Ship: ushijima wakatoshi/oikawa tooru Fandom: haikyuu Major Tags: none Other Tags: angst, time isn't real Word Count: 587
***
Wakatoshi sits alone in the train station.
It’s late, or at least, it was late when he left the house. He doesn’t remember how long it took him to get here, only that he’s been here a while. The trains come and go, and then they slow. The people have come and gone, and then leaving him all alone here. There’s a light flickering in the corner of the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, wind whistles through the underground tunnels.
It’s quiet.
(Wakatoshi is used to quiet. He’s never been a loud person. But for a while, he thought he could learn how to be louder, how to talk more, how to listen more, how to be more. But he must not have tried hard enough. And when you’re just one person, you don’t need to make as much noise.)
Wakatoshi stares straight ahead, back straight where he perches on the metal bench, second seat from the left, facing the empty tracks. He’s lost track of how long he’s spent here. He’s been losing track of time everywhere. He’s been losing time, like grains of sand trickling through his loosely curled fingers, too much, too fast, too slow, and too little all at once.
He’s been losing everything, lately.
(In his mind, he can hear a voice, higher in pitch and prouder, yet achingly familiar. You’ve always been a winner, Ushiwaka. That’s why you have such infuriating habits. In his mind, he can still recall with such clarity that brilliant smile, so captivatingly bright, yet sometimes so quietly bitter. You’re so used to winning, it might just ruin you when you finally lose.)
The low whirring down the dark tunnels grow louder. For a while, Wakatoshi can’t tell if the humming is from out of sight or himself. It doesn’t make a difference. Not really. Not much does, anymore. The thrum of metal grating on metal escalates, louder and louder until it’s just shy of a screech. An incoming train.
(It sounds kind of familiar. The quiet keening of an abandoned animal, the soft whimpers of a heart realizing too late its mistakes. Wakatoshi wonders how long this tuneless song will haunt him until he’s finally ready to admit he’s grown afraid of being on his own. He’s grown afraid of going home to a house where home has packed a suitcase and booked a one-way ticket all in the span of one night and never looked back.)
Wakatoshi doesn’t move. He lets the wind rustle through the stale air and his hair, a mock caress to the ones in his frozen memories. He watches the train slide to a stop. The doors open in silence. No one steps off. The bright lights of the train illuminates everything, almost too much. Wakatoshi stares until his eyes hurt. The doors close. The train leaves, and Wakatoshi stays where he is.
He looks down at the watch in his hands. It’s silver, a bit clunky, old-fashioned but fine. An inheritance, then a gift. Wakatoshi never got a chance to ask about the name of the ancestor the watch belonged to.
The second hand ticks steadily, tick tick tick tick tick yet always stuck in place. 11:23. Wakatoshi waits, silent as a shadow at a stoplight, even though the watch hasn’t moved forward in a long while. 11:23. Wakatoshi waits, even though the watch has been halted still since Oikawa left.
(Even after all this, he’s still waiting on time. Except, time has never waited for him back.)
FILL: team akaashi keiji/bokuto koutarou, [G]
Fandom: haikyuu
Major Tags: none
Other Tags: angst, time isn't real
Word Count: 587
***
Wakatoshi sits alone in the train station.
It’s late, or at least, it was late when he left the house. He doesn’t remember how long it took him to get here, only that he’s been here a while. The trains come and go, and then they slow. The people have come and gone, and then leaving him all alone here. There’s a light flickering in the corner of the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, wind whistles through the underground tunnels.
It’s quiet.
(Wakatoshi is used to quiet. He’s never been a loud person. But for a while, he thought he could learn how to be louder, how to talk more, how to listen more, how to be more. But he must not have tried hard enough. And when you’re just one person, you don’t need to make as much noise.)
Wakatoshi stares straight ahead, back straight where he perches on the metal bench, second seat from the left, facing the empty tracks. He’s lost track of how long he’s spent here. He’s been losing track of time everywhere. He’s been losing time, like grains of sand trickling through his loosely curled fingers, too much, too fast, too slow, and too little all at once.
He’s been losing everything, lately.
(In his mind, he can hear a voice, higher in pitch and prouder, yet achingly familiar. You’ve always been a winner, Ushiwaka. That’s why you have such infuriating habits. In his mind, he can still recall with such clarity that brilliant smile, so captivatingly bright, yet sometimes so quietly bitter. You’re so used to winning, it might just ruin you when you finally lose.)
The low whirring down the dark tunnels grow louder. For a while, Wakatoshi can’t tell if the humming is from out of sight or himself. It doesn’t make a difference. Not really. Not much does, anymore. The thrum of metal grating on metal escalates, louder and louder until it’s just shy of a screech. An incoming train.
(It sounds kind of familiar. The quiet keening of an abandoned animal, the soft whimpers of a heart realizing too late its mistakes. Wakatoshi wonders how long this tuneless song will haunt him until he’s finally ready to admit he’s grown afraid of being on his own. He’s grown afraid of going home to a house where home has packed a suitcase and booked a one-way ticket all in the span of one night and never looked back.)
Wakatoshi doesn’t move. He lets the wind rustle through the stale air and his hair, a mock caress to the ones in his frozen memories. He watches the train slide to a stop. The doors open in silence. No one steps off. The bright lights of the train illuminates everything, almost too much. Wakatoshi stares until his eyes hurt. The doors close. The train leaves, and Wakatoshi stays where he is.
He looks down at the watch in his hands. It’s silver, a bit clunky, old-fashioned but fine. An inheritance, then a gift. Wakatoshi never got a chance to ask about the name of the ancestor the watch belonged to.
The second hand ticks steadily, tick tick tick tick tick yet always stuck in place. 11:23. Wakatoshi waits, silent as a shadow at a stoplight, even though the watch hasn’t moved forward in a long while. 11:23. Wakatoshi waits, even though the watch has been halted still since Oikawa left.
(Even after all this, he’s still waiting on time. Except, time has never waited for him back.)