tooru oikawa – Page 3

Hajime’s got to be honest: This isn’t what he expected. Not at all. This is the furthest from any guesses he made about how this whole thing would be going.

It doesn’t help that Oikawa is frozen in place. His fingers are stiff in Hajime’s shirt, lips still parted where Hajime had kissed him. Yes, he had done it, and he’s never going to forget the hitch in Oikawa’s breath or the tiny noise that bubbled out of his throat when Hajime had pressed their lips together. It had been soft, just a brush of his mouth against Oikawa’s.

It had been everything.

But now Oikawa looks almost… embarrassed. Hajime blinks. His brain isn’t catching up. “Hey. Are you okay?” he decides to ask.

Oikawa closes his mouth. There’s a faint blush rising up his cheeks, spreading down to his neck. It’s gorgeous. Hajime swallows. “I didn’t read your signals wrong, did I? You wanted me to ki-”

“Don’t say it out loud!” Oikawa’s hand slaps across his mouth. Hajime almost stumbles back, and he’s ready to punch Oikawa in the face because fuck him, this took all courage he’s ever had, he’s wanted this for so long –

“It’s because it’s my first,” Oikawa blurts. And Hajime stops struggling against his hand. He stands still when Oikawa leans against him, and his heart explodes into warmth and the need to protect when Oikawa – no, Tooru – buries his head against Hajime’s neck.

“I kind of hoped that it’d be you.” Tooru’s lips tremble against his skin, a small touch. Hajime closes his eyes.

“That was your first kiss? You’re fucking with me.”

A chuckle. “We just kissed and you’re already thinking about that. Naughty.”

Hajime kind of wants to hit him again, but Tooru slings both arms around his neck and presses their foreheads together, eyes alight with a joy Hajime swears he’ll keep glowing.

“Idiot.” Hajime slides his thumb along Tooru’s cupid’s bow, as gentle as he can. “We have time.”

Tooru’s smile widens. “Yeah. All of it.” And then he’s the one kissing Hajime, pushing him against the wall of their now old school, their lips falling together as the graduation celebration goes on without them.

Tooru almost forgot about their symbiosis. He’s reminded that Hajime and him are connected by some ancient part of themselves during a situation that couldn’t be more harmless; volleyball training before an important match.

And Tooru is reminded with stinging cruelty when Hajime receives a ball just with the tips of his fingers. He falls, his ankle hits the court, and the entire team freezes when Hajime screams. It’s sharp, short, and Tooru’s feet kick into motion when their ace crumbles on the ground.

Someone calls both of their names. It could be the coach that’s shouting, something like “don’t move his foot, let me through”, but Tooru’s ears are deaf. His vision is white and teal blurring into skin darker than his own, his own steps echo up his spine, and then his hands reach Hajime’s shoulders.

“No,” Tooru thinks he’s saying. His face feels wet, he can’t see clearly. He doesn’t fucking care that he’s crying on the court and Hajime isn’t. He can’t be hurt, he can’t, it’s not supposed to be him who gets hurt-

“Hey. Tooru. Shh, look – look at me.” Hajime’s voice is dark, twisted by pain, but he wraps his arms around Tooru’s neck and allows himself to be lifted. Tooru doesn’t know how he carries him to the bench. All he knows is that he keeps saying, like a prayer: “You have to be okay again.”

Hajime kisses him just when Tooru is blocking everyone from seeing them, just before the coach comes running, just before it turns out to be a harmless overly strained tendon that will recover after a few days.

But still, that night, Tooru stays at Hajime’s place. And Hajime doesn’t complain if Tooru holds him more tightly, nails digging into his back, ear pressed to his ribs to listen to his heart beat.

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.”

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.

“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.

“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.