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Waves crash against the moon-lit shore—the oscillating audio of water sweeping over the frozen sand and forming a calming lull in the atmosphere. A chilly breeze percolates the agape passenger-side window, like water running through a storm-drain, as the vehicle shudders over the rocky terrain. Its headlights spill upon a tawny, brick house sat in the near-distance—bordering the fringe of sandy particles combed through by the patchy blades of grass. A tall, white, stone monolith—with black metal constituting its gallery deck and ornate roof—stood erect at the edge of a distant cliff-edge, sweeping the rippled sea with a thick beam of light. Hajime watched through the windshield as the single-storey house fell into view, his shoulders unconsciously decompressing after many hours of ceaseless driving through mind-numbing rural roads.
As he stepped out of the car, knees cracking and aching from disuse, the wintry winds whipped against Hajime's face—the quiet rush of cold air reverberating in his ears and carding through his mussed hair. He glanced at the moon; an iridescent hole sat stiff in the ink-soaked canvas of the clear night sky. A few speckles of white accompanied it, splattered throughout the Apparent magnitude scale in their vast range of prestige. Gravel crunched beneath the soles of his shoes as Hajime hiked towards the boot of his car, where he then quietly lifted its door as to not wake up the dozing passenger slumped behind the row of nylon back-rests.
Once he'd transferred the majority of his belongings to the accommodation's cozily constructed lounge and switched on its heating, Hajime tugged on the back-seat's door-handle, allowing a thick, wintry breeze to waft inside and envelope the sprawled man. Oikawa's eyelids blinked open like that of a newborn kitten—slow and endearing. He sat up on his forearm, glancing around the unfamiliar view before turning his head to meet the gaze of his barely-illuminated, temporary roommate. Literally roommates.
"Morning, Iwa-chan." he yawned, carefully shifting his body until he was seated upwards.
"Idiot, it's night."
Hajime bent to pull the crutches upwards from where they'd sat horizontal on the car's floor, ignoring Oikawa's tired spiel of bemoaned rejoinders while he beckoned him to exit the vehicle—the pair of crutches still firm in his grasp.
"I don't want to walk on rocks barefoot. Carry me." he quipped. Hajime rubbed his own eye with one hand, too worn with exhaustion to counter the ostentatious demand. He leant downwards, wrapping a singular arm around the other man's hips—narrowly avoiding further injuring his abdominal injury—and lifting him out of the seat with a loud huff.
"Weak." Oikawa muttered.
It might've been true—if Oikawa weren't 6'0 and deliberately slumping all 72kg of himself onto the worn man.
"Maybe you're just heavy." Hajime grunted as he kicked the car door shut, dragging himself, the axillary crutches, and the overgrown parasite towards the warmly-lit entryway.
He'd avoided lifting him with his other arm for this exact reason. Thick stripes of red, bruised rawness formed a dreary ache within himself whenever pressure was applied to Hajime's right forearm, rows of hypertrophic tissue striping its tawny swathe. He'd glanced at himself in the mirror, mid-way through switching into his pyjamas, and held his right hand to its corresponding shoulder to eye the itching scars crossing his outer-forearm. It's been a month. It should've healed faster. It'll definitely scar. He'd drawn the wounds to resemble claw-marks. But his trembling hand had left a few small ones around the main lacerations. He doesn't own a pet. It doesn't look convincing. Someone will notice. Knock. Knock.
Hajime's eyes darted towards the wooden door, where a rapping permeated the dark walnut, lightly echoing from the thick panel.
"Can I use your toothbrush when you're done?" a drowsy voice queried.
Hajime snatched up the long-sleeve shirt, which sat folded on the small countertop, hurriedly pulling it over his head and pushing his muscled arms through the limp sleeves. Exasperation welled up inside the vessel of his sleep-deprived soul when his fisted hands only pushed the misfolded fabric of his sleeves outwards, rather than sliding through the thin cotton tunnels.
He glances at a bead of condensation dripping down an illustrated cluster of gardenias, centred on a multitude of white tiles, and thinks that he somewhat resonates with the fragile flora.
As he eventually stood in front of the mirror fully clothed, he let out a huff of breath. Hajime crept towards the door, fingers curling around the doorknob and wrist twisting to the left as he unlatched the door.
"There's another in here already." he muttered to the taller man before sliding past him.
"Iwa-chan," Hajime turned around to glance at Oikawa, "thanks."
"Yeah."
The pair laid on opposite ends of the queen-sized bed, of which Hajime had not expected to feel so...cramped when he'd first seen an image of it on the house's online listing. Their backs remained turned to eachother—or, atleast, Hajime's did.
