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There was something different in the air, yet everything was exactly the same. The tension vibrating through and between the two teams, the squeaks of the shoes sliding and pivoting on the gym’s floor, the raw smell of sweat and adrenalin running through as the two teams kept the deuce going. It was frustrating, yet exhilarating, how each point drew them closer to victory just to be torn it from their hands the second after.
It would have been like any other practice match they’ve ever played… except that it wasn’t. It wasn’t because Oikawa could perfectly see Kageyama at the other side of the net, dumbass I’m-better-than-anyone Kageyama, and that was making his blood boil. The reason why he hated Kageyama so much still slip from between his fingers whenever he tried to think hard about it, but in the end, it didn’t matter, because it was fun to crush him and that was exactly what he was about to do. Chibi-chan didn’t help either, moving so fast sometimes it was hard for his eyes to catch, but chibi-chan didn’t piss him off as much as Kageyama did. He just had this hatred —hatred?— for Karasuno’s setter and he couldn’t shake it off. Not that he tried, or wanted to.
Their coaches had settled that match as a practice for what it was about to come and everyone had agreed. Oikawa’s personal interest in crushing Kageyama may have affected to the decision making, in a positive —positive?— way (it wasn’t a discussion at all since he was the captain, after all). Karasuno also agreed, more than willingly, and Oikawa had this firm believe that Chibi-chan and Tobio-chan had been the first two in accept, out of pure excitement and not even thinking about who would they be playing against. Those idiots were as complicated to follow as an amoeba, and probably a bit less smart. They only thought about ‘staying in the court’ and that only pissed him more, to the point his teeth were starting to hurt for clenching his jaw and crinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes of frowning so much.
“Tired yet, Chibi-chan?” he mocked of the little red-hair panting at the other side of the net. Hinata didn’t grant him with an answer. He’d like to think it was because Oikawa would find funnier any retort than the silent treatment, but honestly, it was because he couldn’t breathe. How long they’ve been at that deuce, just running from one side to the other of the court, Hinata couldn’t tell. What he could tell was that his knees were shaking and he thought that jumping any longer would definitely have him shattered like a piece of glass. Hinata, however, was stubborn, was really stubborn, so he wouldn’t leave the game unless Ukai personally dragged him out. The coach, watching the game from the bench without any word but a curt smile, wasn’t planning on do such a thing, so maybe Hinata would break after all.
Kageyama wasn’t much better, Oikawa thought with this devious, creepy smile curving his lips. Just a little more, and they would destroy him. He shot a glance at the score, who seemed to make fun of him, always the eternal deuce. Honestly, he was starting to feel the tiredness in his own body, the muscles of his back sore and tight, and he was pretty sure he pulled a muscle in his leg a couple of points ago —but that wasn’t going to put him out of game. Still hurt, thought.
But the main reason why they hadn’t won that game yet was, and Oikawa could tell even if the rest of the team seemed awfully oblivious, one clumsy Hajime Iwaizumi. Oikawa had found him weird the last two or three days —he could tell, as much as Iwaizumi could tell about him, when he was pretending. In Oikawa’s case, Iwaizumi had to discern between fake and true smiles, and what seemed so difficult —impossible— for any other person in the world, Iwaizumi found it as easy as breathing. It wasn’t so difficult, he told him once, since Oikawa’s smile were rarely genuine.
The same could be said about Oikawa, though; his friend was always hard to read because he always had that permanent scowl in his face (seriously, Oikawa could definitely count with the fingers of his hands the times he’d seen Iwa-chan smile), but Oikawa could read him. And he was doing it now, and he didn’t understand or even realize what was happening with his friend but there was something.
There were little things that would probably go unnoticed for anyone else on the team, but not Oikawa, because he spent as much time looking at Iwaizumi as he spent looking at himself —which was a preoccupant amount of time, his friend reminded him often. The team probably didn’t notice how he took one second more than usual in jumping to spike the ball, or how his eyes drifted and flickered for an instant when he received a toss —and it was perfectly tossed because Oikawa had tossed and he knew how Iwa-chan liked the balls—, or how the muscles of his body tensed in an unusual way when he finally spiked the ball through Karasuno’s blockers, or how his cheekbones pinked slightly less than usual by the exercise. He wasn’t playing bad —in fact, all the team congratulated him, even if Oikawa somehow forgot in his what-now-must-be creepy stare, when he scored another point. Oikawa could have definitely enjoyed the look of frustration in Kageyama’s face at the moment, if he hadn’t been watching so intently at his friend.
Said friend seemed to feel his gaze, because he turned around and scowled at him, as one would do with a little kid —pretty much Oikawa. He shot him his best smile, to which Iwaizumi only frowned deeper, and Oikawa stuck out his tongue because that was his usual banter. Except that it wasn’t, because Iwaizumi scoffed but didn’t look away. He looked down and his eyes seemed unfocused and wavery for a moment and Oikawa saw it so clearly that wondered how no one else could see it.
Maybe he was imagining things, though, because when Iwaizumi looked up again, his scowl was as Iwa-like as ever, and he muttered a ‘focus, Shittykawa’, and he thought ah, there it is. But there was something, there was something weird and Oikawa couldn’t put his finger on it and he hated that feeling. It was like something creeping up his neck, clawing his way to his brain in an incredible upsetting, distracting way.
So distracting that when he tossed in a very poor way next Iwaizumi’s spike, he took a whole step back under the glare thrown upon him, raising his hands and waving like crazy in a desperate attempt to excuse himself.
