many many thanks to the wonderful afternoon rain for being my ever-amazing beta; this story would not have even been half the quality it is now if not for her. ((love u hal!)) this is the lovechild of all our suga sins featuring rarepairs and flangst galore. plus second person bc i miss writing this way.
basically this is a hanahaki AU (hanahaki is the fictional disease of coughing up flower petals borne from an unrequited love; you eventually die bc the petals clog up your lungs and inhibit your breathing, but you can be cured if the love were to be returned). this au does not feature the surgery option, unlike what you may see in some cases. furthermore, there's a slight canon divergence in which season 2's tournaments never happened. the main ship is daisuga, there are mentions of asanoya and a veeeery brief terasuga, with majority of the focus of the narration being on suga especially during the first three quarters of the fic.
now without further ado, pack your bags, load your tissues, and brace your heart for hurt, comfort, and more hurt yay
Disclaimer: I don't own haikyuu!
what better way to regard the bittersweet
suffering in that of unrequited love
than to call such a pain as exquisite.
.
You are three seconds old when you first open your eyes.
The room is white, sterile; blue hospital sheets chafing against the lanugo on your arms, the scent of antiseptics wafting through your nose as amniotic fluid crawls on your skin. You cry loudly, and as the midwife holds and cradles you in a rocking motion, cry even louder still.
A child born out of wedlock, a careless mistake in the dark, an unfortunate product of a one-night stand – you are all these things and more.
Medical staff run around to deliver the respective treatment – doctors to parent, nurses to child – mother being stitched by the surgeon to absolve the recent Caesarian; you being drowned in a warm bath of soap and water. Still, however, you are not clean.
When the morphine ebbs and your mother holds your sleeping figure to her chest, out of the E.R. and into the ward, IV line hanging between your hands, she looks at the man standing by her bedside, eyes narrowing as she directs her gaze towards his towering frame.
"What are you still doing here? Get away from my son."
"Well, he's our son now—"
"He is not your child," she spits out vehemently.
His hand freezes, and his voice hushes at the remark. "That's not what the DNA tests say, honey."
"Don't call me that," she retorts. She knows what can hurt him. She knows what words to utter and expressions to articulate and gestures to throw if only to stab at his heart, crush his emotions in the tight space of his ribcage, to scar him, wound him, and again – hurt him.
(But she also knows that when she says it, coming from her, it won't.)
She mumbles prayers under her breath, and while the idea of that in itself doesn't sound so bad, her tone is biting. Harsh. It beats into their systems with a burden of a weight far greater. Like a strike; like a blow. It stings upon impact and hovers above them, waiting, haunting, lurking. It lingers in the recesses, the depths of their minds.
"You…you should go."
It isn't a curse, but with the way that she says it, it might as well be.
"Yeah," the man answers, voice brittle in the cold. "I probably should."
The door closes without incident – no loud bangs or slamming hinges, just the creak of a sound and the solace of goodbye. Mother doesn't cry, just bunches up the sheets in her lap and focuses on humming lullabies to you in your sleep. When you wake up minutes later, you cry plenty – as babies often do – shedding tears in her stead.
You don't remember this, naturally.
.
The day you overcome your fears is the day you realize that not all adults are as brave as they make themselves out to be.
Death comes as a quiet thing, and like silence, it is just as lonely.
The second time you meet your father, you are seven and he is dead.
There are flowers in the funeral – an array of asters and asphodels, mixed zinnias and flowering reeds. Mother stands by the coffin with an offering in hand, a bouquet of gladiolus and ashes of a letter she had burned at the altar. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a dried out flower petal, caught between chapped lips at the corner of the corpse's mouth.
Amidst the chapel's sea of greens and whites, it sticks out like a sore thumb, and you stare with amazement and curiosity, wondering where it came from. It is violet, tapered thinly and streaked with white, petal edges curling at the tip. A hyacinth.
"Mother," you ask and tug softly on her hand, "why are there flowers in Father's mouth?"
"I'm sorry, Koushi," is all she says in response as she cups your hands and holds them in her palms. You are so small, she thinks, so fragile and so easy to break, and as she is caught up in her worries of you, she does not know that you think of her as the same.
You don't cry this time, but Mother certainly does instead; her frame wracking sobs and her muffled tears hold enough grief for the both of you.
I'd take it back, she whispers between the blur of her emotions, if I could, I'd take it all back.
(She never loved him, you know, but the regret she feels for that is far greater than whatever love they could have had.)
You overhear relatives whispering doctors said it was Hanahaki and perhaps it was for his mistress and such a shame he was so young. You take this as your cue to leave, joining your aunt on the other side of the room, perching on the edge of the pew. You take a bow, paying respects to your father before you exit.