The quiet bellows of wind and waves lapping at the shore filled the heavy silence that infiltrated the dim twilight. Muted, pale moonlight poured in through the single-hung window which sat opposite the bedroom's door—and just beside where Hajime was laid on his side. The mattress dipped and creaked behind him as the other man twisted under the covers, and he could feel where Oikawa's hands had fisted the fabric of the soft duvet taut in his palm. Oh, right; Oikawa couldn't lay on his right side.
"Goodnight." Oikawa breathed faintly.
A pregnant pause overtook the recurrent hushes of wind and waves, only a few metres perpendicular to the bedroom's window, before Hajime's equally quiet reply vibrated through the salty sea air.
"Night." Hajime mumbled, letting his heavy eyelids finally fall shut.
He awoke at 8AM the next day. The warmth of the duvet and the brunette, who lay curled behind him, made getting up an almost-impossible task.
Hajime stood in front of the circular, fogged bathroom mirror—his muscled hips encircled by the fluffy white of a bath-towel—and brushed his teeth with the gyrating bristles of his electric toothbrush. The low hum of the device filled the misty bathroom as Hajime absentmindedly gazed out of the window. The sky outside was drenched in a dusty charcoal blue, mottled by the shadowed swells of clouds that were reflected in the rippling sea. Through the walnut sash bars on the window, the wearied man was greeted with the distant view of sea foam lapping at the shore—the foam forming an intermittent lattice as it retracted into the endless mass of muted blue. The vibrating of his toothbrush momentarily halted for the 4th time, and Hajime tilted his head downwards to spit out the pale foam. He watched it coalesce with the warm tap-water and swirl down the drain, pirouetting around the silver netting, and whirled his gaze to the side when a cold rush of air wafted in from the right-side of the bathroom—where the door was.
The blearily blinking man—a mere silhouette stood at the bathroom's margin—snapped his eyelids shut, then re-opened them almost instantaneously. Hajime could feel his classmate’s gaze travel down the expanse of his own barely-swathed body, and he made every effort to inconspicuously conceal his right forearm, which would've been in his direct line of sight if it wasn't for the thicket of fog hanging heavy in the room. Though, it was beginning to thin out as more chilled air drifted through the open doorway. Hajime cleared his throat.
"Shut the door. It's cold." he grumbled, swiftly rinsing his toothbrush under the tap.
He hadn't expected the other man to take a step into the room before complying. He stared at him in mild shock, and horror, as the tangle of water vapour steadily cleared from the airspace, leaving the half-naked man looking rather questionable with one arm crossed across his chest—his right hand resting on the opposite shoulder.
"Iwa, does your shoulder hurt?"
It wouldn't be hyperbolic to say that Hajime's heart nearly leapt out of his throat when Oikawa approached him and pulled his wrist away from his shoulder.
It also wouldn't be hyperbolic to say that Oikawa looked distraught when his eyes landed on the scarred strias punctuating the tawny expanse of skin.
"I-" Hajime breathed unevenly, heart thrumming violently against his ribs, threatening to splinter the horizontal rungs into thin shards that'll impale his heart and leave him choking and sputtering on his own suffering—a steady reminder that he dragged himself into this situation. Damn his body for taking so long to heal a few lacerations, and damn himself for prioritising routine over further troubling both himself and his already-anguished best friend.
Oikawa wordlessly leaves the room, and Hajime wonders if he's done it for good.
When Hajime is half-way through pulling a pair of black sweatpants over his legs, Oikawa reappears in the doorway. He strides towards the rigid man with an air of composure that Hajime currently lacks. Oikawa allows the other man to tug the waistband over his hips before lightly circling his right wrist with long, pale fingers, setting a tub of petroleum jelly and microporous tape onto the countertop beside them. He angles the limb until it faces him, and un-lids the tub with one hand, pressing his fingertip into the occlusive gel and pulling it away with a heap of it hillocked onto the calloused appendage. Hajime watches him in silence as Oikawa smears the petroleum over his freshly-hydrated scars.
Once he'd finished his ministrations on the discoloured bruises—rubbing the remnants of petroleum into the back of Hajime's hand—Oikawa tore off a long strip of microporous tape and laid it over the lubricated flesh.
"It'll help it heal faster." he had said, tone dulcet and tender.
Hajime stared at where 2 translucent stripes of tape concealed his marred skin—punctuating the bronzed surface with snowy, paper-like rayon. His gaze slid towards the taller man, who still had his wrist encircled by his cold fingers, and something moist and heartened ached behind Hajime's eyes. He felt his shoulders decompress from where the muscles had been pulled high and taut—like a defensive animal. Hajime pulled Oikawa's fingers away from his wrist, opting to cradle the chilled palm in between his own rugged, warm ones. He must be warming Oikawa up fast, because the latter’s cheeks are dusted in a soft pink when Hajime glances up at him.
