Iwaizumi's life is like an old journal; a collection of crumpled pages, stained and bent at the corners, entire portions glued together at the spine and miscellaneous rips and tears taped from both sides, a reminder of past damages mended to functional imperfections.
His memories are like small sketches in the margins along with bits of dialogue scratched in messy handwriting, drawn over multiple times in representation of how many times they've been repeated;
Repeated with the intent to catch a smile, pulling from pages framed, preserved at the forefront of one's conscious, reminders of the existence of warm tea in midst of winter, of sunrises over snowy mountain tops, of music that brings the overwhelming will to dance, of laughter so strong it brings pleasant ache.
Repeated with the intent to bring a fight, a battle of pulling crumpled, tossed away pages like weapons, reciting sharp words like sword thrusts to open old wounds, staining new pages with blood and tears, reminders of winds powerful enough to tear down trees, of spaces without air to breathe, of nightmares too real, of screams that strain at vocal cords and rip at confidences.
He's never said so out loud, but Iwaizumi has never quite thought of his life, his assortment of battered memories, as quite his own. Perhaps the majority of the writing reflects his clumsy penmanship, crooked and blotched with too much ink, but there's another presence among the pages, little notes written in a shade of ink Iwaizumi couldn't ignore if he tried, not when they're written across entire paragraphs from end to end.
He's never said so out loud, but Iwazumi has always thought of his life shared with the owner of such obnoxious penmanship, of such confident words written naturally in tandem with his own, like they belong there, written between the lines of Iwaizumi's memories, molded into the fragments of images, sounds, touches, and feelings that comprise Iwaizumi's life thus far.
Reminders of hair that moves like waves in the wind, of hair soft between his fingers. Of lips he's seen set to both smiles and frowns in equal measure, of lips that fit so well with his own. Of hands he used to hold in an attempt to stop tears, of hands he's gripped, fingers intertwined against bed sheets, quick gasps and hushed moans enveloping together into a gradually familiar harmony.
Reminders of an ever present constant, opposites so contradictory they're akin to magnets, difficult to pull apart.
Oikawa is a reminder of Iwaizumi's own existence, a half made completely whole, a definite emptiness left in the wake of separation.
Most of the time, such realizations remain generally disregard, acknowledged in the same way a body recognizes it has five fingers on each hand, accepting the information as a natural system that doesn't need to be questioned to be understood.
Other times, Iwaizumi notices himself really, truly looking at Oikawa. Looking at him like he's analyzing each and every pixel rather than the whole image, like he's reading each word of a novel individually rather than noting their collective blur whilst he flips through the pages. It's almost overwhelming, the way that he's rendered speechless, without words to ever give justice to the complexities he notes in these moments, the number of dimensions, universes, contained into a single person, a single form of matter comprised of star dust and elements made attainable through the brush of their skin.
Sometimes Iwaizumi's reminded that he's made of the same material, his very being and next to menial existence composed over millenniums of unlikely consequences as the result of questionable actions taken from ill-advised propositions.
He's sure the stars didn't go out of their celestial ways to align for him, a seventeen year old boy from Japan, but sometimes it feels that way.
That if he's simply another reincarnation among numerous past lives lost among countless histories, he was with Oikawa in those too. That maybe before they were childhood friends growing up in twenty-first century Japan, they were kings of long lost empires, sailors exploring worlds yet undiscovered, primitives surviving on lands unaccustomed to human touch. That maybe before such a world existed, before all the normalities of life were conceived in the consciences of forces greater than himself, the very particles that compose them today once circulated in proximity to each other, ultimately meaningless, but still present together within otherwise vast, expanding emptiness.
All to one day stand beside Oikawa Tooru as he does now, leaning against the Aobajousai gymnasium doors, waiting for the arrival of their teammates before they depart for another weekend tournament.
The sun is still low in the sky, casting soft hues of blue over the two teens, gentle shadows falling along the contours of Oikawa's face as he turns to Iwaizumi.
"Something on my face?"
Iwaizumi is practiced enough to detect the hint of subtle teasing in the other's tone, made less subtle as the corners of Oikawa's lips pull into a grin when Iwaizumi blinks in response, slowly wading out of the daze he had fallen so far into.
"What?" He mumbles, his own lips feeling like an absent part of himself, clumsy with words finally spoken rather than turned over and over in his mind.
"Is there something on my face, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa asks again, eyes glinting with a knowing look, conveying words left generally unspoken between the two of them, "You've been staring."
"Sorry."
Then Oikawa is laughing, a genuine chuckle, light as it escapes his lips and catches the gentle breeze, "It's alright, it's hard no to. What with my devilishly good looks and charm."
Iwaizumi can already sense the fresh ink on blank pages, composing a memory around the inclination of Oikawa's voice, the way his head tilts as he speaks, hands slipping casually into the deep pockets of his warm-ups, grinning in a way that never fails to leave Iwaizumi a little short of breath. Iwaizumi may not remember this specific moment the next day, the next week, or the next year. This laugh, one of the thousands he's witnessed, may neither be framed or tossed away, cherished or willed into absence, but may simply tuck itself away unnoticed between other everyday happenings as memories often do.
But for the moment Iwaizumi simply rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest and replies with a curt, "Devilish? Yes. Handsome? Debatable."
"Ouch. How mean, Iwa-chan."
It's their usual banter, teasing words eventually brushed away, rendered harmless when their eyes meet, fond in a way that brings a subtle flush to the backs of their necks, embarrassed by their own reactions ingrained through years, decades, lifetimes of repetition, acknowledged yet perpetually unaccustomed to, hearts still skipping metaphorical beats within their chests.
Iwaizumi doesn't think he can properly describe the expanses that compose and compile his relationship with Oikawa, dimensions that stretch physical boundaries and pull at the seams of metaphorical comprehension. He can't possibly disentangle the infinities that represent whatever fates that brought them together, perhaps by mistake, perhaps with intent, perhaps with no meaning at all.
It's a subconscious action that allows him to consider such ideals, recording a story others may call his own, but Iwaizumi dubs as theirs, and couldn't possibly dub otherwise.
Their story, one of many. Not the first, and not the last. Begun like so many others.
Yet never quite ending.