"Auntie," you call. Your voice is quiet, lest Mother might hear, and you ask the question that's been plaguing your mind for a while now: "how did Father die?"
"You'll understand when you're older," she tells you with a smile, and you wonder how it is that a woman can hold so much sadness in such kind eyes.
.
Mother drowns herself in her work soon after.
Sorry honey, I've been so busy in office I don't have time to take care of you, she says. Honestly, though, you don't really mind – her presence has never made much of a difference. You nod your head, force out a smile, and parrot the usual it's alright Mother, I understand.
You pack your bags and leave for Shiogama by the time you are nine; it's an hour-long drive, two towns away, and Mother stays silent for the most part. You spend the journey with closed, dozing eyes.
Auntie greets you as you walk in the door, and you peck her on the cheek before removing your shoes by the genkan. You note a number of petals lying next to a photograph, framed black and white against shades of saffron dotting the dresser surface.
"Who's that, Auntie?"
"Just an old friend, Koushi darling," she answers cryptically as she holds back a cough. "It doesn't matter."
You bite your tongue and quiet at the remark. Auntie plasters on a smile, and she looks just like your mother when she does. Part of you wonders if she's trying not to cry, but instead, you mimic the gesture and return the smile.
(It's about time you moved on, you hear Mother's voice tell her over the phone, as you're busy picking out peppers from the dinner's stew. Auntie excuses herself from the table and you hear the sound of muffled coughs from across the room.
I've tried, you listen as she answers tiredly. You don't hear the rest.)
.
Auntie passes away when you are twelve, yellow daffodils leaking from her lips and spilling out beneath her feet.
Her wake is a small, sad, and solemn affair. You stand beside your mother as you light an incense stick to pay your respects. Mother dabs her eyes and you sniffle back your tears.
You imagine why your aunt had to swallow petals in her mouth, but this time, you know better than to ask aloud.
.
You try out for the volleyball team during your first year in Karasuno, a plethora of hope for your shining days of youth; bright-eyes drawn to the sight of the court as you toss the ball up towards the sky. It becomes a tireless routine of diving drills and receives, and somewhere along the way, between the bruised arms and worn-out knee pads, you make your first friend in the person of Sawamura Daichi.
It happens as you're heading home from training, standing at the intersection before you part and go your separate ways. You thank the boy for his offer to treat the team to pork buns after practice, and everyone exchanges pleasantries and farewells when he calls out to you five steps later.
"Sugawara-san!"
"Just call me 'Suga,'" you answer with one of your usual refreshing smiles. "Thanks for the pork buns, Sawamura—"
"'Daichi' is fine," he returns the smile. "See you tomorrow?"
There's an itch at the back of your throat and you long to grab your thermos to take a sip to quell it. The cicadas are unusually loud tonight, you notice, so you nod instead and offer a light gesture, a semblance of a wave.
"Yeah, see you."
He grins.
.
It takes you a year to fall in love.
It starts with his smile, his steady hands; the unwavering determination that shines in his eyes seconds between games; the way he tells you good morning, and at last, the way he tells you goodbye.
It takes another to seal your fate.
.
You are sixteen and in the middle of dressing up for Saturday practice when a spasm first hits and knocks the wind out of your chest. It stings like acid; hot and acerbic, stubborn and pushing and leaving you gasping for air.
You thank the gods that Mother isn't home, but then again, she rarely ever is.
The room smells sweet, sickeningly so, but there's a foul taste that lingers in your mouth, tinged bitter and laden with regret, that pushes you to run towards the washroom and drown your tongue with water. You bite your bottom lip and relish in the flavor of copper as it floods your mouth – something, anything to make the putrid feeling go away. Your lungs reek of silene.
"Oh," you manage to say as you glance at your pale face in the mirror, silver hair disheveled and slick with sweat, a hand over your throat as blossoms tumble from your lips.
How nice it would be if that had been blood instead, you think, but alas – you've seen this before.
You are sixteen when you first cough up flowers in your hands, petals of a catchfly painting the ground in shades of scarlet and a sorrowful red.
.
(Please, you mutter – a desperate cry you shout out into the void, like fallen wishes on dying skies. Please don't leave me.)
.
(He does.)
You land a spot as a starter during the winter of your second year, the title of setter you hold proudly in your hands. You're classmates with Daichi now too, and it often helps as you both work together to discuss game play strategies and hand signals in between lectures.
Once, a girl drops by your room and calls out to Daichi to talk in the hallway; they linger by the corridor for a good ten minutes, talking about something that sparks in him a laugh, and you ponder how the sight of that makes it hard for you to breathe.
"Oooh," you whistle, teasing, as he walks back to his seat. "Daichi, who's that?"
