Chapter Text
When Oikawa has something important to say, he grows quieter. It shows in the way he fusses with the unruly tufts at the crown of his head, in the mask of nonchalance that never quite hides his nerves beneath. Most of all, it shows in the sidelong glances and the restless shifts of his body, as if he might brush too close without meaning to.
“What is it?” Hajime asks at last, worn down by the fidgeting.
He would never admit it aloud, but he’s used to Oikawa clinging, leaning in, filling every space he leaves open. Watching him tiptoe around like this sends Hajime’s blood pressure climbing faster than any set of drills.
“What is what? I didn’t say anything,” Oikawa says, eyes widening.
“Exactly. You haven’t said anything for the past ten minutes. Which means whatever comes out of your mouth next is going to sound incredibly stupid. Just spit it out.”
Oikawa falters. His lip trembles the way it does after a crushing loss, when even he can’t quite summon a smile.
“Let’s go home first,” he says, unusually compliant.
Home, here, means Hajime’s room, where Oikawa has been spending most of his time lately, whenever he isn’t in class or on the court. Hajime sprawls across his bed while Oikawa sits cross-legged on the floor, tossing the ball up for him to catch. They pass it back and forth in silence, the rhythm steady, soothing. Hajime knows it helps Oikawa calm down and think.
“So? Are you going to talk?” Hajime asks eventually, leaning forward, trying to catch his eye.
But Oikawa keeps his gaze on the Godzilla posters plastered across the walls, as if he hasn’t memorized every detail of those walls already. As if Hajime hasn’t memorized every detail of his too.
“If Iwa-chan keeps staring at me like that, I’ll never be able to say it,” he mutters.
Color rises up his throat, spreading across his cheeks until his whole face seems to flush. Hajime has always been faintly fascinated by how his best friend can blush with his whole body when flustered.
Could this be…?
“Tell me,” Hajime says, letting the ball fall and planting his bare feet on the floor, close enough to brush Oikawa’s feet.
Oikawa swallows hard, then scoops up the ball and traps it between his legs, folding his arms tight across it.
“I’m going to Argentina after graduation. To follow Blanco-san,” he says at last.
Ah, Hajime blinks. He already knew.
“I already knew that,” he replies, and the disappointment in his own voice catches him off guard. He had expected something else. He isn’t sure what, only that this feels too small, too ordinary, to explain the heavy silence, the loaded glances.
“You knew?” Oikawa’s voice cracks in disbelief.
“Well, yeah. I’ve seen the brochures in your room. And you’ve mentioned going pro abroad at least a million times. At least you don’t talk my ear off about Blanco-san’s ‘long fingers’ anymore.”
“That was when I was twelve! And I was just curious about his nail care routine, as a fellow setter!” Oikawa snaps, his face crimson from hairline to chin.
He takes a second to collect himself, fidgeting with the ball, before asking:
“If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Like what?” Hajime leans back against the wall.
“I don’t know. Something. A reaction, maybe, to your best friend moving to the other side of the world,” Oikawa huffs.
“What do you want me to say? Go for it.” Hajime scowls. “And anyway, I know you. Once you’ve made up your mind, nothing can change it.”
The pause that follows feels heavier than before. Oikawa sets the ball aside and shifts onto his knees, bracing both hands on the bed so their faces are level.
“Iwa-chan, don’t you want me to stay?” he asks, and the seriousness in his tone contrasts with the boyish pout softening his features. His lips are pink and shiny from biting at them all day, and his hair curls damp around his temple from his shower.
Oikawa has pretty eyes, he always had. And Hajime has never been able to withstand that look. Which is why, he panics.
“You can do whatever you want,” he blurts, harsher than he means, nudging Oikawa back with his foot. “You’re a grown man now… Who knows, maybe I’ll finally get rid of you and find some peace.”
“That’s so mean,” Oikawa protests, looking genuinely stricken. “Iwa-chan, I know you’ll miss me…”
“Yeah, right,” Hajime chuckles, lighter now that Oikawa has rocked back onto his heels and the space between them feels safe again.
