Archive of Our Own ^beta

Part I

“Sorry, man,” Hanamaki’s apologetic voice crackled over the receiver.

Issei sighed and let his head loll back against the headrest of his plush office chair. He stared up into the ceiling and let a few slow, silent seconds pass by, counter by the taunting ticking of the clock on the wall.

1:30pm, it read.

December 6^th, read the day-by-day calendar in the far corner of his desk.

The days seemed to crawl by at a grueling pace, but he found himself dumbfounded at the number on the calendar at the end of each one. And now it was rushing towards him, the moment he’d been dreading since he told that little lie in February to avoid a Valentine’s Day soirée held by his coworkers.

“C’mon,” Issei pushed a bit.

“I think I’ve got a good thing going with this person I’ve been seeing,” Hanamaki replied, “I can’t pretend to be your fake boyfriend. What if they find out?”

Issei’s cheeks puffed out with a long, exasperated sigh that he was tired of holding back. He held the side of his head in his hands, the ink black curls poking through the in-betweens of his fingers. He’d really relied on Makki to come through when the holidays arrived; in fact, he’d been so sure of the ‘yes’ that he’d waited a bit too long to ask.

And it was a stupid lie, anyhow. He should never have told it.

That stupid lie that he had a dedicated, long-term boyfriend occupying all the nights he would rather not go out with his coworkers. Now, considering Issei was such a prolific liar, one would think that he’d be able to come up with some elaborate break-up story or even a better way to get out of the incoming event, but the corporate Christmas party bore more weight now, especially considering his conversation with his boss a few weeks ago.

“I think you’ve been doing good work,” his boss said from behind his grand oak desk.

Matsukawa sat politely in his little chair with his hands folded and clammy. He swallowed rather thickly as he watched his boss’s eyes flicker over something on the computer and some paper on the desk before him.

“Perhaps after the end of the year,” his boss glanced back up, “a promotion could be on the horizon.”

Matsukawa’s breath hitched in his throat, even now as he was remembering it all on the phone with his best friend.

After the end of the year...

a promotion.

It sounded so sweet and felt equally as close. And he knew what ‘end of the year’ meant. It meant the fancy corporate holiday party that was held every year which was in reality just a glorified networking event that smelled faintly of pine and spiked eggnog. Matsukawa had been to two so far and lamented every second he spent there. They were mind-numbingly boring events and he hated wearing itchy tuxes that he couldn’t properly sit in.

And now that everyone in his office was all abuzz about finally meeting this wonderful boyfriend that Issei had been talking about all year, showing up without him could threaten a promotion that could change his life entirely. Being 28 years old and suddenly undergoing a massive breakup certainly wasn’t a splotch Issei wanted on his professional image—even if the whole thing was fake.

“I’m sorry,” Issei conceded, pulling himself closer to his desk.

“Is there anyone else you can ask?”

Hanamaki seemed genuine in his question, but Matsukawa certainly wasn’t in the mood for brainstorming. He gave some sort of disinterested sound while swiping the trackpad of his laptop to illuminate the screen. He had an inordinate number of tabs open including a news story he’d seen that morning: a report on a volleyball game.

“I dunno,” Matsukawa shrugged, “there’s Iwa.”

Hanamaki laughed robustly right into the receiver loudly enough to make Issei wince and pull the device an inch away from his ear.

“You’re gonna get Iwa to lie?” Hanamaki asked in disbelief.

“It was a suggestion,” Matsukawa insisted.

“No, that was a sign of insanity,” replied Makki.

Matsukawa rolled his eyes and clicked on the tab, remembering opening it to read later.

Argentina vs. Bolivia

Ah, that was why Matsukawa saved it. There was a giant, professional shot of Oikawa at the very top of the article. His face was dripping with glistening beads of sweat and his cheeks were rosy, but his chestnut brown hair was rather fluffy and bouncy mid-fist pump. He was shouting something in victory, his straight and dully white teeth on full display and the clean fit of his jersey showing off his bronzed arms.

Matsukawa found himself lost in the image for a second, the blurred yellow background emphasizing the lights which shone off of the corners of Oikawa’s appearance. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other in person. Oikawa only came home momentarily and was rumored to spend the whole time with his family spare a round of drinks with Iwaizumi. It didn’t bother Matsukawa all that much, but he’d been thinking about the old high school friend more recently than usual.

All thanks to Iwaizumi’s text of course—

the one that announced that Oikawa would not only be coming home for Christmas this year, but for the entire holiday season.

Something about a small injury and a required sabbatical from his team.

Issei wasn’t entirely concerned with the announcement or the man’s foreseen return. Again, it had been a really long time since they’d seen one another. And they weren’t best friend anymore, anyhow.

But he couldn’t stop staring at this photo,

and an idea was slowly forming in his head.

“What about Tooru?”

He didn’t mean to ask it. In fact, he was convinced he’d only said it in his head until Makki’s exasperated voice assaulted his eardrums from the other end of the line.

“Tooru?!” He screeched.

Another round of laughter from a slight distance, this time, even more raucous and amused than his last. It lasted a few seconds longer as well, enough time for Matsukawa’s face to fall into a series of straight lines.

“Are you insane?” Makki finally reappeared a bit breathless.

“It was a joke!” Issei bit back before Makki could say anything further.

His eyes were still transfixed on the giant photo, his fingers lingering on the surface of the trackpad as the cursor came to a standstill.

“Good god, don’t scare me like that,” Hanamaki sighed and giggled a little more.

Matsukawa huffed some air out of his nose and finally closed out the tab shortly after coming to his senses. An immediate lack appeared within him as the photo disappeared and he was left looking at a dizzying Excel spreadsheet, nearly forgetting the phone was still pressed to his ear.

“Tooru,” Makki repeated to himself, “you’ve gotten funnier with age, ya know that, right?”

Issei adjusted his jaw and leaned back once more in his chair.

“Fuck you,” he replied, “disrespectfully.”

Matsukawa left the office a little early, the ticking of the clock finally starting to drive him crazy, and his eyes dried out from staring at the same blinking cursor for a minute too long. He stifled a strong yawn as he stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby of the nice building. Tugging on the knot of his tie, he wondered how mad Iwaizumi would really be if he cancelled on him that night.

But Issei always seemed to cancel on Iwaizumi when it came to work nights. The man never really got mad, but he was almost scarier when he was disappointed. Whenever Issei would cancel, Iwaizumi would suddenly get really concerned with his well being and force soup on him. The only way to evade the maternal attention was to tough it out long enough for the customary two pints of beer then settle comfortably into his bed until the next morning.

Thus, Issei didn’t give it another thought as he hailed a cab and climbed inside, a practiced recanting of the bar’s address slipping off his tongue. The man in the driver’s seat nodded and, simultaneously, turned up the radio a bit. Matsukawa slipped off his jacket and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as Christmas music flooded his ears.

It wasn’t that he particularly disliked the genre, he just wasn’t in the mood considering the looming presence above him of his many lies and the guillotine which was about to descend rather rapidly.

Perhaps a drink would be a good thing, considering this was the image Matsukawa decided to entertain.

He simply wouldn’t tell his therapist about any of it because even sitting in the back of this dark taxi, he could see the man scribbling something in his big notebook with a concerned look. He liked that the taxi driver did nothing of the sort, just whistled the song to himself and glanced around the corner to see if he was free to go.

Everything was newly decorated by now, every store and office having pulled out their old, dusty string lights and probably tasked some underpaid gaggle of teenagers to put them up on a cold winter’s morning. He knew because, in high school, he’d worked part-time at a little convenience store which always forced him to put up the damn string lights.

“Gotta put all six foot two inches of you to good use somehow!” His jaunty, strangely Santa-like boss would always say.

Thus, Matsukawa would shiver, frozen fingers fumbling over the tangled wires for hours on end. The only plus to it all was that he would see his teammates walk by while he worked, and they’d get to steal a half hour or so talking and sharing a secret jug of hot chocolate.

“Get back up there Mattsun,” Oikawa would tease him, “your back looked good reaching up like that.”

Matsukawa would retort.

“My back is covered by three layers, so unless you’re talking about my jacket—”

“You know what I mean,” Oikawa would shrug.

Matsukawa let the memory flow through his head bit by bit as more lights peeked in through the nearly frosted windows of the taxi. It had snowed earlier that week, but most of it had melted by now; of course, all to leave space for the new sheet of white that was scheduled to come that Friday. Matsukawa sighed as he went through the mental checklist of needing to wash his hat, salt his car, put out the shovel, reset the furnace—

It always came back to that, Matsukawa’s old mental lists. He wasn’t much of a man for residing in his memories, anyhow. He much preferred the solid nature of the present, the sensations in his body that he could name. His hands were cold, his chest was a little tight, and his head hurt right behind his eyes like it always did after work. The inside of his sweater was a tad itchy, and he was being slightly choked by his scarf which he’d decided to keep on for the duration of his taxi ride.

Thus, he decided to allow his brain an even more decisive break and allowed his weary eyes to observe what remained of the decorative lights, those around the stores and those around the streetlights, too.

The bar appeared all too soon, in Issei’s opinion. He always liked being in cars, it felt transitionary in a way his destinations always cut short. Perhaps it was the feeling of moving but having nowhere to go—Issei hadn’t quite found the words yet.

Routinely, he thanked the taxi driver with a mumble and shoved a wad of cash into his outstretched hand, checking back once to make sure he’d gotten all of his things. He slipped his jacket back on with a strong shiver as the winter wind contrasted the warmth he’d been siphoning from the taxi’s interior. There was already a bustle happening through the propped door of the seedy little bar that Issei lamented: he liked quiet bars, and it didn’t seem practical that a place like this would be full on a Wednesday night. Yet, he went in and praised whatever deity was responsible for the exhilarating warmth of the indoors.

He hung his coat on an open hook and let the bar’s music fill his empty ears.

Christmas music—again.

But it was cut through enough by talking and laughing that it wasn’t so bothersome to Matsukawa. He considered as he waded through the crowd that this was why the place was so packed, kids were probably coming home from college or wherever to see their parents and seeking a free night away from all the chaos. They might’ve been meeting old friends or simply hanging around the bar searching for a conquest of sorts to occupy them that night.

Issei wasn’t proud to be doing one of those things.

Iwa was at his usual table, always magical in the way he claimed it before anyone else, considering its proximity to the stage, bar, and window through which a grand park opened up before their eyes all shrouded in night.

Matsukawa pressed on a smile as he approached the table and slid himself into the booth opposite from where Iwaizumi Hajime was enjoying his beer.

“Bout time,” Hajime crooned jokingly.

“Sorry,” Matsukawa joked right back, “people keep dying, so business is always good, I guess.”

Iwaizumi chuckled and leaned back in his seat, his arm extending over the top of the forest-green leather seats. He was wearing a gorgeous oatmeal cable-knit sweater than Matsukawa began to devise a plan to steal the next time he was at his friend’s apartment. He had his work slacks on underneath, however, and a pair of chunky brown leather boots that made him look even buffer than usual.

“And you?” Matsukawa asked like always, “How’s work?”

Iwaizumi pursed his lips.

“Y’know, you’d think professional volleyball players would be, I dunno, more professional?” He recanted, “But I had to end a fight today over chapstick—chapstick.”

Iwaizumi leaned forward, pressed there by the ridiculousness of it all. Matsukawa shot him a dumbfounded look which could only prompt a further explanation.

“I mean,” Iwaizumi said, “who cares? Who cares which chapstick is better? Because I certainly don’t.”

“I dunno,” Matsukawa replied, “I feel like I kinda do.”

Iwaizumi’s brow went low and stony. Matsukawa suppressed a giggle.

“Alright, you can get your own beer,” Hajime waved him off in a huff.

With a chuckle, Matsukawa did just that, moseying towards the bar to order himself a tall beer much like Iwaizumi’s, but of a darker sort. He wasn’t in the mood for liquor tonight, especially because he had to return to work the next day.

Yet, as he waited for the bartender to first pour his drink then charge his card, all Issei could think about was his conversation with Hanamaki and the dilemma that continued to haunt him. He thought also about Oikawa in that photo in the article. He’d closed the tab for good right? What would be the chances of him finding it again?

He must’ve retained his pensive expression as he sat back down because Iwaizumi caught on immediately.

“What’s going on?” He leaned forward a bit and rendered his voice gentler.

Iwaizumi always had this freaky ability to know when something was up. Matsukawa couldn’t tell yet if it was a trait he liked or not.

Through a long breath, Issei considered not telling Iwaizumi anything at all and letting the thing die. Maybe he could make up some fake story about work to quench the thought. But now that he’d told Hanamaki, it would eventually, in some convoluted way, make its way back to Iwaizumi and if there was anything Iwaizumi Hajime hated more than lying, it was being lied to.

“I may have—” Issei hesitated momentarily, “I may have—lied.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes narrowed, his hand still around his beer glass.

“About—what?” He asked seriously.

Issei let out a long, laborious sigh.

“I may have told my coworkers in January that I had a very serious boyfriend,” he recanted, “and now they’re all expecting me to bring him to the Christmas party.”

Iwaizumi’s face curled in even further confusion. He seemed not only puzzled but conflicted over Issei’s situation.

“And you can’t tell them you broke up because—?” Iwaizumi prodded.

Issei let out another sigh: a motif of his evening, it seemed.

“Because my boss wants to give me a promotion and likes how ‘stable’ my life seems,” Matsukawa said, “and there’s nothing that screams ‘unstable’ like a major break-up with what everyone thinks is your serious, long-term boyfriend.”

Iwaizumi’s face didn’t change, but his aura certainly did. Matsukawa felt like shivering even in the heat of the bar.

“I do hope this isn’t you asking me to—”

“No!” Matsukawa held out his hands in defense, “No, of course not, I’m just—I’m stuck.”

It actually felt pretty good to admit, Matsukawa never would’ve expected it. But it did feel that way, like he had been backed into a corner by a band of figures that looked strangely like himself and that his only way out was to confront it all. Yet, Matsukawa couldn’t convince himself to take such an easy route, not when he felt like everything was at stake. He crossed his arms and leaned back, his first few sips of beer already fuzzying up his thoughts.

“It’s stupid, I shouldn’t have lied in the first place,” said Issei, feeling like his own mother were sitting across from him reprimanding him.

“Damn straight,” Iwaizumi replied.

“But—”

Matsukawa’s mouth hung agape in a dangerous moment of thought. Iwaizumi’s eyes widened.

“You’re not considering going through with it somehow, are you?”

His voice got that edge, the scary kind that terrified underclassmen for so many years and now haunted grown men on professional teams.

Yet, it didn’t scare Matsukawa enough to keep him from pursing his lips into a straight line and giving Iwaizumi a suggestive look.

“I was thinking—” Matsukawa paused, considering the true weight of what he was about to say.

Only three sips of beer had influence on this decision which meant that the majority of it was made out of Issei’s own insanity. And if he hadn’t said it now, there was a chance the thought would’ve shriveled up and died overnight.

“I was thinking of asking Oikawa to help me.”

But now that Iwaizumi had heard it, it was all too real. And Matsukawa could finally admit to himself that he hadn’t thought of a single other solution all evening.

