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The beach was fucking loud.
That was one thing that nobody ever seemed to mention when it came to stories, articles, or whatever the hell there was that involved a beach. Beaches were loud. Didn’t matter if it was high or low tide, rain or shine. If there was a beach, you almost always had to shout to make yourself heard.
Another thing about the beach: the surf wanted you dead. No question. It didn’t matter if Hajime watched for the darkened damp parts of the sand and tried to keep an eye on the waves. His ankles still got washed over with the coldest fucking water in existence, complete with mystery ‘things’ that would brush up against his legs as the tide thinned back out to sea with its churning rumbles.
And, of course, Hajime was getting the worst of it. Because he had deliberately put himself closer to the surf as he walked along with Nagito Komaeda strolling at his side. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, at least in his mind. He wasn’t sure if Nagito even noticed (or cared).
Another thing about the beach: the sand was piss to walk in. You never ‘walked’ on the beach; it was more that you shuffled along and high-stepped through packed-down sand like you were some dressage horse in the American Midwest.
Hajime’s pants were rolled-up to just below his knees. He didn’t have a swimsuit, because that would mean outing himself to a group of people who either had already guessed he was trans or were just too oblivious to notice. He still wasn’t sure which group Nagito fell under, and that on its own was a whole other can of worms.
A larger wave curled up and gushed itself forward, spewing a mist of spray that smelled like a fish tank that was coated in algae. Nagito tapped at his shoulder with the stump of his left arm in a silent warning.
But the wave collapsed before it even reached the shoreline, and the water only pushed itself up to lick at the side of Hajime’s bare foot.
The sun was starting to set. It bathed the water in a pretty autumn glow that made the white foam look like it had patches of orange like a lazy calico cat. It was, by all conventional definitions, the perfect romantic setting.
Because that was thing, wasn’t it? Hajime was head over heels for the man walking at his side, a head taller than he was, a self-proclaimed ‘disaster gay’, and a daily wearer of a horrible ratty green jacket that had its ends nearly constantly sugarcoated in sand granules that would glitter in the sun.
Hajime kept stealing glances in Nagito’s direction just to see how the sunlight filtered through his eyelashes, or how his cheeks always turned ruddy whenever he was chilled, despite wearing his coat. He seemed to get cold so easily.
Another wave stretched in, a great foaming tongue that swept over the tops of their bare feet. Hajime stopped to dig in his toes and brace himself from falling over. Without thinking, he shot a hand out and took Nagito’s forearm in a firm grip. “Careful,” he muttered.
Nagito stopped as well, sharpened his stance, and turned to look at Hajime with an unreadable half-smile. “How sweet of you, Hajime. Very chivalrous.” His laugh was a crow’s croak. Some people might have found it annoying. Hajime thought otherwise.
The tide fell back to the ocean, the noise dimmed. Hajime didn’t think, maybe because his hand was touching hot skin and he was caught up in thinking about where to put his feet without falling over and the five places in which Nagito’s lips were cracked and bleeding and how rough they’d feel if he were to kiss him.
“I love you.” The words spewed out of him, flat and devoid of any kind of that sensual quality he had often fantasized about. So much for tact.
Nagito was staring at him. Hajime could see the way that his hair was sweeping from his scalp, with the top layer damp from ocean spray and the rest hideously tangled. Nagito’s eyes were colored like broken glass, wide and staring. He looked like a prey animal.
Finally, after what felt like a full minute, Nagito asked, “sorry?” like he hadn’t just heard Hajime vomit his guts out in front of him.
Hajime felt sick. “I love you.” Another quilted blanket of water covered his feet. He felt himself sink into a slurry of sand before adding, “and I’m trans.”
He didn’t know why he said that or why he felt the need to out himself. He didn’t know why he was saying anything, let alone on a loud as fuck beach with his hand still clasped over a too-thin and too-pale arm that was shivering underneath his hold.
Nagito licked his lips. His eyes had started to dull over. “You can’t,” he said. His voice, even over the roar of the water, came in weak and strangled. “You can’t.” But he didn’t wrench his arm away. He let Hajime keep its grip. “You just can’t.”
“Why not?” Hajime asked. He didn’t let go, but he stepped up from the mire of sand that was seeping around his ankles.
“Because something this wonderful happening can only mean the worst for you,” Nagito whispered, but his voice was low enough to not get lost at sea. His eyes were turning glossy, and Hajime knew then that he was going to cry. “You can’t. I can’t let that happen to you.” He blinked and tears streaked down his apple red cheeks. “You’re too good.”
Hajime felt something flex in his chest, like a pulsing ache. Maybe it was indigestion. Maybe it was something else. He felt his mouth do that gross gaping thing and he remembered how often his mother would chastise him for it, something about it not being ‘lady-like’.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked. It was a stupid thing to ask, even stupider and more insensitive to not acknowledge that Nagito had basically implicitly reciprocated his feelings, in a way. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Nagito worried his lip and looked inland. “I do, though. That’s the problem,” he said. “As soon as I do, a large wave might come in and carry you out through a riptide. You’ll die.” He spoke in a stammer.
“Well, I’ve never been a great swimmer.” Hajime tried to laugh. It came out as a limp cough. “We could, uh, go inside one of our cottages, if you want.”
“To kiss?”
“Uh.” Hajime almost wished for a riptide to zip in and carry him to death, or at least to splash his face and have the coldness of it shock the redness out of his skin. “Yeah, uh. If you want. As long as, you know, you want to.”
“I do.” Nagito swiveled himself around and, with his one hand, seized hold of Hajime’s in a grip tight enough to hurt.
“Shit, uh… alright.” Hajime stepped forward, away from the water, back to a crumbled bit of civilization. “Don’t expect anything good. I, uh. I’ve never kissed another guy before. Only girls.”
“I don’t care.” Nagito’s look could have cut through rock. He was pointedly staring at Hajime’s mouth.
“Fuck, okay.” Hajime couldn’t really parse what was going on in the maze of his stomach right then, other than a cocktail of embarrassment and arousal. It was weird and new and he didn’t really know how to interpret it. “Let’s go, then, I guess?”
Nagito hummed some kind of an affirmation and threaded their fingers together. He tugged and took a few steps towards the dunes, those rolling ephemeral hilltops of short-lived grasses and scrubby moss. “Come on, then.”
One more thing about the beach: it was easy to walk away from, even as its remnants clung to skin and clothes.
It was content that way, to live as a stowaway to places more private.