"Michimiya Yui… she plays for the girls' volleyball team."
There's a tightness in your chest when he tells you her name, when you realize he could very well be in love with her.
Something inside of you shatters, and your heart breaks at the sound.
(They last for nine months.)
.
Nishinoya succumbs to Hanahaki after a crippling loss in a battle against Date Tech.
The final trigger is the snap of a mop handle, the pool welling in Nishinoya's eyes as he mutters I won't stand for you giving up so selfishly, the squeaking of Asahi's shoes as he trudges to make his exit, the echoes of the rest of the team as they run after him.
"This tastes fuckin' rancid," you manage to hear him say just as the younger boy doubles over, coughing. You see flecks of hemlock dotting the ground amidst his tears and something in you urges to address the elephant in the room before it's too late.
"Since when?" you ask him softly, sternly, hand resting on his back and rubbing circles all the while.
"Today," he replies in between his shuddering breaths. "I told him today. This morning. Before our match."
"But the coughing?"
"Also today."
"Nishinoya—" you start, but there's a stifling quiet that settles over the storage room and you fight back a sigh, taking it upon yourself to dust your figures off and pick up the pieces.
.
Daichi calls you the eve before your final second-year practice, a quarter to ten. "Hey, Suga…I've been meaning to ask you something. Are you busy?"
You untangle yourself from the bed, nodding blearily half-asleep before you realize that he cannot see you over the breadth of signal cables and radio waves. You blink yourself awake and reply, "No, not at all—"
"Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?"
"Mm, it's fine. So what's up?"
"So, the seniors have nominated me to be the captain for next school year," he explains, voice hoarse in the dead of the night.
You grin into the receiver. "That sounds great! Congratulations, Daichi."
"Yeah, thanks. I mean it's nice and all but I was thinking maybe…well, I know you, Suga, and I think you have great management skills. You're an expert at dealing with people and you always know how to calm our nerves before a game, so uhm…"
"Hold on a sec," you say before your pulse shoots up and skyrockets into an unforeseen abyss. "I see how much you work hard to support the team and you have great leadership skills. You deserve the position a lot more than I do, Daichi, I think you should totally go for i—"
"No no… well, ah, thank you but that's not what I meant," he interrupts you from your spiel. You hear him huff on the other end of the line, a blanketing ricochet over the buzz of distant static. "Suga, would you like to be my vice?"
He's terrible at this business, all that reading between the lines mumbo jumbo. Still, you say it like a secret; lips curved with the ghost of a smile, in a whisper mumbled soft – heavy with meaning. Ancient. Arcane.
"Of course, Daichi. I'd love to."
Then the conversation ends just as soon as it starts – Daichi bidding you a content goodnight, Suga and you with your teasing goodnight, captain.
You promptly hang up after that, the burning in your throat building up to something fierce. You curl up into your blankets and scrunch up your eyes. You remember hyacinths in your father and daffodils in your aunt, old memories coming to surface; from the scattered petals to the corners of their eyelids etched with crows feet – signs of how long they have loved another all their life.
So this is what they've been living with all those years, you think as it hurts; still, you smile, relishing in the feeling. There's a certain pleasure in this kind of pain.
.
Let love wound you, shatter you, ruin you, and at the end of it all, when the stars await and the world bursts into colour and all you have left to love is the rain, let it build you.
.
A number of freshmen sign up for the team in your third year – some reserved, others loyal, one boisterous, but all overwhelmingly talented. You gaze fondly at their loud outbursts of energy, their petty banter, at the rush of adrenaline you see surging through their veins. The team grows, flourishes in more ways than you can imagine. You lose your position as the official setter to Kageyama, contenting yourself instead by watching patiently – a simple spectator from the humble sidelines.
Nishinoya is relieved of his suspension and returns to training. You pick up on the signs even then: in the times he leaves practice earlier than everyone else, in the moments he rushes to the locker room at even the slightest instance of a cough, in the way he pauses in his speech at the mere mention of your ace. You observe how he struggles to catch his breath as he stuffs white petals into his pocket, in times he thinks no one else is watching and no one else will notice.
But you are, and you do.
(You drop by Asahi's classroom sometime during second period, in the middle of study hall, putting your worksheets aside and entrusting your fates to the discretion of the corridors. This isn't about volleyball, you tell him, because you've already spoken your piece regarding that issue many days over. You don't waste your time beating around the bush either, cutting straight to the chase as you ball your hands into fists and steel your resolve and mouth the words before flower buds can bloom, unbeknownst to the taller man, painful and heavy, a burden in your chest:
Could you really live without him?
