#heatwave2021

“Omi -” you interject, raising your hands as if to calm him down but it’s too little, too late to stop the venom coursing through his veins. 

“I’m so tired of you - don’t you see the mess that you’ve made of the house”, waving your protest that you’ll clean it up, but Omi, I’m tired too - the affectionate nickname you’ve given him incensing him even further - “and you’re so noisy, watching your stupid videos all the time, making so much damn noise, always demanding affection when I’m tired - it feels like I don’t ever get a break when I’m living with you.”

“I’m sorry”, you reply. If he were calmer, he’d admire you for your ability to grasp at the frayed ends of your composure, but he isn’t, and your apology only makes him resent you further because he’s not in the wrong here, he isn’t, he isn’t -

“Maybe we should give each other some space to cool down and discuss this further in the morning -” 

“There isn’t much to discuss when it’s just you being a nuisance”, he retorts. 

“I’m sorry”, you repeat, twisting your fingers. “L-let’s just sleep over this - ”

He stares at you in disbelief. An apology and a night’s sleep isn’t going to douse the simmering frustration in his chest for the past month. 

“No, I don’t think so”, he replies, voice cold. “I think we’re done.”

To your credit, you stay out of his way as he gathers his things, enough clothes for a few nights, toiletries, spare masks, his practice bag, until he’s one foot out of the front door. 

“Kiyoomi”, you call. He doesn’t turn around. “Will you be coming back home?” 

The door slamming shut is his answer to you.  

He heads to Atsumu’s apartment to spend the night on his couch (which he regrets immensely because he swears there are springs sticking into his back and he’s not sure when the last time Atsumu ever sent the upholstery for dry cleaning), checking himself into a service apartment that’s blessedly quiet the very next day. 

The silence is welcome. The orderliness of the apartment pleases him. 

Everything is exactly how he placed them when he returns after practice. There’s no discarded pair of socks by the door (it’s always been a mystery to him how you manage to rock mismatched socks), no colourful keychain on the dining table (a hodge podge of MSBY merch that you’d gotten to support him), no laptop perched on the sofa blasting music (a playlist you’ve curated, of songs loved by both you and him). 

It’s neat. It’s perfect. 

(it’s soulless, is it not?) 

The fridge is empty, so he heads to the supermarket after practice, only buys items approved by the team’s nutritionist - brown rice, chicken breast and fish, veggies like broccoli and carrots and is back to the apartment in record time because unlike you, he doesn’t browse the shelves for the best discounts or waste time cooing at cute dogs and toddlers that walk by. But even though the fridge is full, it still feels like it’s missing something. 

He only figures out what it is what Meian turns up at practice the next day with a bento, a small note tucked into it which Atsumu steals a glimpse off and comments with envy that “the capt’n is a lucky shit cos which guy gets such cute notes along with a home cooked meal - I want a girl like that”, Bokuto hooting innocently that “it’s okay, Tsum-Tsum, there’s a girl out there for you, or you could always just ‘Samu to pack lunch for you.” 

He tunes out as Atsumu whines indignantly about how food from his twin is definitely not packed with love and thinks instead of the little notes you pin on the fridge reminding him to drink water, to take his vitamins, the sneaky little umeboshi onigiri that you order specially from Osamu for him. He thinks about suppers shared on the couch despite his grumbling about crumbs, laying his head in your lap as you sneak him snacks of prawn crackers and edamame beans.  

He opens the fridge again. There’s all the food he bought and yet  - 

(it’s empty, is it not?) 

Suddenly, the silence is stifling, an unbearable weight pressing down on his lungs. 

He jumps whenever the quiet is broken by the echo of footsteps down the corridor outside, head snapping around whenever his phone beeps. He goes to training with dark smudges beneath his eyes because he can’t seem to fall asleep without the soft sounds of your breath. 

So when the weekend comes around, he packs up his things, checks out of the serviced apartment and heads home to you, preparing to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness (because how could he ever have blamed you for being clingy and affectionate when all he wants is to crawl into the cradle of your embrace and stay there for a long, long time) but then - 

The door swings open. He walks in. 

It’s quiet. Too quiet, because you aren’t around to greet him a cheery welcome home! He looks around. It’s neat. Too neat, because your socks aren’t in the genkan, and your laptop isn’t on the couch. It’s empty. Too empty, because the fridge is bare, and when he throws open the wardrobe, all your things arent there anymore.  

He realises he hasn’t come home after all. Because you’re gone. 

Your concept of home was meant to be centered around Kiyoomi. 

Your love for him isn’t borne out of a whirlwind romance, nor some fated encounter out of a fairytale. It’s a bond formed from a friendship between two old souls, sparking from a quiet conversation when you thank him for being patient with your brother, a budding libero at a volleyball camp, that slowly ripens over time into something you thought resembled love. A good foundation for a home, to stand the test of time. 

And at first, he proves you right by asking you to move in with him when your lease runs out. 

“We might as well try living together”, he says, cautious as ever.  

You tap your chin thoughtfully. You are not a romantic but the thought of greeting each morning and bidding farewell to each night together with Kiyoomi is one that you have to admit you’ve been dreaming of. You imagine little moments in Kiyoomi’s cosy apartment - sharing home cooked meals, sorting through laundry, toes touching beneath thick blankets on cold nights, and you think you’d find happiness with him, so you agree with a smile. 

“It would be nice to come home to you every day.”

The moment’s slightly dented when he replies “I guess” only after a long pause, before turning his attention to focus on the mechanics, the logistics of moving you in. The hesitation you notice in that brief moment should have tipped you off, the first warning sign of what is to come. As the days pass you can see his patience wearing thin, his temper flaring up more and you think - if love is meant to be patient, if love is meant to be kind, then what you and Kiyoomi share isn’t love after all, and that means - that means that the foundation upon which your home stands on isn’t sound, that means that you might wake up one day to find your roof falling in, the walls crumbling down. 

But you bury your head in the sand, try to prop the foundations of your relationship up with more kindness, more affection though everything still seems to crack apart, your efforts seem to do more harm than good. 

“Don’t” he snarls, when you chirp an affectionate “Omi, you’re home!”, your open arms falling limply to the side. You grow accustomed to holding yourself together instead of the hug you meant to offer, swallowing the hurt of the acid in his words until your throat is burnt and raw. 

So in a way it is a relief when he leaves. It means you don’t have to second guess your every interaction, police your every move, go to bed wondering what you did this time. 

It means that while you’re now homeless, you’re free. You don’t have to try anymore. 

You pack up your things, throwing them together in the suitcase that you’ve just unpacked a month ago (because it was always Kiyoomi’s apartment, not yours), call your best friend and ask if you can crash at her place (she says yes, and curses Kiyoomi out, even as you flinch the venom in her voice because...it’s Kiyoomi she’s insulting though he really does deserve her harsh words). It doesn’t occur to you to try to reach out to him, because he said you guys were done, did he not - but you did message Atsumu, just to let him know where Kiyoomi can find you, in case you left something behind or owed him rent or if Kiyoomi needs you for anything else, though you rather doubt that. 

But you regret giving Atsumu any of your contact details when you answer the door on a Saturday night a week later, when your best friend’s left you to housesit while she visits family on the weekend. Because you’re no match for a professional athlete when he’s determined to barge into your apartment. So you can only squawk indignantly when Miya Atsumu shoulders past you, unceremoniously dumping a semi-comatose Kiyoomi onto your sofa. 

“He kept asking for ya”, the blonde idiot standing on your living room rug states, making a run for it before you can even protest. 

You should leave him to suffer on the sofa - which he surely will, given the way he reeks of alcohol and fried food. He deserves it after the way he stomped on your heart, crushing it beneath his feet. Logic dictates that you should leave him to suffer. But even though your best friend would just scoff at you for being far too much of a bleeding heart, your heart is tender, and it hurts at the thought of him waking up in pain, so you rearrange his limbs on the sofa, tuck a cushion under his neck. 

You’re in the kitchen deliberating whether to wake him up to force him to down a glass of water when you hear him calling your name. Your feet answer before you even think, but your mind takes a second or two to process what you should call your ex. Omi is definitely out of the question, Kiyoomi -possibly, but given the way he walked out on you - 

He calls your name again, so you pull yourself together and greet him -“Sakusa-san”, in your chilliest voice as he struggles to sit up and hunches over, knees to chest.  

“I miss her so much”, he tells you, head in hands, and your heart sinks like a stone as you think wow, you must really not have mattered much to him after all, if he’s moved on so fast, and you can’t help but wonder who he’s referring to.  

You are half minded to deposit him by the front door and call Atsumu to pick the trash up until he murmurs your name, mumbles it again and again and again, until you realise with one look at his hazy gaze that oh, that silly man crouched on your sofa like an oversized cat is yearning for you. 

You’ve heard anecdotes of the MSBY boys’ quirks when drunk. Atsumu, a natural loudmouth, gets exceedingly quiet. Loud, exuberant Bokuto, falls asleep anywhere like a log and snores like a horn. Hinata gets even more hyper, bounces off walls until Meian corrals him when it’s time to go. But you’ve never heard about Kiyoomi losing himself to alcohol, at least not until now. 

So it’s a shock to your system that the reticent, remote Kiyoomi you know is a complete chatterbox when drunk. He slurs his way through declarations of love to you, lamenting how huge of an idiot he was to leave, to even think of letting you go. You listen bemusedly as he lauds your patience with him, talks fondly of the silly things you do that make him smile, affection colouring every inflection of his voice. 

“D’you think I have a chance if I beg for her to take me back?” 

You take the opportunity to force him to down a cup of water and lie back down on the sofa. “You’ll have to ask her. But that won’t happen if you don’t take care of yourself well enough to look for her in the morning”, you reason. 

Your logic seems to resonate with him, as he snuffles into his blanket happily before promptly falling asleep.

Sakusa wakes up with a pounding in his head that seems to reverberate into confusion when he realises that he’s on a couch with scratchy cushions, so unlike the cotton sheets of his bed.  There’s a laptop on the coffee table beside his foot that’s decorated with stickers (just like yours) and the blanket tucked under his chin smells exactly like the lavender fabric softener (just what you’ve always preferred). 

Oh. 

He swings his feet to the floor, wincing as the pounding seems to try to hammer through his brain but ignores all of that because all the signs indicate that you have to be here, and that means he has a chance to see you again. Perhaps if you see that he’s truly sorry, that he’s missed you so much you might take him back - 

“Kiyoomi?”

His head swivels around. He immediately regrets it, pain shooting down his neck and he groans, back hitting the couch, hating himself for being so pathetic because the one chance he has to convince you to come back to him, he’s hungover and obviously reeking of alcohol and - did he even shower? 

“Tea?” you bend over, handing him a warm cup of amber liquid sloshing at the sides. 

He accepts it gratefully. “Thank you”, he croaks, trying his best to keep his voice from cracking. He gulps it down, and lets you guide him gently to a seat in the kitchen. 

“Breakfast?” you offer, and when he nods, you quietly dish him two slices of toast, perfectly buttered and spread with a thin layer of yuzu jam, just as he likes it. He swallows it down, the churning in his stomach appeased by offerings of food and tea, the paleness from his cheeks receding. He catches your eye when the plate is clean, and is about to reach out to catch your hand too but falters when you beat him to the punch, clearing the plate and patting his shoulder like you would to a mere friend  - 

“Still have a headache?”

Not trusting his brains not to fall out of his ears if he nods again, he grunts a noise of affirmation. 

“You should probably go home”, you frown. “To rest a little more.”  

He immediately shakes his head, even though he’s hit with the whiplash of the remnants of his brain cells rattling in his skull when he does so, but he has to make it clear to you that he fucked up – big time, as Atsumu said when he turned up on his doorstep, seething with frustration and impatience, and he’s willing to grovel forever if you require it, as long as it means that you’ll come back to him. 

“But I’m already home.”

You gape at him, the weight of his words enough to leave you winded, because it means that he meant every bit of his drunken rambling last night, that cold, unfeeling Kiyoomi actually, really, absolutely, still wants you. 

(You, with your mess and chaos spilling out into the open. You, will all your flaws and imperfections.) 

“T-that doesn’t even make sense”, you splutter. “You t-told me that I was noisy and a nuisance – so w-what are you even talking about now -  w-why would you want me to go home with you - ”

“I’m sorry”, he says, back bent in a perfect bow. “You have every right to never want to see me again, but please”, there’s bile at the back of his throat and he’s about to hurl out of nervousness because he knows he behaved deplorably and he really has no right to ask anything of you – “if you could give me a chance to earn your forgiveness – “

“What would you do?” you ask. “To earn my trust back, I mean.” 

Everything, he’d promised then. 

He’s always been methodical, so he proceeds step by step. 

First, the foundation. He moves out of the main bedroom, to the spare room that was meant for his parents when they visit (though they never did). You gasp when you move back in, your friend muttering acerbically that you have her number, call her if things go south again, because he’s decorated the room with twinkling fairy lights and soft, colourful cotton sheets that you’d always dreamed of (based on the pinterest page that he saw open on your browser, but was selfish enough to disregard), and he disappears before you feel the need to thank him. 

(it’s nothing more than you deserve, after all) 

Second, the walls. He doesn’t snap at you anymore about the mess, because he knows you do your best to keep things tidy, as much as you can and he loves you all the more for that. A temporary scaffolding of politeness gives way to sustained affection, because he’s learned to appreciate the chirped welcome home, omi at the end of each hard, long day. He reciprocates, asks you about your day, wraps you in his arms and cooks you hot dinners when the slump of your shoulders, the tilt of your mouth indicates that you’ve had a bad day. 

(he’s just honoured that he’s allowed to make your bad days better, not worse) 

Third, a roof over your heads. He’s never been the most expressive (unlike Miya Atsumu, who seems to pin his heart to his forehead), but he tries, oh gods he tries for you. There are notes for you, scattered around the house – one on the tube of vitamin c tablets he’s always on your case for, one on your water bottle to remind you to stay hydrated, stuck all over the calendar hung in the kitchen reminding you about your doctor’s appointments, the deadline to get a flu jab, your mother’s birthday –no smiley faces - that’s not really him but he does try to draw a silly little heart beside his name because he knows they’ll make you smile. 

(he thinks you get it when you light up after he starts humming your favourite songs around the house)

He’d promised everything then. He keeps wondering if it’s enough, until it’s been months since he left, and he’s unlocking the door, nodding at the familiar sight of mismatched socks at the genkan, a new MSBY keychain in his bag for you. There’s music in the air – songs that you and he have both added to a playlist that grows longer each day, and the the smell of his favourite food from the kitchen, it’s probably a mess, but it’s one he’d gladly help to clean up later. 

He still has a habit of dropping his gym bag in his room and washing his hands before he greets you, but within seconds he realises his room is neat (too neat) and his wardrobe is empty (too empty). When he pops his head into the main bedroom, it’s furnished with his favourite sheets and your fairy lights, the wardrobe full of clothes both his and yours, you’re already waiting for him to reach the same point as you, perched on the threshold of his room (no longer his room). 

There’s a smile on your face that he’ll always treasure, laughter that’s better than any music he’s ever heard – 

“Omi”, you say. “Welcome home.” 

If you take note of your roommate and friend eating up all your bared legs and the shine on your skin, you say nothing about it. In fact, you don’t notice it at all. Instead, you turn on your heel to enter the kitchen you’d exited from, Natsuo belatedly following.

You rip the freezer open, pulling out handfuls of ice cubes to drop into one of his oversized workout water bottles. It’s so warm in the kitchen that tendrils of foggy cold curl and lap out of the freezer, and it feels wonderful across your sweaty face.

“Why won’t it be fixed?” He asks, his questions drawn out and slow, sounding annoyingly unbothered.

“Because everyone’s AC is fucked, apparently!” You snap, slapping the door shut and hefting your extra icy bottle to the sink, fighting with it til it fits under the filter add-on, slapping the faucet on.

You turn with a huff, leaning back against the counter. Natsuo glances up at you from his place still in the kitchen doorway, brows arched. Annoyingly enough, he looks significantly less sweaty than you are, and he was just outside. Of course he would still look absolutely perfect and attractive and not panting like a dog after being in boiling temperatures outside. You’re suddenly extremely self-conscious of the fact your ass is out and your tits may as well be, too, swallowing and crossing your arms and legs in a poor attempt at propriety.

“Well…” His eyes flick down to the movement of you crossing your arms and legs, and quickly turns his head away, clearing his throat. “That sucks.”

“Y-Yeah…” You trail off, suddenly remembering the faucet and slapping it off before the massive water bottle overflows precious cool water. Quickly screwing the cap on, you struggle to lift it up, hearing Natsuo snort behind you. You cast him a glare, shortened temper quick to snap. “Shut the fuck up.”

He grins in amusement, pushing off the entryway. “You need some help?”

“No!” He laughs when you shuffle past him and back into the living room, where you’ve commandeered all the fans in the apartment to blow on the spot you’ve set up on the couch.

“Okay well, since you’re clearly suffering, how about I get us dinner.” You pout up at him, and it only makes his grin grow. “I’ll get us some cold soba from down the street just for you, and hopefully that’ll help you out, huh?” Once again, he does a bad job glancing over your scantily clad body, and as you’ve done for all of your time knowing and being friends with Todoroki Natsuo, you ignore the simmer of a different kind of warmth deep in your belly.

“Thank you,” you mumble against the top of the heavy water bottle, tilting it carefully to take a drink. With the sudden nerves of your handsome roommate’s presence and the fact you’re sweating from literally every pore including the ones on your hands, your grip on it slips. You gasp, splashing water down your front and over your bare legs. It feels great, but when your eyes flit to the taller man standing at the junction between the living room and the hallway further into the apartment, you feel your heart flutter when his cheeks flush pinker, eyes zeroed in on your pebbling nipples and the way your tank is glued to your skin, what he can see of your wettened panties between your squeezed thighs.

Without looking you in the eye, Natsuo spins on heel. “L-Let me just change and, uh, stuff.”

You gulp down your mouthful of water, watching his broad back disappear into the darkness of the hallway, lightening when his door opens and is lost once more when it closes. You slump against the coffee table, fanning your chest with your wet shirt, sighing behind the hum of the three fans aimed your way strategically placed around the living room.

By the time Natsuo returns with dinner, you’ve reluctantly slipped on less sweaty clothes, though you still can’t will yourself to wear a bra. The awkwardness from before has lessened, and you bless him for bringing you cold soba, which he laughs at you for with good nature. You go about the rest of your night as roommates and friends do, until you both retire to your separate rooms. You take a cold and soothing shower and he helps you lug the fans to your room, but even in the dark, at night, with three fans blowing on your recently cooled skin, you find yourself heating up again, despite being completely naked too.

You groan, tossing and turning, pulling sheets from your damp skin. You feel like you’re boiling, your wet hair now feeling humid unlike it’s earlier coldness that helped cool you down.

You find yourself back in the living room, staring sleepily at a quiet TV, only one fan joining you this time. It whirs in your ear, fluttering your hair, helping you stay cooler. Sitting on a tiny floor cushion, avoiding lying in your own heat and sweat, you lie hunched against the table, sighing like an old dog in your exhaustion and frustration.

Distracted enough in your own hell, you forget one of Natsuo’s nightly rituals. A glass of water he has to get for himself every night. The floor creaks with his steps, and you glance up in surprise when he stops next to the couch you’re not sitting on.

“You okay?” His voice is rough with sleep, eyes a little swollen and one palm rubbing at his cheek. He squints at you in what little light comes from the TV, big shoulder bumping up against the tiny bit of wall between the living room and the kitchen.

You sniff, frustration in you coming close to bringing tears to your eyes. “Just...It’s too hot to sleep.” You hate how childish you sound, hunching in on yourself despite how it cages warmth in between your thin tank and the skin of your legs.

Natsuo is silent for a moment, and you keep your gaze forward without really thinking about what’s on the TV. His steps lead him into the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running after a second. It’s not long before his steps are leading him back into the room. You keep yourself forward resolutely, not wanting to look back at him going back to his room, somehow managing to sleep even in this horrible heat unlike you. Not wanting to feel stupidly envious of him.

