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You learned along time ago that a video call with Oikawa will end up with news some way or the other.
In a way, it’s familiar even though Oikawa isn’t pressed up against you, both your muscles aching from a long practice, school bus rattling bones. The rest of it is the same — same banter, same updates, same Oikawa talking on and on about his life, same jabs as Oikawa tells you you’re boring. Sometimes lulls of silence, because silence has never been scary between you — just comfortable. Then, maybe if Oikawa is feeling brave enough, the reason for the call will slip in. Casual tone, like he’s checking his nails.
You anticipate it now, although you’re not sure what else could possibly happen in this call, not after
I’m not moving back to Japan.
Or I’ve come out to my mother.
Or I can get married here, Iwa-chan.
It went like this:
I’m seeing someone. You ignored the strange twinge that stuck to the bottom of your ribcage. Shouldn’t need a doctor’s note for something like that. And anyway, you should have expect this. Nothing you haven’t heard before. Oikawa used to fall in love with someone new every week, back in the day, so it’s nothing new.
Okay. What’s his name?
Mateo. He plays beach volleyball and Shrimpy introduced us, actually. So! You don’t have to worry over him being a bad guy, Iwa-chan!
(You always worry.)
I want you to meet him.
You’ve never wanted me to meet any one you date before.
But this one might be different.
***
Are you sure this is a good idea? Matsukawa had asked, displeasure cutting his frown lines and his brow becoming one long strip of concern. He’s driving you to the airport for a too-early-in-the-morning flight to Argentina.
What else can I do? I’m his best friend.
Yeah, but… you’re also—
I’m used to it.
To him breaking your heart?
It’s like building muscle. Little tears and then it gets stronger over time.
I don’t think it works like that.
Heart’s a muscle, ain’t it?
But the soul shit… the inside stuff, the guts that aren’t your guts are getting all twisted around and I just don’t like it.
Do you see guts that aren’t guts when you cut open cadavers?
I’m just saying, man. He’s dragged you around like a dog on a leash for so long. Either you gotta cut off the umbilical cord and move on or you—
That’s not possible.
It’s not impossible, you just are. You’re just… enduring this shit, man.
Then I’ll endure it.
Even if he marries this guy?
Yeah.
Your voice doesn’t crack. It’s how it’s always been. Beck and call. Call and answer. That’s just been, for your whole lives. You don't expect Matsukawa to understand. There’s nothing to understand beyond you’ll always be there for Oikawa, no matter what. It’s not duty or obligation that keeps you there, it’s just how you are, the very fabric of you, like his DNA has been weaved into your RNA.
Even then.
***
The strangest thing about being in Oikawa’s apartment is how impeccably clean it is. Not a dust mote in sight amongst his colorful throw pillows and hand-woven rug. Growing up, Oikawa’s the messiest bastard you’ve ever met. He’d leave socks everywhere, milk bread wrappers and cans of energy drinks littered behind him like a trail of crumbs anywhere he went: the locker rooms, his backpacks, the buses and subways you ride on for games, like he had to leave a tangible trail of his existence — an I’m here! — loud, bright, messy.
“Did you hire a maid?”
“No, Iwa-chan!” He says in a cutesy voice, affronted. “Can’t a person change?”
Not this much, you think, eying the glass coffee table that’s missing fingerprint smudges and a misplaced shoe.
“I guess,” you say, dubiously.
Mateo shuffles in, in a burst of Spanish, his rich voice fills up the room. He comes up behind Oikawa, planting kisses up and down his neck where you know Oikawa is ticklish. Oikawa squirms and laughs with his face bright and happy, soaking up all of the attention. You have to look away, but it's hard to. He's happy and golden and beautiful and you've always been a moth, even though you've never been close enough to burn.
“Going to put my things away,” you say, averting your eyes. You don’t think that Oikawa even hears you over the onslaught of Mateo’s affection. You head towards the hallway where there’s three doors closed and a bathroom. You open the first one up, finding Oikawa’s bedroom, also impeccable. His sheets are tucked in so tightly, it looks like a hotel room. There’s something wrong about it.
