Chapter Text
“Got four for you today, Sailor.”
Iwaizumi steps forward in the line, receiving his mail from the personnel clerk. One from his mother. One from Hanamaki. One from Kunimi. And, one with a fuck-ton of stamps on it, taped shut from where it was inspected.
They didn’t search the mail, his ass.
“Thank you, sir,” Iwaizumi says, heading back to his quarters, flipping over the envelopes in his hand. Oikawa’s was the only letter addressed in English— JMSDF Petty Officer Third Class Hajime Iwaizumi, Hospital Corpsman, JS Onami, which is technically not even the correct address. Oikawa only has to put his rank, not his rating, but he gets a kick out of writing it anyways. Hospital Corpsman. If it made Oikawa feel closer to Iwaizumi to be able to comment on his job every time, then how could Iwaizumi deny him that?
Iwaizumi holes up in his quarters, bringing his knees up to his chest to sit on the bunk and rip open the letter. The others can wait.
Out falls a thin leaf of legal-pad paper and a picture—he’s in his press conference suit, smiling and waving at the cameras and holding up his UPCN jersey. Oikawa , the navy vinyl letters say against bright yellow polyester.
He looks tired. Skinny. Sleep-deprived. Iwaizumi tries not to worry too much as he stashes the photo in his backpack along with all the other photos. He can do the worrying later, after he’s read his mail.
Dear beloved,
How are your adventures exploring the wide and treacherous seven seas? I’m sure you’re able to take care of yourself, yet every day I fear for you—life is tough and pirates are quite the unforgiving people, after all. You’re my strong, loving husband and I love you (*￣3￣)╭ Stay safe out there. I'll be waiting for your return! My favorite pirate killer!
(P.S. attached is a picture of your brother-in-law, the nearly-Olympic volleyball player who is so ultra-talented that he got a whole press conference to announce his official position as the starting setter! I know you are so proud of him! He looks so handsome here, don’t you think? This photo will make a nice addition to the collection you have of him!)
Love,
Your loyal, beautiful wife, Tooru
...and Iwaizumi shakes his head, somehow always surprised by the excessive bullshit Oikawa would send him. If anyone else saw this, they’d think it was borderline incestuous. He reaches under his bunk, grabs a sheet of paper and a pen, and replies with:
Tooru,
Things are fine, nothing to report. Why did you just draw a kaomoji in your written letter? I’m actually concerned for your mental health.
I’m glad to see your brother is first-string now, that’s incredible. Congratulations to him. How is his knee feeling? Don’t let him overwork it. He’s lost weight, probably because he can’t cook for himself. He should learn how to do it—his roommate won’t be back from the Navy for another two months. Tell him to get up off his ass and order takeout. Argentina has food. Don’t let him starve out of pure laziness.
And, for the last goddamn time, I don’t kill pirates. Stop telling my mother I kill pirates. I haven’t opened her letter yet, but if it’s something about me being a pirate killer, find a lawyer—I’m filing for divorce.
Love,
Hajime
To be fair, their letters used to be very heartfelt and serious at first and didn’t include running jokes about how Oikawa can’t feed himself. Four months off the coast of Djibouti was a big deal— everyone was surprised when Iwaizumi learned he had to be shipped off to go monitor pirate activity off the Horn of Africa. It was called the Japan Self-Defense Forces for a reason. His mother fainted when she heard. Oikawa...well, Oikawa didn’t faint, but he did cry over their near-daily (they tried, at least, at that point) video call.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving Japan,” he had said, his face only slightly illuminated by his phone in the darkness of his shoebox San Juan apartment. “You were only supposed to have four months of service left.”
“And I’ll be spending them in Africa,” Iwaizumi had said blandly. “I kinda thought you would be happy, considering this will be a whole lot more exciting than my current station. Just last week you were complaining about how my war stories are boring, since they’re not war stories at all, they’re just training exercise stories.”
“No,” Oikawa had pouted. “No, I am not happy.”
Iwaizumi had waited patiently for him to elaborate, tightening the laces on his boots.
He finally spoke, voice crackling through the speakers. “I haven’t seen you since I left. Nearly three years, Hajime, and I didn’t even wait for your send-off. What if I never see you again? What if some pirate comes and kills you while I’m in the middle of a match or something?”
“I won’t be killed by some pirate, Tooru. The destroyer I’m on is only escorting boats through the waterway. There’s no combat involved. There never has been any combat involved.”
He frowned in the low light as if that were a worse answer. As if he wanted Iwaizumi to have a high-stakes, combat-filled job, just for drama’s sake, but also didn’t want there to be any stakes at all.
Iwaizumi continued, “And we’ve had this conversation, what, at least fifty separate times since my term started. We see each other all the time. You had to go do pre-season things in Argentina and I had to go enlist. Me being stationed somewhere else doesn’t change anything.”
The pout relaxes, then intensifies in a dramatic fashion. “If you die in some African place that I’ve never heard of—”
“Djibouti.”
