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The rare August breeze is cool on Mako-chan’s skin as he sprawls out on the floor of the balcony, Doraemon t-shirt scrunched up to bare his small, slightly tubby belly to the sky. Apart from those brief respites the day feels like wading through warm pudding; binge-eating watermelon to feel the cold dancing down his throat has only left his little hands sticky and stained his collar pink, and his parents have told him they’ll install something to re-gu-late the temperature in their new house in a week, so he has to hang on until then.
Mako-chan doesn’t really mind, because he likes the sun, and there’s something nice about lazing out under it with his parents unable to summon the energy to lecture him about manners when they are doing much the same (albeit in the privacy of their living room). From here he has a view of the sea and a bit of the beach through the trees, and it looks like one of his drawings but prettier, with glitter and blue and different blue and moving pieces. Mama had put his creation on the fridge and petted him on the head, so it was probably a good thing.
Shifting his head causes his chin to stick uncomfortably to his neck for a second, and as much as the heat has baked any motivation out of him, Mako-chan decides he should take a shower, even though he’s a little bit lazy. He thinks that maybe he could get Mama to help him with doing all the hard stuff, like getting out of his uncomfortable clothes, and turning on the shower tap. He’s getting better at the rest, and has vowed to be able to do it himself before starting school next April. He is nearly six, after all. That’s more than halfway to ten, which is a huge age to be, so he needs to start working on being good at that.
Just as he’s rolled into a sitting position, the sliding door to the adjacent room thuds lightly open and Mama is there, calling for him. “Mako-chan? Mako-chan? - Oh, there you are,” she says, when she finally looks down and sees her son, sitting doe-eyed and messy on the floor of the balcony. From the look of his tee shirt his fingers are bound to be gummy, but she crouches down and pulls him to his tiny feet anyway, not flinching even when her intuition proves her a hundred percent right. “You’re a mess, sweetheart, let’s get you showered,” she says brightly, smoothing down his hair with her other hand.
Mako-chan nods. “How does you know I wanted to bathe, Mama?” he asks, curiosity luminous in his large green eyes. Mama always seems to know what he’s feeling, and he thinks if he asks if enough he’ll figure it out and become great like Mama is. That’s his end goal, after he gets past Being Ten and things like that.
Mama’s laugh is a lovely bright sound. “It’s how did I know, Mako-chan.” She waits for his dutiful nod before she continues. “I would say my mama sense, but actually, our new neighbours have finished moving in and we’re going to go say hello in a bit. You want to come along, right? I think they have a child, around your age. You can be friends!”
Mako-chan’s eyes are so wide they might eclipse the rest of his face. “A friend?” he asks, delightedly. “What’s their name? How do they look like? Do they like cats? Can we bring them your special cake? We’ll be best friends then! I hope they -”
Mama has pressed her finger to his mouth, smiling that Adult Smile, which looks like she knows something he doesn’t. “They would like their new friend to be freshly bathed,” she says, and turns to walk back into the house, the loose grip on his hand an indication to follow.
She laughs again when Mako-chan breaks their linked hands to run helter-skelter past her in a hurry to get ready for his bath.
-
Mako-chan’s in yet another Doraemon shirt and his favourite pair of striped shorts, nearly vibrating with excitement in his bright pink sneakers on the doorstep of their new neighbour’s house. The front door slides open and a lady whose knees are covered by a flowy pink skirt smiles and welcomes them, thanking his parents for the cake and saying other difficult things a bit quickly.
“Oh, who’s this?” he hears, a little louder and closer to his ear, and when he pokes out from behind Mama to look he sees kind eyes smiling down at him. It’s the face of the lady in the pink skirt, who must be the mother of his new friend. Mako-chan feels his hands getting a little bit sweaty even though he just showered, and he doesn’t really know why, except that he wants this kind eyed lady to like him.
“Mako-chan, introduce yourself,” Mama is saying, gentle hands bracing him to stand slightly in front of her. “This is Nanase-san, our new neighbour.”
As far as he’s concerned, his new neighbour is his unseen friend, but Mako-chan complies because his parents have always taught him to be polite. “H-hello!” he chirps through a slight stammer in his voice, “My name is Tachi-Tachibana Mako-chan, and I am very pleased to meet you!” He smiles nervously, tiny shaking hand reaching for Mama’s. He’s never had to introduce himself before, and Mama had only just told him how to do so a few moments ago, before they’d come over.
