Chapter Text
"Next stop, Iwatobi. Next stop, Iwatobi.”
Rin startles awake at the sound of the automated message, a slight, reverberated twang in the otherwise soft, cheery voice exposing its robotic speaker. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, the fringes of his red bangs tangling with his fingers as his arms move up and down slowly and sluggishly.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep — honestly he had wanted to stay awake — but the plane ride was long and tedious, and even though Rin was used to flying by now, an aching part of him, a part of him that didn’t know what he’d face when he returned, kept him wide awake until his feet touched the ground he knew so well; a ground that, despite all his jitters and doubts, made him feel solid and secure — as if all he had to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, slowly, until he made it back to Iwatobi, back to Haru.
Noticing a slight pinch in his back, Rin begins rolling his shoulders, moving his neck from side to side as he tries to rid his body of the stiffness it accrued from the two and a half hour ride between the airport and the Iwatobi train stop, having inadvertently fallen asleep with his shoulders slouched over his legs in an awkward hunched-forward position — mind too overwhelmed with the thought that in a few hours he’d see Haru in person again for the first time in over a year that he had simply chosen to not think, not process, not be.
But the two and a half hours between him and Iwatobi had become two hours by the time Rin remembered dozing off, and now that he's awake again, the distance between him and Haru could be meaningfully signified in minutes, for soon he’d be getting off at Iwatobi, and from there he'd have a little less than an hour's walk between the station and Haru’s old home.
Rin turns his head to look out the window, the sun slowly setting against a foreground of open water as the train slowly decreases its speed. If nothing else, the sight of the ocean — blue and fathomless — always calms him knowing that it will connect him to his loved ones no matter where they are. But there’s something especially bittersweet about seeing the coast from his own homeland, a reminder that every journey leads to return. There are some places, some people, you can’t escape from, but Rin finds that those bonds are also the source of his greatest strength — the very reason why he fights so hard and so far, as if every competition will be his last. Why he’s never stopped, despite wanting to every time he hit wall after wall.
Feeling a slight vibration against his thigh, Rin fumbles in his pocket for his cellphone, the numbers 5:13 PM flashing across the screen and blinding him with its white glare. He has a few texts from Gou and his mother asking him if he got in okay, one text from Mikhail telling him not to slack on his training regimen, and scattered texts from Rei, Nagisa, Ikuya, Asahi, and many others asking him to give Haru their love; that they’d visit as soon as they could (but Rin knows they won’t, not because they don’t love Haru, but because they love him too much.
No one can reach him through this despite how hard they’ve tried. And Rin knows a small part of them wonders if he even can). Sousuke only said one thing when he told him he was leaving: Bring him back. Rin isn’t quite sure if he’s ready to understand what he meant.
His heart suddenly starts racing again in that odd way it always does whenever he’s about to face Haru after a long time separated by land and sea, by far-off victories and defeats and the struggles that come from walking a path without an easy destination. Not because he’s scared Haru won’t be the same, but because no matter how much time has changed, it never feels like they have. That, at their core, to each other, they were and always will be just Rin and Haru.
But things are different this time. Now, Makoto is gone. And Rin knows that if he and Haru have always been Rin and Haru, then Haru and Makoto have always been Haru and Makoto. But now that only half of that equation is left, does half of Haru only remain, too?
“Iwatobi-station, Iwatobi-station. You have arrived at Iwatobi-station. Have a pleasant rest of your day.”
Rin doesn’t have much time to mull the question over before the train comes to a smooth, puttering stop. People begin shuffling around, grabbing bags off of the train rack and stretching their legs for whatever journey lies ahead of them.
All Rin brought was a single backpack — he was never really good at planning these things — and he hopes anything else he’ll need he’ll be able to get from his mother’s home, only a quick train ride away. The backpack is the same one he took on his trip to Australia with Haru all those years ago. Perhaps it was sentiment, perhaps it was superstition, but Rin felt it was the only thing he could bring if he was going to help piece Haru slowly back together.
