Chapter Text
After a week, the pain has dulled into an ache that only makes itself known when he moves. Oikawa turns over onto his side, wincing as the motion jostles his right leg. He whimpers, pulling his knees close to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. It’s a distinctly vulnerable position, and one he wouldn’t be caught dead in, normally. But there’s no one around to see him, now, and so shame deserts him. He hugs himself and feels the pain radiating through his body, a hot ache under his skin that leaves him feeling dizzy even after it fades.
Magic is a tempting pull, hovering just beneath the pain in his awareness. It’s a dark and comforting presence, familiar like the feeling of the rain on his face or the taste of sugar on his tongue. It’s something he knows intimately, has never been without. And yet he doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t let the shadows envelop him even when they could easily heal him.
The bed is stiff and uncomfortable, the sheets clean but lacking any distinct scent. He’s lying on top of the blankets, hair mussed over the pillow. Light steams into the room from a large window in the corner, but he turns away from it. When he shuts his eyes, he sees the glow of his own magic behind his eyelids— more shadow than light, the two intertwining in a braided pattern.
Energy runs across his skin like static electricity, shocking him into awareness. At any other time, he’d respond to his magic by letting it wash over him, shifting between forms as easily as breathing. But now, he resists that feeling. The magic continues to run over his skin, sparking painfully without an outlet.
Magic is many things. But it finds its home in memory, returning there when it has nowhere else to go.
“Fine,” Oikawa concedes, voice raspy. He imagines the braided pattern of his magic behind his eyes again, this time seeing the strands of shadow and light pull away from each other. “Show me a good memory, at least.”
Exhaustion overtakes him, and Oikawa remembers as he dreams.
—
It had rained all through the night, but he hadn’t considered what that would mean at the time. Now, crouched in the grass and covered in mud, he looks at the remains of his den and feels the disappointment rising in his throat.
He’d chosen this spot specifically, beneath the oldest tree in the small patch of forest. The gnarled roots made it harder to dig out space for the den, but they gave it structure and security once the work was done. He’s never shied away from hard work, had enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment that had come with finally finishing the project.
Now, it’s ruined. The rain had loosened the earth, the entrance of the den shifting into something lopsided and unrecognizable. But that isn’t the worse part— no, that’s the large rock that’s fallen over the entrance, making it impossible for him to get back into his den to fix the damage.
Fox kits don’t cry. But at the moment, he really wants to.
He’s too distracted by his thoughts— by the emotions, even more, unfamiliar and complex as they are— to hear the rustling in the grass behind him. He doesn’t even turn when someone else enters the small clearing, but he stiffens when he hears a voice.
“Oh, oh wow.” It’s a young voice, a human voice. The boy comes into view a moment later, edging around the clearing as he surveys it. He’s a little thing, still rounded with baby fat. His skin is one of the familiar colors of the earth, his spiky hair dark and windswept. He has a small net balanced against his shoulder, his free hand balanced against his hip.
It might be a trick of the sunlight, filtering down through the tree branches, but the boy looks like he’s haloed in soft light.
He’s looking right at the fox kit, kneeling down in the mud to gaze at him head on. “A fox,” the boy breathes, hazel eyes bright with excitement. “I was just looking for beetles.”
Not all of the words make sense, but the kit recognizes the net, knows what it’s used for. His body jumps into motion, finally, as he leaps back and turns abruptly, scampering away as fast as his feet will carry him.
“Hey, wait!” the boy calls behind him. “Is this your nest? What happened to it?”
He doesn’t try to comprehend the boy’s words, just keeps running. He doesn’t have a name for the emotion he feels, just knows that’s it’s more potent and confusing than the disappointment of losing his den.
—
He returns to the den the next day, determined to salvage it. He doesn’t expect the rock to be gone from the entrance, instead set off to the side of the tree. The earth tells the story— the rock had been dragged away, leaving a path of newly-turned dirt in its wake.
He crawls into his den, padding out the sides and fixing its shape as he goes. The ground is still damp from the rain, but he doesn’t mind the feeling of it against his fur as he curls up in the ground and wraps his tail tightly around himself. The feeling of accomplishment is back; his den is still good, useable. He hasn’t failed.
Time is an elastic and irrelevant thing to him, so he doesn’t know how much has passed while he naps in his den. He’s woken by the sound of footsteps, and then by the sharp smell of something that does not belong in the forest. He blinks open his eyes to the sight of the boy— the same boy, but dressed in different clothes, and this time without the net.
“You’re back,” the boy says, smile revealing the gaps of missing teeth. “I knew that was your house— den! I asked my dad, and he said foxes have dens, not houses. Or nests.”
The kit thinks he should run again, maybe. The boy doesn’t have a net with him, this time, but that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. He’s kneeling again, edging closer to the den with one hand extended. As he gets closer, the lines on his palm become visible— scratches and callouses, like he’s been tumbling around this forest for as long as the kit has.
“You’re pretty,” the boy is saying, now. “I like your fur— it’s like fire, or the sunset. I never knew foxes were so pretty, before.”
