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Maybe 7 in the morning isn't the best time to vent out his childish woes, but Oikawa believes complaining is a healthy outlet and that there's no time like the present.
So the nudging on Iwaizumi's arm and the ringing in Matsukawa's ears follows naturally, expectedly. A lifetime together has made their nerves accustomed to his grating.
"Iwa-chan," Oikawa whines, crossing his arms over his chest. The glare he directs at the television is far from kind, but none of the men in the room can take him seriously when he follows up with, "They really couldn't have used a better picture of me? This is broadcast nation-wide — nation-wide , Iwa-chan! And now everyone's going to think I'm some hotshot crime lord who can't do something as simple as his hair." In true Oikawa fashion, he completes his tirade with a flourish of sweeping arms, falling back onto the sofa with theatrics fit for The Globe. "Why is life so cruel?"
Three men share one look as Oikawa huffs, uttering curses to his coffered ceiling. Matsukawa shrugs, Hanamaki grins, and Iwaizumi's left to sigh. A lifetime together has made a fickle thing of their patience.
"Are you done with your tantrum now?"
"Not yet." Oikawa pouts.
He stares at the beams above, gorgeous, luxurious and, most importantly, neat — everything his windswept hair wasn't in the morning news. The police must have better pictures of him, so it's just downright mean of them to not use those instead. Aren't they supposed to be good, upstanding citizens of the law? This is practically defamation.
"If you're that mad over the pictures, you could turn yourself in and let them take better ones," Hanamaki suggests.
"Or stop fussing over nothing, Idiot-kawa," Iwaizumi says (and is promptly ignored).
"Or send them a little portfolio to choose from next time," Matsukawa adds. Oikawa sits up at that.
" Or stop being an idiot, Stupid-kawa." (Iwaizumi is ignored once again.)
"That's not a bad idea," Oikawa says, turning to the nicer two of his friends. "Post or email?"
Three men share one look as Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, dropping his head to his hands and wondering where it all went wrong for him.
"Definitely post," Matsukawa says. Hanamaki nods in agreement.
"Perfect!" Oikawa grins before turning to Iwaizumi. "Stop frowning so much, Iwa-chan, you're too young to have so many wrinkles." Iwaizumi's brows pinch together more, rigid even when Oikawa tries to iron out the creases with an incessant finger. They barely let up when Oikawa gives the good news. "I'm done throwing my tantrum now."
"Finally," Iwaizumi breathes out in relief. He bats Oikawa's hand away, sitting up straighter. "I spoke to Yahaba earlier and he said all's still good on his end. How long do you want to wait before moving the money?"
The television is background noise as they begin talking business as usual. Stay low while the heist is fresh and law enforcement are on alert, act like everything is fine — because it is fine, Oikawa tells himself. It's business as usual. He runs a hand through his hair, fixing it up, making it a bigger mess, he doesn't really know now. His phone burns a hole through his pocket despite its silence.
He listens as Matsukawa talks about some low-level dealings on the border of his territory, and tells Hanamaki to get a couple guys together to investigate whether it poses a real threat or not. He lies down again and looks to the panels above for help.
The news is louder now as it finishes with another reminder of what his team had managed to pull off: a broad daylight robbery of one of Japan's most prominent banks. Operation Get rid of those Monday blues , Oikawa had dubbed it. The heist that'll do us in , Iwaizumi had claimed it to be, right before discussing escape routes. Either way, it'll be the talk for weeks to come and Oikawa's proud of it all, but that image of him flashes back on the screen.
His phone rings in his pocket.
The words 'possible suspect' and 'do not engage' roll onto the screen, and he hears the reporter say something about that warrant out for him, to exert caution and report any sightings of him. Stay far, far away.
Nothing about his ringtone says being wary . His thigh twitches against the vibrations, like they're pushing his muscles alive, forcing his body to move. There are only two people outside of this room who have this number and his sister has long since cut contact with him. He doesn't think this will be the family bonding moment he dreams of which leaves only one other person: someone who he really should not be getting involved with again.
It's a possibility he saw coming when his team came back yesterday, but not one he has prepared himself for beyond pretending like you've called the wrong number.
The ringing continues and he sighs — there's no relief found in delaying the inevitable.
"Thought you blocked her number," Iwaizumi comments.
Suddenly, he's freshly graduated and on his old bed, hovering on a contact page he needs to delete. The profile image is blurry to him, but he knows the pink of that tongue sticking out better than anyone. He knows the bark in the background isn't from any in the City of Trees, it's from the one closest to that blue streetlamp in Tsutsujigaoka park where you said you were tired and he thought the sunlight had fought through layers of foliage just for you.
He can't do it.
He's back on a fine leather sofa and he's grown older, a little taller, but not much stronger when it comes to letting go. He couldn't do it then and his fingers itch to move, but he can't do it now, either. He's still that same boy who cried himself to sleep that night, still that same boy who knows your number off by heart, even though he hasn't seen it in years.
He hums noncommittally.
"You're not gonna answer?" Hanamaki asks.
He lets the ringing play out, turning to his friend with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, that'd be risky, don't you think?"
Hanamaki snorts. "When have you ever played it safe?"
The answer to that is obvious, and it makes his lips curl into a frown when the music finally ends.
He's about to brush off his knees and find an envelope — going through with that postal plan is stupid, but at least it'll get his mind off of things for a while (that isn't long enough) — when his phone buzzes.
He ignores it, dusting off his pants and standing.
"Get Watari to take over for Yahaba," he says to Iwaizumi before facing the other two. "Take some men to check out that group and get Kunimi involved, will you? He's so pale, it scares me." He plasters on an exaggerated pout as if everything's okay, as if there isn't a weight rooting him to his place, begging him to ease its burden. He stands on the tip of his toes and falls back on his heels, heavy, weightless, wanting. "And try to avoid starting another turf war, please?"
