For once, it’s a miracle to feel cold. After months and months in gymnasiums, the artificial air circulating something akin to engineered humidity, to keep the muscles of their athletes warm and the comfort levels cool, Oikawa has not felt the snipping scrape of winter’s teeth this season. Today the sharp, salty gusts are a balm. Ranshima beach is deserted this time of year, but that’s why Oikawa traveled all this way. There’s no one else around.
He’s imagined everyone’s voices on the long drive up, enough so that he didn’t need to hear the messages they left on his voicemail. Yes, ‘kaa-san, this is how I choose to spend my vacation week. No, Mattsun, the last dying ember of the warmth of humanity left in my cold dead heart will not be lost to the sea. And thank you for asking but the team will be find without me for just a few days; surely you know I’d leave them better than that.
He crouches in the surf, in his tennis shoes and thick jeans. Woolen sweater under wind breaker under ski jacket under long, warm scarf. Oikawa was here for the solace he needed and didn’t find in other places. They say salt water is the cure for everything: tears, sweat, or the sea. Oikawa’s tried plenty of the first two.
His butt flops back in the wet sand. He missed Obon, too busy with the sports season then, but the dead still come from the sea. And Iwa-chan’s always known Oikawa to be late.
“They made another Pacific Rim movie,” he says. “You’d probably love it. There are extra monsters in it, they told me. Too bad they didn’t invest in the actors.”
And so he sits, and talks and maybe screams a little, too, and spends his whole day down by the surf. No one else comes onto the beach. No one comes out of the sea.
When the dark descends, Oikawa stands up. Wipes the damp from underneath his eyes. Stretches.
“Okay, Iwa-chan. The sea is too comfortable for now. I understand.” He picks up his bag, the sweatshirt, his hopes. Swallows. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Take it away, kira_shadow