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yasumasahh · 4 years ago

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AO3 | SFW | 🎵 (Listen)

Relationship: Post-Timeskip!Iwaizumi Hajime x F!Reader Rating: Safe for Work Content Warnings: Manga Spoilers, Iwaizumi POV, Oikawa POV, Heavy Angst, Hurt/NO Comfort, Alzheimer's Disease, Depression, Grief, Flashbacks Summary: He never expected to fall in love with a linguist major while in California, just as you never expected to be diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's at 29. Word Count: 4,970

A/N: Early submission for @rintarhoes But My Feelings Collab! This was originally going to be a completely different scene but it ended up not feeling right. This story came about and, after getting feedback on it, I was promptly called "a writer of depths of disparity and misery like none other have ever known." They won't talk to me about my projects anymore. I can't fault them.

Autumn 2032

Tucked inside of this neat little envelope provided by the hospital staff is the last letter you will write him. It sits heavy in his palm with the shaky lettering of his name in your first language, the permanent reminder that you’re disappearing.

Even if you’re safe in the building behind him, still breathing, still there, you’re slipping from him, just as the doctor said you would nine years ago.

It’s not long until you’re gone that he'll find the strength to read it.

Five Months Later

The letter, still unopened and unread, stays with him wherever he goes. It’s a constant reminder of what’s happened, a constant piece of you that he can keep close. Everyone knows better than to bring you up, save for Oikawa and the therapist you two used to share.

“Couples in trouble aren’t the only ones who should see a therapist. We have a good thing and we want it to keep going, right? It’s never a bad idea to strengthen our communication!” “Of course you would say that, Dr. Iwaizumi. You’re fluent in five languages and are learning another. Your life revolves around communication.” “Tsk. You just like hearing your name attached to my title. Anyway, think of it as maintenance. You don’t wanna wait until there’s a breakdown, right? It’s better to take care of it like you’re supposed to.” “Okay, okay. Go ahead and make the appointment. But you’re damn right, I like hearing my name with your title. It’s your name now, too.”

He alone carries these memories, the memories of you and him, of the life you had together. He alone carries the weight of your love, of his love for you. Just like your letter, it stays with him wherever he goes.

It was a hot summer day, just before the start of his first term at UCI. You were on the phone just outside of the cafe, speaking animatedly to the person on the other end of the line, talking about something or other—he can’t remember because he wasn’t paying attention back then. Not really. It wasn’t until you started listing languages you were fluent in and which you still wanted to learn that he had started listening. You caught him staring and offered a wide smile as though you two were the best of friends.

While he went inside to get a drink, he hoped you wouldn’t be there upon his return, that you would’ve left, that you would've afforded him the opportunity to quietly contemplate the cute girl who had caught his eye, the same one who had said that she’s fluent in Japanese. Of course, that didn’t happen. Off your phone, you were reclining in your chair, looking as though you were waiting for him. As soon as your eyes landed on Iwaizumi, your smile turned breathtaking and you invited him over.

Just like that, you had entered his life, changing it permanently.

A Ph.D. Applied Linguistics candidate in your second year of post-grad. You were fluent in English, obviously, Japanese, and Castilian Spanish, and were in the process of learning Arabic. It was easy spending time with you, something he attributed to your Japanese, though he now understands it was a part of your charm. Exceptionally skilled at reading people, you knew just what to say and how to act to make others comfortable, though you never had to do so with Iwaizumi. Being in your company was comfort enough, providing a sense of peace he never thought he’d need.

Two years. It took him two years for him to fall in love—well, a better way to describe it would be to say that it took two years for him to realize he was in love with you.

Looking back on it, he can’t be upset that it took him so long to figure it out. It was still time spent with you, spent enjoying you and making you smile.

Upon graduation, he returned to Japan, having received an offer to train with the national team thanks to recommendations made by Ushijima and Utsui. The two of you maintained contact, communicating over the phone, over handwritten letters, over video calls. All the same, there was only so much communication that can be done with more than 8,000 kilometers and a sixteen hour time difference separating you two.

Looking back on it, he regrets the time spent away from you. It was only eighteen months, not that much time in the grand scheme of things—as he justified to himself back in 2020—but too much time considering the amount of time he would actually get with you.

It’s something he still struggles with reconciling now that he returns to an empty bed at the end of each day.

Three Months Later

The facility always smells like various cleaners, always a shock to the senses despite coming each day. Better this than a virus that could run rampant among immuno-compromised patients, as witnessed during the pandemic.

