Work Text:
Fried salmon skin doesn’t taste quite the same, 18,280 kilometers away.
They’re stale. Shoyo can barely taste the shichimi blend as he bites into the crisps; the absence of the familiar Sichuan pepper sting leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It goes away after one sip of water, and Shoyo spends the rest of the evening absent-mindedly gliding his tongue across his teeth, chasing a flavor that isn’t there.
Usually, the pepper nestled quickly between Shoyo’s teeth, the capsaicin ready to poke his digestive tract at the most unfortunate times. Usually, the tang is so intense that Shoyo can still taste it even after chugging countless bottles of water, even after eating something sweet to neutralize it, even just by tasting it in someone else’s mouth…
(“That’s—” Tobio coughed, reaching for the water bottle, his face turning beet red. From the spice or the kiss, Shoyo couldn’t decide. “That’s fucking gross Sho—Hinata, you idiot!”
Maybe both.
Shoyo laughed, euphoria bubbling in his chest. His hands went lax around Tobio’s wrist as he threw his head back from laughing too hard, allowing Tobio to swipe the water bottle on the far side of the porch, his shoulder hitting the wooden door frame as he did. Tobio took a huge gulp, and water dribbled down his chin and wetted the front of his shirt. The sight made Shoyo laugh harder.
Shoyo hadn’t laughed like this since Tobio slammed a volleyball onto the back of Tsukishima’s head during a serve, exactly the way Shoyo did on his first practice match with Seijoh almost three years ago. Shoyo’s cheeks ached, his eyes squinted from the laughter, and he could barely see anything; could barely see Tobio, however beautiful and golden he was, basking in the evening sun, grabbing a handful of fried salmon skin and stuffing them into his mouth and gobbling them as if he was in an eating contest. Shoyo was still laughing when Tobio leaned over and cupped Shoyo’s face his shichimi-dusted hands and—
—and kissed him.
The chilli and ginger settled quickly on Shoyo’s mouth, burning his tongue, the insides of his cheeks, his lips. It still stung, even after Tobio shoved him away, face redder than the sunset; even when Shoyo whined about how disgusting and taste and the kiss were, even when Tobio threw a water bottle at Shoyo’s head and mumbled begrudgingly, albeit with a slight smile, “Now we’re even,” and Shoyo downed the bottle; the shichimi still lingered.)
(Tobio had looked so smug and proud, then, that Shoyo didn’t know how to tell him that the point didn’t really count as a loss if he could get Tobio to kiss him.)
—usually. Usually.
Usually, Shoyo could still savor the phantom sting of the pepper hours after. Usually, the taste lingers. Usually, he doesn’t have to chase after the spice like it was stray volleyballs falling on the court.
Usually.
Shoyo eats the fried salmon skin again the next week. Maybe the flavor will return now.
But they are still stale, even when Shoyo sprinkles salt onto them, hoping to awaken the shichimi blend. They are still stale. The salt does nothing.
Maybe it’s bound to happen—snacks get spoiled and minds get lagged. It shouldn’t matter, anyway. It’s just a snack, isn’t it? Shoyo can buy other snacks here: there is an uncle with a snack cart that comes around every seven o’clock, selling pão de queijos, coxinhas, and even cinnamon churros, if Shoyo wants something sweet. The smell is alluring enough to lure Pedro out of his room, and the uncle is sometimes nice enough to give him one extra churro—
—but it’s not fried salmon skin.
But it’s not fried salmon skin.
Shoyo just has to live with that.
Sometimes, on his delivery job, Shoyo stumbles upon situations he wouldn’t be in, otherwise. He was a part of a girl’s sixteenth birthday party, once, with a party hat and all, because the birthday girl’s friend told him he was a lifesaver for delivering the cake on time. He delivered fast food to a construction worker, once, who looked tired and grumpy but invited him to sit and share his lunch when Shoyo’s stomach rumbled so loud that it made his co-worker laugh. He soothed a boy who was going through a breakup, once, letting the ice cream melt and the churros go cold because the boy wouldn’t stop crying until thirty-three minutes later.
Shoyo is delivering to an apartment near the Ipanema beach, today. The customer buys brigadeiros and pastels from a nearby bakery, and tells him to go straight up, turn left from the lift, then left again, and there the door would be. Knock and I’ll open the door for you!, the customer says, so that’s what Shoyo does. He knocks.
The door opens.
A girl comes out of the room; the slant of her eyes and the mole on her cheek remind Shoyo of Kiyoko. She smiles as she hands Shoyo the money. Thank you, she says. And have a nice day!
Shoyo smiles back. The door closes. He gets back into the lift, gets to his bike, and grips the handlebars tight.
Then he cries.
A strong savory aroma wafted in the air when the girl opened her apartment door, just then. An aroma Shoyo is well-acquainted with, because it’s always present whenever he’s sick, and on rainy days and stormy nights, and after a week-long trip to Tokyo.
It was the smoky smell of pork, sweet and piquant, blending with the earthy notes of daikon and potato. Shoyo could even detect the garlic and ginger underneath, might be able to guess how many cloves the girl had used when brewing the soup.
It was the smell of tonjiru soup, unmistakably. The girl has tonjiru soup in her apartment. If Shoyo had closed his eyes, then, when the girl opened her door, he might be able to pretend that it was the early summer of 2013 in Miyagi, in his house, in his warm kitchen with his mother and Natsu. If Shoyo had closed his eyes and listened closer, he might be able to hear their laughter and the soft pitter of rain from the opened window.
The girl has tonjiru soup in her apartment.
All that Shoyo has in his apartment is fried salmon skin that doesn’t really taste like fried salmon skin anymore.
… But it’s still fried salmon skin.
Shoyo mounts his bike and cycles fast, faster than he ever did before, zipping through the city, the city lights a blurred twinkle in his vision. He makes a quick stop at his regular Asian supermarket, only five minutes away from his apartment, and buys eggs and flour and shichimi blend.
As soon as he gets home, he pulls out his jar of fried salmon skin, douses them in egg, coats them in flour, fries them, and peppers the shichimi blend all over them when the egg-and-flour coated salmon skin has turned golden.
Shoyo takes a bite. Then he spits the salmon skin out.
The shichimi is far too strong. There’s hardly any balance between the spices; the orange peel overpowers the ginger and pepper, so it’s more citrusy than spicy. And underneath the coat of eggs and flour, the salmon skin is still stale.
Still stale.
Fried salmon skin still doesn’t taste quite the same.
Fried salmon skin doesn’t taste quite the same, 18,280 kilometers away from home.
Neither does the onigiri Shoyo makes.
Neither does the gungun bar and the garigari-kun ice pop he finds in the Asian supermarket, even though it was the exact same variant Ukai used to give him, the one that Nishinoya used to buy him and Tobio and Hitoka, at the end of every summer camp.
Neither does the ramen he’d had in a Japanese restaurant that turns out to be owned by the tonjiru girl, and neither does the meat bun from across the street.
Neither does the yakisoba and taiyaki from the same Asian supermarket whose owner now recognizes Shoyo by his hair. Neither does the tamago-kake-gohan he attempts to make for breakfast. Neither does the milk—the damn milk—the very brand that the school vending machine always defaulted to when Tobio couldn’t choose between two variants, the same one that Tobio ends up promoting now, that Shoyo drinks after every morning run.
No matter how much Shoyo devours, how hard he tries to pretend, tries to find the barest semblance of home…
(“Slow down when you eat, Shoyo,” his mother chuckled.
“It’sh jwust—amaving!” Shoyo stuffed more of his yakimeshi into his mouth, his puffed-up cheeks inflating with every spoonful. “It’sh sho good! Th’ peas go plomp, plomp! Th’n th’ bacon comes like bam! Th’n th’ egg goes zuuup! And—”
“I know, I know,” his mother laughed, ruffling Shoyo’s hair and wiping away sauce on the corner of his mouth. “Food always tastes better when you’re tired, doesn’t it?”
Shoyo takes a moment to swallow before grinning. “But I’m not tired! I can still train!” he exclaimed, then showing off his empty plate. “And I’m done! Can I please do another toss with Izumi-kun?”
Shoyo’s mother got up and took his plate, putting it in the sink. “It’s late. Ayane-san won’t be happy if you kidnap her son just to toss some balls. Take a bath and go to bed, Shoyo. You can practice again tomorrow.”
Shoyo pouts. Tomorrow would be Thursday, and on Thursdays, Izumi’s basketball team usually have their weekly spar with neighboring middle schools in the prefecture. Shoyo might not get the chance to practice, then. “But—”
“I just made salmon skin crisps,” Shoyo’s mother wiggled a jar in her hand. “You can have it before bed.”
And just like that, all thoughts about volleyball and training went out the window.)