He leans closer, and the kit seizes his chance. He leaps out of the den and under the boy’s outstretched arm, running past him and out to the edge of the clearing.
“Hey!” the boy says, turning as his face scrunches in anger. “Don’t run away, again! I fixed your house— den for you!”
The kit hears him, but that doesn’t stop him from running.
—
He won’t stop visiting. Every time the kit tries to make use of his den, the little boy comes back. Sometimes, he’s wearing a t-shirt with a giant lizard printed across it. Other times, he’s in crisp white shirts that he seems to take pleasure in smearing mud all over. There are usually leaves and twigs tangled in his hair, a new scrape on one of his knees or dirt rubbed into his palms.
Mostly, he sits on the rock and talks while the kit regards him suspiciously. He’s remarkably verbose for such a young human, rattling on about the bugs he’s seen and the food he’s eaten that day, or about the things his mother and father have taught him, or about how nice the clearing is and how smart the kit is to have found it.
The kit like those times, a little. He thinks he is very smart to have charted this spot by the old tree.
—
“I brought snacks,” the boy says one day, pulling open his bag and setting a series of things against the ground. “I don’t know what foxes eat— I haven’t gotten that far in the book I got from the library— but I brought nuts and fruit and some cheese.”
The kit has never gotten too close to the boy, before. But the idea of food he doesn’t have to hunt himself is appealing, and so he circles slowly, getting gradually nearer to the boy.
The spread is impressive, once the boy has finished laying it out: nuts and berries and cheese, small boxes of rice and some kind of meat, and bread packaged in clear plastic. He looks up as the kit gets closer, smiling brightly.
“So?” he asks. “What do you want?”
The kit sniffs around the offerings, tail raised in the air. The berries and nuts don’t smell the way they do in the forest, and so he rejects them. He edges closer to the boxed food, but the containers are too small for him to get into. He steps back, frustrated.
“You’re picky,” the boy comments, ripping the plastic from the bread. Immediately, a sweet scent fills the air. It’s unlike anything the kit has ever smelled, before.
He doesn’t quite consider moving before he’s right next to the boy, front paws rested against his thigh as he nudges at the bread with his nose. The boy startles when the kit makes contact, his tanned skin taking on a reddish hue. But then he’s holding out the bread and grinning.
“You want this? It’s just milk bread.”
The kit nudges the bread with his nose again, considering. There’s thick white cream pressed in the middle, and he laps at it with his tongue. Sweetness spreads across his tongue, better than anything he’s ever tasted. When the boy drops the bread to the ground, the kit makes quick work of it, jaw open wide to reveal rows of sharp teeth.
“Woah,” the boy says, as he watches. “I kinda thought you were soft and tiny, like a cat. But you’re really dangerous, aren’t you?”
The kit merely looks at the boy, tail flicking through the air in annoyance. He is definitely nothing like a cat.
—
Something changes, after that. The boy comes around just as often, but now usually with offerings of milk bread. The kit decides that if the boy was looking to hunt him, he would’ve done so by now. So he gradually lets the boy get closer and closer, justifying to himself that he’s after the bread and not the soft touch of the boy’s hand across his back.
There’s no way to justify why he curls up in the boy’s lap while he sits on the rock, just that he feels at peace with the sun beating down on him and the boy’s soft touches against his fur.
“You like sweet things,” the boy wonders, “and you’re soft, too. Sweetheart.”
The kit doesn’t realize, the first time, that he’s been given a name.
—
The boy talks a lot, but he leaves out important things. The kit doesn’t know his name, or where he goes when he’s gone for a day or two at a time. He has no idea where the boy goes when he leaves the clearing.
The kit wants to speak with him, wants to tell the boy about his life the same way the boy tells him things, a constant stream of excited words. He knows he should be able to. There’s a niggling thought at the back of his mind, telling him he could speak to the boy if he wanted to. He just has to try hard enough.
—
The next time the boy comes back to the clearing, the kit isn’t waiting for him. The boy circles the small space, brow furrowing, packaged milk bread clutched tightly in his hand.
“Sweetheart?” he asks softly.
There’s a rustling in the trees, and the boy jumps backwards, hands poised in front of him defensively. “Who’s there?” he calls out, suspicious.
No one responds, but a second little boy steps into the clearing. His skin is much paler than the first’s, his dark auburn hair mussed over his forehead and his eyes wide and deep.
“Who’re you?” the first boy demands. “And why— why aren’t you wearing any clothes!”
The newcomer glances down at himself, then shrugs. He hadn’t really considered that part of things, when he’d changed from fox to human. He doesn’t spend enough time as a human to be seriously concerned with such things.
The first boy, his boy, is shrugging out of the sweatshirt he’s wearing and thrusting it towards him. “Here,” he says roughly, “put this on.”
The kit— the boy— complies, pulling the soft green fabric over his head. He struggles with the sleeves, until he feels a strong grip tugging at his wrists, situating the garment over him properly. It falls to just above his knees, keeping him covered and warm. He hadn’t considered how cold humans get, but that explains why they’re so concerned with clothes.
“Who are you?” his boy asks again. “What’s your name?”
