Chapter Text
In his dreams, he is playing for Japan. He is wearing the red of his home country with pride, the number one on his back. Chancing a glance at the stands, he spots his old teammates with flags on their cheeks and smiles on their faces. The arena in Tokyo is sold out, the crowd deafening as their team prepares to win Olympic gold. Across the net, he sees blue. They get ready to serve, the whistle blows, and the ball is in the air.
The match begins.
Oikawa Tooru is eighteen years old when he first sets foot in a country he is planning to make his temporary home. Buenos Aires is every bit as overwhelming as he expected it to be. He is faced with a language he does not understand, a culture he does not know, and friends he has not made yet. He realises, as he crosses the airport as fast as he can, that he never really knew what it meant to be alone. He could not have known, not until he was gripped with the feeling of overwhelming loneliness as he heaved for breath next to the main gates of the airport. For a second, he asks himself whether he had made a mistake coming here, but that thought evaporates the moment he feels a hand gently land on his shoulder.
Opening his eyes, he sees José Blanco smiling down at him.
“Hey,” his voice is soft in a way that puts Oikawa at ease immediately, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine, I’m-” Oikawa hurries to say, rising from his hunched over position. Blanco quirks an eyebrow at his tone and his look alone is reason enough for Oikawa to stop talking. Of course he was not fine, he had been keeled over on the sidewalk of Buenos Aires airport just seconds ago. He takes a deep breath. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Another smile, “I know you can. It’s a long drive to San Juan.” The hand on his shoulder moves towards his back, gently steering him towards the car parked on the sidewalk. It is only when he is safely seated in the passenger seat that Oikawa remembers to turn his phone back on and is promptly bombarded with messages. He foregoes the rule the mf court (65 new messages) group chat notification and moves immediately to iwa (1 new message).
iwa [14:52]
have you landed yet?
oikawa [15:29]
aww iwa-chan, miss me already?
Before he even manages to quit the app, there is another ping, alerting him to a new message. Oikawa throws back his head in laughter after seeing Iwaizumi’s response.
iwa [15:29]
dumbass.
iwa [15:29]
are you in the car already? hope you’ve at least bought something to eat so you don’t starve like a moron
In his earlier panic, he had not, in fact, thought to buy anything to eat. But that is not something that Iwaizumi needs to know. Sending out his response, he is greeted by new messages almost immediately.
oikawa [15:31]
i am!! we’re getting food on the road later, so stop worrying, mom, and please go to bed
iwa [15:31]
fuck u
iwa [15:31]
call me when you arrive in san juan
iwa [15:31]
and of course i miss you, asshole
Soft smile playing on his lips, Oikawa leans back in his seat. He rests his hands in his lap, thumb slowly gliding over the screen of his phone. The weight he felt on his chest ever since he had arrived in Argentina disappeared the moment he had seen Iwaizumi’s name appear on his screen and Oikawa is finally free to turn his attention to the country in which he will spend the next few years.
“Alright?” Blanco asks when he notices Oikawa looking out of the window.
Argentina is stretching out before him, an opportunity, a challenge. He is reminded of his losses, his insecurities, his disappointments; sees them form a tall, tall wall blocking his path to success. He takes a deep breath and knows he is going to shatter it.
“Yeah.”
He spends his first two hours in his new apartment on the phone with Iwaizumi. And the next two curled up next to his bed, crying. He had forgotten to change his phone background and it was only when he hung up the phone and was greeted by the smiling faces of Seijoh’s third years that he realised.
He tells himself not to worry about it as he stares at the people he loves on his phone screen. Don’t worry about it, as he makes his way to his first practise with his new team. Don’t worry about it, he repeats over and over again, as he is greeted by teammates whose language he does not speak.
Later, José Blanco tells him that he will not be part of the starting lineup. Which is fine, Oikawa knew that he would have to earn his place on the court. Yet, he still feels off kilter standing next to the bench, watching his team play. His coach has not allowed him to join in yet, ordering him to rest after his flight. Anxiety is gnawing at him and he digs his fingers into his arms to keep them from shaking. It is only a few minutes later that his coach approaches him again, a jersey in his hands. He hums.
“You are on the bench, for now,” Coach Blanco says, “will that stop you?”
With a deep breath, he stretches out his hands and takes the jersey. His fingers almost seem tan against its bright blue fabric and he grips it just a bit tighter as he sees his own name stare back at him. He chances another look at the court, watches the setter toss the ball high into the air, his team’s ace jumps, hits it perfectly past the blockers, only to be thwarted at the very end by their libero’s hand sliding between the ball and the floor. Oikawa watches them play, wills himself to pull all his broken pieces back together, and grins.
Bring it.
Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. He practises until sweat pours off him in waves and his muscles burn, until his tongue is blistering and the Spanish is flowing out of his mouth without his permission. He learns about his teammates until he knows more about them than he knows about himself. Two weeks into his time in San Juan, his neighbours stop him in the hallway with a plate of homemade empanadas and invite him in for maté, telling him in broken English that they will cheer for him for representing their city. He thanks them in Spanish and bows a full ninety degrees.
In his dreams, his opponents’ serve flies like a canon to their side of the net. He sees the ball fall, his feet momentarily frozen as it slowly descends through the air. He forces himself into movement, arms stretching out before him to keep it from hitting the floor at the very last second.
He wakes up before he can.
x
Iwaizumi Hajime is nineteen years old when he is sitting in the stands at a UCI volleyball match, silently cheering for his university team. The sounds of sneakers dragging across the wooden floor, the ball being spiked onto the ground, the screams that follow particularly valiant saves are a well known melody and Iwaizumi lets himself sink into the familiar atmosphere. It is not a frequent occurrence to see him play these days. He thought about trying out for the team as a wing spiker at the beginning of his first semester. But something had felt off every time he stepped foot on the court. He suspected the jerseys at first, then the unfamiliarity of the American way of playing. It was only after he watched the captain tell his team to do a good job at the beginning of one of the earlier games that it clicked. And of course, it was all Oikawa.
The unyielding faith that his best friend had in him, on and off the court, was what had been missing. The way that each of his tosses felt like receiving a piece of his heart on a silver platter. I believe in you, score for me. Even on their last night together in Japan, when they were gazing at the stars and doomed themselves with the feelings that spilt out of their mouths, Oikawa had framed Iwaizumi’s face with his hands and whispered, “You can do it. I have faith in you, Hajime.”
