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Upon making his first Pokemon friend, Oikawa Tooru remembered one thing: while the Pokemon gifted to him came off as a surprise to the little boy, it certainly did not to Iwaizumi Hajime. There had been something surprising—or ironic, even—about the fact that such an unfitting creature should be the first companion of a boy as eccentric as Oikawa, who by the ripe age of eight had already been showing the first signs of a prideful disposition that had not yet swept away the childish and carefree grin often gracing his lips, though it highly contributed to the aforementioned lips curling into a pout in the blink of an eye whenever his best friend’s teasing remarks would hit their target. And of course, Tooru one day turning up with a perfectly common Feebas did not help. Much to Hajime’s delight.
It happens on a sunny spring morning, when the grass grows greener than ever and the warm breeze is buzzing with cicadas, hundreds of small wings fluttering in a noisy whirr that drowns out the muffled huffs and puffs of the nearby town. The sun is climbing higher and higher upon the sky, luminous and hot, foreshadowing even brighter weather for the afternoon. Hajime is already there, contentedly clutching his net and looking out for any insect adventurous enough to crawl out from underneath its leafy shelter. Nothing Tooru has not seen before. Except today is special—because today, Oikawa Tooru doesn’t show up alone to meet up with Hajime.
“Iwa-chan! Look!”
He doesn’t even wait until he’s reached Hajime to shout and frenetically wave his free hand in the air, half-skipping, half-running toward his barely intrigued friend. Growing up with Tooru, Hajime knows better than to indulge in his all-too-frequent outbursts of self-praise over the silliest things he brags about being able to pull off; but this time the round-shaped—volleyball? no, its surface doesn’t look as perfectly smooth—Tooru is holding against his chest catches the other boy’s eye even from afar, and Hajime thinks he actually might just really ask Tooru what he is up to. Rather unsurprisingly, Tooru leaves him no time to do so.
“Iwa-chan, look what I got! Look, it’s a Pokemon!”
Tooru wraps both hands around his treasured new friend, almost shoving the creature into Hajime's face once he is close enough. “It’s a Feebas!” He states knowingly, smug smile and all, impatient to witness uncontrolled amazement and envy take over Iwaizumi’s face. Iwa-chan always catches bugs and thinks he’s so much cooler, Tooru thinks, so this time around it’ll be his opportunity to knock Hajime for six.
But the other boy doesn’t give him time to relish in victory. Instead of the gape-mouthed reaction Tooru has been expecting from his friend, Hajime bursts out laughing after a few seconds of examination, his eyes crinkling into amusement and wobbly finger pointing at the object of Tooru’s pride.
“Seriously? This is your first Pokemon?!” Hajime is gasping for air, laughing even harder from the vexed look burgeoning upon Tooru’s face.
“What’s wrong with that, huh?!”
“It’s... It’s... It’s so ugly,” Hajime manages to breathe out a fatal blow to his friend's aspirations to impress him.
“It’s not!”
“It really is.”
Tooru keeps on trying to argue, but the damage is already done—nothing can change Hajime's mind now, and especially not Tooru’s whiny attempts at persuasion.
Hajime does eventually lets go of his taunting when Tooru looks pissed enough, cheeks burning red from loud indignation and rambling rolling off his tongue to no end, but the little boy still has to accept the harsh truth that, yes, Feebas is indeed ugly, and not so extraordinary a first Pokemon as he desired. Either way, Hajime doesn’t fail to remind him every now and then, poking fun at Tooru by commenting on his resemblance to Feebas whenever his friend would get too carried away in singing his own praises. Even in their youthful days, there is no one better than Hajime to bring Tooru back to earth.
But even after the unfortunate introduction of Feebas to Hajime, Tooru does not stop appreciating his Pokemon. Perhaps his love for him even grows a little stronger because of this—because Feebas lacks beauty and elegance and Iwa-chan finds him uncool, Tooru’s efforts to take care of him double down. He brings him on his adventures with Hajime, he plays volleyball in the garden with Feebas sitting nearby, he takes him everywhere he goes, with or without a Pokeball. He is proud to have a Pokemon, no matter who it is.
One afternoon, they are sitting on their regular bench with dirt-stained knees and sweat forming droplets on their temples, the declining sun pouring its warm light upon their faces flushed from running around. Hajime is counting all the bugs he managed to cage in his net—and since then freed—today, and Tooru is listening, hugging Feebas to his chest and looking for a chance to sneak in a humorous remark, his volley ball propped against his legs. They end up picking on each other, like they always do, and Hajime is laughing at Tooru's scrunched up nose and stuck-out tongue.
“Why d’you love him so much anyway?” Hajime eventually asks when the laughter dies down, glancing at the Pokemon Tooru is embracing. After all, Feebas is plain; he does not have any flashy moves, nor a striking appearance to set him apart; he does not draw attention to himself in any way—he is everything that Tooru isn’t. “He doesn’t seem like anything special.”
“Well, he is to me! He’s my first Pokemon, so I bet you’re just jealous. Jealous Iwa-chan!” Tooru expressively pouts at Hajime, tightening his grip around Feebas. “I love him.”
“But he’s ugly!” Hajime retaliates, more in an attempt to push Oikawa’s buttons than actually demean Feebas.
At this, Tooru looks at the Pokemon seated upon his lap, as if trying to assess Hajime’s words. He isn’t wrong—Feebas is ugly. But Tooru does not care.
“If you claim to love someone but you don’t want them at their worst, is it even love?”
Feebas is ugly, there is no denying that, and yet no matter how many times Iwaizumi keeps on saying it, Tooru loves his Pokemon just the same. So he goes on about how mean Iwa-chan is and how he just cannot see Feebas’s inner greatness, but one day he will see, and then he really will understand what an amazing creature he had had the privilege of seeing with his own eyes. Only, Hajime has stopped listening. If you claim to love someone but you don’t want them at their worst, is it even love? Tooru may have put little thought into his spontaneous defense of Feebas, solely driven by instinct, but Hajime does put thought into it. When they head back home, their legs sore and exhaustion piling upon their heavy eyelids, he wonders what it is that makes one love something even if it is ugly.
During Japan's game against Argentina in Sendai, Hajime watches Tooru fall in love with volleyball all over again. They are in the stands, Feebas seated upon Tooru's lap and the adrenaline radiating off the court fueling their excited exclamations whenever one of the two teams would score, impressive point after impressive point causing an uproar of cheers in the crowd. It feels like they have been holding their breaths and craning their heads from left to right for endless hours, trying to keep track of the ball zooming back and forth across the net like a fiery comet of blue and yellow flames in the midst of a colourful sky of jerseys. After their setback, the Argentinian team has started to ascend out of its downfall into the clutches of Japan's blocks, unexpectedly turning the tides of the game ever since their experienced old setter, José Blanco, has been put onto the court. Tooru eagerly keeps track of the number 13 standing out against blue and white fabric.
When the final shriek of the referee's whistle finally announces the end of the game, Tooru is barely able to keep standing still, leaning froward to get a better look at the players getting off the court. The young boy's sparkling gaze tails José Blanco, whose celebration of his team's victory is expressed through nothing but a quiet smile and a rewarding pat on the back of his young ace. Tooru is beyond admirative.
“Mister! Mister Blanco, can I have your autograph?!" He cries out with eyes wide open from amazement when Blanco walks by the stands, and the setter can only agreeably indulge in the genuine request of this flush-faced Japenese boy who is fumbling to find an item the setter can sign, since Hajime already used the paper they had bought together.
Tooru tells the Argentinian player that he wants to be a setter as well, to which Blanco responds by offering him an encouraging thumbs up and the best Japanese he can muster: Ganbari, do your best—Tooru really wants to. Watching the old setter play, he realises that this is exactly what he wants to do. To stand on the court under a billion blazing lights; to revive the hindered strength of an entire team thanks to his tosses. Tooru wants to shine.
