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The world is a careful balance, a set of finely cut pieces that fit together to create a delicate puzzle. To each piece by itself it looks endless, and meaningless beyond the pieces next to it. Only the hand that puts the pieces together can bask in the beauty of the full picture.
He has lived a long life.
He does not remember how old he is, or what his name is. Who his parents are, if he even has parents. He does not even know why he exists, forlorn and forgotten in the middle of nowhere. Each day he watches the sun chase away the stars, and each night he waits for the stars to come back.
He likes the stars- infinitesimal and infinite- like him. He’s infinite like the stars.
He wishes he wasn't.
He can’t die- no, death is a concept for those who are born. He isn’t sure if he was born, or if his body is made of the same flesh and bones as those who are. He has simply been, present and unwavering, for as long as he remembers. He cannot cease to exist, nor did he ever begin.
A few years ago he might have been known. Worshipped, valued, feared. That was a few decades ago, maybe a few centuries. Maybe a few millennia. People called him ‘god’, then. There were others like him too, although he isn’t sure where they are now. They each had a name, a power, a temple. Maybe many temples, because the mortals who prayed to them were many in number as well.
He might have had a temple once. Mortals used to ask for him to take away their plight- pray, as they called it. They would keep a carved stone (that didn’t resemble him in the slightest) and call upon his favour as and when they needed it; and he would blow at the dust on the statue as he blessed them because that’s what a god is supposed to do.
Sometimes, they would offer him something physical in return. Fruit, coins, skin of the first animal they killed that season. Mortals have funny ways of doing things.
But the mortals no longer remember him, and he barely remembers the mortals.
After all, a god only exists if people believe he does. And while he isn’t particularly fond of being worshipped, he would like a reason to exist.
Or a way to not.
The world is a careful balance, a set of pieces big and small and everything in between. To a piece by itself it looks limited, and mysterious beyond the pieces next to it. And when a piece is placed down by the hand that places them all, it changes the picture forever.
Iwaizumi Hajime.
He feels a rise in his chest. It’s faint but warm, like a candle flickering to life in the middle of a cold, damp cave.
Iwaizumi Hajime.
He hasn’t heard that name in centuries. It leaves the taste of rust on his tongue, metallic and withering. He feels like he has awoken from a long slumber, and the name greets him like hazy mist and morning dew.
Iwaizumi Hajime.
It is his name.
He hears it again, and this time he hears the voice that speaks- cool, concentrated and perhaps intrigued; soft but louder than anything he has heard in eons. It belongs to a mortal- a man. Maybe fifty in mortal years. He seems to have stumbled upon an ancient record, and he’s standing in… he doesn’t know where. He hasn’t seen this place before. The world isn’t as it used to be.
The man is still reading from the record- small pieces of papyrus bound together and inked in a foreign language, in a font that would have been too small for calligraphers to write back in his day. He says the name again- his name- he seems to be reading a story aloud. A story about him, perhaps, although he doubts the mortals would preserve stories of his sanctity when he no longer has anything to offer them in return.
The mortal has put the record down now, back into the stack of what seems like a hundred more records. They all appear the same. It’s now impossible to make out which of these bundles the man was reading just a second ago.
This is the end of this story then, he thinks. A god only exists as long as people remember.
At least he knows his name now. Iwaizumi Hajime. It sounds strange on his tongue, like something forbidden that was never meant to be discovered.
Oh well, he has an eternity to get used to it again.
An eternity lasts five mortal years.
Or so Iwaizumi thinks, because that’s when he hears his name again. It has made itself home on his tongue now, although at times it still feels distant. But that’s okay, five years are a mere second compared to eternity.
The mortal speaking his name this time is a boy, maybe twenty years old. Iwaizumi can tell he is tall even though he is hunched over the book in his hands. He looks radiant and warm, like the sun. When he speaks Iwaizumi’s name, his voice is warm too. Iwaizumi watches as he reads the story about a forgotten god, and waits for him to put the book down and continue on with his life, eventually forgetting about the forgotten god.
