and he says, voice lightening, teasing, ‘Whatever you want, Issei,’ and god, there’s only one thing.

The wall is white, and they're bleeding color against it out in the open. Issei kisses him like they’re all alone in the world.

‘Mayday, situation overload… I'm restless, obsessed with your future. And all my worries, they don't boooh-ther you… Collected, you render me useless….’

But I carry on, Issei hears, and then Takahiro laughs, and he turns his head.

He’s got the pink HP laptop open and streaming some indie song on YouTube with the speaker cranked as high as it goes, which is not very high at all. Issei keeps watching the screen fade out and then come back on as Takahiro’s pointer finger hovers on the white arrowpad, dancing. 

The song ends and then loops.

‘Why do you like this band so much?’

‘Everything,’ Takahiro says grandly, ‘they put out there. Is about running away from your problems. Which, I guess, I don’t always do—’

Issei tries not to laugh.

‘Fuck you, too. I started kissing you, didn’t I?’

‘And how grateful I am to the ever merciful Hanamaki-sama.’

‘Die about it.’

‘Hey now.’

‘I,’ Takahiro says, once again grand, lying with his chin on the floor. ‘Identify with their work.’

Issei hums along to the riff, and imagines how the song would sound quieter.  

Sometimes he catches himself staring while thinking the most asinine series of thoughts, that Issei has kissed this guy, that this guy kisses back, that they kissed a few hours ago, that they’ll kiss again and maybe they’ll even kiss again soon. It's a bit like he's becoming stupid. A couple nights ago he tried reading before bed. Then he imagined Takahiro plucking the book out of his hand and sitting on him and pushing a hand to his chest with a teasing smirk. And then it happened, except in real life, Takahiro wasn't even wearing pants. He was in Issei's shirt and naked otherwise. In the fantasy he'd been wearing the fairy shorts. Real life is a gift.

The song ends for the third time and Takahiro clicks off the browser. Issei stretches out his arm and finds the radio, carried upstairs from the kitchen because Takahiro’s mother said she wouldn’t mind. It’s something steely and Sony, with a cassette player because Hanamaki-san owns a lot of those. Issei knows she considers Takahiro and his CD collection a continuation of her passions. But Issei is fairly certain it’s a fad. A short lived interest. A gimmick.

‘I don't like this station anymore,’ Takahiro remarks dismissively. ‘It's getting boring.’

Takahiro is not the settling kind.

Issei tinkers with it, sliding the volume lower and higher depending on the buzz of the station it's on. It’s too late, somewhere like one A.M but he knows after all these years of hangouts that slipped into nights spent over, how high it can go without angering anyone else in the house.

It lands on a song that's familiar. Issei smiles. It's Brand New. Takahiro made fun of this band, once. When he first went through Issei's music.

‘Oh, your fucking iPod,’ Takahiro says, grinning.

‘With the stickers,’ Issei agrees. ‘It's somewhere in my junk drawer.’

Takahiro rolls over with mild interest, calves sliding up and chin meeting the dip between his arms, stretched out in front of him elbows up. ‘Did you ever find that—?’

‘I figured it out through pure logic last night,’ says Issei, and Takahiro’s eyebrows shoot up. 

‘What does that mean?’

‘You wrote so much shit in that thing,’ they're talking about Takahiro's math notebook, from first year, which didn't have a single page of mathematics in it. He'd submitted loose sheets for the first term until he got sent to the office. That was a first. Usually Takahiro gets away with everything. ‘I realized I must've kept it somewhere closer. Because it had wisdom in it.’

‘Oh, just the beginnings of the Best Friends contract,’ Takahiro says modestly. His chin turns and it's his collarbones’ turn press against the light wooden floor.

Lounging around. Issei stares at the ceiling. Takahiro rolls on top of him, rambles about the contract and Issei makes jokes, innuendos, rubs where his ass meets thighs with both hands. Takahiro nuzzles into his neck and then gets up to fetch a glass of water, and comes back with an apple and a bowl full of ice.

Issei sits up and watches him pull a small, circular disk shaped sewing set out of his pockets. Three needles, black and white and red thread.

‘It’s stupid,’ Takahiro says, after a while of radio static and shivery sounding vocals, hardly audible whenever the signal catches wind of a station just out of reach. ‘But I’m kinda scared of the gun. It was tough, the first one.’

Issei’s hand pauses for a moment, then he shifts the ice to the other side of Takahiro’s earlobe and says, ‘So that’s why you seduced me into this. Because you’re kinda scared.’

‘I’m pretty scared,’ he admits. ‘But yeah.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I orchestrated this whole summer just so I could convince you into stabbing me with a needle.’

Issei laughs quietly,. ‘Mm. I remember the exact moment you decided to do it.’

It flashes through Takahiro’s head. The grass and the glass and the glazed look in his dark eyes. Issei’s Twilight t-shirt, the ta’awiz. Flirting shoulder to shoulder and his calves in the air, knees crossed. Stark against the blue sky.

‘I didn’t know that,’ Takahiro says, eyes suddenly stuck on him. ‘You—remember? What, you realized—’

‘I could tell what you were thinking, kinda.’ He shrugs. ‘Your behavior was so suspicious. And it clicked a couple days in because you were all over me.’ 

