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“Hajime,” the voice message starts, and Hajime isn’t sure if the rasp is due to static or hours of crying. He tells himself he doesn’t care either way.
“Hajime, I’m sorry.” it continues, and Hajime scoffs, the breath coming out heavy and harsh, scraping its way up his throat.
He deletes the message before it even finishes.
-
Sometimes he catches himself with his hand rubbing the back of his neck, scratching at the short little hairs licking at his nape. He can’t lie on the sofa without the phantom sensation of a socked foot trailing up and down his leg. When he wakes up in the morning he still spends a few confused seconds wondering why there’s no arm wrapped around him, no breath puffing against his skin.
It should be fucking easy, forgetting Oikawa. It should be a huge sigh of relief not feeling like he’s walking around eggshells, like he’s watching a countdown timer until the next imminent emotional breakdown.
It isn’t.
-
He comes home and stops at the hallway, a familiar back blocking the path to his apartment door. For a moment, he considers running, but Oikawa turns to face him, and Hajime stops breathing.
“I told Kino-san not to let you in.”
She must have taken pity on Oikawa. It’s never been hard for him to sway people’s sympathies, but he doesn’t even need to fake anything now, with the red-rimmed eyes and the unhealthy pallor to his skin. Oikawa shrinks back at his tone, gaze darting to the floor like a rebuked child.
“You didn’t reply to any of my messages.”
“What makes you think you deserve that much?”
He looks up again, and Hajime can see the desperation burning clear in the rawness of his eyes. “Hajime please—”
“You can’t keep doing this to me, Oikawa.” Hajime hisses and Oikawa flinches at the callous use of his last name.
“Just give me one more chance, please.”
“I gave you so many chances, Oikawa,” Hajime snaps and it echoes throughout the empty hallway, “and you fucked up every single one of them. Go home.”
“Hajime—”
“Go home or I’ll call the police.”
He forcefully pushes Oikawa aside and shoves his key into the lock. Oikawa’s silhouette is a stifling shadow in the corner of his vision, and it takes him several tries to get the latch to turn.
He enters his apartment and makes sure to slam the door behind him.
-
“Hajime,” Oikawa whines, reaches out to grab his sleeve, “please, whatever this is can we talk it out?”
“I’m done talking.” Hajime says, with a calm he doesn’t quite feel. “Issei and Takahiro will come tomorrow to pick up the rest of my things.”
He never really outgrew Oikawa, and despite the bulk he built up in high school, the fact is that Oikawa is an internationally-competing athlete. He can physically restrain him, can wrap arms around him and cry into his shoulder and act like a spoiled child all he wants but Hajime’s glacial tone is not something he’s ever known, not something he has ever learned to deal with. Hajime continues to rip his clothes from their shared closet, hangers and all, and shoves them into his suitcase while Oikawa’s hands hover over empty air, afraid to touch.
He kicks aside several bottles on his way out, their high tinkling grating his worn out nerves. Oikawa follows behind him clumsily, and when he has his hand on the knob, Oikawa finally has the courage to clasp his wrist between ice-cold hands.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, and it’s a last-ditch effort to change his mind, perhaps. Hajime doesn’t deny the slight tug in his chest at the use of the childhood pet name, “Iwa-chan, please. Whatever it is, I’ll do it, just please don’t be mad anymore. Let me fix this.”
Please don’t leave me.
“I’m not angry,” and he’s not. He’s been angry all this time and it never worked. Oikawa looks up at him and there’s a glimmer of hope in those eyes. Hajime can’t even recall the joy he used to feel when he saw that little sparkle.
“I’m tired.” he continues and he sees in Oikawa’s eyes the exact moment his heart breaks. “I’m just so fucking tired, Tooru.”
He slaps away Oikawa’s limp hands and leaves. He takes the stairs down, uncaring about how his suitcase slams against the steps.
Oikawa doesn’t run after him.
-
Hajime wakes to the dying echo of Oikawa’s voice and thinks it’s a spillover from his dream. It’s not that uncommon for his memories to masquerade as dreams, and after seeing Oikawa again, maybe it just feels more vivid than it should be. He lies back down to go back to sleep, but the pursuit is interrupted by a horribly ear-piercing scream of Hajime! coming from right outside his window.
