tooru oikawa – Page 2

“What do you mean, you don’t want to celebrate your birthday?”

Hajime shrugs. He’s curled up in the grass, chin on his knees, and Tooru thinks it’s really cool that he doesn’t even flinch when his mom puts salve on his scraped shin. She doesn’t say anything, just looks worried, so Tooru keeps talking. “Well my birthday is next month, and then I get presents and mom makes my favourite food and my friends come over!”

“I can’t celebrate. I have to help my dad,” Hajime says quietly. He turns his head, puts his cheek on his knee. Tooru frowns for a bit. “What do you mean?”

Tooru’s mother starts wrapping a bandage around Hajime’s leg. “Say, Hajime, when did you last eat? You look,” Tooru thinks she’s going to say skinny, because he is, Hajime’s kind of tiny for being five years old just like Hajime, but she says, “very hungry.”

There’s a beat of silence. Hajime keeps still until his leg is all wrapped in white. Then, he stands up. “Sometimes,” he shuffles his feet, looks down. “Dad is sad, I think. Since mom d- went away. Sometimes he doesn’t go to work. Sometimes he doesn’t cook. He cries a lot and stays in bed. I – I don’t know what to…”

Tooru whips around to his mother. “Mom. Mom.”

“It’s okay, honey.” Her smile is gentle when she takes Hajime’s hands, crouches before him. “How about we go to your dad and talk a bit, and maybe we can help? I can bring you some food here and there. And I think I know a person that he could talk to that could help him. What do you say? And then we celebrate your birthday. Okay?”

Hajime looks at her, then at Tooru. He bites his lip. “Is he going to be okay again?”

Tooru hugs him before his mom can say: “I don’t know that. You never know, and sometimes not everything is like it was before. But he can try and we can help him, and you’re already helping him. Let’s go, okay, Hajime?”

—

“Look, dad sent me a snap.”

“You taught him how to use snapchat?”

“He’s doing his best, okay.” Hajime snuggles up against Tooru’s side on the couch, stretching himself out extra-wide and obnoxious. “Here, he’s having a third portion of Akemi’s curry rice.”

Tooru hums, sliding a bit closer so he can bury his nose in Hajime’s hair and still glance at the screen. “They’re having anniversary soon, huh? We should send them a gift or something.”

“Yeah, five years. Shit, gifts, that reminds me, we gotta get going! I don’t know why you always insist on celebrating like I’m the king of something, it’s just a-”

“Your birthday,” Tooru whispers. His arms are tight around Hajime’s waist, refusing to let him escape. Hajime falls back against him with a little not-serious growl. “You’re impossible. Also, your mom asked me again when I’ll get you a ring.”

“Well, your dad asked me that when we were seventeen, relax. It’s not like you could find better than me.”

“Confident much?” Hajime grins and surge in for a kiss, nips at Tooru’s soft bottom lip until he’s breathless, all pliant and sighing Hajime’s name. “Yeah well,” Tooru manages then, swallows heavily. “I just know that I love you more than anyone, so I kinda hope that’s enough. Also, happy birthday, dearest.”

Hajime can’t help but groan. He hears Tooru’s laughter above him when he buries his face in the pillow, slamming his boyfriend in the face with it seconds later, before the situation ends in lover’s tickling quarrel and a panicked search for shoes and coat when the doorbell finally rings.

Before they open up, Tooru kisses him again, and smiles.
“Let’s go. I want to celebrate you.”

“I need to get out.” Tooru says one night. They’re on their backs in Hajime’s garden, a cigarette passing between their fingers. Hajime came over as soon as Tooru’s parents left for some trip. He’s been here ever since.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Tooru turns his head to him. There are drops of dew in his hair, because it’s summer but the night is above their heads still, sending shivers of cold into the grass and wetness of silver through the garden. Hajime’s mouth tastes like smoke and the too-sweet lemonade Tooru made himself because what’s a summer night without lemonade, Hajime, and who’s going to mind if we put a bit of rum into it? It had tasted awful. They shared it.

“My uncle has a car,” Tooru whispers. His lips are close, sugar-glinting and apart in softness. “We can take it and drive. We can go somewhere. I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

“Okay,” Hajime says. He wraps his fingers around Tooru’s chin, slides the other hand into his neck. “Where do you want to go?”

