I always love reading the headcanons you come up with for these two, so please have an Oimiyu in return!
“So,” Miyuki begins, out of the blue. “Three wishes.”
“Three wishes,” Tooru echoes, almost bored in his tone despite— in spite of, really— how little sense Miyuki’s words are on their own, coming out of nowhere like that. There are idiosyncrasies and then, there are idiosyncrasies; Tooru’s just a little surprised at his own resilience towards Miyuki’s lately. Well, it’s not like it’s been a one-way street this whole time at any rate: Miyuki has done his fair share of listening too, always paying attention to even the most random of Tooru’s whims. It lights a funny hollow at the back of his throat, makes it harder for him to swallow gratitude sometimes, but that’s a stray thought and there’s a different matter at hand. An infinitely more entertaining one. “Context, please.”
“Okay, okay.” Miyuki makes a vague gesture to the air. “It’s like an Arabian Nights sort of thing; you’re Aladdin and you come across this magic lamp, resident genie and all, and you get three wishes to blow. What are they gonna be?” He tips his chair backwards and grins at Tooru. Any further and he very well might kiss the floor, ass-first.
Perhaps, a part of Tooru wants to see Miyuki actually fall, just for the fuck of it. Another part of him just sighs fellow athlete and that’s how he finds himself forcing Miyuki forward again by nudging the back of Miyuki’s seat with his foot. Injuries are infuriatingly unpredictable, after all. “It sounds weird, getting your wishes granted without having to work for them.”
(Tooru stops himself from adding it’s also weird how, no matter how much you think you deserve them, some things just won’t come true anyway.)
“It does, doesn’t it?” Miyuki huffs a laugh. It’s a little wry to Tooru’s ears. “But, just, humour me for a bit? What-ifs can be kind of fun if you don’t think too hard about them.”
Tooru taps a finger on his chin in fake thought, ignoring Miyuki’s snorts in the background. The thing is he’s had more near-misses haunting him rather than what-ifs, and it’s a telling reality he tries to best by keeping it at chokehold— not very successfully, sometimes, but, life moves, and so does Tooru. He gains nothing from wallowing; from stagnancy. He gains, at the very least, something by striding on.
In the end, he settles for practicality. “I’d wish for better eyesight, better health—“ he smirks at Miyuki, “— and for you to have a better hairstyle.”
“How incredibly kind of you to have the welfare of my hair in your thoughts, Oikawa-san!” Miyuki sounds as casual as he can be chuckling at Tooru’s expense, and that’s how Tooru picks up the slightest strain of surprise in it; the way his shoulders are straightened from their typical slouch.
Tooru gets it; what Miyuki actually means is how kind of you to have me in your thoughts at all.
“What?” Tooru’s smile turns that one shade of knowing. “Surprised that I actually give a damn about you?”
“Now you’re just fucking with me.” Miyuki’s eyes don’t meet his. “But. Yeah. In a way, I guess.”
“Well, live with it. I do.” He doesn’t have that much heart to go on with for better or for worse but they’ll get there. Someday. That level of honesty.
A gust blows and the curtain covering the window beside them flows with it, hovering between Miyuki and Tooru for a single longest moment. When it drops, they’re staring at each other.
“Are your wishes really just that simple? I thought you’d wish for something more…”
(Something more fulfilling, like making it to Nationals, the Olympics, whatever other sporting dreams you want to reach so badly— )
“No,” Tooru cuts him off. He’s never taken well to wishful thinking. “I won’t be satisfied if I can’t grab what I truly want with my own two hands. The struggle makes it worth it, you know?”
“It does?” As if Miyuki doesn’t know this first-hand as well.
Still, he nods agreeably. “That, and laughing at everyone’s faces as they watch you grind them to the dust.”
Miyuki doesn’t say anything to that, just tips his chair backwards again because he pretends to never learn, knows that Tooru sees through this ruse but wants to watch what he’ll do about it anyway.
Tooru waits. Waits and waits and waits until he sees Miyuki go so far back that he wobbles, teetering on the very edges of the chair’s back legs, until the very last minute when the chair finally gives way to gravity, then, his foot shoots out to steady the back of the chair, pushing Miyuki to safety again.
“You have a really bad personality, you know right?” Miyuki informs him, looking a little winded but not worse for the wear.
“Pot, kettle!” Tooru snarks in return, and leaves it at that.
