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The first time that Issei sees Hanamaki, he’s standing outside their dorm building at four in the morning. In the background, fire alarms whoop and shriek, articulating the feelings of the sleep-deprived college students standing in the snow in varying stages of undress.
Despite the two quilts and one weighted blanket that Issei has wrapped around him, he can’t feel his toes anymore. He might have to get them cut off. Frostbite. He could probably break them off. He watched a video of an onion in nitrogen once, and how it shattered like glass when it fell.
Still, he thinks, as he takes in the shivering miserable students, it could have been worse. His eyes land on someone in gym shorts and a t-shirt, grinning at the building with more glee than a child in a candy store.
It doesn’t take much detective work for Issei to figure out who set the fire alarm off. As the sirens within the dorm twirl and howl, casting crimson light on the snow, they catch on the boy’s face and cast him in hues of fire alarm red. His smile nearly splits his face in two, and his teeth gleam in the light.
There’s something mesmerizing about it, something morbidly beautiful. Issei is studying forensics and has an internship at a mortuary, so he considers himself an expert in the field of the morbidly beautiful.
Issei sees this boy with his pink-brown hair and wild smile and thinks that he could set fire alarms off with him. He sees this boy and thinks that they could grab Starbucks at three in the morning, talking about everything and nothing.
Someone tugs at his blankets. Issei turns to see Oikawa, looking pretty pitiful in his threadbare t-shirt and alien pajama pants, and the spell is broken. He snorts, and lets Oikawa tug away a blanket, immediately regretting it when the cold makes itself more known.
Oikawa bundles up next to him, murmurs something about body heat. Normally Issei would push him off, tell him to find Iwaizumi, but Iwaizumi is somewhere miles away from them under the California sun, not here in Boston freezing his balls off, so Issei says nothing because he understands loneliness intimately too.
Issei spends a lot of his time with dead bodies, some bloated, some blue. There are times that he’s had to look at the pink chipped nail polish on a shrivelled old hand, the smile lines on the corner of someone’s eyes.
Oikawa, the romantic, says that Issei sees the beauty in the little things. Iwaizumi, the realist, says it’s because if Issei doesn’t, he’ll be forced to stare at decaying corpses all day.
Besides his fellow forensic classmates, Issei spends a lot less time with the living than the average person does. He likes the quiet, likes spending time in his own mind. The boy that stands in the snow looks like he would like none of those things, and Issei thinks that he wouldn’t mind living a little more if it were with him.
#
Issei learns that the boy’s name is Hanamaki Takahiro. This is the third fire alarm he’s set off, each one in a different dorm. Apparently, by the time that he graduates college, Hanamaki wants to evacuate each student building at least once.
Hanamaki is a stoner. Hanamaki has never touched a blunt, just pretends like he does. Hanamaki holds the best parties. Hanamaki is actually a homebody. Wherever Issei goes, it seems like he’s haunted by the ghost of a living boy. Everyone knows Hanamaki, it seems but no one really knows him.
“He’s heard that you’ve been asking about him,” Oikawa says to Issei after a two-hour Facetime call with Iwaizumi. Issei had offered to leave so Oikawa could have the apartment to himself, but Oikawa had waved him off. “Makki-chan, I mean. Hanamaki.”
Issei looks at him, then back at his textbook. The heart is between the fourth and fifth rib, but it feels no actual pain. Instead, heartache is experienced when immense emotional pain occurs and the brain doesn’t know how to react. It assumes that it’s coming from your chest, and thus breakups and grief are all centered around the heart.
Issei’s heart beats faster. He is aware that the harder it thumps, the worse the pain will be when something goes wrong. But it’s okay. It happens. Issei can live with it.
“What is he saying?” Issei asks.
Oikawa looks at him. It isn’t one of Oikawa’s closed eyed smiles, false mask and false cheer. This is Oikawa, genuine and in the flesh, gaze piercing and a little too knowing. “I think he wants to meet you sometime,” Oikawa says.
