Archive of Our Own

when he's seven years old, oikawa finds himself caught in the pouring rain.
it's mid-evening, and he's roaming the emptied roadways all by himself; the streets like ruptured veins, the buildings spilling out like fractures of neon lights and ripped-paper kites. he's blocks away from his own home, drifting amongst the dying wisps of an oil-pastel twilight, and as he kneels down, he can trace lightly along the countless cracks of the pavement; slowly, slowly, feeling the imperfections with the ridges of his own tiny fingertips, brushing against the jagged edges pulled apart at the seams. as he kneels down, there's a buzzing in the stilted summer air, a hum in the restlessness as though something big's about to happen; and oikawa finds himself breathless, if only for a lapse in all of time, because it's beautiful, it's so so beautiful, and still he's unhappy, he's so so unhappy.

the sky is violet. violet, violet, and streaks of azure and lilac rushing upwards all at once, dissolving into the flower-twined cloudlight like molten stars; and it reminds oikawa of himself, really, of himself and all that he is and all that he ever will be, everything in the space of a second. he's the poster child for happy one moment and sad the next- because, after all, he loves aliens and flickering stars, junior astronomy books and globes of the celestial sphere, all mixed up together as one big happy thing stamped across his brain- but he hates the feeling he feels so often like everything he's ever known is somehow wrong, like one day the clocks in his mind will whir to a halt and the blood in his arteries will pump until they're not, like he'll die feeling as lonely as he is now.

he's only seven. but he's unhappy. he's lonely. and it's a tragedy.

the quiet hits him abruptly in the head after those too-deep thoughts, submerging him in its tidal-wave embrace with the sort of relentless grip doomed sailors know all too well. it's a quiet much like the quiet on the streets now, a strange sort of quiet laced with intimacy and woven into with the fabric of daydreams; and oikawa thinks to himself that he'd rather like to stay outside in the deafening quiet until night falls, even though he's not old enough and he's not free enough, even though the outside is making him think too thoughtfully and feel too violently. he thinks to himself that he's seven and he feels content out here, so why should he have to go home to cold yelling and arguing parents and a depressed sister when he could easily be happier out here, laughing with all the colours of the wind? he's a child, a child, a child, and it's all he deserves.
he wants to stay out in the summer scents, bathe lustrous-bright in the increments of longing; he wants to stay out in the violet skies, empty roads, cracks on the pavement, and his own bony fingers splayed against the asphalt. it feels more like home to him than the ghost-arms of his family ever did, and he's unhappy, and it's the calm before the storm, and so what other reason is needed to stay outside? it's okay, he'll be okay, so long as he's not cooped up in his own closed-up bedroom, listening to the haunting emotions of his sister while his parents do god knows what to her. 

he'll be okay. he'll be okay.

so long as i stay out, oikawa reasons to himself. i'll be okay so long as i stay out. 

so he stays out.

he breathes hard. he's looking down at grey cobble-stones and wilted flowers, but his mind is bleeding out a kaleidoscope of happiness in the background, stained-glass fragments spilling in from the edges like rainbows. all he can think of is the forest he'd been in just hours before; spinning in circles for ages and ages after running away from home, face upturned to the blue nothingness, lush circles of sage-green blooms pricking at his skin and hopes for a best friend lingering in his bloodstream. and then, and then all he can think of is his own home, in stark contrast to all that beauty; cold and sad and impassive, his sister lying lifelessly in her room behind bolted doors, his parents shouting at each other with cut-glass words and mechanical hearts and silver bullets for tongues. all he can think of is his schoolteacher; her blunt and razored pixie cut, plastic kindness dripping from her mouth like cloying-sweet honey, you're a very special boy, tooru and if there's anything wrong at home you can tell me, you know and taking up a new hobby might be good for you, sweetheart, maybe volleyball?
and also, don't stay out too long, tooru. it gets dark too quickly, and you wouldn't like being outside at night. it can be terribly scary.

pushing aside the idea of the sport he's been getting into lately, oikawa thinks to himself that actually, he'd rather like to stay outside until night falls- except that he's still not old enough, he's still not free enough, and he's still not happy, still not happy. he's blocks away from his own home which is the scariest place of them all for him, and he doesn't want to go back, but he has to because he's seven, for god's sake, and why did i ever think running away was a good idea, that it'd even work? stupid tooru. stupid, stupid tooru.

