the colors of karasuno // haikyuu, soulmates au

the colors of karasuno

Oikawa Tooru's left hand is a too-dark-almost-black navy blue, the color spreading through the lower part of his palm and around his wrist. Iwaizumi Hajime's, in return, is a bright bubblegum pink. They marked each other at three when Oikawa tripped on a rock while chasing some birds and Iwaizumi, laughing, stretched out his hand to help him up. Palm met palm, skin touched skin for the very first time and then - and then magic. They were each other's first (other than their parents) and his former captain would retell the story full of detail, including how he woke up earlier than usual, as if he had known what was about to be, and describing everything he did from opening his eyes to meeting his first soulmate, the first that counted, to whoever was fool enough to ask him. All while Iwaizumi glared, the scowl on his mouth never successfully hiding his smile.

Tobio had heard the story countless times. He had wondered, then, what it must feel like; to look at someone and know, as a matter of fact, that you love them. To hold in your own hand the irrefutable proof that they, without a doubt, loved you back.

Now, with bright purple staining his collarbones like bruises that refuse to fade, he wondered what to do with the trepidation that crawled up his throat. Loving is terrifying, like standing at the edge of a cliff without knowing just how high the fall is and jumping anyways. Being loved back is way worse - like knowing, while you fall, that someone will be waiting for you at the end, arms open to catch you just before hitting the ground, and wondering whether the impact will be hard enough to harm.

Hinata Shouyou is a kaledoiscope of a person. He had already been one at fourteen, when he first tripped into Kageyama's life. He had been a rival, then, and the most colorful person Tobio had ever seen - his hands stained like a painter's worn out palette, a mashup of bright pinks and stark reds and deep greens, a mix of accidental brushes and hands that had met hands that had met wrists that had met forearms, had grabbed elbows, had patted backs. Almost every bit of him was a smudged touch, a defined clasp, an uncertain grasp. Hinata Shouyou was loved, and his whole body proved it. Kageyama hated it.

He had felt so pale then, standing on the opposite side of the net with his colorless fingertips and hands and wrists. His only visible mark was a long, squint-or-you-might-miss-it light blue line that ran across the outer side of his left arm and he wondered, stupidly, if it could be seen from the other side of the court. He had wanted to raise his arm and scream and look! you are not that great!

The boy was fast and jumped high and had great instincts and was such a painful excuse of a player. A disastrous pile of wasted potential and what was the point of holding such power if you are not capable of perfecting it? If you can not sharpen it, blade it to your will? The colors on his skin had made his head dizzy but the utter waste of- of potential, of power, of reason had made his blood boil. Unworthy.

And now - here they were. They had been fighting. He doesn't even remember why: a toss unsuccessfully received, a jump not high enough, a- it could have been anything. It could have been nothing, just another fight in the myriad of interactions they had had, but Hinata had gotten just a little bit madder than usual and had grabbed him by the collar and god you are such a dumbass! and then a touch, his knuckles against the lower skin of his neck, and a shock, like touching a door knob after rubbing your socks on carpeted floor. Hinata's knuckles became a furious, electric yellow and his cheeks turned pink and Tobio had to take three steps back, his eyes never leaving the other boy's hand. And what must it feel like? To look at someone's hand and stare at the undeniable, irrefutable, terrible evidence that they love you. That you, in return, love them back.

What power does that give you? That blessing, that scar? He had screamed at Hinata and Hinata had screamed back and they had bickered and kicked and fought and he had seen him toss balls cruelly, irremediably and inconsiderably fast and he - he had been there, jumping, eyes closed and palm up, knowing, trusting that he would hit it. That, just like magic, Tobio would get the ball exactly where it needed to be. Hinata will love him. And Kageyama will love him back. Or maybe they already did, in their twisted way of pushing and pulling. They had touched and stained each other and the world seemed to stop and Hinata had stared at his hands and smiled. It looked like a lightning bolt whenever he spiked, uncovered and proud and lethal. Kageyama tried so hard to hate it.