i only ship free

You hear a cacophony of sounds - voices raised in a particularly intense haggling session, the distant strum of an oud, the scrape of sandals against the ground.

The bustle of the market is almost as overwhelming as the heavy scent in the air - and the ever present dry dusty heat of the desert.

You came for nothing but the sights, your canvas back home awaiting the strokes of your inspiration. Yet, as you walk, you realise you have a destination. The noise grows quiet, the scents settle into something you cannot identify, but dizzies you momentarily with nostalgia.

You stop before a stall you hadn’t noticed, and a man blinks up at you, smiling.

“Salaam, and good evening to you, worthy friend. It seems you have come for a tale.”

In a time undetermined, by an oasis, there lived a djinn named Makoto.

He was unlike the mischievous djinn of the stories people would tell in hushed, frightened whispers.

He was unlike the djinn who shunned the human world, choosing instead to live in the dimensions in between.  

He did not wish to bring humans misfortune, nor did he wish to retreat from their realm. He wished only for a friend, a companion - for the unabating loneliness to cease.

And of course, one day, his wish was granted.

On that day, he did not recognize the sound of a camel approaching, though he had been hoping to hear it for far too long. He manifested in the physical world, preparing himself for the disappointment he was sure to face once again.

And so when a blue gaze caught his, he was… lost.

He stepped back, eyes widening as he stared at the human before him.

A human with hair darker than the night sky, and eyes a blue he could think of no comparison to.

Makoto stood, speechless, until the human’s gaze travelled to the ears nestled in his hair, and though his expression did not change, Makoto tensed, hastening to hide them, flattening them against his head.

“Djinn?” the human asked, fixing Makoto with an unreadable look.

“Yes,” Makoto said, hesitating.

“Is this your oasis?”

“Yes?” Makoto said once more, watching the human for any signs of panic, confused when he found none.

“Can I swim in it?”

“I- of course-” and the answer had barely passed his lips before the human was in the water, lips quirked into a smile, eyes sparkling in a way almost inhuman.

Breath caught, Makoto watched the human, their conversation running through his mind, relishing every word, every moment those blue eyes were on him - every moment he was seen.

He laughed quietly, ears relaxing completely now, elated disbelief thrumming under his skin, and he steps forward, making his way to the edge of the oasis. He sits, watching the human swim.

Hours passed before the human appeared to contemplate getting out, and Makoto immediately held out his hand, a smile tugging at his lips. The human blinked slowly at him, and reached out, his own hand closing uncertainly around Makoto’s, and he tilted his head, questioning.

Makoto pulled the human up and out of the water, burning the feeling of the human’s skin against his into his memory.

“My name’s Makoto,” he said, as the human shook water out of his hair.

The human looked at him for only a moment, then turned to the clothes he’d shed before jumping into the oasis.

“I’m Haru.”

“Haru,” Makoto repeated, and he’s sure he’d never be rid of the grin that pulls at his lips, or the happy twitch that tugs at his ears, “Where are you headed?”

“The ocean.”

“O...cean?”

“Yes,” and Haru turns back to him now, eyes sparkling the way they were when he was in the water, “It’s like the desert, but where there should be sand, there is water. It is water farther than you can see, deeper than you can swim-”

“Like your eyes,” Makoto blurted out, and immediately hated himself for it.

But Haru paused, cheeks tinging with red, as he cast his gaze away with a slight smile.

“Maybe.”

Makoto could only stand a few moments of the silence before he asked, “Where is the ocean?”

Haru shook his head.

“I don’t know. I know only stories.”

“Then,” Makoto said, hopefully, “Will you tell me those stories?”

Haru frowned, and Makoto hastened to assure Haru that he didn’t have to, but Haru cut him off with a quiet, “Okay.”

Makoto smiled, happiness coursing through him, ears pressed back in delight.

“Thank you.”

By the crackling of the fire Makoto had watched Haru build, Haru told him the tales of the ocean until his voice grew hoarse, until the sky grew its darkest - until Makoto grew weary from maintaining his physical form.

“Will you stay?” Makoto asked, as Haru’s eyes began to flutter close, “A few days more?”

Haru looked at him, gaze somehow sharp though his eyes were clouded with sleep. He studied Makoto, and Makoto began to grow nervous. Perhaps he had begun to ask for too much?

