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When the psychologist sat him down and administered the test that would change his life, Oikawa wasn’t sure how they had figured him all out.
I fear I might harm other people: Never, Sometimes, Often, Every day?
The questions were invasive, but it was more shocking at how the prompts perfectly described the thoughts that plagued him— the ones that he had never explained to anyone. The ones that made him shut his eyes tight to try and dispel, the ones that scared him more than anything. Oikawa had always been terrible at coping with his emotions, but his mother walking in on him punching his thigh five times in order to get rid of the invasive images of him hurting his nephew was not on his calendar.
Oikawa had swallowed harshly and considered how many times he had looked at his friends and been afraid he would beat them, picturing how they would cough up blood and the bruises on their faces. He loved them, he knew with his soul that he loved them and would never try to hurt them, and yet it didn’t matter: his brain filled in the blanks that he didn’t think were there, anxiety constantly buzzing in his chest. He had checked the box: Every Day.
I have violent or horrific images in my mind.
I fear I will act on an unwanted impulse.
Never, Sometimes, Often, Every day?
Oikawa had glanced up at the psychologist. She was a young woman with a kind smile and her chocolate brown hair done in two braids. She had seen his hesitance at setting down the pen onto the paper.
“Oikawa-san, please know that this is a safe space,” she spoke softly, clear. “We will not judge you or put you on trial; we simply wish to help. Be honest with your responses.”
They looked at one another for a few more moments before he nodded and checked the boxes for every day.
When he had given back the clipboard with the filled out responses, the psychologist took a few minutes to look it over. She nodded her head in understanding as if she had just finished a puzzle and was looking at the final product.
“Oikawa-san, are you aware of what the term ‘Obsessive Compulsive Disorder’ entails?” She had asked, leaning forward with her hands together. Oikawa had cocked his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows with a frown.
“Like…the people who clean all the time and color-code their clothes?” He asked, because that was what he had always seen in the movies. Someone who was neurotic about the way things were positioned on shelves, or the fact that something wasn’t symmetrical— those people were coined OCD in the tv shows he and Iwa always watched.
The woman across from him had chuckled lightly, but not with any sort of malice.
“Yes, that is the very stereotypical view of the disorder, popularized by television,” she explained. “However, there are subsets of OCD. Some have fear of germs so they clean an excessive amount that interferes with their lives, and others…fear hurting themselves or others so much, that they are always terrified that they have done so by mistake, or that they may do it even if they know they would never want to.”
Oikawa had looked at her with wide eyes, for she had outlined exactly what had been ruminating in his mind on a daily basis for so, so long.
The way he sometimes looked at his sister’s son and had the most disturbing disgusting horrible cruel thoughts that he had no idea what the source could possibly be—because he wasn’t like that, he wasn’t that kind of person, but if he thought it didn’t that mean he was that person? That he himself was the source of the disturbing wants, and that he had simply buried them and tried to forget?
“What is most important for you to understand at the start,” the psychologist interrupted his spiraling, probably because she had noticed the way his eyes became a bit unfocused and his nails had begun to dig into his thighs, “is that the thoughts that invade your mind—what we call intrusive thoughts, are not representative of you as a person. Someone can be a morally outstanding person and still have fleeting bad thoughts, just as the worst person in the world can have a few morally good thoughts once in a while.”
Oikawa hadn’t noticed he had been crying until he walked out of her office with the diagnosis printed out on a piece of paper. His parents went in to speak with the psychologist themselves, but he had waited in the lounge area and read over the notes.
Oikawa, Tooru
Age: 15
Y-BOCS test administered, patient suffers from intrusive thoughts surrounding harming others, and may harm himself as a compulsion to cancel out the anxiety. Patient suffers from intrusive mental images that align with anxiety over harming others. Patient expresses symptoms of the following subsets of OCD: Harm OCD, POCD, and False Memory OCD.
While compulsions are not readily obvious to the eye, they seem to involve harming oneself, alongside reviewing of memories. Patient was brought in for a psychological evaluation after being found hitting himself repeatedly. Patient reportedly said it was ‘to stop the thoughts.’
Oikawa, Tooru Final Diagnosis: Moderate Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Oikawa read the words, then re-read them, and then read them again to make sure he wasn’t making up what he was reading.
It was petrifying, having what he had been dealing with for a while detailed in such a way. He knew that the psychologist said the specifics of his intrusive thoughts were confidential, and that she would only be giving his parents an overview, but his heart sank at the great possibility that if his parents knew what went on in his head, they would despise him.
Perhaps they would regret having a son at all. His siter would have him locked up far away from her son, even though Oikawa tried everything, everything to erase the thoughts that sometimes shot through his brain like a bullet from a gun he couldn’t even see.
