Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Among all the side quests that an Olympic athlete is forced to go on—not so much to gain experience as to promote one’s beloved sports for the sake of popular enthusiasm, and funding opportunities—interviews are not some of Tooru’s least favorite activities. He quite enjoys them, to be more precise. Revels in them, his best friend and former teammate Iwaizumi Hajime might say. After all, reaching for unattainable heights has been hard-wired into Tooru’s brain since he was a child; like second-nature, a habit he could not unlearn. And he has finally found his spotlight, there, at the very top of world-class volleyball. With the announcement that the 2020 summer Olympics will be held in Tokyo, the story of the naturalized rising star of the Argentinian team, Japanese-born setter Oikawa Tooru, has been the object of more than one Japanese sports media outlet. Especially since both the Japanese and Argentinian national volleyball teams qualified for the upcoming Olympics.

Hajime has always been prepared for Tooru’s success. He has never believed that Tooru would stop, ever. He has known no other Tooru but the one who kept chasing after volleyball no matter whether he stood on the court of their middle school gymnasium, or on the world stage—a volleyball idiot through and through. In that, he is the same as the players whom Hajime has been put in charge of as the head coach of the Japanese Olympic volleyball team. Now, Tooru stands on equal footing with the very monsters he had once vowed to crush, some of whom both of them have known since the heyday of Japanese high school volleyball.

Hajime knew that Tooru was made for greatness from the moment that he met him, and came to realize that he would dedicate his entire life to volleyball. From the fateful meeting with Argentinian setter José Blanco (Hajime remembers the stars in Tooru’s eyes, how meticulously he took care of that autograph until the unfortunate, but in Hajime’s eyes still hilarious, washing-machine incident) to their high-school volleyball career. Hajime knew that Tooru would keep pursuing that “something greater” which his hunger craved. Not only that, but he would go to the edge of the world to find it. Somehow, Hajime did the same. Something about playing on the same team as Tooru for years, he supposes, and falling in love with the sport. And now, as the newly-appointed coach of the Olympic team, he is getting interview offers from all across Japan.

Interviews that involve Osaka, Tooru, and a well-deserved summer vacation, to be exact. Two-in-one. Since Tooru is coming back to Japan, and would not say no to an interview in his home country, they might as well make the trip profitable and enjoy the few days that they will get to spend in Osaka. Hajime cannot remember the last time the two of them had travelled in Japan together; it probably involved the Aoba Johsai volleyball team, a game against one of their rival schools, and a couple of exhausting but joyous days with nothing but volleyball on their minds. Adrenaline beating against his temples, sore feet, and drowsy coach rides is what Hajime recalls when he gives it a little more thought. Good times, he smiles to himself. He will not tell Tooru, but he is looking forward to their improvised holiday.

Only, there is one complication. A complication that had the face of a group of gaping Americans responding to Hajime’s unexpected mid-twenties crisis with enough straightforwardness to make a—to say the least—horrifying realization dawn on him.

“From what you told us, it’s pretty clear to me that he’s been hopelessly flirting with you for the past ten plus years.”

“Hajime, I can’t believe you… There’s no other possible explanation!”

“Wait, I assumed you two were together already.”

Cue to Hajime calling Issei and Hiro for an emergency drink night.

“What? You two aren’t a thing?” Hiro’s glass of beer had remained suspended mid-air, and Hajime can still see the dreadful look that his friend had given him then with excruciating clarity.

“All this time… We thought…” By Hiro’s side, Issei could barely put his surprise into words. “We didn’t want to ask because… Well… We didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but we thought… It was bound to happen in the end.”

“He was only like that with you!”

“What about all the fangirls?” Hajime had croaked, frantically going over high school memories in search of all the hints he had missed.

“Hajime, you dumbass!” Despite the insult, Hiro’s tone had grown softer, almost concerned at Hajime’s own distress. “This needs to stop.”

“What should I do?” Hajime had pleaded, the crease between his eyebrows a sign of alarm, of worry even stronger than that of his friends.