His steps bring him closer to you instead of back down the hall. You can feel his presence standing above you.

“Do you want to come to my bed?”

Reflexively, you open your mouth to vehemently disagree. Two bodies in one bed? That would be even worse!

But Natsuo reaches out to poke your warm cheek with his offer, and the shocking coolness of his finger nearly has your eyes rolling back in delight.

That’s right. Natsuo’s quirk.

You’re suddenly glancing him up and down. He steps back a little, white brow rising. He’s shirtless, and seemingly barely breaking a sweat despite the broken AC, and, and…

He shrugs a big shoulder, thick arms crossed and leaning a hip against the couch. “I can help you cool down.” His eyes are sleepy, looking you in the eye and not giving away any other potentials that could occur in his bed.

You mentally trail off with a nervous swallow. It’s not like you haven’t slept in the same bed before. Long-time friends do that sometimes, and many a long night studying or passing out from drinking in one bed isn’t unheard of between you. Platonic cuddling is occasionally explored, though not indulged simply because you don’t want to expose yourself to any more hurt that your more than slightly mild crush on the man before you has already.

But this is a desperate situation. You’re absolutely boiling, and you don’t think you can stand another second of it.

With a deep breath, you brush off the pinpricks of arousal and nod. “Please?”

His lips pull into a smirk, and he nods once, gesturing for you to follow him. Down the hall and to the left instead of the right, his door is still slightly ajar, and when you step into his room, it feels noticeably cooler than the rest of the apartment. You slink past him, listening to the click of the door when he shuts it, and distract yourself from thinking about inevitably cuddling with your friend by belly flopping onto his bed.

You groan as the cool sheets touch your overheated, sweating skin. You roll to lie on your back, eyes shut in bliss, legs splayed and for a second, unconcerned with anything but feeling the cool sheets on your skin.

For a blissful moment you forget that it’s Natsuo’s bed until all the other things that mark it as his become distinct to your senses. How his bed feels like heaven compared to your cheaper, smaller one; the silkier, expensive quality of his sheets; the delectable scent of his body wash clinging to the fabric.

The duskier light of his lamp has all of this feeling much more intimate than it actually is. The door clicks shut softly, and a snort interrupts your moment of zen. You squint up at your white-haired companion. He’s grinning, kicking a blanket across the bottom of the door to keep the cool air in. “Feel good?” His voice is deep and scratchy with sleep, and your legs close instinctively.

“Yes.” You hate how meek you sound, watching him approach.

The quality of the bed makes itself known when his bigger, broader body falls heavily next to you, and you barely bounce from the impact. He sighs, wiggling onto his back beside you, cool arm pressing to yours. You almost curl in against him, his skin feeling blessedly cold compared to yours, but you refrain, muscles coiling tight to settle that need inside you.

Whether he’s read your mind or it's a coincidence, Natsuo turns his head to you. “C’mere.” He lifts his arm up, baring the side of his chest to you. You watch the way muscles pull across his ribs, the thick muscles of his abs and chest relaxed with sleepiness.

You flounder for an excuse. “I-I’m all sweaty.”

He shrugs again. “It’s fine. You’re hot. Let me cool you down.”

You try not to let him casually saying You’re hot get to you in any other way than the literal sense. Because that’s what he means.

With a sigh, you cast him a meek glance. He looks way too good with his sleepy eyes and messy white hair, splayed out just for you to press yourself up against. You quickly roll your back to face him before shuffling backwards, lifting your head to rest against his bicep as he curls his arm around your shoulder.

“Oh fuck,” you sigh, eyes falling shut and basking in the cool expression of his quirk.

It feels like dipping into a cool oasis in a hot desert. You let your cheek squish against his bicep, neck pressed into the soft muscle, his forearm curled to press against your other cheek. Through your thin shirt, you can feel the radiating coolness of his skin at your back, and you can’t help wiggling closer, your feet pressing to his shin, sliding back further til you’re clamping your calves around his leg to feel the pleasant release of heat.

“Wow, you--” He cuts himself off, palming over the upper half of your face. His hand is so cold against your warm head, that you don’t even complain beyond a grunt. “Are you sure you aren’t sick? You’re like, really hot.”

You groan, lashes fluttering against his palm, unmoving. “No, Natsuo...I’m not.”

Natsuo’s chest jumps against your shoulder with a laugh. You just grip his wrist and drag his hand down your chin to your throat, trying not to cringe when his hand slides through the sweat that’s gathered there. His palm is big enough to cover your throat and then some, and you sigh happily with the relief it brings.

It takes you a second to realize that Natsuo has gone incredibly still. As you’re trying to push his hand a little lower towards your chest, you realize what you’re doing and pause.

“O-Oh my god, I’m sorry, you just--” You gulp down your words of feel so good, brain scrabbling for a replacement. “Your skin is just so much cooler than mine.” You cringe at his dark window, happy to not be facing him at this moment.

“It’s okay.” His voice is carefully neutral, you can hear the forced banality in it. His fingers curl in around your neck gently, and your eyes almost roll back into your head for other reasons entirely. “I just...I just wanna help.”

You blow out a slow breath as his hand explores the plane of your decolletage, never wandering any lower. It does feel nice, pulling heat that gathered along your neck and nape away, and even though you’re sweaty, you soon find that it's not so hard to forget about it in the presence of comfort.

Your whole body shivers when fingers slink their way up the rucked up back of your shirt, palm pressing against the sweating but too warm dip of your spine. Natsuo freezes when you squeak, a rumbling laugh vibrating against you. “This okay?”

“M’sweaty,” you whine again, feeling his fingers slip through it as he presses his palm against you, another shiver rocking through you from the cold. You squirm, ass pressing against his hip, curling an arm over your tits to hide the way your nipples have started to harden.

“It’s okay,” he drawls once more, his cool breath rushing down your shoulders as his hand glides up the back of your shirt til the two seemingly meet. You feel his skin press to yours, his hand curling around your side to press against your belly as he turns to--to spoon you.

“Stop--” He cuts himself off, grabbing your hip and jumping his body back an inch or so. It really doesn’t do anything to keep the hard press of his cock from the crease of your ass, his boxers and your panties doing nothing to hide it.

He sighs when you fumble to apologize. “I’m sorry, you just…” You trail off, twisting your face into his bicep.

“Just what?” His voice is lower, his nose brushing the damp back of your neck.

You gulp down the nervousness building in your throat, the coolness his stomach had provided slowly dissipating without the presence of his skin against you. “You just….feel...good.”

Natsuo laughs, but it sounds more like a tortured groan than one of amusement. “You can’t just--” He bites off the end of his sentence again with a frustrated sigh, squeezing tight at your hip, thumb brushing your skin. You huff, and you’d twist to glare at him if you weren’t so embarrassed.

“So you can go on about how I’m hot and it’s better for me if we’re cuddling skin on skin, but I can’t say you feel good because it makes your dick hard?” The heat is really making you mouthy.

Natsuo sputters, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What? I--It’s not that, you were rubbing your ass all over me!”

The exhaustion from the heat and the stress of being so close and nearly naked around your hot, sweet, considerate friend and roommate has really fried your brain. “If you wanted to fuck me that bad, Natsuo, you only have to say so! Not resort to goofy tactics like this.”

A comment you thought would get a laugh, maybe would make Natsuo fluster more than you so you could tease him more, only leads to silence. You realize rather belatedly that you crossed an invisible line of sorts, acknowledging potential sexual chemistry long ignored between you. You stare at the wall for a long pause, your heart thumping against your ribs that he can surely hear and feel with his proximity.

“Um--”

“I want to fuck you.” His interruption has you choking on your words. His breath on the back of your neck, soft and cool, makes the first evidence of goosebumps flare across your skin. You shiver, sucking in a shaky breath. Your shoulder bumps gently into his chin where it dips towards your neck. “Really bad.”

Another bout of silence. Your heart races and you stare at the window, taking in the near imperceivable blur of the larger man spooned up behind you.

“Fuck, wait. Don’t take it as me trying to get you to do anything you don’t want to or make you uncomfortable. You--I just--”

You arch and bump your ass against his erection again, cutting him off. This time, Natsuo uses his grip to help you instead of pushing you away. His groan his whispery this time, his parted lips ghosting along your nape. Unlike your snappish, jokingly exasperated tone, your voice is higher, breathy, jilted when his strong grip drags you easily across the sheets til your body is pressed against the strong, broad plane of his.

“Yeah?” You ask, your voice different than before. Whining and desperate. You twist to press into the soft breath tickling along your ear, making a soft needy sound, squeezing your arms against your tits. “You wanna fuck me, Natsuo?” Tentatively, Natsuo brushes parted lips along the shell of your ear, flexing his hands when you shiver and press back against him. Slowly, he trails kisses up to your cheek, and his arms curl around you when you twist further for the first clumsy meeting of lips.

“I wanna fuck you, too,” you mumble against his mouth.

His hum of agreement vibrates through your lips, and when you part them, he dips his tongue against yours, nose pressed into your cheek, leaning into the arm you curl back around his head. His hand glides up your front to grip your jaw and hold you in place, letting you roll and grind your hips back against his cock all you want while he kisses you senseless.

You pant breathlessly against his mouth, whimpering with the bump of his thigh against your pussy. It’s delightfully cool, and your knee sways open wider, further up to let more of his thigh between your legs til your toes are balanced against his hip bone.

“Natsuo,” you whine across his chin, fluttering your eyes open just to catch his sleepy-eyed glance. He looks unfairly sexy flushed in his cheeks, white hair a mess, and lips shining from your kisses. “Touch me?”

You don’t miss the way his breath catches shakily, his fingers shaking ever so slightly as they skim down the arch of your belly.

“You’re not too hot?” You groan at Natsuo’s teasing question in your ear. “Not too sweaty?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, spreading your thighs wider as his fingers rub teasingly over your clit through your panties. You feel the curl of a different type of heat beginning to tickle it’s way up your belly and down your thighs, making your toes curl against where they rest on Natsuo’s legs. Desperate to quell some of your own embarrassment now that he’s called your attention back to the slip of your back against his stomach and the drip of sweat from your neck down his arm, you close your eyes and mutter, “Y--You’re the one who called me--called me hot.”

Natsuo sighs, and your hips rock across his thigh with the reverence within his exhalation. “I did. You are.” It’s filthy, the change in his tone. Dripping with want that makes your pussy ache and your breath come uneven. Hot enough to make you drip warm between your legs.

It makes you desperate for more. Clumsily, you start to push at your panties, brain hazy with the need to satisfy your long withheld lust for the man whose fumbling to help you yank the stretchy cloth down over your ass, his hand pushing your tank top up towards your tits.

He sits up behind you, breathing as heavy as you. You flinch with each cool kiss he presses to your side and tummy, twisting your hips as he pushes your panties down your legs, til they’re tangled around your ankles. You fling your sweat-damp top away from your body, gripping your breast just as Natsuo returns to you, still spooned against your back to give you a kiss while he fumbles with his own underwear.

You jump with the sudden smack of his cock against your ass once it’s freed, moaning with the silky drag of it when he grinds against the softness of your cheek, smearing a wet dribble of cum across your skin.

His cock feels thick and heavy. Warmer than the rest of his body. His knee bends between yours again, and your leg spreads wide where it’s hooked over his. He reaches down to position his cock between your legs instead of against your ass, dragging the tip of it through your labia, nudging against your clit.

“You don’t--” Natsuo laughs, the sound low and wound tight in your ear, with an edge of desperation that makes you burn. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.” He presses another kiss to your cheek, keeping you pinned to his chest with his arm curled around your shoulders, his thumb gliding through your wet folds where it grips his cock, guiding the warm head in a back and forth across your clit.

His bigger, stronger hand replaces yours over your tit, squeezing pleasantly tight, making you arch as the head of his cock tests the give of your pussy. You’re wet, so fucking wet, and the fat tip of him slips in with ease. It’s the rest of him that makes your mouth drop open to moan raggedly, clasping at both his wrists while he massages your body and groans against your ear.

He pushes deeper, slowly. Your legs shuffle up with a squeak, trying to turn your head to bury it in his pillow. But Natsuo’s arm around your neck keeps you from doing so, tightening to draw you further against his broad chest. His lips press to your cheek, nose beneath your fluttering lashes, and his cool fingers are dragging down between your thighs as he sinks up inside you with a shudder of his own.

He withdraws with a hummed kiss to your ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he growls, rolling his hips forward to press the slickened half of his length back into your fluttering hole with a deliciously wet sound.

“O-Oh my God--” You reach back, flailing to grasp onto anything. His cock is so thick, and you can’t stop the warble that escapes you when the head pops itself inside once again with a slow swirl of his fingers on your sticky clit. Your hand lands on the protrusion of his hip, feeling the strength in his thigh.

Natsuo groans low against your cheek, his fingers splitting down around your clit, petting your clit for the soft back and forth stutter of his hips, kindly trying to ease himself up inside you slowly. Your head reels at the idea of how it would feel if he’d just pushed himself all the way inside you in one fell swoop, your breath skipping and pussy throbbing.

He hisses with the feeling, his big hand groping at your mons, your thighs squeezing around his fingers at the delightful ache of it. “Fuck, you’re so warm, fuck, baby--”

You pant, arched against his chest with a flex of his arm around your neck and his palm at your breast. It doesn’t cut off your oxygen, but it locks you against him when the first brush of his hips, the first deep kiss of his cock inside of you, the fat spread of him, makes you spasm and stiffen up with a hiccup, hips pressing into the softness of your ass.

“Shh, shh,” he pants against your neck, smearing kisses over your shoulder, stroking your belly, shifting his hips forward to fit himself snug and tight against your body.

It pushes his cock the rest of the way in, and your mouth drops open with a sharp cry of pleasure. “N-Natsuo, fuck!”

He’s groaning into each kiss he presses against your neck and your cheek and your jaw, fingers swirling below your belly button, down between the wet press of your thighs to curl the tips of them to your clit.

You can’t stop moaning, ass squishing back against him with desperate little rolls of your hips. His fingers curl against the fat of your pussy again, and your eyes roll when his cock nudges perfectly against that spot inside you that makes you soft and pliable and dumb.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, tight and needy, feeling his breath stutter across your cheek with your plea. “Fuck me, fuck me, please fuck me--”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes--” A croaky moan escapes the man behind you, and his hips draw back and jut forward again, cutting your chanted begging off with a squeal from high in your throat, blooming warmth growing inside you with the beginning of his rhythm.

The wet pop and clap of his hips against your ass is almost drowned out by your sweet moans and his cool hums across your ear. Your arm is still curled back over his neck, fingers threaded weakly through his hair, barely holding on with the perfect drag of him inside you. In and out, stretching you wide on his thick length and fingers rubbing in circles over your clit. Your tits sway and bounce against his arm, and if it wasn’t for those strong digits on your little bundle of nerves, arm curled over your middle so he can fit his hand between your legs, your hips would surely be bounced right off his cock.

“So pretty,” he pants in your ear, making you whine for him. “Wanted you for s-so long, m’so lucky--” His sensual pace stutters, grinding his hips into the cushion of your ass, teeth catching against your jaw with a low groan.

His words burn you in the best of ways, making you hiccup and twist desperately for any kind of kiss you can get despite the heat, despite the sweat, in tandem with the weight of his cock pressing against your fluttering insides.

Cool, strong fingers squish against the puffy mess of your clit, and your eyes roll back, your own teeth latching against his bicep with a little sob. “N-Natsuo!” Your voice twists up in pitch as your end hurtles towards you with each stroke and rub and grope from the bigger, stronger man behind you. “I--I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!”

“Yes, cum,” he pleads, voice a dripping whine against your cheek, broad chest nearly pinning you down against the bed, sliding against your back from the sweat and closeness between you. “C--Cum for me, l--let me make you feel good--”

Whatever else he says is lost to the fuzzy wave that rolls over you, taking you into the depths of pleasure as he fucks you through your orgasm. You whine and cry, unable to help rocking your hips as he continues to flick softly at your clit, moaning into your neck, sucking and nipping at your pounding pulse.

You can’t tell if it’s sweat or drool that slicks against your cheek where it rests squished into the crook of his elbow, body limp and throbbing as he finds his way to his own end with wet pops of his hips into your ass, his moans ragged and sweet in your ear. He holds your body against his chest to keep you from ragdolling away, and when you gain enough wherewithal to turn to let him kiss you, he cums with a rough groan into your mouth, shoving his hips as close to you as he can get. His cock as deep as it can be when it floods your pussy with hot ropes of seed, his cock thickening and twitching with each gooey release.

The aftermath is quiet, filled with panting and the soft sounds of slow, messy kisses. As the sweat of your effort cools and dries, you shiver from the sudden cold in the room. You curl in on yourself, the action letting Natsuo’s softening cock pull from your pussy. A wave of cool air settles over your sweaty body as it separates from his, and it’s as relieving as it is chilling.

He groans and shivers for likely an entirely different reason, but gives a sleepy, drunken laugh in your ear. You whine when it scatters goosebumps down your back, curling tighter into yourself.

“Oh, now you’re cold?” He gripes playfully.

“Shut up…” You huff, heart fluttering when he smooshes a kiss against your cheek, sitting up to pull just the top sheet up and over the both of you. He settles back behind you with a sigh, lying on his back and arm stretched out beside him, still trapped beneath your head. He doesn’t seem to mind, if the way he curls it around you encouragingly when you shift around to face him nervously.

Natsuo looks very sleepy now, flushed forehead and chest shining with sweat. Hooded blue eyes watch you closely from under messy hair, struggling to stay open.

“You said it’s gonna take a few days for them to repair the AC?” He rumbles, digging a knuckle into one of his eyes with a yawn. You nod, watching half-enraptured as a smirk curls at his lips, one brow arching at you. He lets his arm fall above his head with a self-satisfied sigh, the one that’s still wrapped around your shoulders squeezing you closer. “Then I guess you can sleep here ‘til then, huh? To keep cool and all that?”

Your heart skips a beat, covering your face when Natsuo laughs at your embarrassed whine.

“In fact!” He exclaims, rolling over to squish you down under half his body, cuddling in close, dropping a kiss on your chest. Your arms wind around his shoulders, and it feels more than natural to have him resting his cheek against your breast. “After tonight I hope they don’t fix the AC--”

“Don’t push your luck!” You gripe, the laugh in your voice belying the lack of sincerity in your threat. “Once the AC is fixed it’s gonna be too cold to sleep with you like this! You’re an icicle!” You blurt it out and immediately regret it, the sex you just had making everything confusing but your hopeful crush no less evident.

Natsuo’s head pops upright, his face comically serious. “I have blankets.”

Your laughter spills into the room, his face softening with a cute little smirk, summer heat and broken AC forgotten to the comforting weave of his legs with yours and the squeeze of his hand at your waist.

It’s late in Japan, which means it’s ridiculously early in California, just about the time when he usually finishes his morning jog and heads to the gym. You’re honestly surprised he’s calling you at all–the last time you spoke, he told you he’d be swamped with schoolwork this week and wouldn’t have much time to chat–but you’re not going to complain. You’ll take whatever time you can get with your long-distance boyfriend, even if it means retiring from flip cup for the night.

Mattsun and Makki know exactly who’s calling you as soon as they see the goofy, lovestruck smile that lights up your face, which is why they’re already waving you off before you even open your mouth to excuse yourself. Their smirks are both knowing and insufferably smug as they coo at you to enjoy your booty call and say hi to our boyfriend for us, would you?

You stick your tongue out at them in response, flipping them off over your shoulder and ignoring the sound of their laughter behind you.

“Hajime! Hey, baby.” You’re halfway towards the door when you answer Iwaizumi’s call, bringing your phone up to your ear. “I’m so glad you called.”

“Hey. Do you have a minute? I need to–”

You don’t catch the rest of his sentence, too busy dodging a group of grinding freshmen and nearly dropping your phone in the process.

“–hello? Where are you–” You’re distracted again by the two football players shotgunning beers right by the door, though most of it seems to be missing their mouths, leaving a stain on the carpet that makes you grimace. Mattsun and Makki are going to hate having to clean that up in the morning. Not for the first time, you find yourself grateful this isn’t your dorm. “–can barely hear you–”

“Sorry!” you exclaim into your phone, elbowing your way through the crowd as best as you can. “One second, babe!”

