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Over the hill, tucked away in a little corner of the park, stands a Hinoki tree—green like the eyes of the boy who planted its delicate seed into the murky ground with bruised, gentle hands.
Miyagi hasn’t changed much—not in the last decade.
At least, Tooru wants it to be that way. Through the foggy backseat window of his taxi cab, Miyagi passes by like a photo album full of memories, and if he looks close enough, Tooru can almost picture his own feet—much smaller than it is now—walking past the same roads that now feel like a strange land. Old shops have closed down, new ones taking their place, the sun more gentle and the winds less humid than what Argentina had to offer. With a decade’s worth of distance, the Sakura trees seem brighter and the sky more reachable—Tooru never noticed much growing up here, with his eyes set on dreams bigger than the width of his shoulders. Those dreams that once seemed out of reach now sit in his suitcase, tucked away in a little pouch, glinting gold.
Miyagi hasn’t changed much—but Tooru has.
Coming back to his hometown after all this time, it should feel odd, but it doesn’t—and on paper, this isn’t Tooru’s home anymore. He’s an Argentine, shaped by the blistering sun and cobbled roads of San Juan, an Olympian who brought them their gold home for the first time in years. He did it all over again, gained parts of himself he never knew existed, and lost the parts of him that held him back—Argentina took him in with open arms, gave him a home, and opened a door to his dreams, and Tooru will never not be grateful. But, underneath it all, the ground beneath him is the place where Tooru first fell in love with Volleyball. With grass beneath his feet and gentle words whispered with fierce concern, this is where Tooru learned everything he knew about love.
This is where he first learned what heartbreak feels like.
“This is it?” the cab driver turns around, and Tooru realizes they’ve stopped moving.
The childhood home he took his first steps in hasn’t changed much either—a fresh coat of paint at best is all that is different. Even then, Tooru feels his chest crumble, tears burning the back of his eyelids, remnants of his early days of homesickness—nostalgia is a bitch.
“Yeah, this is it,” he clears his throat, nods, and laughs when his effort to tip the driver is turned down.
Tooru boarded the plane back to Haneda with two suitcases and his heart hanging on his sleeve. Beyond the closed door, Tooru can almost picture his Ma’s blinding smile and his sister’s loud laughter—all of it just a reach away. Tooru isn't supposed to be here until tomorrow, at least according to his family—he wanted to surprise them, and didn't really want to cry at the airport when they most definitely would insist on coming to pick him up. It’s not late to run away, Tooru thinks, an absurd thought that makes him laugh. He has walked into the Olympic court with the whole world watching him and hadn’t blinked, but right here, standing in front of the same gates that he walked past for seventeen long years of his life, Tooru feels jittery and exhilarated and fucking terrified.
He breathes in, fills his lungs with the November chill, and steps past the gate.
The house is so achingly unchanged, and Tooru grips the door frame with white-knuckled grip, breath hitching in his chest. Ma is at the dining table, Himari-san, his aunt, next to her, and oh, Tooru missed her so damn much. She was there at the other end of the phone, listening to Tooru cry about how he couldn't do this—how Argentina wasn't for him—always telling him how no matter what he chose, her arms would always be open for him to walk back into.
“Tooru?”
He turns to the sound of the voice, smiling when Aiko looks back at him with wide eyes, her fingers clutching the stair railing.
“Hey, Nee-chan,” Tooru breathes out. “Missed me?”
He nearly stumbles at the force with which his older sister flings herself at him, arms tight around Tooru’s neck. He wraps his own arms around her waist, burying his face in her air—and suddenly, he’s fifteen, curled up in her lap after crying his eyes out after telling her he likes boys. Fuck, he missed her so damn much.
“You asshole!” she pinches his ear, tears clinging to her lashes. “I knew you were up to something!”
“Sorry– ow, wait—” Tooru whines, “I wanted it to be a surprise!”
“Idiot, you’re an idiot ,” Aiko whacks him over the head, but her grin is anything but infectious. “Welcome home, Toto.”
“ Nee-chan ,” he complains, flushing at the nickname his teammates so lovingly bestowed him with.
Most of the family is now huddled around the genkan, and over their heads, Tooru spots Ma’s smile, his heart rattling in his chest at the sight.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she steps closer, her hand coming up to cup Tooru’s cheek. “I had a feeling you’d be here today.”
