mentions of violence, suicide, guns, death 894 words.
Oikawa smiles in the infuriating way that makes Iwaizumi want to wipe the smirk off his face, preferably with his fist.
“Did you really think I died, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa giggles and Iwaizumi’s mouth is open—of course? What else was he supposed to think after Oikawa shoved him into a coffin, closed the door, and sent him down the Miyagi River while spouting things about not being able to be “Charon” or some shit like that—especially when the last thing he saw was Oikawa’s resigned smile as if he accepted his death.
“Well, I’ve known to be quite the actor,” Oikawa continues and Iwaizumi squints. Telepathy. God damn it. Screw you, he shouts in his mind, screw you!
Oikawa titters. Iwaizumi didn’t even know someone could titter until he met Oikawa Tooru.
“Now, now,” Oikawa’s still so smug, “don’t look so glum. Isn’t it a celebration when people return from the dead?”
No.
In a flash, Oikawa tosses something to him and upon reflex, Iwaizumi catches it. The black metal is cool, sleek, and Iwaizumi feels his stomach drop out when he looks at his hands.
It’s a gun.
“Let me tell you a little tale,” Oikawa muses as he circles Iwaizumi, much like a predator circling their prey. “Imagine this: a baby boy is born. His parents rejoice! It’s a grand affair—until the boy turned four and asks why his grandmother is watching him. His parents are confused; why would the grandmother be watching him? She’s been dead for ten years.” Iwaizumi stiffens.
“One day, he follows his grandmother. He sees all these people running around and these monsters twisted from graffiti trailing after them, each disappearing with individualized pins. Two girls, one with a massive wrench and the other with a potted plant—he saw them fight, enchanted. But he had a mission, so he followed his grandmother to a small café, three miles from home.” Oikawa hums.
“It turns out that his grandmother wasn’t surprised at all that he could see him. In this café, with an intrinsic decal out in front, was the only place where they could converse and talk. Players of the Game came in, until the last three days, in which no one paid a visit to her shop.” Iwaizumi wonders if this is going to take a long time—Oikawa’s always had a flare for the dramatic.
“Wow, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pouts condescendingly, which looks ridiculous. “Are you really getting that bored? Maybe that’s why your grades suck.”
“Stop reading my mind,” Iwaizumi snaps back.
“Hard to when you’re so loud,” Oikawa replies with a shrug of his shoulders. Iwaizumi is not loud. Oikawa laughs.
“Well, fine, fine, short story even shorter—my grandmother taught me all the ropes and I decided to kill myself in order to play the game and become the Composer of Miyagi!” Oikawa sighs fondly, as if in memory. “My partner was super mad though; you see, I decided to break our pact three days in because I already had enough power by myself to take out the Composer, so she turned into Noise, whoops, but now everything’s okay!”
“That’s—you’re—you’re terrible!” Iwaizumi splutters. Oikawa gasps, mock hurt, and places a pointed hand on his chest.
“Aw, but I treated you so much better than my last partner.” Oikawa shrugs. “Can I really be the one to blame for Miyagi losing its charm?” He grins and Iwaizumi knows that he knows that’s not what they were talking about.
Oikawa finishes his little stroll and now, he’s behind Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi turns around and there’s Oikawa, pointing a gun at him.
“Oh yeah,” Oikawa sighs, “I guess I should return this to you.”
Iwaizumi gets assaulted with the memory of Oikawa, gun in hand, looking at Iwaizumi shivering in fear on the ground. Cold eyes, cold gun, cold bullet through his warm heart.
“You,” Iwaizumi says and raises the gun.
“Me!” Oikawa chirps. He flicks the safety off. Iwaizumi’s hands do the same—Oikawa’s imprinting on him, even now. “Ready?”
He’s going to count down, Iwaizumi realizes with much horror, and then he’s going to kill him. Then he’s going to erase Miyagi.
“Three.” Oikawa. The Composer. Oikawa. The Composer.
“Two,” Oikawa is going to shoot him.
He has to do this. He—he spent a month working for this. It can’t just all go to waste now.
Don’t you think, Matsukawa had hummed that third week as he absentmindedly stroked Hanamaki’s Noise Form’s fur, that you’re too loyal?
Is that supposed to be a bad thing, Iwaizumi fired back, pin clenched between his hands.
No, Matuskawa had sighed in this memory, clearly used to Hanamaki being there to explain things with him, as long as you don’t sacrifice the world for someone you really care about.
“One,” Oikawa’s finger moves onto the trigger. Iwaizumi’s does too. He feels tears pool at the corner of his eyes and run down his cheeks; he hates it, feeling weak like this, and suddenly it feels as if a dam broke out and he sobs, heaving in great gulps of air as he struggles to breathe. He doesn’t collapse but he might as well have; he lowers his gun. Concedes.
FILL: TEAM Miyuki Kazuya/Sawamura Eijun, T
twewy au
mentions of violence, suicide, guns, death
894 words.