Well, that wasn’t what Issei was expecting. “Oh. To scope me out? Does he know that I’m not that interesting?”
Oikawa laughs, bright like windchimes, and while Issei can understand why some people might be into that, why Iwaizumi might be into that, he can’t understand what’s so funny.
“Mattsu-chan,” Oikawa croons. “Don’t you know that you’re something of a local cryptid at our school? Our very own Loch Ness monster. Or maybe you’re more of a mothman.”
It’s funny because Issei has never seen himself as someone other people talk about. People talk about Oikawa, shining and godlike in his own right. People talk about Hanamaki, maybe not unprompted, but people talk about him. Issei didn’t think that he would be a blip on anyone’s radar: funny but not outstandingly so. Not particularly attractive nor particularly ugly. Smarter than some in his class but not the prodigy, not the genius.
Issei simply is.
He’s not sure what other people say about him, though he has a pretty good guess.
“Let me guess,” Issei says. “Plague doctor energy? They want me to sage their house?” Maybe he shouldn’t have posted that anti-vaxxer meme onto the school Facebook group, but it had gotten thousands of reacts, so really, Issei regrets nothing.
“Hm.” Oikawa makes a show of tapping his chin with his index finger. “Something like that, I guess. So? How about it? Are you interested in meeting him?”
Issei sighs. The thought of actually meeting Hanamaki unnerves him. The fact that their first encounter included literal alarms ringing in Issei’s ears doesn’t bode well. But, well, no one who stares at fire starters, false ones or not, doesn’t want to get closer.
“I think you should,” Oikawa says, his face softening, more gentle at the edges. “You seem lonely sometimes.”
Issei doesn’t know what to say to that. Over time, the loneliness has numbed until it has become a part of his life. Oikawa must notice the pensive look on his face because he leans over and flicks Issei’s forehead. “Are you free tomorrow at 1:00?”
“Are you honestly playing matchmaker right now?”
Oikawa’s eyes light up, and Issei knows that he’s set himself up. Sure enough, Oikawa fake gasps. “Oh, so you want it to be a date. Issei, you playboy!”
Iwaizumi isn’t here, so Issei launches a pillow into Oikawa’s face in his honor. Mentally, he makes a note to pour one out for Iwaizumi tonight for dealing with this menace since childhood.
As Oikawa splutters, Issei leans back to think, and his smug grin slowly ebbs away with his thoughts. He doesn’t think that he’s lonely, but maybe that’s what it’s like when you don’t know anything different.
A feather-filled cushion pummels his face, and he stops thinking.
#
Oikawa not only hunts Issei down on campus at noon, but has also selected an outfit for him to wear. Issei is a little offended that Oikawa would assume that he would roll up in his scrubs stinking of rotting cadavers, but appreciates the gesture. That is, until he sees the clothes.
“Are you high,” he deadpans before whipping out his phone to text Iwaizumi the same question about his boyfriend.
He gets a text back immediately: he’s not high, just stupid.
That sounds about right.
“I am not wearing that,” Issei says to Oikawa as he holds up what must be the tightest pair of jeans to ever exist in the entire history of the world. Including the Big Bang.
“Why not?” Oikawa asks, tilting his head in what Issei knows to be faux-innocence. “What do you have against denim?”
Issei stares at him. Oikawa stares back. They both know that the denim isn’t the problem here. The problem is the possibility that the denim is going to cut off circulation to Issei’s legs. Unfortunately, Oikawa wins the stare off, leaving Issei to try to squeeze into a medival torture device turned fashion article.
Oikawa grins at him when he steps out with a “Looking good, Mattsun-chan!” and all but drags him to their university Starbucks where he sits at an empty booth for five minutes scrolling through Twitter.
He’s watching a video that Suna posted of Miya Osamu cooking, shaping onigiri with care as Suna silently catches his best angles, each shot taken with clear devotion, when someone slides into the booth across from him. Issei puts his phone down.
