Archive of Our Own

Tooru reads the interview twice, growing more horrified and irritated by the second, unencumbered by the chia seed pudding he’s spooning into his mouth. He knows he should check the group chat, and the text thread, but he doesn’t want to validate anything right now—honestly, he wants to be mad. He is mad. He’s mad that he had to learn about the interview from someone else in the first place—Ushijima, of all people—and that he found out late ‘cause he missed the complimentary copy the publisher sent, since it got swallowed by international mail. He thought it was only a casual feature on his life in Argentina. He didn’t think they were gonna interview all his high school rivals and teammates, with a special section focused on his high school ace. Most of all, he’s mad that Iwa-chan didn’t even tell him about it.

He dials Iwa-chan’s number instead of reading a third time, and curses when he promptly hits voicemail. It’s 5:30pm in California, Iwa-chan’s probably still working and not ignoring him, but it still drives him fucking crazy, that he isn’t dropping everything to answer Tooru’s call.

He was never like that, Tooru’s brain reminds him. Whatever special treatment you got, it wasn’t that overindulgent kind.

Tooru rinses out his bowl and brushes his teeth and does some stretches. He’s only mildly appeased when the text comes in fifteen minutes later: At work. Will text when done.

Now he can’t help looking at the last solo messages they exchanged. Four months ago. Four. Had it really been so long?

It’s two hours later and nearing midnight when the next text comes.

What’s up?

He doesn’t bother replying and calls again instead, disposing of his face mask and patting leftover essence into his cheeks while the phone rings—he’s calmed down since earlier, but his irritation is returning at this nonchalance.

It takes a second too long and he thinks maybe Iwa-chan won’t answer again, might say Can you text instead or Busy or some other inane excuse, but before he can hang up and call Makki to vent (it’s always Makki, ‘cause he doesn’t have normal work hours), the call connects.

“Hey,” Iwa-chan says.

Something screaming in Tooru’s heart screeches to a halt. He momentarily can’t think what to say, isn’t sure what language to even use—he hasn’t spoken Japanese all day, maybe not even in the last four days.

He knows he takes too long when Iwa-chan says, carefully, “Oikawa?”

He finds his voice. “What the hell do you mean we don’t talk anymore?”

Iwa-chan sighs. Tooru hears the ding of a microwave, the suction-y sound of one opening and closing. He wonders what Iwa-chan is eating, what his current apartment looks like. He listens to a spoon scrape against a bowl, and then: “I don’t think that’s what I said exactly.”

“You literally said it. Outside of our group chat, not really. We sometimes discuss things related to training.” He pauses. There’s something weird going on with his eyes, like maybe, oh, the onset of angry tears? He’s not sure. He’s not even sure why he’s so angry. Maybe Iwa-chan knows, ‘cause he always knows, or maybe he doesn’t give a shit anymore, ‘cause apparently they’re strangers, and he was totally fine saying that to a national fucking volleyball magazine that finally wanted to do a feature on Tooru. Maybe it’s not too late to call Kuroo and see what strings he can pull to burn all the issues.

He hears the spoon against the bowl again. “Are you having dinner right now? What the hell are you eating?”

“Calm down,” Iwa-chan says, then: “I’m eating taco rice.”

Tooru closes his mouth and waits. He’s suddenly afraid of whatever’s coming next.

He hears a glass being set down. “I mean, it’s not inaccurate, is it?”

Tooru swallows. He fights the urge to hang up, lie on his bed, and cry. He puts the phone on speaker and moves to their text thread, but the evidence is right there. Four months ago. Before that, three. Both times they were about a specific exercise he’d seen Hinata doing on Instagram and got curious about, asking Iwa-chan what the research behind it was, whether there were other videos he could reference. Not even a How are you in between. He knows, if he scrolls further back, he won’t find those sorts of pleasantries until years earlier—lately it’s always some straightforward topic, some specific question. Greetings for each other’s parents’ birthdays, met with thumbs up emojis.

It’s been a year and a half since they last saw each other in person. There was an attempt to meet up last spring, when Tooru was visiting the US, but he was attending a training camp in Colorado and it didn’t line up with Iwa-chan’s work schedule, so after a brief talk about dates the thread ended. After that Iwa-chan asked something about protein powder and Tooru hadn’t even replied.

“But you’re my best friend,” Tooru says, and he hates that he has to say it, and say it that way—like he needs confirmation.

It’s why they picked Iwa-chan for the interview, after all. Tooru didn’t know. They probably asked Kuroo, or Ushijima, but anyone could’ve given the same answer, Tooru included. He’s only ever had the one best friend.

But maybe he’d been mistaken. Maybe it was a burden to Iwa-chan, taking time out of his busy schedule to talk to someone about his old high school volleyball partner.

“Of course I am. Look, I didn’t think—I was answering really quickly, I didn’t know it would come across like that. Just ‘cause we mostly talk in the group chat now doesn’t mean I don’t—” A slight pause, enough for a swallow. “—care about you. You know that, right? I do. We’ve both been busy. Of course you’re my best friend, Shittykawa. We can talk, anytime.”

“About what?” The second Tooru says it, he’s mortified. How can he not know what to talk about with Iwa-chan? Why does it need to be premeditated? This call was a terrible idea. He did it without thinking and hasn’t heard his voice in probably even longer than their abandoned text thread, and as much as he loves the high school group chat, it’s mostly memes and volleyball news and while he never mutes it, he usually goes through the whole thing on a weekend, like some digest: adding his own thoughts, heckling whoever, going on with his day. It’s not the same as talking to Iwa-chan.

And Iwa-chan said they were both busy, and this is also true, but. They both know Tooru’s been the more lax one. The one that’s put in less effort. Iwa-chan is a reciprocal kinda guy. He follows Tooru’s cues. If Tooru was insisting on texts, bossing around the conversation, they’d keep talking. It’s his fault they’re strangers now. He started this call upset and wanting an apology, and now all he wants is to crawl into a hole, and weep over what a terrible friend he’s become.

He bites his lip, debating whether to hang up and pretend his connection is bad, when Iwa-chan replies, gently: “Whatever you want.”

“Huh?”

“We can talk about whatever you want, Oikawa. And I mean it about anytime. If I’m not at work, I’ll answer. It doesn’t need to be a whole thing.”

