Work Text:
just ‘cause the party’s over
“You’ve been so obvious today, it’s disgusting,” Matsukawa mutters under his breath. Hajime sits up in his seat and shoots him a look, scowl permanently etched on his face.
“What are you talking about?”
Matsukawa scoffs, glancing back with narrowed eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re really that dense or if you’re just so desperate to hide your feelings for Oikawa.”
Hajime rolls his eyes and looks back down at his paper, the blush topping his cheeks indicating it was definitely the latter. Matsukawa muffles a laugh in his sleeve, and he feels Hajime kick his shin from under the table.
“Just ask him out,” Matsukawa replies, leaning underneath to soothe the wound.
“Ask Hanamaki out,” Hajime counters, leaning back on his chair with his arms folded across his chest. He’s looking smug now, but Matsukawa waves his hand breezily.
“That’s different,” Matsukawa responds with ease. “We don’t hide our feelings. We both know we want to bone each other.” Hajime blinks at him. “We just don’t feel like doing anything about it right now.”
He’s shaking his head. “You’re both idiots.”
“No worse than you,” Matsukawa grins. “Oh, look. Speak of the devil and his minion.”
“Who’s the devil we’re talking about?” Oikawa walks into the library with a cheery smile. He approaches the table, Hanamaki hot on his trail. Oikawa plops down on the seat beside Iwaizumi, quickly reaching his arm over the back of his chair where Hajime visibly tenses. Oikawa, however, appears to ignore it and continues to talk to Matsukawa. “Is he as hot as I think he is?”
“Considering I’m talking about Makki, yes. He is very hot,” Matsukawa states plainly. Oikawa frowns and looks over at Hajime for confirmation, who merely shrugs.
“I accept this role, as it is a fact,” Hanamaki smiles, sitting up straight in his seat beside Matsukawa. “What are you guys talking about?”
“I was just trying to tell Iwaizumi here that --”
“He has no idea what we’re doing in literature and that I could help him this weekend with revisions before our exam on Monday.”
Matsukawa opens his mouth to retaliate, but instead he grins and turns to face Hanamaki. “Actually, Makki, would you mind assisting me on revisions this weekend?”
Hanamaki looks at him with a raised brow. “You’re… better at literature than I am?”
His friend shrugs, clearly trying to look . “Maybe I’m just using it as an excuse to hang out with you.” Hanamaki, cheeks turning as pink as his own hair, hums, nodding in consideration. “We can grab food after class. Like a date. And then pretend to do revisions afterwards.”
“Huh,” Hanamaki continues to nod, eyes wide and focused on the table in front of him. Iwaizumi and Oikawa watch with awe at the scene in front of them. “I would like to grab food with you. Like a date. And pretend to do revisions after. You’re talking about, like, kissing, right?”
He had been thinking about a movie but: “Yeah, I think kissing you would be cool,” Matsukawa says, voice suddenly quiet with disbelief; what had started as teasing Iwaizumi was turning into something much more in his favor than he had expected.
“Cool. So it’s a date. The food and the kissing.”
“Right,” Hanamaki says, pressing his lips together to refrain from smiling too big.
They’re all quiet as they bask in the moment, and it quickly becomes awkward, so Oikawa (being Oikawa) sighs loudly.
“You guys are disgusting,” Oikawa groans.
Matsukawa shakes his head, as if waking up from a reverie. He smiles wickedly at Hajime, who braces himself for the impact. “Funny, I was just saying that to Iwaizumi.”
Oikawa, however, chooses to ignore this, and continues to complain instead. “Can’t believe you asked Makki on a date in front of us,” he scoffs. “Couldn’t you have confessed like normal people? Under the Japanese maple with a pink love letter?”
Matsukawa and Hanamaki exchange a look with each other, and Hajime is frozen, watching a trainwreck happen before his eyes. It’s too late when he realizes that his life is the train in this metaphor.
“Is that how you want to be confessed to then, Oikawa?” They don’t miss the brief look he passes to Iwaizumi, who’s far too focused on the staring contest he’s having with Matsukawa and his damn eyebrows.
“I -- It’s not like I’ve thought about it! But I’m always confessed to under that stupid tree,” he suddenly begins to grumble. “I guess it’d be nice to be confessed to… in a different way.”
