広場恐怖症

Funny how different and new his own name sounds, in the mouth of someone so accustomed to nicknames, that Iwa-chan had become a second nature (when Oikawa came up with it, he can’t even remember); while Hajime quietly retreated at the back of their minds, pulled from his hiding spot whenever emergency struck. Throughout their teenage years, Oikawa had only ever called him that in his moments of greatest distress, when he needed to make sure his best friend would listen, no matter how frustrated, or concerned, or angry, or busy he may have been. The old trick, it appears, still works to this day - of course it does. This time, though, this time rings slightly different. In the span of a brush of lips, Oikawa reinvents it, makes it kinder, softer; and Hajime follows suit, a contrite sigh exhaled through his nose. 

“Oh, I always knew you were jealous and possessive. I knew all of your games to get my attention… and I played along. I was too scared and confused to really ask myself why, but that was my shitty way of trying to show you I wasn’t going anywhere.” He muses, treading fingers through his best friend’s hair, moving them down the edges of his face, refined, vulnerable, beautiful. How freeing, to allow himself to think just that, without the distance of a screen and thousands of miles between them. “Guys do like guys like that. I do. I don’t give a shit about anyone else.” Not anymore. “I’m not gonna punch you anymore, but I’ll punch your nightmares if they come back.” A promise and a threat - some things never change, but something, they evolve ever so slightly for the better. 

It may not be the time for sob stories, yet his heart remains wide open, exposed in stretched ribcage, as he gazes upon his best friend’s bare skin, protestations to jokes soon muffled by cherished lips, Hajime exhaling a content sigh; fingertips slowly travelling from Tooru’s stomach up to his chest. Eight years - maybe nine. That is how long he’s had to prepare for this moment; and every flight of fantasy, ever fleeting moment spent imagining what it could be like, what it could have been like, disappears, and leaves him blank, and stunned, and amazed as a newborn. Jesus Hajime, get it together. “You do it. I’m busy.” Never has it been easier to lean into his best friend’s playfulness, his teasing, a hint of a smile cracking through his own voice as he pursues his own exploration at the expense of Tooru’s plans. Eventually - after a few shared chuckles and taunting resistance - his shirt comes off too, disappears he doesn’t know and doesn’t care where, skin shivering where his friend’s hands brushed past. 

How much of this will he remember, come morning? Memory is a fickle thing, especially after the few drinks they’d had; still, every second that passes by feels like engrained in memory down to the smallest detail. He hopes it is the case. One hand reaching out and about to open a nearby drawer without breaking another kiss - dammit, where is that damn drawer - he pulls out a couple of fresh towels and gently pushes Tooru towards the bed, hand flat over his beating heart, makes him sit down on the mattress. Tooru has changed, over the years - taller, broader, though slightly less so than he is. And for as assured as he’d like to look, even Iwaizumi cannot help the crimson colouring his cheeks, the quickening of the beating in his bare chest. Do they need towels if the rain evaporates within seconds? “By the way…” In one swift stretch of legs, he draws closer, sits in his best friend’s lap, knees on either sides of his waist, draping one of the towels to help him dry off (a convenient excuse indeed). “Now is probably the time to tell you I’ve never really been with a guy, right?” Boom, straight to the point; just like his spikes a few years back. “There’s been opportunities, but I didn’t… well, I wanted it to be you. Because I’m the one who took forever to realise the obvious. Don’t laugh.” He warns, a pout and a frown (those identical to his teenaged self’s) forming on his face.

though the moments didn’t pass through his mind in the moment, he’d think about them later, compare them to the vulnerability of this point in time, this little moment made of memories and sob stories and kisses and the distant taste of alcohol soaked cherries — how he’d had miniscule romances, all predicated on the fact that everyone knew it wouldn’t last. he’d woken up with a woman’s soft breath against his neck, long black hair spread across his chest; he’d been hidden away in an alcove of a beach so no one could see a tall, tanned man leaning down to kiss him; he’d laid in a heap of souls, giggling and whispering dizzy words. and yet, for as beautiful as all of those little moments could be, none of them could compare to the one they shared right now.