Tooru sniffles, teary eyed and nuzzling into her touch, “There’s no way you could’ve known.”
She laughs, shaking her head, “You’re my baby, I’ll always know.”
There’s nothing he can do to hold back his tears for much longer. He pulls her into a hug, crying like he’s twelve again, and his Ma’s arms are just as comforting. Aiko throws herself into the hug, and there are hands clapping him on the shoulder and ruffling his hair and Tooru can’t breathe—he doesn't think he wants to. Over a decade’s worth of blood, sweat, and tears, and it all comes back to this one moment—the world in his back pocket and his family surrounding him.
Miyagi keeps teaching him new ways to love.
“Happy birthday, Ma,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You don’t look a day over thirty.”
“Always the charmer,” Ma laughs, pinching his cheek. “Come on, you need to eat, don’t they feed you in Argentina? You’re as thin as a stick.”
Tooru rolls his eyes—he’s hundred and seventy five pounds of muscle with a strict diet under the supervision of at least four professionals, but he’s not gonna argue with his Ma, instead he follows her into the kitchen. She feeds him like he hasn't eaten in months, and Tooru empties bowl after bowl, no amount of fancy ingredients come close to Ma’s cooking. Aiko laughs at him, calls him a fatass, and makes him drink water when he chokes—it’s almost as if nothing has changed.
He’s drying the last plate when two pairs of footsteps march into the kitchen.
“Where’s—” Takeru comes to a halting stop, eyes wide. “Uncle Tooru!”
“Come here, squirt,” Tooru laughs, holding his arms open.
Takeru has grown so much, now almost as tall as him, no trace of the lanky, snot-nosed kid he used to carry around on his back anywhere to be found. Behind him, Tooru spots a head of orange hair hovering close, the eyes familiar enough that it takes him only a minute to figure out.
“Hinata-chan, isn’t it?” he asks, grinning.
“Natsu Hinata,” she holds out her hand, her grip strong when Tooru shakes it. “I’m Takeru’s girlfriend.”
It’s hilarious to watch his eighteen year old nephew turn as red as a tomato, while Natsu-chan is unphased, the same uninhibited boldness as her brother.
“Nice to meet you, Natsu-chan,” he smiles. “I’m friends with your brother.”
Natsu laughs, shaking her head, “Everyone’s friends with Shou, you can’t help it.”
Tooru and Takeru catch up, with Natsu-chan offering tidbits of embarrassing anecdotes that has Takeru banging his head against the kitchen table, red to the tip of his ears, but his eyes are so fond when he watches her, and Tooru couldn't be happier. It’s so sappy, but Tooru feels like between one blink and another, Takeru went from lanky arms that would cling onto Tooru’s shoulders to the strong, talented boy—vice captain of Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team, Tooru learns—sitting in front of him. He’ll graduate soon, move on to achieve even better things—he’s Tooru’s nephew after all.
“I’m benched for another week, though,” Takeru rattles off, eyes glinting. “The ankle sprain wasn’t too bad, and I’ve been getting some help from—”
The silence is abrupt, and Tooru frowns.
“Why the long face, Takeru?”
“It’s just, I know you guys haven't talked in a while,” Takeru shrugs. “But whenever he visits, Iwaizumi-san helps me out with my physical training.”
Ah, there it is.
Tooru wants to say he’s surprised, or even hurt that he didn't know—but somehow, it just makes sense. That’s just who Iwaizumi is, and Takeru has always looked up to the man, and Tooru gets it. He’s endlessly amused at how Takeru’s acting like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar—as though the subject of Iwaizumi is to not be discussed around Tooru. He doesn't know who has been feeding him this nonsense, but it’s not too hard to clear up.
He reaches out, ruffling Takeru’s hair, “That’s really good, kiddo,” Tooru laughs when Takeru bats his hand away with a scowl. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Iwa-chan is one of the best in his field, so get all the free training you can mooch out of him before he starts billing you.”
Takeru’s eyes grow wide, fixed somewhere behind Tooru’s shoulder.
“The bill is coming straight to you, asshole,” calls a familiar voice, and Tooru nearly cracks his neck trying to whirl around.
