Work Text:
Iwaizumi doesn’t get to mourn Japan’s loss like the rest.
He gets to stuff it all down, pack it up, and be the team’s steel core. He gets to walk into their solemn locker room like it’s any other day and deliver a pep talk; clap his old classmates on the back before he departs, leaving them to do the rest of the emotional labor among colleagues and friends. He doesn’t get to mourn.
Iwaizumi used to doing that—the compartmentalization and the hardening of his heart for the sake of others. He’s not self-sacrificing by any means, but Hajime Iwaizumi is a man capable of enduring more baggage than the average person. He knows how to play second fiddle. It’s what makes him a good leader.
But he has to draw the line somewhere.
He almost breaks when he attends the Olympic volleyball finals: Argentina versus France.
Strange as it would be for him not to attend, Iwaizumi had thought about skipping it. He thought about taking the day to himself; watching the match from a bar corner where he could swear and gripe and be as belligerent as his heart desired. But his feet carry him to the sports complex all the same and he finds a seat waiting for him between Aran and Ushijima in the high bleachers. The lights are bright and the energy is high; the teams have already entered the court for warm-ups.
Iwaizumi spots Oikawa without trying. He tells himself it's the mismatched kneepads that draw his eyes in that direction, not his pretty chestnut hair or his familiar gait. Not even his smug, self-satisfied air.
But that’s a lie.
Iwaizumi could recognize Oikawa from the sound of his palm smacking a volleyball.
He looks good. Standing tall and handsome, smiling and waving at the pockets of adoring fans in the crowd. That kind of charm is disarming, especially to the players on the other side of the net who just see a prettyboy. But Oikawa is focused. He bounces a ball off the glossy floor and an invisible earthquake shakes Iwaizumi’s bones. Oikawa’s eyes slide across the court, waves of threat pulsing off his skin. He rides the edge of a knife, savors the cut he had yearned for since their youth—since those endless nights of watching plays on loop like a psychopath.
He’s insane, Iwaizumi thinks to himself. No one knows how insane he is.
Iwaizumi glances sideways, to Ushijima who is stoic and relaxed. A few seats down, Kageyama’s arms are crossed and his leg bounces restlessly, heel striking the concrete with more force than he realizes.
No one except him, maybe.
A tanned hand rests on Kageyama’s knee: Hinata Shouyou. The partners check in with knowing, meaningful looks and the tension in Kageyama’s shoulders changes. His leg calms. The intimacy makes Iwaizumi’s chest tighten. It makes him uncomfortable.
The match brings Iwaizumi to the edge of his seat. Heart-pounding and hard fought, the seemingly neverending onslaught of spikes and sets have the Team Japan row riled up. Iwaizumi told himself he wouldn’t cheer for a particular side, but twenty years of his body and heart knowing Oikawa Tooru outweighs his common sense. He watches his old best friend’s every move; knows when he’s biding his time and when he’s going for a strike. Silently, Iwaizumi coaches him from the bleachers:
Pull back, pull back.
Keep the momentum, keep it up.
Smash it.
As if he could hear Iwaizumi’s thoughts, Oikawa executes a perfectly timed setter dump and sends the whole arena in an uproar. Oikawa throws a cheeky peace sign and one of the frustrated French blockers has to be held back by his teammates. A referee warns Oikawa about unsportsmanlike behavior.
Iwaizumi catches himself smiling as France calls for a timeout.
But nostalgia is where he draws the line.
He excuses himself from his seat and retreats into the wide hallways that loop the arena mainstage. He’ll leave. Yes, he’ll leave and check the score when the game is said and done. But just as he spots the exit stairs, there’s Oikawa Tooru—his big old head plastered on the big video screen in the hallway. Expression focused as the Argentinian coach speaks directly to him.
God he’s pretty.
Those long eyelashes, button nose, that perfect cupid’s bow—it makes Iwaizumi sick. It makes him so nauseous he wants to huck his program at the screen. Oikawa smiles and all those summers of being inseparable come back to Iwazumi in a rush. Summers of one-on-one volleys amidst the scream of cicadas and bottles of Pocari sweat. Then, school years of high emotions and drama; long nights in their high school gymnasium that Iwaizumi forcefully cut short so that Oikawa could get a reasonable amount of sleep.
Then, there was Argentina.
He’s got some nerve, Iwaizumi thinks to himself, even showing his face after what he did.
Iwaizumi watches the rest of the match from the hallway, terrorizing the ushers posted near the doorways with his intense energy and incessant pacing. No matter what his brain tells him, he can’t get himself to leave. Oikawa draws him back in again and again. Until, suddenly, the match is over.