Papa laughs. “Your name isn’t Mako-chan, Makoto,” he says, calling Mako-chan by the name he usually does.
“It isn’t?” Mako-chan blinks, then suddenly remembers that it’s just what Mama calls him, and that his full name is Tachibana Makoto . He instantly turns red and jerks backwards, hot with shame, convinced that now Nanase-san will hate him and he will never make a friend.
But the lady in the soft skirt like peaches laughs fondly and reaches a tentative hand out to rest lightly on his head. “Such a sweet boy - You’ll be such a good friend for Haruka,” she hums cheerfully. Encouraged by the smile she is sporting, Mako-chan reciprocates eagerly, a broad toothy grin splitting his face open to reveal his own glow. Haruka? He’d never really played with a girl before, but it couldn’t be that bad, right?
“Speaking of Haruka…” Nanase-san straightens up and is only skirts again, turns around and calls into the house behind her. “Haruka-chan? Mama told you to come out, didn’t I? Come meet your new friend! Ha-ru-ka!”
“Sorry about that… why don’t you come in and take a seat?” she offers, smiling apologetically, “Haruka’s a little shy around strangers.” They do so, and Papa finds Haruka’s Papa, or Mr. Nanase-san in Mako-chan’s head, and the two men go off to talk...stuff. Mako-chan isn’t concerned; he perches on a chair and swings his feet listlessly, wanting to meet Haruka-chan now . She’s a -chan already, and in his mind they’ll have all sorts of adventures together, if only she would hurry up and appear already.
“Mama.” A soft voice, sounding oddly formal, sounds from the doorway, and in his eagerness to scramble to his feet Mako-chan almost falls off the chair. His head is singing new friend new friend new friend , and he’s so caught up in excitement that at first he only registers snippets of Nanase Haruka, glossy deep blue hair and shiny blue eyes like the sea he was staring at earlier today, and… and?
“That’s not Haruka,” he blurts, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s rude, he knows, but he can’t help his surprise - the kid before him is clearly a boy, who’s just the tiniest bit taller than him, maybe. Not-Haruka stares blankly at him, looking like he would like anything except to be friends.
“Mako-chan,” Mama is saying, having come to crouch next to him, “What do you mean? This is Nanase Haruka, Nanase-san’s son.”
Confused, Mako-chan looks at the boy, then at Mama, then at the boy again. Unbidden, his hand jerks out and points straight at him. “That’s a boy.”
Mama’s smile stretches a little bit. “Mhmm?”
That isn’t good. He needs to explain himself. “Haruka is a girl’s name.”
The boy with the blue hair hasn’t made a single sound this entire time, but his large blue eyes are narrowing a little bit like he might be angry, and Mako-chan isn’t sure what he’s said wrong, but before he can try to figure that out the boy has taken a few steps back and has hidden most of himself behind Nanase-san, allowing only his intense gaze still fixed on Mako-chan, to show.
“It’s not only a girl’s name, Makoto,” Mama is saying, and now he knows he might have messed up a little bit, if Mama is calling him by the name that Papa calls him. “After all, that’s Haruka’s name, and he’s a boy, right?”
In the cottage hut of Mako-chan’s mind, this is impeccable logic gifted from the Palace of Mama’s Wisdom, and it is suddenly clear just why Haruka seems so upset. He would be upset, too, if someone said he wasn’t him just because they thought he was supposed to be a girl. After all, he was him!
The gravity of what he has done to his new friend is a heavy weight that suddenly descends on his narrow shoulders. Tears begin to sting the corner of his eyes, and he valiantly sniffles in a bid to keep from leaking snot all over the new neighbours’ clean floor. “I’m - I’m sorry Haruka-chan!!”
Mako-chan is all-out crying now, and he’s trying to talk about how he didn’t mean to be so rude and he wanted to just be best friends, but he thinks all that is coming out is coughing and blubbering noises. “Will you - will you forgive me,” he bawls, but Haruka is still standing there with a straight face, although he’s not hiding behind Nanase-san anymore.
“Call me Haru,” he mumbles, and it takes Mako-chan a moment to register that he’s talking to him because Haruka isn’t making eye contact. But when he does, the tears stop as soon as they came, and Mako-chan launches himself towards his new best in the whole world friend , grateful already for this huge show of forgiveness.
