bathed in starlight @lumi-lex - Tumblr Blog

way down in kamakura

From the sand to the sea, Iwaizumi Hajime is your person—no, not like that. It's never been like that. You're just friends, but... friends don't kiss, do they?

pairing: iwaizumi/f!reader

tags: surfer au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst, sex is implied but no smut, very vague mentions of financial issues & familial problems (on hajime's side), undertones of a toxic relationship (not between hajime/reader), cheating (not between hajime/reader), alcohol, one mention of a past surfing incident that resulted in a hospital trip. unedited, and i hope that's ok!

my gift to the lovely @tootsuro as a part of @sodaneko 's hq summer fic exchange! please enjoy <3

Keep a low centre of gravity.

Water rifts over the nose of his board, hitting the ankles that stay stable atop the deck, clinging the wetsuit to mould to the skin of his body.

Ride the broken wave.

He’s elated, his movements complemented with fluency. The curl of his lips is one that had stemmed from an intangible pull, an unexplained force that always had its way of bringing him back here. To the waves.

Arch the back of it.

He hears the cheers, follows with the ripple of blue that meets below him.

Conceit pulses through veins. It pools in the pit of his stomach, multiplying with the relaxed stance he presents on the deck.

Dominant foot on the tail, other on the deck. Eye the shift of the waft.

He shifts his weight to the foot that sits back, arching the board to the rise of water that crashes beneath him.

Lower yourself with haste, but stability. Chest against the deck, fingers curled around the rails.

Spectacular. Gorgeous. It's what they muse, where the sea meets the sand. Vowels of his name drifting off tongues, admiration and praise mixing with the crashing of waves as he paddles himself to shore.

Hair sticks to his face. Liquified jewels trail down tendrils, to land atop his nose, to glaze the tanned skin that is left exposed to the daylight.

The call of the depths fade away. It's the song of the ocean, one that stays ringing in his head, when toes finally begin to wiggle themselves between grains of sand.

Two bodies follow behind him, just dancing the line of his vision as he strains his neck to look back, board tucked under an armpit when he throws them a smile. It almost teeters the edge of arrogance as the voices of people around them begin to tune out.

It’s just him, him and his board. Him and his talent, his drive, his power.

They walk like they own the beach, ambled strolls towards the line of shacks that sit further from the shore accompanied by pats on the backs, and words of flattery swirling around their heads.

Still wet, still dripping, wetsuit still shadowing the ridges of his chest, he orders a Sprite. One friend gets a piña colada, last ordering himself a mojito –– “no alcohol,” per usual.

He stands, elbow resting against the ageing wood of the shack, immobile mouth around the purple straw. Shallow sips, he takes, salty water still racing down skin, damp hair still clinging to his face.

Simple acts of interest had dabbled into a vilifying trade, of sorts. It goes to show how the crowd had now dispersed, no longer huddling together, watching men ride the ripest of waves under the beating down sun. They still surf along the rise of waves, devoid of any attention, that is.

He scoffs, swallowing down his drink. Nose in the air, he eyes the crash of waves. The sun that hits down on it, the groups of people that run along the sand.

Something in his chest jumps—it flinches up, and lands in content. It sounds out the letters of his name, that same damn force pulling him back to it again.

Anticipation trails his eyebrows, restiveness taps at his thigh. Perhaps it’s the thrill of it—perhaps it’s the thought that he could get sent over the falls.

He brandishes the square of his shoulders, fast water pulling his feet to shift from their spot, forgone drink slammed onto the counter.

He ignores the call of his friends, fingers instead tucked under the rail of his board as he jogs towards the shore. Every meeting of feet to sand is a boost for energy. He runs, toes sinking into grains until it slaps against the water, the race of his legs unsullied when he drifts into the ocean, board flat against the water as he paddles himself further out.

The horizon is blurry, line presented endless when he pops up, feet flat on the deck as he challenges the waves that dare to egg him on.

Hajime kisses the water like it holds secrets. He always finds himself back here—surfboard in hand, leash around an ankle—like the blue holds some profound truth. Like it’s the only thing that can mend the sorry pieces of his too-big heart together.

The fitful beat of his heart lessens to a neutral one, the anticipation that had lined the trail of veins had dispelled. He sighs aloud, mix of air partnered with euphoria when he eyes a pocket.

Until the rise of the sun, to its setting. Hajime is where home is, where life meets its meaning, where hearts are daubed in jumps of ecstasy.

He inhales, shuts his eyes, exhales. Water slaps at his legs, itching the material of his wetsuit to rub up against his ankles. It’s irritant, but he doesn’t mind. Instead, he studies the blue that mixes with white, which paints the space in front of him.

A smile sparks at his lips—it twitches the corners of his mouth, raising them up with a patter of fingers to his thigh.

Hajime inhales the crisp air, and tastes it on his tongue.

---

You wake with a jolt, sweat lining the wake of your spine and the skin of your neck.

Dried drool trails the round of your cheeks, pooling in your mouth when you rise in a daze, elbows digging into the cushion for leverage.

The first thing you notice is that it’s chilly. Notably so. Second, that the room is no longer hues of orange and gold, but instead a darkened blue.

Blinking away the sleep that clouds your eyes, you pat around for your phone that sits next to you. The space and air around you are blue. It’s the dead of night, and the moon is at her peak.

Sun’s absent to warm your skin, or to heat the wood that sits in the room. Rising your hands over your head, groggy limbs stutter as you stretch the sleep out of it, yawning and mewling when rigid air rifts into the room, brushing through the curtains and into the intimate space.

The only sound that spills in from outside is the crash of waves. Calls of mothers for their children have long since dispelled, as they’ve retreated into the warmth of their villas for the night.

Beer cans and emptied bags of chips line the wood of the floors, your passed-out friends strewn across both the floor, and the sofas. Watari snores loudly. Akiko's knee digs into his back as he shifts in his sleep.

The balcony door had remained open, you notice, curtains dancing along with the waft of wind that enters in from outside. Along with it, does it bring the scent of the sea. It seeps into the corners of your mouth, staining clothes both raw and briny.

The midnight moon hits the wooden floors in the room, line of lighting tinting the white cushion that sits beneath you. Your eyelids are heavy, room humid when you shift in your position.

Muscles slack, hands limp, you coax yourself back into a much-needed nap. Pins of saltwater nip at your skin, irritable and sticky as it clings to your flesh. You inhale, and eyes of yours shift within the four walls, studying your friends sleeping around the room.

Pyjamas. You need pyjamas. You need to sleep.

Alcohol stays swirling in your system, and your throat feels awfully dry.

A crown of hair drifts into the room—which you only half acknowledge. You let your eyes flutter shut, darkening your vision when you mumble unintelligible words aloud.

“Oh.”

They drift right back open, blinking over to where the voice stands.

“You’re up,” he finishes.

“You’re up,” you counter, rising to your feet.

“... Water?”

“Please.”

You follow after Hajime, the sound of your feet against wood light in comparison to the waves that sound from outside. Hajime leads you to Akiko’s kitchen, granting you with a bottle of water before eyeing you take a sip.

“Why're you up?”

The first reply you get is a single shrug. Then, “I’m always up at this time.”

You cock an eyebrow. “At... three in the morning?”

Hajime nods. “Yeah. Especially with the event comin’ up. Beach is empty, so why not?”

It takes a second for you to respond, eyelids falling into slits as you study the flayed flesh of his bottom lip, picking at the wrapper of your water.

“Hajime–” you huff out, rubbing your palm over sore eyes. “You do realize that for the event, you need to be... like, well-rested?”

A mischievous gleam shines below his eyes.

“You care about me!” Hajime leans in giggling, stamping a sloppy smooch to the rise of your cheek.

Your throat vibrates as you groan aloud. Shoving Hajime away, the back of your wrist goes to work at haphazardly wiping away the saliva swiped across your cheek.

“My God, Hajime, you fucking wet dog– all I’m saying is passing out on your board will get you nowhere.”

Hajime scoffs, taking no offence. His ego tugs at his lips for him, eyes bright when he studies the sleep that hides behind your irises. “I’m already the best.”

You scoff, but the smile that brazenly teases your lips is not missed by Hajime. He smirks back, nudging you while leaning against the kitchen counter.

It’s silent for a while, space between you warm. It’s quiet, sapphire ambiance taking up all four corners, breeze grazing your lips when you pocket your phone, clutching your water bottle before standing up.

“I should get going. I don’t really fancy waking up with a sore neck tomorrow. And I'd prefer my own bed, y’know?”

You’re still dressed in your clothes from earlier in the day—sports shorts and a loose top. Sand grains are still nudged between your toes, itching you every time you wiggle them together.

“Let me walk you.”

You pause, eyes fluttering shut to prevent them from falling into Hajime’s. He stands, eyes of his own dropping down to the collarbone that peeks from your delicate skin, swim shorts low on his legs when he studies you, mouth a line before you’re stuttering out an answer.

“You don’t have to.”

“Like you said, it’s three in the morning.”

You sigh aloud, eyes peeling open. You lazily drag them over his features, which are shadowed within the pacific aura. He’s propped up against the counter, body outlined by the lamp that spills in from the hallway. Feet shuffling against each other, you reply with agreement, hesitant bitter to your teeth before you pick up your sweatshirt that previously lay on the couch, swinging it over your shoulders.

The moon teases you from above when you shift the french doors shut, twisting at the black lock before laying a blanket over Kunumi's sleeping figure.

A pair of feet pads over to the white door of the living room, opening it with caution as it creaks between movements. Residual sleepiness still teases you, steps feeble to the wooden floor as you both glide out the room and into the hallway. The space is quiet when you trail the corridor after Hajime, emptying out into the entry room with a huff of air.

Paintings stay lining the walls, jackets hanging off the racks. The sleek, modern design is dark to your eyes –– no light present to cast shadows over the leather, or the rug that sits beneath your bare feet.

You continue on, bumping into a wooden entrance table that shakes upon its meeting, a byproduct of the sleepiness that still fogs your mind out. A curse pushes through gritted teeth as you try to stabilize it.

“Idiot,” you hear throughout the darkness, raspy voice rifting in the air.

“Dumbass,” you shoot back, which prompts an airy chuckle.

Hajime replies. “Don't make me blush.”

Your throat stumbles over a retort when fingers graze the skin of your hips, a palm then curling around the flesh to guide you closer to the door.

“Careful...” he whispers. Right onto the heated shell of your ear.

You’re careful not to let your internal thoughts show with a falter of your smile. You curse internally, when it shows through your stiff snort.

He opts to ignore you, feet sliding into his slippers before he commands you to do the same. You follow, hand reaching over to pull the front door open with tentative fingers.

The sky is a murky blue—fog blends the sea and sky together, reconciled under the moon that reflects off of it, bouncing the ice azure to land on everything around it. It’s all wrapped together under a blanket of stars, and you know you’ll never get used to this sight.

With Hajime, you walk. Daft wind meets your hair, brushing through the curls that dance within the breeze. Walking over the stone path and between the plants, you eye the nearing sand. Hajime’s figure is hefty next to yours, chest blocking the chilly wind that threatens to slap at your face.

The shacks are—to no surprise—closed. A fault-finding feeling tugs at your lips and pulls them downwards at the rundown paint that tints a shack a shade of goji. It peels off the wood, layer of paint worn down from the years of assault from nature’s afflictions. You study it, eyes then blinking over the wood and sand that pools at your feet.

It’s a sound that is the breakage of your internal monologue, eyes pulling away hurriedly from the wood that rots and to the sidewalk that stretches out from behind you. There, you only spot Hajime. Hajime, with his sheepish grin wide on his reddening face, phone in his large palms where he stays standing.

