A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait, things are getting busy at school so updates aren't gonna be that consistent. On a side note, thanks for everyone's support!
Now, on to the story:
Under Oikawa's bed, there is a wooden box with a heavy lock the colour of dried blood. Rust flakes when Iwaizumi touches the metal.
The key lies in his hand, dormant and warmed by his grip. He found it hidden behind The Little Prince some time ago while browsing through Oikawa's bookcase. His best friend had probably adhered to the cliche of a treasure chest under the bed or something.
(Yeah, Oikawa did. The box was hidden under some loose planks.)
There is no marking on the box– made of mahogany, Iwaizumi presumes. Oikawa would have used mahogany.
His finger swipes the lid and makes a brown gap in the grey dust. Polished wood peeks through. The lock beckons him to discover whatever lies inside. He wants to know– of course he does– but he does not want to think about the strings of tangled implications that knowledge can hold.
The lie that Oikawa is touring the world is a convenient one, albeit rather poorly-constructed. He tried to convince himself to believe it. He is still trying.
People are afraid of the unknown, as he is, as he had been a year ago.
Iwaizumi inserts the key into the keyhole and turns. The lock pops open with a 'click'; the sound reverberates through him. It stays there. The room is a stagnant stillness and he hears the echo of a thousand clicks.
He ignores the tremble in his hand and fumbles until the lock comes off. Fingers coated with rust heave the lid open. Iwaizumi peers inside.
The contents catch him off-guard. A deflated volleyball, from the time they were still young. A pen, tethering on the expensive side, worn from years of use. There are other things too. He recognises them. Memories of his time together with Oikawa, memories of fond experiences, or simply memories.
I can't believe he still kept them.
One object he has no recollection of catches his eyes.
A small file– ebony and simple– unlike all of Oikawa's other belongings. Iwaizumi picks it up. As he does, a thick, elongated envelope falls out. He takes that in his hand.
Iwa-chan, it says.
Abandoning the envelope temporarily for the file, Iwaizumi flips it open, curious.
The few pages inside are neatly arranged. A composition, it seems. Music notes penned in black hold his gaze for a few seconds before he flicks it upwards, in search of a name to pin unto this piece of work. The neat handwriting on top reveals the title.
Memo: With Love To Him
"Interesting name," Iwaizumi says. A few seconds pass before he remembers that Oikawa is no longer beside him.
The phantom silence drags him into recollections.
Oikawa stumbled into the guest bedroom, eyes bloodshot and hair unkempt. He was deprived of more than two days' worth of sleep.
"Iwa-chan!" Weary triumph leaked through his voice, "Take a look, I finished it!"
Pushing back his chair, Iwaizumi carried himself to the edge of the bed, beside the crumpled and exhausted figure of the musician. He slipped the pages from Oikawa's hand and smoothed them out.
"Solace, huh. You've started using one-word titles again," he comments. Oikawa gave a grunt of affirmation and flipped sideways, fixing his eyes on Iwaizumi, a hand draped lazily across his stomach.
Iwaizumi didn't understand musical notes, but he obediently followed the annotations line by line. It was their tradition. When Oikawa composed a piece, he always ran through it with Iwaizumi.
"I have no idea what these stand for, y'know," Iwaizumi told him, but the habit stuck.
He reached the last line. "Come," Oikawa said, heaving himself up, "let me play it for you."
They went to the ballroom where the grand piano resided near the farthest wall. Iwaizumi sank into his chair and Oikawa took the bench. He uncovered the piano keys, then placed the file onto the stand.
A deep inhale, a moment to prepare, and then he began.
The first note was always the most distinct, a gentle blade that slices through the silence, like the call of a rooster just before dawn paints the sky.
This piece was a slow one, flowing as though a small brook, pouring from Oikawa's fingertips, pouring, filling, filling Iwaizumi's heart with a sort of a warmth. Eyes closed, he could still see Oikawa, body swaying in tune to the melody, eyes half-lidded but bright with zeal, fingers dancing a waltz on zebra stripes.
It was a brief yet mesmerising piece. The music waned gradually, coming to a beautiful end with a last shift of Oikawa's hand. They sat through a few beats of quiet.
"Was it good?" Oikawa asked, a yawn cutting the question short.
Iwaizumi stood and extended a hand to him, hauling him to his feet. "Yeah, it was amazing," he replied, as Oikawa slipped off the edge of consciousness and coherency. There, on Oikawa's face, was a soft smile of content.