It’s all Hajime can think about on his way home, Tooru right beside them, shoulders brushing every few steps. He’s completely conscious of the way Tooru’s arm warms him up in the afternoon spring breeze.
They’re at the juncture where they typically separate, and Tooru’s name leaves Hajime’s mouth, soft and desperate and fading in the wind.
“Yeah?” Tooru asks, staring at Hajime. He looks expectant, waiting, hopeful , even. But Hajime’s an idiot, it seems, because he’s standing there a bit too long. Tooru steps in front of Hajime, the toes of their shoes nearly touching, and he waves his hand in front of Hajime’s face. “Iwa-chan are you --”
Hajime grabs his wrist gently and holds it in the space between them. Slowly, he brings it down, fingers tracing the hem of his sleeve, grazing the miniscule gap between the linen and Tooru’s skin, before tracing the back of his delicate setter hands and taking his fingers into his.
The contrast is startling to experience and Hajime looks down at their hands, fingers tracing each other to memorize each scar, each freckle, each callous and wrinkle. The difference is astounding; Hajime’s hands are large and thick, rough and heavy, and he's so busy staring, he barely recognizes it when Tooru’s slim, graceful fingers are squeezing his.
“Iwa-chan?”
“I’m in love with you,” he murmurs, eyes wide and slowly tracing the outline of his body, reluctant to see Tooru’s face. But he can’t stop Tooru from putting a chin on his finger to lift his head, forcing him to gaze into the beautiful, happy expression directed towards him.
“I thought I’d have to confess to you myself, Iwa-chan,” Tooru mumbles, cupping his jaw.
“Jerk,” Hajime huffs with a laugh, and he grins wider when he feels the warmth of his breath bounce back to him; that’s how close Tooru is standing in front him. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“Silly Iwa-chan,” Tooru chuckles with a tilt of the head. “I don’t confess to people, people confess to me.” Hajime rolls his eyes and almost pushes him away. Almost . “But I think I would’ve done it myself if you hadn’t confessed by the end of second year.”
“Guess we’ll never know, will we?”
“Guess not.”
just cause we quit while we’re ahead
“You’re going to Argentina.”
Tooru’s looking out the window, half his body still wrapped up in the blanket they shared last night, and the many previous nights before that. There’s a sag to his shoulders, something so unfamiliar to Hajime.
Tooru always stood so tall. He commanded a presence from anyone in the vicinity; it was been impossible to keep your eyes away from him too long. People just gravitate towards him. Hajime was no different.
He supposes, neither was Argentina.
“It’s a great team,” Tooru says. He shifts his head, and Hajime can just see the profile of his face in the dark, only a single streetlight outside of his bedroom window lighting a shamefully unattractive light onto the side of Tooru’s face. It makes him look more serious, more subdued, so unlike the Tooru that Hajime has always known and loved.
“Yeah, I bet,” Hajime mutters. He’s angry. He’s allowed to be angry, right?
“Don’t be upset with me,” Tooru whispers, voice afraid to wake up all the emotions stirring within him. “Please.”
Hajime leans forward, hand over his, underneath the warmth of the blanket, protected by the unspoken words hanging between them.
“I’m not upset with you,” Hajime replies. “I’m upset. But not with you.” He pauses. “I could never be upset with you.”
“You’re a liar,” Tooru grumbles. He fists the fitted sheet beneath them, and Hajime’s tightens against his, pulling his fingers apart and intertwining themselves together.
“Always tell the truth with you,” he says, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against Tooru’s bare shoulder. His lips lingers, savoring the action, unsure of how much time he has, unsure of when it was all going to end, if it was going to end.
“We could make it work, right?” Tooru asks, leaning into him and feeling his lips press harder against him. He begins a slow, lethargic trail up Tooru’s neck, pausing right behind his ear.
“We could.”
“Will we ever really know?”
“We can only try.”
you went right, and i went left
“Hajime.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Hajime.”
He pulls the phone away from his face, placing it down on the desk in front of him. California was sunny and warm all the time, but Hajime felt none of this. English was difficult, the Japanese food was a little weird, and the people were nosy. The people were very nosy, including his rude American roommate. Why his university decided to assign him a room with a frat boy named Kyle who has very little knowledge or even consideration for basic etiquette and common sense was beyond him. And now --
Hajime picks up his phone and faces a stoic Tooru. Hajime knows he’s faking it. “It’s just two more years.”
