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17
Iwa-chan, Tooru thinks, notices the tiniest things, sometimes.
Tooru supposes it’s possible that this trait was (is) due to having him as a friend— coming with the package, so to speak— having to notice things for the both of them, as far back as they can remember:
at age seven, young and wild and carefree, learning how to stop and look at both sides of the road for his safety and Tooru’s, waiting for the light to change before crossing the street;
at age thirteen, awkward and uncertain, on the cusp of something great, reminding him to always do the warm-ups and cool downs correctly because dammit you could injure yourself, dumbass;
at age seventeen, ready to take on the world, learning how to accept losses and improve wins, picking up on the tiniest signals, learning how to support both himself and Tooru and their team as best as he can in the turbulence of adolescence.
When Kindaichi’s shoelaces get untied, Iwa-chan’s the first one to point it out, telling Kindaichi to tie it before he trips or worse; when Mattsun accidentally leaves his towel on the bench, Iwa-chan picks it up and knows it’s Mattsun’s by the tiny stain at a corner; when Coach Irahata forgets to return the game data he handed him to look at, Iwa-chan politely reminds him to hand it back to Oikawa when he’s through.
When Tooru needs to be alone, when he cannot be alone; when to offer a whisper of support or a kick in the ass; when to rub circles on his back after yet another episode of being in second place: Iwa-chan notices these things as well— a walking, talking guide on how to take care of one (fragile) Oikawa Tooru.
One Oikawa Tooru, bright and fast and shooting stars in their winking glory, where one look away may mean losing track of him for a long, long while; Oikawa Tooru, too full of chances to be grabbed with not enough time, taking too long to get where he wants to be; Oikawa Tooru, no time to stop, to look, to breathe because there are always, always people who are better, natural geniuses and hardworking prodigies to crush; Oikawa Tooru,—
Because while Tooru never notices things— street lights, or shoelaces, or his own brilliance— he notices people, and he makes it a point to extra, extra notice one Iwaizumi Hajime, a shining light house, strong and true in the midst of raging storms and calm summers.
Oikawa Tooru knows how Iwa-chan might not be among the smartest or the prettiest, and he knows Iwa-chan knows how Tooru’s not exactly the most upstanding citizen the world has ever seen, but—
Still, they stay: noticing and picking up and doing their best to hold on to dreams, to chances, to each other.
15
Monday finds Hajime running through the streets, two umbrellas (one open, one clipped shut, both in clenched hands) bouncing in the midst of a particularly heavy storm.
He dashes past stores with signs flipped to “closed”, dashes past houses with closed windows, dashes past a mess of papers and leaves thrown in the wind.
But none of those matter: not the water dripping on his shoulders, not the way his shoes and feet squelch with every step— none of those matter, except for the destination in mind, determination set in his eyebrows, anger (worry) flickering in his eyes.
A clap of thunder rings out, too loud and too close for his liking. The rain pours harder.
Hajime runs faster.
When Aoba Johsai High School greets him at the gate, Hajime catches his breath, chest pumping from the anxiety and adrenaline running through his system. Rain muddies his vision as he makes his way towards the gymnasium, swipes at his face every so often, but that doesn’t matter, since he can practically find his way towards it with his eyes closed anyway.
A loud boom reaches his ears again. Hajime wonders if the storm’s closer than the forecast predicts it to be.
When he reaches the gymnasium, the faint smell of rubber and Air Salonpas reaching him underneath the rain, Hajime hears it again, a final sound reverberating in his skull.
He knows this sound, Hajime realizes— knows it like the sun on his face during summers, like the rain in his clothes, echoing and coming from the tiny gap between the gymnasium doors. He yanks the door wider, enters just in time to see Oikawa’s feet touch the ground, as Oikawa (unwillingly) comes back to earth, after a well-executed jump serve. From his viewpoint, he can see volleyballs all over the place, and he comes up with an estimate on how long it’s going to take them to clean all that up tomorrow morning, without getting into too much trouble.
As Oikawa bends to pick up another ball, Hajime clears his throat.
Oikawa almost drops the ball in surprise. Head whipping around, he takes in the sight of a too drenched Hajime, umbrellas dropped on the floor, a scowl in place, arms crossed and feet apart. Hajime watches as Oikawa straightens up, ball propped on his stomach, as if the ball could shield him from Hajime.
“What are you doing here?” Oikawa chirps. A smile painted on his face, tone perfectly cordial. His fangirls will absolutely swoon at the sight.
But Oikawa has always been terribly transparent to Hajime, and, truth be told, Hajime’s a little offended that Oikawa thinks he could be misled by something as textbook as his signature grin and slight head tilt act.
Hajime fixes him with an unimpressed look. “I was sure you didn’t have an umbrella, and the weather forecast said the storm won’t let up until dawn at best.” He crouches and picks up the umbrellas, one held out at Oikawa’s direction. “Come on, before we both get stuck here until tomorrow.”
“Don’t you know how dangerous it is to come out in a storm like that?” Oikawa chirps, annoyingly, still keeping up his façade. He makes no move to come closer, only clutching the ball tighter, pressing it to his abdomen, creases blooming around it on his shirt.
Like this, Hajime knows Oikawa is pretending, flipping him off like there’s nothing wrong and he hates it; hates it more than not being able to play, more than not hitting a well-placed spike in an important match. A vein pops in Hajime’s temple. He’s cold and drenched and he just wants to haul Oikawa’s ass back to his house. “Look, whatever. I’m already here anyway so just pick your stuff up and let’s go.”
“Sorry, but I can’t stand being with someone who believes other people more than they do their best friend.” There is resignation in his statement, Oikawa’s eyes pinning his own, slowly deflating until all that’s left is himself, barely standing.