You don't wait until the time comes for him to formulate a reply. Instead, you walk away, feeling like a hypocrite, and you curse yourself at the thought.)
Asahi returns to volleyball a month and a half later, thanks to the efforts of some adamant first years and the newly appointed coach. By then, Nishinoya stops coughing and you don't miss the way his gaze falls on Asahi a few seconds longer than most. Picking up a stray ball from across the gymnasium court, you flash them a knowing smile; Noya returns the gesture while Asahi offers you an indebted bow. You could be envious, almost.
But you're happy for them. Really, you are.
.
Graduation comes and rolls like a tide.
The chairs are all lined together, and students are grouped by section, arranged in alphabetical order. The ceremony is simple, held in the gymnasium – such a sight to behold, and fitting too, to spend your final day in the alma mater within the realms of the place you've cherished most.
You do your best not to steal glances at Daichi when you think he's not looking, and it works, but only because you're too busy muffling an impending bout of coughs and excusing yourself to go to the restroom before you even so much make a sound. You've probably missed out on a witnessing a third of your batch graduate, but when the love of your life is sitting two people away from you, it's hard to stay discreet. You are grateful that at least your name makes you stay on the leftmost corner of the class, the eighth row from the back.
Later, when the formalities end and you walk off the stage with your diploma in hand, you take selfies with your classmates and offer gifts to your friends, exchanging contact details via Bluetooth and promising to keep in touch. You spot the team in the corner and walk towards them with a wave, and Daichi is the one your legs gravitate to first.
"You kept going to the bathroom earlier, are you feeling alright?"
"No worries, I probably just ate something bad for dinner last night," you lie. "Or maybe Hinata's starting to influence me what with all the anxiety. I was a bit nervous about graduation and leaving Karasuno and all that. I'm fine now—"
"You have something on your collar," Daichi interrupts as he picks off a red petal from your gakuran. Your eyes widen with shock but you hold yourself back, suppressing the feeling and playing it off with a laugh.
"Oh, must've been the bouquet. I came across a couple holding one earlier when I was heading to the bathroom," you add, voice airy and with downcast eyes, "I think it was one of their gifts for their daughter."
"Koushi!" your mother calls out to you right then and there, with such perfect timing; your head whirs straight to attention. Ever the stage mom, she calls for the team to huddle close as she snaps to take your picture. It's a wonder she even knows who they are, you think. She was never one to pay much attention to you.
Next thing you know, you're giving the underclassmen a few hugs as Tsukishima and Yamaguchi congratulate you; Tanaka and Noya say that they'll miss you; the second years bow while Ennoshita thanks you for your patience in guiding them. Hinata is bawling while Kageyama holds true to his words, promising From here on out if I start getting bombarded with interviews, I swear I'll say 'I learned everything I know from a magnificent senpai called Sugawara.' At this Asahi lets out a patronizing sigh, telling you off with a mocking I told you not to fill his head with that rubbish. You flash them all a smile, your most refreshing one at best.
Good game, you jest just as you bid them goodbye. Daichi calls out to you, not more than five footfalls and half a step later.
"Suga!"
"Yes, captain?" you answer back, more out of habit than anything else.
"See you around university?" he asks, eyes bright and hopeful. You inch closer to bump fists and he grins, wider.
"Yeah, see you."
.
Mother hands you the photograph just a few days later. She announces she'll have copies for your teammates developed within the week, and reminds you to call home as soon as you settle into the campus safely. You give her your word as you utter your goodbyes seconds before you board the train for Tokyo.
It's the first time you find yourself longing for more of her company, having grown used to the dearth of her presence in a childhood long gone by. You reach out to her, squeezing her hand – not so much loving as it is thankful. She squeezes back, in time. You learn to let go.
She tells you you're growing up to look just like your father. You don't tell her that you already know.
(You see it in the way she looks at you, with plastic smiles and sharpened eyes; in the way your lungs plead desperate for air, fifteen petal breaths away from heartache.)
.
You sign up for your classes, sip your daily five doses of macchiato, churn out paper after paper in the dead of the night, attend lectures while waiting for the caffeine to kick in during the mornings, and always make sure to cite publications in clean-cut one-inch-margin APA format. It goes like clockwork, a flawless routine – college in itself is an easy affair.
Moving into the dorms, however, is not.
You live on the twenty-fourth floor while Oikawa rooms with the sports science major, Iwaizumi, in the unit across yours. It comes as no surprise to see the two Seijou superstars sharing quarters even at this point in their lives. They've always come in a pair; ace and setter, captain and vice, best friend and best friend – a package deal.
Bar the fact that you and Asahi share a room, you hardly ever see him around. Asahi majors in engineering, and he often lingers by the mathematics department together with Daichi who deals with economics. In the end, it's Oikawa you find yourself spending time with the most. You belong to the same department after all – the sciences – with him majoring in astrophysics and you in psychology.