(For the next ten minutes, anyway. After his bath, Shoyo sneaks out to his backyard to practice again.)
Water drips from Shoyo’s damp hair, wetting his pajama shirt before he grabs a towel and slings it around his shoulder. He takes his Portuguese lesson book and plops down in the dining chair, flipping the book to page… Page eight? He’s been in Rio de Janeiro for almost four months and has only gotten to page eight?
The fried salmon skin jar sits in front of him, and absent-mindedly, Shoyo reaches for it. He fiddles with the snack, remembering how Hitoka said that Shoyo could use whatever treat he wants to motivate himself better to study—she also said that he should study for at least an hour a day to be good at a language, but, well. Shoyo was never the best at following academic advice, anyway.
Shoyo takes a bite of the salmon crisps.
Still stale. Still bland.
The taste of Sichuan pepper and ginger vanishes quicker than the new vocabulary Shoyo’s been trying to grasp these past few months. Shoyo can taste Tobio’s last kiss from months ago better than he can taste the spice of this fried salmon skin.
Shoyo sighs, closing the jar and pushing it aside. He reaches for Pedro’s leftover plate of pão de queijos instead.
Fried salmon skin doesn’t taste the same anymore.
It’s as if Shoyo’s own taste buds have changed.
Things are going to be different in Rio, Shoyo knows that.
There’s sand now, and it’s not the steady, solid ground that supports his step but a sinking pit that effaced his stance and clipped his wings. There’s wind, ready to snatch the ball away at any given time, the motion difficult to predict and impossible to control. There is the sun, scorching his back and tanning his skin, instead of the big echoing gymnasium where matches last for eternities.
Shoyo knows that this is Rio, not Miyagi, and there are no mountains to cross anymore, no bird chippers and rooster crows outside his window at each break of dawn, no black-clad comrades by his side. There are instead the rolling waves, constant and lulling, and a new partner each time he steps into the sand court.
Shoyo knows. But he never expects… Never knew…
(“Brazil?” Tobio repeated, his pace slowing.
A deluge of passengers that alighted the train streamed past him, local and tourists alike. Some threw Tobio dirty looks for blocking the huge map of the Yamagata prefecture.
Woes of being tall, Shoyo thought, half bitterly, half fondly.
“Yeah,” Shoyo nodded as he tugged on Tobio’s hand, beckoning him to continue walking. “I want to try beach volleyball.”
“But why?” Tobio asked. “I mean, why Brazil? There’s plenty of beaches in Japan.”
“Because the coach is in Rio,” Shoyo answered. “Fun, right? There’s plenty of sun there, and—the food! I’ve always wanted to eat Brazilian dishes.”
“There’s also plenty of sun here,” Tobio argued. His place slowed again, so Shoyo tugged Tobio again, holding him by his wrist so their paces would match. “Why can’t you train in Okinawa or something?”
“I told you, because the coach is in Rio. He’s Coach Washijo’s former student, and he’s supposed to be really good because Coach Washijo actually smiled when talking about him, can you believe that—”
“The Shiratorizawa coach who hates your guts and makes you the ballboy and doesn’t feed you,” Tobio interrupted. “That’s who you’re betting your whole—how long did you say you were going to leave? Two years?”
“Well, thanks to that, I’m better at receiving now, though, right!” Shoyo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And did you hear what I said—he smiled, so he’s somewhat friendly now—”
“And you’re leaving in…” Tobio reached for his phone and opened his calendar. His eyes widened slightly. “In a week.”
Shoyo looked ahead and kept tugging Tobio’s hand, not wanting to look Tobio in the eyes even though he knew Tobio was glaring at him. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah! But don’t worry, you can still stack up your win points while I’m here. Though, I won’t go easy on you just ‘cause I’m leaving—”
Tobio stopped abruptly, pushing away Shoyo’s hand on his wrist. “How long have you planned this?”
Does it matter, Shoyo thought. The question was immediately answered by yes, stupid, of course it matters!
He should’ve told Tobio sooner, Shoyo knew that. He would have told Tobio sooner, if he knew how. But whenever he was with Tobio, all throughout high school, his mind was always fixating on the now, on the present. The farthest they’d look into the future was into the next match, then the next practice camp, then the next training session, then the next match after that. It felt like living in a bubble where time stretched on forever, where this was all there was to life: Tobio, setting tosses, Shoyo, scoring spikes, and the volleyballs, echoing as they fell into the hardwood floor.
How could Shoyo burst that bubble by talking about something so far away in the future?
But looking at Tobio now, eyes filled with disbelief and—what was that look, betrayal? Anger?—Shoyo thought Tobio had to know. Goodbyes were due, anyway. Might as well rip the bandaid off.
“Since the first year training camp in Tokyo,” Shoyo answered.
Tobio’s brow twitched. “That long?”
“But!” Shoyo added, trying to summon cheer into his voice. “I talked with Coach Ukai just last year! After our match with Inarizaki—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to burst our bubble.
“I’m telling you now—”
“A week before you leave—” Tobio pointed out. “A week after—after—”
—after their first kiss.
After that early spring evening, the sky red and orange and gold. The last sunset of being crows, of having 烏野—Karasuno—imprinted on their chests, on the spot right above their hearts. Shoyo couldn’t recall who initiated the first move, because his memory was drowned by the countless kisses that came right after: Tobio’s sun-kissed cheeks, flushed and rosy and warm against Shoyo’s palms; Tobio’s hair, slightly damp from his sweat, messy from where Shoyo’s fingers had been; Tobio’s lips, unexpectedly soft and slightly swollen; Tobio’s heartbeats that thumped faster and faster, Tobio’s smile that got wider when Shoyo kissed him again and again and again and again—
Did you put on lip balm? Shoyo had asked, then, in-between kisses.
Yeah, Tobio had answered, a bit breathlessly. And I’m also well-hydrated. Unlike you.
Shoyo’s lips still tingled from the memory.)
Never prepared for… Wasn’t expecting…
What is it that Shoyo was sad about, again?
(“I wanted to tell you, but we’ve been busy, remember,” Shoyo said. Lies, his mind reminded. “With the camp and the nationals and everything.”
Silence, for a while. A few people walked past them, calling taxis and hugging their friends. The wind breezed past, gently, ruffling Tobio’s hair. It’s been cut recently, Shoyo noticed.
They had the whole of Yamagata to look forward to; a trip Shoyo planned because maybe, maybe, saying goodbye in an onsen would be easier than in the gym where most of his best memories were created. They had the hiking trail of Yamadera and Tendo Fruit Land and the fox village Tobio enthusiastically suggested to look forward to. And seeing as this was their first solo trip as a couple, without teammates and coaches and yet another sweaty gym, it should feel like the start of something new.
Somehow, it felt more like the end.
“Whatever,” Tobio suddenly said. He gripped his bag tight and turned away, starting to stride back in the direction of the train station. “I’m going back.”
“What?” Shoyo jogged and caught Tobio’s wrist again. “But it’s Yamagata—and we’ve rented the room for three nights—”
“Stay alone, then, since you’re gonna be alone in Brazil anyway,” Tobio shot. He looked back at Shoyo, the glare angrier than Shoyo had ever seen him. “Seriously, what were you thinking? Brazil, that’s—I don’t even know how far that is, but that’s not… That’s not even Asia anymore, right?”
“It’s…” Definitely not Asia, Shoyo knew that much. That was all that he knew, though. “Well, the plane ticket says it’s going to be a twenty-three hours flight with transits—”
“And do you even speak the language? You can’t even speak English very well—”
“I can learn!” Shoyo exclaimed. He’d brought Portuguese lesson books and had even downloaded Duolingo—even though he’d never made it past three-day streak. “And I’ll have the coach with me, and he says there are lots of Japanese in Rio—”
“What if you get lost, or kidnapped—what if you lose your wallet again like that time in Hokkaido—what’s even going to happen if you lose your IDs in a foreign country? You’ll get deported—”
“I’ll keep my wallet safe,” Shoyo promised. “And I’ve been keeping my IDs in my phone case ever since that incident anyway, look—” Shoyo took out his phone and peeled away the casing, showing that all of his IDs were safe. “Look!”
“And if your dumb ass gets hungry in the middle of the night?” Tobio raised his voice. “How are you going to survive without meat buns or your stupid fried salmon skin or tonjiru—remember last year, when you cried when they lied about having tonjiru on the Nekoma camp and you got your snot all over their setter?”
“Kenma didn’t mind,” Shoyo mumbled. “And we don’t really need to recall that memory right now…”
“Well, there won’t be Kenma anymore,” Tobio snapped. “You can’t even survive a night alone in Tokyo, moron—and Brazil, that’s so far—and all alone? You’re not even going to—I don’t know—” Tobio exasperated. “Ask someone to come with you? Like—”
“I told you, the coach will be there—”
“Like a teammate, or—or a partner, or—or like…”
You, Shoyo wordlessly completed the unfinished sentence. Like you?
