Archive of Our Own

The ocean always smells the same. No matter the country, no matter the hemisphere. Briny and electric and alive. Reo inhales deeply as he steps onto the sand, the grains soft under his sandals, the sea breeze tugging at the loose ends of his unzipped wetsuit.

Home, he thinks. Not Tokyo, not his parents’ soulless, colorless estate. This— this —is home. The water, the sand. 

A private surf retreat tucked along Okinawa’s southern coastline. Exclusive, but not pretentious. Hidden from tourists, with perfect breaks, once home to a training camp crafted by elite-level coaches (a camp which jump-started Reo’s career), and enough space for the country’s top young surfers to get in shape before the summer competitions kicked off.

Reo’s spent the last two years bouncing between California, Portugal, and Australia, sponsored, coached, competed, and televised. His hair is longer now, slightly sun-bleached with split ends at the tips. His body is leaner, tanner harder. But none of that matters, really. Because the moment his feet hit the sand, his thoughts snap to one person—one person, the main reason he’s come back in the first place.

Where is he?

Reo had arrived a few minutes late, dragging his boardbag behind him, purple decal peeking from the side like a signature. Most of the new recruits were already at the main lodge for orientation, chattering, stretching, waxing their boards.

But Nagi isn’t the type to sit through a welcome speech. Reo knows that.

They’d kept in touch. That whole time, they’d never gone more than a week without talking. Not since Blue Lock Training Camp. Texts, blurry video calls from opposite time zones, competition highlights sent at fuck o’ clock. Reo would complain about his coach in California and tease Nagi about the ridiculous surfer lingo he picked up in Sydney. Nagi never liked to type much—mostly one-word replies and sleepy selfies—but the calls? The calls were everything.

Still, it’s been two years since they’d stood face-to-face. 

And Reo—Reo isn’t prepared for what that’s going to feel like. 

He finds him off the main path, tucked between two palms at the edge of the beach. Half-shadow, half-gold from the late sun. Nagi’s lying flat on a towel, skin just as pale as it was two years ago, hair even whiter than Reo remembers, pushed back messily from his face. 

One arm rests over his eyes, his chest slowly rising and falling with the rhythm of a lazy afternoon nap.

Reo stops in his tracks, breath catching before he can stop it.

Damn. He’s gotten taller. And broader. And—yeah, definitely not more tan. His board is planted in the sand a few meters away, waxed and ready, the same smooth, curved and gradient gray design he always liked—minimal, effortless. Just like him.

Reo swallows hard and walks over. His sandals crunch on the sand, but Nagi doesn’t move.

At least, not until Reo crouches beside him and says, low and soft, “Really? You finally fly back to Japan and your first move is to pass out on the beach?”

Nagi stirs slowly, like waking up from hibernation, not sleep. His arm slides away from his face, revealing gigantic, pale, sleep-heavy gray eyes and a small crease on one cheek from his towel. His lashes flutter. And then—his lips curve up in recognition, just barely.

“ Reo ?” He mumbles, his voice warm but rough from the nap.

Reo’s heart twists, unexpectedly sharp. That damn voice. Shit. Two years and it still gets to me. He still gets to me. Seriously, nothing’s changed at all. I’m still a mess when it comes to him.

“You didn’t even come to say hi to me at check-in,” Reo chides, trying to sound playful, not weirdly emotional.

“I was going to. Then the sun hit me.” Nagi sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. “Felt nice. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Reo crosses his arms over his chest, trying to school his expression. “You know the orientation started half an hour ago, right?”

Nagi looks at him, fully now. Eyes focused. They soften as they take in Reo. Reo pretends it doesn’t make him shiver. If anyone asks, it’s the wind that’s raised the goosebumps on his skin. Nothing else.

“You’re here.”

Reo blinks. “Yeah. I told you I was coming in today.”

“Still. You’re actually here.” It’s said in his usual monotone drawl, but there’s something inexplicably heated and familiar about the way he says it, like maybe, maybe Nagi’s been waiting for this moment even half as desperately and intensely as Reo was. He flushes, thrown off his axis.

For a second, there’s silence. Not awkward—just heavy. Weighted with everything they didn’t say over phone calls. With two years of unsent messages, with all the “wish you were here” texts they never followed up on.

Reo lets out a shaky breath, huffing a half-laugh. “You look good,” he blurts before he can stop himself.

Nagi tilts his head. He glances down at his (sizable) biceps and shrugs. “I guess. I surf every day. You should’ve expected that.”

“That’s not what I,” Reo starts, then pauses, sighing and shaking his head. Of course Nagi wouldn’t get what he meant. Nagi doesn’t care for things like that—hassle. “Never mind.”

Nagi smirks, lazy and dangerous. “You look good too. California sun’s treated you good.”

“You’ve been watching my comps?”

“Always.”

That makes Reo’s stomach flip. He looks away, toward the water. The horizon, where the sky is turning pink now, the ocean catching the light like a mirror. The whole beach glows, and suddenly everything feels too close. Too intimate.

He glances back at Nagi, who’s blinking gravely, like he might fall asleep again.

Reo clears his throat. “You gonna show me those genius skills you’ve been working on, or are you just gonna lie here and pretend you didn’t miss me?”

“I did miss you,” Nagi huffs with a frown that looks more like a pout. He’s still somehow puppy-cute. How unfair. “But I’m still not moving until dinner.”

That smile tugs at Reo’s mouth before he can stop it. Annoyed. Relieved. Warm and fuzzy. Shivery and dizzy. 

“Fine,” he sighs, dropping down beside him, close enough for their knees to brush. “I’ll wait with you.”

Nagi closes his eyes again. “Good.”

Reo leans back on his hands, watching the waves roll in. It’s stupid, probably, to feel like something huge had shifted just from a nap under a palm tree. But it has. Because this is Nagi, for god’s sake. In the flesh. And Nagi has always been a special case. And no screen could replicate this feeling—of being close again, of almost touching, of wondering whether time had really changed anything at all.

A few minutes, hours, who-knows-later, Nagi's eyes are still closed, arms sprawled behind his head now, soaking in the late sun like he’s absorbing it straight through his skin to his cardiovascular system. Reo sits beside him, pretending not to stare, pretending he’s not hyper-aware of the tiny distance between them.

Pretending he doesn’t feel anything when Nagi shifts and his knee brushes Reo’s thigh. Twice.

"You've gotten lazy," Reo remarks eventually, voice light. "You used to be at least half-conscious by this hour."

A disagreeing grunt. “I’m resting for tomorrow.” Nagi yawns again, so relaxed it should be criminal. “You’re the one who wants to overtrain.”

Reo scoffs. “You think I need to overtrain? I’ve been winning comps while you’ve been horizontal in a different time zone.”

“You watched them.” Nagi cracks one eye open, gaze sharp now. “I saw the likes.”

Reo freezes, heat coloring his cheeks. “You stalk my socials?”

Nagi doesn’t bother asking what that means, just accepts it as Reo says it. “You leave comments.”