But regret prickles when he catches Oikawa’s wounded expression, as he lets it pass unspoken. Because Oikawa isn’t the only one with secrets. Hajime’s is older, buried deeper, guarded more fiercely.
And the terrible, simple truth is that Hajime finds Oikawa’s everything unbearably cute . Adorable. To die for. Sweet enough to rot his teeth. And that is the one thing – maybe the only thing – he can never, ever let Oikawa know.
______
Thinking back, it makes sense. Hajime had always been drawn to things that were a little odd, a little off-kilter. As a boy he spent entire afternoons chasing beetles in the woods by his grandparents’ house, sometimes following the stream until the ground grew soft under his shoes. He would crouch in the grass just to watch them: their spindly legs, the pearly shimmer of their snouts, their round, startled eyes. He found them endearing beneath shells too large for their bodies. Sturdy and fragile at once. Like little giants.
What he loved most, though, was catching his best friend off guard, holding a beetle inches from Tooru’s face or stuffing a handful of worms into his hood at recess. Tooru’s reactions were never disappointing. Sometimes he would shriek loudly enough to wake the neighborhood, wailing about having the worst best friend in the world and demanding Hajime’s milk bread at lunch as penance (as if Hajime wasn’t already handing it over most of the time). Other times, if the creature was particularly hideous, Tooru would simply dissolve into tears, too overwhelmed to do anything else. Hajime quickly learned the only way to make amends was to hold him until he stopped crying, the way his mother often did for him.
The first time he tried it, Tooru’s tears dried faster than a popsicle in the sun. He’d returned the embrace with an awkward squeeze, then offered Hajime (nose still running) the brightest, most guileless smile he had ever seen.
Cute, was the treacherous thought that crossed Hajime’s five-year-old mind. Looking back, that must have been the moment everything went wrong.
“Iwa-chan, help me carry these bentos!”
“It’s your fan club project. Deal with it yourself.”
“But Iwa-chaaan,” Tooru whines, cradling the stack dramatically, “my hands are full! If I drop them, all that lovingly prepared food will go to waste.” His voice lands in that deliberately grating register, the one that means he’s trying to annoy Hajime into giving in.
Cute , Hajime thinks, that same treacherous thought. Only this time he doesn’t have the excuse of being five years old. Rather than admit it out loud, he grabs the nearest object – a can of body spray – and throws it straight at Tooru’s head.
“Quit stalling and get ready to go, Loserkawa.”
Predictably, the attack earns him a theatrical groan and a pout so exaggerated it should’ve been illegal. Unfortunately, Hajime also finds it ridiculously adorable, which only makes his temple throb harder. Why did he have to get stuck with the whiniest, most absurd, most disarmingly endearing childhood friend on the planet?
Just to drive the point home, he aims a swift kick at Tooru’s backside.
“Ow! Iwa-chan! What was that even for?” Tooru yelps, twisting to glare at him.
“Shut up. You deserved it,” Hajime snaps, reconsidering every choice he’s made since early childhood.
______
With hindsight, Hajime figures the bug fascination had only been a precursor to his monster obsession. That one had started with his Godzilla phase, an era that lingered embarrassingly far into high school and, if he’s honest, never really ended. From there it branched into mythology and folklore, every creature lurking in its shadows: Ushi-oni, Yamata-no-Orochi, Daidarabotchi, Umibozu, the Minotaur, Cthulhu, Jörmungandr, Balor. For a while, he’d nearly talked himself into majoring in cultural history, just to study them properly.
From the infinitesimal to the colossal, what fascinated him most was the duality. The hidden strength in the small creatures he used to chase after school. The secret vulnerability beneath the grotesque of the monsters he adored.
Not that Tooru looked grotesque. Quite the opposite, objectively speaking. But like the tiny monsters Hajime once kept in jars, Tooru was double. Antinomic. A little ugly in places – ugliness born in childhood, probably, when kids tried to knock him down, mock him, remind him he was never enough – and dazzling at the same time. Pride sharpened to brilliance, a hunger to win so blinding you risked staring too long.
