Archive of Our Own

“One, two—”

Hajime ducks underwater before Tooru can finish counting, tensing at the first chilly sting of water on bare skin. He windmills his arms around to launch himself into a flip, making sure to kick his back legs out for maximum damage. When he resurfaces, he’s pleased to see a dripping wet Tooru grimacing at him, mouth pulled into a pout.

“Iwa-chan. Do you know how to count?”

See, the thing is, Iwaizumi Hajime is not a coward. So when Oikawa Tooru, bane of Iwaizumi Hajime’s existence, had very rudely flung open his bedroom door and proclaimed that he was beating Hajime 859 – 857 at holding his breath underwater, Hajime had tossed his copy of the day’s Sankei Sports on the floor and stood with a challenge in his teeth.

“You’re on,” he’d said, and from there, it’d devolved into a mad dash out the door to the neighborhood pool a few blocks away, the two of them drawing strange looks from their neighbors when they’d crashed through the gate sweaty and gasping for breath.

So right now, squinting against the sun at Tooru’s harried expression, the only thing Hajime feels is a smug sense of satisfaction. Serves him right.

“I don’t take criticism from dumbasses who can’t spell ‘soy sauce,’” he replies, bobbing up and down to send a few waves smacking into Tooru’s chin.

“You— I was five, Iwa-chan!” Tooru complains, just like Hajime knew he would. “I didn’t know anything when I was five! Neither did you!”

“I mean, your brain’s probably the same size as it was then,” Hajime reasons, dodging the splash that Tooru sends at him in retaliation.

“Mean, Iwa-chan!”

So there they are, two seventeen-year-olds wading around the pool like little kids in a too-small tub, hands pushing at shoulders and shouts mixing with sweat. It’s the summer after their second year, and Hajime is very carefully not thinking about anything outside the borders of sun-drenched skin and sky. He’s not thinking about the way Tooru had avoided his mother’s inquiries about post-grad plans two weeks ago with a cheerful “Gotta go! Takeru’s teething, or something!” and a wobbly wave. He’s not thinking about the thick sheaf of papers he’d seen in the Oikawas’ mailbox last month before Tooru had slammed it shut with a pained grin. He’s definitely not thinking about the fight. It’s summer, and the only thing on his mind is how he’s going to tackle Tooru into the water if he raises a hand to slap his back one more time.

Tooru curls said hand over the edge of the pool, taking a break from treading water to rhapsodize about some new kakigōri place he’d stumbled on during his last run. Hajime tunes him out to study the fluid sprawl of his fingers over gritty stone, the slim jut of tendons tapering off into neatly filed nails. Setter’s hands.

See, Hajime’s a little too familiar with the language of hands. Growing up, his mother’s fascination with palmistry had littered their house with dog-eared books and pen-marked diagrams, crisscrossing Hajime’s days with talk of head and heart lines. But for all her interpretations of skin, he’s never once bothered to read Tooru’s hand. He’s already far too familiar with the topography of his palm, has already trodden the peaks and valleys of old volleyball calluses and faded burns from cooking experiments gone wrong countless times. He knows that the swell of a new blister means Tooru’s gotten carried away trying to bake Hajime’s parents cookies again and that the jagged peel of scabs means he’s trying to distract himself from something. So Hajime’s never needed his mother’s bookshelf to map out the craggy terrain of Tooru’s skin. Lately, though, he’s been wondering if it’d tell him anything about the future Tooru’s refusing to speak into existence.

Tooru notices him watching and offers his hand to Hajime, wiggling his fingers and eyebrows obnoxiously.

“Iwa-chan finally wants to read my hand?”

Hajime smacks him away, scowling.

“Your life line is way too short and it means you’re going to die a miserable, tragic death,” he says immediately, barely sparing him a glance.

“You’re just jealous because you’ve got ugly gorilla hands!” Tooru yelps, offended. He cradles his hand to his chest. “And my life line goes all the way down to my wrist, thank you very much. I will live forever."

“Sure,” Hajime snorts. “Godspeed to whoever has to put up with you in a hundred years.”

“You, of course!” Tooru chirps, right on beat. “I’ll drag you with me, Iwa-chan. Who else is gonna take care of me?”

Hajime wonders if the fault lines of Tooru’s palm would tell him why Tooru’s been shutting down every time he even alludes to their post-grad plans. His best friend had always been destined for great things, sure. But privately, he wonders if they’d include him. Where would he fit in: childhood friend, ace, partner?

He thinks about the ball, arcing through the raw light of daybreak; the hands, reaching up to cradle it; the boy, sculpting himself into something untouchable.

“I’d rather die,” Hajime says instead, sinking underwater before Tooru can respond. He closes his eyes and lets the water close over his head in a cool rush of quiet. It’s far too hot for this.

Growing up, summer had always meant the easy collision of skin: the slap of Tooru’s palms on Hajime’s after a perfect spike, the thump of his neighbor’s shoulder against his during a water balloon fight, the ruffle of his father’s fingers through his hair at breakfast. Touch fell around Hajime as freely as the patter of rain on his shoulders in cicada season, and he craved the languid familiarity of it, welcoming every carefree brush of heat. He measured the slow, boundless days of summer in those increments of warmth, his own skin kissed tawny with sun.

His favorite touch, though, had probably always been the squeeze of his mother’s hand around his on the kitchen table when she read his palm. Once in a while, she’d pour them two glasses of chilled watermelon juice and pull out their chairs, settling into hers with a sigh. If she wasn’t wearing her glasses, it meant she wanted to chat. If she was, it meant she wanted a look at Hajime’s palm. Those were his favorite days.

