Ship: Oikawa/Kageyama Fandom: Haikyuu!! Major Tags: tags omitted Other Tags: CLAMP-typical everything Square: Clover AU Word Count: 720
I gave up but also I guess this means kageyama has an evil twin out there somewhere
***
Rain pours down for days, warm silver sheets of it running over the window glass, and Tobio is standing at the window with his hands pressed up against it, leaning in, too small yet for his borrowed clothes.
"You could leave," Oikawa reminds him from the door. They were petulant words, once, but by now it's only habit, the familiar lyrics of a song.
Tobio finds Oikawa's eyes in the greyish half-light. His hair is longer now, growing every day, faster than the rest of him. He watches Oikawa the same way he watches rain, like he can extrapolate limitless data from every small vibration, but none of it is his to use or know. At some point, he says, "I can't," but Oikawa has looked away by then, stares over Tobio's shoulder at the rain-blurred skyline there, and he thinks the world is very large but there are all sorts of cages.
Tobio's hair is still too short to tie back from his face, but long enough to curl against his neck in the humidity. At the height of vicarious annoyance, Oikawa cuts it off with kitchen scissors. Tobio doesn't move a millimetre while the blades skim over his skin, and Oikawa thinks about how easy it would be to end it there, how Tobio could will the world to shatter and only bows his head in Oikawa's bath, bares his arteries under fluorescent lights, murmurs I'm in your care while Oikawa savages his fringe with neither skill nor grace.
Afterward, when Oikawa tips his chin and finally steps away, Tobio's reflection stares back at Oikawa's face behind him, and doesn't seem at all concerned for the uneven mess left on his forehead. "Thank you," he says, with those same calculating eyes, and the scissors would clatter to the bloody floor while he held Tobio's shoulders upright, because Tobio would not struggle or regenerate or look away one single moment. Oikawa thinks about the shadows at Tobio's throat instead, how his wrists are fine and already too long for the sleeves he chose last month, how he soars along a parabolic curve, more beautiful each day.
Tobio watches back like Oikawa moves on known trajectories as well, like there's an equation for orbital decay pressing at the insides of his teeth, waiting to be free.
"Freeloader," Oikawa accuses the reflection, and pinches his soft face. "Next you'll be expecting me to cook for you as well."
"No, thank you," Tobio says, the words just faintly dry, a tone that absolutely calls his culinary aptitude into question.
"Ungrateful brat," Oikawa mutters, and musses up his own handiwork.
He's nearly the same height, and moves with steady grace. He cuts his own hair now and he still won't step outside their secured walls, though all the systems open for him like flower petals open, and there is no one who could stop him if he ever chose to go. He works from a latticework of wires like a moth caught in a web; he tilts his head and retrieves satellite telemetry by ear. He has a favourite drink for Oikawa to bring back from the vendor, and someday he would like to meet a cat that isn't clockwork, though he has read that they are fickle beasts and might not care for him at all. He confides these demure wishes into their careful negative space, quiet and measured to precise values of trust. He loves, the only way someone can ever love when they don't have anything else in the world: too much, or not really at all.
When Tobio leans in Oikawa does not kiss him back, but presses his palm to Tobio's unscarred throat over the thrumming of his pulse, and says, "Why bother to trade one prison for another?"
Tobio shuts his eyes and pushes back against Oikawa's searching fingers. He says, "I couldn't be happy there," and Oikawa doesn't pull away and doesn't ask again, but he does not pretend to miss the implications, either. Oikawa is a two-leaf but even he knows where these lines meet, that there's a tuneless hum in each of them counting backwards to some inexorable zero.
"You could leave," Oikawa says, but gravity pulls him in, and there's already a detonator in his brain because Tobio has nowhere else to go.
FILL: TEAM KAGEYAMA TOBIO/OIKAWA TOORU, A3, T
Fandom: Haikyuu!!
Major Tags: tags omitted
Other Tags: CLAMP-typical everything
Square: Clover AU
Word Count: 720
I gave up but also I guess this means kageyama has an evil twin out there somewhere
***
Rain pours down for days, warm silver sheets of it running over the window glass, and Tobio is standing at the window with his hands pressed up against it, leaning in, too small yet for his borrowed clothes.
"You could leave," Oikawa reminds him from the door. They were petulant words, once, but by now it's only habit, the familiar lyrics of a song.
Tobio finds Oikawa's eyes in the greyish half-light. His hair is longer now, growing every day, faster than the rest of him. He watches Oikawa the same way he watches rain, like he can extrapolate limitless data from every small vibration, but none of it is his to use or know. At some point, he says, "I can't," but Oikawa has looked away by then, stares over Tobio's shoulder at the rain-blurred skyline there, and he thinks the world is very large but there are all sorts of cages.
Tobio's hair is still too short to tie back from his face, but long enough to curl against his neck in the humidity. At the height of vicarious annoyance, Oikawa cuts it off with kitchen scissors. Tobio doesn't move a millimetre while the blades skim over his skin, and Oikawa thinks about how easy it would be to end it there, how Tobio could will the world to shatter and only bows his head in Oikawa's bath, bares his arteries under fluorescent lights, murmurs I'm in your care while Oikawa savages his fringe with neither skill nor grace.
Afterward, when Oikawa tips his chin and finally steps away, Tobio's reflection stares back at Oikawa's face behind him, and doesn't seem at all concerned for the uneven mess left on his forehead. "Thank you," he says, with those same calculating eyes, and the scissors would clatter to the bloody floor while he held Tobio's shoulders upright, because Tobio would not struggle or regenerate or look away one single moment. Oikawa thinks about the shadows at Tobio's throat instead, how his wrists are fine and already too long for the sleeves he chose last month, how he soars along a parabolic curve, more beautiful each day.
Tobio watches back like Oikawa moves on known trajectories as well, like there's an equation for orbital decay pressing at the insides of his teeth, waiting to be free.
"Freeloader," Oikawa accuses the reflection, and pinches his soft face. "Next you'll be expecting me to cook for you as well."
"No, thank you," Tobio says, the words just faintly dry, a tone that absolutely calls his culinary aptitude into question.
"Ungrateful brat," Oikawa mutters, and musses up his own handiwork.
He's nearly the same height, and moves with steady grace. He cuts his own hair now and he still won't step outside their secured walls, though all the systems open for him like flower petals open, and there is no one who could stop him if he ever chose to go. He works from a latticework of wires like a moth caught in a web; he tilts his head and retrieves satellite telemetry by ear. He has a favourite drink for Oikawa to bring back from the vendor, and someday he would like to meet a cat that isn't clockwork, though he has read that they are fickle beasts and might not care for him at all. He confides these demure wishes into their careful negative space, quiet and measured to precise values of trust. He loves, the only way someone can ever love when they don't have anything else in the world: too much, or not really at all.
When Tobio leans in Oikawa does not kiss him back, but presses his palm to Tobio's unscarred throat over the thrumming of his pulse, and says, "Why bother to trade one prison for another?"
Tobio shuts his eyes and pushes back against Oikawa's searching fingers. He says, "I couldn't be happy there," and Oikawa doesn't pull away and doesn't ask again, but he does not pretend to miss the implications, either. Oikawa is a two-leaf but even he knows where these lines meet, that there's a tuneless hum in each of them counting backwards to some inexorable zero.
"You could leave," Oikawa says, but gravity pulls him in, and there's already a detonator in his brain because Tobio has nowhere else to go.