Tooru pictures Iwa-chan’s face, right now. His hair was cut so short in that magazine picture, and he looked—well. The haircut was silly. But something about his AT uniform made Tooru feral, even if it was totally unnecessary that someone else’s foot was in the picture. He imagines the hard cut of his jaw and those sharp eyes, the way there’s a certain quality around them that shows they’re both past thirty, even if Iwa-chan’s skin has always been perfect with zero effort. He’s probably smiling that weary smile he gets when Tooru’s having a freakout, even if this freakout is justified. He wants that tenderness trained on him, now. Maybe they should’ve FaceTimed.

Those words fall into his head again, so useless out of context, so impossible to say since they made the decision to move away from each other, at the end of high school. It had felt so mature then, so mutually understanding of them. Every year they didn’t say it, and kept not saying it, Tooru was relieved as hell. Cards close to your chest and all that. It’s foolish for him to want to say them now, but the minute he thinks them, he knows they’re still true. His feelings never changed. The only thing keeping him from confessing his love to one Iwaizumi Hajime is an almighty sense of self-preservation, and not even four months of silence will change that.

But all he says is, “Fine. It’s not a whole thing. I will text you things and you’d better reply. And we need to talk more often.”

“Okay. Sure,” Iwa-chan answers, like it’s nothing. Tooru wonders if this conversation is hitting Iwa-chan the same way: the angst, the relief so ferocious he knows he’ll fall into an exhausted sleep the minute they hang up. He decides not to think about it anymore. He doesn’t want to reactivate the compulsive desire to guess what Iwa-chan’s thinking; that way lies madness.

“And say more stuff in the group chat,” he adds, but it’s easier already to say this, the ache in his chest substantially lighter.

“Okay, okay.” Another pause. “Is that it? No other problems? You good?”

“Hmph.”

Iwa-chan laughs. A real laugh, not a scoff, and suddenly it’s the best minute of Tooru’s day so far, maybe his week. “Great. Goodnight, Shittykawa.”

“Night, Iwa-chan.”

After he hangs up, Tooru picks up the magazine, considers tossing it, then decides to tuck it into his bookshelf instead, next to his Spanish-Japanese dictionary and several other magazines he hasn’t thrown out yet because he’s been too busy to sort them. Determination settles over him, as he turns on his AC and sets his alarm. Maybe nothing will come of this. Maybe they’ll keep doing the same thing they’ve done all this time. Or maybe something will finally shift, and he’ll never again have to read words that make him doubt what they are to each other.

Tooru isn’t testing Iwa-chan, exactly. He’s just. Running an experiment, to see if they’re living up to their plan. If his palms get a bit sweaty every time he sends a message, if he’s maybe more attached to his phone than usual (even if his whole team already thinks he’s addicted to TikTok—what, he gets all his best skincare tips from there, okay?)—well, that’s not nervousness, it’s just him being diligent. Adhering to their promise to communicate more. Because that’s what best friends do.

He sends photos of his life. Little, ordinary things. The way they used to when he first moved to Argentina and Iwa-chan moved to California. A stray cat he spots on the way home from practice. The cup of gelato he indulges in after a bad loss. The selfie he took with teammates after a morning run (okay, fine, he thinks he looks kinda hot in this photo, he’s not above trying to signal something).

He’s more stumped on what to text, verbally. The easiest thing would be to talk about protein recipes or workouts, but—any other player could ask Iwa-chan that. Probably all of Tooru’s enemies on the Japanese National Team ask stuff like that all the time. Tooru doesn’t want to be simply another athlete that turns to Iwa-chan for free advice. He wants to be someone who knows, deeply, what Iwa-chan loves and hates, what he hopes and fears, what he thinks about when he can’t sleep and whether he’s anxious about the future too, or if he’s still got the same certainty that earned him two whole degrees and then an actual career in America.

There was a time when Tooru knew all those things without even trying. There wasn’t a thing about Iwa-chan he felt he didn’t know, deep in that mysterious place between his gut and heart. It carried over into their exchanges on the court. It explained why Iwa-chan could take one look at him and declare ramen for dinner, or how Tooru worked out Iwa-chan’s desire to study abroad way before Iwa-chan’s own mother did.

So it stings, to be overthinking what to send. But after nineteen minutes of typing and deleting, he goes with: How are your parents doing?

There. Kageyama probably wouldn’t ask that.

Twenty-two minutes later, Iwa-chan answers, They’re good. Ma is teaching ikebana at the local rec center and Pops is being stubborn about exercise though he does send me his daily step count every now and then, to make me stop nagging. He sends a photo of himself with Auntie and Uncle, from what likes look flower-viewing season earlier that year, an ocean of white and pink blossoms behind them. Iwa-chan’s parents look older, which makes sense, because their gorgeous grown-up son is between them. Tooru feels a heartrending pang.

Cute, he answers, and remembers that his favorite part of the interview was Iwa-chan calling Tooru’s own mom Kaa-chan, because they were so inseparable they’d adopted each other’s mothers automatically. He does the same now: tell Kaa-chan she looks stunning and that scarf really suits her.

Iwa-chan makes good on his word to answer. He sends back photos every time Tooru does: one-for-one, like they’re in a genteel tennis match. He’s still so bad at taking photos, has no eye for aesthetics at all. But it warms Tooru’s heart when he sees Iwa-chan’s poorly plated chicken soboro, or the view from his late evening jogs, mostly boring California streets with uninspired lamplight. He never sends selfies, but once in a while he’ll send a group photo, the kind that’s obviously taken by someone else and looks stiffly professional. He’s usually standing in the back, sometimes visible only as a head floating above someone’s shoulder.

Tooru sometimes considers sending a gym selfie but decides that would be too desperate and telling, and anyway Iwa-chan can’t reciprocate ‘cause he never takes workout photos. Which is probably a good thing, ‘cause no one else should see Iwa-chan’s perfect proportions except Tooru.

Shit. He’s feeling possessive again. He really shouldn’t.

Towards the end of that first week, Iwa-chan texts first, for the first time. Nice game.

Tooru drops his phone on the countertop. It narrowly misses the sink.

He resists the urge to type back You still keep up with my games? Fake IDGAFER! and instead reacts with the painted nails emoji.

When Iwa-chan says nothing else, he mentally kicks himself for leading the conversation to a dead end. He adds, a respectable four minutes later: thought we were screwed when we were down five points in the second set but luckily all the spikers came through

The typing bubble flickers for about thirty seconds.