It’s been four years since they last saw each other—a quick stolen moment between the blinding lights of the Olympic court—and Hajime looks even better now, somehow. The boyish smile and sharp eyes that made up the best of Tooru’s memories are still the same, but Hajime wears it better now, with broad shoulders shaped from whipping the Japan National Team into shape and biceps that are threatening to tear the hem of his sleeve at any given second. Tooru would drool if he wasn't trying to keep his own legs steady—the impending rush of too many sleepless nights spent imagining this very moment making his head reel.
“Iwa-chan,” he says, slow and measured, like his heart isn't threatening to beat right out of his chest. “What are you—”
“Like I’d miss Auntie’s big day,” Hajime rolls his eyes. “You had to come in and steal the show, didn't you? Typical.”
A decade of unspoken words and growing distance between them is mostly a product of Tooru’s own stupidity. He wants to believe it’s out of selflessness—they weren’t Oikawa-and-Iwa-chan anymore, not with years worth of diverging experiences and choices in their rearview. He didn't want to be the one to tie Hajime to himself, and it might be a little extreme, but Tooru never learned how to do things halfway. He gets attached and sometimes the occasional phone calls and texts that were left unanswered for days due to the clash in time zones were not enough for him—Tooru wanted his best friend right by his side, but he had no right to make that choice.
Hajime wouldn't let him get away with it anyway.
So, like the coward he is, Tooru cut ties entirely—put a distance so large between them that neither of the two could cross without breaking a few bones. He let the messages go unanswered and hit red on the phone calls, locked himself in the gym and tried not to picture his Iwa-chan waiting for the ball every time he set.
It’s easier to be forgotten than to forget, after all.
“I can’t help it, Iwa-chan, I’m so charming ,” Tooru drawls, the familiar mask of blinding smile falling easily into place.
“Did you get uglier?” Hajime squints at him. “Your skin looks dry.”
The banter comes easy, and Tooru stands from his seat, his legs moving on their own volition. They meet halfway, just like they always have, and Tooru wraps Hajime in his arms, heart fluttering in his chest like a caged bird. Hajime’s palm is warm on his back, and he smells like old spice and quiet winter mornings.
“Welcome back, Shittykawa,” Hajime mumbles into his shoulder, and Tooru wants to cry.
Tooru holds on for a beat longer before pulling away, “Thanks, Iwa-chan. Did you grow shorter?”
He sees the smack coming from a mile away, but doesn't move until the hand lands on the back of his head, leaving a sting so familiar on his skull. Tooru laughs, heart growing three sizes at the sight of the small smile pulling the corners of Hajime’s mouth upwards. It hurts to linger in this space, where they're something good, but nothing close to what Tooru desperately aches for.
People come in and out, and soon, Hajime is being whisked away by one of the aunties—ever the polite and charming as he follows them without complaint.
“He lives in Tokyo now,” Ma says, coming to stand next to him, both of them watching Hajime from across the room. “Says he’s got a place of his own there.”
Tooru knows, because he’s something of a masochist, and on more nights than not, he finds himself on Hajime’s socials. Hajime’s got an apartment in Akishima, he’s got a cat named Tofu—because Iwa-chan is a dork like that—and he spends most of his time at the gym. He cooks better than he did in highschool, a lot of his better dishes earning a spot on his instagram. Tooru is privy to what the rest of the world knows too, and it’s never enough, because Hajime isn't for the rest of the world.
Sadly, Hajime isn’t his either.
“Yeah? That’s good,” Tooru hums. “Does he visit here often?”
“At least twice a month, and he never goes back without seeing me,” Ma says, a fond smile on her face. “He’s a good boy.”
Tooru huffs, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, “I knew you liked him better than me.”
“Ne, Tooru, you’re always my number one,” Ma laughs. “I’m proud of the both of you, my boys did so well for themselves.”
“Stop it, Ma,” he whines, because dammit, he’s not gonna cry again.
Ma shakes her head, laughing at him like she knows something he doesn't. “You’re always the one to go after what you want, Tooru. It doesn't have to stop at volleyball.”
It’s her words that keep ringing in his ears as he steps into the backyard, leaning against the railing as he watches Hajime man the grill—the sun bright against his golden skin and his eyes greener than the trees lining the fence. He’s chatting with someone Tooru doesn't recognize, stopping to smile down at the kids that crash into his leg every once in a while. Tooru knows how love looks on himself—he has spent enough time looking at the picture of him and Hajime taped to his mirror back in Argentina, and he knows he’s got the same look on his face now.
