Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’ve missed you,” Oikawa hums, hunching over ever so slightly to rest his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, earbuds shared between them. They’re snuggled up on Iwaizumi’s small, twin-sized bed, his laptop playing a movie in front of them. His roommate is currently out, leaving the two of them alone. Oikawa is wearing one of Iwaizumi’s hoodies, UCI logo printed across the chest. It smells like cedar and smoke and everything Oikawa has missed while being in Argentina.

Iwaizumi wraps an arm around him, resting his head on top of Oikawa’s. “You’ve been here for two days. How do you still miss me?” He adjusts the throw blanket so it wraps around both of their shoulders, cocooning them in warmth that floods Oikawa’s entire soul with an overwhelming sense of safety.

Oikawa sits up, pouting. “Well, Iwa-chan hasn’t been paying much attention to me for these two days.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Iwaizumi nudges his shoulder. Oikawa pretends to be hurt by his words, but he is secretly endeared. His gruff Iwa-chan is always the same. “I’ve been working on finals for the past two days.”

“You cheat on me with finals.”

“You’re an idiot,” Iwaizumi squeezes his side.

“Maybe Iwa-chan found a pretty girl instead,” Oikawa sighs dramatically.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me a break.”

Oikawa sits up, blanket falling from around his shoulders. He removes the earbud from his ear and closes the laptop before sliding it out of the way. Iwaizumi eyes him suspiciously as the mousy brunette moves to straddle him. Oikawa cups his face with both hands, smirking at him in a way that has Iwaizumi’s cheeks tinting pink.

“You have your very beautiful, talented, charming boyfriend in your arms but you’ve spent the past two days with your nose in a book,” Oikawa bats his eyelashes. “You mistreat me.”

Iwaizumi shoves him off (gently, always), watching as Oikawa flops back onto the bed. Iwaizumi rolls on top of him, arms on either side of his shoulders. They stare at each other for a moment, one, two blinks. Iwaizumi leans down and plants a short kiss on his lips before sitting up again. “C’mon, idiot, let’s finish the movie.”

Oikawa huffs dramatically but follows his boyfriend back under the covers. Iwaizumi pulls him closer before opening the laptop and pressing play. They both put one earbud in, watching in comfortable silence. Iwaizumi nudges Oikawa’s cheek with his knuckle softly.

“I missed you too, jerk.”

Oikawa coos at him, kissing his face excitedly. “Aw, Iwa-chan does love me!”

Iwaizumi’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He makes no move to answer it but it buzzes again. And again. He huffs and reaches over to grab the device. Oikawa watches him as he scrolls on his phone. He doesn’t know why, but a pit forms in his stomach as he watches his boyfriend type on his phone.

“My friend just texted and said that our friends are getting together for a post-finals celebration. Nothing big, just a casual dinner,” Iwaizumi explains, laying his phone down on the bed. “We should go.”

Oikawa frowns. He is only in California for a week and he has already spent two of those days watching his boyfriend study. “I don’t know, Haji.”

Iwaizumi nudges him gently. “It’s just dinner. We need to eat anyway.”

The movie has been long forgotten, earbuds having fallen on the sheets. Iwaizumi’s phone buzzes again, lighting up with a text. Oikawa can make out what it says with his minimal English skills.

[ Matt, 6:17PM ]

you down? that burger place we always go to

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I think it could be fun. I’m surprised you aren’t begging me to ‘show you off’ to everyone,” Iwaizumi chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest and it makes Oikawa’s heart squeeze, threatening to burst like a balloon stretched too wide.

Oikawa shrugs, putting on his signature smile. “Fine, but Iwa-chan will have to make it up to me later.”

Iwaizumi texts his friends while Oikawa pulls on some more presentable clothes. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to fix it up. Blame it on the people pleaser in him. Iwaizumi, however, only slinks off the bed, shrugging on the UCI hoodie that Oikawa just took off. Oikawa bats at his boyfriend’s chest disapprovingly.

“Aren’t you at least going to make yourself look nice? You’re dragging me out and you’re going to wear a hoodie?”

“It’s just a small get together, Tooru.”

“Well I apologize for wanting to make a good first impression!” Oikawa huffs, arms crossed as he waits for Iwaizumi at the door. The dorm is a mess, mostly because of Iwaizumi’s roommate. There’s piles of clothes spilling out of his roommate’s hamper and stacks of books littering the floor. Oikawa looks down to see Iwaizumi’s favorite sneakers sitting neatly by the door, the same ones he always wore in high school. He wonders what could have been if he, too, had decided to go to college after high school instead of going pro. Would he have gone to college in Japan? Or would he have followed Iwaizumi here? Would he room with Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s own beat-up sneakers placed next to his? The room would certainly be less messy, that’s for sure.

“C’mon, prissy, let’s go,” Iwaizumi teases, wallet in hand. He opens the door for Oikawa, following him out.

“Not the time, Hajime,” Oikawa shakes his head, already heading for the elevator. Iwaizumi picks up his pace to catch up, grabbing Oikawa’s arm.

“Are you really mad because of the hoodie?” He asks seriously. “If it’s that big of a deal, I’ll go back and change. I just wanted to be comfortable.”

“Who’s mad? I’m not mad. Are you mad?”

Iwaizumi sighs.

Oikawa’s phone dings quietly. And then it dings again.

Tooru’s fangirls:

[ Félix , 6:27PM ]

Have you guys killed each other yet??

[ Mateo, 6:27PM ]

or are you guys having really steamy makeup sex

Oikawa rolls his eyes but a smile creeps up on his lips. Of course his two annoying teammates (friends, best friends on the days that Iwaizumi upsets him) miss him already. Losers.

[ Tooru, 6:28PM ]

I leave for two days and you guys blow up my phone

The replies are instant.

[ Mateo, 6:29PM ]

he lives!

[ Félix, 6:30PM ]

Forgive us for worrying about you when the last time we saw you, you were arguing with your boyfriend on the phone

[ Mateo, 6:30PM ]

just cuz we can’t understand you doesn’t mean we can’t tell you’re arguing!

[ Tooru, 6:31PM ]

Just bickering! We are getting dinner!

Iwaizumi leads Oikawa into an Uber, arm wrapped securely around him. Oikawa pockets his phone and looks at Iwaizumi, taking him in. It has been two semesters since they both went their separate ways, with Iwaizumi attending college in California and Oikawa joining a volleyball team in Argentina. The distance has really taken its toll on them. There is a conversation that needs to be had, but Oikawa is afraid, and he can tell that Iwaizumi is avoiding it too.

Iwaizumi interlocks their fingers, hands resting on the seat between them. His thumb dances across Tooru’s knuckles gently. The drive to the diner is quiet, only interrupted by the sound of the radio playing some pop song that Oikawa can’t quite understand the words to and the quiet hum of the engine. California isn’t much like Oikawa expected at all; he imagined himself and Iwaizumi doing all sorts of touristy things during their week together, and spending their off time at the beach. Before leaving Argentina, Oikawa was excited for all the opportunities he would have to ogle his boyfriend’s abs. Now that Oikawa is here, he isn’t sure he wants any of that at all. He’d much rather savor his time with Iwaizumi tucked away in their own pocket of the universe, spending every sleepless night counting the light freckles that dust Iwaizumi’s cheeks—the same freckles Oikawa watched slowly start to paint Iwaizumi’s face from spending so much time in the sun as a child. Iwaizumi would probably wake up and tell him off for staring, but Oikawa would laugh and kiss him anyway; Iwaizumi would blush and call him an idiot.

“Iwa-chan will have to be my translator,” Oikawa mumbles quietly, bumping his knee into Iwaizumi’s. Iwaizumi nods, placing his hand on Oikawa’s knee and squeezing reassuringly. He pats it once, twice for good measure, before the car stops in front of a small restaurant. They thank the driver before heading inside. Oikawa breathes in the salty air, savoring every inhale as it fills his lungs and reminds him that he is alive.

They hold hands as they step inside the diner, the bell dinging to signal their arrival. A group of college students look up from their conversation and wave them over. Oikawa feels a strange burst of nervousness, one he hasn’t felt since stepping off the plane into Argentina, where he didn’t speak the language and didn’t know anyone except the team’s recruiter. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. Iwaizumi must pick up on his nerves because he squeezes Oikawa’s hand before leading him to the table.

The diner is packed; it is Friday night after all. Oikawa and Iwaizumi have to squeeze in to make it work. The table wasn’t made to seat five people, especially not with two of them being athletes (or former athletes who still love hitting the gym).

“Hajime!” One man cheers, and bitterness unexpectedly claws at Oikawa’s throat like a bird trying to fight its way out of a cage. He doesn’t like the way Iwaizumi’s name rolls off of his tongue. Beating the bird back into its cage, he smiles instead.

“How were your finals?” Another friend asks, this one a woman.

“Good! They were good—I hope,” Iwaizumi laughs.

The conversation pauses, and all eyes land on Oikawa. He can feel his face start to heat but he tries to keep his composure. From how close they are sitting, Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s thigh brush against his own, grounding him.

“You must be Hajime’s boyfriend Tooru! He talks about you so much. It’s nice to finally meet you!” The final friend speaks, reaching out to shake Oikawa’s hand. Oikawa doesn’t understand most of it, but he recognizes his name and something ugly bubbles up inside of him. He doesn’t wait for Iwaizumi to translate and he doesn’t hold his hand out to shake.

“Oikawa,” he corrects, the smile that Iwaizumi loathes plastered on his face, stretched from ear to ear like a doll, all plastic and shiny. He doesn’t look over to see Iwaizumi’s expression, but he is sure he is unimpressed.

“Sorry, Matt,” Iwaizumi swoops in to explain, always there to clean up Oikawa’s mess. “In Japan, people typically go by their surnames.” He eyes Oikawa. “Although in Argentina they use first names like in America.”

A waitress comes by to drop off their menus. Oikawa looks over his in silence, eyes focused on the pictures. He brushes off all of Iwaizumi’s attempts to help him. Iwaizumi finally gets fed up and picks up his own menu to decide what he wants to eat, leaving Oikawa alone to his own devices. The sound of Iwaizumi making small talk with his friends creates unpleasant background noise and Oikawa really wishes he insisted on staying in Iwaizumi’s dorm.

“So, Oikawa, what’s it like living in Argentina? I’ve been to Brazil once and it was really fun,” one of Iwaizumi’s friends asks. As much as Oikawa hates it, he looks to Iwaizumi for translation. Iwaizumi repeats his question back in Japanese.

Oikawa feels like it’s his first day of practice again, relying on a translator and feeling completely out of the loop. He lets out a quiet, shaky breath and smiles, responding back in what little English he knows. “Argentina is—“ he pauses, searching for the words, trying to translate his thoughts from Japanese into English in his mind, “good. Very pretty.”

It makes him feel dumb and small and insignificant. He creates scenarios in his mind of these people laughing at him for his broken English. He’d like to see them try to learn Japanese. Iwaizumi nudges him, breaking him out of his spiraling train of thought. He gives Oikawa a knowing look, as if he can read every negative thought inside Oikawa’s head. He pokes Oikawa in the side for good measure, a gesture Oikawa has come to learn means stop it, idiot.

“How did Iwa-chan get so good at English?” Oikawa mumbles softly, the words only meant for Iwaizumi. The Japanese is welcome, sweet like honey on his tongue. Iwaizumi grins, small, but it’s there and Oikawa notices it—of course he notices it—and he remembers why he flew all the way to California in the first place. Why he is sitting in this greasy diner with people he doesn’t know who speak a language he can’t understand. It’s because of that same grin that had him head over heels in high school, maybe even earlier, and those deep, olive green eyes that bore into his soul like they see every one of his flaws and love him despite them, because of them.

“Some of us paid attention in high school,” Iwaizumi teases back, voice just as quiet. They may not be in Iwaizumi’s bed, cocooned in blankets and hidden away from everyone, but in this moment, Oikawa feels the rest of the world drifting away.

He is brought back to reality when the waitress returns a moment later to take their order. Her eyes land on Oikawa expectantly, pen in hand, waiting. Iwaizumi places a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, prepared to help, but Oikawa looks at Iwaizumi’s friends and the ugly mix of jealousy and insecurity comes back so he clears his throat and starts to order.

“Um…” he trails off, looking to the menu as if it will magically teach him English in the next two seconds. “One hamburger, please.”

She nods, jotting something down in her notepad, and Oikawa feels a sense of pride that is cut short when he starts to speak again. “And what would you like on your burger?”

Humiliation burns inside of him like a house fire, leaving nothing but ash in the place of everything that once was loved. Everyone must be staring, thinking about what an idiot he is. Always the knight in shining armor, Iwaizumi starts to speak. “Everything on the burger is fine, except pickles. And fries with that, please.”

And suddenly all the attention is lifted off of him. The others start to order and no one even bats an eye at him. The waitress leaves to put in their orders and the conversation picks up again. Oikawa can hear his therapist reprimanding him in his mind, tutting at him for getting so lost in his thoughts. In some ways, she reminds him a lot of Iwaizumi, except she has never called him any mean names or whacked him in the back of the head.

“Why aren’t you letting me help you?” Iwaizumi asks, cutting off Oikawa’s back and forth comparison of Iwaizumi and his therapist.

Oikawa denies like he always does when he is uncomfortable. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The conversation at the table never stops, carrying on even after Iwaizumi slips out of it to focus on Oikawa.

“Don’t be this way,” Iwaizumi frowns, an expression Oikawa always feels guilty to cause. “What’s wrong?”

His heart rate starts to pick up and he can’t pinpoint why; all he knows is he needs to shut down this conversation. “Nothing’s wrong, Iwa-chan. Celebrate with your friends. I’m only here for a week but you have your entire school career to spend with them.”

“That’s what this is about?” Iwaizumi asks, and Oikawa knows he has been caught. His shoulders sag as he awaits his lecture. “Tooru, I gave you the option to stay home. Why didn’t you speak up?”

Oikawa’s nerves prickle under his skin and his eyes dart around the restaurant. “Let’s not discuss this now, Hajime.”

“Not do this now?” Iwaizumi shakes his head. His voice is level but the conversation around them still dies out, the atmosphere souring. “You’re the one who wants to sit here in a bad mood and act standoffish, but you don’t want to do this now?”

“Please, let’s just forget it.”

Iwaizumi scowls, and Oikawa can tell there is no getting out of this impending argument. His own anger starts to bubble up in his stomach. “You want to forget it now that someone has called you out on your behavior, Tooru, is that it?”

“I want to forget it, Hajime, because you’re causing a scene,” Oikawa spits back at him, face flushed in anger. Iwaizumi’s friends nervously start another conversation to pretend they aren’t aware of the arguing.

“We were supposed to have a nice time. God knows we’ve been arguing so much lately, but still it’s not enough to make you happy,” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, the same eyes that moments ago held so much affection.

“Oh, I should be happy, huh? Happy sitting here, completely out of the loop of all the conversations, fifth wheeling as you hang out with your new besties, when I should be spending what little time I have left here with my boyfriend! You haven’t even bothered to ask what I wanted to do, and I’ve been here for two days!” Oikawa raises his voice first, not quite yelling, but loud enough to catch the attention of a passing waitress.

“I told you before you even booked your ticket that I had finals this week! You knew this from the start!”

Oikawa slams his hand on the table, rattling the glasses. “Sure I knew that! But I didn’t expect my boyfriend to have me share leftover pizza with his roommate on my first night here while he spent his evening in the library!”

Iwaizumi’s voice lowers. “Maybe this isn’t working out.”

The words cut through Oikawa like a knife, tearing him completely in two. He sits there for a moment in shock, unable to believe the words that were just said. Oikawa is surprised though it feels like every conversation for the past few months has been leading up to this moment. It seems to take Iwaizumi the same amount of time to realize what he has done, and he starts to backpedal.

“Tooru, I’m—“

Oikawa cuts him off, voice barely above a whisper. “Save it.” He picks up his phone and slides out of the booth, Iwaizumi quick to follow him, a clear look of panic on his face.

Stray tears start to drip down Oikawa’s cheeks and he brushes them away quickly. He walks down the sidewalk, desperate to get away from Iwaizumi, as he uses his phone to call an Uber.

