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Makoto does not like long walks on the beach.
He doesn't like the beach in general. He doesn't like the ocean. He's fifteen years old but he still sometimes wakes up in a cold sweat, hands flailing to break an imaginary ocean's surface.
But Haru likes the ocean, and the seaside path is the fastest way to school; so Makoto gently fastens his teeth around his tongue, smiles a thin little smile, and goes without complaint.
When Makoto is nervous, he talks. He talks all the way down the boardwalk, just loud enough to drown out the ocean in his own ears. The topic of discussion is just inane and rote enough that Haru won't bother to interrupt. He focuses on the wood slats beneath his feet. He tries not to imagine how it would feel if these wood planks were the deck of a boat, tries not to get seasick on dry land.
Haru starts walking on his left side after a while. It places him closer to the water, which would be reason enough. But this way when Makoto turns to give him the latest updates on the twins' antics he can focus on Haru—his eyes, the placid set of his mouth—and tune out the endless blue water behind him.
Makoto is embarrassed by how grateful he is. Neither of them discuss it.
--
"Haru?" Makoto mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. Pebbles had clicked against the window until he stumbled out of bed to slide it open. "Is everything all right?"
"Come down," Haru says.
"It's..." Makoto glances at the glowing green clock beside his bed. "It's two in the morning," Makoto says. "What's going on?"
Even from the second floor Makoto can feel the press of Haru's deadpan stare. "Come down," he repeats.
Makoto comes down. Haru waits until he's eased the door closed behind him with one hand, the other hand covering a jaw-cracking yawn, before he seizes Makoto's elbow and starts dragging him down the steep hill.
"Haru!" he cries, stumbling a little. Haru slows down immediately, allowing him to catch his balance and his bearings. "You're acting weird!"
Haru shakes his head, a silent You'll see.
Haru's steps take them on a beeline for the ocean. Makoto begins to tense. "Haru—"
Haru tugs on his arm, preempting any resistance. "I'm here," he says. It's a silly thing to say—unreasonable, and childish, and such an odd non-solution to the problem that only Haru would have the audacity to say it. Makoto's nervousness abates to a nervous fizz at the pit of his stomach.
They get to the boardwalk and Haru moves to walk across it and onto the beach beyond. Makoto digs his heels in before he can stop himself.
"H-haru," he says. His voice trembles, and he hates himself a little for it. "Haru, no."
Haru stops when Makoto does, though his eagerness to get closer to the water practically thrums under his skin. He turns towards Makoto and searches his face. Makoto struggles to hold Haru's earnest, serious gaze and not glance away.
"Iwatobi is a fishing town," Haru says.
Makoto can't help but flinch. "I-I know."
"We're right next to the ocean," Haru says. "It's how the town makes its living. We learned about it in class."
"Yeah. I know." Makoto is starting to get a little annoyed. He knows he's weird for hating the water, for only being able to swim when he's not looking at what he's swimming through.
But Haru only nods, as if he wasn't sure Makoto knew these things, and uses his free hand to point out across the ocean. "So look."
Makoto looks.
The ocean is dark and looming at night, and the cool smell of sand and sea salt is unignorable. Focusing on the water makes the roar of the waves feel louder, closer. Makoto feels familiar anxiety climb up his throat.
Unconsciously, his grip has tightened on Haru's hand. Haru squeezes back and says, "No. Look."
What he's looking at, he realizes with a blink, is night fishing.
Except it's not night fishing. There are only a handful of night fishermen in town, especially after the storm that changed Makoto's life, and they always go far out until they're small blinking lights in a landscape of black. But there are more boats gathered here than he's ever seen at night before, clustered close to the shore and covered in paper lanterns of every color and size. The lights bob up and down in the tide, dreamlike. Now that he's paying attention he can hear faint shouts and the tinny sound of music from old CD players, almost masked by the rush of water on the sandy beach.
It's beautiful. Makoto has never seen anything like it. His grip tightens again on Haru's hand, but this time out of wonder instead of fear. Haru hums, satisfied.
"What is it?" Makoto whispers.
"Praying for good luck this season," Haru says. "Honoring their ancestors. I heard about it last week."
Makoto thinks about Haru counting down the days to this night in his head, of keeping it a secret from Makoto so he could surprise him. The fear doesn't recede, but it's covered by that sense of fond warmth that's unique to Haru.
He glances at Haru then. He fits into this landscape, surrounded by saltwater and sky and ocean noise. The child of a seaside town, growing up loving the water, swimming before he could walk. His eyes are calm and peaceful, a look he only gets during rare, unguarded moments. The corners of his lips are tucked into a secret smile. His hand squeezes Makoto's not because he's scared, or unhappy, or because he thinks Makoto will get away from him, but because he's content.
Makoto's happy too, somehow. He glances back at the dancing fisherboat lights and squeezes back.
"I want to swim," Haru says.
Makoto's peacefulness evaporates. "No, Haru, you can't! It's two in the morning and the boats are too close to the shore and you'll—"
Haru tugs on his hand, but it's not the forceful demanding pull he'd use when water's the only thing on his mind. He glances up and the colored lights reflect off the soft curve of Haru's cheek, the small upward quirk of his mouth. Oh, Makoto realizes, it was a joke.
Haru guides them down to the shoreline, stopping to remove their shoes and socks. The water laps meekly against his toes. Haru's hand is warm and a little sweaty from the prolonged contact, a tactile anchor.
Makoto looks out at the water, and then the boats, and then further up at the sky. The lights from the lanterns have washed out the stars, and the sky above is a velvet black just like the ocean. If he were swimming right now, this is what he'd see above, he thinks. This endless expanse just like the water.
Makoto glances to the side and is surprised to meet Haru's gaze. His lips part, silently. Then: "You're looking at me the way you look at water," he says.
A blush lights up Haru's face and he jerks his gaze away. Makoto chuckles a little and sways sideways, brushing their shoulders together.
"Thank you," he says. It seems inadequate for the emotions sitting just behind his tongue, but something at him quails at giving the feeling a name. It's too early, he thinks. He needs more time to be sure.
Haru nods, still looking down at the water washing over his toes. Then he sneezes.
"Let's go home," Makoto says, stepping back. Their fingers stretch out but the grip holds. After a moment Haru turns, silhouetted by the multicolored lights, eyes as blue as the invisible ocean behind him will be tomorrow when they walk to school.
Haru will be sleepy and hard to rouse tomorrow. For once, Makoto won't say anything about it.
Haru nods and starts walking back up the hill with Makoto following after, the fingers of their free hands each hooked into a pair of shoes.