“Hey, Matsukawa, right?” Hanamaki says, and there’s that grin again, a little sharp and a little devious. “I’m the one you’ve been looking for. Hanamaki Takahiro, at your service.”
“Oh, hey. Yeah, Matsukawa Issei.” He doesn’t really know how to respond to the “one you’ve been looking for” because he has been asking around and he hasn't been exactly subtle about it either. “Do you want coffee or dessert? My treat.”
Hanamaki grins. “Sure, I’ll take a double ristretto venti half-soy nonfat decaf organic chocolate brownie iced vanilla double-shot gingerbread frappuccino extra hot with foam whipped cream upside down double blended, one sweet'n low and one nutrasweet, and ice.”
Issei blinks. “Repeat that,” he says after a moment to make sure he isn’t dreaming. Hanamaki does. Issei repeats it back to him and Hanamaki corrects him twice.
“I’m just kidding,” Hanamaki says, and his eyes glint under the fluorescent light. “I’ll just have an iced mocha with whip.”
Issei nods. “Sure.”
Then he walks to the registrar and asks for a chai tea latte for himself and a double ristretto venti half-soy nonfat decaf organic chocolate brownie iced vanilla double-shot gingerbread frappuccino extra hot with foam whipped cream upside down double blended, one sweet'n low and one nutrasweet, and ice for Hanamaki.
The glower that the barista gives him disappears when he scrounges through the pockets of Iwaizumi’s bomber jacket that Oikawa had draped over him and crams fifteen dollars in the tip jar. This has to be the most expensive Starbucks experience that Issei has ever had in his life.
He returns back to the table without the orders, tells the barista that he’s not in a rush, and to take her time, as long as she doesn’t mind them taking up a booth. She doesn’t and the relief on her face is palpable. Issei shoots her a small half-smile.
“So?” Hanamaki asks, leaning forward. “Who is Matsukawa Issei?”
Who is Matsukawa Issei? He’s an older brother. Former volleyball player. Forensics major. None of these things sound like something that Hanamaki would accept as an answer. Instead, he turns the question on Hanamaki:
“Depends. Who is Hanamaki Takahiro?”
Hanamaki snorts. He sets his fingers on the table, and Issei has a sudden urge to lace them with his. “Still trying to figure that out. I’ve only lived this life once, you know?”
Issei does know. There are things that Issei could say. A part of him wants to say: “Let’s figure that out together.”
Another part of him wants to say: “I do know. I get it.”
A third: “Wanna see if you want to live a small part of this life together?”
Instead, he cracks a smile. “Well, good luck with that.”
When the barista calls his name, the expression on Hanamaki’s face as he sets down his stupid expensive drink makes something within Issei’s chest explode in a golden light of warmth.
#
They exchange numbers. Hanamaki sends him a plethora of reaction pictures, sometimes out of the blue, sometimes of Oikawa, and Issei sends him anti-vaxxer and Duolingo owl memes. Issei continues to exist. He attends Oikawa’s university volleyball matches, and watches from the sidelines as he scowls at Kageyama Tobio from across the net.
Hanamaki drags him to a party, and Issei spends most of it sitting on the couch nursing a warm beer. He talks to people who he’s never seen before, and forgets their names when someone else takes their place to start up a conversation.
He keeps one eye across the room at Hanamaki who flits from person to person, restless. Once or twice, they catch each other's eye before someone moves between their line of sight and the moment disintegrates.
The third time that Hanamaki and him make eye contact, Hanamaki breaks away from the people he’s talking to and slips between the crowd. Issei realizes a little too late that he’s walking toward him, too mesmerized by the surprising fluidity of his movements.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hanamaki says with an overexaggerated wink, and a chuckle escapes Issei’s throat without him even realizing it.
“Buy me dinner first, pervert,” Issei snorts, but he follows Hanamaki out anyway. Once or twice, he thinks that Hanamaki is looking back, as if making sure that Issei is still with him, but where else would Issei go? He has lived on the periphery all his life, and Hanamaki makes him feel like he is the center of the universe for once.
