Archive of Our Own

It’s dusk. Haruka takes a step just off the sidewalk, peering up to see the brilliant orange and pink sunset beyond the Tokyo skyscrapers. He studies the clouds and absorbs the sounds around him: footsteps, voices, car honks, rattling train tracks.

“Haru!”

Before Haruka can react, firm hands grab him by the waist and pull him out of the way just as someone on a moped whizzes right past where he was standing. Haruka blinks, adrenaline belatedly shooting through him, and he looks over his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” Makoto asks, concern plainly written on his face. 

Haruka swallows and nods. He is suddenly intimately aware that Makoto hasn’t released him yet, hands still on his sides, his face just over Haruka’s shoulder. 

Makoto realizes it too, quickly letting go and stepping away. “People drive like crazy here, huh?” he says, lightly, trying to bring some levity. “Still, you shouldn’t just stand on the shoulder like that. I had a friend who got hit by a bike that way and she ended up with a broken arm. Haru? Haru, are you even listening?”

Haruka is not, but he nods. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

Makoto exhales, shoulders sagging in relief. He scratches the back of his head. “Well…Should we head on?”

Haruka makes a small noise of assent, and the two of them pass the crosswalk when the pedestrian light turns on. Haruka’s eyes rise up to the sky again. In the two minutes since he last looked, the sky has changed, darkening into a vibrant magenta with orange streaks. 

Haruka thinks about Makoto’s hands on his sides. 

When Haruka first started going through puberty, he didn’t think much of it. He began a little earlier than most of the other boys his age, and all told, he didn’t have the tumultuous, hormonal ride that others promised he’d would, instead feeling mostly the same and seamlessly shifting into a more mature body. 

Of course, there were new things, but Haruka was always someone who lived in the now and went with the flow. When his new body had new needs, Haruka easily fulfilled them, viewing masturbation as a simple body function, nothing more or less, a means to an end to prevent any embarrassing accidents in public. Nearly every day like clockwork, he’d wake up half-hard in the morning and take care of it before his bath, and the system worked well for him. While other boys had embarrassing, uncontrollable moments that made them school laughingstock for weeks and months, Haruka went on unnoticed, his needs under control and managed. 

At the same time, while Haruka easily shifted into his new body, Makoto was a bit of a late bloomer. Eventually, though, he caught up after lagging for years, suddenly shooting up in height and surpassing Haruka. He was gangly and lanky for a long time, clumsily knocking his head and limbs into things, still unaccustomed to his new size and proportions. While Haruka’s voice dropped easily and painlessly, Makoto’s voice cracked and squeaked at every inopportune moment, leading him to go through a period of shyness about speaking in public.

At school, Haruka overheard the other boys talk about their changes, comparing sizes, discussing girls. Haruka heard the crude, conquesting way boys his age were supposed to talk about sex and dating and couldn’t relate with his simple, almost clinical view of his bodily functions. He didn’t put much thought into how he was different from the other boys and didn’t force himself to join in their jokes and conversations. Maybe if he’d told someone, they would’ve told him that something was wrong with him, that he was weird and unusual for his gender and his age. Haruka never looked at girls' bodies that way, or anyone’s, for that matter, and he didn’t understand what all the talking and drama was about. Thankfully, Makoto also didn’t seem to want to participate either, so he and Haruka continued on as they had, a separate unit from the other boys in school.

Changes slowed for Haruka. In the beginning of high school, Makoto’s body began to fill out, muscle finally catching up with his bones. He was still a bit of a klutz compared to Haruka, but he was less like a newborn calf wobbling around on unsteady legs and more of a young man who simply hadn’t internalized the amount of space he now took up. His voice stopped cracking and squeaking, eventually settling into a smooth, mature timbre. 

After the initial surge of Makoto’s height, Haruka was oblivious to the smaller, subtler changes; he saw Makoto every day, saw every little miniscule step in the progression, every point so gradual that it was barely distinguishable from the day before. He saw them and subconsciously noticed them, but didn’t put the pieces together until he looked at Makoto with fresh eyes as if seeing him for the first time. Makoto was taller, broader, bigger than Haruka. And he always would be, from then on.

Haruka’s routine of masturbation before his morning bath did not change in high school. He liked the order of it, the way it grounded him for the day. He didn’t have to worry about dating and sex like the other people at school did, because his needs were already managed. He could focus his time and energy on other things. 

Until he couldn’t.