You finally make it to the door and yank it open, all but tumbling into the hallway in your haste. You shut it behind you and begin walking down the hall, the music and shouts of your friends fading the farther you go until it’s just you and your boyfriend on the other end of the call.

“There we go.” You breathe a sigh of relief, adjusting your phone against your ear. It’s your way of bringing him closer, or as close as he can be now that he’s halfway across the world from you. “Can you hear me now?”

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi’s voice is clearer now, every bit as familiar and comforting as you remember. There’s something off about it, too, something you can’t quite place, but right now you’re too happy to hear from him to worry about what it might mean. “Yeah, I can hear you.”

You shut your eyes for a moment, taking in the deep timbre of his voice, the steady sound of his breathing. You imagine he’s taking a break from his run on one of those benches around his campus, cheeks flushed and hair messy in just the way you like it, dressed in that soft gray hoodie you’re always stealing from him.

When you open your eyes, the image is gone, and all you’re left with is a loneliness so vast and consuming, it makes your heart ache where it rests in your chest. It’s been weighing on you since the day he left for California, growing stronger and more painful with every missed call and canceled FaceTime date, with every not enough time and let’s try again next week.

You knew long distance would be hard. Everyone told you it would be. Your parents, his parents, all of your shared friends–it seemed like all they could talk about from the moment you and Iwaizumi received your college acceptance letters was how difficult things would be for the two of you, how much effort you would have to put in to make it work.

But you’re stubborn, and you love Iwaizumi. You always have, so of course you convinced yourself that the two of you would be different. That no matter how hard it was or how much you missed each other, you would find a way to figure things out.

It was easy to make those kinds of promises to each other in the beginning, but that was before you lived in different timezones, before the distance began to take its toll on both of you in the worst way. Lately, it feels like no matter what you do or how far in advance you plan, your schedules just never line up. When he’s awake, you’re asleep, and when you’re finishing your day, his has barely begun.

It’s gotten easier to text instead of call, to apologize instead of reschedule. The last time you did manage to squeeze in a FaceTime with each other, it ended in a fight. You’d like to blame it on how stressed you both were about your upcoming exams, or on that unfairly pretty girl in Iwaizumi’s psych class that won’t stop commenting on his pictures, but you know it wasn’t actually about any of that. The only thing you and Iwaizumi really fight about nowadays, the one thing that’s making you both miserable, is how much you miss each other.

You made up quickly after it happened –it turns out that it’s pretty hard to stay mad at someone when all you can think about is how much you wish they were with you– but it didn’t feel right. It still doesn’t, if you’re being honest.

You wonder if that’s why Iwaizumi sounds so distant right now, if that’s why the silence between you feels as heavy and loaded as it does. Neither one of you have said anything in what feels like forever, but somehow it still feels like you’re suffocating, drowning in all the words you’ve both left unsaid.

“Sorry for calling you so suddenly,” Iwaizumi says. “I didn’t know you were going out tonight. If...if you’re busy now, I can just call you back later–”

“No!”

Sober you might’ve cringed at how quickly the protest leaves your lips, at how needy and borderline desperate you sound, but tipsy you hardly spares it a second thought. This is the first time you’ve heard his voice in over a week, and the mere idea of him hanging up and slipping through your fingers yet again leaves you feeling oddly helpless.

You don’t know what’s going through his head right now, or why everything suddenly feels so strange between you, but what you do know is that you’re not ready to say goodbye to him just yet.

You weren’t ready to say goodbye to him that day at the airport, either, but that hadn’t stopped him from leaving. You don’t resent him for it, of course, but it still hurt.

You remember the way tears clouded your vision, the way his voice wavered as he whispered gruff reminders to make sure you get enough sleep and eat breakfast every day– a real breakfast, too, not just those crackers you like into your ear. The two of you had held onto each other so tightly back then, like there was a part of you that was terrified it would be the last time.

You don’t know why you’re thinking about that now. Later, you’ll realize it was a warning, your brain’s delayed and alcohol-muddled attempt at protecting your heart.

It doesn’t work.

“You don’t have to do that,” you continue, a bit more carefully this time, hoping it comes off as more casual than pleading. “I’m free to talk now. Honestly, I’m really happy you called.”

You turn a corner in the hallway, passing another set of doors before shoving your free hand in the pocket of your jeans. The rest of your words are quiet, whispered into your phone, like you’re not quite sure if you’re allowed to say them anymore. But they’re also heartbreakingly honest, the truest confession you can afford when everything between you feels so strange and uncertain.

“I’ve missed you, Hajime.”

It takes him a long time to reply, and when he does, his voice sounds weary, hollow. There are thousands of miles between you–5,330, to be exact–but suddenly it feels like so much more than that.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, me too.”

The words are strained, tired. It sounds like somebody else is saying them, someone you don’t recognize. It’s another warning, you know, the second sign the universe has given you in the past five minutes that something is very, very wrong, but you pretend not to notice it. Later, you’ll blame that on the alcohol, but in this moment you know your ignorance is less of a failure to see what’s right in front of you and more of an outright refusal to do so.

Because the thing is, no matter how difficult things have been and how much distance there is between you now, you still love Iwaizumi. You love him so much, you feel it in your bones, and you know for a fact that he loves you the same. It’s in the softness of his gaze whenever he looks at you. In the firm but gentle graze of his fingertips along your cheek whenever he thinks you’ve already fallen asleep and in the slow, wanting way he kisses you.

And maybe it’s stupidly optimistic of you, but you still believe that despite everything, despite being half a world apart, the two of you will be able to work things out. You want to work things out, want him, and you know he wants you, too. It’s going to take lots of time and compromise, but you know in your heart the two of you are meant to last. You have to last, because you have no idea what’ll be left of you if you don’t.

So instead of breaking down, instead of talking about it, you force a smile you know he can’t see and continue the conversation like nothing is amiss, like your stomach isn’t filling with dread with every breath you take.

“How are you?” you ask, partially because you want to know and partially because you don’t know any other way to fill the thick silence that’s built up between you. “How’d that project you were working on go? You know, the one for your biology class? I bet you killed it at your presentation.”

“I didn’t– I mean, yeah, the presentation went really well, but that’s not– that’s not why I called.”

He’s nervous; that much you can tell, fumbling over his words like he has no idea how to string them together. It reminds you of how he acted the very first time he asked you out, how he stood in front of you, red-faced and not quite able to look you in the eyes. Only this time, you don’t think you’ll be walking away with a smile on your face and a story to gush with your friends over.

“I just–” He pauses, and you hear him sigh, picture him running a hand through his hair. “I really need to talk to you.”

It’s sudden but nonetheless grave, only a handful of words away from the awful and dreaded we need to talk line that you know precedes only the most heartbreaking of conversations. It’s your third and final warning of the night, one you can’t ignore this time, no matter how badly you want to.

Still, you put on as brave of a face as you can manage, swallowing the lump in your throat as you force yourself to speak.

“Oh. Um, okay. Sure.” Your voice is small and uncertain, weak in a way you’ve never imagined yourself to be. You brace your free arm across your chest, like you’re hoping it’ll be enough to prepare yourself for what he’s about to say. “What...what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About you, about us and...where we’re going with all this.”

All this, he says. All this, like he’s talking about a mess, an inconvenience instead of your relationship. It doesn’t sit well with you, but you don’t say anything about it, not yet. Although part of you is terrified to find out, you want to hear where he’s going with this.

“I loved getting to see you and spending time with you over the break, I really did, but…” His voice trails off, shaky and faltering. You wonder if he’s fidgeting with his hands, if he’s cracking his knuckles the way he always does whenever he doesn’t know how to say something. “While we were together, all I could think about was how much it was going to hurt when I had to leave again. And I know, even though we didn’t talk about it...that’s all you were thinking about, too.”

You know exactly what he’s talking about, of course. A couple of months into the school year, Iwaizumi returned to Japan for his cousin’s wedding. He was only in Miyagi for three days, but the two of you had made the most of your time together, whether it was dragging him onto the dancefloor at the wedding or having an impromptu picnic date not too far from your old high school campus.

You thought saying goodbye would be a lot easier the second time around, but you were wrong. You think it was even harder than the first time, despite knowing it was going to happen long before you drove him back to the airport. You remember it felt like you’d just got him back, only to have him ripped away from you all over again.

Iwaizumi’s right. When he returned to Miyagi, all you could think about was how much it was going to hurt when left again. And it did, of course; it hurt so bad that for a while it was all you could feel.

But the two of you knew that already, knew that the next four years of your relationship would be filled with challenges until you both graduate, so what does it matter? Doesn’t he know that this is what you signed up for when you agreed to do long distance? Why is it any different now?

You want to ask him what’s changed, what brought this all on in the first place, but he’s still talking, voice raw and vulnerable in the way he only ever is around you, and you don’t have the heart to interrupt him, at least not yet. He tells you about how much he has on his plate, how hard it’s been trying to adjust to his new life in California. He’s homesick now more often than ever, missing you and his friends and his family more every day.

But he knows he has a commitment to his future and all that he’s set out to do here. He’s dreamt of this for as long as he can remember, and it’s a journey he’s going to see through to the end, no matter what. He knows you’re doing the same, and he doesn’t think it’s fair for either of you to expect anything different.

It’s why he’s tried his best not to complain about any of your missed FaceTime dates, or to be too jealous of that basketball player a year above you who’s always asking you to study with him. Lately, though, it feels like there just isn’t enough time, not for him or for you and definitely not for the two of you together, no matter how much he wishes things were different. And god, sometimes he misses you so much, it feels like he can’t even breathe, and he cares about you, he really does, but he can’t– he can’t do this anymore.

It’s that particular line that snaps you out of your daze. You freeze in place, feeling cold all over. “What are you saying, Hajime?”

On the other side of the call, he pauses to take a deep breath. It does nothing for your steadily increasing anxiety, or for the rapid, terrified beating of your heart. When he speaks again, his voice is raw but resigned, with a string of words that are the perfect combination to shatter your already aching heart.

“I just...I think it would be better for both of us if we end this now, instead of later.”

It takes longer than it should for his words to really register. You feel frozen in time as your gaze drifts to look at the fire alarm, at a flyer posted on the bulletin board urging you to join the rowing team.

For a long, deceptively peaceful moment, nothing happens. Then reality sets in, and it’s like it hits you all at once.

Iwaizumi’s words knock the wind right out of you, leaving you broken and gasping, emptier and more vulnerable than you’ve ever been before. It’s pitiful, you think, how quickly your eyes begin to water, how easily your vision blurs with tears.

You know that things between the two of you haven’t been great lately, but the realization that they’ve gotten to the point where he would rather end things than work them out blindsides you. When he said he needed to talk to you, you were expecting another argument, maybe even another week of not speaking to each other, but not– not this. Anything but this.

It feels like the ground has been ripped out from underneath you. Like you’re falling, left to sink into a pit of boundless emptiness, abandoned and alone despite the fact that he’s still on the phone with you. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from falling over, stumbling blindly until your back hits the wall behind you.

“You’re...you’re breaking up with me?” You hate yourself for the way your voice cracks, the way it shakes with every word, but you can’t help it. This isn’t– this can’t be happening right now. It can’t. “Hajime, what are you– why are you– I don’t–”

“Oh, no.” Iwaizumi sucks in a sharp breath, sounding every bit as broken and wrecked as you feel. He’s always hated hearing you cry, even more so when he’s the reason for it. “Fuck, hold on, hey, baby, please don’t– just listen, okay? Things have been so hard for us these past few months, and they’re only going to get harder. And I can’t– I won’t be the thing that holds you back from everything you deserve.”

He says something about how much he hates not being there for you the way he wants to be and about how unfair it is to both of you to expect you to wait for him, but you don’t understand. You don’t understand any of it, or why he’s doing this now when it’s obviously hurting you both so much. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway, deciding what you do and don’t deserve? Can’t he see the only thing you deserve, the only thing you want to deserve, is him?

You want to scream at him, but you can’t. The words are there, right on the tip of your tongue, but they won’t come out, blocked by the awful, broken sob that escapes your throat. You try to fight it, holding it back as best as you can, but it doesn’t work. You’re crying, and Iwaizumi’s voice is in your ear, trying to calm you down, to make you understand, but you can’t, you won’t, not with this.

He’s calling your name, trying to comfort you even when he’s the reason you’re like this in the first place, and you think you hate him for it, hate the way he tries to show you he cares even when it’s clear he doesn’t, not if he’s putting you through this now.

But the problem is you don’t hate him, not really. You don’t think you ever could, not even when he’s breaking your heart, and somehow that just makes everything worse.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I know, I know how hard this is, and that’s why– that’s why I think it’s better to do this now, before we end up– before I end up hurting you–”

“And just what the fuck do you think you’re doing to me now?!” you all but scream at him. Your shout stuns him into silence, makes him quiet with regret as another sob escapes your throat.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, baby,” he whispers. He’s crying too, you realize suddenly, sullen and strained and so, so guilty. It should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You’re not sure if anything can. “Tell me how I can help. How can I make it better? I want to make it better.”

“Tell me you don’t mean it,” you beg, struggling to speak through the tears. You rub at your eyes and bite back another sob, and your entire body shakes from the strain. “Tell me that you’re making a mistake and that you want to fix this. Please, just– please, tell me you still love me.”

“I do. I do, so much,” he tells you, and the worst part is that you know he means it. “You have no idea how much. And that’s exactly why I have to let you go.”

“No. No, you don’t. Hajime, please don’t–”

“I’m really sorry. I am. But you deserve better than this, better than me. And I’m not going to– I can’t let you spend any more time waiting on me.”

“But I love you.” You’re still sobbing as you say it, sniffling as tears stream down your face. You’re sure you look and sound utterly wrecked, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You’d give anything to change his mind, to keep him from leaving. “I love you, so why are you–”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds quiet, resigned. And you realize, horrifyingly, heartbrokenly, that no matter what you say, no matter how much you try to convince him otherwise, he won’t be changing his mind. “I have to go.”

“No, Hajime, wait–”

He ends the call, the hallway falls silent, and all you’re left with is the whimper caught in your throat and the sad, broken beating of your shattered heart.

But you’re stubborn, even more than he is sometimes, and so it’s no surprise that you refuse to accept things at first. Wounded and devastated as you are, you refuse to give him up so easily. Not after everything.

It’s nothing short of a miracle–your vision is so blurred by your own tears, you can barely see your phone screen–but somehow, you manage to call him back. The line rings once, then twice, before ending abruptly. The same thing happens the next time you try to call, and the time immediately after that.

You’re just about to call again when a new text message from Iwaizumi appears in your notifications. You click on it almost immediately, nearly dropping your phone in the process.

I’m really sorry, the text message reads. I am. But I can’t let you wait for me anymore. Please, just try to understand.

But the thing is, you don’t understand. You don’t think you ever will. How can he say he loves you and then break your heart in the same breath? How can he decide this for the both of you with zero warning and just expect you to be okay with it?

How can he just leave you here?

You’re shaking by the time you manage to call him again. This time, it goes straight to voicemail. He must’ve turned his phone off. To escape you or his guilt, you aren’t sure. But what you are sure of is how devastated you feel, cast aside and abandoned by the one person you thought never would. The one person who made you believe in forever.

You let out a wretched sob and throw your phone, hardly able to stand the sight of it anymore. It lands somewhere in the hallway, and a resounding crack follows. For a moment you can’t tell if it came from your screen, or from your shattered heart.

You can’t stay on your feet anymore, back sliding against the wall as you crumble into a defeated heap on the floor. A choked cry escapes your lips, an awful, broken sound you never expected to come from you. You bring your knees to your chest and sob into your arms, every breath you take more hitched and fractured than the last.

That’s how Mattsun finds you, chest heaving and body curled in on itself, eyes swollen and lips trembling as you sob. You’re not sure how long you’ve been out here, crying your eyes out, but you suppose it’s been long enough for him to worry about where your tipsy self might have wandered off to, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

You look up just as he’s turning the corner and watch as he freezes in place, eyes widening as he takes in the tears streaming down your cheeks, the broken, faraway look in your eyes. It takes all you have, but somehow you manage to speak. When you do, your voice sounds like a stranger’s, hollow and cracking as you tell him,

“He broke up with me.”

That’s all the warning Mattsun gets before you’re sobbing again, burying your face into your arms. Later, you’ll feel bad for breaking down in front of him like this. Tonight’s supposed to be about celebrating, and just because you’re having a miserable time doesn’t mean everyone else is, too. But right now, all you can think about, all you can feel is the cold, broken emotion lodging in your throat, catching in your lungs until it feels like you can’t breathe without thinking about how much pain you’re in.

There’s a scar you can’t see, but don’t think you’ll ever stop feeling, branded into your heart. You wonder how much it’ll feel like Iwaizumi. If it’ll take on the shape of his hand as it held yours, or if it’ll spell out the letters of his name. Reminding you of everything you had and how quickly it was ripped away. Haunting you, even when you can still imagine the way his hair felt between your fingers, the tremble in his voice when he whispered are you sure? before leaning in to kiss you.

It’s a testament to both his kindness and the depth of your friendship how quickly Mattsun makes his way over to you, kneeling beside you. You didn’t think you could fall apart any more, and then he gathers you in his arms and lets you cry into his shoulder and you realize that yes, you absolutely can.

He has no idea what happened, or what led to your breakup with Iwaizumi, but he holds you all the same. He does his best to console you, whispered words against your hair and comforting assurances that it’s going to be okay.

But it’s not. It’s not okay. It can’t be, not without Iwaizumi.

He was your first crush, your first kiss, your first real date. He’s the first person you’ve ever loved, the person you’ll always love. He’s kind without being asked and honest in a way so few people are anymore. He makes you feel safe and wanted, and you love— you love him. You do. So much that you actually let yourself believe in the thought of forever.

But after tonight, that love feels more like a curse than the warm, welcome thing it felt like this morning, and last year, and the year before that. It feels like a poison, like a knife driven right into your gut, pushed deeper and deeper the more you try to pull it out until the pain is all you know. Like all the good things you once knew have been ripped away from you, leaving behind something angry and ugly that’s shaped like you but you still can’t quite recognize.

No, you think. No, it’s not okay. I’m not okay.

You wonder if you ever will be again.

"hanamaki," you say a little hushed and a little quick. "hide me."

the taunting expression on his face falters as he furrows his eyebrows. "huh?"

"don't question it." you tear your eyes away from the man and bring them back to his. "just... hide me."

"hide you from what?"

your eyes impulsively glance behind him, and you try to play it off, but it's obvious enough for him to register the movement. he cranes his neck, almost turning his whole body to look. 

"don't be obvious about it," you hiss, smacking the back of his head.

you can see when his eyes lock on the subject of your haste and his back stiffens in recognition.

"shit."

"yeah," you say sarcastically. "'shit.' now hide me alrea—"

"—how am i supposed to hide you?" he asks, a little panicked. "we're in a pool!"

"i don't fucking know! just... do something!"

he thinks for a second, while you search his face expectantly, as if his freckles will rearrange and spell out some kind of solution.

he opens his mouth with an idea and you sigh in relief.

"how long can you hold your breath for?"

"oh god," you groan. "you're hopeless."

"well i'm not the one that wants to hide!"

"fuck it," you mutter, watching him get nearer and nearer. "i'm making a run for it."

hanamaki takes a peek again. you want to throttle him.

"are you sure you're gonna make it? he's right—shit, he saw me."

your eyes widen as he raises his hand in what you assume is a wave. 

"what the fuck did you do?" you ask scarily slow, voice shrill, borderline frenzied.

"i didn't do anything! he saw me!"

"well, make him un-see you!" you say desperately. the man gets into earshot, and hearing his voice makes your chest tighten. you bury your hands in your head, your cold, pruney fingers pressing at your temples. "oh my god, i can't believe this is happening."

"act normal," hanamaki stage-whispers. "he's coming over."

"i can't do this."

he winces as another figure seems to be walking with the first one.

