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between the two of them takahiro’s always been the more tangible one, with his open palms and hungry hands, reaching, reaching, reaching. and it’s funny because that’s what everyone says about oikawa, but when it’s just the two of them — walking to class or the convenience store or standing at the train station, takahiro’s fingers pulling stray leaves from oikawa’s hair — it strikes him all over again, how hard oikawa is to hold on to, let alone grasp at all.
takahiro reaches for oikawa the way cartographers first spilled ink across a page, constructing worlds from the unsaid, enchanting places into somewhere new and simultaneously familiar, named. even now, that feeling doesn’t change. they’re on the train back to miyagi for golden week, and oikawa’s not sleeping but takahiro stares anyway, searches out oikawa’s features, stumbles into them as the train moves along, a panorama of landmarks taking takahiro and oikawa back home.
“someone once told me,” oikawa murmurs, takahiro’s eyes still fixed along the ridge of oikawa’s collarbone: here, the place oikawa’s breath crests harsher when he’s tired; here, the place takahiro knows softest with his fingers, his mouth. “that if you take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
takahiro’s not looking, but he knows exactly what oikawa’s face looks like when he finishes, a little louder now, “it was you, makki. that’s what you told me.”
“well — maybe i’m not looking for something lasting.”
“oh?” when oikawa leans closer takahiro feels it before he sees it, a burst of sensation along his arm, the curve of his shoulder. even then, he knows how to recognise oikawa all the same. “what is it, then? a dream?”
“something like that.”
oikawa hums, looking past takahiro, staring out the window behind him. takahiro turns too, watches oikawa watch either the landscape or their reflections, takahiro’s not sure, but he hears it when oikawa says, “and what about me? am i in any of your dreams?”
it’s an awful one liner, a terrible pick up, but it screams out honestly like an oil spill, sinking into takahiro and everything it touches.
“depends.” and now takahiro smiles, has been smiling this whole time, in this moment can’t remember what it feels like to want to stop. “am i in any of yours?”
last night takahiro closed his eyes to the moonshot walls of his dorm, the white noise of dialtone in his ears the sound of someone’s breathing to takahiro’s sleep-blurred senses. and when he opens them again, he’s sixteen all over, standing ankle deep in the white ocean froth of waves he can’t feel lapping against his skin.
oikawa’s here, too, and takahiro can’t feel him either but that part, at least, makes sense — hands tucked behind him, oikawa walks along beside takahiro on the shoreside. “ne, ne, is the water cold? it’s cold, right? look how pretty it is, though, you can see right through it… ne, makki, are you listening?”
ah, takahiro thinks, this is a dream.
“sure,” takahiro says, and oikawa scrunches his nose: you’re lying!
“i don’t think i’ll put my toes in,” oikawa says anyway. “i hate being cold.”
“it’s just the ocean,” takahiro points out, ever reasonable, even in a dream.
“so you’re saying it’s not cold?”
“i’m saying, it’s not gonna hurt you to try. c’mon, walk with me, i believe in you.”
“that’s not fair, makki.”
and it doesn’t make sense — nothing about takahiro’s dreams ever do — but it feels like it does, and takahiro’s always thought that’s the most important part. so he coaxes and wheedles oikawa into the whisper-gentle rush of the waves without actually coaxing and wheedling, just. offering, hand outstretched as he walk backwards, water warming as it brushes past his ankles and up his leg by the time oikawa finally follows, stopping in front of makki just before the water can curl up oikawa’s knee.
“see?” takahiro says. “this isn’t so bad, is it?”
oikawa’s looking past takahiro when he answers, “there’s a wave coming up.”
so there is, takahiro thinks, craning his head to see. “huh. maybe we should get out of the water, then — oikawa?”
oikawa’s gone, but when takahiro looks down his footprints are still there, right in front of takahiro, untouched by the sea and imprinted in the sand. takahiro wakes up just before the wave can crash over his head.
in his final year of high school, takahiro once had a dream about absolutely nothing at all. he sits up in a space with no particularly defining features, neither here nor there, and knows with a certainty he definitely doesn’t understand — or, at the time, question — that oikawa is supposed to be here, somewhere, too.
but he isn’t, so takahiro turns this way and that, and when that doesn’t reveal oikawa either, he stands up and starts walking, no particular route in mind, just a singular destination to reach at the end: oikawa, oikawa, oikawa.
