Chapter Text
The court is his home, his sanctuary, he is at ease here.
The steady beat of chanting follows the rhythm of his scurrying heart.
He is a child of this soil, far as the sun reaches.
Encouraging shouts surround him from the farthest corners of the court.
A screeching whistle, his command from God.
The arena lights glimmer in limerescence, highlighting the crown of sweat atop his forehead.
Kageyama Tobio might’ve been the tyrant, but Oikawa Tooru is the king.
So he spreads his blessed wings, feathers upon feathers, an array of colors littering his tan skin, and takes flight.
There’s commotion on the other end of the court, adrenaline slinging foreign words his way. Despite not knowing the language, he knows the men clad in green are scrambling for an out. But Tooru knows his hand well, he has learned to trust it.
The ball falls within the rigid confines of the court.
For a moment, there is nothing but silence, nothing but the almost clinical buzz of overhead lights, nothing but the squeaking shoes.
And then it comes tumbling down.
Like a comet rushing through the atmosphere, the court erupts in flames. Walls of hands and colorful merch rise on one side of the arena. Their side. His side.
Momentary greed wells up in his throat, he tastes the gentle whispers of his breakfast. It gently topples him, knees bracing against the lacquered floors of the Ariake arena.
Tooru is a geyser, bubbling beneath home ground. Tomas sweeps him down to the floor, as if Tooru weighed nothing. He feels tears soak his jersey, the blue of Argentina turning two shades darker. He feels his own sweat, trickling down his aching back and shoulders, drawing mandalas into his skin.
Tomas suddenly morphs into two, then three, finally five. The entirety of the active lineup pile upon Tooru, yelling, and screaming, and crying. “Toto, lo hicimos…” A whisper, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Tooru nods, his greed dissipating into something mushier. “Mm, hicimos.” He affirms, breathing in one junction with the rest of his team. One body, one mind.
He can hear the faint yells from the Argentinian bench, celebratory cries amd shouts. Tooru is pulled back to his feet in a daze by Tomas, a myriad of hands clapping his back.
Behind the peaking head of Jose Blanco, greying but still tall, Tooru spies a familiar face clad in red armor, its medicinal mask pulled down. Airy and bright — brighter than the most brilliant pearls of Bahrain — is a smile, a toothy grin, stretched out beyond the outlines of a strong jaw and shallow dimples — it calls to him.
Without thinking, he takes the first step.
The seawater blue parts, his teammates acutely aware of something he is not. If Tooru were a bit less smitten, he would’ve noticed his head coach’s sly smile.
Tooru never knew he could run this fast. Two bounds and he is already past the press, knocking cameras and various poor interns out of his way. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he scrounges up an apologetic murmur as he wades past all of them. But his voice is far too meek for their ears, far too soft. Truth be told, watching as he lands in a pair of muscular arms, face first into the Japanese National team staff uniform, no one can blame him for the jabs and pushes.
Tooru’s feet lift off the ground, he is suddenly flying once again, like he’d done during his game winning serve.
The earth spins him as if he were a star, catapulted into the stratosphere — if the stratosphere could ever smell like cheap coconut shower gel or incredibly strong cologne. The smell tickles his nose, creases his face. It’s all so familiar.
The court may be his home, but this… This is his childhood summer and beetle hunts, his snowy Christmas and drunk New Years, his airport hugs and sunny postcards. This is every intricate thing which the entirety of his being consists of. This is Hajime.
Tooru pulls back a little, just enough to get a peek at Hajime’s sharp face. But what he meets instead, are two oval eyes, looking down right at him with so much pride, that no other thing would ever come to be of a similar value. And somewhere in the rear side is an ocean of devout love — something he has felt his entire life, but only recently learned the name of.
Tooru places his forehead in Hajime’s collar, tears welling up in both their eyes. “You were so good.” Hajime breaks their silence, one hand coming up to rest at Tooru’s nape, fingers tangling into chestnut brown baby hairs. Tooru nods, burrowing further into Hajime’s neck, each hot breath sending a wave of shock down the other’s back.