Argentina wins the gold.
Gold.
Iwaizumi eyes water. He bites his quivering lip and swallows down a dozen emotions, all more complicated and conflicted than the next. But as Oikawa bows to his opponents, curls drenched in sweat and pupils dilated, Iwaizumi’s only thought is:
You did it, Shittykawa. You actually did it.
There’s nothing more for him to see after that. Inevitably, Oikawa Tooru’s stupid face will be plastered on every newspaper, every website, every goddamn electric billboard in Shibuya, and he will be inescapable. He may be part of Team Argentina, but Oikawa is still one of Japan’s own.
Iwaizumi retreats while he still can.
◈ ◈ ◈
Several days later—after the closing ceremonies and the press conferences—Iwaizumi is packed and ready to leave the Olympic village; ready to go home to Sendai and visit his folks for a little while before returning to training. He sits alone at his hotel’s lobby bar, luggage beside him and a half finished pint of beer in hand. On the screen above, a newscaster talks about the weather. Iwaizumi doesn’t drink often, but it’s the first afternoon of stillness he’s had in weeks. He deserves a drink before going out into the muggy July heat.
Someone approaches, sitting in the seat next to him without permission and placing a nondescript folder atop the bar.
“Hello, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi feels ambushed to say the least.
Oikawa looks like a celebrity. Pressed tan slacks, pristine designer sneakers, with a linen shirt half unbuttoned, perhaps one too many for modesty’s sake. Can the cut of a collarbone be slutty? Iwaizumi thinks it can. A gold chain on his wrist glints in the lobby’s daylight and the round sunglasses perched on his perfect nose look more expensive than his entire ensemble combined. He does Iwaizumi the courtesy of removing said sunglasses, placing them in the pocket of his shirt.
He’s trying very hard to impress.
“You haven’t been answering my texts,” he says, calm and casual. Like he’s fully in control of the situation. Which he is. Internally, Iwaizumi is scrambling for purchase. Outwardly, he stays cool.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should take the hint.”
Oikawa cracks a smile and heat creeps up Iwaizumi’s neck. He’s so hot, it’s borderline ridiculous. The bartender approaches, unknowing of the situation she’s just walked into.
“What can I get you?” she asks Oikawa.
“A chardonnay please,” he says, in a voice as saccharine as syrup, “And put what he’s having on my tab.”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes as the barkeep walks away. “Chardonnay? Since when?”
“A lot has changed since we saw each other last, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa settles back into the tall bar stool. “People can change.”
“Sure,” Iwaizumi agrees, acidically. He takes a sip of his beer, keeping his eyes on the television screen but paying attention to none of the programming. “Well, you’ve cornered me. What do you want?”
Oikawa’s poise falters. Clearly, he hadn’t expected such an icy reception. The bartender returns with a glass of wine and Oikawa only speaks again when she’s out of earshot.
“Did you watch the match yesterday?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’d you think?”
“I think you placed gold. What does it matter what I think?”
“It matters to me.”
Iwaizumi scoffs into his glass. “Since when did my opinions or feelings on anything matter to you?”
Oikawa crosses his arms. “It took a lot of courage to come find you. The least you can do is not be a dick.”
Iwaizumi ticks his jaw.
“Your digs were sloppy and you had crap posture in the last set,” Iwaizumi cuts. He faces Oikawa, points to the corners of his own eyes and his mouth. “And you’re getting wrinkles, here and here.”
“You’re so mean, Iwa-chan!”
Oikawa’s fake pouting takes him back to their days of aquamarine and white. Back when their worries boiled down to Shiratorizawa and Oikawa’s occasional bad knee days. Now—Iwaizumi eyes the folder on the countertop—their problems are on a global scale.
“What is that?” he asks.
Oikawa places a hand on the folder. He hesitates.
“If you’re trying to bribe me with a slot in Argentina, forget it. I—”
He opens the folder:
‘Acuerdo de Divorcio’
Iwaizumi knows enough Spanish to understand.
He blinks. He laughs, ruefully. Then, he brings his glass to his lips to finish his ale. He’s going to need a little buzz to keep him from flying out of his stool and strangling the man next to him.
“What’s so funny?” Oikawa asks.
“You. You’re hysterical,” Iwaizumi says, pushing his empty glass away. He stands and gathers his belongings. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Wha–Iwa-chan!”
