Chapter Text
Haruka winning both of his events in the Asian Swimming Championships is enough to push him to the front page of the newspapers—two gold medals accompanying a new record and at least a dozen offers from sponsors. The media storm had raged thanks to how easy it was to build the rivalry between Haru and Rin, and their respective coaches. Japan’s promising athletes dominating the competition was the perfect recipe to create heros of Makoto’s closest friends, and it was overwhelming how quickly everything had changed in the weeks since. Leading up to the event, Tokyo had already been buzzing in interest for the sport, but that had been nothing in comparison to now. Afterwards, there had been interviews for magazines, televised specials of pilgrimages to Iwatobi by aspiring young athletes, crowds filling the pool during public practices. Most of Haru’s afternoons are spent with a newly-appointed publicist and personal assistant, who encourage all of the exposure, even as Haru shies from the popularity. The week before last, Nagisa had sent a picture of a sports magazine cover featuring Haruka in his team gear, espousing “the five perfect meals for champions”. Their blond friend had asked if Haru had dared to just recite his favourite grilled mackerel recipe five times; Makoto honestly didn’t know.
It was odd, watching everything unfold in real time—that first second of Haruka touching the tiled wall in finish—from his spot reserved for staff and coaches. Unlike his fiance, Makoto was of no importance to the media; their relationship a secret from the prying eyes of reporters, for both of their sakes. From an outside perspective, Makoto was just a trainee, a student still working towards becoming a coach. Yes, he was Haru’s childhood friend, which a few magazines had questioned him about, but if there was any speculation of anything more, Makoto never saw evidence of it. They both obviously wear their rings both in and out of the water, but any questions on Haru’s love life tended to be shut down immediately with his taciturn behaviour and Coach Azuma’s practiced misdirection. It’s strange seeing the deep blue gaze of the man he loves from advertisements around the city, but it’s strangely motivating in a way Makoto can’t explain. Warm pride in his chest keeping him company even when the athlete is busy with some function or meeting or training and is late to come home.
Tonight is no different, the mindless chatter of a variety show that had interviewed Rin earlier plays in the background as Makoto finishes dinner. The rice cooker dings as it finishes, and the apartment door quietly opens and shuts, announcing the return of its other resident. They had moved in together as soon as Makoto’s lease was up, and the small apartment across from the aquatic centre Haru had called home for the past four years was now indisputably Makoto’s too. There’s still another year left on the lease for this place, and it’s the perfect size for the pair of them right now.
There’s a quiet “I’m home”, punctuated by the sound of slippered feet moving from the genkan, and Makoto finishes plating the meal before moving to greet his fiance.
“Welcome home.” Smiling softly with understanding at how weary Haru looks, his training bag slung over a shoulder an indication for laundry, his team jacket traded for the worn fabric of Makoto’s old Iwatobi jersey. Haru had outgrown his own teenage club uniform just slightly enough to be noticeable, so had pilfered the backstroker’s as his own months ago. The shoulders sag too far down the other’s arms, but he doesn’t seem to care or notice, and it causes a warm buzz of happiness to see it wrapped around the other man. Moving to relieve Haru of his bag, Makoto is only half surprised when the athlete instead slots himself into Makoto’s embrace—arms twining around his back, eyes shut as he lays his head on a broad shoulder. Makoto hugs him back, his own eyes closing as he leans his head against Haru’s.
“I have dinner ready, if you’re hungry.”
“Not yet. Let me recharge.” Makoto can’t help the humoured huff he releases at that, squeezing fractionally tighter.
They stay like that for a little longer, before Haru finally leans back, satisfied for now, one hand drawing Makoto down for a kiss. The brunet needs no encouragement as he follows the familiar path to Haru’s mouth—tilting his head just-so as their noses brush. It’s unhurried and so very familiar at this point—any stress of the day or hesitation melting where their lips touch. Weeks, months, years of their relationship evident even in the way they breathe together—a synchronised harmony, unmatched. In the days since Haru’s career had catapulted to the top of interest charts, Makoto has missed and craved these moments the most. Sometimes wishing they could just curl up in bed together for a while, with no care for the outside world—no responsibilities and no plans, like they had done as children, cloistering themselves under the covers during sleepovers. The small word of Makoto and Haru caught in the humid warmth under the sheets. He loves Haruka so much—is so proud of everything he’s achieved—that it feels wrong to try and selfishly monopolise his attention away; sometimes hates that he seems to be trailing so far behind. Those feelings never last too long though, knowing Haru’s thoughts as he does. Often, when Makoto’s heart flutters with self-conscious doubts about his place in life right now, he remembers the afternoon of their graduation—on the rooftop, heart in his mouth as he confessed his feelings so huge that they could no longer be contained. He remembers how bright Haru’s eyes had looked, how overwhelmingly shocked the other teen had been, before collapsing into Makoto arms. Slim body shaking as the older boy had asked to keep Makoto’s heart—as if there was any question that it didn’t fully belong to him already. Remembers his own shocking realisation that Haru hadn’t thought himself worthy to accept it, unshed tears gathered in the inner corners of blue eyes and words insistent. They both seem to be in a constant cycle of self-improvement for the other, trying to be the best they can be together. That there’s no questioning their dedication to each other.