Reo gapes, suddenly shy. “Only when you post dumb stuff. That one video of you falling off your board in Hawaii—”

“—Wind was weird.”

“You called the wave a ‘bitch.’ On camera.”

Nagi grumbles, “It was.”

God. He’s the same. The same infuriatingly chill, deadpan smartass Reo tried—and failed—to forget about every single time someone else flirted with him over the past two years.

But also, not the same. Not really. Because Nagi has grown. Taller. Stronger. More confident, in that subtle way where everything he did looks effortless. Reo’s the same, of course, but he can’t help but wonder how he looks in Nagi’s eyes at this moment, if Nagi cares for how he’s changed at all, if he’s affected in the same way he affects Reo. 

Okay, Reo needs a distraction before he starts looking again.

He stands, clapping sand from his hands. “Alright. Come on.”

“Mm?”

“Let’s hit the water.”

Nagi blinks up at him. “I just woke up.”

“Exactly. Let’s shake off the jet lag. I haven’t surfed next to you in two years.” Reo holds out a hand. “You’re not gonna make me go alone, are you?”

Nagi stares at the offered hand like it was an algebra equation.

Then, finally, he takes it.

Reo tugs him up—a bit more forcefully than necessary—and Nagi stumbles a little, chest bumping into Reo’s shoulder. For one second, they’re too close. Nagi is warm, solid, and smells like breeze and salt and fruit. For one second, Reo almost doesn’t let go.

They walk down the beach, boards under arms.

The wind has picked up. Soft, offshore, just enough to clean up the sets rolling in across the reef break.

Reo stands with his board under his arm, watching the swell rise out on the horizon. Smooth, glassy water under orange light — the kind of conditions they trained for. He shifts his stance slightly, big toe digging into the sand as the ocean breathes in and out before him.

Beside him, Nagi yawns for the hundredth time. 

“You’re not gonna stretch?” Reo asks, already limbering his shoulders, gaze fixed on the water like a sniper. “Or did the nap count as one?”

Nagi stares vacantly at the horizon like he’s just now remembering why they walked down here. “Stretching’s for people who try too hard.”

Reo rolls his eyes. “You realize that only works for you because your technique is freakishly clean, right? If the rest of us plebs else skipped warmups, they’d snap their ACL trying to bottom turn.”

“Maybe.” Nagi adjusts the leash around his ankle. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, you’re such a bitch.”

They step into the surf together, cool, foamy water surging around their calves. Reo’s chest fills with that anticipatory calm he always got right before a heat — not nerves, but pure focus. Like the rest of the world is about to drop away and all that’s left is motion and instinct.

He paddles out first, sharp, efficient strokes cutting through the water. Nagi follows — smooth, slow, not hurried, but never losing ground. Like he’s not even trying, and still keeping pace.

They pass the inside section, duck-diving under a chest-high set. Reo can feel the force of the water rumble over him, the ocean briefly turning heavy and cold as he slices beneath it. He pops up on the other side, breath steady and practiced. This is freedom, the deepest kind, the one of the soul.

The takeoff zone is nearly empty. Just a couple locals drifting farther down the reef, giving them space — probably recognizing their faces from televised comps and Instagram clips.

Reo glances sideways at Nagi. “One wave each. No redo. Best ride wins. Loser buys dinner.”

Nagi’s straddling his board, hair clinging to his cheeks. “Fine.”

“Judged by each other,” Reo adds.

“Biased. But okay.”

Reo smirks. “You can go first, lazyass.”

Nagi shrugs like it made no difference, then turns his gaze out to sea.

And just like that, something shifts. In his eyes.

The shift is subtle — his body language, his breathing, the way his back straightens slightly as his eyes track the horizon. Reo has seen it before, obviously. That eerie stillness Nagi has right before doing something absolutely insane. Like he has no nerves to burn.

A set is forming.

Four waves. The third looks like the one. Shoulder-high, peeling left, clean face with minimal chop.

“Third wave,” Nagi murmurs, already adjusting his position with a couple slow strokes.

Reo stays quiet, watching intently.

As the wave approaches, Nagi pivots effortlessly, three quick strokes, then pop — his body lifting onto the board in one smooth, unbroken motion. No wasted effort. No hesitation.

He drops in at a mellow angle, back foot planted deep, front foot soft. His center of gravity is perfect — low, lazy-looking, but completely locked in. He lets the wave carry him for the first few seconds, not fighting it. Then he moves.

Back knee bent, torso tilting slightly forward — and carves into a clean, open-face turn, slicing high on the lip and drawing it down slow and stylish.

God, he’s still annoyingly good, Reo thinks. Nagi surfs like he’s allergic to imperfections. Like physics just rearranges to accommodate him.

Then Nagi bottom-turns into a tight little snap under the lip — not dramatic, but crisp, textbook-perfect rail engagement. The tail of his board kicks up a spray of whitewater that sparkles in the sun.

He rides it out, clean exit. No celebration. Just that blank, satisfied expression, like he’d solved a puzzle.

Reo paddles over. “Alright. Your turn to be judgmental.”

Nagi blinks. “I won’t go easy.”

“You never do.”

Another set is rolling in. Reo spots his — a right-hand peak, slightly steeper than Nagi’s, a bit faster on the inside. He wants something he can attack.

He paddles hard — more aggressive than Nagi — and catches the drop with a sharp pivot off his tail. As soon as he stands, he’s moving — weight shifted forward, pushing speed, arms tight to his body. First turn: a driving bottom turn, deep and powerful. He angles hard up the face and hits a tight reentry right under the lip, slashing vertically.

It feels sharp. Clean. Dangerous.

The wave pitches a little faster than expected, but Reo adapts — quick shuffle, cutting across the face, looking down the line. 

He sees the oncoming section and doesn’t hesitate.

Now or never.

He pumps once for speed and launches off the lip — not a full air reverse, but a solid rotation off the lip line with a tail-release. He lands heavy but clean, the board reconnecting with a slap that makes the wave grunt beneath him.

He coasts out onto the shoulder, breath fast, heart hammering. He looks over his shoulder — Nagi has paddled closer, watching from the inside.

Reo grins as he kicks out. He already wants to go again.

They’re both soaked and grinning by the time they paddle back in, breathless and laughing under their chests.

Nagi pulled a clean, slow carve on a shoulder-high wave that made Reo’s jaw tighten—elegant, lazy, controlled. Annoyingly perfect. But Reo had launched. A sprint-start into a slicing bottom turn, then popped an aerial just to flex—maybe a little too flashy, but definitely impressive.

They flop onto the sand, boards down beside them, boards glistening beside them. Reo is the first to sit up, already pulling off his leash.

“Well?”

Nagi tilts his head, pensive. “You looked like you wanted to murder the wave.”

“That’s not a no. ”

“It’s a yes.”

Reo pauses. Double-takes. “Wait—you’re saying I won ?”

Nagi shrugs. “You hit that re-entry with more force than you used to. The air was clean. Aggressive. I liked it.”