“Hajime-chan,” she’d call, and Hajime would hop eagerly into the chair beside her, offering his left hand for inspection without prompting. She’d rest her fingers at the vulnerable curve of his wrist and hum thoughtfully, her other hand tracing the lines of his palm. She’d make up little stories for him every time — one day, the rosy arc under his thumb might symbolize future wisdom; the next, it might warn Hajime away from hard-hearted strangers. Hajime loved her stories. He knew his mother told her friends more serious ones, hushed fortunes full of worries and dreams behind closed doors, but he clung tightly to the playful ones she saved just for him. You will grow up to be a great warrior, Hajime-chan. You are destined to be too nice to old grannies. You will fly away from Japan one day, my little bird. He’d beam up at her, mouth sweet with watermelon, and she’d tweak his nose, pressing her lips to his ear as if in secret. You will grow to be a thousand feet tall.

They’d spent many a slow evening like that, wandering over the slopes of Hajime’s palm before Tooru would inevitably barge in, demanding that Hajime come to the pool with him. Hajime’s mother would ruffle his hair fondly and stand up to start dinner, and Tooru would drag Hajime out onto the sidewalk in a whirlwind of chatter, skirting the drawings they’d chalked into the pavement the day before.

“Iwa-chan, read my hand, read my hand!” he’d demand, sticking his hand in Hajime’s face. For someone so loud, he was curiously shy about asking Hajime’s mother to read his palm, too twitchy or nervous to sit still. So he’d wave his hand at Hajime, forever insatiable, until Hajime grabbed it with a groan and forced them to a stop by the pool gate. Every time, he’d make a big show of squinting at Tooru’s hand, skimming shapes into his skin and humming dramatically.

“This one means you’re doomed to catch rabies from the squirrels you keep trying to pet,” he’d say, pointing to the tiny swirl by Tooru’s pinky. “This one means you’re gonna stay ugly forever,” he’d say the next day, poking a finger into the soft center of his palm.

“Mean, Iwa-chan!” Tooru would complain, snatching his hand back to shove huffily at the gate. But an hour later, he’d abandon his water gun to thrust his hand at Hajime in silent demand. Hajime would predict a nosebleed during the next day’s sleepover, or a worldwide shortage of milk bread in twenty years, and Tooru would splash and splash in indignation. Hajime would go back to floating facedown in the water to freak Tooru out, and they’d go home after the pool lights had flickered on and lit their faces a pale, luminous blue like the aliens in the cartoons Tooru religiously taped.

Later, he and Tooru would curl around each other on the futon like two cupped hands, and the day after, he’d make fun of the way the loose thread on his pillowcase had fluttered with each one of Tooru’s tiny, huffing snores. Summer was just that: the sweet rubber-grass smell of volleyball on his arms after a day outside, the sticky drip of ice cream down his knees while Tooru scrambled for napkins, the bony curve of Tooru’s knuckles against his.

He’d wanted summer to last forever, those lazy mornings full of sunlight spilling through his curtains like the brown sugar syrup his mother made from scratch. Even if it meant he’d never grow up to be a great warrior, or too nice to grannies, or a thousand feet tall, or someone who didn’t even live in Japan anymore. If it never had to end, he’d be okay with it.

A week before Tooru crash lands in Hajime’s room with all the grace and fury of an off-course comet, afternoon finds the two walking home from practice, bags slung over their shoulders. Tooru’s humming to himself under his breath, hair curling damply over his ears from the showers they’d rushed through in the locker room. It’s hot enough that Hajime can already feel the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He’s walked this route enough times to know they’ve still got another two miles to go, but he longs for the steady thrum of his ceiling fan, cursing the sweltering heat weighing them down. Ten more minutes and they’ll pass the vending machines Tooru never lets him stop at. Another ten and they’ll pass the house where someone’s always practicing piano. It’s torture.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says suddenly, “you need to work on your back attack. You missed three of my tosses in a row today. I was thinking—”

“I know, shut up,” Hajime interrupts, grumbling. “We’ll go again tomorrow.” Knowing Tooru, he’s probably been turning over the plays in his head since they left the court. From the way his answering smirk pulls tiredly at the corners of his mouth, he’s definitely been plotting some new, monstrous attack long after normal people have gone to bed.

They continue walking in silence, Hajime glancing longingly at the vending machines’ fluorescent displays as they pass by. When Tooru speaks again, his voice comes out so artificially sweet that Hajime nearly gags on reflex.

“I forgot to tell you, I saw Kato-san at the store yesterday! He’s been studying medicine in Kyoto, can you believe it? Says he wants to graduate a year early to get into a really good grad school, too.”

Kato Takumi had been captain their first year, a steady, no-nonsense middle blocker always quick to call Tooru out for overworking himself or treat the first years to meat buns after particularly grueling practices. Hajime had always admired the quiet resolve he’d maintained even in the face of Tooru’s more frantic delusions. He’d come to see their first Spring Interhigh match last year and had cheered hysterically when Tooru had landed his first service ace.

Hajime raises his eyebrows at the unexpected subject, wary of the slightly manic look in Tooru’s eyes. “Really? Good for him. I thought he wanted to be a teacher, though?”

Tooru shrugs, kicking a loose rock off the sidewalk. “Dunno. He seemed really excited about Kyoto. Kept telling me I’ve gotta get out of Miyagi, see what else the world’s got to offer and all.” Ah, Hajime thinks. Tooru swings around to peer down at him, the glint in his eyes morphing into a disturbingly bright grin. “But why would I need to do that, when Iwa-chan’s right here?”

Hajime mashes his hand into Tooru’s face with a groan, squishing his cheeks liberally before letting go. “I’ll kill you,” he says tonelessly, ignoring Tooru’s splutters and thinking back to their first year. “I guess Kato-san always did like taking care of people. Remember that time Hanamakki got really sick and he made us bring him okayu after practice?”

Tooru stops rubbing at his cheeks to snicker, mouth curving a little more honestly. “God, yeah, and Mattsun was so worried about catching something that he wouldn’t even touch anything.”

They share a look, both picturing a fifteen-year-old Matsukawa Issei balancing gingerly in Hanamakki’s kitchen, arms crossed in an awkward approximation at nonchalance. Hajime huffs out a laugh. Not much has changed about the four of them.

Tooru smiles down at his shoes. “Y’know, Kato-san always reminded me of you, Iwa-chan. All scary faces and 'pack it up, Oikawa!', and then you’d throw a protein bar or a sports drink at my head and yell about nutrition. So parental!”