Hajime falls silent. They stare at each other until Hajime feels a slight guilt behind his ribs, ducks his head and looks at the floor. Oikawa scoffs and turns away from him then, spins the ball on his hands— once, twice. The storm isn't letting up, probably won't be any time soon, and the air feels charged with lightning and heavy with rain. He lets the sounds ground him, the static of water beating on the roof, the gurgle of thunder with the beat of his heart.
While Oikawa prepares to do another serve, Hajime takes a deep breath.
“I believe you,” half drowned in the rain, rolling with the faint thunder in the distance.
But Oikawa hears him anyway, and his run up stutters to a stop, shoes squeaking on the floorboards. He lowers his arm, slowly, relaxing his grip on the ball as he straightens up, until it drops and bounces on the floor, thuds trickling in the rain.
“I believe you,” Hajime repeats, steadier, clearer, voice laced with resolve and tinged with regret, but that doesn’t matter, not anymore.
Oikawa’s eyes narrow as he scans Hajime’s face, feet light as he slowly walks towards him empty handed, defenses and spikes left behind with each quiet step. When he stands in front of Hajime, Oikawa inhales, closes his eyes, ducks his head on Hajime’s shoulder; when he exhales, it is a full body affair, weight pressing on Hajime’s shoulder, breath cooling the rain on Hajime’s sleeve.
I believe in you, Hajime thinks.
He always will.
As the storm crashes outside, raindrops spilling from the slope of the roof, Oikawa and Hajime stay, listening to each other, to the world, as they stop and breathe just for a moment, together.
xx
There are probably more than three dozen different flowers on their kotatsu, neatly bunched and wrapped in flimsy paper with alien patterns sprinkled all over.
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru calls from the door, “what’s all this?” His keys jingle as he drops it on the bowl on top of their shoe rack, lips twitching in a tiny smile, lightly stroking the rim of the bowl with his fingertip. He indulges himself, remembering the time Makki dropped it off as a house warming gift, way back when, as he changes into his house slippers. He remembers Iwa-chan’s horrified face, clutching the bowl, almost smashing it on Makki’s hysteric face right then and there, and he suppresses a chuckle.
“Oh, welcome back,” comes a muffled reply. From the bedroom, Tooru notes. “Wait, I’ll come right out.”
“Uh-huh.”
He unwinds the scarf from his neck, a gift from his mother, and shrugs off his coat, chills crawling up his arms as he hangs both articles on the rack next to their door. He takes a moment to poke at the holes on the wall beside it, memories of himself trying (and ultimately failing) to install coat hooks on the area floating in his consciousness.
I’m feeling surprisingly nostalgic today.
“Hey.”
Tooru can see bits of snow outside their window as he flits his gaze back to the kotatsu, white specks flitting in and out of his vision through the gap on their curtains, chasing each other like fond, fleeting memories. He notices Iwa-chan cradling the flowers in his arms, nose twitching at the tiny asters directly under his nose. Tooru thinks it’s cute.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Iwa-chan huffs after a while. Ah, have I been staring too long? “Get over here and get these from me, dumbass.”
“And here I was thinking Iwa-chan has changed his heathen ways,” Tooru teases as he carefully steps out of the genkan, photo frames surrounding him in the narrow hallway towards the living area.
When Iwa-chan transfers the flowers to his arms, petals brush their faces, hands and arms brush each other’s, and Tooru gets assaulted by fragrance and pleasant shocks while Iwa-chan sneezes enough to scare their cat out of hiding.
“Aw, you scared poor Kunimimi-chan!” Tooru scolds. “Iwa-chan you are such a brute.”
“Shut up, Shittykawa.” He rubs his nose, sniffling all the while.
Tooru is scandalized. "What have I told you about using the s-word, Iwa-chan! Not in front of Kunimimi-chan!" He raises a hand to his forehead, "I can't believe I'm with someone so crass."
"Ugh, stop that, you dumbass."
Hands settle on Tooru’s hips, tugging ‘til their knees knock together, and Tooru’s laugh spills out, unbidden, pressed out of his chest by a ridiculously large bouquet of assorted flowers wrapped in multicolored aliens. A hand reaches out, rough and tan from hard-work and sheer stubbornness, brushes the dampness away from his eye.
Tooru shifts the flowers in his arms, leaning to the touch, as his laughter trickles down to chuckles, petals falling on the carpet and alien faces crumpling on his chest. He moves in and gives Iwa-chan a peck on the lips, sweet and simple as the weak light filtering through their (unfortunately) plain curtains, as Kunimimi-chan snuggling against her spot on the couch.
When Tooru asks, “So, what’s all this for?” his eyes are made of half-moons, and his smile made of gold. His eyes crinkle, and he bets they don't look too attractive, but he knows Iwa-chan thinks they’re secretly cute so he doesn’t bother hiding them.
(He can never hide anything from Iwa-chan anyway.)
“No reason,” Hajime tells him. But his eyes give him away, faster than the smile tugging at his lips.
“Being coy doesn’t suit you at all, Iwa-chan,” comes the retort, Tooru's cheeks as pink as the carnations in his arms, and his heart clenches just a bit and—
Tooru and Hajime will never live to eternal fame and recognition as great conquerors do. They will never be perfect, but in the moment they carve for themselves right now, Hajime and Tooru feel invincible, two against the world as strong as six in a court.
And as they keep warm under a kotatsu that's seen better days, Tooru stares at flowers in various water-filled containers scattered around their home, Hajime's head settling on his shoulder, like the contentment settled on his lips.