Chapter Text
When I was little, my dad used to tell me, “Hajime, you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friends’ nose.”
This seemed like a reasonably astute observation at the time, but it turns out to be incorrect on a few levels. To begin with, you cannot possibly pick your friends, or else I would have never ended up with Oikawa Tooru, or, as he calls himself , and I swear to you this is true, he actually calls himself this, Oikawa Tall, Bi, and Ready to Try Tooru.
Tooru is not the world’s tallest person, even though he’s 184.3 centimetres, last time I checked, and he is not the world’s greatest bisexual being, but I believe that he may be the world’s tallest person who is really, really bi, and also the world’s bi-est person who is really, really tall. Tooru has been my friend since fourth grade, except for the summer between ninth and tenth grade, when he was busy discovering the scope of his own gayness, and I was busy trying to assemble a Group of Friends TM for the first time of my life, who, eventually, never talked to me again due to two transgressions early in the same year:
- After some school-board member got upset about those ‘damn gays’ in the locker room, I defended Tooru’s right to both be tall and therefore, by default, the star member of our sort of shitty volleyball team, and fifty to seventy-five percent gay, it depended on the situation and the guy, since he had a type, obviously, in a letter to the school newspaper that I signed.
- This guy in said Group of Friends TM named Satori was talking about that letter in lunch, and in the process of talking about it, called me a bitchsquealer, and I didn’t know what the fuck a bitchsquealer was, so I told him, ‘What did you just call me?’ and then all he answered was ‘Bitchsquealer. I called you a bitchsquealer.’, so I told him to fuck off and took my lunch and left.
Truthfully, I supposed that, technically, I left the Group of Friends TM, although it really felt the other way around since, honestly, none of them seemed to like me, they were simply there, which wasn’t nothing. It made me feel sort of good and wanted, and now that they aren’t around, I was utterly bereft of social peers, unless you count Tooru, which I suppose I must.
All of that didn’t really matter a year later, anyway, and so there was, a few weeks after Semester break, sitting in my assigned seat when Tooru waltzes in. Every day, he manages to wedge himself into the chair desk beside mine, and every day, I am amazed he can do it, since his legs are so lanky and all. His knees can’t be bent under it. It’s sort of a miracle.
So Tooru squeezed into his chair, and I am duly amazed, and then he turns to me and whispers really loudly, since he secretly wants the others to hear, “I’m in love.”
Here’s the thing, though. Tooru falls in love every hour on the hour with some poor new boy or girl. The girls are always shorter than him, and the boys are always on some sports team. He likes the captains or aces the most. They all look the same, too: Muscular with big, fat arms and always sweaty and tan. The last trait is an abomination, because all tans in January are fake, and boys who fake tan— I don’t care whether they’re gay or not— are ridiculous.
“That’s not hot shit.” I answer, “It’s not even cold piss.”
“You’re so bad mannered,” Tooru says, waving his hand at me. I swat it away.
“You’re cynical.” he says.
“I’m practical.”
“You’re heartless.” he replies. He’s been saying that ever since we watched this film All Dogs Go to Heaven. Tooru bawled his fucking eyes out. I did not. Ergo, he thinks that I am incapable of what humans call emotion, since, going from the title, I should have known that it wouldn’t end merrily, and it didn’t, but I didn’t really see the point of crying. The filmmakers weren’t there to see my reaction, it was just Tooru and I on his sofa, and I feel like crying is almost— aside from death, or whatever— totally avoidable if you follow two simple rules throughout your life: don’t care too much, and shut up.
Tooru says I only hide my emotions because of the patriarchy. I didn’t care though, mostly because I had to Google what that word even meant. He’s been really into politics, lately. His mother thinks he’s a communist because he read Das Kapital over summer vacation, though judging for his love for shitty American documentaries about conspiracy theories and aliens, he’s fucking awful at being one.
“Love isn’t real.” I say, just to piss him off, and it works. He pouts.
“It is,” he whines, “I know love is real because I feel it.”
I keep repeating those words in my head even after Tooru prances out and goes to his own seat, across the classroom, since the teacher knew that, otherwise, he’d only ever speak to me, and that would be sort of horrible for the both of us, grades wise.
I even think of them after class, staring at my locker, and wondering how I managed to leave The Scarlet Letter at home, since I had English right after break, when Tooru comes up to me with his Gay-Straight Alliance— Tooru initiated that club, of course he did— friends. Both of them. There’s Issei— who is gay— and Takahiro— who may or may not be his boyfriend, I never asked.
“Apparently everyone thinks I professed my undying love for you in class this morning,” Tooru says, and I groan inwardly, since if Tooru says that everyone said so, it really meant that absolutely no one has ever said so.
“Great.” I say.
“People are such idiots,” he says, “Isn’t that just the silliest crap you’ve ever heard?”
“There’s a difference between being in love and announcing it to people.” Issei starts, “I mean, don’t get me wrong. You have every right to love Daichi—”
“Tetsuro.”
“Wait, what? I thought it was Daichi! He was the one on the football team, right?” Takahiro interrupts, “What happened to him?”
