Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 2021
UTC+09:00

In retrospect, Hajime should have known this was coming.

It’s quarter to eight in the evening and he should be at home, really, taking a nice, well-earned bath after a full day’s work of babysitting the six-foot-tall children known as the Japanese Men’s National Volleyball Team. Instead, he’s sandwiched between Bokuto Koutarou (Manchild #4) and Hoshiumi Kourai (Manchild #5) on a bench that is definitely not meant for seating more than one full-grown athlete.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Yaku inquires from one end of the table, leaning on one elbow. He’s still wearing a pair of sunglasses that have no business being worn in a restaurant, much less at night, but Hajime had learned to stop questioning his clients’ taste in fashion after Kageyama showed up one morning wearing salmon plaid jorts and a straight face.

“It’s for an emergency strategy meeting!” Hinata whisper-shouts, his face flushed. The reality was that their hitter had rung up their group chat about a dozen times only minutes after practice ended, then proceeded to send twice as many text messages containing variations of the word “emergency.” This resulted in more than half the team, Hajime included, running back to the station in a frenzy to find Hinata jumping up and down, evidently not in danger.

The team’s reactions had ranged from a very relieved-looking Komori to an irritated Sakusa. Kageyama had been in the middle of shaking the dear life out of the poor guy when Atsumu stepped in.

“Since y’all are here already,” Atsumu drawled, “Samu jus’ opened a new Onigiri Miya shop a couple blocks down. Omi omi and I were gonna have dinner there, but I s’ppose y’all could tag along. Right, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa, pinned under the weight of Atsumu’s arm around his shoulder, merely shrugged and turned around.

“S’been a while since I had Osamu’s onigiri,” Aran said with a smile. “I’m down.”

“Me too,” Suna agreed. “Count me in.”

“Myaa-sam's onigiri sounds great!” Bokuto cheered. Then he turned to Hajime, eyes pleading. “Can we please go, Iwa-san?”

Hajime frowned. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re our athletic trainer, duh!”

“Yeah, Iwaizumi-san’s like our mom!”

Hajime sighed, pinching the brow of his nose. “Onigiri isn’t really a problem dietary-wise. As long as everyone gets home early and gets enough rest for practice tomorrow…” He hadn’t even been able to finish because the hyperactive crew was already skipping ahead of him, so he resigned himself to a late night and trailed along, chatting amicably with Suna and Aran.

The shop had already closed, but a few loud shouts and the other Miya twin poked his head out the door, mild amusement written on his features.

That had been half an hour ago. Now, Osamu finally emerges from the kitchen, balancing a plate of onigiri on one hand. “Sorry it took a while,” he says as he delivers the food to their table, smack in front of a drooling Kageyama. “I let the staff leave early since we’re still on soft opening, and Tsumu said it was jus’ gonna be him and Sakusa-kun.”

“S’all good, Samu samu,” Bokuto says around a mouthful of beef shigureni. He groans in delight and reaches for another onigiri. Hajime makes a mental note to watch out for the team’s food intake, feeling some sense of responsibility over their pre-Olympic diets.

“So,” Yaku continues, examining his half-eaten salmon rice ball. Hajime swears he hears him mutter something along the lines of “stupid docosahexaenoic acid” before he takes another bite. “What exactly is this emergency strategy meeting for?”

Hinata freezes in the middle of stuffing himself full with tamagoyaki. “Oh!” he brightens, and says something unintelligible, what with all the egg in his mouth.

“Slow down, Hinata,” Hajime says. Hinata salutes and nods, his cheeks straining with effort as he rapidly chews his food then swallows everything in one big gulp. He then brandishes his phone, a determined grin on his face. “The Olympic lineups for the South American teams come out at eight A.M.”

The atmosphere in the restaurant shifts. The players begin to talk amongst themselves, but their voices are drowned out by the suddenly too-loud beating in Hajime’s chest.

“But it’s barely eight P.M. here,” Kageyama says, his face deepening into a scowl. “Hinata, you moron, why’d you gather us all here if we have to wait twelve more hours!”

“That’s in Argenti—” Hajime swallows. “Or Brazil time. Twelve hours apart.” His head is spinning. UTC-03:00. Twelve hours behind Japan, four hours ahead of Irvine. A conversion that comes to him as naturally as breathing.

Hinata nods sagely. “Which means we’ll find out in about…” He squints at his phone. “Right now!” He shoots up, and all of a sudden he’s got the whole team surrounding him, each of them trying to get a glimpse of Hinata’s phone screen.

“Wait—hey!” Hoshiumi growls as Hyakuzawa unknowingly steps in front of him, completely blocking his view. “Let me see!”

There’s a loud “Oof!” as Hoshiumi jumps Hakuba, half of his body clinging onto the tall blocker’s shoulders.

“Where is it?” Atsumu demands, glaring at the screen from above Hinata’s shoulder as he furiously refreshes his phone. Then Hinata jumps, nearly knocking Atsumu backwards.

“Hey, ow—”

“The Brazil roster’s out!” Hinata cries, eyes glued to his phone, oblivious to the whining Atsumu behind him. “Santana—no way, that’s Heitor’s primo—”

Hinata spends a few minutes reading out the names and reacting accordingly, reciting all that he remembers from his time in Brazil.

That is until Kageyama grabs the phone from him, eliciting a squawk from his partner. He squints at the screen, his face inscrutable. Then he glares at Ushijima.

“Carrot beard is here,” he mutters. Ushijima nods thoughtfully in response.

“Carrot beard?” Komori asks, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Kageyama’s terrible at names,” Kiryu clarifies. “Probably some opponent he and Ushijima faced in Rio.” The two veteran Olympians begin discussing something that sounds like an old game, mostly punctuated with oomphs! and wha-pams! that are pretty much undecipherable to anyone else.

“Argentina’s out too,” Suna drones, having done the sensible thing that is using his own phone to look up the roster.

Atsumu immediately parades over to him. “Wonder who’s their startin’ setter, eh?” His face scrunches up at the same time Hinata’s eyes grow wide.

“Oikawa Tooru?!”

The room falls dead silent at the exact same time Hajime’s heart drops to his stomach.

Iwa-chan. A familiar voice, one he’s known since he was old enough to remember, yet more fragile than he’s ever heard before. What do you think about Argentina?

And then chaos ensues. Voices piling on top of each other, barely audible to Hajime’s ears because all he can hear is Oikawa Tooru Oikawa Tooru Oikawa—

“I knew it! He told me! He was gonna come back and beat everyone!” Hinata cries, jumping up and down in glee.

“Calm down, Hinata, we haven’t even won the Olympics yet,” says Yaku amusedly.

“Oikawa Tooru…” Suna frowns. “Is he Japanese?”

“He’s from Miyagi,” Hyakuzawa confirms. “Never played him, but my senpais at Kakugawa used to talk about him all the time. Called him ‘The Grand King.’ They said we were lucky we never got put in the same bracket as him.”

A scoff. “Grand King? Who does he think he is? I’ve never seen this guy’s face at Nationals—” Hoshiumi starts, and Hajime feels an old stab of rage resurface in his chest. But he can’t, not now—

“He could have made it to Nationals,” Ushijima says suddenly, and the ire in Hajime’s throat dissipates into shock. He looks up. Ushijima’s gaze is fixed on the far wall, pointedly away from Hajime.

“Ooh, Ushiwaka, you went against him? Did he give you any trouble?”

“A number of times,” Ushijima says, his eyes meeting Hajime’s for a brief moment before flitting away. Then, in an attempt to direct the attention away from himself, he tilts his chin towards a silent Kageyama. “So did Kageyama and Hinata.”

Hinata shudders. “Just thinking about it makes me want to run to the bathroom all over again.”

Kageyama scowls at his former high school teammate, but when he speaks, it’s with caution. “He’s actually…really good,” he says flatly, but there’s a faint glimmer in his eyes. “He was, uh, my senpai in middle school. Along with—”

“Middle school? That’s crazy!” Bokuto looks excited. Then he pouts. “Wait, has everyone here played Oikawa? Not fair! How come I never met him?”

“Not me. No idea who the guy is.” Atsumu grumbles.

“I heard he’s a brilliant setter,” Aran says. “I woulda thought ya’d at least heard o’ him, Atsumu.”

Atsumu scowls. “I don’t need ta compare myself to other setters, no thank ya.”

“Oikawa Tooru, killer serve,” Sakusa muses, unconsciously flexing his wrists. Atsumu whirls around in shock. “You too?”

“I swear he was on Monthly Volleyball at some point,” Kiryu muses. “Uh…if you’re gonna hit it, hit it until it breaks?”

Bokuto’s eyes widen almost comically. “No way. I loved that quote. I’ve been wondering where it was from for ages.”

Yaku cackles. “Nekoma used to make fun of it all the time.”

“Aren’t you guys from Tokyo?”

“Yeah, but we got to play a couple of practice games against his team when we’d go up to Miyagi for training camp. Actually, now that I remember, weren’t you his ace, Iwaizumi-san?”

Every head in the room swivels towards Hajime. He realizes he’s the only one of them still sitting down, onigiri untouched.

His ace. Oikawa’s ace. He thinks of all the Argentinian games he’s watched over the years, every perfect set to a perfect spiker. He doesn’t know if he can be called Oikawa’s ace anymore—hasn’t known for years.

He thinks of a finger pointed at him like an arrow through his sternum; a long, perfect set with an almost reverent, prayerlike desperation. The last one he’d ever get.

Hajime exhales. He may not be Oikawa’s ace anymore, but Oikawa, he knows with a firm sort of weight in his soul, will always be Hajime’s setter.

“Yeah. Yeah, Oikawa was my setter.” He sees Hinata smile at him, Ushijima’s subtle nod, and Kageyama—god, how Kageyama has grown—look at him with an understanding learned from over a decade.

“You guys were always so in sync whenever we played Seijoh,” Hinata grins. “I used to think, ‘if only Kageyama-kun had as much faith in me as Oikawa-san had in Iwaizumi-san—’”

“Oi! Dumbass!”

“Okay, say that you believed in me then!”

Kageyama flushes red.

“Yo, give us the details, Iwa-kun!” Atsumu says, interrupting the freak duo before they can fall into god knows what—a fistfight or each other’s arms, maybe, no one can ever really tell.

Hajime feels the back of his neck grow warm. “Huh?”

“This is an emergency strategy meeting, right? What’cha got on Oikawa Tooru that can help us beat him, eh? C’mon, or are ya still too loyal to yer partner—”

“Shut up, Tsumu,” Osamu strolls over and stuffs a tuna onigiri into his brother’s mouth, effectively silencing him. Hajime looks at him gratefully. He supposes that the discomfort on his face must’ve been evident, but he’s too relieved by the interruption to care.

“Hey, hey, Hinata-kun! Tell me more about this Satana guy!” Bokuto calls.

“Ah, Santana-kun?” Hinata perks up. “Hmm, okay. He’s a great server, first of all—his hybrid serve is kind of like Atsumu-kun’s—”

Atsumu swallows his food in one giant gulp. “Eh?”

Sakusa smirks. “Thought you would’ve accepted that there are better servers out there, especially after training with me.”

“Not fair, Omi omi! Shouyou-kun said like my serve, not better—”

And with that, their setter moves on to his next scuffle.

Hajime watches from afar, mind still reeling. The fact that Atsumu, who had only known Oikawa Tooru for the past five minutes from mere word of mouth, immediately made the connection that they were partners—it stirs something in Hajime’s gut, something not too comfortable but not too unfamiliar, either.

The feeling doesn’t leave for the rest of the night, not even when the conversation starts to dwindle, punctuated by the more than occasional yawn. Bokuto and Hoshiumi, somehow back to their seats, both begin to doze off, their heads lolling towards Hajime. He lets them lean on his shoulders, even when Bokuto’s ridiculously spiked hair tickles his nose. He silently thanks Hoshiumi’s decision to leave his similar haircut, which he’d only seen in pictures, back in high school.

High school. Hajime thinks of another head on his shoulder, brown curls brushing against his cheek; the soft, familiar scent of botanical shampoo. Suddenly he’s hyperaware of Bokuto’s jawline digging uncomfortably into his collarbone, Hoshiumi’s cheekbone squashed against his shoulder. He glances at the clock on the far wall. Five past nine.

He nudges the two boys awake and stands. “Hey, everyone,” he says, “It’s time to head home.”

“Aww, c’mon, we just finally got Ushijima to tell us somethin’ ‘bout Carrot Beard—” Atsumu whines.

“It’s like you’re begging to get sick,” Sakusa grumbles, already padding towards the exit. Atsumu, a petulant frown on his lips, gets up and follows him.

“Yo, Samu,” he calls to his twin from the door. “Thanks for lettin’ us stay.”

Osamu waves his hand in acknowledgment. “I know ya can’t resist my good food. Call Mom up from time to time, ya hear?”

“I always do!” Atsumu yells, then dips behind the curtains.

Hajime waits for the rest of the team to file out until it’s only him left inside. “Thanks for the meal, Osamu-san,” he says, and ducks through the exit. Most of the team are already rounding the corner to the station, but he starts when he sees Ushijima hovering a few paces away.

“Iwaizumi,” he says, face as impassive as ever. “I am sorry to hold you up for a bit longer, but…” He begins describing a pain in his right shoulder, and Hajime’s mind goes into autopilot, instantly diagnosing Ushijima’s condition.

“It’s nothing much to worry about,” Hajime reassures, “but we can work through a couple of stretches tomorrow morning and see how you do in training. If the pain really bothers you tonight, you can apply cold compress for about 20 minutes.”

It’s subtle, but Hajime sees the tension flood out of Ushijima’s body as his shoulders relax a little. “Thank you, Iwaizumi,” he says with a small bow. “Apologies again for the trouble.”

“No problem,” Hajime replies. “It’s my job, after all.” They begin the walk to the station in comfortable silence.

Years ago, when there was only Miyagi, Hajime would’ve left him in the dust out of spite. There’s a voice in his head that sounds like his childhood friend exclaiming Iwa-chan! With Ushiwaka, of all people?! How dare you fraternize with the enemy!

But there was California, and Takashi Utsui, and some faint sense of concord you can only get when you meet a familiar face in a completely foreign country, after being alone and heartachingly homesick for months at the mere age of nineteen. And now there is Tokyo, and the upcoming Olympics, and full-fledged camaraderie within the Japanese National Team, where childish arguments and high school rivalries fade away at twenty-seven.

And there is no Oikawa to tell him otherwise. There hasn’t been, not for a long time, even though Hajime hasn’t completely gotten rid of his annoyingly melodic voice in his head. Because even though it’s been nearly half a decade since he last saw Oikawa Tooru in the flesh—in all his ridiculous, awe-inspiring glory—the years that have chipped away at the mountain of all that belonged to Iwaizumi Hajime at five, fifteen, and twenty-five leave Oikawa Tooru untouched, as if he is a spirit, a god, stubborn and unmovable and eternal.

The lights of the station entrance come into view. Ushijima begins to walk in the opposite direction until he remembers Hajime’s existence, and turns to him abruptly.

“See you tomorrow, Iwaizumi,” he says with a nod. “Send my regards to Oikawa, too.”

Hajime freezes. In that split second, he thinks he must look like a deer in headlights, the fluorescent glow harsh on his pallid expression.

Ushijima notices. “He is your best friend, right?” The words are simple, and honest. And so is the answer.

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

It’s not that Hajime hadn’t seen it coming.

He’d always known Oikawa would make it. Even when he was barely an adult, at the precipice of change, when his entire world was shifting and rearranging to form the pieces of a future unknown, one thing had always, always been certain.

It’s more of the fact that Oikawa was coming back—back to Japan, and inevitably into Hajime’s life—that shook him to the core. But if Hajime were being a little more honest with himself, Oikawa had never not been a part of his life. He thinks of a childhood promise he once thought would turn flimsy and eventually snap—stretched out across years and hemispheres, oceans and continents, chances and lifetimes. He finds, instead, that it remains taut and sturdy, like the faith in his best friend that has never wavered.

Except he hasn’t really been the best at showing it, has he?

Lying on his bed, Hajime reaches for the phone on his bedtime table, ignoring the screen time limits he’d set in order to maintain a healthy sleep schedule. He thumbs past his chats on LINE until days turn into weeks and he finally finds the contact name he’s been looking for.

Tooru. No more, no less. A name he’s known before he even knew how to say it.

He presses call.

Three counts before the line clicks, and Hajime feels dizzy. He hears a small breath and—

“Iwa-chan?” And there it is. That normally breezy voice, now soft and tentative—the one only Iwa-chan gets to hear—and Hajime has to hold himself down lest he flees down all twenty-something flights of his apartment's stairs and into the humid Tokyo night.

“Hey, Shittykawa,” he breathes, grin splitting his face like a knife. “Congratulations.”

November 2013
UTC-07:00

“Iwa-chan!” There’s some movement and then a muffled yelp as something drops with a solid clunk. An exasperated smile tugs at the corner of Hajime’s mouth.

“Clumsykawa,” Hajime huffs.

“Hold on, let me just…” The camera clicks on, and there’s a blur of brown hair at the bottom of the screen as Oikawa bends to pick up the unidentified fallen object. His expression is sheepish as he enters the frame, item clutched in one hand.

“What is it this time?”

A head rolls out of Oikawa’s palm.

“No fucking way,” Hajime whispers. It’s terrible. It’s hilarious. It’s the remains of that cursed E.T. bobblehead Hanamaki and Matsukawa had given Oikawa as a graduation—and parting—gift.

“Please don’t tell Makki and Mattsun,” Oikawa pleads, and he’s whimpering, which tips the scale even more towards the hilarious side. Hajime has to look away, a fist over his mouth, to keep himself from bursting into laughter. Then he realizes this is Oikawa fucking Tooru, and so he practically doubles over, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Mean, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa cries. “Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I can’t hear you laughing at me, you know! Just because you think E.T. is ugly—”

“As if you don’t think the same, dumbass!”

Oikawa gasps and places a hand over his chest. “I would never.”

“Crappykawa. You said he reminds you of me, and you call me ugly!”

“Iwa—E.T.-chan isn’t ugly!”

“Oh yeah?” Hajime switches his camera on even though he knows Oikawa will probably diss his ratty old Aoba Johsai T-shirt and unkempt hair.

There’s silence on the other end of the call—Hajime wonders if the dorm internet is messed up again, because Oikawa’s frozen on screen. But his eyes widen, and eventually, he speaks. “Your hair.”

“Shut up, I know it’s a mess,” Hajime grumbles.

“No, it’s longer,” Oikawa replies, voice a tone lower than usual. Hajime sneaks a glance at his own webcam-quality mirror image. It frowns back at him.

“You should shave it all off,” Oikawa decides, his usual self-satisfied smile back on his face. “Since E.T.-chan doesn’t have any hair!”

“Shittykawa.”

“I already told you, I prefer Crappykawa.” He’s sulking, the audacity of him. He’s also really, really trying his best to stick E.T.’s head back in.

“You’re a shitty friend,” Hajime retorts. “Breaking your best friends’ gift for you.”

“Iwa-chan didn’t give me E.T.,” Oikawa says pointedly. This would be the part where Hajime cuffs the back of his head, but he can’t, so he scoffs instead and tries to ignore the small thrill that runs through his spine at Oikawa’s indirect admission.

Of course Hajime considers Hanamaki and Matsukawa to be some of his closest friends, and he’s sure Oikawa feels the same way. But before Makki and Mattsun—before Seijoh, and Kitagawa Daiichi, and the first kids’ volleyball club they’d joined at the age of six, there was just Tooru and Hajime. No more, no less.

“I got it!” Oikawa finally cheers, holding up the figurine to the camera so that all Hajime can see are two large pairs of eyes surrounded by wrinkled skin.

“His head is tilted.”

“Adds to the charm, don’t you think?”

Hajime grunts, leaning back in his chair to grab a textbook from the shelf beside him.

“Studying already?” Oikawa pouts.

“Because I have classes, unlike you, you dumb jock,” Hajime replies as he skims through the pages of I Had A Lot of Injuries. I Don’t Want You To Have Them Too. Frankly, his brain isn’t registering a single word.

“Stop acting like you have brain cells, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines. “Just because you fooled the admissions panel of UC Irvine doesn’t mean you can fool me!”

Hajime flips to the next page aggressively.

“Look at you, your eyebrows are sooo scrunched together! See, you do look just like E.T.-chan~”

“Aw, c’mon, you’re not even gonna ask why I called?”

“To annoy the fuck out of me,” Hajime replies dryly, refusing to look up from his book. It doesn’t help that he’s practically memorized the look of Oikawa’s pouting face, down to the downwards quirk of his right eyebrow.

“Iwa-chan.”

“Iwa-chaaaaan.”

“Iwa-chan. Blanco let me play as the starting setter today.”

Hajime promptly drops his book. Once he’s picked it up, he’s met with Oikawa’s wide, wide grin on his computer screen. “Who’s the clumsy one now, huh?”

For once, Hajime ignores the jab. “Holy shit, Oikawa, that’s amazing.”

Four months. Four months was all it took for nineteen-year-old Oikawa Tooru, who was born, raised, and had lived in a little Sendai neighborhood all his life, to become a starting setter in the Argentinian league.

The pixelated Oikawa on his screen practically glows. “Is it really?”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Maybe not when I tell everyone about how you cried to me on the phone every day when you left.”

“Not true, Iwa-chan! You cruel, heartless monster!”

Hajime shrugs. “It makes everything a little more amazing to me,” he says, open and honest, and Oikawa’s mouth drops open slightly before his features soften and he smiles, big and genuine.

Four months ago, Hajime was still in Japan. The months between Oikawa’s flight to Argentina and his own to California had been strange at best and depressing at worst. How he kept himself together while hearing Oikawa’s uncharacteristically weak voice, interspersed with static over the yawning distance between them, Hajime can no longer recall. All he knew then was that whatever anguish he felt while thinking about his eventual departure had to be a thousand times worse for Oikawa himself. Hajime was home. Oikawa was not.

Except home did not feel like home—not without Oikawa dragging him to the grocery for milk bread for the nth time in a week, or Oikawa lounging on his bed (Hajime on the floor) as he hammered away at his pink PSP, or Oikawa tossing him volleyballs in the old playground they’d claimed as theirs since they were four.

The thing is, if Oikawa was feeling even a sliver of the ache that had built its home in Hajime’s chest the moment he realized his best friend—whom he’d never been apart from for more than a week—was moving halfway across the world, Hajime would drop everything in an instant just to be by his side. Even just as that firm, steady voice at one end of the phone line. And so he did, even if he had to stay up at ungodly hours to watch stupid alien movies with Oikawa for the millionth time, or text Oikawa while he was eating breakfast to remind him to get enough sleep, or listen as Oikawa stumbled through his awkward Spanish because he was still too afraid to practice with anyone else.

He remembered this one conversation he’d had with Oikawa back then—a rare moment of quiet, honest humility. “It’s going to be a steep uphill climb from here, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa had said over the phone, hushed like it was a confession. It was around ten in the evening in Argentina, and ten in the morning in Japan, but when Hajime closed his eyes, he could pretend that they were in the same timezone, in the same room, whispering together under the glow-in-the-dark planets on the ceiling of Oikawa’s childhood bedroom.

“It will,” he’d replied. “Just take it one step at a time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa had breathed, and though Hajime had not been able to see him then, he could still picture his eyes, clear and twinkling like the stars. “I will.”

Chapter Text

February 2014
UTC-07:00

Tooru [04:33] good morning iwa-chan!! ◝(^⌣^)◜
Tooru [04:33] look what i had for breakfast today ԅ(♡﹃♡ԅ)
Tooru [04:34] [Image Attached]

It’s still dark outside when Hajime wakes. He leans over to his bedside table, eyes still half-shut, to look at the time on his phone. It’s five A.M. (or nine A.M. in Argentina, his brain supplies unhelpfully). Hajime likes to think he wakes up early, having successfully trained his body clock to get up before five for his daily morning runs, but Oikawa has a four-hour head start. Blame the Internet for giving the bastard a new way of badgering Hajime before the ass crack of dawn from all the way across the Panama.

You [05:03] Morning
You [05:03] Wtf
You [05:03] Where the heck did you get that? I can’t even find that brand of milk bread in the asian stores here

Hajime trudges to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face to shake himself out of his grogginess. He lathers some of the herbal facial wash Oikawa had picked out for him in their second year of high school after he’d accused Hajime about using “body soap for his face like an ape.” Hajime, undeniably guilty, had retorted with “my face is a part of my body, Oikawa,” which admittedly wasn’t one of his best comebacks. Oikawa, in his horror, had refused to speak to him the entire morning after.

So, alright, he’d let Oikawa handle the skincare department for them both. It was one of the few things the idiot could be trusted to take care of, anyway.

Toothbrush in his mouth, Hajime grabs his phone and types out another message.

You [05:09] Also that better not be all you had for breakfast. You call yourself a pro athlete but your diet is shit

Two more notifications light up his phone almost as soon as Hajime spits out his toothpaste.

Tooru [05:12] the milk bread is a secret u will never find out~
Tooru [05:12] and ofc i had my fruits and protein!! /u/ call urself a future athletic trainer but ur rlly just a mom

You [05:13] Dumbass. Don’t come crawling to me when you end up with diabetes

Tooru [05:13] im only getting diabetes bc ur so sweet o(≧▽≦)o
Tooru [05:15] be careful not to slip and embarrass urself on your run today~~

Hajime leaves him on read—it’s what Oikawa deserves, honestly. He pockets his phone and steps out into the cool early morning air, putting on his blue earphones. It’s the fifth pair of the exact same model he’s been using since junior high. It’s also the longest-lasting one so far, after two were stolen by Oikawa and the other two went missing (also stolen by Oikawa, who’d conveniently “forgotten” all about them).

He enjoys running at this hour, when the mild temperature and comfortable stillness bring him back to idyllic days in Miyagi. He and Oikawa used to go on runs like these, even more so after they lost to Karasuno in the Spring Tournament qualifiers and had no reason to train as often as they’d used to. Or at least Hajime no longer did. His volleyball career had ended then and there, but Oikawa’s was just beginning.

Even so, the other boy had made it a point to stick to him as stubbornly as he did to the gym whenever he was practicing his jump serves. Like he was running out of time. Like he was afraid to lose—not a competition or a title—but a person.

Hajime would be lying if he said he hadn’t been scared, too.

But they were fine. They continued to talk—so often, in fact, that Hajime couldn’t describe his university experience without somehow bringing up Oikawa. Because even though he’d been temporarily reduced to a presence that could only exist in a five by two inch screen, the space he took up in Hajime’s life would always be a million times bigger than that.

Hajime feels the corners of his mouth quirk up when his phone finally reconnects to the Wi-Fi nearly two hours later. Predictably, Oikawa had blown up his phone over the course of his morning workout, impatient as he was. Hajime decides to let him suffer a bit longer.

He scrolls through the rest of his unopened messages. He’d slept pretty early last night, so there’s more to catch up on than usual. He opens LINE first: there are a couple of messages from his mom, who he usually calls every other evening or so. He snorts as he opens the string of Kermit the Frog memes sent by none other than Hanamaki, and huffs in amusement when he sees that only Matsukawa had replied in their group of four.

Hajime switches to his text messages next, where there are a couple of notifications from his UC Irvine friend group.

It takes him a little longer to go through their chat; though he’s definitely much better at English now than when he first arrived in the U.S., he’s still trying to get the handle of American texting slang. He’s in the middle of scrolling through one of the links they sent about some Mexican restaurant when Oikawa messages him yet again.

Tooru [07:13] i know u read my messages iwa-chan. rude!!
Tooru [07:13] i take it back ur not sweet at all
Tooru [07:15] btw what are you doing todayyyy

You [07:16] Why are you asking
You [07:16] You already know my schedule anyway

Tooru [07:17] u ignore me for so long just to be so cold iwa-chan!!!! (╥﹏╥)
Tooru [07:17] ur gonna be home by four right??
Tooru [07:18] wanna watch a moviee ><

There’s a knock on Hajime’s door as Luis, his roommate, pokes his head in. Though Hajime is usually the first riser, the guy has his own morning routine, which he immensely respects—even if he has no idea what it consists of.

“Yo, Hajime. Wanna check out the new Mexican place with the others?”

Ah. So that was what the link was for. Although Luis had gone to high school in California, his family was originally from Mexico, so he made it a point to try out and rate every single Mexican restaurant that popped up on his radar.

“Sure. What time?”

“Vote’s split between lunch and dinner. Everyone’s available either way, so it’s your call.”

“I think I’d rather have lunch,” Hajime decides.

“Cool.”

He shoots Luis a quick smile before returning to his phone.

You [07:20] Why would I want to do that

Tooru [07:21] i knew it
Tooru [07:21] you really want me to die of loneliness
Tooru [07:22] (PД`q。 ) ·。 ' ゜

You [07:22] Yeah. So I can finally have some peace and quiet

Tooru [07:23] cmon iwa-chan we both know without me ur life would be BORING

You [07:23] I can keep myself pretty occupied here

Tooru [07:24] im calling u at 4:30

You [07:24] Fine do whatever you want

Tooru [07:24] omg i knew it. u rlly cant resist my charms~~ ( *¯ ³¯*)♡

You [07:25] I’m blocking you

“So, Hajime,” Charlize says, leaning over a plate of enchiladas to look him straight in the eye. “You doing anything tomorrow?”

“Don’t think so,” Hajime answers.

Hajime had met Charlize during the first international student support session he attended, all the way back in September. During that meeting, he found out that she was a biochemistry major from the Philippines and that they apparently had a couple of science classes together. Despite being from different countries, their shared experience of coming from the opposite side of the Pacific had been enough to cement their friendship.

Charlize tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Wanna hang out in the afternoon?”

Next to her, Jieun and Luna both stiffen. Jieun studied literary journalism and Luna took up dance, so they shared virtually zero classes with Hajime, but the two of them had nonetheless befriended him almost instantly after he’d met Charlize. It was like the three girls came in some kind of package deal and Hajime had no choice but to be adopted into their little circle. Then they’d found that Hajime was roommates with Luis—who turned out to be Luna’s fraternal twin—and that rounded out their present group of five.

“Doesn’t Jieun have work, though?”

All three of them gape at him. Jieun turns away with a cough.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Hajime asks.

“No, no,” Charlize shakes her head with a rueful smile. “It’s my bad. I should’ve been clearer.”

“Jieun and I can’t make it,” Luna explains with a wave of her quesadilla.

“I’m here, by the way,” Luis mutters.

“Oh.” Hajime pauses, awkwardness suddenly washing over him. “Then, uh, should we just go out when everyone’s available?”

Charlize blinks. The twins wince in unison. On the other side, Jieun is silent.

“Sure. We can just study, then,” Charlize offers instead. “Library after lunch?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Hajime replies. He feels like he’s missing something.

“Wuss,” Luna whispers in Charlize’s ear, but her voice is so loud that Hajime hears it anyway. He doesn’t know what it means, but it can’t be a compliment with the way Charlize shoves her friend in response.

“Anyways,” Luis begins talking about his latest programming project—some on-campus platonic speed dating website, or something—and Hajime only notices how weirdly tense the atmosphere had been when it finally lightens. He tries to pay attention to what Luis is saying, but his mind keeps drifting to the look in Charlize’s eyes when he asked if he said anything wrong. And then there’s another part of his brain that’s wondering what movie Oikawa will force him to sit through again later. Probably another stupid alien documentary.

“Oh yeah!” Luna pipes up suddenly, interrupting her brother’s spiel. The latter sits back with a scowl. “One of the baseball dudes I was talking to is holding a party later—”

“Another one?” Jieun mutters under her breath, earning her a smack from her friend.

“Everyone’s invited,” Luna continues. “Luis and I are going.”

“We are?”

“I texted you this morning!”

“Hard pass,” Jieun intones. “I’d rather not get drunk on a weekday night, no thank you.”

“I can come along,” Charlize offers. “What about you, Hajime?”

“Same with Jieun,” Hajime says apologetically.

“Aw, c’mon,” Luna complains. “It’s always so hard to get you to parties! People keep asking me about you, y’know, but since you never show up it’s so hard to introduce you!”

“They do?”

“Just ‘cause you refuse to post your gym pics with Jieun doesn’t mean they don’t notice your ridiculous biceps when you’re strolling around campus, my guy.”

Hajime feels heat travel from the back of his neck to the tips of his ears. “I’m not trying to show them off!”

“You should,” Jieun nods, expression dead serious. Luis grins and gives him a thumbs up. Meanwhile, Charlize looks strangely flustered. At least Hajime’s not the only one.

“At the party later!” Luna adds excitedly.

“I really can’t,” Hajime amends. “I made plans with a friend.”

Luis quirks an eyebrow. “With—what’s his name, Kusokawa?”

Hajime nearly chokes on his water at the sudden use of his favorite insult. “Yeah, Oikawa.”

“Ah. No hope of getting you out of your room, then.”

Luna looks between Hajime and Luis, eyebrows furrowed. “This is the volleyball dude in Argentina, right?”

“Most of my high school friends are volleyball dudes,” Hajime points out amusedly. There’s a little twinge in his chest. Hajime doesn’t talk about his high school friends much—there’s always too much to say, and too few words in his English vocabulary to give them justice. But to have Oikawa reduced to “volleyball guy from Argentina” was just unfair. “Oikawa and I have been friends since we were kids, though.” He leaves it at that.

The truth is, Hajime isn’t sure he can explain his friendship to Oikawa with anyone. He’d tried, a couple of times, but there was no dictionary definition, no accurate translation that could describe the boy who was his first and only osananajimi.

“I see,” Luna says, looking at Hajime curiously. “Well, I hope you guys have fun catching up.”

Luis snorts. “I’d say Oikawa is pretty up-to-date with Hajime’s life. You guys call, what, every day?”

Hajime shrugs, feeling a little put on the spot. “Twice a week, supposedly, but Oikawa’s—” A clingy brat, he almost says, but stops himself. “Easily bored, I guess.”

“He must miss you,” Charlize muses. “Especially if you two grew up together, I suppose.”

Huh. Oikawa may be cheeky about it, but Hajime knows it’s the truth. He misses the asshole, too, not that he’d ever admit it to him in a million years.

“Huh?”

“Oh. Yeah, we did.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it looks like he'd muttered in Japanese, judging by the confused look on Charlize's face. “Lived on opposite ends of the same street, actually.”

“Hold on, why are we only finding this out now?” Luna butts in. “This material. This lore. Luis, why didn’t you tell me anything?”

“Because you’re nosy and a gossip,” Jieun points out. “Obviously.”

“I am not!” Luna exclaims indignantly. Her petulance almost reminds him of Oikawa. “I am perfectly good at keeping people’s secrets. Right, Char?”

Charlize purses her lips. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I think I’d better get going.”

“Why so early?”

“Gotta submit my orgchem problem set before the party,” Charlize replies, slipping her tote bag onto her shoulder. “See you guys tomorrow afternoon?” she adds, her gaze fixed on Hajime. The afternoon sun catches in her dark eyes, and Hajime’s struck by how her irises turn caramel—like Oikawa’s—in the light.

“Yeah,” he says, offering her a smile. “See you.”

Tonight’s movie did not, in fact, turn out to be a space documentary.

But this is Oikawa Tooru, galactic nerd, so of course he picked out a movie that was “fun and all about aliens.” Or so he’d claimed when he’d sent Hajime the link to the movie five minutes before he called him at four-thirty P.M., just as he promised.

An hour and a half later, Hajime has half a mind to throw his laptop out the window.

“You liar,” Hajime snarls, but his tone is definitely ineffective because of the way his voice cracks. “This is not. Fun. At all.”

Oikawa, wrapped in a hideous purple galaxy-patterned blanket, doesn’t immediately clap back for once. His eyes are glazed behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

A beat passes. “In my defense,” he starts, voice small, “I wanted to go into this spoiler-free, so I didn’t know the space dog would d—”

“Don't say it,” Hajime hisses, furiously blinking back tears. “It’s not the end yet. They…” His heart drops.

The credits begin to roll.

“Oikawa.” His voice is deathly quiet. “I am never watching a movie you pick for us ever again.”

“Great, because it’s your turn to pick now!” he says cheerily. “So do you wanna watch Final Wars or Tokyo S.O.S.? Or the 1954 original?”

“I know for a fact that you have none of those downloaded,” Hajime deadpans. “And don’t try to placate me with Godzilla like that.”

“You have so little faith in me, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa exclaims, placing a hand over his heart in exaggerated shock. “Also, placate? I’m surprised your brain has the space to fit such big words like that!”

Hajime’s hands itch with the urge to punch his webcam. Thankfully, his laptop is saved by a sudden knock on the door. He checks the time. It’s exactly six P.M., which is way too early for Luis to be back.

“Ooh, Iwa-chan has a visitor?” Oikawa sing-songs, wiggling his eyebrows. “Does Iwa-chan have something to share with me?”

Hajime shoots him a death glare before taking out his earphones. He notes, with irritation, that his nose is still a little bit red.

“Delivery for…uh…” The delivery boy frowns. “Hay-jimmy Iwaizumi?”

Hajime tries to give him his best, politest smile, but he’s pretty sure it looks more like a grimace. “That’s me.”

“Cool.” He hands him a paper bag with a familiar logo stamped on it. The smell of dashi fills the air, and Hajime realizes it’s from the Japanese restaurant all the way downtown. It’s owned by an old Japanese immigrant couple, so the food is as authentic as it can get, but Hajime limits his visits since the food is pretty pricey. The reminder has him frowning and reaching for his wallet.

“Oh, it’s fully paid, I think,” the delivery boy remarks. “Also—” he reaches for a box behind him. “This is for you, too.”

Hajime blinks, because he suddenly has a ton of free goodies in his arms. “Uh, thanks. Would you, uh, mind telling me the name of the sender?”

“It’s all in this sheet,” the delivery boy explains as he hands him a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

Hajime scans the paper and finds the name printed in romaji. He scoffs, but a smile creeps onto his face as he thanks the delivery boy and slides back into the camera view.

“Ooh, what’s that, Iwa-chan? You didn’t tell me you had a secret admirer!”

“Shut up,” Hajime huffs, but there’s no bite to it. He opens the box and finds an array of his favorite Japanese snacks, from rice crackers to fried tofu skin. There are even several packs of Takenoko no Sato, which Oikawa always argued were inferior to Kinoko no Yama (the chocolate distribution is so much better, Iwa-chan!), and the milk bread he sent him a photo of earlier.

“Why did you do this?”

“Sponsorship money just came in,” Oikawa sing-songs, but he looks genuinely pleased. “Of course, because I am a very altruistic person, I am very dedicated to my cause of helping poor, struggling college students!”

“You sure you aren’t abusing your mom’s credit card?”

“I would never! Now go eat your dinner and be grateful!” Oikawa disappears from the frame momentarily. When he comes back, he has an open pack of Takenoko no Sato in one hand.

“I thought you liked Kinoko no Yama better.”

“Well, when the shop you order from only has a promo for twenty packs of one or the other, a generous soul has to make sacrifices,” he announces, popping a chocolate-covered biscuit into his mouth.

He stares at him. Oikawa stops eating the snack to lick his chocolate-covered fingers. Suddenly, Hajime’s throat feels dry. He reaches for the paper bag, bringing out a sealed bowl of what appears to be shoyu ramen. After a long sip of the broth, he mutters, “Thanks, Oikawa.”

“Hmm, what was that? Didn’t hear you!”

“Get your ears checked, then.”

Oikawa pouts. “There’s agedashi tofu in there, too. Since Iwa-chan is so picky with his food.”

“Shut up, we both know who’s the picky eater between us,” Hajime snaps. He takes a bite of the agedashi tofu and has to suppress a moan. Oikawa smirks at him.

“I sent you the link to the movie, by the way. We can watch once you’re finished, which I bet is pretty soon, because Iwa-chan eats faster than Kong!”

“Why even bother to send me food if you’re like this,” Hajime grumbles through a mouthful of noodles. “And we can watch now, if you want. It’s gonna get too late there and you need to sleep.”

“lwa-chan really is my mom,” Oikawa sighs. “But I don’t have practice until the afternoon, so it’s okay if I stay up a little!”

They finish Tokyo S.O.S. at around eight in the evening, and Oikawa’s about to start the next movie when Hajime stops him.

“Don’t think you can fool me, dumbass. It’s already midnight there, go to sleep.”

Oikawa pouts. “But I’m not sleepy at all. And Iwa-chan hasn’t told me about his day yet.”

“How am I supposed to do that when you’re making us run through a goddamn movie marathon?”

“Okay, fine.” Oikawa leans back on his cushions, tucking his chin into the Kuromi plushie Hajime had gotten him for his twelfth birthday. There are bags underneath his eyes, he notes with disapproval. “Just fifteen more minutes, and I’ll go. So what did Iwa-chan do today? Or is your life really so boring that you have nothing new to tell me?”

“We talk every day, Oikawa. You already know everything,” Hajime says with an eyeroll. “I had lunch with friends. We tried a new Mexican restaurant.”

“Ooh, who friends? Was it good?”

“The usual. And yeah, their burrito was pretty decent.”

“So boring, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa exhales dramatically, but there’s a hint of satisfaction in his face. “What about tomorrow, hmm?”

Hajime thinks back to Charlize’s invitation. “One of my friends asked to hang out, actually. But we weren’t all available, so we’re studying together instead.”

For a brief moment, Oikawa’s eyes go wide. “Your friend asked you?”

“Uh, yeah?” Hajime feels a little of the earlier confusion returning to him. “I mean, she directed the question at me, but we were at lunch with everyone else, so. Wait. What are you saying?”

“Oh, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa cackles in delight, but there’s an undercurrent in his voice that Hajime frustratingly just can’t place. “Of course that didn’t get through your ridiculously thick skull! Poor girl, she must’ve had to lower her standards to ask Iwa-chan out, just to get that—”

“Charlize is just a friend,” Hajime frowns.

“Charlize,” Oikawa counters, his voice dripping with honey that must catch in Hajime’s throat, because why is it so tight, “is, believe it or not, interested in a brute like you, Iwa-chan. But of course you’re too dense to realize.” At that last sentence, his voice drops, suddenly devoid of all previous sparkle and mischief.

“I really don’t think so,” Hajime says honestly, because he simply can’t wrap his head around it. His friend, interested in him? Maybe it’s because between the two of them, the entire dating and relationships thing has always been Oikawa’s territory. Hajime would be lying if he didn’t say Oikawa had the looks for it, with his annoyingly, perfectly windswept hair and flirty, boyish grin. Cupid’s bow lips and dark eyelashes. Tall, broad shoulders and long, slender fingers like a pianist’s, yet deft and deadly all the same. He was pretty, and strong—he was Seijoh’s captain, after all, and he was also smart enough to get good grades when he wasn’t too hyperfixated on volleyball. Hajime supposes that if not for that hyperfixation, the girls he dated would’ve stuck around longer—if they could tolerate his sewer-curated personality like Hajime did.

Oikawa sighs dramatically, and just like that, the theatrics are back in place. “Maybe some of my attractiveness rubbed off on you, Iwa-chan. But of course you’re never catching up to me!” Leave it up to Oikawa to turn it into a competition when he was already the evident winner. He’d already had a girlfriend or two in high school, while Iwaizumi had been—and still was—glaringly single. And even when Oikawa was available, he’d still get asked out on dates, pulled aside for confessions, delivered a shitton of gifts on Valentine’s Day…

“Anyways,” Oikawa drags out the vowels, “I’d better get to sleep now, right, Iwa-chan? Don’t forget to tell me all the details about tomorrow, okay!”

“We’re just studying, Oikawa,” he replies gruffly. Then, just to make sure: “You’re actually going to sleep, right?”

“I am, I am,” Oikawa says. “Goodnight, Iwa-chan.”

“Goodnight, Oikawa.” And the screen goes blank.

The hush that blankets the room is immediate, heavy. Hajime is no stranger to it—after all, it was his first companion long before his roommate even arrived, lurking in the spaces when no one else was there.

He pads over to the sink. The echo of his footsteps, the rush of water, the tap of his toothbrush: they all only magnify the silence as he tries to push down the worst of its weight on his chest.

Once he’s done washing up, he climbs into bed and begins his reading for tomorrow. The rustle of blankets, the click of his pen, the flip of each page; he lets himself be absorbed into the words on paper, and waits for the deafening quiet to fade into the background.

It’s only when Hajime is finally tucked in at midnight, staring at the early morning time in Argentina, that he realizes it’s Valentine’s Day.

Chapter Text

December 2016
UTC-03:00

Christmas in Argentina is different. But after spending the last two cramming over-the-break projects in his dorm room in Irvine and the one before those attached to his living room heater in Miyagi, Hajime decides it’s a welcome change.

The sun soaks into his back, which Hajime is pretty sure already drenched in sweat. In spite of the warm weather, families and children circle the shop fronts lined with garlands in various shades of red, green, and gold. Some windows are even festooned with strings of white cotton balls he assumes are made to mimic snow. It makes him think, briefly but fondly, of the winters in Northern Japan. Right now, though, there’s no ice crunching under his feet or chilly wind making his nose red; instead, there’s sand between his toes and the sea breeze tousling his hair.

But the most welcome change of them all—though he would never admit it out loud—is the one currently dragging him by the arm through the hordes of tourists and locals alike dotting Playa Punta Mogotes.

“Oi, ‘Kawa, where the hell are you bringing us?”

“The beach!”