"well, you better, 'cause he's got a girl with him."

your head shoots up. "he... what?"

you immediately regret looking up, because he sees you, and you realize that you are unequivocally fucked, because there is absolutely no way to get out of this now.

your name is called out in that deep, rich voice of his, that same voice that once used to make your cheeks warm and now only makes your blood turn to ice. it's followed by a "makki! it's been so long since i've seen you guys!"

it has, hasn't it, matsuwaka issei, boyfriend of two and a half years, ex of six months and thirteen days?

it's really nothing but chance that found you and hanamaki at this fancy resort. you'd hadn't seen each other in months, and spoken in the same amount of time. you were inseparable for a long while, and then the teenage years split you apart because of cooties and puberty, and things after that never really were the same. 

the last time you interacted was probably graduation. or when he helped you pack your bags for university. or maybe when you called him to check on your house since your parents thought they left the stove on. thinking back, maybe you're closer than you first thought.

but anyway, it's still really just one big coincidence that you were both in your hometown for this summer. 

hanamaki moved back home after failing to settle down with a job, but if anyone asks, it's because he's still 'finding himself'—whatever that means. 

and you? well, the internship you'd secured for the summer got moved to the fall semester, and aside from picking up a barista gig at the coffee shop around the corner, there wasn't much for you to do in your small university town. your parents convinced you to come home, at least for a month, and you figured that there was no point in staying in your apartment, paying its too-high rent, when its lease was going to expire anyway.

that, and also you wanted to spend time with your family, be around those you love, yada yada yada.

it's funny, because the moment you and hanamaki saw each other at the supermarket, forced by your respective families to get 'off your asses and do something productive for once' in the form of buying groceries, it's like you never were apart. it was almost natural, the way you fell back into the rhythm of your primary school days. to be honest, it was probably just comforting to be back in the company of someone your age—it's not like there's all that many twenty-somethings hanging out in the suburbs.

things were dull until hanamaki won one of those stupid instagram vacation giveaways that he's been entering, and just as quick as your parents insisted that you come home, they insisted that you go off and explore the country again. 

not that you were complaining—hometown life was really boring. and mundane. it's no wonder that hanamaki had gone a little crazy being cooped up in there for so long, at least, months longer than you had.

so it's really just one big and fortunate series of events that have you at this fancy place right now.

but as for your ex-boyfriend being at the same resort at the same time? you can't chalk that up to coincidence—a curse makes more sense.

because there's no valid explanation as to why issei—no, matsuwaka—the boy you'd pined after for all of high school, the very same boy that you were convinced you'd start a life with and then who subsequently crushed your stupid fucking heart while standing on your apartment doorstep, is here, of all places.

so much for relaxing—your blood pressure is off the charts.

if you ever have the self-destructive tendency to relive that night, you remember that things didn't end well. there was barely any closure, just a surprise visit to your university’s campus ending with tears and an awkward goodbye.

you can blame it on a lot of things: distance, immaturity, general incompatibility. you can reason through it all you want, and you've tried, but that doesn't make things any easier, does it? 

you can't 'logic' you way out of heartbreak. that's just not how it works. so you work through it and you go out with friends and you delete his pictures and you cry yourself to sleep and you wake up the next morning and you work through it. 

but of course the moment you find a distraction big and rambunctious enough in the form of a stupid strawberry blond-haired shithead that knows more about you then he probably should, everything comes back to bite you in the ass.

what the fuck? you silently ask the man upstairs or satan or, you don't know, the tooth fairy for fuck's sake. genuinely, what the fuck?

"hanamaki, i seriously can't do this."

"he's coming right now. are you gonna run like a coward or stand your ground like a—"

"—first option. first option sounds great."

he turns deadly serious. "if you're still gonna let that breakup control your life, i swear i will cancel this trip right now and ship us both back home. take that stick out of your ass and beat him to death with it."

hanamaki does tough love, and he's especially tough on you regarding matsuwaka because he knows the whole story. you told him one night, drunk out of your mind at the local bar, and for the most part, he's on your side. sure, he and matsuwaka were relatively good friends back in high school, but that was a long time ago. a really long time ago,

hell, you thought you were going to marry matsuwaka back in high school. basically three eternities have passed since then.

you grit your teeth. "fine. i'll be all smiley and you'll be all smiley and he'll be all smiley and we can all pretend that everything's okay."

"don't forget that he brought a girl with him. she'll be all smiley, too."

as if he needed to rub salt in the wound. as if you weren't already feeling your heart dissolve into your bloodstream and pool out of your ears at the mere sight of him, he's with someone else.

you almost want to laugh. someone else! every morning you wake up and beat back nostalgic memories of him with a stick and he's with someone else!

you suck in a breath. "i'm gonna shit my pa—"

"hey guys!" matsuwaka jogs the last few feet over, stupidly tall frame and all, smiley as predicted, hand-in-hand with some other girl. "it's been forever!"

hanamaki gets out of the onsen, dripping wet, and hugs him, mouthing a 'you're welcome' to you over his shoulder. you stifle a laugh at how matsuwaka tries to politely shrink away, failing to avoid getting soaked.

hanamaki pulls away and matsuwaka grimaces slightly at the darkened fabric of his shirt.

"mattsun, dude, you gotta visit home sometime. my mom keeps asking about you."

oh yeah, mattsun. that's what everyone used to call him. you vow not to do so, simply out of spite. the name gives you a bit of an idea, though.

he turns to the girl next to him. you can't even find it in you to be mad at her, because it's not her fault and you know that. you spare one thought about her—she's pretty—and then promptly try to focus your frustrations on the real culprit on her right.

"kaiya, this is makki. we were really good friends in high school."

she nods, introducing herself and shakes hanamaki's wet hand. you feel a sick sense of satisfaction when she subtly wipes her palm on her pants.

"and this is," he gestures to you, smile a little strained as he gives your name, "we were also friends way back when."

oh, so that’s how we’re going to do this, you think. well, this is a two-player game, isn’t it?

"way back when," you joke. you get up to stand next to hanamaki and ruffle his hair, laughing when he gives you a dirty look. “but since—oh, i don’t know, six months ago—takahiro,” the name feels natural rolling off of your tongue—it’s all you used to call him when you were little, “and i have been catching up. ” matsuwaka's jaw tenses and hanamaki shoots you a furtive nod of approval at the use of his given name.

“glad to hear that,” he replies, a twinge of annoyance in his tone. “how’s uni going?” 

"well, things get lonely away from home, but the distance really helps you learn which people are worth your time and energy, which people are worth sticking around for, you know?" you say to matsuwaka, gaze even. "how've you been?"

he averts his eyes for just a second, glancing to the side with a satisfying flaring of his nostrils, before responding. "...good. got a promotion, moved in with this one," you cock an eyebrow at that, "and finally figured out how to use a keurig machine."

you fight the instinct to roll your eyes at his poor attempt to soften the blow of the bomb he dropped. he moved in with his new girlfriend? you remember flashes of conversations, spanning the last year of your relationship, with him on that same exact topic, always ending with frustration and half-hearted apologies. and he just decides to move in with her after… you don’t even know how many months. or weeks. days?

"congrats!" hanamaki claps him on the back a little harder than warranted, fingers digging into his shoulder. "i've been trying to figure out those fuckers for ages. my coffee's always too strong." you’re glad that hanamaki is able to pivot away from… that absolute grenade of news, but the ringing in your ears makes it hard to appreciate that.

kira—kiya? kaya? oh, kaiya—kaiya whispers something in her boyfriend's ear about ‘reservations’ and he nods, running his hand up her back.

"hey, it was really great catching up, but we've got a dinner to make. we'll see you around?"

"definitely, man. was great seeing you."

you watch as the stupid smiley couple walk away. hanamaki turns to you with his hands on his hips and an amused grin.

"’takahiro’, huh?"

pushing him away, you gather your stuff. it's taking everything in you not to scream.

"i need a drink."

"it's not that i have a problem with her, 'cause i don't," you slur, swirling your half-empty glass in a circle. "and don't think i'm commenting on their relationship, 'cause i'm not. i know nothing about them. it's just," you pause your rambling to take a swig of the alcohol, barely cringing as the heat warms the back of your throat. it's your fourth one in an hour, and the bartender keeps giving you cautious looks. "they’ve been together for just a few... months? i mean, unless he got with her the day he dumped me, it hasn’t even been that long. isn't that a bit soon to move in with someone?"

"i hear ya," hanamaki responds, deftly snatching your drink and gulping it down before you can protest. he winces as the alcohol stings his mouth. "but it's not my problem. or yours for that matter. so just forget it."

"i'm trying," you whine, head falling forward onto the sticky table. "but two and a half years is really long, hanamaki."

"just say makki like everyone else. you don't have the brain cells to spare for four syllables right now."

"but two years is really long, makki," you repeat. "d'you think he's overcompensating? like trying to speed-run this relationship 'cause he," you hiccup, "'cause he wasted so much time on me?"

your eyebrows furrow as you contemplate what you just said, well, contemplating the best you can with the burn of alcohol in your veins. your eyes, quickly glossing over with unshed tears, shoot to makki's, lips jutting out in a pout. 

"d'you think he thinks he wasted his time with me?" you ask quietly.

he takes a quick intake of breath, his hands coming up to squish the sides of your face. "here's what we're not gonna do," he says, very slowly. "we're not gonna sit here and drown in our sorrows about old exes. we're gonna have fun and leave the past in the past."

you nod, letting his words sink in. the cogs operating in your brain—albeit manually, and under the influence—start turning, and you come to an obvious conclusion.

"yeah!" you shout, louder than necessary. "i'm gonna hook up with somebody!"

you make a quick grab for your purse, almost missing it in your borderline-drunk haze, and push yourself to stand up. your hands dig into the side of the table as the whole world sways—why is everything spinning?

makki's arms wrap around your body to stabilize you, and you let yourself lean into him. he’s warm, and smells earthy, like sesame seeds. it's a distinct smell, one that used to waft through his house when you’d come over for snacks after a grueling day of fractions and multiplication tables. 

you unconsciously nuzzle into the fabric of his shirt, letting him flood your senses, because for some reason, this feels so right. this feels so… familiar.

he stiffens underneath you, suddenly hyper-aware of the wispy strands of your hair that are out of place, the cute, dazed look in your eyes, and the small, tipsy smile you're giving him.

his pulse is so loud that he's surprised that you can't hear his heart rattling his ribs.

"maybe that's not the best idea right now," he mutters into your ear. "i'm taking you back to the room."

"makki," you mumble as he stumbles out of the bar with you latched onto his side. "am i inherently unlovable?"

"you're inherently an idiot," is the only response you get.

you wake up with stiff limbs and a pounding headache, groaning lowly as you try to take in your surroundings. with a cursory peek downwards, you see that you're still wearing your clothes from last night, and only managed to get one of your shoes off. your head is pressed into something hard and warm and... you rub your eyes, clearing your vision and deduce that yes, i fell asleep makki's chest.

you let your gaze trail up his neck. you have to admit that he looks handsome when his face isn't marred by some mischievous smirk and those evil, narrowed eyes that makes your blood curdle. some voice in the back of your head says that you wouldn't mind waking up to this everyday: the feeling of his stomach rising and falling under your arm, the sound of his breath whistling through his pursed lips, the view that gives you the perfect opportunity to count the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose.

you really wouldn't mind it. that fact makes you frown a little, and you dispel your discomfort by flicking his forehead.

"mornin' sunshine!"

he jerks, hitting the headboard, and immediately groans in pain. "goddamn, you bitch. i was having a nice dream."

"oh yeah?" you sit up, blinking stars out of your vision, before standing on your wobbly feet. "'bout what?"

he rubs the crown of his head, looking at you with an indecipherable expression. "nothing. i forgot it."

"then how do you know it was nice?"

"i just do."

"whatever." pull your shirt off while stepping into the bathroom, and makki's eyes track the path of the fabric up, up, up, revealing the skin of your back and your stomach and... you disappear behind the door. he feels a pang of disappointment when you walk out of his line of sight and then does a double-take because what the fuck? why does his chest feel all bubbly?

did i have too much to drink last night?

"what's planned for today?" you call out, voice echoing off the porcelain of the bathroom.

"why're you asking me that as if i have something planned?" he grumbles, grabbing the remote from the side table and turning it on. "we can hike or something."

you stick your head out, winking at him, disappearing fast enough so that you don't notice the pink along his cheekbones. he's starting to think that he has alcohol poisoning or something because he has no idea what is happening to him. 

"hiking it is then."

"hiking sucks," you groan, finishing the last drops of lukewarm water from the singular bottle you have left. "i'm so thirsty. and tired. and hot." a sticky droplet of sweat drags along your face, and you halfheartedly swipe it away.

"for the record, this was your idea," makki retorts, clumsily sitting down on a rock that's mercifully covered by shade.

you kick him with your foot until he moves over, and you plop down next to him. "actually, it was your idea. i just agreed with it."

"we're not athletic people. why did we think we could hike a mountain? we're so fucking stupid."

"you're the stupid one. i was roped into this against my will."

"you liar."

you hum, your head lolling to the side until it crashes into makki's shoulder. he shifts, letting you rest there, and you narrowly fight the desire to rotate your head and let your lips graze his collarbone. after a few minutes of quiet, you stand with the last of your strength. dust puffs up around your feet as you step back onto the path and out of the cooling comfort of shade.

you throw your hands up in the air, defiantly getting a facefull of bright, hot sunshine.

"fuck you!" you yell at the gigantic ball of fire.

somewhere in the distance, a bird squawks.

makki laughs, and then you laugh, and then you both are laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

"you're," he manages to choke out between giggles, "you're losing your mind."

you crouch down by him until you're face-to-face, noses almost touching. for a split-second, you get the weird urge to reach out and—

his head jerks to the side and you almost fall over, barely catching yourself by balancing your hands on his knees. 

“do you hear that?” he asks.

you look up at him and his eyes widen as he realizes the position you’re in, looking up at him from between his legs at that angle like… like you’re gonna…

“hear what?”

he blinks, before realizing that he’s been staring at you, kneeling on the ground, for far too long. “um,” he glances away quickly, shoving away the less-than-appropriate thoughts that threaten to come to the forefront of his brain. “water. i hear water.”

you fall silent, straining to hear what he does. your ears practically perk up at the almost-silent rush of water.

your eyes snap back to makki, hope evident on your features. “oh my god, you’re right.”

in an adrenaline-fueled rush, the two of you scramble to your feet and follow the noise. makki ducks under a couple of low-hanging branches, pushing away a few nagging ferns to eventually come across a small stream of water that trickles into…

“no fuckin’ way.”

your breath catches in your throat as you look at what must be what heaven is like—a large, blue pool of water completely hidden by a large rock structure. it looks to be completely natural, not a single sign of human life around, and the entire atmosphere is breathtaking. the gentle spray from a small waterfall on the far side of the rock immediately cools you down until you’re not even sure what heat was bothering you anymore.

“this is beautiful,” you hum, dropping your bag off one shoulder and then the other, letting it hit the rock you’re standing on with a dull thud. “either we’re really lost or really lucky.”

“i’m gonna go with lucky,” makki deadpans, a grin on his face. “this is insanely cool.”

you feel his breath along the shell of your ear, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, and it sends a chill down your spine. your heart betrays you and pounds wildly against your chest, and you mentally kick yourself for feeling so… indescribably weird.

focusing your attention back on the little sliver of paradise before you, you get the urge to just jump in. without even thinking, you begin toeing off your shoes, ignoring the curious look makki gives you as you kick them off to the side.

“what’re you doing?”

you raise an eyebrow. “well, i don’t want to get my clothes all wet, duh.” you tap the side of his head with an amused smile. “use your brain, makki.”

he gapes at you as you wiggle off your shorts before yanking off your shirt, dumping it all into a pile on your bag. the heat feels a lot more bearable without a layer of clothing, but you still feel the layer of perspiration along your body, making it glow in the sunlight. you glance at makki and he briskly turns away, the mud caked on the soles of his shoes suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, pretending that you aren’t mere inches from him in nothing but your underwear.

he feels a familiar heat pooling in his stomach as you walk past him, hips swaying and ass—

why am i looking at her ass? he nearly smacks himself in the face, glad that he can blame the flush on his face from overexertion. what the fuck is going on?

"aren't you coming?"

"y-yeah, just a sec."

he wrangles off his shorts, discarding the fabric before starting to do the same with his shirt. you give him an impatient look, the sharpness of your gaze making his brain go numb because wow, her eyes look really pretty in the light. you must not like the look he gives you in return, because you whip your head back, trying to convince yourself that you're not enjoying the tension between you. the very same tension that you're capitalizing on right now.

as you wait for him, a bead of sweat curves around your neck and flows between your shoulder blades, and his mouth goes dry, hands freezing around the neckline of his shirt. 

he watches hungrily as it disappears behind the clasp of your bra and reappears on your back, trailing lower and lower until it dips under the waistband of your panties.

he's struck with the inexplicable urge to stick his tongue out, taste the saltiness on your skin, and then drag it back upwards to retrace the droplet's steps—

"what are you waiting for?" you're still looking forward, at the water, refusing to peek behind you because you know he's shirtless and that you probably can't handle that right now without acting like a complete idiot.

"nothing!" he squeaks, silently cursing himself for being so obvious. he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair to dispel his nerves. "nothing."

he walks forward a bit too fast and a bit too distracted, and like the very suave guy he is, trips over a rock, sending him stumbling forward towards the lagoon. he reaches out for something to balance himself, grabbing onto your arm. your eyes widen and he gives you that evil smile of his; you're barely able to get out a panicked "makki, don't you fucking dare—" before he falls in and yanks you along with him. 

the water, the perfect temperature—not too warm and not too cool—envelops you whole. it feels great, refreshing after spending so much time in the sun, and you kick your legs to get back above water.

"you whore!" you smack makki's chest underwater, your movements slowed and sluggish. "i hate you!"

makki's face breaks the waterline and he laughs loud and hard, practically wheezing. his pink hair is soaked and plastered to his face, almost covering his eyes. he smoothes it back with the palm of his hand, some droplets splashing onto your face, and smiles big.

"sorry 'bout that," he says, you know, like a liar.

"you asshole, you're so fucking clumsy," you chastise, unable to prevent yourself from smiling back. "i thought you would've grown out of that by now."

"yeah, yeah," he says dismissively. "'no running by the pool' and whatnot."

you snort, remembering how much trouble he'd get into every summer at the community pool for sprinting past the safety signs nailed to the fence and cannonballing into the water—it became a tradition for you and him to go there straight from school on the last day. half the time, he'd evade capture, and the other half... he wasn't so lucky. you'd stick your tongue out and tease him when he'd get his pool pass revoked for breaking the rules.

"you terrorized those poor lifeguards," you joke, clutching at your stomach as laughs wrack your body. "i'm surprised they let you come back each year."

"oh, i know exactly why they let me," he replies, wagging his finger. "it's ‘cause i was the only person keeping their shitty snack shack afloat."

"oh my god, you're right." the memories start to come back to you—a much younger makki with the entirety of his measly allowance money coming to buy snacks. "you always bought those strawberry candies, but you hated them. i never understood why you spent so much money on them."

he scratches the back of his head, dropping his eyes to look at the ripples in the water. "well, you liked them, so..."

oh. "oh." so he'd buy them for... "huh."

you lapse into awkward silence, the white noise of the waterfall and chirping of birds filling the void. you glance towards the waterfall, the constant stream of water looking a lot more interesting than the placidity around you. you’re itching to get over there, and inspiration strikes—something pulled straight from your childhood experiences with makki.

"yo," you wave your hand in the water and splash him just the slightest, startling him out of his thoughts. "race ya to the waterfall."

you submerge yourself in the water, kicking your legs and immediately getting a headstart.

"wha—hey!"

makki knows that there's no point in trying to beat you—ever since you were kids, you'd always been the faster swimmer—but he easily gives into his competitive edge, swimming after you. 

when he feels the smoothness of rock against his palm, he pokes his head up out of the water, immediately hit with a barrage of white foam and the rumbling noise of water crashing. he nearly flails underwater again and you laugh, peacefully perched on a ledge of stone, safely tucked behind the waterfall and away from the spray.