+
When he's in his private office, he slumps into his chair and looks every bit the unkempt crime lord the news had shown him to be. He tugs his hair and groans, finally away from any judgemental eyes (Iwaizumi's).
Really, he doesn't know why his picture was broadcasted this morning because, as carefree as he lets himself be, he was loud and proud in promoting his alibi for this robbery. Hotel conferences are always so conveniently publicised. Even though he was behind it all, the police have no proof of it, so they shouldn't have gone to the media with these absurd, unproven, theoretically-unjust-but-truthfully-spot-on accusations. They couldn't have done so without consequences, and maybe the only positive to come out of this situation is that someone on the opposite side will be made just as miserable as him.
It doesn't feel like much of a win because his picture is still out there. Your message is still tucked away in his notifications, unread.
His phone sits on his desk, entirely unaware of the turmoil it causes. It lights up, gloating, and buzzes just to rub it in his face some more. And he's a fool to his own emotions, springing up in his seat in an instant.
Not utterly weak, he waits three whole seconds, tapping at the foot of his chair, digging into the arm rests to show restraint, before he pounces on his phone to see what's new.
He throws it back down carelessly when he sees it's a message from Matsukawa.
They say time heals all wounds, but Oikawa thinks it makes you empty. There's no such thing as healing when summer makes your scars itch, and winter has you lonely and crying all over again. Time is cruel because the body never forgets what has happened to it. Hitting his palm on his forehead does nothing to knock sense into himself, but at least it gives him a different type of pain to focus on. Surface wounds are so much easier to deal with than those aches that rot you down to the bone, making you brittle with yearning.
His hand strikes himself one last time.
The heat of it all pushes against his skull, like a dead man clawing out of his own coffin. It's heavy. No one talks about how hard it is to dig your own grave and jump into it. He watches his own hand shake but it's numb to him, light. The phone is a nail in his sweaty palm, splinters under his fingernails. No one talks about how ugly it is to keep the dead down.
He almost doesn't want to open the message — a lie.
He'll open it but not reply. Because it's better this way. Because it's all he knows how to do. Another lie.
The notification tells him it's a message, but doesn't give him anything more. It's cruel, like the police, like the smarting of his forehead, like he is to himself. He hopes it's a picture of you, but he knows better because there's no logical reason for you to be sending him pictures of yourself anymore. He can only ever see your face late at night, when he's torturing himself and taking a reprieve from another failed escape attempt and looking through pictures he'd sworn to delete. ( It's not a lie if I had my fingers crossed, Iwa-chan! )
The truth is that Oikawa can lie to everyone but himself: he hates the smell of dirt, wood digging into his back, and he's so tired of the darkness. He wants to be able to see the stars from down here.
It isn't a picture of you.
It's one of him — the very picture that had single-handedly ruined his morning. It's tinged pink and green and there are so many CD cases collecting dust on your TV stand. The angle doesn't show your reflection on the screen, but he zooms in in search of it anyway. Beneath it all is a very short, very sweet , 'You look stupid.'
It makes him laugh, and he's loud, startlingly so, because that's easier than crying. He does look stupid. He digs the heel of his hands into his eyes and his phone clatters onto the desk: it sounds like the trembling punch to wood that haunts the skin of his knuckles because he doesn't get to see what he wants tonight, either.
+
He's pushing around spring onions when the call comes. He doesn't think much about it until he's face to face with a narrow, bold, 'Babe' printed across his screen, pinks and brown crystal clear to him now.
Not answering you yesterday should have been a clear message.
Do not engage.
But his phone rings on, like this isn't a mistake, like you need him for something.
Remain cautious.
He wants to be needed. He wants to be useful. He wants to see the stars and be happy and not have to cry himself to sleep tonight.
Stay far, far away.
He answers the call before he's left in the silence, before he can wallow in the self-blame and regret that have made a home of his shadow.
You sound so far away. It's where you should be, where he wants to be, too. He doesn't think to put you on speaker until there's silence — too much of it and it's everywhere, all-consuming and heavy — and his shadows creep closer, his eyes are getting darker, he can't hear your breathing.
He clears his throat and you call his name again.
His tongue feels leaden, his mouth dry. He stares at the crinkle of your eyes, how they hide your colours from his. "Y-Yeah?"
You sigh in relief. Like you're glad it's him.
"Hey," you say plainly. "Hey, it's, uh, sorry, it's" — and you tell him it's you as if he didn't know, as if he could ever forget.
"I know," he says quietly. You clear your throat like you don't know how to go on. He doesn't fill the silence because it's been so long since he's gotten to hear you breathe.
"I saw the news."
He was hoping you'd indulge him in pleasantries first, but there it is.
"How have you been?" he asks instead. "How's work? Your family?"
You sigh loudly like you're tired of him. Are you? Already? Don't you miss him like he misses you? Were you holding your breath for every second the phone rang? Do you want to see him, too?
"I've been better," you say, your voice a little sharper. He can see the creases in your clothes already, knows you've got a hand on your hip now. He wants to ask you what you're wearing. "A little weirded out, you know, having been robbed and all."
He lets out a pathetic, dry laugh. "Scary what the world's come to, huh?"
"Oikawa." He gulps. Would you be mad if he hung up on you now? "What the hell?"
He holds onto the edge of his desk, watches as his nails whiten under the pressure. It's so much easier to talk to hardwood than look at your contact picture — where you're happy, his , because he's sure you wouldn't be looking at him like that if you were with him now.
"In my defence," he starts, "you're on the no hit list, so that's—"
"The what?"