“Juh-whatever. I’ll never forgive you. Won’t even come home for your funeral.”
Iwaizumi had whipped his head around, then, when he was sure no one could hear—he had taken the very last timeslot for video calls on purpose—said, “Some military boyfriend you are.”
“Mean, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi still felt this weird knot of guilt in his gut, despite Oikawa playing it off. “I really am serious, Tooru. No JMSDF sailor has ever died abroad. I have no plans on being the first, so don’t cheat on me yet. I’ll be working in the sickbay doing the same things I’ve been doing, just in a different location.”
“Cheat on you? Iwa-chan, don’t be ridiculous. Just—“
He stopped his own sentence abruptly, bottom lip wedged tight between his teeth.
Iwaizumi started fiddling with his boot laces again but then decided to take point. “I miss you. I’m thinking about you all the time.”
“Me, too.” His voice cracked once more, and though Iwaizumi can’t see much through the grainy screen, the new shine of light indicated something was reflecting, and it looked too much like tears. “I love you. I can’t wait for you to come home.”
“Tooru…” Iwaizumi breathed awkwardly, unsure of how to comfort his high school sweetheart without physical affection. This wasn’t the first time he’d had an emotional episode over a call with him, but that doesn’t make it any easier. “Love you, too, Tooru. It’ll be fine. Just wait and see. Keep sending me pictures of all your UPCN stuff. And pictures of Kageyama and Kindaichi and Kunimi. And your dumb letters.”
He perked up at that.
Another week passes. Another mail call comes. After a long, boring day of testing the water quality on the ship, Iwaizumi cannot wait to have Oikawa’s company through paper.
“One letter for you, Sailor,” the clerk says as he hands him the inspected, stamp-filled envelope. He grins and gestures to it. “Your wife sure is consistent with her letters.”
“She is,” Iwaizumi agrees without elaboration, then decides to try and pry some information out of him. “Do you know why the command office still searches my mail from her? It’s been two months now.”
“Well, she is in Argentina. I guess that looks suspicious.” The clerk shrugs then winks. “I don’t think they actually read the mail that thoroughly, she doesn’t have to hold anything back.”
Iwaizumi grins forcefully. If only he knew. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” As Iwaizumi turns to leave, he interrupts, “Oh! The supply officers are going to the garrison tonight to restock before we meet up with the EU forces for the exercises. We’ll be gone for two weeks, so would you want anything from the mainland?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” Iwaizumi says quickly, reflexively. He’s eager to go read the letter—it feels thick.
He leaves the line and starts heading back to his quarters, then turns on his heel as he remembers. “Actually, could I get more paper and ink?”
“Can do!” He salutes, all smiles.
Iwaizumi smiles back and thanks him again, then practically sprints back to his quarters. He doesn’t even notice that his bunkmate is there until he peeks his head over and taps his shoulder.
Iwaizumi jumps. “Hey, Sato. Sorry, did I wake you up?”
He shrugs sleepily. “My watch starts in an hour anyways. From your wife?” he asks regardless.
“Yeah.”
He slides off the bunk to sit next to Iwaizumi. “Open it.”
It’s moments like these where Iwaizumi is actually deeply grateful for Oikawa’s bullshit and his gender-neutral given name. Queer people aren’t barred from service in the JSDF, but that doesn’t mean Iwaizumi wants everyone knowing about his boyfriend. He had spun this elaborate lie about being his wife to avoid what they called The Conversation , and from then on, the lie grew to include their three “children”—Kunimi, Kindaichi, and Kageyama—and the volleyball-player twin brother-in-law.
The children part and the wife part weren’t necessary, but Oikawa loved to roleplay a pining wartime housewife for some reason. Iwaizumi had to admit, it could be pretty entertaining on days of repetitive, boring duty.
Iwaizumi slides the letter out of the packing—out pops another baby photo of Kageyama, this time holding a cat, arms extended as the cat panics in his arms. The photo has to be at least seventeen years old. Where does Oikawa get these baby pictures?
Dear husband,
I t has been three cold, long winters since you’ve go ne to figh t the war. I hope you’ve been well on your ship killing those sw a shbuckling pirates; I’ve busied myself with perfecting my cooking skills for your brother-in-law and for you when you come home. The c hildren a re well, bu t they miss you dearly too. Speaking of, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Or, perhaps, happy news. We're going to have a new daughter soon. I hope you are not too upset with me.
Love,
Your LOYAL Tooru
(P.S., our daughter’s name is Kiki-chan :D)
More pictures of Kageyama and this cat fall out. His baby face is so sweet and round, so different from how the high school senior looks now, and Iwaizumi’s heart squeezes with some sort of latent affection. Jeez, he feels like a real dad. There’s another picture of only the cat, definitely more clear and recent, and this one must be the one Oikawa got, Kiki. She doesn’t look all that much like the cat Kageyama is holding.