“Tooru, please,” Iwaizumi calls from behind him, voice hurt.

“Leave me alone,” Oikawa hisses. “Go back to your friends, I don’t want to see you.”

“Baby, please, I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this.”

Oikawa stops in the middle of the sidewalk, spinning around to face Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi stops as well. “Don’t you ‘baby’ me, Hajime!” He scowls. “I’m done, I’m leaving. I’m getting my things from your room and I’m leaving.”

Hurt flashes across Iwaizumi’s face, but this time, Oikawa is too blindsided by his own emotions to care. Oikawa doesn’t notice as his Uber approaches, parking by the sidewalk.

“Tooru, please stay,” Iwaizumi is begging but it falls on deaf ears. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it, Tooru, I love you.”

“No, I won’t be staying because this isn’t working out,” Oikawa repeats his own words back to him, voice raw with emotion. Tears prick at the back of his eyes, burning him, a scorching feeling that has him afraid he may go blind. He finally takes notice of the car and gets inside, closing the door before Iwaizumi can follow him. He tries not to look back as the car drives away but he can’t help it, turning around to see Iwaizumi standing in the middle of the sidewalk, head in his hands, defeated.

The ride to campus feels like years, and he has to ask for help to find Iwaizumi’s building once he arrives. It’s difficult with his insufficient English skills, but repeating the building name multiple times finally gets the message across.

Tears start to fall again as he walks to Iwaizumi’s building, blurring his vision, but he doesn’t wipe them away this time. The only person Oikawa cares about in this entire country isn’t here to see them, so he feels no need to hide them anymore. He is never going to see these passersby again.

Luckily for Oikawa, Iwaizumi’s roommate is in when he arrives. Caught up in the moment, he never thought about how he would get inside.

His roommate’s eyes widen when he takes in the sight of Oikawa, opening the door wider to allow him in. “Woah, man, are you alright?” He asks, scratching his shirtless stomach. Oikawa ignores him, shoving his things into his bag as quickly as he can. He sniffles, snot threatening to drip down his nose. It’s disgusting, he feels disgusting.

Oikawa chokes on a sob when he sees Iwaizumi’s sneakers by the door, the same sneakers that almost brought them to nationals, and he covers his mouth in embarrassment. He is in and out in less than two minutes with another Uber waiting for him outside.

He was so stupid for thinking this trip would magically fix everything.

The ride to the airport is a blur of tears. He can barely focus as he pulls out his phone to open his translator app to explain to the workers that he needs to book the next flight to Argentina. Given his state, the workers must take pity on him. They call over an employee who can speak Spanish to help him, and with one last frown, they send him on his way.

Oikawa isn’t exactly sure how long he spends in the airport, but the next thing he knows, he is sitting in economy on his way back to San Juan. The ache in his chest only gets worse as he replays the past few hours over and over again in his mind, obsessively breaking down every single moment as if he were watching a tape of one of his games. He should’ve seen this coming. Every phone call for the past few months has ended in an argument, someone always getting hung up on.

He thinks back to the day he left for Argentina, Iwaizumi front and center as his family said goodbye. His parents, sister, and nephew got their hugs first, leaving Iwaizumi to say the final goodbye. Iwaizumi held his face so gently though he normally would shy away from such blatant displays of affection in public. That day was different, with all Iwaizumi’s reservations thrown out the window. Iwaizumi had promised they would call every day. Oikawa asked him if he would send romantic letters via snail mail. Iwaizumi punched him in the arm and said no, my handwriting sucks.

Oikawa can’t help but snort at the memory, a tear dripping down his cheek.

They didn’t end up calling every day, no surprise there. Not with Iwaizumi busy with classes five days a week and Oikawa worn out from practice most days. But they made it work. Until they didn’t. 

He isn’t sure what happened, only that he slowly became more and more irritated by the smallest things. He noticed the same change in Iwaizumi. Their weekly phone call became more of a chore than anything. Oikawa had missed Iwaizumi dearly and wanted to speak with him all the time, but every call, one of them seemed to blow a fuse.

Flying to California had been a mutual decision between the two of them. They both missed each other and thought that it would be good for them. Surely seeing each other in person again would cause all the stress and anxiety to melt away and things would return to normal.

Perhaps they severely underestimated just how difficult long distance would be.

Chapter Text

Oikawa fumbles with the keys to the team’s share house, struggling to open the door with his bag in one hand. He manages to get the door open, nearly dropping his luggage in the process. The entrance is pitch black, and he flips on the light to find Mateo, half-naked and sleep mask pushed up to his forehead, broom in hand ready to charge at him. The broom clatters to the ground.

“Tooru!” He gasps. “What are you doing here? It’s 3 a.m. and you’ve definitely not been gone for a week!”

Oikawa drops his bag to the ground, exhausted. “Long story. I’d like to go to bed now.”

Mateo crosses his arms, blocking Tooru from going down the hall to his room. “Not so fast, buddy. I’m not letting you go anywhere when you look this depressed. Bring it in.” He opens his arms wide and Oikawa hesitates for a moment, but he eventually steps into Mateo’s embrace. He has the strong arms of a volleyball player and his hug is comforting. Oikawa buries his nose into Mateo’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. Mateo rubs his back gently and doesn’t press for more information; Oikawa is grateful.

“Go get some sleep, Tooru,” Mateo pats his face. “If you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

Oikawa scoffs, but a soft smile makes its way on his face. “Dead asleep snoring so loud that the pictures on your wall rattle?”

“Yup! Love ya! Mwah!”

Though he may be an idiot, Oikawa is still grateful for him.

He stares at the ceiling as he lays in bed, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars that he stuck up there the first week he arrived. He remembers sending Iwaizumi a picture of those same stars, with Iwaizumi teasing back that he was finally home amongst his alien brethren. Oikawa had sent him a selfie with his tongue stuck out and a peace sign poking his cheek, the word ‘rude’ written in big letters on the screen. Iwaizumi sent him a picture of his middle finger.

Oikawa dreads having to check his phone. He feels sick to his stomach, anxiety churning at his insides and heart trying to beat its way out of his rib cage. It’s a pain like he has never felt before. He rolls over on his side, pulling the blanket all the way up to his chin. He’s exhausted, but sleep won’t come. It’s a cruel joke. His mind replays memories of Iwaizumi, spanning from childhood up until their big fight.

What would little Oikawa say, age 7, if he knew that he and his best friend would get into a fight that they won’t recover from?

He would probably cry, and cling to Iwaizumi, begging him to make the liar go away.

Oikawa has half the mind to down a shot of NyQuil just to get some sleep but then he imagines Iwaizumi nagging him at him, for God’s sake, Tooru, take some melatonin like a normal person, and he gets choked up again.

He curses Iwaizumi for being his high school sweetheart because it has left him 19 with no idea how to deal with heartbreak.

***

“Tooru, are you sure you want to be at practice today? You scheduled the whole week off, no one will be mad if you still use that time, kid,” his coach pulls him aside after he flubs another serve.

Oikawa puts on his signature grin, trying to reassure the man (and convince himself). “I’m fine, coach, really! It’s not good for an athlete to miss so much practice anyway!”

Oikawa had walked into practice that morning, dark shadows beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His cheeks were puffy and throat sore from having to breathe through his mouth all night because of his stuffy nose. All of his teammates were instantly concerned, but mostly confused at seeing him back so soon.

No one is more concerned, though, than Mateo, with his bleeding heart. He can’t take his eyes off Oikawa all practice, using every chance he can to stay close to him. In theory, Oikawa should appreciate the concern. In practice, he wants to strangle him and tell him to stop hovering. Somehow, Oikawa manages to avoid doing that. Mostly by going everywhere that Mateo is not.

“Tooru, set to me!” Félix calls, waving him over.

“No, me!” Mateo shouts from the other side of the gym. “Tooru, set to me!”

Truthfully, he doesn’t trust either one of them. Both Mateo and Félix are known for their schemes, but at the moment, Félix has been less annoying so Oikawa heads off in his direction. Mateo pouts, abandoned, so another player swoops in to practice with him. He steels himself, preparing to be bombarded with questions.

“You can’t escape this conversation forever, Tooru,” Félix reprimands him. “But it doesn’t have to be now. I can tell you’re shaken up.”

God love him, but Mateo would not have given Oikawa this same grace.

“Now come set to me, Toto, I’m serious! When you were gone, Mateo was trying to set! It was very scary!” There is a loud hey from the other side of the gym that could only come from a very offended Mateo.

A week later, Oikawa has still successfully avoided the conversation. He has also avoided checking his phone at all in that time, phone dead on his bedside table, which resulted in a very anxious call to his manager from his mother, demanding to know the whereabouts of her son. Oikawa then got a (well deserved) lecture from his mother, scolding him for being irresponsible and not charging his phone. She then asked how his trip to California was, to which he replied some vague statements like long flight and very American.

She made him promise to charge his phone and said she was going to call the next day to make sure he listened, and if he didn’t answer, she would keep calling every day. He is on the other side of the globe and yet he can’t avoid getting lectured by his mother.

Any time not spent at practice is spent cooped up in his room, some telenovela that Mateo had recommended him once playing quietly on the TV. As much as he wants to, he can’t watch any of his alien movie DVDs because he was stupid enough to forget to bring a DVD player with him, and the players in Argentina don’t play Japanese discs.

His mind is flooded with thoughts of Iwaizumi, both the good times and the bad. He thinks about how Iwaizumi always insisted on sleeping in socks, and he thinks about the first argument they had after Oikawa left for Argentina. The way Iwaizumi always had a way with animals despite claiming he didn’t like them.

“Dogs are too slobbery,” Iwaizumi grumbled.

“You’re slobbery!” Oikawa batted at him, causing Iwaizumi to raise an eyebrow. “Get your mind out of the gutter, freak!”

Oikawa remembers a fight they had in middle school, unable to recall what caused it, but he remembers that he and Iwaizumi didn’t speak for an entire week over winter break. Oikawa was torn up over it, refusing to leave his room. The fight ended after that single week when Iwaizumi showed up on his doorstep, box of milk bread in hand. Iwaizumi had huffed out an embarrassed apology in that cute, grumbly voice that Oikawa loved to tease. Iwaizumi had been so adorably shy that Oikawa had no other choice but to forgive him (the milk bread helped too).

It has been a week since their fight in California, and Oikawa isn’t sure why a part of him had hoped Iwaizumi would follow him across the globe, apologizing with milk bread again.

Oikawa chokes on a small, pathetic laugh when he thinks about little Iwaizumi, some grumpy kid he met at the park as a child, sneaking bugs in Oikawa’s pockets when he wasn’t looking. Oikawa would squeal and cry until his mother came over to see what was wrong. It was Iwaizumi’s turn to cry when Oikawa’s mother would step on the bugs, his chubby face coated in tears as he stood above a smeared beetle on the pavement.

He can’t catch a break when the most painful memory returns to him—his first kiss. It was his first year of high school and he had stayed late at practice again. Not being on the starting lineup was killing him, and he had thought if he just practiced, he would show the captain he was good enough to play. Iwaizumi, of course, was there with him, nagging what felt like every ten minutes that Oikawa should go home. Oikawa was getting frustrated with himself, and he stopped responding to Iwaizumi entirely. The only thing he could focus on was getting the ball to the other side of the net; that is all that mattered.

“Hey, idiot! Are you even listening to me?!” Iwaizumi barked out, catching Oikawa off guard. He flubbed his serve, ball landing out of bounds. Oikawa stumbled a bit as he landed, trying to find his footing. The next thing Oikawa knew, he was being hit in the back by a volleyball.

He turned around, offended.

“Pack up, we’re leaving,” Iwaizumi ordered.

Oikawa crossed his arms. “I’m staying.”

Iwaizumi picked up another volleyball, ready to throw. “I’m trying to do what’s good for you, since you’re too stupid to take care of yourself. Perks of being friends with Oikawa Tooru.”

“Practice is good for me!” Oikawa shouted at him, fists clenched. His thighs ached from the hours of practice. “How will I ever be the best if I don’t practice?!”

The volleyball Iwaizumi was holding dropped to the floor, the sound echoing off the walls of the empty gym. He stormed over to Oikawa, and Oikawa prepared himself for the worst. Iwaizumi was really going to punch him, no playing around this time, he was sure of it. Instead, Iwaizumi cupped his face with both hands, staring directly into his eyes.

“Is there anyone stupider than Oikawa Tooru?” He asked, and Oikawa wasn’t sure who he was asking but he was offended either way. “You’re an amazing player. You aren’t on the starting lineup, not because you’re bad, but because that’s how seniority works. Get used to it.”

Iwaizumi’s voice was always so mean that Oikawa had a hard time deciphering if it was a pep talk or not.

“If it were up to me, I’d put you on the starting lineup now. I’d make you team captain if I could, that’s how much I believe in you.”

Oikawa looked at him, a soft smile on his face, and all his anger washed away. “Iwa-chan is sweet on me,” he teased.

A beat of silence passed.

“I am,” Iwaizumi confessed, changing Oikawa’s world forever. He leaned in and their lips met, an electric shock running up Oikawa’s spine. It was innocent and inexperienced, with a little too much teeth (‘Ow! Don’t bite me, idiot!’), but Oikawa would have never asked for anything different.

A pounding on his door snaps him out of his trance, and he groans at the idea of someone bothering him. Can’t everyone just leave him alone to wallow in his misery? He wipes away the stray tears, trying to look presentable. A second pair of hands adds to the incessant knocking and Oikawa swears he is going to kill whoever is on the other side of the door.

“Go away!”

The door opens to reveal Mateo and Félix, dressed in pajamas and snacks in their arms. Oikawa didn’t expect it to be anyone else. They both clomp into the room and drop the snacks on Oikawa’s bed before climbing under the covers with him.

“Hi, querido,” Mateo makes annoying little kissy sounds at him, tossing an arm around his shoulders.

“We are joining your pity party,” Félix explains, cozying up under the blanket.

“What part of ‘go away’ did you guys not understand?” Oikawa hmphs, definitely not eying the chocolate bar next to his knee.

Mateo opens a bag of freshly popped popcorn, a cloud of steam rising from the opening and a warm, buttery aroma filling the room. “Oh, we understood it, alright, but we understood all your little Toto nuances.”

“‘Go away’ is code for ‘I’m so heartbroken and I need my two favorite teammates to take care of me’,” Félix adds, nodding as his glasses fog up from the popcorn steam. He picks up the chocolate bar and tosses it in Oikawa’s direction.

“I’m not heartbroken,” Oikawa denies in between bites of chocolate, “and this is not a pity party.”

They both eye him, unconvinced. Sure, maybe Oikawa hasn’t showered in three days, and he has been wearing the same pair of pajamas all day every day, but that doesn’t mean anything. Yes, typically Oikawa is hogging one of the bathrooms every morning with his piping hot showers and 6-step skincare routine, but a man can miss a few days of his normal routine without it being an issue.

“Oh, Toto,” Mateo sighs, pulling Oikawa in for a hug and suddenly he snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. He buries his face in Mateo’s shoulder and cries, the sound muffled by his shirt. Mateo tangles his hand in Oikawa’s messy bed head, petting his hair gently while Félix caresses a soothing hand up and down his back. Oikawa is so annoyed with himself, how can one person cry this much? “Querido, what happened?”

Oikawa snuffles, snot clogging his nose. His tears have soaked through the collar of Mateo’s shirt, and he has half the mind to apologize for it. “He broke up with me,” he chokes out.

Félix tsks beside him, shaking his head. “What a jerk.”

Calming down from his outburst, Oikawa wipes at his eyes and takes a deep breath. “We were arguing, of course, and he said that this wasn’t working out so I left.”

“Don’t you think…” Félix trails off, “you should have stayed to talk with him?”

Oikawa’s brows furrow with a frown. “No. I’m tired of talking. He was right, anyway.” Another shuddering breath. “What’s the point in staying together if all we do is argue?”

Félix purses his lips. “Well, I just don’t want you to self sabotage if you think there is a possibility of salvaging this.”

“This man hurt our Toto,” Mateo butts in, “why are you trying to get them back together?!”

“I’m not, I’m not!” Félix puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying!”

