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“Hey, Iwaizumi. Doesn’t this look like you?” Hanamaki asks curiously, staring up at a portrait hanging in one of the booths of the student art exhibition. The artwork, created in oil paint, depicts a man from the waist up in traditional attire, his kimono clean and crisp, his posture straight, almost military-like, and a stern expression on his carefully captured features. He stares straight ahead at the audience, though one might point out that he was staring at the artist before anyone else.
“Huh. It does,” Matsukawa agrees beside him, studying the artwork with intrigue. The trip to the museum, where an art exhibition for students from various universities was being held, was his doing. Matsukawa wanted some inspiration for his assignment and when he found out his rival from a neighbouring university was exhibiting there, it wasn’t much of a choice anymore.
“It’s got your scowl to a tee,” Hanamaki says in amusement.
“Really? Don’t see it,” Iwaizumi answers dryly, a stark contrast to his true sentiments. It really does look like him, it’s almost uncanny, but what is more bizarre is the way his chest stirs with familiarity, and it’s not the first time this has happened before—perhaps not through artworks but remnants of hazy dreams and odd reminders of an unlived life—like a ghost feeling, something left behind to haunt him quietly.
Apparently, he’s scowling, because Hanamaki teases, “There it is! Issei, tell me you see it too.”
“It’s a perfect copy.”
Hanamaki grins and Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, hoping his friends can’t tell that the portrait has roused a strange sensation within him. “This one’s titled ‘once’ ,” Hanamaki peers at the label to say. “Wonder what that means.”
“Too bad the artist isn’t here for us to ask,” Matsukawa comments offhandedly. True enough, unlike the other booths, the artist seems to be absent from his.
Not wanting to think too much into it, since it hasn’t yielded any answers before, Iwaizumi tears his eyes away from his doppelganger and lightly scolds, “Didn’t you want to see your rival’s exhibition? Why are you getting distracted by this?”
“Okay, we’re going,” Matsukawa accedes, allowing Iwaizumi to herd them away. “You’re more serious about my assignment than I am.”
An hour later, Iwaizumi finds himself alone at the top of the pristine white staircase in the lobby, where he’s supposed to meet his friends who are nowhere to be found. He digs for his phone to pull up Hanamaki’s contact, too annoyed to appreciate the artwork of a single cherry blossom tree that hangs overhead —its petals in full bloom in spring until its branches stretch across the canvas into summer and autumn and winter to return to its barest state.
The call connects on the third ring and Iwaizumi snaps impatiently, “ Hanamaki, where are you?”
“Sorry! Issei found out that Sean Minami —” he cuts off abruptly, like someone has grabbed his attention, “Oh sorry, Sean Manami is on the panel of Art in Repetition: The Convergence of Time and Space and dragged me along. We’re going in now and there’s a no-phone rule so bye!”
“Hey—” Iwaizumi calls out, but the line is dead. He clicks his tongue irritably and says to no one in particular, “You’re insufferable.”
He doesn’t get a second to think about what he’s going to do next when a voice cuts in from behind—
“Iwa-chan?”
It’s not even his name, but Iwaizumi turns anyway and comes face-to-face with a boy his age, his hazel eyes wide with surprise behind a pair of half-rim glasses, and Iwaizumi has never seen him before but god, he is gorgeous.
Before he can wonder if he’s addressing him, the boy is running towards him, relief flooding his face. Iwaizumi blinks, his feet rooted to the spot, and the boy flings his arms around his shoulders, forcing Iwaizumi to stumble back with the force of his embrace.
“I found you,” he whispers breathlessly. Iwaizumi parts his mouth in confusion, not knowing where to put his hands. “I finally—Iwa-chan?”
He stops himself when he releases Iwaizumi and realises that he hasn’t reacted, much less said a word. Iwaizumi’s bewilderment is palpable and it robs the brunette of his delighted surprise. In that moment, a sense of dread pools in the pit of his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi steps back gingerly to put distance between them. “Have we met?”
“Oh.” It’s as if a lifetime of nightmares was condensed into a heavy pause. The bespectacled boy stills, the flush draining from his face, and brings up a hand to cover his mouth in embarrassment. He pretends it doesn’t pierce him in a hundred different ways as he stammers, “Oh god, I’m sorry. I thought—I thought you were someone I knew.” He pretends the earth isn’t trembling at his feet from the understanding that Iwa-chan doesn’t remember when he says jokingly, “How silly of me! It’s these glasses, they’re so old. I should get a new prescription.”
It’s almost cruel that he remembers a lover, born from the same breath, from a previous life, and yet Iwaizumi stands before him, a boy of one world. Aren’t second lives supposed to be second chances?
“It’s okay,” Iwaizumi says, searching his face but not knowing what he’s looking for. Something that can explain why his chest suddenly grows tight or why his fingertips are tingling. Remembering how he had reacted to his voice earlier, Iwaizumi asks, “What did you call me just now?”
His curiosity doesn’t escape the boy’s notice and for some reason, a flash of hope glints in his eyes. “Iwa-chan,” he answers, smiling softly. “It’s a nickname for the person I knew.”
