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Hajime likes to think that by this point, he is as professional as he will ever be.
It takes four years in med school and four more in a residency (two of which he hasn’t even completed), but if he isn’t used to it now, he doubts it’s ever going to happen. One does not clean bedpans and watch doctors deliver awful news to families without realizing that it might be best if you step back, watch a little while, or better yet just leave the room.
Hajime usually doesn’t get to leave the room.
It is in his third year of the residency that he decides he is done now. Not with the training- it pays decently, and makes his family proud of him, but he is learning that there is no way to make this any better. Whether he is cut off and cold, or honestly doing his best to sympathize (which may, admittedly, not be much on the best of days), there is nothing he can do to be as clinical as his supervisors seem to be. Either he’s going to break down when he gets home, or he’s going to wonder why he’s such a heartless monster. If there is a middle ground, he can’t find one.
Hajime doesn’t know which one is best.
The residency is not a pleasant affair, most of the time. His mother tells him that they wouldn’t call it work if it was fun, but it seems like it shouldn’t be like this. Hajime tires quickly of staying up until the next day, berating himself for what he’d forgotten earlier and trying to commit everything to memory. It’s unfortunately nostalgia of his not-far-off college days. He’d rather it wasn’t.
The fourth month of the third year is July, and it’s hot as hell. This shouldn’t be surprising, after over twenty-five summers he’s lived through, but scrubs insulate far, far too well. He finds himself disgusted with the water fountains that taste like iron, but it’s that or die of thirst. If working in a hospital is not uncomfortable to begin with, it certainly is now.
This stands out. It isn’t important, but it’s what he remembers.
One day, while he’s filling a bottle at the water fountain, one of the patients meanders over to him, slow and distracted. The patient leans against the wall, body angled just far off enough that Hajime has no way of knowing whether he wants to ask something or really does want to use the fountain. Hajime considers warning him, and decides against it. Bad plumbing is usually not that much of a problem. He’s heard some creative stories about why exactly the water might taste like blood, but they don’t all seem likely.
As soon as Hajime lets go of the button, backs away from the fountain, the patient looks up and smiles.
“You’re one of the interns, right?” he asks.
Hajime doesn’t really understand the differences between residencies and interns. He doesn’t really lose sleep over them, either. He is not sure it matters.
“Yes,” he says.
“Alright, so.” The patient straightens himself, patting down the part of the gown covering his legs. “Can you help me with something?”
“Are you supposed to be out of your room?”
The patient waves a hand. “Whatever. So, can you help?”
This may get him fired, Hajime thinks for a second. He doesn’t even know what it is yet, but if it’s drugs, he can kiss the residency goodbye.
He hopes he doesn’t have to smuggle anything. He doesn’t know how good he’d be at that.
“What do you need?” Hajime asks.
The patient’s eyes light up. A little, anyway. He looks like he doesn’t have much left in him, and if he does, it’s either caffeine or heavy drugs.
“Great! So, what does glioblastoma mean, anyway?” He tilts his head. “I mean, I’m sure they told me. I just wasn’t really paying attention.” A laugh bubbles from his mouth, short and awkward. “I don’t really know where I’d find out, either. I can’t just ask them again, right?”
Hajime would like to think that this man is just a curious medical afficienadio. Maybe he has a family member with the disease, worst case scenario. There’s a chance he overheard somewhere and thought maybe he should ask again.
If none of those are true, Hajime is not qualified for what comes next.
He tells him. The patient has a right to know, after all. Hajime spares no details. It wouldn’t be fair to hold back, in this situation. Sugar coating does not often help with terminal illness, after all. Much less with being told that you have maybe a few months to live.
As Hajime watches the patient’s face fall, just barely enough to be noticeable, he recalls that he doesn’t even know his name. And vice versa. Hajime has just told him something that most people count as a blessing to never hear, and he does not know his name.
Soon enough, he knows what he looks like when he glances to the side, eyes squeezed a little too tight to be neutral, breath rattling more than that of someone who truly doesn’t care.
If there is etiquette in this kind of conversation, Hajime is surely stomping all over it.
“I’m sorry,” Hajime says, in a last-ditch effort to not be a complete jackass.
“It’s not your fault,” the patient says, quiet and low.
It might as well be.
Hajime looks just past the patient’s shoulder. There is a doctor talking to a woman who clutches a pen in her left hand like an anchor. She is smiling and nodding, and the doctor is gesturing wildly.
That is the part of the job Hajime had wanted.
“What’s your name?” the patient asks.
Hajime’s eyes are jerked back to him. He hadn’t forgotten he was there, but he didn’t pay any mind to him, either. This, too, may have been insensitive.
He mistakes Hajime’s surprise for offence, or something like it.
“Sorry if that’s a weird question,” he says. “Just seemed like something normal to ask.”
That’s not really what Hajime would do in his shoes. That doesn’t really matter, though.
“It’s Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says. “Third-year residency.”