"I'm going to become a setter just like Blanco-san!" Oikawa tells Feebas that night, sitting cross-legged on his futon with resolutely balled up fists. "Iwa-chan says spiker is the best position, but he's got it all wrong! If it hadn't been for Blanco-san, Argentina would have never caught up with Japan again!" Feebas can only reply with his Pokemon cry, but that is good enough of an approval for Tooru. "I'm going to become the best setter in the world!"
Not too long after that, it is Hajime's turn to get his first Pokemon, a Houndour. And not unlike Tooru, he is really joyful and unmistakably smug about it, rubbing the coolness of his Pokemon in his friend's face any chance he gets to implicitly win against Tooru. This time, though he would never say it aloud, Tooru has to internally admit defeat; with its canine silhouette, double type, and the crown in the shape of a skull protecting its forehead, Houndour is much cooler than Feebas. But still Tooru's love for his Pokemon does not falter.
Hajime appears just as fond of Houndour as Tooru is of Feebas, bringing him to play on sunny days and chasing after insects together amidst mossy rocks, but while his new four-legged companion soon reciprocates his young trainer's attachment, the same cannot be said regarding Tooru. Low warning growls never fail to meet the boy whenever he approaches Iwaizumi too closely with Houndour around, the loyal Pokemon's guard not dropping in spite of the multiple attempts that Tooru has made to soothe its defences. Yet no could do—it seems like Houndour has deemed it a personal duty to defend his trainer against all threats, including those which definitely are not a menace, i.e. his best friend.
At least, Tooru can still practice volleyball in peace under Feebas's watch when Hajime and Houndour are busy with their bug quests. Everything is still the same. Laughter still rings out in his ears whenever he accidentally gets punched in the face by his volleyball, his skin still often prickles from Iwaizumi's occasional disgruntlement. He and Hajime join the volleyball club at Kitagawa Daiichi and Tooru plays setter. He loves volleyball more than anything else. He has even got used to Houndour's behaviour.
Then, Kageyama steps into their lives.
Kageyama Tobio is a kid whose blue eyes unguardedly shimmer with sparks of admiration when he sees his senpai's already skillful serves for the first time and whose magic fingers work their way into quickly making him a promising player among the team. He is talented. Tooru's chest has never swelled with pride at the honour of being called talented. Because he never was. But he loves volleyball, so besides a small itch of irritation caused by his junior's fulgurant progress, Tooru is determined to keep standing on the court. Hajime becomes his most trusted spiker, he beams with unparalleled joy as he receives the Best Setter Award—it all clicks.
And yet they lose against Shiratorizawa. Ushijima's spikes, powerful for a teenager his age, obliterate Kitagawa Daiichi's walls like a cannon piercing through glass, leaving them almost defenceless. They lose the first set, then the second one. Tooru's ankles feel rooted to the floor, heavier than ever before; his hands feel slippery and frail; his breath has been sucked out of his throat; he damns his painful knee. Ushijima is towering over him and Tooru is looking down, sweaty palms digging into his bones. He doesn't talk to Feebas that night. Upon his pillow, dried salt mingles with a promise made through gritted teeth. Next time, I'll win.
The Best Setter Award is collecting dust on the shelf of Tooru's room. Curtains drawn, barely letting in the golden flow of the late afternoon sunlight, Tooru watches the tapes of Ushijima's games on repeat until his eyes sting from staring at the screen late into the night and his calculating thoughts spiral into numbness. How distant the harmless and fun volleyball tosses in the park with Hajime seem, how distant the joyful smile that would bloom on the boy's lips whenever he successfully sent the ball bouncing back in the air. Now, a monster lives inside his boyish dreams.
Tooru's shoulders slouch into an exhausted sigh as he slams the computer shut, untangling himself out of his headphones. Tomorrow, he will train harder, he tells himself. He will practice his service ace, he will be better, good enough to stand on equal footing with Ushijima.
"Goodnight, Feebas," he whispers tiredly, giving the Pokemon a little pat.
But it is not good enough. Everything Tooru does is not good enough to send him soaring into the heights he has been relentlessly wishing to reach. His wings cannot break through the carapace that self-proclaimed mediocrity has build around his back. Tooru's chest tightens as the ball that he just forcefully hit smashes into the net, returning to the floor with a helpless thud. A stab of pain pierces through his knee. Not good enough. The coach subs him out, telling Tooru to rest for a while, to observe the game carefully rather than make impulsive mistakes.
Tooru watches Kageyama replace him as setter for the rest of the game, biting back furious tears. He hates Kageyama and he hates Ushijima and he hates talent and he hates himself. And most of all, he is scared. Scared that volleyball will be taken away from him by Kageyama. So he closes up, he refuses to teach his junior, he acts childishly and selfishly stupid, the Best Setter Award long forgotten. After all, the victory of yesterday is already passed.
What Tooru learns, he learns the hard way—he has never been one to walk the shortest and easiest path, but the one that will lead him to the top. So it is up to Hajime and his infallible knowledge of his best friend to teach Tooru his most important lesson, and it takes a regrettable failed slap and a headbutt to finally knock some reason into Oikawa's obstinate mind.
"Me this, me that! Stop saying that you'll do it alone, Shittywaka!" Iwaizumi roars as Kageyama—whom Tooru just almost slapped—scurries away.
Propelled by a fit of frustrated anger, Hajime harshly grips his friend's collar before their foreheads collide and Tooru whimpers in pain upon the impact, hitting the ground.
"You idiot! There's six of us on the court! The six of us will defeat Ushiwaka, not you alone!"
Hajime comes to an abrupt halt, his eyes shooting daggers at Oikawa.
With Hajime's voice rumbling through his ears, Tooru blinks, thunder-struck. Slowly, he scrambles back to his feet, wiping the trickle of blood running from his nose with the back of his hand. There's six of us on the court. How had he never taken something so essential into account? It's an epiphany. Suddenly, Tooru wants to laugh at his own stupidity, and the smile that grows upon his lips makes Hajime worried that he might have hit Oikawa too hard and accidentally given him a concussion.
"I feel invincible," Tooru says.
The smile wanes on the way home; all that Hajime did was give Tooru a glare over his shoulder to make sure that he got out of the gym. The heaviness of silence weighs over their heads like a mass of dark clouds, hanging in the air between them as if it were on the verge of breaking out into a storm at any misstep on Oikawa's part. Iwaizumi is walking ahead, looking straight onward with a deep crease between his eyebrows, Houndour beside him. Tooru does not need to ask to know that he is upset—he can sense it from one glimpse at Iwaizumi's grumpy back. So he remains quiet, Hajime's words playing on repeat inside his head, and he beats himself up because how could he have not realised it sooner himself?
A tentative bump against his leg pulls Tooru out of his absorption. Glancing down, he is caught off guard by the sight of Houndour somewhat timidly nuzzling his thigh, having left Hajime's side. Although Houndour has progressively warmed up to Oikawa over the years, he has still never let Tooru pet him, nor has he voluntarily approached the boy when it had not been on Hajime's initiative. Yet Houndour is now looking up at him with what Tooru reads as an honest hint of concern, so he carefully brings the palm of his hand down to pat Hounders's head, the touch sending warm shivers from the fire-type Pokemon's aura all over his arm. Tooru does not say a word, but he is thankful in spite of tightness in his chest. Part of him feels like he does not deserve it.
Seijoh is a new start. Seijoh is the six of us that Iwaizumi has opened Tooru's eyes to. Seijoh is endlessly bickering with Iwa-chan under the amused eyes of Hanamaki and Matsukawa, it is Kindaichi's optimism and Kunimi's lazy ways, it is exhausted laughter when their words no longer make sense after long hours of practice, it is the ineffable force that makes them soar on the court, it is sweat and bruised fingers, it is Tooru's tailored tosses fitting perfectly with his teammates' spikes, it is the solidifying of his friendship with Hajime into unwavering trust. It is everything and it is Tooru's greatest pride and joy. Feebas watches him go on morning runs, pay close attention to his diet; he watches him practice, practice, practice.