“The beach is right here,” he points out in response, because it’s everywhere. Hajime is no stranger to beaches—he literally lives in California—but it’s becoming increasingly evident that neither is Oikawa. Which is unfair, because San Juan doesn’t even have beaches.

It’s unfair, Hajime thinks, how Oikawa’s skin now glows with the slightest hint of bronze when he used to only turn pink and sunburnt every summer they spent playing outside for hours on end. It’s unfair how his shoulders have become broader, his muscles more defined, when he used to mope around the gym whenever Hajime did extra bench press sets alone. It’s unfair how he looks so vibrant, so sure of himself as he leads Hajime across the sands, when he used to be a little scared of the ocean, except when Hajime was tugging him along.

Maybe it’s not just the beach Oikawa’s grown used to. Maybe it’s all of Argentina, transformed into a land in which Oikawa Tooru can bloom.

And Hajime is happy for him, has felt unparalleled levels of joy since Oikawa first barrelled towards him and subsequently made them both crash to the ground of Ezeiza International Airport. But still, it’s unfair how even though they’ve finally reunited after so long, Hajime still knows he’s going to miss him.

After what feels like forever in the sluggish heat, Oikawa finally slows down to a stop.

“We’re here!”

Hajime has to give it to him: Oikawa knows his stuff. They’re practically the only people in this area of the beach, which is a miracle given how many beach umbrellas, foldable chairs, and picnic blankets they had to dodge earlier. Here, it’s all trees, pebbles, and half-crushed seashells which might be a pain to step on later, but Hajime doesn’t really mind. They’re also noticeably nearer the water, its surface shimmering with specks of gold in the sunlight, stretching all the way to the horizon.

Oikawa drops his bag onto the sand and turns to Hajime with a self-satisfied grin, the ocean and sky melting into a mere backdrop behind him.

“Well? What do you think, Iwa-chan? Much better and closer to the water, right?”

“Yeah. Just one shove and I can send you flying into the Atlantic.”

Hajime expects a complaint of mean, Iwa-chan! paired with an obnoxious whine. What he doesn’t expect is this: Oikawa, arms crossed and smirking as he says, “Try me. I’ve got tons of experience now, remember? Ever tried playing beach volleyball with Ninja Shouyou?”

Hajime snorts. “The only experience that matters is when you wet your pants running away from the waves in Shichigahama.”

“We were in kindergarten!”

He rolls his eyes. “I know you don’t want to get your clothes wet, Oikawa.”

“With seawater? Trust me, I couldn’t care less,” he replies stubbornly with the subtlest flip of his hair. His gaze burns into Hajime, taunting.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Hajime retorts, and because he can’t back down from a challenge—especially if it’s from Oikawa—he barrels forward.

They collide, almost like how they did in the airport. But this time, neither of them fall, because Oikawa’s got his hands wrapped around the wrists that are pushing into his chest. And then Oikawa’s pushing back too, and Hajime is once again reminded of how his best friend has, much to his irritation, bulked up.

Oikawa laughs, loud and full, and Hajime cracks a menacing smile as he sneers, “Don’t get cocky, now.”

“Cocky? Why would I?” he asks innocently as he gives another shove and, all of a sudden, raises his leg to knee Hajime in the stomach. Hajime stumbles, and in that moment he realizes that he’s been cornered. Their positions have completely switched, and his back is now to the ocean.

“Asshole.”

Oikawa’s eyes glitter. “Y’know, Iwa-chan, maybe you were right. Bench presses aren’t that bad after all.”

“Oh, I’ll show you bad, Shittykawa,” he says, and Oikawa charges at him for the final shove. But Hajime wasn’t Seijoh’s undefeated arm wrestling champion for nothing.

Before Oikawa’s hands reach his shoulders, Hajime ducks underneath them and wraps his arms around his friend’s waist.

One moment, he’s crashing into Hajime. The next, he’s in the air, screaming.

“IWA-CHAN! PUT ME DOWN!”

“Is that what you really want?”

“I’m serious! Put me—AAAHHHH!”

Hajime spins him around, and Oikawa releases a long string of profanities that would probably make Mama Oikawa wash her son’s mouth with bleach. Hajime promptly dumps him into the waves, effectively silencing him.

The resulting splash is enough to get the front half of his own shirt and pants wet, but frankly, he doesn’t care. He’s laughing, and there’s salt water in his eyes and all over his clothes, and—

And Oikawa’s looking at him, half-sitting in the water but not even making a single move to get up. His bangs are caked to his forehead, his face flushed an exceptional shade of pink, and his mouth is hanging slightly open in a round, perfect oh.

“You asked for it,” Hajime jabs, before Oikawa says anything. Because Oikawa not saying anything is weird.

Oikawa blinks before his expression morphs into a petulant scowl. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re just giving up like that?”

“What?”

“The back of my shirt’s still dry, Loserkawa,” Hajime prods him. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. He supposes it’s got something to do with the adrenaline high of spinning his best friend around and launching him into the ocean.

Oikawa slowly gets up, tongue darting out to lick his lips. That must be salty, Hajime thinks offhandedly.

“You are so on.”

They spend the next fifteen minutes kicking and scooping up water and splashing at each other like their lives depend on it. Oikawa shrieks with laughter when Hajime somehow trips and ends up fully drenched, and yet they still keep going. At some point they go back to wrestling each other down into the water again, but because neither of them are very agile with their feet sinking into the sand and waves lapping around their knees, they both keep falling anyway.

After what must be his twentieth fall, Oikawa flops down onto the shallow beach on his own accord. “I can’t,” he pants, wiping at his eyes, “Wait.” He grabs at the collar of his green button-up shirt. The top three buttons have already come undone, exposing the long column of his throat all the way down to the bottom of his sternum. “This is useless.”

Oikawa gets up, finally, and shucks off his shirt as he walks back to the shore. The rest of his skin is still pale, Hajime notices, as he watches water trickle from his neck past a distinct tan line between his shoulders. Suddenly Hajime realizes how warm and flushed his face is. Probably from exhaustion and exposure to the sun.

“Your face is so red, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, standing at the shore with one hand on his hip. “You forgot to put on sunblock again, didn’t you? You should know this by now, you know!”

“I know,” Hajime grumbles as he makes his way out of the ocean, shrugging off his own tank top.

Oikawa eyes him, face scrunched in disapproval, as he hands him a towel. “Here. Dry your face.” He then proceeds to conjure a tube of sunblock from his bag.

Hajime squints at him. “Since when did you become so responsible?”

“I’ve always been responsible!”

“Uh huh.”

Oikawa sighs and steps towards him, squeezing a dollop of sun cream onto his fingers. Then his hand is on Hajime’s jaw, thumb swiping across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. Hajime can feel Oikawa’s calluses on his skin with every purposeful movement. A setter’s hands, he thinks.

For a moment, Oikawa looks at him, and for once, Hajime can’t understand the look in his eyes. Then he steps away, a pleased grin on his face, and clasps his hands together. “Great! Just wait a couple of minutes and you should be good to go. Also, you should really start incorporating sunblock into your daily skincare routine, Iwa-chan. But since you already act like an old man, I suppose it doesn’t really matter if your appearance catches up soon!”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Assikawa.”

“I might as well retouch mine,” Oikawa says, humming as he lathers the cream over his smooth skin. There’s a click as he closes the cap then returns the bottle to his bag.

Hajime glances at him and spots a small smudge of white just underneath his chin. Before he knows it, his fingers are on Oikawa’s skin, gently rubbing at the spot.

“Iwa-chan, what are you…”

“You didn’t spread it properly, dumbass,” Hajime grunts.

“Oh.” Oikawa blinks. “Thanks.” Then he flashes a grin at Hajime. “Iwa-chan actually knows how to use sunblock. I have to say, I’m pretty impressed.”

Hajime stands up and begins walking back towards the sea.

“Or not,” Oikawa grumbles. “Hey—Iwa-chan! You still need a couple more minutes!”

“I won’t wet my face, Oikawa, it’s fine,” he replies, already waist-deep in the water. It isn’t long before Hajime hears the splash of water behind him as Oikawa wades into the surf.

They stay in the ocean for what must be hours, but here, time seems to melt away into insignificance. At that moment, Hajime’s world is nothing but the water bordered by this little stretch of shore, and Oikawa, cloaked in the blue of the sky and the sea.

Hajime may have left home, traveled halfway across the globe and some more, but right now, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The sun is sinking past the horizon by the time they emerge from the ocean, fingertips wrinkled like raisins and shoulders tinged cherry-red. Oikawa groans about how he’d forgotten to let them put sunblock on the rest of their bodies the entire walk back.

They drop by for a quick shower in the room they’re staying in, which is part of a housing complex that belongs to one of Oikawa’s teammates and his wife. It makes Hajime think of how young and accomplished Oikawa actually is—just three years out of high school, surrounded by professional players who have long since graduated from university.

He watches him as he lathers aloe vera gel on the red parts of his skin, humming a Christmas carol that Hajime vaguely recognizes as something probably overplayed in malls in America. Oikawa looks young, definitely. But Hajime had watched Oikawa grow up for nearly eighteen years. To suddenly see him again with his features suddenly matured is almost jarring. Low-quality video calls simply couldn’t capture the new definition in his cheekbones or the sharpness of his jawline.

Their gazes meet in the mirror, and Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Are you staring, Iwa-chan?” he teases.

Hajime glares at him threateningly. “Hurry up.”

“Fine, fine.” Oikawa gives himself another once-over in the mirror. It lasts about thirty seconds longer than it actually should. Finally, he steps aside, heading towards the closet to finally put a damn shirt on.

Without Oikawa blocking his view, Hajime finds himself staring at his own reflection. He wonders if the other sees any changes in him, too. He doesn’t think there’s much—he’d only managed to grow a centimeter and a half since graduating high school, much to his chagrin.

“Ready, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa skips over to the doorway. “I’m hungry!”

They emerge in the courtyard of the housing complex, which is decorated almost as much as the shopfronts they’d passed by earlier. Mini Christmas trees and wreaths take the centerpiece of long rows of tables, which are laid out with a variety of Argentinian dishes—empanadas, beef roulade, potato salad, roasted pork, stuffed tomatoes, meat and cheese platters, and at least a dozen more dishes that Hajime can’t name. The smell of grilling meat wafts over from the center of the courtyard, where a barbecue appears to be taking place. Hajime recognizes the person fanning the grill as the tall, bearded man who had welcomed them to their room earlier.

“Jorge!”

“Tooru!” He jogs over, wiping sweat from his forehead, a wide grin on his face. “And Hajime, right?” he adds in mildly accented English.

“That’s me,” Hajime replies with a smile.

Jorge motions towards one of the tables. “I need to introduce you to my family!”

A beautiful woman with dark, curly hair approaches them, two young kids clinging to her skirt. “This is Evangelina, my wife. Evangelina, este es Hajime, el amigo de Tooru.”

Evangelina’s eyes crinkle as she beams at them both. “Nice to meet you, Hajime,” she says. She steps forward and ruffles Tooru’s hair. To him, she says: “Es tan guapo como tú, Tooru.”

The corners of Oikawa’s mouth lift in amusement. “Puede, pero no más que yo.”

The couple laughs. One of their children steps forward, hand still clutching his mother’s skirt. His eyes are wide as he gazes up at Hajime. He must be no older than six years old.

“This is our eldest, Francisco,” Jorge says, hand on his son’s shoulder. “And our daughter, Paula, but she’s quite shy.” The little girl ducks even more behind her mother, and Hajime chuckles. He crouches down and extends a hand towards Francisco. The boy takes it reluctantly, but his face splits into a grin as they shake hands. At that, Paula edges forward ever slightly, and Hajime gives her a gentle smile.

“Oho!” Jorge chortles in delight. “Tooru, your friend is so good with children!”

“Of course, he learned from me,” Oikawa replies smoothly, preening.

Hajime rolls his eyes as he looks up at Oikawa, whose expression radiates equal parts annoyance and awe. It’s the same expression he wears whenever Hajime gets a good serve in. (“I feel like I’m losing to Iwa-chan!” “No, Oikawa, you are not.”)

Jorge looks between the both of them, a pleased twinkle in his gaze. “I’d better go back to the barbecue. Tooru, Hajime, start eating already! Evangelina didn’t cook all day for you two to sit around waiting now!”

“Gracias, Evangelina, Jorge,” Oikawa says. Then, slipping back into Japanese for Hajime: “C’mon, Iwa-chan. You have to try the empanadas first—Evangelina’s really good at making them, she packs tons for the team whenever we have away games and they’re amazing."

It’s probably the millionth time Oikawa’s told him about the said empanadas, but Hajime finally understands when he takes a bite. The dough is crispy and flaky, the beef bursting with flavor. “Shit, it really is good.”

“I told you so!” Oikawa exclaims with glee. “Here, you should try the pionono next. They’re like sponge cake rolls—I personally like the sweet ones, but I know you think sugar’s the devil right now so you can have the savory one as an appetizer.”

Hajime almost points out that Oikawa still has a habit of sending him an excess of Japanese candies and chocolates whenever he orders way too much for himself, but he’s silenced the moment Oikawa says “Here, try this one, it’s got ham and cheese and palm hearts!” and promptly shoves the roll into Hajime’s mouth.

“Mmf!” Hajime makes a move to elbow him, but Oikawa simply dodges, a trained expert at dealing with his jabs. He sticks his tongue out and wiggles his eyebrows excitedly, and Hajime wonders why he ever thought Oikawa had matured. “Good, right?”

Hajime grunts in affirmative, much to Oikawa’s delight.

By the end of the night, Hajime’s probably tried at least twenty different Argentine dishes amounting to a week’s worth of college meals. Dinner with Jorge, his family, and the rest of their neighbors is a lively affair. Jorge animatedly tells Hajime about their team’s frequent trips to Buenos Aires for games, which is why he had decided to buy a house in the area for vacationing with his wife and kids. The entire family seems to be very fond of Oikawa, which is expected, but it’s their equal enthusiasm in welcoming Hajime that is a pleasant surprise. At some point, Francisco even shyly offers Hajime a pack of fruitcake, mumbling something in soft Spanish.

“He says it’s for you,” Oikawa clarifies. “I can’t believe you’re stealing Francisco from me!”

“Oh, uh, gracias,” Hajime tries, wincing internally at his likely butchered pronunciation. Francisco beams up at him nonetheless before scurrying away.

Oikawa shoots him a sly grin. “Practicing your Spanish, huh?”

“Shut up,” he says in biting English.

Conversations in various languages float across the courtyard, and although Hajime can only speak two of them, it isn’t too difficult to understand the holiday cheer radiating from the families gathered together in the warmth of the evening. After being surrounded for so long by people of different nationalities in California, Hajime doesn’t feel too strange. Or perhaps it’s impossible to feel out of place when he’s sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his childhood best friend.

As Oikawa leans his head into the crook of his neck, Hajime realizes there’s no other way to put it. It just feels right.

“Tooru,” Jorge calls from behind them. “It's almost midnight. You and Hajime should go.”

Oikawa shoots up. “Shit!” he says, first in Japanese. “I almost forgot!”

Jorge waves a hand reassuringly. “There is still time, if you go now. The party is just starting.”

“Where are we going?” Hajime asks for what feels like the umpteenth time that trip. It’s also the umpteenth time that Oikawa shoots him a wink and replies, “It’s a secret!”

“Go,” Jorge urges. “And have fun! ¡Feliz Navidad!”

“¡Feliz Navidad!” Oikawa returns at the same time Hajime says, “Thank you!” They look at each other, and Oikawa chuckles. “Let’s go, Iwa-chan!”

There’s a warm glow that seems to emanate throughout Mar del Plata as they make their way once again through the bustling crowds. The decorations from earlier are even livelier now, lit up by strings of Christmas lights that remind Hajime of the winter illumination in Sendai.

It’s barely a surprise that Oikawa is thinking the same thing. His eyes are sparkling with excitement when he turns to Hajime and says, “It’s almost like the Sendai Pageant of Starlight, right?”

Suddenly, Hajime is seventeen again, fresh out of Friday volleyball practice with the rest of his team as they walk down the tree-lined avenue still clad in their white jackets. Oikawa is next to him—he always is—his smile illuminated by the golden light. Doesn’t gold look good on me, Iwa-chan?

The years seem to bleed together as their fingers brush, warm and familiar. The crowd continues to move around them, and Oikawa’s hand finally catches his wrist.

“No getting lost on my watch, Iwa-chan,” he says, twinkling gaze focused straight ahead.

Hajime snorts. “Maybe it would help a little if you could, you know, tell me where we’re going.”

“You’ll see!”

“How will I do that when I have no idea what I’m looking for?” Hajime counters. And then he sees it. Specks of yellow-orange light scattered along the shore ahead of them, slowly growing in number as more and more people make their way towards the beach.

Oikawa brings them over to an open tent near the shore where a small crowd gathers. “Hold on, Iwa-chan,” he says, and then joins the throng of people. When he emerges moments later, there’s a large paper lantern in his hands.

“I wasn’t allowed to reserve more than one,” he says with a pout. “So this is for you.”

Hajime stares at him. “What?”

“I said,” Oikawa repeats, “this is for you, Iwa-chan. Don’t be too surprised, now! It’s so you can make your yearly wish for five more centimeters of my height!”

“Asshole,” Hajime huffs. “I’m not accepting this. It’s yours.”

“What?! No, Iwa-chan, I got it just for you! You can wish for something more realistic, I promise!”

He scoffs. “Fine. We can just share it, then.”

Oikawa looks at him curiously. “Are you sure, Iwa-chan? I mean, what if the gods decide my wish is much better and ignore yours completely?”

“I’m fine with that,” Hajime blurts, and then frowns, surprised at his own answer. Oikawa seems to be equally shocked, looking at Hajime with wide eyes.

“Really? Why?”

Because you deserve to have everything you’ve ever wished for, you idiot, Hajime thinks, and it’s as sudden and natural as his earlier reply.

“Because I know it won’t happen,” he responds instead. “You’ll probably wish for something horrible like Ushijima’s downfall, and the gods will never listen to you again.”

“Of course not!” Oikawa cries. Then he pauses. “Wait. You know, you might actually be pretty brilliant sometimes, Iwa-chan.”

“Just light the goddamn lantern.”

“Yessir!” Oikawa fishes a matchbox out of his pocket and tosses it to Hajime, who catches it with a grunt. “Actually, you can do it!”

He takes out a matchstick and lights it in one swift motion. Oikawa claps his hands in delight. “Smooth! Here.” He steps towards Hajime as he unfurls the lantern, holding it up to expose the base.

Hajime holds the matchstick to the wax-covered fabric and watches as the orange flame flickers and grows. “There. Careful.”

Oikawa beams at him. “Think of your wish now, Iwa-chan! It’s only a few minutes until midnight.”

Sure enough, a loud voice begins a countdown in Spanish over the megaphone. Hajime tries to think, but his mind comes up empty.

“Nine,” Oikawa whispers, gripping the base of the lantern. “Eight. Seven.”

When Hajime was six, his and Oikawa’s families went to a lantern festival together. He recalls the memory as if through the shimmering blur of air above a flame—details hazy, faces out of focus.

But he remembers Oikawa, his gap-toothed smile, one soft hand around Hajime’s wrist, the other gripping the strip of paper containing his handwritten wish.

"What’d you write?” Hajime asked.

“Nee-san said it’s s’pposed to be a secret,” Oikawa whispered. “Or else it won’t come true. But you’re my best friend, so I'm sure it’s okay!”

Hajime frowned. He didn’t want Oikawa’s wish not to come true. But before he could stop him, his friend already opened his mouth.

“I wished that we could play together forever and ever!”

“Volleyball? That’s silly.”

“Not just volleyball. Why?”

“You said it yourself. We’re best friends. Of course we’ll play together forever and ever.”

And Hajime had closed his eyes and wished for the first thing that came to mind—a new Tamagotchi—because what else was there to really ask for when Oikawa was always by his side?

Now, he looks at Oikawa, whose face is illuminated by the warm glow. The shadows underneath his eyes. The fire in his irises. Everything, so real yet ephemeral.

“Three. Two…”

He wants to reach out and feel Oikawa’s skin underneath his fingertips, solid and there. He wants to feel his hand on his back, firm and reassuring. He wants to take in that stupid smirk and know he’ll see it again later that day, then the next, then the next after that.

He wants, but he does not wish. Because with Oikawa, Hajime has only really wished for one thing.

“One! Let go, Iwa-chan!”

The lantern floats into the sky. They watch, gazes tilted upwards, as it joins the hundreds of glowing lights sailing into the inky darkness.

Once the lanterns have become mere pinpoints in the sky, Oikawa bumps his shoulder. “So what did you wish for, Iwa-chan?”

“Isn’t it supposed to be a secret?”

He pouts in response. “Okay, fine. I hope my wish comes true!”

Hajime laughs, which earns him a confused look from Oikawa. “You’re weird, Iwa-chan,” he declares.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he shoots back, but he’s still smiling anyway.

Oikawa may not know it, but he’s already said exactly what Hajime wished for.

Ten hours to Hajime’s flight back to California, he’s lying in bed awake, staring at the ceiling.

He still isn’t used to seeing the plaster only inches from his face whenever he wakes up to Oikawa kicking his mattress from below. Unfortunately for him, Oikawa had sworn off the upper bunk, citing multiple reasons primarily involving his height as compared to Hajime’s. Hajime had nearly strangled him out of annoyance, but in the end, he’d let him take the bottom bunk anyway.

“Iwa-chan.”

Hajime says nothing.

“I know you’re awake. You keep moving.”

“I’m trying to sleep, Oikawa. Which you should also be doing.”

Oikawa laughs quietly. “If you can’t sleep, how much worse do you think it is for me?”

Hajime frowns. “Oi.”

“What?”

“You still haven’t been sleeping properly?”

Oikawa exhales. “I’ve…been trying.”

It’s a genuine answer, a stark contrast from his constant clapbacks in high school of “Of course, Iwa-chan! What do you think of me?” or the insufferable “Are you my mom, Iwa-chan?” Still, Hajime can’t do anything to stop the worry that still unfurls in his chest.

“Okay,” Hajime croaks. “Keep trying then.”

Oikawa sighs. “It’s hard, y’know. When I’m alone.” It’s the first time he’s ever admitted it to Hajime out loud. “Sometimes I watch videos to fall asleep, but…” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in his voice. “You know how I get, once I have a game tape with me.”

Hajime sits up. “Oikawa…” he begins, cautionary.

“But then,” Oikawa continues, placating, “I get reminded.” He lowers his voice. “Oi, Shittykawa. Make sure you don’t stay up all night.”

“Don’t ever try to mimic my voice again.”

“Okay,” Oikawa giggles.

He lays back down. He thinks of Oikawa, alone in his little apartment in San Juan—the one Hajime has only ever seen in photos—humming to himself to fill the silence.

“I wish you could visit my place in San Juan,” Oikawa sighs, because of course their thoughts are in sync. “I’ve got nice blue curtains and everything.”

“NASA posters?”

“Definitely. And a really nice picture of us, too. It’s my favorite picture with Iwa-chan.”

“It better not be the one from training camp.” Hajime warns. He doesn't usually give much thought to his appearance in photos, but that one was an exception. On the last night of the camp, Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Oikawa had taken turns doodling on his face with Mizoguchi’s whiteboard marker, and Hajime had walked around nearly the entire morning unaware of the whiskers, numerous hearts, and singular dick in the middle of his forehead.

“Oh, it is!”

“I’m taking it down. I’m going to San Juan to take that shit down myself.”

Oikawa laughs. “When you can stay in Argentina a little bit longer. We can have a road trip, or something.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, but if we can’t yet…” he trails off.

“Just spit it out.”

“You’ll graduate by next summer, right?”

“I would love to,” Hajime says with a snort.

“You will,” Oikawa says, his tone strikingly soft but still filled with confidence. “I wish I could attend, but,” he sighs. “You know my schedule.”

“It’s fine, Oikawa,” Hajime replies, and he means it. They’ve both had to make sacrifices, and they both knew it.

“But after my games, I’ll be free for a bit,” he continues. “I’m…thinking of spending that summer in Japan. You’ll be going home for a bit, right? Before you start your internship?”

“No shit, Oikawa,” Hajime breaks into a grin. “Of course I’m going home.”

“Really?” Oikawa says with barely restrained glee. “I’m not sure if Makki and Mattsun will be free, too, but I was thinking of inviting you guys to come with me to Tokyo after I visit Miyagi.”

“Tokyo?” Hajime echoes. For a city that used to be only a couple of hours’ drive away, it sounds almost surreal.

“Yeah,” Oikawa breathes. “Yeah, oh my god, I can’t believe we’re actually going home at the same time. Do you think they still have the alien crop tops in Harajuku?”

“It’s next year, Oikawa.”

“And I’ve had a whole list of things I’ve wanted to buy from Japan since 2013, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime scoffs. “You’ll probably overpack your luggage so much you won’t be able to bring anything back anyways.”

“You only pack so little because you always reuse the same ugly pair of pants,” Oikawa shoots back. “But good for me, so I can put my shopping stuff in yours!”

“I’m not flying back with you to Argentina, dumbass.”

“Aww,” Oikawa sighs. “No extra baggage weight for me.”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Idiotkawa.”

“No goodnight?”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight to you too, Iwa-chan~” Oikawa hums.

It’s less than ten hours to Hajime’s flight to California, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll already be counting down the days until they meet again.

Chapter Text

August 2017
UTC+09:00

“Iwa-chan, have you seen my socks?”

“Iwa-chan, my mom’s calling, tell her we’re busy!”

“Iwa-chan, could you please hand me my pouch? The one with the little green men?”

“The what?”

“You know, the aliens from Toy Story that are just as tiny as you—OW!” Oikawa whines as the said pouch sails right into his chest. “I was just telling the truth!”

Hajime can feel himself physically getting a headache, so he chooses to save his breath and ignore the comment, instead heading to the door. It swings open to reveal an even more migraine-inducing sight.

“What’s up?” say Hanamaki and Matsukawa in chorus. They’re wearing identical grins, identical sunglasses, and matching pink T-shirts with some text in English printed in a horrendous block font.

Hajime stares. His gaze flits from Hanamaki’s T-shirt, which reads “They were mates…", to Matsukawa’s. “Oh my god…room?”

“Oops.” Hanamaki spins Matsukawa around so their places are exchanged. It takes another second for Hajime to figure out how to read the print from left to right, top to bottom across both of their shirts. “There!”

Hajime exhales. “I would say those are the ugliest T-shirts I’ve seen in my life, but I’ve also seen the shit Oikawa’s packed…”

“Hey!” Oikawa shouts from inside the room. “These are vintage. Not that you would understand with your primal fashion sense!”

Hanamaki cackles. “You done yet, Oikawa?”

“No, because Iwa-chan keeps interrupting me!” he whines.

“All I’m doing,” Hajime begins threateningly, “is preventing you from paying an extra three thousand yen for excess baggage, you moron.”

The plan was for Oikawa to immediately fly back to Argentina from Tokyo, so most of his things were already packed into his check-in luggage. This meant that all of his clothes for the trip—some of which he had retrieved from the depths of his old closet—were to be crammed into his carry-on bag. While Oikawa had spent the last hour and a half rifling through his cabinet for new things to pack, Hajime had spent it coercing him into putting them back.

“I brought my luggage scale,” Matsukawa announces. He steps into the room carefully, tiptoeing around the numerous miscellaneous items scattered on the floor. He narrows his eyes at a particularly bright pink baby tee that reads You’re Out Of This World!

“Dude. Whose little sister’s shirt is this?”

“Hmm?” Oikawa looks up from where he seems to be jamming a large storage bag into a significantly smaller corner of his suitcase. “Oh, no, that’s mine.”

“This fits you? How?”

Hajime lays a hand on Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you gatekeeping?”

Hajime frowns at him. “No? What the hell?”

Matsukawa tosses the luggage scale to Oikawa, who catches it effortlessly. He loops the strap of the scale around the handle of his luggage. It’s the same baby blue one he’s had since they started going on trips for away games in junior high, and its numerous stickers—all variations of volleyballs and cartoonish aliens—are faded and peeling.

Matsukawa peers at the scale and purses his lips. Hanamaki, who had materialized beside him a moment ago, bursts into laughter.

“Oi. Let me see,” Hajime demands as Oikawa quickly closes his fist over the scale’s display.

“Just give me five more minutes and I’ll get it to ten kilos,” Oikawa begs.

“And exactly how many kilos do you need for that?” he presses.

Oikawa gulps while Hanamaki and Matsukawa both snicker.

“You idiot. Just show me the scale so I can help you.”

Like a guilty child surrendering a piece of stolen candy, Oikawa opens his palm to show Hajime the scale.

“What the fuck? How the fuck did you pack thirteen kilos for a four-day trip?”

“Iwa-chan, you potty mouth!” Oikawa cries. “How the heck am I supposed to pack only ten kilos for a five-day trip?”

Hajime snatches the scale from Oikawa’s hand and attaches it to his own luggage, lifting it with one hand.

“Six-point-four kilos,” he reads aloud. “See, Shittykawa?”

“You only packed one pair of pants!” Oikawa accuses.

“Two. I packed two, and you packed five.”

“For the record,” Matsukawa interjects, “Hanamaki and I weighed ours, too. Just ‘cause we knew this would happen and you’d need the comparison.”

“Nah, we just wanted to spite you,” Hanamaki says with a grin. “Six-point-nine both, baby.” He raises his hand for a high five, and Matsukawa obliges.

Oikawa rakes his hands through his hair—something he only does when he’s really stressed, because he usually wouldn’t risk messing up half an hour of styling. “You’re all insane! Do you guys plan to reuse your underwear or something?”

“Nah. Matsukawa and I were just planning to share,” Hanamaki deadpans, and Oikawa groans.

“Please,” Hajime cuts in. “Let’s just get this over with. Oikawa, open your luggage.”

Oikawa raises his hand for a salute. “Yessir,” he says, weakly.

By the time they finish removing nearly half of Oikawa’s things—including two extra pairs of shoes, a second wallet full of expired discount cards, and a shitload of emergency haircare products—Hajime’s pretty sure his blood pressure levels are bordering on unhealthy.

“Moment of truth,” says Hanamaki.

Hajime takes Oikawa’s luggage and lifts it along with the scale. Oikawa leans forward and narrows his eyes at the tiny screen. “Eight-point-seven kilos!” he announces gleefully. “Iwa-chan, you shouldn’t have made me remove my overnight hair mask!”

“You’re not gonna have any space for your shopping, you dumbass,” Hajime retorts. “Now let’s go.”

“Wait, Iwa-chan, you might step on my comb!” Oikawa shrieks at the same time Hajime feels sharp plastic crack painfully underneath his sole.

“Trashykawa! Why is it on the floor in the first place?”

As reparation, Oikawa demands Hajime give him the window seat on the bus ride to Tokyo. He obliges—he’d been planning to let Oikawa take it without him asking in the first place, even though they used to play rock-paper-scissors to decide their seating arrangement during school trips.

Hajime still has the bus trip back, anyway. He tries not to think of sitting alone on the ride back to Miyagi as he attempts looking out the window to watch the sun set on the countryside, but Oikawa’s face is practically glued to the glass and covering most of his view. He’s also sound asleep. How he manages to pass out so quickly during rides when he always has trouble sleeping at night remains a mystery to Hajime.

Behind them, he catches a glance of Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s hands intertwined over the armrest. Hajime raises an eyebrow at them both. The former attempts a smirk, but it comes off more as a grimace. His skin looks a little green from motion sickness.

“You good?” he mouths.

Hanamaki waves him off weakly as he sticks his tongue out to reveal a half-melted candy. Then he snuggles closer to Matsukawa, making a show of leaning into the latter’s neck. Hajime rolls his eyes and pointedly shifts to face forward again, settling on staring at the delightful gray upholstery of the seat in front of him. Suddenly, he feels his eyelids begin to grow heavy.

When he wakes up, it’s to the flash of too-bright light on his eyes, which he determinedly keeps shut. He groans.

“Wow, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “Your breath smells terrible.”

He cracks his eyes open to glare at his seatmate. Oikawa is leaning casually against the window. His hair is flat on one side, and there’s a large red patch on his cheek from where it was plastered against the window.

Hajime snorts. “You look like you slept well.”

“I know I do! I’m always fresh when I wake up!”

He doesn’t even bother saying anything back. “Where are we?”

“Five minutes from Narita,” Oikawa informs him. “Unfortunately, we still have to take the airport express line to Asakusa. Poor people on the train are going to be assaulted by Iwa-chan’s breath!”

“You should be glad I just woke up and don’t have the energy to punch you yet.”

Oikawa grins at him. “You wouldn’t anyway. You’ve been nice to me.”

Oikawa’s definition of nice was probably questionable at best, but Hajime had managed to restrain himself from socking him in the gut throughout the entire packing fiasco. Although it couldn’t get any worse than that, it was impossible to tell with Oikawa.

“And you think you deserve it?”

Hajime ends up bringing Oikawa’s luggage down from the compartment above them all the way to the sidewalk where they disembark.

“Thanks, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says sweetly, batting his eyelashes at Hajime. The menace.

Hajime ignores him and turns to Hanamaki, who’s leaning heavily on Matsukawa. “How are you feeling?”

“Almost threw up a little on Matsukawa’s shirt, but otherwise perfect.”

“Your drool is all over my sleeve, though,” Matsukawa intones. “Shall we?”

It’s a ten minute walk to the platform. The industrial design of Narita Airport is a stark contrast from Sendai’s brighter interior, but everything else is the same—the long walkways, multilingual signs, droning announcements. It’s all the same in every airport Hajime’s been to thus far, and it fills him with the frantic rush of being in transit.

But it’s different, now, because Hajime isn’t rushing to catch a flight to America—at least, not in the meantime. It’s different because he can hear Hanamaki and Matsukawa talking in low tones as they roll their luggages behind him, and Oikawa, a few paces ahead as he hums what sounds like the Don Quixote theme song. He finds himself smiling a little, even though he’s still a bit disoriented with an aching neck and really, really needs to brush his teeth.

Oikawa’s looking at him with a concerned expression. “Is something wrong?”

“What?”

“You’re smiling,” Oikawa points out. “It’s weird. You’re not Iwa-chan if you’re not scowling like Bad Badtz-Maru.”

“Do you want me to be nice or not?”

“Yo, not to interrupt your weird flirting or whatever,” Matsukawa cuts in, “but the next train leaves in two minutes, so if we don’t wanna wait for another thirty, we should probably go.”

The four of them scramble past the gates after tapping their respective Suica cards. Thankfully, they make it to the platform right as a sleek, silver-bodied train pulls up on the tracks.

Hanamaki whistles. “That’s one sexy beast.”

“Excuse me?”

“Agreed.”

“Just get on, man,” and they do.

The next day, Hajime wakes up with an even stiffer neck, combined with a soreness in his arm and a numbness in his feet. He’d probably fallen asleep in a weird position. He tries wiggling his toes to get rid of the pins and needles.

The events of the night prior run quickly through his mind. The train ride had been longer than expected—he’d forgotten how far Narita actually was from the city proper—and everyone had grown increasingly exhausted and hungry as the trip progressed. Once they finally emerged from Asakusa Station, the streets were already empty. It was quiet enough that their footsteps echoed on the street as they walked through the deserted pathways of Sensou-ji, the only bright light coming from the color-changing illumination of the Tokyo SkyTree. It took them another good half hour of wandering the small neighborhood behind the temple to find their AirBnb, after which everyone had promptly passed out on the nearest viable surface. For Hajime, it’s the couch he now finds himself in.

He sits up slowly just as Oikawa emerges from the bathroom, steam and the scent of lavender body wash filling the air. His skin is dewy, and his fringe is pulled back in a pink spa headband with bunny ears. When his gaze lands on Hajime, his face lights up.

“Good morning, Iwa-chan!” he greets cheerfully. “How was the couch?”

“Fine,” Hajime replies shortly, rubbing at his neck. “Where did you sleep?”

“In the bedroom,” Oikawa says. He peers at him. “You have a stiff neck, don’t you?” he asks, perceptive as always.

“A bit,” Hajime admits. “But it’s fine. I’ll adjust. I already slept here, anyway.”

Oikawa frowns. “You’re the only one who didn’t take the bed, you know. Makki and Mattsun shared the other one. It’s a double.”

“Okay, and?”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “Iwa-chan really needs me to spell out everything for you, huh? We can just share.”

Hajime’s heart skips a beat. It’s concerning, but he supposes it’s out of fear.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to get kicked off the bed, Assikawa.”

Oikawa crosses his arms. “Do you know how many times I’ve woken up with your arm on my face, Iwa-chan? And yet I’m still making the offer to you.”

“Oh my god,” Hanamaki sticks his head out of the bedroom door. “Can we please just have breakfast already?”

Twenty minutes later, Hanamaki drags them to the nearest Lawson and makes a beeline for the pastry aisle with Oikawa at his heels. He emerges seconds later with a bag of cream-filled sandwiches in one hand.

“That’s your definition of breakfast?”

Hanamaki wags a finger at him. “Don’t even start, Iwaizumi. We’re on vacation, remember?” He makes his way over to the cashier where Oikawa had just stepped away holding a plastic bag.

“And what did you get?” Hajime inquires.

“Something sustaining, of course,” Oikawa replies, holding up a salad cup for Hajime to see. He then proceeds to take out an entire loaf of milk bread from the bag. “Oh. And dessert!”

“Forget I asked,” Hajime sighs. He grabs an onigiri roll from the nearest shelf and heads to the counter.

Outside, they find Matsukawa scrolling idly on his phone, meat bun in one hand.

Hajime narrows his eyes at him. “Is that Makki’s shirt?”

It isn’t even surprising. They’d once switched jerseys by accident in high school, and it had been a running gag since. Hajime just hadn’t expected it to last that long.

“Yep,” Matsukawa answers, not even looking up from his screen.

“I’m sick and tired of the both of you,” Oikawa announces. “Sick and tired.”

“Hear that, Matsukawa?” Hanamaki says. “They’re sick and tired of us. After all the shit they put us through in high school. After they up and left us.”

“A shame,” says Matsukawa solemnly.

Oikawa throws an arm around Hajime’s shoulders. “C’mon, Iwa-chan,” he says, half leaning into Hajime, half pulling him towards the street.

“And they’re doing it again,” Hanamaki grumbles behind them. “Look at them complaining when they’re attached at the hip. We don’t even walk like that.”

It’s less than a ten-minute walk to Sensou-ji, but Hajime’s having a hard time perceiving anything with Oikawa practically draped against him as they maneuver through the crowds.

“Oi, Oikawa.”

“Hmm?”

“Your arm is heavy.”

Oikawa pulls a face, but he relinquishes his hold on him right as they arrive at the temple. They pay their respects first in front of the main hall before moving over to the sidelines, where more than a dozen visitors are tying their bad fortunes to the fences.

“Y’know, guys,” Oikawa says, completely oblivious to the growing crowd of misfortune holders beside them, “I’m feeling pretty lucky today.”

Because they’ve always been subject to Oikawa’s whims, they each slot a hundred-yen coin into the offertory box and take turns vigorously shaking the container of draws.

Oikawa squints as he reads the number on the stick out loud. “Four-one-three… four-one-three... got it!” He slides open the drawer labeled with the said number and retrieves a rolled up sheet of paper.

Hajime is the last to draw. He takes his omikuji from the drawer stamped with the number 174 and unrolls the paper.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hanamaki groans.

“What’d you get, Makki?”

He walks straight to the fence in lieu of an answer.

“I think he got ‘great misfortune,’” Matsukawa informs them. “And I thought my small luck was bad.”

“I only got medium luck,” Oikawa complains with a pout.

Hajime scoffs. “Then what are you whining about, Brattykawa?”

“That’s a new one,” Matsukawa mutters.

“What did you get, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime can’t help it. With a smug smile, he announces, “Great luck.”

“You’re shitting me,” Oikawa says. “Gimme that!” He snatches the paper from Hajime’s hands. His eyes widen almost comically as they scan over the content.

“This is so unfair!” he whines. “Wait. Iwa-chan, you’re going to get married?”

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you read the love section yet?”

“No, because you stole it from me?”

Oikawa brandishes the paper at him, his gestures almost accusing. “See? It says ‘love slash marriage: good!’”

Hajime snorts. “That wasn’t what you said earlier.”

“That’s practically what it means!”

“I’m twenty-three years old and I just graduated from college, Oikawa,” Hajime reminds him. “I’m not getting married anytime soon. Why are you so bothered, anyways?”

Oikawa makes an indignant noise. “Because my love fortune told me to wait!”

Hajime scowls. “So?”

Hanamaki chooses that exact moment to step in and look between them, mild confusion visible in the slightest quirk of his mouth. “Wait. I forgot to read everything else.”

“That’s probably better for your mental well-being,” Matsukawa says.

“Right,” he agrees with a shudder. “Don’t exactly want to find out the different ways my life will be fucked up by the worst possible luck bracket.”

“One of the proverbs says to watch your finances, I think.”

“That’s it,” Hanamaki announces. “We’re leaving. I don’t want to spend any more time near predictions of my doom.”

As Hajime pockets his fortune, he catches Oikawa looking at him with a scrutinizing expression, almost as if he’s deep in thought.

Hajime raises an eyebrow at him. “What is it?”

Oikawa, mature as always, sticks his tongue out at him in response.

Once they finish exploring the rest of Asakusa, they take the train to Akihabara, and then Roppongi, and then Ginza. Every neighborhood looks strikingly different from the last each time they emerge from the station, but Hajime’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen anything as lavish as the last two. The wide avenues are all lined with high-end shops, reminding him of a Los Angeles visit that had been particularly hard on his college friends’ wallets.

They’re about an hour into wandering the posh streets of Ginza when Hanamaki finally speaks up. “If we’re looking for someplace to get dinner, I don’t think there’s a single restaurant here that wouldn’t sentence us to 7-Eleven meals for the rest of our trip.”

And so they get on the train back to Asakusa, but because it’s rush hour, it takes them much longer than Hajime would have liked to reach their stop. Exhausted, they decide to get takeout at the nearest Yoshinoya and head to their AirBnb. It’s half past ten in the evening by the time they get back, and Hajime has half a mind to just pass out on the couch again if not for the persistent rumbling of his stomach.

After a particularly loud growl, Oikawa shoots him a smirk. “Someone’s hungry.”

Another rumbling sound pierces the room, but this time, Hajime knows it isn’t from him. He shoots a pointed look at Oikawa, whose face has turned bright red. “I heard so.”

Matsukawa passes them their paper bowls and plops down on the sofa beside Hajime. Oikawa joins Hanamaki sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Itadakimasu,” they recite, their voices chiming together, and begin digging in.

“Mmm,” Hanamaki moans. “Fast food gyudon, the savior of all broke college students.”

“You mean savior of the unemployed,” Matsukawa quips.

“Babe, it’s been like, weeks since we graduated. Chill out.”

Oikawa frowns. “Didn’t you guys graduate in March?”

Hanamaki presses a finger to his lips and takes a long, slow sip from his straw. “Time is a social construct. Anyways. What’s everyone’s favorite gyudon chain?”

“Matsuya,” says Matsukawa.

“Sukiya!” Oikawa argues.

“Yoshinoya,” answers Hajime.

Hanamaki raises his hand for a high five. “Yoshinoya for the win.”

“It’s so much better here in Japan, though,” Hajime acknowledges. “The one in California had the driest rice.”

“Sucks.”

“Okay. Best konbini? If your answer isn’t 7-Eleven, you’re wrong.”

“Lawson is better,” Oikawa answers at the same time as Hajime. They exchange a grin. For the longest time, it had been the closest convenience store to the both of them. Situated just at the end of their street, it became the site of many of their shared after-school memories throughout their childhood.

“Hey, Oikawa,” Hajime starts. “Remember when you cried because the cashier misunderstood you and gave you spicy chicken instead of the regular one?”

“I was six!”

“And you haven’t aged mentally since then.”

“I am a perfectly functioning twenty-three-year-old.”

“For the record,” Matsukawa cuts in. “My favorite’s Seicomart.”

“Dude, don’t they only have that in Hokkaido?”

“I’d move there for their hamburger rice bowls. Their hot meals are amazing.”

The night goes on with them taking turns to ask each other’s favorites. Favorite supermarket. Favorite sneaker brand. Favorite college subject. Favorite Division 1 team. It’s a game they’ve played countless times before in high school, and Hajime can list the things that have changed since—as well as the things that have stayed the same. Like how Hanamaki’s default movie recommendation is still Barb Wire even though there has to be at least a decades’ worth of better films out there. Or how Matsukawa still likes the brand of his brother's kneepads and borrows them whenever they play a casual game. Or how even though Oikawa has visited at least a dozen amusement parks in South America, Yagiyama Benyland will always be his first favorite.

Hajime looks at his friends and feels a fullness that has less to do with the dinner in his belly and more with the presence of the company he’s kept for the past decade. It had been hard to stomach moving away from some of the greatest friends he’s ever had, especially with the gnawing possibility of them drifting apart. But in the relief of reunion, time and time again, Hajime’s fears all melt away.

Their conversation stutters to a stop when someone’s phone begins to ring.

Oikawa shoots up. “Oops! I think that’s mine.” Sure enough, the ringtone grows louder as he fishes his phone from the depths of his bag. “Hola.”

He points between himself and the bedroom before walking in, leaving the door barely ajar. Flowing Spanish drifts out of the gap as Oikawa continues to speak, his voice low and hushed.