“oh, now you’re gonna get it,” he grumbles, slicing through the water in record-time to get to you. 

you squeal in delight, trying to get away from him, but there’s nowhere for you to go. he grabs your ankle, pulling you back into the water, and you latch onto his shoulders, choking out laughs, as you’re dragged back into the coolness. you tightly shut your eyes, convinced that he’s going to pull some shitty move like dunking your head underwater, but after a beat, you realize that, other than being forcibly removed from your very comfortable resting spot, you’re completely unharmed.

prying your eyes open, you come face-to-face with makki, his lips slightly parted and a pink flush spreading below his freckles. you trace them with your eyes as if you haven’t done it millions of times, over and over, until they were branded in your brain, a constant in your life like the constellations in the night sky. 

you know how much he hated the cluster of them that stayed on the bridge of his nose, even during winter, after some classmate of yours made fun of them back when you were nine. he’d tried to cover them up with some of his mom’s foundation the next day, and you laughed when you saw how horribly the makeup blended. after admitting that you thought they were fun to count when you were bored in class, he seemed to stop hating them.

you remember class picnics in the spring, and how they’d spread across his cheeks as the day went on, as morning turned to afternoon. you’d always lecture him on the importance of sunscreen—the same lecture your mom would give you before thrusting a small bottle of spf fifty into your chubby hands—before squirting some of it into your palm and caking it under his eyes. he’d stare at you, shocked, and you’d joke about how he didn’t even know how to rub it into his skin and then proceed to do it yourself. he was always glad that you didn’t rub it in too much, because the pale residue left behind on his cheeks always hid the way he’d blush brightly at the feeling of your hands on him.

you suddenly become aware of how close you've gotten to each other—your hands are clasped along his taut biceps and his hands are holding your waist, fingertips sticking to the soaked fabric of your underwear. you can feel the heat radiating off of his bare chest and warming yours, and you desperately look for a distraction from the way water glistens along his lean frame and abs. 

makki feels the same, doing his best to ignore the way your sports bra clings to your wet skin, the peaks of your nipples poking out just the slightest. you look... gorgeous, he has to admit, what, with the way that droplets of water condense on your plump lips and slide down from your drenched strands of hair to your shoulders and stomach before returning to the pool. you're ethereal, the light reflecting off the water glimmering against your flesh making you have some kind of angelic shimmer. 

the water’s only up to his waist, but he feels like he’s drowning.

you start to move away, but his grip on your hips is insistent. you tilt your head up inquisitively, swallowing as your eyes trail up his broad shoulders and sharp jawline to focus on his eyes. they’re unreadable, swimming with ambiguity that you have an innate desire to sift through.

your gaze drops to his lips—he’s gnawing on the bottom one and you have the split-second urge to soothe the bitten flesh with your tongue—but you catch yourself and bring them back to his eyes. he seems to notice, tensing up as his fingers dig into your flesh.

the tension is palpable. your blood is pumping rapidly in your veins because you have no idea what he’s thinking. what are you thinking? are you thinking the same thing?

he opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but a sudden voice startles you.

“hey! you kids can’t be in here!”

you jerk away from each other, craning your necks to see a man in a hat and a shirt with a logo that you recognize is from the resort peers down at you from the top of a ledge.

“this is protected land! we haven’t put up a sign yet since it’s so far off the main path, so it’s not your fault for not knowing.”

“like i said, more lost than lucky,” you mutter. he gives you an annoyed look and you smile angelically in response.

“sorry about that!” he calls back.

you wade back to shore, a million thoughts ringing through your head because you swear that something was going to happen. you definitely wanted something to happen.

but what is that something? you can’t help but wonder. am i ready for that something?

you quickly put on your shorts and t-shirt, cringing at the way they stick to your wet skin. the discomfort doesn’t last for long though, because the heat quickly dries you up and puts you back in the situation you were stuck in in the first place—sweaty and exhausted.

when you finally find the path again, with the help of the man in the hat, makki pipes up again.

“you should call me takahiro more often,” he states simply. 

it’s a weird thing to say, a bit out of the blue, but from your experience makki’s a weird person anyway, so it’s not all that unexpected. “okay,” you reply, drawing the word out. “why?”

he shrugs. “dunno. you’d always say it when we were kids, so it makes me feel less old when you do.” it’s not the answer you want—not that there’s an answer that you want, of course, because that would be… strange—but it’s an answer nonetheless. his lips curl up as he thinks of something. “it pissed mattsun off, too. that was funny.”

you grimace, thinking back to that moment and mentally kicking yourself in the shin. “yeah, that was awkward.”

takahiro sheepishly scratches the back of his neck, wincing at your reaction. “too soon to joke about?”

you wave your hand. “nah, fuck him. i’m over it. as long as i don’t think about it for too long, i’m good.”

“ignorance is bliss and all that jazz?”

you nod. “anything that keeps me occupied works in my favor.”

he bares his teeth in a way that looks more evil than amiable. “good thing you’re with me, distraction extraordinaire, right?”

your heart beats in anticipation as you stop in your tracks, wary of whatever twisted plan he’s got buzzing around in his head. “takahiro,” you say in warning.

he pays no mind to you, tapping his chin while unzipping his bag, stray droplets of water darkening the fabric. “do you remember that time at my seventh birthday party when you ambushed me with a water gun?”

your eyes widen immediately because of course you remember—it was hilarious. it was late january, way too early in the year to be playing with water, and as he’d been walking into his house, you’d nailed him with a jet of ice-cold water. it had soaked his shirt and frozen it, and you were forced to hold a hairdryer to his body for an hour until it thawed, giggling the entire time. he’d always sworn revenge but you thought that he’d forgotten by now.

you thought wrong.

“let’s not be irrational here…” you muster, a smile involuntarily creeping its way onto your face as he grabs a couple brightly-colored balloons from his bag, fitting one in each hand. “i just got dried off.”

“well, i’ve got two water balloons with your name on them,” he quips, jiggling them in his palms. “i also have an entire speech prepared, so take a seat.”

you snort, settling down on a tree stump along the side of the path. you know there’s no getting out of this—you’re too tired to outrun him, and he’d probably catch up anyway—so you’ve already accepted your fate. “go for it.”

his smile grows wider. “i’m sure you know the saying ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’” you nod, folding your hands under your chin and leaning forward like a schoolchild. he rolls his eyes before continuing. “well, i beg to differ. revenge,” he looks pointedly at the balloons, “is a dish best served wet.”

“wow,” you say, beginning to clap. “that was great. now let’s get this over with—”

“nope, i’m not done yet.” he ignores your half-frustrated, half-amused groan. things always have to be dramatic with him. “for the past sixteen or so years, i’ve marinated in the spices of my fury.”

“nice metaphor!” you heckle, chucking a pebble at his face. he narrowly dodges it.

he cocks his head. “thank you. as i was saying, i’ve marinated in the spices of my fury. every morning, i woke up angry thinking about what you did to me, and every night, i slept satisfied knowing that i was going to get you back one day.”

“you think about me constantly? just admit you’re in love with me then,” you tease. he seems at a loss of words for a second, hesitating slightly as if you’ve called him out on something, but the moment passes quickly.

“and that day,” he says definitively. “is today. today will go down in history as the day that hanamaki takahiro gets his revenge on the girl that froze his favorite dragon ball z shirt to his body on his birthday.”

“you got me.”

his eyes narrow and you hold your hands out defensively, as if that’ll do anything.

“prepare to meet your doom.”

instinctively, you shut your eyes and turn your head away, only to be met with two bounces of wet plastic—one on your hip and the other on your arm—and the plap! sounds of balloons hitting the ground. it takes a moment to realize that you’re completely dry, albeit a few drops in the shape of a circle from where the balloons’ condensation hit you.

“you’ve got to be kidding me.” at takahiro’s words, you blink your eyes open, only to see an unbroken pink balloon resting against the toe of your shoe.

before he can react, you bend down to grab it and the green one near your other foot, staring at them in awe before breaking out into shocked laughter.

“you—you bought water balloons that don’t break?”

“i didn’t know that they wouldn’t work!” he groans, running a hand down his face. “that’s so fucking embarrassing.”

“maybe you didn’t throw it hard enough,” you suggest, taking the opportunity to chuck the pink one at him. it bounces harmlessly off his chest and plops onto the ground, still not broken.

he stares at it with a blank expression, arms dropping in defeat. “i guess they’re all defective.”

a lightbulbs goes off in your head. silently, you approach him until you’re face-to-face, and then you take the remaining balloon, hold it over his head, and squeeze, hard.

within a few seconds, it succumbs to the pressure of your fingers, and with a comical pop! noise, water streams out of the plastic and drenches him.

you shove the carcass of the balloon into your pocket before stepping back to admire your handiwork. takahiro stands, completely unmoving, droplets of water dripping down from his bangs, which are now stuck to his face and covering his eyes, down his cheeks and clothes. he shivers as a trail of it slides down his back, eyes shooting up to meet yours in a strange mix of amusement and anger.

“guess they work,” you quip. “they just needed a little push.”

wordlessly, he hovers the pink balloon he’d gotten from you over your head, and clenches his fist tight around it, knuckles almost turning white. you’re barely able to duck your head before it comes crashing down around you, dousing you.

“you suck,” you giggle, wiping your eyes. “are we even now?”

“no, actually,” he replies quickly, reaching back into his bag with a big smile. “i still need to get you back for my birthday.” to your chagrin, he pulls out two more balloons.

“c’mon,” you laugh shakily. “truce?”

you get your reply when both balloons blow up in your face at once. 

“never.”

“shit, what happened to you?”

you glance up to see matsuwaka’s brows furrowed, his mouth agape at your… sorry state. you look down at your soaked clothes—you’re pretty sure that you left a trail of water droplets behind you as you made your way back to the resort—before letting out a shrewd laugh and gesturing to the man next to you.

“takahiro’s an asshole, that’s what happened.”

you relish in the way matsuwaka stiffens at the ease with which the name slides off your tongue. 

“gotcha,” he replies. “so business as usual, then?”

takahiro rests his arm on the top of your head and you roll your eyes. “hey! i’m not an asshole,” he drawls. “she’s just being dramatic.”

your mouth drops. “i’m dramatic? you’re the one that planned this for sixteen years.”

“that’s not dramatic! if anything, it’s dedicated.”

“dedicated to being dramatic,” you shoot back, a smile playing on your lips. 

“it’s better than being dedicated to believing in santa claus,” he snorts. “didn’t you believe in him until you were, what was it again? twelve?”

you shove his face away. “shut up! i grew out of that when i was, like, nine!”

“sure,” he says. “so i’ll just pretend that you didn’t start crying when i told you he was fake.”

“yeah, but that backfired on you,” you cackle. “your mom got so mad at you when i told her.”

his eyes widen as if he’s just realized something. “so you’re the reason why i didn’t get any presents that year?”

“oh my god,” you respond, covering your mouth. “you didn’t know?”

“see? you’re such a bully to me, you had this coming,” he insists, turning his head. “you agree with me, right mattsun?” 

you had almost forgotten that he was here this whole time—you were too distracted by the bubbly feeling in your chest that had come about from your banter with takahiro. huh, you think. weird.

“uh,” he stammers, clearly off-put from the dynamic between you. “yeah.”

his girlfriend bounds up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, giggling a little “hi issei.” he turns to her with a soft smile, pressing his lips to her forehead. she sees you and sends you a small wave, which you reciprocate amiably. you’re surprised to feel… fine. there’s no uncomfortable ache in your chest, no warm pinpricks of tears in your eyes, no crawling pain in your skin.

you feel fine, because you don’t need matsuwaka anymore, not when you have…

when you have him.

you gaze at takahiro, stars in your eyes, because you finally have a name for whatever you’ve been feeling, whatever you hope he’s been feeling. 

he tilts his head in confusion, cutely scrunching his nose up the way he always used to when you’d try to explain the science homework to him over bowls of baby carrots and chocolate pocky.

“why’re you looking at me like that?”

“like what?”

he chuckles softly, shaking his head, jostling strands of his hair that glow pink in the light of sunset. “you’re impossible.”

you announce that you’re going back to the room to change your clothes, and he waves dismissively, saying that he’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.

the moment you step into the elevator and the doors close, matsuwaka sits down next to him.

“i’m glad that she has you.”

takahiro’s face twitches. “it’s nothing. we’ve known each other for ages so—”

“—she always wanted someone… familiar, you know?” matsuwaka interrupts. “someone that she could relate to and share things with.” he chuckles dryly. “i was never good at that. now that i think about it, it makes a lot of sense for you guys to be together.”

wait what? “oh, we’re not—”

“—dating?” matsuwaka claps takahiro on the shoulder, suddenly turning serious. “dude, you don’t have to lie to me, we’re not kids anymore. and anyway, it’s obvious: you’re constantly looking at each other all mushy and making those inside jokes.”

“but—”

he doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. “—i’d say something dumb like ‘take care of her’ but it’s obvious that you are. keep making her happy, yeah? you were always better at that than i was.”

before takahiro can say anything, kaiya calls for matsuwaka, and with another meaningful look, he leaves him sitting there.

“what the hell?” takahiro mutters to himself. “he thinks we’re dating? that’s wack.” another part of him whispers ‘but would that be so bad?’

it’s at that moment that the elevator doors open and you walk out, dressed in dry clothing. he smiles instinctively, and it’s also at that moment that he wishes he actually was yours.

“are you dating anyone?”

you have to slightly raise your voice to ensure that he hears you over the chattering of the ambiance. you’re in some popular restaurant in the area, seated across from each other in a booth that you were lucky enough to snag. the dim lights do nothing to fight the heat permeating the entire room, but you can’t find yourself to complain, at least, not when it means takahiro keeps the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

he gives you a strange look, and you can’t blame him. it’s kind of a silly question—you’d think that you’d have found out the answer to it before catching feelings, or continuing old feelings, or whatever you want to call it, but surprisingly, in all the time you’ve spent with each other, his love life never came up. so you can’t really blame yourself for not knowing, right? if he has someone then that’s fine. it’s fine. it’ll all be fine—

“no,” he says, as if it's obvious. “why would i bring you on a vacation for two if i was dating someone?”

oh. “oh.” that’s a good point. “okay!” you say it a little too cheerily for someone that’s just curious, that has absolutely no romantic interest in the person you’re asking. 

“why?” he drawls, cockily leaning forward on the table towards you. “you interested?”

“yeah.” as soon as the word slips out, your eyes widen and you slap your hand over your mouth.

takahiro’s eyebrows shoot up and disappear behind the fringe of his bangs. “wh—are you serious?”

hand still clasped on your face, you nod slowly. “um, yeah.”

his eyes scan your face as he leans back into his seat. “are you joking?” his voice is leveled—guarded. does he think you’re lying?

“no!” he flinches at your volume, and you laugh sheepishly. “no, i’m serious. i like you. i’ve…” you suck in a breath. “i’ve liked you for a while now, i think. i just don’t think i knew.”

“so, just to reiterate, you’re not joking?”

“no.”

“huh.” what the fuck, what the fuck, whatthefuck. she likes me? “okay, well, i like you too.”

oh my god. shut the fuck up. he likes me? “really?”

“yeah.”

“huh.”

you bite back a smile and shove your face into the menu, busying yourself with picking out a main dish, but really just trying your best not to squeal like a little girl. takahiro takes that as his cue to do the same, sending you wary looks from behind his menu.

“okay, sorry, i’m just making sure again, but you’re sure that you’re not joking right—”

you slam the menu flat onto the table before leaning forward and grabbing his face with your hands. before he can say anything, you’re letting your eyelids flutter shut and planting a kiss on his hips. when you pull away, falling back into your seat, he’s gazing unblinking at you, dumbstruck.

“do you believe me now?”

he nods dumbly. “y-yeah. i believe you.”

“okay. stop asking me stupid questions.”

he gulps, staring holes into the list of dinner specials on the page he has open. his face is burning—he’s positive that he’s glowing redder than he ever has in his entire life—and he can’t stop his knee from bouncing underneath the table and making the water in his glass ripple.

“i’m not hungry anymore,” he says quietly, refusing to make eye contact with you. is he reading this wrong? are you on the same page as him? is he reading a completely different book than you? why’s he using this book metaphor so much? oh man, is he nervous right now. are you nervous?

“neither am i.”

he glances up at you and you share a look. okay, he decides. not reading this wrong then.

you grab his hand and shuffle out of the booth, keeping an eye out for your waiter, who probably wouldn’t be happy with you guys disappearing before they’ve even gotten your orders yet. yanking him through the maze of tables and chairs, you’re finally able to get outside, the sky greeting you with the reds and oranges of sunset.

takahiro laces his fingers with yours, and you’ve never been more thankful for choosing a restaurant that’s merely a few minutes away from your hotel. the tension is absolutely unbearable.

“bedroom, right?” just to make sure.

“i thought that was obvious,” he quips, smile a little shaky, eyes a little blown out.

“okay.” okay. cool. yeah. okay.

getting to the lobby is a flurry of dancing fingers that graze your hips and his arms, and lingering eyes that start off innocent but end up focusing on each others’ lips for a little too long. when you’re in the elevator, takahiro eagerly kisses you, lips that are softer than you expected pressing against yours, tongue dipping between them, just the slightest, to trail along yours. he starts to back away, catching his breath, but you tangle your hands into the front of his shirt and tug him closer. 

he loses his balance, barely catching himself by placing a hand on the wall behind you, your back completely flattened against the grid of buttons near the door. there’s the telltale sounds of something being clicked—multiple things being clicked—and takahiro’s mouth on your jaw pauses for just a second.

“did you just pick every floor?”

the elevator slows to a stop, and there’s a ring as the doors part to reveal a floor that is definitely not yours. you swivel, only to see six buttons glowing, the orange light taunting you.

“only five minus ours,” you whine. 

“ah, fuck.”

the elevator stops again, and a disgruntled-looking man walks in, his head craned to look at his phone.

“stairs?” takahiro steps towards the door.

“i’m tired—”

“—it’s now or never,” he says. the doors begin shutting and he sticks his foot between them. the other man in the elevator makes an irritated noise.

“hey kid, i got somewhere to be.”

“stairs?” he repeats, more urgently.

you grumble a little bit, pushing yourself off the wall. “fine.”

he sends you a bright white smile, and it makes you giddy enough to not snap at the small muttering of “kids these days” that comes from the corner of the elevator.

takahiro shifts his grip up your arm and picks up the pace, forcing you to jog behind him, laughing gently. he takes one, two, three wrong turns before finally leaning his body weight onto and opening the heavy, metal door to the stairwell.

“this looks like a murder site,” you say once you’ve shut the door behind you, taking note of the dull, flickering lights and awful beige color of the walls. 

“then you better not keep me waiting,” takahiro shoots back, before climbing up the stairs two at a time. 

you huff, walking behind him. by the time you make it to your room, you’re slightly breathless and it’s warm, so you whip your shirt off your body before flopping unceremoniously onto the bed. you close your eyes, letting the aching muscles in your calves rest.

you don’t realize that takahiro’s wriggled onto the other side of the bed, hands on other side of yourself holding himself up, until you hear the creaking of the mattress springs. you open your eyes to see him hovering over you, upside down, a gentle grin on his face.

“you look cute when you sleep.”

“is that an observation from just now or have you been watching me since last night?” he doesn’t respond for a second longer than would be normal, and you flip onto your stomach, bringing your face close to his until you’re nose-to-nose. “so you have!” 

“guilty as charged.”

you part your lips, ready to fire off another accusatory statement, but he takes the opportunity to kiss you instead. one of his hands cups your cheek and the other slides down to the naked skin of your stomach. you relax into his touch and shuffle forward on the bed, falling back onto your back. getting a little more daring, you let your palms skim the front of his shirt and then scrunch the fabric as you bring them back up across the planes of his chest. he shudders, warm breath blowing on the side of your face, and pulls back, quickly ridding himself of his shirt before crawling over you.

