Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Do I remind you of him, Iwaizumi-kun?” Atsumu asks, smiling. He’s sitting neatly at the foot of Iwaizumi’s bed, Iwaizumi leaning against the corner of the mattress, not two feet of distance between them.

The match against Argentina had happened yesterday afternoon (28-26, 24-26, 25-27, 29-27, 27-25, Argentina)—the silence of Oikawa’s final ace, Iwaizumi’s half-hearted Coach wants to talk about today’s stats before the inevitable post-game catchup, Iwaizumi’s concerning drink orders during last night’s team dinner still etched brightly in their minds.

“Who told you,” Iwaizumi replies flatly.

“No one had to, really,” Atsumu says. “You’re easier to read than you think,” he continues.

Iwaizumi tips his head back, unsure of whether to laugh. His room is right next to the highway, and the curtains are yellow and too thin. There’s a forgotten, half-empty can of Sapporo on the nightstand. The pale green fluorescence from the gas station across the road leaks into the room, flickering.

Iwaizumi presses two fingers to his temple. Both of them have been up since 5 in the morning, the adrenaline from the stadium slowly beginning to leave their bodies.

Iwaizumi sighs. It’s thunderstorming; heavy summer rain, the hotel room feeling almost liminal. Atsumu leans back into the mattress.

“Do I remind you of yours, Atsumu?”

Atsumu straightens up and tilts his head to the side. His hair, still wet from the shower, smells faintly of citrus.

“Who told you I had somebody?”

“You must have,” Iwaizumi responds, with an uneven smile. “You wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”

Atsumu looks like he doesn’t know what to say in response, just leans in closer.

“You’re right, Iwaizumi-kun.” Atsumu’s voice barely a whisper. “I did have someone.”

Iwaizumi continues to stare at Atsumu, who’s wearing a faded Naruto shirt, the cotton fraying at the hem, a small tear by the collar. The rain drums against the windows, unrelenting. Atsumu’s eyes look almost golden.

Iwaizumi blinks, and then leans in to close the gap between them. Atsumu’s hand, warm and calloused, moves to cup Iwaizumi’s jaw, the other hand climbing on Iwaizumi’s thigh.

The rain doesn’t stop until early morning.

1:08 AM
THANK YOU Hajime !!!! Bronze is pretty good too :) !!!!! next time next time

1:40 AM
do u wanna go get drunk or something lol i’m p sure your hotel isn’t that far from mine we cld probably get a bunch of free shit

1:50 AM
ah gotchu

u should probably sleep then!!!!

tell every1 on the team congrats frm oikawa-senpai ~~

3:04 AM
doesn’t it feel kinda weird that we started playing vb in that shitty sandlot behind our elementary school for fun

and now we’re like.

Here ? crazy lowk

idk. maybe that doesn’t make sense.

3:10 AM

hope you’re sleeping ok!!!!!!!!! <3

Hajime’s alarm sounds at 5:15, Atsumu barely stirring beside him. It had still been raining, the room washed in pale gray, the air conditioner softly whirring. He frowns as he scrolls through his notifications.

No, I understand. Perfectly, really.

He never tells Tooru, though.

“When I am—was, with him,—” Iwaizumi begins carefully, peering into his almost empty coffee cup, “—something about it never felt real.” It’d been 8, maybe 9 months ago, since he’d seen Oikawa on his doorstep in Irvine. 9 months, then, since he’d left.

He’s back in Sendai for the summer, his lab internship falling through at the last second, and within two days of landing, he finds himself sitting across from Hanamaki in some new cafe that only sells castella cakes, with dried flowers and neon signs for decoration. Hajime complains about the prices ( you’re turning into your mom, Takahiro had said), but they spend too long in the bean bag chairs, anyway.

Hanamaki tilts his head to look up at the ceiling, string lights draped around the walls.

“In what way?”

Iwaizumi sighs, puts his coffee cup down, and looks up at the industrial ceiling with Takahiro.

“I don’t know. I guess, whenever he touched me, I felt like I wasn’t in my body, or anything.”

Hanamaki hums.

“Like we were just two kids and that was it. Like whatever we did wouldn’t exist in me, outside of us, after we had stopped touching each other,” Iwaizumi continues.

“But it was real, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi presses his hands to his eyes, red spots dancing from the glare. “I know, I know. I just—I never understood why I felt like that. Why I never understood that he was touching me, and that he had touched me, and that I would never be the same because of that.”
He sinks further into his beanbag, his hands dropping to his sides again, the ceiling rendered an ugly smear of concrete. He blinks. “Nevermind. I can’t really explain it. Just seemed...far away, all the time. The both of us.”

Takahiro says nothing for a second, just offers Hajime a soft whistle.

Iwaizumi feels a laugh bubbling in his chest. He picks up his coffee cup and gets up, smoothing the creases out of his jacket.

“C’mon, Makki, let’s go home. My mom’s been dying to see you. I really think she likes you more than me at this point.”

Takahiro smiles, reaches to the shelf behind them, and takes a mug.

“First of all, good for Iwaizumi-san. Glad to know someone in the family has taste. Second of all, can you buy me this frog mug?”

Iwaizumi blinks at his crooked smile. “Why the fuck do you need a frog mug.”

Hanamaki looks at the frog, then at Iwaizumi, and then back at the frog.

“Hey, it looks like you, don’t you think?”

Hajime raises his leg to kick him, but the cashier throws them a disgruntled look. He puts his foot down and turns to smile apologetically. He looks back to Hanamaki, and sighs.

“Fine.”

Hanamaki presses the frog mug to his cheek. “Iwaizumi, my dearest.”

“I fucking hate you, did you know that?”

The two of them walk back to Hajime’s house, shoulders bumping up against each other, and it’s almost just another Saturday evening after practice, the same three right turns and short uphill walk from Seijoh, the soft orange glow of early evening washing over them. The familiarity begins to feel almost akin to emptiness, but neither of them mentions this.

Hajime breathes in.

“So, how’s Matsukawa doing? With all his dead people and shit.”

Takahiro laughs.

“He’s alright. He says sorry he couldn’t come, by the way. He said his research advisor locks him in the lab when he doesn’t finish data collection on time, or something like that.”

Hajime rolls his eyes, but smiles.

“That’s good. I’m glad you guys are okay.”

Hanamaki turns to look at Iwaizumi, but doesn’t say anything else.

The first time he kissed Tooru had been in the locker room after they lost to Karasuno. Everyone had already gone to the parking lot by then, and Iwaizumi had found Tooru sitting on the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders, shoulders slumped over.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi said, voice still hoarse from crying earlier.

Tooru turned to look at him and smiled. “You okay?”

Iwaizumi nodded. “Yeah, thanks. You good?”

“Yes,” Tooru replied, gaze still pointed at the locker room floor. Hajime had known not to press, but for some reason still asked, “you’re still going to play volleyball, right?”

Tooru looked at him, his eyes glittering. “I—I’m not sure.”

“B—” Iwaizumi stopped short, his glance falling on Tooru’s expression. Please, Hajime, his face seemed to beg, not right now, not today. Iwaizumi sat with Tooru on the bench, letting the distant echo of shoes squeaking on the gym floor and the erratic ba-bum of a serve routine wash over them. Oikawa’s head slumped onto Iwaizumi’s shoulder, and he’d said so quietly Iwaizumi was sure he had misheard, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Hajime remembers the next moment with particular clarity because he had felt scared—he’d put his index finger underneath Tooru’s chin and turned his head, gently, and looked at him in complete earnest, a tear sliding down Tooru’s cheek.

