And stories shall become legends.

He’s losing himself. Hajime sees it immediately. Knows him inside where it gets dark and ugly, has memorized the mile-high walls that crown his king. 

He stands by Tooru’s side, a bit behind him. Is silent for a bit. Watches the game, too, but mostly he looks at the boy who cried salty frustration into his shoulder and his bed last night.

Tooru has his knees by his chest. His eyes, never soft when they’re away from togetherness, glint behind the new glasses. Hajime remembers buying them, searching the perfect frame, setting them on Tooru’s nose over parted, still red-shining-from-kisses lips. How do you know, Tooru had said without a smile, Hajime how do you know my lenses, that’s insane.

Loving him is insane, Hajime thinks back at the memory. Down below, the game heats up. Pure, horrible insanity.

He jumps over the seats. They banter, insult a bit, Tooru puts his legs down. Hajime keeps a seat between them and this time really tries to watch the game. 

“You don’t have to wear them,” he says after two more points fall.

Tooru turns to him. “What?”

“The glasses. You, I mean. You don’t have to wear them if you - they’re too aristocratic anyways. But you like that kind of stupid shit, so I thought...”

“Oh. No, it’s okay.”

Hajime exhales, slow. “You sure?”

He had asked the same thing last night. Funny how life goes. He drops his head back, eyes going shut, touches his mouth once more. The kiss he’d given Tooru (not stolen, nobody robs Tooru of anything, it’s all granted or gifted) burns there like a secret little fire. You sure, he’d whispered when his nose nuzzled against the one he’d first touched when he’d been three days old. About this? About me and the future and what we could be?

“Hajime, honestly,” Tooru laughs and reaches, ruffles his hair with fingers that are rough and cracked and just a bit soft where they become his wrist. “I’m always sure about the stuff you do.”

"I can't do this." Kageyama digs his nails into the palms of his hands until the skin goes pale. Hajime has to pry his grip apart before he really hurts himself. It's been years, but he can't stop feeling responsible. And proud, too, always that. "Look." Hajime puts both of Kageyama's hands into one of his, runs a hand through his hair, patient until Kageyama manages to glance at him. Right, Hajime thinks when he has to tilt his chin up, taller than me. "You'll do fine," he says out loud. "Don't be afraid. He won't reject you." "But what if he does? What if he doesn't like me after all this time?" Hajime sighs and wonders why he can feel a familiar hint of fondness in his chest. "If an ordinary guy like me can confess to a brilliant madman and stay his boyfriend for five years and counting, then a genius like you can ask Hinata out already." Kageyama swallows hard. He nods. A week later, a text arrives on Hajime’s phone. It says: One day and counting.

"Iwaizumi! ...it's been a long time. Didn't think you'd come." "Hello. I'm here, aren't I? Gonna send me away?" "No. I'd never - look. We've both lost him." "You've lost your best friend. I didn't." "Yes, you did. Oikawa belonged with you, he always said that. Even when he - in his last moments, he joked how you two had always been..." "Before I left, you mean." "...yes. Years ago. I think he missed you all this time. Why are you only here now? Why'd you abandon him?" "Matsukawa. Don't." "I want to understand! Why did you leave? He loved you like a brother, he loved you more than anything - " "Not as much as he loved her." "She was his wife. That's different." "Oh, it is. It was. You don't know anything. You were the friend he needed and I was the one who felt too much." "Of course he loved her more - were you afraid he wouldn't be your friend anymore, so you left completely? Have you never been in love?" "I have." "Then - " "For fifty years." "...what?" "I've loved enough for two lifetimes, and one of those is over now." "I didn’t - I had no idea - " "And neither did he. Which is how I made him happy. Goodbye, Matsukawa."

