Chapter Text
𝚃𝙾𝙺𝚈𝙾, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹
It’s a little after eight p.m. when Oikawa Tooru finds himself slumped over his desk, eyelids heavy and fatigue tugging at his muscles. The history department of the University of Tokyo is empty, save for the presence of the Mythology professor Dr. Nishimura and himself. Her eyes are glued to the screen before her; fingers dancing along the keyboard of her laptop.
The sound nearly lulls him to sleep.
His own fingers are curled around a red pen; its tip gliding across the paper in front of him. To his left lie twelve midterms that need to be graded, accompanied by a half-empty coffee mug and the wrapper of a particularly nasty protein bar he lazily stuffed into his mouth roughly one hour prior. His lips twists in disgust as if remembering its nauseating taste.
Dr. Nishimura chooses that moment to pull her gaze away from her laptop, offering a tired smile when their eyes meet. “I think that’s enough for today, Oikawa. You’ve been staying until nine p.m. almost every day this week. I appreciate it, but don’t work too hard. I can manage.”
Oikawa offers a smile in return, lowering the pen and leaning back into his seat with a sigh. “You’re right, you’re right, and yet—”
“Go home,” she says with a chuckle. “I should be leaving too, anyway. We’ve done enough for today.”
He knows she’s right. The unmarked midterms could undoubtedly survive ten hours without suffering the wrath of his critical eye and red pen. And yet, he’d rather spend three more hours grading midterms and papers to avoid a certain social obligation.
As if on cue, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans. The message from his sister reads ‘are you still coming?’ and Oikawa is tempted to respond with ‘wish I wasn’t’.
Instead, he writes out ‘on my way now’ and pushes himself to his feet.
“Any exciting plans?” Dr. Nishimura wonders, closing her laptop.
Oikawa’s lips tighten around a smile. “Just a cozy family dinner.”
— ༉‧₊˚✧
After a twenty minute cab ride, Oikawa finds himself on the well-lit driveway of his grandmother’s estate. The mansion seems more imposing at night; three stories of black and grey stone with large windows that offer a magnificent view of the area. A black gate prevents unwelcome guests from entering and Oikawa almost feels like an unwelcome guest himself.
It’s odd, he thinks. He spent the majority of his childhood in this house, spent years roaming through its hallways and discovering new spots to explore and places to hide, and yet he feels like a stranger as he walks across the gravel towards the front door.
Shoes are removed once he passes the threshold and his legs take him towards the large dining room, where his relatives sit at a long, mahogany table. The conversation pauses abruptly and Oikawa feels his armor slip into place; all cold steel and iron.
It’s just one dinner, he tells himself. And then you won’t see them for another three months.
The burgundy walls of the dining room feel as if they are closing in on him, but Oikawa breathes through the pressure gathering within his chest. He resists the part of himself that instructs him to turn around and leave. Instead he squares his shoulders and forces a smile onto his lips. “Good afternoon.”
A variety of dishes are spread along the table; some half-eaten, others untouched. Meat, fish, vegetables, soup, and rice. Everything he could possibly crave after surviving on coffee and bland protein bars for hours. And yet, his appetite seems to have disappeared—leaving him with nothing but unease in the pit of his stomach.
Candles and flowers decorate the wooden surface, an attempt at creating coziness and providing a certain elegance and allure to the table. Though, no amount of ornaments or decorations could mask the sense of irritability and aversion in the room. A large chandelier looms above them, its light reflecting on the crystal flutes spread along the table and highlighting the scowl on his father’s features.
“Ah, Tooru,” his mother says coolly, her gaze as sharp as she momentarily acknowledges him. “We were wondering when you’d join us.”
He hums as he walks along the length of the table, slipping into an empty seat next to his sister. Her husband’s absence allows for him to sit closer to the person who he feels like might be his only ally in this large room. (Save for Takeru who seems to be more occupied with his phone).
“Work was busy,” he tells his mother. “Midterms to grade, papers to check.”