But Haru only nodded before closing his eyes, nestling into the thick cloth he’d wrapped around himself for warmth.

Makoto let out a sigh of relief, smiling in gratitude as he released his hold on his physical form. Content, Makoto settled in for the night, watching over his new friend.

Days passed, and as each day ended, Makoto would ask-

“Will you stay?”

And each day, Haru would answer with a nod.

“I hear the ocean calling me,” Haru had told Makoto once, voice hushed in the night, “It’s like a song that’s always playing in my head, urging me to find it.”

“Does it bother you?” Makoto asked, concerned.

Bright gaze fixed on the dark sky, Haru murmurs, “It’s quieter when I’m with you.”

And just as days had passed, so did months.

When the stories of the ocean had run out, they’d turned to the tales of Haru’s journey.

Of the places he’d seen, the people he’d met.

(The places he’d moved on from, the people he’d left behind-)

It was a slow, quiet realisation.

Haru’s hand in his, blue eyes turned nearly silver in the sunlight, the quiet laughter as Haru pulled him into the water-

Oh, Makoto had thought, breathless, so this is what love is.

Under the exhilaration of his newfound feelings, Makoto spends his days afraid.

Will Haru leave, if he finds out? If he stays, will he shy away from Makoto’s touch?

(Is he as unafraid of Makoto as he seems? Or will this be more than Haru can endure?)

But when Haru laughs, bright, and clear, reaching out to run a hand through Makoto’s messy hair, fingers catching against Makoto’s ears -

There’s no force in the world that could’ve stopped Makoto from reaching out, from tracing the line of Haru’s lower lip with his thumb, from drawing Haru in.

“Haru,” he pleads, voice hoarse, “Haru-”

And Haru, with the slightest smile on his lips, looks up at Makoto, gaze warm - and leans in closer.

Makoto takes a shaky breath, giddy laughter escaping him before he finally - finally presses their lips together.

Everything goes quiet, still, in the instant their lips touch - almost as if the universe itself had stopped, halting time’s relentless journey, to bear witness to their union.

No story is without its woes, and this one is no exception.

Happy though they were, Makoto began to notice Haru’s sleep grow shorter, more disturbed. He began to see Haru’s eyes grow distant, gaze turned to the horizon, to something Makoto could not see.

The hours Haru used to spend in the water, he now spent pacing, nervous.

His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palm, hard enough to break skin-

Makoto dabbed at the wounds with a wet cloth, both of them silent, Haru’s gaze once more drawn somewhere Makoto could not go.

“Haru,” Makoto finally said, voice thick with tears, “is it the ocean’s call?”

Haru’s hand tensed in Makoto’s grip, then slackened.

“Yes,” he said, tired, defeated, “it’s stronger now. I can’t- I can’t ignore it.”

“Then let me go with you-”

Haru shook his head.

“I can’t.”

Haru turned to him then, and Makoto saw the apology in his gaze.

Still, he asked, “Will you stay?”

Eyes cast down, Haru drew his hand away - and shook his head.

The night is quiet - Makoto and Haru lay together, legs tangled, Makoto’s head pressed against Haru’s shoulder, and Haru’s fingers in Makoto’s hair, brushing against Makoto’s ears.

There are far too many things to say, far too many things Makoto wants to ask for - a guarantee, a promise - but he says nothing, asks for nothing, only tightens his grip around Haru’s waist.  

The day Haru left dawned like any other, dry desert heat heavy in Makoto’s throat, sand stinging his eyes.

Haru mounted his camel, and turned to Makoto, gaze bright.

He held out his hand.

The sunlight played gently against the curve of his jaw, the fall of his hair, and Makoto swallowed, taking Haru’s hand with a shaky breath.

“Will you stay?,” Haru asked, quietly.

And wait for me? Makoto heard in the silence.

Makoto dipped his head, nearly trembling with the effort of keeping his tears at bay.

Of course I will, he wanted to say, the silence of the desert turns to music in your presence, the beat of my heart has found its harmony with yours - you were the answer to my wish-

But his voice would not work, his lips would not part, and so, he could only nod.

And Haru smiled.