So, Oikawa got a cat and bothered to get pictures from Kageyama to add to the story. He must be actually lonely, then.
“Oh my God, is your wife pregnant?” Sato asks, squinting at the letter. “Jesus, Iwaizumi, I’m so sorry.”
Iwaizumi looks at him and blinks, then bursts into laughter. “No, no, she’s fucking with me, she’s trying to tell me she got a cat. Look,” Iwaizumi holds up the picture of baby Kageyama and the cat.
“Oh,” Sato says, eyebrows rising. “Damn. I wish Chiasa had a sense of humor. All she ever does is cry about how much it sucks that I’m not around.”
“Well, Tooru does some of that, too, but...” Iwaizumi chuckles slightly. Sato’s wife is...a bit of a situation. She’s infertile, and so Sato lives vicariously through Iwaizumi and his “young family.” When Iwaizumi told Oikawa this story, he sent about twenty pictures of the “triplets” for him to see. Sato’s usually-stoic face always lights up whenever the triplets are mentioned. So maybe the lie isn’t so bad after all, if it serves a greater purpose.
Sato thumbs through the pictures. “I can’t believe you got triplets, man. How old are you? Twenty-one?”
“Mm.”
“Your poor wife. Damn high school sweethearts. Shit, just reminding me I’m old,” he drawls. Sato is twenty-nine and is another enlisted man like Iwaizumi, though his weathered face indicates more age. He works as a boatswain’s mate, putting in hard labor with ship rigging and deck machinery in the intense equatorial sun. “Did you get mess yet?”
“No. You?”
“Nah. Let’s go,” he invites.
They make their way down the corridors, leisurely when no one’s looking and briskly when the officers pass by. They catch a glimpse of Captain Irihata as he makes his way to the bridge and they both salute, though he barely nods to them. They’re lower-deck men.
Once they head down to the enlisted mess and get their plates of curry—watery and sad but spicy enough for it not to matter—Sato asks, “How come I never see pictures of your wife?”
“She’s camera-shy, remember?” Iwaizumi spits out the same response he always gives.
“Right, right,” he nods. “What’s she look like again? Remind me.”
“Beautiful,” Iwaizumi says without hesitation.
Sato snorts. “Aren’t they always?”
“Athletic, too. Lithe,” Iwaizumi adds, and to further build his case of straightness, says, “Good in bed.” Though that wasn’t a lie in the least.
Sato bursts out laughing. “Crazy young people. Horny as hell.”
“Like you aren’t either of those things,” Iwaizumi laughs.
“No, I’m old! Really!” Sato protests. “Almost too old to re-enlist, now. I’m out in a month.”
The buzz of conversation between all the enlisted men in the mess hall comes to an abrupt stop when Lieutenant Commander Mizoguchi steps in, boots gleaming in the fluorescent low-deck light.
“Seaman Hayashi!” He booms. A vein stands out on his forehead.
“Yes, sir!” The poor apprentice stands up hastily, nearly tipping over his cup of water in the process. The single red stripe on his coveralls indicates just how inexperienced he is, and just how much of a beating he’s about to get.
Mizoguchi loves to pick on the little ones.
“With me,” he grumbles, turning on his heel.
Hayashi scrambles over towards the exit, following behind their commanding officer. Iwaizumi notices how his boot laces tremble, how his fists are balled at his sides.
The volume in the mess hall gradually returns to its previous level as the enlisted men sense their commanding officer moving farther and farther away—whispers, then back to laughter and clinking of silverware.
That could be him one day if Mizoguchi ever finds out about him and Oikawa. He needs to be extra careful.
“Whaddya think he did?” Sato murmurs.
Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows. Honestly, he didn’t really care what he did to deserve it. “Oh. I saw him this morning running down the corridor ‘cos he was late for duty.”
“Yeesh, harsh. Glad I haven’t been subjected to the Commander’s wrath recently.”
Iwaizumi bites down on the tip of his chopstick, throwing manners out the window to channel his nervous energy. “Are you joining the reserves after this?”
Sato pauses from where he was stuffing an entire banana in his mouth, surprised by the subject change. “Uh, I’m thinkin’ about it. Could use the money. God knows the only job I’d get after I leave would be fishing.”
Iwaizumi nods—this was true. Boatswains are made for boats. Iwaizumi had more career latitude as a hospital corpsman.
“What about you?”
“Thinking about it,” he parrots. Oikawa will be gone for large portions of his life, chasing his dreams and doing what he loves. If Iwaizumi’s gone some of the time, it’s not like he would notice. “Depends on what job I get when I leave.”
Back to shoving the banana in his face. “What are you gonna do?”
“I dunno, probably be an EMT or something. I have my TCCC and I don’t want to waste it.”
