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The bruises didn’t bother him anymore.
They turned purple quietly beneath the arm sleeve he’d started wearing.
No one questioned it. And if they did, he’d laugh and say, “Oh, it’s a style choice.”
People believed him.
After all, the great Oikawa Tooru always cares about how he looks, right?
The truth was, they weren’t bruises from blockers or dives. They were just… marks.
Little ones, at first. Then deeper. Then routine.
From practice. From “accidents.”
From slipping just a little harder than necessary.
From landing wrong on purpose.
A dull ache lived in his shoulder.
An old sprain, maybe. Or something worse.
He never got it checked. Didn’t tape it properly. Didn’t rest.
He just kept pushing it, harder and harder, until the pain became background noise. A punishment he earned. Something to focus on.
He told himself it was discipline.
---
He stayed up too late most nights, eyes trained on footage, overanalyzing every play, every mistake, every moment he should’ve seen something coming and didn’t. He rewatched losses over and over until he could recite every opponent’s rotation in his sleep. His own name written in red pen on a dozen printouts.
It made him feel like he was trying.
But it also carved something out of him.
The dark circles under his eyes got worse.
At first, he wore his exhaustion with pride—proof that he cared more than anyone else.
Then it got harder to hide.
He started borrowing concealer from his cousin. Buying more when that ran out.
It never looked perfect. But it was better than showing what was real.
Only one person really noticed.
Iwaizumi.
His best friend since childhood.
The only person who could look at him and see through the smile.
> “Oi, Shittykawa. Stop staying up. It’s bad for you.”
> “...Iwa-chan, are you my mom?”
Oikawa said it with a grin, smooth and deflecting.
But Hajime didn’t laugh.
He looked at him for a moment longer than usual, like he was weighing something in his head, and then turned away.
---
5:36 PM
> “Hey, idiot. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”
> “Yeah, yeah... sure, Iwa-chan.”
He didn’t mean it. Hajime probably knew that.
But he let it go anyway.
Maybe he’s just tired, Iwaizumi told himself.
Maybe it’s just a rough patch.
But it wasn’t.
It was so much more.
---
An hour later, Tooru closed up the gym.
Everyone had gone home. The lights buzzed quietly overhead. His fingers ached from overuse, wrists stiff, knees bruised. He should’ve iced them. He didn’t.
He didn’t deserve to.
When he got home, the house was quiet—his parents still working late again.
He climbed the stairs, dropped his bag by the door, and peeled off his arm sleeve like a routine.
Underneath, raw lines stretched across his skin. Some healing. Some new.
Some done in the bathroom that morning, before school.
Some done in a daze, barely remembering it at all.
He stared at them under the bedroom light.
If someone saw, he’d say it was from his cat.
The one he didn’t have.
The lie had worked once. That was enough.
---
Meanwhile, Hajime walked past Tooru’s house on his way to the corner store. He glanced up and noticed the light in Tooru’s room was still on.
He paused.
It was late. His parents weren’t home. And Oikawa’s window was cracked open like it always was when he wanted fresh air but not company.
Hajime stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets.
He’s fine, he told himself.
If something was wrong, he’d say something... right?
So he walked on.
Little did he know, that would be one of the worst things he could’ve done.
---
Back in Tooru’s room, everything was quiet.
The notebook was already open on his desk.
The blade—a clean, folded piece of metal he kept hidden behind his trophy case—sat where he left it.
Routine.
The ache in his chest felt sharp tonight.
Not a panic. Not quite sadness. Just this unbearable pressure, sitting there under his ribs like it didn’t want to move.
He didn’t cry. He never really cried.
Instead, he sat down on the floor, legs crossed, and tugged his shorts higher.
There were older lines on his thighs. Ones no one would ever see.
He chose places he knew were safe. Covered. Hidden.
Tooru pressed the edge to his skin like it was instinct, like it was breathing.
> “It won’t hurt to do two more,”
he murmured, voice low, barely there.
His eyes didn’t flinch.
The next morning, his arm hurt.
Not just the usual soreness. It stung, low and sharp, as he peeled the gauze off with practiced fingers in the bathroom before school. His hand shook for a second. Just one. Then he breathed, and it passed.
He checked the mirror: sleeves long enough. Wrist angled inward just slightly when he walked, just in case.
It was fine. He was fine.
---
By the time he got to school, the mask was already on.
Hair perfect. Smile smooth. Eyes half-lidded like he hadn’t been awake until 2 a.m. convincing himself two wasn’t too many.
> “Oikawa-senpai, good morning!”
He waved lazily at a first-year. Called him adorable.
By second period, he was already tired.
Kunimi stared at him during math.
> “You’re paler than usual,” he said flatly.
> “Aww, Kunimi-kun, are you worried about me?” Oikawa teased, grinning just enough. “How sweet.”
Kunimi didn’t answer. Just blinked. Then looked away. Oikawa let him.
---
At practice, he trained harder than usual. Jumped higher. Served sharper.
Laughed louder when Yahaba tripped. Joked more.
He could feel Iwaizumi watching.
When he winced after a spike, he turned it into a joke.
> “Don’t worry, Iwa-chan, just my beautiful shoulder giving me trouble again~”
> “You need to rest it.”
> “Can’t. If I rest, I fall behind.”
