Archive of Our Own ^beta

Now in the thriving season of love
when the bud relents into flower,
your love turned absence has turned once more,
and if my comforts fall soft as rain
on her flutters, it is because
love grows by what it remembers of love.

Lisel Mueller, “In the Thriving Season”

It is early morning, late spring. The park is quiet, the air crisp, the ground steady and unyielding underneath Ushijima's thundering feet. Save for several dog walkers and the occasional hobbling grandmother, the path is clear. Ahead of him, Tobio and Hinata are shoving their elbows into the other's side. Always competing.

“Don’t go too far!” Ushijima calls. Tobio jerks his head in a slight nod, and the boys put some distance between themselves and slow their pace.

This is his routine. Wake up just past the crack of dawn, breathe in the faint morning bright before getting up and ready. Water the lonely caladium on his balcony. Feed Mari-chan. Make himself a healthy breakfast. Walk to the station between his and Tobio’s apartments, store their gear in the coin lockers, and run a few kilometers. Before Tobio went to Italy and Ushijima to Poland, when they both sported white and gold jerseys, they went on morning jogs together in comfortable silence. No music, no talking. When they came back home for the Games, they started again. When Hinata returned from Brazil a week ago, their morning runs became significantly louder.

It reminds him a bit of home, of Miyagi, the first time he met either of them, except now he’s the one following them.

They return to the station, retrieve their things from the lockers, and head to the facility for practice. Hinata chitters about a new song he discovered over the weekend. Tobio pulls out his wallet and counts out the proper amount of change to buy a milk carton. Ushijima looks out the window, at the people and buildings whipping past, and wonders what drills Coach will have them do today.

They get off the train, walk a few blocks to the training center. Hinata does a little dance and beelines for the nearest bathrooms, telling them he’ll meet them at the locker room. Tobio shrugs, heads to the vending machine, motions for Ushijima to go ahead.

Amazingly, there’s a commotion in the locker room already. Atsumu is chasing Suna, whose phone is held out away from him. “Give it fucking back!” Atsumu growls, leaping over a bench.

Suna smiles wickedly. Or, what can be considered smiling for Suna. “I told you I’d be reporting any of your bad behavior back to Kita-san,” he leers.

“I barely did anything to you!”

“You showed me your leg hair.”

“How is that bad behavior?”

Ushijima moves to his locker and catches Ojiro’s eye, raising an eyebrow. Ojiro pinches the bridge of his nose and shrugs. If Ojiro isn’t interfering, the situation probably isn’t anything to worry about. Atsumu has about three outbursts a week. Ushijima changes into his practice clothes, pulls on his knee pads, secures the laces of his shoes.

He’s organizing the belongings in his locker when another chorus of noise erupts.

“Ushijima-san!” That’s Hinata, sounding frantic. “Where are you?”

“Quiet down, dumbass, he’s obviously going to be at his locker.” Tobio’s voice is scathing, though underneath runs a current of excitement.

“I’m here,” Ushijima says anyway. Perhaps they’re planning a practical joke on him.

“There’s someone who wants to see you!” Their voices are near; their footsteps halt. Ushijima peeks his head out from his locker door—

And the breath leaves his lungs. At the end of the row, Tobio’s hands are fisted at his sides, his eyes bright and round. Hinata’s arms are looped around a tan bicep. Their captive is smiling sheepishly, tentatively.

“It’s Iwaizumi-san!” Tobio and Hinata say in unison.

Ushijima can see that.

Then he slams his locker door closed on his fingers.

When he was eighteen years old, he lost a piece of himself forever.

When he was eighteen years old, he flew across the Pacific and met a boy who offered the sun in his palm—a boy who had lost to him a dozen times over.

The boy guided him over hills and tucked a flower behind his ear. The boy led him into a dark room and gave him three precious things: a song, a smoke, and a blissful sweetness. When day broke the next morning, he was given mangoes, too. The boy brought him to a cave where a mirror rippled green-gold at their feet and kissed him until their hearts pulsed together, perfectly in sync.

The boy was strong, stronger than Wakatoshi, but no measure of strength on earth could stop time. It was as if he had inhaled, held his breath—

stay just a little longer—

and when he exhaled, it was over.

Miles above ground, Wakatoshi knew he was not coming home whole. A part of him had fractured like clay under the blazing California sun. In that lovely, lonely cave, the cracked seam eroded with every kiss, every gasp and bubble of breathless laughter, and that quivering part of him broke off. Somewhere between the seas and the sky it escaped his grip and buried itself, making a home in California. Wakatoshi knew all too well that things could grow from the concrete, if they wanted it hard enough.

Did you forget anything? You didn’t leave anything behind? his mother had asked, after she surprised him in the airport terminal.

He thought of smoke rising in a dark room. Warm, rough hands, drawing him close, closer, inside, yes. The sound of his voice refracting as if he stood inside a shell. The tide rising to his waist, then whispering away. The sun in his mouth.

No, he had replied, I have everything with me.

Iwaizumi looks different. Ushijima is sure his own face is different, eight years out of puberty instead of only one, but it is difficult to reconcile this Iwaizumi with the one from his gold-tinted, adolescent memories.

