the mourning is over. the crystalline droplets swirling to the ground in patterns of blue placed in the grave, where his emotionless palate piles upon heap and heap. hajime lifts a splayed finger to the torn remnants of polaroids with oikawa tooru as the focal point.
but with each tortured, calloused twitch of his body, he feels his love slowly ebbing; constructing. he needs an outlet. he picks up his phone, tapping the face with the smile that seems to be the calm in the hurricane.
he jerks the phone to his ears. each dial seems to condemn him.
but. he needs a concoction for to numb the senses of the regret twirling in his chest.
"can you come over? asahi?"
iwaizumi just loves tooru too much
careless