(Not to mention the fact that this diva of a captain is a sucker for your style, and often drops by your unit to borrow accessories like bags or caps or a couple of your sweaters when he either forgets to do his laundry that week or thinks they best complement his outfit of the day.)
The rest of them still play volleyball together, joining the official team of the university together with you sometime during the first semester of second year. The gym is found on campus, an eight-minute walk away from the dormitories; training held regularly from seven to nine on weekday evenings. You quit volleyball that same year.
You tell the coach that the academic load of a pre-med is heavy, that you need more time to focus on your studies and prepare for medical admission exams. He nods his head solemnly in understanding, patting you on the back and telling you you're always welcome to visit if you find yourself free, Sugawara-kun; Oikawa has told me a lot about you and I've seen the way you play – I'm sure you can help advise those vying for setter positions among the trainees.
So you nod your head with a smile and take him up on that offer – dropping by to set for some practice matches and sharing tips on useful hand signals among the freshmen. Still, it's hard to keep your eyes on the ball when you're busy wearing your heart on your sleeve and your lungs are trying not to hack out flowers every damn time Daichi calls out asking you to send him a toss.
You never stay for long.
.
You chance upon Terushima Yuuji in the realms of a quaint bistro bar; Oikawa has dragged you to yet another one of his favorite fraternity-sponsored college parties and now that said brunet is stuck nursing the aftermath of two Johnny Walkers and Iwaizumi's not-so-quiet scolding in the sanctity of a restroom cubicle, you are stuck alone wandering aimlessly through the crowds.
"Hey," you hear a voice say; an unfamiliar tuft of blond hair the first to catch your eye. A hand snakes up to snatch yours. "Wanna dance?"
Your eyes skim over the dance floor warily and you shake your head, not quite liking the idea of foreign bodies grinding against yours. The world has yet to see much stranger things. You hold back a groan and mumble in response, "I'm not much of a dancer, unfortunately."
"Oh," comes the soft reply. His hand releases yours, and the ghost of his touch lingers on your fingertips. "That's fine, I guess—"
"How about a drink?" you offer instead, soft smiles carved in your expression, the phantom of a memory etched a heavy burden in your mind. He nods and you slide your way past the raving crowds, shuffling figures against sweaty seas and unfamiliar faces. You order two rum colas – your treat, you insist – and dish out a thousand yen bill as you pay for both.
"Sugawara Koushi," you say as you hand him the drink. "Just call me Suga."
"Yuuji," he answers, beaming. "Terushima Yuuji."
He raises his arm, as do you, liquid swirling with the motions, a painted copper shining beneath the bar lights; the sound of clinking glass. He tips his head – sips, gulps, swallows.
Cheers, his voice supplies in a way yours echoes. You take another shot.
.
You fall into a relationship in a fortnight.
It happens between Starbucks breakfasts and library afternoons, romantic dinners and cheesy day-versaries. Yuuji is a roughened stone, an unpolished exterior, but when you break past his walls of false bravado and cheeky remarks, you find nothing but a boy unwaveringly kind, a soul enduringly patient – a diamond, unbreakable, for a spirit.
You are in bed together for the first time in the summer of June, when he holds you like a precious thing – pulling you to his chest and cradling you close in his arms. He tells you that he loves you, in mumbled whispers and heated breaths, the tenor of his voice a soft cadence rumbling in your ear.
There's a cocked eyebrow; a fleeting glance, a silence that hovers in the air until your lips part and your voice breaks and you murmur, softly:
"Me too."
It's a lie, you tell yourself, and you know better than to believe it.
But you were never one to take the high road, nor the easy way out, so you give in to his sweet nothings and do so anyway. And you stay like that for a little while longer – lingering in the demesne of skinned knees and slapdash kisses, in the respite of deep thoughts and fractured hearts – until dusk gives way to dawn and day replaces night and the sun lays claim to the reign of the moon in the stead of a barren sky.
He has done nothing but love you, but not in the same way that you love him.
(You're nothing more than a smattering of bricks and a frail bundle of pride.)
"I love you too," you call out once more, and the rough sting of sentiment tastes bitter on the tip of your tongue.
.
There are petals on the bedside when you wake, the morning after illustrated in a story caught between tangled limbs and bleeding scars. Your throat is dry, your hips are sore, and your chest is rough, raw and aching in a way that leaves you feeling defeated. You slip yourself free from your partner's grasp, loosening his hold, and sweep away the evidence by tossing catchflies into the kitchen bin.
You make breakfast.