It’s snowing again. “Hey, Mattsun,” Hanamaki says, and Issei turns to him right as Hanamaki shoves a fistfull of snow down his jacket.
“What the fuck!” Issei jumps, pawing at his back. Hanamaki falls down laughing, then feels sorry enough for him that he helps him clear out the snow from where it’s trapped between the fabric.
Today, it’s the yellow street light that casts its glow on Hanamaki, haloing him with a softness that the red lights once tried to smother.
“You know, I think I saw you when it was snowing like this too,” Issei huffs out in adrenaline-fueled delight.
“Yeah?” Hanamaki says. “How’d I look?”
“Insane,” Issei responds. “Like a fucking arsonist.”
“Oh, you caught me on a good day. That’s my best look,” Hanamaki laughs. “Wait, wanna hear something funny? The first time I saw you, it was snowing too.”
“Really.”
“Crazy, right? You were wrapped up in like fifty blankets looking like you were this close to hopping off this mortal coil,” Hanamaki snickers, pinching his fingers together.
Issei doesn’t know what to make of that. When he was looking at Hanamaki, Hanamaki was looking right back.
Oh , he thinks as the warmth expands outwards, floods from his heart around his chest where it holds him in a vice-like hug. Oh, this might be love.
#
He tries not to think about it for a long time. Nothing changes between him and Hanamaki. Sometimes, Issei catches himself staring a little longer as if he wants to memorize every bit of who Hanamaki Takahiro is.
The way that his brow furrows when he concentrates. The way that his leg bounces when he’s antsy. The small dimple on the corner of his mouth when he smiles a certain way.
Issei can feel the way that Oikawa watches him when he’s on his phone. When he looks up at him challenging, daring him to say something, Oikawa just huffs out a breath in amusement, and pinches his cheek hard.
“Didn’t know you could smile up like that, Mattsun-chan. I’m happy for you.”
“I hope Iwaizumi comes to visit soon to take you out of my hair,” Issei responds, prying Oikawa’s grabby hands away from his face. They both know that he doesn’t mean it.
Iwaizumi does come for their spring break and instantly gets eaten alive by the mosquitos in Boston.
“Iwa-chan’s gotten spoiled by Southern California,” Oikawa mocks, but Issei sees the way that he dutifully buys more bug spray, and the way that he applies the insect repellent to all the places that Iwaizumi misses.
Oikawa’s gone most of the week, showing Iwaizumi parts of the city that most people only hear of in American history textbooks. They invite Issei to come on their outings, but he declines. They rarely see each other, and Issei cares about them enough to give them these moments alone.
The apartment feels empty. Issei frowns. It’s a strange feeling, begin aware of all the space in a small house.
He reaches for his phone and punches in Hanamaki’s number. He doesn’t tell him anything about the strange hollow feeling in his chest, the vacant spaces that Oikawa’s aimless chatter should fill, but he tells him everything else.
Issei likes listening to classical music when working with cadavers. It makes it seem less real, and more like he’s just playing the part of a mortician in a movie.
Issei’s little sister is six years old, and the longest tea party he’s attended was three hours long. He was served water in a pink plastic cup across from a stuffed purple rhinoceros.
Issei doesn’t believe in life after death, just nothingness. He wouldn’t object to reincarnation, though.
Issei.
Issei.
Issei.
Issei doesn’t realize how much time has passed until the sun has begun slipping behind the horizon. Hanamaki listens and offers tidbits about himself, shiny tidbits that Issei stores away like a magpie.
Hanamaki really is a homebody, but if he’s out with people he trusts, he’ll let loose once in a while, and when he lets loose, he really lets loose.
Hanamaki is scared of black cats crossing his path, but he still leaves out little tins of tuna for them. He runs away when he sees them creeping out to feast though.
Hanamaki doesn’t really know what he wants to do. He thinks that living in the moment is the most important. The thrill of accomplishments ebb and flow, but the human body remains.
Makki.
Makki.
Makki.