Ah, he knows the answer to that question. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is rough, unused.
“Tooru,” he says, throat scratching uncomfortably. “Oikawa Tooru.” He has to space each syllable out carefully, afraid of losing their preciseness to rougher sounds.
“What’re you doing wandering around the forest?” His boy is scowling, arms crossed over his chest. Without the sweatshirt, he’s dressed only in sleeveless cotton and shorts. He must be cold. “How’d you get here?”
I live here, Oikawa thinks of responding. But he hadn’t gone through all of this trouble just to explain himself. There’s something he desperately wants to know.
“Name,” he says, after a long moment’s pause.
“Huh?”
“Your name,” Oikawa says, gesturing towards his boy. His brow furrows in frustration as his boy just stares at him.
Finally, something clicks. “Oh,” the boy says, scratching his head and laughing. “Hajime. Iwaizumi Hajime.”
Oikawa mulls the words over, distress rising in his chest. There are too many syllables, and he hasn’t spoken in so long. He can’t wrap his tongue around them.
“Wa,” he starts, and immediately knows he’s gotten it wrong. “Iwa— wa, wa, wa—” Somehow, his attempt dissolves into the sharp, barking sounds of a fox’s call. That’s not what he’d meant to do, at all. He’s not a fox right now, he’s a human.
He claps his hands over this mouth to stop himself, color rising in his pale cheeks. His boy is just staring at him, cheeks round and brow furrowed with concern.
“Hey, are you okay—?”
Oikawa doesn’t give him a chance to finish. He turns abruptly, hands still held over his mouth, and runs. He can hear his boy calling after him, but he keeps going, because shame is wracking his entire body. It’s unlike any emotion he’s ever felt before, and he hates it.
—
The next time Iwaizumi comes to the clearing, the kit is waiting for him. Iwaizumi sits on his rock and pats his lap, and the kit steps towards him slowly, carefully. He climbs dejectedly onto the rock, burying his face against Iwaizumi’s stomach. Iwaizumi tuts in concern, but within a moment his hands are stroking over the fox’s fur, calming him.
“What’s the matter?” he asks softly. “Where’ve you been, sweetheart?”
The kit can’t answer, not like this. And, he thinks bitterly, he couldn’t answer as a human, either.
But Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps petting the kit, speaking slowly and calmly. The kit is lulled into sleepy state, content against the warmth of Iwaizumi’s body.
“…my mom got so mad, when I came home without my sweatshirt,” Iwaizumi is saying. “She didn’t believe me, when I said I saw another kid, here. But I did! She got so upset, and I was scared she’d tell me not to come here anymore, so I stopped talking about it. Because I want to keep coming here, to see you.”
The kit flicks his tail lazily, pleased by the sentiment. Maybe he hasn’t ruined everything by trying to be human, after all.
“And,” Iwaizumi continues, “maybe I’ll see that kid again, too. He looked scared, and kinda sad. I’m worried about him.”
For a moment, the fox feels a flare of something like jealousy. But beneath it, more potent, is something like hope.
—
The next time, it’s Oikawa waiting. He’s dressed in Iwaizumi’s green sweatshirt, his hands hidden in the sleeves. Iwaizumi looks at him and blinks rapidly, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“You’re real,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says with practiced ease, as though he’s said it a million times. He waves, smiling. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Iwaizumi responds, as though by rote, before his face scrunches. “What did you just call me?”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says again, smile frozen on his face. He had tried, desperately, to get his tongue around Iwaizumi’s entire name. This was the best he could come up with, in the end.
Iwaizumi scowls. “Don’t go shortening people’s names without permission.”
“You… don’t like it?” Oikawa asks, head tilted to one side. His features are distinctly vulpine— upturned nose and pointed chin, and those large, fathomless eyes.
Maybe Iwaizumi reads the hope on Oikawa’s face, the fragility of his smile. Whatever the reason, he shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t make a habit of it, Oikawa.”
His name sounds so much better on Iwaizumi’s tongue than it ever has on his own.
—
The kit shows up in the clearing more often than the boy, but Iwaizumi gets to know them both equally well. With the kit, he’s all soft words and gentle touches, as though he’s still scared the animal will run off at any moment if he moves too suddenly. With the boy, he’s rougher— he punches Oikawa in the arm and tugs at his hair, grabs him around the wrist and pulls him into the forest, insisting they climb trees and look for beetles.
“How come I never see you at school?” Iwaizumi asks one day, when they’re tried and lying on their backs in the grass.
“School?” Oikawa asks. Being around Iwaizumi means his speech has gotten much better, but he still doesn’t always have an answer to all of his questions.
“Yeah, school,” Iwaizumi repeats. “I’m in third grade. There aren’t that many schools around here, and you must live nearby, so… don’t you go?”
Oikawa pales for the briefest moment, before he recovers. “Of course, Iwa-chan,” he insists. “Of course I go to school.”
—
He still knows where the house is. Even as a kit, he sticks close, pulled by light and shadow towards the people who live inside. There’s a man and a woman, and a girl, getting closer to adulthood. Sometimes, he’ll lay on the hill overlooking the house as the sun sets, watching the lights in each room flicker on in turn.
