Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first snow of winter comes down quietly, almost politely, as if it doesn’t want to draw attention to itself.

Hajime Iwaizumi notices it anyway.

He stands outside the closed public library with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a jacket that used to belong to his father. It’s too thin, the zipper sticks, and one sleeve is permanently stretched from years of being tugged at, but it’s the warmest thing he owns. 

His breath fogs in front of his face as he watches the flakes settle into the cracks of the sidewalk, melting on contact with the damp concrete.

Behind him, his little brother Kaito kicks at a slush pile with worn sneakers, pretending it’s a game. His sister Aoi is curled against their mother’s side, face hidden in her scarf, her small shoulders trembling—not from cold alone, Hajime knows, but from exhaustion.

Their mom looks smaller than she used to.

Not physically—she’s always been small—but in the way grief has folded her inward, like she’s trying to take up less space in a world that’s already pushed them out. Her eyes flick up to the sky, calculating, worried. 

Snow means colder nights. Snow means fewer people willing to stop. Snow means shelters filling faster.

Snow means winter is truly here.

It hasn’t even been three months since their father died.

Three months since the hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and despair. Three months since Hajime watched his mother grip the side of the bed and beg, her voice breaking, while machines screamed the truth they didn’t want to hear. 

Three months since Hajime became the oldest man in the family at just seventeen years old.

The eviction notice came two weeks later.

Bills stacked up faster than grief could settle. Funeral costs, hospital fees, rent they couldn’t keep up with on one income that barely existed anymore.

Their apartment emptied out piece by piece—first the TV, then furniture, then anything worth selling—until there was nothing left to trade for time.

Now they trade dignity for warmth.

“Mom,” Hajime says quietly, stepping closer. “The shelter opens in an hour. We should start heading over.”

She nods, but there’s hesitation there. There’s always hesitation. Last night they were turned away—too full, try again tomorrow. Tomorrow has been coming for weeks now, and it never gets kinder.

Kaito tugs on Hajime’s sleeve. “Haji,” he whispers, voice small. “My hands hurt.”

Hajime swallows hard. He takes off his gloves without a word and pulls them onto Kaito’s hands, kneeling to tug them snug. His fingers immediately sting as the cold bites down, but he doesn’t flinch.

Big brothers don’t flinch. Big brothers don’t complain. Big brothers don’t get to fall apart.

Aoi peeks out from her scarf. “Are we gonna have soup tonight?”

The question lands like a punch to the chest.

Hajime forces a grin, the kind he’s perfected lately—wide, confident, unbreakable. “Yeah. Of course we are.”

He doesn’t know if it’s true.

But winter doesn’t care about truth, or promises, or how hard someone is trying. Winter only knows cold. And as the snow begins to fall heavier, Hajime tightens his grip on the straps of the worn backpack that holds everything they have left and silently swears something to himself.

No matter how cold it gets.
No matter how hungry they are.
No matter how long the nights become.

He won’t let winter take his family too.

They arrive at the shelter, only to be met with the door closing with a dull, final sound.

Hajime stands there for a second longer than he should, staring at the peeling paint and the fogged glass like it might change its mind if he waits. Like the woman inside will suddenly remember them—four people instead of statistics—and unlock the door again.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said, eyes already sliding past them. “We’re full. Try again tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

The word feels like a bad joke now.

Hajime exhales slowly and turns around before his mom can see his face.

Snow crunches under his shoes as he leads them away, deeper into the city where the streetlights flicker and the buildings huddle close together like they’re trying to keep themselves warm.

No one speaks.

Kaito’s steps drag. Aoi stumbles once, and Hajime catches her without thinking, lifting her onto his back even though his arms are already aching.

His mother walks behind them, coughing quietly into her sleeve, shoulders hunched against the cold and the shame of being seen.

They end up in an alleyway that smells like garbage and wet concrete, tucked between two abandoned buildings. It’s barely sheltered from the wind, but it’s out of sight, and that’s enough for tonight.

Hajime spreads out the thin blanket they managed to keep, its fabric stiff and fraying. He gives it to his siblings first, wrapping them tight, then pulls his jacket off and drapes it over his mother’s shoulders when she starts shivering.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs weakly, trying to hand it back.

“No,” Hajime says, firmer than he means to. Then, softer, “Please.”

She doesn’t argue after that.

They huddle together on the frozen ground, backs pressed to brick that steals heat like it’s hungry for it. Hajime stays on the outside, taking the brunt of the cold, knees drawn up to his chest. His teeth chatter, but he clamps his jaw shut, forcing it to stop.

Seventeen years old, he thinks dully.

He should be worrying about exams. About graduation. About stupid things like sports and friends and what comes after high school.

Instead, he counts breaths. Counts heartbeats. Listens for the sound of his siblings’ breathing evening out into sleep.

The night is long. The cold is longer.

Weeks pass.

Winter settles in like it plans to stay forever.

Hajime’s hands are cracked and bleeding now, knuckles raw from the cold and from clenching too hard, too often. His cheeks are hollow. His ribs show through his shirt when he moves the wrong way. 

Food is inconsistent—soup kitchens when they’re lucky, day-old bread when they’re not. Hunger becomes a constant presence, a dull ache that never quite goes away.

His siblings change too.

Kaito stops running. He stops kicking slush piles and asking questions. He walks quietly now, eyes down, hands always tucked into his sleeves like he’s trying to disappear inside himself.

Aoi cries more. At night, during the worst cold snaps, she whimpers in her sleep and calls for their dad. Hajime presses her face into his chest and whispers apologies into her hair, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for anymore.

Their mother gets worse.

It starts with a cough that won’t leave.

At first, she brushes it off, says it’s just the cold, just a little sickness. She’s always been like that—minimizing, enduring, putting herself last.

But the cough deepens, turns wet and painful, rattling in her chest in a way that makes Hajime’s stomach twist.

She grows pale. Her hands shake. Some mornings, she struggles to stand.

“Hajime,” she whispers one night, voice hoarse as they sit curled together in another borrowed corner of the city. “I’m sorry.”

The word hits him harder than anything else.

“For what?” he asks, immediately.

“For this,” she says, eyes shining with unshed tears. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“Stop,” Hajime says, panic rising sharp and fast. He grips her hands, feeling how cold they are, how thin. “Don’t say that. We’re fine. We’re gonna be fine.”

He needs to believe it.

But a week later, she collapses.

It happens outside a convenience store, her knees buckling without warning. Hajime barely catches her before she hits the ground. People walk around them, stepping wide, pretending not to see.

Her skin burns under his hands.

She’s feverish, shaking, barely conscious. Hajime’s heart slams so hard it feels like it might tear through his ribs.

“Mom,” he whispers desperately. “Mom, look at me. Please.”

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She tries to smile.

“I’m okay,” she lies.

Hajime has never been more terrified in his life.

They don’t have money for a doctor. Hospitals mean questions, bills, things he can’t afford. But as the nights grow colder and his mother’s breathing grows weaker, fear outweighs everything else.

They’re all in worse condition now.

Hajime is exhausted beyond words, running on adrenaline and guilt and a responsibility that feels far too heavy for his shoulders. 

His siblings are thinner, quieter, wrapped in layers that don’t quite keep the cold out. His mother’s cough echoes through the alleyways at night, a harsh reminder that winter is winning.

And for the first time since his father died, Hajime lets a terrifying thought creep in, uninvited and impossible to ignore.

What if trying isn’t enough?

What if he can’t protect them from this?

He presses his forehead against the cold brick one night, breath shaking, fists clenched so tight his nails bite into his palms.

He doesn’t cry.

But something inside him cracks anyway.

Chapter Text

The realization doesn’t come all at once.

It comes in pieces.

In the way his mother’s lips have started to turn faintly blue at night. In the way her shivering doesn’t stop even when Hajime gives her every layer he owns. In the way her breaths come shallow and uneven, like she’s afraid to take too much air.

It comes the night Hajime wakes up to silence.

No coughing.
No soft breathing.
Just… nothing.

He jolts upright so fast his vision spots, hand flying to his mother’s chest. For one horrifying second, he thinks—

Then her chest rises, shallow but there.

Hajime’s heart nearly breaks through his ribs.

She’s burning up again. Fever-hot and ice-cold at the same time. When she opens her eyes, they don’t quite focus on him.

“Hajime,” she whispers, barely there.

He grips her hands, rough thumbs brushing over skin that feels too fragile. Too thin. Too breakable.

She won’t make it through the winter like this.

That truth settles heavy and undeniable in his chest.

By morning, Hajime has made a decision.

The mansion sits at the top of a hill, iron gates framing a long, pristine driveway.

It’s almost cruel how warm it looks even from the outside—windows glowing soft gold against the gray winter sky, snow neatly shoveled away as if winter itself isn’t allowed to touch it.

Hajime has passed it before while scavenging for places to sleep. He’s memorized the details without meaning to. No cars in the driveway today. No lights in half the rooms.

Empty.

His stomach twists with guilt before he even moves.

But then he thinks of his mother’s breathing. Of Aoi’s chattering teeth. Of Kaito’s numb fingers.

He doesn’t need food. He doesn’t need money.

He just needs warmth.

“Wait here,” he whispers to his siblings, tucking them into a cluster behind a hedge near the property line. He pulls his mother close to the wall of the house, where the wind is weaker, wraps her in the blanket, and presses his forehead to hers.

“I’ll be back,” he promises quietly. “I won’t be long.”

She tries to protest. Doesn’t have the strength.

Hajime slips around the side of the house, heart pounding so loudly he’s sure someone can hear it. A back door gives with more ease than he expects—the lock old, neglected, never expecting to be tested.

The warmth hits him immediately.

It’s overwhelming.

Heat wraps around him like a physical thing, stealing the breath from his lungs. The air smells clean. Expensive. Like soap and wood polish instead of trash and rot.

He nearly sinks to his knees.

He doesn’t take anything he doesn’t need.

He turns on the heat. He grabs thick blankets from a linen closet—soft, heavy, more luxurious than anything his family has touched in months. He hesitates in the kitchen, hands hovering over a bowl of fruit, then shakes his head.

Warmth first.

He brings them inside quietly, ushering them through the door like they might vanish if he’s too slow. Aoi gasps softly at the size of the place. Kaito’s eyes go wide.

“It’s okay,” Hajime murmurs urgently. “Just… sit. Stay warm.”

He lays his mother down on a couch so plush it swallows her thin frame whole. Wraps her in blankets until only her face shows. Slowly, painfully slowly, the shivering eases.

Her breathing evens out.

Color returns to her cheeks.

Hajime sits on the floor beside the couch, back against it, knees pulled up, exhaustion crashing into him all at once. For the first time in weeks, the cold isn’t gnawing at his bones. 

His siblings curl up nearby and fall asleep almost instantly, bodies relaxing in a way they haven’t in months.

Hajime closes his eyes.

Just for a minute.

Things are good.

For a moment, he lets himself imagine that this is just… a house. That warmth doesn’t come with consequences. That winter can’t reach them here.

Then the front door clicks.

Hajime’s eyes snap open.

Footsteps echo through the entryway—slow, unhurried. Someone hums softly to themselves, the sound light and careless in a way Hajime hasn’t heard in a long time.

“Oh,” a voice says, surprised and amused all at once. “This is new.”

Hajime is on his feet instantly, heart slamming, body moving on instinct. He steps in front of the couch without thinking, shoulders squared, fists clenched, ready to fight or beg or do whatever it takes.

A tall boy stands a few feet away, snow still clinging to his hair, scarf draped loosely around his neck. He looks warm. Well-fed. Alive in a way Hajime barely remembers how to be.

The boy’s eyes flick from Hajime to the sleeping children, to the woman on the couch wrapped in blankets.

Understanding dawns slowly.

“…Huh,” the boy says quietly.

Then, softer—no accusation in his voice, just curiosity:

“You’re not robbing us, are you?”

Hajime swallows, throat burning, pride and fear twisting together until he can barely breathe.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “I just—”

He spreads his arms wider, shielding his family without realizing it.