Hajime snorts. “‘Cause you’re worse than a child. You’d probably have died in the gym if Kato-san didn’t lock you out so often.”

Tooru whines in response, only proving Hajime’s point. He kicks out at another rock and tightens his grip on the strap of his bag.

“What’s so good about medicine anyway?” he says after a pause, frowning. “I mean, Kato-san loved volleyball. And now he doesn’t even play for a neighborhood team.” He pauses, throat clicking as his mouth works a few times.

“How do you just… stop?”

Hajime exhales. So this is it, then.

They’ve been dancing around this conversation for months now, secreting away their words as their third and final year creeps ever closer. Hajime’s never been one to hold back, but he’s struggled to find the language for this nightmarish thing, this muggy unknowing that’s been hanging over their heads more oppressively than the summer heat. He’s felt it stalking them to all their old haunts, claws clicking in the halls of Aoba Johsai and tail lashing around the swingset where he broke his arm, hissing threats like graduation and adulthood and the future in their ears.

Because what would it even mean to stop? What does volleyball mean to someone who’s moved on? Or worse, grown up?

The thing is, Hajime knows that people like Oikawa Tooru don’t know what it means to stop. Tooru’s been sanding down the jagged teenage edges of his hunger for years now, honing down every last bit of himself into something far more vicious. But Hajime worries for the tender-hearted boy that’s still hiding beneath all that armor, worries that one of these days, he’s going to trip and rip out every last bit of softness. So Hajime stays, one hand on Tooru’s heart and the other held up in warning. He thinks about the rhythmic wind of tape around Tooru’s ring finger.

He shrugs. “I guess you just have to find something you love more.”

Tooru laughs once, brittle. His mouth says, “Iwa-chan’s philosophical today!” But the shaky pull of his fingers at his jacket zipper says, I’ll never find something I love more than volleyball.

“Oikawa,” Hajime starts, but Tooru cuts him off before he can say anything.

“You really are just like Kato-san,” he sings, but his smile is rigid, hands curled into claws against his shorts. “Do you think you’ll study medicine too? Abandon me for Kyoto?”

Hajime looks away. He thinks about the extra English lessons he’s been taking and the sports medicine pamphlets he shoves under his pillow when he hears Tooru’s footsteps outside his door.

“Don’t act like you’ll be here forever,” he grits out. “Miyagi’s just a place.”

“And Kyoto’s just a city,” Tooru replies, voice tight.

They fall silent for the rest of the walk, Hajime glaring down at the sidewalk and Tooru yanking at his zipper.

By the time they get to his house, Hajime’s starting to sweat again from the strain of not speaking. He toes his shoes off and leads the way to the kitchen, relieved to see that his parents aren’t home. He sets a few mangoes on the cutting board, and Tooru shuffles to the fridge to pull out a carton of strawberries. They prepare the fruit in silence, the muted scrape of Hajime’s knife filtering over the hiss of running water. Hajime holds out a hand, and Tooru wordlessly hands him a spoon before retreating to the kitchen table, pulling his legs up to his chest like a little kid. He watches Hajime make the rest of the smoothie from there, chin resting on his knees. When he flinches at the sudden roar of the blender, Hajime sighs, helplessly fond. Tooru hasn’t changed, not when it comes to this. Laying claim to his kitchen like he’s always been there, the way he’s crammed every last corner of Hajime’s heart with his too-loud laugh and mismatched socks until Hajime doesn’t have room for anything else, doesn’t have room for anything but this boy he cares for so naturally that he’ll make him his favorite drink even when he’s being an ass.

Hajime blends the mix until it’s a foamy pink, pouring it into two glasses that he sets down in front of Tooru with a clink. He watches Tooru across the table, lingering over the way the sunlight brushes gold into the fine whorls of his hair and hands. The hollow ticks of a clock reverberate faintly against the sigh Tooru lets out when he takes his first sip. His tongue darts out to lick a drop off his lip, and Hajime really, really can’t do this anymore. He sets his glass down.

“Would it really be so bad? To leave space for something else?”

Tooru swallows slowly. “Iwa-chan,” he says dangerously, “I just wanted to talk about volleyball. Not this. So can I please just drink my smoothie.” It’s not a question. He makes an aborted motion to clench his hands around each other before curling them tightly around his glass instead. A single bead of condensation trickles down the side of one bloodless finger, pooling at the jut of a knuckle. Hajime thinks distantly that his mother’s going to kill him for forgetting to use the coasters again.

“But we should,” he presses. “Don’t you think?”

Tooru’s mouth twists into a snarl, and Hajime has half a second to think Ah, fuck, before the trap slams shut.

“Can you just give it a rest already?!” Tooru bursts out. “The only thing I care about right now is beating Ushijima. Winning Nationals. Nothing else matters, because some of us actually live in the real world, not some made-up future that your mommy’s gonna read off your hand, okay?”

“What the hell is your problem?! It’s almost our third year; I’m just being realistic!”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Tooru snaps. “I’m sick of you giving me shit about this all the time. This — volleyball — it’s the only thing I’ve got. So I don’t care what happens until I’ve won.”

“Give me a break,” Hajime snarls. “Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself. You could be so much better than that. You could be—”

“You don’t get it! It’s never been the same for you; you don’t know what it’s like, you don’t know—”

“I don’t know?!” Hajime explodes, all his pent-up frustration boiling over. “How fucking self-centered are you? Who’s the one that peels you off the court every week? Who’s the one that drags your sorry ass home? I’m the only one here that’s even trying!”

“I never asked you to!” Tooru yells. “I never asked you to do any of it!”

Hajime reels back.

“You selfish— Look, I know you, Shittykawa. I know exactly who you are,” he snaps, raking a hand through his hair. “And if you keep on going like this, you’re gonna end up killing yourself trying to be something you’re not and we’re all just gonna have to watch.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Tooru demands. “It doesn’t matter. It’s everything I have, and it’s still not enough to win. Every year, I have to start from scratch all over again, and it’s still not enough. What if it’s never going to be enough?!”