“And so the tale ends-”

“Hold on,” you protest, “There are so many questions unanswered - why was the ocean calling him? Did he come back? How long did the djinn wait?”

The man chuckles at your outrage, shaking his head as he stands.

“That is an entirely different tale altogether, and unfortunately, it seems that the day is at its end.”

You turn, surprised to see he is correct - the sun has long since gone down, and the stalls have all been packed up - the chill you hadn’t felt before hits you now, and you shiver.

You look back to the man, his green eyes amused.

“Will you be back tomorrow?”

His only answer is a smile, and you know you will get no further words out of him.

“Thank you,” you say grudgingly, and hurry away, eager to get to warmth.

“Makoto,” you hear as you turn a corner, “It’s time to go.”

”Makoto.”

Haru’s voice is as low and as carefully blank as always. Still, the anticipation, the impatience shines clearly in wide blue eyes.

“Almost done, Haru,” Makoto assures, swiping a grease stained arm across his brow, dashing away the sweat as he straightens. He casts a final look inside the hood of Haru’s car, “You were lucky. It could’ve been worse.”

Much worse.

The terrifying memory of tires screeching, desperate to find traction, echo in Makoto’s ears. He swallows, eyes falling involuntarily shut against the image of an unfamiliar car - an amateur behind its wheel, driving far more eagerly than his skill allowed - skidding out of a curve.

And clipping Haru.

It had happened much too quickly, and still, time seemed to have slowed -  the blue of Haru’s car blurred as it spun out, yet the sun’s light had caught it, glittering softly, gently against its surface.

For a breathless, uncomprehending moment, he’d thought it almost beautiful, almost graceful. Then, as cold terror turned to adrenaline, he’d despised himself for it.

If it had been anything more than a friendly match, if Haru had already begun to accelerate, if they had crashed into each other-

Makoto shakes his head, reaching up to ease the hood down. He knows he’s gripping the metal far too tightly, knows he should be past this, should have been past this long ago -  but the words he’d rehearsed to himself too many times, the words his own family had spoken to him, rests on the tip of his tongue, desperate to be voiced.

Please stop this. It’s too dangerous - I can’t watch you do this, I can’t keep wondering if you’re going to come back home.

Words he should have said when Haru hard first discovered racing - first discovered street racing.

But-

Makoto still remembers the light in Haru’s eyes. He still remembers the way Haru had come to him, breathless, nearly shaking as he’d explained, with far too few words, what he’d done.  

Makoto had been horrified. He’d grabbed onto Haru, searching him for injuries, demanding to know what he’d been thinking-

But Haru had just looked up at him, a spark of life in his eyes Makoto hadn’t seen in years, and breathed, “I’ve never felt so free.”

He still remembers the long nights spent researching, the hunt for parts, carefully worded questions to the local mechanic, who had looked at them with suspicion, but answered them nonetheless.

He remembers Haru’s poorly hidden frustration each time he came back from the test drive - and he hadn’t said a word, but Makoto had understood.

Haru needed it faster, faster - as fast as he needed to feel free.

He remembers the first time Haru had returned with that breathless excitement lighting up his eyes once more. The first time Haru had said to him, “Come with me.”

Watching Haru drive had always been a beautiful sight - the way the car seemed to glide along the road, sliding so smoothly through the turns that the sound of tires against the asphalt seemed almost out of place.

But being beside Haru when he drove - it was quiet, it was peace - even Haru’s deft movements couldn’t break the stillness that seemed to envelope them. It was, Makoto realised, breath caught as his gaze lingered on Haru’s smile, freedom.

(When the car slowed to a stop, when Haru had turned to him, eyes bright, questioning - a chilling heat had flooded through him. Uncertain, wanting, Makoto had reached forward, thumb rubbing lightly against Haru’s jaw, gaze held by unblinking blue, before he’d leaned in, eager to taste the smile he’d been captured by.)

It’s that smile that stops Makoto - that has stopped Makoto countless times from begging Haru to end it, from trying to convince him that it was too dangerous. That Makoto couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle the terror, the panic before every race, wondering if this was the one Haru wouldn’t be able to come back from.

Makoto sighs, swallowing the words once again, letting the hood fall close before he turns to Haru with a smile.

“All done.”

