answer, a free! - iwatobi swim club fanfic

Title: answer
Fandom: Free!
Character/Pairings: Makoto/Haru
Summary:

It takes him by surprise, like the time when Makoto raced against him freestyle and lost, body hunched over leaning against the wall of the pool before the other had thrown back his head and laughed, eyes crinkled and smile wide. He could only stare as warmth crept around his heart and filled his chest—he didn't understand why, but Makoto had gazed at him right after and the words it's meaningless with you echoed into his mind, which echoes again, now.

Notes: Written for the 2015 Makoto Birthday Fanworks Exchange for themorninglark on AO3.

Original Prompt: Anything that's more gen-leaning! I love MakoHaru together romantically, but I love it best when there's a heavy emphasis on their friendship and the memories they've built and shared over the years, as well as their friendships with others.

When Makoto graduates, they take a trip to Hokkaido.

In June, the weather is cool, but definitely not as warm as Haru thought it might be. He huddles deeper into the large fleece blanket Makoto had brought along, precisely because the other knew he would underestimate the cold and wear a little too thin. The smell of lavender is strong in the air as they take a break on a grassy hill with their sandwiches in their stomachs. They've been exploring the area leisurely, mostly either visiting lavender fields or the docks at the ocean where the fish is fresh.

It's been a slow day, mundane even. But it's not unwelcomed, as it's been a while since they've had the chance to spend time together quietly like this. Makoto had been stressing over his final examinations and job interviews in the past months, while Haru has always been busy with his strict training schedule. For once, they've managed to glean this one week to themselves. It's not like they haven't seen in other in a while—they do dinners at least once weekly, or calls (Makoto calls him to remind him to add more than just mackerel in his diet) and texts (he texts Makoto to remember to bring his water bottle to class), but it hasn't been the same ever since they left Iwatobi to be in Tokyo.

Though, now in Hokkaido with the quiet breeze in the air as Haru sighs up at the blue sky with Makoto lying back down next to him staring up contentedly, it feels like they're back home again, like they're young and fifteen and they didn't know about the world that was much much bigger than them.

"Hey, Haru," Makoto starts, voice a little hushed, with his line of sight following a cloud floating over them. "…Can I tell you a secret?"

Haru tilts his head slightly to the side to look at him. Makoto darts his gaze at him when the other notices but it shifts away quickly, which makes Haru curious. There aren't many secrets between them—if at all, since even before they were six and Makoto had clung to him in tears sobbing about accidentally stepping on a snail the day before, or when they were eight and Haru showed him a goldfish he had stolen from a matsuri stall and subsequently placed into a small corner pond. Or even when they were eleven and Makoto accidently wet the bed when they were having a sleepover, when they were fourteen and Haru admitted he nearly got into a fist fight with Kisumi over mackerel pizza, when they were seventeen and Makoto gripped his trembling hands together and said it's meaningless with you, or when they were twenty two and Haru drunk dialled him to profess his love for water in a bad rendition of a E.E Cummings poem.

Makoto brushes the lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes, but what Haru lingers on is the tremble in those long fingers. He lets Makoto absentmindedly fiddle with his own hair a bit more before speaking.

"Makoto," Haru calls his name quietly, and Makoto finally turns his head to meet their eyes properly.

Makoto's eyes are glassy clear, a vivid green, but they are wide and unsure.

All of a sudden Haru remembers the time his grandmother had passed away, even though it's been years at the back of his mind. He had been relatively close to his grandmother—his parents were always busy at work, and his grandmother was the one who took care of him; bathed him with floating fish toys in the bathtub and fed him the most delicious mackerel. But she was old and passed away peacefully just before middle school ended.

The funeral wake lasted four days, and every night Makoto pulled him aside to ask if he was alright. He always said yes—because he was, wasn't he?—he would treasure his grandmother in his heart, and life goes on. He didn't get why Makoto always looked at him with those wide and unsure green eyes that crinkled into a strained smile at his response. On the last night when he's sitting by himself out on the verdana while his parents were talking with people who had came to pay their respects, Makoto joins him quietly, occasionally darting glances and fidgeting.

