Chapter Text
Every constellation has an architect.
That’s the human word for it. The Astra terminology for the word ‘architect’ is ‘aurchosucs’. For humans, architecture is the foundation of their society. Architecture creates homes. Builds places of worship. Manufactures landmarks stamped in time, and buildings to hold their art.
Aurchosucs, for Astra, holds a different tune. Yes, it is the act of creation. To be an aurchosucs is to take tiny pieces of your soul and put them into your work. It’s the art of bringing your dreams into reality. Of seeing a vision and implementing it. Of sweat and tears and long nights awake pouring out and into your masterpiece.
An Aurchosucs is a sacred calling.
Aurchosucses are tasked with building constellations. They are universe makers. Galaxies would be pitch black and empty voids that only held planets by dangling strings, if aurchosucs were not born. If aurchosucs did not choose to take the twilight in their eyes and share that sparkle with the ever-stretching span of space and heaven.
They are the reason for shooting stars.
For supernovas.
For the sun.
Oikawa Tooru is an architect. His hands have touched gray matter and antimatter and nitrogen and carbon and hydrogen and helium and asteroids and craters. He’s touched the very nanites of the universe in the star-coated palm of his hand. Star-tipped fingers have poked and prodded elements into their correct organization so that hydrogen and helium could connect to create a string of constellations humans could one day look at and give birth to stories from.
He’s not been so lucky.
Oikawa Tooru is an architect. But he’s not a legend. He’s no genius nor prodigy when it comes to the art of star creation. He knows this. Intimately, desperately, deeply—he’s aware that to the other star makers, his star doesn’t shine quite as bright.
For centuries he has kept to a single truth: he would continue making stars until his own ember dies out. Until his furnace can go no more. And even then, when he’s grasping on star-ash, he’ll keep connecting comet tails to burning stars. He’ll continue hanging his constellations up on the universe’s wall until he, alone, is satisfied. Until he, alone, can say: “This is my life’s work. And even if I am the only one who loves it,” he will say this with tears in his eyes. He will say this with fire on his tongue. He will say this with planets taking pause. “Even if I fizzle out into nothingness and all I have left behind is a millenia’s worth of stars that only I love—I will still be proud. I will still say to myself: well done.”
Oikawa Tooru is an architect of constellations never written about. Of stars never prayed upon.
Then, Iwaizumi Hajime was born.
/
Oikawa strides down the vast, crystalline hallway. The clicking sound of his white boots bounce off the glass walls of the corridor. Cosmos and planets sat on either side of the hallway, perfectly encompassed by the silver and glossy frames of the window panes. Normally, when time’s not of the essence, Oikawa liked to leisurely stroll down this hallway. He rather enjoyed staring into the fathoms of the universe with a hot mug in his hands.
He pulls out his pocket watch. Clicks it open, then clicks teeth, “Oh. I’m so late.” Though he says it as if he’s checked the weather and spotted a drizzle instead of a thunderstorm.
Two doors come into view. Arched and lined with solid purple metal and moving nebulas stored within the rims. He stops once he reaches them. Sees the crystal door knobs that reflect his appearance in fragments and kaleidoscope cuts. His hair is tied back with a blue ribbon. He hasn’t had the opportunity to braid it the way he likes, so it’s flowing and free to the waist of his back. His glasses, gold rimmed with an astral chain of tiny starlights rests on his face. Right on the slope of his nose. The lenses are smudged. He’ll have to clean those later.
He wonders, not for the first time, if he should proceed through these imposing, ghastly doors.
His ego, of course, wins out.
He pushes the door open. Inside the large ballroom glittering with starlights and draped in the blanket of the cosmos, with marble columns evenly spaced out in a circle stretching towards the heavens, are architects and painters and musicians and storytellers and more. All dressed in dazzling whites and brilliant blues, deep purples taken right from the milky way. Oikawa ignores all the stares that cut his way as he enters. Walking briskly, with purpose, enjoying the clack clack clack of his heels. Head high, and chin forward.
He makes a beeline for the food table.
“You’re late, Tooru.” A voice behind him goes.
