this chapter is all about tooru's troubles, weakness, and life.

(note: please do not skip this part! para mas maintindihan niyo rason ni tooru kung bakit naging ganoon na lang siya)

The bar was loud—music thumping, lights flashing, and their friends lost in their own drunken antics. Someone was probably dancing on a table, another making reckless choices they’d regret in the morning. God knows what chaos they were up to now.

But in their little corner, away from all the madness, Tooru and Hajime sat quietly. Tooru, tipsy and flushed, had his head resting on Hajime’s shoulder. His fingers lazily toyed with Hajime’s, tracing the callouses, brushing over the lines of his palm. Hajime let him.

Hajime glanced down at him, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt. “Okay ka lang?” he asked, voice soft, barely audible over the music. “Gusto mo na umuwi?”

Tooru shook his head, his grip tightening slightly around Hajime’s hand. There was a moment of silence, then, almost too softly, he asked,

“Do you know why I’ve become a spoiled brat?”

Hajime stiffened. His breath hitched. Out of all the things Tooru could’ve said, he hadn’t expected that.


Hajime didn’t say anything.

He just listened.

Tooru’s fingers were still playing with his, tracing each callous, each line, as if trying to memorize them. His head remained on Hajime’s shoulder, and though the music pounded around them, though their friends were lost in drunken laughter and reckless abandon, here, in this small space between them, everything felt quiet.

Tooru took a slow, shuddering breath. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.” His voice was softer now, barely above a whisper, like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying this out loud. Like he wasn’t sure if Hajime should be hearing it.

“But I guess…” He let out a breathy laugh—humorless, tired. “I guess I didn’t really have a choice.”

Hajime felt his grip tighten around his hand.

“You already know I’m an only child,” Tooru continued, his words slow, careful. “And my parents… they were never really around. Physically, sure. They were there in the same house, sitting at the same table, sometimes even asking me how my day went. But mentally? Emotionally? I don’t think they ever really were.”

Hajime swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“The last time I felt like I really had parents, I was thirteen.” Tooru let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Can you believe that? Thirteen. I was barely a teenager. I barely even understood what it meant to be loved like a son. After that, it was just… me. They were still there, of course. But it wasn’t the same.”

Hajime didn’t dare move, didn’t dare say anything, afraid that if he did, Tooru would stop talking.

“They gave me everything—money, gifts, all the material things I could ever want. I could ask for anything and they’d give it to me without question. It was easy for them. It made up for the parts of themselves they weren’t willing to give.” Tooru paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, like the words were finally catching up to him. “I guess… I learned that if I asked for things a certain way, if I threw a fit, if I played my cards right, I could get something. Even if it wasn’t real attention, even if it wasn’t real love, it was still something.”

Hajime’s chest felt tight.

“So I became a spoiled brat,” Tooru whispered. “Because if I didn’t, I’d be nothing at all.”

The words settled between them, heavy and unspoken for far too long.

Hajime squeezed Tooru’s hand. Not because he knew what to say—not because there was anything to say—but because he wanted Tooru to know he was still there.

That he was listening.

That he had always been listening.


Tooru’s breath hitched, the lump in his throat growing tighter, heavier. Hajime was still holding him, warm and steady, but no amount of warmth could stop the cold creeping into his chest.

His fingers curled into Hajime’s sleeve, gripping it like a lifeline. He hadn’t meant to say so much. Hadn’t meant to dig up things he had spent years pushing down, locking away, pretending didn’t hurt.

But God, it hurt. It hurt so much.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be loved just for being me,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what it’s like to be enough.”

Hajime didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t rush him. He just stayed. And maybe that was why Tooru kept going, kept tearing himself open.

“My parents gave me everything,” Tooru whispered. “Except them.”

He laughed, a broken, choked-out sound. “I barely remember what it’s like to have a real family. Maybe when I was a kid—when I was small enough to be easy to love. But at some point, they stopped seeing me as their son and started seeing me as… something else. A name. A legacy. A tool. They were always traveling, always busy, always gone. And when they were around, they were thinking about something—someone—else.”

His voice trembled, and he hated it. Hated how weak he sounded.

“I tried so hard to be good,” he whispered. “To be perfect. To be someone they’d want to stay for. But no matter what I did, it was never enough to make them look at me the way parents should look at their kid.”

His throat burned, and he forced himself to swallow.

“So I learned,” Tooru continued, voice hoarse. “If I couldn’t get love from them, I’d get it somewhere else. I’d earn it. I’d make people like me. I’d make them stay.”

His fingers twitched in Hajime’s sleeve, nails pressing into the fabric.

“But it was never real,” he admitted. “None of it was ever real.”

The memory of his first love clawed at his mind. The way he had been so sure—so fucking sure—that this time was different. That this time, someone really wanted him.

But love was just another game he had been forced to play. And he had lost.

“They only wanted my money,” Tooru breathed. “They never wanted me.”

