seijaku

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Makki 🤡🤏

dude

where are u

12:02 AM

read my texts dorkass

12:14 AM

?????

12:18 AM

hanger

hanger

hanger bastard

bastard

12:23 AM

OIKAWA

12:27 AM

god ur such an aquarium

*aquamarine

****aquarius

12:32 AM

I'm a Cancer.

Sorry I just got home.

What’s wrong?? What happened after you and Mattsun left the restaurant??

1:29 AM

u JUST GOT HOME?????????

wtf

no u need to explain urself first

1:30 AM

There's not much to explain?

Iwa-chan and I just ended up staying out late.

1:30 AM

dude

the restaurant closed like 3 hours ago

spill

1:31 AM

He took me to a gym.

1:31 AM

wut

why tho

1:32 AM

We started talking about volleyball and he thought it would be fun to...IDK reminisce I guess.

1:34 AM

u guess???

1:35 AM

Yeah I guess.

Now tell me what happened ヾ( ￣O￣)ツ

1:35 AM

ok jesus

there's no need to use such foul language w me smh

1:35 AM

(・_・ヾ

1:35 AM

STOPPP i'm gonna piss my pants

jk i'm not wearin pants lmao

ok so

obv ur alpha snack dumptruck lookin headass said smth to matsu in the bathroom

he didn't rly talk abt it that much

but when i tell u he was SOBBINg

1:37 AM

Oh...

1:38 AM

chill it gets better

so we get home right

we're in his room

he will not let go of me

and he says "please don't let me go"

BITCH I'M STILL CRYIN

1:40 AM

Is he okay...?

1:41 AM

he's sleepin

took a fat rip off a bong n clocked tf out

1:41 AM

Jesus Makki.

1:41 AM

ik

i can't sleep i feel so fuckin guilty

1:41 AM

That makes two of us...

1:42 AM

yea u probly got it worse than me

but listen we just gotta keep our eyes on the prize

which is keepin matsu alive

only one way to survive

take a leap of faith into a nosedive

1:45 AM

Are you seriously freestyling right now?

1:45 AM

shut up i'm coping

but on a more serious note do u think i should make a soundcloud account

1:46 AM

Oikawa sighed, laying his phone face-down on his chest as he dropped his head back against the headboard of his bed. He had known Hanamaki long enough to see straight through his facade. He was hurting, and Oikawa was willing to bet he had already started regretting his decision to aid and abet such a heinous plot. Oikawa, for one, felt every bit the storybook villain he was painting himself to be in Matsukawa’s life.

He turned his head to look out his bedroom window, watching the rain pelt the glass, thunder rumbling in the distance. Another storm. It had started shortly after he arrived back home. Mao lounged at the foot of his bed, not quite scared, but more so concerned, he figured. Lightning struck outside, and for a fraction of a second, there was a figure in the window.

Oikawa startled so hard Mao flipped over on the mattress, scrambling unsteadily to her feet. He could feel his heart throbbing in his throat, his entire body trembling from the briefest flash of something he very well could have imagined. Although the figure was gone, he could still picture its outline on the other side of his window, and his brain pieced together pieces of its appearance as the seconds passed. A long, soaked white gown; straight, dripping black hair; and a distinctly red flower tucked behind her ear. Her? He wasn’t sure.

Mao whined, picking her way up the bed to drape herself over his legs. Oikawa didn’t hesitate to thread his fingers through her thick, fluffy fur, using it to ground himself and calm his quivering. He would eventually convince himself that he was just tired, or that the lightning had reflected off of something in a strange way. Yeah. He could believe that.

If only he could get that image out of his head.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The next morning, Hanamaki was still sound asleep, snoring softly and sprawled across Matsukawa’s bed in every direction. The sheets had been kicked off to some distant corner, which sucked because it was fucking December and cold as shit without constantly running the A/C. Naturally, he gravitated toward the closest source of warmth, which happened to be a long, equally sprawled-out body that just so happened to be its own personal furnace. He sluggishly rolled over to drape all of himself over that warmth, still not entirely lucid.

“Hana.”

There was a soft, insistent pressure against his cheek, poking at the slack flesh. He made some sort of noise, but it was decidedly incoherent.

“Hana, you’re drooling on me.”

The poking stopped and Hanamaki contentedly allowed the words spoken to him to disappear into the void of his subconsciousness. That is, until that same appendage hooked itself in his nostril. He awoke with a snort, a heavy hand waving blindly around his face to try to swat away whatever— whoever —thought it would be funny to wake him up with a finger up his nose, but it had already retreated to safety and he ended up haphazardly slapping his own face. He felt the deep rumble of a laugh build in the chest he’d been using as a makeshift pillow, so he used his skillful echolocation talents to wack Matsukawa directly on his tit with an open palm.

“Ow.”

“Ass,” Hanamaki groaned, wiping at his heavy eyes with his other hand.

“Good morning to you, too.”

The beta, once he could finally open his eyes, tilted his head back far enough to squint up at Matsukawa, who smirked down at him with the funniest fucking double-chin he’d ever seen. He slowly guided his hand up to poke at the roll of flesh with his finger, the alpha remaining completely unfazed right up until Hanamaki decided to return the favour and shove that finger right up the other’s nose. Matsukawa whipped his head back with some sort of half-gurgle, half-cough that was rewarded with a fit of groggy laughter.

“Serves you right, dick. Keep your fingers outta my nose.”

“Keep your drool in your mouth,” Matsukawa retorted.

This was all very reminiscent of a normal late morning, most of the time after a long night of drinking and obligatory drinking games, when they were both content to lounge around without any hurry to be anywhere or do anything. All traces from the night before had vanished, as if Hanamaki hadn’t stayed up until close to three in the morning cradling a sobbing alpha in his arms until he eventually tuckered himself out enough to fall asleep; as if Hanamaki hadn’t been complicit in the alpha’s dejection, hadn’t lended a hand toward putting Matsukawa in that state to begin with; as if there were no such thing as emotional vulnerability; as if they both weren’t slowly dying; as if that morning were just like any other, playful, carefree, and undecided.

