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It's cold when Oikawa first wakes.
He watches the ceiling fan turn, fingers clutched around his phone. Oh. He'd hardly realized he fell asleep using it, the device long since having gone cold from a dead battery. A bleary-eyed look to his regular clock on the nightstand reveals it's much later than it ought to be. He's late.
Still, even the thought of being late to school doesn't feel stirring enough to warrant getting out of bed. He's cold and his eyes are heavy and an insistent bubble of pressure is jittering behind his knee cap. Uncoordinated fingers maneuver for his charger cord, smartphone springing to life as he fits the plug into its socket.
No new messages.
Something strange twists in his stomach. It's long since past the time the train he and Iwa-chan take every morning to get to school leaves but there's no admonishing mail from him telling him to get his lazy ass out of bed. He snorts, opening a new mail and tapping in his number to message him that he woke up.
His autocomplete doesn't pop up.
The number is one he knows by heart regardless, and though he swears softly at his phone for being stupid, he still composes a reasonably coherent message and sends it. With a long sigh he sits up in bed and pushes himself into the chilly air of his bedroom.
The bathroom is no warmer until he fills the tub, waves of steam beginning to fog the glass. Oikawa regards his reflection and notes with distaste that he looks ten times more tired than he feels. He must've fallen asleep so much later than he intended. He was watching volleyball videos again, right? No wonder his phone was dead, the screen never turns off when the video app is loaded…
Should've listened to Iwa-chan, he thinks, and strips to sit on the stool. There are more bottles than there ought to be littering the shelf, probably more empty ones than full. He washes his hair, his body, and soaks for far longer than necessary. If he's already late, why rush? He keeps an ear out for his phone to chime with a message back from Iwaizumi, but even by the time he drags himself out of the tub, he hasn't gotten one.
Once he's finished his hair and dressed the sun is rising. He hurries out the door and nearly sprints to the train station, catching the next train by a margin of seconds. He'll probably have to stand in the hall when he gets to class, but his morning class is just literature anyway. Nothing relevant and nothing he'll fail by missing one class. He hangs on a hand-strap and checks his phone again. No messages.
It feels like it will be a long day when he finally arrives at Aoba Johsai's gates. He manages to slip into class when the teacher is writing and only gets a little punished (what’s being called out and sweet-talking his way out of it?). He has an exam second period math and while he hardly recalls studying, he feels confident he passed. During third period he checks his phone between his book's pages and still Iwaizumi has not responded. He chews his tongue and eyes the time in the top right corner. If he hasn't mailed him back yet then he'll have to drop in during lunch.
Which of course, the minute it signals its start, he’s out of class six and bolts to class five.
He knows almost all of Iwaizumi’s classmates by name—he knows almost the whole school by name—and a few look up when he slides open the door. His eyes lock on the class president, a very charming young lady he knows well simply by virtue of visiting every single day, and he beams.
“Saya-chan,” he calls, and she looks up in response to hearing her name. It takes a few seconds before she eyes the door and sees him.
And to Oikawa’s surprise, gives him a quizzical look. “Oikawa-san?” Her brows pinch together, and she seems at a loss.
He saunters in anyway, looking to Iwaizumi’s seat. Some other boy he doesn’t remember the name of is lounging in it, talking to a friend. “You know why I’m here,” he says in his usual singsong lilt.
After a moment’s pause, she shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Ah.” He returns her statement with a warm laugh. “I’m looking for my ace.”
Saya simply blinks, then points in the direction of down the hall. “Matsukawa-san is in Class 1.”
“No no.” Oikawa waves his hand. “Mattsun isn’t my ace.”
Those brows draw a little tighter. “The last time I saw a match, he was. He’s got no reason to be in this class, anyway. Did someone say he stopped by here? Lunch started not even two minutes ago.”
“Saya-chaaan.” He lets out a long sigh. “I’m looking for my ace. Iwa-chan.”
This earns him a very confused look. “...Who?”
“Oh, Saya-chan, come on. I know you like to play but he isn’t answering my mails. Unless he’s sick?” He looks again at Iwaizumi’s seat, and the boy in it stares at him before turning his chair away.
When Saya speaks again, her tone is slightly firmer. “No, Oikawa-san, I’m aware you like to play and I’m sorry but I’m not in the mood. There’s no one by that name in this class unless you nicknamed yet another person.”
Oikawa’s heart sinks just a fraction. “No, I guess just never mind.” He lifts himself off her desk and gives her a parting little salute. “I’ll just go find Mattsun.”
She shakes her head again as he leaves, and he’s not sure but he thinks he hears her friend murmur to her, “What’s with Oikawa-san? He never comes by our class. Don’t tell me you’re dating him?” which she hurriedly dismisses.
It puts a weird taste in his mouth.
Down the hall in class one, he slides the door open to, quite thankfully, see Matsukawa sitting at his desk. Or rather, flopped over on top of the desk sleeping soundly. Oikawa muffles a laugh against his palm and steps over, sliding Matsukawa’s pencil out from under his arm and poking his cheek with it. “Mattsun,” he whispers. “Wake up~.”
To his credit, Matsukawa sleeps like death. It takes several harder pokes before he snorts and opens his eyes. And, much to Oikawa’s relief, he doesn’t seem totally surprised that Oikawa is the one waking him up. “S’school over is it practice time?” Matsukawa asks in one sleepy breath, sitting up and yawning.
“No, not yet. It’s just lunch.”
“Oh. Good.” His head hits his arms again. “Come back when school’s over.”
“Noooo,” Oikawa whines, tugging at his arm. “You need to wake up and help me.”
“The answer is seventeen.”
“I wasn’t asking a question!”
Matsukawa groans into the desk. “Fine, okay, what is it.”
“Do you know where Iwa-chan is?”
“I thought you weren’t asking a question.”
“Not a question that seventeen is an answer to, Mattsun!” Oikawa full-on pouts at him. “So tell me where Iwa-chan is.”
Matsukawa lets out the most put-upon sigh. “She’s probably on the roof like always.”
Oikawa brightens. “Thank you!” He turns on his heel, about to make a dash for the door, before he realizes something. “...Wait, she?” He turns back to see Matsukawa rubbing one of his eyes and nodding.
“Yeah. ...You did say Touya-chan, right?”
“No! I said Iwa-chan.” A few tired blinks are all he gets in response. “Iwa-chan, Mattsun, Iwa-chan.”
“...Is that your new girlfriend?” The head tip Matsukawa is giving him would be amusing if Oikawa weren’t steadily growing more annoyed. And flustered, because Mattsun and Makki are always making implications about him and Iwa-chan which… well, he’ll ignore them for now.
“No! Oh my God, Mattsun. If you and Makki and everyone else is playing a big joke because I called him tiny yesterday and he’s still being a pissy-pants about it, then tell him I’m sorry.”