Saying it out loud made it feel real again. Made the wound fresh and raw.

“I was a joke to them,” he said. “I was stupid, desperate, and easy to fool. A spoiled little brat who didn’t know the difference between love and usefulness.”

His breath shuddered out of him, uneven and painful.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered. “That people don’t stay unless you give them a reason to.”

And wasn’t that the truth of his entire life? His parents stayed for the reputation. His first love stayed for the money. His friends—his wonderful, amazing friends—stayed because he made himself the fun one, the lovable one, the one who always had something to give.

But if Tooru stopped giving—if he stopped being entertaining, stopped being useful, stopped being anything but himself—what was stopping them from leaving, too?

A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

“I just wanted to be loved,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I just wanted to be wanted.”

Hajime’s arm tightened around him, grounding him, pulling him closer. His other hand came up, resting over Tooru’s where it clung to his sleeve.

And for the first time in his life, Tooru let himself believe—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, Hajime wasn’t going anywhere.


Tooru wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol making him feel this raw, or if it was just the weight of everything finally cracking open inside of him.

Maybe it had been coming for a long time—this slow unraveling, this painful peeling away of the person he had carefully built himself to be.

He had spent years playing a role. The perfect, spoiled, charming Oikawa Tooru. The one who laughed the loudest, spent the most, never took anything seriously. The one who knew exactly how to be adored, how to make people love him—even if that love wasn’t real.

Because real love? That was something he had never been given freely.

He took a slow, shaky breath, head still resting against Hajime’s shoulder. The scent of him was familiar—clean, steady, warm. A scent he had memorized a long time ago, one he had convinced himself he didn’t need to remember.

He forced a laugh, bitter and quiet. “You know,” he started, voice hoarse, “it’s kind of pathetic. That I had to be a brat just to get the attention I wanted.”

Hajime still hadn’t said anything. He was just there, listening, his presence unwavering.

“I acted out. I made a scene. I learned how to be loud and dramatic and ridiculous because if I was too much, people would have to notice me, right?” His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against Hajime’s wrist, his movements slow, almost thoughtless. “It worked. I got everything I wanted. The things money could buy, the things charm could earn.”

His lips pressed together, his breath shaking as he forced out the words he had never let himself say.

“But no matter what I did, no matter how much I played the part, it was never real love. No one ever stayed just for me. It was always for something else—something I could give, something I could be.”

His chest ached.

“I tried so hard to be everything people wanted. To be someone who wouldn’t be left behind.”

He clenched his jaw, blinking up at the ceiling of the dimly lit bar. “But you know what’s funny, Hajime?” His voice wavered, and he let out a soft, broken chuckle. “Even after all that, I still ended up feeling so fucking alone.”

A pause.

Hajime still hadn’t moved, but Tooru could feel him listening, feel the quiet weight of his presence pressing against the words Tooru was trying so hard to keep from shattering.

Tooru swallowed, pressing his forehead against Hajime’s shoulder. “I thought love was supposed to make you feel safe.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “But every time I’ve ever loved someone, all it’s ever done is hurt.”

His fingers curled tighter around Hajime’s wrist, as if testing—to see if he would pull away.

But Hajime didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Didn’t look away.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all.

Because for the first time in Tooru’s life, someone was listening. Not because they had to. Not because they wanted something from him.

Just because they cared.


Tooru didn’t know how long he sat there, the words hanging heavy between them, pressing against his ribs like something fragile, something about to break.

Hajime hadn’t spoken—not yet. He just stayed, his warmth steady, his presence grounding.

Tooru hated how much it meant to him.

He hated how much he wanted Hajime to say something, anything. To tell him he wasn’t pathetic. That he wasn’t unlovable. That he wasn’t wrong for wanting to be wanted.

But Hajime didn’t offer him pretty lies. Didn’t rush to fill the silence with empty reassurances.

Instead, his fingers curled around Tooru’s hand—the one still tracing faint shapes against his skin.

A small, quiet gesture.

Tooru inhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He didn’t pull away.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Hajime finally exhaled, slow and measured, like he had been holding his breath this whole time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, steady.

“Tooru,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just slightly around Tooru’s. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

Tooru blinked.

Hajime wasn’t looking at him, but his grip didn’t loosen. His touch was warm, grounding, real.

“You don’t have to be loud, or dramatic, or—” Hajime huffed softly, shaking his head. “You don’t have to be anything just to make people stay.”

Tooru swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly against Hajime’s palm.

Hajime turned to look at him then, finally meeting his eyes. His gaze was softer than Tooru had ever seen it—warm, unwavering, safe.

“I’m still here,” Hajime said simply. “Aren’t I?”

Something in Tooru’s chest cracked wide open.

He barely managed to nod, his throat too tight to speak.

Hajime squeezed his hand once before letting go.

And for the first time in his life, Tooru realized—maybe he didn’t have to hold on so tightly just to be loved.