Work Text:
Prologue:
Fresh spring air is blowing down from the mountains and through Tooru’s open bedroom window. The blinds rattles against the frame and stir the hot summer heat. Tooru is lying on his back on the bed, his shirt off and his brain momentarily short-circuited by the list things he has to do, things like find a student apartment in Tokyo, pack his things and apply for courses.
Iwaizumi is sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, a volleyball spinning between his palms and his sweatpants riding low on his hips. He looks thoughtful, the familiar tilt of his head lazy and contemplative. Tooru stares at the side of Iwaizumi’s face and the thought of their impending separation seems almost too much to bear.
“You know how when we were small,” Iwaizumi says, and then pauses as he picks his words.
Tooru waits patiently, letting the moment grow long and languid. He can’t, in this moment, think of anything he would rather be doing — not with the days until graduation being so few.
“You used to sing to me all the time,” Iwaizumi says, and Tooru knows he is smiling by the tone of his voice, “You still do it sometimes, but… When we were small it was always about spaceships and forests with giant lizard people. They were so stupid.”
Tooru snorts through a laugh and closes his eyes. “Shut up, my imagination is a gift.”
“They were stupid Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi insists, “And they were always unnecessarily dramatic. But they were also about us fighting through moments where it seemed like the darkness would win and pulling through.” Iwaizumi’s green eyes are terribly fond as he turns to look up at Tooru. “We would always win. It made me feel like I could do that for real. It made me fall in love with you.”
“Not that we can win apparently,” Tooru scoffs, still smarting from their loss to Karasuno. It has been three weeks but wounded pride takes longer to heal than bruises.
“I’ve been thinking,” Iwaizumi says, his words slow and earnest and completely unmoved by Tooru’s sulky interjection. “I should go to Tokyo with you. I can take the entry exams for TU again next year, maybe I’ll get in.”
Tooru looks at his best friend — his boyfriend — and hope swells in his chest all bright and sweet. He almost can’t believe what he is hearing, that he won’t have to move to a new city all alone, hours and hours away from all the people who know him and love him.
A thought nags at him though.
“What about Volleyball?” Tooru asks, “Sendai wants you on their team and you said their sportsmed program was the best.”
Iwaizumi shrugs, his broad shoulders rising and falling and his smile never dipping. “I don’t know. It feels like I should just follow you. You know, there are days where I swear I could close my eyes and still know exactly where you are in the world, even off the court.”
Tooru tries to match Iwaiuzmi’s gentle smile, but the hope in his chest is souring, turning rancid. “Iwa-chan, that’s silly,” he says, forcing a laugh that is light and unconcerned.
“I know,” Iwaizumi says, reaching backwards to press a finger against the corner of Tooru’s mouth. There is a question in his eyes, on the tip of his tongue. “It’s like you’re still singing to me. Like I could do anything as long as I’m with you.”
It is a terrible thing to know you’ve done wrong. To have a song in your chest that creeps out in unguarded moments as sighs and hitching breaths.
It is worse to realize you owe reparations.
There is a fairy leaning against a bright orange station wagon and blocking the parking garage’s only exist, right where Tooru has to squeeze his Honda N-box through an already too-tight space in order to get his car out of the building. The offending car’s engine is audibly running but no one is occupying the driver’s seat. Tooru can tell the person leaning against the car is a fairy by the slight points of his ears and the abrasively graceful slouch he manages to pull of; something no human has ever convincingly managed.
“Oi,” Tooru yells, rolling down his window and sticking his head out, “Could you drive please? I’m trying to get out here.”
“I could,” the fairy allows, but doesn’t move. He is a tall one, with wild black hair and manic eyes — exactly the kind of fairy Oikawa usually takes pains to avoid.
“Any time now,” Tooru grits out through a smile, his fingers clenching around the steering wheel and his jaw working. It is the day before Equinox, and Oikawa really thought he might beat the traffic jam on the E4 on his way home to Miyagi. That’s the thing about supernatural holidays though; if every creature with a smidgeon of the sight thinks they know how to beat the traffic then no one does.
“Where are you going anyway?” the fairy asks, his cat-slit eyes dancing in the poorly lit cavern of the parking garage. “Somewhere special?”