The doctors glance his way and busy themselves, answering the question he’s yet to ask. But he asks nonetheless.

“How’s she doing?”

The answer they give him is one they must be familiar with giving, but one that’s undoubtedly difficult to answer each time.

Iwaizumi knows before the words tumble from their lips. It’s written across their faces. It’s heavy in his coat pocket, heavy in his heart at the memory of your first night here months ago, of the day that came before. The one where you didn’t recognize him, where you didn’t recognize your home, where you couldn’t communicate what you needed or what you wanted. The one where there was nothing he could do to comfort you.

He still visits each day, still talks to you about his day, about Oikawa and his reluctance to retire from volleyball, about how veterans of his first Team Japan still ask about you. He continues to read to you from your favorite—er, what were your favorite poetry books, though he’s certain he’s butchering some of the poems in other languages. He changes your flowers once a week, making certain to care for them as you had once shown him.

Some days he’s able to spark your memory, even if but for a moment. You make it abundantly clear how much you miss him, how sorry you are that you can’t fulfill your promises to him. It comes in the form of correcting his pronunciation or humming the godzilla theme with him. Those are the days he looks forward to, the ones where he can see you. Those are the days that break his heart, when the love in your eyes is replaced with fear and confusion, when he loses you yet again.

He knows the day is coming when you’ll be far past recognition, when he’ll no longer see your smile, no longer see the affection that you once held. He knows that day is coming when this will be another memory that belongs to Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi alone.

Some days, he wonders whether there’ll come a point where it’s too much, where his heart can’t take it anymore, where he’ll listen to those who dare tell him that you’re already gone, that visiting doesn’t make a difference anymore. Some days he believes that his limit is coming sooner rather than later.

But the truth is that he still won’t abandon you. The truth is that the sliver of hope that resides in his heart is enough to keep him going, even when all of him knows there is no saving you.

Five Months Later

The day he married you, the sakura had started to fall. It marks change, marks the ending and new beginnings simultaneously. He had believed the hanafubuki to be a sign of hope, of the beginning of his life with you, the promise of always having you by his side. After your diagnosis, he would look back on that moment and wonder whether it was an omen, a foretelling of the ending to come.

It had started slow, almost insignificant, coinciding with an intense set of expectations and responsibilities, either of you traveling for work while you were in the process of being published in two separate journals. Both of you had chalked it up to stress.

Blanking on a word that was clearly on the tip of your tongue. Forgetting where you had placed an item that you had just put down. Forgetting names when you always had an exceptional ability to remember the name of someone you had interacted with only once. Losing track of the conversation mid-thought.

The therapist attributed it to stress, just as you did, just as he did. They recommended little reminders—alarms, post-it notes, vibrant ribbons to grab your attention, multiple planners and calendars placed around the home. Iwaizumi took it upon himself to create reminders in his phone so that he could remind you himself.

Two months had passed and it only got worse. No longer had you the additional stress from the journals, yet the lapses became more frequent, ultimately culminating into an accident that prompted a series of scans and that diagnosis. Neither of you were alone that day, having Team Japan there to offer support because it was you. Undeniably charming, impossible not to love. You brightened each room you entered, reminded everyone of the little blessings to be found each day, leaving everyone with a smile on their face.

And still, that night you both felt incredibly alone and incredibly scared. That first night was hell—not that any of the subsequent days were any better. It was spent desperately trying to absorb the information thrown at you, ending with you curled against his chest while soft sobs punctuated the silence that threatened to consume you both.

You started writing letters again, despite the fact that he wasn’t leaving you. Once a week for nine years until you couldn’t anymore. “Entrusting him with your heart,” you would say, but you both knew that it was your way of giving him as much as you could before… Well.

This.

A phone call as he travels to visit with you again. The morning sun blinds him momentarily as he answers via Bluetooth.

He should stop driving. He should pull off to the side of the road. He should—

“Iwaizumi-san? I’m sorry to report that your wife—”

He should do something because the world is slipping away from him and his vision is clouded by tears as he feels himself being hollowed out.

It’s a miracle that he made it. They find him on his knees in your now empty room, still decorated with the flowers from yesterday, with the books he made certain they had, with his letter to you firmly placed on the nightstand. There’s a vibrating in his pocket but he can’t find it in him to make it stop.