Reo tries very hard not to glow. Fails. “Wait—that air I landed—”

“—Was hot,” Nagi fills in, flatly. “You win. Buy me dinner.”

Reo gawks. The ‘ was hot’ part echoes an embarrassing number of times in his head. “That’s not how bets work.”

“I said you win. Buy me dinner.”

“That is not —!” Reo breaks off, laughing, half-exasperated, half utterly endeared. “You agreed the loser buys.”

“You landed an air. Doesn’t mean I don’t want noodles.”

Reo flops back down onto the towel beside him, salt drying tangy on his skin. “You’re impossible.”

“And hungry.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a brat.”

They end up at the ramen place just off the main road, a narrow little shop wedged between a shuttered dive bar and a beachside laundromat. Reo hasn’t been here in years, but the red paper lantern out front still sways the same way in the night breeze.

Nagi had picked it, of course.

Like it was obvious.

Like they haven’t been around the world and back since the last time they sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter here, slurping hot broth in silence after double sessions at Blue Lock.

Reo slides the door open, stepping into the steamy warmth. The scent hits him instantly — pork fat, soy, slow-cooked broth. His stomach growls, embarrassingly loud.

Nagi looks smug. “Told you.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to.”

They take the same seats they used to — second and third from the end, near the fan. The place is half-full, mostly surfers and locals. Nobody stares or approaches with requests for autographs, even if they do recognize them. Which is nice.

The owner, an old man with deep smile lines and a faded baseball cap, raises a hand in casual greeting. “Back again, huh? It’s been a long time.”

Nagi nods, jerking a thumb back at Reo. “He’s paying.”

Reo doesn't even bother arguing (it’s comforting to know Nagi’s still just as spoiled as ever). He orders two bowls of the usual and a couple iced teas. When the food comes out — steaming bowls, broth shimmering, yolks soft-set in the ajitama eggs — he picks up his chopsticks and tries not to make eye contact.

“So,” he begins, swirling his noodles. “You’ve been in L.A. the last few months, yeah? Competing or—training?”

Nagi sips his broth first, because of course he does. “Bit of both. Coastal series. Had a wildcard spot at Steamer Lane. Got fifth.”

Reo shakes his head, tapping the table. “Fifth? That wave’s brutal. You don’t even like rights.”

“Still surfed it.”

“You never used to care about contest rankings.”

“I still don’t,” Nagi says, then adds, “but I wanted to see if I could win without trying too hard and making it a hassle.”

Reo snorts. Sarcastically, “Oh how I’ve missed your ego.”

“You missed me.”

The words come so casually, so blank and direct, Reo chokes a little on his tea. Like he knows. Reo hates him a bit for it.

Nagi just blinks at him, like it’s not a big deal. Like he hasn’t just dropped a grenade into Reo’s ribcage.

Reo recovers quickly. “Yeah, well. You missed me first. You used to call at the weirdest times. One time I was halfway through a flight to Portugal and you FaceTimed me from a bathtub.”

“You answered.”

“Because I thought you were dying, jackass. You said ‘help’ and then disappeared underwater.”

Nagi shrugs, chewing. “Dropped the phone.”

“And nearly dropped my damn heart.”

That slips out too fast. Silence. Just for a second.

Nagi looks at him again, gaze steady. “You were worried?”

Reo focuses intently on his bowl. “Yeah, well. I thought you were drowning. Forgive me for being emotionally available for like three seconds.”

“You’re always emotionally available.”

Reo nearly smiles. Nagi—still so unintentionally, ironically cruel, and never realizes it. “That supposed to be an insult?”

“Just an observation.”

They go quiet for a moment. The kind of silence that used to be easy — after surf practice, after drills, after comps. But now it presses in closer. Denser. Like all the feeling Reo has been carrying around for two years is finally bubbling and boiling over. 

Reo takes a bite of noodles and follows it with a slurp of the watery iced tea. “Your surfing’s changed.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“You’ve been posting.”

“You’ve been watching.” Nagi insists, for some reason.

Reo rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. Nagi seems to have all the evidence he needs to prove the matter, anyway, and it seems like he’s suddenly become a prosecuting lawyer on this particular subject, for whatever reason. “You’re more— precise now. Still lazy, but calculated. Your moves are creative, but technically sound.”

Nagi hums. “You got faster. Tighter turns. More aggressive.”

“You saying I was soft before?”

“You used to surf pretty.”

“And now?”

“You still surf pretty. But—now you also surf like you want to prove something. Like fire. Something impossible to catch.”

The steam from his bowl curls upward, creating condensation on the top of his nose.

Reo does want to prove something. That he’s earned his place. That he can lead without anyone’s legacy behind him. That he’s more than some rich kid with talent and a good camera angle.

But he doesn’t say that. (Because he knows Nagi already knows. Because Nagi knows him, and the soft, proud look he gives Reo at this moment proves that.)

Instead, he bumps Nagi’s knee under the counter. “So. I win the surf-off, I buy dinner, and you get to psychoanalyze me. Hell of a prize.”

Nagi’s lips twitch, a poorly concealed smile. “You like it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You missed me.”

There it is again. As if Nagi’s in awe, or trying to convince himself of it. But that would be stupid. Right?

Still, Reo doesn’t argue.

He just takes another bite, slow. Let the silence stretch, but warmer than ever. Lovely.

He glances over to watch Nagi, who’s chewing steadily, lips parted, hair sticking damply to his temple, food pushed into his cheeks like a squirrel. His chopsticks move in slow motion, like he’s in a slowed instant replay.

Reo’s pulse jumps a little.

“I did miss you,” he sighs, jokingly, like it’s a chore to admit it (it’s not, it’s something worse). “Even if you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Nagi pauses. “I missed you too.”

Reo feels it again, that flicker in his chest, that jackrabbiting of his heartbeat, fast and dumb.

God, he thinks. What are we doing? What am I doing?

Still, Reo grins a little, hiding it in his tea. “Next time we surf, I’m landing a full rotation.”

“You’ll fall,” he replies, with no conviction indicating he believes those words.

“We’ll bet. I’ll win, then I’ll make you buy me dessert.”

Nagi doesn’t answer right away. Then: “If I lose, I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

—

Reo wakes to the sound of the ocean.

Not crashing. Not roaring.

Just the low, steady hush of waves curling across the reef in the pale blue quiet of dawn. That sacred hour before the wind picks up and the crowds arrive — before the world remembers to be loud again.

He blinks sleepily up at the ceiling fan of the beach rental, still spinning, and takes a second to remember where he is.

Then he hears the rustle.

The soft creak of wood flooring. A wet towel being wrung out. Bare feet padding to the sliding door.

Reo sits up, rubs his face, and follows the sound.

Nagi is already on the porch, leaning over the balcony rail, surfboard in one hand, still shirtless. His hair is messy and damp, the early light making his skin glow like something out of a dream Reo isn’t meant to have.

