Laughter | Oikawa Tooru

The classroom is silent.

Something of a placid silence, though, not accompanied by sadness or waves of anxiety, but more a placating calm that has Oikawa feeling contentment creeping into his soul. A warm hug as his eyes wander the classroom, the people in the classroom and all the happenings. Sometimes, he feels like he's not really in the classroom at all, more trapped behind a window pane looking into the classroom, observing the surroundings with a trace of a smile riding on his lips.

Nobody approaches him, nor does he approach anybody else. Just as always. It's a normal day, in a normal classroom, at a normal lunchtime. Contentedly, he drums his fingers against his desk, cheek in palm as his eyes trace the room. Iwaizumi's not here today; having had a doctor's appointment earlier that day and leaving Oikawa alone alone alone. Not a sound is made in the classroom, and he's lonely, sure, but that's something of a comfort to the boy. 

It's April today. Oikawa had read countless times that on normal April days, you can hear birds chirping outdoors, euphonious tunes that carry along the clouds that are peppered with cotton candy against a cerulean sky. It is, he supposes, a typical April day in that regard. For there is a collection of birds inhabiting the trees sitting just outside the window, and the canvas that is the sky is painted a delightful blue with only patches of white seeping into the blueness. And for a while, Oikawa Tooru wonders what it must be like. To hear the sound of a birdsong, or the drumming of his fingers against the chair. To actually be able to label faces with distinguishable voices.

Ideally, he should banish the thoughts. Hell, if Iwaizumi ever found out what sort of incantations paraded around inside his head, he swore that he'd be kicked upside his head and then told time and time again that despite his lack of hearing he's still him. And being him was pretty amazing, apparently. It's not that Oikawa Tooru doesn't know of his blessings, though. He makes sure to count each individual blessing every morning, after all. Because there's a lot to be thankful for; he can still walk and see and sometimes he can speak. And he's the captain of one of the strongest volleyball teams in his prefecture, and he's the setter of the prefecture. 
  Oikawa Tooru knows he's blessed. He knows more than anyone how many blessings he has - so many that it's impossible to compile them into a singular list. He's grateful for the fact that the sun is always rising and setting, how many days he gets to live upon this world just being able to observe the rich beauties that it has to offer.
  Oikawa knows he's blessed, but it doesn't make some thoughts go away easily.

Because truth be told, he's bitter. In a sort of twisted sense that makes him feel a bit sick, if he's being honest. Because somedays, regardless of how many treasures he can find on the Earth, there will always be that one thing that separates him from everyone else. Because regardless of how many times Iwaizumi reassures him that he's unique, no matter how many tests he gets an A in or how many times Oikawa wins a volleyball match, no amount of praise could ever really erase that small part of him that surfaces from time to time. Some days, it's a rather frequent guest and others, it barely exists.
  But it's always there. A sort of woodpecker that knocks away in his consciousness.
  Because he feels inadequate. Because every single day, he wakes up and remembers his optimistic causes for joy but also he is reminded of the one thing that sets him aside from everyone else. The fact that everyone else can hear the melodic chime of a clock, or that birdsong is something so commonplace in other's lives that it's something people take for granted.
  He's jealous of the people who actually complain about the abundance of music, a world that he knows not of through experience, only knowing what he's read and seen of music. He's bitter that people... people have access to a whole other world outside of him and they discard that sometimes. That though he remembers to count his blessings, he can't help but feel angered by the thought that some people discard their blessings because it's their norm.

There's a tap on his shoulder. 

Dragged out of the drift of thoughts floating around his head, he whips around to meet your eyes. Eyes that are sparkling and glistening in the apparent sunlight of mid-April. 

"Hi, Tooru," you sign, "have you eaten yet?"

Tooru simply smiles, shaking his head as though to banish his previous thoughts temporarily before signing back in response, "No. I was waiting for you."

And you laugh.
(And perhaps, that's the worst thing of all this ordeal. The fact that a multitude of people have heard your laugh, but he can only see it. He can only see the shape, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners in glee and your mouth turns upwards and the way you throw your head back. The way your eyes sparkle like rippling lakes illuminated by the glisten of the moon. But he never hears you. He never hears the laugh, the tinkle in your laugh that is made from pure starlight and the most ethereal parts of sunshine, a burst of light in a room full of darkness.

Perhaps. No, certainly, that is one of the worst parts of this ordeal. The fact that he'll never hear such a common sound, such a beautiful arrangement of music as your own voice. The timbre of your voice; musical colour.

He never hears you. And he thinks- no, knows that you, you must have a beautiful laugh. Even without hearing it himself.)
(And maybe, he's bitter about that. But he doesn't show it. He just smiles in response and takes your hand.)