All of Hajime's firsts have been taken by Tooru, and it's annoying. Whenever something new sprouts in Hajime’s surroundings, fresh hesitation on its leaves, Tooru picks it up and plants it in a pot. He does always end up giving it to Hajime, fine, but it's really about the principle of the issue. (All pots are on his mental windowsill, blooming. Colourful.) So after their first kiss, when Hajime’s seventeen and never Tooru's first at anything, he can't help but say something. "That was," Hajime stutters. Tooru still has a hand in his hair, halfway leaning over his lap, Hajime on his bed and backed against the wall. (Because he surely would have fallen if Tooru had kissed him standing. His mouth tingles. He loves, loves, loves.) "Yes?" Tooru wants to know. His lips shouldn't still be pale. Should be spelling Hajime’s name in red. He clears his throat, shrugs, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Just don't think that it'll get better than this. You probably know a way though, you always do. And I suppose you've done it all as well." Tooru stays silent for a stunning moment. "Right," Hajime says. "Forget it. Wanna kiss again?" "There is a way." A warm hand slides around Hajime’s neck, and Tooru climbs his lap, bony knees by Hajime’s ribs, jittery adventure alight in his smile. "Never did it, though. It's all new for both of us after this." Hajime wants to reply. He doesn't get to, which is - which is, oh, it's okay. Oh, his heartbeat thunders at the press of Tooru's mouth. I want, his breath hitches when a shy tongue slides against his own, melts Tooru's taste into the heat of his mouth and pushes inside. "Again," he growls when Tooru gasps for air, and then swallows the muffled laugh of his (boyfriend? forever? everything) between slowly blushing lips and newborn licks that sends shudders down their spines.

Tooru has no chance. He closes the door behind himself and is one second into the flat, kicking off his shoes with the feeble hope of somehow making it upstairs. Should've known better. As soon as he bends down to tear his sneaker off, laces still tied because hurry, hurry, someone comes out of the kitchen. "Sweetheart," his mother says. She smiles. There's an apron around her hips, the house phone peeking out of a pocket. "Hey," Tooru says, stretching the y-sound like a rubber band. "I'm home. Really tired, coach extended the spiking practice again - " "We're having dinner," his father calls from inside the kitchen. Tooru risks a look inside. The table is all set up with the best cutlery that his mother usually uses when grandma is coming over and has to be impressed with an immaculate house and manners so precise that Tooru feels like royalty for days after. The only other time that his mother makes that kind of effort is when there'll be a family talk. Tooru considers panicking, but then decides against it. He's already in this situation and if this is about what he thinks it's about, then he can't escape anyways and getting it over with could make a lot of things easier. He drops his sports bag and obediently walks into the kitchen. The smile on his mother's lips turns into a grin. "Fantastic." Oh god. Tooru swallows. He sits down next to his father, hands in his lap, and then his glance catches on the big pot in the middle of the table. His favourite stew is simmering lazily, and next to it sits a bowl with milk bread for dessert. "Mom, am I adopted?" His father snorts. "You definitely didn't inherit our sharp perception. You did get your mother's obsession over your hair though." "Very funny. You're my son through and through, we've been over this. Our son, I mean. You've got your father's calves. Careful." His mother fills their bowls with stew and hands the rice to his father, and everything is quiet and peaceful with the clatter of spoons and forks full of rice. Tooru bears with it for exactly four minutes. Then he can't take it anymore. "Training wasn't extended. I was at Hajime's place - " His mother puts her spoon down. "You know that we love you, honey. We really do. So it's important to us that Hajime and you are using condoms when you're together." Tooru doesn't put his spoon down. He drops it into his stew instead, splashing pieces of carrot and leek everywhere. His father sighs. "Watch it, will you. Your mother tried very hard with the stew and I made you a double batch of milk bread. The least you could do is promise us - " "Oh my god." " - that you two are going to be safe - " "I can't believe you're doing this to me." "We're worried about you, sweetheart. We want you to have fun and get as intimate with dear Hajime as you'd like - " " - when the big first is going to happen and all the times after as well, of course, and if you have any kind of question... well, I'm not an expert on the whole male on male thing, but from father to son, I could - " "I'm a good person," Tooru desperately whispers. "I did my homework all school year. I tutored Kindaichi for his math test. I made Hajime soup when he was sick." " - and as long as our dear Hajime is always wearing a - well, not that I'm assuming that he'll be the one to, you know, that's not our business," his mother contemplates and pushes another bite of stew between her lips. "None of this is your business!" Tooru raises his hands and voice, throwing both into his parents' faces. "How did you even know? I've been going to his place for years, and we've only been together for - I mean. We're not..." His father stops chewing. His brows sink low, forming a dark line over bright eyes. "Is he not serious about your relationship?" He looks at Tooru's mother. "That's not what Miko told you." Tooru can't believe this. "You called his mother?" He puts his face into his hands. "This isn't supposed to happen. I was going to come out at some point, introduce him - " "Nonsense." His mother's hand touches Tooru's shoulder, squeezes it gently. "We knew about your feelings, sweetheart, you're not that good at hiding things from us. From him, maybe, but not when you're in your room and swooning your soul out after a phone call from him. Miko and your father and I knew it was bound to happen. I hope she's making sure that Hajime knows about protection as well." She giggles and softly tugs at Tooru's ear. "And if you two ever need the house for yourselves over a weekend, when you're both ready, just ask." Tooru's entire face is burning. He opens his mouth to say something. His brain is short-circuiting pretty impressively though, and nothing makes its way out. His parents seem to understand and damn it, why do they have to be like this, of course he knows how to do all of this. (They're annoying and embarrassing and any other reaction would have terrified him to the bone. He loves them, he loves them.) "Uh. Thanks then. Can we never talk about sex again from now on?" "Sure, sweetheart. Do you want some more stew?" He does. He also calls Hajime after dinner. It turns out that Hajime's had a similar conversation with his mother and sister and his voice hitches a little bit around the word condom when he confesses that his mother had bought him some. Tooru buries his face in the pillow, smiling from ear to ear. "They're so embarrassing," he says. "Totally," Hajime says, and then whispers: "We have time though. Right?" "Yeah." Tooru closes his eyes, touches his mouth where Hajime had kissed him goodbye earlier. "We do."