They still lose to Ushijima, but if the choice would have presented itself to him all over again, Tooru would have never picked Shiratorizawa. He has found the place where he belongs, the number one printed on the back of his jersey carrying him forward. His wings are starting to bud through the carapace. Yet they lose against Karasuno too, and though Oikawa clings onto his worthless pride, he wants more.
They eat, the third years play volleyball together one last time, they cry.
"Thank you for the past three years!"
Tooru's heart is bursting, unable to contain the overflowing love and gratefulness and sadness hitting him all at once the thought of parting ways with his team. And yet, Hajime is right—Tooru is not satisfied. He still stands small against the monsters that live in his dreams. He is battered, hungry, revengeful. In Japan, he feels like he is chasing after his own tail, running in circles instead of taking off the ground. He thought he had found his place in Seijoh, but time does not wait for him. High school ends.
Then, with the sealed promise of defeating Hajime, Tooru leaves.
*
A clear blue sky, torrents of sonorous foreign voices, air filled with as much warmth as unfamiliarity. It all washes over Tooru as soon as he sets foot in San Juan, suitcase in hand and backpack on his shoulders.
"Welcome to Argentina," José Blanco greets him at the airport with a benevolent smile, showing him the way to the car. It is the first time Tooru has left Japan, let alone travelled across oceans. He watches the signs written in Spanish and English come one after the other while they are advancing toward the exit, and the entry to Tooru's new life, some eleven thousand miles away from his home-town.
"Thank you for your help, Blanco-sensei."
"It's my pleasure, Tooru. How was your flight?"
"Long, tiring," Tooru admits, taking his spot in the passenger seat next to Blanco. He checks the dashboard to get an idea of what time it is, his phone still on flight mode and sunk deeply inside his pocket. It is the middle of the afternoon, but to his jet-lagged self it feels like the early hours of the night.
"Take some good rest," Blanco kindly advises him, and indeed the soft whirring of the engine is enough to coax Tooru into instant sleepiness. "Give me a call tomorrow when you're all settled, okay? And generally, you can call me if you need anything."
"I will. Thank you, Blanco-sensei" Tooru mumbles, trying to keep himself awake, but drowsiness soon gets the better of him and José Blanco chuckles quietly at his protégé's head tilting until it comes to rest upon his side of the car door.
Having often chatted with the young setter over the years, Blanco had come to know Tooru well enough to understand that this was another one of his radical turnarounds in order to improve. When Tooru would come to him for advice, Blanco could often read right through him, and it had been no different when he had resolutely told the coach that he was coming to Argentina. He understands that Tooru hates talent, that he is more often than not struggling against his own self and his perception of his abilities, that he doubts himself, that he always craves more. And, having been an aspiring volleyball player just like Tooru and now being a coach, Blanco can also see the potential Tooru has mislead himself into thinking he has already exhausted. Tooru's talent has yet to fully bloom, and the day will come, Blanco is certain, when the young setter will finally feel it explode in his very bones, and will believe it. Perhaps here, in Argentina, he will get the push that he needs to take off.
Tooru's eyelids lift to a ray of fading sunshine streaking across the floor of the living room. Exhausted as he had been from such a long flight, he had collapsed on the couch without even unpacking as soon as he reached the little flat he would now live in for an indeterminate number of months, not even having a quick look around before he had instantly fallen asleep. Now, Tooru straightens up, rubbing his eyes, and faces the empty room, barely decorated with a few pieces of empty furniture. The apartment is rather small, but a good enough deal considering the price.
Averting his eyes from the bland scenery around him, Tooru dips his hand into the pocket of his shorts to retrieve his phone, which instantly lights up with an increasing amount of notifications as soon as flight mode is turned off. Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Kindaichi have all texted him, inquiring whether his flight went well and how Argentina is, already asking for pictures and affectionately teasing him about forgetting about their existence now that he is eleven thousand miles away. You better not start ghosting us, Shittykawa, or I'll come all the way to Argentina to kick your ass, he reads, and for this one he does not even need to peek at the contact name to know that it comes from Hajime. Nobody but Iwa-chan could have sent him such a poorly worded message. Tooru's lips quiver into a smile as he makes a painful effort to ignore the void that has settled in his chest somewhere in between waking up and realising that he is in a foreign country by himself. First, he texts his friends back, assuring them that everything is okay. Then he lets Feebas out of his Pokeball, and begins to work on turning his life around.
In Argentina, Tooru has to start from scratch. He plays for Club Athletico San Juan, where he is greeted by new teammates giving him intrigued—though friendly—looks as he introduces himself in broken English. Sitting on the bench while the official members are playing their first games of the season, Tooru is seething with the desire to earn his place on the court. It is burning through his veins—this unquenchable thirst, this ardent zeal to touch the ball and once and for all squash the lump in his throat that he cannot seem to swallow. When the gleeful faces of his friends look back at him from the screen of his phone, Tooru cannot help but wonder whether he made the right choice. A week after he has begun practicing with his new team, Hajime smirks back at him through the computer screen from across the Pacific and reminds him that Oikawa Tooru does not settle for half-measure—and with this, Tooru knows there is no turning back. He saves up money to buy a beautiful tank for Feebas, which will take up a third of the living room's surface.
It takes time, sweat, a rollercoaster of climbing and slipping and starting over and many hours of late Spanish classes for him to make it into the official line-up, and even more time for his tosses to adjust to his new teammates' habits, which he is growing accustomed to. It takes bonding nights, congratulating hands clasped on his shoulders, inebriated storytelling and hang-out laughter for Tooru to rise above the first wall that he had hit upon setting foot in San Juan, and finally get a glimpse of the rising sun that the Argentinian flag had promised him. He has memorised his new friends' full names, tastes in drinks and foods, and has forged a rather accurate mental image of what they must have been like in their teenage years from all the fun and embarrassing high school volleyball stories that he has been told. Conversely, Club Athletico San Juan become well-versed in who Iwaizumi Hajime is, why Feebas is a wonderful Pokemon—and they, too, do not shy away from teasing him about it—, and why it is only fair that Kageyama and Ushijima get crushed by Tooru next time he plays against them. They ruffle his hair and try to teach him slang phrases that sometimes do not even makes sense to Tooru, but he laughs along and starts adding viste and dale to his sentences; in return, he scoffs at their struggles with Japanese pronunciation and shows them pictures of his hometown. Their team is moving up in the Argentina league. On the other side of the net, the sun glows brighter.
One day, Tooru announces that Hajime is flying over from California for a long overdue introduction to the San Juan VC. After getting their ears talked off about Iwa-chan and his formidable spike to the toss that Tooru had sent him from across the court—no shared signal or look needed—in their last high school game, Tooru's new teammates are quite curious to meet the man whom their setter doesn't seem to able to stop bringing up in conversations any chance he gets. They have seen the pictures of course, but still—meeting Iwa-chan in the flesh, that has to be something.
Iwaizumi discovers Argentina in the spring, when the air is filled with the high-spirited voices of passers-by strolling along the streets of San Juan, delighting in the sunny weather and enjoying cold drinks, the general mood as bright as the sky. He sets foot in the same place where, some three years prior, Oikawa had also stood for the first time, thrust toward a new horizon with his back turned on past defeats only to brave an uncertain future he had come to seek across the ocean. Upon landing in Argentina, Hajime is once again struck by just how insane their joint idea of moving to another continent was—walking through the doors leading out of the baggage-delivery area, Hajime smiles to himself, shaking his head. Seeing how it turned out, that decision was perhaps not so insane after all.
"Iwa-chan!"