“Haru-chan!!!” he wails in joy, attaching to the other boy in a sloppy hug. Besides a slight twitch at the addition of the -chan suffix, Haru-chan does not object; although the rest of him feels like it’s straining to get away, he rests one awkward hand on Mako-chan’s upper back in response.
“And one more thing,” comes the soft and already familiar voice.
Tearily, Mako-chan detaches himself. “Y-yes?” he asks, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Watch Doraemon with me,” Haru-chan mutters, gaze still fixed on the floor like it’s an episode of the aforementioned TV show.
Confused, Mako-chan looks down at his shirt, which sports the blue mascot dancing around a maypole with his friends, then at Haru-chan’s, on which an identical earless robotic cat is lounging on a beach chair. The shirts mirror each other in design, with white bases adorned with blue collars and sleeves. Mako-chan thinks he might never have been so happy in his life , all Six Years of it, and he squeals in delight as he tackles Haru-chan again, to the floor this time.
His face buried in his new friend’s t-shirt, Mako-chan will vividly recall the smell of jasmine and their Mamas' knowing laughter.
-
Mama and Haru-chan’s Mama soon became fast friends, and that meant that Haru-chan and Mako-chan could play at each others’ all they wanted. And they were allowed to have so many sleepovers, too!
Although Haru-chan didn’t say a lot, Mako-chan didn’t mind, because after a while he thought he knew what he meant most of the time. If he was wrong, Haru-chan didn’t really tell him so, either. Their mamas ensured they got into the same elementary school and class, which meant more time with Haru-chan, which meant all the good things .
...except in art class, where the assignment was to draw Iwatobi beach and at least 3 people on it. Makoto loves the beach, all its white white sand and happy people and the great light of the sun and, perhaps best of all, the gurgling rush of the sea. It should be an easy enough project!
He stares morosely at his paper, where he has drawn all of a curve at the upper left hand corner of the paper, accompanied by four strokes. Well, at least I’ve got the sun drawn. Now just for the sand and the sea and the people… right?
At a loss for inspiration, he glances over at Haru-chan’s work and drops his colour pencil to the floor in astonishment. Haru-chan has captured the undulating crests of the sand on the beach in cream colour pencil, shaded with a mixture of what looks like brown and yellow. He has gone to the effort of detailing it to give some suggestion of grains of sand, and is currently working on the sparkling surface of the ocean. On the right, a silhouette of a father and son playing beach volleyball is apparent.
“H-Haru-chan,” he whispers, awed. “That’s amazing!!! And you’re going to be done so soon, too!” Excitedly, he surges forward to take a better look, nearly knocking his head with Haru-chan’s.
Haru-chan tilts his head the slightest bit towards Mako-chan when his name is called, and flushes terribly upon hearing Mako-chan’s words. “It’s a draft,” he mumbles, suddenly too shy to continue drawing. “It’s not that good.”
Awkwardly, his small hand drops his colour pencil, before he finally ventures a peek out at Mako-chan through his long dark bangs. There is a small pause, before he adds, like an afterthought, “Let’s see yours, then.”
Mako-chan pales in embarrassment. “NO!!!! No!!!! I mean, no!!! Haha!!! I haven’t started,” he babbles too-quickly, backpedalling and throwing himself over his, uh, masterpiece. “Hahaha, Haru-chan, you don’t want to look, anyway!”
Haru-chan’s eyebrows move imperceptibly, and it has the impact of giving the impression that he’s frowning, even though by all accounts that expression should be considered a straight face. It’s oddly disconcerting.
“Give,” he says, plainly.
“N-no, umm, it’s really nothing to be concerned about!” Mako-chan attempts to argue, but it comes out more like a plea. “You… do your … your draft thing, I’ll do mine, okay?”
Haru-chan’s eyebrows twitch again, but now they slant upwards at the middle, and if you really looked you could see a slight quiver to his lower lip. “Fine,” he mutters so curtly he might as well have spat it, and reaches for his colour pencil again. Mako-chan gives in.
“N-no, Haru-chan, wait!! I mean, look… you can see.” Shamefully, he slides over his sheet of paper, empty except for a few slightly grubby pencil smudges, the sun in the corner of the paper, and three-stroke seagulls. “I … didn’t want to show Haru-chan because it was really bad compared to yours,” he admits, eyes cast downwards and thumb absently pressing a bruise he’d gotten falling over on his way up the steps a few days back.
