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Hajime had missed the last two Saturday practices.
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru pressed over the phone, “you’re coming next week, right?”
“I’ll try,” Hajime said. He was apologetic, no matter how disapproving the huff on the other end was.
“I just don’t get why this is important all of a sudden.”
“What, I can’t do something besides volleyball? Don’t be stupid, Oikawa.”
Tooru didn’t respond. He forced himself to take pause, turning over what he would say next, struggling to contain the onslaught of words. Criticisms.
“Oikawa?”
Eyes falling shut, Tooru pursed his lips, “Sorry, what?”
“I said,” Hajime’s scowl was practically visible through the receiver, repeating the question, “why don’t you come watch?”
“... Iwa-chan, then we’d both be missing practice.”
“No, I meant the one on Sunday.”
“You’re doing this on Sundays, too!?”
Tooru curled further around his pillow. The laptop he had dragged onto the bed glared at him, its screen reflecting the home page for a Miyagi Taiko Association. He had been researching. Sort of. For the most part, he had been scrolling and clicking and making faces at the constant emphasis of how much time should be dedicated by those who wish to master this ‘sport’. Tooru could feel the phone sliding down his cheek and hurried to catch it.
“It’ll be weird,” he argued weakly. He crossed and uncrossed his ankles. “I don’t want to intrude.”
Hajime was quick to dismiss this, “Nah, it’s fine. A few of the guys bring their girlfriends every week. And our coach brings his kid.”
“Mm.”
“There’s a place for you to sit, Oikawa, come on.”
“I don’t know…”
At the brink of his patience, Hajime offered, “I’ll come to all of our weekend practices. Swear. I might have to leave early sometimes, that’s it.”
“Iwa-chan.”
“It’s this Sunday at two. I’ll text you the address right now.”
Tooru made a non-committal sound.
“See you at school tomorrow.”
Hajime hung up.
- - -
Tooru arrived at half-past three.
He hadn’t intended to be late. At least, not when he woke up that morning. As the minutes rolled by and the afternoon sun peeked above the clouds, he began to stall; his lunch was prepared with unnecessary steps, the decision of which t-shirt to throw on becoming an existential crisis. He didn’t use his phone on the train, avoiding the clock’s ticking judgment, and busied himself with reading the printed advertisements overhead.
Tooru then paced in a loop around the community center. He didn’t want to go inside. His gut told him that he would see Hajime having an absolute blast, smacking some ugly drum instead of spiking a volleyball. Tooru checked the time.
There was a woman pinning flyers in the lobby, and she hopped down from her step stool to point him in the right direction. Frustratingly helpful.
Under the sagging strap of his bookbag, Tooru squeezed into the first corner he could find. The taiko room was padded on the floor and tiled on the ceiling, creating a strange set of acoustics that his ears were unaccustomed to. The assault of sticks on drums seemed to shake the neighborhood. Tooru wedged his back further against the wall, ignoring the clearly visible seating area.
Soon, the practice reached its end. A lively chatter erupted, shoulders affectionately slapped while the coach hollered out a few reminders about an upcoming performance.
Tooru waited, a stray bang twisted between his fingers, his mouth a tight line, relentless in how he stared.
Hajime never left his focus. Fleeting as the experience was, the amount of skill involved was obvious. The videos online couldn’t compare to witnessing it in-person. Still, he was stubborn in his appreciation. Hajime was what held his interest, not the drums. Those toned arms pounding a stretched cowhide was an insult to what they could do at the net — where they were meant to be.
Tooru pretended to read a text message while Hajime gave his coach a short bow.
“Hey. Glad you’re here.”
Tooru’s phone slipped back into his pocket. He couldn’t remember what he had planned to say.
Without a word, one glance was traded for another.
“Sorry I’m late,” Tooru finally replied. “I had more studying to do than I thought. Mom was really serious about me getting it done.”
Hajime nodded in acknowledgement rather than belief. He knew Tooru’s mother would be shooing him out the door to watch today’s practice session if he had actually told her about it.
