Chapter Text
The lights are very bright and Tooru has a horrible headache. Maybe, more like a migraine. It’s the kind of headaches that make your stomach churn and the world feel so overstimulating that the mere smell of coffe—coffee of all things—makes Tooru feel abnormally faint. The voice screeching over the phone isn’t doing much to help either.
Tooru has never been good with handling other peoples emotions which has been a consistent problem over the course of his highschool-heartbreak dilemma.
“Listen,” Tooru begins in a soft, hopefully consoling, voice. “I don’t know where the papers are. I turned them in the other day. You know, the basket in the corner of the room? Next to that little gnome that she really likes for some reason?”
Mira, a fluffy girl from Tooru’s advanced literature class, has taken on a very hard set and unnecessary quest to talk to Tooru all the time.
He would understand if this phone call was a normal classmate asking for some help. Poor intellectually challenged people who can’t tell apart the difference between paraphrasing and a direct quote. But, alas, this is in fact not the first time she has called him. Not the first time today at all, she has called him almost seven times before now and Tooru would do just about anything to shut her up.
He glances down to his phone discarded on the counter and debates pouring his steaming hot coffee all over it just to have an excuse to end the call.
She practically whines, the noise bouncing off Tooru's sad apartment walls and he closes his eyes, a weary smile spreading itself across his face. Tooru is not religious, but right now he is praying to all the God’s above to bless him with just one more ounce of strength so he doesn’t throw his phone out his window.
“It’s not there Tooru-kun. All I see is the essay from last week.”
Tooru’s eye twitches at the casual use of his first name. Twisting his voice in a way that makes his skin crawl with disgust because he can hear the performance in it, he works up the last bit of patience he can muster. “I’m sorry Mira-san, I'm not sure where the papers should be. It might be a good idea to email the professor about this.”
Mira huffs out another one of her small sighs and tuts under her breath. A habit she has formed from hanging out with all her petty friends—the kind of girls who laugh at you for asking where the bathroom is, staring blankly like you had stated that the sky is green. It’s not fun.
Tooru supposes she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Which is disappointing, because she is a very nice girl with cute frilly clothes and perfectly straight hair that glistens just right in the sun giving her the effect she’s floating.
Something squirms in Tooru’s chest and twists in his gut and he knows he’s pulling a face.
“I’m sorry for bothering you so much Tooru-kun,” she says in this really nice, really convincing, soft voice. It carries through all nice and milky and Tooru brings his cup of tea up to his mouth so he can pretend like he doesn’t care. Doesn’t notice exactly what she is trying to do with him.
He takes a nice, long, sip that burns the back of his throat.
“I know you also have a lot on your plate don’t you? With all the writing?”
Tooru hums and glances down at his phone. His eyes snag on the call time and he starts to feel a bit faint, deciding to take the mention of his writing to his advantage. “Right, well. I have a lot of work to get done so…”
“Right, right! Of course,” Tooru can imagine the twirl of her hair and the way her eyelashes happen to flutter like little butterflies on her face every time she’s in a close enough proximity to him. “I’ll leave you to that. Thank you so much for the help Tooru-kun!”
Tooru hums once more, struggling to find any energy left in him for another sugarcoated response. He almost slams his finger down on the call button maybe a second too early than what would be reasonable but his tea is waiting, isn’t it? He takes another sip and leans into the warmth coating his throat.
Winter is steadily growing onto the streets of Tokyo and seems to cover the sky in a bland, grey, coat. It soaks into Tooru’s kitchen and through the windows of his room. Cold and unforgiving. He tries not to make a big deal out of it. Tries to focus on simple tasks.
It has an annual way of pulling Tooru toward his less than admirable emotions. It drags all of his harsh, ugly, parts and rips them out for everyone to see. Often leaving him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable around all the people he shouldn’t be.
Every year it comes back harder. Crushing him. Devouring the little parts he has been building up and tearing him to the ground. It isn’t as bad as it was before. But the feeling still relents stubbornly inside of him.
