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Iwaizumi shoots Hanamaki a worried look over his textbook as he hacks another wet cough. Hanamaki sighs behind his alien patterned mask (courtesy of Oikawa) and rubs a hand over his chest. Oikawa hangs his coat up in their shared closet by the front door and slings his bag near Iwaizumi’s feet.
“Makki!” Oikawa sings, sweeping him up into a hug. “I missed you!” He coos, pressing a long kiss to Hanamaki’s forehead and pushing his hair back with his calloused fingers.
Hanamaki scoffs. “I saw you this morning.”
“Details.” Oikawa frowns while pressed the palm of his hand to Hanamaki’s forehead, then his own. “You’re still a little warm, Makki.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well then you can take this mask off and give me a proper kiss.” Oikawa tugs at one of the strings looped around Hanamaki’s ear.
“No!” All three boys freeze at Hanamaki’s loud exclamation. “No–I … I don’t want to get any of you guys sick. I’m gonna go work in my room.” He says quickly, grabbing his backpack and scurrying down the hall. Oikawa bites his lip and looks like he wants to go after Hanamaki but Iwaizumi grabs his wrist and pulls him down to sit in his lap.
“But Iwa-chan–”
Iwaizumi loops his arms around Oikawa’s waist and opens up his textbook again, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“Give him some space, Tooru.” Oikawa pouts and crosses his arms over his chest, but relents, leaning further back into Iwaizumi’s chest.
For a while the only sound of the apartment is the whisper of the textbooks heavy pages as Iwaizumi slowly makes his way through the chapter, as well as the occasional notification from Oikawa’s phone.
“Mattsun said he missed the bus and the next one isn’t for a while so he’ll be home a little later than usual.” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi hums and gently pushes Oikawa off of his lap.
“I’ll start on dinner.”
“Can we have gyudon?” Hanamaki’s voice makes both of the males’ heads snap to the living room where he’s standing in his college sweats and an old Aoba Johsai long sleeve dry fit. His arms are folded behind behind his back but it’s easy to tell that he’s wringing his fingers. Iwaizumi’s eyes soften.
“Lemme see if we have the ingredients.” He has to bend down low because their fridge is small and short, basketball shorts stretching around his firm ass. Oikawa whistles to which Iwaizumi glares at him over his shoulder.
“Quit leering, Asskawa.” He pulls out a pack of pre-cooked and refrozen beef to let it defrost and plugs in the rice cooker, dumping in enough rice and water for four and letting it run. Hanamaki laughs but it morphs into a cough so rough it sounds like it’s ripping up his insides; he bends over with the force of it, putting one hand on the wall to keep his balance. Even after he stops coughing his breathing is frantic and shallow. Oikawa hurries to his side, one hand on his shoulder and the other in the middle of his chest.
“Let’s go sit down, Makki.” Oikawa guides him to sit on their small couch. Hanamaki leans back, arching his neck over the top curve of the couch. Oikawa hears a quiet clicking like teeth knocking together, and frowns. His mouth is covered but Oikawa can still tell by the curve of his eyes that he’s smiling.
“I’m okay, baby, just a little cold is all.” Oikawa pulls at the blanket that Hanamaki’s half sitting on and wraps it around both of them, hoping his body heat will help. The house slowly begins to fill with the savory smell of cooking beef and other vegetables; in 20 minutes dinner is finished. Oikawa coaxes a drowsy Hanamaki into their cramped kitchen and sat him down at their cheap Ikea table barely big enough to sit four. Iwaizumi sets down three steaming bowls of gyudon, covering the fourth in seran wrap for when Matsukawa got back, and hands Oikawa and Hanamaki each an egg.
“Itadakimasu.” Hanamaki sloppily cracks his egg over the bowl, the yolk already broken by the ragged edges pulling bits of shell into the rice and beef mixture. The egg cooks quickly on top of the heated food as he swirls it around with the tapered tips of his chopsticks. He pulls the mask down to reveal pale, chapped lips.
“Yummy as always, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa sings, scooping a long piece of caramelized onion into his mouth.
“Thanks, Hajime.”
Iwaizumi grunts gruffly, but a light blush rises on the back of his neck. Oikawa’s phone dings again and he looks down quickly.