Tobio’s eyes were wild and angry, but they confirmed Shoyo’s question.
Me, Tobio sighed, his gaze softening slightly. The blue looked like sapphires in the sun. You’re not even going to ask me?
“Who—” Tobio started again. “Who’s even going to send you tosses, dumbass? Do you want to get kicked out because you’re annoying everyone to go to the gym at four a.m.? What if that’s also the day you lost your wallet, so you can’t even prove that you have the right to have a roof over your stupid orange head—”
“Come with me, then,” Shoyo offered. “If you’re that worried.”
Silence, for a while. It was a useless offer, Shoyo knew that. Tobio wouldn’t throw away his blossoming career just to chase away some sunset in Rio.
“I can’t,” Tobio finally spoke. “I signed the papers to Suntory two weeks ago. You know that. Stupid.”
Exactly. Exactly—Suntory was waiting. And the national team, probably—most possibly. Shoyo had wanted to tell Tobio the moment Tobio broke the news, but in the face of Tobio’s glimmering future and the celebration Hitoka had thrown, Shoyo didn’t have it in him to say that he was leaving.
World stage together, huh, Kageyama, Shoyo thought fondly.
The dream was still there. It just wouldn’t come as soon as they once hoped it would.
“I thought you got scouted too and this trip was to tell me that you got into Adler or something,” Tobio sighed. “Not Brazil.”)
Stale fried salmon skin.
Right.
(Later, after he got back from the trip, Shoyo would think about what would have happened if he had told Tobio sooner. He would wonder if their kiss would happen sooner, or not at all. He would wonder if Tobio regretted that last sunset. He would wonder if telling Tobio sooner, whenever sooner would be, would change anything at all.
And much later, during his first month in Rio, Shoyo would wonder if he really should have asked Tobio all those months—years ago. He would wonder if Tobio would be as insane as he was and drop everything for a foreign country. Tobio always was, so far—as insane as Shoyo. And maybe Rio would feel more like home, then. They could change together, then, and grow to be each other’s better halves, and learn to be whole alongside each other.
But back then, in Yamagata, where spring felt like the epilogue of a movie and the falling sakura petals looked like farewell confettis, all Shoyo could say were:
“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, Kageyama.”
And,
“But the decision is made. We have our own paths now.”
And,
“I’ll come back one day. But for now, let’s enjoy Yamagata.”
To which Tobio replied, after several moments of silence,
“Fine.”)
Attachment sent at 23:23.
look what i found today!!!! <
Yamagata strawberries!!!! i can’t believe they have this!!!!! <
o(≧▽≦)o <
[Read 23:23]
> Cool
[Received 23:24]
i bet its not as sweet as the ones we picked though <
[Read 23:24]
> Why do you look like anpanman
[Received 23:24]
huh????? <
[Read 23:24]
Attachment received at 23:24.
why did you send me back my picture? <
[Read 23:24]
> Look at how red
> Your cheeks and nose
> Why are you red!?
[Received 23:25]
that’s just sunburn asshole!!!!! <
i don’t look like anpanman! ಠ_ಠ <
[Read 23:25]
> Wear sunscreen, dumbass
> They don’t have sunscreen over there?
[Sent 23:26]
they DO <
but mom says i have sensitive skin so i need to be careful <
everything i found here is in spanish/portuguese so i cant read the ingredient <
[Read 23:26]
> Just wear any
> They won’t kill you
> Also, google translate exist
[Received 23:26]
easy for you to say, your skin’s never been irritated <
[Read 23:26]
> That’s just because I’m well hydrated.
[Received 23:26]
well i am too!!! <
[Read 23:27]
> No you’re not
> Last time I checked your lips are still chapped
Attachment sent 23:27
> And see here
> Your lips are still chapped.
[Sent 23:27]
last time you “checked” was MONTHS AGO <
things change!!!! <
and stop analyzing my lips!!!! <
if you wanted to kiss me so bad then just say so <
stupid Tobio <
my skin is just sensitive okay!!!! shut up (⋋▂⋌) <
[Sent 23:27]
hey where are you <
[Sent 23:40]
helloooo <
[Read 23:55]
> Training.
> It’s the middle of the day
[Sent 23:57]
ohhh right <
i’ll call you tonight? <
your tonight <
cause im going to practice new moves tomorrow!!!! <
the beach is always empty on tuesdays <
so you can come!!! i wont fall on my face again <
its easier to jump on sand now <
[Read 23:57]
> What time
[Received 23:57]
7??? probably?? <
[Read 23:58]
> I have a group gathering til 9
[Received 23:58]
yeah thats fine!!!! i can do other things before <
the beach wont be as empty though so you might meet lana again <
[Read 23:58]
> Yeah sure
> If you fall on your face again it’s my point
[Received 23:58]
that’s not fair!!!! (`A´) <
also can you spam me if i havent texted you by 7 <
[Read 23:58]
> Why is that a possibility
> You always wake up at 5
[Received 23:58]
i got a bubble bath because pedro got one for free and doesn’t like the scent <
and im sooo tired today <
i might oversleep <
[Read 23:59]
> No you won’t
> You still woke up at 5 after the onsen
[Received 23:59]
yeah but im exhausted now!!!! <
[Read 23:59]
> Last time, we hiked and picked fruits.
> Is that less exhausting than beach volleyball?
[Received 23:59]
can’t you just say ‘yeah okay i’ll wake you up at 7’ like normal boyfriends <
[Read 23:59]
> yeah okay i’ll wake you up at 7’
[Received 23:59]
did you just copy paste my text?????!?!!!! <
[Read 23:59]
> What do you want me to do?!
> Yeah, of course, babe, I’ll wake you up at 7 AM so you can show me your incredible beach volleyball moves. I’m sure you won’t fall on your face and eat sand again. I’ll see you tomorrow, love.
[Received 00:00]
nice. thanks <
Hinata Shoyo: 976 | Kageyama Tobio: 969 <
[Read 00:00]
> What the fuck?!
> No point!
> Hinata Shoyo: 975 | Kageyama Tobio: 1000000
[Received 00:01]
remember when Yacchan said “Why can’t you guys call each other things other than idiot” <
[Read 00:01]
> ?
> THAT WAS YEARS AGO
[Received 00:01]
yeah but see you do remember!!!! <
then i said: what, like babe? <
and you said: no way i’ll ever call you that. (ಠ ∩ಠ) <
(thats what you looked like btw) <
and here we are today <
Hinata Shoyo: 976 | Kageyama Tobio: 969 <
and stop adding points !!!!! cheater <
[Read 00:01]
> Ugh whatever
> Just sleep and stop bothering me
> I’m supposed to be training.
[Received 00:02]
right right <
[Read 00:02]
> shoyo pinned Hinata Shoyo: 976 | Kageyama Tobio: 969 <
[00:02]
good night !!!!!! <
[Read 00:02]
> Kageyama Tobio unpinned >Hinata Shoyo: 976 | Kageyama Tobio: 969 <
[00:02]
hey!!!!! stop being a sore loser!! <
[Sent 00:02]
> shoyo pinned Hinata Shoyo: 976 | Kageyama Tobio: 769<
[00:02]
going to sleep now !!!!! <
byeee <
[Read 00:03]
> Night.
[Received 00:17]
> Kageyama Tobio unpinned >Hinata Shoyo: 976 | Kageyama Tobio: 969 <
[00:17]
(The Yamagata trip felt more like a boot camp than a romantic couple getaway.
The first day had been an arduous hiking journey to Yamadera temple followed by volleyball practice at night (of course, because who were Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shoyo if not volleyball maniacs?) The second day was filled with (more) hiking and fruit picking (strawberries, cherries, and peaches!), and while the two activities weren’t too tiring, the one thing that delivered the killing blow was the half-hour session in the onsen. The onsen was supposed to be relaxing, yes—but it was too relaxing. Shoyo felt his legs slowly turning into jellies, his muscles melting from the sulfur. As much as Shoyo wanted to train again, and even though Tobio had gripped his volleyball like it was his lifeline right as he entered their room, both simply couldn’t anymore.
All they could do was collapse and crawl to their ryokan balcony, taking in the fresh air, and basking in the silence, for once.
It was weird, but it was also nice. Hangouts with Tobio were rarely this quiet, and Shoyo found himself appreciating the tranquillity. The city lights were twinkling in the distance, mirroring the star-dotted night sky above, and Tobio was right beside him, cradling a volleyball, with a relaxed smile on his face. What else could Shoyo ask for?