He leaves Oikawa in the dust, grabbing his suitcase with enough force to rip the handle from the body. Iwaizumi stalks through the lobby, out through the sliding glass doors, and into the summer swelter. The sidewalk is dotted with athletes and Olympic officials—but Iwaizumi doesn’t have trouble hailing a waiting taxi. He doesn’t pride himself on being a coward, but he refuses to let their reunion happen on Oikawa’s terms.
The vehicle rolls up to the curb. The driver takes his suitcase, puts it in the trunk, and Iwaizumi slides into the back seat.
“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa calls, jogging out of the hotel.
He still has the folder in his hand as he reaches for the taxi door handle. Iwaizumi slams the lock with a fist and adds insult to injury by pulling his lower eyelid down with a finger and sticking out his tongue. Oikawa’s face makes an affronted expression he hasn’t seen since their high school days. A few bystanders point and whisper to one another; either surprised by two adults acting like children, or recognizing Gold Medalist Oikawa Tooru.
“Shimbashi Station, please. And step on it,” Iwaizumi tells the driver.
Oikawa moves fast—of course, he’s fast—dashing around the taxi’s tail to the other side. Iwaizumi doesn’t hit the lock swift enough and Oikawa flings the backseat door open. He jumps inside just as the car starts to move and, shocked by the sudden interloper, the driver slams on the brake. Oikawa’s face smashes into the back of the headrest.
“HA!” Iwaizumi barks.
Oikawa recovers his cool and smiles at the driver. “Excuse me, so sorry, Mr. Taxi-man–!”
The driver gawks. “Is he with you?”
“No.”
“Yes!” Oikawa says. “Yes, I’m his husband.”
The nerve.
The absolute gall.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Iwaizumi not to take Oikawa out then and there.
Six months ago, Iwaizumi visited Oikawa in Buenos Aires for the third time.
They were supposed to just stay in Buenos Aires, spend time training, and maybe do a weekend trip to Córdoba if they were feeling adventurous. There was so much to catch up on after all… physically, at least. Any time spent doing other things would have taken away from that singularly important desire of two strapping twenty-somethings in a secret, long distance relationship.
Instead, Oikawa Tooru woke up one morning craving chaos.
“Would you follow me to the end of the world, Iwa-chan?” he asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. To the end of the world.”
He insisted they pack their bags, buy winter jackets, and venture into Patagonia. No plan, no reservations, no know how. Iwazumi griped. He hummed and hawed. He listed all the reasons not to go; tried to convince him that neither of them were outdoorsmen and one of them would likely fall off the edge of a glacier if they tried.
But what Oikawa wants, Oikawa gets.
A day later, they boarded a bus southward, setting out on an ill-planned backpacking trip through the South American frontier. Iwaizumi was sure they would turn back within days, anyway. Oikawa was not a man made for roughing it.
Somewhere along that road—between the bickering and the wind swept tents and the empanadas filled with boiled eggs—they fell in love twice over. They splurged for some luxury two weeks later, boarding a cruise in Punta Arenas to keep that feeling afloat.
And as Iwaizumi gazed out at glacier as old as time from the balcony of their room, a deep sentimentality filled his head and thoughtlessly spilled through his lips:
“It’s a great privilege,” he said, “To be seeing the world with my best friend.”
He’d never seen Oikawa’s eyes shine like that.
Drunk on cheap all-inclusive wine, they were married the next day by the ship’s captain the moment they crossed the Argentinian border going toward Ushuaia—to the end of the world. No rings, no family, no reason. It’s the most insane thing Iwaizumi has ever done in his life.
What is even more insane:
Oikawa backpedaled the very next day, pretending the whole affair had been a drunken escapade. If Iwaizumi hadn’t been in such a state of shock, he might have been able to calm Oikawa down. Instead, the trip swiftly ended—flat and mildly traumatizing—and Iwaizumi returned to Japan to focus on the national team without so much as a kiss goodbye from his supposed husband.
And they never told a soul.
“You—I—What—” Iwaizumi sputters, “Husband—!”
Oikawa closes the door and buckles himself in, fluttering his eyelashes with a pert, self-satisfied grin. “Yes, husband.”
“I oughta—”
The taxi driver lifts his hands from the steering wheel, “Look I don’t wanna be in the middle of some domestic dispute—”
Iwaizumi breathes fire. “It’s not domestic! We’re not husbands! Shimbashi Station, please! And you—get out!”
“No, not until you sign this.”
“Get wrecked.”
“Why are you making this so difficult?”
“You brought this on yourself, Shittykawa.”