After that, Iwaizumi could not stop thinking about it whenever he thought of playing. He resolved not to join the team a few weeks later. Oikawa had taken one look at him and had known immediately, so Iwaizumi did not bother to lie about his reasons. What had been new was the strange glint in Oikawa’s eyes as he continued to observe him through the screen, the moment of silence that would have been filled with teasing comfort during high school. Oikawa had watched, and his tone once he spoke had been unusually tender, “Iwa-chan, I want you to be happy.”
Now, Iwaizumi watches as the UCI team celebrates its victory and enters the locker room. For a moment, he lingers, eyes trailing over the empty court, then turns to take the stairs on his right. Apparently, he has been slower than he thought, and is met by one of the newer players leaning on the railing at the end of the stairwell. He is icing his knee and Iwaizumi’s mouth opens without his permission. "You weren’t wearing a knee brace during the match.”
The boy jerks away from the railing and then winces, clearly having expected all of the spectators to have left already. Looking up, he squints at Iwaizumi, who is still standing on the stairs. “What?”
“You were doing crazy jump serves throughout the whole match,” Iwaizumi continues, clearing his throat to stop the dumbass that almost followed, “wearing a knee brace for additional support would be beneficial and lessen the pain from the strain. Not to mention prevent an injury.”
The boy looks at him for another moment and then a smile slowly begins to form on his face. “You doing sports medicine?”
“Sports science, actually.”
“Knew it,” the player scoffs, “our athletic trainer keeps telling me the same thing. If a random student manages to figure it out after seeing one match I might as well go for it.”
The locker room doors open and the other players come filing out, some of them calling out greetings to Iwaizumi when they recognise him. The boy looks at him one more time, “Thanks.”
“Happy to help.”
As the boy turns to his teammates, Iwaizumi remembers that that particular player had been wearing the number four on his back during the match.
He watches him leave.
The next morning he is accosted at the door by his roommate, David, after his morning run. The words beach and beer are thrown out and an hour later, Iwaizumi is sitting in David’s car for a day trip to a beach 20 minutes from Irvine. When they arrive, he sends a selfie to the Seijoh group chat and can’t help but grin at Oikawa’s Unfair, Iwa-chan!!!.
After an hour of lounging in the sun and discussing the probability of various sci-fi scenarios, with Iwaizumi attempting to translate David’s slang into a language he understands, they are approached by two men carrying a volleyball.
“Hey! You guys play beach?”
It seems like fate, Iwaizumi thinks. And maybe that is the only reason he agrees. It might also be the chattering of his opponents, rapid Spanish as they pass the ball between themselves whilst Iwaizumi and David take some time to warm up. After a few minutes, they stand on the court and Iwaizumi positions his feet, muscles tightening. His opponents get ready to serve, the ball flies over the net, and Iwaizumi moves to the side to dig and promptly faceplants into the sand.
“Bro,” David yells out, “I thought you used to play!”
“Shut up,” Iwaizumi spits the sand out of his mouth, “It’s completely different on sand!”
His opponents are laughing and when one of them comes over to retrieve the ball, he offers Iwaizumi a hand. “You’re gonna quit, pretty boy?”
Iwaizumi lets himself be pulled up, dusts the sand off his body, and grins. “Hell, no.”
He digs the next serve, and the next, and the next, and by the time he falls back into the sand after a failed jump, he lies down and laughs until his sides burn. They lose the match and the one after, but Iwaizumi’s cheeks hurt by the end of it. As they lie in the sun afterwards, he cannot help but feel giddy. Just for a moment, he had forgotten how much fun it was to play.
The moment he catches his breath, he is already reaching for his phone and pulling up his chat with Oikawa. He hesitates just a second and then dismisses his insecurities and begins typing.
iwa [16:32]
just played beach volleyball
It is half past nine in Argentina and Iwaizumi is surprised by the dots that immediately appear in the chat. They disappear and reemerge a few times until the message reveals itself.
oikawa [16:34]
I hope you had fun, Iwa-chan!! Tell me all about it during our call tomorrow, okay? <3
iwa [16:35]
yeah, I will. It was really nice.
oikawa [16:35]
I’m glad
oikawa [16:42]
you can stop feeling guilty now, hajime
Iwaizumi sits up, eyes glued to the screen. It feels like an eternity before he lets himself fall back again, laughing. Trust Oikawa to understand him better than he does even when they are nearly nine thousand kilometers apart. Trust his best friend to comfort him even after what Iwaizumi had done. He wonders why this feels like missing home.
x
It is hard. To climb the ladder through sheer willpower alone. It is unbearingly hard, Oikawa finds. At the beginning, he falls more than he rises. The distance between each step only seems to grow the further he goes and more often than not, reaching the next one means jumping without knowing whether he will make it. Most of all, the seamless connection that existed with his teammates at Seijoh is hard to forge against a barrier made out of differing languages and this, in particular, becomes an ever present ache.
At one match, he is brought on as a pinch server. The moment he enters the court and sees his teammates’ backs turned to him, all of his anxiety evaporates. It might have been the calmest he has ever felt since moving to Argentina. He scores four service aces and wins the set.
Volleyball is a hard, unyielding teacher. But all the love he pours into it pays off the moment he is about to board the plane to Buenos Aires with his team for his first match as their starting setter. His Spanish is not yet great but his teammates speak slowly, occasionally explaining phrases he does not know and ruffling his hair afterwards when they pass him in the aisle. He has just sat down when he watches his libero charm the lady next to him into switching seats. Once she agrees, he wastes no time to throw his upper body onto Oikawa’s lap.
“Toto!” he exclaims, lowering his voice into a mock whisper only after being shushed by their captain, who is sitting right behind them, “I’m so glad to be playing with you tomorrow.”
Oikawa takes a moment to look into the distance with a haughty expression. “Of course you are, Mateo, I am excellent at what I do.”
They both laugh and Mateo straightens himself back up to put on his seatbelt. “I’ll remember you said that when Buenos Aires receives your serve tomorrow.”