Haru’s eyes light up as he pushes himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. He’s by Makoto’s side in two strides, running reverent hands over the repaired hood. Makoto laughs as Haru’s gaze flicks to the side, eyeing the road, calculating.

“Haru, no,” Makoto says, tugging lightly at Haru’s jacket, careful to keep the grease away from the leather, “It’s 4am, and it’s pitch dark, you promised you wouldn’t do this.”

Haru huffs, turning his head away almost sulkily even as he steps closer.

“This wouldn’t be a problem if you’d just come during normal business hours.”

Haru looks to him then, amusement in his eyes as he turns, leaning against the hood.

“Says the person who freaked out when his boss walked in on us kissing.”

Makoto flushes lightly as Haru reaches for his hand, tugging him closer, “Haru, wait, don’t- I just repaired that!”

“And you did a great job,” Haru says, shifting his grip to Makoto’s undershirt as he pulls Makoto down, breath hot against Makoto’s lips as he smiles, “Ready for the payment?”

“Haru-” Makoto groans, exasperated, barely steadying himself against the hood, hands planted on either side of Haru. He catches the sparkle in blue eyes, and huffs out a sigh, smiling as he closes the distance. At the soft brush of Makoto’s tongue against his lips, Haru lets out a satisfied hum, tilting his head back, and Makoto shivers as a familiar heat runs through him.

He presses against Haru, the rhythm of Haru’s heart quickening against him still making his own beat faster, after all these years. Eyelashes brush against his cheek, nearly fluttering, and he knows if he opens his eyes now, it would be to Haru’s half-lidded gaze- warmed, darkened. He pushes in even closer - but Haru tenses, and he freezes.

Haru’s injuries.

Makoto pulls away, stuttering apologies, still near enough to feel Haru’s warm breath against his lips, near enough to catch the frustration flashing through Haru’s eyes.

Relenting, Makoto settles his weight on one hand, reaching up with the other to draw a gentle touch along the bruise on Haru’s cheek. He shifts, pressing a light kiss to the injury, and another, and another - praying for Haru’s safety with each kiss.

“Makoto,” Haru says, impatient, hushed, in Makoto’s ear.

“Mm,” Makoto murmurs, hand falling, sliding under the worn material of Haru’s t-shirt, settling against the small of Haru’s back, just to feel Haru’s skin, cool against his palm, “Sorry.”

He buries his face into the curve of Haru’s neck, before letting out a nearly shuddering breath, “Sorry,” he says once more, lips shaping the word almost like a kiss.

He doesn’t know how much he’s apologizing for - doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for not being strong enough to prioritize Haru’s life over his passion, for not being strong enough to make Haru understand, to make Haru choose. For being selfish enough to refuse to be the reason that smile disappears.

If Haru knew about these thoughts, would he still have his arms around Makoto? Would his fingers still be tracing unconscious patterns into his back? Makoto has no answers, and only hopes, desperately, that he deserves the comfort he’s taking from Haru’s touch.

He raises his head as Haru draws him close once more, and allows himself to be set adrift in the building warmth, in their hitching breaths, in Haru’s hand in his hair.

Until Haru pulls away, a breathless, “Makoto,” on his lips. And Makoto knows that tone - it’s burned into his memory.

Still, he turns with Haru’s nudge, and he’s laughing even before he lays eyes on the coming dawn.

“Alright, Haru. Now’s fine.”

He tries to step away, but Haru’s grip on him doesn’t loosen, and he’s trapped in Haru’s hold, blinking in confusion against Haru’s deliberating gaze. Just as he’s about to ask what’s wrong, Haru leans in, pressing a quick kiss against Makoto’s lips before releasing him, pulling the car keys out of his pocket.

“You drive,” he says with a rare grin, and, taking advantage of Makoto’s surprise, continues, “you haven’t forgotten how, have you, Big Orca?”

Makoto immediately grabs at the keys, frowning automatically at the ridiculous nickname he’d been given when he’d still been racing with Haru.

“Of course not, Silent Dolphin.”

“I told you I wanted to be called Grilled Mackerel.”

“You don’t get to choose your own nickname, Haru.”

And it’s this - the laughter in Haru’s voice, the sparkle in his eyes, that settles all of Makoto’s fears, uncertainties.