Quickly, he gets up from bed and whips his window open, poking his head out all the while hoping it’s all just some stupid joke.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” he hisses. His head nervously turns left and right, checking for any disgruntled neighbors poking their heads out of their respective windows. He looks down and Oikawa’s swaying where he stands, face red.
“Are you fucking drunk?” Hajime yells, spitting out the last word like fire, feeling a very familiar anger bubble up in his chest. “Stay there!”
Oikawa doesn’t even seem to acknowledge his words, just smiling up at him with a dazed expression. Spitting out a curse, he grabs his jacket from his desk and runs downstairs.
-
“What the fuck is the big deal, do you want to get arrested?”
“You didn’t wanna talk to me.” Oikawa mumbles and leans worryingly heavy against him. Hajime dislodges him a bit to keep his breath from tickling his neck.
“So you figured you’d get drunk off your ass and shout from below my balcony?”
A mocking voice at the back of his head tells him that it did work, but he ignores it in favor of getting his apartment door open, a Herculean task when Oikawa’s being extremely unhelpful, refusing to stand on his own two feet.
He tosses the keys on the sidetable by the door and lugs Oikawa to the bedroom. He’s still mumbling something but Hajime tunes him out, dumping him on the bed and removing most of his outerwear, clicking his tongue irritably at the alcohol-flushed skin.
“If you throw up on my bed I will kill you.” he warns. Oikawa makes a muffled noise in response.
Hajime gathers his coat and socks into a small pile on the floor, just so he can grab them and go when Hajime inevitably kicks him out the next morning. He takes the softest pillow from the bed just so his night at the couch won’t be a completely horrible experience, but a hand shoots out to grip his wrist before he can even stand.
“Hajime, stay, please.”
Hajime knows how to say no to Oikawa, one of the few people in the world who can, but Oikawa opens his eyes, and Hajime forgets everything but the feeling of falling.
For the first time in two weeks, his bed is once again home to two people, and sleep comes surprisingly easy.
-
The morning greets Hajime with a dim light that pulses against his lids, reminding him that he had neglected to shut the window last night. His ears pick up a series of upset noises and a dull pressure on his back. He struggles to open his eyes when the memories of last night finally come back to him. His first sight is of a clouded-over sky, trees waving to and fro in the harsh wind.
He turns his head slightly once his head clears, sees tufts of Oikawa’s hair poke in and out of his vision as he nuzzles his forehead against his shoulder.
“Do I need to drag you to the bathroom?”
Oikawa only groans, holding him tighter, but Hajime untangles their bodies before he can get too comfortable, before he can let himself dream again.
He steps into the kitchen and slides open the medicine cabinet, sighing at the sheets of hangover pills and pain medication. He pops one out, and fills a glass with water under the tap. He reenters his bedroom to find Oikawa curled beneath the covers, wriggling restlessly. Mercifully, he closes the window and shutters the blinds before sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Here, drink this.”
Oikawa slowly digs out of the blanket to take the pill, tosses it into his mouth as soon as it hits his palm. Hajime forces him to sit up before handing him the water and his face pinches as he swallows it down. Hajime is already used to this scenario. It’s the very one he wanted to run away from.
“How much of everything do you even remember?”
A bolt of lightning bathes the room in white light for a split-second before they’re plunged into darkness again.
“I thought last night was a dream.” Oikawa answers, with the cadence of a confession, or perhaps, a wish. “Or…I was hoping the entirety of last week was just one big nightmare.”
He has his palms pressed together, fingers interlaced like he’s praying, knuckles pale as the pebbles they used to bounce over the river, once upon a time.
“Tell me what I need to do to fix this. Please.” Oikawa’s voice is cracking at the edges, tears glossing his eyes.
“What if I don’t want it fixed?” Hajime whispers, and Oikawa’s sharp breath rings like glass shattering. Hajime feels like a coward because he doesn’t even look at him as he says those words, but he knows he’s not nearly as strong now that he’s realized how much he’s missed those arms around him as he sleeps.