But the laugh he’s expecting never comes, and when he looks up Haru-chan’s nodding decisively and handing the paper back to him. “If we ask our moms, I should be able to go over and help you out with it. For now, try working on those.”
Curiously, Mako-chan peers at the paper and sees that Haru-chan has drawn in a rough sketch of a composition for him, and made notes for what he can try to include, or should take note of. Every instruction is neatly pencilled in in Haru-chan’s efficient but pretty handwriting, and there’s even a tiny dolphin drawn in a corner of the paper, smiling as a little speech bubble says “persevere!!”
Involuntarily, Mako-chan’s hands tighten on the paper, which has suddenly become extremely precious to him. “Haru-chan,” he whispers gratefully, eyes shining as he beams at his best friend in the whole world.
“Tch,” Haru-chan mutters, and buries his head behind his arm, drawing.
---
Middle school is...kinda tough on Makoto, who doesn’t know what to do with himself when Haru isn’t next to him. His stare, though vacant, is fixed rigidly on the notebook in front of him, which sports several ugly doodles of dolphins in various positions. Some part of his brain is scolding him for how uncharacteristic this is - behaviourally, Makoto is a model student, who, despite lacking the sharpness that distinguishes the top in their level, manages to perform in the Swim Club and maintain his grades at about the 80th percentile through consistent work and time management. He certainly isn’t going to keep that up if his dolphin colony keeps growing, though.
The thought jolts Makoto out of the more aimless part of his reverie, causing him to focus his eyes on his notebook. What are the- Oh , he finds himself thinking, for a brief moment unable to recognise his vaguely fish-like creatures as graceful sea mammals. Ugh. Haru-chan would be able to draw these so much better , he grouses, lazily scribbling over the dolphins, before the thought catches up to him and he freezes.
Haru-chan, huh … eyes lowered in helpless thought, Makoto picks out one of the dolphins he’s drawn and starts shading it in earnest. Shape-wise, it has the most integrity of the lot; it’s also soaring through the air with a thoroughly bored looking expression that renders it intensely familiar-looking.
Amused, Makoto labels it Haru-chan!!! in a childlike scrawl, devoting more time to sketching out its facets. If Haru-chan were a dolphin, he’d probably the grumpiest of the lot, and refuse to click unless he really had to, which means - is there a way to draw a dolphin with an exceptionally tightly shut mouth? Maybe if he pulled the lines this way...
“Tachibana-san, the answer to question 3(a)(ii), please.”
Makoto’s head shoots upwards like he’s taken a vicious hook to the chin, hands moving of their accord to shut his notebook and rearrange the assigned worksheets so the incriminating evidence is covered. “It’s, uh,” he stalls, peeking quickly at his answer, “(4x-3)(4x+5), sir!” he delivers brightly, lips pulled into a placating smile. Ahh, good thing I did my homework…
Around him, the class bursts into stifled giggles, and Ueda-sensei only raises one bushy eyebrow archly in response. Ueda-sensei teaches English, which was today’s fifth period, while Math was sixth... Hazarding a glance down at his notes, Makoto doesn’t drop the sheepish smile, instead quickly reshuffling the sheets of paper to find the one with foreign letters. “My apologies - I mean, the word is om- omnipresent , sir!”
Eyes narrowed, Ueda-sensei nods slowly in apparent approval, although his displeasure at Makoto’s obvious lack of attention is clear. “Very good. It would appear Tachibana-san has done his homework, if little else. Next, to 3(b)(i)...”
Aha, ha, ha. Oops . The moment he’s certain the class has turned their attention away from him, Makoto allows himself to drop the corny smile, as well as to allow his thoughts resume their original course, since it’s now thoroughly unlikely he’ll be put on the spot again for this period. Haru-chan has been strange recently …
-
Makoto’s preparing his bento to bring off for lunch when he's interrupted by his name being hollered across class. “Makoto!!” Shortly after, a dark-haired classmate is amicably draping an arm over his shoulders, all ready to nose into his business.
“What was that in class about, huh? What could you of all people be daydreaming about? Hmmmm ? Hmm? HMM???” His friend’s jabbing him repeatedly in the cheek with his elbow, and it is only by virtue of his non-confrontational personality that Makoto hasn’t pushed him away as of yet. “Is it a girl? You had this toooootally dreamy look in your eyes. It was a girl, wasn’t it?”