Matsukawa’s jaw works slowly as he takes in the miniature rant Oikawa unleashed on him. “Normally I’d say yeah, because that sounds like a thing we’d do, but…” The corner of his lip curls up and he looks to the side, slight discomfort sagging his shoulders. “I actually have no idea who you’re talking about. What’s his full name?”
Oikawa can’t believe he’s doing this. Slowly, and enunciating each syllable, he replies, “I-wa-i-zu-mi Ha-ji-me. My best friend. Number four. Our ace.”
“I’m your ace.” Matsukawa’s brow quirks. “And we don’t have a number four. I’ve never heard of this guy.”
Fed up, Oikawa tosses his arms in the air. “Never mind, Mattsun! I’ll find him myself and I’ll apologize to him myself.”
With that, he pivots on his heel and out of class one, marching down to the bread line to get some milk bread and calm his nerves. Of course it’d be just like Mattsun, and probably Makki if he asked him, to join in on some prank because Iwaizumi’s pissed at him.
He pulls out his phone, seeing no new messages. Okay, he thinks, if Iwa-chan’s mad at me I’ll just apologize. Practiced fingers dial his number in no time, taking a breath to prepare an apology.
Two rings later, the eerily cheerful and polite voice of the intercept message operator informs him the number is not in service.
Oikawa waits the entire spiel out before throwing his phone into his bag. Furious, he bites out an order for three Hokkaido cream rolls before tossing the proper yen on the counter and stalking to the stairs to the roof. The sight of Touya, just like Matsukawa said she would be, sitting in the corner eating her own lunch just makes him feel angrier.
“Stupid Mattsun,” he mutters into his bread.
Lunch is… awfully quiet without Iwaizumi with him. He’d be making fun of Iwaizumi’s choice of lunch—“Pork curry and egg? What are you, Tobio-chan?”—and Iwaizumi would insist milk bread is not a proper lunch and make him eat something more substantial. It makes him look at the packaging of the bread with a distinct emptiness gnawing his stomach. It’s not the same without the nagging.
It’s at that time his knee gives a very solid ache. Oikawa winces, pressing his palm into his kneecap and pushing until he feels the telltale pop, massaging the cartilage. That, too, makes him feel weird and empty. Iwaizumi should be scolding him right about now, for working too hard and hurting himself again. He ignores the heavy weight of his phone in his bag reminding him that Iwaizumi still hasn’t messaged him back.
Oikawa really hopes he’s just not feeling well.
He resolves to spend the rest of lunch on the roof then stalk back downstairs before it ends, but takes a detour for a moment to go into the bathroom. Anger and frustration are running rampant in his veins, he can feel it, and when he looks at his reflection he scarcely recognizes himself.
He was too tired earlier to notice, but his reflection carries a strange deadness in his eyes, like the shine in his pupils is reflecting off a dusty surface. It makes the emptiness in his stomach clench a little tighter, and while the sky outside the bathroom window is just as blue as it was on the roof, it’s as if there’s a thick film over reality right now.
He splashes his face, looking at himself again with a scrutinizing gaze. His brows seem tired, eyes heavier than normal. It’s the sort of look he’s seen on people who don’t smile enough. People like… Tobio-chan. The entire weight of the world seemed to rest on the crown of his head last he remembered seeing him, and for once, he feels what could almost be sympathy. And it’s true, he hasn’t smiled much today, nor has he had much of an opportunity to. Maybe he never realized before but Iwaizumi’s presence is something that he finds a bringer of honest to god happiness in his life. Not hearing back from him... hurts.
Right now, he just wants to go home, but the closest thing he has to interaction and entertainment is volleyball practice. That prospect sounds familiar enough to undo the knot growing somewhere between his heart and ribcage. He dries his face, squares his shoulders, and slinks back to class six just before the bell to set in for another three periods of class.
* * *
The familiarity of Aoba Johsai’s volleyball court brings some much needed relief to his body. He skipped on cleanup to get changed early and do a couple serves on his lonesome before he hears the telltale sound of Makki and Mattsun’s chatter signaling their arrival.
“—being weird today,” is all he catches of Matsukawa’s end of the conversation before the two enter. “Yo, captain. Did you find ‘Iwa-chan’?”
Ugh. It’s almost enough to kill his temporary high as his sneakers hit the floor and he straightens up. “No, certainly no thanks to you.” He can’t resist being a little snappy with him, but he turns and regards them both with his usual cheerful smile. “But that’s not important. Iwa-chan or no, we still have practice.”
Hanamaki is giving him a look that very evidently translates to ‘gee, Issei, you were right, he is being weird,’ but says nothing of it. “All right. The others’ll be here shortly so we can do something else while we wait.”
“Just let me serve,” Oikawa nearly cuts him off. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he’s just reclaiming his usual vigor. He needs to do this himself.
Surprisingly, Hanamaki doesn’t react beyond shrugging. Oikawa moves to recover a few of the balls he’s already spiked, watching the two out of the corner of his eye. They talk amongst themselves, not concerned as much with what he’s up to, and if Oikawa knew any better he’d say Makki looks slightly irritated. He takes his time, trying to listen in without making it obvious he’s eavesdropping. He’s never seen that kind of look on Hanamaki’s face unwarranted before, not unless it’s after Oikawa’s done something purposefully annoying to goad Iwaizumi and Makki is trying to ground them back in reality.
He’s not imagining it. The two keep shooting him glances as he returns to his usual spot to serve from, and in between the loud impacts of the volleyballs on various surfaces, he can tell they’re still talking. It’s not until he’s scattered another fifteen balls that Makki actually approaches him.
“So now I really have to ask,” he says, one fist on his hip. “Who the hell is Iwa-chan?”
Oikawa can’t resist a pout. “I’m tired of this whole game, Makki. Is he that mad at me?” But when he looks to Hanamaki’s face, he doesn’t see the kind of look he’s expecting. It’s just that same irritation. He’s never seen Makki look as outright put off by him quite like this, the other’s brows knitted in a way that says he’s got no patience today.
“There is no game, Oikawa. Just the one you’re playing. And normally I’d just say whatever because you’re always weird in one way or another, but I don’t get it this time.”
Oikawa turns then, head tipped. “Okay, okay, tell Mattsun I’m sorry for going off on him. Iwa-chan’s just ignoring me so I’m… you know.” He gestures airily.
“I don’t,” Makki replies flatly. “Did you hit your head or something?”
“No?” Oikawa feels lost, out of his element. On any other given day he can go around in circles messing with Hanamaki and get messed with right back. It’s easier with Iwaizumi around, honestly, since the song and dance involves Oikawa being an idiot on purpose to rile Iwaizumi up, get Iwaizumi to punch him, and then Mattsun and Makki pick a side to screw with. It’s fun. It’s familiar. And it’s leagues away from the Hanamaki looking like he’s already fed up with him when they’ve only interacted for less than a whole minute today.
His confusion pulls a sigh from Hanamaki. “Then can you please tell me who Iwa-chan is.” It sounds less like a question and more like a demand. And it… really weirds Oikawa out.
