Do you feel like everything you do never really matters?

That was Oikawa Tooru. That was him when it came to you.

He didn't know if you were intentionally leading him on, but man it hurt. It stung so bad the amount of athletic tape on his body couldn't ease the pain.

All the haughty stunts were a tight rope he could barely balance himself on. Adrenaline only pushed him to do so because you were watching—and now that you're barely paying him any attention?

Great. What a waste.

But here, right after 5 relentless rounds of practice—the desolate gym is your stage. The evening is steadfast approaching, from the sun tucked away in the horizon of shadows, to smog in clouds posing as soothsayers bearing teenage love misunderstanding.

There wasn't any audience, no more of his teammates that never had the need to ponder the reason for your attendance. You two were alone, but still not together in a sense.

Commitment wasn't a thing Oikawa struggled with. He was good at some, great at most—But maybe a relationship wasn't really cut out for him.

He honestly didn't even know that it could come to this. The pining couldn't fit anywhere as after a confession, all he's ever received from you was flimsy glances and naive affection—but he never wants to assume the worst and say it was done on purpose; that'll hurt his ego even more. So when you ask him the most important question of all, “Where else does it hurt?” His gaze rakes over your concerned expression to the wonky ripped piece of pink stickiness that stuck to your finger.

His brown eyes settled on you then, with a kind of intensity that refused to settle down, “Here,” He says; deliberately, slowly.

Oikawa Tooru takes your hand, large fingers guiding yours to press closely on his warm chest, skin blazing hot that still couldn't alleviate the coldness in his heart.

His gaze flickers to yours with a look that teetered closer to coming undone, voice steady but overflowing with emotions “Right here.”