You’re silent, as is he. Stuttering in place, your eyes widen just slightly as he picks at his phone case. Reticence clear on tender features, he makes a move to chuckle bashfully into the air. He sheepishly curls his shoulders into himself, hair blowing in the wind, coastal cerulean moulding into the shades of his face.

“I’m not a creep.”

You laugh because you’re not sure what else to do. You’re afraid that if you don’t, the nervous fidget of your fingers will give you away. They twitch over lint lining the lilac of your sweatshirt, shoulders squared, racking your brain for a clever reply.

“Send me that photo,” you say—whisper—though your voice seems to compete with the crashing of waves.

“Yeah– it’s just that... you- you look... nice. You look pretty.”

Edges fogged out, you turn before Hajime can see your face turn soft. You continue walking.

Hajime rushes after you, fingers curling your wrist to slow you down.

He stumbles out your name, voice meek in the air that hits your ears. He syncs his pace to yours, same damn look stretched across his face.

Velvet coats the tips of his ears—both from embarrassment, and the chilly air—akin to a fresh berry, picked with care. Hajime does best to ignore the pang of humiliation and longing that rings within the depths of his heart. He can’t help it. He’s tried.

“Hajime–” you pause abruptly, spine erect when your brows meet in the middle, lips tugged down and face pinched together—and just like that, he finds himself back at stage one. "We said... Hajime, we said–”

“I know what we said. I also know what we did.”

Your eyes snap up into his. You fall into them—so easily, like it’s your first home. You tear them out, and there they go falling into the waves.

“Hajime.”

He looks down at you, eyes begging for a vision into yours. He reaches fingers out—so calloused, so damaged, but so gentle as he delves them so softly into the skin of your clavicle.

You don’t pull back. You don’t want to —not when he trails the flesh of your scar and kisses it with rough fingertips. So subtle, so natural. But you shift away. It’s as if a gust from the waters push you back, as if the ocean stays to claim what’s hers.

He speaks your name like it’s a secret, swathed in silk and dipped in jewels. Hands move to cup your face, whispering against the skin of your cheeks when you peer at him through heavy eyelashes.

He opens his mouth to speak, then you open your mouth to speak. Lips parted, only a syllable can slip through your lips—lips Hajime yearns to have pressed against his own. Just once more.

The door of the shack you’re stood in front of swings open, unbridled in a strong gust of wind that flies through the beach. It whizzes closed with force, bang of wood sending a sharp jerk throughout your body.

Your head whips in its direction, teeth digging into your tongue before it whips back to Hajime, who has since stilled. He stands stiff. He seems just as apprehensive as you, fingers inflexible on either side of your face. A finger stays ready on the trigger, an aloof role painted over your features as you throw him a look of query.

Dawning a furrow of your brows, Hajime then pulls back, though not before his eyes have darted down to the flesh of your collarbone. You swiftly glance down, feel of his eyes burning into the top of your head. You look back quick enough, catching him in the action of studying the jewelry that hangs from your neck.

Your body decides for you—clutching it between a clenched fist, silver cold to your fingers as teeth sink into your bottom lip.

Hajime’s eyes flicker up to irrevocably fall into your own. You tear them away straight away, a cracked wall up and strong between you, as the letter that sits in your palm burns your skin.

Hajime is no more than three feet away from you. His breath mixes with the wind, brushing at the flesh of your face. Though, in this space, circled by the Atlantic spirit that leaves pattered kisses to his eyelashes, does he feel a gulf’s width away from you.

He clears his throat—a simple action, so mundane in an empty doctor’s office—but so loud to your ears. It’s a rupture in the air, and though Hajime is so close to you, is he so far. He is deviating from the other side of the ocean, fiendish air nicking the edges of your vulnerable body.

A cessation of realization, he’d hope for. Hajime knows he can only be so lucky.

Your fist twitches as he opens his mouth, the fist that closes in on the letter that bites at you. It asks to be let out, snivelling out near implicit screams for mercy, but you shut it up as nails print half-moons into the heel of your palm.

“Let’s get going,” he bites.

There’s a still filled with shifty silence.

You’re the first to turn, because you always are. Slippers slap against the pavement, shoulders daring to bump into each other as you walk in the direction of your house. Most days, you sulk that it’s not too far, today, you rejoice. It’s a silent routine for you, how Hajime will stand at the end of the stone that leads up to your door, sure to stay until your bedroom light flickers on and you wave from your window.

You distract yourself, head tilting down to bring up some shitty game onto your phone. Hajime glances west, eyeing the rise and fall of undulating waves.

The air is thick, and presents itself hard to ignore.

But that’s not anything the two of you haven’t done before.

---

As the moon had begun to disappear, the midnight sky had then bled into a candied cyan. Powdered clouds dot over the top, sun splintering through the white dust to heat the ground below.

A popsicle cold between lips, she dances her toes into the honeyed grains that meet from below her. The sun beats down, a stark contrast to what it was just ten hours ago.

The beach is lively, people of all ages lounging and running across the expanse of it, beach volleyball and umbrellas much of what takes up the space of your vision.

Internally, you curse the sun for being so damn hot. It melts the ice of your drink too quick—in addition to her popsicle, the cherry sweet liquifying against her mouth, sugary snack trailing down her chin to lay between her chest.

Huffing, she shuts her book, working through tangled earphones as she struggles to wipe it up—she must be praying nobody is watching this happen. She raises a finger to her mouth, sucking clean the melted cerise.

“Damn.”

“Don’t be weird.”

“Akiko’s right. She’s cute.”

Unbeknownst to her, four pairs of eyes stay trained on her very movements. They study her from head to toe, shade from a shack keeping them cool from the raging sun.

You all line the rounded wood of the table with some pristine facade, as if you haven’t been eyeing the girl with curiosity for the past ten minutes. Mattsun shifts in his seat, top loose to the ridges of his chest, boba drink slithering to ease the tension within his throat.

Hajime hops in place from his own seat next to you, straw between his own lips, squinting at the curly hair that falls from her thick bun.

“Just go say hi,” he nudges Hanamaki’s side, “no need to be such a freak.”

“Hey guys. What’re we doi– oh... why are you men such creeps? You’re really just gonna stare at her? Just like that?” Akiko shivers as she walks up to the group, shoving Hanamaki out of the way before stealing a sip of boba from Mattsun’s straw.

“We’re not staring...” Hanamaki mumbles back, water still dripping from his hair onto his shoulders.

“Riiiiiight... weirdos.”

“Y’know... this is why I love summer. Girls coming over for vacation with their families, you can’t even get bored, because they’ll be gone in two and a half months. It’s perfect.”

Mattsun pulls a face. He watches his friend through judgemental eyes, grimace clear on soft features as he shakes his head, hair brushing against rounded cheeks.

“You are a weirdo...” you call to Hanamaki, leaning out in your position to properly eye him.

“Your boyfriend is a weirdo. Worry about that,” he shoots back.

Despite his words being partnered with humour, it still swirls uneasy in your stomach. You mumble something unintelligible, lips suctioned around your straw before you get a chance to finish your sentence. You glance away before you get to see Akiko leaving a slap to the back of Hanamaki’s head.

Mattsun mumbles. “Akihito is...”

Everyone’s head snaps to Mattsun’s direction. Both of his hands cupping his boba, ears tinted pink between each tiny sip he takes. His eyes stutter—jumping from face to face, then landing on you. They shift ever so slightly to the body on your right.

The jewelry that dangles between your collarbones feels all the more heavy.

“All Akihito does is try to one-up me,” Hajime mumbles into his straw, back straighter when he punctuates each word with a tap of his foot to the wooden flooring. "Damn kook can’t even pop up on a board right.”

“Hajime...”

Akiko warns him, wary eyes hesitating, before shifting over to you. You make a move to remain unfazed, face tilted downwards, shoulders squared. She inhales.

“What? I’m just sayin’, honest.”

“You’re gonna have to be nice.”

“You really think it’s a good idea for me to get close with my opponent?” Hajime asks, sending a simple nod to both Watari and Oikawa as they join the conversation. He clicks his tongue, “Not so smart.”

At that, everyone pauses. Hanamaki looks his way, followed by Mattsun. Oikawa furrows his brows. Akiko arches one of hers. Watari examines a splinter of wood that is lodged in his thumb.

“Opponent?”

Hajime shrugs, jaw pulled tight. He slips out a chuckle, but it’s missing the humour.

“Son of a bitch is going against me,” his words are partnered with irritation, and a scoff crawls through his throat.

All eyes flit over to you. You puff your cheeks out, not trusting the muscles of your face to pass off as unbothered on their own.

Akiko blends into a new conversation alongside both Mattsun and Hanamaki to save you from replying. The topic of your boyfriend soon shifts away as everyone focuses on their drinks.

Hajime pauses, chest pulling back when he turns to you, eyeing the ice of your drink that has long since melted.

“The boys and I’ll go set up the boat.”

Hajime calls Hanamaki’s name, eyebrows raising once attention is caught, and his first response is Hanamaki rising to his feet, signalling after both Mattsun and Watari to follow after them.

The boys follow, giving thanks to Akiko's dad for the free drinks and fries, and confirming the meeting place down near the lighthouse for your collective trip offshore.

Mattsun, Watari and Hanamaki have all been blocked from your vision, having stumbled down the steps and turned the corner of the wooden pillar.

Your eyes jump around your space, studying all feats of the busied beach, and the outside portion of Shelly’s Bar & Diner.

Hanging plants dangle from the ceiling, wooden flooring sprinkled with freckled grains of sand over the top. A number of flowers and leaves line the sills of windows, sun splintering through the air to part its way through Akiko’s darkened strands, who’s engaged in a conversation with Oikawa.

Clay pots of all shapes and sizes, of all different colors and textures, sit within the free space of the diner. It’s all ambrosial in the air, saltwater and sand dancing around your nostrils.

Shifty eyes fixate on life with each passing second, drinking in the packed state of both the beach, and the people around you. Eyes then trip, falling into the... fellow pair of eyes, that hover just above a curved pair of lips.

Upon registering, you’re unsure what to do with yourself. The eyes mark an imprint deep within your soul.

You hold the stare—not as a challenge, or a way to egg them on—but because they’ve already caught you. Thin black rims the pool of pasty aureate, a black dot splattered within the centre. Surprise flickers across your face, sentiment delayed as it feels as though the eyes have called back for a sharp sting to ring within your stomach. Nerves bundle at your throat, scratching at the flesh, tearing its way out. You let a sound of dubiety slip past your lips, eyes narrowed when you try to decipher the look the eyes gift you.

The stare warms something in the base of your stomach, woven forecast an ode to the waning moon. Webbed fingers clutch the pitter within them, palm’s a preserver to the daggers that graze the gloomy edges of your heart.

You ignore the uncomfortable weight on your shoulders, and the worry that laps at your stomach. You brush it all to the side, eyeing the sweep of golden hair within the Japanese wind, and underneath the Japanese sun.

Owlishly, you blink. And when rows of lashes separate, Hajime’s eyes have then drifted beyond the wooden slab that separates so much more than just two pertinent bodies; past below the worn-out pine of the walls, and obstructed from your prying line of sight.

Akiko rises to her feet, followed by Oikawa, who stacks all your plates and cups, sectioning them to the centre of the table for the waiters.

He calls your name, pulling you from your half-vigilant state. One foot in front of the other, you pivot in your stance, and a silent apology of yours sinks into the viscid air.

You continue walking straight after, and embarrassment and shame tickles at your skin.