"You know…" It's a little scary how quickly you make his palms sweat, his heart jump to his throat. "The no hit list. Like a hit list is a list of all the people you want to kill, so the no hit list is the list of people you don't want to kill, or, well, you know, the people you don't want to see killed— Not that I had to write you down or I'd forget! It's just so the others don't kill you, you know? Not that we go around killing people, either, that's really not what we— nevermind. The no hit list. It's a good thing, honestly. Helpful. Good. How’s your family?"
He wipes his hands on his trousers and grimaces at the dark stain that's left behind. That could have gone better, but that also could have gone much, much worse. Either way, there's a pit in his stomach, and he doesn't know whether he wants to cave into it or let it consume the rest of him.
You're silent and Oikawa almost worries you've left him. He licks his lips, dry, his eyebrows knit together, hot. His phone screen has darkened and he clicks on it as soon as he notices. You're vibrant under his fingertip, present, listening. He cradles the phone in his hands like he'd done to the real you once upon a too-long time ago. You were warmer, then, softer. He doesn't want to let go so soon, though, so he clings to you, bringing you closer, staying quiet for once.
"So that was really you?" you finally say. "You actually did that? You're really a— a, what do you even call yourself?"
He's called a lot of things in the darker side of the world, goes by names that'll make you wince, that'll make you wish you’d heeded the news' warnings. The easiest to say is a criminal — the worst of the worst. But to you he just wants to be Oikawa Tooru.
"The Grand King is kind of growing on me now," he says, instead. He'd hated it back then — hated that his crown was always slipping off his head, dirty gold. He hates it now, too. Maybe more so because when someone says king, he hears fool; his heart forged itself a crown of blood and bone and the king, the fool, the boy who cries himself to sleep every night, all walk down the same path, alone together. You snort and the misery sits in his dry, lonely mouth. "H-Hey— I live up to that name, you know?" What is a king but a boy fooling himself, a grand brace on the throne of a greedy body? "I'm pretty good at what I do, if I do say so myself."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Need I remind you, I've yet to be caught?" Which is as much the truth as it is a haunting lie: you have him nestled in the palm of your hand — still, always — and you don't even know it.
You hum, and he wants to take it all back, wants to hear you say his name again, wants to know why you bothered calling again and what you're wearing. He wants and wants; this grave wasn't easy to dig.
"I know," you say. "They came— um, the police, I mean— I'm at work and they came to me, asking me about yesterday."
His brows knit together as he echoes, "They came to you? What did they say?"
"The standard stuff, I guess. I don't know, I spoke to someone after it all happened but the ones who came today were different." He hums inquisitively. "And they were telling me about you and—" you cut yourself off with an irritated groan and he hears the faint knock of wood as if you're slumping over "—I think they think I'm part of your stupid, little gang."
He blinks, silent. "What— How did they— Huh?"
He did not tear himself away from you all those years ago just for the universe to reject his sacrifice like this. Keeping you away from the misery of this world has been his goal for so long — he can't let some rundown cop with a hard-on for seeing him cuffs make his efforts worthless.
He wants to see you. Now. He shouldn't, it'd only give them more reason to be suspicious, but he wants and wants. This grave did not dig itself.
"Yeah." You let out a heavy sigh and his speakers crackle in his ear like the wisp of your breath has breached through for him. A shiver wracks through his body. Hot or cold or barely, he wants to feel you. Now. "They brought up us being in Seijoh together and, like, dating, and then he was all—" he smiles when he hears Seijoh, together, dating , and it only grows at your poor impression that follows "—'I find it a little strange that a gunman would turn away from you like that', and it's like, well, yeah, I did too, man! But now we know why, I guess! And then your guy— was that Makki?"
Oikawa murmurs a small 'yeah,' dizzy from hearing you speak after too many years of silence.
"Then Makki just had to go and say sorry to me, and someone else must've heard because he kept asking me about that as if I knew about your stupid no hit thing. And then he just kept going on about how he's gonna lock you all up and if I'm involved I should just come clean and— ugh, this is all your fault."
"Sorry," he says, and he does mean it, truly, but he doesn't sound it at all right now. He wants to hear you talk more.
"No you're not, but— Tooru, they came to me at work ." Tooru — the muscles in his cheek ache from smiling so widely. "And they're saying I might have to come to the station as well and that they're gonna keep an eye on me. Why're they making me out to be the bad guy? You robbed me, I'm literally the victim here!"
He hums, putting on his best customer service voice (the extra shitty Shitty-kawa voice, as everyone has so lovingly dubbed it). "And you are entitled to compensation for it all, my dear."
"I better be," you sigh, and he can picture the pinch of your brows, the way you're rubbing at your forehead. "This is giving me a headache."
He keeps the act up. "So how much would you like?"
"I— huh?"
"Compensation," he says, voice lowering back to his normal shitty Oikawa level. "How much do you want?"
"That's not what I meant," you say. A beat passes and then, "How much can I have?"
He laughs softly and you seem to echo it, tiredly. However much you want, he wants to say. All of it. He doesn't think the guys would appreciate that, but he's sure they'd understand… eventually. Hopefully.
Instead, he murmurs, "I'm sorry." He sounds sincere this time and it makes you quiet. "If I knew that you'd be there — or, just, knew that that was your bank — I wouldn't have done a thing." He almost expects you to ask him why, but he's sure you know, sure it's as obvious as the sun because you're just as blinding. "I didn't— I never—" he cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, only ever angry at himself.
He doesn't know what he should say, just what he wants, what he knows he shouldn't.
"You shouldn't have called— no, I— I shouldn't have picked up. Just… Go on with your life as usual," he tells you. "They've got nothing on me and— and you're not involved with this, anyway. They'll leave you alone eventually."
At least, maybe he should have said that.
Instead, what comes out of him is a whispered, "I want to see you."
"That's… I don't think that's a good idea."