Usually, Tooru would saunter over to Iwaizumi and take over his room. Spreading his clothes all over the floor. His volleyballs randomly finding their way into it, causing Hajime to trip over them and curse Tooru’s name. But, obviously, that isn’t an option now. The thought of it squeezes Tooru’s chest a little too tight. A cold, shattering breath drawing itself out of him.
Hajime is not an option now.
The mere thought of it nudges Tooru closer to his weekly spiral.
The sun has long set now and the walls around him glimmer with a melancholic hue. Reaching out to him as he wallows in his shattering self pity. His tea cold and his phone silent. Everything quietly pulling him further down. He wonders if he should just sit down in the kitchen and let it suffocate him.
He blinks. Once, twice, then he breathes in very slowly. The kind of breath that takes up every inch of his chest and freezes everything fluttering around in it. Then he lets go and allows the shivers of anxiety to wrack unforgivingly through his body.
The kitchen tiles are cold and the winter air pounds into the window with an urgency that doesn’t ask for permission. Tooru doesn’t know how to manage this new feeling of complete and utter loss of control.
He’s used to fixing things to be in his command. It’s an unnatural and unbalancing feeling to suddenly have it all ripped away from him.
The brace around his knee feels too tight and the voice of Iwaizumi telling him to loosen it at least a little bit so his leg doesn’t fall off infiltrates all his practice of blocking Hajime out of his head completely.
It mocks him in the way he can’t seem to function without it.
The cold ground only looks more inviting and who is Tooru but weak? He feels it in the way his legs shake on the way down and in the tenderness of his knee as he bends it. He digs his nails into his palms and takes another breath.
The world isn’t ending, he's just alone.
Alone in an apartment that’s all his, with no roommate anymore because he had driven away his only real friend as well. His apartment that's completely silent.
It presses into the walls and tests the feeling of the furniture. The soft buzzing reminder that there's no one to hold him, or even greet him for that matter.
Tooru melts into the floor and lets his own silence suffocate him.
The gym is loud in its brightness. It peers into Tooru’s eyes and reflects fractions of itself into the reflection of his sweat.
He can feel the exhaustion run deep into his bones. It’s an all but familiar feeling, settling uncomfortably in his usual joints.
A nagging, reasonable, part of him tugs down on Tooru’s head as his mind continues to grow increasingly hazy with every serve he slams into the floor. It speaks to him in the shaking of his hands as he reaches for another ball.
Things have been going better since highschool—endless nights laced with a hazy kind of anger and an endless annoyance at his incompetence have been dulled to only a slight buzzing beneath his skin.
Things have been better. Tooru has been repeating this in his head all day.
It had worked for the most part, practice went smoothly and his teammates finally managed to find a comfortable rhythm to work with. It has been a few months since Tooru had joined the team and things have been doing better.
He knew the feeling was coming when he felt the familiar drumming beneath his skin at his second missed serve of the day. All too familiar in its successful possession of everything he had tackled this past year. Wrapping around his shoulders and darkening his vision—running cold and unforgiving beneath his veins.
The water pulling him down in his prolonged shower had only confirmed any doubts about it.
The silence of the locker room only made it worse. Every doubt, correction, and disappointment mocking him in his incompetence. He hadn’t bothered to dry his hair before pulling his practice clothes back on and making his way to the gym.
It unnerves him now, the way the empty walls seem to echo his failures back at him. The stray volleyballs on the floor reflecting his wasted efforts.
He hadn’t felt like this since highschool, and this time there was no one here to stop him.
The worst part of it is that he knows what he’s doing. The heavy sinking of his gut is almost nostalgic as his knee aches with a louder pain.
Tooru takes a shaky breath, it wracks through his shoulders and he squeezes his hands to prevent them from shaking. The cart of volleyballs is empty when he peers over it and he doesn't notice his chest refusing to take in any air until he's on his knees and shaking on the floor.
His hand finds its way onto his shirt and squeezes tightly, pressing his fist against his chest in a desperate attempt at comfort. All the air in the room squeezed out by his lungs and no matter how many breaths he takes, they get stuck somewhere on the way down.