“Mattsun said he just got off the bus and he’ll be here in ten.” Exactly eight minutes later, Iwaizumi gets up to put Matsukawa’s food in the microwave for two minutes, knowing he likes his food extra hot. The sound of keys scraping against the lock sounds just as the timer beeps.
“Iwa-chan is always so considerate.” Matsukawa hangs up his jacket and walks into the kitchen. He bends down and gives Oikawa a quick kiss, nipping his bottom lip before pulling back. To Iwaizumi he gives a longer kiss, cupping the base of his neck and sweeping hotly into his mouth with his tongue. Matsukawa cradles Hanamaki’s cheeks with both his hands and presses light kisses all over his face; forehead, nose, eyes, chin. Hanamaki just laughs.
“Welcome home, Mattsun.” Oikawa chirps. Matsukawa pulls the hot bowl out of the microwave and takes the fourth seat at the table. Their evening is filled with idly chatter about work and school, crap bosses and fifteen page papers. Hanamaki stays uncharacteristically silent the entire time. The three other boys shoot him anxious looks but he’s too out of it to notice. Every now and then he’ll rub his chest, wincing at some unseen pain.
“Dessert anyone?” Matsukawa asks, gathering the bowls and running some water in them.
“Ice cream!” Oikawa says.
“Just yogurt for me.” Iwaizumi says. After a silent moment, Matsukawa looks to Hanamaki.
“Takahiro?” No response. “Takahiro!” Hanamaki jerks in his chair.
“Uh, no I’m good.” He gets up only to stumble a little, coughing hard into his hand. This time it doesn’t stop, desperate gasps intermingled with the wretched heaving, his back convulsing. He trips over his feet, catching himself with the hand he coughed into which slides a little down the wall in a smear of red.
“... blood…” Iwaizumi whispered. Matsukawa drops the carton of ice cream and the metal ice cream scoop, catching Hanamaki before he hits the ground.
“Is–Issei… something’s wrong. I don’t feel so good.” Hanamaki whimpers, sounding impossibly young.
“What is it, baby, what hurts.”
“Ugh, my chest, fuck it hurts. I,” He pauses to gasp, “It hurts to breath.”
“Hajime, Tooru, let’s go, we’re going to the hospital.” Both boys scramble for their coats and keys, all of them hustling into Oikawa’s car. Oikawa hops into the driver’s seat, Iwaizumi in the passenger seat, and Matsukawa pushes himself and Hanamaki into the back, laying Hanamaki out across the seats with his head in his lap.
Hanamaki’s chest rises and falls pitifully, his mouth open wide to reveal flecks of blood dotting the inside of his teeth.
“Is-Issei, I’m f-fu-fucking cold.” Hanamaki chatters, fingers twitching by his sides. Matsukawa frowns and puts a hand on his forehead only to find it burning hot. He shoots Iwaizumi and Oikawa a worried look in the rearview mirror. Oikawa pushes his foot down harder on the gas, the engine growling in response.
In a college town on a Friday night the hospital is whirl of drug overdoses and alcohol blackouts. Matsukawa and Iwaizumi drag Hanamaki inside while Oikawa goes to park the car. The dark-haired wing spiker pulls Hanamaki over to sit in the waiting room while Matsukawa describes Hanamaki’s symptoms to the nurse working at the front desk. They’re far enough away that Iwaizumi can’t hear what they’re saying but he can see Matsukawa’s thick eyebrows furrow, the expression on his face angry but then resigned.
Despite his rising distress at Hanamaki’s health, Iwaizumi was aware enough to have sat them down on a chair wide enough for two with no arm rest in the middle. He maneuvers Hanamaki so that he’s partially lying on Iwaizumi’s chest, frowning when he can feel the heat of his fever on his collarbone. His hacking cough has died down to a rasping wheeze which–although probably less painful–is still disconcerting. Matsukawa drops down in the chair to Hanamaki’s left, running a hand through his inky black hair.
“She said judging by the symptoms Takahiro’s case isn’t urgent, so it could be 20 to 30 minutes before he’s seen by a doctor.” Matsukawa looks over to Hanamaki, who’s barely on the edge of awareness. His eyes roll in their sockets from Iwaizumi to Matsukawa, breath whistling through his nose.
“I’ll be fine.” He rasps in an attempt to soothe his lovers’ frayed nerves.