“Please,” Hajime adds, voice breaking despite his best efforts. “I just needed somewhere warm.”

Oikawa stares at them for a long moment.

Really stares.

His gaze is sharp and assessing, the kind that makes Hajime’s spine lock into place, every muscle screaming to be ready. He waits for yelling. For threats. For security. For the police.

Instead, Oikawa clicks his tongue softly and sighs, like he’s just found a scratch on a new phone.

“Wow,” he says, voice light and almost bored. “Breaking into someone’s house and using their furniture? Bold move.”

Hajime’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t move from in front of the couch.

“If you’re going to call someone,” he says, steady despite the tremor in his hands, “call them on me. Not them.”

Oikawa arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Relax, gorilla-kun. I haven’t even decided what I’m doing yet.”

Hajime bristles at the nickname instantly, heat flaring in his chest. “Don’t call me that.”

Oikawa smirks, but his eyes flick—just once—back to the woman on the couch. To how small she looks swallowed by expensive fabric. To the way her chest rises a little too shallow, a little too slow.

He looks away quickly.

“Anyway,” Oikawa continues, shrugging as he drapes his winter coat over the back of a chair, “it’s not like you took anything important. The house is still standing. Tragic, I know.”

He walks closer, hands in his pockets, shoes silent against polished floors. Hajime subtly shifts, blocking him again.

Oikawa stops.

For a split second, something flickers across his face—annoyance, maybe, or surprise that someone would stand up to him in his own home. Then it’s gone, replaced by that same easy, irritating smile.

“You’re seriously protecting them from me?” he asks, incredulous. “Wow. Protective and rude.”

Hajime doesn’t answer.

Oikawa exhales through his nose and rolls his shoulders, as if shaking something off. “Look,” he says, tone still casual, still pretending this is all mildly entertaining. “My parents are out of town.”

Hajime blinks.

“…What?”

“Business trip,” Oikawa says, waving a hand dismissively. “Important people doing important things. They won’t be back for three days.”

Three days.

The words land heavy and dangerous.

“And before you get any ideas,” Oikawa adds quickly, glancing away, “I’m not saying you should get comfortable. This isn’t some charity hotel.”

His eyes slide back to Hajime again, sharp and calculating—and then, softer, almost annoyed at himself.

“But,” he continues, voice dropping just a notch, “it’s freezing outside. And your mom looks like she’d collapse if you made her move again.”

Hajime’s throat tightens.

Oikawa scoffs, crossing his arms. “Tch. Don’t look at me like that. I just have functioning eyes.”

He turns on his heel and starts toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “There are guest rooms upstairs. Use one. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

He pauses in the doorway, fingers tightening on the frame.

“…Just don’t touch my stuff,” he adds, default snobbery snapping back into place like armor.

Then, quieter—so quiet Hajime almost misses it:

“Three days. After that, you figure something out.”

Oikawa disappears into the kitchen, leaving Hajime standing there with his heart in his throat, staring after him.

Three days of warmth.

Three days where his mother might actually survive.

Hajime exhales shakily and looks down at his family—at the color slowly returning to his mom’s face, at his siblings sleeping without shaking.

For the first time in weeks, hope feels close enough to hurt.

And somehow, impossibly, it’s wearing a smug smile and a designer scarf.

Chapter Text

Hajime moves carefully.

Every step upstairs feels too loud, like the house itself might decide it’s had enough of them and spit them back out into the cold. 

The guest bedroom Oikawa pointed out is massive—almost bigger than their entire apartment used to be before everything fell apart. The bed is wide and soft, covered in thick quilts and pillows that look like they’ve never known desperation.

Aoi whimpers softly when Hajime sets her down, instinctively curling inward like she’s bracing for the cold that never comes. Hajime tucks the blanket around her shoulders, then does the same for Kaito, smoothing his hair back the way their dad used to.

His mother barely stirs as he eases her onto the mattress.

Up close, in the warm light, she looks worse than he wants to admit. 

Dark circles under her eyes. Lips cracked. Skin too pale. Hajime pulls the blankets up to her chin and hesitates, then reaches out and presses the back of his hand to her cheek.

Warm.

Still too warm—but not freezing.

She exhales, a slow, shaky breath, and for the first time in days it doesn’t rattle in her chest. Hajime closes his eyes, just for a second, letting relief wash through him so hard his knees nearly give out.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He lingers until his siblings’ breathing evens out and his mother’s chest rises and falls steadily, then quietly backs out of the room and pulls the door almost closed.

Almost.

Then he heads downstairs.

The kitchen lights are still on.

Oikawa is leaning against the counter, one hip propped up casually, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The bottle sits uncapped beside him—expensive-looking, half-full. He swirls the drink lazily, eyes unfocused, like he’s thinking about something far away.

Hajime stops just inside the doorway.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“So,” Oikawa says eventually, without looking up. “You tuck them in like that every night?”

Hajime stiffens. “When I can.”

Oikawa hums, finally glancing over. His gaze flicks to Hajime’s bare hands, red and raw, then up to his face. He frowns before he can stop himself, then quickly masks it with a smirk.

”What’s your name?”

”Hajime Iwaizumi.”

“Toru Oikawa”, He pauses, “Y’know, most people would be crying, begging, or stealing the silverware by now.”

“I didn’t come here to steal,” Hajime snaps.

Oikawa raises his glass in mock surrender. “Yeah, yeah. Warmth. I got it.”

He turns back to the counter, pouring another splash into his glass. The clink of ice is sharp in the quiet room.

“You hungry?” he asks, tone casual.

Hajime hesitates. Pride flares instantly—sharp, instinctive.

“We’re fine.”

Oikawa snorts. “You look like you might pass out if you stand still too long.”

Hajime clenches his jaw. He hates how easily Oikawa sees through him. Hates that the truth sits right there, exposed.

“…Maybe,” he admits quietly.

Oikawa doesn’t comment. He just slides a wrapped protein bar across the counter without looking at him.

“Eat,” he says. “I don’t need a corpse in my kitchen too.”

Hajime stares at it for a long moment before picking it up. His hands shake slightly as he opens it. He eats fast, like it might be taken away if he doesn’t.

Oikawa watches him from the corner of his eye, pretending he doesn’t.

After a minute, Hajime clears his throat. “Thank you. For… letting us stay.”

Oikawa scoffs, draining his glass. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s temporary.”

“I know,” Hajime says immediately. “Three days.”

Oikawa pauses, bottle halfway to his glass.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “Three days.”

Silence stretches again, heavier this time.

Hajime shifts his weight. 

“My mom—she won’t make it if she goes back out there,” he says, voice low. “I won’t ask you to do more than you already have. I just thought you should know why I—why I did this.”

Oikawa doesn’t answer right away. He stares into his drink, jaw tight.

“My dad died,” Hajime adds, almost against his will. The words spill out before he can stop them. “Everything fell apart after that.”

Oikawa’s grip tightens on the glass.

“…That sucks,” he says eventually, voice flat. Too flat.

He downs the rest of his drink and sets the glass down harder than necessary. 

“Look,” he continues, turning back toward Hajime, mask firmly back in place. “I’m not your savior. And I’m not doing this because I care. It’s just… more convenient than kicking you out.”

Hajime nods. “I understand.”

Oikawa studies him for a long moment—really studies him this time. The tension in his shoulders. The way he stands like he’s ready to throw himself in front of danger without hesitation.

“Tch,” Oikawa clicks his tongue. “You’re annoying.”

Hajime almost laughs despite himself. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

Oikawa snorts, shaking his head. He reaches for the bottle again, then hesitates, glancing upstairs.

“…I’ll turn the heat up a little more,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “Just for tonight.”

Hajime’s chest tightens.

“Thank you,” he says again, quieter this time.

Oikawa doesn’t respond. He just pours another drink, staring into it like it might give him answers he doesn’t want to admit he’s looking for, and heads upstairs, leaving Hajime alone in the kitchen.

He lets himself smile for half a second before heading into the living room and sitting on the edge of the living room couch.

Everything after that is a blur, and his next conscious moment consists of waking up to warmth that seeps into his bones instead of draining them.

The couch is… soft.

Unreasonably soft.

It cradles his back instead of bruising it. There’s a throw blanket pulled up around his shoulders—he doesn’t remember grabbing it—and when he shifts, his joints don’t scream in protest the way they have every morning for weeks.

For a second, panic spikes.

He bolts upright, breath sharp, heart hammering, scanning the room like he expects the walls to vanish and the cold alleyway to snap back into place.

But the house is still there.

The quiet hum of heat running through vents. The faint glow of early morning light filtering through tall windows. The massive staircase leading upstairs, where his family is sleeping in real beds.

Safe. Warm.

Hajime exhales slowly, pressing a hand to his face.

He should go back to sleep. He needs sleep—his body is exhausted down to the marrow. But the thought of lying here while everyone else rests makes his chest itch with restlessness. 

He’s never been good at doing nothing, not since his dad died. Not since responsibility became something that sat permanently between his shoulder blades.

So he sits up, rubs his eyes, and glances toward the kitchen.

Oikawa is nowhere in sight.

The house is quiet in the way only rich houses are—too big, too empty, like it’s holding its breath. 

Hajime hesitates, then carefully stands, stretching muscles that ache but don’t burn the way they usually do.

He pads into the kitchen.

It feels strange being here in daylight. Everything is pristine: marble counters, spotless appliances, sunlight glinting off metal and glass. He half-expects an alarm to go off just because he exists in the space.

He opens the fridge cautiously.

It’s full.

Actually full. Eggs, milk, butter, fruit, bread, yogurt, things wrapped in neat packaging with expiration dates far into the future. The sight makes his throat tighten unexpectedly.

He doesn’t take much.

Just eggs. Bread. A bit of butter.

He moves quietly, instinctively, like he’s afraid sound itself might get them thrown out. The pan warms on the stove. Butter melts, hissing softly, a sound so normal it almost hurts.

Hajime cooks the way his dad taught him—simple, steady, nothing fancy. Scrambled eggs, toast. He slices fruit with care, arranging it neatly on a plate before he even realizes he’s doing it. He pours water into glasses instead of juice, habit ingrained from scarcity.

By the time the kitchen smells warm and comforting, his hands are shaking—not from cold this time, but from something dangerously close to emotion.

He sets plates on the counter.

Three for upstairs.

One extra.

He doesn’t make one for himself.

Instead, he wipes the counter down twice, cleans the pan, aligns the chairs, and checks the stairs like he’s guarding something sacred.

Footsteps sound behind him.

“Wow.”

Hajime jumps, spinning around so fast his shoulder twinges.

Oikawa stands in the doorway, hair messy, pajama pants low on his hips, hoodie slung on like he grabbed it half-asleep. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but they widen as he takes in the scene.

The food.
The clean counters.
Hajime standing there like he belongs.

“…You’re up early,” Oikawa says.

“Sorry,” Hajime blurts immediately. “I—I can clean it all again if you want. I didn’t take much, I swear, I just—”

Oikawa blinks.

Then he laughs.

It’s quiet and surprised, like the sound escaped before he could stop it.

“You break into my house,” he says slowly, “and this is what you do?”

Hajime flushes. “I just wanted to—my siblings will wake up hungry and my mom needs to eat if she’s going to get better and I thought—”

“Hey,” Oikawa cuts in, softer. “I’m not mad.”

He walks farther into the kitchen, eyes flicking over the plates. Something warm and unreadable settles into his expression.

“That’s… kind of domestic of you, gorilla-kun.”

Hajime groans. “Please stop calling me that.”

“Never,” Oikawa says easily. He picks up one of the plates, inspecting it like it might bite him. “You cook?”

“When I have to,” Hajime shrugs. “My dad taught me.”

The word dad lands quietly between them.

Oikawa doesn’t comment. He sets the plate down carefully.

“You didn’t make one for yourself,” he says instead.

“I’m not hungry.”

Oikawa looks at him.

Really looks at him.

Hajime braces instinctively.

“Tch,” Oikawa clicks his tongue. “Liar.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Sit.”

The word isn’t loud, but it’s firm.