Don’t be modest, you know that was all you

And Tooru can’t help his delighted laugh, has to press his hand over his suddenly warm face, blinking against the tightness in his chest.

It’s embarrassing enough to be hopelessly in love with your childhood best friend. It’s worse to feel that way all through your fucking adulthood. Tooru feels vaguely cheated that until now he has yet to meet someone he likes even half as much as Iwaizumi Hajime. With all the lives he’s lived, everywhere he’s gone, all the people he’s (attempted to) date—how is it possible that no one’s come within striking distance of this huge, embarrassing crush he’s had since fifth grade? But then it’s also no surprise at all. He knew it, ten years old and setting to his future ace: no one else would ever feel like this, to him.

And still, they chose to be apart.

He knew Iwa-chan wouldn’t ask him to stay. It still felt like a jump serve to the chest when, after drumming up the courage to confess his plan, Iwa-chan only said, “Okay, so that’s good, right?”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

They were sitting at their Spot for serious talks: the neighborhood park bench, facing the jungle gyms. Tooru felt like doing something crazy—downing a bottle of sake, or having a cigarette, something, anything instead of having this conversation. Stupid, stupid Tooru of five minutes ago who’d brought this up.

“Sorry, maybe that didn’t come out right.” Iwa-chan scrubbed a hand over his face and tried again, as Tooru tried not to unravel at how fucking casual he’d sounded. “You’ve made up your mind, right? So it’s good. I’m glad you’re set on it.”

“You don’t care that I’m moving to Argentina?”

“Of course I care. But I probably know better than anyone else, why you’re doing it.” He shifted his face so his eyes were locked on Tooru’s, making sure he was listening, following along instead of inventing his own version of the conversation in his head. “You’re doing it. I’m proud that you’re doing it, and you don’t need my approval to do it.”

Tooru wanted to tell him that was a lie. Of course he needed that stamp of approval. He wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place if he didn’t require that Iwa-chan agree to this: separation, in a way they’ve never been since they were born, because their mothers were best friends first.

There was an alternate life where Tooru and Iwa-chan went to the same university and kept playing volleyball together and maybe got further than they did in high school. And maybe they’d be roommates, and go on terrible dates and shitty go-kon parties, trying to find someone, anyone, who wasn’t each other. But eventually Tooru would say, “It’s you, it’s always been you.” They’d make out, have mindblowing sex (somehow they’d just know how and it would be good), and he’d be planning a wedding (er, partnership registration ceremony) before graduation.

But that was not the life where Tooru got to reach his full potential in volleyball. So it was not the life he was going to choose. He suspected that Iwa-chan wouldn’t forgive him if he picked that either.

So Iwa-chan was, right, of course. Tooru’d made up his mind weeks ago. He’d already paid a deposit for three months at a shitty little studio close to the training center. His sister had gifted him twenty hours with a Spanish tutor as a graduation gift, since he was done self-studying the basics. He wasn’t going to change his mind.

I wish you cared more, he didn’t say, because the thing about their bond was that he knew this was Iwa-chan’s way of caring. It felt selfish to ask for more. Tooru was selfish as hell, but mostly about volleyball; with people he had a limit. He sighed theatrically. “I was expecting you to ask me for permission on whether you could move to California and become some hot beach boy there, but I guess not!”

Iwa-chan scoffed at beach boy, then said, quietly, “You know this doesn’t have to change much, right?”

Lousy, lousy Iwa-chan. Not even letting him change the subject. Tooru said, breezily, “Change what exactly?”

“Us.” Iwa-chan shrugged.

Tooru looked away, blinking rapidly. Iwa-chan was stupid. Of course it would. Things were already changing. In a couple of months—weeks, really—he wouldn’t be able to walk beside Iwa-chan on his way to school every morning. He wouldn’t even be speaking this language anymore, except over the phone, to people thousands of miles away. There’d been a choice, and he’d made it, and this was the tradeoff.

Iwa-chan said, “Hey. Shittykawa.” When Tooru didn’t respond, Iwa-chan palmed the back of his head and guided it towards him, forging past his initial resistance, until Tooru’s forehead was tucked against his shoulder. He held him there until Tooru’s eyes stopped burning, until he wasn’t shaking into the silence anymore, with the regret they were both deciding, fiercely, not to have.

It’s going well. They’re consistent. Their exchanges are cute. Cozy. They’re talking about their lives and families and it’s mundane but it feels as grounding as Tooru’s warm-ups and cooldowns, like something he can count on to get him through the days.

So maybe it wasn’t a big deal, after all. Maybe the interview didn’t mean anything. Iwa-chan said the wrong thing, but he’s human. He’s allowed to do that sometimes; he can’t always inherently know the calamitous damage he does to Tooru’s fragile heart.

Tooru still lies awake sometimes, wondering how it happened. When it started. What he could have done not to let it get so bad in the first place. Who was really to blame—but it took two to tango, didn’t it? His leading hypothesis is still that this happened because he always took Iwa-chan’s responsiveness for granted. Which makes him the bad guy. Unless this is simply a thing that happens to friends with busy careers, over time.

Forgetting to reply, here and there. Then getting embarrassed about forgetting. Waiting for an occasion, like a birthday, only once the greeting’s exchanged there isn’t much else to say. Waiting for an opening—some useful anecdote, something that reminds them of you, so it’s not coming from out of nowhere. Waiting for something specific to say, so you’re using each other’s limited time wisely. Feeling bad about the awkwardness that’s crept in, the sense of distance; not wanting to poke at the question, do I even know you anymore? Easier not to reach out. Because then you never have to ask, never have to face that the answer might be no, not really.

All of which is unacceptable to Tooru. They were always meant to be the exception. Why should Ushiwaka’s pastry chef text more regularly than his very own Iwa-chan? Why does Bokuto Kotarou’s setter get to attend all his matches and smile that little knowing smile, smug in the knowledge that his partner is never too far? Geography isn’t a sufficient excuse. Maybe, somewhere along the way, Iwa-chan did tire of him, and he didn’t notice. Maybe Iwa-chan is humoring him right now, because their Kaa-chans asked him to. Maybe he’s simply fulfilling childhood friend obligations. Or being a nice guy, despite Tooru always calling him an asshole.

Tooru rolls over. He grabs his phone before he can think himself out of it. Texts, Are you awake?

It’s 3:49am. Iwa-chan is one of those terrible healthful people that’s in and out of bed the same time every day. In bed by 11, Tooru knows. He’s deciding between playing a mobile game or opening his meditation app when an answering text arrives: Everything okay?

