star speckled

i.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

And then it came. The first bloom.

Cut to you being seventeen, in love, your heart and soul soaring through the skies with nothing bringing you down. You were unstoppable, reckless, invincible. When you were with him - with Tooru - you could shake away every pretense you put on and show yourself in your most vulnerable state. You could shed the rough and weary skin you wore and reveal the skeleton underneath. You allowed yourself to be raw, to be real.

“I need to go,” your breath hitches as you step away from him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He doesn’t try to stop you.

How long would it take until you could do that again? Feel like that again? With someone else? You were Icarus, high on adrenaline and confidence, never looking back. He was the devil, always playing with fire, so you joined him, thinking he would never burn you.

Turn left at the end of this street, then straight down. A right turn here. Left, right, then left again. Keeping your mind preoccupied with directions is the most you can do to keep yourself distracted. You have no idea where your destination is; you just knew you needed to get as far away as possible.

You trusted the world too much. You didn’t expect it to come crashing down, and when it did, every fiber of your being shattered along with it.

Doubled over next to a lamp post, you feel anxiety and uncertainty nestling in the corners of your lungs. Or was that something else? You cough. A tickle at the back of your throat. Are you still in love with him? You cough again, bringing a hand to your mouth. An answer. A reassurance of the worst form unfurls in the palm of your hand, in the form of a white petal.

The sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention, and you frantically look up from your pathetic position, only to be met with familiar eyes.

“Hey, you okay? I saw you from down the street and I–” His gaze is soft, laced with concern.

“Iwaizumi, I–” you desperately search your brain for a reply, choking back tears and blood, “Tooru– he–”

“I know.”

His gaze trails down to the petal you held in your hand, dotted with flecks of red, and he swallows. He knows.

Silence settles between the two of you before he crouches down next to you and sighs, eyes level with yours.

“This won’t do,” he quips, the resolve clear in his voice, “C’mon, let’s get your mind off of things.”

“Where are we going?” you croak, surprised by the sudden suggestion.

“Cinema.”

“We’re watching a film?”

“No, shitsponge, we’re going for a swim,” he rolls his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

Iwaizumi was always like that. You two had been good friends since before you and Oikawa were romantically involved, and you’d learned to count on him in the worst situations. You stand and nod, half a mind set on moving on, and the other half transfixed on the white petal that emerged from your lungs.

--- ii.

Iwaizumi walks you back from the cinema, the pair of you chatting animatedly. Your heartbreak is almost forgotten, but all it takes is one memory, one familiar sight, to shatter the illusion. Your footsteps come to a halt as you spot the swingset where you shared your first kiss. It was the beginning of what you thought would’ve been forever.

It all comes crashing down. You miss him. Suddenly, all of the memories are being thrown your way like punches, bruising your whole body.

Holding hands in his pocket. Him always being the one to lean in first. You on the edge of your toes. Him meeting you halfway. His hands on your jaw, soft, gentle. Your face buried in the arch of his back. Fingers tracing shapes on arms. Whispering ‘I love you’ when you thought he was asleep. Him squeezing you because he wasn’t, wordlessly letting you know that he loved you too. Love as the underlying constant, the unrelenting heartbeat underneath your every action. He was the voice of an angel, a dream, whispering ‘I love you so much’ in between desperate kisses. How could that same voice tell you he didn’t care about you anymore? How could that voice, the one that once called itself a life jacket, be the same one with a tight chokehold on your throat, stopping you from breathing?

Next thing you know, you’re on your knees, asphalt and tar setting your skin on fire. That was nothing, though, compared to the ache clawing at your lungs. Pain and anguish materialised in your chest, and you hacked and coughed and heaved to try and get rid of it.

The petals are the first to come out: sloppy, limp, and clinging to the surface of your tongue. You spit them out, disgusted by the sight. Then, you feel something significantly larger pushing up and out of your trachea. You cannot breathe and your chest feels as though it’s about to explode.

Tears were freely falling now, the caverns of your eyes flowing out into waterfalls. You reach inside your mouth with your fingers and pull, your body numb to the pain. You retch at the sensation crawling up your throat, and almost pass out when you finally recover the flower, stem and all. You toss it aside.

All the strength in your body dissipates upon registering the scene in front of you, blood and petals and saliva intermingling to form a beautiful crime scene, the kind of stuff poets write about. But this isn’t a poem. You feel filthy and pathetic and tired, and you just want to collapse.

“Hey- hey, look at me. Look at me,” he crouches down and holds your face in his hands, “you’ll be fine. You’ll be okay.” You were so absorbed in yourself that you almost forgot he was there. He wipes at your tears with his thumb, and you lean into his touch. His hands aren’t the ones you were used to; they are rougher, more calloused, but they are warm.

And for now, they are enough.

--- iii.

“I should get the surgery,” a statement. You weren’t asking for his opinion, but he gives it anyway.

“Don’t,” his tone is sharp, “you shouldn’t. It… it’s risky.” Iwaizumi looks up from his textbook and fiddles with the pen in this hand. He turns and looks at the vase of lilies sitting on your windowsill. “Plus… the flowers, I think they’re nice. They’re proof that you’re human, that you can love.”

