Chapter Text
Ok, Hanamaki will admit he’s a bit annoyed.
Ok, maybe that’s a bit of an understatement. Hanamaki is beyond annoyed. He feels…off-kilter. As if there’s this harsh itch in his brain, that keeps him awake, festers in the back of his mind, and if he could just figure out how to scratch it, find the right angle…but no dice.
He stares up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused and the fading sunlight flickering on and off as cars speed by. He doesn’t really have anything to distract him in moments like these, with the walls bare, and room sparse of any furniture. It’s the first summer since school started up, and he remembers how bored he was the summer after his third year. How he was so nervous in the buildup to university, but it’s not like he could start publicly babbling about it (Oikawa had that covered just fine) so he just bubbled over in his brain, waiting, waiting, waiting. He remembers strolling over to Issei’s house, slouched over and dripping with sweat, receiving the warm greeting from Issei’s mother as she let him crash in the cold house. He’d lie on his back while Issei played video games, and hum.
A lot has changed since last summer. For one, his ceiling is a nice white, not that gross beige the Matsukawa’s had plastered on their walls. Who would ever want to stare at that all day?
Oh, and Issei isn’t around. That too.
It’s funny, Hanamaki thinks, he’s not even that far away. A short drive. A phone call away.
He felt that weird feeling seep into his gut again. It’s no big deal. Hell, maybe Issei would have been able to distract him from whatever weird feeling that has been plaguing him for the past few weeks, but it’s whatever. Distractions are easy to find, he could practice some piano, he could watch a movie, he could maybe even, god forbid, get some homework done-
Or, he could answer his phone. The buzzing rings through the room, and Hanamaki sighs and walks an admittedly short distance across the floor to his desk. He checks the caller ID, and a picture of a boy with a cheeky grin and a peace sign is flashing in front of him. If you stare at the picture closely enough, you can even see a disgruntled man with hedgehog hair in the background.
“Oikawa,” Hanamaki hums in disinterest. “What did I say about hacking my phone?”
“Makki, my contact pic before was hideous! This is an improvement, I swear!”
Hanamaki mockingly smacked himself on the head, which Oikawa couldn’t see but either way felt appropriate for the situation. “You’re right, what was I thinking! I should’ve used the ice cream one instead, silly me!”
“Hanamaki Takahiro, if you do that I will have your head on a pike.”
“But Captain,” he grinned, “you look so dashing with strawberry dripping off your forehead.”
“Ok, that’s it,” Oikawa declared (Hanamaki just knows his head is tilted up dramatically right now), “When I’m at your apartment I’m not giving you a single souvenir. Have fun watching me eat Flan right in front of you on your own dinner table.”
“Oikawa, what the hell are you on about?”
“Oh!” Oikawa sounded apologetic. “I should’ve started off with the news first: I’m coming to Tokyo! Just a couple weeks before volleyball season starts, I think I might finally have an in with the Argentinian league, so consider this a pre-victory lap. A lap of luck? Eh, one of those.”
Hanamaki clicked his tongue, thinking if his apartment is anywhere near good enough for a get- together. He doesn’t think the paper plates he still uses in his cabinets are a good sign.
“Did you at least call a hotel ahead of time? Tokyo’s not exactly known for being cheap.”
“Ahead of time?” Oikawa laughs. “Makki, I’m already here!”
To Hanamaki’s horror, he hears the sharp buzz of his apartment bell ring, the same buzz reaching through the phone.
“Mattsun gave me the address already, open up!”
-
-
Hanamaki likes to think he’s a pretty good person.
Sure, he’s teased people from time to time. Maybe got on Iwaizumi’s bad side a bit too often. And there was the Great Ice Cream Fight of year three that will always plague his nightmares.
But on the whole, Hanamaki likes to think he is downright delightful. Which is why he likes to think that Oikawa Tooru showing up on his dimly-lit doorstep with half of Japan’s alcohol supply, a backpack full of enough sand to start a beach on his floor, and two hats on his head, is not a curse, but a blessing. In disguise. He swears. Hanamaki Takahiro is no stuck-up killjoy; if life wishes to throw him another curveball, then he’ll be damned if he doesn’t accept.
Which is why the sweet that he’s eating that was pushed onto him by an eager Oikawa is not disgustingly sandy, merely interestingly sandy. Hanamaki likes to think of himself as a positive guy, after all.