So it made sense that Hajime found Tooru adorable, the same way he used to love insects. Something both magnetic and a little repulsive, something he wanted to hide away from prying eyes, in jars, wrapped in newspaper, shoved deep in his locker to keep from being mocked or scolded. Equal parts morbid fascination and awe in the face of something so different. So fragile and sturdy. Infuriating and lovable, more than every Japanese beetle and every Godzilla plush he ever collected.
Yeah, something had to change. Those kind of thoughts were forgivable when they were kids. Objectively, six-year-old Tooru still missing baby teeth and demanding “apology hugs” whenever they fought was adorable. But nowadays, Tooru was six feet tall and smiled with the plastic charm of their vice principal’s toupee. Hajime shouldn’t find it cute. He shouldn’t melt when his best friend slung himself across his back, whining for a piggyback ride. He shouldn’t think the winks and practiced pouts were to die for. He definitely shouldn’t find it endearing when Tooru taunted opponents across the net, lacing barbs in a singsong voice sweet enough to sting.
And yet lately it only gets worse. Like some kind of Pavlovian reflex. Just hearing that nasal voice sends a sharp jolt down Hajime’s spine, a rush that feels uncomfortably close to fondness. And that makes him so, so angry.
Like now, trudging home with his arms full of bentos Oikawa’s fan club had pressed on him as farewell gifts.
“It’s hardly my fault my fan club organized such a lovely send-off event, Iwa-chan,” Tooru prattles, perfectly unbothered. “Maybe if you smiled once in a while, you’d have girls lining up to feed you their homemade omurice too!”
It’s testament to long years of friendship and self-control that Hajime doesn’t shove him into the river. Not because the jab stings, but because the stupid little giggle that follows it hit like a sucker punch – half fury, half something he refuses to name – and his own feet nearly trip over it.
“In that case, I guess you don’t need me to help finish these tonight. Good luck stuffing your face alone.”
He dumps his stack of bentos onto Tooru’s already overloaded arms and stalks off without looking back.
“Wait, no, Iwa-chan! I was kidding! You’re very handsome, I swear. Wait for me! What about our Ultraman marathon!?”
But the wobbling tower of boxes forces Tooru to crouch and set them down before disaster strikes. Hajime doesn’t let himself turn around. He knows one glimpse of that ridiculous pout and he’ll cave.
Not tonight. Not when he’s leaving so soon. He can’t keep going on like this.
______
“What happened to your Ultraman marathon with Oikawa?”
Matsukawa Issei isn’t one for meddling. Truly, half the time, he doesn’t even like dealing with his own glaring issues. But after Iwaizumi’s fifth sharp exhale directed at his ramen like it’s committed a personal offense, Issei finally breaks.
“Didn’t feel like it,” Iwaizumi answers.
“Why not?”
“I just… didn’t wanna.”
Issei wisely doesn’t argue. Without Oikawa and Hanamaki around to draw the lightning, he has no interest in being struck by Iwaizumi’s temper.
“Did you tell him that?”
“I told him he could eat his stupid bentos by himself if he wanted.”
“So this is about the #LastDaytoFeedOikawa-san?”
“The what?”
“The first-years’ project to cook him actual food one last time, because they think he lives off milk bread and sukonbu. Isn’t that why you’re here eating instant ramen with me instead of doing… whatever it is you two usually do on Fridays?”
Iwaizumi snorts. “Glad I’m not the only one who calls him out on his garbage diet. Not that I really care.”
“I think you care just as much as they do,” Issei says mildly. “If not more.”
A beat stretches. The color that creeps over Hajime’s ears could be anger or embarrassment. Issei quietly shifts his chair back a few inches, just in case.
“He’s acting weird lately. Clingier. He’s more annoying than usual,” Iwaizumi finally mutters, jaw tight.
Which, coming from him, is a surprise. He isn’t the type to open up easily.
“I mean, he leaves for Argentina in a two weeks. Maybe he’s just being prematurely nostalgic? He’s been — well — more… with me too. With everyone.” Issei says.