Tooru had always drowned himself in other people to hide away what he considered shameful. as long as he could make them laugh, make them fawn over him, draw them in, then he was safe, safe from his own thoughts. he couldn’t keep track of how many times he’d sat in his small apartment, curled up under the cover of blankets, just to cry into a pillow; it was a wonder someone so perfectly social could be so utterly lonely.

But, there was one person who could crumple those feelings like paper.

even the simple touch to his hair, drifted down his face, nothing more than a gentle glancing contact — even just that little brush was more filled with love and familiarity than every single one before it. a soft chuckle bubbled up; it was just like Iwaizumi to fight anything that harmed him, even the inanimate. always his knight in shining armour, though, he supposed, there were fewer and fewer pieces of their guard up every moment, dropped just like shirts on the floor. he couldn’t help the soft noise that left his lips when he felt those same familiar fingertips on his skin, over his belly, up to where his heart beat hard in his chest.

it was almost a blur, going from standing to sitting on the bed (he supposed he could blame the alcohol, but truthfully, he had far too high of a tolerance to really be drunk), but the blood only managed to make its way to his cheeks when Hajime kneeled over his lap. his arms easily wrapped around the stronger man’s middle, eyes drifting over the defined muscle and little imperfections, every single one of which he wanted to memorise, but — “Mm?” he hummed softly, gaze lifting to Iwa’s, a slightly unreadable expression on his face for a moment, thoughtful perhaps, before it melted purely into sweetness, a quiet giggle leaving him before he flinched slightly; all instinct even after all these years. if Iwa-chan told you not to laugh, you’d better not — but there wasn’t any fear in his eyes. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. ... it’s just...”

his hold around his lover closed in just a bit, bringing him almost close enough for their chests to be pressed together. oh so softly, he nestled into Iwaizumi’s neck, instantly being flooded with quiet Sunday mornings waking up beside him, resting his forehead on him and getting pushed off, sobbing into his shoulder and being pulled in closer — “... I wish I’d waited.” Tooru muttered, a weak smile palpable against his old friend’s skin. “So... I’m not laughing at you. I’m a little jealous since — I always wanted it to be you, too. If teenage me’s dreams came true, it would have been only you. ... you can laugh at me for being sappy, but I’m really glad I get to be the one you do it with.” he murmured his words, taking a deep breath before bringing his hands up to gently envelop Hajime’s face between them, skilled fingertips running up through his hair in the same pattern he always used; maybe he was a fool for thinking he wouldn’t get so emotional.

“Of all the things we did and didn’t do, all I care about is that they brought us back here. I’ll save you from my rambling... for now, at least.” the setter chuckled affectionately, all the love in the world contained in the warmth of his eyes, exported out to palms that ran slowly down the muscle of his lover’s arms, — lover; he could finally use that word, and he would, over and over — back up and ever so slowly down his body, letting his lips take a kiss from Hajime’s own before following suit, painting soft proofs of his love over his jawline, his neck, and beginning down his chest, resting at his heart while his thumbs soothed at the shorter man’s hips. maybe he was the one who needed soothing, but he couldn’t help but indulge in hearing his heartbeat, after all this time —

Ten years.

It’s a terribly long time, ten years. Entire lifetimes happen within ten years. People come into your life and leave again, sometimes with a content heart, sometimes with tears and heartbreak. People change entirely, become whole new persons you have to re-learn to know at every turn. Hell, in ten years, he might even be retired from volleyball. Entire lifetimes. Atsumu can hardly fathom anything lasting that long besides his love for the game. People, certainly, never last that long. They are not consistent enough to resist the flow of change. The go with the flow r break with the current; and before you know it, yesterday is gone. Who needs memories, right?

And then, every once in a blue moon… There are those who stay put while the rest of the world lurches forward. Atsumu cannot begin to imagine how lonely that must be. He cannot begin to fathom how blind he has been, too.

He listens to Kita’s tale unfold, and slowly, the pieces of the puzzle fall together. All the myriads of little things that didn’t really make sense, but that he never paid attention to, suddenly can be scrutinised under a brand new light. Hell, even this inconsequential, short conversation he’d once had with Samu suddenly becomes clear as day: ‘Yo, y’got a date with Sakusa this weekend, right?’ ‘Yeah, why?’ ‘Nothin’, just double-checkin’.’ It’s a lot. It’s too much. It shouldn’t be, but it sends his head spinning regardless. Back in his apartment, Atsumu flinches and looks down at his hand; thumb bleeding from where he bit too hard. 