Iwaizumi opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but Oikawa was already walking away, towel over his neck, smiling.
---
That night, the notebook stayed closed.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart thudding like something was pressing down on his chest.
The thought came suddenly, like a whisper:
> "Iwa-chan knows something."
He turned to face the wall.
Pulled the covers up to his chin.
Swallowed the guilt and let the silence settle over him like a second blanket.
---
Iwaizumi didn’t sleep that night either.
He replayed practice in his head. The shoulder wince. The uneven gait.
Oikawa had a new way of folding his arms—across his chest, hands hidden.
He used to gesture with both hands. Now he kept one in his pocket.
Something wasn’t right.
He thought about asking again. Really asking.
But he remembered the last time Oikawa had gotten quiet.
First year, just after that loss.
He’d locked himself in a gym for hours. Refused to speak for two days.
Pushed too hard, and Oikawa would smile, lie, and shut down.
So Hajime waited.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be his mistake.
Iwaizumi Hajime POV
It started with the sleeves.
Oikawa never used to wear long sleeves during practice. Not in May. Not when the gym steamed like a sauna and even Kunimi had to pull his bangs back to breathe.
Now he wore them every day.
Black compression sleeves. Loose, thin long-sleeve shirts under his uniform jacket. Always just enough to pass as casual. Athletic. Easy to ignore.
If Hajime brought it up, Oikawa would just say:
> “Oh, it makes me look cool, don’t you think, Iwa-chan?”
And then flash that same damn smile.
The one that worked on everyone but him.
---
But it wasn’t just the sleeves.
It was the early mornings.
Oikawa had always been extra, sure—overachiever, perfectionist, textbook control freak—but lately, Hajime would show up an hour early for morning drills only to find him already sweating, already panting, eyes glassy with focus.
> “How long have you been here?” Hajime asked once.
Oikawa didn’t look up from the basket of balls at his feet.
> “Not long. Couldn’t sleep.”
Liar.
His hair was damp. His knuckles were red. And there were three empty water bottles by the gym door.
---
At first, Hajime thought he was overthinking it. Just being paranoid. They were all tired. It was the middle of tournament season. Everyone was stretched thin.
But then the notebook happened.
Oikawa had left it behind after practice. Just for a minute—gone to grab something from the supply room.
Hajime knew he shouldn’t have opened it.
He really did.
But curiosity had long since turned into concern, and concern had started growing claws.
Inside, it was exactly what he expected: strategy notes. Rotations. Diagrams of opposing teams.
And then he flipped to the last page.
Small handwriting. Not part of the drills.
A list.
“1 missed block = 10 serves.”
“Poor timing = 20 push-ups.”
“2 missed today. Add five.”
The pen was pressed hard enough to dent the paper.
Hajime stared at it for a long time.
Not training.
Not drills.
Punishment.
---
He put the notebook back exactly where he found it and said nothing.
But after that, he started watching Oikawa like a hawk.
---
That weekend, he caught him limping. Just barely.
A shift in weight. A slight hitch in his step. No one else would’ve noticed.
> “You’re limping.”
> “No I’m not.”
> “You are. I can see it.”
> “Then stop looking.”
There was bite in his voice. Defensive. Dismissive. Like a door slammed shut.
---
Later, Oikawa was sitting against the gym wall, stretching his legs, towel over his neck, head tipped back like he hadn’t slept.
The others were talking, laughing, but Hajime couldn’t stop watching him.
The way he rubbed at his shoulder.
The way he kept shifting his grip on the water bottle like his hand hurt.
The way he wouldn’t meet Hajime’s eyes when he caught him staring.
He looked pale.
Hollowed-out.
Like someone who had learned how to fake energy the same way he faked charm.
---
Oikawa had always been dramatic.
He’d cried over broken shoes, sulked over test scores, faked sprained ankles just to skip P.E.
But this wasn’t drama.
This was quiet.
Controlled.
And getting worse.
---
That night, Hajime walked home alone. Past Oikawa’s house.
He didn’t mean to stop—but he did. Right in front of the gate.
He looked up.
The light in Tooru’s room was on.
Curtains half-drawn. Just like always.
His fingers itched in his pocket, curling around his phone. He could call. Say something. Ask, straight up:
> “Are you hurting yourself?”
But what would Oikawa say?
Would he lie? Laugh? Get mad?
Or worse—what if he didn’t deny it?
What if he confirmed everything Hajime had started to suspect?
What would he do then?
---
He stayed there for a full minute before turning and walking away.
Just before the corner, he looked back once.
The light was still on.
Oikawa POV
The toss was off.
He felt it immediately—the angle was wrong, the release too late, the snap of his wrist just slightly delayed by the tightness in his shoulder. Yahaba jumped for it anyway, but it was already falling. The ball hit the net, bounced limply to the floor.
The gym fell quiet.
Yahaba sighed, crouching to pick it up. “My bad.”
> “Nope,” Oikawa said, plastering on a grin. “That one’s on me.”
His voice was too light. Too smooth.
It bounced off the walls like it was nothing.
Like he wasn’t panicking.
His heart was beating too fast.
That hitch in his shoulder had turned into a sharp pinch. Not blinding, but distracting. Persistent. Familiar in the worst way.