"Me neither," he laughs, and it sounds ugly, rotten, coming out of him. It might just be the worst idea ever, but it's also the most simple truth. "I just miss you." He wants to ask if you miss him too, but he doesn't want to hear the answer.
"I should… go. My lunch break's ending and I have…" The rest of your words scatter in his brain, and he was right: he didn't even need to ask, but he hates your answer all the same.
"Yeah. Yeah, go," he says, digging his nails into the soft palm of his hand. He can feel the quiver of his brittle bones, hear them cry as he sinks deeper.
"Okay. I'll see you… whenever, I guess." You clear your throat, as if saying goodbye has words piling up inside of you that you can't say. He wants to hear them all. He calls your name quietly. "Y-Yeah?"
"One last thing," he says before you can hang up, picking up his shovel and closing his eyes. "What are you wearing?"
+
He knows seeing you is a bad idea, but Oikawa's always suffered from a nasty case of hypocrisy. Plus, it's not really seeing you if you don't see him , right? It makes sense in his head (the only place things seem to be making sense lately), so, naturally, he follows his thoughts.
He pursues them in his imported 1996 Bentley Rapier — which is a little more inconspicuous than the Ferrari J50 he wanted to take ( only 10 of these beauties were made, you know? ) before he remembered he wasn't supposed to stick out to you.
He parks his precious car, prays no one tries to steal it, and bides his time under the awning of a bus stop. It's a little after quarter past when he spots you leaving the building and he perks up immediately.
He only wanted to see you for a bit, just long enough to make sure you were okay, that no officers would hound you again upon leaving work. And he's done that now, he's fulfilled his goal. He should head back to his car, drive home, and stay far, far away from you.
But you don't head in the direction of the train station and he gets curious .
He shouldn't, he knows that, but he's got his sunglasses on and he's dressed down in non-Oikawaesque clothes (a.k.a he raided Hanamaki's cupboards and blindly wore whatever his hands picked out first), so his disguise is practically foolproof. He'll maintain his distance. He just wants to know where you're going, wants to make sure you'll be safe.
He watches you head down the little market street that stretches out between the buildings. It's busier than he thought it'd be — how dare all these people be out in search of street food when he's on a mission? Don't they have better things to do? — and he's glad he's taller than the average man, able to lock onto the cream coat you're wearing as he stays paces behind you.
You turn to a stall and he walks until he's close enough to see you're lining up for taiyaki. He kind of (really) wants to line up behind you, but it seems the universe has taken it upon itself to maintain his distance for him.
"Come, come!" the vendor he's standing in front of calls him loudly. "What would you like?"
He catches you moving ahead, speaking to the seller now, before his attention is pulled once more. When he turns, the smell of fish makes his eyes water. "Come, son! Try some shioyaki!"
"W-Wait—" Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a flash of cream, your arms moving around. The lady in front of him steals his attention again. "No, I'm not— I'm not hungry, aunty, but thank y—"
"Nonsense!" she says, wrapping a tissue around the ends of two sticks. "Frail boy, you need to eat more! Try some, okay?" He peeks over to your stall and you're gone . He's lost you again. He curses beneath his breath; he's never even liked shioyaki (Mattsun’s voice comes to him, then, It's because you're salty enough. ) but now he hates it, swears he's never going to so much as look at mackerel ever again.
He pulls out his wallet and hands over a few notes in exchange for the food. "Thank you," he says, whilst eyeing the fish sticks with enough malice to burn right through him. He has half a mind to stomp on them right now, the hard-working aunty's feelings be damned.
But he doesn't because he's mature (because he's also wearing Makki's shoes and that man will kill him in his sleep if he ruins them in any way).
He steps away with a pout that betrays his immaturity only to walk right into you.
"Oh, sorry!" you say and he freezes. It seems even the universe has given up on him. How on earth did he miss you? Where did you go? Why isn't he saying anything?
"My fault," he finally says, but he thinks it's a little too late. You've scrutinised him enough in the long three seconds it took him to come back down to earth.
"Tooru?"
"Who, me?" He laughs, nervously. "I'm not sure who—" your face drops, utterly unimpressed with him, and he slumps over "—Fine. It's me."
You sigh like you're tired of him already. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I'm not here for you," he feels the need to say. "I was just… hungry."
You raise a brow, unbelieving. "For shioyaki? Really?"
"The aunty was really convincing!" You walk away and it's only natural that he follows alongside you. "And it's grown on me now, you know?"
"Eat up, then," you say, nodding to the untouched meal. He feels bile rise in his throat at the thought of doing just that.
"No… I'm not hungry anymore," he mumbles. Your laughter sharpens to a glare when he follows with, "You made me lose my appetite."
"You're such a bad liar," you grumble before holding out your own food. "Want some?"
"If you're offering," he grins, making sure to take a massive bite right where you've been eating from. Warm chocolate spills into his mouth, but you snatch it away before he can take another bite. He holds out one of his sticks to you. "Wait, we should finish this first."
" 'We' ?" You snicker. "That's all yours."
He whines your name and he thinks maybe you're just as weak for him as he is for you because you don't put up much of a fight after that.
You both eye up the too-salty fish with disgust, pushing them together with a pathetic, 'Cheers!' before digging in.
You both pull away with loud groans, ignoring the side-eyes from passersby. He manages to finish his in two bites, barely containing the urge to throw it up immediately. After your first go, you try to wash away the taste with a bit of your taiyaki; it doesn't seem to have the desired effect because your face scrunches up and it makes him burst into laughter.
"Come on," he says, grabbing onto your wrist and tugging you a little ways down the street. He spots a stall selling refrigerated drinks and lines up.
Amidst your complaining, 'Why would you even buy that? You should get your money back!', he takes the stick from your hand, holds his breath, says a prayer in his head, and finishes the rest of it in one go.