“Try to sort out how you feel, for a start. I know it isn’t easy,” Issei had tried to comfort him once the initial shock had worn off, and they were a couple more drinks and explanations in. “But you’ve known him long enough.” He had glanced at Hiro, and the faint smile that Hajime had caught on Issei’s lips told him that he had been in his shoes before.

“I think…” Hajime had buried his face into the palms of his hands with a deep sigh, feeling the heat on his cheeks and neck, burning the tip of his ears.

He had known Tooru for almost twenty years. He had played volleyball with him until the sun set and their forearms stung; he had proudly shown him each bug he had caught in his patched-up net, knees stained with dirt and the sleeves of his t-shirt rolled all the way up from the heat; he had smacked the back of Tooru’s head with a volleyball to humble him countless of times; he had walked home with him, dried tears and meaningful silence keeping them company after a tough defeat. He had known Tooru for almost twenty years, and never once did he come close to recognizing whatever it was that Tooru felt for him; and what he himself felt for Tooru, for all that matter. Bright, charismatic Tooru who made heads turn wherever he walked; ambitious, iron-willed Tooru, who would move heaven and earth to make his dream come true. Hajime had watched him from the sidelines with unparalleled pride, and given his all to honor his promise to fight him on the world stage.

The idea that the good-hearted teasing, harmless bickering, and rough-edged affection meant something else, something deeper, to Tooru had never crossed his mind. Hajime himself had never contemplated it. He simply worked hard to stay on course, following the direction that Tooru’s compass pointed to for, it seems, both of them, as Hajime had received his student visa for the United States. The passion that he felt for volleyball, he had moulded to his abilities, finding a path that suited him. From an early age, volleyball had consumed both their lives—but volleyball, Hajime had just realized, never came on its own. It came with Tooru. Now that both of them had secured a volleyball career, Hajime had the time to turn his attention to something else. That “something else” being unacknowledged feelings for his best friend, apparently. The worst part is—he had never even suspected the hidden meaning behind Tooru’s words and actions.

Even after talking it through with friends from no less than two continents, after stringing together all the available pieces of evidence, Hajime could not wrap his head around how on earth had Tooru chosen him, and, according to his friends from Seijoh, stuck with that choice for over ten years. Not that Hajime was not confident in his abilities, or solid mindset; but he had expected Tooru to chase after someone a little flashier. Someone like Tooru himself. Come to think of it, Tooru had never introduced him to any boyfriends and girlfriends. He had heard of names, bits from stories and anecdotes, but Tooru’s love life had never taken solid form before his eyes, remaining as vague as Tooru wished it to be. Not that Hajime’s side was more glorious—besides a few dead-end experiments in Irvine, he had made his career an irreplaceable priority. And there must have been another reason, too.

“I think…” The truth is, deep down, Hajime must have always known; has always felt it. It just took him around ten years, and the three most nerve-wracking days of his life, to realize the full implications that came with the fact that he was probably in love with his childhood best friend and long-time rival, Oikawa Tooru. He had barely been able to face Issei and Hiro's intent gazes, and the immensity of his own stupidity had held Hajime back from rambling on any further. “I think I know how I feel.”

“Then talk to him. Now would be a good time.”

“I— What would I even—”

“If you can’t say it yet, have him understand some other way.”

“Flirt back.”

From then on, Hajime, Issei, Hiro, and Hajime’s long-distance friends from the United States had a little over two weeks to devise a plan, all while Hajime himself had to sit with the bundle of feelings that long conversations had left him with, and untangle it. How simpler life had seemed when it was all about volleyball. When Tooru was still by his side, just a position away on the court, on the same side of the net, and Hajime never had to worry about plane ticket offers and booking university guest rooms.

“Wakatoshi, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.”

“How did…” Hajime had swallowed the lump of embarrassment blocking the question mid-way. Wakatoshi was a friend he could trust. “How did you and Tendo get together? If that’s too… you know, you don’t have to answer.”

