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In the spring, pink blossoms sprawl across the ground, bringing life and color to roads that were covered in snow only a few weeks prior. Sidewalks and street corners are bathed in warmth as far as the light can reach, and there, in the air, is that sense of beginnings anew –– that washing away of the old.
When Iwaizumi moves to California for his year abroad, he finds that the world continues to spin.
When he moves back to Miyagi after his year abroad without Oikawa by his side, he finds that the world continues to spin in spite of that, too.
( the things i’m about to tell you aren’t so you change what’s already on your mind )
––––
It takes a while for him to get used, again, to the feeling of being surrounded : the moment he steps past the arrivals gate his mother worries he’s gotten thinner, that he hasn’t been eating right. His clothes, he finds, are immediately tossed in the laundry, washed and dried and hanging out in their backyard like they’re medals of valor, a reminder to Hajime –– this is where I’ve been .
(There is a sweater with a NASA logo in the upper right corner that sways in the wind, a reminder to Hajime –– this is what I’ve lost .)
Reunions are inevitable, too, but Iwaizumi doesn’t particularly mind. Admittedly, he’d missed the familiarity that surrounds the small town he grew up in, the people even more so. He’s nearly nestled back into the swing of things when the Seijoh reunion rolls around; the split second it takes for Iwaizumi to translate what he means to say from what he thinks is no longer necessary, here, and words roll as quickly from his lips as they arrive (he supposes the combination of udon and rice wine helps, too).
Beside him, Matsukawa cracks a crooked smile at a convoluted joke Kindaichi’s particularly proud of. Watari is providing good-natured but also unprompted university advice to Kunimi, who to others would look very much like he was completely uninterested, but Hajime notes the way he looks at the other with quiet intrigue.
(He finds he’s gotten used to deciphering expressions, to reading minds, with all these years of practice.)
There’s a sense of comfort that envelops him here at this small corner udon restaurant, this little piece of rest, and even with how acutely aware he is of time moving forward, being around the boys he grew up with (save one) makes him want to freeze this moment, stay in it forever.
He’s in the middle of a very slightly drunken discussion with Hanamaki about a) whether or not he could still beat him at arm wrestling (which is, obviously, yes ), and b) if he became a secret member of 88rising while he lived in Los Angeles (which he wasn’t , because as he’s mentioned time and again he was in Irvine , and also no ), when he sees it:
Across him, Kyoutani and Yahaba are bickering, the way they always have. Iwaizumi doesn’t mean to watch them as intently as he does, but the moment he looks in their direction there’s a shift in their movements so subtle he just so happens to catch. He can tell the exact moment they start to hold hands under the table, because Kyoutani’s face, marked with a permanent scowl, is flushing far more than any amount of sake can justify. Yahaba’s ears begin to light up but he handles it far more seamlessly, and the satisfied grin on the setter’s face tells Iwaizumi he had been the one to initiate the hand holding in the first place.
No other team member pays them any mind; it’s a swift movement, meant to be hidden, after all. But Iwaizumi knows that trick all too well –– he’s had practice with it, too.
(“How long do you think it will take before Yahaba-chan and Mad Dog-chan figure out their issues?"
“Huh?” They’re walking home from a particularly tiring practice; the cold air is harsh against already calloused skin, shoulder tense in an attempt to keep himself warm.
Beside him, Oikawa smiles, amused. “Oh, Iwa-chan~ I knew you were dense before, but certainly not like this!” Iwaizumi scowls, punching him in the shoulder; there’s a slight satisfaction he gains from the yelp that emits.
“Don’t talk shit, Dumbasskawa.”
“I’m not!” Oikawa huffs; Iwaizumi sneaks a peek at the other through his peripheral to find that he is, in fact, not joking at all.
His eyebrows furrow. “You think they like each other?” to which Oikawa snorts.
“I think you’re going to get wrinkles early on from all your frowning, Iwa-chan.” he remarks, ignoring the glare sent his way altogether. “I know they do.”
He takes a pause then, to think back on all the interactions he’s seen between the setter and the spiker; the heated bickering, the scowls in disagreement –– the successful spikes. The lingering gazes. The way Yahaba’s knee had brushed against Kyoutani’s when they sat beside each other at a volleyball game; the way Kyoutani hadn’t pulled away.
Oh .
Oikawa hums, but not unkindly; Iwaizumi can tell the other boy figures out the exact second his own moment of realization comes. When they stop by a streetlamp waiting to cross the road, he repeats his initial question. “So how long?”
