moamiswriting – Page 33

The girl is wearing all black and traces of dried tears on her cheeks. “Tooru,” she says, walking inside with a tiny smile that doesn’t reach further up, “hello. May I come inside?”

“Of course.” He did his best to look presentable, but the nurse could only find a dark blue sweater so this one has to do. Tooru shakes the girl’s hand as firmly as he can. They don’t talk much. She has brought him some books, and he accepts them. Their conversation flows when it flares up though, natural, making Tooru remember her back when she was born and grew up and looked so much like him. She still does.

“Thank you,” the girls finally says and stands. Tooru shakes his head. It’s nothing. To her, it seems to be something.

“You were always there.” Her eyes are brown, soft and open and wounded somewhere in her soul. “You were his best friend and you were there when he – when he wasn’t anymore. The funeral, it, it was good. He’s with mom now.”

Tooru just nods. He nods. The pain has been there for so long that he barely feels it bleed out into his veins. The girl turns his wheelchair around and hugs him tightly. Her fingers gently cup his white hair, and she’s crying.

“When – when she was younger, mom said that maybe… maybe he and you, you were something else. Something closer. Was that-”

Tooru is careful when he pushes her back. There’s already a nurse outside the door, looking at him over the girl’s shoulder, her smile too gentle, understanding. But before the girl can leave, Tooru touches her young hand.

“Hajime only ever loved your mother, dear. Thank you for coming here.”

Her cheeks are tear-silver again. “I – I’m sorry. I guess mom just wondered why you never married.”

His fingers ache when he curls them around his knees. They’re ringless, wrinkled and torn by the old blue of veins, the same blood as seventy years ago.

“You father loved one person, my dear. And so did I, for all of his life.”

At first, Hinata doesn’t understand why Kageyama insist on this thing. Whenever they say goodbye, after their kiss at the crossroads that leads up the mountain, Kageyama reaches for Hinata’s sleeve. He tugs, just a tiny bit. Hinata then usually sighs and tiptoes to nuzzle his cheek and says something like “I’m glad you’re my boyfriend” or “I like you a lot.”

Today, he’s in a hurry. Kageyama barely catches him after training, because Hinata’s racing to his bike, panicking about the dentist appointment he can’t be late to. “Hinata!” Kageyama calls, but there’s no time. “I’ll call you later tonight,” is all Hinata manages to say before he climbs onto his bike. “Sorry! Bye!”

When he comes back from the dentist, his mother spares him from watching Natsu and lets Hinata go to his room until dinner. He hugs her tightly before running off, pain still throbbing in his cheek. Reaching for his phone, Hinata checks his messages – and freezes.

Do you want to break up? From Kageyama.

What the hell! No! Why, do you? He wants to call, wants to know, but Kageyama doesn’t pick up and instead there’s a new message.

You didn’t say you liked me today.

Hinata wants to hit him at first. Of course he hasn’t stopped liking Kageyama within a day! But then again… it’s Kageyama. They have their rituals, their rules, and Kageyama struggles with – things. Hinata catches himself smiling. He’ll say it every day, twice, four or five times, until it’s carved into Kageyama’s heart.

I like you. A lot. Still do. Kiss me tomorrow morning, okay?

The reply is immediate, and Hinata squeezes his phone tightly.

Okay. I like you the best.

Idiot, Hinata thinks, and my boyfriend. Maybe they’ll kiss a bit longer tomorrow.

“A little bird told me that you’re in love.” Nishinoya flops down besides Yaku on the bench outside, uncapping his water bottle to take a big gulp.

“Excuse me?!” Yaku almost drops his own water bottle. The summer heat is flaring into the gym like a storm cloud of fire, intent on setting them all up in flames. Completely unnecessary, everyone is gasping for some air to get into their lungs. Kuroo and Bokuto are lying face-down in the grass outside the gym, mumbling something about teaching the Karasuno newbies some special training camp tactics. The rest of the teams is scattered all over the place.

Yaku can’t keep his eyes from wandering around, just for a second, but Nishinoya grins immediately. “So it’s true. You’re smitten.”

“I’m not! Who told you that?” Yaku feels his cheeks grow hot. “I’m… there’s nobody like that. Even if there was someone – hypothetically – I wouldn’t have-”

“See,” Nishinoya interrupts him, and Yaku is surprised about the softness in his voice. It’s so unlike the unusual loud, excited behavior that Nishinoya seems to use his energy up for. “I thought I wouldn’t have a chance with my boyfriend, either.”

Yaku swallows and looks down. “How do you know it’s a boy?” Wait. Noya has-

“Because you keep staring at Lev like a slightly angry, lovesick girl, and it’s really not subtle anymore.”

