#veryflowery

[llamaristic]

It was that type of night where, even in the absence of the sun, that heavy, sticky heat still retained and comfort was no more. Hajime could feel it wobble through the air, thick like static and it'd rip through him horrifically. They had been walking side to side, shoes scuffling against the grainy asphalt and skin, sensitive to fabric they were sure never to be worn again.

That day Oikawa and Hajime had left highschool.

Was it that long ago that he was a first year, brain-dead and a half the height he is now? It was hard to tell, really. He didn't need to poke his belt at the furthermost hole anymore and he couldn't watch old videotapes of his younger self, the disbelief that his voice used to be so scratchy and raw. Hajime was growing. Soon to be this full fledged man with earl-grey slacks and gelled hair. It was just another chapter of his life, like middleschool had been and the preschool before that. It was—but it was bigger, he was going to college.

"I'm overreacting, Iwa-chan? You should've seen how happy Sensei Nakamura was seeing me off."

"You're upset because he was happy?"

"He's not supposed to be! I want to see tears. I'm one of the best Aoba Johsai's ever had! Losing me should be....it should hurt and alot and I should be able to see that perfectly on his small, fat face. I swear when I'm famous, and on all Tokyo's TVs, he'll ask for a photograph and I'll....I'll spit on him!"

Hajime blinked. "Wow, Oikawa. You're absurd."

"Your not supposed to be defending him! What are you doing?" Oikawa chin had formed a very hollow dimple as he said this. Hajime remembers. He had looked funny under the lights, parts of his face hidden in shadows like some malevolent Disney villain.

"It's fine. I'll never see that scoundrel in my lifetime from now." He had puffed, mumbling to himself as he perched down on the guardrail. It rattled greatly so he sat, still. His knees had been drawn up to his chin, his gaze listless as his back hunched considerably so. Hajime had sighed too, disappointed at his legs involuntarily shifting to crouch next to him. He had heard Oikawa sniff and then, as he looked at him, saw his lips dent with teeth.

"I think I'm scared."

"Of?"

"Everything."

"Everything."

"Hey! Don't say it like that. I don't sound like that, Iwa-chan."

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't."   A sniff.   "I'm going to miss you."

Hajime had broke into a laugh. "You say that as if I'm not going to see you again."

"Yeah, and it's likely I won't."

"Sadly I will."

"Can you just reason with me for a second, Iwa-chan. Things are changing so fast, so quick. Next year I won't even be captain. I'll be bossed and tossed to wondertown and back. But worst of all: I'll be second."

"Fifth, at most."

"I hate you."

"I hate you more because it doesn't matter if your the fucking best in the world. It may, but really it doesn't. And I know you. I know you'll push yourself until your unrecognisable and I have to hold you from getting blown away from my burps." Oikawa had giggled at the thought and then quickly whined, lips protruding out in a pout. Hajime swayed to the side as he was punched. "And even if something happens and we never see each other again, remember to eat anchovies and raw eggs in the mornings. Helps me with my gains."

"Dis. Gusting." Oikawa had retched, voice dripping with laden repulse but as Hajime turned to him, he was smiling. His hair was longer then, bangs touching to his eyes and there was that patch of sun-kissed freckles on the skin beneath his ears. The monorail across them had whirred past, and in the dark it had looked like a phosphorescent caterpillar. Hajime wrinkled his nose looking up at the darkening sky. Was it always like this? He had never been aware that time had been so...quick. Tommorow, he would wake up and see his blazer slung over his chair, the panic settling in that he had forgotten to iron it. Rid those creases Oikawa loved to point out the moment he stepped out the house. But he didn't need to, right? He was never going to wear that blazer again. 

"Let's race." Hajime watched the monorail curve its body, swallowed into the black expanse of a tunnel. He wondered where it'd end to. When it'd stop. When the blare of the train left his ears he glanced to the right of him and said, "Over to wherever the fuck that lane takes us. Loser has to get the other two bowls of chicken donburi and cherry ramune for the night."