Tooru makes a tiny noise, deep in his throat, and Hajime loves him, loves him, could spend years just kissing the longing out of the crinkled edge of his gleaming eyes. “I don’t know,” Tooru says against his mouth. “You’re gonna come with me, right? I wanna go, but not without you. Come with me. Will you?”

“You’re stupid,” Hajime tells the sweaty skin below Tooru’s lower lip, and kisses his chin, his jaw, tracing warm breath up to his temple, “if you think you have to even ask.” There’s not much time before two different colleges will take their wrists and pull them apart.

“Hajime.” Tooru grabs his shirt, their foreheads knocking together, and Hajime rolls on top of him just in time for Tooru to catch his mouth in a gasp of kiss.

It’ll have to be enough.

“Get your big thing out of the way, Iwaizumi.”

“My instrument is perfectly reasonable-sized, thank you very much.”

“And yet you just play the grumbly low background tune.”

“Oh? Jealous that you’re just one of many in your rows? Size complex much?”

“Just move aside.” Kuroo’s grin almost splits from one ear to another, and he bumps his fist against Hajime’s shoulder when pushing past him. It’s tradition by now: before every practice, they banter and insult each other a bit to let off steam. Violins and cellos are bound to have a bit of a rivalry, so the teasing never stops. Hajime doesn’t mind. This is the first orchestra he’s playing in since graduation, and even though it’s not yet the Berlin Philharmonic’s yet, but he’s getting there.

“How ‘bout we grab some food after work?” Hajime adjusts a peg on his cello when the others start tuning next to him. “I’ll treat you,” he adds, only half listening to the notes humming in the background. His fingers work automatically, the strings of his cello trembling slightly as he touches the bow to it.

“Sure,” Kuroo says. “I’ll bring Akaashi, if you don’t mind, and Bokuto – “

“Everyone, please take a seat, we’re getting started.” The orchestra falls quiet, all remaining chatter dies out in an instant. Their conductor approaches, her dark hair looking as silky as ever and really, if Hajime wasn’t as straight as the scroll on his beloved cello, he’d be swooning throughout every practice. But Kiyoko’s eyes are glinting like she knows a secret nobody else does. That means she’s up to something. It means serious business.

A moment later, Hajime understands why.

“Listen, please. I have someone to introduce to you. This is Tooru Oikawa.”

Hajime thinks that he can feel a string snap inside his chest. The man that walks up to Kiyoko’s side is simply gorgeous, in a way that has Hajime’s jaw drop all stupid and stunned. Breathing is unnecessary. The guy has soft brown hair that tickles along his cheekbones (god, who even has that much in the genetic lottery, Hajime is going to file a complaint), and he lifts a hand to wave.

“Hello. I’m sure we’ll get along well, sweethearts.”

Shit. Hajime forces his mouth shut and tries not to blink too much when staring at the guy’s face. Is it just his imagination or did that guy just wink? And – at him?

“What do you play?” Someone asks. All eyes are on Hajime, including Kiyoko and that too-beautiful-to-be-real (oh yeah, Tooru is his name, Hajime memorizes in a newly named “to tap list” in his brain) are staring at him. Oh no, did he really just ask that?

Tooru is the first to recover. He laughs, teeth too fucking white to be real or fair, and pulls the black bag that Hajime just now notices down from his shoulder. “See for yourself, big guy. But don’t worry, I’ll be in your line of sight, in case you wanna burn me with your eyes some more.”

Five minutes later, Hajime knows better.

Of course it’s the flute. Of any instruments that exists in this goddamn wonderful orchestra (and there are lots), it’s the silver artwork of intricate keys that Tooru puts his long fingertips on. His nails are short, just a sliver of white at the tip. Hajime may or may not be in love with how his lips push against the mouthpiece, and it seems like Tooru kisses every single note that leaves his flute.

It’s only after ten minutes into practice that Hajime gets elbowed by Sawamura next to him, whispering “focus! Our part is coming up” that Hajime can shake off his fascination. The music pulls him in as it always does, tunes of copper and quicksilver mingling into the sympony they’ll be playing two months from now. Practice blends into a blur of music and Kiyoko’s voice working them through the first part, into criticism and nods and short remarks while everyone’s fingers change between scribbling notes into the sheet music and flying across their instruments.

They work overtime, again. Nobody complains, and yet there is a collective exhale when Kiyoko nods and calls it a day. Hajime makes sure that everyone with a string instrument is getting their stuff cleaned up. He’s so occupied that it takes two taps on his shoulder to make him turn around.