It hurts; but probably less than the hurt he hears, powerless, in Kita’s voice. Less than the sting he feels pricking at every inch of his own body, guilt overflowing inside out. It’s not my fault, a part of himself tries to whisper, I didn’t know, how could I know, even Samu didn’t know! But if he’s stopped and thought for a minute… if he’d paid more attention to the signs, subtle as they were, if he hadn’t been greedy and stupid, if he’d thought of the consequences… maybe he wouldn’t be s dumb-founded, taking the brunt of a love gone unsuspected for ten fucking years. 

“I…” Fingers grip at the phone; for once Atsumu Miya is left speechless. Heartbreak; he knows heartbreak. Intimately, in fact. He’s experienced it, he’s been the cause of it too, more often than not, more often than he cares to admit. But not like this, not… Then you touched me. His heart sinks deeper into his chest, heavy, loaded like a stone sinking into still waters. His hand sinks into blonde hair, grips at it in a sorry attempt to ground himself in this storm of their own making. The aftermath of a disaster orchestrated by two men too doggedly blind to foresee what they’d do to each other in an innocent attempt to find just a little piece of happiness. 

“Y’didn’t hurt me, Shinsuke.” Finally he breathes out; I can do that all by myself, don’t worry about it. “ ‘s not your fault everythin’ I touch turns to rot one way or another.” Kita just happens to be the latest victim of his inconsequential ways. God, he’s tired. So tired. What’s wrong with you, Miya? “I’m… sorry I didn’t see anythin’. I should have been more careful, I mean - lookin’ back now, the signs were there, right? I just brush ‘em off like I always do. Guess it was… easier that way.” What a sorry excuse of a man he is.

“… i’m sorry I couldn’t be the person y’wanted me to be. I really am, and I… I don’t know what I can do to fix this.” Pathetic Miya - turning to his latest victim for answers when he’s the one who messed up? That’s a new kind of low.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Kita whispered at first, though, even through all of the tears and pain strangling at his throat, the firmness in his voice was familiar. he was still the same after all these years — truthfully, in the moment, perhaps he was realising how far everyone had moved on while his world stood still. there was never anyone waiting for him when he came home, his ears echoed with the brush of wind and rain and his own footsteps against stone pathways, but oh so rarely the sound of someone else’s voice, never his name murmured to him sweetly, never the feeling of fingers in his hair.

not since the summer.

“Y’can’t blame yourself for not knowin’ a secret that was kept from you. That’s the easy way out, taking all of the fault, picking it up and running with it.” he doesn’t yell, but he's so scary! “Y’turned out to be who you needed to be, Atsumu.” I always thought he was the unfeeling, robotic kind of guy. “That’s all I could ever ask from you. That’s all anyone who cares about ya should ever ask from you. It’s why I did what I did — makin’ sure you stayed healthy, learned y’lessons from within and from others, and kept getting better; ya did all o’that and more.”

sometimes he’s like an emotionless machine.

“... I’m so proud of ya for that, Atsumu.

But — there’s some things... ya can’t fix.”

slowly, he stood, walking onto the wooden deck of the old inn. boots slipped off at the door and left neatly sat together, the closing of the sliding door bringing a quietness to his end of the line that sunk deep into his bones, undoubtedly sorrowful to listen to. for a moment, he could see afterimages of Atsumu leaning in close to him as they sat on the porch, feet pounding against well tread floors, smiles, laughter, touches, memorising a heartbeat — all so firmly set in the past.

“We can blame ourselves forever, but it won’t change the past.” we don’t need the memories — a hypocrite, perhaps, Kita deemed himself, knowing with every certainty that he’d hold onto the memory of that night forever. “I will be your friend, your captain, your senpai, all for as long as you want me to be. That won’t change, Atsumu. I don’t want that to change. ... what I wanted, I... I knew that’s not what I was meant to be for you. I’ve known that for a long time.” it almost sounded like weight was being slowly chiselled away from his soul, secrets spoken after so, so long. “... it feels like so much to ask, after all this time, but — I think... I’ll need time to stop wanting what can’t be.” a shuddering breath escaped him, held so tight in his very being that letting it go felt like finally relinquishing yourself to sleep after a long, long day, or sinking into the onsen with sore and aching muscles.

can I ask you — was I also yer first kiss?

a weak smile folded delicately onto his lips, even under the stream of tears.