His arms strain against his black short-sleeves. His hair is neater, if only slightly, parted to one side rather than sticking out in every direction it wanted. He has always been tan, but there’s a glow to him. Stud earrings glint in his earlobes. His hands are warm, and smoother than Ushijima expected. Ushijima looks away, then back.

“Can you try to bend them for me?”

He tries. Discomfort shoots up his wrist, but nothing on the level of a fracture.

“How bad does it hurt?”

“A three,” Ushijima says. “It will pass.”

“Well, they don’t seem to be sprained,” Iwaizumi says. “And luckily it’s your right hand, so unless you’ve become ambidextrous without anyone knowing, your spikes will be fine.”

Ushijima sighs in relief. “I’m not ambidextrous.”

“You have to ice them for fifteen minutes. I’ll tape them, let you do your thing, then you have to come back in an hour and ice them again.” He pulls a hand away to grab an ice pack. It’s biting cold against his skin. Ushijima grimaces.

“Sorry,” mutters Iwaizumi. “Hinata ambushed me in the bathroom. Well, after he screamed like a girl in a horror movie. Then he dragged me to say hi to Kageyama, who I think almost vibrated out of his own body when he saw me.”

Ushijima can picture it. Tobio’s excitement has always manifested as fearlike quivers. “And then they thought to surprise me.”

“Yeah. You know how it is, getting swept up in all their energy.”

Words roll around his mouth like pachinko balls. “You didn’t tell me you came back to Japan,” he blurts.

Iwaizumi blinks, then rubs the back of his neck. “I got the job a month ago. I didn’t tell many people, mostly my teammates. I spent the first two weeks back home, catching up with my family and old friends. I figured I’d see you again eventually, so. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it hurting your feelings.”

“It doesn’t hurt. I only meant…  It is a surprise to see you.”

“Well, it isn’t a surprise to see you. Even if I didn’t keep up with you, your dad would’ve bragged about you to me.”

“Oh.” Something hot and dangerous and familiar flares. Ushijima ducks his head and adjusts the ice pack against his hand. “How many more minutes?”

Iwaizumi checks his watch. “Ten.” He fiddles with the strap. “I—”

“Iwaizumi-san!” Coach, on the other side of the court, is waving him over.

Iwaizumi purses his lips and turns quickly to Ushijima. “I wanna catch up, really. I invited Kageyama and Hinata to eat out after practice, if you’re down to come with.”

“I would like that.”

Iwaizumi grins. “Great. I’ll go see what Hibarida-san wants, and if I can, I’ll come back to tape you up. If I can’t, have someone trustworthy do it. Take it easy on those blocks. Remember, ten more minutes of ice, then come back in an hour!” he says, standing.

Ushijima nods. He remains on the courtside bench and watches Iwaizumi walk away.

In the end, Korai tapes up his fingers before he goes back on the court. Atsumu offered, then Tobio, but Korai shooed them both away and grabbed the tape before either of them had the chance. His grin is what Tendou would call shit-eating.

“Something on your mind, Wakatoshi-san?” Korai says, bringing the tape around and around.

“You do not have to squeeze so hard.”

“Ah. Sorry. That’s all?”

“Yes,” through gritted teeth.

“Sure, sure.” Korai rips the tape and smooths the end over. “All done! Have faith in my nursing prowess, Ushiwaka. Sachiro is a vet.”

Ushijima doubts there’s much overlap between taking care of maltese puppies and taking care of professional volleyball players. He flexes his hand anyway, and thanks his friend.

That autumn, he filled the hole in him with volleyball. So, not that far from how he usually lived, but it was still compensating for something. He spent hours upon hours perfecting his new swing. His timing was horrible in those first few weeks, and his coordination even worse. To be strong, one must continually destroy their own strength.

Still, in the fleeting silent minutes, waiting on train platforms or in empty locker rooms, his mind betrayed him. Part of him was gripped by brown eyes flecked with green, an ocean away, and the feel of wet sand between his toes. Sometimes he put on the song Iwaizumi had given him and was never sure whether to cry or fall asleep to the crooning voice, the phantom sensation of arms around his waist.

In an exhibition match against the Seoul LG Howlers, he broke through nearly every three-man block that rose to face him. They won the game in three straight sets. He was Japan’s cannon again, the notorious Southpaw.

He felt incomplete.

In an izakaya in Shibuya, Ushijima learns that Iwaizumi has acquired a taste for soju, and prefers it over beer.

“I get really drunk, though,” Iwaizumi said when they slid into the booth, leaning close, “so it’s Sapporo for me tonight.”

They order one beer each and put away three rounds of yakitori like they’re nothing. Tobio and Hinata, across from them, order second beers, then a third, and are making their way through a fourth. Ushijima plans to cut them off after this, since they’re not likely to stop one-upping until one of them blacks out. It is a weekday, after all.

Tobio is drunker than Ushijima has seen in a while. He laughs almost as easily as Hinata, and they beg Iwaizumi for stories of America, of California. Many of them are about bad drivers or celebrity sightings. Iwaizumi tells them he misses the weather: perfect, always warm, only harsh when it rains or the winds make your lips chapped or the dry season makes your nose bleed. In return they give him parts of their lives in Italy and Brazil. Ushijima watches, amused that the hero worship in their eyes is directed toward someone else for once.