“I believe in you, Tooru. I love you,” Iwaizumi said, the tremble in his voice, the unsteadiness of his hands surprising him—Tooru had frozen in surprise, his eyelashes long and fluttering, his eyes heavy-lidded.

“Kiss me, then,” Tooru whispered.

Hajime had complied, his hand moving to cup the back of Tooru’s neck, Tooru leaning into Hajime’s mouth.

“I want you here, always, Iwa-chan.” The nickname made Hajime’s chest flutter.

I love you.

Iwaizumi pulled away, Tooru’s cheeks still flushed, the both of them wearing stunned expressions. Iwaizumi had felt almost short of breath, and he’d almost felt embarrassed until Tooru had smiled, eyes crescent-shaped and nose crinkling. He reached out to brush his thumb over Tooru’s eyelashes before he held out his hand to Tooru.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

Tooru rubbed his eyes, once, twice, and took Iwaizumi’s hand, their fingers interlaced neatly, Hajime’s hand so warm, steady, Tooru’s thumb running over Iwaizumi’s knuckles. Iwaizumi smiled, again, and asked ready? his other hand smoothing out Tooru’s hair, and Oikawa said yes, Hajime. Yes, yes, yes.

Sometime before they had broken up and sometime after they had stopped talking the way they used to, Tooru visited Hajime in California. They’d called, albeit briefly, in the weeks leading up to the visit—Hajime had offered to pick him up from the airport, but Tooru had refused—(in your frat boy roommate’s—what’s his name—Mark? Matthew? Whoever’s Jeep, to which Hajime had responded I can’t help that he’s a frat boy, and then as an afterthought, his name’s Mateo. Tooru had hummed and said ah, yes, Mateo-kun, to which Hajime had said please don’t give him one of your nicknames. Tooru had half-smiled, and Hajime had almost apologized, the call falling back into silence, save for the occasional static and “poor connection” notification).

Tooru showed up on Hajime’s doorstep on a Thursday afternoon in the tail-end of spring.

He knocked, once, twice, and Hajime opened the door with such immediacy it had shocked the both of them into a split second of silence, a gentle breeze floating through Tooru’s hair, Iwaizumi hovering awkwardly in the door frame.

“So.” Hajime swallowed.

Tooru smiled, tightly. “It’s common courtesy to help your guests with their bags, Iwa-chan. Or has America already turned you into the brute you were destined to be?”

Iwaizumi blinked, and then he laughed, and Tooru’s face relaxed, a shadow of familiarity settling over them.

“Shitty personality as always, Oikawa.” He grabbed Oikawa’s duffel bag and turned around. Oikawa had followed.

“Should I give you a tour?” Hajime asked once they were in the living room, Oikawa’s duffel bag thrown haphazardly on the sofa.

“I’d love one,” Tooru replied.

Hajime turned to look at Tooru, who was dressed in sand-white T-shirt and black sweatpants, hands placed awkwardly in his pockets. It feels—not unpleasant, but maybe unnatural, Oikawa in his living room, Tooru in the life he’d constructed in California, and he’d wondered whether Tooru would see Hajime this way in his apartment in San Juan, somewhat removed, somewhat alien—

Oikawa cleared his throat.

“Haji—”

“Sorry, sorry. Um—” Iwaizumi spun around. “—there’s the kitchen—just don’t dig too deep in the freezer and you’ll be alright—” he spun back around, Tooru looking faintly amused. “—And then there’s my room, there’s the bathroom, the Axe spray is Mateo’s, before you say anything—” he continued, pointing to the left, “—and there’s Mateo’s room,” he finished, his arms dropping back to his side.

“State of the art architecture,” Tooru said, lightly.

“Don’t be jealous,” Hajime replied. He glanced to his side, kicked another can of Whiteclaw underneath the sofa, and then looked back up at Tooru. “So—how was the flight?”

“It was okay,” Tooru said, stepping closer to Hajime. “Guy next to me took off his socks and his shoes, though.”

“Gross,” Hajime answered, wrinkling his nose, Tooru reached out to brush a piece of hair out of Hajime’s face.

“I know, right.” Tooru smiled and wrapped an arm around Iwaizumi’s waist. “Anyway, can I kiss you now?”

“Right after telling me about that?”

“Yeah,” Tooru said, his forehead pressed to Hajime’s.

“Fine,” Hajime replied, and then brought his hands to cup Oikawa’s face.

They spent the rest of the night lying on the sofa, legs tangled together, Iwaizumi’s hand carding through Tooru’s hair, the other draped over his shoulder, Tooru’s arms wrapped around Hajime, face pressed into his chest. The apartment had been dark, marbled purple, save for the light blue glow of the streetlights and buildings outside the living room window.

“You’re here for what, two, three nights?” Hajime asked.

“Three,” Oikawa mumbled.

“We can go out tomorrow night, then, I guess. Or the day after. You’re jet-lagged,” Iwaizumi said, absentmindedly. “You’ve got a shitty personality when you’re tired.”

“Sh’ up,” Oikawa said.

Iwaizumi laughed, and it felt again, almost natural, both of their bodies spread over a god-knows-where-that’s-been college dorm sofa, Tooru’s warmth unfurling across Hajime’s chest.

“Alright, I’ll let you sleep.”

Tooru shifted, quietly, muttered a slurred thanks, and Hajime smiled, softly, even though Oikawa couldn’t see him. Oikawa had fallen asleep quickly after that, Hajime’s finger delicately tracing circles the nape of Oikawa’s neck, thinking distantly of past summers, the two of them sprawled across a tatami mat on his bedroom floor, flooded with a sense of impermanence, of forever, of iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.

He looked at Tooru, then, imposing outlines of his corded muscle turned to boyishness in the dark, and he did not think I love you, but I miss you. You’re right here and I miss you. He tips his head up to look at the ceiling fan, whirring unevenly, the ceiling gray and static, and feels a bitterness rising in his chest. He closed his eyes, the room smelling faintly of jasmine and mint, and let Tooru’s breathing lull him to sleep.

It is always easier to see things in retrospect, with the blue lens, the cold distance of memory.

“Fuck. What time is it?”

“Morning, Iwa-chan,” Tooru said from the kitchen (when did he get in the kitchen?). “It’s almost 12, but you looked peaceful, so.”

Hajime sat up and looked at Tooru, who was leaning across the kitchen counter and holding a box of Lucky Charms, the leprechaun smiling emptily at Iwaizumi. Hajime sat there, silently, still rubbing the blurriness from his eyes, stared at Tooru’s half-smile, eyes almost mahogany-tinted in the morning light. Tooru shifted, slightly, the smile wiped from his face, and Hajime blinked, realized he’d been staring too long, and they’d both dropped their gazes.

Hajime opened his mouth to say something, but Tooru was staring adamantly at some patch of tile, so he decided to drop it. What is there to explain, anyway? written across both their faces.

He walked into the kitchen, and turned on the faucet, standing with his back turned to Tooru, and watched the soap suds crawl down the drain.