“Tooru,” he says, and fuck, he’s even more overwhelming up close. “If you have questions, you should maybe consult Tobio. He’s responsible for the wind instr-”

“You know, I never believed my old music teacher.” The smile that stretches across Tooru’s lips makes Hajime’s heart bolt against his ribs. The flute is still in Tooru’s hand, silver reflecting the light and shining it on Tooru’s arm.

“Excuse me?” Breathe, Hajime tells himself, but he ends up licking his lips.

“Oh, just. The cello really is the most erotic instrument. We should get dinner sometime, Iwai- no, Hajime. Don’t you think?” And if there’s a brush of pale, warm fingers against Hajime’s elbow before Tooru passes by, humming the tune of Hajime’s cello part, well then those looks Tooru threw him during practice not just mere imagination.

But he’s still wrong, Hajime grins while packing up. A few hours ago, he would have agreed with Tooru’s music teacher in all instances. Now, there’s a certain soft mouth pressing to humming metal that rivals even Hajime’s finger skills.

“You know, why are we still wearing those friendship bracelets?”

“Huh?” Hajime looks up from his plate.

He almost didn’t understand what Tooru said over the loud conversation of their friends. It was a good idea to invite everyone over for equinox, or midsummer’s night or whatever Tooru had called it when enthusiastically preparing the barbecue and decorating the long table outside with wildflowers. Sometimes Hajime can’t believe that he’s really this lucky. Even Hanamaki’s here, all the way from France, kissing some salad dressing from Matsukawa’s cheek.

Hajime has stopped counting the number of guests after the entire former team of Karasuno has started to swarm into their garden.
Theirs. His and Tooru’s, the wild and unruly jungle of flowers and trees behind their house.

Hajime swallows the last bite of his meat, tilting his head at Tooru. “What do you mean? Don’t you like them anymore?” He reaches for his own neck, touches the leather necklace. Their bracelets hadn’t fit anymore after middle school and so Tooru had turned them into long leather necklaces to wear below their team shirts.

It kind of hurts to even imagine going without them. Hajime frowns. “Don’t you want to – what do you mean?” They had even added simple pearls to it; after their first kiss, after graduation, when they’d moved in together after college.

Does Tooru not – he doesn’t –

“I think it’s time for something new. Something else.” Tooru takes a deep breath, gives Hajime a bright smile before standing up. He’s gorgeous, hair a bit longer, eyes warm and twinkling.

Hajime barely notices that everyone else has fallen silent. A soft summer breeze whirls through his hair, toying with the sleeves of Tooru’s shirt.

“I think,” Tooru says and he reaches into his pocket, bringing out a small black box, “that we change our necklaces for something simpler that’s going to last longer than leather.”

Hajime forgets how to breathe. Tooru smiles, smiles, looks at him like he’s the pulse of the earth, like he’s the last of Tooru’s dream come true, and the box clicks open.

“If you agree, I think that platinum in the form of a ring will suit us much better.”

“When you said that your perfect first date was ‘mythology’, I didn’t think about this. I thought we were going to a museum, maybe watch a movie.” Hajime stares at the 400 page thick book ‘A Brief History of the Wolf in Fables and Legends’ that he’s got propped up on his chest. There are about five different coloured post-its sticking out of the first half. The rest remains white and untouched and that is exactly the problem. “I thought we were gonna do something normal for once.”

“If you wanted normal, you shouldn’t have made us friendship bracelets when we were five.” There’s no sympathy coming with the amusement in Tooru’s voice. He’s sprawled out across Hajime’s legs, one wrapped around his waist and the other serving as a (really terrible) makeshift book stand and stationary display.

Hajime squints down at him. Tooru has his glasses on, and it does things to Hajime’s chest. It’s so stupid – just a bit of black plastic and a reflection of himself in the glass. Maybe it’s because hey, this is his childhood friend wearing them, the person that Hajime trusts most in the world. The one who said yes to a date with an exasperation that sounded like Hajime should have asked earlier, not only just in college. The soft peck Tooru had pushed on his cheek still felt warm.

But seriously. “This is not a date,” Hajime mumbles.

“I never said it was,” Tooru points out. He arches a perfectly shaped brow when Hajime groans and collapses into the pillow. “No more, please. I get it, you need a topic for your thesis, but do you really need my help? You’re gonna ace this. There’s a reason your professor fucking adores you.”