and so he picks himself up and dusts himself off, and starts walking, walking, walking again, feeling the blood pounding in his ears and the ocean crashing against his heart, euphoria leaking away with every step closer he takes to his house. he's unhappy, and there's nothing he can do about it, because he's only seven and he's far too young for his pain to even be considered real, to be taken seriously by those around him, and so he must go on, he must go on.

everything is blue.

but then, but then there's a shift in the paradigm. the quiet that's been filling his senses for so long is suddenly pierced by the static of distant roaring, and when he looks up in alarm he sees the heavens splitting open, the darkened sky parting and giving way to millions of stardrops racing down- rain, rain, beautiful rain coursing through the veined streets like it's the lifeline of this town, captivating in all that it is. purple and lavender swirl around the rainclouds overhead like the hesitant unfurlings of a thunderstorm, splash- and then oikawa feels the lightning flash across his face, the cold droplets sliding down his skin like seasalt bitterness, so fast and yet so dragging and it's gorgeous, it's gorgeous, but still- no, no, why now, why now?

"oh my god, no," oikawa's whispering to himself, and it's then that his hysteria starts building up as he swings his backpack down and unzips it rapidly and struggles to get his umbrella out from underneath his alien and astronomy books. "oh no, oh no, oh nonononono!" 
he's already envisioning the stormy, stricken look on his mother's guise when he gets home partially soaked, her embittered yells ringing in his ears like grenades that are blowing up all too soon- who's going to dry you off and wash your clothes and stop you from getting ill now, huh? your sister's already pregnant, and now you come into my home with your eyes wet and clothes dripping! you're nearly eight, try to act your age!- and, and it's going to be horrible despite how small it all seems, he knows it'll be, and he can practically feel the stinging slap kissing his cheek already, the frenzied shake of his shoulders wracking his bones like an earthquake, and, and...

okay, okay, okay, calm down, tooru! oikawa thinks, and shuts his eyes, trying to ignore the bad thoughts brewing in his head as he focuses on opening his umbrella. his fingers clumsily fumble with the handle as the rain begins seeping into his trainers and t-shirt like ice, and when it's finally open he takes a deep breath and begins to run as fast as he can, chanting think happy thoughts think happy thoughts think happy thoughts in his head, over and over and over again till it sounds like a cassette player that's more than just a little bit broken. his shoes are thudding on the concrete loudly, a cacophony of thunder burning into his eardrums, and as he runs he can still hear the onslaught of yells from his mother that he'd previously imagined- you useless, stupid, spoilt brat, you selfish bitch!- and the happy thoughts aren't working, they aren't working, because suddenly he begins to shake, begins to panic, and that's when it happens, all at once, a crimson-sharp piece of rock catching onto his jeans and ripping hard through his skin, bringing him down, down, down, down, and...

a quiet. a strange quiet.
 
and he's sprawled across the pavement, a gash in his knee and tears stinging in his eyes like blocked-out sunlight, when he first meets iwaizumi.

his umbrella's abandoned on the ground next to his head where he's fallen and he can't move, he can't move, small fists clenched and teeth gritted and eyes hazy, when he sees a little tan hand reaching out for him stiffly. the rain falls in torrents all around his saviour, a castle of translucent cloud-stars wrapped around each other like paper cranes; and oikawa looks up into the air with wet eyelashes and a split lip only to see a short boy standing there, a boy who looks both parts annoyed and concerned, his damp hair sticking up in jet-black clumps and stray band-aids littering his arms like constellations. there's a jar with a spider inside it clutched in his left arm, and oikawa looks away, because he's never been fond of insects or spiders or funny boys towering over him in the rain, especially the ones with weird and disgruntled expressions on their faces while he near-bleeds to death.