He had worked hard to get that trauma certification while he was still stationed in Kanagawa, surrounded by a bunch of tall, blonde, buff Americans who knew more about trauma than he did. They saw combat and Iwaizumi didn’t and probably never would. All day, Iwaizumi treats seasickness and sunburns and scratches. Maybe an actual chemical burn if the day is exciting. Hospital Corpsman, ha. More like Band-Aid Brigadier.
“I’m gonna pretend I know what that means, but Doc Iwaizumi, that has a nice ring,” he drawls.
“Doc—you’re funny,” Iwaizumi sputters, pointing his fork at him. “As if I’d go back to school long enough for that.”
“School is good for you,” Sato replies in a rare burst of intellectual conviction. “Maybe I’ll go back to school. Be a...be a rocket scientist,” his voice quickly dissolves into giggles.
Iwaizumi tips his head back. “Pffft. Mention me in your Nobel speech, alright? Bunkmate, confidante, friend, Iwaizumi Hajime.”
“Oh, that’ll be the day.”
Tooru,
Those pictures of Tobio are sweet, but it looks like the cat hates him. Congrats on getting the cat, though, I know that’s supposed to be a big milestone for people or whatever. Please don’t kill the cat. I want her to be alive when I come back.
I’m glad you’re working on your cooking skills. Your brother looks a little more healthy recently since he’s been getting better food in him. But make sure he’s getting a good night’s rest every day, alright? That way, he’ll be even better at his volleyball and his SO in the Navy won’t worry about him so much.
Iwaizumi thinks you’re good in bed! Love, Sato.
As you can see, Sato sends his regards.
Send more pictures. Kiki’s cute. Teach her to sit or fetch or something, make her useful. Or teach her my name, even better.
Love,
Hajime
The joint exercises pass on without much fanfare. It was nice to get a change from the pattern of escorts—up the waterway, down the waterway, all day, all night. This time, they get to go further offshore, surrounded by the big blue and ready to do some fake fighting.
Iwaizumi gets his picture taken with a bunch of white EU dudes and they all pretend to capture some pirates doing small-vessel close-proximity drills. Just in case, they all say. Iwaizumi even gets his hands on artillery, doing some anti-surface firing until his skull rattles and his entire arms buzz.
Then, he works out some more. Beats those tall-ass white dudes in an arm-wrestling competition, then beats them in hand-to-hand sparring, then beats them in target shooting, too. They’re rowdy and loud and athletic—it almost felt like the club room back at Seijoh, if instead of volleyballs, they all had pistols.
The supply officers deliver his additional stationery two days into the mission. Iwaizumi knows that if he writes a letter, it won’t be mailed until the end of the exercise, but he writes them anyway.
Dear Mom,
Everything is fine here. I’m in the middle of a training exercise with some sailors from the EU, which is a nice change of pace. We’re constantly preparing and learning from each other. My English has gotten a lot better since high school—I thought you’d be proud of that—and I’ve picked up some French, Arabic, and Somali, too. Not enough to be fluent, by any means, and not enough to be able to write it, but by the time I get home, I’ll be a regular prodigy.
How is book club going? I’m returning last month’s book in this package and I’m excited to read whatever you send next.
Is Dad doing okay? Tell him I say thank you for the mochi (and my bunkmate does too).
Thank you for all of your letters and concern. I am safe, but I’m looking forward to coming home. Only seven weeks now!
(And, no matter what Tooru may say, he’s wrong—I am not, and never will be, a pirate killer.)
Love,
Hajime
Hanamaki,
Asshole, don’t send me porn! You were lucky that letter wasn’t searched! My commanding officer is a prude and wouldn’t think it was funny. Also, Tooru would murder you if he knew you were trying to tempt me.
Send more! Love, Hajime’s bunkmate, Sato!
Please ignore that.
Anyway, I’m glad university is going okay. Are the parties really good? And how is being roommates with Matsukawa?
...and are you guys more than roommates now?
All that aside, I learned a few new insults in Somali. They are attached on the notecard in the envelope. Do with them what you wish. See you in seven weeks.
—Iwaizumi
Kindaichi, Kunimi, and Kageyama,
Thank you for asking about me—things are great. Yes, Djibouti is very hot and sandy, but we don’t notice it so much out on the Onami.
Kindaichi: yes, we use real guns. I’ve advanced to the Sharpshooter rating, which is 30 out of 35 target hits in a sitting, so that makes me pretty qualified. This doesn’t really change my job at all, but I guess that is pretty badass.
Kunimi: no, I have not fallen asleep on duty, thank God, though I’ve come close. I don’t think you’d like the punishment we get for that.
Kageyama: the food is pretty good on the ship. Not as good as back home, but still good. On the ship, we usually have some sort of curry or noodles and whatever extra food that the garrison supply officers bring in from the mainland. The food on the mainland is very different from back home, but Somali curry tastes sortof similar to Japan’s if you close your eyes. I think you’d like it.