Nishinoya laughs at Yaku’s mouth falling open. “Look, nobody has to know, but a piece of advice. From libero to libero.” He leans over, wrapping an arm around Yaku’s neck, and pulls him down. “Lev is dense. He’s similar to Asahi in that. So, why don’t you wait until after training and then just kiss him? Worst thing that could happen is that it may work.”

Somehow, Yaku finds his voice back, even though it’s just an embarrassing whisper. “You and Azumane – when even – you’re gay? And – it may work?!”

Nishinoya’s grin widens. He ruffles Yaku’s hair, a gesture that isn’t appreciated at all, and then stands to empty the rest of his water bottle over his head. “Well, you’re both not very subtle. Also I want someone to talk to. And most importantly, if I don’t get away from you now, I’ll get mauled to death by a lion. Good luck, you won’t need it.” He points over his shoulder and then runs off.

Yaku only follows the direction that Nishinoya has shown him a few seconds later. Oh. Lev is standing in the gym’s door, staring at Yaku, face as serious as Yaku’s never seen it before. But once their eyes meet, Lev jolts, his cheeks take on the colour of Nekoma’s shirts, and he calls for Yaku to come inside.

Huh. Go figure. Yaku screws the cap of his water bottle back on and grins. “I’ll be right there, Lev.”

Hajime finds Tooru on a bench outside. Karasuno is still celebrating, their black and orange drowning out all blue and white and hope. The sky above Hajime’s head gleams, sunlight burns on his neck. The world hasn’t changed. He hates that it didn’t.

Tooru has his head in his hands. The line of his shoulders is carved from stone, too still, as unmoved now as it was wild in the game. The strength of his hands on Hajime’s back as he lined them up to thank everyone is gone.

Hajime stands behind him. Tooru doesn’t speak. His head sinks lower, a shiver running through his spine. “I should have – ” Hajime tries to say, and touches Tooru’s pale neck.

And Tooru turns, looks at him. His cheeks are wet. Something in his eyes has burnt out. “If you lose the war, it’s not the soldier’s fault,” Tooru says, and his voice sounds like it will shatter into emptiness right under Hajime’s touch.

“It’s the commander who has failed them all.”

“There’s a rumour that you have a new girlfriend.”

“Is that so,” Tooru says and closes his mouth around Hajime’s neck until it hurts a bit. Hajime jolts, a syllable of Tooru’s name falling from his lips, but his head falls back against the wall of the broom closet and he groans. “Ow, fuck you! I said no kissma- marks- mhm…”

Tooru ignores him. He tends to do that when they’re alone and Hajime’s half undressed, his pants open and the uniform shirt pushed over his head thrown somewhere he’ll have trouble finding it in ten minutes when lunchtime ends. It’s worth going hungry, though, when Tooru’s fingers trace along his hipbones as if Hajime was something to be admired. It’s worth every second of possibly being caught when Tooru grins and whispers “shhh, sweetest” into Hajime’s throat before nipping at his adam’s apple with sharp teeth, controlling, growling, but careful enough to send Hajime’s knees into surrender.

His words are gone. Hajime slides down the wall, clawing desperately at Tooru’s neck to beg him down, to join him and never fucking stop, to not let go.

Tooru obeys, and this time, he talks. He settles between Hajime’s spread legs to kiss him hard, warm hands sliding over Hajime’s chest, rough thumbs tracing his ribcage in gentle circles. “’course there are rumours,” Tooru whispers when he pulls from the kiss to suck at Hajime’s lower lip. It’s going to be red and swollen. Hajime’s going to look like he’s been mauled, from lips to neck to chest, and the thought alone calms a bit of his possessiveness.

“Why don’ you tell them – ah – that you’re single?” Hajime pulls Tooru down by his hair, enjoys the gasp that is pushed against his lips before Tooru can reply. “Well, Hajime,” oh his name sounds so good on that crimson-kissed mouth, “you see, they don’t believe me. Because they see me walking around with that stupid grin you put on my face, with your nails’ marks all over my back and arms-” Okay, that is Hajime’s fault, but when Tooru says it out loud, he can’t help but moan and press closer, more, more–

Tooru’s hand slides between his legs and presses down, careful, knowing. “I tell them I’m single. But they just don’t believe me, Hajime. You see – they know. They look at me and see your marks and they know that there has to be someone who ruins me, every day, and that they can’t keep up with that person.”

Hajime opens his mouth to moan when Tooru’s hand slips below his waistband, but merciful fingers across his lips stop him. “Five minutes,” Tooru whispers, soft as a demon, and Hajime finds that he can only see his boyfriend’s amber eyes in the dark because the white around them shines like a star.

“More than enough time,” Hajime murmurs below Tooru’s fingers.

“Enough to wreck you,” Tooru replies and kisses him, and moves his hand.

