Archive of Our Own ^beta

Oikawa Tooru categorizes his life into three: the beginning, the middle, and the end.

(His beginning goes through high school; through self-inflicted, unfulfilled prophecies; and through expectations intended to be unattainable. He has reservations about his beginning, reservations about the decisions he made and the words he said. He still feels guilt about the people he let down—to the point that he forgets that their forgiveness has always been a given. He has reservations, but his beginning is something to be cherished in spite of them all.)

His beginning starts somewhere in the park by his house; he’s small, maybe on the cusp of eight, and crying pitifully by the tree ceremoniously erected in the center of the green. He’s crying for his mother, tiny little sobs punctuated by his hiccups. There’s a boy too, maybe the same height as him but with an unexpected fearlessness that makes the bandage on his cheek look less like a boo-boo and more like a battle scar. He, with his tattered bug-catching net, has the audacity to prod Oikawa on the shoulder once with it from a comfortable distance.

In the time that it takes for his mother to find him (conveniently, with the other boy’s mother as well), Oikawa stops crying. He’s asleep, actually, head hugged to the other boy’s chest. The sense of security is something he remembers poignantly.

He’s awoken to the noise of an unfamiliar voice saying “Hajime—” and to a puddle of his own drool collected on the poor, unfortunate pillow’s shirt. Looking back, he can confirm the following: one, that was no ordinary boy; and two, that was only the beginning.

Hajime becomes Iwa-chan and Iwa-chan becomes his pillar. Something to be said about pillars is that their sole responsibility of keeping something, someone, upright is a full-time job. Iwaizumi is with Oikawa through every high and low of his beginning, from the ridiculous to the terrifying.

And Oikawa can divide the middle of his beginning into parts too. The stories are repetitive (the alien incident, the case of the unfaithful girlfriend, the unacceptable repetitive theft of his milk bread—) and they almost always end in the same manner. Iwaizumi swoops in to save the day and Oikawa finds himself resenting his own heart a little more. He never plays the hero, himself, when it counts the most, though, and in retrospect, Oikawa thinks he’d be terrible in the role.

His beginning sees him nursing an aching nose in the corner of his room. The only light is from his cell phone screen as he scrolls back and forth through fifteen freshly drafted text messages. Here, Oikawa Tooru thinks about bloody noses and deflated volleyballs. He thinks about Shiratorizawa and walls that cannot be climbed alone. He thinks about being alone. He thinks about teamwork.

((i don’t want to be alone)) he sends.

It’s three in the morning and no right-minded middle school student is up at three in the morning but it only takes two minutes for Oikawa to get a response.

((like hell i’ll leave u alone)) ((there’s no ‘my name’s oikawa and i’m a royal idiot’ in team)) ((go to sleep stupid))

The peak of his beginning is a healthy mix, Oikawa would like to think, of laughter, of steps forward, of tears, and of post-matches spent with his head hugged to Iwaizumi’s chest like eight years old in the park, by the tree. There are things he still regrets about this time, faces he wishes he could erase, actions he wish he could apologize more clearly for—

But looking back, he excuses himself for not yet figuring out how. After all, it was only the beginning.

(At the very end of his beginning, he finds himself battling cases of déjà vu. There is laughter again, steps forward, tears, and post-matches spent pounding his fist against locker door because it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault. There are steps backward too. There are hours spent hiding in the depths of his room. There are hours wasted sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, eyes narrowed spitefully at a knee he knows he can’t fix.

Shiratorizawa slips through his fingertips again and he almost crumbles into another spiral of self-deprecation. Iwaizumi makes the team circle around in the locker room after their match and he talks about hard work, about effort, about pride, about luck—and how he’s damn glad it led them all here. At the last second, he turns to Oikawa and tugs him out of his little black hole. He says, “let’s thank our captain now for his hard work,” and Oikawa is reminded of bloody noses, deflated volleyballs, and promises of never being alone.)

The middle is the past and the present. The past entails university nights spent hurling into the porcelain basins of grimy bathroom stalls. It entails broken hearts and vicious cycles of molding himself to fit expectations and then tearing himself down all over again. It entails all of this and coming home to a dormitory room where Iwaizumi’s half-asleep at his desk chair because “shut up, I wasn’t waiting for you.”

(The past is nothing, if not bittersweet.)

Professional volleyball is taken from him by the time he figures out how to apologize. He lets all of the bitterness, all of the doubt, all of the baggage he’s been carrying on his shoulders go—looks Tobio right in the eye and says “your talent is insurmountable” (and that’s okay) (and I respect that). He makes his agenda, decides he’ll keep going with volleyball (though he never once thought he’d give it up anyway), decides he’ll make it his dream now.

