And I don't wanna fall to pieces

I just wanna sit and stare at you

I don't wanna talk about it

And I don't want a conversation

I just wanna cry in front of you

I don't wanna talk about it

'Cause I'm in love with you

- Avril Lavigne

The last time I rode the train was under much better circumstances. It was on the way home from meeting with Hinata's mother, a strange heaviness in my heart after leaving Uncle Ittetsu's house, he and Natsu waving from the window of the truck when they dropped us off at the station. It was stupid, I mean that place wasn't my home town, but it was a place I felt welcome, which I found were diminishing my small world.

It was quiet at first, playing different card games with Hinata at the small train booth table, but my heart wasn't in it. It wasn't until he started to tell me stories from his childhood that I perked up, not understanding then that even though it was probably hard for him he must have realized something was upsetting me and wanted to help. I wonder how many times he sacrificed his own feelings to make me happy, because he loves me. I'm still trying to let that fact sink in.

He told me about the town before his mother left, before everything went to shit. He told me about his first day of kindergarten and how scared he was to go, thinking that his teacher would turn out to be some horrible scaly monster that would lock him to his desk until he learned how to read. She turned out to be a very sweet lady but he cried anyway, begging his mother not to leave him there. Instead of staying with him, she walked outside, picking a flower from the planter by the door and sticking it in his jacket pocket. It was a tiny sunflower, he said, and she kissed it, telling him that her kiss would stay in that flower all day and keep him strong until it was time to go home. He had kept that flower pressed between two books in his room, but it had been lost during the move to Uncle Ittetsu's house.

He told me about the trips to The Crow's Nest every Sunday, when Yachi was just starting to work there. Apparently Yachi was not always the wonderful chef I was lucky enough to meet, and it took months for her to learn the simplest recipes. Nevertheless, the Hinata family showed up every Sunday and ordered an entire apple pie, waiting as the tiny flustered girl tried with all her might to do her best. They were awful at first, mushy apples or burned crust, sometimes crust that was both raw and burned at the same time, which must have taken an incredible talent. Every week they got better, and slowly Yachi perfected that pie, and it became the diner's star dish.

He told me about the tree house his dad built and his mom tore down when he fell out of it and broke his arm. About the nightmares he'd have during thunderstorms and the only thing that would put him to sleep was his mom's soft singing. How excited they all had been when it was announced he was going to have a sibling.

That ride had been so warm, so full of bittersweet feelings with the air of hope between us. That was a tone I wanted to set for all of our time together; just the two of us talking, bonding and growing close, a different form of intimacy that I craved with an intensity I wasn't aware of.

That day was so different from this one, with my head pressed against the train window, the glass rattling against my skull and drilling every bad thought I've had in the last few hours deeper in my mind. Not to mention that my destination is literally hell itself.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if the trip wasn't so damn long, giving me time to dwell on everything. I'd rather just get this done with instead of waiting and thinking or feeling in general. I wish I could turn my emotions off for a while. Becoming a heartless drone would lessen everything I'm heading towards.

And on top of all of that there's the guilt, because, after all, the reason mom called, the reason I'm in this mess at all, is because dad is sick. Worrying about my petty feelings is so childish in the face of everything happening, but they tear me apart anyway.

I wish Hinata were here. I wish I hadn't fucked everything up and pushed him away at the first opportunity. I wish I could breathe all of my worries out onto the skin of his neck. But then again how would that play out? 'Hello dying father I brought a friend with me and this time I actually am in love with him, feel free to shit on everything I care about again'. No, leaving him behind was definitely the lesser of two evils.

Hinata left me a message that took me a few hours to gather the courage to read, his name taunting me from the backlit phone screen. My heart hammers as I finally open it, too many scenarios racing though my mind.

Usually those words would perk me up, giving me the courage to fight any battle, but right now it just drowns me in more guilt. For ignoring it for so long, for leaving him in the first place, for everything.

