it's his world, we're all just living in it

when he was younger, oikawa was scared of the bells that are rung in the couple of hours after the new year in a buddhist tradition known as joya no kare. the sound they produce is inescapable, loud, and low. now that he’s older, though, he’s really come to appreciate the process of the bell ringing, and he’s gone at least once to watch the monks (see here: https://youtu.be/qOwQN8zsiKk?t=62).

the oikawas have always been a pretty disciplined family, at least for propriety’s sake, so they get to the shrine pretty early in the morning on new year’s day to do their prayers. it’s less about being religious, which the oikawas are not, but simply because it is a custom that almost every japanese family does. tooru’s grandparents are probably more traditional and know more about shinto/buddhist teachings, but they don’t really enforce it on their children or grandchildren. 

although sending physical nengajo (postcards to wish friends/families a happy new year) is becoming increasingly more old-fashioned, oikawa has always liked making his own special cards. he puts a bunch of cute stickers and writes cute, personalized messages. the iwaizumis always get the nicest ones with his prettiest handwriting. 

he’s saved all the nengajo that people have sent to him since he was seven. 

oikawa’s mom and sister are shopping fiends, and they really like to take advantage of fukubukuro, which is when stores fill bags with random leftovers and sell them at steep discounts. he’s gone with them a couple of times, especially when he was younger, but he always gets bored because they spend hours shopping. not a fan of the process, but he always gets some snacks and cool trinkets. 

oikawa’s favorite tradition will always be the giving of otoshidama (envelopes of money given to kids). it’s not really a spoken thing, but as the baby of the family, oikawa always gets at least a few hundred more yen than the rest of the children in the family.

oikawa stores his money away in a savings account for a future date. he’s not sure what to spend it on, but it’s always there just in case. 

of course, oikawa hates annual house cleaning that comes along with this time of year. he can’t really complain though because he’s always given the easiest tasks, like mopping and sweep the floor and wiping down the counters. 

totally likes all the food that’s available at this time of year, and always looks forward to pretty osechi ryori (traditional foods served in 3-4 layer bentos called jubako), if only to look at all the colors if he doesn’t like the foods in them. 

But life in Argentina has... he doesn’t know.  Refreshed him, he supposes.  He feels freer, like some dandelion caught on the breeze and landing wherever a zephyr carries him.  Things that Tooru didn’t know about himself even five years ago on that plane ride to Argentina, to San Juan, to Blanco--he knows them now.  Like the fact that Tooru truly feels most at peace basking in morning sunlight, Hime-chan weaving between his feet.  Like the fact that the quiet has never settled him more.  Like the fact that he has never been so present in every second of his life, wondering where next he might go. 

Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, Tooru will realize that a volleyball has never fit in his hand so perfectly--has never felt so light.  It’s a revelation every time, a small miracle that he’s created with the tips of his worn fingers.  He marvels always.  The way a high-five, a slap on the back, a group hug feel new.  The jadedness of an 18-year-old slough off his back in those moments.

When he walks the trails of Parque Provincial Ischigualasto and looks over at the banding patterns of the badlands, rock carved by the insistent wind, Tooru feels as though his chest falls away and he floats.  The breeze swirls in his nose and in his mouth, and he hears only the rustle of his t-shirt.  The sun caresses his skin in agreement, and the clouds above paint masterpieces.  If this is what flight is, it is no wonder the sky never deigns to touch earth. 

Tooru discovers the pleasure of being drunk of laughter and nothing else.  He laughs at everything and nothing, and asado tastes so delicious.  There is intimacy in eating with only his hands, and sharing his food and drink between friends.  He puzzles at cheek kisses and hugs for greetings and hands over his.  The way he can walk away from strangers and feel like he has been touched by their souls and their hearts. 