“You’re up early,” Reo remarks, voice scratchy from sleep.

“Waves are clean,” Nagi murmurs, eyes still fixed on the water, as if it can hear. “No wind yet. Perfect conditions.”

Reo steps into place beside him, squinting into the soft lavender light rising over the horizon. The surf is small — waist-high sets with long, clean lines, peeling slow and even across the reef. The kind of waves you could dance on.

“Mm. Buttery,” Reo says.

“Yeah.”

They’re both silent for a moment, hypnotized by the swell building and disappearing. Reo’s chest feels strange. Heavy and light at the same time.

“Want to go out?” He asks eventually, though he already knows the answer.

Nagi just nods.

The beach is empty when they get down to it. The only footprints in the fine sand are theirs. The sky is still streaked with pink and silver, and the water shimmered like tinted glass.

Reo starts to wax his board methodically, jaw tight with focus. 

When he glances over, Nagi is crouched near the shoreline, running his fingers through the foam, like he’s checking the texture of it. Like he needs to touch the ocean to calibrate something internal. Which is true, in a way. 

They paddle out together, side by side, cutting through the water with smooth strokes. Reo’s arms burn pleasantly. His breath is steady. This part — the paddle, the build-up — always feels sacred. That’s why they’re quiet, maybe. The peace of a morning surf. Like a kind of pre-game ritual.

The takeoff zone is empty. Just the two of them, floating quietly in rhythm with the sea.

“You want the first wave?” Reo inquires, bobbing gently.

Nagi inhales deeply. “You take it.”

Reo eyes the horizon. A clean right was rolling in — waist-high, slow enough to play on, fast enough to carve. He turns, paddles, and catches it on the peak.

His pop-up is sharp, reflexive. He drops in smooth, draws a clean line high on the face, then cuts down into a tight wraparound, driving off the back foot. It’s not about showing off — not this time. This early, it’s always about flow. Feel.

The wave backs off near the shoulder, and Reo finishes with a soft tail-slide, kicking out and gliding back into the channel.

Nagi’s watching him. Of course he is. That’s why Reo’s skin is buzzing more than usual. With more than just dopamine.

“You’ve stopped forcing your turns,” Nagi observes as Reo paddles back toward him.

“Didn’t realize you were taking notes.”

“You surf like you’re listening to the ocean now.”

Reo blinks. That’s new.

Before he can reply, Nagi’s already turning for the next set.

He paddles slow. Smooth, like he has all the time in the world.

Then he stands — no jerk, no twitch — rising into position like gravity doesn’t apply to him. The wave lifts him, and he adjusts effortlessly, front foot soft, back knee slightly bent, upper body loose.

He glides high on the face, draws a long, shallow carve, then fades down into a clean bottom turn that hugs the curve of the wave so tightly it looks unworldly. 

Nagi kicks out early — no tricks, no drama — just exits clean and rejoins Reo in the lineup, water beading on his shoulders.

“You always make it look too easy,” Reo said.

“I don’t like working harder than I have to.”

“Except when you do.”

Nagi flicks a piece of hair out of his eye. “Only when it’s fun.”

Reo doesn’t know if he means the wave. Or this.

A few hours and a coffee break later, the sun is higher, making the water look like heaven’s nectar. From where they’re perched on the rocks, Reo can see the shadows of their boards on the reef below, drifting lazily side by side.

Nagi shifts his weight slightly, his shoulder bumping Reo’s just for the contact.

Neither of them moves away first.

“You remember the last time we surfed together?” Reo asks suddenly, voice weirdly earnest now.

Nagi’s eyes flick over. “Training camp. Day before eliminations.”

“You let me win that day.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” Reo repeats. “You hesitated on your last set. I saw you make the choice.”

Nagi tears his gaze away, turning it back toward the horizon.

“I—didn’t want to say goodbye yet,” he reveals quietly.

Reo’s breath catches, like a pillow is trapped in his lungs.

A wave starts building out beyond them, rising with grace.

Nagi looks down at where their boards wait for them to return from their break, just within reach. “You want this one?”

Reo hesitates. Then: “Nah. Let’s share it.”

Side by side, catching the same peak. Their takeoffs sync, boards gliding parallel down the face. The wave opens up wide and generous, and they move with it — Reo cutting high and sharp, Nagi carving low and smooth.

Separate styles. Same rhythm.

When the wave closes out near the inside section, they both bail, diving cleanly into the water and surfacing close.

Too close.

Reo’s face breaks the surface, and Nagi is already there, hair plastered to his cheeks, eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow. Neither of them speaks. The ocean holds them in place.

Reo’s fingers brush Nagi’s wrist under the water — by accident, maybe. Maybe he unconsciously reaches out because he wants to touch.

Nagi’s hand trails over Reo’s midsection as he treads. Also an accident. But Reo wishes it wasn’t. He can’t look away from those swirling gray eyes.

The contact is brief. But it lingers in Reo’s bloodstream like scorching heat, a fire that won’t be lit out.

God, he thinks. I missed this. I missed him. I missed him.

Nagi stares back at him, unreadable, gaze dark, searching.

The intensity has Reo dazed. “You’re staring,” he says, but it’s barely over a whisper.

Nagi doesn't look away. “Yeah. I am.”

Days with Nagi fall into a rhythm too easily—so has the dancing around him and wrangling his own feelings. Turns out, it’s a lot easier a few thousand miles away and with shitty cell service than it is when Nagi’s with him in the flesh. 

Today, morning training had finished for them both, and the midday had blown the surf out — wind turns onshore, choppy peaks crumbling under the sun.

Reo sprawls under the shade of the beach rental’s side porch, half-wet, hair salty, still towel-draped around his shoulders. His limbs are heavy and aching from the rough waves of the morning session, shoulders buzzing with that good pain that only comes from doing something right.

Meanwhile, Nagi strings up a hammock between two half-bent palm trees in preparation for an afternoon nap.

“You’re really committed to this nap thing, huh?” Reo snorts, sipping cold juice from a can.

Nagi doesn’t answer. Just loops the last knot, tugs once to check the tension, then drops onto the hammock like there was no chance of it not catching him. True faith, really. It swings lightly under him, the trees creaking once.

He sighs. Deep. Content. A very pointed response to Reo’s earlier question. Reo snickers.

Fanning himself, he complains, “It’s hot.”

“Because you’re wearing a towel.”

“It’s for style.”

“Mhm. Doesn’t work. It’s hot and you’re mostly dry anyway.”

Reo laughs under his breath and stands up, stretching until his back cracks pleasantly. He drops his towel on the porch step before making his way over to where Nagi is drifting in slow arcs, barefoot in the sand, sun catching on his collarbones.

Reo squints. “It doesn’t look that comfortable.”

Nagi opens one eye. “That’s because you don’t know how.”

“How to nap?”

“How to let your body go soft.”

Reo scoffs. “I can relax.”

“You don’t.”

“Teach me then, lazyass.”