“Somewhere none of your business, that’s for sure.” Tooru says and means it, too. Give a fairy an inch and they will take your wallet, your dignity and probably your favourite sweater while they are at it. Tooru wouldn’t know.
“Rude,” the fairy comments, not seeming overly bothered. “You need to take it easy bro, I’m just waiting for a friend. What’s got you so up-tight?”
“Maybe I’m just an impatient asshole,” Tooru suggests despite not usually admitting as much publicly. That’s the thing though, Tooru has been avoiding making this trip for five years now and he already feels inclined to just back the car up and call it a bust. He will try again next year, give himself that extra time to settle his nerves and not feel like his world will implode the minute he sees the familiar mountains of Miyagi.
At this point, Tooru is pretty sure his smile is painted on.
The fairy leans forward a bit —probably to catch a better look at Tooru — and grins, the shape of it stretching wide. “Whoa,” he says, “Are you siren?”
Tooru drops his smile. “Please move.”
“Could you make me?” The fairy’s eyes dance and spin with the thick glaze of glamour and the innate urge to see things break. “Sing me a song.”
Tooru isn’t going to play games with a fairy. “Oh, I can make you,” he snarls and guns his engine.
“Bro!”
Tooru barely manages to keep the clutch down as a tall, wide-shouldered man interrupts their exchange, his long legs taking him rapidly towards the fairy with three sports bags slung across his shoulder and a pair of sneakers hanging from their laces around his neck. He is unmistakably human, but one on familiar terms with a solitary fae, and Oikawa doesn’t want to contemplate what that might say about the man’s psyche.
“Bro, we gotta go. The traffic is gonna be sick.”
The fairy doesn’t look away from Oikawa as he levers open the car door. “Took you long enough, Bo.”
The man laughs, the sound belly-deep and wild. The frosted tips of his spiked-up hair only misses the car-frame by half-an-inch as he climbs in.
Tooru watches them drive away, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel and his heart in his mouth.
He had seriously been about to rear-end someone’s car for a moment there, and because of what? A bit of goading? Fairies are notorious for guessing just what words will push your buttons, but they aren’t divine. They aren’t physic. They don’t know things the way Oikawa sometimes does.
Tooru takes a deep breath. Takes another.
It would be easier to just stay home again this year, but his family is waiting for him. His sister is waiting. Takeru said he wanted help with his serves. Tooru can’t disappoint them all again.
A rough estimate of the world’s supernatural population made in the late 00’s put supernatural creatures at 1 to every 2000nd human. Those numbers convert to a meagre 64.000 supernatural beings in Japan — at least two thirds of which Tooru suspect live in the tight sprawl of Tokyo. He was eighteen the first time he met another creature his own age, and since then most of his encounters have been with elves or the fae — creatures who have historically always been meddlesome and curios.
Few humans know how to spot a person with supernatural ancestry and there are even humans who don’t believe in the supernatural all together. Tooru doesn’t have any strong opinion on the issue of supernatural representation and visibility, except maybe that he specifically doesn’t want that kind of visibility at all.
His life in Tokyo makes sense; he gets up every morning and attends training, does press scrums and plays his heart out every chance he gets. The perfect toss to a teammate still contains magic to Tooru — even after all these years and all his exposure the real, tangible thing. There is no way to contain what he is — no denying how a few notes and secret words will bend and shape someone’s perception of him — but volleyball isn’t something he can fake, it is earned through hard work and perseverance. Only in Miyagi does he feel the pressure of his bloodline and the hot shame of mistakes he made years ago.
The drive home from Tokyo is a five-hour one and with every hour and every shift in scenery, Tooru feels increasingly suffocated. The ever-growing mountains loom over him forebodingly and the crisp autumn-fresh air cuts at his lungs.
He pulls over twice, once for gas, and once in a desperate attempt to prolong the trip indefinitely. Eventually though, the highway’s subtle bend reveal the mountain peaks of his childhood and the large trafficked streets give way to narrow, cosy ones lined with familiar houses and local shops.
Tooru ‘s sister runs out to greet him as he pulls up outside her home, the tall, gangly silhouette of his nephew Takeru, shadowing her at a slower pace. Yu’s arms are around him the minute he climbs from the car and the press and smell of his sister makes everything a little better.
“Tooru, you actually made it,” she whispers in his ear, her voice containing all the melodic power of sirens singing to one of their own. The song is a welcoming one, tugging gently at the edges of him, and Takeru soon joins in, ducking awkwardly in for a hug.