“Brazil, huh?” Tobio suddenly said, wistfully staring at the sea of lights.
Yes, Shoyo wanted to say. But this was the first time Tobio ever looked so pensive, and the air felt the way it did on courts (everlasting, timeless, infinite), and there were stars in Tobio’s eyes.
And somehow, Brazil felt so far away; a distant dream that was only spoken in the blinding light of day.
“No,” Shoyo said, reaching for his bag and taking out the jar of fried salmon skin his mother had packed. “Fried salmon skin.”
All traces of serenity in Tobio’s face were replaced with a disdainful scowl.
“No, fuck you—the last time we ate that, I can still taste the pepper after I brush my teeth,” Tobio grumbled. When Shoyo opened the jar, Tobio quickly continued, “And don’t even think of—of pulling the stunt you did last time—”
“Relax, geez!” Shoyo laughed, throwing his head back. “I haven’t even taken a bite! And why are you so confident that I’m gonna kiss you again—hey!”
Bonk.
Tobio threw the volleyball at Shoyo’s head, which ricocheted off Shoyo’s forehead before falling back into Tobio’s arms.
“What was that for?!”
Tobio glared as if he was the one getting bonked by a volleyball. “You’re annoying!”
“I didn’t even do anything!”
Tobio raised the volleyball again, but this time, Shoyo was quicker—he deflected Tobio and dived for the fried salmon skin jar, taking one out, and tried jamming it into Tobio’s mouth.
“Mmf—get away—” Tobio resisted. “Get the fuck away—!”
All of Shoyo’s frayed muscles had been revitalized now, and Shoyo laughed, reveling in the delight of seeing Tobio’s face so red and so close. They wrestled—Tobio jerked away and Shoyo kept on pushing—and somehow the fried salmon skin was thrown away when Tobio pushed back.
Tobio pushed back, and they were wrestling, limbs tangled in each other—and suddenly the wrestling turned into tickling, with Tobio jamming his fingers into Shoyo’s sides mercilessly, coercing more eruption of laughter. Shoyo pressed his hands on Tobio’s shoulders, trying to push him away because why was he the one underneath Tobio now, and—
—and Tobio was so close, and the scent of grass and peaches from last afternoon still clung to him, even after a bath in the onsen. There were city lights flickering in Tobio’s eyes, and Tobio was smiling, laughing, holding Shoyo’s waist, and—
—Shoyo could feel the pulsates of Tobio’s heart underneath his hands, the cadence erratic, beating in tandem with Shoyo’s own heartbeat. And Tobio was laughing, he was laughing, and he was so, so beautiful—damn those blue eyes and those laughter lines—was it even okay for Shoyo to hold something so resplendent? Kageyama Tobio was a freak of nature, the rarest comet to ever pass the earth, untouchable, blazing bright as the world looked on in awe. And yet…
And yet here Tobio was, for Shoyo alone. And here Tobio was, holding Shoyo tighter, gaze lingering at Shoyo’s lips.
And so Shoyo looped his arms around Tobio’s shoulder and pulled him close, closer, and rested his forehead against Tobio’s, their noses bumping each other’s. He closed his eyes, and—
“Okinawa,” Tobio suddenly said, his breath warm on Shoyo’s face.
Shoyo opened his eyes, somewhat startled. “... What?”
“Just go to Okinawa or something.”
Sapphire eyes lit by thousands of stars. Warm cheeks, warm hands, warm chest. Grass and peaches from the afternoon. Three years of history, of finding themselves and reinventing themselves, again and again and again, until the very root of their beings were inextricably entangled with one another.
Echoing footsteps in the morning. Another toss, another spike, another chance.
As long as I’m here, Tobio had said once. You’re invincible.
… How stupid was Shoyo to ever think that saying goodbye would be easy?
“It just has to be a beach, right?” Tobio continued, his voice nothing but a hushed whisper. “It doesn’t have to be Brazil.”
Sapphire eyes. Warm cheeks.
World championships. Being unbeatable, indomitable, untouchable.
The world stage, and sapphire eyes beside him; Shoyo’s dreams, dangling right in front of him, just close enough to reach.
He’d have both someday, Shoyo had vowed. But for now…
“It has to be,” Shoyo said, trying to keep his voice steady. “It has to be Brazil.”
“Tell them you changed your mind—”
“Everything is set already—”
“I’ll visit Okinawa and give you your stupid tosses—”
“You have your team.”
“I can also learn beach volleyball—how different can it be, really—”
“It’s not going to be forever.”
Tobio only looked at Shoyo, then. Hands still pressed on Shoyo’s waist, eyes still bright with mirth from the laughter.
Shoyo resisted the urge to kiss him and spoke again. “It’s not going to be forever,” he said, slowly pushing Tobio away as he sat up. The night chill seized him suddenly, and Shoyo found himself already missing Tobio’s body pressing into his. “Coach Washijo said I only have two years. So. I’m still gonna come home and kick your ass on the world stage.”
Tobio scoffed. “Don’t get it twisted—I’m kicking your ass. I’m still in the lead. Eight-hundred and forty-two wins.”
Shoyo grinned as he reached for the discarded fried salmon skin on the balcony floor. “Not if I—”
“No!” Tobio wrenched the salmon skin from Shoyo’s hand and threw it off the balcony. There were a distance hey! and what the fuck? from below, signalling that the salmon skin had landed on some unlucky schmuck passing below.
“Hey—that’s my snack!”
“Why do you even eat snacks this close to dinner, moron?” Tobio shot.
“Because I want to!” Shoyo yelled. “And because I like it! My mom made me that salmon skin!”
Tobio kept glowering at Shoyo, as if he was the one whose snack had been stolen and thrown away. “She didn’t make it for you to have—malicious intent—”
“Malicious intent—” Shoyo barked a laugh. “What, like kissing—”
“Like kissing me with your mouth full of that stuff!” Tobio fumed.
“It’s been days, damn—move on already!”
“It was so disgusting—”
Shoyo leaned forward and kissed Tobio, a quick light peck on his lips to shut him up. “Is it disgusting now—?”
Tobio pulled Shoyo back in before Shoyo could finish his sentence, his arms around Shoyo’s shoulders. Shoyo closed his eyes, smiling, giddiness swarming his head as he felt Tobio’s lips pressing against his, soft and warm. He kissed Tobio back, his hands going up to Tobio’s hair, then sliding down to his cheeks, feeling the flutter of Tobio’s eyelashes on the tip of his fingers—feeling Tobio’s cheeks grow warmer when Tobio kissed him again, and when he kissed Tobio again, softly biting at Tobio’s lower lip now—
“... nawa,” Tobio mumbled against Shoyo’s lips.
“Mm?” Shoyo pulled away. “What?”
“Okinawa—”
“Yamagata,” Shoyo countered. “Not Brazil or Okinawa. Just Yamagata. Just…” Shoyo looked at his surroundings, peering down the balcony. “Just those two girls hugging—”
“I think they’re fighting.”
“—and that dog over there, sitting cutely—”
“... It’s pissing.”
“Damn, Kageyama, shut up!” Shoyo laughed. “I’m trying to be romantic over here!”
“Well, pick better things,” Tobio grumbled. He looked around too, now, eyes searching. “Like… Like that lake over there. See how the lights reflected in the water?”
“Yeah,” Shoyo followed Tobio’s line of sight.
“My grandpa used to tell me that when he was young, he and his friend used to swim in lakes at night because they wanted to catch the light.”
Shoyo chuckled. “Really?”
“Yeah. I—” Tobio’s cheeks were warm again. “I also used to do that. When I was a kid.”
“And did you ever catch the light?”
Tobio looked back at Shoyo, then, a slight smile tugged on his face. He looked sad, somehow. “Not really.”
Shoyo would ask Tobio to go down to that lake and swim to catch the light, if he wanted. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Tobio wouldn’t want to swim or catch lights anymore. Besides, Shoyo could already picture Tobio’s reaction if he did ask: I’m not a kid anymore, Hinata, you dumbass!
So Shoyo only smiled and asked, “What else?”
Tobio made his best effort to scowl. “You think, for once.”
“Fried salmon skin—”
“No.”
Shoyo laughed. “Well, okay. There’s the onsen, I guess? And all the fruits we picked—you have to give Natsu all your peaches, she’s going to love you even more.”
“Sure.”
“And—where will we go tomorrow?”
“Fox village,” Tobio answered. “It’s an hour away, so—”
“So we can jog!” Shoyo completed Tobio’s sentence. “Oh—and Kajo Park? For the festival?”
Tobio hummed. “Sure.”
“See? Yamagata! Lights on lake, and onsen and fruits and cherry blossom festival—”
“And the fox village,” Tobio added.
“And the fox village,” Shoyo agreed. “Not Brazil or Okinawa for now.”