“Oikawa...”

“And don’t you dare act like you know better than me. Just because you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing with your life doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me.”

“Why won’t you just let me help you," Hajime says desperately. He thinks his chest might be caving in. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m just asking you to tell me; just tell me what it is and we’ll fix it.”

“I don’t need you to!”

The crack in Tooru’s voice tears right through him, and Hajime reaches for him instinctively. Tooru jerks back so violently that he nearly knocks over his glass, swearing under his breath.

“I don’t need you! I can take care of myself! So just stop. Stop trying to fix everything all the time. Stop trying to fix me, because it’s not going to happen, and it’s not going to go away just because you’ve got some sort of fucked up savior complex!”

“I’m not—”

“And you think I haven’t seen your little packets? The ones you hide under your pillow? Do you think I’m stupid? You won’t even admit that you’re the one who’s scared of moving on! What, you’re gonna spend the rest of your life playing nurse in America? Bandaging up some poor bastard who whines for you loud enough, just so you can keep running away? You’re a coward, Iwa-chan,” Tooru bites out, eyes fever-bright.

Hajime goes still.

They stare at each other across the table, chests heaving. Tooru’s got that ridiculous, stubborn look he gets when he regrets something but isn’t going to take it back, lips clamped together and face red.

“Fuck you, Oikawa,” Hajime says quietly. “Fuck you.” He pushes his chair back from the table with a screech, leaving his glass where it is, water collecting in a damp ring at its base. His body feels oddly numb as he stomps to his bedroom, like if he looks down, he’ll find himself bleeding out, but it won’t hurt. He hears the front door slam shut as he slumps against his desk, his room abruptly too small.

“Fuck,” he grinds out, slamming a fist against the wood. "Fuck!" He buries his head in his arms, breathing harshly. Why does this have to be so hard?

He feels something brush over his elbow, and when he lifts his head, he sees that he’s knocked down one of the stupid sticky-note drawings Tooru’s plastered on his wall over the years. He looks at it for a long moment — it’s a neon green eyesore: a crude cartoon of Hajime breathing fire with a mini speech bubble that reads “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!” in Tooru’s messy scrawl. Tooru had stuck it up when they’d been studying for exams last year, complaining that “Your room needs more character, Iwa-chan! I feel like I’m in a motel!”

Hajime presses a thumb to the divots where Tooru had pushed his pen down too hard. He sighs.

Because the thing is, Tooru’s not wrong.

He’s scared.

He’s scared of graduating. He’s scared of leaving Miyagi. He’s scared that when he gets to America, he’s going to hate it. Mostly, he’s scared that volleyball’s going to eat Tooru alive if he’s not there to stop it.

Because even after all these years, Tooru’s never once learned how to stop. Not even when he’s drowning eight feet under. So Hajime’s always been there, diving after him into the wreck again and again to offer him the air in his own lungs, even when Tooru hates him, even when Tooru’s never going to want him back, not the way he does.

Hajime thinks about devotion, the slow work of it, the prying loose of hinges before the trap slams shut. When to push. When to get the gauze ready.

I guess you just have to find something you love more, he’d told Tooru. I love you more, he couldn’t say, I love you so much I don’t remember who I was before you, because every moment I haven’t loved you most wasn’t me, because loving you is in everything I am; it’s in every person I’ll meet and every place I’ll go. He’s long past denying it, doesn’t even know when loving Tooru had tangled itself so tightly around him that he couldn’t separate Iwaizumi Hajime from Oikawa Tooru without tearing something vital out.

But he thinks about the shake he’d seen in Tooru’s hands, the way he’d snapped at Hajime like a cornered animal, the sour taste of fear coating every one of his words. Maybe he’s scared of losing me too, Hajime pretends. For one selfish, desperate moment, he lets himself imagine that Tooru could love him back. That Tooru could love him most too, choose him before anything else the way Hajime’s always chosen him.

He’s never had much of a self-preservation instinct, not when it comes to this boy, seventeen years old and ferocious with it, so he closes his eyes. Lets the waves wash over his head, lets this loving drag him all the way down.

“Idiot,” he says quietly.

“One hundred!”

Hajime resurfaces with a gasp, blinking his eyes open to see Tooru still underwater, outline rippling indistinctly. They’ve been at it for hours now, the sun long set, and Tooru’s just beaten him again. The night is a heavy, muffled black, pierced through by the quiet hum of distant streetlights and sleepless cicadas.

They’re not talking about the fight. They’re not talking about anything at all. They hadn’t spoken for a week until Tooru had slammed into his room like nothing had happened, forcing Hajime back into his life as if he’d ever had a choice. As if Hajime could resist the tide, as if the arms could resist the beloved.

And besides, Hajime’s not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about the silence, and he’s definitely not thinking about the way Tooru had quivered under his touch when Hajime had rubbed sunscreen into his bony shoulders, fingers slipping reverently over the knobs of his spine.

If Tooru doesn’t want to talk about it, then fine. Hajime’s fine with it! He’s fine. He’s not going to let himself ruin it. Because as much as Tooru likes to lounge around on deck chairs in the sun like an oversized cat, Hajime likes the pool best at night. It’s as if the world wanders out of place for those precious few hours, the half-globe lights in the walls illuminating everything a ghostly seafoam. When he and Tooru were little, they’d arrange their hands into shapes in front of the lights and scatter strange shadows across the bottom of the pool — a butterfly stretching here, a wolf keening there. Storytelling had been so much easier back then — all they’d needed was two hands and the play of light, not this clumsy grown-up thing called talking.

The tips of Hajime’s grown-up fingers are pruning from how long they’ve been in the water, and he shivers, rubbing them over his arms as he waits. It won’t be long now.

Right on cue, Tooru bursts out of the water with a whoop, arms raised in triumph.

“One hundred and thirty!” he declares. He’s grinning at Hajime, the angles of his face glowing wanly, teeth crystalline in the moonlight. Cool turquoise brushes over the delicate slope of his cheek, chasing the drops there to spill over the bared curve of his neck. The sun’s tinged his forehead a pale red where he’d forgotten to reapply sunscreen earlier, and God, he’s—

Hajime splashes him.