“Makki, you have never said a nice thing in your life.” Oikawa interjects, with a raised brow.
“Nonsense kawa. I’m sure all flan is meant to be this crunchy. Truly a delicacy.”
Oikawa huffs, annoyed, and the movement sends more sand to the ground. Hanamaki wonders if he left the airport surfing, with how much of the beach he brought with him. Maybe there’s a starfish in his bag?
“Makki,” Oikawa calls him back to attention. “That’s not all I got! I got you…” Oikawa makes a drumroll noise with his tongue as he hands Hanamaki one of the two hats on his head, “...a hat!”
“It’s…very patriotic?” A bright green and yellow hat, with the word BRAZIL on it in big bold letters. A very tourist-style hat. Hanamaki can see its charm, in an ironic sort of way.
He puts it on, and Oikawa grins. “Ok, so the backpack had food, the hat had another hat, then what’s the alcohol for?”
Oikawa’s smile faltered slightly, before returning in full force. “Makki, I’m exhausted. All this effort to keep up an athlete’s body, I’m on break, don't be a killjoy!”
“Oikawa…” Hanamaki glanced around his kitchen. Small glass table, small uncomfortable chairs, not even a window in this room. Usually he’d suggest a night out, it has been a while, but tonight…he’s just tired.
“Makki! Makki come ON, we can even call Mattsun if you want!” The feeling in Hanamaki’s stomach returned, full force.
“No, no,” he hastened to reply, “we can just stay in, I might have some old chips in the back of my fridge, we can watch a movie if you want?”
Oikawa eagerly nodded, and stood up. Hanamaki watches him walk away into the next room, and thinks that in desperation to make up for his boredom, the universe sent him a hurricane.
-
-
"You know," Hanamaki slurs, bottle slipping out of his grasp, "I'm not usually this messy."
Hanamaki wonders, idly, if getting drunk in his stupid and small apartment with Oikawa Tooru was the best idea. The itchiness is getting worse, the unpleasantness that scratches up to the surface. He searches around for something nice to settle on, because Oikawa is pouring himself another glass and if he finds vomit on his floor tomorrow he will kill him, and his head is throbbing and he suddenly wonders whether Issei will make him breakfast tomorrow after his inevitable hangover, and. Oh. Matsukawa Issei is no longer around anymore. And now he’s mad.
He clutches the bottle in his hand more tightly and repeats himself. Oikawa barks a laugh, curled up peacefully on the couch next to him, eyes unfocused. It irritates Hanamaki. The sound bounces off the walls, digs into his skin, mocks him.
"No, no! Listen! This…” he thinks, hard. Tries to imagine a small Hanamaki in his head shaking his brain around, trying to dig some words out. “Fuck. I don’t even know what to say. Wish Issei could translate for me. I’m just. I don’t know. Something feels wrong.”
“Matsukawa…Mattsun! Kawa!” Oikawa rambles on, giggling to himself. “Makki, where is he, anyway? I thought you two wanted to be roommates. At least, high school you did.”
Hanamaki remembers, the casual jokes passed between them, the admissions that hey, rent would actually be easier between the two of them. Hey, they’re both going to colleges nearby, why the hell not? But then Issei packed his bags, and moved alone, and Hanamaki wouldn’t complain. Because why would he? He tries to interrogate his brain. Why did he not get mad again? Because…
“...Me and Issei are golden, Oikawa. We don’t do drama, Oikawa.” Oikawa, not knowing the leadup to this declaration, glances at him quizzically. “We still talk, you know.”
“I wasn’t implying you weren’t.” Oikawa’s brows are furrowed in confusion.
“We’re fine, you know? So I don’t know why you keep on bringing him up.”
“Christ Makki, what are you…” Oikawa trails off, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes are still unfocused, but now they’re moving back and forth, as if he’s watching actual puzzle pieces fly in the air and into place. Hanamaki watches idly, occasionally sipping from his bottle in disinterest. After a few moments, Oikawa stops glancing around, and sits himself up to glare at Hanamaki. A grin slowly creeps onto his face.
“Makki…oh, Makki. Poor, lonely, absolutely pining Hanamaki.” Hanamaki stares at him blankly.
“Makki…do you. Do you really not get it?” What? “Dear god, when did you get so stupid.”
“I’m not stupid,” Hanamaki replies stupidly. He’s not sure what else to say.
