Rot is Also a Heart
Category: Haikyuu
Genre: Angst
Rating: Teens
Warnings: Implied child abuse
Summary: Bokuto gets ready to meet his father.
Before us the body is piling itself upon itself secret by secret
Rot is also a heart
rot is also childhood
rot is also what love is.
― "Adonis: Selected Poems "
It is not an off-black - the colour Kotaro’s sister keeps in the cabinet above her sink. He had tried that the last time he met his father, because it was within easy reach and he didn’t have to spend money. But he is cool toned (or so Fuyumi says) and the shade of black that had been soft and charming on the man on the box had looked jarringly awkward on him.
He massages the dye into his scalp. It's labelled "natural black" but he's not sure what an unnatural black would be. His toenails scrape a newspaper. The Vaseline on his forehead is awful, it’s awful - Kuroo would laugh for five days straight if he laid eyes on him. Kotaro grimaces at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He has never dyed his hair during a school term before; his father’s visits had always coincided with business trips and hitherto been limited to Kotaro’s summer vacations, when it is easy to lie about travelling for a holiday. He can hear his teammates now: Are you trying to copy Akaashi? (Komi), You can’t just become normal (Konoha), Your hair was fine (Akaashi).
He wonders idly if his teachers would approve of his look; he’s even dyeing his eyebrows . Maybe his father should have thought twice before marrying a woman with white hair.
The next day, Kotaro steals Fuyumi’s hair straightener while she's organizing her college notes. His hair is naturally straight, but it’s been gelled into spikes for years and years and never stays down on its own after he washes and conditions it, instead settling into a sort of just-electrocuted fuzz.
The iron sears the strands. A patch flops over his forehead, respectably limp.
(It had been a sweltering that afternoon. I gave you a proper, strong name , his father had said, eyeing Kotaro’s shorts and sandals and pink sequined T-shirt that Kuroo had bought for him as a joke on his sixteenth birthday. Kotaro had stuffed his mouth with takoyaki so he had an excuse not to respond.)
He does one last check in the mirror in the living room.
Kotaro yells for Fuyumi and asks her to size him up and she says it’s a good look, not too formal, but not casual. She straightens his shirt. He presses the deep lines in her forehead with a finger. She asks, "Do you know what you'll say?"
He smiles. "Of course." There is no point in reciting a greeting, a speech, a list of questions, because what he says will be wrong.
The blisters on his feet will spell trouble during volleyball practice tomorrow. He can’t remember exactly when his mother got this pair of loafers for him (the only pair he owns) but he must have been around fourteen, because it had been two years since the divorce.
He steps outside the apartment and looks up. The sky is a fresh clear blue. He closes the door and checks if he has his keys. “It will be a good day,” he says.
Genre: Angst
Rating: Teens
Warnings: Implied child abuse
Summary: Bokuto gets ready to meet his father.
Before us the body is piling itself upon itself secret by secret
Rot is also a heart
rot is also childhood
rot is also what love is.
― "Adonis: Selected Poems "
It is not an off-black - the colour Kotaro’s sister keeps in the cabinet above her sink. He had tried that the last time he met his father, because it was within easy reach and he didn’t have to spend money. But he is cool toned (or so Fuyumi says) and the shade of black that had been soft and charming on the man on the box had looked jarringly awkward on him.
He massages the dye into his scalp. It's labelled "natural black" but he's not sure what an unnatural black would be. His toenails scrape a newspaper. The Vaseline on his forehead is awful, it’s awful - Kuroo would laugh for five days straight if he laid eyes on him. Kotaro grimaces at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He has never dyed his hair during a school term before; his father’s visits had always coincided with business trips and hitherto been limited to Kotaro’s summer vacations, when it is easy to lie about travelling for a holiday. He can hear his teammates now: Are you trying to copy Akaashi? (Komi), You can’t just become normal (Konoha), Your hair was fine (Akaashi).
He wonders idly if his teachers would approve of his look; he’s even dyeing his eyebrows . Maybe his father should have thought twice before marrying a woman with white hair.
The next day, Kotaro steals Fuyumi’s hair straightener while she's organizing her college notes. His hair is naturally straight, but it’s been gelled into spikes for years and years and never stays down on its own after he washes and conditions it, instead settling into a sort of just-electrocuted fuzz.
The iron sears the strands. A patch flops over his forehead, respectably limp.
(It had been a sweltering that afternoon. I gave you a proper, strong name , his father had said, eyeing Kotaro’s shorts and sandals and pink sequined T-shirt that Kuroo had bought for him as a joke on his sixteenth birthday. Kotaro had stuffed his mouth with takoyaki so he had an excuse not to respond.)
He does one last check in the mirror in the living room.
- There is no white in his eyebrows.
- His father will not be offended by the trousers, though Kotaro cannot be sure about the striped button-down shirt.
- But it fits, and that is important - the most important thing.
Kotaro yells for Fuyumi and asks her to size him up and she says it’s a good look, not too formal, but not casual. She straightens his shirt. He presses the deep lines in her forehead with a finger. She asks, "Do you know what you'll say?"
He smiles. "Of course." There is no point in reciting a greeting, a speech, a list of questions, because what he says will be wrong.
The blisters on his feet will spell trouble during volleyball practice tomorrow. He can’t remember exactly when his mother got this pair of loafers for him (the only pair he owns) but he must have been around fourteen, because it had been two years since the divorce.
He steps outside the apartment and looks up. The sky is a fresh clear blue. He closes the door and checks if he has his keys. “It will be a good day,” he says.