Hajime stiffens. “I don’t—”

“I wasn’t asking,” Oikawa says, already pulling out a chair. He sets a plate in front of it deliberately. “Sit. And eat.”

Hajime hesitates, pride flaring uselessly. “My family—”

“—will eat,” Oikawa interrupts. “There’s enough. Sit.”

Something in his tone leaves no room for argument.

Slowly, reluctantly, Hajime sits.

Oikawa drops into the chair across from him, grabs his own plate, and starts eating like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he hasn’t just let a homeless family into his mansion. Like he didn’t drink himself half numb the night before.

Hajime stares at the food.

Up close, it smells incredible.

His stomach betrays him immediately, twisting painfully.

Oikawa watches with barely disguised satisfaction. “Thought so.”

Hajime eats slowly at first, like his body doesn’t trust that the food will stay. Each bite settles warm and real in his stomach, and he has to blink hard once to keep his composure.

“This is good,” Oikawa says casually, before adding, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Hajime huffs a small, involuntary laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Oikawa replies smugly, “you’re sitting at my table.”

They eat in comfortable silence for a bit.

It’s strange. Intimate. Something about sharing a morning like this feels more vulnerable than last night’s confessions. Daylight makes everything real.

“…Did you sleep okay?” Oikawa asks eventually, not looking at him.

Hajime nods. “Yeah. The couch was… really nice.”

Oikawa snorts. “Wow. Glowing review.”

“No, I mean it,” Hajime says quickly. “It’s more comfortable than anything I’ve slept on in months.”

Oikawa’s chewing slows.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Hajime shifts. “I can take the floor if—”

“Don’t,” Oikawa says immediately. Then, catching himself, he rolls his eyes. “I mean. The couch is fine. It’s not like I use it.”

Hajime smiles faintly into his food.

They finish eating together. Oikawa leans back in his chair, watching Hajime with a look that’s far gentler than he seems to realize.

“You know,” Oikawa says, “most people would’ve taken advantage of this.”

Hajime frowns. “How?”

“Food. Stuff. TVs,” Oikawa shrugs. “You cooked.”

Hajime shrugs back. “It felt right.”

Oikawa hums, thoughtful. “…You’re so odd.”

“Yeah,” Hajime says softly. “But you’re not exactly typical either.”

Upstairs, a small voice calls out—Aoi, sleepy and curious.

Hajime stands immediately. “That’s my sister.”

Oikawa waves him off. “Go. I’ll… uh. I’ll try not to traumatize them.”

Hajime pauses at the stairs, glancing back.

Oikawa is still sitting at the table, sunlight catching in his messy hair, expression softer than it has any right to be.

“…Thanks,” Hajime says again.

Oikawa looks away. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t burn my kitchen down.”

But as Hajime heads upstairs, heart strangely light, Oikawa stares at the empty plate in front of him and realizes something unsettling.

He doesn’t mind the company.

In fact—

He kind of hopes they stay for breakfast tomorrow, too.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Aoi’s voice is small when she asks it.

“Haji… can we take a shower?”

The room goes quiet.

Hajime stiffens immediately, instinct kicking in faster than thought. 

He looks down at her—at the way her hair still smells faintly of the cold, at the smudge of dirt on Kaito’s cheek he hadn’t had the heart to scrub away yet—and his chest tightens painfully.

He shakes his head gently. “Hey. No. We—we shouldn’t.”

Aoi’s shoulders droop a little. Kaito looks down at his hands.

“We don’t want to be a bother,” Hajime continues quickly, forcing his voice to stay calm, reasonable. “Oikawa’s already been really kind to us. We can’t take advantage of that, okay?”

He hates the words even as he says them. Hates that his kids—his kids, in every way that matters—have learned what it means to be “too much” at such a young age.

Oikawa’s head snaps up.

“Take advantage?” he repeats, incredulous.

Hajime turns to him immediately. “It’s okay. Really. They can wait.”

Oikawa stares at him for a long second, then lets out an exaggerated sigh and pushes himself to his feet.

“Wow,” he says, planting his hands on his hips. “You’re exhausting.”

Hajime blinks. “What?”

“You’re not stealing my car,” Oikawa continues, gesturing vaguely around the house. “You’re not asking for money. They want to take a shower.”

He looks down at Aoi and Kaito, his expression softening without him quite meaning to. “Do you know how long it’s been since anyone asked me permission for anything in this house?”

Aoi tilts her head. “Is… that bad?”

Oikawa snorts. “Very.”

Hajime opens his mouth. “Oikawa, we really—”

“Nope,” Oikawa cuts in, holding up a finger. “I’m not listening to the self-sacrificial big brother speech. I’ve heard enough of that for one lifetime.”

He points toward the hallway. “There are three bathrooms. Pick one. Use all the hot water. I promise the pipes will survive.”

Hajime’s pride flares instantly. “Oikawa—”

Oikawa steps closer, dropping his voice just enough that the kids can’t hear clearly.

“They’re freezing,” he says flatly. “They’re dirty. And they look like they haven’t been able to feel clean in a long time.”

Hajime swallows.

Oikawa’s gaze softens, just a fraction. “Let them be kids for twenty minutes.”

Aoi looks between them nervously. “We can still not—”

“Yes,” Oikawa says immediately, crouching down to her level. “You absolutely can.”

Kaito hesitates. “You won’t get mad?”

Oikawa scoffs. “Please. I survived my parents. I can survive soap and water.”

Aoi’s face lights up, cautious hope breaking through. She looks at Hajime one last time.

Hajime exhales, shoulders slumping as the fight drains out of him.

“…Okay,” he says quietly. “But be quick. And careful. And don’t touch anything that isn’t—”

“We know,” Kaito says quickly.

Aoi grabs Hajime’s hand and squeezes it. “Thank you, Haji.”

They scamper down the hall, their excitement hushed but impossible to hide.

Hajime stands there for a moment after they’re gone, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides like he’s bracing for something to go wrong.

Oikawa watches him.

“You really think asking for a shower is taking advantage?” he asks softly.

Hajime doesn’t look at him. 

“When you’ve got nothing,” he says, voice low, “everything feels like too much.”

Oikawa’s chest aches.

“…Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I guess it would.”

From down the hall comes the sound of running water—and then, unmistakably, Aoi’s delighted laugh.

Hajime flinches like he’s been struck.

He presses a hand to his face, breathing out slowly.

“They’re happy,” Oikawa says, not unkindly.

Hajime nods. “They deserve to be.”

Oikawa leans against the wall beside him, close but not crowding. “So do you,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought.

Hajime finally looks at him.

Their eyes meet—really meet this time—and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

The sound of water keeps running.

Warmth fills the house.

And something unspoken settles between them, fragile and real and quietly hopeful.

Oikawa notices it once the kids are gone.

Not all at once—more like his eyes finally have room to linger now that he isn’t being distracted by Aoi’s laughter or Kaito’s constant questions.

Hajime is standing near the doorway to the hall, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His posture is relaxed in theory, but Oikawa can see the tension woven into him anyway, like a cord pulled too tight for too long. 

His shoulders are broad, but sloped forward just a little, like he’s used to shielding himself from wind or people or both. His hair sticks up in places it normally wouldn’t, roughened by cold and sleep and stress. There’s a faint bruise along his jaw that Oikawa is fairly certain wasn’t there yesterday.

And then there are his hands.

Big. Strong. Knuckles split and red, skin dry and cracked like they’ve been exposed to winter without protection for far too long. The hands of someone who does everything himself.

Oikawa’s chest does something unpleasantly warm.

“You know,” he says lightly, breaking the silence, “you’re kind of a mess.”

Hajime startles. “What?”

Oikawa gestures vaguely up and down him. “I mean. Objectively. You look like you fought winter itself and lost by a narrow margin.”

Hajime huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well. Winter cheats.”

Oikawa watches the motion. The way Hajime’s shirt rides up just slightly, the way his muscles tense and relax under worn fabric. He looks… tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that doesn’t go away with one good night’s sleep.

“…You should shower too,” Oikawa says suddenly.

Hajime freezes. “What?”

Oikawa shrugs, tone casual again, like he didn’t just say something that makes Hajime’s spine go rigid. “There’s hot water. Soap. Towels that don’t feel like sandpaper. Seems like a waste not to use them.”

“I’m fine,” Hajime says immediately. Too immediately. “I already washed my hands.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Hajime frowns. “Oikawa—”

“You slept on my couch,” Oikawa cuts in. “You cooked breakfast. You carried your entire family up the stairs like it was nothing.”

He crosses his arms, tilting his head. “You can take a shower.”

Hajime’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need one.”

Oikawa steps closer before Hajime can retreat, not invading his space but close enough that Hajime feels the warmth of him—real warmth, effortless warmth.

“You smell like cold,” Oikawa says quietly.

Hajime blinks.

“It’s not bad,” Oikawa adds quickly, like he’s embarrassed by his own honesty. “It’s just… noticeable.”

Hajime looks away, ears faintly pink. “I don’t want to use up all your hot water.”

Oikawa scoffs. “Trust me, there’s enough.”

Silence stretches.

From down the hall, steam fogs the air and Aoi’s voice drifts out, happily narrating something to her brother. Proof that the world hasn’t ended because they asked for one more thing.

Oikawa softens his tone.

“Just… go,” he says. “You don’t always have to be the last one.”

That does it.

Hajime exhales, long and slow, shoulders dropping like he’s been holding them up for weeks without realizing it. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t care,” he mutters.

Oikawa smirks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“…Okay,” Hajime says finally. “Just for a few minutes.”

Oikawa points down the hall. “Second door on the left. Clean towels are stacked like a shrine to capitalism.”

Hajime snorts despite himself. “Thanks.”

He hesitates, then adds quietly, “Really.”

Oikawa waves him off, but he watches him go—watches the careful way Hajime walks, like he’s still expecting the floor to be cold, like comfort is something he doesn’t trust yet.

When the bathroom door closes and the sound of running water joins the house’s quiet, Oikawa leans back against the counter and stares at the ceiling.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen.

He hadn’t meant to notice the way Hajime’s voice softens around his siblings. Or the way he always puts himself last without complaint. Or the fact that seeing him finally accept something for himself feels strangely… right.

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, annoyed.

“Great,” he mutters. “I’m falling for the criminal.”

Down the hall, hot water finally washes the cold off Hajime Iwaizumi’s skin.

And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself stand still.

Oikawa pours himself another drink while the water runs down the hall.

It’s quieter now—no cards on the floor, no small voices echoing through the house. Just the low hum of the heater, the faint rush of the shower, and the familiar clink of ice against glass.

He tells himself the drink is just habit. Just something to do with his hands.

He leans against the counter, staring into the amber liquid, when he hears soft footsteps on the stairs.

He looks up, already bracing himself to put the mask back on.

But it isn’t Hajime.

It’s his mother.

She moves slowly, one hand on the railing, wrapped in a borrowed cardigan that’s clearly too big for her. Her hair is neater than last night, her face less drawn, but she still looks fragile in a way that makes Oikawa straighten instinctively, like he might need to catch her.

“Oh—” he says quickly, setting the glass down. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

She shakes her head gently. “No. I heard the water and… realized the house was very quiet.”

Her eyes flick to the glass, then back to his face—not judgmental, just observant.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she adds softly.

Oikawa scoffs lightly. “You broke into my house, remember? Intruding kind of lost its meaning.”

She smiles faintly at that, then winces as she reaches the bottom step. Oikawa moves before he thinks, pulling out a chair.

“Sit,” he says, the word instinctive.

She hesitates, then accepts, lowering herself carefully.

“…Thank you,” she says. She looks around the kitchen, taking in the clean counters, the lingering smell of breakfast. Her eyes soften.

“You live here alone?” she asks.

“Most of the time,” Oikawa replies. “My parents travel. A lot.”

She nods, like that answers more than he said. “They must trust you.”

Oikawa snorts quietly. “They trust the locks.”

That earns a small, amused breath from her—almost a laugh.