No one spoke. Kunimi glanced at him. Kyoutani muttered something Hajime didn’t catch. The team reset.
But Oikawa could feel it. The shift. They noticed.
Not enough to say anything.
But enough.
---
He overcompensated after that.
Louder calls. Faster serves. Brighter smiles. He clapped Kindaichi on the back too hard, teased Yahaba about his set form, yelled encouragement until his throat went raw.
No one asked why he didn’t spike that one toss from Iwaizumi.
Why he hesitated a full second before lifting his arm.
He told himself it was nothing.
He told himself he wasn’t weak.
---
Later, they were switching rotations when Yahaba turned to him.
> “Captain, you’re kind of off today.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Oikawa felt his chest tighten—but he didn’t let it show. He laughed. Loud. Sharp.
> “Wow, so blunt~ That’s what I love about you, Yaha-baby.”
Yahaba gave him a flat look. “I’m serious.”
Oikawa turned back to the court. “Don’t worry about it. Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the truth either.
---
His shoulder ached more with every movement. He kept shifting it between plays, trying to shake out the pain, rotate it loose.
It didn’t work.
The bandages under his jersey were already sweat-soaked, pulled too tight.
His fingers trembled slightly when he served.
By the end of practice, his entire arm felt like it was made of static.
---
In the locker room, he made sure to change fast. Back turned. Shirt on in record time.
He caught Iwaizumi watching in the mirror.
> “What?” he asked, pulling his hoodie down.
Hajime shrugged. “You’ve been off all day.”
> “Don’t start, Iwa-chan.”
> “Tooru.”
The way he said it—Tooru instead of Shittykawa, instead of Captain, instead of anything else—it stopped Oikawa in his tracks for half a second.
Just long enough to make it real.
He forced a smile. “I’m just tired. Happens to the best of us, right?”
> “You’ve been tired for weeks.”
That shut him up.
But only for a moment. Then he laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Well, that’s what happens when you’re too good to rest~”
He said it like a joke.
Iwaizumi didn’t laugh.
---
By the time he got home, his shoulder was screaming.
He didn’t ice it. Just dropped his bag by the door, stumbled upstairs, and collapsed face-down onto his bed. His body felt like it was buzzing—like there was too much in his skin. Too much pressure, too much heat, too much everything.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the wall.
Blank.
Unmoving.
He couldn’t even cry.
Didn’t feel like he had the energy.
---
At some point he sat up. Went to the bathroom. Peeled his jersey from his skin, wincing at the sting where the fabric stuck to his shoulder.
He stood in front of the mirror and examined the damage.
Red lines. The tape had rubbed raw. Beneath it, the bruising was darker than before—almost black at the edges. There was swelling. He poked at it gently.
Sharp pain flared up his arm. He bit down a gasp.
> “It’s fine,” he whispered.
Then quieter:
> “It’s just pain. You can take it.”
---
The journal was open on his desk. He didn’t remember when he grabbed it.
He flipped to a blank page.
His handwriting was uneven.
> “Dropped the ball. Missed toss. Couldn’t spike. Arm weak.”
He stared at the page.
Then added:
> “Lazy. Fix it.”
He closed the book.
---
That night, he lay on his side with an ice pack against his shoulder and one hand curled into the blanket. His stomach felt hollow. He hadn’t eaten. Didn’t feel like it. Didn’t want to taste anything. Didn’t want to do anything.
He stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned.
---
Iwaizumi POV
Hajime was still thinking about him.
He replayed the wince during practice. The missed toss. The way Oikawa had hesitated, just slightly, before raising his arm—like it hurt.
Like it always hurt.
He thought about the tape. The too-fast wardrobe change. The smile that was one notch too bright, the laugh that came half a second too late.
He wanted to push.
He wanted to ask—demand an answer, demand the truth.
But every time he got close, Oikawa shifted. Moved sideways. Threw a joke like a smoke bomb and disappeared into the persona again.
And Hajime didn’t know how to reach through it.
---
He sent a text just past midnight.
> [ Don’t push yourself tomorrow. ]
No response.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
> [ I mean it. You’re not alone. ]
Still nothing.
---
Up in his room, Oikawa was still awake.
Phone face-down on his desk.
Eyes wide open.
He didn’t move.
He just laid there.
Listening to his heartbeat and wondering how many days he had left before his body made the choice for him.
...
He shouldn’t have come to practice.
He’d been up all night again. Not even doing strategy this time—just scrolling, zoned out at his desk, fingers twitching, eyes dry and wide. He knew if he laid down, the thoughts would start again.
He was on his third can of Monster before the sun came up.
Two more were in his gym bag. Hidden. Just in case.
---
By the time he stepped into the gym, his heart was already stuttering. Not bad. Just a flutter. A hiccup.
> “Tired,” he muttered, stretching his arm. The one that throbbed all night.
He didn’t warm up properly. Just kept moving.
Eyes blurry. Joints stiff. Shoulder still sore, like someone had tied a weight to it.
He ignored the shaking in his hands. Blamed it on nerves.
---
> “Captain, warm-up tosses?” Yahaba asked.
Oikawa nodded. His grip was off. His fingers were colder than usual.
He threw. Missed the catch. Laughed it off. “Oops. Must be getting old.”