It's drizzling when I get to the station, a damp coldness permeating my thin jacket and reaching to my bones. I try not to look around town too much as I make my way to the closest bus stop, hoping that if I ignore the familiarity of the streets I can pretend I'm somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The hospital is just a short trip by bus, but any trip on a public bus is a bad one, especially at 2am when dark figures huddle in the seats and the air smells of stale cigarette smoke, wet dog, and an array of cheap colognes. At least I'm good at keeping to myself and the other passengers thankfully do the same.

I assume I look awful judging by the look the front nurse gives me when I walk into the hospital, still damp from the rain and face haggard. "C-can I help you, sir?" The way she squeaks reminds me of Yachi a bit.

"I'm looking for Kageyama Toshiya," I answer, my voice sounding oddly deep as it echoes off of the empty lobby walls. "If you could just tell me what room he's in."

"I'm sorry but we only let immediate family in after visiting hours, and only if the patient is in serious condition," she explains, typing blindingly fast on her keyboard.

"I'm his son," I tell her, my head starting to throb from the lack of sleep. "I don't know his condition but my mom is up there right now."

"Hold on one second," she says, clicking on the screen until she finds his name, her face dropping immediately. "Oh, uh, here he is. If you can just show me some ID really quick I'll send you right up."

I slide my ID across the counter top and she hands it back with a sad smile. It must be worse than I thought, her sympathy telling me not to expect anything good. "Room 517. It's to your right when you step off of the elevator."

"Thank you," I mumble, turning away and heading to the first elevator I see, the wheels of my suitcase dragging behind me sounding like a thunderstorm.

Five floors, half a hallway, and here it is; room 517. My hand shakes as I go to turn the handle, and I hate the fact that I'm so scared after all the progress I thought I'd made.

"Tobi!" Mom cries, jumping up from her chair and hurrying over to throw her arms around my neck. I stiffen at the touch. "Oh baby, you're all wet," she says, pulling away and wiping at the front of her shirt.

"It was raining," I tell her, monotone and cold. "How is he?"

"There hasn't been much change since I called you," she answers, glancing over at dad's bed with a faraway look to her eyes. "He hasn't woken up in a while but the nurses said that's normal."

"What happened?" I ask, still fuzzy on the vague details she have me over the phone. I doubt any of it will make much sense but I need to know, I need all of the information available in order to feign some sort of control.

"The medication they gave him for the heart attack reacted to something in his blood, I'm not sure exactly what it was, some kind of virus we didn't know he was carrying, and it's causing his heart to fail," she chokes on the last few words, causing my heart to leap in my throat. So much for cold and unfeeling.

The room is silent for a few minutes as we both look over the various tubes and machines they have dad hooked up to, some beeping, and some flashing, all of them terrifying. It feels like a scene out of one of Oikawa's sci-fi flicks, but it's not. This is real.

"Why don't you go home, mom? You've been here for hours and you look exhausted," I say, turning to her and trying but failing to smile. She looks so stressed and I figure having me glaring at everything won't help.

"Oh, honey, I don't know. I don't want to leave him." Her face looks so strained, like she's aged five years in a day. Then again I haven't even seen her for five years so maybe that's why.

"Just a few hours," I insist, "go take a shower, sleep for a little bit, and eat something. I'll call you if anything changes."

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" She asks, but her face tells me that the idea of a shower sounds amazing to her right now.

"Yeah. No problem." She smiles, a soft, sad sort of smile, and thanks me, shooting countless 'I love you's' my way as she gathers her things spread around the room and slips out quietly.

I expect a heavy silence to fall over the room but that seems impossible with the constant metallic whirring coming from the machinery. I take the seat mom had been sitting in at the bedside, taking off my damp sweater and trying my best to settle in the uncomfortable chair.

Dad's breathing sounds so forced, like artificial inhales and exhales to give off the illusion that everything is working fine. He looks so small, like a shell of the man I know. In my mind he's always been a giant; his voice booming and feet stomping, smashing everything in his wake, but that is not the man in front of me.