Today, he doesn’t watch from the hillside as a kit. Still human, still dressed in Iwaizumi’s now-ratty sweatshirt, he heads towards the front door. He reaches out and knocks, once and then twice.
It takes a few moments, but eventually the door swings open to reveal a tall woman— upturned nose, thick auburn hair, smile frozen on her features as she looks down at Oikawa.
“Tooru?” she asks, voice breaking.
He’s practiced the words, knows exactly how to say them. But as soon as he looks at her he feels like something is breaking through his chest, impaling his heart. He’s longed for her, he realizes. It was easier to forget that, when he was a kit.
“I want to go to school,” he says, voice carefully light.
It takes his mother a few moments to process his words. “You… you’re going to be human? That’s what you want?”
“I want to go to school,” he repeats, brow furrowing. He doesn’t know if he wants to be human, all of the time. He just doesn’t want Iwaizumi to be away from him for hours at a time, going somewhere where Oikawa can’t reach him.
In the next instant, his mother is kneeling next to him, her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. He can feel wetness against the top of his head.
“Can I?” he asks, uncertain at her reaction.
“Of course,” his mother says, squeezing him tighter. “Of course, baby, come inside.”
—
It takes months. His sister, now in college, sits him down at the kitchen table and helps him through reading and math. He follows his mother around the house as she works, listening to her words on the phone to pick up more vocabulary. At night, he sits beside his father on the couch and they go through the newspaper together, Oikawa pointing out each thing he doesn’t understand so that his father can explain the context to him.
“You haven’t been around much,” Iwaizumi says, brow furrowing.
“My sister is home from school,” Oikawa says, lifting his chin in the air. “We are watching all the Star Wars movies.”
Iwaizumi frowns, looks over Oikawa’s new, clean clothes and shakes his head. He doesn’t ask too many questions, and Oikawa is grateful.
—
He learns quickly. When fourth grade begins, his mother enrolls him at the local elementary school. When she leaves him by the door of his classroom, he freezes momentarily. He’s never seen so many children his own age, even after all the movies and television he’d watched over the winter.
“Hey— Oikawa!” a voice calls out behind him.
He turns and sees Iwaizumi, dressed in a new blue shirt for the first day of school. He’s frowning at Oikawa like he’s trying to figure something out.
“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa says, relief making his voice brighter than usual.
“You’re in this class?”
Oikawa nods, and holds out his hand. He’s shaking slightly, can’t get himself to stop.
Iwaizumi huffs and rolls his eyes, grabbing onto Oikawa’s wrist. “Well, come on. We’re going to be late.”
He tugs at Oikawa, keeps talking as they head into the classroom. “You can sit by me, okay?”
—
Talking to the other children is a challenge. Even with all of his careful preparation, he doesn’t have much he can relate to them on. Iwaizumi is endlessly popular, constantly surrounded by other kids as he tells stories and makes people laugh. He doesn’t actively seek out company, but attracts it all the same. And Oikawa shadows him, sticks close even though the other children don’t pay him much attention.
Sometimes, they’ll be sitting on the playground and Iwaizumi will just stare at him, wrinkles forming in his brow.
“What is it?” Oikawa asks one day, self-conscious.
“Nothing,” Iwaizumi mumbles. “It’s just weird, sometimes. Seeing you at school and not the forest.”
“You’re weird,” Oikawa returns, sticking out his tongue. It’s something he sees other kids doing a lot, teasing each other.
“You’re weirder,” Iwaizumi insists, shoving Oikawa.
Oikawa shrieks as he rolls over in the grass, voice high and loud and not-quite-human. When he manages to right himself, he looks up at Iwaizumi with pink cheeks and wide eyes.
But Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to have noticed the sound Oikawa made, is too busy clutching his sides and laughing.
—
Oikawa sees Iwaizumi every day, in school, so when they meet in the forest now Oikawa stays as a kit. He’s promised his mother than he’ll try to be human as much as possible, but it still doesn’t feel as natural as being a fox— running through the forest, curling up in his den, nosing at Iwaizumi’s sides when the other boy comes to visit.
And Iwaizumi never stops visiting. He brings milk bread and sits on his rock and pets the kit’s fur, relaying stories to him that Oikawa now knows from both sides.
Even when he goes to sleep as a human boy in a warm bed, the press of his mother’s kiss against his brow, Oikawa drifts off thinking about the sun against his fur and the gentleness of Iwaizumi’s voice.
—
“Why’re you always reading those books?” Iwaizumi asks one day at lunch, pointing to the blobby gray alien on the cover.
Oikawa shrugs, deliberately cutting his meat into small pieces. Before, the kids had stared when he grabbed the beef and started gnawing on it whole. But it’s been months, and Oikawa is learning.
“I like them.”
“You’re obsessed, more like.” Iwaizumi sips at his juice, rolling his eyes.
“They’re cool,” Oikawa insists. He flounders, searching for the words to explain how he feels. “They’re… not human.”
Iwaizumi huffs. “Whatever, weirdo.”