“No.”

Iwaizumi’s voice was firm.

“What?” Matsukawa asked, bewildered.

“No!”

This time, Iwaizumi accented his exclamation with a sharply pointed finger right at Matsukawa’s chest like he was a misbehaving cat found on the countertop earing the holiday turkey.

Issei screwed his face up in confusion.

“No!” Iwaizumi shouted again, “Bad Issei! Bad!”

“Dude,” Matsukawa laid a hand across the table, “you’re yelling.”

“Are you insane?” Iwaizumi’s voice was low but his words were hurried as though he were interrogating a suspect at the police station.

Matsukawa sighed and leaned back in his seat as the memory of his prior conversation with Hanamaki seemed to reappear.

“You’re not getting Tooru involved in your nonsense,” Iwaizumi said bitingly, “and frankly—”

Iwaizumi leaned in closer and stared up at Matsukawa with this icy glare. He had always been protective of his childhood friend, that much Matsukawa knew. It was why things ended so poorly amongst them all after high school.

Yes, there was a problem there, a memory Matsukawa couldn’t quite reach. It was like the entire thing had been tucked away in a neat little file that he couldn’t find amidst all the piles. All he knew were the repercussions, the strange silences whenever high school was brought up and the tangly, touchy topic of Oikawa as a whole.

“You don’t want to get involved in Tooru’s nonsense, either.”

Silence stretched between them as Iwaizumi glared at Matsukawa and waited in earnest for the man to understand. And in part, Issei understood entirely. Perhaps the memory wasn’t there, but Matsukawa hadn’t forgotten Tooru as a person. He hadn’t forgotten their little fights and disagreements, but it all came with the memory of his friendship, as well, his confidence and all that. There was something about their loss that last year that had changed everything, Matsukawa just didn’t know what that change really was.

Tooru’s nonsense.

His sleeping around? His long, sudden disappearances from the world he left behind? His sudden desire to return and mend all?

Yeah, nonsense always seemed to follow Oikawa Tooru.

But Matsukawa couldn’t stop thinking about it, the prospect of simply asking. Was it really that bad to just ask for his help? Tooru could just say no, or the universe could play a part in it all. There was just no way Issei was going to be able to let it go.

That much he knew.

Thus, he took a large swig of his beer and exhaled.

“Yeah, nevermind,” he waved it all off, “it was just a stupid idea, anyways.”

If there was anything Iwaizumi Hajime hated more than lying, it was being lied to. But what Iwaizumi didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Matsukawa begs like a spoiled child over the phone.

“No!” Hanamaki exclaims again, fed up at this point with the insanity.

“Just a little get-together, something casual, just so I have a reason to see Tooru again!” Matsukawa reasoned.

“You’re not still going with this Tooru idea, are you?”

“I have to, Hiro,” said Issei, “it’s the only way to ensure this promotion.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes, I am, now help me.”

Matsukawa was in his house after another long day of work watching a little pot of rice noodles gurgle and boil over the heat. There was a half-full bottle of beer going lukewarm beside the stovetop, mostly because Matsukawa’s hands and brain were too occupied to bother with it.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself,” Hanamaki said.

“Seriously, I’ll bring the beer and everything!” Matsukawa stirred the noodles with a belabored sigh.

Takahiro made a small interested noise.

“Well now you’re talkin’.”

“So, you’ll do it?” Issei’s voice rose in pitch.

“Nope.”

Matsukawa groaned and pulled his phone from his ear to stare at the photo of Hanamaki that was blasted all over the front signifying their in-progress call. It was some photo he’d taken off-hand in high school where Hanamaki still had his stupid old haircut and his baby face.

Screw you, he mouthed at the smug-faced picture.

“And I have a new job, anyways,” the man on the other end said, “night security at the mall.”

“Mm,” Matsukawa hummed, “and has Iwa placed a bet yet on how long it’ll take you to get fired?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hanamaki replied casually, “He said fifty bucks, under six weeks.”

Matsukawa’s lips pinched in thought.

“I’ll take him up on that,” he said, “I’ll put fifty down that you get fired in less than four weeks.”

“Harsh!” Hanamaki whined.

“You do it to yourself, man,” said Issei with a smug grin, “and I dunno how much longer mommy and daddy are going to fund your nice Tokyo apartment.”

“They don’t pay for everything,” Takahiro groaned, “I pay for my phone bill.”

“Big spender, over here,” Matsukawa teased.

Takahiro was quick to retort, “You want a get-together or not?”

Matsukawa sighed. He’d gotten so caught up in the usual musings of him and his best friend that he’d nearly forgotten the task at hand. He was haunted now by the calendar beside the front door which he’d flipped to December to reveal some other shirtless blue-collar worker. The calendar had been a gift from Takahiro and was surprisingly easy for Issei to forget about whenever he brought girls to the apartment. He always had to choose between ‘admit being bisexual in long, drawn-out trauma story’ or ‘my friend is an idiot’ which always seemed to be easier.

“I’m gonna go,” Issei said eventually as he turned off the heat on the stove.

“Don’t mope, dude,” said Hanamaki, “just say you broke up with your very serious boyfriend and work an extra hour or something, good as new.”

Matsukawa knew not to take career advice from Hanamaki “Daddy’s Money” Takahiro, but he didn’t feel like starting another argument. He was pretty hungry, anyhow.

But even as the call ended and Matsukawa was left to the silence of his empty apartment and the flavor of his steaming noodle dish, the lie prodded at the soft parts of his side.

Even more so when he saw his coworkers the following day.

“So, are we finally going to meet this boyfriend of yours at the party?” Ami asked excitedly.

She was perched at the edge of Matsukawa’s desk, her dark gray pencil skirt and matching blazer blending into the dully painted wall behind her. In her delicate grip was a hot mug of coffee and she’d crossed her legs just enough for Matsukawa to see that she’d bought new cashmere tights, the other ones had a run right behind her left knee.

They’d been interested in each other for a little, friends for much longer. Matsukawa quite preferred this arrangement anyhow, but he also despised it now since he couldn’t play the ‘professionalism’ card to cut the conversation short.

“Professional athlete, right?” She leaned forward, “Bet he’s jacked.”

Professional athlete? Is that what Matsukawa had said?

“But like, in an athlete way. Clean lines.” Ami wiggled her brow as she took another sip of her coffee.

Matsukawa had to adjust his position in his chair and loosen his tie a bit as he felt the complicated web of his lies begin to wrap around his wrist and hold him in place, forcing nods and moments of silence out of his body.

“Issei?” Ami waved her hand in front of his face.

“Whu-? Yeah,” Matsukawa mumbled, noticing a figure in the doorway.

“So I’ll get to meet him?” She prodded.

“Meet who?”

It was a new voice, certainly not Ami’s. Matsukawa’s boss was standing in the doorway with a file in his right hand, an inquisitive brow watching over the pair. Ami quickly yet casually hopped off of the edge of Matsukawa’s desk and strutted towards where Issei’s boss was listening in.

“Matsukawa’s boyfriend,” she said with a little smile, “y’know, the one he’s been dating forever but is M.I.A. all the time.”

“Oh,” said his boss, “is he coming to the Christmas party? If so, I need to tell Yumiko to add another person to the catering form.”

Damn this semi-formal work environment that encourages equal relationships between staff and leadership.

Matsukawa felt heat crawling up his neck and a thin film of sweat gathering above his brow. This was his perfect opportunity to say they’d broken up, to make up some excuse that his boyfriend had been in a skiing accident or had been abducted by aliens or had been dropped in an unknown location during his skydiving adventure.

But Matsukawa felt truly stuck in his own web, especially as the spider crawled towards him with every intent to feast.

Thus, he solidified it all with a simple utterance.

“Y-yes.”

“And why do you think you said that, in that moment?”

Matsukawa had thought this moment was as good as any to bring up in his therapy session that night. He leaned back on the couch with an exaggerated groan, one hand coming up to loosen his tie again while the other drug down his dejected face.

“I have no idea,” he replied through the barrier of his palm.

His therapist pursed his lips and crossed his legs, his trusty notepad propped on his knee with a pen poised to the surface. Matsukawa’s therapist always had that damned pen poised as though just by sitting there and breathing, he’d have something to write. Matsukawa had refused therapy for a long time at the request of his friends, but his mother’s pleading at their last Christmas get-together was enough to make him feel guilty and schedule his consultation.

He knew the bad things in his life but he felt as though he’d worked through it all. Sure, it sucked his parents were divorced and that he got picked on for liking boys in middle school, but he loved his mom way more than he loved his dad and he had a group of great, accepting friends now. So he was good.

His therapist didn’t think so, however.

Because he always had something to write in that damned notebook.

“So, this lie—” his therapist began, “why do you think you’re having a hard time letting it go?”

“I’m not—!” Matsukawa began.

But when he saw that pen go up once more, he knew better than to get too defensive in that moment. Thus, he leaned back into the couch and let his hands rest in his lap in an effort to look a bit domesticated.

“I dunno,” he finally admitted, “I just feel like I get stuck whenever it’s brought up.”

His therapist hummed and jotted something down.

“I feel like everything is hinging on it, for some reason.”

“Do you think it might have to do with a forgotten memory?” He asked.

And that was the core of it all, the therapy sessions and such. Matsukawa had a terrible memory. Not for everyday things, he was actually well-versed in always knowing where his keys and wallet were and remembering appointments and birthdays. What he had trouble with were the moments in his past, these select points in his life that, over time, had become big black holes. He didn’t know when these memories disappeared or why it was only some of them and not others, but he knew the familiar feeling of hitting a wall in his own brain and realizing that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to return to it easily.

“Our brain is really powerful at blocking out what we want to forget,” his therapist said gently, “so maybe take some time, do some soul-searching, and see if you can find a reason that this lie feels so important other than some work party.”

Matsukawa nodded. He had nothing to say. And the same was true as he walked home with his coat and scarf keeping him cozy. He watched his breath materialize before him in a vapor, illuminated orange by the passing streetlights. He was in a quieter part of town, so any evidence of Christmas was limited to wreaths on windows or small glimpses of trees in glowing windows.

And he did just what he was told, too: he thought. He thought long and hard about the lie he’d told, even conjuring up the memory of when he’d first told it. He was in the break room when somehow everyone else had been there, too, and the thing had just come out of his mouth after an advance from a particularly pushy coworker had cornered him both mentally and physically. It was so easy to say.

“I have a boyfriend!”

How had it become so big and complicated in just one year?

Well, it probably had something to do with the fact that that certain coworker didn’t quit until three months later, then Matsukawa had to make up some date to get out of a get-together he was not keen on, then another month had gone by where he was sick so much that the year just seemed to slip by.

Matsukawa’s brow furrowed, however, as he thought a little deeper.

He flicked through his mental files when he sensed that his first time telling the lie might not have been his first time at all.

When had he told this lie before?

“Oh, god,” he whispered to himself, stopping in his tracks.

The memory illuminated like the light had been flicked on in a dark, abandoned room. It was all cobwebs and layers of dust, but he felt himself be sucked into it almost immediately.

He was at his mother’s house for Christmas the year prior, all the usual people gathered. His sister and his brother-in-law were sitting in the living room cradling his niece, his younger brother was plunking something out on the bass he’d just received as a gift and babbling on to his aunt about whatever he was studying at university, currently. Matsukawa, however, had been wrangled by his mom into helping with dishes. He was wearing an itchy sweater that his grandmother had made which he didn’t have the heart to take off.

“She’s really unwell, I think,” his mother had said lowly while rubbing a damp plate with a dry tea towel.

Matsukawa didn’t know what to say back, he could only stand there and suppress a knowing nod. He watched his mother’s eyes mist out of the corner of his vision. His grandmother had been sick for a while, just a multitude of blood complications and old-age illnesses that seemed to stack up one atop the other. Matsukawa kept quiet as he set a glass onto the shelf in the left-hand cabinet.

“Maybe you should say goodbye now before she takes her nap,” his mom said in a small, strained voice.

Matsukawa didn’t see any reason to resist. Thus, he laid the towel onto the counter and shuffled down the hallway towards the door which was propped slightly open.

“Obaasan?” He asked gently, pushing open the door centimeter by centimeter.

The stout, wrinkly old lady with a blinding shock of white-gray hair was sat at the edge of her bed with a glass held shakily in her hand. She turned slowly at the sound of Matsukawa’s voice and greeted him with a tiny smile.

“Issei-san,” she said in a small, mesmerized voice.

Matsukawa made quick work of appearing at her side and helping her set the glass down then lie back onto her bed. Everything in the room was clean and tidy, lit gently by the cloudy winter sky out the large window both above her bed and on the side wall. There were clothes folded and stacked neatly atop the dresser as well as he nightstand which housed an army of pill bottles and a half-full glass of water. Issei was gentle in assisting his grandmother, especially as he felt her frail bones and thin skin against the palms of his hands.

Still, through whatever pain she was in, Obaasan still took a moment to look up at Issei like he’d ushered in the sun himself that very morning. Her lips pursed with joy as she patted the space beside her, inviting Issei to sit.

“My Issei-san,” she said softly, “you’re working hard?”

“Yes,” Issei replied with a soft nod.

She rested her hand atop his. It was a tad cold, but that was winter’s curse, Issei decided to believe.

“And you are not letting your mother go crazy?” She asked.

Issei smiled at that and let out a quiet chuckle.

“Course not.”

“And you are not all alone in that big Tokyo apartment, right Issei-san?”

Heat crawled up Matsukawa’s neck. He sealed his lips for a moment and tried to avoid his grandmother’s gaze. What was he supposed to say?

Yes, of course I live alone, it’s a one-bedroom apartment.

Yes, except for on the nights where I bring people home from the bar.

Both felt like terrible options. His grandmother seemed so frail—could it be that a disappointment so small as the reality of Matsukawa’s loneliness at a strong 29 years old would put an end to her life?

But he couldn’t lie to her either—

right?

“N-no,” he replied dumbly.

What are you saying.

“Oh,” his grandmother’s eyes lit up, “you have someone?”

He knew exactly what she meant.

And Matsukawa, like the absolute idiot he was, indulged himself in the dirty lie.

“Yeah,” he said, “I have a boyfriend.”

His grandmother smiled.

“Oh, Issei-san,” she patted his hand, “that’s so wonderful.”

She was really smiling now, almost as widely as she had the first time she held Issei’s niece. The moment would’ve been so nice if Matsukawa had just been telling the truth, instead his body burned like hellfire.

He’d left the room shortly after when he felt stains of sweat starting to form in the pits of his sweater. He’d bid goodbye to his grandmother and instantly watched his mother go in, little mutterings floating from the gap. And Issei knew exactly what they were talking about.

And as much as he’d hoped she’d forgotten or that his presence at their last Christmas had been forgotten entirely, Issei had just reached his apartment door in present day when he received a text from his frantic mother.

Okasan: I’m excited to see you at Christmas. Don’t forget the ornaments from that box of yours, I made sure it was still in your closet the last time I checked. And don’t get a record player for Takashi, I already bought him one. Did you know that people were such snobs about those things? Anyhow, make sure you bring that boyfriend of yours, as well, your grandmother has been going on and on about being able to meet him. And I fear this may be her last Christmas. She’ll be really really happy if you bring him.