The exhaustion pulls harshly on his body in the way his head pounds and eyelids burn. The nauseated pull in his stomach blaring in alarm at his stubborn reluctance to keep this extended practice without breaks.
He lurches forward to steady himself with a hand on the ground, and he can’t breathe. His own reflection stares back at him as he struggles through his hazy vision focused intensely on the gym floor.
Every part of Tooru’s body feels weak, his arms show it in their shakiness, the pit in his stomach deepening. He considers letting it take him and fully collapsing on the floor but he doesn’t know if he would be able to get back up.
The mess he has made stares back at him through the stray volleyballs decorating the gym. Then the reminder that he might not ever be able to pull himself out of said gym because his chest is squeezing even tighter now, limiting his already scarce supply of air.
Everything is moving all too fast and agonizingly slow. Tooru’s breaths continue to come up short and the panic proceeds to course commandingly through his limbs.
He doesn’t realize he's crying until he sees his tears pool comically on the floor beneath him.
Tooru is utterly falling apart and there's no one here to help him because he is in a whole nother country and completely alone.
Hajime, his brain helpfully supplies, the tightness of his chest pulling him further forward. He wants his best friend. An inescapable and all consuming kind of longing. It should scare him.
The only clear thought making its way through his mind in his already chaotic display of weakness is the suffocating longing for Iwaizumi.
Tooru is not a stranger to homesickness. In fact, throughout his many days away from home he has called frantically and immediately after practice in genuine fear that the people most important to him and also hundreds of miles away have somehow stopped acknowledging Tooru’s existence completely.
Hajime usually grumbles something attuned to a monotone ‘calm down shittykawa no one has forgotten you, okay?’ Tooru never has to look hard to feel the concern treading somewhere between the inflictions of Hajime's harshness.
The gym smells heavy with something foreign to Tooru's nose and it aches. In times like these it’s easier to fall.
After a long five minutes of putting numerous self diagnosed breathing exercises to use, Tooru feels okay enough to move. Standing currently feels bigger than himself, though, and he stubbornly buries the embarrassment of crawling pathetically over to his bag thrown carelessly beside the wall.
His hands still shake, and the buzzing beneath his skin forces his eyes wide open. The lights are still too bright and his chest continues to squeeze around his ribs, threatening to crush him from inside, but he isn’t burning up anymore. He isn’t dying.
Tooru licks his lips, chapped from cold air, and shakily brings the phone to his ear. It’s without surprise that Iwaizumi answers on the last ring.
Hajime’s voice is gravelled and raw when he picks up. A silent reminder of the time differences in different countries. A bigger barrier separating their connection.
“Tooru? It’s late. Or, well, early.”
He tries to focus on the way Hajime’s bushy eyebrows always furrow in an annoyed kind of concern. A single wrinkle buried permanently in his forehead that Tooru never fails to point out.
Tooru bites his lip and lets out a shaky breath. The sudden consciousness of being heard forcing his sighs to grow a little softer.
He thinks he can hear Hajime’s breath hitch but he isn’t sure if it was his own as his chest has not relented in strangling him out of any form of speech.
“Tooru,” Hajime’s voice grows low with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Tooru responds pathetically as a weak noise forces itself out of his mouth. His breaths wet with tears he now realises have made a reappearance.
“Iwa-” the name barely forces itself out of his mouth before his chest begins to burn again and his eyes squeeze shut.
The silence of the gym echoes Tooru’s sharp breaths back at him and the sudden dizziness taking on his limbs pulls another kind of panic into his strained resolve.
He curses himself, because this is Iwaizumi, someone he should feel comfortable around and it scares him that his usual effects aren’t working as well.
Panic presents itself when Tooru curls into his knees. A landmine of realization that takes his head to another world because if Hajime doesn’t help, then what will?
Iwaizumi’s voice is louder when it returns and with it carries a warm urgency that would normally have Tooru taking a steadying breath and running a hand through his hair in an attempt to reset his head. “Tooru, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”
Tooru makes a weak attempt at an affirmation, nails drawing blood in his curled fists because this feeling just won't stop.