“Kappa Sig’s throwing a party tonight, wanna go? Some kids from my orgo class will probably be there. You’d like them, I think.”

“Sure,” Tooru said, airily. “Sounds fun.”

“Alright,” Iwaizumi responded. For some odd reason, he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. “We can drive down to the beach, later, if you want. Catch the sunset or something.”

“How romantic of you,” Oikawa said, half-joking, but Iwazumi hadn’t responded, just continued to dig around in his cabinet, looking for nothing in particular.

Iwaizumi first meets the national team on a January morning. They’d been all huddled in the corner of the gymnasium, whispering (do you think the trainer will be a grumpy old man—no they’d never hire an old man—who told you that—YOUR MOM!—fuck off, Hoshiumi—you were asking for it—shut up, Yaku), until the coach whistled, Iwaizumi watching bemusedly as they all straightened up.

“Ah, Iwaizumi-san!” Hinata exclaims. “You’re the new trainer?”

“Yeah, I am,” Iwaizumi says, smiling. “Hi, Kageyama, Hinata.”

“I am glad that you are our trainer, Iwaizumi,” Ushijima adds. “You are very responsible.”

“Thank you, Ushijima,” he responds, with a laugh. “Most of you know me, but my name is Iwaizumi Hajime, I’m, uh, 27, from Miyagi—and I’ll be your trainer this season. I have all your files and everything, but if you need to tell me something my office is just past the locker rooms—” he pauses, thumbing through the papers on his clipboard, “—and Sensei should have given you my number.”

Someone whistles. “Shut up, Atsumu,” someone else mutters, before turning to smile apologetically at Hajime, Aran, Iwaizumi thinks his name is, and then—Atsumu, Hajime assumes—sticks his tongue out, petulantly.

“You suck,” Yaku says, loudly, from where he’d been standing in the front, and Atsumu mutters a “sorry, Yakkun, sorry, Iwaizumi-san,” under his breath.

The nickname makes Iwaizumi look at Atsumu, bleach-blonde hair, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips pulled into a lopsided smirk.

“Ah, it’s okay—Atsumu?”

“Yes, Atsumu. Miya Atsumu.” He smiles at Iwaizumi, and Iwaizumi thinks that smile is familiar, before turning back to the rest of the team, clearing his throat.

“I’ll usually be watching practice from the bleachers, making sure nothing happens, taking notes. I have to finish up some paperwork for today, so you’re just with Hibarida-sensei today—I’ll be in my office for a bit after practice if you need me. I look forward to working with you all!”

“Thank you, Iwaizumi-san,” Hibarida says, dismissing him with a nod.

He smiles and leaves, then, and they begin warming up.

“What do you guys know about Iwaizumi?” Atsumu asks.

“He’s too good for you,” Yaku says almost immediately, swinging his arms from side to side.

“Why are you always coming for me—”

“He’s just very nice,” Hinata says, bluntly.

“Yes,” Kageyama affirms. He takes a volleyball and hits it at Hinata, who digs it. Atsumu’s eyes follow the ball’s high arc, watching as it lands neatly in Kageyama’s outstretched fingertips.

“I’m nice, too,” Atsumu whines.

Hinata looks at Atsumu.

“What,” Atsumu says, in half-hearted protest, but goes to pick up a volleyball before Hinata can say anything else.

Practice ends four hours later, and Atsumu, perhaps out of curiosity and perhaps because he felt he had made the wrong first impression, knocks on Hajime’s office door.

“Come in,” Hajime calls, and Atsumu swings the door open. Hajime’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but his face relaxes back into a smile. “Atsumu, right?” Atsumu nods. “What’s up?” Hajime gestures to the chair by the door.

“No, it’s okay, just wanted to say hi—” Atsumu says, “just wanted to, uh, let you know I’m not an asshole, in case that’s what you were thinking.” He feels shy, all of a sudden.

Hajime tips back his head with a laugh. “Don’t worry, Atsumu. I’m sure you’re very nice.”

“Glad to have cleared that up, then.” Atsumu straightens up in the doorway. “Hey, listen—I think the team is gonna go get dinner somewhere in Roppongi, you should come.”

“Ah, sorry, I have some paperwork I need to file by tonight—next time, though?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m gonna go now, then. It was nice to meet you, Iwaizumi-san.”

“Goodbye, Atsumu,” Iwaizumi replies, and watches as Atsumu spins and walks into the hallway, his bag swinging on his shoulder, replaying Atsumu’s lopsided smile, the sudden shyness. Yakkun, he’d called Yaku. The behind-the-back middle finger. He flips to Atsumu’s file in his stack of paperwork, unsure of what he was looking for, exactly, until he sees “Position: S” neatly printed underneath his headshot.

He almost wants to laugh.

It’d been a shitty party, but it’s not like Tooru had much experience to base his judgment off of —Tooru met Hajime’s friends from orgo: Hung, an international student from Vietnam, Vivian, from Wisconsin (Wisconsin? he’d asked Hajime, and Hajime, already drunk by then, had shrugged and then shouted cheese, they have cheese in Wisconsin, over the music, his head thrown back in laughter, and Tooru felt like he’d missed the joke).

The floors were oddly sticky and the house had been lit in neon: pink, green, blue, and Tooru resigned himself to watching—Hajime, with his friends from orgo, his morning and night gym partner (morning and night, Iwa-chan, really?), the 6’7” guy on the football team from kinesiology—Hajime’s hand on his shoulder, his waist, his cheek, and then nowhere to be seen.

They left after the fourth play of Thrift Shop (I can’t take this fucking song again, Iwaizumi)—it had been 1, 2 in the morning by then; a wave of hot, dry air flooding Tooru’s mouth as they stepped outside, the sky faintly purple.

Somehow, they’d made it back to Hajime’s apartment—the 10-minute walk there turned into a 30-minute walk back, with the occasional keel over on a light post (what is this horrible American thing, the one they called forest juice—no, jungle juice? Tooru had said, wrinkling his nose, and Hajime, always the smart one, had laughed, and then said you should try some).

At the door, Hajime had fumbled his keys, dropped them, said fuck, stood there a second too long, then shouted FUCK! and Tooru winced, but he had picked up his keys after that.

He made it to the bathroom, eight shots of Tito’s Vodka and some god awful mix of Whiteclaw and Hi-C and Monster burning in his throat, Tooru left standing awkwardly in the common room, for 15, 20 minutes, before he decided to push open the bathroom door, Iwaizumi’s head planted firmly underneath the showerhead. He’d been calmer, then, than he had been before, more resigned—he’d turned when Tooru opened the door and smiled, eyes red-rimmed, slumping onto the floor, back pressed to the shower door.

“Have you been crying—” Oikawa started to say, but then “—Never mind.” He took a towel from where they’d been hanging next to the sink, said Here, Hajime, with such tenderness Hajime had begun to feel sick again. He knelt in front of Hajime and pressed the towel to his cheek, the steam cutting through his erratic breathing. The both of them went quiet, for a second, the warmth seeping into Hajime’s face, Tooru’s hand steady.

Hajime shifted, and Tooru’s hand dropped to the floor.

“Hajim—” Tooru started, his brow furrowed.

“Mateo’s probably wiped his ass on this one,” Hajime cut him off with a half-smile, still staring at the floor, unable to meet Oikawa’s eyes. “Never fucking does his laundry. ‘M gonna get herpes or something.”