You laugh at him when he sticks his tongue out in disgust, and it's like the salt moves down his throat slowly just to taunt him more.
"Thank you," you sing, grinning at him. He can't bring himself to do more than groan in response. When he gets to the front of the line, he asks for two bottles of water and hopes they're enough to make him forget the last 2 minutes of his life.
He's pulling out his wallet when you stop him. "Are you paying?"
"Sure," he says. "But feel free to offer."
"Definitely not," you snort before turning to the seller. "Can we get the soy-milk drink too, please?"
"Help yourself," he grumbles as soon as the seller turns his back.
You nudge his arm teasingly. "You can afford to splurge a little after yesterday, don't you think? This is just the start of my compensation."
He sighs, eyes softening when you perk up to take the drink.
You walk out of the market area together, and he sips on your milk between taking bites of your taiyaki. You don't seem to notice that he's led you to his car until he opens the door for you (like a gentleman, like a lover . His own thoughts make him giddy.).
You hesitate. "You don't—"
"Come on," he says, hand reaching for the strap of your bag. You're about to protest and he continues, "It's dark and cold, and are you really going to miss the chance to sit in a Bentley? Only 6 of these were made, you know?" It doesn't seem to impress you, so he gets pushy, pulling your bag off your shoulder and urging you into the car. "Come on, you're letting my baby get all cold."
(He's talking about the car, of course. What else?)
You roll your eyes and sit in, and he beams, shutting the door behind you. He places your bag in the back seat before walking around to his side. You snort quietly as soon as he settles into the car and he's quick to ask, "What?"
"Nothing." You shake your head, laughing to yourself. "You just… you look like you stole this car, not that you own it." A beat passes and you squint at him. "Did you?"
"Why're you making me out to be a bad guy, huh?" he whines, taking off his sunglasses.
He gestures to the glove box and you open it, raising your brow. "Are you really asking me that? Seriously?" You pull out the empty glasses case, taking the sunglasses from him and putting them on yourself.
He turns the car on, putting up the heating. He huffs quietly as he does so, mumbling, "I've always been good to you." Which is the truth, for the most of it. At least, he's always tried his best to make it true.
He almost expects you to say something sharp. Robbing me was good? Keeping secrets and lying and breaking up with me with no explanation was good?
But you don't. You hum, instead. "How do I look?"
You turn to him, brows raised above the top of his glasses. They're too big on you, slipping down the bridge of your nose, taking up half of your face, but all he can say is the simple truth. "Cute."
"Yeah?" You turn away, reaching for the sun visor. He can't stop watching you. The smile on your face drops as soon as you get a look at yourself. "What the hell?"
“What’s the matter, pretty?” he asks. You’re too annoyed to react to his words — he doesn’t know if he’s grateful for that or if he hates it. Would it be weird if he repeats himself? Would you stop him from going any further?
“I hate you,” you whine, and he watches as you wipe the corner of your lips, dried sauce flaking off of your skin. “Why didn’t you tell me I was walking around with chocolate on my face?”
Because you’ve done it to him before (no, he hasn’t forgotten. And no, this one instance doesn’t make you two even.). Because he was too busy hanging off of your words to interrupt and stop you. Because if your face is messy then maybe passersby won’t look at you with heart-eyes and he can have you all to himself tonight.
“It makes you look cuter. Endearing.” You glare at him, completely unimpressed, and he grins. And before he can stop himself — because you’re looking cute in his shades, because he’s always been a fool for pretty things (a singular pretty thing, really) — he wets his thumb and presses it to the corner of your mouth. You had wiped it all away, and he’s sure you know that, too, but you let him do it all the same. You don’t say anything about the way his eyes soften. You don’t say anything when he skims over the swell of your bottom lip. You don’t say anything when his fingers cradle your cheek, too.
He thinks you lean into it, too. He didn’t realise how cold he had been until your warmth pressed against his palm. Or maybe he’s dreaming now and he had pushed himself on you. Either way, his heart is racing more than it should because it’s been so long since he’s touched you and he doesn’t want to stop, even if he knows he should.
“There we are,” he whispers, and he traces over your lip, again, just because he can. “You’re all clear now.”
His little finger brushes against your throat and he simpers when you gulp. Is he making you nervous? He wishes he could see your eyes. Are they open? Are they focused on him? Will you let him—
You clear your throat and he recognises it for what it is. Pulling away, his fingers wrap in on themselves, wanting to hold onto your warmth for as long as possible.
“Thanks,” you mumble, turning back to the mirror. He hums, watching as you pull the glasses off and lick your lip; it makes him content, makes him ache.
It’s quiet for a few moments as you both orient yourselves. You put his glasses into the case and tuck them away. He holds onto his steering wheel and gets used to the cold again.
“Here,” he says, breaking the tense silence as he takes his phone out. “Put your address in and I’ll drive you back.”
“It’s fine,” you say, shaking your head. “I can still get the train and I—”
He laughs you off. “Don’t be like that. We just went through this.” Should he apologise? Would that make you feel better? You must know he isn’t sorry, he’s only a little wanting, but he’ll say it for you if it gets you to stay for a bit longer. “It’s not a big deal.” It isn’t. Nothing will ever be too much for him when it comes to you. And if you want to ignore the fact that he was inches away from kissing you, then that’s not a big deal either. It isn’t.
“Alright, fine,” you sigh, taking his phone. “But I don’t want you coming over in the middle of the night, bleeding because of a failed robbery one day.”
“As if that’d ever happen,” he scoffs. “I never fail.”
“I’m being serious. I don’t even have a first aid kit.”
“Well, now I want to see how much you’d panic if I did come over—”
“I’d let you bleed out—”
“You’re so mean!”