“Dude,” Hanamaki whispers. “That’s like a different person in there. Thought he could only speak in high-pitched whines.”

Hajime tries to focus on the conversation with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, but his attention keeps drifting to Oikawa’s voice. Though his only exposure to Spanish aside from Oikawa is with Luis and Luna, his Mexican friends in Irvine, he’s still able to pick up the shifts in his best friend’s tone from casual to downright serious.

Fifteen minutes later, the line clicks, and Oikawa heaves a sigh. Hajime feels Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s eyes on him.

“Go ahead and check on him,” Matsukawa urges. “He can use the shower first. Seems like he needs it.”

Hajime raps on the door lightly before stepping inside. Oikawa is sitting on the edge of the bed, furiously typing on his phone. Once he looks up and sees Hajime, however, he smiles.

“Everything good?”

“It’s fine,” Oikawa reassures him. “Just…stuff back in Argentina.”

“Evidently.” He doesn’t say anything more. By now, Oikawa already knows that Hajime’s silence is usually a sign for him to talk about whatever is bothering him.

But Oikawa brushes the topic off completely. “Don’t worry about it, Iwa-chan,” he says. “I think I’ll go take a shower now.” He gets up and walks over to the bathroom.

Once the bathroom door closes, Hajime shrugs at Matsukawa, then joins them on the carpet as they watch YouTube clips of Barb Wire on Hanamaki’s tiny phone screen. Suddenly its 28% score on Rotten Tomatoes begins to make much more sense.

It’s past midnight by the time Hajime gets his turn in the shower. When he finally returns to the bedroom, Oikawa’s already lying down facing the wall, scrolling idly through his phone.

The mattress sinks as Hajime sits down at the foot of the bed. Oikawa looks up from his screen to offer Hajime a tiny smirk. “What happened to not wanting to get kicked off?”

“I was hoping you’d take the outer edge,” Hajime sighs as he climbs onto the bed and settles down facing away from Oikawa. “But I guess there’s no saving me now.”

“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan. I’m sure your skull is thick enough to survive the fall.”

Hajime uses his heel to dig into Oikawa’s shin. The latter lets out a loud yelp.

He’s hit, suddenly, with how strange yet familiar this all is. He tries to recall the last time they’d shared a bed before this trip. They’d had countless sleepovers throughout middle school and high school, all the way up to their last summer in Miyagi over four years ago. Had the last one been at Oikawa’s place, the extra futon he always kept in his room for Hajime unrolled next to his? Or had they been crowded into Hajime’s bed, limbs pressed together in spite of the sticky heat?

It hadn’t really mattered where they were, then, when the other was always a stone’s throw away.

“Iwa-chan.”

“Hmm.”

In the silence that follows, Hajime can hear Oikawa’s breathing, just a beat quicker than his. He can almost see Oikawa chewing his lip like he only does when it’s just the two of them studying for some test or match and he’s nervous, the idiot.

Then Oikawa rolls away, and suddenly Hajime finds himself missing the press of his back against his. It’s only momentary, though, because all of a sudden there’s a hand laying gently on his side, tentative with the silent question of Is this okay?

Because they’ve never really needed words to understand each other, Hajime takes Oikawa’s hand and pulls his arm flush around his waist. He hears a little gasp escape from his best friend behind him before he snuggles ever closer.

“Don’t miss me too much when I leave again,” he whispers against Hajime’s nape, the faintest, sweet smile in his voice.

Hajime thinks of the countless months they’d spent apart, separated by land and sea. The homesickness that would come in waves. Most days, it was gentle, natural as the tide rising to meet the shore. But sometimes, it would come crashing with the force of a tsunami, leaving Hajime with a bone-deep ache that only time could soothe.

He missed his family. He missed the hum of cicadas outside his window in the summer and the kind smiles of the old couple who owned the local market. The ever-present breeze in the neighborhood baseball park. The squeak of his volleyball shoes on the floor of Seijoh’s gymnasium.

And he missed Oikawa. He missed the boy who would poke at roly-polies in their backyard and follow Hajime around as they chased butterflies in the school playground. The one who would sit on Hajime’s desk every morning between classes and drag him along during breaks to buy gummies for Takeru. The one who would set for Hajime’s every spike until he could no longer feel his fingers, then come to his door in the middle of the night just because he could.

As Hajime lies there, closer to his best friend than he’s been in years, he thinks: if missing Oikawa was homesickness, then why isn’t the ache subsiding?

Chapter Text

August 2017
UTC+09:00

On their third day in Tokyo, Oikawa demands they dedicate the whole day to shopping in Harajuku.

They delay the inevitable by first paying a visit to Meiji Shrine. Amidst the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, stepping onto the grounds feels like venturing into another world, hidden away by the vast forest surrounding them. Much of it is reminiscent of rural Japan, which Hajime had come to miss throughout his stay in America.

The thick canopies provide them with relief from the midday sun as they walk in companionable silence. They cleanse their hands and mouth at the Purification Font before entering the main sanctuary, where a Bugaku dance is taking place. They stay and watch until the performance is over.

Oikawa frowns as they exit the tall wooden torii gates with the rest of the crowd. “I wanted to buy a good luck charm.”

“You already got good luck yesterday,” Hanamaki reminds him. “If anything, I’m the one who needs an omamori. Preferably a warding-off-evil one.”

“But Iwa-chan still got a better fortune than me,” Oikawa replies sullenly.

“How are you still sulking over that?” Hajime demands.

“Besides,” Matsukawa adds, “I thought you wanted to go shopping?”

“You didn’t have to remind him,” Hajime grumbles, but he follows Oikawa anyway as he practically skips across the street to Harajuku.

“I hope you enjoyed the calm before the storm,” Hanamaki says evenly, and Hajime can only groan as Oikawa practically squeals with excitement when the colorfully-decorated arch of Takeshita Street comes into view.

Shopping with Oikawa is, simply put, a nightmare.

Unfortunately for Hajime, it’s nothing new. He’d already been forced into the role of Oikawa’s personal shopping assistant years ago, back when he would drag Hajime along on weekend trips to the Ichibancho Shopping Arcade in Sendai. Hajime would usually end up carrying four to five different paper bags in his arms as Oikawa pranced around from shop to shop, and today isn’t any different. Now, however, Oikawa seems intent on expanding his job description by turning him into his personal Barbie doll.

They’re at what must be the seventh shop of the day when Oikawa shoves yet another cap onto Hajime’s head without warning. “This suits you, Iwa-chan!”

He steers him over to one of the mirrors sandwiched between the displays. Hajime barely has time to register the thick cursive text on the cap before Oikawa snaps a photo of their reflection.

It reads: THUG LIFE.

Hajime tears the cap off his head as Oikawa cackles in delight. “Do you want to dress me up properly or not?”

Oikawa gapes at him. “Are you actually serious?” His mouth is still wide open as he turns to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, both of whom are watching them with thinly-veiled amusement. “Iwa-chan actually wants me to style him?”

Hajime briefly thinks of the time Oikawa showed up to his house in a red-and-blue jacket, plaid shorts, and striped socks. He shudders, even though he’s pretty sure that whole thing was either an elaborate prank or just a really weird glitch in the cosmic system. Still, he feels like he’s going to regret what he says next.

“One more weird-ass hat and I’m taking it back, Crappykawa,” he growls.

“Okay, okay!” Oikawa says with barely contained glee. “Let’s go!”

He takes them to a store about twenty meters down, finally setting aside his personal goal of visiting every single shop on Takeshita Street as he skips over a handful of fancy-looking boutiques. Once they enter, he marches through the aisles like a man on a mission while Hajime is left to stand near the accessory rack with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who are taking turns trying on ridiculously thick sunglasses.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa approaches him, holding out a basket of clothes. “Here! Try this on.”

Hajime takes it, eyeing Oikawa with suspicion. “Go on!” he urges, and Hajime sighs and resigns himself to the fitting room.

He rifles through the items Oikawa had picked out for him. They seem decent enough, surprisingly, so Hajime puts them on and finds that they’re the perfect size.

When he comes out of the dressing room moments later, Oikawa seems to be deep in conversation with Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

Hajime clears his throat. “Uh, yo.”

All three of them swivel around to face him. Matsukawa’s face splits into a grin. Hanamaki whistles. Oikawa’s jaw promptly drops.

It takes him a millisecond to recover. “I told you!”

“You didn’t tell me anything, dumbass.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, Iwa-chan. You look good,” Oikawa preens, and their two other friends exchange a look. “And it’s all because of my impeccable styling!”

Hajime turns to Hanamaki and Matsukawa. “He’s lying.” Oikawa makes an indignant noise.

“He isn’t,” Matsukawa reassures, still grinning. “Cargos look great on you.”

“The arms, dude, the arms,” Hanamaki agrees. “You don’t wear tank tops as often as you should.”

Hajime turns to the mirror again. The top does fit comfortably over the breadth of his shoulders. It reminds him a bit of the black sleeveless tee he had back when he was in elementary school, but with a higher neckline and less loose fit.

Oikawa crosses his arms as he leans on the barrier of the fitting room, a smug look on his face. “See? I knew you’d like it. You used to wear something like that a lot as a kid.” He pushes off the wall to grab a denim jacket hanging on the nearest rack and holds it out for Hajime. “Here. Try this as well.”

“I don’t have the budget for this,” Hajime grumbles, but he puts it on anyway. Oikawa steps forward to adjust the collar of the jacket. His knuckles are warm as they skate underneath Hajime’s chin.

Oikawa places his hands on his shoulders. “Great. That’s outfit number one for you!”

Hajime frowns. “Outfit number one?”

“Hanamaki and I are gonna look around,” Matsukawa announces. “Meet you guys at the crepe store?”

“Sure!” Oikawa agrees, new hangers already dangling from his arm.

Outfit number two turns out to be an oversized sweater with a tiny Godzilla patch and ripped jeans. The sweater is admittedly cute, but Hajime still doesn’t understand the appeal of worn-looking denim. Outfit number three is a long-sleeved button-up that Oikawa insists on keeping nearly halfway open, paired with slacks that are a little too tight on his thighs.

Hajime’s lost count of the number of outfit changes by the time Matsukawa calls to inform them that 1. he and Hanamaki already bought crepes (the traitors) and 2. Hanamaki subsequently came down with an allergic reaction, so they were now heading back to the AirBnb.

“What the fuck? What did he eat?”

“He didn’t know there were peanuts in Rocky Road,” Matsukawa answers evenly. Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose. Oikawa, who had been listening over the speaker, makes a sound halfway between a cough and a snort.

“Do you need me to come over? I have some anti-allergy medicine with me.”

“No, it’s fine,” Matsukawa replies. “Hanamaki has some too. He took antihistamines earlier.”

“Don’t have too much fun without us,” Hanamaki croaks miserably over the phone.

“Don’t worry, Makki,” Oikawa coos. “We’ll make sure to try all the profiteroles for you.”

Hanamaki groans as Oikawa sings, “Get well soon!”

Hajime yanks the phone away from Oikawa with a glare. “Get well soon,” he says. “See you guys later.”

“See you.”

Once the call ends, Oikawa makes a tutting sound. “Well. That explains the great misfortune from yesterday.”

Hajime winces. “So. What do you want to do now?”

“Buy you your clothes, of course!”

He makes a noise of protest. “I’m not buying all that, you idiot.”

Oikawa pouts. “At least get your favorites? I’ll even buy the Godzilla sweater for you as a late birthday gift.”

“You already sent me a baseball cap, remember?” Hajime points out. “And if anyone’s getting a birthday gift, it should be you, Dumbasskawa.”

“Oh, right!” Oikawa claps his hands. “You’re still buying me the alien top!” He snatches the basket of clothes from Hajime and saunters over to the cashier. “But ‘cause my birthday was more recent, Iwa-chan has to do whatever I say.”

“I do not,” Hajime retorts, following Oikawa to the cashier as the latter unloads the clothing items onto the counter. “Wait. Hey, let me pay for that!”

Oikawa ignores him. “It’s okay, Iwa-chan. I stole like half of your jackets back in high school, anyway.”

Hajime makes a sound of indignation as Oikawa thrusts the paper bag towards him. “Here! No ripped jeans.”

“You idiot,” Hajime grumbles. “We’re finding you the alien shirt, and I’m paying.”

It takes them nearly an hour more of scouring through the shops before Hajime finally spots the shirt in the corner of a boutique that appears to be very popular with teenage girls. He immediately grabs it—it’s the last piece, and he feels a little guilty when a high schooler who had been eyeing it wilts and walks away. But Oikawa had been pestering him about that shirt for months, and he isn’t about to back down now, especially after Oikawa had insisted on buying Hajime his own set of clothes.

Once the shirt is paid for and packed, he wordlessly thrusts the shopping bag towards Oikawa, who looks at Hajime like he hung the moon. Hajime resists the urge to squirm under his gaze.

“You’re the best, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa croons, throwing his arms around Hajime. “Thank you!”

Hajime sighs, but he doesn’t make a move to push his best friend off as they exit the store and continue making their way down the street. “I’m still paying you back for what you bought me.”

It’s crowded and sticky from the summer heat, but Oikawa clings to him persistently, pointing out the colorful displays and interesting items on the shopfronts. They stop to buy cream puffs for Hanamaki, then head to the crepe shop at the end of the street to buy the dessert for themselves. Oikawa makes him take a bajillion photos of him posing in front of the crepe display case, after which he proceeds to drag Hajime into the frame for a dozen more selfies.

“The Rocky Road is pretty good,” Oikawa muses as he takes a bite of the chocolate-flavored cream. “But I like custard better.”

“I knew it,” Hajime mutters. He uses a tissue to wipe at the bit of cream above Oikawa’s lip. “Here, take mine. It’s crème brûlée.”

“My favorite!” Oikawa exclaims. “Are you sure you’re good with Rocky Road, Iwa-chan?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hajime says. “Just take it.” They exchange crepes. The Rocky Road isn’t half bad, but he only gets to the peanuts and marshmallows when he’s halfway through the cream. He supposes Hanamaki wasn’t a complete idiot for eating the crepe after all.

Once they’re done with their snack, Oikawa drags him back into the street. “We have to do this, Iwa-chan.”

“What?”

“This!” He gestures at a large, sparkling tarpaulin of a girl with cartoonishly wide eyes and pale, glossy skin.

Hajime balks. “I am not going to pay four hundred yen for over-edited photos of my face, Oikawa.”

“Oh, c’mon, Iwa-chan, I’m sure there’s a no-filter option!” He moves closer to the screen on the wall of the booth just as three college-age girls exit through the curtain on the other side. Their eyes widen as they land on Oikawa, who flashes them the same flirtatious smile he would hand out so often in Aoba Johsai. Hajime rolls his eyes as he sees the characteristic blush appear on their cheeks just before they walk away.

Oikawa, ever nonchalant, tugs Hajime into the purikura booth. He lets out a shriek of delight when he sees the table of props in front of them.

“Ooh, this is adorable!” He grabs a green sprout headband and places it immediately on his own head. The leaf pokes out of his hair endearingly, and Hajime is struck with the realization that it is cute.

And so he says: “You look like a toddler.”

“You’re so boring, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sighs. “We have to get something for you too.” He picks up a plush sun headpiece and beckons Hajime to come forward.

“I'm not wearing that, Oikawa.”

“Please, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime must have gone soft in their time apart, because he finds that it’s impossible to say no to Oikawa, who’s giving him about the worst puppy eyes he’s seen in his life. He feels regret sink into his gut as Oikawa roughly yanks the prop over his face, turning him into an adult, Japanese version of the Teletubbies sun.

“Oh my god,” Oikawa’s grinning like he won the lottery. He brings out his phone and snaps a photo.

Hajime swats his hand away. “I thought we were in a photobooth?”

“Right!” Oikawa yanks him onto the bench and starts the program. There’s plenty of space, but they sit pressed together anyway as they wait for the photoshoot to start. The screen in front of them begins to play an introductory video, including a few instructions and a couple of sample poses.

Next to him, Oikawa scrunches his nose. “I can do better than that. Right, Iwa-chan?”

The countdown starts, and Oikawa immediately flashes his signature wink and peace sign, tongue poking out teasingly. Hajime rolls his eyes at the camera right as the first photo is snapped.

“Why didn’t you smile?!” Oikawa wails. “You’re such a miserable sun!”

“You didn’t put much effort into your pose, either,” Hajime points out.

“Fine! Let’s do better!” He purses his lips, puffs out his cheeks, and scrunches his nose, reminding Hajime of an overgrown pufferfish. He tells Oikawa as much.

“Just smile, Iwa-chan!” he hisses.

He turns to the camera and smiles without teeth—the kind that Oikawa says brings out the small dimple at the corner of his mouth.

Oikawa stares at the photo in dismay. “Now I look stupid.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Shut up!” Oikawa yanks off his headband and reaches for two pairs of star-shaped sunglasses instead. He quickly fits one over Hajime’s nose. They’re a bit lopsided, but at least Hajime remembers to look and pose for the camera.

“Now that’s more like it,” Oikawa says, satisfaction evident in his tone. “The angry grin is very Iwa-chan.”

They’re both grinning, eyebrows scrunched, Oikawa sticking his tongue out. “Reminds me of your pose in that photo with Hinata. Maybe we should try recreating mine with Ushiwaka.”

“Do not,” Oikawa warns, “ever bring that up again. That was the worst selfie I’ve ever seen in the history of selfies—”

The shutter goes off, and they both freeze. The screen changes to reveal the candid photo: Oikawa’s mouth is open mid-argument, and Hajime is looking at him with an amused expression. There’s a strange, almost softness in Hajime’s face that he didn’t even know he was capable of possessing.

Oikawa groans. “Is there any way to retake this?”

They switch out the sunglasses for dog beanies, and then for fuzzy hats and scarves. Oikawa wraps a particularly itchy-looking rainbow one around both of them and then presses their cheeks together. Hajime feels his skin warm where it’s pressed against Oikawa’s, but he maintains a grumpy expression while the other smiles, carefree.

“Okay, last two,” Oikawa says, leaning back into his prior position. He lifts his hand for a fist bump and flashes a peace sign with the other. Hajime obliges, and the camera clicks right as their knuckles meet.

Oikawa laughs, bright and sudden. When Hajime looks at him, his gaze is directed at him and so impossibly fond that he feels his heart stutter.

Suddenly, the final shutter goes off, and the bubble of their moment pops with it.

They get the first four shots printed separately from the last. When the printouts finally slide out of the machine and Hajime sees their final shot captured in ink, he finds that he can’t look away. There’s something in Oikawa’s expression that he just can’t place, buried beneath the fondness, and it leaves Hajime feeling a little out of breath.

He hands both photo strips to Oikawa. “Here. Keep it first. You can pick whichever you want.”

“Thanks, Iwa-chan.” He places them in his messenger bag and straightens up. “Mattsun texted. Makki’s feeling a lot better, so they wanna try out a restaurant in Shinjuku.”

Hajime breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god. Do you know where it is?”

Oikawa shakes his head. “Mattsun just sent me a Google Maps link.” He shows his phone to Hajime, and he takes it.

He leads the way because he’s always been better at navigation between the two of them, but with the number of people surrounding them, he finds himself looking back repeatedly to see if Oikawa’s still following him. God knows it would only take one alien plushie for him to disappear from sight.

But Oikawa’s eyes meet his over the bodies between them, and then his hand is on Hajime’s shoulder. “I’m here, Iwa-chan,” he says as his fingers trail down his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Then he laces their fingers together. It’s not like that beach trip in Buenos Aires with his hand around Hajime’s wrist, or their adventures as little kids with their hands clasped tightly together. It’s new, the way they are intertwined, and Hajime has a crazy, burning idea that maybe they’ve always been. That this is their fate, finally taking on a physical form.

Hajime has never been one to test the gods, so he doesn’t pull away.

If there’s anything that could possibly compete with being Oikawa’s shopping assistant for Worst Job To Have On A Trip, it’s being Oikawa’s personal photographer.

Thankfully for Hajime, he isn’t alone in his misery. Matsukawa and Hanamaki had volunteered to take turns taking the photos in Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, where Oikawa had posed with just about every tree, bridge, and pond in sight.

Which meant that Hajime is now left in charge of chasing Oikawa down Shibuya Crossing for the dozenth time in a row, trying to reach the center of the intersection before the crowd swallows them up.

Oikawa spins around, his hair whipping about in a breeze of his own making. Hajime bites his tongue as he hits the shutter button several times in succession. Once the horde of people begins to thicken once more, Oikawa runs over to him, trying to peer at the screen as they return to the sidewalk. Hajime feels his irritation rise as he watches Oikawa’s expression curl in distaste again.

“I told you to fix the angle, Iwa-chan!”

“We’ve tried at least ten different angles, Shittykawa,” Hajime retorts. “And they all look perfectly fine to me!”

“Just—” Oikawa’s face falls into his hands. When he peeks at Hajime again, his eyes are guilty and pleading. “Last one? Please?”

“Fine,” Hajime grumbles. “But this better be the last one.”

They wait for the last of the cars—and at least a dozen Mario Karts—to speed past, and then the light finally turns green again. Oikawa immediately runs onto the street. Hajime follows, dropping to his knees right as Oikawa spins around.

If Oikawa is shocked, he doesn’t show it. Hajime watches his expression through the camera as he snaps photo after photo. Oikawa’s smile is bright and carefree, but for some reason, Hajime can tell it’s genuine. Maybe it’s the way he can see the rare appearance of whisker dimples high on his cheeks, or the sparkle in his eyes reflecting more than just the city lights around them.

He hands Oikawa the phone when he gets up to walk back to where Hanamaki and Matsukawa are waiting.

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa begins, wonder in his voice. “Why didn’t you kneel down earlier?”

“You’re welcome.”

Oikawa posts the photos right as they arrive at one of the restaurants a ways away from the crossing. While Matsukawa speaks with the waitress at the entrance, Oikawa forces Hajime to open his barely used Instagram account to like the new post.

The photo is, well, good. Hajime’s honestly surprised that he took it. Despite the multitude of vivid lights and bright billboards behind him, Oikawa—ever the attention-stealer—is impossible to look away from. His smile appears as if it was captured mid-laugh, and his pose is so natural that it could have been candid.

“Ooh, my legs look long,” Oikawa preens.

Hajime scoffs at him. “That’s just the angle.”

“And that’s why angle is important, Iwa-chan,” he says. “You should try it sometimes. It’ll make you look a lot taller.”

He kicks him lightly in the shin, and Oikawa makes an over-exaggerated noise of complaint.

There’s an amused look on Matsukawa’s face when he comes up to them. “We’ll have to sit separately,” he informs them. “They only have the two-seaters available.”

“Aww. Guess you’re stuck with me, Iwa-chan!”

Because they’re in a yakiniku restaurant, Hajime is subjected to yet another contending role for Top 10 Worst Jobs—Oikawa’s designated grill cook.

Oikawa shrieks as a strip of pork catches fire the moment his tongs land on it. Hajime rolls his eyes as he leans over to adjust the strength of the flame with one hand. He picks up Oikawa’s food with the other, promptly dropping it onto the latter’s plate.

“You’re my savior, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa swoons before taking a bite. “Mmm, this is good! You should try it!”

“Well, someone has to cook for the both of us,” Hajime snaps.

“Aw, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa picks up a cooked piece of pork with his chopsticks and holds it out towards Hajime. “Here. Say ‘ahh.’”

“Put that down, Oikawa,” Hajime warns as he flips an onion over the grill.

Oikawa pouts and pops the food into his mouth. Hajime allows himself a bite of a particularly crispy beef strip and hums in approval.

As Hajime continues to cook, Oikawa fills the air in between bites of yakiniku with stories of training in Argentina. “Remember Jorge, Iwa-chan?”

“Yeah? How is he?”

“He’s throwing a party today,” Oikawa tells him. “It’s been a year since he went to the Olympics.”

To any other passerby, Oikawa’s tone would sound careless, but Hajime can hear the weight underneath that word. He thinks of this time one year ago, Oikawa’s airy voice cracking over the phone as he told him: “Have you heard, Iwa-chan? Tobio-chan’s in Rio.”

Hajime looks up from the grill to meet Oikawa’s gaze. There’s something burning about it—something new and hungry, but not completely unfamiliar. It reminds him of Oikawa in their last year of middle school, clutching his scholarship letter from Aoba Johsai, the school that had built a reputation rumored to rival that of Shiratorizawa.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. “You’re aiming for the Olympics, aren’t you?”

Oikawa lowers his chopsticks. “Iwa-chan…”

There are thousands of implications behind that one statement, thousands of complications and ways it could go wrong. He sees all of it in Oikawa’s eyes, buried beneath that flame, and all Hajime can think of is that he needs to wipe every single one of his insecurities away.

“Listen, Oikawa,” he says, setting the tongs down on the table. “The stage you’re going to play on. It hasn’t changed one bit, right?”

Oikawa nods.

“That’s right,” Hajime says, pride blooming in his chest. “So keep going and don’t even dare to hesitate, you hear me? You flew all the way to Argentina, for fuck’s sake.”

A smug grin appears on Oikawa’s face. “That I did.”

“So you can go anywhere in the world, Oikawa. No one’s going to stop you when you come back here. Heck, you’ll be unstoppable.”

And then Oikawa freezes. It’s only for a millisecond, but Hajime didn’t grow up with him to not catch the panic that seizes him in that fleeting moment.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Oikawa reassures him, but his voice is a notch higher than usual. “I’m just… it’s a lot, that’s all.” He flashes Hajime a sheepish smile. “Thanks, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime picks up his tongs and puts the last piece of yakiniku on Oikawa’s plate. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, though. I’m still going to find a way to beat you.”

Oikawa laughs, a crooked smile on his perfect face. “I know you will.”

Chapter Text

September 2019
UTC+09:00

Hajime steps into the dimly lit izakaya. It’s thankfully not too crowded, just like Hanamaki had promised, the atmosphere warm but not uncomfortable. He scans the room for a familiar head of pink hair. Sure enough, his friend is situated right in front of the bar, chin resting on one elbow. Matsukawa, seated next to him, sees Hajime first. He raises a hand and waves him over.

Hanamaki turns and grins lazily. “What’s up, hotshot?”

“Nothing much. How’s your newest job going?”

“Splendidly,” his friend replies easily. “Pretty sure we’re here to talk about your newest job, though.”

“You’re just avoiding the topic,” Matsukawa points out.

“Shut up, man. Just because you’re a masochist who’s having a wonderful time at your funeral—”

He’s broken off by a familiar voice. “Iwaizumi-senpai!”

“Kindaichi?” Sure enough, their former junior is making his way to them from the other side of the room. Hajime spots Kunimi on the sofa behind him, and Yahaba across. They both stand up to greet him.

“Congratulations, Iwaizumi-senpai,” Kindaichi says, the loudest of the three. The scarlet flush on his cheeks betrays his sheepishness. “I’ve been telling all my friends that I have a senpai working for the Japanese National Team!”

“And I’ve been telling mine about my kouhai in the V-League,” Hajime replies with a smile, and Kindaichi grows impossibly redder.

“You’d probably just seem like a loser to the National Team,” Kunimi comments, much to Kindaichi’s chagrin.

“‘Course not,” Hajime says, sending Kindaichi a reassuring smile. “How’s Kyoutani, by the way?” he adds.

“Oh, the Sendai Frogs have an exhibition match tomorrow, I think,” Kindaichi says. “Right, Yahaba-san?”

Yahaba frowns. “Yeah, they do. Why’re you asking me?” He saunters over and pushes a glass into Hajime’s hands. “That’s on me, senpai. Consider it my congratulations and thank you for your career counseling.”

“That’s just from his all-you-can-drink,” Kunimi deadpans. Yahaba flashes him a murderous look.

Suddenly, there's an arm slung across Hajime’s shoulder. “Hey, hey,” Matsukawa says with an overdramatic flip of the hair over his eyes. “Pretty sure Iwaizumi can handle his own bill. He’s only our future Olympic trainer, after all.”

“Can you handle everyone else’s too?” Hanamaki calls out, a fresh mug of beer in one hand.

“I’m not the one who organized this party,” Hajime grumbles. “And Tokyo living is expensive as shit.” He winces at the recollection of his electricity bill earlier that month.

Matsukawa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hiro, slow down. I’m not taking care of your drunk ass later.”

“Why not?” Hanamaki frowns.

“I’m driving back up to Miyagi in the morning, remember?”

Hanamaki’s frown deepens. “But you just came here.”

“Hey, Matsukawa,” Hajime says. “Want me to come with you? I’ve been meaning to visit soon.”

“Sure.”

“Without me?” Hanamaki laments.

“Who’s the one who decided to move to Tokyo without a job?”

“I’ve had enough of this slander,” Hanamaki groans and takes a dramatic swig from his mug. Matsukawa only chuckles. “And don’t make me start missing Miyagi. I told you, I’m sick and tired of hearing about the same old people dating each other. Not just the Seijoh grads, mind you, even the ones from goddamn Dateko and Karasuno.”

“What?!” Yahaba exclaims, at the same time Kindaichi jumps up and yells “Who?!”

Hanamaki mimics zipping his mouth dramatically. “It’ll take a couple more drinks to unlock that information,” he announces with a sly grin, eliciting a groan from Matsukawa.

The night goes on with the occasional congratulatory call from their old teammates who couldn’t make it to the celebration. At some point, Watari even shows them the night exhibit at the Enoshima Aquarium through his phone camera. Soon the old Seijoh group chat is alive again, filled with various photos ranging from a close-up of a tomato-faced Kindaichi to a very questionable photo of Hanamaki and Matsukawa crowded onto one bar stool, arms wrapped tightly around one another.

Hajime is content to sit on the couch with the juniors as he nurses a tall glass of apple juice. He’s had enough college party experiences in California to know that he does not like himself drunk.

Yahaba’s in the middle of some spiel about the high school students he’s instructing when he goes, “...oh, yeah, and you know one of the kids is actually an Oikawa superfan? I honestly had no idea that Oikawa-san has a fanbase now, but I guess it shouldn’t be surprising.”

“He’s had one since middle school,” Kunimi notes.

“Right?” Yahaba leans back on the sofa. “But he never tells us or his poor fans anything. Is he even available?”

Nobody answers, and Hajime realizes they’re all looking expectantly at him.

The first thing that Hajime nearly says—but stops himself—is how the fuck would I know?

Instead, he says, “Probably. We all know the idiot couldn’t keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks, anyway.”

The truth is, Hajime wouldn’t know, even though some part of him still stubbornly believes that he should. It feels like a slap to the face that the rest of his friends believe the same, too. Because he and Oikawa would always tell each other everything. Always, until they did not.

The idea that someone out there could know Oikawa in ways Hajime never would lodges itself painfully in Hajime’s chest. But the fact that Hajime wouldn’t even know—it splits him open like a blade.

If it were true, it wouldn’t even be the worst thing Oikawa’s kept from him.

“True enough,” Yahaba muses. “Anyway, this kid absolutely refuses to believe I knew the guy—and that’s after I showed him photos and everything!”

Hanamaki smirks. “Just wait ‘til Oikawa shows up here next March, you can tell him then.”

Glass shatters on the floor, liquid darkening the carpet to bloodred.

“Shit,” somebody curses, and then he’s being led away from the scene of the crime.

“You’re not wounded, Iwaizumi-san?” someone else asks worriedly, and Hajime can only muster a nod. He isn’t, really, even though he has the vague sense that his heart is bleeding out.

“Don’t worry about it, Iwaizumi.” There’s a familiar hand on his back. Matsukawa’s. “You’re paying for the damages, though,” he adds with a chuckle, but his gaze is sympathetic.

“I know, I know,” Hajime manages gruffly, and the tense atmosphere dissipates. Yahaba and the others fall back into conversation while Matsukawa steers him over to the bar and hands him and Hanamaki a cup of water. Hanamaki, he notices, is uncharacteristically quiet. His expression is sober when he looks up to face Hajime.

“Hey, uh—”

“I’m tired,” Kunimi announces suddenly. “I’ll get the bill.”

The rest of the old team begin gathering their things and heading out with words of thanks and a couple of embraces.

As they emerge onto the street, Hajime tilts his face towards the indigo sky. It’s drizzling, little droplets of water catching on his warm nose and cheeks and lips.

Kindaichi’s eyes are glassy. “It was so great—hiccup—seeing you all again!”

“Yeah,” Hajime agrees, clapping his old teammates on the back. “Take care, everyone.”

“You too!”

Hajime’s in the middle of taking out his umbrella when Matsukawa bumps his shoulder.

“I’m sleeping over at Hiro’s,” he tells him. “You know the address, right? We can leave at around ten in the morning if you’re fine with that.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Matsukawa.”

Matsukawa studies him for a moment before nodding. Hanamaki momentarily unlinks his arm from Matsukawa’s to give Iwaizumi a fierce hug.

“You’re doing great, Iwaizumi,” he says, and Hajime smiles. “Make us all proud, eh?”

“Of course, Makki,” he replies, the old nickname slipping easily off his tongue. “See you around. See you tomorrow, Mattsun.” He sees his friends’ surprised faces turn into grins before they set off in the opposite direction.

Hajime walks home alone.

Matsukawa, thankfully, does not bring up the night before on their drive to Miyagi. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop it from replaying over and over again in Hajime’s head.

Oikawa. In Japan. In six months. Which is, Hajime realizes bitterly, shorter than the time between now and their last proper conversation, save for the pathetic birthday greetings they’d sent one another in the summer.

“Actually, I’m supposed to pick up Hatsuki-chan as soon as we get to Sendai,” Matsukawa says suddenly. “You know Tsugiraya elementary school?”

“Hatsuki-chan?”

Matsukawa shoots him a bemused glance. “My niece?”

“Ah, yeah.” Matsukawa had mentioned her earlier. His sister had just left for a business trip abroad and asked him to take care of her daughter. “I didn’t know she was that young, though.”

Matsukawa snorts. “I’m not that old, and neither is my sister.”

“You have an awful lot of white hair for someone who’s not that old,” Hajime says pointedly.

“I do not,” Matsukawa argues, but Hajime catches him sneaking a furtive glance at his bangs in the rearview mirror.

“Yuda-san and Shido-san went to Tsugiraya,” Hajime recalls out loud. “They used to brag about how it was the best elementary school in the prefecture.”

“As if elementary school matters.”

“I’m pretty sure it matters to Hatsuki-chan.”

“Oh, it definitely does,” Matsukawa agrees. “She’s developing a real big crush on her homeroom adviser, or so I’ve been told. Refuses to tell me the name, though.”

“No way,” Hajime wonders. “Elementary school teachers can’t be that attractive.”

“When did you ever find anyone attractive, anyway?” Matsukawa shoots back. Hajime tries to push away the momentary image of wavy hair and starlit brown eyes before replying, “Just because I have high standards and don’t fall for morons with pink-ass bangs—”

“We are not going there.” Matsukawa’s voice is threatening, and Hajime knows his friend can counter with something softly curled and chocolate-colored and much, much worse. But he doesn’t, and Hajime is reminded again why Matsukawa is such a good friend.

The car stutters to a stop, and Hajime watches as a gaggle of elementary-age kids skip cheerfully across the road. Hajime is vaguely reminded of a small, warm hand tightly clutching his as they traversed the wide pedestrian lane.

“Oh, to be young and carefree,” Matsukawa sighs, and Hajime can’t help but agree.

They round the next corner and enter the school’s small parking lot. It takes them two rounds to realize that it’s full.

Matsukawa exhales in frustration. “I’ll probably have to park the car down the next block. Do you think you can go and pick up Hatsuki-chan?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to meet her yourself? I can drive, you know.”

“Nuh-uh. May I remind you that here in Japan,” Matsukawa enunciates slowly, “we drive on the right, Mr. I-Got-My-Driver’s-License-In-America.”

“Fine, fine,” Hajime climbs out of the car. “Wait. I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Oh, you’ll know.” Matsukawa drives off before Hajime can even respond.

Hajime does not. He feels incredibly awkward as he shuffles around the perimeter of the schoolyard, trying to find a mop of wavy black hair characteristic of the Matsukawa family. That is until he realizes that at least fifty percent of the student population fits the descriptor.

His gaze lands on a kid with rust-colored hair crouched in the dirt, a glass jar lying upside down beside him. He’s approached by a shorter, bespectacled boy who picks up the jar, and out flies a butterfly into the autumn air. He merely looks up, gaze trained on the insect, as his friend groans and falls back into the dirt.

“Did ya really have to set it free again, Sota?”

“Butterflies don’t live for a very long time, Yuto,” Sota answers. “It would be sad if they spent half their lives trapped in that jar, don’t cha think?”

Hajime freezes, the rough familiarity of the words hitting him almost instantly.

Cicadas don’t live for a very long time, Tooru. That’s why I let ‘em go.

He sighs in defeat as he flops onto one of the extremely low benches. He’s in the middle of dialing Matsukawa’s number when he hears a vaguely familiar voice call his name. He can’t imagine who would know him in an elementary school in a hometown he’s been absent from for years.

He looks around and spots the only relatively tall human being in his vicinity across the schoolyard. The man waves at him with one hand, the other being currently held in a tight grip by a girl with strawberry blonde hair.

As he jogs over to him, more of his features come into view, and recognition hits Hajime with a start. His hazel-brown eyes and light grey hair, albeit slightly shorter, are unmistakable.

Mr. Refreshing, sneers Oikawa’s voice in his head.

“Sugawara-san?”

“Oh, good,” Sugawara sighs with relief. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t recognize me. I wasn’t that unremarkable, right?” He laughs brightly. “Though I was on a team with Hinata and Kageyama, and they do tend to steal the spotlight a whole lot.”

Hajime shakes his head, feeling a smile of his own grow on his face. “You were always a not-so-pleasant surprise for us on the court.”

With the way Sugawara grins, he’s evidently aware of that too, and rightfully so. “And it’s a pleasant surprise to see you here, Iwaizumi-san. What brings you to good old Sendai City, huh?”

“Actually,” Hajime says, bending down a little to smile at the girl with hooded eyelids half-hidden behind Sugawara, “I’m here for Hatsuki-chan? Her uncle Matsukawa’s told me a great deal about her.”

The girl’s eyebrows shoot up comically.

“Matsukawa-san’s your uncle? How come you never told me, Hatsuki-chan?” Sugawara ruffles her hair affectionately. Hajime watches amusedly as the poor kid’s cheeks grow pink.

“Hatsuki-chan’s in my first grade homeroom class,” Sugawara explains. “They’re the youngest batch I’ve ever handled before, but after dealing with high schoolers with the brains of five-year-olds, nothing can really scare me anymore, honestly.”

“Tell me about it,” Hajime sighs. “At least you had a pretty mature captain. Ours had the mental age of a kindergartener.” It’s times like these when Hajime wonders why he’d accepted the role of Vice Captain when it had evidently corresponded with babysitting duty for a whole year. And judging from the current roster of the Japanese National Team, he might have signed himself to a similar fate with his newest job.

Sugawara smirks. “Daichi’s pretty great.” Suddenly, his phone begins to ring. He fishes it out of his pocket, mouthing an excuse me to Hajime.

“Hello?” Sugawara breathes, and Hajime watches as his whole face drops into relaxation, features softening. The call lasts exactly seven seconds with Sugawara only responding in hums before he says, “Okay, bye, see you!”

“Speak of the devil,” Sugawara says. “Daichi’s off work early today, so he’s insisting on cooking dinner. Gotta get back home before he sets our kitchen on fire!” He turns to Hatsuki, who watches the exchange with wide eyes. “Don’t wanna keep Uncle Matsukawa waiting either, right?”

“Right,” Hatsuki replies, a little fazed. Honestly, Hajime can sympathize.

“Alright, see you tomorrow, Hatsuki-chan,” Sugawara says with a pat on her shoulder. “See you on TV, I suppose?” he smirks as he turns to Hajime. “National team and all that.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know the news spread that fast.”

“Trust me, I have my sources,” Sugawara replies with a wink. “Take care of Hinata and Kageyama for me, will ya?”

“Of course,” Hajime replies. “Tell Sawamura-san I said hi.”

“He’d be glad to hear it,” Sugawara replies, his expression so fond that Hajime feels his chest tighten a little.

“Bye-bye, Suga-sensei,” Hatsuki pipes up bashfully once they begin to walk towards the exit. Suga flashes them one last megawatt-grin before he strolls down the opposite path, a light spring in his step.

For a brief moment, Hajime allows himself to wonder what his life would have been like if he had never left Miyagi. Would he have become a trainer still, perhaps in a school like Sugawara? Would he have his own apartment, or one shared with his best friend as he cooked dinner for him every night? Would he radiate that same carefree joy as he came home to a familiar city and a familiar face?

The hilarity of his imagination hits him, and a dry laugh escapes his throat as he throws his gaze to the expanse of blue above.

If you really think hard enough, Iwa-chan, the sky’s everywhere.

Obviously, Dumbasskawa.

Yeah! So wherever we are when we look up, it’ll always be at the same sky.

Hajime had scoffed, especially when Oikawa had added: And if the aliens are watching us too, they’ll see us both! It’ll be like indirect communication through them!

The sheer stupidity of the statement had been enough to earn Oikawa a smack on the head. But it had also, annoyingly, inevitably, stubbornly been enough to stick to Hajime, so whenever he would look at the sky since then, in every shade of blue, he would think of Oikawa. It didn’t matter if Hajime was in Miyagi, or Irvine, or Tokyo. That, at least, would always remain the same.

Except in six months Oikawa was coming to visit Japan, was going to wake up to the same sunrises and watch the same sunsets, and he hadn’t—didn’t tell Hajime. The knowledge eats at him from the inside, and Hajime finds himself wishing that Hanamaki had never let it slip at all. It feels like an ugly secret, and Hajime has no idea what to do with it. Surely ignorance is better than this.

The loud honk of a car horn puts Hajime out of his misery, if only temporarily. Matsukawa’s head pokes out of the rolled-down window.

“What took you guys so long?”

Hajime helps Hatsuki into the car, strapping on her seatbelt before climbing back into the passenger seat. “Ran into one of our old rivals from Karasuno.”

Matsukawa raises a thick eyebrow. “Really? Was it Azumane-san? Though I’m pretty sure Takahiro’s mentioned seeing him in Tokyo.”

Hajime shakes his head. “Sugawara.” He turns to look at Hatsuki, who’s sitting quietly in the backseat. “Guess I’ve cracked the code of who Hatsuki’s real big crush is.”

“No way,” Matsukawa says, whipping around to gape at his niece. “Sugawara Koushi is your homeroom adviser?”

Hatsuki squirms. “Yeah? Didn’t know you knew Suga-sensei, though.”

Matsukawa lets out a whistle. “Wasn’t really my type, but understandable.” Hajime watches Hatsuki flush in the rearview mirror. He supposes Sugawara does seem to have that effect on people.

“Matsukawa, you still live in the same place, right?”

He hums in response.

“You could just drop me off at the usual intersection, then,” Hajime says. At that, Matsukawa smiles. Hajime knows they’re both thinking of the same thing—evening walks home after practice, where Matsukawa and Hanamaki would eventually go one way towards their respective blocks while Hajime would make the farther downhill trek in the opposite direction with Oikawa.

“Say no more.”

The emerging dusk is painfully nostalgic as Hajime walks down the street to his childhood home, the last rays of sunlight creeping around the edges of the darkening sky. At this time, the outskirts of Sendai seem almost like a ghost town. Or perhaps Hajime himself is the phantom, drifting through the sidewalks of a neighborhood he’d left behind in a lifetime long gone.

He brings out his phone to call his father. Once, and then twice, until he finally picks up.

“Hello? Hajime?”

“Tou-san. How are you?”

“Looking forward to seeing you, of course,” he replies warmly. “Ah, are you on your way home already? I’m really sorry, a client was running late to their appointment, and I couldn’t cancel.” He sighs. “I don’t think I’ll be back until eight.”

“It’s alright, Tou-san.”

“You sure about that? Try contacting your mother, you might catch her before her evening shift starts.”

“Right,” Hajime says, eyeing the time on his phone. 5:32. “I think I can make it. I’ll see you later.”

“See you soon, Hajime,” his father replies fondly. The line clicks, and Hajime breaks into a jog.

He barely registers the familiar facade of his family home before he slips through the wooden doorway, leaving his shoes in the genkan.

“I’m home,” he calls out, voice cracking. There’s a surprised “Oh!” before his mother comes barrelling down the hallway. Her arms are around Hajime before he can even register her face, buried into Hajime’s shoulder.

“Welcome home,” she responds, voice muffled by Hajime’s sweater. When she finally pulls away to look at her son’s face, her deep green eyes are shining.

Hajime beams. Though he’d actually been able to visit his hometown a couple of times since graduating from high school, the excitement of coming home has never really faded for him. It’s a feeling of relief associated with warm, soft, and familiar jasmine-scented sheets. The static hum of the radio over the news and endless repeats of Hikari Utada. The taste of his mother’s agedashi tofu: a recipe that Hajime can never replicate, no matter how many times he’s tried.

His mother drags him over to the dining table and pours them both steaming cups of matcha, all while bombarding him with questions about his new job. “Even Fujimaru-san at the Co-op’s been asking about my son on the National Team. But we need details, Hajime, details!”

“How would Fujimaru-san know?”

“I told her, of course!”

“Of course,” Hajime huffs into his tea.

“I’m just so proud of you, Hajime,” his mother says as she slides into the seat facing him, her smile genuine. Hajime notes the laugh lines around their eyes. They’re lovely. “You know that, right?”