Hanamaki dragged himself into a sitting position to free Matsukawa, yawning as he scratched the back of his head. He felt Matsukawa shift on the bed beside him, unsurprised to hear the flick of a lighter after he grabbed something off the bedside table. Nothing like a hefty dose of self-medication to start off the morning.

“Hey…” He glanced at the alpha over his shoulder, trying to keep his expression neutral so as not to let on how concerned he was. “How are you doing?”

Matsukawa took his time responded, tilting back his head on the pillow to exhale a thin stream of smoke into the air without looking at him. For a moment Hanamaki thought he was just going to flat-out ignore him altogether, but then he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“Hana,” he said, “don’t worry about me.”

He spoke the words with finality. Hanamaki knew that tone of voice all too well. It was the one Matsukawa used whenever he knew something bad was going to happen and had already started thinking of ways to move on from it after the fact. The only difference here was that there was no moving on from this bad thing. Not for him.

Hanamaki looked down at his lap. After a moment, he shifted to the edge of the bed and stood up to make his way to the door of Matsukawa’s room.

“Hana—”

“Shut up.” He whipped around to face the other, fist clenched at his side. He couldn’t imagine he looked all that intimidating in nothing but a wrinkly, unbuttoned dress shirt, bunched-up boxer-briefs, and a severe case of bedhead, but his eyes blazed all the same. “How can you even say something like that with a straight face? ‘Don’t worry about me’—do you know how much of an asshole you sound like?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Care about you?” Hanamaki gave a dry laugh. “Well, sorry to be such a fuckin’ inconvenience, but I do. Go ahead, you can laugh. Haha, look at Hanamaki, losin’ his cool over his friend dying instead of makin’ some big fuckin’ joke out of it. I’m sure I look goddamn hilarious to you right now.”

“No.”

Matsukawa sat up, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Hanamaki hated that expression, at least lately. It used to be his favourite, ironically enough. It was the same expression he wore after saying something so out of left field that nobody in the room could even fathom an appropriate response and Hanamaki would burst into tear-filled laughter each and every time. Now, though, looking at it was like staring down a wall that couldn’t be climbed, couldn’t be penetrated, and couldn’t be broken.

“I don’t want you to stop caring. I want you to stop trying. ”

Hanamaki blinked.

“What—”

“Please, just…don’t,” Matsukawa said, closing his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. “I saw you texting Oikawa last night.”

And just like that, the last, fragile thread of hope he’d been hanging onto like a lifeline snapped in an instant. He could feel the ground open up from below. It was kind of like that feeling of falling over a steep edge in a dream, except he wasn’t waking up. He hadn’t hit the bottom yet, but he wasn’t going to spontaneously develop the ability to fly to avoid the crash and burn, either.

Suddenly everything felt real.

“...You were—”

“Awake,” Matsukawa finished for him. “Kinda hard to sleep when you’re holding a phone in front of my face.”

It wasn’t right in front of his face. In Hanamaki’s defense, it was a little difficult to text somebody with a 170-pound man lying on his chest. He turned the screen brightness to low. It was the best he could do. In hindsight, he probably could have just waited until today to follow up with Oikawa. That would have been the smart thing to do, and he probably would have, if not for the fact that he hadn’t heard from Oikawa at all after he and Matsukawa had left the restaurant. Gods, he was turning into a real worrywart these days.

And a huge crybaby, too, it seemed.

“I don’t know exactly what you two were trying to pull off,” Matsukawa continued, “but I’m guessing it had something to do with that alpha Oikawa showed up with, right?” Hanamaki didn’t even know where to begin to try to explain or defend himself, but Matsukawa seemed content to take his silence as confirmation. “Seeing them at the restaurant wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

Matsukawa sighed again when Hanamaki didn’t answer. It was all the beta could do to keep the tears at bay, but even that wasn’t enough. He lowered his head, brows furrowed and teeth digging into his lip, shaking hands balled into fists. This can’t be happening. Of all the outcomes, Matsukawa was never supposed to know. He was supposed to be the victim, the tragically scorned reject to Oikawa’s fabricated villainy. He was just supposed to hate Oikawa, or perhaps become indifferent to him at the least, and move on with his life because he could rather than slowly wilt and shrivel away in the shadow of a love story that never stood a chance.

How did he know that it was hopeless from the beginning? Well…

Hanamaki froze when he felt Matsukawa’s arms wrap around him. He hadn’t heard the alpha get up or cross the room to reach him, too absorbed in his panic and guilt. His eyes widened as he was all too suddenly surrounded by roasted nuts and burning leaves. It dominated his senses, dizzying in its intensity, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down his cheeks.

As a beta, his sense of smell was nothing extraordinary. He couldn’t parse the individual notes that made up a perfume, he couldn’t smell a storm coming from hours away, he couldn’t pick up on the slight undertones that distinguished alphas from omegas.

But with Matsukawa— gods. Matsukawa was like stepping into a whole new dimension of vivid fragrance so powerful it left him a little breathless every single time he caught a whiff of it. It was so different from everything else. He could smell the autumn bonfires he had with his birth parents and sisters as a child, taking turns telling increasingly absurd, made-up stories. He could taste the rice pilaf with toasted almonds they shared on those nights that his mother was so proud of. He could hear their laughter as if they were standing right there next to him. He could see their bright, smiling faces with the shimmering vignette of a memory forever etched into his heart from a life before all he knew was foster homes and the shitty, slightly off-kilter sense of humour he instinctively hid behind.

Hanamaki had never cared much for superstition, but after meeting Matsukawa, he had no choice but to believe in something as ridiculous as fate. What a disgusting, fucked up concept.