Takahiro is staring. Issei’s eyebrows are furrowed in focus, pen marking a spot on Takahiro’s lobe but he can't help but watch helplessly as he lets his lip curl, satisfied. 

‘You could tell,’ Takahiro repeats. He feels a bit mortified. ‘Okay. I’ll bite. When’d I decide?’

Issei sinks the needle into his lobe. Takahiro’s hand clamps down on his, and he shuts his eyes tight against the pain, but then it’s gone. Issei’s hand squeezes back.

‘Dickhead.’

‘You took that so well,’ Issei praises, and it says something about him that being praised for taking pain easy makes him blush and open his mouth. Or maybe that’s just the fresh piercing. 

‘Put the hoop in.’

‘You’re blushing,’ he notes, slightly delighted, and then after a bare effort grumbly noise he acquiesces, long, brown hand stretching out for the plain silver hoop resting on the duvet, patting here and there blindly with that dark gaze still attentive on his reddening ears.

When he’s setting it in, it’s with those same brown hands. 

Takahiro's breathing is uneven. Issei’s is steady, little huffs that are a little excited. So close to him it all just sounds low and wet, fans over his sensitive ear like the shivery sounds of the radio.

Issei pulls back, assessing. Then grins and kisses his nose. ‘Good job.’

‘Ew,’ Takahiro says, starting to smile, the haze lifting ever so slightly. ‘Ewww, stop it.’

That grin quirks higher, lopsided. ‘It's a little funny.’

‘Enough, though. So lame.’

‘Okay, let's talk about lame. You liked getting pierced?’

‘Let's not,’ Takahiro says, pushing his hand away and crawling on top of him. ‘Talk about anything. Let's kiss for a long time and then fuck. Let's have some raw, animal—’

Issei kisses him and slides his hands confidently up his tight shirt, pulling it up around his chest.

When they split apart, it's like they're stuck together.

His bare stomach presses flat against Issei’s, their chests even tighter flush and Issei’s arm sets like iron at his back, hand tight on the railing. Takahiro would have to fight to get out of his hold. He wouldn’t mind if he did. 

He nuzzles in at the shell of Takahiro’s ear. Hums, long and sweet. Leaves a small nip. Takahiro shudders, legs spreading just the barest bit, then says, voice weak, ‘You can’t—not this ear.’

‘Can’t what?’ Issei whispers, then tucks Takahiro’s head to the side and sucks his bare, unpierced earlobe into his mouth. Takahiro’s body goes slack, just goosebumps when Issei’s tongue and mouth are on him like that. Hot and slick and biting. It’s a dream, to melt for him and go so weak. To give it up and lose his defenses and arch up for more. To take whatever he wants from Issei and let him take more. Takahiro’s knees part till he’s straddling him.

‘Touch me,’ he demands. Issei’s hands, brown and broad and long fingered. His mouth, and his breath, huffing a laugh that cools Takahiro’s burning ear. 

‘Easy for me,’ Issei says. Panting already, Takahiro feels like the easiest.

Chapter Text

‘Hey, I just realized. It’s the one week anniversary of our first date,’ Takahiro says, eyes bright and cheek pressed against his shoulder.

And our last, Issei thinks.

At the end of July, he'd had the sudden blinding thought that he'd know, when summer was nearing its end. He'd know for sure. 

He’d get that proof he’s been kicking pebbles, scuffing his shoes waiting around for. The big what if would be answered.

They’re on the train again, for the last time before school starts up again. It’s the end of a cycle, like how water warps form over time, like haystacks piling up and fields of corn and apple orchards whizzing by. Like masala chai in your smallest saucepan, rising and falling and rising and falling. At some point it’ll boil over and if you’re not staring at the stove like an addict you’ll miss it.

Issei feels like this is finally the long-feared boiling hot end and with what he knows now, for sure, for keeps, for train-schedule leaving certainty, he’s in a constant state of wishing he didn’t.

There’s this pressure, now, upon him and it’s just typical. Matsukawa Issei takes things easy. He doesn’t hold on, he lets go, as easy as with a sail, the satisfaction of seeing it fill with wind and flap in the air filling him when he knows he’s that whip-loose rope, not holding a feeling back. Issei can go-with-the-flow but he’s been trying and failing to teach himself not to hold Takahiro back since the start, since first year, since it hit him viscerally in late January, Takahiro laden with shoddily wrapped birthday gifts and wearing a crooked, shiny blue hat with bubbly staticky pink ribbons at the round edge on his head, barely even complaining about the tight elastic keeping it in place under his chin, that Takahiro has grown from when Issei met him, grown enough that he’s going to grow on out of their tight, sticky sweat hugs and tusseling video game fights and pinches to the hip for attention while a teacher or the coach or one of their mothers recites a passionate, rote-memorized scolding, grow on straight out of the prefecture and maybe if Sendai is lucky she’ll get a wave goodbye. Issei remembers that weekend they’d tried to stand up straight all day long and he remembers every bento box and packet of chips shared whenever he forgot his and he remembers lying on the floor of Takahiro’s room, rug itching his pale, bare calves, lacking the pink the rest of his body glows with and how he’d convinced Issei to take off his shirt so he’d have something of a barrier between his skin and the offending fuzz and it hadn’t taken much at all. A bat of his pretty eyes, his mouth moving slower as he’d said aw, c’mon. Issei feels made-of-pressure. Issei feels like he’s been slowly simmering alive and every teasing comment from his pink mouth is a click higher on the gas.