“Gross,” Oikawa said, laughing softly, and Iwaizumi’s chest tightened.

Tooru paused and opened his mouth again, but stood up instead.

“Gimme a sec.” He dropped the hand towel in the laundry basket in the corner, and turned on the sink, washed his hands with his back turned to Hajime.

Hajime, for maybe the first time that night, lifted his gaze to stare at Tooru–it’s odd, how far away he’d seemed, muscle rippling under the cotton t-shirt he’d borrowed from Hajime earlier that day, somehow much taller than the boy from Sendai that Hajime had known.

Tooru turned the faucet off and watched the suds crawl down the drain, the bathroom falling back into silence. He looked up at himself in the cracked mirror, hands on the sink bowl.

“What happened to us, Hajime?”

The lighting in the room had been that shitty, garish, fluorescent yellow, and everything was unbearably silent. Hajime smiled, ruefully, eyelashes still wet, knees drawn to his chest, and shrugs.

“Nothing, really.” Hajime rubbed his thumb over his knuckles and watched the skin turn red-raw.

Tooru sighed and sat down next to Hajime.

“Should we try to keep it—” Tooru gestured aimlessly. “—whatever it is.” Iwaizumi had stayed silent, head unmoved, the showerhead dripping steadily. Tooru pressed his lips together into a thin line. “Just be honest with me, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi breathed in, shakily.

When was the last time you wanted someone?

“I don’t—I don’t think so.” He exhaled, bringing his hands to cover his face. “I don’t think so,” he repeats.

“I’m sorry, Tooru,” he’d said. “I’m sorry.”

He began to cry again, here—he’d wished, desperately, that he could have brought himself to be cruel, to have lied, to have said yes, we should. We can be better people.

“I’m sorry, too,” Tooru said quietly, and Hajime squeezed his eyes shut.

It felt surreal, the two of them on his bathroom floor, their ears still thrumming from the party, Tooru, rendered almost untouchable, Hajime still uncertain as to why. The both of them continued to sit, Iwaizumi’s head tipped back onto the cold shower door, his breathing slowly beginning to even out, Tooru tracing circles on the tile floor. Someone on the road outside had been blaring Drake as they drove by.

When we leave this room, it will be over, Hajime had known.

He’d watch Oikawa’s retreating back, and then he’d always be just out of reach. So they stayed.

Sometime after they said sorry, morning beginning to leak in through the windowsill, Tooru took Hajime’s head in his hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Hajime falls into Tooru’s arms—he couldn’t see Tooru’s face at this point, his cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his shirt, the steady rise and fall of Tooru’s chest.

“We’ll always be from Sendai, Hajime. We’ll always have that shitty sandlot where you first got poison ivy and we’ll always have the corner of the school roof where we can see our houses. We’ll always have stuff like that—stuff that’s ours, you know. Just ours.”

He tucked a piece of hair behind Hajime’s ear, index finger tracing the vertebrae at the base of his neck.

“You’ll always figure out a way to find me. I’ll figure out a way back to you. Only if you want.”

A kiss pressed to Hajime’s temple.

Hajime had been close, so close to passing out, from the alcohol, from crying, from his chest feeling as if it’d been torn open, over and over again, and Tooru had kissed his ribs, hands traveling from beating heart, bloodied flesh, fingernails dragged across his sternum.

“Tooru,” Hajime said.

Tooru, Tooru, Tooru. Sorry I couldn’t hold you. Sorry you’re holding me. Hajime does not remember the last time he had been held like this. He does not know if he will ever be able to be held like this, again. Don’t leave, Hajime wanted to say. But he knew he was the one who was leaving, the one who left, and Tooru knew this too, knew that Hajime could never bring himself to be cruel.

“Shh,” Tooru whispered, his voice a low hum against Hajime’s skull. He was crying too, Iwaizumi realizes in retrospect. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Where do I go from here?

Atsumu still finds him, after two nights in their ugly, government-assigned hotel in Shinjuku, even though Hajime had left without warning—he’d had Hajime’s number from the first day of training (so, is this strictly for work matters, Atsumu’d asked, two weeks into the season, and both Aran and Sakusa had scrunched their noses, but Hajime’d missed the point, and said yes, sure, whatever.)

So he sees Hajime, again, this time in a shitty hotel in Kōriyama—Iwaizumi’d been on the shinkansen, two stops away from Sendai Station, and decided he didn’t want to go home yet. He’d thought of facing his parents at the dinner table asking about Tooru-kun, having to pass the soft, glowing windows of the konbini he and Tooru would frequent after practice, and had promptly gotten off at the next stop.

He stood on the empty train platform watching the remainder of the sunrise, before realizing he did not know where he was—he’d let his legs carry him out of the station, and walked, taking whatever turn in the roads he’d felt like taking, cigarette smoke and engine exhaust floating around him. He had found a hotel, eventually, when it had been almost evening, and sunk into the mattress, the room smelling like disinfectant and industry lavender. He stayed there, until Atsumu had called him—it’d already been late by then, and Iwaizumi had picked up maybe out of desperation, and perhaps Atsumu had known this but chose not to mention it.

“Iwaizumi.”

“Atsumu.” Iwaizumi sits up on the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Listen, I’m sorr—”

Atsumu cuts him off. “Are you back in Sendai yet?”

Iwaizumi lets a lie half-form in his mouth. Then: “No, I’m not.”

Atsumu hums.

“Are you nearby, then?”

Iwaizumi reaches over to the hotel nightstand, flips open the leather-bound guide.

“Kind of?”

Atsumu waits for him to continue.

“I’m in—uh—Koriyama,” he finishes. “It’s on the Tohoku-Hokkaido line.”

“Are you giving me directions?” Atsumu says, and Iwaizumi can almost see the smile curled around his lips.

“Up to you,” Iwaizumi says.

“Alright,” Atsumu says. “Text me, then.”

The line goes flat.

Atsumu shows up outside his hotel door two hours later, holding a bottle of vodka in one hand and his suitcase in the other.

“You’re actually here,” Iwaizumi says when he opens the door, his jaw slack, a hand running through his hair.

“Yes,” Atsumu replies. “Are you going to invite me in?”

“You’re not a fucking vampire,” Hajime says, opening the door wider. Atsumu walks into the room, and Hajime follows.

“Shit room,” Atsumu says, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders.

“It’s what they had open,” Hajime responds, irritatedly. “Why didn’t you go home, anyway?”

“I could ask you the same. Two stops from Sendai?” Atsumu raises an eyebrow, and when Hajime doesn’t say anything, continues. “I don’t live that far from Shinjuku. Had some time to kill.” Hajime must’ve looked as if the answer Atsumu had given was somehow unsatisfactory because Atsumu sighs. “No one’s really waiting for me, anyway,” he ends, with a laugh.

“That’s not true,” Hajime counters, arms crossed. “Osamu’s probably made you a celebratory onigiri tower or something, and now it’s getting cold and rotten because you’re an asshole.”

Atsumu shrugs. “You know what I mean, Hajime.” He takes the liberty of falling onto the bed, chin tipped back, his throat exposed. “Come on, I’ll be gone in the morning.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “Payback?”

Atsumu smiles, strangely. “Yeah, payback.”