When he turns, it’s Hanamaki. His beloved comrade. His dearest friend. Hanamaki is in his usual, colorful garments. A long, light blue jacket that shimmered and moved whenever Hanamaki moved. Right now, Hanamaki’s jacket depicts the 75th Rose Quartz Galaxy. As such, roses outlined in diamond bloomed and twirled along the fabric of his jacket. His pants and shirt were the same white. His pants were high waisted and his shirt was tucked into the waist, with a very deep v-line that left enough chest exposed to leave nothing for the imagination.
Very provocative. Very sparkly. Very Hanamaki.
“Is that for me?” Oikawa says instead, pointing to the extra champagne flute Hamaki’s carrying.
Hanamaki glances down at his left hand, “No.” He responds with a wicked grin. “This is for me. I’m indulging.”
“Concerning,” Oikawa sniffs, but he takes the offered flute without much precedence. And then takes a long, long gulp. It’s bubbly, with a sugar rim. And afterwards Oikawa’s tastes buds pop like rockets. He feels immediately buzzed and jazzed and electric. He needs several more of these immediately. “Though I can’t be that late,” he goes back to Hanamaki’s earlier comment now that he’s one glass in. “Everyone’s still mingling.”
“Well you know how it goes,” Hanamaki raises his glass to his lips, eyes scanning the crowd. “Everyone has many things to say about nothing at all. Why, you just missed me getting hit on by Yuuji.”
“Yuuji?” Oikawa’s already making eyes for a waiter carrying any tray with any kind of alcohol in it. When he spots the drinks in question, he waves over the waiter with a dazzling smile to boot. The waiter shuffles over and lowers the serving tray for Hanamaki and Oikawa to take, which they gladly do. “The pirate? Takahiro I never knew ships made of glass and party canons were your thing.”
“It’s specifically the party cannons that had me interested. Though will they keep me around… still too early to tell.”
“Well you let me know. I rather love a good party cannon myself. He makes the most interstellar light shows with those! And his parties are positively planetary,” Oikawa eyes the buffet table lined with meats and desserts and something that looks like it could very well be chicken or turkey but he’s not quite sure. He’ll need several bites to decipher. So he grabs a plate and puts four slices on the plate.
Hanamaki laughs, “I’ll keep that in mind. Now then, back to you. Which I realize you’re avoiding,” Oikawa has a piece of meat in his mouth, and he smiles a little lopsided as he chews. Ah yes, Hanamaki is incredibly perceptive. To a fault and a perfect t. It’s inspiring as it is a nuisance (affectionately considered).
“Am I?”
“You are. You’ve never been late to a Symposium.”
“First time’s the charm.”
“First time’s the alarm.”
“Oh Takahiro!” Oikawa snaps his fingers. “That was so good! Did you think of that all by yourself?”
Hanamaki’s withering gaze would be potent to anyone else not named Oikawa Tooru. To Oikawa, it’s harmless and rather funny. So he laughs, because laughing is easier than acknowledgement. And he drinks, because that’s good for settling his nerves. Hanamaki’s correct, of course. Oikawa’s never been late to a Symposium before. An event where the architects of the galaxy come to show off their latest constellation. Their newest supernova. Their greatest shooting star.
Oikawa, of course, has his. It’s resting in his pocket. In a little cube. He just has to press the circular button on the top of the cube with enough pressure to open the contraption. A galaxy will pop out. Followed by his bundle of stars he’s spent half the century crafting in his cluttered workshop. Tied together with comet tails. Cooled at the right temperature so the stars’ internal core wouldn’t overheat and fizzle out.
His perfect creation.
Oikawa casts his gaze across the crowd. He spots a few stellar figures as he does. Miya Atsumu stood off to the side with his twin, Osamu Miya. Between the two, Atsumu was the architect. While Osamu Miya was a universe-class traveler. A collector of the finest delights spanning across the heavens. Oikawa’s quite sure Osamu’s cooking funds every single event.
Atsumu’s creations as an architect were daring. They broke the mold. Oikawa appreciated Atsumu’s weird slant of genius. His disgusting hunger to be better than before. Oikawa recognizes a familiar beast when he sees one.