You walk next to Akiko, who’s between you and Oikawa. You make route for the lighthouse that’s always deserted by tourists, conversation in the air about the newest release to your favourite show, and some scandal that’s been left brewing behind the walls regarding the cast.

People stroll by, folded chairs under their arms, and sun hats over their heads. The asphalt from beneath you is hard under your sandals, packs of people running along both the sand and pavement, ice creams in hands, volleyballs tucked in their arms.

A finger hovers over your hand, hesitantly brushing against the flesh. It soon tethers a link of pinkies together in silent grounding. Akiko curls into herself within the big crowd, mouth just slightly downturned at the sea of people surrounding the beach.

Her nerves pop up especially each summer, when tourists swan to the oceanside city for its Victorian houses and long beaches. Her pinky linked with yours, she nods along, listening to Oikawa’s impromptu shit-talking session regarding some guy down the street.

Despite her nerves, amusement still shows itself on Akiko’s face at Oikawa’s words, your fingers wrap around her wrist to remind her that you’re there; a distraction from the mouldered thoughts that hover just behind your head.

Having made it through the large crowd, the three of you empty out into the more sparse parts of the city. Residential houses line the streets, and Akiko’s house sits at the corner.

The sight of the beach from your houses isn’t a sight you can get back where towering buildings paint the skyline. It’s rare, seeing how the sky pulls back to reveal the shining stars.

Oikawa continues on, the three of you nearing the lighthouse when an all too familiar voice calls out your name.

The three of you stop, pulling back to turn to the source of the sound, sour faces clear on irritated features as your boyfriend jogs up to you.

Daylight breaks its way through his black hair, framing the freckles of his face, and kissing the red burns of his nose. He looks down at you through brown eyes, irises next falling to the skin that peeks from your top, then the skin shown below your shorts.

Akiko wavers next to you, shifting her weight onto one foot, crossing her arms over her front.

“Where are you going?” he asks. He skips a greeting, and dodges the acknowledgement of your friends.

“I’m... going offshore. On the boat.”

Akihito’s eyes flicker to Akiko, then Oikawa.

He puffs his chest like he has something to show, lips quirked into a look of question as he eyes you up and down.

“With who?”

You very clearly gesture to both your friends.

“Right,” he replies, brushing a thumb to his nose. “And anybody else I should know about?”

Embarrassment fans throughout you, like some vulpine child—you’re meant to tell him all of this?

You huff, “Just my friends. The people I always hang out with.”

His upturned nose faces the sky as his eyelids fall into slits, shifting on the heels of his feet.

“Okay, like... who?” he grants you with another reprimand, low calibre persona a magnifying glass in the sun. It splinters right through him; draws sweat to form along his brow, and causes a tongue to round the flesh of his cheek.

“Akihito-”

“Is it Watari? Hanamaki?”

“Akihito–”

“Hajime?”

Flecks of both guilt and cynicism tickle your cheeks, burning in the dust that dances in the daylight. The faint ghost of lips just hovers the flesh of your own, a gentle reminder of the day gone by.

It’s a clashing of two totally different men, one in front of you, the other down by the resident docks; attributes juxtaposed in a frenzy of colors at odd.

You almost think that Akihito’s smile is meant to be condescending. Along with a smidgen of anger, you suppose.

“Akihito.”

This time, the voice is not yours. Akiko steps in front of you—ultimately acting as the barrier between two forces. She looks up through sharp eyes, even sharper words just sitting behind chattering teeth, annoyance clear on her features.

“It’ll be fine, okay? Not anything we haven’t done before. We’re going now, she’ll call you when she can. If she wants to.”

She resists the urge to spit at his feet. Instead, she raises a hand to brush away some notional, irritable grain of sand from her cheek. Four fingers down, she uses her middle finger to swipe it clean.

She turns, after having curled gentle fingers around the flesh of your wrist, whispering after Oikawa and walking away from the body that then calls after your name.

“Be safe!” he yells, “Call me when you’re done, babe!”

The bleached stain of a pair lips still sticks to the column of your neck, and down the line of your jaw.

Those weren't Akihito’s lips that had kissed you so fiercely that night four months ago –– they were lips of one not foreign to you, but not domestic, either.

Guilt gnaws at the dwindled edges of your heart, nails printing the heel of your palm as you glance up to the candy blue sky above, asking for forgiveness within yourself for the secret that spurs on within you.

“You okay?”

Unease mixes with indignity, but you plaster a false exterior of impassiveness on your face.

“Fine.”

“He’s an ass,” Oikawa mumbles.

“Oikawa.”

“No,” you cut. “Oikawa’s right. Akihito’s an ass.”

But you’re just as much as one.

Akiko blubbers— puckering her lips in thought before rolling them together, nodding hesitantly as you all approach the docks.

Four bodies are already lounging on the seats, a beer bottle in Watari’s hands as he waves at the three of you, garnering the attention of the remaining men on board.

“Took you guys long enough, what happened?”

The wood calmly sways over the water, Hajime putting his hand out to help all Akiko, Oikawa, and you onboard the boat. It’s just big enough to fit ten people.

“Got held up,” you say, not quite letting go of Hajime’s hand just yet. It twitches between your fingers, and when you finally slip away, you settle for a cushion next to Mattsun.

Mattsun hums, but a fleck of doubt mixes in with the colour of his silent eyes.

You strengthen your backbone. You must remind yourself, that the catalyst of your unease is way back from where you currently sit. The boat wavers over serene waters—like it makes up for all it’s done. Hanamaki starts the boat, revving it off until the horizon turns blurry.

Conversation flows freely between your party. In the midst of Oikawa almost going overboard and Mattsun suffering from mild seasickness, do you finally calm down as the sun begins to set.

Music booms from Hanamaki’s speaker as you all lounge calmly over the cushions. Your fingers secure a cold beer.

It’s tranquil—the orange that seeps into yellow, then sinking down below the blur of the horizon. The water is blue, a deep call from the life that lives underneath as you all carouse from up above.

Over time, the music winds down. The long cushions are free to your use, as most of your friends are all gathered in the front and admiring the sunset devoid of any blockage.

You’re laid on your back, cap over your head, arm slung over your front.

To the watching pair of eyes, you’re a fallen angel draped over sage green. From the apex of your hip, to the slope of your nose. They then study the space around you—the blue and pink that cast shadows over your skin, and the golden star that kisses your eyelashes.

“You’re shit at handling your alcohol.”

You don’t reply, because you don’t think the words were meant for you. You let them settle into the air, next pushing your cap up with your thumb when then comes a lack of reply.

Squinting an eye open, you study the body that sits directly from you. To your vision, Hajime sits sideways, muscle of his thighs peeking out from his shorts, sinewy hands knotted over each of his knees. An amused look is presented on his face.

“You’re talking to me?” you ask.

He snorts. “Who else?”

You blink over to the boy that sits next to Hajime, eyebrow quirked. Your pupils hovers over him, who ups and walks away in the name of wanting to snap a quick photo for his matching Instagram theme.

Once Mattsun’s gone, you let your eyes dart back to Hajime, sitting up to settle on your bum.

“‘m not drunk. Just tired,” you rub at an eye with your wrist.

Hajime rises to his feet, walking over to you to plop down next to you. His elbow brushes yours, and he nudges your side with a teasing show of teeth.

“So,” he starts.

“So...”

“... Akihito.”

You take a sharp inhale for air, shoulders tensed before you exhale into the space before you.

You’re slightly confused. Because every time you’re in the presence of Hajime, Akihito is the last person on your mind. Because Akihito is the last thing Hajime will ever bring up.

It’s an invite to converse, you realize.

A bad one, that is. A weird one, but an invite nonetheless.

“Yes...?”

“Did you know he was gonna participate?”

At that, you still. At that, you take the invitation, crumple it up, and throw it into the dumpster fire.

“What?” you spit, abruptly pausing to shoot guarded daggers into Hajime’s eyes. “You think I wouldn’t tell you so you’d be unprepared?”

You’re sitting alone, nobody but Hajime and the fish in on your accusatory words. Your fingers clench into themselves, and the sun hits your eyes, but you’re not squinting, only staring up expectantly at Hajime.

“I- no!” Hajime stumbles over his words. Eyes blown wide, he grants you a panicked stare. “I’m just... just asking.”

The lacklustre sinking of your shoulders is a request for partial redemption, and you blink away the black dots that tease your vision.

Silver stings around your collarbone; it etches a blood-red stain around the skin of your neck. You pick at a hangnail that dangles from a finger.

“Okay,” you mumble.

“Okay," Hajime whispers.

There really is no reason to lower his words, as it’s just the two of you. You hate how it’s intimate, how despite everyone else off towards the front, he sounds his voice to the ears of only you—the sovereign soul that quells the longing within him. The idyllic show of nature is complete with you, complete with the whipping of your hair with the Atlantic.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“No, I am. I’m sorry, Hajime.”

He groans your name. “There literally is no reason to apologize. Maybe there’s a small one, but it’s not all that big of a deal.”

“... I’m sorry.”

And it’s then, when Hajime realizes the possibility that you may not be talking about what has just happened.

“Okay," he says.

“Okay," you repeat.

So then it’s silent.

“I don’t know why you’re still with him.”

On instinct, your palm rises to settle upon your chest. It’s more than that—it heats the jewelry that chills your skin, that sits over the sacred heart that is torn in two. It’s the only place barred with the sting that festers atop the tips of your fingers. It’s the only place Hajime knows of, but you just won’t let him in on.

“I... haven’t told him... yet...” you mumble.

“I’ve figured.”

“... Are you mad?” when you turn to look at him, Hajime’s features are soft.

“Why would I be?”

You quiet, because you’re not sure why. You settle for a rise and fall of tense shoulders.

“It takes two people to kiss,” he utters.

“Stop that.”

“I’m just saying.”

You can’t berate him, because you both know he’s right. The two of you slack at the perception that settles in the air between you.

“I wanna tell him...”

“You wanna.”

You nod in response. “I do.”

“He’s a fucking asshole.”

“He is, but only sometimes. Other times he’s nice to me. He’s not always hard to deal with. He just... he’s insecure. Hard to read.”

Hajime's teeth bite down on his tongue for some release of tension, in lieu of letting out the pained scoff that stings the tip of his tongue.

“He’s sounding more and more like an obligation you oughta deal with.”

You shrug.

“I feel as though I need to make up for what I did.”

“You don’t have to make up for shit. He cheated on you first.”

“I realize that, Hajime,” your eyes snap to his, and the eye contact is immediate. You’re the first to tear them away—as you always are—and you instead watch the white water waves slosh into each other.

“He doesn't deserve you,” Hajime mutters, and the tilt to his voice solicits the tenderness of your waning body.

“Akihito didn’t tell me he’d be participating in the event,” you begin. “But even if he did, I don’t think I’d tell you.”

Hajime whispers your name. “I cannot lose this competition... you know I can’t.”

You turn to him, and the wind brings your eyes together. “You have nothing to prepare for, Hajime. Akihito’s no competition.”

“... Fuckin’ kook can’t even pop up on a board right," he mumbles, and you ignore the dart of his eyes to your lips.

You don’t reply.

Not at first, that is. Hajime grimaces, his toes wiggling against each other.

... A sore in the core of his stomach, something like that.

He is six feet deep.

Iwaizumi Hajime is so hopelessly in love with you.

You and your upturned cupid’s bow, you and your distaste for all things sour. The way your face scrunches up when you do eat something sour—how much of a lightweight you are. How you complement his passion for the waves. How you mix in with the life of blue it is that he pursues.

Everyone knows it. Everyone can see it—but nobody will point it out, as it’s only shaped for due time. Hajime wouldn’t dare to say he hates it, because he can’t bring himself to. Can’t you see the way he looks at you?