To everyone: how is your third year going? I hate to be the one to ask this, since you get asked all the time, but are we looking at university? And volleyball? How is the team? The jerseys look great on you guys, thanks for the pictures. I know the Spring Nationals are coming up—keep working on your serving drills. Did you guys find a new libero?
Also, please try hard in English! I’m not worried about Kunimi, but Kindaichi and Kageyama, do your best! I know it seems dumb, but I’m really wishing I had paid more attention in class. I’m doing a joint training exercise with some foreigners right now and I’m learning on the fly. Tutor me, Kunimi, please.
Anyways, keep working hard and keep sending pictures. Don’t let Oikawa pester you too much for baby photos—you’ve got to be running out by now, right?
Best,
Iwaizumi
“Aurghhh,” Sato sighs loudly as he flops onto Iwaizumi’s bunk. “God, my head.”
“I know,” Iwaizumi groans in sympathy and hops into Sato’s bunk, curling under the wool blanket and then throwing it off when he starts sweating. “I thought we’d never finish watch. I almost puked on a poor sailor while popping in his dislocated shoulder.”
“Why the hell did those French bastards bring all that liquor for?” Sato whines. “Cognac this, cognac that. Fuckin’...God. Oh, God, my head .”
“There is no God,” Iwaizumi hisses.
“Distract me, Sailor.”
Iwaizumi pushes his head into Sato’s pillow, smelling of saltwater and harsh regulation soap. “I dunno, I’m too tired to think of a new story, and you hate volleyball stories.”
“What about a letter from your wife?”
Iwaizumi rolls over now—he nearly forgot about it. Some bullshit from Oikawa would maybe be nice. “Ugh...I got it this morning, it’s underneath the bunk.”
There’s some exaggerated groans while he rifles around for it, then passes it up to him. He pops open the envelope, fingers shaking, and pulls out the letter and a few pictures.
To my dear and loving husband,
I H OPE YOU HAVE B E EN WE L L. P LEASE STAY SAFE AND COME HOME SOON, KI NDAICHI AND K UN I MI MISS YOU DEARLY. I THINK TO B IO DOES TOO; HE R EALLY MISSES Y O U. KE EP LIVING, L A UGHING, LOVING, AND SOON WE WILL BE R EUNITED. REME M BER, MY LOVE FOR YOU IS ETERNAL. ALSO, DON'T WORRY, TH E RE'S NOTHING WRONG, I JUST FE L T LIKE WRITING IN CA P ITALS TODAY.
Forever your wife,
Tooru
“Whazzit say?”
“I don’t really know...Something’s wrong with Kiki.” Iwaizumi frowns and picks up the photos—there was one of Kiki, sleeping with her arm twisted up underneath her, and Oikawa’s panicked face next to her. “Wait, just kidding, I think Tooru’s overreacting. You got a cat? See if this is normal.”
He passes him the photo.
“I dunno, cats are fucked up.” Sato passes the photo back. “Who’s that guy in the picture?”
Iwaizumi nearly chokes on his own spit. “Tooru’s brother, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, right. It’s nice that your wife has some company at home.” Sato yawns, then is completely silent.
“...Are you dead?” Iwaizumi asks, too achy to lean over the bed and check.
“I may...need some company puking.”
“Fuck. C’mon, get up, no puking on my bunk.”
“Iwa-chan! You look like hell!”
Iwaizumi frowns. To be fair, the ship’s fluorescent lights probably wash him out more than usual. It hurts his eyes. “Thanks.”
“What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?” His eyes flick away from the screen momentarily. “ Me voy, es mi novio! ” He yells off-screen. His practice-sweaty hair sticks to his forehead while his head flips around.
“Oi. I’m fine. Stop panicking. I’m surviving a hangover.” He yawns. “Look, I won’t keep you from practice long, I only have three minutes because I’m borrowing this computer from a German officer. Did you break Kiki?”
“Did I…” Oikawa frowns, remembering, then his face lights up. “Oh! The letter! That was two weeks ago! I guess you only got it today. No, she’s fine! She rolled around after I took the picture. But she scared me! And I figured you could use the drama!”
Iwaizumi lets out a sigh. “God, Assikawa. I was actually worried about Kiki.”
“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan, I won’t let anything happen to our new baby.”
He and Oikawa just look at each other for a few moments. Oikawa smushes his face down into the palm of his hand and smiles at him as he sets his phone to rest on a table in what must be the locker room of the UPCN.
“What’re you grinning for?” Iwaizumi grunts—internally, he’s delighted to see Oikawa happy. Especially when he gives him that look. The hopelessly-in-love look that he would give him across the room in high school chemistry, across the court in volleyball, and hopefully across the aisle one day.
“You, Iwa-chan. You’re nice to look at.” Oikawa smiles brilliantly. “What’s new on the Onami? Still doing that stuff with the foreigners?”
“Still doing the EU stuff, yeah. Five days and we’ll be done.”
“Good. Be sure you’re getting lots of rest,” Oikawa lectures gently. “I can’t believe I have to remind you of that. It’s usually you saying that.”