Until a knee nudges his own under the table. “What about you?” In this lighting, Iwaizumi’s eyes are a forest lit up by sunset. “It’s not fair that we’re sharing all our stories and you’re so tight-lipped. How was Poland?”

So Ushijima tells them. Poland is mild and rainy in the summer, and cold the rest of the year. Its architecture is old and sacred; the stones that hold it up are relatively young. Cathedrals, churches, synagogues. A language he tried his best to learn but still stumbles over. In Warsaw, sometimes he felt like an intruder—as if he had stepped into a stranger’s home and spent all his time looking at their family photos. There was a history he didn’t understand, wasn’t sure he ever would.

“I liked it. And the doughnuts, pączki,” the word feels strange on his tongue, “they sold there. But it never felt like a true home to me. I’m back in Japan for now. I might join the Azuma Rockets next season.”

Hinata’s eyes widen. “With Goshiki-kun? Or was he traded, too?”

“He is with the EJP Raijin now, I believe.”

“I hope Suna-san doesn’t give him too much trouble…” Hinata trails off and chomps on a leftover skewer of beef.

“The Adlers offered to take me back on, as well. I will see how I like playing with the Rockets.”

“You should just sign with the Adlers,” Tobio mutters, sipping his beer, loyal as ever.

Iwaizumi snickers, and that’s that. He motions for a waiter to bring the check. Ushijima gets up, feigning a bathroom trip, but instead he stops the waiter on the way to the register and pays for the meal himself. He shoves the receipt in his pocket and returns to the table, meeting Iwaizumi’s glare head-on.

Iwaizumi breaks first. He sighs and grabs his jacket hanging from the back of his chair. “At least let me pay for your ice cream.”

“Thank you, Iwaizumi-san!” Tobio chirps, ripping open the seal to his ice cream. Ushijima and Hinata do the same. Iwaizumi waves a hand, and once he’s pocketed his change, the four of them shuffle outside and settle on some steps nearby.

“Really takes you back, huh,” Iwaizumi says, licking at his own. “Reminds me of all the times I got ice cream after club practice.”

“Yeah!” Hinata says. “But instead of ice cream, Daichi-san always used to buy us meat buns. Coach had to keep a separate stash just for us.”

“There is a soft serve machine in Shiratorizawa’s cafeteria,” Ushijima says.

Iwaizumi laughs, tilting his head. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen. His face reminds Ushijima of the sweet peas in his family home, swaying in the breeze. “Of course there is. Born with a silver spoon, you were.”

“You studied abroad for almost a decade,” Ushijima fires back, calm and flat.

Iwaizumi’s jaw drops. “Kageyama,” he says, turning to Tobio, “I know you didn’t teach Ushiwaka how to sass. So who was it?”

Tobio’s mouth quirks. “Wakatoshi-san didn’t need to be taught.”

“Speaaaking of being abroad,” Hinata cuts in, smiling impishly. “Have you talked to Oikawa-san lately, Iwaizumi-san?”

“Oi,” Tobio barks. He swipes at Hinata and is evaded.

“Well, yeah,” Iwaizumi says, taking a bite of ice cream. “It’s Oikawa.”

“Cool, cool,” Hinata sings. “We’ll see him in a month, right Kageyama-kun? That’s when the other athletes come to prepare.”

“How should I know.”

Ushijima has suspected, but—it’s really none of his business, so he has never needled Tobio about it. He glances at Iwaizumi, whose expression is knowing. They’re all on the same page, then.

“You know,” Iwaizumi drawls, “When I told him about getting this job, he asked me to do something pretty interesting.”

Tobio freezes. “He did?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Give Tobio-chan a big kiss for me,’” Iwaizumi says, completely deadpan.

Hinata chokes on his ice cream and whirls his head to cough away from the group. Tobio is beet red. “Please don’t kiss me, Iwaizumi-san.”

Iwaizumi laughs again. He extends a calf and nudges Tobio’s side. “I promise I won’t. He says hi to you also, Hinata. And, Ushijima, well. He said to count your days.”

Ushijima is unimpressed. He has not spoken to Oikawa in many years, but it seems that in this regard he hasn’t changed. “I am not worried.”

Hinata clears his throat. His voice is hoarse. “He texted me last week that he would destroy us.”

“Don’t let him get to you,” Iwaizumi says.

“That’s okay!” Like a light switch, Hinata beams. “I know he’s a lot stronger now, but so are we.”

Tobio and Hinata, who live in apartment complexes across the street from another, take the opposite line home. It turns out Iwaizumi lives in the same direction as Ushijima and gets off one stop later. Their train car is nearly deserted. There’s a roiling in Ushijima’s stomach, unrelated to the food he’d eaten. It worsens when Iwaizumi breaks the silence of the car.

“Remember when we got lost in L.A.? The last time you visited me?”

Ushijima remembers. He remembers everything that happened in that golden country. He nods. “I am sorry for telling you the wrong directions.”

