#if its a lil sloppy then uuuuuhhhh pretend its not or smthn

[gonzaburrow]

to the tide

Tashiro tries to remember, whose idea was it to come here? He doesn’t think it was his; he doesn’t often leave work past midnight with an itch to go to the beach. But he doesn’t not want to be here. Truth be told, the drive over is a blur. 

And so, he’s on the beach with Hanzawa Masato. He abandons his shoes before they leave the car and urges Hanzawa to do the same. The other man complies, and before long they’re meeting the tide roll in. Tashiro squeezes the wet sand in between his toes; it feels weird good and soothing. 

He’s wading into the water before he’s processing his actions. Ankles, to knees, Tashiro stops when the water meets his thighs. He’s extending a hand towards Hanzawa, who joins him without hesitation. They’re holding hands, their hair is blowing in the salty breeze, and Tashiro is struck by a suffocating sense of deja vu. 

Hanzawa’s hair is blown out of his face, and there it is. His every feature is illuminated by the moonlight, and Tashiro’s heart jumps in his chest. He pulls the other man forward and steps back, pulling the pair deeper into the water. 

They’re waist deep, and he’s regretting not removing even his t-shirt. He’s pretty sure they didn’t bring any towels or spare clothes; the air is crisp and threatens to turn into a biting chill. 

They’re in too deep now. Turning back now would be silly. 

Tashiro takes another step, and his foot is met with a strange texture. It summons a shriek out of him, and it’s at that moment he realizes neither of them have spoken since they stepped foot on the beach. 

Hanzawa tries and fails to hold back his laughter. His hands are braced on Tashiro's shoulders. Warmth radiates from his palms through Tashiro's t-shirt. He shivers. 

"You know, you're the only person who consistently steals laughter out of me." 

Tashiro's head whips up, their faces are just a breath apart. 

"Of course, that's cause I'm freakin amazing. " 

The other man's laughter dies down, but he's got his real smile on. "Yeah, you are." 

At this distance, their slight difference in height is present. Hands are still on shoulders, Tashiro is hyper aware of the light pressure.

"Wait no, I was kidding. You weren't supposed to agree with me." 

"You don't give yourself enough credit." 

"If that's how it is, then you don't give yourself enough time to relax." 

"What's this then? I'm feeling pretty restful here, with you." 

"You know that's not what I mean." But then Hanzawa's words sink in. Tonight Tashiro's brain is in a constant scramble, just bees trapped in a jar. "Why’d you say it like that?" It comes out in a mumble, he kicks the sand under the water; whatever he stepped on earlier gets caught on his toes. He tries to ignore it. 

"How would you have me say it?" 

Tashiro processes the response and reaches to free his foot from the seaweed. He braces an arm on Hanzawa’s chest before he realizes his actions. He loses his balance, but Hanzawa’s hands move to his waist and keep him steady. 

They're essentially hugging. Tashiro feels the hard line of muscle under his hand. Their position feels like something out of a shoujo manga. 

"I'm waiting for that answer." He says it like the punchline of a joke. 

Tashiro doesn't have an answer. 

"Can I get back to you on that?"  On instinct, one of his fingers pet the fabric underneath. It's soft and barely textured. It feels nice. A warm hand covers his. The absence on his waist feels wrong. 

"Yeah, or don't. It's not that serious after all, is it?" Hanzawa plucks Tashiro's hand from his chest and steps back. His smile returns to its shallow standard. "Sorry I dragged you here. But thank you for coming." 

They're still speaking in whispers. 

"I don't mind. Can I ask why we're here?" 

"You can ask," Hanzawa says, "but I'm not sure I'll answer." He turns away and walks back to shore. 

Tashiro is stunned. 

Was this one of those serious moments he couldn't read? What would happen if he asked Hanzawa? He wasn't sure if he should be scared of the potential answer or lack of. 

They're watching each other, one on the beach and the other waist deep with waves tapping his back. 

Tashiro wishes the ocean would swallow him whole.

A particularly large wave crashes over him, bowls Tashiro forward. He swallows a most foul mouthful of saltwater. He’s spitting it out, and Hanzawa is still by the shore. He’s got one foot hesitating in the water. But he doesn’t make any further moves. 

Something about their positions, Hanzawa’s hesitance to do something for once in his life, and the ocean water lingering on his tongue makes an animosity bubble in Tashiro’s gut. He’s not an angry guy, he always lets things just roll off his back. He’s a lazy stream.

This moment though, breaks something inside him. 

He’s shouting, screaming; he didn’t know his voice could sound so feral. Tashiro starts moving towards the shore, attempting to maintain composure although the tide is making it difficult. Let this be the one moment he’s actually taken seriously. 

He stops close enough that Hanzawa can hear him, but enough that they’re a generous arm’s length apart. Tashiro’s gathering his thoughts, and trying not to admire Hanzawa’s form when his clothes are sticking to his body; white button up now translucent. 

The other man opens his mouth to speak, but Tashiro brings a hand up to stop him. 

It was now or never. 

“You can’t just run away like that.” Tashiro says. 

“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” 

Waves crash in the distance. 

“You always have an answer until it comes to yourself. You gotta stop putting yourself in punishing situations, man. I’m not letting you deflect this time.” 

“It’s not that easy.” Tashiro almost misses his words; the ocean threatens to bury his voice under its sound.

A chuckle sneaks out from Tashiro’s throat. He knows it’s not a funny situation, but the absurdity of how stubborn Hanzawa could be, it hit him in a strange way. 

“Sorry, I know there’s nothing funny. But I don’t think it needs to be that deep?” He heaves a deep sigh. His mouth is still bitter from the water. “Why don’t you try being more direct? Everything you say is so enigmatic; I never know what’s for real and what’s a joke.” 

Hanzawa’s eyebrows stitch together. It’s such a foreign look; he doesn’t look like himself. Their eyes are meeting, and Tashiro can’t tell if water sprayed on the other man’s face or if he shed a few tears. 

“The problem with that, my dear Tashiro, is I’m not entirely sure myself.” 

“Well,” Tashiro invades Hanzawa’s space and envelopes him, pulling his head into the space beneath his chin. “That’s a good place to start. Thank you.”