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Cool rivets of water pool into the curves of Haruka's hands. They fill all the lines in his palms and gaps in between his fingers at a rapid rate, a funnel of it spluttering from an iron spout, and Haruka welcomingly brings it to his face, revelling in the reprieve of it against and between his skin. Splashing it over his forehead and nose, dripping and gritty with sweat, he has half a mind to pull his jersey off his torso entirely and head straight down to the pool, only stopped by the thought of the trouble he'd get into with the coach once he finds out, as he inevitably would, and the fact that he's going to be benched for the next and final quarter, anyway. Instead, he stares down at the number on the striped shirt hanging limply across his chest, its soaked hem bunched in one hand.
Nanase, it reads, in thick, bold letters. 1.
The irony isn't lost on him. Haruka hates soccer practice, the way it makes him run and sweat even when he'd rather be relaxing in the pool, and the endless shouts of Here! Here! when swimming is quieter, calmer, and doesn't need anyone to pass anything, be it sound waves, or soccer balls. Unlike water, balls have never bended to his will, always either having flown too fast, or too hard, ricocheting off the tip of his sneakers and uneven tufts of grass in a way that had been unruly at best, or even unpredictable, if Haruka had been unlucky enough. He'd never understood why people played ball sports when water can be so much more inviting, when swimming could give away so much freedom, could give you so much control.
Haruka does his best to stay away from the action, letting Makoto cover him where he can while touching base whenever needed. Makoto's always been more of an all-rounder than Haruka anyway, and his team clearly prefers it when Makoto takes charge and Haruka takes decidedly less. Makoto has always been good at ball sports and doesn't seem to mind or notice the extra work, his whole attention during the match usually focussed on the two guys on the other side determined to keep the ball off him. Haruka spends most of the match standing still in the corner of the court, eyes drifting toward the communal sink once every few minutes and waiting, impatiently, for quarter time.
As he shakes his head, letting the droplets lie where they fall and enjoying the few flecks that land on his shoulders and chest, he can feel Makoto edging closer, a familiar shadow falling slowly across him as a wrangled towel brushes against his earlobe. The shadow keeps inching closer even after Haruka steps away to get his water bottle, letting water stream down his throat in aborted squirts, and Haruka realises. Makoto's not paying attention. Again.
Thinking quickly, Haruka steadies Makoto with an arm the moment before he falls backwards into the sink. Makoto's eyebrows lift before his hand brushes metal and he finally notices, glances over. The look in his eyes is a whisper of Haru-chan, of appreciation, and of apology, too, and then that impish, gnawing feeling that's become less and less of a stranger to Haruka over the past few months once again rears its head.
It's a phantom of a feeling that can't be placed, an itch although it really shouldn't be, shouldn't even bother Haruka at all. But even as Haruka silently resists, nudging it away to a place where it should never resurface, it spikes up again momentarily, catching Haruka when he least expects it, threatening to bubble up again and to make its presence known. As if Haruka wasn't already aware.
You, it calls softly, demanding Haruka's undivided attention at strange times of the day. It reaches out to Haruka like a siren's voice, in the kitchen, from the depths of the pool, between the covers as Haruka's about to drift into sleep, and sometimes warmly, chafing between Haruka's legs. It forces Haruka to look up, to indulge it and its warm, million-watt smile, the one that catches Haruka in its moments of uncertainty, seeming almost vulnerable. As if monopolising everyone else's attention wasn't already enough, it's a feeling that won't let Haruka forget.
Haruka, it says, at once obnoxious and self-important, at once soft and inviting, when Haruka ignores it and only squeezes the sides of his bottle. Trickles of water down his throat thicken into streams as Haruka steels himself, fingers twitching. It doesn't bother him at all.
Haru, it pleads, goads, commands.
Look at me.
And Haruka looks, looks even though all his senses are telling him not to, to stay away, unable, in the end, to resist. His eyes dart outward even as his shoulders remain angled away, back onto the field where the remnants of raucous laughter still reverberate.
A shout, a rippling echo. Chanting and whistles, as the whole world sparks alive. Next to him, Makoto laughs, bright and warm, and without looking, Haruka knows both their eyes are trained on centre, on the only figure who could invoke that kind of laughter as easily as drawing water from a tap. Like child's play, like an arch, raised eyebrow and a light nudge was all it ever took, and never more. Always him.
Go, Matsuoka! Go!
The boy with hair the colour of burgundy streaks across the plain, legs stretching, each step only extending even further than the last. He leaps swiftly, jumps bounds, manoeuvring the ball like putty between his feet, grin only stretching wider as the chants grow louder. He runs like he knows the world lies at his feet, calls his name, knows it would thank him profusely to take him in its loving, longing mouth, to suck and lick his every crevice and receptacle clean; to swallow anything of his like it would quench its insatiable thirst.
Watch me, Haru.
He runs like the world is his and his alone, dipping past those who swerve in to steal his thunder, laughing, his smile wicked as he evades not only once, but again and again. Haruka finds that he can't look away, eyes glued to the figure barrelling through their defences, powering the ball into their net with a strong, sinewy kick. Something a little like envy and something a little like awe surges up into his chest.
Rin's team roars.
Rin, Haruka mouthes, the world quietening again around him, his tongue flicking inadvertently with the silent syllable. Rin smiles his million-watt smile tinged with pride and bashfulness before he's tackled by a dozen players, one after the other, his radiant, triumphant face quickly engulfed by layers upon layers of jock body mass. Rin, Haruka wants to say out loud, let his tongue taste, but he clamps down on it instead, angry and ashamed. The world clamours for Rin, vies for him, and Haru, as always, simply itches and watches.
Yamazaki lugs Rin out from Kisumi's iron grasp to pull him into a rough, one-armed hug of his own, but Haruka doesn't see any of it, already moving, walking, sprinting, Makoto's vaguely anxious, calling voice only a distant hum at the back of his mind.
He doesn't want to notice Rin, ever. He wants to look at Rin, maybe for forever.
He shucks off his soccer shorts and jersey hastily, leaving them crumpled on the tiled floor of the natatorium as he slices, once again, into chlorinated blue.
***
When Haruka breaches the water after a few leisurely laps down the pool after class one evening, Rin's waiting, hands on hips. Haruka doesn't know where to look at first, heartbeat failing to slow. He eventually settles for Rin's face, where black Speedos are already positioned over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Haru," Rin says, never a question. He snaps the elastic of his goggles with a finger as he steps away, and up onto the adjacent block. "Let's race."
When Haruka fails to respond, both irritated and excited that Rin would be intruding in his limited, solo pool time, Rin cracks a loose smile, eyes sharp and challenging. "Two laps, Haru. Winner has to buy the other soda."
Haru wants to tell Rin that if he wants soda, Yamazaki could always pretend to lose in rock paper scissors like he always does, but Rin tuts, and Haru finds himself getting up onto his block with a furrow between his brows. He's always been sparked easily by Rin, and unwilling to lose without a fight.
Rin laughs, almost knowingly, and Haru, feeling his cheeks run hot, looks out to the other end of the pool, focussing on the stretch that lies right ahead.
Now, watch me, Rin seems to say, when he taps Haruka uncertainly on the shoulder, and says, Ready.
Haruka nods, bending down on his knees. He nods to the signal to dive, to the plead to watch, or maybe, to both.
They dive in.