“When he said that he would go to Paris, I thought that I couldn’t let him go without saying how I felt. I realized that I didn’t feel that way about anyone else.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. I knew that not saying anything would be worse than saying it.”

Hajime must have been utterly stupid, or painfully unaware, or paralyzed by fear, not to have seen through it all sooner.

Better late than never, though, he had told himself while placing neatly-folded clothes in his travel backpack. And the flush that never failed to rise to his face when he broached the subject will be a problem to be dealt with later. How will he even be capable of looking Tooru in the eyes, after all of these internal revelations, and what feels like a life-changing epiphany? Hajime hoped that Osaka will be an opportunity to make up for lost time. This time, he meant to not screw things up.

When Hajime gets to the Sendai train station, he is met with a coming-and-going tide of passengers and the rattling of suitcases along the shiny floor. A large family is sat by the departures board, two of their younger children playing happily with a big dog that lets them wrap their hands around its neck and back, its tail wagging friendlily as the youngsters seem to be making up stories in which they all play a part; the oldest sibling, a teenage girl, is gently patting the dog’s head while scrolling on her phone. The parents strike Hajime as the most nervous of the lot as he intercepts their quick glances at the departures board and sees them count their voluminous luggage. It is a sweet sight, one that has Hajime remembering the childish excitement he used to feel before going on holidays with his parents in elementary school, the anticipation keeping him awake as he lay in bed, daydreaming about adventures to come and unknown places, even if they were just a few hours away from Miyagi. He had not gone on a proper vacation in Japan in a while.

Other passengers are waiting all around the hall, some leaning on their suitcases and absorbedly gazing into their phones; others waiting idly, watching the movement of the crowd or talking to each other to kill time; some holding hands, with whispering smiles that reflect the joy of travelling together, while the eagerness of others is hidden behind a face mask. Hajime checks the time—Tooru should not be long to come.

“Iwa-chan!”

Speaking of the devil.

Tooru catches up to him from behind, a black backpack slid over his shoulders and the open blue denim jacket he is wearing showing the Vabo-chan print on his white t-shirt. Hajime cracks a smile, half-teasing, half-happy to see his best friend in the flesh again; half-relieved, even as he swallows a surge of until then unconscious feelings, because Tooru’s presence makes it all easier to process. Of course it is Tooru, and nothing has truly changed between them.

“You’re almost late ,” Hajime snorts through the hug, in his usual manner.

“Ah, Iwa-chan, as cold as ever,” Tooru laughs, holding Hajime a little tighter before letting go. “You’re the one who got here early,” he whines as a comeback, also in his usual manner.

“Well, I guess better late than never…” Hajime laments, as though he had not heard Tooru.

“It’s a long way from Argentina,” Tooru presses on to get the upper-hand over Hajime, and all Hajime can do is shake his head and bite back another smile.

“You got home two days ago, liar.”

Some things never change. Even though Tooru looks older, his posture more confident, his shorter hair complimenting the keenness in his hazel eyes, the lively spark that lights up his face tells Hajime that he is still the same obstinate boy he has known his entire life. Tooru is still his exasperatingly endearing self, still annoyingly taller than Hajime, still the boy who would keep chasing after volleyball forever, still his best friend through thick and thin. Regardless of how aware Hajime is of the fast-paced beating of his own heart, the way he sees Tooru does not change. (Besides the fact that he is desperately trying not to think about what kissing Tooru hello would feel like, that is).

“C’mon, let’s get going.” He playfully shoves him forward with a movement of the shoulder, and his friend complaints that Hajime is still the meanest person he knows with a grin that tells Hajime he does not think a word of it.

Before the number of their platform appears on the departures board, Hajime and Tooru take care of buying lunch boxes to sustain them through the two-hour-long journey from Sendai to Tokyo, then three-hour Shinkansen ride from Tokyo to Osaka. Although most of the day will be spent travelling, Hajime is sure that no time will be spared for boredom, knowing Tooru. Worse comes to worst, Hajime packed a physical therapy book to keep him company in case Tooru falls asleep. But something is telling me that with all the catching up they have to do and Tooru’s energetic character, he can at least stay awake until they reach the hotel.