All he can see from here are Oikawa’s hands and they’re shaking, he’s shaking, and in one fell swoop, all the fight flees from his body.
“Then I’ll leave. I’ll leave you alone if,” and he chokes slightly, wavering at his next words, “if that’s what you really want.”
“You didn’t leave me alone after all the previous times I told you to.”
Thunder rumbles outside, highlighting the sudden, defeated softness of Oikawa’s voice.
“I just wanted us to talk properly one more time.”
Hajime doesn’t need to look to know that his face is scrunched up in grief, tears streaming down his cheeks. Hajime knows that one word from him is all it will take to change all this. They can go back to how it used to be. Maybe this time Oikawa will keep his promise.
Maybe.
Hajime takes a deep, shuddering breath. Outside, the rain announces its presence with a cascade of drops, their combined fall creating a sound like a perennial shhh and Hajime thinks how apt.
“I can’t. I can’t do this.”
And they say nothing more.
-
Hajime thinks that some part of him knew that it will eventually come to this.
Tooru’s knee gives out, eight years after he graduates from university; eight years into what should have been a stellar, long-standing career.
On the day the doctor declares him unfit to play volleyball, Hajime lets Tooru break and scream and cry all he wants, and when he’s finally burned off all the unfairness of it all, long after the sun has gone down, Hajime finally takes him into his arms and carries him to their bed.
And the thing is Hajime understands, because Tooru was born to stand on a volleyball court, lived for the feel of the ball on his fingertips. He berates himself too, every night, for not noticing, or for noticing and dismissing it as stress from a day’s worth of practice. He wants to hate himself, but he knows now is not the time, not when Tooru’s already being self-destructive enough for the both of them.
When Hajime wakes up at two in the afternoon, it is to find Tooru drinking wine straight from the bottle. He bites down his anger and firmly pries it away from Tooru’s stubborn fingers, the hollow slosh telling him it’s more than half-empty. Tooru’s eyes are still swollen from last night so he herds him back to bed. Get more sleep, he says, and holds Tooru until he stops shivering.
Hajime stays home for as long as his residency allows, a measly three days. On the third day he manages to get Tooru to take a bath, but he doesn’t respond to Hajime’s kisses, or the lingering touches. He showers him with affection as much as he can, up until the moment he has to leave.
He comes home that night to find Tooru in the living room, slumped against the couch, surrounded by empty bottles of liquor, his temper ignites.
And it happens again.
And again.
And again.
-
Two years into his self-imposed isolation, he is a physician in one of Sendai’s biggest hospitals, a specialization in sports medicine under his belt. It’s one of those days where patients had set appointments one after the other, with his secretary once again forgetting to save a slot for his lunch break.
He crosses the street and into the café just beside the hospital. It does a much better job at caffeinated drinks than the hospital canteen, and after that harrowing morning, Hajime is determined to get more than watered down coffee into his system.
The café is just the right amount of crowded given the time, and Hajime walks towards the counter. He doesn’t take much notice of the person in front of him, but he breathes in and the all-too-familiar scent of wood and spices sends his mind reeling. He looks up sharply and sees chestnut-brown hair, the slight gleam of styling gel, the broad shoulders dressed impeccably in a striped dress shirt, the disproportionately-long neck. His throat goes dry.
“Oikawa?”
It is the first time in two years he’s said that name, but it slips out almost instinctively, like the only natural response to seeing Oikawa’s silhouette in a sea of strangers is to call out to him. The moment the name slips out, he almost wishes he made a mistake, but that back turns and he’s faced with a man he hasn’t seen in years.
“Iwa-chan?”
Something not entirely unpleasant crawls beneath Hajime’s skin at the sight of Oikawa. His hair is still the same, albeit a little longer and styled tamer. His face had filled out handsomely, no longer so gaunt-looking. The eyebags are gone too, and his eyes are clearer, happier.
“It’s…” Hajime says, and battles with the peculiarity of feeling awkward around Oikawa, “It’s nice to see you again.”