He can imagine Hajime nodding strongly, gathering himself a little taller to provide enough reassurance for the both of them. “Okay, good. You’re doing so well already.”
He thinks he can hear some shuffling through the soft static of his phone and it buries itself sharp and unforgiving in Tooru’s chest.
This isn’t the first time Tooru has called him breathless and curled into himself on the gym floor this week.
It takes time, lots of it, but Tooru can now breathe at a less life threatening pace and his heart isn’t leaping out of his chest. Although Oikawa’s health is now ensured, this means that Iwaizumi can now ask his questions. This is Tooru’s least favorite part.
“I need you to tell me what happened Tooru. It scares me how often you’re calling me like this.”
Hajime’s voice carries straight through Tooru’s armor and rips him apart from inside, pulling out everything soft and vulnerable he purposely keeps tucked away soft and special. “I’m sorry, I keep waking you.”
Iwaizumi sighs, voice drained and static manipulating the warm tone Tooru knows he still has. “That’s not the problem, you know that.”
Tooru clenches his teeth and glares pointedly at a stray volleyball. Another reminder he still has to take care of the gym. “It’s nothing.”
“Tooru,” Hajime begins and he can feel the lecture starting.
Oikawa cuts him off before he has the chance to continue. Voice strained with forced resilience. “Don’t lecture me Iwa-chan. I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself.”
“Well obviously not if you have to call me,” Hajime snaps.
Tooru recoils at his harshness, pressing his body further up the wall. “I can do this without you Iwa-chan. I call you out of habit, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Hajime echoes, his voice coated in what can only be called disbelief. “I don’t want you calling me out of habit.” He spits the word out like it’s something dirty and it carries all the way to Tooru’s eyes who start to prick with tell tale signs of tears.
He rubs violently at his eyes, focusing through his blurry vision and hiding a whimper by clearing his throat. “I’m fine Iwa-chan.”
“Fine,” Hajime returns. “I’ll leave it to you then. Don’t call me or email me. You can’t handle this on your own and you won’t let me help you. I don’t know what to do anymore. There’s no point if it’s not making either of us happy.”
Tooru’s eyes widen,”Iwa- Hajime wait-“
“Give me a week,” Hajime continues, effectively silencing Tooru. “This is exhausting for me too. I’m sorry, just give me some time.”
When the line cuts off the gym echoes in its silence, loud in its tranquility. Tooru’s life stares back at him miles away from home and the volleyballs are still scattered across the floor. His phone reads 2:00 in the morning and his sobs are loud against the world's silence.
This is their first fight of many, he reassures himself, this is normal and healthy and things can only get better from here if he keeps trying.
The sunlight does little to warm the small room. It treads lightly on the carpet and creeps softly up the walls. Feeling the taste of the new day quietly.
It’s cold, and the shiver that wracks unpleasantly through Tooru’s body does well to remind him of that fact.
He sighs softly and allows himself to peel his face off the floor. He had fallen asleep on the couch, the thought of sleeping in his bed without Hajime successful in keeping him away from any form of Iwaizumi he can visually see. He must have rolled onto the floor at some point though because that's where he’s ended up during the ungodly hours of the morning.
There's a slight tinge in his neck and he suppresses a wince as he attempts to roll out his stiff shoulder. The anxiety he has been holding in his body seems to have retaliated in the form of multiple cramps as soon as he returns to consciousness.
Tooru sighs and he can feel himself begin to drift.
His usual routine consists of being roughly nudged awake by a grumpy Iwaizumi as he struggles to peel all four of Oikawa's limbs away from his body. Tooru would groan and whine but would eventually give up and let Hajime leave as Tooru adjusts to the abruptness of the morning.
Iwaizumi would make breakfast in their warm kitchen and Tooru would be drawn out of bed by the smell of eggs.
He would poke fun at the fact that Hajime still wears the apron his mom got him as a joke for one of his birthdays when making something as mundane as eggs and toast. Iwaizumi would grumble but wouldn’t push it further and they would talk about nothing and everything for the entire morning before separating to get changed.