He grabs his backpack and slings it onto his shoulders as he moves toward the train doors, waiting for a few seconds to let an elderly couple pass ahead of him. They smile at him in thanks before moving forward, and soon Rin follows in their footsteps, eager to walk after so much stillness.
When his feet hit the smooth concrete, a familiar bounce and roll jolts through his ankles. When he breathes in, his lungs fill with salt and brine, the smell of the ocean always seeming to permeate the air no matter where you are in Iwatobi. The reality of what he’s about to do crashes into him just then, and he almost has to steady himself against the train doors to stop himself from stumbling. As the automated voice warns that the doors are about to close, he forces himself to relax, straightening his shoulders as his hands drop to his sides. It’s not like he’s never done this before. He can count the steps between Iwatobi station and Haru’s home; knows the way so innately as if Haru’s home were true north. All he needs to do now is walk. And breathe.
He’ll find a way to figure out the rest because he has to. When it comes to Haru, Rin has never truly taken “no” for an answer, partly because he knows Haru never means it, partly because since the moment Rin met him, he has never wanted to walk without Haru by his side. Maybe Rin is the unstoppable force to Haru’s immovable object, but he knows that in the end, somehow, one of them always yields. (But this time, it really can’t be him. It cannot).
As Rin walks, he can slowly feel the life coming back to his limbs, and the slightest sense of ease settles over him, something he hasn’t felt ever since Haru told him he was quitting the national team, and swimming, forever. The memory of that moment still sends pinpricks down Rin’s neck, the moment when he thought he was truly losing Haru for good this time, naive to the fact he might have already lost him. Rin remembers how his gut and throat felt black and curling, the sense of dread so total he couldn’t feel his fingertips, his spine. It was almost as devastating as the moment when Rin was told Makoto had died. Rin couldn’t walk after he heard the news; felt a total disassociation from himself and everything that had happened in his life so far if he had to accept it was the same life that Makoto no longer existed in.
Rin is no stranger to death, but that doesn’t mean he understands it any better now than when he was six years old. In fact, in some ways, it feels like he understands it even less. The only way he knows how to grieve is to live, to strive — chasing after the dreams of his father in hopes that he might find him again. But losing a father at six is so much different than losing a precious friend at twenty-six. Without pictures of his face, Rin isn’t sure he’d be able to recall the curve of his father’s mouth or the creases under his eyes. With Makoto, it feels like Rin can picture him everywhere, the absence of his hulking presence making his loss even more pronounced, as if there’s an omnipresent void where Makoto should be, so demanding Rin can’t help but squint and turn it into its formerly living counterpart whenever he shifts his gaze.
Iwatobi is, was, as much Makoto’s home as Haru's. Even though it’s the place where Rin found his new dream, he can’t help but feel like an interloper at times. He chuckles to himself as he remembers how audacious he was — still is — barging into Haru and the others’ lives three months before graduating their last year of elementary school. It’s true they never asked for him to come and shake things up; how comical it must have been for him to suddenly begin demanding things of them despite having never known them before, to suddenly irrevocably change their lives as if he had a claim to them.
Haru and Makoto had built their lives together long before Rin, and sometimes he catches himself wondering what those years were like without him, both before he came and after he left. He also wonders what would have happened if he stayed and never went to Australia, if he’d just been a little more considerate of the people whose lives he was crashing into. If he’d realized his new dream just a little bit sooner. Everything might be different now, or everything might still be the same. Makoto might still be dead, and Haru might have still quit professional swimming. Rin knows not to dwell in the past because it never moves you forward, but when the past is all that remains of a life, the hard lines of this knowledge begin to blur. He wishes life were as simple as maxims make it out to be, but if it were, he never would have met Haru or Makoto, and that’s one thing he knows he would never change or trade.