"I'll make you breakfast as a thanks," he watched Oikawa’s eyes imbue with elation, "after we go shopping. The fridge is empty." Oikawa immediately deflates, like the sun at dusk, and it pulls a small huff of laughter out of Hajime, who feels awfully warm despite standing shirtless for more than 5 minutes.
Hajime dresses himself in a black hoodie, layered on top of his aforementioned ebony sweatpants—as well as an austere pair of thick black socks. Similarly, he sees Oikawa newly dressed in a white, woollen turtleneck paired with jeans—both of which actually belong to Hajime, since Oikawa hadn't properly packed for the cold weather. The former also takes it upon himself to steal the eldest’s thickest pair of socks as compensation for the slightly short pair of jeans. Even the sweater has an odd fit, with the shoulders hanging especially loose over the man’s slim frame. Maybe they'll be forced to buy Oikawa some proper-fitting clothes and send Hajime into bankruptcy as a necessity for the other man’s premium comfort. Unfortunately, Hajime isn't that willing to see the Oikawa comfortable, and threatens him with dish-duty for the remainder of their time here if he runs Hajime's debit card dry.
The pair settle into their respective car seats as the heater blasts warm air onto their quivering figures. Hajime unlocks his phone with trembling fingers—unaware of Oikawa pretending not to watch while he thumbs the numberpad—and pulls up directions to the nearest town-centre. He secures the device into its holder and pulls his seatbelt over his middle, beckoning the other man to do the same, before pulling out of the house’s impromptu driveway (a gravelled, rectangular spread of land).
“Iwa, do you workout outside of volleyball?”
Hajime momentarily glances at the other man, who has his eyes fixed intently on his arms, “Yeah, lifting weights, usually. Didn't expect carrying you to be one of my workouts.” he muttered the latter half indiscreetly. “Why?”
“Nothing.” he grinned, shaking his head dismissively, though it faltered after a moment.
“Won't your sprain keep you from playing?” Hajime's eyes slid towards the tender edge of his foot.
Oikawa’s response came delayed, “Mm. For a while.” he said, tone and expression disconsolate despite Oikawa’s persistent efforts to feign composure.
Hajime’s gaze flickered between the other man and the red traffic light, "We'll ice your foot when we get back.” Hajime said, reaching his left hand over to squeeze his shoulder in solidarity and giving the curved joint a few roughening pats.
A bell above the glass door jingles when Oikawa pushes it open, entering the cafe with Hajime in tow—who’s hands are now occupied by multiple bags—and they both bask in the warmth that enveloped them in lieu of the bitter, January breeze that aimed to reduce them to non-verbal, stiff figurines frozen in a town-shaped snowglobe. Oikawa let out a sigh.
“Iwa-chan, you’re making me do so much labour today.” he huffed.
“Seriously, what have you even done today?” Hajime replies, peering over the mound of bags cradled in his arms to observe the cafe’s cozy interior. Dim, amber bulbs hung low from the ceiling with matching string lights strewn limply across the windows; most of the interior was wooden, with dark oak fabricating the large colonial windows, tables, chairs, and the main counter, where a display case containing baked-goods sat beside it. The wall behind the counter was brick, and adorned by multiple black chalkboards informing customers of the establishment’s menu and prices.
“Iwa-chan! Go sit down, I'll order for you. You want a black coffee, right? Of course you do!” Oikawa said, immediately bounding towards the counter, seemingly completely rejuvenated from the cafe’s toasty atmosphere. Hell, he wasn’t even shivering anymore.
Hajime grunted in response, rotating his body and stumbling towards a small table situated beside the fogged-over windows. He dragged a chair out, using his foot, before crouching and releasing the bags of clothes and groceries onto the flat surface. Oikawa could deal with those when he got back. A cooing could be heard in the near-distance—over the clacks of tree branches being thrust against the large glass panes by another guttural gust of wind—reciting an ostentatiously detailed hot chocolate order. Hajime’s certain that the other man’s order would’ve been much worse had he not been on painkillers, and thus restricted from caffeine consumption.