“Oikawa!” Hajime calls from the backyard, blinking Tooru back to the present. “Come here.”
Tooru smiles, walking over like he always does when Hajime calls. It’s hard to not get sucked into his orbit—Tooru would know, it nearly killed him to rip himself away all those years ago.
“Missed me already, Iwa-chan?” he grins, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the grill. “Oh– looks good.”
“Get back, loser,” Hajime pushes him away, turning to the man next to him. “This is my— this is Oikawa.”
Tooru grins, heart squeezing in a way that does it only around Hajime. “Oikawa Tooru, two time Olympian. Iwaizumi’s favorite person on earth.”
“Wrong,” Hajime rolls his eyes. “Oikawa, this is my friend Sumida-san. He’s a fan, apparently.”
“Big fan,” Sumida-san grins, shaking his hand vigorously. “Iwaizumi here didn't even tell me he knew you until I saw you here.”
Tooru rounds on Hajime, pouting, “Iwa-chan, so mean. If I was my best friend I’d be bragging to everyone .”
A stray fear that never before plagued him sets in his chest after the words leave his mouth. Tooru, six and missing his front tooth, would shout from the rooftops to the aliens, begging them that if they were to take him, they better take Iwa-chan as well, cause— he’s my best friend. Tooru, fifteen and wide eyes the first time he sets foot into Aoba Johsai would curl his fingers into Iwa-chan’s jacket when he introduced himself to the coach, because his best friend would always be there to catch when Tooru slips.
For the first time in his life, Tooru questions his position.
They’re not kids anymore, and Hajime is caring and fun when he wants to be—people definitely want to be his friends. He wonders if one of them has replaced him—if one of them gets to hear Hajime’s excited ramblings and see his nervous habits the way Tooru did for the first half of their lives. Tooru never filled that spot with anyone else. He has teammates and coworkers and drinking buddies and admirers—but no one could break the walls the way Hajime so easily did.
“Sucks for you, cause I’m your best friend and I try not to remind myself of that,” Hajime says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world—maybe they still can read each other without words.
At some point Sumida-san takes over the grill cause Tooru kept pestering Hajime until he had his whole attention. It’s so easy to fall back into the old banter—but every unsaid word and carefully derailed train of thought doesn't go unnoticed by either of them.
“So, Tokyo, huh?” Tooru starts, then cringes—he has started first dates with better questions than that.
Hajime only laughs, “It’s good. I thought I’d hate the crowd, but city life isn't so bad. I think the trial run at Irvine helped a little.”
“You ever miss California?” Tooru asks, because he knows how well Hajime shined there—even between the mountain of coursework and long sleepless nights, Irvine looked good on him.
“California? Not really. But I miss college,” Hajime smiles, soft and rueful. “I think I just miss being twenty and able to train for hours without my back hurting or drinking all night and waking up without a headache.”
“Ne, Iwa-chan, already getting old? Do I have to worry about your back giving out?”
“Says old man knees,” Hajime rolls his eyes. “Do a sit up now, let’s see how many of your joints crack.”
“Oh? You wanna fight?” Tooru grins, full well knowing the horrendous clicks his knees and elbows do every time they twist a little out of their normal torque range.
Hajime grabs his arm before he can start doing pushups on the grass, the same expression of fond exasperation always, always reserved just for Tooru etched onto his face. Hajime drags him towards the back gate, laughing when Tooru pouts and protests—he really wanted to show off for Hajime.
“Stop wiggling, dumbass,” Hajime scoffs. “Come on, let’s take a walk.”
Hajime lets go of his arm, and Tooru, like an idiot, wishes his fingers would slide down and intertwine with his own, just like they used to when Hajime would yell at him in barely contained whispers for dragging them both out to sneak out and practice volleyball in the middle of the night—eleven and a truck full of dreams between them.
They walk down the familiar dirt road that leads to the back of the park, their shoulders brushing every other step. Tooru used to run down this same winded road, with Hajime right on his heels—until they were in middle school Hajime was the taller one between them, and he had Tooru convinced how it’d stay that way forever. Tooru’s legs grew longer not much later, but Hajime was somehow always faster than him, rarely ever out of breath. They don't need to run anymore, and it’s the subdued stillness of adulthood and long, drawn-out journeys that surrounds them now as they walk side by side, quiet in a way that doesn't warrant aimless words to fill the silence.