The ring is silver. It sits on a bed of velvet, its counterpart plain and simple where the first wears a small bright diamond. It must have taken hours to choose. Hajime cradles the box in his fingers. He's trembling a little bit, has ran his hand through his hair so much that it sticks in all directions, fluffed excitement. "Do you like it?" Tooru blinks. The tears don't come. He has none left. "Yes. Of course I do. It's perfect." Hajime's smile is radiant. "Good. God, that's - thank you. I needed this." He nods, fakes the grin on his lips with ease. Has practiced it for this moment. "Everything will be fine. You'll be okay." Before he leaves, Hajime hugs Tooru so tight that all air hisses out of Tooru’s lungs. He lets it be. "Are you happy?" The only question that matters. Hajime pulls back and beams. "I will be when she says yes."

The realisation comes crashing down on Hajime just as he’s one step into his apartment. There’s no time to think though, because Tooru slams the door shut and Hajime against the wall and their lips together in one fluid, flawless motion.

God, Hajime says inside his own head, we won, we’re going to the Olympics, we - his mind attempts to go on, but Tooru’s mouth breathes heat against his lips and Hajime’s too busy melting away, gone, game and set and he’s no match for him.

“The way you looked,” Tooru says, teeth scraping roughly along Hajime’s mouth, leaving a trail of pressure that’ll be soft red-purple tomorrow, and everyone will think it a bruise from the game. Hajime lets them believe. Volleyball leaves traces on him, marks Tooru up as well but nothing is better at painting their bodies in choked breaths and bruises than each other’s bites.

“What - fuck, what about it?” His knees feel like he’s going to collapse. They’re still in their uniforms, hell, Tooru’s cheek is wet when he slides it against Hajime’s neck, desperately clutching at Hajime’s shorts. His nails are blunt, tiny half-moons of ache dragging over his skin. “I need to,” Tooru presses out. He looks up at Hajime again, eyes drinking in his body like he’s hungry, like Hajime is laid out for him to have. And he is. He’s not easy by far, has never been, but Tooru’s always had him inside and out and now Hajime is burning up, salt on his lips and the game’s adrenalin pumping through his veins.

Tooru slides his hand deeper. “Let me,” he whispers, gives a soft lick to Hajime’s mouth, groans like a man starved when Hajime surges to press their tongues into slick-hot touch. “Hajime. I need to, god, thought about you on the court, knew we’d win. I have to, please, let me make you feel good.” 

His throat works heavily when he swallows. “Yeah,” Hajime finally says. He brings his fingers into Tooru’s hair, suddenly tight and I have you, I know you need me to lead, “you can, you can, don’t have to ask me.”

Tooru grins at him. He’s not trembling anymore, hands gone calm where they’d fumbled impatiently at Hajime’s waistband moments ago. “You know I always do. ‘s not like you don’t do the same.” And that’s true, Hajime thinks, he can’t imagine to not at least brush his fingers through Tooru’s hair, to search his glance for a yes. He wants to snarl something back, doesn’t get to do it.