The exhausted man slumped into the wooden chair, shoulders pressed somewhat comfortably against the curved backrest, with his arms folded loosely over his chest. He heaved out a sigh, head falling backwards until his sight was flooded with the view of warm amber spilling over plastered alabaster. Eventually, Oikawa’s face appeared in his line of sight and a small smile resided on the other man’s plump lips while he placed their drinks onto their respective sides of the table. He wasn’t using his crutches; he’d been so eager earlier that Oikawa decided to lean them against the entryway’s adjacent wall before frolicking towards the counter to place their orders.
“Iwa, look at what I got you.” Oikawa beckoned, now seated opposite Hajime.
Hajime groaned, his limp head returning to its regular position as Hajime eyed Oikawa, then the small bowl of agedashi tofu sitting next to his steaming black coffee. He paused, glancing back up at the man before sliding his gaze back down to the portioned delicacy on the table. The corners of Hajime’s lips tugged upwards as he grabbed a pair of chopsticks out of the table’s complementary pot, lightly kicking Oikawa’s shin with his shoe as a silent act of gratitude.
“Why the hell does a coffee shop even sell agedashi tofu?” Hajime mumbles, grinning around a mouthful of the fried delicacy.
“'Dunno.” Oikawa responds, his own voice muffled by a thick morsel of milkbread, eyes coloured with comfortable elation as their legs tangle under the table.
When they’re back at the small, brick house, resting on the plush couch after devouring some more food because a handful of milkbread and agedashi tofu wasn’t enough to sate the hunger of two growing athletes, Oikawa slumps against Hajime’s broad, muscled shoulder while the latter presses an ice-pack to the other man's ankle using the concave arch of his foot.
“Iwa, you never got to make me breakfast.” Oikawa says, rubbing circles on his own inflated stomach.
“Yeah, because somebody wanted to spend the entire day checking out every clothing store in town.” Hajime sighs, resting the back of his head against the couch’s backrest.
After a short bout of silence, Oikawa speaks again, “I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”
“What? Why wouldn’t I be able to cook?” Hajime replies, slightly irked by the assumption.
“I thought gorillas only ate raw meat.”
Hajime shoves Oikawa off his shoulder, still holding the ice-pack to his foot.
Oikawa lifts his shirt over his head, revealing a lithe torso with smooth, alabaster skin wrapped around lean muscles. Hajime stands behind him, gloved hands skillfully undoing the bandages encircling the other man’s slim waist whereas his eyes remain transfixed on the skin that gets revealed from under it; it almost feels a little lewd.
God, no, it does not feel ‘lewd’. And it’s a given that Oikawa’s body would be at least somewhat remarkable as their school's resident pretty-boy and the volleyball team’s starting setter. It’s just been a while. That’s all. That’s what Hajime tells himself as he tries his best to imagine his grandmother while dabbing saline onto Oikawa’s abdominal wound. Oikawa keeps gasping in his ear, gripping his hoodie. Grandmothers.
“Goodnight, Iwa-chan.” he nuzzles his cheek further into Hajime’s warm back.
“Yeah, goodnight, 'Kawa.” he feels Oikawa’s cheeks push upwards when he smiles against the curve of his back. Hajime attempts to dismiss the arm loosely thrown over his middle and the leg woven in between his in lieu of letting his consciousness fade into warm darkness. He dreams of laying in a field with Oikawa, shaded by the low-hanging branches of weeping willows and skin stinging from the nettles he and the other man treaded through to get there.
January 3rd, 2014, a day later. 6AM. Hajime stands in front of the bathroom mirror, forearm twisted as Oikawa’s lithe setter fingers make quick work of replacing the impromptu scar patches, since Hajime had removed them to take a shower. The calloused pad of his thumb smoothens the thin, paper rayon over the slick petroleum, and they both watch as the material macerates in hydration, turning translucent.
“Iwa,” Oikawa begins, “are you alright now?” Hajime glances up at him, meeting his hesitant gaze.
“Was it that obvious?”
“Small animals don’t usually have 5 claws, I thought a caveman like you would already know that.”
“Raccoons do, actually.” Hajime says, “And you wonder how my grades are always higher than yours.” he mutters under his breath.
“Yuck, so you have rabies, then?” Oikawa recoils, dropping Hajime’s arm as his face twists in faux horror,
“Shut up, Shittykawa, I don’t.” he protests, grumbling.
“Why else would you know that raccoons have 5 claws?” he screeches, pointing an accusing forefinger between Hajime’s eyes and making his eyes cross stupidly at it.
Hajime whacks his hand away, “We literally dissected one in class!”
“Oh.” is all Oikawa says before his face twists into a grimace, “Don’t remind me of that.” he shudders, clearing his throat before continuing, “You could always, like, talk to somebody, or something.” Oikawa’s voice trails off, growing quieter.