It does not take long for Hajime to spot the arms waving at him from the crowd that has formed in front of the exit, and even less time for said arms to be thrown around his back as he strides toward his best friend, falling into a long-awaited embrace. It has been three years. The same amount of time they had spent together in Seijoh. It appears so surreal that Hajime finds himself at a loss for words, with his heart caught in his throat, when his hands finally close around the fabric of Tooru's shirt.
"It's nice to see you that you still haven't outgrown me, Iwa-chan."
Tooru breathes out a shaky laugh into his shoulder, taking in Hajime's familiar scent, and it feels like the months between them blend into mere seconds, as if it was only yesterday that Hajime and the rest of his teammates had seen Tooru off at the airport in Tokyo. Being with Hajime feels like coming home after all this time abroad, like Tooru's life suddenly falls into place and everything makes sense. Even after all those years, Hajime remains his touchstone.
"Shut up, Shittykawa," Hajime threatens under his breath, holding Tooru tighter, pouring into the touch everything that his words could never be strong enough to convey.
"You're still so mean, Iwa-chan."
Then he takes a step back, contemplating Tooru's indeed taller frame (it may only be a trick of the light and the time spent apart, but he gets the impression that he has grown even taller). Tooru's skin is now tan from the time spent under the Argentinian sun, his hair shorter, the taunt muscles of his arms more defined, delicate and chiseled biceps peeking from underneath the short sleeves of his endearingly ridiculous white t-shirt with doodled empanadas printed on the front. Hajime tries to suppress the involuntary grin that slips onto his lips, a light blush flushing the back of his neck. The happiness of seeing Tooru face-to-face, away from any screen, unfurls in him like the an unstoppable tide, sweeping everything away but the feelings bursting through him. The same can be said about Tooru, who is beaming at Hajime as if there was no one else in the world but him.
"Oi, there's someone else who wants to see you," Hajime remembers all of a sudden, smile maliciously turning into smirk. "Houndoom, say hi to Shittykawa."
"Houndoom?!"
"Exactly! Keeping it a secret was definitely worth it…"
Hajime shamelessly laughs at Tooru's disbelief as Houndoom gets out of his Pokemon-ball, materialising by his trainer's side. Before Oikawa has time to think twice, the canine Pokemon jumps straight at him, almost knocking him off his feet, and proceeds to start happily licking his face.
"There, there. It's good to see you too," Tooru strokes Houndoom's back, laughing heartily.
"Well, it looks like someone missed you," Hajime folds his arms at the sight of this reunion, his face softening.
"As if you hadn't missed me too, Iwa-chan."
"Alright, dumbass. Maybe just a little." Hajime definitely cannot refrain from smiling. "As for Feebas, I can't say that him being there or not changes much…"
In spite of his whining about Feebas's qualities to counterattack, seeing Houndoom all evolved and friendly does pull at Tooru's heartstrings; Hajime and his Pokemon have come so far, it makes his chest ache with pride.
"I hope you slept on the plane, because I'm not letting you rest until I've given you a through tour of San Juan," Tooru warns his friend on their way to the taxi, earning an amused groan in return.
"I figured you'd want to drag me everywhere as soon as I got here so, yes, I slept on the plane."
"Good. First, we'll stop by my flat to drop your suitcase and put some sunscreen on that grumpy face of yours, Iwa-chan. Then, I'm taking you everywhere."
Tooru takes the fist that (gently) slams into his ribs at the mention and the grumpy face as a sign of agreement and sits next to Hajime inside the car. Even in the taxi, he points at anything he can name, lyrically recounting the first time José Blanco had driven him down the same road. Iwaizumi suspects that Tooru has been narrating his own life each night before falling asleep in preparation for the day a biography would be written about him.
"Hey, what's so funny?" Tooru catches the spark of hilarity gleaming in Hajime's eyes.
"Nothing, nothing."
"Are you evening listening to me?!"
"Oh, were you saying something?"
"Mean, Iwa-chan. So mean."
Tooru complains, and Hajime cannot hold himself from slipping again any longer. He has watched Tooru's lips curl into a pout more times than he can count, he has seen him drop a volleyball onto his own face as kid, and he has seen him with puffy eyes and a running nose. He has seen it all, and it took him three years to put it together that he was in love with his best friend, and three more to understand that no matter how hard he tries, these feelings will not go away. And in Argentina, where there is no screen between them, the feelings in question are screaming in Hajime's face louder than ever. He makes an effort to push them away and follows Tooru into his flat.
Tooru had not lied, the aquarium looks even bigger in person. Inside, Feebas is peacefully swimming in circles until Hajime almost presses his face right against the glass in an attempt to catch the Pokemon's attention and waves at him, to which Feebas reacts by plainly looking back at him.
"It feels like he's staring into my soul…" Iwaizumi shivers, promptly getting away from the Pokemon.
"Poor Feebas, I can't imagine the things he must be seeing," Tooru teases him from the other end of the living room, where he is searching for a bottle of sunscreen.
"I hate you."
"I know." Tooru sends a wink flying his way and Hajime is torn between tackling him out of feigned anger or melting into a poodle of lovey-dovey goo. He clears his throat.
"So, what'd'you have in mind for today?"
"Firstly, I'm taking you around San Juan and showing you my favourite places. And tomorrow you're going to be introduced to the best team in the Argentina league. I hear their setter is the real deal, some might even say he's exceptional," Tooru says innocently.
"…You're still the shittiest guy I know."
"And you, the meanest," Tooru chuckles harmlessly, handing a bottle of sunscreen to Hajime. "Put this on, or you'll be covered in sunburns by the end of the day. And as much as I'd love to see that…"
"I know, I live in California, dumbass."
Tooru is silenced by Iwaizumi glaring at him, so he keeps quiet and watches Iwaizumi splash and spread the cream along his arms, neck, and face. Tooru is not the only one to have grown during those past three years. Hajime's arms look muscular, his torso more strongly built beneath the stretched fabric of his shirt. Tooru has to avert his gaze, biting the inside of his mouth with the imperative to stop staring at his best friend. Right now, Tooru tells himself, being in his presence is enough; no second thoughts, no worrying about feelings. All he wants is to immerse himself in the few days that they finally get to spend together in person after three years apart.
Hajime and Houndoom follow Tooru down the staircase and into the street, which is buzzing with lively Spanish words and inundated by a flood of afternoon sunlight. Tooru takes a deep breath in before turning around, his entire face lit up with what Hajime can only recognise as unconcealed contentment and real joy. How far they are from their bug-filled park in Japan. Hajime hides behind the hand that he has raised to shield his eyes from the sun, fearing that Tooru might notice the moved expression that has overcome his face. To Hajime's eyes, San Juan Tooru seems both a different person and the one that Hajime has always known Tooru would somehow bloom into. FaceTime could not have properly shown him that it had indeed come true.
They set off, Tooru taking on the role of their makeshift tour guide as if he has been rehearsing for this sole moment for ages. Reiterating his taxi bit, he points at the buildings he has already entered and the streets he has previously roamed, recalling memories and any trivia he can remember. There is his favourite Japanese restaurant he sometimes eats at when he is craving ramen and he feels like he earned it; there is the spot where he was recognised by a fan—emphasis on fan—for the first time; there is the supermarket he shops at; there is the bakery whose milk bread comes close to his favourite in Japan but not quite. For Hajime, San Juan is full of Tooru.
They spend the entire afternoon walking around the city until their legs feel sore and the sun begins to decline upon the barely clouded sky, shedding fading light under their feet. It catches in Tooru's brown hair and eyes, peppering golden specks all over his arms and reflecting upon his tan collarbones. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, sighing from fatigue, as they take a seat on the edge of a fountain around which has already gathered a small crowd of strollers. Hajime cannot help but keep looking at Tooru, who is now opening the bottles of beer that they bought on the way. He gives one to Hajime, the corners of his mouth upturned into a small smile which had not left his face ever since he picked his friend up at the airport. Maybe it is just Hajime's desperate imagination, but their hands brush as he takes the beer from Tooru.