Hajime shrugs, which earns him a flick on the forehead. “Always so humble, Hajime! You never really wanted to bask in the spotlight, did you?”

Hajime thinks back to his long-gone volleyball days. He remembers asking himself in a moment of fresh, adolescent hurt: What kind of ace am I?

The answer had come to him over a decade later as he stood on the sidelines of his first National Team match, watching his greatest high school rivals as they flew like monsters across the court. But they weren’t monsters, really, he’d realized as Kageyama Tobio had come to him limping, a hand bracing his left knee and an expression equal parts sheepish and disgruntled on his face. And as he wrapped a bandage around his former rival’s leg with practiced efficiency, he thought of a time when his hands were slower, more careful. Shaking, although he’d done his best not to show it, determined to be strong and steady for the person he worried about the most.

He’d told that same person that volleyball is a game of six. Hajime had always believed in the strength and vitality of each player, which is why he would make it a point to consistently look out for every single one of them. Though he had been the ace, he wasn’t one in the same way Bokuto or Ushijima were, firing cannons that took the crowd’s breath away. He may have had his moments, sure—his old Seijoh teammates would admonish him if he said otherwise—but he was, first and foremost, a pillar of support, determined to stay rooted firmly to the ground, even when everyone around him was soaring.

He supposes that could have been his weakness, too. The reason why he left playing volleyball and flimsy ideas of a professional career back in Aoba Johsai. But it was enough for him, anyway, to choose an aligning path, one that would reinforce his very essence as a player as he put his colleagues back into shape.

Because before everything, before Hajime's hands began blasting spikes hard enough to break through blocks and delivering serves strong enough to shake opposing receivers, they were pasting band-aids on pale elbows and icing bruises hidden under tufts of brown hair.

He’d told Oikawa Tooru that volleyball is a game of six, and Oikawa had taken his advice and transformed it into something greater than Hajime could have ever imagined. He had turned himself into a commander, capable of taking that team strength Hajime valued so much and multiplying it by a hundred. For all his admiration for Jose Blanco, the man who could quietly turn the tide of any game, Oikawa was a setter who stole the spotlight.

Oikawa Tooru may not have been a spiker, but he had wings. They had taken him all the way across the world to Argentina.

Hajime meets his mother’s eyes. “I never really thought much about being the star and all that,” he admits. “But it feels nice, sometimes.”

Later, after she leaves for work, Hajime finds himself out on the street again. The sky is now a deep cobalt color, decorated with a smattering of stars he sorely misses when in Tokyo.

His feet carry him down the road, and it’s only when he sees the warm glow of the lanterns in the garden that he realizes that he’s standing outside the Oikawa household. Of course he’d end up here, he thinks to himself as he traces the flowing kanji engraved in the stone wall that separates their house from the sidewalk.

He allows himself a few seconds to gaze at the small window nestled at the east corner, second floor, trying to recall the last time he’d seen light filter through the curtains. He can almost hear phantom laughter in his ears, almost taste the heat of summers spent pelting watermelon seeds at the glass in spite of the present coolness of early autumn. He shoves his hands into his pockets and forces himself to look away before he starts seeing things like an idiot.

He’s only a few steps down the road when he hears his name. He thinks he must be imagining things again, but the voice is real and true as it calls out a second time.

“Hajime-kun? Is that you?”

Oikawa’s mother stands in front of the gate, arms full with paper bags. Her wavy brown hair, just a touch darker than her son’s, curls around her scarf and shoulders.

“Okaa-san. It’s been a while.” It’s an address that Hajime had been using since his childhood years. “Let me help you with that.”

“Always such a gentleman,” she hums, smiling fondly as Hajime takes a few of the bags. Peeking out of one of them is the familiar blue wrapper of the milk bread Oikawa was, and probably still is, obsessed with. “Tooru never offers me help when he sees me come back from the grocery. He only ever gets up when my arms are so full I can’t open the door, the spoiled kid.”

“Sounds like him,” Hajime chuckles.

“How have you been, Hajime-kun?” she asks as they shuffle into the house. “Has Tokyo been treating you well?”

Stepping into the dining room, he feels like he’s seventeen, and twelve, and seven again, awash in the warm overhead light. There’s the usual basket of fruits on the same shelf, the wooden table as polished as ever, and the familiar tatami mat underneath his feet.

“So far,” Hajime answers, and he doesn’t know what compels him to add, “but I do miss Miyagi sometimes.”

As he sets the shopping bags on the counter, Hajime catches a glimpse of a few new pictures on the refrigerator. There’s a framed photo of the Oikawa family with Takeru on his middle school graduation, a family picture in the Valley of the Moon from when Oikawa’s parents had visited him in Argentina a couple years prior, and—Hajime realizes with a start—a strip of photos he and Oikawa had taken at a purikura in Harajuku, back when they took a brief trip to Tokyo in 2017.

It had been the first and last time they’d both returned to Japan at the same time.

“Tooru tells me the same,” Mrs. Oikawa says wistfully. “You boys don’t know much Miyagi misses the both of you. But I’m sure you’ve got great things in store for you in Tokyo.” Hajime’s about to respond politely, but then she continues: “Tooru called me up yesterday at two in the morning to tell me all about Iwa-chan, athletic trainer for the National Team.”

Hajime’s heart jumps to his throat. He can barely hide his shock with a confused frown. “He did?”

“That he did. You would’ve thought he’d be a hundred percent aware of the time difference by now, but I suppose he was all caught up in the excitement.”

“He does tend to do that,” Hajime agrees, head still spinning.

“Anyway, I’ll see the both of you when he comes home in March,” she says, so sure and easy that Hajime feels a pang of guilt.

Home. Home is still the word she uses, even when official documents from the past god knows how many years state otherwise.

“I know you’ve got LINE and video calls and everything, but he really misses you, Hajime-kun.”

Hajime swallows. The words that follow are an admission he hasn’t let slip for the longest time.

“I miss him, too. Even though my life’s a lot less quiet when he’s around,” he jokes. It’s a sad, pathetic attempt at covering up the gaping hole in Hajime’s chest, but Oikawa’s mother laughs anyway.

He’s tired, he realizes, and apologetically tells her as much. He’s had a long trip, after all, and of course she understands. That he’s been carrying this stupid emotional baggage all day, that the nostalgia weighs him down almost as painfully as her son’s absence—she doesn’t need to know any of that, and so Hajime keeps it all to himself.

“Of course, Hajime-kun. Thank you so much for your help.”

He’s out on the sidewalk already when Mrs. Oikawa calls: “Wait a minute—Hajime-kun!”

She runs over, waving a small white envelope in her hand. “Here. I almost forgot. Tooru mailed it back quite a while ago asking me to give it to you when I had the chance.”

Hajime takes the envelope, hoping the trembling of his fingers go unnoticed. “Thanks, Okaa-san.”

“Thank you, Hajime-kun. It was nice to see you again.”

Hajime smiles.

He’s lying half-asleep in his childhood bed when his phone pings with a notification. Blearily, he rolls over to check the screen. The blue light is almost assaulting.

It’s one fifty-eight in the fucking morning, and Oikawa Tooru has the gall to text him.

Hajime groans and buries his head in the pillow. It takes only about two minutes for him to crack and steal a glance at the message from the notification center.

Tooru [01:58] heard you landed a job with the jnt! congrats~
Tooru [01:59] good luck dealing with ushiwaka and tobio-chan :P

The flippance, the teasing, the sheer audacity of it all. Hajime almost can’t believe him. He tosses his phone to the foot of his bed, flips off the ceiling, and tugs the blanket over his head.

When the second notification arrives nearly half an hour later, Hajime’s still awake.

Tooru [02:26] also, i’m going to visit japan in march!! see you then?

He thinks of Oikawa’s mother, the way she’d spoken so gently about Oikawa coming home. He thinks of how mistaken she was, to talk about it like a return, when in her son’s eyes, it was merely a visit.

Hajime shifts, reaching for his bedside table to switch on his nightlight and grab the unopened envelope she had given him.

His heart catches in his throat as he slides the photo strip out. It’s just the two of them—like the one on the refrigerator—but their poses are different.

He tears his gaze away from the last shot and types out a reply with shaking fingers.

You [02:41] Dumbass. As if I need your luck
You [02:41] See you soon.

Chapter Text

July 2021
UTC+09:00

“Okay, Bokuto-san. This one’s gonna hurt, so be ready,” Hajime warns.

“Ready, Iwaizumi-san!” Bokuto replies, raising his head from the ground to attempt a sharp salute. Hajime gently pushes him back down.

And then he kneads into the athlete’s right calf, and Bokuto howls.

Hinata bursts into the room, eyes wide and frantic. “Bokuto-san! Bokuto-san, are you alive?! Should I call Akaashi-san?!” He turns to his taller teammate who had followed him inside. “Kageyama, quick, call Akaashi-san!”

Kageyama blinks. “Iwaizumi-san, did you murder Bokuto-san?”

Hajime opens his mouth, then closes it again to take a deep breath. Maybe Oikawa was right in wishing him luck. “No, Kageyama, I did not murder Bokuto-san.”

“I’m alive,” Bokuto whimpers into the mat. “Please don’t call Akaashi. He’s got a big deadline for Weekly Shonen Vai today, and I promised not to bother him until later!”

“What’s goin’ on in here, eh?” Atsumu pops in. Hajime prepares himself for a blood pressure increase as the setter makes a beeline for the mat. He catches a glimpse of Sakusa in the hallway behind him.

Suna, who had been stretching in one corner of the gym with Komori, answers flatly, “A crime scene, apparently. Hinata and Kageyama claim Bokuto’s been assassinated.”

“I’m not dead!” Bokuto proclaims, pushing himself off the floor. “Iwaizumi, why didn’t you tell me how much it was gonna hurt?”

“I did,” Hajime sighs. He turns to the man standing above him. “Do you need anything, Miya-san?”

“My body’s in perfect condition thanks ter ya, Iwa-kun,” Atsumu says, a sly grin on his face as he crouches down beside Hajime and places a hand on his bicep. “I’d love another shoulder massage, though.”

Hajime can practically sense Sakusa's eyeroll from all the way across the room.

“I’m your athletic trainer, not your masseuse, Miya-san,” Hajime replies, unflinching as he shakes off Atsumu’s grip and stands. “Come see me again after the lunch break, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Awesome!”

Hajime checks his watch. It’s twelve o’clock sharp, which means he’s legally allowed to leave and finally catch a break. He nods to the members of the team before slipping into the hallway.

He’s in the middle of changing out of his indoor shoes when his phone begins to ring.

“Heard someone’s arriving in Japan soon,” Hanamaki drawls as soon as Hajime picks up. “Can’t believe it took him the fucking Olympics of all things to get his ass over here.”

“Of course it did,” Hajime replies. “What else did you expect from him?”

“Fair point. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t send us his flight details requesting for a massive welcome party.”

“Hold on,” Hajime frowns. “He didn’t tell you he was arriving tonight?”

“Wait, he’s arriving tonight?” The voice is farther away, but it’s unmistakably Matsukawa’s.

“Matsukawa’s here in Tokyo?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hajime answers first. “I’m pretty sure that’s Oikawa’s job, not mine.”

“Still! Let’s be real—Issei coming here isn’t as big of a deal as Oikawa coming home.”

“Okay, ouch?”

“Babe, you’re always here,” Hanamaki quips. “I know you miss my—”

“Someone has to take care of you while you’re unemployed,” Matsukawa points out, but his tone is endearing. Hanamaki coos, and Hajime wants to throw up.

“You two are disgusting. I’m hanging up.”

“Noooo!” Hanamaki cries. “Issei, stop flirting with me!”

“Says the one doing all the flirting.”

“Okay! Jeez! We can just take it to the bedroom later—”

Hajime drops the call. It takes exactly three seconds for his phone to ring again.

“Anyways,” Hanamaki continues blithely, as if the interruption hadn’t happened, “it’s been, what, four years since Oikawa last visited? Holy shit, that was the Tokyo trip, wasn’t it?”

The Tokyo trip. That Tokyo trip. Four days, followed by four years of separation.

Hajime can say he’d gotten somewhat used to it, the gaping hole in his life left by Oikawa Tooru. Until two years ago, when he tried fitting back in with some awkward, half-baked attempt at reaching out, telling him about his scheduled visit to Japan the following year. But of course Hajime had accepted the feeble olive branch, letting its rough edges fill that gaping hole while he waited for Oikawa’s arrival to smooth it all over.

But like all things that godforsaken year, their meeting slipped out of their hands, out of their control. Oikawa’s flight was delayed until it was postponed, postponed until it was canceled, and Hajime was left cradling that half-healed wound for a period that seemed to stretch out for forever. Their friendship, balanced haphazardly on piles of uncertainties and unsaid words.

“Yo, man, are you there?" Hanamaki asks.

“Yeah. It has been four years.” Hajime begins walking towards the cafeteria. “So did he call you to meet up, or…”

“He did. Wanted to crash at mine on Friday, actually. But he didn't tell us that he was arriving today!" Hanamaki whines dramatically. "It’s like he doesn’t care about us anymore! Right, Issei?"

Matsukawa chuckles in the background. “Let them have their romantic airport reunion, Hiro.” Then, lowering the already deep baritone of his voice, he recites: “Long-lost childhood best friends meet again after an eternity apart…”

“You make it seem so boring, Issei, you sound like a goddamn radio announcer.”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “I’m not picking him up at the airport. He’s landing with the rest of his team.”

“Booo-ring,” Hanamaki boos. “You aren’t meeting him before us?”

Hajime pauses, considering his options. He supposes he’ll be badgered either way. “I am. He invited me for dinner.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Hanamaki whoops, so loudly that Hajime jerks his phone away from his ear. It doesn’t prevent him from hearing the sharp clap! of a high-five between his two friends.

“Shut up,” Hajime snaps, grabbing his lunch pack and beginning his walk to his usual spot outside the gym. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll all be seeing him sooner or later.”

Except it did, because Hajime was going to see him in seven hours. And in just a matter of days, the rest of the world would, too.

He can almost hear Hanamaki’s grin through the line. “Japan won’t know what’s coming for them.”

Hajime can’t help but agree.

He ends up going to the airport.

It’s a busy late afternoon in Haneda, a bustle of tourists and athletes alike milling about. He ducks past a family taking photos with a giant Miraitowa standee, maneuvers around a team of broad-shouldered women draped in Team Germany Swimming jackets, and pauses to give directions to a wide-eyed teenager looking for the international departure terminal.

Hajime watches the girl walk away after a deep bow, keychains dangling from her heavy-duty backpack and grip tight on two large luggages. Suddenly, he’s reminded with a pang of being eighteen, standing alone amidst a less crowded airport in Sendai. Still, it had seemed so huge, then, compared to the life he had packed into three pieces of baggage.

He remembers thinking, with raw determination, that if Oikawa had been able to make his trip to the other side of the globe, then Hajime could, too. Even when he had to change terminals because his check-in counter was transferred without notice, sprint towards his departure gate just to find out his flight had been delayed, and deal with the baggage security counter in broken English when one of his packages was mistakenly marked for further inspection.

He remembers finally being seated on that cramped airplane, beside a kind lady whose smile reminded him of his mother’s and smack next to the double plexiglass window. He remembers fighting back tears as he caught his last glimpse of the Sendai skyline, watching with a tightness in his chest as it gave way to the mountains of the Miyagi countryside. His home and his world as he’d known it.

And then—

And then all there was an expanse of sky so vast and heartbreakingly blue, and Hajime had finally let his tears fall. It was neither the sapphire of Kitagawa Daiichi nor the turquoise of Aoba Johsai, but the blue of a land he would never wear but always search for.

Argentina blue.

A color that would always catch his eye, whether he was in Sendai or LAX or here, standing in the sea of Haneda Airport, because there it is, that goddamn shade of blue. The blue of the sky and his dreams and the man he’s known longer than he knew how to remember.

Then he is reaching, reaching across the distance between them. Across the Pacific, the Caribbean. The Sea of Japan. Hirose River. The puddle of water that would gather on the doorstep of his childhood home on rainy days.

Then nothing at all.

Their knuckles connect, firm and solid and real, just like a thousand times before, and Hajime can’t help it. Laughter bubbles up his throat as he wraps his hand around his best friend’s wrist and tugs.

“Iwa-chan, what are you—”

They collide, and it should feel like a kilonova, but Hajime’s chin bumps roughly into Oikawa’s shoulder blade, and now they’re both laughing, and he can feel Oikawa’s lungs shake through his arms wrapped around his chest. The sea continues to flow around them, and Hajime breathes.

“You’re going to crush my ribs, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa complains, but the grin in his voice gives him away.

“It’s not my problem you’re still a wimp after all that training,” Hajime shoots back. Then, because there’s no reason not to, he adds, “Idiot.”

“Wow, okay? Just because you think you train your athletes better?” The undercurrent of competition in his voice stirs something in Hajime’s gut, and he shoves Oikawa away. Lightly, at first, and then harder, because as much as he hates to admit it, the idiot has somehow filled out, and Hajime finds himself wondering what new lines of muscle run underneath his Team Argentina T-shirt.

He looks up—annoyingly enough, because he’s never been able to close that gap between them—and is met by smiling brown eyes, so bright they’re almost golden. That same swoop of hair, albeit a little shorter and ruffled from the flight. The stubborn curve of his pouting lips. The familiar slope of his nose, with a new dusting of rose across his cheekbones, painted by the Argentinian sun.

The face of an Olympian.

“That’s a genuine smile if I’ve ever seen one,” Hajime remarks, and Oikawa’s glowing expression morphs into one of petulance that hasn’t changed one bit since kindergarten.

“Well, aren’t you happy to see me!”

Hajime cuffs him in the neck—he likes to think he’s mellowed out over the years, but he’s afraid that nothing can stamp out pure instinct. Oikawa yelps.

“Japan’s Athletic trainer deliberately attempts to incapacitate Argentina’s starting setter. That can’t look good for your team, huh?”

“I am.”

“What?”

“I am. Happy to see you.” It slips from Hajime’s mouth so easily, and there’s no bite or barb that he can throw in to stop himself from expressing the warmth in his chest. Oikawa blinks at him, the rosiness on his cheeks deepening before he schools his expression into something sly and teasing.

“I knew it. Iwa-chan’s life is sooo boring without me~”

“Whatever."

“I’ll finally get some peace and quiet,” Oikawa drones in a miserable, gruff imitation of Hajime’s voice.

“Maybe I will when I stuff my fist in your mouth.”

Oikawa gasps. “Where are you getting these ideas? Don’t tell me you know someone who’s into that!”

Hajime shrugs. “Maybe I do.”

Oikawa gapes at him. “Who are you, and what did you do to Iwa-chan?”

Hajime scoffs, because the question is so ridiculous yet so close to that territory that it’s scary. It’s scary, that they could stand here, and pretend there weren’t years of change between them, that it hasn’t been lifetimes since they last stood together side-by-side, their readiness to take on the world still overflowing with teenage naivety.

But they were here, weren’t they? Finally converging on the same path after years of walking different roads, at the dawn of the realization of their childhood dreams.

When they’re finally outside the airport, Oikawa elbows him, his gaze turned to the setting sky.

“For the record,” he starts, the set of his mouth determined, “I missed you, too.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re already here,” Hajime says, arms crossed and leaning on his chair as he watches Oikawa devour a plate of gyutan.

“For the Olympics, duh,” and Hajime has to stop himself from smacking him upside the head as Oikawa moans, obscene enough to make his skin warm, for the fifth time in a row. “Ugh, I missed this. But I miss the one in Sendai more. We should go visit!”

“And when exactly do you have the time for that?”

Oikawa winks at him. “I have my ways. Like how I got here ahead of all my teammates because Iwa-chan misses me so dearly.”

“The only thing I missed was the cool down session because you called out of nowhere like it was some emergency, you brat.”

“Good! The less training for the squirts on the Japan team, the better! And besides,” Oikawa leans across the table, a smirk on his face, “wouldn’t Iwa-chan rather spend his time with me?”

Hajime flicks him right between his perfectly threaded eyebrows. “Kageyama and Ushijima have matured more than you.”

Oikawa harrumphs loudly. “That’s ‘cause I was already mature in the first place!”

“Mature my ass. Tell me who jumped behind me when you thought you saw Kageyama on the street?”

“Because it’s going to ruin the experience of seeing Tobio-chan’s terrified face when I show up on the court for the first time!”

“Trust me, Kageyama wouldn’t move an inch.”

Oikawa scowls at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“I don’t know, Oikawa, maybe the country I work for?”

“I knew it. Ever since you sent that cursed selfie with Ushiwaka. You’re a traitor!”

“And you’re not all friendly with Hinata now?”

“Shouyou is different!” Oikawa argues. “But I’m going to crush him anyway!”

“Have you told him you’ve landed yet?”

“Nope. When I say I want to surprise the whole Japanese National Team, I mean the whole Japanese National Team!”

“Everyone knows you’re coming here, you moron.”

“Ooh, are they scared?” Oikawa asks, wiggling his eyebrows. He leans forward so his face is inches from Hajime’s. “Are you scared, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “As if.” Then, he blows into Oikawa’s face.

Oikawa immediately recoils, his face burning scarlet. “And you’re telling me to grow up?”

“I never said anything like that.”

Oikawa glowers at him. “You know what, Iwa-chan,” he says, voice suddenly low, “maybe I don’t really care about seeing Tobio-chan and Ushiwaka-chan’s faces.”

“Uh huh?”

“What I really, really, want to see,” he continues, “is you.” There it is again, and of course it’s Oikawa’s words that prod it, that flame in the pit of Hajime’s stomach. Hajime can’t pin it on anything else but that competitive streak they’ve always had between them.

But then suddenly, he remembers being twenty-three, sitting across Oikawa in a not-so-different streetside restaurant, in a not-so-distant Tokyo district. The unchanging, devious tilt of Oikawa’s smile. The dangerous tenor of his voice lighting a match in Hajime that he has long since forgotten, but never knew how to put out.

“I’m right here, Shittykawa,” Hajime replies, voice rough as unpolished stone.

In the shitty yellow lighting, Oikawa’s eyes gleam like amber. “I know.”

“You’re going out an awful lot for someone who’s competing in the Olympics in a week,” Matsukawa notes.

It’s Friday, and as promised, Oikawa had showed up to Hanamaki’s flat with a bottle of Argentinian wine and Hajime in tow. Dinner consisted of half-edible food cooked by Hanamaki, followed by takeout to compensate for the sheer lack of nutrients that definitely did not meet the dietary requirements of an Olympic athlete. Afterwards, they wandered out to the balcony, where they'd spent the better half of the past hour pestering Oikawa about his Olympic regimen while snacking on kaki no tane.

“Technically, the prelims don’t start until the Monday after, so no!” Oikawa says cheerily. Then he pouts. “Unfortunately, I won’t be facing Iwa-chan and his little band of scrubs until the quarterfinals."

Hajime rolls his eyes, deciding against gratifying Oikawa with a response. Unfortunately, Oikawa takes that as a sign to move on to pestering his next victim. He spreads his hands wide, reminding Hajime comically of a villain with the intent to invade the district of Ikebukuro below.

“Makki, you have such a nice view. Where do you get the money to pay for this apartment?”

“Just ‘cause I’m between jobs doesn’t mean I don’t have savings,” Hanamaki retorts. “I’m not that irresponsible.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Oikawa replies breezily. “I’m honestly amazed that Iwa-chan didn’t get food poisoning from how much of your lethal oyakodon he ate. He must have the stomach of Godzilla.”

Matsukawa snorts. “If anything, I’m the one who has the most tolerance for Takahiro’s cooking. You guys should try his nabe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. It occurs to Hajime that this is probably the first time he’s heard Matsukawa call Hanamaki by his first name in real life. It’s a stark reminder of how much time has passed since they last saw each other.

“Well, Makki-chan,” Oikawa drawls, “I guess you’ll have to cook me your famous nabe while I’m here.”

“Uh, no I don’t.”

“Come on, Makki, the next time I come back your bangs might be longer than Shirabu-chan’s! I’m still getting used to not being blinded by your forehead, you know!”

“I’m surprised you even remember who he is.”

“‘Course I do. Ushiwaka’s little minion.” His lips curl in distaste. “But his sets were so boring.”

“They were all pretty stable, though,” Hajime points out. “And he wasn’t a brat like you.”

“You wound me, Iwa-chan! After all those beautiful sets I sent to you?”

“Your head doesn’t need to grow any bigger, dumbass,” Hajime says, lightly punching his shoulder. Oikawa catches his gaze, and Hajime thinks—no, he knows—that they’re remembering the same thing.

The glow of the streetlights above them. Muscles heavy with exhaustion and the bone-deep ache of loss. I couldn't be prouder to have you as a partner. You’re the absolute best setter. A challenge—a promise—sealed by knuckles on knuckles. One finally coming to fruition, against all odds.

Oikawa smirks at him, and Hajime returns it with a grin.

“Excuse me,” Matsukawa interjects. “We’re still here, by the way.”

“They’re absolutely insufferable, now that they’re Olympians, or something,” Hanamaki says with an eyeroll.

“Technically, only I am the Olympian, because—”

“And your ego,” Hajime interrupts, “is beyond saving.”

“I mean, there are a couple of ways to bring it down,” Hanamaki interrupts again. “Remember the hanger?”

“Of course I do,” Matsukawa says. “I have one in my cabinet. I use it to hang up my silk pajamas.”

Hamamaki pales. “Oh god. Not the silk pajamas. Issei, you’re joking, right?”

Hajime groans. “Watch it. His ego is going to inflate even more.”

“Mattsun!” Oikawa practically jumps onto him, nearly knocking the two of them over. “This is why you’re my favorite!”

“No, I’m not,” Matsukawa sighs as Oikawa clings to him like a koala. “Okay then. What about when you were blown off by Karasuno’s manager?”

“That was a dare, so I don’t really care,” Oikawa sing-songs, swaying Matsukawa back and forth.

Hajime rolls his eyes. “You’re just saying that because you don’t wanna admit that not everyone falls for your stupid charms.”

“What about,” Hanamaki begins, a triumphant grin already creeping onto his face, “when you pretended you had a shoulder injury for a week because you liked it when Iwaizumi was gentle with you?”

“You were pretending?” Hajime gawks.

“I was not!” Oikawa proclaims, immediately letting go of Matsukawa. He realizes his mistake too late when Matsukawa leans towards Iwaizumi, making a show of whispering to him conspiratorially.

“He actually was," Matsukawa drawls, loud enough for Oikawa to hear. "He was all like, ‘Iwa-chan’s actually kind of sweet, it’s so adorable!’”

Hajime feels his face beginning to heat up. “Shittykawa…” he growls.

“Mattsun, stop making things up!” Oikawa wails. “I take it back! You’re not my favorite anymore!”

“Oh, please,” Matsukawa grins, “I’m pretty sure we all know who your sweet, adorable favorite was—”

Oikawa throws a peanut at his head, and Matsukawa ducks into the apartment. Oikawa grabs a handful more of the tiny snacks and dashes in after him.

“Oi! No making a mess in the living room!” Hanamaki yells.

Moments later, Hajime’s dragging a sulking Oikawa by the collar back onto the balcony while Hanamaki picks a crescent-shaped rice cracker from Matsukawa’s hair.

There’s a moment of silence after they watch Hanamaki pop the said rice cracker into his mouth.

He stares back at them. “What?”

“You dipshits,” Hajime mutters, “are actually worse than the idiots on the National Team. I can’t believe this.”

“I’m pretty sure you would’ve murdered Oikawa if he so much as threw a peanut at you,” Hanamaki mutters.

“True!” Oikawa chirps. “Mattsun’s such a chicken. I can’t believe he actually ran away from me.”

“There’s just something about you, Captain,” Matsukawa sighs, “that brings out the worst of our Seijoh days.”

“You mean the best,” Oikawa croons.

“Tell me about it.”

He does. It starts out as a joke, really, but they do talk about it, unironically. Their golden Seijoh days. Team bets during practice matches that Yahaba would always lose. Kindaichi running around buying milk bread for Oikawa and the latter never paying him back. Arm-wrestling competitions that nobody could beat Hajime in.

Karaoke nights after exams. Lunches at the ramen shop across campus. Shrine visits on New Year’s. Hanamaki even brings up Hajime’s reindeer onesie, which he had already comfortably buried in his memory, and Oikawa teases him until Hanamaki also reminds him of that red-and-blue outfit.

It’s all so disgustingly, heart-wrenchingly sentimental that Hajime’s chest physically hurts. It almost feels like that evening in the Seijoh gym after their loss to Karasuno, stupidly full with ramen, playing their hearts and stomachs out until they were on the verge of throwing up. It almost feels like that midnight meal in a cramped Airbnb in Asakusa, drunk on exhaustion from running around the city, reminiscing the same memories but in sharper, more colorful detail.

He looks at Oikawa, leaning casually on the rail with a wine glass of water in one hand, the lights of Ikebukuro illuminating his features and making them sharper. His bangs are a little more windswept than usual from the evening breeze, and there’s the smallest speck of stubble near his left ear. The dark circles, ever-present underneath his eyes. Hajime thinks of a time when he could notice each subtle change in them.

Suddenly, Hajime doesn’t find it as hard to believe that he’s older. They all are. There are years and years between Ikebukuro and Asakusa and Sendai, some better than the others. The worst, spent in radio silence.

Hajime doesn’t think he’s ready to deal with the worst of that wound; not yet, and definitely not now. But tonight, he thinks he feels it heal a little more.

Chapter Text

July 2018
UTC-07:00

It’s a Friday when Hajime finally cracks.

The day had started off normally. Wake up at five, go for a run until seven, clock in at work at nine. He’s far enough into his internship that Utsui-sensei not only lets him run the biomechanics experiments by himself, but also assist some of the undergraduates in the lab. Hajime had ended up going an hour overtime helping a shy but brilliant third-year studying knee osteoarthritis, but he didn’t really mind. He knew how valuable senior assistance was from his own undergraduate days.

He then spends another half hour checking and cleaning up the lab since the rest of his colleagues had already left early for the weekend. By the time he finishes, it’s nearly seven in the evening, and he’s exhausted enough that he’s sure he’ll crash on the sofa by the time he gets back to his apartment.

Instead, he’s greeted by a stack of new mail—a fresh addition to the ever-growing pile pushed away to the corner of his desk. But tonight, he has nothing better to do, so he sits down and resigns himself to sifting through bills and advertisements until he falls asleep.

He’s jolted out of his haze by the sound of his doorbell ringing. It’s not the usual sharp, singular sound—it’s a continuous, high-pitched buzz that leaves Hajime’s ears ringing. He has only a few seconds to wonder what kind of asshole would press and hold his doorbell for ten seconds straight so late at night before he hears a familiar voice outside.

“Hajime? Are you there?”

He opens the door and is met with the face of his old college friend. “Charlize? Why are you—”

“Oh my god!” She throws her arms around him. He nearly stumbles, shocked by the impact and a little off-kilter from his earlier daze.

“Hello,” greets Jieun from behind her. She removes her sneakers and places them down gingerly on the shoe rack. “You gave us quite the scare, you know.” She narrows her eyes at Hajime. “Dude, no offense, but you look like you crawled out of your grave.”

“Lab,” Hajime says by way of explanation. Jieun looks only partly convinced.

Charlize steps back almost immediately, her face scrunched together furiously as she studies Hajime’s face. “Right! Are you okay? We’ve been trying to call you the entire day!”

Hajime blinks. “I’m sorry,” he amends. “I’ve been really busy—”

“You’re always busy, we know,” Charlize interjects. “But we texted you last night and you didn’t even reply!”

Jieun steps forward and places a placating hand on Charlize’s shoulder, thumb rubbing gently over her arm. Hajime observes as the tension gradually leaves her body.

“I really haven’t checked my phone since,” Hajime admits, because it’s the truth. He’d gone offline exactly a minute past eight in the evening yesterday. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you guys. I had no idea you’d be in town today.”

“You would have if you picked up your phone,” Charlize grumbles. “But we would’ve gone here anyway. I mean, we are here now.”

Hajime offers them both a sheepish smile. “I don’t really have anything prepared, but I can whip something up.”

“No, no,” she says. “We can just order takeout.” She looks at him again, open concern in her expression, before she adds: “You look like you could get some rest, anyways.”

He sighs. Did he really look that bad? “Sure. Pick whatever you want.”

“Great!” Charlize says, whipping out her phone as they walk into the tiny living-room-slash-kitchen area. She plops down onto the sofa, Jieun quickly following suit beside her. Hajime takes the bean bag on the floor.

As Charlize scrolls through restaurants, Hajime turns to Jieun. “How long are you two here for?”

“Just the weekend,” Jieun answers. “We’re heading up to San Francisco to meet my parents on Monday.”

Charlize looks up from her screen with an apologetic smile. “We’d really love to stay longer, but…”

“It’s not like I’d have time to go out after the weekend,” Hajime says. “But meet the parents, huh?”

Hajime watches as his friend’s cheeks turn an endearing shade of crimson. “Yeah. It’s not the first time, though.”

“They adore her,” Jieun informs him with an eyeroll. “I think they’re expecting grandchildren already.”

“They are?!”

Hajime laughs. “That’s great, you two,” he says. He’d been the primary witness to Charlize’s pining since their second year of college, and he’s pretty sure Jieun had liked her for even longer. He had no doubts that the two of them had what it took to someday tie the knot—in fact, they were probably already halfway there.

He looks at them sitting together on the couch, knees pressed together and arms loosely interlocked. At ease, at home, even in someone else’s apartment.

Maybe that’s what it was. Finding home in another person.

He thinks, briefly, of a cloudless evening on a quiet street. A lantern-lit ocean on the other side of the equator. A crowded street in an ever-changing city. An ache slowly rises in his chest—the same ache that had forced him to turn off his phone twenty-four hours ago, for fear that it would expand and swallow him whole.

“Hey, Haj,” Charlize says. “You good?”

Hajime nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“The food’s arriving in a bit,” she informs them. It doesn’t take long until the doorbell rings again—normally this time—and Charlize shoots up. Jieun lets out an amused huff as she watches her girlfriend disappear down the hallway.

The door opens again and a familiar scent fills the air. Hajime feels his heart give a tight squeeze.

Charlize emerges into the living room moments later carrying a paper bag. “Dinner time!” she announces as she begins to take out containers of various Japanese dishes—chicken karaage for Jieun, gyoza for herself. Hajime watches as she procures a bowl of shoyu ramen and places it on the coffee table in front of Hajime.

“This is your favorite, right?”

He stares at it. It’s the exact same bowl Oikawa always had delivered to him.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He reaches for the bowl, and realizes with horror that his hands are shaking, if only ever slightly. “Yeah, it is.”

He tries to ignore the evident look of concern on Charlize’s face as he takes a sip of the broth. It burns his tongue, and he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. Perhaps it’s the guilt of ignoring everyone the entire day. Or perhaps it’s the relief of seeing his college friends after so long. But when the first real tear falls, Hajime knows those are only excuses—minor mishaps that, when piled up, can’t even compare to the truth.

“Hajime,” Charlize whispers as she and Jieun run over to him, their own dinners forgotten. “What happened?”

How could he explain it? How could he explain that there hadn’t really been any bridges burned, but that they’d left them untouched for so long that rust grew between them? How could he explain that in the wake of that corrosion, he’d grown afraid that one step to reach out could send it all crumbling down?

He had never really needed words of explanation with Oikawa, because their understanding had always extended past that. But when it had been stretched like a cord across continents and lifetimes, was there anything left to be gleaned beneath the static?

“I’m sorry,” Hajime says. “Bad day, that’s all.”

“Oh, god, we’re sorry,” Charlize says. “It was pretty out of the blue, we should have waited for you to answer—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says. “It’s just…”

It’s just a Friday at the end of a hectic week. But it’s also one of the most important days of his life—always has been—because his best friend just turned older by a year. A year that had slipped through his fingers and into the yawning chasm between them.

“...homesickness, I guess.”

You [Yesterday at 20:00] Happy birthday, Shittykawa
You [Yesterday at 20:00] Take care always

Tooru [18:13] thanks :) no need to remind me

You [22:01] Of course

July 2021
UTC+09:00

This year, Oikawa’s birthday falls on a Tuesday. With only three days until the Opening Ceremony, both his and Hajime’s schedules are packed to the brim. In spite of Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s teasing about his excursions, they all knew that the Olympic athlete was working harder than ever.

Which is why it’s almost a miracle when Oikawa calls him early in the morning as he supervises his team’s run, inviting him to dinner with his Argentinian teammates.

“Are you sure?” is the first thing Hajime asks.

Oikawa’s pout is practically audible through the phone. “Is there a problem, Iwa-chan? I mean, I guess you might be really busy—”

“Of course not,” Hajime interjects gruffly, even though there are a million things running through his head at once. “I’ll be finished by six.”

He pushes it all down, because it’s okay. They’re fine—more than fine, actually, because even when they aren’t seeing each other, Oikawa’s been texting him every day again, sending him little updates about his practices and shopping for local skincare products and the new bakeries he’s been seeing around Tokyo that weren’t there when they last visited four years ago.

“Great! I can pick you up, then.”

“What?” He says it so loudly that Aran shoots him a concerned look as he passes by him on his fifth lap. “What happened to your ‘grand surprise plan of making my team shit their pants at first sight?’”

“I’ll just hide outside the arena!"

"No."

“Why?!”

“Ignoring the fact that that's just weird," Hajime intones, "It’s your birthday dinner, dumbass. I can take care of myself. Just send me the address.”

"At least let me pick you up at Shibuya Station?" Oikawa pleads—and yep, he's definitely pouting now. In the background, Hajime catches a few phrases in muffled Spanish that sound like a call to return to practice. He hadn’t told Oikawa yet, but he’d asked his friend Luis to teach him enough of the language to make casual conversation during his Irvine days.

“Fine, fine," he huffs. "Go back to training, Oikawa.”

“Hold on, let me just send you…” His phone pings as the Google Maps link of the restaurant pops up in his notifications. “There! I’ll see you at seven?”

“Yeah, yeah. See you.”

“See you, Iwa-chan!”

He pockets his phone and finds himself face-to-face with a sweaty, grinning Hinata.

“Was that Oikawa-san?” he asks excitedly.

“Yeah.”

Hinata positively beams. “Oh! I just remembered—are you seeing him later? Can you give him my birthday gift?”

“Who’re ya givin’ gifts to, Shouyou-kun?” Atsumu slows down to a stop behind Hinata. Sakusa, who had been running beside him, rolls his eyes and plows on.

“Oikawa-san! It’s his birthday today!”

“Oikawa?” Atsumu scowls. “Ya mean Argentina’s setter?”

“Yep!”

“Yer seein’ him later, Iwa-kun?” Atsumu raises an eyebrow, hand on his cocked hip.

Hajime mirrors his expression with an eyebrow raise of his own. “If you can all do me a favor and not grievously injure yourselves within the next twelve hours, then yeah. And Hinata, you can give me the gift after practice.”

“Yessir!” Hinata salutes.

“I ain’t gonna get injured, my muscles’re plenty strong!” Atsumu preens.

At that moment, Kageyama passes by them. With his eyes still fixed forward, he intones: “I’m one lap ahead now, by the way.”

“You—” Hinata bows quickly to Hajime before shooting off, yelling “Thanks, Iwaizumi-san!”

“Sakusa’s about to gain a lap on you too, Miya-san,” Hajime points out.

“Not a chance,” Atsumu smirks. “I overtook the slowpoke ages ago. Looks like ya were too busy chattin’ someone up to notice, huh?”

“What I noticed,” Hajime replies dryly, “is that you ran all your laps in the innermost lane when I specifically told everyone to stick to the outer one.”

Aran, now on his seventh lap, flashes a thumbs-up in confirmation.

“Fine, fine,” Atsumu grumbles. “I’ll do an extra lap fer ya. But for the record, I’m still faster than Omi-kun, ya hear?”

Hajime sighs, already resigning himself to a long day. “Whatever you say.”

Thankfully, the rest of their training goes by without any major mishaps. Hajime only catches wind of some squabble between Sakusa and Atsumu in the locker room after it happened, so all his knowledge of the incident is purely based on word-of-mouth. Apparently, more than half the team had been witness to their fight, but only Yaku claims he’d caught them doing something a bit more intimate than that beforehand. He’ll have to ask Suna for video evidence of the incident later.

For now, though, he’s off work and won’t have to think about it for the next twelve-or-so hours. So, he lets himself relax, gazing at the shifting cityscape through the window as the Yamanote Line cruises through Tokyo.

Shibuya Station is busier than ever when Hajime steps through the toll gates. He shoots Oikawa a quick text to update him on his location and follows the crowd to the nearest exit, which turns out to be right in front of the famous crossing. There’s a significant queue of tourists lining up to take pictures in front of the Hachiko statue. Hajime’s pretty sure he has at least three pictures with the famous dog—one during their 2017 Tokyo trip, another with his junior high class, and the earliest on a visit to his relatives when he was in grade school. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he even has a single solo picture at the memorial—they’re all with Oikawa.

Which is why it’s no surprise when he sees him leaning on the railing surrounding the statue, dressed in a sleek turtleneck tucked snugly into dark slacks. He stands out in the crowd—not with his old flamboyance, but as a picture of effortless grace.

It’s only when he looks properly at his face that he realizes that Oikawa’s gaze is already fixed on him. He smiles when their eyes meet and pushes off the railing, walking towards Hajime with quick, easy strides.

“Yaho~, Iwa-chan,” he greets, voice light.

“Hey,” Hajime replies. He knocks his fist against Oikawa’s arm. “Happy birthday, oldie.”

Oikawa scowls at him. “You’re older than me.”

“Doesn’t make you any younger.”

“Hmph.”

They weave through the bustling crowd, Oikawa’s tall presence creating a pathway for them through the sea of people. Hajime suddenly remembers that not many of these people can recognize Oikawa—not in the way they could recognize Kageyama or Hinata or anyone else on Japan’s National Volleyball Team. Yet he still sees heads turn, casting second glances and longer stares. He wonders how much more of that Oikawa will get in the next few days. By the end of the Olympics, he’s sure everything will change. The thought fills Hajime with an inexplicable rush.

But for now, they’re just two people on the streets of Shibuya on a summer evening, walking leisurely side by side.

The dinner venue is on the highest floor of one of the buildings on the perimeter of the crossing. Oikawa’s voice echoes throughout the high-ceilinged lobby as he fills the air with chatter, all the way up to their elevator ride with jazzy music playing in the background. Hajime is content to listen to him list the teammates who will be at the party—he remembers most of their names from days spent analyzing the Argentinian lineup with the JNT, but hearing it from Oikawa is, well, new. He'd barely heard anything about the team from him in years.

Seeing them, too, is different. When they emerge from the elevator, they’re immediately hit with a barrage of greetings, mostly in rapid Spanish. Hajime counts exactly eleven people—the entire team had still gathered to celebrate Oikawa’s birthday even with less than a week before the start of the Games.

Once the commotion dies down, Oikawa beckons Hajime forward. In English, he says: “Everyone, this is Hajime, my best friend and the Athletic Trainer of the Japanese National Volleyball Team.”

There's a chorus of greetings and a couple of whistles as Hajime suddenly finds himself at the center of attention.

“Best friend?” a brown-haired man with sideburns repeats in Spanish. Hajime recognizes him as one of the team’s most prominent middle blockers. “What happened to Iwachan?”

“That’s Iwachan, stupid,” snickers a taller man with a ponytail. “That’s the guy on Tooru’s wall.”

Hajime lets out a snort. He disguises it—poorly—with a small cough. “Iwaizumi Hajime,” he clarifies. “Nice to meet everyone.”

“Hajime!” calls a vaguely familiar voice. His beard and hair are much shorter than before, but the rest of his appearance is unmistakable. “Is that really you? You’ve grown so much!”

“Hello, Jorge,” Hajime greets, relieved by the sight of a familiar face. “It’s been a while.”

“Almost five years, wasn’t it?” Jorge chuckles. “I kept asking Tooru when you would visit Argentina next! You haven’t met the rest of the team, have you?”

“Not yet,” Hajime admits.

Jorge straightens up. “Let me introduce you, then!” He takes Hajime by the arm and leads him to the terrace. Hajime shoots a backwards glance at Oikawa, who only laughs at him before following suit.

The long dining table is situated in the middle of a wide terrace with a view of Shibuya. He catches a glimpse of the vast web of twinkling lights and skyscrapers beyond the balcony railing. Even after nearly two years in Tokyo, the view still takes his breath away.

As he approaches the table, the members of the team introduce themselves one by one with the assistance of Jorge and Oikawa. They’re all incredibly enthusiastic, and even those who haven’t seen him before still somehow recognize him. Hajime is a little overwhelmed but flattered nonetheless.

The last two to join them are the man with sideburns, who introduces himself as Basilio, and the one with a ponytail, Lorenzo. They both reach out to shake his hand before settling on the seats across from him and Oikawa.

“Nice to meet you, Hajime,” says Lorenzo. He gives him a crooked grin. “Tooru’s told us a lot about you.”

Hajime blinks at him, because he knows nearly nothing about the man in front of him except that he is decidedly, objectively attractive.

“Don’t flatter him too much, Zo,” Oikawa says coolly. “Iwa-chan doesn’t take compliments very well. I’m afraid he might pass out if it gets too much.”

Hajime notes the use of the man’s nickname and decides to ignore the rest of the comment. “It’s great to finally meet the team,” he says. “Have you settled into the Village well?”

