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For as long as Iwaizumi could remember, he’s been fascinated by colors.
He wasn’t aware that half the population could only see in grey monotone— he was too busy reveling in the way the sun filtered through the leaves, the color of the jade bangles in his mother’s jewelry box, the way the clouds traversed the clear ocean sky. He was too transfixed by the plum and cotton candy-colored crown that sat atop Oikawa’s chocolate covered head to care about anything else. He was four then, and the world was easy. Life was watching Oikawa’s small, chubby hands thread stems of flowers together into a crown just for him.
On his very first day of school, he was more than eager to put official names to the colors he’d been awing over. They never learned them, and he wasn’t sure why; upon inquiry, his teacher had, with a surprised look on her face, chuckled lightly and told him there really was no need at that age. While she never gave his question a second thought, he wondered about it endlessly, and he began taking note of all his favorite colors.
He looked up the different colors on his own as soon as he was old enough to use a computer. He could then put a name to the color of Oikawa’s irises: They were brown, like coffee beans. He wanted to tell the world. He wanted to tell Oikawa. Instead, he grabbed his tattered notebook and scribbled the colors’ names next to whatever he had been calling them.
Soon enough, he replaced “cotton candy” with pink, and “mom’s car” with silver. He could describe the exact shade of Oikawa’s pale skin in the winter, or the rosy blush that tinted his cheeks in the summertime.
It wasn’t until he was thirteen that he realized most people couldn’t see colors like him. He sat in class, wide-eyed and gaping at the teacher in shock. The teacher didn’t register his reaction, and none of his classmates seemed to be paying much attention to the lecture, let alone anything else happening around them. As he sat through the rest of his classes his mind raced endlessly.
He wondered if Oikawa’s class had learned the same thing that day, but when they met for volleyball club after-school, neither mentioned it. In hindsight, Oikawa had seemed a little off, but he was still his loud, boisterous self. He’d meant to ask as they walked home, but Oikawa spent the entire time ranting about a debate they had in class (over whether Pluto should be a planet or not- Iwaizumi didn’t hear a word). Iwaizumi never brought it up for the rest of their middle school years. He wonders if it would’ve changed anything if he had.
At fifteen, Oikawa got his first boyfriend. It wasn’t all that surprising, and there were running bets on the setter’s sexuality. Cruel, admittedly, but it was high school. Iwaizumi never thought about his own sexuality; he just knew he never noticed girls the way Oikawa did. He never talked about men the way Oikawa did, either. He only ever noticed Oikawa. The rest of high school passed just the same. No mention of colors, regardless of how badly Iwaizumi wanted to tell Oikawa how well the color of their volleyball uniforms suited him.
He confessed when they were nineteen. They had just moved into a dingy apartment halfway between their separate universities, and after a long day of moving and cleaning, they were finally relaxing on their ugly, burnt-orange couch, watching the shittiest sci-fi docuseries Netflix had to offer. It happened by accident, as all things predetermined by fate seemed to do.
But it wasn’t Iwaizumi who made the slip up.
“Why are they called greys in this show if they’re gonna make them green in the dramatization?”
Iwaizumi’s neck threatened to snap with the velocity at which he whipped his head to face Oikawa. The other man sat, unassuming, with his head leaned against his fist, elbow propped up on the arm rest, and feet tucked under him. Sensing the tense quiet, Oikawa glanced to the side, and slowly, painfully, Iwaizumi watched as realization began to wash over the brunette’s features.
“How long?” Iwaizumi’s eyes were wide, his body stiff and upright.
“How long, what?”
“How long have you been able to see color?”
Oikawa had the gall to look sheepish as he mumbled, “Forever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The silence stretched on for what seemed like forever, time frozen in place while Oikawa shifted uncomfortably, feeling suddenly exposed. He uncurled his feet from underneath him and planted them firmly on the floor.
“I- I don’t know,” Oikawa looked away. “I was afraid.”
Iwaizumi scoffed. “Afraid of what, Oikawa? We’ve been friends for our entire lives. If you can’t tell me then—”
“—What about you? How long have you been able to see colors?”
His mouth ran dry and his stomach churned.
“Hypocrite.”
It was then Iwaizumi’s turn to feel exposed.