“don’t leave,” takahiro says into this emptiness, this space-that-isn’t. “don’t go away.”
oikawa doesn’t answer, because as far as takahiro can tell he was never here so how could he possibly leave? but takahiro keeps walking, hands reaching out to his, sides, in front of him, trying to find his way.
and then he feels it: a touch at the small of his back, and it isn’t a hand but even then takahiro had already started learning to look for oikawa in — a lot of things, a lot of places. takahiro can see oikawa even when oikawa’s not around. the pressure at his back doesn’t grow, but stays, insistently and obstinately leading takahiro forward.
he wonders if maybe that’s where oikawa is.
so that’s where takahiro walks.
hey, have you ever touched your dreams? don’t they just slip right through when you try to grab on?
or at least, so says the latest rumour going around takahiro’s junior high. he can’t bring himself to believe it’s true, though — takahiro knows when he’s awake and he knows when he’s asleep, when he’s dreaming, and he knows that when he touches something it’s real, and it’s there, and that takahiro won’t let it slip away if he can help it.
still, in times like these, dreams like these, takahiro thinks it wouldn’t be so bad not to feel any of this.
the bridge is wooden and sturdy looking but nothing could feel more rickety under takahiro’s feet, fifteen metres spanning out into a distance years away with how takahiro’s hesitating to even put his foot forward a step. even worse, he’s carrying someone piggyback across the bridge, too: tooru’s not anyone from takahiro’s junior high or volleyball club, but sometimes takahiro finds him when he dreams so that makes him takahiro’s friend.
right now, though, tooru’s scared. takahiro knows tooru’s scared because he’s been clinging onto takahiro tighter and tighter reflexively before realising takahiro might be struggling, letting go with both hands before jolting and wrapping his arms around takahiro’s neck and shoulders all over again.
“stop fidgeting,” takahiro says, but it comes out more like a question, instead: please?
“but you’ll fall,” tooru insists, holding on and letting go, holding on and letting go.
“not if you stay still. just stay right where you are,” takahiro promises. he takes a step. the bridge shivers. tooru’s leg twitches, right knee knocking into takahiro’s ribs.
“ow,” tooru says, and takahiro stares at him as tooru stares back, surprised. the bridge stills when takahiro takes another step but takahiro doesn’t notice because now it’s his legs’ turn to shake.
“see,” tooru whispers, so takahiro takes another two steps just to spite him, immediately regretting it because the bridge starts shuddering in earnest, now, and tooru ducks his head behind takahiro’s as takahiro thinks screw it, and sprints along the rest of the bridge to the other side —
— and they’re on a cliff, no way back from the edge without going back along the bridge, no way forward without falling. “i told you,” tooru says matter-of-factly. “whatever,” takahiro says. then: “but how will you get out of here?”
tooru leans forward, arms slipping around takahiro’s chest so tooru can rest his chin on takahiro’s shoulder. “i dunno,” tooru admits, “i didn’t really think that far ahead.”
“but you kept telling me i was gonna fall.”
“didn’t say i would, though,” tooru points out, annoyingly correct.
“so, what?” we just jump and hope for the best?”
tooru pauses, hums as he slowly uncurls himself from takahiro, perched on tiptoes directly behind him. he’s still got an arm around takahiro’s chest, though, hands fisted over takahiro’s heart.
“do you regret it?”
“nah,” takahiro answers, not really sure what part tooru’s talking about but meaning it all the same. “do you?”
“never,” tooru says, his fingers are starting to shake a little so takahiro rests his hands over tooru’s, blinking at the feel of it, smooth in places and callused in others. just like takahiro’s but different. tooru’s hand is something different.
“you never know,” tooru says, and takahiro feels tooru’s words against his skin when he tilts his head back to listen, “maybe we’ll fly, after all.”
one of the first dreams takahiro still remembers happened long enough ago that he’s not really sure how long ago it was, doesn’t remember much of anything in particular but the dream itself, slips and snatches of light and sound and sensation.
so this is what takahiro remembers: a field of sunflowers on a windy day, and the smell of rain. then a boy, or a dream of a boy, hands outstretched to the sky but catching petals from the wind instead, curling fragments of bright, bright light slipping through his fingers. it looks fun, so takahiro runs to join too, jumping up to catch a petal the boy missed, scooping up a handful to drop into his hair.
“hey,” takahiro says as the boy looks up to see who it is.
“hello,” he says, and then he smiles. “what are you doing here?”
“i dunno,” takahiro grins, “can i stay with you?”
“yeah,” the boy answers, “yeah, that sounds fun! what’s your name? i’m…”