“As much as I can with Tooru as a roommate,” Lorenzo says, a glint in his eye.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Oikawa whines.

“You two are always roommates,” Basilio points out in Spanish. “If Lorenzo wanted out he’d have done it ages ago.”

“I didn’t say I was complaining,” Lorenzo quips lightly.

Hajime feels his stomach clench. He stabs his fork into his pasta.

“Well, Iwa-chan used to always complain about me as a roommate,” Oikawa says with a pout.

“You would kick me off the bed, Oikawa.”

“Would not!”

“Would too.”

Lorenzo eyes them amusedly. “You guys would share a bed?”

“All the time," Oikawa says smugly.

Hajime rolls his eyes and tries not to look at Oikawa, who he’s sure has a shit-eating grin on his face. He also doesn’t want to see his response to the flush that’s rising on Hajime’s cheeks as he unwillingly recalls the countless nights he’d lain awake imagining the warmth of his best friend beside him.

He’s incredibly grateful when their libero, Alejandro, comes over to ask about Hajime’s work. He learns that the athlete has been working with Argentina’s own athletic trainer to deal with the strain that comes with his hypermobility.

“I actually have a similar case on my team,” Hajime tells him. He’d checked Sakusa’s wrists earlier that day, but it had only been as a precaution. The spiker was strict about his routines, and Hajime admired him for that. “I honestly thought he’d come to me with injuries more often, but he’s incredibly meticulous in taking care of his physical wellness.”

“That’s good to hear,” Alejandro says. “I’d honestly be the one giving our trainer a hard time the most often if not for our problem child right here.”

“Problem child? Who?”

“Tooru,” Alejandro answers, a slightly puzzled look on his face. “He says you used to look after his knee injury all the time?"

Hajime whips around to look at Oikawa, who’s pointedly avoiding his gaze as he helps himself to another serving of chicken alfredo.

“I did,” Hajime says. He’d been there that fateful day when his knee gave way for the first time after months of overworking. The scent of bandages and the feel of Oikawa’s trembling skin underneath his hands are burned into his memory.

It had been their third year in Kitagawa Daiichi. It had also been the same year that Hajime decided to pick up Takashi Utsui’s book and learn more about physical training.

“Is it getting worse?” Hajime asks, voice quiet.

He recalls, suddenly, the pure fear that had gripped him as Oikawa lay on the ground, unable to get up. But worst of all, he remembers the helplessness—the sheer inability to do anything to help his friend at that very moment.

As Alejandro, Basilio, and Lorenzo all exchange worried looks, Hajime feels a sliver of that helplessness creep back into his consciousness.

Oikawa places a hand behind his neck and laughs, a little too loud to be unfeigned. “Alejandro’s exaggerating! He just doesn’t want to admit that he’s the one who gives our trainer the worst headaches.” he says, still not looking at Hajime.

“Oikawa,” Hajime warns.

“It’s not that bad,” Alejandro adds quickly. “Tooru’s still able to play very well.”

“Exactly!" Oikawa says brightly. “Really, Iwa-chan, it’s nothing to worry about.”

He finally looks up to meet Hajime’s gaze. He doesn’t need words for him to understand his message: We can talk about this later.

Hajime exhales. “It better not be.”

“Toto!” someone calls. “The cake’s here!”

“Cake?!” Oikawa screeches.

Sure enough, Jorge comes over holding an elegant white box with golden trim. He sets it down in front of Oikawa, who gapes at it.

“Is this allowed?” he asks.

“Are you going to question your captain, Tooru?”

He grins. “No, sir.” He lifts the lid of the box to reveal a buttercream cake decorated with swirls of blue and tiny gold foil and pearls. Hajime watches his expression light up as he reads the birthday greeting written with icing in both Spanish and Japanese on top of the cake.

“This is so pretty!” he exclaims. “Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me,” Jorge says amusedly. “Hajime’s the one who got it for you.”

“Iwa-chan?” he gasps, turning to Hajime with his mouth hanging open and cheeks tinged pink.

Hajime shrugs, but he can’t help the fond smile that creeps onto his face. “Kageyama recommended the bakery.”

“Tobio-chan?!”

“Wait, wait, we still need to sing happy birthday!”

Everyone gathers closer. One of the younger team members brings out a phone and starts recording as they begin to sing. Hajime trips a little over the que los cumplas but joins in for the whole song nonetheless, and he sees Oikawa’s teammates give him smiles of approval from the corner of his eye.

He watches Oikawa the entire time and revels in the familiarity that washes over him. Hajime had been at pretty much every birthday celebration that Oikawa had up until his eighteenth. It didn’t matter if it was just him and Oikawa’s family in their favorite restaurant in Sendai, or the entire Seijoh team gathered in the club room after training with a box of blue cupcakes—Hajime would always be right beside him, close enough to blow the candles out if he wished. He might have done it when he was five, and Oikawa had been so upset that he refused to eat his cake until Hajime spoon fed it to him.

When he chuckles at the memory, Oikawa turns to him. His smile is warm, his eyes crinkling the slightest bit at the corners. In that moment, it doesn’t matter that Oikawa’s the center of attention, surrounded by people Hajime barely knows, or that the song already ended and everyone else is probably waiting. In that moment, it’s just Hajime and Tooru, frozen in a time left unscathed by years of birthdays spent apart.

The candlelight flickers in Oikawa’s eyes, deep brown in the dark, and Hajime has the vaguest sense that he’s drowning.

“Make a wish, Tooru!” someone yells, and the spell is broken. Oikawa closes his eyes at the same time Hajime takes a deep breath.

A beat later, he leans forward and blows the candles out. Everyone else erupts into cheers and applause, and Hajime steps away to let the others approach Oikawa with claps on the back and even kisses on cheeks.

The party seems to get even more lively from there. Basilio passes him a slice of cake—it’s soft and fluffy, the milky buttercream melting pleasantly on his tongue. It’s exactly how Hajime had imagined Oikawa would like it—or at least hoped he would.

He doesn’t need to wait for any more confirmation when Oikawa suddenly groans around a mouthful of cake, loud enough to hear even from the other side of the table. “Oh my god, Iwa-chan. How is this almost better than milk bread and alfajores?”

Hajime grins. “Guess Kageyama could be trusted after all.”

As Oikawa chatters excitedly with Jorge and the team’s vice captain, Hajime heads over to the balcony railing, contenting himself with taking in the evening view.

No matter the hour, Tokyo is always luminescent at night. But Hajime lives on a quieter street where the streetlamps become dim after around twelve in the morning—something he’d discovered after a night out with Bokuto, Hinata, and a very inebriated Atsumu who had insisted Hajime bring him home. (Because he wasn’t heartless, he’d deposited him on his couch, and a ruffled Sakusa had come over to pick him up the next morning.) Leaning against the railing, he searches for these pockets of darkness—it’s difficult to see with all the light pollution, but he imagines that there are a couple a bit westward of his current view of Shibuya Crossing.

“You live in quite the dazzling city, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime doesn’t look up to face him, gaze still trained on the buildings below. Oikawa continues, leaning on the banister an arm’s length away from him. “I always thought you’d be more of the country type.”

“What, because I’m boring?”

Oikawa snorts—an ungraceful sound, coming from him. “Sounds like I don’t need to remind you anymore.”

“Your jokes are getting as old as you, Shittykawa.”

“Rude!”

It’s silent for a few moments as Oikawa takes in the view. From the corner of his eye, Hajime watches as he scans over the landscape, searching.

“I said that because the countryside reminds me of you,” Oikawa confesses. “The things we used to do as a kid. Playing in the springs. Catching cicadas and butterflies. Naming constellations.”

“Weren’t the constellations your thing?”

“Honestly? I made up some of those names on the spot.”

“Oh, definitely. Do you think I couldn’t tell that Spin Serve Star was pure bullshit right away?”

“Shut up,” Oikawa snaps, evidently flustered. “At least I could pronounce Armadillidiidae.”

“Preschool kids have no need to know the scientific name of pill bugs, Oikawa.”

“I know,” Oikawa replies smoothly. “And that is why I became the smartest kindergartner in that playground.”

Hajime scoffs. The image of five-year-old Oikawa comes up in his mind—vague and blurry, but a concrete memory all the same. Between the two of them, Hajime had always been the tougher one, but Oikawa had been adventurous enough to follow his every whim, even when he emerged from mud piles with scratches and bug bites. That didn’t mean he didn’t hate the little accidents—from a young age, he’d always been the one more prone to injury, and so Hajime had learned to take care of him with his own tiny hands.

Nothing much changed, really, even when they grew older. Just that Hajime had to trade alien-patterned band-aids for brown athletic tape and stop planting soft kisses on Tooru’s knees, like his mother would do for him to make the pain go away.

“Hey, Oikawa,” Hajime starts. “About your knee. Is it getting worse?”

Oikawa sighs. “Not now, not really,” he answers, and although Hajime has his qualms, he knows that his friend is being honest. “It’s just under more strain than usual, since we’ve been training for the Olympics and everything. And…”

“And what?” Hajime presses.

“I landed on it again,” Oikawa says, trying to keep his voice light. “Early in 2019. I had to take time off for a couple of weeks. They nearly cut me off the potential Olympics roster.”

Hajime’s heart sinks. He tries to search for the right words to say, wants to ask if he’s sure he’s really okay, but that’s stupid because he should be, if he’s on the Olympic team and they have a coach and trainer worth their salt—

“Iwa-chan, I can hear you thinking from here,” Oikawa jokes, lightly.

There are still a thousand more questions in Hajime's head, but the only thing he can think of is: When did we stop telling each other the important things in life?

“Why didn’t you tell me? Fuck, Oikawa, I could’ve…”

“Could’ve what?” Oikawa says. His tone is soft.

And there it is. The elephant in the room, teetering precariously on the balcony railing.

“Could have gone to see you,” Hajime answers, after a beat of silence.

"You think I would've wanted you to?” Oikawa counters, and Hajime's mouth hardens into a thin line. But then Oikawa's face falls, remorse taking over his features. “Sorry. That isn’t true. It’s just…” He sighs again, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Hajime answers. “We don’t have to do this now.” God, it’s even his birthday, he thinks.

Oikawa gives him a rueful smile. “We have to, though,” he says. “But yeah. Maybe not now.”

“Okay.” Then, “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Oikawa insists. “I really should have told you. I just didn’t want you to worry and not be able to do anything about it.”

He was right. There wasn’t really anything Hajime would have been able to do in that position—he would have been at the final stretch of his internship, which meant that he did have enough expertise to professionally deal with Oikawa’s injury, but none of the time or resources. Or the guts, a voice in his head taunts.

Hajime sighs. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“Iwa-chan admitting that I’m right?” Oikawa smiles slyly. “It must be my birthday!”

Hajime punches him lightly on the shoulder. They’re closer now than they were before, so Oikawa shoves him back, hard.

He glares at him as he rubs at his shoulder. “I’m not giving you your birthday gift.”

“Wait, what?!” Oikawa cries. “You have a birthday gift for me?”

“Hinata has a birthday gift for you.” Hajime corrects. “Did you already forget who bought you your cake?”

“Shouyou has a gift for me?” Oikawa’s eyes are practically bursting with stars. “What is it?!”

“Not telling.” Hajime has no idea what it is.

“Fine! I’m calling him, then.” But before Oikawa can dial Hinata’s number, Hajime hands him the brightly-wrapped package, but not before catching a glimpse of the card which reads: To Oikawa-san, the Grand King! with a crude doodle of what seems to be a three-point crown.

“I’m opening this right now,” Oikawa announces, ripping through the gold wrapper with startling speed.

“What’d he get you?” Hajime asks curiously.

Oikawa brandishes a box of what Hajime assumes are Brazilian skincare products, judging from the variety of bottles with labels in Portuguese. “I need to tell Shouyou I love him.”

“I’m sure you’ll get the chance.”

“He’s too sweet for Tobio-chan,” he laments. “He should just give all his gifts to me.”

“You’re such a brat,” Hajime says, shaking his head. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“A gift.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen as he takes the small package. He unwraps it to reveal, one by one, the things he used to ask Hajime to buy all the time in California—saltwater taffy, overpriced lip balm, a vintage T-shirt that Hajime personally thought looked absolutely atrocious—as well as a delicately shaped comb. Four years’ worth of gifts, all fit neatly into one box.

“I know I haven’t been able to send you these recently,” Hajime explains. “And I broke your favorite comb when we were packing for the trip we had a few years back and never really got to replace it, so…” He hadn’t been prepared to scour nearly every shop in the Sendai shopping arcade to find a goddamn comb, but of course Oikawa had to be using something special. “That’s the one, though, right?”

Oikawa’s absolutely glowing when he nods at him. “I always knew Iwa-chan had a sweet side.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hajime huffs, but there’s no bite. “I only got you these because I owe you.”

“Still,” Oikawa says, soft. “Thank you.”

His hand drifts towards Hajime and lands on his arm, light and tentative. It feels like they’re both holding their breaths.

And then Hajime leans into the touch, and Oikawa softens beside him. He turns away from the Tokyo skyline to look at his best friend—really look at him—and sees that his smile is genuine.

They both exhale, and the world exhales around them. A sense of relief he hasn’t felt in a long while settles in his chest.

As he gazes down at the city he’s called home for the past two years, he thinks, at this very moment, that he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

Chapter Text

July 2021
UTC+09:00

Hajime likes to think he’s pretty decent at handling high-pressure situations. He’s been through his fair share of make or break events: his college interview for UC Irvine, his final thesis defense, his application to work for the National Team. He supposes it’s a trait he’d honed in high school as the ace of Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team—ten years down the line, he’s satisfied enough to say that he thinks he fulfilled his role well.

It doesn’t stop his heart from hammering in his chest as he steps foot onto the red floor of Ariake Arena for the first match of the Games.

As Coach Hibarida gives the team their final reminders, he quickly scans over them one last time. For once, they’re all silent, but their expressions speak volumes—Hajime can see it in their eyes. Bokuto’s excitement. Atsumu’s hunger. Kageyama and Hinata’s twin determination.

It’s curious, Hajime thinks, how their gazes all seem to reflect one another’s. That same burning passion, poured like light through a hundred different lenses.

Hajime watches as they gather together, arms slung around shoulders and heads knocked together. A sense of warmth fills his chest. There's an undercurrent of nostalgia, too, that feels a lot like a familiar palm on his back.

“Iwaizumi-san!” Hinata calls out suddenly. “Come join us!”

Hajime barely manages a surprised reply before Bokuto slings his arm around his shoulder. Atsumu grins as he shuffles closer to Sakusa beside him to make space in their little circle. The hitter doesn’t even frown, giving Hajime a nod of acknowledgement as he squeezes in between Atsumu and Hinata.

“Alright!” Bokuto yells. “Three, two, one—”

“Hold on,” Yaku interjects. “You didn’t tell us what to say after three.”

Bokuto, bless his heart, looks genuinely perplexed. “Do I have to?”

Several of the members groan. Beside him, Aran pats the spiker on the back. “I’m sure we can think of something—”

“Japan.”

All heads turn to their number one player.

“What?”

“Japan,” Ushijima repeats, unflinching. “We say Japan after three.”

Kageyama and Hinata exchange glances. The setter looks absolutely floored. The spiker looks like he’s having the best day of his life. He probably already is.

“Okay, big guy,” Komori says, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Ready for the countdown?”

“Never been more ready!” Bokuto replies with a wide grin. “Here we go! Three, two, one—”

The team erupts into a less-than-synchronized cheer, followed by whoops and a few muffled giggles. Hajime shakes his head in exasperation, but there's a smile on his face. He still isn’t sure what freak force of nature led to these twelve volleyball idiots bearing the national flag, but whatever it is, he’s grateful to it.

“I believe in all of you,” he finds himself saying. The words coming out of his mouth feel strange, but also right. “I’ll be watching.”

The game begins, and it’s Japan’s turn to serve first. Atsumu steps towards the starting line, expression shadowed.

For a split second, Hajime thinks he sees his right leg tremble. He frowns. Atsumu’s usually pretty stable, but—

All thoughts leave his head as he hears the smack of the volleyball against Atsumu’s palm and watches it soar across the court. It’s a near instant hit—Canada's libero barely receives the ball, and it flies up, up, and over the net, back into Japan’s court.

The crowd goes wild, and Hajime shoots up as Sakusa receives the ball and sends it flying towards a waiting Atsumu.

Coach Hibarida subtly taps his knee, and Hajime quickly sits back down, face warm. It doesn’t stop him from screaming at the top of his lungs as Atsumu sets the ball towards Bokuto in the air, who slams it right down into Canada's court.

It’s their first point of the night—of the entire Olympics—and the team is absolutely ecstatic.

They ride on that momentum for the rest of the set. It’s no surprise that Japan takes it, but it’s not without a good fight. He misses Canada snagging the match point at the end of the second set, focused on helping Kageyama run through his stretches in preparation for the third.

As Kageyama steps forward, Hajime places a firm hand on his former kouhai’s back. “Go kill it out there, Kageyama.”

The setter nods. His expression is serene yet determined. “Thanks, Iwaizumi-senpai.”

To that, Hajime grins.

Canada serves first in this set, but Sakusa executes a flawless receive that sends the ball into a perfect arc towards Kageyama.

“Hmph. Omi-kun’s givin’ Tobio-kun a much easier time than me.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow at the blond setter sprawled out on the bench beside him. “It doesn’t seem like you’re struggling.”

Atsumu smirks. “I’m just gettin’ started.”

“It may not seem like you’re struggling,” Hajime corrects, “but don’t think I’m going to let it slide.”

He scowls. “Whad’ya mean?”

“Your right leg,” Hajime says, already moving to kneel on the ground in front of the bench. “You’ve been avoiding putting weight on it the entire game.”

To that, Atsumu only grunts. “Check it if ya want to.”

Hajime does. Atsumu, strangely enough, stays silent.

“Okay, Miya,” Hajime says. “I know you’re going to go back in eventually, and it’s hard to remind you to be careful, but remember that this is just the first match.”

“I know,” Atsumu replies, tone impatient. “I’m fine. I’ll go stretch.”

Hajime observes the rest of the players carefully as Canada takes the third set. In the quick reprieve before the fourth one, Hajime goes to check on the rest of the players. He gives Sakusa’s wrists a quick massage, and then replaces the tape on Hakuba’s fingers.

The atmosphere is tense as the players return to the court, but Hajime feels strangely calm. He cheers as he watches Hinata and Kageyama score the first point with their freak quick. Even after so many years, it still never fails to amaze him.

Atsumu enters for the final set of the game and scores a service ace right off the bat.

It snowballs from there. Japan racks up point after point, and the game goes by so fast that it gives Hajime the sense of an avalanche hurtling down a slope.

He feels it crash before he sees it.

The roar of the crowd is chaotic, but it’s all drowned out as Hajime zeroes in on the fallen athlete. His hands work methodically, blood pumping steadily through his veins as he does what he’s been trained to do since the beginning of his career.

“Iwa-kun,” Atsumu intones. “Iwaizumi.”

Hajime looks up to face the athlete for the first time. Meets his gaze and sees it—the too-harsh light. Hunger.

“I need to go back in.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sakusa snaps. Hajime hadn't even realized that he'd been standing beside them this whole time. His face is contorted, and Hajime is struck with the realization that it’s more with worry than irritation.

“Miya,” Coach Hibarida frowns. “Kageyama can sub in. You’ve done well—”

“I know I have,” Atsumu cuts in. “We’ve been steamrollin’ through this whole game with me, which is exactly why I need ta finish it.”

“You’re in no condition to do so,” Coach Hibarida counters, a stern edge to his voice.

Hinata steps in, expression torn. “Listen, Atsumu-san—”

“Iwa-kun’s the only one who can say what kinda condition I’m in,” Atsumu says through gritted teeth, and everyone falls silent.

It takes a second for Hajime to realize that everyone’s waiting for his response, and well, shit.

But Hajime’s head is clear. He’s seen what he’s supposed to see—the facts and the factors—the state of the game, the state of his players. The state of the future, somehow hinging on the decision of a current trainer and former player standing on the sidelines.

He looks at the scoreboard. 14–13. They were so close.

Hajime looks up to face the rest of the team. “Miya-san isn’t injured,” he tells them, firm and resolute. “His ankle is weaker than usual, but he can pull through. Just give me a moment to tape it.”

Everyone gapes at him. Atsumu himself looks shocked, but his expression quickly shifts into one of greedy determination. “I knew I could trust ya, Iwa-kun.”

Hajime sighs. “I told you to remember that this is just the first game.”

Someone—maybe Aran—passes him the tape, and the rest of the team steps away to give them space. It has the opposite effect—Hajime can almost feel the eyes of the entire arena on the back of his neck as he wraps Atsumu’s ankle in record speed.

Less than a minute later, the game resumes. It finishes nearly as quickly as it had started.

With a perfect set from Atsumu, Sakusa spikes the ball onto the court an inch from the endline. For a moment, the players and spectators alike watch in wonder as the ball ricochets and soars into the air.

And then Hajime's dragged to his feet by the rest of the team on the bench, already screaming in synchrony with the players on the court and the crowd erupting into cheers for Team Japan. Hyakuzawa nearly punches him, and Hinata’s shaking him hard enough to make him dizzy, and it’s crazy because it’s only the first game but it’s something. It’s one step closer to the quarterfinals, where he hopes—no, he knows—he’ll finally face what he’s been waiting for all this time.

As if on cue, the giant television above them flickers to announce the next match, and the blue flag of Argentina appears on the screen next to the USA’s. But then they’re being ushered out of the court, and Hajime, well—no one can blame him if he looks back one last time to see the larger than life face of his childhood best friend.

As Oikawa’s eyes meet the camera, Hajime finally sees it—the brightest light of them all, burning like a thousand suns.

Pride.

August 2017
UTC+09:00

Hajime hadn’t been supposed to see it.

It’s the night before Oikawa’s flight back to Argentina, and his things are scattered all over the floor of the tiny living room of their AirBnb. It’s almost a mirror of the mess they created packing for the trip, with the addition of the bags of souvenirs and clothes Oikawa had stockpiled that were probably enough to fill another luggage.

Hajime picks up a T-shirt on the floor: the old Tokyo Disneyland one Oikawa had been wearing to sleep. He wrinkles his nose disapprovingly. “Ugh, Oikawa. Couldn’t you have done your laundry earlier?”

“Hmm?” Oikawa hums, voice muffled by the cabinet walls that he’d stuck his head between.

“I said,” Hajime repeats, grumbling, “couldn’t you have done your laundry earlier, Shittykawa?”

Oikawa doesn’t say a word. Hajime rolls the T-shirt into a ball and throws it at him.

“Gah! Sorry! Just give me a sec. I need to find something.”

“What is it?” Hajime stands, eyes quickly scanning the room. “I’ll help you.”

Oikawa stills. His voice is noticeably pitched when he replies. “It’s fine, Iwa-chan, you should really go to bed now! I’m sure Mattsun and Makki are already asleep.”

They both glance at the bedroom door as a loud snore reverberates from behind it.

“You need to sleep too, Oikawa,” Hajime shoots back. “Come on. We can finish in an hour if you actually start putting things into your luggage.”

Oikawa turns to him with a pout, but something in his gaze softens. He looks tired, Hajime realizes with a frown. “Okay. Thanks, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime only gives a low hum in response. He starts picking up the scattered pieces of clothing one by one, folding and refolding the ones with creases before passing them to Oikawa, who packs each item neatly into his luggage. It doesn’t take them long to fall into a familiar rhythm.

The silence is easy, but Hajime breaks it anyway. “You’re still leaving the folding to me, huh?”

Oikawa looks up from his luggage. Hajime catches the exact moment the memory resurfaces in his head as Oikawa’s eyes widen slightly, a telltale glint passing through them.

They had been eighteen then, approximately two months to California and exactly a week to Argentina. It was summer, and Hajime had been eager to do anything to stave off the sluggishness caused by the sticky heat. He’d also been more than eager to spend every last minute he could with his best friend, even if that meant folding his unreasonably immense piles of clothing and feeling like his chest was being squeezed into one of the boxes containing Oikawa’s old things.

“You’re good at it,” Oikawa replies. “Besides, I know you love doing it. It’s just another one of your mother hen tendencies.”

“I need to be compensated for this.”

“Isn’t my eternal gratitude enough?”

“You’re an eternal pain in the ass.”

“So mean, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sighs, but there’s a tiny smile on his face. It’s the one with the right corner of his mouth quirking up ever slightly—the one Hajime has come to associate with playful amusement and fondness. “I could be though, if you really wanted me to.”

A beat passes. Then Hajime snorts, and then they’re both laughing, low and rumbling in the quiet of the room.

He must have been expecting a different response. But it’s two A.M., and Hajime doesn’t have it in him to be really mean, or to hold back anymore, because they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder and Hajime must be feeling a little delirious because Oikawa’s round, round eyes are getting closer, shining with something beautiful and entrancing and dangerous and—

“You’re so stupid, Oikawa,” Hajime huffs, nudging him with his shoulder. He stands up. His insides feel like they’re all twisted up in knots.

He pads over to the other side of the room to sort through one of the paper shopping bags from Harajuku. There’s a little keychain half-unwrapped at the top. Hajime removes the paper to reveal a plush orange Sanrio dinosaur.

“Why’d you get this? Are you finally acknowledging that Tiran is better than Kuromi?”

“Never,” Oikawa replies, then pauses. “It just reminded me of you, that’s all.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow at him. Oikawa's smiling, and it does nothing to help the warm feeling rising in Hajime’s chest. He turns away quickly and goes back to sorting through the bags.

And then he sees it. Dark blue, inlaid with gold. At first, he almost mistakes it for his own, until he sees the Roman letters stamped across it in a thick, bold font.

He picks it up. It feels foreign, between his fingers. Not real, even though it is. Faintly, he feels blood pounding in his ears.

“Iwa-chan?”

Hajime turns to Oikawa. “Oikawa,” he says, voice low. “What is this?”

All air seems to be sucked from the room as Hajime holds up the Argentine passport.

It’s deathly silent as Oikawa stands up and crosses the room. His face is pale. Hajime can’t see his eyes. Tired. They’re always tired.

“The call the other night,” Hajime says quietly, realization dawning on him, ice-cold pouring over the earlier warmth.

“About the documents I had to submit to the embassy,” Oikawa answers slowly. “I could’ve…fuck, I could’ve done it at the consulate in Argentina but since I was here…”

“Why—” Hajime’s voice cracks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A pained grimace. “I—” He shakes his head, a mirthless laugh escaping from him. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Hajime seethes, and he doesn’t understand, because they’ve always told each other everything, always trusted each other, always known each other better than anyone else and yet—

Oikawa winces, and Hajime feels his heart drop to his stomach. He hates this—he hates the rage, and the silence, and the look of pure misery on Oikawa’s face.

It shouldn’t have been like this. It should have been a celebration, because Hajime knows what this means to Oikawa. It’s a ticket, a clear, defined path to the goal he had been chasing his whole life. It just wasn’t the path Hajime had thought he would take, but right now, it seems so, so clear—so painfully obvious—that Hajime wonders how he could have been so blind.

He thinks back, but all he can remember is the look on Oikawa’s face just an evening ago in the yakiniku restaurant, like a deer caught in headlights.

“So you can go anywhere in the world, Oikawa,” he’d said. “No one’s going to stop you—heck, you’ll be unstoppable—when you come back here.”

Oikawa wasn’t coming back.

Hajime’s head spins. He feels—he doesn’t know how he feels. Maybe a part of him had always known this possibility, but it had been buried deep into his subconscious. But why? He’d always been self-aware and honest with himself, but when it came to Oikawa, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Had it been the yawning distance between them, creating a dissonance between the boy Hajime had watched leave all those years ago and the one standing before him now?

He takes a deep breath and holds out the passport.

Oikawa doesn’t take it. His gaze is tilted upwards, like he always does when he’s holding back tears, and it tears Hajime apart. He wants to punch him. He wants to walk out and slam the door. He wants to reach out, to know if Oikawa is still with him, to hold him and to steady him and to keep him close.

“Just take it, Oikawa,” he mutters. “You don’t want to lose it.”

Oikawa finally looks at him, cheeks damp. Hajime wonders how many tears had been shed in the unknown time it had taken for him to make that decision. He thinks he must catch a glimpse of it in his eyes: a rainstorm of pain and determination, ambition and loss.

There should be pride, there, too, but Hajime can't place it. Only something deeper, a strange longing, so familiar it must be ancient.

“I don’t…” He stops, and the corner of his mouth twists. Hajime knows this look, too, the one colored by a feeling they’re both too scared to name. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Hajime looks at him. “You could never lose me, Tooru,” he confesses, raw and honest, and hears Oikawa’s breath catch in his throat. “But I’m afraid I might be losing you.”

He turns, and steps out into the starless Tokyo night.

An hour later, Hajime will come back to find Oikawa curled up on one side of the bed. There will be a space still left there for him, and it will feel too large and too small all at once, their limbs barely a hair’s breadth apart.

Tomorrow, Hajime will take half of Oikawa’s bags and board the train with him to the airport. There will be time for meaningless chatter, and it will feel precarious and precious at the same time, these last transient minutes spent in each other’s company.

At the terminal, Oikawa will face him for the last time in years, clutching the blue passport in one hand and Hajime’s scarlet heart in the other.

“Listen, Iwa-chan,” he begins. A shadow passes over them as another airplane soars into the summer sky. The endless blue. “I…”

“Calling the attention of all passengers of Flight 112 bound for Buenos Aires. Check-in at counter B will close in five minutes. Again, all passengers of Flight 112…”

Oikawa looks at him again, eyes wide. Frantic. Hajime has always known how to read every little shift in his gaze.

He pulls him into an embrace. Oikawa goes still in his arms. And then he’s trembling, hands grasping at Hajime’s back like a lifeline.

“Iwa-chan,” he whispers into Hajime’s shoulder. “Iwa-chan, I’m sor—”

“Shh.” Hajime pulls away. “You idiot. Don’t even try to be sorry for chasing your dreams.”

You’ll be that annoying guy who chases volleyball forever.

His throat wells up, tears and words alike threatening to spill over. Hajime had been braver, once, with the promises he’d made. He isn’t sure if he can bear to make any more.

Oikawa nods shakily. His expression is one Hajime is all too familiar with: the one that searches for reassurance, an anchor thrown out into a turbulent sea.

“Call me when you land, okay?”

His reply is lost to Hajime over the roar of the wind.

There are no goodbyes between them. Hajime watches, then, as Oikawa turns and walks towards the gates, watches until the back of his head is no more than a speck in the crowd, watches until he wonders if he’d even seen him at all.

On the bus back to Miyagi, Hajime will leave the window seat next to him empty and follow the tracker of Flight 112 with shitty data until it lands, and then wait.

Oikawa doesn’t call. Still, Hajime will spend the next few days waiting, and then some.

Chapter Text

July 2021
UTC+09:00

A knock on Hajime’s door jolts him awake. He shoots up almost instantly, reaching for the watch on his bedside table.

Coach Hibarida eyes him amusedly from the other side of the room. “Good morning, Iwaizumi-san. Should I get the door?”

“Good morning, Coach,” he replies, feeling slightly flustered. It was rare that the both of them were in the room at the same time—when Hajime wasn’t getting up early for his morning jog, the coach was usually off somewhere for a breakfast meeting. “Don’t worry about it. Miya told me he’d come here to have his leg checked again, but I’m sure he can wait—”

There’s another knock, more insistent this time, and Hajime groans as he stalks over to the door. Coach Hibarida manages a chuckle as Hajime swings the door open.

“I swear to god, Miya, if you could just w—”

“Long time no see, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa greets cheerily. “Has Miya-san been giving you a lot of trouble?”

Hajime blinks at him. And then blinks again, just to make sure he isn’t still dreaming. (Not that Oikawa had been appearing in his dreams more often than he’d like. No, definitely not.)

Oikawa looks…good. Arguably too good for an early morning. He’s wearing a sleek blue tracksuit underneath a hoodie with Tokyo 2020 printed across the front, reminding Hajime that yes, Oikawa really is at the fucking Olympics—and so is he.

“Why are you here?” Hajime hisses.

The setter, of course, pouts. “Can’t I visit my best friend whom I haven’t seen in… Oh! Good morning, Hibarida-san!” The shift in his expression almost makes Hajime snort. “I’m sorry for intruding! Iwa-chan didn’t tell me you were here.”

The snort Hajime had been holding back finally escapes him. “I didn’t even tell you that I was here.”

“Good morning, Oikawa-senshu,” Coach Hibarida greets. “No worries, I was just heading out. You played wonderfully yesterday, by the way. I’m looking forward to seeing you on the court.”

Oikawa, for once, looks genuinely flattered. “Thank you, Hibarida-san. I hope you don’t mind having some of your audience members converted into fans of Argentina!”

“Pretty sure half of my team are already fans of Argentina,” Hibarida replies good-naturedly. Hajime doesn’t miss the pointed look of amusement directed at him, and from the preening expression on Oikawa’s face, neither does he.

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Don’t get too full of yourself, ‘Kawa. All of them also want to grind you into the dirt.”

Oikawa makes an affronted noise, eliciting another laugh from the coach as he makes to exit. “Definitely. I’ll see you two around.”

Once the door closes with a click, Oikawa plops onto the bed and gapes at Hajime. “You share a room with the coach?” he gapes at him. “I can’t believe Shouyou didn’t tell me!”

Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose. “You got my room number from Hinata.” At this point, it’s more of a statement than a question. Hajime really should have known.

“I wanted to surprise you!”

With an eyeroll, Hajime pushes off from where he had been leaning against the doorframe to get his uniform from the cabinet. “What do you want?”

“You don’t have training this morning, right? Perfect! Neither do I!”

As Oikawa blabbers on about wanting to try a new café in Koto that apparently served customizable granola bowls, Hajime makes a mental note to warn Hinata later about colluding with the enemy.

Or maybe not, because it would probably be a bit hypocritical, as he begrudgingly agrees to be dragged all the way out of the Olympic Village by the most demanding man in all of Argentina and Japan.

“Just let me take a shower first.”

“You haven’t taken a shower yet? Hygiene, Iwa-chan!”

“I would have if you didn’t barge into my room at six-thirty in the morning!”

Later, when they’re sitting at a booth in the mostly empty but quaint café, Oikawa looks at Hajime with a gleam in his eyes and asks, “Did Hibarida actually mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“What he said about the game yesterday,” Oikawa says, with an air of feigned nonchalance. “Which you haven’t said anything about, by the way.”

Hajime frowns. “Why wouldn’t he mean it, Oikawa? You scored two service aces right off the bat. Plus nearly all your sets to Basilio scored, didn’t they?”

“So you did watch the match.”

He scoffs. "What makes you think I'd miss it?"

“Weren’t you taking care of Bleach-chan?”

“Miya? He wasn’t actually injured.” He frowns as Oikawa pours copious amounts of honey over his (Hajime-approved) granola bowl. “Wait, how do you know something happened to him?”

“How could I not know?” Oikawa demands, finally putting down the jar of honey. “Everyone knows, Iwa-chan! You stole all the attention from me! I only barely made the Top 5 on the trending Olympics topics on Twitter last night!”

“What do you mean? What, was Miya the Top 1?”

“God, you’re so dense, Iwa-chan. Do you even know how to use social media or are you actually a grandpa?”

“Let me remind you that you made that account against my will in high school,” Hajime grumbles. “I just don’t check it that often.”

“You’re hopeless,” Oikawa declares as he brings out his phone. Hajime’s eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of a photo on the back of it. Unfortunately, he can barely see who’s in it—Oikawa is definitely one of them, but his thumb on the other person’s face renders them completely unrecognizable. He suddenly feels an unexplainable spark of irritation.

Oblivious to Hajime’s observation, Oikawa turns the screen to him and practically shoves it in Hajime’s face. He takes the phone, and for a couple seconds squints at the text on the screen until he realizes that it includes his name. With “1. Trending” above it.

He nearly drops the phone. Oikawa yelps.

“What the fuck? Shittykawa, what the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Oikawa protests, incredulous at the accusation. “Did you even click on your name?”

“Do I want to click on my name?”

“Iwa-chan, please. I need you to understand my suffering.”

Begrudgingly, Hajime clicks on his name. Immediately, the screen fills with what appears to be a video taken of the game the night before.

The focus is, well, him. Hajime watches, feeling slightly bewildered and slightly strange, as the pixelated version of him on screen rushes to the court after Atsumu’s fall. Then the video zooms in even further—he didn’t even know phones could zoom in that much—and suddenly he feels a little conscious at the sight of the beads of sweat trickling down his arms and neck.

The rest of the video continues from this perspective all throughout the full forty seconds in which he’d made the decision to wrap Atsumu’s ankle and let him return to the game. The video barely even shows Atsumu—the only shift had been to focus on his hands on the setter’s ankle before shakily returning to Hajime’s side profile.

Once the video finally ends, he looks at the number of views and nearly chokes on his granola.

“Eight hundred thousand views?”

“Ninety-four thousand likes and thirty-one thousand retweets, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa recites solemnly. “That’s four times my record hit tweet. Four times.”

Hajime decides not to question how Oikawa has those numbers memorized, but unfortunately, he isn’t far off. Except the numbers seem to be increasing the longer he stares at the screen.

He scrolls downwards, but it only gets worse as he reads the next few tweets, all with tens of thousands of likes each. Some of them are surprisingly genuine, citing his professionalism and expertise in dealing with the critical situation. One of them even went as far as calling him the MVP of the game, which Hajime personally disagrees with, as flattered as he may be.

“Looks like Iwa-chan has a lot of admirers now, huh? Guess that makes up for all the ones you didn’t get in high school.”

Hajime decides to ignore that comment. Unfortunately, it’s at that same moment that he sees a very uncomfortable close-up of his biceps with an even more uncomfortable caption, causing blood to rush to his face.

“Getting all flustered, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa cackles. Smirking, he leans over the table to peer at the phone.

iwaizumi hajime athletic trainer stan @iwabarkmachine

Iwaizumi Hajime, if you’re reading this, can I set an appointment to be professionally choked by your arms?

“Wait. Oikawa, did you…” Hajime stares at the red heart below the tweet. And the very evidently green retweet button, which he’s pretty sure isn’t normally supposed to be green.

Oikawa snatches the phone from him. “Okay, enough Twitter for today!”

Hajime sighs. “I hope that isn’t your official account.”

“Uh, duh,” Oikawa says. “Why would I share Animal Planet gorilla videos on my account?”

Hajime glares at him. “You complain about people thinking you’re a minor when you act less mature than an elementary school student.”

“No need to be so harsh, Iwa-chan, you know I’m only joking!” Oikawa says, finally setting down his phone on the table. From there, Hajime can finally see the photo clearly. With a start, he realizes that the person who had been covered earlier was him.

It’s an old picture from high school—they’re both wearing their teal Seijoh volleyball uniforms. Oikawa, as usual, is flashing a peace sign. By the looks of it, Hajime had been coerced into holding one up, too.

“I never liked our alternate uniforms,” Oikawa says suddenly. Hajime looks up and finds brown eyes staring straight into his own. “They were so bright. And unflattering.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hajime huffs. “You’ve always looked good in any shade of blue.”

He doesn’t know what had compelled him to say it. Perhaps it’s the softness in Oikawa’s eyes, which grow even wider as Hajime adds: “But I think this one suits you the most.”

Oikawa looks down at his tracksuit. Looks up again at Hajime. Blinks once, then twice. “Iwa-chan…” he begins slowly. “Which one of the scrubs taught you how to flirt?”

“I’m not flirting, you dumbass,” Hajime shoots back a little too quickly. “I mean it. You look happy.”

Oikawa tilts his head. “Happy.”

“Aren’t you?” Hajime asks, unable to help himself.

“I am,” Oikawa answers, voice thoughtful. “I…really am.”

Hajime leans back in his chair. He feels a sense of satisfaction, knowing that it’s true, and yet. “You’re worried about something.”

“Stop reading me like that,” Oikawa replies amusedly. “You’re scaring me, Iwa-chan.”

“What is it?”

Oikawa sighs. Long fingers settle on the rim of his sweater sleeve as he begins to absentmindedly pick at its loose threads. “I’m glad to be back,” he muses. “But sometimes I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, coming back to the country I came from bearing the colors of another flag.”

Oikawa’s voice is small, careful—and Hajime knows why. It’s the first time he’s brought up anything close to the topic of his passport since Hajime had discovered it four years ago.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t stir up any resentment. Acceptance had come to Hajime a long time ago, although it had taken some time to settle.

“You’re not supposed to feel anything.”

To that, Oikawa raises an eyebrow, and Hajime quickly shakes his head. “Wait. I meant—hey, stop laughing!”

“I’m not laughing!” Oikawa protests, stifling a giggle. The little shit.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You know what I mean. If you’re happy, you’re happy. What other people think shouldn’t change how you feel.” He frowns. “Shittykawa. Don’t tell me you feel guilty or inferior or something stupid like that—”

“No!” Oikawa exclaims. “But. You know. People will question me.” People already have, is the truth that goes unsaid.

“It’s inevitable,” Hajime tells him earnestly. “When you’re as successful as you are. But just because you took a different path doesn’t mean you’re any less deserving of being where you are now.”

For a moment, Oikawa is silent.

“Wow. You really are scary, Iwa-chan.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to keep you in check.”

Oikawa leans back, his expression pensive yet calm. In the background, the door to the cafe opens with a chime, and the young lady at the counter greets the entering family in a bright tone. Hajime watches as the brief breeze through the entrance gently tousles Oikawa’s hair.

He looks at him, the boy whom he had always known to be too great for a small town in Sendai. And yet somehow, in this quiet little corner of Koto, he still fits in as easily as he does into Hajime’s life.

“I’m glad to be back,” Oikawa says.

I’m glad that you’re back, Hajime thinks.

It’s enough for Oikawa to smile in understanding. Hajime isn’t the only one with a mind-reading ability, after all.

It takes Oikawa exactly five days to break Hajime’s record.

Hajime is there when it happens. He sees it before everyone else does: the slightest shift in the position of Oikawa’s right shoulder as he gets ready to set. The tell nobody else had ever been able to catch.

A flick of his wrist and the ball is falling towards the ground. Hajime watches as Tunisia’s middle blocker freezes before dipping towards the ball at the same time their setter lunges forward from behind.

The ball drops, and on the other side of the net, Oikawa Tooru lands on his feet with perfect grace and a winning smile on his face.

Hajime is the first to his feet. The rest of the arena immediately follows. His view of the court is cut off by the rows and rows of Japanese and Argentinian team fans alike cheering and jumping in front of him, but on the giant LED screen above, he sees the rest of the Argentinian team crowd around a vibrant Oikawa like flowers to the sun.

For a split second, Oikawa’s eyes meet the camera. His gaze sharpens, an almost predatory glint in his irises.

Next to Hajime, Hinata ceases his screaming and says: “We’re next, aren’t we?”

Hajime nods. “We’re next,” he echoes. And again, to taste the reality of the words on his tongue.

The orange-haired spiker studies him, and for a moment, Hajime catches a glimpse of his former opponent. The other half of the force that had stopped Oikawa, once, from reaching the goal he had been chasing in the final years of his youth. The last one he would chase with Hajime by his side.

How far away it all seemed now.

“It’s been a long time coming, huh?” Hinata muses.

Eight years, and eight thousand kilometers.

“It has.”

“One point three million views, Iwa-chan. One point three million.”

Hajime resists the urge to smack him with his lunch tray. “I know. You’ve repeated that to me at least a million times in the past one point three hours.”

“And how many times have you repeated the video to generously contribute to my views?”

“Not enough times to satisfy your self-absorbed ass, apparently.”

The truth is Hajime had lost count of the number of times he’d rewatched Oikawa’s flawless execution of a setter dump at match point. After all, it was the very point that had secured not only Argentina’s winning ticket to the quarterfinals, but the eventual fulfillment of their fated match-up in only a couple of days. And if Hajime wasn’t as immune as he thought he’d be to the beam on Oikawa’s face that had been caught so perfectly on camera, would that be such a crime?

Oblivious to Hajime’s internal monologue, Oikawa lets out an affronted huff. “You’re just jealous I broke your record.”

Hajime rolls his eyes. He’s about to bite back when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. He turns to see a small girl in a Team Korea jersey smiling up at him nervously.

“Um, excuse me? Are you Iwaizumi Hajime?” she asks.

“Depends on who’s asking!” Oikawa cuts in cheerily, which earns him a threatening glare.

“That’s me,” Hajime replies, hoping his lighter tone would reassure the now confused-looking stranger. “How can I help you?”

The girl’s tentative smile morphs into a full-fledged grin. “I saw your video on Twitter the other day—I got a degree in sports therapy before I went into gymnastics, so I kinda nerded out a lot when I saw your video going around. What you did was really amazing. And really smart, too.” she gushes.

“O-oh.” Hajime’s pretty sure he’s currently red as a tomato. He’s never going to hear the end of it from Oikawa. “Thank you. Getting a degree in sports therapy and competing in the Olympics sounds pretty amazing, too,” he adds.

“You’re so sweet,” she giggles. “Do you mind if we take a photo together?”

It takes a full second for Hajime to process the question. Unfortunately, it’s also enough time for Oikawa to roll his eyes and step forward, smiling sweetly at the gymnast.

“I’d love to take a photo of the two of you,” he offers, voice like honey. The girl, rendered somewhat speechless by Oikawa’s dazzling grin, hands him her phone.