“...Uh. He’s.” He stops, mouth going soundlessly for a moment. Makki lifts his brows. “...My best friend. Number four. Our ace.” It’s the same words he told Mattsun but lacking all the confidence.
“God, Issei was right,” Hanamaki mutters to himself. He rubs his face with his free hand as if to force himself to take a more civil tone. “Are you feeling okay? I mean, honestly? At this point I really don’t think you’re messing around anymore and I-I’m sorry if you’re legitimately not feeling good.”
The stutter also takes him by surprise. Normally Makki wouldn’t hesitate to say sorry, in that almost sarcastic way he usually speaks. Oikawa lowers his voice to what he hopes is a soothing, gentler tone. “No, Makki, I’m sorry. I’m on edge. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m… just confused. And I feel fine for what it’s worth.” Except for the cold sweat he’s suddenly breaking out in.
“Then c’mon. Let’s talk.” Hanamaki puts a clearly hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Does he go here? Iwaizumi?”
“Yes,” Oikawa says, oddly subdued.
“I know him?”
“Yes!” Oikawa turns to give Makki a weird look. “I told you. He’s number four.”
“I know it’s just… Issei told you. We don’t have a number four. We never have.” Makki looks outright concerned now. Any hope that this was an elaborate joke has gone from Oikawa’s mind. His chest feels tight. Makki must have seen the change of expression on his face, his hand rubbing soothing circles. “I don’t know what’s going on, honestly, but you look awful. You can go home, if you want.”
“No, I, I want to be here,” Oikawa protests weakly. “I just want to know why you and Mattsun and even Saya-chan don’t know who I’m talking about.”
Hanamaki sighs. “Look, why don’t we just play a little bit, do practice like we always do, and maybe you’ll feel a little better. And drink some water, seriously. You’re paler than Issei’s untanned ass.” He’s trying for joking, Oikawa can tell, so he feigns an insulted tongue cluck. This at least gets Makki to smile, and the world shifts a little more to the right side of things.
The feeling carries as the first and second years filter in (some things, like Mad Dog-chan’s continued absence, are a welcome sort of familiar) and he leads them in stretches. Getting warmed up makes him feel less off, more like he's where he belongs. And while Iwaizumi may not be there, there have been plenty of times he's been sick. Oikawa can do this alone, even if it's not his preference, and he can see Makki and Mattsun finally returning to their usual, unstoppable meme-ing selves. He leads them out into the streets of Miyagi next for their usual jog.
When he begins to finally feel at home again, he slows his pace to join the first years at the back and pat Kindaichi on the shoulder.
Like normal, Kindaichi nearly leaps a foot into the air and makes a strangled surprised noise. His eyes dart downward to meet Oikawa's, uttering a strained “Yes?”
“Relax, Kindaichi,” he says breezily. “Just coming to say hi.”
“O-oh.” Tension visibly releases from his shoulders, though his expression remains cautious at best. “...Hi.”
It seems like the usual Kindaichi. Quick to startle and massively intimidated by his senpai. Oikawa internally sighs with relief and eases into pace next to him. He can see Kunimi looking at him out of the corner of his eye from under his curtain of thick black hair, his usual sleepy-eyed look letting Oikawa know he too is the same old first year. It's encouraging.
“I just want you two to know that we senpai are very proud of what you've accomplished recently,” he says, easy and casual. It's the sort of thing Iwaizumi would normally say, but it rolls off his tongue like he says it every day himself.
Kindaichi blinks owlishly at him for a moment then just nods again. It's not the reaction he was expecting but it's better than what would be a worst case scenario. Oikawa gives him a look like he's sizing him up before beaming at him. There's no way someone as unfailingly serious as Kindaichi would go along with any kind of joke like pretending Iwaizumi doesn't exist, especially when Oikawa knows full well Iwaizumi is Kindaichi's hero.
“You know,” he begins, eyes back on the road ahead, “Iwa-chan always did say you were his favorite kouhai back at Kitagawa Daiichi.” Okay, so he's embellishing, he admits to himself, but the sentiment matches the tract he's on.
“Iwa-chan?” Kindaichi echoes, puzzled.
Oikawa nods. “I know he says he doesn't pick favorites, but he told me once. And I agree, especially among kouhai back then.” His mind goes sharply to Kageyama Tobio and he restrains a shudder. “Definitely,” he adds, more for his own benefit.
“I… appreciate it, Oikawa-san,” Kindaichi says haltingly, “but who… who is Iwa-chan?”
Those are quickly becoming Oikawa's least favorite words. “Not you too!” he moans, shoulders drooping in defeat.
“Me too— Oikawa-san, I'm confused.” His kouhai is looking concerned down at him, frowning with worry. “...are you… I mean, it's not like you to mention—ah, I'm sorry!” He flinches like he stepped on a metaphorical landmine. “I shouldn't bring it up!”
That entire segue brings Oikawa's attention to a different point. Forgetting temporarily his annoyance at the continued ignorance of Iwaizumi, he asks, “Bring what up?”
“The Kitagawa Daiichi incident,” Kunimi supplies from beside them. Kindaichi shushes him the instant the words leave his mouth, but Matsukawa and Hanamaki have come to join them in the back.
“What's this I hear about the incident?” Matsukawa asks with a wry smile. Kindaichi looks like he wants nothing more than to please make everyone forget he said anything and melt into the ground.
“It's the first I'm hearing about it,” Oikawa says, looking at each of them expectantly. Kindaichi is firmly avoiding his gaze but Kunimi has a brows-drawn, unreadable look.
Hanamaki barks out a laugh, less from amusement and more from surprise. “What do you mean the first you're hearing about it? You were there.”
“Hanamaki-san!” Kindaichi yelps anxiously.
“Well it's true,” he shoots back in defense of himself. “I mean, even I heard about it and I didn't even go to Kita-Ichi.”
“Still! You shouldn't bring it up.” Kindaichi has ascended to a look of sheer discomfort. Matsukawa and Hanamaki exchange a look, while Kunimi pretends to find the ground considerably more worthy of his gaze than the proceedings around him.
Oikawa's annoyance begins to rise again. First the whole school has to participate in some stupid prank and make him question his own sanity, now he seems to be involved in an incident he neither knows the details nor context of and Kindaichi is treating him like he'll go off like a bomb if they keep talking about it. When he sighs a little more harshly than he intended, Kindaichi flinches again.
“Could someone,” he says, keeping his voice even by some miracle, “please tell me what this ‘incident’ refers to?”
“Well yeah,” Hanamaki says, far too easily for Oikawa's comfort. “It's when you punched Kageyama Tobio in the face.”
Really? Oikawa scoffs. “No I didn't.” Clearly he remembers very much wanting to, because his irritating little kouhai wouldn't leave him alone. But Iwaizumi had stopped him, going so far as to grab his arm and wrench it away, then headbutt him so hard his nose bled. He never laid a finger on Tobio.