She folds her hands in her lap. “I wanted to thank you,” she says, more serious now. “For everything. The warmth. The food. Letting my children feel safe.”

Oikawa shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s… not a big deal.”

She looks at him—not sharply, but clearly. “It is to us.”

The words land heavier than he expects.

“Hajime didn’t want to accept it,” she continues gently. “I could see it in his face. He never does.”

Oikawa’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Her gaze drifts toward the hallway, where steam still fogs the air. “He’s always been like that. Ever since he was little.”

She smiles, distant and fond. “He learned early how to be strong. Too early.”

Oikawa leans back against the counter, arms crossing. “He acts like he’s thirty.”

She exhales softly. “He feels like he has to.”

There’s a pause. She gathers herself, then looks back at Oikawa with something earnest and open in her expression.

“You see it, don’t you?” she asks quietly. “How much he carries.”

Oikawa swallows. “Yeah.”

She nods. “Hajime doesn’t sleep deeply anymore. He wakes at the smallest sound. He eats last. He lies without thinking if it means we won’t worry.”

Her voice trembles just slightly. “I’m so proud of him. But I’m afraid, too.”

Oikawa’s chest tightens.

“He’s seventeen,” she says.

Oikawa stills.

“…Seventeen?” he repeats.

She blinks, surprised. “Yes. Did you think he was older?”

Oikawa lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. I did.”

The realization hits him all at once, sharp and disorienting.

Seventeen.

The same age as him.

The same age as someone who’s never had to worry about heat or food or where he’ll sleep. The same age as someone whose biggest responsibilities were grades, volleyball, expectations—heavy, sure, but nothing like this.

“…I’m seventeen too,” Oikawa says quietly.

Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

She studies him now, really studies him, like she’s recalibrating her understanding of him in real time.

“You seemed older,” she admits gently.

Oikawa huffs. “Yeah. People say that.”

She smiles at him with something like sympathy. “Then perhaps you understand each other more than you realize.”

The words sink in slowly.

“He shouldn’t have to be this strong,” she continues, voice soft but firm. “Not alone. Not at his age.”

Oikawa looks toward the hallway again, toward the closed bathroom door, toward the sound of water that means Hajime is finally doing something just for himself.

“…He doesn’t know how to stop,” Oikawa says.

She nods. “No. He doesn’t.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“I don’t know what will happen after this,” she says eventually. “I know we can’t stay. I don’t expect that. But these days—this kindness—will stay with us. With him.”

She meets Oikawa’s eyes. “Thank you for seeing him.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to deflect, to joke, to brush it off.

Nothing comes out.

Instead, he nods once. “He’s… hard not to see.”

The shower turns off down the hall.

Steam hisses faintly through the vent.

Hajime will be back soon—clean, warm, still carrying more than anyone should.

Oikawa grips his glass a little tighter, something resolute settling in his chest.

Seventeen.

The same age.

And somehow, impossibly, Hajime Iwaizumi has been living an entirely different lifetime right beside him.

Oikawa isn’t sure what that means yet.

But he knows one thing for certain—

He isn’t looking away anymore.

Hajime’s mother rises slowly from the chair, bracing herself on the counter for a moment before straightening. There’s more color in her face now—still tired, still sick, but alive in a way that makes Oikawa’s chest ease just a little.

“I should shower while the water’s still warm,” she says softly. “Before Hajime worries.”

Oikawa nods immediately. “Yeah. Uh—second bathroom’s free. Down the hall.”

“Thank you,” she says again, and this time there’s something steadier in her voice. She hesitates, then adds, “For looking out for him.”

Oikawa looks away. “I didn’t do much.”

She smiles like she knows better and heads down the hall, footsteps careful but no longer dragging.

The bathroom door closes.

The house is quiet again.

Oikawa stands there for a long moment, staring at nothing, his glass untouched on the counter.

Seventeen.

The word echoes in his head, colliding with everything he’s seen so far—Hajime’s hands, his posture, the way he flinches from comfort like it’s a trap. The way he never asks for anything unless someone else needs it first.

Oikawa exhales sharply and grabs his phone.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself—not sure if he means Hajime or himself.

He steps away from the kitchen and paces once, twice, then stops and dials a number he knows by heart.

It rings twice.

“Tōru,” his mother says briskly. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa answers automatically. “I just—uh. I need money.”

There’s a pause. Papers rustle on the other end, the faint sound of an airport announcement.

“For what?” his father asks, voice distant and tired.

Oikawa leans against the wall, jaw tightening. “I want to go shopping.”

Another pause.

“How much?” his mother asks, already resigned.

Oikawa names a number—large, but not outrageous by their standards.

“Send it to my account,” he adds quickly. “Today, if you can.”

“Fine,” his father says without hesitation. “Anything else?”

Oikawa hesitates, the truth hovering right there—There’s a family in our house. A seventeen-year-old boy who’s carried more than I ever have. Kids who’ve forgotten what warm feels like.

He swallows it down.

“No,” he says instead. “That’s it.”

“All right,” his mother replies. “Don’t waste it.”

The line clicks dead.

Oikawa lowers the phone slowly, staring at the screen.

Short. Efficient. No questions. No concern.

They didn’t even ask why.

The money notification comes through seconds later.

Oikawa exhales and rubs a hand over his face.

“Guess that’s one thing they’re good for,” he mutters.

The bathroom door down the hall opens again—steam rolling out this time—and Oikawa straightens instinctively.

Hajime steps into view, hair damp, cheeks pink from heat, wearing one of Oikawa’s spare hoodies that’s a size too big. The sleeves hang past his hands. His shoulders look less hunched. Lighter.

For just a second, Oikawa forgets how to breathe.

“…You look,” he starts, then stops himself. “Less like a corpse.”

Hajime snorts. “High praise.”

He glances toward the hallway. “My mom?”

“Showering,” Oikawa says. “She’s okay.”

Hajime’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “Good.”

Oikawa watches him carefully—the way he shifts his weight, like he’s still expecting to be told to leave. The way his eyes flick automatically toward the stairs, checking on everyone even when he doesn’t need to.

Oikawa pockets his phone.

“Hey,” he says casually. “Once everyone’s done, we’re going out.”

Hajime blinks. “Out?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies, already grabbing his keys. “I’m bored. You all look like you could use fresh air that doesn’t try to kill you.”

Hajime hesitates. “We don’t have money—”

“I do,” Oikawa cuts in smoothly. “And before you argue, I already called it in.”

Hajime frowns, suspicion flickering. “Called… what in?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa says, turning toward the door. “Just get ready.”

Hajime watches him, something uncertain and fragile in his expression.

“…Oikawa,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to—”

Oikawa pauses, hand on the doorknob.

“I know,” he says, not turning around.

That’s the problem.

He does know.

And for the first time in his life, Toru Oikawa is spending his parents’ money on something that actually matters.

Chapter Text

By the time everyone is dressed, the house feels different.

Lived in.

Aoi comes bouncing down the stairs first, wearing one of the mansion’s borrowed sweaters that nearly swallows her whole. Her hair is still a little damp, braided clumsily—clearly Kaito tried to help and failed. 

She finally smells like soap instead of cold.

Kaito follows, tugging at sleeves that are too long, face freshly scrubbed and pink with warmth. He looks younger somehow, like a layer of exhaustion has been peeled away.

Hajime comes last.

Clean clothes. Damp hair pushed back instead of sticking up at odd angles. Oikawa’s hoodie hanging loose on his frame, soft instead of threadbare. He looks… seventeen, finally. Or at least closer to it.

Oikawa notices immediately.

And pretends not to.

“Okay,” Oikawa says, clapping his hands together once. “Change of plans.”

Hajime stiffens on instinct. “What plans?”

Oikawa grabs his keys from the counter. “I’m taking you guys shopping.”

The words hang in the air.

Hajime blinks. Once. Twice.

“…What?”

Aoi gasps. “Shopping??”

Kaito’s eyes light up. “Like—like stores?”

“Yes, stores,” Oikawa says dryly. “With doors. And heat. And things you can buy.”

Aoi squeals and spins in a circle. “Haji! We’re gonna go shopping!”

Hajime barely hears her.

“Oikawa,” he says slowly, carefully, like he’s stepping onto thin ice. “No. You really don’t have to do that.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “Here we go.”

“We’re already imposing,” Hajime continues, voice tight. “You’ve done more than enough. We don’t need—”

“We,” Oikawa interrupts pointedly, “need clothes that don’t look like they’re one bad sneeze away from disintegrating.”

Hajime’s jaw clenches. “That’s not your responsibility.”

Oikawa steps closer, gaze sharp but not unkind. “And neither is raising two kids at seventeen, but here you are.”

That stops him.

Hajime opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Aoi tugs on his sleeve. “Please?” she asks softly. “Just to look?”

Kaito nods vigorously. “We’ll be really good.”

Hajime’s resolve wavers visibly.

Oikawa sighs like he’s been waiting for this. “Your mom’s staying here,” he adds, gentler now. “She needs sleep. Real sleep. She agreed.”

Hajime’s eyes flick upstairs. “She did?”

“She told me to tell you not to argue,” Oikawa says without missing a beat. “Something about you being stubborn.”

Aoi giggles. “That’s true.”

Hajime rubs a hand over his face, overwhelmed. “This is too much.”

Oikawa tilts his head. “You said that about breakfast. And the shower. And the couch.”

Hajime exhales shakily. “I don’t know how to accept things.”

Oikawa’s voice softens. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Silence stretches—heavy, fragile.

Then Oikawa straightens, claps his hands again, and grins. “Great. Field trip it is.”

Aoi cheers. Kaito pumps a fist in the air.

Hajime watches them, heart twisting painfully as he sees excitement on their faces he hasn’t seen in months. Real excitement. The kind that doesn’t come with fear attached.

“…Just clothes,” Hajime says finally. “Nothing else.”

Oikawa smirks. “We’ll see.”

Hajime shoots him a look. “Oikawa.”

“I’m kidding,” Oikawa says, already opening the door. Mostly.

Cold air brushes in—but it doesn’t bite the way it used to.

As they step outside together, bundled and clean and still a little unsure, Hajime glances back up the stairs once more, toward where his mother is sleeping in warmth instead of pain.

Then he looks at his siblings—smiling, buzzing with excitement.

Then, finally, at Oikawa—keys in hand, pretending this is just another boring errand.

Something in Hajime’s chest loosens.

Just a little.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, one last time.

Oikawa doesn’t look at him as he answers.

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he opens the car door anyway.

And for the first time since winter began, they leave the house not to survive—but to live, even if only for a few hours.

The car ride is… strange.

Not bad. Just unfamiliar.

Aoi presses her forehead to the window almost immediately, fogging up the glass as she watches houses and shops blur past. 

She points out everything—bright signs, a dog in a coat, a bus with an ad plastered across the side—like she’s afraid it’ll all disappear if she doesn’t name it out loud.

Kaito sits up front, seatbelt clipped a little crooked, asking Oikawa questions nonstop.

“How fast does it go?”

“Is this your car?”

Oikawa answers every single one with exaggerated seriousness, occasionally tossing in obviously fake answers just to see Kaito argue back. Hajime listens from the backseat, half-amused, half-stunned by how normal it all sounds.

Normal is dangerous.

Normal is easy to trust.

He keeps his guard up anyway.

The shopping center is massive—warm lights, automatic doors whoosh open, heat washing over them instantly. Hajime flinches despite himself. His body still expects cold.

Aoi grabs his hand without thinking.

“Don’t let go,” she says, not scared—just excited.

“I won’t,” Hajime promises.

Oikawa leads them straight to a clothing store, one of those places that smells like fabric softener and new beginnings. The kind Hajime hasn’t stepped foot in for months. Maybe longer.

Aoi’s eyes go wide.

“Look at all the colors,” she whispers, reverent.

Kaito beelines for a rack of hoodies, touching the sleeves like he’s checking if they’re real.

Oikawa claps his hands. “Alright. Ground rules.”

Hajime tenses.

“Rule one,” Oikawa says, pointing at the kids, “you pick things that fit. Not things you’ll ‘grow into.’”