San Juan’s 1,71 meters tall libero, Mateo Martínez, is a terror on the court, reading spikers as if they were a particularly good book. His presence alone manages to make their opponents nervous and Oikawa thinks that his invitation to the Argentinian national team has really been no surprise. On Oikawa’s first day, Mateo had taken one look at him and promptly named himself his personal San Juan guide, taking him to every bar in the city. After two weeks, he had seen Oikawa’s alien phone case, screamed, and invited himself into Oikawa’s apartment after practice with his collection of niche space movies. He then proceeded to introduce Oikawa to his grandmother with the words “Everyone needs an abuelita nearby, Toto, you can borrow mine.” Needless to say, he was the first person in Argentina Oikawa considered a friend.
Said friend has been in the process of nearly unhinging his jaw to eat a particularly large apple when he turns to Oikawa with wide eyes. “Ish yo Wa cmghghh co visz gich shuma?”
“Mateo, I know you love talking to me, but please swallow before you do.”
Swallowing, Mateo takes a big gulp out of his water bottle, before trying again. “Is your Iwa-chan coming to visit this summer?”
“No,” Oikawa sighs, “Iwa-chan’s gotten an internship with Ushiwaka’s dad, so he’ll be working all summer. It’s a pity, I was looking forward to seeing him.”
“Wait,” Mateo narrows his eyes, “Ushiwaka’s the one we don’t like, right?”
“We absolutely do not like Ushiwaka. However,” he pauses and pouts in fake annoyance, “Iwa gets a pass because he’s just too nice. One day, when he’s the medical professional of some pro league team, he will start cheering for the opposing side just because they seem friendly.”
“I hope that opposing team is mine,” Mateo laughs, “We are very friendly here in Argentina.”
Stopping himself, Mateo reaches for his bag and proceeds to pull out his tablet.
“Speaking of,” he says as he plugs in his earphones, “As I will be forcing you to watch all of Argentina’s football matches during the Rio Olympics, you better know some of our cheers, ah, wait, here.”
Vamos Argentina, sabés que yo te quiero proceeds to blast through the headphones and they spend a couple minutes going through the lyrics.
“Che,” Mateo interjects as he pauses their second Messi dribbling compilation, “you’re not planning on going back to Japan next season, right?”
Oikawa’s knee jerks and he nearly drops the water bottle lying on his lap. “What? No, why would you think that?”
“Well, our middle blocker is leaving for Germany and I just thought..” he trails off and they sit in an awkward silence for a few seconds, before Mateo begins to pout. “Well, don’t go home yet, okay? We need to play together a little longer and then when you make it onto the national team, we reunite at the next Olympics and I’ll console you after Japan’s loss, alright?”
Oikawa does not quite know why that thought lies heavy in his stomach. It might be because his lack of invitation for the 2016 selection still brings about a bitter taste in his mouth. He swallows it down and imagines Mateo laughing as he receives Kageyama’s serve in Rio, the thought brings a smile to his face.
“We both know,” he starts, a teasing lilt to his words “that I will be leaving my first Olympics with a gold medal, so no consoling necessary.”
The next day, Oikawa is sitting on the bench in their locker room just one hour before their match is supposed to begin. He is pulling up his knee brace when his phone pings, indicating a new message. However, before he can read what has been sent, he catches his reflection in his phone screen.
He stills.
This moment is not new. Sitting in a locker room in Argentina whilst wearing a jersey from the CA San Juan volleyball club. But time seems to stretch as he realises that it is this uniform that he will be wearing in his first match as starting setter in a pro volleyball league. The blue begins to swim before his eyes, the shades merging, for a moment the air shimmers in teal. His heart constricts as he longs for the person who has been by his side for all of his firsts so far. Lost in his thoughts, the blue of his jersey blends into the wall, white stripes climbing down his chest. Another ping of his phone shakes him out of his revery as he blinks and proceeds to check his messages.
When he does, he laughs for a full minute.
yahaba has changed the group name to CA san juan fanclub
yahaba [18:04]
CRUSH THEM OIKAWA-SAN
iwa [18:06]
yahaba please calm down
makki [18:09]
no let him speak
mattsun [18:10]
please keep me in business oikawa
watachi [18:11]
do your best, oikawa-san!
A giddy smile makes its way onto his face, as he devises a reply consisting only of blue heart emojis. There might be many things he could regret, joining Seijoh was not one of them. Just as he is about to lock his phone and start concentrating on the match, he receives another message in a private chat.
iwa [18:15]
kick their asses
oikawa [18:15]
i will.
iwa [18:16]
<3
Feelings have always been treacherous companions, Oikawa thinks. Attached to a person, they are dangerous. A lethal combination, to feel the serenity this person could evoke and, at the same time, remember the last moment in which they were still united, when Iwaizumi had taken Oikawa’s heart and-
“Oi, Toto! You’re gonna be on the phone the whole time?”
Oikawa’s head jerks back up to see the rest of his team trail into the locker room. Letting his phone fall back into his bag, he stands and joins his captain next to the door.
“There he is! Our star setter!” His captain says before slinging an arm around Tooru’s shoulders. “If you flup your first serve, you’re paying for the first victory drink later.”
“Hey! Not fair!” Oikawa whines, affronted, “I’m the youngest, you shouldn’t make me buy anything.”
“The first two drinks.”
“Hey!”
Then, as if time has accelerated beyond what was possible, Oikawa is standing on the court. Taking a deep breath, he lets himself fall into a receiving stance. Even without averting his eyes from the opponent's side, he can feel the overwhelming support all around him. The cheering fans, his teammates, his coach’s proud smile, his friends who thought of him all fuel him. In this instance, he stops reminiscing about his insecurities or doubts and starts concentrating on the win. He imagines gaining the championship with this team, clad in azure with the number seventeen on his back, thinks of meeting all those who have not believed in him and making them eat their words. The whistle blows.
Buenos Aires is serving, and their setter takes a deep breath whilst the seconds tick down.
The arena loses all noise.
He opens his eyes.
The ball flies.
He jumps.
Serve.
Like a canon, Oikawa thinks, as he watches the ball soar over his head. He does not turn back and instead, looks up. Mateo laughs during the receive, taking the vicious power of a serve and turning it into something victorious. The ball arches over the field as it calls Oikawa’s name. The moment it glides over his head, it stops, and falls. It takes only a few seconds for a ball to reach a setter’s hands. But for Oikawa, seconds turn into a lifetime. For a moment, he is back in Miyagi. His spikers jump and his number four jumps alongside them. His tosses have always been strong, able to bring out the best in each player. But it has always been Hajime who brought out the best in him. It’s time, he thinks, that he did that by himself.