He must have woken up. Which would mean that Tooru’s number is in the list of contacts that can override his Sleep setting.

Tooru’s heart flutters. He’s too old to be acting like a teenage girl, but he chews on his bottom lip as he rolls onto his stomach and types: I miss you.

It feels like peeling back his skin. But once again, he hits send before his brain can stop him. Why shouldn’t I miss him? He’s my best friend. And something more, always maybe something more, but they can’t deal with that right now. They’re still working their way up from friends who text regularly back to best friends; he can’t imagine breaching that next thing.

It takes ten seconds for the reply, two messages in quick succession:
Miss you too. Let’s do a call sometime.
Now get some sleep. it’s way too late there.

He imagines the stern tone, Iwa-chan sitting up in bed massaging between his brows. It makes Tooru relax, finally. His body and eyelids grow heavy, and sleep finally seems possible.

Iwa-chan, are you my mom?

It’s not like being in the locker room together, but the eyrolling emoji he gets in reply (wow, Iwa-chan uses emojis now!) settles him enough that he puts his phone down, and shuts his eyes, smiling.

They still haven’t had another phone call since that first one, but the texts are regular enough that Tooru’s happy—until Makki ruins everything on a random Tuesday by uploading a picture of Iwa-chan laughing with some lady. They’re both holding campus water bottles. She’s wearing a polo shirt and sweats, and her light brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail. It’s a screenshot of an Instagram account with the username UC Irvine Athletics. Beneath it, the caption says, Our fave athletic trainer x Our fave coach! Go Polar Bears! And a string of emojis that Tooru can’t bother to parse over the thrumming in his ears.

Makki goes, Looking good, Vice captain!

Ten minutes later, Iwa-chan gives this a thumbs up. He doesn’t often reply to the group chat, but he’s been showing more signs of life these days. Tooru was enjoying it, ’til now.

Mattsun chimes in, Is she single? with the eyes emoji.

This time the reply takes longer. Tooru continues stretching, trying not to let his heart go haywire. He shouldn’t be bothered by this. One laughing picture doesn’t mean anything. Though, if they’re coworkers, maybe they see each other every day. And maybe they laugh like this together, every day. And maybe they eat lunch together, burritos or burgers or something, and Iwa-chan explains bentos to her, and then she makes a bento like a cheap slut because she wants to snag herself a wonderful, kind, serious husband with amazing biceps…

The phone pings. Tooru put the ringer on because he hates himself. He wipes his sweat away as he opens up LINE. Iwa-chan replied to the last statement with the shrugging man.

Ugh. Of all useless emojis. Tooru types, You are ENGAGED Mattsun!!! Your fiancée will be so sad!!!!

Then he puts the phone down and seethes. It’s so predictable of him to get jealous. It’s not even really fair, because Tooru was photographed at a party with a B-list Argentinian singer two months ago, at precisely the moment she’d laid her hand against his chest. That got a lot of noise in their group chat too, but Iwa-chan was in his not-replying-mode then.

Tooru’s not dating at the moment. There were years when he was trying to—because he was lonely, because he didn’t know what to do with his permanently chipped heart—but the effort’s been beyond him for awhile now. He’s never been that into hookups (high school playboy allegations notwithstanding), and he’s only gotten more lukewarm about them over time. It’s easier, not to deal with the inevitable fallout; when they tell him it has to end because he doesn’t love them, he can’t exactly disagree. Not if he wants to be honest. Which he’s trying to be, more and more. He’s even pretty settled with his sexual identity these days, at least in private—he no longer judges himself to death for being attracted to men that aren’t Iwa-chan, and while it’s much rarer, he does still enjoy the occasional makeout with a hot woman. There were some difficult years, figuring this out, but he’s gotten to the other side by trusting himself, being authentic.

It’s just harder with certain things, and certain people.

He and Iwa-chan never talked about their relationships or dating in detail. He doesn’t even know if Iwa-chan likes men, though his default assumption is obviously not, besides me. He hears more from his mom—about the worries Auntie sometimes has, Iwa-chan all by himself in a foreign country. It would be so nice for him to be settled, so at least she knows someone’s looking out for him. Of course he’s independent and mature and can take care of himself. She still wants someone to care for him, be sweet to him too.

And Tooru knows, when his mom shares this, that she’s also thinking of him. Wishing for his happiness, with all the innocence of a mother fearing for her darling son, forever her baby, oceans away—too far to look after, in the way she wants to. Wouldn’t it be nice, if he gets that pretty storybook life, with a wife and kids and a house, or at least a brand-new condo with good appliances? It’ll compensate for how far away he is, never mind that Tooru doesn’t think his life will ever look like that.

Sometimes it makes him feel tender. Sometimes it makes him feel anxious that he’s still not out. Sometimes he wants to say he and I could be that for each other, you know, if we weren’t so scared, to see how she’d react. It is legal in Argentina.

But then she starts talking about the omiai Auntie’s arranging for Iwa-chan’s next visit, the network of distant relatives and college friends with eligible daughters or nieces that she’s mobilizing with the goal of marrying off her son, and Tooru feels betrayed instead.

He did wonder. A lot when they first moved abroad, then sporadically over the years: why is he still single?

Is it because of me?

Because Iwa-chan’s a fucking catch. Even Tooru can admit it. But that’s not the kind of thing he can ask about without getting into all the rest of it, and he’s not ready to do that yet. Plus it’s not like he knows for sure. Maybe Iwa-chan has had partners, and never mentioned it. Maybe he has someone right now. Maybe it’s a cute volleyball coach capable of getting Iwa-chan to laugh, while Tooru’s over here drilling sets, strategizing what his team must do to advance all the way this season.

It’s almost Tooru’s dream life. But one of these days he’s going to read an engagement announcement and it’s going to rip him to shreds. He’ll know he was too late, and he’ll have to live with that forever.

There are some things he thinks about sending, but never does.

What would it be like to have you near enough that I could touch you?

You’re the reason I can’t fall in love.

The thing is: he still wants Iwa-chan, at the end of the day. There will be life after professional volleyball, a life he doesn’t want to think too hard about yet, though he’s no longer ignoring it like he was in his twenties. Part of him is looking forward to having more flexibility when the time comes, to visiting Japan more often. But he loves Argentina. It’s home; it’s where he belongs now. He constructed a life here, the last decade-plus; he can keep on doing that. He can coach or be a commentator. He can use his Psych degree, and/or his Business minor. He’s invested the income from his sponsorships and brand deals, and he stays open to opportunities. Over the years, about twelve different people have approached him about doing some sort of joint venture, unprompted: a training camp, a coffee brand, high-performance apparel, skin clinics. He has options, for what to do next.