‘No wish for me?’ Takahiro says, like a child.

‘I wish for you,’ Issei says obediently, and Takahiro grins, which makes his cheek squish harder against Issei’s shoulder and swallows up his mole. It’s late in the night, likely just turned twelve, out all day doing fuckall but that has been this whole break. He’s sure they did a lot more last winter, and the summer before. 

Issei leans his head back and to the other side, so he can look at him better when he drawls out, ‘But you’ve already got me?’

In trains, the outside world feels like it’s rushing past. When trains come to stops, the world is as if it’s swaying and trembling and breaking apart. When Takahiro talks, Issei feels like listening and little else. When Takahiro talks to him, Issei is a trainwreck.

He blinks. Takahiro’s teeth are gnawing at his neck. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting your attention, since apparently I don’t have you,’ he says dryly, and then goes for another scrape of his teeth. Issei bats his elbow, because that’s where his hand is. 

‘Stop, your teeth are gonna—chip, or something. That’s my bag strap in your mouth right now. Pure plastic. Take it out.’ 

‘Iff’s not ffin ffy ffoutffh,’ Takahiro lies. Then his face twists up and his tongue drops the bag strap out. ‘God, that tastes so bad.’

‘Have a mint.’

‘I’d rather have you,’ he retorts, and then buries his face in Issei’s neck to bury his grumbles.

It should make him shiver but that’s just existence, now. Takahiro touching him all over and pressing their legs together and feeling the softness of his mouth moving against his suddenly sensitive throat and the hot exhale when his nose shifts, this is life. A new rule, like a constant equation. A is equal to B which is equal to C. Takahiro is this close and Issei is this close to losing it. If Issei wanted to, he could tug him behind a wall and kiss him till his knees buckled, and he knows that because he’s done it and Takahiro’s knees had buckled. 

It was fine before, when he didn’t know what it would be like. Before it was a matter of assumption, a most likely true theory, a belief that yes, being with Takahiro in any deeper state than Best Friends (2010) would fuck Issei over how people get fucked over in movies. And now he knows, now Issei’s had him, in this, in this goddamn pocket dimension existence, in this liminal space July August life of bed-train-road-gymnasium-back to the unmade bed, whoever’s, either of their rooms in summertime humidity and Issei feels tidally locked to him, like a moon to a planet, or the seas to the moon, or otherwise a fisherman who goes out at low and high tide every day and knows when it changes and tosses out his reel and lays down his nets and devotes himself to the ocean in hopes he can catch himself a piece of it. For keeps. But he can’t, that’d be like catching the wishing fish, and maybe he has caught himself the wishing fish, but he’s going to mess up. That’s the story. You have it, you ask for too much, you get greedy and Issei knew from before, from way on back Issei had just known he’d get greedy. But he can’t stop himself now because it’s inevitable.

‘Here, check my inbox,’ Takahiro says, pulling back abruptly. His ancient bright pink Motorola is in Issei’s face. He squints against the background, this surprisingly clear picture of a Lawson’s receipt with his creampuffs and Meiji strawberry milk order from second year. Half cut off at the bottom of the screen lays the price, either paid by Tooru or by Hajime or by Issei. 

Issei hopes it was him. Issei tries to stop thinking and focus.

‘What’s that gonna do.’

‘You’ll feel better clearing out all the garbage in there,’ Takahiro says wisely. ‘It’ll clear your head, too.’

How he always knows, Issei often wonders about. But today it’s obvious. ‘You just don’t want to do it yourself?’

‘Sure, dumbfuck, but this is a bribe.’

‘Oi, who’s being bribed here?’ he asks dubiously.

‘Shit, Issei. Usually you jump at the chance to stalk my texts,’ he says exasperatedly. ‘Do you want the damn phone or not?’

Almost too late Issei remembers that yes, indeed, he loves stalking Takahiro’s texts, more than he loves drinking canned coffee or stepping into a hot shower after volleyball or gym. It’s a rush of energy, being allowed this invasion of privacy. 

He plucks the phone out of Takahiro’s waiting, smug grasp and yanks him close, one armed and a bit possessive because he gets to do this, he gets to do that, no one else gets to. No one else is allowed this much. ‘You’re the best.’

‘I knoooow,’ Takahiro drones.

The screen has dimmed and he clicks it open, bypassing the request for a passcode easily because he has the passcode. It’s a matter of home button, side button, side button again and he’s on the messaging application and looking at week’s and week's worth of texts, piled up. 

Which is. Definitely not what he was expecting. It’s enough to make him blink properly out of the haze he’d been in.

issei raises an eyebrow as he starts scrolling back, slowly and then faster when it keeps going, a bit disbelieving. ‘Wow. What happened here..’

‘I couldn’t be fucking assed,’ Takahiro says plainly, with a good amount of relief as he tips his head back against Issei’s neck. Eyes shut and unbothered. ‘Like I could not—read like one of them and you’ll understand.’

‘I’ll read all of them,’ Issei responds, and then begins to do so.

The oldest is an invite to a summer break kickoff party. Standard as a text in Takahiro’s inbox, definitely not normal for it to have been left there till the end of August. It’s dated a day or two after Tooru’s birthday, some guy from football who’s in 3D with Takahiro who says a few days after that still, Dude it was off the chain u missed out.

