Chapter Text
A squall blows in hard and fast as they’re finishing dinner. Gino has a car parked nearby and offers to drive Tooru and Shoyo back so, along with Gabriel, they sprint through the downpour and fling themselves into the safety of the vehicle. From there, it’s a short drive to Shoyo’s apartment, and Tooru and Shoyo both thank their competitors profusely before making another dash for the building.
The apartment is dark; Pedro is out again, like he’s been for much of the week. They towel off their hair in the bathroom and change into fresh clothes somewhere between there and the living room.
“Want anything to drink?” Shoyo asks, putting the kettle on.
“Coffee, thanks.” Tooru used to hate the stuff. Now, he’s a bit of an addict.
Shoyo pulls out two mugs and the bag of coffee grounds Tooru’s been keeping stashed here, since Shoyo doesn’t drink coffee himself. He slides it across the counter and adds a little more water to the kettle.
When their drinks are steaming and fixed to satisfaction, they sink into the couch.
“What a game, huh?” Shoyo sighs. “Your dump was so awesome, like shwoom! They didn’t know what hit ’em!”
Tooru hums in agreement. The dump hadn’t been the only satisfying part. He’d suspected it in high school, but this week has shown him firsthand: Shoyo is an exhilarating partner to play alongside.
“You know,” Tooru says, “that first day, when we ran into each other, you said seeing me again cheered you up when you were going through a rough patch, but…”
Shoyo cocks his head in curiosity. Tooru picks at a hangnail on his thumb that shouldn’t even be there; he needs to take better care of his hands. “I want you to know how much all this has meant to me, too. I mean, I had fun playing beach with you. I haven’t actually enjoyed volleyball for several years, probably even since high school.”
He sips his coffee, letting the steam warm his face. If he’s going to say that much, he might as well say it all and destroy the pedestal Shoyo’s put him on. “I don’t often tell people this, but I’ve considered giving it up. I don’t want to, but sometimes I wonder if continuing will hurt me too much. There were already a bunch of talented people in Miyagi, but being on the international circuit’s made me feel…small and ordinary, I guess. Like a child trying to play with the big kids. I really hate that feeling. The baseline skill level here is a lot higher, so it’s harder to stand out. Everyone on my team has so much talent and experience. Back in high school, I wasn’t the best player in the prefecture, but at least I knew I was good. I mean, I am still good, but coming here has shown me just how much farther I have to go. I guess I’ve been so caught up in constantly fighting to prove I deserved my spot on the court that I forgot why I even wanted that spot in the first place.
“But playing with you this week reminded me again: it’s because I love volleyball. So, thank you, Shoyo. You’ve helped me more than you know.”
He stares into his mug, not wanting to see the pity or shock on Shoyo’s face. He’s not sure which would be worse, but he’s leaning towards the latter—there’s nothing he wants to hear less than: You thought about quitting? But you’re the Great King! Responses like that are the reason he’s stopped telling everyone back home about his career doubts. They don’t understand: he’s not doubting the existence of his skills, just whether they’re enough to live up to his ambitions. He doesn’t want to be made to feel that being moderately good at something should go hand-in-hand with a bottomless well of confidence. Like a crumbling relationship, the fact that volleyball used to be good for him doesn’t mean it still is. When does the difficulty stop being worth it? When does optimism become delusion? If he asks these questions of most people in his life, he will only be told to stop worrying.
“Back in high school,” Shoyo says, “did you feel threatened by Kageyama?”
He is looking at Tooru, not with pity or confusion, but with eyes that are gentle and honest. It makes Tooru want to respond in kind.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “And Ushijima.”
Shoyo hums like he already knew this. “You still feel threatened by them, don’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on. I knew you were lying about not watching Kageyama’s matches. He makes the same face when he lies to me about not watching yours.”
“What?”
Tooru allows himself to feel flattered for all of two seconds before realizing that his former protégé is probably just keeping tabs on the competition.