Snatching up the file, Iwaizumi hurls it to his side with a snarl. It slams roughly against the wall. He hears his own strained breaths clear against the backdrop of silence.
A tomb of the better years of his life, the desolate room smoulder him with anguish and fear and despair.
Iwaizumi holds back a sob, body quivering with an overflow of emotions. He does not hold back his tears.
Oikawa, come back.
Please.
The contents of the envelope unsettles Iwaizumi more than his own memories. It is a letter by Oikawa– it has to be– but the handwriting is foreign.
He barely recognises a shaky 'Dear Iwa-chan', and the rest is lost to him, the words wild and illegible. Some of the ink had bled through to the other side and his fingers pick out dents on the paper.
Oikawa's penmanship is usually excellent, so what's with this?
In the past– months? Weeks?– he'd discovered so much of the unknown. His rationale is submerged underneath a murky lake of doubt. His past spared him no clues to Oikawa's disappearance. His present discoveries only serve to antagonise his mind.
There is a side to Oikawa Iwaizumi does not know. His best friend must have hid things from him.
A sense of betrayal descends on Iwaizumi, dark and festering.
Oikawa, was our trust a lie?
He shakes the thought aside. There has to be a reason. They grew up together, he knows Oikawa like the back of his hand.
Iwaizumi observes the letter again. Maybe Oikawa didn't mean to hide anything, he just hadn't the chance to reveal it? Surely the letter holds a copious amount of importance. Iwaizumi clears his throat slightly.
"Dear Iwa–" he starts reciting, then stops, something beneath his chest twisting violently.
An alarm goes off and Iwaizumi slips out his phone in surprise.
Meeting at Owl Street Cafe, 1300, the phone reads.
He stares at it until the phone call that day comes back to him.
"You're a cop, get yourself together," Iwaizumi childes himself. There are more important things for him to settle than the fragments of the past.
He takes both file and envelope in hand. They weigh more than he thought they would– a heaviness of the heart, perhaps?
Opening his bag, Iwaizumi slides them inside to ponder over in his spare time.
It takes about twenty minutes on foot to Owl Street. The clouds gather in the sky and a damp coldness creeps into his jacket. It's gonna rain soon, he thinks as the door opens with a little jingle.
"Hey, Cop Guy!" The barista waves.
Iwaizumi nods a greeting back, "Bokuto, I'll have the usual, thanks."
He finds a seat at the corner of the shop, partially shrouded in the shadows. It provides just the right amount of privacy and he sits down with a sigh.
The coffee scalds his tongue a little. Another jingle sounds from the door, diffusing his attention from the pain in his mouth. Ah, he's here.
Kyotani takes but a few moments to survey the place before his eyes land on Iwaizumi. Ignoring Bokuto's greetings, he makes a beeline to the table.
They got acquainted a few years ago, when Iwaizumi was still in charge of nightly neighbourhood patrols. Kyotani was in his late teens then, working as an information broker for the various gangs and shady businesses in the city. It must've been something he leaked to parties he wasn't supposed to leak to. The two hooligans seemed hell-bent on 'teaching the damn kid a lesson', if his memory holds true.
Iwaizumi discovered them in a dark and isolated alleyway. By a stroke of luck, he managed to fight them off, and ever since then, Kyotani seemed to develop a sort of 'Alpha Dog' respect for him.
It does come in handy sometimes, Iwaizumi supposes.
Kyotani nods as he takes a seat, a greeting Iwaizumi is accustomed to. They still run into each other occasionally, what with their clashing occupations.
(Sometimes Kyotani leaves tips for him on the latest crimes in the city and sometimes Iwaizumi tells him to stay out of certain situations.)
Skipping the pleasantries, the man goes straight to business, "What do you need me for?"
"I need you to find out more about this symbol," Iwaizumi slides a piece of paper across the table, "We've been seeing this during murder investigations and I've no other choice but to come to you. If you require payment-"
"No need for that. Consider it a thanks for all those years ago," Kyotani cuts him off.
Iwaizumi doesn't try persuading him otherwise.
They go through a bit more about the technical details and Kyotani assures that he'll contact if important details surface.
As they part ways, ("Come again, Cop Guy!" Bokuto's voice floats from the counter) dark clouds have already gathered overhead. A strong wind circles Iwaizumi and he almost makes it home before the rain hits.
Iwaizumi takes a shower with one of Oikawa's composition playing on the speaker. His mind prods the web of clues that had his life entangled within.
He's sure that the truth is nearer than ever before.