Work Text:
Natsuya mistimes the turn, cursing himself for his sloppiness, and tries to make up for the error with clean, punishing strokes that drive him down the lane. After he touches the wall, he hangs over the rope, heart hammering in his chest. This pool is like any of the ones back in Japan—fifty meters of chlorine-sharp water—but it doesn’t feel the same. He sighs and wonders what Ikuya is doing back home. Sleeping, probably. Time zones. He doesn’t have to wonder if he’s still angry; Ikuya’s made himself clear on that point, voice trembling across the phone line.