The word never sounds quite insulting, coming from Iwaizumi. The other kids still regard Oikawa oddly, think he’s too quiet most of the time and too loud in the remainder. But Oikawa is learning, slowly. People like it when you pay them compliments, when you ask them questions about themselves and listen to them talk. They admire kids who are good at sports, or who can tell funny stories.
None of it comes naturally, to him. But he works and works and works, and eventually it becomes routine.
—
The years pass, slowly. After he starts school, an elder man comes by the house and talks to his parents for a long time. After that, his father starts driving him into Tokyo on the weekends. There is an old white house there, and three other boys who are sometimes human and sometimes aren’t.
He doesn’t know if they all get along, exactly. Bokuto is loud and charming, Kuroo sly and sometimes too quiet. Sawamura does his best to keep the peace, but Oikawa finds that a little annoying. He wishes Sawamura would just get angry, every once in a while.
But there is understanding, between the four of them, who are both human and not. At the white house, Oikawa can be a fox and a person, can slip between the two as fluid as water and never worry about being seen.
“It’s magic,” their teachers tell them. “And also responsibility.”
—
“Why’re you never around on the weekends?” Iwaizumi asks one day, as they’re headed home from school. “It’s my birthday, soon, and I was going to have my party next Sunday.”
“It’s a secret,” Oikawa says flippantly, shrugging exaggeratedly and spreading his hands.
Iwaizumi kicks him lightly in the shin. “That’s not an answer, dummy.”
“Ow,” Oikawa whines, edging away from Iwaizumi. “Don’t be so mean, Iwa-chan.”
“Then give me a real answer,” Iwaizumi growls, crossing his arms over his chest.
Oikawa wrinkles his nose. “I have to go see my teacher,” he says at last.
“Teacher for what? We go to school together.” Iwaizumi’s brow is scrunched again, like he’s trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. Oikawa doesn’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t have all the pieces.
“It’s not for school,” Oikawa says. It’s for something much more important, but he can’t explain any of that to Iwaizumi. He’s promised to keep it a secret, and he saw what happened to Kuroo when he’d tried to explain himself to his friend. That can’t happen to Oikawa and Iwaizumi; they absolutely cannot be separated. “It’s just… for something else.”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes skyward. “You’re so lame,” he says. But he lets the subject drop, and tries not to look too pleased when Oikawa shows up at his birthday party, wrapped present clutched in his hands.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” Oikawa teases, shaking his head. “I’ll have to go for extra lessons next week.”
Iwaizumi hugs him tightly, knocking them both to the ground. “Worth it,” he says.
—
His magic grows, as he does. His teacher explains to him that shadow magic is the power of independence, and light magic is the power of connection. When they measure their magic, Sawamura is the only one of them who is perfectly balanced between the two. Bokuto is almost entirely light, and Kuroo is almost entirely shadow. Oikawa’s magic hovers close to Kuroo’s— of the ten pearls that measure him, eight turn the purple-black of shadow magic, and two become the yellow-gold of light.
Of the four of them, he understands magic the best. He steals books out of the dusty library on the second floor, carrying them home with him to read throughout the week. He comes to understand himself better through them.
Guardians are meant to keep the world in balance. If there’s too much light or too much shadow, the world will fall into chaos. Guardians create magic of their own, use it to switch between forms. Oikawa wonders what that means for him, when he isn’t balanced at all. Kuroo and Bokuto are the most extreme among them, but they produce the most magic. Sawamura is balanced, and can ground the others when he needs to. Oikawa doesn’t know where that leaves him— he doesn’t have the most magic, only adds to the chaos when he uses his in tandem with the others. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.
—
Middle school is better than elementary school, if only because everything has become routine. He and Iwaizumi are in the same class and join the volleyball team. That’s another thing that takes up his time and attention, but it’s worth it when he and Iwaizumi pull off a particularly difficult combo. Iwaizumi will turn to him, arm raised, and Oikawa will slap his palm in a high five that seems to spark with energy.
By high school, he’s learned how to play the game. Now, instead of surrounding Iwaizumi, people flock around Oikawa. He isn’t necessarily comfortable with the attention, but it’s gotten easier, over the years. He knows how to tease and flirt, charm and finesse his way to what he wants. And he does feel genuinely happy with his life, he thinks. As a human, Oikawa has most everything he wants.
But not a day goes by that he doesn’t race to get home and shrug out of the confines of his clothes, opening his window and transforming so that he can run out to the forest as a fox. The cool dirt beneath his feet and the rustle of leaves around him feel more like home than anything else, except maybe those moments when Iwaizumi looks at him and flashes one of those rare, pleased smiles.
—
“I came by yesterday,” Iwaizumi is saying, rolling up the sleeves of his blazer. “And you weren’t here.”
Oikawa’s sitting at his desk, a heavy book about magic propped up against the window. “Hm?” he responds, only half-listening.
“Where were you?” Iwaizumi asks, a bit more insistently.
He shrugs. “Don’t remember,” he murmurs, turning the page of his book.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Iwaizumi grumbles.
“I was just busy, leave it alone,” Oikawa says, waving an idle hand.