Tooru smiles his first genuine smile of the day.
They haul him inside into the kitchen, sitting him down and putting water over for tea.
“We watched your game last night,” his sister says, puttering around with cups and digging out a box of the odd-tasting handcrafted cakes the local bakery has always been notorious for. “It’s still odd to have you appear on television all the time.”
“You jump served a floater,” Takeru says, with the intensity of a teenager briefly forgetting that ‘caring’ is not his current MO. “You have to teach me that.”
“I can try,” Tooru allows a little haughtily, “but it isn’t nearly as easy as I make it look.”
Yu snorts and flicks his ear as she passes, a grin playing on her lips. “Forget about looks, you make every serve sound like it might kill you. Like...” She scrunches her face up dramatically and clutches her chest, “ UFFFF ,”
“No, it's more like, UGHH ,” Takeru supplies, making his mother nod.
“Stop that,” Oikawa demands; trying not to laugh at their antics, “You’re both horrible.”
“I’m just saying your pain grunts need some work. It is friendly advice.”
“Well you can keep it,” Tooru tells them, and eyes the cakes with fond distaste. His sister has always had a gift for making him feel better, but his stomach is still too tied up in knots for food.
“You seem to have your team all handled at least,” Yu says, pushing a cup of steaming tea towards him. Tooru’s stomach turns. “‘The most cohesive volleyball team on the planet.’ That’s what the commentator said last night after you set up that cross play. My baby brother is a star.”
“I don’t have them handled ,” Tooru bristles, “They are their own persons,”
“Uhuh,” his sister says, rolling her eyes, “and you don’t coo into their ears before every game. Relax Tooru,” She holds up her hand and shakes her head at him, “I’m not accusing you of cheating. We are who we are, there is nothing wrong with that.”
“I don’t tie them to me,” Tooru says hotly, his hands clenching around the teacup, “I don’t prophesize the games. I would never— ”
“Tooru,” Yu says, interrupting him with a meaningful glance towards where Takeru has grown too quiet in his seat. “I simply meant that your team clearly respect and value you a lot.”
“Well,” Tooru hesitates, trying to find words that don’t reflect the hot flare of indigence still in his chest. A knock on the front door interrupts any half-hearted concession he might have made, though.
“That was quick,” Yu says quietly and casts a searching look at Oikawa, “I’d wager it’s for you.”
Tooru gets up, and as he does, his nausea returns in full. He can hear his sister ushering Takeru out of the kitchen behind him.
The front door swings open to reveal Iwaizumi Hajime in the flesh, all spiky hair and familiar green eyes.
“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, his single dimple appearing as he sees Tooru, and Tooru is sure that now — surely now — the world’s gravity will prove too much and every brittle inch of him will crack and break and melt away. “You’re finally home.”
“Iwa-chan.” The nickname falls from Oikawa’s lips, cutting through all the noise and bringing with it a sense of relief. Reprieve. Five years gone and Iwaizumi still smiles at him like he is worth smiling at. It is a horrible, beautiful sight.
“Took you long enough, you idiot,” Iwaizumi says and pushes forward, gathering Tooru up into a hug that is all closeness and old comfort.
“Hey, hey,” Tooru says, managing to keep his tone feather-light and free of any emotional overload that may be happening even as his arms tighten around his oldest friend in a half-acknowledged attempt to keep him close. “Don’t start telling me you’ve missed me, Iwa-chan, it’ll go to my head.”
“Too late for that, two world championships have to have permanently inflated your ego.” Iwaizumi pulls away, just enough to catch Oikawa’s eye and flash a dazzling hint of teeth. It is a surprisingly gentle jab at Tooru ‘s blatant absence. Abandonment. Cowardice.
Tooru never did learn what to do with kindness.
“How did you know I was here?” he asks, keeping his smile in place and his voice perfectly even. He knows the answer, but five years have passed and the answer wasn’t supposed to still be the same. “Do you remember?”
Iwaizumi blinks, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Oh,” he says, a look of confusion and disappointment crossing his face. He takes a step back.
“It was really good seeing you, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, putting a hand on the doorframe and letting his fingers curl around the inside edge of it to keep himself anchored as Iwaizumi takes another step back.