The sight of Tooru sinking to his knees never fails to crush the air in his lungs. How Tooru looks graceful with his nose brushing softly along the dark hair above his shorts, how he’s able to love Hajime in his mouth so much that he swallows him down as soon as the fabric’s out of the way, Hajime can’t understand. He closes his eyes, lets go. Tooru smiles around him, lets a dark moan hum through Hajime’s lower body that sets him ablaze, and he needs this so badly that he could cry.

Tooru, as always, breathes carefully and gives.

He lets Hajime jolt his hips forward, nuzzles into the hard grasp that Hajime has on his hair. He licks the sweat away that’s musk and salt and the burn of Hajime’s skin. The corridor’s quiet until Hajime drops his head back and whimpers, lets out that terribly vulnerable noise from the back of his throat, his knees giving in beneath him. Then Tooru’s hands snap to his hips, his mouth twists in a wicked, sweetly dangerous way, Hajime slides into searing heat and deeper and Tooru holds him up the wall as he comes.

He stays boneless for minutes after. Tooru doesn’t seem to mind. He’s licking his lips with tiny noises as he settles in Hajime’s lap, sweat-dripping forehead making a mess by Hajime’s shoulder. “Not enough,” Tooru decides after a bit of silence. “I still can’t believe we won. I wonder when it’ll kick in.”

Hajime doesn’t let him ponder over it. He gently shoves Tooru off, cutting his attempt at a wail short by lifting him with both arms. “Stop thinking,” Hajime tells him quietly. Tooru looks up at him, then, and lets his head fall against Hajime’s chest. His smile is a tiny, hidden thing. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll believe it tomorrow.” For now, I’ll catch you, Hajime thinks and gets both of them to the bedroom.

“So if you’re bisexual, why aren’t you with a girl?”

And it had been going so well. A cascade of ink splotches all over Hajime’s notes when he clenches his fist, snapping his pen clean in half. The other members of his group project are staring, but not at him, their eyes are at the guy who’d asked without any shame and loud enough for the rest of the tiny study room inside the library to hear.

Hajime knows that the question is directed at him. He could just sock the guy in the jaw, never liked him anyways, he’s the kind of person who leeches onto a group for the assignment and all he contributes is his name on the final presentation they’re handing in. The room is silent. Nobody says a word.

The guy snorts and leans closer. “C’mon. You got the choice, after all. Aren’t you making it harder for yourself? Nothing against gays, they’re great and all, but you don’t have to go the hard way. And isn’t your boyfriend gay anyways - “

“It’s not a choice.”

“What?”

They all watch him when Hajime rises out of his chair. Midnight-blue ink falls from his hands and smears on the floor when he takes a step, another, slowly rounding the table past his group members until he’s in front of the guy. 

On the other side of the study room, sitting with some psychology post-grads even though he’s only in his bachelor yet, Tooru looks at him with soft eyes of amber and fire.

“I said,” Hajime looks down at the guy, and speaks, “that this isn’t a choice. You should know better than to say that attraction and love are something we have control over. But if you really want to be that asshole, I’ll tell you. And then you’re going to get your stuff and leave, because the only thing that annoys me more than your disgusting attitude is your inability to remember a single law that we’ve discussed in the sixteen hours we’ve been working on this project and you’ve been sitting there like moss on a rock.”

Someone whistles behind Hajime’s back, sharp and impressed. He ignores it, but a grin slips over his mouth when a group member mumbles “Thank fuck, someone said it, the bloodsucker’s getting wrecked.”

Hajime clears his throat, and fuck it, he allows himself to grin in a way that Tooru likes to tease him about because he looks like something with fangs and claws that hasn’t hunted down a decent prey in a long, long time.

“You could give me the world and everything on it to choose from and I’d still only want him.”

The silence breaks with a shout across the room. “I love you too, but it’s still your turn to cook tonight!”

Tooru is wrist-deep in cabbage and contemplating the concept of thirst when someone starts yelling. 

His first reaction is, well, nothing. The neighbourhood that his grandmother lives in isn’t exactly juvenile; yelling is something that occurs regularly when Margret calls for her husband Hans to come to dinner already, and invite that nice boy who’s watering old Miko’s plants while she’s in the hospital, will you? (Her chocolate cake is really good though. Tooru has been over at M and H’s place every day for the past week after taking care of his grandmother’s beloved plants, e.g. tugging weed out of the ground and watering, so much watering, because summer is hell in this corner of the country.)