Hajime’s throat tightens.

“Rule two,” Oikawa continues, shooting Hajime a look, “no putting stuff back because you think it’s ‘too much.’”

“I—” Hajime starts.

Oikawa cuts him off. “I will fight you in this mall.”

Aoi gasps. “Haji, he’s scary.”

“I am not,” Oikawa protests, then immediately adds, “but I am persistent.”

Hajime exhales through his nose, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

They split up—sort of.

Oikawa takes the kids first, letting them pick jackets. Real jackets. Thick, insulated, with hoods that actually block wind. Aoi hugs hers to her chest like it might vanish. Kaito puts his on immediately and refuses to take it off.

“It’s heavy,” he says, awed.

“It’ll keep you warm,” Oikawa replies.

Hajime watches from a few steps back, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His instinct screams at him to intervene, to stop this before it goes too far, before the cost becomes something they can’t repay.

Oikawa notices.

“Your turn,” he says, grabbing Hajime by the sleeve.

“I’m fine,” Hajime says automatically.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“…It’s comfortable.”

“Exactly.”

He steers Hajime toward a rack of jeans and sweaters, shoving a pile into his arms without ceremony. “Try.”

Hajime stares at the clothes like they might explode. “Oikawa—”

“Fitting room,” Oikawa says, already pushing him toward it. “Go.”

Inside, Hajime just stands there for a long moment.

The mirror reflects someone he barely recognizes. Cleaner. Warmer. Still tired—but less hollow. He tries on the clothes slowly, methodically, like he’s bracing for disappointment.

They fit.

Every single one.

When he steps back out, Oikawa glances up from kneeling beside Aoi to help with her zipper—and freezes.

“…Oh,” he says.

Hajime flushes immediately. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Oikawa blinks, then scoffs. “Yeah. Too much handsome.”

Hajime’s face glows red as he chokes back surprise. “What?”

Aoi beams. “Haji, you look like the boys on TV!”

Kaito nods seriously. “Yeah. Like you don’t live outside.”

The words are innocent, yet still hit like a punch.

Hajime swallows hard.

Oikawa steps in smoothly. “He’s always looked like that. You’re just seeing the deluxe edition.”

Hajime shoots him a look. “Please stop talking.”

Oikawa grins, utterly unrepentant.

They pay quickly—Oikawa doesn’t let Hajime see the total—and move on to shoes. Then socks. Then finally, toys.

By the time they’re done, Aoi is sleepy, Kaito is clutching a bag like it contains treasure, and Hajime feels like he’s walking through a dream he doesn’t trust yet.

On the way back to the car, snow starts to fall again.

But this time, it lands on warm coats.

This time, it doesn’t hurt.

Hajime buckles Aoi in, then Kaito, hands steady. Oikawa watches him from the other side of the car, something soft and determined settling behind his eyes.

As they pull out of the lot, Hajime leans his head back against the seat, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

“…They’re really happy,” he says quietly.

Oikawa keeps his eyes on the road. “Yeah.”

“…I don’t know how to repay you.”

Oikawa exhales. “Good. Because I’m not looking for that.”

Hajime turns to him, confused.

Oikawa doesn’t elaborate.

The car fills with quiet—comfortable, this time. Aoi hums softly. Kaito dozes off.

And Hajime, wrapped in warmth that doesn’t feel stolen, lets himself believe—just a little—that this kindness might not vanish the moment he relaxes.

Once they arrive home, night settles in softly.

The house glows warm again, lights low, curtains drawn against the cold pressing at the windows. 

Aoi and Kaito are sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by the new things they still don’t quite believe are theirs—coloring books, a small toy set, socks kicked off because the carpet is warm enough that they can.

They laugh easily now.

Not the careful, quiet kind of laughter Hajime has grown used to, but loud, unguarded bursts that echo a little too much in a house this big. 

Aoi shows her mom a picture she’s coloring—messy and bright—and their mother laughs, real and unrestrained, pulling her into a loose hug that makes Aoi squeal.

Kaito demonstrates something dramatic with a toy, narrating every move like it’s a championship match. His mom claps along, encouraging him, eyes shining.

Hajime watches from the kitchen doorway.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there with his arms loosely folded, shoulders finally lowered, eyes soft in a way Oikawa doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

Oikawa leans against the counter beside him, glass in hand, the quiet clink of ice the only sound between them.

“…She hasn’t laughed like that in a while,” Hajime murmurs.

Oikawa follows his gaze. The way Hajime’s mom brushes Aoi’s hair back gently. The way Kaito keeps glancing at her like he’s making sure she’s still there.

“…Yeah,” Oikawa says quietly. “I can tell.”

He lifts his glass, takes a sip.

Hajime notices immediately.

His eyes flick down. Then back up.

“…How much have you had?” Hajime asks.

Oikawa nearly chokes. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve had at least two already,” Hajime says calmly. “And it’s not even that late.”

Oikawa blinks at him. “…Are you lecturing me?”

“Yes,” Hajime replies without hesitation.

Oikawa lets out a startled laugh. “Wow. You break into my house and now you’re policing my drinking?”

Hajime turns fully toward him now, expression serious. “You’re seventeen.”

“So are you,” Oikawa shoots back automatically.

“That’s exactly my point.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to argue—then pauses.

“…You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“What thing?”

“That thing where you sound like a tired adult who’s seen too much.”

Hajime exhales through his nose. “Someone has to.”

Oikawa tilts his head, studying him. “You don’t drink at all, do you?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“We don’t exactly have the money laying around for me to blow on some whiskey. But even if we were millionaires like you, I still wouldn’t.”

Oikawa sighs, setting the glass down on the counter instead of lifting it again. “You’re no fun.”

Hajime relaxes just slightly. “I don’t care.”

There’s a quiet stretch between them, filled with the sound of kids laughing and the soft murmur of Hajime’s mom telling Kaito to slow down before he trips over his own feet.

Oikawa glances sideways at Hajime. “You’re not wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“The drinking,” Oikawa says. “It’s just… easier sometimes.”

Hajime nods slowly. “Yeah. I figured.”

Oikawa looks surprised. “You did?”

Hajime shrugs. “People don’t drink for no reason.”

That lands heavier than Oikawa expects.

“…You shouldn’t carry everyone,” Oikawa says after a moment.

Hajime lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s rich.”

“I mean it,” Oikawa says, turning toward him fully. “Your mom sees it. I see it. You act like if you stop holding everything together, it’ll all collapse.”

Hajime’s jaw tightens.

“…That’s because it might.”

Oikawa softens. “It won’t. Atleast… not here.”

Hajime looks back into the living room again—at Aoi curled against their mom’s side now, drowsy but smiling, at Kaito leaning back against her legs, mid-story, hands waving wildly.

Hajime finally looks at him. “Toru… why are you doing this?”

Oikawa hesitates.

He could deflect. Joke. Shrug it off like everything else.

Instead, he answers honestly.

“…Because I don’t want them to go back out there. At least not without me helping first,” he says. “And because you shouldn’t have had to do all of this alone.”

Hajime’s throat tightens.

Oikawa clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable again, reaching for the glass—then stopping when Hajime gives him a look.

“…I’m switching to water,” Oikawa mutters.

“Good,” Hajime says.

Oikawa scoffs. “You’re terrifying.”

Hajime huffs a small laugh. “You offered.”

They fall quiet again, but it’s different now—easy. Familiar.

Eventually, Hajime’s mom looks up and catches them watching. She smiles warmly, eyes tired but peaceful, and lifts a hand in a small wave.

Hajime waves back.

Oikawa does too—awkward, half a second late.

And standing there in the kitchen, watching a family breathe again under his roof, Toru Oikawa realizes something with a strange mix of fear and certainty:

This isn’t just kindness anymore.

It’s attachment. And he doesn’t want to let go.

He zones out for a few minutes, enjoying a comfortable silence as exhaustion begins to unravel the kids.

Aoi falls asleep first, curled against her mom’s side with a coloring book slipping from her fingers. Kaito follows not long after, fighting sleep until his head finally tips sideways, breath evening out. 

Hajime leaves Toru alone momentarily, carrying his brother upstairs without being asked, movements careful and practiced, and tucks both kids in like it’s muscle memory carved into him.

By the time he comes back down, the lights are dimmed and the world feels hushed—safe in that fragile, late-night way.

Hajime reaches for the blanket on the couch out of habit.

“Hey.”

He pauses, turning.

Oikawa is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression casual in a way that doesn’t quite stick.

“…You don’t have to do that,” Oikawa says.

Hajime blinks. “It’s fine. The couch is—”

“I know,” Oikawa interrupts. “You said that this morning too.”

Hajime hesitates, fingers tightening in the fabric. “I don’t want to take more space than—”

“—Hajime,” Oikawa says, firmer now.

Hajime looks at him.

Oikawa exhales through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second before coming back. “I don’t want you sleeping on the couch.”

There’s a beat.

“…Why?” Hajime asks quietly.

Oikawa’s ears turn pink. “Because it’s stupid. And you’re exhausted. And—” He waves a hand vaguely. “And I have a bed. A big one.”

Hajime stiffens. “Toru—”

“Not like that,” Oikawa says quickly, flustered. “I mean—well—my room’s huge, okay? You won’t even be near me if you don’t want to be. It’s just… warmer. And better than pretending you don’t deserve it.”

The words land heavier than Oikawa probably intends.

Hajime swallows.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

Oikawa scoffs. “You’re already in my house. I think we passed that point.”

Silence stretches between them, fragile and loaded.

Hajime looks down at the couch again. At the thin blanket. At the space he’s already shrinking himself into.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

Oikawa nods immediately. “Yeah.” 

Then, softer, almost reluctant: “I don’t want you alone tonight.”

Something twists gently in Hajime’s chest.

“…Okay,” he says.

Oikawa blinks, clearly not expecting that to work so easily. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Hajime repeats. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Oikawa says, a little too fast. Then he turns on his heel. “C’mon.”

They quietly creep up the stairs, careful not to wake any of Hajime’s family, and once they arrive at the room at the very end of the hall, Toru ushers Hajime in and carefully shuts the door behind them.

Hajime notices how his room is nothing like the rest of the house.

Not polished or performative, but personal.

Large—ridiculously so—with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the quiet city. Soft lighting instead of harsh overheads. Shelves lined with trophies and books and framed photos. A king-sized bed dominates the center, layered with blankets that look like they’ve never known a cold night.

Hajime stops just inside the doorway.

“…Wow,” he says under his breath.

Oikawa scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Uh. Don’t be weird about it.”

Hajime lets out a small huff. “Too late.”

Oikawa gestures awkwardly. “You can take whichever side. Or, like, the edge. Or—whatever.”

Hajime sets his folded clothes down carefully, like he’s afraid the room might reject him if he’s careless. He sits on the edge of the bed, testing it, then freezes when it sinks under his weight.

“This is,” he searches for the word, “…really nice.”

Oikawa shrugs, suddenly shy. “It’s just a bed.”

Hajime lies back slowly, staring up at the ceiling. The mattress supports him comfortably. The blankets are warm without being heavy.

His chest tightens unexpectedly.

Oikawa changes on the other side of the room, deliberately turning away, giving him space without saying it out loud. When he finally climbs into bed, there’s a careful distance between them—more than enough.

For a while, neither of them speaks.

The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside and the steady hum of heat in the walls.

“Hey… Toru?” Hajime says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Oikawa shifts, staring at the ceiling. “You’ve already thanked me like twelve times.”

“I know,” Hajime says. “But this one’s different.”

Oikawa doesn’t joke this time. “…Okay. You’re welcome.”

Minutes pass. Then more.

Hajime’s breathing slowly evens out, body finally giving in to exhaustion now that it feels safe enough to do so.

Oikawa listens.

He glances sideways, careful not to move too much.

Hajime is asleep.

Really asleep.

No tension in his shoulders. No clenched jaw. Just quiet, steady breathing and a face that looks younger than Oikawa has ever seen it.

Seventeen.

Oikawa swallows, heart doing something unfamiliar and unsteady.