“Oikawa Tooru.” Oikawa grabs his hand, shakes it feebly. “Nice to meet you.”
Hajime doesn’t talk to anyone about it. Maybe he should, in case it’s one of those things that leaves someone with lasting trauma, but he doesn’t know who he would go to. There are no support groups for this kind of thing; if there are, no one has told him about them. The closest approximation is the staff lounge. That is not somewhere he wants to hold open therapy sessions.
He finds out quickly that avoiding someone in a hospital is not complicated. Hajime is a general surgeon (or, he hopes to be) and this crosses paths with the oncology department about as often as cardiology: not often, unless something has gone very wrong or very right. Hajime stays firmly in the hepatology wing for two weeks. They are both touched by fear and worry for Oikawa, but this is only when he isn’t so busy he considers going to law school instead.
This happens to be a very rare opportunity.
The second week, during his lunch break, he does manage to get word of him. There’s a blond girl sitting on their beat-up couch, hands folded on her knees. She’s the only girl in the room, which doesn’t surprise Hajime. The ratio of female to male in medicine is still very, very imbalanced. She’s also the only person on the couch.
Hajime is ready to pass her, if only so he can get at the bench against the wall, but she stops him.
“There’s another patient in the oncology ward,” she says.
Hajime feels his stomach sinking.
“Really? What’s so special about that?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. But he’s so young, you know?”
“It happens to the best of them.”
“Yes, I know. But it doesn’t seem fair.”
She’s right about that. Fair is hard work and triumph for underdogs, not people his age crying in a waiting room. But none of them would have signed on to this job if they wanted fair.
“He’ll probably be fine,” Hajime says. “There’s good medical care now. Survival rates are higher than ever.”
“I know," she says, but it doesn't sound like she does.
She smiles at him, a little sudden to be natural. “Thank you for listening.”
She leaves the room, and Hajime feels worse off than he did before.
Hajime finds a note in his box two days later.
The handwriting is messy, but this is a hospital. Hajime has seen script so slurred and muddy it made him wonder if it was even Japanese; this is nothing.
its oikawa. the girl who had to clean my sheets is wonderful she agreed to give you this but i kinda guilted her dont get mad at her. i have a lot more questions that it feels weird to ask so can you text me thanks heres my number
There is no signature, but sure enough, Oikawa has left his phone number scribbled underneath. Hajime has to squint at one of the numbers to figure out if it’s a three or two.
Whether Oikawa has naturally poor handwriting or is really that far along is anyone’s guess.
Hajime saves the number in his phone, using Oikawa’s full name. He doesn’t text him yet. They’re technically not supposed to have their phones at work at all, but enough of the interns still live with their parents that the rule is basically disregarded. He’s seen coworkers text each other instead of getting up and talking. On some burnt-out-student level, he understands.
It’s true that he feels some kind of pity for Oikawa; it would be hard not to.
Even so, he’s going to piss on him for manipulating the other residents.
did you bring up the tumor
?? i dont know what ur talking about
did you use the brain cancer excuse when you were nagging someone to pass notes for you
i would never (щ(llﾟдﾟllщ)
goddamnit
Hajime doesn’t know much about glioblastoma. He knows that when Oikawa tells him it’s secondary glioblastoma, it means he has some time left. Oikawa says his prognosis is three months, and Hajime can tell him when he will be able to expect his memory to start going and his legs to become burdens instead of aids.
Hajime is not the most helpful person Oikawa could be talking to. Someone like his doctor, the girl who changed his sheets and told Hajime about him, maybe even someone he finds on the internet could be more helpful. Whoever it is is someone who knows him well, or can give him good advice, or has some sort of experience in this field. Someone who is not Hajime, and knows what to say.
Hajime does not work in his ward. He doesn’t see Oikawa daily, or even weekly. If Oikawa says he is fine, better than yesterday, feeling pretty good, there is nothing but Oikawa’s word to go on. If he is lying to protect his pride, it’s an easy farce.
Oikawa says he doesn’t know how to tell his family. Hajime sends him a link to dealing with a loved one’s cancer journey.
Oikawa says he doesn’t know if death is welcome or not.
Hajime texts him his address.
Oikawa shows up at Hajime’s house at ten P.M. the same day. It is an aggressive conflict of interest, Hajime doesn’t know if Oikawa is supposed to be out of the hospital anytime soon, and whether either of them want to have anything to do with each other is still up in the air.
When Hajime opens the door to let him in, Oikawa is shaking slightly, wearing a thin jacket that looks like it’s from some kind of sport.
Oikawa holds up Toy Story 2.
“Do you like movies?” he asks.
“That’s a really stupid question,” Hajime says. “Get inside.”
Oikawa does so. He doesn’t take off his jacket as he crosses the threshold, which is good, because Hajime doesn’t offer to take it. Oikawa looks like the dead. He could use more warmth than Hajime’s low-rent apartment can give him. Hajime tosses him a blanket for good measure.
