A raging ocean is a terrifying sight, with waves that roll towards stormy skies like walls more formidable than concrete and currents that grasp like hands pulling unforgivingly towards the deep. A raging ocean is a sailor's worst nightmare, one they're never sure they'll survive.
But imagine an ocean completely still. Imagine an ocean stagnant without a single ripple or wave breaking its dark surface, reflecting light evenly like a pane of stained glass. A completely static ocean, stretching endlessly in a suffocatingly silent and disturbingly calm.
To Oikawa, a still ocean is his worst nightmare.
To Oikawa, this is what it's like when Iwaizumi dies.
"It was a car accident," The doctor tells him when he arrives at the hospital, "He sustained too many injuries, he passed away in the ambula-"
"NO!" Oikawa screams, rage burning in his chest and bubbling out in a series of grating words, "A CAR ACCIDENT? HE COULDN'T HAVE FUCKING DI-."
But the word sticks to his throat with a choking sound and he can already feel hot tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
Because Iwaizumi couldn't have died like that, that's not how he should have gone out. Oikawa remembers they talked about this at an age he can't quite remember, on a night that was like so many others; in the darkness of Oikawa's bedroom, in the comfortable silence and promising lull of sleep hanging in the air, broken by hushed words.
"How do you think you'll die, Iwa-chan?"
"What kind of question is that?"
Oikawa had fidgeted in his bed, his leg brushing against Iwaizumi's under the sheets, looking at the other boy with curious eyes, far too awake for the time that glowed across the clock on his nightstand.
"I'm just wondering."
Iwaizumi had huffed irritably, having nearly been asleep before Oikawa's question, "Fine." He had replied curtly, humming in consideration, Oikawa moving himself closer in anticipation as he did so, "It'll be really cool. Like in movies."
"Oh! Like a ninja and gang member faceoff?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Okay I'll be the ninja, you're the gang member."
"Nuh uh, you don't get to decide!"
"YEAH HUH, IWA-CHAN."
The images of the memory he had thought he'd forgotten fades, dissipating like ink in water, clouding his mind, turning it a shade darker than what it had been previously. The tears are flowing freely now, but Oikawa is too numb to feel them. The doctor looks concerned, the wrinkles of his forehead creased as he looks upon him in a way that only causes Oikawa to grit his teeth harder, his jaw clenching in a furious glower.
"I'm sorry." Is all he says, but Oikawa ignores him, ignores everything except the room number. He takes off down the hallway, the call of his name muffled along with everything else, molding together in a sort of static hum.
He eventually finds the room, opening the door to see Iwaizumi's parents sitting at the bedside. Mrs. Iwaizumi's shoulders are shaking from where she's kneeling on the ground, her upper body pressed into the starchy bed sheets. Mr. Iwaizumi sits in a chair beside her, a hand on her shoulder. He's not crying, but the lifelessness in his eyes indicates that he had been until recently.
Oikawa stands frozen in the doorway until Mr. Iwaizumi notices him standing there.
"Tooru." He says, and it almost looks like he tries to smile, though his lips ultimately comply as little as his eyes.
"I...I can wait...out here." Oikawa manages, his eyes trained purposefully away from the figure lying in the bed, focusing them on a spot against the opposite wall. He begins to turn back into the hallway, but suddenly Mr. Iwaizumi is standing, followed by his wife. Oikawa can hardly look at her expression, so completely distraught, tears staining her usually bright, open face. Nowhere in his earliest childhood memories had he ever seen her look so weak, so broken; the light of her eyes extinguished where they used to shine so bright upon seeing him. Oikawa meets those eyes and it feels like a punch in the gut, the air leaving him.
"It's alright. We've been here since..." Mr. Iwaizumi trails off, and Oikawa watches the man he's always looked at as his second father bite his trembling lips, taking a breath in order to continue, "We need a bit of air anyway."
They pass him, and Oikawa feels his own lips tremble when Mrs. Iwaizumi reaches out to cup a hand against his cheek, an action she's done so many times.
But it's never stung like this.
The door closes behind them, the dull sound of it much too loud in the silent, breathless room.
Then Oikawa looks at him.
Iwaizumi looks like he's sleeping.