The journey to your place is too short for his liking. He listens to you ramble about work and that annoying co-worker of yours who claimed your proposals as his own—
(“Want me to get rid of him? I can make it look like an accident.”
“You can’t joke about that kind of stuff, Tooru,” you chastise. A beat passes. “Could you really, though? Wait, have you ever actually—”
He looks away from the roads just to wink at you. “I can’t kill and tell, cutie.”)
—and he turns the radio on when you tell him you’re tired of talking—
(“The radio always sucks at this time,” you fuss. “Way too many ads.”
“Want me to sing for you instead?” he asks, clearing his throat like he’s going to start belting out something powerful. How did that one Adele song go?
“God, no,” you snort. “You’re a lot worse.”
“You’re so mean,” he sings, stretching out the syllables to the sound of your laughter. He clicks his teeth, pouting. “You’re not too tired to complain, huh?”
“Of course not.” You grin and he almost swerves off the road trying to hold your gaze. “Never too tired when it comes to bullying you.”
Minus the ‘bullying,’ he thinks your words are going to be his lullaby for tonight.)
—and he thinks about taking the wrong turn just so he can spend more time with you.
He knows he shouldn’t, and so he follows the GPS’s ‘Take the next right. Your destination will be on the left.’ until he’s right outside your building.
“Thank you,” you say, yawning into your hands and blinking slowly. You don't try to leave instantly and Oikawa takes the opportunity to admire the way you sleepily rub your eyes.
"Any time," he murmurs, and a part of him wants you to take him up on that offer, wants to see you tired and awake and everything in-between again.
You give him a small smile. He's back on his bed, phone in hand. He's not tearing up, he's just tired. He's too old to swallow his thoughts; he's too young to give up on the stars.
"It was— It was good seeing you." It doesn't feel like a weight has lifted off of him. Not when there's so much more he wants to say. Not when this sounds so much like a send-off, like the good-bye he's never wanted to give. And before he can help himself, he says, "I missed this." And because he likes torturing himself, he adds, "Missed you."
Maybe you're too tired to keep your guards raised. Maybe you're too tired to act like you don’t know him as well as you do. Either way, you keep your smile. Your eyes droop at the corner. He's not crying . You face the door and you're quiet when you admit, "Me too."
And he had thought it would be enough, knowing you feel the same — still felt the same, just like him, always his — but hasn't his grave shown that nothing is ever enough for him?
Your hand is on the handle, but you don't pull it open yet. Instead, you turn back to him. "Do you want to come in?"
"I shouldn't."
"Probably not." Your eyes are tired, hopeful. "But do you want to?"
He's greedy. This hole isn't deep enough. "More than anything," he tells you.
He thinks about how easily he could kiss you now, how he could follow you into your building, press you up against your door and kiss you some more there, too. And he wants that, he wants all of that and so much more, which is exactly why he can't do any of it.
The light in your eyes looks as close to stars as a dead man deserves to see.
He's greedy, but he's too tired tonight. The shovel slips from his hand and he watches a shooting star flit across your irises, basks in the remnants of its warmth. He wants to cast a wish in the starshine of your eyes before the dust settles.
He doesn't make a wish.
He takes the risk and kisses your forehead. "You're tired," he murmurs, so close he could kiss you again, lower, longer. "Get some rest, okay?"
The click of the door handle opening sounds a lot like a hammer coming down on a nail.
+
It's so pathetic it's almost comical how, when Oikawa gets a taste of something, he lets it consume him.
Matsukawa buys meals from a new side dish shop one time and Oikawa only eats there for the next two weeks because everything's so good, so fresh, isn't it about time we have personal chefs?
Hanamaki downloads a new game on their shared console and Oikawa plays it nonstop, completing the main mission and the side quests in little under three days.
You call him one day and he thinks it's a great idea to call you the next.
Truthfully, he knows it's a bad idea. He does it anyway.
Because it's been so long since he's seen you and one night together isn't enough for him. He'll keep his distance — he can do that, to keep you safe he'll do that much at least — but he wants you in his vicinity a little , just on the outskirts of his vignette gaze, there but faded—
"Tooru? You okay?"
—there but faded but all he finds himself straining to focus on.
He hums, closing his eyes and picturing what you're doing. "I just wanted to check up on you," he says before you can ask. It sounds like you're outside, breathing evenly so you must be sitting down. "No pesky cops today, right?"
There's a beat before your laughter rings out. You sound further away now. Have you put him on speaker now? He doesn't know why but it has a kaleidoscope of butterflies bursting inside of him. It feels oddly domestic . "Wrong! He hasn't come up to me or anything, but I'm eating outside" — Oikawa grins — "and he's, like, right across the road from me. It's actually kind of creepy and— oh , he's coming over now, what the hell? This is all your fault—"
"My fault?" he cries. "I was trying to be nice, why didn't you tell me he'd come, I could've done something or—"
"That would've been worse, don't you think?"
"Right, right, just… just calm down, it's fine."
"I am calm." You've always been good at staying level-headed. He feels his hand twitch with your nerves. He's always been good at getting under your skin. "I'm not doing anything wrong."
"Exactly."
"I'm only talking to a bank robber— "
"There's no proof —"
"Hello, again," he hears the officer say and immediately his mouth snaps shut. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"
You clear your throat nervously. It passes off as awkwardness, you have nothing to worry about.
"No, you're good. It's fine." It's anything but fine, really. Oikawa wonders how purple he looks right now, holding his breath, waiting for the cop to somehow know it's him on the other end of this call and lock you away because of him. This is all his fault. "Um, babe"— and he'll take all the blame because where did that come from? He's got a too-big smile on his face and not enough regret in him now— "it's that officer I was telling you about yesterday. Can you hear him?" That last part must be your way of confirming that he's on speaker, that he needs to be anyone but himself.