As he walks, the sun sinks deeper into the sky, sending orange vaporwaves across a palette of deep blue. The air is still warm at the tail-end of summer, and with the sun setting it isn’t sticky-hot like how it usually is in Australia during this time. The ocean breeze cuts through any pockets of lingering heat, and the streets are mostly quiet as everyone is already settled into their homes now that summer break is over and school has begun again. It’s almost perfect, and Rin is surprised to realize just how much he has missed Iwatobi. He’s even more surprised when the thought that he could live here for the rest of his life flashes across his mind, but he pushes it away because he doesn’t need it right now. No one asked him to come, no one asked him to stay. Least of all Haru. And yet, he’s the reason why Rin is here. He’s always the reason.
When Rin reaches the base of the stairs leading up to Haru and Makoto’s homes, he pauses, needing to dig deep within himself to find the courage that brought him this far. He slides his thumbs under the straps of his backpack, running them repeatedly against the rough fabric more out of nervous habit than anything else.
As he gazes upward, he’s hit with the general sense that everything has aged in the two years since he was last here, when he came after Makoto died. Back then, the stairs were a pale shade of gray so bright Rin swore someone had to be polishing them. Now, lichen covers the concrete steps and torii arches above them, transforming the gray cement into a sickly shade of mint green. The tiling on the surrounding homes looks like smatterings of patchwork quilts, their colors unevenly faded, and the foliage seems wilder than usual, bushes creeping over property lines and grass lawns no longer neatly manicured. Rin thinks it’s ironic, because the world seemed to stop moving at Makoto’s funeral, and yet he’s currently staring at living proof that it hasn't. Life doesn’t care about the people who don’t have it anymore. It just keeps living.
He wonders if Haru thought the same thing when he returned last year, and as he does, the creeping fear that he shouldn’t even be here slips in — that he has no right to be at Haru’s side after everything that has passed. It’s another thing he doesn’t have time to worry about when the only thing that matters seems so obvious: if Haru is here, then of course Rin should be, too. But Rin feels he’s outgrown such fairy-tale sentiments when the world seems to constantly spit in the face of them.
He takes a breath, tightens his grip on his bag, and lifts his foot. Despite their new appearance, it’s the same set of stairs from his youth, with the same grooves and shallow indents carved by feet much older than his. He even spots the small crack left behind when Nagisa tripped and chipped his tooth, the younger boy falling with so much force his mouth was able to nick something seemingly indestructible. It wasn’t the best memory at the time given all the blood that quickly stained the steps and Makoto almost fainting at the sight, but now Rin is grateful for the reminder that some things haven’t changed.
When he passes by the Tachibana’s home his breath stills. He knows he’ll have to visit them soon, but he’s unsure if his presence will be wanted there anymore than it will be at Haru’s. It’s not that he’s worried they’ll turn him away — the Tachibana’s are far too kind for that — it’s that he doesn’t know what memories or dashed hopes his presence might trigger, and Rin swore to himself a long time ago that above anything else, he doesn’t want to cause people anymore pain because of his selfish or clumsy acts. But if Rin knows anything he knows the inevitability of pain and disappointment, just as he knows that when he sees the Tachibana’s again all he’ll be able to picture is their bright-eyed, cheerful son, and the utterly somber and grief-stricken faces that lined his funeral. Rin has to sink his sharp teeth into his gums to stop remembering it; if he thinks about it for too long he knows the memory will show on his face, and right now, he needs to be strong for Haru.
With a few more steps, he finally reaches the landing to Haru’s home. It’s properly dark now, only the faint glow of stars shining high above and flickering muted window lights guiding his way. None are on in Haru’s house, his home a bastion of darkness blending into the night sky. It’d be concerning if it weren’t somewhat typical of Haru, who always claimed he never needed that many lights on anyway. “It’s only me in here. What use do I have for them when I already know where everything is?” Plus, Haru prefers everything more natural, more free. When he’s alone, the sun is all the light he needs.
As Rin walks forward, he spots something small sitting on the ground, lying in front of Haru’s door. He leans down and comes up with a tightly wrapped double-layer bento box. It’s wrapped in a soft cloth, pale faded jade marred with blotches of old soap stains, a pair of wooden chopsticks gently nestled beneath the knot. Rin figures the Tachibana’s must have left it — always looking after Haru even before his grandmother passed away. He wonders how long it’s been sitting here, and what happens to the boxes in the event Haru never opens the door. But he figures Haru and the Tachibana’s must have worked out some type of system, otherwise the neighbors would complain too often about the smell of spoiled food. Nevertheless, Rin is grateful they’re looking out for Haru in the event that he can’t or won’t look after himself.