“I said, focus!” Iwa roared, and Oikawa just shot him his best grin —fake— and winked an eye at him —also fake—. Iwaizumi didn’t seem the less appeased by those gestures —he actually looked more pissed off, which meant another step back or he’d end up with a blow at the back of his head. The rest of the team shared a quiet, tired chuckle, because they were so used to it and it was so natural as it was breathing.
Except it wasn’t. Except Oikawa had tossed that so poorly on purpose, and he was positive that, in normal circumstances, Iwaizumi would’ve definitely kicked his ass, because they were just a point away to win the match and he had blown the opportunity —the cheers and excitement of Karasuno at the fail could not be easily ignored, as much as he wanted.
But Iwaizumi hadn’t. He just retreated quietly —too quietly, Oikawa thought, even for a quiet guy as Iwa-chan was— back to his position. A last attempt, Oikawa thought, putting up his best pouty face and throwing his arms above his head:
—You’re so meeeeean, Iwa-chan…!
It was a desperate attempt, because Oikawa knew how pissed Iwaizumi got when he put that pouty, childish voice just to specifically made him mad. He waited for the smack, because Iwaizumi was close enough to give him one and if there was something that could put him on edge was that.
But the blow didn’t come. Oikawa turned, a frown on his face —real. And everything seemed to happen at slow motion.
Iwaizumi stopped in his tracks, in the middle of the court, head down, back to Oikawa. He scoffed —no, he wheezed, strained and hoarse and breathless. His right foot tried to move forward, just a step, but couldn’t make it. In what could’ve been a funny motion, but it was only painful with a last gasp trying to put some air into his lungs. Iwaizumi fell hard to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut off.
There was this silence, for a second. This weird silence where he could hear everything, from their strangled but quiet breathings caused by the exercise, to the silent dripping of a loose faucet somewhere nearby. It was like that moment, when a single raindrop plops in a lake, this instant where the water bends and curves on itself and nothing happens, just that instant, where the world seems to hold his breath and there’s no sound at all.
And the next second, everything were cries and shouts and people running and feet stumping and names that should’ve been familiar, voices that should’ve sounded close, but they were so far. That instant when the raindrop finally stirs the waters and the waves spread through the quiet lake, no longer quiet. A single raindrop that moves a whole lake.
A single instant that shakes a frozen heart.
“IWA-CHAN!” he threw himself over his friend and swore to God he couldn’t hear anything but his own, terrified breathing. His hands awkwardly moved to Iwa’s neck and he found there a pulse, a pulse which should’ve been loud and quick because just some seconds ago they were playing a match, but it was so hard to find that his fingers trembled over the curve of his neck. He heard someone very, very far away calling for an ambulance and ‘yeah, that makes sense’, a tiny corner of his mind not busy freaking out so hard thought.
“Oi, Iwa-chan, wake up!” it was useless, he knew, but the words left his mouth and he thought —he thought!— it was somehow a miracle he wasn’t crying yet. Seemed absurd and unnecessary and why-the-hell he would cry but he was sure that the only thing preventing him from actually crying was that he was as out of breath as Iwaizumi had been a second ago, needles painfully piercing into his lungs. He was breathless and it started to actually hurt, chest tightened in a painful motion and he thought it was some kind of a punishment because he’d known. He had known Iwaizumi wasn’t being himself and he didn’t say anything, didn’t try to worm it out of him, didn’t…
I didn’t do anything.
His fingers closed tightly around the fabric of his shirt and mumbled something that could have had sense, or maybe not. He didn’t care, it didn’t matter because he hadn’t done anything. The thought was heavier than anything, and breathing became this impossible task some cruel twist of fate had thrown at him. He heard a siren nearby and he wondered how much time had passed, because for him had been just a couple of seconds with hands and voices and screams all over and around the two of them and he hadn’t noticed.
Someone reached to him to pull him up and he tried to resist, he tried to resist because hell if he was going to leave Iwaizumi alone, but he couldn’t because his chest was so tight and it hurt so much —everything hurt so much that there wasn’t a single thread of strength left to shake that hand on his shoulder. New hands and voices arrived, and he was pulled further, and he wanted to scream and go back to him but.
Just but.
The last thing he could remember clearly, above this sudden silence that was worse, so much worse than the screams, was the paleness of Iwa’s skin when he was put inside an ambulance, doors closing and severing with it some unknown connection.
*
‘The screams are better’, Oikawa had thought, not for the first time since they arrived. The screams, or the sobs, or the quiet anger or the resigned sadness. He even heard someone punching a wall, and that was fine too. Everything, everything was better that the agony of waiting enveloped in that silence. That suffocating silence, only broken by the constant ticking of a clock somewhere above his head. Narrowing his eyes, he wondered if they could kick him out of the hospital for breaking that damn thing into pieces. Since they probably could, he chose to stay there, forehead over his intertwined fingers. It was better that way, hiding his face from the world. It was easier. Even if he had wanted to cry, the suffocating silence wouldn’t have allowed him to.
He actually envied those people surrounding him. Not for a particular reason, but for being able to do whatever. Scream, before, in the court. Sob quietly now. Look anger, or sad, or depressed, or punch walls and feel that comforting pain climbing up their arm. ‘Whatever’ being feel, because all Oikawa could do was stay, and wait, tired eyes buried in his hands and this hollowness in his chest. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t anxious, he wasn’t afraid.