“Not Brazil,” Tobio nodded. “Okinawa, later—”
Shoyo jumped and grabbed several salmon skin, shoving them into his mouth and swallowing them without really chewing, then peppered kisses all over Tobio’s face.
“Fine—fine—you’re so disgusting, get away!” Tobio complained as he shielded his face from Shoyo’s attack, but was still laughing anyway. “Just Yamagata.”
Shoyo grinned. The shichimi of the fried salmon skin had started to burn his throat now, and he could feel his eyes start to water, but it was worth it. “Just Yamagata.”
“And dinner,” Tobio pointed out. “And a drink—your face is all red, idiot. Why would you even shove five fried salmon skins down your throat.”)
To Shoyo, the Grand King’s arrival feels like dipping his toes into the hot onsen water and feeling all his nerves coming undone. A breath of fresh air; familiarity amid foreign land.
Tobio’s probably shitting his pants right now, Shoyo thinks, if he knows that not only does Oikawa Tooru play volleyball with Shoyo, in Rio, of all places, but also treats him to dinner. For two nights in a row.
“This is one of the best restaurants in Rio,” Oikawa says as they sit inside a lovely little restaurant by the seaside. Shoyo gapes at the interior—everything is so cozy and warm—and he swears he’s seen that exact pillow in his grandma’s house before. “Almost as good as—oh! Buenas, Sofía! <Hi, Sofia!>”
A pretty brunette whips her head around, beaming as she spots Oikawa who’s waving at her. She puts down her tray and strides to Oikawa and Shoyo’s table. “Tooru!” she embraces him. “¿Qué tal estás? <What’s up?>”
Oikawa returns the hug. “Todo bien! ¿Cómo estás, Sofía? <I’m good! How’s it going, Sofia?>”
“¡Todo bien! <All good!>” Sofia hits Oikawa’s shoulder playfully. “¡Ah, no puedo creer que estás aquí! ¿Por qué no me llamaste? Ran y yo te hubiéramos invitado a cenar. <Ah, I can’t believe you’re here! Why didn’t you give me a call? Ran and I would’ve treated you to dinner.>”
“Ah, well…” Oikawa smiles sheepishly.
He really is good-looking, Shoyo thinks. It won’t be a surprise if Oikawa has grown a larger fanbase now that he’s a professional volleyball player.
Sofia suddenly turns to look at Shoyo, her eyes glimmering with excitement. She reminds him of Saeko, somehow. “¿Quién es tu amigo? <Who’s your friend here?>”
Amigo—friend. Sofia was addressing him! Shoyo half-bows in his seat. “Hinata Shoyo!” he introduces. Crap—if only he’d studied Portuguese better. Sofia looks so pleasant that Shoyo can’t help but want to make a friend out of her. “Prazer… ah—Prazer em conhecê… lo? La? Prazer em…” Shoyo glances at Oikawa for help, only for Oikawa to shrug. “Prazer em conhecê…”
“Prazer em conhecê-la! <Nice to meet you!>” Sofia laughs, finishing Shoyo’s sentence. “[I’m a woman, see, so you use la at the end,]” she switches to English.
“Oh!” Shoyo grins. “Well, prazer em conhecê-la, Sofía! <Nice to meet you, Sofia!>”
“Prazer em conhecê-lo también, Shoyo! <It’s nice to meet you too, Shoyo!>” Sofia smiles before turning back to Oikawa. “¡Él es lindo, Tooru! Quién es él? <He’s adorable, Tooru! Who is he?>”
“Asistimos a la misma escuela secundaria en la misma prefectura—uh… Provincia. Mi equipo de voleibol se enfrentó a su equipo. <We went to high school in the same prefecture—uh… Province. My team went against his team once.>” Oikawa explains. “[Anyway, Sofia. Dinner—]”
“¡Ah, sí! Te traigo algo para comer. <Ah, yes! I’ll get something for you.>” Sofia says. “Lo de siempre, ¿verdad? <The usual, yes?>”
“Lo sabes, <You know it,>” Oikawa confirms. “¡Gracias, Sofía! <Thank you, Sofia!>”
Shoyo offers Sofia a nod before she leaves, disappearing into the kitchen.
“Whoaaa,” Shoyo starts. “Oikawa-san, you’re so good at Portuguese!”
“That’s not Portuguese, shrimp. That’s Spanish,” Oikawa says. “Anyway, how’s everything going? Has Tobio-chan finally driven you insane?”
Shoyo smiles. “No… Not like that, anyway,” he answers. “Tobio asked me if you’re here to practice beach volleyball too. And if you’re going to stay in Rio for long.”
“Oh,” Oikawa leans back on his chair, a smug smile spreading on his face. “Tell him that I am practicing beach volleyball, which makes me better than him. In fact—” Oikawa swipes his phone from the table and opens his camera, extending his arms across the table and beckoning Shoyo to come into view. “Get closer, shrimp! We’ll show Tobio-chan how much fun we’re having without him!”
Shoyo only laughs and lets Oikawa snap the picture and immediately sends it to several chats: Aoba Johsai VC Alumni, THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME + tooru, hajime ☆, Kageyama Tobio Volleyball, and… Kitagawa Daiichi VC Alumni…? Who still sends things to their middle school club chat group?
Two notifications pop up: [makkki | Aoba Johsai VC Alumni] = can you stop treating this group like your personal Instagram account and [Mattsun is in JAIL | THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME + tooru = YOOOOO. Shoyo pretends not to see them.
He prompts, “Oikawa-san. You’ve been in Argentina for two years, now?”
Oikawa pockets his phone without answering his messages. “Almost three.”
“How is it?” Shoyo asks. “Is it fun? Do you have lots of friends over here, like those guys you came with yesterday? How’s the indoor gym, is it the same? How do you manage the summer? Do you have any sunscreen brand recommendations? Because my skin always gets sunburned and it doesn’t really hurt that much but I don’t want to look like Anpanman, you know? And how do you get so good at Spanish? Do you study for an hour every day? And do you ever miss Iwaizumi-san? And—”
—when will it start to feel like home?
“Whoa, whoa—slow down! What is this, Miyagi’s Monthly Volleyball interview?” Oikawa interrupts, laughing. “The indoor gym is pretty much the same, just a bit bigger than Seijoh’s. I use Piz Buin sunscreen with SPF 50 because my skin is sensitive and the last time I got sunburned, Mattsun and Makki put blush all over my hanger—those fuckers, I can’t believe they still have that—”
“Hanger?”
“—and I’m good at Spanish because I studied it during my last semester of high school, before I went to Argentina, and speak it every day now, so. It’s just repetition, I guess. And Iwa-chan… Well.”
Oikawa’s smile grows wider as he props his chin with his hands, showing off the gold band around his ring finger.
“Whoaaa!” Shoyo gushes. “Wait, you’re married? Does that mean Iwaizumi-san is also here?”
“No, he’s doing an internship in California,” Oikawa answers, a slight hint of pink blushing his cheeks. He looks happier than he did back when Seijoh beat Karasuno, during the 2012 Interhigh prelims. “And I’m not married yet—ever heard of promise rings? The wedding’s gonna be after I defeat all you suckers.”
Shoyo laughs. “Still, congratulations!” he says. “How do you handle the long distance?”
“We—” Oikawa starts before he stops himself. “If this is to help Tobio-chan, then I’m not telling. He needs to learn how to handle his big boy problems on his own now, without the help of his great senpai.”
“No,” Shoyo frowns. “It’s for—”
Sofia comes, then, carrying two plates. The smell of the beef is so mouth-watering, and Shoyo gets reminded how hungry he is, all of a sudden, that he abandons all trains of thought.
“Espero que no hayas estado esperando mucho tiempo! <I hope you’re not waiting too long!>” Sofia says as she sets the plates down.
“Para nada, Sofía! Gracias! <Not at all, Sofia! Thanks!>” Oikawa chirps. He dives right into his plate after a quick Thank you for the meal!, smiling after the first bite. “Oh, this is good—Ran must’ve been the one cooking this because she makes it extra gyuudon-ish. She has a crush on me, see,” Oikawa chuckles. “Try it, Shoyo!”
Shoyo takes a picture of his plate, capturing the fluffy rice, the chunks of beef and shredded carrots, and sends it to Tobio. He grabs his spoon and takes a bite, and instantly, flavor explodes in his mouth—sweet and savory, mixing with the smoky notes of the beef as he bites into it. Oikawa was right—it does somewhat taste like gyuudon. The paprika is not as prominent, and it is more sweet than savory. If the beef were sliced instead of diced, it would be a perfect replica of the bowl Shoyo and Tobio had in Yamagata.
(“Thank you for the—”
“Thank you for the food!” Tobio said quicker.