Yuuji joins you not more than fifteen minutes later, most likely prompted by the wafting aroma of toast and sausages beckoning him to your side. He takes his seat at the dining table and waits in silence; his chin is propped on his left hand, the way it usually is when you catch him mulling over stray ideas and pondering on wayward thoughts. You hand him his plate, pecking him quickly on the cheek before plopping down on the seat across his.
"You smell…sweet," he mumbles. You feel naked before his gaze, emotions threadbare. It snips away at your web of lies, at ties that bind and resolves that nearly falter. You ignore his sentiments with a plastered-on smile.
"I've made your favorites," you offer instead. "Dig in."
You eat together in silence, the clatter of metal against china a prosaic rhythm that fills the room and the spaces in between. When you finish and he tucks the utensils to the side, you rise from your seat in an attempt carry the dishes to the sink. His hand meets your wrist as you reach out to grab the plate, and he tugs on it with the force of a dying man's last sigh. His grip is weak.
"Suga-san," he offers and warrants your gaze, holding out a fistful of crimsons in the clutches of his hand. "Let's break up."
(You think of nights on the roof deck, of hushed secrets shared in the dark, of quiet confessions spoken in the sanctity of witching hours and eventides. You remember golden irises at times illuminated by moonlight; eyes deep in thought and hands open, palms reaching out, fingers splayed across the surface as though reaching for the stars. Intangible. Unreal.
Once, you confessed you were afraid of heights, that simply being in a building three storeys high was enough to make your stomach flip-flop and your knees go weak. He looked at you warmly before he inched closer, telling you how what he fears is not the sight of the world when he looks down, but the immensity of the sky – the feeling of being sucked up into the vastness of it all, the idea of never knowing when things will ever meet their end.)
"Alright, I understand."
(And yet, there you were and here you are – facing your fears and facing an end.)
"I'm sorry," you utter, "I…I should go."
"Yeah," he agrees, almost kindly; voice laden with regret. No rage, only sadness. "You probably should."
You gather your bearings and head to the door, discarding his shirt and folding it neatly atop the dresser before changing back into yesterday's clothes. You cough once, twice, and throw out the flowers together with the trash.
"I don't want to come off as presumptuous or anything, Yuuji, but…you're not coughing too, right?" you ask, worrying at your bottom lip.
"I kind of already kn—" he cuts himself off. There's a shake of his head and you catch the motion out the corner of your eye. "I never had a chance to begin with, did I?"
You linger by the doorway, hand hovering over the knob and legs insisting on remaining still. On the left remains emptiness, a void, but beyond the horizon lies the beautiful, vivid, and vibrant landscape of chaos. You turn to look at him in that moment and smile softly, sadly. Your voice comes out quieter than you desired:
"For what it's worth, I was hoping that you did."
.
"Since when, Suga-san?"
"Since forever, I guess?"
.
(It's a miracle that you've lasted this long.)
.
You do your best to forget about Daichi from that point onwards, flitting from person to person and place to place. But the mind is a fickle thing, love an ever-elusive notion, and though you may be able to trick your brain into not thinking about it, you can never do the same with your heart. Unrequited love still remains unrequited no matter how hard you try.
(Because every day, every kiss, every moment in your relationships are nothing more than a hurdle in your step; a cry into the void; a desperate plea that stutters out of your smouldering heart and yearns for every boy to hear you tell them: please.
Please prove me wrong.)
And yet the emotion always betrays you, for the flowers always fall.
.
The worst of your spasms hits you the night after your midterms. You're shrugging off your coat by the doorway when your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out to see a message from your self-proclaimed best friend in college, Oikawa:
Yo Refreshing-kun, I think your roommate scheduled a date with his libero boyfriend and bailed on us. (\( = A = ;/) We're heading out for dinner tonight — it'll be Iwa-chan, Tet-chan, Dai-chan, and me — and I heard you're done with your exams so you're welcome to join us! (\(^v^)/) Come on, it'll be fun! :D :D
It's stupid, you think, when you feel the familiar seize of your chest at the mere mention of his name, at the sheer sight of pixels composing familiar characters on an LED screen. Then the flowers bloom; red blossoms tracing your airways, lungs laced with the poignant apnea of bittersweet memory and an aching dysphoria.
It rips you up from the inside out; sends you leaning against the wall and then reeling on the floor, coughing catchflies and vomiting petals, emotions spewing out between the crevices of your chapped lips. You break.
.
You wake up hours later in a sea of sterile white; hospital sheets ensconcing your frame, breathing tubes hooked to your nostrils and a dextrose dripping through a cannula. You spot Daichi out of the corner of your eye.
(He sees you, too.)