To her right, his father makes a noncommittal noise. His fingers are curled around a flute, “Haven’t you had enough of that silly job yet?” he says in lieu of a greeting.
Oikawa expected nothing less. Yet, he smiles around the tightness in his jaw and picks up his chopsticks to snag a piece of sautéed broccoli off the plate presented to him. “Not really.”
“You could work for me; make proper use of that degree of yours. You’re twenty-eight now, Tooru. Enough is enough,” his father continues.
He knows how this goes, he’s heard it before; heard the exact same sentence two months prior and every variation of it.
“I use my degree,” Oikawa counters, mimicking his mother’s icy tone. “Just not the one you like.”
He doesn’t miss the twitch of his father’s brow and he briefly sinks his teeth into his lower lip to prevent a smirk from spreading across his lips. His moment of victory is short-lived, when his uncle—Kazuo—loudly clears his throat. “Your father is right,” he agrees. “Your cousins have been working alongside us for years now. It’s high time you do the same. The Oikawa Group expands and grows every year. Two months ago we finalized the Shinsei takeover and we’re already looking to acquire assets from Sompo Holdings,” he adds.
A laugh, hollow and sharp, escapes his throat. “They proposed a merger. As if we couldn’t buy the entire damn company if we wanted to.”
His gaze briefly lands on his younger brother. “Which reminds me, there is a new player we should keep our eyes on: Nakano Corporation,” he tells him. “They’ve been getting a little too confident according to the board members.”
Board members, mergers, takeovers, assets, revenue streams. He’s heard these phrases countless times over the years. They spill from his uncle's lips as if they’re the only words he knows, and something nauseating settles in Oikawa’s stomach. It slithers through his torso and curls around his heart. Disgust, he realizes. Anger. And something else he can’t quite name.
Greed, money, power; it’s all his uncle seems to care for. It’s all any of them seem to care for. The Oikawa Group is built on greed. An insatiable hunger that will never be satisfied until the people running the organization—his family—control every company in Tokyo.
They seem to be well on their way.
“Perhaps, one day you will see the importance of the work that we do,” Kazuo continues. “We all have a duty to fulfill and no one is exempt from that. I hardly believe that grading midterms and checking papers is your true purpose in life,” he bristles. “You could do so much more. You could be so much more if you didn’t hold yourself back. True power lies in taking what’s yours, what you’re owed.”
“Perhaps I don’t care that much for power then,” Oikawa responds.
“Nonsense. Everybody does. It’s what drives the world, Tooru.”
His uncle rises from his chair after a beat of silence, adjusting his suit jacket as he steps away from the table. “Either way, I will take my leave now. I once again urge you to take mine and your father’s words into consideration, Tooru. We have a reputation to uphold. My children know this as well. As does your sister. You should take after them. You are the future of the Oikawa Group after all.”
Next to him, his sister takes a sip of his water. “I think Tooru will continue to make his own decisions, Uncle. But your advice is appreciated.”
Oikawa narrows his gaze at his sister, who merely cocks a brow at him in response. A silent warning. One that is meant to say:‘I’m trying to help’.
Their gazes turn towards their parents after a moment, watching as they both rise from their seats as well. “Dinner was lovely as always. Do be on time next time, Tooru. Your father and I have an early flight to Shanghai tomorrow, so we really should get some sleep now,” his mother tells them. “And I believe your sister and Takeru are flying back to Osaka in the morning as well.”
And like that: it’s over.
One “friendly” family dinner every three months and then everyone goes back to their own lives. His parents have been overseeing business deals abroad, primarily in China, while his sister runs things in Osaka. His uncle remains in Tokyo, given his position as CEO of the company.
“What about you, Kazuo?” Oikawa hears his father say as he approaches his brother.
“I’m flying to Hokkaido in the morning. I’ll be staying there for a week to meet a few clients,” comes the answer. Both men leave the room discussing something about quarterly reports and Oikawa is offered a polite smile from his mother before she takes her leave as well.
He releases a long breath afterwards, slumping in his seat as his sister wordlessly pushes a glass of wine into his direction.