It was an accident, the first time. The Iwatobi Swim Club was newly established, and the four of them—Haruka, Makoto, Nagisa, Rei—had stayed late in preparation for prefecturals. Haruka, wanting more time to swim and decompress after the official end of practice, stayed behind while the others showered and got changed, doing lazy lap after lap as the sky darkened and the night awakened to the tune of cicadas and crickets. So absorbed in feeling the water against his skin, Haruka did not notice until he came to a stop at the end of the lane that Makoto sat waiting for him on the sideline, fully dressed, hair dry. 

“Makoto,” Haruka said in surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were waiting.”

“It’s okay,” Makoto replied. Leaning back on his hands, he tilted his head. “It’s comforting to watch you, sometimes.” 

Haruka didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing, turning his head away to pull off his swim cap and goggles. He shook his hair out and looked up as Makoto came to the edge of the deck and extended a hand to him. 

“Ready, Haru-chan?” 

Haruka took his hand. “Stop calling me that.”

Pulling him up out of the water, Makoto smiled. “Oops. Forgot.”

No, you didn’t.

Makoto waited as Haruka showered and got dressed, and finally, the two of them set off home, the sun long gone and the hills and coast alight with houses glowing in the dark. They didn’t speak until they arrived at their street, saying farewells at Makoto’s door and heading to their respective houses. 

Since he’d spent so long swimming this evening, Haruka forced himself to crack down on some homework instead of relaxing in the shower or bath as he might usually do after dinner. He grew sleepy, worn out from the long day, but he pushed through to complete at least what he needed done by tomorrow before hopping into bed. 

He had planned to drift right off to sleep, but his mind wandered back to the earlier moment at the pool. It shouldn’t have meant anything for Makoto to pull him out, he’d been doing that since they were little kids, but for some reason, Haruka thought over the moment again and again, thinking about the feeling Makoto’s palm in his, how small his own hand seemed now in comparison with Makoto’s. 

Heat pooled in the pit of Haruka’s stomach. His sleepiness melted away, and in horror, Haruka realized he was hard. Not merely half-hard. He tried to deny it, ignore the reality of it, but he gave in. In all the times he’d masturbated before, he’d never fantasized about anything, strictly focusing on the sensations he felt in the moment. This time, however, he imagined a hand, bigger than his own, closing over his smaller hand and his dick at the same time, slowly and carefully helping jack him off. 

He came. For a few moments he laid there, staring up at his dark ceiling. He pushed aside his blankets and cleaned himself up, feeling dirty and tainted enough to change into fresh clothes. Something possessed him to stop at his window. He pulled back the curtain just enough to peek out. Makoto’s bedroom light was still on, warm light glowing against his shut curtains. 

Haruka shut his curtain.

Past that point, Haruka’s carefully structured ecosystem was thrown irreparably out of balance. While he was still under control enough to not have any embarrassing public incidents, the clinical, thoughtless morning masturbation wasn’t enough anymore. He kept the thoughts and feelings away most of the day with plenty to distract him, but when he got in bed for the night and he had nothing but his thoughts with him, he began imagining things, new things, things he’d be horrified to tell others about. Haruka tried to pretend the body he imagined was abstract, figureless, but the longer it went on, the more he couldn’t ignore the fact that the hands, the arms, the mouth all belonged to Makoto. 

He said nothing about it, not to anyone, and especially not to Makoto, almost feeling a sense of guilt for picturing him in that manner. It was strange, as he came to understand his relationship with Makoto was different from his other friends. He knew Makoto loved him, and he loved Makoto, but that love was not necessarily the same thing as sexual desire. Haruka was a jealous person at the best of times when it came to Makoto, but the intensity of his jealousy grew worse when he had horrible thought spirals about Makoto hooking up with someone, some nameless, faceless person. 

He had no idea if Makoto ever had done anything—Makoto never shared anything about it, nor did Haruka ever hear anything from others. Rather, Makoto merely turned down the barrage of girls who confessed to him with apologetic smiles. For all their alleged mind-reading abilities, Haruka could never figure out if Makoto was merely disinterested in sex or if he was holding his cards close. 

They graduated and moved into college in Tokyo together, but even now, in their second year, Haruka still doesn’t have his answer. He tries to picture what Makoto would say and think on the topic of sex, and there’s nothing but static, void. Makoto is as he ever was, selfless and considerate to the point of annoyance, with no words or actions to suggest he wants anyone (Haruka or otherwise) in that way. 

The two of them are aware of the romantic feelings they share for each other and have shared the occasional touches here and there like hand-holding and kisses, but all those touches have been rather innocent and chaste. Haruka cares about Makoto enough to be content as is, but he can’t help but wonder. 

