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Tooru makes the connection through american candy.
He’s nine. He knows his colors. He knows there’s red and yellow and orange. He knows the sky is what they call blue and the grass is green.
He knows what color things are, but he’ll never know what color , not the way he knows the tip of the of grass are sharp, tiny blades, or that the air in the sky can be both musty or fresh, the hair on his head free and wild in the wind.
It’s fine.
And then one Tuesday, in the midst of their summer vacation, Tooru excitedly calling any of the first graders he’d previously missed back in April, May, June, his kouhai. This man with heavy footsteps and a deep voice approaches Tooru and asks if he wants candy.
The man uses broken japanese and single english words- a few Tooru doesn’t recognize because he’s only just started English and it’s pretty hard to differentiate the braille between both english and japanese, but he recognizes the word candy, and there are sudden chills that run down his spine.
He thinks about making a run for it- surely a grown man wouldn’t chase him in the middle of a park?- but there are too many people talking so he can’t hear the rustle of the leaves and he’s not sure he wouldn’t run straight into a tree, or maybe a trashcan.
This consideration is not even three seconds long before something clutches his hand and he startles, but it’s another hand, small and kind of sticky and gripping his fingers for dear life with an odd sort of gentleness. Tooru relaxes.
“Go away,” Hajime says in stuttering english, probably the only phrase he really knows after he visiting the Tokyo Disneyland and developing a sudden hatred for american tourists- especially those who liked to use Fast Passes.
“Forgive me,” the man says, and Tooru hears him considerably louder than before. Hajime tenses up beside him, and Tooru is suddenly regretting leaving his walking stick at home. He could probably give him a good whack over the head and they both could make a run for it. Or, Hajime could. Tooru has no hand-eye coordination. Obviously.
“Are you Tooru Oikawa?” is what’s asked in slow, informal japanese.
“Oikawa Tooru,” Tooru corrects, even though he knows it’s probably an english thing to get his name in the wrong order.
“Right,” the man says, bending down, face closer. “I’m here about that special school you were thinking of going to?”
That’s right. A similar man had come to his house per his mother’s request and left with a promise they’d be back for some observation on Tooru’s eligibility.
Still.
“Prove it,” Tooru challenges, hand still wrapped in Hajime’s. The air clears around them, and Tooru can hear mild shuffling of heavy fabric (it sounds like a thick jacket) and paper.
“What does it say?” Tooru asks into the crook of Hajime’s neck, chin over his shoulder.
“The Bangkok School for the Blind,” Hajime mutters, something dark hidden in the undertones of his voice. He clears his throat. “You still shouldn’t be hanging around here like a creep!”
“A creep,” Tooru agrees, but now he’s concerned about the way Hajime’s hand has tightened around his.
“I’m not,” the man replies with a laugh. Tooru stills, still clutching Hajime’s hand, the other wrapped around his chest from where he’s leaning on his back. He closes his eyes.
The man is right. He’s not hanging around like a creep. Or rather, he is; he definitely could have approached the situation in a much better manner, but somewhere off in the distance Tooru hears the voice of his mother, a hushed and serious tone she only uses when he’s had yet another eye exam and needs to lie down (because while he may not be able to see what is going into his eye he has spatial recognition and he doesn’t know what it’s like to see the incoming object but feeling something coming at your eyeball, which yes, still hurts when poked is pretty traumatic, okay) and okaasan is asking about treatment, surgery- anything, and tries to hide the disappointing “thank you” when she’s answered with, “Tooru is not eligible.”
“ Hajime ,” he whines, quietly. “Kaasan is here. Find her.”
Hajime’s already found her before he even finishes saying her name, marching the both of them over. Tooru counts the steps- seventy three- and tries to add the rocks on the ground to his mental map.
“Tooru,” his mother says, and just by her voice, Tooru knows she’s smiling. He wishes he could reach up and touch her face, the indent between the corners of her lips and the rising of her cheeks, but a few months ago she told him he’d gotten too old to be doing that in public.
“Oikawa-san,” Hajime greets, “there is a man here to see Tooru?”