“Well, that went great,” Takeru says dryly.
— ༉‧₊˚✧
After a few minutes of mindless chatter, Oikawa disappears into one of the many bedrooms. He briefly considers calling a cab and returning to the comfort of his own apartment, but the prospect of sleeping on expensive sheets and comfortable mattresses prevents him from retrieving his phone.
Fast forward a few hours and he wakes up to a near-empty house. Which is to be expected given everyone’s hectic schedules. Their absence doesn’t sting as much as it offers Oikawa a sense of relief. It’s always been like this for any of them. A constant stream of social obligations and work-related matters—which leaves zero time for anything else. After all, there’s money to be made.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he pads into one of the many lounge areas on the first floor. The room he enters is larger than the others and functions as the main living room. It’s all luxurious stonework and polished wood, with elegant fabrics that come in a variety of dark colors, such as browns, reds, golds, greys and black. Sunlight spills into the room, casting a glow across the large, velvet couch. A dark brown coffee table is placed in front of it, shining as though it has been unused, while the large, burgundy rug beneath it—with its intricate golden details—almost seems brand new.
The walls are lined with art work, classics and collector’s items. Vermeer, Monet, Rubens, Matisse; he recognizes them all, has studied them all, yet his gaze lands on a large family portrait. He’s seen the photo many times before. It’s a picture of his grandparents—both in their late fifties—and their four children. Three boys and one girl.
Kazuo, Masato, Takeshi and Yumiko.
They all appear to be in their twenties and Oikawa has a difficult time grasping that his father, Masato, wasn’t born with that perpetual frown he often dons. The photo shows a much younger version of the man; one without silver strands woven in between dark hair and wrinkles near his mouth. He looks softer, Oikawa thinks. So unlike the man he knows.
His gaze lingers on his father’s younger brother. Oikawa Takeshi was much kinder than his older brothers, but intelligent and hardworking all the same. Some may say he worked too hard, which resulted in an untimely death at the age of thirty-seven.
He doesn’t remember much of the funeral.
Something shifted after Takeshi’s death. It changed the dynamic within the family—as if a warm and bright light had suddenly been dimmed. Yumiko, the youngest of the siblings, had removed herself from her family and cut off all ties beforre moving to Okayama. From what Oikawa knows, she seems to be happy with her wife—who happens to own a farm.
(He understands the appeal in more ways than one).
When his eyes roam over Kazuo’s stern gaze, he has to repress the shiver that threatens to run up his spine. Even in this picture, there is a coldness in his eyes; hard and unforgiving. It pierces through him, as if the older man is right there sneering at him.
It seems odd to think that the manor once was their home, filled with life and laughter, rather than hollow emptiness.
Oikawa eventually lowers himself onto the couch with a sigh and pulls his laptop into his lap. He finds a home in the emptiness, the quiet, allowing his thoughts to disappear into the world of grading midterms and checking papers. It’s easy to get lost in the work, to focus on one, simple task and ignore everything else.
He stays on that couch for hours, spending his entire Saturday catching up on work, until nightfall arrives once again, and a yawn finds its way out of his throat.
He trails off towards his bedroom, assuming one more night at his grandparents’ house couldn’t hurt, when a sudden tremor seems to shake the entire building. His steps falter, fingers curling tightly around the wooden railing of the stairs, and Oikawa’s breath briefly hitches. The sensation lasts all but eight seconds, but he needs at least a full minute to gather his bearings. A small earthquake, he tells himself. Nothing more, nothing less.
As he continues the path upward and towards his room, shuffling through the dark hallway, a cold breeze tickles his cheek; causing a shiver to run down his spine. Goosebumps prickle across his arms while unease settles between his ribs. A sudden weight fills his chest with a sensation he can’t quite describe, a heaviness that does not belong there.
Mere seconds later, a sudden crash pulls his attention away from that odd sensation. As Oikawa angles his head to gaze over his shoulder, he sees a red vase—or rather what’s left of it. Red shards decorate the hallway floor and he hesitantly takes a step forward.