When the two of them first step outside, it is balmy and sunny, with only a small wisp of a cloud in the great expanse of blue. Haruka had promised Makoto that he’d go with him to the Trick Art Museum in Odaiba a few weeks earlier, and finally their schedules both aligned to allow them the day off to go today. It’s a series of paintings and exhibits utilizing forced perspectives and optical illusions where you can pose for pictures and look like you’re about to be chomped by the jaws of a huge shark or you’re trapped in a wineglass by a huge vampire. Makoto likes it for the silly pictures (he finds the one where Haruka looks like a merman swimming amongst fish particularly amusing) and says he’ll have to come back here with Ren and Ran sometime, while Haruka likes studying the forced perspectives and illusions and tries to figure out the ‘trick’ behind every exhibit.

They eat a late lunch and spend some time on the shore of the Odaiba beach. It’s a manmade beach, not a real one, nor is it a spot for swimming, but it’s enough to sit on the sand and stare out at the bay, the Rainbow Bridge, and the skyscrapers of central Tokyo across the water. Overhead are thick, puffy white clouds, though it is still bright and sunny. But by the time they catch the train back toward Makoto’s apartment and walk the streets of his neighborhood, the sky has grown dark, gray clouds swarming to cover up the blue and the sun. It begins to rain, lightly at first, then it truly cuts loose, torrential sheets of rain pounding the sidewalk and overflowing the gutters. 

Makoto squeaks and ducks under the awning of a shop front, t-shirt already soaked through and hair plastered to his head. “The weather said nothing about rain today,” he grouses, folding his arms over his chest. “You wouldn’t happen to have an umbrella on you, would you?”

Haruka could laugh. He’s notoriously bad at keeping track of an umbrella, perfectly content to get caught in the rain. “You’re the one who always has one.”

Makoto groans and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “The one time I don’t bring my backpack…I guess we’ll just have to make a break for the nearest convenience store to pick one up.” 

“Who cares? We’re already wet.” 

“I don’t want either of us to get sick.” Makoto checks his phone. “Come on, there’s a Family Mart around the corner.” 

They dash through the downpour, splashing through puddles, passing equally hurried other people. Shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as the faint music plays overhead, they check the bin for umbrellas and find they’re all cleaned out, so they have to brave the storm once more and try the Lawson one street over. The Lawson still has one umbrella left, so Makoto buys it and he and Haruka share it as they walk the rest of the stretch back to Makoto’s. 

Haruka glances up at the gray umbrella. His shoulder nudges up against Makoto’s as the both crane to fit under it at the same time. Cold droplets fall from the umbrella onto his other shoulder.

“This is pointless,” Haruka says. “We’re both already wet. And we don’t fit.” 

“It’s better than nothing.” 

Haruka steals a glance up at him. Makoto’s neck is craned more heavily than Haruka’s to fit. His opposite shoulder is completely exposed to the rain. 

Haruka steps out from underneath the umbrella. 

Makoto blinks. “Haru?” 

“It’s fine,” Haruka says, squinting through the gale and blinking away raindrops trickling down his face. “We’re almost at your place.” 

He marches onward down the street before Makoto can have a chance to protest, knowing Makoto will be following hot on his heels. Sure enough, he reaches the front of Makoto’s building and steps into the safety of the awning just a few steps before Makoto, who grumbles something Haruka doesn’t make out. He closes up the umbrella once he’s out of the rain’s reach, shaking it out. 

They head up the stairs, dripping water everywhere with squelching sneakers, until they finally reach Makoto’s apartment. 

Makoto unlocks the door and hangs up the closed up umbrella to dry off in the entranceway. They both leave their soaked shoes there and head into the apartment, tracking water droplets along the floor. 

“You can borrow some of my clothes and get changed first,” Makoto says, flicking on the kitchen light against the gloom of the gray sky outside. 

Nodding, Haruka makes his way to Makoto’s room, well-acquainted with picking out clothes from Makoto’s closet. He spends a minute picking out a t-shirt and sweatpants while there are distant clatters from Makoto in the kitchen. 

Haruka squeezes into Makoto’s cramped bathroom and turns on the light. He peels away his waterlogged shirt and jeans and hangs them up to dry in Makoto’s shower, then towels his damp skin dry with one of Makoto’s fluffy striped towels. After slipping into Makoto’s shirt and sweatpants, Haruka drapes the towel around his neck to catch any errant droplets from his still-damp hair. His eyes land on himself in the mirror. As he’s built a bit more muscle since high school, the shirt isn’t as baggy as it used to be on him, but it’s still too large considering the gap between his and Makoto’s heights. 

