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The bronze medals hang carefully around Brazilian necks, the silver ones gleam proudly on Japanese chests, and the gold is blinding in Argentine hands. The trophy has been lifted amidst the roars and chants of tens of thousands of spectators, shaking the very bases of the stadium. Since the ace serve that sealed Argentina’s victory, camera flashes have rained down endlessly, capturing every scene, every expression, every detail. Especially in the Argentine area, where the winners, the protagonists, stand.
Yet, Oikawa Tooru, the team’s starting setter and captain for the past four years, has stayed away from it all. He hasn’t thrown himself in front of the cameras to strike his silliest poses with the trophy, hasn’t sought out microphones, hasn’t appeared behind his teammates being interviewed to shout out Argentina's anthem all drunk with triumph. He hasn’t joined Matías and Bruno in their victory dance. Oikawa has lingered in the background, sitting on the floor with his knees up and his arms lazily draped over them, watching everything unfold from the outside, like a spectator.
He’s etched into his soul the way Luis refuses to let go of the trophy, even playfully wrestling Thiago when he tries to take it. The teary eyes and genuine smiles of his teammates as they video call their families. The warmth with which Mateo, Enzo, and Santiago return to the court from the stands, now carrying their children and partners to celebrate together. Valentina, Enzo’s three-year-old daughter and Oikawa’s goddaughter, wobbling adorably on chubby little legs to the rhythm of the music, one tiny hand clutching her father’s, the other holding her mother’s. Fernando’s tears, once again, as he kisses his medal and lifts his eyes and fingers toward the sky.
He’s going to miss this like hell.
His gaze drifts over the stands, a sea of swirling colours blending into one another. A sweep of blue and white, with flashes of red. He spots an older couple in Japanese jerseys chatting happily with two girls sporting Argentine flags painted on their cheeks. A group of Japanese youths laughing with a group of Argentinians. A Japanese girl taking a picture with an Argentine one. And, of course, front and center, he finds his parents deep in conversation with Bruno’s parents, using poor Takeru as a translator while his sister and brother-in-law chat with Luis’s cousin.
It’s almost poetic, how his two worlds melt together so seamlessly before his very eyes. In Japan, he had always been branded a traitor for renouncing his nationality. In Argentina, he had always been criticized as the Chinese stealing a real Argentine’s place. And yet, here, in the stands, Japanese and Argentinians congratulate one another, celebrate together, laugh side by side.
A soft pat on his back pulls him from his thoughts, and Tooru, a small smile curling his lips, slowly turns toward Bruno, crouched beside him.
“Ready, captain?” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming, lips curved in a grin that trembles just slightly.
Tooru's heart pounds inside his chest as he nods. He doesn’t say a word, afraid he’ll fall apart too soon, and instead, he unties the laces of his sneakers, slipping them off. He grips them, taking his time to admire them. His indigo Asics Netburner Ballistics, the brand that had accompanied him throughout middle and high school, the ones that had crossed the ocean with him. The shoes he had refused to trade for Nikes or Adidas.
Oikawa blinks rapidly when he feels the familiar sting in his eyes again, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying. He pushes himself up from the floor and starts toward the Japanese bench, feeling the warmth of the court even through his long white socks as he walks, clutching the sneakers against his chest.
A few eyes land on him immediately, his rivals, the ones who had dragged them into a fifth set that went past those damn 15 points, but Oikawa pays them no mind this time. His gaze is locked on one person alone, the same one who steps away from the bench, leaving behind his conversation with Sakusa and Aran, and walks toward him.
They stop at the same time, just a step apart, only a few more from the Japanese team. They look at each other, speaking through warm gold and mossy green, until Iwaizumi drops his gaze to the sneakers. Tooru holds them out, and with practiced ease, Hajime ties the laces of the right shoe with the left one, tying them together firmly in double knots.
“You took good care of them,” Hajime murmurs, just for the two of them, noticing the eight months that had passed only in the greying, darkened soles and the slightly frayed laces.
“Iwa-chan gave them to me. You’d have kicked my ass if I ruined them again,” Tooru recalls fondly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as Hajime lifts his eyes back to his.
There’s too much to say, words could never be enough.
“Go, idiot.” Hajime urges him, a gentle pat on Tooru’s hip accompanying his words, even as his voice wavers slightly.
Tooru nods and inhales deeply through his nose, squaring his shoulders. He turns toward the net, still pristine, grand, and solemn in the center of the court. But he barely takes two steps before a third voice, loud and reverberant, halts him in his tracks.
“Oikaa-san!”