He just wasn’t.
He felt steps getting closer, and this random person should’ve known better than getting close to him at the moment. He managed to raise his head enough to glower, but this person didn’t even flinch. Maybe he was too used to it, Oikawa thought, some part of his brain finding it funny but not reaching his eyes, nor any other part of his body. It was curious, how many times Iwaizumi had wondered how he could fake the smiles so easily. Now he wouldn’t have been able to, even if someone’s life had depended on it.
A grim thought to have now…
“What do you want,” he spitted out, and his voice was this hoarse mess he couldn’t recognize. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.
“He is gonna be okay.”
It wasn’t a question. There wasn’t doubt in his voice either. It was just a stubborn statement, as if saying it aloud was enough to make it happen. Oikawa felt like laughing, he really did. But his body wouldn’t cooperate and he just moved his eyes back to his hands, and it sting, but tears still wouldn’t come.
“You don’t know that,” and all the weakness he was feeling —maybe that’s the only thing he could feel, weak and pathetic and useless— poured into his voice. He bit his lip hard, trying to punish himself —for what exactly, he didn’t know.
“I know,” was the simple answer. Oikawa made this noise, something remotely similar to a snort, and he thought, not for the first time, nor for the last, Kageyama was so simple-minded. At that moment though, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad about it. Suddenly, his alleged hatred didn’t seem that important anymore, he didn’t care anymore. Iwaizumi was the only one he cared about. And he was in there and —God, he may not come back.
“You don’t have to be here, you know?” he said softly —because he had no strength to say it any other way—, burying his face back into his hands. Kageyama shifted from one foot to the other.
“He was also my teammate,” was Kageyama’s answer. Simple-minded. Oikawa tried to smile. He failed.
“We want to be here,” a new voice came from Kageyama’s side, and Oikawa should’ve known better, that Chibi-chan never was two steps away from Kageyama. He just nodded, but didn’t move his eyes. He let out a shaky breath, clenched his teeth, and it was a pretty good signal for ‘leave me the fuck alone’. Quietly —thing he would’ve thanked in any other circumstance but now he hated—, Kageyama and Hinata went back to the rest of their teammates. Oikawa forcibly ignored the whispers about him and grinded his teeth harder. Again, he was alone with that ticking clock.
He was a loud, noisy person, he’d always been, and probably he would always be. But there, waiting for God-knows-how-long in the waiting room of some random hospital with a loud clock as his only company, Oikawa came to a defining conclusion.
He hated silence.
Seconds kept ticking by for a while, still didn’t know what time was it and he didn’t really care, until footsteps approached and he raised his head for no particular reason. A doctor —who seemed oddly familiar, by the way— was heading their direction, and the rest of the team jolt to their feet, as if everyone knew that particular doctor was here for them. He actually was.
“Are any of you family of Iwaizumi Hajime?”
Oikawa jumped so suddenly to his feet that he almost stumbled agaisnt this doctor, who threw him a sideway glare —which also happened to be weirdly familiar—. The rest of his teammates and Karasuno were also there in within a second.
“We are his teammates” someone spoke —couldn’t tell who, though. The doctor frowned —and Oikawa swore to God everything the man did was so familiar, yet he hadn’t seen him before—, shooting a wary look to each of them.
“He is my best friend,” Oikawa tried to put all the weight in those two words, but his voice was nothing more than a strangled whisper. He knew, in some part of his mind, that only direct family could know about a patient, especially if said patient had just left a long, probably difficult surgery. But he also knew, and it was as much a fact as Kageyama’s previous statement, that if he didn’t tell them if his friend was okay or not, he would smash his punch into that doctor’s skull, no regrets.
The doctor was about to answer back, and Oikawa had already his fist ready —he couldn’t take the silence, the not-knowing anymore—, when Glasses —Glasses of all people!— took a step forward, glaring at the doctor the same way he was glaring at them. Or more like… They didn’t quite glare, more like harshly stared one another.
“Father, please,” Glasses said, not changing his expression a little bit, and everyone jerked his heads towards him in blunt surprise. Everyone but Tsukishima, stubbornly looking at the person he just called father —it was something hard to comprehend, most of them just assumed someone as bitter and asshole as Tsukishima just spontaneously appeared in Earth to spread chaos—, and Oikawa, who silently begged to this doctor to tell him something, whatever.
Anything but silence.
“He is fine,” he said after quite a long moment of contemplation, and a collective, relieved sigh went through the teams. Oikawa felt the knot in his chest tighten for some reason, but he also let out a shaky sigh, and breathed, that thing that seemed impossible until a moment ago, suddenly became so much easier and he gave in to his trembling hands, those words repeating in a loop in his head, ‘he is fine’.
Iwaizumi is fine.
“Doesn’t he have any familiars here?” the doctor insisted, clearly not willing to give them any more information. Oikawa silently thanked Glasses for being there —thing he would flatly deny for the rest of his life—, since he was probably the only thing keeping that doctor from ignoring them and stop spreading confidential information.
“His parents are in work trip,” his coach answered from behind. Oikawa hazily recalled Iwa-chan telling him the same thing just this morning, after he saw them off in the airport. Coach’s voice —everyone’s voices, actually— still seemed a little muffled and blurry, as if they were speaking from under water. “We already called them, they are on his way but they won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“What happened?” Oikawa demanded, tired of that conversation that had little to do with his best friend’s welfare.