“Alright! One, two—oh come on, darling, you look like a grumpy old man. Smile!”

Hajime only barely manages to steel his scandalized expression into neutrality before the shutter goes off, and Oikawa returns the phone to the athlete. Hajime’s ninety-nine percent sure he’d been caught blinking.

“Thank you so much!” the girl says with a bow. Immediately turning towards Hajime, she adds, “Do you want the photos, by the way? I could give you my number—”

“Iwa-chan, have you picked what you’re going to get yet? We’re almost at the buffet!”

“Uh—” Hajime looks from the gymnast, whose expression is filled with hopeful anticipation, to Oikawa, who’s still smiling sweetly despite the obvious impatience in his eyes. He glances at the slowly gathering queue behind them. “Sorry, but I think we’re holding up the line. Maybe, uh…”

“Oh, it’s okay! See you around, Iwaizumi!” the athlete says hurriedly. She disappears into the fray of the dining hall before he can reply.

Once she’s gone, Oikawa places a plate of sliced bananas onto Hajime’s tray and drags him towards the bread section. “I heard their blueberry muffins are really tasty.”

Hajime eyes him warily. “Darling? Really?”

“Who said I was calling you darling?”

“Right, because you were definitely calling her a grumpy old man.”

Oikawa blissfully ignores him and places a blueberry muffin next to the bananas. “Think their shokupan is any good?”

Hajime rolls his eyes and puts a slice on Oikawa’s tray. “Let’s go. We’re holding up the line.”

“Okay, fine, I digress,” Oikawa says once they’re seated at a nice spot next to the window. “How many people have you given your number to, Iwa-chan?”

“None.” The truth is, he’d already been asked for it multiple times. The first time he’d gotten recognized by a six-foot-ten German basketball player in the hallway had not exactly been the smoothest exchange of his life.

“Hmph.” Oikawa's chin drops to his hand, a thoughtful look on his face. “Instagram is better, anyways. At least you can let me look at their photos first and judge before you take your pick.”

“Take my pick?”

“Oh come on, Iwa-chan, don’t act like such a prude. You’re famous now—not as much as me, of course, but it just might be enough to gather you a little fanclub—so make the most out of it!” Oikawa exclaims. To Hajime’s ever-increasing horror, he attempts to waggle his eyebrows suggestively. It earns him a flick on the forehead.

“I’m not at the Olympics to fuck around, Oikawa,” Hajime grunts as Oikawa pouts and rubs the sore spot. “And if you’re so adamant on me finding someone here, then why didn’t you let me get the gymnast’s number?”

“Not your type,” Oikawa answers easily, plopping a piece of the milk bread into his mouth. He frowns. “Not soft enough,” he declares in the exact same tone.

He isn’t wrong. Hajime decides to drop the subject, because thinking about things like that with Oikawa just gives him a headache. He’s already had enough migraines the past week looking after the National Team.

Thankfully, Oikawa immediately launches into some story about his roommate—apparently, Lorenzo had only just discovered the wonders of Japanese vending machines and was slowly developing an addiction to Pocari Sweat.

“Isn’t that unhealthy, Iwa-chan? I mean, even if it isn’t, I have to find some excuse to make him stop because he keeps using my Suica to buy like six bottles a day—oh, hi, Zo!” he greets as the long-haired roommate in question approaches their table. “We were just talking about you.”

Lorenzo flashes him an amused look. “Interesting. Alejandro and I were just talking about you.”

“What?! Where is he? He hasn’t returned my Salonpas spray yet, you know!”

“Over there,” Lorenzo tilts his chin towards the center of the dining hall. The said libero gives them a sheepish wave.

“The little—be right back!” Oikawa announces before setting off.

“Well,” Lorenzo says, sliding into the seat Oikawa had left, “I’d much rather talk to you, anyways.”

Hajime lets out an amused huff. “Let me know if you need someone to drag him out of your room.”

“I mean, when he isn’t training he’s always out and about looking for you, but I’ll keep that in mind,” Lorenzo replies casually. “Nice work out there, by the way. Tooru’s been showing off that video of yours. Whole team’s watched it at least a dozen times. Our trainer’s been getting real antsy ever since.”

Hajime blinks, unsure what to do with the sudden influx of information. “Oh. Thanks. You were also really great in the last match.”

The athlete's eyes twinkle. “Tooru wouldn’t have let us perform at any other level than the best. You’d think it was the gold medal match how much he motivated us then. Turns out he really wanted to cinch that spot to go against you guys.”

“Of course. Bet he can’t wait to finally torment Ushiwaka and Kageyama face to face.”

Lorenzo raises an eyebrow. “Are they close to Tooru?”

Hajime snorts. “Should I be concerned that you equate being tormented by Oikawa with being close to him?”

That earns him a chuckle in response. “Then I guess there isn’t anyone closer to him than you.”

“Going by that definition? Definitely.”

“And by the more traditional definition, if I may presume,” Lorenzo remarks. “He was mostly talking about beating you, actually. Even back in Argentina.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Hajime replies lightly, even though his lungs suddenly feel like they’re too big for his ribcage. “I’d love to see him try.”

The other man gives him a long look. Hajime resists the urge to squirm under his gaze.

“Say, Hajime,” Lorenzo asks, “do you know if Tooru’s interested in anybody?”

Hajime nearly chokes on air. The other man offers him a glass of water, which he sheepishly declines.

“Not at the moment, no,” Hajime says carefully once he’s stopped coughing. What was with that kind of conversation coming up lately? Come to think about, Oikawa had only been pestering him about his love life ever since he arrived in Tokyo. (The first time of many had been at Hanamaki’s apartment, when he’d asked Hajime if he’d been to Umeda Sky Building and put a love lock on yet. The answer had been a resounding no.)

But the last time Oikawa had mentioned anyone for himself—when Hajime tries to think back, he comes up with nothing. Unless… He shakes the thought away. There’s no way.

Lorenzo hums thoughtfully. “Guess he’s really secretive about it, then, if he doesn’t even tell you,” he says.

Hajime feels his chest tighten even further. “What do you mean?”

The athlete juts his chin towards Oikawa. He’s laughing at something Alejandro just said, but his eyes are locked on Hajime. A brief flash of surprise colors his features before he acknowledges him with a tiny smirk.

"Look at his eyes," Lorenzo tells him, as if Hajime hadn't already found them staring straight at him. “That’s the look of someone in love.”

Hajime's heart plummets to his stomach. He steels himself, quipping, “Didn’t know you were the romantic type."

The athlete holds up his right hand, where a gold band glitters on his ring finger. “Neither did I, but things change when you’re married to the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Hajime lets out an appreciative whistle.

A wistful smile settles on Lorenzo’s lips as he leans back on his chair. “But even I can’t deny that Tooru’s one hell of a guy. We’ve been trying to set him up, you know.”

Hajime can’t help it—he lets out another snort. “And how did that go?”

Lorenzo holds up his fingers. “Three dates. That was the record. Most others didn’t make it past the first.”

“He was the same in high school,” Hajime tells him. “Had a girl ask him out on a date nearly every week. Never saw most of them again.”

“Seems like he was quite the heartbreaker,” Lorenzo muses. “Though sometimes I wonder if maybe he went and got his heart broken himself.”

To that, Hajime is silent. The other takes this as a sign to continue.

“You know Tooru, right? Always giving his best for the team, always showing up with a smile and an encouraging word. You never forget the days when he comes in and makes you feel invincible.”

Hajime knows that. It’s a feeling he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget, even when it’s been years since the last time he and Oikawa played on the same side of the net. Every set that held as much power as his words, telling his team that he believed in them. Telling Hajime that he believed in him.

My perfect trust with you, Iwa-chan.

“You also never forget the days when he comes in and you wonder if he’s really as invincible as he makes you feel.”

“What are you saying?” Hajime interjects, wincing internally at how it comes out harsher than he’d intended. Thankfully, Lorenzo only shakes his head with a rueful smile.

“Don’t get me wrong, Hajime,” he says. “But if you’ve played with Oikawa for as long as he claims, you probably know this better than most of us. He still gives his all—heck, he gives even more than that, it’s scary.”

Hajime frowns, thinking of the countless times he’d had to drag Oikawa out of the gym late at night. “The idiot. He still overworks himself?”

“No, no.” Then he pauses. “Well. A little. But we make sure to look after him,” he quickly adds. “Ever since he told us that you would always scold him for overdoing his serve practices in high school, telling him that ‘Iwa-chan would be disappointed in you’ always works.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

Lorenzo lifts his palms. “I’m one hundred percent serious. But you just know when he’s going through it, you know? We thought maybe he was just homesick, or something, but I started to think it was more than that.”

“You started to think he was heartbroken.”

“Or heartsick,” Lorenzo adds seriously. “Whoever they are, they must be really special.” He considers Hajime for another moment, once again pinning him under the intensity of his gaze. “To be loved by Oikawa Tooru.”

Hajime thinks of late night phone calls and surprise deliveries and care packages arriving from across the equator. He thinks of declarations of faith and careful tosses and a firm, warm hand on his back.

A blanket being pulled up to his shoulders while he was shivering and feigning sleep. A box of chocolates on his desk on White Day from an anonymous sender with familiar handwriting. A button pressed to his palm on a sakura-filled graduation day.

To be loved by Oikawa Tooru.

Hajime wonders, then: what if he had allowed himself to be?

August 2017
UTC+09:00

“Hajime, wait!”

He freezes, the sound of his first name pressing play on a film reel’s worth of memories.

He remembers being nineteen, standing in Sendai Airport, as Oikawa looked him in the eye and told him that it would always be them, Hajime and Tooru, wherever the world would take them.

He remembers being fifteen, soaring above the court, Oikawa shouting his name in determination as he set the ball that would give them their only taste of victory against Shiratorizawa.

He remembers, and remembers, and remembers, up to the very first time he heard the sound of his name on Oikawa’s lips, bright and distant like a star. A faint wisp of childhood.

Hajime. Hajime. Hajime.

“Hajime.”

He turns to face him. He doesn’t know if it’s the neon street signs or his own spinning vision that blurs Oikawa’s features, rendering them unreadable.

“Just spit it out.”

“The World League. Last month. I was supposed to be part of the lineup, but…”

He didn’t make it. The unspoken truth weighs heavily in the already tense air between them.

“They invited me to join the National Team in May. You were preparing for graduation, and…”

“And what?” Hajime snaps.

“I didn’t want to burden you with my decision,” Oikawa says, voice level.

Hajime shakes his head in utter disbelief. “That’s it?” he retorts. “What kind of shitty excuse is that? When did you ever care about burdening me or not?”

At the last question, he hears Oikawa’s sharp intake of breath and immediately feels a spike of regret. He steps forward, placating, and Oikawa’s face finally comes into focus.

He wonders how he could possibly look more wrecked than Hajime feels.

“You’re right,” Oikawa whispers, a pitiful twist of a smile on his mouth. “I’ve always just been selfish.”

“Don’t go putting words in my mouth, Oikawa,” he warns, voice fracturing.

He shakes his head. “I am selfish, Iwa-chan. I didn’t want to choose. I want the medals and the fame, but I still want you.”

The admission feels like a blow to his sternum. “You—” His hands clench into fists, nails digging into his skin. “You didn’t—it’s not a fucking choice you have to make, Oikawa,” he spits. “I’m still your best fucking friend. You’re not supposed to keep shit from me like that.”

Oikawa shakes his head again, a rueful laugh spilling from his lips. “You want the full truth, Iwa-chan? I’m a bad friend.”

“I’m a bad friend because I thought I could keep this from you, just so I could pretend for a while that things were simple. I’m a bad friend because I didn’t want to see how you’d react to me switching passports, because I was scared that if it made you even the tiniest bit sad, I’d throw it all away in a heartbeat.”

Oikawa takes a deep breath. The last intake of oxygen before the dive.

“I’m a bad friend because I wanted—because I want to be more than that to you,” he says, and Hajime hears his next words as if from underwater.

“I’m in love with you,” Oikawa whispers, smiling crookedly despite the tears shining in his eyes. “And I’ve kept it from you for so fucking long. I don’t suppose you want to ask me why I did, too, huh?”

Somewhere in the distance, the wail of a siren pierces the night air. A few blocks away, there’s the sound of a can being popped open as someone bursts into laughter.

Here, there is silence.

Hajime does not ask, because he knows why. Oikawa had known why, and he’d taken the plunge anyway, even if Hajime could not be there to catch him.

But Oikawa was meant to soar, and Hajime was merely an anchor.

“Don’t think too hard or you’ll hurt your head, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, his words worn out and familiar. But the sincerity in his tone is new and painful, and so is the gentle brush of his fingers on Hajime’s temple. “I’m not asking you for anything. I know it’s hard to believe, but burdening you with my feelings is the last thing I ever wanted to do. Or burdening you with anything at all.”

You’re not a burden, Oikawa, he wants to scream, but it feels like his lungs are full of water. He says it anyway, half-choking on the words as Oikawa drops his hand and moves away.

Oikawa smiles at him, then, bittersweet and earnest and falling apart at the seams. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I made my decision, even if I was too scared to face it. At least I could have…this, for a while.” He waves his hands vaguely, and Hajime’s gripped with the fear that he might not just be talking about the trip. “Goodnight, Iwa-chan.”

He leaves before Hajime has the chance to respond.

But as Hajime replays the moment in his head, again and again and again, that near-final film frame in their catalog of memories, he realizes this: Oikawa had given him an infinite number of chances, and Hajime had taken none.

Maybe, just maybe, it's his turn to give one.

Chapter Text

September 2004
UTC+09:00

Hajime stares at the jockstrap swaying on the clothesline, indigo droplets falling from its corners onto the grass.

He squints, attempting to read the smudged autograph scrawled across the center. He’d started learning the English alphabet over the summer—though they wouldn’t begin studying the language until later that year, he thought it might be nice to get a head start. But between the splotchy ink and the mid-afternoon sun glaring in his eyes, he’s barely able to make out anything except for a large, curving letter B.

Blanco. He recalls, vividly, the name printed across a sky-blue jersey. The Argentinian setter who had helped his team’s ace score point after point after point.

The ace had been really cool, but Hajime had to admit that so was Blanco. He could understand why Oikawa had been amazed by him. And if Oikawa wanted to be a setter just like him, then maybe Hajime could be the ace that would score all his points. He thinks of them wearing matching jerseys—maybe blue ones, since that was Oikawa’s favorite color. Playing in a team of their own, with a crowd to cheer them on and ask for autographs on paper boards and new underwear.

The sound of the door sliding open behind him interrupts his daydream. Out emerges Oikawa, carrying two cones of ice cream: one a very bright mint, the other a milky white.

Their knees knock together as the other boy plops down onto the porch steps beside him. Wrinkling his nose, Oikawa thrusts the mint chocolate cone towards Hajime.

“I still don’t understand why you like the taste of toothpaste.”

“It does not taste like toothpaste,” Hajime argues. Still, he gives a little nod of thanks to his friend. He’d still gotten Hajime his favorite flavor after all, even if he liked to complain about it all the time. “It’s refreshing.”

Defensively, Oikawa grips the cone of his own ice cream. It was milk-flavored, just like the bread he really liked. “All ice cream is refreshing. You’re just weird.”

It’s silent for only a moment as Oikawa takes the first lick of his ice cream. His delighted expression quickly morphs into one of horror as he watches Hajime take a bite of his own.

Hajime sends him a pointed glare back, and before the other boy can open his mouth, beats him to his complaint.

“Stop looking at me like that. You know this is how I eat my ice cream.”

“Like Godzilla taking a bite off a skyscraper?”

“Godzilla doesn’t eat skyscrapers,” Hajime corrects him gruffly. “He feeds on radiation.”

“That sounds like something from Yakata-sensei’s science class.”

“That’s ‘cause it was. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Why would I? I’m not gonna become a scientist,” Oikawa huffs, even though Hajime knows he’s been getting near-perfect marks in all their quizzes so far.

“What are you gonna be, then?” Hajime asks, but he already has a feeling that he knows the answer.

“A setter,” Oikawa confirms. “I’m gonna go abroad, and ride an airplane to go to the Olympics,” he adds, chest puffed out and eyes shining. They’d just watched the games in Athens on Oikawa’s living room TV a few weeks ago. It had been amazing.

“And win a medal?”

“And win a medal,” Oikawa agrees.

Hajime hums. It isn’t that hard to imagine. If anyone in Japan could do it, it would definitely be his best friend.

“What about you, Iwa-chan? What do you wanna be?”

Hajime shrugs. “My mom says I still have a lot of time to think about it,” he says. “But I wanna do something that helps people.” He’d realized it just the other day, when Oikawa had gotten a nasty gash stumbling on the rocky bank of the creek where they usually played bug-catching. Hajime had brought him to his bathroom, and with the help of his Nee-chan, cleaned the wound and covered it with a dinosaur-patterned band-aid.

The other boy looks at him curiously. Hajime doesn’t miss the hint of sadness in his voice when he asks, “Iwa-chan doesn’t want to play volleyball?”

“I do,” Hajime reassures him. “I could be your ace,” he adds, thinking of his earlier daydream. “Since you wanna be a setter, and I like spiking anyways.”

“Really?” Oikawa asks, breaking into a wide, toothy grin.

Hajime decides that he likes that grin very much.

“Really,” he promises with a firm nod.

“Then I’m going to be the best setter there ever is.”

“So that’s your dream, huh?” Hajime says. He feels a bit pleased that he was there to witness the start of it. They had a long way to go until they were grown-ups, but Hajime was sure that he and Oikawa would still be best friends until then. “Your first ever one.”

Oikawa’s nose scrunches up. “Not my first ever one.”

Hajime cocks his head, frowning. Oikawa’s never told him about any other dream before. Did he just forget?

“Really? What’s your number one dream, then?” he asks.

“Not my number one.”

“What? But you just said—”

“All of my dreams are equally important,” Oikawa declares. “I’m just saying the other one came to me first. I only really started wanting to become a setter since I watched Blanco, remember?”

“Okay, yeah,” Hajime agrees. He looks up again at the jockstrap, hanging in between Oikawa’s Vabo-chan shirt and his favorite pair of alien pajamas. Oikawa follows his gaze dejectedly. “I still can’t believe you had that signed.”

“Well, if you didn’t use our paper for Handa’s autograph, then maybe I wouldn’t have had to,” Oikawa grumbles. “And it wouldn’t have had to go through the wash.”

“Then I wouldn’t have free ice cream,” Hajime points out, emphasizing his point with a deliberately large bite of the delicious mint chocolate. Oikawa groans loudly in response.

“So,” Hajime continues, because he’s really curious now. “What is it, then?”

There’s a funny expression on Oikawa’s face as he refuses to meet Hajime’s eyes. Hajime hasn’t seen him squirm so much since Minatozaki-san from the neighborhood volleyball club complimented his serve.

“I can’t tell you,” he finally mumbles.

Hajime scowls. “But we tell each other everything.”

Oikawa’s gaze softens. Twinkles, even. Hajime finds that he has a hard time looking away.

“When we’re old enough,” Oikawa promises. “When we’re old enough, you’ll know.”

Hajime frowns. He doesn’t know what old enough means, but he does know that Oikawa will tell him in time. They have a lot more of it to spend together, anyway.

August 2021
UTC+09:00

There’s a current of restless energy running underneath Hajime’s skin all throughout their final training before the quarterfinals. He tries to maintain his focus, he really does, but it’s not exactly a walk in the park when his mind feels like it’s barrelling through time and space at a thousand kilometers per hour. It’s even worse between sets and during water breaks, where he tries to tune into conversations but ends up drifting in and out of them. But at least, he tells himself, he can still do his job well. He’ll just have to make up for the socialization bit later.

If the team notices his mood, none of them say anything. Hajime chalks it up to their own varying states of restlessness—even Ushijima and Kageyama, whose emotions are usually limited to unreadable composure before a match, seem more fidgety than normal. Maybe Hajime wasn’t the only one going through an Oikawa-induced crisis.

Hours pass without incident, and Hajime thinks he might just be let off the hook until they reach the cool-down.

“Are you in a hurry, Iwaizumi-san?” Hinata asks, catching Hajime just as he steals another glance at his watch while watching the team finish up their stretches.

“What? Oh. No,” Hajime answers, sheepish. “Sorry about that. Take as much time as you need with your flexor.”

“O-kay,” Hinata replies, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he lowers himself back on the ground. Hajime monitors him carefully, kneeling down beside him to gently reposition the spiker’s right leg.

“You know, Iwaizumi-san,” Hinata says slowly, “Oikawa-san told me that their team reserved Ariake Arena for practice this afternoon.”

Hajime doesn’t know if it’s Oikawa’s name or the new piece of information that gives him more of a start. He decides to pin it on the latter. “The whole arena? I didn’t know you could do that.”

Hinata shrugs. “Neither did I. But their practice ends at—”

“—six in the evening, yeah.” Hajime pushes himself back on his feet. “I know. I’ve been meaning to visit him once we finish.”

The athlete nods enthusiastically. “You should go. It’s not everyday you meet with Oikawa-san, right?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t everyday that we have to prepare for an Olympic quarterfinal match, either,” Hajime points out. “Oikawa can wait.”

Hinata tilts his head, a knowing smile on his face. “Don’t you think Oikawa-san has waited long enough?”

To that, Hajime has to agree.

Fifteen minutes later, he finds himself standing right outside Oikawa’s room on the fourteenth floor of the Village complex. He lingers for one, two, three seconds to catch his breath before he raps his knuckles against the door.

He feels his heart lurch as the door swings open.

Lorenzo stands on the other side. “Iwaizumi?”

“Hey,” Hajime greets, feigning nonchalance. “Is Oikawa here?”

Something gleams in Lorenzo’s eyes that reminds Hajime a bit too much of Hinata’s earlier expression. “I’m afraid not,” he answers. “I was about to call him, actually, since our training finished a while ago, and he said he wanted to use the shower first.”

“Oh,” Hajime breathes. “Do you know where he is?”

“I was thinking you would have a better idea of that,” Lorenzo admits.

The realization hits him almost at once. Hajime shakes his head in exasperation. Of course. The idiot.

“I do, actually,” Hajime says. “Thanks, Lorenzo!” he adds, once he’s halfway down the hallway.

If Hajime is right, then Lorenzo deserves his gratitude for more things than one.

It feels like déjà vu, almost, as Hajime makes his way towards the only lit entrance of Ariake Arena, the sky fading into a deep indigo backdrop behind him. The last vestiges of sunlight have long since disappeared beyond the horizon, and with it the noise of the bustling Village. Only an anticipation lingers: for tomorrow’s game; for a promise, finally come to fruition. For this, and for a future after that.

He steps onto the threshold, caught between shadow and light. Between this lifetime, and the last one.

He sees it all at once. The spin of the ball between graceful fingers. The sapphire of Kitagawa Daiichi. The practiced steps before strong legs leave the ground. The turquoise of Aoba Johsai. The arc of the arm that hits its mark with deadly accuracy. The blue of Argentina.

A serve practiced hundreds and hundreds of times over, in late nights and early mornings. An instinct sharpened to perfection.

When Oikawa lands from his jump, the ball is already rolling off to the side of the court. He counts one, two, three breaths before he’s collapsing to the ground, and all of a sudden Hajime is beside him, no longer a shadow, a sense of urgency flooding his body.

He grips Oikawa’s shoulder, and the athlete looks up to face him, wide-eyed. They’re close enough for Hajime to see strokes of gold in his brown irises, to feel his stuttering breath across the bridge of Hajime’s nose. Close enough for Hajime to knock their foreheads together, maybe gentler this time around.

He lets go. Once, Hajime would have grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet. Now, he sits down beside him: not quite shoulder-to-shoulder, but not too far apart, either. The equivocal distance of an arm’s length.

“You aren’t going to tell me to stop?”

“No,” Hajime answers evenly. "I don’t need to.” I haven’t needed to for years.

“No,” Oikawa agrees. “But that’s only because you did tell me. Over and over and over again, so I wouldn’t ever forget.”

Hajime looks at him and sees his gaze tilted towards the ceiling. His expression is placid, if only a bit wistful, or maybe Hajime’s seeing things. Or maybe Hajime’s been turning a blind eye to the right things all along.

“I remember everything you told me,” Oikawa tells him. “Make sure you don’t stay up all night. Don’t overwork yourself. The team with the better six is stronger.” He smiles. “And that one day, when we fight, you’ll give your all to defeat me.”

A promise, stretched out across years and hemispheres, oceans and continents, chances and lifetimes.

“Of course,” Hajime answers. “We’re going to grind you into the dirt.”

A look of determination passes over his face. “Good. Because I remembered it all, before every single game, until now. Because someone once told me that if I couldn’t see the opponent standing in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to defeat the one who lies beyond.”

He looks at Hajime, then, the truth spilling like light from his open gaze. All those years in Argentina, leading up to now. Leading to Hajime. The revelation of it shakes him to his core.

“There was just this one thing I couldn’t quite follow,” Oikawa confesses, voice softening. “You told me not to be sorry for chasing my dreams. I never was.” He pauses, regret written into the upwards curve of his lips. “But I was sorry that I wasn’t brave enough to tell you in time.”

Hajime knows that Oikawa isn’t just talking about switching passports. He lets the realization sink into his bones; lets it fill the gaping hole left in his chest all those years ago, its edges finally beginning to smooth over.

Once, Hajime had feared that he would be the one standing between Oikawa and his dreams. Four years ago, he’d unknowingly made that fear come true.

“There was one more thing,” Hajime tells him. “That I wanted you to remember. That night after we lost to Karasuno.”

“That I’m still the absolute best setter?” Oikawa asks, the corner of his mouth quirking ever slightly. There isn’t a tinge of insecurity or doubt in his words: just the confidence of a man who has bloomed into his abilities.

“You’re still the absolute best setter,” Hajime agrees. It didn’t matter, whether he was working with the Japanese National Team or the Polar Bears in Irvine—he would always look for traces of Oikawa, holding onto the image of him like a standard, always a cut above the rest.

He should have known, then. He should have known, even a decade before. Perhaps he had always known, but it had taken Oikawa’s absence for Hajime to finally realize why he would search for him everywhere.

“Even though our teams have changed,” Hajime says earnestly. “Even if we have changed.” He thinks of Oikawa running through bright Tokyo lights, his navy blue passport still tucked safely away. He thinks of Oikawa under the Argentine sun, a renewed vigor running underneath his skin. He thinks of watching Oikawa grow up over video calls and LINE updates, then stories from friends and news broadcasts in a language he could barely understand.

“And even if your citizenship has changed. Because it doesn’t matter if you’re halfway across the equator or the Pacific Ocean or any other goddamn thing that’s ever stood between us.” Here, Hajime moves closer, because he can. Because Hajime is tired of standing between Oikawa and the one thing he’s always dreamed of but could never reach, Olympic medals be damned. “You’re still the partner I can boast. And I couldn’t be prouder of you than I am now, except that I’ve always been proud of you. Always.”

He lifts his hand, but instead of letting it curl into a fist, he leaves it open, reaching. Across the bridge, from the last lifetime into this one.

It feels like both a miracle and an inevitability when Oikawa meets him halfway, trembling fingers carefully winding around Hajime’s. They sit there, together on the floor of the court they both spent half of their lives journeying towards, on paths that took them apart and brought them back together. Hands intertwined, like their lives have always been.

“Do you remember why I didn’t tell you about switching passports?”

“You…” Hajime pauses, letting memories of that night flood over him. Oikawa in his swimming vision, backlit by the blur of neon street signs. “You were afraid to make a choice. Which was incredibly stupid, but…” He looks at Oikawa, who shakes his head ruefully at the reminder. “So was I. I proved your point, when you confessed and I didn’t say anything. But I was also afraid that if I did, you’d throw everything else away.”

The question lingers in the air between them. Would you?

“Maybe I would have,” Oikawa admits, quietly. “But we wouldn’t have been okay with that, would we?”

The truth is, Hajime had thought about it. Booking a one-way ticket. Attending games only a train ride away. Coming home to an apartment in the suburbs. Laughter in the hallways, laundry scattered on the floor. His UC Irvine sweater on the door a mere reminder of days long gone, hung up next to an old CA San Juan jersey.

Maybe, in another life, it would have been okay. But not this one. Not yet.

“No,” Hajime admits. It’s simple acknowledgement, but one that could only have been born from years of silence and learning to live apart. “We wouldn’t have.”

Because when he and Oikawa had left home all those years ago, it had been with a purpose. Because they were always meant to chase something greater than what they had been given.

There was a word for it, Hajime recalls, that he’d picked up one ordinary Tuesday at university, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the International Student Center in Irvine, thousands of miles away. He still remembers the lilting accent of the girl who had spoken in her own native language, and how it had made Hajime wonder: about all the languages he’d never learn, and all the sights he’d never see.

Fernweh. A longing for distant places.

Perhaps, one day, it would yield to the longing for home. But for now, they both push and pull like tides on the shore of Hajime’s soul.

“Blanco was right, huh,” Oikawa muses. “I really did take the harsher and more painful path.”

After exhausting every possibility presented to him, Oikawa had chosen the impossible for himself. Hajime had watched as he’d pushed the limit of his abilities to the breaking point, until he had no choice to reshape it and emerge from it anew. He had witnessed every sacrifice, and was every bit as proud for the success each had borne.

“It never was going to be easy,” Hajime says, fingers tightening around Oikawa’s. “But you already knew that.”

They both knew it. They both had dreams that had taken them halfway across the world and back. And though neither of them knew what the outcome of tomorrow’s game would be, they both knew this: gold medal or not, Oikawa would be going back to Argentina, and Hajime would decide whether to stay or go.

“Fuck,” Hajime breathes, a laugh escaping him in spite of everything. “It was never going to be easy with you.”

“I know,” Oikawa sniffles. “I know, but I never wanted to make it hard for you—”

“Stop,” Hajime interjects. He turns towards Oikawa, lets his whole body face him so their knees knock together, like they always did when they were kids.

“Oikawa. Tooru. I’ve watched you chase volleyball all your life. I’ve watched you tear yourself apart in the process. It was hard. And it was even harder to be away from you.”

He takes a deep breath. The last intake of oxygen before the dive.

“But it was never hard to love you, Tooru,” Hajime finishes, smiling crookedly at the boy he’d known since he was old enough to know what the world was. “And besides,” he adds, “you’re the most hardworking person I’ve ever met in my life. Don’t you think I should at least work a little bit harder, too, if I want to spend the rest of it with someone like you?”

Oikawa looks up at him, mouth ever slightly agape, and Hajime sees it in him too—how couldn’t he, when they had always been linked, mentally and physically? The longing for distant places. The longing for home. And the first, ancient longing, deeper than any ocean they’d crossed to reach this shore.

“What are you trying to say?” Oikawa asks, softly, knowingly. Still uncertain, as if reaching for something he isn’t sure he can have.

I’ll give it all to you, Hajime thinks. All of me.

“What I tried to say, all those years ago, even when I didn’t know how to,” Hajime says, feeling the ocean rise within him. “I love you, Tooru. And that—that will never change.”

There had never really been any bridges burned between them: just ones gone old with unuse, with words unsaid and longing unfulfilled. But Hajime finds that the path is still familiar, as easy to walk as ever. A path he can never truly stray from. A path that will always lead to Oikawa, wherever in the world he may be.

“Argh, Hajime,” Oikawa groans, head falling. The use of his given name, in this moment of frustration, sounds so natural that Hajime laughs. He leans forward, gently lifting Oikawa’s face with the fingers that aren’t intertwined with his.

Perhaps now, he’s old enough to know what the world means to him, when he can hold it in the palm of his hand.

“Is that all you have to say?” Hajime asks him lightly.

When he looks at him, Oikawa’s eyes are bright, blooming with affection, a want so full crystallized in his gaze. All for Hajime. He wonders how he had ever been able to look away.

“I…” His gaze drops downwards, and Hajime feels the swoop of his own stomach in full force. “Can I…”

Hajime has never really needed words to understand Oikawa, so he leans in. “Yeah,” he whispers, even when there’s nothing left to deny in the infinitesimal space between them. “Yeah.”

Kissing Oikawa, Hajime finds, isn’t hard at all either, because their lips fit together so perfectly that it doesn’t take long for the tension to seep out of their bodies, for Hajime’s soul to feel so incredibly light. They meet in the same way a river meets the sea, after winding over mountains and plains, great distances crossed to reach a singular destination. Then they meet again, this time like waves crashing on the shore, the kind of force that should knock them off their feet but instead draws them ever closer together. Closer, like Hajime could drown in this, the ocean of Oikawa Tooru, and die a happy man.

Oikawa kisses him with full force, because he’s never been one to give anything less than one hundred percent, and Hajime kisses him back the same, because he’s always been one to match every best Oikawa would give him. And when Oikawa slips his hand beneath his shirt and his tongue between his teeth, Hajime might as well be a man in the desert, finally arriving at an endless spring.

When they finally pull away, foreheads still pressed together, breaths becoming one, there is nothing left between them. Only an anticipation lingers: for tomorrow’s game; for a promise, finally come to fruition. For a future after that.

Oikawa smiles, aching and earnest and whole, as he whispers: “I’ve always loved you, Hajime. And you know I always will.”

A truth that had taken almost seventeen years to be laid bare, in all its enormity and simplicity. A truth all-encompassing.

“So have I,” Hajime murmurs, into the space where the first of Oikawa’s lifelong dreams had just begun to come to fulfillment. Where the next would soon come into play. “So will I.”

There will be time, to see to the rest of it.

Chapter Text

October 2013
UTC–07:00

“El número diecisiete, Tooru Oikawa… va ser un duelo interesante…”

The pencil in Hajime’s hand stutters to a stop as he looks up from the alkenes on his paper to the screen of his phone, propped up haphazardly by the stack of textbooks on his table. The late afternoon sun streams in through the windows, bathing his dorm room in pale gold.

Leaning forward, he adjusts the brightness of his phone's display with his free hand. His heart skips a beat as he watches the tiny figure of his best friend stand up from the bench and make his way towards the court. Oikawa raises his hand for a high five with the exiting player, who hesitates before grasping his hand tightly. Hajime lets out an amused chuckle.

The commentary continues to drone in the background as Oikawa approaches the endline and presses the volleyball to his forehead. It’s a scene that Hajime’s witnessed unfold thousands of times, yet he still watches, transfixed.

The video buffers, and Hajime lets out a groan, head falling to the table. When the audio resumes again, the ball is already up in the opposite court, with Oikawa in position to receive it on the other side. It comes hurtling towards him with full force—of course they’d make the newbie on court a target, though Oikawa really was anything but. The guy had been living and breathing volleyball practically his entire life.

The receive isn’t too clean, but it’s impressive nonetheless, given the sheer strength of the spike. Hajime has a feeling the commentators are saying the same thing and feels a surge of pride.

His organic chemistry homework lays forgotten on the table as he continues watching the livestream with rapt attention. Oikawa remains in the game for the rest of the set. It’s a close fight that culminates after a deuce, but CA San Juan takes the loss. Hajime watches with a frown as Oikawa pads over to the side of the court a ways away from where the rest of his teammates gather. He notes the slight slump in his shoulders as he takes a sip from his water bottle, and his heart sinks.

He reaches for his phone and immediately pulls up LINE, clicking on the topmost conversation without a second thought.

“Sounded like a pretty interesting game,” his roommate says suddenly. Hajime nearly jumps, fingers frozen in the middle of typing his message.

“Sorry,” Hajime apologizes, feeling his face warm as Luis swivels around to face him. “Did I bother you? I should have used earphones, my bad.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. I could stand to hear more Spanish around here, anyways.”

“You speak it?” Hajime asks, then internally slaps himself, because the answer is glaringly obvious.

“Yeah. My family’s from Mexico,” he explains. “You have family in Argentina?”

“A friend,” Hajime says. “My best friend,” he clarifies.

Luis hums. “So you both went abroad, huh? That’s cool.”

“Thank you,” Hajime tries, and Luis shoots him a friendly smile back.

“If you need any help learning Spanish, just let me know,” he says before turning back to his laptop.

Hajime returns to his phone just in time to catch it light up, Oikawa’s name and contact photo filling the screen as it begins to ring. He picks it up immediately.

“Oikawa—”

“Iwa-chan! I—”

“Didn’t you just finish—”

“I read your essay!” Oikawa exclaims breathlessly, the grin in his voice evident, and Hajime falls silent in surprise. “I have to say, I’m impressed. I hope you don’t mind that I asked Blanco to look over it too, I know my English is pretty good but his is still better, and he said it was really well-written, by the way—”

“You—” Hajime doesn’t even know where to start. “You asked Blanco to read over my writing assignment. Wait, no. You actually read my writing assignment.”

Oikawa sounds miffed. “Why wouldn’t I? We used to check each other’s stuff all the time!”

“Yeah, but that was because we had the same classes and you always wanted to make sure your work was better than mine, Shittykawa,” Hajime points out. “Besides, aren’t you busy? I just watched your game.”

“You did?” Oikawa gasps, sounding genuinely shocked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hajime echoes. “I watch all your games.”

“But Iwa-chan doesn’t understand any Spanish,” Oikawa points out, and Hajime resists the urge to roll his eyes before he realizes that Oikawa can’t even see him.

“I don’t need to understand Spanish to know that you played well,” Hajime says easily. He’s almost surprised by how it slips out from him immediately, but he’s never been one to hold back on expressing how he feels about Oikawa’s performance.

For a moment, it’s silent on the other end of the line. Hajime starts to think that the dorm might have a worse internet connectivity problem than he’d initially thought until he hears a tiny breath.

“Thanks, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says softly. “I’m glad you watched it.”

“And I’m glad you read my essay,” Hajime replies gruffly. “Even though you showed it to Blanco without my permission.”

“It was in good faith!” Oikawa protests. “He helped me proofread it a bit. I’ll send you the file when I get back.”

Hajime feels strangely flustered. “Wow. Uh, thanks.”

“Also, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa adds, “You don’t need to watch all my games, you know. I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

Hajime scoffs. “Tch. You’re actually saying that? Didn’t you say you’d send the playback links of all your games to the Seijoh group chat?”

“Great idea, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa replies brightly. “But really. Going to college in America must be hard. Have you unpacked all your stuff yet?”

Hajime glances at the luggage, still half-full with clothes, tucked underneath his bed. He feels the faint, constant ache that he’d come to associate with homesickness twinge in his chest, then ease with the sound of Oikawa’s voice.

“That’s for me to say,” he says after a beat, gaze drifting towards the view of the lawn outside the window. The weather seems pleasant, with quite a number of people milling about—he’d thought those college website photos were all for show, but apparently some people do enjoy lounging on the grass. He spots a couple of students playing frisbee, and has the sudden mental image of him and Oikawa passing a volleyball back and forth. Maybe, when their schedules finally align, Oikawa could come visit. Or maybe Hajime could take a trip to Argentina over one of his breaks.

“Besides,” Hajime adds, “you shouldn’t let it get to your head too much. I also have to be ready when we face off, you know.”

He thinks of the few weeks he’d spent on campus, feeling strange and further away from home than he’d ever been in his life. He thinks of those weeks turning into months, then stretching out into years. He wonders what the future looks like down the line. Would the path lead him back home, or would it take him even farther? Would it someday intersect with Oikawa’s?

“Alright, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa answers. His voice is playful, but not mocking in the slightest. Truth, set deep into his words. “I’ll look forward to it.”

A surety rises in Hajime’s chest. He may not know what the future holds, but something tells him that it will take him right where he needs to go.

August 2021
UTC+09:00

“The Japan men’s team has been firing on all cylinders so far this tournament. Today they will take on Argentina, a team that has been riding a hot streak.”

From across the arena, Hajime sees it: the color that would always catch his eye, whether he was in Sendai or Haneda, or here, standing on the Olympic stage. The blue of the sky and his dreams and the man he’s loved for as long as he knew how to.

Next to him, Ushijima and Kageyama share similar, tight-lipped smiles, eyebrows furrowed with resolve. He doesn’t miss their restlessness, either; the beads of sweat running down their skin despite not having played yet at all.

Hajime can’t help it—the sheer joy bubbling out of him in the form of laughter; the wide grin stretching across his face. His heart, beating to the thump, thump, thump of their opponents’ steps as they enter the arena.

He doesn’t even need to search to find Oikawa in the center of them all, flanked on either side by Lorenzo and Alejandro, Basilio and Jorge following not far behind him. His gaze is fixed on the court, chin raised high, as if he was born to rule it. The number 13 is emblazoned on his chest.

The significance of it isn’t lost on Hajime—how could it be, when he had been there from the beginning? He had known him as a boy, grasping at the first wisps of a dream about to take shape. Now, he would witness him see it through to the end.

“The biggest topic coming into this game has to be Argentina’s starting setter, Oikawa Tooru. Born in Japan, he followed his mentor, Coach Blanco, to Argentina after graduation, and eventually became a naturalized Argentinian citizen.”

“Oikawa was a virtually unknown player during his school years in Japan, having never made it to a national tournament in either middle or high school.”

Hajime snorts. Atsumu lets out a snicker, while Hinata and Kageyama exchange a knowing glance. There’s a long “OHHH” from Bokuto, who appears to have finally realized why he’s never seen Oikawa Tooru in the flesh, until Yaku points out that they’d already discussed the entire matter weeks ago.

Ushijima mutters something along the lines of “Well, even if he did not go to Shiratorizawa, they should not…” but the rest of it is drowned out by the crowd’s screams.

If these were the National Team’s reactions, Hajime can’t imagine what their old high school teammates’ would be. He thinks of Hanamaki and Matsukawa sitting knowingly side-by-side at a bar; Yahaba about to pick a fight with the television, Watari oblivious and completely wonderstruck. Kindaichi trying to mirror Kunimi’s signature eyeroll. Kyoutani, equal parts miffed and awed with the reminder of his former captain’s feat.

The Seijoh team is definitely going to have a field day with this later.

But for all Hajime’s teasing about his immaturity, Oikawa’s expression remains tranquil: the culmination of years of growing up and growing far away, in more ways than one, from a past that had forced him to break through impossible limits. Of pushing higher, and higher, all the way to the Olympic stage.

Amidst everything, their gazes find each other, like two beacons in the sea. A gleam passes over Oikawa’s eyes, charged and electric, and Hajime cracks his own devilish grin in response.

There it is, Hajime thinks. His beloved pride.

“All right, folks, are you ready?” Oikawa calls out, voice as commanding as ever. Their cherished Seijoh captain. “This is going to be one extravagant family quarrel.”

It’s the best match Hajime’s ever seen in his life.

Japan had narrowly snagged the first set thanks to Sakusa, Hinata, and Yaku’s receives, which combined proved a strong deterrent to Oikawa’s killer serves. The setter had been irked by both the missed points and Hajime’s evident gloating, but they both knew that all of it would only spur him on.

This was Oikawa Tooru, after all, who had taken loss after loss after loss to build himself a path to victory greater than anyone could ever imagine. And so it wasn't a surprise when he turned the tide in the second set, scoring not just one but three service aces in a row.

Hajime would be lying if he said he hadn’t been not-so-secretly elated, too. He’s pretty sure Atsumu had given him the stink eye the moment he cracked a smile at Argentina’s set point, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Ushijima, on the other hand, had given him a knowing look as Hajime approached him to stretch his left arm, which was uncharacteristic of him given that he didn’t really do knowing looks. Or maybe Hajime was giving him less credit than he should. He’d probably witnessed enough of him and Oikawa since middle school.

The third set saw a comeback from Japan through a combination of hard-won blocks by Hyakuzawa and multiple points scored by Bokuto, who was on a roll like no other. The hitter’s sheer enthusiasm had driven the crowd to even higher levels of energy, but the cheers for Argentina had still been equally loud, especially when Oikawa delivered an extra-long set to their own team’s ace.

Hinata, who had then been resting, had nudged Kageyama beside him and said: “Doesn’t that remind you of something, Kageyama?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the setter answered flatly.

“Liar!” With a hopeful gleam in his eyes, Hinata turned to Hajime, who had been kneeling on the ground in front of him as he rolled the player’s ankles. “Iwaizumi-san, you definitely know what I’m talking about, right?”

Hajime had grinned up at him, pride blooming in his chest at the memory. There was no room anymore for what-ifs or what-could-have-beens, when they were standing where they were.

“Of course. That was his first ever long set, so yeah."

“First ever?!” Kageyama had cut in, eyes going wide. “And it was from outside the court, too…”

“See! You do know what I’m talking about!”

Hajime had only laughed as the pair continued to bicker. The last official volleyball game he’d ever played with Oikawa in high school was being dissected on the Olympic court, right as they had their first match as opposing teams. He still couldn’t fucking believe it.

It didn’t take long for the Karasuno High School duo to return to the court for the final set, after Argentina stole the fourth from right under their noses. They were on equal ground now, and Hajime had never seen two teams still so full of vigor after four full sets played well past the mid-20s.

Now, he watches as Kageyama sets once again in Hinata’s direction, and the exhilaration in the spiker’s eyes is so infectious that Hajime feels the thrill run through his spine. At the last minute, the ball swerves towards Hoshiumi instead, and the crowd oohs at the swift transition. Hakuba lets out a loud whoop, cheering enthusiastically for his high school teammate.

Hajime’s eyes track his own former teammate, like they’ve been doing the entire game. The devilish grin that splits Oikawa’s face is one that Hajime is all too familiar with.