Oikawa and Iwaizumi find him like that, after they’ve come back from the Skywalk Observatory. They stumble into the doorway, loud and teasing, faces flushed red with delight, but fall silent when they see Issei asleep on the couch, phone in his hand.
Iwaizumi drapes a blanket over Issei’s shoulders and shoves a pillow under his head so he doesn’t strain his neck. Oikawa sets aside the entree that they brought back for Issei in the fridge, some fancy French dish that none of them can pronounce.
There’s a tiny temple in Boston Chinatown that the two of them make their way to. It’s not a Japanese shrine, but Iwaizumi and Oikawa still pray for happiness, both for themselves and for their friends.
#
Oikawa doesn’t laugh when Issei tells him that he might be in love with Hanamaki. Instead, he pulls him in for a hug and whispers into his ear, “I know it can be scary, but you’ve got me and Iwa-chan. We have your back. Always, alright?’
Issei knows that the it Oikawa is referring to is love. Oikawa speaks from experience, from having to find himself after his better half moved thousands of miles across the country. Oikawa knows what love can do, how it can draw out irrational fears of being left behind for something better, so Issei just nods.
But it’s not scary. Being in love with Hanamaki is comforting. It is as much of a part of who Issei is as anything else. Maybe that’s what’s terrifying about, the fact that it makes you feel like nothing is wrong until it is.
He thinks about telling the cadavers about Hanamaki. How the snow settled in his hair. About the freckle in his eye, how it changes a spot on his iris, and how easily he laughs. But cadavers don’t talk back and it feels pathetic even to Issei, so he bottles it up.
He asks Oikawa if maybe he should let Hanamaki know, if he should confess, but all Oikawa does is shrug. “It’s your decision, Mattsun-chan,” he says seriously. “I’m not going to take that away from you or try to sway you. Tell him when you’re ready. Don’t if you’re not.”
They’re in a study room when Hanamaki tells him who he thinks that Hanamaki Takahiro is. Issei is pouring over anatomy text books, meticulously taking notes that aren’t even legible anymore, while Hanamaki reads the same sentence five times.
“Hey, you wanna hear a secret?” Hanamaki asks, turning to Issei. He lowers his voice, as if divulging a terrible secret. “You gotta promise that you won’t be disappointed, okay?”
Issei slowly shuts his textbook. “Okay,” he says, a little wary of the dark bags under Hanamaki’s eyes, and the way that his shoulders slump.
He doesn’t know how to tell Hanamaki that he would never be disappointed, that he understands who Hanamaki is, or at least he thinks he does. But people only show you the faces that they want you to see. Issei knows that Hanamaki is no different. He asks: “You sure?”
Hanamaki laughs but it’s a tired, weary thing. His dimples don’t show and the corners of his eyes don’t crease.
“Yeah. Yeah. God, you’re about to be so disappointed. The thing is I think that—,” he lowers his voice, as if the secret is particularly damning. “—that Hanamaki Takahiro is just some guy. That’s the secret. He’s nothing special.”
Issei stares at him. Hanamaki Takahiro has never been some guy to him. Issei is the one who is just another boy in the street, who happens to walk a little too closely with death.
Hanamaki shines brighter than anyone, brighter than Oikawa, brighter than the sun.
“Well then,” He says, and Hanamaki turns to face him. “Good thing Matsukawa Issei is just some guy too, right?”
Hanamaki sighs, like he can’t believe that something so stupid came out of Issei’s mouth. “You’re so stupid, Mattsun. Have a little more faith in yourself. Do you even know what the other kids even say about you? Just some guy, my ass.”
Issei wants to tell Hanamaki that he doesn’t care about what anyone says about him, just his family and his friends. And Hanamaki. But that’s too much, too soon.
Instead, he reaches over and pokes Hanamaki’s head where he has his head pillowed in his arms. His finger burns where he makes contact. “Pot calling the kettle black, huh?”
Hanamaki begins flipping through his notes, but it’s clear that he’s not really absorbing any information. Still, Issei startles when Hanamaki says, “So. Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro. Two guys that just are. That seems kind of depressing, huh?”
