In every friendship exists a line, one that stands in order to prevent everything from falling apart, and sometimes to hold back. Hajime knew this, and so did Oikawa. They danced often around this line through the years; they knew that dance better than anyone else. Hajime knew, just as much as Oikawa, that there was something between them, hovering just on the other side of that line, always within reach but not quite within reason.
That something was ever-present, hidden beneath small touches of comfort, laughs shared with crinkled eyes, and gazes held for far too long for just friends. It was there–Hajime knew, Oikawa knew–always noticed but never spoken on.
But Hajime could feel the line quivering, threatening to break by his own weak will, cracks appearing with every radiant, genuine smile Oikawa gave him, every “Iwa-chan” that grew less teasing and more sincere with each passing year. He figured it was a miracle, for the line to have remained intact this long anyways, but knew that miracles didn’t always last.
And maybe sometimes they weren’t supposed to, he thought, listening to the gentle breaths Oikawa made as he rested his head on Hajime’s shoulder. The redness around his eyes (which Hajime couldn’t see, but knew was there nonetheless) served as the only remaining indication of the tears that were shed in their graduation ceremony. It was quiet, nothing but the summer cicadas making their drones through the still air, as Hajime traced the veins in Oikawa’s hands–bony fingers grown strong from their years of controlling a ball, bending entire games’ outcomes to their will.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa were there as well, somewhere–the party was for all the third years, after all–but they had left to get some festival food before the fireworks were to begin. Hajime was left with Oikawa, just the two of them, as it always was.