“Uh.” Hanamaki’s eyebrow quirks up again. “Yeah, you did. Heard you even knocked one of his teeth out—granted, it was a baby tooth but still.”
“I didn't!” Oikawa insists, discomfort and anger dueling in the pit of his stomach.
“You did,” Kunimi says quietly, regarding him with a cool expression.
Oikawa reels on him. “I did not, because Iwa-chan stopped me!”
The whole group is quiet now, having long since stopped their jog. Tension and unease fill the air, and Oikawa can see that both Kindaichi and Kunimi have moved the slightest distance away from him. He'd hardly noticed both of his hands have curled into fists before Hanamaki, stony-faced and eerily serious, steps closer.
“Oikawa,” he says, low and warning. “Calm down.”
“Calm down—?” He can't believe this is actually happening. “Makki, with all due respect after the day I've been having I'll calm down when you all finally drop the bullshit about my best friend not even existing! And I never hit Tobio! Whoever started that rumor has a sick sense of humor and I'm not going to stand for it!”
Before he's taken another breath, he feels a strong hand grip his shoulder, followed by Matsukawa's usual dry rasp. “That's enough, Oikawa.” When he meets Matsukawa's gaze, he sees something he's never seen before. It's subtle, but it shakes Oikawa to his core.
Matsukawa dislikes him.
“I…” He has no idea what to say. Everything feels wrong right now. The idea that one of his friends—maybe not a very close one but one he knows fairly well and enjoys spending time with outside practice—dislikes him weighs so heavily on him his body physically slumps.
“You should really go home now,” Hanamaki says with an underlying hint of not taking no for an answer. Oikawa doesn't want to meet his gaze, afraid to see the same look in his other friend's eyes. He feels utterly alone and shaken, and his body feels drained of all but the worst feelings. There's an intense pressure from the first years’ staring too, and his stomach knots tightly when he realizes why. They're afraid of him.
“Yeah…” he says, feeling so distant from himself he almost doesn't recognize his own voice. “Sorry.”
A few moments pass before Kindaichi and Kunimi, looking at each other then at their other senpai, walk around and past him to join them. He can feel Kindaichi looking at him with cautious worry—he always was a pretty empathetic person. He hears Kunimi murmur something to Kindaichi as Oikawa turns to head back to the gymnasium.
Once he's alone, treading the same ground back to the school, the true gravity of the situation dawns on him. He looks at his hands—calloused, rougher than he's used to. The middle finger of his left hand has a slight bend to it, one he's never noticed before. No, one he never had. He's never broken a finger. On top of that, he never hurt Tobio—unless he simply can't remember ever having done it.
"No," he murmurs to himself. He remembers the vicious rage on Iwaizumi's face. How he called him an idiot for being so caught up in thinking in absolutes, in all or nothings. And how completely idiotic attacking Tobio would have been. It would have solved nothing. So why, then, did everyone think that he did that? And why did Matsukawa and Hanamaki seem so quick to irritation with him? Why are his kouhai legitimately afraid of him?
Has he just... never noticed?
Right now, he thinks, he needs Iwaizumi more than ever.
* * *
The train ride home seems infinitely longer, sitting alone with his earbuds in. He keeps going over the events of his third year of middle school in his mind. The details are stark and clear; if he's having some sort of mental breakdown, wouldn't things be harder to remember? He rubs his eyes, so very tired. He suspects he didn't get much more than a few hours of sleep last night, even though he remembers going to bed at a reasonable hour. Maybe it's because he's so tired that he's seeing things that aren't even there.
Still, he keeps himself energized with the promise of visiting Iwaizumi, sliding out the doors when the train stops and the afterschool crowd filters out. He walks slowly but with purpose towards their neighborhood, eyes on the horizon. The buildings are the same, even the stray calico cat that prowls the area is sunning itself in the afternoon light. He can see, from the end of the sidewalk, the rise of his own house's roof and the subtler slope of Iwaizumi's beside it. It's the same house, thank God. That they're still neighbors, still close somehow considering everything that happened today, he knows he's not crazy.
It takes everything he has not to sprint up the street to Iwaizumi's door (not to mention the subtle throbbing in his knee reminding him he needs to take it easier), taking a much more sedate walk up the front path. He can't have Iwa-chan thinking he missed him that bad or anything. He'd probably get pissed off and call him a baby, though right now even that would be an immense relief.
Oikawa knocks rather than walking in, just on the off chance that Iwaizumi is sick and getting much needed rest. Even trying to keep the smile off his face is impossible, bouncing in place to some inaudible beat. He's going to see Iwa-chan. He really, really needs to see Iwa-chan.
And it's even more of a relief when Iwaizumi's mother answers the door.
"Iwaizumi-kaa-san!" he says brightly, always having treated Iwaizumi's mother like his own. He's beaming ear to ear at the same woman he's known since he was four years old, so overwhelmed with immediate joy that he could easily pick her up and hug her if he felt like it.
...Except she's looking at him with wide, bemused eyes. "Oikawa-kun?"
Oikawa-kun. Not Tohru, not even Tohru-chan like she called him when he was a kid, but Oikawa-kun. That's... odd. His face falls slightly, but he keeps the cheery look. "Sorry to interrupt. Iwa-chan wasn't in school today so I left practice early. Is he sick? Should I come back later?"
Her fingers on the doorframe tighten almost imperceptibly. "Excuse me?" she asks, soft and a little accusing, as if Oikawa has done her some discourtesy.
He bows out of sheer surprise. "I know, I know, I should really let him rest if he's not doing well but I really missed him today. Don't tell him I said that though, please?"
When his smile is met with deeper confusion, his stomach drops. "Oikawa-kun," she says slowly. Her eyes search him as if to ferret out his motive, adjusting her footing to almost guard the front door. "Do you have the right house?"
Oikawa leans to regard the number and nameplate on the door. Iwaizumi. Same kanji and everything. "...Yes?"
"Then who are you looking for?"
"Iwa-chan," he says, insistent. When her eyes narrow further, he feels suddenly weak, dizzy, cold sweat breaking on his skin. "H-Hajime."
"There's no one by that name here," she replies, inclining her head and giving him an unusually hostile look.
Oikawa shivers. He might actually throw up, swallowing thickly against the urge to. Iwaizumi-san seems to notice his change in appearance then, brows creasing with worry as the hostility drains away. "Oikawa-kun," she says apologetically. "Are you feeling well?"
"I-I don't know." He's shaking. Everything is wrong and bad and he's going to vomit.
"You're very pale," she says much softer now. "I'm very sorry that I can't help you find this Hajime-san, but it may be best for you to go home and rest."
Something shatters.
For the next few minutes, Oikawa is in a daze. Everything spins back into motion when he finds himself on his knees in his bathroom, heaving with his sweat-soaked hair hanging limply in front of his face. He doesn't remember even coming home. The stool by the tub is upside down; he must have tripped, which would explain why his knee is throbbing. The contents of his bag are spilled over the floor in his room, his phone facedown under the lip of the counter. His mouth tastes like acid and his nose is burning. He's crying.