“Haji?” “Hm?” “Can I rave about these so-called ‘untranslatable words’ with you? It’ll be but a moment of your time.” “You never take a moment when talking language, doll. But go ahead. Tell me all about them.” “It’s kinda a point of contention among linguists—” “What is?” “The existence of ‘untranslatable phrases’ in the English language. The idea that there are words that exist, beyond our ability to translate. It’s false, obviously, as they can be translated, even if it takes a more detailed translation. Just because a word in one language has no counterpart in another, specifically English, we dare call it untranslatable.” “Okay. I’m following. Is this what you wanted to tell me?” “No, no. You know me! I like providing context. Anyway, what’s so interesting about these words is that they describe sensations and experiences nearly universal with varying degrees of importance depending on the culture. Eh. It’s more like—what a given culture has paid more attention to, for one reason or another.” “You’re starting to lose me, doll.”

“Iwaizumi? Bud?”

He recognizes the voice, but can’t quite place it. Everything is engulfed by a fog that numbs him, that separates him from his senses, keeping him in a prolonged state of limbo, a state of reality wherein he doesn’t exist.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Since he arrived an hour and a half ago. When I made the call on her behalf, I expected someone else.”

“Yeah. The person you called—”

“Oikawa-san?”

“Yeah. Him. He’s working on flying in from Argentina, so he called us.”

Nothing makes sense right now. Not the voice he’s known for the last twenty-three years, the one he hasn’t heard in a couple of months, nor the soft voice of someone he only ever sees in passing, only ever here. He’s astonishingly, astoundingly, devastatingly

e m p t y .

Everything feels weighted, sluggish, like his nerves are taking their sweet time relaying input to his brain. And he can’t find it in him to care. He understands what you meant, what that “untranslatable word” signifies.

It was a lie that he didn’t realize he told, but it doesn’t matter now. Any misconception is left by the wayside now that he feels that pain firsthand.

“It’s how we have so many words related to sakura here. Or how there’s specific words to describe each phase of snow in Inuktitut. These words exist in these languages because it’s something we experience often, something that has significance to our cultures.” “Okay, that makes more sense. But is that what you wanted to share with me?” “Not quite. What I find to be particularly enchanting are all the phrases dedicated to describing various points in love. Can I share some with you?” “Go for it, doll.” “Fuck, I love you, Haji.” “Is that one of them?” “Haj-iiii!” “Sorry. Go ahead.” “Thank you. Going back to Inuktitut, there’s ‘iktsuarpok,’ which describes that feeling you get when you’re waiting for someone to arrive. More than anticipation, enough that you find yourself looking out of the window or popping your head out of the front door to check if they’re nearby.” “I think that’s what it felt like while I waited for you to come into my life. I was waiting for something and it was only appeased once you asked me to join you.” “Who knew that Iwaizumi Hajime was so cheesy when in love?” “You, for one. What’s the next one?” “Norway has ‘forelsket.’ It’s that giddiness that you feel when you start to fall in love, when you think about them or when you get to spend time with them. And there’s ‘onsra,’ which is almost like the Boro contrast to koi no yokan. Instead of an inevitability before you walk into love, it’s the inevitability that a love won’t last.” “Huh. I wonder if that’s what Kusokawa meant when he was talking about his last relationship. Okay, then. What’s the one that strikes you the most?” “‘Ya’aburnee.’ It’s Arabic, something I had come across a couple of years ago but never really looked into. Its literal translation is ‘you bury me.’” “That’s morbid, don’t you think?” “I guess? It’s that pain, that feeling you get, deep in your being when you consider living without your love. It’s the wish that you die before them to spare yourself the pain of living without them because it’s certain to be unbearable. It’s typically incomplete in that form, but I digress. I… I feel it, in my soul. The possibility that I’ll outlive you? It terrifies me.” “I think I get what you mean. I wouldn’t want to live without you either, but I’d rather spare you that pain than to go first.”

The acrid smell of Matsukawa’s shitty cigarettes brings him to the brink of consciousness, pulling him away from the memory of you. He hates this—hates that his escape is the burden of these memories while you left without any. To hear you speak, he has to dive into the depths of his memory, has to see the life you two had together, the life cut short. Not even forty and he’s achingly, staggeringly alone.

“Oikawa’s flight just took off. He should be getting in sometime tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Hanamaki sighs. “Where do you think we should go? I’m not sure that taking him home’s such a good idea.”

“I don’t know. I can’t think right now with how hungry I am. Hey—Iwaizumi. You there?”

One of them nudges him, tries to get him to speak, but he can’t find his voice. Lifting his eyes in acknowledgment, he can nearly feel the relief that flows from them both.

“That’s progress,” Matsukawa says with just a hint of disbelief. “It’s been a while since you’ve had anything to eat, right?”

The words won’t come and his voice is lost, left somewhere that only you would know.