Mateo smacks him in the face with a candy straw, serving as a catalyst for an all out snack war in Oikawa’s bed. Sure, Oikawa is going to find popcorn crumbs in his bed for days, and yes, his bed was not built for three professional athletes, but it makes him laugh so Mateo and Félix take it as a win.

After that, they make it a point to crawl into Oikawa’s bed and smother him with snacks when they notice Oikawa hibernating in his room for too long. It’s their way of making sure Oikawa knows he has a support system (and making sure he stays fed), without completely overwhelming him with questions. Oikawa secretly loves it, and he comes to look forward to being woken up from a depression nap by two sets of hands knocking on his bedroom door.

Once Mateo and Félix leave, promising to return with takeout, Oikawa finally plugs his phone in so his mother doesn’t fly to Argentina and wring his neck. After it boots back up, his screen is flooded with nonstop notifications for a few minutes straight. A pit grows in his stomach when he sees Iwaizumi’s name on his screen. 48 missed texts and 14 missed calls from Iwaizumi alone. 18 missed texts and 6 missed calls from his mother; those are the ones that really frighten him.

The last text from Iwaizumi is from two days ago.

[ Iwa-chan (´∀｀) , 11:14PM ]

I can tell you want your space.

Oikawa is sure that reading all the messages would actually kill him, so he turns his phone off and drops it on the bed after putting it on do not disturb for everyone except his mother, coach, and captain. A burst of anger takes over him with a memory of his last encounter with Iwaizumi. Oikawa picks his phone back up and blocks Iwaizumi on everything he can think of; he even blocks him on Pinterest. Iwaizumi has no right to contact him anymore. He wants to talk about space? Well, Oikawa will take all the space he needs!

He picks himself up and dusts himself off, leaving his bedroom with a new sense of self. He finds Mateo and Félix sitting on the couch in the main room, both scrolling through different food delivery apps. They both look shocked to see Oikawa out of his room.

“Toto, I’ve been thinking,” Mateo starts, and Félix rolls his eyes and quips that’s never good under his breath. Mateo ignores him, continuing, “as your straight best friend, I feel as if it is my duty to offer my body to you if you are in need of a rebound.”

Oikawa looks at him, dumbfounded and says, “Teo, I don’t think that is something that straight best friends do.” Félix snickers.

“Good best friends do! I’m comfortable in my sexuality and if my best friend needs me, my best friend needs me!”

Oikawa shakes his head. “You concern me sometimes. I came in here to say I want to go out! No more moping in my room!”

***

Turns out, Oikawa wasn’t made for the party life. He tried a few times over the years to do casual hookups, but all of them were turned off when Oikawa got clingy after sex. As much as Mateo kept reminding him, Oikawa never took him up on that rebound offer, to which Mateo let out a sigh of relief.

At 24, Oikawa, Mateo, and Félix go to Brazil for some relaxing time off. It was Mateo’s idea, claiming that they needed some “bro time.” Stepping off the plane, Oikawa can’t help the burst of excitement that rushes through him. He has never been to Brazil, and he is excited to be a tourist.

After they unpack in their hotel room, the three spend the day getting lunch and shopping (God knows if they returned to Argentina without gifts, their team would throw a fit). When evening comes, however, Mateo drags them all out to the nearest club. Oikawa and Félix spend the whole walk complaining about their sore feet, but Mateo ignores them with a pep in his step.

“Step aside, gentlemen,” Mateo spins on his heel once they enter the door, “Mateo is getting himself a Brazilian wifey. Papa’s getting laidddddd.”

Oikawa scoffs at him, eying him up and down. “Not like that you aren’t,” he motions to Mateo’s open zipper. Mateo covers his pants in shame, rushing to zip it up.

“How long has it been like that?!”

They order themselves some drinks and scope out the room. Mateo quickly dances his way over to a group of women, leaving Oikawa and Félix to fend for themselves. The music is loud and the lights are dim, an atmosphere that Oikawa will never get used to. The bass thumps in his chest and Oikawa is so not drunk enough for this yet.

“Does he speak Portuguese?” Oikawa asks, watching as Mateo greets the women.

“Not a lick,” Félix deadpans. The two share a laugh, moving to find a table to sit down at. They find one in a corner, tucked away. It’s nice; they have a good view of the club. Oikawa swirls the cup in his hand, eyeing Félix.

“Is Félix going to come out of his shell tonight?” Oikawa asks loudly over the music, nudging his friend with his foot.

Félix takes a sip of his drink, shrugging. “Is Tooru?”

Oikawa ignores him, having no good response. He has lost sight of Mateo, but he is certain he is making new friends, or a fool of himself. Most likely both; that’s his charm. In his search for his idiot teammate, though the room is too dark to make out faces, Oikawa catches sight of bright orange hair and without meaning to, he is out of his seat, walking across the room. He feels crazy. It is a natural hair color, millions of people are born with it, and even more dye their hair the same shade. As he gets closer, facial features become clearer and Oikawa’s jaw drops.

“Hinata Shouyou?” Oikawa squawks, catching the attention of the redhead. His face lights up with the same beaming smile he donned in high school.

“The Great King!” He cheers, standing up from his seat and cutting off his conversation with his friends. “What are you doing here, Oikawa-san?”

It’s been so long since Oikawa has heard Japanese anywhere other than over the phone from his mother. The sound makes him feel giddy, washing over him like a ray of summer sun in the afternoon. Oh, how wonderful it feels to be face to face with someone who looks like him, someone who can understand all the nuances of his words that Oikawa could never quite articulate in Spanish.

“Vacation. What are you doing here?” Oikawa looks him up and down, taking him in. “You’re less short, look at you! And you’ve lost your cute baby fat!” Oikawa can’t help himself, too drunk on his excitement (and tipsy from the alcohol), he reaches out and pinches Hinata’s face, cheekbones more defined than they were in high school, shaking him from side to side. Hinata laughs, sunshine in the form of sound.

“I live here! For volleyball!”

Something clicks in Oikawa’s mind. “Ah, I remember seeing that! Ninja Shouyou is quite popular, isn’t he?”

Hinata shrugs coyly, sipping his cocktail. “Let’s step outside! It’s so loud out here!”

It’s nice outside. The breeze is pleasantly warm and Oikawa can actually hear himself think. He partially feels bad for leaving Félix alone, but his excitement from seeing someone he knows is too strong. Félix will understand.

“What brings you on vacation here?” Hinata asks, resting his back on the wall. Oikawa kicks a pebble on the ground, watching as it skips across the pavement.

“I live in Argentina, so Brazil was a close option. I signed with a team there. Two of my friends are inside.”

“That’s so cool, Oikawa-san! I’ve been wanting to go to Argentina, maybe you can show me around when I go!”

Oikawa kicks another pebble. “Sure, as long as you show me around Brazil. And don’t do the ‘I’ll take you to the hidden gems.’ I’m a simple man, Hinata, I want the touristy stuff.”

Hinata laughs, pushing himself up from the wall. “Touristy stuff is fun! But we can go to the hidden gems too, if you’re going to be in town long enough.”

Oikawa takes a moment to admire him; he is no longer the scrawny kid he once knew. He figures Hinata has spent a lot of time at the gym, and he’s sure beach volleyball also helps. He has grown so much, Oikawa suddenly becomes aware of how much time has passed. It feels like only yesterday he left his home in search of a new beginning, but here he is, with his little Chibi-chan, and they’re both grown adults. It’s a weird feeling.

“I need more alcohol, Hinata. Lead me back inside.”

Alcohol he wants, alcohol he gets. Oikawa has the time of his life, even managing to get dragged to the dance floor by Hinata. He introduces Hinata to both Mateo (who has suspicious-looking bruises on his neck) and Félix, and they love him instantly. The night is a blur of shot after cocktail after beer and Oikawa has never felt more alive. His heart starts to race when Hinata gets him alone on the dance floor, Mateo and Félix long lost somewhere. His breathing quickens when Hinata’s hands find his hips and suddenly Oikawa forgets his hatred for casual hookups.

Oikawa regrets ever being born when he opens his eyes in the morning. He tries to fall back asleep, prepared to sleep the entire day away, but the rustling on the sheets next to him distracts him. He cracks one eye open to find tan skin and a head of bright orange hair laying next to him, flat on his back with one hand behind his head and the other resting on his toned, bare stomach. The duvet covering from waist down leaves little to the imagination.

“I thought you were into Iwaizumi-san,” Hinata croaks, voice scratchy with sleep.

Oikawa takes a moment to adjust, memories of last night returning in a headache-inducing flash. “I thought you were into Tobio-chan.”

“Touché.” Hinata pauses before speaking again. “I didn’t take you as a cuddler.”

“I’m a multifaceted man, Hinata-kun.” Oikawa lets out a sigh before covering his eyes with his forearm, blocking out the sun that peeks through the blinds. “For real though, did you guys never get together? I was a bit worried I was the other woman last night but I was too drunk to care.”

Hinata shakes his head, sitting up and crossing his legs. He stretches out his back, arms above his head, and pops his neck, glorious muscles on full display. “Tobio is … confusing.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Oikawa snorts, earning a flick on his forehead from the younger man.

“What about you and Iwaizumi-san?”

Oikawa knew the question was coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. “We dated. We broke up. That’s all there really is.”

“Sounds convincing,” Hinata quips, getting a swat in the arm in return.

The two lay in comfortable silence, and Oikawa nearly manages to fall back asleep before his head starts to throb from his headache. He groans and rolls over onto his side, curling up. Hinata gasps softly and hops out of bed, the bedroom door opening and closing behind him. He returns with a glass and a box of medication. Oikawa cracks an eye open when he feels a presence hovering over him, and low and behold, Hinata beams down at him and offers him the box of pills. Oikawa sits up and groans again.

“I’m going to live a sober life after this. I’m going to start going to church.” He pops a pill into his mouth. Hinata giggles and passes him the glass of water. Oikawa takes a big, long gulp of water before handing the glass back to Hinata, who downs his own pill and takes a drink from the glass.

“You and your friends should come play beach volleyball today.” Hinata pulls a shirt on and digs through his dresser for a pair of jeans.

“Today?!” Oikawa squawks, to which Hinata nods. “Hinata, I feel one step away from death!” To prove his point, Oikawa clutches his head in pain. Hinata can only laugh at his antics.

“Right, sorry. I forgot you were old.”

***

Oikawa Tooru is not old. He stands on the beach with a fresh coating of sunscreen and prepares to dominate Hinata in beach volleyball with a killer hangover and one hand tied behind his back. Well, actually, just the hangover. Félix lays out a beach towel and sets their belongings down while Mateo excitedly chats with Hinata. A match made in Hell, Oikawa thinks. Those two should not be as peppy as they are to be out on a hot beach after a long night of drinking, and yet here they are.

“You speak Spanish?” Oikawa asks, catching Hinata’s attention.

“A little. I’m learning.”

Oikawa pouts, jealous. “And here I was thinking I was cool for speaking two languages.”

“Tobio tries to teach me Italian when we call.”

Oikawa’s eyes nearly get stuck with how hard he rolls them. “Because he is into you.”

“Perhaps,” Hinata shrugs bashfully, ending it there. He walks  to the makeshift court in the sand. “Time to split into teams,” he orders. Mateo instantly latches onto Félix, who looks to Oikawa for help.

“Don’t let him set to me,” Félix pleads. “Someone else take him.”

Mateo and Félix do end up as teammates (a cause of celebration for Mateo), with Hinata and Oikawa on the other team. He won’t admit it, but playing on the same team as Hinata is something he has wanted since seeing him spike with his eyes closed in high school. Perhaps it’s because he wants to prove he is a better setter than Kageyama. Some rivalries never die.

Beach volleyball is fun. Oikawa is surprisingly worse at it than he expected to be, but he adapts quickly. Volleyball is so much better with a gentle breeze blowing through your hair and the warm sunshine tanning your skin. The sand beneath his feet moves with every step and jump, connecting him to the Earth. He feels weightless, until it all comes crashing down.

One wrong step has Oikawa stopping to grab his knee, helping Félix land a spike on their side of the net. The entire game pauses as everyone stops to see what Oikawa is doing. Hinata takes a cautious step toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Everything alright, Oikawa-san?” His voice is so gentle and it makes venom rise in Oikawa’s throat, burning under his skin like road rash from a motorcycle accident. He feels the need to shield himself from all the prying eyes.

“It’s fine, just a misstep.”

Hinata isn’t convinced. “Maybe we should take a break. I packed snacks.”

“I said I’m fine!” Oikawa notices the shocked looks on their faces at his outburst, so he takes a deep breath, regaining control of himself. “Just an old knee injury from high school. It’s healed but it acts up occasionally. Yes, my doctor knows.”

Félix, always his savior, steers the attention away from Oikawa. “Well, I could use a break. And by the looks of it, Mateo too. I think he needs to reapply his sunblock, he’s looking a bit red. Did somebody say tomato?” Mateo covers his face with his hands and scurries off to reapply his sunscreen. The other three follow suit, plopping down onto the bright yellow beach towel and unzipping their insulated bag of snacks. Hinata passes out sandwiches to everyone. 

“Who wants my pickles?” Oikawa asks, tongue sticking out in disgust as he peels open his sandwich to remove the offending topping.

“I didn’t know you didn’t like pickles,” Mateo hums, already putting Oikawa’s pickles on his own sandwich. Oikawa only shrugs in response.

The four of them devour the food quickly. They pass time by talking and sharing stories, and Oikawa can tell that Mateo and Hinata are becoming good friends. At one point, Mateo tries to hold a cold water bottle to Oikawa’s knee, to which he bats him away like a mother sending her child out of the kitchen and pinches his arm. Oikawa lays down on his back and stretches out all his limbs, basking in the golden sunlight. The hem of his tank top rides up, revealing a sliver of tan skin. Hinata, a devil behind an innocent facade, seizes the opportunity and pokes him in the abdomen, causing Oikawa to squirm away and pull his shirt down.

“I want to get back to volleyball now,” Oikawa stands up, hand propped on his hip. “But this time, I don’t want to be on Hinata’s team. I am going to crush you.”

And he does. Hinata and Mateo put up a good fight, but Oikawa and Félix manage to scrape by enough points to win. It’s invigorating, and Oikawa wants to play more, but the others insist they call it a day and start heading to their cars. Oikawa seizes the opportunity to tease Hinata about it.

“And you said I was old, yet who’s the quitter?! Just admit I’ve still got it and I’m better than you!” He flaunts, fluttering around Hinata and poking him in his arms. The redhead allows it, laughing along with him.

“Let’s take a selfie! I want to remember today!” Hinata pulls the other three into frame, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. Everyone poses: Oikawa does his classic peace sign with his tongue poking out, Hinata tilts his chin down to eye the camera with a smug grin, Mateo does the sign of the horns and winks, Félix does a classic thumbs up. The shutter sounds, capturing the moment and saving it forever. They will grow older, but a part of them will always live inside the photo, on this Brazil beach under a warm summer sun.

“Tag me,” Oikawa nudges him, winking.

Chapter Text

Back in Argentina a week later, Oikawa is still high off the excitement of Brazil. His love for volleyball has grown even deeper, if that is possible, and he is ready to show his teammates the new skills he learned from playing with Hinata. He feels unstoppable. He’s at the top of his game, his team’s win to loss ratio is amazing, and he just spent an amazing vacation with his friends; nothing could ruin this.

“Tooru, I need to talk to you in my office.”

It’s his first practice after returning from Brazil, and his coach pulls him aside from everyone before he has time to warm up. A pit forms in his stomach, but Oikawa chalks it up to his anxiety. He takes a deep breath and tries not to focus on all the negative scenarios that are plaguing his mind. Chill out, Tooru, he thinks. He’s not firing you. You’re a great player.

He hasn’t been in the coach’s office since the first day he landed in Argentina all those years ago. It’s messy in an organized chaos type of way; Oikawa is sure there is some sort of system that only the coach can decipher. The desk is littered with sports magazines and pictures of his family. One catches Oikawa’s eye, a photo of a little girl, probably the coach’s daughter, standing with her volleyball team, all matching jerseys and enormous grins that stretch from ear to ear; the coach must be proud.