Iwaizumi brushes it off. “No need, I had a fun time. Tonight was fun, too. I feel, I don’t know, young again, even though I know I’m not even old.”

“I understand,” Ushijima says softly. “We may not be old, but we are older.”

“Mhm.” Iwaizumi closes his eyes and leans his head back. Ushijima does not look over. If he does, he might try to decipher the expression on Iwaizumi’s face, search for meaning that isn’t there.

The train glides to a stop. When Ushijima stands, Iwaizumi does also. He bows at the waist.

“Yoroshiku onegaishimasu,” Iwaizumi says. “I didn’t say it earlier, at the training center.”

Ushijima bows also, echoes the words. “Have a nice night, Iwaizumi.”

“You too.” Iwaizumi sits back down. Ushijima slips through the doors and walks home in the brisk, starless dark.

He returned to California only once after that magical summer. He wasn’t sure exactly why. He was searching for a sprout, a blink of green shooting from the pavement. He was searching for a fire.

“Look at you, hotshot. You been working out?”

In the parking lot of John Wayne Airport, Iwaizumi leaned against the hood of his Jeep, Aviator sunglasses on his head. He whistled before approaching, taking one of Wakatoshi’s bags from him.

Relief flooded him. So Iwaizumi hadn’t delegated him to stranger in the year since. He fell easily into the rhythm. “Training,” Wakatoshi answered simply.

“Ushiwaka the Olympian.” Iwaizumi said. “We all saw that one coming. I hear they have an eye on Kageyama, too.”

Wakatoshi had been casually following Kageyama’s performance since Shiratorizawa’s defeat to Karasuno. Apparently, Iwaizumi had been too. It was strange to think of one half of the freak combo playing without the other, but Hinata, despite his progress, wasn’t nearly at the level to participate in the Olympics; Kageyama was. “If he is chosen, it will be interesting to have him set for me.”

“Ain’t that right.” Iwaizumi closed the trunk and patted the side of the truck. “Hop in. You hungry? It’s lunchtime.”

Wakatoshi was drowsy from the flight and would have preferred a shower, but he was brimming with nervous energy. He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled the belt. “I could eat.”

Iwaizumi put the key into the ignition and started the car. “Sweet. You want Mexican, or Japanese?”

“I don’t mind either.”

“Chipotle, then.” Iwaizumi rested one hand on the passenger headrest and twisted his torso, putting the car in reverse. They pulled out of the parking spot and soon were driving down the five-lane street. “I have roommates, now,” he said at a stoplight. “Rent is fucking expensive in Irvine, and if I’m gonna be here for the next five years, might as well save where I can.”

Roommates? Five years? His expression must have been sour, because Iwaizumi laughed. “One of them’s with his family for the weekend, and the other is leaving tonight to stay at his girlfriend’s. We can be as wild as we want past seven.”

Wakatoshi dipped his head, blushing, and stared out the window. “I did not come here with the intention to…”

“You’re saying you don’t want to?”

“...I want to.”

“Good.” The light turned green. “The walls in my apartment are pretty soundproof, too. Now let me show you the wonders of a burrito bowl.”

The stiff, wooden chairs in Chipotle were uncomfortable, although the food tasted quite good.

“I thought I could handle horror fairly well,” Iwaizumi was saying. “I’m Japanese, after all, and in my opinion, the only country that can rival Japan in horror cinema is Korea. And Oikawa used to make me watch with him when we were kids. He said it’s because he was scared, but really I think he just liked the adrenaline rush.”

Wakatoshi nodded. Tendou, back at Shiratorizawa, regularly held horror marathons. Goshiki used to cling to the nearest upperclassman. Shirabu would put on a front, but more often than not he ended up shouting in fright just as loudly as Goshiki. Wakatoshi did rather well during those marathons. The characters and events in the movies were all fake, anyway.

“But this movie—I stayed on my phone in bed until five in the morning because I was afraid to go to sleep.” Iwaizumi snagged a chip from their shared bag. “Maybe we should watch the sequel tonight.”

“Is it long?”

“Eh, I think it’s under two hours.” Iwaizumi’s grin turned devilish. “Let’s watch it. I wanna see if you’ll scream.”

Wakatoshi scooped up some of his food with a chip. “There are other ways to make me scream.”

The plastic spoon in Iwaizumi’s hand clattered to the metal tabletop. Wakatoshi allowed himself the swell of pride in his chest at the rising flush on Iwaizumi’s skin.

“Be glad we’re speaking Japanese right now. I need to grab another spoon.” He stood, shaking his head and grabbing one from a dispenser. Coming back, he slammed it forcefully onto a napkin. “Who the hell taught you to talk like that? Was it porn?”

“I don’t watch pornography.”

“Of course you don’t.” Iwaizumi’s cheeks were poppy red. “You’re gonna regret those words, later.”

A tingle pricked the base of Wakatoshi’s neck. “Be sure to deliver on your promises, Iwaizumi.”