With his heart lodged in his throat, Oikawa whips his head around, eyes widening as he spots Shoyo standing beside Iwaizumi, bowing forward at a perfect 90-degree angle. His lips part, his brows shoot up to his hairline, and words clog his throat. Then Kageyama, his face scrunched up as if holding back tears, steps up beside Shoyo and mirrors his stance. And then Ushijima (fucking Ushijima), and the rest of the team follow suit. Among them, one of the youngest rookies, freshly graduated from Aoba Johsai.
"Thank you so much!" Hinata shouts, his voice raw, followed by a powerful “thank you” that roars through the air, along with a choked "fuck" from Iwa-chan, who ducks his head and presses his wrists against his eyes.
Tooru has no words. He can’t find them. He lets the first tears spill from his eyes before bowing toward them and continuing his way, standing taller as he heads for the net.
The entire stadium has fallen into a calm silence. He feels the curious stares, the teary ones, the intense ones. He is no longer a spectator; he is stepping onto the court one last time. Tooru clutches his sneakers tighter against his chest as he walks slowly along the net. Halfway there, he stops and admires it. Thin, firm black threads woven into a grid, stretching solemnly toward the posts. White bands lining the top and bottom, slightly worn from years of relentless use.
Oikawa lowers his gaze just a little, and for a fleeting moment, he can almost see his seven-year-old self, staring up at the net with the same fascination he still keeps.
And oh, how he wishes he could hold him, tell him that he’s about to fall in love with the most exhilarating, overwhelming sport in the world. That it’ll be a love filled with both pain and joy, but that everything they’ll go through will lead them here. To two Olympic golds and a silver. To the VNL podium, the World Championship, the South American Championship, and the Pan American Games. To the peak of the Argentine League and the ACLAV Cup, both with CA San Juan and CA Boca Juniors. To captaining the national team of a massive country.
He blinks and sniffs, lifting his gaze back to the net before, finally, with trembling hands, he hooks his shoes over it. His Asics sway gently, and he looks at them one last time before the entire stadium erupts in a thunderous ovation that shakes the foundations. Japan and Argentina, sending him off with applause, cheers, whistles. Oikawa lets it all wrap around him like a mantle as he cries, making his way to the stands to bow deeply to his people, all of his people, overwhelmed with gratitude.
His legs give out the moment it truly sinks in, and he drops to his knees on the court, ignoring the dull ache in his right kneecap. His head hangs between his shoulders, sobs wracking his chest as he tries, in vain, to wipe his tears away.
Oikawa has played the last match of his life.
No more daily training sessions. No more messing around with his little family within the team. No more punishments from José Blanco. No more chaotic sightseeing adventures across different countries during the VNL. No more pictures of Makki, Mattsun, and the rest of his friends with Argentine flags painted on their cheeks and CA Boca Juniors scarves around their necks. No more Olympics. No more spotting his parents, his sister, his brother-in-law, and Takeru in the stands wearing those ridiculous shirts with his face stamped between hearts, glitter, and messages like, “TOORU’S PROUD DAD!!”, “PROUD MOMMY, I BORN HIM!!”, “I USED TO CLEAN HIS SNOT”, “TOORU’S FAV BRO-IN-LAW”, “MY SECOND FIRST FAV UNCLE IN THE WORLD”.
And the worst part, no more Iwa-chan and volleyball.
After graduation, he had no choice but to learn how to live without Hajime by his side as his ace. He waited, patient and stubborn, because Iwa-chan had promised they’d face each other again, and Iwa-chan never broke a promise. And eventually, he had him there, on the opposite side of the court, ready to kick his ass. But now? He won’t even have that.
Oikawa doesn’t know when it happens, but suddenly, strong arms wrap around him, a warm body presses against his, one he would recognize even if someone wiped his brain clean of every memory. And then, more arms, more bodies surrounding him, shielding him from the world, reminding him that there’s still comfort to be found, that not everything ends here.
After the 2030 VNL men’s final, at Estadio Aldo Cantoni in San Juan, Oikawa Tooru announces his official retirement from volleyball.
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The sound of scissors slicing through kinesiology tape echoes through the small room once more. Tooru, his eyes and nose still red, watches intently as Hajime presses one end of the tape carefully against his knee, a palm’s length above the joint, then gently stretches it, securing the other end below his kneecap. He rubs over the freshly applied tape, his furrowed brow easing slightly as he checks that the rest—pink and blue strips—are properly in place, taut and secure.