Makoto doesn’t need a mirror to know that pink must be spreading across his face, judging from how hot his face feels. “Ah, Mochizuki-kun,” he says nervously. “No, it wasn’t anything like that, I, ah…” He casts about for an excuse. “I.. didn’t sleep well last night!” Makoto announces triumphantly, and with a little too much vigour. He starts walking, hopeful that he might be able to shake Mochizuki off to go look for Haru-chan. “So I was sleepy, see?”
Mochizuki, however, is the kind of guy who just doesn’t give up. His eyes narrow craftily, mouth stretching into a grin. “Aaah, kept awake by thoughts of this special person, huh? Who is it, then? Is it Kimiko, from class 3? Or or or - no way ,” he says, stumbling to a halt and dragging Makoto with him.
“Did Aika-chan actually confess to you?!? ”
The accusation is forcefully delivered, and echoes through the hallways. In his excitement, Mochizuki has leapt away from Makoto to point a finger for emphasis. The ensuing silence is reminiscent of a graveyard.
“A-ah, you mean Natsumi-san?” Makoto, though thoroughly uncomfortable, recalls one of the girls in their class. “N-no, nothing of the sort -” Out of the corner of his eye, Makoto sees a flash of dark blue facing their direction.
Unbidden, Haru! struggles to escape from his mouth, but as he turns to chase it, however, it is gone, weaving through the crowds of students on their way to their favourite lunch spots.
“Oi, Makoto, you haven’t answered my question! You’re all timid, but you’re a real devil with the girls, ain’t ya?” In a flurry, Mochizuki has latched on to him again, and is tugging him off. “Come on, let’s have lunch with the other guys, they wanna talk about this new game that’s out.”
“U-uh, okay,” Makoto mumbles helplessly, allowing himself to be dragged off, even as he attempts to cast gazes back to seek out ocean blue.
-
Because Haru-chan keeps running off without him after school and adamantly not answering his doorbell, it is two days later, after swim club practice, that Makoto finally manages to corner him in the changing room after everyone else has left.
“Haru-chan,” he begins, but is interrupted.
“Drop the -chan,” Haru bites out, carelessly towelling his hair dry. In that empty school locker room, fluorescent lights buzzing and the two of them confined between rows of lockers, Makoto feels at once claustrophobic, and yet like there are several seas between himself and Haru’s turned back.
“Haru,” he amends, carefully. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing ,” Haru snaps, his body a clean line of tension. Even his anger, Makoto thinks inanely, is a work of art.
“It definitely isn’t nothing,” Makoto presses, voice raised just a little bit, one foot braced forwards in the step he wants to take but cannot. “Haru, you’ve been… since Saturday, you’ve been weird and quiet and … and distant.”
Haru does not reply, fists curled at his sides, so Makoto, lip raw from nervous biting, continues. “Something has… has hurt you, Haru-ch.. Haru. And I. Remember last year, before… before prefecturals, when we were p...pushing each other away?” He is rewarded with a stiff jerk, doubtlessly jolted by the memory of a midnight swim, a confessional.
“We. We shouldn’t do that any more, Haru. I know you think I’m meddlesome, but I…” Makoto’s ears are hot, burning in mortification that spreads to his vision, blurring it. “I…” He blinks, and to his horror, he feels water trickling down his face, scalding tracks of shame visible on the plane of red skin. For a startlingly clear moment, Makoto is tempted to give up, say no more, and leave, because he knows them; Haru will pretend it never happened, and Makoto will never be pressured into confrontation.
But this is Haru, and there should be no space between us , he scolds himself, steeling his nerves. His throat is impossibly dry, though, and Makoto is forced to drop to a whisper in a vain attempt to hide the inevitable croak threatening to mar his conviction. “I. It hurts, Haru-chan.” A deep breath, and then - “Please... please let me be here for you.”
Haru does not protest the treatment of his name. His shoulders sag suddenly, and he turns his head the slightest bit. His voice is so low Makoto has to strain to catch it, even given the echoey mosaic tiles.
“I’m quitting the swim club.”
Makoto flinches, but manages to control his reaction. “...Why?” he asks, wistful smile playing on his face like some part of him knew it would be something like this.
“I’m quitting the swim club,” Haru repeats, but this time the sentence breaks at the end, and he’s shaking silently, and Makoto finally shifts his weight forward, then again, until he’s crossed the scant distance between them and his dearest friend is within arm’s reach.