The next text is from a few girls in the official Oikawa Tooru fanclub who have a weird bond with Takahiro and are once again inviting him— and Matsukawa-kun of course, to have lunch with a big group of people Takahiro usually tolerates when he’s feeling social. Issei doesn’t mind these guys either, a couple he even figures are sort of friends of his. But all the same.

‘This must be a dream I’m having,’ Issei voices. And with a lot of satisfaction, although rather presumptively, but then again perhaps not, seeing as it’s over a month old, he deletes the chat. 

As if he’s a mind reader, Takahiro says, ‘Yeah, go ahead and delete anything that’ll take up storage.’

Issei guesses it’s a reward. Or he’s getting Issei out of his funk. It’s working. He’s been de-funked. He deletes the next two more outing invites after reading them with disbelieving eyes. 

He scrolls back up, there’s his message thread with his sister of course, the last few are all distantly timed “Come downstairs” and “bring soda with you” and so on, very similar to his own chat with Yasu. Tooru, and his chat is random texts, a couple links from Tooru’s end, way too many kaomoji. Even an invite, to a pool thing with ‘Hina-chan and her friends!’ which has been duly ignored. His messages with Konoha Akinori from junior high and volleyball tournaments, who while being replied to on a semi daily basis, seems to get more pissed off at the lackluster demeanor of those semi daily replies the more recent it goes. There’s maybe six texts full of question marks dated around—

‘Did you post pictures when we went—?’

‘On Facebook, a couple,’ Takahiro says airily. ‘We looked good.’

Issei raises a brow. ‘Did we.’

‘You and me and your cousins.’

His smile drops. ‘Right. Those guys.’

Takahiro snickers and Issei scuffs his palm against his forehead, then his fingers fall slack against pink bangs as he frowns at the phone screen. There’s one message, in particular—from Konoha, that makes him wonder.

aki: i am not above begging the universe. and you. pls tell mstwk how you feel (read 🗸🗸 )

His jaw tenses again. Blue sky, black rocks. The waves lapping at the beach. He’s been told.

He closes the chat, but doesn’t delete it. Then his eyebrows furrow when an automated kind of message jumps out at him.

‘What did we do on July twenty seventh,’ Issei says, hand winding into Takahiro’s hair absently.

‘Hey, that’s Bugs Bunny’s birthday,’ Takahiro remarks, pushing against his palm.

From that, Issei remembers. They’d gone to Marble road and window shopped the afternoon away, they’d taken some really bad pictures that Konoha Akinori from junior high and volleyball tournaments is probably mad about and in front of the shoe store Takahiro had said he’d give Issei a footjob and then laughed really hysterically at Issei’s reaction, and Issei had told Takahiro about the Cartier forever bracelets that make his brain itch and they’d bought a grand total of two shirts, one hat, and they’d gone to the—right. 

Right.

Before anything else that day, they had gone to the Lotto 6 kiosk. Shared fates.

There is a little pink and white ticket marking Takahiro’s lotto guess, still tucked safely into Issei’s slightly yellowing, but otherwise clear rubber phonecase, alongside a Batman sticker, his boy’s ID picture, and a few coupons from the burger place they like. 

The message on the Motorola screen flickers, taunting.

‘Ah… I think you won the lottery,’ Issei says numbly.

‘What,’ Takahiro says, against his shoulder. Then, ‘You’re JOKING.’

‘That’s the loudest you’ve been all summer,’ Issei says, still staring at the phone, ‘which is insulting to my abilities, the ones I’m honing these days, I am kind of offend—’

‘You’re JOKING!’ he says again, over Issei’s blabbering mouth, astonished. ‘Gimme that!’  

They wrestle for the phone as the train gates open, and they fall out like that, elbows stabbing and feet stomping and they push and duck and swear each other all the way against one of the walls of the underground station and huddle, disbelieving, around Takahiro’s pink Motorola.

Takahiro shrieks, ‘I WON THE LOTTO?’

Issei agrees, wooden, ‘You won the lotto. Not the highest tier, though.’

‘I still. Still. Even. I,’ Takahiro turns and shakes Issei by the shoulders. Issei lets himself be shaken, staring down at him in disbelief as Takahiro says, high pitched, ‘I just picked random numbers, dude!’

‘Not true, strictly, not, um. I saw you put twenty three.’

‘How. How did this happen.’

‘Because of us,’ Issei says dazedly. ‘Because of twenty three. Because of the magic of us, together, you and me against the—’

Takahiro slaps him.

Issei looks at him, sobering up. ‘I see how that was my fault.’

‘Sorry,’ Takahiro says, distraught, staring at his pink palm and splayed fingers as if he can’t believe he did that. ‘I won the lottery.’

‘It’s okay,’ Issei assures, touching his smarting cheek, disbelieving. He kind of wants another. Haye.

‘Because I won the.’ Takahiro drops his phone. Issei ducks and slips automatically, catching it. Takahiro sits on the floor beside him and they stare at the screen again, crouched on the floor at the train station.

‘I guess you have a bunch of money now,’ Issei remarks, eyes starting to hurt from staring so wide-eyed.

‘Oh, we can go on that post grad trip with this,’ Takahiro says absently. ‘And I’ll give kaa-san some. It’s just that I don’t believe this happened.’