Doctor seemed disappointed for a moment, dropping his gaze to the ground, his gesture quickly turning into resolution after sharing a last long stare with his son.
“He had an internal bleeding.”
Oikawa gave an actual step back, blinking and trying to fully understand what those words meant. He had heard the term before, mostly related to traffic accidents and stuff, not about a person who suddenly collapsed in a volleyball match for apparent no reason.
“He had a splenic injury,” the doctor carried on, talking with the same patience one would speak to a toddler. Probably they had the same rough knowledge. “You know what the spleen is, right? Its rupture is often produced by a blunt trauma in the upper abdomen. A strong one. It’s a highly-irrigated organ so it bleeds a lot, and it can easily cause death by hypovolemic-shock. It’s a really urgent operation.” The doctor made a pause, looking from one face to another but no one could seem to give him whatever he was looking for. “Say,” he continued at last, his eyes more resigned than other thing when he kept going, “did Iwaizumi-san hurt himself during the match you were playing?”
Everyone looked at each other, trying to remember if something unusual had happened. It didn’t, and of course, no one had noticed anything. Anything at all. Oikawa almost found it funny, but the words ‘internal bleeding’ and ‘death by hypovolemic-shock’ running frantic in his brain prevented him from laughing.
You did nothing, his brain seemed to reproach him.
“He was acting weird before the match,” Oikawa finally said aloud. Everyone’s eyes were on him for a second but he ignored them. Doctor paused, nodded, deep in thought, and his jaw clenched.
“So, he didn’t hurt himself during the match…” The pause indicated a need of confirmation, so Oikawa nodded. Doctor sighed hard, eyes falling to the ground as a frown spread in his face. “Figured that much,” he seemed angrily and oddly resigned to the fact. Everyone else were too far to hear the next whisper, but Oikawa heard, clear as day, and felt a chill run down his spine: “Maybe is for the best the family isn’t here…”
Oikawa really didn’t have the time to think what that could possibly mean, Doctor already going back to his hermetic, professional expression. He looked so much like Glasses that it was almost frightening, now that Oikawa really payed him any attention. It took a long moment of contemplation for Doctor to meet Oikawa’s eyes again, but when he did, he saw a weird hesitation there.
“You said you’re his best friend, right?” Oikawa, still numbed by the fact all this was actually happening, just nodded. Doctor seemed even more hesitant, shifting his weight from one foot to another, arms protectively crossed over his chest. “You won’t happen to know if he’s been in any fight recently?”
Oikawa blinked, dumbfounded. That, that almost burst a laugh out of him. Iwaizumi? Fighting? That guy was the last person you would expect to see in a fight —a serious one, that’s what Doctor was asking, judging the seriousness in his eyes. At most, Iwaizumi would be the one stopping the fight —thing he had actually done once, when he tried to kill Kageyama. No, Iwaizumi wouldn’t willingly start, or participate in, a fight. The question was so weird, and so out of the blue, Oikawa couldn’t help but frown, anger bubbling up.
“Of course not,” he growled, and he felt a hand on his shoulder, probably trying to prevent him from —what, punching that doctor? He wouldn’t do that, but… the thought did cross his mind. Doctor’s eyes, far from relieved, darkened even more, a troubled expression written all over.
“Couldn’t be that easy, huh,” he mumbled to himself. Again, Oikawa was close enough to hear it, and he didn’t understand and he wasn’t sure of want to understand. He just wanted to see Iwa-chan, confirm, make sure that he was, indeed, right.
Before the surprise and nervousness both teams shared, Doctor moved his eyes to their coaches, who blinked in response, faces more serious than usual —as if they understood what Oikawa couldn’t. He wasn’t dumb, and maybe in any other circumstance, he could have understood, but he was so tired of silences, so tired of waiting.
So tired of not seeing Iwa-chan.
“Can I speak with you for a moment?” Doctor then said, gesturing at the four adults in the group —their two coaches, Karasuno’s, and Karasuno’s advisor—. They nodded grimly, and Oikawa wanted to understand what was exactly happening but he wanted to see his best friend more than any other thing in the world and that was enough.
“Can we see him?” it was a question, but a demanding one. That kind of question that didn’t accept a ‘no’ as a valid answer. If he had to break into that fucking hospital to see Iwaizumi, he would. Doctor doubted —because it was clearly against the rules and if Doctor seemed to care about something those were rules—, then Glasses took another step forward as a silent plea. As silently, Doctor nodded, called a nurse, and made them promise ‘just five minutes’ and warned them ‘he is sleeping anyway’. Oikawa nodded, but he knew that was a promise he wouldn’t see through.
In that suffocating silence that seemed to come with the hospitals, —no matter how crowded or how many people were talking or sirens were ringing, that silence was there—, they followed random-lady-nurse through a series of endless hallways and rooms. They finally reached the ICU, or, as random-lady-nurse explained, where people recovered from a surgery until they were set in a private room.
“You can go in,” she said, all the politeness she could muster strongly disagreeing with letting so many people into one tiny room. “Just be quiet and don’t disturb him.”
Everyone nodded in silent agreement and Oikawa already had thrown himself inside the room.
That fucking silent room.
It was frightening, really. The sounds came muffled from the outside as soon as he heard the door closing behind him. There was another annoying clock hanging from the wall —seriously, why this hospital kept insisting in buying those awful, impossibly loud clocks?!— and the steady ‘beep’ of the monitor next to Iwaizumi’s bed, which should be comforting because that meant his heart was beating steadily —not anything like when he sought his pulse and it was terrifyingly weak—, that he was alive, but it was unnerving.