He could be whimsical and dramatic, but that's too dangerous, too much like himself. The wanted man. And if Oikawa lets on that you're speaking to him, then this officer definitely won't stop harassing you.
The quirky lover is out . Instead, he digs deep through decades of friendships, letting the ghosts of head slaps and bruised skin possess him, to channel his innermost Iwaizumi. He grunts into the speaker of his phone like a bull.
You clear your throat like you're stifling a laugh and Oikawa has to grit his teeth to do the same.
What would Iwa-chan do? Should he say something? What would he even say? Iwaizumi's always clipped, straight to the point. 'What?' Is that good enough? Or should he say, 'What's the problem?' Or 'What's going on?' No, wait, he should ask you if you're okay, right? That's what a good boyfriend — babe, you called him babe , and it's been replaying in his mind ever since. What should he say to get you sweet on him again? — would do, isn't it? He's taking too long to answer, he can feel it, why isn't someone else speaking up?
The officer clears his throat and Oikawa lets out a quiet breath, grateful until he remembers that that's the enemy. And the enemy currently has you — his lover, his darling babe — in his dirty clutches.
"Ah, I'll keep this short," the man says, and he sounds just as close to your phone as you do. Is he sitting down next to you? Is he making himself at home? Are the crime rates really that low that he has time to waste like this? Oikawa has half a mind to rob another bank right now. "I just wanted to check on you again, ask if you had any more information to give. Sometimes details come to you later, and we wouldn't want to miss anything that might help put criminals away, would we?"
"Of course not," you grumble, but he continues like you hadn't said a thing.
"So, has Oikawa reached out to you? Or anyone else in contact with him? You know, he's a very dangerous man and—"
"And you think I should stay away, I know," you cut in. "But I was looking into it and doesn't he have an alibi?"
Are you seriously trying to defend him right now? Why— well, he knows why , but why bother? It only makes you seem more suspicious considering the situation, but… Oikawa can't deny it has a little part of him melting like butter, hot, sizzling and giddy.
"Yes, but—"
"So, maybe you're wrong about this," you suggest. "I mean, it's possible it was someone else, right?"
He speaks through gritted teeth. Oikawa's proud of how you've gotten on his nerves with just a few words — he'll take all the credit for that, thank you . "We are pursuing multiple leads and suspects."
"Really? How come Oikawa was the only one mentioned in the news then? And then the police took it all back this morning, too? It just doesn't make sense to me that—"
"Our priority is the people's safety," he interrupts. Oikawa hears the ruffle of clothes. Is he finally leaving? "Like I said, if you have — if either of you have — any information at all, then do come forward. Thanks for your time."
You give a plain greeting, and Oikawa doesn't even bother with an Iwa-chan grunt. He waits until you give him the all-clear.
"Holy shit, I think I made things worse." His heart picks up like it's yours. You speak so quickly. "I did, didn't I? Why'd I do that?"
"Baby, calm down. You're okay."
"No, I— I thought I was being smart but it just makes me seem so suspicious, doesn't it?"
A beat passes before Oikawa says quietly, "Maybe a little." You groan his name. "But it's fine! He knows we have history, doesn't he? It just comes across as you being a little defensive over someone you knew — you know, like how you don't expect the worst of someone you've known for a while. It's fine."
You groan again. He thinks he hears you slap yourself on the forehead and it makes his own flare up with heat, makes him frown. "Yeah," you sigh, "except the other day I told him I hadn't spoken to you in years and that we ended on bad terms, so this was just…" You trail off into another heavy groan before grumbling to yourself, "Why'd I do that?"
"Oh." There's a moment of quiet before he asks, "Then, why did you?"
" Because you—" you splutter, and he wonders how funny you look, screaming down at your phone. "You make me do dumb things!"
His mouth parts, but he doesn't know what he should say to that.
'I didn't do anything.' ? That's a lie. He tipped the first domino all those years ago and he's been digging down ever since.
'You'll be fine now. It doesn't matter.' ? He can't promise you that, no matter how much he wishes he could.
He wants to ask why he still has an effect on you. Wants to hear the answer from you instead of entombing himself in half-thoughts and what-ifs.
You fill the silence. "I should get back to work."
"Yeah. Yeah, of course," he mumbles. "Burying yourself in work is the best way to forget about things," he teases but his voice is strained, taut.
You laugh, bitter. "I wish."
His stomach turns with the idea that you can't let go of him either. He wants to ask you if he's right, if your hands are rope-burned too.
Before he can entertain it any more, the click of the call ending nails itself into his ears. He wants to call you back, but Hanamaki knocks on his door and he thinks maybe it's better this way.
+
"I think I've done something I shouldn't have."
"What?"
Oikawa hears your TV playing in the background until you mute it. You repeat yourself and he listens to your quiet breathing as you wait. It's late, windy. He has to focus.
"What would you do if I said I was outside your place right now?"
A beat passes. "If you're bleeding then I swear—"
"I'm fine," he interrupts, smiling. He wants to take it back, though, wants to know what you'd do if he was out here bleeding. Do you really not have a first aid kit? "A little cold, though."
"Why are you here?"
In a way, he is bleeding — he has been for a long time, he thinks. Because he tore himself from you and you left a wound in his side and he doesn't want to heal if you're not the light stitching him back together.
"Because you make me do dumb things, too."
You end the call, but he doesn't hear the crude sound of metal piercing wood. He wonders what's different. Did he just miss it? Is there dirt in his ears and is the dark playing tricks on him—
He sees the light when you open the front door and he crosses the road to you without even looking.