“Right,” Iwaizumi stutters, feeling warm at the sight of his smile. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, struggling to find his words because honesty seems a little too much right now. “It’s just— (I think I’ve heard it before) —never mind.”
The brunette regards him sympathetically, his tone inviting when he asks, “Is it similar to your name?”
“I guess so,” Iwaizumi answers and introduces by way of an explanation, “I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.”
“I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he says, and it echoes in Iwaizumi’s mind. Cinnamon-coloured eyes regaining their brightness, Oikawa tells him, “Nice to meet you.”
(Again.)
That day, they have lunch together, and it doesn’t take a lot for Oikawa to ask if they can see each other again, nor does it take a lot for Iwaizumi to say yes. Being with Oikawa, as he finds out on their little trips in the days that follow, is like falling into an old rhythm, to an old tune he knew the chorus to but not anything else. It’s strangely comforting, and days with Oikawa are the loveliest, and also the most intriguing.
“Why’d you want to visit a castle?” Iwaizumi asks as they saunter shoeless through the interior of an old castle that was restored to preserve its history and bring in tourist dollars. He thought they would have visited the aquarium or amusement park.
“I like history,” Oikawa says simply and smirks. “I know Iwa-chan likes kaijuus that wreck the economy, so I’ll let you pick the next date idea okay?” Iwaizumi clears his throat awkwardly and looks away. Is this a date? They’re not in a relationship so does Oikawa mean something else? His thoughts are cut off when Oikawa starts speaking, his tone slightly wistful, “Did you know that because of the limited wall space for hanging art, it was painted on folding screens and carved into wooden panels? Some of these castle rooms have the most exquisite artwork I’ve seen.”
Iwaizumi sees them for himself as they stroll through the castle, Oikawa supplying him with nuggets of information that seem to come from great experience. It’s only when they stop by the private quarters of a royal member, and Iwaizumi’s eyes linger on everything it has to show—paintings of cranes and plum trees adorning its walls and surrounding an immaculately set up study in the middle—that it happens again.
Flashes of a life he does not remember.
*
A knock interrupted Oikawa’s late-night perusal of a few documents handed to him from his adviser. Having been in a sour mood all day as he was caught in a hectic schedule without his personal guard and favourite companion, the Prince frowned. Assuming it was a servant bringing him food, he called back curtly, “I’m not hungry.”
A familiar voice came from the other side of the shoji door, “Are you sure? The servants told me you barely ate your dinner.”
Oikawa swivelled the same time the door slid open to reveal his personal guard and favourite companion holding a plate of wagashi, hardly appropriate this late at night but what Iwaizumi knew his Prince would eat.
“Iwa-chan! You’re back!” he exclaimed, scooting away from the low study table to face Iwaizumi properly.
“I’m back,” Iwaizumi repeated and set the plate on the side. “I finished the mission early.”
“I missed you,” Oikawa murmured, holding out his arms for Iwaizumi.
“I missed you too,” he said, moving in to let Oikawa’s arms come around him. He held him in an embrace and kissed him sweetly, taking a moment to savour the feel of Oikawa’s lips against him, sorely missed, before Oikawa released him suddenly, eyes flashing with indignation.
“They’re keeping us apart, I know it!” he exclaimed. “They send you on a mission out of the blue and arrange a line of activities for me tomorrow, the day you’re supposed to return. It’s absurd!”
“I know. I have a few words to say to them about this mission,” Iwaizumi agreed solemnly. “But for now, can we have tonight? Please,” he implored, unabashed with the want in his voice.
Oikawa softened and gazed at him coyly under lowered lashes. “I’m all yours.”
“Oikawa…” Iwaizumi whispered. He threaded his fingers through Oikawa’s long hair, let out of his usual ponytail to fall enticingly over his shoulders, and confessed, “I forget how beautiful you are.”
The Prince hummed, pleased, but reminded him firmly, “You know what to call me when we’re alone.”
Iwaizumi held Oikawa’s gaze as he corrected himself, “You’re beautiful, Tooru.”
“And don’t you forget it, Hajime.”
There was an impish smile on his lips and Iwaizumi remembered how completely, helplessly taken he was. “You’re insufferable,” he said, as lovingly as he felt.
“You love me,” Oikawa knew.
“I do,” he admitted. “I really—” his breath hitched, and he let it out in a sigh, “really do.”
*
“Thought I’d find you here,” Iwaizumi said as he stepped into the pavilion of the royal family’s wisteria garden and Oikawa’s place of comfort from when he spent his childhood here with Iwaizumi, when life wasn’t so complicated. “The King and Queen are wondering where you are.”
“Let them,” Oikawa replied petulantly, looking out at the wisterias blooming in April, a far more peaceful sight. “I’ve told them countless times that I won’t be meeting any potential consorts and not once did they listen, so why should I?”
Iwaizumi joined him on the wooden seat. “They’re your parents.”
Oikawa pinned him with a defiant look. “It doesn’t mean they do what’s best for me. They do what’s best for the kingdom,” he bit out, and noticing Iwaizumi’s understanding gaze, he realised his anger was misdirected. He sighed frustratedly; despite his best efforts to evade them, the most dreadful demands of his royal duties had caught up to him. “I couldn’t bring myself to meet those people, knowing I’m supposed to choose one of them to wed,” he bemoaned, lifting anxious eyes to Iwaizumi. “Could you bear to see it?”