Iwaizumi’s mouth is pinched, his green eyes cloudy with unhappiness. “Right”, he says, and then turns on his heel and leaves.
“You didn’t have to do that, Tooru,” Yu tells him quietly, as Tooru slowly settles back into his seat in the kitchen. The tea has gone cold, and Takeru hasn’t returned downstairs. Tooru hadn’t realized how much time he lost, standing in the doorway staring after a dream. “Life doesn’t have to be so black and white.”
Tooru closes his eyes, letting his hands rest around the cold teacup just to put them somewhere. The nausea hasn’t gone away, it builds and breaks against his insides, like the sea in a storm, roiling and uncontrollable.
A consoling hand is placed on his shoulder, perhaps to make him open his eyes and see his sister’s concern. Perhaps to make him take notice of the gentle song she is singing to him, of the way reality bends around her lips, of how comfortable she is with the life she has wrought for herself, in Miyagi with her son and her high-profile real-estate job.
“Always the drama queen,” she sighs, her fingers running soothing circles across his shoulders. “You should go for a walk, maybe see mom before dinner tonight.” Her words carry the gentle weight of prophecy — of a siren singing you towards the shore, rocks or no.
The nausea in Tooru ‘s stomach is a song, the kind that wants out, the kind that finds and brings and weaves illusions of futures more often a lie than not.
Tooru keeps his mouth carefully closed. He doesn’t open his eyes.
The air up in the mountains is autumn-crisp, the forest already turning into a palate of tinted gold beneath the paleness of the clear sky. Tooru walks the few kilometres to his parent’s house with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-thin jacket. He can taste the sweetness of overripe fruit in the air and the crispness of the first frost. He misses the warm comfort of a volleyball smarting against his palm.
It is a beautiful day, the kind that wants to shackle you in the present with a sensory over-load of falling leaves and dazzling hints of sunshine. Tooru’s mind still strays though, to other autumns spent outside with his best friend under the open sky, running amok in other people’s backyards and quiet rainy days where they would build forts under Iwaizumi’s desk and Tooru would sing secrets into his ear and not feel remorse.
That’s the thing about being young, you get to make big terrifying mistakes and not realize you fucked up until years later.
Tooru shoves his hands impossibly further into his pockets and puts on his friendliest grimace when an elderly couple stops to congratulate him on his sweet bread TV-commercial and that medal he won for — what was it? — table tennis?
He is explaining in his politest, most affable tone, that no he really isn’t looking to date anyone’s granddaughter right now — but thank you, he is sure she really is lovely — when a bright orange station wagon pulls up beside them with the window open and one black-haired, wild-eyed fairy sticks his head out and yells, “Oi, is this the way to the gym?”
Oikawa startles so badly he almost drops his favourite autograph-pen into the gutter.
“Oh, it’s you,” the fairy says, perplexed, and then grins at the elderly couple with his harp teeth and too odd eyes. The old man reaches for his wife’s elbow and steps back, his other hand raised in the millennia-old gesture for warding off fae.
“Dude are you following us?” the fairy asks, his eyes tracking the couple’s retreat with a intense sort of glee.
The white-haired man in the driver’s seat leans across the front seats to peer out at Tooru. “Bro, do you know the guy? He looks kind of familiar.”
“Sure,” The fairy says, nodding along thoughtfully. “We’ve met.”
“Barely,” Tooru scoffs, “And why the hell would I follow you? This is my home town, why are you here.”
“That’s great!” the fairy exclaims, ignoring Tooru’s objections “I’m Kuroo Tetsuro, this is Bokuto Koutarou,” he throws an off-hand gesture towards to awfully large man in the driver’s seat. “You can show us to the gym.”
Tooru narrows his eyes at them. “Just use google maps, what’s the matter with you.”
“Nah dude, those things tell Mark Zuckerberg where your computer lives,” Bokuto says, shaking his head with an air of great gravity. “And then all your dick picks get hacked and sent to your mom in an envelope.”
Kuroo places a consoling hand on Bokuto’s arm. “Your mom will forgive you eventually, bro. Those picks were hot. Great lighting, interesting angles you know?”
“Look, I really need to get going,” Oikawa tries; despite kind of wanting to know exactly what angles were involved.
Bokuto sniffles a little, “You’re so good to me, bro.”