And Iwaizumi.
If he knew what kind of images flashed in his supposed “best friend’s” mind, he would probably never speak to him again. That, of all things, was the catalyst he had needed to promise himself not to tell anyone about his diagnosis. It was his problem, his disgusting thoughts that he had to deal with. It was unfair—harmful, even—to place it on anyone else’s shoulders.
His parents tried to get him to open up about what exactly the thoughts were that plagued him, but it was like a butterfly trying to break down a wall. Eventually, even they gave up.
Good, Oikawa had thought.
Iwaizumi had known Oikawa for a long time.
Their friendship was one of the constants in his life, and he had never for one second doubted that Oikawa would remain that way.
But there were some aspects of their friendship that they never really brought up.
Iwaizumi had stopped asking about the random bruises he saw on Oikawa after being reassured many times that no, it was not his parents and yes, he was fine. After the fifteenth “don’t worry about it Iwa-chan!” he had grown frustrated enough to give up.
On the other hand, Oikawa never asked about why, exactly, Iwaizumi always turned down the girls that asked him out. It wasn’t like he didn’t trust Oikawa, or that he thought he would be mad or disgusted by it, but they simply weren’t built for vulnerability. And that conversation, above all others, required it. They left it for a later time.
Oikawa had…eccentricities, however, that Iwaizumi wasn’t blind to.
The first time he had seen Oikawa hit himself was as they were walking to get ice cream during their first year of high school. It was a hot day, he remembered, and they had decided after school that it was the perfect day for a nice treat. When they had arrived, Iwaizumi had held the door open for a mother who was holding her daughter’s hand. She was an adorable kid with one missing front tooth and her hair in two ponytails.
“Say thank you to the kind boys, Naomi,” the woman said to her daughter, who grinned up at Iwaizumi and Oikawa and yelled thank you boys!
Iwaizumi had always had a soft spot for kids, and he let himself smile widely at the little girl and wave as she and her mother walked away.
When he turned back to look at Oikawa, though, his friend was turning on his heel quickly. Before he could ask what was wrong, he saw him lift up one hand and slam the heel of his palm on the side of his head one, twice—
Iwaizumi surged forward, letting go of the door he had still been holding open, to grab a hold of Oikawa’s arm to stop him from hitting himself again. Panic was surging in his chest, and Oikawa’s wide eyes did nothing to soothe it.
“What the hell, Oikawa?” He asked desperately, shocked. “Why would you do that?”
Oikawa’s eyes seemed to focus on Iwaizumi’s face and they filled with shame. He looked down at his feet and said nothing.
“Oi—“
“It was nothing, please, just,” Oikawa looked into Iwaizumi’s eyes, and there was something so scared, like he was begging that it made Iwaizumi pause. “Just forget it, alright? Can we get ice cream now?”
Iwaizumi scanned Oikawa’s face. There was something off—obviously, since his best friend had randomly started hitting himself. But they had steered into vulnerable territory, which was not their strong suit.
“Fine, Oikawa. We won’t talk about it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll forget it,” he replied, his jaw clenched as he tried to release the tension in his muscles. “Let’s get ice cream.”
He had witnessed it a few times in the year since then, but every time, Oikawa looked so embarrassed and ashamed that Iwaizumi set aside his need for an answer in order for his best friend to look a little less broken.
That being said, Iwaizumi knew that he was being kept in the dark about something concerning his friend. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, it was. But it was something crucial enough that Oikawa—the boy that had confessed so many humiliating things about himself in the past, from celebrity crushes to public falls—didn’t want to tell him.
And that terrified him.
There was no medication specifically for OCD.
This is what the psychologist had told him at fifteen, but she had been quick to tell him it was not hopeless. There were techniques, she said. To make it easier to live with.
Oikawa had to admit that those methods hadn’t done much, and his parents hadn’t had the money to spare on therapy forever.
He was on his own for the rest of high school.
He appreciated Iwaizumi not asking questions about the rare times he witnessed the symptoms of the disorder he hadn’t been able to control.
However, all façades eventually shatter.
Oikawa had never been a big fan of training camps.
He appreciated having his own, private space to return to after practicing with his teammates. He had tried to stop hitting himself to get intrusive thoughts to leave—the psychologist had told him that he should “let them flow like leaves in a river, you can see them but let them go just as easily.”
That method worked about twenty five percent of the time.
Mostly, though, his body compelled him to do something like dig his nails into his skin or scratch himself or hit himself in order to eliminate the thoughts of him hurting the people he loved. After all, if his harm was targeted inwards, it meant less possibility of it spilling outwards.
Irrational, he heard his old psychologist’s voice say every time.