Oikawa stares at it.
“It’s a blanket,” Hajime says.
Oikawa shrugs, wrapping it around his shoulders.
To be honest, Hajime doesn’t really get his DVD player. It’s more complicated that it should be, for a device the size of a large envelope, and makes him feel inadequate for not getting it. Oikawa doesn’t make a sound as Hajime fumbles with the remote buttons, but he can almost feel him smirking.
“If you know so much, why don’t you do it yourself,” Hajime mutters.
“Fine, I will,” Oikawa says, flouncing over. He snatches the remote, mashing buttons so fast Hajime’s not sure he actually knows what they do.
Oikawa slams a button, and the live TV flickers on. Onscreen, a small foreign woman is making loud noises that sound just as much like pain as they do pleasure.
“Uh,” Oikawa says.
“Give that to me.” Hajime reclaims the remote. The one button he does understand is off, and it is a saving grace. The room falls blessedly silent.
Maybe a movie is a bad idea.
As far as Hajime knows, there’s nothing akin to that on his laptop (currently), so they retreat to his room and play the DVD on his laptop. It’s a crappy student-discount Windows computer he’s had since senior year, but he never had cause or money to buy anything better. At least this way he knows Oikawa won’t blare porn. It’s worth the slight embarrassment he goes through when the computer takes upwards of five minutes just to turn on.
Oikawa takes the blanket with him, Hajime notes. It’s nothing special. The blanket is a heavy quilt his mother’s friend made him as a going-away present, but Oikawa burrows into it like it’s his long-sought home. He curls in on himself against the headboard, foot poking against Hajime’s thigh.
“Did you get subtitles?” Hajime asks. “Because I don’t speak English.”
Oikawa rolls his eyes. “F’course not. I got the Japanese dub. I planned ahead.”
“Alright, whatever.” Oikawa kicks him. He can’t gather much momentum, with how close he is to Hajime, so it’s more of a light punt. Hajime snorts.
“Watch the movie,” Oikawa says.
Oikawa doesn’t seem like someone who is dying, but Hajime doesn’t know what that would look like in the first place.
Maybe it’s fear and breakdowns, which Hajime knows there are plenty of through the staff who have to put up with them.
One doctor tells the residents and interns that death is when the patient says it is.
Oikawa tells him that it doesn’t matter, because it’s already over.
“What’d you do in high school?” Oikawa asks.
Hajime is in the middle of typing an email, so he doesn’t bother to respond just yet. Once he finishes, he closes the laptop and pushes it aside.
Oikawa raises his eyebrows. It is rare that Hajime gives him his full attention by now.
“Not much,” Hajime says. “Study. Work hard. Whatever looked good on a college application. Make my parents happy.”
“Hit on girls?”
Hajime huffs out a breath. “Not all of us had thriving social lives in high school, Oikawa.”
“I didn’t.”
“Hmm?”
Oikawa stares at the wall, intense, as if it knows something neither he nor Hajime do.
“I played volleyball,” he says. “I was good at it. Really good. I had a scholarship.”
Hajime nods. “Okay. Better than most stories.”
Oikawa shrugs. “I was kind of lonely.”
“You? You must have been popular.”
“I didn’t have a lot of friends. I dated a lot of girls, though.”
“Sounds like popularity to me.”
“They weren’t friends,” Oikawa repeats.
“So why’d you hang out with them?”
Oikawa laughs.
Two months to Oikawa's estimated time of death, Oikawa picks up volleyball again.
Not using his own equipment, of course. When Oikawa finds out that Hajime dabbled in volleyball as well, the lone ball that's still in the house is gone by morning. Oikawa is, too, but there are not many places he could have gone. The nearest volleyball court is ten minutes driving to a tech company's private field, and that isn't necessarily legal for Oikawa to play on.
Besides, it doesn't matter how good he was in high school or how determined he is. Terminal cancer does wonders for muscle degeneration, what with the constant bed rest. Wherever he is, Oikawa is in for a disappointment.
Hajime doesn't go after him. Oikawa knows how to get back to the hospital and Hajime's house; he's shown up unannounced enough times for it to be a given.
That, and there is something to be said for leaving him his pride.
Oikawa doesn't usually text anymore. There is little need to. When Hajime isn't working, Oikawa is bothering him, and he seems to have realized that there is enough for Hajime to worry about without trying to answer texts throughout his shift. Boundaries are not Oikawa's area of expertise, but at least he manages this one thing.
When Hajime's phone buzzes on Thursday, it's no surprise. He does have friends, after all. Friends he thought that he reminded he couldn't answer during work, but he can't have it all.
From: Oikawa Tooru
Hajime rubs his eyes.
Even the sent field is troubling. Oikawa may be flighty at times, but he sticks to patterns. He doesn't like change; Hajime knows, because last week Oikawa was moved to a new room and it looked like he was about to sue the office staff. Texting suddenly is not a good sign.
change of plans iwa-chan!