“No. I couldn’t,” his answer was sure and Oikawa’s shoulders relaxed. “But I will, if I have to. I’ll watch and burn with jealousy if it could spare you from your parent’s fury,” Iwaizumi added, just as certainly. It would burn him from the inside out, but he’d put himself on the line before he let anything happen to Oikawa, the King and Queen included. “Your rebellion displeases them.”
Oikawa understood his words and that they came from a heart that would willingly be hurt to protect him, but he shook his head at the impossible idea of being with another, his chestnut hair swaying in the wind, “I can’t take a consort…”
“I’m not saying you have to. I’m saying to compromise. Meet them and treat them fairly,” Iwaizumi said, taking Oikawa’s hand in a gentle hold, “but remember who you belong with.”
“I belong with you,” Oikawa told him urgently, desperately. “Only you.”
*
“…you.”
“What?” Iwaizumi blinks out of his daze as he realises he’s being spoken to. They’re in the garden, surrounded by verdant foliage and the reds and yellows of momiji trees. The visions were merely glimpses, but they left a familiar longing deep in his chest.
Oikawa tilts his head at him curiously and repeats, “I asked what about you? The garden looks beautiful all year round but what’s your favourite season?”
Iwaizumi remembers the vivid lavender of blooming wisterias and says, “Spring, I guess.”
Oikawa smiles. “Me too.”
All the pretence comes crumbling away when Oikawa invites Iwaizumi to his apartment which, on first look, is a favourable development, but Oikawa gives himself away with the portrait of a lover from a past life—the one he created with careful strokes and hid from Iwaizumi until now.
It was an accident. He had left the door to his art room ajar and was busy preparing tea and snacks in the kitchen while Iwaizumi borrowed his washroom, delighted that he was over, that he’d cleanly forgotten about the portrait.
None the wiser about fate’s intentions, Iwaizumi passes by the art room on his way back to Oikawa when something familiar catches his eye. He knows it’s rude to enter another person’s room without their permission, but the sight is too unfathomable to ignore. Against his better judgement, Iwaizumi steps through the door and is greeted by the last thing he expected to see in Oikawa’s apartment—a painting of his doppelganger from all those days ago in the museum, sitting at the far end of the room, staring back at him in a mystery.
It’s not the only thing that freezes him to the ground. Scattered over the room are portraits of the same person painted in familiar scenes—in a tatami room, under a pavilion in a wisteria garden—sometimes accompanied by a brown-haired man whose face is never shown, most times alone like a representation of an artist’s dedication.
How are these in Oikawa’s room? How is it possible that Oikawa has created a spitting image of him even before he met him? A hundred questions race through his mind, even as the door opens and Oikawa is standing there, guilt in his eyes.
“Iwa-chan.”
“It was you. You drew this,” Iwaizumi says in a stuttered breath and the questions force themselves out of his mouth. “Who are you? How did you know me? Why does it feel like I know you?”
Oikawa approaches him, relieved that Iwaizumi doesn’t back away. He isn’t afraid, he only wants answers to questions he thought were always unexplainable. Oikawa chooses his next words carefully, but how do you explain something you know across two lives to someone who only knows one?
“This is the you I remember from a previous life,” he tries, gauging Iwaizumi’s reaction but he simply seems shocked. “We were lovers. A prince and his guard,” Oikawa explains, and the implication that such love is forbidden need not be said. “I wish I could say we had an easy life, but we didn’t. At the end of it, I told you I’d find you again, and I did. I just didn’t think you’d forget me.”
Iwaizumi is still stunned silent as he processes Oikawa’s impossible words. Seeing the disbelief on his face, Oikawa smiles ruefully and tries his damndest to ignore how his heart caves in on itself. “It’s okay if you don’t remember. It’s okay if you don’t believe me,” he says, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I just want you to be happy.”
They belonged with each other in a previous life but it wasn’t easy; this life seems more forgiving yet they can’t belong with each other. Perhaps it was never meant to be easy. Oikawa is still coming to terms with such an injustice.
“The places you brought me to, they seemed so familiar. Is that why?” Iwaizumi asks, searching but not scared.
Oikawa nods. “I hoped they would help you remember. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. If you want to leave, I understand.”
The air is tense for a few quiet seconds.
“I don’t,” Iwaizumi finally says and Oikawa’s eyes widen in surprise. He takes a while to find the words, but his feelings don’t change, that much he’s certain of. “I still don’t get how all this is possible but I believe you. Sometimes it feels like I’ve lived these moments before. Sometimes I dream of them, even before I met you, and after I met you, I realised that I like spending time with you. I think even without the memories, it would have been this way.”
Second lives are second chances.
“So you do remember?” Oikawa wonders softly.
Iwaizumi closes the distance between them and takes Oikawa’s hand in a gentle hold, like old souls coming together again after a life once lived and lost.
“It’s not everything, but I remember bits and pieces,” he says. “I remember us.”