“R-Rin,” Haru whispers, like he’s going to say something, but the sentence dies there as he finally, finally leans in towards Makoto.
Makoto fights off an inexplicable twinge when he hugs Haru and murmurs it’s okay, you don’t have to explain if you don’t want to, you know I’ll go wherever you go .
---
In their last year of high school, under the fireworks, Makoto realises that that old feeling has been growing, and growing, and is threatening to leap out of his chest and consume Haruka whole. It’s corny, maybe, but the dancing sky-lights in Haru’s eyes remind him of the very first time he saw that ocean and was taken with it, and remained to be, even for the years after the real ocean had lost its charm, had become a host of horrors instead.
He doesn’t give it a name.
---
Tachibana Makoto is twenty and falling asleep in the first veterinary science lecture of the semester when he receives a text from Haru (fish emoji) (water emoji) (heart emoji) , and he has to hide a smile in his sleeve when he peers at his phone under the desk. Nagisa had attacked his phone and changed all their contact names when he graduated, and Makoto’s kept them that way, because it feels familiar, somehow, like he is still eighteen and madly swimming laps in the Iwatobi pool under that bright blue sky.
Yoyogi. 5pm.
The snort is harder to hide now, because although distance - and what Makoto has teasingly called separation anxiety - has finally led to Haru learning how to use his handphone, it’s obvious he still finds it a chore. But close to a decade and a half of them being glued at the hip mean that Makoto knows exactly what Haru means, which is all that actually matters. He hums pleasantly, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
Next to him, a girl with meticulously dyed pastel pink hair leans over in unabashed curiosity, fluttering her eyelashes a little bit. “ Ohhhh ? Makoto-kun, a text from your giiiirlfriend ?” She leans back after, and gives him a slightly appraising look.
Makoto laughs easily, by now long used to the heckling his relationship with Haru tends to earn him. It’s difficult to explain to even himself, sometimes. “Not quite, Kagome-san,” he replies. “ He’s my best friend, since I was six.” He stresses the pronoun, wont as it usually is to throw people off this particular line of questioning.
She cocks her head slyly, tapping her pen against the laptop. Distracted, Makoto catches sight of her screen - she’s been online shopping, instead of really paying any attention in lecture. “So….somebody precious, right?” Although they’re not terribly close, her smile is genuine, if a tad more knowing than Makoto is willing to accept.
But there can only be one answer to that question. “Yes,” he says, unaware of the pink dusting his cheeks when he smiles this time.
Kagome shakes her head wryly, and offers him a fist bump. “Have a great date, Makoto-kun.” As he opens his mouth, she brings a finger to her own, then gestures towards the front of the lecture hall with her head in a show of completely unremorseful hypocrisy. Makoto watches as she tears a piece of paper out of her untouched notebook and scribbles madly in one of those rainbow pens, before the scrap is slid over to him, ink still drying.
Your face has turned the same colour as my hair ^_^
Makoto ducks his head in embarrassment, and hurries to keep up with the rest of the lecture.
-
It is 4.58pm when Makoto arrives at the station, picnic mat and basket in hand. Haru is already there, clearly having begged off training early, and the suspicious thermal pot he has under his arm can only contain one thing.
Saba .
Makoto smiles to himself as he jogs up to greet Haru, who gives him a slightly curious look but walks arm-to-arm with him all the way to the cherry blossom-viewing spot. It is April, after all, and they’ve been planning this for ages. And although it is still chilly, Makoto takes a longer route to ensure no bodies of water tempt Haru into jumping into them.
Their chatter is idle as they walk, and Makoto revels in the warmth of having Haru next to him. It’s easy, now. They eat dinner together three times a week, those being the same days one of them will stay over at the other’s place; Makoto tells him about school and the weird people he’s met and all the Tokyo cats he’s petted, and Haru will occasionally indulge him in a tale about the eccentric swimmers in his club. Makoto smiles when he thinks about how Haru hasn’t gotten more social in the normal sense - he still doesn’t talk to anybody - but nowadays he’s a lot more open to watching other people, even if it’s just so he can regale Makoto with anecdotes.
Sometimes that same ancient feeling comes out of hiding, rubs its head against Makoto’s chest, and weaves its way between his feet, but Makoto’s good with cats and better at ignoring the dull ache of wanting. Selfishness has nearly ruined them too many times.
