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Like all things that are decided when you are twenty-three and figuring things out, moving in with Oikawa Tooru wasn’t supposed to be permanent. At the time, it was a decision made by convenience and familiarity— after all, living with a friend would be easier than getting mugged because you were a Japanese guy in a foreign country. Because if this is temporary, then Daichi had probably overstayed his welcome by… about twelve years.
And at this point, leaving and going back to Japan would be a whole debacle, from booking the right flight and finding a place to stay, to wrestling his moving boxes out of Tooru’s stupid nice arms. Besides, he had made a promise to Iwaizumi to keep the guy in check a long time ago, and it would seem wrong to go back on that now.
Daichi sighs, gently patting Tooru’s back as the taller man sleeps with his head on Daichi’s lap. The rising sun lets sunlight seep through the curtains, colouring the room with a pale orange wash.
They’d fallen asleep on the couch after packing. It’ll be fine, Tooru had said, it’s not like we have a bed to sleep on anyway.
Daichi wants Tooru to tell that to the crick in his neck. He wants to tell Tooru that they aren’t young anymore, that they would’ve probably been better off sleeping in their now-disassembled bed so they could wake up without a stiff back that would crackle like a fire when they bent over.
But, alas. The man’s sensitive to his age. Daichi knows that well. It took a while to convince Tooru to concede his place on the team to a younger setter, to let his knees rest after thirty-four years of work. It had taken a really long time. Sometimes, he catches Tooru staring at the medals on the walls from the past Olympics that he’d won, the certificates, the like; slowly, though, they’ve been getting balanced out by the drawings the kids at the volleyball camp make him.
He’s aware when Tooru wakes; he shuffles around a little in his lap before the man peeks up at him with his sleep-soft eyes and mussed up hair and coos, “Good morning, Daicchan~” like he isn’t the one who just woke up.
“Morning,” Daichi replies anyway, because he’s a polite gentleman and Tooru is cutting off circulation to his legs, so the faster he can get the guy to switch positions, the better. He reaches out to ruffle Tooru’s hair, earning himself a Look. “Want breakfast?”
Tooru brightens predictably. “Yes, please.”
“Then get off me.” Daichi shoves at him gently. “Come on, you big baby. You can handle a minute without physical contact and attention, right?”
“Wrong.” Tooru lets him up, and immediately attaches himself to Daichi via his arms around his waist. Daichi moves anyway, used to the behaviour of the parasite whose house he lives in. “Now make me breakfast.”
Daichi sighs, more fond of the guy than he’d ever like to admit, and drags him along to make breakfast.
In doing so, he moves around the towers of boxes that threaten to tip over with so much so as a sneeze in their direction, the closest one to him being the only open one, labelled “kitchen”.
Because after twelve and a half years, they were moving out.
Tooru yawns and finally detaches from him, reaching for the last of the food they had left in the fridge: four eggs, half a carton of milk (one with Kageyama’s face inexplicably printed on it, even all the way out here on the other side of the world), a mostly-empty package of sausages, and a container of leftover rice. The hinges of their trusty microwave squeak as Tooru pries the door open to reheat the rice.
Daichi makes the eggs dutifully, complaining quietly when Tooru gets too handsy while the stove is on. When breakfast is served, they eat it from the pan and the container, standing. Despite the impracticality, Tooru is nestled in the crook of his arm, humming quietly as they eat.
This is the last morning they’d spend in this place, Daichi finds himself thinking. The last time they’d get to watch the sun paint this living room gold, the last time they’d make breakfast together in this kitchen. It’s strange. He remembers the first sunrise he’d watched here. He remembers all of it.
Without him noticing, Tooru has already washed the things they’d used and stacked them into the “kitchen” box.
“Ready to start moving things down?” Tooru asks him, tucking his slim fingers into Daichi’s waistband. Daichi feels him squeeze his hip bone sweetly, feels him hook his chin over Daichi’s shoulder. “Or do you want to do your final final sweep even though you’ve done five final sweeps already?”
Daichi clicks his tongue and fits himself into curve of Tooru’s chest. “If you were paying any attention to anything other than your reflection, Mr. Smartass, you would know that I did eight final sweeps and that I’m ready to get out of here.”
Tooru spins him around in his grasp. Daichi feels his fingertips dig into his waist. “Then let’s go,” he says. The sunlight hits him, then, lighting up his chocolate irises, letting Daichi study the creases around his eyes. The smile lines he hopes he had a hand in making. Tooru’s nose crinkles, casting more shadows on his face. “I know I’m pretty, Daicchan, but you were the one who said he was ready to go.”
Laughing softly, Daichi shoves him away and shoos him out of the front door with the first box with a warning to watch his step.
They take half of the boxes down, little by little. Tooru drives off to the new place where Hinata is waiting, more than happy to help when Tooru called him up a few weeks ago. Daichi stays and waits until his roommate returns to continue ferrying the rest of the boxes into the beat up blue sedan Tooru had once picked him up from the airport with.