The nickname is new. He decides he doesn't like it.
He also has no fucking clue what Oikawa is talking about, and that is a little more irritating.
don't call me that
whatever. they just told me the news
what is the goddamn nees
*news
we're changing the date! (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))
Hajime doesn't get a chance to demand he comes out and says it. Another text comes after, so quickly that Hajime has no clue how Oikawa typed it in the small span of time.
only seven more weeks now.
3-6 weeks prior to death:
Confusion and memory loss
Harder to sustain a conversation
May say some odd things that make you think "Where did that come from?"
May ask less about the next treatments or appointments
May ask clear, rational questions about death, arrangements, etc.
If Oikawa is upset, Hajime can't tell. He has heard horror stories of patients who sobbed and screamed at the doctors and refused to speak for days on end, children whose parents pulled them from the hospital because they had to blame someone, one father who stopped moving or speaking like he was already dead. The news of even less time is not something humans are made to take. Fear, however, is second nature.
Oikawa isn't allowed to leave anymore, but he makes Hajime promise to bring the volleyball in. Whether that's allowed or not is anyone's guess. This wasn't covered in med school, either.
The obvious lump in his coat is noticed more than once, and he starts getting a lot of strange looks.
Oikawa smiles when he sees him.
Maybe volleyball is a poor coping mechanism. Maybe the fact that Oikawa refuses to speak about his death is a bad sign. All of it is more than Hajime knows how to deal with. Being professional is not an option here; that would make things way, way worse.
He can't remember when Oikawa stopped being a patient and started being something else.
He doesn't even know what that something else is.
"Do you like someone?"
"You ask a lot of stupid questions."
Oikawa sighs, crumples the bedsheets in his hand.
"It's reasonable," he says. "Would you deny a dying man?"
Hajime shrugs. "If it's you, maybe."
"That's cold, Iwa-chan!"
Hajime throws the sheets over Oikawa's head.
"Do you know this guy?" Oikawa asks, holding up a picture on his phone.
It's a picture of a guy about their age, screencapped with the Facebook background still uncropped. Hajime snorts. Oikawa doesn't seem like the Facebooking type.
"Well?"
Hajime squints. "He looks like one of the volleyball players when I was in high school."
"Getting warm."
Hajime is very, very confused before he remembers what that game is.
"I don't have a mental register of every high schooler in Japan, Oikawa."
Oikawa rolls his eyes. "It's Kageyama Tobio. Setter from Karasuno High."
"Okay, great."
Oikawa snatches back his phone, staring at the photo like if he does, it'll bestow serious harm upon the boy.
"I never beat him," he says.
He shuts the phone off and places it back on the nightstand.
"I cared about you, you know."
Hajime looks up from the book he's reading. It's a heavy medical tome that he has little to no interest in, but telling Oikawa that he doesn't have the answers he wants is starting to grate on his nerves. He would have done well to spend more time in the oncology wing, he thinks.
Hajime sets down the book. It is heavy enough to keep itself open, so he doesn't bother bookmarking it.
"Really?" he says. "I didn't think you cared about anyone."
"Not like that."
He inhales, deep and slow.
The scent of eau de hospital is never pleasant. Maybe they should invest in air freshener.
"Then like what?"
Oikawa doesn't smile. He looks at the ceiling instead, face tight and drawn. He doesn't look twenty. He doesn't even look like the living.
"That's a really good question," he says.
"That's cagey as fuck."
Oikawa blows at the empty air. "I don't know what else to say."
Hajime resituates the book in his lap. "Then don't say anything at all."
2-3 weeks prior to death
Less interest in matters of the home and family, hobbies, or world at large
Detached, without curiosity
General restlessness/agitation
Word-finding difficulties (conversation may be very slow)
May begin saying things that sound like awareness that time is growing short
Maybe what Hajime says is too harsh. Maybe Oikawa doesn't need his help to feel worse.
When Oikawa tells him that he doesn’t know if his parents will ever visit, or if it’ll even matter when he dies, Hajime sits silently and listens to it happen.
“I didn’t matter,” he says, looking into empty air. “What’d I change? Nothing.”
That’s not true. Hajime knows it’s not true. If it were, he wouldn’t be sitting at the wall of a hospital room. He is supposed to be the saving grace, not the one who just prays for a miracle.
The problem is, someone like Oikawa will never be able to see how badly he’s changed Hajime.
When Oikawa cries into the sheets like the world is ending (and for him it is), Hajime stands, crosses the room, and holds him.
Neither of them are getting out of this unscatched. Oikawa is just on the fast track.
Oikawa asks him to start calling him Tooru, so he does. More often than not, it is hard to remember, but if it will make him feel less alone, Hajime will do anything. He doesn't tell Oikawa to use his given name as well, but he doesn't need to. Oikawa has never done well with Hajime's name; Iwa-chan feels too cute and makes Hajime feel like hitting him. Iwazumi-kun is like they just met.