Lira!!
“So,” Miyuki begins, out of the blue. “Three wishes.”
“Three wishes,” Tooru echoes, almost bored in his tone despite— in spite of, really— how little sense Miyuki’s words are on their own, coming out of nowhere like that. There are idiosyncrasies and then, there are idiosyncrasies; Tooru’s just a little surprised at his own resilience towards Miyuki’s lately. Well, it’s not like it’s been a one-way street this whole time at any rate: Miyuki has done his fair share of listening too, always paying attention to even the most random of Tooru’s whims. It lights a funny hollow at the back of his throat, makes it harder for him to swallow gratitude sometimes, but that’s a stray thought and there’s a different matter at hand. An infinitely more entertaining one. “Context, please.”
“Okay, okay.” Miyuki makes a vague gesture to the air. “It’s like an Arabian Nights sort of thing; you’re Aladdin and you come across this magic lamp, resident genie and all, and you get three wishes to blow. What are they gonna be?” He tips his chair backwards and grins at Tooru. Any further and he very well might kiss the floor, ass-first.
Perhaps, a part of Tooru wants to see Miyuki actually fall, just for the fuck of it. Another part of him just sighs fellow athlete and that’s how he finds himself forcing Miyuki forward again by nudging the back of Miyuki’s seat with his foot. Injuries are infuriatingly unpredictable, after all. “It sounds weird, getting your wishes granted without having to work for them.”
(Tooru stops himself from adding it’s also weird how, no matter how much you think you deserve them, some things just won’t come true anyway.)
“It does, doesn’t it?” Miyuki huffs a laugh. It’s a little wry to Tooru’s ears. “But, just, humour me for a bit? What-ifs can be kind of fun if you don’t think too hard about them.”
Tooru taps a finger on his chin in fake thought, ignoring Miyuki’s snorts in the background. The thing is he’s had more near-misses haunting him rather than what-ifs, and it’s a telling reality he tries to best by keeping it at chokehold— not very successfully, sometimes, but, life moves, and so does Tooru. He gains nothing from wallowing; from stagnancy. He gains, at the very least, something by striding on.
In the end, he settles for practicality. “I’d wish for better eyesight, better health—“ he smirks at Miyuki, “— and for you to have a better hairstyle.”
“How incredibly kind of you to have the welfare of my hair in your thoughts, Oikawa-san!” Miyuki sounds as casual as he can be chuckling at Tooru’s expense, and that’s how Tooru picks up the slightest strain of surprise in it; the way his shoulders are straightened from their typical slouch.
Tooru gets it; what Miyuki actually means is how kind of you to have me in your thoughts at all.
“What?” Tooru’s smile turns that one shade of knowing. “Surprised that I actually give a damn about you?”
“Now you’re just fucking with me.” Miyuki’s eyes don’t meet his. “But. Yeah. In a way, I guess.”
“Well, live with it. I do.” He doesn’t have that much heart to go on with for better or for worse but they’ll get there. Someday. That level of honesty.
A gust blows and the curtain covering the window beside them flows with it, hovering between Miyuki and Tooru for a single longest moment. When it drops, they’re staring at each other.
“Are your wishes really just that simple? I thought you’d wish for something more…”
(Something more fulfilling, like making it to Nationals, the Olympics, whatever other sporting dreams you want to reach so badly— )
“No,” Tooru cuts him off. He’s never taken well to wishful thinking. “I won’t be satisfied if I can’t grab what I truly want with my own two hands. The struggle makes it worth it, you know?”
“It does?” As if Miyuki doesn’t know this first-hand as well.
Still, he nods agreeably. “That, and laughing at everyone’s faces as they watch you grind them to the dust.”
Miyuki doesn’t say anything to that, just tips his chair backwards again because he pretends to never learn, knows that Tooru sees through this ruse but wants to watch what he’ll do about it anyway.
Tooru waits. Waits and waits and waits until he sees Miyuki go so far back that he wobbles, teetering on the very edges of the chair’s back legs, until the very last minute when the chair finally gives way to gravity, then, his foot shoots out to steady the back of the chair, pushing Miyuki to safety again.
“You have a really bad personality, you know right?” Miyuki informs him, looking a little winded but not worse for the wear.
“Pot, kettle!” Tooru snarks in return, and leaves it at that.