He turns onto his side slightly—not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth of another person in the bed.

“…Goodnight, Hajime,” he murmurs, barely audible.

Hajime doesn’t hear him.

But for the first time in a long time, both of them fall asleep knowing they’re not alone.

Chapter Text

Morning comes slowly.

Not with panic. Not with cold. Not with the instinctive jolt that usually rips Hajime awake before his mind can catch up.

It comes with warmth.

Sunlight filters through the tall windows in soft bands, painting the far wall gold. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the house and the faint, steady sound of someone breathing beside him.

Hajime wakes in pieces.

First, the realization that his back doesn’t hurt.

Then the weight of blankets—real ones, thick and clean, tucked around him instead of slipping away in the night.

Then the warmth at his side.

His eyes open.

For half a second, his heart lurches.

He’s not on the couch.

He’s not outside.

He’s not alone.

Oikawa is still asleep beside him, turned slightly onto his side, hair messy and falling into his face, one arm bent under the pillow. Without the sharp edges of his usual expressions, he looks… softer. Younger. Just a seventeen-year-old boy sleeping in his own bed.

Hajime freezes.

He takes stock instinctively—distance, posture, boundaries. They’re still separate, not touching, just close enough that Hajime can feel the residual warmth of him through the mattress.

Safe.

Careful.

Allowed.

Hajime exhales, slow and shaky, pressing a hand lightly to his chest like he needs to remind his heart to calm down.

He should get up.

That’s his first thought.

He always gets up first. Always before anyone else needs him.

But his body doesn’t move.

The exhaustion is still there, deep and heavy, but underneath it is something unfamiliar—rest. Real rest. The kind that doesn’t disappear the moment you open your eyes.

He lies there for a few minutes longer, just breathing.

Just existing.

Oikawa stirs.

He shifts slightly, brow furrowing before relaxing again, and Hajime instinctively stills, afraid of waking him. But Oikawa doesn’t wake—not fully. He murmurs something unintelligible and rolls onto his back, arm drifting outward.

It stops a few inches from Hajime’s hand.

Hajime’s breath catches.

The space between them feels loud.

He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t pull away.

He just… stays.

Eventually, Oikawa’s eyes flutter open.

There’s a moment of confusion—his gaze unfocused, blinking against the light. Then awareness settles in, slow and unguarded.

“…Morning,” he mumbles.

Hajime swallows. “Morning.”

Oikawa blinks again, then turns his head slightly, eyes landing on Hajime.

And then—

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Hajime tenses automatically. “Sorry, I—if you want me to—”

“No,” Oikawa interrupts immediately, voice still rough with sleep. “Don’t. I mean—don’t move.”

Hajime stops.

Oikawa stares up at the ceiling for a second, then lets out a quiet breath. “Wow. You actually slept.”

Hajime hesitates. “…Yeah.”

Oikawa glances at him again, eyes softer than Hajime is used to seeing. “Good.”

They lie there in silence for a moment, the kind that isn’t awkward—just full.

From somewhere downstairs, there’s a faint sound of movement. A floorboard creaks. A kettle clicks on.

Hajime’s instincts flare immediately. He starts to sit up. “That’s my mom—”

“I’ve got it,” Oikawa says quickly, reaching out without thinking.

His hand catches Hajime’s wrist.

They both freeze.

Oikawa’s hand is warm. Solid. Real.

Hajime looks down at it, then up at Oikawa, eyes wide—not scared, just startled.

Oikawa’s ears go bright red. He releases him instantly. “I—sorry. Reflex.”

Hajime’s pulse is loud in his ears.

“…It’s okay,” he says quietly.

Oikawa clears his throat and sits up, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll go check on her. You—uh. You can stay. Or not. Whatever.”

Hajime nods, still a little dazed. “Okay.”

Oikawa leaves the room, moving faster than necessary.

Hajime lies back down.

His wrist still feels warm.

He stares at the ceiling, heart doing something unfamiliar and unsettling—not fear, not guilt, not exhaustion.

Something gentler.

Downstairs, Oikawa greets Hajime’s mother with awkward politeness and an immediate offer to make tea. She smiles at him in that quiet, knowing way that makes his chest feel tight again.

Upstairs, Hajime listens to the muffled sounds of morning—cups clinking, voices low and calm, the house waking up slowly.

For the first time in a long time, the day doesn’t feel like something he has to brace himself against.

It feels like something he might be allowed to step into.

And that thought—terrifying and hopeful all at once—stays with him as he finally gets out of bed, folds the blankets neatly out of habit, and gets ready to face whatever comes next.

Not alone.

The house empties out slowly.

Hajime stands at the front door while his mom helps Aoi into her coat, fingers careful as she buttons it up. Kaito is already bouncing on his heels, tugging his gloves on with too much enthusiasm.

“We’ll be back before dinner,” his mom says gently, looking between Hajime and Oikawa. There’s color in her cheeks today—still tired, but steadier. “Don’t worry.”

Hajime nods. “I won’t.”

She pauses, then reaches up and cups his cheek briefly, thumb brushing over skin that’s still a little rough from winter. “Rest,” she murmurs, like it’s an order.

Aoi hugs him around the middle. Kaito gives him a fierce, one-armed squeeze.

The door closes behind them.

Silence settles into the house—not the heavy, lonely kind, but something lighter. Expectant.

Oikawa locks the door, then leans back against it with a long exhale. “Well.”

Hajime turns. “Well?”

“We’re… alone,” Oikawa says, like he’s surprised by it.

Hajime nods slowly. “Yeah.”

They stand there for a moment longer than necessary, both suddenly unsure of what to do with the quiet.

Oikawa breaks it first.

He heads for the kitchen.

Hajime notices immediately.

“Oikawa,” he says.

Oikawa doesn’t stop. “Relax. I’m just—”

Hajime steps in front of the cabinet before he can open it. “No.”

Oikawa blinks. “Excuse me?”

“No drinking,” Hajime repeats, calm but firm.

Oikawa scoffs. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like you’re responsible for me.”

Hajime doesn’t move. “You were about to pour something.”

“So?”

“So it’s not even noon.”

Oikawa’s jaw tightens. “It’s my house.”

“I know.”

“Then move.”

Hajime doesn’t.

They stare at each other, the tension quiet but unmistakable.

“…Why do you do that?” Oikawa asks finally, voice lower.

“Do what?”

“Stop me,” Oikawa says. “Every time.”

Hajime hesitates, then answers honestly. “Because it feels like you’re trying to disappear into it.”

Oikawa flinches—just barely.

“That’s not your problem.”

“Maybe not,” Hajime says. “But I’m here.”

Oikawa looks away first.

He sighs and steps back, grabbing a glass instead and filling it with water a little too forcefully. “You’re impossible.”

Hajime smiles matter-of-factly and shrugs.

Oikawa huffs. “I regret everything.”

They end up at the kitchen table without really deciding to. Sunlight pours in through the windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.

Oikawa props his chin in his hand, studying Hajime. “So.”

“…So,” Hajime echoes.

“You never asked,” Oikawa says.

“Asked what?”

“Why I’m not in school right now.”

Hajime blinks. “I assumed… winter break.”

Oikawa smirks. “Correct.”

“Then why bring it up?”

Oikawa tilts his head. “Because you’re not.”

Hajime stills.

“…No,” he admits quietly.

Oikawa’s smirk fades. “You don’t go at all?”

Hajime shakes his head. “I dropped out.”

“When?”

“After my dad died,” Hajime says. “I tried to keep going. Couldn’t. Had to work.”

Oikawa stares at the table. “You’re seventeen.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s—” Oikawa cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “That’s not fair.”

Hajime gives a small, tired smile. “Life’s not big on fairness.”

Oikawa snorts. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

He taps his fingers against the glass. “I go to school. Private. Expensive. People expect things from me all the time.”

Hajime looks up. “Like what?”

“To be the best. To win. To not screw up,” Oikawa shrugs. “To be impressive.”

“…Do you want that?”

Oikawa opens his mouth, then stops.

“…I don’t know,” he admits.

They talk like that for a long time.

About school. About what Hajime liked before everything went wrong. About volleyball—how Oikawa plays, how Hajime used to, back when his body had energy for joy instead of survival.

About parents who are present but distant, and parents who were everything and then suddenly gone.

At some point, Oikawa grabs a blanket from the living room and tosses it at Hajime’s head.

“Movie,” he declares. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep sitting up.”

“I’m fine,” Hajime says automatically.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Lie again and I’ll pick something awful on purpose.”

“…Okay,” Hajime concedes.

They settle on the couch, space between them at first—careful, respectful.

The movie plays quietly, something slow and atmospheric, more feeling than plot. Hajime barely follows it at first. His body is still learning that rest doesn’t have consequences here.

Halfway through, Oikawa shifts.

The blanket slips, brushing Hajime’s hand.

Neither of them moves it back.

Minutes pass.

Oikawa leans back, shoulder pressing lightly into Hajime’s arm. Hajime tenses instinctively—then forces himself to stay.

It’s warm.

Oikawa exhales softly. “You okay?”

“…Yeah,” Hajime says.

They sit like that, closer now, the movie flickering across their faces. Oikawa’s knee nudges Hajime’s. Doesn’t move away.

Hajime’s heart beats louder than the soundtrack.

At some point, Oikawa’s head tips sideways.

It rests against Hajime’s shoulder.

Hajime freezes.

Seconds tick by.

Oikawa doesn’t pull away.

Slowly, carefully, Hajime lets himself breathe.

He doesn’t move his arm. Doesn’t touch back. Just exists in the closeness, letting the weight of another person be something comforting instead of threatening.

The movie ends.

Neither of them notices right away.

“…Hey,” Oikawa murmurs, half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“…Thanks for stopping me earlier.”

Hajime swallows. “Anytime.”

Oikawa’s fingers curl lightly into the fabric of Hajime’s sleeve—not gripping, just there.

Outside, winter presses against the windows.

Inside, two seventeen-year-old boys sit together on a couch, sharing quiet and warmth and the fragile beginning of something neither of them knows how to name yet.

And for now—

That’s enough.

The movie ends without ceremony.

The screen fades to black, credits rolling in silence, but neither of them notices.

Oikawa’s breathing evens out first.

Hajime realizes it slowly—the weight against his shoulder growing heavier, the tension in Oikawa’s body easing, his fingers slackening where they’d been half-curled in Hajime’s sleeve. His head tilts just a little more, cheek resting fully against Hajime’s collarbone now.

Asleep.

Hajime stiffens on instinct.

His first thought is that he should move. Wake him. Shift away. This isn’t appropriate, isn’t safe, isn’t—

But Oikawa exhales softly, warm breath ghosting against Hajime’s neck, and something in Hajime’s chest loosens instead of tightening.

He looks down.

Oikawa looks younger like this. Guard down. Mouth slightly parted, lashes dark against his cheeks. No smirk, no sharp words, no armor. Just a boy who hasn’t slept deeply in a while either.

Hajime swallows.

Carefully—so carefully he barely feels himself do it—he adjusts his position. He shifts just enough to take some of the strain off Oikawa’s neck, angling himself so Oikawa’s weight is supported instead of awkward.

The blanket has slipped down at some point.

Hajime reaches for it, hesitates, then pulls it back up over them both.

Oikawa stirs, brow furrowing faintly.

Without really thinking about it, Hajime lifts his arm and settles it around Oikawa’s shoulders, palm resting lightly against his upper arm. Not tight. Not possessive. Just… steady. Something to lean into.

Oikawa relaxes instantly.

Hajime freezes again, heart pounding, then slowly exhales when Oikawa doesn’t wake.

“…Okay,” Hajime murmurs to no one.

He stays awake a little longer, staring at the far wall, listening to the quiet hum of the house and the soft rhythm of another person breathing against him.

Then, for the first time in what feels like forever, Hajime lets himself fall asleep too.

Two hours later, the front door opens quietly.

Boots shuffle. A child’s voice whispers something excited and immediately gets shushed.

Hajime’s mom steps into the living room first.

She stops short.

