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Shoyou explains in bits and pieces. Tooru hums in all of the wrong places. It's the song of the night. Hinata's uncharacteristic dulcet tones and Tooru's nonchalant vocables he's known for. It's inverse. Shoyou would say it's as if the stars have fallen to the earth and the land has reached above to replace the sky. It is not the case.
Tooru kicks an errant can. "It's rightly named, wouldn't you say Tooru-san?" Shoyou tries for a smile that twists his lips and creases his eyes. In a decade, the impressions would deepen into the skin. It would make for a handsome sight. And in the same measure of ten years, Shoyou would not be able to step onto a court and fly anymore.
There's no answer from Tooru. 'Jumper's knee', he could concede, he supposed if he were just a bit more of the asshole everyone thinks him to be. He couldn't relate though. For all his vices and taunts, he's never been one to speak on things he didn't know of. He's neither a jumper nor suffering from a medical condition nor is he Shouyou. He's a setter, he takes precautions, he's not a lunatic.
The streets are quiet. Eerie for Argentina. Tooru was used to idyllic Miyagi's nightlife. His introduction to the lively South American nights had been pleasant, if a bit shocking. Once his walks after late night training were filled with the incessant buzz of nocturnals and interspersed with nagging from Iwa-chan. The latter was always much scarier.
These nights at his ripe age of twenty-five, he has lights and music accompanying his night walks. And Hinata Shoyou, the brightest of all lights and stars and the like when he deigns to visit his aging bones all the way from Brazil. This happens sometimes. Weekends and long breaks from practice where they eventually end up stepping onto a court anyway, either in Argentina or Brazil. Tooru hasn't figured out why he goes to Shoyou on his off weeks. His bet is on witchcraft.
"It would cut it short," Shoyou goes on. He doesn't concern himself with the nuances and reasons for their tendencies to spend every last minute of their leisure together. He has volleyball to think of after all. "There would be a lot less games,"
The clink the can makes as Tooru plays a one man football keep away. He could be a football player if he works at it. He knows he could.
"I—" Shoyou catches himself, swallows and tries again. "I've been luckier than most. Playing at the international level—and Olympics should count for something yeah?"
Even now, Shoyou laugh sets the air around him alight. Mirth spilling onto the cobblestones. Tooru smiles in spite of himself.
"And it's not bad y'know? I could keep playing. I could retire—?"
"I'm retiring,"
Shoyou comes to an abrupt stop. He knows it. He knows it better than anyone else.
Tooru kicks the can to the bin at the corner. It knocks the side and rolls away. He curses. It's an awe-worthy coalition of Japanese, Spanish, English and Brazilian. Shoyou would be clapping if he weren't paralysed—"Not now, Shou-chan, obviously,"
The sigh wracks his body. It's awful. God, the thought of someone else stepping off the court to never return is fucking terrifying and to know he'll be doing that anyway—
"I wouldn't say anything like that," Tooru's smile is chiding, soft. Shoyou hadn't succeeded then. All the things that he thought the setter would say had been for naught. "I wouldn't pull anyone from the court,"
Shoyou's answering grin is shy and blooming with mischief. "Not physically no. Just psychological warfare then?"
"Hypocrite." Shoyou was. They have an ongoing tally of how many players have quit after facing them on the court and Shoyou leads with a grand total of fourteen to Tooru's eleven. "If they balk at the face of strong opponents, they didn't deserve to step onto the court in the first place," he rises his chin, every bit haughty as is characteristic of him.
"Yeah, yeah," Shoyou agrees easily, falling into step with him.
Tooru lets the silence permeate. He tilts his head to a distant song, a Top 40 that's familiar enough from his middle blocker playing it on loop in the locker rooms. Tomas could use a new playlist or a lobotomy.
Shoyou hums, his hands tucked in his hoodie and weaving his fingers together. He bobs his head to the song and Tooru gives him an judgemental gaze. It has him grinning sunnily and raising his shoulders in a 'so what if I've trash taste in music manner? You love me anyway.'
Tooru rolls his eyes. An annoyance with confidence never seen before. Charming.
"You want to stay on the court?" They are mere steps from his apartment when Tooru speaks up. He dawdles. Shoyou would leave on the next flight in three hours. They never have enough time together.
"Yes," Shoyou's answer is instantaneous. Tooru's torn between smiling and rolling his eyes. They're his defaults when it comes to this opposite hitter soon to be an invalid.
"Do it then," Not so soon. Shoyou's fate is doomed but the sand clock can be replaced with another. Tooru's a monster for suggesting it. "Take up the offered training. You've made yourself a receiver. You can step up to the mantle,"
Shoyou's smile is twisted again. Wry. It's odd on his exuberant self. The buoyant joy at hearing one of the best players compliment his plays and the efforts that have gone behind it clashing it with his impending injury.