The driver interjects, “Seriously, I don’t want any trouble—”
In sync, Oikawa and Iwaizumi turn on him:
“Shimbashi Station!”
The innocent man shrinks, removes the parking brake, and slowly drives out of the roundabout in front of the hotel. The station isn’t far. Iwaizumi will be rid of Oikawa then. He wouldn’t possibly have the guts to follow him onto a train going all the way to Sendai.
Iwaizumi crosses his arms. “Why the hell are you doing this now?”
Oikawa dons his sunglasses. “This is what we should have done. It’s what you want.”
“How would you know what I want?”
“I know you, Iwa-chan. I know what you want.”
Iwaizumi swallows the lump in his throat.
“At one point you used to. Not anymore.”
Oikawa crosses his arms. “You’ve changed that much?”
“Half a year of singlehood changes a man.”
They never really broke up. Not officially, anyway. The insinuation that Iwaizumi has moved on upsets Oikawa immediately. He doesn’t betray much in his expression, but the sharp intake through his nose is telling.
“If that’s the case, you won’t have any problem signing this,” he says.
“You’re such an asshole. You think this is gonna absolve you? Sweep the problem under the rug?” A lightbulb of an idea stops him. “Oh. Oh, I get it.”
The shadow of Oikawa’s eyes widens behind dark lenses. “What?”
“This is damage control.”
“Iwa-chan—”
Finally, Iwaizumi feels like he has the upper hand. He dives headfirst.
“Did you finally come clean to your PR team? They must be falling over themselves over the scandal. Ohh, what will all your corporate sponsors think? How many dollar signs are you gonna miss out on because you had a shotgun wedding to a man on a boat in international waters? Can’t really spin Japanese hometown hero with a story like that—”
“You’re being mean.”
“No, I’m right.”
The taxi pulls up to the train station. The driver can’t get out of the cab to get Iwaizumi’s luggage fast enough.
“I’m trying to—Trying to fix things,” Oikawa fumbles, “We can—we can do it over. We can—”
“You abandoned me in a foreign country,” Iwaizumi seethes. The door next to him opens. “The fact that I’m even talking to you is more than you deserve.”
He slams the car door in Oikawa’s face and takes his suitcase from the driver. Oikawa gets out just in time for Iwaizumi to jerk his head sideways and say, “My husband will pay you.”
“What—! Ugh—!”
Making Oikawa Tooru pay for his things is the most fun Iwaizumi Hajime has had in a long time. Marriage has its perks.
The open thoroughfare in front of Shimbashi Station is busy with salarymen, tourists, and locals alike during peak hours. Iwaizumi crosses the sunny plaza, wheels of his suitcase clunkily tumbling over the uneven masonry. Up the stairs, underneath a light blue archway (a familiar, haunting color considering the circumstances), and through the ticket gate is his sanctuary.
Oikawa must have thrown cash at the driver because he catches up to Iwaizumi only seconds later.
“I’m sorry!” he says, trailing behind and making an absolute scene. People stare. “I’m sorry! Is that what you want to hear?”
Iwaizumi keeps his eyes trained forward. “Not like that. Not insincere and placating."
Oikawa tears at his chestnut locks. He’s really out of his element. “I freaked out okay? What else is there to say? I got a call from Coach telling me to get my ass back for training! He was so pissed I just up and disappeared on him!”
“That’s a you problem, Oikawa.”
“It—It wasn’t like it was serious. We just did it as a joke!”
Iwaizumi freezes in the middle of the square, a white knuckle grip on his suitcase handle.
“A joke?”
Oikawa clams up.
Iwaizumi turns slowly, vitriol in the turn of his mouth. He stalks Oikawa, pushing into his personal space with an aura of threat. He makes the mistake of glancing at the setter’s perfect lips and what leaves his mouth next surprises even him.
“I don’t recall you laughing when I folded you in half in our cabin that night.”
Oikawa’s face glows cherry red.
“Iwa-chan!”
Satisfied, he turns on his heel.
You want something from me, Shittykawa? Come and get it.
Iwaizumi taps his phone at the ticket gate, having already purchased his passage home, and walks through, leaving Oikawa on the other side of the barrier. He looks back and gives his husband a two-fingered salute. Oikawa is already on his phone, presumably scrambling to purchase a ticket.
Iwaizumi heads for his platform, turning a corner, and Oikawa disappears from sight.
He waits a few beats before continuing. With every corner he turns, Iwaizumi checks over his shoulder. He walks slower. He even stops to buy a bento for the trip.