A tiny part of Oikawa’s brain understood, even if he didn’t. What was suffocating him wasn’t the silence. What he hated wasn’t the silence itself —it never was complete silence, after all, just a poorly resemblance. What he hated was that silence.
What he hated, what he had feared so much in so little time, was that the silence lasted forever. That silence inside, that came with not hearing his best friend’s voice. That fear that came with not hearing him ever again.
He got closer to the bed, a reverential fear clutched into his guts, as if any step could wake Iwa-chan —or worst, not wake him. He looked horrible, and it was the first thought related to Iwa that wasn’t tainted with fear, even if it wasn’t a good thought at all, and he laughed, just a little. Iwaizumi’s face was pale —no, was white as the sheets over him. His body seemed tiny, despite Oikawa was just a little taller than him, but lying on that bed he seemed so awfully little. Long fingers stretched at either side of his body, two IVs pierced under the skin of each arm, one slowly flooding his body with —he didn’t know, probably a lot of meds, as the other slowly poured blood into his veins. That was a terrifying vision, even if the nurse had assured them in the way that ‘Iwaizumi-san would be okay’ and that ‘he just needs to rest’. It was hard to believe seeing him there, wrapped in sheets, pale as a ghost, needing so many cables attached to his body —there were necessary, so many cables?— and that slow, but steady beeping of the monitor.
When Oikawa met his eyes —or whatever, since Iwa’s eyes were closed—, his mind wandered on its own. He backtracked to far away days, when he and Iwa-chan went to middle-school. He stayed there, watching as an outsider how two kids played in the streets, in the court, in the park, or wherever. More like, how a young Tooru played while a young Hajime scoffed and desperately tried to shake him off, in vain, of course. Oikawa couldn’t remember, and it hurt, a moment where Iwa-chan didn’t have that scowl on his face when looking at him.
But he could remember other thing. His mind speeded up and suddenly he was in his house, still watching from that invisible bubble, how a bit-older Tooru watched, in what could only be called fascination, his best friend’s sleep. It was one of those weird moments, Oikawa remembered, where Iwa-chan wasn’t frowning, or scolding, or just frighteningly serious. All his face relaxed, eyelids closed gently, chest raising up and down, very slowly, his lips slightly parted as he exhaled each breath.
It was funny, he thought, how he had treasured that moment in his mind, in his heart, without realizing. How he watched now from the outside, many years later, with the same incomprehensible fascination.
But when he returned to reality, when his eyes met Iwaizumi’s the way he was now, that fascination turned into pain, into real pain, because what before seemed endearing, or cute, or fascinating or whatever Tooru could have thought, now only seemed weak and vulnerable. His face was relaxed, eyelids closed gently, chest raising up and down, lips slightly parted… All was oddly and disgustingly familiar. What he had loved so much now just made him want to cry. Or scream, or punch, or just hear, hear something from him because he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
And for some even more mysterious reason, his mind spun again, throwing him back into memories. This time, real recent ones. Words danced around, ‘strong blunt trauma’, ‘couldn’t be that easy’ and ‘maybe it’s for the best the family isn’t here’. The ‘has he been in a fight?’ and that look, that look of disappointment and apprehension and caution and hesitation. The ‘can I speak with you for a moment?’ and the grim faces their coaches had worn, even if for a second.
Maybe it wasn’t that he hadn’t understood at the time… as much as he hadn’t wanted to understand. He still didn’t want to, but he was in a daze and all his head was screaming in pain and confusion and anger and fear. He took an unsteady step, and he heard voices around, accusing and scolding but he didn’t care, he couldn’t care, as a more bigger part of his brain woke up and comprehended what was behind of all those words and those looks, his hand cautiously but firmly lifting Iwaizumi’s shirt.
Oikawa wasn’t like Iwaizumi. He wasn’t like him, at all. Iwaizumi was quiet, calm, serious and contemplative. Iwaizumi was the kind of person who would never initiate a fight, a serious one —no, he would be the person stopping that fight by all means, even if that meant kicking someone’s ass —usually, Oikawa’s. Iwaizumi was the kind of person who could keep his cool in the worst, more tense situations, and he only raised his voice when it was absolutely necessary —often, with Oikawa. Iwaizumi was this person Oikawa always thought it was annoying to have around, but also secretly thought that had saved him from many embarrassing or weird or dangerous situations, just being around. Simply being Iwaizumi.
Oikawa wasn’t like that. He wasn’t quiet, he wasn’t calm, he wasn’t serious. Thinking hard about it, they were totally opposite people, and yet, they were friends. Oikawa was loud and obnoxious and kind-of-a-clown. He didn’t think things through, he snapped more often that he would like and his emotions got the best of him sometimes. Usually, it didn’t really matter because Iwaizumi was there —he always was there to prevent him from doing something stupid. No, Oikawa wasn’t a violent person, but he had started a couple of fights —sometimes, when he’d been too tired to keep the fake smile going on.
Oikawa wasn’t a violent person. But Iwaizumi wasn’t there, not really. And when he saw what was under the shirt, when a horrified gasp filled the silence, shared by every people in the room, suddenly very quiet, Oikawa thought. ‘Maybe I am a violent person’.
Because at that precise moment, he could swear, and not lie, that he would kill whoever had done that to Iwa-chan.