The ball falls into his hands and it is with gentleness that he brings it back up. This is for you, it seems to say and his number fourteen slams it onto the other side of the court. Buenos Aires manages to save it, but the ball flies right back over the net. It seems to hover there for a moment, and Oikawa jumps to toss. He sees their blockers lying in wait, like vultures, observing his every move and waiting to strike. The ace, again? This time to the right? Oikawa’s form changes in the last moment and he spikes the ball onto the floor.
First point, CA San Juan.
Oikawa does not end up having to buy drinks for his teammates. In fact, the moment Oikawa walks into the bar for their victory celebration, his captain hands him a fernet con coca for his first service ace as a starting player. He has long gotten used to the affection that colours Argentina, but it still leaves his skin tingling to be greeted by the kisses that are pressed to his cheeks. They have dinner there, huddled into their own little corner. Oikawa feels the joy build behind his ribcage when Blanco’s hand falls onto his shoulder with pride.
A few hours later, Oikawa finds himself back in his hotel room. He lets himself fall into his bed, exhausted. Just before sleep claims him, his blaring ringtone makes him sit up with a jolt. Rolling over the bed, he grabs the bag that he had thrown to the side and hurries to find his ringing phone. He squints to read the name on the screen, but his eyes blur and he resigns himself to find out who is calling him the old fashioned way.
“Yeah?” he croaks.
His question is met with a chorus of OIKAWA-SANs and a particularly loud Turn on your video, dumbass and he feels instantly awake.
“There he is!” Matsukawa drawls after Oikawa finds the button for the video chat and strategically positions his phone against the second pillow on his bed.
“I told you guys he’d be exhausted.”
“When has that ever stopped us, Iwaizumi?”
Iwaizumi scoffs. He is sitting on his desk and the fading sunlight from the window next to it catches on his face, illuminating it in a way that makes Oikawa lose his breath.
Oh, he thinks as he feels his heart stutter in his chest, it’s still there. He has known, of course, that Iwaizumi developed a tan in California, that his shoulders have become broader than in high school, his cheekbones more defined, his hair longer. But it has been different before, coloured by the memories of the boy who has been his ever since they were born and whom he had lost when he left home. Now, as he watches the same boyish smile that has always eclipsed the stars bloom on a face that is slowly growing into that of a man’s, he is reminded of Iwaizumi’s words from so long ago. The stillness of a solstice as the stars fell to his feet and the command echoed around him. I want you to stop loving me, Tooru.
An overwhelming amount of sadness grows in his chest and his understanding transforms into a longing that cannot be sated, a cliff of which he knows he cannot jump. Ah, what misery, to love something unattainable.
Iwaizumi’s smile turns wistful, fondness colouring his gaze as he turns his head a fraction to the right. Their eyes meet and Oikawa knows without a doubt that Iwaizumi has come to the same conclusion as he has. Even now, nine thousand and eight hundred kilometers apart, they are in perfect harmony.
He is pulled back to their conversation when the words ‘stream’ and ‘match’ leave a very enthusiastic Yahaba.
“Wait,” he interrupts, tiredly rubbing at his eye, “you guys watched my match?”
“Yahaba spent about two hours finding a stream and then another two forcing all of us into this video chat to watch it.” Hanamaki replies with a grin.
“That’s not true.” Yahaba interjects, “Iwaizumi-san had already found a stream himself, so I didn’t force him into anything.”
Oikawa turns his face into his pillow, trying to smother the giggles that threaten to break out of his chest. His heart feels like it is overflowing.
After a few minutes of mindless chatter and discussions about the match, Oikawa’s eyes grow heavy yet again. Chunks of conversation are missed as his head bops forward against his wishes. Through the haze, he hears the others laugh.
“Alright, I think that’s it.” Matsukawa says, smile fond. “I think our grand king values sleep more than he does his team.”
“Tha’ s no’ true,” Oikawa replies, convincingly managing to keep his eyes open for approximately three seconds.
“Let’s get going. We’ll talk soon, Oikawa.” Hanamaki pauses for a moment before slyly looking between two people on his screen. “We’ll just pretend Iwaizumi is disconnecting, too, instead of staying a little longer to watch you fall asleep.”
Iwaizumi says nothing, only taking a moment to provocatively raise a single eyebrow. Hanamaki cackles and disconnects.
“Oikawa-san,” Yahaba interjects, “when you’re back, you’re teaching me that one handed toss you did in the third set, alright? That was pretty cool.”
Oikawa hums and the next time he opens his eyes, Iwaizumi and him are alone.
“Don’t force yourself to stay up, dumbass.”
“Mean,” Oikawa slurs, “why ‘re always so mean, iwa-ch’n?”
“You’re a sadist, you wouldn’t listen to me if I were nice.”
“‘ou could try.” Oikawa insists, voice muffled against the pillow.
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi breathes. Oikawa forces himself awake to squint at the screen. Iwaizumi’s head is leaning on his hand, a tender smile dancing around his lips. The softness that has seeped into his features holds a feeling that makes Oikawa’s heart constrict. He squeezes his eyes shut before the tears can fall and waits for Iwaizumi to speak.
“You should really go to sleep.”
“Haji,” Oikawa mumbles, heart racing in his chest, “D’n’t leave.”
“I won’t. I’m not leaving.”
A brief silence follows, filled with a strange sort of energy, indicating that Iwaizumi was waiting to speak further, mulling the words over in his head. It has always been like this between them, even as children. When a four year old Tooru reached into the distance, it was Hajime who understood what it was that he craved.
“When we’re both back in Japan,” Iwaizumi cuts himself off. Oikawa can picture the pinched look on his face, the worry straining his jaw. He swears he can hear a whisper carry the word Tooru towards him.
“When we’re both back in Japan, we can..” he trails off.
“Yeah,” Oikawa murmurs, “when we’re both back in Japan.”
He falls asleep to Iwaizumi’s breaths on the other side of the line.
In his dreams, his team receives the serve, barely. It sails across the air into his waiting arms. His ace jumps into the air, the number ten on his back. Oikawa looks up, but can’t see the ball. His movements are not his own and his fingers tense without his permission. The melody surrounding the play is unfamiliar, like a conductor directing his limbs into a dissonant chord. Their quick succeeds.
First point, Japan.
