Work Text:
Oikawa doesn't say it, but he's not okay, and Hajime knows it. It's obvious in the way he's always avoiding Hajime.
They're supposed to study for exams with Makki and Mattsun, but Oikawa keeps finding appointments to go to and errands to run every single time. And if Oikawa thinks Hajime doesn't know he's been visiting Blanco-sensei on a weekly basis, he doesn't deserve to be the only one of them that’s in the school's top 10. (How unfair is that? Oikawa is not only one of the most athletically inclined people he's ever met, he's stupidly smart, and his face is probably the prettiest face he's ever had the pleasure to look at, and he has the best-defined abdominal musc— oh hell no, nuh-huh, we're not unpacking that now, Hajime.)
When his family is at the Oikawas’ for their monthly dinner, Hajime knows, deep in his bones, that it’s now or never. His stomach drops like he just ate a hot lump of coal instead of Auntie’s delicious banquet, and his chest constricts, and something tells him that if he doesn’t speak to Oikawa tonight, he’ll lose him.
“Why don’t you boys go up to Tooru’s room and watch a movie?” Auntie says, giving Oikawa a look.
Oikawa doesn’t waste time, he grabs Hajime’s wrist and pulls them both up from the table. “Wanna watch Godzilla?” He asks, and that’s how Hajime knows something is wrong wrong. Oikawa has never offered to watch any of Hajime’s movies, there always has to be at least some form of competition, like a rock-paper-scissors game, to force him to watch something that’s not Star Trek.
“Sure,” Hajime says, following him upstairs.
Hajime settles his back against the side of Tooru’s bed and observes. His eyes follow Tooru around the room from the shelf where he skims through DVD titles to find Godzilla, all the way to the floor-level desk, where he slides the disc into his iMac.
He’s shaking.
Oikawa Tooru, nerves of steel and diamond confidence, is shaking.
The movie starts, Oikawa sits down next to him, and Hajime doesn’t take his eyes off him.
“Oikawa–”
“Iwa-chan–”
They speak at the same time, Oikawa’s eyes glued to the screen, and Hajime’s glued to Oikawa’s face.
“Can I go first?” Oikawa asks, now looking at his feet.
“Sure,” Hajime says. What else is he supposed to say? For however much of an asshole Oikawa is, he’s always polite, always lets Hajime speak first.
“I’m moving,” he’s fidgeting now, picking at his cuticles. “I’ve been talking to Blanco-sensei,” I know, you can’t fool me, “and one of his friends back in Argentina wants me.”
Argentina?!?
“Argent–? What about uni?”
“I can’t, Iwa-chan.”
“What do you mean?” Hajime stares, dumbfounded, as Oikawa’s eyes screw shut and his jaw clenches.
“I–” he hiccups, “I’m–”, this time it’s a sob.
Hajime freezes for half a second, and suddenly his arms are around Oikawa, Oikawa’s face is on his shoulder, and he feels his best friend’s tears on his skin.
“It’s okay, Tooru,” he says, in the softest tone he can muster. “I’m here, you’re okay.” One of his hands is rubbing Oikawa’s back, the other massaging his scalp.
“I feel like I’m drowning here, Hajime,” Oikawa says, his voice muffled, lips moving against Hajime’s clavicle. “I can’t stand being here,” he finally circles his arms around Hajime’s body, fisting the back of his shirt. “I’m sorry– I– I’ve never felt like this before. So helpless. Hopeless.”
Hajime kisses the top of his head. “Don’t apologise, dumbass. I’m glad you’re going to South America,” he squeezes Oikawa, “you’ll be closer to me that way.”
“Huh?” Oikawa lifts his head and finally looks at him. His eyes are red and a bit puffy, his whole face wet with tears, his lips bright and swollen and shiny and– nope, not again. The sexuality crisis can wait.
“If you hadn’t been avoiding me,” Hajime teases, a small smile on his lips, “you’d know I’ve been accepted into UC Irvine.”
Oikawa smiles, for the first time in what feels like ever, and Hajime swears the world flips upside down.
“I’m pretty sure California is closer to Japan than to Argentina,” he chuckles.
“I’m not very good at geography, but I’m pretty sure we’ll both be in the American continent.”
“Well, I’m very good at geography and know that means absolutely nothing.”
“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” Hajime takes both his hands to Oikawa’s face and cups his cheeks between his palms, thumbs wiping away the tear tracks. “I just don’t want to feel distant from you, Tooru.”
Oikawa’s hands are on his biceps now, and he feels them tighten around the muscle.
“Don’t avoid me again, Tooru, please,” he leans his forehead on Oikawa’s and Oikawa skips a breath.
“Okay,” Oikawa whispers, “I won’t.”