“we doing this?” he asks, breathing heavily.

you think he looks great at this angle, admiring the soft sprinkling of freckles that have only gotten more prominent with each minute he’s spent out in the sun. “you’re so stupid,” you murmur. “i want you so bad.”

he makes a dumb little expression that has you chuckling, and then you crane your neck to give him a peck.

“fuck me?” you ask in the cutest, most innocent voice you can manage.

a choked groan comes from somewhere in his throat, and he leans forward to muffle it in your collarbone. “god, you’re gonna kill me.”

you sneakily move your hands and are unzipping his shorts before he can say anything. collecting his bearings, he sits up and shoves them down his legs before throwing them on the ground. crouching down until he’s eye-level with your pussy, he pushes your shorts off and rubs his fingers along the gusset of underwear.

“you’re wet,” he hums. he hooks the fabric to the side and slides a finger into you, and you can’t help but squirm in response. “fuck, you’re so wet.”

“don’t tease.” you try to put more force into the words, but they come out more as a whimper instead.

he slips in a second finger and you keen, grabbing at the pillow underneath you. he thrusts them steadily, building up a pace that has your toes curling and muscles tightening. 

scissoring his fingers, he squeezes in a third with almost no resistance, the wetness already slicking up your pussy making it easy. stroking at your walls, he rubs against a soft spot inside you and you cum, breath catching as your thighs clamp down on his wrist.

“ah, fuck!” you moan, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip. “f-fuck, ‘m cumming.”

he watches greedily as your chest heaves, eyes roaming over the expanse of your stomach, now dewy with sweat, and the way your tits bounce as your back arches.

“you’re beautiful,” he whispers.

“so ‘re you.” you smile lazily at him as he bites at the hem of your panties, sliding them off your legs, before creeping his lips higher and higher, sending shivers up your body, until they meet yours.

he kisses you slowly and sensually, as if wanting to cherish the moment, and you let him, melting into the sheets and allowing the warmth of comfort to wash over you. you can’t get enough of the feeling—you run your hands through his hair, across his shoulders, down his stomach, anything to get closer yet. he shudders when you wrap your fingers around his cock and guide it to your pussy, letting out shaky breaths at the way you rub it along your folds.

“you’re so hard,” you mumble against his lips.

“shut up.”

you sits back on his haunches to line himself up, and you let out a small noise as the head of his cock pushes through your hole.

“o-oh fuck,” you whisper, hooking your ankles around his back as he inches in agonizingly slow.

“shit,” he says to himself, trying not to lose his mind at the way the soft velvet of your pussy wraps around him. “you feel really good.”

“go deeper,” you urge. 

takahiro obliges, thrusting leisurely, ensuring that you feel every ridge of his cock against the walls of your pussy. he momentarily shuts his eyes when he bottoms out, before allowing himself to gaze down at you.

“you’re really pretty,” he comments stupidly.

“mm,” you respond, tenderly brushing some hair away from his forehead. “you’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”

his face seems to brighten. “you think i’m handsome?”

“i’ve thought you were handsome for a while now.”

“oh yeah?” he rocks his hips just the slightest, making you squirm in pleasure. “how long?”

“um,” you bite back the words to stop your eyes from rolling back in your head as he pushes back in again. “s-since we were eight, i think.”

he pauses. “eight? what made you think i was handsome at eight?”

you wiggle your hips in search of more stimulation, more caught up in the feeling of sex to really care about what you’re saying. “we had that, uh, music recital? and you wore a suit and it was really big on you a-and i thought you looked really good. and s-since then i thought you were handsome.”

“do we have to talk about eight-year-old me in my dad’s suit when i’m balls deep in you?” he jokes.

you glare at him as best you can while being fucked. “you brought it up.”

he strokes your cheek, pressing your forehead to his with a small smile. “yeah, i know, i know. well for the record—ah, fuck—i thought you were pretty since the first time i laid eyes on you.”

“yeah?”

“mhm,” he hums. “thought you were the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen. always did. just was never brave enough to do anything about it.”

you roll your hips and he moans, a deep, guttural sound that makes your pussy clench. “well you have me now,” you sigh. “and you’re not getting rid of me.”

“don’t think i’d do that even if i wanted to.”

you’re both so pent up, so drunk on the feeling of each other, that it doesn’t take much for either of you to cum. with a few more strokes and a few slick circles on your clit, you fall apart in each other’s arms, panting and whispering sweet nothings.

once you’ve cleaned up and changed into pajamas—one of takahiro’s shirts and a fresh pair of panties—you lay next to each other, cheeks squished against the pillows to look each other.

“you know, i think i understand what i’ve been feeling this whole time. like about you.”

“it’s not love, right?” he snarks. you go silent and he turns a little more serious. “it’s not love, right? ‘cause i don’t think i’m, like, ready for that or anything ‘cause this is really new and fresh and sure, i like you, i really, really like you, but—”

“—no,” you laugh. “it’s not love. it’s like… familiarity. comfort.”

he’s the dust that would cloud up when you stomped down the path to his house. he’s the chirping of crickets that would fade into white noise during late nights in the summer when you’d drink lemonade on your porch. he’s the fuzz of the ratty, old blanket you’d stolen from him that hugs you tight and lulls you to sleep.

he nuzzles closer. “like home?”

he’s been a constant in every moment in your past, and you’re starting to think that you want him to be a constant in every moment of your future.

Your washer and dryer units stack on top of each other behind the bathroom door. The former is on the bottom, and the latter goes right on top.

When you first moved into the furnished apartment, you tried to rearrange things and make it home. You reoriented the bed to give the desk area just a little more space, and went on your first trip to IKEA together to collect all the little missing pieces for your first home.

Issei had wanted to put the washer up top “to change things up a ‘lil”. He didn’t see an issue with putting the infinitely heavier washing machine atop, an electric device that deals with loads of clothing and water that could leak or straight up collapse right through the thin frames of your lightweight dryer.

Needless to say, you quickly squashed the idea. It’s not like he would know much about this kinda thing anyways. For him, the 200 yen has always been good enough.

You double check the display on the dryer. The whites should be done in about an hour and a half; you can start the washer now.

The upper machine continues to tumble, its shakes pulsing along the plain white walls.

Mid-September’s rays filter through the small window above. Some sort of Sunday morning rerun blares from the living room, muffled by the quiet cacophony of bike bells beyond the balcony’s door.

From the sink countertop, your phone dings, probably another text from your group chat, the contents buffered by the last of Issei’s bunched up socks.

You pluck the last article from the laundry basket and unroll it, frowning at the frayed black threads at the big toe. You should really remind him to buy new ones soon.

Heavy footsteps fall on wooden floorboards. The sandalwood hits you first.

“Hey, babe.”

Adoration stirs through the sunny air like cream in coffee, and you chuck the sock into the washer.

Issei stoops down to wrap his long arms around your frame.

“Heading out now. Want me to grab anything?”

You shake your head, feeling warm fingers graze the dips of your neck. “Nope.”

“Need help then?”

“It’s okay, Issei.” You place a hand over his, smoothing over the tanned skin caressing a familiar pattern over the bone. “Go, have fun.”

His laugh rumbles against your back. The other arm reaches out and gently closes the washer’s door for you.

“Babe,” he grins, “you angry at a sock?”

From the reflection of the washer’s window, you look up as he presses his lips to the top of your head, the telltale strands escaping from his moussed up hair as he pulls you towards him.

You pout in return. “I’m not.”

The quiet, boyish smile that you first fell in love with freshman year beams against the muddled colours behind the door. Distorted through the concave curve, your reflections stare from the synthetic glass, your face below, pout as clear as day, and Issei’s sunlit ease on top, light as the gold in his eyes.

“Pouty baby.”

“Oh my god, Issei!” you glower, playfully ducking your head down to give his wrist a small nip. “Just go, you dumbass!”

He laughs. It’s like a needle on a pin cushion.

“Too cute.”

A sort of rudimentary curdling builds up from inside of you when he slides his face down so you’re cheek to cheek. It starts to churn when his grin curls against your frown.

“You’re the best.”

His lips at the edge of yours, Issei presses the start button on the washing machine.

There’s a beep, and the machine signals the confirmation. The door locks, and the whirring starts.

By the time you realize that a) you haven’t put in the detergent and b) the sandalwood is gone, the water’s already trickled in, and you’ve missed the chance to tell him that you’re not the best — you’re just lost.

˚。⋆.˚。⋆.˚。⋆.

That night, Matsukawa wishes that he can reach up and yank the stupid thing from the ceiling. He picked it out, sure, but that was almost two years ago and he only bought it because he had thought that you’d like it.

“Can you stop staring at that stupid thing and listen to me for once?”

Clearly, you don’t.

“Issei.”

Matsukawa turns to look at you. Droopy eyes, flushed skin, and a distinctly non-sandalwood scent on his skin, Matsukawa feels tired, and his brain is swimming six feet underground with the acidity to match.

“Babe, let’s talk tomorrow, yeah?” he tries, a small, sleepy half-smile on his lips as he swallows a yawn. “‘s been a rough night.”

The lamp shade continues to dangle from the ceiling, the paper surface a little wet from your attempts to wipe it with a damp cloth. It’s also swinging, but that might just be the row of cheap tequila shots that has yet to leave his bloodstream.

And Matsukawa sure hopes that it’s the vodka lemonades acting up when he sees your eyes harden into granite and your lips curl into a snarl.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Matsukawa.”

His eyes widen. It doesn’t taste like sugar rush now. He heard that clear as day.

“The fuck? Where’d that come from?”

“Where?” you sneer, eyes trained on him as you push yourself up from the kitchen counter. Your mug sits cold by the boiler, cold and forgotten ever since your boyfriend stumbled into the apartment’s threshold blurred and pink. “Everything’s all about you, isn’t it? Like you’re the only one in college or something, with the endless midterms and exams, and the friends and a goddamn social life!”

Things had been so normal this morning. You were a little pouty, but you said things were fine, didn’t you? He shouldn’t have gone out.

“Is this about the laundry?” His eyes narrowed, looking down at you with no little confusion in his gaze. “Babe, I asked if you wanted help.”

“Wow, what a saint.” Like nails on a chalkboard, your laughter comes dry and scratchy. “You ask once, and now our home’s spanking clean.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant, and c’mon, you’re the one that wanted to move out together.” Matsukawa’s lost count of how many times the two of you have had the same argument. It’s gotten progressively worse ever since you entered the last year of your college career. And that’s why he had suggested you wait. “I told you we should’ve waited until after graduation.”

He doesn’t understand how things could’ve gotten this bad.

“We’re adults, Issei,” you scoff, pushing past him.

“Babe, we’re in college.” He can’t help the long groan as he watches you walk around the small dining table. “Live a little.”

“Don’t call me that right now!” you snarl, glaring as you stop on the other side of the table. The distance needs to be physical. “Who’s gonna keep this apartment from turning into a shithole? Who’s gonna bring you the textbooks you forgot?” you grip the back of a chair, knuckles chapped and white. “You know, I also wanna stay out and come back home hammered at two in the morning.”

The light is swinging frantically now, and the cup of water you shoved down his throat when he came back is slowly churning in the cusp of his neck.

“You think–” he can’t help his own short bark of coloured laughter, “–that you not having a social life is my fault?”

Your laptop sat slightly skewed to the left at the designated seat across from him — yours. Matsukawa sees the faint flickering of sleep mode reflected off of your t-shirt — his.

“I could’ve gone out today.”

“You really think that it’s my fault.”

“Literally every weekend is for the boys–”

“Every time, I ask you if you wanted to come–”

“–and I just stay at home like some fucking housewife–”

“–but you’re all just like ‘no, it’s okay!’ with your readings and vacuuming and all your other grown up stuff, and then when I ask again, it’s like I’m literally in your way. Like who the fuck is supposed to know that you actually want help?”

“Any human with an ounce of responsibility and a fucking heart would know!”

Matsukawa’s eyes go wide as you lean against the chair, glaring up at him as your chest swelled with the harsh intake of breath.

Your eyes are not warm even with the hot tears threatening to spill, and the temperature in his own voice plummets.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

The rain turns into sleet, and you push yourself to look him straight in the eyes.

“I should’ve listened when my friends said that you’re too immature,” you spat out, hating how your voice cracked at what you’ve been wanting to say for so long, the soured love that churned like spoiled milk. “That everything you do is all just fucking bullshit. You’re the biggest fucking manchild I’ve ever seen.”

“And you’re an adult?” Matsukawa sneers, marching forward in one big stride to his side of the table. With your words, he’s no longer in control of the ugliness in his throat. “You think you’re so responsible and grown up but no” — he’s pointing accusingly at you now, and he can see your grip tighten on the back of the chair as you faced him head on — “you’re just so lost at everything else that you cling onto the idea of becoming an adult, expecting people to praise you for it, to make you feel like you’ve put on your grown up pants. But you’re still here, just as childish as the rest of us!”

There’s absolutely no turning back now. The light has seemingly caught fire, and there’s nothing left to do but to turn sleet into hail and continue to hurl it at your lover across the small dining table.

“Yeah? Being so ‘chill’ and doing absolutely nothing, you think that people respect you for it? That you look like you have all your shit together?” you hold back a sob. “You can’t even unroll your fucking socks, Issei! Why don’t you at least try to find your own grown up pants and do something with your life?”

“You’re so controlling, it hurts!” he finally shouts, mirroring your breathless heaves as he leans forward, meeting you in the middle of the table. “I don’t even want to come back to this apartment because you literally suffocate me!”

“Well,” you take a breath, and look him dead in the eyes. With a mouth full of bile, you take the last shot, through the eye of the storm. “I hope she likes unrolling your socks.”

It rains a quiet, chilling blood.

“What did you say?”

Your bullet hit like a grenade.

The deadly stillness in his eyes sings like frostbite, and you have to break away, except he doesn’t let you.

His hand comes up, deceptively calm as he gently holds your cheek to face him again.

He asks again, “What did you say?”

You notice for the first time in a long while how dark his irises are, how his right brow furrowed just a little deeper, and how much you love that he grew out his hair for you. The tears finally fall.

“I–” Your jaw tightens, and you pull yourself from his hold. The words coat your heavy tongue, too rancid to ingest, too light to deal. But even if you wanted to, the damage was done, just like you had intended. “It’s not sandalwood. Not anymore.”

His hand sinks.

“So you think,” Matsukawa swallows, voice dropping, hands balling into fists as he stares right at your lowered gaze, “I’m cheating on you.”

This time, he doesn’t ask. There’s more dry gauze in this household left anyways.

“I…” you let out a hesitant breath, blinking away another well of tears.

“You think I’m cheating on you,” he says again, or you think he does because at this point, you could barely hear his words when your heartbeat is beating so loudly it hurts.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, swallowing and tongue poking out to wet the suddenly chapped lips. “Issei, I really don’t know.”

His hands fall to his side, and he watches as you look up at him, brows plateaued, eyes lidded.

It’s tepid.

“I thought this could’ve been home.”

He looks at your question without a word, and your gaze drops.

Summer is truly over.

The tears in Issei’s eyes never fell, but they were there and you saw them, quiet and filling up like water behind the washing machine’s glass.

Yet you’ve never washed an all black load, and you don’t want to start now.

So with a small, shaky exhale, you stiffly hold out a hand and put down your laptop’s screen.

Matsukawa watches quietly as you pick the laptop up and tuck in the chair before you.

“Where’re you going?” he asks, eyes following your every movement as you turn your back to him, crossing into the bedroom space.

You stop at the closet, pulling out a small tote.

“Ai-chan’s,” you answer as you grab a few pieces of clothing and put them into the bag.

“Oh.”

Matsukawa says nothing more as you make your round, pulling out drawers, putting some cosmetics and necessities into the bag. When you turn back around and walk past the kitchen, he quietly follows you at a small distance.

In the bathroom, you take your towels and other amenities. He watches as your hand hovers over the toothpaste.

In the end, you leave it.

With a quick look around, you drop your toothbrush — wrapped in tissue — and drop it into the bag.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” you say as you walk through the bathroom door. “Microwave at six-hundred for three minutes, and it should be fine. Remember to take the cling wrap off.”

“Oh, sure,” he responds, padding after you as you head down the hallway. “Thanks.”

He watches as you reach the entrance. You put the tote on the small stool — IKEA — and reach for your sneakers from the small shoe rack.

Matsukawa’s brows furrow when you exchange your house slippers for the outdoor shoes.

Picking up the tote again, you unlock the door and reach for the knob.

Matsukawa blinks.

“Babe,” —

You both still.

— “are we…?”

You let out a small sigh. Hand around the doorknob, you turn your head slightly, staring at the slightly dusty corner where the front door meets the entrance’s wall.

“I don’t know, Issei,” you tell him honestly. “I really don’t know.”

Matsukawa doesn’t know what to say to that.

With another sigh, you grip the doorknob, and give it a turn and a firm push.

The door closes, and the lock turns, then the jangle of your keys and the ding of the elevator’s arrival. Finally, those doors also close, and the shuffle of the elevator down five floors fades away.

Matsukawa puts your slippers beside the stool. He then walks back down the hallway and into the bathroom. Behind the bathroom door, he closes the now-dried door of the washer.

He pads quietly to the kitchen, and opens the fridge’s door. Gently closing it, Matsukawa lets the large tupperware of food stay for a little longer.

Six-hundred for three minutes.

He walks to the bedroom space. He opens the closet door, and takes out his pyjamas, neatly folded.

Closing the door, past the dining table, back into the bathroom, Matsukawa sets his clothing down on a stool — IKEA — beside the big laundry basket.

It’s a cute wicker one with white lining and two other matching ones that stack into it like Scandinavian matryoshka dolls. The two of you went through another argument to get them for the apartment. In the end, in a fit of anger, he threw away the broken plastic bucket that had accompanied him for his first couple of years away from home, and the next day, the two of you went to IKEA to pick out these fancy ones to fill out your first home.

Matsukawa takes off his t-shirt, socks, and jeans, dropping them into the biggest basket — colours. Then came his boxers and tank top in the middle basket — whites. He doesn’t know what the smallest one is for, and he doesn’t suppose that now would be a good time to ask.

So he opens the door to the shower and walks in.

The water starts.

Remember to take the cling wrap off.

The water shuts, and the door opens again. Matsukawa comes out, shivering a little as he eyes the laundry baskets with a little furrow in his brows.

Biting his lips, he holds back a sigh, and reaches into the basket, pulling out both socks.

In less than five seconds, they’re back in the basket, threadbare and unrolled.

That night, Matsukawa cries in the shower.

˚。⋆.˚。⋆.˚。⋆.

Neither of you got much sleep in the following weeks, and it shows.

But neither mentions it; too much has been said already.

As you stand at the doorway, turning away from the stray boxes beyond the elevator’s doors, eyes that you once planned your future around now watch you leave in broad daylight.

Behind you, Ai-chan keeps her gaze firmly on the foot that’s keeping the elevator from leaving without you.

How awkward would that be?

You sigh, noticing for the third time today that the area around his eyes has become really dark. The first two weeks, you had tiptoed out of each other’s ways when you came by to grab some stuff. By the third, you both listed out your schedules so you could gradually move your belongings out.

Up until now, you haven’t gotten a good look at him. He looks as bad as you feel.

It’s really fortunate that you’ve found someone willing to take over your lease under such short notice. The person was a little hesitant at first, the apartment being a bit away from the metro station, but it helps that the space is very homey, and it’s really quite sufficient for a single occupant. And it comes with washer and dryer units.

“The landlady should be here in an hour at the latest,” you say, trying to keep your voice even as you watch Matsukawa stand stiffly in the threshold of the entrance and the hallway. “You could probably take a short lunch break and pack any last things. You’ve got both keys right?”

He nods.

“Yeah,” you nod back. “Just hand her the keys and sign your half of the termination contract.”

“What about the–?”

“If you don’t want it, just chuck it.”

“Ah,” he blinks. “Sure.”

You bite your lip as he continues to stand there, not knowing where to look. His eyes look heavy, right brow furrowed a little too much even for him, and the fullness of his hair falls wild and listless on his forehead.

You’re not sure if you look any better.

Matsukawa ultimately sighs. Fists tightening and opening, he pushes himself to stand up straight and looks straight at you.

