Tag: oikawa

“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.

“Tooru,” Takeru asks him one day. “What does being in love mean?”

“That’s a difficult question,” Tooru says. He’s sitting on the bench, wrapping his knee with an ice pack that Hajime has stuffed in his spare shirt. It’s loud on the court. Balls hit the ground in quick succession.

Hajime looks over to them, waves, grinning. Takeru bounces on the bench and beams back at him, but he hasn’t forgotten Tooru. “So? Can you answer it?”

Tooru doesn’t look at him. He watches the light dance over Hajime’s face, catching in the dark of his lashes. “It means that you do very silly things,” Tooru says to Takeru. “You may even hide it from the person. Maybe you’ve loved them for a very long time, but you can’t tell them.”

“Why?”

For a moment, Tooru is quiet. Then he ruffles Takeru’s hair. His eyes have gone soft, shimmering like they’re wet.

“Maybe because people prefer a hopeful illusion over an unchangeable truth.”

Takeru looks at him and frowns. “I don’t understand that.”

“I’m sorry. Why don’t you go train with Hajime?” Tooru watches his nephew run off. His knees hurts. He pushes the ice pack off and stumbles back onto the court.

greenhousenurseart:

Fanart for @moami and one of their new fanfics. It was absolutely monstrous and I had to do at least one thing for it before class.

I absolutely adore the perspective that you drew him in, looking down on the viewer like that. Thank you so much for this! His horns are great, and are those the extra eyes on his forehead? Amazing! ♥

The man’s breath reeks of cheap beer and old cigarette smoke clinging to rotten teeth. Tooru has seen the silhouette of a knife in his pocket before the man has even sat down on the bar stool by his side and smile at him with a lick of his fleshy tongue over thin lips. “Well, ain’t ya a pretty one,” the man slurs, grinning. Tooru tilts his head and smiles like honey. “Do you want to buy me a drink?”

Of course the man wants to. He wants even more, his filthy lips say, and Tooru is almost bored by the obvious slide of greedy eyes up and down his body. Hajime keeps throwing him quick glances from the other side of the club; there’s no worry in them, just impatience. He holds Hinata and Kageyama by their collars, they sit by his side, hands curled into fists where they don’t cling to each other’s. Hajime’s lips form silent words. ‘Hurry. They’re hungry.’

Tooru touches the man’s arm. His lips curve a bit more, he stands. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” How naive can someone be, Tooru thinks when the man’s black-dirty eyes light up with unconcealed lust, to think that he gets anything without paying a price? 

“Wait. Where are we going?” The man begins to understand when Tooru’s already led him into a room that’s covered in pure white tiles. The door slams shut behind them; voices echo through the corridor they just walked, and Tooru keeps smiling, smiling, milky-sweet teeth and a soft tongue flicking his lips. “Who are you,” is all the man can say before Tooru gently puts a finger on his mouth – and shoves him onto the floor. 

“It’s so easy to find food these days.” 

The door slams open. Three silhouettes push inside, two growling in triumph and jolting forward. Tooru steps aside. Hajime comes to stand beside him, leaning in to kiss Tooru’s cheek. “Just in time,” he says, his smile tiny around needle-sharp teeth and the red glow of his two eyes, three, four, as the hidden ones on his forehead open and the horns slide back out from his hair. 

“Don’t worry,” Tooru tells the man over his own gurgling screams. “You may survive this. If the young ones can control themselves.” He laughs, watching Hinata’s fangs dig into the man’s throat to share the best blood with Kageyama, their horns now visible again, claws scratching over the floor, and the hundreds of eyes on their skin opening to witness their meal. 

“Mom,” Hajime says when he’s sixteen and sitting on a kitchen chair, watching his mother decorating gingerbread cookies with frosting, white as the snow outside. “How do I know that I love someone?” Even before his mother can reply, he stands, hurrying to check on the turkey with red-blushed cheeks. “I mean,” he murmurs into the oven. “I don’t know – he could be – I mean, sh-she, of course. But how do I know that I want to be with someone forever?”

His mother smiles. She tucks back a strand of brown hair, streaked with grey. “You’ll know, Hajime. One morning, you will wake up and feel calm. It’s not a wild and exciting thing, realizing that you’ve found the one. It feels like coming home.” When she reaches out to brush back a strand of Hajime’s hair, he gives her a nervous smile. “O-okay. Thanks.” – “You’re welcome. Wanna try a cookie?”