He spies Kozume Kenma next. Though that one is much harder, as Kenma is always in black. Always slouching. Always doing his best to be not seen, and never heard. And he does that quite well. But his creations—they speak volumes. Oikawa’s haunted by Kenma’s pieces. They’re dreadful and horrific yet startlingly beautiful. Kenma is attended by his partner, Kuroo Tetsurou. A well known business man across the cosmos. His main exploit involves selling and marketing the minor creations architects make. If Kenma is darkness, then Kuroo is the shrewd shadow at his feet. Who schmoozes the crowd around Kenma and deflects most of the attention upon him so his partner can exist in social spaces in moderate peace.
Akaashi Keiji is standing beside his betrothed, Bokuto Koutarou, off to the side. Bokuto is a brilliant individual. Who’s amassed a throng of onlookers enthralled by whatever story he’s shared before, but somehow spins it to be as fresh and new and invigorating as the last. But Akaashi’s an even better storyteller to Oikawa. His stars are written in the bedtime stories spoken to children across all of earth and all of heaven. And while he stands there, quietly smiling beside his fiance who’s laughing along with the crowd, Oikawa is mentally going through all the stories Akaashi’s written that he knows by heart.
Sugawara Koushi is over on the dance floor. His shoes are sparkling, lighting up with each step. Oikawa feels dizzy just looking at him. But it’s the same way Oikawa gazes upon Sugawara’s stars. Chaotically formed with strategic placement. Obnoxious and demanding to be heard, yet so tiny Oikawa’s not sure what goddess Sugawara’s devoured to pull off such a feat. He plans to ask the next time he has the chance.
Unfortunately, and finally, Oikawa’s gaze lands on Kageyama Tobio.
Kageyama Tobio is not difficult to pick out. He is tall, and awkward. Standing beside his companion, Hinata Shouyou. Who is the sunburst to Kagemaya’s plutonian chill. Kageyama is infuriating. He has no social skills. He’s never been introduced to hair gel or a nice button up vest. He’s never even experienced the wiles of whirlwind romances around Saturn’s rings.
And yet he’s created constellations that have brought Oikawa to his knees and broken him down into tears.
Oikawa downs his second drink much more aggressively than the last.
Hanamaki leans in close to Oikawa, and now Oikawa can see even his eyes are lined with silver eyeshadow. He went all out for today’s Symposium, it seems. “Stiff competition out there. Nervous?”
“I don’t even know what that word means,” Oikawa says. “I’ve never been more ecstatic.”
“Ecstatic?” Oikawa’s neck nearly breaks from how hard it snapped, turning to find Atsumu strolling towards him. Oikawa doesn’t even hold back his frown, or his distaste, when Atsumu stops right in front of him. “To be the laughing stock of the Symposium yet again? Tooru, I never pegged you for a masochist!”
Oikawa’s grin is cruel and crooked as he says, “And I’ve always pegged you for an imbecile. Though that wasn’t quite hard. You make it easy to do considering you’re always acting the fool.”
The golden lion on Atsumu’s black button up vest snarls. Bares its fangs. And Atsumu does the same. Hanamaki takes an unimpressed sip of his drink beside him. “Ego is the downfall of the aurchosucs.” Atsumu bites back. “We learn that on the very first day of the academy.”
“You learned something?” Oikawa gasps. He’s well aware that the room is on them. Or rather, him. And that this, before any showing of new constellations or painted cosmos or new born planets is as much of a presentation as anything else. “Everyone!” Oikawa watches as the crowd flinches. As shoulders hunch. As whispers rise. “Miya Atsumu, the Midas of our generation, actually learned something besides picking fights with the wrong people! Cheers!”
He raises his glass up high, and a few confused people follow suit. Hanamaki snorts beside him. Covering his mouth quickly and turning his body over, though Oikawa catches the way his shoulders were shaking. He cuts his gaze back to Atsumu who’s fuming. Red, blotchy cheeks and supernovas in his eyes. The lion on his vest looks like it’s ready to leap out and eat Oikawa’s heart.
It could try. It’d become horrible with indigestion, however.
Atsumu steps in. Close enough their noses brush. The tension is thick, and Oikawa’s ugly grin twists to a more hideous curl. He tilts his chin just as Atsumu glares him down as if Oikawa was filth and Atsumu had merely taken time out of his schedule to acknowledge him as nothing more, and everything less.