That evening, Wakatoshi didn’t end up screaming at all. Iwaizumi took them to get bubble tea—they call it boba here, Ushiwaka—then they spent the rest of the afternoon in an Asian market, searching for the best mangoes. When they reached Iwaizumi’s apartment, Iwaizumi showed him excitedly the acoustic guitar he had saved up for, perched in the corner of his room. Hollow, gleaming, and black.

Iwaizumi made microwave popcorn, then they settled on the couch. The lamplight was low. Iwaizumi perched his guitar in his lap. He had a pleasant singing voice—low and smoky. Wakatoshi listened to him coax songs from the metal strings. Some of them he knew, most of them he didn’t.

“I did not know you sang.” He said it quietly, not quite wanting to start a conversation, but needing to say something anyway.

“Not many people do.” Iwaizumi plucked a tiny riff, then he did it again.

“Keep going. One more song before the movie,” Wakatoshi said, letting his eyes slip shut.

Iwaizumi acquiesced. The words drifting from his lips were neither English nor Japanese. The melody was seeped in longing.

It was too easy to fall asleep. The next time he opened his eyes, it was past twilight. A blanket had been draped over him. On the floor next to the couch, Iwaizumi snored in a futon. It was worn, its color faded. It had to be from home.

Despite being in the same building, if not room, for the majority of the workday, Ushijima seldom speaks to Iwaizumi. There simply isn’t much reason to. From what Ushijima can tell, Iwaizumi’s days are spent with other players, making training or diet regimens or commenting on their practice habits. Yaku, who suffered a concussion three months ago, and Atsumu, whose ACL is particularly fragile, meet him with most often. Any interactions with other teammates are reduced to taping fingers or short instructions in the training rooms.

That hasn’t stopped his teammates from roping Iwaizumi into every possible conversation.

“Iwaizumi-san,” Atsumu says at the next table over. His tray is piled with food. Beside him, Suna’s is sparse. Ushijima frowns. Athletes, especially professional ones, should be eating more than that. “Are you single?”

Ushijima’s frown deepens. Korai is unsubtly staring at him. He chomps on a stalk of broccoli.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Iwaizumi says.

“I am,” says Atsumu, “not for me, but for the good of the community.”

“The community.”

“Yeah, people deserve to know if they should prepare to have their heart broken!”

“Why would their hearts be broken?” Iwaizumi laughs.

“I mean, look at you!”

“What this idiot means is,” Suna drawls, “you’re just his type. Luckily for you, he’s in a committed relationship.”

“My dear Shinsuke,” Atsumu sighs, casting his eyes to the ceiling.

“That’s enough,” Suna says. “You don’t have to indulge him, Iwaizumi-san. Though I think we all want to know. You have a California girl waiting for you?”

Ushijima saws at his steak and shoves a bite into his mouth. Korai’s not the only person staring at him. Tobio’s eyes are narrowed. Ushijima lifts an eyebrow. Tobio shrugs.

“Let’s just say I’m not seeing anyone at the moment,” Iwaizumi says.

Atsumu makes a thoughtful sound. “Very cryptic phrasing, Iwa-san.”

A pause. “Wow, don’t ever call me that, please.”

“Don’t like nicknames?”

“There’s only one person that can call me by a nickname.”

“And it’s not me?”

“No.”

Ushijima has had enough. He stands, not bothering to say anything to Korai or Tobio, marches to the trash bin, and tosses his food.

On the way to the locker room, he runs into Kiyoomi and halts in his tracks.

“Wakatoshi-kun,” Kiyoomi greets.

“Hello.”

He lacks the motivation to decipher Kiyoomi’s expression, open and maskless for once. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine.” He swallows. “Will you stay for training later?” He doubts it, because Sakusa hates using shared gym equipment.

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Iwaizumi-san has me on a regimen for strength training at home.”

Of course. “Alright. Good.”

“Don’t…” Kiyoomi begins. “Don’t push yourself too hard, Wakatoshi-kun.”

Ushijima nods once, stiff-necked. “You too, Kiyoomi.”

“Bokuto, don’t you dare connect to the speakers.”

Bokuto freezes by the sound system. “Yakkun, I thought you liked Twice!”

Yaku grabs at Bokuto’s phone. “Not for working out! And please, I hear enough of them between Kuroo and Lev.”

“Well no one wants to work out to your Russian chanting choir music!”

“You think just because I lived in Russia I listen to that?”

Ushijima holds his elbow and pulls it center above his head, stretching his tricep. He does it to the other side as well. Yaku is still bickering with Bokuto.

“Iwaizumi-san should connect,” Korai cuts in. Ushijima does not quite roll his eyes, but he’s never been more tempted.

“Yeah, I bet Iwaizumi-san has great taste in music!” Hinata says. Ushijima wonders if they’re conspiring.

Iwaizumi looks up from his clipboard. “What makes you think that?”

“Eh, you just seem like the type. And you lived in America.”

Iwaizumi considers. “If no one minds.”

There’s no protest. Yaku shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

Ushijima’s not foolish enough to believe Iwaizumi would play their song. Their in his mind, at least. It’s too sad, too solemn, too sultry. He makes his way to the abdominal bench and lies back, crossing his arms over his chest, and starts on his crunch reps. A gentle, digital tone chimes as the Bluetooth connects. For several moments, there’s only the clink of metal equipment and weights in the room.

