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Sometimes Iwaizumi forgets.
Some days he wakes up curled up against the empty half of the bed.
He'll lay out breakfast for two, the other coffee with too many sugars because even if he despises it that way, Tooru could down it in one gulp.
He hesitates when people ride in the shotgun seat because for as long as he's had a car that seat's always been taken; he'll buy too much of one type of snack; of beer; of detergent. He finds a lunch place around the corner from uni and moves to text Oikawa about how nice it seems, tells him they should eat there some time soon, that he'd love it.
And then he'll remember, and for the rest of the day he walks around thinking about how he can't turn to his side, knowing Oikawa will be right there with him.
(California is nice enough; the sun is always high in the sky, and the people he can get along with quite easily, and he’s learning far more than he could’ve if he’d stayed in Tokyo.
But on the days he isn’t busy Iwaizumi spends his time by the ocean. He watches the waves refuse to leave the shoreline no matter how many times they’re sent away –– the way they announce themselves with a resounding crash ––
and he misses him.)
––––
“Good morning, Iwa-chan!”
The sound of a phone ringing evaporates and gives way to the boy in messy morning glory, brown hair mussed from sleep; Oikawa’s greeting is brimming with affection, and at the same time so subtle only Hajime could catch it, even with the occasionally awful signal taken into consideration.
“Did you sleep well?” is the first question that rolls of Iwaizumi’s tongue –– forever concern, forever the one looking after the other. It’s Oikawa’s role to roll his eyes now, to click his tongue in faux disappointment.
“Rude, Iwa-chan! Aren’t you going to say hello?” Tooru whines; from his window, Hajime can make out the Argentinian sun, beating brightly against the confines of small apartment, and he can only offer a sigh in response as he rolls his eyes.
(The time difference between Irvine, California, and San Juan, Argentina is four hours.
Iwaizumi wakes up early every morning for a run around campus –– is what he tells Oikawa, because if the other finds out that he’s waking up at ungodly hours just to call him he’d never hear the end of it.)
“Hi, dumbass.” he decides on, all too familiar with the way Oikawa’s satisfied smile causes turbulence to his heart.
“How was your run?” Tooru asks, almost on cue, and Iwaizumi shrugs his shoulders; it’s not hard to look tired at ass o’clock, after all.
“S’fine.” he answers, stretching slightly (Oikawa’s always taught him to put on a performance). “Got some, uh, extra miles in –– training later?”
Oikawa shakes his head, and with a hum picks his phone up in a sudden movement; Iwaizumi finds himself miraculously transported to kitchen counter, where a cup of coffee (with several, several sugars involved, he suspects) awaits him. He takes note of the apartment, which is fairly similar to how it had looked when Oikawa had first given him a virtual tour; above the kitchen counter is a blue and white pennant from their high school, next to an open closet with several sweaters that are a familiar mix of his and his, and Iwaizumi is reminded of home (with the other on the other side of the phone, it’s generally inevitable).
“It’s a rest day today!” Tooru announces cheerily; Hajime tries to hear past the initial choppiness that follows his shift in position, and narrows his eyes.
“Oi, Shittykawa; rest means rest .” He’s not used to having to berate him miles away (he doesn't think he ever will be –– maybe he fears the day he does), but there’s still a familiar unimpressed look on his face when his boyfriend balks at the command, as if personally offended. “You can’t overwork yourself now that––”
Now that I’m not there to remind you not to; now that I’m not there to drive you home .
The rest of the words remain lodged in his throat, unnerving, uncomfortable –– and almost like he senses it, Oikawa steps in. “I am resting, Iwa-chan.” and almost as if to prove his point, he points directly at the screen, winking. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
(The response is yet another eye roll on Hajime’s part, though he wonders if through the unclear video screen Tooru can make out the way the corners of his lips curl up in a small smile.)
In barely any time at all, Tooru launches into conversation over events that have transpired not nearly 24 hours ago; they’d both have more to say to each other if they didn’t call every day, they know, but the thought of missing his face for even one morning launches a sick, swooping sensation in Hajime’s stomach he’d rather not put to name, much less experience.
Iwaizumi’s caught on very quickly to how most of Oikawa’s days go –– between training and getting to know his brand new teammates, Tooru is just as much a walking social agenda as he’d been in high school (with the addition of Spanish classes now, which don’t really help when it comes to flirting if the other doesn’t know the language; they both realize this when Oikawa had texted Iwaizumi Me da morbo and gotten ??? in response).
In turn, Hajime’s days are filled with books and the occasional beach trip; he’ll tell Oikawa about Ushijima’s dad (who is a lot cooler than Ushijima is, so he’d appreciate it very much if Oikawa would stop being such a dick and making fun of his future boss) and his classmates and all the house parties they throw (he can feel Oikawa unsheath metaphorical claws whenever he speaks about a girl who’d offered him a drink, only to relax when he tells him he’d turned her down).
Some mornings are easier than others; Iwaizumi figures the more about their days they’re able to tell each other, the more the distance is rendered obsolete –– the more the comfortable silence they lapse into feels like the afternoons they’d spend side by side, Oikawa’s leg brushing up against his own, hands laced under the library table. This is what he knows; this is what he’s familiar with.