Iwaizumi’s torso and abdomen were completely covered in bruises. Some were deep purple, so recent that the skin still seemed to throb in those points; others had this sickly, greenish color, and many of them were already turning a dark yellow and brown. Oikawa wasn’t a doctor, but he knew in broad terms how bruises aged. And he remembered, what it seemed to lack importance at the time but it made so much sense now, that everytime he reached the gym for practice last three weeks, Iwaizumi was already there, waiting, already in his volleyball’s uniform. How he had given him a last look, too long, trying to stay there for even a second more, just a second more that it would never be enough, before getting into his father’s car and go back home. Go back to some awake nightmare. Oikawa saw, a grimness that couldn’t reach his hollow eyes, how there was a big, swollen dark purple bruise just a few inches above the fresh scar of the surgery. ‘A strong blunt trauma’, he recalled.
And he laughed, he laughed this maniacal laugh and he thought again that he was violent, that he would be violent, that he would kill the bastard that dared to put a finger on Iwa-chan. But then he saw his face. He saw that face, eyes closed and lips parted, and he fell to his knees and his memory punished him with all those movements that seemed off just that morning: the delayed jumps and the eyes shifting and flickering and the rare muscle-twitching and his cheeks not getting pink enough and it hit him, it violently hit him, the pain that now was so sickeningly obvious in each of those gestures. His feet trying to steady him through the pain to make that jump. His eyes flickering when he arched mid-air to hit the ball, bruises tearing apart. The muscles of his abdomen painfully clenching in when he spiked the ball. His cheeks not getting flushed because, and it was almost cruelly funny, he simply didn’t have enough blood to reach there.
Just how long. Dark brown bruises that proved that this had been going for so long, for too long, and he hadn’t noticed. And he didn’t want to cry, not now, not fucking now, but he did because Iwaizumi could see the slightest part of him and tell if something was off, no matter how much he tried to hide it, and he’d been in so much pain and he hadn’t seen it, he hadn’t seen it at all.
He wanted to feel. He wanted to feel something, whatever. And he felt, just as before. He felt weak and pathetic and useless. He cried and his lungs hurt so much that seemed to be tearing apart, and every word he let escape was nothing more than a shaky, hoarse breathing, unintelligible. He felt this awful pain that seemed to be cracking his heart in half and he just wanted to scream and punch and do something but cry —what right did he have to cry. He felt the ghost presence of a hand over his shoulder, about to touch him, but it never did. Another hand moved it away and he was thankful, he was so thankful because the last thing he wanted now was to be touched. There was this silent agreement, an oppressive sadness enveloping everything and everyone, and everyone else left the room, as quiet as they could, no one saying a word —because they didn’t dare to, because they just couldn’t.
Oikawa didn’t know, but they all felt as weak, and pathetic and powerless.
…maybe a little less. Because if Oikawa would have understood what was raging inside, if he could have understood what was tearing his heart apart, if he could have heard how desperate those shaky breaths sounded, if he could have understood those ‘sorry’s’ stumbling out his lips… Maybe he would have noticed that the pain, his pain, was greater than any other.
If he had understood why it hurt so much, maybe he would never have stopped crying.
If he had realized how his fingers desperately sought Iwaizumi’s, because he couldn’t stand that silence only broken apart by his crying, maybe he would have stopped crying.
Because maybe he would have realized that, just for a brief instant, that instant that melts a frozen heart, Iwaizumi’s fingers had squeezed his back.
*
There’s been hours. Oikawa couldn’t tell how many, but it’d been so many, because he had cried until his eyes hurt, his throat was dry and he couldn’t shed any single tear. That’s been long. And then he’d just waited, in that horrible beeping silence, the clock’s hands ticking until they drove him crazy. The sky was dark outside and some nurses and Doctor had come a couple of times to check on Iwaizumi, making that stupid beeping machine beep even more, and changing the infinite number of drugs they seemed to be forcing into his body —all this while having to maneuver around a very stubborn Oikawa that flatly refused to move from his spot, holding Iwaizumi’s hand as his life (his or Iwa’s, didn’t matter at that point) depended on it. After two blood-bags, however, Iwa’s cheeks had slightly recovered his color, and he didn’t look so much as a ghost like before. One of the nurses —probably the more patient one— had guaranteed him (again) that Iwa was going to be okay, and that he would be moved to a private room the morning after. Oikawa didn’t really care about what room or where Iwa was, as long as he could be next to him. He had the feeling that Doctor —and therefore, Glasses— had much to do with the fact he was allowed to stay there in the first place, but he felt really numb and hollow to actually feel thankful.
It was well into the night, and Oikawa’s back and butt started to hurt from being so much time in the same position in that chair exclusively designed to crack backs —he’d been smart enough to not stay in his knees all night, even though it took him until he stopped crying to make the decision. His right arm was completely numb because he hadn’t moved it in hours —it seemed forever, actually, fingers loosely closed around Iwa’s. ‘He is warm,’ the thought came to his mind from time to time, and it was a soothing thought, considering how cold he’d been when he lost consciousness in the gym. Oikawa hadn’t realized until that precise moment, when he felt Iwa’s fingers between his, warm radiating from them.
It also felt an eternity since the last time he talked —again, probably was–, so it didn’t come as a surprise that his voice was hoarse and broken and making so painfully obvious he’d been crying. It didn’t matter, because his eyes gave him away all the same.