The boy closes the book. Iwaizumi watches him put it in his bag instead of on the shelf, and watches as fascination settles on the boy’s features. Watches as he leaves what mortals call a library, the library that was home to his existence until now.
In the last five years, Iwaizumi has had a lot of time to observe mortals. They and their world are completely different now; they use fancy devices for mundane things and live in towers of glass. They call them skyscrapers, or apartments. Iwaizumi isn’t sure of the difference yet.
And he thinks that’s only natural, for the world to change and new monuments to be built. Those who do not live long strive to build something that remains long after they die.
Unfortunately, even the sturdiest buildings eventually crumble, and the story of each soul is forever lost to time.
Iwaizumi had thought his story would be, too.
But he watches as the mortal- Oikawa Tooru, he learns- keeps reading beyond the first story, beyond the first book. Iwaizumi watches him search for a second book, then a third, with his name on it. He even writes his name down on paper, in neat letters and blue ink and foreign words. Iwaizumi knows it’s his name because it sends a ripple through his spine, the way a leaf does when it falls onto a still lake.
Iwaizumi smiles for the first time in forever as Oikawa resurrects a god.
It seems like Oikawa is a student. He goes to something called a university and studies a language called English. It’s the language he wrote Iwaizumi’s name in. He frequently speaks another language- Japanese- and he’s from the land of Japan. He has been ‘researching’ Iwaizumi for a literature project.
It’s a little funny to Iwaizumi, to be resurrected by a struggling scholar but not to grant his wishes. Maybe he would, if Oikawa prayed to him. He doesn’t know if he’s still capable of granting wishes, but he could try for the sake of his sole benefactor in over thousands of years.
Oikawa seems like a good soul too. The kind that Iwaizumi always preferred, because they do not have twisted or delusional wishes. They wouldn’t ask for unlimited wealth or immortality, or a temple of their own. Mortals have asked for these in the past, because mortals always want to embody their idols. Even if their idols are gods.
He isn’t sure how long Oikawa is going to work on his project, but he hopes it’s for at least a few years. He doesn’t want to be forgotten again. He doesn’t want to be forgotten so soon.
Oh.
Iwaizumi finds out that mortal projects aren’t even half that long. Three weeks and seven hours later Oikawa is back in the library with all the three books that summarise Iwaizumi’s existence. He will return them to their shelves, maybe pick another piece of literature that brings a different god to life.
Oikawa returns two books back to the shelf.
He holds the third book in his hands, skimming over the pages. He pauses somewhere in the middle and stares at the words for a while, skips a few pages then reads for a while again. He shuts the book and looks up. Iwaizumi can see a new twinkle in his eyes, something that he has learned means that a human is either excited or fascinated. Right now, Oikawa looks both. He smiles up at the ceiling- no, at him, and speaks.
It’s a prayer. A prayer to him.
Iwaizumi doesn’t remember the last time he was prayed to. He certainly doesn’t remember the radiance filling his chest. The flickering candle light is stable now, brighter. The cave is no longer damp. Iwaizumi is no longer forgotten.
He takes a better look at Oikawa now- he has the face of someone who has stumbled upon a treasure chest. He looks expectant, as if he knows Iwaizumi is listening, as if the blessing will leave a visible trace.
He looks like he believes.
And so Iwaizumi does what he would have done centuries ago, he extends the warmth inside his chest outward, crafts it between his delicate fingers until it takes a familiar shape, leaves a familiar weightlessness in his palms. He blesses Oikawa Tooru with all his heart.
Oikawa looks up again at that instant, and Iwaizumi thinks maybe he felt the grace. He looks a tad bit more radiant now. His smile is wider. Iwaizumi feels it reflected on his own face.
The world is a careful balance, a system of pieces that were made to be put in a specific place. To a piece by itself it’s free and random, and insignificant beyond the pieces next to it. But when a piece decides its own fate, the hand changes the picture to fit the piece that dares.