Iwaizumi switches off the light by the bed, falling into the mattress, next to Atsumu. The room had been on one of the top floors, overlooking the train lines, the city glittering, Atsumu backlit, his body washed in indigo. Atsumu reaches out to brush a thumb against Hajime’s cheekbone.

“You’re beautiful, Hajime,” he whispers. Iwaizumi closes his eyes.

Morning comes quickly, dawn grey and faded, a ribbon of pale pink threaded through the skyline.

Atsumu was awake by then, already dressed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, back turned to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi, still not entirely conscious, and maybe still half-drunk, grabs the back of Atsumu’s shirt, Atsumu brought to a standstill, hands shaking.

Hajime’s desperation disgusts him, the feeling intensely alien—the tightness of his grip, his face still buried in the comforter, eyes squeezed shut. He thinks, strangely, that if Atsumu were to reach out and cup his face in his hands, he would begin to cry. He is thankful, then, that Atsumu does not move to touch him, just barely leans into Hajime’s outstretched hand, before moving away again.

“Later, Hajime.”

A temple kiss, and then the shut door.

Iwaizumi lies there for the remainder of the day, watching early dawn bleed into the bright cerulean of afternoon, the sun hitting his face loud enough to make him wince. He aimlessly scrolls through his phone until it dies, forgets to comment on Hinata’s Instagram post, plays maybe 20 levels of Candy Crush.

Sometime after sunset, he pulls himself to the bathroom, finds himself halfway in the shower. He’s still dressed, the water running down his shirt, the cold slipping between his shoulder blades, the cotton sticking uncomfortably to his skin. One hand pressed to the wall and the other on the water valve, his body hunched over.

I should move, he thinks. I should move.

He thinks of Atsumu’s hand wrapped around his thigh, fingernails dragged across the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes. The water begins to drip down his forearms, spilling out onto the bathroom floor, outside the shower curtain, where he will have to clean it up later, silently, with no one to witness. He will be gone the next morning, and then some lonely businessman with a failing marriage will lie here, and then a college student on the way to the airport, and then parents on a rare date night, and no one will have ever seen him.

C’mon, Hajime, he whispers to himself, a tremor in his voice, and is overcome with revulsion for himself. He cannot remember the last time he had let himself be touched. He becomes aware of this, suddenly, in all its weight, its ugliness, and lets the water run over his skin, its half-hearted warmth, and lets himself pretend that he is not lonely.

Say you want me.

Even if it’s a lie, Hajime?

Even then.

I want you, Hajime-kun. I want you. I want you.

“You love, easily,” Atsumu says, one night in Hajime’s rundown studio rental in Kawasaki. They’d hardly spoken since they’d both been in Koriyama—it’s winter now, and Atsumu has no reason to be Hajime’s apartment, but he is, anyway. He’s leaning on his elbows on Hajime’s kitchen counter, playing with the matching salt and pepper shakers, his tone light. There’s takeout, barely touched, on the kitchen counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Hajime says, dully.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Atsumu waves his hand.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Okay.”

Atsumu straightens up, then, and points a finger at Iwaizumi, half-accusatory, and half-joking.

“You know, Hajime-chan.” Atsumu steps closer to him, and Hajime’s breath catches in his throat. Atsumu is tall, just a little taller than Oikawa, his eyes a cooler shade of brown in the evening. “If it’s any reassurance, I think we’re the same, in some way.”

“We barely know each other, Atsumu.”

“C'mon, don't pretend to be mysterious, Iwaizumi,” Atsumu replies. “Why’d you give me your address, when I asked?”

“Because you fucking wanted it?”

Atsumu frowns, comically. “Is that it?”

Iwaizumi’s face flushes. “You piss me off, sometimes.”

“Ha. That’s why you like me so much, though.”

“I don’t like you.”

Atsumu’s mouth drops open.

“So brash!” He doesn’t look particularly bothered, though. Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose.

“C’mon Hajime, tell me the truth. A part of it, even. Or don’t tell me at all, I don’t care.” Atsumu’s voice changes, then. Soft, gentle. Autumn warmth. A hand slipped in Hajime’s jacket pocket. Crudely drawn kanji in a sandbox. “As long as you know it. That’s all that matters. You’re a no-nonsense type, anyway.”

“I’m not—I don’t—” Hajime’s voice falters, then. Atsumu smiles, almost sadly. He reaches into a takeout container and grabs a french fry. Iwaizumi watches as he squints at it, sticks his tongue out, and then tosses it in the trash.

“What?” Atsumu asks. “It was cold.”

“I—” Iwaizumi frowns. Atsumu continues rooting around in the plastic bags on the counter.

Iwaizumi stares at Atsumu, the kitchen ceiling too low for both of them, Atsumu’s head gently knocking the cabinets. The whole thing is almost domestic, Atsumu humming to himself as he roots around in the refrigerator drawers—Iwaizumi blinks, once, twice, tries to remember that the two of them are playing a game.

I’m not sure if I loved him—I just wanted to love someone, or think I was in love with someone.

His body could be right next to mine, my cheek pressed into his chest, his hand on my back, and he would still be far away.

“Half of these condiments are expired,” Atsumu says, wrinkling his nose, as he closes the refrigerator. “You don’t seem like the type to have a 2-year old jar of Kewpie, but everyone seems to be surprising me these days.”

I wanted to love someone who I was certain would not love me back in the way I loved them. I could pretend my love for them was not true, in a sense.

“I—I haven’t been going to the grocery store that often. You’ll live,” Iwaizumi responds. His voice sounds far away to him. Atsumu doesn’t seem to pick up on it, though.

I loved him, I love you, even, in a way that I am not sure is entirely real.

But I love you I loved him I love and I love and I love—

“Do you think someone’s always watching us, Iwaizumi? Someone used to tell me that. I think that’s what his grandmother said. You know, I don’t think he believed in it all that much, he was just the kind of guy who’d do the things he should, regardless. Nevermind, it doesn’t matter what he thinks—I’m asking you.”

Atsumu’s thumb swipes across Iwaizumi’s forehead. He’s frowning.

“Iwaizumi?”

It’s easy to see that, now.

The day Tooru had left, Hajime watched him step over the foyer, morning light pouring into his living room. He’d seen Tooru walking onto the court on their last high school volleyball game, Tooru boarding his one-way flight to Argentina at the Tokyo Airport, Tooru’s back turned to the TV screen, CA San Juan carved into his shoulders—Tooru, now, still flooded with light, Hajime’s hands rendered empty.

He had closed the door, gently, after a last smile, and shut his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cool wood. The morning had been oddly cold, the pale blue of California shuddering. His roommate had texted him, he’d be coming home late, that Hajime had better make use of his alone time. He’d read the texts and then threw his phone on the couch, choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. He felt his knees go slack on the carpet, his body shaking, and had let a broken please escape from his mouth. He’d shut his eyes, thought how pitiful. He’d asked again, unsure of who he was talking to, please, the room intensely silent, and it had all felt like a cruel joke, the roof of his mouth bloodied.

Please, please, please.

He sees Tooru that same winter, outside their childhood homes.

Iwaizumi’s mom had insisted on seeing him, said he still had some boxes of important things at the house (my middle school volleyball trophies are not that important, he’d said on the phone, and she’d clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and said come home anyway, your father misses you!), so he finds himself on a 6 AM train, falling asleep with his cheek pressed to his window.