“So, how much did you see?”
“Uh… a good part of the end.”
Hajime despised how it felt like he was fishing for compliments, “What’d you think?”
“Oh!” Tooru seemed to realize that he should have already given his opinion. “It was great, I, you’ve really been practicing hard, Iwa-chan. You were giving it your all.”
He smiled. While his claims didn’t give the impression of trustworthiness, the shy upturn of his mouth did.
“I wish I could have seen more,” Tooru went on, “I’m sure your whole performance looks amazing.”
To the left, a voice called Hajime’s name — Iwaizumi! — and they both turned to spot a young man from the taiko team on the room’s opposite side. He was waving around his sticks with one hand and beckoning with the other. His willingness to interrupt them conveyed a certain level of friendship. Hajime gave him a thumbs-up and hollered that he would be over in a minute.
“Tch, lucky you. We’re having a showcase at the end of the month. Since the weather’s warming up, we’ll have a stage set up right outside here,” Hajime explained, motioning toward the nearest window.
Tooru was unable to stop his brows from lifting, “You want me to come?”
“Yeah. Don’t be late this time.”
Posture going stiff, Tooru combed through his hair on a thoughtless instinct, scratching, fingertips lingering at the back of his neck. He was in the wrong. Of course he was. It had been a shitty move for him to miss Hajime’s practice today, made all the worse by the personal invitation and Hajime’s enthusiasm. Tooru’s best friend deserved his undivided attention.
His attitude had been dismissive from day one. Despite knowing Hajime’s connection to taiko, his father being involved years ago, he hadn’t assumed that Hajime’s fascination would grow so rapidly. Not to the point where volleyball was being shoved to the side. He had been wrong. Selfish.
Tooru understood that he should be supportive in the same way Hajime would be for him. Something was holding him back.
“Should I bring anyone else with me?” Tooru had no reason behind this question aside from delaying his departure.
“Sure,” Hajime shrugged, licking a stray streak of sweat that had trickled too close to his lips, “I’ll ask the guys if they can make it. But you better be there, dumbass.”
The insult was like a squeeze of reassurance, promising Tooru that any hurt feelings were forgiven.
“I will, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime was satisfied, puffing out his chest with pride, “Good. And I’ll be at our weekend practices, got it?”
“Right.” Tooru was more meek in his response than he would have liked. Annoyed, he cleared his throat and perked up to add, “We’ve been slacking on our spiking drills. I need you there to whip everyone into shape.”
“Count on it,” Hajime laughed.
A single goodbye later, and he was sprinting to his team as more members playfully shouted for him to hurry up.
- - -
The pamphlet Tooru had been given was laid to rest in his lap, unopened. Maybe that’s why Hajime felt this was superior to volleyball. Thick cardstock and colored ink. Cherry blossoms adorned the front page to signal the celebration of spring. New beginnings seemed to be the theme of this performance, and Tooru imagined there would be hints of this in the song titles if he bothered to read them.
He was joined by Matsukawa and another friend of theirs from elementary school, Kisaragi. They were seated in the second thanks to him repeatedly reminding the group chat to show up at least a half hour early.
After a short first act put on by the local youth taiko team, it was time for Hajime to make an appearance. The audience, mostly composed of proud parents, stirred in excitement. A few phones were raised to better angle their cameras. Tooru sat with his arms folded, quite literally biting his tongue.
The stage began to fill again, cotton-padded heels storming lacquered wood, and the atmosphere shifted.
Hajime was dressed in what had to be the team’s official uniform — a sleeveless vest embroidered with a traditional geometric pattern, wide pants held up by an obi, wrist guards, and a headband tied into a large bow at the back. He was adorned in red-blooded determination, holding his sticks high above his drum, his stance firm. A gong rang in the distance and each of Hajime’s fingers flexed with anticipation.
Tooru leaned in.
“Ready!”
Positioned in the center, Hajime shouted in sync with two others.