"Kanpai!" Tooru cheerfully clinks his glass against Hajime's. "Here's to Iwa-chan discovering the prettiest city in the world, with the prettiest tour guide in the world."
"Tch," Hajime hisses, drinking his beer to hide the smile that overturns his willpower not to give into Tooru's games. "Prettiest city, uh? So…" His fingers drum along the cool metal of the can, the fated question stranded upon his lips. "Do you plan on staying here even longer, then?"
"Staying here? I don't know. I do love San Juan, and I love playing here. But also… The Tokyo Olympics are just around the corner. And I'm thinking, you know…" Tooru's eyes narrow. In a split second, his entire attitude changes. He is determined, Hajime can practically feel hunger radiating off him. "They could use someone like me."
"The Olympics?" Hajime chuckles, the flame set ablaze in Tooru's eyes hitting him with its unchangeable familiarity. Of course Oikawa Tooru would aim for the top, Hajime has known that his whole life. "I see your ego is still as big as ever, Trashykawa."
"You're just jealous, Iwa-chan." Tooru throws his head back haughtily, refusing to surrender to Hajime.
"I'm only stating facts."
"Well, so am I. Having me on the Olympic team would increase their chances to win."
"And increase the number of headaches the athletes would get."
"Sorry, Iwa-chan, I can't hear your complains over the sound of my fans cheering for me," Tooru fights back, looking away from his friend on purpose, as though listening to an invisible orchestra of applause.
Hajime slaps his arm, laughing at Oikawa's ridiculousness. He has missed this. "Shut up, or I'll make you. It's a good thing I'm here to make your big head come back down to earth."
"That's cold, Iwa-chan."
They drink the rest of their beers and tease each other, all kicking and pouting unleashed, all Tooru and Hajime with their endless disputes and tough love. Even with all the miles that had separated them, some things do not change. But something about Tooru in the golden Argentinian light takes Hajime's breath away in a completely different way—or rather, it forces him to acknowledge that Tooru has grown into his own person, and this new piece of Tooru he gets to meet in San Juan tightens the grasp that he has always had on Hajime's heart. Before their parting, Hajime had watched Tooru from the sidelines of his life, always there to knock sense into him or aggressively take care of him, to wordlessly love him before he even knew about love, but it had never been enough to cast Tooru's oppressive doubts away. That was beyond Hajime's reach. Yet here, there is something about Tooru's smile that does not feel forced anymore. His features seem more peaceful, though he no doubt trains even harder and faces bigger challenges. The way he holds himself, the way he talks—there is stability to him, something that Hajime has never seen in him before and could not have properly noticed until they saw each other in person. It seems that Argentina gave Tooru something he never could have found anywhere else; Hajime almost gets teary-eyed thinking about it.
The next day, after an introduction to Tooru's friendly next door neighbours, Hajime follows his friend into Club Athletico San Juan's practice gymnasium wit the promise of getting introduced to their athletic trainer, whom Hajime is in truth looking forward to meeting. The more he can learn, the better. If one thing has not changed between high school in Japan and college in America, it is that Hajime loves what he does; for both Seijoh's former setter and ace, volleyball has not lost its magic.
But before he can sit down and calmly discuss exercising and diets, Tooru of course has to make a show out of introducing his childhood best friend to his teammates, who do not need much time to put together who is the Japanese man who shows up alongside their setter.
"Look, is that Iwachan?!" Gabriel, the team's cheerful—though not less observant for all that—libero, is the first one to notice, springing to his feet.
"Iwachan?" Matias blocks the ball sent his way by the teammates playing opposite them, trapping it between his fingers to take a look at whatever Gabriel is now enthusiastically pointing at. "Wait, did you say Iwachan? As in Toto's Iwachan?"
"It looks like it," Tomas joins in.
After introducing Hajime to their coach, Tooru pushes him toward the court, an all at once sly and thrilled smile arching his lips. But before he can make a proper announcement, Gabriel thwarts his solemn plans.
"Hey, that's Iwachan, right?!"
Although the words are said in upbeat Spanish, Hajime does not miss the syllables forming his nickname, even pronounced with a strong Argentinian accent.
"Iwa-chan?" He slowly repeats, menacingly craning his neck to give Oikawa an intent glower, and bats away the hand that Tooru is about to clasp on his shoulder. "Are you kidding me, Shittykawa?"
"Yep, most definitely Iwa-chan," Tomas agrees, the look on Tooru's face absolutely priceless as he begs Hajime not to embarrass him in front of his team in hurried Japanese, which only goes to rouse his best friend's angry whispers: who do you think is embarrassed here? They squabble for another few seconds before Tooru clears his throat, spinning on his heels to face his entertained teammates.
"Mi amigos, meet Iwaizumi Hajime, aka Iwa-ch-"
A rough nudge in the ribs cuts Tooru off, much to San Juan VB's amusement.
"Bienvenido, Iwaizumi," Matias shakes hands with Hajime congenially.
Tooru then introduces him to the rest of the team, whom Hajime politely greets in English for lack of Spanish knowledge in spite of the few words that Tooru taught him (but anything taught by Tooru must be regarded with at least utmost suspicion). At last, Hajime gets to take a seat with Club Athletico San Juan's athletic trainer, and the two are quickly plunged into a passionate conversation, Hajime absorbing all the tips and anecdotes the man can benevolently tell him about. He also keeps track of the court out of the corner of his eye, watching Tooru send flawless balls into his spikers' hands. Being on the receiving end of those tosses, Hajime remembers, is an experience he could not forget. It was as if Tooru's tosses were personally adapted to each player, filled with unyielding trust and devotion, silently embodying his mantra—I'm counting on you. He envies Tooru's teammates for getting the pleasure to hit such beautiful tosses.
However, Hajime does not leave empty-handed. As soon as official practice is finished, Tooru gathers his teammates, visibly arranging something in fast-spoken Spanish, then beckons Hajime to join them.
"We're going to play volleyball, and you're going to play with us. With me," Tooru states, as if he already knew that Hajime would say yes. Of course he says yes.
They decide on a three versus three game, Gabriel joining Tooru and Hajime's team. The palms of Hajime's hands are twitching, excitement creeping up his back as he tries to put a name upon the players facing him. There is Alex, the tall dark-skinned middle blocker; Matias, the wing spiker with spiky blonde hair and stubble; and another middle blocker with slicked-back dark hair whom Hajime remembers as Mateo. Tooru and Hajime exchange a look, the setter's snide smile growing wider.
"Ready to show them, Iwa-chan?"
"I haven't properly played in years, dumbass. I'm nothing next to your teammates."
"Why do you always have to ruin the mood! Still…" Tooru pauses, his expression shifting from cunning to dangerously focused. "I'm counting on you."
Hajime faces the net, his eyes narrowed, the soles of his feet electrified, ready to jump as high as he can, ready to hit whatever Tooru sends his way. He may have not have played a proper game in a while, but standing on the same court as Tooru, he falls back into old habits as if it were second nature to him.
Tooru serves and adrenaline courses through Hajime's body, his fingers aching to spike, his every muscle on alert. On the other side of the court, Mateo gets the ball back up in the air, having gotten used to training against Tooru's frightening serves, so that Alex can toss it to Matias, who does not hesitate to follow up with a powerful spike. The fact that even practice matches are taken seriously does not surprise Hajime—he could not expect anything else from a team that Tooru loves so dearly.
Gabriel skilfully manages to receive Matias's spike, and though the course of the ball is off, Tooru catches up in what seems like a mere instant, adroitly placing himself underneath, and thrusts his arms upwards to send it Hajime's way.
There it is.
Ever since he has stepped inside the gymnasium, Iwaizumi has been wondering what it would be like playing with Tooru now, on a professional level. Could he still pull it off? And yet in that moment, everything vanishes. There are no thoughts, no concerns, no doubts. Nothing but the unquestionable certainty that the ball will reach its target, and it will be perfect. Hajime jumps, and hits. They fit together effortlessly. 1-0.