You almost laugh. He has taken a liking to taking care of the full blooms ejected from your mouth, coming over a few times a week to water the flowers. You secretly despise the sight of them, but you let him indulge himself. It was the least you could do, after how much he’d helped you.

“I never would have pegged you for a romantic, Iwa,” you tease.

He throws his pen at you and huffs. You dodge. An exasperated groan escapes his lips before he places his head on your desk, indicating that he was done with studying.

You could still taste that pungent fragrance on your tongue. God, you hated lilies.

In reality, you appreciated his presence, a lot more than you let on. You think of the many times he’s been there for you since the breakup. Suddenly you were in your bathroom at 2am, throwing up poison and acid, him holding your knotted hair, a steady hand on your back. He was always there; calm, unwavering, an anchor. The rhythmic heartbeat in his chest when you were crying against it for no apparent reason. The warm hands enveloped around your trembling ones, keeping you steady as you walked home from the cinema. Him, stable and unmoving when you were a hurricane, a blizzard, a storm.

“Hey,” you speak up, “uh, I never did say thank you. So… thanks. For being here. It means a lot.”

He picks his head up and looks at you before turning back around, scowling. He places his head back on your desk.

“Don’t mention it, dumbass.”

You think you notice a slight flush on his cheeks.

--- iv.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, handing you a cup of coffee. “Your, uh,” he gestures at his chest area, “lungs still at it?”

You scoff. He asks this every other day, even though he knows the answer won’t change.

“Yes,” you answer. “They are, but..” you hesitate. Should you tell him? You think you’re getting better. The flowers aren’t lilies anymore. They are honey coloured now, and taste like spring. He will be pleased, but you don’t want to give him good news in case your condition worsens again.

“But what?”

“Nothing,” you reply. He shoots you a stern look, but doesn’t question it any further. As you walk to campus, you notice how the morning sun washes his eyes in warm hazel, flecks of gold dancing amidst an olive backdrop. You sip your coffee and think of how the scent wafting into your nostrils reminds you of his skin, of molten caramel and honey. A breeze passes; it’s chilly, a hint at autumn’s arrival. He shivers and turns towards you, and you notice the violets growing in the expanse beneath his eyes. You frown. Has he been worrying?

“My lecture hall’s this way,” he says, pointing at the building to your left, “I’ll see you later-”

“They’re buttercups,” you blurt out. “The, uh, flowers. I didn’t know whether I should tell you. They’re buttercups now, I don’t really know what this means but, maybe I’m one step closer to getting over him? They’re smaller, so, I guess I’m doing better.”

He gives you a smile, and his eyes soften. You think about the coffee he bought you, and how the warmth radiated by the coffee cup in your hands was the same warmth you felt from his gaze.

“I’m glad,” he says, and you wave him goodbye. I’m glad too, you think. I hope this stops soon.

You hope, sincerely, that one day, he will ask that same question he asks every other day, and you’ll be able to give him an answer that he isn’t used to.

--- v.

The flowers do not stop blooming, but the attacks aren’t as relentless anymore.

A sharp pain in your throat jolts you awake, and you sit up, picking up the bowl you kept next to your bed. Your mind is still foggy from the remnants of sleep, but your body moves by itself. This was routine by now.

Iwaizumi stirs from his position at your desk, picking his head up and turning around to look at you. You glance at the clock beside you, and begin to apologise for waking him up when a coughing fit seizes you. He sighs, and moves to sit next to you on the bed, rubbing circles on your back.

“You really-” you’re interrupted by a cough, “should stop staying over and falling asleep at my desk.” He leans down and picks up stray petals off the floor, placing them into the bowl before taking it from your hands and putting it back on your nightstand. He doesn’t reply, choosing instead to place a hand at the crook of your neck, brushing his thumb over your collarbone. His expression is unreadable.

You continue. “It’s not-” another cough, “it’s not good for your sleep. I can tell. You’ve got these really dark circles now, and-”

“You know-- you can let go. You can learn to love again. Find someone new,” his breath ghosts over your skin. Your mind swirls amongst the clouds, dew drops trickling through your veins. The moon casts a pearlescent halo around his figure, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

“Like who?” you whisper back, voice trembling. Your eyes are drawn to his, but he’s looking somewhere else. His gaze flickers up to meet your own, before trailing down, back towards your lips.

And with that, he closes the gap between you.

You feel your chest swell, but it wasn’t the kind you had grown used to. The literal kind that tore your lungs apart, ripping into your heart and leaving nothing but blood and fire in its wake. No, this time you felt it bloom in the metaphorical sense. This time, it was a wash of sunlight: slow, warm, inviting.

There is a burst of heat, and you feel your chest expand. Your next breath comes slower, deeper than you’re used to, and you catch the faint smell of ashes on your tongue. As if the overgrowth in your lungs had crumbled to dust. As if spring had finally come to an end.

You can let go, he’d said, you can learn to love someone else.

And as you feel his lips part against yours, you thought to yourself, perhaps I already have.