Certainty | Oikawa Tooru

Second Act

Oikawa stood before you on the polished floors of the airport with his passport in one hand and the handle of his suitcase in the other. His boarding pass had been tucked between the pages of the passport, its edges dented and the surface crumpled from having unknowingly folded the card-stock back and forth in his restlessness.

His lips pursed together as his toes curled against the insoles of his shoes. He could feel the overwhelming regret of the words he had just uttered claw at him from behind, dragging him down into the purgatory he had manifested for himself. He could laugh it off and claim that he was simply joking, but this was something he had spent weeks mulling over to measure every inch of the array of futures this decision would bring about.

What he wanted himself was insignificant. This was what ought to be done — what needed to be done.

Oikawa readjusted his grip on his passport and kept his sight trained on you as he awaited your response.

"Are you sure about that?" you asked, your face void of any and all emotion with a steely gaze so steady that it felt as if his soul had been laid bare in front of you to scrutinize.

He opened his mouth, and quickly closed it again. His eyes darted left and right, looking everywhere and nowhere at once — just anywhere but at your face. Was it remorse? Cowardice? Penitence?

Uncertainty?

"I—" he hesitated, his mind still unsure if the path he had chosen to walk upon was the right one. "I— I... Yeah. I am, I suppose."

He could feel the uncertainty tugging at his gut warning him that this would be the single biggest mistake of his life, but the reality was that he couldn't turn back anymore. He couldn't possibly afford to. This had to be done: this had to be done to secure a better future for you. A future where you didn't have to hide your tears anymore — a future where you would never have to feel alone.

You stared back at him pokerfaced — no twitching of the eye, no gritting of your teeth, no furrowing of your brows. You were expressionless, unfazed, unsurprised; as if you had predicted this exact scenario from long before. The grim reality of his decision had struck him at that moment, and he could feel a sword fashioned with your shared memories and infused with every thought and every feeling of love you had ever felt for him pushed deep into his chest.

"I know you'll miss my dashingly handsome face," he paused to flip his bangs to the side, "but don't worry, I'll make sure to send you plenty of pictures still!" he sang with a wide grin plastered on, the eyes of regret forced behind his smile.

Because even though your face had reflected no trace of it, he knew. He knew just how devastating and heartbroken you must have felt in the moment — how you must have rehearsed in the mirror for hours on end to be able to receive the suggestion of a breakup without a single tell betraying your emotions. He didn't want to see you so distraught; he didn't want to leave you with thoughts contemplating the outcome if you had done something — anything — differently.

If playing the role of a narcissistic fool would lighten the tension in the atmosphere even by just a sliver and save you from the confines of your mental prison, he would willing trade every last ounce of his pride to do so.

Oikawa watched as you breathed in, then out, and after what seemed like an eternity of being left for dead at the altar, he saw the edges of your lip pick up again as a ghost of a smile settled into place. "I suppose you're right about that," you murmured, your voice breathy and brittle.

The tremble in your response was enough to catalyze the reaction that would serve to rip his heart into pieces, grinding the shards into a fine powder that would then be plated onto the mask he wore over his very existence. He wanted to scream and cry — to pry off the mask stuck onto his face to give way for his sorrow to show through — but no matter how hard he tried, all he had to show for his efforts were bloodied hands cut by the porcelain of his guise.

It had to stay on; the show wasn't over just yet. He had to make sure that you'd be able to leave the performance with a smile.

"I'm sorr—"

"Don't be," you cut in, your hands fidgeting in front of you. You heaved another deep breath and you beamed up at him again —the same one he had fallen in love with when you first met those many years ago. "If it's you, I know you must have thought long and hard about it."

The two of you had always managed to communicate through an unwritten code (or maybe it was just proof of the extent of your understanding for one another), and he couldn't help but wonder if you had caught on to his ruse and had chosen to play along. He could feel the tingling at the base of his nose and the pressure behind his eyes as he fought to delay the arrival of his tears.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair how you had always refused to pull down your walls to reveal your weaknesses in front of him, instead choosing to fortify them even further to leave him with a smile rather than a frown. It wasn't fair how your love for one another had fuelled the worthless pride of refusing to hold the other back out of earnest consideration.

All he wanted was to bring to you happiness in its purest form. It was really as simple as that.

And if he couldn't even do that—

"You'll meet someone better than me," he blurted out, his grip on his suitcase handle tightening until his knuckles turned white. His voice caught in his throat seconds after as his consciousness registered the weight of his words, and he looked at you in forlorn distress before quickly slapping on another forced smile.

He so badly wanted to rewind time and take back his words, but what was the point of that? His selfishness urged at him to keep his hand entwined with yours and to fight through the bitter storm, but his sense of duty knew what had to be done.

"You deserve nothing but the best," he continued, his voice merry and joyful though the quiver of his lips at the end suggested otherwise.

He had a role to play, and as a performer, he treated each role with utmost respect. It all had to be perfect — if not, he'd work at it until he broke. This was the one single thing that he refused to not attain perfection in.

He couldn't keep you a prisoner of his own egotism. What he needed was for you to be able to smile at the end of the day. The world had no place for his own desires. He was insignificant — replaceable even. Oikawa Tōru was but another harlequin in the theatre — his sole purpose was to draw out your laughter with his invented silliness for the brief duration of the single performance you had paid admission for. Any subsequent show could be acted out by another.

You frowned, pausing for a second before whispering a quiet "Have a safe flight, Tōru," through a small smile, having chosen to ignore his remark. With a nod of your head, you promptly turned around to walk away, leaving him alone standing in the center of the departure hall as the rest of the world stopped and watched.

He was nothing but a performer on center stage — a clown purposely falling off the ball he had mastered walking atop solely to elicit a laugh out of the audience. It didn't matter how painful or devastating it was for him; it would all be covered by the mask he would wear over his face.

It would all be okay. It would all be for the better.

He blinked back the tears welling in his eyes as he forced down the contrition of his choice with a gulp. With a heavy heart, he turned around and passed through the departure gates with his suitcase in tow.

It would all be alright.