But when he thinks about his personal life, there’s only ever been one choice that’s made sense. Only one voice, one smile, one set of arms he’s hoped to come home to, always. One person he’s wanted to sleep next to night after night, on that long stretch to forever.

Once upon a time, he thought for sure Iwa-chan felt the same way. It was something about how they were, how they looked at each other, how it felt whenever they touched—even that chaste contact, as friends, teammates. It went past every kind of attraction into something he knew was lasting, fated. He felt it in his soul. It was so perfect, so undeniable, that he never bothered confirming it. But as more and more time passed and they were still living these mostly separate lives, his certainty morphed into something else, tentative and insecure.

If neither of us are in Japan, why are we still apart?

He knows some of the answer, at least for himself. He’s afraid of being selfish, afraid of being told no. Afraid of being forced, after all these years, to let go.

They have to reschedule once, because of a rookie timezone mistake, but eventually the call does happen, over FaceTime on a drizzling Saturday. Tooru’s taking a walk after dinner; Iwa-chan just came back from the grocery and is organizing his fridge.

“Let me guess. Two cartons of eggs, cottage cheese, a bunch of chicken breast. Cucumbers, spinach, squash for color. Chickpea pasta. Greek yogurt? Did you buy anything tasty?”

“I’ve seen your diet plan, so shut up,” Iwa-chan answers, coolly. “And yes. I got instant noodles and canned tuna for emergencies. Kewpie mayo. Box curry. And shrimp.”

“And a shit-ton of chili garlic oil, I bet.”

“H-Mart’s amazing, what can I say.”

It’s comforting, to hear Iwa-chan’s voice. The last time was Tooru’s accusing phone call about the interview. He worried it might be awkward, but it isn’t. In fact it’s very comfortable: Tooru teases Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan grouses at him, they catch up aboout work and Tooru’s season and what’s going on with the JNT, even if Tooru repeatedly insists he’s not that interested. They cover family updates, until eventually Iwa-chan is settling on the couch and Tooru’s on the last stretch of his walk, which he suddenly wishes were longer, because once he gets inside he’ll want to shower the damp off. The topic turns to their upcoming reunion: Mattsun’s getting married next spring, and they’re both going home for it.

If Tooru’s team makes it to the playoffs, it’ll be right after, so he’ll probably be exhausted, but he wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’ll be a nice Miyagi homecoming.

He suddenly has an intense desire to see Iwa-chan in the flesh. But the wedding’s only six months away. Six months isn’t that long. They’ve gone years without seeing each other in person. Why should it be different now?

He almost gets through the call without saying anything weird, except something about their discussion of Mattsun’s engagement photos (more romantic than Tooru expected! Mattsun’s actually pretty photogenic!), makes Tooru stupid enough to joke, “So will I be the best man at your wedding, then? That’s, like, a Western wedding thing, right?”

There’s a pause as Iwa-chan sits up. Even in ratty joggers and an old-looking shirt that says Pismo Beach, a bit of scruff on his chin, he looks devastatingly handsome. “Why would I have a Western wedding?”

Tooru should back off, but can’t seem to. “Because you’re there and not in Japan.”

Iwa-chan makes a neutral sound. “And who exactly would I be getting married to, in this scenario?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the ponytail girl?” Tooru tries to sound encouraging rather than spiteful as he adds, “She’s cute. And fit.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And maybe single.” There’s the smallest hint of a smile on Iwa-chan’s face, though he schools it away when Tooru narrows his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, so Tooru’s forced to go, “What?”

“Nothing. She’s just a friend, Oikawa. More like an acquaintance.” It’s Tooru’s turn to be quiet. He pretends it’s because he’s distracted waiting for a stoplight to change. “One of the vollyball kids took that picture and liked it a lot, so she posted it.”

“Okay…I mean…I wasn’t asking.”

Now Iwa-chan’s definitely smiling. He’s so fucking hot that Tooru wants to punch something. Maybe that’s why they never FaceTime. Because it makes Tooru insane. He crosses the street, enters the gate code for his building, then takes the stairs instead of the elevator to get extra steps in. Iwa-chan says, “Why, would you want to be?”

“Huh?”

“The best man. At my wedding.”

No, because I want to be your fucking husband, Tooru thinks, savagely, as he jams his key in the door and twists with more force than strictly necessary. He hasn’t let himself think that sort of thing in a while. It makes him wonder if Iwa-chan’s trying to get a rise out of him. He toes his sneakers off, before answering, as cheerfully as possible, “Only if you ask nicely, Iwa-chan!”

“Okay, Oikawa,” he says. Something about the way he says it is a bit foreboding.

Tooru chews the inside of his cheek. “You’re not going home for New Year’s?”

“No, I’ll extend my vacation around Mattsun’s wedding instead.”

“Makes sense.”

“I’ll see you then, right?”

“Yeah, but—” he forces himself to ask, be braver. “—can we do this again, like, not in another six months? Maybe next month?”

“Sure,” Iwa-chan answers, and Tooru bites back the urge to say, I like seeing your face. Like this. I want to see it all the time.

They look at each other in silence for a moment.

“You should dry off so you don’t get sick.”

“Colds don’t work that way.”

Iwa-chan shrugs. “I gotta make dinner, too.”

They say their goodbyes, and Tooru isn’t even that dramatic about it. Six months isn’t too bad.

Six months is so far away.

The opportunity comes unexpectedly, like a godsend. A Japanese-owned artisanal watch brand tapped Oikawa as one of its ambassadors way back in the spring, and they want him to come for a photoshoot. Their US headquarters are in LA. He hasn’t thought about the deal all that much—he likes the brand, he always genuinely likes the products he represents, but the sponsorship stuff is a distant second to volleyball for him, and it’s slowed down a lot since the last Olympics, which suits him fine. He’s an athlete, not a model, no matter what the group chat says.

Still, it coincides with a four-day break, right over a long weekend. The flight alone will eat up most of two days, but the brand’s paying for business class and his hotel. It’s only an hour from Irvine with no traffic, and maybe if he asks nicely Iwa-chan will want to drive up. It’s almost like the visits they did at least once a year, back when they first moved, which tapered off as Iwa-chan got a job (America really is stingy with PTO), and Tooru moved up from the development team and started finally meeting his potential.