So when someone (male, judging by the low rhythm to the voice) shouts into grandma Miko’s garden, Tooru ignores the rude interruption at first.

Seconds later, someone steals the straw hat off his hair.

“Hey!” And now Tooru is up on his feet, dirt streaking his face when he wipes off too much sweatiness, and he’s so ready to give someone the scolding of their life about disturbance of Sunday peace and annoyance of innocent grandkids when - oh. Hot damn.

“Hey,” the someone says. It really is a guy, and Tooru puts a hand over his brows like a visor to drink in a nice gulp of that. The man can’t be much older than Tooru, sixteen-ish, so technically he’s a boy, but nobody Tooru’s age should look that good in loose grey running shorts and a tank top with a cartoon sunny-side-up egg on it. Also, nobody who’s barely seventeen should have calves that pretty or arms that Tooru wants to fling himself into with a faint sigh. He’s got short hair, seems even sweatier than Tooru and fuck, he’s one of the guys who look unfairly gorgeous after physical activity and oh, those are nice brown eyes...

Still, Tooru clicks his tongue and frowns at the guy. “Is there any reason you’re screaming at me like I just murdered someone?”

“Yeah.” It’s more of a grunt than an actual word .Tooru gives him a raised eyebrows. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Mhm.” A moment of awkward silence spreads. Tooru shifts from one leg to another, and rubs along his neck when he finds the boy staring at him without any inhibition. “Uhm. I’m waiting? Is there something on my face, or - “

The boy blushes. Oh no, Tooru thinks, he’s cute too, why can’t he be just attractive or adorable, I’m gonna sue - 

“You’re drowning them.” Before Tooru can say anything else, the boy snatches the watering pot out of his hand. “That kind of cabbage doesn’t need as much water. Also, you should never water plants when it’s the hottest time of the day. It’ll take away even more liquid from the earth. Do it in the evening. This garden is beautiful, please take care of it.”

Tooru is kind of speechless. His mouth is gaping, most likely making him look very stupid, but the guy just ducks his head before pushing both the hat and the pot back into Tooru’s grip. “I could help. Is Miko your grandma? I, I live around here. The garden is really wonderful. I take care of my parents’, I know a lot.”

“Uh. Uhm. I... guess? Sure?” Tooru needs a moment to get his famous smile back. “Just hop over the fence.” Then he grins. Once the guy is in the garden (and god do those calves look nice when they push that body over an obstacle), Tooru puts a hand by his hip and tilts his head. “Some help and company would be nice. I’m Tooru, and you can water my buds anytime if you’re not yelling at me while you do it.”

The boy blinks at him. He’s quiet for a solid fifteen seconds, and Tooru fears that he’s overdone it until a slow, sharp grin twitches on the guy’s mouth. “Looks like you can use the help. Anyone would be scared of such terrible pick-up lines. I’m Hajime. Now watch and do what I do, and maybe that’ll help your brain think of a better way to ask me for ice cream after this.”

Everyone can see who Tooru is, clear as day and bright like sunlight that catches in his hair during games. Nobody’s blind to his motions, the grit of teeth when he sets, the fluid grace that flows in his muscles when he orchestrates his team. Tooru has never thought about being invisible.

When Hajime joins the same college as he does, Tooru learns what it means. The volleyball team, one of the most prestigious in Japan, only takes one of them. Hajime doesn’t seem surprised or disappointed. His kiss tingles on Tooru’s lips throughout the first practice.

It’s the girlfriend of one of his teammates that points it out. She’s next to Tooru on the bench when he chugs down water, and her face is gentle when she says: “Iwaizumi is your boyfriend, right? I was surprised to hear that, to be honest. You’re so extraordinary, Oikawa. Don’t get me wrong, he’s nice even if he mocks you sometimes, but he’s so average. Almost ordinary.”

Before he could reply, the girl’s boyfriend (their libero, sweet guy actually, even if Tooru hates him for his choice in the opposite sex now) had called her name, and she’d run off. Tooru had stood there, speechless, then dropped his bottle.

He’d understood one thing then - that none of them sees Hajime.