“I can’t stand it. He’s acting like he’s on his deathbed and every little thing we do together is the last time ever.” Iwaizumi stabs his chopsticks skyward like he’s accusing the gods themselves of inflicting such an idiot on him.
Since the Spring Tournament loss, Oikawa has reached a brand-new level of unbearable. Every word is another reminder that he’s leaving, constantly replaying the highlights of their friendship:
“Iwa-chan, remember when I climbed that tree to prove I wasn’t scared, and then I couldn’t get down, and your mom had to call the firefighters?”
“Iwa-chan, remember when we went to the onsen and you almost drowned me because I said you looked like a boiled lobster?”
“Iwa-chan, remember when I tried on my sister’s uniform and you spilled strawberry milk on it, and then we panicked so bad we pretended a pervert broke in and stole all her clothes?”
And the real torture isn’t even Oikawa’s dramatics, it’s Hajime’s own heart, dredging up the memory of that gap-toothed five-year-old and pasting it over the face of the man who’s about to leave. Affection curls in his chest into something bigger, something dangerous, which is why his reactions turn harsher. Better anger than honesty. Better anything than admitting how badly Iwaizumi is going to miss him.
He hates how Oikawa treats their friendship like it’s already over.
“God, this loser is going to bawl his eyes out on the day he leaves, isn’t he?”
Issei catches the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth twitch upward, just slightly. Like the thought of Oikawa crying is the only thing capable of tugging that specific smile out of him.
Great. Looks like he’s going to have to meddle, after all.
“I mean, that’s the plan,” Issei says evenly.
“What is?” Iwaizumi blinks.
“Making him cry. Didn’t you see Hanamaki’s texts? We’re all pretending we can’t make it to his farewell party. Then we ambush him at his sister’s place.”
Iwaizumi stares at him, baffled, though to be fair, he tends to ignore the group chat dedicated to clowning on their captain. (He definitely doesn’t know about the second chat, the one dedicated to clowning on both their captain and vice-captain.)
“Even the first-years? Because he won’t let himself cry in front of them.”
“That’s what I said but Hanamaki made some good points. He’s been sentimental as hell for weeks. Imagine him sulking because no one showed up, panicking that even his Iwa-chan didn’t show up. Then bam– we roll in with the big present. He’ll crack like an egg.”
Iwaizumi’s nose wrinkles, but he eventually gives a reluctant nod. “Might work. Idiot’s been way too sentimental lately. He probably needs this.”
(Not that Iwaizumi wants to see Oikawa cry again, god knows he’s had enough of those tears to last a lifetime. No, it should serve as a reminder to him that this isn’t the end. They’ll still call. Iwaizumi will still visit when it’s his turn to go abroad for his bachelor’s. Oikawa needs to understand that he isn’t getting rid of him that easily.
Yeah, that is a great plan, actually.)
Issei looks at Iwaizumi and sighs, resigned to pulling more strings for the sake of love. Hanamaki would be proud of him, probably.
“By the way, Iwaizumi, did I mention that my sister works at Sendai Attraction Park?”
______
Oikawa Tooru has a plan. Half a dozen of them, technically, all stitched together into a master strategy whose major steps can be summed up in six neat points:
- Confess to Iwaizumi Hajime.
- Fly to Argentina and join the professional volleyball league.
- Come back to kick Ushijima Wakatoshi’s and Kageyama Tobio’s butts.
- Win everything.
- Beat everyone.
- Prove himself worthy of being Iwaizumi Hajime’s partner in life, and mutually profess eternal love until death do them part.
Simple, really. The only issue is that Tooru has procrastinated the first step so thoroughly that he now finds himself less than a week away from boarding a plane to Argentina, still tragically single, and still hiding his feelings from his best friend. Not for lack of trying, but the truth is: Iwaizumi Hajime is like a walking tangle of barbed wire. Impenetrable. Unyielding. Terrifying. And Tooru isn’t sure he has the strength to hold that siege much longer.
All his attempts at flirting have ended in humiliating failures. And despite what one Ushijima Wakatoshi might believe, Tooru isn’t in the habit of losing. Not in volleyball, and certainly not in romance, where his charm and good looks have always compensated for whatever shortcomings he might otherwise have.