Shoyo squinted. Eight-hundred and forty-three wins for Tobio now, which was six points above Shoyo. unacceptable. Shoyo lifted the bowl of gyuudon to his mouth, carefully eyeing Tobio who was already eating peacefully, and then—
-NYOM NYOM NYOM—hrkk—
A chunk of beef got lodged in Shoyo’s throat for gobbling his food too fast and he gagged, hitting his chest to somehow force the beef to go down easier.
“Sho—Hinata, you idiot—don’t die!” Tobio shouted, shoving a glass of water.
Shoyo took it and chugged until he didn’t feel like dying anymore.
“Shoyo,” Shoyo said.
Tobio looked at Shoyo as if he was crazy. “What?”
“Shoyo,” Shoyo repeated. “Just Shoyo. Tobio.”
Tobio was quiet for a moment, hints of red coloring his cheeks. He snickered, then, and threw the bottle cap at Shoyo’s head. “Yeah, sure. Shoyo,” he scoffed. “That would sound romantic if you didn’t say it with water and sauce all over your mouth.”
Shoyo grinned. “Gotta try,” he said, reaching towards Tobio’s bowl and taking a lump of grated carrot between his chopsticks.
“Hey—no!” Tobio pushed Shoyo’s hand away. “Don’t steal my carrot!”
“But I ran out of mine!” Shoyo complained. “The lady gave you more carrots.”
“You ran out of carrots because you gobbled them up like a maniac until you choked,” Tobio pointed out.
Shoyo huffed. “I’ll give you one slice of beef if you give me half your carrots.”
Tobio glared at him. “How is that fair?”
“Because a slice of beef is big! I’ll give you the biggest one.”
Tobio considered for a moment, before putting all his carrots in Shoyo’s bowl. When Shoyo tried to give half of it back, Tobio pushed back Shoyo’s chopsticks.
“Keep it,” Tobio grumbled. “You’ll probably cry the next time you miss carrots.”
“I won’t!” Shoyo denied. “And there are carrots in Brazil, you know? There’s beef too. I bet there’s also ramen and fried salmon skin. So.”
Tobio said nothing.
Silence, then. Around them, people were chatting excitedly, and the shouts of orders from the food stall could be heard: one gyuudon! Three chicken katsu! Can you also toss me that rag?
There are food stalls in Rio, Shoyo knew that. After the document preparation was done, he and Natsu looked over all the restaurants and foods in Rio, trying to see which ones Shoyo would like and which ones Natsu would like, if she ever visited. This one looks like the one in Kyoto, Natsu once pointed to a food market, giddy as she remembered the Kyoto trip their family took just last winter.
That’s in São Paulo, Shoyo read the picture tag. Let’s see… Whoa, that’s six hours away from Rio! I don’t think I’ll have the time to travel that far.
Maybe you can travel there for volleyball stuff, Natsu had said. Like how you go to Tokyo!
“I’m going to learn beach volleyball,” Shoyo said suddenly. “I’m going to get really, really good at it. So good that I’ll be the best beach volleyball player in Rio—no, in Brazil! That can happen within two years, right?”
“It better,” Tobio answered.
“I’ll get so good that when I come home, I’ll be good at everything,” Shoyo promised. “Not just spiking and jumping, but everything.”
“What if you like beach volleyball more than indoor volleyball?”
… Shoyo hadn’t anticipated that question. “Well… I’m sure I’ll think more about that later—”
“What if you like beach volleyball so much that you don’t come back?” Tobio asked. “Ever?”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen—”
“It happened with Oikawa-san.”
Right.
Neither really knew what Oikawa’s motivation was to move so far away, back then, and neither really felt the need to ask. All they knew was how the Grand King, so famous and prideful even without ever going to the nationals once, who had gathered a legion of spikers and aces to call for his tosses, just got up and left on a whim to the other side of the earth.
It happened to Oikawa Tooru. It could happen to Hinata Shoyo. They have their differences, yes, but the love they harbor for volley—that hunger, that drive, that passion, that thick hot blood of determination to be the absolute best—was all too familiar. Oikawa would play volleyball from anywhere in the world. So was Shoyo, if that was what it took to get better and keep on playing volleyball.
What if.
… But Shoyo never liked gazing too far at the vast possibilities of what-ifs. He was never good at predicting the future. He could only work for it, here in the present.
“I don’t know, Kageyama—”
“Tobio,” Tobio corrected quietly.
“I don’t know, Tobio,” Shoyo repeated. “For now, I can only say that I’ll come back. I’ll go to Rio in a week, and you’re going to play for Suntory starting next Monday, and we’ll play many matches until we’re better. Then I’ll come back.”
Tobio frowned. “That’s not what I—”
“That’s all I can say for now,” Shoyo interrupted. “Isn’t that good enough?”)
“It’s good!” Shoyo exclaims, taking another bite. “What’s this called?”
“Arroz com carne. It literally means rice with beef,” Oikawa answers. “And shrimpy—”
“Can you stop calling me shrimpy…”
“Shrimpy, look—” Oikawa nods at the counter, where Sofia and another girl wave at them. “Sofia already ran her mouth to Ran about how adorable you are. You might take my spot as the favorite customer here.”
Shoyo grins, waving back at the two girls who look at each other excitedly when he does so. Elena & Companhia… Shoyo will definitely go back to this restaurant.
“Tell Sofia she’s pretty, next time, and she’ll get you a free dessert,” Oikawa says. “Also, remember that Ran’s shift is every Tuesday til Friday. Get her to like you and she’ll modify your food to make it taste like home—her dad’s Japanese and she grew up in Fukuoka, so she loves to speak with us. She made me temaki once, with salmon and avocado, and it tastes just like the ones they sell in Johsai festival stands.”
For someone who doesn’t actually live in Rio, Oikawa fits so perfectly here that if Shoyo hadn’t known him in high school, he would’ve thought Oikawa had lived in Brazil all his life. And if he’s this comfortable in a neighboring country, how many friends and acquaintances does Oikawa have back in Argentina? Is everyone already wrapped around Oikawa Tooru’s pretty fingers, over there?
Probably, Shoyo thinks. The Grand King’s aura of confidence and geniality is a people-magnet, and an impressive one at that. Oikawa looks like he belongs.
Maybe it’s not impossible, then.
“What’s your favorite food here, Oikawa-san?”
“Here? In this restaurant?” Oikawa asks. “Or in Rio?”
“In… Not Japan.”
“Not Japan—” Oikawa throws his head back, laughing. “Well, let’s see. My roommate makes empanadas a lot—it’s those little pastry pockets filled with meat—so that’s on top of my list. She’s a pastry chef, and she loooves me. Says I remind her of her son, so she spoils me a lot,” Oikawa says. “Nothing beats the senbei Hajime sends from home, though.”
“Senbei?” Shoyo perks up. Those little salty round crackers! Maybe Oikawa knows how to keep snacks from losing flavor! “Does it ever get stale?”
“Not really,” Oikawa shrugs, eating more of his rice. “It’s from Hajime.”
… Okay. Should Shoyo text Iwaizumi and ask him how he makes his senbei safe from going stale, then?
“Hey, if next time we manage to beat the beer brothers, I’ll show you all the good spots in Rio,” Oikawa offers.
Shoyo’s heart leaps. “Really?”
“But if they beat us… Well, I guess I’ll still show you. But you’re paying!”
“Huh? How is that fair—we’re a team—!”
“Shush, shush. I’ve done my share by imparting my precious foodie knowledge to you,” Oikawa coos, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Don’t get greedy now, Sho-chan.”
(“Rio,” Tobio murmured into Shoyo’s hair.
Shoyo stirred awake. He slightly lifted Tobio’s arm that was draped over him and rolled over, facing Tobio who held Shoyo tighter against his chest when Shoyo moved. Tobio nuzzled his cheeks to the crown of Shoyo’s head, and Shoyo rested his face on Tobio’s chest.
Shoyo wasn’t sure if Tobio was even fully awake. He wasn’t usually this cuddly when conscious.
Still, Shoyo asked.
“What about Rio?”
“I’ll get there too,” Tobio sighed. “One day.”)
Thus begins Oikawa and Shoyo’s food adventure in Rio de Janeiro.
If Oikawa visited Rio for a business trip, Shoyo really can’t tell. Oikawa has four days left of being in Rio, he says, and he spends the majority of his afternoons playing beach volleyball and his nights having dinner with Shoyo—which was great, honestly, but really—why did Oikawa visit Rio? Week-long vacation?
The night after Elena & Companhia, Oikawa takes Shoyo to a popular restaurant at the heart of Copacabana, where they’re greeted by yet another girl who’s apparently friendly enough with Oikawa to know who Iwaizumi is. “Take him with you next time you visit us, Tooru!” the girl says as she serves them plates of feijoadas, a stew of black beans and pork that Shoyo likes so much, he asks for a second plate.