“Hey,” Oikawa poked Iwa’s cheek, as if that gesture would be destined to wake him up. He could dream, right? “You have to wake up, ass.”
Thinking about it, he wasn’t sure if he’d actually insulted Iwaizumi before. It had happened —more like happened every time— the other way around, but Oikawa had found since the very beginning that he could annoy him much more calling him ‘Iwa-chan’ that saying the worst insult he could think off. It was funny, actually, because he also used that stupid nickname in normal conversations. Iwaizumi always was ‘Iwa-chan’, no matter how happy or how mad he was to see him.
Now… Now he was happy, he wanted to believe. He wanted to be happy because Iwa-chan was alive and he was going to be fine and that was… That was, simply, awesome. He should’ve been happy. Since the moment he saw him fall flat on the gym’s floor, and one tiny part of his mind he forced himself to ignore, even now, had thought ‘he is dead’, this terror had clawed into his heart and he hadn’t managed to shake it off. He should be able to now, shouldn’t he? Iwa-chan was fine. He was going to be fine. Doctor had told him, nurses had told him. And he believed it because, honestly, that was the only thing he wanted to believe in right at the time.
But he wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy and he knew why, no matter how he chose to ignore it. Or more like, how oblivious he could be to that simplest fact. His teammates had realized. Everyone in Karasuno had realized. That tiny part of his brain —the rational one, such back luck it was so little— had realized. His heart, clawed in two and slowly piecing itself together —because really, Iwa-chan was fine— had realized. Probably that whole stupid hospital had realized, even that mocking-ticking clock. Especially that mocking clock.
Breath caught in his throat, fingers shaking, Oikawa gave a tiny little squeeze to Iwa’s hand. Again, like if some miracle would make him wake up, and look back at him, and —and what? Oikawa didn’t know what he was going to do when that happened —because it would happen—, but he was sure, he was desperately sure, that he wanted Iwa to wake up. He could insult at him, or hate him, or punch him, and everything would be fine. None of those actions would’ve really had any sense but it would be fine, Oikawa repeated to himself. No matter what… if Iwa-chan woke up, everything would be fine.
There was this instant of quietness. There was this instant when Oikawa frowned, and didn’t understand, nor realize, why everything suddenly had turned quiet again, why every sound had ceased to exist. Why the beeping sound was no longer there, why the soft breathing in that bed wasn’t there anymore, why he couldn’t feel the warm fingers underneath his anymore. There was this instant, when the world stopped spinning and everything turned silent, and a tiny part of his mind barely remembered that he hated silence. There was this instant when everything went quiet, even himself. This instant where the water bent on itself and the raindrop opened the way.
That instant, an instant that Oikawa could’ve sworn —and would swear— belonged to him, stretched in time for so long that it could possibly be called the longest instant in history. Not even that freaking clock dared to make a sound. It was his instant.
An instant where closed eyelids fluttered open and stopped time itself, and Oikawa thought that it made sense because his breath had also paused and his heart simply stopped.
“Oi,” a scowl. “Don’t strip me, Crappykawa,” and a tremulous hand —one that wasn’t held by some fingers— pulling the shirt back down.
That next instant, where everything became loud and confusing and marvelous, just fucking marvelous, that instant where the world went back to spinning and seemed to do at hyper-speed, that instant when he heard an outside laugh until he realized it was his own, only because it reverberated in every inch of his body and drummed the inside of his ribs, that instant when a single raindrop brought the waves and the waterfalls and he was crying, and laughing, and screaming and —he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore.
That instant when the world was suddenly too loud, too bright, too precious… That instant didn’t belong to Oikawa, but it belonged to someone. That instant, merely a blink in time, belonged entirely to Iwaizumi.
The next couple of seconds, had they belonged to someone, that’d probably have been Tsukishima, because the next seconds were pure chaos. Oikawa screamed higher, and laughed, and threw himself over his friend and forgot about his injuries or didn’t care entirely, squeezing him as hard as his numb arms allowed him to. Iwaizumi scoffed, frowned, yelled at him and did his best to push him off of him, in vain, and they both forgot about cables and IVs and a suspicious lack of beeping from the annoying machine.
That’s how Doctor and the nurses found them, Oikawa laughing between tears and Iwaizumi with a frown he barely had strength to keep, yelling enough insults to fill a book with them, entangled with each other. Doctor happened to be as stiff and stern as his son, and Oikawa received a smack in the back of the head strong enough to have him seeing starts for a while, Iwaizumi doing his best to not laugh.
This time, Oikawa looked at his sworn-enemy, the clock, and checked the full ten minutes Doctor and nurses were lecturing Iwaizumi about what happened and what he should do from now on. Doctor didn’t mention the bruises —that could wait, he thought to himself, seeing something in Oikawa’s eyes that definitely shouldn’t wait—, and Iwaizumi pretended no one had seen them. For now, he needed to pretend that.
When the door finally closed behind the sea of people who had interrupted his —whatever that had been, Oikawa sighed, realizing that, hey, he could actually breathe now. His heart, well, it was hard to ignore now, all recomposed, beating so hard against his ribcage that he looked at the empty bed next to Iwa’s and thought that maybe he would end in there too. He felt drained, and the idea of lay there, close his eyes and sleep sounded like heaven.
He knew this all was conceptual, of course, because he wasn’t leaving Iwa’s side, not for the time being. He had made a personal mission to engrave those dark eyes inside his brain, because he realized now how terrified he’d been of the possibility of never seeing those eyes again.