Where Tooru is shrill and colourful like a rainbow in the sky, Hajime isn’t on the spectrum. There’s no red or blue in him, no hue of flower petals, no dark green of the forest, and now that Tooru thinks about it, he can’t describe Hajime as violet, white, night-black or ivory-soft. 

It’s sad, Tooru thinks, that none of those people have the receptors in their eyes for something before crimson, after ultramarine. They’ll never get to see the ultraviolet gentleness of Hajime’s fingers on Tooru’s skin, mouth whispering in new octaves of love across his temples until Tooru shivers so hard that he fears he’s going to burst at the seams. They’ll never get to see the infrared loyalty that is Hajime hugging his parents, both families spending holidays together and Hajime locking his fingers into Tooru’s below the table while just smiling when Tooru’s baby niece climbs onto his lap. 

And god, it’s sad to know that none of them has eyes brilliant enough to see the gamma rays of Hajime’s words when he talks about becoming a doctor to save souls, when he speaks to his mother in a softness that singsongs love with every syllable, and when he kisses an oath into every inch of Tooru’s skin until the echo of it leaves wave-shaped cuts on Tooru’s heart.

Iwaizumi Hajime / Oikawa Tooru.

Rating: General Audiences

Characters: Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime

Tags: First Kiss, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Love Confessions, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers

Chapters: 1/1 (complete)

Words: 3,057

Read on ao3.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to celebrate your birthday?”

Hajime shrugs. He’s curled up in the grass, chin on his knees, and Tooru thinks it’s really cool that he doesn’t even flinch when his mom puts salve on his scraped shin. She doesn’t say anything, just looks worried, so Tooru keeps talking. “Well my birthday is next month, and then I get presents and mom makes my favourite food and my friends come over!”

“I can’t celebrate. I have to help my dad,” Hajime says quietly. He turns his head, puts his cheek on his knee. Tooru frowns for a bit. “What do you mean?”

Tooru’s mother starts wrapping a bandage around Hajime’s leg. “Say, Hajime, when did you last eat? You look,” Tooru thinks she’s going to say skinny, because he is, Hajime’s kind of tiny for being five years old just like Hajime, but she says, “very hungry.”

There’s a beat of silence. Hajime keeps still until his leg is all wrapped in white. Then, he stands up. “Sometimes,” he shuffles his feet, looks down. “Dad is sad, I think. Since mom d- went away. Sometimes he doesn’t go to work. Sometimes he doesn’t cook. He cries a lot and stays in bed. I - I don’t know what to...”

Tooru whips around to his mother. “Mom. Mom.”

“It’s okay, honey.” Her smile is gentle when she takes Hajime’s hands, crouches before him. “How about we go to your dad and talk a bit, and maybe we can help? I can bring you some food here and there. And I think I know a person that he could talk to that could help him. What do you say? And then we celebrate your birthday. Okay?”

Hajime looks at her, then at Tooru. He bites his lip. “Is he going to be okay again?”

Tooru hugs him before his mom can say: “I don’t know that. You never know, and sometimes not everything is like it was before. But he can try and we can help him, and you’re already helping him. Let’s go, okay, Hajime?”

---

"Look, dad sent me a snap.”

“You taught him how to use snapchat?”

“He’s doing his best, okay.” Hajime snuggles up against Tooru’s side on the couch, stretching himself out extra-wide and obnoxious. “Here, he’s having a third portion of Akemi’s curry rice.”

Tooru hums, sliding a bit closer so he can bury his nose in Hajime’s hair and still glance at the screen. “They’re having anniversary soon, huh? We should send them a gift or something.”

“Yeah, five years. Shit, gifts, that reminds me, we gotta get going! I don’t know why you always insist on celebrating like I’m the king of something, it’s just a-”

“Your birthday,” Tooru whispers. His arms are tight around Hajime’s waist, refusing to let him escape. Hajime falls back against him with a little not-serious growl. “You’re impossible. Also, your mom asked me again when I’ll get you a ring.”

“Well, your dad asked me that when we were seventeen, relax. It’s not like you could find better than me.”

“Confident much?” Hajime grins and surge in for a kiss, nips at Tooru’s soft bottom lip until he’s breathless, all pliant and sighing Hajime’s name. “Yeah well,” Tooru manages then, swallows heavily. “I just know that I love you more than anyone, so I kinda hope that’s enough. Also, happy birthday, dearest.”