“How do you have so many friends, Oika-san?” Shoyo asks.
Oikawa laughs. “You? Asking me that?” he wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eyes. “Not telling, shrimp. You’re charming enough already. Can’t have you being everyone’s favorite.”
That’s always Oikawa’s answer whenever Shoyo asks him for personal advice: I’m not telling! Shoyo wonders if Oikawa really is that petty (most possibly), or if he actually has no idea what he’s doing either and just wings things like everyone else (somehow, this is harder to believe).
The next night after, they go out to a steakhouse with the beer brothers and share a big plate of churrasco with a side of beans and grilled vegetables. It’s the first time Shoyo has ever seen so much meat—sirloin, ribeye, sausages, and other types he can’t name—since he got to Rio. And boy, does he miss it. Having beef as the main focus of the dish, the succulence accentuated by the grilled bell peppers and onions and lettuces—it’s the Tokyo summer camp’s barbeque again, except with beer and new friends now.
The smell of a bygone era passing by doesn’t make Shoyo want to cry, this time. It makes him weirdly happy.
“There’s a third-year when I was a first-year who was my mentor,” Shoyo says as he scrolls through his photo album from 2012. “Bokuto-san! He was Fukurodani’s ace, so you must know him, Oika-san.”
“Yeah, I know him,” Oikawa nods.
“He taught me this,” Shoyo reaches for a slice of sirloin and lettuce, tucks the sirloin inside the lettuce neatly, sprinkles it with a dash of salt and pepper, then eats it in one bite. “Mmm! Mmm? Sho good.”
“I think that’s standard eating-meat practice, Shoyo,” Gino says with an amused look. “Vegetables with meat, right?”
Oikawa follows Shoyo’s footsteps and reaches for the sirloin and lettuce. His eyes widen as he takes a bite, and he looks at Shoyo excitedly. “This is—whoa! Great stuff, Shoyo—ugh, so good,” Oikawa reaches for more sirloin and lettuce. “Gino, Gabriel, you gotta try! It’s like—”
“Like fwaaah! in your mouth, right?” Shoyo beams. “Like—like the lettuce goes crunch! then the meat goes bwaaam!”
“The trick is to cover the meat completely with the lettuce, not eating them individually!” Oikawa says, motioning Gino and Gabriel to grab their own meat and lettuce. “Try, try!”
Gino and Gabriel follow suit, then take a bite… Then reaches for sirloin and lettuce again and takes another bite, their eyes sparkling. Shoyo immediately sends Bokuto a picture of the four of them and their lettuce-meat wrap raised in the air.
Bokuto texts back:
> Woohoo!!!
> Go forth, my disciple!!!
[Received 20:04]
Shoyo and Oikawa return to Elena & Companhia on Oikawa’s last night in Rio.
And so it is again: their table at the sofa with Shoyo’s grandma pillows, Oikawa writing down a list of all the best restaurants in Rio, and volleyball talks and boy talks. Then, finally, over a shared bowl of the creamy seafood stew, moqueca, Oikawa imparts a shred of his personal-life knowledge to Shoyo.
“Annoy the shit out of your boyfriend. When they treat you like an non washable curry stain in the white clothes that is their life, that’s your cue to go above and beyond!” Oikawa says, hissing as he slurps the slightly-spicy stew from his spoon. “They already think we’re a menace, anyway! Observe.”
Oikawa takes out his phone and holds it in front of their face as he dials Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi answers not a second later, his face bleary with a streak of drool on the side of his cheek. “This better be important, Shittykawa, because you know I haven’t slept last night and I told you I need this nap—and now I have less than one fucking hour ‘til I have to go again—fuck—oh, hi, Hinata.”
“See, he loves me!” Oikawa laughs. “Just wanna show Shoyo how cheerful my boyfriend is at three in the afternoon, Hajime.”
“Hi, Iwaizumi-san!” Shoyo waves.
“Fuck off,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “Not to you, Hinata. To that peacock over there—is that spicy food, I see?”
Oikawa moves not-so-subtly to cover his bowl. “Nope! Definitely not.”
“If he complains about his diarrhea to you, Hinata, I give you full permission to hit his stupid head,” Iwaizumi says. “Though, you can probably sympathize with weak stomachs, huh…”
“Hey!” Shoyo complains. Seriously—more than two years later, and seniors at other schools still remember him as the stomachache guy? “My stomach is tougher now!”
“That’s good,” Iwaizumi says. He turns to glare at Oikawa, who’s smiling wide. “Now—do you have something important to tell me, or are you just calling to be annoying?”
“You know me so well,” Oikawa sighs dreamily. “Of course it’s just to annoy you. But everything I say is important, right?”
“No.”
“Such a ray of sunshine,” Oikawa laughs. “Go back to sleep now! Love you!”
Iwaizumi grumbles something under his breath that sounds like why am I in love with an idiot before hanging up.
“Now, I’d love to encourage you to try, Shoyo,” Oikawa pockets his phone. “But I’ll die if I see Tobio-chan being all lovey-dovey. So let’s just eat, okay?”
“He’s not all lovey-dovey,” Shoyo denies, taking out his own phone and dialling Tobio. If Oikawa gets to video-call his boyfriend, then Shoyo wants to too, damn it. “Here, I’ll show you!”
The phone rings once. Then twice. Then Tobio picks up and he’s—
—naked.
Only from the waist up, because Tobio’s standing in his shower and his phone is positioned in such a way that anything waist-down is cut off, but still—very much naked. Shoyo can’t help but gawk at Tobio’s pectoral and biceps, glistening with water droplets that run in rivulets across Tobio’s bare skin as he reaches up to brush his half-wet hair back—and has Tobio’s shoulder always been that broad, holy shit—
“What the fuck!” Oikawa screams, covering his eyes. “My eyes, my poor precious eyes—”
Right. There’s still Oikawa beside him—the view’s not Shoyo’s alone. Maybe if he just takes a screenshot… Would Tobio mind? He doesn’t have many problems with sending Shoyo shirtless selfies before.
“Oh my god, this is the worst day of my life—why can’t Hajime do this shit—oh my god. Oh no,” Oikawa gasps. “I’m being beaten by Tobio again?”
“Tobio,” Shoyo finally finds his voice, though his throat is still dry. “Why are you naked?”
Tobio turns bright red before turning off the camera. It’s Shoyo’s and Oikawa’s faces on the screen now, one looks very horrified, and one looks very flushed.
“I’m taking a shower, idiot! Why—where—” Tobio says, his voice echoing. “You’re usually alone when you call me—”
“You’re usually decent and fully clothed whenever I call!”
“Yeah, because usually, you’re the shirtless one,” Tobio unnecessarily adds. Shoyo can see him rolling his eyes from 18,280 kilometers away.
“I do not need to know that,” Oikawa groans.
“Because—because of beach volleyball! Duh,” Shoyo explains, ignoring the heat that goes warmer and warmer on his face. “Just—”
The camera is on again suddenly, except this time, a matching set of duck-patterned towels is wrapped around Tobio’s body and shoulders.
Oikawa screams as if it’s a jumpscare.
“Oika-san, stop screaming!”
“Why do you turn on your camera again! My day was much better when I didn’t have to see your stupid face!” Oikawa complains. He then takes in the duck towels draped on Tobio and laughs. “That’s so adorable, though—take a screenshot, Shoyo, so I can send this to the Kita-Iichi alumni group—”
“No!” Shoyo jerks his phone away from Oikawa’s reach. “Tobio, turn off your camera again!”
Tobio only glares at him. “What, and have you whining all day because I only call and not video-call? No, moron—I have enough headaches,” he grumbles. “Take your picture, Oikawa-san, I don’t care.”
Silence. Oikawa stops trying to grab Shoyo’s phone, and Shoyo’s heart swells so much that he might just float to the ceiling like a balloon any moment now.
“I’ll call you later tonight—your tonight,” Tobio speaks again, still scowling. “Text me when you get home. Bye.”
And the screen goes black again. Then silence, once more.
Shoyo clicks his phone off and takes another spoonful of stew. He can feel Oikawa looking intently, and it feels weird to be scrutinized like that off-court, so he says nothing. He just eats, his other hand hovering over his phone in case Tobio sends him a message.
How much does a promise ring like Oikawa’s cost, Shoyo wonders? Maybe he’ll have to do extra delivery services around town, but he’s more than alright with that.
“Holy shit, Shoyo,” Oikawa says after a while. “I think you should be the one giving me dating advice.”
Shoyo’s last meal with Oikawa (for now!) is a prato feito of rice, beans, chicken, and toasted cassava flour. Oikawa promises his friends to meet at the airport early, apparently, so they go to a lanchonete near the airport.