“Time and time again, you come here with arrogance on your shoulders as if the crown you’ve placed upon your head is in any manner deserved. The Grand King, you call yourself. Yet your throne is nothing more than hollow dreams and wasted efforts,” Atsumu’s incredibly gifted with poison. Oikawa must give him that. If Atsumu ever were to become bored with crafting constellations large enough to consume a black hole, Oikawa would suggest political provocation as a new hobby. “How does it feel to be the only aurchosucs to never have a legend? To be nothing more than a void?” Atsumu’s lips curl into a nasty snarl that shows off canine and bite. “The only aurchosucs to never have a wish granted upon their shooting star? You should be embarrassed! You should f-GAH!”
“Enough out of you, Tsumu.” Osamu appears with his hand clamped on Atsumu’s mouth. Atsumu looks indignant. As does the lion on his vest. There’s a lion on Osamu’s shoulder, that lazily considers them all before resting its head back down into its arms.
Hanamaki raises his glass, “Osamu, a pleasure. Though I hate having my drama interrupted, I believe you’ve come at an interstellar time,” he loops his arm through Oikawa’s and nods his head. “My dear friend almost made your brother cry.”
“Is that so?” Osamu quirks an eyebrow. “Atsumu, you’re crying in public again and you didn’t tell me?” His face looks like he doesn’t believe a word out of Hanamaki’s mouth. And rightfully so. Oikawa can’t even find enjoyment from this. Not with the way his blood roars in his ears, as loud as the lion on Atsumu’s vest would if it were physical.
Miya Atsumu has been someone Oikawa engaged with at sword point for centuries. Pressed preciously upon the neck. Deep enough to warn, not deep enough to cut. Atsumu danced around him the same way. They’ve disliked each other ever since their academy days where competition naturally grew between them. Atsumu blamed Oikawa for taking away the girl he liked (in Oikawa’s defense, he’s prettier and the far better choice. So Atsumu should be saying thank you.)
Hanamaki, bless his soul, knew when to exit stage left. He pulls Oikawa away before another verbal bloodbath could ensue.
“I think you two need a good hate fuck,” Hanamaki says after they deep into the crowd. The throngs of people gathered together as the lights dimmed and the stars came out. A sign that the Symposium was about to begin. Oikawa stands a little taller. Heels dig into the crystalline flooring. His fingers grip onto the slender neck of his emptied champagne glass.
“You say that every time, without fail. Don’t you get tired of the same song and dance?”
“Between you two?” Hanamaki ponders the idea for a second, before fixing Oikawa with a slimy grin. “Never.”
Oikawa tunes Hanamaki out at this point. His eyes fixate on the stage before him. The crowd gathers in hushed reverence, in fervent whispers. Oikawa catches his name a few times. It makes him sick with pride. Down to his stomach. Where he may or may not throw up later. But he’s also electricity incarnate at the moment. The current is in his veins as the announcer steps onto the stage dressed in a stunning gown of sundrop yellow and saturn orange.
She calls the architects to the stage, and tells them to stand in the order that she calls them.
“Oikawa Tooru, the yuain aurchosucs.” Oikawa’s electricity turns into a snapping live wire. Heat pools in the back of his neck, settles into the fibers of his skin. He knows all eyes are upon him. All whispers point his way. Oikawa tells the small voice in his head that threatens to capsize him that today is his reckoning. Tonight is his retribution. And he will no longer be revered to as the yuain—no longer will he be seen as the void—but a phoenix. Gathering up ashes and ashes of burnt success and crumbled empires into rebirth—into revitalization.
Oikawa’s name is called fifth. After Kozume Kenma, the millil aursoss and Sugawara Koushi, the hoaa's snaom. Competition will be stiff. Kenma’s and Sugawara’s aesthetics are distinct and bound to captivate or horrify the crowd. Such polaris opposites could swallow Oikawa’s stars into a black hole. Emphasis on could, because today that was not going to happen.
“Good luck, vondoem.” Hanamaki rests his hand upon the small of Oikawa’s back. His words are a sweet prayer against the shell of Oikawa’s ear.
