The Otherwordly

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It was a week of awkward silences and tiptoeing around each other. It was a week of Matsukawa trying to bridge the gap between them until he finally, eventually gave up. The awkwardness wouldn't have been so bad if it were normal but being around Oikawa was like walking on broken glass; it hurt.

But even this was so very worth it.

And then, on the Saturday, Oikawa just... didn't return.

-

Usually when someone told Oikawa to go to hell he didn't listen, but there were rare occasions where the advice of strangers was actually useful - even if that stranger had been wearing a suspiciously long cape and had spoken exclusively in the ancient tongue.

Technically he'd said 'the underworld' and technically that place was very much in the living realm, but Gods, it was close enough.

For a start, it was freezing.

Of course, hell was stereotyped as hot, but Oikawa knew from experience that if you were visiting you should wear extra layers. He'd found a jacket in the back of Hajime's closet. He hadn't been sure why he was looking there at all, but it was old, and Japan was going into summer. Maybe if it (he) survived the trip he would get it dry cleaned and return it.

He just wanted to take something with him, and though the coat was musty it smelt like Hajime.

Now he was in the mountains somewhere far away. It was impossible to know his exact location; the whole place was shrouded with layers upon layers of enchantments, and the only ways in were through dingy, suspicious, back alleys, hundreds of miles away. That said a lot about the residents of the underworld.

There were other havens. Fae which lived in ancient protected forests, nymphs in the volcanic hot springs, and city demons in small forgotten corners in any major city. The Fallen had to live in the mountains, where it was freezing, and the air was thin.

He supposed even angels without wings wanted to reach the sky.

To get to the Fallen he'd have to get past his retinue of guard dogs - hell hounds, goblins – all those who were paid (or threatened) to protect him. Oikawa would pass them somehow.

His fingers twitched. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he reached the Fallen himself. Demand something from him, as he had the first time. Tear him apart.

All temporary solutions, but it was all he had to cling onto, that flimsy sense of purpose. His heart twinged. Distantly he could feel his bond to Iwaizumi, though he must be half a world away. It might have surprised him that it could reach that far, even penetrate spells made to keep out any whiff of humanity, but he'd done that himself. He'd taken that bond and poured the deepest parts of him into it, and the shallowest, and everything he had, until it was stronger than steel.

He was beginning to wonder if it would dissolve when he wanted it to, or if part of it would always remain.

Anger bubbled up inside him and he turned his attention to the dammed spell instead. The thought of it, of the universe conspiring against his freedom, fuelled it and he relished in the way it burned unnaturally through his blood.

This, he thought, taking those first steps towards the gates, was what being a demon would feel like.

It was something sharp, stinging and painful. It was powerful. He let it consume him until it drowned Iwaizumi out.

He reached his first opponent, maybe he asked them to let him pass first, gave them a chance - he didn't remember. Only that they didn't let him. If they threw the first punch, the first spell, he felt nothing. There was only the fierce joy of his fingers tearing through flesh.