Suddenly, Tooru feels hot tears on his scalp. He doesn’t let it slip, how his own have sunk into Hajime’s uniform shirt.
—
Standing tall, at the ripe age of twenty-six, Oikawa Tooru gives a few comments to the press after the Ariake arena erupts with Spanish chants.
Sweaty, but full of adrenaline, he rocks from one foot to the other, a smile on his face. The arena staff are probably working hard, cleaning up the mess they’d made of the lacquered arena floors, sweat and maybe tears glossing the varnish.
Two jade eyes follow after the last American athletes, their red uniform a snake’s vivacious tail, urging him not to come closer lest he wishes to be swiftly decimated. Yet Tooru stands, the victory like a crown upon his head. He turns to the interviewer, a smaller Argentinian lady that speaks English with a familiar accent.
The remnants of his home across the ocean make Tooru’s heart swell.
“What do you think was the main factor in winning this superb game?”
Tooru ponders the question for a moment, clasping his taped up fingers together. His cerulean blue jersey is sticky, tiny supernovas of sweat inching closer and closer on the fabric. He draws his lips into a line, formulating a response.
“I’d say… Besides our coach being a total star—” he winks, that trademark high school Oikawa Tooru smirk taking a seat atop his sun kissed face. “is that we’re really in tune with one another. I mean, I had to see these guys almost twenty-four hours, every day!” He shudders, pointing to one of his teammates. “I even know what he looks like naked! It’s awful!” Tooru chuckles, receiving a pissed off insult from said teammate.
He shrugs it off, turning back to look into the camera. “But I think that’s the greatest part. We know each other as if we were joined by blood. We know each other’s habits, faults, strengths. It helps us play together on the court so seamlessly.” Two strong hands land on his hips, long thumbs pressing into the dip of bones. Twin bruises will splotch onto the canvas that is his skin, but he will deal with them in the silent depths of the night.
“And how do you feel about this victory? Any words to fans back home excited to see you in the finals?”
“Ah… ¡El oro es nuestro!” Tooru beams, pearly whites sticking out in a uniform line, flashing the camera lens as if he were some model on the cover of Vogue.
The interviewer chuckles, her laughter contagious. It rumbles through the cameraman’s system and eventually bubbles up inside of Tooru.
“All in all, I feel great. I’m sure all Argentina fans are feeling the same too. I’m confident in us, same as last time. There’s a lot of experienced talent, but some new blood as well. I think it’s a perfect combination for stirring up a storm.” In the outer rims of those perfectly cut eyes, aside from the sheer pride for the people he gets to call teammates, is a hunger — so slippery and bright — that there was no mistaking it. Tooru really planned to go for gold.
“I’m sure you guys will surprise us in many ways. Last question before we move on, what keeps you motivated? I’m sure it’s hard to stay on track as an elite athlete, so, is there anything that keeps you going?”
And by God, the universe clicks into place at the most perfect of times.
Strolling behind the sea of media spokespeople, clad in a crimson uniform and dragging a whinging Shoyo, is none other than Iwaizumi Hajime. No, soon to be Oikawa Hajime.
Tooru beams like he’d never done in front of a camera, hopping onto his tip toes to point towards the loveliest man of all.
“My fiancé!” He shouts over the press, waving his hands like a little kid. Joy reeks off of him, as if all the sweat in his body suddenly turned into sunlight. He glowers at Hajime’s sudden attention, watching his lover turn at the mention of his title and meet Tooru’s excited gaze.
Mountaintop greens, lush as the treetops outside of his apartment, soften as they meet Tooru’s.
Suddenly, tens of cameras turn a perfect half-circle, trying to catch a glimpse of the Japanese National team’s athletic supervisor. A coo is heard from somewhere far off, as Hajime hides his reddening face behind his clipboard, Shoyo jumping around him like a tiny grasshopper. He shouts something in Portuguese to one of the interviewers, maybe a greeting?
Hajime glances over back to Tooru, a slight frown shaping between his bushy eyebrows. But all he gets in return is a floaty kiss blown his way and a wink for the evening.
He should’ve known that by marrying one Oikawa Tooru, he’d be married to the world by proxy.