“Ah, fuck,” Matsukawa groaned to himself.

He dialed a number out of sheer panic and felt his heart leap to his throat as it was answered.

“Yeah?” Hanamaki said.

“The situation is worse now,” he admitted, “I gotta ask for Oikawa’s help.”

God bless Takahiro, Matsukawa thought as he slipped on his coat and boots at the entryway of his apartment.

It was the Saturday after Matsukawa’s therapy session and subsequent breakdown after receiving his mother’s text in response to which Hanamaki had conceded and invited everyone to his apartment. Everyone, of course, being Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Oikawa.

Matsukawa’s hands shook as he checked his hair in the mirror briefly. He didn’t know why he felt so nervous, he was just hanging out with his friends. Perhaps it was the weight of his own lie, seeing Oikawa again after so long, and a multitude of other things that were making him feel so heavy and sweaty.

The snowy, winter air felt good against his quickly heating body. He was quick about getting to Hanamaki’s apartment, thankful that the complex was so close to his own. He had made good on his promise, also, and strode down the sidewalk with a sixteen-pack of beer in his right hand. His hand was deathly cold holding onto it, but it was much better than showing up empty-handed.

He shivered. He couldn’t tell if it was simple nerves or pure terror rushing through his veins. I mean, he was twenty-nine for Christ’s sake, why was he getting all nervous like a teenager?

It was just a get-together with legally bought beer. That was all.

A get-together with Oikawa Tooru.

Matsukawa sighed and lamented the way it got dark so early this time of year. Because as he approached the apartment complex, there was a figure he couldn’t make out standing near the entrance, staring up at the tall building with their hands shoved in their coat pockets.

Matsukawa’s brow furrowed as he approached, the lines of the figure becoming more defined. It was a nice heather gray coat, the kind that cut seamlessly at their knees. Nice leather boots had cemented themselves into the old, patchy snow on the walkway. Matsukawa got even closer and relied on the wimpy streetlights to guide him.

He saw the back of the figure’s head, particularly their impossibly fluffy brown hair.

Matsukawa’s mouth hung agape, a name slipping out of the gap before he could stop it.

“Tooru?”

The man turned immediately at the sound of his name but in an entirely casual and controlled way. Sure enough, Oikawa Tooru stared right back at him, a blithe smile stretching along his lips.

Age had treated him well. Though he certainly didn’t look like he did at twenty, he hadn’t lost an ounce of that smarmy confidence or palpable determination. His hair was trimmed closer to his head but still looked so insanely soft. Thin lines decorated the sides of his mouth and eyes, tanned to perfection even during the winter months. Matsukawa felt so small and pale in comparison, even though he still had a good five inches of height on Tooru.

His teeth were straight and white. Matsukawa wished that he could see more of his build and how well he’d probably maintained it after all these years, but the man was bundled in a thick cashmere sweater, that long heather gray coat, and a large black scarf that revealed merely an inch of Tooru’s neck.

Matsukawa swallowed dryly. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other, he didn’t even know exactly how long. His stomach fluttered and flipped as he took a few steps closer and watched Tooru’s face become even more defined in the cocktail of moonlight and streetlight.

“You, uh—” Matsukawa began, “you look good.”

Oikawa’s brow screwed up a bit.

“That’s your opening line?” He teased, “That’s not even quippy in the slightest.”

Oikawa’s voice had gotten just a tad deeper, but otherwise it hadn’t changed a bit. It scooped and soared in a melody of sound, like he was always singing a song no one else could hear. And he was still a little smarmy shit, as far as Matsukawa could tell.

Issei chuckled.

“Well, excuse me,” he retorted, “you’re the one who’s been gone for ten years.”

Oikawa conceded with a small, playful change in expression. And for a moment, the two of them were stuck there staring at one another, the cold winter air whizzing between them. Matsukawa’s entire body felt like it was on fire beside his thoughts which were frozen in some perpetual, unmalting ice. What was happening?

It was just Tooru, after all.

“Shall we go up?” Oikawa nudged his head towards the entrance.

Matsukawa just nodded like an idiot and tried not to make it obvious that he was staring at Oikawa’s hair as they got into the elevator.

Upon entering, the group of his old high school friends quickly resumed their usual programming, but this time over a round of hearty beers rather than protein shakes.

“Hey! Shittykawa! Turn the music down,” Iwaizumi commanded from the couch as he tried to hear what was going on with the volleyball game streaming on his phone.

“You didn’t make me come all the way out here so you could watch volleyball, right?” Oikawa chastised from the armchair, “I’m not even playing, so there’s no reason to care.”

Iwaizumi poked his tongue out at Oikawa to which the latter giggled rather maniacally.

“Hey, we’re the ones that aren’t playing anymore,” Matsukawa teased.

“You’ve all gone soft,” Oikawa announced with an accusing finger, “you won’t even do a pickup game.”

“Tooru, we’re almost thirty!” Hanamaki groaned from the other end of the couch, “I’m lucky if I don’t throw my back out carrying my laundry from my room to the washing machine.”

“I despise you all,” Oikawa said playfully with a swig of his drink.

They were quiet for only a moment before Oikawa got that curious look on his face. He pointed directly at Hanamaki.

“Current job?”

“Night mall security guard,” Hanamaki replied flatly.

“Mm,” Oikawa hummed then turned to the others, “what’s the bet at?”

“Six weeks, fifty,” Iawaizumi chimed in.

“Four weeks, fifty,” Matsukawa added.

Oikawa hummed again and pinched up his lips close to his nose and thought for a long moment.

“I’m with Iwa on this one,” he eventually said, “I think Hiro’s gotta have a little stability now.”

“Thank you!” Hanamaki gestured a little too forcefully at Tooru.

Matsukawa’s eyes narrowed right at the man.

“You already got fired, didn’t you?” He asked.

Hanamaki’s lips closed slowly as he sank back into his seat, a sheepish look on his face.

“Maybe,” he muttered.

“Hah!” Matsukawa exclaimed, “Pay up, motherfuckers.”

He extended his hand to a reluctant Iwaizumi and an even more reluctant Tooru who was admonishing himself for joining the bet on a whim. Matsukawa smiled snarkily at Tooru while he shoved the money in his hand, taking an extra moment while sliding his fingers down and maintaining his eye contact with the man. Matsukawa’s façade cracked momentarily as he watched Tooru pull back his long, slender, yet strong fingers.

“It was an accident!” Hanamaki’s shrill cry broke Issei from his trance.

“How do you accidentally beat up a guy in a mascot costume?” Iwaizumi shouted at him.

“Fine,” Takahiro crossed his arms, “then he started it.”

“This might be a new record,” Oikawa chimed in.

“Nah,” Matsukawa waved him off, “don’t forget about that drive-thru.”

Iwaizumi groaned at the memory and buried his face in his hands. Takahiro’s face went slightly pink.

“And what lesson did we learn that day?” Matsukawa asked Takahiro in a teasing, babying voice.

Takahiro pouted and crossed his arms tighter like a petulant child.

“Don’t make out with coworkers in the storeroom while you’re still wearing the headset,” he said in a garbled tone through his pout.

Matsukawa was able to let loose and laugh with all the others at the mention of what had to be his favorite Hanamaki story of all time. It felt nice to have the tight worry dribble down his back like that—he probably had the beer to thank for a lot of it.

And it only seemed to get easier as the night went on and more empty bottles began to crowd the table. Lips became looser, conversation swelled and crashed and retreated like it normally did. Iwaizumi and Oikawa bickered, Matsukawa and Hanamaki engaged in a silent chugging competition, and the hours on the clock seemed to fly by faster than any of them had anticipated.

Now, they all seemed to be talking over each other.

“That’s not fair!” Iwaizumi shouted from the corner.

“You’re not playing the game right!” Hanamaki yelled back from his standing position atop the couch cushions.

“Hiro, you know you’re standing on brushed Italian leather, right?” Oikawa said in a slightly slurred voice from the floor where he was lying supine.

Takahiro made a face, “Really? I’ve vommed on this thing so many times—”

“Ew!” Matsukawa groaned from the opposite corner of Iwaizumi.

“I don’t even know what game we’re playing!” Oikawa whined.

“Nah, of course you do,” Hanamaki interrupted him, “we made it up that summer after graduation.”

Matsukawa chuckled.

“Yeah,” he turned to Oikawa, “maybe if you hadn’t skipped town you woulda learned it.”

Suddenly, silence filled the rather spacious apartment. Everyone’s dopey, tipsy smiles fell into straight lines, especially Oikawa’s. Matsukawa felt his brow furrow and his lips purse against his will, a simple mirroring of those around him.

“What?” He asked weakly.

Still, the silence pervaded. Hanamaki and Iwaizumi looked at each other and communicated something with solely their eyes. Matsukawa glanced over at Oikawa to see him with some stony expression that he couldn’t even begin to read. A sick feeling nearly sobered Issei up entirely. His hand got clammy around the nearly empty bottle, and he wished he could simply melt into the floor.

But what had he said to make everyone like this? What had he said that was so wrong?

“I’m gonna—clean up a bit,” Iwaizumi’s voice finally pierced the thick quiet.

“Yeah, I gotta take a piss anyways,” Takahiro mumbled right after.

Oikawa was the last to speak, his voice strained as he pushed himself up off the ground.

“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” he muttered, his eyes making a beeline for the slider which led to the balcony.

Matsukawa simply stood and watched his friends disappear one-by-one, the echo of his words seemingly still hanging in the air. He let the moment be still for a bit before he watched Oikawa’s head bob a bit through the clear glass of the sliding door. He was leaning on the railing and staring out into the night sky. Matsukawa didn’t even know what time it was.

Iwaizumi had done as he said and retreated to the kitchen, and Matsukawa knew that Takahiro’s post-beer bathroom trips could take as long as a day, so his best bet was slipping out onto the balcony and joining Oikawa.

But maybe it would be weird. Had it been too long since they’d seen each other for something like this to blow over so easily?

“Fuck,” Matsukawa whispered to himself as he lumbered over to the door and pulled it open with his free hand.

Oikawa’s eyes didn’t turn towards the source of the sound, but Issei watched his ears perk towards it, anyhow. Matsukawa swallowed thickly as he approached the man who was still staring intently into the stars.

“I’m sorry,” was the only thing he could think to say.

Oikawa’s mouth twitched up into a small smile.

“S’alright,” he hummed.

“You sure?” Matsukawa asked, his chest suddenly feeling a tad lighter.

“Yeah,” Oikawa shrugged, “you’re drunk, you didn’t mean it.”

Didn’t mean it?

Matsukawa was missing something, a crucial piece in this social puzzle, he just knew it.

But what?

“Yeah,” he agreed anyhow.

The winter air was chilly, but the amount of beer in both of their systems seemed to keep them at a habitable temperature. Slowly, the looseness came back to Matsukawa’s mind. Everything from the past few weeks came flooding back: his memory with his grandmother from the prior Christmas, his conversation with Ami, the promotion, that mesmerizing photo at the head of that article.

It still felt like a dream to have Oikawa standing so close, close enough that he could see the little lines of time stretching along what Matsukawa had been convinced was invincible youth. He supposed it happened to them all, in some way. Takahiro took pills for his back pain, Iwaizumi was in bed by 9:30 every night, and Matsukawa was visiting a therapist weekly. Time had worn on them in a way they had never expected.

It felt, equally, like it was slipping through their fingers.

And as those very sands tickled the spaces between Matsukawa’s fingers, he gulped and took one last daring chance at holding onto it.

“Will you help me with something?”

Part II

“So, explain this to me again,” Oikawa gestured generally in the space in between the two of them, his brow curling in slight puzzlement.

They were fighting a nasty hangover the next morning at a café just outside of Hanamaki’s apartment. Steam billowed from the coffees on the table and the light chatter around them was just quiet enough that their splitting headaches were bearable. Matsukawa sighed and avoided eye contact. He awoke that morning with every memory of the night prior stuck in his mind: the silence after his comment, his loose-lipped request on the balcony, Oikawa’s casual agreement. He couldn’t tell if he felt sick to his stomach because it was all becoming reality or if it was the hangover that was causing it all.

“I need a—” Matsukawa nearly choked on the word, “boyfriend—just for a little while.”

“For what?” Oikawa prodded.

Matsukawa sighed again. He felt stupid. He felt like the biggest idiot alive. He should’ve kept his big mouth shut and left after Iwaizumi retreated to the kitchen.

“Well, there’s this banquet Wednesday night,” he replied, “I’m getting sent there on behalf of the funeral home and I put a plus one because my coworker was watching over my shoulder.”

Oikawa nodded slowly, still looking a bit puzzled. Matsukawa wondered how much Tooru remembered from the prior night.

“And then there’s the big holiday party,” Matsukawa continued, “and that’s where we really gotta show off.”

Oikawa’s expression of confusion melted then into slight intrigue.

“And you told this lie because—?” He began to ask.

Matsukawa tilted his head back a bit and resisted the influx of answers that wanted to escape from his brain.

“It’s complicated,” he replied.

Oikawa hummed again and crossed his arms in front of his chest. His eyes wandered from Matsukawa’s face to the mug of coffee in front of him, but he was obviously thinking of something entirely separated from said mug.

“I mean, you really don’t have to,” Issei felt the need to say, “we were really drunk last night and I don’t even know why I asked—”

“I’ll do it,” Oikawa shrugged.

Matsukawa’s eyes flickered up to the man who was back to staring at him, a casual expression hovering gently over his features.

“You will?” Issei muttered.

Oikawa shrugged again and smiled.

“Yeah, why not?” He said, “Sounds fun.”

Matsukawa pushed his brows together in puzzlement. Oikawa didn’t look perplexed at all by the situation at hand. He seemed as though Matsukawa had just asked him to go the Post Office with him that afternoon, not be his fake boyfriend to his coworkers and family. But Tooru always had that air about him, as though everything intrigued him and nothing disappointed him.

“I mean, we all know I’m a way better boyfriend than you,” Oikawa gestured to the opposite side of the table with a flippant hand.

Matsukawa made a joking little noise of astonishment, his jaw hanging slack.

“Says who?” He retorted.

Oikawa held up his hands in surrender, “I’m just sayin’.”

“That is an entirely baseless claim,” Matsukawa leaned forward, “I’m a great boyfriend.”

It was Oikawa’s turn to lean forward, then, but Issei didn’t realize how close they really were until three seconds too late when he smelled Oikawa’s faintly minty breath and felt it likewise on the tip of his nose. Issei gulped while he watched Oikawa’s eyes glint with that characteristic determination.

Arrogant bastard, he thought.

Yet, it was Issei who was getting flustered. All the blood was rushing up from his feet and into his face where he could nearly feel the weight of Oikawa’s gaze upon him.

“Then prove it,” Oikawa whispered low enough for only the two of them to hear.

A long, slow shudder trickled down Matsukawa’s spine, vertebrate by vertebrate. They looked at each other for a moment more, a strange sensation of tension pulling between their gazes as though they were each holding the end of a rubber band, waiting for the other to let go and snap the damn thing.