Oikawa takes a seat on the plush chair that faces the desk. He suddenly becomes aware of his hands and he has no idea what to do with them, laying them on the arm rests before deciding that isn’t right, moving them to his lap, and back to the arm rests again. The coach must take notice of Oikawa’s nervous hands.

“Breathe, son. This is a good talk.”

He does as the man says, inhaling deeply through his nose, the smell of old books filling his lungs and he holds it there until the pounding in his chest fades into a quiet, steady rhythm. He exhales through his mouth, the breath coming out a little shaky.

“You’re an amazing player, son. Anyone with eyes can see that. Argentina loves you.”

His chest feels too small for his heart, walls caving in, not enough to completely crush it, but just enough to squeeze. It sends the organ into a claustrophobic panic, working overtime to try and compensate. His heart thumps rapidly, trying to beat back the walls and create space to breathe.

Oikawa can’t tell where this conversation is heading which freaks him out. Sure, the coach said it was a good talk, but it’s starting to sound like a we-are-firing-you-and-letting-you-down-gently type of talk. Oikawa has no idea what he would do if he got kicked off the team. He would have to go back to Japan, surely. With no work visa, he would be left with no other choice. Going back to Japan isn’t something Oikawa has ever considered; Argentina has become a second home to him. He has created a new life here, one that he loves very much. Oikawa excels in Argentina. In Japan, he would have to battle for the spotlight with the likes of Miya Atsumu and Kageyama Tobio; in Argentina, all eyes are on him. He’s a star in the sports world, and a bigger star in the hearts of teenage girls across all social media. In Argentina, he is loved. Japan holds memories that he does not want to return to.

“I think you should try out for the Olympic team.”

Oh. Oikawa was not expecting that.

“Imagine it, Tooru, how you could help our country bring home the gold.”

The anxiety inside of him deflates like a balloon, leaving an empty cavern in its place as he takes in the weight of the scenario. Oikawa has dreamed of going to the Olympics ever since he first fell in love with volleyball, just some little kid who had yet to grow into his limbs. The image of a gold metal is so vivid in his mind that he can almost taste it, that or it’s blood from how hard he is biting the inside of his cheeks.

“I’d have to renounce my citizenship, right?” Oikawa pinches the inside of his arm as soon as the sentence tumbles out of his mouth. The words ring inside his own ears, a pathetic, choked sound that reminds him of being a first year with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

His coach sighs, removing his ballcap and setting it down gently on the desk. “Listen, son, I know it’s a lot. You have every right to say no. I just wanted you to know that you have someone who believes in you. If you tried, I know you would make it.”

Give up his citizenship. Oikawa can’t even wrap his mind around the idea. His plan was to stay in Argentina for the foreseeable future, but to cut all ties with his first home, the place that saw him as a snotty-nosed child, a boisterous middle schooler, and a high schooler just trying to grow into his own sense of self? Japan holds pain, but it also holds love, friendship, and parts of Oikawa that are so deeply ingrained into who he is that a lifetime in Argentina could never take them away. The Oikawa who dances along to Argentina’s Hot 100 as he cleans, broomstick used as a makeshift microphone, is the same Oikawa who drunkenly taught his teammates to use chopsticks after too many tequila shots and a late night food delivery of sushi.

“Take some time to think it over, alright?” His coach puts his hat back on and stands up. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure to say yes. No one will be upset with you if you say no.”

Oikawa leaves his office in a haze, wandering in autopilot as he heads to the locker room to change into his uniform. Mateo and Félix flank him instantly, their words buzzing in his ears like pesky mosquitoes on a muggy summer evening. All the citronella candles in the world couldn’t keep them away. If Oikawa’s mind wasn’t so foggy from the conversation with his coach, he might have snapped at them to leave him alone. Instead, he pays them no mind as they follow him into the locker room.

“Toto, spill. What did he say to you?” Mateo pesters.

“What was that all about?” Félix questions. “Why do you seem so out of it?”

Oikawa shakes his head, a physical gesture to help him regain control of his own mind. “Just…don’t worry about it. It’s alright, I wasn’t fired or anything.”

Mateo wags a finger at Oikawa. “Not good enough. Give us the details.”

“Just—coach suggested I try out for the national team.”

“That’s awesome! You should!” Félix smacks Mateo in the arm who scowls. “What? He should! We are!”

“It’s different for him,” Félix smacks him again. “Tooru, he’s an idiot. He doesn’t know anything.”

Oikawa can’t hold back his laugh. Spending these last five years in Argentina with two amazing friends has been an unbelievably rewarding experience, and though they don’t always say the right things, they always have good intentions. Oikawa is so grateful that he made that terrifying leap into a new life at 18, opening those doors despite the bile that rose in his stomach at the thought of being away from everything he had ever known. The new friendships he has made make it all worth it, both the highs and the lows. Mateo, who insists on learning Japanese despite being terrible at it, and Félix, who watches alien movies with Oikawa even though he isn’t interested. It means the world to him, but he would never admit something so sappy out loud.

“I’ve thought about the Olympics before, obviously, but I never considered that it would require me to renounce my citizenship. Like, I always knew that was a requirement in the back of my mind, but it’s only setting in now.”

It must click for Mateo, why Oikawa isn’t excited, because his face drops, a serious expression taking over his usually carefree demeanor. “Oh, Tooru, I didn’t think about that.”

Oikawa shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

Practice is unusually quiet after that, without Mateo and Oikawa chatting the whole time. The whole team seems to notice, mimicking Oikawa’s solemn mood like a funhouse mirror, practically the same, but unable to fully reflect him without knowing what is wrong. They tiptoe around him like he is a priceless vase about to topple off a pedestal, one wrong step sending it shattering to the floor. Before Oikawa leaves the gym after practice, he and his coach lock eyes, sharing a glance.

Things change after that; it takes a while for anyone to notice. The day after his conversation with the coach, Oikawa is good as new. He shows up to practice with a newfound vigor, boosting the team’s morale. He plays well. Everyone goes out to celebrate the upcoming tryouts for the national team; some players choose to try out, while others don’t, but everyone has a good time.

Oikawa feels a part of himself returning that he hasn’t seen since high school.

After the conversation with his coach, Oikawa starts to stay late at practice. It’s only once or twice a week, and he always promises to lock up, so no one seems to mind. They know Oikawa is ambitious. The burn he feels in his thighs after a long day of practice is rewarding, a physical manifestation of his hard work paying off. The showers are heavenly, a wonderful ailment for his aching limbs.

He starts to look up the process of renouncing your citizenship and applying for citizenship in a new country, just to see. He spends late nights watching old Argentina Olympic volleyball matches, analyzing everything, even the minute details. After he has watched every match he can think of, he watches them again, but this time he compares them to recordings of his own team, focusing on himself. He wants to see how he compares to real Olympic athletes.

It’s…not good, he decides.

If Oikawa decides to start the journey of  becoming a citizen of Argentina and try out for the national team, he is going to need to work way harder if he wants to be up to par with the big dogs. Everything up until this point has been child’s play; if he were to join the national team and not be able to keep up, his reputation would be ruined, and with it, his career. There is no way Oikawa could give up his citizenship just to become a national disappointment to his new country. He would never recover.

And so he starts staying late more and more often, just in case. He keeps putting off the official decision, but he doesn’t want to fall behind in case he decides to go for it. It’s just a precaution.

At first, it’s fine. Staying late five out of six days a week is fine. Oikawa feels productive. His teammates hesitate when leaving him alone in the gym, but they never press him about it so it’s fine. He is an adult; he knows his limits. A few times, one of his teammates stayed late with him, helping Oikawa practice his sets until they grew tired and eventually left.

It’s fine, until it’s decidedly not fine.

During a Wednesday morning practice, the exhaustion is really starting to set it. He was up practicing later than normal the night before, and the ache has dug its roots into his bones. Oikawa’s jump serves are weak and his sets have lost their pinpoint accuracy. The coach calls for a water break. He slumps down against a wall, guzzling his water like it’s his lifeline. Some drips down the corner of his mouth and he wipes it away with the back of his palm.

Oikawa is too tired to get nervous when his coach approaches him, a concerned look on his face. The older man crouches down next to him, passing him another water bottle.

“I think you should go home early today, son.”

Oikawa is quick to get defensive. “I’m fine, sir. Just a little tired today. Nothing some more stretching can’t fix.”

“No, son, I don’t think that’s true. I’ve been watching you lately, Tooru, and I think you’re working too hard. We all deserve a break; rest is what helps our bodies heal.” He doesn’t let Oikawa get a word in, cutting him off before he can start defending himself again. “You’re being irresponsible. As an athlete, you need to recognize your limits.”

“What’s irresponsible would be giving up my citizenship just to drag the national team down,” Oikawa clips, stunning the coach. “If I am going to give up my citizenship, it is going to be for a gold medal.”

The silence that fills the space between them is like a cloud of smoke from a raging house fire, all encompassing and entirely suffocating. Oikawa wants to fight, to prove him wrong, prove that he can keep going—but he knows his coach won’t leave him alone until he agrees. It’s something that leaves him feeling completely defeated; he moved all the way to Argentina just to still fall short of being good enough—his body too weak to keep up with the excellence he demands of it. Perhaps he should tuck his tail between his legs and shamefully return to Japan while he still has his citizenship, not allowing himself for even a second to imagine the possibility of going to the Olympics with Argentina.

All those years of training his body for what? To get weak and crumble from a little bit of extra practice?

“I know it’s a difficult decision, and I’m not asking you to make it now. I wouldn’t have brought up the Olympics if I knew it would cause you so much stress, that’s the last thing I wanted,” his coach sighs, exhaustion spreading over his face giving the appearance that this conversation has aged him ten years instantly. “You’re smart, son. I know you know that overworking yourself is just as bad as not practicing. Improving your skills is key in the sports world, but none of that matters if you don’t take care of your health. Go home and rest, I don’t want to see you back on the court today.”

Oikawa is nothing if not stubborn, so even though he is being sent home early to rest, he makes it a point to walk those 20 minutes back to the sharehouse rather than take an Uber or a bus. He knows his body better than anyone; he’s not going to let anyone tell him how to take care of it (though he would be better off heeding their advice). He kicks every pebble he comes across, watching as it skips across the pavement. Oikawa kicks a pebble for a solid five minutes of his walk before it topples off into the road and he has to leave it behind.

His knee pulses every few steps which only serves to make him angry. A reminder of his humanness, maybe? That he isn’t some unstoppable volleyball machine—as much as he would love to be. An ache that has been with him through every failure of his career, which seems to want him to fail again now.

The first time his knee started acting up was his first year of high school. Oikawa was finally playing in his first official match and he was beyond excited. That excitement made him risky, trying to show off to his coach while he had the chance to play. It was a beautiful set, but he landed wrong, his knee buckling under the weight. Oikawa fought tooth and nail to stay on the court, but the coach removed him anyway, sending him off to be checked by the nurse. She gave him some ice and had him sit out for the rest of the game.

Flare ups weren’t exactly common after that, though they weren’t unfamiliar either. Oikawa simply got better at hiding his reaction to a bad landing. He had a responsibility to his team once he became a part of the starting lineup, and even more so when he became the team captain. It was his third year, in the battle against Karasuno. They were in the third set, the winner moving on to the finals. The ball was heading out of bounds, but Aoba Johsai couldn’t spare a lost point. Oikawa darted for it, sending it sailing to the one person he could trust to keep the ball in play more than anyone else, fumbling over the metal chairs on the sidelines in the process. He felt the pain then, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping the ball in play. The game was too close to allow for a single mess up. Iwaizumi spiked the ball just as Oikawa knew he would, and for a second, Oikawa allowed himself to get excited about nationals.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Karasuno took the set. Oikawa had dived for the ball but it hit the ground anyway. He let his team down, and the soft throb in his knee only served as a reminder.

***

It takes him five months to come to a decision. He’s too afraid to discuss it with anyone, so like a bad son, he sends his mother a text the same day he tells his coach he is going to apply for Argentine citizenship and apply for the Olympic team. She’s outraged and heartbroken; she begs her son to reconsider but Oikawa has already made up his mind. He knows he’s a bad son, but she ends their spontaneous phone call with ‘I love you’ anyway.

If he is a bad son, he’s an even worse friend. He is too afraid—too ashamed—to tell his friends, and so he doesn’t.

He wakes up to a phone call a few days after the news breaks in Argentina that Oikawa is applying for citizenship. It’s 3 a.m. and Oikawa’s still-sleep-crusted eyes can’t even make out the name on his phone before he answers. He doesn’t even get a word in before he is met with a grating voice on the other side of the line.

“You’re giving up your citizenship and I had to find out through an article?!” Hanamaki, his former wing spiker and one of his best friends, screeches at him so loudly that Oikawa has to hold the phone a few inches away from his ear to save his hearing. “Do you even know how mad I am at you right now?!”

“Some friend you are,” that nonchalant tone could only belong to Matsukawa, another friend and former teammate.

So they’re together. Oikawa is in for the berating of his life, all at three in the morning.

Hanamaki does most of the lecturing, and some tears are shed between them all, but it goes over better than Oikawa thought it would. Perhaps they understand what a difficult decision it was, not one that Oikawa took lightly; maybe they could hear the exhaustion in his voice, not only from being woken up, but also from the months and months of ruminating. The most likely explanation is that they know this is just who Oikawa is. He runs away from what he’s afraid of.

The call switches into catching up with one another. As much as Oikawa would love to go back to sleep (he has to get up in a few hours to start his morning routine), he has missed his friends. They haven’t spoken much over the past five months due to Oikawa’s hiding.

“Have you spoken to him?” Hanamaki whispers the last word like it’s a secret, one he’s unsure if he can share. Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t need to ask any questions to know what he means.

He hasn’t. Not in years. Not since the fight that ruined it all, when they were still so young and trying to navigate life. That doesn’t mean Oikawa hasn’t been keeping up with (internet stalking) him. He saw his mother’s post when her son graduated from college and was set to return home. He saw (from a burner account) the few flings that had come and gone over the years. A facial piercing or two, experimenting with his style, never lasting more than a year before it was removed. He saw the occasional post from Hanamaki; once, an Aoba Johsai reunion, familiar smiling faces grinning back at him, but only one he stared at for nearly five minutes. Most recently he saw where he landed himself a job with Japan’s national volleyball team. He’s grown into quite a man while Oikawa feels stuck, unsure of what he really wants out of life.

“No.” That stops the conversation before it can even start. Oikawa has a queasy feeling in his stomach. An uneasy pause passes between them, long enough for Oikawa’s eyes to get heavy as he starts dozing off.

“You’re a hot topic in Japan right now, you know?” Matsukawa’s voice makes him jolt. “People are really upset. The media is upset.”

Oikawa scoffs. “Why do they even care? They never cared when I was playing here, winning games and making a name for myself. They barely reported on me then, why now?” But Oikawa knows why. People think it's disrespectful, he’s turned his back on his nation, so they’ll turn their back on him.

“I guess your fangirls just miss you,” Hanamaki hums.

“If you missed me that much, you could have just told me, Makki-chan! No need to call yourselves my fangirls!” Oikawa coos at him jokingly.

“We do miss you.”

More silence. When did Oikawa forget how to talk with his own friends? When did things get so awkward between them? The sincerity in Hanamaki’s voice makes Oikawa flinch. He’s only been back to Japan twice in the nearly five years since he has moved to Argentina; has he truly abandoned Japan and the life he left there? Oikawa can hardly keep his eyes open—a part of him knows that he should hang up and go back to sleep—but a selfish part wants to savor every moment with his friends that he has neglected. He can hear some shuffling on the other side of the line and a quiet conversation that his tired brain can’t pick up on, and then someone clears their throat.

“He’s asked about you.” Matsukawa. Perhaps Hanamaki was too afraid of offending Oikawa. “Once or twice. That first year, he asked a lot, but since then, once or twice.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What could I tell him? We know just as much as he does these days.”

Oikawa knows the hushed words that follow aren’t meant for him, but he hears them. “We woke him up, he’s tired. Don’t do that now, it’s not fair.”

Oikawa hasn’t been a good friend lately.