But there are the difficult days, too –– like when Oikawa’s visibly overworking himself despite Hajime warning him against it, like when Iwaizumi gets pulled into parties and doesn’t make it to movie dates in time, like when missed connections and misconnections get caught in the middle of words, exhausted and aching–– and this makes the distance all too palpable.
And as much as he longs to turn back time to a place when they were in each other’s arms, all he can settle on is that he is too tired to fight.
(There's a lot of unlearning done here now, too; how much of their lives have they spent side by side? How much of him has he poured into one person, both intentionally and otherwise; how does the ocean slip through his fingers, no matter how tight he wants to hold on?)
“... also, look what came for me today, Iwa-chan!”
And Hajime manages to break through his thoughts for just right of a second for the air to get knocked out of his lungs, because here Oikawa is in all his glory, donning a volleyball uniform that isn’t Seijoh blue, a number that isn’t 1, for a team that, for the first time ever, Iwaizumi isn’t a part of, too.
Oikawa is beautiful, and far away, and it breaks his heart.
(“I’m going to Argentina.”
Iwaizumi stops in his tracks; his legs begin to shake. “You’re–– what––”
“I’m going to learn from the best, and then play for the best.” Oikawa can barely meet his eyes. “I–– you’re the first person I’ve told, Iwa-chan.”
What does he say to that, then?
No.
You can’t.
Please––
Don’t go where I can’t follow you.
Somewhere along the lines, the words come out as “okay.”
And they will be, Hajime thinks, they
have
to be ––
he’s not going to be the reason Oikawa can’t fly.)
“You look––” and Hajime swallows thickly; hand flies to his eyes to wipe at the tears that have barely begun to sprout before he can continue on, words dislodged, voice hoarse, painful. “It looks good on you.”
The smile Oikawa wears falls fast, brows knit with worry, and Iwaizumi wants to scream at himself, because how dare he be this selfish? How dare he see the boy he loves finally take mount, and all he can focus on is how badly his heart aches?
“Iwa-chan …”
The tears fall before he can even stop himself, racking broad shoulders and strangling breath after breath before Hajime’s all but buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, “Tooru, fuck, I–– I’m sorry––”
(The night before Oikawa leaves, they go for a drive.
The stars light their way around Miyagi, and Iwaizumi looks over at Oikawa in the shotgun seat for what may be the last time, in a long time.
They had just finished packing up most of the contents of Tooru’s bedroom; from glow in the dark stars they’d tacked on themselves as kids to photographs old and new –– fair photo booth snapshots, class pictures, film pictures, old and grainy frames of mornings and nights they had shared with no one but each other ––
There was no corner of Iwaizumi’s life Oikawa had left unturned.)
“Hajime.”
It is so difficult, to be both surrounded by him and to also feel so alone; to not have arms wrap around him the way Oikawa’s would in a second, to ease the tremors of his frame and the rapt and violent betrayal of his heart.
“I’m here,” Oikawa whispers soothingly, quietly; tears begin to form at the corner of brown eyes, but he holds them back –– his will come another day. “It’s okay, Hajime, I’m here.”
And Hajime calms down, eventually; his breathing subsides, his shoulders steady, once he zeroes in on Oikawa’s voice –– allows the other to fully envelop him until he is defenseless, wiping his tears with the hem of his sweatshirt before he can fold into himself any further than he already had.
(Oikawa has always done this for him, without his realizing; this tugging him close, tugging him home.)
“Hey.” It’s a moment before Hajime can look up again, and once he does Tooru is closer to the screen than he’d been already; heart picks up once more when he sees the silver ring dangling from a chain around his neck, glinting in the sunlight.
(“I have something for you.”
They are in the airport now, amidst bustling passengers and flight announcements, and Iwaizumi pulls out a ring and Oikawa gasps. “Are you proposing to me, Iwa-chan?!”
Iwaizumi bristles on the spot, thumping Oikawa on the shoulder. “No, dumbass!” he barks out embarrassedly, cheeks reddening to an alarming degree before his voice drops lower. “It’s–– it’s a promise ring.” he explains, hoping he doesn’t look as lame as he feels. “I want you to have it.”
For a split second, all Tooru does is look at him, and Hajime fears this is it: the beginning of the end.
And then Oikawa leans in to kiss him, not too firm, not too gentle, but in a way that feels exact –– the way they have always been for each other, enough . Iwaizumi doesn’t even register the ring being taken from his hand and slipped onto the other’s finger, but when he pulls away he watches Tooru glance down at slender hands, then up at him once more with a smile.
“I love you, Iwa-chan.”)
“Hey.” Iwaizumi finally manages, and he puts his hand on the monitor, as if reaching out to have, to hold, and he stares at him.
Oikawa Tooru, the grand king, the ocean, the love of his life.
“Iwa-chan, I––”
“I know. Me, too.”
(There is aching in the distance; a yearning seemingly impossible to name, to match.
But then they have these mornings –– these beautiful, golden mornings –– and Oikawa tells Hajime he loves him, and he smiles, and Hajime thinks,
yes
;
they are worth every mile between them.
And Iwaizumi learns just how far his arms can stretch in an embrace, oceans and shores and sunsets apart.)