With the cloth so close, Haruka is flooded with the smell of detergent, a familiar, nostalgic one, the same one Makoto's mom used for years, the one that always reminds Haruka of Makoto. Haruka doesn’t know whether Makoto intentionally buys the same detergent or if he even knows it’s the same, but Haruka is weirdly glad. 

A strange feeling roots in the pit of his stomach. 

Swallowing and turning away from the mirror, Haruka heads out of the bathroom. He comes to find that Makoto has already wiped up the trail of water droplets they tracked on the floor and has set out two freshly made cups of tea on his short coffee table. 

“Your turn,” Haruka says to Makoto, who is reaching up to close one of the kitchen cupboards. 

Makoto turns around and smiles. “Thanks.”

He brushes past Haruka and heads to his room. Haruka kneels down at the coffee table. With Haruka’s help, Makoto has gotten marginally better at cooking since moving to Tokyo, so at the very least he can manage boiling water without burning the apartment down. Haruka automatically knows which mug is his: he’s never said to Makoto, but still Makoto intuited that out of his eclectic, mismatched mug collection, Haruka likes the mug with the green frog best, so he always sets it out for Haruka when he comes over. 

Haruka slides the frog mug over to himself, experimentally taking the string and bobbing the tea bag in the water. It’s too hot to drink and it hasn’t steeped properly yet, so Haruka sets it back down. 

Makoto’s bedroom door opens. Makoto, still in his wet clothes but carrying dry ones, quickly crosses the hall for the bathroom. The door shuts after him. 

Haruka glances at the window. The rain is still pouring, big droplets thunking against the glass. He turns back to the mug and blows at it in a vain attempt to cool it off. Hot steam tickles his face. 

He abandons the tea again when he feels a cold drop of water trickle from his hair down his neck. He presses the towel against his neck to mop up the droplet and then drapes it over his head to pat his hair dry. The familiar detergent smell, same as the t-shirt, fills his nose, and his stomach twists again, more tightly this time. 

Haruka pulls the towel from his head and sets it aside. But the tension in his stomach does not fade, instead worsening and churning. Then lower, a burning heat.

No, Haruka thinks, desperately, the muscles of his inner thighs tensing. Please not right now. 

His body ignores his command, his dick pressing up insistently against the fabric of the borrowed sweatpants. Pulse racing, Haruka draws in slow but shaky breaths, shutting his eyes and trying to focus on something, anything that will make the problem go away. He reminds himself that Makoto is only fifteen feet away and could pop out of the bathroom door at any moment. This reminder has the opposite intended effect, dick nearly fully hard at the thought. 

Haruka is running through possible escape routes when the bathroom door snaps open. He quickly scoots in close to the coffee table to hide his lower half, praying Makoto will sit opposite him and his issue will go undetected, which would buy him time at least until he can make an escape. He feels gross about the prospect of eventually sneaking off somehow to jerk off in Makoto’s bathroom, but he doesn’t see what other choice he’s got at this point. 

Haruka can barely make himself look as Makoto approaches and comes to an oblivious cross-legged seat (mercifully) across the table from him. 

Leaning an elbow into the table, Makoto picks up his mug and takes a sip. He winces, shaking his head and setting the mug back down. “Still too hot,” he says in explanation. 

Haruka tries to think past his traitorously thundering heartbeat and seem normal. “You’re always too impatient.” 

“Haru,” Makoto complains with a pout, resting his chin in his hand. “Not true.”

“Is too.” 

Makoto doesn’t continue the debate, instead blowing on the tea. A thin trail of steam swirls upwards. His eyes flick up to Haruka. A subtle shift in his expression. “Haru, are you okay?” 

Haruka’s stomach drops. He keeps utterly still, not wanting to draw attention to the rest of him. “Yes. Why?”

“Your face is all red. You look like you have a fever or something.” 

Betrayed by his own skin. “I’m fine. I swear.” 

Makoto’s brow furrows. “If you’re feeling sick, you don’t need to pretend.” He scoots around to the side of the coffee table, hand outstretched. “Here, let me feel your temperature.” 

Haruka recoils. “No!”

Makoto freezes at the force of the outburst, eyes wide with shock. 

“No, I mean—” Haruka stammers, feeling like he’s digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole. “I’m fine. I don’t have a fever, so I don’t need you to take my temperature—”

“Haru, you’re acting really weird,” Makoto says. “It’s not that big a deal. You don’t need to feel embarrassed over getting sick from the rain, I promise.” 

Haruka shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I—”

Makoto sighs somewhat exasperatedly and scoots over again, now on the same side of the table as Haruka. “You don’t need to be so childish about it, it’s just—”

His eyes fall to Haruka’s lap. 

