Plan {Iwaizumi x f!reader}

Coffee

A year into your friendship with Hajime, you ruin it. Not literally, but something changes and for the entire moment of silence thrown between you two, you think you have. The air is stale and your feelings are plummeting to the depths of your being. You think your feet will break through his dorm floor if you stand and leave. Still, you want to so badly, you want to run and hide and beg him to forget everything, including the day you two met. You don't know what exactly is stopping you, but a part of you knows it's because Hajime is what you've never had. Hajime is secure, he's funny, he's outgoing even if he's awkward, he's firm but gentle, and he's your friend, something you never thought was possible after leaving New York. You thought you could never truly start over without having that piece of you left behind, you thought that you could do this thing with Hajime, sit on his bed in his dorm like always and pretend like the words aren't slipping from your tongue every second you open your lips.

Today, you didn't swallow before you spoke, today you didn't bite your tongue, today you didn't think before you spoke because it's late, the RA would've most likely come if you two kept laughing and joking as loud as you did, so you both whispered wordless words, lying side by side underneath his navy-blue comforter for the moon to see. Of course, today was different because it was the start of a new year, two more to go before you have to let Hajime go. You've known this since before he talked about Oikawa. He said this was temporary. He said he wanted to go back and be an Olympic trainer. You heard Hajime spill his dreams, and your heart yearned to be in them even when you smiled at and encouraged him. Maybe that is why you're trying to ruin this, spilling the one thing you've never gotten any support on, any feedback at all. When your mother heard, she blinked, removing herself from your hunched, sobbing form before inhaling.

You thought she was a robot until she purred a pet name, face scrunching in sadness, remorse. "Oh, sweetheart," That was the last thing you heard your mother truly say that night, and your memory barely lets you have that. Some days you think she said honey, others your name, sometimes even darling, which you know is fabricated because your mother never liked that word when it came to you. Your mother saved it for him and gave you her second choice. That's all you were to her, even though you're her first only child, you're her second in every category. You've always hated being young in that respect, being the youngest. You always had to work extra hard to receive caring attention, even if it wasn't the caring attention a child was supposed to get. With Hajime, it didn't feel like you were younger, it felt like you were normal, a human, a real-life person that he'd want something with, want to hold hands with, want to study with, want to laugh and whisper and- "You didn't deserve that." You don't know how mothers are supposed to react. You think in shows when they cry and push themselves to the crowd to abuse the abuser of their child, that's for the lucky few, if you can even call them that. That's what mothers are supposed to do, you think, that's what you wanted yours to. That's waht you think every mother has an innate desire to do to anyone who's harmed their child, regardless if they're family or not. And it's weird, definitely is weird to compare Hajime and your mother, but you do it anyway.

Hearing those words you've never known firsthand is detrimental to your being. The urge to run is somehow faint and hammering. It's like nausea, you don't know if you want to curl up against a toilet on the cold floor or ball up underneath warm blankets with a harsh plastic bucket next to you. So, you compromise and probably make the nausea analogy worsen. It's hot and cold and you're just staring at the comforter hiding your short-covered legs. Your hands bunch in the material barely lit by the moon. Honestly, you can't see where the moon shines and waits to, you just see a mush of colors, the dark navy blue, the light on your skin, the tawny hands moving on the comforter, refusing to touch you even if you crave them to, know you shouldn't. It feels wrong in this moment to crave something more, like you're just proving your mother's pathetic response right. She never said it, but there are children who are worse off than you who have heard it, and you can't help but wonder if it would've been the clarity you needed. If hearing her call you a slut, a vile, ungrateful child would've the substitute for not hearing her unwavering need to kill the man who took every part of your childhood away. Even the moments of ice cream and jump rope were tainted in your image. You don't think you'll ever find yourself in your past, at least, not where they are.