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One day, in the height of spring, Haruka takes a deep breath and slips underwater — and thinks of Makoto. Makoto is...
Makoto is...
Like air, he decides, and begins counting towards Makoto.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Beyond the walls, as if answering the call of his thoughts, are soft, steady footfalls, ascending. Makoto is done with homework, and he does what he does the moment he finishes his responsibilities: he looks for Haru, returns to him.
Five.
Six.
The bathwater is less than lukewarm, cooling rapidly in the unfriendly weather. It has been pouring all season, ushering the cherry blossoms to their premature downfall. Their scent haunts the air like mist, like a death perfume composed of their last exhalations.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten...
..."Haru-chan?" Makoto calls out, and steps into the bathroom.
Found me, Haruka thinks. Against Makoto's distinct footsteps, against the indecipherable murmurs of the water, Haruka closes his eyes, slips deeper into thoughts, stops counting.
Surrender, for most people is a learnt skill, introduced to them in the bitter setting of defeat. But Haruka seems to have been born with it, the way he enters water and allows it to hold him, keep him. There is no struggle with Haruka. Almost innately, he knows: should he challenge the water, he may lose neither today nor tomorrow, but he will never win. Because while the water may tolerate him now, one day its patience will run out and it will drag him down and never let go at last.
Because age lays waste to muscles and children grow up into ordinary people, yet the waves remain forever strong and the abyss forever dark.
So Haruka walks into the water's embrace and does not provoke the beast lying in wait. In return, the water indulges him, lets him dive and lets him float, and he does not lose himself.
"Haru?" Makoto calls, from far far away beyond the waves.
Haruka is thinking of Rin.
Rin treads water as if he wants to dominate it, walks into darker depths with his sharp-toothed grin and that predatory cockiness: "I'm not afraid."
"I'm not afraid, too," Haruka wants to say, and sometimes he does say it. Unlike Rin, Haruka can live without setting record time, can drift on his back with his eyes closed to the competition, can be sated by the mild tang of chlorine and salt on his lips, instead of thirsting for victory. However, because of Rin, he has also tasted all the above, the sweet, heady rush of conquest. Sometimes he is tempted. Sometimes he gives in to the temptation, and races.
A few bubbles escape his lips. There is a new tightness in his chest, not unlike the feeling he gets when he looks at Rin and Rin looks back, the challenge gleaming in his eyes. Rin, Haruka decided, is deeper water, that dark beyond the drop-off, past the safety of corals. If he allows himself, he can slip away, let himself be unanchored, and swim into the unknown currents.
He may lose himself. It may be worth it.
He has lost count of the time — the breath — he has been spending underwater. With mild irritation, he realises that he has to surface soon. If he could, perhaps he would sink deeper and let himself be changed, so that he would not need draw another breath and take in water instead, so that he would not need air —
"Haruka?"
His eyes blink open, and he sees it, the watery silhouette of Makoto, hovering over the bathtub. He thinks of how silly he must look, with his legs folded, the dry island of his knees poking out of the water, his upper body plastered to the ceramic bottom.
The toy dolphin bobs past between them.
Haruka thinks: Makoto. Makoto will not follow him into the swirling currents, not because he does not want to, but because he cannot.
(Rin, his mind whispers, Rin can, and so can Haruka, if he wills it so.)
How long will the magic last, however? Haruka loves water, but he is not made for it; while he may change himself, some things are beyond magic, even the magic of exceptional youth. How long until his youth runs out and he becomes ordinary, at the mercy of the waves' suddenly bared fangs? And then — and then, what will come after?
Some demons are not made to be awakened.
Something snaps within his chest, and the last of his air rushes out of his lungs, the bubbles momentarily blocking out his view of Makoto. Ah, three more years, he thinks, three more years until he becomes ordinary. It is not a bad thing. Until then, he supposes he is allowed to occasionally indulge, to lash at the water instead and seize for the intoxicating feeling of racing and winning. Especially with Rin.
For now, however, he sends a watery smile to Makoto, who is probably worried sick by now. Even if he is to dive deep under the waves and disappear, Haruka muses, if he is to return, surely he will find Makoto on the shore, waiting for him? Because when he said he had decided to stop swimming in competitions, Makoto did not flinch, did not even react. To Makoto, the Haru in the bathtub and the Haru arcing off the diving board are the one and the same.
For now, Haruka splays his palms flat against the ceramic tiles and pushes upwards, breaching the surface —
— and slips, his fingers finding no purchase; in a split of second, all he sees are Makoto's wide, wide green eyes, trembling lips mouthing his name, and he realises that he is about to hit the cold, hard bottom of the tub with the back of his head —
— and a pair of arms reach out to encircle him, large hands spreading fingers across his back and gently cradling him by the nape —
— Haruka gasps into air, and breathes.
Makoto immediately crowds into his field of vision. "Haru," he whispers, and then gasps, "Haru. Are you all right?"
His sleeves are hopelessly soaked, and his face has gone pale. Still, Makoto smiles when Haruka says that he's fine, and laughs when Haruka says he shouldn't worry.
"But, Haru-chan," he says, and does not give a reason.
It is raining outside, Haruka notes. Raining like it is the end of the world. Thunderclaps roar against the tiled roofs, and the sky has gone midnight dark. There will be no sunset today, dissolving into blood-red waters, and tomorrow, there will be no flowers left, not even to bury.
Makoto's fringe is plastered across his forehead, and his eyes are awfully bright beneath them. "Let me get you a towel," he chuckles, making a move to stand up.
Except Haruka reaches for his hand and seizes it first, beckoning Makoto to kneel by the tub once more. Before Makoto can say, "Haru-chan?" he clasps his wet, pruned hands on the sides of Makoto's face, leans in, and says, hoarsely, "Don't cry." He clears his throat, surprised by his own voice, and retries, "Don't cry, Makoto."
He pressed their foreheads together, angles his head, tilting it just so, and trusts Makoto to understand.
Makoto does, with a hitch of a breath, with a prayer-like sigh. He presses his lips against Haruka's gently, remaining still, allowing Haruka to move first before ducking his head and catching Haruka's lower lip between his.
When Haruka sighs warm exhalation into the kiss, Makoto takes it in, swallows it all.
After they separate, slowly and regretfully, lips lingering with a breath between them, Makoto buries his face — warm against Haruka's rapidly cooling skin — into Haruka's shoulder. Haruka does not chide him, does not move away. Tomorrow, he thinks, he is going to ask Rin to practice with him. He is going to let his heart beat staccato rhythm into his ribcage from the shadow of Rin closing in underwater. Makoto, safe and dry, will stand by with a stopwatch, and help Haruka out of the pool once he is done, regardless of his time. Today, however, he simply leans his head against Makoto's —
— and breathes him in.