I guess there comes a point in everyone's life when they realize that their parents aren't special or supernatural, they're just people. Normal human beings with normal responsibilities. I think that this moment, looking down at my father stripped of everything I thought made him into this monster I've been afraid of for so long, is the first time I've seen us as equals, as shitty as that may sound.

Yet still I can't help but feel like he's immortal, like this is no big deal because he'll be up and running in a few days. No one ever really thinks about their parents dying, and I can't really imagine it. I expected them to be a huge pain in my ass for the rest of my life; I still do.

I lean forward, resting my chin on the edge of the bed, my nose inches from dad's arm. His skin smells like disinfectant and sweat. The forced rhythmic rising and falling of his chest lulls my exhausted brain to sleep and as I drift off I wonder if I can even remember what dad smelled like before everything fell apart.

***

Mom slips back in some time around 11am, pulling back the curtains in the small hospital room and letting rays of sunlight shoot straight to my brain. I rub my eyes as I sit up, trying to force them open as my back creaks and groans.

"Oh honey you look exhausted," she coos, a new spring to her step that I'm sure is at least half fabricated. Is she trying to fake positivity for me or for herself? She shoves a styrofoam cup in my hands as she pulls up another chair. "Here I brought coffee from down the hall. One cream one sugar, yes?"

"One cream two sugars," I say, taking a sip of the coffee, too bitter for my liking. "It's okay though. Thanks mom."

"How is he?" The worry lines in her forehead are deep, carving like scars in her skin. She's always looked younger than her age, always kept up on the latest anti-aging technology, but now she looks closer to fifty five than the forty five she is.

"He hasn't woken up," I answer, even though it's obvious. He didn't even move the entire time I sat here, his rhythmic breathing the only sign of life.

"Not yet," she smiles sadly, leaning forward to pat the top of dad's hand with her own, the ring on her third finger glinting in the harsh sunlight. She takes a deep drink of her coffee before turning to me, a new alertness in her eyes. "So, Tobi, what's new?"

"Not much," I shrug, realizing that without a phone between us avoiding her questions will be much harder and earning a disappointed frown and a push on the shoulder. It's a habit to shut down when my parents ask about my personal life but honestly it was never mom that was the problem. Dad's opinions were always what stung.

"Come on baby, I've been out of touch with everything you do since you left," she prods, and I let out a deep sigh. Maybe talking to her won't be too bad.

"I, uh, still teach over at the rec center. Everyone there is really nice, especially my boss. He'd never let you know that, though," I start, and she laughs. I even crack a smile at the thought of grumpy Ukai showing off his sensitive side.

"Does it pay well? Do you have a nice place to live?" The questions roll off her tongue with ease, sounding generally interested but not maternally forced.

"Yeah it works out fine for me. Also I get to use the recording studio whenever I want so that's a plus. My apartment is alright, just little cramped right now. I have a friend staying with me while he looks for a new place to move," I hesitate on the word 'friend' to describe Oikawa, 'colossal pain in my ass' would be more accurate. But to be honest I think we've grown closer to being actual friends in the last few months than the five years I've known him.

"Oh? Who is it? What happened?" Her questions aren't prying, but pleasantly curious. Talking is getting easier and easier and I haven't felt this comfortable with my mom since I was a kid.

"Oikawa. I met him in college. He was Suga's roommate but Suga just got married so he was kind of out of a place to live," I stop, wondering if mentioning the wedding was going too far knowing that she's well aware of the fact that's Suga is gay.

"That sounds lovely. Are they happy?" She smiles over the top of her styrofoam cup, the steam from the cooled coffee long gone.

"Yeah," I answer tentatively, feeling like I'm walking on eggshells, "they're thrilled, actually. I've never met a happier couple."