"Fuck," he curses, hoarse. He wipes his face on his sleeve and sits back on his heels.
It can't be.
It can't.
He sits on the cold tile, back to the cabinets. Nothing makes sense anymore.
Iwaizumi isn't—
He's—
...not real?
Oikawa buries his face in his hands, taking a ragged breath. He can't not be real. This whole time—his entire life—was he just imagining it? He couldn't have made up an entire person, an existence that runs completely concurrent to his own. He's not crazy! He tells himself that over and over, mind a kaleidoscope of memories of Iwaizumi. Summers spent together, the cicadas he caught and showed him much to his disgust. Running away from home in his third year of elementary school because he didn't want to eat the tomatoes in his dinner... Iwaizumi said he'd eat them for him. And more than anything, playing volleyball together with him, setting to him when the pinch situation meant he could set to no one else, having him as his ace.
There’s no way he just made all that up, but if even Iwaizumi’s mother…
His gaze falls to his phone. Hesitantly, he fits his fingers around it and picks it up, looking at the lock screen. He unlocks it with a swipe of his thumb, hovering over the gallery. He’s scared of what he’ll find, not knowing if the hundreds of pictures he knows full well he took with Iwaizumi would be there.
He takes a deep breath and presses the button.
Hundreds of pictures fly up in the usual grid, many he recognizes. Selfies and volleyball shots for his Instagram account and Twitter, scenery shots including the many beautiful sunsets that the mountains of Miyagi offer during the late summer, and even a few of that one calico he's been determined to photograph.
But not a single one of them has Iwaizumi in it.
He pores over them, again and again and again, until he's sure he's seen every single one up close. Just last week they went to the mall and played with the UFO catcher to get a plush alien head; when he finally won, thanks to Iwaizumi shoving him over and doing it himself, Oikawa took a picture of the two of them with the plush in his hands. He remembers Iwaizumi's expression, the deep annoyance but quiet pride, and the promise that the next UFO machine they saw with anything kaiju related in it, Oikawa would absolutely win it for him in turn.
They got ice cream after that.
The picture is not there, however, and neither is the alien plush in his room. He gazes, eyes brimming again with tears, at his photo gallery. When he swipes left, there's a picture of him and Takeru, and while it's only a small relief, his nephew is beaming ear to ear.
Oikawa feels six years old and skinned knees again. His sister is the only person besides Iwaizumi who'd been there for him his entire childhood when his parents, busy workaholics as they've always been, couldn't be there. She would know what to do here, she always does. Swallowing back an ugly sob, he switched to the dial pad and taps in her number.
Within the first ring, Tomoko-neechan answers. “Tohru?”
He can't speak at first, just letting out a tiny choked noise.
“Tohru,” she repeats, concerned and attentive. “I'm coming.”
Nee-chan always knows, he thinks with a small smile threatening to make his eyes spill over.
* * *
Tomoko is at the house within ten minutes, rushing up to his room. He'd stayed curled up on the bathroom floor, still feeling too sick to want to move, and her familiar hand on his back is like heaven. “Tohru, are you okay?”
“I don't know,” he answers weakly. “I think I might be crazy.”
“That's ridiculous,” she says, all the warm and teasing he remembers of her when he was a little kid convinced that there was a gross bug monster in his closet. She beat it up herself, dusted her hands off, and slept beside him the whole night just in case it came back. She guides him upright and looks hard at him. “My brother’s a lot of things, but definitely not crazy.”
He can't answer her for a long moment, letting her rub his back. He can't formulate how to ask her about Iwa-chan, about how his childhood couldn't have been without him when every moment of it seems saturated with his existence. Her palm on his forehead feels cool by comparison, the sweat chilling his body elsewhere. “And not feverish, by the looks of it,” she continues in his silence. “What's wrong?”
“Nee-chan,” he asks, ignoring the way his voice cracks. “Who was my best friend growing up?”
“Hmm.” She gazes ceilingward thoughtfully. “It’s hard to say. You had a lot of those, a new one every year it seemed.” When he hiccups back another sob, she sucks her teeth. “That wasn't the right answer, was it.”
“No…” he agrees, wavering.
She hugs him close. “Then which one do you mean? Did something happen to them?”
“Maybe.” He takes a deep steadying breath. “You… you don't remember… Iwa-chan, do you?”
Her eyes search his for a long moment. It seems to pain her as much as it pains him to answer with a soft and honest, “No, I don't.” But unlike everyone else, she goes on to say, “Tell me about them.”
Everything comes out at once. He tells her every single memory he can think of, every single summer and holiday and volleyball match played together, every Godzilla movie marathon and every joke and punch and pinch. Every cup of matcha on Iwaizumi's grandmother's porch, every bug-type Pokémon named after him on his copy of Green that Oikawa screamed and cried over (“Why can't I be Charizard, he's way cooler than a dumb Weedle!”), every night they spent tangled up in each other for years until it should have become totally inappropriate but they never stopped doing it—
“He was always…” Oikawa finally runs out of steam, tears streaking his face. “...always there for me, even when I did terrible things or said horrible words. No matter what.”
Tomoko gazes at him then, eyebrows upturned. He's so afraid she's going to look at him with those same pitying, confused eyes that everyone today has given him. That of all the people Oikawa knows, she too will tell him he just needs to rest and forget about this grand delusion he's managed to convince himself of. She sighs. Oikawa braces himself.
“...I believe you,” she says at last.
“You do?” he asks, incredulous.
“You wouldn't make up something like that. Iwa-chan must be important to you. I can tell from the look in your eyes when you talk about him.” Oikawa feels his face color, and Tomoko laughs in a fond, sincere way. “Don't worry,” she says. “I won't tell anyone your true feelings.”
Shoot, Nee-chan really does always know.
“So.” He'll try to steer the conversation away from any embarrassing potential romantic feelings he has, even if it's comforting for Tomoko to tease him. “If you believe me, then why doesn't anyone know who he is?”
“I wish I knew, Tohru,” she says with a sympathetic look. “But you're not crazy. Here, get up.” She helps him to his feet, steadying him when he lists in dizziness. “I'm making you something to eat and we'll talk more.”
When she pats his face dry of tears, leaning up to make up the difference in height, he can manage a little smile at her. She cups his face then. “I said before, you're a lot of things. Vain, a little pompous—” She pinches his cheek. “—a total brat at times. But you're still my brother and I love you anyway.”
He wants to cry again, happier tears this time. “I love you too, Nee-chan.”
Even after he's spent the afternoon puking and feeling like utter garbage, nothing tastes better than Tomoko’s cooking. He remembers it more than he ever remembers his mom's cooking, if she ever did cook. She drops a plate of yakisoba in front of him, brimming with her own recipe of sauce, and sits across from him.