Iwaizumi knew this would happen. He knew he would care about Oikawa and his stupid face the moment they met again. No matter how angry and bitter he was, no matter how much betrayal Iwaizumi felt—Oikawa would worm his way back in and Iwaizumi would want him. He’d fall again, kicking and screaming, but he’d fall.
Which is why it hurts so much when Iwaizumi’s train makes its final call for passengers. He sits at a table by himself, near a window, eyes searching the remnants of a crowd beneath glowing signs on the platform. He must’ve made it too hard, he thinks. Oikawa isn’t used to his wrath anymore.
Maybe he never even made it past the turnstile. Maybe that’s where we are now.
Iwaizumi sends a text to his mother, telling her he’s made it to the train.
Commotion outside the window catches his attention.
Oikawa jogs up to a train conductor, panting like a marathon runner. His palms press together in humility and he bows his head below his shoulders. He smiles wide and says something charming, removing his sunglasses again. The conductor laughs. They chat—it looks like chatting, what the hell could they possibly be talking about? Then, the conductor takes a cellphone from his pocket. Oikawa wraps an arm around the conductor, flashes a peace sign, and they take a picture together.
Iwaizumi grimaces.
Oikawa thanks the conductor and disappears from sight.
The train doors close and… Oikawa walks into the train car, still huffing through his grin. He walks down the aisle, between rows of tittering passengers who undoubtedly recognize him, and sits across from Iwaizumi with a gratified thump!
The train lurches to a start.
“Did you just buy your way onto this train with a selfie?” Iwaizumi asks.
“You bet your ass I did.”
“That’s despicable."
Nevertheless, Iwaizumi is impressed. He settles into his seat.
“This train is going to Sendai,” he reveals, “No stops. You and your team must really want me to sign those divorce papers.”
Oikawa stares, undeterred. He sets the folder on the tabletop. In the vacuum of a quiet train car, the mood is no longer playful, nor amusing. It’s reality. The dry air between them is solemn. A bell dings, followed by an announcement. Then, more silence.
Iwaizumi asks a question that has plagued him for months. “What went through your head? Like, what made you do what you did?”
Oikawa breathes steadily. He shrugs. “...I don’t know. Fear, I guess.”
“Mm. That’s uncharacteristic.”
“I know,” Oikawa nods, “What was it like for you? The morning after?”
Iwaizumi recalls an empty bed. A note. A feeling of dread that he couldn’t shake for weeks.
“Felt like a fucking chump.”
“I’m sorry.” Oikawa is genuine. “I am.”
But the earnestness is too late and Iwaizumi is vindictive.
“I’ve dreamt about this apology,” he reveals, “Wondered if you’d ever have the guts to face me. Now that you’re in front of me…I don’t give a shit about it.”
The city passes by in a whir of gray and blue.
“I’m not signing it.”
Oikawa sighs and places his head in his hands, defeated.
“I spent so many damn years trying to teach you there were consequences to your actions. So here’s a lesson in action: you’re gonna have to fight me in court.”
“What?!” Oikawa gapes, “Do you know how crazy it is to try and navigate a foreign court system?”
“Yep.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Too bad. I’m your husband and it’s going to stay that way.”
“Why are you torturing me like this? Why—Why can’t we be done with it?”
“Because I’m not done with you!” Iwazumi hisses, doing his best not to yell on public transit. No one seems to notice over the whirr of air conditioning. He balls his hands into fists.
Oikawa Tooru makes him wretch. Every perfect hair on his head. Those straight, bright teeth. His easy charisma, his petulance, his selfishness. His crazed, obsessive behavior when it comes to volleyball. The way he giggles like a teenager well into adulthood and acts dim to get what he wants. Fucking disgusting.
But the real kicker… is that Iwaizumi loves all of those things as well. He adores every ounce of Oikawa’s contemptible personhood.
“You—fuck,” Iwaizumi curses, “I wanna hate you so bad. I’ve spent so many wasted hours replaying all the crappy things you’ve done so that I can stop thinking about you. Tried to focus on all the shit parts of your personality; make the memory you ugly. Tried to train myself to hate you. Couldn’t seem to do it. No matter how hard I tried.”
Oikawa stares, a mask. The one he dons when he loses. He picks at his cuticles. Iwaizumi locks in on a gold ring. Left hand—on the setter’s middle finger. It’s small and unassuming, but it’s there and it’s the only ring on either hand.
“You never came after me,” Oikawa says, so small and insecure it doesn’t even sound like himself. “I thought you were going to come after me. Like you always did.”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” Iwaizumi spits.