When Daichi hefts the last box into his arms, he can’t help but survey the scene before him:
A nearly empty apartment, a bare countertop, the old couch that they have to leave behind. The kitchen he and Tooru danced in whenever they couldn’t sleep, the living room where they hosted parties and stayed up all night binging whichever movie series had piqued their interest for the time being; the balcony that they had designated as their “hard talks” area, after needing to have a few of those over the years.
By now, the sun is properly up, lighting up the place. Almost half his lifetime, he had already spent in here. Daichi lets his eyes linger for just a moment longer, breathing it all in.
Then, he exhales, and locks the door behind him.
Daichi is twenty-three, and he is still figuring things out. It’s fine, he had told himself, his parents, his friends. Plenty of people are still figuring things out at my age. I’m still young. Maybe I’ll spend a few months abroad, experience some new things, and see how that changes my perspective.
Iwaizumi is an old friend, one who had moved abroad when he graduated. One who says to him, “If you ever plan on going to Argentina, I can have Tooru make some arrangements so you can have a good time.” The smile Iwaizumi gets is soft, like there’s a good memory playing in his head. “You have to keep the crazy bastard in check for me, though. His coach is telling me he isn’t on the best behaviour possible.”
Daichi salutes and cheers to that, thankful for the place to stay and a familiar face to look forward to.
Times are changing, around here. He had only managed to catch Iwaizumi in Miyagi during the off-season. Iwaizumi is on his last year of his master’s degree. His friends and old teammates are off playing volleyball, or nodding off during a lecture, or chasing dreams they’d had for years and years. Daichi is on his second year of jumping from job to job, trying to find something that clicks. He hasn’t yet. That’s the whole point of his trip.
He packs his things up— enough clothes to last him a few weather conditions and enough money to send back souvenirs— to the sound of Suga and Asahi in the room with him. Suga is complaining about the state of the children these days. Asahi is trying to keep Suga from cursing out a first grader named Kenji. Daichi is listening, enjoying it. It’ll be a while before they’d all be together again. Soon, Asahi will be setting off on a trip with Nishinoya. To Italy, he had told them. Noya says there’s a good place to get inspiration from.
And then Daichi is at the airport, on a plane, and at another airport again, thankful he came in the winter and for the fact that Oikawa had called him ahead of time to help him practice his English and his Spanish. He could read, at least, and figure out where to go.
Oikawa waits for him at the arrivals hall, waving with a small smile. Whispers “bienvenido” in his ear as he yanks Daichi’s bag into his own arms.
They make easy small talk as they make their way into the parking lot, on the drive back to the place Oikawa calls home, after they park the nice blue sedan on the street. The conversation flows, and Oikawa has Daichi slipping into Spanish every few minutes.
The first night is quiet. Oikawa says he’d be treating Daichi to the “Oikawa special”, and takes him out to dinner. The breeze follows them home after, while Daichi licks the melting ice cream from his hand and Oikawa presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, claiming to have been helping him clean up.
“Is this how you treat everyone with the Oikawa Special?” Daichi asks with a laugh as the other man’s breath tickles his neck. The door clicks shut behind them, shoes are left by the entrance, and somehow, they end up on the couch. Oikawa is no less persistent there than he was on the way home, punctuating the conversation with nips on Daichi’s neck.
“No,” Oikawa says eventually, and the way he’s looking at him has Daichi tongue tied. “Just the short, good looking ones.”
Daichi unties his tongue to say, “I’m not sure if I should be feeling insulted or not.”
“Don’t be.” Oikawa winks at him; he’s at his waistband now. “It’s a compliment.”
And somehow, some way, the night ends, and then another follows, then another. Soon enough, it’s been a week. Then two weeks. Then two months. Then, it’s time for Daichi to leave. He doesn’t know how it’s possible.
It shouldn’t be possible. He’d enjoyed himself. Too much, maybe, because he’s only meant to have spent a few months abroad at most, and now it’s time to leave and he doesn’t want to.
“Stay,” so Tooru says to him that night, staring out at the city below. The wind ruffles his hair, and Daichi watches him more than he watches the lights and the traffic. “Stay with me here. I’ve got more than enough room. You could get a job. It won’t be very glamorous, and I’ll be gone on games sometimes, but we can work something out.” And he doesn’t look at Daichi when he adds, “we’re good together, you know. you’ve been good for me. And I hope… I hope that I’ve been good for you too.”
Daichi gets a job the week later, pays rent for the first time, calls home to tell them that he won’t be coming back for a while, and settles in. Not as a guest, but as a tenant.
They are twenty-five, and it’s raining. They’re tucked under the covers together, warming each other up, and Daichi is finally privy to just how much Tooru likes the thunder.
None.
Daichi fights back laughter as the tall ass man tries to bury himself into Daichi’s side, head already hidden underneath the blanket and pressed against his chest.
“I didn’t know that you were scared of thunder,” Daichi says after it’s over, earning himself a punch in the side. He wheezes, partly from finally laughing, partly because Tooru had hit his diaphragm. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Tooru,” he adds when he gets ahold of himself. He catches the glare the man throws his way. “Really, it isn’t. Tons of people are scared of the dark, or loud noises, yelling, that sort of thing. I’m just happy you thought I could protect you from the weather.”
