The Storyteller (Oikawa Tooru x reader)

31. london calling

Scotland was cold as hell. 

It was like constantly being in a freezer, and to say you and your father were traumatised by the weather would not be an overstatement. Your mother obviously found it hilarious, and statistically forced you two to go outside whenever she could.

But you know what? It was worth it. Seeing her laugh, smile, cry in person was more than you could ask for. Feeling her touch was something you didn't know you'd needed, and for a month, everything seemed… normal.

You got a job, which paid pretty decently, in this small cafe, and your father made himself busy by working from home. What mattered was that you were all together; a proper family, able to just walk into the other room, and ask your mum for something. 

It was a wonderful experience, which is why you made the most of it while you could.

In early August, your mother passed away, having caught a cold. This might seem trivial, but due to her cancer, the effects were intensified, and her body had no defense to the illness. She spent her last two days in hospital, and died in the middle of the night, while she was asleep.

Her death was sudden, and quite honestly, something you hadn’t really anticipated; she’d seemed so healthy before, her eyes constantly twinkling with unspoken joy every time she laid eyes on you and your dad. It was painfully obvious she was so, so happy to finally have you both with her, even if it weren’t for very long.

“You know,” you remembered her saying, as you tucked her into bed one late evening, “I don’t care if I even saw you an hour, or a minute before I left. As long as I got to see you once, then I won’t be scared of dying at all. Not that I was scared of it in the first place, satan can kiss my ass.”

“Who said you were going to hell?” you had questioned, with a slight laugh.

“I mean, I am pansexual,” she shrugged, “might as well pole dance my way down there, don’t you think?”

You hated to think that the imagery was very funny. Especially standing in front of her grave, with a bouquet of foxgloves laying on the dirt above. Her headstone read, “(M/n) (L/n), a fearless woman who tackled everything life threw at her.”

(They weren’t wrong. She picked a battle with cancer, and although she’d lost the war, the battles she’d won had definitely been much more notable.)

Your father was sniffling beside you, his arm curled tightly around your own, clearly terrified of losing you next. “God, I don’t know what to do now,” he sobbed, “where do I go from here? What do I do?”

You didn’t really know how to answer, your thoughts were a mess, your eyes had shed their tears long ago, when they’d played one of your mother’s favourite songs during the funeral. Suppose the thing that hurt you the most was that she had deserved so much better, a longer life, a happier life; not one plagued by a disease she couldn’t fight.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to go to some obscure country?” you finally inquired.

“Yeah,” he sniffled, “but do you really think we’ll have the money for that?”

“I haven’t a clue, but if we don’t, I’ll work for it,” you replied quietly.

Your dad nodded, not bothering to argue with you for once, before tugging on your arm. “Come on. We need to go check her bank account. We’ve been putting it off.”

When you checked into the huge establishment, you having to do the speaking, since your father wasn’t exactly a pro at talking in English, you received what might’ve been the biggest shock of your life.

“I-I’m sorry,” you spluttered, eyes wide, as you stared at the clerk, “she set… how much aside?”

“She opened another account, and stored a sum of 25, 000 pounds, for her child and spouse after she died.” The man at the counter responded.

Your dad, despite his limited English, could understand what he was saying, and also gaped. “Oh my god…” he whispered, struggling to control himself, before bursting into tears.

You brought him into a hug, and rocked him gently, as he sobbed into your shoulder. “We’re gonna be ok now, Dad,” you mumbled.

“That’s more than enough,” he whimpered, clutching at your jacket. “Oh god. I want her back, I want her back (Y/n)...”

“I know,” you murmured, patting his back comfortingly. “I do too.” You peered over his shoulder, to see the staff member, who was observing you two with a small smile, clearly touched at the scene. “Can we take that out and put it into my father’s bank account?”

“Sure,” the clerk replied, “but there’s going to be a lot of paperwork needed first.”

“Ah shit,” your father cursed, “always the fucking paperwork.”

-

Whether he did it on purpose or not, your father decided to quit his job in Japan, and move to Argentina. Coincidence? Perhaps. Or maybe he was still pissed off that you and Oikawa’s love story had ended so abruptly, and had wanted you two to get in contact in some way or another. 

Speaking of communication, at this point, you and Oikawa had fallen out of touch. Somehow, you and Sosuke still managed to text often, but with Oikawa being so busy with his volleyball, he just gradually stopped responding. And you were caught up in your own problems, so you didn’t have the time to try to reach out to him.

Did it hurt? Well, yes, but there wasn’t much you could do.

As your father went back to Japan, to sort out his mess there, you ended up travelling to England, and looking out for universities there; you found yourself attracted to one in particular, and then proceeded to pack your shit once more, and move to London. There, you enrolled in Goldsmiths, University of London, which was in the rather notorious borough of Lewisham.

You decided to take a Bachelor’s degree in English, with an emphasis on creative writing and communications. You hoped this would grant you the opportunity to become a writer, but once you finished university, after your four year course, the pressure to get a job was so urgent that you just took whatever you could get. 

That’s how you ended up working for a publishing firm, as a book editor, at the age of 24, earning about 3930 pounds per month, living in South London, while your father lived it up in San Juan.

What seemed to baffle you the most was that Oikawa apparently lived in the same apartment complex as your dad, meaning they had met, and were now quite close. The idea of that made you feel less than favourable, having not seen him since you were 18, and somehow your mind would occasionally slip back to him.

However, due to financial constraints, you couldn’t see your father for the longest time, about two years, especially during the first year of your new job. But by the time you were 26, you were settled into your profession, and were getting on with life.

You at last thought you’d settled into a place for good, it had been about six years since you’d moved to England now, so uprooting you at this point wouldn’t be necessary. 

You were wrong. Very, very wrong.

Poor (Y/n), still making false predictions as a young adult.