Author's Note: This is essentially my biggest, fan-girliest dream for a MakoHaru reunion post episode 12, written hastily in overly vague language and without much dialogue. But, I hope you enjoy it. :)

Come cry with me over otp feels at my tumblr, "ishouldbeanimated"

Makoto has always been a fascinating set of contradictions, a combination of hards and softs that Haru had begrudgingly begun to find interesting in middle school, pleasing at the onset of high school, and, now, captivating for a few months more than he had been willing to admit to himself.

He hadn't been prepared for the want that came with that fascination, with wanting to touch when he hadn't wanted to before, to know if Makoto's skin was as soft as his voice, his gaze, his smile, or to feel how hard each defined muscle would be under his fingers. He hadn't been prepared for wandering thoughts about how Makoto would kiss; if it would come with whispers of Haru's name on his tongue, or if it would be firm, strong, reassuring like the grasp that pulled him from the water's embrace. He hadn't been prepared for the sense of urgency that accompanied these wants, the change that would set into their relationship once these feelings had hit Haru, hard.

He hadn't been prepared, until he'd realized what he wanted, what he'd almost lost, what he could have if he just said so.

And then, suddenly, he was.

He says Makoto's name with urgency, an apology, a confession, both spilling off of his tongue in a confusing mix, pleading and desperate in a way he's never expected to let himself feel, and before he's finished he's surrounded by warmth; strong arms holding Haru firmly against Makoto's chest, yet gently enough to let him move freely, to place his own arms up and around Makoto's neck and let his fingers curl in the soft, sandy locks that smell faintly of the citrus shampoo he's come to associate with Makoto, with sweetness, with comfort.

Makoto's kiss is tender at first, testing but not hesitant, and the skin under Haru's hands as he searches for more, more of everything, more of Makoto, in the mess of blankets on his bed is hard in a way he finds exhilarating, yet the way Makoto yields to his touch entices him more. He learns he loves each inch of hardness under soft skin, loves feeling the muscles pull under his hands, the goosebumps beneath his mouth, the weight against his own body. Haru pulls Makoto to him, needs to be closer, and, despite the absence of space between them, somehow, Makoto makes him feel as if he's done just that, covering him in warm kisses and grasping touches and words he feels only just barely convey everything that exists between them. And when they fall asleep, it is beside each other, legs tangled, facing one another, as Makoto presses his lips to Haru's head in a soft pattern that tapers out until he falls asleep.

When Haru wakes, it is to the gentle mouth that parts just slightly when Makoto sleeps, just as it is now, releasing soft, sleepy puffs of air against this ear.

A flush slips over Haru's skin, memories of how that same mouth had found his for the first time, how it trailed over his skin, soft and warm, wet and demanding while still questioning, constantly, if this was alright (yes), could he keep going (yes), did he like this (yes). Haru reaches out to touch his parted lips gently, tracing the rosy flesh with his fingertip until Makoto's lips twitch at the touch and he withdraws, needlessly afraid of waking him, of losing this moment before he's sure he's etched every detail of it in his memory.

Makoto stirs, green gaze still made soft by sleep, made warm when he takes in Haru's presence beside him, the gentle smile he has always shared with Haru different than it had been before, fuller of something Haru suspects Makoto had tried to hide before Haru had stood upon tiptoes to meet the same gentle, smiling mouth with his own. Haru almost feels as though he's been cheated for not having seen this look sooner, when they had an eternity of tomorrows before them instead of a set date for their separation, even if that separation is only temporary. He feels guilty for failing to have sought this look before they'd almost unraveled completely.

"I'm sorry, Makoto." The words hang like the dust floating through the lines of light that sneak in through the gaps in the curtains of his room, and he wonders if they were necessary at all, but feels better knowing they're there, hovering between them. The smile flickers slightly in what Haru believes is surprise, before Makoto's hand, warm and large, but gentle in its touch, traces down the curve of his cheek, his jaw, and finds Haru's own hand curled against his chest, works the clasped fingers apart, slots his own between them.

"You don't have to keep saying it, Haru. I know." Haru wonders how Makoto does that, says sweet things with more meaning than one would realize if they didn't know how to listen for the definitive yet tender implications of each cadence in his speech. Of all the contradictions Makoto contains, Haru is most grateful for the soft heart that adamantly loved him through every faltering step, through every moment of strength and weakness, when it would have been easier to let him go.

He could tell Makoto again that he's just as much a part of his dreams as swimming, that as long as his future is full of Makoto than the rest it is of little consequence. He could, but the words feel heavy on his tongue, although not unpleasant, in this moment. Instead, he inches forward into the space between them, holding their clasped hands against his chest, and presses his lips to Makoto's again, a feeling so new yet already familiar, comforting, like the warmth of his bed or the ease of water around him.

He could tell Makoto again that he loves him, just as he had before he found himself in his embrace, just as he had against his skin hours ago, but he doesn't. He doesn't have to, when Makoto knows, and repeats "i love you too" to him, wordlessly, against his mouth.