Her hand flies instinctively to her mouth.

On the couch, curled together beneath a blanket, are two boys fast asleep.

Hajime’s arm is around Oikawa, protective even in rest. Oikawa’s head is tucked into Hajime’s shoulder, one knee drawn up slightly, face peaceful in a way she hasn’t seen since… ever, maybe.

They look warm.

Safe.

Young.

Aoi peeks around her mom’s side. Her eyes widen.

“Haji?” she whispers.

Kaito cranes his neck. “Is he sick?”

Their mom shakes her head gently, voice barely audible. “No. They’re just… sleeping.”

She watches them for a long moment, emotions warring quietly behind her eyes—relief, gratitude, something like awe.

She knows that posture.

She’s seen Hajime sleep like that before—years ago, when the kids were smaller, when he’d fall asleep sitting upright with one of them against his chest after a bad dream. Always guarding. Always holding.

She also knows what it means that he’s allowed himself to do it now with someone else.

“Let them be,” she murmurs.

Aoi nods solemnly. “They look nice.”

Kaito tilts his head. “…Is Oikawa part of our family now?”

Her mom’s lips tremble into a smile. “I think,” she says softly, “he’s very important to your brother.”

They move quietly past, toeing off shoes, gathering jackets, dimming the lights just a little more. Their mom drapes another blanket over the boys before leading the kids upstairs.

Hajime doesn’t wake.

Oikawa doesn’t either.

They sleep on, tangled gently together on the couch as winter presses against the windows—two seventeen-year-olds finally resting, finally warm, finally not alone.

And when Oikawa shifts in his sleep and unconsciously leans closer, Hajime’s arm tightens just slightly in response.

Protective.

Natural.

Like it’s always been meant to be this way.

Chapter Text

Oikawa wakes slowly.

Not with a jolt. Not with confusion.

With warmth.

The first thing he registers is weight—solid and steady around his shoulders. The second is fabric beneath his cheek that smells faintly like soap and something unfamiliar but grounding. The third is the low murmur of voices and the soft clink of dishes somewhere nearby.

For a few peaceful seconds, he doesn’t move.

Then awareness clicks into place.

He’s on the couch.

It’s evening—the light filtering in through the windows is amber now, not morning-bright.
And Hajime’s arm is around him.

Oikawa freezes.

Carefully, so carefully he might as well be defusing a bomb, he lifts his head just enough to see.

Hajime is still asleep.

Really asleep. Mouth slightly parted, brow smooth, his arm secure but relaxed around Oikawa’s shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s no tension in him, no half-readiness to wake at the slightest sound.

He trusted this enough to sleep.

Oikawa’s chest tightens painfully.

He swallows and slowly, reluctantly, slips out from under Hajime’s arm, replacing the blanket so Hajime doesn’t wake. He sits on the edge of the couch for a moment, rubbing his face, heart pounding harder than it has any right to.

Get it together, he tells himself.

The smell hits him next.

Food.

Warm, real food.

Oikawa follows it into the kitchen, padding quietly, hoodie sleeves pushed up. Hajime’s mom stands at the stove, stirring something that smells rich and comforting—soup, maybe, or stew. The overhead light casts a gentle glow over her, and she looks… good. Still tired, still recovering, but upright. Present.

She looks over when she hears him.

“Oh,” she says softly, smiling. “Did I wake you?”

Oikawa shakes his head quickly. “No. I just—uh. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

She glances at the clock. “Evening already. You boys must have been very tired.”

He laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess so.”

She gestures vaguely at the stove. “I hope it’s alright. I didn’t want to overstep, but you’ve done so much for us, and the kids were hungry again, and—”

“That’s completely fine,” Oikawa says immediately. “Please. You don’t have to ask.”

She studies him for a moment, then nods. “Thank you.”

There’s a comfortable pause as she stirs. Then, gently, “Hajime doesn’t usually sleep like that.”

Oikawa stiffens. “…Like what?”

“Deeply,” she says. “Without subconsciously staying alert.”

Oikawa’s throat tightens. “Oh.”

She smiles at him, warm and knowing but not intrusive. “You make him feel safe.”

The words land so softly they almost hurt.

Before Oikawa can respond, there’s movement behind him.

Hajime stirs on the couch, groaning quietly as he shifts, blinking awake like he’s surfacing from deep water. He sits up, hair mussed, then freezes when he realizes where he is.

“…Oh,” he mutters.

Oikawa turns. “Hey.”

Hajime blinks at him. “Did I—?”

“You fell asleep,” Oikawa says lightly. “Hard.”

Hajime exhales, rubbing his face. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Oikawa asks.

“…Everything,” Hajime replies automatically.

His mom clears her throat gently. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Hajime looks over, startled. “You’re cooking?”

She gives him a look. “Yes, Hajime. I’m allowed.”

“…Okay,” he says, subdued.

The kids come down soon after, drawn by the smell, hair still slightly damp from baths and cheeks flushed from excitement. They chatter about the park, about birds and slides and something dramatic involving a dog.

The table fills.

Plates are set. Bowls passed. Someone spills water and laughs instead of panicking.

Oikawa sits at the table a little stiffly at first, hands folded in front of him like he’s a guest who doesn’t want to do anything wrong.

Then Aoi slides into the chair next to him.

“Can you pass the bread?” she asks seriously.

“Oh—yeah,” Oikawa says, startled, handing it over.

Kaito immediately reaches across him to grab a piece. “Thanks.”

Hajime sits across from him, watching all of this with something soft in his eyes.

Dinner is… loud.

Not chaotic, just alive. There’s talking over each other, gentle reminders to chew, laughter when Kaito tells a story wrong and Aoi corrects him dramatically. Hajime’s mom listens more than she speaks, smiling like she’s memorizing every sound.

Oikawa eats quietly at first.

Then he realizes something.

No one is on their phone.

No one is rushing away.

No one is talking about schedules or expectations or what comes next.

They’re just… there.

He hasn’t done this in months.

Maybe longer.

At his house, dinner is usually solitary or scheduled or skipped entirely. Eaten standing up. Eaten late. Eaten alone.

This—this is different.

“Huh,” Oikawa murmurs without thinking.

Hajime looks at him. “What?”

“…Nothing,” Oikawa says, shaking his head. “Just—this is nice.”

Hajime’s mom smiles at him across the table. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The words hit him harder than he expects.

“Yeah,” Oikawa says quietly. “Me too.”

As dinner winds down, Aoi yawns and Kaito starts leaning against his mom’s side again, eyelids drooping. Hajime clears plates without being asked, moving easily, naturally.

Oikawa watches it all, chest full in a way he doesn’t have a name for.

Family dinner.

When Hajime catches Oikawa looking, he pauses. “…You okay?”

Oikawa nods. “Yeah.”

Then, after a beat, honest and quiet:

“I forgot what this felt like.”

Hajime doesn’t tease him. Doesn’t joke.

He just nods once and continues eating in a comfortable silence.

After dinner, the house loosens.

Plates are cleared, chairs pushed back, the sharp edge of hunger and worry dulled into something softer. Hajime takes the bowls from the table, stacks them neatly out of habit—and then pauses when Aoi tugs on his sleeve.

“Haji,” she says, already smiling. “Can we play?”

He looks at her, at Kaito hovering behind her with hopeful eyes, and something gentle overtakes the tiredness in his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “What do you want to play?”

They migrate to the living room together, settling onto the floor with a mess of toys and blankets. Hajime lets himself sprawl this time, long legs stretched out, letting Aoi climb over him like he’s a piece of furniture she knows won’t move. Kaito insists on reenacting some dramatic scene from earlier—voices loud, arms flailing—and Hajime plays along, making exaggerated sound effects that make both kids dissolve into laughter.

From the kitchen doorway, Oikawa watches.

He doesn’t mean to linger. He tells himself he’s just grabbing a glass.

But he stops anyway.

Hajime is different like this—lighter, younger, his laugh unguarded. He lets Aoi steal his hoodie drawstrings and doesn’t protest when Kaito uses his arm as a prop. He looks… at home. Not in the house—in himself.

Oikawa turns away before the feeling in his chest gets too tight.

He opens the cabinet, reaches for the bottle out of muscle memory more than desire, and pours himself a drink. The amber liquid settles into the glass with a familiar, comforting sound.

“Ah—ah.”

The voice is gentle. Firm.

Oikawa freezes.

Hajime’s mom stands a few steps behind him, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked back, dish towel over her shoulder. She’s not angry. She’s not disappointed.

She just looks… resolute.

Oikawa sighs. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

She reaches out and takes the glass from his hand without hesitation, setting it in the sink. “Not tonight,” she says calmly.

Oikawa blinks. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” she replies, mild but unyielding. “And I will.”

He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Wow. You sound like—”

“Like a mother?” she finishes, raising an eyebrow.

He falters. “…Yeah.”

She nods once. “Good.”

She gestures toward the table. “Sit.”

Oikawa hesitates, then obeys, sinking into the chair like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. She doesn’t scold him. Doesn’t lecture.

She just starts washing dishes.

The sound of water fills the space between them.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Oikawa says after a moment, defensive. “I’m fine.”

She hums thoughtfully. “That’s what Hajime says too.”

Oikawa winces. “Yeah. That tracks.”

She glances at him over her shoulder. “How old are you, Toru?”

“Seventeen,” he answers automatically.

She nods. “So young to carry so much quiet.”

Oikawa scoffs, but it’s hollow. “I don’t carry anything.”

She turns off the water and faces him fully now, hands resting on the counter. “Then why did you reach for the bottle?”

The question is gentle. Unavoidable.

Oikawa opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“…Because it’s easier,” he admits finally. “Because if I’m numb, I don’t have to think about how empty this house usually feels.”

Her expression softens immediately—not pity, not judgment. Understanding.

“My parents are always gone,” he continues, words spilling now that he’s started. “They’re not bad people. They just… don’t notice. They send money instead of showing up. And I tell myself it’s fine, because it’s easier than admitting it hurts.”

She listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush him.

“And then you all show up,” he adds quietly, voice tight. “And suddenly there’s noise. And food. And people who actually look at each other.”

His throat closes.

“…I didn’t realize how lonely I was until it stopped being quiet.”

She steps closer.

“That makes sense,” she says softly. “Loneliness doesn’t announce itself. It just settles in.”

Oikawa’s eyes burn. He blinks hard. “I don’t know how to talk about it. So I don’t.”

She nods. “You learned to cope the way you could.”

“I don’t want Hajime to see me like that,” he admits. “I don’t want to be another thing he has to worry about.”

She smiles gently. “Oh, Toru.”

She reaches out, hesitates just a fraction—then places a hand over his, warm and steady.

“Hajime worries because he cares,” she says. “Not because you’re a burden.”

Oikawa’s breath shakes.

“And you,” she continues, voice firm now, “are allowed to need comfort too. You don’t have to earn it.”

The dam breaks quietly.

Oikawa bows his head, shoulders trembling, breath hitching as something he’s been holding in for months finally slips free. He doesn’t sob. He just… cracks, tears spilling silently, hands clenched in his lap like he’s embarrassed to be seen like this.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into her chest like she’s done a thousand times before—with her own children, with scraped knees and bad dreams and grief that didn’t have words yet.

Oikawa stiffens for a second.

Then melts.

He clutches at the back of her cardigan, forehead pressed into her shoulder, breathing uneven as she rubs slow, grounding circles into his back.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He lets himself lean into it, lets himself be held, lets the warmth sink in all the way this time.

In the living room, Hajime glances toward the kitchen once—just briefly.

He sees the silhouette of them through the doorway.

And for the first time, he doesn’t feel the need to step in.

He smiles softly and turns back to his siblings, laughter bubbling up as Aoi insists he’s losing the game on purpose.

In the kitchen, Toru Oikawa breathes through the ache in his chest, held by someone who doesn’t ask him to be anything other than seventeen and tired and human.

Chapter Text

Morning arrives gently.

Not bright, not loud—just a soft gray light creeping in through the windows, the house still half-asleep and wrapped in warmth. Oikawa wakes before the alarm he doesn’t set, before the weight of the day has time to settle on his chest.