It hurt. It fucking hurt to think that something so irrational could affect someone so strongly while the other person didn’t have a fucking clue.

His arms, heavy like they were coated in a thick layer of molten lead, slowly rose to encircle Matsukawa. He dug his blunt, chew-toy nails into the bare skin of the alpha’s back, but if Matsukawa minded the dull jabs, he didn’t show it. If anything, he squeezed Hanamaki that much tighter, ever the steadfast monument of enigmatic perseverance. He wanted to punch Matsukawa for always being there for him, always right beside him whenever Hanamaki looked for him. He wanted to hate Matsukawa for daring to be so damn perfect. For daring to make someone as hopeless as Hanamaki fall in love with him.

“...I hate you,” he muttered into the alpha’s shoulder with the least convincing whimper in his voice. He felt Matsukawa huff a breath of laughter.

“No, you don’t,” he said matter-of-factly. Damn, Hanamaki thought. He’s got me there. “You might hate me after I tell you I ate the last box of pocky, though.”

“You fuck, ” the beta hissed meekly, but with no lack of vitriol. “My almond crush?” Matsukawa’s chest rumbled with his barely muted laughter.

“Yeah. Sorry,” he said, completely unapologetic. Hanamaki slumped in his arms, but he didn’t pull away from the embrace. Not yet. Just a little longer. “And Hana?”

“...Yeah?” Jeez, what next? Was Matsukawa going to confess to having killed their elusive cat neither of them had seen in the past week?

“Don’t make a SoundCloud account.”

I hate you, Matsukawa Issei.

I hate you for making me laugh.

I hate you for dying.

I hate you, I hate you, please don’t leave me.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon
And I’ve got nothin’ to do
But here I am, sittin’ ‘round, thinkin’ about you…
You’ve got a long walk home
But nobody to write you…
And here I am, sittin’ ‘round, thinkin’ about you.”

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The resonance of a ball slamming down on the other side of the court never failed to give Hanamaki goosebumps. It was like a thunderclap from just overhead right before a torrential downpour. Back in high school, he never felt particularly strongly about volleyball. It was just something fun to pass the time, something he could enjoy alongside his friends. Even now, he didn’t regret leaving it behind in order to leave room to explore his options in life.

The problem was that Hanamaki never felt particularly strongly about anything. By the time graduation rolled around, he still had no idea what he wanted to do. He had things he wanted to try—stunt performer, DJ, and dance camp instructor to name a few—but nothing ever hit that cord inside him that made him think, Yeah, I could do this for the rest of my life. It was all exciting and provided a sense of novelty that kept him hooked for a time, but eventually that feeling would always fade and he would drift off into the next half-baked idea that gave him a sense of adrenaline and purpose.

His position as coach for the Chidoriyama Junior High volleyball club was the longest job he’d ever held to date, mostly on account of the fact that he hadn’t decided what he wanted to do next. It wasn’t like he hated it; in fact, the past year and a half he had spent at his old middle school had been rather enjoyable. It gave him a reason to rekindle some of his old interests, like old bands he used to listen to and pulling stupid, harmless pranks he helped the students get away with. He even worked alongside a couple of his old classmates who were now part of the faculty, as well. It was fun.

It didn’t hurt that, whenever he got into one of his slumps—something that had become an increasingly frequent occurrence as of late—he could simply come to the school gym after hours and spike balls to his heart’s content until he was either too tired to care about whatever problem he was having anymore, or he had figured out a solution for it. In this case, he was aiming for the former option.

It was Sunday, so nobody was supposed to be on the premises today anyway, but Hanamaki had never been one for rules. Besides, the faculty didn’t really care as long as he cleaned up after himself. He threw another ball in the air and took a running leap at it, smacking it down across the net. He wasn’t worried about form or technique right now, hitting each ball like some messy combination of a spike and a jump serve. He didn’t exactly have anyone to set the ball for him, so he made due.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The voice caught him right as he was about to jump again, causing him to stumble on a half-abandoned leap. The ball promptly bounced off his head, making him wince and bring a hand to the back of his head. He glanced over his shoulder to the doors of the gym with a withering look and something that might have resembled a pout. He wasn’t expecting to find Oikawa Midori standing there, but he didn’t show any surprise, either.

“Actually, I stopped by your place hoping you’d be there, but Matsukawa-san told me you came out here, so I thought I’d drop by,” the omega clarified with a soft smile.

“That’s a fun way to cause an accident,” he muttered, rubbing his head a bit more before moving to start picking up the scattered balls with a sigh. “Did you need something? You could have just called, you know.”

“I did,” Midori said. Hanamaki paused to look at her again, brows furrowed. “It kept going straight to voicemail.” He blinked.

“Huh.” Walking over to the bleachers, he dug through his bag to find his phone, only to discover that it wouldn’t turn on. He tossed an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “Sorry ‘bout that. Guess my phone died.”

“I was worried,” Midori said, crossing the gym to join him by the bleachers. “I thought…something might have happened to you.” She kept her eyes on the floor once she reached him, tugging at the straps of her purse. Hanamaki arched a brow.

“Why would something happen to me?” he asked. “What did you need to talk to me about?” She pursed her lips, seemingly contemplating her words, then took a seat on one of the bleachers. Hanamaki slowly followed, watching her cautiously. Was this about the Hanahaki? He told her he was taking medication. She didn’t have to worry about it so much.

“It’s…about Hagimura Souta,” she said finally. In an instant, Hanamaki’s gaze hardened, his hands clenching into fists on his knees.

“What about him?” he ground out. “He’s still locked up, right? He’s not coming after Yachi, is he?”

“For now,” Midori said, taking a deep breath. “But…even though he’s in jail, we still have his accomplices to worry about, and Hanamaki-san…it’s worse than we thought.”