Though of course, there are barriers. Those that are directly in the middle, and one that is the could be’s of what can’t be.

And so it digs its way between the opening of each rib, and competes against the wave that hits the side of the boat. It trickles down the innermost parts of his sides, then slithering to tighten the mound of his heart.

You huff and turn, ignoring the heat that burns your cheeks.

“Kook can’t even pop up on a board right...” you mumble.

It’s a vibration in your pocket that just slightly startles you. Fingers snake in, fishing out the device that lights up upon you turning it over.

It’s your lock screen... a picture of you, Akiko and Oikawa set to the background. Over it, is a text from Akihito.

He’s asking for you—unaware that the towns local fair isn’t your type of scene.

He’d worded his text with an underlying inkling of hints, that he had ultimately chosen to stay silent with. Akihito chooses to instead weave out an answer, to hope that his theories wouldn’t hold up to its truth.

“We going to swim, or nah?”

You press the button that turns your phone to black, and set it on the cushion.

You glance up to Hajime. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

It’s a feeling, one not of the ocean, but of the smile you return back to him. Your neck is craned just enough for Hajime to see you tease him with two rows of teeth. It’s intimate by nature—special—the same each summer.

You don’t say anything after that, popping up on your feet and heading towards the steps that lead to the ocean.

You reach the edge of the boat, toes dipping into the neutral temperature that wets your feet. Hajime sits next to you, muscled legs draped over the edge.

He looks into your eyes. You try to tear them away, but something holds you back.

The tips of your fingers burn. They numb through your own limbs, ache running bone-deep. Hajime winces, and his eyes flicker down to the plush of your lips. His eyes are once again in contact with yours, before you even fully realize where he was gazing.

He says nothing and everything all at once.

You strip to your swimwear. Hajime removes his shirt, and they’re a heap over the boat.

His feet move before yours—sprinting to edge of that boat, wafting water bleaching the golden grains that bulk at your toes. Before jumping in, he swipes a board.

He runs, and the wind dances through his hair. You follow, fingers curled around the rail of your own board, leash already secured around an ankle. Board hitting the white water waves, you plant your feet down—one on the traction pad, centred core. Keep your balance.

You’re weightless on the board; dancing within the waves that lift you higher. The sun is just halfway below the horizon, dousing the first layer of water with a thin coat of deep orange.

Neither of you have your wetsuits on, so the chilled water splashes against bare skin. It keeps the both of you grounded—livewire miens a scenic view for the silhouettes that break through the barriers of settling daylight.

You both surf upon the clashing water. Dancing aerials are performed to fly in the sky, raw waves tickling the wet flesh above worn-out boards.

The oceanic aura rifts through your hair, slapping at the fresh skin of your face as you ride the ripe waves. The air is crisp, and you feel safe within the rutted water that wavers you both.

Hajime eyes the sun above him, and eyes the life he’d laid out. From down below the depths of crashing waves that call out to him, to the boneless curve of your body along the blurred lines of the big blue.

And so then, boundaries seep into one another. The sun paints tanned skin. The star is dull in comparison to the glow you bestow upon him, to the heat you grant to grow in his stomach.

Then again, do you outshine the ardor he harbors for the waters to a little flare. You laugh through the noisy waves, and yet, Hajime is still able to pick your joy apart.

The sound of your happiness tugs at both his heart, and his mouth. The warmth of his eyes is not from the pull of the Atlantic, but instead the giggles of yours that fly out, blending in the mix of waves.

Hajime eyes you, as you carve a curved wave. You blink in his direction, and your smile dims the glow of the disappearing sun.

It’s then, that Hajime vows to himself—he will try his best to make you happy, and his best to make you smile.

No matter what it may take.

---

Far enough from the shore, you lay with Hajime. His elbow brushes yours as you’re both laid back on the sand. Waves emerge from the sea, though not enough to tease your feet.

Your shared beach blanket is ruffled below you, ridges of sand collecting over the hot pink as you both stare up and into the sky.

It’s a gentle breeze of the wind tonight, sky paying homage to a night not wasted. Petals fall graciously, and the step of waves have fallen mellow. Your eyelashes dance to the rhythm of zephyr, as it brushes at your cheek with every blink.

The apples of your cheeks are round with a faint smile—one that Hajime mirrors to himself, because an evening spent out on the waters had lead to captured moments behind blinking eyelids.

Now, both your hair is still left a little damp. Diamonds shine within the nightlight, droplets clinging to your foreheads, eyelashes curled upwards and shining eyes staring up into the stars above. With sand particles sticking to skin, you settle back in the comfort of the beach, facing each other with hushed voices, listing off every aspect of one another it is that you both adore—and hate.

You let out a hushed giggle. “I just don’t know how the hell you can eat plain chips. They’re plain for a reason.”

“They’re original flavored. And they’re just the best! Unlike what you like, salt and vinegar flavored chips-”

“Hereeee we go.”

“You just can’t appreciate the culture when it’s there, can you?” he clicks his tongue.

You groan, twisting your body so your front is then facing Hajime. “Whatever. Give me a break.”

He chuckles, and the topic fizzles out. A plane flies overhead, and Hajime silently wishes them all a good trip, to wherever it is that they’re headed.

Something just dares him to turn his neck to the side, because he knows he’ll be faced with you.

So he does it. He lolls his head to the side, and a smile is already painted on gentle features. The moon bounces off the ocean, causing blue to hang in the air and tint your face. He soon catches sight of the silver that glistens in the lighting—it dangles from your neck, a fallen A residing on the skin of your chest; taunting him.

You breathe, “It’s so pretty... don’t you think?" you giggle, eyes fixated on the sky above.

“Yeah...” he whispers. "Yeah, it is pretty.”

Next, you loll your own head to the side, eyes immediately lining with Hajime’s.

Your lips falter, but end in a smile.

“... You’re corny.”

“I am not.”

“You are. Like Hanamaki.”

“Wow.”

You hum and click your tongue. “Helpless, that guy,” you giggle. "Him and Mattsun.”

“Worse than me?”

“Much.”

“Ouch,” Hajime chuckles, looking back up at the sky.

“They’ll snap by next year... I’m betting you.”

You prop yourself up on your elbow, smirking down at Hajime. “I am not betting you on anything to do with our best friends.”

He grumbles comically, hands resting on his bare chest. “Fine. Be righteous, then... boring.”

“Okay, Hajime,” you inhale through your nose. “I’ll bite. What’s on the line?”

He kisses his teeth, peeking his tongue out to dig into his fang tooth. “Bragging rights.”

“Never mind," you laugh, and fall once more on your back.

After a silent pause, you shiver.

Goosebumps ride on your skin, and you find the urge to light a fire, “Can we go?”

Hajime looks to his side, watching as you shake in the chilly air.

He agrees, and neither of you has much to collect. You put on your clothing, beads of water still dripping from the curled ends of hair. You take each of your surfboards, that were previously stuck up in the sand a tuck them under your arms, padding back towards the boat.

You pull yourselves up and sit on the boat again, putting your boards away. You lightly shiver because of the water dripping off you.

You blink, and speak up after a while. “Y’know they started a bet for us, too?”

Hajime stills, then whipping his head to your direction. “No.”

You snort, finger between your lips. “Yes. Two years ago. Oikawa blabbered.”

“No shit?”

“Nooooo. They said we’d snap within a year. I think it fizzled out, though... he never mentioned it after that.”

Hajime hums in thought, stark blue riding the clear cut of his jawline. “Who bet what?”

You lean back, “Oikawa and Mattsun bet that we’d end up... uh, having sex before the year was over. Hanamaki and Watari said we wouldn’t... like, ever. And I’d end up getting with Akihito.”

Hajime’s silent, and you half think you said something wrong. You wince.

But then arises a dulcet tune, one that serenades the pull of your eyes together. His eyes gravitate to yours straight away. There’s no swift shifting of irises—he lands within yours. You catch him.

His fingers twitch—caught in the threshold of indifference and hope. They move, hovering over the skin of your palm. You stay open for him, waiting, as he weaves his fingers within yours.

It’s slow and calculated. The longest five minutes of your life. Hajime studies you, face sullen, eyelids wilted. He blinks, eyelashes brushing the tan of his cheeks, jaw set back to a pull of masseter.

An unsteady beat thrums your heart, blood rushing in your ears, tips of your fingers heated from the coil that tightens in your stomach.

“Hajime...” it flows out seamlessly, like it had sat on the corners of your lips. The familiar name is dipped in a foreign state, one that has your spine standing erect.

A deep binding of annoyance shatters in your intimate area, and you squeeze your thighs shut. Hajime dares to graze his fingers over your thigh, teasing the skin, leaving a trail of heat in his wake as he studies you with conflicting eyes.

A fight hides behind them, so you jump to settle it.

“Touch me.”

You whisper it out, and it’s barely audible. Despite that, it lays a jump in Hajime’s heart. His eyes flicker up to you, and bounce between the silver that hangs from your neck. You disregard it entirely, inching closer to the hand that longs for you –– and so much more of you.

Hajime mumbles your name –– and it’s caught on a hook, hesitance crawling through his throat as he asks if you’re sure.

You nod, because you can’t remember a time you’ve been more sure.

His aura pulls you in, ghostly barrier washed away as the space between you lessens to a balancing rope. It wobbles and shortens, dense on the outlines as your eyes blink down to his, lost in the moment as fog swirls around your head, kissing your eyelids closed.

Hajime’s lips to yours are the same as it was four months ago. Need pulls at your heartstrings, far away desire finally back, finally nipping at the flesh of his bottom lip.

His large palm slides up the flesh of your thigh, fingers fleetingly peeking beneath the skin of your straps, next riding past that to lay upon your shoulder. His tongue dusts your own, hand then slotting itself to curl around the base of your neck, lips dancing against yours as he sucks you in deeper.

Spit mixes between you, glistening the line of both lips as your fingers curl around Hajime’s wrist—an attempt at grounding yourself in the old van, on the old leather.

Hajime is the first to pull back. He only does so slightly, pupils dilated, flickering between you.

He snakes his hand down, and you curve your back, encouraging it.

“Is this... c-can I touch you?”

You breathe out a yes, and his hand slips down to cup the meat of your ass. He kneads it, and up you rise, stumbling onto his lap. The two of you rock with the pattern of the boat, ears pricked for any signs of your friends.

All sense of your dignity has ebbed away, washed up on the beach as you grind yourself down, hands finding their home on Hajime’s chest , riding the ridges of his abdomen.

He groans out into space between your swollen lips, nibbling at them as he squeezes your ass, rising his own hips to meet you in the middle.

Hajime’s hands trail up—and as his palms cup your face, his eyes trickle down to the necklace that resides between delicate collarbones. He brushes a gentle finger over it, and the silver does no job of hiding the pain of sun-kissed skin.

His fingers disappear behind your neck, fiddling with the hook of the jewelry, all as his eyes remain within your own. He’s successful in his short-lived endeavour, then dangling the silver in front of your eyes and tossing it behind him.

A garbled snivel stings your teeth. Before you can get any words out, he places his lips to where the letter once sat; and though your head is hazy, your breathing is finally able to clear up.

He trails your collarbone with deepened kisses—Hajime sucks the love of a thousand years onto your neck, hands keeping you close, as if he's afraid you’d once again slip away, elapse like the grains of sand that fall through spread apart fingers.

Until midnight bleeds into dawn, it’s how you spend all hours that the moon is in view. The slight rocking of a croaking boat, a fading handprint pressed up against a fogged out deck.