Staring at the box, he remembers how, when they were younger and the sky had been dark for a while and everyone else had long since fallen asleep, Haru would sometimes tell him stories about his parents. What his life was like now that they were gone. Rin was always impressed by how much Haru could open up when he wanted to, when he didn’t feel like people and their expectations were biting at his throat. But even without Haru’s words, Rin could tell just from observing them during the few short months he was in Iwatobi how much the Tachibana’s loved Haru — how they treated him like one of their own, how he really was one of them at some level. Haruka Tachibana.
Rin doesn't quite know why his heart aches at the thought of the name. Wonders who Haru would be without Makoto, without his parents and his little siblings offering their ceaseless love and care and support, always only a stairway away at any given moment. Rin has a sudden, clear image of them getting up this morning to make Haru the bento. He sees Mrs. Tachibana waking up and putting a pot of rice on the stove as Mr. Tachibana heads out to grab fish from the market before the morning crowds can steal the best catch. And when he returns home, Rin imagines them quietly working side by side, placing three bentos on the counter instead of two, as if their oldest never left, still blessed with the ability to be taken care of.
The thought is staggering — the graciousness of such people who, even in the depths of their own grief, ensure that their son’s best friend is fed, incapable of resting when they know they’re still needed. Rin thinks about how painful it must be for them to watch Haru slip away, too, as if they’re losing their son twice over. He figures only they can begin to grasp the anguish Haru feels — the vast emptiness that comes with losing someone you thought you’d have forever; someone who is as much a part of you as your own flesh and blood. Everyone was friends with Makoto, everyone loved Makoto, but Rin knows he and Haru’s bond transcended the boundaries of friendship and veered more towards the grounds of a soul connection. Where one ended and the other began, Rin was never quite sure.
Only when Rin looks down does he notice how much pressure his thumbs are creating upon the top of the box, pressing so hard he’s created a shallow trench of dark green among the pale green sea of fabric. He immediately stops, loosening his grip and running his palm along the top to smooth out the ripples. Rin has always been the type of person who acts exactly how he feels, but sometimes the meaning behind his actions elude his understanding. He doesn’t like it, hates feeling out of control in his own body. He needs to pull himself together, or he’ll stand no chance.
Rin swallows then, knowing he’s waited long enough. With the bento in his left hand, he knocks nervously with his right, before switching to pressing the doorbell like an impatient child because he knows Haru won’t answer if he doesn’t, and because he doesn’t know what else to do while he waits. He knows Haru is in, when Rin last texted the Tachibana’s asking if they thought Haru would want to see him they mentioned he rarely came over to their house anymore despite repeatedly inviting him, and that besides those visits, he seemingly never went out at all. They also told Rin that, out of everyone, Makoto talked about him the most in relation to Haru, and that Makoto seemed to be very fond of his and Haru’s relationship. Rin didn’t know whether to smile or cry at their words. Instead, all he sent was a quick “thank you” before quickly shutting off his phone and walking to his club’s indoor pool even though it was after hours and the facilities were closed. Mikhail had entrusted him with a spare king, and in that moment all he felt was the overwhelming urge to escape without even really knowing why (or, if Rin were being more honest, he knew the answer. He just never asked the right questions).
Everything stops mattering though the moment when Rin stills his hand long enough to hear the gentle padding of footsteps beyond the door, landing in a rhythm so familiar the sound erases all anxiety from his chest, from his mind. And when the door slides open, revealing a shock of midnight hair and eyes as clear as water, Rin lets out a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding.
A smile crests his face, all lips, no teeth, moving so instinctively it’s as if Haru is the moon and Rin’s mouth is the ocean, pulled inexorably, unceasingly, by his presence.
“Hey, Haru.”