“Yours used to.”
Iwaizumi reminds himself to breathe; reminds himself that he owes the setter nothing. But he knew where this whole fiasco would end the moment Oikawa Tooru sat next to him at that hotel bar.
He and Oikawa are meant to be. Or something like that. Not like Hinata Shouyou and Kageyama Tobio are meant to be. Not like a freaky, complementary combo destined by the universe. No, Iwaizumi and Oikawa are meant to be like… like the sun rising and setting. Every morning. Every night. Like breathing—no one thinks about breathing. No one wonders if the sun will rise again, it just does. It must.
Iwaizumi tosses a plastic bag onto the table between them. Oikawa watches as he removes a bento and chopsticks. A bottle of Pocari Sweat. Then, two packaged milk breads and a canned coffee. He pushes the latter items across the table, an offering. Oikawa smiles through glistening eyes.
“Eat,” Iwaizumi orders, taking the plastic top off his meal. He breaks his chopsticks apart. “I don’t want you getting weird and hangry during the ride.”
Obediently, Oikawa pops the coffee open and removes the plastic packaging from the bread.
He eyes Iwaizumi’s bento.
“... can I have a bite of the salmon?”
“No.”
“So cruel.”
Wordlessly, Iwaizumi reaches into the bag again. He hands a pleased (but not wholly surprised) Oikawa a pair of chopsticks and moves the meal to the center of the table.
They eat, sharing a bento like they’ve done in the past. Like they’ve done since they were children. It’s like a reset button. A timeout. Oikawa puts up a small fight for the pickled plum out of habit, even though he doesn’t even like them. They eat quietly. It’s not until the view outside the train windows is lush, green countryside and sparse telephone wire poles that they break the silence.
Iwaizumi closes the empty container. “So… do you have it on you?” he asks.
“Have what?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what.”
As if he’d been waiting for this very opportunity, Oikawa reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim leather case the size of his hand. It opens like a clamshell, like a ring box. An Olympic gold medal is larger up close than on the television. It’s vibrant and smooth, unscathed and unscratched. Magnificent. He places it atop the folder.
Iwaizumi whistles. “That’s something.”
“It kind of doesn’t feel real,” Oikawa reveals.
“I can imagine. May I?”
“Sure.”
Iwaizumi gingerly removes the medal from its casing. He holds it like it’s sacred. He turns it over, traces the insignia and etched words with his thumb. The possibility of his own medal one day is… unlikely. This is the closest he will ever get.
“It’s yours, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi blinks.
Oikawa has a calm about him. “I wouldn’t have been on that court today without you. And what’s mine is yours, right? That’s how it works.”
Iwaizumi gazes upon the gold. So. That’s what Oikawa had been waiting for. Something he could hide behind; something to offer Iwaizumi for his absence. A fucking Olympic gold medal as an apology gift. Iwaizumi sets the medallion back in its case and turns the box around so it faces Oikawa. The early evening sun reflects off its face, onto Oikawa’s cheeks like freckles—like stardust.
“No, this is all yours, Tooru. You were insane enough to go as far as you did. It’s all you.”
Oikawa looks down at his prize, eyes aglow.
Iwaizumi sucks in a deep breath. His head is clearer.
“Do you still want me to sign?” he asks.
The answer is immediate and firm:
“No.”
Oikawa shuts the case and pockets it. “The papers aren’t even real, Iwa-chan. I printed them off some random site online.”
Iwaizumi grins. “You crafty sonovabitch.”
Slowly—ever so slowly—Iwaizumi rotates a hand atop the table, reaching halfway across the divide. Oikawa’s deft fingertips meet his, tangling and hooking together. It’s been so long since they’ve touched, just holding hands has Iwaizumi squirming in his seat. Looking in Oikawa’s eyes, he feels like a teenager again. He twists off the ring on Oikawa’s middle finger and slides it onto his ring finger. Oikawa appears charmed.
“I will take something else that's gold though,” Iwaizumi says, “Eventually.”
“I’ll get you something really nice. Something expensive.”
“I don’t need expensive.”
“I like expensive.”
“I know you do. But think about what I would like. For once.”
Oikawa sighs, feigning boredom. “Something utilitarian. And modest.”
Iwaizumi grins. “Good answer.”
The setter’s fingers trace the veins on the inside of Iwaizumi’s wrist, sending shivers down his spine.
“Take me home, Iwa-chan. I want to go home with you.”
“Home, huh? Sounds good to me.”