“Shit. Alright. Going off the assumption that you haven’t eaten since six this morning, it’s safe to say that you need food just as much as we do. Makki—there’s a little ramen place not too far from here. Think you could get us there?”

“I know just the one you’re thinking of,” Hanamaki sighs. It falls silent before he hears Hanamaki say, “Hang in there, Iwaizumi.”

Six Months Later

Things are… better. Depending on how you choose to look at it. For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, Iwaizumi is doing better. For Oikawa, he’s not. Then again, Oikawa’s been around long enough to know better.

While you had been writing letters for him, you had also written letters for each of your friends, each of his friends. You even wrote one for whichever nurse would be on duty when you passed. They served as goodbyes, dedicated with love as could be expected from you. But they also included instructions. Specifically, instructions on how to help Iwaizumi, to make certain that he’s not alone, that he knows he’s loved.

They serve as a testament to how well you knew him—predicting how he’d react, when he would want to be left alone, when he shouldn’t be left alone. His friends help keep the memory of you alive simply by honoring your wishes as diligently as they are. But it’s not you.

It doesn’t lessen the pain, doesn’t lessen the yearning.

The only way he can get Oikawa to leave him alone—by which he means staying on the opposite side of the house—is by telling him that he’s going to read the letter. The one he’s been intentionally neglecting.

The edges of the envelope are soft, worn down from constantly being on his person. Barely sealed, he’s able to delicately open it, maintaining its condition as best as possible. The contents are short, succinct if only because you were struggling with writing it in the first place, both emotionally and physically. It doesn’t fail to tear into that gaping wound, doesn’t fail to leave him open and bleeding out.

And Oikawa’s there for him when he needs it the most, whether by his own instinct or by your guidance, he doesn't know.

This pain is cataclysmic, but he would still rather deal with it himself than have you live through a second of this.

One Year After Your Death

Oikawa watches as Iwa-chan works up the nerve to enter what used to be your office. He’s only entered it once after your passing, not that Oikawa can particularly blame him. Of any other room in your shared dwelling, this one is nothing but you.

But almost everything else is packed, save for some essentials, the big pieces of furniture, and your office. It’s time.

As soon as the door is pushed open, the thick musk of dust that’s built up over the years engulfs them both, even as Oikawa waits in the hallway. As the dust settles, the subtle notes of jasmine reach his nose, reminding him of the pressed flowers you liked to keep. Iwa-chan stiffens as he enters the room and Oikawa knows it’s because he smells it, too.

What little traces of you that remain exist wholly untouched in this room. He feels for his best friend, he does. Bad enough to imagine what it would be like were Oikawa in his shoes, if he had lost his partner as Iwa-chan lost you.

That word you had mentioned in your letter—what was it?

It takes quite a while before either of them can start. Oikawa takes up gingerly packing your items as Iwa-chan goes through them, cherishing each piece. He’s not certain whether Iwa-chan will ever truly recover from this, though there has been some progress made, a semblance of returning to normal.

The thing is—normal for Iwa-chan has included you for nearly half of his life. Oikawa will sometimes find him preparing to visit you, either having forgotten what’s happened or too emotionally spent to realize that it’s not a part of his routine anymore. Sometimes he’ll pick up the phone and dial the facility, hanging up once they answer.

But the spark that used to be in Iwa-chan’s eyes is slowly coming back, though it’s muted, nothing he’s ever seen in all the years that they’ve known each other. It doesn’t surprise him, not when he considers the relationship you two had.

When Iwaizumi had first brought you to meet Oikawa, he was surprised. Sure, Iwa-chan had introduced other love interests to Oikawa before, but never had he flown them across the world to meet him. Never before had one of his partners looked at him the way you did—as though you had found the most beautiful creation in all the cosmos.

Hours pass like this—reminiscing over random memories associated with almost any item, some happy, some sad, while Oikawa packs up box after box. It’s when he gets to your desk that confusion dances across Iwa-chan’s face.

“Iwa-chan?”

He turns in the direction of Oikawa’s voice, but his eyes are focused on the drawer he just opened. There’s the soft shuffling of papers shifting against one another as he pulls out an envelope, pristine, looking as though it were placed there earlier today.

On the face of the envelope is addressed to Iwa-chan in precise kanji that he knows to be yours. This is a letter that you had written him from quite a few years ago—the one Oikawa had received but three years prior had started in hiragana, but was forfeited after several basic mistakes, transitioning to English. But the letter that is being unfolded by Iwa-chan right now is a gift from the linguist that he had fallen in love with from either before or shortly after your diagnosis.