Tooru laughs. “Oh he does, that’s true. Not as much as you though.”

“I hate you.” I just wanted to cuddle, Hajime thinks. And maybe kiss. A bit.

A beat of silence passes. Then, Tooru shifts. A book is slapped shut, pens pushed around the sheets. Tooru appears in Hajime’s field of vision, kneeling on top of him. “We don’t need dates,” he says. Oh. Hajime swallows. Breathing becomes so much more difficult when Tooru’s lips curl into a smile, the tip of his tongue darting over his bottom lip.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” Tooru leans down, pushes their foreheads together with a softness that surprises Hajime. He reaches out, finding Tooru’s hand to put his own around and rest it by his head. “And why not?”

“Dunno.” A shrug, and Hajime hums when Tooru’s mouth pushes against his jaw, warm and gentle. “Maybe ‘cause we’ve kinda always been together? And now stop thinking. Because I’m gonna grant us a short break and I intend to spend it right here, with my mouth on yours.”

‘A Brief History of the Wolf in Fables and Legends’ tumbles to the floor, but neither of them really cares over the soft noise of Tooru’s lips opening up below Hajime’s kiss.

“Hi, Mrs. Oikawa.”

“How often have I told you, Hajime, it’s Miko. I’ve known you since before you could walk.”

“Sorry, yeah, I know. ’s just that I was phoning Tooru’s physiotherapist earlier, and the formal stuff kinda stuck.”

“Sure, sweetheart. …physio? Again? Is he hurt? He’s overworking himself, right? Don’t lie to me.”

“You… you know how he is.”

“Yes. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Are you – ”

“I’m making sure that he’s okay, yeah. Forced him to eat and go to bed early. No more training until next week. I made miso soup, actually, after your recipe that he loves.”

“Hajime. I wanted to ask whether you’re okay.”

“Oh. Yes? I mean, yes. I’m fine, thanks.”

“Honestly! At this point, I’m more worried about you than him. I know that you’re always with him, by his side, putting up with those shenanigans.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t. Take care of yourself though, okay? I’ll send you two some care packages. I think your mom brought one to the post office earlier, too.”

“You really don’t have to – okay. Thank you. Ah, I think he’s awake, do you wanna talk to him? He’s been napping, I can’t even sit on my own couch. Unbelievable.”

“Mhm, just hand him the phone. Ah, and Hajime?”

“Yeah?”

“Get it together and ask him already. That ring is beautiful, after all.”

“…okay, Miko.”

“No problem, sweetheart. Now let me talk to my son so I can scold him a bit more softly than you usually do.”

His first thought is: This is a lie.

“It’s true,” Tooru says into the silence. His last words thrill through Hajime’s bones, a pulse in his heart.

“You love me,” Hajime says. It sounds like a question.

Tooru looks at him. They’re no children anymore, Hajime thinks. His fingers reach, a touch against the skin of Tooru’s temple.

“Since when?”

Tooru’s eyes fall shut, and he speaks, and Hajime can’t breathe through the rush of blood in his ears.

“There’s no ‘since’. I don’t remember a start. I can’t imagine an end. You’re in my earliest memories, in my latest, everywhere in between. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember myself.”

“Tooru.” His arms are around Tooru’s body, trembling fingers somewhere in his hair. Their foreheads touch. Hajime whispers, something he should have said too long ago, finally.

“I don’t have a ‘since’ either. But if you want to…”

Tooru’s shoulders start to quiver after the soft words that Hajime mumbles against his lips, with his own, for the first time.

“You don’t need to imagine an ‘until’ for us.”

When he was still in high school, when he’d just realized that falling in love with Hajime is was something that happened before he could even write his own name, Tooru always tried to find an I love you on Hajime’s lips.

It never came. It took Tooru years to understand that instead, there are other words, thousand, sentences that speak between the lines.

Be careful.
I miss you.
Did you sleep enough?
You idiot, you have to eat. I brought you dinner.
What’s wrong?
It’ll be okay.
I don’t hate you.
You’re not disgusting, not for loving someone, no matter whom.
Yes, I kissed you. That wasn’t an accident. I don’t regret it.
Are you okay? Does it hurt?
I told my parents.

Now, Tooru understands. So one day, he says something back: “Thank you.”