@agorace​ // osamu (plotted starter)

There is one rule, in the life of the Miya twins, that acts as overarching and supreme commandment: whatever happens, no matter how big or small, they cannot, at any point, let go of each other. Bound to each other in the womb, bound to each other with every breath they take; it doesn’t matter if it’s about holding onto each other’s hand as their father walks out the door of their grandmother’s house for the last time, or if it’s about holding onto each other’s hand in a crowded park on their way back from school. 

In the small, contained, and terribly fragile world of the Miya twins, forcing a separation upon them is a capital offense.  And when Atsumu feels his brother’s hand slipping from his, fingers suddenly closing on empty air; it is as though the very skin is ripped off his palm, as if a half of something in his chest is abruptly pulled out through the core of his bones. 

One moment his brother is here.  The next he isn’t. “Samu?” The little boy calls out, struck dumb by the unbearable and unexpected absence at his side. “Oi, Samu! ‘s not funny!” No answer. Usually, there’s always an answer. Even when Osamu is sulking, even when he pretends to ignore him after they fight; there is always some grumbled complaint or a side look he can catch and rest upon. But right now, there is nothing: his brother is not in sight, and the realisation sinks deep into his tiny chest, as he stands there, amidst this swarm of people looming over him.

They’re all tall, all those grown-ups; tall, and heavy, and large, and in the way.  Anger laced with impatience shoots straight up his spine, fuels the glare he drills into those strangers; he would kick and scream, were his mind not entirely geared towards a much more critical priority. Finding Osamu. Yeah - you’re lucky I don’t have the time for ya, he seethes in silence, as he angrily pushes through passers-by. 

“Samu! Osamu! Where’d ya go?!” Blood boils at his ears and makes the tips of his fingers tingle; in his chest his heart beats furiously as he marches on, bull-headed. There is an urgency that guides his each and every step, directs him to a destination unknown, moves him on instinct alone. He will find his brother; there is (cannot be) no doubt in his mind. It cannot be otherwise - but he must find him fast. And so, Atsumu marches on, a boy on a mission, ready to move entire mountains to be reunited with his other half. “Saaaamuuuu!”

how he ended up here was a blur. a hand pulling him, crowds pushing —

Osamu had always been the more introspective of the twins, quietly in his own thoughts more often than not if he and Atsumu weren’t committing one of their many antics. even when he was lost in thought, a dedicated portion of his mind was always set on knowing where Atsumu was. he could do so with nearly pinpoint accuracy, a little wonder of the world when he and his brother were babies, communicating with unintelligible little shouts and squeals until they were reunited.

and now, his thoughts were stripped bare, down a survival instinct. Those Miya twins — they may as well be joined at the hip. at the heart, rather. without Atsumu’s hand in his own, Osamu felt heartbroken, as deep as he could imagine any adult would feel; worse, even! adults didn’t understand why they were so upset by being separated. being forced to sit apart in class, study in different rooms, it made Osamu uneasy, even when he knew his brother was only a few doors down.

and now he was completely alone.

“T — Tsumu,” he whispered, unable to croak out much more than the soft little sob that passed by his lips. being the more thoughtful twin wasn’t always a good thing. for as much as he wanted his legs to move, wanted to sprint and find his brother by any means necessary, all it could manage was to bring the heels of his palms up to his face in a desperate little attempt to hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. he wouldn’t leave me behind. his thoughts ran faster and faster, lungs hyperventilating to the point of dizzying his mind even further. he can’t leave. sinking slowly down to crouch, he made his body as small as possible, the sound of people chattering away becoming droning, horrible, sickening background noise as his frame shook with pathetic sobs.

why does everyone leave?

he didn’t know how long he sat all balled up by the fountain, only bringing his gaze up to wince away from passerby who tried to help him, gentle voices mutating into terrifying attempts to steal him away. but, then, there was one voice — just one — Saaaamuuuu!

finally, his legs found their strength, pushing him into a mad sprint toward the sound. he didn’t care that his eyes were still far too clouded by tears to truly see; Osamu knew his brother without needing to see him. if the collision wasn’t strong enough to send both of them to the ground, it was close. his arms gripped Atsumu into an embrace that could only mimic the one they had held after their grandmother had softly told them of their father’s passing. don’t go, it said. you’re the only one I have left, it said.