"are you okay?" the saviour asks, short and not very saviour-like- i knew he was the funny sort!- and oikawa glances at his scraped knee before looking back at the boy, gears twisting in his seven-year-old brain the quickest they can go. 
"yes," he replies with the strongest voice he can muster up, still drowned out by the noise of the rain hitting the tarmac. he takes the boy's hand with muted gratitude and pulls himself up warily, trying not to flinch at the razor-blade pain he can still feel in his right knee; and it's all watercolour shades of anguish, scarlet-red blossoming in his legs from his veins, pain like the things he doesn't let himself feel, he can't, he can't, he can't.
"why are you crying?" the saviour asks, and oikawa gasps in mock indignation, tears streaming down his face.
"i am not crying!" he protests with a whine, dragging his hand across his eyes to dry them flamboyantly. "it's... it's just the rain, okay? i've got nothing to be unhappy about!"
"sure you don't," the saviour deadpans, but he sees the pleading look on oikawa's face, understands instantly not to press any further despite his seemingly immature age.
he turns away to cough, his hand over his mouth, and then shoots oikawa a toothy beam, a little more reminiscent of the seven-year-olds they're supposed to be. oikawa is infinitely grateful for the action.
"i'm hajime, iwaizumi hajime," the boy says, almost stoic, but with a hint of that unyielding worry and concern still audible in his tone. 
"d'you- d'you want to come to over my house, so my mum can give you some first aid, or something? there's like, blood and stuff on your knee, and it looks like it should be fixed up..." iwaizumi trails off. and oikawa smiles again, the rain dripping warmly all around them now.
"okay, iwa... iwa-chan!" he says, and his saviour- iwaizumi hajime- bends down, opens his jar, allows the spider to scuttle away. then he picks up oikawa's umbrella, visibly frowning a little at the faded alien print, and hands it to him with a little, lopsided grin.
"i wish i could fix it, but i should leave it to someone who knows how to actually help. plus, you're the only one who can fix it afterwards by taking care of it, y'know? follow me," he says, and begins walking away.

and if one were to look into the horizon at exactly 7:03pm, that's exactly what they'd see; storm-torn skies, raindrops shattering downwards in flurries of crystalline-blue, and two young boys; the shorter one's arm supporting the other as he limps, ripped along the edges, a masterpiece.

ii.

[falling in love with them]

the next time they share an umbrella, it's the last day of junior high, and they're heading home in the liquid sunshine, a thousand other students squished against them. this time, however, there's one tiny difference, apart from their ages and their heights (and their looks, and hairstyles, and music tastes, which have evolved considerably, oikawa likes to think.) 
yes: this time, oikawa, the fool, is more than just a little taller, more than just a little prettier, more than just a little conscientious with what he says and how he laughs and when he lets loose another artificial smile, these days. this time around, oikawa's more than just a little infatuated with his best friend; and he's in love with the very idea of love, the pining seated deep within him driving him absolutely wild, and he hates it, hates it, hates it, hates it, but he finds himself yearning for it at the same time. he's so fucked.

for him, iwaizumi is a passing thought amongst ripped paper-towel kisses, nebulae held secret on the roof of his mouth; he's rain when it falls down in cubes instead of spheres, the slight tang of nostalgia on oikawa's tongue when nothing feels like it'll be the same ever again. iwaizumi is the bittersweet taste of seasons that will never, ever repeat themselves, a clear sky when all oikawa wants to see are the stars; he's the familiar feeling of getting into bed after a night spent stressing over tomorrow's volleyball game, the pride oikawa knows is dangerous yet can't get rid of. iwaizumi is iwaizumi, and oikawa thinks that he'll never be able to get over this affection he feels for him, not as long as he exists- and so he's willing to try, he's willing to try, so long as iwaizumi is, too. and he's starting now.

he reaches out to lace his fingers through iwaizumi's bony ones, feels the pulse of electricity surging through him like glacier-bright earnestness and the desire to make everyone he knows happy. the sudden display of affection makes iwaizumi turn to face him, brows knitted together tight in confusion.
"oikawa? what's wrong?" he seems to be saying, but oikawa doesn't hear, haziness engulfing his vision at that very moment. all of a sudden, his breath has hitched, and he feels numb except for the stars swirling around in his mind, all cosmic love and twined with wonder; and he's short of air, his brief inhalations hanging between them like semi-colons, the pounding of his head drowned out by the melody of cloudbursts tumbling into view from above.

because iwaizumi, oh, iwaizumi- iwaizumi's swivelled to face him, and now he's so very close, so very beautiful. oikawa can see everything about him too clearly, almost, the bronze-gold of his skin and the blemishes on his face scattered across his cheeks like galaxies; the soft cut of his jawline stretching down to a wide expanse of illuminated neck, just waiting to be kissed, and oh, his lips, his lips, fading out at the corners and chapped and curved and lovely to look at while he talks, bites his mouth without knowing. the worst thing about iwaizumi, though, oikawa thinks, are his goddamned eyes; the crinkles next to them that appear when he smiles, the way his brows frame them all straight and serious, the creases beneath his lashes that denote hard work and courage and sleepless nights and laughter lines, all the things that are so irrevocably iwa-chan and yet which wouldn't be there had oikawa not stuck around in his life since their first storm-spat, bloody-kneed meeting.