“What,” he choked, “how did you—?”
“I found your notebook.”
At Iwaizumi’s murderous look, Oikawa rushed on, “I wasn’t snooping, I swear, I just— went in your room to find my sweater and I happened upon it.” Oikawa shifted from one foot to the other and tugged at his sleeves. “By accident.”
They only realized they were both standing when there was nothing but startling silence around them.
Iwaizumi sighed as he sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to him.
“I‘m glad it’s you. I mean, I sort of always wished it’d be you” he said, finally gathering the courage to look into Oikawa's eyes.
Oikawa stared back, eyes brimming with tears, cheeks flushed, as his lips trembled out a relieved sigh. “I was always so afraid it wasn‘t you.”
Iwaizumi closed the distance between their lips.
The colors seemed brighter after that day.
He proposed during a picnic under the cherry blossom trees. It was as cliché as it could get, but it was perfect. They were ready, despite being 24, and he would never forget the way the sun lit up the flecks of honey in Oikawa’s sparkling eyes as they started to water with happiness. The pink petals like the pink of Oikawa’s soft lips as they pressed into his own, muttering “yes, of course, yes” in what little space there was between their mouths.
They were soulmates after all, they were meant to be.
But fate is a funny thing, and meant to be doesn’t always mean meant to last.
It happened on a regular day. There was no foreshadowing, no dark rainstorms, nothing that could foretell Iwaizumi’s worst nightmare. No— it was a bright, Saturday afternoon.
Iwaizumi had woken up a little before dawn and marveled at Oikawa’s mop of bed head. He smiled fondly before stretching and moving to get up, and he paused in flinging the covers off his legs to press a kiss to his fiancé’s forehead. He stared a second longer to burn the image into his mind. Oikawa’s skin was smattered with blues and purples, his neck and collarbone still red from the night before. His pale legs were exposed, and the sunlight filtered in through the egg-white curtains to shroud him in an ethereal glow such that he looked like a fallen angel.
A loud grumble distracted Iwaizumi from his admiration, and he slid out of bed, heading towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
After a couple hours of kisses over coffee and lovingly teasing one another, they had finished their breakfast and gotten ready for the day. Oikawa was heading for the door when he paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned to face Iwaizumi, who was trailing behind him. “I’m going shopping with Makki, do you want me to get take-out?”
Iwaizumi leaned in kiss to Oikawa’s nose and pulled away. “No, I’ll get dinner with Daichi after the gym.” He leaned in one more time to kiss Oikawa’s lips.
“I’ll see you tonight, Hajime. I love you.”
“I love you, too.
Goodbye, Tooru.”
He got the call when he was almost to the gym, just around the corner from his and Daichi’s usual meeting spot. He didn’t see the caller I.D. when he lifted the phone to his ear, assuming it was the man himself, being impatient.
“Daichi, I am literally right around the cor—”
“Is this Iwaizumi Hajime?”
Iwaizumi faltered in his steps. He looked up and saw Daichi watching him from a few feet away.
“Yes, who is this?”
The voice on the other end seemed too clinical, too detached when it delivered the news. “There’s been an accident. We need you to come down to the hospital right away.”
Everything that happened next was a blur. He was aware that he was running, he was aware Daichi was behind him screaming his name, but the roar of blood in his ears and the howl of wind rushing past were just too loud. He didn’t know how far he ran or for how long— he just knew, the moment he rushed through the doors, that he was already too late.
The colors don’t fade to grey as soon as it happens, no that would be too easy. Instead, they dull little by little. The washed-out tones of colors whose hues were once so rich and vibrant now serve as a constant reminder of what he’s lost.
Iwaizumi opens his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks as they do when he reminisces.
“Beautiful day today, isn’t it Tooru?” he says to the large stone marker. He pictures Oikawa’s smile, imagines what he’d say as Hajime talks about his week. He talks and chuckles to himself until nearly sunset, when his stomach starts begging for food. His lips turn up in an empty smile as he presses a kiss to the cold slab of stone. He stands up slowly, reluctance seeping into his muscles. He’s about to finally walk away, when he turns back to the headstone once more,
“I love you, too. Goodbye, Tooru.”