“Thanks,” he tries, “for arranging everything.”

You give him the only smile you can muster. His eyes are too dark for you to handle.

He tries again but it feels more like a formality than anything because Matsukawa knows, he used up the dry gauze a long time ago, and you weren’t about to dry the rest of them.

“Are we really…?”

“I think so.”

“Ah, okay.”

“Well, take care.”

“Sure, you too.”

With a final nod, you turn and give Ai-chan a thin smile, and let the door go.

The lock doesn’t turn, no keys to jangle. The elevator dings, and Matsukawa thinks that he hears a muffled sob before the last set of doors closes but it might’ve just been the swinging of lampshades and heartache in his head.

Looking at the foyer that only holds his single pair of battered sneakers, Matsukawa walks back down the hallway and into the bathroom. The towels, stepping stool, and baskets are all gone. He packed the toothpaste right before you arrived this morning. The door to the washing machine remains closed; he’s started collecting 100 yen coins again.

He heads to the kitchen quietly, stopping at the dining table, pulling out a chair. Sitting down, he picks up the opened can of lukewarm coffee and takes a big gulp.

Just hand them to her and put your signature down on the termination contract.

The lamp really is quite ugly now that he thinks about it. He’s probably admitting too late that it doesn’t really suit you nor this home.

In the end, the lampshade outgrew its honeymoon days, and Matsukawa’s realized that you’ve long moved beyond the paper-thin adulthood.

When time arrives for him to enter the elevator one last time, the lamp stays in your small, cozy studio, hanging from the ceiling’s floor.

He wasn’t going to take it either.

Maybe the next tenant will like it.

˚。⋆.˚。⋆.˚。⋆.

With the help of Ai-chan, you moved into a sharehouse for the rest of your senior year.

The place was clean, quiet, and a walkable distance from the university. The chores were equally divided, and it’s even quite close to the laundromat you used to frequent. But you didn’t need to go there anymore; the house even came with industrial-sized washer and dryer units — free to use and always kept in pristine condition. And the best thing was, it’s owned by the parents of one of Ai-chan’s clubmates.

You became good friends with Nao-chan, said clubmate. It helped that you were both freshly heartbroken and needed a motivating outlet.

So in the remaining seven months of your college career, Nao-chan became your buddy during late night cram sessions. Her dry eyes matched your dark circles. Ai-chan often joined the two of you, stacking her canvases and snacks on the already messy dining table, adding nearsightedness to the growing list of ocular issues.

But sometimes, when the moon was waning and they’ve both surrendered to the need for sleep, you’d sometimes look up and see the paper lampshade.

If you closed your eyes, you could still see it swinging so violently that you could’ve sworn that a storm had materialized.

And it was during one of these twilight heartaches that it dawned upon you.

It was time to go.

So when the offer came for a job many miles away — one that you’ve wanted, one that you wouldn’t have applied for had you still lived in that cozy studio — you signed with abandon. And when you told your friends that you were moving out after graduation, they only made you promise to visit and reached out to club alumni about apartments.

Two days after graduation, you left the place you had intended to call home.

˚。⋆.˚。⋆.˚。⋆.

“Need a hand?”

All three of you tense and glance at the door, the echo of the knocks dissipating and the mess of the room strewn around you. Nao stares back at you widely from in front of the mirror, and you immediately start working faster.

“No, we’re almost done!” you shout back, tugging on the zipper on the wedding dress, another hand keeping the fabric from getting caught. “Five more minutes!”

With a loud grunt, you finally pull it up. Low chuckles roll in from the other side of the door.

“Take it easy, girls. I know it’s a mess in there,” comes the amused reply. “I’ll let the photographer know.”

You all look at each other and can’t help but laugh.

“Jeez, Nao-chan,” you grin teasingly, moving onto smoothing out the wrinkles and any edges. “Your husband – sorry, fiancé – is kinda cute.”

“From what I hear, so’s your boyfriend,” she giggles back at you, eyes closed as Ai tucks the last stray strands of hair in place with a satisfied nod. “Sorry, I meant friend.”

You smack Ai’s arm.

“I told you not to tell her. He’s just a friend,” you emphasize, glaring at the taller girl as she strides to the other side of the room in a long bridesmaid dress similar to your own. “She always makes a huge deal out of these things.”

Ai turns back to you with a shrug, hair floating and falling perfectly in place. The glittery heels dangle prettily from her hands like merchandise in an advertisement as she marches back to the two of you, her own heels landing honed and needlelike on the carpeted ground.

“She would’ve found out anyways,” Ai arches a brow at you as she kneels in front of your other friend, prompting the graphic designer to lift her foot up. “You shouldn’t have posted that dinner pic on your birthday.”

You slap a stripe of blister plaster into the architect’s outstretched hand. Ai knows how nosy Nao has always been, especially in regards to your relationships. Even from half a country away, Nao can sleuth into any potentials in your life.

You roll your eyes in protest, holding out another plaster for Ai. “He wasn’t even in it!”

The two of them look up at you.

“Exactly.”

Before you can retort, a loud knocking cuts through your bickering.

“Kobayashi, hurry up!” one of the groomsmen — the coworker turned bosom buddy — yells from outside. “I have a train to catch! Why’re you always–”

You blink at the near murderous glare from the usually very bubbly Nao before another male voice interrupts the first man.

“That’s Mrs. Nishimura to you, blondie. Plus, you live half an hour away,” Nao’s fiancé huffs. There’s some harsh whispers and a grunt before the fiancé’s voice rings again, tone suddenly diabetically sweet. “Nao, love! Photographer’s waiting! You guys can argue out here too!”

Ai immediately slips the heels onto Nao’s feet as you help her up.

Unable to stop the smile from blooming on her cheeks, the bride-to-be replies, “Sorry! Coming, dear!”

You and Ai look at each other, each grabbing hold of an arm as you sport matching grins.

“Very cute.”

˚。⋆.˚。⋆.˚。⋆.

“Thanks for today. You didn’t have to.” Nao pulls you in for a tight, teary hug, still cautious enough not to touch her face to your shirt. “I know you had to use up a lot of holidays to make the photoshoot and the wedding.”

The small smile on Ai’s face flattens. “Her manager’s a cheapass about them too,” she adds with a shake of her head.

Your small glare at the architect has Nao’s fiancé swallowing back a grin. When you glance at him as well, he immediately gives you a mock salute, and turns back to sending off his groomsmen, including the rude blond one from earlier.

“Don’t worry about it, Nao-chan,” you reassure the bride-to-be with a pat on the back, flashing Ai another scowl. The architect only shrugs, and you let go of Nao, warmth instantly flooding your smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’ll use up as many holidays as I need to see you happy.”

“Aww,” Nao tackles you for another hug, the bottom lashes that Ai had meticulously glued starting to dampen. “I wanna see you happy too.”

A hiccup catches your breath.

With a knowing sigh, Ai reaches out to place a hand on her friend’s head. “No pressuring her. Just as long as she’s happy.” Then her frown curls a little. “But Nao, you don’t really need marriages to be happy. Nor romantic love for that matter.”

“I know, I know, I’m not pressuring her.” Nao pulls back again, a wobbly smile on her lips as she looks at you. “But I’m just saying that if you like him, go for it. You really really deserve a good one.”

Her smile speaks of understanding and hope, and the lump in your throat tightens even more. When your eyes meet Ai’s, she gives you a little, helpless smile in return.

Count on Nao to make you all soft and mushy.

You laugh softly, breaking away to wipe at the budding tears.

“Stop worrying about me,” you chide even as she beams up at you. “You’ve got so much to do before the big day, and I’m not even here to help.”

“But what about that guy–”

“Nao-chan, we can talk all you want after your wedding.”

“But I wanna–”

Ai catches your SOS signal.

“Nao-chan, she still has a train to catch tomorrow,” she sighs, pulling the shorter girl back. Ai then gives you a small nudge to the shoulder, “I’ll take care of this klutz. Just come to the wedding as you are.”

“But Ai–!”

The fiancé, who has been passively watching up till now, intercepts. Seeing Ai start to retort, he subtly shifts closer, taking his fiancée’s hand in his.

“C’mon, love,” he chuckles. “One relationship at a time. We’ve got time.”

“But–”

He tacks on a small squeeze of his hand.

“Fine,” Nao huffs with a pout, but she doesn’t forget to give his hand a squeeze back.

You and Nao wear similar smirks.

“When’s your train?” she grins. “We can still do lunch, right?”

“I think so? I just gotta get to the main station by three.”

Her response is instant. “I’ll drive you.”

To a certain extent, Ai is exactly the kind of cool and collected person that she appears to be but you also understand her way of expressing love.

“If Ai-chan drives you, then you can sleepover, right?”

And Nao is just directly earnest.

But even in the face of such absence and fondness, the weight of adulthood sits like late-stage scoliosis right at the base of your neck.

“I can’t,” you say with a sigh, hand already habitually reaching for your phone. “Manager’s on vacation so the team has a call at ten.”

“At night?”

You let out another sigh.

“Is your manager Satan reincarnated?” Ai scowls. “I’m gonna–”

“Wait!” Nao barges in. “She can use my dining room! We’ll just wait for her in the living room, like the old days.” She gives you two big, breaking smiles before turning to her fiancé, “Right, love?” Before he can even react, she’s already turned back to you, “Please?”

Your lips are already tugging at the ends. “The meeting might take a while…”

“That’s okay!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go grab my things from the house,” you laugh, pulling up the strap of your tote as you get ready to go. “But no trash-talking my manager when I’m on call.”

“We’ll do it off call then!”

The last location where you had the photoshoot isn’t far from where the sharehouse is. Around the corner is the small convenience store run by the uncle in the Yankees’ cap — he was there when Matsui Hideki was playing his last season, he’d tell anyone during checkout — and down a few streets is the apartment with the kid on the second floor that liked to watch his grandmother do laundry.

There’s no kid or grandmother now, and amongst the clothes that are hanging outside, you smile a little at the junior high uniform.

Right at the intersection and down that street a little more, you reach the stationery store and across from it, the laundromat.

Things don’t change much in a town like this. There’s still no indication that the place is a laundromat, and the windows looking in are still a little blurred. That’s probably still the original vending machine on the right, and the bench sits docilely beside it, just a little more weathered and wise.

Curiously, you walk up to the bench.

The chipped corner is still there; the scar looks even more blunt now. It seems like college kids these days still have the habit of swinging the door a little too hard.

With a small chuckle, you also notice the almost imperceptible dent in the vending machine's left hand side, a casualty from when it spewed out a warm cola for Ai in August.

Just for old time’s sake, you reach for your coin pouch, and hear your name.

Familiarity hits you like a freight train, and your hand drops.

It’s still sandalwood.

“It’s you, right?” he’s closer this time.

His voice is even deeper now, even more mellow and carrying even more of that soothing lilt.

The black of his moussed hair settles against the reflective surface of the vending machine.

You turn around.

This is not happening.

And yet, your ex is standing right there, in the shadows of the sun, a little taller, a lot lot broader, and wearing that same easy slouch that’s just a little more grown up.

Meanwhile, your face has more or less melted after hours of smiling and running around under the afternoon sun.

“Issei…” You hope the line on your face can be socially construed as an amicable smile and not a tired, flustered glitch in his matrix. “Oh, uh, hey.”

“You’re back,” he blinks, slow and steady, as if to check that, yes, his ex is standing right there, under the fluorescent lights of the vending machine, a little shorter, a lot lot prettier, and holding that same kind gaze that’s just a little more unfettered.

You look away.

“Yeah. It’s been a while.” The chuckle forced from you is too brash, like neon green poured onto a twilight canvas. There’s too much information at once, and you don’t know where to look. So you go with the failsafe, “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Just laundry,” he grins — he doesn’t seem to notice the hitch in your breath — before grabbing something from the back of his jean pocket. “Left for a sec to grab this.”

To your relief, he holds up a brochure; your eyes have something to focus on that’s not the strain of his jeans, the broadness of his t-shirt, the soft length of his hair, the smile in his eyes, the curve of his lips, and the — Christ — flush in his cheeks that’s definitely not from the late September heat.

“I’m waiting for the whites to wash first,” he offers a little more with a placid grin. “You got time?”

To you his voice ripples in a very warm bass, but for Matsukawa, he really hopes that you don’t hear the lump in his throat, threatening to crush him like Sisyphus’s rock.

But for the life of him, Matsukawa really doesn’t know why he keeps talking.

“It’d be nice to catch up.”

But he does know why.

“If you’d like.”

It’s because he misses this.

“Oh, uh, sure.”

It should be fine, right?

“I can stay for a bit.”

The smile he gives you has you thinking yes.

Matsukawa stands up straight as he gestures for you to take a seat on the bench.

You sit, near to the door, and Matsukawa walks to the machine, digging into his pocket for his wallet.

“Tea?”

“Oh, no, it’s okay–” you start to say but he only smiles and shakes his head.

“Please.”

As you wait for him to find the coins, your brain tries to recall what you saw on the brochure, job postings.

“You looking for a new job?”

“Yeah, I got a pretty decent gig at the town’s funeral company,” he says, pressing on the option and getting another couple of coins ready. “But kinda want to try my hand at a bigger one and move out of this place.”

The bottle tumbles around inside the machine and lands into the exit.

“Oh, that’s great. Thanks,” you nod, taking the bottle of green tea from him. It’s warm, as expected. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” he grins. The next batch of coins drop in. “So what’re you doing back in town?”

He presses the next selection.

Coffee.

“Oh, uh.” Uncapping the bottle, you take a small sip. “A friend’s wedding photoshoot.”

“Ah, right.” With a small grunt, Matsukawa bends down to grab his can of black coffee from the trough.

You blink. “Huh?”

Matsukawa chuckles quietly as he pops the can open.

“You met Tsukishima Kei right? The blond with the attitude like stingrays in a can?” he grins when you nod hesitantly. “He used to play for Karasuno. I saw one of his stories or something, and Ai was there.”

He tips back the room temperature coffee. You mentally smack yourself for noticing how smoothly his throat expands and contracts with each small sip.

“Oh…yeah,” you swallow, quickly glancing away when he puts the can down, “he’s friends with the couple.”

“So, where’re you staying?”

“Oh, the sharehouse down the road. You know, the one I stayed at after…”

You want to put another dent into the vending machine, this time with your head.

The bottle of tea twists and turns in your hold. How would he even know? Ai had not once mentioned him asking about you, and you’re sure as hell that she wouldn’t offer up this kind of information for him.

But then he answers with a wry kind of smile. “Yeah, I know.”

“Huh?”

“I, uh, once walked by the house and saw Ai-chan coming out with a girl I didn’t know. They both glared at me,” he chuckles haltingly, offering you a shrug. “Guess I now know her as yours and Tsukki’s mutual friend and the bride-to-be.”

“Oh…haha.” You would bury yourself six-feet-under right at this moment, but that would mean having to engage in your ex’s services. So you power through. “Yeah, Nao-chan — the bride-to-be, her parents own the place, and they have a, uh, unoccupied room at the moment.”

“You staying long?”

“No, gotta go back tomorrow. Still have work on Monday.”

“Hmm, how’s work?” he muses, downing the rest of the coffee before putting it down daintily on his side of the bench. “Heard from Makki that you’re at that company you always talked about.”

This is bad. You can feel your stomach doing somersaults.

Do you tell your ex that everything is perfect and you’ve never been better? Or do you feel a sense of safety and trust even after all the heartbreaks and aches, and indulge in the warmth of him making conversation, remembering your preferences and dreams, and apparent maturity?

But even if you wanted to, you’re not there yet.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you settle for. “It’s, uh, okay.”

“Uh huh.” Matsukawa gives you a quick glance. “You sure?”

You tell him again. Lukewarm is always safe, right?, especially when you’re in murky waters.

“I’ll listen if you want.”

His boyish smile stares back at you, a little more serene, a little more storied.

And the cycle stops.

You set your green bottle in the middle of the bench. It’s not empty, but it’s no longer appealing. You take his empty coffee can and put it next to your bottle. Then, with a small smile, you invite him to sit.

“It’s not okay.”

His legs are so much longer. Hunched in that small spot, leaning as comfortably as he can against the yellowed white of the vending machine, Matsukawa looks silly as he even dwarfs the hunk of metal. But he’s focused, and listening.

“I’m really really grateful that I actually enjoy what I’m doing but the company?” you sigh. “It’s honestly so bad. My old manager never did shit but after his fifteen year mark, he got a promotion. And the manager spot? A client’s niece. If she isn’t off snorkelling in the Maldives, she’s at least skiing in Hokkaido.”

“Sounds toxic,” he frowns.

“Yeah,” you nod vehemently. “I’ve been working there for three goddamn years, and this girl’s a fresh grad. And I’m her assistant, like what the fuck? I do all her work for her.”

“Damn, that’s fucked up,” Matsukawa whistles, shaking his head as he puts down the brochure. “Why don’t you leave?”

You gape at him.

“Leave? Issei, this is my dream company! They’re one of the best in the field!”

“So?” His brow arches. “You haven’t been slacking off either. Experienced, diligent, smart, responsible, you do your manager’s work, and you enjoy it. They clearly don’t know how to treat their talents well.” Uncrossing his leg, he sits up a little straighter. “You’ll get tons of offers.”

You look at him sceptically. “But what if I don’t?”

“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t do yourself like this.” With a light chuckle, he gives you a nod and confident grin. “Leave when you don’t feel appreciated.”

The lamp swings.

Matsukawa’s eyes widen when he realizes what he just said, and he frantically tries to backpedal.

“Fuck, sorry, I–”

“You know, Issei,” you cut in gently, looking down at the tepid tea and empty coffee. “I would’ve given us a second chance if you fought a little.”

His gaze also drops, settling to the crown of your head where he had placed so much loving memories.

With a crooked smile, he settles back against the vending machine. “Yeah, I realized that a little too late, huh?”

“I looked at you back then, and it just felt like we were stuck in some kinda evil time loop.” Your voice is quiet now. Even beyond the laundromat’s doors, you can hear the water rushing and draining from the washing machine. “And you just left.”

“I know.”

“I was trying to get through college, get shit done, figure things out. And you were just…I dunno, just there,” you sigh. Slowly, you look back up, thinking of that first apartment you had wanted to call home, those Sunday’s in front of the washer, looking into the muddled waters as you saw yourself in the blurry glass. “And I’d look at you, and I wouldn’t be able to figure out what you wanted. Like, did you see a future with us in it? Or…was it just…I don’t even know. But you just left.”

His eyes meet yours, and Matsukawa thinks back to how young you both were when you signed your first apartment contract.

“I’m sorry.”

You break away, shifting to lean back against the wall with another sigh.

“Yeah, me too.” Looking up at the wooden rafts, you note the single light installed outside the laundromat. It’s more that a little dusty, and the fluorescence is weak and blinking. “These couple of years, I kept looking back at us, at that night in the kitchen, and at what I said, and I kept thinking that wow, I didn’t really try to get to know you.”

His breath catches. “No, but–”

“Issei,” you interrupt, eyes falling as you huddle a little into yourself. “That night, I said so many things I shouldn’t have said.”

His face falls. “Did you really think I cheated on you?”

“Of course not!” You turn to him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, oh my god. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I lost your trust. There were a million things I could’ve done that night, and I chose the worst.”

“Yeah, me too. I guess we really weren’t adults yet,” you chuckle wryly, eyes closing briefly. The lamp swings; you want to make it stop. “Hey, Issei, can I–?”

A banshee’s shriek comes from the laundromat. The whites are done.

“Oh.” With a shock of realization, you pull out your phone. It’s already eight. You still have to pick up your luggage and head to Nao’s place. “You should probably pop those in the dryer and start the next batch.”

“Yeah, I should.”

He stills, making no indication to retrieve his clothes and start the next load.

“I also have to go.”

“To the sharehouse?” Matsukawa perks up. “I’ll walk you.”

“Yeah,” you blink in surprise. “And then to Nao’s place? I’m staying over tonight.”

“It’s okay,” he nods. “I’ll walk you to the sharehouse and back here.”