“How's Takeru?” he asks, scooping up a generous portion in his chopsticks.
“Same as ever. Seems to have inherited your brat gene, but he's eight. I guess it's an eight-year-old thing.”
“I couldn't have been that insufferable at eight,” Oikawa retorts, eating a bite of soba.
“Oh you'd be surprised.” She smirks. “I've been surrounded by problem children my whole life.”
He just harrumphs noisily and slurps the noodles, snorting when Tomoko wipes splashed sauce from her face and gives him the evil eye. The food is so good he spends the next several minutes just eating, then puts his chopsticks down. He has to ask.
“Nee-chan… when I was in middle school,” he begins, then finds he doesn't want to ask at all.
“Hm,” she breathes out. “I remember.” Again with always knowing. Curse her for being borderline psychic. “You're talking about that time with Kageyama-kun, right?” When he flinches, she nods.
He toys with the chopsticks, trying not to meet her gaze. “Can you tell me what really happened?”
“Well.” He hears her seat creak as she leans back. “The school called the house that day and I was home. They told me you had suffered some kind of episode—not insanity, mind you. Maybe just stress. You were crying your eyes out in the club room, and two of your teammates were in the gym… Kunimi-kun was one of them.” Ah. That would explain why he looked so wary. “They said you attacked Kageyama-kun, and in the process one of his teeth came loose. Kunimi-kun said he heard Kageyama crying and got a teacher. And I came to get you and you just kept saying something about Ushiwaka over and over. To be honest I thought you meant the movie—you know, Benkei tai Ushiwaka. But it was that Shiratorizawa boy. And I think I understood then.”
Everything makes a cold sort of sense to him then, listening to her talk. There's no indifference or nonchalance to her words, like there had been with Hanamaki. Just concern, familial love and worry. His shoulders shake.
Within seconds Tomoko is around the table and hugging him close. “It's okay, Tohru. That was years ago, and you wouldn't ever do it again.”
“No, Nee-chan, you don't understand.” He sniffs hard, sounding teary and thick to his own ears. “The way I… the way it really happened… Iwa-chan was there.” He gulps. “He s-... stopped me. I never hit Tobio, he was there and he stopped me, and he yelled and called me an idiot and said something I'd never forget.”
“What did he say?” she asks quietly.
He can recall it, almost word for word. “He told me… that if I think how I’m doing equals how the team’s doing, then I’m—” He stops, laughing. “A dumbass. And that there are six players on a volleyball team for a reason. That I’m not fighting to win alone.”
“Wise words,” she says with admiration.
“When he said that to me…” Oikawa looks at the ceiling with a thoughtful sigh. “I’ve never felt so untouchable in my life.”
Tomoko remains quiet for a few moments afterward. “I think I understand something now better than before.”
“And what’s that?”
“This Iwa-chan… he’s more than just your friend.” When Oikawa blushes again, she hides a laugh in his hair. “I don’t mean like that, I mean, he’s a critical part of you—he’s like your conscience. And I’ll say, I’ve never heard you talk like this before. It makes me really proud to hear it.” She sits back and looks at him, eyes wide and clear. “If you think—really think!—about everything you told me, you’ll see it.” She places two fingers on his chest, right over his heart, and gives him a cryptic smile, then stands and goes to the sink.
He wants to protest, wants to tell her he’s nothing so intangible as his conscience or moral compass or anything that poetic and vague—but the words die in his throat when he realizes just what exactly she’s saying. She believes him, and had from the moment he started talking. That Iwaizumi is a real, living breathing person, that he’s Oikawa’s best friend and his ace and the person—
—who’s always been responsible for him.
He rests his elbows on the table, head in his hands. It’s true, he realizes, astonished. He looks up, watching Tomoko wash the dishes. Makki and Mattsun’s distaste for him, Kunimi and Kindaichi’s apprehension, hell he doesn’t even want to imagine how Tobio feels about him now, they all filter through his mind. Every part of it is because without Iwaizumi there—to buffer him, to filter him, to grab him by the shirt collar and ram his head into his nose and call him a complete idiot—he’s made a complete mess of his entire life.
A mess that he’s always, subconsciously, been making Iwaizumi clean up.
God, he’s so stupid.
“Nee-chan,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
She beams at him over her shoulder. “Go lie down, Tohru. You deserve the rest.”
This time he really won’t argue.
As he climbs to his room, his body drags slow and heavy, and when he finally collapses on his bed, his bones seem to sigh as deeply as he does. He's so worn, exhausted through and through, emotionally and mentally. Hell, he can't even muster the energy to take his uniform off and change into pajamas.
Yet as he lies there, breathing in the scent of old cologne over fabric softener on his comforter, his mind won't shut off. What ifs and worries eat away at his thoughts, filling him with anxious energy he can't divert. There's no telling what tomorrow will be like, if his memories will remain. If he'll “realize” somehow that he did dream up Iwaizumi all along and that he's always been this alone.
The idea of it is so terrifying that he finds himself sitting up, sliding off the bed and going to his desk. He rips through a notebook (English by the looks of it) and tears a blank page out, uncapping a pen with his teeth. He sets the nib to the paper and takes a deep breath.
He writes, writes and writes and writes until his wrist is aching and his knuckles smart from gripping the pen so tightly. He fills the page, the backside, rips out another sheet and fills it again. He can't seem to stop himself from writing even when his eyes sting and fill with hot worried tears. The light from the afternoon sun dwindles as the time passes, disappears altogether to leave the streetlights illuminating a sliver of his desk.
When he finally sits back, sniffling away the threat of dripping tears all over the paper, he still feels unfinished. He's not the best artist, but his pen just goes skirting over the surface, sketching in what he can. His hand leaves him some hideous kaiju, probably his own off brand Godzilla, and a tiny Grey with its spindly arms around it.
It's unequivocally the two of them.
He stares at the letter for a long time, looking at the shitty drawing. Iwaizumi would probably tell him it's what a five year old might draw. Total crap. But under those words he knows Iwaizumi well enough to know that means he loves it in all its crappy glory. That thought alone finally breaks the dam, and he leans forward, elbows on the desk, covering his face and sobbing into them.
He doesn't want to forget. He won't forget. He won't face another day without Iwaizumi.
“I'm sorry,” he chokes out against his palms. “I don't deserve you, I never deserved you. Iwa-chan, please… come back…”
He sniffs hard, a hideous sound, and looks down at the paper. He dries his hands on his pants, ignoring how unhygienic it is, and creases the papers in half. His hands shake, bringing himself back to his bed to quietly place the letter under his pillow. It's another childish gesture, but he's made peace with the fact that everything he does is childish and crude. “I never really did grow up, did I?” he asks himself, settling down on the bed.
“Maybe,” he whispers into the darkness of his room, “I wanted you to do that for me.” He sighs into his arm, tucked under his head, and closes his eyes. “Just like everything else I made you do for me. …I'm such an idiot.”