It’s just the two of you; secluded in the space you’ve created. On the rotting boat painted brunswick green, chipping at the sides. Drifting on the open ocean.

You both have created a cherished dome of intimacy, deep within your tiny space. Where gentle hands are tender to the touch.

Silent trades of emotions are shared. In feathered meetings of skin, lingering kisses, and tears all wiped away under the thinly veiled love you mirror for one another.

---

It’s five in the morning when three knocks ring consecutively at the door. That’s what your phone tells you on 1%—that it’s 5:34 AM, and there is someone at the front door.

Sitting up, stiff bones crackle as you move to stretch the stress out of them. You’re still sore. The throbbing ache resides between your legs and over your temples.

The oversized shirt of his you’re wearing itches at your skin. It’s printed with Slipknot’s logo, engulfing you whole as it reaches your upper thigh.

You don’t even realize it, but your shoulders have risen all the way up to your ears. Bare feet are cold against the oak flooring, tip-toeing to carefully not wake the sleeping boy that snores away on the couch.

Your eyes are sensitive—sensitive and red, all from hours prior. They squint upon opening the door, a light sting prickling at your raw and swollen eyes as you raise a hand to block the early morning sun from your vision.

The sun shines down on you, and your face would have morphed into one of both surprise and urgency, but it’s too busy scrunched up and shielding from the rays of sun that break through the maple wooden pergola.

You can’t say you’re all that shocked. You reap what you sow—but really, truthfully, you can’t bring yourself to be disappointed.

You catch the bundle of excitement that blooms from within your chest. The sputter of your heart is loud against your ribcage; an unbridled force of emotions whizzing through your stomach to settle above the intimacy that springs in your vulnerable heart.

There, stands Hajime. Memories from last night pile atop each other, and you need to look down to settle the heat that crawls up your neck.

Panic teasingly flickers throughout you. Next, it fully fans in you.

Fuck...

For what reason is Iwaizumi Hajime at your boyfriend’s door at five in the morning? When he was sheathed and stuffed inside of you, mere three hours ago? Dawning your greedy walls with sticky white—landing bite marks to the junction of your neck?

Panic settles in your stomach, because you first think to confrontation. Was he here to tell Akihito? That you’re some... slut? No- that’s not Hajime. Not at all. Was he here because he knew you’d be here? He must have checked your house first... you faintly remember spaced buzzing from your phone, ones of messages you haven’t yet bothered to check. The phone is in your hand, but you’re distracted.

And then, comes the most horrifying thought of them all—that Hajime is here to break it off with you. That he’s here to say it was all a mistake, that perhaps, he only whispered words of adoration to brush the shell of your ear because he felt pity for you, for all those days both sadness and longing would line the irises of your eyes.

This. This is exactly why you held yourself from straying too far deep, from drowning to the point of no return. Though you know you passed that line long ago. It was through days of denial and fear, of ruining what basis the two of you had built over the five years of knowing each other.

Your internal thoughts are cut short as Hajime stumbles into the wood of the white door, sniffing under his breath as he tries to steady himself.

You inhale and grimace. It burns your nostrils, but you immediately clock it... Absolut.

Wincing, you reach an arm out to stabilize him. He stumbles in place, reeking of alcohol.

Hajime sets his forehead on your shoulder, back curled to accommodate to your height. He mumbles incohHanamakit words under his breath, tucked within the safety of your neck.

“You jus... you jus. Ran off.”

You inhale sharply, internally cursing yourself. You did. You did run off after you both were finished, falling silent in the van as Hajime searched for something to fill the empty air.

Nerves had gotten the best of you—the what if’s of fucking up the relationship that meant the most to you, that it was a one time thing and meant to be forgotten the next day, that you’d get embarrassed, thinking your intimate night under the stars was nothing more than what it was. Sex.

To you, you feared there were no lines left to read between. That to Hajime, it was nothing more than two close friends helping one other when they needed each other most.

Hajime had laid his heart out on the line, and he thought he made it obvious—but the ride back to your home was up to your individual interpretation.

He blubbers into your neck, sniffing the snot that trickles out his nose. It brushes over the bruises he left last night—where the A once laid, now collecting dust in the back of his van.

Your arm rounds his waist, pulling him closer to the warmth of your chest.

He’s slightly fogged out, so he doesn’t realize your usual smell of light lavender is also complemented with the scent of Akihito’s clothing.

You run a hand up his back, whispering words of comfort into his ear. Your puffy eyes are sensitive to the sunlight, so they flutter shut, rows of lashes kissing one another in the placid reverie you both fall into.

For just a moment, is it calm. Like you’re both where you love most, watching the drab pull of sHanamakie waters in each other’s arms as panic settles down. You’ll have to clear the air once he’s sober. You’ll have to come clean, for all that is on the line—for what was on the line, since three years back.

“Fuck’s he doing here?”

It’s filled with spit and venom. It’d festered from behind teeth, and deep from within his throat to strike at your back.

You lightly jump and whip around, eyes falling on Akihito—shirtless with his sweatpants riding low on his hips. He scratches at his hair.

“Akihito, I–”

“Why is he here?" he asks again. He stalks towards you, but you don’t stumble away.

You whip your head between the weight on your shoulder, and the cause for the weight on your heart.

“He’s drunk.”

He furrows his eyebrows. "I can see that. But I don’t want him here.”

You look back and plead with your eyes. He hasn’t yet seen the assortment of dark purple that lines the skin of your neck. Of course he hasn’t. He never pays attention to you; only using you for what you’re good at, and never returning the favour. He expects you to follow him around like some biddable lapdog. You tried standing up for yourself before—and you have, but to him, it merely goes in one ear and out the other.

Guilt was no longer a standing structure for you, no longer was it the backbone of why you still went back to him. You square your shoulders, half hoping he’ll notice the blotches of darkened merlot that peek from your shirt. His shirt.

“Okay. So then I’ll take him home, "you say, already slipping on the shoes that sit near the door.

His eyebrows meet in the middle.

He sputters out his discontent, his grappling towards the clothing you’re wearing resulting fruitless as you shuffle out of his reach.

Akihito’s face pinches and he huffs out of his nose. “He’s that special to you? What happened to us hanging out today?”

You sigh and shut your eyes, an inebriated Hajime too woozy to help you explain.

“He’s drunk, Akihito," you snap. “I’m not letting him go home alone.”

His jaw clenches, and he shifts on his feet, “You fucking him, or somethin’? Was I right? Is that what it is?”

You’re surprised, but you don’t let it show. You briefly think to telling him to truth—but this is the most attention he’s granted you with within the past two months.

“I’ll call you later,” you mumble. “Maybe. I just- I can’t do this right now, Akihito. I’m gonna go drop him off,” you turn to leave down the stone path, Hajime squinting at Akihito over your shoulder as you start walking down the few steps—but you’re abruptly caught and halted, by the hand that digs into your wrist.

You whip around, eyes finding Akihito’s in the line of harsh lighting. And for the first time... you’re scared of him.

His nails have a vice grip on your wrist, eyes boring into yours with a sense you can’t decipher.

“Let... go of me," you try to wiggle yourself free, but nothing comes out of it.

“Him or me, " he spits through gritted teeth. “I’m giving you a choice. Him or me.”

Akihito lets go, and his actions merit a slap at the face. But you stay still. You’re shaken up, eyes blinking wildly as you level him with no response. You exhale, and turn to leave.

Hajime is still laying on your side, and you do your best to load him into your car. Akihito’s long gone in his house by then—not bothering to see you on your way out, only slamming the door on your back.

Akihito resides in the richer part of town—above you, and way above Hajime. The drive to your house is of average time. Ten minutes. That’s ten minutes of strained breathing from Hajime, and ten minutes of battling the confusion and conflict that grinds around in your mind.

“Fucking crazy...” you mutter, pulling into the front of your house, trying your best to fight off the tears that dabble your lashes.

You get Hajime out of the car and into your house easily enough. There’s a few stumbles, but you manage what you need to.

Your parents are out, and you haven’t been more thankful. You lay Hajime on the couch in your living room, setting a pillow beneath his head before removing his shoes and placing them on the floor.

Standing up, you begin to head to the kitchen. Water and meds, you sing in your head, prepared to scavenge around the house for what it is you need.

You pause as fingers curl around your wrist. The same wrist that stings with a poisoned burn... Hajime holds you like porcelain, and he just about masks the handprint that still lingers. Just about.

He mumbles your name, face mushed against his palm. Hajime pulls you in, muttering under his breath until the couch sinks with your additional weight, hand gently placed atop his chest.

Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and you reach out to brush them away. Delicately, made with all the softness you hold for him.

A gentle “I love you.” crawls past his throat, and the world stops spinning.

Nobody had ever told you Hajime's voice could sound so beat down so broken, so lost and veiled with some nonsensical perception of irrational certainty.

Despite the tourists that mingle outside, and the meeting of waves that sound out from not too far, the room dims. For just a moment, it feels like it’s just you... and your loverboy.

He stutters, repeating his declaration into the air, and into your heart.

“I love you... I love you... so bad," he slurs, eyes bleary as he peers up at you, throbbing head straightened as he falls into the familiar home of your eyes.

“For three years,” he chuckles airily. "Three years. I’ve loved you for three years. And I don’t even think I noticed until recently...” his words overlap, but you register them just right.

“I.. I hate that you’re with him. It hurts me... so fucking b-bad, he treats you so bad, can’t you see that? I just wan- want you to be happy. I don’t care if it’s with me or not, I need you to be happy. I love you so fucking much-”

You gasp through the tears you hadn’t even known had formed. Gentle hands move to cup his face, brushing away the running water that falls from his eyes. His fingers curl around you, pulling you closer so you’re almost laying on top of him.

You exhale, nodding. “Hajime... oh my God- I love you. With everything. I love all of you. Hajime, I- I love you so fucking much. Shit-”

Your lips fly, pressed firmly against his forehead.

You lay in the arms of one another, crying, kissed by the sun that shines through curtains.

Your intimacy is different from the night before—the same senses, but shifted.

Today, it is tender and nurturing.

But you don’t doubt yourself. Since now you know, with the layers pulled back, that both are meant to be.

---

You watch Akiko twirl around the bonfire in her dress from the log of wood you’re seated on, cold bottle of beer in your hand as you rest your head in the other.

You’re in your picnic dress, staring off hazily into the horizon that stares back at you, mind elsewhere entirely.

You haven’t told anyone else what had happened two nights ago. Not your friends, and not Hajime—as he left later on in the evening. Sober, and not saying anything of what had happened earlier in the morning.

So you were back at stage one. What it was during the silent van ride back to your home, as his sticky pleasure was splattered on the skin of your inner thighs, mixing in with your sensitive folds as it pooled together in your soiled intimates.

You’re unsure if Hajime truly couldn’t remember his teary confession, or if it was merely a mess of meaningless words in his drunken state. But you know the saying, and won’t even bother going over it.

Akiko waves a hand in front of your face, snapping you out of the daydream you’d fallen into. Her eyebrows furrow, and she shifts back, “What’s wrong?”

She stands tall, a hand on her hip. Her miniskirt is high on her thighs, loose shirt gliding off a single shoulder, and rings decorate her fingers.

You sigh, shoving the bottle into the sand to stay upright.

“It’s nothing,” you reply.

Music blasts loudly throughout the entirety of the beach, and you can see the lights that line the sand. Large groups of teens dance along the shore, singing along to the songs that play, giving piggyback rides to their friends.

It’s 8 PM, and the moon is about to set. It’s darker tonight—so the bonfire set in the middle makes herself known. People sit in a circle of wooden logs, others jumping into the ocean, or simply strolling along the sand.

