He doesn’t remember when the drinking got this bad.
Hanamaki just knew that since his death, the world around him had lost most of its color. Driving had started to become too much of a metaphor for the type of life he never wanted now: every time he saw a stop sign he’d get jittery, wishing he had a drink with him until he could tell the road was clear and could continue on. Hanamaki used to be the type of person that thought of stop signs as milestones, laughing at the jokes that Matsukawa would jibe Oikawa and Iwaizumi with in their high school days, sighing at the rise and fall of Matsukawa’s breath beneath him as they slept on a well-used futon together after high school, moaning at the way Matsukawa knew just how to touch him in the times both their minds were at their dirtiest and regardless of whether they were in public or private…
But now every time he stopped at a stop sign, he just wished he never had to stop.
Which is why after some time, he stopped driving altogether, too.
And the drinking, oh, the drinking. That didn’t help things either.
Ironic that the one thing that Hanamaki would latch on to after Matsukawa’s run-in head on with the sudan on an icy road in January would be the same imbibe that landed Matsukawa past the ledge of the unguarded country road.
Gin.
Sounds like a girl’s name, Hanamaki could almost taste Matsukawa’s voice as he let the liquor flush reality from his system. He laughed at that once. He laughed at a lot of things once.
He used to write his feelings out and fold them into envelopes to leave at Matsukawa’s grave, too.
“Issei, please come back.”
“When is this going to stop hurting.”
“i'm a little drunk and i just thought you should know i love you like a cannonball lvoes water and like how pirate shits love tidal waves oops pirate shits haha i meant pirate ships you would have liked that we would have laughed at that holy fuck”
“...please come back.”
But as the drinking worsened, Hanamaki wrote less. Cried out toward the heavens more, louder and louder as he down his gin, movements more theatical and speech more unpredictable.
“WE WERE ONCE GODS THFAT CARRIED THE SUN STOLEN FROM US THE DAYS OF YOUNG I WANTE YOUR PHBACE IN MY HAND EVERY MORNGHIN BUT NOW’S iTCh NOT EVEN IN FORM RECOGNIZABBB-iL I’M…
...bu rnh i n ghf….”
Collapsed again, drink in hand. Awake again, wiping blood of his cheek as he cleaned the glass from the ground. An hour later, another gin in hand.
FILL: Team Nishinoya Yuu/Tanaka Ryuunosuke, M
Words: 459
He doesn’t remember when the drinking got this bad.
Hanamaki just knew that since his death, the world around him had lost most of its color. Driving had started to become too much of a metaphor for the type of life he never wanted now: every time he saw a stop sign he’d get jittery, wishing he had a drink with him until he could tell the road was clear and could continue on. Hanamaki used to be the type of person that thought of stop signs as milestones, laughing at the jokes that Matsukawa would jibe Oikawa and Iwaizumi with in their high school days, sighing at the rise and fall of Matsukawa’s breath beneath him as they slept on a well-used futon together after high school, moaning at the way Matsukawa knew just how to touch him in the times both their minds were at their dirtiest and regardless of whether they were in public or private…
But now every time he stopped at a stop sign, he just wished he never had to stop.
Which is why after some time, he stopped driving altogether, too.
And the drinking, oh, the drinking. That didn’t help things either.
Ironic that the one thing that Hanamaki would latch on to after Matsukawa’s run-in head on with the sudan on an icy road in January would be the same imbibe that landed Matsukawa past the ledge of the unguarded country road.
Gin.
Sounds like a girl’s name, Hanamaki could almost taste Matsukawa’s voice as he let the liquor flush reality from his system. He laughed at that once. He laughed at a lot of things once.
He used to write his feelings out and fold them into envelopes to leave at Matsukawa’s grave, too.
“Issei, please come back.”
“When is this going to stop hurting.”
“i'm a little drunk and i just thought you should know
i love you like a cannonball lvoes water and like how pirate shits love tidal waves
oops
pirate shits haha i meant pirate ships
you would have liked that
we would have laughed at that
holy fuck”
“...please come back.”
But as the drinking worsened, Hanamaki wrote less. Cried out toward the heavens more, louder and louder as he down his gin, movements more theatical and speech more unpredictable.
“WE WERE ONCE GODS THFAT CARRIED THE SUN
STOLEN FROM US THE DAYS OF YOUNG
I WANTE YOUR PHBACE IN MY HAND EVERY MORNGHIN
BUT NOW’S iTCh NOT EVEN IN FORM
RECOGNIZABBB-iL
I’M…
...bu rnh i n ghf….”
Collapsed again, drink in hand. Awake again, wiping blood of his cheek as he cleaned the glass from the ground. An hour later, another gin in hand.
“I just want to hold you in my arms again.”