“What is? His accomplices? Midori-san, what the hell is going on?” What was she talking about? Why did they have to worry about anything with Hagimura out of the picture? Didn’t the court order a full criminal investigation? They should have been able to find and dismantle his entire omega trafficking operation by now, or at least close to it. It had been two weeks, for fuck’s sake. They had to have made some progress.

“It’s… Hagimura’s operation wasn’t just a solo act,” Midori said, opening her purse to dig through it and produce a few pieces of folded paper that she handed to Hanamaki. “It’s bigger than some shady black market business. Hanamaki-san, Hagimura was working for the Inagawa-kai. He’s part of the Yakuza. That’s how he’s been getting away with it for so long. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a fairly high-ranking member, too, so his arrest hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

Hanamaki quickly unfolded the papers and scanned through their contents. It was all information about the Inagawa-kai—not detailed enough to be official records, but more than likely Midori’s independent research. Still, there was enough information here to put a lump in his throat.

“What—” He cleared his throat to try to dispel the sudden dryness. “What does this mean, exactly?”

“It means,” Midori said, turning to look at him directly now, “that you could be in serious danger. You and Yachi-san both. There’s a man named Inagawa Masaaki.” She reached over to flip to a page with a blurry photo paper-clipped to the corner and what appeared to be a hastily made profile of sorts. “He’s close with Hagimura. He…he’s planning on freeing Hagimura and finishing what he started. That means trying to take Yachi-san again, and…” She swallowed. “...And taking you out of the picture.”

Well, how about that? If Hanamaki had known back then that picking a fight with some sleazy asshole outside of a bar in the middle of the night would eventually lead to his untimely demise, he… Well, he probably wouldn’t have done anything differently, if he were being honest with himself. There was no version of that encounter that wouldn’t have resulted in him doing everything in his power to make sure that omega got away safely. Hanamaki was a lot of things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t have turned a blind eye even if he had wanted to. Even if he would have had to kill Hagimura Souta with his bare hands then and there, he would have done it.

Now that was a discomforting thought. Hanamaki didn’t think himself capable of murder, but if it came down to it? In a situation like that? …He could see it being a distinct possibility.

“...Midori-san, how did you find out about all this?” he asked after a moment. Midori glanced away from him again, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Hanamaki squinted.

“...I received an anonymous tip.”

“Liar.” Her eyes snapped back to his, wide like…well, like someone caught in a fib. “You always do that when you’re about to lie—move your hair behind your ear like that.” She blinked at him owlishly.

“How—”

“Ah, you must have forgotten,” he drawled with feigned hurt in his voice that didn’t match the smug grin tugging at his lips. He closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his elbows on the next row of bleachers behind him. “I used to have a crush on you, remember? I noticed all those little tics of yours.”

It was true. During his first year of high school, and even a little bit of his second, he had the biggest puppy-dog crush on Oikawa’s smart, sexy older sister. Freshly graduated and well on her way to a law school degree, Hanamaki couldn’t help but admire her. He leapt at any opportunity to hang out at Oikawa’s house, even if the bratty alpha liked to complain about Hanamaki’s “weird, creepy obsession” with his sibling. It definitely was not an obsession, barely even a serious crush, but he would admit to having watched her on numerous occasions whenever she was around, tuning out entire conversations just to give her his undivided attention, even when she didn’t know she had it. Maybe a little creepy, but certainly not obsessive.

He was over it by his third year, however, partly because she had moved out of her parents’ house, so he didn’t get to see her as often, and partly because he had made the responsible, self-respecting decision to never become related to Oikawa Tooru. He also had an extremely traumatizing dream about Midori morphing into her brother while he was on a date with her and, really, that was just the nail in the coffin for any remnant attraction he might have been holding onto.

Of course, that was also when he finally started noticing things about Matsukawa, too. Like the intense, hungry look he got in his eyes when he figured out how to shut down an opponent on the court; or the way he could completely zone out during a lesson and still give the correct answer when the teacher called on him; or how he would tap the toe of his shoe on the ground when he was feeling anxious; or when his stubble started growing in and he would purposefully scratch people with it when he hugged them. He liked hugs a lot, Hanamaki discovered, even though he was rarely the one to initiate them.

Midori’s laughter made him open his eyes again, glancing over at her flushing cheeks as she held a hand over her mouth.

“You’re right, I did forget about that! I felt really bad about it, you know,” she said, watching him with crinkled eyes. “I had no idea until Tooru told me.” Hanamaki let his head fall back with a groan.

“Man, that’s even worse! He had me convinced I was being way too obvious about it, the prick.” Midori giggled again, clearly relieved by the change of topic, but Hanamaki wasn’t going to let her off that easily. “So,” he said, lifting his head again, all hint of joking absent from his expression once more, “how did you really find out all this was going on?” Midori stumbled over her words for a moment, taken aback, then she frowned, twiddling her thumbs in her lap.

“...Do you…remember Miwa?” she asked, her voice smaller than before. Hanamaki sat back up then, staring at her.

“Kageyama Miwa? Takeru’s dad, right?” he asked; she nodded. “Yeah, of course I remember her. I mean, only a little. I only ever heard about her. Never actually got to meet her.”

“Right… Well, she’s here in Tokyo,” Midori said, keeping her eyes downcast. “She…has connections with Yachi-san, apparently. We ran into each other while I was picking up some things from Yachi-san’s apartment for her.”

“Connections?” Hanamaki asked, furrowing his brows. “Like what kind of connections?”

“She told me she found Yachi-san a couple years ago and took her under her wing. Yachi-san was staying at an omega homeless shelter, but she was kicked out because she hadn’t been taking the heat suppressants they required and she ended up going into heat there. Instead of helping her through it, they just kicked her out onto the street. Miwa found her before any alphas did, thank the gods, and since she didn’t have anywhere else to go, Miwa took her in.

“The Inagawa-kai abducted her into the trafficking ring a year ago. I guess…now’s a good time to mention that Miwa is in the Yakuza, too,” Midori added, scratching her cheek. Hanamaki’s eyes widened.