“You planted that one, remember?” Tooru points at the Hinoki tree standing tall in the empty park.
“Yeah, a beetle had to sacrifice its life for it,” Hajime laughs, soft and full of fondness.
The memory is fresh in Tooru’s mind. They were six, and Hajime wanted to catch a Whirligig beetle, shiny and too smart for his little net. Tooru had just heard a story about a bug crawling into a woman’s ear and laying eggs in her skull—so he was cautious, standing a respectable distance while Hajime did his thing, curious and scared, but willing to cheer Iwa-chan on. But, to his horrible luck, the beetle had jumped off the fence and right onto Tooru’s leg. He could only scream in terror, shaking his leg out and crying for Hajime to help him. In his fervor, Tooru ended up accidentally stepping on the bug.
Hajime wasn't even mad, but Tooru was inconsolable—sobbing into Hajime’s shoulder and apologizing.
They held a funeral for the beetle—Hajime’s idea—and Nee-chan helped them plant a tree over its grave. Tooru remembers Hajime’s hushed words as he gently lowered the beetle into the damp soil, burying it alongside a small seed, patting the ground with his muddy hands and assuring Tooru that it was all going to be okay.
“You know it was an accident,” Tooru whines, knocking his shoulder against Hajime’s.
It’s so easy to fall back into old patterns, but Tooru knows things are not the same anymore. He can pretend all he wants—he can convince himself that he’s still the center of Hajime’s universe. Tooru can convince himself that Hajime would abandon everything and come rushing at the first call, like they’re still fifteen and unstoppable.
But, just looking around the same long roads they once walked alongside each other, Tooru knows everything has changed.
He wonders what is different in Hajime’s new life. Tooru is scared to ask—he’s never been good with change. He almost doesn't want to know, the blissful familiarity of being unaware is too tempting to let go of. He pictures new faces that Tooru would never meet, maybe even a nice girl who laughs along to Hajime’s dry sense of humor and can put up with his affectionate bullying. Tooru would be happy, of course he would—Hajime means too much to him to hold onto his own empty desires. He pictures a little version of Hajime, a carbon copy of the same boy that Tooru grew up playing down at the creek with.
Tooru would love everything that makes Hajime smile, and he would love it with all his heart.
“You’re thinking,” Hajime says. “When did you start doing that?”
“Oi, shut up,” Tooru mutters. “I was just– so, how’s life going?”
Hajime groans, just like Tooru knew he would, “God, you suck. Just ask whatever you’re thinking, dumbass.”
“Coach wants you on the team,” Tooru breathes out, heart beating wildly in his chest.
He’s been holding this in for way too damn long. It was two months ago when the coach of Club Atlético San Juan cornered him after practice. The first bomb he dropped was that he’s retiring. Tooru had guessed that—he knew for a while, especially after their athletic trainer had retired. Tooru wants to play longer—he’s not done, he doesn't think he’ll ever be done, Hajime told that to him a long time ago, and Tooru agrees. When his coach looked him in the eye and pushed Hajime’s file into his hand, saying he’s your friend, if I’m not mistaken, Tooru didn't know what to say—he couldn't be the one to break the news to Hajime.
He knows Hajime will accuse him of pulling strings, but Tooru couldn't be brave enough to ever even dream of something like this—something that would make everything so simple. Life was never kind to him that way.
“Huh,” Hajime hums. “What did you do, Oikawa?”
“Nothing– I swear,” Tooru scrambles to convey to him. “I don't even know he had you in his mind. It’s just a thought.” Please say yes, Tooru pleads, the words never making their way out of his mouth. “You have a life here, I get it. Argentina is– it’s not Tokyo. It’s different. I know I can’t ask you to–”
“Will the offer still be open two months later?” Hajime cuts him off, pausing, forcing Tooru to stop walking as well.
Tooru’s heart stutters to a halt. “What?”
“My notice period is a month, and it’ll take another to get my visa approved,” Hajime says, like it’s all that’s there to it. “I have to settle some things with the next trainer. I can’t leave the boys without giving a rundown of their training regimens to the new team. Then again, I guess I can do that over the–”
“What?” Tooru grabs Hajime’s arm. “Hajime, what? ”
Hajime is quiet for a moment—silent in a way that Tooru is familiar with. He’s thinking of the right words to say whatever he’s thinking without making it sound like he’s being too much of a brute about it. It’s a rare occurrence, and Tooru almost smiles.