Oikawa smiles in the infuriating way that makes Iwaizumi want to wipe the smirk off his face, preferably with his fist.
“Did you really think I died, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa giggles and Iwaizumi’s mouth is open—of course? What else was he supposed to think after Oikawa shoved him into a coffin, closed the door, and sent him down the Miyagi River while spouting things about not being able to be “Charon” or some shit like that—especially when the last thing he saw was Oikawa’s resigned smile as if he accepted his death.
“Well, I’ve known to be quite the actor,” Oikawa continues and Iwaizumi squints. Telepathy. God damn it. Screw you, he shouts in his mind, screw you!
Oikawa titters. Iwaizumi didn’t even know someone could titter until he met Oikawa Tooru.
“Now, now,” Oikawa’s still so smug, “don’t look so glum. Isn’t it a celebration when people return from the dead?”
No.
In a flash, Oikawa tosses something to him and upon reflex, Iwaizumi catches it. The black metal is cool, sleek, and Iwaizumi feels his stomach drop out when he looks at his hands.
It’s a gun.
“Let me tell you a little tale,” Oikawa muses as he circles Iwaizumi, much like a predator circling their prey. “Imagine this: a baby boy is born. His parents rejoice! It’s a grand affair—until the boy turned four and asks why his grandmother is watching him. His parents are confused; why would the grandmother be watching him? She’s been dead for ten years.” Iwaizumi stiffens.
“One day, he follows his grandmother. He sees all these people running around and these monsters twisted from graffiti trailing after them, each disappearing with individualized pins. Two girls, one with a massive wrench and the other with a potted plant—he saw them fight, enchanted. But he had a mission, so he followed his grandmother to a small café, three miles from home.” Oikawa hums.
“It turns out that his grandmother wasn’t surprised at all that he could see him. In this café, with an intrinsic decal out in front, was the only place where they could converse and talk. Players of the Game came in, until the last three days, in which no one paid a visit to her shop.” Iwaizumi wonders if this is going to take a long time—Oikawa’s always had a flare for the dramatic.
“Wow, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pouts condescendingly, which looks ridiculous. “Are you really getting that bored? Maybe that’s why your grades suck.”
“Stop reading my mind,” Iwaizumi snaps back.
“Hard to when you’re so loud,” Oikawa replies with a shrug of his shoulders. Iwaizumi is not loud. Oikawa laughs.
“Well, fine, fine, short story even shorter—my grandmother taught me all the ropes and I decided to kill myself in order to play the game and become the Composer of Miyagi!” Oikawa sighs fondly, as if in memory. “My partner was super mad though; you see, I decided to break our pact three days in because I already had enough power by myself to take out the Composer, so she turned into Noise, whoops, but now everything’s okay!”
“That’s—you’re—you’re terrible!” Iwaizumi splutters. Oikawa gasps, mock hurt, and places a pointed hand on his chest.
“Aw, but I treated you so much better than my last partner.” Oikawa shrugs. “Can I really be the one to blame for Miyagi losing its charm?” He grins and Iwaizumi knows that he knows that’s not what they were talking about.
Oikawa finishes his little stroll and now, he’s behind Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi turns around and there’s Oikawa, pointing a gun at him.
“Oh yeah,” Oikawa sighs, “I guess I should return this to you.”
Iwaizumi gets assaulted with the memory of Oikawa, gun in hand, looking at Iwaizumi shivering in fear on the ground. Cold eyes, cold gun, cold bullet through his warm heart.
“You,” Iwaizumi says and raises the gun.
“Me!” Oikawa chirps. He flicks the safety off. Iwaizumi’s hands do the same—Oikawa’s imprinting on him, even now. “Ready?”
He’s going to count down, Iwaizumi realizes with much horror, and then he’s going to kill him. Then he’s going to erase Miyagi.
“Three.” Oikawa. The Composer. Oikawa. The Composer.
“Two,” Oikawa is going to shoot him.
He has to do this. He—he spent a month working for this. It can’t just all go to waste now.
Don’t you think, Matsukawa had hummed that third week as he absentmindedly stroked Hanamaki’s Noise Form’s fur, that you’re too loyal?
Is that supposed to be a bad thing, Iwaizumi fired back, pin clenched between his hands.
No, Matuskawa had sighed in this memory, clearly used to Hanamaki being there to explain things with him, as long as you don’t sacrifice the world for someone you really care about.
“One,” Oikawa’s finger moves onto the trigger. Iwaizumi’s does too. He feels tears pool at the corner of his eyes and run down his cheeks; he hates it, feeling weak like this, and suddenly it feels as if a dam broke out and he sobs, heaving in great gulps of air as he struggles to breathe. He doesn’t collapse but he might as well have; he lowers his gun. Concedes.
“Sorry,” he whispers. To who, he doesn’t know.
“Don’t apologize, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa laughs.
He pulls the trigger.
**
Iwaizumi wakes up at Miyagi Park.