No, Tooru isn’t one to admit defeat. Not without giving it everything. And this time, his plan is flawless.
“By the way, Iwa-chan, are you still free this Saturday?”
Step one: create a romantic atmosphere. He’s pretty pleased with himself for snagging two tickets to the grand opening of the Godzilla Village in Sendai’s theme park. He and the Iwaizumis went there almost every summer as kids, and every year Hajime begged for a Godzilla plushie. What could be more romantic than a trip down memory lane, wrapped neatly in the excuse of a casual outing? A date he could easily pass off as a friendly hang-out, if it blew up in his face... Yeah, turns out he is a genius.
“Still? I didn’t know we had plans,” Hajime mutters, eyes glued to his phone, and Tooru stops dead in his tracks.
“Huh? I asked you last week after practice if you were free this Saturday, remember?”
Hajime arches a brow his way. “Oh, right. I thought you meant movie night? I’ve got plans during the day.”
“Since when do we need to verbally confirm movie night?” Tooru splutters. “And what could possibly be more important than your best friend, who is leaving the country in less than a week?!”
“Matsukawa got two tickets for the Godzilla park opening from his sister. I thought you knew?”
What the fuck, Mattsun.
“I didn’t,” he says through gritted teeth, working very hard not to snap. It’s fine, not like Hajime was about to run off on a family trip to Guam. Same destination, still salvageable.
“Well, surprise ruined, but I also got us tickets to the Godzilla park opening. Couldn’t you just tell Mattsun to take someone else?”
He throws in his best puppy-eyes-and-pout combo, both as camouflage and as last-ditch panic defense.
Hajime looks faintly surprised, but mercifully oblivious as he turns back to his phone, mildly annoyed.
“Then let’s just invite Hanamaki too, go all four of us.”
Why on earth would they bring Makki on their first date?!
“Uh. Yeah. We could, but. You know. He might be busy,” Tooru stutters, brain still rebooting.
“Right, Hanamaki. Such a busy guy,” Hajime deadpans.
Tooru reels in silence as Hajime continues texting, riding the tailspin of the world’s worst emotional rollercoaster. He tries, and fails, to convince himself this can still count as a double date. Surely there’ll be a moment in the day when it’s just the two of them, and he can finally–
“Hanamaki’s in,” Hajime reports, smirking at his phone. “Said he cleared his tight schedule just for us.”
Oh god. Hajime doesn’t even realize this is meant to be a date, does he? He probably thinks it’s just another group hang, like they usually do after practice. And now Makki and Mattsun are going to be witnesses to his total, public humiliation when they see how much effort he put into this. Tooru is this close to faking food poisoning, scrapping the whole thing, packing his bags, and drowning his sorrows in volleyball and cheap liquor on the other side of the world while Hajime slowly forgets his face. Maybe Hajime will get a cute girlfriend and send Tooru one of those tacky digital wedding invites that explode into a hundred little pink volleyballs.
God, Tooru has always wanted to try the cute digital volleyball-themed invites.
But. This trip might be his last chance. He leaves in a few days, and there’s still so much to do before he goes. He can’t even organize a proper farewell party with his team. Only Yahaba and Yudacchi have confirmed their presence. Kindaichi apologized a thousand times for having to miss it, the rest still haven’t even replied.
(It’s as if no one cares, as if they’re all in denial. He keeps bringing up – admittedly, not very subtly – that he’s leaving soon. Keeps dredging up all the moments they shared together, and all he gets back are blank stares, vague answers, sometimes even annoyed sighs. Mostly from Hajime, sure, but the others aren’t much better.
Sometimes he wonders if he hallucinated all those tears after they lost to Karasuno. If he dreamed the trust they had in each other. Have it all been in the spur of the moment? Did no one care anymore? But no, he’s just being dramatic).
I’m going to make them cry before I leave, Tooru thinks, grimly determined. I’ll throw such an incredible farewell party they’ll beg me to stay.
But before that, he has to plan the best double-date of his life, and finally confess to his best friend.