“Shh, don’t try to talk.” Iwaizumi hushes, brushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead. Five minutes later Oikawa rushes in and quickly finds them in the mass of people. He kneels down in front of Hanamaki, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.
“Makki, how are you feeling?”
Hanamaki’s really out of it now, barely acknowledging Oikawa’s question save for a pitiful whine.
“Dad, I’m not sick I promise.” He mumbles. “Please don’ hit me, I promise I’ll be good.”
Oikawa looks stricken and leans up to cup Hanamaki’s face in his hands.
“Makki, baby it’s me, Tooru. It’s okay, you’re safe.” Oikawa sounds close to tears. Hanamaki’s body goes slack, head slumping into the curve of Iwaizumi’s neck; a gasp leaves Oikawa’s lips. Before he can work himself up even more Matsukawa tugs gently on his arm, coaxing him to rise.
“I think he just fell asleep, Tooru. Here, come sit down.” Oikawa sits, refusing to let go of Matsukawa’s hand. The middle blocker lifts Oikawa’s knuckles to his lips, hoping to comfort him. Over the next 25 minutes Hanamaki fades in and out of consciousness, occasionally mumbling under his breath while his temperature rises to dangerously high levels. Just before 10 p.m a nurse walks over to guide to a patient room deeper into the hospital, where they sit and wait some more. Finally– finally –a doctor with smudged, rimless glasses and a relaxed gait strolls in. Hanamaki–slightly more lucid than he was ten minutes ago–forces himself up from his previously reclined position on the bed, swinging his legs over the side.
“Hello hello, and who might my patient be this evening?” The doctor's deep voice reflected his body language, a slow drawl.
“Gee, I wonder.” Hanamaki says dryly, coughing roughly immediately after.
“Well that doesn’t sound too good.” The doctor glides over, sticking the stethoscope hanging around his neck into his ears. He gestures for Hanamaki to lean forward and presses the cold circular drum to his back. “Breath in … and out. Aaaand in … aaaand out.” He tucks away the stethoscope. “Other symptoms?”
“Really bad coughing, shortness of breath, his temperature’s been up and down but he complained that he was cold, and uh blood.” Matsukawa rattled off.
“Coughing it up I assume, not leaking from any other unseemly orffices?”
“Yeah …” All four boys are visibly wary of the doctor’s flippant tone.
The doctor whistles lowly. “You must’ve let this shit stew for a long time to let it get this bad.”
Hanamaki snorts. “And, pray tell, what exactly is ‘this shit’.”
“Pneumonia.” He shrugs. “A really shitty case of pneumonia. I’ll prescribe you with antibiotics, twice a day for two weeks however you will start to feel the symptoms ease within a couple days. I also want you to schedule a follow up appointment with your normal doctor three weeks from now, to make sure the infection is completely gone.” All of this is said while his pen flies across the prescription sheet. He rips it off and hands it to Hanamaki between his two fingers.
“Um, Fujishima-sensei … shouldn’t we at least to an x-ray to confirm the diagnosis?” The nurse tentatively asks. The doctor, Fujishima-sensei , waves a hand at them on his way out.
“I know that I’m right but do what you want. I have other patients to see. Good day–or rather, night–Hanamaki-san.” And with that he leaves.
After the x-ray, and the confirmation that it is indeed pneumonia that Hanamaki has, they drag themselves home; the nearest pharmacy is closed so they’ll have to wait till tomorrow to pick up his meds.
“I feel grimy.” Hanamaki rumbles, “I’m gonna go take a shower.” Oikawa, being the clingy worrier that he is, insists on showering with him; what if you slip and fall and die, Makki? It’ll be all my fault . Now here they are, squeezed together in their cramped shower. Oikawa insists on washing Hanamaki with his green loofah, scrubbing gently at the dried sweat on his skin. He washes the oil out of Hanamaki’s hair with his own vanilla scented shampoo and conditioner, uncharacteristically quiet.