He makes the ask, sends the dates over. Tells himself not to be too disappointed if the answer is no. It’s close to the end of the semester, not quite winter break yet, and Iwa-chan’s probably busy. But maybe all the college kids are focused on exams and not sports. Or maybe it doesn’t matter if he’s busy, when they’re so rarely in the same continent.

I can drive there on Saturday, Iwa-chan answers the next day. He doesn’t indicate if he’ll be doing a round-trip or what—objectively, an hour’s not bad—but Tooru still shares which hotel they’re posting him up in, a cute boutique inn in Santa Monica, and says he’ll book dinner.

Amazingly, it’s only on the flight over that Tooru starts to freak out. He’d been too busy ’til then, not thinking too hard about it. They kept texting, but the trip didn’t come up much. It was just a thing, a plan. Except thirty minutes into the rom-com he’s watching—something about two young professionals trying to set their bosses up together, he never really understands corporate stuff—the thought are we going on a date? flies into his brain and crashes around like a trapped bird. He tries not to panic. What distinguishes a date from hanging out? It’s not really a date if it’s your best friend, right? Or is it different if you’ve had a massive crush on your best friend for like, two decades?

In the end he falls asleep so he can’t think about it. Of course, the thought’s still there when he wakes up for the layover in Dallas, and then he has to chew on it for the remaining five hours. He can’t even deny that he sort of wants it to be a date. Which of course clarifies, at least to himself, that he still wants the rest of it too—for Iwa-chan to be his, or at least, to know if there’s a chance in hell of them being a thing. And if not, well, then they’ll be out of their misery, right? Better to hash it out in person than over the phone. Or via a goddamn magazine interview.

He wishes he could talk to someone about this, but the only one he’s ever wanted to share this kind of stuff with is also the person who most cannot know, so instead he pushes the feelings around like food on a plate that he’s refusing to eat. The shoot proves a momentary distraction, at least. It occupies most of Friday. His English is rusty and he’s sheepish about it, but everyone is so nice, and when the photographer shows him the results, he’s surprisingly satisfied.

Tooru starts his Saturday by taking a long run on the beach. He even joins a random beach volleyball game for an hour. The hot Cali boys are not bad, really, not bad at all. What if, he thinks, on the jog back, what if the threat isn’t a ponytail girl but some six-pack muscle guy?, and feels a current of jealousy so strong he nearly trips. The idea of Iwa-chan looking at other men is somehow worse than all the lovely girls Auntie keeps sending her son’s way.

He tamps down his panic. He finds a fruit shake stand and indulges in a strawberry-banana-kiwi blend with extra protein, then eats four street tacos for lunch (one fish, two adobada, one nopal), bantering with the food truck staff in Spanish even as they rib him about his accent.

Then he takes a long shower and fixes his hair and changes his outfit three times. Iwa-chan’s supposed to get there around 3, but he texts that there’s a highway accident and the traffic’s pretty bad. The dinner reservation’s at 6, in a nice sushi place in Venice. Tooru kept it on the earlier side in case Iwa-chan wants to drive back home, though now that he’s coming so late, he hopes he won’t—it’ll be dark on the highway, and surely they should have a drink with dinner? He’s concerned for safety reasons, of course, not impure ones. It’s too late anyway to switch to a room with double beds, but. If it comes to it. It’s a big enough bed for two.

Maybe he showered too early. Hmm.

In the end Iwa-chan arrives after 4 with profuse apologies. He takes the parking slot at the hotel, because Tooru opted for Ubering around instead of renting a car.

“It’s fine, don’t apologize,” he says. “Thanks for driving all the way here.”

“It’s not far, really. You’re the one who had a long-ass flight.” He rubs his neck. “Thanks, too, for uh, letting me know you’d be in town.”

They stare at each other. Embarrassingly, Tooru’s heart is already pounding. It’s just—it’s been a while, and Iwa-chan looks so good in that light sweater, even if it’s a boring gray. His shoulders are fucking huge. And when Tooru first saw that haircut in the magazine he thought it looked silly, but it’s grown on him during their FaceTime calls and—now that he’s seeing it in the flesh it’s actually really hot. Like, super hot. He has the wild urge to touch Iwa-chan to see if he’s real, but before his hindbrain can take over and really do something embarrassing, Iwa-chan smiles and opens up for a hug.

Tooru steps into it in a daze. Iwa-chan laughs against his ear. “What the hell is that look, Oikawa?”

The look of someone falling for you all over again, he screams, but only in his head.

“It’s the ‘I thought LA people don’t wear sweaters’ look.” He clutches at Iwa-chan’s back, before stepping away, grinning widely. It’s unclear whether he’ll survive the rest of the evening, or if their proximity will make him disintegrate.

He manages to play it cool as he suggests they head to the park for a bit, to stretch their legs before dinner—better to be early, though, in case parking is difficult. It sounds impossibly stiff, making these logistical considerations. But Iwa-chan goes along with it, and once again, it’s alarmingly easy—suddenly they’re strolling side by side together at Palisades Park, enjoying the ocean breeze and people-watching.

They talk about how Tooru’s sister has taken up silk dyeing, how Takeru’s job at a telecom company is going, how Iwa-chan’s dad is suddenly obsessed with bowling. They talk about Kyotani’s impressive spike at the latest Sendai Frogs game, a great clip captured courtesy of Yahaba; Kunimi’s constant refrain of I’m a banker not a fucking accountant; what’s going on with Kuroo these days. They talk about Tooru’s photoshoot and he shows off one of the watches they gifted him; they discuss how the school year has been so far, which star students are driving Iwa-chan up the wall with their laissez-faire attitude to injuries (“Like someone I know—” “Hey, I don’t do that anymore!”). They keep talking even as they get back into Iwa-chan’s car. He finds them a great spot two blocks from the sushi place, and parallel parks so suavely that Tooru actually has to ball his hands into fists.

The sushi is delicious. Iwa-chan agrees to share a bottle of warm sake. He pays zero attention to the overly flirty waiter, which shouldn’t make Tooru feel as smug as it does. The subject of whether they’re seeing anyone doesn’t even come up, to Tooru’s shameful relief. It’s a sweet, unhurried evening. Tooru can feel his brain grow anxious about what’ll happen next, what he needs to say before the night is over, whether Iwa-chan is driving back to Irvine or what. But he ignores the noise, tries hard to stay in the present and simply enjoy this: his best friend’s presence, the luxury of an hours-long conversation.