With a final kiss to Haru’s temple, Makoto leads the way back to the kitchen for food. Haru eats everything gratefully, smiling at the meal. Makoto is still not allowed to touch any of Haru’s mackerel he stocks in the fridge, but the rest of his cooking repertoire has vastly improved. Haru is still the chef between the two of them, but there’s no problems when Makoto takes responsibility for meals, which has only increased in frequency now that the athlete is so busy.
They clean their dishes quietly, shoulder to shoulder, before Haru retreats to the kotatsu taking up the majority of the living space. It’s the last dregs of winter following the New Year, and the heated table is a relic of their childhood. Sitting aside his fiance, it’s amazing how immediately relaxed Makoto feels with his legs stretched out beneath the warmth. Haru attaches himself to his side, eyes fluttering closed like a content cat’s.
“One of those days?” Makoto asks when they break apart—returning the small smile Haru wears. He replies with a hum and the shrug of a shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Just more stupid publicity. Shirazaki-san wants to keep me ‘high profile’ for the lead-in to the Olympics.”
Makoto reels back with excitement at that, both hands in Haru’s, any lingering drowsiness disappearing. Squeezing tightly, he searches Haru’s expression as if the dark lashes, fine skin, chapped lips, might hold any answers.
“Does that mean—Have you heard yet? Did you qualify?”
“I don’t know yet; there’s still more than an entire year.” The way Haru shrugs seems blasé, but there’s a nervous tell of how the swimmer feels about the possibilities.
“Coach Azuma seems certain.”
“He’s always certain when it suits him,” Haru deflects with an eye-roll; one that Makoto knows is more fond than exasperated. “You know you’ll be the first to know.” The certainty thrills in Makoto’s heartbeat, happiness radiating from every pore.
“Sure it won’t be Rin you call first, to gloat?” Teasing, loving, knowing exactly what so say to draw out his partner’s pout.
A familiar wrinkle of irritation creases Haru’s brow and Makoto can’t help laughing at how successful he was, pressing a chaste kiss to downturned lips as the swimmer huffs.
“I’m kidding, Haru-chan. You know I’m rooting for you both.”
That seems to placate Haru a little, but he still slides himself onto Makoto’s lap; arms around his neck to make sure the brunet is focused on nothing but him.
“But you’re not marrying Rin.”
“Considering how excited he is about it, I’m not sure about that.” Haru frowns again, his annoyance at his best friend and rival obvious.
Makoto decides to have mercy on the man in his lap, smiling with all his heart, hoping that it’s obvious how much he loves Haru.
“But you’re right, I’m not marrying Rin. I’ve already made a promise to the only person in the world I’d ever want,” self-consciously smiling at his own declaration. Haru kisses him with purpose after Makoto has finished talking, and leaning into each other is a relief of the everyday stress that builds up from the outside world. The tension in his muscles, bones, melting as the practiced give-and-take of their tongues occupy his attention. Slim hands creep up under the fabric of his shirt, tracing warm paths across his back. It’s a familiar touch, but always sends thrilling sparks of happiness to his nerves.
Haru trails soft lips down his neck, sucking the sensitive spot that never ceases to make Makoto’s toes curl. Bundled up in his arms, the swimmer seems overjoyed—face crinkled in happiness, and a smile Makoto has only ever experienced in his earliest memories and in the quiet moments like now, when they’re together like this, alone. A private thing shared between only them.
Inky hair unsuccessful in shuttering away the vibrant blue of the other man’s eyes. Makoto is drawn to him like a moth to a flame, anticipating his quiet words eagerly.
“Bathe with me?”
“Always.”
Many others believe they have discovered Haruka’s true personality through his swimming, but Makoto will always disagree. His freestyle is the first glance behind a normally impassive face, but it’s only in the calm tranquility of bath waters that his best friend is at his most pure and vulnerable—when his soul is at its most honest. Where their touches of wet skin and soapy hands leave each other wholly in the moment. Makoto massaging shampoo into fine black hair, tilting back to allow Haru to rinse off his skin. Allowing the other man to position him comfortably at one end of the bath, arms waiting to envelope the swimmer. Despite their nudity, there’s rarely the heat of sexual tension in this ritual, and any time there is, Makoto can only ever classify the joining of their bodies as making love. An irresistible urging to become one entity—a satisfaction of being connected so completely. Hearts thrumming like hummingbirds, softly-shed tears of overwhelming happiness that words cannot fully express or explain. Makoto chuckles softly and Haru always huffs his own happiness at their own hopelessness—their love so large that it’s easy for it to spill out.
Even if everything else in the world continues to move forward—Haru’s fame pushing their lives even farther out of the ordinary—this will never change.
***
The rain falls heavily as the cherry blossoms burst with life around him. Pink and white petals filling the trees on his way home, a mix of fragrant and ornamental blossoms the perfect picture of spring.