Hajime can’t help but groan. He hears Tooru’s laughter above him when he buries his face in the pillow, slamming his boyfriend in the face with it seconds later, before the situation ends in lover’s tickling quarrel and a panicked search for shoes and coat when the doorbell finally rings.

Before they open up, Tooru kisses him again, and smiles. “Let’s go. I want to celebrate you.”

“I need to get out.” Tooru says one night. They’re on their backs in Hajime’s garden, a cigarette passing between their fingers. Hajime came over as soon as Tooru’s parents left for some trip. He’s been here ever since.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Tooru turns his head to him. There are drops of dew in his hair, because it’s summer but the night is above their heads still, sending shivers of cold into the grass and wetness of silver through the garden. Hajime’s mouth tastes like smoke and the too-sweet lemonade Tooru made himself because what’s a summer night without lemonade, Hajime, and who’s going to mind if we put a bit of rum into it? It had tasted awful. They shared it.

“My uncle has a car,” Tooru whispers. His lips are close, sugar-glinting and apart in softness. “We can take it and drive. We can go somewhere. I don’t wanna be here anymore.” 

“Okay,” Hajime says. He wraps his fingers around Tooru’s chin, slides the other hand into his neck. “Where do you want to go?” 

Tooru makes a tiny noise, deep in his throat, and Hajime loves him, loves him, could spend years just kissing the longing out of the crinkled edge of his gleaming eyes. “I don’t know,” Tooru says against his mouth. “You’re gonna come with me, right? I wanna go, but not without you. Come with me. Will you?”

“You’re stupid,” Hajime tells the sweaty skin below Tooru’s lower lip, and kisses his chin, his jaw, tracing warm breath up to his temple, “if you think you have to even ask.” There’s not much time before two different colleges will take their wrists and pull them apart.

“Hajime.” Tooru grabs his shirt, their foreheads knocking together, and Hajime rolls on top of him just in time for Tooru to catch his mouth in a gasp of kiss.

It’ll have to be enough. 

“Get your big thing out of the way, Iwaizumi.”

“My instrument is perfectly reasonable-sized, thank you very much.”

“And yet you just play the grumbly low background tune.”

“Oh? Jealous that you’re just one of many in your rows? Size complex much?”

“Just move aside.” Kuroo’s grin almost splits from one ear to another, and he bumps his fist against Hajime’s shoulder when pushing past him. It’s tradition by now: before every practice, they banter and insult each other a bit to let off steam. Violins and cellos are bound to have a bit of a rivalry, so the teasing never stops. Hajime doesn’t mind. This is the first orchestra he’s playing in since graduation, and even though it’s not yet the Berlin Philharmonic’s yet, but he’s getting there. 

“How ‘bout we grab some food after work?” Hajime adjusts a peg on his cello when the others start tuning next to him. “I’ll treat you,” he adds, only half listening to the notes humming in the background. His fingers work automatically, the strings of his cello trembling slightly as he touches the bow to it. 

“Sure,” Kuroo says. “I’ll bring Akaashi, if you don’t mind, and Bokuto - “

“Everyone, please take a seat, we’re getting started.” The orchestra falls quiet, all remaining chatter dies out in an instant. Their conductor approaches, her dark hair looking as silky as ever and really, if Hajime wasn’t as straight as the scroll on his beloved cello, he’d be swooning throughout every practice. But Kiyoko’s eyes are glinting like she knows a secret nobody else does. That means she’s up to something. It means serious business.

A moment later, Hajime understands why.

“Listen, please. I have someone to introduce to you. This is Tooru Oikawa.”

Hajime thinks that he can feel a string snap inside his chest. The man that walks up to Kiyoko’s side is simply gorgeous, in a way that has Hajime’s jaw drop all stupid and stunned. Breathing is unnecessary. The guy has soft brown hair that tickles along his cheekbones (god, who even has that much in the genetic lottery, Hajime is going to file a complaint), and he lifts a hand to wave.

“Hello. I’m sure we’ll get along well, sweethearts.”

Shit. Hajime forces his mouth shut and tries not to blink too much when staring at the guy’s face. Is it just his imagination or did that guy just wink? And - at him?

“What do you play?” Someone asks. All eyes are on Hajime, including Kiyoko and that too-beautiful-to-be-real (oh yeah, Tooru is his name, Hajime memorizes in a newly named “to tap list” in his brain) are staring at him. Oh no, did he really just ask that? 