Most faces you’re unable to recognize. Some you’ve seen just fleetingly, like in the market during the fall. Some are ones you attended school with, others just here for summer—you silently wish them good luck.

Your eyes glide along the sea of people, searching for one in particular.

He shines brighter than the rest, and sets a dim veil over the large fire in the centre. Hajime’s at a keg, surrounded by Hanamaki, Watari and Mattsun, along with other guys you’re unable to recognize.

He laughs with his shoulders, squinted eyes holding happiness in them as he jokes with his friends. Hanamaki almost trips over his own feet, which causes Hajime to swiftly wrap a hand around his arm, stabilizing the boy on the sand. Once safe from the tumble, they shove each other away, tough boy acts back once more. You chuckle, because of course. They play in old Hajime and Hanamaki fashion.

As if he feels your gaze on him, Hajime’s head snaps to the side, immediately spotting you from where you sit, throwing you a smile as the setting sun carves kisses into the mounds of his face.

You jerk up in surprise, then waving to him as he takes a long sip of his drink.

Your eyes widen as he taps Watari on the shoulder, then jogging towards you.

He sits down next to you once reaching you, sun-tanned skin clear to your eyes, the aroma of saltwater clear to your nose.

“Hi.”

“Hiiii.”

You curl into Hajime’s side, not even realizing the heat he provides you with. One beer bottle in his hand, the air isn’t as tense as you’d thought it would be.

The purple and black of your neck have begun to fade away, though still leaving the imprint of how they felt lingering in their wake.

Among the loud chatter of people, you nudge Hajime’s side, whispering in his ear.

“Can we... talk?”

Any person would have thought words muttered so lowly were to get lost within the crowded space of conversation. Instead, his eyes snap to yours. His features are close and familiar—the sinking plush of your bed after a long trip overseas.

“... Of course.” He whispers back.

Your blood rushes with the wind, sweaty palms moist against the fabric of your mini dress. You swallow, belted anxieties a pool in your stomach.

A recreant crease forms between brows, and you can only hope for the best.

Hajime raises a hand, curling a strand of hair to sit behind your ear. Rows of teeth shine in the night, all as he pulls you closer to his chest.

He soon moves to cup your cheek—because it fits so well, the final piece to a puzzle. Like it’s been done before, like it’s meant to happen, like it’s not all that far out of his reach.

Every twitch of his roughened fingers to your skin is of similar character to a heated blade gliding through it’s sheathe, to the splashing of a hidden cove deep in on a crisp spring day.

“What...” Hajime blinks himself out of his stupor. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”

You sigh, biting your lip because you’re nervous. This is five years on the line. Fire years on the line, a bottle of beer in his hand, and an acoustic serenade sounding from the ebbing waters.

“Two days ago... when you got... drunk-” you hear Hajime slightly wince. "Do you... remember of anything that happened?”

Silence marinates in the heavy air, and when you get no response, you let yourself seek refuge within his eyes.

Instead, they’re panicked. Hajime’s eyes dart between you, and the sand that prickles his bare feet.

He speaks truthfully when he answers no, and pretends not to see the broken look that dawns on your features. He’s confused—torn between a line of what happened, but he can’t suppress the sour inkling.

Hajime thinks to play the definitive role of the oblivious friend, he thinks first to act like he couldn’t possibly have spilled his guts out to the girl he’s been in love with for the past three years. He could have blabbered. He has before. The very thought of it sends a chill down his spine—that you had to shush his drunk self splayed out on your couch, that you’re here to tell him you see him as nothing more than a friend.

What scares him most, however, is that you could say you’re in love with Akihito. That the night you’d made love under the stars was just sex—despite you having kissed his warm tears away, despite the overwhelmed stuttering of your hips in his hands.

Hajime shakes his head, and hair brushes the red of his cheeks.

Your shoulders drop, but you do your best to once again rise them with self-practiced strings. For the days where Akihito was around, and you had to pretend you wouldn’t rather be somewhere else. With someone else.

All while maintaining eye contact, Hajime weaves his fingers with yours. You will yourself not to waver, because it’s normal. Because the two of you always have hooked arms linking you together, and have cuddled along the couch at Watari’s place before.

It’s no different from your friendly touches, but it doesn’t feel friendly.

He doesn’t say anything. Hajime’s not ready to ruin what he refuses to lose.

When you look into each other’s eyes, he almost dares to say that that’s confirmation enough.

His heart pounds, rockbound against unfurled ribs—heart open and laid out for the days you rest your head on top of his chest, restful in the way you curl further into him, napping on the restricted space of the sofa during your private movie nights.

It’s a soft moment. Like there was an unspoken revelation that was finally let to be looked at, finally unveiled with the sobriety that Hajime now had, like it was the first time all over again. Like you’re in his lap once more, breathing into his neck, pawing at reddening skin, printing scratch marks on his shoulders, and mewling into the night.

You look away, and there sinks apprehension into the air.

You’re so in love with Hajime Iwaizumi. More than he knows—enough that it numbs you.

Hajime doesn’t hurt you, he could never. You wanted to be righteous, you wanted to do the right things. To not fuck up.

At times, you wanted so bad for Akihito to be the one. Other times, you hated that it was Hajime, because it is. Because it’s always been him, and you couldn’t stand that.

Acceptance is the courage to listen to a song that you know will hurt you, that you know will tear through your heart, yet will leave you wanting to listen to it on repeat—because in a twisted little desire, you yearn for it. It sticks to you, and sucks you in.

Along the way, as the sun dips below the water, and the moon rises to shine, does everyone settle down. Most have left, others now a part of the long circle that rounds the bonfire. Hajime had threatened to fight someone for the cotton blanket that currently engulfs you whole, chilly air that wafts in from the ocean coming to hit both your bodies, an arm of his wrapped around you to keep you warm.

On Hajime’s shoulder, you sleep. And in your sleep, you dream. In your dream, you muse. You love Hajime Iwaizumi, but you hide your love for him under the structure with five years of friendship.

You love him, and you can only hope it truly is the same way he loves you, too.

---

Today, tensions are high.

Undeniably so, and with zero sense of doubt.

The beach is more packed than it’s ever been within the past three months. More shaded umbrellas land the sand, keeping all spectators out of the harsh sun and granting them ways to watch the event somewhat comfortably.

Tables line the sand, crowd of people scattered along the area for the ongoing competition.

Two people are currently trailing the waves, finishing off their performances as the crowd watches on—that includes Hajime, who hops around in his wetsuit, hyping himself up for what’s yet to come.

He sees you—because he always sees you, every aspect of you—down where beach chairs sit, in a clustered group with all the others. He half berates himself for not looking at his other friends, for not making sure Mattsun is lathered in sunscreen since he burns so easily, or that Watari’s hat is with him and not lost, stolen by some speedy toddler.

Silently, Hajime lets himself be selfish. Just for you.

As he’s soon to be up, all participators are unable to mingle with the crowd. Good lucks were already spoken between your friend group. In pats on the back, encouraging hugs, and an awkward brushing of magnetic fingers.

The spark your palm had ignited in him still runs deep. It’d pooled in his stomach, waves running through his veins as he squints at the open water, and the familiar body that surfs along it.

Even then, as the nerves caused by two different affairs concern him, he can’t help the hatred that belts his stomach.

Even then, Hajime wants to sock him in the face. He wants to go ballistic on him, for all the times he’d driven you away, prompting you to call Hajime in the late evenings, seeking a warm shoulder to cry on.

Hajime doesn’t have the backbone to hold himself back while looking at Akihito, but you always told him to lay off, to not start anything. Hajime only listened because he cares for you, because he knew caving Akihito’s face in would not solve anything. Nor would it help out his mother.

At that distant reminder, Hajime stands straighter. He’s here for her. Akihito surfs along the waves like a chicken with its head cut off—as if he’d watched tutorials from self-proclaimed surfers on YouTube just minutes before.

Everyone knows that Hajime is a royal amongst nobles—everyone else, being the vassals, of course. He knows that nobody can compare to him, that nobody can put him to shame out there in the ocean.

Eyes flutter shut, and he inhales a deep gasp of air.

Saltwater pools in his lungs—accompanied by burnt barbeque—but he tries not to let that throw him off, focusing once more, on the song that is sung from under the waves.

He slips into the needed headspace, into the sealed off dome that can only be reserved for one thing—that can only be reserved for one thing, and one person —eroded edges pulled back together at the sound of you cheering him on, filming him on your phone as he pulls an aerial over on the waves.

He looks back, and there he sees Watari presenting a large sign over his head, ‘Hajime Iwaizumi, HOTHEAD SURFER BY DAY, SECRET MOM FRIEND BY NIGHT’ he chuckles, painting a fake scowl on his face.

The whole friend group is there to support him —if you count a brooding Hanamaki in the back, reluctantly holding up his own mini-sign. One which he had actually made himself, but would never tell Hajime that. He’d never hear the end of it.

Hajime smiles, wishing more than anything he could go over there and thank you.

Instead, Hajime rises his phone to send you a text message. One showing his honest thanks for the support, and the other of a pair of puppies wrestling on green lush grass, text of ‘lmao... us’ following right beneath it.

Though Hajime’s plans are halted, as he sees three voice messages left on read.

At first, he’s confused. All three of them are coloured blue over the white background, no grey text shown as a reply, excluding the response of yours that was sent above the three voice messages a week before, in reply to a new movie he’d been wanting to watch.

Panic builds up in his stomach as he reads the date from the day he had gone to visit his mother with you. It was before five, but after twelve.

Other participants stand around him, and he can hear the judges praising the surfers for their show as they paddle towards the shore on their chests, but that doesn’t hold any matter to him anymore.

He doesn’t know why he forces himself to listen. He has a feeling he already knows what it is.

But the wind mocks him, and nudges his thumb. It twitched, pressing down on the play button as he brings it up to his ear—trying best to make out the warbled whines that sound from it, and the blubbering broken sentences that he snivels out.

He can hear the familiar tune of waning waves settled as a background noise, ebbed waters washed up to bleach the golden sand, moon high and chilly as he sniffles every other second.

He can imagine himself. The image is long gone, disappeared in a bygone pass of memories as he stands sober, but he can very well picture it. Stumbling through the empty sidewalks of Japan, saltwater jewels still hanging off heavy tendrils, eyelashes clumped together under the tears that tint his eyes light red.

Three words and eight letters stand out to him the most. Because they resonate with him more than anything, it’s weightless and holds true because it had danced with the waves when spoken into the phone. Hung under the cloak of the moon, it had flowed with rippled water.

It had poured so seamlessly past his parted lips, relic finally uncovered over some shitty audio recorded on a phone that was four years too old, spiderweb cracks spawning from the top corner through the middle.

In the audio, Hajime had admitted to the revelation that had clung to his heart for the past three years. The admittance that had granted him with sunny days and cleared skies.

It was the reason for him eating all your cooking—no matter how shit it tasted—you insisting on making something for him, as it was always Hajime preparing the food for you. The reason butterflies had always lined the lovely depth of his heart, the reason elation and euphoria always blossomed deep within his chest at the mere mention of you.

At that moment, he hears the distant call of his name. It’s booming, but far away, all the same. For just a second, does he think it’s his own brain, echoing his name in some measly attempt to pull him from his thoughts and bring him back to the surface.

Later on does he realize it’s the judges. Calling for both him, and some short guy with red hair. Hajime’s up. He’s up, and the nerves that jumble in his stomach have nothing to do with the ongoing competition, but the voice messages that still play on his phone.

He’s still, soon knocked out of his daze as he hurriedly hands the phone to someone he can call his friend, if he just slightly pushes it, to keep his phone for safe keeping.