In a way, they have.
Hajime's mother, in an email, suggests that Oikawa starts a garden on the windowsill. Since Oikawa's family, if he has any, never visit, Hajime brings him a small rectangular pot and some potting soil.
Oikawa complains at first that it's gross when the dirt gets on his hands. Hajime hits him with the fork they're using as a tiller.
"But you don't have any seeds," Oikawa says. "How is there supposed to be a garden with no seeds? It's ruined, Hajime."
Once Oikawa stops chewing him out, Hajime drags him out of the room by the wrist.
"There might be some in the lounge," Hajime tells him.
"What kind of hospital keeps seeds in the break room?" Oikawa demands.
Hajime shrugs.
They find a near-empty pack of morning glories in a supply closet. There are maybe four seeds left. If that isn't enough, Hajime doesn't know what he'll do. Gardening is not his area of expertise. Where to buy seeds is not something he has ever worried about.
"This alright?" he asks.
Oikawa snatches the packet and shakes it. "There's barely anything left."
Hajime shuts the closet door as quietly as he can. He hopes no one planned on using those.
"There's going to be a lot less if you don't stop fucking with it," he says, grabbing it back from Oikawa.
"I wasn't gonna do anything."
"You're a menace to society."
Oikawa laughs. “Give me the fucking seeds. I wanna read the instructions.”
“That’s weird,” Hajime says, but he does as commanded.
It’s been a long time since Oikawa laughed. Hajime has heard his amused huffs and the occasional snort, but those don’t take much effort or emotion. The more animate Oikawa isn’t long forgotten, but it’s been weeks.
Oikawa points to the directions. “It needs direct sunlight,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s why it’s on the window, dumbass.”
“Well, it’s your fault for not explaining it well.”
Hajime holds out a hand. “Are you gonna give me the seeds back?”
“Probably not.”
Neither of them have much experience with flowers. When the nice nurse assigned to Oikawa stops by, they end up enlisting her. She, also, knows basically nothing, but her enthusiasm is much appreciated.
She talks more than Oikawa did before he started losing progress, which is no small feat. Hajime learns that her name is Yachi, she went to an American college, her first name actually has something to do with flowers, her mother wanted her to go into web design, and though she doesn’t come out and say it, she has a thing going for the hot anesthesiologist that is three doors down doing a consultation.
Oikawa glances over her shoulder at Hajime and smirks when she says that. Hajime wishes he knew where he put the medical book. Oikawa sometimes deserve to be hit with textbooks, regardless of illness.
“Well!” Yachi exclaims, brushing the dirt off her hands. It lands on the floor. She doesn’t notice, but the janitor is going to give someone hell for this later. “Looks like we’re done!”
“Thank you,” Hajime says.
“Oh, it’s no problem! It was my break anyway.” She smiles earnestly. If she didn’t look so pleased, Hajime would be sorry for making her waste her respite from cleaning.
Oikawa hands her the now-empty seed packet. “Have a memento of this fine afternoon.”
Yachi stares at it in confusion, and Hajime throws it away for her.
“That’s a shitty gift,” Hajime says.
Oikawa shakes his head.
Oikawa doesn’t get out of bed very often anymore. It may or may not be due to his failing strength, but Hajime thinks it’s more like mental exhaustion. Oikawa is not a textbook case of glioblastoma by any means, but this is typical: this is around when he will start to forget who he is. He is confused more often than not, with a lot of just forget it’s and closed eyes when he doesn’t remember something. Hajime tells him it doesn’t matter. Whether or not he can remember the name of his first cat should not measure his self image.
Hajime finds that simple questions work best with Oikawa. He can’t answer when asked what he wants to do, what he wants to read, what he’s thinking about. Hajime stops asking, soon enough, when he can’t watch Oikawa flounder for words to put his thoughts into. It pisses Oikawa off to be interrupted, but his face just falls steadily when Hajime lets him keep searching to articulate himself.
They are both frustrated more often than not, but they are running out of both options and time.
When the questions start drifting towards things like why didn’t you tell me if you felt anything and how long's left now? Hajime, too, has a hard time answering.
“I did, by the way,” Hajime says. “Feel something.”
He stirs the dirt in the pot with a finger. It is easier to say anything if he is distracted.
“I don’t know why I didn’t answer you. I’m sorry.”
This is a lie. He knows why, and so does Oikawa. He is not the one who is dying, but he is the one who is afraid.
“I might.” Hajime breaths in, as deep as he can. “I might love you.”
Oikawa sighs and rolls over in his sleep.
1-2 weeks prior to death
May find loud or multiple sounds irritating
Staring across the room, up toward the ceiling, or "through" you
May make mention of "getting ready" or "having to go," without knowing where
May talk about tying up loose ends (specific to the individual)
Communication seems to take more effort and makes the patient winded or tired
Doesn't initiate conversation as much, though still giving brief responses to questions
Agitation may build
“I need to write a will,” Oikawa tells him as soon as he walks through the door. “I need to decide what happens to my body and who gets what, and I don’t even know what I want.”