A pause. Then Nagi shifts, scooting to one side of the hammock, the fabric dipping low with his displaced weight.

“Get in.”

Reo raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“You challenged me. This is the lesson.”

“I didn’t challenge shit,” but Reo still hesitates for a heartbeat too long. Nagi continues to watch him expectantly, gesturing at the newly created space next to him. Like the magic carpet from Aladdin, but a magic hammock, Reo’s brain thinks, and he has to force himself not to giggle manually. To avoid giggling maniacally, he climbs in.

The hammock dips dangerously, and Reo sways unsteadily, trying not to knee Nagi in the ribs. It takes two false starts and one accidental elbow to the chest before he settles — Reo awkwardly half-sprawled across Nagi’s side, one leg dangling off the edge.

“This is not ergonomic,” Reo mutters, trying to find a non-embarrassing place to rest his arm not currently trapped under Nagi’s side, all while not turning his face too far and exposing the fact that he is, in fact, blushing. Heavily. 

“Stop thinking about it,” Nagi murmurs, eyes already closing again. God fucking fuck this stupid sleepy surfer.

“Your chest is—warm.” Ah, the heat must be getting to him. His brain-to-mouth filter suddenly isn’t working at all. Maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s Nagi. It’s probably both.

“That’s the sun.”

“It’s you.”

Nagi doesn’t respond. Just slides an arm under Reo’s neck and wraps it around his back, pulling Reo in snugly, flush, closer into him, thumb brushing featherlight the sensitive bare skin on Reo’s spine. He barely suppresses a full-body shiver.  

Reo readjusts once more, then stills, exhaling slowly as all his muscles loosen and he goes boneless in the swaddle of Nagi and the fabric. 

The hammock rocks gently, cradled by the breeze. The ocean whispers a hundred meters away. A gull caws in the distance, somewhere near the dune line.

Nagi’s breathing is slow. Tempered. Calm. Soothing in a way that makes everything feel warm and safe.

Reo lays his head more fully across Nagi’s chest. The rise and fall of it is hypnotic. He can feel the steady thrum of Nagi’s heartbeat through his cheek — strong and constant, like a metronome meant to quiet the noise in Reo’s skull.

“Fine, you win. This is—kinda nice,” Reo mumbles, involuntarily nuzzling and pushing his head deeper into Nagi’s pec. He’s surprised at how heavy his limbs are getting. “I’m not usually good at—at stopping.”

Nagi’s voice is soft—threaded through with sleep, too soft for Reo not to wonder, to pray, that it means something. “You don’t have to stop. Just pause. You’re here, with me.”

Reo closes his eyes. The world feels smaller here — not in a bad way. In the way that made everything outside this moment feel like background noise. Completely irrelevant. Here, everything Reo needs is right here— Nagi’s arm settled lightly across Reo’s back is soothing and almost protective. Reo didn’t know if Nagi even realizes it. 

Reo can smell sunscreen, ocean salt, and faint citrus from the juice Nagi drank earlier.

“I missed this,” Reo whispers. He isn’t even sure if he says it out loud. I missed you I missed you I missed you I’m so fucking in love with you.

But Nagi’s fingers brush his spine once more — intentional, this time. A reminder that he’s here. A lazy touch. Reassuring.

Reo lets himself go quiet. Lets the hammock rock. Let his breathing match Nagi’s.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he falls asleep without trying. On Nagi’s chest, under the early afternoon sun.

And everything, just for a little while, exactly where it should be.

The bonfire was Nagi’s idea, which was strange, because Nagi usually doesn’t plan things. But sometime after some post-surf burritos, he’d looked up from his phone and said, “Wanna join the bonfire party tonight,” like it had just occurred to him.

So now Reo is tripping on his foam flip-flops in the sand with half a drink in hand, watching flames lick upward into the indigo sky. The fire crackles, loud enough to almost drown out the vibrating beat of the speaker buried under a pile of towels.

Someone has hung old fairy lights between all of the pillars of the gazebo beside the pit. They twinkle unevenly, pink and golden, occasionally flickering out as the batteries die. 

Reo sways a little. Not just from the beer — though it is hitting him a bit harder than he planned. He feels warm and buzzy all over, heat on his skin from the fire and heat spreading through his insides via the drink and the too-long glances from a certain someone across the sand.

The someone being Nagi, who’s stood a few feet away, silhouetted in yellow- red light, glass in one hand, a flower crown that Reo had shoved on him earlier now lopsided on his head. His boardshorts are slung low on his hips. Barefoot, moon-glowing, the beams of silver light making his mouth look  soft at the corners.

He looks good. Unfairly so. So unfairly.

A remix of something Reo barely recognizes thuds out of the grain-filled sound box, a bass-heavy beat that rolls through the breezy night air. Someone laughs off to the side. 

But everything else blurs a little when Nagi looks at him.

And Reo shudders at that stupid, familiar click — like something invisible has pulled them into the same orbit again. Maybe they never left. Maybe Reo is utterly helpless to escape someone with the magnetic pull that Nagi has.

“Dance with me,” Reo says, before he can stop himself.

Nagi blinks as he registers the demand. He halfheartedly protests, eyes dropping to Reo’s body for a moment. “Why?”

“Because I like this song and you’re drunk and I want to.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re buzzed.”

“Barely.”

“Then you have no excuse,” Reo grins, stepping forward and extending a hand.

“My excuse is that I’m practically sober.”

“And I’m Abraham Lincoln,” Reo stumbles over nothing, nearly falling onto Nagi; he catches himself. “C’mon. One song. Just to prove you’re not a coward.”

Nagi sighs — long-suffering, exaggerated — but he takes Reo’s hand anyway, lacing their fingers without hesitation.

Reo flinches in surprise, his hand spasms in Nagi’s hold as his face heats even further. The sand shifts beneath their feet as they move clumsily closer to the fire. The beat gets louder as they go, the tune now something smooth and sensual. The party-goers clump around the fire are also swept up in the vibes of it; no one’s watching them — even if they are, Reo doesn’t care anymore. His hand stays in Nagi’s, while his other one settles on Nagi’s shoulder.

It’s not dancing, not really. More like letting the sound carry them like a wave (Probably a more elegant way to put their display of drunk dancing.) 

The fire pops, which makes Reo jolt, then giggle, accidentally knocking his forehead against Nagi’s nose. Nagi groans, which makes Reo snicker more. 

“Your rhythm’s shit,” Nagi says quietly, lips curving into a lazy half-smile as he watches Reo’s face. That gaze is hotter than any summer day Reo’s ever surfed.

“Liar.”

“You’re leading with your wrists.”

“Okay, dancer extraordinaire,” Reo rolls his eyes and tugs Nagi closer until their hips are almost completely flush. He leans in. Whispers, a tease (indeed), a joke (not really). “You love this.”

“I do,” Nagi replies, without missing a beat.

Reo stills.