The intrusive, violent images of his friends hurt by his own hand in various disturbing ways had been infiltrating his mind since the beginning of the five day training camp. Being in such close proximity to them as they slept only seemed to make the thoughts worse—and when, on the second night, his mind supplied him with the thought of killing his teammates in their sleep, Oikawa stood up from his cot and practically ran out the door.
His legs brought him to the empty gym, and he turned on the lights without thinking.
Two birds with one stone, he thought, and picked up a volleyball from where they were stored. He walked mindlessly, robotically to the setting position, tossed the ball forward, and took the steps.
Iwaizumi woke up to the sound of rustling and the sliding door. Groaning lightly, he looked beside him to see Oikawa’s cot empty.
Ah, so Oikawa had to go to the bathroom this late at night. No matter.
It took ten minutes of tossing and turning, trying to go to back sleep, that Iwaizumi began to wonder what was taking Oikawa so damn long.
No matter what he portrayed outwardly, Iwaizumi was constantly worrying over Oikawa.
Whether it was overworking himself, the crippling inferiority complex he kept hidden under fake arrogance, or the random bursts of hitting himself, Oikawa was always raising his blood pressure.
So now, hitting twenty minutes since he had heard the door close, Iwaizumi sighed and sat up. He yanked his blanket off and got up, trying to blink away the haze of sleep from his eyes.
The door closed silently behind him as he looked around the dim hallway, wandering over to the restrooms only to find them empty.
What the hell…
Iwaizumi walked back out to the hallway before stopping in his tracks at a distant sound. He waited until he heard it again: the extremely familiar noise that a volleyball makes as it collides with the court.
He couldn’t stop the tsunami level of anger that erupted in his chest the moment he realized where his best friend had gone at this hour. Iwaizumi stormed towards the gym with every muscle tense, his teeth clenched angrily. He wasn’t even tired anymore with the rage that filled his veins.
He kept hearing the noise getting louder until he reached the double doors and tore them open to step onto the court.
Iwaizumi’s eyes immediately landed on Oikawa’s form, the volleyball in his hands. He was in his goddamn alien print pajama pants and old middle school shirt, which made the scene even more bizarre and frustrating. He hadn’t even bothered to change, and he definitely hadn’t stretched, that much he could decipher.
“What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing, dumbass?!” Iwaizumi yelled, and Oikawa’s head shot over towards him.
The next words on his lips died there when he saw Oikawa’s wet cheeks and puffy, wild eyes.
Something snapped within Iwaizumi. Nothing, absolutely nothing would stop him from getting his best friend to open up to him tonight, at the ungodly hour.
Oikawa focused on the way his shoulders bloomed with aches after serving over and over.
His palm stung and his mind latched onto it. It was better to think of that than what he might be capable of if he returned to the team’s room. There was something so debilitating about the possibility of him being evil, and him just being oblivious to it somehow.
He had just tossed the volleyball in the air when he heard the voice ring through the gymnasium.
“What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing, dumbass,” Oikawa heard him yell, and he let the volleyball fall and bounce beside him.
His head turned to take in Iwaizumi’s tense body, fingers twitching in the signature expression of extreme frustration. There was a bruise on his wrist. Oh god, was that his fault? Did he hurt him by accident in his sleep and he doesn’t remember? Was it hit fault? Did he do anything else?
Oikawa’s eyes went unfocused for a second, a vicious image of Oikawa’s hands digging brutally into Iwaizumi’s neck flashing in his mind.
No, no, no, that’s not me, I wouldn’t do that, part of him thinks.
Then, the other: then why are you so good at imagining it?
Oikawa couldn’t help it. He collapses to his knees and feel his old injury twinge at the impact. With a closed fist, he slams the side of his hand against his browbone. How could you do that? How could you fucking think that, you’re evil, evil, evil.
He only achieves three punches in quick succession when Iwaizumi’s tan, strong hands grabs his wrists and keeps them trapped. Oikawa lets out a strangled yell and slams his eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling. He feels out of control. He feels like the most disgusting person on the planet.
Oikawa feels Iwaizumi’s arms wrap around him, embracing him in a desperate attempt at comfort. He hears his best friend’s fingers patting down his hair and his soft voice speaking nonsense affirmations into his ear.
He feels bad for you. He’s only here because you’re a burden that he has to carry around. Being your friend is the worst part of his life
Oikawa heaves a sob and pushes Iwaizumi away with so much force that they both stumble back from where they were kneeling beside each other.
“God, Oikawa…” Iwaizumi gasped at him, eyes wide and a bit lost. “Talk to me, what’s happeni—”
“I’m horrible Iwaizumi. I’m a parasite!” Oikawa grips his hair and pulls, reveling in the way it hurts. At least it’s him. At least it’s him being hurt and not those he loves. “I’m a fucking abomination!”