Matsukawa didn’t mind a good friendly competition. He certainly didn’t mind winning against Tooru, either.

“Fine,” he replied, willing the blush in his cheeks to dissipate already.

Oikawa half-hummed, half-chuckled before tearing himself back into his original position, hands folding once more in his lap and a rather pointed look resting on Matsukawa Issei.

“But—” Oikawa began, a strain of uncertainty in his voice.

It was something that nearly made Matsukawa forget their prior interaction altogether. Oikawa never sounded unsure, even when he truly was. Issei felt his stomach go sour at the sound as he, too, resumed his place in the chair.

“Are you sure you’re okay with it all?” Oikawa asked gently.

Matsukawa was confused again. There seemed to be some sort of theme to the morning that he couldn’t shake.

“Yeah?” He replied with little assurance, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because—”

The words seemed to tease the tip of Oikawa’s tongue, desperate for release, but he caught them just in time. Yet, Matsukawa knew the curiosity was going to eat him alive if he didn’t know. Why was Oikawa crossing his arms again? Why did he seem to be curling in on himself?

“What?” Issei prodded.

Oikawa considered for a moment more, then dropped it altogether.

“Nothing.”

Perhaps Matsukawa was doing himself a favor in dropping the thought, too.

Their first test was a banquet that was organized and hosted yearly by Matsukawa’s workplace. He usually wasn’t invited to said banquet because he didn’t work in management quite yet, but his boss had come to his office personally and invited him to tag along, maybe build up a network of people to talk to. Of course, the invitation had to come after his pointless lie, to which his boss said:

“And you can bring a plus-one too, if you’d like.”

Matsukawa knew what ‘plus-one’ meant, and he knew his boss wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise. Thus why he was stood outside some trendy restaurant staring at the face of his watch which hadn’t changed from ten ‘til five in the past seven times he’d checked it. Oikawa said he was on his way, but that was fifteen minutes ago. Matsukawa’s hands were starting to develop an isolated rigor mortis from the cold while his pits had been leaking sweat since he awoke, that morning. He and Oikawa hadn’t done an ounce of prep for this. What if everyone caught on immediately that the whole thing was fake?

It wasn’t like there was much they could do to prep anyhow.

How do you practice being fake boyfriends? By holding fake hands? Fake kissing?

Matsukawa groaned and checked his watch once more. He could feel the seam of his freshly pressed button-up digging into his arms and the sides of his torso the tighter he held his coat around his body. He watched his breath materialize in the air for a few seconds while other patrons clopped into the restaurant in high heels and Italian leather loafers.

“You could’ve waited inside instead of freezing out here like a Victorian-era orphan.”

A crooning voice teased him from a few feet away. Matsukawa pulled a theatrical frown as Oikawa sauntered up to him, dressed to the nines in a nice, fitted pair of black slacks, a forest-green button-up, and a thick cashmere coat. He’d obviously tended to his hair a bit and brushed his teeth an extra time in preparation. Yet, Matsukawa couldn’t let him get away with it that easily.

“Says you,” Matsukawa replied readily, “you look like you stepped out of a Sears advert.”

Oikawa tched and glanced down at his outfit.

“This coat was three hundred dollars,” he retorted, “and Sears wishes I was a model for them.”

They were soon stood toe-to-toe before the entrance of the restaurant. Oikawa flashed a small smile. It was strange, in many ways, to have Oikawa back. What was even stranger was how normal it all felt, at the same time. It had been too long for them to fall so seamlessly back into old patterns as though they’d kept in touch all this time, but perhaps that was just Oikawa’s charm seeping into every situation within which he implanted himself. It was always a warm sort of thing, his charm, the drizzle of caramel on the apple crumble that, without it, just wouldn’t be the same.

But Matsukawa, again, was not about to let Oikawa win that easily.

“I mean, you coulda at least given me Burberry,” Oikawa groaned.

“Don’t tell me you’re a brands guy,” Issei eyed him with suspicion.

Oikawa rolled his eyes, “Everyone’s a brand guy, they just don’t know it.”

“Untrue,” Issei replied.

“Take you and me, for example,” Oikawa motioned with his gloved hand, “I’m a brand guy when it comes to Burberry and Calvin Klein, you’re a brands guy when it comes to like—Fruit of the Loom.”

Matsukawa’s eyes went wide.

“Excuse me?” He asked, exasperated.

“That’s what you wear, right?” Oikawa leaned in, “I mean, that’s what you wore in high school but if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that boys buy one packet of briefs in the sixth grade then stick with that same package like it’s a religion until they’re six feet under. You do wear briefs, right?”

Matsukawa could only stand there with his mouth agape and his words getting unceremoniously cut off at the source. He was stunned partly because everything Oikawa had said was frighteningly accurate—always briefs, always Fruit of the Loom. But he also couldn’t find the resolve to close his mouth because he was arriving once more at the realization he’d nearly forgotten:

Oikawa Tooru always had the upper hand.

It was always like that. No matter what argument they were having or issue they were debating, Oikawa’s comportment alone was always enough to ensure his victory, even when he was wrong. He was somewhat of a fortress with wide-open windows. He was a perfectly flat open book preserved behind glass at a museum. He was visible, yet he was entirely untouchable. Knowing Oikawa Tooru was one thing, knowing him was another.

All Matsukawa could think to do was roll his eyes and shake his head, choosing likewise to shake the whole scenario from his psyche, as well.

“You’re unbearable,” he muttered.

“No,” Oikawa said haughtily, his hand snaking quickly around Matsukawa’s back and gripping firmly onto the soft part of his side.

Matsukawa nearly let out a little yelp of surprise as he felt Oikawa’s body press close against his, his arm now imprisoning them side-by-side facing the restaurant’s entrance. He held his breath as he felt Oikawa’s mouth grow close to his ear, that same minty breath taunting all the blood in his body like a spell.

“I’m just winning,” he whispered.

And Issei could nearly hear the smirk in his voice.

Thus, Oikawa pulled the two of them into the restaurant and past the hostess, eventually shifting his arm to hold onto the crook of Matsukawa’s elbow, instead. It seemed so natural for him to do so, but it left a trail of fire against Issei’s skin. He should’ve expected this—I mean, they are pretending to have been together for nearly a year.

Matsukawa shook his head subtly as he spotted the bustling back part of the restaurant where the banquet was being held. He tried to ignore the weight of Oikawa’s hand in the crook of his elbow as he ambled towards the hostess who had a rather mean look in her eye.

“Reservation?”

“I’m—Matsukawa Issei,” Issei tried desperately not to stumble over his own words, “I’m here with Homosu Funerary Services.”

Oikawa’s fingers moved subtly against the fabric of Matsukawa’s coat. He nearly choked on his own spit.

The hostess seemed less than impressed and timed her sigh of disinterest with her turning body as she directed the two of them towards the dining area which had been roped off only for the attendees of the banquet. Matsukawa felt his mouth go dry as he observed the sheer amount of people, all of them decked out in their classiest festive wear, which was usually some variation on black, gold, and red unless they really wanted to get crazy and go for some green. Men were sporting pocket handkerchiefs while their wives dripped with diamonds and pearls, hanging from their arms and laughing twice as hard at whatever mediocre joke their husband’s coworker had probably just told.

Wives of corporate men never get enough credit for the good they do in the world.

It took another few tugs of Oikawa’s hand to get Matsukawa fully into the room. He was far too overwhelmed taking in all the scenery and noise and smells to notice how close Oikawa’s lips had gotten once again to his ear.

“You’re not even putting up a good challenge,” he whined, “it’s no fun to win if you’re the only one trying.”

Matsukawa scoffed and glared at Oikawa who was grinning mischievously.

“Just—don’t love crowds,” Matsukawa muttered in response.

“Oh, come on,” Oikawa tugged on his arm again, “I’ll do all the work.”

And that was exactly what Oikawa did.

It had been a long time since Matsukawa and Oikawa had spent a considerable amount of time together, but everything he did was so familiar if not a more mature rendition of his usual antics.

They found a couple, first, at the bar who were debating between wine or cocktails.

“You know what I always tell my Issei,” Oikawa crooned, his hand planting itself firmly atop Matsukawa’s which was resting on the bar, “go for wine if you want a good night’s sleep, go for cocktails if you don’t wanna sleep at all.”

The couple understood the innuendo instantly. It wasn’t like they were going to miss it with the way Oikawa winked and wiggled his brow. They laughed and the wife threaded her hand through her husband’s arm while insisting that they go for the cocktails. Matsukawa tried to play along, but he was so caught off guard by the hand atop his own and the lewd joke and his haphazard involvement in it.

Oikawa bid goodbye to the couple as they ambled back to their seats, drinks in hand, and engrossed in an entirely new attitude of conversation, it seemed. Matsukawa let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and pulled his hand out from under Oikawa’s.

“You’re a damn good liar,” he said lowly.

“Mm,” Oikawa hummed and patted his arm, “don’t think about it too hard, yeah?”

Their next encounter was an older couple which Matsukawa had instantly recognized as the CEO of one of the major life insurance offices in the whole of Japan. Oikawa wasted no time in “bumping” into them soon before the meal was served and exchanging pleasantries.

“Do you vacation much?” The wife asked Oikawa with great interest.

“Oh, well, y’see Missus Nakamura,” Oikawa lamented, “I’m a professional athlete. I play a lot of games, even in the off-season, so Issei here is alone a lot of the time.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Nakamura looked pitifully at Oikawa’s arm candy who was staying dutifully silent through the entire encounter.

“It’s why he works so hard!” Oikawa looped his arm once more with Matsukawa’s while he rubbed the other up and down his bicep in languid strokes, “Can’t bear to sit around the house when I’m not there.”

“Did you hear that, honey?” The old woman turned back towards where her husband was nursing a glass of red wine, “Matsukawa here is a bit of a workaholic.”

“Even when I’m home I gotta tear him away from it all,” Oikawa grabbed playfully at Matsukawa’s arm.

“Well,” Mrs. Nakamura placed a gentle hand on Oikawa’s wrist, “if you’re ever free, you let me know and we’ll let you stay at our lake house near the mountains!”

Oikawa sighed and smiled that signature, award-winning grin.

“That’d be wonderful,” he replied, “you’re too kind.”

The Nakamuras were soon engaged in another conversation with someone who was probably not lying out of their teeth like Oikawa and Matsukawa were, but it gave them the perfect opportunity to find their seats and hiss at one another.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Matsukawa whispered.

“Hey, I just got you a lake house invite,” Oikawa replied sourly.

Issei huffed, “On the basis of a lie.”

“I thought that was the whole point!”

They’d reached their table by the end of their little quarrel and fallen seamlessly back into their theatrics once others were watching. It was then that Matsukawa saw Ami in the corner in her festive red party dress and faux-fur shawl, her jaw hanging agape and eyes scanning up and down Oikawa’s body.

She looked then at Issei with that dumbfounded expression, and Issei quickly felt himself go red in the cheeks. It didn’t feel real until that moment. Ami was someone he knew, someone who probably trusted him. How could he keep up a lie like this? What was he thinking? God, he should just end it all here, make a big scene and break up so everyone knows they’re not together anymore. He should just—

“Matsukawa,” a broad-sounding voice appeared beside him.

Issei looked up to see his boss standing near his seat at the table, a shiny gold tie tucked under his buttoned suit jacket and his silvery-black hair slicked back against his head. Matsukawa’s mouth went dry at the sight and the fact that Oikawa had just taken his hand again.

“Wonderful to see you here,” he said amicably, “and you are?”

The question was directed at Oikawa, and the man responded as though he’d prepared for that moment in particular.

“Oikawa Tooru,” he said, pairing his introduction with a firm yet classy handshake, “I’m Issei’s partner.”

“Ah! Yes, I’ve heard so much about you,” his boss replied with a dignified smile.

Oikawa’s brow cocked.

“Oh?” He sounded intrigued, “Is that so?”

“Issei never stops talking about you,” he said with a chuckle, “he says you’re a professional athlete?”

Oikawa nodded, “Volleyball.”

Matsukawa’s boss looked amused. He adjusted his grip around his glass of whiskey and turned then to Matsukawa whose entire body might as well have turned to stone on the spot. Because when Oikawa’s hand had fallen from the handshake, it had landed perfectly atop where Matsukawa’s was lying atop the silky tablecloth. Matsukawa’s breath hitched in his throat and he had to suppress a cough.

They were pretending.

They were acting.

Matsukawa could pretend. He pretended plenty of times in high school that he was sick to get out of class.

But this was entirely different. He hadn’t felt someone else’s skin on his own like this in so long, and the way Oikawa’s middle finger was running slowly from Issei’s cuticle to his knuckle, over and over, turned all of Matsukawa’s words to ice at the center of his throat.

Just pretending, he reminded himself.

“Nice to finally meet the man of Homosu legend,” said his boss, “I suspect we’ll be seeing the two of you again at the Christmas party?”

“Of course,” Oikawa replied warmly without missing a beat.

He even found time to put his hand on Issei’s shoulder. Issei forced a small smile.

“We’ll be there,” he said in an even smaller voice.

With a smile and another nod of affirmation, Issei’s boss bid them goodbye and strutted off to find whoever his plus-one probably was. Matsukawa waited until he was entirely out of sight to breathe a sigh of relief and pull his arm towards himself just subtly enough to make the way Oikawa’s hand slipped right off of it seem like an accident.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Oikawa asked with a pointed stare.

Matsukawa swallowed thickly.

“I think I need another drink.”

Oikawa leaned towards him and wiggled his brow,

“A cocktail?”

Matsukawa scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Get me a beer or you’re dead meat.”

“I don’t—” Matsukawa rubbed his temples with his fingers a few nights later, “I don’t even know.”

“That’s okay,” his therapist reassured, “you can take your time.”

“I mean, it’s Tooru.”

“Uh-huh?”

“And Tooru is—”

Matsukawa tripped up once more on his own thoughts, a habit he couldn’t seem to break no matter how many years he lived on the earth. There had been so many words and feelings whizzing around in the small space of his brain since the night of the banquet. He would get into bed, close his eyes, and see Oikawa’s finger rubbing along his own atop the tablecloth, he could nearly feel it again even in the lonely darkness of his room. He kept trying to push it to the back of his mind and focus on literally anything else, but it was hard to do so with Ami asking a million questions about Oikawa and the looming presence of the work holiday party.

“You said Tooru moved to Argentina pretty unexpectedly, right?” His therapist asked, finally releasing him from the prison of his own thoughts.

“Yeah,” Matsukawa sighed in relief at the simply answered question, “but nothing really—bad happened, I don’t think.”

His therapist’s brow knitted.

“Memories are fickle things,” his therapist reminded him, “it sometimes remembers only what it wants to remember.”

Matsukawa shrugged, “But Tooru and I were always friends.”

“And that’s all you ever wanted?”

Matsukawa felt his back straighten and his eyes go wide in some sort of predatory stance once he heard the therapist’s rather invasive question. Well, it wouldn’t be that invasive if Matsukawa actually knew how to answer it. The easy response was ‘no’ because until two weeks ago, that answer sounded entirely correct.