He has to tell himself that.
The person who always did can't.
* * *
“Oi.”
Oikawa rolls over and presses his face into his pillow, grumbling sleepily. He's too tired. Whoever it is will just have to wait another five minutes.
“Oi, wake up, dumbass. If you make us both late I'm gonna punch you.”
Ugh. What part of beauty sleep do people just not understand? He burrows his face further into the pillow and harrumphs, curling into a ball. The sheets around him go taut as the offender attempts to pull them off, but his tight fist around the bunch under him prevents them.
“I came over here specifically to wake your shitty ass up and if you don't get up right now I'm shaving your head bald.”
“Iwa-chaaaaan,” he whines. “Five more minutes...”
...—Wait.
Oikawa bolts upright so fast his head swims, and for a moment all he can do is clutch his temples. He hears, distantly, the stumble of footsteps and a distinctly masculine yelp. But beyond that, he heard it, that voice, he had to have—!
“O-Oikawa, are you okay?” Firm hands grasp his shoulders, and he peers up between his fingers into Iwaizumi Hajime’s concerned jade green eyes.
Iwaizumi.
He's here.
Oikawa stares, disbelieving, into those eyes brimming with aggressive worry, brow furrowed into that same ‘god damn it you idiot what did you do to yourself now’ look he knows all too well. He can even see the little vein of irritation pulsing on his temple, the purse of his lips and oh God he's here he's back he's alive and—
“Gah!” Iwaizumi yelps again as Oikawa drags him full bodied down onto the bed, arms wound tight around him, peals of delighted laughter echoing warmly from his throat. “What the hell has gotten into you, Shittykawa?!”
He can't answer, laughing too hard to speak with his nose pressed to Iwaizumi's collar. The solid muscle under his touch is like an anchor keeping him grounded in this reality and he never wants it to stop. It takes several more moments for Iwaizumi to stop struggling and passively accept his fate sprawled rather uncomfortably atop Oikawa on his bed, and Oikawa wouldn't have it any other way. The laughter gives way to ecstatic tears then, spilling over and soaking Iwaizumi's button-up uniform shirt.
There's a shift in Iwaizumi's breathing then, and his arms wind around Oikawa in return. “Tohru?” he asks, uncertain, when Oikawa's crying slips from relieved to despairing. “What's wrong?”
So many feelings flood his system that all he can do is clutch Iwaizumi and cry onto him. How can he explain it? ‘I woke up in a world where you didn't exist’? He rests his head against Iwaizumi's chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat under steadily dampening fabric. Iwaizumi doesn't ask anything, doesn't insist on a response, just rubs his back in solid circles and silently tolerates Oikawa's shuddering sobs.
“I guess,” he finally hiccups when he finds his voice again, “I just had a bad dream.” He gives Iwaizumi a watery smile, peering up at him from his chest.
Whether Iwaizumi believes him or not, he pets Oikawa's hair and clicks his tongue, affectionate and chastising. “Stupid. Getting all worked up over a dream.” He studies his face for a long moment, then averts his gaze and sits up. “We're really gonna be late for school if you don't get up now.”
Oikawa scrubs his face with his hands and sits up, stretching. His body doesn't ache anymore, and he definitely doesn't feel weighed down and tired. When he looks down, he sees he's wearing proper sleeping clothes, and his uniform is hanging up on the wall where it should be. He takes a deep breath, laying his palm on Iwaizumi's back. “Thank you, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi just snorts. “For waking you up? Go bathe, Trashykawa, you stink as bad as your name.”
Ah, everything is right again.
Oikawa just laughs and slips out of bed to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He leans back against it, looking up at the ceiling before closing his eyes and breathing a sigh of relief. He'll have to thank Tomoko later, even if she won't know why; he can't imagine anything carried over after all that. It felt a lot like one of those movies, like that American movie about Christmas, or the one with the little rodent that he saw subtitled at two AM one night ages ago.
...The letter. His brows crease, stepping forward and shedding his clothes, turning the bath on and sitting at his stool. It couldn't have survived, though he's sure he won't forget what happened any time soon. “Sorry, Iwa-chan,” he murmurs to himself. “I'll tell you the truth eventually.” Not now, not when he's still reeling and he needs to come back to the reality he knows and loves.
But maybe, just maybe, just for today, he'll have to treat Iwaizumi to that gross curry he likes so so much.
It's the very least he could do.
* * *
Iwaizumi watches Oikawa disappear into the bathroom, sighing and scratching the back of his head. He's used to Oikawa being weird, he's had a lifetime to grow accustomed to it, but sometimes he just throws him for a total loop with his outbursts. Coming in to find him sleeping was to be expected, but the crying...
Hmph. He was definitely lying about the dream.
He checks his phone to confirm the time and flops on the bed, knowing full well Oikawa will take another twenty minutes to get ready. At this rate there's no hope for their getting to school on time, and factoring in the hair care routine... He snorts and drops his head back on the pillow. Typical Oikawa.
What's not typical is the distinct paper crunch from under the pillow.
Iwaizumi props himself up on his elbows, concerned. Shit, what did he ruin that he'll never hear the end of? He shoves the pillow aside, a small folded pile of notebook paper—dented in the middle from clearly more than just Iwaizumi alone—sitting rather innocuously beneath it. Oikawa's familiar flowing handwriting marks the lines.
It's addressed to him.
Iwaizumi's eyes flick to the bathroom door, the sounds of the faucet running assuring him Oikawa more than likely can't hear him. He's not exactly fond of snooping, but something about the way the kana of his name are penned into the paper, the slightest bit jagged as if his hand had shaken, begs him to unfold the letter.
“Sorry,” he whispers to unhearing ears, and begins to read.
Iwa-chan.
No, Hajime.
I don't think you'll ever see this letter. I don't know what happened or where I am but everything is wrong and I'm alone. You're not here and I don't know why. No one even knows who you are, but I do and I'm scared.
I'm scared to wake up tomorrow without you. I'm scared to forget, to find that everything I know and remember was never real, that it never happened and I'm faced with the only thing that is real. That I'm just some asshole named Oikawa Tohru who fucked up his whole life because you weren't there to fix it.
Every time I think about that, I want to cry. Matsukawa and Hanamaki hate me. Kindaichi and Kunimi are scared of me. Tobio probably feels both of those things because here, in this fucked up reality, I did it Hajime I hurt him because you weren't there to stop me. And when I write that out I realize exactly what that sounds like.
It sounds like I'm blaming you.
All I ever did my whole life was burden you. You stop me when I hurt myself. You tell me not to overwork or train in excess, tell me to go to sleep at a decent time and call me an idiot when I act like one. You've always been there, fixing my mistakes and erasing all my wrongs, and you never once complained in all the years you've done it.
And I took you for granted.
How could I never have noticed? How did you let me make the biggest mistake of my life by never showing you the gratitude you deserve for being everything I lack? You're my conscience, my self control, my morality. Things that I never had on my own because I stupidly assumed I didn't need them. Because I had you.