Once, thousands of people prayed to Iwaizumi. Then that number twinkled to hundreds, a group that grew smaller each generation and eventually faded into oblivion. Then, no one for centuries.
But he has never had precisely one worshipper, a single mortal soul that believes in an abandoned god. A single human keeping a god alive.
It has been about a year since Oikawa Tooru first discovered Iwaizumi’s existence- through a literature project out of all things- and has refused to let go since. Iwaizumi is sure there is no physical proof to verify his existence, yet Oikawa is here, placing his hand on the book that says that Iwaizumi is real and praying like he believes that to be true.
Iwaizumi blesses him again, like he always does.
It’s not like Oikawa asks for anything specific. He only ever prays for Iwaizumi’s blessing and guidance and then looks up at the sky like a child looking at the stars for the first time. Sometimes, he talks to himself out loud and whines about the complicated theories he has to learn. Other times he addresses the rant to Iwaizumi and explains why pursuing higher education was the worst decision of his life (Iwaizumi knows it’s satire, but every so often Oikawa stays buried in books till sunrise and Iwaizumi wonders if part of it is true). And yet, when Oikawa settles on the edge of his bed with the book in his hands, all he ever prays for is Iwaizumi to have a blessing hand over his head.
It’s nice, Iwaizumi thinks. For once in his life he has neither a thousand people to attend to nor is he entirely forgotten. It’s nice to be spoken to without expectations. It’s nice to look after someone who sticks around just for the sake of sticking around.
It’s almost like having a friend, as mortals say. Although, if Iwaizumi’s understanding of humans is correct, people usually make friends within their own age group and engage in two-way interactions with them. Iwaizumi fits neither criteria.
Oikawa is twenty-one now. He has grown, in aspects beyond the academic. He’s tall, and Iwaizumi thinks he might have grown a centimetre or two in the last year. Or he just started wearing a different kind of shoes, it seems like something he would do. Iwaizumi’s impression of Oikawa has advanced in the last year too– he seems less like a pure and diligent soul now and more like a clever and passionate one.
Iwaizumi wonders if Oikawa is part god as well, for all his charm and belief that his peers don’t seem to have even half of. Maybe if Oikawa were a god they would be friends.
Oikawa hasn’t stopped looking up at the ceiling of his college dorm. Iwaizumi wonders if he’s finally going to pray for wealth or eternal youth or for his Ethics assignment to write itself.
Instead, Oikawa opens his mouth, hesitates and closes it. Starts to speak again, but stops. He puts the book back on his desk where he always keeps it and pulls the blankets over his head. Stills. He stays like that for a long while.
Iwaizumi wonders if he has already drifted to sleep.
Iwaizumi doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t need to. But if he did, he supposes thinking about what Oikawa might have wanted to say would keep him up at night.
Twenty four hours later Oikawa is praying again, and Iwaizumi can see the hesitation on his face clear as day. He does not know what goes on inside a mortal’s head, although right now he wishes he did. But Oikawa puts the book back in its place and goes to sleep once again.
This becomes routine now, the brief moment of conflict and uncertainty that flashes on Oikawa’s face right after he prays.
Iwaizumi wonders if he did something wrong. He couldn’t have, considering Oikawa never prays for anything specific.
He wonders if Oikawa wants to wish for something. He hopes he will.
Because a god can only grant wishes that are spoken aloud, and no matter how long they live they can never read a mortal mind.
On the seventh night of this newfound routine Oikawa withdraws his hand from the book after his nightly prayer and stills. He looks at his palm, then at the book. Iwaizumi wishes he were more powerful, so he could tether himself to his book, to bestow upon Oikawa relief from whatever is troubling him.
For the first time in his existence, he wishes he had more worshippers.
“Give me an indication you exist.”
Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa, who has his eyes fixed on the book that speaks of ancient gods, of Iwaizumi in particular. “I’ve been praying and praying and praying and- I wish there were a means to know if any of this is even real.”