He’s in Sendai by 9, his mom pulling him into a hug, his father smiling at the kitchen table, tamagoyaki, miso soup, and white rice neatly laid out in front of them. His mother tells him he looks skinnier, reassures him that they’ll have chashu for dinner that night—his dad asks about the Olympics, Iwaizumi tells them it was great, all sorts of fun. He makes his way back to his childhood bedroom and hovers in the doorway; his bookshelf still filled with old Weekly Shonen Jumps, the occasional English textbook, medals and trophies from high school volleyball. A postcard Oikawa had bought him as a joke when he found out he’d gotten into Irvine is still somewhere in his desk drawer, tickets from the match where they’d met Jose Blanco—he stands there, his eyes scanning the room, until his phone buzzes.

9:41 AM
bro where the fuck are you

9:41 AM
:/

i’m literally at ur house

9:42 AM
Don’t b rude

brought u a nutritious breakfast of mcdonald’s soy milk
and an egg mcmuffin cause i was feeling nice

9:45 AM
Wait what the fuck so i just came here for nothing

So rude hajime-kun :( i feel abandoned

9:46 AM
I’ll live i guess

bring me back a souvenir

9:52 AM
A formal apology note for my suffering

No i'm joking

idk what is there in sendai

Anything u think i’d like !!!!

9:55 AM
bruh

Hajime sighs and drops his bag on the floor. He throws himself onto his bed, face-down. His mom knocks on the door, and he grunts a response.

“Your dad and I are gonna go grocery shopping, be back in a couple of hours.”

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says, and flips around on his back, his mom’s footsteps growing quieter. He looks up at the ceiling and sees a smatter of glow-in-the-dark stars, dusty and beginning to peel.

He should’ve known it’d be a mistake, then, to step outside.

He sees Oikawa first, walking up the sidewalk, and freezes on the doorstep. Oikawa’s pace, too, slows, but by then it’d been too late for either of them to pretend they hadn’t seen the other.

“Hajime,” Oikawa says. “You—when did you come back?”

Hajime, still shocked into silence, clears his throat. “Uh—this morning. Just for the weekend. You—why are you—?”

“Wanted to see Takeru,” Oikawa explains, before Hajime can ask. Hajime takes a moment to think of a response—they’d barely talked since Oikawa’d been to California, save for the occasional drunk text or call.

“Ah. He’s still in college, right?”

Oikawa nods. “You look good,” Oikawa continues, offhandedly enough to make Hajime stare. “Are you—want to go get lunch?” Tooru asks, and Iwaizumi’s chest tightens at the tentativeness in Oikawa’s voice. “I can pay.”

Iwaizumi’s shoulders fall a little.

“I’m not that broke, Oikawa.”

“Is that a yes?” Oikawa looks at him, tilting his head to the side.

Iwaizumi swallows and turns around to check if his door is locked. He spins back to meet Tooru’s eyes, his nose buried in his knock-off Burberry and cheeks stained red from the cold.

“Yes. Sure.” God, fuck.

Oikawa smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Cool. Anywhere you missed?”

“You can choose.” Iwaizumi steps onto the sidewalk, and Oikawa moves to make space for him. It feels achingly familiar, and Hajime’s breath catches.

Oikawa brings him to a quiet, upscale cafe on the edge of the city. They sit down by the window between a group of schoolgirls animatedly talking with school papers spread out on their table, and an old man reading some thick philosophy book.

Hajime watches as Tooru takes the lid off his coffee cup, stirring in cream and sugar until the coffee turns pale.

“Are you lonely, Hajime?” Oikawa asks lightly, snapping the lid back on his cup. He’d asked the way he asks everything lightly—an upward lilt to the end of every sentence, the distinct feeling that every conversation with him would not matter the day after.

Hajime brings his head up to look at Tooru, wondering whether to answer truthfully. Has he been lonely? Yes, he thinks. Yes, I’ve been lonely. How am I supposed to tell you that, though? He clicks his tongue, and turns to look out the window—it’s raining, the slow kind, and Hajime watches a woman run across the intersection holding a plastic binder on her head before turning back to look at Oikawa.

“I—” he begins, but Tooru waves his hand.

“Nevermind. You don’t have to tell me.”

“But I—” Iwaizumi interjects, and frowns.

“Actually, I wanted to ask something else,” Tooru says, and Hajime pauses, taking another drink from his coffee cup. “Should I say I miss you, Hajime?” He pauses and then shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I meant—can I say I miss you?”

Hajime raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not stopping you from saying anything,” Hajime says, almost brusquely, but then regrets it, his expression softening again. “Listen, I—I miss you, Oikawa. I’m just—I'm just not sure it’s in the way someone would want to be missed.” He looks down at the table again. There’s a scratch on the metal surface. His distorted face stares back at him.

“I understand,” Oikawa replies. A pause. “I miss you too, Hajime.” Hajime tears his gaze away from the scratch on the table and stares at Oikawa’s smile.

“Okay,” Hajime says.

Okay. What a stupid thing to say. He can’t think of anything else.

“So,” Hajime tries, again. “How’s Argentina been?”

“It’s been alright,” Oikawa answers.

“Just alright?” Hajime responds, and then winces—they’d never been suited for small-talk, familiarity laced delicately in their throats.

“Mhm.”

The conversation had ended there, but neither of them had made a move to leave the cafe, knowing either of their excuses would have fallen flat, been obvious lies. They continued to sit there for a long time, their hands restless, the afternoon full of dropped glances, what are we doing running through both of their heads.

At some point, Hajime’s mom calls him, tells him that they’re going to start making dinner soon. He gets up from his chair, and Oikawa looks up at him.

“I’m glad we talked, Oikawa.”

Oikawa’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “Me too.”

“I’ll see you around, then? Maybe I’ll even go to San Juan, visit you. Haven’t been on vacation in a while.”

Tooru laughs. “Yeah, sure. You know you can call me.”

Iwaizumi smiles, still a bit uneasy. “Say hi to Takeru for me.”

“Of course. Well, goodbye then. Tell Iwaizumi-san I miss her.”

Hajime snorts. “Don’t flirt with my mom.”

Tooru smiles, again, and Hajime leaves the cafe. He turns back once he’s on the other side of the road and looks at Oikawa through the window. A woman hurries past him, knocks him on the shoulder. He stares, the rain drumming on his jacket hood, Oikawa lit in the soft orange of the cafe.

He lifts a hand, then, to wave, before realizing Oikawa would not be able to see him. He shoves his hand in his jacket pocket, and walks as fast as he can in the other direction, breathing suddenly shallow. He somehow remembers the way home, even in the rain—he’s almost running, forgets to read the streetlight a couple times. He raps his knuckles on the door, once, twice, somehow feeling both overwhelmed and startingly vacant. His mother swings open the door, smiling brightly before she sees Hajime’s face, rainwater running down his temples.

“Hajime, what’s wrong?”

“I—” He stumbles over the entrance. His mother wraps her arms around him, and he begins to cry into her shoulder, his shoulders heaving, their foyer smelling like jasmine and a faraway summer. He opens his mouth to try to speak, again, his nose pressed to the soft fabric of her sweater.