“Do you want a moment?” The question drips from him, a worrisome mixture of hesitance and anxiety, and a silence quickly builds, one that starts to border deafening. Iwa-chan is looking at the letter, not quite reading, not quite seeing anything past your careful script. It lasts a moment longer before—

“I, uh—yeah. Yeah, that’d be… good.”

With a small nod, he turns on his heel and leaves your study. Once in the hallway, he leans against the wall adjacent the door and slides down, feeling the residual grief that has seeped into the bones of this house that’s no longer a home. He waits for the sound—any sound, really—of his friend needing him, waits for a break from the stifling quiet, the one that has him praying to whoever will listen that he never experience this kind of pain.

My dearest Hajime,

It’s been three weeks since my diagnosis and I am writing this because we both know what it means.

I’m scared, Haji. I’m terrified of losing my memories—the important ones. I couldn’t care less about misplacing my keys or my books. I couldn’t care less about getting lost in the city that I’ve called home for the last two years. I couldn’t care less about any of the minuscule symptoms of the early stages.

I’m scared—absolutely petrified, my love—of losing the important memories. That night we were both studying, bickering over which version of Blade Runner was best (we both know I won that argument, thank you!). When we went stargazing and you told me all about Tōru’s theories surrounding aliens and his fascination with the cosmos. That one guy from my department who kept asking me out, making you get all defensive and anxious until you got fed up and asked me out yourself. The way your lips felt the first time we kissed and the way my hand fits perfectly in yours. The moment I asked you to marry me and I got to watch as Iwaizumi.exe stopped working (only for you to pull out a ring from your pocket).

I don’t want to lose these memories, so precious and dear to me. I don’t want to lose you.

Calling you over to join me on 13 September 2016 was the best decision I have ever made—and you and I both know, I’ve made some pretty amazing decisions over the years. Nothing compares to the moment you stepped into my life and changed everything. It was as though I had been living in a world without color or music or literature, something I wasn’t even aware I was missing out on. And you came onto the scene and everything became so vibrant. Music became complex and intricate, utterly enchanting. Poetry had never sounded better, had never carried such evocative emotions.

You are the best thing to have ever happened to me. There is so much love in your heart—even if you show it through aggression—that pushes you forward. You have drive and compassion that continually inspires me and motivates me to be a better person, if only for you. There isn’t a single part of you that I’m not desperately, hopelessly in love with—even the things I “hate” about you are things I adore, though you will still never catch me waking up with you at five in the morning to go on a run. I’m sorry, Hajime. That’s just the way it is.

You’re probably wondering why I didn’t give you this letter sooner. Shit. I’m wondering why I’m not going to give this to you sooner. I think it’s because I know that at one point, my letters and my communication are going to become less coherent as I start to lose cognizance. Knowing me, I’ll keep this up as long as I can—you know how much of a fan I am for the written word—and that at some point, I’m going to give you the last letter I can ever write.

I can’t speak to its eloquence or its contents, but I know that I want my last words to be ones that I am cognizant of. I want to choose my last words just as much as I have chosen every single aspect of my life, and I’m confident in choosing to keep the letter in my desk drawer because I know you.

I know that you are adamant that I need my space. I know that you respect my space. I also know that you vividly remember the morning after you had tried to help me by organizing my office—the very office that had my research carefully organized and spread out in my mess. I don’t think I’ve seen you that scared since. You won’t come in here until you have to. So this piece of me will be waiting here for you when it seems as though I have nothing left to say.

We both know that’s not true.

There is not a single regret that I hold throughout the entirety of my life—not the excruciatingly embarrassing childhood memories that almost seem like bad dreams; not the pains of adolescence that we shall not name; not the trips, stumbles, and falls that riddled my life. I regret none of it because it led me to you. It made me who I am today and granted me the opportunity to be a partner to the most fantastic, awe-inspiring, beautiful person this planet has to offer.

I have and will continue to cherish each and every moment I spend in your presence, each and every moment that you choose me to be your partner. Each day I wake, I look forward to choosing you again and again. I love you, thoroughly, unconditionally, and completely. My love for you will outlive the both of us. This, I know with absolute certainty. As sure as the sun will rise and the sakura will arrive, my love for you will outlive us.

It was shortly after we married, I think, that I went on that tangent about untranslatable phrases. Do you remember? I shared the one that one phrase that had struck a chord with me. Ya’aburnee. It’s a beautiful word for a beautiful language, one that weighs heavily on me now. Back then I had said that I never wanted to know what it was like to live without you. Now that wish is likely going to be a reality, I want to take it back. I would rather save you from that pain than to save myself.