And Tooru loves more easily.  He loves his tía who greets him every morning, and eats brunch with him on Saturday and talks to him about her children, all his age, and asks him about the plants he’s growing on the balcony.  He loves the grocer he sees every Friday evening, and who slips  alfajores into his basket and hands him mugs of submarino into his hands for free.  He falls a little bit in love with every family he sees on the streets, and the father who assuredly guides his daughter down the slide.  The mother who takes pictures on her phone for the memory.  The abuelos who walk hand-in-hand around the block, and the tourist who asks him directions.  The teenagers stumbling in the dark, discovering that love can be held in your palms. 

that isn’t to say that he’s lazy--not by any means. he gets all his homework done, does his chores around the house, and probably spends a fair amount of time studying volleyball strategy or watching international games. but he also allows himself to relax into the sofa with a fuzzy blanket over his lap and enjoy the time to himself. tooru wears the uber-soft t-shirt and lounge pants he got for his birthday. he puts on a pot of gyokuro and then sips on it while watching the same sci-fi show that’s been playing reruns for the past four years. he thinks about starting that cool mystery series makki had recommended to him the previous week. wonders how much it would cost to get the new shoes he’s been eyeing, or if he has time later on to catch up on the lastest ice skating shows. 

he might even go out on a run to the konbini for a couple of packs of milk bread, which he slices into thick cuts and serves them with lots of different toppings. he toasts a couple of pieces and spreads whipped honey butter over top, or he might just have it with sweetened condensed milk. if he’s feeling something savory, tooru will used some of the spare bits of pork left in the fridge for a sandwich that has kewpie mayo and karashi mustard. i’s always delicious and makes him feel so content. he snuggles up in a mound of pillows with his snacks, the warmth of the sun through filtering the windows against his face.

It's an obsession. A ritual. A religion.

Tooru is tethered to the hard of a countertop beneath his leg, the refracting light of an illusion, and the cesspool of his own thoughts.

An imitation of Tooru's very own fingers trace at his face in the mirror. He follows the curve of his cheeks, feels the warmth of blood beneath his calluses, and feels the thudding of his heart at the root of his tongue and buried in his esophagus. He pushes his hair to reveal his hairline; cups at the sharpness of his jawline after every meal; squeezes at his inner thighs in the morning and before bed. He likes the emptiness in his stomach when he wakes up but likes it even more before he goes to sleep. Every time there's a creak in the wood of the hallway floor or the murmur of wind against the house or the hum of his okaa-san's voice, a wave crashes against the edges of Tooru's consciousness, pulls him away from his image. Sounds are amplified a thousand percent as he waits for the door to open. His heart hurts from the guilt. It's a drug.

He's addicted to the flash of a phone as he flips the photo and notices the asymmetries between his eyes or the sides of his face. It's mesmerizing as his gaze flickers between the photograph and what he sees staring back at himself. He stares long enough that he can see where his nose isn't straight--curves in a deformed 'S' shape--and where the edges of his lips start and end unevenly. Tooru counts the number of moles that dot his cheeks and shoulders. He stares at himself long enough that Tooru can see the ridges of scars on his arms and legs--things he thought had long since ceased.

He's glad he doesn't have monolids, at least. And his eyelashes are nice. People say so.

On bad days, he'll stand as far back as he possibly can from his bathroom mirror and twist to see where he bulges. He prods at the spots of muscle that protrude, wishing they wouldn't. He snatches the measuring tape from the drawer downstairs, pulling the length of it as close to his body as possible. He contemplates counting calories. Tooru could do it--probably. Tooru could pull out their unused kitchen scale and weigh out all of his meals in advance. His okaa-san won't question him if he says it's for volleyball. He thinks about skin whitening products or even full-body skin lightening procedures. Cosmetic surgery is cheaper in South Korea.

mihoyo has officially come out with a statement about it, and they can’t respect that? frankly, it’s disgusting that these leakers are willing to exploit the developers for their own gain when it actively ruins the experience for the player base and all the people working on genshin.

i swear to god, i’m gonna throw hands—