“Ready!”
The team answered.
The performance was segmented into three acts, creating a connected story. Low jabs to the bottom of the drums were built into powerful pounding at the peak. Muscles were knifelike in their focus. Not a single beat was missed, or, if so, it was impossible to notice among the fierce display of talent.
Boom… boom… boom…!
Somewhere below his throat, Tooru was hit by a rush of heat.
Hajime was singing. His voice swelled between pauses, his body gliding left to right, forward and back, dripping gold. It was pure music. Hajime wasn’t an athlete fighting for the winning point of a match, he was an artist commanding a crowd to indulge in the beauty of his every melody.
Tooru didn’t need to be told twice. He couldn’t stop watching Hajime. Was that even Hajime? The beetle-chasing, bandage-covered kid who used to complain about wearing a tie for school picture day? It was absurd enough to be written off as a dream. And yet here he was, living through the finest details. Tooru’s gaze had traced him a thousand times over in the span of twenty minutes, memorizing pieces he had never seen before.
“Hold!”
Tooru’s breath strangled itself. Hajime returned to his starting stance.
Applause were summoned like thunder. The noise of a hundred slamming palms drowned any opportunity to speak. It was too loud to think. Several families were on their feet, cheering and talking and beaming at whichever son or brother was their own.
Briefly, Tooru searched for Hajime’s parents. He squinted and swiveled his head. Before he could find them, he was shaken by the shoulder. Tooru’s claps came to an abrupt halt, his nerves stinging.
“Wow,” Matsukawa exclaimed, continuing to shake Tooru, “that was way cooler than I thought it’d be!”
Tooru replied with the obvious, “Iwa-chan was leading them.”
“Right? C’mon, I see his mom. Let’s go hang by them.”
“Wait!”
Startled, Matsukawa remained in place. He obeyed only to see what the fuss was about.
“We should…” The sentence dragged, and Tooru scrambled to fill the gap. He couldn’t concentrate, Hajime’s performance stuck on a mental loop, his mind darting from one conclusion to the next. Kisaragi had joined in on the discomfort, pushing Tooru to blurt, “Don’t we want to give them space? Mama Iwa-chan will want to smother him.”
“What are you talking about?” Matsukawa’s tone couldn’t have been drier.
Tooru shook his head, “This is a big thing for him.”
“So? We’re his friends.”
Whatever excuse Tooru had been trying to abuse, he dropped it altogether when Matsukawa turned away. Kisaragi did the same. Hands shoved in his pockets, he trudged in their wake. They were soon mingling with the Iwaizumis and raving about the man of the hour — who would be here any second now. Tooru opted for silence.
Hajime was greeted with no less honor than a returning war hero. He graciously caught every bit of flattery that was thrown his way, his face glistening with sweat and joy. Maintaining separate conversations was a welcomed struggle. His sticks were sheathed within his obi, a victorious weapon taking its rest, and he reached to untie his headband. He was asked to leave it on for a moment more, his mother insisting that she needed a photo with ‘The full look, Hajime’.
He posed, hands on his hips and nose scrunched in amusement. Beyond his mother, he saw Tooru.
It was too late. Tooru didn’t have a chance to change his expression. He was in awe of his best friend, looking on from afar and terrified that he might not have a right to approach. Worse, the edges of his fear were being brutalized by the scarlet claws of a blush. Tooru was caught, vulnerable. Invisible to all but one.
- - -
Tooru had become a stranger in the Iwaizumi family home.
From a corner, he watched as Hajime helped his parents play host to the dozen people who had invaded the living room. The scene rolled by at half speed; Matsukawa and Kisaragi were munching on a plate of tea cakes, while a neighbor couple and their children tried to all fit on the couch, giggling, several men from Hajime’s father’s construction company telling precarious stories from their latest job site and being chastised by their worried wives. Two boys from the taiko team were also present.
Tooru’s hold tightened around his cup, the sweetened hojicha long gone.
