iii. oikawa's slammed against the brick wall outside seijou's gym by iwaizumi, fists clenched, eyelids screwed up tight enough to stop an overflowing volcano. up above, the zephyr is grey and the sky's painted colourblind, but iwaizumi's a whir of anger and frustration in the monochrome; and his veins are boiling white-hot, eyes spitting russet-red, and he's on fire, he's on fucking fire and it's unstoppable, uncontrollable, all-consuming in all that it is and all that it ever fucking will be. "why are you fucking lying to me?!" he's roaring at oikawa, and oikawa's throat is constricted, heart threatening to burst forth and spill all the colours of his locked-up pain. "why are you fucking expecting me to know what you're going through, like …show more content…
oikawa's grappling at his own forearms desperately like they're made of ocean dust, like they're made of paper glass; and the despair that exudes from the tips of his fingers make iwaizumi finally add up two and two, realise what's really been going on., and he should've known, he should've known, and still he chose to ignore it, think of it as a thing of the past and not the …show more content…
because violet violence, purple prints and yellow blooms smudged across starlight skin, and because turbulence and fireblood and bleeding, bleeding, numb; and because oikawa's crying again and he's like the drizzle tumbling heavy-bright from the sky, lined with sadness, edged with watercolour sorrow. because bruises, close to the surface, threatening to break, amethyst stains of charcoal dissolving into limbs and joints and muscles and soul; and because bruises, midnight collecting like dust on the tips of iwaizumi's lashes, seeping into the whites of his eyes like frozen imbue. iwaizumi's gaze flickers from constellation to constellation written across oikawa's arms, veins littered with starbursts of blue and rage; and he feels his hands lift haltingly, glacier-slow, reaching out to quietly touch the interstellar storm that has exploded against oikawa's body. oikawa can feel himself struggling to breathe, numb, numb, cracking down the middle, but the words that come next comfort him, if only a little. "i didn't know they still hurt you, oikawa," iwaizumi says; and his tone is delicate, stings like antiseptic. the rain pours down. "you know it's not okay, right? and you know it's not beautiful or tragic or poetic,