His expression only sharpens as Argentina’s libero—Alejandro, he recalls—miraculously saves the ball, and then it’s up and spinning towards the net. The ball only seems to graze the tips of Oikawa’s fingertips for a millisecond before it’s flying in a flawless trajectory towards Basilio, who slams it down perfectly onto Japan’s court.

A smile breaks on Oikawa’s face, his eyes falling shut in glee, and the warmth of it travels all the way to the tips of Hajime’s toes. Oikawa moves towards Basilio for a high five that echoes throughout the court, and Hajime’s hand twitches. He can almost feel the smack of the ball against his palm, the pinpricks left behind by the pleasant sting of skin against skin.

Ushijima enters the court at the same time Kageyama steps behind the service line, and Hajime could swear that he hears Oikawa’s low chuckle from across the court.

Their former junior moves in to serve, a not-quite mirror of Oikawa’s: something both learned and forged into his own. Hajime barely has a moment to appreciate it before he shoots up in excitement as the ball throws Argentina completely out of formation. The following rally is a rush of insanity—Jorge gets the ball up, but it soars straight into Japan’s court.

“Go get ‘em, Hinata!” Bokuto yells, already on his feet, at the same time Komori shouts “Free ball!” and jumps to set it from behind the ten-foot line. Sakusa swoops in, and with a flick of his wrist spikes the ball into Argentina’s court, but it doesn’t end there.

“The hell?!” Atsumu screeches as Lorenzo dives for the ball, sending it up and soaring towards their setter. Oikawa’s tongue peeks out between his lips as he poses to set the ball, and it’s so familiar and so incredibly endearing that Hajime has to shake his head, smiling all the while.

Lorenzo scores easily, and Hajime has to hold himself back from cheering when he sees the scoreboard.

24-23. The two teams had been teetering back and forth the entire game, but for the first time since they’d entered the 20’s, Argentina finally pulled ahead.

He looks at his team, fearing their dispiritedness, but their expressions couldn’t be any farther from that. Hoshiumi stands proud, chin raised, an intimidating presence on the court even next to the towering Hyakuzawa, whose eyes are shining in earnest. Komori seems to be chuckling to himself, and even Sakusa has a small smile on his face, ignoring for once the droplets of sweat running down his forehead. Kageyama and Hinata stand tall on either side of the court, but they might as well be shoulder-to-shoulder with the way they both grin in perfect synchrony. A subtle eagerness Hajime’s never seen before is reflected in Ushijima’s gaze as he stares straight ahead, right at the man standing at the edge of the opposite court.

It isn’t just the entire team or even the entire stadium watching. It’s the whole country, collectively holding its breath, eyes on Oikawa Tooru as he gears up to serve. The boy who had risen from a small Miyagi town and scaled half the globe to return here. To return to Hajime.

The rest of the world falls away as Oikawa holds the ball to his forehead and takes a deep breath, and Hajime—at twenty-seven and seven years old at once—watches.

There is no crowd, the sun shining overhead their only onlooker. The net between them is old, borrowed, and riddled with holes, barely a few meters off the ground, and yet, it is still an obstacle. One that the boy across Hajime is about to conquer.

Hajime waits, but Oikawa only grips the ball tighter.

“What are you waiting for?” Hajime asks. “If you’re going to hit it, then hit it.”

Hajime doesn’t say that he’ll receive it, because Oikawa already knows that he will. Because before they were setter and spiker, before they had a team to mold, they were Tooru and Hajime—two boys only beginning to discover the fun of volleyball, connected in more ways than the sport could ever demonstrate.

A new resolve hardens in Oikawa’s eyes, and he spins the ball once. Twice. It soars into the air, and Oikawa leaps up, like a seedling breaking the earth, reaching for the sun.

At the height of his jump, the stadium comes back into view, and all of the world witnesses Oikawa Tooru come into full bloom.

The next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion. Hinata receives the ball this time, a wide grin on his face as he watches it soar up into the air in a high arc. It nearly disappears amongst the overhead lights before it comes hurtling in a blue-and-yellow blur towards the extended hands of Kageyama, who sets it perfectly to Ushijima.

Ushijima slams it downwards, and Hajime bites down on his tongue, nearly tasting blood.

But the ball ricochets off the arms of the opposing middle blocker, and then it’s up again in Argentina’s court. There’s a flurry of movement as three of their players move in for the hit, and Oikawa, in the midst of it, maneuvers around swiftly, unable to be pinned down. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

But Hajime knows—knows it in the same way muscle memory makes his legs twitch, as if getting ready to launch off the ground. Knows it in the same way his hand tingles with the phantom touch of a ball set just right, like it was made for him and him alone. Knows it in the same way he’d known exactly where to jump, when he hit the last perfect set he’d ever get.

He knows it in the same way he’d known, all those years ago, that they would face each other again someday, however long it took—and in that easy, uncomplicated nature of childhood faith, that his best friend would become a setter, and make it to the Olympics, and win a medal, because he had everything it took.

Set. Spike. Point.

The ball hits the floor, and Oikawa falls to his knees.

It hits Hajime all at once—the erupting screams of the crowd, the flashing lights of the stadium, the sweeping defeat of his own team. But it all fades away almost as quickly, his vision telescoping so that all he can see on the wide screen overhead is the profile of the man he’d known all his life and loved for as long, magnified and glorious for all to behold.

His teammates are crowding around him, but his gaze is fixed on a faraway point. Hajime tears his eyes away from the image to try and locate Oikawa in the flesh, and nearly buckles when he finally does.

Their gazes meet only briefly, but at that moment, Hajime sees the little boy with wonder-filled brown eyes approaching him to peer at a beetle by the creek. He sees the same boy running towards him in excitement with a worn-out volleyball in his arms. He sees him locking eyes with Hajime from across a hallway as if the crowd around him were invisible; sees him thrusting a finger towards Hajime as he crashes down on the other side of the court; sees him making his way towards Hajime amidst the rush of a crowded airport terminal. He sees him over the span of years and years, condensed into mere milliseconds.

It’s a blur of the thunderous roar of the arena and the pounding in his ears as Hajime's heart threatens to beat out of his chest and run towards where Oikawa had just disappeared beneath a pile of blue.

But he steadies himself, making his way instead towards his own team in a haze as they gather in the middle of the court. Bokuto extends an arm around Hajime’s shoulders as he slips into their tightly-knit circle with ease, and for the first time tastes the subtle bittersweetness of their loss in his throat.

Any trace of bitterness disappears when Hinata looks up, face flushed and absolutely beaming, as he declares, “That was the most fun game I’ve ever played in my life.”

Atsumu bursts into laughter. “It ain’t hard to have fun when we’re settin’ for ya. Right, Tobio-kun?”

Kageyama’s face twists from surprise to denial to barely concealable fondness when he murmurs, “Whatever.”

“What about me?” Bokuto pipes up, grinning widely. His hair is almost flat, salt-and-pepper bangs sticking to his forehead, but despite the evident signs of exertion, his tone is as energetic as ever. “Isn’t it fun to set for me?”

“Of course, Bokkun,” Atsumu answers with a sharp, but still genuine, smile of his own. He then nudges a slightly miffed Sakusa beside him, teasing, “Don’t worry, Omi-kun. Be a bit nicer ta me and I can consider addin’ ya to my list in Paris. You too, Ushiwaka-kun, Hoshi-kun.”

Hajime clears his throat. “You should all be a bit nicer to each other, honestly,” he interjects before anyone can complain. If they notice how his voice cracks, nobody says anything. “You guys did a great job out there. I’m really proud of all of you. Rest up later, okay?”

The team goes silent, and Hajime starts to wonder if he’s said anything wrong when Kageyama begins to sniffle.

“Thank you, Iwaizumi-san,” he mutters, and then Hinata’s suddenly tearing up beside him, and so are Atsumu, and Bokuto, and even Yaku and Komori. The circle tightens, and it’s a disgusting mess of happy tears until Ushijima slowly removes himself and states, “I think we have been keeping you for too long, Iwaizumi.”

The tall hitter directs Hajime’s gaze towards the net. As Hajime disentangles himself from the circle, he finds himself watching from across the court as Oikawa emerges from the fray. His hair is absolutely mussed by his teammates, his jersey is clinging to his skin with sweat, and he’s staring straight at Hajime. Exhilarated. Incandescent. Beautiful.

Then he is reaching, reaching across the distance between them. This time, there are no oceans and seas and rivers to be crossed: only a tall, white net. But then Oikawa ducks underneath it, and for the first time in years, they’re on the same side of the net, just like when they were kids on the same street in their little corner of the wide world.

Oikawa throws his arms around him, laughing, brighter than the stadium lights and the stars in the blue, blue sky above them. They reach for each other even when they’re already pressed together, and each crevice sealed feels like something mending.

It feels like coming home.

Chapter Text

August 2021
UTC+09:00

Hajime does go home to Sendai, eventually, once the Games are over. Oikawa also still has a week to spend in Japan, so naturally, he comes along. He’d been meaning to visit his parents, sister, and Takeru anyway, who are all about as much Hajime’s family as they are Oikawa’s.

It’s the first trip back they’ve had together in seven years, so of course it begins with an argument over who gets to drive. But the argument—if it could even be called that—lasts under a minute because even if Hajime did get his driver’s license in America later than Oikawa, who got it in Japan before he left, he’s had two years of recent experience with the country’s roads.

Hajime had also cemented his case by helpfully pointing out that even if Oikawa had been the one to get his license first, he had also been the one who once accidentally drove his sister’s pickup truck (with Hajime in it) onto unsuspecting farmland.

“Well,” Oikawa had admitted as he openly ogled the arm Hajime had placed behind his headrest as he backed up the car out of the parking lot, “I do enjoy being Iwa-chan’s passenger princess.”

The sudden dip in Oikawa's tone had nearly caused Hajime to hit the concrete barrier beside them.

Despite Oikawa’s teasing about him being a very obvious (read: obnoxious) and very attractive distraction to Hajime, they still hold hands over the gearshift whenever they hit a stoplight. Hajime doesn't miss the high blush on Oikawa’s cheeks every time he glances towards the side view mirror, and he’s pretty sure the same color is reflected on his face at a much deeper magnitude.

They crank up the radio on the drive, and Hajime begrudgingly allows Oikawa to mess with the Bluetooth function that he’d never been able to figure out himself. He almost immediately regrets it because Oikawa begins blasting music that sounds like it’s been injected with pure glucose, but it’s okay because Hajime’s absolutely endeared by the way he sings along in a wobbly, happy voice that turns Hajime’s insides into jelly.

Not that he would admit it straightaway.

“What the fuck is this, Shittykawa.”

“A masterpiece,” Oikawa replies swiftly. Then, in his adorably accented English, he starts singing: “Hey boy, play the track, ‘cause you give me heart attack—”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re my baby blue love, and,” he winks at Hajime, “get my body rockin’—”

Hajime groans, half-begging an asteroid to hit the car and wipe him out. His face already feels like it’s on fire anyway.

In spite of his seemingly boundless energy during his solo carpool karaoke stint, Oikawa falls asleep halfway through the drive. Hajime tries to keep his eyes on the road for the most part because he’s a responsible driver, but he can’t help but glance sideways from time to time to admire the glow of the morning sun on Oikawa’s features: the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, dark eyelashes resting on soft skin.

And then he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like Iwa-chan, and Hajime’s heart skips several beats.

They’re nearing the outskirts of Sendai when Oikawa eventually wakes, blinking slowly. Warm brown eyes settle on Hajime as he smiles at him, sleepy and soft and peaceful in a way that he hasn’t seen in a long time. Hajime returns it, feeling something inside him uncoil at the sight.

After a few more moments of peaceful silence wherein Oikawa regains his bearings, gazing out at the rolling fields, he says, “We’re finally going home together.”

Hajime swallows around the rising lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

Home. Home is still the word Oikawa uses, even when it’s been nearly a decade since he moved to the other side of the world.

Oikawa studies him. “What are you thinking?” he asks gently.

Outside, the countryside begins to slowly give way to familiar suburbs. Hajime spots the familiar faded ivory facade of Tsugiraya Elementary School, countless students spilling out of its doors. A glance at his watch tells him that it’s midday, just around time for their lunch break.

Hajime could almost swear that he sees a familiar head of ash-colored hair amidst the fray of children, right before he turns his gaze back to the road.

“I went here with Matsukawa around two years ago,” Hajime says. “After I just got the job for the National Team.”

“Oh,” Oikawa says softly. “Then, that was…”

“When you reached out, yeah.” Hajime steals another glance at Oikawa and finds that he’s looking right at him, expression thoughtful. “I ran into Okaa-san, actually. She gave me that photostrip we got in Tokyo.”

“And where is it now?”

With one hand, Hajime fishes out his wallet from the pocket of his jeans and hands it to Oikawa, who opens it with careful fingers.

The photo is tucked into a transparent pocket probably meant for IDs and such, but Hajime has never swapped it out for anything else. The ink of the print has long faded, but their expressions are as vivid as ever. Timeless, like the adoration captured in the unseeming photo.

“Wow, Iwa-chan’s so sentimental,” Oikawa coos, but his voice comes out wobbly.

“It was all I had from you then,” Hajime replies earnestly. “How could I not be?”

He thinks it might have been the wrong thing to say, because Oikawa lets out a small hiccup. Hajime knows Oikawa only hiccups like that when he’s trying not to cry. “Hey,” he frowns. “Tooru. It’s okay.”

The other man leans against the window. “I thought it would be okay, you know,” he says. His voice is level, but Hajime has long known better than to be fooled. “I thought that if we just saw each other again, maybe we could sort things out. ‘Cause that’s what we’d always do, right?”

He was right. The two of them had fought countless times over the years—over toys and practice drills, petty misunderstandings and rash decisions. But they’d always find a way to make it up to each other, because they were Hajime and Tooru, who lived on the same street and went to the same schools and played the same sport for the entirety of their childhood. Just one pack of milk bread left on the table, one doorbell at the Oikawa gate, one utterance of “Iwa-chan, it’s getting late so we can wrap up practice now,” and everything would fall back into place. They’d gotten so used to it to the ease of proximity that they hadn’t stopped to think how being oceans apart would change all that.

But what being oceans apart didn’t change is the fact that they’d find their way back to each other, whatever it took. It just meant that it had to take a little more time than they were accustomed to.

“We did sort things out,” Hajime reminds him, voice firm but gentle. They’re on the main highway now, and traffic is beginning to build up around them. He estimates that they’ll be able to reach the Oikawa household right after lunchtime.

“But it took so long,” Oikawa says, eyes downcast. “I didn’t speak to you properly for—for years.”

Hajime knows the look of sorrow swirling in his eyes: the one that says I hurt you, and I hate myself for it. Hajime knows it because he’s worn that look often enough himself.

But he isn’t having any of it anymore.

“Shittykawa,” Hajime huffs. “I hurt you, too.” His voice softens as he reaches for Oikawa’s hand over the gearshift. “And I’m also sorry for that. We both could have done better. But we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

He adds the apology in return because Oikawa, though he hasn’t uttered the word sorry at all, has already said enough to express genuine remorse. Oikawa rarely ever explicitly apologizes to anyone, but Hajime isn’t just anyone to Oikawa.

Oikawa squeezes his hand in response. “Yeah,” he breathes. “We’re here.”

Hajime squeezes back. They’re at a stoplight, so he allows himself to turn and fully face a wide-eyed Oikawa as he says:

“So unstick your big head from that stupid hole of regret, because I didn’t let you come with me all the way up to Sendai to see you mope around.”

“Okay, wow. A bit rough, but that’s how I like my Iwa-chan, anyways,” Oikawa purrs.

Hajime nearly misses the green light after that.

“So, Tooru,” Oikawa nee-san says. Her back is turned to them, but with the one hand on her hip, Hajime doesn’t find it hard to imagine her smirk, which is a near mirror of her brother’s. She cracks an egg on the counter with her free hand, letting it solidify over the sizzling katsu before continuing.

“Are you here to finally reintroduce Hajime-kun as your boyfriend?”

The question is delivered right as she transfers the freshly cooked katsudon from the pan to Hajime’s bowl with a wink. He barely even has the time to thank her, cheeks flaming, before she saunters back to the stove, a self-satisfied smirk now very much visible on her face.

Oikawa’s face is burning red. Hajime would tease him if he weren’t in a similar state and as internally horrified as Oikawa probably was. Their hands are intertwined on top of the table—it’s not like they have anything to hide, but—

“Oh my god, they haven’t talked about it yet.” Takeru’s incredulous expression is clear even from the doorway where he’d just shrugged off his sneakers. “You waited this long and still haven’t talked about it?”

“Takeru-chan! Is that any way to greet your uncle?”

“Not when my uncle is obviously a massive dumba—”

“Takeru,” Oikawa nee-san warns. “Hajime-kun and I are the only ones allowed to call him that.”

“Thanks, Nee-chan,” Oikawa sings. “And to answer your question, Takeru, Iwa-chan and I are like this.” He puts up two fingers in a peace sign and snaps them together. “Perfect trust. No words needed.”

A look of incredulity passes over Takeru’s face. “Iwa-san. I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” he says solemnly. “My uncle really is…”

“A dumbass,” Hajime finishes with a grin, ignoring Oikawa’s squawk of protest. “Glad to see you’re still as honest as always, Takeru.”

He turns to clap him on the arm, but misses because all of a sudden the young man lurches forward. Hajime lets out a surprised laugh as the once-little boy he’d looked after with Oikawa like he was family to him—because he is—clutches them both in a tight hug.

Hajime ruffles his hair. “I missed you too, buddy.”

“Wow. That’s the first time Takeru-chan’s ever hugged me like that.” Oikawa furrows his eyebrows, lips forming a petulant scowl, but his eyes are positively sparkling. “I don’t think it’s even me he misses at all.”

“You literally drag me to Argentina every single time I go on holiday,” Takeru points out dryly.

“Drag is not the best way to say generously send my favorite nephew tickets to visit his favorite uncle,” Oikawa tuts. But his hand is still on Takeru’s shoulder, and the latter makes no move to push it away.

“Seriously, Iwa-san, you’re amazing,” Takeru says, completely ignoring his uncle’s comment. “Are you sure you really wanna be with this guy?”

“Iwa-san’s head over heels for me,” Oikawa preens, one arm lazily snaking around Hajime’s shoulders. His chin digs into Hajime’s collarbone as he whispers, “Right, Iwa-san?”

Feigning imperviousness to the change in nickname, he deadpans, “Sure, keep convincing yourself.”

Oikawa promptly blows a raspberry into his neck.

“Crappykawa!” Hajime shoves him away. So much for acting unaffected. “I’ll flip you head over heels alright,” he growls.

Oikawa’s eyes are glinting in a way that makes Hajime’s stomach swoop downwards. It plummets even further when he whispers, slyly, “Well, we can save that for later.”

“You little sh—”

“Tooru? Hajime-kun?”

“Okaa-san?” They answer at the same time, then look at each other in surprise.

Oikawa nee-san lets out an amused huff. “God, you two have practically been married since you were kids.”

Oikawa’s mother smiles at them warmly as they both stand to greet her. For the third time that day (Oikawa nee-san had nearly crushed them both at first sight), they’re both enveloped in a tight embrace. Suddenly, Hajime feels like he’s seven years old again, returning to the Oikawa household after he’d gotten a gash on his cheek while trying to retrieve his best friend’s volleyball from a tree. Upon seeing Hajime’s wound, Tooru had cried more than he did, and his mother had consoled them both.

“Welcome home, boys,” she now says, and Hajime thinks he could cry.

A gust of wind blows out the bedroom door.

If not for the image of twenty-seven-year-old Oikawa holding it open for him, the faintest line at the corner of his eyes as he smiles, Hajime could swear that he’d been punted back in time.

He slowly pads onto familiar tatami mat flooring, eyes roaming over the old posters and photos on the plaster. The space decorations stuck on the ceiling. The monitor tucked against the far wall. Everything remains as untouched as it was ten years ago, when Hajime had watched Oikawa—still as beautiful, but young, so young—roll the last of his luggages out the door, right before blowing a kiss good-bye to his childhood room.

Hajime picks up one of the old volleyballs lying in the corner, smoothing his thumb over the ink of Oikawa’s name in kanji. Turns the ball over, and sees his own written on the other side.

They’d fought over the ownership of many things—the last pack of Meiji Apollo in the konbini, the spare key to the Aoba Johsai VBC clubroom, the signature board they’d brought to that fateful exhibition game between Argentina and Japan. But this—this was the first volleyball they’d ever practiced with together, and neither of them could remember who it belonged to first. It didn’t really matter, because it had always been unquestionably theirs—Tooru and Hajime’s—from the very beginning.

Hajime feels Oikawa’s presence behind him before the taller man presses his lips to Hajime’s hair. When Hajime turns, he’s faced with a smile he’s never seen before—something a bit sly, a bit sharp, a bit lovesick. He quickly saves it and catalogs it in his mind, another snapshot to add to the age-old, never-ending collection.

With one hand curling around Hajime’s wrist, Oikawa takes the volleyball and lets it drop to the floor with a thud.

Perhaps Hajime had signed himself to this fate the moment he’d scrawled his name on that ball in nearly illegible handwriting, all those years ago.

“And I thought you brought me up here to do passing drills with you,” Hajime quips.

“Hmm. I have something better in mind,” Oikawa answers evenly, eyes half-lidded, and tugs him forward.

Their steps across the room feel like a quiet, intimate dance, the immeasurable gravity between them drawing their bodies close.

And then Oikawa pushes him downwards onto the futon.

Hajime glares up at him, unimpressed.

“Really? With your family downstairs?”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says seriously, fingers grazing Hajime’s chest, “I’ve fantasized about this since high school. It’s a vital element of the experience.”

Silence.

“Okay, maybe I did warn them so they could technically leave if they want—”

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Hajime cuts in, and surges up to crash their lips together.

It feels like being brought to life, and it hurts. It hurts everywhere their skin isn’t touching, but it burns even more where it does. And so Hajime pulls him closer, closer, closer; hooks his arm around Oikawa’s slender waist to drag his hips downward, slides his other hand along the base of Oikawa’s sharp jaw to tug the hair at the back of his neck, pushes his tongue into his sweet mouth to swallow the melody that escapes him as he draws them flush together. Oikawa, in turn, runs his long fingers over the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, his chest, his stomach, leaving trails of fire in his wake.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and the wave of desire in Hajime’s chest swells with every second of blazing contact between their lips, their skin. He feels something inside him reaching even further, like it isn’t just his physical body longing for the man in his arms, but his soul.

After what feels like forever and mere seconds all at once, Hajime pulls away. Oikawa lets out a low whine at the loss of contact, and it takes everything in Hajime not to dive back in straightaway.

“Tooru,” he rasps, and in any other situation he’d be embarrassed at how rough his voice sounds, but not now. Not when it makes Oikawa flush an even prettier pink now that they’re both out of breath and panting. Hajime’s gaze slides down to his lips, which are so goddamn red and gorgeous and absolutely battered. By him. He can’t fucking believe it. “I want to do this.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen, the russet tint of his irises nearly consumed by black.

“Iwa-chan…” His voice quavers with want. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Hajime answers. “About everything.” He reaches for Oikawa’s hands around his neck—beautiful, strong hands roughened by years of volleyball—and gently drags them down, down, down, until they settle just below the waistband of his own jeans, where they have yet to venture. “I want to be with you.”

He leans in, cradles Oikawa’s face with his hand. “I want it to be us.” Kisses him gently, tenderly. Lovingly.

“I think you’re avoiding the main question here,” Oikawa whispers, teasing even when his pulse is visibly rabbiting in his neck. Hajime feels his smile when their lips meet again in a kiss even sweeter than the last. “Since you’re so sure, why don’t you spell it out for me—”

Suddenly, he can’t take it any longer. He grabs Oikawa’s waist and flips them over, relishing in the little gasp of surprise that he lets out.

“I want you,” Hajime growls. “That clear enough for you?”

Oikawa gapes up at him, swollen lips parted to form a perfect, pretty Oh! as he nods dumbly.

Hajime feels like he could eat the world raw.

“Hajime,” Oikawa gasps, already writhing as Hajime’s teeth skim over his pulse point, “Be my—ah!—boyfriend—please.”

Hajime blinks at him, hand freezing where it had been snaking underneath Oikawa’s shirt. Right. They were still fully clothed, and yet everything already felt more intimate than anything Hajime’s ever experienced.

“What?” he replies, very intelligently.

Oikawa glares at him, face flushed. “What?!”

“I thought we were already…” Hajime trails off, feeling his own cheeks heat up. “Wait. Is that what you wanted me to ask?”

“Oh my god,” Oikawa groans. “Iwa-chan! I can’t believe you! I know you’re inexperienced, but…” At that, Hajime raises an eyebrow skeptically, and Oikawa colors even more. “But this is just—ugh.”

“Oh, because you’re just so suave right now,” Hajime shoots back. “But yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll be your boyfriend,” Hajime answers swiftly, tasting the word on his tongue. Huh. He could get used to this.

“And I’ll be yours?” Oikawa asks hopefully.

“How else is it supposed to work?!”

Hajime realizes that he’s fallen into a trap the moment Oikawa laughs. He still thinks it's the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“Show me?” Oikawa asks, looking up at Hajime with so much adoration that it overflows; spills into the gaps in the floor like molten starlight, a lifetime of longing crystallizing into something tangible, something permanent. “Mi cielo.”

This, Hajime thinks, is theirs.

Underneath the glow-in-the-dark planets of Oikawa’s childhood bedroom, Hajime learns what it means to unravel time and space and put it all back together again.

Hajime wakes with a warm weight on his chest, feeling lighter than he’s ever felt in years.

It takes him only a few more seconds to register the arm slung loosely across his torso and the legs entangled with his. There’s also a small, damp spot on his shirt (no, not his shirt) right where Oikawa’s half-open mouth is pressed sideways against the fabric.

Sunlight streams through the window on the other side of the room, illuminating the crown of Oikawa’s head and turning his brown locks into honey gold. His eyes are still shut, but contentment softens his timeless features. It wouldn’t be hard to believe that they were eighteen again, that this was just another dream of Hajime’s youth, lingering in the last tendrils of sleep.

Hajime decides to lie still a little longer, his gaze flitting from the window to the stickers on the ceiling to the outline of his sleeping best friend. His lover.

By the time Oikawa finally shifts, Hajime’s eyes are nearly halfway shut again. He can barely see anything through his heavy eyelids, but he feels Oikawa angle his head upwards and has the vaguest sense of his gaze traveling across Hajime’s features.

And then there’s a hand on his jaw, light as a feather. A thumb, brushing across his cheekbone. A sigh, fluttering against his neck.

“I love you,” Oikawa whispers.

Hajime continues to lie there, still and quiet as a rock, as Oikawa presses his lips to his forehead; a kiss that is as sure as it is gentle.

When he wakes again, it’s to the incessant ringing of his phone. Eyebrows furrowed, he reaches out blindly to turn it off.

“So grumpy-looking already,” a voice behind him chides. Oikawa’s hand covers his almost immediately. “Good morning, mi amor.”

“G’morning,” Hajime replies, still muddled with sleep. “Love you too.”

Oikawa hides a smile on Hajime's shoulder. “Mmm. Maybe not as grumpy as I thought.”

They spend a few moments just lying together until the incessant ringing of Hajime’s phone becomes too unbearable to ignore. He has half a mind to toss it until he sees the caller ID and the piling number of missed calls, and finally decides to grace his friend with an answer.

“What the fuck, dude?”

“Hey,” Hajime answers, wincing at how rough his voice still sounds. Oikawa giggles in the background. He shoots him a withering glare.

“Hey?!” Hanamaki screeches. “Is that all you have to say after fifteen missed calls?”

“We slept in, okay?” Hajime snaps, but there’s no real bite to it. Not when Oikawa's still draped across his back, long setter’s fingers carding through his spiky hair.

“You, sleeping in?” Hanamaki scoffs incredulously. “Wait a minute—we?!”

Oikawa, the devil, chooses that exact moment to lean over Hajime’s shoulder and snatch his phone, a smug grin on his face as he turns on speaker mode. “Yes, Makki, we.”

“What the fuck!” Hanamaki yells again.

“Makki, your vocabulary range is almost as bad as Iwa-chan’s,” Oikawa tuts. Hajime turns to glare at him again. He’s having a harder time than usual trying not to melt at the look of pure delight on his face.

“Fuck you, Oikawa,” Hanamaki retorts sharply. He also sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. “This might be the best day of my life.”

“It will be, because the Great Oikawa-sama is going to treat his jobless friend to dinner!” he cackles. Hajime has the feeling he’d be spreading his arms like some anime villain if they weren’t still so stubbornly wound around him. “So, the usual ramen on Friday?”

“I’d come over there and beat your ass if I weren’t so moved.”

Hajime snorts. “I can do that for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Hanamaki drawls. Hajime doesn’t even need to see his face to know that he’s winking. Probably multiple times in succession, too.

He thinks it can’t get any worse until Oikawa croons, innocent and eyelashes fluttering, “Really, Iwa-chan? Again?”

That earns him a pillow to the face.

The rest of the week passes by in a glowing haze.

The first thing Hajime does is take him to meet his parents at his house. Oikawa teases him about being nervous on the way, which is stupid because their places are barely even a minute’s walk apart, but Hajime can’t deny the strange anticipation in his chest. It dissipates the moment his father opens the front door, congratulating Oikawa and calling him son, and immediately calling his wife with joy the moment he sees their joined hands.

Later on, they sit by the creek behind the Iwaizumi backyard, and Oikawa asks him to tell the scientific names of all the bugs they used to find crawling on its shore. Hajime obliges even though it’s been ages since he last took up undergraduate biodiversity. As he gazes down at their reflections in the creek, he realizes that the water doesn’t run as deep as he remembers. Maybe, he thinks, that’s what growing up was.

Oikawa also mentions Yagiyama Benyland in an offhand comment so of course Hajime brings them there. They’re a bit too tall for all the rides they used to spend hours in line for, but they go on them together nonetheless. Oikawa still screams and cusses like a sailor when the rollercoaster takes a plunge, and Hajime still laughs at him, much to his chagrin. They ride the thirteenth car of the Ferris Wheel, like they always do, and take in the sunset view at the apex before Oikawa leans in for a kiss. His lips taste like the blue cotton candy Hajime had bought him earlier. Still, it’s sweeter when he whispers, “I’ve always wanted to do that” in a shy and earnest way that makes Hajime pull him in again.

They spend some time acting like tourists in the heart of Sendai City and the neighboring areas. They visit Aoba Castle, reminding Hajime of a second-grade field trip they’d gone on together, and spend time recreating the old pictures they’d found in Oikawa’s mother’s photo album. They laugh over a shared plate of gyutan at a fancy specialty restaurant that’s much better than the one in Tokyo, and then order another after Oikawa admits that he’s still hungry. He still insists on Hajime taking some, anyway.

On Wednesday, Takeru casually invites the two of them to visit the local kids’ volleyball club, where he spends his free weekends as an assistant coach just like his uncle used to do. Oikawa immediately accepts, and Hajime relishes in the way his eyes gleam as bright as the children’s when they come up to him in flocks and ask him to demonstrate that “super cool serve they saw on TV.”

“Okay, okay! Calm down! But first…” His voice drops to a whisper, and the kids lean forward in anticipation. “Remember to cheer for Team Argentina!”

Hajime rolls his eyes. The children gape at Oikawa before one of them pipes up, “Of course we do! Oikawa-senpai told us too!”

“Yeah! He even gave us these!” Fishing through their pocket, one of the kids proudly brandishes a tiny blue flag. Upon closer look, Hajime sees that it has a miniature version of Oikawa’s jersey printed across it.

Takeru groans and looks away as Oikawa preens, “Why, it looks like your coach has been teaching you well after all!”

Hajime feels a tug on his shirt and looks down to see one of the younger girls, who whispers, “You’re the JVNT Trainer-san on TV, right? Don’t worry, I’m cheering for Japan too!”

He leans down, patting her head gently with a smile that makes her cheeks turn pink. “Thanks, kiddo.”

When he looks up, his gaze immediately catches Oikawa’s, who’s smirking right at him. “Don’t look too surprised, Iwa-chan. I’m sure you have at least a couple other fans.”

In classic Hajime fashion, he throws a volleyball in his direction. Oikawa howls when it hits him square in the chest.

The session ends up going nearly half an hour overtime. Hajime has to drag Oikawa away from a kid he’d stuck a tongue out at (“He bet I couldn’t serve with my eyes closed, Iwa-chan!” “What are you, seven? You’re twenty years older than him!”), but overall, the kids did seem to adore them both. A handful of them even ask Oikawa to sign their volleyballs.

“No jockstraps?” Oikawa jokes, and Hajime has to kick him in the shin after that.

It isn’t long before Friday arrives. The walk to the ramen shop is a quiet, pleasant uphill route they’ve walked hundreds of times before, Oikawa’s arm looping around Hajime’s as he talked his ear off. Hajime would always listen, as he does now, watching the sky slowly change color over his hometown.

Nostalgia wraps around him like a blanket, its weight comforting. It’s a far cry from the heavy feeling that used to follow Hajime around these streets. He thinks it might have a lot to do with the warm hand in his, the same length of years etched into the lines of their palms.

“...The thing is, Iwa-chan, moss may look small and boring but they’re actually really sturdy and that’s why scientists are trying to grow them in space. Can you believe it? There’s moss in the International Space Station, Iwa-chan.”

“You’re aware that this makes you sound like you’re really jealous of a plant, right?”

Oikawa pouts. “So what if I am?”

His face immediately brightens as they turn the next corner. “Iwa-chan, look!”

“Yeah, I can see.”

“Do my eyes deceive me or is that actually Kunimi-chan? KUNIMI-CHAAAN!”

He takes off running, and Hajime nearly trips as he’s tugged along. He’s only barely able to keep up thanks to years of racing the long-legged idiot and joining him on morning jogs, a habit which he’s more thankful than ever to have kept to this day.

“Kunimi-chan, is that really you?!” Oikawa gasps once they’re within a foot of their old junior, who just happens to be standing right in front of the ramen shop. “Your hair!”

Kunimi blinks at him, impassive, but the corner of his mouth twitches as if suppressing a smile. “Hi, senpai.”

The door to the restaurant opens with a chime. Kindaichi pokes his head out first, eyes widening as his gaze lands on their former captain and vice-captain. “Oikawa-senpai! Iwaizumi-senpai! You’re here!” he says, much more loudly than necessary. He throws a hurried glance behind him before stepping outside.

“Why do you sound so surprised,” mutters Kunimi.

“Well, if it isn’t Iwa-chan’s favorite kouhai,” Oikawa grins sharply. “Ya-ho, Kin-chan!”

Kindaichi lurches forward and then stops, as if unsure whether or not to launch himself into their arms. His gaze flickers downwards, blush creeping up his cheeks, and Hajime realizes belatedly that he’s looking right at their joined hands.

“Iwaizumi-senpai,” Kindaichi says. “The others are inside.”

“The others?” Oikawa blinks.

Hajime tries his best to school his expression into neutrality (an impossible feat, according to Oikawa, who says he looks like a “grumpy old man” on his best days). “Hanamaki and Matsukawa?”

“Oh, right. Well, I suppose Kunimi-chan and Kin-chan can join us, since their senpais are so kind.”

Hajime rolls his eyes and tugs on Oikawa’s hand. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

The old first year pair enters first. Hajime goes in next, followed by Oikawa.

And then all the lights shut off.

Oikawa yelps, immediately tightening his grip on Hajime’s hand. “What the heck, Kindaichi! This isn’t funny!”

“It wasn’t me, Senpai!” cries Kindaichi, sounding even more terrified than Oikawa. Hajime has to commend the guy—even he was almost fooled by his fake horror.

Suddenly, a low, familiar voice resurfaces in the dark.

“Alright, boys. Three, two, one…”

The lights flash on, and Oikawa’s jaw drops.

“WELCOME HOME, CAPTAIN!”

For a split second, Oikawa stands there, speechless, eyes roving over the faces of his old high school teammates. Hanamaki and Matsukawa stand grinning at the frontlines, both decked out in matching blue jerseys with the number 13 printed on the front. Yahaba and Watari stand guard on either side of a scowling Kyoutani, who has a lopsided Argentine flag pasted on his face. Even Shido, Yuda, and Sawauchi are there, each holding up a placard with the characters of “Congratulations, captain!” spread out between them.

Finally, his gaze lands on the familiar turquoise banner hung on the wall behind them, and Hajime feels his heart clench and swell with pride all at once.

“Well, well, well,” Hanamaki drawls, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Looks like someone’s lost their vocabulary.”

“Fuck you, Makki,” Oikawa sobs. “Thank you. Thank you,” he says, over and over again until Hajime feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He’s not the only one. Matsukawa tugs up his shirt to wipe his face while Hanamaki looks down, shoulders beginning to shake. He hears Kindaichi sniffle loudly, and the sound of a tissue packet being opened as Kunimi hands him a piece.

“Not to ruin the moment but… the ramen’s gonna get cold.”

“You’re right, Yahaba-chan,” Oikawa laughs, happy and tearstained. “If I knew you’d all be coming, I would’ve picked somewhere nicer!”

“No you wouldn’t,” says Matsukawa. “You’re a cheapskate.”

Oikawa gasps, placing a hand on his chest. “Am not! I am an extremely generous captain—”

“There are so many other words to describe how much of a great captain you are, Oikawa,” Shido says. “But generous? Really?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Oikawa wags his finger at their former batchmate. “Do you want drinks later or not?”

Shido grins. “You could’ve just said that.”

As Oikawa continues to catch up with their former teammates, Hajime slides into a seat next to Matsukawa at the bar.

“Hey,” he says, elbowing his friend, “Thank you.”

One of the servers—a kind old lady Hajime recognizes from his high school days—greets him as she places a bowl of ramen in front of him. It’s his usual order of shoyu, but there are about twice as many slices of chashu as usual. He makes a mental note to thank her when she comes back.

Matsukawa grins at him. “It was a team effort. The hardest part was getting Mad Dog to stick the flag on his cheek, honestly.” They both glance at Kyoutani, who seems to be looking at Oikawa with barely-concealed awe. Hajime watches his expression morph from one of surprise into a scowl when Oikawa turns to talk to him, grinning all the while.

“Huh,” Hajime muses. “He obviously admires Oikawa, though.”

“He started playing pro because of him, actually,” another voice says. Hajime looks up to see Yahaba standing behind them, an empty bowl of ramen in one hand. “One more serving, please!” he calls out to the staff, who all seem fairly unfazed by the ruckus but cheerful nonetheless.

“That’s going to get to his head so bad,” Hajime complains, still unable to help his grin. “I get why Kyoutani’s acting so blasé.”

“Well,” Yahaba says, “He looked up to you, first. I guess he learned from the best.”

Matsukawa raises his hand for a high five with Yahaba, who gladly obliges. Hajime just stares at them both.

“He wasn’t wrong,” Matsukawa says once Yahaba has returned to his seat. “Also. Heard you two finally got your shit together. Any reason we didn’t hear about it earlier?”

“Figured it’d be better to tell you in person.”

Matsukawa snorts. “More like show us in person,” he says dryly, eyes tracking Oikawa as he saunters over to their table and snakes his arms around Hajime’s waist from behind. Hajime has the sudden feeling that everyone else in the room is watching with barely hidden curiosity.

“Iwa-chan,” he sings, “did you know about this surprise?”

“Sit down and eat your food, Idiotkawa.”

“He called us all up the moment he convinced you to come up here with him, actually,” Matsukawa supplies.

“He didn’t need any convincing,” Hajime corrects. “Actually, he annoyed me into bringing him—”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish because Oikawa grabs his face and kisses him, full on the lips. It’s more out of instinct than anything that he drops his chopsticks, hands immediately coming up to hold Oikawa’s wrists.

It takes approximately thirteen seconds of cheers, whoops, and wolf-whistles for Hajime to realize that they’re doing this in front of the whole team and pull away, feeling his ears heat up with embarrassment.

“Just had to say thank you to Iwa-chan,” Oikawa laughs, gleefully pinching his earlobe before returning to his ramen. The menace.

“...Disgusting.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Wait…this is new?”

Oikawa laughs as he exchanges a look with Hajime. Because it is new, but at the same time it’s age-old. Because it took them lifetimes to get here, yet they've been together since the beginning.

“Well,” Oikawa says, “I don’t blame you, Kindaichi, since Iwa-chan only recently realized that he had a massive crush on me since forever—”

“Shut up!”

After four hours, too many glasses of umeshu, and multiple rejections of Oikawa’s inebriated attempts at public indecency, they finally leave the izakaya across the street from the ramen shop and bid goodbye to the team. Hanamaki, an emotional drunk, had only let them leave once they promised everyone that they’d continue to have regular drinking sessions together. (Matsukawa had suggested a bimonthly schedule. How that would happen when he and Oikawa were both going back abroad, Hajime had no idea, but they would make it work. Neither of them were the type to flake out on promises, anyway.)

“Hajime,” Oikawa tugs on his hand. “Let’s take the long way home, yeah?”

He’s about to remind Oikawa that he had been the one who teased his hand on Hajime’s thigh multiple times throughout the whole night until he catches the faraway look in his eyes.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asks instead.

“Mmm,” Oikawa hums. “I could afford to stay in the fresh air for a little longer.”

There are a couple of different, longer routes back to their street, but somehow, they end up walking in the same direction without hesitation. He wonders how normal it is for two people like them to be so perfectly in sync.

A-un no kokyuu, they were called in junior high school.

Hajime used to think that it meant breathing as one—to have all their thoughts and feelings in a perfect synchrony. Perhaps it’s what they used to have, back when they grew up joined at the hip. But they’re older now, have grown in age and distance, in worlds beyond the realm of Japanese proverbs. Maybe they’re still a-un, have always been, but not as a singular entity. As partners. A complimentary pair. A setter and a spiker, a beginning and an end.

An inevitability.

It’s the feeling that they would always end up here, in any lifetime, no matter how long it would take. It had just taken them some time in this one.

“God,” Hajime says suddenly. “We were such fucking idiots.”

“Hmm,” Oikawa taps a finger on his chin. “Just you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hajime says, elbowing him lightly. Oikawa lets out a squawk in response.

“That hurt!”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so mean. Apologize right now.”

“I have plenty of time to make it up to you.”

Oikawa smiles at that. “All the time in the world. What are you thinking?”

“Well, since you’re so spoiled,” Hajime says, feeling a lightness spread in his chest, “We can go to that bakery in Tokyo tomorrow. The one that has that dulce de leche cake you like.”

“Oh, please. If you want real dulce de leche, we might as well get it in Argentina,” he scoffs. “The fact that you’ve never actually been to my place in San Juan is a crime. I even bought a spare futon for you ages ago.”

“Hmm. It’s too bad that spare futon isn’t gonna have any use now.”

“I even put a plant on the windowsill for you,” Oikawa continues. “Because I know you think that rooms without any greenery look dead.”

“You? Managed to keep a plant alive?”

“Haji-chan is a very healthy Bromeliad, mind you.”

“You named your plant Haji-chan.”

“He’s spiky! Just like you.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

Oikawa manages to look affronted at the sarcasm for barely a second before his features brighten again. “I’d love to come up to California, too. If you’ll have me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Tooru,” Hajime grunts. “Of course I will. We can even go to Los Angeles and visit Griffith Observatory. Maybe you can learn all the proper names of the constellations then.”

“Really?!” Oikawa exclaims, with the enthusiasm of a child opening presents on Christmas Day. “Oh my god. We should go on a road trip afterwards. Drive all the way to New York and take a photo with the Statue of Liberty.”

“There’s already one in Odaiba,” Hajime points out amusedly. “And Shimoda and Osaka. But sure.”

“But were they also built in France?”

“If you want something from France so bad, we might as well go there.”

“I am planning to go there,” Oikawa answers. “And so will you. Paris 2024, remember?”

“Is that another challenge?” Hajime’s tone is goading, but he can’t help it. The competitiveness between them was about as old and natural as their friendship, and they both thrived off it.

“Of course, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa grins. He holds up his fist, and Hajime bumps it with fervor. “But there’s still so much time before then. And after that…” He trails off. “We could go anywhere.”

Hajime feels his heart catch in his throat. The world, all theirs to explore. Together.

He thinks of fighting over window seats just to insist on the other getting it, then later on holding hands over the armrest. Checking off destinations on a shared bucket list and trying new things to catalog each other’s favorites. Having a shoulder to lean on during red-eye flights. Waking up in different cities, but never not next to each other.

“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking with emotion. “Yeah, we could.”

Oikawa squeezes his hand. “We could go home again, too,” he adds softly, tilting his head to the stars. A few of them are scattered across the indigo sky. Hajime thinks he might be able to recognize Spin Serve Star as one of them. “See the Pageant of Starlight.”

Hajime slows down to a stop, taking in the tree-lined avenue surrounding them. “This is where they hold it, right?”

“Spot on, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa answers. “Don’t you miss it? Because I have to admit, going there with you let me indulge a bit more in my dating Iwa-chan fantasies…”

Hajime snorts. “Creep. No wonder you’d always space out after blabbering nonstop.”

Oikawa huffs. “Half of those were fueled by me catching you staring, mind you.”

For a brief moment, Hajime sees them both at seventeen again, walking side-by-side where they stand a decade later, illuminated and effervescent in the golden light. Sees the man beside him now, still as radiant as ever at twenty-seven, with a brilliance that could never fade even decades down the line.

“What can I say?” He smiles, thinking of the medal strung around Oikawa’s neck, right where it belongs. The mark of not only one, but two lifelong dreams come to fruition. “Gold does look good on you.”