Iwaizumi chuckles. “Thank you, Tooru. I will.”
The dreamy grin returns. “Forty-seven days until I see you. I’m buying my plane ticket tonight.”
Iwaizumi thumbs the computer screen. “Forty-seven days.”
“ Cuarenta y siete. ”
“Where are you staying? Wait, how long are you staying?”
“I wasn’t sure. I mean, you probably want to spend some time with your parents, right?”
“Not if you aren’t around, though.”
Oikawa frowns in concentration, then brightens. “Come home to Argentina. Spend a week or so with your parents and then come home to Argentina with me. An enlistment honeymoon.”
Iwaizumi considers this. His parents would hate this idea. But...uninterrupted Tooru time. All the time. Tooru all the time. He could do that. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d do that.”
“Really?” Oikawa laughs, pure joy coursing over his features. “Really, Hajime?”
“Really, Tooru.”
“Well! Guess I’ll have to clean up my apartment!” Oikawa beams and winks. “Keep killing those pirates in the meantime.”
“Okay, I am not a pirate killer.”
“My pirate killer!” The door to the locker room squeaks open and Oikawa bursts into a sing-song tone. “Everyone! I love my pirate killer, Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces Petty Officer Third Class Hajime Iwaizumi, Hospital Corpsman! Quiero mi...uh, como se dice, el asesino de...piratas! Lo quiero mucho! ”
Iwaizumi now breaks into a laugh. “You’re ridiculous. Did you just yell about me in Spanish? Tell your teammates I’m sorry on your behalf.”
Oikawa flips the camera, showing three of his teammates, tanned and sweaty. “ Se disculpa. ”
Player number one waves. “ Todo bien! ”
Player number two gives a thumbs-up. “ S í, s í .”
Player number three takes a big breath and stutters out in stilted Japanese, “Hello!”
“Hello,” Iwaizumi giggles, giving a slight bow of his neck.
“Buen trabajo!” Oikawa says to him, patting his back. “Look at him go! Cavanna-chan is so smart!”
Iwaizumi laughs at them for a few beats. Oikawa seems so happy there, the center of attention like usual.
He’ll get to be a part of that in forty-seven days.
He glances up at the clock on the wall. “Shit. Tooru, I gotta go.”
His smile dissolves and he grips the phone in his hands, bringing it close to his face. “ Ay, no! Stay!”
“Yeah, I do. I have to go.” Iwaizumi shakes his head, then tacks on, “Love you.”
“Love you!”
“Woo!” Sato grins as he adjusts his coveralls and away gear. “Last day of the exercises, and we get a distress call? It’s like we actually have a job that matters!”
Iwaizumi grins, zipping up his own gear. “I still can’t believe we were chosen to go overboard.”
“I know, right?” Sato is practically giddy, buzzing with excitement.
“Sato! Iwaizumi! What are you, sailors or schoolgirls? We’re off!” Mizoguchi barks at them and they scramble across the deck, boarding the small craft they would use to intercept the distress call boat.
There are five of them on the little away team—Mizoguchi commanding, Sato at the helm, the apprentices, Hayashi and Tanabe, there for observation, and Iwaizumi for medical support of the passengers onboard and because of his status as sharpshooter.
His 9mm pistol sits heavy at his hip—in fact, they’re all strapped, just in case this isn’t actually a distress call and is some sort of trap instead. Iwaizumi knows he probably won’t have to use his sidearm, but the mental weight of a killing machine on his hip is heavy.
He looks out at the sea—a completely cloudless sky above them intersects it at the horizon, making nature’s gradient of blue. Not far off lies a sportfisher yacht, floating aimlessly and spilling oil. Its pristine white hull contrasts sharply with the deep blue of its surrounding waters.
Distress call. That was all. He would give first aid to anyone who needed it and would give...reverse first aid to anyone who deserved it.
The approach is quick, quicker than Iwaizumi thought it would go. It’s not like this is his first distress call or even his first piracy drill, but still. It’s moving fast.
“ Hello! ” Mizoguchi calls in clear, precise English through his megaphone. “We have come from the JS Onami in response to your distress call!”
No one is on the deck. That should have been their first sign that something was wrong.
“Slow your approach, Sato,” Mizoguchi orders.
They slow.
“MY Hemel!” He calls the ship by name. “Would the commander of the vessel come onto the deck?”
The most obvious bad sign comes next. An empty skiff floats out from behind the ship, tied loosely to the cleat of the yacht. Someone had boarded.
Sato and Iwaizumi make eye contact for a brief moment, panic etching Sato’s leathery face. Piracy.
“Well, sailors, has your training pulled off or not?” Mizoguchi grunts. “Tanabe, signal the Onami. We’re going aboard.”
Iwaizumi’s body tightens like a bowstring as he listens to Tanabe shakily reporting to their ship. They continue their approach and Mizoguchi gestures to Iwaizumi—he comes forward and draws his pistol.