“Kenma!” The door of his room flies open with a loud bang and Kenma flinches. Such enthusiasm in Kuroo’s actions is always a sign for trouble. It means that Kuroo either has an idea (oh no), that Bokuto has come over and they’re bored (oh noo) or that he wants to drag Kenma away from his new game and into socialising, “because you always hole yourself up and you need to go out and have some food with me and my bro and Akaashi” (oh please no).

But today, Kuroo is carrying something. Kenma sees the object hover in the periphery of his vision, and he glances up from his game after pressing pause.

“What’s that?” It looks like-

“Happy Pi Day,” Kuroo says. His grin is bright and warm, and it’s the way his eyes are soft around the corners that tells Kenma: No going out. No socialising. Just the two of them, at home, because the tenderness in Kuroo’s voice when he says “scoot over” to sit down is sweet like honey. Kenma puts his game away, not even fighting the smile that curves his own mouth.

“You remembered?” And not only that.

In Kuroo’s hands sits a horribly disfigured pie. “Of course. How could I forget my boyfriend’s favourite holiday?” Kuroo clears his throat and places the pie in Kenma’s hands, pointing at the wonky letters that seem to be made out of icing. “For you.”

Kenma blinks. He reads the letters once, twice. And then he starts laughing so hard that the pie almost falls off his lap. Kuroo has to save it with one hand, the other wrapping around Kenma’s waist, his cheeks burning red. “I tried my best-”

“Yes, you did,” Kenma wheezes, still laughing, and pulls Kuroo into a kiss.

Later, when Kenma can finally breathe again, he carefully cuts himself a large chunk of the pie. Without ruining the letters, of course.

It’s not every day that you get a present that says “You’re the apple-pi of my eye.”

“Boys don’t cry,” his father says when Tooru comes home crying, his knee scraped red like the sunset outside and like the panic that bleeds on Hajime’s cheeks as he drags Tooru inside, wailing for someone to take care of the hurt. Tooru is four years old.

“You’re not a girl. Stop crying,” his father says when Tooru limps home, his knee swollen, his mother helping him out of the car and into the armchair in the living room. Hajime calls later that night and offers to talk until it gets better, to bring ice for his knee every day and, in a softer, nervous voice, to listen when Tooru has to let out his tears. Tooru is twelve years old.

“Real men don’t cry,” his father says when Tooru stands before him, fists curled by his side, his suitcase packed and the train to his new college just half an hour away. His mother sighs and leads him outside, but Tooru grits his teeth and pulls away, just to wrap his arms around his father in one last awkward hug. There’s a moment of silence. Then, a hand pats his back. “This will be good for you, being on your own a bit. Study hard.” Tooru is nineteen years old.

“Crying is weak,” his father tries to say, but Tooru lifts his head and yells. Hajime stands by his side, proud and silent, not as Tooru’s sword but as his shield if hell should break loose. His fingers are laced up with Tooru’s, two silver glints of metal pressing together, Tooru’s mother is in tears and laughs and begs her husband and above it all, Tooru screams.

“It’s okay to cry,” Hajime says when Tooru lies in this arms that night. They’re back in their flat, back in Tokyo, warmth in their veins and tears falling from Tooru’s cheeks as if he’s been saving them like silver coins for this moment. His father hasn’t looked at Hajime when he said goodbye, but there was a hug, and just before they fall asleep, Tooru whispers:

“I think he said ‘sorry’.”

“You don’t need to forgive him,” Hajime whispers back and kisses Tooru’s forehead. Tooru closes his eyes. “I know. It’s… a start.”

They fall asleep with each other’s breath, the moonlight dancing over the silver rings on their hands.

Even ten years later, Hajime will always remember exactly where he was when Tooru’s service ace wins his team the Olympic golden medal. He’s in his dorm, glued to the tiny tv screen, and because of the fucking time zones he startles his flatmate awake with his howl of victory in the middle of the night. Hajime doesn’t apologize. He calls Tooru an hour later, and there are tears on both sides; Hajime keeps whispering his name, says that it’s okay and that everything has paid off, “I’m so proud of you” – but Tooru repeats one sentence through his happiness-drunk sobs:

“I need to tell you something when I’m home.”

Hajime is at the airport when the team arrives. Their team jackets seem to glow in the late afternoon light. They look tired, exhausted, but Hajime can see their smiles from a mile away. They’re victorious, it’s in their step, it radiates from their skin. Tooru is walking ahead. When he spots Hajime, his mouth opens into a yell. He’s crying before they even hug.

“H-Haji – I’m – we d-did it, and that means. Th-that I can finally-”

“You were incredible,” Hajime grins, and looking back, he should have noticed how Tooru struggles for words that aren’t about winning or losing. “You took their breath away, fuck, I gotta show you the tape, I recorded it all, their damn faces, Tooru!”

“I love you,” Tooru says and starts sobbing.