oh my god, oikawa realises. 
oh my god. i'm in love with iwa-chan.
"oikawa!" iwaizumi yells, fingers slipping out of oikawa's and grabbing lopsidedly at the boy's stray strands of hair, honey-golden and drenched in drizzle, heavy like the sudden epiphany he's just had.
"dumbass, what the hell's the matter?" he growls, and oikawa looks at him, really looks at him. his iwa-chan, eyelashes edged with slivers of oceandust, chest rising and falling as the rhythm of the rain keeps time; his iwa-chan, brows furrowed uneasily, eyes narrowed with suspicion and worry. again, that worry- oikawa's never known anyone who's cared as much as iwa-chan does about him, even though he's bad at expressing his emotions and perhaps doesn't feel things as intensely as oikawa tends to feel- but it's okay, that's okay, it's just how they are and oikawa wouldn't trade it for the world. or ten million yen. or the chance to meet g-dragon.
okay, maybe for the chance to meet g-dragon...
"what are you thinking about?" iwaizumi says, and oikawa just laughs, watches the stardrops landing on iwa-chan's visage and dropping like fire embers to the ground.
"i'm thinking about g-dragon, and how he's the type of guy who'd kiss me in the rain," oikawa sings, and iwaizumi facepalms.
"you and your korean pop idols. you don't even understand korean," he mutters defeatedly. then, he grabs oikawa's hand again, finally pushing through the crowd to get to the front of the mist-soaked students, and oikawa feels a warmth pooling in his groin, spreading to his extremities. it makes him smile.
"he's not too bad actually, except his hairstyles makes me shiver," iwaizumi's saying, but his talk fades away as oikawa watches him in awe, his stunning everything set against the backdrop of the monsoon. "it's inhuman, how a guy can actually pull off that many colours and styles! you really love him, don't you?"
"yes, i do," oikawa says, but he's looking at iwa-chan. smiling again, shutting his eyes, blushing at the ground. he sighs. 
"i really, really do."

iii.

[falling in love with yourself]

oikawa's slammed against the brick wall outside seijou's gym by iwaizumi, fists clenched, eyelids screwed up tight enough to stop an overflowing volcano. up above, the zephyr is grey and the sky's painted colourblind, but iwaizumi's a whir of anger and frustration in the monochrome; and his veins are boiling white-hot, eyes spitting russet-red, and he's on fire, he's on fucking fire and it's unstoppable, uncontrollable, all-consuming in all that it is and all that it ever fucking will be.

"why are you fucking lying to me?!" he's roaring at oikawa, and oikawa's throat is constricted, heart threatening to burst forth and spill all the colours of his locked-up pain. "why are you fucking expecting me to know what you're going through, like it's magic, like it'll all come naturally? i'm an immature fucking seventeen year old, and i don't know anything about you unless you fucking tell me, which you don't! you don't need to be so fucking dependent on me all the time when you shouldn't be, either! why the fuck can't you just learn to respect yourself and love yourself, instead of needing me to justify everything you do? why can't you just fucking accept that the truth is, you're too fucking insecure and shitty to do anything on your own, these days?!"

it's vicious, it's vicious, and oikawa shatters. 

"i do know, iwa-chan!" he shrieks right back at him, every part of his body screaming in agony and denial and what feels akin to heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak, numb. 
"they tell me it everyday, my fucking parents have made sure of that! and so do the fucking voices! i don't need you reinforcing how fucking useless i am, because i know already, i know, i know, i know, i know, i know i know i know i know..."
"get a grip then, oikawa!" iwaizumi yells, and grabs hard at oikawa's arms- and that's it, he loses it, the blood draining from his face and stars diluting to the point of fucking breaking, breaking, breaking in his pupils.
"don't fucking touch me!" he screams, and snaps his body away as far as possible from iwaizumi, magma erupting in his stomach and painting his organs like air-tight, honeysuckle punches; numb, numb, fucking numb, and he's clinging to the last remnants of his pride as he clutches at where iwaizumi so carelessly lay his fingers, liquid hydrogen slipping down his cheeks and pouring into the star moulds between his jutting bones and bittersweet lips. from up overhead, the heavens finally crumble in on themselves and the acid begins spitting aimlessly from the darkening sky, shit, shit, shit, and oikawa flinches as he crumbles in on himself too, slides down the wall as his legs give way to body-wracking shudders and sobs, numb.

there's a pause, a semi-colon of hesitance pricking at iwaizumi's lips as he stands two feet taller than oikawa for once, for once. his mind is scrunched-up, his thoughts drenched beyond recognition; and he's trembling, faltering, wavering on the very brink of the cliff for a moment, before swooping all the way down in a matter of seconds and dropping to his knees, hair plastered to his forehead like he's never felt the longing of fucking love before.