“Ah well, love really does turn people into fools.” Oikawa says this with his pointer finger in the air, and Hanamaki’s mind is split between god, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard and Wait, love? “Mattsun must really feel special, huh?”
Hanamaki sits there, processing the strangest conclusion Oikawa’s ever come to. He’s so flabbergasted at Oikawa Tooru dramatically staring at him while a steady stream of liquor drips out of his overturned cup and onto Hanamaki’s couch, that the only thing he can think to do is laugh. Oikawa’s face falls in disbelief. He huffs out a puff of air, and rolls his eyes as he turns his back onto Hanamaki to lay on the couch.
Hanamaki sits in silence, and thinks. He thinks about how hilarious Issei would find all this, and he thinks about how stupid it is, really, that he hasn’t texted him in so long. He tries to deliberate, for a second, focus on trying to remember where his phone is, but Oikawa’s voice cuts through his thoughts.
“Sorry, maybe I’m just…projecting.” Oikawa mumbles to the couch cushions.
Hanamaki feels miles away. He thinks about how Matsukawa would probably know where his phone is. He’s surprisingly good at keeping track of things, which doesn’t match his personality at all. He wonders if that would even work now, since Matsukawa has no idea what his apartment even looks like.
“Makki, I think…I think I’m really…sad. Upset.” Hanamaki’s brain is on a roll, and he’s picturing Issei laughing at his stupid fridge with nothing but peanut butter and a single tomato in it, or his sink filled with plastic spoons that he keeps on washing. He thinks about Issei laughing, and he can’t seem to forget the memory, ringing in his ear, bouncing off his walls, digging into his skin.
“I feel…empty.” Oikawa whispers that into the air of his living room, and it settles into the pit of Hanamaki’s stomach, and he feels the itching reach its peak. He wants Issei here, dammit. He rented the smallest apartment possible, and it still feels so empty.
And he’s sitting and thinking, and Oikawa is curling in on himself, and he realizes, oh. He gets it. He really does.
“Kawa,” he interrupts. His voice feels distant, uncontrollable. "How did you handle it, Kawa? How did you handle it for so long?”
And Oikawa knows that he knows. Hanamaki knows why Oikawa went to him first, Hanamaki knows why he hasn’t texted Issei in so long, he knows that Oikawa is holding the same festering itch he is just now realizing cannot be scratched or clawed out in any way that matters.
And Oikawa, for all his brazen glory, for all his fight, for everything that makes him and Hanamaki two fools that run off of adrenaline and excitement, deflates in front of Hanamaki, with all that remains being that same itch that crawls down his spine and saps out his warmth and Hanamaki has never been more aware of empty space until now.
“Makki, I didn’t.”
And Hanamaki drinks to that.
-
-
Hanamaki is laying down on the floor, and his phone has reappeared pressed into his cheek, and there is a banging in his head that is just so unbelievably annoying he can't help but slap his own forehead. It doesn’t stop the pounding, rather making it louder. Shit.
Oikawa stirs on the couch next to him, groaning in pain.
“Oikawa,” Hanamaki groaned, convinced he found the source of the noise, “I don’t know what the hell you’re hitting, but it’s annoying. Chill out.”
“Makki you idiot,” Oikawa whispered, clutching his head, “someone’s knocking on your door. Get up.”
Hanamaki sits up, looks at his wrinkled shirt, and the dried off drool on his arm. Hell, this’ll have to do. The audacity of waking him up, what time is it anyway?
He gets up, and passes by the clock on his stove as he walks to the door. 10:00. Yep, he’s right. Definitely not an appropriate time to be up. Nevertheless, he opens the door, yawning widely.
He’s met with two very distinct faces, with two very different emotions behind them. Iwaizumi Hajime, surprisingly, is standing at his door with the most furrowed brows Hanamaki has ever seen. Iwaizumi is dressed in shorts with some stupid beachball pattern on it, and a jersey with some Californian college logo that Hanamaki forgot the name of. He looks ridiculously out of place, and Hanamaki inwardly laughs as he pictures fresh-faced college boy Iwaizumi Hajime picking out the first outfit he found at some sleazy beachside shop in some dark corner of California.