‘It’s a bit miraculous,’ he agrees. ‘But very sweet that you want to honeymoon with me.’

‘Silence. Seriously, just be quiet. You, me, and the.’ He flounders, pale eyebrows narrowed in distress as if forgetting their names, and ends up saying, ‘Them, the Kitagawa nobodies,’ which is a nickname from before they knew anyone's names, in first year, or at least refused to say them.

‘It’s two thousand ten and nothing has gone wrong yet,’ Issei says stoically. They make eye contact and immediately start cracking up.

Takahiro won the lottery. With their numbers, on the stupidest day of all, Bugs Bunny’s birthday, and they walked around for ages not knowing. He gets up and offers Takahiro a hand. They walk home, and keep laughing hysterically. 

‘I’m rich,’ Takahiro announces when he enters his room. ‘This is the room of a rich man.’

‘I’m a sugar baby,’ Issei simpers, looming at his back. ‘Please take care of me.’

‘No,’ he says, disdainful. ‘You’re simply one of my hoes. I’ll play with your feelings. A silver rolex, at most. But you will never be taken care of.’

‘No, please,’ Issei begs. ‘A gold rolex. I’ll do anything.’

‘Anything, you say?’ Takahiro muses, fisting a hand in his shirt and shoving him onto the mattress. Issei bounces, sprawls back against his elbows and spreads his legs. Stares at Takahiro as he approaches, pulling his shirt off. His arms flex, pale and tight and Issei wants to bite his shoulders. Leave marks on his biceps.

‘I guess you should get started, then,’ he says, and Issei’s not even thinking anymore when he tips his head back, wanton for the kiss that follows. That’s the best part of being with Takahiro. He doesn’t even think because he’s so incandescently happy.

Chapter Text

3

‘So what do you think it is?’ Takahiro asks, as Issei shuts the book, dropping it under his night stand on the stack of books next to the magazine and comic stacks, next to Catwoman and poetry and the book with the dragon before shuffling back under the blanket, switching the lamp off as he goes.

‘Forty two?’ Issei asks, voice soft.

‘The answer, like. To life, the universe, and everything.’

While Takahiro waits for Issei to answer, to gather his thoughts, he watches the very slight furrow of his eyebrows, the arch at the ends of them, and is glad that he personally doesn’t have to think about it, is glad about knowing. There’s a peace to surety. There’s an exhilaration to it, too, conviction, steady walking on impossible tightropes.

‘I don’t,’ Issei begins, ‘feel like. That I have to figure out what forty two, exactly, means. The number, what it symbolizes. Everyone finds their own meaning, for everything. For living. Right?’

‘And?’ Takahiro asks, bated breath.

Issei’s head lifts, and he looks at Takahiro. 

His eyes are dark. 

‘I know we don't really talk about it,’ Issei says, after a long moment of nothing. ‘But I was sad before we met.’

Takahiro stares at him. His heart twists.

He doesn't smile to make it rueful, or to water things down. Issei isn't like that, not really. He comes off as mild mannered. Really he's intense inside. He's made up of the darkest matter in the universe. If stardust is what humankind is born from, Issei's stardust came from the pits. He's the funniest boy Takahiro has ever met. But still it remains, that deep, craggy look in his eyes.

‘I was really,’ he says, ‘really sad. I didn't like a lot of things and I didn’t have a lot of friends and I wasn’t close with anyone at home. My dad said I was born so quiet he thought I might be dead. He told me that pretty early on.’ He pauses, and wets his lips. Then, ‘Sometimes I thought I might be dead too.’

He could smile here, too, to lighten the mood. Takahiro keeps thinking it because if he was talking, that's what he'd do. But maybe with Issei he'd have remained serious. Like Issei. Like Issei is now, his beautiful eyes boring into Takahiro's. He says, ‘But when.’ His mouth parts around the word you, and Takahiro watches, entranced.

Then he looks at his eyes again. Issei blinks a bit, like he's dizzy, or embarrassed. Takahiro can relate. He’s watching him dizzily through a pink haze, rose tinted. That’s how the world feels with him. That’s living.

‘You really changed me,’ Issei says. ‘Being friends with you. Hanging out with you.’ He looks sort of—maybe grateful, overly so. It's more than frustrating. Like there was something wrong with the miserable guy he was before. As if he's not still that guy. As if that's not the guy Takahiro is so damn head over heels for.

‘I like everything about you, Issei,’ Takahiro whispers, and he crawls over the space between them and fits his fingers behind Issei's ear, cauliflower ears, red right now even in the lightless light of the room. He pulls him close and says, ‘I liked sad Issei, from before we met. I liked shy Issei at the start. And I like—’

‘I like you too much,’ Issei interrupts, miserably.

Takahiro kisses him on the tense line of his mouth. It softens barely, so he lingers, kisses it again. Issei's eyebrows are drawn tight together when he pulls back.

‘Do you?’ Takahiro asks, trying not to smile. 

‘You think this is funny?’ Issei mumbles. He's going crosseyed. 

‘Well, a bit.’ Takahiro nuzzles his cheek. ‘Too much. Seriously. My crybaby.’

‘It’s seriously a lot,’ he whispers. ‘A lot, Hiro.’