"Asahi's out right now," he explains softly. The clock reads thirty-six minutes past nine in the evening. "He went back to the dorms to pack some of your clothes. I came over as soon as he called…he told me he found you passed out in your room. Suga, why didn't you tell us you were sick?"
The generator hums loudly beside you, and you wince; coughing once, twice – a sliver of crimson prodding at your mouth. You swallow the sentiments before they threaten to spill.
"Is…is that blood, Suga?"
"No, I—" you shake your head. "My throat's just dry from all the coughing. It's a lung condition," you answer. It's not a lie – at least, not completely. You don't miss the way the boy's eyes glaze over with concern.
"Do you have any family history with the disease?" he asks and you can't help but think of it as a stupid question. This isn't an illness born from a misfortune in genes, no – it's one that stems from a misfortune in fates. Still, you bob your head, and you reply:
"My father and aunt had this – it's uhm… chronic, but not severe. Don't worry, it'll be fine."
It's raining; you realize now, the pitter-patter of raindrops pelting against the windowpane like a lullaby against your ears. There's a crack of lightning that flashes against the sky, and for a moment, it is almost like the day.
(You note the way Daichi's hair catches in the light, how his irises gleam the deepest of browns – the strength of the earth and the colour of home.)
"You should rest," he insists, cupping your cheek as he feels for a fever. His voice cracks, worried. "You'll get better soon won't you? Promise me you will."
A smile plays upon the curves of your lips, and you look at him something wonderful. There's a glimmer in your eyes when you look at him that way, in a way that says a thousand sunsets could never be enough to measure the time I long to spend with you.
Daichi grins at you, wider. You needn't tell him anything else.
.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but somewhere along the long hours of waiting for his classes to end and the brief nights of Asahi rubbing your back as you hack out catchflies interfering with your dreams, Daichi always makes it a point to visit during the moments in between.
Some days, you find the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his the last thing on your mind before you drift off to sleep. And when the sun paints the room the same colour as that of the afternoon sky, when the boy holds you close mumbling sweet nothings into your ear, you will think that ah yes, this was how it was always meant to be.
It never fails to make your heart grow fonder still.
(Some nights, when Asahi has gone home to be with family for the weekend and the nurse on duty has finished throwing out the day's worth of petals from the ward, you spend alone with only the company of your thoughts and the promise of Daichi's next visit on your mind. You wish you knew how to quit him, you confess, voice a mumbled secret lost to tangled sheets and the starless sky.)
(But then again, you know better at this point than to ask for the impossible.)
You notice the bouts are worse during the times he's not around. You're almost grateful, even, that he isn't there to witness the – quite literal – outpouring of your emotions, from the tear-stains of your cheeks to the burning of your lungs, of blades that reek of saccharine redolence; of blossoms that taste like ashes between teeth. If only we could love less so as not to suffer more, Darwish articulates within the book in your hand, feelings inscribed in the immortality of a page.
You cough slightly, agreeing and yet wishing that oh, if only things had been that easy.
.
"Remember the last time we fell asleep together like this, Daichi?"
"You mean…yesterday?"
"No, no," you shake your head adamantly. "Not yesterday. I mean before. Like, Karasuno."
"High school?"
"Yeah, high school. We had to stay late after practice to write up excuse letters and sign permission slips to pull the first years out of remedial class for our training camp, but because Kageyama and Hinata had to take nearly all of them, we had to make so many we ended up getting locked in by the school guards with no phone signal and spending the night in the locker room."
"Mm," he hums as he stands up to pour himself a cup of coffee from the table by the doorway. There's the shuffle of Styrofoam, the rush of the dispenser, the soft clatter of spoon against cup as he mixes himself a serving of Nescafe. He nods before taking a sip, urging you to go on.
"There we were in our gakurans and it was like, what, November at that time? So it was pretty cold and we had nowhere else but the tatami mats so we used my blazer as a pillow and yours as a blanket—"
Daichi holds back a chuckle, almost snorts the coffee out his nose, and swallows thickly before letting out a loose laugh. "Oh man, yeah. Tanaka found us the next day and the look on his face was well, it was something."
"He thought we slept together, Daichi." you fill in, mockingly serious. "And okay, yeah, I guess he does have a point because we did kind of sleep together but not together together, you know? He was like a five year old who realized the true identity of Santa Claus on the eve of Christmas day when I told him the truth was that we didn't."
"He was mortified, Suga. I think we scarred him— wait, why did he have the key anyway? Kiyoko was usually the one who usually handled opening and closing up, if not you."
"He was holding onto the key for that week because he promised to help Hinata and Kageyama out with their early morning practices so he could score more points as a good senpai."
"Ah, no wonder."