Iwaizumi gets to his feet and steps in front of his desk, looking down at Oikawa. “What’s got you so preoccupied?” he demands. “Volleyball season is over— is this about university?”
“University will be fine,” Oikawa says absently. “I have to go to Tokyo, anyway.”
Iwaizumi seethes. “Will you stop that?” He bats at the book with one hand, slamming it closed so that it falls against the desk with a thump.
Oikawa jumps, looking up at Iwaizumi with wide eyes. “What was that for?”
“You’re not even listening to me!” Iwaizumi runs a hand over his hair, frustrated. “You’re been half-here all day, and now you’ve just decided you’re going to Tokyo? What the hell, Oikawa, I thought we’d at least talk about this together!”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Oikawa says quietly. “I already decided. That’s where I need to be.”
Iwaizumi lunges forward, fisting a hand in Oikawa’s shirt to jerk him upwards. “When exactly were you going to tell me that, huh?”
Oikawa takes a gasping breath, but bats his eyelashes and tries to play it off. “What’s this, Iwa-chan? Why are you suddenly so concerned?” He can feel the press of Iwaizumi’s fingers through the fabric of his shirt. It’s as though sparks are running underneath his skin, gravitating to the point of contact.
It’s been happening more and more, lately, and he can’t shake the feeling. Being around Iwaizumi used to be a balm, calming and sure. Now, Iwaizumi makes him antsy, jumpy and paranoid. He doesn’t know whether he wants to hold onto him and never let go, or run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.
They’re staring each other down, each balanced on the edge of a precipice and unsure if the other will catch them if they fall. Oikawa blinks, lips pulling into a saccharine and insincere smile.
“You’re being a jerk,” Iwaizumi says at length, pushing Oikawa away before he can say anything. He reaches for his bag, pulling the strap onto his shoulder. When he’s turned away from Oikawa, he speaks again, quietly. “We’ve been best friends for ten years, asshole. I know when you’re hiding something from me. Don’t call me unless you’re ready to be honest.”
He’s gone before Oikawa can call him back. He sits, staring at the ceiling for too long as his fan slowly spins.
There is absolutely no way he can tell Iwaizumi the truth. He glances back to his book, opening the cover and flipping through the pages. The history is filled with stories of guardians who’ve been shunned and feared, killed and ostracized. They are hard creatures to accept, forever straddling two worlds. More often than not, the stories call them monsters.
Oikawa pillows his head against his arms and sighs. “You can’t think I’m a monster, Iwa-chan,” he murmurs into the silence of the room. “Even if you hate me for lying.”
—
He knows he’s asking for trouble, but that doesn’t stop him from meeting Iwaizumi in the clearing the next afternoon. He’s long outgrown the rock, and now sits cross-legged in the grass as he waits for the fox to approach. When Iwaizumi sees him, his face lights up with tenderness.
“There you are,” he says, ripping off a piece of milk bread and tossing it towards Oikawa. “Sorry I haven’t been around as much, lately.”
Oikawa munches up the bread and comes closer, pressing his head down against Iwaizumi’s knee. Iwaizumi takes up his invitation, stroking his fingers gently between the fox’s ears.
He can feel the tension in Iwaizumi’s body— the anger runs between shadow and light, muting the golden warmth that usually surrounds him.
“Sorry,” Iwaizumi mumbles after a bit. “I don’t really feel like talking, today. I thought seeing you would make me feel better, but I’m just so goddamn mad.”
The fox doesn’t ask him to explain himself, just crawls into Iwaizumi’s lap and lets his tail curl around them both when Iwaizumi holds onto him tightly, bows his head over the fox’s body.
The fox doesn’t have to consider too closely what it means when there’s wetness against his fur, or when Iwaizumi starts shaking softly, his grip tightening as he cries.
—
He and Iwaizumi haven’t walked home together in over a week. Graduation is approaching like a train at full speed, and Oikawa feels like he’s tied to the tracks, unable to get out of the way. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his blazer and sighs.
It’s a moment later when he feels a presence behind him— the air fills with the staticky, burnt sensation of magic. It’s a magic that’s entirely the opposite of Oikawa’s own— mostly light, with a distinct thread of shadow running through it.
Oikawa rolls his eyes, pauses, but doesn’t turn around.
“Ushiwaka-chan,” he says sweetly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He can hear Ushijima’s steps as the other comes forward, turning so that he and Oikawa are facing one another. His features are strong, lips pursed as he regards Oikawa carefully.
“You’re spending a lot of time as a human, lately,” Ushijima comments.
Oikawa bites down on the inside of his cheek and rolls his eyes. “You’re saying that to me like that?” He waves a hand to indicate Ushijima’s human form. “I’m not seeing any feathers.”
Ushijima shrugs. “I wonder if you’re making the right choice.” His tone indicates that he’s come to a decision on the matter, and has found Oikawa’s choices wanting.
“Amazing,” Oikawa chirps. “The first time you manage to string more than three words together, and it’s to give me an opinion I didn’t ask for!”
Ushijima’s expression is still impassive, unreadable. “You’re limiting yourself,” he says. “You have abilities that could change the entire world, and you waste them pretending to be something you aren’t.”