Oikawa Tooru is twenty-one years old when he hits a wall. It has been three years since he first arrived in Argentina and until now his journey had felt like a steady climb on a rocky mountain. There is frustration brimming under his skin, resisting the constant reminder that he has enough time to get better, to succeed, to reach his goals. He knows, technically, that he has not mastered all the skills that he could master, that he has not reached the end of the road he had chosen to take. But it is hard not to despair when he sees the boy that has once stood behind him run ahead and wear the jersey that he has so desperately craved his entire life.
His life is at a stillstand. And the universe is waiting for him to make a move in a game to which he does not know the rules. Oikawa grits his teeth and goes in for another serve.
In the end, it goes like this: He travels to Brazil, they place third in the Campeonato Sudamericano; it feels like a demand to improve. Afterwards, he is standing at the beach in Rio de Janeiro when the universe becomes tired of waiting and physically throws a clue his way.
“How is this even a thing?”
Hinata Shoyo is standing at a beach in Brazil, just as shocked as him. Maybe it is fate that he would be the first person from Japan to carve out a place in Oikawa’s life in South America. Perhaps, Oikawa should feel threatened. Another rival in a scene that he has claimed as his own. But all he can see is a kindred spirit, someone who has taken the same step, is following the same path that no one else did. Except for them, Oikawa Tooru and Hinata Shoyo, on a beach in Rio.
Hinata’s face turns from shocked to absolutely delighted in record speed and Oikawa can’t help but reflect the delight in turn. “Great Ki- I mean Oikawa-san! Why’re you here?”
“Uh,” Oikawa replies, “that’s my question, thanks. Don’t steal it.”
“Me? I came to train on the beach!”
Once again, Oikawa is reminded of himself. That moment in Japan when he told his mother of his decision to move across the world. I want to play volleyball. She had called him brave; Had said that there was too much of herself in him, a stubbornness to free himself from the conformity of others. Now, looking at Hinata, he does not feel brave. In San Juan, he has his teammates, his mentor, his neighbours, his abuelita, and the familiarity of a wooden court that has been with him all his life. In Rio, Hinata has nothing.
Still, it is with pride that he says his next words. “I’m playing in the Argentine league right now.”
Hinata asks him to play, but Oikawa has always preferred to observe first. So he asks him to dinner instead.
“Show me where the good places are around here.” He says with a smile.
“Ooh!” Hinata’s eyes grow wide with anticipation. “I know one that’s really good and really cheap! It’s got healthy food too!”
“Sounds good, sounds good. Let’s go. Senpai’s treat.”
Hinata flails and Oikawa laughs.
Dinner turns out to be a trip down memory lane in a multitude of ways. Mostly, it makes Oikawa realise that he has been avoiding looking at the past in fear of falling into old patterns. Now, he thinks back to that one moment he fell in love with volleyball. The whole world opened up before him as he watched José Blanco step onto the court. The setter’s hands strong, yet gentle, as they coaxed his team to reach newfound heights. I want that too, Oikawa had thought all those years ago, I want to make others bloom.
Occasionally, Oikawa realises, you must turn back. Look behind yourself, to feel pride at the distance you have already travelled. You might find mistakes, as Oikawa knows most of all, but even they have brought you to where you are now. The journey is, after all, just as much a goal as the destination.
“So Blanco was coaching the Tachibana Red Falcons?” Hinata asks, shoving salad into his mouth. “They’re a really strong team now! Beat the Adlers for the championship the last time, I think.”
“Well,” Oikawa drawls, “he’s coaching Club Atlético San Juan now. And we’re the strongest team in the Argentinian league. He moved up.”
“Uaah!” Hinata exclaims, throwing his face into his hands, “That’s so cool! You’re so cool, Oikawa-san!”
“Damn right, I am,” Oikawa laughs. “So, how long are you staying, Shorty?”
“Two years! And then I’ll be playing in the V-League, you’ll see!” Hinata grins. “And you?”
Oikawa makes an inquisitive noise whilst swallowing his food.
“When are you coming back to Japan?”
Taking a slow sip of his drink, Oikawa contemplates his next words. When we’re both back in Japan echoes within his mind. He hums as he places his glass back onto the table.
“I don’t know. There’s still a lot that I want to do here. Either way,” he says, leveling Hinata with a heavy look, “the stage I will one day play on hasn’t changed one bit.”
There is a quiet understanding between them. Those two, attempting to escape Crete with makeshift wings constructed solely out of their hard-won tenacity.
“One day,” Hinata’s voice is grave, but a grin dances around his lips, “we will play on the international stage together.”
A look is shared, full of determination and stubbornness. Fundamentally different, and yet the same. The moment is broken by Hinata’s widening grin.
“Let’s play volleyball together!”
It’s a disaster.
Beach is a whole different monster. Oikawa’s feet sink into the sand and restrict his movements, the wind makes his serve useless. In a game about connecting with your teammates, he has to adjust to having only one partner. It is not a surprise that they end up losing bitterly in their first match against the Buy-me-beer Brothers. But it makes Oikawa think. He is standing on this makeshift court and hears the beach present a challenge.
“I don’t mind leveling up,” he hears Hinata say, “That feeling of becoming able to do something, it’s fun, no matter how many times I fail.”
Oikawa watches as he fails. His toss flies up too early, the wind steals his precision, his feet stick to the sand. He catalogues his mistakes and thinks.
I don’t mind leveling up.
He has always preferred to observe first. No matter how impulsive he might seem, he has always known that his true strength lay in his perceptiveness. In middle school, this strength had been wasted as his insecurities, doubts, and anxiety clouded his judgement. But once his vision had been cleared, he honed and perfected it; Had seen the world and how it saw him, sometimes to his own detriment. Now, he watches as the beach rages and steals the control he has so carefully cultivated and lets his mind spin.
I don’t mind leveling up.
So, it goes like this: A rematch the next day. Gabriel goes up to serve. Unlike yesterday, Hinata manages to receive it perfectly, learning from his mistake in the last match. The ball flies across the court and calls Oikawa’s name. He raises his hands.
His stance in the sand.
The blocker behind him.
The height of the jump.
The direction of the wind.
He tosses and the success blooms at his fingertips.
Oikawa had forgotten. He doesn’t know how, but he had. In his quest of aiming for the peak, he has gotten used to the hardships and difficulties. He has stopped looking back in fear of losing sight of the road ahead. Occasionally, he muses, you have to turn back, not only for your accomplishments, but for the moments that make it all worth it. The moments that draw you in. And it is those moments that will remind you, that volleyball is fun.