“Okay, wh— So…hold on. Jesus. Give me a second.”

He set aside the papers and put his face in his hands, heaving a deep breath. What the fuck? He would really love to know who thought it would be funny to bombard his lame, boring life with abductions and Yakuza and trafficking rings. Like, how did that even happen? Who the hell just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and end up in a situation like this? He was just a middle school volleyball coach! What the fuck!

“I’m sorry,” Midori said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s a lot, but I want you to know everything I know. I’m going to take the information I have to the police, but there’s only so much they can do until someone makes a move. I can try to convince them to put you and Yachi-san in a Witness Protection programme—”

“Whoa, wait a second, just— Slow down. What?” Hanamaki raised his head again to stare at her incredulously, brows drawing together. “Witness Protection? I— No way. There’s no way I’m doing that. That’s crazy talk.”

“Hanamaki-san, please think rationally for a moment,” Midori insisted, squeezing his shoulder. “I know it’s a scary thought, but think about what we’re up against. The Yakuza are no laughing matter, and I know you didn’t want to get involved in something like this, but you are now. They’re going to come after you. If we don’t take precautions—”

“No!” Hanamaki stood up, wrenching away from Midori’s hand. He stumbled back a few steps, looking at her like she was nuts. “I can’t do that, Midori-san! I can’t just pack up my life and pretend to be someone else! That’s just— I can’t. ”

“You’re not the only one who’s in danger, Hanamaki-san,” Midori reminded him, standing up to level her defiant gaze with his. “What if they come after your friends to blackmail you?”

“What would stop them from doing that anyway to draw me out of hiding?!” Hanamaki countered, throwing his hands out in front of himself. “Face it, Midori-san. If everything you’ve told me is true, then we’re already fucked. You, me, Yachi—all of us are fucked. Changing our names and going off to live somewhere else won’t stop them. The Yakuza aren’t stupid. They’ll track us down, or they’ll do whatever it takes to bait us out if they can’t.”

He didn’t mean to yell at her so harshly. He felt a twinge of guilt at seeing her shrink back a bit, half-turning away from him as if she were ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Hanamaki sighed, and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He really needed to learn to watch his fucking mouth around omegas. He might have been a mere beta, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still be seen as a threat under certain circumstances.

“Look, just—” He bit out a sigh, waving a stiff hand in her direction. “Do what you need to do, but don’t go making decisions for me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Fuck. I need to go tell Matsukawa about what’s going on. Call me if you find out anything else.” He quickly ducked around Midori, inadvertently making her stumble a little to get out of his way, to grab his back off the bleachers and made a beeline for the door without bothering to clean up the gym. He would deal with getting chewed out for it later.

“Hanamaki-san, wait! I—”

He didn’t hear the rest of whatever Midori had to say. He had enough on his mind as it was. He needed to warn Matsukawa, now that it was glaringly obvious he couldn’t just worry about himself anymore. He felt an uncomfortably familiar itch in the back of his throat, and if he stopped by some garbage cans by the parking lot to puke up a few bloody viscaria petals, then that was his problem.

When Hanamaki got home and pounded up the stairs, he was a little put off to find that Matsukawa’s bedroom door was locked. Hanamaki furrowed his brows. Matsukawa never locked his door. In fact, neither of them every really closed their doors. Of course, Matsukawa had hid behind his more often than not lately for understandable reasons, but still, going to the effort of locking his door was strange. Hanamaki gave a hesitant knock.

“Yo, dude, can I come in?” he asked. He was met with silence for a moment before he heard the subtle squeak of the bed springs inside the room.

“...No,” came Matsukawa’s reply, his voice unmistakably ragged even just choking out that one word. Hanamaki felt his stomach drop.

“Seriously, Matsu, I need to talk to you.”

“Later.”

Hanamaki let his forehead hit the door softly, one hand pressed against it while the other rested on the doorknob.

“Please,” he said just loudly enough to carry through the wall.

More silence followed for several long moments, and after a while Hanamaki was nearly ready to resign himself to going off in search of their skeleton key, but then he heard the squeak of the bed springs again. He lifted his head and dropped his hands to his sides again just in time to hear the click of the lock give, but Matsukawa didn’t open the door for him. Hanamaki hesitated for a moment before turning the doorknob, carefully peering inside.

The first thing to hit him was the smell. The tangy, acidic smell of vomit, accompanied by the faint tinge of blood and something just slightly fragrant. His eyes were drawn to the pile of bright fuchsia on the floor at the foot of Matsukawa’s bed—a bloom of rhododendrons large enough to make a bouquet. Hanamaki felt bile rise in the back of his own throat.

“...I didn’t have time to clean up before you came back,” Matsukawa mumbled from where he sat on the floor to the side of his bed, knees drawn loosely against his chest with his arms resting on top. He didn’t look at Hanamaki. He was pale and a thin sheen of sweat wet his brow.

Hanamaki dropped his gym bag in the hallway before entering. He carefully took a seat on the floor next to Matsukawa, pressed against his side. Matsukawa didn’t complain, though he did throw Hanamaki a glance from the corners of his eyes. The beta pursed his lips.

“You don’t…have to be ashamed of it, you know?” he began softly. “It’s not your fault, and there’s nothing you need to be ashamed of, anyway.”

“I wish that was true,” Matsukawa muttered into his arms. Hanamaki’s gaze hardened and he nudged his shoulder against the other’s.

“Hey, it is true. Would I ever lie to you?” he asked, knowing damn well how pointless that question was.

“Yes,” Matsukawa answered without hesitation, but Hanamaki felt a hint of success in hearing the barely there huff of amusement. “You would lie for a corn chip.”

“Hurtful, but true,” Hanamaki agreed, offering a small smile. Matsukawa breathed deeply through his nose, then let it out in a long, drawn-out sigh as he leaned his body into Hanamaki’s side and rested his head on the beta’s shoulder. Hanamaki propped his own head atop Matsukawa’s.