But his vision was dipping again—sharp one second, then dull the next. He blinked rapidly and reached into his bag behind the water bottles.
Cracked the fourth can open under the bench when no one was looking. Drank half of it in one go.
---
Drills started. His body didn’t feel like his.
He was sweating too fast.
His head pulsed with his heartbeat.
His chest… fluttered. Once. Then again. A sharp skip, like static under his ribs.
He shook it off.
Just anxiety. Just exhaustion. Just the price of being great.
---
Then he jumped to spike.
And everything tipped sideways.
His shoulder gave out mid-air. The pain was immediate, white-hot.
He landed hard—one knee slamming the ground, arm cradled to his chest.
Gasps.
> “Oikawa?” Kunimi said, frozen halfway across the court.
Oikawa pushed himself up with his good arm. “I’m—fine,” he panted, vision tunneling. “Slipped.”
His heart was still doing it. The skip. The flutter.
He clenched his fist and tried to steady it with breath—but the more he tried, the worse it got.
And that’s when he realized:
He couldn’t catch his breath.
Not fully.
He was gulping air, but it wasn’t going in fast enough.
---
Iwaizumi POV
Hajime was moving before he realized it.
“Oikawa,” he said sharply, stepping forward. “You’re not fine.”
Tooru turned to him, face pale and wet with sweat. His hands were visibly trembling. His chest rising too fast.
> “I’m okay,” he gasped. “I’m—fine, I just—”
He staggered. Put a hand on the wall.
Iwaizumi got there first. Gripped his arm.
And felt it.
The racing pulse under his skin. Fast. Too fast. Erratic.
> “Tooru,” he said, lower now. “How many did you drink?”
Oikawa didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes.
> “How many?”
> “I don’t—know,” he whispered.
Iwaizumi looked into his gym bag. Five crushed cans. One unopened. Two water bottles, both untouched.
His stomach dropped.
> “Yahaba,” he barked. “Get Coach. Now.”
---
The others stepped back, stunned.
Kunimi was staring. Kindaichi was pale. Kyoutani said nothing.
> “He’s not okay,” Kunimi muttered. “He’s really not.”
---
Oikawa slid down the wall, hand still over his chest. His breathing was shallow. His knees drawn up, like he was trying to make himself smaller.
> “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Iwaizumi knelt in front of him. “Stop saying that. Just—breathe, okay?”
> “I didn’t mean to—”
> “Breathe, dammit.”
He guided his hand to Oikawa’s chest. Tried to pace it. “Follow me. In. Out. You hear me?”
Tooru nodded. Barely.
---
They stayed like that for minutes.
Until his heartbeat slowed. Just enough.
Until his breathing evened. Just barely.
Until his eyes stopped darting around like he was about to die.
---
Later, when Coach came, Oikawa couldn’t stand on his own.
Iwaizumi helped him into the infirmary. Carried his bag. Hid the crushed cans before the rest of the team saw.
He didn’t say a word.
Because Tooru was already falling apart.
And now?
Now Iwaizumi couldn't look away.
Oikawa POV
He didn’t go to school the next day.
Didn’t text anyone. Didn’t even open the curtains.
The ache in his shoulder had spread. It wasn’t just pain anymore. It was exhaustion. Collapse.
Like his body had finally caught up with everything he’d been pretending didn’t hurt.
He barely moved all day.
His stomach was a hollow thing. His head a drum. The taste of Monster still sat on his tongue like metal.
He’d written in his journal once—just one jagged sentence, ink smudged halfway through the page.
> “I was getting better at pretending than living.”
Then he threw the pen across the room.
---
Iwaizumi POV
He stood outside Oikawa’s door again.
Two days in a row.
He knocked once.
Then again.
> “Go away.”
Soft. Shaky.
Iwaizumi didn’t listen.
He let himself in with the spare key. Walked up the stairs one step at a time like it might delay what he already knew was waiting.
When he opened the bedroom door, the light barely reached the corners of the room.
Clothes. Empty wrappers. Crushed cans.
The smell of sweat and something sour. Faint and heartbreaking.
Oikawa was curled into himself on the bed, blankets over his head like they could keep the world out if he just stayed small enough.
Iwaizumi sat in the chair. Waited.
---
After minutes of silence:
> “Why are you here?” Oikawa whispered. His voice sounded like gravel.
> “Because I don’t want to be somewhere you’re not.”
Nothing for a while.
Then:
> “I’m fine.”
> “You’re not. You almost passed out. You’ve been starving yourself. Living off caffeine. You haven’t looked me in the eyes for a week.”
Oikawa didn’t argue.
> “I’m trying,” he muttered instead. “I’m trying, Hajime.”
Iwaizumi stood up. Took the blanket gently from his hands.
> “No. You’re breaking. That’s not the same thing.”
Oikawa turned away, curling tighter. “I can’t slow down. If I stop—someone else gets better. Someone else wins. And I can’t be the one left behind again.”
His voice cracked at the end.
> “They cheer for me like I’m not falling apart,” he whispered.
---
Iwaizumi sat on the bed. Reached over.
> “You don’t have to keep doing this alone.”
> “I’ve always done it alone.”
> “You don’t have to anymore.”
Silence again.
Then Oikawa’s voice, so low Iwaizumi almost missed it:
> “I didn’t want to die, Hajime… I just wanted everything to stop hurting for a while.”