Of course he’d known. People used to say Oikawa was an open book to him; too often, they didn’t realise that Iwaizumi was just the same. You can’t grow up with someone and not get to know them so intimately, you sometimes know them better than they know themselves. Iwaizumi had always known he was able to see in Oikawa what Oikawa, something, couldn’t see because of his own blind spots; of course the opposite would be true too. Try as he might have to convince himself differently at times, and as much as others may have thought he was the one keeping his partner afloat - Tooru had always known better, had always had his back too. Much more than anyone outside their little bubble would ever suspect.

Wah — a less than elegant yelp escapes him, hoisted up with no other choice than to wrap his legs around his best friend and grab onto his shirt, cheeks flushed a deep red as he already growls to protest: “No, not better! I’m gonna p - “ Punch you, is what he would have said, had he not been reduced to silence. Uh-oh. This is bad, he muses, outburst contained and fading into shared kiss; denied, stolen away along his breath, Tooru pressing buttons he didn’t even know he had up until right about now.

And the more he kisses him, leaving the taste of rain and lifelong yearning on his tongue; the more he talks, assembling words, at least three of them, that Hajime hadn’t dared imagine him say before; the more he breathes against his neck, warm, close, real… The more it sinks in.  This is really real, after all. 

Fingers rise to curl into Tooru’s hair, twitching as he rekindles with that old, familiar sensation he had so dearly missed; how can everything feel the same, and so different at the same time? The question drowns in the maze of his mind, deafened out by the drumming of his heart in his chest; and he represses a smile, neck stretching to tentatively afford his partner more space to explore. “Yeah, we do.” He breathes out, arms closing around Tooru’s shoulders, legs pressing more comfortably around his hips (maybe that wasn’t that bad, after all - don’t tell him though). “And you’ve got to make up for all the times you called me ugly out of jealousy, Shittykawa - ‘cause now I know that wasn’t true.” Oh how many volleyballs had flown because of that; and the moment Tooru moves to look at him again, Iwa shifts to meet his lips again, with the gentle eagerness of first times too long awaited, begging to be repeated. “Good thing you’re staying here, then.” He mutters, trailing lightly along his cheek. “… bedroom’s behind you, if your scrawny arms are getting tired.” He grins to himself. Damn right they’ve got time. Damn right they can be proud. “Whatever happens tonight; we’re taking those nine years back.”

the warmest, sweet like dark wildflower honey, laugh spilled out of him at the unfinished threat. though the conscious part of his mind was enraptured with the connection between their lips and leaving little kisses on the expanse of neck he’d been given access to, the back of his mind was drawing on lessons he’d learned from past; how the little bits of spontaneity could turn routine nights into brilliant memories, exploring every inch of someone slowly in order to appreciate it all, to foster safety and peace before anything else — how easy was the last piece of wisdom; there wasn’t anyone in the world he felt more safe with than the man threading fingers through his hair. it was like they’d been here before, in spirit, now made reality, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into it fully.

“I’ll make it up and then some, I didn’t spend all that time in Argentina to come out an anti-romantic,” he murmured, now his turn to have his sentence cut off by a kiss, earning a quiet, pleased noise from his lips, bruises just barely showing against the pink softness. “My scrawny arms picked you up just fine, Iwa-chan, and they’ll keep holding you up, too,” Oikawa murmured playfully, making a few steps backwards after a quick look allowed him to slip into the bedroom, dim, save for the city light coming in through the window. “With a little help, maybe.” he muttered, turning and gently letting his and Iwaizumi’s weight close the door, resting his best friend’s back up against the wood.