I cannot spare you that pain, but I can wish. For you, Hajime, love of my life, I wish for your health and safety. I want for your happiness, for the world to be brightened by your smile. I want for there to come a day—sooner, rather than later—when the sun will be high in the sky and a pleasant breeze will blow past you, and you’ll feel peace and love. Know that when that day comes, I am with you.

Until I see you again.

A/N: I wrote this with some insight provided by research, but largely based on the memories I have of my great grandmother, so I apologize if I misrepresent Alzheimer's at all. As for the languages, I am by no means an expert. Language has always fascinated me, especially those words that don't have a direct translation in English (it's also fascinating how because there's no direct translation in English, they're dubbed 'untranslatable'). Additionally, I'd like to extend a very, very special thank you to @caxsthetic for letting me talk angst with you. I don't know how you keep doing this, but I'm grateful to have you to talk to~ 💙😘

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yasumasahh · 4 years ago

Text

Always Forever — Hajime Iwaizumi

summary: A lot can happen in a year, and you don’t understand that until you meet Iwaizumi.

warnings: timeskip! cursing, fluff to angst, no pronouns mentioned, I tried to make it as gender neutral as possible but if it doesn’t sound as such pls lmk, sexual content (only for a moment, oral lol), 16+ only pls, hope you enjoy it

genre: fluff & angst all in one (a pinch of smut)

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i had a dream abt the first month and it turned into a work that I spent too long working on lmao, hope you enjoy it <3

It's August when you and Iwaizumi cross paths for the first time.

You've a scowl on your face as you walk to your university's office to file a complaint about your awful professor. He had said something too ignorant that pissed you off; seeing how Hajime visibly scoffed at the comment let you know you weren't the only one.

"Thanks," you mumble out when someone holds the door open for you. Your eyes meet those of Hajime's. His olive eyes gaze at you curiously, silently asking if you were doing the same as him.

You give him a soft frown, as if to say yes, and he offers one back.

After the two of you file your respective complaints, you part your separate ways, but not before you offer a nod — an understanding, an agreement, an alliance.

It's September when you start to take notice at how Hajime towers over most people, what with his impressive stature, and how broad his shoulders are with muscular arms to match. He was tan and fit, and you decided that he was quite the eye-candy.

Still, you don't make a move on him, other than occasionally allowing yourself to appreciate a handsome man when you saw one. After all, Hajime just seems out of your league, if league's were a thing.

It's not that you think of yourself as the most revolting thing to have walked the earth (not all the time, at least), but it would be a lie to say you don't notice how your classmates gawk at Iwaizumi like a piece of meat.

Not to mention that Hajime has an impressive resting bitch face.

It seems as if all the notions you once heard — or believe yourself — about Hajime Iwaizumi become increasingly more important to you. In fact, anything dealing with him starts to stand out to you like a blinking red light.

Suddenly, it's as if the blinking red light shatters when he walks over to you one day after class and asks if he could borrow your notes.

It's October when find out Hajime, in all his buff, resting bitch face glory, is quite friendly. October consists of him making multiple appearances in the following weeks of your life.

He starts walking you to your next class, having extra time himself. The two of you would talk about your days, your plans, your friends. You discover things about Hajime, like his love for volleyball and his best friends back in Japan and in Argentina.

You enjoy many aspects of Hajime Iwaizumi, from his sense of humor to his diction and spiky hair to even his way of cursing. He interests you so much that a large of part of you wants more than just silly comments about your professor.

Sometimes he would even go as far as walking you back to your car, which had quickly become a part of your day that you looked forward to. The sun would set after your class, leaving the sky with an apricot hue and you with another opportunity to stare at the olive eyes that seemed to leave you absolutely scorched when met with yours.

How could you resist him?

Things between you only grow even further when he starts inviting you to places. The first had been with a group of friends to have dinner, and then it was just him and you going out for brunch.

The next thing you know, you and Hajime show up to a Halloween party in coordinating costumes as you try to find something to look at other than the blush on his face when someone asks how long the two of you have been dating.

It's November when Hajime kisses you outside your car. His lips are soft against yours. It's everything you hoped it would be, and before you can fall even further into him, he pulls away from you quickly.

"I'll be gone in a year." Hajime warns quietly, olive eyes gazing at you intently. His breath is warm against your skin, lips hovering over yours. "That's all we have."

"That's all I need." you tell him and close the distance between you.