Haruka instantly looks away. A piercing, heavy silence between them. Face burning, Haruka stares at the folded up corner of Makoto’s rug, both desperately curious to see Makoto’s expression right now yet absolutely terrified. 

Finally, after an agonizing few moments that feel like lifetimes, Makoto breaks the silence. “It’s okay, Haru,” he says, gently. “It happens.” 

Not to me, Haruka wants to argue, but he does not move, eyes drilling into the floor. 

A few more tense moments, punctuated by rain, until Makoto speaks again. “Haru—” 

“Sorry,” Haruka blurts, planting his hands on the coffee table and pushing himself up to stand. “I’ll go—”

Makoto grabs his wrist. Finally, Haruka forces himself to look at Makoto. Makoto looks up at him with a firm, serious expression, one that Haruka isn’t quite sure what to make of. Makoto’s grip on Haruka’s wrist softens, but he doesn’t let go. There’s a noticeable pink flush crawling up his neck and ears.

Makoto says, “I can…take care of it for you. If you want.” 

Buzzing filling his head, Haruka stands in bewildered and dumbfounded silence, unsure whether he heard Makoto properly or not. But Makoto simply holds his gaze and waits for an answer. 

A thousand different responses run through Haruka’s head, but impulse wins out and he hears his voice say, “Okay.” 

He sits back down on the floor beside Makoto. There’s a flutter of nerves in Haruka’s stomach as Makoto scoots in closer. They’re shoulder-to-shoulder. Makoto hesitates, his eyes on Haruka’s dick. Then, carefully, he reaches over and gropes Haruka over the fabric of the sweatpants. 

Haruka bucks up his hips and lets out a sharp exhale at the touch. Makoto moves his hand back and forth over the sweatpants, getting Haruka’s cock fully hard in an embarrassingly short amount of time. Makoto does it slowly, leisurely, as if he has all the time in the world.

Haruka lets out a strangled little noise. “More,” he begs. “Please.” 

Makoto hums in understanding. “Seems like you’re the impatient one.” He slips his hand under the waistband of the sweatpants and Haruka’s boxer briefs to push the fabric down and expose Haruka’s dick. He grabs it.

Squirming at the heat of Makoto’s hand on his bare skin, Haruka arches his back. Makoto begins to jack him off properly, though the pace is still slow and torturous.

“Surprised you’re not wearing a swimsuit,” Makoto notes. “Very unlike you.”

“Shut up,” Haruka grumbles. “Faster.” 

Makoto obliges, quickening the pace, and Haruka weakly leans into Makoto’s shoulder for support, barely able to hold himself up. He’s delirious with the bizarreness and the suddenness of the situation, of the fact that Makoto’s hand is on his cock, that Makoto is stroking him off. High-pitched, breathy gasps fall from Haruka’s mouth, for which he’d feel embarrassed about if he had the mental capacity to think about anything other than the sensation of Makoto’s skin on his. 

“So noisy, Haru-chan,” Makoto muses, as mildly and amiably as if he were talking about something mundane like the weather, but there’s an edge to his voice, one that usually only comes out when he’s in a competitive mood like when he’s playing a video game: a calculatedness, a sharpness. 

Haruka’s cheeks flame. “Shut…Shut up.” 

Makoto chuckles.  

Haruka loses track of space. Waves of pleasure rush over him, growing in intensity. He writhes, banging his knee on the sharp edge of the coffee table, but he can’t be bothered to care, barely even registering the pain. 

Haruka chokes out, “Makoto—I’m close—”

“So soon? But I’ve barely even started.” Makoto’s hand slows to an excruciatingly taunting pace. “I think you can hold out a little longer, Haru.” 

Haruka whines in frustration and grabs a fistful of Makoto’s shirt. Evil, he thinks at Makoto, rather than says, aware even through his daze that Makoto is clearly enjoying tormenting him. Makoto presses a kiss to Haruka’s temple almost as a peace offering, which means little as he continues the lazier pace of his strokes. 

The slower pace only prolongs the inevitable, and within a few minutes, Haruka is right back where he was, keening under Makoto’s hand. Makoto is silent now, grip tight and hot, now at a quick pace that has Haruka feeling insane. 

The boiling point arrives. 

In warning, Haruka says, “Makoto, I’m—”

He comes, shuddering with each wave that hits him, gasping. Hot cum spills out of his cock onto the sweatpants. Panting, he leans his head into Makoto’s shoulder, feeling light and boneless. 

Without missing a beat, Makoto picks up the forgotten towel from the floor and cleans up the cum as best he can, though dark wet splotches remain on the gray fabric of the sweatpants. They sit in silence for a minute once Makoto sets aside the towel, Haruka regaining his breath and coming down from his high, Makoto draping a supportive arm around Haruka’s back. 