He laughs and hits the sand, dusts himself off as he stands, accepts the challenge and challenges right back. Even without averting his eyes from their opponent’s side, he can feel Shoyo next to him. The blowing wind, the sea, the people cheering on the sidelines fuel him and he stops reminiscing about hardships and difficulties. He laughs and thinks, this is fun.
Next to him, Shoyo raises a fist. “Este é o grande rei!”
Another play, another opportunity.
“On the beach it’s just the two of us,” he says, “so that means a whole lot more chances to touch the ball. It’d be a total waste if we didn’t try new stuff!”
“Oikawa-san!” Shoyo squeaks out in surprise, “You really are the best!”
“I know, right?” Oikawa laughs and let’s his feelings flow for the first time in three years.
It is not a surprise that they win.
Oikawa Tooru is twenty-one years old when he shatters a wall after being inspired by Hinata Shoyo. The next steps are far on the horizon, out of reach for a single jump. But the limits of his own abilities lie even further, a distance that even Oikawa cannot perceive. So, he looks ahead with a grin.
The Brazilian sun smiles down on him as he takes his leave, bidding Shoyo farewell. Oikawa watches him bow in gratefulness and smiles in return. His heart races in his chest and the universe waits in anticipation. Unknowingly, he chooses the finishing move.
“I’m going to beat everyone. Be ready!”
At the airport, Mateo greets him with a hug. “Hey, Toto! How did you find Rio this time around?”
“It was great. But right now, I’m just..” Oikawa trails off, thinks of colourful walls, laughing neighbours, and an affectionate grandmother, “I’m happy to be going home.”
In his dreams, he yells out in Spanish as the ball flies over the net. The match is brutal, neither side giving an inch. It goes on for so long that his vision blurs. His tosses reach players that he cannot recognise, his spikes are blocked by opponents without a face. He turns back and sees the hill by his house in Miyagi and a boy who averts his gaze, forever out of reach. And yet, Oikawa feels at peace. He is no longer wearing red.
The whistle blows for the fifth set.
Back in San Juan, life goes on. Maybe it feels grander than it did before, or maybe it is the opposite. A state in which time does not register, in which unfamiliar streets turn into shortcuts, new faces turn old; Moments that felt polished, that evoked memories from a different time, no longer make an impression. It is simply that, life. There is something eternally peaceful, Oikawa thinks, about a life that has settled beyond uncertainty.
Like sitting by a small table on abuelita’s balcony and drinking maté every Saturday; listening to her tell stories about her life in Argentina, her husband, her grandson. Today, he arrives to a ¡Totito! ¡Ahí estás! before she welcomes him inside, taking the groceries he bought for her with a kiss. She hurries into the kitchen and puts him to work. An alfajor rogel, she says, to celebrate their win in the last Campeonato Mundial. Shoulder to shoulder, they bake, laugh, and talk.
When he leaves, he takes the boxes of food she had prepared before he arrived with a laugh. Eres un atleta, Totito, she says with mock disapproval. He hugs her close and thinks of his mother.
“Che,” Oikawa says as he is pulling on his shoes, “Sofia introduced me as your nieto the last time I met her and her granddaughter at the shop.”
“Having people believe you’re mine makes for a much better impression. You’re so much more handsome than Mateo, after all.”
Oikawa is still giggling as he leaves the building and starts walking the streets of San Juan. The city is bathed in brilliant summer sunlight, framing the scenery in colourful hues. It is the kind of warmth that flows right to the core and Oikawa takes a moment to bask in its heat. Children run past him with laughter and music sweeps through the streets. A woman at a fruit stall waves at him and he squats down to greet her son when the boy comes running into his arms.
It is one of those days that cradles a thriving city and lulls its inhabitants into fleeting happiness.
San Juan is known as the Land of the Sun. Oikawa googled it in his first week of arriving in the city, eager to soak up all knowledge about his new home. San Juan, just as Argentina, is a rising sun surrounded by a crown of laurel. Quite fitting, Oikawa thinks as the sunlight warms his face, to be in a city in which victory is accompanied by the sun breaking through the clouds.
Halfway to his apartment, Oikawa gets a call. A quick look at the caller ID is met with a double take, before he hurriedly moves his phone to his ear.
“Iwa-chan,” he says, “it’s five in the morning in Cali, what are y-”
“I booked my flights.”
The words take a moment to register, but when they do, Oikawa stops abruptly in the middle of the street. “To Argentina?”
“To Mendoza,” Iwaizumi confirms. “You mentioned your schedule yesterday and I thought before I go back to Japan permanently, I should make the time to come visit you, finally.”
Silence follows and is only broken by Iwaizumi clearing his throat on the other side of the line.
“I can still cancel, if it doesn’t work for you. They’re for February.”
Iwaizumi’s voice sounds hesitant, tinted with something Oikawa cannot identify. February, he thinks, four months away.
“No, I’m sorry,” Oikawa says, the smile evident in his voice, “you just surprised me. Who books tickets in the middle of the night, Iwa-chan. I know I told you to stop using your head so much, but you have to do it occasionally.”
“Shut up,” Iwaizumi interjects with a laugh, “I was excited when I realised that it’d work.”
They spent the rest of the time mapping out Iwaizumi’s visit in February and speaking idly about their plans for the day, or rather with Oikawa bragging about his invitation to asado at Coach Blanco’s house. Arriving at his apartment, he leans against his door, smile still on his face. “I’m really excited for February, Iwa-chan.”
“Me too.”
“So,” Oikawa says, drawing out the word tentatively, “talk to you later?”
“Stop asking stupid questions.” Iwaizumi replies and Oikawa can hear the slight grin in his words. “And yes, call me when you’re back from Blanco’s place.”
When he enters, his cat greets him at the door and he takes a moment to bend down and press a kiss onto its head, before stowing away abuelita’s boxes in his kitchen. There is a strange energy flowing through his veins, as if he were electrified and languid at the same time. With the goal of quelling the tingling in his fingertips, he grabs the canister from below the sink and opens the balcony doors to water his plants. The breeze is a welcome reprieve and Oikawa leans against the railing, eyes unseeing.