“Okay, I’m just going to—”
“On a side note,” Kuroo says, turning his unnerving eyes on Tooru again, “Do you play Volleyball? We need an extra for the beer league game we’re playing in an hour.”
Tooru stares at the fairy and he feels a surge of petty glee build in his chest. He really could do with some precision jump serves right now.
“I play occasionally,” he tells them, letting a sugar-sweet smile spread across his face, “but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, Tetsu-chan.”
They end up at the public gymnasium where Tooru used to coach his nephew’s midget volleyball team and he himself, once practiced every Thursday and Sunday. Tooru walks in with the confidence of someone who knows every crook and corner of the building, and he doesn’t have so much as his own trainers with him, but he is wearing sweats and there was a sports store two blocks down, where Oikawa causally bought a new pair of shoes and autographed four volleyballs, while Kuroo and Bokuto waited outside in the car.
“Do you even sing?” Kuroo asks, stretching out next to Tooru with too-fluid lazy movements. Everyone else seems to be keeping a distance to Kuroo, his other-ness almost comically pronounced under the harsh gymnasium lights. “I thought Sirens would be prettier,”
“You have an awful sense of humour, Tesu-chan.” Tooru says sweetly, as he massages his right knee carefully and stands up. He looks down at Kuroo and raises his eyebrow. “Why would I sing anyway? People do what I want them to for other reasons. No supernatural persuasion needed.”
“Yeah?” Kuroo grins, his too bright-eyes reflecting the gymnasium lights like a cat’s, “But the supernatural is the fun part.”
Tooru wrinkles his nose, “It’s that what you did to your friend? I’ve never seen a human voluntarily car pool with… well.
“Who, Bo?” Kuroo’s grin widens impossibly, “Oh yeah, I own him by fae law. He drove over my cat three years ago and now he is contractually obligated to be my bro for life.”
Tooru’s stomach flips and not even the calming familiarity of the gymnasium can dampen the sick burn of jealousy and revolution. Kuroo smirks at Tooru, his eyes half-lidded at his motions feline fluid as he stands as well.
“The world is full of constructs humans don’t understand. It doesn’t mean things are a bad, just that they are different.” Kuroo picks up a ball and spins it in his hands. Behind him, his team is finishing up practice serves and the competing team is trickling in with the discipline of adults who have other obligations than a game on a Saturday afternoon.
The boom of Bokuto’s laughter rolls through the gymnasium like thunder, interspaced only by the hard slap of a leather ball hitting hardwood floor.
“He’s happier with me,” Kuroo says, and tilts his head, “Freer in some ways, less free in others. That’s life, you know?”
“How very autocratic of you,” Tooru says. He thinks he sees Hanamaki among the massing ranks of the opposite team and that there is definitely… “You know, I don’t feel so good,” Tooru turns his back to the net, “maybe I should go home, I’m sure there’s someone else who can fill—“
“Oi, who invited the world champ?” Hanamaki’s astonished voice rings out across the court. “Iwaizumi, did you know Oikawa would be here? If he is playing against us I want a fucking handicap.”
Tooru squeezes his eyes shut as he feels every eye in the room turn to him. He can hear the low murmur of Iwaizumi’s answer but not the words. It doesn’t matter. He takes a deep breath and puts on his best smile.
“Well, someone has to come whip your lazy butts in gear,” Tooru chirps and turns to face everyone, “But that’s just my professional opinion of course.”
“Oh you’re on,” Hanamaki says, still all short pink hair and sharp laughter exactly the way he was in high school. And there is Iwaizumi, with his green eyes and spiky hair and looking at Tooru like he always knew they would meet here.
“Ooooooh,” Bokuto says, breaking any quiet that might have momentarily descended. “That’s why you’re familiar.”
“You weren’t going to tell us, were you?” Kuroo nods at his own words. “That’s freaking sick, dude. Respect.”
“Oh whatever,” Tooru mutters, and then louder, “are we playing or what?”
Bokuto and Kuroo are wild, unknowable entities on the court, the internal logic of their game seemingly illegible to everyone except themselves. There is a synergy between them — a sense of two pieces becoming greater than the sum of their parts — which Tooru envies, even as he recognises it. Tooru lets the team’s own setter take care of the pair and instead concentrates on scoring points on the passes sent his way.