Their bodies are too close now. He didn’t think this through. Like, at all. He forgot what this proximity does to his brain. The heat from the fire is nothing compared to the warmth pressed up against him — Nagi’s chest brushing his, Nagi’s fingers still tangled in his. Even their legs touched, at the ankle, knee, thigh, soft and lazy. No pretense of space. No pretense of—anything.

Nagi’s face tilts toward his.

The music slows—or at least, it might just have done so in Reo’s head, because his head is swimming like he’s underwater. The beat drops out for a second, leaving just a voice, melody and breath and stars overhead—high.

Reo’s heart thuds hard, again and again, against his ribs. Like it’s trying to break free and tell the truth.

His gaze dips unconsciously to Nagi’s mouth. Slightly chapped, but still soft-looking. Would he kiss me back if I—

He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in until he feels Nagi’s breath against his lips — a whisper of heat, a barely-there graze that makes the world around them evaporate. Nagi’s breath smells like pineapple juice and beer.

His hand tightens slightly on Reo’s waist. He doesn’t pull away.

Somewhere far, far in the distance, unbeknownst to them, the music swells again, the fire pops, someone spills am a drink. But for one breathless second, Reo forgets everything except the shape of Nagi’s mouth and the way the air between them shimmers like a held note.

Then someone behind them yells, “Oi! You losers coming to the grill or what?”

Reo jolts — not far, but enough.

Nagi doesn’t move back.

But the moment is gone, suspended in amber, hanging between them like smoke. Their fingers are still linked. 

“Next song,” Reo sighs, secret, content, “We’re dancing again.”

Nagi doesn’t argue.

They’re not even supposed to be surfing anymore.

It's low tide—the break has gone soft. Barely two-foot peelers roll in patterned and even, breaking long and shallow over the reef. The kind of waves you’d ride for the joy of standing, not speed. Or any kind of fun. Perfect for kids. Or, apparently, for two semi-high pro surfers who can’t stop orbiting each other.

With the sandy bong (that had made them cough more than anything else—Reo blames Nagi for dropping it) abandoned on the shore, 

Nagi had been the first to paddle out with one board — his — and when Reo asked where his own board was, Nagi had just looked at him and said, “Don’t need two. You trust me, right?”

Reo had grumbled. But he’d climbed on anyway. Because his one fatal flaw is that even if Nagi were to say trust me and jump into an active volcano, Reo would still be seconds behind him.

And now, he’s straddling the front of Nagi’s board, legs dangling over the sides, back resting lightly against Nagi’s firm, bare chest. Nagi sits behind him, one hand braced behind him, the other trailing through the water in meaningless patterns, the patternless, routeless drift of his fingers occasionally brushing Reo’s thigh.

Despite the cool water, despite the breeze, Nagi’s hands are hot. Unbearably so.

And if Nagi wasn’t—well, Nagi, Reo would suspect that he’s doing it on purpose. 

The air. The closeness. The way Reo can’t even fucking breathe in fully without inhaling Nagi’s scent of sun-warmed salt, shampoo, skin and be instantly reminded of every single rare smile, every inside joke, every time Nagi touches him in a way that breaches the territory lines of friendly, and has Reo wishing it meant more—making him imagine what Nagi would be like, kiss like, touch like when it isn’t absent, when he means it, when—

The moon hangs both high and low, its reflection stretched across the water like a silver path.

“Don’t lean so far back,” Nagi speaks from behind him, voice brushing Reo’s ear in a tone so fucking intimate that it makes Reo feel like he’s on the verge of passing out. “You’ll tip us.”

Reo elbows him in the side. “Maybe you shouldn’t be spreading your knees so wide.”

“Maybe I want to."

Reo stills.

Nagi’s voice is casual, lazy as always — but there’s something burning under it. Something that feels uncharted, something that feels almost dangerous. And something curls low in Reo’s gut and makes him shift slightly, the board bobbing and tilting over the ripples beneath them.

A slow wave approaches. Nothing more than a small, soft, rolling mound.

“You wanna stand up?” Reo inquires, desperate to diffuse the tension, trying to focus on something other than the way Nagi’s thighs bracket his hips, or how his breath tickles his neck with every exhale. “We could try tandem. For fun. Like we used to.”

“Could be fun,” Nagi hums. “We were shit back then, though.”

“Might not be shit now.”

“Hm. Let’s do it.”

They paddle for it clumsily — not even trying to pop up in sync. Nagi looks like an idiot with his legs flailing with the opposite of rhythm, and Reo starts laughing too hard to focus, but neither of them care enough to stop. They ride the tiny wave in kneeling, then sit again as it fades into foam, the board rocking precariously in the afterwash.

Reo twists around to face him, one leg still in the water, the other folded awkwardly beneath him. Nagi leans back, hands gripping the edges of the board behind him, head tilted like he’s  already daydreaming of something else — probably his next nap. But when his chin tips down once again, their eyes meet, and the way he looks at Reo is heavier than usual.

Reo’s breath stutters. Stupid Nagi effect.

“You’re staring again,” he says softly. The air between them buzzes with so many words Reo would say if he wasn’t a coward.

“So are you.”

Reo swallows. “You’re too close.”

“Then move.” But neither of them do.

Nagi lifts one hand, takes it forward, dragging wet fingers slowly across Reo’s bare thigh — from the bend of his knee, up to where Reo’s trunks have ridden high—too high. Reo twitches. Not from surprise. But from the effort it takes not to whimper at the sensitivity, how each nerve ending of his inner thigh feels set ablaze with ethanol.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Reo accuses. His voice comes out strained, weak, much shakier than he wants.

“I’m finally doing what I’ve been waiting to do for two years.”

Reo’s heart slams against his ribcage, sharp and sudden.

“I don’t,” he starts, but the sentence dies on his tongue because Nagi’s face is getting larger, closer, he’s leaning in. Not fast, but swift enough to press their foreheads together, water glistening on his lips.

And then, softly, almost like asking a question—he kisses him.

Not desperate. Not overly rough.

But deep.

Nagi’s mouth moves against Reo’s like he’d been waiting for this. Not for tonight — like he’s been starved for years. Like every quiet moment, every touch that lingered too long, every breath they held between glances was always heading here.

Reo makes a quivering, pathetic noises into his mouth. He feels like he’s being scorched. His hands find Nagi’s waist, fingers digging into the slick fabric of his rashguard. Nagi exhales sharply, then kisses him harder — hands sliding up Reo’s sides, slow and sure, wet palms skating, mapping the heat of his skin like he needs to remember it.

The board rocks dangerously. Neither of them care.

Reo gasps when Nagi sucks lightly at his bottom lip, tongue teasing just enough to make Reo lose track of everything but feel. His fingers clutch harder, sliding up to Nagi’s chest, feeling the rhythm of his breathing under the way he’s definitely trembling, but not because of the cold.

Nagi’s hands are everywhere — waist, ribs, one slipping behind his neck to hold him in place, the other tracing down the small of his back until it rests just above his hip, thumb dragging in slow, lazy circles.

Reo scoots closer, practically straddling Nagi’s lap fully now, The board dips, warning. They ignore it.