This will be the first time Iwaizumi and Oikawa would see each other again after that night in Japan. How would it feel, to see him exist in the place that he has made his new home. Oikawa wonders whether he is hoping for him to fit, like a missing piece to a puzzle, or whether it was a secret desire for Iwaizumi to remain separate from his life in Argentina, so that his absence could not turn into an ache. Would Oikawa see him here, illuminated by the Argentinian sun and be powerless in the face of his feelings? Step closer and kiss him — just as he had done five years ago on that hill in Miyagi? Would Iwaizumi step away, just as he did then?
Their lives have always been matching shades of blue; what would he do, if the colours they had grown to be were discordant?
He spends the rest of the day imprisoned by his thoughts as he watches the sun slowly move across the horizon. Only when the bright yellow turns amber does he allow the thoughts to disappear with the wind as he makes his way to meet José Blanco.
The offer for a joint dinner had come suddenly. It is not an unfamiliar sight to see these two together, but Blanco had been on an unscheduled trip to Buenos Aires for the week and called Oikawa yesterday whilst still in the city. It had seemed urgent in a way, and Oikawa suspects another sponsorship offer.
When he arrives, he is ushered in by Blanco’s husband and led into their garden, where the food is already on the grill. They fuss over him for a moment, pulling him into tight hugs and ruffling his hair. The breeze is light and the air warm, and they enjoy themselves with mindless chatter, food, and drinks. Oikawa teases his mentor for the beer he brings his star player, but hugs it close when Blanco offers to let him drink water the whole evening. After a while, Blanco’s husband excuses himself with a heavy look, and Oikawa knows that the reasons for his visit will soon reveal themselves.
“You didn’t use my absence to squeeze in extra training, did you, Tooru?”
“No!” Oikawa squeaks, “I didn’t, I promise!”
Blanco laughs, the sound booming through the air as he gives Oikawa a fond look. “You probably know that this isn’t only supposed to be a social visit,” he starts, “I will tell the team on Monday, but I thought I could take this moment to speak to you in private.”
Blanco takes a sip of his beer and levels him with an indescribable look before he continues. “The reason for my trip to Buenos Aires was that I have been contacted by the Argentine Volleyball Federation. They have asked me to become the head coach for the Argentinian national team.”
The beer shoots straight up Oikawa’s nose and forces him into a coughing fit. He feels his heart squeeze tight in his chest.
“José,” he croaks out, still trying to find his bearings, “that’s amazing. Please tell me you agreed.”
“Of course, I did. I can’t leave Mateo unsupervised,” Blanco laughs.
It takes another moment for Oikawa’s throat to calm down and he gratefully takes the water Blanco has opted to get in the meantime. As his mentor sits back down, he gives Oikawa another contemplative look, his fingers tapping out a beat on the table.
“You know,” he begins, “I was your age when I made the national team as a player.”
He pauses for a moment, lost in thought. Oikawa’s fingers twitch. “Many things in my life have not gone the way I expected them to. Which was good, in the end. You don’t have to hold onto your expectations. Sometimes, it’s a different path that leads you to where you need to be.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Oikawa asks, suspicious.
“When I was in Buenos Aires, I was approached by a representative of the Argentine Olympic committee.” Blanco says and leans forward. “They want to offer you an Argentinian citizenship.”
And all is static.
Argentina wants you to represent them internationally, Tooru.
Tokyo qualifiers are in 2019, so you have a little time to make your decision.
I know that this is a very big decision and it’s yours to make. I don’t want you to feel pressured.
Hours later, he is sitting at his kitchen table with documents upon documents laid out before him. Cradling his cat to his chest, he stares at the COA logo printed on top of the pages, followed by the Federación del Voleibol Argentino and the crest of the Argentinian government. It feels like a dream. Like someone has reached into his head and crafted a world for him alone, laying out his goals on a silver platter. Like the child that he used to be, sitting in front of the brightly lit screen and watching as athletes leave with gold hanging around their necks, he is now sitting in wide-eyed wonder. Back then, he had gripped onto the hand lying next to his, turned to the other boy and said “That’s where we’ll be, one day.” Now, he buries his head in fur and lets the tears fall. His phone remains in his bag, untouched.
Oikawa Tooru is twenty-three years old when a door opens and a hand beckons him forward.
A Japanese national is assumed to have renounced their nationality upon naturalization in any foreign country, is what he reads on the internet. Oikawa feels entirely too young to be making such monumental decisions about his own life. But maybe that was hypocritical. He had, after all, moved to another continent when he was just out of high school, just to play volleyball; had foregone university despite his excellent grades, had left behind family and friends to chase his dreams. He had been the one to choose the direction of his path. Would this feel like a loss? Like a shortcut? What would his friends, his rivals, his country think of him?
Oikawa is tempted to ask.
“I’m missing my morning run for this, you two better appreciate it.”
“We appreciate you, captain.” Hanamaki and Matsukawa drone simultaneously, tone mischievous. Their camera is tilted slightly to one side, positioned to fit both of them into the frame. They are lounging on the couch in Matsukawa’s apartment in Miyagi, Hanamaki’s legs slung over Matsukawa’s lap. On TV, the japanese commentators introduce the players for the first match of the season.
“Shoyo is trying out for that team next year,” Oikawa opts to say, yawn breaking through halfway into the sentence.
“The Jackals? Thought he’d want to play with his setter again, to be honest.”
“Don’t even know why he’s coming back to Japan,” Hanamaki drawls, making two heads whip around to face him. “The Brazilian league is one of the strongest in the world, right? Wouldn’t getting in a team there be much more impressive?”
Oikawa feels the words hit him like a freight train. He must’ve been out for longer than he thought because when he tunes back to the match, Hanamaki and Matsukawa are stealing concerned glances at him.
“We’re waking Iwaizumi up for the next match,” Hanamaki says tentatively, “At this point, I’m gonna start introducing him as Iwaizumi Hajime, 23, sleeping.”
“Are you really one to talk, Hanamaki Takahiro, 22, unemployed?”
“As you know, Issei, I am just here to sit on your couch and look pretty,” he replies, smiling cheekily.
“Oh, I know, Hiro.”
A fond smile plays against Oikawa’s lips. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he contemplates what time has done to them. Five years since he has last been in Japan; five years since he has last seen his best friends in person. Despite thinking they would grow apart, Makki and Mattsun have proved him wrong. From the very beginning, they held onto him with iron fists and he has gripped back just the same. It hits him then, that he misses them terribly.
“Now, now,” Oikawa says, “let’s not forget who the prettiest person in this friend group is.”
