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“Day 2 in Paris!” Oikawa Tooru, dressed in light blue and white, speaks in Spanish to his phone – which is optimally positioned in his hand to catch his best angles. “I’m walking through the Village right now, taking my first break of the day after a long day of training. For all of you who are curious about everything offered here, I thought I would meet up with one of my old friends to trade pins and maybe take a trip to the dining hall. I was too stressed last time to think about pins, and besides, it was too complicated with the pandemic.” he says, smiling ruefully at the camera.
Oikawa stops in front of the building designated for Japanese athletes, and frowns a bit visibly at the sight of no orange hair waiting for him. Then someone opens a door, and Oikawa’s frown slopes further down, the thumb on his right hand moving to stop the phone from filming.
The man who had just come outside of the building stops at the sight of Oikawa. He is wearing a red jacket and black sweatpants, with a well-worn grim expression on his face. As his mouth opens to speak, Oikawa cuts him off, the age-old determination to have the upper hand springing up from nowhere.
“If it isn’t Ushijima!”
“Oikawa. It is good to see you.”
“Of course!”
At a loss for anything more to say, the two awkwardly stand there for a few seconds. Then, when it seemed like Ushijima was waiting for him to say something more, and for some reason was still standing there without going off to wherever he needed to go, Oikawa breaks the silence.
“I’m waiting for Shoyo, actually.”
Ushijima’s eyebrows furrow a bit. “I am here on Hinata’s behalf, he told me that you wanted a pin.”
Confused, Oikawa offers a halfhearted smile.
“Oh really? You should’ve said that to begin with. One second,” he says agreeably. He takes a look at his phone, closing the camera app that had been open for the past 10 minutes. Sure enough, an unopened text from Hinata lay there waiting for him to read.
Sooooo sorry!!! Had to stay behind with the physio, they’re doing some extra checks for my back. Sent down someone else so you can get your pin!! Don’t worry it’s not Kageyama hahahahha
Right. The someone-else-who-is-not-Kageyama being Ushijima, out of all the options. How magnanimous. Why couldn’t Hinata have sent down Miya? They had hit it off when they met in Sendai, albeit after a little friction at first. It was the hair dye, probably. Reminded him too much of a stubborn and wildcard Mad Dog from his high school days. Or, he would have even liked to see Aran again, who had been very friendly during his time on the makeshift Team A. The duo from Hyogo had made a good impression on Oikawa with their value for comedy.
Well, whatever. He’ll just think of it as one more item on the list of things Hinata owes him for, starting with their meeting in Rio – where he had considerably mooched off of Oikawa’s wallet.
Oikawa puts his phone away, slightly miffed. He is thirty now, though, so he acts his age.
“Well, thanks for showing up for something so trivial, I guess.” He raises an eyebrow in expectation, and sticks his hand out.
“It is no problem,” Ushijima replies with all the seriousness of an eighty-year-old grandfather.
Taking off his lanyard, he opens the plastic backing and takes out the Team Japan volleyball pin, dropping it in Oikawa’s hand.
“Thanks,” Oikawa says, fishing out his own pin and handing it to Ushijima. Then, because his body is conditioned to place himself in uncomfortable situations, he adds. “Actually, I’m filming for social media. I was going to make Shoyo join while taking a little tour of the place. Probably stop at the dining hall for dinner.”
“I see,” Ushijima nods.
“If you would like to come,” Oikawa explains further, surprising himself with his veritable kindness. Tooru, you are so generous.
Ushijima’s brows furrow again, then relax after a slight bout of thinking.
“Yes,” he agrees. “I was going to go out myself. We are off until tomorrow morning.”
“Okay! Not camera-shy, are you?”
“No.”
Oikawa grins a little rudely at that. “I’ve seen a couple of the promotional pictures for Team Japan, and you probably should be. Because you’re not very photogenic.”
Rightfully understanding his words as an insult, Ushijima frowns in slight annoyance and disapproval at Oikawa’s tone. He’s had years of practice being on the receiving end of this side of the CA San Juan setter though, so it doesn’t really surprise him. “I do my best.”
Oikawa shrugs blithely. “Well, do better.”
They stand in silence again for a few seconds until Oikawa waves his hand, while turning around. He pulls out his phone, then motions for Ushijima to start walking alongside him.
“Successfully acquired a volleyball pin from Team Japan!” Oikawa says cheerfully in Spanish, brandishing the pin to the camera before putting it back into his pocket. “Courtesy of Wakatoshi Ushijima, whom you might recognize.”
Ushijima attempts a blank smile at mention of his name, looking a little lost.
“Ah, I’ll switch to Japanese for now. But Ushijima, say buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes,” Ushijima repeats gravely, with meaningful effort.
“We’ve known each other for a long time. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Ushijima says. Oikawa groans internally. It’s like pulling teeth.
“The last time we met was for a special event in 2022, in Sendai. My hometown.”
“It is my hometown too.”
“Right, right, our hometown. That’s how we’ve known each other so long! We played in the same prefectural tournaments from middle school all the way to graduation. Ushijima, how do you feel about being here?”
“Good. I like the city of Paris.”
“Though the last one must have been more special, being in Tokyo and all.”
Ushijima thinks seriously on this for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “I think Rio would have been the most noteworthy, because it was my first time.”