“Hey,” Iwaizumi said after a while, and there was no scowl in his face, just his usual serious expression. Oikawa grinned, not knowing which of them he’d missed more.
“Hey,” he replied, and how weird was that his voice sounded shittier than Iwa’s. He also seemed to realize, because the corner of his lips curved into what Oikawa knew was a smile, and anyone else would think was nothing. But, oh, it was.
“You tired?”
Oikawa pouted and puffed his cheeks out, resting his chin on the edge of the bed, really close to Iwa’s fingers.
“I should be the one asking that.”
“You aren’t.”
Oikawa made this noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort, but didn’t move. He was all too tired, and his heart, even beating like a runaway train, still hurt so much. The silence came back, deafening, the beeping a little bit faster than before, equally steady. It was calming this time, because he could see the person behind the beat, he could hear him, he could feel him. It wasn’t only that Iwa-chan was alive, but that he was there.
…still hated that clock, though.
“You scared the crap out of me, you know?” Oikawa mumbled with a teasing grin, moving to somewhat stretch his back because it hurt at that point, crossing his arms over the bed and resting his cheek on them to look up at Iwa. His elbow slightly bumped into his fingers, but none of them moved.
Iwaizumi didn’t answer for a long time. They stared at each other, Oikawa refusing to lose despite how tired he was and how much he wanted to close his eyes and sleep and how much he wanted to cry —what.
“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi finally mumbled, eyes glowing while fixed in some point between Oikawa’s eyes and infinity. Oikawa blinked, and swallowed down the tears, and the lump in this throat, and everything he was feeling and just smiled, that perfect smile that fooled everyone, even himself.
“It’s ok now. I’m glad you’re fine…”
It fooled himself. But Iwaizumi could see the slightest part of him and tell if something was off, no matter how much he tried to hide it. And he was trying so hard to hide it, that it’d been well hidden, even from himself.
…the clock knew better.
“You’re faking that smile.”
Oikawa swallowed down, and couldn’t look at those eyes anymore, and buried his face in his arms because at some point it would maybe be easier. What, he didn’t know. He had no fucking idea.
“I’m not,” he mumbled to no one in particular. Maybe to himself, or Iwa-chan, or maybe that annoying clock, still ticking. Maybe to his heart that wouldn’t stop beating or his breath that had suddenly stuck in his throat.
“Oi, dumbass. Look at me.”
He shook his head, and swallowed harder, and begged the tears to stop falling or at least to understand why the hell he was crying. None of those came. The tears kept falling, his breath kept stuck so any attempt of response ceased to exist, and he didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand, he didn’t want to listen to his brain.
Maybe was a little late to realize, that maybe he hated the silence because it was within him, and it was terrifying. It was there again, like darkness threatening to swallow him completely until there was nothing.
…or maybe there was another reason. A much, much simpler one. A reason that came with the words:
“I don’t want you to have to fake smiles with me.”
Oikawa snapped his head up. Dark eyes met brown’s. And, as easy as that, he gasped and air found its usual way to his lungs. As easy as that, the lump in his throat was easily swallowed into his stomach and made him wonder if it had been there at all. As easy as that, his heart made a deal with him, and it grew quieter as long it was never ignored again. And it beat softer, but louder, louder enough to be deafening and that’s all there was in the room.
Dark eyes meeting brown’s, and some beating in his ears.
Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe he didn’t hate the silence. To begin with, he couldn’t hate something that never existed. He was loud, and noisy, and obnoxious. He was air-headed, and impulsive and dumb, he was dumb, he could recognize that. Silence existed, but not within him, not surrounding him either.
‘Silence’, wasn’t something. ‘Silence’, was someone.
Silence were those dark eyes that looked at him. Silence was the person that always was with him, that made him a little less loud, and noisy, and obnoxious —just a little. Silence was that person that didn’t say a word when he couldn’t take one, but found the strength and the way to give him courage even then. Silence was a presence, always with him, forcing him to take a step forward even when he felt he couldn’t move anymore.
He never hated silence. He hated the idea of losing that silence, of losing that presence. He hated the idea of losing his silence.
He hated the idea of losing Iwaizumi.
There was no need for more words. Sometimes, Iwa’s way was good, and silence was all that’s needed. It was natural, how warm fingers lifted his chin with barely any strength. It was natural, how those fingers wiped a tear, but let the others running because they were also important, because there is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love.
It was natural, how this feeling suddenly became clear, how every little detail now made sense, how their faces were pulled together and their lips touched, ever so softly. It wasn’t deep, or intense, or breathtaking, or earthshaking. It was just a kiss, soft and lingering and kind. It was that kiss that didn’t change anything, because it’d always been there. It was that kiss that belonged to that instant that belonged to the two of them.
That instant, it had always meant to be.
When they slowly pulled apart, there was no revelation either. There was no confession, no pouring feelings into words, no important thing that they needed to say. There were just smiles, true smiles that would remain in the memory of the other for as long as they lived.
None of them spoke afterwards. The only thing that remained in that room were their eyes locked on each other’s, true smiles that would take long to fade, and two not-so-quiet beatings synchronized with each other. Each of them had a storm inside, warm raindrops melting the last traces of ice. Outside… Outside there was only silence.
Maybe Oikawa did like the silence.
Especially when there was an ‘I love you’ so clearly written in there, that none of them had any need to say it.