Next to him, Shoyo cackles. “Man, you should see your face! It went so red, like fwoosh! But why are you so shocked? He’s always looked up to you. Of course he’d follow your career!”
In lieu of a response, Tooru downs the rest of his coffee, hoping it’ll banish the sudden shock of cold crawling across his skin. He presses closer, resting his head on top of Shoyo’s and taking comfort in the warmth of his body and the mild smell of his citrus shampoo. A tangerine to the very end, he thinks, rather absurdly.
“Kageyama always talked about wanting to surpass you as a setter,” Shoyo continues, snuggling closer, “and he’ll never admit it, but I think what he really wanted was your approval.”
Tooru swallows around the lump in his throat. This isn’t news, but when it was just Tooru’s own suspicion, he could ignore it, cover it up with spite and hostility the way one might hang a picture over a hole in a wall, and keep on pretending he and Tobio were nothing more than mutual enemies. But now, hearing the truth voiced by someone who is earnest to a fault, Tooru can’t hide from it anymore.
“I didn’t want to give him my approval,” he says. “It would’ve felt like bowing down and admitting I’d never be as good. When he started at our middle school, he was all the coaches could talk about. ‘Look at that kid—what a prodigy! We sure are lucky to have him.’ They never said that about me. I wasn’t invisible, but they definitely didn’t think I was as special as him, even though he learned a lot from watching me. I was actually shocked when the prefecture gave me the ‘Best Setter’ award. I didn’t think I stood out enough for that.”
Shoyo nods, his hair tickling Tooru’s ear. “I kind of know what you’re talking about. I mean, Kageyama’s been an amazing partner! But no matter how much hard work I put in to improve my own skills, I always felt like he was only reason I was allowed to stand on the court. And don’t get me wrong, I love our crazy quick attack! But I came to Brazil because I wanted to stop being only half of a pair, so I can finally stand on my own!”
“Oh, shortie pie,” Tooru sighs. “If only you knew how many people saw you as more than just Tobio’s partner. Even when your technique was terrible, it was clear how much potential you had.”
Shoyo leans back to look him straight in the face. “Yeah, well, you’re amazing too! I mean, your serves are crazy intimidating, and I really, really love hitting your sets! Plus, both Kageyama and Ushijima-san admire you—Ushijima-san even said that he wished—”
“Yeah, I know, he’s told me.” That certainly brings back unpleasant memories. Tooru scowls. “But that’s not the same, that’s—” He tips his head back and watches the whirl of the ceiling fan. “They’re both prodigies, with so much more natural talent than me. I don’t have Ushijima’s raw strength, and I can’t set with pinpoint accuracy like Tobio. I’ve had to work incredibly hard just to have a chance at keeping up with them, but that doesn’t matter because they work just as hard. If we all put in the same amount of work but they start from a higher level, then I have no hope of ever catching up. Do you see what I mean?”
He doesn’t expect the jarring smack to the back of the head. Shoyo’s an experienced volleyball player; the hit rattles his skull.
“Ow! What the hell was that for? My head’s not a volleyball, dumbass!”
“Don’t you ever say you aren’t as good as them!”
Tooru withers under Shoyo’s glare, which pins him in place just as it had years ago during the final point of the Seijoh-Karasuno practice match. It was unnerving then, and it’s even more uncomfortable now, so close that Tooru can see the hazel striations in his irises. For Shoyo to be giving him a look usually reserved for matches means he’s as invested in Tooru’s self-worth as he is in volleyball, and Tooru is desperate to break eye contact so that he can breathe again, gather up all his molded, festering insecurities and tuck them back beneath his perfect skin and pleasant face.
“You have natural talents that Kageyama and Ushijima-san don’t,” Shoyo says, “like how well you can read both your teammates and opponents and manipulate their skills to your advantage!”
“You make me sound evil!”
“But neither of them is as good at that as you! I know for a fact that Kageyama’s always been jealous of that, so—”
“Yeah, I know,” Tooru says. “I have my own talents, and I shouldn’t compare myself to others. Jealousy is ugly. I know.”