It’s seconds or maybe years before Hajime breathes out a sigh, and Tooru barely hears it over the blood rushing in his ears.
“Do you remember what I said to you at the airport?”
Tooru blinks.
Of course, he does—those words are etched into the deepest crevices of his heart, always there for him when he wanted to let it all go and run back into Hajime’s arms. A promise that kept him going when he was at his worst.
“Go do what you need to, be the best at it—and then, come back to me.”
Tooru nods, a breathy laugh spilling past lips, “What? You thought I’d ever forget?”
Hajime shrugs, “No, but I think you thought I’d forget.”
It’s nothing new—Hajime knows him more than Tooru himself does, it’s always been that way. He feels like a fool, thinking those thousands of miles or too long years spent apart could ever change that. They made a promise all those years ago, to find what they were looking for, to strive to be the best , with one hand wrapped around the string that ties them together. Tooru was the first one to let go—he thought he was setting Hajime free. But here they are, Hajime holding that red thread out to him—stubborn, selfless, perfect Hajime, willing to tie himself to Tooru and all his ridiculous shortcomings.
“It’s been a decade,” Tooru says, voice barely a whisper. “Really, Hajime?”
Hajime chuckles, like Tooru’s being stupid. “That doesn't change anything for me.”
It’s these little things that anchor Tooru down to Hajime’s orbit—they were always meant to come back to this moment.
“Me neither– I mean,” Tooru flushes, like it’s highschool all over again. “It was always going to be you.”
The soft, teasing, sound of Hajime’s laughter blankets them, and the rest of the world is just a wall of white noise. “Gross,” Hajime grins, “Who even are you? Where’s the real Oikawa?”
“Left some of him back in Argentina,” Tooru grins back, and it’s really this simple. “You’ll have to come see for yourself.”
“Did you expect me to put up a fight?” Hajime asks, one hand on the curve of Tooru’s neck. “I was only waiting a decade.”
It’s time, Tooru thinks, all the gut-wrenching goodbyes and late night calls—those sleepless nights and deafeningly quiet mornings spent in an empty gym, echoes of the volleyball and the ghosts of his past bouncing off the walls—it all comes down to this moment.
Hajime nods, like he can tell what Tooru’s thinking. “We’re still only halfway through. Another gold medal wouldn't hurt you.”
Tooru dreams of another piece of gold, wrapped around Hajime’s fingers. It’s more than just a promise—it’s love and gratitude and apologies wrapped into a single oath—one that he will vow to keep forever. He needs Hajime by his side—they have struggled long enough.
“Be on my side of the court this time, Hajime,” Tooru pleads, fingers curling in Hajime’s shirt.
Hajime grins, that boyish smile Tooru spent too long missing, “Like I’ve ever said no to you, Tooru.”
He does know who kisses who first, it doesn't matter—they always meet in the middle. Tooru doesn't think where have you been all this time? —instead, it’s the quiet tranquility of knowing there it is, there you are. Tooru can’t stop smiling into the kiss, and neither can Hajime—he can feel it pressed against his own lips. It’s a ridiculous thought, but Tooru built a home out around his dreams, always one eye out of the door—wanting and waiting. He can finally shut the door behind him, hang up the keys and turn off the porch light—everything that matters now fills the home.
They pull apart, and they’re both laughing like idiots, foreheads pressed against each other, standing there on the same dirt road that carries the footsteps they left behind.
“Cry baby,” Hajime laughs, thumb trailing against the corner of Tooru’s eyes, wiping away a stray tear.
Tooru doesn't hide—it’s all a little too surreal not to cry over, and he knows Hajime is holding it together for the both of them.
His lower lip trembles, but Tooru can’t stop smiling, “Are you always going to make fun of me?”
The excitement settles deep in his gut, curling around in a warm embrace. It feels unbearably good to have made it this far, and he wants to go farther—he’s brimming with greed, and Hajime will be there, keeping him company, finishing what Tooru starts, just like it’s always been.
Hajime smiles, and Tooru knows the answer.
“Yeah,” he says, the promise rolling off his breath like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Forever.”