Iwaizumi rushes forward and tries to untangle Oikawa’s fingers from his own hair, but they don’t release their grip. He instead ends up with his hands on the sides of Oikawa’s face, trying to get him to focus on him instead of whatever chaos was going on in his mind.
“Oikawa, what are you talking about? You’re not…you’re not,” he feels his throat get choked up at the pain his friend seems to be in, and how he’s entirely ignorant of the cause. “You’re not any of those things. You’re wrong.”
“Then how did you get that bruise?!” Oikawa yells, eyes trained on Iwaizumi’s wrist.
“Huh?” Iwaizumi replies, the genuine shock at the question showing on his face. “What are you talking about?”
“I hurt you, didn’t I?” Oikawa cried. “I hurt everyone and I keep telling myself that I don’t, but I do, don’t I? It’s all my faul—”
“Oikawa!” Iwaizumi shook the shoulders of his best friend. “What are you saying? I got this in yesterday’s practice game when I received a fast ball. It wasn’t you.”
Oikawa’s breathing slowed down, and his body slumped with exhaustion at his breakdown. His head hurt badly, and he let himself fall forward into Iwaizumi’s arms, still shaking slightly.
“Do you promise?” He whispered, energy seeped out of him. “I didn’t hurt you?”
Iwaizumi rests his head on top of Oikawa’s, heart slowing down from its rapid beat that felt like it would explode out of his chest.
“I promise. I promise.”
It takes them ten minutes to calm down enough to properly talk.
Oikawa’s browbone has a purple twinge from the sheer impact of his panicked attempts at eliminating his intrusive thoughts. He knows that there is no way he can keep his disorder a secret anymore: not with the way Iwaizumi’s face is expectant and brimming with questions. So he cuts to the chase.
“I…I was diagnosed with a mental disorder,” Oikawa spoke barely above a whisper. “A few months after the…incident with Kageyama.”
Iwaizumi reaches out to rest his hand on Oikawa’s own, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s for comfort or so that he could quickly stop any action against himself.
“It’s Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,” Oikawa spits out quickly, ripping off the bandage. He looks up and sees Iwaizumi’s eyes furrow, as though he were trying to remember where he had heard the term before. “I’m always afraid. All the time.”
“Afraid of what?” Iwaizumi straightens up a bit, as if it were possible to fight the psychological monster that was harassing his best friend.
Oikawa shifts a bit, nervous. There were those anxieties again: that Iwaizumi would find him disgusting, a criminal in the making, a threat. It overcame him. He felt suffocated.
And then, Iwaizumi places a hand gently on Oikawa’s pale neck and makes him look at him again, their faces close.
“I won’t judge you, y’know,” Iwaizumi said with sincerity. “I want to know what you’re going through. You’re not hurting me…I care about you.”
Oikawa huffed a surprised chuckle. So vulnerable. That wasn’t like him at all.
“I’m terrified that I’ll hurt people I love,” Oikawa explains, and it feels like the weight of the world being lifted from his shoulders. “I have these thoughts that I know aren’t mine, thoughts that go against everything I am, and I can’t stop them…well. I can make them ease up, but…”
Iwaizumi’s eyes fill with realization as he lets out a small breath.
“Punching yourself.”
Oikawa tears his eyes away to direct them towards his hands. He nods, ashamed.
Iwaizumi breathes in, out. He takes in the confession with a great deal of regret, because this means that every single time he witnessed Oikawa gazing far away with pain in his eyes, or hitting himself, he was battling thoughts that Iwaizumi couldn’t even imagine. And the whole time, Oikawa seemed to believe that he was hurting Iwaizumi…how? By being near him.
“I’m sorry, Iwazimu,” Oikawa mumbled, but was cut short by Iwaizumi surging forward and hugging him tightly. “Iwa-chan?”
“I am so glad I met you, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi told him. “You’re my best friend.”
“But those thoughts—”
“I don’t care what your brain makes you think,” Iwaizumi reassures the shaking boy in his arms, clad in alien print pajamas, and suddenly he feels like they’re 10 years old again, huddling together in the freezing cold with their hands wrapped around cuts of hot chocolate. “I know you Oikawa. You aren’t what your mind tries to convince you that you are. You’re so much more. And when your brain won’t shut up, I’ll reassure you until my voice goes out, you understand?”
And Oikawa can’t help but cry and cry into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. For once, for a merciful time, his mind is blissfully silent. Iwaizumi’s arms around him don’t hurt, and he knows that he isn’t hurting his best friend.
Everything was safe, and nothing hurt.