Hajime falls silent. The team is standing around them, greeting their own families, but Hajime feels their watchful eyes on him. They must know, he realizes. They’re waiting for me to hurt him. “Tooru.” His lips somehow form words. He doesn’t get to say them.

“I did it. I’m at the top.” Tooru’s face is buried against his shoulder. That bastard is still taller, holding Hajime tight, he stinks like sweat and dry skin from the long flight and he’s so beautiful that Hajime wants to hide him below his heart and keep him there forever. “Tooru,” he tries.

“I th-thought that if I win this…” His tears soak Hajime’s shirt. The sun reflects off his hair. He’s all that Hajime’s ever wanted. “That you could love me if I p-proved that I’m the best. I’m… not a girl, I know that, but. But, for you, I could-”

“Idiot.” The kiss that Hajime’s lips press onto his hair is softer than a whisper. “I fell for you when you were on the ground. I’m not leaving, no matter if you fall or fly. It’s too late to ever stop loving you. But I’m glad that you’re not a coward like me. God, I lov-”

The team breaks into another roar of victory when Tooru lifts his childhood friend up and kisses him right as the first camera begins to flash.

Okay look, this really isn’t fair. Daichi’s just a man and he can only take so much, the line has to be drawn somewhere and if it has to be drawn along the soft curve of Suga’s lips, then so be it.

Who even caused this? Oh, right. Hinata. Daichi kind of understands him to some degree – it’s the peak of summer, and the entire team is melting away in the flaring heat of the gym. Even when training ends and everyone slowly changes from one pair of shorts into a more casual one, the sun is still burning down on their faces as they exit the gym. And then Hinata says “ice cream”, and before Daichi can help it, everyone’s dragging him to a small shop in the busier part of town and he’s a few hunded yen poorer.

It’s worth seeing Suga’s eyes light up, though. It’s also worth watching him excitedly choose lemon and almond for his ice cream cone, patiently waiting as the last in line just behind Daichi, all to calm Hinata’s enthusiastic bouncing and shut up Kageyama who keeps rambling about more practice and better tosses by getting them their ice cream as fast as possible. Everything’s well. Except.

Daichi hasn’t signed up for Suga eating ice cream as if he’s… kissing someone. Asahi, who’s far too aware of Daichi’s crush, is at least enough of a friend to shoot him a pitiful glance before shooing the team forward, giving Daichi and Suga some time to relax as they follow behind the group.

“Daichi.”

What? Oh. Suga’s called his name. Daichi looks at him, blinking. “Y-yes?” It’s really hard to focus when Suga smiles like that, his eyes warm and squinting against the setting sun, mouth a bit white-shining from the rests of melted ice cream. Daichi stares. It’s been so easy to fall hopelessly for him-

“Your ice cream is dripping.”

And before Daichi can react, Suga leans in and licks a drop of strawberry off his ice cream cone. Daichi feels his face grow hot. “I didn’t – uhm. S-sorry.” But Suga just laughs. “Why are you apologising? It’s your ice cream, not mine. Don’t let it go to waste, though.” He goes back to his own cone, leaving Daichi to stare down at his ice cream.

When he tastes the strawberry in his mouth, licking along the cold cream that’s rapidly melting away, Daichi can only think: an indirect kiss.

And then, he thinks: Tomorrow, I’ll make it a real one.

There is something about libraries that can’t be explained. Why is it that we walk into them and, as if we are being faced with the breathtaking sight of a thundering waterfall or a sun-lit forest full of life, we halt in our steps? Those who enter hold their breath. Our hearts start to beat faster.

The sight of thousands, millions of books waiting for us, the scent of centuries of knowledge and adventure, the thick backs bearing titles in silver and gold – all that sets our mind free.

In a library, our souls feel soothed, but why is that?

Have you ever wondered? Why a simple room full of books brings us such comfort and warmth?

Maybe because the treasure of knowledge never comes unprotected.

Open your eyes. See? The old woman at the counter who checks out your books or accepts them back – do you ever see her go home? Has she always been that old? Her fingers cradle the leather of that book that got you through a stormy night as if it was a child.

The young boy in the corner, flipping through a book that looks heavier than his fragile smile that never seems to fade – has he always been here?

The cat that sits on the windowsill outside, yawning, glancing inside with emerald-piercing eyes. The bookshelf that has never been replaced, that is older than the ceiling itself or the books that it bears with patience and silence. The one book that never seems to be taken away from its place, its cover simple black with barely visible letters, your eyes catching onto it and serenity floods your body.

Have you ever wondered why your mind comes to peace in a room full of books?

That’s because their guardians watch over the sacred knowledge that sits between ink and paper and dust of centuries.

And when you are with them, worshipping their letters with your young, curious eyes, the guardians smile at your back and keep you safe.