It’s loaded. The safety’s off. He has another clip in his pocket.
Deep breaths. He scans the deck—empty—and his index finger brushes the trigger. He’s practiced so many times. He’s a sharpshooter, for Christ’s sake, he knows how this works . It just...feels very different, like he’s in bootcamp and this is the first time he’s ever picked up his SIG Sauer, like he’s never heard a gunshot before.
“Tie us up,” Mizoguchi grunts as they approach the hull.
The higher-ranking men disembark while the apprentices tie their boat up, rope wrapping around cleats like white, twisting snakes. Iwaizumi is acutely aware of every sound—the cinch of rope, the splash of water, the gentle patter of everyone’s boots on the deck of the foreign ship, Sato’s heavy breath.
A thumping from below deck.
“Come above deck!” Mizoguchi commands. “Sailors, defensive positions. Iwaizumi, take point.”
Everyone draws their pistols now. Iwaizumi takes point and sharpens his gaze, focus narrowing towards the bridge hatch. Like he’s up to serve in a high school volleyball game.
Come on. Bring it. Bring it, bringitbringitbringitbringitbringitbring—
All is silent until it’s no longer silent. Iwaizumi hears the sharp cry of a woman and the hatch opens with a jerk and a squeal.
Iwaizumi’s focus narrows even more. There are two gunmen, both clutching hostages in their arms: a man and a woman, middle aged. They’re civilians, European, probably, given the blonde hair and the name of the ship.
There is a pistol held to her swollen belly—she’s pregnant. Iwaizumi sees Sato stiffen in his peripheral vision.
The pirate holding the man steps forward, dragging his hostage with him. “ Leave this ship, or the wife and baby die!”
“You will release the hostages, by order of Operation Ocean Shield and the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces,” Mizoguchi states, calm as can be now that hostages are involved.
Iwaizumi keeps flicking back and forth between the leader, holding the man, and his skinny, young subordinate, holding the pregnant woman. The smaller pirate seems more unsteady and flitty than the older leader and this is more dangerous. He could easily pull the trigger in his panic.
“Three million USD!” The leader booms. “Those are my terms!”
“You will release the hostages before we negotiate ransom.” Mizoguchi steps forward and the formation changes—more offensive, with Iwaizumi and Mizoguchi’s pistols aimed at the leader and Sato, Tanabe, and Hayashi’s pistols aimed at the subordinate. “Drop your weapons.”
“Money first!”
Mizoguchi remains steadfast. “Drop your weapons or my men will open fire. We will discuss terms without hostages present.”
The smaller pirate’s eyes dart around, looking at the guns pointed towards him. He’s rethinking, teetering on the edge of his decision.
The leader seems to consider the situation, then pushes the barrel of the gun farther into the man’s temple. “You will give me my money?”
“We will discuss payment after the hostages are released.”
The civilian man winces as the barrel of the gun is pressed against his temple even further.
The next few moments happen in rapid succession—too fast for Iwaizumi to react coherently, despite all his training. The lead pirate pistol-whips the man, ending his whimpers without any hesitation. He falls to the ground, unconscious, and Iwaizumi’s aim focuses more clearly onto the leader.
Then, the wife cries out in horror. The leader says something to the subordinate in rapid Somali that none of Iwaizumi’s language classes could decode, but the tone was clear. The gun moves in the subordinate’s hand, the tip of the barrel prodding into her belly menacingly.
Sato, unable to control himself, moves out of formation and lunges towards the subordinate before he can kill the woman and her unborn child. The subordinate dodges, dropping the woman in the meantime, but Sato is faster. He has him pinned, lying prone on the deck like all their training has taught them. The woman scrambles away towards the sailors.
The young pirate shouts out. The leader pirate reacts.
A bullet whizzes through the air and sinks into Sato’s right thigh with a put .
Iwaizumi’s grip on his gun loosens. His breath catches in his throat and the trigger sits heavy between his fingers. No. No, no, no, they weren’t supposed to—no, no one was supposed to get hurt, they’re the JSDF. No.
Sato collapses, crumpling to the deck while his feeble grip on the young pirate wavers. He struggles, starting to escape and reach towards his rifle.
The pregnant woman screams.
“Go!” Mizoguchi commands, and that’s all the sailors need to hear. Hayashi replaces Sato’s spot, holding the young pirate down firmly. Tanabe surges forward to pull away the male hostage and disarm the leader—his gun fires off into the water and everyone jumps. Mizoguchi follows and unloads the offending pistol, bullets raining out from the magazine.
Once he’s sure he doesn’t need to murder anyone, Iwaizumi slides to his knees on the deck next to Sato, heaving him to lay on his back. “Sato. Sato, stay with me now, you’re gonna be fine,” he says, not even aware of his words.