Shoyo reels back. “What? No, no, that’s not what I was getting at. Sorry. I mean, we’re in a competitive sport where we’ll always be compared to others anyway, so isn’t jealousy how we learn to get ahead? Like, when you see someone who’s super amazing and you think, ‘Oh man, I wish I could do all the things they can!’ But then you practice, and you find new things only you can do, and when you face them again and put those skills to use, you prove that you’re just as good, just in a different way! I mean, that’s how I improved. Like, even though I’ll always be short—and you tall people don’t know how good you’ve got it—I’ve still found ways to defeat people bigger than me. And Kageyama’s learned to be more flexible partly because he saw how good you were at communication. I guess I just think that you shouldn’t waste time trying to kill a feeling that might be unkillable, especially if it’s also useful. You’ll have a lot more fun once you figure out how to use it again, because you’ll start playing better, and playing well is always fun!”
An unstoppable force bubbles up in Tooru’s chest, clogs his throat, and spills over. He blinks to clear his vision, but Shoyo’s face is a blurry watercolor of brown, flesh pink, and tangerine.
“Oh my god.” Shoyo’s hands flutter between them with no clear objective. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make you cry, um, I’m really sorry, was that too much? I—”
His concern is so sweet that Tooru can’t help but laugh. He laughs in great, heaving sobs, until his abs ache from the effort and there is no more breath in his lungs.
“Oh my god, I broke you,” Shoyo whispers.
Tooru only laughs harder. He doesn’t know anymore if he’s crying from Shoyo’s speech or his own laughter, only that he can’t stop it, and it feels good.
Crushing his bewildered lover to his chest, he says, “You never fail to surprise me.”
“Um, thank you?” is the response muffled in his neck.
Shoyo is not the first person to tell him to better value his own skill; he’s already gotten speeches from José and from Iwa-chan, multiple times. He was even good about being kind to himself towards the end of high school. But this is the first time anyone has told him that he’s allowed to be jealous.
Relieved, overwhelmed, devastated, Tooru holds Shoyo tight, and breaks.
It takes Oikawa almost thirty minutes to cry himself out, sobs quieting to trembling breaths. Shoyo holds him through it all, even when he starts getting fidgety. He’ll stay here for as long as Oikawa needs him. As a compromise, he soothes his hands across Oikawa’s body, wiping away tears, playing with his hair, rubbing up and down his sides. At some point, they lie back. Shoyo drapes himself over Oikawa’s chest (which is firm and warm and comfortable to lie on), feeling each shuddering inhale. Oikawa’s breathing smoothes out as the tears dry up, and eventually, with one last, great sigh, he is finished.
“Wanna go freshen up,” he rasps, disentangling their bodies so he can shuffle to the bathroom.
Shoyo clambers off the couch, stretching his arms high and cracking his back. He does a few quick squats to get the blood moving while he listens to Oikawa blow his nose and splash water on his face.
He hopes he’s said the right things.
“Feeling any better?” he asks when Oikawa makes it back to the living room.
Humming his assent, he cradles Shoyo’s face in both hands and presses their lips together. “Yeah, much better.”
Shoyo snakes his arms around Oikawa’s waist. They come together again, and Shoyo’s eyes slip shut as he loses himself to dizziness and the softness of Oikawa’s mouth. It’s pleasant and lazy until Oikawa finds a sensitive spot on Shoyo’s neck and nips. A slow heat blooms in his belly, and he thinks, Maybe this can help.
He trails his hand down the bumps of Oikawa’s spine and slips fingertips beneath his waistband, raising goosebumps along the skin there. “Oikawa-san, are you up for something more, or are you too tired?”
“Mm, I’m a little tired, but I could go a round.”
“Great,” Shoyo says, “because I want to take care of you tonight, so all you have to do is relax. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure.”
Shoyo responds only by pushing him towards the bedroom.