They still end up losing, but another game follows. Then another one. They switch teams and partners and Iwaizumi finds himself surrounded by foreign players whose English sometimes needs practicing, but whose good spirits don't fail to make every match exhilarating and overly competitive. Something about 'the good old days' crosses Hajime's mind, and his heart softly tightens in his chest. By the end of the day, his legs are barely able to keep him standing and his arms feel like they could snap any minute, yet he calls for more tosses, hits the net a few times, laughs it off with Mateo and gets back into position. Sweat is trickling down his temples, he is short of breath and convinced that his entire body will be feel stiff for at least two days afterwards. But he loves it, all of it, and he can feel a portion of the immense love that Tooru harbours for this team too. He knows then that here, Tooru is in good hands.
After their last match, the team agrees on taking Hajime to their favourite bar to celebrate the occasion and get to know him through something a little more civil than yelling volleyball slang in a mixture of no less than three languages. They sprawl out around a table, Hajime squeezed between Tooru and Matias, and he is soon bombarded with questions from Tooru's current teammates. First, they talk careers and volleyball, aspirations and dreams. But a pint of beer later, tongues begin to loosen up, and after explaining how Japanese names and honorifics work—in regard to the Iwa-chan debacle—, Iwaizumi even gets a new nickname out of general agreement.
"So, Haji," Gabriel and Matias take him aside, their mischievously inquisitive faces not boding well. At least not for Tooru, because the question that follows has Hajime wheezing. "Was Toto really as amazing as he claims in high school? Or did he just make that up to impress us?"
"Well, Toto may have had a bit of success in volleyball, but he was a total nerd. He still is," Hajime sniggers "Did you know he's a fan of aliens? He may act all cool and tough, but he cried like a river when he watched E.T. for the first time. He still does. And totally unrelated, but he also often used to hit himself in the face with his volleyball when he was a child."
"Ni a ganchos! No way!" Tooru's teammates burst out laughing, Matias slamming his fist against the table. "I don't know how to thank you for this, Haji-kun."
"It's my pleasure," Iwaizumi smiles devilishly, ignoring the quizzical look that Tooru shoots at them.
"You know, Toto talks about you a lot. We were expecting you to be... Well, Toto says you're not half as cool as him. But now I know he just felt threatened," Gabriel adds, which has Hajime nearly lose his cool and scream out of laughter.
"Hey, what are you three laughing about?!" Tooru meddles in the conversation, but all he gets for a reply is even more booming laughter.
When he turns to Alex for help, the middle-blocker pretends that he has no idea what is going on and shrugs in response to Tooru's question, though the discreet tear of hilarity that he proceeds to wipe from the corner of his eye speaks volumes. After this, Tooru's teammates try to pry even more compromising information regarding their setter out of Hajime, who is more than happy to oblige. He suspects that Tooru's teammates will never let that go, and he is more than elated at the thought.
Another beer later, and Tooru and Hajime are opening up about their high school shenanigans, cussing over Nationals and parading victories in the Inter High, listing the names of the schools they had defeated and their funniest memories.
"Once, Trashykawa right there had to pay for our dinners because he hit his first serve on the back of Makki's head," Hajime recalls, laughing. "Had it been my head..." He turns toward Tooru, dark olive eyes glazing over. "You'd be a goner."
Another surge of laughter rings through the room, and Hajime finally asserts full victory over Tooru when he recounts that though Tooru did score high in Seijoh's arm-wrestling contest, it was Hajime who won it in their third year.
The night is a success. Even for Tooru. If anything, watching his best friend side with his teammates to poke fun at him spreads a thick wave of warmth through his chest. He pouts, whines, sneakily retaliates, and he sees the people he cares about most connect right in front of his eyes. Nothing can make him happier than seeing them all together. Eleven thousand miles away from Japan, Tooru feels at home. He can go on like this, he thinks.
*
Not even a month after Hajime's departure, the universe reminds Tooru that their lives are still unbreakably intwined. Not only that, but Tooru's existence is also visibly bound to remain interwoven with that of his high-school rivals, who are seemingly all tied together by the golden string of volleyball and ambition.
Hajime and Ushikawa. Tooru stares at the selfie he has just received in what can only be described as a conflicted mixture of surprise, hilarity and disgust. Nothing about this picture feels right. The lightning is off, the smiles are more frightening than friendly. They aren't even looking at the camera. And what on earth is Ushiwaka doing in the United States?
Tooru zooms into the picture. First of all, Hajime is absolutely unable to take selfies and should be prevented from doing so at all costs. Secondly, they need to learn how to smile properly. And most of all, all his past defeats and disillusions are creeping from behind Ushiwaka's figure, at once reviving memories it had taken a long time for Tooru to overcome. He never got to beat Ushijima. Tooru's fingers clench into a fist, he smiles ferociously. He still has revenge to wreak.
But the second time Tooru stumbles upon one of his fated nemeses, his resolve crumples. For the first time San Juan's hopeful sun is overshadowed by the nightmares that resurface inside the vulnerable child that Tooru thought he had left behind. When nineteen year-old professional player Kageyama Tobio appears in the ranks of the national Japanese team freshly brought together for the upcoming 2016 Rio Olympics on TV, long-battled insecurities jump at Tooru's throat and he freezes, eyes anchored to the screen. Again, just when he thought that he was moving forward, he is behind.
He starts watching Tobio's games again, almost against his own will, tracking every new move and technique, becoming fully aware of the progress that his junior has made since they parted ways. The young prodigy of a setter from Japan is the object of every commentator's praise. Speculations about Japan's performance in the Olympics are everywhere Tooru looks.
Matias and Alex had also been selected to play for the Argentinian national volleyball team and are to play in Rio. Tooru had warmly congratulated them on their celebration night, sincere joy for his deserving teammates' success struggling against the irrepressible jealousy gnawing at his insides.
Just like Feebas, it seems like Tooru cannot evolve.
Brazil is the unexpected silver lining that crosses Tooru's path.
Before the Olympics start, Club Athletico San Juan is competing in the 2016 South American Volleyball Championship, for the purposes of which they landed in Rio Janeiro, Brazil, in the morning. The news that they are getting their first day off to check into their hotel, stop by the arena they will be playing at and indulge in an afternoon of sight-seeing is cheerfully welcomed by the team, who are more than keen on unwinding a little before the trials to come. When everyone has unloaded their bags in the hotel rooms, Tomas and Gabriel therefore drag their teammates outside into the heat of Rio's luminous streets, ready to take the lead in their afternoon excursion. First stop—the statue, Gabriel proclaims, having not even bothered to look up the real name of Rio de Janeiro's worldwide-famous landmark in his excitement to begin their touring of the city. They read the wikipedia page on the way, marvelling at every remarkable thing they can see and pointing out they resemblance they can find between Rio and San Juan or their respective hometowns. For Tooru, who had never ventured outside of Japan and San Juan, Rio is as full of wonders as it is unbearable because of the Olympics.
They pose in front of Christ the Redeemer, take cable cars to get to the top of the Sugarloaf Mountain, stare at the magnificent oceanic view in awe, joke around and try different local food specialities, walk along the beach with plethoras of pictures in their phones and tired smiles on their lips. Tooru sends every snapshot he took to the Seijoh groupchat. He can almost ignore the painful thought that the Olympics he won't participate in—but Kageyama, Alex and Matias will—are to take place in the city later this year.
They are looking for a place to have dinner in when the unexpected happens and Tooru's high school years come flashing before his eyes all over again. There really is nowhere he can run away to to escape his rivals. A zooming beach volleyball and a head of flashy ginger hair appearing within Tooru's field of vision are enough for him to piece the puzzle together despite how startled he is. What is Hinata Shoyo doing in Brazil? He stops dead in his tracks, barely believing his eyes.
"Seriously? Is this real life?"