A trilling synth begins, backed by a steady drumline. It’s immediately, obviously sensual. It takes Ushijima about six counts to recognize it. He freezes as he curls up. A woman starts singing, voice low and raspy. The last time he heard this song was in a room in California, tangled in sweaty sheets.

“Is this TLC?” Ojiro asks from a leg press.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi sounds surprised. “You know them?”

“My mom used to listen to them,” Ojiro huffs. “I haven’t heard this one in a while.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Unbelievable. Ushijima finishes the rest of his reps furiously, slides off the bench, and goes to the farthest corner of the room. He focuses on the strain and pull of his muscles as he tugs each cable on the crossover machine. He forces the memories out of his mind.

Wakatoshi felt immeasurably guilty in the morning. He was spending only three nights in America and he’d wasted one of them. It was already eleven in the morning.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Iwaizumi pushed at his shoulder blades and ushered him into the bathroom. “I should’ve known you’d be tired and jetlagged. You can just make it up to me tonight. Now go shower, and we’ll hit the road.”

Wakatoshi spent the morning with his father. Iwaizumi dropped him off at the office, and four hours later, picked him up to spend the afternoon in Los Angeles. The traffic was bad regardless of the time of day. Wakatoshi mispronounced a street name on a crucial turn, so they spent about thirty minutes navigating unfamiliar one-way streets to find their destination.

Finally, they parked on a curb by a condominium complex and walked a few blocks away. “Welcome to Little Tokyo,” Iwaizumi said.

Across the street, the block was paved with dark cobblestones and teeming with people—families and couples and friends. The buildings were short and Japanese-style, but it was obvious they were imitations. In the windows hung T-shirts with Kanji and anime characters on their fronts.

“Little Tokyo?” Wakatoshi repeated.

“Yep. It’s kind of a tourist spot, but there are some real gems.”

It was a tourist spot indeed. They walked around, peeking into every store. In the center of the plaza, an old man with a keyboard was singing. It didn’t feel like he was in Tokyo at all. He felt that most of the shops displayed Japanese goods like novelties—like they were exotic, alien.

“Shit. You don’t like it here,” Iwaizumi realized after their early dinner. They sat at a patio table, sipping iced coffee. 

Wakatoshi pursed his lips. “It is interesting, but…” Too noisy. Too gimmicky. He wanted to be with Iwaizumi like last time, alone in the world but for the sky and trees and sand. He wanted to hold Iwaizumi’s hand and sweat from exertion and not the oppressive heat. It was hard to focus, hard to search for anything in the loud colors that popped out at him. “Too many people.”

“I should’ve known. Come on.” He stood, waited for Wakatoshi to follow, and led them out of the plaza. “Don’t get your hopes up, I’m saving the beach for tomorrow, too. But I have an idea.”

It was almost dusk when they reached their destination. Iwaizumi parked the car on a dusty hill. Yellow-green patches of grass sprouted from the sand. Iwaizumi turned off the engine and exited. Wakatoshi followed suit and joined him in the back, the door open all the way. From this spot, the Los Angeles skyline was on display. In the fading light, the tall buildings were backlit by orange and purple. He had never been to Los Angeles before today, but he wondered if his heart had burrowed in the distance. The city of dreams would have fertile ground.

“I’m sorry I wasted half a day,” Iwaizumi said quietly. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, watching the sunset.

“It was not wasted,” Wakatoshi answered. “Sometimes the only way to learn is to make mistakes.”

“I second-guessed myself.” Iwaizumi drew his knees to his chest. “When you told me you were visiting again, I got anxious. We had so much fun last time, but I thought you would get bored if we did the same things.”

“Me? Bored?”

A smile pulled at Iwaizumi’s mouth. “I know. Call it a lapse in judgment. You probably wouldn’t get bored even if we watched nature documentaries all day. Actually,” Iwaizumi paused.

“I probably would have had more fun,” Wakatoshi finished.

Iwaizumi laughed for real this time. “I’ll remember that for next time. You don’t care for tourist shit. You’re not a city boy.”

Wakatoshi made a sound of affirmation. Before them, the sun was drifting lower and lower. Darkness lowered its curtain slowly, then all at once. The city started to glow, waking up like a field of fireflies.

“Ushijima,” Iwaizumi whispered. “Want to make it up to me?”

Wakatoshi turned his head. Iwaizumi looked shyer than Wakatoshi had ever seen him. Aside from a handful of flirtatious remarks, Wakatoshi hadn’t done a very good job of expressing his attraction. He’d fallen asleep last night, then spent earlier today disappointed and sullen, despite his efforts to appear enthusiastic. He had to remedy that.

Wordlessly, he reached over and cupped Iwaizumi’s jaw. Iwaizumi’s eyes fell shut in permission. Their lips pressed together like petals. His tongue like nectar. His chest thrumming like a honeybee.

“I don’t— have— any stuff in my car,” Iwaizumi murmured, sounding heavy. “Let’s drive back home.”

