Shoulders bumping in a busy lecture hall—that’s how they come together. There are no sparks, no slow motion film sequences; there is nothing beyond Daichi glancing up from the floor, apologetic smile on his lips before slipping by, away.
(“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine,” he replies.)
It is not the thought that consumes him. Daichi stretches his back, tries in vain to force the generic dormitory desk chair to be more comfortable. His eyes are aching, strained from the dark. The desk lamp keeps flickering and he can just barely make out the sound of Suga shifting in his sleep.
They come and go, the thoughts, the reminders, the jagged pieces of that memory. He will be writing, will be gripping his pencil carefully, because in the first grade his teacher makes him sit in the corner for holding his pencil with his fist; he will be writing, will be squinting at notes he can barely decipher and then he will think.
He will think of shoulders bumping in a busy lecture hall, of a face he can hardly identify, of everything futile and pointless and not worth his time or energy.
And he will remind himself that he has better things to do than linger on the three second interaction he had with a stranger but Daichi is remarkably well-versed in the art of deceiving himself.
-
Eyes meeting in the hustle and bustle of a cramped classroom—that’s how they come together. There is nothing outside of that, outside of him looking up and Iwaizumi looking down. They speak, and Iwaizumi has already forgotten them. He just remembers there were three and for some reason, that’s important.
Oikawa laughs the first time he trips on the treadmill, caught in his own thoughts and tempted by his own negligence. He sees a figure in the distance thinks it might be familiar. He remembers the figure is not supposed to be familiar. And then he stumbles, physically, mentally—he stumbles.
When he fills his ears with manmade white noise and curls up in the innermost corner of the library he thinks about eyes that smiled and shoulders that could carry the world.
He isn’t familiar with this, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t really know what this entails. All he knows is a stranger, nameless and nearly faceless too, just wordless syllables at the back of his mind. Iwaizumi thinks about threads wrapped around his fingertip from the frayed ends of his t-shirt and he thinks about snapping them, tugging them, testing every which way of pressure to see where the midpoint is. He would like to see where he’s supposed to be standing and,
And,
He would like to see if he can see a stranger, nameless and nearly faceless too, from where he stands today and then tomorrow.
-
Fingers tangling in a forgotten hallway—that’s how they come together.
Iwaizumi kisses the hollow of Daichi’s jaw and counts them, counts the number of times he feels Daichi’s pulse through his lips (he counts one for each day they spent wandering apart). He could whisper three things, three words, maybe reenact that first scene—blank but full—but he doesn’t.
FILL: TEAM IWAIZUMI HAJIME/OIKAWA TOORU, G
Shoulders bumping in a busy lecture hall—that’s how they come together. There are no sparks, no slow motion film sequences; there is nothing beyond Daichi glancing up from the floor, apologetic smile on his lips before slipping by, away.
(“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine,” he replies.)
It is not the thought that consumes him. Daichi stretches his back, tries in vain to force the generic dormitory desk chair to be more comfortable. His eyes are aching, strained from the dark. The desk lamp keeps flickering and he can just barely make out the sound of Suga shifting in his sleep.
They come and go, the thoughts, the reminders, the jagged pieces of that memory. He will be writing, will be gripping his pencil carefully, because in the first grade his teacher makes him sit in the corner for holding his pencil with his fist; he will be writing, will be squinting at notes he can barely decipher and then he will think.
He will think of shoulders bumping in a busy lecture hall, of a face he can hardly identify, of everything futile and pointless and not worth his time or energy.
And he will remind himself that he has better things to do than linger on the three second interaction he had with a stranger but Daichi is remarkably well-versed in the art of deceiving himself.
-
Eyes meeting in the hustle and bustle of a cramped classroom—that’s how they come together. There is nothing outside of that, outside of him looking up and Iwaizumi looking down. They speak, and Iwaizumi has already forgotten them. He just remembers there were three and for some reason, that’s important.
Oikawa laughs the first time he trips on the treadmill, caught in his own thoughts and tempted by his own negligence. He sees a figure in the distance thinks it might be familiar. He remembers the figure is not supposed to be familiar. And then he stumbles, physically, mentally—he stumbles.
When he fills his ears with manmade white noise and curls up in the innermost corner of the library he thinks about eyes that smiled and shoulders that could carry the world.
He isn’t familiar with this, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t really know what this entails. All he knows is a stranger, nameless and nearly faceless too, just wordless syllables at the back of his mind. Iwaizumi thinks about threads wrapped around his fingertip from the frayed ends of his t-shirt and he thinks about snapping them, tugging them, testing every which way of pressure to see where the midpoint is. He would like to see where he’s supposed to be standing and,
And,
He would like to see if he can see a stranger, nameless and nearly faceless too, from where he stands today and then tomorrow.
-
Fingers tangling in a forgotten hallway—that’s how they come together.
Iwaizumi kisses the hollow of Daichi’s jaw and counts them, counts the number of times he feels Daichi’s pulse through his lips (he counts one for each day they spent wandering apart). He could whisper three things, three words, maybe reenact that first scene—blank but full—but he doesn’t.
“You’re surprisingly affectionate today,” Daichi says teasingly.
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi replies with a faint smile. “Don’t complain.”
"I don't complain."
That's what I like about you, Iwaizumi does not say aloud. Because if he's being as honest as possible, there's no way to limit it to just that.