***

“How does it feel to be an Argentine citizen?”

It’s his first interview since the news was announced; all of the paperwork has been finalized and Oikawa is now an official citizen of Argentina.

He is no longer a citizen of Japan.

His coach knew better than to let Oikawa do this interview alone; Mateo is with him to keep him grounded—and to nudge him when he spaces out. Like Oikawa is doing right now. A shoe jabs into his shin and a large grin takes over Oikawa’s face, the boyish grin that makes women and men alike swoon; a grin to make anyone watching forget the ten seconds of silence where Oikawa didn’t say anything at all.

“I feel like I’m home.”

There is a large round of applause from the studio audience, and as an actor on a stage, Oikawa lives to please so he shouts “Viva Argentina!” which riles the fans up more. There’s no adrenaline coursing through his veins like he normally feels after a game and the stadium erupts into cheers, but something he can’t quite place. A tingling in his palms, not unlike the feeling he gets after a really strong serve. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his side, stretching out his fingers and trying to shake the feeling away. Something at the back of his mind reminds him that the movement is being picked up by the camera so he lays both of his palms flat beside his thighs on the chair. He taps his fingers a few times before he remembers to stop that too.

The interviewer laughs, charmed. “Bring us the gold and Argentina will love you forever—more than we already do!”

The gold. It’s as if Oikawa still hasn’t earned his citizenship yet; his fate rests on the outcome of the Olympics. If he fails to bring home the gold, he lets down his entire team and the country that has welcomed him with open arms from the moment he stepped off the plane. Oikawa, 19, who barely spoke any Spanish and had dreams of reaching the stars. If he fails, he abandoned Japan and disgraced himself in the eyes of his motherland all for nothing. Oikawa, 19, who left behind everything he knew for a future of uncertainty.

And what happens after the Olympics? If he wins, he no longer has anything to prove—right? Or will he have to constantly keep one-upping himself to earn his spot, both on the team and in the nation. Is there anything else he can do to prove his worth after the Olympics, or is that where his career goals end?

Everything after that is autopilot. He is awoken from his daze when Mateo smacks him on the back after they walk outside. Their car isn’t there yet. Must be running late. The soft breeze kisses Oikawa’s face and ruffles his hair gently like a loving mother doting on her child.

“What was that in there?”

Oikawa’s brows furrow at Mateo’s question. “What?”

“You went all ‘scary Tooru’ mode.” A frown pulls at Mateo’s lips.

He can’t help but laugh. “Scary Tooru? What does that even mean?”

For as long as Oikawa has known him, Mateo has always talked with his hands and it’s no different now, Oikawa watching him flail his hands around as he tries to describe what “scary Tooru” means. “It’s like—the Tooru who knows exactly what to say to get people to respond the way he wants! It’s not the real Tooru!”

“I think you’ve lost a few screws, Teo.”

Mateo’s face scrunches. “Don't gaslight me! Ask anyone on the team—‘scary Tooru’ is real!”

It takes him a minute to comprehend what Mateo has accused him of. Oikawa’s jaw drops and he sputters, “I’m not gaslighting you! You—you—ugh!” Oikawa has no time to come up with an (endearing) insult for his insufferable best friend because their car pulls up beside the curb. Mateo hops in quickly to evade Oikawa’s wrath.

***

‘Back in Japan!’ the caption reads. Hinata’s face is front and center, his toothy grin radiating warmth like the Sun. He’s wearing a red and black jersey, sporting the number 10 proudly. So many familiar faces stare back at Oikawa, taunting him. Miya Atsumu, Japan’s pride and joy. Ushijima Wakatoshi. Kageyama Tobio. Him. Something ugly stirs inside him. In another life, Oikawa could have been there, wearing red instead of blue, surrounded by the players he grew up with. Would he and Kageyama have become friends? (He highly doubts it).

He’s happy in Argentina. He is.

Oikawa spends more time than he would like to admit staring at Hinata’s post. He memorizes the contours of Iwaizumi’s face; he’s older now—and is that a hint of stubble? He looks every inch of the 27 year old man he’s grown into, and shamefully, Oikawa’s mouth waters at the sight. At the same time, the sharp pain of loss punches him in the gut, knocking all the wind out of him.

A part of him wishes he could reach out and feel the prickly stubble beneath his fingertips, following the ridge of his jaw upwards to cup the cheek that has lost the soft baby fat that Oikawa had so adored.

Oikawa can’t believe that he will be returning to Japan in a little over a month. The thought keeps him up most nights, gritting his teeth while he listens to white noise to try to drown out the sound of his own racing mind. Perhaps they won’t even see each other at all, and all his worrying will be for naught. Oikawa knows that he won’t be able to escape without seeing any of Team Japan—Hinata, for one, would never let that happen—but if the universe is kind, he may be able to spend the Olympics without running into Japan’s athletic trainer.

They’re both adults now, more mature than the not-even-twenty year olds that they were when they broke up. They could be civil, he’s sure.

Would Iwaizumi want to see him? Iwaizumi had been quick to anger, sure, and said some nasty things, but Oikawa’s tongue had been just as sharp.

Does Oikawa want to see him—because it’s starting to feel like he does—and Oikawa doesn’t know what to do with that.

What would it be like to meet up with Iwaizumi after all this time? Would it be awkward? Would they know what to say? Or would they pick up as if no time has passed at all? They spent more of their lives together than they have apart, surely that means something.

His mind slips away from him, depraved.

Oikawa walks into the Olympic Village. There’s all sorts of mixers going on for everyone. Mateo, of course, drags the whole team to go and visit the other volleyball players from across the globe.

“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Mateo whines, pulling Oikawa by the arm.

Oikawa grins at him smugly. “Not if we make it to the next Olympics as well.”

Mateo holds on to him for dear life, dragging him into the middle of the crowd as the rest of their teammates follow behind. All around them is a sea of volleyball players, most of them giants, some of them not. Everyone has a name tag on. Some sport their team colors, others don’t. Blues, yellows, oranges, reds. A head of blond hair that must have been hit with a strong toner sometime before the Olympics catches his eye, and Oikawa is intrigued.  He had not interacted with Miya Atsumu much in high school, and certainly had never had a one-on-one conversation with the man.

“Miya-san,” the name slips off Oikawa’s tongue before he even has the chance to decide if he even wants to talk to him.

The blond turns away from who he has been talking with, some man in a Team France hoodie, and he faces Oikawa. “Well, well! The Grand King. Back in his home country at last. How does it feel?”

“It’s nice seeing all the signs and storefronts in Japanese. And you, Miya-san. You must be excited that your first Olympics are at home.”

His face scrunches up. “Just Atsumu, and I am. Excited.” He pauses for a moment, and then his face lights up with a memory. “Oh! Shouyou will be so excited to see you! Come!”

Atsumu leads Oikawa away from Team Argentina into a sea of red. Of course Team Japan would all be sporting their own merch at the mixer—the games are in their home country. They are proud. Hinata flocks him instantly, incessant hands grabbing at sides, shoulders, arms. Kageyama hovers behind him like a shadow, dark eyes staring directly at Oikawa and making him shudder.

“It’s so exciting to see you, Oikawa-san! I haven’t seen you since Brazil!” Hinata’s hands never let go of him as he talks, sometimes shaking his shoulders enthusiastically, sometimes squeezing his elbow, sometimes playing idly with Oikawa’s fingers.

“Welcome back to Japan, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama states politely from his spot behind Hinata.

“Yes, welcome back, Oikawa.”

The voice comes from behind Oikawa, so he turns around to see Ushijima, stoic as always. The sight doesn’t make him near as angry as it would have in high school.

“Ushiwaka, are you going to wish me good luck too?” Oikawa can’t help but tease.

The man nods once. “Sure, Oikawa. Good luck to you and Team Argentina.”

“Everyone! Listen to me for a sec!”

Oh. Oikawa would recognize that voice anywhere. So gruff and angry, can he ever be nice? Still, it sounds like honey to his ears after all this time.

“Do not get drunk today! If you do, I will end you and laugh when you’re hungover! I’m not going to play doctor if you don’t heed my warning!”

They lock eyes, and Oikawa takes a step back, nearly bumping into Kageyama. He didn’t think it was possible to physically feel a dolly-zoom, but Oikawa can feel the atmosphere pulling around him. He thinks he can hear Kageyama say something, but Oikawa isn’t sure. His eyes stay focused on the man not even 15 feet away from him.

Iwaizumi must get tired of the hesitation. They’re both adults now. Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat and he feels an instinctual need to flee when Iwaizumi starts to walk in his direction. He realizes there is no way to escape without looking crazy, so instead he worries about his hair. How vain.

“Oikawa.” And oh. Oikawa isn’t sure why he expected anything different—of course he wouldn’t call him Tooru—that would be impolite.

“Iwaizumi.” The clunkiness of it tastes like vile on his tongue but to call him Iwa-chan would be to light his own funeral pyre. They’re adults, Oikawa can be mature.

The silence is tense. The players who know their situation make themselves scarce, and the people who stay still understand to stay out of the conversation.

The photos don’t do him justice. Iwaizumi Hajime looks model-esque standing in front of Oikawa now, in his Team Japan branded t-shirt and track pants. He has a lanyard around his neck and Oikawa lets the characters of Iwaizumi’s name burn their image into his retinas. The characters of his name are as familiar to him as the ones of his own name; Oikawa could find their shapes in the clouds.

Iwaizumi moves to sit down at a table and Oikawa follows him instinctually.

“It’s…been a long time,” Iwaizumi’s voice breaks at the end. Oikawa’s throat goes dry. Against his better judgement, Oikawa reaches out to take his hand. It’s warm in his own palm and oh—

Oikawa is totally screwed.

He jolts up in his own bed, still in Argentina, his daydream leaving a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Chapter Text

Stepping off the plane into Japan sends Oikawa’s stomach reeling with nausea. He’s wearing a beanie, mask, and his glasses, desperately trying to become invisible. Japan is the home he betrayed; Oikawa feels unwelcome.

But perhaps he’s just getting in his head about the whole thing, his ego getting the best of things. Why would anyone really care that Oikawa Tooru decided to play for Argentina instead of Japan? In the grand scheme of things, Oikawa is a nobody.

His teammates chatter excitedly amongst themselves. Mateo must have a sixth-sense for Oikawa Anxiety because he grabs Oikawa’s hand, pulling him to his side.

“Slow down, buddy! What’s the rush?”

Oikawa pulls his beanie down to better cover his hair. “Just don’t want to be mobbed by my adoring fans.”

“Ha ha,” Mateo says with a sarcastic grin. “Too bad I’m right here and I’m already mobbing you. He’s mobbing you too!” Mateo reaches out and tugs Félix over by the sleeve of his hoodie. Félix gives him a very disgruntled glare. “President and vice president of Club Toto!”

“I feel more like the CFO,” Félix deadpans.

“Yes! Lead us to the gift shops, my friend!” Mateo cheers. “I want to get something cheesy for Isa.”

That catches Oikawa’s attention. “Like, Brazil Isa? I thought you guys stopped being together, like, forever ago?”

Mateo scrunches his nose. “We’re on again, thank you.”

The two don’t leave his side the whole time they are in the airport, and they smush Oikawa in the middle of their seat during the ride to the Olympic Village. Oikawa would feel grateful if he wasn’t so anxious. His stomach won’t stop doing flips. Félix offers him an earbud, but Oikawa declines.

The Olympic Village is just as bustling as Oikawa imagined it to be. He spots people repping all sorts of different colors, and everyone is rushing around, trying to figure out where they are supposed to be. Oikawa holds on tightly to the back of Mateo’s shirt so he won’t get swept away in the crowd. It’s intense and overwhelming; Oikawa can feel sweat start to bead on the back of his neck, cool on his warm skin.

Their coach successfully leads them to their rooms, the team following like little (giant) ducklings. Luck of the draw has Oikawa roomed with Mateo, while Félix is paired with their libero. Oikawa is relieved to be roomed with one of his best friends, especially with how high-stress being back in Japan is, but Oikawa nearly curses fate when Mateo tries to get him to test the weight limit of the cardboard beds.

“Mateo, please. You’re a grown man, why do you act this way?” Oikawa scolds, no real heat behind it.

Mateo ignores him, flopping carelessly onto his back onto one of the beds, his legs dangling off. He pats the small space next to him, beckoning Oikawa over with a smug grin.

“Oh, is that supposed to be a sexy sprawl?” Oikawa teases. “It came off as more of a pained slump.”

“Ouch, Toto, you wound me!”

Mateo hooks his heels around Oikawa’s waist and pulls, sending Oikawa tumbling down on top of him. The bed holds firm. “Hi, handsome,” Mateo grins at him.

Oikawa lifts his head up from the mattress and glares at Mateo, planning heinously evil things for the man’s fate. Luckily for Mateo, a knock at the door saves him. Before either one can get up to open it, their team captain is opening the door, not concerned at all with their current predicament on the bed.

“We’re all going out to meet other teams. Be ready in 10 or we’re leaving you.”

***

Players from all over the world are packed into a large auditorium. There are tables set up with light snacks and drinks, and other tables for sitting at. Team colors blend together into one big painting. Languages flow together to create a symphony of different sounds. Oikawa holds tightly onto the back of Mateo’s shirt once again.

People come and go, introducing themselves and making small talk with Team Argentina. The language barrier is difficult, but they find a way to make it work. The more people he talks to, the more Oikawa’s nerves start to melt away and the more he gets into his element.

At one point, Oikawa is almost certain he spots Hinata flittering around, but when he turns to do a double take, the head of bright red hair is gone.

The whole time his team spends mingling, they never run into anyone from Team Japan. Oikawa is simultaneously relieved and disappointed. His mind keeps floating back to the daydream he had a few weeks ago—to Iwaizumi. Did Oikawa really think they would run into each other so easily? Does Oikawa want to run into him?

***

[ Hinata, 8:42PM ]

come have drinks with us! bring your friends!

[ Tooru, 8:44PM ]

You’re funny. No.

[ Hinata, 8:44PM ]

come onnnnn! japan doesn’t play tomorrow

[ Tooru, 8:45PM ]

Argentina does. Stop peer pressuring me!

[ Hinata, 8:45PM ]

right sorry! forgot u were old (´ｰ｀)

***

Oikawa Tooru is not old. He sits at a bar that’s a 10 minute walk away with Mateo and Félix on either side of him, and a chunk of Team Japan staring back at him. Hinata managed to rope Bokuto, Atsumu, and Hoshiumi into going out for drinks. And obviously Kageyama, though Oikawa is certain it didn’t take much to convince him, seeing how obviously smitten his old kouhai is with his teammate.

Mateo was excited to see Hinata again, so he agreed right away when Oikawa told him they were going out; Félix took more convincing.

“Oikawa Tooru,” Atsumu grins at him, all teeth and wolf-like. “And so he returns.”

“Miya Atsumu,” Oikawa nods back at him, competitive.

Atsumu clearly has more he wants to say, but Kageyama beats him to it.

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama bows his head slightly, polite. Something nostalgic pulls at his heartstrings, warm and familiar. Oikawa wonders who taught him manners, and he must have forgotten his own, because he asks it out loud as well.

Kageyama’s face remains impassive, but the rest of Team Japan bursts into laughter, Hinata especially. Oikawa feels his face flush red in embarrassment; in high school, he would’ve spit the witty comment with pride, but he’s 27 now, he should have better control over his tongue.

Atsumu and Bokuto already have a row of shot glasses sitting in front of them on the table. Oikawa looks pointedly at Hinata. “Call me old all you want, I’m not doing shots with you. My coach will actually kill me.”

Hinata pouts, picking up his own shot glass. “Not even one? For good luck on your game?”

Mateo holds out his hand for a shot, but Oikawa smacks it away. He gets them a round of beers instead; Atsumu, Bokuto, and Hoshiumi down the three leftover shots.

“Here’s to Japan and Argentina!” Bokuto cheers. “May the best team win! But I hope Japan wins a little bit more.”

“May we see each other on the court!” Hinata adds excitedly.