Oikawa turns his head just slightly. His prism earrings twinkle from the movement, until his nose is pressed against the slope of Hanamaki’s cheek. He inhales a shuttered breath, and exhales a more confident one in return. With shoulders high and face set towards the cosmos, Oikawa strides through the parted crowd until he gets to the stage. He takes the glittering steps one at a time, hand around the diamond railing to steady himself and his nerves. Once he takes his spot beside Sugawara and Kenma, he makes sure that his smile is more dazzling than anything else.
“Bright,” he hears Kenma mutter beside him.
“It’s good to see ya again, Tooru!” Sugawara leans over to whisper. Oikawa doesn’t mind Sugawara. Out of all the architects, Sugawara is one of the few he’ll admit he respects outright without begrudgement. Second is Akaashi, who is performing before Kenma today. He rather enjoys him too.
Oikawa barely nods half listening to the announcer call up the next architect—Miya Atsumu, the raiul rdes. “It’s good to be back,” Oikawa says as the crowd roars for Atsumu. He tries to keep his smile in check, as it usually turns into a hideous snarl whenever Atsumu’s name is uttered in his presence. As Astumu crosses the stage their eyes meet. Atsumu grins rather haughtily. The lion on his shoulder makes the same gesture. Oikawa’s hands tighten into fists beside him.
Sugawara’s eyes trail after Atsumu, only to slyly fall back upon Oikawa. Oikawa knows what’s going to come out of his mouth next. “Have you slept together yet?”
Oikawa still bristles even though he anticipated this question, “Why does anyone think I’d ever sink so low to spend even an iota of time in Atsumu’s bed?” He scoffs, “Let alone his presence?”
Sugawara half shrugs, “For the drama of it all? I think he fancies you.”
“I think you’re mad.”
“A tad,” Sugawara chuckles and then the floor erupts into utter chaos. Kageyama Tobio—the cailr'r duish—is called next and Oikawa’s sickening drop in heartbeat becomes swallowed up by the noise. Kageyama robotically climbs the steps one by one until he reaches the stage. Oikawa narrows his eyes upon God’s Beloved, the right corner of his eye twitching.
Kageyama is the last to perform at the Symposium, as he is the last to be called. His position speaks volumes.
The Symposium is an event that happens once every 10,000 years. As star formation takes time. Star placement, even more so. Art cannot be rushed, and the creators of the Symposium are the most revered artists across the universe. It is unfair to say that the artists create simply to perform for this event. No, they are constantly creating. In the gaps between the Symposium, the architects are constantly building and releasing constellations into the backdrop of space. The Symposium is simply the festival that celebrates, highlights, and rewards legends.
Order of the architect's performance is equally important. Oikawa is fifth. He is put there for a reason. Purposefully placed between Kenma and Sugawara who are extreme ends of the artistic spectrum. His work will be swallowed up, consumed, and forgotten by the time the final performance goes. Nothing aggravates Oikawa more than this. The dismissal of his talent. The washing over of his great work. Kageyama is last because he is the best. He is the prodigy. He is God’s Beloved. The last architect to perform is always the universe’s favorite. The one whose work will leave a lasting impression on not only those in attendance, but to the very beings who will see his constellations and write myths and legends and prayers underneath it’s iridescent glow.
One day, Oikawa will be in that position.
He will be last. His work will be exalted.
His work will be remembered.
“And thus, star brights, we begin our Symposium!” The announcer says and the crowd of stargazers erupts in gasps and exclamations. “We have our first architect, Eita Semi—the kraanavk lako.”
Semi takes the center stage. He is donned with a deep purple contrasted with sharp streaks of white. On his back is a large eagle that spreads its wings at the same moment that Semi spreads his arms to greet the crowd. His works are mere fables. The things children speak about in town squares or in alley ways. They are temperamental, prone to explosions. They are good, but not great. Not legendary. They’re more brief shooting stars that skim across the galaxy for only the briefest of moments before they fizzle out. Gone. Forgotten.
But it’s good, for what it is. A nice starting show.
As the symposium continues, as architects rise to the front of the stage to show their masterpieces, Oikawa focuses on controlling his pulse. It thrums loudly, a deep ache. He thinks of Hanamaki’s steady hand upon his back. He thinks about the moment. To stay grounded in the present and not think about the future or the past. That the here and now is more important than what could be.