“Flowers taste so gross,” the alpha drawled. “I don’t recommend it.” Hanamaki bit his tongue against the sarcastic retort he wanted to give about knowing the feeling.

“You sure? That salad over there looked kinda tasty,” he joked instead, chuckling at the disgusted groan Matsukawa gave. “Hey, but, jokes aside, I do have something kinda important to talk to you about.”

Matsukawa lifted his head, casting Hanamaki a curious glance. The beta took a deep breath of his own, turning to stare at the wall in front of them as he talked.

“Midori came to see me at the gym,” he said. “She…found out about some seriously messed up shit. About the whole Hagimura thing.”

“What kinda messed up shit?”

“Shit like he’s in the Yakuza,” he began. “So now they’re royally pissed off at me and want me dead, and they’re gonna try to abduct that omega girl again. Oh, and remember Midori’s ex? She’s in town, and also part of another Yakuza group and tipped off Midori about how deep in the shit we are, so there’s that.” Matsukawa was quiet for a moment before speaking again.

“Fuck,” he said simply. Hanamaki scoffed.

“Yeah.”

“...So what do we do?”

“Hell if I know,” Hanamaki said, sighing as he lifted a hand to run through his hair. “I’m sorry, dude. I had no idea all this shit was gonna happen. I fucked up bad. ” He felt Matsukawa shrug beside him.

“You were bound to get into a messed up situation like this sooner or later,” he said. Hanamaki turned to gawk at him, opening his mouth to complain about the harsh comment. “You’re a magnet for trouble.”

“I am not. I’m a paragon of innocence and good intentions.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Matsukawa said, peering up at him with a half-smile before it faded into something more somber. “But seriously, what do you plan to do about all this?”

“ Seriously, I don’t know. Midori mentioned something about Witness Protection, but…”

“Really?” Matsukawa asked. Hanamaki nodded. Then, after a moment, Matsukawa added, “...Are you gonna do it?”

“Hell no,” Hanamaki said immediately, throwing an incredulous look at his friend. “Obviously not. That’s just—no.”

“Well, you gotta do something. Go to the cops?”

“Midori’s already got that covered. Just— Fuck, I don’t know, Issei. I really just don’t.”

Hanamaki folded his arms over his knees and dropped his head into them. He didn’t have a single clue as to what he was supposed to do. There was no easy way out of this situation. His dumbass bravado had put himself and all his friends in danger and there was nothing he could do about it. As if it weren’t bad enough that he had to deal with the ever growing tension amoung his friends because of something as stupid as a terminal flower disease that affected less than one percent of the population and chose them to screw over, but now this. It was enough to drive a man crazy.

“...You called me by my name,” Matsukawa said then, and the words were so out of the blue that Hanamaki felt his brows furrow as he lifted his head a little to glance at the other.

“...What?”

“You said my name,” Matsukawa repeated, a thoughtful look on his face as he stared at nothing in particular. “You never do that.” Hanamaki swallowed. Had he? He didn’t even notice. He looked down at his feet from between his arms again, feeling his ears burn a little hotter than usual.

“...Sorry,” he muttered. Dammit. He needed to get a grip on himself before he slipped up like that again.

Matsukawa was right; they never used each other’s given names. It was just one of those unspoken rules of their friendship. They were best friends, as close as friends could be, but they had established a certain boundary to that friendship a long time ago. They were no strangers to jokingly flirting with each other for as long as they’d known one another, just for shits and giggles. It was never serious, until it was serious for Hanamaki, and he pushed a little too far during a game of Truth or Dare during their third year of high school that had gotten a bit too heated. It was awkward for everyone involved, even more so when Matsukawa excused himself for the night and left Oikawa’s house to walk home. Hanamaki had lain awake all night on Oikawa’s couch after that, mentally beating the shit out of himself for being so stupid.

They were just friends. They were always, only just friends. Best friends, inseparable friends, but just friends.

“Don’t be.”

Hanamaki froze.

“It’s fine…Takahiro.”

His stomach lurched, lungs convulsing for a heart-stopping moment. He needed to get out of there and go take his medication. He couldn’t stay here for a second longer without puking up an embarrassing truth all over Matsukawa’s bedroom floor.

He got to up and tried to walk across the room to the door as casually as he could on his shaky feet.

“Hey—what’s up? You okay?” Matsukawa called after him.

“I’m fine! Gotta take a shit!” he responded from the hallway, where he quickened his pace toward the bathroom.

He managed to close the door, lock it, and wrench up the lid of the toilet just in time to expel his guts. The fuzzy, disgusting texture of fully formed stems plunked down into the water below, a thin cloud of blood seeping out into the water and turning it a milky red. He didn’t let himself linger on the sight for long once the wave of nausea passed. He closed the lid, stood up on unsteady legs, and opened the mirror cabinet above the sink to find his pills. He washed down two in one go with tap water, then braced himself against the counter as he stared at his reflection.

Gods, he was so screwed.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Monday’s therapy appointment came around sooner than Oikawa would have liked. After a full day of recording, all he wanted to do was go home, make some tea to soothe his throat, and sleep. He almost did just that, nearly convincing himself that he could just blow off the appointment and forget about going back to therapy altogether, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, not after he had told Shimizu about his plans and she had put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m proud of you” with so much sincerity.

No, he would never admit to the way that simple gesture had made him flush and his eyes feel all watery. He valued his manager’s opinion more than he would ever let on.

He sat in his car in the parking lot for longer than strictly necessary, staring at the entrance and taking a deep breath. He shouldn’t have felt so apprehensive about this, but he couldn’t help it. Maybe he would have been a little more at ease if he were going to see Doctor Ono. At least Oikawa knew him, and that man already knew everything about his past. This Doctor Kuguri, however, was a complete stranger to him, and he was sure he would have to start all over from square one before they could get anywhere.