"Do whatever it takes Shoyou—"
"Would you do it?"
Tooru pauses, his hands and lips stall. It pierces through him, the soft words deceptive with the force it hits him. "No," Shoyou nods. There isn't a lick of judgement on his face. It irks at Tooru, it has him spilling. "You're not doing that either, Shoyou,"
"Feels like it," It's so defeated. So wrong on the man that Tooru has no choice but to drag him close with an arm around his shoulders. Shoyou accepts it, tucking his head beneath Tooru's chin. His lips wobble and his throat itches.
"It's not," Tooru mumbles into the shock of orange. "You're a Ninja—" Shoyou huffs at the title. Tooru always says it like a royal decree, as foreign and sticky with awe as he once heard it in Brazilian beaches. "Shush—aren't you?"
"And you're the Great King," It's been years but Shoyou still carries the note of reverence.
It makes Tooru grateful he's chosen to hide the man from his face, his heart and the world. Yet, his arms grow a touch tighter around Shoyou and his heart picks up beneath Shoyou's ear. He might know it anyway. "Yes," his tone is void except for the arrogance to his inflection, "and I'll continue to rule the court as a coach. Especially then," he adds.
Shoyou doesn't laugh as he's hoped. He raises his head, his chin digs into his chest. "You're taking it then?"
"I will be taking it," Tooru amends, a hand hovering over Shoyou's hair in a way that's meant to be condescending but the whim dies. He cards the unruly curls to uncover Shoyou's glimmering eyes. "Just like how you'll be staying on the court, zipping around overgrown lamposts and making men twice your height fools."
Shoyou smiles. It's a lot more amusing than resigned this time. Tooru does too but it has a touch of savagery to it. It has Shoyou reeling in a chuckle.
"It's going to be spectacular watching them all wonder why the ball remains in the air,"
"You're so sure, huh?"
Tooru hums. He steps away and pulls Shoyou by the arm to his apartment. The plastic carrying their takeout digs into his fingers as Shoyou digs the keys from his pocket. Tooru's not so complacent to Shoyou's whims to visit any and all places but it takes great lengths to keep the volleyball brained idiot off the court. He'll make his cuts.
Shoyou ah-ha!s as he finds the key in Tooru’s pocket and opens the door as if it’s his own. Tooru carries the boxes to the table. Shoyou brings the silverware from the kitchen. He knows it better than Tooru does. The TV plays an old San Juan match—there's only so much time until Tooru relents to Shoyou's obsession. He's a volleyball brained idiot too, if you were to ask Iwaizumi Hajime.
The second set is dull but the timer is yet to end. They keep their eyes peeled. The ball is in the air, that's enough reason to hold their attention. So, it's astonishing when Tooru breaks it with something other than a quip about the play. "San Juan could use a libero,"
Shoyou chews on his lip. Tooru can't say if it's a better alternative to the rice they're sharing. "You have Cruz,"
"For the next two years, yes," Tooru ignores his knowing eyes, finding the curry infinitely more interesting. Shoyou doesn't have to check his phone to know the recent search on the libero's contract with Tooru's team.
Shoyou bites back a sigh. He abandons his bowl and lies back on the couch. Cool blue stares back at him. It surprised him the first time he saw it. It tugs something in him, familiar now. He lolls his head to the side, Tooru's shifty. Tooru swallows his reasonings and pleas, obstinate and apprehensive at the same time. It makes Shoyou grin.
"You can stay on the court," Tooru says, matter of fact and stubborn beyond words, "like you deserve to, Shoyou. Your play will remain the same. I'll make sure of it,"
Shoyou's grin softens. He looks to the ceiling again but quickly turns back to the setter. "Okay," he breathes. It's the easiest thing in the world.
Tooru, for all he claims to be mastermind, turns to him. Eyes wide and uncomprehending, he gapes.
Shoyou's laughter spills and brightens the room. Tooru could swear it glares off the walls. "It'll be fun," he acquiesies, picking up a conversation they hadn't had. Or should not be having for the next five years or so. "Playing with you. It's a shame we haven't had the chance, Tooru-san,"
"I—" Tooru has single handedly ensured San Juan their championship for the next decade. There should be confetti. Rather, it's the opposite hitter of SAS Sao Paulo patting his arm and giving him an impish grin. It beats confetti and champagne and champagne on a yacht. "It so is," he says instead. "It's a tragedy,"
"Then we have to rectify it," Shoyou borrows the mock grave tone with ease, tossing in a nod just because, "soon,"
"Soon," he echoes and unable to help himself, he smiles at Shoyou. The answering grin is near blinding. Tooru plans to invest in a closet full of sunglasses. He cannot have their future libero blinding San Juan Volleyball team. Those grins should be made illegal.