When Haruka has pieced himself back together enough, he lifts his head from Makoto’s shoulder and sits up straight. He’s still reeling from the fact that Makoto just gave him a handjob, and he knows the two of them have things they need to say to each other at some point, but in this moment, a new fact rises to the foreground: Makoto is hard. 

With a thrum of excitement that he is not alone, Haruka pointedly lowers his eyes to Makoto’s dick tenting the cloth shorts he’s wearing, then raises his eyes to Makoto’s face. 

“You want me.” It’s more statement than question. 

Makoto swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes.”

Haruka extends his hand and pauses, not making contact with Makoto’s cock. “Can I…?” 

Makoto nods, sharply. 

Feeling like getting a little bit of payback now that he’s in control, Haruka does not take Makoto in his hand yet, instead running a teasing finger along the length of Makoto’s shaft over the fabric of the shorts. 

Makoto lets out a hitched breath. His hips twitch. “Haruka…” 

A thrill running through him at the sound of his full name, Haruka rewards Makoto and reaches into his pants to grasp his cock fully. He begins pumping him, lewd sounds of skin on skin filling the air. 

“You’re so big,” Haruka says. “You barely fit in my hand.”

Makoto’s eyes flutter shut. 

Haruka quickens the pace, and to his surprise, Makoto is rather quiet, making little more than short, stuttering breaths. But Haruka reads him all too well and senses that Makoto’s holding himself back somehow, controlling himself. There’s tension in his jaw, his shoulders.

Haruka leans in closer. He brushes back Makoto’s hair with his free hand and lets the hand rest at the nape of Makoto’s neck. “Relax,” he murmurs in Makoto’s ear. “It’s just me.”

A little ruefully, Makoto smiles. But with some encouragement as Haruka peppers his jaw and neck with kisses, Makoto gradually loosens up, moaning softly when Haruka lightly sucks on the skin of his neck. 

“Haru,” Makoto says, urgently, “I’ve thought a lot about…you.”

“Hm.” Haruka lifts his head and coolly regards Makoto. “What about me?” 

Makoto’s eyes are squeezed shut. The words spill out of him, regardless. “Your…body. What you’d look like, what you’d sound like…How it would feel to…touch you…be touched by you…” 

“Hm,” Haruka says again. He pumps Makoto’s cock faster. “Like this?” 

Makoto gasps and his eyebrows knit together in answer. 

Having lost some of his original hesitation, Makoto is quite vocal now, and Haruka can feel himself hardening again at every noise Makoto makes. 

“You’re so close,” Haruka says into Makoto’s neck, his lips grazing hot, flushed skin. “Just a little bit more.” 

“Haru—”

Makoto comes with loud moans, tossing his head back. Spurts of cum fall onto his shorts and Haruka’s hand. Haruka releases him and pulls his hand back. 

Chest rising and falling with labored breaths, Makoto looks at the cum on Haruka’s hand. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Don’t apologize.” After a moment of deliberation, Haruka licks the cum from his fingers, covertly glancing up to see Makoto’s reaction. Makoto doesn’t say anything, but his eyes trail Haruka’s every movement. 

Once his hand is clean, Haruka mops up the rest with the already dirtied towel.

“Guess we’ll both have to change clothes again,” Makoto jokes.

“Yeah.”

A silence falls over them. Rain continues outside, but it appears to have lightened, no longer loudly battering the window. 

“Oh, the tea,” Makoto says suddenly, scooting forward and reaching over the table to pick up his mug. He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose. “Kinda cold. Oops.” 

He takes another sip for good measure then places the mug aside. He side-eyes Haruka. “So…” 

Haruka hears the unspoken question. He says, “You never said anything.” 

“You never said anything either.” Makoto scratches the back of his neck. “I assumed you weren’t interested in, uh, that kind of thing. Which would’ve been fine! But I’m glad to know.” 

“I thought you weren’t interested either.” 

“There’s a lesson in here for both of us to not assume too much without asking first.” Makoto smiles, wryly, but the smile slowly fades into something more serious and genuine. Makoto’s voice comes out quiet, hushed. “It’s always been you, Haru.”

Silence again. Plunk, plunk, plunk, of the rain. 

Haruka leans into Makoto, hand cradling his cheek. Makoto blinks, looking a little taken aback. 

“We can make up for lost time,” Haruka says in a low voice. 

Makoto breathes, “Yeah.” 