Tooru’s stomach grumbles at the thought and he drags his eyes longingly to the kitchen.
Winter has a funny way of painting everything in a cold silver he thinks as he observes the silver glow of the cabinets. The clouds never seem to leave room for the sky and the sharpness of the ice would force its way onto the windows and demand to be let in.
He doesn’t want to move. The floor is uncomfortable and his hoodie is across the room so he really has no means of complaining about the shivering weather. He’s too stuck in his head to do anything at all.
It scares him a little. A gentle reminder that he had caused all of this in the first place.
He can feel it crawl under his skin. An all consuming flood of guilt washing out his insides. Creeping into his lungs.
A deep breath.
Tooru can already feel the dread begin to spread throughout his arms, then reach down to his legs and hold them gently. His eyelids feel heavy and despite all his wallowing it’s still too cold to be laying in just his boxers on the floor.
It’s a small comfort to be able to move enough to drag a hoodie over his head. He sighs again as his head pops out.
Tooru wonders if it would be okay to just stay on the floor for the rest of the morning, and then the next. And all the mornings after that in which he spends alone in his apartment.
The universe doesn’t answer. The strong and unmovable force that nature is has seemed to pull Hanamaki toward the front door settled right behind the couch Tooru is busy drowning against.
“Oikawa, I know you’re in there!”
The incessant pounding on the door seems to wrack Tooru with every ache in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays to all the gods above to leave him here for dead. To sit against the couch for as long as it takes for his skin to become fabric so he never has to move.
“Oikawa you stubborn asshole, open the damn door!”
Hanamaki sighs loud enough for it to creep beneath the small cracks of the door and reach Tooru's safety spot.
He supposes guilt will do funny things to a person as he begrudgingly gets to his feet—his body protesting in very annoying, and very unavoidable pain. He groans and drags his hands over his face.
Tooru whispers a silent apology to Makki for having to witness such an unpleasant image. One that will no doubt be etched into Hanamaki’s head as motivation to tell off Iwaizumi more than he already has.
The harshness of the winter presents itself in all the sharp and painful ways Tooru had expected it to. It presses on his cheeks as he opens the door and shakes through his body as he struggles to twist his face into an expression as normal as he can manage.
“Heya Makki, what’s up?”
A complicated expression takes on Hanamaki’s features before morphing into what Tooru can only assume as anger. “Don’t what’s up me Oikawa you haven’t answered anyone's texts or calls at all. It’s been a week.”
“Ah,” guilt works its way up Tooru’s throat and a buzzing of anxiety follows through reminding him he might cry in front of Makki. He attempts to fix his expression into something somewhat normal. “Sorry, it’s a little tough being as popular as me, you know. Even I need breaks sometimes Makki-chan.”
Hanamaki pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance and it pulls on Tooru’s chest as hard and demanding as the ice on his windows.
“This isn’t high school anymore, you don’t get to run.”
Tooru can’t find it in him to look at the face Makki is making now. He can only guess the expression and if he’s being honest, he would rather not bear face to face witness with his mistakes. Evidence of everything he is already actively ruining.
Tooru can’t find it in him to give an answer, Hanamaki’s words already repeating in his head. Burrowing themselves between Tooru’s ribs, just as uncomfortable and unsettling as waking up to an empty apartment.
Wordlessly, Tooru opens the door further when Makki opens his mouth to continue. The creaking of its hinges serving as the first to break their silence.
Hanamaki takes his silent invitation with grace.
Coffee always makes Tooru too jittery in the morning and for some odd reason caffeine always served better to fatigue him faster than to provide any kind of energy.
Tea is always a safe option. The smell is nice and has a kind way of unravelling the little knot in Tooru’s stomach as he sturs it in.
Makki points out that dipping the tea bag in and out of the mug doesn’t change the flavor and, for the first time, Tooru can’t think of anything to respond with.
The tea is warm and comforting as it makes its way down his throat, a nostalgic reminder of his childhood that still finds a way to pull on his chest.