“Cremation is fairly standard,” Hajime says.
“That doesn’t solve it all.” Oikawa mashes a pillow into his face. “Just give it all to my parents? Donate it to a museum?”
“Why would a museum want your shit?”
“For my biopic,” he says. “What about you? What would you do?”
“Leave it all to you.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem at all.”
“Alright, alright.” Hajime passes him the glass of water he’d gone to fetch. “You need to stay hydrated.”
“I’m dying anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
“Drink the fucking water.”
Oikawa drinks the water.
Hajime rubs the bridge of his nose. “Who would take good care of it all?”
Oikawa shrugs. “Parents, maybe. They would make a museum. That, or sell it.”
“So leave it to them. Sell it to pay off your bills. It’ll work out somehow.”
Oikawa peers into the cup. “I don’t even know how to make a will. God, I feel like an old man. Getting my affairs in order.”
“Leave it all to Yachi,” Hajime says.
A nod. “She’d take good care of the books,” Oikawa says thoughtfully.
“I didn’t know you could even read.”
Oikawa laughs. “Well, I can’t anymore.” He sets the cup down. “Beautiful day to have a brain tumor, isn’t it?”
5-7 days prior to death.
Minimally responding to caregiver's questions
May begin sentences but not be able to finish them
May say things that are impossible to make out or things that don't make sense
May continue to seem restless and fidgety, as if late for something
“Did you ever say?”
Hajime glances up. “Hmm?”
Oikawa sucks in a breath. “I asked you a question.”
“I got that, yeah. What was it?”
There is silence for a moment, just long enough that Hajime wonders if Oikawa’s going to say anything at all.
“Did you care?”
Hajime looks away.
He might have preferred the quiet.
“Yes.”
There is not much that can be done a week before death. Oikawa doesn’t speak to anyone except Hajime and Yachi, so his doctor has to glean information from winces or slight nods. His pain tolerance has lowered significantly- that, or he has stopped caring about appearances.
It’s just medication for the pain by now. There’s little use in trying to fix anything else. The care he does get seems to upset him more than anything else; since Oikawa has lost the ability to do much except wiggle his legs frantically, the doctor gave him a catheter. Hajime wasn’t there, but Yachi later whispers to him that it might be a good thing.
There were tears, apparently. Not just Oikawa’s, if Yachi is a reliable source.
Hajime stops by whenever he can, and Oikawa smiles when he does. It is strained and makes Hajime feel worse, most of the time.
The asters are alive, but only because Yachi waters them when she makes her rounds. Oikawa can’t move far enough to do it. Hajime doubts he would want to, even if he could.
Nothing is falling apart, Hajime tells him. Everything is going as well as can be expected. Oikawa is doing excellently. He is a best-case scenario.
“This is the best?” Oikawa asks. “Maybe it’s good that it won’t last long.”
Hajime has long since given up. If Oikawa doesn’t want to live, he won’t. No matter how lucky he is.
“Is he asleep?” Yachi asks, and Hajime nods.
At this point, it can be assumed. There’s no need to ask.
She closes the door behind her. In her arms is a heavy blanket, much like the one at Hajime’s house. She lays it over Oikawa before turning to Hajime.
“How are you doing?” she says.
Hajime shrugs. “Fine. Not working.”
Yachi takes the seat next to him, checking the asters before she does. “They’re doing well,” she notes.
“All thanks to you.”
She smiles, but doesn’t respond.
Oikawa, helpfully, snores loudly.
Yachi tilts her head at the ceiling. “Are you two a thing?” she asks.
“Cutting right to the chase.”
“I apologize if that was too forward-”
“No, you’re fine.” He shakes the cup of water he’s holding. The ice cubes are melting, and the resulting sound is a pathetic rattle.
“I don’t know,” he says. “There were a few confessions.”
“A few?” She frowns.
He looks at the floor. His chest is tight, like he just downed three cups of coffee. “We’re not good at talking.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well.” Hajime takes a sip from the cup. “He confessed. I fucked up. I confessed. He was asleep. He nagged me. I confessed again.”
It sounds simpler out loud. He much prefers this version.
“What are you gonna do?” she asks. She asks a lot of questions, Hajime thinks.
“Move on.”
There’s not much else to do.
2-5 days prior to death
Very little interaction, often no initiation
Speech may be quite slurred and hard to understand
May sit in the room with others and say nothing for hours
Could be described as "neither here nor there"
Restlessness and agitation give way to calm
It’s late.
It’s 1:13, and Hajime is running mostly on a mixture of different caffeinated drinks, but he is here. It took Yachi texting him four times and calling him twice to wake him up, but he is glad she did. He had no idea she worked so late, but he’s not surprised. Everyone works odd hours here.