“Later,” Wakatoshi said. He slid away and down and kissed Iwaizumi’s navel through his T-shirt. “Let me have this now.”

“Okay. Okay,” Iwaizumi gasped. Then he said nothing for a while.

It gets harder to be at work. Not only due to vigorous training, but also from Iwaizumi’s presence. How can Tobio and Atsumu stand it—working so closely with someone who once knew you so closely? It was already hard with Kiyoomi on the team, and they were never anything more than ships passing in the night. Seeing Iwaizumi in every room, taking care of the rest of the team with his own hands—it feels like a tailored brand of torture. Ushijima has no right to feel any jealousy.

On one of the team’s rest days, the doorbell rings. When he opens his front door, Korai and Tobio occupy the frame.

He sighs, lets them take off their shoes, and walks back to his kitchen. Mari-chan pads around their feet, sniffing. “What is the reason for your visit,” he says, opening a cupboard for the hojicha.

Korai comes up beside him and closes the cupboard before he can grab it. “Let’s skip the tea, Wakatoshi-san, and have a talk instead.”

“About what.” Ushijima follows Korai to the couch anyway. He’s pushed forcefully into the cushion. Tobio appears pliant but alert and stands next to Korai, whose hands are on his hips.

“Iwaizumi, who else?” Korai says.

“Wakatoshi-san,” Tobio says, “you may not have been talking about it, but the team has started to notice how weird you’ve gotten around him. And they’re talking. Atsumu-san, especially,” he grumbles.

“Have either of you known me to be someone who cares about what people say?”

Korai shakes his head. “Nah, not really. But then again they only talked about your volleyball or your sparkling personality. This is the first time people have really talked about your love life—outside of the high school gossip circuit, that is. The team noticed how you ran away when Bokuto wanted to do that arm wrestling bracket and they got Iwaizumi to join.”

“I did not run away.”

“And how you go a little overboard when Iwaizumi-san comments on someone else’s form in the weight room.”

“Oh, and that time you nearly busted Gao’s finger with your spike because Iwaizumi was wrapping up Heiwajima-san’s ankle.”

He doesn’t have a proper response. “Why should it matter what they say?” He does feel guilty about Hakuba, but there was no harm done in the end.

“Don’t you think it hurts Iwaizumi-san’s feelings? To hear that you’re ignoring him?” Tobio says.

Ushijima is shocked into silence. “I… had not considered that. I did not intend to ignore him.”

“Well, you are. I don’t understand you!” Korai says. “I get it. You think he’s the one that got away. I would know. But it’s not like he’s dating anyone, right? What are you so afraid of?”

Ushijima glances outside, at his balcony. With a start, he notices his caladium is wilting. He hasn’t been speaking enough to it. He has to tell Semi, who offered to housesit during the Games while Ushijima stays in the Village, to include that in his routine.

Korai and Tobio wait for an answer. What is he afraid of? Rejection? Scorn? Ridicule? Those things seem beneath him. They’ve always been beneath him. Ushijima learned to reach for what he wanted and take it. If he found he could not, he simply had to grow strong enough to force its hand.

That is the crux of the matter, he realizes. Hearts are not to be conquered. You cannot blast through them as you can a volleyball past a three-man block. They are fragile, easily broken.  They cannot be trampled underfoot like a flowerbed during a child’s careless play. One radiant smile too many and they will shatter.

“I do not wish to break,” he says. “I do not want to have to pick up the pieces.”

The words soak up the anticipation in the air, leaving emptiness.

Korai breaks the silence. “You underestimate yourself, Wakatoshi-san. People aren’t their own hearts. They bend before they break. Besides,” he says, “it’ll take more than one man to break Japan’s cannon.”

They spent all of the next day at the beach, like Wakatoshi had hoped. Huntington, this time, not Laguna. It was extremely crowded, but they found a nice spot away from rowdy children and set up an umbrella and towels.

They took a dip in the ocean, racing across the shallows and then into the deep. The water was cold, the waves tame. Pushing at his sore thighs like gentle hands. The salt in his mouth and on his skin steadied him. This is real, the salt told him, for salt was sweat and sweat was life. When their legs and arms tired from treading water, they crawled back to shore and sat under their umbrella. Iwaizumi opened the cooler and brought out two water bottles and two mangoes. The knife was quick and concise, and in the blink of an eye Iwaizumi held out half a sun.

At the peak of day a man approached them, speaking languidly in a surfer's drawl. Wakatoshi picked out three coherent words: need, two, and volleyball. He looked at Iwaizumi, who grinned at him.

“He wants to know if we can join their volleyball game.”

In the distance beyond Iwaizumi’s shoulder, past the man, a group stood on either side of a net, bumping a volleyball between them.

As if he would say no.

“Why didn’t you want me to say you play professionally?”

The crowds had trickled away. With the sunset arrived a chill, so Iwaizumi fetched their hoodies and sweatpants and blankets from his truck and lit a bonfire at one of the available pits. He brought his guitar, too, and strummed absentmindedly.

Their game had been a very casual four-on-four. Nobody had an assigned position, and most of the balls went up from bumps rather than overhand sets. The other players quickly learned to send them to Wakatoshi as best they could, impressed by the power and spin of his spikes. Halfway through, they insisted he and Iwaizumi switch teams for fairness.