Oikawa finds himself taking tentative steps towards the bed, tip-toeing as if he's afraid of waking the other. A part of him wants to make as much noise as possible, yell and throw things with the hope that Iwaizumi will open his eyes, jump out from beneath the bed sheets and smack him one, yelling at him to shut up. His fingers twitch at the idea, but something holds him back.
Oikawa stands at the side of the bed, looking down at Iwaizumi's peaceful expression, at his closed eyes and slightly parted lips, his eyebrows laying in a neutral fashion, a sight Oikawa never really got used to seeing.
Only when Iwaizumi sleeps does he look so calm.
(Only when Iwaizumi sleeps does the ocean seem so still.)
"Iwa-chan..."
Oikawa's words feel far away. They sound like his, but as though they came from someone else. He doesn't remember his lips moving.
And they sound so gentle, just above a hushed whisper, just above what used to break so many silences.
Iwaizumi's face and what's visible beneath the neckline of his T-shirt are bruised and scratched, but Oikawa's seen Iwaizumi bruised and scratched before, he's often been the one to put them there. He's left scars on Iwaizumi's skin, stupid accidents as the result of stupid ideas. Oikawa has been at Iwaizumi's bedside like this many times, apologizing while their parents are in the room, only mumbling about how it was ultimately Iwaizumi's fault once they leave.
They've left each other with the taste of blood in their mouths, bruises purple and green under their skin. They've left each other in casts and crutches, nose and finger splits, bandages on their cheeks and jaws. He's done so much worse to Iwaizumi and all of those times, Iwaizumi's been fine. Fine enough to hit Oikawa's tosses. Fine enough to throw his usual punch with its usual sting when Oikawa decided to pick another fight. Fine enough to lean over him, mended fingers tracing over Oikawa's flushed skin, split lips grinning against Oikawa's.
So why isn't Iwaizumi fine now?
"Iwa-chan..." He whispers again, reaching his hand out to poke gently at Iwaizumi's side, as if he's trying to prod him from a deep sleep, "H-Hey...hey, wake up..."
Oikawa's not quite sure why those words are the ones to leave his lips, lips that begin to tremble again as he slowly lowers himself into a chair. The tears are hot against his cheeks, dripping unceremoniously onto the clean, hospital floor. He's said those words so many times before. He's said them on so many other mornings, he's said them on so many other occasions when Iwaizumi's expression has been set in a similar calm.
But they've never stung like this.
Only when Iwaizumi sleeps does he look so calm.
(Only when Iwaizumi sleeps does the ocean seem so still.)
He places his hand on Iwaizumi's, lying still at his side. It's cool to the touch, so drastically different from the way Iwaizumi's body usually radiates heat, a trait Oikawa embraced in winter, detested in summer, and now wishes so desperately to feel. Oikawa squeezes gently, coaxing Iwaizumi to squeeze back, or at least smack his hand away.
Anything.
But the hand remains cool and motionless and Oikawa finally drops his head, sobs racking his body; ugly, choking sobs that he used to be embarrassed of, that Iwaizumi used to poke fun at. He sobs until his chest aches and his eyes are rubbed raw, voice hoarse and pathetic has he whispers Iwaizumi's name to his face for the last time.
"Hajime...wake up."
***
After the funeral Oikawa finds himself in the Aobajousai gymnasium, standing at the service line with a volleyball in his hands.
He looks down at it, tracing a thumb over the ridges he knows so well, the brand name catching the light from the windows and gleaming up at him.
Oikawa remembers when he bought his first volleyball, when he held one for the first time.
Iwaizumi had been with him, there at the store.
"Iwa-chan, what about this one?"
Iwaizumi had looked down at the volleyball, brand new, practically glowing from inside its box. Oikawa doesn't remember why he had felt the need for Iwaizumi's approval, why the way that Iwaizumi had looked up and nodded with a grin had been so important to him.
But it was.
Maybe because a part of him had understood that the volleyball in his hands would be so much more than just another toy, that he wouldn't lose interest with it like he had with so many others. Maybe a part of him had wanted Iwaizumi to understand that. Maybe a part of him knew that Iwaizumi already did.
Oikawa doesn't know.
He never asked.
With a last look, he lets the volleyball drop from between his fingers.
And never picks one up again.