Silence settles between the two of you – still but not stifling. Outside the window, the setting sun peeks through the gingko leaves. Lost. Wistful. Tangled in a daydream.
"Hey, Daichi?"
"Yes, Suga?"
"How're you feeling?" you ask.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that instead?" he answers with the ghost of a smile, gentle. Fond.
"You've been asking me the same question every day for the past few days," you reason with a shrug, beaming. "After all this time, I just thought it'd be nice to return the favour while I still can—"
"Hey," he frowns. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"That. You know, the whole monologue speech thing you're thinking of doing. I know what you're implying and I don't like where this is going."
"And where exactly is this going, captain?" you press on, letting out another airy laugh. Hollow. Empty.
"Please stop talking as if you're dying."
You blink. Breathe.
Look at him then smile.
"But, I am."
He doesn't smile back.
"Koushi," he says at last, tone heavy with the burden of worry. His voice cracks, uneasy and afraid. "I won't stand for this. You promised me you were going to get better, and I know that you can. You were never one to give up easily so what's wrong? Is it medicine you need, or is it surgery? Tell me so that I'd know how to help you—"
"Asahi says you're scary when you're angry, and as close as we are, I can't help but agree. If I ask you something, can you promise me you won't be mad?" you cut him off and force out another laugh. It comes out strained – quieter than you had hoped. You sound pathetic.
"What…what is it?"
He looks at you with an upturned brow, warm fingers brushing past your knuckles; hands curious yet familiar. You return his gaze as he purses his lips, and you bite back the thought of them looking soft enough to kiss. His eyes are searching, begging you for answers.
(You know the reason why, though. You've known it all this time.)
You throw caution to the wind, coughing out a catchfly as feelings trickle out between your lips; holding three petals out open in your palms.
"Daichi," you say, voice soft but not at all shy, "I wonder if it would be alright if you'd let me love you like this for at least a little while longer?"
There's a momentary lapse of words, and for a second he is silent. Speechless. Your voice breaks the quiet, remembering the way Mother always mumbled her apologies.
(Father's funeral is always the first to come to mind.)
"I'm sorry," you say simply. Like mother, like child. Daichi only looks you in the eye, freezes and stills, and never before have you seen him so rattled to the core as he has been now.
"How long?" he asks when he lowers his gaze, and you find that you cannot give him anything more than a pained smile for an answer.
.
(Please, you mutter – a desperate cry you shout out into the void, like fallen wishes on dying skies. Please don't leave me.)
.
(He doesn't.)
"You're still here," is all you say instead, when you wake up in the morning facing the aftermath of the storm, blinking in a confused but pleasant stupor at the familiar figure of tousled hair propped up against your bedside.
(He's here to set things straight, you're sure. Asahi had gone off to convene with him in his unit last night, dropping by in the form of a patient knock on the other boy's door. Now you don't know this, naturally. You weren't a witness, weren't there to see it.
Still, however, you can imagine.)
"Of course I'm still here. I'll always be here," he says as he rises, sitting up straight in his seat. You watch him try to hold back a smile, but he can't because you can tell that he's happy.
(There's a shaky assent and an air of reprieve as Daichi turned the knob, scooted over his mound of price equilibrium problem sets, and welcomed him inside. He offered to make tea but Asahi had denied himself the offer, insisting he would cut straight to the chase and keep things brief. Daichi had looked at him questioningly then, bemused and a tad bit afraid, but Asahi had only replied instead with a loaded reticence, resting a firm hand on the arch of the other boy's back before asking him the ever-familiar question:
"Could you really live without him?")
"I'm glad," you say, flashing a warm yet weak smile. You inch closer, feeling oh so alive in the moments you have left lying next to him, with your heart beating seventy per minute – nine petal breaths short of a forever. "I just want to tell you something before my time runs out, Daichi—"
There's a lump in your throat and you let out a cough, catching your outbreaths in the nook of your free hand. Daichi grins at you and you return the favour, only wider this time. It's true, what he says, that he's here now and he'll be here for always, and at last you both realize why that had had to matter for so so long.
"Darling," he utters as he takes your frail hand and cradles it in his own; brings it to his chest then presses kisses with his lips. "We have all the time we need."
(The flowers no longer fall.)
.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting."
お待たせしました
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la douleur exquise (fr.) = the exquisite pain of wanting someone that you know you can never have, and knowing that you will still try to be with them. [src: urbandictionary]
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red catchfly = youthful love, i fall victim
daffodil = unequalled love
hemlock = you will be my death
purple hyacinth = i am sorry, please forgive me, sorrow
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i meant to put this up a month ago but i'm a procrastinating fucker so lol here it is now, a month later hahahuhu. please do leave a review if you can though, they mean the world to me :)