A pause.
> “But I didn’t know how to ask without sounding weak.”
And then the dam cracked.
His breath hitched. His shoulders began to shake. A sob tore free from his throat like it had been rotting inside him.
He covered his face with both hands, but it didn’t stop the sound.
> “I kept calling it discipline,” he choked. “Every bruise. Every night. Every skipped meal. I thought if I just—worked harder, it would fix something. But it didn’t. It just—”
> “It just turned into destruction.”
Iwaizumi didn’t say a word.
He just pulled him in.
Let Oikawa collapse into him, trembling, heaving, wrecked. Let him cry against his shoulder like he had permission to finally feel it all.
They stayed like that until the storm passed.
---
Eventually, Oikawa’s voice broke again—this time barely above a whisper:
> “If I told you I was tired… would you finally let me stop?”
And Iwaizumi’s answer was silence.
But his hand threaded through Oikawa’s hair. Slow. Grounding.
A yes without saying yes.
Oikawa’s eyes fluttered shut.
> “I’m so fucking tired, Hajime.”
---
He fell asleep curled against Iwaizumi’s chest.
Like a snapped thing finally let go.
And Iwaizumi stayed there all night.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t let go.
He didn’t let Tooru go.
Not now.
Not ever.
Iwaizumi POV
He didn’t plan to find anything.
He was just cleaning.
Oikawa was in the shower—slower than usual, bones heavy under skin, but at least up and moving. And Hajime didn’t want to hover. So he cleaned.
Water bottles. Crushed cans. Clothes too wrinkled to be clean. The soft hum of water behind the door felt like borrowed time.
Then he reached under the bed.
First: the journal.
He recognized the cover immediately.
Open. A page flipped halfway. He didn’t mean to read it, but his eyes caught on one line that slammed into his ribs:
> “I was getting better at pretending than living.”
He stared at it. Swallowed. Kept going.
That’s when he found the small metal box.
Light. Cold.
Tucked in the side pocket of Oikawa’s gym bag. Hidden, but not well enough.
He opened it slowly.
Inside: a few spare bandages. A small folded towel.
And two razors. Clean. Carefully wrapped. Like they were something precious.
Iwaizumi’s heart stopped.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t drop it.
He just… stared.
He could imagine it too clearly. Oikawa alone. The door locked. Music loud. One more line hidden under a sleeve. One more lie told with a smile.
He gently closed the box. Put it back.
Said nothing when Oikawa stepped out of the bathroom with damp hair and too-pale skin.
But he looked at him differently now.
Not with fear.
Not with disgust.
With grief.
Because he finally understood the weight Tooru had been carrying—and how quietly he’d been crushed beneath it.
---
Oikawa POV
He knew Iwaizumi had seen something.
He moved differently that evening. Softer. Not coddling—just… present. Focused. Like his eyes wouldn’t leave Oikawa even when he looked away.
He didn’t ask.
And somehow that made it worse.
They sat in silence on the floor, surrounded by blankets and open notebooks.
Oikawa stared at a blank page for ten minutes before finally whispering:
> “You saw it, didn’t you.”
Iwaizumi didn’t lie. “Yeah.”
> “You hate me now?”
> “No.”
> “You should.”
Iwaizumi turned to face him, steady and slow.
> “You’re hurting, Tooru. Not broken. And I’m not leaving you.”
Oikawa's throat burned.
> “It’s disgusting. What I did. What I still want to do sometimes.”
> “It’s not disgusting,” Iwaizumi said. “It’s pain. That’s all it is. And pain doesn’t make you unlovable.”
---
That night, Oikawa didn’t cry.
He just breathed.
For the first time in days, it felt like maybe he didn’t have to keep hiding.
---
Later that week, at practice:
He didn’t play. Just watched.
Jersey left folded in his bag. Wrists taped loosely—not to hide anything, but because they were sore. Normal sore.
Yahaba passed him a water bottle without comment. Kunimi nodded from across the court. No one stared too long.
They didn’t ask.
And somehow, that made him want to say something.
In the locker room, he pulled Iwaizumi aside.
> “I threw the blades out,” he said. Voice small.
> “I know,” Iwaizumi said. “I checked.”
> “I’m not promising I’ll never relapse.”
> “Then don’t promise,” he said. “Just… let me help when you need to try again.”
Oikawa nodded. His throat was too full for words.
---
That night, in his journal, he didn’t write much.
Just one sentence:
> “Healing is quieter than I thought. But maybe that’s okay.”
It had been three weeks since the heart attack.
The bruising on his chest had faded.
The monitors were gone.
He even joked with the team again.
He told everyone he was healing.
He said the word like it meant something.
But at night, when no one was watching, his chest still felt like it was cracking in slow motion.
The scar on his wrist from the IV line had started itching.
And the journal sat unopened on his desk, untouched.
Because he’d stopped writing things down.
Because if he didn’t see the words, they couldn’t be real.
---
Iwaizumi POV
He was smiling again.
He made dumb jokes.
Started tossing again, carefully.
Ate when Hajime reminded him. Slept, or said he did.
He was okay.
He had to be okay.
Right?
---
Oikawa POV
He found the blades again on accident.
