A/N: ik rinharu is my trap queen, but makoharu is kinda the hot side-bitch so /shot
anyway, warnings for ooc-ness, mature themes, yandere!mako-chan (pls forgive me, i had to)
also a different style of writing, focused in haru's pov
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"What was that, Haru-chan? Do you really think your sorry is enough? So cute."
.
.
It hadn't started out like this.
How could anyone expect anything more from the sort of relationship they had? Tachibana Makoto was a crutch, a support. He was an advice column, a mentor, the tide to pull him in. His dearest friend. Completely satisfied with these arrangements in his life, Haruka had never put thought into the gazes that lingered for a second too long and the stutters that wrecked his voice when their hearts were exposed on warm summer nights.
Oblivious. Maybe even a little bit selfish; to be loved so deeply and offer only a fraction in return. That was the way this went. Day after day, falling into the same routine, seeing the same faces and limiting themselves to this one-sided affair.
His confession had come as a surprise.
Haruka's eyes had widened, lips parted, cheeks flushed in the subtle manner that Makoto had always found utterly adorable – even commenting a moment later, despite the frantic state of his own nerves, and forcing the smaller of the two to turn his head to the side.
Saying … no. No, no, no. That was out of the question. He hadn't been entirely sure of his feelings. In fact, at the time, Haruka had little interest in the notion of romantic love. Many had speculated the freestyle swimmer was already far too enamored with water to open himself for another. But this was Makoto, the person he trusted more than himself, and if repaying years of kindness and support meant to give himself up, he would do it.
No longer would this remain platonic. Or comfortable, for that matter.
Becoming used to the kissing had taken some work. He would often get away with pressing quick pecks to the brunet's cheeks and forehead, but there were also times when Makoto would capture his wrist in a grip just short of actually firm and tug him in to taste the chlorine on his lips. Hand-holding, hugging, it all followed after they had begun to officially date.
Making love. What was that, now? The idea had initially deterred Haruka. Men and women, that sounded right, but Makoto had managed to express his desire for more than the innocent touches they shared alone. Somehow, he fell prey to the lust that coated his fingertips in those moments and allowed himself to be vulnerable. The mask that often kept him guarded at all times crumbling away into nothingness whenever Makoto murmured against his throat and held his heart in a vise.
Somewhere along the way, Haruka believed that maybe … Maybe he'd also finally fallen in love. He wouldn't have to feel guilty or see the other's affections as an experiment, as a thing he had been toying with for months.
It was nice. The relationship they had.
It was safe.
.
.
"Com'on – look at me, won't you? That's better. Now, try again."
.
.
Except, Makoto was changing.