"Liar." Oikawa nasaled, trying to stuff his nose in the juncture where his knees met. "What's the catch."

"You get a headstart."

Oikawa took his head out of his knees, his nose red and wrinkled and wet as he perked up a brow. "How long."

How long? It would be long enough that it satisfies Oikawa's already chronically inflated ego, and short enough so that Hajime's not settling for an immediate loss. They've been on and off for years. He had thought about the ready, steady, go strategy but whenever Oikawa's counting it, he says something off-putting like bananas! And whenever Hajime's counting it, Oikawa's ears suddenly fold into themselves and he's running before Hajime's even started. He wants to settle this here.

"Bout 4 seconds."

"And have you started counting yet?"

A smirk. "Yeah." The railway guard shuddered at the loss of weight before Hajime was sighting the scramble of a body quickly leave his side. “Idiot.” He muttered, dusting himself off as he stood and on his feet, Hajime ran. He wasn't off to a good start, unironically. His thigh cramped up a little and he had to rabbit-hop. But he could still see how the streetlamp lights slithered over Oikawa's figure and he knew he was doing just fine.

He needed to be more than just fine. Hajime needed to win. Setting up this bet and giving Oikawa a jumpstart just to lose—he'd never hear the end of it. Hajime wasn't so much a lover of humiliation; he picked up his stride, the kaleidoscope of the late city night below him becoming no more than a consecutive blur.

There was the faint sound. A body of water. And then. He was wrapping his arm around a neck. Falling. Into something soft. Like sand.

They fought tirelessly; hands slithering under arms; unintelligible puffs of curses. But for as tall as Oikawa was, Hajime was always stronger. He had straddled him, pinned his arms above his head.

"You may think you have won, Iwa-chan. But I'm the one that crossed here first."

"Not sure about that," Hajime grunted. "Pretty sure we crossed at the same time."

Oikawa made a wordless cry, writhing under Hajime like a worm with a brain hemorrhage. He was pink—ridiculously pink with overexertion. The softer strands of hair sticking to his forehead and his temples. He had nothing but a twinkle of hatred in those light brown eyes, brows crinkling like they wanted to kiss another. Hajime would miss that look. Would miss milking Oikawa's happiness until he would undergo the same personality as the colour grey. From then on, it was like his job. Eat, sleep, chronically provoke Oikawa. Nothing would change. They're seventeen and still play-fight like they were nine. Nothing would change—but Hajime could tell this would be the last in a long time.

He pressed his forehead on Oikawa's.

"What are you doing?" Oikawa had said in something like a barely audible whisper.

Hajime licked his lips, carefully. "I don't know." He could the skin on Oikawa's forehead lose tension, his breath hitching. They both had their eyes closed, breathing hot air into each others mouths. The faint thrum of a heartbeat through thin fabric. For a moment, Hajime had felt like he wasn't there.

"Oikawa?"

A hum. "Yeah?"

"You'll do great."

Other hand dug into the warm sand, Hajime lifted his head. Oikawa's eyes had slowly fluttered open, and a ever-present breeze brushed his limp bangs over his eyes. Hajime only looked into Oikawa's eyes as he felt hands gingerly cup the sides of his face, finger twitching like they weren't supposed to be there.

"I know." He had grinned, those hands slowly falling to Hajime's shoulder and giving them a gentle push. Hajime kept his eyes shut as he felt the back of his head meet the sand, his arm falling limply on his belly. There was the sound of footsteps inching from him, trackless; the rustle of fabric falling to the ground.

Hajime let his head fall to the side, eyes in search for Oikawa. He was where Hajime's eyes had directed him to, standing by the edge of the shoreline. Shirt ruffling in the breeze. He he knew exactly what Oikawa's thinking— it is beautiful. The air was so dark, it was blue. And the moon looked of something so large and bright, it made the grains of sand glitter as if capped with fairydust. The air was briny, felt lukewarm in the cave of his mouth. Albatrosses soar and glide, an outstretch of wings trekking through the wisps of the overcast clouds. It was nice, welcoming but for the most part, Hajime had been looking at him.