The fidgeting distracts Haru enough for him to point it out. "What is it, Makoto?"

Makoto swings his legs, with that same look again. "A-ah, Haru," he begins, one hand hovering near Haru's shoulder, as though he isn't sure whether to touch the other or not. "Are…you okay?"

This time Haru narrows his eyes. "Why do you keep asking that?"

Maybe his tone was a little harsh, but he didn't want to keep getting asked the same question with the same answer. Makoto recoils slightly, as though he's prepared himself for that, but yet not enough.

"Well, it's just," Makoto says slowly, and softly. "You haven't cried once."

Haru opens his mouth to retort—but it also hits him then, that he hasn't cried once. Haru knows he's not emotional nor easily sensitive like Makoto is, but his mother has had red eyes for close to a week, and his father had excused himself to be alone twice in the past four days.

"Haru," Makoto says, with his hands bracing the corners of Haru's shoulders, chewing his bottom lip. "It's. It's okay. It will be okay."

Haru swallows, a lump suddenly thick in his throat. "...Will it?" he says, almost hoarsely, like wind had been knocked out of his lungs.

"Yes, yes it will," Makoto insists fiercely, eyes glinting with fat tears that are quick to fall, and takes Haru into a tight embrace into his arms. "I'm here for you, Haru."

Haru remembers gazing distantly with his vision blurred with tears that pricked at his eyes and yet refused to leak, held tight against Makoto's warm body and heartbeat. He remembers breathing in deep once, and feeling a huge weight suddenly crashing upon his shoulders, sadness seeping into his heart and making it sink heavy. He remembers not letting go for more than an hour, where his shoulder came away wet but Makoto's remained dry, because Makoto cried for him when he couldn't cry, no matter how badly it hurt.

Haru clearly remembers those green eyes, wide and unsure that crinkle into the same strained smile when he calls out.

"Makoto, what is it?" Haru prompts as his skin prickles. "Is it bad?" he presses when all Makoto does is to try to even out the strained smile into something less forced.

There aren't many times when Makoto's expressions are carefully held together—Makoto wears his heart on his sleeve, in the tone of his voice, the upturn of his lips or the brightness in his eyes. It's a sure warning of something important; just like how Makoto had quietly told him he was not okay under the night sky in Iwatobi when he was still lost without a dream.

"Well, no, I don't think it is," Makoto answers finally, after a bit of distracted thought.

"Okay," Haru blinks, unconvinced, but he doesn't want to push.

They haven't fought since then, but once, twice, they come close, and then Haru sees the painful flash underneath Makoto's gaze or when Makoto hears his voice edging into frustration.

But this time Makoto laughs rather abruptly in response to his non-committal murmur, similar to a gentle wave crashing down in relief.

"Hey, Haru," Makoto begins, voice hushed so soft that he strains to hear it.

Makoto's eyes are wide and unsure, and green.

Haru waits for the continuing sentence but it never comes; instead, Makoto's palm reaches towards his face, hesitating before it rests gently over his cheek. Haru notices two things: one, that Makoto's hand is shaking, and two, a pink flush floods into Makoto's face, but Makoto gazes at him resolutely, as though if their eye contact breaks, he would lose his nerve.

"I-I—…"

Haru's chest clenches as he sees Makoto's lips trying to form the words the other so desperately wants to.

It brings him back to when they were just a couple of months new in Tokyo, when he still couldn't stop wondering why Makoto had asked to race him in an official match whenever they swam together, and Makoto finally answered him with a deliberate shrug and a soft murmur 'I guess, I was jealous of Rin' and the same pink colour rising up the other's neck before it was quickly replaced by a bright smile and a challenge to reach the other end of the pool first.

It hits him then, what Makoto is trying to say—the I was jealous of Rin, the it's meaningless without you, the I'm here for you, the it's okay, it will be okay—

Makoto, the one who cried for him when he couldn't, so Haru can say it for Makoto when the other can't.

Haru takes a quiet breath, his palm coming up to cover Makoto's hand to quell the tremble between them, interlacing their fingers slightly.

He meets Makoto's eyes with his own, wide and sure, bright blue eyes.

"Me too."

Fin.