"oikawa," he says, and his voice is rough around the edges, a hundred octaves gentler than it'd been just seconds earlier. it sounds like aching, like throbbing, like the choke of a not-enough noose when all you want are the glaring headlights and instant blackness. it sounds like distilled stardust, like inevitable destruction, like the colour crimson seeping in through the fringes of your vision and painting everything a kaleidoscope of anguish, and iwaizumi hates it, he hates it, he hates it.

"oikawa. oikawa. listen to me, please. what aren't you telling me?"

iwaizumi can't tell if it's rain on oikawa's face when he looks up, expression completely fractured, or the tears glowing like moonlit melancholy; but what he does know is that when everything crumples, and oikawa starts crying again, his heart feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, torn to feather-hard shreds right in front of him. oikawa's grappling at his own forearms desperately like they're made of ocean dust, like they're made of paper glass; and the despair that exudes from the tips of his fingers make iwaizumi finally add up two and two, realise what's really been going on., and he should've known, he should've known, and still he chose to ignore it, think of it as a thing of the past and not the present.

it hits him like a freight train.

"oikawa, please," he says urgently, and it's frightened but soft, like the rhythmic splashes of rain on his skin. he scoots over to where the broken boy is lying stiff against the wall now, sprawled across iwaizumi's heart like a firework that's gone all wrong- but he's still brilliant in all his rejected glory, he is, he is.
"roll up your sleeves for me, oikawa. for me. please."
"no!" oikawa spits, voice catching in his throat so that it comes out as a pathetic, panic-stricken whisper, and the words prick at iwaizumi's flesh like a thousand needles smothered in pure poison.
"no, no, no, no, no!"
"oikawa, i have to," iwaizumi exhales bitterly, gritting his teeth, and that's when he shoves everything away; tosses his fear and upset and anger behind him like diamond-studded wildfire, focuses on gripping tight onto the edge of oikawa's sweater and pulling it upwards slowly, slowly, slowly.
and oikawa feels hysteria bubbling up in his stomach and shooting through his bloodstream like venom, frantic in all that he is, and his chest fucking hurts and his head fucking hurts and everything fucking hurts and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe all of a sudden, and there's anxiety clogging up his arteries and fear splashed across his livewire body and fucking numb, numb, numbness, numb, and then...
he's hyperventilating, every inhale poised with pity, every exhale sealed with regret, and everything's shaky now, blurry and hazy and all coalescing lines and blood in the scenery and he's fucking numb and then, and then...
and then all is abruptly silent. and oikawa's sleeves are up, and iwaizumi's staring, and the only sound is the rushing down of rain on the tarmac, fucking battlefield, soldiers dropping and sighs passing round like the cloudwater from above. and iwaizumi can't breathe, either.

"oikawa," he says, and this time his voice is small.

"oh, oikawa."

because bruises. because violet violence, purple prints and yellow blooms smudged across starlight skin, and because turbulence and fireblood and bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, numb; and because oikawa's crying again and he's like the drizzle tumbling heavy-bright from the sky, lined with sadness, edged with watercolour sorrow. because bruises, close to the surface, threatening to break, amethyst stains of charcoal dissolving into limbs and joints and muscles and soul; and because bruises, midnight collecting like dust on the tips of iwaizumi's lashes, seeping into the whites of his eyes like frozen imbue.
iwaizumi's gaze flickers from constellation to constellation written across oikawa's arms, veins littered with starbursts of blue and rage; and he feels his hands lift haltingly, glacier-slow, reaching out to quietly touch the interstellar storm that has exploded against oikawa's body. oikawa can feel himself struggling to breathe, numb, numb, cracking down the middle, but the words that come next comfort him, if only a little.
"i didn't know they still try to hurt you, oikawa," iwaizumi says; and his tone is delicate, stings like antiseptic. the rain pours down.
"you know it's not okay, right? and you know it's not beautiful or tragic or poetic, right?"
"i know," oikawa whispers, and his entire body shakes, like it's never felt cold before.