Iwaizumi thinks again. “Depends,” he finally answers. “When Yahaba gets his shit together, maybe.”
“ Yahaba-chan is the problem?” Oikawa bristles, as if personally offended. “What about when Mad Dog stops being so ––” he makes a wild, indecipherable gesture with his hands. “–– so Mad Dog-y?”
The frown returns to Hajime’s features. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, idiot, but Kyoutani can be pretty honest with his feelings.” he points out, failing to mention that said feelings don’t necessarily have to be, well, pleasant . “It’s Yahaba who has to figure out what he really wants, then.”
“You’re just biased towards your successor.” Oikawa sticks his tongue out at him, and Iwaizumi barks out a scoff. “Pot.” he jabs an index finger into Oikawa’s chest, before doing the same to his own. “Kettle.”
They share a laugh, then, and even here by the dimly lit street corner Iwaizumi can make out the corners of Oikawa’s smile, the mirth in his crescent moon eyes turning dark brown to amber alight.
“Point, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa concedes. “Hm … I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
The stoplight flashes green from across them, and as they cross the road Iwaizumi feels an immediate warmth when Oikawa’s hand takes his.
“Not everyone can be as lucky as us.”)
When the dinner ends and everyone goes their separate ways, Iwaizumi watches Kyoutani and Yahaba walk in the same direction, and there’s no hiding now when their hands fall together at each other’s side.
He turns and walks back to his house, nestling in his chest a revelation, a conversation that’ll never come.
( every moment is thoughts of you back when i saw you throw me a smile and that had me )
–––
No one told him the jet lag would be this bad.
The first few nights he goes without sleep Iwaizumi chalks up to unfamiliarity; obviously there are things he has to get used to again, and sleeping back in his childhood bedroom and not his tiny Irvine apartment is one of them.
But as the days go on, sleep continues to evade him, and Iwaizumi’s nights are spent tossing and turning and staring up at the ceiling, almost as if boring holes through them in an attempt to watch the sky.
Briefly, he wonders if he’s looking up at the same sky too, and suddenly his bed feels too wide –– like it’s made for two, like he’s occupying too much space without another.
He doesn’t get much sleep after that, either.
( it’s just that i keep thinking about all the melodies you made asleep at night )
(The night after their last high school match, Iwaizumi is wide awake.
This, he can blame on a mix of adrenaline and anxiety. When he closes his eyes he can still feel the volleyball brush against his finger pads, his palm. He can still see Oikawa pointing at him from near off the court; his ace; his Iwa-chan––!
The thoughts claw at him, forcing his eyes open to look at the wreckage.
What kind of ace am I?He sits up. On his side, Oikawa snores.
In Miyagi, it’s quiet. There’s the faint hum of the wind that floats through his window; the chirp of crickets into the night. If Iwaizumi tried hard enough he could pay acute attention to the slow, soothing breaths that fill Oikawa’s lungs and empty them in steady beats.
They are a mess, here, of tangled sheets and limbs, aching and in need of rest. It’s been a long road, leading here –– Iwaizumi means that in more ways than one. He traces the dip in Oikawa’s back with his gaze, the slender broadness of his shoulders, the light brown hair sprawled against ivory pillows, eyes fluttered shut in determined slumber.
In here, it’s quiet.
Briefly, Hajime wonders what comes next. He has a vague idea at most; mouths the word Argentina the way he’s done quite often these days when Oikawa isn’t looking, trying to get a feel of it on his tongue.
This is where he’s meant to go, Oikawa had told him, tenacity in his tone surprising even if he’s known it time and time again. I can feel it, Iwa-chan.
For the first time, Iwaizumi wondered what it’d be like to watch Oikawa sprint forward knowing full well he’d lag behind.
“Iwa-chan?”
The nickname comes out of Oikawa’s lips with a tired yawn; Iwaizumi starts –– he hadn’t noticed Oikawa had been awake.
“Tooru ... ?” Well –– half-awake , Iwaizumi deduces from the sight of him; there’s a slight bit of drool off the corner of his mouth that in other circumstances he may have photographed for typical ‘ making-fun-of-Oikawa ‘ purposes, but tonight Hajime can only look on, features softening.
“Mmfrgh.” Oikawa groans, words muffled with sleep; his hand, on the other hand, reaches for Iwaizumi’s waist, speaking for what his mouth could not.