Oikawa blinks, too fast, the way he does when he’s heard something that genuinely surprised him. His eyes dart around the room, and for a moment fear grips Hajime. Of course, what right did he assume that Oikawa wouldn’t hate him after walking out on their shared life all those years ago? He’s about to make up an excuse, maybe run back to the hospital cafeteria after all, but Oikawa’s voice interrupts his thoughts.
“It’s good to see you too.” he replies stiffly, formally, and the implications of it burn a searing ache at the back of Hajime’s mind. “What are you doing here?”
Hajime shrugs, trying to force the stiffness out of his limbs. “Lunch.”
Oikawa’s brows meet sharply. “It’s 3PM…”
Hajime averts his gaze, the tips of his ears hot with embarrassment. He doesn’t see it but he knows: Oikawa’s shoulders sag and his head angles upward, he’s rolling his eyes at the ceiling.
“And you used to say I don’t take care of myself.”
The rush of indignation is automatic. He glares, a retort ready on his tongue but Oikawa’s turn comes up at the register, with the other one freeing up in time to accommodate Hajime. He strains to hear Oikawa’s order over the cashier’s cheerful greeting, discovers that he’s having a matcha latte, the same drink he’d been ordering for nearly all the times they ate at any café that served it. Hajime feels a burst of déjà vu at it all.
Oikawa’s large hands rest on the counter, idly tapping a slow rhythm as he makes small talk with the cashier. Hajime wonders when that habit started again, when Oikawa finally rediscovered his ability to brighten up the days of complete strangers. Hajime angles his head just enough to be able to see more of him and when he catches a glimpse of Oikawa’s open, genuine smile he can’t help but think God, he's still so beautiful.
Oikawa steps aside after paying, staying a respectable distance away as Hajime finishes off his own order. He orders the usual Americano, then, subtly, points at something behind the display case. The whole time, he can feel the weight of Oikawa’s stare, shamelessly obvious, and his skin prickles in response. He turns to Oikawa after handing over his membership card, tilting his head curiously.
“What?” he asks.
“You’ve gotten thinner.”
Hajime glares, taking his card back and moving to the counter where they claim their orders, Oikawa following behind him. “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”
“It’s not.”
His lips are set in a serious line; there is a furrow between his brows, an undercurrent of worry in his voice. Hajime turns away, defensively crossing his arms. “Not much time to work out these days.”
Oikawa doesn’t even bother hiding how he scans him and he fidgets, no longer used to this amount of attention. “Have you been sleeping well?”
“Are you my mom, Oikawa?”
Oikawa sputters, the reference not lost on him. The tension melts off his shoulders as they shake with his muffled laughter.
“Sorry. You are the doctor here.” he says, after fully recovering. “I heard from Mattsun that you got your license last year. Congrats.”
“I invited you to the party.” Hajime replies, but can’t quite keep the accusation of you didn’t go out of his tone.
Oikawa ducks his head sheepishly, body bending slightly almost as if he just barely stopped himself from bowing. “I don’t drink. I’ve been sober for a year now.”
Hajime glares up at him. “There wasn’t alcohol in that party, what do you take me for?”
“Sorry.” Oikawa mumbles, eyes warming over with fondness, a smile quirking his features. “You always did think of everything.”
The barista announces their name at the counter, Hajime’s drink coming up only seconds after Oikawa’s is called out. He’s about to reach out for it but Oikawa’s gets there first. He holds out his coffee cup and it’s only then that his eyes go wide, freezing mid-turn, as if just realizing what he did.
Hajime knows how hard it is to shake off muscle memory, recalls all those times he accidentally slipped a pack of milk bread and painkillers into his shopping cart. Oikawa still stands there, stricken, probably torn between just putting it back on the counter or continuing to hand it over. Hajime only mutters a soft thanks, gingerly taking his drink, throat going dry at the electricity coursing through him at the brush of their fingers.
“How have you been?” he asks, if only to diffuse the tension. “It’s been, what, two years?”
“A year and nine months.” Oikawa says without missing a beat, and Hajime knows that he can recite the number of weeks and days if he asks. “I hated myself for a while, Iwa-chan, more than you ever could, but I got help.”