“Makoto.” Haru’s staring at him, a little ways ahead, and is holding him lightly by the hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He tugs a little bit for emphasis, and Makoto stumbles into following. He can’t give this up, even if whatever it is he feels is apparently clear as day - the look of understanding on Kagome-san’s face from earlier flickers into his mind.
Eventually, they come to a stop. Realising Haru’s staring at him again, Makoto takes a moment to take in the favourable patch of grass Haru’s chosen, and remembers he’s carrying the picnic mat and basket. He scrambles into action to put down the basket containing mochi, flasks of hot tea, and some sake, and to lay out the picnic mat. “I’m sorry, Haru! I, um, have things on my mind.”
Haru raises an inquiring eyebrow.
Makoto pales more than is probably necessary. “Nothing important!” he squeaks, hiding his face and pretending to be extremely occupied with setting up their items.
He sneaks a glance. The slant of Haru’s eyes has fallen flat in his I know you’re hiding something, you oversized walnut face.
Makoto squeezes his eyes shut for plausible deniability’s sake, and finishes setting up in record time. Haru plates the saba and rice for them, and as a concession, takes some of the vegetables Makoto’s prepared as salad. They sit side by side, barely any space between them, and if Haru appears slightly pinker than usual, Makoto habitually attributes it to the cast of the vividly glowing canopy of pink above them, as petals drift to the ground and dot it with colour.
“Look, Haru,” Makoto gasps, setting down his bowl to point, puerile, at the sky. Vermillion bleeds into a deep purple that is blue at the edges, as the sun performs its curtain call, white clouds stirring in its wake. Against this the silhouette of the cherry blossoms is stark, growing both more brilliant and wispier still as the sky darkens.
Makoto feels tentative fingers slip into his; as he turns, he is gazing at the sea, and the colours are brilliant, mellow orange highlighting fine cheekbones and the tiny curve at the end of Haru’s nose. Cross-eyed but dazzled, Makoto opens his mouth to speak.
Haru kisses him.
It isn’t the kind of tentative Makoto would expect - at least, not the way he’d imagined so many times before, where he is the one who breaks and attempts to kiss his best friend. Haru’s fingers are warm in his, drawn into a tight hold held safely in Haru’s lap. The other man is pressing into him like there is something he wants, slowly but with intent; Makoto’s breath stutters before he reciprocates, hand threading through Haru’s hair and thumbing his cheek while he can, because it doesn’t seem real. Not for so many years of pining.
It’s Haru who gently detaches. He moves no more than necessary to break their connection, holds their foreheads together and closes his eyes, ostensibly just breathing, but Makoto knows it’s just his belated ability to process consequences catching up with him, knows Haru is more afraid than he is right now.
Whoa, Makoto thinks, I might be crying.
Tenderly, and so slowly, Makoto breaks the touch, and Haru’s eyes barely have any time to dart up in alarm before Makoto is pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, smoothing his hair almost obsessively and whispering Haru, Haru, Haru.
Almost as quickly as the impulse had taken him, Haru’s features settle into his usual expression, which quickly turns unimpressed when he sees the tears making themselves known on Makoto’s face.
“Idiot,” Haru says, actions belying his words as he scoots closer to wrap an arm around Makoto’s waist. “Stupid Tachibana Makoto.” A thumb comes up to wipe one cheek, then the other. “Bird-brained mammal,” he throws in for emphasis, tucking his head under Makoto’s in a half hug, an indication of his unwillingness to let go.
Hoarsely, Makoto wraps his arms around Haru, rubs his chin against that awful familiar dark head. “I,” he says very quietly, a sound small enough to occupy just their world of two. “Years, Haru.”
The head under his moves just enough to peer at him inquisitively, before the rest of Haru’s body follows, so he’s sitting flush against Makoto’s side instead. Makoto understands it for the question it is.
“I was afraid,” he laughs, picking a cherry blossom out of Haru’s hair. “I… I always felt like I was clinging harder to you than you were me,” he confesses in a low voice, playing with the flower idly. In the settling dusk its pale colour is almost luminescent, a soft pink blush on translucent white.
Haru shakes his head, taking the flower and pressing it carefully into Makoto’s breast pocket for safekeeping.
“No matter,” he says, lightly tracing the line of Makoto’s jaw. “We have time.”
Around them, lanterns begin to glow.
fin.