“I can’t.” 

Tooru’s heart shatters over two syllables. His lungs are cold, lips burning where Hajime’s touched them just moments ago. It feels like a century, a lifetime of longing for something so forbidden that he’s going to pay for it, one day, and he’ll pay a bloody price. 

The question Tooru had asked had been simple in its innocence. “Will you be my boyfriend?” His mouth tastes like ashes now, grey, white, and Hajime in front of him is the gold that he shouldn’t have wanted. 

Hajime pulls him close, warm hand in Tooru’s hair, his forehead against Tooru’s when he steals his breath with a kiss – oh please, not the last one, anything but that. “I can’t,” Hajime whispers into his mouth, voice shaking in his throat. “They can’t know about us. They’d kick me out. Nobody – not the team, nobody. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Tooru digs his nails into the muscles of Hajime’s arms and sends a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in anymore. 

“Promise me that one day you’ll say yes.” Tooru buries his face in Hajime’s shoulder. He doesn’t cry; not when he’s with Hajime. That time is too precious, rare as the gold he’s fallen in love with like a fool. Hajime’s mouth kisses his forehead, soft, and he hums a broken “I promise” into the crown of Tooru’s head. 

Tooru walks home alone. Hajime gets picked up by his parents, smiles at his father, his eyes as dark as they always are when he’s been with Tooru. One day, Tooru thinks. And until then, he waits, and he holds onto his gold with all the idiotic hope that his mind can scratch together. 

‘I’d rather be yours in secret, in the shadows’ cold, behind closed doors – behind a fucking fortress of lies and denial, if you need that. I’d rather be your darkest sin than never be yours at all.’

“There’s a meteor shower tonight.” 

Tooru doesn’t ask if Hajime wants to go with him. He simply packs their old blue blanket and that picknick basket Hajime once got from a yard sale, and starts to walk. In the end, Hajime always catches up with him. Always, no matter whether it’s 4 a.m. again and the night’s dew soaks Hajime’s pants, the grass underneath his hands cold and wet when they lie down on a hill outside town, and let the sky unfold above them.

It’s all worth it, with Tooru’s warm excited hand in his own. Tooru points at the meteors dancing over the black sky, makes soft noises of happiness, and Hajime can’t understand how some people go star-gazing when all he wants to look at is right here. 

Beautiful isn’t the right word for Tooru. You wouldn’t call a galaxy beautiful. You wouldn’t describe the birth of a new star as breathtaking, or incredible, or even gorgeous. Hajime isn’t good with words, and he wouldn’t find the right ones anyways. 

There’s no symphony in the world that can explain the way Tooru’s freckles look like golden fireflies. No painting could catch the earth-shattering way that Tooru’s skin moves over his neck, Hajime’s teeth having left love-traces on his collarbone and the arch of his pale throat, and nothing – nothing, no poem or story with thousands of words – could describe the bittersweet light quaking through Hajime’s veins when Tooru whispers his name, and kisses his lips into another world, galaxy, eternity. 

There’s only one rule. “Don’t mention it.” That’s what Oikawa whispered into Hajime’s trembling lips after he’d kissed him into the lockers of the changing room. Don’t mention it, that’s the rule Hajime hears as a painful echo inside his head when Oikawa laughs at a group of girl, waves, smile bright and warm like the mouth he kisses Hajime with and stole his heart out of his chest. 

But Hajime’s never been one for rules. “Why the fuck do you keep kissing me? Why shouldn’t I mention it?” He asks when Oikawa’s pressing him against the lockers once more, long fingers buried in Hajime’s hair, eyes alight with victory, possession, and something so dark that Hajime swallows, hard. 

Oikawa jolts as if he’s been hit and backs off. “Because I don’t wanna hear you say it.” His voice trembles, broken around its frail edges. Hajime’s had enough. He catches Oikawa’s wrist, pulling him close, but Oikawa tries to fight, presses both hands against Hajime’s chest – and then, a shimmer of wetness on his cheeks. 

“You don’t get it, do you.” He sounds so tiny, Hajime thinks, and that’s enough. His hands find the small of Oikawa’s back, fitting there like they’re earth and wind and belong together underneath the stars and all of the planets. 

“You don’t wanna hear me say what?” 

Oikawa looks at him. His eyes are drowned galaxies, bottom lip shivering. “I don’t wanna hear you say ‘stop it already’. Or ‘that’s disgusting’. Or – “ 

“You are so goddamn dense.” Hajime’s mouth is soft on Oikawa’s, melts against his skin, and Oikawa’s eyes go wide. Hajime sighs. His best friend’s always been insecure, underneath all that fire and smoke he radiates during a game. “Listen carefully.” And Hajime leans their foreheads together, breathing in Oikawa’s scent, thumb caressing his tear-damp cheek. “Kiss me. Kiss me all you want, whenever you want – but I’m going to be the only one, got it?” 

Oikawa’s grin returns, sharp and burning. “Is that your new rule?” He asks. Hajime replies with a kiss, and warm hands on Oikawa’s cheeks, wiping the tears away. 

Iwaizumi has a secret skill that only Oikawa knows about. His mom’s famous bentos (individually prepared for every athlete’s personal needs and preferences) aren’t actually made by her.

When Oikawa swears to volleyball and his ability to serve that he won’t tell a soul, Iwaizumi lets him help one morning. Oikawa watches the skillful, efficient work of his fingers, how Iwaizumi picks colours and tastes and flattens the rice into the containers with sticky fingers.

Oikawa ends up not helping at all. Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to mind, and once they’re done, he makes Oikawa carry the bag of bentos in one hand, grabbing the other with his sticky fingers that still smell like vinegar and soy sauce.