Hajime is still asleep beside him.

Oikawa lies still for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of Hajime’s breathing, the way his brow is finally smooth instead of drawn tight.

He doesn’t touch him—doesn’t want to risk waking him—but the urge sits heavy in his chest anyway.

Last night replays in fragments: the fear in Hajime’s voice, the way his hands shook, the kiss—deep, grounding, real.

Oikawa exhales quietly and slips out of bed, careful not to disturb him. He pulls on a hoodie, pads out into the hallway, and makes his way downstairs.

The kitchen light is already on.

Hajime’s mom is there, moving slowly but steadily, stirring something on the stove. The smell of breakfast—simple and warm—fills the air. She looks up when she hears him.

“Good morning, Toru,” she says softly.

“Morning,” he replies, voice still a little rough with sleep.

She studies his face for a second, then smiles in that gentle, knowing way of hers. Without asking, without hesitation, she steps closer and kisses his forehead—brief, warm, instinctive.

Oikawa freezes.

Not because he doesn’t want it.

Because no one’s done that in a long time.

“…Good morning,” she repeats, squeezing his shoulder lightly before turning back to the stove.

Oikawa swallows and sits at the table, resting his elbows on the cool wood.

For a moment, he just watches her move—unhurried, domestic, present. The kitchen doesn’t feel like borrowed space anymore. It feels… lived in.

“I didn’t wake anyone, did I?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. Hajime sleeps deeply here. It’s good for him.”

Oikawa’s chest tightens. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches comfortably between them, broken only by the soft sizzle of the pan.

“…We talked last night,” Oikawa says finally.

She doesn’t turn around. “I know.”

He blinks. “You—?”

“I know my son,” she says gently. “And I can feel when something heavy has shifted.”

Oikawa exhales and rubs his hands together, staring down at the table. “He’s really scared.”

She nods. “I know.”

“Not just worried,” he continues. “Terrified. Of taking you all back out there. Of failing you. Of losing everything the second it feels safe.”

Her stirring slows.

“He thinks it’s all on him,” Oikawa says, voice quiet but urgent now. “Like if anything goes wrong, it means he didn’t try hard enough.”

She turns then.

Really turns.

Her eyes are tired—but steady. Strong in a way that comes from surviving things you never asked for.

“I am really scared too,” she says.

The honesty in her voice makes Oikawa’s breath hitch.

“I lie awake some nights wondering if my body will give out before winter does,” she continues calmly.

“I worry about my children forgetting what it feels like to be warm. I worry about Hajime losing himself trying to protect us.”

She sets the spoon down and meets Oikawa’s gaze fully.

“But fear doesn’t mean we’ve failed,” she says. “It means we know what we stand to lose.”

Oikawa swallows hard. “He thinks he has to be strong all the time.”

She smiles sadly. “That’s because he learned too early that no one else would be.”

She reaches across the table and takes Oikawa’s hand, warm and grounding. “I’m grateful he has you.”

Oikawa’s eyes burn. “I don’t know if I can fix anything.”

“I don’t need you to fix it,” she replies softly. “I need you to stay. To care. To let him lean on you sometimes instead of carrying everything alone.”

Oikawa nods, jaw tight. “I will.”

She squeezes his hand. “That’s enough.”

The house remains quiet upstairs—children sleeping, Hajime resting, unaware of the two people downstairs holding space for his fear without judgment.

As the kettle clicks off and breakfast finishes cooking, Oikawa sits there with her, grounded by the simple rhythm of the morning and the quiet understanding between them.

For the first time, he realizes something clearly:

He isn’t just helping a family.

He’s part of one now.

And for both of them—him and Hajime’s mom—being scared doesn’t mean giving up.

It means they’ll face what comes next together.

Oikawa’s phone buzzes softly against the kitchen counter—one short vibration that feels far too loud in the quiet morning. He glances down without thinking.

Mom:
We’re landing tonight. Be home.

That’s it.

No emoji. No follow-up. No are you okay? or did you eat?

Just a statement.

Oikawa’s stomach drops.

He stares at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering uselessly over the keyboard. His parents are coming back. Tonight. Which means—

Which means this ends.

The warmth. The safety. The pretending that tomorrow doesn’t exist.

He locks his phone and sets it face-down on the counter like it might explode if he looks at it too long.

Across the room, Hajime’s mom notices immediately.

“…They’re coming home,” she says softly. Not a question.

Oikawa nods once. “Tonight.”

She closes her eyes for a brief moment—just long enough for the weight of it to settle—then opens them again, composed in that quiet, resilient way of hers.

“I’ll tell Hajime,” she says.

The kids wake slowly, blinking and stretching, padding downstairs in borrowed socks. Aoi rubs sleep from her eyes. Kaito yawns hugely and immediately asks if there’s breakfast.

For a few minutes, it almost feels normal again.

Then Hajime clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Can you guys sit down for a second?”

Something in his voice makes Aoi pause.

Kaito frowns but obeys, climbing onto the couch. Aoi curls up beside him, instinctively leaning into his side.

Hajime stands in front of them, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight.

Oikawa watches from the doorway, heart already aching because he knows what’s coming—and because Hajime looks like he’s about to shatter.

“…We need to pack up our things,” Hajime says.

The words land wrong.

Aoi tilts her head. “Why?”

Hajime swallows. “Because we have to leave today.”

The silence is immediate and crushing.

Kaito’s face crumples first. “Leave… where?”

Aoi’s eyes go wide. “Back… back outside?”

Hajime doesn’t answer fast enough.

And that’s all it takes.

“No,” Aoi says, shaking her head hard. “No, no, no—we can’t go back there. It’s cold. It’s scary.”

Kaito jumps to his feet. “Please,” he says desperately. “We’ll be quiet. We won’t touch anything. We’ll stay in one room. Please don’t make us go back.”

Hajime drops to his knees in front of them.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking despite his best effort. “Hey—listen to me. I know it’s scary. I know.”

“I don’t wanna sleep on the ground anymore,” Aoi sobs. “I don’t wanna be cold. I like it here.”

Kaito grabs onto Hajime’s jacket, fists twisting in the fabric. “You said we were safe,” he says, voice small and cracked. “You said it was okay.”

Hajime’s breath stutters.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

Their mom crosses the room quickly, sinking down beside them and pulling both kids into her arms. Aoi buries her face in her chest, crying openly now. Kaito clings to her sleeve, shoulders shaking.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, voice trembling but steady. “It’s okay to be scared. Mama’s here.”

Hajime presses a hand to his mouth, eyes shining, chest heaving like he’s fighting for air.

“I tried,” he whispers, barely audible. “I tried so hard.”

Oikawa feels something inside him crack.

He watches Hajime—this boy who has carried everything without complaint, who has held the world together with sheer will—collapse inward under the weight of his siblings’ fear.

Hajime’s shoulders shake once. Then again.

He looks so young.

So tired.

So heartbreakingly human.

Aoi sobs harder. “I don’t wanna go back,” she cries. “Please don’t make us go back.”

Hajime wraps his arms around all three of them, pulling them close, forehead pressed against his mother’s shoulder. His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises.

But Oikawa can hear it.

The doubt. The fear.

The fact that for the first time, Hajime doesn’t fully believe his own words.

Oikawa’s chest aches so badly it feels like it might cave in.

This isn’t fair. This shouldn’t be happening.

They shouldn’t have to beg for warmth like it’s a privilege.

He looks at the kids—absolutely devastated, clinging to the only stability they’ve had in months.

He looks at Hajime—breaking under the weight of being seventeen and responsible for everything.

And he realizes, with terrifying clarity, that if he lets this happen—if he watches them walk back out into the cold—he will never forgive himself.

Oikawa turns away before anyone can see his face.

His hands are shaking.

His parents are coming home tonight.

And Toru Oikawa has never wanted to fight something more in his life.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The moment he turns away from the living room, the sound of Aoi’s sobbing still echoing in his ears, he pulls his phone from his pocket and steps into the hallway.

His hands are shaking, but his voice—when he presses call—is steady in that way it only ever gets when he’s already made up his mind.

The line rings twice.

“Tōru,” his father answers, distracted. “We land tonight.”

“I know,” Oikawa says. “I need more money.”

There’s a pause. Paper shuffling. An airport announcement in the background.

“For what?” his mother asks.

Oikawa leans his forehead against the wall, eyes closed. For a split second, he considers telling the truth. Telling them everything.

He doesn’t.

“I need it,” he says instead. “Today.”

Another pause.

“How much?” his father asks, already resigned.

Oikawa names the number without flinching.

“That’s excessive,” his mother says.

“For me,” Oikawa replies evenly, “or in general?”

Silence.

Then: “We’ll transfer it.”

No questions. No concern. No curiosity.

The notification hits his phone before the call even ends.

“Don’t waste it,” his father adds.

Oikawa pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the screen long after the line goes dead.

“…I won’t,” he murmurs.

He grabs his jacket and keys quietly.

Hajime looks up when Oikawa passes the living room, eyes red-rimmed but sharp anyway. “Where are you going?”

Oikawa doesn’t stop walking. “Errand.”

“I can come—”

“No,” Oikawa says, more firmly than he means to. He pauses, turns back just enough to meet Hajime’s eyes. “Stay with them.”

Hajime nods, trusting him without knowing why.

That trust nearly wrecks him.

The bank is warm and impersonal.

Oikawa stands at the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, leg bouncing faintly as he waits. When the teller asks how she can help him, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I need eight hundred dollars in cash.”

She blinks. “That’s a large withdrawal.”

“I know.”

She processes it, asks him to confirm twice. When she slides the envelope across the counter, it feels heavier than it should.

Eight hundred dollars.

Enough to change everything.

Oikawa grips it tightly as he steps back out into the cold.

The apartment isn’t much.

It’s on the edge of a quiet neighborhood, the building old but clean, the kind of place people pass by without noticing. The manager eyes Oikawa skeptically at first—designer shoes, expensive coat—but money talks, and Oikawa doesn’t waste time.

“One month,” he says. “Up front. Cash.”

The man hesitates, then nods. “It’s small. But safe. Locks work. Heat works.”

“Good,” Oikawa says. “That’s all that matters.”

When the keys hit his palm, something settles in his chest—heavy, terrifying, right.

He stares at them for a moment before closing his fingers around the metal.

By the time Oikawa gets back, the house feels tense, like it’s holding its breath.

Hajime looks up immediately.

Oikawa walks straight past him, into the living room, into the center of everything.

“We’re not going back to the streets,” he says.

Everyone freezes.

Aoi hiccups mid-sob. Kaito looks up, eyes swollen and wet. Hajime’s mom straightens slowly.

Hajime stares at Oikawa like he doesn’t understand the words. “…What?”

Oikawa holds up the keys.

“I got you an apartment,” he says. “One month. Paid. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm. It’s safe.”

The room is silent.

Aoi’s mouth opens. “We… we don’t have to go?”

Kaito scrambles to his feet. “We get a house?”

Hajime sways.

“Oikawa,” he says hoarsely. “You—what did you do?”

Oikawa meets his eyes. Doesn’t look away. “What needed to be done.”

Hajime’s breath stutters. His knees hit the floor.

He covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking, and for the first time since Oikawa has known him, he doesn’t try to hide it.

Oikawa crosses the room in three steps and drops down in front of him, gripping his wrists gently but firmly.

“You’re not failing them,” he says. “You never were.”

Hajime breaks completely.

His mom sinks down beside them, one hand over her mouth, tears streaming freely now. She reaches out and pulls Oikawa into the hug too, arms wrapping around both boys.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispers, voice breaking.

Oikawa shakes his head, throat tight. “You don’t.”

The kids pile in next, clinging to anything they can reach—arms, sleeves, jackets—laughing and crying all at once.

Warm. Safe. Together.

And standing there in the middle of it all, Toru Oikawa realizes something with absolute certainty:

This wasn’t charity. This wasn’t impulse.

This was family.

And he would never let go.