‘Don’t.’ Their lips meet again, slow and dazed, and this time they fall open and Issei makes a noise, deep in his throat that just makes heat pool in Takahiro’s stomach, and makes the thoughts turn scrambled in his head. He kisses him slowly. ‘Don’t think about that. Don’t say it like I can’t take it.’

‘I’m always afraid you’re gonna be mad,’ Issei admits into his cheek.

‘When am I ever?’ Takahiro replies, with one last kiss on Issei’s broad, tight forehead. He lingers, then says, ‘I’m always too busy laughing.’

2

They spend Saturday apart. Takahiro spends the day lounging on his bed, suffering the unmistakable feeling of something dying, something lost. He’s going to remember this summer for the rest of his life. He’ll think of it when he pictures light and laughter.

Issei spends the day waiting, already dreading doing the same. When summer is a memory, that’s wisteria. That’s real loneliness. Issei would embalm, bury and mourn time in a wooden box in the dirt and live his life out stuck on Saturday, even though he was alone on Saturday, if that meant summer was yesterday and not years ago.

Would-be’s never really come to fruition, though. This is what happens, after Saturday is over.

1

Takahiro goes to Issei’s place and finds him sat on that green lawnchair of his, in ratty American-blue jeans and a brown Puma shirt. Like a loner in a film.

‘Hey, tiger,’ he greets.

Issei’d watched him approach up the driveway in silence. Watched him hungrily, shyly, a bit angrily. He merely blinks now, slow but confused. Takahiro crouches in front of him and presses his hand to the logo.

For a beat, Issei is still. Then he says, eyes low, ‘Oh, ha. Wrong cat.’

‘That’s the joke,’ Takahiro says, nodding.

Issei’s hand comes up to wrap around his forearm, just holding on. Then he says, ‘You’re ready, yeah?’

‘Yep. Where’re we gonna go?’

Takahiro feels like the opposite of how he’d felt at the start of their two months of vacation. Sick to his stomach, lying on the grass, hoping Issei would carry both the conversation and him, if need be, if they’re forced to move. They hadn’t been, but he’d felt like he could really do nothing at all that day. Here at the tail end of the break he feels alight with the vigour of life. He watches Issei fondly, Issei who is so dear to him. Issei with his downcast, shy look, and his flexing jaw, and his long brown fingers, tucked into Takahiro’s sleeve.

‘Where ever,’ Issei replies. ‘We could do what you like.’

So, they go on an aimless walk.

They go on such a long, hot, completely seemingly aimless walk, and end up at a furniture outlet which is so random he doesn’t realize it’s by design until Issei, in his roundabout, mysterious way, tells him he thinks this won’t last by asking him when he’s gonna buy his own Foldable Beach Chair in Magenta. Takahiro freaks out.

The fight is inevitable, and the cooldown takes up two precious hours of their last day.

Issei throws pebbles at a neighbor's pond. Takahiro walks several blocks and doesn't confer with anyone. Issei doesn't cry, because he's already cried this out. Takahiro cries, silent, angry tears sting his eyes. His face goes sticky and grimy.

They meet by the corner. Takahiro’s the one waiting, in a full circle of things.

He approaches him and Takahiro turns around. 

‘Your face,’ Issei says, speechless.

Takahiro rubs at his cheeks, and grimaces.

Issei covers the distance and holds up the hem of his Puma shirt. Then he pauses.

‘I’ll slap you in the fucking face if you pussy out on doing your fucking job as my best friend one more goddamn time,’ Takahiro says in a terrible voice.

Issei wipes his tears and he is very gentle about it. 

But at first touch he just starts crying again like some delicate thing. 

‘Oh my god,’ Issei says.

‘These stupid eyes!’ Takahiro shouts. 

There’s a conbini nearby so they stop there instead of walking home. Takahiro leans against the back alley wall and tries to warm himself with the air from the exhaust fan. Or cool himself down, whichever happens first. Issei averts his gaze. Now, in this precursor to the end of all things, he realizes he has to avoid eye contact. If Takahiro looks at him he’ll see it again, like he did while they were shouting, earlier. And Issei is so afraid, now. Of the truth they both know.

‘Real interesting wall, huh,’ he says, thin.

Issei wills himself not to give in to that compelling tone. That demand that matters above all demands. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? Falling for me or thinking it’s not mutual?’

‘I wasn’t really,’ he starts and stops.

‘Thinking, I know,’ Takahiro says quietly. 

The wall is a bit interesting. He glares at it.

Rubs his forehead with his palm, and then says, ‘No, tell me. What. What, man? What were you hiding all this time?’

Issei wets his mouth, which tastes of nothing, then says, almost fumbling, stilted, ‘Well, I just thought. Summer’s over.’

‘So,’ and now his entire face is closed off the way it just doesn’t anymore. 

‘So,’ Issei begins, and then stops. Because what is there to say, out loud, what can be said, when they never put words to anything. And when it should be easy to understand, the thing Issei’s been thinking about for weeks, non stop, thinking about so hard that it’s unthinkable Takahiro hasn’t. He couldn’t have predicted that.

‘You said it was a fling, and it was a joke, I know it was. And I also know I’m gonna lose you later on. I thought this was like the universe’s send off.’

That is the moment when it starts to rain.

‘Lose me?’ he asks, and his voice comes out brash and rings oddly, but he feels delicate like the sound of a heart beating. ‘It seriously was a joke, I was kidding.’