And it’s taken from him. He’s ready, emotionally and mentally—he’s ready, but the doctors say he isn’t, that he’s far from it.

It’s kind of an ordeal. He spends a considerable amount of time hiding, concealing, denying every well-aimed truth Iwaizumi tosses his way. There are a couple of arguments, ones that he loses, ones that he technically wins (but still feels dreadful after). There are a lot of nights spent calling Iwaizumi at ungodly hours to apologize, to hear him say “it’s okay,” to listen to the lull of his breathing as he drifts to sleep.

The middle is tiresome because Oikawa spends more hours than he sleeps thinking about dreams that should have been his.

He ends up in law and Iwaizumi in medicine.

This part, how they come together (after never really falling apart), is undefined. The lines blur somewhere along the way, maybe after Iwaizumi begrudgingly fetches Oikawa from the library when it’s hailing their second year and their hands find one other somehow, some way. They don’t make an effort to label it because it’s simple: essentially, they are each other’s.

In the middle, in the present, Oikawa comes to the conclusion that the world is moving too quickly. He sits down at the dining room table and buries his face in his hands. There’s a phantom smile on his lips, the shaky one that only spells certain panic and—

“I can’t keep up.” A fractured laugh slips past his lips as he runs his hands through his hair. “It’s just—too much. Everything is too much right now.”

And Iwaizumi is quiet as he closes the book in his hands and rises from the couch.

“Just get some sleep,” he suggests idly.

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies with a half-hearted smile. “Okay.”

When he wakes up the next morning though, the clock reads eleven-thirty and his heart surges because he’s late and he’s never been late to work. He jumps from the bed, spiting his faulty alarm clock as he stumbles to go through his morning routine.

“Oi,” Iwaizumi calls from the bathroom, toweling his hair with a placid expression on his face. Oikawa stills because this is weird too—Iwaizumi always leaves the apartment before he does. “I already called in sick for you.”

Oikawa freezes altogether, gaze wide. “You turned off my alarm?”

“Yep.”

“And called in sick for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Iwaizumi lets the towel hang around his neck as he gently puts his hands on Oikawa’s shoulders, leading him to the dining room table. “We’re slowing down today,” he says matter-of-factly.

“We?” Oikawa repeats.

“I called in sick too.”

And he’s aware he’s getting repetitive but he can’t help it, can’t help digging his heels into the ground to turn around and ask once more, “Why?”

Iwaizumi stares at him levelly. “To slow down with you.”

(Sometimes, when they can’t afford to slow down, Iwaizumi can only offer comfort in the form of reminders of a tree, of a park, and of how things got better then—so they certainly can get better now too. And it’s nice, Oikawa will admit, when Iwaizumi hugs him to his chest so all Oikawa can hear is the steady thump of his heartbeat to remind him that some things do stay constant.)

“I like this one.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They’re lying down on a bed that isn’t theirs, staring at fluorescent bulbs flickering above them. It’s weird, how even in the hustle and bustle of this furniture store, the only thing Oikawa can really bring himself to pay attention to is the steady rise and fall of Iwaizumi’s chest.

“How much longer until they kick us out?”

Iwaizumi hums thoughtfully. “Maybe five minutes?” He pauses. “It’s okay; we have plenty of time.”

Oikawa grins as he inches closer, Iwaizumi’s arm still sturdy beneath his head. He’s right. They do have plenty of time.

(In the middle, in the present, time learns to slow down.)

In the end, maybe he’ll look back and know everything happened for the better without any reservations. The mishaps, the mistakes he’s still haunted by from middle school, high school, university up until now will feel inconsequential.

In the end, he thinks he’ll be happy.

(“Hey, you dropped something.”

“Huh? What are you talking abou—” Oikawa freezes. “Oh my god.”

Iwaizumi looks up at him, one knee bent against the ground. He’s holding a tiny box in his hands and Oikawa’s not sure if he’s breathing anymore.

“Oikawa Tooru—”

“Wait, I—”

“… Are you crying? You’re crying.”

“Iwa-chan, you big dumb bully! I can’t believe you’re making me cry right now!”

“I can’t believe you’re crying.”

“Shut up! I’m just—”

“Crying.”

“You’re so mean!”

“Hey.”

“… What.”

“Are you going to let me do this or not?”

“… Yeah.”

“Alright.” Iwaizumi looks down once and then back up at Oikawa, a faint smile on his lips. “Oikawa Tooru, I’m in love with you. Will you…”)