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Hanamaki Takahiro reminded Matsukawa Issei of flowers in many different ways.
1.
Maybe it was the name that first sparked it.
‘Hana’.
‘Flowers’.
The flower of Hanamaki Takahiro was just dropped in the ground, soil pushed on top of it, and water poured to grow.
2.
Takahiro’s laugh helped too -- Issei figured out near the end of their first year. Over time, the two had grown closer, and the exchange of jokes between them was more than common. Making each other laugh seemed like a challenge, whoever could get the most chuckles out of each other would win. The comedian of the day would be rewarded with a popsicle bought by the other on the way home, Takahiro usually won.
He carried the popsicle while walking, waving it around in Issei’s face to tease him a little as he brushed his shoulder against his side.
“I won again, Matsukawa,” Takahiro taunted. “Soon, I’m gonna empty your pockets.” He laughed. “Maybe you should try and be funny.”
Issei didn’t say anything, his eyes were locked on Takahiro that day.
Because again, Hanamaki Takahiro reminded him of flowers.
That night was windy, the breeze annoyingly moving their hair around in front of their face. They had ignored it, letting the wind walk with them (as if they could’ve stopped it if they didn’t like it). The cold was nice for them, they’d be able to brush sides and feel each other’s warmth.
Takahiro’s laugh moved with the wind, and the wind moved the petals of the flowers on the walk home The three were a trio in a song, and Issei swore that even by then, he was addicted.
Looking back, Issei was beginning to realize maybe his crush on Takahiro a bit more obvious than he had thought.
The flower of Hanamaki Takahiro was just sprouting.
3.
He was sure that Takahiro dying his hair just about every month pushed it too. It’d go from blue, red, pink, green, one time it was orange which he fixed that day (it wasn’t something he was rolling with). Issei was sure that if he took the selfies that Takahiro would always snap after dying his hair and printed them out, then he could spread them out all on some table and he’d have this picture bouquet.
Takahiro had slown down with dying his hair when he reached their second year, complaining about really messing up his hair. ( ‘No, Matsukawa, I’m serious. I’m going to go bald -- quit laughing, would you?!’ ).
Instead, he dressed up in crazy colors outside of school when they’d hang out. He’d wear these ridiculous outfits like his shirt full of crazy patterns with random pinks paired with yellow pants, or the sweater with a yellow base with a red and a blue sleeve, or the shirt with geometric shapes that started maroon at his shoulder and faded diagonally into a purple by his waist.
The flower of Hanamaki Takahiro was blooming, becoming more vibrant, and becoming something that Matsukawa Issei couldn’t take his eyes off of.
4.
Takahiro hated the cold -- that really sold Issei in their second year. The way the wing spiker would wrap his arm around Issei’s ( ‘Ooh but, Matsukawa, you’re so warm. Be my blanket.’ ). It hadn’t become an argument of ‘Hanamaki, bring your own sweater’ for that long merely because Issei didn’t mind the other stealing his sweater from the back of his chair or breaking into his locker to steal it.
Takahiro was smaller than Issei by a few in their second year, around four inches. He had only reached five foot eleven (180 CM) as Issei stood at six foot one (185 CM). Usually, the height difference would make Takahiro mad. During practice, he’d wrap an arm around Issei’s neck and pull him down, mess up his hair with the knuckles of his hand and threaten to chop off the ends of his feet to bring him down to his level.
Though when Takahiro needed a sweater to steal, it seemed that the problem completely drifted out of the window. He’d stick his hands through the sleeves of the stolen jacket, the palms of his hands were covered by the sleeves that were just an inch too long, the hem of it hanging down a little bit further than his waist. Takahiro always laughed and smiled when he wore it.
That part particularly reminded Issei of middle school science. Photosynthesis and what-not, plants trapping sunrays in their leaves in order to preserve it for winter.
Issei swore that’s what that was. Takahiro had chloroplasts in him, storing energy, and his smile was the sunrays, letting out little by little over the course of the cold months.
Because the flower of Hanamaki Takahiro was always cold, and he withered slightly in the winter, powering down as if he needed to hibernate until the summertime.
5.
Issei didn’t realize it until the end of their second year. Seijoh had lost to Shiratorizawa and were headed home on the quiet bus home after their tournament. The third years’ sniffles could be heard from the front of the bus, the realization that it was their last volleyball game finally hitting them. The first years were in the middle of the bus, a few of them crying, sad mainly because they couldn’t do much for their upperclassmen.
The second years, the four of them, sat in the very back seats of the bus.
Tooru was looking out the window, headphones in his ears, knees pressed against the seat in front of him as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. He was probably overthinking his sets during the last half of the game, or even going back further and thinking about his very beginning sets.
Hajime was sitting in the seat next to him, eyes closed as he slouched in his seat, hands buried deep in the pockets of the white Seijoh jacket. His head was tilted to the side, lying back on the back of the chair and facing toward Tooru. He’d peek his eyes open every now and then and look at his childhood friend, probably wanting to curse him out for so obviously thinking about the game that was now over. Though it seemed he let the setter think in peace.