“Shh. You don’t have to tell me,” she says, rubbing a hand on his back, and the very tenderness of it all makes him feel as if his chest is splintering—he wants to run, he wants to take the next train out, get off at the wrong station, let his studio apartment fall into ruins. He wants to stay in Sendai forever, draw pretend constellations on a grassy hill, skin his knees on the pavement. He wants to be held like a child again.

“Oh, Hajime,” she sighs, “my baby.” She pulls him even closer to herself, then, his body shaking. “Did anyone hurt you?” she asks, and he thinks nobody. Nobody has hurt me, and this is the truth. “Shh,” she whispers.

He does not know exactly what he is mourning, just the feeling of loss, aching, white-hot in his chest.

He goes back to Kawasaki the next Monday, his mother sending him off with a stern warning to call her every weekend and neatly wrapped onigiri for the train ride. He hugged her back, tightly, and said thank you, and she’d simply nodded and made a shooing motion with her hand, and he was grateful for that.

Atsumu shows up at his apartment within one hour of him arriving, a McDonald’s bag in his hand, his smile lopsided.

“How was your trip, Hajime-kun?”

“Alright,” Iwaizumi responds.

“Did you bring me anything?”

Oh, fuck.

“I, uh—” he digs around in his bag, thrown unceremoniously on the floor. “Pringles?”

Atsumu frowns as he reaches over and takes the can, but he doesn’t seem all that disappointed. He sits on the sofa, next to Iwaizumi, placing his McDonald’s bag on the coffee table.

“Iwaizumi,” Atsumu begins, holding the Pringles up to the light, “if these had been cheddar, or maybe even pizza-flavored, I’d have forgiven you. So, why are they plain?”

“Too much sodium is bad for you,” Iwaizumi replies.

Atsumu scrunches his nose. “You’re not even my trainer anymore.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. Atsumu opens the can and eats a chip, then pushes the McDonald’s bag on the table closer to Hajime.

“Eat.”

Iwaizumi peers half-heartedly into the bag. Soy milk. Egg McMuffin.

Atsumu gasps, affronted at Hajime’s skeptical glance.

“It’s a new Egg McMuffin.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hajime replies, and Atsumu sticks his tongue out. Hajime raises an eyebrow. “You know what, I’m actually not that hungry. Thanks, though. That’s nice of you.”

“I’m nice,” Atsumu affirms, and Hajime looks at him, disbelieving, before sinking back into the sofa.

“So, listen,” Iwaizumi begins.

“Did something happen in Sendai?” Atsumu asks.

“Yeah, actually—” Iwaizumi frowns, “—how did you know?”

“Eh, just could tell,” Atsumu shrugs, “it had to do with Oikawa, right?” He slides the McDonald’s bag over back to his side of the table. “You gonna eat this?” Hajime shakes his head. “I’m kinda hungry, so, hope you don’t mind,” Atsumu says, unwrapping the sandwich.

“You do that, Atsumu.”

“Wanna tal’ abou’ it?” Atsumu asks, his mouth full.

“No, not really.” Hajime grimaces.

“Okay, then,” Atsumu replies, swallowing. “Whatever you want. I’m cool with anything.” He frowns at his half-eaten sandwich, a realization dawning over him. “Hey, do you have gum?”

“Just go brush your teeth,” Iwaizumi says, scrunching his nose. Atsumu does.

Atsumu comes back to the living room minutes later, lingering in the doorway, cocks his head to the side as he stares at Hajime— Hajime looks back up at him, expectant. Atsumu pauses, stares at the sparsely decorated living room, the light streaming in from the single window, the half-dead monstera plant in the corner, the cup of tea gone cold on the kitchen table. Everything had seemed almost transient, then, Hajime’s black hair washed out in the pale morning, Atsumu’s head spinning.

“We’re just doing this for fun, right, Hajime-kun?” Atsumu takes a step closer to where Hajime’s sitting on the couch. “You’re fun, Hajime. Wouldn’t want that to change.” He’s standing over Hajime now, his hand tipping Iwaizumi’s head back. “It’s okay that you don’t see me. I don’t see you all that often either, if we’re being truthful.”

“For fun, Atsumu.”

“That’s good, Hajime-kun,” Atsumu whispers, his mouth right by Hajime’s ear. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He shifts his weight onto the couch, then, his hand moving from under Iwaizumi’s chin to his collarbone, the other dug into the cushions. Iwaizumi looks up at Atsumu, his eyes emerald-green in the early afternoon light, and Atsumu stops, swallows the name threatening to spill from his tongue.

Hajime smiles, ruefully, runs his thumb over Atsumu’s brow.

“It’s okay. You can say his name, Atsumu. I don’t care.” He really doesn’t, he realizes. Nor can he bring himself to try to.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Atsumu says, his voice cracking.

“No, I mean it. It’s okay,” Hajime answers, tone gentle, “we both know why we’re here.”

He takes Atsumu’s face in his hands, then, and presses a kiss to Atsumu’s forehead. “You can kiss me,” he says, and Atsumu leans in again, his hand moving to wrap around Hajime’s throat. “You can call me anything you want, Atsumu.”

They only had their bodies, then—dirty, used, wanting so desperately to be something more. Their mouths strung open, empty, with longing.

“The club season starts in a couple of weeks,” Atsumu mentions, offhandedly, on a February morning. They were sitting at the kitchen table, newspapers and tabloids from the newsstand on the corner haphazardly stacked by the edge, dried poppies that Hajime had meant to throw out stuck in a mason jar in the center. He drums his fingers on the table.

“Ah,” Iwaizumi says, watching the steam billow from his cup of tea, the remnants of the tea leaves spinning in the morning light. “When are you going back to Osaka, then?”

Atsumu purses his lips, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “Tonight, actually,” he says, guiltily. “Meant to, uh, tell you earlier—lost track of time, I guess.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “It’s okay, I don’t really care.”

“Mean, Iwa-chan,” Atsumu answers, so casually that Hajime almost doesn’t react. He blinks, once, twice, the room sliding back into focus, Atsumu still unaware. Iwa-chan—it’d been Iwaizumi-san, then Hajime-kun, sometimes Haji-kun, Iwa-kun, never Iwa-chan, and it’s almost a cruel joke, the I’m leaving, then Iwa-chan. His gaze flips back to his tea.

“Do you want me to go to your place, help you pack? You don’t have much here, so,” Iwaizumi says.

“It’s okay, Osamu helped me clean up the place a few nights ago. Made him lift all the boxes.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “Who’s the athlete, again?”

Atsumu hums. “You have to rest, Hajime-kun! You should know that, you’re the trainer.” Iwaizumi’s chest falls slightly at the Hajime-kun, despite himself.

“Right,” Hajime says. The room falls back into silence. “What time is your train, again? I can drive you. Osamu shipped most of your stuff, so whatever’s left will probably fit in the backseat.”

“How courteous,” Atsumu says, lightly. Iwaizumi reaches for the kettle and pours the rest of the water into his cup. It’d already gone cold by then.

He drives Atsumu to the train station like he promised—Atsumu had insisted on Hajime playing him his favorite “American” artists because he’d been wanting to practice his English and he trusted Hajime—he plays Billie Holiday (Ushijima actually showed this song to me, he tells Atsumu, in California), changes it to Bad Bunny after Atsumu says you’re so glum, Hajime!, turning up the volume when Atsumu protests with a how is this going to help me with my English?

