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“I’m sorry.” The doctor’s face is somber, eyes downcast. The nurses around him stay silent, holding vigil. “But there wasn’t anything we could do.”
The news hasn’t caught up to Oikawa yet. He’s still back in the car, quietly driving to the theater to pick up tickets for a surprise date with Iwaizumi. He still hasn’t woken up, surrounded by beeping machines under a strange ceiling.
“There was no helping it, so unfortunately we have to go through with the procedure. I understand you’re on your university’s volleyball team, but there was no other choice…”
Oikawa’s glued his ears shut. He refuses to look down his bedsheets. “Thank you, doctor. That’s enough.”
“Oika—”
“That’s enough, doctor. Thank you for your time.”
He doesn’t hear them go. He doesn’t hear anything.
All his energy abandons him, and he flops onto the pillows. He was unbreakable. Always so healthy that he didn’t even get sick much. So how is it all over at once? It’s not yet time for visiting hours. What would he tell Iwaizumi? His coach? Anyone?
Cold sweat runs down his neck, as tears sting his eyes. All because of chance, just a stroke of bad luck. Why? Would he never see another court ever again?
He can’t let it end here.
No, he has to keep playing. He needs to keep playing.
If they say he can’t stand, he’ll show them.
One leg over the side of the hospital bed. Pressure on his shoulders. Every muscle aches as Oikawa crawls out of bed, and the bedside mirror reflects a line of bruises down his side. He can’t let it end here, not now!
With a heave, he pushes himself over the side. His right foot touches the floor and then— Oikawa stabilizes. Stilling for a moment, he shifts slightly to test his balance. All good. Just to make sure it’s not just a burst of strength that fueling him, he walks a few, treacherous laps around the room. Every muscle aches from the exertion, but he can manage.
He’s fine. He’s fine.
“You want to tell me what you did in there? The doctors wouldn’t let you go.”
“They just couldn’t resist my charm!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m not a danger to myself or others, so they can’t keep me.”
Iwaizumi goes quiet, his eyes trailing down the crutches to Oikawa’s left leg. “But—”
“I’m okay now,” Oikawa quickly cuts him off. Shooting a peace sign, he gives Iwaizumi a dramatic wink. “I didn’t die, and it’s just some scrapes and bruises.”
Iwaizumi’s eyes trace Oikawa’s left leg, and the bandages wound around it so tight that no skin beneath it is visible. “But the doctors said—”
“Said nothing. I’m fine now, Iwa-chan. Promise.”
Coach Umekazu widens his eyes when Oikawa shows up at practice months later. He looks quizzically at Oikawa’s left leg, as if he’s expecting Oikawa to take it off and start waving it around. “You’re standing.”
“How would I play otherwise?”
Coach Umekazu says nothing. He taps his clipboard. “Do some warm up stretches in front of me, right now.”
All of the stretches come out slow, but Oikawa manages them all. Coach is pretty smart. He must be seeing if Oikawa’s healed up enough to do at least that.
“You’re not doing hard practice like the rest of the team. Start out slow, and then get back into the routine in later weeks.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rejoins his team with his usual pretty smile and carefree attitude, but all he gets is wariness in return. It becomes unbearable when he has to practice sets with Kishida and keeps noticing the sidelong glances aimed at him.
“Why is everyone acting weird?” he hisses. “Sugihara looks like he saw a ghost!” Maybe he’s back earlier than he should be, but this is ridiculous.
“Surprised probably,” Kishida replies, but he still has that tension in his voice that Oikawa knows he’s not immune either. “I mean, we all heard the same things.”
“And what’s that?”
“That a drunk smashed his car into yours and messed up your leg pretty badly.”
Maybe he should have stayed home the prescribed time, but there’s no way he can’t be on his feet for that long. “That did happen, yes. But as you can see, I’ve made a miraculous recovery!”
Kishida shrugs. “If you say so.”
Even though Oikawa has abandoned the crutches and leaves only his leg covered in bandages, Iwaizumi is ever gentle. Not enough that Oikawa thinks he’s being handled like a porcelain doll, but Iwaizumi is noticeably more tender.
Iwaizumi bought one of those onsen bath salt packs, and the one he sprinkled into the water turned the whole bathtub green. Steam whirls around the scent of salts, and Oikawa wonders if the condensation on the mirrors will dry green too.
A soft kiss patters Oikawa’s shoulder, and he laughs. “Such a romantic. Changed your mind, Iwa-chan?”
“Still no sex until you’ve healed up.”
“You’re killing this young man. Wasting my youth, I tell you!”
“The only thing you’re wasting is time.”