Haruka kisses him, and it’s not like the simple, innocent kisses they’ve shared before: it’s feverish and frenzied, hands grabbing at shirts and hair, limbs entangled. 

Makoto jerks back. “Wait, what time is it?” he asks, craning his neck to squint at the digits on the microwave. “I can’t read that from here without my glasses.” 

“It’s 5:49.”

Makoto yelps. “Oh, no! We’re supposed to meet Asahi for dinner in ten minutes!” 

“Cancel it.” 

“But Haru, I feel bad bailing on him so late.” 

“We see him all the time. He’ll be fine on his own for one night. Cancel it.”

In persuasion, Haruka presses an open-mouthed kiss on Makoto’s lips, and Makoto instantly melts into the kiss, seemingly forgetting all about Asahi within seconds. They make out for a few moments, until Makoto pulls back again with a reluctant groan. 

“Haru,” he says, voice thick with want. “Okay, okay. Fine. But let me go text Asahi and let him know we’re not coming.” 

Makoto gets up to fetch his phone, then sits back down beside Haruka and drafts a text to Asahi. Haruka kisses the side of Makoto’s neck while he types. 

Makoto sighs, sounding more amused than annoyed. “You’re making me misspell things.” 

“Then hurry up.” 

Finally, Makoto finishes typing and places his phone on the coffee table. “Okay. Done.” Before Haruka can do anything, Makoto pins him flat to the floor, grinning at the surprise on Haruka’s face. He leans down to kiss Haruka and laces their fingers together.

Right there on the floor, they kiss more slowly and exploratorially than before with no deadline hanging over their heads, wanting to fully experience each other. Makoto’s phone buzzes on the table, presumably Asahi texting back to complain that he got on the train for nothing thanks to them, but Makoto ignores it.

The heat is beginning to intensify again when Haruka’s stomach growls loudly with hunger. 

Makoto breaks the kiss to laugh. “Yeah, I guess it is about that time. Lunch was a while ago now.” 

“I’m fine,” Haruka insists. “I don’t need to stop.” 

“It’s okay, let’s take a break for food.” Playfully, Makoto adds, “I want to make sure you have the energy to keep up, you know.” 

Haruka blushes, and Makoto laughs again, sitting up and offering out a hand to Haruka. Haruka takes it. 

Neither wanting to bear the brunt of the rain outside again, the two of them take to the kitchen and try to figure out what to do with Makoto’s paltry inventory of ingredients. Haruka doesn’t even need to say a word of disapproval to have Makoto whinging, “I swear I’m cooking more, Haru, I just haven’t been to the grocery this week.” No mackerel, but Haruka makes do with some cans of tuna and figures out an arrangement of vegetables, meat, and rice that isn’t too bad, given the circumstances. It’s not something on his meal plan for swimming, but Haruka figures he’ll survive one meal off the plan. 

As they cook (or rather, Haruka cooks and directs Makoto in menial tasks requiring little skill), there’s a strange atmosphere hanging over them, now that the shoe between them has dropped and they both know the full contents of the other’s thoughts. There are small glances, fleeting exchanges imbued with meaning and tension, all in anticipation of what comes after the meal. They eat sitting opposite each other at the coffee table, and Haruka is struck with a strange sense of deja vu sitting in the same spot as before, now that everything has changed. The frog mug still sits there, long cold and forgotten, tea bag string hanging over the side. The two of them talk some over dinner, but the topics they broach are light and easy. Makoto checks his phone and reads out Asahi’s annoyed texts in response to the cancellation to Haruka. 

Eventually, they both finish the food, and they wash the dishes in poignant silence. Haruka can barely stand being so close to Makoto, their hands brushing as they exchange bowls and chopsticks and sponges. 

Makoto turns off the sink with a squeak of the faucet and dries his hands on the plaid dish towel hanging off the stove. “I’m going to use the bathroom,” he says, tilting his head. “Back in a sec.” 

“Okay.” Haruka leans against the counter and watches Makoto disappear down the hallway. Once Makoto is out of sight, Haruka’s thoughts begin to run fast, nerves twisting his stomach again. He pads out of the kitchen, unsure whether he should do anything in preparation for Makoto’s return. He ends up sitting at the coffee table again anyways, mindlessly stirring the tea bag in the oversteeped tea.

The bathroom door opens and Makoto comes out. Hand still on the tea bag string, Haruka looks up. Makoto ambles in, hand clasped to the back of his neck, his eyes searching the room. 

“Didn’t realize it had gotten so dark in here,” he says, leaning down to flick on a lamp. 

A soft orange glow fills the room. Haruka lets go of the tea bag and lets his hand rest on the coffee table. Makoto leans a shoulder into the wall. He meets Haruka’s eyes. 