He thanks the tea for giving him an excuse for his silence. He could be concentrating very hard on making it because he gives his tea a lot of care, and he can silently pour the tea into two mugs and hand it to Hanamaki before hiding his expression behind the porcelain. Because tea is nice like that.
It’s a great crutch until Makki sits them down and now all Tooru can do is run his thumbs up and down the glass as he struggles to not gulp it all down in one go.
Tooru has never been one for serious conversations. At least not ones about himself.
Currently, the state of his home and the bags under Tooru’s eyes triumphantly reach the top of Hanamaki’s list of concerns. Tooru debates pretending to be locked in the bathroom but Makki would probably kick down the door and he doesn’t want to deal with all the expenses that come with replacing a full door in his already meddled state.
Hanamaki’s brows pinch together as his eyes narrow. His observation causing Tooru to become very interested in the volleyball poster hung adjacent to them.
“How’s work been?”
The innocence of the question throws Tooru off guard, his eyes unwillingingly locking back with Makki’s. “It’s been…fine.”
Hanamaki hums and blows lightly on the tea before taking a small sip. “I know you have been pretty busy with school. Sorry for showing up so suddenly.”
Tooru shakes his head softly and regards him in suspicion. “It’s fine, you’re always welcome Makki.”
Hanamaki hums, setting the mug carefully down onto the table. Tooru’s mood already plummeting with the placement of said table. The cool air finding annoying ways to seep into his exposed skin as the window beside them freezes mockingly in his face.
Hanamaki smiles, the genuinity of it carrying a gentle warmth Tooru has always associated him with. “You’re being nice, Tooru. What’s up?”
Tooru scoffs before taking a sip of tea, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Makki squints at him unconvinced, pursing his lips as his eyebrows pull further down his head. Tooru squints back.
“Fine,” Tooru sighs, leaning back and sliding further up his chair, mug coming up to block his mouth. “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”
Makki hums in false contemplation. “Where’s Iwaizumi?”
Tooru flinches before he can grab his heart and force it back down his throat. The sudden movement causing drops of the boiling tea to fall onto his thighs. He hisses in pain and lazily moves the bottom of his sweatshirt to dab at the spot.
Hanamaki seems to take this answer as he leans back, an assured expression taking on his features.
Tooru’s eye twitches as he relaxes back into his previous position, bringing his tea to the table and attempting to glare a hole through the porcelain.
“Well,” Makki begins, hands coming to rest on his mug as he lets out a puff of air. “It’s never good when you two fight. Someone’s always giving the other a hard time for stupid things. I’ll never understand the way you guys express your undying love.”
Tooru’s face scrunches up before he can stop it. “That’s not what this is.”
Makki smirks and Tooru’s eye twitches once again, “Really? Because it seems that way. Usually is too, before you guys make up.”
Hanamaki is practically begging Oikawa to throw a volleyball magazine at his head.
Tooru grunts, because that really isn’t what this is. “You don’t know anything Makki. Stop trying to understand me, you don’t.”
The silence after makes itself comfortable in the steady stretching of seconds resulting in Tooru becoming unpleasantly aware of his hands and the sounds his apartment makes when it's this windy out. The creaking of his walls barely holding itself together.
When Hanamaki starts again it feels like a disturbance to the gentleness of the quiet. “I’ve known you two for almost my entire life…” he trails off, eyes moving to stare dramatically out of the frosty window. “I’ve been through almost all of your fights too and, well, everytime it’s been because of the same thing that has always brought you guys together. You care about each other, and it’s as much of a blessing as it is a curse.”
Tooru’s chest feels heavy. It pulls on his neck and all of his other aching limbs and forces his eyes to meet his own through the reflection of his tea.
“But I know you, Tooru. Whatever the problem is, I know you will find a way to fix it. So don’t go moping around now, I’m sure your fangirls miss you.”
Tooru snaps his head up and squints at Makki, “They’re not fangirls.” Then the rest of his words sink in and Tooru is devastated to feel the familiar prickling behind his eyes. “I don’t know Makki…I think this is it.”
This brings Hanamaki’s eyes to meet Toorus, still in their unwavering confidence. “I don’t believe that.”