‘You’re going to leave me,’ Issei says with faith. ‘I figured that out in January. It’s just a matter of time. I guess I fucked up by ruining this summer since we still have the rest of the year. But it’ll pass by quickly, and then—’

‘Stop talking,’ Takahiro says, looking at the watery ground beneath him. It feels unsteady.

Issei stops. 

And now,

‘Say something,’ Issei mumbles.

‘You’re a piece of work,’ Takahiro says.

He’s figured it out now, staring miserably at the wall, thinking of the magenta lawnchair that shouldn’t exist. That this is Issei’s stupid, numb mouthed, mysterious, roundabout way of saying he loves him.

‘Had to do it before the break ended.’

And now, Issei is feeling sick to his stomach. This is the worst day of my life, he thinks. God, I’ve really done it now, he thinks. They could’ve done one of the things Takahiro actually likes, like buying lollipops or putting Hello Kitty stickers on random people’s front gates and throwing plastic bottles at trashcans instead of in and stepping on Stay Off The Lawn lawns and picking flowers and collecting bottle caps and playing arcade games and loitering at the flower shop and shooting the shit with the volleyball team and reading comics in silly voices and jumping fully clothed into swimming pools and playing video games and drinking Ramune and bitching about people from school and walking aimlessly.

They should’ve just walked aimlessly. Instead there’s something broiling in his gut and he feels grim.

He feels flattened with it, that they're still here, that he's told Takahiro and Takahiro is standing there in front of him and he knows and the sun hasn't started rising from the west and the sky hasn't turned black and meteorites haven't started hitting the bare ground, he feels he can't be standing upright, that's how much he feels. There should be earthquakes.

‘Say something else,’ Issei urges.

‘I don’t even think it’s possible for you and me to not be together somehow. You’re never gonna lose me.’

‘We weren’t together before we met.’

‘That was the worst time of your life,’ Takahiro notes. Then he peers up at Issei. ‘You’re really that ready to go back to the worst time of your life?’

Shaved head and weird goatee, no friends and online games. His father. His mother. His sister and his brother, rooms apart. 

‘No, I guess not,’ Issei says, mild.

They lean against the walls, parallel lines. 

A dog trots by and Takahiro’s gaze follows it.

‘How can you be sure,’ Issei says eventually. ‘How can you know something like that. You just can’t. I know you’re gonna leave me one day—’

‘I’m not, come on, it’s not even just our thing, we’re friends—’ he protests, but Issei shakes his head moodily.

‘Leave, for university, I mean, you’re not. One of those stuck people. Who stay in one city, who get grayer and grayer inside as life moves but they don’t, you’re miles above it. We’ll go on the post grad trip with the money from the lotto and you’ll get a taste for travelling. You’re not a community college guy, so you’re gonna move away and move on because it’s—just the natural progression of things. You’ll move out of the prefecture first, and your university will be huge, you’ll pick something in media or drawing or computers in Tokyo and you’ll never wanna come back. You’re for the skies and we both know that.’

‘And you think,’ Takahiro says, mirthlessly. ‘That you are. One of these stuck, gray people.’

Issei can’t say it, jaw working tensely but Takahiro must see some proof in his face because his own shutters.

There’s a silence in which they both look at each other, and it’s as if they’re seeing each other fully for the first time. Really, entirely, because now Issei is stripped to the core, to the root, to the gritty city insides of him like motorbikes lined up in oily alleyways ready to have their shiny parts stolen, like the East End to Gotham, like something collapsed down to its miniature parts. He’s exposed himself now, and he can’t take it back. Takahiro will never unknow these terrors of his. And now Issei knows his distraught look, his heartbreak at hearing it, every emotion he’s never seen from infallible, magnetic, jaunty pink grinning Takahiro.

He wets his lips, and even gray, Issei watches them, through a distant haze. 

‘Issei, you’re the most colorful thing in my life.’

Rainwater leaks down the brick wall beside his head and down his temples, too, and his shirt is damp now. He blinks away the sting. ‘Oh, come on. That—that’s not true.’

Takahiro scoffs. ‘Shit. I should’ve said it before.’

Issei wants to believe him so badly his head hurts. He shakes his head.

Takahiro watches him, something almost like defeat and definitely like hurt in his eyes. Issei says, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t. This is my fault,’ he says dully, and then he looks away, and it’s piercing, more hollow than the sound of his voice. His hand lifts, scrubs over the top of his head roughly. ‘I did this. I made you feel—god, this is unbelievable. I can’t believe you think—’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Issei tells him. ‘I told you. Since January. This is just—’

‘This is just how you are, sure, you think low but we’re different!’ Takahiro says, almost desperate, voice slowly riding in pitch. ‘Issei, you and me are supposed to be different! Our thing, what we have, it’s the exception, it's exempt from the overthinking, from norms and roles and other people talking crap, from expectations, it’s, I can’t hear this and not—Issei.’

He stops, and stares at him. Issei looks back, shoulders stiff, wishing he’d look happy. Knowing it’s his own fault he doesn’t, and that Takahiro thinks it’s his fault, and that’s why he looks like that. He wishes he could live in one of their moments this summer before they got to this point but he knew this day would come eventually. So he stands and takes it, weathers that stormy look.