Drinking with Team Japan is fun. Oikawa feels a sense of pride coursing through his veins being the only person, other than Hinata, able to communicate with both the Argentinian players and the Japanese players. The two of them act as translators for their friends. Despite the language barrier, everyone gets along great. Mateo, as he so often does, becomes fast friends with the Team Japan players; even Kageyama comes out of his shell, as much as is possible for Kageyama. Oikawa quits translating when Kageyama starts telling some story about him from middle school, but Hinata so kindly picks up his slack, not willing to let Oikawa escape the embarrassment.

“And,” Kageyama pauses to hiccup—how many shots has he had? High school Oikawa would have never imagined himself drinking with his annoying kouhai, but here he is. “Iwaizumi-san was always,” he drags out the ending a little, words heavy on his tough, “always with him. Like a guard dog. Oikawa tried to hit me.” And the thoughts aren’t completely related, but Oikawa can see how the drunk cogs were turning.

Hinata follows behind his maybe-boyfriend without any pause, translating for their Spanish-speaking friends without a second thought.

“Wait—isn’t that—“ Mateo starts, but Félix cuts him off with a nudge to the arm. A bashful look takes over Kageyama’s face and he stops talking.

Oikawa, pleasantly warm from his two beers, stretches his arms with a yawn. He tosses an arm over each of his teammates’ shoulders, soft smile on his lips. “Well, it’s been fun, but we need to get our beauty sleep for our big game tomorrow. We play France.”

Kageyama frowns. “You don’t need to leave, Oikawa-san. Sorry for bringing it up.”

“Did Hinata teach you how to apologize, Tobio-chan?” Oikawa coos. “He really must be perfect for you! But your old upperclassman really needs to rest, nothing to do with your social faux pas.”

***

Argentina wins their game against France. It’s a close, difficult fight, but Oikawa expects nothing less. Everyone here was good enough to make it to the Olympics; they are all going to give it their all. Oikawa, however, does not expect it when his knee suddenly starts to flare up. He pushes through, adrenaline numbing the ache and keeping him focused on the game.

Argentina keeps winning game after game, and Oikawa’s knee keeps aching, but it’s never enough for him to decide to be concerned. He still performs well, so he decides it can wait. He frequently ices his knees after their matches, and bats his concerned teammates away with promises of ‘preemptive care.’ He’s come too far to quit now, not while he’s still chasing his glory.

He takes a rough landing after a serve during a match against Poland, which earns him a concerned lecture from his coach, but he ultimately doesn’t get benched. Argentina makes it to the quarterfinals, and then the semifinals. They’re so close, Oikawa can practically taste the victory, sweet like the milk bread from his favorite bakery in his hometown, but he still doesn’t want to give himself false hope.

The taste in his mouth turns bitter when he realizes the matchup for the finals: Argentina vs Japan. He has been so preoccupied with the games that he hardly notices until one of his teammates brings it up during their post-match celebratory dinner.

“Final match against the home team tomorrow! It’s going to be intense!”

Oikawa pauses mid-bite, staring down their libero, Andrés, who doesn’t seem to notice he said anything wrong. Was it wrong? Oikawa doesn’t think so, not really. He was just pointing out a fact, but now Oikawa feels sick to his stomach and he can’t believe he didn’t notice before. Like some sort of sick joke, his knee starts to ache, a dull sensation, but there nonetheless. Oikawa can feel both of his best friends staring at him, but he chooses to ignore them.

“Yes, yes. We play Japan tomorrow! Lucky for you, you have Tooru Oikawa on your team. Please, hold your cheers,” Oikawa smiles widely. “I’ve played against a lot of these guys, granted they’ve had many years of practice since then.”

“You have to tell us everything you know about Team Japan!” Andrés begs while his piece of broccoli falls off his chopsticks once again. Félix is staring him down, clearly debating whether or not he should reach over with his own chopsticks and help him out, but he doesn’t move.

Oikawa nods. “Alright. The team’s biggest threat: all of them. Don’t let your guard down for a second. You’ve watched their replays from the past few days, right? Shouyou, the little redhead, keep a close eye on that one especially.”

“That little guy is scarily quick!” Mateo butts in. “We played beach volleyball with him! He’s a demon with an angel face! Do not be fooled by him!”

After dinner, they all cram into their captain’s room to rewatch Team Japan’s latest game. They’re all huddled together in front of his laptop; the setup isn’t quite ideal for a bunch of oversized athletes, but they make do. Oikawa’s eyes wander to the sidelines, taking in Iwaizumi’s form. He stares at the way he stands there all serious with his arms crossed, focused in on his athletes while they play. Oikawa can’t help the smile that forms at the memory of Iwaizumi and his protective streak with their team in high school. It didn’t come as a shock to Oikawa when he heard that Iwaizumi forwent going pro to become an athletic trainer instead. He remembers the way Iwaizumi would scold the first years until they were shaking when they tried to skip their warmups. 

He remembers the way Iwaizumi would do the same thing to him when the two of them were in their first year.

Oikawa watches as Iwaizumi’s methodic fingers work to wrap one of his player’s ankles. He twisted it when diving for a ball; Oikawa suspects that he won’t be on the court tomorrow. Iwaizumi is efficient with his work, wrapping it up quickly and carefully before standing up and patting his player on the shoulder reassuringly. Oikawa was on the receiving end of a million of those reassuring shoulder pats, though more often than that, he got a punch to the shoulder instead.

He really should be watching the game, shouldn’t he?

Félix, who’s sat cross-legged next to Oikawa on the floor, catches the blank stare on Oikawa’s face and nudges him gently with his shoulder. Oikawa jolts slightly, eyes snapping over to his friend.

“Don’t be nervous. It’s just another game,” he whispers, and oh, that’s right. Of course Félix assumes it’s pre-game jitters and not Oikawa being hung up on his ex-boyfriend from eight years ago. Because that’s the normal thing for him to be worried about right now, and he is, but there’s something far scarier than facing a stadium full of fans of the country he abandoned awaiting him on that court.

Oikawa nods at him, giving him a weak smile and halfhearted thumbs up, the pit in his stomach threatening to swallow him whole.

***

The stadium lights burn the back of Oikawa’s neck, beads of sweat forming and the game hasn’t even started yet. Team Argentina is huddled together, and Oikawa knows he should be paying attention but the words of his coach get drowned out by the cheers of the fans and by his racing thoughts.

His coach reaches out to pat his face, dragging Oikawa back to reality. He stares at Oikawa like he’s expecting him to say something, so Oikawa scrambles out a quick “Let’s show Japan who Team Argentina is!” It’s probably not what his coach was looking for because Oikawa catches Félix wincing but no one calls him out for it.

“Remember everyone, it’s just another game. We’ve played a million games just like this, all the same rules. Don’t get in your heads about it,” their captain adds on to whatever their coach was saying, ruffling Mateo’s hair for emphasis.

There’s more pep talk that Oikawa tunes out, eyes darting around the stadium to catch glimpses of Team Japan in a similar huddle of their own. Their red uniforms, the ones that Oikawa dreamed of wearing as a little kid, contrast with Argentina’s blue. He doesn’t see Iwaizumi, though he can hardly make out anyone’s faces; most people have their backs to Argentina’s side of the stadium, only their numbers visible.

Oikawa shouldn’t be looking for him.

Lining up on the court is a blur, Mateo practically pulling Oikawa into position. Japan is up first to serve. The stadium goes quiet as Atsumu steps up, taking a deep breath before serving the ball, sending it flying over to Argentina’s side of the court. Félix receives it with ease, getting it back up in the air. Oikawa gets into position and sets the ball with practiced precision. He sucks in a breath when Mateo spikes the ball; Suna Rintarou is there in a flash to block him. Andrés dives to receive it, but the ball falls to the ground with an echoing thud.

The stadium bursts into cheers.

Across the net, Oikawa watches as Atsumu gives Suna a proud smack to the shoulder.

The first set is an anxiety-inducing nail-biter; everyone is on edge. This game is for all the marbles, the deciding factor of who takes home the gold. It’s a constant back and forth, but eventually, Japan gains the upper hand with a two point lead, winning them the set.

Oikawa shakes himself off during their water break. He tilts his head to either side with a satisfying crack of his neck, dabbing the sweat off of his face with a towel. Mateo and Félix sit to his left, having their own conversation that Oikawa tunes in and out of. He focuses on his breaths, eyes staring down at his shoes. He taps his left foot, and then the right, just to feel in control.

A whistle blows, signaling them back onto the court.

The second set goes in favor of Team Argentina, tying up the score one-to-one. Finally, Oikawa feels the excitement-laced adrenaline course through his veins, his love of the sport taking over. He’s at the Olympics! Oikawa feels giddy, teeth leaving indents in his bottom lip to bite back a stupid grin.

It’s Ushijima’s serve to start the third set. The sight takes Oikawa back to high school, always second-best to the stoic wing spiker. How lucky is Oikawa that the universe has granted him another opportunity to go up against Ushijima? His serve is just as brutal as it’s always been, perhaps even meaner now that he has eight years of professional experience under his belt. Andrés gets under it, but it ricochets off his arms and out of bounds.

Oikawa catches a glimpse of Iwaizumi as Japan is gearing up to serve again. He’s sat next to one of his athletes on the bench, passing him a water bottle with a gentle pat on his shoulder. Oikawa recognizes him as the player whose ankle Iwaizumi had to wrap during their last game. The sight sucks the air out of his lungs and he flinches when Félix sends the ball his way; Oikawa gives their captain a lousy set because of it, but they manage to score the point anyway.

Even if he wanted to, the fast pace of the match leaves no time for Oikawa’s eyes to wander off to the sidelines (and masochistically, he really wants to). He clenches and stretches his hands at his sides, bringing his focus back to himself and the game, and it works. Argentina takes the third set.

On the bench for another water break, Oikawa subtly clutches at his knee. The ache is making itself known, a warm throb that radiates throughout his leg. It’s bearable, and Oikawa has come too far to back out now. He wants to fight until the very last moment; he wants to stay on the court until the end. What was all of this for if not to be on the court when the ball hits the ground for the last time? Win or lose, Oikawa is determined to see it through. For all he has given up, he at least deserves that much.

His captain gives him a warmhearted smack in between his shoulder blades as Team Argentina filters back onto the court for the fourth set, leaving Oikawa behind to serve. He breathes deeply; in through his nose, out through his mouth. If Argentina takes this set, it’s over; they win the gold.

What an (overly) ambitious thought that Oikawa allows himself to linger on briefly.

It’s funny, during the fourth set. His mind works overtime as he watches the ball fly across the court, a familiar movie that he has seen somewhere before. Oikawa is suddenly no longer at the Olympics; instead, he’s back in his third year of high school, staring down Karasuno on the other side of the net. The ball is heading out of bounds, but they can’t spare a lost point. Oikawa darts for it, sending it sailing to the one person he can trust to keep the ball in play more than anyone else, fumbling over his own feet in the process. Pain shoots up his leg, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is keeping the ball in play. The set is too close to allow for a single mess up.

A thump from a ball hitting the ground. A whistle blows.

His coach is suddenly next to him on the sidelines, and that’s not Irihata. An arm, his coach’s arm, wraps around his shoulders and leads him back to the bench and that’s not how this went the first time. Oikawa was back on the court the first time, fighting with his team until the last second, so why is he sitting down now?

Oikawa reaches up to wipe the sweat from his face, and then again. And again. And, oh, he’s crying?

He’s being led off the court, and the stadium lights fade into something dimmer. Oikawa doesn’t really want to leave the court, but this room is quieter, and something about that soothes the throbbing in his head that Oikawa didn’t even notice was there until it went away, so that all that is left is the ache in his knee. He is sitting on a small cot and has a pillow propped between his back and the wall.

Two unfamiliar faces hover over him, bending his leg this way and that way. It hurts like hell; Oikawa’s hands move without him meaning to to bat them away from his leg. He winces when they tell him to straighten out his leg and he shakes his head like a small child.

They keep trying to prod at him so Oikawa gets more serious about keeping them away from his leg. The tears in his eyes won’t dry and he curls in on himself, a protective barrier around his injury. The EMTs fuss over him, but Oikawa hardly cares. The fog in his brain is starting to clear, and he realizes what just happened. He screwed everything up; he let down his team. He gave up his citizenship just to fail at the last moment—like he always has.

Oikawa doesn’t want to think about having to leave the room—having to face his teammates. He wants the world to stop existing. He won’t be able to stand the mixed looks of pity and sadness, perhaps some hidden contempt. A lifetime of practice and hard work just for him to fail the same way he failed his team in high school? And in front of his old spiker—old boyfriend—old best friend. Iwaizumi was there, did he see?

Oh, Iwaizumi. Shame settles deep in his stomach.

One of the EMTs manages to get their hands back on his leg while Oikawa is spiraling, and the sharp pain that radiates from his knee is enough to bring him back to the present. Oikawa reaches out and grips the EMT’s arm tightly, a wide, deer-in-headlights look taking over his face. His breath catches in his throat and he’s so scared.

The door to the quiet room creaks open and the sound of footsteps echoes off the walls. There’s a third figure looming above him now, tall and foreboding from where Oikawa sits. Oikawa blinks away the tears in his eyes from the EMT’s painful hands, the world coming back into focus.

Iwaizumi, in all his glory, has an unreadable expression etched on his face. His face, which is eight years older now, and which Oikawa has only seen in zoomed-in pictures on his small phone screen. It’s not real—can’t be real. He must be hallucinating from the pain, but he doesn’t think that he hurts bad enough for that to be true. Still, that’s the only logical explanation. Oikawa can’t breathe; the hallucination is so real and he hasn’t been in the same room as Iwaizumi, let alone this close to him, since the argument that doomed their relationship, and it frightens him. He doesn’t know what to do.

One of the EMTs starts putting pressure on his knee, squeezing and feeling here and there, and Oikawa honest-to-God smacks their hand away. The sharp sound echoes around the small room. His knee aches and he wants it to stop and he knows he needs to let the EMTs touch him so they can help, but every time they touch him it hurts worse. Oikawa wraps his arms around his leg and rests his cheek on his knee with a small whimper.

“Have you made any assessments?” Iwaizumi’s voice sounds like honey to Oikawa, a soothing balm. He lets out a shaky breath.

“Sir, I don’t think you are supposed to be in here,” the EMT says instead of answering his question. Either Iwaizumi is real, or the room has a carbon monoxide leak and they are all hallucinating.

Iwaizumi holds up his clipboard in one hand and points to the badge clipped on his shirt with the other. “It’s alright, I’m an athletic trainer.” And they aren’t even wearing the same team color, but the EMTs don’t kick him out.

Time starts to move in slow motion. Iwaizumi crouches down in front of Oikawa, their eyes locking. Oikawa’s heart speeds up, fluttering like bird wings inside of his chest.

“Is it alright if I feel your knee?” And it’s so polite, so professional, it feels unnatural to Oikawa. They’ve never spoken to each other in this way. But Oikawa nods dumbly anyway, sucking his lip between his teeth and worrying at it so he doesn’t let out any pained noises when Iwaizumi prods at his knee. “Can we get some ice please?” He asks one of the EMTs who quickly leaves the room to get what he requested.

While they wait, Iwaizumi looks through the storage cabinets, finding two extra pillows to help Oikawa elevate his leg. Oikawa can’t stop looking at him, and he knows that he should stop—it’s probably getting weird now—but he’s still in shock (both from the injury and from being this close to Iwaizumi).

“Comfortable?” Iwaizumi asks after fluffing the pillow under his leg. Iwaizumi—probably without thinking—gently pats Oikawa’s bare shin once he’s done. He must not think anything of the innocent gesture, because his face gives nothing away, while Oikawa’s entire nervous system is now on fire.

“Mhm—yeah,” there’s a few seconds delay when Oikawa forgets that he’s supposed to answer when someone asks a question.  

There’s no more talking until the EMT comes back with the ice. Iwaizumi takes his leave once Oikawa gets the ice on his knee—he has his own team to return to. Oikawa lies there in the quiet dark for a period of time. His eyes start to get heavy, and he doesn’t fight them when they start to close on their own accord. The only sound in the room is the three sets of breathing, and the rhythm of it all lulls Oikawa into a deeper calmness, all his nerves beginning to wash away. With the anxiety and fear dissipating, it leaves room for a bone-deep exhaustion to set in. He unclenches his jaw, and then his shoulders relax, and then his arms, and it works its way down his body until everything floats away from him and his brain goes quiet.

