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At first it's–
Well, it's not easy. Nothing about this is easy, but it's doable. The time difference aside, being more than a few hours away from each other was like missing a limb. Hajime wakes up and checks his phone, seeing that Oikawa has been up and out. It's only a four hour time difference, but the gap is so much larger than just seconds, minutes, hours. He huffs a laugh despite himself at the:
lazybones iwa chan!!! ive been up for hours already!! ( ｀Д´)/
And various pictures along his morning jog. San Juan is beautiful. So is he.
They schedule calls between Oikawa's practice and Hajime's classes. They last long, long into the night until Hajime yells at him for staying up so late. He needs to take care of himself! Or he'll kill him.
“It's because I don't have you here, Iwa-chan!” he chirps. It sits heavy in Hajime's chest the moment he says it. “At least none of my nice, nice teammates hit me like you do!”
Did. Do. Did.
He can see that exact train of words pass through Oikawa's mind in the seconds after. In the way he furrows his brow. Hajime thinks about the night before Oikawa left for Argentina, the two of them sitting on his floor in an empty room. He'd never seen it so bare. They'd curled up together like they had as kids, slotted perfectly together like puzzle pieces. Their breaths slowed together in sync as they fell asleep.
Hajime's hand closes into a fist off-camera.
“I–”
The words catch in his throat. He can never say them. If he does, he knows (hopes) (wants) (believes) in his heart Oikawa will turn around and come back home.
I wish you'd never left home. Left me.
“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, leaning forward to check the call. “Are you frozen?”
“I miss you,” Hajime croaks in response. At first, he thought his microphone hadn't even picked up the sound. And then he sees the way Oikawa's face falls, his carefully constructed facade shattering like glass, as if Hajime had landed a spike right through his chest.
“I miss you too, Iwa-chan.”
—
The calls become less frequent.
‘Life happens’ is a phrase he's picked up from his American classmates. It's become his go-to response whenever they have to reschedule a call together, or even with the team.
Days. Weeks. One terrible, awful, time an entire month.
A selfie of Oikawa and Hinata on the beach. A return betrayal of Ushijima and him near the UCI campus.
Another month.
Two.
Time begins to blur between their calls. Dead silence during finals for both.
And then–
“I'm returning to Japan in a couple weeks.”
Oikawa blinks. Hajime can see the way he twitched, the way he forgot that he wouldn't be there to welcome him back because he'd still be in San Juan, the almost-excitement that passes across his face. The light in his eyes brightens and fades within a second.
“Good for you, Iwa-chan!” he sings. Hajime's stomach turns at the tone. “You've become even more brutish since you went to America. You need to be humbled again.”
“Won’t be the same without–” He clenches his teeth so hard his temples pang. “Your annoying ass whining at me. I’ll be glad to get some time with the boys with peace and quiet for once.”
“Geh!” Oikawa huffs. “Mattsun and Makki are not peaceful or quiet!”
Hajime laughs. Their banter is still easy, still a rushing river of insults echoed by a babbling brook of laughter. He gets lost in it so quickly that he, himself, forgets that Oikawa won’t be there at the airport alongside them. Their quartet is one performer shy– missing their conductor. On the other side of the screen, Oikawa’s eyes soften into a gooey caramel brown. Hajime leans forward despite himself, willing the pixels of his laptop to multiply into infinity until he can see every individual pore on his face again. Close enough to see the crease of his eyes when he smiles, really smiles. Close enough to rub his thumb against the apple of his cheek.
Hajime repeats the motion on his own hand, unseen and unacknowledged.
“Tell them ‘hi’ for me, okay?” Oikawa says. Hajime nods. He wonders why Oikawa can’t just say it himself, why he can’t just call him and hear his offended shriek through layers of poor reception.
When he’s standing in the airport two weeks later, jetlagged and being held up on one side by Matsukawa, his phone goes to voicemail. Twice.
“The fucker says hi,” Hajime grumbles before going ragdoll limp and taking all three of them to the ground with his dead weight.
—
He’s a few too many drinks in, and all his former kohai have gone home, and Oikawa had called him at three am the night before sounding distraught at best about the team’s most recent loss and his fear of replacement rearing its ugly head.
And Hanamaki and Matsukawa are here.
And Oikawa is not.
His head is dangerously close to hitting the table, which he only notices when his forehead suddenly is resting against Hanamaki’s cool hand instead of the polished wood.
“It's okay,” Matsukawa's deep timbre rumbles by his side. Hanamaki's hand moves and settles gently on his shoulder blade. “It's okay.”
Hajime opens his mouth. Closes it. He’s never said these words out loud, never allowed himself to do more than think passively about them. About him. The feeling wells up in his chest like bile. He takes a shuddering breath in and chokes out, voice breaking on tears:
“Selfish bastard!”
He swipes at his eyes furiously, embarrassed and ashamed. And yet–
“I wish he had never left. That stupid, reckless–!”