He managed to stay off anyone’s radar, Hajime’s, in particular, and was counting down the minutes until it would be appropriate to leave. Being the first one out the door would put him in a bad light. He would have timed his exit perfectly if he hadn’t been distracted by Matsukawa, roping him into a debate about which beach they should visit this summer.
It wasn’t until Hajime was tugging at Tooru’s arm that he realized how late it was.
“You wanna stay for dinner?”
Tooru stayed.
Floating through the cozy depths of familiarity once again, Tooru sank into the meal. He ate his fill, pork dumplings and pickled vegetables, mostly, Hajime caught in his peripherals. He politely engaged without being the one to change topics, abandoning his famous chatterbox role. Hajime’s father even made a joke about how quiet he was tonight. Tooru gave a pleasant nod.
Exhaustion aside, Hajime didn’t hesitate to help his mother tidy the kitchen. The manners he had been taught weren’t the type to take a vacation. He then found the energy to stand at the front door and say goodbye to the last of his guests, stuffed stomach be damned, his expression carrying an untouchable glow. Hajime’s hard-earned praise was overflowing from the inside out.
He didn’t think twice about how Tooru was draped over the couch, thumbs tapping at his phone. The usual.
“Night,” Hajime called over his shoulder as his parents made their way upstairs. The creak of the bath filling wasn’t long off. He turned his attention to Tooru, expectant, “You plan on pouting forever, Oikawa?”
Tooru refused to look from his screen, “I’m not.”
“Tch, right.”
A squeal erupted from Tooru when Hajime grabbed both his ankles. His fate was inescapable. He crashed from the couch, ass narrowly avoiding the wood flooring and instead finding the rug, phone launched into space. Everything had been flipped to a ninety degree angle. Hajime was on top of him, employing some stupid wrestling move Tooru didn’t know the name of.
“Quit it, Iwa-chan!”
“Nah.”
Having been thrust into this predicament one too many times throughout childhood, Tooru quickly came to terms with his only shot at freedom. He had to fight back. Looping an arm around Hajime’s neck, he yanked them in a different direction, banging his side into the nearby table. He ignored the fresh ache in his ribs and continued to push. Hajime huffed out a chuckle, the air rasping from his lungs. This spurred Tooru further, and he seized a defensive gap he could dominate.
Somebody’s elbow jammed the remote’s power button and switched on the television, a static-saturated news station brought to life.
Tooru’s full weight was now bearing down on Hajime. His knees and palms were flat on the floor, caging his attacker. He parted his lips to ready an insult, a demand to stop. He gasped when it was stolen from him, Hajime headbutting him in the chest. Tumbling over, his fall was cushioned by two sturdy arms encircling his neck in an embrace. The earthy scent of cheap body spray threatened to immortalize itself within Tooru’s memory.
“Jerk!” Tooru hissed, grinding a set of knuckles against Hajime’s nearest cheek. “Let me go!”
Hajime’s biceps flexed in response, “You gonna drop the attitude?”
“Ugh.”
Tooru had already squirmed to safety, the careless punch he threw failing to make an impact. Back to the couch and glare locked on Hajime, he was tense. A lull stretched between them. Weary, Tooru rubbed at his side. The bruise waiting for him in the morning would be an ugly reminder of this little spat.
“Does it hurt?” Hajime was sitting with his legs crossed. He held his distance.
Tooru sighed, “I’m fine.”
Realizing that Hajime had no further intention of roughhousing, his guard dropped. The living room had become strangely serene. His train of thought seized this and derailed — You gonna drop the attitude? — he could feel his insides twisting. Hajime wouldn’t ask that out of pettiness alone. There was a reason here. A gravity to it all.
Taiko was important to Hajime.
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru spoke louder than he intended to, lowering his volume after the nickname broke loose, “you were amazing today.”
Hajime was convinced he had misheard him, “Huh?”
“Up on the stage today. Watching you was amazing.”