They were in the bottom drawer of his desk, shoved behind an old roll of athletic tape and a broken phone charger.
He stared at them for five minutes.
Told himself he was just looking.
That it didn’t mean anything.
That it was curiosity, not craving.
But he didn’t put them back.
Not that night.
---
It started small.
A scratch. A graze.
Nothing that bled too much. Nothing that would leave a mark someone could see.
Then more.
The places no one checked.
He showered in the dark again.
Wore long sleeves to practice, claiming he was cold.
Laughed when the team teased him for becoming "delicate."
They didn’t know he was bleeding under the fabric.
---
Journal Entry (finally, after weeks)
> “I was doing better. I swear I was. But now everything’s loud again.”
> “They keep saying I lived. But I didn’t choose to. My body just didn’t quit fast enough.”
> “I miss the way pain feels simple. Quiet. Like a secret I still control.”
---
Iwaizumi POV
He caught him once—by accident.
Oikawa had been changing in the locker room.
Iwaizumi turned too fast.
Saw the red line peeking out under his sleeve.
Not a scar.
Not from before.
> “Tooru—what the hell was that?”
Oikawa froze.
Pulled the sleeve down. Smiled. Too wide.
> “Cat scratch.”
> “You don’t have a cat.”
> “Then it’s a ghost cat, Iwa-chan. Let it go.”
But he wouldn’t meet Hajime’s eyes.
And Iwaizumi… didn’t believe him.
But didn’t push.
Didn’t know how.
---
Oikawa POV
He wanted to stop.
He really did.
But there was something comforting about the sting.
About the sharp, immediate focus it brought.
No thoughts.
No past.
No fear.
Iwaizumi POV
He hadn’t planned on going into Oikawa’s room.
But Tooru was running late for practice—again—and his phone had died.
Coach was pissed.
Yahaba was pacing.
So Hajime climbed the stairs, used the spare key Oikawa had given him "in case I die or forget how doors work," and let himself in.
He wasn’t snooping.
At first.
But when he tripped over the pile of empty Monster cans next to the bed—at least sixteen of them—he paused.
And then the silence inside him snapped.
---
The desk was cluttered.
Papers. Torn notes. An untouched protein bar.
The Monster stack towered beside a cracked mirror.
But the drawer.
The drawer was half open.
And Hajime’s hands moved before his brain could stop them.
---
Inside:
Three blades. Wrapped carefully in gauze, like souvenirs.
A small, stained towel, dried rust-pink.
A folded page from the journal—torn, unreadable, except for one sentence at the top.
> “I promised I’d stop. I meant it, just not forever.”
Iwaizumi didn’t breathe for a long moment.
He reached further.
Pulled out the journal.
---
Oikawa POV (earlier)
He thought he had more time.
More time to hide it.
More time to get clean before Hajime noticed again.
But the cans had built up.
The urges had returned.
One cut last week. Two this week.
Enough to silence the thoughts.
Not enough to stop his heart—he wasn’t suicidal. Not exactly.
Just tired.
So fucking tired.
---
Iwaizumi POV (continued)
He sat on the edge of the bed.
The Monster cans stared at him like ghosts.
He opened the journal. Flipped past pages he shouldn’t be reading.
Then stopped on one written just three days ago:
> “Iwa-chan looks at me like I’m healing. I can’t tell him I’m not. I can’t tell him I think about it every night.”
> “Maybe I deserved the heart attack. At least then someone finally looked at me.”
Iwaizumi’s chest twisted.
He didn’t cry.
He stood.
Waited.
---
Oikawa POV (present)
He walked in the door laughing, bag over his shoulder, trying to fake the “sorry I’m late!” routine.
Then he saw Iwaizumi sitting at the edge of his bed.
The journal in his lap.
The Monster cans pushed neatly to the side.
And the blades. Laid out in front of him like evidence.
Tooru froze.
His smile died.
> “Iwa—”
> “You said you were better.”
It wasn’t a scream.
It was worse.
Just pain. Just disbelief.
Just Iwaizumi, holding his worst parts in his hands and still looking at him like he mattered.
> “I was trying,” Oikawa whispered.
> “Trying doesn’t involve hiding razors under your desk, Tooru!”
> “I didn’t want you to worry—”
> “I never stopped worrying!”
Silence.
Oikawa’s knees gave out before he could run.
He slid to the floor, shaking.
> “I can’t stop. I try and I can’t. I feel nothing and I miss feeling anything, even if it’s bad—even if it hurts.”
Iwaizumi was at his side in seconds.
Not yelling now.
Just pulling him in.
Wrapping arms around him so tightly that Oikawa finally broke.
> “I’m so tired,” he sobbed. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
> “Then don’t fix it alone,” Iwaizumi said. “You don’t have to.”
> “But I’m ruining everything. I keep—”
> “And I’m still here,” Iwaizumi said fiercely. “Even now. Even if you relapse again. Even if you fall apart tomorrow. I’m still here.”
> “Why?” Oikawa whispered, throat raw.
> “Because I love you,” Iwaizumi said, voice breaking. “And I’m not leaving just because you’re bleeding again.”
---
That night, Oikawa didn’t throw the blades away.
Iwaizumi did.
Right in front of him.
One by one. Into the trash. Taped the bag shut.
No ultimatums. No lectures.