Hanamaki is rubbing little circles into his arm while he nearly chokes on his beer. Matsukawa pointedly moves the glass away from him.
“Sometimes,” Hajime mumbles through his hands, unable to face them. “I wish he hadn’t been scouted at all. Sometimes I hope he loses enough that he comes back here, back home.”
The other two say nothing. Anxiety tears at Hajime’s throat. A rock settles in his gut. He doesn’t mean it. How could he say something so terrible? So selfish and mean?
“I mean–”
“We miss him too.”
Hajime tilts his head, cheek pressed into the sticky table below, and meets Hanamaki’s eyes. Matsukawa flips his phone over, frowns, and then sets it back down again. There’s a sorrow in the former’s eyes and an anger in the latter’s that Hajime hasn’t seen since high school. There’s an undercurrent flowing between them.
We were supposed to do this together, weren’t we?
Hajime signals for the check. The boys walk him home. It’s 2pm in Argentina, and Oikawa has sent him a text thanking him for the call.
Idiot, Hajime thinks as his vision goes blurry as he pitches sideways into bed. You never need to thank me for that.
—
He's sitting at his desk, and his phone is open and untouched long enough that the screen goes dark. Oikawa's face disappears into the blackness and Hajime is left staring at his own reflection. He looks tired.
He opens his phone again. Stares at their text thread (last used three weeks ago). Hovers his thumb over the keyboard. The little line flashes on and off and on and off and on and off. His phone falls asleep. His own eyes stare back.
Every time he thinks of reaching out, some unknown force within his mind stops him. His entire body freezes, his brain blanks on what to say. Silence used to be comfortable, calls used to last hours. Now, he can't fathom a way to begin a conversation with the man he's known and loved his entire life. He tries a weak attempt at anything.
Congrats on the win against
Backspace.
Your jump serve is still a killer, but you knew t
Backspace.
Do you ever think of me when you set to your new teammates? I think of you when I help a patient with a knee injury. I think about if someone is there making sure you don't push yourself. I think about the way my palm catches your tosses in a spike. I think ab
Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.
He sets his phone down on his desk, face down, and ignores the tightness in his chest. He can try again tomorrow. Maybe.
—
The Olympics are in Japan, finally, and Hajime is staring at Argentina’s number 13 setter Oikawa Tooru, back on Japanese soil for the first time in years. He walks into the stadium like a king, head held high, leading the team with a pride that overwhelms the room. It is his dream realized, both of their dreams realized, and Hajime can’t help the smile that breaks like a crashing wave onto his face.
Hajime drives him to the airport later, separate from the team. Oikawa falls asleep against the window, mousy brown hair fluffed and mouth slightly open. Hajime grips the wheel tighter to avoid reaching over and touching him, selfishly hoping to wake him up so they can have just another hour to talk, to be with each other. This, he rationalizes, is also being with each other as his insides turn gooey when Oikawa’s head bobs forward in his sleep.
Hajime walks him as far as airport security will let him, and they both break as soon as Oikawa’s gate number is called. They cling to each other so tight that Hajime can hear the weak little sound he squeezes out from the other man like a boa constrictor. He can feel every breath rising and falling against his own chest, his hands warm and solid against Oikawa’s back, unmoving. Branding him. Oikawa tucks his nose into Hajime’s shoulder, breathing him in.
“Welcome home,” Hajime whispers against his neck. And Oikawa–
Laughs.
Breathy, light, hollow. Like it's an inside joke. Because Japan isn't his home anymore.
Hajime isn't his home anymore.
A chasm opens up in his chest and crumbles into his stomach, an empty pit of longing and absence he cannot fill. He grips Oikawa's shirt tighter with hands that refuse to shake, have never shaken. The warmth of their bodies against each other through layers of fabric brings him no comfort like it used to. He realizes with a dawning horror that he's forgotten how Oikawa feels in his arms, forgotten how to slot their arms around each other and fit their bodies together as they used to. They've outgrown each other.
Hajime pulls away first. As he always has. As he always will. Pushing Oikawa ever forward. Away from him. When his arm drops off of Oikawa’s shoulder, it is quickly followed by a hand encircling his wrist. Tight.
“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” Oikawa says, eyes boring into him with an intense sincerity. “I promise.”
Hajime feels thorns growing in his lungs. Oikawa’s fingers slide down his wrist and interlock with his own, his brow furrowed and lips downturned into a pout.
“I’ll call when I land,” he says. “And you will pick up.”
Hajime snorts. Ever the commander. And who is he but to follow?
“Bossy.”
Oikawa sticks his tongue out. Hajime nearly kisses him.
Instead, he watches his heart disappear through the gate and fly far, far away. Again.
“Hey!” he shouts, right as Oikawa's about to pass out of view. “We're gonna win next time!”
Next time.
Oikawa smirks, the kind that crinkles one eye shut more than the other. He holds his fist out, already miles and miles away. Hajime returns it. It’s all he can do.