The redhead spins around on his heels upon hearing Japanese.
"The grand king?!" Shoyou gasps, also recognizing his former high school nemesis.
"You've sure gotten big…" Tooru cannot help but notice, taking account of the few centimeters Shoyo has gained since his freshman years.
"What are you doing here gr… Oikawa?!"
"That's my line."
"I'm here to train using beach volleyball!" Shoyo beams, gesturing toward the sandy court.
It is as simple as that.
Tooru's initial shock crumples and he laughs, not even truly knowing why. Perhaps because he recognizes that Hinata Shoyo is just as out of his wits as he is. The fact that they should meet on the other side of the globe is crazy—and yet, knowing both Tooru and Shoyo, somehow more believable than anything.
"Tooru, do you know him?" Alex asks from behind the setter's shoulder, him and Matias noticing that their team mate was not keeping up with them anymore.
Tooru quickly regains his composure, laughter making room for his signature smirk as he tells his teammates that Shoyo is just some middle school kid living in his neighborhood, which the ginger spiker contests with flushed cheeks. Some things never change.
Tooru assures Matias and Alex that he will catch up with them later, and with that he and Shoyo find themselves plunged in small talk, talking beach volleyball and Argentinian league. Shoyo excitedly shows his evolved Braixen to the setter and wheezes when Tooru mumbles that Feebas still has not changed form. Tooru then invites Shoyo for dinner at the delicious place the redhead shows him; they eat and talk and dissolve into laughter. They find an unforeseen fragment of the distant home they left behind in each other. It is oddly comforting, even to Tooru. It reminds him of Seijoh. It reminds him of a bitter loss and falling behind, of a defeat he swallowed harshly. But it is also synonymous with intoxicating challenges and the thrilling energy of the court, and such an immense joy in remembering what it was like playing alongside the group of people with whom he had forged a connection like no other. Chatting with Shoyo, he feels no resentment, but only the sense of lightheartedness that Shoyo himself exudes.
They end up playing volleyball. Shoyo drags Tooru out of the restaurant, promising him that randomly playing beach volleyball is common in Brazil. And indeed, it only takes a few minutes of tosses for two locals—the apparently somewhat famous "Buy me beer brothers"—to challenge them to a game of beach volleyball, managing to mistake them for Jackie chans in the process. They rise to the challenge without batting an eye; though Shoyo still considers himself a beginner and Tooru has no prior experience when it comes to beach volleyball, they are not ones to back down.
They lose and treat the winners to beers, but after parting ways for the night, Shoyo’s words keep ringing in Tooru’s ears—I really like leveling up. That feeling of becoming able to do something, it's fun, no matter how many times I feel it. He can never know whether Shoyo tells himself such things to find reassurance or whether he wholeheartedly believes them, but either way, Shoyo’s coming to Brazil alone to start all over again chills Tooru as much as it spurns him into the will to fight back. He has already witnessed the tremendous progress that Shoyo has made ever since they first faced off, and he has no doubt that the redhead will only keep getting stronger. He cannot let him get ahead.
The following evening, they play against the Beer brothers again. The sand is fresh under their feet, the breeze is blowing through their hair and clothes. A merry little crowd has gathered to absent-mindedly watch the game to take a break from their walk, and even Matias and Alex stop by to tease their teammate. The game begins.
This time, Tooru is prepared. He gets into position, cautiously keeping track of the wind and calculating Shoyo’s needs, and when the right moment comes, he flawlessly tosses to his partner, who spikes and scores. The first point is celebrated through elated cheers and a sonorous high five, both players smiling widely as they take the first step toward a winning set. Their duo is still a little rocky, especially lacking technique despite Tooru’s quality tosses, but what they cannot get accustomed to overnight, they make up for with sheer determination to win. Halfway through the match, Tooru is shaken to his core by the fact that volleyball is fun. How dare had he forgotten. So he breathes in the nightly air and runs for his life toward the ball, trying all kinds of insane passes and moves and exchanging frenzied looks with Shoyo. If volleyball is all about connecting, then Shoyo is the indubitable presence that suddenly brings him back to reality. For the first time in long and torturous weeks of second-guessing his place, Tooru knows where he wants to stand. He may not be Olympic-level for now, but he will be. Even if for that to happen, he would have to start from square one. After all, he already did it once in Argentina. There is no end to everything that he can still learn.
When the time comes to leave Rio, Tooru shakes hands with Shoyo and thanks him. Playing with the redhead again has ignited something new in Tooru, something he had not felt in a long time; not since he had seen Kageyama in the official Japanese Olympic line-up. But now, he is ready, recharged. He has sworn to take revenge on the whole world.
"I'm going to beat everyone. So be ready for it!"
Everything Tooru has been wishing for comes in the form of a letter. A large-sized letter enveloped in robust brown paper with a neatly printed logo of the Argentine Olympic Committee on the front. The next-door elderly couple are the ones to hand it to Tooru after it was delivered to their apartment by mistake. He takes it with the drumming of his heart relentlessly beating through his ears, barely able to listen on the chatty couple still standing in front of him.
"We're hoping it's good news!" Isabella says warmly, sheepishly glancing at the letter as though uncertain whether it would be overstepping Tooru's boundaries to ask that the young man open it with them.
"¡Dale, hijo! Open it," Frederico steps in, ever more direct than his wife and somewhat endearingly tactless, looking intently at Tooru.
"Frederico, dear, can't you see Tooru probably wants some privacy to deal with such matters."
Ever since Tooru had moved in next door, the old couple had taken it upon themselves to make Tooru feel welcome and help him out with anything he needed; he reminded them of their own grown-up children, they said. He had been invited over for alfajores and tea countless times and has grown really fond of this lovely couple, whose personalities perfectly fit together precisely because of their differences. Needless to say that after finding out that their neighbour was a professional player, Isabella and Frederico became his biggest supporters. As much as Tooru does not want to disappoint them, he feels like he also owes them this; they have always attended his local games and cheered for him, so Tooru hopes that whatever is inside this letter will repay them for their kindness.
"It's okay, I'll open it."
Tooru tears the top of the envelope apart, getting the letter out, the seconds separating him from its content repeatedly stabbing him in the guts. He takes a deep breath in, eyelids falling close upon his eyes for a couple of barely sufferable seconds, then finally gets it over with and reads. The words are blurry on the page. Scattered everywhere, making no sense whatsoever besides the few fragments he manages to decipher through his feverish scanning of the page. Naturalization; citizenship; the Tokyo 2020 Olympic games. He somehow manages to read through once again, out loud this time.
Next thing he knows, Isabella is pulling him into a tight embrace and Frederico is heartily patting him on the back, both of them showering Tooru in congratulations and praise, almost even more ecstatic than he is. Tooru is still processing, his brain on the verge of explosion.
"Will you accept the offer?" Isabella asks, before quickly correcting herself. "Oh, I'm sorry Tooru, you probably need to think things through before making such an important decisions…"
"No, there's nothing to think about!" Frederico cheerfully follows up. "The boy is an amazing player, he ought to play for us. Having him in the Olympic team will make us stronger. This is the next step for him. Win us lots of medals, hijo!"
"I… I think I'll accept it." Tooru blinks, his chest suddenly flooding with all the emotion he has been holding back while rereading the letter at least three times. The Olympics. Everything he has been dreaming about is at long last finally within his reach. After all these years… He hugs Isabelle back and clutches the letter as if it were a lifeline.
"Feebas, we made it!"
Tooru almost trips over his own feet running back into the apartment. He snatches the phone that has been lying on the living room table and presses 'call' on the Seijoh groupchat profile, forgetting all about timezones. It is one a.m. in Japan, but they still all pick up. He breathlessly babbles through tears, witnessing Hajime, Matsukawa and Hanamaki's eyes widen as sleepiness loosens its grip on their bodies and they begin to understand what is going on.