“I did not see the need,” Wakatoshi said. “They probably have no interest in Japanese professional volleyball. And,” he thought about his next words, “I like being no one here.”

The firelight turned the glossy surface of Iwaizumi’s guitar orange. “No one?”

“You are the only one who knows me here.” It makes me feel like I am yours. “I would like to keep it that way.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special, Ushijima.” Iwaizumi smiled.

“Why did you choose to bring me to Huntington and not Laguna Beach?” Wakatoshi asked.

The strumming stopped. “The one with the cave?”

Wakatoshi nodded.

Iwaizumi didn’t answer for a while. “I haven’t gone back there since last year. Maybe it’s silly, but I don’t wanna… taint them. The memories of that place. If I go again it’d be like adding another layer to a painting that’s already perfect.” He paused and stared at the fire. “Some things you’re only meant to have a handful of times. Then no one can take them away from you. Then they’ll always be yours.”

In an instant, Wakatoshi understood. Inside him, a patch of soil smoothed over.

“Why did you decide to come back?” Iwaizumi said. “Did you miss your dad?”

“I missed him, and you, too,” said Wakatoshi. “And I was looking for something.”

The sound of black waves. The crackle of fire. Iwaizumi’s fingers dancing across the neck, the body. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I did.”

It had been right in front of him all along.

He knows his finger is busted before his feet hit the ground. Kiyoomi glances over, noticing the way he cradles his hand to his chest, and calls for Iwaizumi immediately.

“Shoot. Sorry, Ushijima,” Bokuto says from the other side of the net. “I was a little careless with that last spike.”

Ushijima shakes his head. He clenches his jaw and extends his arm to examine his hand. The nail of his ring finger is ripped diagonally, blood already pooling from the exposed skin.

Some of his teammates hover close; others pull back. “Make way,” Iwaizumi orders. A path clears. Iwaizumi takes a single look and hisses. “Alright, c’mere, we gotta patch you up.”

“Don’t mind, Ushijima-san!” Hinata says. Several teammates voice the same sentiment.

“Good luck,” Tobio whispers to him as he passes by.

Iwaizumi leads him down the hall to the infirmary with a supportive hand on his shoulder blade. He goes to a sink to wash his hands and gestures to the nearest empty bed. Ushijima sits and keeps his elbow bent, hand elevated to his chest.

Iwaizumi grabs a first aid kit from a cupboard. “Let me see,” he says, pulling a short rolling chair up and taking a seat. Ushijima offers his hand—right again, thankfully—and Iwaizumi brings it into his lap, upon which a towel has been laid. His fingers are gentle as he probes at the wound. “Good thing it’s not your dominant hand. Again. And you guys will be tapering soon, so all you need to do is let it heal.”

Ushijima nods. He waits patiently for Iwaizumi to treat the injury. The disinfectant stings, as does the quick wash of water, the featherlight dabs of clean cotton, everything after as Iwaizumi bandages him and tapes the offending finger to its neighbor. He barely breathes through it all. What are you so afraid of?

“All done,” Iwaizumi says. His forest gaze is downcast. It’s a subtle, fleeting movement—a faint brush of his thumb against Ushijima’s knuckles.

His chest thrums. The heart is a muscle, not bone. The heart is a flower, not stone.

Just as Iwaizumi starts to pull his hands away, Ushijima tightens his grip, stopping him. Iwaizumi’s eyes widen. Ushijima stares into them. He reaches for Iwaizumi’s other hand and holds it too. Then he brings them to his lips and kisses the first joints. A honeybee landing on a desert flower.

His throat is dry, but he manages to say the words. “The last time I was in California, you said you did not want to taint your memories of us.”

“I did.” Iwaizumi sounds just as choked.

“That was there. We do not have many pleasant memories together here, in Japan.”

“No. I always lost to you.”

“You said that some things, you are only meant to have a handful of times.” Ushijima raises their joined hands to his lips again. “What if I want to have you forever?”

Iwaizumi’s voice is wet. “Took you long enough.”

“Please answer.”

“I’d let you. I was stupid to say those things.”

“I was foolish to leave you.”

“I’ve been stupid to let you torture yourself these past few weeks. I would have made a move, but I then I thought you wanted to wait until after the Games. I didn’t want to distract you.”

“You distracted me anyway.”

“I could’ve saved us a lot of misery.”

“Yes. It is not too late now, is it?”

“It’s never too late. Not for you.”

“Then may I kiss you?”

Iwaizumi tugs him close and loops his head through Wakatoshi’s arms, letting Wakatoshi’s forearms settle on his shoulders. “I’ve only been waiting for seven years.”

Wakatoshi closes the distance, and the rush of euphoria in his body is nothing short of a garden growing inside him.

I know someone who kisses the way
a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Flowers are sweet. They have
short, beatific lives. They offer
much pleasure. There is
nothing in the world that can be said
against them.
Sad, isn’t it, that all they can kiss
is the air.

Yes, yes! We are the lucky ones.

Mary Oliver, “I Know Someone”