“901 – 899. You satisfied yet?”

“One more time,” Tooru insists, immediately distracted from his counterattack. “I’m gonna beat you, Iwa-chan, just you wait!”

Hajime narrows his eyes.

“Haven’t you had enough?”

Tooru beams. “Of you, Iwa-chan? Never.” He ducks before Hajime can hit him, eyes sparkling. “On three, okay? One, two—”

Hajime squeezes his eyes shut against the brightness of the water and the boy before him, taking one last, deep breath before plunging underwater, the cold of it soaking through to the crown of his head. His body rises for a moment, young, landlocked creature that he is, all blood and bone and furious air, before he forces himself into motion, pushing down until he’s settled cross-legged at the bottom of the pool. Summer narrows down to the chalky scratch of plaster beneath his thighs, everything else steeped in cloudy blue. When he opens his eyes, he can barely make out the shape of Tooru in front of him, waving his arms around like a baby bird. There’s a tiny stream of bubbles escaping his nose to the sky above.

In that blurry, underwater world, Hajime lets himself look. Lets himself look at the hazy figure of this boy he’s known his entire life, this boy he’s probably loved for even longer, somehow.

He thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they stayed there forever. No more graduations, no more futures, no more wonky smiles on Tooru’s face when he sees the KT tape on Hajime’s dresser. Just two best friends at the bottom of a pool. In the wide, wide azure of it all, maybe, just maybe, it might finally be safe. Nothing more than this: the giving of their bodies to water, the sweet soak of seventeen.

But he’s running out of air, and his eyes are starting to sting, so in a burst of hysteria he opens his mouth and screams as loudly as he can, letting all his confusion and terror mute itself in a frenzy of bubbles rushing back to the night air. He reaches out to tangle his fingers with Tooru’s, and God, how he wishes he was just a boy holding hands with another boy, not Iwaizumi Hajime, soon-to-be-high-school-graduate, but a boy, holding hands with a boy and learning what it means to come home. No company but the soft marrow of a shared life. No rattle in his chest saying it’s all coming to an end.

Stay, he thinks desperately, just stay here with me, until Tooru’s tugging at his hand, pulling him up, up, and Hajime’s colliding with the world again, all of it still so blue and unbearable. His chest aches, and horrifyingly, he wishes he could tell Tooru that he’d follow him anywhere. That he’d already seen the letters from the Argentinian team on the kitchen table when he’d stopped by to borrow flour from his mother. That they didn’t change anything. That Tooru had already plastered the walls of Hajime’s heart with his moronic E.T. posters and kitschy magnets and childhood photos, that Hajime was going to take him with him wherever he went.

So before either of them can say anything, Hajime uses his free hand to shove Tooru’s head back underwater. When he comes back up, spluttering in outrage, Hajime scrubs his knuckles through his hair, forming messy spikes in the brown locks.

“What was that for?! You’re the one who started yelling!”

Hajime grimaces. His ears are ringing; the scream muzzled by water now lurching free, ricocheting around inside his chest and prying loose all the fragile words he’s kept tucked away from Tooru. He wants to kiss the whine right out of his stupid mouth.

“You looked ugly.”

“So you were gonna just commit attempted murder?! And— and you’re the ugly one, Iwa-chan! Drown yourself, you brute, not an innocent, talented, beautiful—”

“I guess you just bring out something terrible in me,” Hajime says, but he’s not listening to Tooru’s indignant response. His eyes cling to the silvery sweep of his eyelashes instead, traveling down to the freckles already forming at the bridge of his nose before coming to a rest at the soft red dip of his mouth.

He swallows and squeezes Tooru’s hand. He remembers a younger Tooru, a Tooru that used to be too scared to duck his head underwater, even after he’d learned how to swim. A Tooru who didn’t understand why it was so much easier for other kids, who’d only ever reached out and snagged the back of Ushijima’s jersey in his dreams. A Tooru who’d never known how to surrender, not even to water.

“Come on,” he says, cutting across Tooru’s tirade. He pulls them to the edge of the pool, and Tooru goes surprisingly quiet, fingers twitching against Hajime’s.

Hajime turns to face him, and really, it’s fucking freezing, and it’s way too late to be out, and they should’ve been in bed ages ago, but he’s never really been able to refuse Tooru anything. He’d give every last piece of himself away if it meant he could keep this view of Tooru forever, exquisite and familiar in the moonlight. He wants this boy so badly he doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to live without him a doorstep away. He doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to say goodbye. He misses him, suddenly, the syrupy sweet burn of it rushing up his throat even though he’s right there in front of him, patiently waiting for whatever Hajime’s going to say next.

“I really, really hate you,” Hajime finally says, and it comes out like a plea, or a curse, and all of a sudden he’s lifting his hand to brush at Tooru’s jaw, and Tooru is tilting down to meet him so easily, mouth looking unbearably soft.

"Hey," Tooru starts, forehead wrinkling, and God, he’s really the bane of Hajime’s existence, and Hajime’s chest is hurting so, so much, and he really can’t be blamed for what he does next, can’t stop himself from leaning up to press his lips to that ridiculous mouth.

The summer they’d learned how to swim, Hajime had felt invincible.

They’d been so young that first summer, racing each other around the pool in their brand-new swimming trunks the week after Tooru’s fourth birthday. Tooru’d been overjoyed when Hajime’s mother had presented them with the matching, duck-patterned shorts until she’d ruffled his hair and announced: “It’s time you little ducklings learned how to swim!”

To no one’s surprise, Tooru had put up a fuss the entire time they’d gotten ready, nose scrunching petulantly and arms waving in protest as their mothers had rubbed lotion into their cheeks and flitted around the house in search of towels. His reasoning had gone something like: learning how to swim meant no more pool floaties; no more pool floaties meant no more floating; no more floating meant certain death! Hajime had side-eyed him and privately thought that it might be better for all of them if he actually drowned.