But now—

“I feel like there’s something I’m forgetting,” Matsukawa admitted, as usual.

“And what kinds of feelings does that evoke for you?” His therapist asked, dropping the prior subject entirely.

Matsukawa knew the feelings. He could taste them on his tongue and mess with them between the gaps of his teeth. They seemed to be stuck there, relentless little bothersome things, but it meant the reality of it all was hard to forget, despite all of Issei’s best efforts.

“I feel like I’m not a good person anymore,” he admitted.

It felt like something dislodged within him, perhaps one of those bothersome things between his teeth. But even more, he felt like there was space now for realization—

one he might be able to have at the bar that same night.

“There you are,” Hanamaki whined from the booth, “god, you said you’d be here at eight!”

Matsukawa rolled his eyes as he hung up his coat at the entrance and waded through the thin Thursday-night crowd to get to the table from which he’d been screamed at.

Hanamaki was halfway through a beer, Iwaizumi had just gotten started on his, and Oikawa—

“Hey,” said Tooru with a grin.

Matsukawa choked once more on a sip he hadn’t even taken yet and watched as Oikawa scooched to reveal a place for him in the booth.

“I’m gonna get the next round,” he said, pushing himself up, “the usual?”

Matsukawa had to swallow hard when Oikawa’s gentle hand rested on his upper arm for a brief moment. Yet, he managed a nod.

Oikawa smiled again and sauntered over to the bar, leaving Matsukawa in his friends’ suspicious gazes. He slid into the booth a bit sheepishly.

“You’re acting weird,” Iwaizumi was the first to have the balls to say.

“Weirder than usual,” Hanamaki added.

Matsukawa shrugged. He’d already come up with an excuse.

“Medication changes,” he said, and it wasn’t entirely untrue.

Yet, Iwaizumi wasn’t entirely convinced. He crossed his arms and leaned back into his seat, but his eyes were still narrowed and watching each of Matsukawa’s limbs as if one of them were going to sprout a mouth and tell the truth.

And Hanamaki wasn’t the type to think about anyone other than himself for longer than required.

“God,” Oikawa hissed as he set down two glasses of beer, “takes forever to order stuff here because the bartender won’t stop talking to me.”

Matsukawa shoved himself to the side on instinct so Oikawa could sit down. All the while, he watched him tuck a soft brown hair behind his ear and look into the light in a way that made the colors in his eyes dance.

“What?” Iwaizumi prodded, “He never talks to me.”

“Probably ‘cause he doesn’t find you hot,” said Hanamaki flatly.

Iwaizumi was taken aback by his words, an aghast expression replacing whatever inquiring gaze had been fixed before on Issei.

“That’s ridiculous!” Iwaizumi raved.

Oikawa let a pitiful expression melt over his face.

“I mean, you do give off straight vibes sometimes,” he said.

Iwaizumi became even more aghast at that to the point of gesturing towards his own clothes with his open hands.

“I don’t see how this is giving straight,” he insisted.

“You’re wearing a polo,” Matsukawa replied.

Iwaizumi scoffed, “It’s my work polo!”

“Yeah, but how are people gonna know that?” Oikawa chuckled.

“It’s got the logo,” he pointed, “the Japan league flag, so they know I watch men’s thigh muscles all day.”

Hanamaki shrugged, “I dunno, maybe it’s the thick-ass phone case that’s giving ‘I take my wife on yearly cruises instead of showing her affection’.”

Instantly, Iwaizumi tore his phone from the table and shoved it in his lap, his hands rising in defense.

“You all are crazy,” he said decidedly.

“You gotta dress more like Hiro,” Matsukawa gestured generally, “you know, weird colors and stuff.”

“Takahiro looks like a jailbroken circus clown on his way to get a colonoscopy,” said Iwaizumi in a deep, serious voice.

It was Takahiro’s turn to look absolutely aghast. The flush of red in his cheeks was a nice companion to his overgrown mop of bleachy-pink hair which was in desperate need of a root touch-up.

“What the fuck, dude?” Takahiro said through a half-stunned chuckle.

But Iwaizumi wasn’t done.

“And Issei dresses like he’s the one who’s supposed to be going in the casket,” Iwaizumi reeled with a sharply pointed finger.

Matsukawa’s hands flew up in defense, “Hey, how did I get brought into this?”

“And Oikawa dresses like he’s about to overcompensate during an interview at the local J.Crew Outlet!”

“Alright,” Oikawa’s voice went low, “that’s mean, you know I hate J.Crew.”

Iwaizumi just crossed his arms and leaned back, content in his judgements.

“It’s true,” he muttered.

“Well then, prove it,” Takahiro motioned up at the bar, “go flirt your nards off with the bartender.”

“Fuck you, I will,” Iwaizumi insisted, standing up in the next beat.

Thus, he practically stormed over to the bar and only paused to shove his thickly cased phone into his back pocket.

“I’m gonna find a better view,” Hanamaki chittered excitedly to the others before shoving himself out of the booth and scurrying over to a more isolated corner from which he had a perfect sightline of Iwaizumi.

Matsukawa took a sip of his beer and turned just momentarily to Oikawa who was mirroring his action in a slower manner. He had the finest of lines forming beside his eyes, the light was catching on them more here than anywhere else. He probably got them from smiling so much.

“Why were you really late?” Oikawa asked in a soft voice.

All the moisture seemed to disappear from Matsukawa’s body in an instant. He tried not to look too hard at Oikawa’s eyes while he formulated an answer.

“I was at—” he stammered a bit, “at therapy.”

He had no idea why he’d said it.

He was under no obligation to tell the truth.

Why had he said it so readily?

Idiot.

Idiot.

“Oh, okay.”

Tooru’s voice was still soft, but mostly laced with disinterest. Matsukawa already had his lips primed to assure that it was just some joke or that it wasn’t that serious, so he had to hold back when Oikawa’s gaze went elsewhere.

Thus, Issei was forced to watch his blithe fingers curl around the moistened glass and pull it back up to his lips. Matsukawa chewed on the inside of his cheek as he remembered the subtle touch from that night, the one he couldn’t seem to shake from his mind.

He wished Oikawa would touch his hand again, like that.

He wished, even as the others rejoined them, that Oikawa would wrap his arm tightly around his waist like he had at the banquet.

He wished—

“Ah, fuck,” he whispered into his half-empty glass.

“Okay, okay,” Oikawa gestured from the couch, “I don’t get it, I thought Chiyo was dating Hachiro.”

“No, no, no,” Matsukawa corrected him, “they broke up because Hachiro cheated on Chiyo with Kazashi.”

“The boss’s niece?”

“No, that’s Yubi,” Matsukawa took a swig of his wine.

Oikawa’s eyes went wide, and he shoved a pointing finger up into the air.

“The scary corpse makeup lady!”

“Yes!” Matsukawa affirmed enthusiastically.

“Ha!” Oikawa shouted in victory while nearly sloshing white wine onto the couch.

Matsukawa flipped to the next slide of his PowerPoint where 2020 was plastered in large letters.

“Oh, come on!” Oikawa moaned and tossed his head back.

Matsukawa shook his head, “Yeah, that was just 2019.”

“Okay, when you said to ‘come over and talk about the holiday party’ I thought you meant like color-coordinating or something, not the One Tree Hill spin-off your coworkers have going on.”

It was true, Matsukawa hadn’t really specified when he asked Tooru to come over that night. He had, however, spent the three days prior making an elaborate PowerPoint presentation to explain the complicated history of his funerary coworkers. It was partly so Oikawa wouldn’t slip up and say something mildly offensive to bring the party to a screaming halt and also so it would seem more legit that Matsukawa was coming home each day and telling work stories to his very serious boyfriend.

“But you’ll like 2020, it really started off with a bang,” Matsukawa chuckled and clicked to the next slide.

“No!” Oikawa cried.

“Miwako and Mr. Kioshi making out in the casket showing room,” Matsukawa announced.

“You’re kidding,” Tooru said in a hushed tone.

“What’s more,” Matsukawa added with a cheeky grin, “is that it was Mr. Kioshi’s family who was supposed to be looking at casket’s that afternoon.”

Oikawa’s brow fell low onto his face.

“For whom?”

Matsukawa pulled his lips between his teeth, wanting to guard the surprise for a moment longer.

“His late wife.”

Oikawa really did spill wine onto the couch, that time, but Matsukawa didn’t mind so much. He was too busy watching the tanned lines of Oikawa’s face curl up as he grinned widely and held his stomach in laughter.

Oikawa was always a perfectly pleasant guest to have. He never said no to an offer of food or drink and he could keep a conversation going for as long as humanly possible, always making the other person feel heard. But, sometimes, Matsukawa would get this aching feeling while he watched Oikawa flash that winner’s grin to someone—he didn’t quite know why, though.

Perhaps it was because it didn’t feel real, to him. Oikawa couldn’t genuinely be that happy all the time, right?

Matsukawa shook the thought from his head, appreciating the moment where Oikawa physically existed rather than the walled-in cries of his own brain. And besides, there were many more slides to go through.

And later that night, they found themselves both on that couch, stomachs full of delivery dinner and half a bottle of white wine. Matsukawa had watched Oikawa’s cheeks tinge a bit pink over the course of the night, but they were especially rosy now that he was laughing over some stupid high school escapade.

“Because he was—” Oikawa cut himself off with his own laughter, “he was wearing the same skirt!”

Matsukawa laughed along but, in all honesty, he didn’t remember all the details of Oikawa’s story. Most of their high school nonsense had been immortalized in constant recollection which helped Matsukawa keep a firm grasp on the image of it in his mind, but there were many that had been lost to the rotted holes in Issei’s mind. He wished he could laugh as heartily as Oikawa was, but he supposed just watching him tuck his hair behind his ear and smile toothily wasn’t so bad.

“Hey,” Oikawa said, his hand resting again on Matsukawa’s arm.

Fire flared up from where Oikawa’s skin was touching Issei’s. Would the feeling ever go away? Would Matsukawa ever get tired enough of it to ignore it entirely?

“Why d’you go to therapy?” he asked, his gaze falling heavy on Issei.

“I—” Issei stuttered, “I just—”

Again, he had no clue why he’d told the truth however many nights prior. He supposed that now he was just paying the price.

“My memory isn’t great,” he said lowly, “and I—”

still can’t figure out how I feel about you.

“—y’know, have stuff with my dad and all.”

Oikawa accepted the information with a soft nod and a narrowed eye.

“I get that,” he muttered.

Oikawa had taken his hand off long ago, but Matsukawa couldn’t help but wish he’d stayed, just for a second longer.

“So, there’s a lot of stuff you don’t remember?” Oikawa asked a little more insistently.

Matsukawa gave a strange half-nod.

“Yeah, most memories from before I was twenty are—” Matsukawa made a small, gestured explosion from his temple.

“Huh,” Oikawa hummed pensively.

“Why?” Matsukawa prodded.

Oikawa just shrugged. Oikawa loved to shrug. He loved to pretend like he didn’t know what was going on when he always did.

“Jus’ wanted t’know.”

Matsukawa shifted in his seat. Oikawa stayed put.

“So, you don’t remember—” he began to say.

Issei gulped and stared intently at Oikawa while he seemed to get stuck on the word he really wanted to say.

“What?” He asked.

Oikawa’s lips remained parted, thin pink things. They were a bit wet from the drink and matched perfectly his slightly flushed cheeks. There were always these little things that made Tooru look young again, just the right angle of light or enough sips of the right drink. Matsukawa felt like he was only ever getting older, his mind stuck at twenty. Everyone else was growing up much faster than him.

“You really don’t have to be doing this,” Matsukawa sighed.

Oikawa’s brow quirked.

“Nah, I do,” he replied.

“You don’t.”

“Don’t you remember?” Oikawa turned, “I owe you.”

He said the three words so softly that Matsukawa could barely hear them, but it certainly helped that Oikawa had leaned in to say them. He started to chew on the inside of his cheek again, the question spinning slowly in his mind.

Don’t you remember?

He didn’t.

I owe you.

Wait.

“I gotta go,” said Oikawa, pushing himself up from the couch and gathering his things.

Matsukawa didn’t protest. It was late and he had work tomorrow. Thus, he was content in watching Oikawa slip on his coat, then his long pale blue scarf. He shot Matsukawa a last look and gave him a wave before crossing the threshold of the apartment.

“Get home safe,” Matsukawa said, his lips moving all on their own.

He wasn’t paying enough attention to the present moment to think of anything wittier to say. He was lost in his own memory again, those three words the key to some lock he had to dust off.

I owe you.

I owe you.

He was seventeen.

It was a late night at the Seijoh gym, almost as late as when Oikawa left his apartment nearly ten years later. A thinner, younger-looking Matsukawa was chucking the last of the volleyballs into the bin and shooting occasional glances over to where Oikawa was mopping. The sound echoed through the gym, a gentle swish of air every time he pulled the mop back towards himself.

“I’m sorry about making you stay late,” he heard Tooru say.

Matsukawa glanced up and pulled a side-heavy grin.

“No problem,” he replied.

“Nah, I owe you one for this,” Oikawa said atop the sound of the mop clattering to the floor and the soft padding of his feet afterwards.

Matsukawa scoffed, “S’no big deal.”

He didn’t know how close Oikawa was until he watched the last ball land in atop the others in the canvas bin and finally find it within himself to turn. Oikawa’s face was flushed from all the extra practice and the little brown hairs at the crown of his head were rumpled from hours of gripping at it with his frustrated fingers. Issei felt sick for a moment looking at him, feeling as though he’d enabled the madness.

“No, really,” Oikawa insisted, “I owe you for this someday.”

Matsukawa’s brow knitted. It really didn’t matter to him; extra practice was extra practice. And anything to keep him out of his own house and his parents’ business was fine by him. But Oikawa’s usually brightened eyes had gone dull, and the rest of his features were folded in some uncharacteristic pleading. Matsukawa’s heart ached for a moment. His stomach swooped and swirled.

“I—” Oikawa said, “I owe you, that’s all.”

I owe you.

And ten years later, that same Matsukawa was sighing just as heavily, his overgrown, aching body sprawled out on the couch.

Saturday came all too quickly.

Matsukawa checked his phone while attempting another deep inhale to calm his nerves. He wasn’t so much worried that Oikawa would forget the finer details of the workplace drama or really do anything to embarrass himself; it was Issei who was going to do something foolish that night. Since he reencountered the memory a few days prior, it was the only thing that he could think about, the scenes cut with flashing images of Oikawa’s hand atop his at the banquet.

Matsukawa wanted it all again more than he thought he would.

But why?

“I told you not to get involved with Tooru,” Iwaizumi had said to him over the phone the night before, “he’s a damn good actor.”

“So you don’t think he—he doesn’t—” Matsukawa’s voice was small and unsure.

“Mean it? Of course not.”

Iwaizumi sounded surer of himself than Matsukawa had predicted. He swallowed a spot of sour bile.

“Do you want him to mean it?” Hajime asked.

“No!” Issei protested, “I just—I guess it’s good to know, anyhow.”