"You don't have to let me in just because I'm here," he says in lieu of a proper greeting. He stands at the entrance of your building, rocks on his heels because he doesn't know if he should be in the light with you or retreat back into the dark. "I know I shouldn't be here, so if you want me to go then I'll leave right now, but I had to— if I don't at least try then I don't know what else I'd do."
"Do you want to come in?"
He doesn't tell you he shouldn't, doesn't leave it up in the air this time.
"Yeah."
You take a step back and he follows you under the lights until you reach the lifts, until you take him up to your apartment. There’s a block of wood separating you from the rest of the world. You make a casket feel like home. Maybe he could spend the rest of his life here.
As soon as the door closes behind him, he's on you. Pulling you into a hug, his fingers sink into you where they can, squeezing your waist, sticking to your shoulder blades. "I'm sorry," he whispers, because it's finally just you and him. No pesky officers, no stringent right hand man, no reasons to let go right now. "For, for breaking up and never telling you anything and putting you— god, I missed you so much." You find out how much it hurts to make your own grave when his fingers dig deeper into you, a dead man and his final breath.
"It's okay," you say, and you cling onto him just as much, like his reflection, his shadow, the dirt under his nails.
"It's not," he cries. He's hunched over your body, soaking your shoulder like you're a pillow and he's that boy all over again.
"It is. You're here now." He burrows his face into the crook of your neck, shaking. "I missed you, too, you know?"
He pulls away, and your eyes are red-rimmed and tired, lashes wet with his tears. He sniffles and it sounds disgusting, but it makes you smile all the same.
"Yeah?" You nod and he licks his lips. "Say it again."
"You're so needy," you tease.
"I know." His fingers cling onto your sides, his voice is hoarse. "You are, too, though."
"Not as much as you."
'That's because I love you more,' he wants to say. It's at the tip of his tongue. His gaze drops to your mouth and — you're right there — he wants to go for it. Wants to push the words out of his mouth and have you swallow them down, so you know how real they are.
He could.
You're right there .
He presses his lips to your forehead instead, and it's soft, you're soft, his palm is flat against his coffin but he doesn't push. He closes his eyes and holds himself there, pulling away just to place another that's shorter, bittersweet.
"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you." He can see the dew on your cheeks and he wants to wipe it away, wants to touch you wherever you'll let him, wants you to kiss him back, anywhere, everywhere. "You know that, right?"
“I know,” you murmur. A breathless laugh escapes you. “But this is so… God, I don’t even know. I know I shouldn’t trust you, that this is all— this—” your fist shakes the air between you, but you don’t step away “—is dangerous for me, but it’s like I don’t even care. I still trust you. I still want—” You hit your head on his sternum, neck bowed, voice far, far away. “How do you do this to me?”
He cradles the back of your head, keeps you flush against him. He wants to ask you the same question. How can you make him want to throw his life’s work away so easily? How can you make him want to do nothing but stand here and hold you to him for the rest of his life?
The king in him is tired of the weight on him, but you’re right there; he kisses the crown of your head because he’s always been a fool for you.
“I don't… If this is just for tonight then I'd rather not— I’d rather not get my hopes up,” you murmur. Your smile burns through his shirt. “It's fine if you don't want anything more, but if you don't, then I… I just don't think— why are you laughing ?” You jerk away, but he keeps you close, hands sprawled across your back. “I'm being serious—”
“I know.” He smiles, luring you back in. “And as much as I'd like to hear more about how much you want me—” he kisses your nose, watches you gulp “—I'd rather show you I'm not going anywhere this time.”
You worry over your own lip, like you're arguing over what he's said in your head, alone, losing, and he can't have that.
He kisses you, finally, pulling your lip from your own mouth and into the grave of his.
He never knew death could taste so sweet; a dying man clings to life, but Oikawa’s desperate to dig deeper now, sink his teeth in the soft bed of your lips, rest his tongue on yours until it withers away, wanting you to sip the ghost of him.
He promises, “I’m not gonna leave you again.” Your breath is warm, fanning across his face, and he forgets what it feels like to not be under your low-lidded, scorching gaze. You’re his final breath. “Don't think I can,” he laughs against your mouth and you seal his vow with your lips, bruising, blazing. His eyes slip shut, but the dark doesn't scare him when you flash white-hot, honey-wanting and bright behind his eyelids; and the door, his casket, doesn’t hurt his back any more, he leans on it, his home; his hands break free from the grip of a shovel, they don’t ache around the curve of your body, they bleed into your waist like he was sculpted to hold you.
He doesn’t stop digging. He doesn’t stop wanting to see the stars. He didn’t realise how easy, how beautiful, it is to keep the dead down: with your fist in his shirt and your heart hammering in his chest, he thinks he could stay this way for however long it takes for him to turn to bone, however long you needed him to.
He thinks it will be okay. If you can swallow his words and he can nestle his way between your ribcage, curl himself around your beating, burning heart, it will all be okay.
He doesn’t mind love gnawing at his flesh if it’s done by your pretty, trembling lips.
“You don’t know how much I missed this. Needed this,” he says, panting against your mouth. His body aches all over, he can’t feel a thing. He doesn’t want to feel anything but your body under his, not when you’re finally right there. “Been dreaming about this for so, so many years, you know?”
He devours your ‘Me too’ in a heavy kiss. His lips are dry, fervent, but they’re not lonely slotted against yours. It’s a perfect fit, he thinks. Lock and key. Shovel and dirt.
“Worst mistake I’ve ever made,” he grits out, forehead resting on yours. He’s still the crying boy, but he’s happy now. “I swear, I’m never, never , doing that again.” He can’t keep his mouth away from you for too long, rough, demanding, desperate. “Never staying away from you. Always gonna come back to you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you again and I’m not—”
He doesn’t mind being buried anymore if your body is his coffin.
“—I’ll die before I ever let go of you again.”
Tonight, he makes a grave for himself in you.