“Have anybody in mind?” Hajime’s lips curl upwards at the other’s sheepish reaction, whose eyes dart to anything but Hajime’s.
“Well, I’ve already seen them, so you could talk to me.”
“Yeah, I probably could.”
The pair sit side-by-side on the dull sand, unsheathed toes buried beneath the frigid particles. Hajime brings his french toast up to his maw, taking a few bites while watching the blue winter dawn unfold ahead of him. The sun was imperceptible in the far distance—obscured by the gauzy morning fog as nothing more than a vague concept of warmth and daylight. Overhead, a thick cushioning of grey-blue sat squat beneath the heavens where the accumulation of water particles spread far over the sky like butter. Chilled gusts of wind blew against the duo, simultaneously tousling and combing through their dishevelled tufts of hair.
To Hajime’s left, Tooru buries his swollen ankle under the cold sand—an organic substitute for the endless array of plastic ice-packs they’d used over the past few days.
“Oi, eat your toast before it gets cold.”
“Shut up, Iwa-chan. I’m focusing.” his palms meticulously knead more of the grainy particles over the tender lump on his foot. They halt when a moist raspberry gets thrown at them, rolling off the angled knobs and landing in the hollow of sand. Tooru turns towards Hajime with his jaw agape, before he plucks the sullied fruit from beside his still-buried foot and launches it at the other man’s eye—causing him to flinch and drop his toast.
“Shittykawa!” Hajime barks, scrambling to his feet to chase Tooru, who is now hopping away in the sand.
As the latter momentarily slowed to glance back at him, Hajime wrapped his arms around his torso, hoisting him into the air. Tooru squeals as his foot leaves the ground, arms encircling Hajime’s neck. It’s warm—the hug. They’re both dressed in flimsy, long-sleeve shirts, but the shared body heat trapped in the infinitesimal gap between their pressed bodies and thrumming hearts saturates Hajime’s bloodstream in oxytocin and dopamine.
Hajime whirls the both of them in a rigid circle, feet stumbling to find a stable footing on the tentative mounds of sand beneath them and forearm aching satisfyingly as he uphoists Tooru in his arms. The latter’s breath wafts warmly into the broader man’s face, honeyed fruits climbing into Hajime’s nostrils and turning his tawny cheeks a curious pink. Their lips brushed, thin cerise caught against plump pink, as Tooru leaned closer.
Hajime’s eyes widened and met the view of fluffy, brunette waves as something soft pressed against his lips, the warmth of a palm spreading across his cheek with fingertips nestled in his unruly inky hair. His arms tightened around the other man as he, too, closed his eyes, tilting his head to slide their lips together and deepen the kiss. It feels like the tentative warmth of sunlight seeping into chilled skin on a wintry morning, the comfort of being wrapped in soft blankets during an unrelenting downpour, the unanticipated relief of reciprocated feelings. Tooru presses closer to him until Hajime’s stumbling backwards, feet scrambling for purchase on the precarious footing before the pair find themselves horizontal on the ground, Tooru pressed closely against Hajime’s firm chest while laying on top of him.
Their lips pull apart as Tooru lets out a squeak; a thin string of saliva connects them, pulling taut between their slick mouths before snapping. Their chests heave for oxygen, and Hajime’s eyes trail down to where the brunette’s parted lips are no longer their customary shell-pink—now plumped with rose and the tangible heat of unfolding emotions. His own lips are probably sporting a similar look: numbed and glossed by the spit that’d been exchanged when Tooru’s tongue decided to tackle his.
“Iwa-”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “yes.”
2 days later; January 5th; their last morning spent by the coast. Hajime wakes up to a heavy warmth strewn over his chest. The tenderness of skin-against-skin and not knowing where he ends and Tooru begins caulks the chambers of his heart with a plethora of emotions he doesn’t yet know the name of—fattening the tenderised organ. Sunlight streams in through the pane of glass beside the bed, thick crepuscular rays scattering and radiating a dream-like mirage on the opposite wall—bare and glowing with the echoes of comfortable silence.
He feels a slight stirring beside his ear, where Tooru’s head lays limply on the fluffed pillow, and is then greeted with the view of the contented man’s smile emblazoned by early sunlight. He lifts his hand to ruffle the unruly tufts of chocolate strands sprouting from the brunette’s scalp.
Hajime sees the scars striped across his own forearm, and decides he doesn’t care. Not while he has this.
“Good morning.” he says, voice gravelly from disuse.
The other man buries his face into Hajime’s neck, groaning protestfully at the stray hand, before replying, “Good morning, Iwa-chan.” and pressing his lips against the tawny skin beneath them.