Iwaizumi exhales, allowing himself the most tender of smiles.
He supposes, as he nestles back into bed with Oikawa’s arm slung across him, what comes next can wait a few more moments.In here, it’s beautiful.)
(
and with a tired yawn, you’d tell me that you loved me, i’ll be fine;
and that’s what got me through the day, alrigh
t )
––––
He jogs past Oikawa’s house every morning.
The combination of jet lag and nostalgia continues to weigh him down, but Iwaizumi forces himself to keep up routine anyway, no matter how difficult; he makes his usual route around his old neighborhood, catching glimpses of every street corner he grew up in, and reminisces.
This is the shortcut he’d take walking home from volleyball practice, he thinks. This is the flower shop that had his mom’s favorite carnations every time he stepped in. This was the old bakery he would stop to buy milk bread at, and for a moment Iwaizumi imagines catching a whiff of that same scent lingering in the air.
(And there are the memories scattered across Miyagi that he could do without remembering: of first kisses, of lingering touches, of promises unkept.
Across Aobajohsai stands the tallest tree in their neighborhood.
This was where Iwaizumi had first told Oikawa he loved him.
He runs past it in haste, feet harsh over the leaves that have since scattered.)
His jogging route begins and ends in front of Oikawa’s childhood home. For a moment Iwaizumi remembers how once upon a time it was just as much his home, too.
(He considered stopping by to see Oikawa’s parents only once since he’d gotten back, but seeing the look on Hanamaki’s face after bringing it up cautiously had shoved that idea as far down as the other memories he was trying to stash away.)
One morning, as he warms up for his jog, Takeru steps out of the Oikawa home with a volleyball in hand.
As the younger bounds down the steps, their eyes meet.
(“Takeru-chan says hi, by the way!”
Even the internet connection, inconsistent at best, fails to mask the cheerful tone in Oikawa’s voice; Iwaizumi smiles, the mention of Oikawa’s nephew –– maybe even just talking to Oikawa at all –– keeping potential homesickness at bay.
It’s a Saturday morning in Irvine, about a month and a half since Iwaizumi started his internship, and with the time difference between him and his boyfriend reduced to four hours instead of what it typically is –– thrice that length –– there’s more time to share moments together; more opportunity for Iwaizumi to pretend that the distance between them barely exists at all.
“He mentioned me?”
“Mhm.” Oikawa says; this time, he’s sporting a fake pout. “He said something about missing a favorite uncle, and –– can you believe it, Iwa-chan –– he didn’t mean me !”
“I can believe it.” Iwaizumi deadpans, and as he turns back to pay attention to the eggs frying over his pan he chuckles at the other’s audible splutter.
“How are you still this mean to me from so far away?” he whines. Hajime sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that far away, dumbass.”
“And besides ,” Oikawa ignores him altogether, and right about now Iwaizumi really wishes the distance didn’t exist for the sole purpose of socking him in the ribs. “Why aren’t I the favorite? What’s so great about you, anyway?”
Hajime slides the eggs onto the bed of white rice he’s prepared before taking a seat in front of his laptop once more, chopsticks in hand. “You tell me.” he remarks around a mouth full of breakfast. “You’re the one who asked me to be your boyfriend, anyway.”
(It had been, perhaps as many of stages of their lives were, inevitable.
Some time after the Interhigh Preliminaries, under the tallest tree in the neighborhood, Oikawa had reached for his hand –– speaking for what his mouth could not –– and Iwaizumi had taken it.
The words came after, but perhaps only as a formality; between them they had never needed words, especially when Oikawa kissing him breathless had left Iwaizumi devoid of them.)
“Fishing for compliments, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa teases.
“I’ll hang up.” Iwaizumi warns him, smiling as Oikawa’s expression sinks into a pout.)
Takeru doesn’t look much older than he did the last time Iwaizumi had seen him; a little stockier, maybe, but all in all there’s no mistaking the boy who would grin in amusement whenever his uncle was the butt of jokes (most commonly his own).
Iwaizumi stands rooted in his spot, unsure of what his next course of action should be. He does his best, these days, to keep his mind off of the past; it’s hard enough living in the town they grew up in together , what more seeing a living reminder of everything he no longer has?
( just that i keep, thinking about how we used to be; )
(“I miss you.”
“Hm?” Iwaizumi grumbles, half-asleep. “M’right here, dumbass.”