He’s nervous. His lips are dry and his palms are so sweaty. He keeps a tight grip upon his projector. He knows his routine by heart. The little script he’ll rattle off to get the crowd on the edge of their seats. He plans to use his notoriety in his favor. People love an underdog. People also love to underestimate. Oikawa is the anticipated disaster of the Symposium. They will engage with him because they’re expecting failure, and to revel in it. Oikawa’s lips have a sickening curl to the ends of them as he grins, knowing in the next few minutes his name will be called. Then, he’ll put everyone who has ever doubted him to shame. To quiet, desolate, reverence.
“Next up! Oikawa Tooru, the yuain aurchosucs!”
It is his curtain call.
“You got this!” he hears Suga whisper beside him.
He knows he does. He’s prepared for this for years.
Oikawa strides to the center of the stage. Heels clicking against the marble glass. The contraption in his pocket weighs heavy on him like an anchor. It can keep him afloat or drag him to the bottom of this murky sea of high scrutiny. Glittery masks encrusted with diamonds and pearls, of all sizes and colors, stare back at him. In a way, not being able to see anyone of the stargazer’s faces is a blessing. He can blend them all out. Until only the sparkles of their masks remain. They are just another cluster of stars. Oikawa loves the stars. He finds peace among them.
“Good evening, stargazers!” Oikawa spreads his hands out wide, his arms stretched. He envisions himself as a giant star. Where the universe places him dead in the center. Whispers to him this is your reckoning—this is your place. His kingdom is coming. His will shall be done. “Tonight, I am elated to present my newest constellation. My brightest stars that will clear the void and illuminate the darkness!”
This feels right. It always has been. Oikawa loves the stage. He loves the eyes upon him, the doubt, the whispers, the derison. When people underestimate him, he thrives. His grin grows, sharp and comforting. No longer will he be the laughing stock of the Symposium. He will be King. He will be God’s Beloved. His hard work and metal touched finger tips will know the glow of the sun and the warmth of its love.
He reaches his hands into his pockets.
“Legends are the universe’s love language,” he begins. “Legends and myths connect us with the mortals below. It is the universe’s history book. Stars are not for decoration. Stars are meant to preserve wishes. Stars are the beacons of hope.” Desire is on his tongue. Passion and drive. It makes Oikawa giddy as he cups his creation in the palm of his hands. A warm sun cradled in the calloused palms. “That, is what I wish to give you today. I give you hope. For whatever it is your soul aches for. Hope.”
He presses the button and his constellation shoots from the prism. It encapsulates the entire room. Crawling up the walls and hanging in the rafters of the crystalline ceiling. Emitting a soft, blue light. Oikawa’s grin grows to the length of the universe. He’s unable to contain his glee. Well, why should he? When his glee is tied to the showcasing of his creation’s birth? He watches the room. Keen on their reaction. Will they marvel? Will they cry?
Or will they stay silent? Not in awe or reverence. But in apathy and monotony?
“Hope,” Oikawa says the word in prayer. For only his tongue to consume. It’s holy taste is a burn in his mouth. “Hope.”
The stars dance. They swirl across the room. They dazzle along the pearl walls until they come to the center. Oikawa jumps from the steps and walks through the throng of the crowd. Their whispers and hushed comments are music to his ears—regardless if they are spurned from derision or crafted with love.
“Their name is Xi Sitar—the heart bearer. They will appear in the South Quadrant at right ascension 10 31.71 and declination -14 60.46.” The click of his shoes against the flooring gives him strength. A rush of power. The people are watching. His creation is being regarded. Oikawa grins, standing in the center of the crowd like the sun smack dabbed in the middle of the universe. “Xi Sitar is most prominent in Spring. Spring is the season of new beginnings. It’s the melting of snow and the blooming of flowers. What better season to represent the feeling of hope? That rises from the ice to plant flowers in the hearts of mortals who are seeking for more than what they can find. Who are clinging onto meager faith that skims across the sky as a shooting star.”
This is good. He’s doing well. The crowd is eating up his every word served to them on crystalline platters. He feels this in his soul. Oikawa’s rebirth and reckoning and revolution is tonight. Here. Now.
A star explodes.