“Mom,” Hajime types into his phone when he’s twenty-six. The message is sent, and Hajime quickly deletes the usual notification of ‘this number is out of service’. He looks at the man next to him, soft brown hair, fingers curled into the pillow, glasses on the nightstand. A ring would look good on him, Hajime thinks. Silver, maybe. Platinum. Something that lasts forever.

“Mom,” he types once more, smiling even as the tears come and wake Tooru up. “I wish I could have told you in person, but I hope you’ll read this somewhere up in the sky. You were right. I did it. I’m home.”

“What is your wish tonight, my prince?” Hajime whispers the word into the hollow of Tooru’s collarbone, where he’s painted him night-blue with his teeth and has flicked the dawn’s colours underneath his skin. Tooru, his prince, the jewel behind his shield, laughs and rolls his head back. 

“Do not ask me silly things, Hajime. My wish is the same as always.” There’s a spark of heat through amber eyes, and Hajime catches himself licking his lips. His mouth hovers above Tooru’s neck now, breath catching where his hair is braided out of the way, where the collar of his royal gown will sit tomorrow and his shoulders will tremble beneath the weight of the crown. 

“Then I would dare to say that you wish for my touch,” Hajime says. His thumbs caress the sharp edge of Tooru’s hipbones, and as he lowers himself down, knees slipping away, the prince spreads his legs and welcomes him with a soft moan. His thighs catch around Hajime’s waist, slender fingers sliding over his wrists, nail by nail scratching over his skin and leaving white marks that tell stories of whom the guardian of the prince belongs to. 

“Not just your touch.” Tooru smiles. His lips are red-kissed and slick, a small tongue flashing as it licks up the residue of Hajime’s length sliding into that whining mouth just earlier. “I want all of you. Are you not to protect me and make sure that I am safe?” 

In the end, he always gets what he wants. Hajime leans over his lover, elbows sinking into the bed by Tooru’s head. Their breaths melt into steaming heat, foreheads touching, and Hajime pushes, slow, intoxicating, burning. Tooru falls apart below him with a whimper, a sputter of Hajime’s name on his royal lips, the chest that bears pink marks of Hajime’s rough warrior hands arching into a sweet bow. 

“I will have you all night, then, and some more after that.” The promises are accompanied by a gentle rock of Hajime’s hips, and he slides a hand to cradle Tooru’s cheek when the prince moans, oh, he is beautiful like that. His insides tremble, relax, spreading around Hajime as he buries himself into his prince. They breathe, together, hands finding their counterparts and fingers sliding into a web of touch. “Please,” Tooru whimpers. His legs are tight around Hajime’s waist. His mouth is slick, red, spelling words that are love and want and a plea.

Hajime lets their foreheads touch, and takes him apart. 

“I wonder why I ever wanted a cat. With you, I don’t need one.” 

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Tooru grins down to where his boyfriend glares up at him, brows furrowed into a dark line of confusion. Hajime has this habit of draping himself over Tooru’s stomach or legs while studying, and today isn’t any different. It’s become a reflex for Tooru to push his fingertips all over Hajime’s scalp, to gently pet his hair and rub careful circles onto his skin to release the tension of hour-long university days and training.

When Hajime keeps staring a him just like the cat that Tooru mentioned before – demanding and unblinking – Tooru laughs softly. “Well. You’re stubborn, unique, you sometimes pretend to just be here for the cuddles, your signs of affection are the weirdest I’ve ever come across. Especially when you just put food you’ve prepared onto the table before me and leave again.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Hajime growls. His cheeks have taken an intriguing shade of crimson. Tooru can’t resist running his finger over them, and Hajime makes a gesture as if to bite him. “Stop it.” 

“And you are cute,” Tooru says. His voice is still teasing, but there’s a tenderness swaying with it, calm and secure. “I know I had to earn your love, that you’re not like this with anyone else.” 

Hajime has fallen silent. His cheek rests on Tooru’s thigh as he looks up at him, the furrow in his brows gone. “Hm. Okay.” 

Tooru tries to add “also, you’re fluffy and do that cute squinty-thing when you try to show me that you’re hungry”, but Hajime shuts him up by stretching his body towards his face, giving a tiny kiss to his mouth. “Shut up, and keep scratchin’ my head.”