“You know what I mean.” Oikawa’s voice is somehow simultaneously lofty and pregnant with meaning; it stretches across the ocean that separates them and holds Iwaizumi like an embrace, wistful.
Iwaizumi shifts in his bed, turning to face the other fully; from what he can see on the computer screen, Oikawa wordlessly does the same. A hand sleepily reaches out to his monitor, an attempt at reaching through the screen to trace each feature on Oikawa’s face, to mark it as his own even with the space between them.
“I miss you, too.” he says back, finally –– locking the unspoken embrace like a promise, like a guarantee that even with the space between them, they were still invincible.
“Love you.”)
He gives Takeru a small wave, and when the young boy waves back Iwaizumi lets out a sigh of relief he hadn’t even known he was holding in.
He starts his jog.
( beautiful was the way that you would look at me; was so much I’d never want to leave )
––––
His contact name on his phone is still Crappykawa .
The contact photo has gone through several changes over the years (per Oikawa’s insistence most times, despite being dissatisfied that “Iwa-chan always chooses the worst pictures of me!”), but as long as he’s had a phone Crappykawa’s been untouched, simply because he never felt the need to.
That was who he had always been to him; for a long time, Iwaizumi knew that as the only truth –– that would never change.
(“Iwa-chan!”
“Mm?”
“You’re falling asleep during the movie!”
“Ah, fuck –– sorry.” a yawn. “Lots of work at the internship today.”If Oikawa’s bothered by their inability to continue the movie, he surely doesn’t show it; if anything, it’s concern that flashes through his irises. “You should get some rest.”
“N–– no ...” Iwaizumi insists, but he can feel his gaze grow heavier. “I wanted to spend time with you …” And it’s true; they’d barely gotten to see each other the whole week, with Oikawa’s volleyball training and his own work schedule growing more intense by the day.
It’s difficult, not being by his side as often as he’d like, but Iwaizumi gets by.
(He says that like he has a choice, as if being with Oikawa left him any other option but to keep going.)“There’s always tomorrow, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa tsks. “I miss you, but right now, you need rest .”
He still sends flowers the next day as an apology.)
Never.
(“So you can’t come?” The frown on Iwaizumi’s face deepens; disappointment bleeds through his tone. On the other end of the call, Oikawa looks apologetic, even when he can’t seem to look him in the eye.
“The coach says we’ll need more time to improve next week.” he admits, stained with regret. “I told him I, I already had plans, but––”
“It’s okay.” Iwaizumi interjects. He tries for a smile; it’s weak, and falls almost immediately with a sigh. He supposes Oikawa can’t hold that against him; he had had their whole week together already planned out, but it's not like Oikawa isn't upset about it, either.
And he can’t hold it against Oikawa, too; lest he forget, Argentina is where he’s meant to be.
“There’s always next time.” he assures him.
(It doesn’t come, but he doesn’t know that yet.)The silence is pregnant; he’s familiar with those, but not with the discomfort that comes with it. Iwaizumi turns to his laptop and frowns. “Oikawa?”
“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan.”)
Never?
(Iwaizumi is tired.
Ushijima’s father is as stern with his practice as one would expect from, well, Ushijima ’s father, and while for the most part Iwaizumi’s been able to meet his rigorous standards, some days prove more difficult than others; today is no exception –– if anything, it’s the example.
He talks about it in less than stellar detail to Oikawa, who nods and listens quietly with the occasional interjection in his favor (“I told you all the Ushijimas are assholes, Iwa-chan!”), but for the most part Hajime is grateful for this reprieve Oikawa lets him have, even if he’s not fully privy to all the details. When he lets out a final sigh, signaling that he’s finished, Oikawa can’t help but sigh with him.
“You know, Iwa-chan,” he offers helpfully, comfortingly. “Once you’re living here with me, you won’t have to worry about stupid Ushijimas anymore!"
Iwaizumi breathes out a small laugh. “Yeah.” he says, “Living with you in Argentina. That’ll be the day.”
Perhaps something in his tone comes off less tired and more condescending, because he can hear the frown in Oikawa’s otherwise soft voice when he says “I wasn’t kidding.”
But Iwaizumi is far too drained, both physically and mentally, to fight. “I know.”
“So why did you laugh?” Still –– he tenses at Oikawa’s words, clipped and cold, the hardening of tone so evident it’s like he’s right there beside him. “I thought you wanted to move to Argentina and live with me.”