There’s a brief lull while they’re eating dessert. Tooru says, without really thinking, “So. The thing you most want to do together is passing drills, huh?”

“Wow. Did you memorize that interview?”

“Only because! You could have told me you were doing it!”

“The feature was on you, Oikawa.”

“Yeah, they asked me about Argentina, but I didn’t think they’d—talk to you, specifically.” Shit. It’s starting to sting again. Why did he do this to himself? It’s been such a great evening, and they’ve been talking so regularly, and it really feels like nothing’s changed. But here comes the doubt and guilt again, that vague ache that’s telling him he’s a coward. He tries to shake it off, spooning yuzu sorbet into his mouth, because the cold gives him something to focus on.

After a moment, Iwa-chan says, “I’m sorry about what I said. I should’ve apologized when you first called. It wasn’t the right thing to say.”

Tooru’s surprised, but tries to hide it. “Well. You said it yourself, that it wasn’t inaccurate.”

“That doesn’t matter. It made you feel bad. Hell, it made me feel bad. I was tired that day and said the first thing that popped into my head. And then they didn’t send me a copy for proofreading until way too late, and I just thought, whatever, it’s not a big deal. But it was, because it’s about us. I know I shouldn’t make excuses.” He sighs. “Maybe that’s not what I should be apologizing for. I should’ve been contacting you, more often. I was surprised it had been so long, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

Tooru’s heart is swelling, both from the residual hurt, and the crushing joy he feels, that even after all this time, Iwa-chan still knows exactly what he wants to hear, even if he doesn’t know it himself. He blinks back tears. Takes a small, steadying breath, then says, “It was my fault too.”

“Maybe we can say it was no one’s fault. Just a season.” He pokes his sorbet, then looks up at Tooru. “Anyway we’re here now, right?”

“Right.”

“And yes, I want to do passing drills. Maybe we can find a court after Mattsun’s ceremony.” He smiles, breaking up the tension, and Tooru, helpless, heartsick, smiles back.

They fight so thoroughly over the bill that in the end they actually have to split, to spare themselves and their waiter further embarrassment. When they get into the car, Tooru figures it’s no use delaying the inevitable. “Are you driving back now?”

“Yeah. But I’ll drop you off first.” He starts backing out. “Um, we could get breakfast tomorrow, if you like. One of my colleagues is local and recommended a brunch spot. I don’t mind doing the trip again. Your flight’s in the evening, right?”

“And when exactly were you going to bring that up?”

“I thought maybe you’d have other plans. I didn’t want to pressure you.”

“You’re my priority, of course.” Tooru looks out the window, wondering how true that is, that can be. For anything other than volleyball, it’s been true, and still—volleyball takes so much. It’s kept this, at bay, for more than a decade: his aching heart, the man behind the steering wheel, who grew into himself while Tooru was so far away, trying to find his footing in an alien language and country; trying to make it work, pouring effort and diligence into a sport that he hoped would love him back in a way it never did on home soil. Somehow, his gamble paid off. Beloved playmaker of CA San Juan, two-time LVA champion; starting setter for the national team, with two silver Olympic medals. A third attempt at gold, in three years, because he’s still that good.

And yet here he is, wrestling with himself about whether to make that second ask, to find out if the only person he’s ever really wanted wants him that way too. Maybe talking again was like conditioning, after an injury. Rebuilding something that went brittle over time. Weeks and then months of laying wood across this bridge, to learn if, at the end of the day, it still leads to that home in each other.

Or maybe this is simply dinner with a friend, and they’ll sing karaoke at Mattsun’s wedding, then say goodbye and be out of each other’s lives except for these brief, startling points of connection, so precious one could blink and miss them. Maybe they’ll never even get to kiss.

There isn’t any traffic so they’re back at Tooru’s hotel sooner than he wants, and he can think of no more reasons to stall. It’s fine. They’ll have brunch tomorrow, and Tooru will finally tease Iwa-chan about his haircut, and he’ll go back to Argentina and Iwa-chan will settle back into life here, and it’s the same old song his heart’s been singing ever since they knocked fists together after losing to Karasuno.

Keep going without a second thought, Iwa-chan had said. And Tooru had wanted to say, you’re not a second thought to me, but it all came true that way, didn’t it? It’s been over. He just hasn’t accepted it.

They climb out of the car and stand quietly. He’s always been bad at this part.

“Thanks for dinner,” Iwa-chan says.

“You didn’t even let me pay for you, asshole.”

“Hey, I have a grown-up job, too.”

Tooru rubs at his wrist, above his new watch. “Right. So, brunch tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

They keep looking at each other in the crappy yellow parking lot lights. Neither of them seem able to move. Iwa-chan’s expression looks…wondering. As soft as it can be, with his eyebrows still slightly furrowed.

“What?” Tooru asks, at the same time Iwa-chan says, “Okay, so.”

They laugh, then step forward at the same time. It brings them surprisingly close. Tooru’s heartbeat is loud in his ears. He’s going to throw up.

“You first,” he manages.

“You look,” Iwa-chan seems to struggle for a bit, before continuing, “Really, really good. And I’m glad we had dinner. I’m glad we’re talking again. We weren’t not talking but you know what I mean.”

Tooru nods. It feels like the world’s in slow motion.

Iwa-chan clears his throat. “Are you gonna be weird about a hug, or can we hug?”

“Fuck you,” Tooru says. Then he’s laughing and crashing into Iwa-chan’s chest, and isn’t it so great, how easy it is for Iwa-chan to invite him in like that? And because Tooru’s taller than him he can tuck the side of his face against Iwa-chan’s head and shut his eyes and breathe him in. “I’m not weird about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Iwa-chan says, stroking his back, and maybe Tooru’s imagining it, or Iwa-chan really is holding him tighter, and suddenly it’s so, so fucking hard to keep pretending.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Yes, Oikawa?”

“Can you please fucking kiss me already?”