You move on to the second door that’s directly across from Oikawa’s bedroom. Your hand is on the doorknob when Oikawa rounds the corner and tut at you. “Not that one, it’s just the boiler room. Yours is down the hall,” he says, nodding toward the open door at the end. Oikawa’s tense, eyes blank. You watch him watching your hand on the doorknob. What's in there? You don't say.
“Okay,” you say, releasing the handle until Oikawa visibly relaxes.
***
Mateo plans a beach day, so you wake up early to make sure you have everything you’ll need for the trip. You’ve always been a worrier, always needed to check things twice or three times. Maybe it's because your playmate was always forgetful and you learned to carry extra bandages for knees that weren’t yours and the habit never went away, but neither did the playmate.
Mateo and Oikawa wake up together. Mateo and Oikawa share the same bed and drink out of matching coffee cups in the morning and brush their teeth side by side. They’re slow to warm up, and so you sit cautiously on the edge of the couch, doing your best not think about the ways they stayed up late last night, tangled in each other, kissing and moaning and fucking.
Oikawa practically leaps out of the car the the sight of water, the gear not even in park when he throws open his door. You scramble out after Oikawa, pulling him back by the collar of his tank top. “You’re going to burn, idiot,” you say, rifling through your bag for the SPF you made sure to pack. He settles, so you let go of his collar and he grins brightly at you. His smile lines have gotten deeper and you try not to stare at him for a moment before he turns his back to you. He tilts his head down, the stretch of his neck long and smooth and pretty. He smells good. Your eyelids feel heavy, mesmerized by the expanse of his shoulders, the curved bone of his scapula down to the dip of his spine. There’s a new mole on the bottom of his scapula, but you don’t touch it, just examine it with your eyes for any discoloration. You should be satisfied enough that it seems flat to the eye. You pull the sunscreen halfway out of the bag before you remember that Mateo is here, feeding the parking meter.
Back home, you’d be the one to slather it on Oikawa without question. Oikawa burns easily and he’s always too over-excited to go have fun, so he always misses spots or skips it completely before returning home red as a lobster. But now Mateo is here. It’s probably not your place, right?
“Here.” You tap it against Oikawa’s shoulder. “I already applied.”
“Oh.” The ocean roars loudly behind you and you look away to watch a seagull make a dip for some kid’s lunchable. “Right,” Oikawa says softly, pausing before he takes it from you. Your eyes don’t meet and you want to say sorry. For some reason, held at the tip of your tongue. Sorry for what? You dig your heels on the hot tar and take a step back in just in time for Mateo to fill your place, his presence erasing the furrow from Oikawa’s brow immediately. Oikawa’s eyes light up and he giggles when Mateo leans in to kiss him on the neck. Mateo has found a favored spot to kiss.
You watch from the trunk of the car as Mateo applies an uneven layer on Oikawa. There’s an entire streak missing from his neck and his ears, which always get sunburnt first. Your hand twitches. You bite his tongue. It’s not your place, anymore.
By the time the sun sets, in the places of his skin that got missed are bright red and peeling.
***
It’s surreal seeing them together. A half-baked dream where you sit on the couch and watch the sitcom show of Mateo and Oikawa being in love. He smiles, even when Mateo’s not there, like he’s thinking of him and you do nothing but sit there. And the ground does not swallow you whole no matter how much you want it to.
“What do you think of Mateo?” He asks you when it’s just the two of you. This is the first time you've been alone together all trip.
“He’s…” You try to choose words carefully, but in the end all you can say is, “… fine.” You’ve never been a good liar.
Oikawa’s eyebrows go up. “Just fine?” And then they scrunch together the way he does when something bothers him and it gets stuck there, because he just can’t let it go. His mom used to say his face gets mean when he’s like this, and you know how mean he can be. “C’mon Iwa-chan. He has to get more than a ‘fine’ from you if I’m going to marry him.”
Then maybe he should do more than just be average.
“Why do you need my approval?”
“Because. You’re important to me, I mean what you say is— important to me.”