"Wait, wait, wait, so you've been asked to be part of the Argentinian national team for the 2020 Tokyo Olympics?!" Hanamaki repeats, awestruck.
"For real?! The 2020 Tokyo Olympics?" Matsukawa follows up, leaning closer toward the phone in disbelief.
"Yes. It's absolutely crazy," is all Tooru can say, waving the letter in front of his phone's camera. "It's written right there. We have the honour of informing you that you will be granted citizenship and permanent right of residence in Argentina should you accept the offer," he quotes. "They want me on their Olympic team. I can't believe it."
"Dude, can you really not?" Hanamaki smirks at Tooru through the screen, falling back onto his pillow. "'Cause we believed in you all along, captain."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised either," Hajime adds with a faintly nonchalant smile. "A bit better than Nationals, isn't it?"
"Yeah, take that, Nationals!" Matsukawa proudly agrees.
They fervently congratulate Tooru for another solid half hour, then Tooru remembers that he is keeping his friends awake in the middle of the night and lets them drift back to sleep after Matsukawa has him swear that he will keep them updated on the whole Olympics matter. When Hanamaki and Matsukawa disappear from the screen, only Tooru and Hajime remain.
"So, you're staying in Argentina, then," Hajime says first.
"Yes, it looks like it." Tooru nods, trying to find the right words for Hajime.
Up until that moment, he has always imagined that someday they would be together again, in the same place, and he would know what to do then. But now, the joint future he has often wondered about seems impossible; it ends here and now. While being in Argentina, Tooru had never seriously pondered over when he would be leaving—but knowing he still had a place to come back to in Japan no matter where he went had always been a comforting certainty etched in the back of his mind. He has always thought he and Hajime would find their way back to each other, like they did ever since they were kids chasing cicadas in the tall summer grass.
"You know, I was the first to say that you'll remain that annoying guy who keeps chasing volleyball forever," Hajime muses, the look upon his face growing gentler. "But don't get too cocky, Shittykawa. I'm going to catch up." Tooru looks up from the letter balanced on his lap. His eyes meet Hajime’s. "Just wait a little longer, yeah? And then I'm going to kick your ass."
At these words, Tooru's face breaks into a grin and he is sure he must have started crying again, but he looks back at Hajime and holds his fist up. Of course. Of course Hajime and him will find their way back to one another, be it from the other side of the world. They had promised to defeat each other, after all. A promise neither of them is willing to break.
"I'm waiting, Iwa-chan. Give it everything you've got."
*
The stadium is set ablaze with blinding lights. A multitude of flags are frenetically fluttering in the stands, accompanied by loud eruptions of cheers and the impatient chatter of the crowd that has already gathered, eagerly awaiting the beginning of the match. The smell of hot spray is filling the room, hanging in the air electrified by anticipation. There are only a few minutes left before it all begins. Japan and Argentina are competing against one another in the Olympic Games.
Tooru's phone buzzes, a string of many texts and pictures illuminating the lock screen, and the setter chuckles to himself at the sight of the blue, white and yellow colours smeared across Yahaba, Kindaichi, Kunimi, Matsukawa and Hanamaki's cheeks and the large Argentinian flags unfolded behind their backs. They call as soon as he texts back, thanking his former Seijoh teammates for the support and not missing an opportunity to poke fun at Iwaizumi in good faith.
"Show 'em hell, captain," Yahaba gives Tooru a mischievous smile, resting his cheek against his fist so that Tooru can get a good look at the Argentinian flag painted on his face.
"Thank you, I most definitely will. Iwa-chan, it looks like Argentina is winning in terms of popularity," Tooru cheekily smiles at Hajime, who retorts with an equally malevolent grin.
"That's fine, it's the only thing Argentina will be winning today."
"Ouch, Iwa-chan, where is your sportsmanship!"
"You're one to talk, Shittykawa!"
"Good luck to you too, Iwaizumi-san!" Kindaichi tries to restore the balance, but the Argentinian colours he is wearing as well are not helpful. Still, Hajime kindly thanks his junior and the team gives them one last round of good lucks before hanging up.
"I hope you're ready to get your ass beaten," Hajime warns, cracking his knuckles with that competitive edge to his smile Tooru knows so well. "Here we are. Good luck."
"Wishful thinking won't do you any good, Iwa-chan. Good luck to you too."
The final look they exchange is softer, an interwoven tangle of fondness and pride, of thinking about how far they have come and how far they can still go. See you there, it says.
Oikawa Tooru is twenty-seven when he sets foot on the Olympic stage. The Argentinian flag embroidered on his chest, above his heart, and the number thirteen on his jersey are burning determination into his muscles; the teammates walking by his side are pushing him forward, toward the incandescent lights of the stadium. There is a confident stretch to his lips, a solid readiness to his pace. In the stands, Houndoom and Milotic are hopping up and down with excitement.
From across the net, he glimpses dark side-swept hair, a white square adorned with a red sun in the middle, and a grin that he has known his whole life. It has taken them three different countries and ten years, but here they finally are, standing on the same court again, striving for victory. On the other side of the net, Tooru sees the monsters he has grown tall enough to face. And this time, he wants to crush them all.
Tooru is the first server. He walks to the back line, the ball firmly set between his hands, his gaze fixed on the spot he will aim for.
The whistle blows.
He flies.
After the match ends, Hajime and Tooru are sitting on the bench next to each other, side by side. They are watching as the Olympic crew cleans the place and the athletes they have known since their junior days are talking to the press and signing autographs, waving to the roaring crowd. Hajime makes a mental note to congratulate Ushijima and Kageyma on the improvement of their communication skills and encourage them to keep going; the starstruck boyish expressions he can see in the stands remind him all too well of another pair of kids who used to watch games with their mouths agape and sparkles glowing in their eyes.
Affectionately scratching Houndoom between the ears, Hajime slightly turns his head to take a look at Tooru, who is staring out into space, absent-mindedly running his fingers up and down Milotic’s spine.
"Hey," he calls for him, and Tooru blinks, regaining consciousness. "I think I figured why it took Feebas so long to evolve," he confesses, giving Tooru’s Pokemon a little pat.
"Really? Why?"
"I think Feebas loves you deeply, and seeing you unhappy all these years must have brought him down too. When you stopped pushing yourself over the edge, I think Feebas felt that."
Tooru's face softens apologetically, his gaze flickering toward the floor. It is a rare sight, even for Hajime.
"I really got everyone around me down, didn’t I? I’m sorry."
Though Hajime’s chest squeezes at the hint of sadness he perceives in Tooru, he does not lose his nerve.
"If you claim to love someone but you don’t want them at their worst, is it even love?" he quotes, looking away so that Tooru would not catch sight of the flush rising to his cheeks.
He wonders whether Tooru remembers the words that have not left Hajime's heart in twenty years. He understands now how one can love something even if it is ugly. He knows, because he has loved Tooru his whole life, through ugliness and beauty, through defeat and victory.
"Look at you, Iwa-chan, you're such a sap deep down! Just like Houndoom!"
Tooru teases him in return, visibly oblivious to the fact that he had coined that very phrase, so Hajime has no choice but to hit him on the shoulder and frantically try to fight back against the increasing heat burning his face.
"Anyway," Hajime ends up sighing, an earnest smile tugging at his lips. Internally, he is bursting with pride. "Congratulations, Tooru."
"Thank you."
A voice calls through the arena's speakers, and the setter gets to his feet.
*
Tooru is standing alongside the Argentinian team, a speck of gold gleaming against the light colours of his blue jersey. Seeing his trainer up there, Milotic lets out a moved cry and Hajime gently strokes the Pokemon's back, Houndoom equally happily pressed against his leg. From the podium, Tooru looks at Hajime, his fingers softly grazing the other, much smaller band of gold he is also wearing around his neck.
When he wins Olympic gold, Oikawa Tooru is thirty-one years old. From the top of the mountain, he sees a radiant sunrise.