And now I'm paying for it.
Now I don't.
You're gone.
I need to write it all down in case I forget and tomorrow I go back to being the monster I am in this world.
When we were five years old, I crushed your beetle. I was grossed out by it so I smashed it with a rock. You were crying. Do you remember, Hajime? I didn't feel bad about it until you said you hated me, and I was afraid of that. I said I was sorry but I wasn't. I didn't realize I was until I was ten but I never told you.
When we were eight and Tomoko-neechan had Takeru, you said you wanted a family too. I said I did too but I said it because I was jealous and afraid of the day that you moved on from me and started a family who you had the responsibility to care for. You have no obligation to me, you never did, but back then I felt entitled to you and never wanted you to leave me. I know it's because I was afraid that without you, I would be nothing. I guess it's true, huh.
When we were eleven and thinking about middle schools, you said you didn't know where you were going. I cried and stomped my feet and told you you were going to Kitagawa Daiichi with me. Maybe you didn't want to go there to begin with. Maybe I made you. It's a good thing I made you do it or else I'd have hurt Tobio and made Kunimi and Kindaichi afraid I'd hurt them too. You had to be there, Hajime, you had to follow me because I gave you no choice. You had to be my warden.
When we lost to Shiratorizawa you told me the team with the better six wins. You didn't leave my side even when I showed you my true colors. Maybe by then you'd accepted your fate and you realized you had to be there beside me from now on, keeping me in check and forcing me to rest. I strained my ligament that week and you carried me to the nurse, grumbling the whole way but never putting me down.
You even went to Aoba Johsai with me, even though it's an expensive school and your mom still struggles to pay for it. You never resented me for that, even though you had every right to. But our victories together never felt sweeter, even if we've still not beaten Shiratorizawa.
We never will. Not like this. In a world without you I can't do it alone.
I'm so stupid for never seeing it before. All I ever did was force you along my path with me to be what I couldn't be. I never thanked you or even saw what it was you did for me, selfishly thinking it was your obligation to me.
I don't want to forget you, Hajime.
But you're probably better off in a world without me.
I'm so sorry Hajime.
I'm so sorry I'm a selfish, short-sighted, ungrateful piece of shit. I miss you so much, I wish I'd noticed before every little thing you've done for me. If tomorrow I forget you, I want this to be proof that you, Iwaizumi Hajime, are the best friend that anyone could ever have, and that I love you with all my heart.
I deserve this reality.
I'm sorry.
Oikawa Tohru
Iwaizumi can't breathe. The paper crumples in his shaking hands, wrinkling the drawing Oikawa sketched below his signature. His chest is filled with a swirling mixture of fury, sorrow, and heart-swelling love and affection, encapsulated by the amateurish rendition of what he thinks is Godzilla and an alien in a ridiculous embrace. He takes the letter in again, absorbing every stroke in every kanji and the depth of meaning in every word.
Whatever Oikawa went through, it’s changed him.
He stares at the bathroom door.
* * *
When he's sure he's clean, sinuses cleared out from the steam, Oikawa towels himself off and dons his uniform. He's ready to face this day again, and when he clears the mirror of steam and sees his reflection, he's greeted with his more familiar, easygoing face. No weighty brows, no tired eyes. A little puffy but that's to be expected—even he can't look perfect right after crying.
Best of all, Iwaizumi is waiting for him.
He smiles at his reflection and eases open the door. “Iwa-chan, I'm ready to g—”
The full force of Iwaizumi Hajime hits him square in the chest, cutting him off as he's hugged tight around the middle. “Tohru what the fuck!” Iwaizumi cries, thick with tears, and Oikawa sees the letter's pages spread out on the bed. His breath catches.
“Iwa-chan, I can explain—”
“No, fuck you, you don't get to explain.” Iwaizumi glares up at him with burning eyes. “I don't know what happened to you to make you say that kind of shit but.” His hands fist in the material of Oikawa's shirt, nearly hoisting him up in the air. “If you ever,” he growls, low and threatening, “think you're a goddamn burden to me and you deserve to be alone, I'll knock your head so far off your neck volleyball players in Brazil will be spiking it over the net.”
Oikawa stares incredulously, eyes wide. Iwaizumi read the entire letter.
When he doesn't speak, Iwaizumi continues. “I won't say you're totally wrong. You can be selfish, a brat, a total idiot, and sometimes I don't know if I'm getting through to you. But you are not worthless, and you're definitely not a burden. You think I can't make my own decisions?”
“No, I, I just…” Oikawa swallows.
“...Listen.” Iwaizumi lets him go. “That you wrote all that… it means a lot. It means you're not everything you said you were, you know? It takes a lot of self-awareness. Means you're growing up.” His eyes flick downwards. “But you don't understand that I do everything I do for you not because I feel I have to.” His voice grows quiet. “I do it because I want to.”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes.
Iwaizumi sighs. “So don't worry about that. Don't worry about me, worry about you. And whatever you saw, maybe that's what it was to do. Make you really see yourself.” He pushes his fist into Oikawa's chest. “And when you do see it, fucking learn from it. You can do it. I always believed you could.”
Leave it to Iwaizumi to say exactly the right thing to say. Oikawa can't stop looking at him, eyes welling up for the umpteenth time. Iwaizumi meets his gaze again, and the slightest color tints his cheeks.
“Also,” he mutters as if chagrined. “‘love you with all my heart’? Don't say that.” He harrumphs and wraps his arms around him. “It's stupid and cheesy. And you draw like a five year old.”
Exactly the right thing indeed. Oikawa bubbles out a laugh and returns the hug. “Sorry, Iwa-chan. I can't be perfect at everything.”
“Shut up.” He's quiet for a moment. “We're so late.”
Oikawa shuffles him back to the bed and pushes him down. “I don't care. I'm staying home with you.”
“Dammit Shittykawa.” Much as he protests though, Oikawa feels Iwaizumi's arms tighten a fraction, a pleased sigh escaping when they lie down together. “...Just this once.”
“Only if you admit you love me with all your heart too.”
“Hell no, I'd never say corny garbage like that.”
“Iwa-chaaaaan!”
“Ugh.” Oikawa can almost hear his eyes roll. “You're so annoying.” There's a long moment before Iwaizumi squeezes him, letting out a soft and inherently long suffering sigh. “I love you.”
“‘I love you’ what.”
“Do I really have to?” When Oikawa nods, Iwaizumi manages to look somehow even more irritated. His flush deepens. “Fine. I love you with all my heart. Satisfied?”
“I think so.” Hearing the words makes his heart pick up a few paces. For now, it's enough to know that Iwaizumi at least just cares. Their embrace lingers, breath syncing as the moments pass. It reminds Oikawa of what he told Tomoko, and he feels warm at the memory. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the familiar scent of his best friend in his arms.
It's definitely enough.
As long as he has Iwaizumi, it's more than enough.