Ah.
“I’ve seen people pray to gods- all sorts of gods, goddesses, spirits. Hell, I’ve seen people pray to their dead ancestors for years with unwavering faith because they keep seeing signs that their god exists. I thought-” He runs his hand over the cover of the book, “I thought I could find faith too. A faith where there were no rules, a faith that was just that- a faith.”
A faith. A religion, as most people call it now. But faiths are different from religions, in the sense that you can have faith in anything- even a rock- without judgement, without rituals. People had faith in Iwaizumi once because he was capable of granting their wishes.
Oikawa’s wish was to have faith in Iwaizumi.
“Or maybe I’ve finally gone insane,” Oikawa chuckles to himself. It’s low, hushed and tinged sad, “that’s what being a philosophy major does to you. Maybe it’s time I returned this to the library.”
No.
He picks up the book and holds it in front of him as if he’s waiting for it to speak. He looks wistful now, like a child parting with his favourite toy, like a lover parting with his beloved. Keep it, Iwaizumi wants to say, If I were stronger I would show you I exist.
Oikawa puts the book back on his desk. This time, he sleeps with the covers pulled low. Iwaizumi does not like the expression on his face.
If only he were stronger.
Mortals have a strange fascination with the infinite. They wish for things to be eternal- wealth, youth, health, happiness. Love. They wish they were eternal too. So they pray to those who are, those who have already seen countless mortals arrive at death’s door after they prayed for longevity their entire lives.
But nothing that is a blessing is free of a curse.
Immortality is another word for agony. In a universe where everything is relative and the only thing certain is that those who are born will eventually die, not having a beginning nor end makes one nothing more than a whisper, a hollow voice in the steady song of the world.
All the things mortals cherish and wish for to last forever- wealth, youth, love- they only have value because they come to an end. Because without a reason to exist, eternity is meaningless.
Iwaizumi wants to find meaning, too. He wishes he wasn't infinite, so he could understand what it feels like to truly cherish something. He does not want to let go of Oikawa, he does not want Oikawa to let go of him.
He knows that eventually Oikawa will stop praying to him. Some time after that, he'll die. And some time after that, Iwaizumi will forget if someone by the name of Oikawa Tooru even existed.
Was there a meaning to it all in the first place? Iwaizumi isn't sure. What he knows for certain is that the one being he has come to care for is troubled.
Iwaizumi has never felt such strong devotion to another mortal before. Sure, he’s always tried his best to make sure all his disciples left his temple with a sense of satisfaction in their hearts, but he’s never wanted to change himself to make someone else feel at ease.
He supposes it’s the feelings of Oikawa’s selfless devotion that he feels reciprocated in his own chest.
He wants to do more than reciprocate, though.
Oikawa wakes up to a knock on his door.
It’s seven A.M. on a Sunday, and he isn’t sure who exactly in his college apartment would sign their death certificate by waking him at this hour. He’s sure most of them went to sleep an hour or two ago at best.
He rubs at his eyes and struggles out of bed. His room feels brighter than it should be. He needs coffee.
He opens the door to his dorm and immediately squints into the sunlight. A few seconds and multiple muttered curses later his eyes refocus on the silhouette of a man- tall (but shorter than him), tan and built. He has black hair that sticks out of his head at odd angles, but it doesn't make him look ridiculous. His features-
“Who-” Oikawa blinks at the man’s face, trying to place this image in his memory. He looks oddly familiar.
“Are you Oikawa Tooru?” The man’s voice is strange, as if he learned to speak yesterday. It’s heavily accented but rich in tone, deep and welcoming.
“I am,” He answers, a little apprehensive. “Do I know you?”
The man smiles. It’s a pretty sight. The sunlight framing his figure looks brighter, somehow.
“Depends on how well you know your gods,” His eyes are a striking emerald, and Oikawa swears they reflect an unknown wisdom.
“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, here to grant you a wish.”