Iwaizumi wasn’t convinced.

And frankly, neither was Issei.

Because as he stood watching the sun set from his bedroom window, a suffocating tie fastened around his neck and a clammy hand shoved in his pocket, he took stock of all the feelings within him: the ones he knew and the ones he had never encountered before.

“I don’t like Tooru,” he whispered to himself.

“Well,” he reasoned next, “I like him alright, he’s my friend. But I don’t—”

Matsukawa sucked in a sharp breath before thumping his own forehead with the heel of his right hand.

“Stupid,” he then whispered to himself.

Because not an hour later he was stood in front of another swanky hall, this one a little further uptown than where the restaurant had been. He could already hear milling from the indoors, people trickling in two-by-two and giving Matsukawa a polite nod before walking inside. He was stood checking his watch for about a half-hour before he’d asked Oikawa to be there. He thought back to the banquet and Oikawa’s insistence that he didn’t need to stand and wait outside, but he thought it would be strange for them to enter the event separately. Thus, he simply pulled his coat closer to his body and let his breath materialize in the chilly air as he eyed every single taxi that pulled around the corner.

Oikawa didn’t get out of the first one,

but he did get out of the second one.

Oikawa always looked put-together. But this was the first time Matsukawa had ever seen him look truly classy. It was a far cry from their garish high school volleyball uniforms or this horrendous pair of shorts Tooru used to swear by.

He’d gone for his usual clean-lined gray slacks and white-button up, but he’d pulled a slightly larger cashmere crimson sweater overtop, his cream-colored coat following the squared-off edges of his body. His hair, again, was gelled back with the slightest precision so as to make the style look entirely effortless. He looked at the venue first. Then he looked at Issei.

Something tugged at Matsukawa’s navel, perhaps the same thing that was pulling Oikawa’s lips into a blithe smile. Oikawa started closing the gap between them with practiced steps. Matsukawa felt like a statue at a museum at the total mercy of his spectator.

“You froze again,” Oikawa joked.

Matsukawa shrugged, “Thought it would be impolite to go in without you.”

Oikawa’s brow quirked.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Matsukawa replied, “certainly not something an award-winning boyfriend would do.”

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed at that, his old competitive fire leaking out in the form of a small grin. He laughed it off though, mostly to himself, and took one more look at the swanky hall where the party was already kicking into gear.

“Fancy,” remarked Oikawa.

“I bet you’ve seen fancier,” Issei replied.

“I have,” said Oikawa, “but I never expected to see you willingly step foot in something like it.”

“Funeral homes make way more money than you think.”

“Bit morbid though, isn’t it?” Oikawa asked, “Someone dies, you all get your pockets stuffed?”

Matsukawa just shrugged again, the cold finally getting to him and forcing a little shiver down his spine.

“We all reach the same end, anyhow,” he said with a side-eyed glance.

Oikawa chuckled again, pairing his warm expression with an insistent arm around Matsukawa’s waist, just like he had at the banquet. Matsukawa’s breath caught in his throat momentarily before he reminded himself:

Tooru’s a damn good actor.

He doesn’t mean it.

“C’mon,” muttered Matsukawa, placing his hand just as assuredly around Oikawa’s shoulders.

If the outside was any indication of the fanciness of the party, Matsukawa was well-equipped to take in what he was going to see on the inside. It was no secret that Homosu Funeral Home and all it’s well-to-do associates threw a damn good holiday party, it was why there were so many people lined up at the entrance. Classy, holiday-esque jazz music poured in from the little entrance where a man in a tuxedo was stood crossing names off his list and giving some party-goers a suspicious side-eye before pulling the curtain back.

Matsukawa hoped that Oikawa would drop his hand while they were standing in line given the fact that no one was really watching, but instead he seemed to hold on tighter though his mind was absolutely taken by the ambiance.

“This is starting to radicalize me, somehow,” he eventually whispered into Matsukawa’s ear.

Issei suppressed a shudder.

“It’s not just the funeral home,” he explained, “it’s the florist we always use and the woodshop that makes the coffins and all that, as well.”

“Big companies?”

“You mean are they owned by rich, old jack-offs who underpay their employees?” Issei said sourly, “Then yeah, big companies.”

Oikawa chuckled at that, short and accented. Matsukawa let a smile curl along his lips while his counterpart wasn’t looking.

“Name?” The bouncer asked as they approached the front.

“Matsukawa Issei from Homosu Funeral Home,” he said without stuttering, this time.

The bouncer eyed him strangely. He always got that look because he was one of the only attendees under the age of fifty and didn’t have a slight limp from a recent hip replacement. But this time, the bouncer took a second to eye his ‘boyfriend’ too.

Oikawa just smiled that signature smile. It seemed to have worked.

“Come on in,” said the bouncer after crossing off a name and pulling back the velvet divider.

The inside of the party hall was of the same décor as the rooms previous, some garish red carpet applied to the floor which Issei assumed was meant to make the cheesy gold accents pop around the large mirrors, but the tables and such had been decorated in a strict, sleek black, all of the employees matching in their tuxedos.

“Ah!”

A girl screamed from the right. Matsukawa’s eyes went wide as Ami hurtled into view in a form-fitting gold dress and a pair of swoopy hoop earrings.

“You guys look so good!” She exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.

Matsukawa felt himself start to smile as he siphoned off her energy, barely noticing Oikawa’s arm linking with his.

“You look better,” he heard Oikawa say from beside him.

Ami waved her hand, “Stop! Stop, I’ve had this dress for like ever.”

“But your hair,” Oikawa insisted.

“Got it done this morning—lowlights, was literally praying they’d work out in the end,” she replied.

“What are you drinking?” Matsukawa asked, eyeing the strange color in her glass.

“Mmm, none of your business,” Ami replied with a cool smile.

“Slinking around again?” He asked next, mirroring her confidence.

Ami just shrugged, the sparkles on her dress glinting in the lights.

“I’ve got my pick of the lot here,” she said.

“Y’know, you get paid enough that you don’t have to marry rich,” said Issei.

Ami flipped her soft brown hair over her shoulder and flash a winning grin to them both.

“Exactly, I don’t have to,” she said, “I want to.”

With that, she turned on her stilettoed heel and sashayed toward the crowd, garnering a few glances from the men she passed.

“At least she’s good at what she does,” Oikawa joked.

“It’s how she’s stayed largely out of office drama,” Matsukawa replied, “she has no interest in the low-wage-earners.”

“I love that for her,” replied Oikawa.

Matsukawa could feel Oikawa’s fingers tighten momentarily in the crook of his elbow, just enough for him to remember that his hand was there at all. He sucked in a deep breath and took the initiative to walk further into the crowd, dragging Oikawa along, it seemed.

The air of fancy Italian leather loafers and expensive cocktails only seemed to intensify the further they walked. Matsukawa found himself rubbing shoulders with some of the softest shoulders he’d ever encountered. He already felt hot to the touch, a single dribble of sweat threatening to roll down his back. Perhaps he shouldn’t have dressed so warmly, after all.

“Oh my god!” Oikawa exclaimed in a whisper, pulling his lips up to Matsukawa’s ear, “that’s her, right?”

Through the sea of bodies, Matsukawa saw Chiyo in a professional-looking deep-red pantsuit leaned up against a table, obviously engrossed in deep conversation with someone. It wasn’t until he leaned over a bit, though, that he saw exactly who she was chatting up.

“No,” he whispered back to Oikawa.

“I thought Hachiro cheated on her?” Oikawa replied.

“He did!” Matsukawa said.

Sure enough, the two of them were barely a forearm’s length apart, Chiyo’s eyes half-lidded and Hachiro’s hand dangerously close to her body as he leaned it against the edge of the table. Matsukawa had to scoff in a moment of disbelief while he watched the spectacle.

“You want a drink?” Oikawa asked without missing a beat.

Matsukawa nodded, sure he didn’t have to tell Oikawa his usual order. But what he hadn’t considered was how he’d be left alone so swiftly in a sea of people. He felt the lack immediately, his feet moving his towering body closer to the wall of the banquet hall where he could comfortably take out his phone and occupy himself until Oikawa returned.

He considered texting Iwaizumi, but their last conversation had left a sour taste in his mouth. He knew Oikawa didn’t mean anything by what he was doing, it was all just for show. And Matsukawa should be okay with that because Tooru was doing just what he’d asked. He wanted a fake boyfriend, Oikawa was being a fake boyfriend.

That was the end of it.

At least, it was what Matsukawa wished was the end.

But it kept poking at him, this notion of Oikawa’s gentle touches and drawn-out stares. It wasn’t like Issei liked him or anything.

He didn’t.

He just wanted it to be real, maybe for a moment, then he could really know.

“Hey.”

A voice had hissed from behind him. He expected it to be Oikawa but found himself craning his neck to see Ami’s smaller stature, instead. Her brow was furrowed like she’d just watched a man take a swan dive into the punch bowl.

“Why is your boyfriend chatting up some guy at the bar?” She asked with a hint of warning in her voice.

Matsukawa’s stomach slumped to the floor as he craned his neck back up to see Oikawa talking with some guy, older and richer than Matsukawa, by far. Oikawa was leaned up with one elbow on the bar and the other poised around his drink. He must’ve been waiting for the bartender to make the other.

But all Matsukawa could do was stand there with his jaw agape, mouth drying out. He could feel Ami’s stare on him the whole time, waiting for him to react in the way a boyfriend would. Thus, with what he felt required all the strength he could possibly muster, Matsukawa marched towards the chatting pair and found his hand reaching for Oikawa, as he did.

He found purchase first on his warm, firm shoulder. Oikawa stopped mid-word and glanced over, his first reaction one of friendly teasing before he remembered what they were doing there in the first place.

“Hi, hon,” he said softly.

One by one, Matsukawa’s bones began to melt. It started with the little bones in his fingers then spread through his hand until his organs were a mere collection of disconnected parts. He had to swallow down Oikawa’s words; they were sweet with the subtlest of sour aftertastes. How long had it been since someone had referred to him so gently? His mother, perhaps? But that was always different.

Matsukawa could feel his cheeks flushing as he willed words to appear in his mouth. Oikawa just leaned in further with an inquisitive look.

“I just—” Issei stuttered.

“Oh,” Oikawa swiftly took charge, “this is Mr. Nakamoto, he said he worked with you in the last quarter?”

Matsukawa dragged his eyes over to the man, finally registering his appearance and their history together. They had worked side-by-side on a particularly difficult funeral service with a prickly family; lots of long nights at the office and such. Matsukawa suddenly registered how stupid he probably looked marching over to reclaim his boyfriend from what seemed to be a totally friendly conversation.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, “yes I—yeah, sorry about that.”

Matsukawa stumbled through his apology as he dislodged his jellified hand from Oikawa’s shoulder and used it to properly greet Mr. Nakamoto. They exchanged pleasantries all while Oikawa stayed close by. He could feel the tension beginning to stretch between them, even as they weren’t speaking, and he could nearly feel the snap when Mr. Nakamoto finally walked away.

“You alright?” Oikawa asked with an edge in his voice.

Matsukawa found himself taken aback by the tone.

“Yeah, I just—” he stumbled, “Ami was a little suspicious.”

“About what?” He asked curtly.

Matsukawa held his breath, “About—us.”

“Do we need to be more convincing?”

Oikawa’s voice was still cold. The question, thus, felt like a slippery trap to Issei. He was never good at such open questioning, those with answers that bore heavy implications.

“I don’t know,” he said, resorting to an old habit.

“Fine.”

It was all Oikawa said with a small huff as he grabbed Matsukawa’s hand and laced their fingers, one by one. Matsukawa sucked in a fast breath and felt the sound around him turn to mush as he could feel each of the lines in Tooru’s palm brush up against his own. His slightly calloused fingertips were in the ravines of his sharply pointed knuckles, soft despite his career. They had been close and held onto each other in some ways since the ruse began, but this was the first time Oikawa had held his hand. Issei felt as though he were withering away, sure that if Oikawa moved an inch, he would take Matsukawa’s hand right with him and leave the rest of his body behind.

Everything was mixing together in his body, all his thoughts and feelings and emotions, becoming one jumbled mess he’d never be able to make sense of. He followed Oikawa diligently until they reached the center of the hall where he saw his boss making small talk with a woman in a long black dress.

“Shit,” Matsukawa hissed to himself as his boss looked over and flashed a small smile before his face curled in slight confusion.

He must’ve been able to sense the tension between the two of them or read on their faces that something was wrong even though they were holding hands. Oikawa tugged on him a bit to pull Issei’s face towards his own.

“Think he’s unconvinced?” He asked softly.

Matsukawa knitted his brow.

“I dunno—” his voice trailed off.

“Then let’s kiss,” suggested Oikawa, “that’ll be convincing.”

“What?”

The word escaped Matsukawa’s mouth before he could stop it. It was coarse and breathy, the sheer surprise of the suggestion sending his mind into a freefall. His heart tugged around at all corners, and he felt a decided burning in his chest as he watched Oikawa start to smile.

One kiss, that couldn’t be the end of the world.

He’d just kiss him once, have his boss watch on, and everything would be fine.

But—

He couldn’t. He couldn’t kiss Oikawa Tooru without it meaning anything.

And he certainly couldn’t just kiss him knowing that it meant less than nothing for the man across from him. He’d barely kissed anyone in his life, how was this fair at all?

He should’ve listened to Iwaizumi.

He shouldn’t have gotten involved with Oikawa Tooru.

Because Oikawa Tooru didn’t care.

He didn’t care if Matsukawa’s heart was broken after all of this. He didn’t care about all the implications of holding his hand. He didn’t care about any of it.

“No!”

Matsukawa’s shout was sharp and loud, echoing through the parts of the hall where sound had momentarily escaped. He felt the faces around him go melty as he stumbled back from the force of his own protest. It was a miracle his feet were even able to carry him as far as the back doors which took him out to the small garden that occupied the space behind the banquet hall.

He immediately felt the need to loosen his tie as cold, fresh air rushed through his nose and mouth. Matsukawa stumbled out onto the stone path that led further into the garden and hunched over, the feeling in his stomach something akin to needing to vomit after a long night out.

He worked through it with deep breaths, letting the memory of his own cry echo over and over in his mind.

I’m such an idiot, he thought.

I brought this all onto myself.

As he stayed hunched over face nearly in the grass, Matsukawa berated himself further for thinking something like this would ever work. He knew Tooru even though it had been years since they’d seen each other.

“What the fuck was that?”

Oikawa’s voice appeared at the same time as his footsteps, his body stopping a foot or so away from where Matsukawa was folded in half. Slowly, Issei straightened himself back out and let his face fall into some nasty yet stony expression.

Oikawa looked frazzled. It was not a usual look for him. His hair was sticking up in every which way like it used to when he grabbed at it during games and his eyes were wide with a mixture of anger and confusion.

“Just leave me alone,” Matsukawa muttered.

He tried to turn away and retreat further into the garden, but Oikawa’s hand was too quick, pulling him swiftly back into the conversation.

“No, tell me what happened,” said Oikawa slowly and insistently.