She meets him in the parking lot, wearing a large coat over her scrubs. Her hair is in a ponytail, but she hasn’t taken the clip out. It’s deep purple, just a little darker than the bags under her eyes. She waves him over when she sees him.
“He’s not doing very well,” she says. Hajime knew that.
The hospital is not yet quiet. This is still considered early for most of the staff working the night shift. It isn’t over until 7 AM. They’re just entering the coffee-chugging period of the evening.
He opens the door for Yachi, and she hurries in.
Inside, Oikawa is awake. It’s a rare occurrence; he sleeps around two thirds of the day, at least. Hajime understands. He doesn’t have cancer, and he’s tired all the time. Maybe it’s just a hospital thing. No one can sleep here.
Oikawa doesn’t sit up. He smiles, but his mouth twitches slightly.
“Hi,” he says.
Yachi takes off her jacket, holds out a hand for Hajime’s as well. He hands it to her, nodding thanks as he sits in one of the chairs by the bed.
“You doing alright?” he asks.
Oikawa laughs. It’s cut off by a cough.
“That answers that,” Hajime mutters.
Yachi picks up the pot of asters. “We could move this,” she says, and sets it on Oikawa’s nightstand. He smiles at that, too.
“Thanks,” he says, sighing.
“Do you need anything?” Yachi asks him.
Oikawa shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks.”
“Your manners are better,” Hajime notes.
“‘S a shame, really,” Oikawa tells him. “All going to waste.” Hajime chokes on a laugh at that.
“Sorry,” he says, staring right at Hajime.
Hajime drops the pillow on his face.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, dumbass.”
“There’s a lot,” Oikawa protests. He looks at the asters, face tight like the words don’t come easy to him. They probably don’t, actually.
“A lot,” he repeats.
“What, the flowers?”
“Nah.” He smiles. “They’re nice. Thanks, Yachi.”
His voice is very quiet, and even this close, Hajime has a hard time making it out. Even so, Yachi says, “I’m glad you like them,” and smiles back.
Oikawa closes his eyes and turns onto his side. “Good to see you,” he says.
His breath evens out quickly,
It’s reassuring, to Hajime. There is not much time left, but there is some, and Oikawa is alright for now.
In the morning, Hajime calls in to tell the office he’s taking a sick day. He doesn’t bother trying to sound sick- it’s a hospital, they’re literally trained professionals- but he must sound like shit anyway, because the secretary wishes him well and says to take all the time he needs. He can’t decide if he’s offended or not.
When he hangs up, Yachi lets him back in. She, too, doesn’t look or sound very good. She didn’t get the night off (“I used all my days up,” she explains sheepishly). She came back around 8 AM with coffee in hand, and Hajime couldn’t thank her enough.
“Last day or not?” he asks.
“I’d rather not think about that,” she says.
Oikawa is curled into a fetal position on the bed. It doesn’t look comfortable. Hajime would cramp into immobility if he slept like that, but Oikawa’s face is surprisingly relaxed. His mouth is slack. Hajime can hear his too-quick breathing from the door.
“He won’t move,” Yachi says.
Oikawa’s heart monitor beeps, slow and steady. Hajime prays that the good signs outweigh the bad.
Oikawa’s eyes flicker open around noon.
When he does, the movement startles Hajime. He’s been sitting next to the bed, staring into space, and seeing something out of the corner of his eye makes him jerk into awareness. His knee hits Oikawa’s bed. Oikawa frowns at his leg, offended.
“Sorry,” he says. He turns in the chair, fumbles for the cup of water. “You thirsty? Yachi’s out right now.”
Oikawa shakes his head, eyes following Hajime’s hand.
“Need anything?”
Another shake of the head. This one is more slight, closer to a shiver than anything else.
Hajime settles back into his seat.
Oikawa coughs, eyes closed and whole body moving with the force of it. He spits out something mucousy onto the bed. Both he and Hajime wince.
Hajime finds a tissue in his pocket and wipes it up. “Better?” Oikawa nods.
“So,” Oikawa says, voice raspy. It is quieter than yesterday, if possible.
“You got anything?” Hajime asks.
“Last words,” Oikawa says. He gropes for something; Hajime holds out a hand, and Oikawa settles for that.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Four hours later, Hajime puts the book on cancer back in the library. None of them will need it anymore. They all know what comes next.
Oikawa hasn’t moved since. His eyes are open, but any response that is extracted from him is sluggish and pained. Hajime soon takes the hint. When Yachi comes back, she doesn’t ask, just nods and agrees that they should leave him be.
“Do you want to go home?” he asks. She shakes her head.
“His parents are coming,” Yachi says. “They shouldn’t come back to a dead son.”
“What does that have to do with staying?”
Yachi grimaces. “I don’t want to come back to a dead Oikawa.”
That’s fair enough.
Oikawa’s parents are not much like him. Both are quiet and polite, enough that both Hajime and Yachi feel obligated to offer them the chairs (when running on less than three hours of sleep, this is nothing trivial), and they instead take their place next to Oikawa.