When it had come time to actually swim, Tooru had clung desperately to his mother, skinny limbs clamped around her waist for dear life. He’d wailed for help from his perch there, salt blending with sunscreen as he’d kicked and kicked.

“Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan, help! She’s trying to drown me, Iwa-chan, save me!”

Hajime, who’d recently mastered the art of peacefully bobbing in the shallows, had flicked water at Tooru as his shrieks had crescendoed to a fever pitch.

“Stop screaming!” he’d yelled back. “You just gotta relax!”

Tooru had buried his head in his mother’s neck and howled in response, all his indignation and terror condensed into forty pounds of tiny, thrashing boy.

Tooru's mother had put up with his stranglehold for another half hour before she’d deposited him back in the shallows, surrendering him to Hajime’s care under a watchful eye. Hajime had watched him huddle miserably on the pool stairs before he’d sighed and paddled over. Even then, he’d been weak to Tooru’s scrunched-up crying face, ugly as it was. The instinct to protect was something that had taken root long ago, a truth that had probably wound itself through his ribs the first time he’d peeked through the fence by his house and seen Tooru, tiny, squalling toddler that he was, barely a month younger than him.

“Come on, ‘Kawa.” He'd held out a hand, squinting at the pale drip of snot at the tip of Tooru’s nose. “‘M not gonna let you drown.”

Tooru had stared up at him, mouth pulled into a wobbly line. “Promise?”

Hajime had curled his hand into a fist, pinky finger left extended. “Promise.”

Tooru had locked his pinky with Hajime’s, sniffling all the while, and Hajime had twisted his hand to tug gently at Tooru’s wrist, leading him deeper into the water. “We’ll float first, okay? That way you’ll never drown, you big baby.”

Their first attempt hadn’t gone well. Tooru had panicked the second his feet had left the bottom, and he’d started flailing around, backhanding Hajime across the nose when he’d moved forward to rescue him. Hajime’s pained yelp had only intensified the pitch of Tooru’s screeches, and it had taken them another ten minutes to calm down.

"Okay," Hajime had said after, rubbing his nose gingerly. “This time, I’m gonna stick my hand under your back, ‘kay? So don’t you dare hit me again, or, or…” He’d paused, searching for a suitable threat. “I’ll bury your VHS tapes in the park and you’ll never find them again. Now watch.”

Before Tooru could squawk out a response, Hajime had taken a deep breath and kicked off the bottom of the pool, slipping back into the cool, waiting blue of it. The waves had lapped lightly at the sides of his face, rippling over his chest as he’d relaxed his body. He’d gazed up at the sky, arms spreading with the slow swell of the water, and thought, childishly, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be a duck. Not if it meant drifting like this, forever sun-warm and weightless.

When he’d righted himself, Tooru had been staring, eyes rounded over in awe. Hajime had offered him a small smile, resting his hands on his hips.

“See? It’s easy. Just breathe and don’t freak out.” He’d jerked his chin towards the other boy. “Now you try.”

Tooru had chewed at his lip, that familiar, steely determination carving itself into the crease between his brows.

“Don’t splash me,” he’d warned. “I’ll drown and then I’ll come back and haunt you and you’ll never sleep again, Iwa-chan.”

“Just do it, you butt,” Hajime had sighed, holding his hands out. “I promised, right?”

Tooru had sucked in a breath, shoulders hunching to his ears with the force of it, and mirrored Hajime’s movements to slip back into the water. Hajime had pushed forward, slipping a hand beneath Tooru’s back for support.

“Come on, ‘Kawa,” he’d murmured, and Tooru had closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, and floated.

There, suspended in the cerulean flush of boyhood and summer, Hajime had felt like the press of his palm to Tooru’s back was the only thing keeping them from spinning right off into the sky. Later, they’d fight over the fluffier towel and the last popsicle, and they’d terrorize Tooru’s kitchen until his sister shooed them out, and they’d fall asleep in front of the TV on half-unrolled futons. Tomorrow, he’d ask his mother to buy extra pastries so he could share with greedy Tooru when he came over, and they’d do the whole thing all over again.

But for now, they’d floated. He’d thought that Tooru’s skin had felt surprisingly warm, even in the cool water.

“Breathe,” Hajime had reminded him, and slowly, slowly, he’d pulled his hand back, letting Tooru go. Tooru had inhaled shallowly, hair plastering itself to his temple as he’d sunk a little deeper in the water. For a moment, he’d looked poised at the edge of flight, all curved arms and gossamer wonder.

“There you go,” Hajime had said, and Tooru had opened his eyes to catch his.

“I’m doing it, Iwa-chan!” he’d cheered, and Hajime had bumped his fist against his shoulder.

“Easy, right?”

Tooru had grinned ferociously, all dimple and missing front tooth, and Hajime had beamed back. Spinning together beneath that brilliant blue sky, he’d felt like they could do anything at all.

It’s quiet. The night is still, just the murmur of water at the edges of the pool and the tender stroke of Hajime’s thumb across Tooru’s cheekbone. He kisses Tooru carefully, like the bow of his mouth is something precious, like the press of Hajime’s palm to his back all those years ago was something promised. He pulls gently at the satiny swell of his bottom lip, and Tooru’s breath catches, face tilting as he starts to kiss Hajime back. He tastes like salt and sunscreen and the lychee jelly he always sneaks out of Hajime’s kitchen, all his boyish wonder cupped in the palm of Hajime’s rough, unworthy hand.

Hajime lets his eyes slip shut and starts to kiss him in earnest, their mouths connecting again, and again, and again, until he thinks his heart might dissolve right out of his chest, crimson swirling through the water as Tooru’s hand moves to clutch weakly at his hair.

Tooru gasps something faintly into Hajime’s mouth, and Hajime groans, and then Tooru’s pulling away, too soon, cheeks pink and something in his eyes that says run.

“Iwa-chan?”

Hajime swallows.

See, the thing is, Hajime’s still scared, too. He gets it.