Hajime side-eyes the empty table close to the bar and sits down, prompting a surprised noise. He leans back and sets his coffee and phone on the table, screen-up.
“Tell me about it.”
Oikawa hesitantly takes the chair across him, sitting uncomfortably close to the edge, arms still tucked to his sides.
“It’s gonna be a long story.”
His phone buzzes and the screen comes alive with an affirmative from his secretary, along with a shot of his blacked-out schedule. A waiter stops at their table and sets down the pound cake Hajime ordered, with bowls of whipped cream and jam on the side. Hajime picks up one of the forks and smiles up at Oikawa’s surprised face.
“I’ve got time.”
-
Talking to Oikawa again feels much like playing a well-practiced piano piece after years of not even touching a single key. He stumbles into sensitive topics and awkward silences, but as they continue, he finds himself falling more naturally into the old passion, and the duet of their conversation floats in the air like the most calming song. Somewhere between stories, the tension completely dissipates and Oikawa’s leaning back into the seat, enthusiastically miming his stories, a bright sparkle in his eye.
“No way!” Hajime laughs, quickly putting his cup back on the table for fear of spilling it all over his slacks. Oikawa raises a hand over his heart like he’s about to sing the national anthem.
“On my honor, Iwa-chan. I even have proof!”
Hajime is still laughing, and Oikawa quickly thumbs through his phone before setting it down on the table. True to his story, it’s Takahiro doing a handstand against the wall, his knees bent and his butt thrust out. Oikawa plays the video and Hajime cackles as Takahiro bounces his ass in time to the muffled beat, drunk cheers and catcalls egging him on. Hajime loses it before the video even finishes.
“Oh god, send that to me.” he wheezes as he wipes tears from his eyes. “I’m using it in my best man presentation for Takahiro’s wedding.”
Oikawa pauses, hand hovering over his phone. “Makki got you as a best man?”
“Yeah, why?”
He points to himself, the corner of his lip twitching. “Mattsun got me.”
They stare at each other in incredulity, Oikawa’s eyes comically round. Hajime sighs and reclaims his coffee.
“They were planning to stage an intervention at their own wedding, weren’t they?”
Oikawa rolls his eyes as he smears cream on another slab of cake. “Same old Makki and Mattsun, I guess.”
Hajime watches him stab the cake, long fingers dexterously going about their task, barely even making a mess of his food. A small piece lifts its way into the air and disappears behind Oikawa’s lips.
“Are you bringing someone?”
Oikawa shakes his head. “No.”
Hajime’s eyebrow shoots up without his permission, and Oikawa laughs, putting down his fork. “I’m really not! Besides, I don’t have anyone to bring.”
Hajime blinks. “You’re single.”
He quickly bites his tongue, but thankfully Oikawa didn’t seem to notice the hopefulness in his tone. He only shrugs carelessly, sinking deeper into his seat. “I figured I should fix my life before I share it with anyone else.” he rubs the back of his neck. Hajime’s own nape tingles at the sight. “I’m still working on it, I think.”
Hajime smiles and it’s sincere, fingertips warm from something other than the coffee cup he’s holding. “That’s…that’s good to hear.”
Despite their earlier conversations, every now and then Hajime still sees a flash of uncharacteristic hesitance from Oikawa, and even though Hajime knows he’s trying to rework his boundaries, trying to figure out the breadth of the rift between them, Hajime already feels weary of all this tiptoeing they’re doing.
“Just say it.” he says, and it comes out much like a sigh. “It may not have worked out the way we wanted but you’re still my most important friend. That hasn’t changed.”
Oikawa’s eyes jump between emotions, too quick for Hajime to tell. He turns to him after a few moments, eyes ablaze with a raw intensity that makes him uncomfortable, even now.
“I don’t think it would be fair to get a new partner when I’m still in love with my ex.”
Hajime nearly crushes the cup in shock. He puts it down quickly and Oikawa misinterprets the motion, tensing, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.
“Iwa—” Oikawa starts, but Hajime puts up a hand, clinging to a calm that threatens to slip from his fingers.