When they step onto the platform, early morning light is peaking out from the white clouds trailing above their heads, heralding sunny days for the upcoming week. Hajime gets a peek of the tan skin of Tooru’s forearms underneath his rolled-up jacket sleeves, and notices the Feebas keychain dangling from his backpack, a present he had got him from the Pokemon Center in Tokyo some years ago. It had reminded Hajime of him, he had joked, and Tooru had wholeheartedly defended Feebas—and himself—by claiming that it was a cool Pokemon, that it evolved into a splendid Milotic. He does not comment on it, but the fact that Tooru has kept the keychain warms Hajime’s heart. He can now see better than ever how Feebas really did remind him of Tooru. Just like Feebas, Tooru had evolved into one formidable Milotic.

Tooru stretches out his arms, taking a deep breath in, and flashes a smile at Hajime. “I love Argentina, but it feels good to be back.”

“Such a star,” Hajime rolls his eyes. “How do you even have the time to hang out with us, mere commoners?”

“Well, you lured me in with the interview, Iwa-chan. I couldn’t say no to that.” Tooru holds his chin up proudly, playing along to the role that Hajime ascribed to him. “Now that I’m officially an Olympian, I have to take my responsibilities seriously.”

“Don’t get too big-headed,” Hajime warns and gently punches him in the arm, smirking.

Flirt back. Hiro’s advice rings out in his ears. Hajime suddenly wonders if this counts as flirting to Tooru, and promptly turns his head away. Should he be more demonstrative? Go one step further? How is he supposed to make Tooru understand that he knows and wants it too? Hajime suspects he will have to improvise on this one, and trust his gut feeling most of all.

The bullet train pulls up to the platform a few minutes later, coming to a smooth halt in front of the waiting passengers. A voice announces the destination and time of departure as the doors open, leaving room for the crowd to pour into the empty cars and take their seats.

“After you,” Hajime mumbles, a little embarrassed, and gestures for Tooru to step inside first. It is now or never, he has to tell himself internally for his resolve not to crumble—he has to make it obvious for Tooru to understand.

“My, my, how gentlemanly of you, Iwa-chan,” Tooru chuckles, giving Hajime a slightly surprised look in return, but follows his invitation.

They find their seats easily and place their luggage underneath, as instructed, and Hajime offers Tooru to sit by the window. “I’m not the one who doesn’t live here anymore,” he justifies himself.

“How kind of you,” Tooru’s smile is grateful in spite of the amusement in his voice. “I haven’t been home in a while. Well, my first home, at least.”

Hearing that Tooru has two homes does not hit as hard as Hajime once feared. When they both had left for different continents, Hajime could not have envisioned what the future held for them, let alone where it would take them, towards the summits of professional volleyball. But seeing how much they had both grown, he knows now that there was nothing to be afraid of. Tooru has found the place where his talent can bloom to the fullest; and, likewise, the paths that Hajime has walked led him to where he stands now, hopeful for what is still to come, and more than ever convinced that he would not have had it any other way. He is also certain that no matter where he is in the world, he will always find a way back to Tooru.

Hajime feels utterly stupid for not noticing earlier. For not deciphering the swelling in his own chest. Talking with Tooru as the train departs, Hajime is reminded of how much he has missed Tooru’s physicality; how his nose scrunches up whenever he retorts to Hajime’s teasing, how a small crease forms at the corners of his mouth when he smiles; all details that Hajime could not properly distinguish through a phone screen, but only see up-close.

As the first hour of their journey draws to a close, Tooru suggests that they open the ekiben lying on the front-seat trays, which Hajime noticed he has been rather conspicuously eyeing for the past ten minutes. Since their arrival in Tokyo is scheduled for the afternoon, he wholeheartedly agrees, though not without poking fun at his Tooru’s impatience when it comes to unpacking lunch.