Haru never used to like the changing of the seasons—only happy when the weather would get warm enough to jump into the nearest pool—but he’s slowly come to appreciate the transitions of the year as he’s gotten older. He’s always reminded of graduation now, during spring. Despite the rain in this moment, it’s effortless to recall the birdsong and gentle breezes of Iwatobi. Makoto’s cheeks and lips and the tips of his ears blushed pink as the cherry blossoms after his confession. The recognition of the blooming love that existed in Haru’s own heart for far longer than he’d realised. The smell of wet earth and rain, just like the humid summer downpour of his proposal.
His shoes squeak against the pavement as he walks back to the apartment, puddles pooled in spots where the concrete is uneven, a watery mirror to the streetlights and cherry trees above. It’s always past dusk by the time he’s finally able to walk home after training and work and the multitudes of responsibilities he never realised a professional athlete would have to deal with, and it makes him ache for the past. Walking side by side with Makoto as the sun slowly made its descent to the horizon. Sometimes watching the sunset together, shoes stuck in the sand, popsicle split between them. Now wondering what might have happened if he had had any awareness of his feelings back then—if he would have been brave enough to lean over and kiss his best friend just as the orange sky purpled.
Either way, they’re here now. Both actual adults, like they had joked about when picking up their suits for university orientation; both working towards their dreams, each passing day a step forward to swimming, coaching, and partnership.
Listening to the patter of the rain and lost in his own memories, he almost misses it: a tiny cry hidden in the bushes. It’s weak and pleading, obviously in need of help. Crouching where the sound warbles from, Haru leans forward, peering into the bushes with the help of his phone’s flashlight. A ball of waterlogged fur peering back, small enough to curl up in his hand and an unhealthy crust of stickiness around large eyes. Haru gently brings the kitten to sanctuary under his umbrella—bundled between his shirt sleeve-covered hand and his chest as he tries to keep it warm. Their apartment is another two blocks away, and he hurries as quickly as he can without jostling the tiny life in his hands—the kitten’s chest thrumming and tiny tail swishing. He takes the elevator, rather than the stairs, for the first time in recent memory—nodding an acknowledgement to the middle-aged housewife from 204 who sends out the weekly newsletter when he steps in beside her. She blinks a little at the awkward bundle of his hands against his chest and the half-closed umbrella, but says nothing. Haru can’t help but sigh inwardly, relieved.
His apartment keys are in his gear bag pocket, but he doesn’t have the free hand to search for it. Instead, he rings the doorbell with his umbrella hand, sure that Makoto is home.
The brunet seems surprised that it’s Haru at the door, until he sees the bundled kitten occupying his hands. Rushing to hold the door open to let them both in. Warm inside the apartment, Haru finally relaxes enough to get a proper look at the small cat bundled in his jersey. It’s fur is dark and matted by rain and street grime. It looks small, far too tiny to be without a mother, and the stickiness he had noticed around its eyes is yellow-green under the light. Haru can see ribs through skin, bony in an underfed way. It cries again, weakly, not sure what to do. Makoto emerges from the closet with an old towel, ready to dry and snuggle the kitten, and he coos to the poor thing as it shakes.
“What happened?” he asks, gently rubbing the soft fabric of the towel over wet fur.
“It was hiding in the bushes outside the park all alone,” Haru replies, looking down to the wet patch that had spread across his chest from holding the kitten close. “It needs a vet.”
Makoto nods an agreement. “I think there’s a 24-hour one near the station.”
Haru goes to retrieve his phone for directions, eyeing the glass doors to the balcony warily to assess how much worse the rain might get. He helps Makoto wrap the now-dry kitten in a fresh towel before bundling it up against his chest again, like a baby. He runs his pinky across the crown of the furry head, and watches as big eyes slowly blink into sleep. Makoto comments on how small the little creature is, and they walk to the vet with bated breath.
The vet informs them to not get attached. That the kitten—a little girl—is barely three weeks old and likely has pneumonia. Lost from her mother and unlikely to survive another week, the aging man offers to take her off their hands—to provide a safe home at the clinic until her eventual passing.
Makoto refuses. Asks the vet what they need to do, what medicines and preparations they could give her, if only to keep her comfortable until the end. Haru can hear the warble of upset thick in his fiance’s voice as he fights back tears, and in the end they return home with their small kitten safe in Makoto’s arms. Prescription filled and detailed instructions written on how to best look after her.
They bottle-feed her formula and watch her fall asleep immediately, Makoto’s attention never faltering from her slow inhales and exhales. Haru hugs his back, hooking his chin over a shoulder and resting his head as all of their normal routine is forgotten.
The three of them sleep curled together in the bed, the kitten protected on both sides by Makoto’s arms and body; Haru spooned across the brunet’s back, tangling his own arms around his middle. There’s no question that the little purring addition that had fallen into their lives would be loved by the other man—no matter what happens. That the loneliness of being stranded and lost would never exist again in the face of Makoto’s love. It’s just another facet of the the other man that Haru loves. His kindness, willingness, to welcome strays and outcasts as family; to give them a home and a place to belong. He knows the truth and sincerity in Makoto’s actions, in how easily the other man gives away his love to others that need it the most.
Haru was his first, after all.