“Iwaizumi,” he chokes out, breath wheezing with pain. “Iwaizumi, he…”
“I know, I know. You’re gonna be fine.”
Iwaizumi heaves his right leg, soaked with blood through to his ankles and soiling his dark blue uniform, up onto his knee to elevate it. No exit wound. Good, less bleeding. He pops open his pockets and finds the dark green field dressing to wrap around his thigh tightly.
He rips open the package, pressing it onto the wound as firmly as he can and tying the tails of the bandage around it. Blood is all over Iwaizumi’s ungloved hands. Even if it isn’t arterial, which Iwaizumi isn’t sure about, he’s in danger of shock. His pulse is still present in his ankle, but...
“It’s not bleeding too bad. You’ll be fine, Sato. Hey,” Iwaizumi tries to keep talking to him. His face is getting paler by the second, eyes unfocused. “Hey, I need you to wiggle your foot. Can you do that?”
He tries, face screwing up as his foot twitches. ”Fuck,” he heaves, looking close to puking.
“Good, good job,” Iwaizumi says, keeping his tight hold on the dressing.
It’s soaking through, seeping out bright red. It’s arterial.
Iwaizumi holds a sharp, poking thumb to his femoral artery. The bleeding slows.
He takes this brief respite to look towards Commander Mizoguchi—still negotiating with the pirates.
“Commander!” He yells, making sure to speak in the language the pirates won’t understand. “He needs to go!”
“Buy him time until the Onami gets here!” He hollers back, then continues with the pirates.
Why is he wasting his— Sato’s —time on this? Iwaizumi understands that the Coast Guard, not the JMSDF, is responsible for arrests by order of the Constitution, but still, can’t he make an exception this time?
“Iwaizumi…” Sato moans.
“Shh, shh, you’re fine. You’re fine. Rest.” Iwaizumi continues with his treatment. He needs to move on to a pressure dressing. He empties his pockets, finding rolls of gauze and muslin, and gets to work on the secondary dressing, folding until he makes a cravat to tie around it.
“No, no, Iwaizumi, he...he…” Sato pants. “Listen.”
“I’m listening,” Iwaizumi grunts, still completely occupied with applying more pressure. The tails won’t come undone and his hands are shaking too bad to tie the knot.
“He—look, revolv—” Sato says, low and hushed, before he breaks into a low moan as Iwaizumi’s fingers press harder into the gunshot wound.
Revolver. He was trying to say revolver.
Iwaizumi keeps Sato’s leg perched firmly on his knee but spins, unholstering his pistol and aiming it directly at the leader, who currently has a small six-shot revolver aimed directly at Mizoguchi’s head while he negotiates with the younger pirate. Tanabe must not be able to see it from this angle.
No. No, not his Commander, too, no. No more.
“Tanabe! Get down!” Iwaizumi shouts.
Aim. Shoot the hand to disarm. Aim. Aim. The red sight lines up. Aim. Breath. Fire.
The pistol kicks in Iwaizumi’s hand, but he keeps it steady. A gold shell pops out with a clink onto the deck. The revolver falls out of the leader pirate’s grip.
But Iwaizumi’s bullet has landed between his eyes, not his hand.
Iwaizumi has killed a man. A criminal—a pirate —that was trying to kill his friend and his Commander. But he’s still a man. And Iwaizumi still killed him.
Mizoguchi looks between the revolver and at Iwaizumi rapidly, the realization that his life was just exchanged with another’s setting in. Tanabe is hyperventilating. Hayashi has started to sob. Sato is nodding listlessly, gripping at Iwaizumi’s arm.
Iwaizumi feels more control right now than he’s ever felt in his entire service term. It’s making his chest ache.
The rest of the day passes without any conscious thought on Iwaizumi’s side. They’re too far out to sail back to port without Sato bleeding out along the way, so he’s airlifted back to the garrison.
Iwaizumi isn’t allowed to follow. There’s supposed to be something about a debrief, which never ends up happening, typical , so he just goes back to his and Sato’s quarters to try and decompress by himself as soon as the watch bell goes off.
This doesn’t work out well. He crawls into Sato’s bunk, enjoying the smell of the salt and the sweat and the soap on his pillow, then starts to sob.
His nails have his blood under them, even after scrubbing for twenty minutes straight. He decides to cut them but just ends up trimming to the quick. They bleed, but at least they bleed Iwaizumi’s blood.
Tooru,
This letter will probably never make it to you, but I’ll write it anyways. I want to forget today, but I also want to remember every detail as sharply as I can. I may be dishonorably discharged soon for what I did.
On the back of this page is an account of a rescue mission we did today. Please be patient with my handwriting—my fingers were bleeding and I was having a hard time holding my pen.
I miss you now more than ever. I wish I could hold you right now, and I wish you could hold me right now. I don’t think anything will ever be the same. I don’t think I’ve ever hurt more in my life.
Love,
He can’t even sign it. It goes straight into his backpack, never to be stamped and addressed.