Matsukawa just hardened his expression, mostly in the name of not crying. He couldn’t cry. There was nothing to cry over. Oikawa Tooru was just as he’d always been.

“Don’t act like you care,” Matsukawa hissed at him.

Oikawa’s eyes went even wider, “What are you talking about? Of course I care.”

“No, you don’t,” Matsukawa spat, “you’re just acting.”

Oikawa’s face curled in puzzlement.

“Of course I’m acting,” he said, “we’re fake boyfriends!”

Matsukawa inhaled sharply. Oikawa hadn’t said anything untrue yet, but Matsukawa still couldn’t explain this strange, bubbling, angry sensation inside his own body, either.

“That’s all this is to you?” Matsukawa’s lips felt tight.

Oikawa scoffed, “I’m sorry, was there supposed to be something else?”

Tugging at his tie once more, Issei huffed out a hot breath.

“You’re just like you’ve always been,” he said.

Oikawa’s frazzled expression melted into something more subdued, traces of fury beginning to reveal themselves in the lines of age.

“And what’s that?” He asked bitingly.

Matsukawa had no reason to lie. In fact, he felt he had every reason to get louder and throw his hands around.

“You don’t care!” He shouted, “You never care. Oikawa Tooru doesn’t give a shit about anyone other than himself.”

Matsukawa waited for Oikawa’s face to fall in either surprise or disappointment, the only proper reactions he could assume for such a claim. Instead, Oikawa pursed his lips and pointed his finger at Matsukawa with the precision of a thread in a needle.

“Ha!” He cried, “There it is!”

It was Matsukawa’s turn to be confused. Oikawa looked accomplished in some way, like a detective finding the last piece of the puzzle.

“What?” Matsukawa asked breathily.

“I knew it,” Oikawa replied, “I knew you still believed it.”

“I don’t get what you’re talking about!”

“You don’t remember?” Tooru asked coldly, “You don’t remember what you said to me the night I told you all I was going to Argentina?”

You don’t remember?

It echoed through the empty corridors of Matsukawa’s mind, the ones that would otherwise be storehouses for all these so-called memories.

You don’t remember?

“What I—said?” He asked genuinely, his voice going soft.

“I mean, it’s fine if it didn’t mean anything to you,” Oikawa crossed his arms, “but I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that day.”

What you said.

You don’t remember?

“Tooru, I’m—” Matsukawa began to say.

Until—

Oh.

It had been another late night at the gym, this time on their last night before graduation. There was no game to practice for, but the four of them had decided to get together anyhow and play a quick pick-up game while they could still legally access the gym. The night had ended with them all leaned up against the wall, heaving breaths bouncing off the tall gym walls and the soaked-through backs of their shirts sticking to the wooden floor.

It had been then, in the silence, that Oikawa announced he was going to Argentina indefinitely.

They all stayed quiet for a moment, tempted to laugh it off as another Oikawa moment of delusion, but when he told them that his flight was leaving the morning after graduation, they found no reason to doubt him.

Thus, Iwaizumi was the first to stand up, saying nothing, just leaving. His shoes squeaked along the wooden floors. Oikawa had sighed before mumbling something about knowing just how Iwa-chan would react.

Hanamaki was the next to sit up and stare at Oikawa for a moment as if he was trying to log his appearance in his memory.

“Have fun,” he said flatly, “send pictures.”

Then, he left, shoes squeaking and gym bag swooshing through the air.

Thus left Matsukawa and Oikawa sprawled along the court floor. Matsukawa didn’t want to admit it, but it felt as though all his bones had been turned to dust at Oikawa’s admission. He had never really thought too hard about where they would all end up after college, he didn’t like to focus that much on the future.

Everything seemed to be coming loose with the knowledge that Oikawa was leaving. He wanted him to stay, there was something within him that wouldn’t fit right if Oikawa Tooru was gone.

“I know it was shitty of me to wait until the last minute to tell you guys,” Oikawa said as he sat up and started to pick at his nails, “I just thought it would be easier to drop the bomb and leave.”

Matsukawa remembers a sour feeling in his chest. Perhaps it was this sour feeling that cultivated the burning words that crawled their way up to his mouth.

He didn’t know why he was so angry in that moment.

But it was all he could think to say as he, too, sat up and pushed himself off the ground.

“Figures, though,” he said, “You really only ever gave a shit about yourself.”

And with his parting words, Matsukawa left Oikawa alone in the gym, his shoes squeaking and his hot, angry breaths falling heavy from his nose as he did.

Because in that moment, he didn’t understand why he so badly wanted Oikawa to stay, why it was tearing him up from the inside to learn that he was leaving willingly.

But now he knew.

I like him.

“Tooru,” Matsukawa hummed in the present day, his hand reaching out to him.

But Oikawa tugged his body away from the touch, his arms still holding himself together across his chest. The rims of his eyes had gone red and his lips were pursed tightly.

“No,” he said in a small voice.

I like you, Matsukawa wanted to say.

I always have.

That’s why I couldn’t bear to see you go.

That’s why I couldn’t kiss you and have it all be an act.

“Tooru, I didn’t remember until now,” Matsukawa tried to reason softly.

“But you still believe it!” Tooru cried, his bottom lip trembling, “you just said so.”

“I didn’t—” Matsukawa’s voice began to break.

I didn’t mean it, he wanted desperately to say.

“You still believe it even though I—I came back and I—” Oikawa’s lip trembled even more, his eyes misted with tears.

“C’mon, Tooru,” Matsukawa whispered and stepped towards him.

“And I did all of this for you!” Oikawa gestured back to the banquet hall behind him, “And you still think I don’t care.”

Matsukawa tried to approach him with a gentle hand, but Oikawa made quick work of taking two decided steps back and hardening his expression, once more.

“Let’s talk, please,” Matsukawa insisted gently.

Oikawa’s lips went tight. His arms tightened over his chest.

“I think we’ve talked enough.”

And before Matsukawa could even think of something else to say, Oikawa had turned sharply on his heel and begun to disappear into the darkness of the winter night,

his shoes clicking against the stone paving,

and the softest of cries escaping his lips.

Part III

It had been a while since Matsukawa had felt like a prisoner to his own bed.

It wasn’t so common in his adult life as it used to be, and he truly thought it as a time passed by until he awoke a few mornings after the holiday party with no desire to get out of bed, not even for his required morning cup of coffee. He simply curled himself further into the warmth of his sheets and squinted into the sliver of light that escaped through the side of his curtain. It was morning, or something adjacent to it, but he didn’t even have the strength to check his phone.

He knew his mother had probably texted him asking about Christmas. And if Iwaizumi had caught any whiff of the situation at hand, he would probably release a Kraken of ‘I told you so’s that Matsukawa frankly couldn’t handle. Thus, he laid in his bed and listened to the birds sing to fill the silence that wasn’t already taken care of by his rumbly heater.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he found himself transported back to that moment behind the banquet hall, Oikawa’s red-rimmed eyes and pursed lips, the rasp of his voice as he shouted at Matsukawa. The fact that he was right. It haunted Issei to no end, even to the point of his dreams all taking some form of trying to hold water in his hand long enough to take a drink, but always reaching his mouth with bone-dry hands as though he hadn’t touched a drop. In other dreams, he was running through honey towards a shouting voice. He never got anywhere, but he was always fatigued by the mere sensation of running at all.

Hence why he probably felt so awful every time he woke up.

His mother did end up calling him two days before Christmas.

“Are you still coming?” She asked with a waver in her voice.

“I—” Matsukawa hesitated, “I don’t know.”

He heard his mother sigh.

“Please, Issei, I think—” she paused, “I think this may be her last one.”

Matsukawa squished his eyes closed and tried to banish the thought entirely. For someone who worked in a funeral home, he really hated talking about death.

“I really don’t feel well.”

It was true.

“What about your boyfriend, has he been taking care of you?” She asked.

A pang shot through Matsukawa’s chest. He’d been so caught up in the particulars of the holiday party that he’d forgotten all about his promise to his grandmother. Even if he did show up, he would be empty-handed: no boyfriend, no future, no nothing.

“He’s—”

Matsukawa gave in easily to the temptation to lie.

“Yeah, he’s been over a few times.”

Matsukawa could only wish it was true. He imagined, briefly, that Oikawa was actually coming to him lying in his bed and spoon-feeding him soup or bringing movies for them to watch together. He imagined napping together in the afternoon sunlight or having Oikawa kiss him goodnight.

He shook the fantasy from his head just long enough to make his mother an empty promise and say goodbye, returning swiftly back to his cocoon of warmth and avoidance.

Come Thursday, he knew not going to his therapy session and having to explain himself would be more complicated than going and suffering through it, so he shoved himself into some actual clothing and took a quiet Uber ride there, planning exactly what he was going to say and how he was going to say it.

But his therapist had always been good at derailing his plans and getting Matsukawa to say what he really meant.

“That sounds pretty explosive,” he said after hearing the story of what had gone on that night.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Matsukawa mumbled through his hands, “I just—I freaked.”

“Sounds like Oikawa is really important to you,” said the therapist, “it’s rare we have strong emotions about people who don’t matter.”

Matsukawa sighed.

“I think—” he began to say, taking the initiative for the first time, “I think I’ve always had a thing for him.”

His therapist nodded. Matsukawa felt his bones begin to prickle beneath his skin, a hot wave crashing over his stomach.

“And I always thought he liked me too and that he wasn’t telling me like I wasn’t telling him,” he continued, “so when he told us that he was leaving—”

His therapist hummed.

“It meant that I’d been wrong.”

As though the heavens themselves had lowered some helpful hands, Issei felt a considerable weight lift from his shoulders. His memory returning had changed the situation entirely, showing every current behavior and strange moment in a whole new light. He understood the tense silence at their first get-together and Iwaizumi’s hesitations when it came to Oikawa’s tendencies.

“I think the only way to cope with how much I cared about him was to pretend I didn’t remember anything about him at all,” Matsukawa admitted.

It began to fall into place then, all the memories and moments he’d spent so long pushing away. What else was he supposed to do when the only guy he’d ever been interested in moved halfway around the world? Suddenly, he could think of every subtle brush of their hands as they ate lunch on the rooftop, every whispered encouragement in between plays, every drawn-out gaze as they said goodbye after practice.

“I mean,” Matsukawa chuckled, “it’s an easy habit to form when your dad just up and leaves one day without a word.”

You only ever cared about yourself.

Matsukawa probably wouldn’t have said it at all if his father hadn’t left only a month or so before. It was always easier to get mad at people than it was to miss them.

Thus why he knew he had to go to his mother’s house on Christmas Day.

He spent the entire ride there thinking about what he was going to say when he appeared at the doorstep without the long-awaited boyfriend. He could just make up another excuse for why he couldn’t be there, but his mother would never let him hear the end of it. And if he said they broke up, he might deliver the fatal blow to his grandmother single-handedly. He sighed and adjusted his forest green cable knit sweater around his neck all while peering out the window at the changing landscape.

The snow-topped twenty-story buildings were slowly flattening into rolling plains spotted with tall yet barren trees. His mother only lived a little outside of Tokyo; she’d moved there when Matsukawa accepted his job six years ago. He’d grown up in Miyagi which he suddenly had a tugging in his chest to return to. That’s where Oikawa’s family was. He had probably gone back to celebrate with them instead. Matsukawa was thankful for the dry weather, it seemed to keep any impending tears at bay.

He didn’t feel physically nervous until he saw the house crash into view, a little one-story block with a flat roof and what remained of a garden in the front. He thanked the driver and climbed out, making sure to grab his little bag of gifts that he’d brought. He swallowed hard as he saw golden light pouring in from the window, bright against the dull gray of mid-winter. The bag became burdensome in his hand even though the heaviest thing it bore was a children’s book for his niece. Matsukawa let the cold air freeze up his fingers before he walked towards the entryway.

With every step, he formulated another plan for the excuse he would give or the lie he would tell to get everyone off his back. He felt so stupid showing up alone. He felt lonely too, but in a much larger way as though it were the hurricane from which the little storms of all his other emotions were born. He inhaled deeply and decidedly once he reached the door, holding it all there for one more moment of expectation.

He wondered if it was going to snow, that day.

Matsukawa always loved when it snowed on Christmas.

He knocked on the door, the echo of his own action awakening his body to the situation at hand: him alone on Christmas Day at his mother’s house. He gulped as he heard the door click and swing open, his mother appearing in her usual red sweater, khaki pants, and candy cane apron. She smiled at first, then let it fade as she observed the empty space on either side of her son.

“Mom, I—” he began to say.

“Sorry I’m late!”

The voice that appeared so quickly behind him nearly made Issei leap out of his own skin. He turned on pure instinct to see Oikawa stumbling up to the entryway, a bit out of breath but dressed to the nines. He straightened himself up a bit and smiled at Matsukawa’s mother.

“Had to take a call, asked Issei to wait for me before knocking on the door but—” he chuckled, his gaze switching to Matsukawa.

Issei was standing there with the dumbest expression, his jaw hanging slack and his eyes close to bulging out of his head. He almost dropped the bag of presents when Oikawa’s grin softened into something genuine.

“That’s alright!” He heard his mother chirp cheerily from the doorway, “I just started making lunch so you two can get situated until it’s ready.”

When Matsukawa finally found it within him to look back at his mother, he saw her beaming and pink-cheeked, her gaze fixed on Tooru. She turned on her heel and dashed back into the kitchen after opening the door a little further, a silent invitation for them both.

But Matsukawa tugged on Oikawa’s arm, restricting him from entering the house.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, voice trembling.

Oikawa’s smile faded.

“Keeping my promise,” he replied.

Matsukawa sighed, “You didn’t have to, I could’ve—”

Suddenly, he felt the warm palm of Oikawa’s hand rest atop his own which was holding insistently onto the man’s arm.

“I owe you, remember?”

Matsukawa pulled that same dumb expression as he watched Oikawa turn and slip off his shoes before entering the living room where his sister and brother-in-law were already chatting and cozying up beside the fire.

Was this a second chance?

Or was Oikawa really just doing what he said he would?

Keeping his promise?

Matsukawa shook the questions from his mind as he followed close behind, slipping off his own shoes and making a beeline for the kitchen instead. His mother was busying herself with the rice cooker, letting steam fog up her slim glasses.

“Mom,” he said.

She glanced up and smiled, still pink-cheeked.

“It’s good to have you here,” she said gently, “and your boyfriend. He looks a bit familiar, did you meet him at work?”

It was to be expected that she didn’t know much about Issei’s life in high school. She was going through some other things that were far more important.

“School,” he corrected her with a small grin.

His body was still buzzing with the fact that Oikawa was even there at all, but he felt another more pressing question prod at his mind.

“How is she?”

His mother’s face fell a bit. He could tell she was trying to compose herself and seem positive in her son’s presence, but Issei found himself wishing that she’d just give it up and let herself cry. He was twenty-nine now, after all.

“She’s—” she began, the words getting stuck in her mouth.

Matsukawa’s heart slumped to the floor while his chest ached from the absence.

“How about you go see her?” She suggested, a swift change to the subjet at hand.