Ignoring the fact that he doesn’t even know why Iwaizumi is back in town in the first place, he glances at the other face, that of Matsukawa Issei. Matsukawa looks…odd. He’s allowed his hair to grow out, and it’s curlier, wilder. His permanently bored expression, usually not revealing any emotion behind it, is decidedly pointed at the ground. He’s somehow managed to wear a button up with jeans, and it’s such a lazily casual combo that, god forbid, it doesn’t even look bad. If anything, the fuzzy slippers Matsukawa still has on completes the look.
“Hey guys, loving the reunion!” Hanamaki tries for a chipper tone that drips with sarcasm. He really is tired.
“Hanamaki, what the hell? Let us in.” Iwaizumi barks at him, and Hanamaki realizes that oh shit, this guy is pissed.
“Uh, sure?” Hanamaki opens the door wider for the two of them. “The hell is this, some sort of random search?”
Matsukawa glances at him quizzically, and Hanamaki offers the smallest smile in return. “I don’t have any stacks of cash in my couch cushions, I swear.”
Matsukawa is about to reply when a shout from the living room makes both of them jump. He can just barely hear Oikawa wince in pain from the noise, but Iwaizumi’s voice dominates the sound and Hanamaki feels a sympathetic wince in his head at having to be right next to the yelling man.
“Oikawa goddamn Tooru!” Iwaizumi’s voice whips through the room, “I just- I don’t-”
Iwaizumi seems genuinely so upset he’s at a loss for words. Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who just wandered into the room, watch Iwaizumi’s very obvious internal struggle and Hanamaki nudges Matsukawa playfully, trying to break the ridiculousness of the situation. Matsukawa shrugs.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, eyes shielded by his hands and body curled in on the couch, “You absolute menace, can you just shhhhhhhhh…”
Oikawa shushes him, and Hanamaki swears he can feel the entire room tense under Iwaizumi’s returning glare, his chairs actually shaking from the pressure, his TV shrinking in on itself.
“Issei!” Hanamaki turns to him, and is surprised to see Matsukawa avert his gaze at his name. “Issei, how about you make me some breakfast, huh? Let me tell you, some eggs would be goddamn amazing right now!”
Matsukawa seems to glance back and forth between the kitchen and the staring match ensuing between the other two men, and seems to choose the lesser of two evils, dragging his feet to the kitchen.
“Hiro, why is your cabinet filled with paper plates…?”
“Efficiency, my dear Issei, efficiency!”
Matsukawa looks into his sink, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Hiro, are you…washing your paper plates?”
“What do I look like?” Hanamaki leans back against his chair. “Made of money?”
Matsukawa looks up at the room, deliberating the new information Hanamaki just gave him. He shrugs, seeming to have come to terms with the decision.
“Hiro, one egg or two?” Matsukawa asks, returning to the stove. He lights the stovetop up to the highest degree, and flames burst out at a height much too great for cooking eggs.
"Wow Issei, have you been taking lessons?” Hanamaki remarks as Matsukawa tries to dig out the piece of eggshell mixed in with the eggs he unceremoniously dumped into a pan.
“Hey, this is just step one,” Matsukawa proceeds to grab cheese and butter out of the fridge.
Hanamaki proceeds to watch in what can only be thought of as morbid enjoyment as Matsukawa shovels way too many layers of cheese and butter into the pan, and mixes them all together.
“Issei,” Hanamaki pretends to wipe a tear, “How did you know I wanted to have a heart attack this morning? You know me so well.”
“Well if you die then maybe I could bring you to school with me.” Matsukawa sets two plates on the table.
“Morticians have such a way with words.” Hanamaki shovels food into his mouth, watching Matsukawa across the table.
“Oh yeah?” Matsukawa challenges with deadpan sarcasm, “If you ever want to get off, just call me and I’ll read you my notes. I have some very sexy stuff about embalming and postmortem autonomy.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, and Hanamaki chokes on his own food, trying to conceal the laughter building up in his throat.
He attempts to calm himself back to a face of neutrality, and gives Matsukawa a stare that bores into his very soul, maintaining eye contact as he leans forward. “Goddammit Issei, take me home now.”
Matsukawa laughs, but it’s a short burst, just enough to humor the moment and then his eyes skid away, seemingly drawn to the table in front of him (which frankly Hanamaki would prefer he didn’t look at too closely…).
“Anyways,” Hanamaki says, in his attempt to smooth over this new rough spot between them, “what brings you two here anyway?”