With one last sigh, he finally got out of the car and went inside, informing the receptionist of his appointment. He was instructed to take a seat in the waiting room and he tried not to fidget the entire time. He found a stack of magazines to busy himself with, but there was nothing interesting in them. They were all last year’s editions of uninspired interior decor and cooking recipes. There was a rack of mental health pamphlets on the wall, but he didn’t even bother with those. He barely even wanted to be here, let alone spend his time anywhere else reading about symptoms of early onset Alzheimer’s and the comorbidities of anxiety and depression.

Finally, the door that led back to the offices opened and a smiling assistant waved him back.

“Sorry for the wait! Kuguri-sensei is ready to see you now,” she said as Oikawa stood up and followed with a polite nod. He was led to a familiar office, but he found that, once he stepped inside, the room was hardly recognizable. All of Ono’s quirky little decorations had been replaced by a minimalist design, albeit not without the added, unsettling touch of various little snake motifs scattered about. Oikawa stood stiffly in the middle of the room once the door closed behind him, staring at the head of spiky, light brown hair seemingly finishing up his notes in another client’s file. When he finally looked up, Oikawa startled a bit and leaned into a rigid bow.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kuguri-sensei,” he greeted as he straightened himself again. Kuguri hummed and gestured for him to take a seat with a flick of his wrist. Oikawa did so with reluctance, finding it difficult to relax into the firm, leather upholstery that was so different from the plush furniture Ono used to keep around.

“It’s my pleasure, Oikawa-san,” the therapist returned, flipping the file closed and tucking it away into a locked drawer of his desk. At least that much was the same, but it was a small comfort in light of all the ways this place had changed. Oikawa kept his hands in his lap, palms pressed together and back straight. “So, you used to be Ono-sensei’s patient?”

“Yes,” Oikawa answered with a nod. “A few years ago. He…helped me through a traumatic experience from my childhood.”

“Yes, I read about that,” Kuguri responded with a decidedly monotonous tone as he retrieved a different file from his cabinet. Oikawa pursed his lips. It was only natural that Ono would have passed along her records to someone who appeared to be her successor, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. “A teacher from your junior high school. Is that why you’re seeking out therapy again? Did you have another similar experience?” Oikawa swallowed. He wasn’t sure how much he appreciated this…blunt approach.

“I—no… That’s not it.” He took a deep breath and let it out sharply, staring at one of the shelves against the wall. “Honestly, I’m only here because my manager insisted I needed to talk to someone. She thinks…she thinks I’m getting myself into some sort of rut that’s going to get in the way of my career.”

“And you don’t share that opinion?” Kuguri extrapolated, arching a brow at him before lowering his gaze back to Oikawa’s file.

“No, not really,” the alpha responded curtly. “I think things are going rather well, actually.” He was pretty proud of how confident he sounded saying that.

“Is that why you haven’t put out any new music this year?” Kuguri inquired with an air of indifference, but the words still felt like knives digging into his skin. Oikawa narrowed his eyes.

“I’m working on an album,” he said slowly, pointedly. Kuguri hummed again, flipping a page in the folder.

“Most artists can put out two or three albums in a year,” he stated. “Not to mention you haven’t been performing at many concerts lately, either.”

“I’m sorry, what does that have to do with anything?” Oikawa asked with a tight-lipped smile, leaning forward a bit in his seat. “Last time I checked, you’re a therapist, and I’m the idol. I think I understand the creative process that goes behind making music a little bit better than you do. No offense.” He tacked on this last as little more than an afterthought. Kuguri looked about as unfazed by his sharp tongue as a brick wall, which was only mildly infuriating. He closed the folder in front of him and folded his hands on his desk, giving Oikawa his full attention.

“So you’re saying that you’re not struggling with your career?” he asked. Oikawa’s brow twitched.

“...You know what? I think this was a mistake,” he said, rising from his seat. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Sit down, Oikawa-san.”

The words made him freeze in place before he could even turn toward the door. Oikawa stared at the therapist, mouth agape, and felt himself slowly sit back down. Kuguri spoke so casually, and yet there was something in the tone of his voice—no, the undertones. The sub-vocals. He found himself sniffing at the air, trying to catch a whiff of anything to indicate the other’s rank, but the room was decidedly void of any particular scent. Odd, Oikawa thought. Even betas tended to carry a scent, however subtle. Regardless, even if Kuguri were an alpha, he shouldn’t have been able to command another alpha like that. That was just preposterous.

“Apologies,” the therapist said, lifting a hand to his face so he could remove his glasses and fold them to tuck into his jacket pocket. “I hate to be so stern, but I’m not in the habit of letting clients walk away before they get the help they need. And you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need help, so tell me. If not your career, what are you struggling with?”

Oikawa was still in shock from what had just happened, but he found himself beginning to speak without really thinking about it.

“My friend is dying,” he said, his throat tight around the words as if he didn’t want them to leave his mouth. He really, really didn’t. “He has Hanahaki. He loves me and I don’t love him back.” Thankfully, he neglected to mention their shared status as alphas. He didn’t feel compelled to spill all of his secrets to this man. Kuguri nodded thoughtfully.

“And you feel responsible for his condition?” he surmised; Oikawa nodded. “What else?” Oikawa blinked and shook his head slightly, as if he thought he’d misheard.

“...What else?”

“There’s more conflict you’re not acknowledging,” Kuguri said. “Something more than your guilt.”

“How do you…?”

“Your scent,” Kuguri offered, though that explanation offered little in the way of clarification. Luckily, he continued. “It’s rife with discord. You’re carrying a heavy burden because of your friend, yes, but grief smells different than denial. There’s more you’re not telling me, but more importantly, you’re not admitting it to yourself.”