The sigh that leaves Tooru’s mouth deflates his entire chest, a hand lifting to meet his head in exhaustion. “No I really did it this time, he hates me.”
“I don’t believe that,” he repeats.
“Well you should,” Tooru snaps back, scowling as he sinks further into his hoodie.
Hanamaki gulps down the rest of his tea before standing to deliver the mug back into the kitchen. The sound of water washing the porcelain clean almost drowning out his next words. “I’ve talked to Hajime, you haven’t…he doesn’t hate you.”
Tooru’s heart stutters in his chest. Something white and hot flashing suddenly through his limbs. Barely managing to suppress the desperation in his voice, “You’ve talked to him?”
Hanamaki glances back, a soft smile betraying the determined lilt in his eyes. “Yes, and I'm sure you want to as well.”
Tooru doesn’t respond but Makki, apparently, isn’t expecting him to as he makes his way to his bag settled comfortably on Tooru’s shoe rack.
Holding up a flier, Hanamaki’s eyes glint with a mischief Tooru hasn’t seen since highschool. “I think this is a good way to get you out of the house.”
A sigh makes its way through the room as Tooru pads his way toward the genkan to get a closer look at the flier.
The thought of seeing Hajime again is not one he would like to entertain. It carries itself threateningly through the bright and colorful font decorated toward the top of the flier, dancing cheerfully through the cold atmosphere.
“Makki-chan,” Tooru presses, lowering the poster gently with his hand, doing the best he can to suppress the shaking in his fingers as he nearly rips it in half. “I understand you care for me but, really, you don’t have to do this. I get it, okay? You don’t have to rub it in.”
Hanamaki returns this with a graciously unimpressed look. His eyes squinting and bordering on something like a glare. “Tooru,” he warns
“I don’t want to go.” He sighs, gaze meeting the floor. “I don’t care what Iwa-“ Tooru catches himself, face scrunching up as his gut twists unpleasantly, “Iwaizumi is doing.”
Makki sighs, moving to return the poster to his bag. “He’s in a band, thanks for asking.”
Tooru scoffs, turning sharply to stare intently away from Hanamaki and all his, frankly, stupid ideas. “Iwaizumi? In a band?”
He can feel Makki smirking behind him and Tooru glares harder.
“Yes, in a band. Want to know what he plays?”
Tooru turns to meet Hanamaki, a dubious look sent his way. “I don’t care what he plays.”
This time all Hanamaki can do is roll his eyes in exasperation. A groan tearing its way through his chest and pulling his shoulders with something stronger than gravity. “Listen, Oikawa, I won't force you to talk to him, you don’t even have to make eye contact if you don’t want to. Just go out with us. Matsukawa is coming, and some other friends from high school.”
It’s not like Tooru doesn’t like this idea. Overall, it’s a rather reasonable one. The majority of Tooru’s time is spent at home anyway, leaving his house only for lectures and groceries. It's not the most healthy lifestyle but he is getting by fine, it’s not like this is the first time something like this has happened. It’s hard to continue life normally without Hajime’s persistent presence, he argues to, he realizes, no one but himself.
Hanamaki can sense his reluctance through years of dealing with Tooru and all his most redeeming qualities. “It‘ll be good to get out there, Tooru. Maybe you’ll meet somebody. If you really think your thing with Hajime isn’t going to work out then maybe it’ll be good for you to move on.”
“We don’t have a thing,” Tooru snaps, aware of the obvious emotion giving away his very evident lie. “He’s my best friend.”
“Right, yeah.” Hanamaki nods graciously, “So meeting people is a good thing.”
Tooru glances back at the poster and all its vibrant colors. If he remembers correctly he saw an onigiri Miya logo printed on the food section and reasons that he cannot waste such a golden opportunity to finally try the food that all of Japan has been raging over.
“I’m going for the food and that’s it.”
When Hanamaki smiles it spreads further than just his mouth and crinkles his eyes, lifting his cheeks like the sun had just split through his head. It’s creepy. “You won’t regret this.”
Tooru will definitely regret this.