“Hajime,”

he started softly, just close enough to brush lips but not to kiss. “You’re the only person I ever want to be jealous about, because you’re mine. I always tried to look away when you’d catch me staring, and make up an excuse to make you hit me or something to distract from... me, being in love and not wanting to admit it to you.” there was a vulnerability to his tone, like his teenaged self was finally being allowed the space he’d always needed to be truthful. “... deep down, I knew you wouldn’t hate me if I confessed. I even had a hunch that maybe... you felt the same way, or at least, liked me more than just best friends would. But —” he smiled, a bit of weakness creeping into his beautiful features. “... I had nightmares about you leaving. Guys don’t like guys like that, something along those lines. ... sometimes, when we were sleeping over at each other’s houses, and I’d wake up crying, out of a nightmare... that’s why.”

Tooru chuckled quietly, finally letting his friend down slowly.

“But now’s not the time for sob stories, is it?” the setter murmured, crossing his hands across his hips to grasp the hem of his shirt, pulling the wet fabric up and off of his body, even as it clung to the slowly growing expanse of exposed skin. he set the shirt down in the corner gently; he wouldn’t be needing it. “We should get dried off first, shouldn’t we? Don’t want to get your sheets wet.” he smiled, stealing another kiss while his fingertips brushed just barely at Iwaizumi’s waist, slipping down to thumb at his shirt before he paused, a sweetness melded with exploratory shyness and a need he couldn’t put into words yet colouring his voice. perhaps, in the midst of chuckle in his words, there was a playfulness, reminiscent of all the moments they had on the court.

‘ oooooooooo, samu! wh- now, quit flappin’ yer gums at me fer a moment! they published a new series of winning eleven. ain’t we goin’ back home fer a weekend ta see ma? whaddayasay? we get it ‘nd play it like old times ‘gain when we’re there? ’ there it was, the childlike glint in those brazen amber eyes. having remembered the glimpse he caught of the game in one of the shop windows previously passed, the older miya twin has come to forget all about the dispute they were having prior.

@agorace​, for miya osamu / post timeskip / sc.

❝     𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕 ??     ❞          worry  laces  timbre,     quickly  preparing  an  ice  pack  for  the  other’s  knee.     she  tried  not  drawing  too  much  attention,     but  it  seemed  to  be  quite  a  serious  injury.          ❝     i  think  we  should  get  that  looked  at   ;     i’ll  take  you  to  the  medic.❞     (   @agorace​   )

Sundays had been his favourite day for approximately seven weeks.

Why seven? Sounds awfully specific, Bokuto had inquired, shaking out his wet hair like a dog. he’d done little but smile and look in Tomas’ direction.

no alarms were allowed on Sunday unless they had a specific plan that required them. as such, when Shion heard the distinctive soft guitar and Catalonian lyrics from Tomas’ phone, he awoke with a lazy stretch and soft squeak of a yawn — no sooner did the sheets over him shift, a cool brush of air coming in only to be interrupted by enveloping warmth, tangled limbs and a low hum brought past the lips against his neck that he could only translate as an adorable dissent to waking up so early.

“Don’t worry, I set the alarms early enough so we could still stay in bed for half an hour or so — you don’t think I know you well enough to do that?” he teased quietly in Spanish. practising Japanese could wait until they were in Hokkaido — team practice had been cancelled for Monday, so what better day to take an 11 hour train ride? gently, he shifted just enough to bring his fingers up to run across the curve of Adriah’s jaw, then north to card through his hair, resting there to continue a comforting rhythm of playing with the dark strands, mussed up from sleep.

“Tomas,” he cooed quietly. “Bésame.” anticipating he might be chastised in retaliation for his insistence on Tomas learning all of the quirks of politeness in Japanese culture, he chuckled warmly. “Por favor.”

“Almost done —” Hirugami murmured, leaning back just a little bit to observe his work before he returned to it, small brush dipped back into the paint and light strokes resumed. “Sorry, I know the smallest brush tickles the most, you’re doing great.” he chuckled softly, for once blessing that month in his childhood when his sister had busted a finger and made him do her makeup every morning before school. “And — done!” the exclamation was followed by a cheerful bark from Adzuki — or, at least, from what they both knew to be Adzuki, even if she was covered up with a white sheet that had a tennis ball painted red glued to it around where her nose was.

“I think we have a pretty good chance of winning the costume contest at the party, don’t you think, Susie? Zero?” he laughed, adjusting his bowtie and the legs of his pinstriped suit.