Tooru is the first to recover. He laughs, teeth too fucking white to be real or fair, and pulls the black bag that Hajime just now notices down from his shoulder. “See for yourself, big guy. But don’t worry, I’ll be in your line of sight, in case you wanna burn me with your eyes some more.”

Five minutes later, Hajime knows better.

Of course it’s the flute. Of any instruments that exists in this goddamn wonderful orchestra (and there are lots), it’s the silver artwork of intricate keys that Tooru puts his long fingertips on. His nails are short, just a sliver of white at the tip. Hajime may or may not be in love with how his lips push against the mouthpiece, and it seems like Tooru kisses every single note that leaves his flute.

It’s only after ten minutes into practice that Hajime gets elbowed by Sawamura next to him, whispering “focus! Our part is coming up” that Hajime can shake off his fascination. The music pulls him in as it always does, tunes of copper and quicksilver mingling into the sympony they’ll be playing two months from now. Practice blends into a blur of music and Kiyoko’s voice working them through the first part, into criticism and nods and short remarks while everyone’s fingers change between scribbling notes into the sheet music and flying across their instruments.

They work overtime, again. Nobody complains, and yet there is a collective exhale when Kiyoko nods and calls it a day. Hajime makes sure that everyone with a string instrument is getting their stuff cleaned up. He’s so occupied that it takes two taps on his shoulder to make him turn around.

“Tooru,” he says, and fuck, he’s even more overwhelming up close. “If you have questions, you should maybe consult Tobio. He’s responsible for the wind instr-”

“You know, I never believed my old music teacher.” The smile that stretches across Tooru’s lips makes Hajime’s heart bolt against his ribs. The flute is still in Tooru’s hand, silver reflecting the light and shining it on Tooru’s arm. 

“Excuse me?” Breathe, Hajime tells himself, but he ends up licking his lips.

“Oh, just. The cello really is the most erotic instrument. We should get dinner sometime, Iwai- no, Hajime. Don’t you think?” And if there’s a brush of pale, warm fingers against Hajime’s elbow before Tooru passes by, humming the tune of Hajime’s cello part, well then those looks Tooru threw him during practice not just mere imagination.

But he’s still wrong, Hajime grins while packing up. A few hours ago, he would have agreed with Tooru’s music teacher in all instances. Now, there’s a certain soft mouth pressing to humming metal that rivals even Hajime’s finger skills.

"You know, why are we still wearing those friendship bracelets?" "Huh?" Hajime looks up from his plate. He almost didn't understand what Tooru said over the loud conversation of their friends. It was a good idea to invite everyone over for equinox, or midsummer's night or whatever Tooru had called it when enthusiastically preparing the barbecue and decorating the long table outside with wildflowers. Sometimes Hajime can’t believe that he's really this lucky. Even Hanamaki's here, all the way from France, kissing some salad dressing from Matsukawa's cheek. Hajime has stopped counting the number of guests after the entire former team of Karasuno has started to swarm into their garden. Theirs. His and Tooru's, the wild and unruly jungle of flowers and trees behind their house. Hajime swallows the last bite of his meat, tilting his head at Tooru. "What do you mean? Don't you like them anymore?" He reaches for his own neck, touches the leather necklace. Their bracelets hadn't fit anymore after middle school and so Tooru had turned them into long leather necklaces to wear below their team shirts. It kind of hurts to even imagine going without them. Hajime frowns. "Don't you want to - what do you mean?" They had even added simple pearls to it; after their first kiss, after graduation, when they'd moved in together after college. Does Tooru not - he doesn't - "I think it's time for something new. Something else." Tooru takes a deep breath, gives Hajime a bright smile before standing up. He's gorgeous, hair a bit longer, eyes warm and twinkling. Hajime barely notices that everyone else has fallen silent. A soft summer breeze whirls through his hair, toying with the sleeves of Tooru’s shirt. "I think," Tooru says and he reaches into his pocket, bringing out a small black box, "that we change our necklaces for something simpler that's going to last longer than leather." Hajime forgets how to breathe. Tooru smiles, smiles, looks at him like he's the pulse of the earth, like he's the last of Tooru’s dream come true, and the box clicks open. "If you agree, I think that platinum in the form of a ring will suit us much better."