He’s jolted awake when something ice cold presses to his cheek. He opens his eyes to find Mateo hovering over him, a soft grin on his face and a water bottle in his hand. “Hi, querido.” And he has that stupid twinkle in his eyes, so how can Oikawa even be annoyed at him?

The room is packed with his teammates, all sweaty post-game. Their coach stands to the side, talking to the EMTs.

“Did you win?” It’s the first thing Oikawa says to them, and the words get caught in his throat for a moment, nerves flooding back rapidly.

Félix, right next to Mateo, wipes the condensation from the water bottle off of Oikawa’s cheek before patting his face once, twice. “Yes, Toto, we won.”

He can’t help it, his bottom lip starts to wobble pathetically. His two best friends pull him in for a tight hug, and Mateo plants a kiss on the top of his head.

***

Back in his room, Oikawa lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Mateo has already fallen asleep, quiet snores escaping his mouth. Oikawa loathes sleeping on his back, so it’s difficult to fall asleep, but he has to keep his leg elevated. Doctor’s orders. He took some Ibuprofen so the pain has faded to something dull, but now he doesn’t have the pain to focus on rather than his racing thoughts.

And, because Oikawa is stupid, he does stupid things. Like now. He reaches over for his phone before he can psyche himself out and clicks on the contact that has been collecting dust for years. His thumb hovers over the unblock button, a moment of hesitation.

[ Tooru, 11:23PM ]

Coach told me they suspect meniscal tear.

God, he’s so stupid. It’s been eight years, it might not even be his number. And who does Oikawa think he is, acting all casual as if nothing has happened? Why is he even texting right now? What does he hope to get out of this? Does he really expect Iwaizumi to—

[ Iwaizumi, 11:29PM ]

Sorry to hear that.

[ Tooru, 11:29PM ]

Came for second opinion from licensed professional.

[ Iwaizumi, 11:31PM ]

I agree. Start working on a recovery plan.

The whole thing has Oikawa sick to his stomach, silently losing his mind while Mateo slumbers peacefully in the bed on the other side of the room, blissfully unaware. They leave Tokyo to return to Argentina in two days; that gives him even less time to catch up with friends and family. His bags are still packed from when they arrived, dirty clothes shoved haphazardly back into the suitcase. That gives him only tomorrow; the next day will be spent waiting at the airport.

He should see his parents, they’re in town for the Olympics. He’s sure his team will want to go out, using Oikawa as their tour guide. He needs to see Hanamaki and Matsukawa or they are going to kill him. There’s this new (a few years old now) restaurant in Tokyo that Oikawa has been wanting to try. He told CA San Juan that he would bring them back souvenirs, and he hasn’t done any shopping yet. He only has one day and so much to do. On top of it all, he’s supposed to be resting.

[ Tooru, 12:01AM ]

Can we talk?

[ Iwaizumi, 12:01AM ]

Sure.

Chapter Text

Oikawa sees him instantly. They planned to meet at the same bar Oikawa went to with Team Japan; not much else is open at such a late hour. Oikawa, unfortunately, has to Uber rather than taking the short walk. Doctor’s orders—again.

Iwaizumi is sitting at a small table in a corner, hidden in the shadows from the dim lighting. Oikawa, stalling, goes to the bar and orders two beers. He taps his fingers on the counter nervously while he waits, worrying at his lip with his teeth. He has half the mind to order a shot for courage, but he decides against it. The bartender brings him the beers much too quickly for Oikawa’s liking, and soon enough, he’s on his way to Iwaizumi’s table.

The chair scrapes against the floor as Oikawa pulls it back to sit down. Iwaizumi mumbles a quiet ‘thanks’ when Oikawa slides him the beer. They both drink in a tense silence until Oikawa looks down at his half-finished bottle and decides it’s time to say something.

“So—“

“It’s—“ Iwaizumi speaks just as Oikawa opens his mouth. They both go quiet again. Oikawa’s face feels warm. Iwaizumi clears his throat. “Sorry about your knee.”

Oikawa lets out a shuttered breath and shakes his head dismissively. “We aren’t here to talk about my knee.”

“I know.”

Being this close to Iwaizumi feels just as unreal as it did in the quiet room with the cot, and his brain isn’t even fogged up with pain this time. Iwaizumi looks nice in his v-neck and jeans; Oikawa takes a quick glance at his own hoodie and sweat shorts and suddenly feels underdressed. Sure, he literally just rolled out of bed, but he didn’t have to show up looking like it! He regretfully wishes he had put in a little more effort; now he just looks like the mess that he feels inside.

“How have you been?” Iwaizumi’s voice startles him out of his spiraling.

“Good, good. And you?”

“Good. How is Argentina?”

“It’s good. And California?”

“It was good.”

Oikawa needs another beer. So he does just that. He heads back to the bar for two more beers, whispering a pathetic ‘please be slow about it,’ to which the bartender must understand, because he nods and doesn’t return for over five minutes. When he comes back, he pretends to have forgotten what Oikawa ordered, and then wastes another five minutes before he finally brings the two beers over, slipping him a shot as well.

“On the house, my friend.”

Oikawa downs it, savoring the burn.

Back at the table, Iwaizumi doesn’t touch his second beer. He stares down Oikawa with a blank expression that has Oikawa shuddering with nerves like spiders crawling down his spine. The inside of his lip is raw from worrying at it so much, but the pain only makes it that much better to distract himself.

Oikawa watches the water condensate off his bottle, dripping to the table. “I’m sorry.”

Iwaizumi picks up his own bottle and takes a drink. “I’m sorry. I was a dick.”

Brave suddenly, Oikawa shakes his head. “I was immature back then. Cutting you off like that, it was an immature thing to do. We could’ve talked.”

“Maybe, or maybe we would’ve fought more.”

“I was really hurt,” Oikawa gulps. “I was hurt and I wanted you to hurt too.”

“Mission accomplished,” Iwaizumi jokes weakly with a small, unconvincing laugh. “I called your mom a lot, those first few months. For some reason she took the time to comfort the guy who hurt her son. She gave me updates about you whenever she got them.”

Oikawa snorts, covering his mouth in embarrassment. “She always liked you. ‘How’s Hajime-kun?’ ‘Invite Hajime-kun for dinner!’” He mocks in a high pitched voice.

Iwaizumi cracks a smile. “Yes, I remember she called me her favorite son quite a few times back in the day.”

Something warm washes over them, the noise of the bar fading into the background. It’s almost familiar, not quite the same, but close enough. Oikawa wishes he could see Iwaizumi in better lighting, rather than the dim bar lighting. Their eyes meet, one second, and then two, before Oikawa looks away, the wall suddenly very interesting.

“Congratulations on winning the gold.”

It’s a victory he still doesn’t feel quite deserving of; the mention of it has Oikawa’s heart stuttering in his chest. “Thanks,” he says, rather than unpacking all that with his ex-boyfriend.

“That was a good save during the fourth set. Reckless, but good.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, somewhere between fond and embarrassed. “I’m already paying for my recklessness, I don’t need you nagging me too.”

“Someone needs to, because I’m sure you’ve been taking great care of yourself. Not overworking at all.” Always so sarcastic. “Oh, the Olympics? No big deal. Let me be totally normal about this. I’d never internally freak out until my health starts to deteriorate. It’s seven o’clock? Good thing I’m showered and in bed instead of at the gym like a maniac.”

“As sharp-tongued as ever, Iwaizumi.”

“Am I wrong?”

“If you’re right, it means I haven’t changed much in eight years, have I?” Oikawa hums, resting his chin in his palm, elbow propped up on the table.

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow at him, pausing a moment before speaking again. “You have. The Oikawa Tooru that I knew would never say sorry first.”

Knew.

It’s true. A frown tugs at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Immature, as I said. I’m sorry,” Oikawa takes a drink, wishing it were something stronger. “That’s for all the times I should have said it and I didn’t.”

“Thank you, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi tilts his head ever so slightly, staring at him with those eyes, the ghost of a smile crossing his face and it's so warm and easy, a gentle thing.

They finish up their beers. It’s nearing 1:30, so they need to start leaving, but neither of them move. It feels lighter than when they first got there, and neither of them seem able to bring themselves to burst the bubble of calming silence that they have built. Oikawa is afraid that once he leaves, he’ll wake up back in his bed, left only with a dream to haunt him.

Despite only drinking two beers, there’s a soft flush to Iwaizumi’s skin that Oikawa is slowly becoming obsessed with. His eyes follow the flushed trail of his skin from his defined cheekbones that are littered with a light dusting of freckles, down the column of his neck, and further down the slope of his v-neck. Realizing what he’s doing, his eyes snap back up to Iwaizumi’s face.

“When do you leave Japan?”

“In two days. Or—well, tomorrow technically,” Oikawa checks the time on his phone.

Iwaizumi nods. “You should talk to your athletic trainer about a recovery plan. And take it seriously—you don’t want to end up needing surgery.”

“Alright, alright, Mom,” Oikawa puts his hands up in mock-surrender.

Finally, they both go to stand up. Oikawa winces at the pain in his knee, and Iwaizumi offers him a hand. For just a split second, Iwaizumi’s palm is warm and firm in his own. Iwaizumi places a steadying hand on Oikawa’s elbow, giving it a gentle squeeze. The action sends electricity radiating up his arm. 

Oikawa settles his tab and they both head out the door, side by side. A warm breeze combs through his hair, bangs getting in his eyes that Oikawa reaches up to push back. He fiddles with his phone, looking at Iwaizumi.

“I Ubered here. Y’know, this ‘n all,” he motions down to his leg. “We could ride back together, or…” he trails off, regretting the words as soon as they come out.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Might as well.”

Oikawa calls for the Uber, and they wait in silence. Oikawa wishes the stars were visible; it would give him something nice to focus on. Instead, he stares down at the cracks in the pavement. The fresh air is sobering, and the gravity of all that has happened in the past five hours has set in. Despite the two feet of space between them, Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s presence crawling over his skin. He feels a phantom brush of Iwaizumi’s arm against his own, and Oikawa reaches up to rub his own arm in a self-soothing manner.

The Uber comes quickly, and they both climb in, the middle seat of space left between them like an ocean between continents. The only sound is the quiet hum of the radio, too quiet for Oikawa to make out what’s playing, but loud enough to smooth over the awkwardness that bubbled up when they left the protective darkness of the bar. Oikawa’s fingers idly rub at his knee, prodding at one area until the pain gets too bad, and then switching to another spot and doing the same. Rinse and repeat.

It’s a short ride, and soon enough, they are back at the Olympic Village. Oikawa stands in front of his own building, brain fumbling over how to say goodbye. Iwaizumi doesn’t seem like he’s faring any better, as silent as he is.

Oikawa motions to the building behind him. “Well, my team’s staying here.”

Iwaizumi shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m—Japan is across the street.”

“Guess we should probably get some sleep then. I’ve got a busy day; last minute plans and stuff.”

Iwaizumi turns to cross the street, taking a few steps before turning back around. Oikawa watches him, making no move to go inside his own building. His breath catches when Iwaizumi hesitates.

“Take care,” he clears his throat, “of your knee. It shouldn’t be that bad, if you take care of it.”

Oikawa nods. “I will.”

Finally, the two separate, going into their respective buildings. Oikawa takes the elevator up to his room in a daze. Entering silently, as to not wake Mateo, Oikawa takes off his hoodie and climbs under the covers, pulling them up close to his chin. He curls up on his side, trying to process the last hour and a half.

His heart is racing as if he’s six espresso shots deep into a long morning; there’s no way he’s going to be able to fall asleep. He belatedly realizes that they didn’t do much talking about what they were supposed to, but at times the conversation had just felt so natural that Oikawa didn’t feel it necessary to drag it back to the topic at hand. That and, he still doesn’t know how to go about breaching the subject. How do they talk about what happened? About how they felt then and how they feel now? Is it weird that after drinking with him, and laughing with him, and drowning in spells of awkward silence with him, Oikawa wants to do it again? To talk, and joke, and experience the privilege that is friendship with Iwaizumi?

Eight years of pent up hurt and anger has dissipated into something far less substantial, and Oikawa wonders if it could’ve been this easy the whole time.

Mateo lets out a loud snore from the bed across the room.

***

Turns out their final day in Japan wasn’t productive in the slightest. Everyone spent most of the day relaxing in their own rooms, recovering from the adrenaline crash from the final game. Oikawa, for one, wasn’t upset about that outcome at all. When he peeled open his eyes, heavy with sleep and crusted at the corners, he knew there was no way he was getting out of bed.

At the airport, Oikawa picks out a few overly-expensive trinkets for his teammates back in Argentina. Mateo begs Félix to put a shirt in his carryon because his own is stuffed full from buying one too many souvenirs (but they’re for Isa!). Félix ignores him, shoving his earbuds in his ears.

Safe to say, Oikawa is very much looking forward to his week-long, post-Olympics staycation before he has to return back to practice (as much as he can with his injury—which isn’t a lot, but he has to go and sit through it anyway).

***

A month into being back in Argentina, and countless late night text conversations later, Oikawa paces around the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear and lip between his teeth, biting back a grin.

“Sounds like you had an exciting day,” Oikawa hums into the phone, leaning over to prop his elbow on the counter.

“You could put it that way; I wouldn’t,” Iwaizumi huffs on the other side of the line, drowsiness clear in his voice. It’s one in the afternoon for Oikawa, meaning it’s one in the morning for Iwaizumi. “I don’t know why I let Kuroo convince me to apply to be the Jackals’ athletic trainer—I see now why their last one left.”

Oikawa laughs, shaking his head fondly even though Iwaizumi can’t see it. “He retired, it’s not like he just up and left!”

“Atsumu and Bokuto are too much for one team.”

Mateo and Félix peak around the corner, eavesdropping. Mateo’s eyes widen and he looks at Félix excitedly, gripping his shoulders and shaking him. Félix wiggles free from his grip.

“Listen to the tone of his voice!” Mateo whispers badly. “He sounds so smitten!” Félix shushes him, making Mateo scowl. “Don’t you shush me!”

Oikawa peeks over at them, giving them a confused look, but his phone call never falters. He proceeds to tell Iwaizumi about his own morning.

“How do you know he’s smitten?” Félix whispers back properly. “He’s speaking Japanese, you can’t even understand him.”

Mateo ignores the question, causing Félix to roll his eyes. “Who do you think has our boy so smitten? What if it’s that tall, stoic beast from Team Japan!” He’s not even trying to be quiet now. “Did you see the eyes our Toto was giving him across the net?!”

Félix smacks his arm, nose scrunched. “His life isn’t your telenovela, Mateo!”

Oikawa mumbles an apology over the line, pulling the phone away from his ear and cupping the speaker with one hand. “Those eyes were if-looks-could-kill eyes, thank you very much.” He switches right back into Japanese as if nothing had happened, taking his phone call outside and leaving his two friends to continue speculating.

“Why would you wanna kill those biceps?!” Mateo calls after him, the only response he gets being the door closing.

***

Oikawa sits in the waiting room for physical therapy, good knee bouncing up and down anxiously. It’s his third session, but it still doesn’t get any easier. Waiting rooms have always been a source of anxiety for Oikawa—the anticipation of the unknown. Eventually, he’s led back to the little room where his physical therapist awaits.

The stretches are unpleasant, a sharp burn that makes him wonder if physical therapy is even worth it, but he sucks it up for the whole appointment. He’d rather experience the discomfort of physical therapy every day than lose volleyball forever by screwing his knee up even more.

His experience at the Olympics was really eye opening for him—being on top of the world one moment and nearly having everything he worked for ripped away the next moment. And he still can’t shake the feeling that he let his team down. His tendency toward self-destructive behavior may have gotten out of hand.

“Alright, now straighten out your leg and flex your ankle for me,” his PT coaches him at his side. “Is that as far as you can straighten it? That’s alright, hold it there for a moment. You’re doing great.”