“I haven’t had ekiben in too long!”

Dramatic as ever, Tooru tears the plastic covering his dish away and Hajime follows suit. With its soft golden omelette lying by three different types of onigiri wrapped in dark green seaweed, Tooru’s bento looks like a schoolboy’s meal, something that Hajime is sure they had both relished as kids and teens. A great way to reconnect with his ‘first home,’ Hajime imagines.

He opens his own ekiben, his stomach twitching hungrily at the sight of the appetizing array of ingredients before him. It seems to Hajime that the colorful vegetables in his bento reflect the summery shades of green, yellow, and orange unfolding behind the train window, and the slices of marinated beef resting over egg-fried rice bring with them the comfort of one of his favorite childhood meals. The half-egg sitting in the corner of the box is as bright as a little sun. He has had many ekiben lunches over the years, especially since working as an athletic trainer in Japan, but sharing the occasion with Tooru comes with a pang of nostalgia that adds a special taste to the bento. As if Hajime had found himself travelling back in time somehow.

“That smells amazing!” Tooru splits his chopsticks in two, the tip of his tongue sticking out from his parted lips. (A habit Tooru has not dropped). “Enjoy your meal.”

“Enjoy your meal,” Hajime echoes. He hesitates for a second, chopsticks hovering over his lap, then gives the bento a little push towards Tooru. Have him understand some other way. “Wanna try some of mine?” Usually, Tooru would beg to get a taste of his food first, and Hajime would of course oblige, then steal some off Tooru’s plate in return. But Hajime has to make a move, any move.

“Iwa-chan, are you being nice to me?” Why does whatever flirting is seem so difficult? Hajime curses internally, both at himself and Tooru, for making it this much more embarrassing than it should be. “You must’ve really missed me.” A mischievous smile plays across Tooru’s lips, much like what Hajime is used to, and he exhales out of relief before simulating a glare at this friend—their usual back-and-forth. “Thank you, Iwa-chan.”

“I just wanted to make sure it’s not poisoned.”

“I take it back, you have no manners.”

Stuck at square one. Does this count as flirting? Does it not? Are all of Hajime’s attempts at flirting doomed to fall back into familiar banter? Can Tooru see the difference? How Hajime wishes he had an earpiece, and a friend giving him helpful instructions on the other end.

When it comes to food, at least, he does not need to ask twice. Tooru takes a piece of marinated beef off Hajime’s plate between his chopsticks, and the satisfied sigh that comes next indicates that the dish must just as flavorful as it appears.

“It’s really good,” Tooru assesses with a pleased look, then his attention shifts to his own bento. “I’ve been craving omelette. And milk bread! There’s a great Japanese bakery in San Juan, but sometimes I just miss the Konbini ones. Remember how we used to get those after practice?”

“You’re telling me. I remember all those detours you had us take just to get your milk bread.”

“And your pork buns.”

“And my pork buns.” Hajime’s feigned scowl softens as he concedes. “I wonder if they still sell them. I haven’t been there in a while.”

“I bet it’s a timeless item.”

“Those pork buns I tried in Argentina were really good, too.”

“Empanadas, you mean.”

“Show off,” Hajime scoffs under his breath.

“And remember the ramen we always had after big games?”

“We over-ate every time.”

“But it was so good.”

“Don’t say it like that, the omelette’s going to get jealous,” Hajime smiles and nods at Tooru’s bento, taking a mouthful of his own vegetables.

“How empathic of you, Iwa-chan.”

There is nothing like a good lunch to perk Hajime up. He cannot wait to get to Tokyo, then on the second train, and set foot in Osaka. Even the prospect of having to try to flirt with Tooru does not seem as daunting anymore, now that he feels more energized from the meal. All he needs to do is be a little more direct, drop more hints that Tooru can pick up.

He traps a piece of Tooru’s omelette between his chopsticks and has a taste—his due for the beef. He had missed this kind of proximity, too.