“Iwaizumi.”
“Hey!”
“Oh,” Hanamaki drawls, body falling back onto the couch dramatically, “to gently rest your head on Oikawa’s bulging chest muscles.”
All three fall back into easy laughter, briefly concentrating on the match as it begins.
“You should come visit me here in San Juan,” Oikawa begins during a timeout, “Iwa-chan is coming in February, too.”
“Iwaizumi is coming to visit you?” Matsukawa asks and exchanges a brief look with Hanamaki, “Is that a good idea?”
“Of course. Iwa-chan and I have never been apart for so long. It’s about time.” Oikawa takes a few moments to think his next steps over, now or never. “Actually, can I talk to you about something?”
He watches both men straighten up and give their full attention to his face on their laptop screen, as if they had been waiting for him to ask.
“If you,” he cuts himself off, chewing on his lip. “Do you think you should pursue your dreams, even if it means losing something else important to you?”
“I think you should do what makes you happy, ultimately,” Matsukawa’s voice is serious, his brows furrowed, “You’re the only person who can determine whether that loss is worth it, in the end. And if it is, why not go for it?”
“You might fail. Is it still worth it, then?”
“If you get back up and keep going, sure. But you know that already, Oikawa.”
Agreeing with a heavy nod, Hanamaki continues, “Whatever you’re thinking of doing - do you think it’ll make you happy, ‘Kawa?”
“Yes,” Oikawa says, without hesitation.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
Fear, he thinks. A decision that will determine the entirety of his life is one not easily made. He is, most of all, afraid.
“If this is about us,” Matsukawa begins. Trust him to figure out Oikawa’s biggest worry in only a few moments. “you know you can’t get rid of us that easily. We’ve sworn to torment you until you die, ‘Kawa, so don’t worry about that.”
A tentative smile breaks through the frown on his face and Oikawa lets himself breathe. He should have known that the loyalty he has shown to them has always been given in kind. But the questions still torment him. How does he know whether it is the right decision? Is it still worth it, if it is based solely on his own selfish desire to be happy?
The answer comes to him, perhaps poetically, in Brazil. It seems that he is incapable of making decisions without longing for the horizon.
The match against ASAS São Paulo had been particularly hard, frustration mingling with determination after their loss. Oikawa’s fingers burn against the glass of his drink. The bar to which they have been invited is entirely too crowded and his mind too far away to truly enjoy the experience. His teammates had reluctantly agreed to his request to be left alone and he watches them mingle, occasionally shooting concerned glances his way.
He has been toying with the idea, lately. Weighing the pros and cons of making an irreversible choice. Walking the path that has been presented to him is an unfamiliarity that he is not sure he can get used to. All his life, he has dragged himself forward with his bare hands, watching others stride by. Now, his dreams have transformed from an insurmountable abyss into an open door waiting for him to walk through. Oikawa has never been one to hesitate with things that he wanted, but this time, his feet seem glued to the floor.
His daydreaming is put to an end by a hand placing another drink onto the table before him and a woman sliding into the seat across from his. For a moment, he tenses up, not in the mood to put his truly atrocious Portuguese to the test. Then, he is met by Spanish, and the familiarity of that language is staggering. He feels a grin slide onto his face involuntarily as the woman, Macarena, explains that she is Argentinian and that she decided to come talk to him the moment she noticed his San Juan shirt.
It is a welcome reprieve; Spanish flowing freely as they jokingly complain about the quality of Brazilian food and the music playing in the bar. A careless comment about his profession spirals the conversation into a new direction. Oikawa spends the next minutes enthusiastically explaining the structure of the South American Club Championships.
“So,” Macarena says and leans into him, a coy smile on her face, “you’re going to play for our national team some time soon?”
And isn't that the question.
“Well,” Oikawa laughs, “that’s very flattering, but I am Japanese.”
For a moment, he is overcome with a paralyzing feeling of grief. A simple statement of truth should not be able to evoke that kind of reaction, but it does. He has long outgrown his homesickness with the sound of his friends’ laughter and the Spanish music blasting from his neighbours’ flat. Oikawa does not like being surprised by his own emotions.
But it is here that the answer to his long standing question finally reveals itself.
“Wait, really?” Macarena nearly shrieks, looking at him with wide eyes. “I was absolutely convinced that you were Argentinian. Never would’ve guessed, that’s crazy.”
“Well, I’m just that amazing,” Oikawa laughs, hand coming to rest on his neck as he paints a charming grin to his lips. “I’ve been here for so many years now, it does feel like home.”
“Do you miss it?”
A serve, flying over the net with a force that could shatter his arms.
“Miss what?” He feigns ignorance. His hands are shaking.
“Your actual home.”
Oikawa’s fingers twitch against his glass. Slowly, he raises it against his lips and takes a deliberately long sip from his drink. He has always been perceptive. Perhaps, most of all of himself and his own shortcomings. He remembers a time in which he needed Hajime to pull him along and make sure that his head caught up with his heart. They have always been each other’s anchor in that way. But there is something to be said about feelings that manage to elude him now. He knows himself well enough to understand that they do because he allows them to. It might be time to stop stalling.
Swallowing his drink, he gently places the glass back onto the table.
“Not as much as I expected. Argentina is a wonderful country after all, isn’t it?”
“That sounds like you don’t regret moving here, which definitely warrants another drink!”
Oikawa has never done anything half-heartedly. Regret is not something that brings him forward, which is why he has always refused to even entertain the thought. But here, now, he thinks of Hanamaki and the fundamental question that has been haunting him ever since those words have left his friend’s mouth.
Then what’s stopping you? Is it the fear that he might regret his decision after all? That he will look back at his life with disappointment? No, he thinks, if he ever encounters regret, he’ll be sure to laugh at its face for even trying to tempt him.
In the end, it is a quiet realisation. And it comes in a dream.
A service toss, flying above him. Oikawa sees the ball fall, but his feet are frozen as it slowly descends through the air. He forces himself into movement, legs sticking to the floor as he steps towards the serving line. Then, he looks up. The sun breaks through the clouds, light flooding the court and framing it in shining colours. San Juan takes him into its arms and he sees the boy that he loves in front of him. You’ll live chasing volleyball your whole life without being perfectly content, he hears him say, but keep moving forward without hesitation. It is the first time he sees clearly.
Oikawa jumps.
Match point, Argentina.