The kiss gets rougher, filthier — wet, messy, hungry now.

Nagi pulls him in harder, trapping him in his hold, barely letting him breathe, like he wants to drown Reo in the heat of his mouth—hot, tongue insistent, their bodies grinding slightly in the microscopic space left between them. It’s dizzying. Like surfing a wave that never ended. Riding a high that’s still going. No thoughts, just heat and hands and the taste of salt and want. Nagi’s kissing him. Nagi’s kissing him. 

And the board tips.

Suddenly. Completely.

They crash into the water, tangled and breathless, still holding onto each other as they fall under.

Reo surfaces with a gasp, coughing and laughing at once. Hair plastered to his face, shirt clinging to his chest, heart pounding loud enough to drown the tides.

Nagi pops up next to him two seconds after, blinking salt water out of his lashes, expression half-startled, half-satisfied—his mouth is swollen, cheeks flushed, and Reo can only assume he looks the same, if not more debauched.

“You flipped us,” Reo accuses, treading water with mock anger.

“You moved first,” Nagi fires back, entirely unbothered, swimming closer.

Reo reaches for the board and clings to it, breath still shallow, heart still racing, panting like he just finished the season’s toughest heat.

And Nagi’s there again — hands finding the narrowest part of Reo’s waist underwater, holding him steady, their faces inches apart, illuminated in the moonlight.

“Still wanna pretend we’re just having fun?” Nagi says softly, teasing and earnest at the same time. Because he cares, because he’s asking —asking what Reo really wants.

Reo blinks at him through watery, blurred, hair obstructed vision.

Surges forward, kissing him again — fiercer this time, giving back just as hard as Nagi took, seawater dripping down both of their faces.

The board floats beside them, forgotten.

And beneath the stars, soaked and aching and grinning against each other’s mouths, they stop dancing around each other, stop acting like this wasn’t what they’ve been waiting for, stop pretending this hasn’t been a long time coming, stop pretending they weren’t inevitable, like the pull of the current. 

Nagi pulls him in like a riptide, and doesn’t let go. 

The walk back to the beach house is technically short, but it still feels like the longest four and a half minutes of Reo’s entire life.

His clothes cling to him like second skin — damp (they forgot towels, again, Nagi’s fault mostly), heavy, sticking in all the wrong places. Saltwater drips from his hair, down his back, into the waistband of his shorts (again, the lack of towels). The breeze isn’t cold, exactly, but it raises goosebumps all along his arms. The glass bong jostles in his shorts, undoubtedly spilling, creating a very suspicious smell situation that he’ll have to drench the fabric in detergent to get rid of entirely.

He can’t stop glancing sideways.

Nagi walks beside him, just as drenched. Just as quiet.

They haven’t said a word since the kiss in the water. The second one. The third. The fourth. The fifth.

They hadn’t actually stopped kissing until Reo pulled away with a strangled laugh-whine and said, “We’re going to get hypothermia if we stay out here.”

And now here they are. Trailing wet footprints through the sand, surfboards forgotten somewhere near the dunes. They’ll get them tomorrow morning. And if they get stolen, fuck it, Reo doesn’t even care.

By the time they reach the porch, Reo’s heart is still hammering like he’s been riding a double overhead.

Nagi doesn’t look shaken. Just—unreadable. Reo loves him, but hates how unaffected he can look at times like these, when Reo feels like he’s out of his mind.

He keeps thinking of how beautiful Nagi looked like that — lips red from kissing, moonlight caught in his white lashes, his hair sticking to his cheek.

Reo pushes open the screen door and lets them in. The beach house is quiet, dimly lit. Warm in the way old wood gets after a long, hot day — like the walls still hold the sun in its cracks.

“I’ll get towels,” Reo mutters, already halfway down the hall toward the closet.

He comes back with two — big, fluffy, fresh from the towel closet. A blue one for Nagi, a striped navy and green one for himself. He throws it at Nagi, who catches it with a sleepy grunt and drags it over his face, then his chest, like he couldn’t be bothered to move faster. (Reo ogles him. He’s too tired to even try to make it subtle.)

Reo tries not to look at the strip of pale skin that appears when Nagi pulls off his soaked shirt. Or the deep grooves of muscle under his ribs. Or the soft, warm, half-dazed way he’s watching Reo from under the towel.

Reo dries off fast, tossing his shirt into the hamper by his bedroom door, and tries to ignore the burning ache in his chest.

This should feel awkward. Or confusing. Or something. Because everything has changed. Everything between them has shifted. The tectonic plates of their ambiguous relationship have scraped together and caused an earthquake. The sea levels are rising. Reo fears the tsunami that will come, and either drown him or sweep him away, like a reminder that the things he wants most are the ones he’ll never be able to keep.

But it doesn’t. The water pulls back and it feels inevitable. Facing him at the shoreline with a wall of water behind him is Nagi, holding out a hand.

“Bed?” Nagi asks finally, voice low. It rumbles deep, and heat pools in Reo’s stomach as his heart trips over itself.

“Yeah,” he nods, too fast, pushing open his door. Nagi follows, a presence looming but irrevocably safe.

They climb into Reo’s bed without further discussion. The covers are still half-kicked from earlier in the morning, when Reo failed to make his bed, and the window is open just enough to let in the sound of waves.

Reo settles on the side closer to the window. Nagi takes the side by the door.

Except — he doesn’t stay there.

A minute passes in moon-dark, before Nagi shifts, slowly, until their legs brush. Then more. Until he’s curled half into Reo’s side, head on his chest, arm thrown casually across his waist like he’s always belonged there. (He has, fuck, he has. )

Reo forces himself not to move. Not to jostle Nagi, disrupt this crystal moment frozen in amber. He exhales, shaky. He’s scared—he’ll admit it this time, he’s scared, because it would be easy for Nagi to leave, for Reo to wake up in an empty bed with a hole in his heart because they’ve made promises in the waves but none of their promises encompassed this. Included this. This selfish thing Reo hated himself for wanting, listening to Nagi’s light snores through his shitty phone speakers as they Facetimed halfway across the world in opposite time zones.

“We’re really not gonna talk about it?” He asks the ceiling.

Nagi yawns. “Hm? Talk about what?”

Reo huffs. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I kissed you,” Nagi murmurs, like it’s obvious. “A lot. And you kissed me back. A lot.”

Reo can feel his heart thrumming where Nagi’s cheek rests. A dead giveaway. Nagi doesn’t mention it.

“So, now what?” Reo whispers.

Nagi’s fingers find the hem of Reo’s sleep shirt, tracing it lazily.

“We sleep,” he says, like it’s easy.

“That’s it?”

“For tonight.” A pause. “Unless you want more.”

Reo doesn’t answer right away. His face heats up, and he’s thankful it’s dark and Nagi can’t see the way his cheeks saturate, like he’s a bumbling teenager blushing over a little petting.