Hajime just ruffles his hair, laughing, as bright and warm as he did when they met and Tooru fell in love without knowing the word for it. “Don’t thank me for something like that,” Hajime then says, kissing Tooru’s forehead, their hands laced up, his thumb tracing Tooru’s knuckle. “Couldn’t be anyone but you.”

“Over here, Mr. Oikawa. Yes, that’s perfect.” The girl blinks at him so rapidly that Tooru would worry about a fly being stuck in her thick lashes, if he didn’t know that she’s trying to flirt. “Thank you, darling. I’ll be alright now.” Tooru gifts her with a semi-bright smile, but it’s enough. The girl’s cheeks turn as red as her lipstick. “Of course. Just call me when – if you – I think I have to go over there.”

Tooru watches her leave and closes his eyes for a moment once she’s vanished from the set. The producer and technical assistant are chatting a few feet away, mumbling a name Tooru doesn’t know. He takes a deep breath.

It’s not his first model job, not by far. And he’s not arrogant enough to call himself famous yet. But this campaign for famous black boxershorts could be his big thing. Maybe things will change after today. If only the photographer was here already, Tooru thinks, opening his eyes. It ruins his nerves when there’s waiting time. Stressful shootings? No problem. Someone letting him wait? Hell no –

“I’m so sorry,” a low voice says. “There was an emergency. I’m here now.”

Fuck, Tooru thinks.

“Excuse me?” The man that has just entered the room turns to him. Tooru realizes too late that he must have said that out loud. That guy is – and his brain supplies no better word – gorgeous. So much that it’s almost upsetting. Tooru lets his autopilot mode kick in. A hand slides to his hip, he moves, walking over to the guy despite being just in underwear while that man’s in a shaggy leather jacket and hair that shouldn’t be so wildly endearing when ruffled.

“I wasn’t informed that I would be shooting with another model. Who are you, darling?” Tooru stares at him. His throat is dry. Why the hell is he feeling so naked? It’s just another colleague to work with. A breathtaking one, his brain whimpers. Tooru swallows and pushes his hip to one side, pleased by the arched brow that the man gives him.

“Just so you know, this is my campaign. I play the main role here. Stand back.”

The guy blinks at him for a second. Tooru is about to turn around when the man reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out – a camera.

“It’s my campaign too, princess. But I’m the one putting you into focus, so swallow that attitude or it won’t just be five pounds that the camera adds on.”

When the man walks past Tooru, his shoulders brush against Tooru’s. He’s shorter, his eyes are dark and alight with stars, and Tooru is so fucked when a deep blush rises to his cheeks.

“By the way,” the man says, calm as a damn ocean, his long fingers settling the camera on the tripod. “My name’s Iwaizumi. And you don’t call me darling.”

“Tooru?” He asks one day.

“Yes?”

Hajime takes a deep breath. “I don’t get it. You’re so possessive and demand so much attention, and stop pouting, you know you do. But you never ask me to return the words when you say them. You know, those… three words.”

Tooru tilts his head. “You wonder why I don’t make you say that you love me?”

“Well. Yeah. It’s something I thought you’d do. Tickling it out of me.”

“No.” Tooru laughs, and it’s so fake that Hajime shudders. “I didn’t want to know.”

“What? Wait. Are you an idiot? You know that I-”

“I don’t know what you’re feeling, Hajime. I didn’t want to know because if I ask, you could possibly say no. Don’t you get it?”

Hajime’s throat is dry. “But I sleep with you,” he croaks, his chest feeling too cold, too tight, “doesn’t that mean anything? That should’ve told you, you fucking moron!”

Tooru’s smile breaks his heart quietly. “Fucking someone doesn’t always mean that you love them. Just because I love you doesn’t mean that you see me as more than just-”

And Hajime has never touched his fingers around Tooru’s jaw as gently as he does now, breath caught in his mouth.

“It means everything. I sleep with you because, and now I want you to fucking listen,” he lets his forehead touch Tooru’s, a finger tracing those lips in absolute reverence, “because I love you, I love you, I love you. I need you to understand that. I need you to get that into your head and all the way down to that dumb heart of yours because it’s true and it won’t change. You have me. And you always will.”

Tooru is crying without a sound when Hajime kisses his forehead, holding his face as if it were the shrine to most adored possession. “So next time, ask. Ask every time. I’ll answer.”