But his hand is still cupping Tooru’s face, and he knows this boy, knows the needy tug of his grasp, knows the silk-skinned press of his cheek. He knows the way his eyes tip into crescents when he’s amused, knows the quirk of his mouth when he tastes something he likes, knows the clench of his fists when he’s scared and hating it, the way he’s clenching them right now.

Hajime lifts one of Tooru’s hands out of the water, gently uncurling each finger until his fist unfurls, curving in Hajime’s palm like the first bloom of sasa-yuri in June. Tooru inhales quietly, his fingers trembling so minutely that Hajime can’t tell which one of them is shaking. He traces the lines of his palm in the faint light, chest throbbing at the familiarity of it, and looks back up at Tooru. Tooru, who’s chewing his lip and watching Hajime like he might leave him there in the water with his hands upturned as if in prayer. He knows what he has to do.

“Can I?”

They watch each other, unmoving, until Tooru ducks his chin into a small nod, fingers stilling.

Hajime brushes a thumb over the calluses of Tooru’s palm, each touch achingly slow.

“Did you know,” he starts, “that if this line feathers out like this, here,” he smoothes a finger over the line at the edge of Tooru’s hand, “it means you’re a little too passionate.” He presses his thumb to the line curving down between Tooru’s thumb and index finger. “And if these lines aren’t connected, here, you worry too much.” He lifts Tooru’s hand to his face, tenderly pressing a kiss to the soft inside of his wrist, and this time, he can tell that he’s the one who’s shaking. “And if this one forks down here, like this, it means you’re traveling to far-off places.”

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, voice strangled, and Hajime cuts him off before he can say anything. He has to say this now or he doesn’t know when he’s ever going to say it. He’s tired. This entire, maddening summer, he’s been so tired of waiting, trapped somewhere between growing up and running away. And Iwaizumi Hajime is not a coward.

“I saw the letters,” he starts, focusing on the stroke of his fingers over the supple bend of Tooru’s wrist. It means you’re traveling to far-off places. “Argentina, huh?”

Tooru drops his head with a harsh noise, fingers spasming.

"Iwa-chan."

Hajime smiles. His mother had always told Tooru that he was a boy made for the sun. He’d always complained that Tooru was going to let it go to his head, but he’d never really disagreed. She was right about most things, and Tooru had always been so blindingly present, all his percussive force livid with sunshine.

“I’m so proud of you, you idiot,” he says, tipping Tooru’s chin back up so he’s looking him in the eye. “I’m so, so fucking proud of you. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Tooru grits his teeth, and Hajime can see how much it costs him to stay still, to not jerk away from Hajime’s touch.

“Because it’s so far, Iwa-chan!” Tooru explodes, face twisting. “It’s so far, and it’s so stupid, it’s so fucking stupid how perfect it is, and I just— I just wanted to beat that stupid Ushijima, and hold a medal with stupid Iwa-chan, and now I’ve got sun and sea and Spanish and I don’t know what to do with all of it! I don’t know how I’m supposed to carry all of this and look at your stupid, sad face everyday and talk about stupid graduation because I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t fucking know, okay?!”

He stares at Hajime, chest heaving.

“...I want this so much, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to leave Miyagi. I don’t know how I’m supposed to leave… this.” He jerks his chin around the pool. “You.”

And even after a lifetime of knowing him, it still baffles Hajime how easily Tooru lays bare his soft underbelly, how easily he reduces Hajime to this primal instinct of care. Because the thing is, while Tooru’s been stewing all summer, Hajime’s been trying to figure out what it would really mean to grow up. What it would mean for a visit to Miyagi to be just that: a visit, not a homecoming. For his mother’s hand on his forehead to be a luxury, for the salty sting of her agedashi tofu to fade into a distant memory. And he wants a life with this boy — he wants to trip over Tooru’s shoes in the genkan of a tiny city apartment, wants to bicker with him over plums in the produce aisle, wants to kiss the lithe slope of his knuckles until the shake drops right out of them. But Tooru’s leaving, and Hajime thinks that he is, too, and he’s not sure he knows how to build a life without this boy, this boy who’s been as much a part of his childhood as the faded purple Godzilla drawing under his desk that his mother could never quite scrub out. He doesn’t even remember a life before Oikawa Tooru, a thousand kinds of stupidity and brilliance bundled up against Hajime like an old quilt, patchwork and familiar and so, so loved. Stupid, sentimental Tooru, who’s always been soft-hearted, who still watches movies on the VCR even though they’ve got DVDs and laptops and money for movie tickets now, because “it’s more authentic this way, Iwa-chan!”

But he wants to learn. Not to unravel the knotted strings of their shared lives, but to pull at this new thread, to see how far it leads them before they come back to this, always this, the simple weight of Tooru’s hand in his. He loves this boy enough to build him a house as big as a continent, big enough for them both to live in, big enough for them both to learn how to love each other, maybe even love themselves. Hajime will leave the door open, will wait for Tooru to walk in, set his bags down, and say I’m home, no matter how long it takes, no matter how far they go.

So many years ago, his mother had looked up from his palm, and she’d told him, Hajime-chan, you and Tooru-chan are something special. Hold onto that, okay? And the thing is, Hajime wants to learn. He wants to learn how to furnish his own grown-up life with secondhand chairs and mismatched hangers and crumpled up postcards and still come back to this. To Tooru. They’d always been Oikawa-and-Iwaizumi, one hyphenated creature tumbling over itself from grade school to Aoba Johsai to wherever the hell they’re going next. Aun no kokyu. Hand in waiting hand.

“Hey,” Hajime says, stroking a thumb soothingly across Tooru’s cheek. He can’t help smiling at the expression on Tooru’s face, mouth set in an uneven scowl and eyes huge and imploring. “‘Kawa.” He takes a moment to just look at him, throat stinging at the way the soft glow of the pool brushes indigo shadows into the curve of his jaw and the slant of his mouth.