Oikawa’s perfectly false smile breaks. “I’m human,” he hisses, brushing past Ushijima.
“You’re never going to reach your full potential, that way. Your kind can’t do anything without wielders, can they?”
Oikawa whips around, snarling. “So what? That’s the way it’s supposed to be— guardians and wielders, partnered together. It’s not as if you’re any different, Ushijima.”
Ushijima doesn’t react. “I am,” he says simply. “I do not want a wielder, and I do not need one.”
Oikawa shakes his head, incredulous. “Bullshit,” he says. “That’s not how we work.”
“That’s what you’ve been taught,” Ushijima returns easily. “But that isn’t the only way things can be.”
Oikawa stares at him, struck momentarily dumb. He’s always been able to sense magic, to generate it and to use it to shift between forms. Anything more than that is distinctly beyond him— guardians aren’t meant to be manipulators of magic. The way Oikawa has always heard it, they’d otherwise be too powerful. Wielders— those who can use magic but don’t create any of their own— keep guardians in balance, and in check. In a way, wielders are the only force that keeps guardians from truly becoming monsters.
“I would have thought you could sense it, with your abilities,” Ushijima says. He’s frowning, as though Oikawa’s ignorance honestly disturbs him.
“Sense what?”
“The world is opening,” Ushijima says simply. “And when that happens, you need to make sure you’re on the right side of the door.”
“I know we’re magical and all,” Oikawa mutters, waving a hand dismissively, “but you don’t need to talk in metaphors, Ushiwaka-chan. It’s probably a big strain on your mind.”
Ushijima’s frown deepens. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Then keep your cryptic comments to yourself,” Oikawa says, turning away. “I don’t need your kind of magic. I’ve always been fine with my own.”
Ushijima merely nods. “If that’s how you feel,” he says, his dark eyes fixing Oikawa with a stare. “I hope you won’t regret it.”
He probably doesn’t mean it as a threat. But after he goes, Oikawa still feels shaken. Without a wielder, there really is nothing he can do on his own.
—
He can’t sleep, that night. Light rain is falling outside his window, but the soft noise isn’t what’s disturbing him.
He’s read nearly every book on magic that he has access to, had asked a million questions of his teacher when the old man had been around. But now he stands on the edge of a cliff— looking out on a world that will rely on him but never know him, with allies who have their own concerns, and unknown quantities like Ushijima floating around.
There’s always been a single constant in his life, but he’s gone and ruined that connection.
—
Part of him wants to become a fox and run through the forest, forgetting the complexities of being a human, if only for a little while. But when he reaches the clearing, he’s still human— dressed in now damp pajamas, and barefoot. And he isn’t alone.
Iwaizumi is sitting by the old rock, a worn army surplus jacket around his shoulders as he sits on the ground, hugging his knees. The rain is still falling, moonlight filtering in through the leaves and catching the sharp angles of Iwaizumi’s face. He looks up when Oikawa approaches, eyes widening.
“What’re you doing here,” he says roughly. “You haven’t come by here in ages.”
I have, Oikawa wants to say. I’ve spent more time here than you have.
“I know you gave up on this place,” Iwaizumi continues when Oikawa doesn’t speak, “But I never did. I come here all the time, to think.”
I know, Oikawa thinks desperately. And I stay with you, because I want to know every part of you, even the parts you won’t let me see as a human.
“I’ve decided something,” Iwaizumi says, staring at the ground instead of Oikawa.
For a long moment, there’s no sound except the rain falling around them.
“What is it?” Oikawa asks, finally finding his voice. His heart is beating too fast, every cell in his body terrified of what Iwaizumi is about to say.
Iwaizumi bites down on his lower lip, glowering for a moment. “I’m going to school in Tokyo. There’s a good program I got into, and it’s got nothing to do with you. You decided without me, so I’m doing the same.”
He feels numb all over. “You’re coming with me to Tokyo?”
“Did you even listen to what I just said? I decided to go to Tokyo for myself. If you weren’t being cagey and weird, maybe we could’ve decided together— are you crying?”
Oikawa lifts his fingers to his cheeks, startled to find tears there. “No,” he says, “I’m not.”
“What is there to cry about?”
Everything, Oikawa thinks. He and Iwaizumi will be going to the same place, but not together. And Iwaizumi will never know how much he means to Oikawa, how badly Oikawa wants to tell him everything, but how scared Oikawa is for Iwaizumi to know the truth. Because Iwaizumi will stop caring about him, if he knows, and Oikawa can’t live with that, he can’t live without Iwaizumi and he’s known that for a long time, now—
“What are you so scared to tell me?” Iwaizumi is on his feet, his grip tight around both of Oikawa’s wrists, holding him still, keeping him from running away. “What could possibly make me stop caring about you, idiot?”
Oikawa can feel his entire face heat up beneath his tears. He hadn’t even realized that he was speaking, but now he’s held tight by Iwaizumi, forced to face the stubborn fire in his hazel eyes.
“I— I can’t tell you—”
“Don’t you trust me?” Iwaizumi asks harshly. “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?”