“Visit Argentina sometime,” Oikawa invites as they walk towards the airport. “It’s been so fun, shrimpy. It’s a pity you’re going back to Japan after all this. I would’ve invited you to play for my club.”
“Thanks for that,” Shoyo smiles, his belly full and eyes heavy. There’s nothing he’d like to do more than go to the beach and sleep in a hammock somewhere, soaking up the sun—but alas. He has his delivery-boy duty to attend to. “But Japan’s home.”
“Right. Well,” Oikawa smiles, holding out his hand. Shoyo shakes it. “Take care of yourself, Shoyo.”
(“You have everything?” Shoyo’s mother asked, checking his baggage and patting his backpack. “Don’t forget to sleep early, okay? Don’t pull too many all-nighters!”
“Yes, mom,” Shoyo smiled.
“And eat healthy food!” his mother added. “Remember that, Shoyo. Eat a lot, and eat well.”
“Yes, mom.”
“And send lots of pictures!” Natsu piped in.
Shoyo grinned as picked up his little sister and twirled around, ignoring Natsu’s protests of oh my god I’m not five anymore—put me down! “Of course! And you too, Natsu. I want to know everything about your volleyball team!”
“I’ll keep you updated,” Natsu pushed herself off Shoyo, pouting, though Shoyo knew it was one of her fake pouts.
Hitoka stepped forth, her eyes already red on the rim. “Good luck with everything, Hinata,” she hugged Shoyo, squeezing him tight. “Text us when you’ve arrived!”
Shoyo returned the embrace. “I will!”
Hitoka let go, then, giving way to Tobio, who had been standing in the back the whole time. He glared at Shoyo, his expression inscrutable, his hands in his pocket.
“Tobi—”
“I’m not gonna say goodbye,” Tobio said, as if it was obvious.
Right. Because it was obvious. This was no goodbye. “You better not,” Shoyo grinned. “‘Cause I’m coming back to defeat you.”
Tobio’s face twitched in amusement. Just laugh, stupid, Shoyo wanted to say. You look like you have constipation.
“We’ll see,” Tobio said. He pulled something out of his bag and strode forward, shoving a circular something into Shoyo’s hand. “Here. Natsu said I should be the one giving it to you—”
“Kageyama, you don’t have to say that part!” Natsu chided.
Shoyo looked down. It was a jar of fried salmon skin.
A jar of handmade fried salmon skin, with doodles of crows and volleyballs and clouds and hearts on the jar. A note was attached to the lid.
Shoyo wanted to cry. Shoyo could cry. Mostly, he wanted to open the jar and eat the fried salmon skin with his friends and family, right there, and share one last meal with them. But the jar had been sealed so nicely, that Shoyo knew either Tobio or his mom (most likely, both) would not stop reprimanding him until his ears fell off if he did.
“This is really cool, you guys,” Shoyo said, swallowing the lump in his throat. No tears, he’d promised himself. If he cried, his mother would cry, then Natsu would cry, then Hitoka would cry, and Tobio would have to take care of three crying people all by himself—and Tobio might want to cry at the prospect of that. “Thank you.”
“One last group hug!” Natsu called, giggling as she tackled Shoyo into a hug, which was followed by his mother and Hitoka.
Shoyo basked in the affection. He hugged them back, extending his arms as wide as he could, his chest feeling warmer than his sun-bathed balcony in summer. He nuzzled his cheek against his mother’s and Natsu’s, rubbed Hitoka’s back when she gripped his sleeve tighter.
I’ll make you all proud, Shoyo vowed.
If he shed a tear, then, no one needed to know. No one knew. Except…
Except Tobio, who didn’t join in the embrace. Who stayed still, even after the group hug dispersed and Shoyo waved his final goodbye, turning around and heading for the gate.
It was only when Shoyo was one foot away from entering the gate, did Tobio called.
“Shoyo.”
It was only when Shoyo turned around did Tobio ran.
Tobio ran, and Shoyo laughed as he opened his arms, ready to welcome his dramatic boyfriend that was running across the airport into his embrace.
Into Shoyo’s arms, Tobio went.
As they collided, Shoyo wrapped his arms around Tobio, trying desperately to memorize the outline of his body, the fresh linen scent that clung to him, the way his heart beat against his own. This was where he belonged, Shoyo thought. Every ball tossed, every knee scraped, every blister and every bruise—they were all stepping stones, variables of an equation that leads up to the answer. Volleyball was Shoyo’s first love, and it made up the road that led him to Kageyama Tobio.
How lucky was Shoyo to find himself on such a journey?
Brazil is waiting, Shoyo reminded himself. But oh, how nice would it be to have just one more hour to make a home right here, in the crook of Tobio’s neck.
“Come back soon,” Tobio whispered into Shoyo’s hair, lips softly brushing the crown of his head.
Shoyo pulled back, cupped Tobio’s face and kissed his cheek. Tobio flushed underneath Shoyo’s palm, felicity glistening in blue eyes. “I will.”
Fried salmon skin jar in hand, Shoyo took a step forward and didn’t look back.)
The day after Oikawa’s departure, Shoyo buys all the ingredients for arroz com carne and experiments in his kitchen.
It sucks.
Shoyo can’t figure out how Ran makes the spices blend so seamlessly together, or how to make the oil and sauce seep into the beef and make them juicy. Every batch he makes turns out too salty, too spicy, too dry, or too soggy—he tries, then fails, then tries again,then fails again, until he eventually runs out of ingredients (in one night!) and resorts to eating take-outs instead.
Cooking is just like volleyball, Shoyo thinks. Recipe can only take him so far. The rest is instinct and practice.
So Shoyo doesn’t stop there. The very next morning, after a lengthy phone call with Coach Ukai, Shoyo sets out to the farmer’s market and blows his money on food ingredients: rice, beef,chicken, tofu, garlic, onion, peppers, nuts, various sauces, among others. Pedro raises his eyebrow when Shoyo enters their apartment, which is Pedro’s equivalent to anyone else’s what the fuck?, and Shoyo just grins as he unloads his groceries into the refrigerator.
“I’m gonna cook homemade meals starting today!” Shoyo says. “Feel free to use the ingredients yourself if you want to, too, Pedro!”
And suddenly, cooking has become Shoyo’s favorite de-stressing side activity now, alongside yoga—which might just grant Shoyo an exclusive pass at the aunt’s wellness club back in Miyagi. It’s therapeutic, how he can step into his kitchen, all worries discarded, and make something with his hands; something tangible, something nourishing. The calm of the kitchen allows his mind to relax too, and Shoyo finds that he can review his Portuguese vocabulary or the moves he does at his volleyball training session better when he’s mindlessly chopping onions and mincing beef.
After a while, Pedro decides he wants to experiment, too. One Piece was a great ice-breaker, but it was cooking together that cemented Pedro as a friend, Shoyo thinks. Surely, all those times keeping the kitchen from burning down and cleaning up sticky sauces from below the stove counts for something.
“This is how my girlfriend likes it,” Pedro says as he sprinkles oregano and chilli flakes on skewered thick blocks of cheese. “You’ll see why she loves it so much. She can eat ten of these in one day.”
Shoyo laughs. Pedro’s girlfriend sounds like someone Shoyo can be friends with. “That looks delicious! Wait for me, I’m almost done,” Shoyo says, garnishing the bowls of gyuudon with spring onions, carrots, and pickled ginger. “I used to eat this all the time too, with my boyfriend back home.”
Gyuudon for dinner, and queijo coalho for snacks. If Shoyo cooks dinner, Pedro will make snacks, and vice versa. It’s been like this, recently. Shoyo thinks of inviting Coach Kato and Gino and Gabriel and Heitor and Nice too, soon. They can all have a big dinner together, here in his living room.
“Well!” Shoyo sits down in front of Pedro, giving him his spoon, then breaking apart his chopstick. “Aproveite a refeição, Pedro! <Enjoy the meal, Pedro!>”
Pedro smiles and clasps his hand together. “いただきます! <Let’s eat!>”
Fried salmon skin still tastes different when Shoyo eats it again. Fried salmon skin, 18,280 kilometers away from home, doesn’t taste the same anymore. Fried salmon skin might never taste the way it did five years ago. There is absolutely nothing Shoyo can do to make it taste the way he remembers it.
But maybe that’s okay. Shoyo finds that he doesn’t mind. Besides, it isn’t so much the sting of shichimi on his tongue that keeps him reaching for the snack, but the note that comes with it; one that sticks on top of the lid of the fried salmon skin jar.
Eat well, Shoyo!
— mom ♡ and NATSU!!!! Hitoka Yachi~ Kodzuken.
— Tobio :)