Takahiro had his head resting on Issei’s shoulder, his arm was wrapped around Issei’s again, snuggled closely (no one ever said anything about how close they were, they were all too tired to make comments). His cheek was pressed into Issei’s shoulder, and he even wore the middle blocker’s sweater. Issei was personally too sweaty and hot after the game, but Takahiro somehow seemed to be cold once again.
He even smelled nice -- Issei’s fifth reminder. Takahiro always had this distinct scent to him -- that of flowers.
The flowers that lined the sidewalk on the walk home.
The flowers that his grandmother would come over and help his mother plant.
The flowers that he’d get a whiff of when he walked past the flowershop.
The flowers from that single patch he’d always find himself returning to when he was alone on his walk home to visit just because that specific flower reminded him of Takahiro.
The flower of Hanamaki Takahiro was one to remember and hard to forget.
6.
Flowers needed to be watered.
So when Takahiro seemed to be getting dehydrated at the beginning of their third year, Issei should’ve thought more of it. He should’ve done something more than just ‘Hanamaki, here. You forgot your water, drink mine.’
Takahiro seemed slower than he normally was during practice, and he always had an excuse for it.
Takahiro slapped his stomach, the sound slightly muffled from his white t-shirt. “I’m just out of shape from summer, Iwaizumi,” he tried to reassure the ace. “I’ll be back at it soon enough, geez. Not everyone can be incredibly beefy and full of stamina.” Hajime was convinced, for the time being, so he left the wing spiker alone.
Issei wasn’t sold. He kept an eye on Takahiro, watching his slowed movements that were a little too slow for the three-month break he didn’t practice for. Even Issei, someone who usually half-assed practices, was moving faster than him.
He didn’t miss the way that Takahiro seemed to stagger in the lockerroom and run his hands under the water, cupping it to catch the cold liquid before splashing it on his face a couple of times.
Issei walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning over slightly just so it seemed like it was just the two of them.
“Hanamaki.” Takahiro didn’t respond, just stared down at the sink, both hands planted on the side. “ Takahiro .” That seemed to get his attention, enough for him to look over at him.
“Matsukawa,” Takahiro said.
“What’s up with you?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Takahiro asked as he stood up straight. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, letting it fall to his side afterward. The wing spiker lightly pushed Issei’s shoulder, and they both knew it was missing its usual strength. “Come on. You’re buying me cream puffs like you said, remember?”
Issei wished he would’ve done more, though by now it was a little too late.
He should’ve watered the plant of Hanamaki Takahiro more when he had the chance.
7.
Even the way that Takahiro fell that day reminded Issei of a flower. The way he slowly started to drop in every aspect of the way throughout the game until he fell limp on the court.
It started with the look in his eyes -- Issei was sure that was the first sign. The way that his eyes stopped shining like the energy from the sun, as if he had used it all up, as if his tank had run low early this winter.
Next was his eyes, how they slightly drooped, the lids closing more than usual than from normal look in his eyes that read ‘bored out of my mind.’ Issei seemed to be the only person to realize those signs, no one else ever paid that close enough attention to Takahiro.
After that was how he acted, the way that his calls for the ball were softer or quieter than usual, even less frequent. The way he would forget to call the ball, and other players would have to take it on their own accord to back away before a collision simply because Takahiro hadn’t called for it yet still went.
Tooru had noticed that one and called a time out, asking Takahiro what was up with him. The wing spiker apologized ( ‘Sorry, I guess I was a little out of it,’ he had said with a fake, forced laugh), and they continued the practice match.
Continuing through the match, Issei kept an even closer eye on him. He noticed how his movements slowed, and it even got to the point where he stopped moving for the ball, Shinji having to make up for a lot of receives that were supposed to be for Takahiro.
His feet were staggering on the court, his movements seemed shaky.
‘Water the flowers.’ Issei thought, keeping Takahiro in the corner of his eye.
The practice match ended with Takahiro still standing, a hand on Issei’s shoulder, and even as they took their bow.
Issei stood up straight, and as he did, he felt the hand of his very pale friend slip off his shoulder.
Takahiro didn’t get back up after the bow.
The flower of Hanamaki Takahiro had wilted over.
8.
Learning about Takahiro from his mother instead of from him was so weird to Issei since Takahiro personally told him everything (or so he had thought).
Sure, the two families were close, and Issei was even closer to them than the rest of his family. Takahiro’s mother had seen Issei has her own son. Issei could walk into their house without knocking, he would cook for them sometimes when he was over, he’d clean the house if there was a mess, he’d do his own laundry, he’d find things on his own. The Hanamaki’s were always Issei’s second home.
Considering that, there was still stuff Issei didn’t know.
“He’s been like this for two years,” Takahiro’s mother had said--Naegi was her name.
‘Naegi.’
‘Sapling.’