“You weren’t supposed to get better for me, you know. You’re supposed to do it for yourself.”
“I know.” he answers, and even when he’s years out of practice, Hajime knows Oikawa’s telling the truth. “It was all for you at first, but then I realized through my therapist how dangerous being so co-dependent was. I lived for myself but…” and here Oikawa averts his gaze. “I had you for twenty years of my life. You can’t just expect me to forget any of that so easily.”
Hajime looks down at his hands, watches the regulating mechanism of his watch from between the gaps of his fingers and times his breath to every five ticks.
“To be fair, I didn’t have it easy either.”
He doesn’t know what moves him to it, but his hand reaches across the table. Oikawa takes it, hangs onto it like a man on the edge of a cliff.
Oikawa’s hand is warm, a comforting weight in his palm. He’s still meticulous about his nails, perfectly filed and clean. The callouses at the tips of his fingers are still there, battle scars from his many, many years as a setter, the scar on his index finger from when they played with scissors so many summers ago.
He’s held these hands since before they were scarred by dreams and the stupid things they got themselves into, held them when they were sweating and burning with fever, held them in the dark, in the safety of their rooms or on late-night walks, held them in broad daylight, when they finally stopped giving a shit about the rest of the world. The simple slide of Oikawa’s thumb drags with it twenty years’ worth of memories, too much and too sudden, and he’s never really realized how empty his hands have always felt until now.
“I’m sorry,” Oikawa continues, and it trembles halfway into a sob, “for hurting you, for all those times I made it so difficult for you.”
Oikawa watches, anxious even as Hajime gently brushes the pad of his thumb across well-worn knuckles.
“It’s not…” Hajime says, and it comes out in a hoarse rasp. He clears his throat and tries again. “There were things that…maybe…escalated because of me…”
Oikawa shakes his head, other hand coming up to cup Hajime’s between his larger ones. “You wouldn’t have left if I hadn’t pushed you too far. I know you, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime remembers nights when rage fueled him too much to allow him to sleep, trying to figure out where he keeps going wrong. He remembers patience steadily wearing thin. He remembers staying only for the sake of their shared childhood, staying only because he didn’t want to waste all the years they spent together.
He remembers being tired, feeling a hollowness steadily scraping away every bit of him until he can feel it beneath his skin.
Oikawa’s next breath comes out shaky. “But… I think we needed the time apart, more than anything. If you’d stayed, I feel like it’ll just be temporary cycles of recovery.” he leans back in his chair without letting go of Hajime, looking up at the ceiling, perhaps to disguise his expression. “You reminded me too much of what I’d lost; of volleyball. I think I also needed time to realize my life had another purpose besides it.”
His gaze slides over to the ID still clipped to Oikawa’s breast pocket, recognizes the logo for an advertising agency, sees the characters for Creative Director beneath his name.
“I’m proud of you…for getting help and moving forward despite everything. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there to support you through it, as I should have been.” Hajime says, and the echoes of all his broken promises ring across his conscience, the weight of it all pushing him down. “I know this means shit now but I’m sorry I abandoned you when you needed me the most.”
He bows his head and Oikawa holds tight enough for his nails to dig crescents into his palm.
“We don’t even have to be lovers again, if you don’t want to. I just…I just really miss you, Iwa-chan.”
The silence sweeps over them, tense and anticipatory. Hajime continues to hold Oikawa’s hand as he watches the steam wisp and curl from his coffee. His index and middle finger reach out to Oikawa’s wrist, to the thick vein where his pulse thrums.
“There’s this family restaurant down the street,” he says, and a harsh gasp slips past Oikawa’s lips. He straightens and his pulse picks up beneath Hajime’s fingers, “and they serve the best agedashi tofu. I’m generally free Friday nights, unless an emergency comes up.”
Oikawa’s large eyes blink at him and his grip falls slack. Hajime’s fingertips trace the grooves and lines of Oikawa’s palm, and he can feel Oikawa slowly begin do the same, the calloused tips tickling his palm in an intimate and time-honored dance.
“Friday is…” Oikawa mumbles, then, more confidently, “Friday sounds good.”