“Listen to me. It’ll be fine.” He presses his thumb over Tooru’s lips when the other boy tries to speak. “Tomorrow, you’re still going to wake up in the middle of the day like the loser you are, and you’ll bug me about practicing that new set that you’ve been working on, and you’ll eat so many popsicles that you’ll get a stomachache, and we’ll be fine, because we’re going to take it one thing at a time.”

“But you’re the one who keeps asking!” Tooru cries, eyes flashing. “All you ever want to talk about is the future, when I just wanted us to have one last, perfect summer!”

“I didn’t mean you had to choose now," Hajime says, swallowing his guilt. “I just wanted you to tell me, so we could figure it out together, the way we’ve always done.”

“And what if we’re not fine?” Tooru continues, ignoring Hajime. “What if you wake up one day and you’re sick of me? What if I wake up one day and I’m sick of volleyball? What if I go all the way to Argentina and I’m still not good enough? Who the hell are we supposed to be without this place, Iwa-chan?” His eyes say, Don’t hurt me, Hajime.

"That’s not going to happen," Hajime insists. “It’s not. You’ve always been good enough. I don’t know anyone who loves volleyball like you do. I’m not asking you to stop — I’m just asking you to take care of yourself.” He brushes a tear from one of Tooru’s eyelids, then leans in to press a light kiss to the translucent skin there. “You’ll always be you, ‘Kawa.” He swallows, pulling away. “You’ll always be you. But you’ll make it work. I know you will.”

Tooru stares back at him, bottom lip snagged defensively between his teeth.

“You don’t know that, Iwa-chan,” he says, but his voice is wavering. “You can’t promise me that. It’s not fair.”

“You idiot,” Hajime says adoringly. “I already have. I’ve put up with you this long, haven’t I?”

Tooru doesn’t speak for a long moment, the quiet thrum of a passing car filling the air. The fight’s leaking out of him; Hajime can see it in the slump of his shoulders.

“Look, Miyagi…” Hajime trails off, sighing. “Miyagi will always be where we grew up. But we’ve got so many places to see, don’t you think?”

Tooru exhales a tiny, wounded sound. In slow, airless increments, he turns his hand over, weaving his fingers through Hajime’s.

“Damn it,” Tooru whispers. He lets go of the ledge and peeks down at Hajime, water lapping at his collarbone. “I just… I don’t want to grow up just yet, Iwa-chan. I really, really don’t want to grow up. Not yet.”

Hajime lets go too, drifting forward until his nose bumps lightly against Tooru’s, until he’s breathing in all his chlorine-scented closeness.

“I know, dumbass,” he says, and Tooru lets out a shaky breath. “I know.”

Tooru winds his arms around Hajime’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder, still shaking ever so slightly. Hajime presses a kiss to the cool skin of his temple. Feels all seventeen years of himself open up for this boy.

“I didn’t mean it,” Tooru mumbles after a while, voice muffled. “What I said before. You’d make a really good trainer, Iwa-chan, I just didn’t want you to leave.”

“You’re leaving too,” Hajime points out.

“I know. But it’s different. I never thought you’d be leaving me too.”

“Idiot. I’m not.” It’s you for me, Hajime thinks. It’s you for me, more than any place that’s ever going to have me.

“My grumpy Iwa-chan,” he hears Tooru murmur, and he closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around his best friend. Thinks about coming home.

The drive to Sendai Airport isn’t long. It’s loud; the car’s crammed with five Oikawas and one Iwaizumi, loud with the shitty j-pop that Tooru refuses to turn down and the joyful screech his sister lets out when she gets the window open. Hajime’s crushed against the other window, Takeru half-sitting on him as he chatters on about the giant stag beetle he’d caught with Hajime’s net the other day. Hajime looks up and catches Tooru smiling at him in the rearview mirror, the setting sun streaming through his hair.

You’re ugly, Hajime mouths, and Tooru barks out a surprised laugh, startling his mother. I love you, Tooru mouths back, eyes warm, and even after an entire year of saying it between sheets and underwater and in school corridors, Hajime still drops his gaze, cheeks hot.

They’re finally on their way to send Tooru off to Argentina after weeks of home-cooked meals and tear-soaked pillows. Hajime had helped pack the four suitcases currently crammed in the trunk, which meant Tooru had sat on them while Hajime had sweated and struggled with their zippers.

“Your whole life’s in here,” he’d commented one afternoon, flipping through the photographs on top of one of Tooru’s heaps of junk. He’d paused on a photo of the two of them, seven years old and sunburnt all over, faces split into matching grins.

“Oh? But you’re not in there, Iwa-chan!” Tooru had managed to chirp, even though he’d been bear-hugging a suitcase to try and get it to close.

“Words can’t express how much I hate you,” Hajime had said, and Tooru had beamed up at him, eyes crinkling.

“You’re a really bad liar, you know.”

For the past year, Hajime’s remade himself into someone who’s not afraid of loving Oikawa Tooru. He’s let himself marvel at the parabolic arc of his sets and the vivid shine in his eyes when he’s under Hajime. He’s let himself trace the divots of his spine and learn the slow taste of his mouth, honey-lush on his tongue. He still wonders at the easy tangle of Tooru’s fingers in his, so right that he forgets there was ever space between them.

See, the thing is, Hajime loves Tooru, and somehow, Tooru loves him back.

So when Tooru wants to sit at the bottom of the pool and watch the lights shift in the dark, Hajime’s going to stay with him for as long as he needs, and even if Hajime has to come up for air first, Tooru will know he’s just treading water at the surface, waiting for him there like he always will be. Hajime’s going to go to the ends of the earth to find the best ways to care for Tooru, and he’s going to bring them back to him, and wherever they’ll be, they’ll make that home, and it will be all things warm and sacred and true.

That first summer, he’d taught Tooru to float gently instead of thrash, and Tooru had put all his faith in the palm of Hajime’s hand and never taken it back. So here, at the beginning and end of everything they’ve ever known, in this tiny car, air conditioning blasting his eyes dry, Hajime lets the undertow sweep him away, lets himself be just a boy, formed in the crucible of summer.

He looks up. Tooru’s still watching him, gaze fond. Hajime says it back.