“He what?” Issei asked in a quiet voice. He was leaned on his knees sitting on the bench outside of the hospital room.
Naegi sighed and took a seat next to him. “He’s been getter weaker,” she whispered. “Throughout the years. It started with chest pains, just grew into something more.”
“What is it?” Issei was staring blankly at the floor in front of him.
“His um,” Naegi sniffled, her hand reaching up to scratch her ear. “His heart just isn’t growing with him.” She leaned back on the bench, her head hitting the wall behind her. There were tears in the corner of her eyes, and Issei could tell she was straining herself to hold them back. “It’s too small. Soon enough, his heart won’t be able to keep up with him.” Her voice was breaking more and more like a flowerpot with overgrowing vines.
The sapling of Hanamaki Naegi was overgrowing, and the spreading vines were too much for the flowerpot.
“Naegi,” Issei spoke. “It’s okay to cry.”
Naegi stared at Issei. It took her a moment or two before the tears started streaming down like someone had tipped over a watering can. She wrapped her arms around Issei and cried into his chest.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
And neither did Issei.
Because the flower of Takahiro Hanamaki was withering away.
9.
Hanamaki Takahiro reminded Matsukawa Issei of a flower.
To the way he dyed his hair during the beginning of their first year to the way he dressed by the end.
From his laughter singing with the other flowers to the scent he shared with them.
From how he absolutely despised the cold and seemed to hibernate during the winter, using the energy he stored during the summertime to get by.
To the way that he slowly started to wither away, his limbs becoming limp vines as he laid unconscious.
Issei didn’t know what he felt as he sat on the chair next to the hospital bed where his wilting flower laid.
Unfulfilled? Takahiro probably felt that more than he did, having to leave before he was even able to graduate with the rest of the third years he had worked so hard with.
Weak? Vulnerable? Those he felt for sure as Issei sat with his head in his hands, unable to do anything but listen to Takahiro’s soft, staggered breaths and the beeping of the machines.
Disappointed in himself? That had to be another one. He didn’t water Takahiro enough for him to grow.
But how could Issei water him? The pine river’s dam broke the night he learned about Takahiro’s condition, the water leaving an empty bay behind.
The flower of Hanamaki Takahiro was almost over.
10.
Takahiro was conscious, staring up at the white ceiling. Issei sat in the chair next to him, he hadn’t left for days. Instead stayed there, stressing and straining himself out more.
“Thank you,” a whisper came from Takahiro. His voice was weak, not nearly as deep as it used to be like when he laughed on their way home. The song was scratchy as if the record was missing grooves or the flower’s petals were picked off.
“Huh?” Issei softly asked, lifting his head from the tiled floor he had been staring at for probably the past three hours.
“Thank you,” Takahiro repeated, and he turned his head to Issei. “For everything, Issei. You really--” a weak laugh cut through, followed by a short wheeze, “you really made everything worth it.”
“Takahiro.”
“I’m serious, Issei.” Takahiro took a deep breath, the machines sputtered slightly, and he turned his head to look back up at the ceiling. A small tear was in the corner of his eye, but he bit it back. “It was just -- I’m sorry.”
“Are you apologizing?” Issei asked with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah?” Takahiro closed his eyes for a split second. “Yeah, I am.”
“Don’t do that, ‘Hiro.” Issei was on the edge of his chair now, leaning closer. His hand grabbed Takahiro’s -- god it was so cold. It reminded him of the bus rides home, Takahiro’s would slip his fingers between his, rest his head on his shoulder.
“Sorry for being sorry?” Takahiro laughed weakly. “Issei, I’m sorry, but I have one last request, and it’s really selfish, I know, and I’m sorry--”
“What is it?”
“I love you,” Takahiro replied almost instantly, and he closed his eyes. “I love you so damn much, like ever since our second year is when I really knew, and I was always just so fucking scared, and then I learned about this, and I didn’t want to be selfish and tell you just to leave you, and at the same time, I wasn’t even confident enough that you’d return the feelings, and now I’m on my deathbed, I just had to say something--”
And Issei stopped him.
He pressed his lips to his, holding his cold, pale cheek with one hand, feeling the cracks from how chapped his lips were against his, hearing the small sigh that came from Takahiro. Issei pulled away slowly, the kiss was short, but it was enough for both of them.
“Thank you, Issei,” Takahiro mumbled.
And Issei watched as his eyes rolled back, he felt as his grip left Issei’s hand, he noticed how Takahiro’s head sank further into the pillow, and he listened to how the machines rang a single tone through the air.
Because the flower of Hanamaki Takahiro had lost all its petals.
Nothing was the same after that. No one would rest his head on Issei’s shoulder on the bus ride home, the wind and flowers were missing the third member of their trio in song, the colors all around Issei seemed like black and white, the scent that lingered with Takahiro was missing from Issei’s memory (he refused to go back to the flower patch after that).
The river of Matsukawa Issei was left an empty hole in the ground, and the flower of Hanamaki Takahiro laid withered away on the ground.