Because as long as Haru’s happy, as long as he’s free, he’ll always return to Makoto’s side.

Makoto wakes, barely, to the sound of rain tapping against the window, to a murmur in his ear, to a light touch against his forehead, gentler than the sleep that calls to him still.

“Makoto.”

Makoto hums, questioning as he shifts towards the familiar voice; eyes sliding closed once more.

“Makoto,” Haru whispers again, urging, hand warm against Makoto’s cheek.

“Mmph,” Makoto says, blindly reaching up to cover Haru’s hand with his, turning to press his lips against Haru’s palm “Wh’time is it?”

Far too early, he’s guessing, when he realises the distinct lack of scrabbling against tiles or any other surface Makkou had deemed suitable for his scratching needs. Haru’s deliberate silence only confirms it.

“Early enough that Makkou’s still sleeping,” Haru says eventually, “I have to go. The meeting.”

Makoto nods slowly, taking a deep breath as he begins to shift, pushing himself up.

Haru stops him with a light nudge to his shoulder, and Makoto lets out a questioning sound that sounds embarrassingly like one of Makkou’s whines.

“It’s okay, Makoto,” Haru says, when Makoto forces his eyes open and turns his gaze to a soft smile and blue eyes darkened in the dim light, “You don’t have to get up. I just wanted to let you know.”

Makoto considers this for a second. In this moment, wrapped in still-warm blankets and Haru’s voice in his ear, the idea of going back to sleep without risking the chill of the early morning, or the split-second of loneliness he’s bound to feel at the click of the door shutting behind Haru, or the quiet trek back to a bed with an empty space he’ll be awake enough to feel - is far too tempting to refuse.

So he nods once more, sitting up instead to pull Haru in, pressing a chaste kiss to Haru’s lips.

“Take care,” he murmurs, hand running lightly through Haru’s hair before he pulls away.

“Sleep well,” Haru says, as soft as the brief touch of fingers against the back of Makoto’s neck.

Makoto falls asleep to Haru whispering a goodbye to Makkou, a smile tugging at his lips.

Makkou isn’t nearly as considerate with his wake-up calls, and Makoto wakes for a second time with a heavy weight on his chest, a mouthful of fur, and a nose in his ear.

“Makkou-!,” he groans, patting Makkou lightly as he rises, taking a moment to stretch when Makkou jumps to the floor, peering up at Makoto, looking for all the world like he’d been sat there, waiting patiently the entire time. He huffs out a laugh, helpless affection warm in his chest as he shakes his head lightly.

“Good morning, Makkou,” Makoto says, getting out of bed and taking a moment to rub at Makkou’s ears.

His own greeting brings to mind Haru’s soft farewell to Makkou earlier - affectionate, almost automatic - a far cry from the awkward mumbling it had been when Makoto had first informed him that he’d need to actually speak to their dog.

(“Just because he has my name doesn’t mean he can read your mind, Haru!”

Haru had looked down at Makkou settled firmly on his lap, blinking up at him, and Makoto can see Haru thinking that Makkou is probably just as perplexed as he is about Makoto’s insistence.

“We understand each other.”)

“Haru’s at work,” Makoto continues as he casts his gaze around the room, zeroing in instantly on his jacket, left draped over Haru’s desk chair, “so it’s just you and me today.”

He’s across the room in two strides, Makkou padding along behind him as he pulls the jacket on. The fabric is soft against his skin, worn from Haru’s frequent use. It’s a favourite of theirs - a favourite of Haru’s for its warmth, and a favourite of Makoto’s for the way Haru zips it up as far as it can go, pulls the hood up, and tucks his hands into the too-big sleeves.

It’s far too early in the morning for it to be of much use to him, but Haru’s scent lingers in the fabric - familiar, comforting - and it warms him just the same.

Makkou circles around him, making his way outside to the stand where his leash hangs, tail wagging lightly now that the reality of their morning run draws closer.

Makoto laughs lightly at Makkou’s eagerness, and he’s lifting the leash off the hook when something falls to the ground in a pink flutter.

Makoto blinks down at the floor as Makkou paws at the... post-it note? Makoto kneels and wraps an arm around Makkou to calm him. He reaches for the note, Haru’s handwriting clear now that he’s closer.