“Oh.” Turning to him, you tilt your head with a frown. “But your laundry…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grins proudly. “I’ll pop the whites in the dryer and start the next batch. I’ve got it all timed.”

You bite your lip, blinking as you suddenly look at the dawn of the night. Beyond the nighttime streets, you can barely make out the darkened signage of the stationery store.

The sandalwood comes a little closer.

“Sweetheart?” His voice like cream in coffee, the window of the washing machine looks back clearer now. “Can I?”

He had asked you the same thing the first time the two of you had a proper conversation. Him with his plastic bucket of clothes, and you ended up offering your help when you saw him stand there, looking at the machine with no little confusion.

He ended up paying for your tea and walking you back to the dorms that day.

Issei stayed the same, the same boyish grin and the same warm voice. Only now, he’s a little taller, a little broader, and the smile that he gives you is a little more grown up.

You suppose that you too have learned a little more from those college couple days.

“Yeah,” you smile, turning to him with a confident answer. “I’d like that.”

So far, the fan is only blowing warm air around, so Kageyama leaves it to do its work while he takes out a trash bag full of chunky milk and black-spotted cuts of meat. He doesn’t mind, really, since he’s too tired to really attempt cooking and had just planned to microwave something. Now, though, his microwave clock is blank and black; he supposes he’ll have to fight his way through crowds of similarly powerless people to get meat buns at the supermarket.

While he’s on his way back up the complex’s stairs, he pauses to watch an open can roll down one step at a time. When it reaches him, he stops it with his toe, twisting his head to the side to read it.

Pickled peas, the can reads, with a little green graphic of the vegetable. He looks up to see you, two steps above him, focused not on the stray can but on his face.

“Sorry,” he says, “is this yours?” He picks up the can and holds it out to you, but thinks better of the gesture after you unsuccessfully try to maneuver the trash bag you’re carrying so that you’ll have a free hand to take it. Instead, he retracts his hand, still holding your pickled peas can.

“Sorry,” you blink and shake your head. “Sorry, my bag is, uh, overfull. I’m surprised more people aren’t out here, but I guess they’re all probably shopping and stuff for the free air-con.”

Your bag looks like the one he just tossed, and on the verge of bursting as well. Kageyama thinks about how gross it would be if it exploded all over the stairwell and shudders inwardly. Outwardly, his face remains the same as always, if a bit scrunched up in disapproval of— well, he doesn’t know what. Too many things.

“Uh, I can carry that for you,” he says. “If you want.”

“Oh, are you sure? I can,” you start, but he’s already hefting it up, tossing in the pea can, and twisting the top of the bag around, corded muscle bunching up beneath his sweat-soaked t-shirt. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The two of you walk down the stairs in silence, and he breathes a sigh of relief when the lid shuts over the bag. You introduce yourself and thank him again, and he reciprocates when he accepts, trying to subtly stretch out his right arm.

“What level are you on?” You ask. “I moved here a couple weeks ago; I haven’t really met any of my neighbors yet.”

“Five,” he says, and wonders if he should warn you that he’s not really the best person to be friends with unless you’re a volleyball enthusiast.

“Oh, so am I!” you say, and he’s not sure why the small smile you wear when you look up at him makes his head feel cloudier than it did the time Hoshiumi tried to explain taxes to him. This isn’t the irritated, dark shadow that had passed over him then, though. He blinks profusely and wonders how it can be heating up, how he can feel so blinded when he’s not staring at the sun.

“This is mine,” you say, and he realizes that he’s been so distracted by the sway of your hair and the glow of your skin (there’s a lot of skin, it’s hot, it’s so hot in this powerless building, even in near darkness) that you’ve made it up all the stairs and down the halls, three doors past his own.

“Okay,” he says, and doesn’t move. You don’t, either, taking out your keys but not putting them in the lock.

“I don’t know what I’ll do for dinner,” your warm voice takes on a nervous tinge. “I just threw out most of my food, and I ate most of the stuff that wasn’t bad for lunch.”

He can’t tell if that’s an invitation or real distress. After all, you just moved in. Maybe you don’t know many places to eat yet.

“There’s a supermarket just a block away,” he says. “They have meat buns and other ready-to-eat meals.”

“I’ll look up the address,” you look truly grateful. Not an invitation, then, so he’s not sure why the next words spill out of his mouth.

“Do you want me to show you there?”

He stutters and stumbles over his next words, trying to pry open a way for you out of the outing should you want to walk out. You watch the red slowly rising on his face, admire the way his speech trips from a slow stroll to the speed of a sprinter in the last meters of a race. Finally, he slams on the brakes, an electric calm settling over him when he takes a deep breath and says:

“I’m sorry for all that. You can say no, if you want, but I’d like to get to know you better if you feel the same.”

The calm is splintered all too soon. You can see the panic clawing up his throat, making veins in his neck stand out and the whites of his eyes show as he mutters something about being a stupid idiot under his breath, and so instead of letting him run on his last legs right into the ground, you place your hand (gently, like you’re trying not to scare off a wild animal) on his forearm and pull him right back to earth.

“I’m just as interested as you are,” you say, and let him wonder whether you’re more interested in the market or in him.

In the still summer heat, something is blooming. Little green shoots, poking through soil with the awe of newborns after a lifetime spent buried. Kageyama, although he can’t name the psychical flora, can sense a presence where the fields have been barren for many years, too young yet to require a welcome and watering or even an upheaval.

And he thinks he can see the same feeling rising in you.

He walks you to the grocery, sticking to the shaded side of the street and putting on his most threatening aura to part the cloying crowds of people also trying to find sustenance that won’t turn in the heat.

The heat, the heat, the heat seems to be the most anyone can think about, fanning themselves and commenting on the lateness of sunset and pouring bottles of water on their heads. You don’t seem to wilt beneath the weight of the sun’s wrath, though, keeping up a steady flow of conversation punctuated with enough comfortable silence that Kageyama feels neither awkward nor exhausted. When you nudge him and comment on something you’ve seen, or when you hum in agreement, or when you ask him questions, it doesn’t make him want to respond tersely the way strangers usually do at first. When he snaps at you accidentally or says something that should shut down the conversation, you just laugh lightly and let your tongue rest before he says something— hesitant, perhaps dry, but still something to let you know that he’s here because he wants to be, and he’s here because he’s growing to like you.

When the both of you get back, holding little packages of food, not enough to worry about leftovers going bad, you take the elevator. The walk back was more tiring than the walk there; it’s barely getting cooler.

Kageyama takes your meal into his hands, glad his skin is thick enough that the heat from the bottom of it isn’t so bad. He doesn’t have to balance the package on his fingertips like you did. You glance at him curiously, but say nothing.

When the elevator doors slide open, he steps out first, walks straight to his door and goes inside. Just inside the doorway, he turns to look at you over his shoulder, blue pools stirring with hope in their deepest depths.

You pick up your pace and follow him through.

Kageyama’s apartment is spare, but comfortable. His couch is navy blue and threadbare, his TV admirably old. There’s a table covered in papers— before you can look too closely at what appears to be a magazine with his face on the cover, he’s sweeping them away and dumping them unceremoniously in a pile on the TV stand. The curtains are pulled shut to keep out the sun’s rays and the fan seems to have pulled the temperature down to bearable.

“Here,” he says, pulling out a chair. You take it, letting yourself smile a little wider, knee bouncing beneath the table as he turns to pull out two plates and sets of utensils. “I figure we won’t need to use the microwave.”

“Would it work, anyway?” You return, and he blinks and turns to look at the appliance, which remains lifeless.

“Oh. Yeah,” he seems unfazed by the blunder. “Let’s eat.” So far, he’s seemed supremely nonchalant— except for the blip when he’d asked you to stay by his side.

Well, that was dramatic. It was just groceries and dinner, even if it felt like breaking dawn.

Conversation starts slow, because Kageyama seems so insistent on shoving all his food down before it runs away from him, in addition to some kind of health drink that looks like it tastes worse warm. While the warmth tends to curb your appetite, the walk helped, so you waste no time in chowing down yourself.

Once he’s slowed down, Kageyama speaks. You trade stories of your youth— the first time you rode a bike, the first time he set a ball— of your relatives— he speaks of his grandfather with a reverence you’ve found is increasingly rare, and with a love that you know can’t be pulled from a child with any kind of negligence— of your job and his. You ask if there’s a channel on which you can watch his games, and he offers you free tickets. You’re strangers, but the way you communicate makes you feel like you can see each step to take from here. The path you’re following is one not taken alone.

“It’s dark,” Kageyama notes, when the sun is no longer burning through the curtains. “Should you—”

“Do you have candles?” You say at the same time, then wince. “Sorry, what did you say?” He swallows, then crosses his arms and rests them on the table.

“Never mind,” he shakes his head. “I think so.”

He stands to search one of the rooms down the hall, and returns with a thick handful of taper candles, his other hand holding a bag that he dumps out on the table to reveal a number of candle holders. He winces when they clang against the table, but you’re already putting the two together, needing something to do with your hands.

“Wait,” you look at him, pupils dilated. “Do you have anything to light them with?”

He responds by grinning widely and producing a lighter, and the training of his fine motor skills is apparent as he dexterously lights each taper.

Hinata insists that his smile remains a terrifying freak occurrence when he remembers to; Kageyama’s publicist, who keeps trying to wrangle him into advertising campaigns, vehemently disagrees. His smile remains without his knowledge once every light is successfully lit, and unbeknownst to you, your opinion couldn’t be more different from his orange-haired friend’s.

In the candlelight, he’s more handsome than before, a thought you allow yourself only grudgingly. He invited you to dinner, and Kageyama doesn’t seem like the kind of person to do anything unless he really wants to.

In the candlelight, your face is lit up brilliantly, your features softened and eyes hooded in shadow. Kageyama is often oblivious to the outside world, too focused on his game and his goals to stop and smell the roses, but now he couldn’t break the moment if he tried. He drinks you in, liquid fire rippling over the both of you in slow waves.

“I should probably go,” you say, your tone quiet to match the night, eventually, once the moon is high overhead. “Thank you for being so neighborly. I’m sorry if I overstayed my welcome.”

He laughs a little at that. There’s a fondness in the sound that scratches at his throat and threatens to poke up and out of the cavity, but when you share his mirth, however light, he can’t bring himself to choke it back down.

“You didn’t,” he assures you. “You should come back sometime.”

“Yeah?” You regard him in the doorway with an amused grin.

“Yeah.”

You find yourself dropping Kageyama a line whenever you’re running short on food or company, which quickly transitions into an easy friendship bordering on something more. He tries to drag you out on morning runs, and you convince him to start using skincare products beyond a splash of water at the beginning and end of every day. He complains affectionately about his teammates and listens like you’re the Prime Minister as you rant about your worst work days. With time and care, the wasteland becomes an oasis, lush greenery thriving with every demure smile and brush of skin against skin and shared, sarcastic glance.

It’s on another warm night that Kageyama (Tobio, he reminds you to call him) invites you over, citing the fact that he’s run out of matches to rewatch (a lie) and that his friends are mostly out of town (true). You’re there all too quickly; when he teases you about it, you roll your eyes and tell him that the commute isn’t long.

You’re just finishing your meal, although Tobio’s been done for minutes yet, when the lights flicker out. There’s barely a beat before the two of you pull out your phones in sync, searching for the power map before making twin noises of understanding.

“Power outage,” he speaks first, and you nod.

“Candles?”

There’s a strange sense of remembrance hanging in the air as you walk ahead of him to find the candles; you’ve seen them before on previous expeditions to his home. Strange, the passage of time.

You gather them together, hip-bumping him before you walk out of the room. He lights them, just as he did the first night, and you watch as the sparks flare to life, growing into full flames.

There’s something new in the air this time, though. A breeze brushes over your skin, every hair on your body standing up straight at the touch of the air current. You’ve graduated from sitting across from Tobio to the seat next to him, and you can feel the warm press of his leg against yours. You kick lightly at his ankle, your intent playful, but it does nothing to dissuade the turning tide.

Like the last time, Tobio is captivated. Your eyes shine too brightly in the quickly dimming room, and he feels too relaxed, too ready to do something he hasn’t yet had the chance to think through. There’s something new in the air, but nothing unexpected; nothing that hasn’t been building gradually since he looked up at you in that stairwell and saw all too much more than there was. He was the stranger under the filtered sunshine, the dinner buddy behind the candlelight. But since the first morning, he's wanted to be your lover of tomorrow's tender dawn.

You’re not sure who leans in first.

The first press of lips is electric. You shiver, a full-body shock sweeping over you that prompts you to move quickly where you might have taken things slow, to act when you wanted to learn him first. Your hands push into his hair and cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer or pushing yourself in; you’re not sure. He doesn’t seem to mind the change of pace, just keeps kissing you. Inevitable, is what you think he is, a force of nature washing over you with a steadiness and skill you’ve never experienced.

He doesn’t break away, only lets you pull back and rest your forehead against his when you need to. You can see his blue eyes blinking at you, asking silently why you’d pulled away. You take a deep breath in response, and exhale with an oh as big hands pull you into his lap so he can nose at your neck, up your jaw, along your cheek.

“Tobio,” you whisper his name, and he hums in response, opens one of your hands and places his own in it to hold. “Shit, the lights— the lights are back on.”

They are, throwing the picture in his kitchen into sharp relief. You’re in Kageyama Tobio’s lap, kissing him like you’re promising him forever and more, letting him reciprocate with all the vibrant energy he carries in his soul.

“Everything okay?” He asks, letting go of you just enough that his hands hover over your skin instead of gluing themselves to it.

wrapping your arms around yourself as you lip quivering, your feet were moving you on their own, as if you were floating over the ground and letting the wind whisk you away. because truth be told, you always found yourself going back to him.

it was as if some magnetic force kept the two of you together. opposites attract, they say, and you wondered if you and iwaizumi were more then temporary.

ringing his doorbell, he answered quickly, white tank top sticking against his muscles, while he wore a pair of loose athletic shorts, his face contorting into surprise once his eyes landed on yours.

"hi," you said, voice cracking, praying to any love god willing to listen that he'd let you in.

"hey." cautiously, he stepped to the side, "it's late, what were you doing walking alone?"

"i wanted to see you." to which he frowned softly, about to interject until you changed your phrasing, "i needed to see you."

"y/n..." there was a heavy silence that followed, and you could feel the tension that lingered in the air. standing closer to him, you eased your hands on his chest, feeling your eye lids getting droopy.

without thinking it through, you kissed him. his lips dry, slightly cracked though he pushed back against you gently but sill full of hunger. his hands smoothed over the exposed skin on your neck, filling your stomach with butterflies.

"hajime," you whispered against his lips, eyes still closed. this was something you figured was too good to let go, wanting nothing more but to hold onto it forever.

he didn't say anything, he didn't have to, grabbing your hips, pulling you towards the only dimly lit room on the first floor. bringing you onto his lap as he sat against the couch, continuing to press his kisses against you.

"i need you," you repeated, "so badly, hajime, please?" his eyes told you a lot of things, like how he knew he should've said no, maybe brought you something to eat and let you sleep over instead of going through with him, after all, you were supposed to drift apart now that the summer was over. but the beating of his heart seemed to silence the voice in his head.

"of course," his hands began their journey over your body, finding every curve and digging underneath your clothing, slowly starting to peel it off of you.

he stopped for a minute, when you were in nothing but your bra and panties, taking in everything about you. the one window in the room let the moonlight hit against your skin, giving you a celestial glow, his mouth slightly parted, he couldn't find the words to tell you how he felt. was this really something he wanted to give up?

iwaizumi lifted you off him, guiding your back down against the cushions, lifting your legs up and bringing your plush thighs around his head.

he left a slow, savory kiss against your clothed pussy, letting his fingers feel against the frilly lace while closing his eyes and groaning. his tongue just couldn't stop though, already drunk on your taste, kitten licking against your panties, circling your clit.

yet, with every sound left your slightly parted lips, he only grew needier, to actually dive in and indulge on your cunt. tugging the under garment to the side. iwaizumi thought he was in heaven, staring at your glistening entrance, so perfect, so wet and all for him.

the first stroke of his tongue was divine, making you twitch at first contact. he found your clit soon after that, being able to read your body like a map of a city be'd been a thousand times.

your groans were all the encouragement he needed; fingers dancing around your pussy, teasing both your cunt and your asshole.

the warmth iwaizumi felt with both your heated slit and your inner thighs around his head nearly made him light headed. still, he held onto you until he felt you coming undone all over his mouth.

he smirked against your sex, proud that he could make you cum so quickly.

iwaizumi lifted his head up, pushing against you and your lips, holding your jaw in place as he continued to praise you, "god you look so fucking hot when i make you cum, y'know that doll?"

you couldn't say anything, too embarrassed by his words and besides, there were bigger things to worry about: hajime's hard on.

the man brought his fingers against you, holding onto you as your body jerked at just the slightest touches, iwaizumi always did gush at how sensitive you were.

he didn't need to prep you anymore, pulling his hand away rubbing the slick between his digits.

you squirmed, trying to get even closer to him, watching as he pushed down his athletic shorts and boxer just low enough that both his pulsing cock and heavy balls out slide out.

iwaizumi stayed frozen for a second, staring down at the section where the two of you were to connect, blanking. you quirked your eyebrow up, about to ask him what was wrong until he answered your thoughts.

"i don't have a condom." his eyebrows frowned together, his muscles flexing as he held himself over you. you only placed your fingers on his chin, gently lifting his face.

"i don't care," you gulped, growing more and more needy, "i just need you inside of me—all of you."

just like that, he felt as if he was on cloud nine, parting your pussy lips open with the fat tip of his dick, chuckling while yo whined, taking all his inches with one quick and steady thrust.

every moment he took felt like it was in slow motion, your nails drawing scratch marks against his strong back, hiding your face in his neck. you wanted to anchor yourself to him, desperate to hold onto what was left of that summer.

"i love you," you said in his ear, loud enough for him to hear it.

"fuck." he twitched inside of you, "fuck, i love you too."

he felt how you clenched around him, the wet sounds only amplifying. iwaizumi knew he was close to cumming, too, and held onto you tighter.

“please haji,” you hiccuped as iwaizumi felt his heart swell, your voice filled with tenderness. he could only watch as you tear stained faces stared back at him.

moving his hand to run against your cheekbone, swiping away your tears, iwaizumi nodded. he kept his face straight for as long as he could. until finally, his head threw back, his eyes shut. his hot cum filled you up, the warmth heating you up, making you flush with a lustful fever.

iwaizumi stayed like that for a minute, hearing the sound of your heavy breaths joining together and forming the same rhythm.

carefully, he removed himself off you, somewhat unable to look into your eyes. with you fully nude and him in nothing but his shorts, there was another dreadful quiet.

you were never uncomfortable with nudity, especially with iwaizumi. in most situations, you'd shy away from one of the many men that kept you company that night, embarrassed, but you felt fine in your own skin. which, undoubtedly, was a comforting feeling. creeping towards him as he sat back on the couch. slowly enough for you not to startle him as you laid your head against his chest.

there was so much to talk about, you figured, but you didn't want to spoil this last night on earth (or at least that's what it felt like).

"hajime," you sighed, and with the sound of your voice the man was brought back into reality, bringing you into his arms and closer to his chest.

iwaizumi hummed.

"i wanna say something, it might be cheesy." his dry and soft laugh rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your ear. that was his invitation to keep going.

"i think we're meant to be." he felt your smile on his skin, "the stars even told me so."

"well, the stars don't talk." he played along, the quick and playful banter was another reason you reckoned that you loved him.

"maybe you're just not listening well enough." with that, you sat up right, locking eyes with your lover.

his hands were still firmly resting on your waist, each of you waiting for the other to break the silence. you felt yourself chewing on the inside of your mouth, watching the familiar features of his face and you knew he was thinking deeply.

"i don't think we're supposed to end things here," he said, reassuring you greatly. leaning forward, you gave him a peck on the cheek.

"i don't want to end things here."

iwaizumi steadily took your face in his hands, cautiously making you look down giving him the window to press a kiss against your forehead, following with shower of kissing along your eyelids, your nose and finally your lips against.

"good," he grunted, content.