Takahiro seems to get sick of the staring contest half a minute in.

‘Come here, you dickhead,’ and he tucks his palm over Issei’s nape and tugs them out of the little alley and they both blink and squint into the grey sky. 

Takahiro’s hand is steady and cool at his nape, fingers petting his hair and thumb rubbing at a knot and Issei lets it all, all out because Takahiro guides him to.

‘I tried to tell you,’ he says quietly after a while. ‘When the sun was rising that day. I thought—’ 

He leans back with the wettest inhale, and Issei can barely see, all the hot tears in his eyes. Takahiro’s cool hands are there again, wiping salt with the most incredible care. Then he’s just holding Issei by the face, palms pressed to the space connecting jaw to throat and thumbs ready beneath his eyes. Issei feels the burning return at the thought. It’s like the Scoville scale. 

Then Takahiro gives him this small, sweet little speech.

It goes kind of like this.

‘Issei, every person I’ve ever met besides you has been deeply, awfully, unbearably boring,’ he says. ‘But I didn’t know it till we met how badly I wanted to escape from that shitty dead end existence. And since we met, I’ve only talked to you, only wanted to talk to you, only wanted to be with you because when I’m not it’s just impossible to take. Now I know what it’s like when you’re around and if that’s not what’s going on I get so mad I take it out on everybody else. I can’t do it. I would never ditch you, ever, Issei, because I can’t ditch you. You’re the escape, the great escape from the prison of life. I can’t even last with my other friends, not more than an hour because you’ve completely ruined me for anybody else, because I’m so spoilt, now, because I expect everyone to know me and everyone to talk real slow like you and everyone to come up with jokes that appeal to just me but the other day, I realized I don’t like looking at other people’s eyes, even, because it makes me feel weird when they’re not yours. Or maybe I don’t like other people looking at me, I feel like that’s what it is. I want you, gray-boy. If you’re a little gray, it’s just to even my neon out. If I go, to Tokyo, or out of the country, or even to the park… Shit, what do you think I’ve been doing, this whole time, dragging you along, saying we and let’s and can you take me to the conbini. The goddamn conbini, Issei. It is so stupid. It’s stupid. So, so stupid, I don’t want to go alone. I’d be bored! And lonely! And annoyed, and, and out of my mind, I fucking have been bored out of my mind, I try everything that comes to me and nothing ever sticks and guess what I do then? I call you. Because I’m resigned to it, to not liking anybody else, resigned to—actually, I’m so unbelievably happy I get you, and I’m excited for us and for escaping boredom forever. Who else is gonna talk my ear off about finger joints for ten minutes and not get pissed off when I cut them off with a funny bone joke in front of the poser cashier at Lawson’s? Don’t try to answer. 

‘If it’s not with you,’ he finishes, barely even out of breath and as intense as he’d been from the first word, ‘I’m not going anywhere. Come with me to Tokyo, or where ever else.’

He pauses, and says, baleful, ‘Because if you don’t I’ll just be settling.’

Issei kisses him. 

He pours everything into it, clutches at him even though finally, he trusts to his marrow that Hiro’s never gonna run away without him.

When he pulls back still lingering a breath above his mouth, he has to ask. ‘You really get bored at the conbini? There’s so many boxes of creampuffs.’

‘I’d quit sugar for you,’ Takahiro says bravely.

He could be lying, or exaggerating, or saying something he believes but couldn’t commit to when it came down to it. Looking into those eyes as if looking hard enough could end in drowning, Issei thinks they might be his favorite. In the entire world. He could convince Issei of anything with those eyes.

‘Alright,’ Issei says, finally. ‘That would be crazier than earthquakes and the sun rising from the west, anyway.’

‘What?’ Takahiro says, bewildered. ‘Why would the sun rise from the west?’

They kiss again, and it’s still raining. 

And then,

‘I had this thought,’ Takahiro says. ‘About how safe you are. That you would never hurt me. Best friends, and all that.’

‘Did I hurt you now?’ Issei asks, a bitter taste in his mouth. The one thing he had going for him.

‘No,’ he says, after a pause. ‘You still didn’t. It was your own hurt that hurt me. You’ve got all this stuff living inside you and I’ve always been so curious about it, but now that I’ve gotten a peek I’m crying like a kid.’

He tips his head back and wipes his cheeks again with his palms, rubbing and inhaling stuffily, then swallows, neck bared. And smiles a bit, faint and faintly sweet. ‘But it hasn’t scared me away, either.’

They walk home to suburbia. Midway, they stop and Takahiro tosses small stones up at telephone wires to try and coax a cat down from the pole. Issei watches, eyes stinging. Maybe he can be coaxed to Tokyo. Maybe they’ll go together. Maybe Takahiro will be the cat and crawl back home.

Right now it’s the last day of summer. So they sneak away, cat at their heels, and smoke that second joint, the one they’d forgotten about, after the flower festival. Pink and green apples in the car. They stop at a conbini, totally blazed. Hatakosen melon and Sangaria peach. 

xo (stagecoachesbecomepumpkins) wrote,
2007-30-05 12:36 AM

(..)love(..) that makes me howl at the moon crazy i wish i had a guitar or a pen right now so badly i feel like the santa maria- third in line of discovery i want to find a new world with you in hand this has been the summer of my life true love(..) summer is when i still feel the most free(…)

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