“Is it? You’ve never listened to me before.” It comes out harsher than you intended and it hurts Oikawa. You know it. But you keep going, opening your mouth, “Why does it matter what I say? If you like him, you like him. I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, because you’re bitter and it seeps a poison into your words. Oikawa stares at you. You wonder if he’ll punch you or ask you to leave. He doesn’t ask you. You wish he punched you. Instead, he says something in Spanish and walks out the door.
Maybe you should pack.
There’s two more days left but it won’t kill you to buy a plane ticket back tomorrow. You’re making each other miserable. Or — you’re miserable, and it’s making everything else miserable. Either way, you’re ruining Oikawa’s perfect new life with his perfect Argentinian boyfriend in his perfect apartment. This Oikawa who you’re trying to convince yourself is a different one from the one you’ve known your whole life. This Oikawa cleans the dishes and fluffs his pillows and is a stickler for keeping his plants alive is a different Oikawa from the Oikawa who cried his snot tears into your shirt and sometimes wouldn’t sleep for days, and never picked up after himself because he knew you would do it for him. You picked him up every time until he could put himself back together. In a sick way, you liked that he needed you so much. It gave you purpose. Your mom used to tell the story about how Oikawa didn’t cry when he was born and didn’t cry until your fingers gripped his fingers and he cried so much she thought it would flood the house. Because you knew, even as a baby, the things that Oikawa needed. But this Oikawa doesn’t need you, so you pack.
You unzip your bag and put pre-folded clothes into the luggage until your knuckles hit the top of a plastic bag. The Japanese ingredients you’d brought for shokupan have been left untouched, objects of your devotion. You stare at it, aware of your jagged breath and the pain in your chest, radiating down your arm. Think about your insides that aren’t your insides and if you can actually survive this or if you were just bullshitting yourself the entire time.
The only thing missing from your suitcase is a pair of socks that Oikawa had told you he’d wash. You go looking for them and the door that Oikawa didn’t want you to open calls to you like a siren. It consumes you, the need to know what it is he thinks he can keep hidden from you. You have bloodhound concentration on the door when you hear Oikawa’s voice.
“Iwa-chan,” he warns.
One, two, three hard pulls until the door handle nearly pops off from your grip.
“Iwa-chan, stop it!”
The door rattles on its hinges and you yank and yank. You get no warning before the towering pile of trash, sneakers, deflated volleyballs, junk come crashing into your body, a junkyard tidal wave. Its stench is overwhelming and apparent and you pivot on your heel to use your shoulder a shield to keep the rest of it from overflowing into the hallway.
“Oikawa — what the fuck?”
“Iwa-chan! You idiot!” Oikawa wails, banging on your chest like he’s five again. “I told you, stupid Iwa-chan, I told you! I have to hurry — it has to go back before — Mateo!”
Mateo. What does he have anything to do with this?
You say it out loud and Oikawa’s words trip over his vocal chords.
“If he sees this, he won’t love me anymore.”
“What?”
“He’ll leave! He’ll leave, because of my mess, because I’m a mess, because I’m dirty—“
Oikawa is an ugly crier. You move slowly until the avalanche of junk has nothing to hold it up. It doesn’t matter, because Oikawa needs to be held.
“What are you talking about, Tooru?” Your voice is soft, soft, soft, foot creeping over unwashed clothes and trash to get your hands on Oikawa’s shaking shoulders. The smile he gives you is an awful one.
“I wanted him to like me, even if I’m like this. I tried so hard to keep it clean, because he h-hates mess.”
“What were you going to do when you married him? Did you think you could hide this forever?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the point in marrying him if you have to hide this part of you?”
“He’ll hate me, Iwa-chan and he’ll leave. If he can’t love me, then who will?”
I do. I already do. I always have.
You don’t say it. You wonder if he hears it anyway when you cradle his face in your hands and wipe his tears away carefully, gently.
“You’re ridiculous.” Your voice is cotton-candy soft.
“Don’t be mean.” Oikawa squeezes his eyes, fresh tears rolling down.
You stand on his mess and you beg. “Don’t marry him.”
“I’ll help you clean. Don’t marry him,” you repeat with your lips on the curve of his cheek. You'll take the mess because it's all you want.
He folds, corner to corner in the palm of your hand.
—-