Work Text:
Oikawa drowns his melancholy in black coffee.
Turns out cognac and whiskey taste like gasoline and motor oil, and they always leave a headache the next morning. Sure, getting shamelessly drunk from short, faceted glasses while watching the smoldering sunset through wide windows would be far more dramatic — but honestly, he just doesn't give a damn anymore.
He drowns his feelings, thoughts, memories — his whole self — at the bottom of a stupid paper cup and even finds himself thinking about picking up smoking again.
He tried it a couple of times. Not to forget — to remember. To feel, just for a second, that painfully familiar taste of tobacco on Iwaizumi’s lips.
Hajime smoked rarely, and only half a cigarette. A full one made his head spin and his knees buckle.
He smoked when he frowned, when he pressed his lips together and shut down, when he ran away from everyone and locked himself behind that high wall of gruff indifference — only Oikawa always knew all those doors were worthless if you had the right keys. And he had all the keys to every lock in Iwaizumi Hajime.
The sun burns indecently — disgustingly pleasant — and everything around is green and cheerful, and people smile as they pass. Oikawa smirks to himself, bitterly, and thinks it’s hard to be miserable in Argentina.
Every day greets him kindly, his team is great, the new friends are decent, everything is falling into place — and yet his soul feels gray, like it’s wrapped tight in a black garbage bag, sealed with no hint of air.
Oikawa feels like he’s suffocating — like he could scream.
Without Iwaizumi, everything feels off, senseless, fake. Like spending the whole day waiting for a storm that never comes — the sky just bearing down, heavy and unmoving, blue and sunny.
He is so sick of it.
Maybe it’s time to call. Or text. Or send some hot selfie on Snapchat — one of those that could make Hajime break his heart over it, pack all his things, and hop on the first flight over to hold him and cuddle for hours.
It would’ve been actually great.
Really.
They haven’t spoken in two months.
Fifty-nine days, and some hours, and some seconds.
Math was never Oikawa Tooru’s strong suit, so in his mind, “two months” and “eternity” are pretty much the same thing.
Dramatic enough.
And he’s not even sure what it means. But it feels right.
The whole stupid world keeps folding in on itself until there’s only one memory left, and it cuts somewhere inside, around the chest, aching and pulling with no end — sinking deeper and deeper, leaving behind nothing but ringing emptiness and the broken shards of Iwaizumi’s serious voice talking about once-in-a-lifetime chances, personal growth, and opportunities you’re not supposed to miss.
The coffee’s long gone, leaving dirty streaks along the cup’s inner walls.
The match starts soon.
His first official game with the new team.
First official match with a new setter.
First match without Iwaizumi.
The phone screen lights up with a message:
“Show them what you can do. But don’t overdo it. You’re not a kid anymore.”
And Oikawa smiles for the first time in a long while.
A real smile. No practiced charm, just a touch sad — but real.
He stares at the contact for a long time, hands messing up his perfectly styled hair.
Clouds drift across the sky in little flocks, and shouts echo from the court inside — it’s almost time to go.
His stupid fingers disobey and slam the call button, leaving Oikawa blinking behind it — past the point of decision, past the point of no return, where nothing matters anymore.
Three long rings.
Then the sound of the call connecting — and silence.
— “Thought you’d be asleep, Iwa-chan.”
His voice sounds wrong, shaky, and the usual mask of playfulness and ease shatters, splintering on sudden honesty.
Holding it together is going terribly.
— “You? Thinking?” Iwaizumi snorts and tries to laugh, but that comes out awkward too. “It’s 4 a.m. I set an alarm to message you. I remembered — the match.”
And Oikawa’s heart aches sweetly — but it still hurts.
That small gesture of care makes him want to scream, just a little.
But he bites the inside of his cheek instead, to stop the wrong words from spilling out.
— “You could’ve just scheduled the message in chat. You’re supposed to be smart — didn’t think of that?”
— “I knew you’d call.”
Oikawa exhales — loudly, desperately.
Probably even audible through the phone.
He breathes out, and with it, everything he tried so hard to keep together falls apart, crumbling, as the point of no return disappears behind the horizon.
— “Come over, yeah? We’ll celebrate the win.”
His voice cracks near the end, coming out softer than he meant — almost weak.
Almost like a plea.
He’s a little ashamed of how it sounds, but honestly, he doesn’t care anymore.
— “You haven’t won yet.”
— “For Iwa-chan, I’ll win every match in the world.”
Silence follows.
Warm.
Thick.
Like an August night.
— “Then you better hurry.”