Stars are fickle creatures. Devious little things, truly. One minute, they are burning bright. Next, they fizzle. They melt. They dissolve. Into nitrogen and gray matter and dust. Oikawa watches the hope die out in front of him. Feels the ashes of his center star heavy on his tongue.
The crowd is alive. Someone screams, a gasp of surprise—a noise of horror. Oikawa’s hands ball up at his side and he keeps going. This is minor. A star exploding is nothing new. It’s happened before, to some of the greats even (though that has been centuries ago, and no one has recently come forward with such an occurrence until now, today, where Oikawa has written a legend but it is neither of glory or fame).
“Hope still lives,” Oikawa says but who is it for? The appeasement of the crowd with their gemstone masks and their glossed lips turned downward in scowls or upwards in sneers. Or is it for himself? To remind him of the end of the tunnel that still lies ahead. “Hope still lives,” he says again, louder.
Another star explodes.
It is an astral reaction afterwards. Star after star bursts. Into dust and glittering snow. Oikawa sees the destruction of his creation refracted in kaleidoscope fragments from the crystal walls. His star collapses. His constellation breaks down to tiny shards. Until it is a simple glow. That hangs in the center, dimmed and crooked and no longer the mighty heart. Fragile. Tinier than a dwarf planet. A seed, and not a tree.
Oikawa’s cheeks are solar flaring.
There is a poisonous quiet that settles.
The world shakes. Or perhaps, that is just his body. Wracked with trembles so fierce he fears a black hole will come from his chest. Rip him apart. And swallow him whole.
He’d enjoy that.
Someone starts clapping, and it’s a joyous sound that makes Oikawa flinch something violent.
He whips his head up (when had he held it down? Like a lion who had lost his pride?) and finds Atsumu on stage. Clapping and laughing, walking forward to take the microphone from the announcer’s hands.
“What a show, Tooru!” Atsumu’s voice is neither comfort nor care. It rips apart Oikawa who is raw and shaking. “Legendary, truly. I have never seen a starburst up close! And so many at that! Tell us, was that on purpose?”
Oikawa’s voice fails him then. Swallowed by the hushed whispers and the mocking laughter that drenches his body in a cold sweat. Someone says his name. It is intimately spoken yet he can’t, he cannot register where it comes from. Then a hand is on his back.
“Tooru.”
Hanamaki.
“Miya Atsumu!” Hanamaki snarls. The crowd is enamored, wondering what will happen next. “Are you the announcer now? Have you taken up that role because you find there’s no need for you to be an aurchosucs? I cannot say if I find this a favor or a curse.”
The crowd laughs. They must enjoy this little banter. After all, this is a show. For them, they are simple stargazers. Who come and watch what new fragments will join the universe. They are not tied to this in any manner. No, once they leave the Symposium and return to their homes this night will be nothing more than gossip. Light conversation to share over drinks and under music. They will not have to leave with shame so hot on their neck it makes it hard to breathe. They will not have to leave with regret staining their tongue.
They will not have to be Oikawa Tooru when this is all over.
Atsumu is close to retorting but the announcer takes the microphone back and warns him that in the spirit of the Symposium, any more derision will be met with immediate disqualification. That is enough to make him stalk back to his space beside Kageyama Tobio.
Oikawa is still in the crowd. His friend by his side. His dying star before him.
“Oikawa Tooru,” the announcer says.
Oikawa swallows, “Yes.”
“You still have one minute left. Would you like to continue?”
Every eye falls upon him.
“Vondoem—”
Here is where hope is needed. To give him something to hold onto. To remind him that this is simply a moment and not a permanent. He has no more hope. He is all scraped out. Empty and raw and carved down to the marrow. He feels heat in the corner of his eyes. Is my worthless pride only worth this much? Will this always be my limit? Close enough to taste but never actually having my desires touch my lips?
Is this all I am capable of?
“Yuain Aurchosucs?”
Oikawa moves. Reaching out to catch the remnant of his star. It’s no longer a soft, blue light but a dimmed white. He cups it in the palms of his hands. He brings it to his chest. And holds it near his heart that hammers and hammers and hammers.
He speaks, and he is proud that his voice is not wavering the way his body feels as if it is on the verge of collapse.
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Very well then. Next up—”
Oikawa turns on his heel, star in hand, and leaves the room.