He turns slightly. Let himself look — really look — at the boy in his arms. At the sandy mess of white hair, the squishy cheeks, the raw curve of his bitten lip, the scar on his shin from slipping and hitting it on the corner of his board at a comp, the bruise above his eyebrow from a few days ago when Reo said think fast and chucked a volleyball at his head while playing around with Chigiri and Kunigami.

He slides his hand into Nagi’s hair, reverent.

Nagi closes his eyes at the touch. Pushes his head into it, like an encouragement, touch me more, touch me harder, I want it, I want this. Like it meant something.

“I want more,” Reo admits quietly. “But not just tonight.”

Nagi’s big eyes open again, blinking owlish and innocent, glowing like two moons that belong to Reo alone. Leans in. Nudges his nose under Reo’s chin. Let out a long breath.

“Okay.”

“No—you—do you get what I’m saying, Nagi?”

“You’re saying both of us want the same thing.”

Reo frowns. “Do we? Because I—I can’t do hypotheticals or maybes, Nagi, I need words, I need to know that this isn’t something you’re doing for fun, or because your bored, or because this is an easy option—”

“—I love you,” Nagi interrupts him smoothly. “I’ve been in love with you for two years, and I’m going to be in love with you for the rest of my life, and regardless of what happens, that’s never going to change. Sleep, Reo.”

Reo hides his tears in his pillow. He holds him tighter.

And this time — there’s no pretending.

Just the steady crash of waves outside, the warmth of another body pressed against his, and the dizzy, quiet certainty that Nagi would be here, within reach, when he wakes up. 

—

He doesn’t even bother putting on his medal.

It’s slung around two fingers, cool and clinking, as he jogged across the side lot barefoot and salty, boards strapped to the roof of his Jeep and his phone vibrating again in his other hand.

NAGI
i’m bored
hurry up
i wanna see ur face

Reo smirks.

“Don’t be needy,” he types back with one thumb as he unlocks the door and tosses his backpack onto the passenger seat. “I’m coming.”

He’s barely closed the door when someone calls after him.

“Yo, Mikage!”

Reo glances over his shoulder. One of the guys from the Santa Barbara heat—tall, blond, and still wearing his wetsuit like he hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over. He jogs up, brow furrowed.

“You’re heading out already? Final just ended like, twenty minutes ago.”

“Yeah.” Reo tucks his phone into the cupholder and reaches for his keys. “Caught a red-eye.”

“To where?”

Reo clicks his seatbelt. “To the airport.”

The guy blinks at him. “Yeah, but like— why ?”

Reo gives him a slow, shit-eating grin as he slides on his sunglasses. “To go kick my boyfriend’s ass at his competition.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then the guy lets out a short laugh. “Damn. Competitive much?”

“You have no idea.”

Reo throws the car in gear, rolled down the window, and added—offhand, but not really—

“Worst case scenario, he wins the surf and I win the afterparty. Works for us.”

The guy laughs again, shouting something as Reo peels out of the lot with salt in his hair and sunshine in his rearview mirror.

By the time he hits the PCH, he’s back on his phone at a red light.

REO
pack ur shit
i land in 6 hrs
try not to miss me too much

The typing bubble pops up immediately.

NAGI
i miss u
hurry
i wanna kiss u in the car like last time

Reo grins, heart kicking stupidly in his chest, and guns it on green.

Six hours. Just six.

And then he’ll be back in Nagi’s arms again—half to challenge him, half to kiss him.

Both were always kind of the same thing anyway.

—

It’s not just a heat.

It’s the heat.

Him versus Nagi. Reo versus Seishirou. Side by side on the bracket, like fate’s playing favorites with dramatic timing. Two and a half years since Blue Lock, and they’ve never competed head-to-head like this—until now.

The ocean's their stadium.

The crowd’s already buzzing behind the barricades, but Reo tunes it out as he paddles past the break. His body is loose, perfectly primed, every muscle humming. He adjusts his stance on his board, eyes narrowing as he clocks the other surfer paddling beside him.

Nagi.

Calm, lazy, infuriating.

He looks like he just woke up from a nap.

“You’re late,” Reo calls out, not bothering to hide the smirk in his voice.

“I’m early,” Nagi says, slow as always. “You’re just impatient.”

“You’re just scared.”

Nagi turns his head, meets Reo’s eyes, and smiles—sleepy, smug. “You wish.”

The air horn cuts through the lineup.

Game on.

Nagi’s the first to catch a wave, and of course—he makes it look stupidly easy. He drops in smooth, hands loose at his sides, weight low and centered as he carves across the face. His movements are all economy and style—he doesn’t push, doesn’t force it. He just lets the ocean carry him like it belongs to him.

Reo grits his teeth.

He hates how good Nagi looks when he’s focused.

Not that he’ll admit it.

He lets the next set roll in and chooses a steeper, faster wave. Cuts in sharp, board slicing like a blade. Every movement is precision, every flick of his heel a message: watch me. keep up.

He doesn’t need to look. He knows Nagi’s watching.

They trade waves like that—back and forth, a push and pull across the lineup. Reo ups his aggression; Nagi meets him with flow. Reo slices; Nagi soars. The tension builds between them like a tide—just out of sight, but always pulling.

Then Nagi pulls off a clean aerial—spinning, landing, grinning like the bastard he is—and coasts back into the pocket like he hasn’t just dropped a near-perfect score.

“Top that,” Nagi calls out.

Reo huffs a laugh.

“Gladly.”

He paddles out. Picks his wave. And rides it like a scalpel—every movement honed, every cut purposeful. He doesn’t showboat. He executes. By the time he dismounts and carves clean into the foam, he knows. The judges will eat it up.

But he doesn’t look at them.

He looks at Nagi.

Who is staring at him like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Eyes wide. Lips parted. A flush creeping up his neck. He looks like he wants to say something—but doesn’t.

Reo walks his board up the beach, saltwater trailing down his legs, and waits.

Nagi joins him a moment later, dragging his own board across the sand, looking him up and down like he wants to fight and kiss him in the same breath.

“That last turn,” Nagi says, voice low. “You’ve never done it like that before.”

Reo grins, pulling his hair back with one hand. “Guess you bring it out of me.”

Nagi’s eyes darken. “You trying to get me hard in front of a camera?”

“Just trying to win,” Reo says, shrugging, playful. “That’s what rivals do.”

Nagi steps closer, breath grazing his cheek. “You keep showing off like that, and I’m not gonna wait until after the ceremony.”

Reo smirks, heat curling under his skin. He leans in, just enough to make Nagi twitch. “Who said you’re invited to my podium?”

Nagi chuckles, low and dangerous. “Who said I needed an invite?”

They hold there—so close, almost touching, soaked in salt and heat and history—until someone from the event crew yells for them to clear the beach.

Reo doesn’t move for a beat. Then, he brushes past Nagi, shoulder to shoulder, deliberately slow.

“You'd better hope they don’t score me higher,” he calls over his shoulder.

Nagi’s response is low, unapologetic: “I hope they do.”