Iwaizumi turns the radio down as they pull into Kawasaki station—Atsumu gets out, first, and Hajime follows, opening the trunk. Atsumu takes one of his bags and slings them over his shoulder, Hajime dropping the other one on the curb. He closes the trunk and turns to look at Atsumu. The sun was setting by then, Atsumu’s face flushed pale pink. He picks up Atsumu’s bag and hands it to him.

“Thanks for the ride, Hajime-kun,” Atsumu says, “I enjoyed the, ah, what was it, Bad Bunny? Very nice.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hajime mutters, hand on the nape of his neck.

“I had a good time,” Atsumu says.

“I did, too,” Iwaizumi echoes. “It’s already 4:30, by the way.”

“I know, Hajime.”

“Wouldn’t want you to miss the train,” he adds, scuffing the heel of his shoe.

“I’m going to kiss you, now,” Atsumu says, leaning in, Hajime’s chin tipped back before he could respond. He pulls away after a second, his honey chapstick sweet on Hajime’s lips. “Goodbye, Hajime.”

Hajime watches Atsumu disappear behind the revolving door, and realizes he forgot to say it back.

As soon as he gets home, Iwaizumi takes the flask of Sunset Rum that Yaku had gifted him, from the back of his kitchen cupboard—he digs through his refrigerator and finds another 3 cans of Sapporo, for some reason all mismatched, and a half-empty bottle of Sprite, and brings everything into his bedroom. He sits on his floor, unscrews the bottle of Sunset Rum, the smell making him wince, and pours his first shot. Then the Sprite, which had gone flat. He leans into the foot of his mattress, the alcohol burning in his stomach.

“‘M drunk,” Iwaizumi says, the line clicking softly before Atsumu can say anything.

“Oh, fun,” Atsumu says airily, “my apartment’s fine, by the way. Saw a cat close to the train station. Got some yakisoba but then dropped it—very embarrassing thing to do, in case you didn’t know.” He pauses, listens to Hajime’s breathy laugh. A group of college students, Atsumu guesses, stumble out of the karaoke bar across the street, half-yelling, half-singing a ONE OK ROCK song.

“Where ‘re you,” Hajime asks, voice fading in and out.

“I’m just standing outside my building,” Atsumu explains, “needed some air. Think the people below me are smokers.”

“Nasty,” Iwaizumi says. “‘M sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Anyway, why’d you call?” Atsumu asks. Iwaizumi hears a car rush by and imagines Atsumu wrapping himself tighter in the worn cotton of the only sweatshirt he seemed to have. “Iwaizumi?”

“I was going to ask a favor,” Hajime begins, hating the words as they leave his mouth, but by then he’d already gone too far.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Can you—” Iwaizumi struggles to find a way to finish his sentence, “it’s just that this morning, you said something that reminded me of—” he stops short, here.

“Ah,” Atsumu hums, in the vacuum of Hajime’s silence. “Iwa-kun, no–Iwa-chan, right?” Iwaizumi presses his thumb and index finger to his shut eyes. “I could tell,” Atsumu continues, “you froze, kind of, but I didn’t want to press.”

“Can you—can you say it, again—” he inhales sharply. “I won’t ask again, I promise. I just—needed—need to hear it.”

“I can do that,“ Atsumu says, quietly. If he’s angry, his voice doesn’t show it—Atsumu’d known, the both of them had known what they were doing. Hajime presses his phone to his cheek until the warmth hurts, and shuts his eyes, breath bated. He thinks, distantly, of the apology he owes Atsumu, Atsumu and his unrelenting kindness that Hajime felt he was wholly undeserving of.

“You should sleep soon, Iwa-chan,” he whispers. His voice is just a bit deeper than Tooru’s, less sing-songy. “It’s late,” he continues, and Iwaizumi sinks back into his mattress, stares at his ceiling fan spinning in the dark-purple of his room. “I’ll probably go to the grocery store tomorrow, try not to drop yakisoba on the street, buy something for Osamu as a thank you because he’s nice some of the time, actually—” he pauses here, waiting for Iwaizumi to say something.

“Should I keep going—” Atsumu says, and Iwaizumi says, yes, please, I’m sorry, an evening chill slipping under his windowsill, the hardwood floor creaking. “Okay, I’ll stay on the line for a bit. I’m running out of things to say, though.”

“That’s fine,” Iwaizumi mumbles, “tell me about—just say anything. Anythin’,” he repeats, the word slurring in his mouth. He’s on the brink of falling asleep, Atsumu’s voice both gentle and alien, a vestige of his past, a half-formed future.

“Okay,” Atsumu responds. “I’ll just keep talking until you go to sleep, then.”

“Sure,” Hajime mutters, almost incomprehensible. Atsumu turns the volume all the way up on his phone.

“You know, I like Osaka, a lot, actually. It’s pretty close to my hometown, so maybe I shouldn’t like it that much. Maybe it makes me boring, but,” Atsumu exhales, “it’s nice. It’s more crowded here. I don’t know if you’d like that though, you seem like a countryside guy. Maybe you should start a garden on your balcony or something. Send me a tomato once in a while.”

Iwaizumi laughs, quietly.

“Sometimes I think I like the city so much because I like watching people,” Atsumu continues, “not in a creepy way, you know, just—you notice things, and it’s always fun to me. I think I see things that other people don’t see, sometimes. You see the worst parts of people, but I think it makes them interesting. You’re like that, too, Haj—Iwa-chan. When it comes to the whole seeing everything in other people. It can be a lot, though. Nowhere to go, really. Just people, and more people.”

Iwaizumi’s breath on the other side of the line was slow, even, by then, and Atsumu’s finger hovers over the end call button, but pauses.

“It can be lonely, sometimes,” Atsumu whispers, “but you knew that already.”

The static crackles.

“Anyway, goodnight, Hajime.”

Atsumu brings a hand to his face as he tips his head back, letting the violet air wash over his face, neon flickering in his periphery. He can’t bring himself to hang up, yet.

Iwaizumi stirs, slowly, light flitting in through his blinds. He winces, brings a hand to his head, pain blooming scarlet between his temples. What did I—he reaches for his phone, falling back into the mattress, and sees Miya Atsumu—outgoing, 1hr 2mins, 2:37 AM. He drops his phone back onto the nightstand and stares at the crack in his ceiling.

He knows that he will not see Atsumu for a long time, let alone text, call him—maybe they would, one day, far into the future, run into each other at a 7-11, and say hey, how’s it going, remember when we’d fuck but not really 'cause we were hung up on our high school exes, or maybe at another volleyball match, Hajime standing in the bleachers, Atsumu looking at him before sending service ace across the court, his fist pumped in victory. Maybe they would only just barely see each other in a train station, somewhere that was not Kawasaki or Osaka or Shinjuku, Atsumu headed east and Hajime south, and Hajime would only recognize Atsumu as their trains pulled into the station, and it’d be like they’d never been there in the first place.

Hajime shuts his eyes, again, letting the morning warmth gently unfurl on his chest. He pulls himself up, comforter falling to the floor, his body aching—he sways slightly from what was left of the alcohol. He steadies himself, tilts his head back, then gathers what’s left of him, and waits to be moved forward.

I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, really.

Which parts?

Any of it—us, him.

There was love there, though, Hajime. There was always love there.

I know, Tooru. I know.