“I liked Daichi.” I say.
“Yeah, me too. He was great.” Takahiro agrees.
“Really polite,” Issei says, “He’s just such a nice guy, y’know?”
“Well,” Tooru intercepts, “It’s Tetsuro now, and he’s on the baseball team.”
“Tooru, you being a make-out whore is so not good for the cause.” Issei groans as he bangs his forehead against the steel of my locker.
“Are you a communist now too, Issei?” I ask.
“I’m not a communist!” Tooru hisses.
“Sure,” I say, “Just quell those rumours of our love. It hurts my chances with the ladies.”
“Calling them the ladies doesn’t help either.” Tooru sighs, “Sometimes I forget you’re straight,” he says, “You’re practically the last straight friend I’ve got, which is a shame, since I could find you such a nice boyfriend!”
“Like Tooru,” hums Takahiro.
“For the record,” Issei agrees, “You could do so much worse than dating Oikawa Tooru.”
“And he has,” Takahiro notes, “They’d be good together. Tooru has done a lot worse, too. They could talk about their past experiences over a romantic candlelit dinner. How about it, Tooru? You free this Friday?”
“Did you just hit on Tooru... for me?” I ask.
“Hell yeah we did!” they say, and high-fived, too. It was sort of embarrassing. Like watching your parents kiss in public, or something.
Tooru snorts, then, and I feel warm all over. I probably blush, too, though I respond the way I always to do any emotions: by looking down and walking straight and fast. I know they’re kidding. I know part of knowing someone is being mean to them or whatever. Tooru always says some brilliant thing to me back, something like, ‘For someone who theoretically doesn’t want me, you sure spend a lot of time thinking and talking about me.’ and maybe that works for Tooru, but it never works for me. The only thing that works is shutting up, and so I shut up, and I don’t care, and I keep walking, and soon it’s over.
Here’s the thing: Whilst it is theoretically true that I am straight, it is a momentous lie.
I am a terrific liar.
I made out with a guy over summer, and boy, did that clear things up for me. It made sense. I’m not going to come out, or anything, not now. It would only complicate things. I’ll sort that out at university, you know, turning over a fresh leaf and all that.
There’s this other thing, too: Tooru may be a horrendous ass, but God, I am so in love with him.
I ignore it. He doesn’t like me that way. Otherwise, he couldn’t date those sweaty, tanned guys.
It’s the only thing I can do. I can’t say anything else. I can’t say the truth. I can’t just shout into Tooru’s face, ‘Yes, yes! I’m in love with you! Go out with me!’ since I know that Tooru thinks I’m straight along with the rest of civilisation, and I know that he doesn’t like me, and I know that he’d blow it off as a joke, and I know that even though it’s unhealthy, or whatever, it’s better to keep your feelings shut and bottled up than pushing them out there in the open. It’s too vulnerable. I’m not like that. I’d rather live a lie and have Tooru as a Best Friend TM than confess my feelings and ruin everything I care even a little about.
That night, not long after I order some food for me and my parents, who are— as always— working late at the hospital, Tooru calls me and, real quiet and fast, like it’s some great secret, blurts out, “Gas Exchange is playing a show at the Hideout and it’s not advertised and it’s gonna be great and you should totally come!”
I sigh.
“What?” I say.
“Gas Exchange.” he repeats, far slower this time, as though I were a child, “Gas Exchange is playing a show at the Hideout tonight. You should come.”
“What the fuck kind of a name is Gas Exchange?”
I can almost hear Tooru’s frown. He does this thing where he tilts his head and scrunches his head and has this half pout, half frown on his lips. It’s really cute.
“It’s Tetsuro’s band,” he says, “Did I mention that he’s in a band? Well, he is, and they’re really good, and they’re playing tonight, and you’re coming with me.”
“I don’t want to.”
I’m a terrific liar.
“You do. You’re not going to let me go alone,” he answers, and I’m sure he’s grinning now, “I could get mugged, or raped, or drugged, or stabbed in an alley—”
“Fine,” I hiss, “I’ll pick you up in my car.”
Tooru giggles. He fucking giggles.
“Okay,” he says, “I told Issei we’d meet him there—”
“Wait, what? Tooru, I swear to—”
“Bye!” he shouts. I frown down at the screen. His contact picture is this horribly ugly photo of him. I took it half a year ago, without him knowing.
It’s hopeless. I’m already grabbing my keys and walking towards my car.
I call my mom from the car, while I’m driving out of parking lot. I’m a really shitty driver, but boy, I can reverse like none other. I tell her some of my friends are playing at the Hideout, and she says, “Who? What? You’re hiding out?” and I repeat what I said slower, and she hums and says, “Right. Be back by eleven.” and then she has to go cut cancer out of someone.
Tooru lives in this house that looks sort of like mine, and once I pull up in his driveway, I sit in the car and put on some music and shoot him a text saying that I’m here, and I barely finish typing before he comes running out of his house, one black Adidas trainer on and the other in his hand, shouting, “Go, Hajime! Go, go!” all while jumping towards me. I turn on the ignition and he slides in, slamming the door shut with intense aggression.
