Hajime looked over at him, eyes cutting through the crowded hallway with ease because he will always, always be able to find him without much difficulty. Tooru was wearing his track jacket, zipped up, the teal running down his back like a waterfall and making his skin glow like it was dappled in moonlight. He was, as always, laughing, his full attention devoted to one person.
And then Hajime looked at her, her shorter, slighter stature and the way the tips of her fingers and nose poked out red. She was still in her puffy pale blue coat, hair frosted with white fuzz, and her face was, as always, as cold as the snow on her head. But that smile, small as it was, and that laugh, quiet as it was, were clear as bells to Hajime’s ears and just as loud.
Tooru was handsome. She was beautiful. And Hajime? What was he?
What was he to Tooru?
He shifted his gaze with a lurch in his stomach to stare at the space on the inside of his locker door, where an empty stationery box hung in lieu of where some people kept mirrors. At that moment, he longed to see his reflection, to see what others saw when they saw him, to see how he compared to them, to Oikawa and the girl in front of him. But then he heard his bright tinkling laugh, like stars.
And he shut his locker door, too loudly to be polite but at the same time, not nearly loud enough, and was glad for his jacket hood and the absence of a mirror.
He strode away before he could hear the individual words making up their conversation, before he could see the sparks in their eyes and, no doubt, in the spaces between them.
He didn't want to be there as the sculptor chiselled it in deeper, clearer, that he would never be her and that he would never have him.
Never in the way that he spent all his shooting stars on.