It's a decision made with haste, but one without regret. Perhaps you don't think all the factors of being with Hajime carefully enough, but all you know is that youve never wanted anything more than him.

It's December when you realize you how cold winter truly is. Maybe it's because spending the holiday as an adult is still foreign to you, or maybe it's because you've never felt an absence as strongly as you did Hajime's.

You don't realize how much you adore him until he returns to Japan for the holiday to visit his family. It's an unwelcome feeling that follows you around for the next 3 weeks of his absence, and you understand that there would be a time when Hajime wouldn't come back to you.

Hajime and you have multiple phone calls through the following days. Most of them consist of one of you heading to bed and the other barely waking up. He calls you his own personal alarm clock when you call him one evening, which sends a giddy feeling your way as strange as it may sound.

It's January when you get Hajime to strip his clothes and jump into a freezing lake with you. Being with him is nice, exciting. Despite him being reliable, honest, and considerate, there's never a dull day with him.

He takes you out for breakfast at 4 in the morning just because he likes watching you try and fail at staying awake. He indulges your desire to pretend break-up at a store just to give the employees something to talk about.

You convince him to get a tattoo of Mickey Mouse at 8 in the morning after a long night of binge-watching Disney movies. You manage to get him to take one (1) anger management class out of spite of losing an argument.

It's February when you figure out that his dominance doesn't waiver behind closed doors. Hajime, under all his polite and hardworking character, is a fucking menace who keeps you up all night to pull every ounce of pleasure from you.

Your sweet, considerate Hajime, who used to ask before even thinking of kissing you, who used to turn red at seeing your shirt ride up when you removed your sweater, uses his image as a humble man to hide the fact that he would take as much as he could get from you, take as much as you let him.

You find this out when one thing leads to another, and after a night of drinking Hajime's head is buried between your thighs like he was meant to be there. He's efficient and agonizingly slow, as if to savor the moment, to savor you. And, sometimes you have to beg him to move, to do something, anything.

“I like when you beg.” he says, leaving a kiss on the inside of your thigh. “You look pretty when you do.”

It doesn't take long for him to adjust to your body, to know what gets you flustered and hot, what makes you squirm under him, what makes you scream his name.

You didn't know it was humanly possible to feel so good, but it's not the first time Hajime seems to have defied your perception of reality.

It's March when you're on Cloud 9 where no one else can reach. Hajime and you are attached by the hip, always laughing at something — maybe at each other — or at the park feeding bread to ducks, or just anywhere with each other.

Being with Hajime is still new for you. The feelings of euphoria you feel with him's something you've never experienced before. His way of talking, his way of walking, his way of sitting and studying makes you feel heavy.

You've never felt this way for someone. His presence consumes you. You feel like you won't be able to function without him. The thought of anyone with who can hold that much power over you scares the living shit out of you.

Your friends warn you that he's a bad influence, that you're better off without him in the end. Sometimes you think they're right, but even if Hajime isn't forever, you can't forgive yourself for passing by the opportunity to know him, to love him.

Even if Hajime is a bad influence on you, you don't care because you'll cherish anything he gives you — good or bad. And, after all, a year is all you have.

It's April when Hajime wags a finger in your face and says, "Hey, don't say I didn't warn you." He says it in retaliation of you losing at cup pong after he tells you he’s never lost a game, and certainly not in the way you take it initially.

You roll your eyes with a grin, not bothering to give a damn that you lost. You get to see his smile, after all. “How could I forget?" If he notices how the light in your eyes dims, the way your face falters the slightest, he doesn't mention it.

The truth is — how can you? How can you fail to recognize the dark feeling of him leaving you forever? It's in the agreement in bold letters. Hajime's departure from your life is as inevitable as the seasons changing.

It was probably a horrible idea to have ever even gotten involved with him, but you love him. God, you love him. And, if you absolutely had to get your heart crushed by someone, you choose Hajime Iwaizumi to do it.

You know he feels it, too. He kisses you fast now, hard and messy, meeting the corner of your lips instead. He kisses you like you're his only source of oxygen in outer space.

You can feel it in the way he fucks you, sloppy and erratic and rough. Snapping his hips into you, plowing into you like his life depends on it. Like it's the last time.

And, you can't help but think one day it will be.

It's May when reality sets in. Your relationship surpasses what it used to be, and it feels like you'll die if you aren't with Hajime, if you waste even a minute of your time left together.

Desperate. That's the word. You and Hajime become desperate, living off each other like addicts. It's like thinking the sun would stay forever when you know the moon is bound to return.