Good morning, Makoto, Makkou, it reads, Have a good run.

The script is just a hair messier than normal, and Makoto can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as he imagines Haru penning the note in the dark, pressing it carefully to Makkou’s leash. Makoto folds the note carefully, sliding it into his pocket as he turns to Makkou.

Makkou noses at Makoto’s pocket, turning to fix Makoto with a reproachful look when he fails to reach the note. Makoto grins.

“Come on, Makkou, ready for our run?”

Makkou huffs at him and turns away to scratch lightly at the door.

Haru, Makoto imagines himself saying as he clips the leash to Makkou’s collar, the next time you leave a note, leave one for Makkou too.

I’m cooking lunch - what would you like to eat, Haru? Makoto texts Haru hours later, as he and Makkou huddle in front of the open fridge, seeking respite from the relentless heat of the afternoon sun.

He has his eye on the beef he’d managed to sneak into their cart on their last grocery trip - to Haru’s consternation.

(Haru had turned slowly, disbelieving, to Makoto as the cashier bagged the beef.

Makoto had kept his gaze straight ahead, struggling to keep his smile at bay.

Haru’s eyes narrowed as Makoto paid and accepted their groceries with a cheerful, “Thank you!”

Then Makoto turned to Haru, all attempts at holding back his grin abandoned as he’d asked, “Is everything okay, Haru?”)

He’s been planning the perfect meal for it, so he’s hoping-

Mackerel, comes the near immediate response, dashing that hope to pieces.

Haru, predictably, doesn’t follow up with a ‘just kidding’, so the beef goes right back into the freezer. Makoto heaves a heavy sigh as he reaches for the pile of mackerel Haru had spent an hour arranging.

Makkou, traitor that he is, perks up at the sight of the fish, padding along behind Makoto as he makes his way to the counter. Makoto crouches down, rubbing apologetically between Makkou’s ears.

“Sorry, Makkou, can’t give that to you,” he says, and Makkou huffs, turning right back around to nose at the fridge.

Free of curious canines for the moment, Makoto rises, and reaches out grab at one of the two aprons, identical in every conceivable way. It’s been long enough now that he can control the smile that tugs at his lips as his fingers catch the ties of the one that his handwriting proudly proclaims as ‘Haru-chan’, the ‘-chan’ marred by a bold line struck through it.

(“Ah, I didn’t realise they were the same colours! Sorry, Haru...”

“Just write our names on them.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s no point getting new ones... Then, this will be Haru’s-”

“Oka- Wait, Makoto!”

Makoto laughs, stretching his arms above his head, far out of Haru’s reach. It doesn’t stop Haru from trying, hands on Makoto’s shoulder, attempting, with no results, to push him down to a more agreeable height.

“Don’t write the ‘chan’-!”

“But it’s already halfway written, Haru!”)

He runs a light touch against the dark blob beneath Haru’s name - something Makoto had meant to be a dolphin, and after the first few weeks of trying to make sense of it, he thinks he can vaguely make out the fins.

Makoto startles slightly, jarred out of the memory by an almost despondent squeak of what he assumes to be one of Makkou’s toys.

Laughing, he immediately texts Haru a, Makkou misses you.

Then, after battling with himself for only a moment, he sends, Almost as much as I do.

Heat lingering in his cheeks, he sets the phone down without waiting for a reply, and begins preparing lunch.

The first thing Haru says when he returns, after “I’m home.”, is, “Where’s Makkou?”

“Welcome back!” Makoto calls out, not looking up from where he’s setting the table, “He’s sulking in the living room-”

He’s interrupted by heat against his back, Haru’s muffled voice against his skin, and Makoto can barely make out the, “I missed you too.”

“Haru, wait-” Makoto laughs, as Haru latches onto him, arms wrapped tightly around Makoto’s waist, head resting heavily on Makoto’s back. He’s warm; almost too warm, exuding heat that seems nearly feverish.

Makoto shifts, and Haru loosens his grip just enough for Makoto to twist around and press a light kiss to the tip of Haru’s nose. As Makoto turns away to set the last dish down, Haru pushes his face into Makoto’s back, and a soft smile steals across Makoto’s lips.