“Mercy,” Hanamaki cries after the tenth time Tooru casually flips the ball past the opposing team’s admittedly spotty defence. Iwaizumi seems to be the only one capable of consistently picking up Tooru’s serves and it is uncanny, how well Iwaizumi positions himself, how he still knows. He is only one man though, and there is a lot of room on a volleyball court to cover on your own.
“Olympic medallists need to stay in their lane,” Hanamaki complains, bending over to gulp down air. “Leave us poor suckers to our miserable mediocre games.”
“I really think your dives are improving, Maki,” Tooru chirps, “A few more and you’ll reach the ball.”
Hanamaki’s responding laugh gets caught between two laboured breaths and turns whiny and high as he slumps to the floor with all the dramatic flair of a teenager going through puberty. “Iwaizumi go take him somewhere,” Hanamaki wheezes, “Please. Five years and he’s still an asshole.”
“Sure,” Iwaizumi says, before Tooru can even begin to protest. “The teams will be more even if I go, too.”
Iwaizumi catches Tooru’s eyes through the net and the tilt of his head is an invitation. Sweat is glistening on Iwaizumi’s forehead and his hair stands on end and he is still so so beautiful. Tooru can’t help but think life is unbearably unfair.
There is an obvious rejoinder somewhere, swimming around in Tooru’s brain, witty and harmless, ready to be let loose. The sounds building on the tip of Oikawa’s tongue are not just words though, and they don’t seem harmless at all.
Tooru’s drowns in the clutches of his own relief as Iwaizumi simply clasps his shoulder and leads the way out of the gymnasium, leaving Bokuto’s laughter and Kuroo’s strange gaze behind them.
“You’re too quiet,” Iwaizumi remarks as they reach the locker room, the familiar blue-tiled space smelling of sweat and damp and old forgotten socks. “It’s weird.”
Tooru shakes his head, his mouth too full of a song he can’t sing and his eyes caught on the way Iwaizumi’s shirt stretches flatteringly around his biceps.
“I knew you would be here before I walked in,” Iwaizumi says, walking to his locker. He stays there, facing away, as he speaks. “It’s really weird to me how that’s still a thing.”
Tooru swallows as Iwaizumi reaches back and pulls his shirt off over his head, laying bare the toned planes of his back, as he discards the shirt into his sports bag and reaches for his towel.
“I thought, when I saw you earlier… I don’t know, that maybe you’d given up on your bullshit.”
“It is not bullshit ,” Tooru snaps and then clamps his teeth shut as a sliver of a melody twines trough his words.
Iwaizumi glances over his shoulder at Tooru with a frown. The pink flush of his ears means he caught Tooru looking.
“Maybe not, Tooru,” he says, and the dip in his voice speaks of anger. “Maybe not at the time. But when do I get to decide what I want? When does that happen?”
“Never,” Tooru spits, bile rising high in his throat. He takes a step backwards, wanting to be away from here. “It’s never going to happen, Iwa-chan. That’s the whole goddamn point.”
Tooru walks out. It seems to be something he is good at.
Equinox is to the supernatural community what New Year is to the rest of the world, except not really at all. It is an occasion for family and friends to gather and bid the long days of light goodbye. It is an occasion for good food and loud music and fanfare.
Tooru’s parents never had much patience for large parties on equinox, but they would always invite whatever family and supernatural friends were nearby and order good food from downtown.
Tooru used to love equinox, with all its fall-themed decorations and ceremonial lighting of candles. Every year Tooru’s mother would belatedly remember none of her supernatural friends had children Tooru’s age, and she would inevitably send Tooru next door to fetch Iwaizumi. They would sit next to each other at the dinner table and Iwaizumi would eat all of Tooru’s pickled ginger and afterwards they would go outside to watch the stars rearrange themselves into patterns full of stories and old songs.
He always forgets how the evening comes to life on equinox, how the sky will always be clear by nightfall and how the birds will sing all night in a choir directed by the forest spirits.
Now, as Tooru walks the short distance home with his sweaty clothes turning cold and damp and his hair all messed up, he watches the light change and turn golden and he feels the subtle, magical shift of a day passing into night.
Small flickering candles placed in every windowsill light up his parents’ house from within. Tooru’s mother wrinkles her nose at him as he lets himself into the kitchen. She doesn’t ask where he has been, or why he smells like an hours worth of workout, but she kisses him on the cheek and sends up to take a bath.