“Honestly, that’s enough for me,” Issei can’t help but say, and the corner of Hanamaki’s mouth twitches up. This time Issei sees the light impressions of a dimple showing. He bumps shoulders with Hanamaki.
“Sometimes it’s okay just existing and taking up space together with the people you care about.”
Hanamaki grins. “You care about me, Mattsun?” he coos.
Issei rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”
One day he’ll tell Hanamaki, he decides. One day, he’ll tell him that he wants to spend his morning with him and the nights too.
But not right now. The moment is too delicate, and if he says it right now, it’ll feel too much like he’s exploiting something vulnerable. It can wait. Issei is used to waiting, after all. What is a few more days, a few more months? If there is anything that his major has taught him, it's to savor the small moments right now. Life is too short.
One day, maybe the sky will be clear and Hanamaki will be telling him about the ramen he ate last night, and Issei will blurt out the words that have been sitting in his gut, releasing them into the air to be devoured by the gods and Hanamaki Takahiro.
But he will tell him one day. He’s sure of it.
#
The spring term is about to end when Hanamaki sets off another fire alarm. At this point, Issei has realized that Hanamaki does not, in fact, have a bucket list of places to set fire alarms off in, but that Hanamaki is just terrible at making popcorn, or baking, or anything to do with cooking. As a result, each building has been banning him one-by-one from using their communal kitchen.
But just because setting off the alarms is an accident doesn’t mean that Hanamaki doesn’t revel in the chaos.
“You need better taste in men,” Oikawa grouches as he clambers to his feet. “Makki-chan is a menace.”
“Not all of us have childhood friends who have been in love with us since middle school, alright?” Issei says as he smothers Oikawa in a blanket. “Here, take your own blanket this time.”
Oikawa’s mean, Mattsun-chan! is muffled, and Issei drags him to his feet as they make their way down the emergency staircase.
There is no snow this time, but the backdrop is still the same. Tired students. Wailing sirens. Hanamaki bathed in light.
This time, though, Hanamaki sidles up to Issei, who shoots him with the most unimpressed glare that he can muster. “Hey there, stranger.”
“Hey,” he says.
Oikawa looks between the two of them and takes a step back. “Mattsun, I’m gonna go say hi to Mad Dog-chan, okay? He looks more constipated than usual.”
“Please don’t rile him up again,” Issei says, even if he knows it's a lost cause.
Sure enough, because Oikawa is a literal child, he pouts. “Don’t tell me what to do, Mattsun-chan.”
Then, he’s gone.
For a long time, they stand there, watching the firefighters search the premises, looking for the source of the alarm. Red and blue flash and disappear, and Hanamaki stares at him with wide eyes, frozen in time.
“What?” Issei asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do I have something in my hair?”
That snaps Hanamaki out of whatever daze that he’s trapped in. “Nope,” he says easily. A pause. “Maybe I just like looking.”
“At me?”
“No, at the statue of our eighty-year-old founder. He’s looking pretty sexy tonight. Yes, you. Who else?”
“Huh,” Issei says. He can feel the blood rushing up to the tops of his cheekbones. At two in the morning, sleep-deprived and burnt out, he feels warm. He feels like he’s found another place to call home. “Feel I should warn you that I spend a lot of time with dead bodies.”
Hanamaki makes an amused noise. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening me, Mattsun?”
“Just wanted to let you know what you were getting yourself into,” Issei says, half-joking, half-serious.
“‘Course I know what I’m getting myself into,” Hanamaki says, and when he slides his hand into Issei’s, Issei feels like he could fly above the trees, above the dorm building, and disappear like a speck of dust into the stars.
#
“You wanna know what everyone says about you?” Hanamaki, no, Makki says.
They’re lounging on the couch, watching Spirited Away . Issei has an arm tossed over the back of the couch where Makki sits slumped against him. Makki’s fingers shine with butter from the popcorn (made by Issei this time) and he keeps pretending to wipe it off on Issei’s shirt even though they both know he won’t do it.