"Good?" Hajime asks then, his voice rough and hoarse as he lifts his gaze from where he's kneeling on the floor, his large hand now cupping the back of Tooru’s knee.
"Mmh." Tooru hums, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips as his gaze meet Iwaizumi’s. He’s been crying too—there’s a telltale redness at the corners of his eyes. "Thank you, Hajime," he says, soft and sincere, a gratitude that goes far beyond sports tape.
He thanks him for everything. For always, always being there, even when they pissed each other off. For their friendship, for their long-distance relationship that was never easy, separated by an ocean and time zones, forced to endure a kind of separation that was the complete antithesis of everything they are.
"Why are you acting like you're dying?" Iwaizumi teases, leaning in slightly to press a kiss to his knee, right on the bare skin between the strips of tape.
"I retired, Iwa-chan! Of course I’m dying!" Oikawa protests, clutching at his chest in an exaggerated, dramatic pose.
Hajime snorts, rolling his eyes with a trace of amusement as his thumb strokes lazily over Tooru’s skin before pushing himself up to grab the scissors and rolls of kinesiotape. As he puts them away, Tooru takes the opportunity to gently bend his knee a few times before settling more comfortably on the bed, stretching his long legs out over the blanket. He runs his fingers over the kinesiotape, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingertips.
Thirty-six is a good age to retire from volleyball, most athletes do it even earlier. But his knee has reached its absolute limit. He’d been dealing with discomfort for months, and after tests and evaluations, both Hajime and his athletic trainer, along with the medical team, advised him to stop before it turned into chronic tendinitis or, even worse, an ACL tear. And while 15-year-old Oikawa would’ve completely ignored that warning, the Oikawa of today knows exactly what that would mean. And (despite the tears, the anger, the sadness that clung to him for weeks after the diagnosis) he doesn’t want to lose his mobility entirely, doesn’t want to become someone who lives with so much chronic pain, no matter how much he wishes he could keep going just a little longer.
Though, damn it, he really wanted to retire after Ushikawa, just to rub it in his face.
“Matías and Luís really didn’t mind the change? They could’ve stayed,” Hajime asks as he approaches the three individual beds they pushed together.
They’ve never respected each other’s personal space, and their limbs will still be tangled together even in the deepest stages of sleep. But realistically, a single bed is just too small for two broad, big bodies, and Oikawa tends to move around too much in his sleep. Waking up at 4 a.m. because he’s groaning on the floor after rolling off the bed (again) is not on Hajime’s to-do list.
“Nah, they’ll be fine. You’re rooming with Shoyo and one of the rookies, right? Daisuke-chan? I bet they’ll get along great!” Tooru grins, barely giving Hajime time to settle before climbing onto his lap, stretching his legs out to one side.
The same arms that were the first to wrap around him on the court now encircle his waist, pulling him even closer. Hajime mumbles a fond, “If I come back and find the room burned down, I’m blaming you,” before pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. Tooru’s smile widens as he burrows against Hajime’s chest, sighing softly as his eyes flutter shut, feeling his body slowly relax into him.
They stay like that for a long time.
Iwaizumi’s touch, the warmth of his body against his side, the weight of his left arm over his lap, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid thump of his heartbeat against his arm, it's a balm for chapped lips, a sip of cold water on a sweltering night. Oikawa finds himself wishing that morning never comes, that he could stay like this forever because—even though the overwhelming emotional fog has cleared and he knows now that retiring isn’t the end of the world—he’s still not ready to face the press conferences, the looks from his family, his team, his fans, the messages, the videos already making the rounds online.
“Hey, Tooru.” Hajime’s voice, low and rough, reverberates in his chest and against Oikawa’s ear and he hums in response, his eyes still closed, letting him know he’s still awake. “What now?”
The answer doesn’t come immediately.
Tooru slowly opens his eyes, takes a deep breath in, then exhales. He wets his lips before tilting his head up to meet Hajime’s gaze, already fixed on him. Despite the years, despite the fine lines at the corners, it’s still the same look Iwa-chan gave him at 12, at 16, at 23. Calm, soft, a crystalline pool with the same hypnotic pull as the gentle ebb and flow of the tide. It’s not a please, tell me what is going on, I wanna help you gaze, it’s the one that says it’s okay if you have an answer, and it’s okay if you don’t. Hajime won’t push. Hajime just ringing the doorbell and Tooru’s the one who decides if open the door or not.