Oikawa sours, involuntarily remembering watching Kageyama and Ushijima way back in 2016 – five years before he was able to stand on the Olympic courts himself – and reconsidering his series of decisions for maybe the millionth time in his life. He’s made it here now though, a fact that has only increased his worthless pride – or whatever weirdly dramatic and offensive term eighteen year old Ushijima had used. The same individual at twenty-eight had gone on to deem it as being fantastic, so there.
“You didn’t get to play very much back then,” he points out crassly anyway, not minding the fact that he himself had not even been there at all.
“Yes,” Ushijima agrees, unfazed, probably not catching the jibe this time. “I did not. However, it was an invaluable learning experience.”
Oikawa nods a bit, acquiescing at that. Every moment spent in the vicinity of strong players, whether for or against, was a learning experience. But he didn’t really want to discuss an event that he hadn’t attended.
He instead points out a vending machine stocked with free water and snacks, and Ushijima nods in interest. They continue filming all the way to the dining hall, stopping at different cool buildings or facilities. The two discuss the discomfort of the cardboard beds, the appeal of the massive training facilities, the athletes they were hoping to meet – Oikawa enthusiastically for the prospective viewers, Ushijima doing his best to contribute in his own way, which although lacking, was commendable considering it being, well, him. Oikawa does his best to keep any snarky comments at a minimum, for his own reputation at the very least.
Fifteen minutes later, they make it to the dining hall, both stopping at the area for Asian food and then finding an empty table to sit at. Oikawa immediately cuts across Ushijima to take the seat with better lighting from the window, leaving Ushijima to sit across from him in slight confusion at the sudden movement. Oikawa proceeds to then provide a detailed review of each item on his tray, ranking them out of ten. Ushijima eats in silence.
Wrapping up his critique, Oikawa turns the camera back to Ushijima.
“Well, Ushiwaka. Any last words? Anything you want to promote?”
Ushijima frowns at the nickname, and takes the time to finish chewing his mouthful of noodles. After swallowing, he places his chopsticks down and dabs at his mouth with a napkin.
“If you are in Paris, consider visiting Lionceau Chocolates. It is run by a good friend of mine, who is also from Sendai. The chocolates are very well-made, and the flavours are…unique.”
Oikawa vaguely remembers the redhead from Shiratorizawa with the perpetual crazy look on his face. He doesn’t even want to ask.
“Anything else?”
Ushijima stares, then makes one final attempt at a winning smile for the audience, probably causing a million flowers across the city to wilt and die. “Go Japan.”
Oikawa flips the camera back – “Vamos Argentina!” he says in Spanish with a shake of his fist – and presses the red square to stop filming. He places his phone face down then, and starts eating the remainder of his food. It’s good, he’s tired, and ready to go to bed, which is what he is going to do as soon as he gets out of here.
“Feel free to leave if you’re done eating,” Oikawa waves his free hand casually at the man across from him.
Ushijima nods, stands up, and starts to clean up, neatly stacking the various now-empty small plates and bowls back onto his tray. After wiping down his side of the table with all the meticulousness of a grandma, he pauses.
“It was nice to be able to meet and talk with you today. I’m happy to see you doing well.”
Oikawa looks up from his food in slight surprise, a little touched despite himself.
“Oh, well, sure. What, did you think I’d cuss you out or something?”
Ushijima gives him a blank look in return, probably silently referencing all the times Oikawa had, in fact, cussed him out in the past – mostly not in his presence, but still.
“Never mind, don’t answer that. Good luck at all your games, I guess. We’ll beat you next week.”
The other man shakes his head earnestly, then picks up his tray to leave. “Good luck Oikawa, but we will win.”
What do they say? Friends can become chosen family? In Oikawa’s mind, maybe enemies could become chosen friends. There is no universe where Oikawa could have been friends with Ushijima back then, the latter being the wall he would fail to get across time and time again - an unforgivable offence in his youth, particularly when accompanied with the torrents of unsolicited advice that had seemed to flow out so easily. Truly the gift that kept giving. Ugh. It would have been impossible, a fate as certain as being born with your mother’s eyes and your father’s hair. But twelve years later, and he maybe wants it to have a different ending – feels the need to dust off and polish connections that have history and have roots, ones that have been placed long, long before.
Oikawa puts up a hand in a signal to wait.
“You know, you were wrong about a lot of things back then, but you were a good opponent. I think I was lucky in that way. I didn’t leave because I kept losing back then, not in the slightest. But if I hadn’t experienced playing against people like you, if I hadn’t gotten the opportunity to play against people who took volleyball as seriously as I did, I might not have ever left and gotten to where I am now.”
“It’s good to see you doing well too, is all I’m saying,” Oikawa finishes, waving his chopsticks for emphasis.
Ushijima stands there for a few seconds, eyes thoughtful. He looks silly to Oikawa, six foot three with his neat tray of dirty dishes and cutlery held out at a length in front of him. But his face is familiar, and these days, having spent more than a decade now on the other side of the world, familiarity is something that’s rare for him to see in someone from Japan.
“I was lucky too, in a lot of ways,” he finally says back. “Good night, Oikawa.”
Oikawa waves, and as the Shiratorizawa alumni walks away, Oikawa feels indubitably grateful for being able to be here at the world stage for the second time. He is ready to win it all, and eats with newfound vigour and purpose. Tomorrow would be a good day, a day of progress and moving forward.