He jogs ahead next to the guy he’ll be surfing with. Board tucked under his armpit as he rounds the judges table, they introduce both guys into the crowd. Not that they need to introduce Hajime, it’s all poorly ridden formalities. Hajime has never wanted surfing to go by so quick.

So he turns once all is set. To him, it’s silent. The rushing flow of white water bellowing against clogged ears. He runs toward the water, fingers now curled around the rail of his board, legs shifting with every slap of bare feet to the ocean soaked sand.

He stands on the slab right as it skates against light waters, repeating what is already second nature to him in his head. Anything to drown out the panic and regret that clouds his head.

He centres his body, gravity kept in a tight coil within his stomach.

It was the reason he had immense love for the ocean, and all that came for it. The type of love that stings the tips of your numb fingers, and sets a blockage of air to gather as a lump in your throat.

He catches a wave, and rides it as best as he lets himself.

The waves are his love, because before it was his home, it was first yours.

He never expected this to happen. He never expected his uncoordinated fingers to find the buttons to send the confession that was meant to stay buried. Though there it was, and you had already listened to it.

He thinks back—you weren't acting weird at the bonfire... right? He pieces together the necessary parts, you had asked him if he remembered anything... and this is it. This is where the line ends, where his divulgence had made you uncomfortable, and he had ruined the closest friendship he held dearest to his heart.

He may have scared you off, he may have ruined what could have never been true, but Hajime prays with every bit that makes him true and unique, that you did not go back to Akihito.

It was a terrible lapse in judgment, a testament to his gentle way of loving. Though despite the panic that surges in him, Hajime can’t help but be the least bit thankful.

For something that he had kept under wraps for years, for something he had only fleetingly talked about with Hanamaki was now known to you—the girl it was all about, the girl he had fallen for on Sunset beach, when the sky was pink, and the orange carved itself into every curve of your gentle features.

All Hajime wants is for you to be happy. Loving him is a burden, he knows. With all senses of the heavy baggage he carries along with him. If it’s not him who can give you happiness, he’ll learn to settle.

It will hurt, it will hurt like crazy, but seeing you smile—with whoever it may be—will lesson the pain that would linger.

Soon enough, Hajime and the other boy finish off. They paddle to the shore, cheers sounding throughout the beach, numbers of people clapping him on the back as he dismisses them all—prying eyes peering through the spaces of packed crowds until you come into his line of vision.

You’re skipping towards him with a smile on your face, and all tension that had built up in his shoulders washes away.

You reach him by the time his board is dug into the sand, hopping on your heels as you look up at him.

“You did great,” you grin, “that fuckin’ foam climb you did? Didn’t know I was close with such a pro.”

Hajime looks down, bashful as water dribbles down his hair.

“Yeah, well, I learned from the best, didn’t I?” he chuckles, shuffling back as the judges start their introduction for the winner.

You quiet down, weaving your fingers with Hajime’s. It’s intimate. Even in the middle of a big crowd, the lights shine on just the two of you.

“Your mom is so proud of you, y’know?”

Hajime can’t help the guilt that nips at him. But he knows his mother is, and of everything he’s accomplished.

“... I... I know,” he stutters, head whipping to the front tables, and turning back just as quick.

Something is weighing on his mind. You quirk a brow, encouraging him to speak.

He inhales. “The night at the bonfire-”

“Before we announce the winner, we want you all to know that everyone is a winner. It was difficult choosing one person, but all of you have done exceptionally well.”

The booming voice from a mic cuts him off, and Hajime can’t help but roll his eyes, because most people couldn’t even cross the line of average. Though of course, they had to word it pleasingly, or someone would go home crying to their mother.

Hajime is the best, second to you. He knows that, and Hajime will let himself pride himself on that fact.

He hurries to finish, “I... when you asked if I remembered anything about that day... I- I didn’t-”

“That being said, we’re pleased to announce the winner!”

Hajime inhales and shuts his eyes closed. He wants nothing more than to be alone with you, right now.

“I heard the voice message I sent you. I forgot I sent that, I listened to it, but, fuck-” he mumbles your name, running a hand over his face, “it was true. It was all true, I love you- and I don’t know when it started, hell, maybe it was always there. From the first day I met you, and you did that really sick fuckin’ flynnstone flip- the first time I saw one in real time. I thought about that the rest of the day, I swear, you never left my mind. You haven’t. I love you.”

Your eyes widen, tears gathering with the overwhelming onslaught on information that is doused onto you. But through those dollops of fogged wetness, you break through a smile, because it’s true.

You’re in love with Hajime, and you know he loves you too.

Words drown around your ears, falling to stay buried beneath your heart. They stick with you, lost in limbo as Hajime smiles down at you. It doesn’t reach his eyes—bracing himself for the rejection he may face, to accept what he had told himself he needed to.

Pity doesn’t shine through your eyes. Your hand twitches under his as you forget you’re in public—usually not one for public displays of affection—but you pull him closer, with the hands that are curled around his wrist.

A smile flutters over your features. It’s one of grace and utmost euphoria, dipped in solace, colored with consolation.

Your fingers burn. They numb through your own limbs, exhilaration running bone deep. Laughter stings the tip of his tongue.

You’re no longer jaded, weight of who knows how long finally lifted off wilted shoulders.

You curl in closer to the heat of him, dismissing the soaking wet hair that drips onto the back of your hand.

You’re slightly winded, and your love-addled brain tells you to tighten your grip on his hand. You do, and you want to pull him impossibly closer to you —closer to your heart.

“Hajime, I l-”

Then again, does that same voice tear its way through your conversation. It sets itself high, right between the words of both intimacy and passion.

It splinters right through, and slices your sentence short. It’s then, do the both of you remember, that you’re not the only two people left on earth. The booming voice from the microphone bruisingly pushes you back apart, leaving a blazing trail of dread and gloom sitting in its wake.

“Congratulations, Akihito Sato!”

Hajime stills, like the air is hooked out of his lungs. Once again, does he slip through your fingers. His hands are limp at his sides—face both blank, but crestfallen. He stares through you and tries to blink away the shock that clouds his head.

Though to no avail, it keeps overflowing. Hajime is frozen, rooted in place with agony. He’s too dazed to pick up on the hesitancy in the crowd, but you can, of course you can. Their claps and yells for Akihito are spread apart, uncertain, following the rest of the crowd in light confusion and annoyance.

The only other time you’ve seen Hajime like this is when you had first told him you were dating Akihito. Something had stirred in you. It was a year ago, before unveiled feelings had shown themselves in the light, while fleeting touches and sheepish grins from across the room were only over the basis of friendly.

It wasn’t like you had dated Akihito to make Hajime jealous—never, but the look he had on his face as you told him that had set something inside you, something you haven’t placed until recently.

You whisper out his name, pushing your second confession to the side.

Tears veil themselves as saltwater, dabbling along his lashes to weigh down the curled hair. They’re darker in the water, dolloped along his waterline as he tries best to blink them away, furrowed brows a crease on his worried forehead.

“Hajime...” to the both of you, all sounds are clogged out. To Hajime, you sound as if he’s way below the surface. With throbbing sinuses, ruptured eardrums, and all.

It’s all a fruitless bid, the soft call of Hajime’s name from your lips, as he turns to hurry away.

For once, he wishes the pats on his back and the praise mixed with his name would just stop. Hajime weaves his way through the people, robbed of the chance to process alone as people congratulate him on a ‘job well done.’

At that, he shivers. Hajime knows he’s one of the best—he knows he embarrassed everyone out there. And all of a sudden, this ass shows up to steal the show? Bullshit. A job well done is what you tell a kook after their first trip to the waves. It’s not at all what you tell Hajime Iwaizumi.

He’s fuming as he empties into a clearing. An overwhelming sadness soon joins it, staining his heart so large, that he has no choice but to pause. His surfboard is under his armpit, stinging, weight of all that had happened sitting heavily atop his shoulders.

He doesn’t know what to do now. He needed that money—surfing is his passion, it’s one of the few things that shut him up, that turns him tender all over. He’d waken up at daybreak to surf the waves, he’d done it ever since he was an early teen, still angsty and going through his shitty heavy eyeliner phase.

Now, he feels as if he’d failed his mother.

Akihito is fucking loaded. For no reason should he have enrolled in this fucked up event.

Hajime huffs and sniffs, snivelling out a whine that gets carried by the wind.

For just a sliver of time, does Hajime hate himself. For being so selfish, for wishing that you’d run for him, to provide him with a shoulder to cry on. He dispels that thought as quick as it had come.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and he almost chuckles. As if the waves mock him for settling into sorrow, for not being enough for his mother, for running in circles around the girl whose touches still linger over his numb fingers.

Hajime walks to where his feet take him. And as he feels the waves crash in his ears—as bleak as it is—that there is an underlying epilogue to what he once loved most.

---

One body leaves, and another one arrives. But it does little to replace the air he has left behind.

Oikawa had run up, worry clouding his features as he nurses a lip between his blueberry slush-stained teeth.

“Where’s Hajime?”

You shrug, and your stomach almost hurts from the whirl of emotions you’re experiencing. All stacked up together, in such little time.

You spend no time answering the questions of your worried friends, taking brief notice of how Hanamaki hurries away in search of Hajime.

You feel little confusion within you, because you know what happened. You’re almost positive everyone knows what happened. For Akihito to be such a new surfer, for the idea of being out—and thoroughly unprotected—on the waves is a much novel idea to someone as pristine as him. He’d never picked up a board prior to this, and for him and his family to be in such close relations to the head of this event? The money he has? It takes so little out of you to put two and two together.

Your fists clench in anger, turning in your spot to follow after Hajime. Life’s a blur around you as you disregard all passing figures.

Right now, you hate Akihito more than anybody.

It’s no secret that there was some under the table business involved, and that he had bought his first place –– to what? Win you back? Does he not realize that you’re in love with Hajime? It’s not for his fame in town, it’s for him. For every single piece of him that makes him him.

You search for thirty long minutes, until the sky turns a gloomy grey. A simple sHanamakiade for a day gone to waste, slight burn in your thighs unparalleled to the painful sizzle in your heart.

You search the beach, not yet venturing into town, as you know that’s the one place Hajime stays away from. You think to the trailer parks, but you doubt his mother is the first person he would want to see... you know Hajime, under all those toughened layers of exterior, when he gets in his head, he gets in deep.

You think to one more place.

The day you and Hajime sat under the stars, wrapped in one another’s arms. In the nook of the beach, hidden away from prying eyes with the moon casting mellow glows on your faces—a secret she would surely set with.

You walk towards it, and sure enough, there he is. Seated against rotting wood, face up at the sky.

You walk towards him, careful in your steps. That’s all for naught, as Hajime senses you in his spine, head whipping to the side timely as he gives you a smile.

“Hi.” He croaks.

Deep within you, something rumbles, “Hey.” You reply.

Soon enough, you’re seated next to him. Hajime’s head rests against your shoulder, and he doesn’t cry. Tears have only gathered against his eyes, not having the final push to slip past and run against his smooth skin.

You inhale, shuddering, and Hajime coughs.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice wavers, tight coil stuck in your throat as your fingers twine with Hajime’s.

“Not your fault.” He replies, voice steady as he keeps his eyes on the silvery clouds.

You wince, “He did it for me...”

Hajime sits up to rest against his hands.

“I figured.” His words have no bite to them, no underlying tang of malevolence. You let yourself relax.

A gentle breeze dances through your hair, and you sit like that for a few minutes.

“I hope this... won’t damage your confidence.” You speak.

Hajime doesn’t lie. Despite knowing that there was funny business to who won, he can’t help the doubt that teases him.