"That's good. Young people falling in love is such a beautiful thing. You don't see real love too often these days." I'm pleasantly surprised, never actually knowing her stance on things since dad had made his thoughts the only ones heard. I always assumed she felt the same.

The conversation continues much the same, and I start to mention all of the other friends I've made until mom knows each of their names. I tell her about Disneyland on my birthday, about the New Year's party, running from the cops with Bokuto and Kuroo, even my sign language lessons with Asahi. But never, not once, do I mention Hinata; too scared that she'll catch on to the one thing I don't want her to know.

It feels good to sit and talk like this, feeling this pseudo comfort wash over me without dad's domineering presence hanging over us. Mom isn't like dad, isn't harsh with her words and insensitive in the way she speaks; she's just weak. She's never tried to give her own views on anything, always piggybacking on whatever dad said, even when his words knocked me down and tore me apart.

It's nice, but those feelings are overshadowed by the guilt growing in my chest, expanding farther and farther against my ribcage with each breath. Guilt for feeling happy that my dad isn't part of the conversation while he lies dying right next to me. Guilt for not mentioning Hinata among my list of new friends even though he's the most important one. But mostly guilt for walking away from him and ignoring his texts after everything we've been through. I need him right now, more than anything, but I can't handle everything at once, which just reinforces the idea that I don't deserve him.

"I'm so happy you've been making so many friends Tobi," mom chirps, smiling with her uneven lipstick where the styrofoam cup rubbed it off. "You were always such a quiet kid. I guess the city has been good for you." Her eyes get a bit distant before focusing back on me.

"Yeah, I guess," I reply, not sure if agreeing would hurt her feelings since it means that being away from home has made me happier. It's true, but I've started to learn that thinking before I speak is a good habit to form.

"I just wish I got to see you more." She reaches forward to brush my hair away from my forehead as I try to pretend her words didn't stab straight through me. She pats my cheek before leaning in to hug me, pulling back almost immediately. "Oh, honey, you smell awful."

"That's what happens when you ride the train all night and sleep in a hospital chair, mom," I shrug, the realization that I haven't showered in about a day and a half making me suddenly crave one.

"I guess so," she chuckles, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her car keys. "Here, go home and take a shower. You need to put your suitcase away anyway."

I hesitate before taking the cold metal in my hands, not sure if I'm ready to go to the house yet. I've been taking baby steps; first the town, then mom, now the house, but the last one feels more like a leap.

"Okay. I'll be back in a little bit. Call me if you need me," I mumble, standing to grab my bag and heading through the heavy metal door.

Her car smells heavily of perfume, and I can't help but compare it to the way Hana smelled of nutmeg when she hugged me, or how Uncle Ittetsu smelled of flowers and soap. One more maternal characteristic she's missing, but I guess it's unfair to expect her to change.

The roads leading to my childhood home are too familiar, my tired mind zoning out as I turn the car on the proper paths until I pull in front of the worn house I know so well. It looks the exact same as it did when I walked out of the door five years ago, everything I needed packed in the same suitcase I'm carrying now.

Unlocking the door and stepping inside is surreal, everything the exact same as I remember. It's like walking into a memory. It's cold and empty, like no one has been inside for weeks. I try my best not to look at anything and make my way straight to the bathroom, turning the hot water on and letting the steam envelop the room, hoping to distract my wandering mind.

The water feels amazing against my back, finally nudging away that chill in my bones from the rain and the freezing hospital room. And I must admit mom was right, the fruity body wash I find is much better than the smell of stale sweat.

When I step out and get dressed my feet carry me though the hallway until I find myself sat on the dark comforter of my old bed, the walls in front of me barren as I left them. It's hard not to compare it to Hinata's old room, his walls overflowing with art and photographs, warm memories to welcome him home.

I miss him, and I can feel that empty Hinata shaped hole in my chest growing and aching with angry red edges. My phone has two more unread texts sitting on the front screen, and I open them, not sure if it will help or hurt me.