His heart beats erratically in his chest and he exhales through his mouth, twice, when he hears a soft thud. Three books seem to have fallen off a shelf and he swallows a nervous chuckle before rubbing at his eyes. The air feels thick and cold in his lungs and he casts a cautious glance to his left, where a lamp begins to tremble atop a circular side table. He inhales sharply as he watches the lamp fall onto the wooden floor, shattering into small pieces much like the red vase.
He could chalk it up to sleep deprivation or aftershocks from the earthquake but something tells him to trust his instincts and return to his bedroom as quickly as possible.
He all but slams the door shut behind him upon entering the room, his chest heaving with shallow breaths and he rubs at his eyes once more. Another tremor shakes the mansion and Oikawa presses his back tightly to the door as he waits for the trembling to subside with his eyes squeezed shut.
It lasts longer this time, he notices. A full thirty seconds.
Oikawa presses a palm to his chest, inhaling deeply and releasing the breath with a slow exhale. He takes a hesitant step forward, eyes darting around the room as he tries to assess the damage. Save for a few books that have fallen onto the floor, everything seems to be in one piece.
The feeling of unease settles into his stomach and his throat feels dry, but he reminds himself that he’s fine, that he’s safe.
When Oikawa climbs into bed, he presses his face into a pillow and hopes, prays, that he will be able to fall asleep quickly. After twisting and turning for the better part of fifteen minutes, he realizes that he will have no such luck.
He casts a quick glance towards his phone on the bedside table, teeth worrying at his lower lip, before ultimately grabbing the device. Years of extensive research on mythological creatures and occultism tell him that whatever is going on, could very well be the work of vengeful spirits or poltergeists. He’s aware that the average person would think of a reasonable explanation for the sudden “earthquakes” and the falling items, but Oikawa has always been prone to believe in the existence of the supernatural. It often warranted him odd looks and blank stares, but something within him—be it intuition or a lively imagination—has always known that his grandparents’ estate was a little peculiar.
Perhaps the spirit of his late uncle has finally returned to wreak havoc upon his living relatives.
(He wouldn’t blame him).
A quick Google search leaves him with roughly twenty-two different browser tabs, all of which containing information about spirits and poltergeists. His phone screen casts a dim glow across his sheets, spreading through the room, and Oikawa’s grip is tight around the device as he spends the majority of the night reading a number of articles he’s already quite familiar with.
— ༉‧₊˚✧
He doesn’t know what time he fell asleep last night, but Oikawa wakes up somewhere around noon that Sunday. His eyes feel dry and heavy and he doesn’t have to look into a mirror to know that he must have dark circles the size of dinner plates. As he recounts the events of the previous night, he notices that the broken lamp and vase have disappeared; most likely cleaned up by one of the workers his grandmother has hired.
Her presence surprises him when he enters the living room and she regards him with a fond look. “Ah, Tooru. I was told you were staying over,” she chirps.
“Grandmother,” he greets, offering a small bow of his head before wrapping his arms around the older woman in a gentle embrace.
“Come sit,” she instructs, gesturing at the couch. “I have tea. And manjū. You still like those, don’t you?”
For all of his mild panic from the previous night, Oikawa feels something akin to relief upon seeing his grandmother’s kind face. Unlike her sons, and her late husband, Oikawa Mikoto is the epitome of grace and kindness. A gentle soul with a sharp gaze, who always seems to be ten or twenty steps ahead of everyone. Her dark hair is pulled into a low bun and her lips are painted with a vibrant shade of red Oikawa has come to associate with her over the years. He’s heard the stories of his grandmother’s early years; how her beauty and charm allowed her to mingle with Tokyo’s elite. (He assumes it’s how she met his grandfather).
Even now she moves with a kind of elegance and poise you would expect from a young woman on a runway or in front of a camera. He’s fairly certain that if people were to spot them together, they would be surprised to find out that she’s in fact his grandmother. (“Great genetics, dear. And some cosmetic help”).