To his credit, Iwa-chan doesn’t argue or gawk or even tease him. He pulls back slightly, palms Tooru’s face, then kisses him—sweet, thorough, without an ounce of shame or hesitation. Tooru lets the kiss happen, lets it balloon behind his ribs and fill his whole body with warmth. Lets it stay gentle for approximately three seconds before he grabs Iwa-chan’s hair—the top of his scalp, the scruff at his nape—and kisses him with the devouring hunger that’s plagued him since Iwa-chan stepped out of his fucking SUV wearing that sweater. He tucks Iwa-chan’s bottom lip between his teeth, then slides his tongue into Iwa-chan’s mouth, tasting the yuzu sorbet in his spit. Iwa-chan retaliates by breaking the kiss to suck under Tooru’s jaw, squeezing his waist, which shocks a soft moan out of him.

“Wow,” Iwa-chan says, fingers shaking against Tooru’s hips because he’s chuckling. “I guess that’s one way of saying you like me.”

Tooru is going to strangle him. And also rip his pants off and drop to his knees the second they’re alone. “Well you weren’t going to if I didn’t ask, right? Coward!”

“Look, I’ve wanted you since always. Can you lay off a little?”

“There is no freaking way.”

“No. I mean it. I didn’t think you were interested. You’re so crazy and direct and determined. I thought if you wanted this you’d have done something way sooner.”

Tooru exhales. They need to get inside or this sweater’s going to come apart in his hands, and that would be such a waste, even if it’s probably only from Uniqlo. “It’s because it was you. You mean too much to me. I didn’t want to risk anything.”

Iwa-chan tilts his head up and kisses Tooru’s cheek, his forehead. Eventually he says, “This is also no one’s fault. Okay?”

Tooru kisses his mouth, forcefully. “Fine. No more talking. I’m inviting you to my room and you’re not allowed to say no.”

“All right, all right, captain.” Iwa-chan clicks his car keys so that the SUV bleats cheerily. He slides his hand into Tooru’s waiting one, and they head into the hotel. Tooru’s trying to be chill, but his hand is trembling slightly. In the blurred reflection of the elevator doors, Iwa-chan’s cheeky grin turns genuine, and when Tooru turns to look at him, it’s become unbearably tender—probably matching his own.

“So…always, huh?”

“Oh, my god.”

“Come on. Since when? I want to know.” He tugs on Iwa-chan’s left earlobe with his teeth, and Iwa-chan pinches his side.

“Okay. Fine. Fifth grade.”

“Fifth grade?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Tooru tucks his head under Iwa-chan’s jaw, mostly to hide the fact that his eyes are prickling again. They’ve been watering sporadically all night. Despite, or maybe because of, the very good sex. “That’s when I knew I liked you too.”

“Oh.”

He works up the courage to add, “And I don’t want to wait until I’m a geezer to be truly happy, so. We have to figure this out. Even if it takes time. I want to be with you, sooner rather than later.”

Iwa-chan moves until he’s braced over Tooru. He touches his cheek, and Tooru wonders, against the growing lump in his throat, when he got so gentle—though the truth is, Iwa-chan’s always been like this, to him.

“You know—I was going to wait forever. It didn’t matter to me how long, or if it never happened. So if you want me with you, I’ll be with you. Okay?”

Tooru knows his face is crumpling in an ugly way, but he can’t help it. He nods, up and down, like a kid. Iwa-chan smiles and kisses him.

“It’s you, for me,” Iwa-chan says, and Tooru nods again, tugging on his hair to drag them closer somehow, swallowing the words as they leave Iwa-chan’s lips: “It’s always, only, ever been you.”

Iwa-chan visits Argentina during winter break. He spends seven glorious days in Tooru’s apartment. Tooru doesn’t even try to hide how happy he is. His team is awed and slightly terrified, by whatever’s come over him. When his libero finally points out the concerning marks on his neck Tooru says, unashamedly, “You should see the other guy.”

He’s waited too long to have this; he doesn’t care anymore. It’s not even so much making up for lost time as it is enjoying the closeness they haven’t had in forever. He’s going to milk their every second together.

Iwa-chan calls him Tooru now. The first time it happens he turns magnificently red. Tooru licks the name out of his mouth.

Two evenings before Iwa-chan leaves, they buy their engagement rings.

They send the photo to the group chat on New Year’s evening, while straggler greetings are still coming in. The texts come hard and fast. Mattsun goes way to steal my thunder. Makki forces them into a joint FaceTime, and when they answer, he’s literally sobbing. No one seems that surprised. Tooru feels like an idiot.

In a fit of childishness, and to Iwa-chan’s great embarrassment, Tooru also sends the ring pics to the All-Star Match group chat. Shoyou and Bokuto are profusely enthusiastic. Ushijima is confused and asks Tooru, in a DM, which jewelry brand he’s sponsoring because it wasn’t obvious from the photo.

Tooru’s team makes it to the playoffs. They lose. He boards the plane to Japan still sore and exhausted, but it’s wonderful to sink into Iwa-chan’s embrace after getting past the Foreign Passport line at Narita.

Mattsun’s wedding is beautiful, even if there are no more blossoms. Two days after, he and Iwa-chan’s families have a formal dinner ceremony. They’re both more anxious than expected, but it turns out fine and beautiful. Later that week, Iwa-chan kisses him on the park bench facing the jungle gym, then makes him come three times in his childhood bedroom, which thankfully now has an actual bed instead of a futon (Mom had it converted into a proper guest room, which Tooru finally stopped feeling betrayed about two years ago).

The group chat is as lively as ever.

The next magazine comes out in 2027, most of it focused on the JNT line-up, though because Kuroo and Tooru are LINE buddies two pages get dedicated to “the enemy.” Tooru doesn’t talk that much about what he’s planning for the 2028 Olympics. It’s probably his last one, though, so he’s gonna make it count. On the second page, there’s a small box with three rapidfire questions for Oikawa Tooru’s childhood friend—the same one from the interview two years ago, which finally forced their hand.

First: what does he think the strengths of the JNT are?
Good teamwork, focus, and a willingness to practice. They’re a rowdy set of guys on the surface but they somehow get along really well.

Second: what is his favorite tip for athletes?
Focus on endurance, not just speed and power. Build a strong heart. That doesn’t mean overdoing it on cardio. Get sufficient movement every day, and enough rest.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru whines, leaning against his chest on the couch they picked out for their new apartment. “These answers are so boring.”

“Is it turning you on?”

He kisses his stupid, hunky, super professional fiancé on his left pec. “Yeah, kinda.”

Third, and last: What does he thinks of Oikawa Tooru these days?

Iwa-chan’s answer: My rival. And my partner, forever.