Of course, he hasn’t. It’s always been Oikawa keeping secrets.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Oikawa whispers, eyelashes heavily with tears. “I’m scared of being alone, again.”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, lifts himself up slightly on his toes so that he can rest his forehead against Oikawa’s. “I promise I won’t,” he grumbles. “But you need to tell me.”
“I’ve been lying to you ever since we met,” Oikawa lets out in a rush. He can feel magic sparking between them where they touch— their foreheads against each other’s, Iwaizumi’s hands around his wrists. “No, not the first time. Before I was me, like this, that was all real. And it’s been real since then. But I didn’t tell you, because I wasn’t supposed to. And then it had been so long, and I didn’t know how.”
He’s bordering on hysterical, words all jumbling together. There are so many inside of him, and so many emotions, he can’t even remember how it felt to be limited in what he could say or feel.
Iwaizumi sucks in a long breath, like he’s steeling himself for something. “Fine,” he says quietly. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”
“W-what?”
“Show me,” Iwaizumi says with quiet intensity. His eyes meet Oikawa’s, and Oikawa sees no fear, no hesitation, no anger in Iwaizumi’s gaze. Just the same sure and solid strength and faith that have always been there.
He can rely on that strength, absolutely.
Oikawa takes a deep breath, reaching out with his extra perception for the threads of magic around him. A soft aquamarine glow surrounds him, and his body slowly gives way to raw magical energy, reforming just as quickly into that of a fox.
He doesn’t hit the ground— instead, right as he changes, Iwaizumi gathers him up in his arms, crushing him tightly to his chest.
“You little idiot,” he grumbles quietly. “Did you honestly think I didn’t know?”
—
Iwaizumi sinks down to his knees, still holding on tightly to Oikawa. “I thought you weren’t real, the first time I saw you. You were like something out of a fairy tale, a weird kid that just showed up one day in the forest. And when you came back, I thought maybe you were a ghost, because you didn’t seem to exist except when I was here. I was so confused when you actually showed up at school—it was like I wanted you to be real so badly, you actually came to life.”
The fox lets out a soft yip, curling closer into the warmth of Iwaizumi’s body.
“But of course, it was you all along. It was always either one of you or the other— I never saw you together. And then, when you started coming to school, sometimes you’d make those funny noises or your teeth would look too sharp. You’ve always seen too well in the dark, even though you’re near-sighted. And you disappear on weekends, or on some nights.”
Iwaizumi is shaking slightly, overcome. “But you know, I don’t think it’s something I ever figured out. I just knew. When I look at your eyes, it doesn’t matter if you’re a person or a fox. It’s always you.”
“You can’t fool people who care about you so easily, you know? But now you have to explain things to me. Like how any of this is possible.”
He wants to respond to Iwaizumi, to ask a million questions. And just like the first time, that desire to connect pushes him to draw on the magic again, until he’s surrounded by the same soft glow, his body shifting back just as easily.
He lands in a heap on top of Iwaizumi, completely naked. Iwaizumi falls back, his full weight against his elbows, yelling in surprise as his cheeks tinge red.
“What the— warn a person, would you?”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, face red and messy with tears.
“Idiot.” Iwaizumi leans over to flick his index finger against Oikawa’s forehead. “No more crying, okay?” He reaches out and grabs Oikawa’s hand, his palm calloused and warm.
Before Oikawa can respond, he feels a surge of energy unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. The world seems to tilt, and then he can see his magic—threads of shadow and light, intertwining in a complex braided pattern. But it’s not just his magic, because there’s too much light in it. It’s his and Iwaizumi’s, together—perfectly balanced.
The entire clearing lights up with an aquamarine glow. When it fades, Oikawa feels a weight in his hand. He and Iwaizumi look down at their clutched hands, which are now holding two aquamarine stones, shining with their own inner-light, like smoldering embers.
“What…” Iwaizumi mumbles, looking on in shock.
Oikawa is laughing, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “It means you’re mine,” he says, and then he throws his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck. Suddenly, he’s complete.
—
“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa wakes up peacefully, a comfortable warmth spreading through his body. He smiles to himself, before he shifts and his leg makes an awkward angle, sending pain shooting up Oikawa’s side. He hisses, fingers digging into the sheets.
“He isn’t here,” a deep voice says. “You made sure of that.”
A heavy weight settles on his chest as Oikawa glances up to see Ushijima Wakatoshi entering the room, regarding Oikawa carefully. He steps close to the bed, reaching out to lay one hand against Oikawa’s forehead. Oikawa scowls, pulling back from his touch.
“You have a fever,” Ushijima tells him.
Oikawa turns away, hiding his face against his pillow. He hears Ushijima sigh.
“You’re aware that what you’re doing is going to kill you,” he says, voice lilting just slightly in question.
Oikawa doesn’t answer, but he does turn his head so that he can look Ushijima in the eye. His lips pull back from his teeth in a feral smile, revealing perfectly-spaced teeth that are too sharp to be human.
He’s laughing, silently. But even he isn’t sure at who’s expense he’s making a joke.