Oikawa can’t argue with that and sinks further into the bath, dropping his head into the crook of Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Their bathroom may be small, but the tub is big enough for both of them to lie on top of each other. The heat eases out the stresses of the day, and Oikawa feels the tension in his muscles slowly unknotting.
Oikawa feels Iwaizumi’s fingers drumming on his left leg, gentle, teasing the bandages.
“Stop,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi does.
“You going to do something about that?” Iwaizumi asks, jerking his chin towards how Oikawa has draped his left leg over the bathtub edge.
“I don’t want the bandages to get wet.”
“You can redo them.”
“You know how long that would take?”
“I’ll do them then.”
“No,” Oikawa insists, leaving no room for argument.
Scented steam floats between them.
“You know I think you’re the best.”
“I know.”
“You know that no scars are ever going to change that, right? You’re beautiful, no matter what.”
Oikawa sighs, because Iwaizumi is trying to say something comforting, but he doesn’t need to be comforted. He just needs to relax. “Thanks, Iwa-chan.”
“How about Godzilla tonight?” Iwaizumi thumbs the edges of the Blu-ray, a little flustered. “They’re going to be remastering the Heisei movies soon, and I haven’t seen Destroyah in years.”
Oikawa chuckles. As awkward as Iwaizumi’s delivery is, there’s no intent behind it. Iwaizumi doesn’t offer to watch his favorite franchise together unless he really wants to see it again. Also, there’s nothing more mood-killing than the routine awkward romance in kaiju movies.
After school, Oikawa buys crackers and gummies for the long night in. Iwaizumi burrows into his side, eyes rapt on the screen. Even though Iwaizumi’s no doubt seen this installment at least five times, he still lets out a small keening noise when Godzilla dies.
“You know,” Oikawa runs his finger down Iwaizumi’s arm. “I thought you were propositioning me tonight.”
“True fans of Godzilla don’t have sex during a Godzilla movie.”
“......That’s true.” Oikawa’s not sure what he should have been expecting. “Just wanted to watch something, then?”
Iwaizumi’s breath is barely audible over the hum of the TV. “You’re so busy lately. A little stressed out so, I figured that we might as well— I don’t know, just have a relaxing night together.”
Oikawa feels his heart swell. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
This time, it’s Oikawa that falls into Iwaizumi, breathing in the traces of cologne he spritzes on his neck and drinking up his body heat. “What did I do to deserve you?”
“Live next door for eighteen years.”
“Be a little more prideful than that!”
Heat rises in Oikawa’s face. As awkward and unbalanced as he’s been, Iwaizumi has always been strong, holding him up.
“Oikawa, you aren’t keeping something from me, are you?”
Static rises and falls down the slope of Oikawa’s back. “I’m sorry that I ate the last piece of cheesecake.”
“You bastard, I had to walk through the snow to get that slice— no.” Iwaizumi halts his rising anger, giving Oikawa a long look. “Something bigger than that.”
This close, Oikawa can’t hide. Iwaizumi can smell his fear if he lets it rise to the hair on his arms, and Iwaizumi knows. Iwaizumi has always known, and is giving him a way out.
Tell the truth. But there is no truth to tell, no lie to confess to.
“No, nothing.”
Iwaizumi frowns, gets that deep crease in his brow that says he’s aware Oikawa is lying, but he doesn’t say anything. Some things just need to unravel normally, and Oikawa is glad that Iwaizumi knows how to bow out and let things be.
Ushijima has been drilling holes into Oikawa’s back with his eyes for the past three hours. If he deals with it for a moment longer, he just might explode. Turning sharply on his heel, Oikawa puts on his best face and glows. “Do you have something to say, Ushiwaka-chan?”
“You’re still calling me that,” Ushijima blandly notes, and Oikawa can’t tell if he’s gotten used to it, or has grown too tired to keep debating it. “I was thinking that you’re doing remarkably well.”
“I’d hope so, yes.” Oikawa sticks his tongue out. “Now say the rest of it or get back to practice.”
To his surprise, Ushijima pauses. He keeps his voice low, choosing not to speak to the universe as he always does. “You’re still on the team.”
“Disappointed that I’m going to keep chewing at your heels?”
“These are new shoes, I’d rather you not destroy them.” No matter how much time passes, Ushijima is still the same. “It’s surprising that you’re still playing.”
“It’s been a year. You’re that surprised I’m doing better?”
“It’s not that.”
“Oh? Coach told you all I was retiring, didn’t he?”
“No. My cousin works at the hospital you were at. She wasn’t your attending physician, but she looked at your records.” Ushijima stares at his leg and the bandages wound tightly around it. As tall as he is, he casts a looming shadow over the court. “You shouldn’t have been able to play regularly at all.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“And what’s your other way?”
“It’s impossible.”