Finally, barely loud enough to be heard of over the pounding of the water, he says. “You really scared us Makki, you scared me .” Oikawa’s hands have stopped moving in his hair, and he molds himself against Hanamaki’s back, tucking his face into his neck. He sniffles a few times, but Hanamaki is unable to discern any tears from the water sloshing down his back. Hanamaki gently dislodges Oikawa’s hands from his hair so he can turn to pull him into his arms. Eventually, Matsukawa comes in to tell them that they’ll use up all of the hot water if they don’t get out. He and Iwaizumi are already dressed for bed, Oikawa and Hanamaki hurrying to follow. Hanamaki insists on sleeping in the second bedroom, not wanting to keep them up with his coughing and general restlessness. Iwaizumi gives Hanamaki his softest sweatshirt, going so far as to put it on for him.
“But I don’t want to spread this shit.” Hanamaki complains.
“Tomorrow’s laundry day, I’ll just wash it.” Iwaizumi shrugs, then wraps a muscled arm around Hanamaki’s waist. He leans up a little to kiss Hanamaki’s forehead. “Feel better.” He says.
The next morning, as Oikawa stuffs a syrup drenched piece of pancake in his mouth, Matsukawa suddenly asks.
“So what was last night about Takahiro.” Hanamaki freezes, brown sugar still pouring out of the canister from his tipped hand. Iwaizumi shoots Matsukawa a questioning look and Oikawa gulps down the unchewed piece of pancake loudly, setting the fork down next to the plate.
“I don’t really know what you mean, Issei, I was sick and then we went to the hospital. ‘M pretty sure you were there.” Hanamaki slowly stirs the sugar into his oatmeal, choosing not to look any of them in the eye.
“Not what I meant~” He hummed. “You’ve been lying to us this whole past week about how sick you were. And I don’t know if you remember–you were pretty out of it–but while we were waiting for the doctor you kept saying something like please don’t hit me dad . Any of that ring a bell?” Matsukawa never raised his voice at them, even when he was angry, but the low rumble he ground out now was just as bad. Hanamaki blushed, embarrassed and angry with himself.
“It’s noth–” Hanamaki begins.
“Don’t!” Oikawa surprises them all by interrupting, his usual nasal cheer gone. “Don’t say it’s nothing Makki, it was clearly something.”
Hanamaki takes a deep breath and begins to speak. “Um, after the divorce–you know how my parents got divorced–so my mom got shipped off to court mandated rehab and uh dad got custody and me and my little brother. Well dad had a drinking problem–and was just better at hiding it–I mean on the surface he seemed like a successful guy more than capable of supporting two kids on his own so the courts were eager to hand us off to him but … yeah.
“So he drank, and he um, well he fucking hated us. Said we reminded him too much of mom so he would uh, hit on us you know? Well mostly me, I managed to keep Haru out of the worst of it … anyway. He especially hated when we got sick–said it was a waste of money when he had to buy us medicine or anythin’ like that–so I got good at hiding it, you know?
“He’s in jail now though! Yeah me and Haru testified against him and he got sentenced to 15 years or something like that but old habits die hard I guess, isn’t that how trauma works?” Hanamaki shrugs bitterly, shoulders hunched. For a moment no one says anything but Hanamaki can’t bare to meet their eyes or see the disgusted looks on their faces. The chair to his right makes a horrible grating noise as it scrapes against the floor, and Oikawa flings himself at Hanamaki, worming his way onto his lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. He pushes his face against Hanamaki’s cheek, and he can feel the tears running down his face.
“Uh …” Hanamaki is confused but he loops his arms around Oikawa anyway so he won’t fall. Oikawa mumbles something against his temple but it’s too low to make out.
“What?”
“I’m sorry .” Oikawa sounds positively wrecked, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry that you had to go through that.”
“Uh, it’s okay? I guess … we all get dealt some shitty cards.” He looks over to Iwaizumi and Matsukawa to see nearly twin expressions of anger on their faces.
“C’mere.” Matsukawa says roughly. Hanamaki gently pushes Oikawa off him and stands–a safe distance away–in front of Matsukawa, wary of what he’s going to do. Hanamaki doesn’t expect to be hugged within an inch of his life, buried under Matsukawa’s angular chin. Someone–he can only assume Iwaizumi–presses up against him from behind. Iwaizumi repeatedly kisses the back of his head, calloused hands tightening around Hanamaki’s waist.
“We love you.” Iwaizumi says. “We all love you so much . Please, please don’t hide anything like this from us again. If you’re hurting, we want to be able to help, okay?”
Hanamaki, startled by their unending love and support, can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes as he agrees albeit shakily.
“I love you guys too.”