Oikawa lets out a soft sigh, eyes closed and brows knitted together. The healing process has been slow going, but at least it’s going. He still has a few more years of playing professionally left in him, he would hate to give it up early due to an injury. He’s going to make these last few years count.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he retires; for most of his professional career, he has avoided thinking about the end, but as he gets older, he’s forced to face these things. Perhaps he’ll go into coaching—that could be fun. Helping others discover a love of volleyball. He could do sports commentary, but that feels too hands-off for him; he needs to stay connected to the court in some way or another.

A wince cuts him out of his thoughts, followed by a hushed apology from his PT.

***

It’s midnight and Oikawa is tucked away in his bed, head resting on his soft pillow. He and Iwaizumi are video chatting, though Oikawa doesn’t have the energy left in him to keep his phone propped up (thanks early morning practice that he couldn’t even do anything at except sit there!). His phone rests on the blanket beside him, meaning Oikawa can still see Iwaizumi (whenever his tired eyes are open, but the drowsiness keeps pulling them shut), but Iwaizumi only has a nice view of his ceiling.

“—kawa? Oikawa? Are you asleep?” Iwaizumi huffs into the speaker, a palpable lack of venom behind it.

“Hmm?” Oikawa hums, eyes blinking open, pulled away from the warm embrace of slumber. “No.” Still curled up on his side, Oikawa reaches over to prop his phone up with one hand, bringing himself into view of the camera. The blanket is pulled up to his chin, he has one hand tucked under his face, and his eyes are closer to closed than they are open at this point. Iwaizumi is grainy on the screen, thousands of miles and a poor internet connection separating them.

Silence washes over them as Oikawa’s eyes flutter shut again. After a few moments, Oikawa speaks again, voice feather-soft, and Iwaizumi could have missed it if he wasn’t paying such close attention to him. “It’s sad that we missed eight years of each other’s lives.”

Iwaizumi, always bad with words, says, “It happens,” which earns a lazy chuckle from Oikawa.

“It shouldn’t have. Not to us. We were best friends; we grew up together.”

“We were still friends longer than we haven’t been,” and oh, perhaps Iwaizumi isn’t always so bad with words after all. A rosy blush paints Oikawa’s cheeks, and he pulls the blanket up further, a choked noise catching in the back of his throat.

“And we’re friends again now?”

Peeking through his eyelashes at the screen, Oikawa can see Iwaizumi nod. “We’re friends again now.”

***

“We’re staging an intervention—or maybe a coup, not sure yet,” Mateo announces as Oikawa makes his way into the kitchen for a cup of coffee one early morning.

Félix is decidedly not staging anything, a piece of toast with jam in one hand, while he scrolls through some news website on his phone with the other. Mateo, however, always uses the royal we when it comes to him and Félix, so it really doesn’t matter what Félix is doing at all.

Oikawa groans low in his throat, trying to hide behind his mug of coffee, inwardly hoping that Mateo’s antics don’t take very long.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from us for far too long, and we would like answers now: who is the mystery man that has stitched up our Toto’s broken heart after all these years?”

Félix, who loves playing uninterested, removes an earbud from one ear. He might not be staging anything, as Mateo put it, but he’s not going to pass up free gossip either.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Mateo,” Oikawa pats him gently on the shoulder, much like a sports-obsessed father whose son just lost his little league game; comforting, but with an air of disappointment. “There’s no secret boyfriend, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Mateo pats his lips with his pointer finger, mock-thinking, very inquisitive. “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

“We hear you speaking in Japanese late at night; obviously you’re talking to someone from Japan. They must be special if you put up with this time difference for them,” Félix finally butts in—it was only a matter of time (perhaps Mateo has a reason to use the royal we).

Oikawa scrunches his nose. “And if it was my mother? She lives in Japan, you know.”

“Please tell me you don’t speak to your mother that giddily!” Mateo pulls a face at him.

“Cross my heart and hope to die, there is no secret boyfriend. Just talking to…an old friend. I lived in Japan for my whole life, in case you forgot,” Oikawa raises an accusatory eyebrow at Mateo. “I made a friend or two in my day.”

Mateo hums, unconvinced. “I’m keeping my eye on you.”

***

“Ta-da!” Oikawa sing-songs, motioning to his knee as if he were motioning to door number three on a game show. “Doc gave me the all clear to begin, and I quote, ‘light practice’ again.”

The teammates he’s closest to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, pressing warm kisses to his cheeks and temples.

“I don’t know, Tooru, Beni has been giving you a run for your money, and he’s less mouthy,” their captain tosses a welcoming arm over his shoulders. The club’s newest teammate, Benício, fresh out of high school and still baby-faced, gives Oikawa a shy look, shaking his head in disagreement.

“Just been practicing my sets, is all,” he mumbles, eyes laser-focused on the gym floor. “Nicolás has been filling in for games.”

Oikawa smiles at him, something warm and familiar taking root in his chest. So young, with his whole career in front of him. Oikawa remembers being that way. And he’s interested in setting! Oh, Oikawa can shape him into the perfect monster!

“Well practice is a good thing—Nico and I need someone to entrust our team to one day! Your friend Tooru is going to teach you everything, that way you can carry on my glorious legacy! They’ll call you el gran príncipe! Tooru Oikawa’s little apprentice—“

“—and my name will be written in neon signs, and I’ll get a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame!” Félix finishes his daydream for him. “Is my setter going to come set for me now?” he pouts, and how can Oikawa resist?

He’s missed volleyball, that’s for sure. The ball bounces off his flexed hands and into Félix’s awaiting palm with pinpoint precision, and it’s like riding a bike—you never forget how. He sets again and again, for nearly every player on the team, relishing the feeling of being back in action on the court.

Coach calls for him to take a break, so he pauses his setting to help Benício practice his receives. Despite being on the team for over a month now, Beni is still timid, looking always on the edge of flight and freeze. It’s endearing. Oikawa remembers being in his shoes, the new player. Timid, though not for the same reasons. Benício is timid, perhaps because he didn’t get much play time during high school, or perhaps because he didn’t get enough recognition for his work. Oikawa was never shy about his skills, but the new environment was terrifying.

“That was great, Beni!” Oikawa cheers, passing him a water bottle. “Our team is going to be in great hands!”

Benício frowns, accepting the water bottle gratefully. Sweat drips off his brow. “Don’t talk like you’re leaving so soon. I’m just a kid, I can’t replace you.”

Oikawa grins at him as an older brother would while teasing his younger sibling. “Accept your fate, kid! You’re doomed to carry on my legacy! I’ve got at least one more Olympics in me, so you have until then to hone your skills.”

***

The breeze is warm on Oikawa’s skin, gentle like his mother’s hands while bandaging up scraped knees from makeshift volleyball games played on driveway pavement. Oikawa kicks around a pebble outside the sharehouse, desperate to get away from the prying ears of his teammates. His phone is pressed to his ear, face more grin than anything else.

“I’ve been training him up. I’m going to make a real star out of this one, I can feel it.”

“The Oikawa Tooru is okay with the idea of someone outshining him on the court?” Iwaizumi fake gasps on the other side of the line. “Is this character development?”

“Have some faith in me!” Oikawa whines, kicking the pebble with too much force, sending it flying off the pavement and into the grass.

“Eight years and you decide to grow up on me. All this talk of training your juniors and retiring—were you abducted and replaced by an alien?”

Oikawa squawks at the accusation, so familiar. “Iwaizumi Hajime, you’re the worst!”

It was a mistake, of course, thinking he could evade Mateo’s incessant spying. The more Oikawa denies, the more Mateo snoops. It’s not like Oikawa feels he has anything to hide, but he knows Mateo, and he knows he’ll go berserk if he finds out that Oikawa has reconnected with his ex-boyfriend. Mateo and Oikawa are both prone to theatrics, it’s why they get along so well, but Oikawa doesn’t appreciate when those theatrics are used against him.

Mateo’s head peeks around the corner, wild look in his eyes. “Iwaizumi. Hajime?! Oh, Félix is going to love this!”

Oikawa’s head whips in his direction, a half-murderous, half-scandalized expression flooding over his face as Mateo takes off running into the building, calling Félix’s name at the top of his lungs and disturbing everyone’s peace in the process. Oikawa is after him in an instant, phone call shoved to the corners of his mind as he focuses on stopping Mateo. Their teammates watch them with a curious gaze before shrugging them off and continuing as normal.

During their pursuit, Mateo bumps into a side table, nearly knocking over a vase of flowers that Isa had delivered a few days prior. The pause Mateo takes to steady them gives Oikawa the upper hand, catching up to him in no time.

“Yes, make the injured man chase you, why don’t you!” Oikawa huffs, reaching out to snatch Mateo up by the back of his shirt. Mateo crashes into him with a breathy ‘oof.’

“If you promise to be normal, I’ll let you go.” Oikawa has an arm wrapped around Mateo’s midsection, other hand still clutching his phone tightly.

Mateo nods to soothe him, but with perfect timing, Félix strolls in to see what the commotion is. “Toto has been talking to his ex!” He blurts out with a childish excitement, eyes gleaming. The arm wrapped around his middle shoots up to cover Mateo’s mouth; the leeway gives him the chance to wiggle out of his grasp.

Félix lets out a loud laugh, resting his arm on the doorframe to brace himself. His eyes are scrunched closed in pure glee. “This is great, oh this is perfect! Mateo, you need to mind your own business, but this is wonderful.”

A quiet noise cuts between them, and everyone’s eyes laser-focused on the phone clutched in Oikawa’s hands. The words are inaudible as the phone isn’t on speaker, but it’s enough to draw their attention. With lightning-quick reflexes, Mateo reaches out to snatch the phone from him, but Oikawa has known him long enough to expect this. He jerks his hand back even quicker, phone pressed back to his ear.

“—hello? Do I need to be worried?” Iwaizumi rambles on the other side of the line.

“Just—“ Oikawa grunts as Mateo tries to take the phone from him again, climbing all over him, “—fine! Everything is just fine!” 

“Hajime!” Mateo sing-songs, loud voice carrying through to the other side of the line. His face is pressed up close to Oikawa’s. “Are you and Toto dating again?” he asks, and then on second thought, switches over to his minimal English. “Dating?” he drags out the word.

Oikawa bats at him like a fly. “Shoo, you pest!” He can’t be too mad, however, because Iwaizumi laughs with his full chest on the other side of the line, unabashed and beautiful. It makes Oikawa laugh too, the silliness of the situation finally washing over him. It starts out as small, quiet little snickers, but it grows into a full fit of giggles.

“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full over there in Argentina,” Oikawa can hear the smile in his voice. “It must be payback for the years you spent getting on every one of my nerves.”

“Must be,” Oikawa hums in agreement, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile of his own.

Chapter Text

Oikawa slowly becomes aware of his surroundings again, coaxed out of slumber’s warm embrace. Sunlight peeks through the blinds, warming the exposed skin in its path. He lets out a quiet, content hum when he feels soft kisses pressed to his temple. They make their way lower, trailing down his cheekbone, then to the soft plushness of his cheek, and finally to the tip of his nose which scrunches at the contact.

“It’s three in the afternoon, Tooru, aren’t you going to get up?”

It’s been one year since the Olympics, and Oikawa can’t believe how things have changed. Months flew by with his rekindled friendship with Iwaizumi, and Oikawa would have been content with just that, but the universe had more in store for them. Somewhere along the way, they began to trade soft I love you’s during phone calls that they dreaded the end of.

“Your mom will kill us if we don’t make it by for dinner today.”

Reluctantly, Oikawa’s eyes creak open, and he’s met with the sight of Iwaizumi’s face pressed to his own, noses brushing together in closeness. Iwaizumi smiles at the sight of Oikawa’s brown eyes, reaching a hand up to cup his jaw and run a gentle thumb over his cheek.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Iwaizumi presses a quick peck to the corner of his mouth, innocence and gentleness in its purest form. “How’d you sleep?”

“Why’d I schedule such a last minute flight?” Oikawa groans into the pillow, pulling the blankets up higher and cocooning himself with their warmth.

“You had a game, baby.”

“Ugh!”

Iwaizumi sneaks a hand into his hair, combing out Oikawa’s messy bed head with practiced fingers, separating the knots in his hair. Oikawa loses himself in the comfort, eyes slipping shut again. Iwaizumi allows it, indulging him a little. His hand slips down to cradle the back of Oikawa’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

“We could cancel on your mom and stay in bed all day, but something tells me she’s already started prepping your birthday dinner and wouldn’t be too pleased.”

“Ugh!” Oikawa repeats, just to be dramatic.

“C’mon, idiot, let’s go get ready. I’ll even wash your hair for you.” No more baby, then. Oikawa can only get so lucky.

That offer perks Oikawa up, sly grin tugging at his lips. “Happy birthday to me!”

Iwaizumi pinches his cheek in faux-annoyance before slipping out of bed and peeling off his blue sweatshirt (which has Oikawa printed on the back in large letters), leaving Oikawa to trail helplessly behind him like a lost puppy.

***

“Happy birthday!” comes the loud cheer as Oikawa opens the front door to his mother’s house. His eyes widen when he sees all his old friends crowded in the living room, most of them from Seijoh, some of them not. Tears well in his eyes when he’s pulled into a tight hug by Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Like a sixth sense, he can feel Iwaizumi’s presence behind him moments before a gentle hand rubs up and down his back soothingly.

“Make way for the birthday boy’s mother, won’t you?” Iwaizumi scolds the two of them. They let go, and Oikawa’s mother cuts through the crowd, watery smile on her lips.

Oikawa pulls her small frame to his own, arms wrapped around her lithe shoulders.

“My son,” she mumbles into his shoulder, pressing small kisses into the collar of his shirt. She pulls her face back to look into his eyes, small hand cupping his face. “My baby.” It’s so fond; Oikawa’s heart swells in his chest.

Movement on the other side of the room catches Oikawa’s eye, and he looks over to find his nephew, Takeru, leaning against the wall, one arm crossed over the other to hold his elbow. He’s so grown now, Oikawa can’t believe it. He kisses the top of his mother’s head before making his way over, Takeru’s smile growing as he approaches.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Tooru.”

Oikawa reaches out to ruffle his hair, which has grown long over the years, tied back in a loose bun at the base of his neck.

Oikawa flutters around the party, conversing and catching up. Iwaizumi is never more than a few steps behind him, his hand in Oikawa’s more often than not. It feels so good, to feel this loved. Oikawa laughs and smiles until the muscles in his jaw start to ache, and he keeps smiling after that. His exhaustion has faded away, fueled by the energy of everyone around him.

Hinata and Kageyama stop by at some point to say a quick hello. Hinata drops off a card signed by the entirety of the Black Jackals (even the ones he’s never met), and Kageyama leaves a gift bag with a shirt that says ‘eat. sleep. volleyball. repeat.’. Knowing Kageyama, it’s probably not a gag gift.

He’s 28 now, so it’s not like he has many presents to open, but when Oikawa makes his way into the kitchen to escape for a moment of peace and quiet, Iwaizumi presses a small box into his hands.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow at him. “What’s this?” He stares down at the little red ribbon that’s tied around the box.

“Happy birthday,” is the only explanation he offers.

Butterflies flood his stomach in nervous anticipation. He wasn’t expecting anything, not really. A week and a half off of practice to spend with Iwaizumi is gift enough. He peels back the ribbon and opens the box.

Inside is a shiny silver key and a card embossed with the number ‘204.’

Oikawa’s bottom lip trembles. “Your apartment number.”

Iwaizumi nods, caressing his arm with a gentle up and down motion. He presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Just—for when you’re in town.”

Box dropped onto the counter, Oikawa pulls him in for a kiss by the collar of his shirt. Sparks fly between them, and Iwaizumi snags a hand around his waist, thumb pressing into his rib. Oikawa’s hands loosen the grip on his collar, and he slides them back to lock behind Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Oikawa pulls back for a breath of air before Iwaizumi is leaning forward, chasing after his lips.

He lifts Oikawa up and sits him down on the counter, box getting pushed to the side as he slots himself between Oikawa’s legs.

“I love you,” Oikawa laughs into his lips, tangling a hand in Iwaizumi’s short hair. “I’ve missed you.”

Iwaizumi grins, pressing one final kiss to his lips before pulling away. “I’ve missed you too.”