Oikawa folds his jaw up tight, a deep frown curling the edges. “Well, I’m still playing. And I’m going to beat you into the ground.”
“We’re on the same team. You would be disqualified.”
Ushijima, for having a stone head, isn’t the type to celebrate his teammates’ misfortunes. He wouldn’t even wish bad luck on any member of the team. That he’s speaking like this sends a crackle down Oikawa’s limbs.
He returns to practice, but unease rises and creeps slow fingers across Oikawa’s mind.
In the height of spring, fallen petals clutter the sidewalks, and Iwaizumi spends his days trying to muffle his sneezes. Even if he condenses his bear growls into hushed barks, empty tissue packs pile up in the garbage cans, and Oikawa has to put in the laundry more often to accommodate their quickly dwindling stockpile of handkerchiefs.
“I got you more medicine,” Oikawa says, holding up his latest bag from the convenience store.
Iwaizumi is a bundle of blankets on the couch when he isn’t working off his computer. “Thanks. Did you get bandages too?”
“I forgot. I’ll get them next time.”
Bending by the fridge, Oikawa pours out two cups of tea for the both of them, but before he can put them on the table, Iwaizumi cuts in with a, “You forgot to buy them last time, too.”
“Sorry for being forgetful.”
“You don’t need to change them?”
“I’m fine, Iwa-chan.”
“When was the last time you did?”
“I said, I’m fine.”
Iwaizumi tilts his head up so that he’s all Oikawa can see. “When you were in the hospital, after the accident, did the doctor tell you what happened?”
A shaky exhale drags its way out of Oikawa’s mouth. “Why does that matter?”
“Oikawa. What did the doctor tell you?”
Each breath feels further away from the next. “I forgot. He just said that I wouldn’t be able to play again, and he was wrong.”
“Early on, I dropped by markers by your leg. Remember that? They were all closed but one, and the tip brushed your calf. It left a tiny spot. And I’ve been seeing that spot for over a year.”
Oikawa turns his leg towards the mirror and sees, right above the back of his knee, a smudged blue dot. Panic and fury battles inside him, anxiety spilling over his lips, and all he can manage is, “You did that to prove that you were right?”
“It was an accident! And I don’t want to be right. I want you to be safe.” Iwaizumi looks at him, long and hard and drained. “The night of the accident, I got a call from the hospital. They told me what happened. They said that the car slammed into you, and destroyed the passenger seat. It trapped your leg between the crushed metal and the seat.”
“I know that!”
“They said once they pried you free, your leg had been mangled beyond belief. Destroyed. They said,” Iwaizumi’s voice catches before he forces his way forward, “They said they were going to cut it off.”
Oikawa swears that in that moment, the room became smaller. “What?”
“They said they had to amputate it. Even if they let it be, there was no way you’d be able to stand on it, even once you healed. They wanted to inform me before they went through with the procedure, since they couldn’t get your approval, as you wouldn’t wake up for the next few days. They went through with it.”
Oikawa swallows back. Someone must be playing a joke on him, very funny, Iwa-chan! But the room is as cold as always and Iwaizumi’s face is serious, and his left leg aches.
“I thought it might be prosthetics under there, but I never found anything like that on our bills. That stuff isn’t cheap, and I figured you would’ve said something. But you never did, and our savings never changed. But you’re moving just fine. You’re playing and walking and kicking the doors open. And you haven’t changed them, not even once.” Iwaizumi looks at the bandages, wound tighter than a spring. “What’s under there, Oikawa?”
“Nothing.”
“Tooru.”
“It’s nothing strange, really! I’m fine! I healed up and I’m fine!”
“They cut your leg off!” Iwaizumi yells back. “You don’t just regrow a leg!”
“You’re lying! How can you— you’re lying!”
Iwaizumi bursts to his feet, eyes blazing. “Why the fuck would I ever lie about that? You think I would ever say that, even as a joke? Are you out of your mind?”
“Fine. We’ll see who’s lying then! I’ll show you!” Oikawa scrabbles at his leg, tearing away the bandages, faster than his mind can keep up because then he doesn’t have to think about it. Bandages go flying, uncoiled and chaotic on the floor. Oikawa throws the last of them down, glaring at Iwaizumi the whole while. “There! There, are you happy?”
Iwaizumi doesn’t look happy. His eyes are wide, standing there a statue, mouth open, parting more until it widens and widens, but no scream comes out.
It’s just a leg. Just a miracle, and Oikawa’ eyes travel down to meet Iwaizumi’s stare.
There’s nothing there. Nothing but an empty space where his leg used to be. A healed up stump, and below that, just air.
In the hospital, he believed. He believed so fervently, so desperately that—
Reality comes crashing down, and feeling the gap beneath his hips for the first time, Oikawa topples over.