Makki raises three fingers. “Tall.” He lowers one. “Mysterious.” He lowers another one. “Handsome.” All three fingers are now down. “Very Phantom of the Opera-esque or a hot Grim Reaper.”
“You’ve never seen the Phantom of the Opera, have you?” Issei asks, running his clean non-buttery fingers through Makki’s hair.
“You know me so well.”
“More importantly, what do you say about me?” Issei wonders, because he has his priorities straight. On the screen, Chihiro boards a train with her companions and the scenery, farm and river racing past them as they move toward the spirit world.
Makki peers up at him, curling closer into Issei’s side. “I say that you make me happy.”
“Do I?”
“Shut it. I’m having a sappy moment here. Now I have to start over. Completely your fault. Anyway, ask me again.”
Issei nudges Makki lightly. “Okay, okay. What do you say about me?”
“I say that you make me happy. And I hope that I make you happy.”
Issei leans down until he buries his nose in Makki’s hair. “You do, Makki. You really do.” On the television screen, No Face sits next to Chihiro, their legs swinging back and forth on the seat with the train.
The colors on the screen are bright, and the only light in this muted living room is the glow of the television, but Issei thinks there is peace to be found in both worlds.
#
The heart is between the fourth and fifth rib. When Issei explains to Makki how the heart feels no actual pain, that it’s all in your head, Makki just laughs and slings his arm over Issei’s shoulder.
“Head, heart,” Makki says. “I just feel the way that I feel, right? If it’s because of my head, great. If it’s from my heart, amazing. But for me, I just know that I.” He pokes Issei’s chest. “Love.” Another poke. “You.”
Sometimes, Makki will come into Issei’s space, stand a little ways away while Issei cuts into flesh with his scalpel or helps him to bed when he collapses over his textbook. Makki never once complains about how some days, Issei clams up and talks a little less than usual. Those days, he either fills up the chatter or stays just as quiet beside him, keeping Issei company.
Once, Issei asks Makki how he knows which one he needs. He always seems to get it right. Makki just shrugs. “Guess I just pay attention.”
In turn, Issei lets himself be dragged along with the tide. He goes to arcades with Makki, and they spend hours on impossible claw machines. He slips little packaged pineapple cakes into Makki’s bag when he isn’t looking because Makki gets tired when he’s low on sugar.
Neither of them try any grand gestures. It isn’t them. They like to keep things simple. Each of them remember each other’s Starbucks order. Makki will buy Issei little scented hand sanitizers that he thinks that Issei will like. Issei will send Makki a good morning and good night text like clockwork every day.
Makki meets Iwaizumi, and they get on like a house on fire. Meanwhile, Oikawa only grants Makki his begrudging respect after Makki bests him in Rainbow Road three times in a row.
Makki plays soccer with his little brother, and gets absolutely destroyed by a ten-year-old. He has a tea party with Issei’s sister and promises to come back for another sometime soon. He has dinner with Issei’s parents, and praises his mother’s udon, the suck up.
Issei lets Makki carve a place into his heart.
No more fire alarms go off because Issei cooks for the two of them, three of them if you count Oikawa, and the whole campus and the fire department breathes a collective sigh of relief. Kuroo hands Issei a literal thank-you note on a yellow post-it.
In the end, Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro are two boys that are just that. Boys. They are not gods, or idols, or anything else. And that’s enough.
When they cut him open one day, Issei hopes that someone will look at him and see that he lived as he died, with a love for the little things and the brilliance of just existing. He hopes that whoever slices open his chest cavity will pull out his heart, and say that it was well-fed with love.
It’s the first day of summer break. Oikawa sits on the squashy couch arm, Iwaizumi on the ground right in front of him. To his right, Makki is complaining about the grade deflation in his stats class next semester.
Issei is glad that they all exist, together. He’s glad that they all take up space this very second in time.
It’s the greatest thing that the gods have gifted him and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.