Just:
> “When you’re ready, we’ll talk to someone. For real this time.”
And Oikawa didn’t argue.
Didn’t fake a smile.
Didn’t say he was fine.
Just nodded. Slowly. Shaking.
And whispered,
> “Okay.”
Just red.
Just breath.
Just silence.
---
The team didn’t know.
They thought he was healing.
They let out a collective sigh of relief too early.
Only Iwaizumi still watched him closely.
Only Iwaizumi still saw how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
And even he didn’t realize:
> Oikawa Tooru had survived.
But he hadn’t come back.
Not really.
He sat on the edge of the couch like it might bite him.
The office was too quiet.
Muted beige walls. A single clock ticking far too loud.
His hands gripped the sleeves of his hoodie, tugging them over old scars no one in this room had earned the right to see.
The therapist smiled gently. Introduced herself. Said his name like it was something delicate.
He stared at the floor.
> “Do you want to talk about why you’re here?”
> “No.”
> “Okay. Then maybe start with your name.”
He paused.
> “Oikawa Tooru.”
His voice cracked.
---
Iwaizumi POV
He sat in the waiting room, bouncing one leg nonstop.
There was a bag of Monster cans in his car.
He hadn’t thrown them out yet.
He didn’t know if he should.
He looked at the clock.
Fifteen minutes.
He wanted to storm in there.
Hold Tooru’s hand. Sit on the floor with him if he had to.
Say, “Please tell her everything before it eats you alive again.”
But he didn’t.
Because Oikawa was trying. On his own.
That mattered.
---
Oikawa POV
The room felt too big.
His chest too tight.
The therapist asked gentle things.
Didn’t press.
Asked if he wanted to talk about volleyball.
> “It’s all I have,” he said.
> “Is it all you want to be?”
He didn’t answer.
Later, she asked how long he’d been self-harming.
He shrugged.
> “Depends if you count playing through torn ligaments and saying I was fine.”
She didn’t flinch.
He hated that.
---
There was no breakthrough.
No movie moment.
No tears.
Just fragments.
> “I almost died.”
“Everyone keeps treating me like I survived on purpose.”
“Sometimes I think pain is the only thing that proves I’m real.”
The therapist didn’t try to fix him.
She just listened.
And at the end of the session, she handed him a notebook.
> “If you can’t say it yet, write it.”
> “What if I don’t want to?”
> “Then write that, too.”
---
Iwaizumi POV
He stood up the second the door opened.
Oikawa looked… drained.
But not broken.
Their eyes met.
Oikawa didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.
He just walked forward, hoodie sleeves bunched at the knuckles, eyes glassy but sharp.
> “Let’s go,” he said quietly.
> “Yeah,” Iwaizumi replied. “Let’s.”
They walked out together.
No words.
But Oikawa’s hand brushed his.
Just once.
And Hajime didn’t let go.
---
Journal entry, that night:
> “I didn’t cry. I didn’t talk about everything. But I went.”
“I’m scared of getting better because I don’t know who I’ll be without the pain.”
“But Iwa-chan waited for me the whole time.”
“And maybe… maybe I’ll go again next week.”
Yahaba POV
It was supposed to be a normal team hangout.
Just post-practice chaos at Iwaizumi’s place.
Pizza boxes. Blankets on the floor. Oikawa curled into a beanbag chair, hood pulled over his face, pretending not to be exhausted.
Iwaizumi stepped out to grab more drinks.
Yahaba wandered toward the desk to grab the remote, and—
There it was.
Oikawa’s notebook. The black one.
Peeking out from under a pile of papers.
He recognized the handwriting on the top page.
Small. Tight. Like someone was afraid of being seen.
He never meant to read it.
But when the page fluttered open on its own, when he saw the first words,
his eyes froze.
> “I was doing better. I swear I was. But now everything’s loud again.”
---
Kunimi POV
He heard Yahaba call softly—just once.
By the time he walked over, Yahaba had gone pale.
Notebook open. Silent.
> “What’s that?”
> “Oikawa’s… journal.”
Kunimi didn’t ask for permission.
He read.
> “Sometimes I think the heart attack was my body trying to do what I didn’t have the guts to.”
> “I didn’t throw the blades away. Iwaizumi did.”
> “The team thinks I’m better. That’s why I can’t tell them I’m not.”
Kunimi closed the notebook carefully. Like it might shatter.
> “Call everyone,” he muttered. “Now.”
---
Oikawa POV
He stepped back in and felt the shift in the room.
The silence was too heavy.
Too intentional.
He looked up. Saw Yahaba’s face first—tight-lipped, red-eyed.
Saw Kunimi standing beside his journal, hands clenched.
Iwaizumi was already looking at him.
Not angry.
Just hurting.
> “You read it.”
Oikawa didn’t ask.
Didn’t yell.
He just nodded once, eyes distant, walls slamming back into place.
> “So now you all know,” he said.
> “You can go. It’s fine.”
---
Kindaichi POV
> “Go?”
Kindaichi stood up.
> “Are you serious right now?”
Oikawa blinked.
> “You weren’t supposed to see any of that. It’s pathetic.”
> “It’s you.”
> “Exactly,” Oikawa snapped, voice too sharp. “It’s me. The broken one. The selfish one. The liar. You should’ve just left it alone.”