“I… I don’t know.” He whispers it like he’s sharing another secret with Iwaizumi, who already knows every one of his vulnerabilities in every version of himself. “I guess I’ll stay in Buenos Aires a little longer. There are so many things I’ve thought about, things I really want to do, that I don’t even know where to start.” His lips curl into a small smile. “But there’s one thing I am sure of.” His hand snakes along Hajime’s forearm—still resting in his lap, still a solid, warm weight against his bare skin—until he reaches his hand, intertwining their fingers gently. “I want to go back to Japan soon. I want to go back to you.” His smile widens when he sees Hajime’s eyes go comically wide, his thick eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “I want to see you next to me 24/7, Iwa-chan. No oceans, no continents between us. No more mental math to figure out each other’s time zones. I want stability, and I want it with you.” He tightens their hands together, and Hajime, oh, Hajime.
He’s already furrowed his brows, already pressed his trembling lips together the way he always does when he’s trying not to cry. His eyes are glassy, on the verge of overflowing, and he makes a small, choked sound, almost like a whimper, before pressing his forehead against Tooru’s shoulder, wrapping him in a tight hug and letting out a shaky sigh.
Oikawa blinks quickly, because seeing Iwa-chan like this is one of his deepest weaknesses, and it makes him want to cry, too, but he’s already cried enough for one day, thank you very much. So, he rests his cheek against Hajime’s spiky hair, which smells like his lemon-apple shampoo, and strokes the back of his hand with his thumb.
“You have no idea,” Hajime finally speaks after a long stretch of silence, his head still tucked against Oikawa’s shoulder, voice unsteady, “how many times I’ve dreamed of hearing you say that. Of you coming back to me, not for vacations, not for surprise visits, but for the rest of our lives.” There’s a pause, and Oikawa lifts his head when he feels Hajime shift. They lock eyes, Hajime’s deep green gaze shimmering with an infinite tenderness, and Tooru’s brows knit together as he reaches up with his free hand to wipe away a single tear that spills over. “And I want you to know,” Hajime continues, “that I don’t care if you want to move back to Miyagi or Tokyo, or stay in Buenos Aires or San Juan, or even if you want to move to fucking Greenland.” Tooru can’t help it and lets out a laugh, scrunching his nose and squinting his eyes. “I’ll follow you anywhere,” Hajime promises, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss to the inside of Tooru’s wrist, just above the small tattoo of a Japanese rhinoceros beetle with its wings spread open.
He remembers the day they both got tattooed for the first time, the day before graduation. Hajime got a tattoo of his own on his right bicep, the silhouette of a swimming zacco platypus and Tooru barely needed three seconds to decide what to get because thinking about Hajime also meant thinking about the countryside, about Miyagi, about childhood, about beetles. And the first insect Iwa-chan ever caught for him, back when they were eight years old and their parents let them explore the hill behind their houses on their own, was a rhinoceros beetle.
That memory is burned into Tooru’s mind, Hajime’s proud smile on his dirt-smudged face as he showed him the tiny creature resting in his hands, crawling across his palms like it knew it was safe there.
“Japan is fine.” Oikawa’s eyes shine like stars, his smile unstoppable, his cheeks warm as he cups Hajime’s face between his setter’s hands and kisses him softly on the lips. “But we’re visiting Buenos Aires every year,” he adds when they break apart, still close enough that their breaths mix, teasing.
Iwaizumi smiles too, of course he does, and rubs his nose against his.
“Annual trips to Buenos Aires, noted.” He leans in for another kiss.
“And I’ll be rooting for Argentina in the VNL and the Olympics so they can keep kicking your asses.” Another kiss.
“Mmh.” A fourth kiss.
“And since I’ll be coming home unemployed—” Hajime interrupts him for another kiss, because damn it, how could he not kiss him? “—you’ll have to support me, Iwa-chan.”
“When did I ever stop supporting you, dumbass? You’ve been a very high maintenance boyfriend even before we started dating.”
“How rude!” Oikawa squawks in mock offense, squishing Hajime’s cheeks between his hands to stop him from leaning in for another kiss. “And here I was, planning to make it up to you by having dinner, a hot bath, and me ready for you every night when you get home from work!”
“What am I, a salaryman?” Hajime snorts, arching a playful eyebrow.
“You're just as grumpy.”
“Keep talking and you won’t need a plane ticket to Tokyo, I’ll kick you there myself.”
Before Oikawa can complain, Hajime kisses him again, harder this time, swallowing down every “you brute!” and “that’s no way to talk to your very high-maintenance boyfriend, Iwa-chan!” and “I love you.” His grip tightens around Oikawa’s waist, because even though Tooru is already pressed so close against him that he can feel their hearts beating in perfect sync, he wants more. So much more. Always more.