He allows himself this moment, allows himself to savour the quiet rhythm of Haru’s breaths, the solid weight of Haru against him, the gentle brush of fur against his leg that announces Makkou’s presence. He breathes, once. Twice. Then Haru’s pulling away, head butting gently against Makoto’s shoulder, turning his attention to Makkou.

Haru drops to his knees with a quiet, pleased, “Hey,”. Makkou barrels into Haru’s outstretched arms.

“Lunch is ready,” Makoto says, after a moment, as Makkou attempts to turn Haru’s shirt into a fur coat.

Haru nods, leaving Makkou with a final pat as he extricates himself from the whirl of fur and paws.

“I just need to change,” Haru says, rising, “I won’t be long.”

Despite that reassuring promise, Makoto still finds himself following along behind Haru, refusing to entertain the niggling thought that maybe he’s picking up too many of Makkou’s habits.

“How was the meeting?” he asks as Haru shrugs his shirt off, laying it carefully over the desk chair.

“It went fine,” Haru says, and Makoto honestly means to ask Haru to elaborate, but when Haru pulls on a fresh t-shirt, smiling at Makoto, with the slightest ruffle in his hair, Makoto’s breathless.

He’s pulling Haru in for a kiss before he realises he’s crossed the room, hand gentle against the curve of Haru’s jaw, as gentle as the fluttering of Haru’s eyelashes against his skin.

The distant squeak of Makkou’s toy is what breaks them apart, and Makoto laughs as Haru huffs out a sigh. Makoto steps back, and runs a hand through Haru’s hair, combing the errant locks back into place.

“All better,” he says, just a tinge of embarrassment in his voice as Haru watches him, eyes half-lidded, amused, “Now let’s go eat.”

It’s nearly midnight, and they’re lying together in the living room, in the dark, heads on separate pillows, facing away from each other.

It’s something they’d used to do in Iwatobi, something they might have called a tradition, if they’d spoken about it. Something they haven’t done since they’d moved out - moved to Tokyo for university years ago.

Makoto barely remembers how it’d started, only remembers lying on Haru’s living room floor, both facing away from each other, and Haru’s hesitant, quiet words - speaking of his father moving to another city for work, his fear that he’d be left behind, or worse, that he’d be a burden - lose his independence. That cities are much bigger than Iwatobi, and that he doesn’t know what he should wish for when both options terrify him.

Makoto remembers being frozen, afraid that if he’d so much as twitch, it’d break the spell, and Haru’s voice would be lost.

He remembers the long silence that had come after, the only sound in the room their breaths - Haru’s the slightest bit unsteady.

Then Makoto had spoken, talking about how much he loved his younger siblings, he really did. He wanted nothing more than to be able to protect them, to guide them, to be as good at taking care of them as Haru had taken care of him. But sometimes they looked up at him, large eyes bright only with trust, and love, and it scares him. It scares him because he doesn’t know if he can live up to that figure, that person they seem to see in him that he can’t find in himself.

Silence had fallen once more, and the unsteady breath had been Makoto’s.

Haru had taken Makoto’s hand in his then, saying nothing other than a simple, “Thank you.”

Makoto could only nod, and they had fallen asleep like that, waking up in the morning, curled together, with no words exchanged other than the farewell at the door when it was time for Makoto to return.

It had happened again, over the years - never discussed - it would have been nearly spontaneous, if they hadn’t known each other as well as they did.

Lying here like this now, in their shared apartment- years away from the teenagers they had been, teenagers who hadn’t known how to speak honestly without cover of darkness, without the illusion of solitude- it brings a smile to Makoto’s lips, a smile that barely contains the laugh struggling to break free.

“What’s so funny?” Haru asks, voice as quiet as the first night they’d done this, but content the way it’s never been before.

Makoto shakes his head, eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling.

“Nothing. Just- I’m glad to be here. I-” he hesitates then, nearly swallowing the cliche words threatening to trip off his tongue.

But if he can’t be honest here, like this, when could he say it?

“It feels like every moment,” he continues, slowly, every word considered, given the weight they had held in his throat, “since I was born, was leading up to this.”

“To what?”

And they both know what Makoto had meant, but the bravery their tradition granted him had not fled just yet, so he says it anyway.