“It’ll take a while...” he admits, “yeah. It’ll take some time.”

Your heart cracks, because never before has Hajime been hesitant in the skills he holds.

(Well, maybe that one time—back when you had first met each other. When you and Hajime were competing to see who could perform the best alley oop, and Mattsun was too nervous to judge on his own. So, you had pulled the tired lifeguard, Levi, to judge you. Needless to say, you had beat Hajime. But even then, it was nothing more than playful banter.

Plus, you had taught him how to perform a perfect one right after that. Now, it’s one of his most famous skills.)

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll help you. We can go down to the beach every day if you want. Three in the morning, it’s fine. We’ll do it.”

Hajime squeezes his eyes shut, and curls back into your heat. You wrap an arm around his waist as he rubs at your neck with his nose.

“The money...” his voice just barely cracks, muffled within the skin of your neck.

Your back curls on impulse. On the sensitivity, and the memories piecing together again.

“We’ll figure something out,” you clear your throat, replying, “all of us will. I promise you this, Hajime.

“We’ll try everything, until there’s nothing left to try. We’ll rob a fucking bank. Watari can be the getaway driver, Akiko will stand watch and beat the guards asses.”

Hajime chuckles through the tears you didn’t realize were now falling.

He slightly warbles out his thanks, that he is so grateful that you’re here with him.

Not just glad that you’re here, and with him on the beach. But that in all the billions of people in the world, of all the hundreds of millions in this country, and the millions in this state, the love of his life was found in you, within the tens of thousands of miles on earth.

Way down on Japan's coast, tucked away behind the beach, is where Hajime Iwaizumi has found—and recognized—his soulmate.

You were once the girl beyond his neighbourhood, the one that wasn’t outwardly nice, but respectful to those who deserved it. He’d seen you out on the waves with Akiko and Mattsun, in the shacks with Hanamaki and Oikawa, seashell earrings dangling from your lobes, always sure to buy only reef-safe sunscreen, as normal sunscreen damages the ocean you’re always present at.

He never thought he’d be here. In your arms, as you dry away his tears.

“I love you,” he whispers, and the sky seems to clear up.

You still, and for just a second, you think this is an inappropriate time. After all that just happened, it’s rather unexpected.

But you’re tired of waiting. You’re so, so tired of holding yourself back. The wall of three years finally starts to break down.

You shift up to cup Hajime’s cheeks within your palms. In his eyes, no panic stirs beneath them. It’s content, and relief.

“Hajime... I fucking love you," you confess—yet again—through a giggle.

“I’m yours.” He affirms, then wrapping his arms around your waist to bring you closer, “Yours.”

Against his chest, you mumble, “I don’ want you to be mine,” shifting in his hold, your cheek is squished up against his wetsuit—but you don’t bother to move. Not when he’s this comforting. “You be your own. And I’ll be my own. And from there, we can help each other grow.”

When you receive no response, you pop your head out, eyes peeking up at Hajime with curiosity.

He’s smiling down at you, eyes gleaming in the sun as he thumbs the skin of your back.

“... What?”

“Nothing...” he clicks his tongue, looking toward the beach, “it’s just that... you were calling me corny.”

You hurriedly sit up, scowl present on your face.

“Because you are?”

Hajime simply shrugs his shoulders, “You’re the one that looks ten seconds away from kissing me.”

You tilt your chin higher up, next leaning in to rest your hands on his knees.

“Try me.”

His hand slithers up, so slow, palming your cheek. He brushes away a stray lash, fingers moving to tilt your head back down.

“I... think I’m going to kiss you, now. Is that okay?” He rasps out. From his throat, to the space between you.

You inhale, daze around your head as you take in the smell of him. He’s fresh. Familiar. Safe...

“I think I’m gonna kiss you back...” you mutter, curling fingers around his wrist, eyes fluttering up to fall in his as he leans in.

His lips to yours are a callback for what’s already familiar. You’ve kissed before—having long since crossed the line of friends, delving farther into something else entirely.

Your tongue rounds the cracks at the corner of his mouth. Teeth nipping at his bottom lip, you rise to settle yourself atop his lap.

Spit dribbles between you both, air hot as Hajime works his mouth against your own. His tongue swipes the saliva of your inner cheek, palms gripping the flesh of your ass as you rise it against his open hands.

Just barely pulling back, you pull in a sharp breath of air. Lashes still sit against your heated cheeks, heart thumping against your chest as you mumble into Hajime’s lips, “That was... a little more than just a kiss, Hajime.”

He doesn’t reply. Not verbally, at least, instead settling to place a smooch to the corner of your mouth. Pulling back, he grins, and tucks a strand of curled hair back behind your heated ear.

Hajime holds your hands between his, keeping them warm with the setting of the sun. He holds them so gently, and looks at you as if it was you who had carved the waves.

“You know, that’s the third time you confessed to me?”

Hajime looks down at you, you curled into his arm as you watch the movement of waves from where you sit.

“No.”

You glance up at him, “No?”

Hajime swallows down his anxieties at the relived memory. He squeezes your arm. A way to remind him that you’re here, that you’re okay.

He draws in a shaky breath, “Remember that day about seven months ago? You wanted to race with Hanamaki but you got sent into a wipeout. Right into a rock... we rushed you to a hospital, you were bleeding like crazy.”

You sit up, but don’t stray far enough so that Hajime’s hand falls from your skin. Concern is etched on your face, and the now faded scar on your clavicle begins to once again burn at the memory.

“When we were in the van driving you to the hospital you were in my lap sobbing,” Hajime’s about to continue, but he cuts himself short. He can’t bring himself to delve too deep, he can’t bring himself to force you to relive the night that had left its fangs in you, “I said it on our way there. I... I didn’t know what was gonna happen. Panic. I was scared.”

Your eyes soften, vision stinging from the news, and the reminder of what happened seven months ago. Hanamaki took heavy guilt, spending near every day for months after by your side, despite you having recovered speedily enough. Sometimes, you think you catch the guilt still flashing in his eyes every now and then.

A hand on his own hand, you thumb Hajime’s palm.

“I’m okay, Hajime.” You whisper, leaning in once more to hold him so close.

“I know,” he shivers, “I know, I know you’re safe.” Hajime presses a kiss to your hair.

And he repeats it again, telling himself more than you.

Then eventually, the sun begins to set.

With you in his sights, you finalize the forming image that lays in front of him.

You ground each other, bottoms in sunken sand as you watch the orange sun that shines over idyllic waves.

Hajime inhales another shaky breath, but finally—finally—is he where he always needed to be most.

Home. With you in his arms.

---

The sun beats down on your exposed skin, prompting the soap suds that run down your forearms to do little in reality to combat the current heat.

You’re wearing one of Hajime’s Frank Ocean shirts, that you’ve subsequently tied into a tiny knot above your stomach after having stolen it from him. On your legs are short denim shorts, bleached and clinging to the skin of your thighs as you tighten your bandana with slightly slimy hands.

The carpark of Shelly’s Bar & Diner is more packed than it has been in the past number of months. Cars are wet and sat all over the pavement, members of your tight-knit friend group scrubbing and brushing both the interior and exterior of numerous cars.

You’re more towards the back, away from the mini crowd that had formed around Akiko and her acoustic guitar skills for some extra money. You use your fine-tipped tool to pick the dirt out of someones tail lights, cherry flavored lollipop rounded against the inside of your cheek as you suckle on it, eyes slightly squinted within the bright daylight that breaks through the looming palm trees.

A shadow blocks the sun from your current task, prompting you to peer up and see Hajime, hip of his rested against the navy blue car, a slight smile painting his sunburnt face. He wears loose shorts, and a sleeveless band shirt.

You rise to your feet, hands next sliding against his chest to link behind his neck. You return the smile, lollipop stick safely tucked within the corner of your lips.

“How’s it going, boss man?”

Hajime rolls his eyes at the nickname, arms of his seamlessly wrapping around your waist to bring you in closer, plucking the lollipop from between your teeth to run it against his own tongue.

Your eyes slightly widen as his hand trails lower, dangerously close to the meat of your ass.

He swiftly brings you back down to earth.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “thanks to you all. I don’t know how I can ever repay you guys.”

Immediately, you smile. Curling into Hajime’s chest as he hugs you closer, brushing all stray strands of hair away from clinging to your glossed lips.

“We’re all having fun. That’s all that matters,” you sigh dreamily, “caught Hanamaki and Mattsun making out in the back.”

Hajime snorts, “Should I... yell at them?”

You pull back, arms still slung over his shoulders, each one of your pinkies locked together to keep him close as you giggle into his mouth, “Nah, give them their time, Hajime.”

He mumbles something under his breath, pink dusting tanned cheeks as he continues to suck on the sugary snack that melts on his tongue.

“Anyways...” you start, eyeing the shift of Hajime’s lips around the white stick of your lollipop, “I was just thinking... later tonight... we visit the sunken ship down on Sunset?” You glance up at him, watered eyes blown wide. Later on, you add, “Just the two of us?”

Hajime smirks, trailing his hand lower to leave a generous squeeze to your bum, “Just the two of us, eh?”

You giggle, leaning in to mumble confirmation against his lips, chest moulding into his front as he cages you in with his own arms, hands beneath the fabric of your shirt.

“Hey, have you seen Hajime anywhe- My God, you guys!”

You both flinch and shift slightly back at the intrusive voice, turning your head to see Watari towards the front of the car, shirtless with a rag draped over his shoulder. His hands are on his hips, slight disgust almost showing on his tanned face.

“First, I gotta see Hanamaki shoving his tongue down Mattsun’s throat in the break room as I’m trying to get my own break in, then Akiko and Watari making out in the parking lot, now y’all are about to fuck back here? Can y’all get a fuckin’ room!? Can I catch a break?”

You burst into giggles in Hajime’s chest at Watari’s failed attempt of an admonishing mother, foot of his tapping impatiently against the wet pavement.

“Sorry, Watari. Couldn’t help myself.” Replies Hajime, who still has you pinned to his waist by his hands, lollipop riding his twisting tongue.

Watari shifts his weight to one foot, wagging his finger at Hajime like he holds some profound lecture, “She’s got your balls deep in her purse, man.”

Your hands depart from behind Hajime’s neck, once again riding down his chest to flip the finger at Watari’s face.

Hajime cackles at your exploit, fang tooth digging into his tongue as he adjusts the waistband of your shorts.

He winks at Watari, “No place I’d rather have ‘em, buddy.”

Watari’s quickly pulling a face, hurrying back where he came from.

You turn to Hajime, stepping away with a light pout on your face, “Don’t be mean, baby.”

Hajime merely rolls his eyes, sliding his palms back beneath your thighs to easily lift you onto the back of the car.

“Watari’s a big boy,” he tuts, “he’ll be fine.”

Hajime removes the lollipop from his mouth, tucking his face into your neck. He rubs at the skin with his nose, peppering sticky kisses to the line of your throat.

He muffles into your flesh, “Really, though. Thank you..."

“Don’t thank me, Hajime.” You kiss your teeth, hands resting on his shoulders.

He chuckles, retreating from the junction of your neck to press a light smooch to the tip of your nose.

“I love you.” He says, hands resting on the skin of your thighs.

Even then, after hearing it every day, do his words set butterflies soaring in your stomach.

Cupping his face, you bring Hajime closer to you, setting your lips to his as he pulls you in.

“I love you, too.” You mumble, right between the privy opening of his sweet lips.

You let yourself relax at home, and you let yourself smile.

That’s because you’re now sure of the love that is there—the love that has always been there, with Iwaizumi Hajime.

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