His mother brushes his hair out of his face. His father asks why Oikawa’s eyes are open, but he only nods when Hajime gives him the technical explanation.
They are good parents, from what little Hajime has seen of them. He doesn’t understand what Oikawa’s issue with them was.
Oikawa’s doctor arrives an hour or so later. He is confident, at least. It makes it easier when he tells them that Oikawa will mostly likely be dead by morning. The news is awful, but he sounds sure. He lays out the guidelines and projected schedule of the next day with hand gestures and brief nods, even shakes Oikawa’s father’s hand when he leaves. It’s the kind of detached friendliness Hajime could never achieve.
Dead by morning.
They all should have had more time.
Oikawa Tooru dies at 7:49 PM. For the last ten minutes, his breathing is so slow that Hajime doesn’t know if he should leave the room yet. He knows that when the patient dies, the family needs time alone. Soothing pats are fine. Whether or not to telling them their child died without pain is alright is a case by case kind of thing.
When the heart monitor stops abruptly, he stands and high tails it.
Yachi does not follow. She stays behind, offering tissues, asking if it’s alright for her to hug Oikawa’s mother. Yachi is impressively professional. She is going to be very good at this job.
Hajime sits in the waiting room. There are plenty of people trying to cover up sobs behind magazines or sleeves and anything in between.
He fits in well.
Common symptoms of grief include:
Shock and disbelief.
Sadness.
Guilt.
Anger.
Fear.
Physical symptoms, including fatigue, nausea, lowered immunity, weight loss or weight gain, aches and pains, and insomnia.
Yachi and Hajime both take on extra shifts after Oikawa’s death.
They see each other less and less, which may be a good thing. Hajime knows he isn’t in the best of shape. From what he does see of Yachi, she is not much better. The first time they get together after he dies is at the hospital cafeteria, both sipping coffee out of habit. They don’t need it anymore. They have no reason to stay up all night getting water and finding answers for Oikawa. This doesn’t necessarily mean they can sleep, but having the option is appreciated.
They both look at their coffee more than they look at each other.
This also means that he runs into the same doctor who told him exactly how Oikawa would die, except now he is telling him exactly how to keep other patients from dying. Hajime alternates between frustration and fear of failing. Some days, there is both.
When he goes back to the room on the doctor’s suggestion, there is nothing there. Oikawa’s room is bare and sterile again, curtains closed. Hajime can’t look around the room without thinking things like he’d pitch a fit if he were here or maybe it’s better he’s gone. When his thoughts start reflecting Oikawa’s darker ones, he avoids thinking at all.
The asters are gone.
Hajime doesn’t go back.
Oikawa never wrote a will. His parents tell Hajime all about intestate law and next of kin, but he doesn’t really get it, and he doubts they do either. Oikawa’s assets go to his parents, who don’t seem to have any going plans for a biopic on his life. It’s probably for the best. Oikawa didn’t even want Yachi and Hajime to see him in the last few weeks; it’s unlikely he’d want it in a publicly accessible movie.
Maybe he really was that much of an attention whore. They’ll never get a chance to find out.
Hajime finds a site to transfer residencies. He puts in a request for a Tokyo hospital, and is surprised to find there are any openings. He gets a response from a disturbingly cheerful man about his age. It reminds him a little too much of Oikawa. He gets the paperwork done as fast as possible.
He only tells Yachi the day before he goes. She gives him her phone number, but his agreeing to keep in contact does little to assuage the hurt visible in the sharp lines of her eyes.
He should stay, he knows. This is where he has training and experience and a real-life healthy friendship.
He leaves a month after Oikawa dies.
Remember that time helps, but it might not cure. Time has the ability to make that acute, searing pain of loss less intense and to make your red-hot emotions less painful — but your feelings of loss and emptiness might never completely go away. Accepting and embracing your new "normal" might help you reconcile your losses.
If it ever gets better, Hajime doesn’t notice. Ignorance is bliss, he is learning. He is learning to wish he was better at ignoring it.
He isn’t planning on ever growing any, but he keeps a packet of aster seeds in his drawer for old times’ sake, and only occasionally to take out and feel sorry for himself. It’s pretty stupid, as far as old mementos go. Then again, Oikawa once tried to pawn it off to Yachi as a gift, so Hajime may not be alone in this.
He gives in six months afterward, when he is starting to accept that no matter how little time he knew Oikawa, it makes it no better. Caught in between self-pity and desire to just move on already, he gets his ass off the couch. He digs out the seeds. He finds an old pot and asks his upstairs neighbor who always gets soil on his balcony if he can borrow some materials for gardening.
He refuses to look anything up. It can’t be that hard to figure out how to plant flowers. They wouldn’t have directions on the pouch if you weren’t meant to use them.
On the back of the pouch, next to Oikawa’s treasured growing information and under Plant in direct sunlight, he finds what Oikawa was so interested in.
With proper care, the lifespan of asters is approximately three months.