Hajime’s mouth slipped open, a short inhale teetering on the edge of a gasp. He stared at Tooru, the ruffle in his bangs matching the wrinkles in his shirt, his weight shifting forward to better drink him in. His ears were starting to scorch from the flattery. The genuine gleam in Tooru’s pupils was undeniable. Hajime smiled.
“Thanks.”
“I meant to tell you earlier,” Tooru said, uncertain of his own honesty. As much as he had, well, admired, Hajime’s performance, he hadn’t imagined admitting it. Especially not when it was just the two of them. What a lame best friend he was. Swallowing his disappointment, Tooru continued, “I hope I can see more.”
“Yeah? What was your favorite part?” Hajime’s curiosity was soft, almost naive.
Tooru’s focus flickered toward Hajime’s arms, recalling how impossibly graceful they had been during the performance.
“Uh. Probably this part.” Tooru mirrored Hajime’s position, legs crossed, and smacked his palms against his knees, attempting to recreate a drum pattern. “Hey! It’s not that bad!”
Snorting in delight, Hajime had cut Tooru short. There was no rhythm to be found.
“Wow, you’re terrible,” Hajime jabbed. He figured he had earned it. The weird gloom from Tooru this evening had been freaking him out. He had been scared of straining their friendship. Now relieved, Hajime straightened his spine and also placed his hands over his knees. “Here, I think this is what you’re trying to do.”
The sequence of smack, smack, smack that followed was nothing short of symphonic.
Ears perking, Tooru made an effort to repeat what he had heard. It somehow sounded worse.
“You’re overthinking it,” Hajime soothed. Scooting closer, he cupped each of Tooru’s wrists and raised them skyward. “I know you’re used to having a lot of control here, but that’s not what this is about. Even though our drums are loud, that doesn’t mean we’re hitting them as hard as we can. You gotta stay relaxed. Coach loves that Bruce Lee quote about water.”
Tooru’s skin was warmed by Hajime’s.
“Okay, Iwa-chan.”
“Fluidity, y’know?”
“Mm.”
Hajime’s hands covered Tooru’s completely. He held steady, squeezing. He placed them on Tooru’s knees and demonstrated the proper technique. Once, twice, and a third time to be thorough. Hajime was so fixated on playing teacher that he took no notice of Tooru’s lack of discipline. Their hands split apart.
“Try it now.”
Tooru didn’t show much improvement. Hajime appreciated the willingness to learn regardless.
“You can show me again, Iwa-chan.” Tooru’s palms were splayed wide on his knees. His pinky was extended past where it would naturally rest, grazing the fabric of Hajime’s trousers. Wiggling in a lopsided circle, he wanted to be seen. When Hajime finally looked down, Tooru asked, “Remind me how it goes?”
Hajime’s hands lifted, presumably to guide Tooru’s, and then hovered mid-air. He brought the right to Tooru’s side, careful to avoid too much pressure. He traded one question for another, “You sure it doesn’t hurt?”
“What?”
Hajime hooked his thumb beneath the shirt hem.
“Not if you’re gentle.”
On instinct, Hajime’s eyes sought Tooru’s.
“Iwa-chan.”
They met halfway. But a small miscalculation left them crooked, Hajime’s thick brows scratching Tooru’s forehead. Sharing a laugh, embarrassed, they were both motionless a moment later.
“I’m sorry,” Tooru apologized. He didn’t feel the need for specifics, preoccupied with fingering the gaps between Hajime’s knuckles. “I’ll sit in the front row next time.”
Hajime nosed at Tooru’s cheek before he pulled away, “I’d like that. I’ll make it special and everything, I’ll point to you with my sticks.”
“Iwa-chan, why does that sound dirty?”
“Because you’re making it dirty, dumbass.”
Their laughter was fuller, rolling through them and encouraging them to hold each other to stay upright.
“Please point to me with your sticks. Everyone will be jealous of me, I’ll have the most talented guy there looking at me,” Tooru said, perfectly serious.
“Deal,” Hajime grinned.