…How did he get all of that from Oikawa’s scent? They weren’t even sitting that close to each other. With anyone else, Oikawa would just barely be able to make out someone’s rank from this distance, though Kuguri seemed to be a curious exception. He had heard of scent-hounds who could track down people for miles, but to have such an acute sense of smell that Kuguri could make out the subconscious emotions in his pheromones? That was unheard of, surely.

“So?” Oikawa blinked out of his stupor when Kuguri spoke again, staring at him wordlessly. “What are you hiding from yourself?”

What a question. If Oikawa knew what he was hiding from himself, would it really be hidden? But then, he knew that this was all metaphorical. He knew as well as Kuguri did that this figurative “secret” was something he was already aware of, but he refused to give it any substance.

“I—” He swallowed. The words were bubbling to the surface, but still he fought them. Why was it so difficult to say out loud? What did he have to lose by confessing to someone who was contractually obligated to keep their conversations confidential? It wasn’t as if anything would come of it no matter how hard he prayed. “...I want to play volleyball again.”

As soon as he said it, he felt silly. It was silly, to think that there was any reason to keep holding on so tightly to something he couldn’t have. Even if he dropped everything to take up the sport again, he would only be setting himself up for failure. He could never play again, not seriously, not without damaging his leg beyond repair. And then what? He wouldn’t be able to play volleyball, and he wouldn’t be able to perform. He would have nothing. Sure, he could keep recording music, but that had all the makings of a miserable, unfulfilling life, even more so than the one he was currently living.

Kuguri hummed, nodding his head slowly.

“You used to play in high school,” he noted. “You had a promising future on the Argentina National Volleyball team. The world was shocked when you gave it up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Oikawa said, feeling the resentment that tinged his words like a white-hot knife twisting in his gut. “I injured myself too badly. I can never play on the court again.”

“So you say,” Kuguri commented, leaning forward on his arms that were braced against the desk. “And yet you have no issue performing intensive and complex choreography on a stage.” Oikawa furrowed his brows.

“So?”

“ So, the way I see it, there’s more holding you back than just your injury,” Kuguri said. “I’ll be candid and admit that I’ve followed your work for some time now. I used to play volleyball, too. Nohebi Academy. We never had the opportunity to play against your school. Not that I can say I entirely minded. Aoba Jо̄sai was a beast back in our day. We wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Oikawa couldn’t help the distant sense of pride those words caused to swell in him. Even after all these years, he still held his old high school in high regard. They held their place in the top four schools of the prefecture for a long time, with no small thanks to the powerful team Oikawa helped create when he attended. They could have climbed all the way to the top if they weren’t constantly stuck in the shadow of Shiratorizawa Academy.

He frowned at the memory of their rivalry with that particular powerhouse school. Ushijima Wakatoshi had always been the bane of his existence throughout junior high and then high school. It only stung worse when that oaf managed to achieve everything Oikawa had only dreamed of. He went on to play professionally for the Japan National Volleyball team, featuring in the V-League Division. Rumour had it that he would soon be off to play for Orzeł Warszawa in Poland. Fucking prick.

“I’ve also seen you perform at concerts,” Kuguri continued, far from privy to the inner turmoil those memories of volleyball were stirring up inside his patient, “and I have to say, I don’t see much difference in the effort you put into dancing as compared to how you used to play.”

“What are you suggesting?” Oikawa said, snapping out of his wandering thoughts long enough to cross his arms over his chest and put one leg over the other. Kuguri remained steadfastly unaffected by his impudence.

“I’m suggesting that whatever obstacle you’re struggling with concerning your passion for volleyball has less to do with your injury and more to do with something deeper. Your volleyball career came to an end after your accident, and I think that’s weighing on you more heavily than you realize. In my professional opinion, you’re not stuck because you have no choice. You’re stuck because you’re afraid of failure and disappointing those who look up to you.

“You want to play volleyball again, but what if you have another accident? You’re dissatisfied with your life as an idol, but you can’t bear to let down your fans. You think you might not be good enough for the sport anymore, but you can’t keep up with the pressures of providing constant entertainment. You’re at a stalemate with yourself.”

Oikawa couldn’t help but feel a little violated. How in the hell was this man, someone he had just met and had barely spoken about himself to, able to analyze him so thoroughly with just a few observations? How did he manage to come to such a succinct conclusion on so feeble a foundation? Oikawa knew he had all of his records from his previous sessions with Ono, but even so, his powers of deduction were frankly a little bit frightening.

“I won’t keep you much longer since I can tell you’re uncomfortable confronting these truths about yourself,” Kuguri said, grabbing a pen to jot down a few notes in Oikawa’s folder. “I’ll schedule you in for another appointment next Monday, same time. In the meantime, I’d like you to do a little homework for me.” He finished off his notes, capped the pen again, and stowed away the file before returning his attention to Oikawa. “Come up with a list of pros and cons for both options: continuing your career as an idol, or going back to volleyball. And Oikawa-san, if there’s anything else weighing on your mind that could be influencing how you’re viewing your current situation, consider bringing it to our next appointment.”

Oikawa left the mental health clinic at a complete loss for words. He felt as though he hadn’t really talked about much of anything, and yet he came away from it knowing that, somehow, Kuguri had read him like an open book. It was unsettling, to say the least. And he still couldn’t wrap his head around Kuguri’s commanding sub-vocals despite carrying no distinctive scent, nor how sensitive the man’s own sense of smell seemed to be. It was all just so… weird.

Nonetheless, in spite of his reservations about Kuguri’s character, he intended on fulfilling the little assignment he’d been given. He figured it would be a good way to solidify to himself and Kuguri that going back to playing volleyball was not an option. Why he wanted to prove that so badly was yet to be determined, but he felt he needed to all the same. Maybe it was so he could justify to himself why he’d let so many years pass him by doing something he didn’t love nearly as much as volleyball. No part of him wanted to face the thought that he’d wasted all this time.

As for other things weighing on his mind, well… He wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about any of that to Kuguri just yet.