You don't mind that the both of you are fighting a battle none of you will win. You don't care that you both look pathetic. Because you're in love with him.

You can't ask him to stay, and he can't ask you to go back with him. It's selfish to ask, and even more selfish to expect the answer you want to hear. Love makes people blind to reality, and neither of you have ever been an exception to that.

And, there's fights about it. About why a year together isn't enough. About how it would never be enough. About why he even considered giving you borrowed time when you would have to pay the price in the end.

Hajime's definitely the angrier of the two of you — he always has been. Though, his rage has never been directed toward you. It doesn't take long for the both of you to realize fighting is futile in some situations.

It's June when you throw Hajime a birthday party. It's nothing big, just a few of his friends and yours in your decorated apartment. You think you know him well enough, but that idea shatters when 3 people walk through your door.

Hanamaki, Mattsun, and Oikawa are unlike any other people you've met. You thought you and Hajime had fun banter, but after meeting his friends you question your ability.

They bring out a different side of Hajime, one where all he does is scold them, where he's red in the face, one you think he likes. It’s a side of him you can't help but laugh at.

"I’m glad they came." you tell him at 6 in the morning when all the guests have gone home, with the exception of the 3 idiots who take shelter camped out in your small, but homey, living room. “I like them.”

Hajime snorts, finally getting into your bed after the eventful day. You open your arms, and he wastes no time in finding his place on your chest, nestling into you. A perfect fit.

"They're annoying. Don't even get me started."

You rub his back with a sleepy smile, taking notice of the shiver only you can pull out of him. "I think they're funny." you say to him. "I like their banter."

"Of course you do." Hajime chuckles, disguising his laughter with a scowl. You've gotten used to that habit of his. "Idiots can't help but band together, you know."

You laugh. "No wonder you're friends with them."

“Yeah, alright.” he scoffs sarcastically, admitting defeat. "I’d tell you to go to sleep, but that’s if you can.”

You quirk a brow and tilt your head to him. “What’s that mean?”

“Mattsun snores like there’s no tomorrow.” he replies causally, stifling a yawn.

“Must’ve picked it up from you.” you comment, earning a poke to your stomach in retaliation.

“If you manage to get some sleep, you’d better be ready for Hanamaki’s awful singing in the morning.” Hajime warns. He says it lovingly, and you think it’s the only way he knows how. “And, watch out for Shittykawa.”

You shut your eyes. “Why?”

“He’s a bitch in the mornings.”

It's July when Hajime spends the summer by your side, doing whatever the hell you feel like. Going to the park and reading books under a tree. Going to the beach to get sunburnt and buying ice cream after to compensate. Going to the library just to make out.

Conversation about what he would do back in Japan is a common topic. You welcome it with a sad smile. What else are you to do? Beg him to stay the last minute?

You cherish your time with Hajime. You always would. But, you won't hold him back. Not when he's meant for such greatness. The fall comes around again, just as you knew it would, just as you feared it would.

It's the day of his departure when you promise yourself you won't cry and make it worse than it has to be for him. You do exceptionally well, but when Hajime refuses to let you out of his arms, things become a whole lot harder.

You try to burn the soft thumping of his heartbeat into your memory. You don't want to forget his touch, his smell, his laugh. You don't want to forget anything.

“Why didn’t you ask me to stay?” he murmurs against your head, rubbing your back in circles. There’s no malice in his voice when he asks, but your heart still aches at the sound.

“For the same reason you didn’t ask me to go.” you say, shutting your eyes as to not let your tears fall. “How could I ask more of you when you wasted your last year to be with me when you could’ve been somewhere else, anywhere else?”

He’s quiet a moment.

You think there’s nothing left to say. It’s never been a matter of what’s right or wrong, after all. Sometimes as much as you desperately want one, there’s no correct answer to things, and you’re okay with that.

He gave you what little time he had left, and you took it gratefully. Even if you would be left stranded in an airport with tears in your eyes and have to drive yourself back to the apartment where you had built so many memories with him, you would make that decision again and again and again if it meant you had him for even 10 minutes more.

Hajime calls your name, urging you to look at him.

You pull back slightly to gaze at him. “What is it?”

His lips meet yours. The kiss is different from the others. It’s gentle and soft and slow. His hand travels up your back, pressing you into his sculpted chest. It leaves your body feeling warm and your heart beating faster than before.

Hajime pulls back after some time, gazing at you with a soft smile and tears in his olive eyes. “I didn’t waste a thing.”

note: would’ve named it 365 days if it wasn’t for that shower & boat scene 😟

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