“Yes,” Tooru’s mother replies. Something jingles, and with his free hand, Tooru reaches out for it, not surprised at the many bracelets covering his mother’s forearm.
“I’ve seen enough,” the man from earlier comes up from behind and nearly makes Tooru pee himself. “Would you still like some candy?”
Tooru is suspicious about receiving candy from a strange man who speaks english and bad japanese, but Hajime takes some anyway, the crinkling of plastic and sharp paper edges brushing against Tooru’s skin as Hajime pockets the candy because they’re standing so close.
Tooru doesn’t pay any attention to the conversation between his mother and the strange man from Bangkok, acutely aware of the way Hajime’s breathing has changed since he read the business card out loud.
“What’s wrong?” he questions as quiet as he can, which is pretty much soundless because he is extremely close to Hajime. Except Hajime is his best friend, so it’s okay.
And because he’s his best friend, he knows that Hajime always breathes steadily and evenly, even if his heart is beating super fast. Tooru knows the sound of Hajime’s lungs more than he knows the shape of his own nose.
So when Hajime takes a deep breath and the rest following even out, he knows the “nothing” in response is a lie. He doesn’t push.
“Let’s eat some candy,” Hajime suggests, tugging him maybe fourteen steps before Tooru’s shin hits something hard, and he falls onto the park bench with a whine.
Hajime places something small and round in his hand, but not the round of a circle, like the volleyball Iwaizumi-san got him for his last birthday, but flatter, like a very, very round diamond.
“That one’s red,” Hajime says. “I don’t know what flavor it is, because I can’t read it. Taste it.”
Tooru does, sticks it in his mouth and bites, something sweet and fruity spilling all over his taste buds, but then he thinks of how he’ll never truly know what colors look like, and suddenly the stupid candy is bitter on his tongue. He spits it out. “It’s disgusting,” he says.
He can feel Hajime giving him a Look. He’s actually felt them, his eyes are scrunched and there are little wrinkles on his forehead and a downward turn of his mouth, but the non-physical aspect of it is three times more effective, it’s like Hajime’s entire presence is wrapping itself around Tooru’s.
“I think it tastes good,” Hajime disagrees. Tooru can hear him smacking his lips. “It’s like strawberry, but with more sugar.”
“Give me another,” Tooru grumbles. Hajime does, and this time it’s sweet, but sort of has hinted citrus behind it. He swears he’s tasted this before.
Hajime sits down on the bench beside him, lets Tooru run his fingers over his cheeks as they both chew, Tooru sucking on the tiny candy in his mouth and savoring the flavor, Hajime popping in three at a time. Tooru likes the way he can feel the faint of Hajime’s jaw when he chews of the muscle beneath his chin twitch slightly as he swallows. He loves Hajime, he thinks. They’ve known each other four years. Hajime who holds his hand at school because there are too many people around for Tooru to determine where walls and doors are, who steps on toes if someone says, “watch where you’re going” when Tooru bumps right into them, but still pinches Tooru, gently, but a friendly pinch nonetheless when he trips over something in his room, muttering, “my mother would yell if I had a room this dirty. Just because you yourself can’t see the mess doesn’t mean you get to have one.” Hajime is the bestest friend in the whole entire world, and Tooru is happy that he’s his best friend.
There’s a last burst of flavor before he swallows the rest of the candy.
“It’s orange,” he mutters in amazement. Hajime turns to look at him, and Tooru drops his hand from his face, touching his own mouth in astonishment.
“That was orange,” he tells Hajime.
There’s a beat.
“That was orange,” Hajime agrees, like Tooru’s done this before, but he hasn’t. He can’t get the concept down that yellow is to banana or red is to cherry. It’s like a piece of his brain was missing, the one that made small connections like that. “Orange is a flavor, a fruit, and a color. Usually things that taste like orange are orange.”
“Things that taste like orange, the fruit, are the orange flavor, which is the orange color,” Tooru confirms. He opens his eyes wide, feels the air breeze around him.
“Hajime,” he begins, “what’s orange?”
He’s expecting something like, “what you just ate, stupid,” but almost a minute passes before he gets a response.
“The way you just smiled,” Hajime says.
Tooru beams.