Everyone stared.
Oikawa’s chest rose and fell like he couldn’t breathe.
> “I didn’t want you to hate me.”
> “We never did,” Mattsun said quietly.
---
Makki POV
> “Tooru.”
Everyone turned.
Makki stepped forward, voice uncharacteristically soft.
> “If you’d just said something…”
> “I didn’t know how, okay?” Oikawa hissed. “Every time I tried, I thought you’d all look at me different. Or worse—you wouldn’t.”
Silence.
> “So I wrote it down instead. I needed somewhere to put it.”
> “And we read it,” Makki said, guilt thick in his throat. “Without asking.”
Oikawa shook his head. Sat down hard on the floor, like his legs gave out.
> “It doesn’t matter. I was never going to be brave enough.”
He pulled his sleeves down.
Too late.
They’d seen the edge of red.
---
Iwaizumi POV
He knelt next to him, slow and sure.
> “You don’t have to be brave. Not here.”
Oikawa didn’t answer.
> “We’re not angry. Just… hurting for you.”
> “I didn’t want that either.”
> “Tough,” Yahaba said from behind him. “You don’t get to choose how much we care.”
Oikawa laughed then.
Bitter. Wrecked.
> “You guys were supposed to have a fun night.”
> “We still are,” Kunimi said flatly, “just with more crying.”
> “And less pretending,” Kindaichi added, kneeling on the other side.
---
They didn’t fix it.
Didn’t erase the pain.
But Kunimi handed the journal back gently.
Yahaba slid a blanket around Oikawa’s shoulders.
Mattsun and Makki brought in snacks like nothing had changed.
And it hadn’t.
Not really.
They just finally saw him now.
---
Group chat, that night:
oikawa ✨:
> so uhh. who cried the most
yahaba 🐍:
> me. i will own that.
kindaichi 🌱:
> makki sobbed like a baby actually
makki 🍑:
> DID NOT
mattsun 🐶:
> we love you, dumbass
kunimi 😐:
> next time just tell us before your organs fail
iwa-chan 💢:
> and give me that journal when you’re done with it. we’re making a scrapbook
oikawa ✨:
> you guys are the worst
thank you ♡
It was supposed to be a normal PE class.
He hated swimming, but he was already behind in credits, so he forced himself into the pool, even with the long sleeves gone and the voice in his head screaming someone will see.
But no one did.
He moved fast. Got out faster.
Changed quickly.
Almost made it.
Until someone knocked too soon—
The nurse, filling in for the coach that day.
She stepped in. Froze.
Her eyes dropped to the red line trailing along the inside of his upper arm.
Not fresh. But not old.
He panicked. Pulled his shirt down. Mumbled, “It’s not—just from a fall, it’s not what it looks like—”
But the words didn’t land.
Her face told him it didn’t matter.
---
Thirty minutes later
He sat stiffly outside the nurse’s office.
His hands were cold. His face felt like wax.
They’d called someone. A counselor. His homeroom teacher. Someone else too.
They hadn’t let him leave. Hadn’t yelled. But their quiet voices felt worse.
Worse than anything he’d prepared for.
---
Iwaizumi POV
He got the text during practice.
From Yahaba, of all people.
> yahaba 🐍:
oikawa just got pulled out of class
something happened. the nurse saw something
he’s not answering his phone
Everything dropped in Hajime’s chest.
He didn’t think. Just ran.
---
Oikawa POV
The counselor’s voice was calm. Too calm. The way adults spoke to things already marked as broken.
> “You’re not in trouble, Oikawa-san. We’re just concerned.”
He nodded.
He didn’t speak.
Not until they asked the question:
> “Are you thinking about harming yourself again?”
The word again made his throat close.
He couldn’t lie.
But he didn’t want to say it either.
So he said nothing.
And in that silence, they decided everything.
---
Iwaizumi POV
He found him sitting on the cot in the nurse’s office, knees to his chest.
Eyes blank.
Iwaizumi didn’t speak right away.
Didn’t ask.
Just sat beside him. Close, but not touching.
Oikawa broke first.
> “I was doing better.”
His voice was barely there.
> “I know,” Hajime whispered. “You still are.”
Oikawa laughed once, bitter and cracked.
> “They’re gonna call my mom.”
> “Let them. Let everyone. You don’t have to hide anymore.”
> “But I was hiding it so well.”
---
Oikawa POV
He expected shame.
Expected the team to turn away.
To be tired. Embarrassed. Quiet.
What he got was very different.
—
Later that night, back in the group chat:
yahaba 🐍:
> you okay?
oikawa ✨:
> got snitched on by the school nurse 😌
kunimi 😐:
> damn. what happened to stealth.
mattsun 🐶:
> we’ll forge her tires. don’t worry
iwa-chan 💢:
> nobody’s forging anything.
makki 🍑:
> except oikawa’s self-worth. we’ll forge that shit til he believes in it again
kindaichi 🌱:
> you’re not mad at us, right?
oikawa ✨:
> mad?
you guys knew and didn’t leave.
i think that’s the only thing keeping me alive right now.
---
That night, he wrote again.
> “They saw the scars I didn’t want them to.”
“And they stayed.”
> “Maybe being seen isn’t the same as being ruined.”