While Oikawa is the spitting image of his mother, he likes to think that he got his quick wit and observant gaze from his grandmother. As he sips his tea, he swipes a piece of manjū.
“You’re looking a little pale,” she observes. “Are you all right?”
He nibbles on the small cake, wondering how to respond to—what feels like—a very loaded question. “I—” he begins, pausing for a brief moment. “Did you notice the earthquakes last night?”
“I was still at my apartment downtown last night. I may have noticed something, but I think I was already asleep by then. Sasaki mentioned that there was a broken vase and a lamp in the upstairs hallway. Were you hurt?” she wonders, lowering her cup onto the coffee table.
He shakes his head. “No, no. Luckily no injuries. Just a little shaken up, is all.”
“Well, it’s an old house. Things are bound to break. I’m glad you were fine, but you still don’t look too well, Tooru.”
Another pause follows as Oikawa contemplates voicing his suspicions about the previous night. His grandmother, sweet as she may be, would think him insane if he were to reveal that he thinks her house may be haunted.
And yet—
“Grandma, what do you know about spirits?” he asks in a moment of bravery.
“I know that one shouldn’t anger them,” she answers coolly.
A chuckle spills from his lips, breaking off into a sigh as Oikawa leans against one of the many cushions on the couch. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth; gaze briefly landing on one of the many vases in the living room. “Do you believe that poltergeists or vengeful spirits exist?” he wonders.
She hums at that, “Some people do. Your great grandmother, my mother-in-law, often told me about her supposed encounters with spirits,” she tells him. “I thought she was merely joking; delusions from an elderly woman. But, she would tell me about how this house had been in our family for years and years and that, if you listened closely, you could still hear the distant wails of tortured souls. She said she heard them ever since she lived here. Your grandfather thought she was making up stories, too.”
Much like the previous night, Oikawa feels a shiver traveling up his spine. “Did you ever hear anything? And what did she do? To get rid of those… sounds.”
His grandmother’s teacup is picked up once more and she takes a few sips before answering his question. “I don’t know if I actually heard something, or if it was my mind playing tricks on me,” she says. “But, ever since the death of both your uncle and grandfather, I don’t like to be here by myself either… in this large, empty, house.”
A smile rests on her lips, though it seems more sad than joyful. “It gets lonely here.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry about that.”
Her hands find his own and she gently squeezes his palm between her own. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. You visit whenever you can and I am grateful for that,” the smile stretches into something more genuine; a small grin he can’t help but mirror when she speaks again. “And, I have a life of my own, Tooru. I enjoy the city. It makes me feel alive again. I have friends who keep me entertained and busy. I’m not some old woman withering away.”
“Oh, I know. Your social life is more booming than mine.”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that.”
Laughter fills the room and Oikawa is reminded that, despite his qualms with his relatives, he’ll always have this. He’ll always have his grandmother’s kind words and gentle reassurance.
“Either way, back to your great grandmother,” she begins. “I don’t know what she did to keep the ‘voices’ at bay. But I remember her talking about a family who supposedly dealt with ‘evil spirits’. The Iwaizumi’s, if memory serves me correct. I think our family has done business with them before. Perhaps they could be of help, if this house really is haunted.”
Knowing that his grandmother believes him, even a little, causes whatever unease had settled in his chest to unravel. He thinks back to the previous night; to that feeling of dread that had caused his blood to run cold and his heartrate to pick up. While he would very much prefer to believe that an earthquake had been the cause of his inner turmoil and anxiety, he’s unable to shake the feeling that there’s something in the house that does not belong there.
He could ignore it, return to the safety of his own apartment, and pretend that last night had been nothing but a bad dream. But, his hunger for knowledge, his love for the strange and unknown, combined with his unrelenting curiosity, tell him to pursue this. Even if it turns out to be a dead end.
The family name doesn’t sound familiar to him, despite their supposed ties, but Oikawa releases a thoughtful hum as he weighs out his options.
“Iwaizumi, huh?”