#(ooops.)

“argentina, though,” you say, leaning back in your chair. the coffee shop bustles around you -- autumn has always been a coffee-shop kind of season. it’s the aesthetic, maybe, scarves and coffee mugs really do just look good together. 

“i heard it’s beautiful there.” 

he nods, his eyes trained on his own coffee, poured into a pastel green cup. you almost smile at the coincidence -- it’d match his old highschool jersey. 

“yeah, i heard so too. and i’ll get to be with some of the best players in the world.” 

you nod along with his words, bring your cup to your lips, sip at the lukewarm drink. you’d ordered pastries, but they lay nearly untouched on the table between the pair of you, like some unbridgeable gap, the chocolate croissant a line of demarkation -- thou shalt not pass this line. 

do not go to the other side. 

“i think you’ll be great.” 

a flash of his signature smirk flickers across his lips, and his shoulders roll back, as if relaxing into the familiar posture gives him comfort. 

“i know i’ll be great.” 

ah, there he is, that old darling arrogance of his. 

but it’s a momentary thing. you blink and it’s gone. he sighs, working a hand through his hair with a soft frown. who’d ever have known that one oikawa tooru was so terrible at saying no when it mattered. you can see him hesitating, searching for the right words, the right moments. you know they won’t come -- there’s no such thing. 

not went it comes to breaking someone’s heart. 

“did they at least pay for business class for your flight there?” you ask, and he laughs, nodding, finally looking up at you. and his eyes are soft, almost pleading. 

thank you, they might be saying, for saving me. 

“that they did. no expense spared. i’m pretty sure i get to stay in a pretty swanky hotel till they find an apartment for me, too.” 

you grin, “wow, you must be really good or something.” 

his laughter is loud, round, full -- he presses a hand to his stomach, his shoulders shaking. he makes a show of pushing his hair back, leaning forward with a smirk -- you know the one, all quirked eyebrows and hitched lips -- you can feel your heartstrings catch on the edge of his mouth as it twists up. 

“yeah, i’m kind of a big deal.” 

you crinkle your nose, let the laughter roll through you even as you roll your eyes. 

“well, let me know when you get there. send me pictures of the swanky hotel.” 

the moment breaks, like a bubble bursting. one perfect moment, playing pretend -- as if all this were scripted, planned, as if the entire thing had been written out since day one (it wasn’t, it hasn’t been, he never said anything about leaving). 

“i -- i will.” 

it’s this more than anything that tells you he’s not getting out of this unscathed either. oikawa tooru does not stutter. he does not break. 

until he does. 

when he leaves that day, he leans down to kiss you, lets his lips linger. you fancy you can feel them shaking against yours, but he presses in tighter, and kisses you till you forget what it feels like to kiss anyone else but him. 

“it’s not like it’s forever,” he says, finally, when you break apart, his breath warm against your skin. 

you shake your head, no. it’s not like it’s forever. but it might be. 

he never says i love you. you never do either. 

but he does come back. he does -- and when he does, you’re no longer the person he left all those years ago, but you’re still you. 

“you’re... the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, earnestly, daringly. hopefully, maybe. 

you smile, press your lips, sip at your coffee. outside, the spring is just blossoming from beneath the thick blankets of winter sleep, people just shedding their puffer coats for lighter jackets and thinner scarves. 

“and you left anyway,” you say. 

oikawa sighs, swallows, nods. 

and when he smiles, it’s full of a bittersweet nostalgia, a heartbroken kind of thing. and you realize that yours wasn’t the only heart he broke that day he left -- but maybe it had just taken him longer to realize.