Now it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to frown. “I never said I was moving.”
“But you never said you didn’t.” Oikawa bites back. “All those times I talked about it––”
“I don’t know, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi interjects, finally; it comes off louder than he means it too, surprising even himself. The boy on the other end of the call falls silent. He tries again, a means of apology: “I don’t know–– haven’t figured out where I’m going yet … I’ll stay home, first, and figure it out, but …”
His voice trails off, swallowed by the silence between them –– thick, unforgiving.
“I wish you’d told me.” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi is tired . "I wish you'd told me you weren't planning to follow me here."
“Would it have made a difference?”
He knows Oikawa hears the unspoken question: If I don’t move to Argentina, would you come back to Japan with me?
He hears the answer in the silence, in the slow and painful shattering of a heart already cracked at the corners.
( what i want but i know it can’t happen )
“Let’s not talk about this now.” he decides. He hears the crackling on Oikawa’s end of the call.
“Goodnight, Oikawa.”
“...”
“Oikawa?”
“Goodnight, Iwaizumi.”)
( baby i know it’s already over )
Change contact name to Oikawa Tooru?
( god, i just hate this part )
(“You know I’d do anything for you.”
It wasn’t so much that one had run forward and the other was jogging behind, no; they had gone in entirely different directions, and there was no circumnavigating a path back to each other any longer.
It’s no one’s fault.
That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.Iwaizumi takes one last glance at him, the boy about to take flight, and decides it’s no longer his place to anchor him just when he’s about to reach the stars.
You know I’d do anything for you .
A strangled sob.
“I think we should break up.”)
( the last time that you looked at me, i did all i could –– i watched you leave )
––––
He meets Semi Eita again at a dive bar in Sendai.
He’d been to a number of concerts while in California, and had a newfound appreciation for music he’d brought back with him; new playlists he shared with friends, new artists he listens to during his train commutes.
Still –– he finds himself ill at ease at the gig, wondering if he looks as alone as he feels (he sends several ‘fuck you’ texts to both Hanamaki and Matsukawa for bailing on him day of), so when he hears a vaguely familiar “Iwaizumi-san?” from the crowd, his relief can’t help but spill out in the smile he gives the other, too bright off the bat.
Semi’s eyes are brown; in the dim lights of the bar, they’re almost amber.
Iwaizumi tries not to let the familiarity of that faze him.
(
i keep trying to forget,
but you were beautiful
)
It’s polite small talk at first: Semi asks him about his California trip, which Ushijima had told him about. Iwaizumi is pleasantly surprised to learn Semi’s just as into music as he is –– more so, probably, because Semi tells him about the side projects he’s started producing, the band he’s in that’s trying to take off.
“I’d love to see you play some time.” Iwaizumi remarks; he finds that he means it.
Semi smiles, and it’s a lot softer than Iwaizumi would’ve expected from his former fierce rival; he finds that he likes it, quite a lot. “I’ll make a note to invite you, then.”
They don’t talk much after that, because the band comes on and they sway to the music side by side instead, save some instances where they share favorites (it turns out they share similar tastes). But Iwaizumi likes this –– it’s not silence, per se, but shared noise.
He likes that it’s Semi he’s sharing it with.
When the gig is over and they walk to the train stop side by side, Semi asks the unspoken question.
“You’re not–– you’re not usually alone, are you?”
Iwaizumi peers up at him, smile wry at the implications. “Uh, no.” he chuckles, though the mirth is half-hearted; he drops his gaze, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m not.”
“Oh.” Semi looks awkward now, like he’s stepped on an emotional landmine. And maybe, if this had been any time, anywhere, (anyone?) else, he might’ve.
But Iwaizumi exhales. He looks up at brown eyes and, for the first time, doesn’t see anyone else in them. “I’m not now, though, am I?” he quirks an eyebrow, challenging. “I’m with you.”
And Semi’s smiling again, and maybe it’s the mix of alcohol and adrenaline and just how dazzling it is, but Iwaizumi almost misses the next words that stumble from the Eita’s mouth like a symphony.
“Do you want to grab dinner some time?”
––––
There is a text that sits in Iwaizumi’s phone, waiting to be sent.
It’s been there since he got back, and for nights on end he agonized over whether or not to press the button, to let it fly.
(To let him go.)
I’m home , it reads.
When Iwaizumi finally clicks send, he’s sure wherever Oikawa’s reading it, he’s home, too.
( we were beautiful )