With a nod, Matsukawa backed briskly out of the tiny kitchen, observing his mother’s desire to be alone. He peeked around the corner into the living room where Oikawa was already charming his sister and brother-in-law. He rapped softly on the wall with his knuckles to get Oikawa’s attention before nudging his head towards the bedrooms in the back hallway of the house.

Oikawa bid farewell to the pair on the couch and adjusted his sweater while he joined Matsukawa at the head of the hallway.

“How does your family not know who I am?” He asked half-jokingly.

Matsukawa shrugged, “I never really talked about my friends in high school.”

“Ugh!” Oikawa protested softly, “I can’t believe you had the ability to keep your knowledge of me contained.”

Matsukawa chuckled softly as they approached his grandmother’s door. It was propped open. He flashed a look to Oikawa which indicated that he was going to go in first.

The door creaked. The bedroom behind it was soaked in the soft gray light of winter. And Matsukawa’s grandmother was lying in the bed, a little more wrinkled and thin and pale than the last time he saw her. He swallowed back his initial reactions and tried to softly get his grandmother’s attention. Her gaze moved slow as honey from the window on the adjacent wall to the tall man standing in her doorway. Just as slowly, her eyes brightened, and her lips pulled up into a smile.

“Issei-san,” she whispered.

Matsukawa returned her gentle grin and padded over to her bedside, choosing to situate himself in the empty space where he could still reach out his arm and let his grandmother take his hand. Her fingers were bony, her skin paper-thin and cold. Matsukawa suppressed a shudder while her fingertips drew small circles on the backside of his hand.

“You are well?” She asked.

“I am,” he replied.

It was somewhat true, this time.

“And, Obaasan,” he said, “I have someone to introduce to you.”

He glanced towards the door and hoped that Oikawa had been waiting eagerly with his ear pressed up to the wood. He knew he had been when he entered right on cue with soft footsteps and an even softer smile. Matsukawa felt a bit melty as he watched Oikawa greet his grandmother with a slow, deep bow before joining Issei on the bed. Matsukawa watched his grandmother’s eyes brighten even more, her other hand reaching for the man who had just come to her bedside.

“And you are?” She asked with an edge of suggestion in her small voice.

“My name is Tooru,” Oikawa replied, “I’m your grandson’s partner.”

Partner.

Not boyfriend.

Partner.

Matsukawa sucked in a sharp breath. Oikawa placed his free hand on Matsukawa’s shoulder and leaned in closer.

“So—so wonderful!” His grandmother hummed with all the strength she could probably muster.

Matsukawa felt so warm and gooey he thought he might not be able to hold his composed body for much longer. He got the message of Oikawa’s tightening on his shoulder and the slight shove of his body behind him and used his own free hand to rest atop the warm skin of his knuckles. His grandmother’s smile grew a bit.

“And how did you two meet?” She asked.

In a moment of panic, Matsukawa glanced over his shoulder at Oikawa with widened eyes. He parted his lips but stumbled over what to say. Oikawa, however, didn’t look phased in the slightest.

“We met in school,” he said without looking away from Issei.

Matsukawa’s chest began to cave in on itself with want. Oikawa glanced away with a blink and looked back at Issei’s grandmother.

“I liked him from the moment I met him,” he said.

Man, Issei thought, Oikawa’s really good at this lying thing.

“I used to invite him up to the roof for lunch every day but make our other friends come too so he wouldn’t catch on,” Oikawa chuckled, “then I’d always ask him to stay and help me after volleyball practice.”

Wait.

Matsukawa’s small grin fell into the slight curve of his parted lips. Was Oikawa—

Was Oikawa telling the truth?

“And it took us a long time to figure out that we liked each other,” Oikawa continued, “but it was partly my fault for moving halfway across the world.”

Matsukawa’s hand dropped from Oikawa’s. He glanced back over his shoulder with that same puzzled expression.

“But now—”

Oikawa looked back at him. He smiled.

He smiled that damned award-winning smile.

“Now I love him,” he said softly, “and I think he loves me, too.”

Matsukawa’s heart began to beat at an impossible speed. His mind spun with all the possibilities.

Was Oikawa telling the truth?

Or was he being a good actor again?

Had they—

had they been into one another all this time?

Matsukawa had to swallow harshly to keep from asking all these questions rapid-fire in the presence of his grandmother. He formed his lips, thus, around invisible words.

“A love fought for is a love well earned,” his grandmother said, breaking the spell that seemed to have fallen over Matsukawa.

Yet, Issei couldn’t get it all out of his mind, Oikawa’s words or the glimmer in his eye as he said them. He squeezed his grandmother’s hand ever so slightly.

“Excuse me, Baa-san,” he said, “we’ll be right back.”

Thus, with a gentle tug, he removed his hand from his grandmother’s grasp and pulled gently on Oikawa’s arm, being sure to bow his head a bit before they both slipped out of the bedroom.

Matsukawa kept pulling Oikawa Tooru’s arm until they were at the back door of the house which led out to the little square of garden his mother spent all year tending to just to watch it go barren in the winter. But watching the snow lay itself in blanket-like sheets was always a pleasant sight. Not like Issei could focus on that, now.

“Are you—” he began to ask, “do you—was that—”

Oikawa took a step towards him so they were almost toe-to-toe. They’d made the mistake of leaving their coats inside, but the absence of the winter breeze meant that their sweaters would suffice for now. And Issei didn’t give a damn about the cold, not with all these thoughts and feelings whizzing around his body and creating pure electricity.

“What?” Oikawa asked softly yet with a cheeky smile.

Matsukawa sighed. Always Tooru, always the same.

“Were you—” Matsukawa asked, “telling the truth?”

Oikawa’s smile grew.

“What I said that night,” Issei continued, “I didn’t mean it, I was just angry and even when we were in high school, everything with my dad was just—”

“I’ve always loved you,” Oikawa interrupted him.

Matsukawa glanced up at him with wide eyes.

“You have?” He asked in wonder.

Oikawa’s brow softened. Matsukawa felt like melting.

“If you think it’s hard hearing someone you like say they’re leaving, imagine how much harder it is telling someone you like that you’re leaving,” he said.

Matsukawa let his breath escape through his nose, warm and slow. His shoulders felt even lighter than he thought possible.

“And every time I visited home, I knew that seeing you would just make everything harder,” he explained.

For a moment, Matsukawa wondered if he was in some depressive-episode-induced dream. It could be one of those transitional moments between being awake and being asleep where it all feels so real. Matsukawa was afraid to do anything too rash lest it all comes crashing down before him.

But there was something so real and warm about Oikawa’s hand on the side of his arm. There was something beyond real about the feeling in his body when Oikawa’s eyes glimmered even in the dull gray of December.

“Honestly,” said Oikawa gently, “I didn’t want to tell you about Argentina until the last minute because if you’d told me to stay, I would’ve.”

Matsukawa watched as both of their breaths formed small clouds in the cold air, mingling together into one between their faces. His throat had gone dry as a desert and he was sure that his heart would never recover from this moment, but he found himself ground to the earth by Oikawa’s gentle touch on his arm.

“I would’ve felt guilty making you stay,” Matsukawa admitted.

Oikawa inched towards him, “I wouldn’t have cared.”

Matsukawa chuckled.

“Classic Tooru,” he grinned, “doesn’t care at all.”

Oikawa chuckled, too. Matsukawa watched two, then three little flakes of snow sprinkle his soft brown hair. They both glanced up into the sky for a moment and let new flakes kiss their pink-tinged cheeks. They looked back down, and Matsukawa lifted his right hand to use his fingers to brush the little bits of snow out of Oikawa’s hair.

But when he’d finished the job, he couldn’t find it within himself to pull his hand back so soon. So, he became content with a resting place of the side of Oikawa’s face, his fingers finding purchase in the soft, short hairs that gathered behind his ear. Oikawa leaned into the touch; he was warm. Matsukawa’s heart was at the edge of his chest, he wondered if Oikawa could hear it.

“I wanna kiss you,” said Tooru.

Matsukawa frowned.

“I’m no good,” he admitted, “never had much practice.”

Oikawa just smiled.

“Then I guess I win,” he teased.

It was Oikawa’s tugging hand that pulled Matsukawa close enough for their lips to meet, but it was Matsukawa’s hand on his cheek that closed the final distance and let Tooru know that he wanted to kiss him just as much.

It was soft. It tasted of snow, in the smallest of ways. Matsukawa forgot about the cold and the feeling of his heart and all the words whizzing around his mind when he finally had Oikawa so close. They started slow. Matsukawa was no good, after all. But Oikawa was a seasoned teacher, an instructor who needed little words to communicate what was really important.

There was part of Matsukawa that wished they’d done this ten years ago when they were both still young, but there was something about the slight roughness on Matsukawa’s fingers in the forming lines of age in Oikawa’s face. There was a sageness to their existences that didn’t exist before. There was a desire to escape that had been satiated within them both where, now, they much preferred the act of holding each other in one place.

Matsukawa felt roots begin to form in his own body.

Perhaps his new love of the present replacing his obsession with the memories of the past?

After all, the present was where he was kissing Oikawa Tooru and running his fingers through the soft fields of his hair.

There wasn’t much else he’d rather be doing.

“This is a joke, right?”

Iwaizumi’s flat voice matched his expression as he held up the gift he’d just unwrapped. A hot-pink leather harness.

“What?” Hanamaki asked with an air of innocence that gave away his true intentions immediately.

Iwaizumi reacted quickly by chucking the thing at a dangerous velocity right at Hanamaki who was curled up on his massive sectional couch.

“Ow!” He whined, instantly picking the thing up and tossing it back at Iwaizumi.

“Why in the world would you give me this?” Hajime seethed.

Hanamaki gestured towards the thing in question.

“It’s to wear!”

“It’s to wear,” Iwaizumi parroted in a mocking voice.

Matsukawa descended into a fit of laughter at the other end of the sectional. Oikawa was beside him but had maintained a good bit of space. Matsukawa wanted him close, wanted their legs to be pressed up together arms tangled around one another, but he thought the whole ‘explaining to Iwaizumi and Hanamaki’ thing would be too much for the day after Christmas.

“You’re sick—” Iwaizumi spat with a pointed finger, “and twisted!”

Hanamaki smiled evilly and held his warm mug of coffee closer to his chest which was clothed with a garish metal tee covered in holes which had no associations with his purple fuzzy pony pajama pants. Honestly, his clown-nose socks were the most normal part of it all.

Matsukawa glanced over at Oikawa for what felt like the millionth time that day. Oikawa grinned halfway but wouldn’t give Matsukawa the satisfaction of looking into his eyes for a moment longer. He was always such a tease.

“I’m putting the pie in the oven,” Matsukawa hummed as he pressed himself up from the couch.

He repressed the urge to shoot a glance at Oikawa on his way towards the kitchen. Once he’d disappeared behind the wall, he heard Oikawa push himself up from the couch, too.

“I’m gonna cut up some cheese,” he announced.

“For what?” Iwaizumi asked.

“To eat, Iwa-chan,” he replied teasingly.

Thus, Oikawa appeared in the kitchen a few moments later where Matsukawa actually was putting a pie in the oven.

“Okay, I thought that was just a good excuse, I didn’t know there was actual pie involved,” Oikawa joked quietly from the doorway.

Matsukawa didn’t even take the time to laugh before he was shutting the oven door and stepping over to where Oikawa was leaned up against the doorframe and grabbing his waist to pull him close. Oikawa entertained him with a long, slow kiss that made Matsukawa’s insides feel like freshly-set Jell-O.

Oikawa tasted of coffee, this time. He grinned against Matsukawa’s lips.

“Watch the hair,” he whispered jokingly.

He was referring to the unfortunate events of the day prior at his mother’s house where the two of them had come in for lunch from the backyard with their hair tousled all about in a way that seemed to light a neon sign which read ‘We made out’ atop their heads. Matsukawa just laughed this time, however. He didn’t care who knew. He didn’t care who knew that he loved Oikawa Tooru.

Matsukawa lowered his lips down to Oikawa’s jaw to lay a few pecks along the line of the bone. Oikawa’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, air brushing all through Issei’s curls.

“Ooh,” he crooned, “now I owe you for this, too.”

It felt right. It felt like the right moment, the right body beneath Issei’s fingers, the right atmosphere around them. It wasn’t very often that Matsukawa felt that way.

Perhaps his simultaneous Christmas bonus and promotion had something to do with it, as well.

“Hey,” Oikawa hummed.

When Matsukawa looked up in response, Oikawa pulled him in for another kiss, this one somehow even sweeter and slower than the last. Matsukawa pushed him towards the countertop, so they had something to lean on, at least.

“Oh, for the love of god,” someone groaned from the entryway.

Both Matsukawa and Oikawa’s gazes shot towards the source which was undoubtedly Iwaizumi with his arms crossed looking less than pleased. He quirked a brow at the two of them then leaned just slightly back out of the doorway.

“Hiro, you owe me thirty bucks,” he shouted, “pay up, bitch.”

Takahiro groaned from the living room. Oikawa and Matsukawa laughed softly and leaned further into one another’s bodies. Iwaizumi looked back at them just in time to take in the sight, his flat expression softening into something more understanding and even encouraging.

Oikawa busied himself with the cheese while Matsukawa followed Iwaizumi back into the living room and dished about the past month to the two of them.

“Wait, you’re in therapy?” Hanamaki asked.

“I thought I told you!” Matsukawa exclaimed.

“Eh,” Hanamaki made a face, “ya probably did.”

Matsukawa rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Hanamaki continued, “do you guys think I’d make a good therapist?”

“No!”

Iwaizumi and Matsukawa shouted simultaneously so as to nip any burgeoning ideas Hanamaki had in the bud. Hanamaki looked taken aback for a moment, but eventually accepted the reality of the situation.

Oikawa arrived soon after with the cheese plate.

“Voilà!” He exclaimed while setting it atop the table.

“Are you insane?” Matsukawa asked immediately.

Oikawa glared at him.

“What?”

“You put the brie next to the Camembert,” Matsukawa pointed out, “you don’t get any texture variety when soft cheese are together.”

Oikawa reeled his face back at the mere insinuation that he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Um, you put them together if you’re trying to create the proper flavor profile,” he replied coldly.

“If the concept of your flavor profile is ‘uneducated about texture’, then you’re doing great,” Matsukawa replied while reaching for the offending cheeses.

“Since when do you know so much about cheese?” Oikawa slapped his hand away.

Matsukawa reached for it again, “I’m a funeral home worker, I’ve had cheese boards for lunch ever Saturday for six years.”

“Hey, fuck off!” Oikawa snapped with a growing smile.

When their hands met, they started trying to wrestle each other away from the board. And while on the outside it seemed rather vicious, the two of them knew that the fun of the tussle was the best part.

“What are you, huh? The cheese man?” Oikawa teased, “You milk this brie straight from your teat or somethin’?”

“Yeah, give it a taste, lemme know what you think,” Matsukawa teased right back.

“Do you guys even like each other?” Iwaizumi asked from across the living room, horrified at the display.

Oikawa and Mattsun could only descend into laughter at that, tumbling atop one another on the couch. Because they did. They did like each other.

In fact, they loved each other.

And they were absolutely sure of it.