“The guests are here in thirty minutes,” she warns, her soft eyes and melodic voice propelling him away.
Tooru rushes through his bath and tries not to be too distressed by the inadequate supply of hair products still left from before he moved away for college. Yu and Takeru are there when he makes his way downstairs, helping with the final plating and entertaining the old gremlin couple who always arrives too early.
Yu rolls her eyes when she sees Tooru, clucking her tongue, and he is so distracted by responding with the perfect grimace that he almost doesn’t notice Kuroo Tetsuro lounging in his parent’s sofa with his wild wet hair and long legs sprawling out like tipping hazards.
“How even,” Tooru squeaks, and then has to retreat to the kitchen before he makes a total ass of himself.
“What is the fairy doing here?” Tooru hisses at his mother, who in return levels an unimpressed stare at him.
“Your sister invited them.” She frowns and leans out to look over his shoulder. “She said she met them on the way over. They are quite… Enthusiastic.” Tooru turns to follow her gaze, only to spot Bokuto Koutarou engaging Takeru in what sounds like an animated discussion on the merits of Pokémon go.
“It is good luck to invite a human to equinox, you know,” she says, and smiles at Tooru like she knows things he doesn’t. “They live with the consequences of who we are more often than we realize. They should have part in our celebrations as well.”
Tooru grits his teeth. He wishes he never made the trip to Miyagi.
His mother’s gaze goes soft as it is turned back on him and she reaches out a gentle hand to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips.
“How long has it been since you allowed yourself to sing?” she asks, her voice a song of loving reproach. “Darling, happiness won’t find you unless you allow yourself to be who you are.”
Tooru shakes his head. That same song is building in his chest, climbing up his throat, rolling and rumbling inside him like thunder. He doesn’t know how to make it stop.
“Maybe some air,” his mother suggests, like she knows what is inside of him. “Take your time.”
Tooru stumbles outside and into the night. Above him, the starry sky seems unmanageably dark and vast and sprawling. The cacophony of bird song increases as he puts distance between himself and the house, their voices competing with the one inside him.
He doesn’t realize where he is headed until a familiar figure suddenly appears up ahead, walking towards him. The Iwaizumi family home stands proud in front of him, the façade and gaited front as achingly familiar as the person approaching.
Tooru stops where he is, the noise around him breaking its frantic crescendo as Iwaizumi reaches him. The sudden silence is juxtaposed only by the hidden noise still inside Tooru.
“Are you done?” Iwaizumi asks, shameless and straightforward. His green eyes look black in the night, but they are still the most beautiful sight Tooru ever dared to want.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Tooru lies, feeling equal parts devastated and defeated. “So you love me because I told you to when we were five? How am I supposed to live with that?”
“Why is it a problem that I love you?” Iwaizumi looks frustrated enough that Oikawa is glad no volleyballs are nearby for fear of a hailstorm. He moves forward instead, not reaching out but pressing close enough that they are only inches apart. “Why is it a problem that we could make each other happy?”
“Because you were going to give up things for me, Hajime!” Tooru runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Really important things, like your future. And I’m a selfish bastard — you know this — you can’t expect so much from me!”
“That’s bullshit,” Iwaizumi says and leans forward, so close Tooru doesn’t at all know that he won’t just lean in and lose himself. “I love you, see,” Iwaizumi whispers, “and for some damn reason I trust you, too. I trust you to look out for me.” Iwaizumi touches the corner of Tooru’s mouth. The contact makes Tooru’s knees wobble, makes the song inside of him quiet to a lullaby.
“That’s so fucked up,” Tooru tells him, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t think that he even could.
“I always knew we’d be okay,” Iwaizumi tells him later, lying in bed with all the lights on and holding Tooru close enough that he is certain their hearts are beating in tandem. “Like in your stories, we would always pull through when it seemed as if the darkness would win.”
Tooru closes his eyes and rests his head against the meat of Iwaizumi’s shoulder.
“You should have come home for equinox sooner,” Iwaizumi tells him, one hand roaming across the plane of Tooru’s back.
“Maybe,” Tooru allows, smiling and feeling too relieved for defensiveness. When a song builds in his chest, he simply leans closer and whispers it into Iwaizumi’s ear.