They hold each other’s gazes for several prolonged moments. Haruka stands and walks over to Makoto, who instantly stands up straight from the wall. He broaches Makoto’s space and comes to a stop far enough away that they aren’t immediately touching, yet close enough for Makoto to reach out and stroke the side of Haruka’s face with the back of his hand. Makoto kisses him. 

They ease back into it; the kiss starts off slow and gentle, then grows more intense and needy, bodies pressed flush against each other. It continues until Haruka grabs the hem of his own shirt and moves to pull it off. Makoto’s hand stops him. 

“Wait.” Makoto pulls back. His lips are pink, cheeks flushed. He bites his lip. “This is…Well. This is kinda silly, but since you’re always so quick to strip the minute you see water, I, um, I’ve always wanted to undress you myself.” 

Haruka releases his shirt and lets his arm fall to his side, signaling an OK. Makoto grabs the hem. He pushes up the fabric over Haruka’s stomach and chest, studying the reveal of Haruka’s skin with reverence. Haruka lifts his arms to help Makoto pull the shirt over his shoulders and head. The shirt collar catches on Haruka’s hair as it passes over his head, but neither Haruka nor Makoto bothers to fix the mussed hair. 

Makoto tosses the shirt aside. A soft sound of cloth falling to the floor.

Haruka’s been in all manner of undress in front of Makoto countless times, but right now feels different. He feels exposed, not just in a physical sense but in a mental one as well, and it’s a strange sensation that would likely terrify him if it were anyone other than Makoto standing across from him. Makoto brushes his fingers across Haruka’s collarbone, a tiny, whispering sensation that stirs up butterflies in Haruka’s stomach again. 

His hand sliding to Haruka’s waist, Makoto’s eyes stop roaming and fix on Haruka’s face. “You’re beautiful, Haruka.” 

Haruka turns his head to the side. “Shut up,” he mutters. 

Makoto laughs, softly, pressing in close and kissing Haruka’s cheek and neck.

With Haruka’s help, Makoto slides the borrowed sweatpants off of him as well, commenting on how it looks like Haruka got a bruise on his knee from hitting the coffee table earlier. Now that Haruka stands there in nothing but his boxer briefs while Makoto is still fully dressed, Haruka tugs on the hem of Makoto’s shirt. 

“Your turn.”

Smiling slyly, Makoto pulls off his t-shirt in one fluid motion and tosses it aside. Since he no longer swims competitively anymore and therefore has no need to keep his body hair shorn, there is a thin trail of hair rising from the waistband of his boxers to his navel. 

Haruka places a hand to Makoto’s stomach, thumb brushing the trail of hair. 

“Ah, yeah,” Makoto says, looking down at Haruka’s hand. “I can get back into shaving if you don’t like it.” 

Haruka shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

“Good.” Makoto leans in for another kiss. “I hate shaving.” 

All preamble taken care of, the kiss heats up, and eventually, the two of them make it to Makoto’s bed, discarding what little remains of their clothes. Time passes in the strangest way, the whirlwind of activity making Haruka unsure whether two minutes or an hour has passed. He takes Makoto in his mouth, then Makoto returns the favor, then Haruka straddles Makoto’s hips and beats off their cocks together. They end up lying cramped together on Makoto’s tiny bed, damp with sweat, limbs overlapping. 

“I think that’s about all I can manage for one night,” Makoto says. 

“Yeah,” Haruka agrees, feeling drained and sleepy in a good way. 

“Looks like the rain finally stopped.” 

“Mm.” Haruka sighs and rests his head on Makoto's shoulder. He turns his head inward to lightly kiss Makoto’s collarbone, Makoto’s skin salty with residual sweat, before settling back down. 

Now that the rain has quieted down, the room is filled with distant rumbles of cars and trains, bright city lights glowing against Makoto’s shut curtains. 

With a soft exhale, Makoto turns his head to face Haruka. He presses their foreheads together, his hand raising to the side of Haruka’s face. “I love you,” he whispers. 

Haruka shuts his eyes. He’s glad it’s dark, so Makoto doesn’t see the flicker of a smile on his mouth. “I know.” 

Gradually, the two of them drift off to sleep.

Haruka wakes early the next morning. With the curtains drawn, the room is still dark, though gentle light slips in through the cracks. Makoto is still sound asleep, pressed up against Haruka’s back with an arm around Haruka’s waist. Haruka’s nape tickles with Makoto’s every exhale. 

Haruka notes, sleepily, that he is half-hard, but he doesn’t move, instead deciding to wait for Makoto to wake up.