I drive. I turn my head to look at him. He exhales a shaking breath before tilting his head my way and grinning, and God, he is so beautiful, and fuck, I am so gay.
“You okay?” I ask as Tooru pulls on his shoe.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “Why?”
I shrug, and he turns up the volume on the radio. Everything goes perfectly from there. Traffic’s not too bad, and the lights of the city look so nice on Tooru’s face as he opens the window and sticks his head out. I love the way the city smells. It’s all brackish lake water and soot and sweat and grease and I love it, and I love this song, and Tooru’s saying ‘I love this song.’ and he’s laughing and suddenly I am very aware of my existence.
Eventually, though, it ends. The Hideout is this dive bar made out of wooden planks and it’s nestled between a factory and some government building. There’s a short line out of the door, and I’m surprised anyone would willingly stand in line to see a band called Gas Exchange. Issei’s there, too, alone and he looks sort of angry.
I huddle in line with Tooru and him, and waiting outside in the face-scrunching cold, he’s still grinning and says, “You’ll love them. They’re so brilliant.” as though he can read my thoughts.
I sure hope he can’t, since all he’d hear is perpetual screaming. I kick the gravel in the dirt and watch a dust cloud encircle my foot as Issei asks him how far he’s gone with Tetsuro.
“Not too far,” he answers, “He only just asked me out. We made out in the locker rooms, but he’s sort of a loser, I guess, so we’ll see what happens tonight.” He laughs.
I want to scream out loud, and then, we all shuffle into the Hideout, alone with Gas Exchange and a hundred strangers. It smells sort of off and it’s dark, but the pushing of bodies gives me an excuse to press against Tooru, so that’s alright.
Issei goes to get some beers, and I take one, mostly because I want something in my hand. I never know what to do with my hands, and then we make our way up close to the stage. The lights dim down, and then everyone’s clapping, and these three guys come out onstage. It turns out that Tetsuro is the bassist, and there’s a lead singer with horrifically gelled-up hair and on guitar, and another guy who’s playing drums. He’s tiny, with bright orange hair that can only be dyed, and it’s hilarious to see him play.
“We are Gas Exchange,” the singer screams into the microphone, “And we’re here to make you feel sad and think about death and stuff!”
I’m not sure how to describe this band’s music. It sounds like a hundred thousand weasels being dropped into a boiling ocean, and then I realise: I waited outside in the cold grey-lit car-exhausted frigidity to hear a band that fucking sucks.
They play five songs. It’s not a lot, and thank God it’s not a lot. I lost it after one of their lyrics, ‘So sad, so very, very sad. I am so sad. So very, very sad.’ was belted. It’s not a Billboard Hit, that’s for sure.
“Thank you!” the singer shouts once it’s all over, “We’re Gas Exchange and we’re here to rock!”
They aren’t here to rock. They leave the stage. Tooru’s clapping and screaming wildly beside me.
Later, Tetsuro and the singer snake down to join Tooru and Issei and I at the bar.
“You were amazing!” Tooru says, and he jumps towards Tetsuro to hug him. He puts his arms around his waist and pulls him close, kissing at his neck while Tooru giggles. I’m sort of worried I’m going to vomit.
“Thanks, babe,” he says in this hoarse, sultry voice. Who the fuck calls guys ‘babe’?
“This is Koutarou,” he continues, gesturing to the singer.
“’Sup?” he nods.
“I’m Issei,” Issei introduces himself, “This is Hajime.” he says, and thank the Lord he did. I was speechless. Koutarou had a piercing. A piercing. I suddenly felt like everyone here was marginally cooler than me and my Best Friends TM.
Koutarou orders some shots.
“I don’t really drink. I’m driving.” I say, and Issei’s eyes widen. I realise that my duty has been passed onto him. He takes two shots. Tooru takes two as well. Tetsuro takes one, and he slides his hand up Tooru’s shirt, touching his bare hip.
“Did you guys enjoy the show?” Koutarou asks, “Pretty good, right? It’s from our new album.”
“You have an album?” I ask. It sounds like an insult. Koutarou doesn’t pick up on it.
“Yeah,” he answers, grinning, “It’s on Band Camp.”
“Wow.” Issei mouths.
Tetsuro pulls Tooru closer to him, then, and Tooru wraps his arms around his neck. Tetsuro whispers something in his ear, probably something dirty, and he gasps and hushes something back. A second later, they’re both gone, and I guess that he went to Tetsuro’s, or something, or to his car. I didn’t really want to think about it too much. It made me feel sick, and I leave half an after Tooru was gone. Koutarou isn’t really interested in Issei or me, which makes sense, and he excused himself a little while later to go talk to his Real Friends TM. That also makes sense to me. I know that I’m a bore. I say my goodbyes to Issei, and then I get in my car and send Tooru a text asking whether he was alright. He didn’t reply.
Annoyed, and little lonely, I set my car into gear and reverse and speed away. I don’t want to think too much about what happened.