Matsukawa freezes mid bite and stares at him. He seems genuinely shocked at the question, and for some reason it annoys Hanamaki. “Just wanted to check up on me, huh?”
Matsukawa continues to stare at him.
“Issei?” Now Hanamaki is unnerved. “Helloooooo, Matsukawa?”
“You called us, moron.” Iwaizumi breaks the standoff between the two men, Oikawa at his heel. Iwaizumi walks over to the faucet and pours a cup of water while Oikawa slumps into the seat next to them.
“I what?” Hanamaki exclaims, watching Iwaizumi sniff the pan on his stove and wrinkle his brow in disgust. “Iwa, I was drunk as hell. How on earth could I have even dialed your number?”
“Not my number.” Iwaizumi sits to the left of Hanamaki, and nudges the cup to the man across from him. “Drink.”
“Shit, Issei, I did?” Hanamaki makes a half-assed attempt as casualness, but it seems to only distress Matsukawa further, who isn’t looking up from his plate. “Sorry man. Must’ve been something really bad to have the rescue party show up.”
“Hanamaki,” Iwaizumi cut across the pause that ensued after that, “We have to talk.”
Hanamaki stares at him blankly. Iwaizumi glares back. Oikawa groans in annoyance from his right.
“He’s mad that you didn’t babysit me, Makki!” Oikawa jabs at Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi opens his mouth in fury.
“Oikawa,” Matsukawa interrupts, “Don’t be stupid. You shouldn’t be drinking and you know it.”
Oikawa’s jaw is set, and he’s glaring at the man across the table. Hanamaki looks around the three of them, lost. “Uh, guys? Why can’t he drink?”
“I’m on medication, Makki.” Oikawa stares at Hanamaki straight in his eyes, almost daring him to offer any sort of negative reaction at this fact. Hanamaki stares back neutrally. “Mood stabilizers.”
“They’re saying it might be bipolar,” Iwaizumi cuts in, “Which is fine, and perfectly manageable, but Oikawa refuses to admit that.”
“You don’t decide what I worry about, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa snaps.
“Oikawa, if you’re not going to worry about mixing alcohol and meds, then I’ll hold the weight. I don’t care. But you can’t get mad at me for doing so.”
“I can get mad at whatever the hell I-”
“Hey lovebirds,” Hanamaki cut through, “It’s too early for a yelling match. And I think my landlord will quite literally kick me out if he hears one more loud noise.”
“He’s not a fan of the piano?” Matsukawa remarks.
“Or the bass. You’d think the free music of a future prodigy would make him happy, but no dice.”
“You can’t be a future prodigy…right?” Iwaizumi wonders aloud. "At least not at your age."
“I like to think exceptional skills can blossom at any age, thank you very much." Hanamaki picks his head up from the table, "Really Iwaizumi, that's quite close-minded of you."
"Hanamaki, is all you ever say bullshit, or what?" Iwaizumi pinches the bridge of his nose in clear disappointment.
"Iwa-chan, let's go." Oikawa gets up, swaying slightly as he stands. "That's why you're here, right? To pick me up?"
Iwaizumi sighs and follows Oikawa to the door. "If you keep it up I'm going to force you to hang onto the roof while I drive."
"Iwa-chan you are an absolute menace." Oikawa continued mumbling angrily as he followed Iwaizumi out the door. Matsukawa stood to follow.
Hanamaki walked with him to the door, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that got stronger the more he stepped forward. Matsukawa turned to him at the threshold, and the two stared at each other. Hanamaki couldn't believe it, but for the first time in his entire life, being next to Matsukawa felt awkward.
"Listen…" Hanamaki picked at the hem of his shirt as he spoke. "I'm sorry for calling you last night. I probably said some stupid shit, and I don't remember what it was but it must have been weird anyways because I know we haven't exactly been talking as often…Just. Yeah."
Hanamaki is absolutely floundering in this apology, but admittedly it's not like he has much to go off of- last night was a complete blank for him. And Matsukawa is just standing there, not offering anything in return, face almost frustratingly blank. He seems to be internally struggling with what to say, and Hanamaki waits for him.
Matsukawa seems to come to a conclusion, and he sighs to himself, seemingly ready to simply accept Hanamaki's apology. What instead comes out is a jumble of words that trip over itself, that leave both men surprised:
"...Want to move in with me?"