Tooru pouts, peeking up to look at him through his lashes. Daichi’s heart stutters. “You can’t protect me from natural disasters?” Tooru whines, pushing against him slightly. “What kind of man are you?”
“Someone who can’t help much in a natural disaster except first aid,” Daichi replies easily, pressing tiny kisses to the expanse of Tooru’s skin that he can reach. “Sorry, babe. I can’t do much beyond that. I’m really good at making food from canned stuff, if that makes you feel better?”
The man in his arms squirms around to sit up with him. “It doesn’t,” Tooru informs him, “but thank you for trying anyway.”
Daichi grins, shakes his head, and reaches under the blanket to tickle him until neither of them could breathe. All in all, a good evening, if he does say so himself.
They are twenty-eight, and the threat of them getting older looms over them like an executioner waiting for his charge; patient, inevitable, and fear-inducing.
“Do you think they’ll take me off the roster soon?” Tooru breathes one night.
Daichi stares out at the city before them. They are on the balcony again, and the night curls around them like a blanket. The sounds and lights of the traffic make his head spin, and he doesn’t really know what to say, except—
“Show them you can keep up and exceed them. I know you can do it. Anyone with eyes can see that you can still play as well as the day you stepped into the pro leagues. Probably even better now, with experience.” Daichi glances at Tooru, eyes crinkling. “Prove you can stay on the roster, and they won’t take you off.”
Tooru holds his gaze, steady for a moment, and nods.
They are thirty-five, and Daichi wakes up Tooru with breakfast in bed and gentle kisses. The off season treats them well, except Tooru has retired from playing professionally, and Daichi knows that he misses it like one would miss breathing. Daichi sees him staring at the medals on the walls, at the jersey that still hangs over his desk chair.
Tooru blinks awake, murmurs a soft, “Good morning, love.” Daichi hands him a plate of eggs on bread, tells him not to make a mess. Tooru smiles softly, but it turns into a grimace when Daichi nudges his leg.
After all, he never quits voluntarily.
Daichi is thirty-six, and he hums as he hauls the second round of moving boxes from the beat up blue sedan up to the house that he and Tooru bought after a few months of searching and a few years of saving. Hinata calls after him about the time, about how Kageyama would be coming by in an hour or so.
Ahead of him, he hears Tooru tsk about how “Tobio-chan should’ve come earlier so he could help them during the move”, and Daichi grins.
After they put the boxes down, Tooru wraps his arms around Daichi again, attaching himself to him like he was always meant to be there. He tucks his setter-perfect fingers into Daichi’s waistband, tugging him closer.
“Welcome home, Captain-kun,” Tooru says, as reverent as he would sound at the shrines. “Are you ready to man cave the fuck outta this place?”
Daichi scoffs. “You say man cave like we didn’t already reinforce all the walls so they won’t take damage to a volleyball slamming into them.” He sways them slowly, feeling a breeze caress them from the open front door. “You know, once we’re fully settled here, you’ll want to fly everyone in for a house party.”
Tooru rests his chin on Daichi’s shoulder. “Will I?” he asks, voice innocent. “Or did I already buy the plane tickets?”
Daichi rolls his eyes. “You know our other friends have jobs. Hanamaki and Matsukawa literally both work nine to fives.”
The man behind him slips his hand from his waist to wave it around dismissively. “The people they work with are dead, Daicchan, they can stand to wait a little longer. They won’t notice.” Tooru shrieks when Daichi turns to throw a punch to his sternum. “I’m sorry!”
“You better be,” Daichi says cheerfully. “Now, come on. Kageyama’s coming with the take out, so all we have to do is set the table and keep Hinata from bouncing up and down in excitement from seeing his boyfriend.”
Tooru sighs. “Can we at least call Hajime to complain about Tobio-chan?”
“Only if you let Hinata punch you,” Daichi replies, guiding them to the dining room. “Come on, now, Oikawa-sama. Let’s get moving.”
“You’re a cruel man, Sawamura,” Tooru chirps, letting himself be dragged. “But alright. How many punches do I need to receive before I can say anything I want?”
Daichi cuffs the back of his head.
“Does that count as one?”
They are fifty-three, and the life they live isn’t very fancy, nor is it bedazzled with paparazzi like it used to be when they were young.
God, they were young, Daichi thinks when he looks back at pictures of him and Tooru with the Argentinian team at the 2028 Olympics, and then with the Japanese team. Hinata and Kageyama had their arms wrapped around each other, Iwaizumi was mid-whack at Tooru, and Tooru was clinging onto Daichi with his signature smile.
Presently, Tooru wakes up with him softly, yawning a little. Daichi watches him shift around before wrapping his arm around Daichi’s waist.
“Good morning, Daicchan~” the man murmurs, like he wasn’t the one who just woke up. “Aren’t you as handsome as ever?”
“You say that every morning,” Daichi says, gently patting Tooru’s mess of bed head. “But good morning.”
They take breakfast together eventually, but it’s a while before they even get there. They laze in bed until the sun warms them a little too much, silence wrapping around them like a well-loved scarf. It’s familiar, the routine, the quietness, being around each other like this.
It’s amazing what living together for thirty years will do to a guy.