Chapter Text

August 2022
UTC-07:00

Hajime plants his feet on the ground, palms upturned to face the sky above. Across him, Oikawa takes a step forward and tosses the volleyball into the air.

He barely has the time to appreciate Oikawa’s form before the setter launches off the ground, hand connecting perfectly with the ball with a satisfying smack. The only thought that forms in Hajime’s head in the split second that he watches the ball careen towards him is I’m going to be killed by my boyfriend’s stupid super triple spin serve and die thinking that it was hot before muscle memory takes over.

He leans to one side, arms outstretched and wrists pressed together. With a sharp sting, the ball glances off his forearms and soars into the blue sky above. He follows it with his gaze, the glare of the sun forcing him to squint as he watches it fall back to the ground in a parabolic arc.

Oikawa doesn’t even receive it.

“Shittykawa,” Hajime growls. “Are you trying to murder me on my college campus?”

The setter grins at him cheekily. “Okay, first of all, you received it perfectly, which means I was right to not expect any less of Iwa-chan. Second of all, you’re not a student here anymore, so there’s a lot less liability, right—”

Hajime throws a ball at him (because of course they brought an extra one), and Oikawa expertly dodges it with a yelp.

“Iwa-chan! Is that any way to treat your boyfriend?” he yells dramatically. This catches the attention of several people in the lawn, heads swiveling to regard them curiously.

“Holy fuck, dude, those guys can get it.”

“Do you think they’re taken?”

“By each other, I bet.”

“Man. I was gonna go ask the one in a polo for his number, too…”

“The guy with brown hair looks really familiar. Is he a model?”

“Model?! Are you fucking kidding me? Girl, don’t you know who that is?!”

Before Hajime can stop him, Oikawa gives them an enthusiastic wave. His eyes widen when they begin to approach them, pushing and shoving each other on the way.

“Uhh…Iwa-chan? What are they doing?”

“Did you just expect them to giggle and walk away?!” he hisses. “You asked for this!”

“Surely a couple pictures won’t hurt!”

Hajime groans. “One photo and they’re going to summon the whole goddamn campus to track you across the States, you idiot.”

“Oops.” Oikawa gulps. He turns to them, flashes a peace sign, and yells: “Sorry, maybe next time!”

Then he scoops up the stray volleyballs and runs.

“What the hell—Trashykawa!”

Hajime can only imagine how stupid they must look—two fully grown men, one laughing hysterically with a volleyball under each arm and the other shouting bloody murder—sprinting across the pristine UC Irvine campus. He prays that none of his former professors decided to take a nice afternoon stroll through Aldrich Park today. Unfortunately, it really was a pleasant day.

Once they reach the Ring Road, Hajime grabs Oikawa’s arm and pulls him towards one of the buildings surrounding the circular path. Instead of going in, he leads him to the side at the last minute.

They collapse against the brick wall, panting. Oikawa’s still grinning—it’s so infectious that Hajime doesn’t realize he’s smiling, too, until his cheeks begin to ache.

“Well, that was fun.”

“I can’t believe you.” Hajime shakes his head. “You do know that this is going to be all over the Internet later, right?”

Oikawa shrugs. “They won’t find us here later, anyways.”

“We should go, then,” Hajime says. He pushes off the wall and bends down to pick off the blades of grass that had gotten caught in his rolled-up pants.

When he stands, Oikawa’s right in front of him, one hand on the wall as he fixates Hajime with glinting eyes.

Hajime, impervious, simply glares back at him. “Did you just try to kabedon me?”

“What did you think would happen when you brought me here?!” Oikawa demands. His voice dips as he leans in, whispering, “Besides, Iwa-chan is just the perfect height—”

“Shut up,” Hajime growls, determinedly trying not to look at Oikawa’s chest right below his immediate line of vision. He swallows, throat dry, and Oikawa’s mouth falls open ever so slightly as his eyes track the bobbing movement.

God, that sprint had left him parched.

The next moment, Oikawa has him caged in completely, and they’re making out like a goddamn pair of touch-starved college students against the wall of the Langson Library.

There’s a rush of cool air as the top buttons of his polo are popped open, Oikawa’s hand sneaking in to graze the skin underneath. Hajime’s mind may feel like putty right now, but some distant part of him recalls that as much as he’d seen enough PDA on this campus for one lifetime, he didn’t exactly want to become a star example.

He’s about to tell Oikawa as much when a beeping sound suddenly goes off, and they both freeze.

Oikawa blinks as he slowly detaches himself from Hajime’s neck, hair disheveled and face glowing. “What was that?”

“Don’t mind it,” he says gruffly, cheeks coloring. But Oikawa, perceptive as he is, follows Hajime’s gaze until he, too, spots the glowing screen of his smartwatch.

It reads: High heart rate detected.

“Oh my god.”

“Not a word, Shittykawa,” Hajime warns, even when he’s already resigning himself to a lifetime of incessant ridicule.

Oikawa giggles, still staring at the watch. He blinks, his expression suddenly muddling. “Uh, Iwa-chan…what time is our flight again?”

Still dazed, Hajime tears his eyes away from the sheen on Oikawa’s lips. “Four-thirty.”

Oikawa leans back further, face growing pale. “Four-thirty?”

“Yeah…” Hajime trails off, realization slowly dawning on him as he, too, glances at the watch on his wrist. “Oh, fuck.”

“Kuroo’s gonna kill us.”

fira @cvntyzuko

[Image Attached]

can someone tell me wtf olympic gold medalist oikawa tooru is doing in uc irvine, california

oikawa’s hairgel @oikarage

HE LOOKS SO GOOD I CANT

cj @oikawa_png

OIKAWA NATION WAKE UP NEW PHOTOS JUST DROPPED

kai @manjinoya

wait isnt he with the athletic trainer of the japanese national team?!? the one who trended like crazy last year??!

alex @jjjoonbug

OMG DO U MEAN IWAIZUMI HAJIME?? I THINK UR RIGHT??

i love cream puffs @ilovecreampuffs69

bro thinks they’re sleek lmfaoooo

Matsukawa & Co. Funeral Home @Matsukawa_Funerals

dude iwa’s gonna hate this 💀 oiks boutta get his ass BEAT

i love cream puffs @ilovecreampuffs69

BABE WRONG ACCOUNT

ice @totokawas

@Matsukawa_Funerals dude wtf are u saying. get out 💀

Shou @shoukunz13

@Matsukawa_Funerals what does a funeral home have to do w any of this helpp 😭

lilac @fuckmiyaatsumu

@oikawanation_worldwide Please help us mass report @Matsukawa_Funerals 🙏🙏

Matsukawa & Co. Funeral Home @Matsukawa_Funerals

Ah shit

emma @haikyuthinker

uh anyways hi guys.. so i looked into it and turns out he Studied at uci wtf how did i have no idea… interned at a really prestigious place too Oh my

iwabiceps iwatriceps @iwaarms34

Once again proving that he is hot AND smart as fuck 😩

gaia @belovedkiyo

does anyone know if he takes personal clients. asking for myself

cherri @cherrie_teaa

no but i heard from my friend at Birtwistle that he’s a trainer for their team there? said he was just there a few days ago, what is my guy doing in cali lmao 😭

kiwi @hajimeswife_

brb transferring to birtwistle university rn

toto my beloved <3 @argenius

Yo anyone else think this might have something to do with the upcoming all-star match in japan????

Japan VB Association ⋅ Kuroo Testurou @jvb_kuroo

@argenius Spot on, toto my beloved <3! Witness the monsters of the Pro Volleyball world fight head-to-head this weekend at the #AllStarSpecialMatch2022. We’ve opened a limited number of bonus on-site tickets for sale. For more information, click below!!

#Volleyball

April 2022
UTC-03:00

“So…an All-Star Special Match, huh?”

“With only the best of the best,” Kuroo confirms, an air of swagger in his businesslike tone. “C’mon, Iwaizumi, nobody knows him like you do. How do I get a world-class star like him on board?”

Hajime snorts. From the balcony, he casts a glance through the glass sliding doors at his boyfriend scrolling away mindlessly on the couch, a green tea facial mask plastered to his skin. A flicker of fondness passes over him as their eyes meet.

“Hurry up!” he mouths.

Hajime holds up a hand. “Five minutes,” he mouths back.

Oikawa sticks a tongue out at him in response.

Yep. World-class star, alright.

He turns back around to lean on the balcony railing. The early autumn weather is pleasantly cool, the various trees lining the avenue—still damp with morning dew—providing more than enough shade from the sun. On the street below him, a couple of kids crouch around a stray cat with a bowl of milk. Further down, the road seems to shimmer in the sunlight, framed by colorful houses with open windows, the occasional song drifting out into the morning air. He knows that if he rounds the next corner, he’ll run into the lovely shop owner who likes to give both him and Oikawa free pastelitos criollos whenever they drop by.

It fills Hajime with happiness, to see that the person he loves is surrounded by so much of it.

“Just flatter him. Tell him he’s the star of the world, or something.”

This time, it’s Kuroo’s turn to snort. “Is that what you call him?”

“What—no! You’re literally the one who called him a world-class star!”

“What, then? The center of your universe? The king of your heart? The reason you breathe?”

“The bane of my existence,” Hajime deadpans.

“Wow. I’m so moved. I bet you’re a real romantic, Iwaizumi.”

It really isn’t something he should be thinking about while having a semi-professional conversation over the phone, but Hajime’s mind is pulled to the night before in Oikawa’s bathtub, the scent of lavender wrapped around them as dizzying as the warm press of their limbs in the water.

“Tonight,” Oikawa had whispered against his nape, “I’m gonna make you forget you ever lived anywhere else.”

“Mmm. Save that for when we move in together.”

It wasn’t until Oikawa had fallen silent that Hajime realized what exactly he’d said and what it meant. His mind had been scrambling for something else to say when he felt Oikawa smile against his back, a butterfly-light kiss dropped on the skin of his shoulder.

“When we move in together, huh?” Oikawa mused. “Sounds like a plan.”

Thankfully, in the time it takes for Hajime to shake himself out of his reverie, something seems to click in Kuroo’s brain.

“Iwaizumi, you should join us.”

Hajime scowls. “Was already planning to.”

“No, like actually join us. Officially. As a trainer.”

“As a babysitter,” Hajime deadpans.

“We’ll pay for your flights to Japan. Yours and Oikawa’s. We can arrange one from Argentina to LAX too, if you’d like, so you two can fly together.”

“Huh. Is this how you get people to jump on your scams?”

“I am not a scammer! I literally flew to Ar—Poland to recruit Ushijima. And Italy for Kageyama. And Brazil, too, with Kenma.”

“What the hell? The JVB must be loaded.”

“They’ve set aside a special budget just for me, because my schemes are just that good.”

“Your schemes, huh.”

“That’s right.”

Hajime chances another glance at Oikawa, who’s now traipsing around the living room in one of Hajime’s old university jackets. The purse of his lips indicates that he’s humming to himself as usual as he does his warm-up stretches. Hajime bites back a huff of amusement at the sight.

“Say Kuroo, if I do agree to the terms of your scheme…”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you think you could help me out with mine?”

Hajime doesn’t have to see Kuroo’s face to know that he’s grinning. “What do you have in mind?”

Five minutes later, Hajime steps back into the apartment. Oikawa’s already waiting by the entryway, running shoes all laced up and an expectant look on his face.

After Hajime slips his own pair on, he looks up at Oikawa and says, “Hey, about that road trip from California to New York…”

Oikawa looks at him curiously. “Yeah?”

“What do you say about doing it the other way around?”

August 2022
UTC+09:00

“You came all the way from New York?!”

Though the hitter is a good few centimeters taller than Hajime, his open, wide-eyed expression combined with his bowl cut make him look like he’s barely aged since the last time they played each other. That was, Hajime realizes with a start, a full decade ago, all the way back during his last Inter High.

“Boston, technically? That’s where the university I work at is located,” Hajime answers, and Goshiki’s eyes widen even more. “But we did spend a day in New York. And then drove cross-country all the way to California.”

“Woah. You live in Boston? I literally live next to Sendai Station.”

Technically, Hajime also lives in Sendai, Tokyo, and San Juan, but he decides for now that there’s no need for specifics.

“Sounds like a pretty convenient place to live.” Hajime shrugs.

“It is! And that’s why everyone else—”

“HA?”

“EH?”

Goshiki swallows. “As I was saying, everyone else on the old Shiratorizawa team just loves crashing at my place—”

“Hey, could you not treat me like a freak?”

Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose. “Goshiki, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Go ahead, Iwaizumi-san,” Goshiki looks a bit disappointed, but it clears the moment his eyes land on Hinata, who wears an expression of equal enthusiasm.

After greeting Hinata with a pat on the back, Hajime moves over to the center of the room, where the two most irritating setters he’s ever had the misfortune to work with stand eye-to-eye, the rising tension between them begging to be defused. He can practically feel some blood vessel in his forehead twitch as he approaches them.

“It’ll be fine,” he announces—partly to himself and partly to everyone else in the room—as he throws his arms around the setter duo. His fingers dig into their shirtsleeves, eliciting a wince from them both. “We’re all adults here, riiight?”

He gives Oikawa’s bicep an extra squeeze, satisfied to see a blush rise on his neck as he looks away, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face. Atsumu doesn’t seem to be faring any better under the attention.

Suddenly, the door bursts open, and Hajime’s hands drop to his sides as Nicollas Romero barges in, arms spread wide as he yells:

“It’s volleyball time!!!”

Oikawa’s jaw falls open. Hajime would have teased him if he weren’t so starstruck himself.

“It’s Romero!” he gasps, looking from the tall hitter to Hajime to Hinata, who had just materialized between them.

“I think you should go talk to him, Oikawa-san!” Hinata whispers loudly.

Romero immediately turns around, eyes lit up with interest. “Oikawa Tooru? Argentina’s setter?”

“That’s me!” Oikawa blurts.

“Wonderful!” Romero exclaims, grabbing him by the shoulders. Oikawa looks too stunned to even respond as the hitter begins to speak in rapid-fire English.

Hinata chuckles. “At least they got along right away.”

They both cast a glance at Atsumu, who appears to be sulking in the corner next to a bored-looking Suna.

“I hate to say this, but Miya and Tooru might click sooner or later,” Hajime says. “Though I’d rather it happen later for my sanity’s sake.”

Hinata shrugs. “I mean, Atsumu-kun’s the one who contacted the food supplier for later, right? He probably respects Oikawa-san enough since he wasn’t that opposed to helping out with,” he lowers his voice suddenly, “the plan.”

“He doesn’t know it’s for Tooru, though,” Hajime says, similarly keeping his voice down. “Wait. How do you know it’s for Tooru?”

Hinata blinks. “Uh. Kuroo-san texted the group chat? He was telling us to clear our schedule after the game if we wanted to witness the surprise pro—”

Hajime clamps a hand over his mouth. Hinata’s eyes grow wide as they land on a spot just above Hajime’s shoulder.

“Hajime, what are you doing to poor Shouyou?”

“Nothing!” Hinata squeaks at the same time Hajime lets his hand fall away.

Oikawa narrows his eyes at the both of them for a second before turning to the tall athlete beside him. “Romero, this is Iwa-chan. Iwa-chan, Romero!”

“Iwa-chan?” Romero asks, visible confusion flickering across his features.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Hajime corrects, feeling his face warm.

“You look strong,” Romero remarks, which does nothing to help Hajime’s blush. “What position do you play?”

“Ah, I actually don’t—”

“Wing spiker,” Oikawa cuts in. “He’s my ace and former vice captain in high school. Current athletic trainer at Birtwistle University. Also works for the Japanese National Team. And me, sometimes. But that’s on request.”

“Oikawa,” Hajime sighs. “Yeah. No, I don’t do personal training.”

Romero looks delighted nonetheless. “Impressive.”

“He’s the partner I was talking about,” Oikawa adds cheerfully.

“Oh!” Romero breaks into a grin. “Congratulations! How long have you been married?”

Hajime nearly chokes on air. Around them, several heads look up in interest.

Oikawa, at least, has it in him to appear a bit flustered. “We—ah, aren’t married yet.”

Yet.

A smile creeps up on Hajime’s face. He doesn’t know what makes him say it—maybe the confirmation that they are on the same page, or maybe the thrill of knowing that he was about to take them one step closer—but it’s worth seeing Oikawa’s expression as he adds, nonchalantly: “It’s in the works.”

It almost happens in the middle of the match.

“Two sets in a row for us, huh,” Aran says with a nod. “Yer setter’s crazy, Iwaizumi.”

With a spring in his step, Oikawa saunters off the court, the opposing team glaring daggers at his retreating back.

“Your turn, Bleach-chan,” Oikawa sings as he comes face-to-face with the other setter. “Don’t worry if you mess up—even Iwa-chan can’t hold me here for too long.”

Atsumu snorts. “I’ll make sure ya don’t even need ta come back.”

“Love the spirit!” Oikawa replies cheerily. “Better win this third set, then!”

He gives Atsumu a little pat on the back, making the blonde flinch. Then he plops onto the bench next to Hajime.

“Oh, hi there, Trainer-san,” he says, batting his eyelashes at Hajime. “Would you mind helping me out? My thighs are a little sore~”

Hajime rolls his eyes. He obliges anyway, because it is technically his job, even though it feels like he’s giving Oikawa a friendlier version of the same massages he does in private. Except now pretty much everyone can hear his client groan whenever he hits a particularly rough knot, and it takes all of Hajime’s willpower not to smack him upside the head each time.

“I knew I could count on you,” he hums as Hajime hikes up his knee brace. “My strong, dependable Iwa-chan.”

Hajime grunts as he presses his thumbs gently into the muscle of Oikawa’s leg. There’s nothing out of the ordinary—there hasn’t been any in a while, but the confirmation still makes him exhale in relief.

Oikawa smooths a thumb over the crease between his eyebrows. “You don’t have to worry too much anymore, you know.”

Hajime knows. Oikawa wouldn’t have made it this far into his career if he’d remained as reckless as he was in junior high, and Hajime wouldn’t have gotten the job he has now if hadn’t learned all the things he didn’t know then. But still—

“I care about you, stupid,” Hajime replies. “I just want to look after you.” He thinks of washing scraped elbows and applying salve on bug bites. The scent of relief patches and the crinkle of athletic tape. “Even though we aren’t dumb kids anymore. Even when we’re old.”

Oikawa’s gaze softens. “Hajime…”

Hajime leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Oikawa’s knee. Then he pulls up the kneepad and looks up at Oikawa, haloed by the stadium lights.

To hell with the plan, he thinks. He lets his hands fall to his sides. One of them brushes against the lump in his jean pocket, and he feels goosebumps run across his skin.

“I’m always going to want to look after you, Oikawa,” he says, one hand slowly inching towards his pocket. “Hell, I’ll do it for the rest of our lives—”

All of a sudden, Oikawa yanks him forward. Hajime collapses into his arms, their matching rapid heartbeats lining up where they’re pressed together through the fabric.

“Watch me, then,” he whispers, the movement of his chin tickling Hajime’s neck. Then he pulls away and makes his way back to the court.

A few seconds later, Atsumu plops down on the other side of the bench. “Tell me why it looked like ya were gonna do somethin’ not part of yer plan?”

Hajime stiffens. “Does everyone really know about it?”

“Yer not exactly slick, Iwa-kun.”

The only response Hajime can manage is a groan. Unfortunately, Atsumu takes this as a sign to continue.

“What’re ya gonna do if Team A loses?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, a celebratory party ain’t gonna be that celebratory for him if he loses,” says Atsumu. “Won’t it, I dunno, kill the mood?”

Hajime shrugs. “The team isn’t going to lose. Not with Oikawa.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Yer that confident, huh?”

“I trust him,” Hajime says easily. “And I’m not the only one who does.”

They both watch as Oikawa sends a quick set to Hinata, who spikes it perfectly with lightning speed. Oikawa’s laughter echoes from the court as the orange-haired hitter runs to him for a double high five.

“Dammit, Shouyou,” Atsumu whispers under his breath.

The rest of the game continues at full tilt. Oikawa sets to Sakusa next, who sends the ball barrelling down on the other court with an almost impossible spin. The next point is delivered by Suna, with whom Oikawa seems to have struck up an easy rhythm despite their unfamiliarity with one another.

“He even got the angle for Sunarin’s spike,” Atsumu grumbles. “What a fuckin’ pain.”

“This is your team we’re talking about, Miya.”

“Still a fuckin’ pain.”

Hajime shrugs. “Fair.”

In spite of his griping, Atsumu jumps and nearly knocks him over when Team A finally, inevitably takes the win.

Oikawa barrels to Hajime first, and the crowd roars when he catches the setter as he leaps into his open arms. It feels so perfect that he’s again tempted to pull out the box then and there until the rest of the team crowds around them, and they find themselves in the center of a pile of sweaty athletes.

Hajime really, really needs to get some air.

Later, when they’ve split off into groups of twos and threes, he spots Oikawa at the far end of the court with Ushijima. He approaches them just in time to catch Oikawa sticking his tongue out at the taller man.

“Dude,” he deadpans, “That self-satisfied expression hasn’t changed since kindergarten.”

“Hey!” Oikawa shoots back. “That’s a touchy subject!”

Ushijima begins to walk away.

“Ushiwaka! I’m not done yet!” Oikawa calls.

The tall hitter turns back to look at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Looks like whatever team I’m on is guaranteed to be the best.” Oikawa preens.

In spite of himself, Hajime lets out a laugh. The confusion in Ushijima’s face recedes.

“Iwaizumi believes so as well. It is the reason as to why he was so sure regarding his plans…” He falters, finally catching the shift in Hajime’s expression from delight to utter panic.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow at him.

“...Of improving the training regiment of the Japanese Team,” Ushijima finishes, voice stilted.

The setter snorts. Something anxious flashes in Ushijima’s eyes. He seems to be contemplating whether or not to explain further, but he’s saved when Oikawa turns to Hajime instead with a smirk.

“Wanna knock me out so bad already, Iwa-san?”

Hajime rolls his eyes in spite of the rising relief in his chest. “Idiot. When did I ever not?”

“It is true,” Ushijima says suddenly. “We have been discussing the matter of how to best your team with my father as well.”

Oikawa scowls. “Listen, Ushiwaka, I don’t care about whatever it is with your dad that made you and Iwa-chan best friends or something, but this is between me and him only.”

Hajime blinks in surprise. “Oikawa—”

“I do not wish to intrude on anything that concerns the relationship between the both of you. We had a pleasant conversation, but Iwaizumi and I are not best friends.” Ushijima answers plainly. “I believe that title is reserved for the two of you, with upgrades.”

Hajime nearly chokes on air. Oikawa’s eyes widen comically before he bursts into laughter.

Ushijima frowns. “I am being serious. There is no need to worry. My best friend is Tendou Satori; I can show you our interview if you’d like.”

“You know, Ushiwaka,” Oikawa says, wiping away tears of laughter, “For someone with the emotional bandwidth of a pebble, you might actually be a little funny.”

Oikawa saunters away—probably to torment another one of his former rivals—leaving Hajime standing awkwardly with a perplexed-looking Ushijima.

“I apologize,” Ushijima says. “I nearly spoiled your surprise.”

Hajime winces. “So you do read the group chat.”

“They contain essential information. The videos they send are also sometimes amusing.”

“Essential information that doesn’t concern them,” Hajime mutters under his breath.

Ushijima seems to interpret that as uneasy mumbling. He tilts his head. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” Hajime answers immediately. “I know we both want this. But it’s still a choice Oikawa has to make.”

“Oikawa makes all of his choices deliberately,” Ushijima says. “It took me a while to understand, back in high school, when I wrongly accused him of choosing the wrong team. But I see now,” he pauses, “that it really was best for him to stay by your side as long as possible.”

The words hit Hajime like a punch to the gut. The truth was that Oikawa could have gone anywhere, and Hajime would have let him. But the two of them made their way to Aoba Johsai together anyway, just like they had gone into Kitagawa Daiichi. Arm-in-arm, with certainty.

“I do not think it is any different now,” adds Ushijima.

Hajime’s hand drifts downwards, feeling the comforting weight of the future in his pocket. He and Oikawa could make it there in the same way, too.

“You’re right,” Hajime says, patting his friend’s arm. “Also, don’t listen to Oikawa. You definitely don’t have the emotional bandwidth of a pebble.”

A smile. “Thank you.”

In retrospect, Hajime should have known this was coming.

From the sidelines, he watches as the members of both teams line up on the stage at the center of the court. Team B is awarded first with silver medals. Most of them are bright-eyed and smiling in spite of their placement, and rightfully so. The match had been so intensely neck-to-neck that it barely even seemed like a loss, but a part of Hajime still feels relieved.

He scans the stadium and finds Oikawa waiting at the tail end of Team A’s line. The setter is chewing his lip, but he manages to throw up a peace sign and grin upon meeting Hajime’s gaze.

He’s nervous, Hajime realizes, as he raises an eyebrow in silent question. But he barely has a second to wonder what for when Kuroo suddenly materializes by his side, causing Hajime to nearly jump.

“Go on. Join them.”

“Huh?”

Kuroo flashes him a grin. “Didn’t know you were so easily surprised.” And then he winks, which just sets off a bunch more alarms in Hajime’s head.

“What for?”

“Photo with the team. You’re their trainer, remember?”

Hajime gives him a skeptical glare.

“...And also popular eye candy.” Kuroo clasps his hands together. “Please? For the love of volleyball?”

“For the love of…” Resigning himself, Hajime runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Fine.”

He makes it to the side of the stage just in time to watch Oikawa be awarded his gold medal. The setter raises one hand and waves brightly at the crowd, which bursts into their loudest round of applause yet.

Hajime crosses his arms and smiles.

The cheering only gets stronger when someone hands Oikawa a microphone. He gives it a little tap before clearing his throat.

“Yaho, everyone! It’s so great to be back!”

The crowd absolutely roars. It takes over a full minute before Oikawa is able to speak again without being drowned out by the screams. He’s a little wide-eyed, cheeks flushed with both exertion and happiness. Even though he’s used to the praise, Hajime has a feeling that it means a little more to him hearing it in his mother tongue.

“I’m sure many of you also traveled far and wide to be here tonight. Thank you so much for your support!”

Another round of applause. Oikawa’s eyes flick to the rest of the players, who are all watching him with anticipation.

“You can do this, Oikawa-san!” Hinata mouths.

Oikawa angles the mic closer. His eyes are slightly lidded now, lips curled softly. Hajime realizes, a bit belatedly, that it’s an expression meant for him.

It doesn’t make him any less surprised when Oikawa speaks again.

“I’d also like to thank the person who’s supported all of us athletes with unwavering dedication and care as our trainer.”

Slowly, inevitably, Oikawa turns to him, a thousand-watt grin on his face as he declares to the entire stadium: “My teammate and partner, with whom I share this win tonight. Congratulations, Iwa-chan!”

There’s a fresh wave of cheers from the audience as Hajime lets himself be pulled up to the platform, too stunned to even speak. Still beaming, Oikawa steadies him by the arms before reaching out to fix his collar.

With barely trembling hands, he hangs the golden medal around Hajime’s neck.

Somehow, the chaos of their teammates manages to shield them from the audience as Oikawa leans in. Someone else—maybe Bokuto—takes the microphone, but even without it, Oikawa’s words in Hajime’s ear ring clear and true.

“For a long time,” he whispers, “this is all I really wanted.”

Hajime’s eyes grow wide.

“We’d played together for so long,” he continues, eyes shining in earnest, “that whenever I thought of winning, I thought of winning with you by my side.”

“Tooru…”

“I wanted to take on the world together with you, Hajime,” Oikawa says, hand coming up to cradle his jaw.

“We did,” Hajime assures, voice gravelly.

“We did,” Oikawa agrees. “So as much as I know that I deserve every single win I’ve got because I worked my ass off for them, well—”

Hajime cuts him off with a laugh. “Damn straight, Tooru—”

“I still want to share them with you. You’re the one who taught me that it isn’t all about me in the first place. You’re the one who showed me that I never fight alone.”

“I want to share everything with you, Hajime. All my medals and all my losses. My crazy obsessions and my lifelong dreams. I want us to share jerseys and flight itineraries and a little house with our dogs somewhere, someday—it doesn’t matter when because I want to share the rest of my life with you, anyways.”

And with that, the man Hajime had been planning to propose to that day gets down on one knee first.

“So, marry me?”

All air seems to rush out of Hajime’s lungs.

“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Oikawa gapes up at him. “I-Iwa-chan?”

Hajime groans, head falling to his hands. The joy in his veins is so visceral that it’s dizzying.

Finally, he mumbles, “I can’t believe you beat me to it.”

Oikawa, the menace, grins at him cheekily. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Do you even have a ring?”

“Open the medal.”

“What?”

“Open the medal.”

Hajime looks down at the medal resting on his chest, right next to his heart. Running a finger over its circumference, he finds a small latch on the gold surface and presses it.

With a click, it swings open to reveal a blue cushion, and in the middle, an even brighter gold band.

When he finally looks back at Oikawa, the smile he flashes at him is genuine and gloating all at once, and Hajime—well, Hajime wants to kiss the damn thing off.

“Well?”

“Shut up,” Hajime grumbles. He doesn’t know how he’s able to speak at all. “Are you going to put the damn ring on me or not?”

Oikawa laughs, sweet and unfettered, as he reaches up to take the band and Hajime’s hand at the same time. Hajime’s heart soars.

“No take-backsies, alright?”

“You’re stupid if you think I’m ever going to let you go, dumbass,” Hajime says, and lets Oikawa slide on the ring. He pulls him up a split second later, holding him so tightly that it should be physically impossible for Oikawa to escape.

The world zooms back into focus when he hears the rest of the team begin to cheer. Hajime has no idea how much of the whole thing they’d heard amidst the ruckus, but he can’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t have expected anything less dramatic from Oikawa anyway.

When they finally pull apart, there’s a snarky grin on Oikawa’s face as he asks: “Well? Where’s my ring?”

“No.”

“No?!”

“What makes you think I also have a ring?”

Oikawa lets out a giggle. “You’re not discreet at all, Iwa-chan. You literally almost proposed to me on the bench. But I wasn’t gonna let you beat me to it!”

“You turned proposing into a fucking competition.”

“When was anything ever not a competition?”

“You,” Hajime growls, jabbing his index finger into Oikawa’s chest, “Are getting your ring when you deserve it.”

“Are you serious?!”

“I’m completely serious about you, Tooru,” he answers, and presses his mouth to the pout on Oikawa’s lips. “I didn’t get the JNT to help me organize a whole celebratory afterparty to not propose to you seriously.”

Oikawa’s jaw drops. “You what?!”

Hajime flushes. “I’m not repeating that again,” he grumbles. “The surprise is spoiled enough as it is.”

“No, no, I heard you,” Oikawa says. “But that’s interesting, ‘cause I also enlisted the help of your little team and promotion division for this whole thing…”

Hajime turns to face his betrayers, who all seem to be avoiding his gaze.

“O-Oikawa-san told us to keep it a secret!” Hinata mumbles.

Ushijima’s face remains impassive. “I was informed without my consent.”

“I didn’t even know about this,” Kageyama mutters.

“Lucky for you, Tobio-chan, because your help was not essential.”

Kageyama only manages to look slightly unnerved. “But Kuroo-san asked me for Oikawa-san’s number last year,” he tells Hajime.

“Last year…” Realization dawns on Hajime as he recalls the call he’d had with Kuroo at the beginning of the year. “He didn’t even need me to convince you to join the match, did he?”

“I see Iwa-chan’s gorilla brain is finally catching on.” Oikawa grins. “A shame you barely missed Tetsu-chan in Argentina.”

For a split second, Hajime has half a mind to throttle him on the spot. His hands are inches away from the hem of Oikawa’s jersey before he decides to redirect his anger to someone who was not about to become his lifelong partner.

“I’m gonna kill Kuroo.”

It’s not that Hajime hadn’t seen it coming.

He’d always known he and Oikawa would make it. Even when their relationship was new, at the precipice of change, when his entire world was shifting and rearranging to form the pieces of the future he’d always wanted, one thing had always, always been certain.

It’s more of the fact that Oikawa had done it first—that they’d both spent months planning to propose on the same day—that shook him to the core. But if Hajime were being a little more honest with himself, he and Oikawa had always been in sync, even when they weren’t. They’d chased their dreams on separate paths and had still come together in the end—obstinate even across years and hemispheres, oceans and continents, chances and lifetimes.

Standing at the pier, Hajime laces their fingers together where they’re draped across the railing. Oikawa squeezes his hand as Hajime runs his thumb over his skin.

In the distance, the lights and sounds of the party melt into the background. Knowing his friends, their faces are probably plastered to one of the bay-facing windows in anticipation. He smiles at the thought, but it dissipates almost as quickly as it had come, washed away with the calming lull of the waves around them.

The bay spread before them glitters with the reflection of the evening cityscape. Tokyo, as always, is bejeweled, sparkling with the flair of an ever-changing metropolis brimming with color and promise, history and heartbreak. It’s a city Hajime has seen from the streets, from apartment balconies and high-rise terraces, from train platforms and airplane windows and through the eyes of a man returning home.

He follows the tide all the way to the open sea.

“Tooru,” he says simply, the name flowing from his lips like water.

Steady as a rock, he takes Oikawa’s hand and slips the ring on his finger. Then he reaches up and gently wipes away the tears on Oikawa’s face as he feels his own cheeks dampen.

“Sorry, did I…”

“No,” Oikawa whispers, gazing in awe at the gleaming band. “No, it’s…what is this feeling?”

When he looks at Hajime, his eyes are brighter than anything he’s ever seen.

“All of a sudden, I feel like I’m invincible.”

September 2023
UTC-04:00

“Hajime.” Each syllable is enunciated in a sweet staccato. “We need to—ha—get ready—”

“Hmm?” Hajime hums, right into the spot where he’d just left another mark on the creamy skin of Oikawa’s neck. He lets himself linger there a bit longer before moving downwards, searching for an untouched spot.

There wasn’t exactly that much left.

“I said,” Oikawa whines, wriggling against Hajime’s tight embrace, “we need to get ready.”

Hajime finally relents, and Oikawa pushes up on his elbows to gaze down at him.

He’s honest to god pouting. His bangs are flattened against his sweaty forehead, and the rest of his hair is sticking up in all directions. Hajime suddenly has the urge to kiss him, full on the lips, so he cranes his neck and does.

“Mmf!” Oikawa makes a noise of protest, sending vibrations down Hajime’s throat. He’s about to lean back down when Oikawa finally parts his lips, turning soft and pliant beneath him, and Hajime relishes in it.

When he finally pulls away a minute later, Oikawa lets out a whimper, eyes still closed as he leans down to chase Hajime’s mouth.

Hajime gently pushes him away. “Thought you said we need to get ready?”

“Oh my god,” Oikawa groans. “I can’t believe you. I would never have asked you to marry me if I knew you were like this.”

“Like what?” Hajime asks dryly, unable to help his sharp grin.

“Like—” Oikawa looks up at him, eyes wide and roaming, lips still slick and swollen. Hajime doesn’t miss the way his gaze flickers downwards before returning to his face. “Ugh. Whatever.”

“Smooth.”

At that, Oikawa groans and collapses onto him, burying his face into Hajime’s neck. Hajime laughs quietly as they lie there, boneless, his hand coming up around Oikawa’s neck to card through his hair.

“Hey, Tooru?”

“Hmm?”

“You do have concealer, right?”

Oikawa finally shoots up. “‘Course I do. Why…” His eyes widen as his fingers come up to graze a particularly tender-looking bruise on his collarbone. “Oh my god.”

He sprints to the bathroom and shrieks.

“Hajime, you beast!”

Oikawa ends up wearing a sweatshirt.

“A turtleneck would be too warm,” he’d sighed. “Besides, who wears a turtleneck to volleyball practice?”

Hajime had tried his best to help Oikawa cover up, but they’d had to rush once Oikawa found out that the magazine crew had arrived early to hold the photoshoot before practice.

He didn’t realize how bad of a job he’d actually done until the two of them stood face-to-face with the crew. In the bright overhead lights of the gymnasium, Hajime could finally see every haphazard streak drawn across the surface of Oikawa’s neck.

The cameraman had taken one glance at them before looking away pointedly. Even the interviewer, a girl with an auburn ponytail Hajime recognizes from his time with the JNT, seems to be mildly flustered, although her stance remains professional.

“Sorry, Yamamoto-san, could we have a moment?” Hajime asks.

“Of course, Iwaizumi-san.”

He gives her an apologetic nod before yanking Oikawa away to the stairwell. Fishing through his pocket, he retrieves the tube of concealer, which he’d thankfully decided to bring last minute.

“C’mere,” Hajime grumbles. Oikawa watches him amusedly as he tries to smooth out the messy patches on his skin. He doesn’t even look the slightest bit embarrassed, the idiot.

Hajime groans when the liquid smudges for what feels like the millionth time. “I give up. I’m never doing this again.”

Still wearing the same amused expression, Oikawa takes out his phone, swiftly swiping to selfie mode and angling the camera to get a proper view of his neck.

“Not bad, Hajime,” he says. Then, lowering his voice, he whispers, “Maybe we can still do this again?”

He shoves Oikawa back up the stairwell. “Just go do your goddamn interview, dumbass.”

Thankfully, Oikawa seems to have donned his professional persona by the time they emerge back in the stadium. With an apologetic smile on his face, he inclines his head towards the crew in a diligent bow.

“Akane-chan, isn’t it?” he says pleasantly, addressing the interviewer.

“Yep,” Akane replies with a bow of her own. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Oikawa-senshu. Our team has been looking to speak with you for quite a while now.”

“Oh, I know,” Oikawa beams. “Really appreciate your reaching out a few years ago. I’m glad you considered my request for an independent feature.”

“Well, when someone’s ahead of the entire monster generation, I understand why they wouldn’t settle for anything less,” she says smoothly, her grin almost as sharp as Oikawa’s. Hajime has to admit he’s impressed.

“Why, thank you, Akane-chan,” Oikawa preens. “I know this is a solo interview, but you don’t mind Hajime being here, do you?”

“Not at all,” says Akane, nodding at Hajime in acknowledgment.

The camera crew directs Oikawa to sit on one of the bleachers. It looks almost comically too small for his tall frame.

The interview begins. Hajime watches as Oikawa leans forward, resting his elbow on his leg and his chin on one hand. His expression is thoughtful in a way that would have convinced anyone else that he was saying something deep and philosophical. Hajime knows he’s spewing out anything but.

He has half a mind to intervene when Oikawa starts cussing out half the Japanese National Team, but thankfully Akane takes the hint and steers the conversation in another direction. A few minutes later, the two are conversing animatedly about their favorite J-dramas (“Hajime and I just finished watching First Love!” “Oh my god, I’m not even halfway done with that one and I’ve already cried thrice.”), and Hajime is finally content to sit back and relax.)

“And that’s a wrap!” Akane announces a moment later. “Thank you so much, Oikawa-senshu.”

“My pleasure, Akane-chan,” Oikawa beams. “I’ll be waiting for your review of the rest of the series.”

“Of course! And I’ll also be in touch once the magazine’s set for release. Your section really is the most highly anticipated,” she adds.

Oikawa’s smile falters. “You mean I’m not the only feature?”

Akane shoots a glance at Hajime that may or may not be a cry for help. “For the magazine, yes. But that’s not all!” she adds quickly. “We’re also working with Sportiva to publish an issue dedicated to you. Solely.”

“Which is why I’m also gonna be interviewed, dumbass,” Hajime raps his knuckles lightly on Oikawa’s temple.

Oikawa seems to soften at that. “Now that I think about it, that sounds a bit scary. Iwa-chan knows so much about me…”

“What, you think I’m going to tell them about how many times you watched that Power Curry commercial?”

“You were watching with me too!” Oikawa hisses. “Are you really going to try to embarrass me when I leave you alone?”

“Please. You don’t even need to leave me alone for me to do that.”

“Rude, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime barks out a laugh. “Relax, Shittykawa. I can handle this interview fine on my own.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for practice?” Hajime shoots back.

It takes ten seconds of a silent staredown between them before Oikawa finally relents. Dusting off imaginary dirt from his shorts, he stands up, hefting his sports bag on one shoulder.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Akane-chan, please make sure he doesn’t say anything incriminating about me.”

Akane smiles. “I’m sure it’ll only be the truth.”

For a moment, Oikawa fixates Hajime with a stink eye before their captain calls out from below.

“Toto! We’re starting soon!”

“Coming!” Oikawa yells back. Hajime looks down at the court to see a couple of familiar faces waving up at him. He greets them back with a grin. There’ll be time to speak with them over dinner later.

Once Oikawa finally emerges on the court, Hajime sits back and turns to Akane, who had been watching the whole exchange with a look of amusement.

“Oikawa-senshu really is…something.”

“He’s a big idiot,” Hajime says plainly.

Akane laughs at that. “Should that go in the headline?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

She nods thoughtfully as she scribbles on her notepad. “What else would you like to include?”

Hajime’s gaze drifts towards Oikawa on the court below. Even from afar, he knows every inch of the expression on his face as he prepares to set—the furrow of his eyebrows, the set of his jaw, the sharpness of his gaze—all laden with a tenacity that has never changed in all the years Hajime has known him, whether he was by his side on the court or watching from across it. It’s the same tenacity that he knows draws in spectators and teammates alike; the one that pulls out threads of potential and spins them into gold.

Hajime knows this because he’d gotten entangled in that string himself the moment he’d stumbled across a brown-haired boy in his backyard. He’d felt it strengthen with their partnership on the court. He’d watched it unravel across oceans, and he’d followed it all the way back to him.

Some people would call it fate. But fate didn’t lead people down divergent paths. Fate didn’t carry them to separate hemispheres. Fate didn’t force them apart at airport gates and leave them aching and alone in different timezones.

Hajime isn’t sure if he’d believed in fate then. But he’d believed in himself as much as he believed in Oikawa—with the same resolute, unwavering faith that had been the foundation of their partnership—and it had been enough.

“He’s the partner I can always be proud of,” Hajime says. “And here’s why.”

June 20XX
UTC±??:??

“Hajime!” There’s a yelp as the luggage nearly slides out of the overhead compartment in one fluid motion. With an exasperated sigh, Hajime catches it with one arm, shoving it all the way back in before shutting the compartment closed.

“Clumsykawa,” Hajime huffs.

“Strong Iwa-chan,” Tooru coos.

Hajime rolls his eyes. He’s about to step aside to let Tooru pass through when he feels a warm hand on the small of his back.

“Go ahead.”

“But you won the rock-paper-scissors.”

“Did you already forget our rules? Winner gets to choose. I choose the middle one.”

Hajime eyes him skeptically. “That’s a first.”

Tooru merely shrugs, but the soft crinkling of his eyes eradicates any possible fears of Hajime finding some unwanted surprise on his seat. He makes his way to the window, Tooru following close behind him.

Luckily, no one seems to have booked the aisle seat next to them. Overall, their flight seems fairly empty—enough for Tooru to be able to tug down his mask and smile at Hajime before he laces their fingers together over the armrest, the golden band of his wedding ring sliding against his skin.

“What do you wanna do when we get home?” Tooru asks.

“Take a nice, long bath.”

“Am I invited?”

“S’long as you don’t get water up my nose again.”

“I’ll do my best,” Tooru promises, looking absolutely delighted. Hajime had discovered that to be one of the many wonders of being with Tooru: even after so long, his eyes still never fail to light up at the prospect of the two of them doing anything together.

Thankfully for Hajime, it never gets any less endearing.

Tooru reaches up to pinch Hajime’s nose. Hajime swats him away. “Put on your seatbelt, you idiot.”

He wriggles around for a good minute searching for the seatbelt, which had fallen into the gap between their seats. Hajime leans over and retrieves it, fastening it over Tooru’s lap.

“What would I do without you,” Tooru sighs.

“You’re acting as if you haven’t flown solo a gazillion times,” Hajime scoffs.

“Well,” Tooru leans towards him, pressing a kiss on Hajime’s forehead. “It’s a gazillion times better when I’m with you.”

Normally, Hajime would tease him for being so cheesy, but Tooru’s voice is so genuine that it makes something well up in Hajime’s chest. He’s almost grateful when the pilot’s voice suddenly comes in over the intercom, because he’s not sure if he can trust himself to speak.

The engine whirs to life. Hajime leans against the plexiglass window, watching the landscape roll away in a blur of greens and grays. He feels it when they lift off, too, the familiar shift in gravity stirring something deep in his gut as the plane soars into the air.

It isn’t long before the skyline becomes all but a speck in the distance, the city only starting to wake as the sun begins its ascent from the mountaintops.

“Y’know, Hajime,” Tooru says, “For someone so grounded, you sure love looking at the sky.”

Hajime turns to Tooru, whose eyes are clear and twinkling, like the stars that somehow feel a little bit more within reach. A lightness spreads in his chest.

“It’s you,” Hajime says. “It’s always been because of you.”

With his left hand, he reaches out to tuck Tooru’s stray bangs behind his ear. The gold on Hajime’s ring finger skims his cheek as he gently cups his jaw and closes the distance between them.

Outside, the expanse of the sky is vast. Heartachingly blue. But it isn’t the shade of blue Hajime dreams about; not anymore. Not when his life is painted in the most beautiful shade he’s ever known.

This is it, Hajime thinks, as Tooru leans to rest his head on his shoulder. His home and his world as he knows it.