“I think I’m staying.” The words make him stop. In fact, everything stops, and he has to remember how to breathe when he hears Tooru calling his name. “I’m sorry .”
Hajime shakes his head. “I -- Stop saying sorry.” He sighs. “I understand. I do. I just…”
“I know --”
“No,” he interrupts. “You don’t know. Clearly you don’t know, otherwise you’d --” He pauses, closing his eyes because he knows if he keeps going, he’s going to say something he’ll regret and he doesn’t want to end this on a bad note, even if it’s ending.
Tooru’s awfully silent, and when Hajime looks at the screen, Tooru’s eyes are cast downward, brows furrowed in frustration, possibly anger. “I’d what? Try harder?” Tooru scoffs. “Don’t you think I have?”
No, no, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen --
“I tried, Hajime. But it’s hard.” Tooru’s facade finally cracks as a tear slips down his cheek. “Don’t you think I want to be with you? I do . But I spend every goddamn day missing you, wishing I was going to bed and waking up next to you. I miss you . And then I see those stupid snaps of you and Ushiwaka, and --”
“He’s literally the only person here from home who can understand me. Literally, Tooru. He’s the only person who speaks fluent Japanese.”
“That’s not the point!” Tooru nearly screams, and Hajime stops to take another deep breath. “I know there’s nothing going on between you. God, he could never. But that’s not the point.” He wipes his cheeks with his free hand. “I get so jealous. Not just that you’re hanging out with him of all people, but Iwa-chan. You look so damn happy.”
“But that’s --”
“ Don’t say it’s because of me.” Hajime’s retort dies on his tongue. “It’s because you’re living your life. You’re doing amazing in school, you’re making new friends. I just don’t want to hold you back.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
Tooru licks his lips. “I don’t want you to be holding me back, either.”
Hajime blinks at the screen. His heart has been swallowed by whatever void that has settled into the pit of his stomach. He never understood what it meant when characters get their heart broken and say they want to literally rip their heart out. He understands very well now.
“So that’s it.” He swallows the lump growing increasingly large in his throat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t shed a tear thus far. But Tooru’s already crying, and Hajime can’t start because if he does, they’ll never get off the phone with each other.
“Hajime. I’m sorry .”
“I guess we just couldn’t wait for each other, huh?”
“Guess not.”
it doesn’t mean that i loved you any less
“Hajime-san, will you be joining us later?”
Hajime closes his eyes and searches for any of the patience he might have left hidden somewhere deep within his soul. He can’t find any.
“Ushijima, I told you to drop the san ,” Hajime grumbles, hiking the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder.
He grunts. “Hajime,” he tries, but his nose still wrinkles with discomfort. “Are you coming to the bar?”
Hajime is about to answer. He really is. But a flurry of light blue steals his eye, and a certain brunette grabs all of his attention as the man in question walks at the front of his team, head held high, eyes bright, and smile wide, as if no time had passed.
“Hajime… sama?”
“ Sama ?” Hajime almost yells; he cringes at the volume of his own voice and focuses his eyes on the tiny Japan flag on Ushijima’s athletic tracksuit. “I -- Maybe. I have to discuss something with Hibarida before our training session begins tomorrow.”
And Hajime had every intention of meeting with Hibarida, but it had been relatively brief. And he had every intention to meet up with the team at the bar for one last hoorah before they buckle down for the Olympics ceremony. He truly did.
He had been dressed in one of his best button downs and the pants that Atsumu had scolded Hajime about because "these should be reserved only fer the nights yer tryna catch someone’s eye or if yer tryna get laid, ‘cause Hajime-san, ya could really get it if ya know what I mean.”
He did not, in fact, know what Atsumu meant.
But he was glad for the pants because it did exactly what Atsumu had said it would (maybe he should ignore Aran’s advice and actually listen to Atsumu once in a while; he clearly had been onto something).
Because as soon as the elevator door opens, Hajime feels the long-gone void reappear within him, this time like a welcomed friend; he feels his heart jumping too excitedly and too far that it ends up in his throat, killing every word he wished he had said and every word he'd been dying to say.
A hand shoots out to hold the elevator door open and a familiar smile beams at him, and his heart settles back into his chest, right where it should be.
“Tooru.”
“Iwa-chan! Care to join me?”
He always thought he’d hesitate, thought he’d be scared.
“Yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”