In the time since the beginning of their talk, the sun has sunk below the horizon, and the bluestone sky gleams with a ghost of daylight, turning Shoyo’s room into a seascape of shadows and shapes. As he helps Oikawa out of his clothes, Shoyo sees him in impressions: the silhouette of an arm, the suggestion of a face. It’s not enough—he wants to see everything. He flicks on his lamp, yellow like an old lighthouse beacon, while Oikawa lounges back on the bed.
Shoyo tries to make his own disrobing sexy, teasing at abs before slipping his shirt off, turning so that Oikawa can ogle his ass when he slides his shorts and boxers down. But he gets too distracted by Oikawa’s appreciative jeer, and his toes catch on the waistband of his boxers, making him stumble as he nearly falls flat on his face. Oikawa’s snort turns to full-blown belly laughter. It is kind of funny, Shoyo supposes. With a sheepish smile, he makes himself comfortable on his lover’s hips and takes a moment to appreciate the broad chest and shoulders, the brown hair feathered on the pillow, the red-rimmed eyes that shine with mirth.
“You still good?” Shoyo asks, thumbing circles over Oikawa’s ribs and thrilling a little to hold the solid width of his torso between his palms.
“Yeah,” Oikawa says with a lingering giggle. “Get on with it, hm?” He rolls his hips against Shoyo’s ass.
Shoyo shimmies down the bed and repays that brattiness by taking Oikawa’s pretty cock into his mouth.
It doesn’t take long to get him ready. Oikawa arouses fast, relaxes easily, but teases by clenching around the fingers Shoyo has inside him. When Shoyo asks for a condom from the nightstand, he receives it via a smack to the forehead and another helpless chuckle from Oikawa.
He’s not laughing when Shoyo sinks into him, though, his voice dissolving into a low moan. From there, Shoyo keeps the pace languid. It’s not close to being the most intense sex they’ve had, but it’s pleasant, and he focuses on what gets little grunts and punched-out groans until Oikawa sighs, “Getting close,” and the rasp in his voice sets off little zings that fizz so amazingly across Shoyo’s skin. He digs his fingers into the meat of Oikawa’s thighs and watches him stroke himself.
Earlier in the week, he’d done just this to show Shoyo how he best liked it, before he’d covered Shoyo’s hand with his own and guided him through the perfect speed and pressure. Tonight, Shoyo watches all those techniques put to use when Oikawa grasps himself with a twist of his wrist that Shoyo knows is maddening. He’s so close. It’s obvious in how his gaze slides away in a haze, and how he’s tensing as if readying himself for something powerful—the wind up before the serve, the pose before the set. Watching Oikawa bring himself to the brink is hot; sweat drips down Shoyo’s temple.
“You’re amazing,” he huffs, hurtling towards the edge himself.
The moan that escapes Oikawa’s parted lips is raw and desperate.
“Fuck, kiss me,” Oikawa gasps, and then he leans up and does it himself. He trembles as he releases over his hand, whimpering against Shoyo’s lips, and Shoyo fucks him through it, stilling only when Oikawa collapses back to the rumpled sheets. His face shines pink in the lamplight, his eyes shut as he catches his breath. Shoyo bites his lip. His pulse pounds in his throat and in his cock where it’s still cradled in the warmth of Oikawa’s body, and his impending orgasm tingles under his skin like a static charge.
“Hey,” he rasps, brushing a few sweaty locks of hair back from Oikawa’s forehead. Oikawa’s eyes flutter open, utterly pleased. He swears when Oikawa clenches around him, the pressure of his impending release close to bursting.
“Go ahead,” Oikawa exhales, patting Shoyo’s ass, and that’s all the permission he needs. A few thrusts and he’s momentarily overwhelmed in the deluge of his own pleasure, anchored only by Oikawa’s fingers on the back of his thigh and threading through his hair.
He comes back to himself with his cheek resting on Oikawa’s sternum, feeling the heartbeat below, and he flops, dead weight now, smiling. His upstairs neighbor who he’s never met drags some heavy furniture across the floor with a short, shuddery scrape. A cool breeze is drying the sweat on his back, and soon he’ll need to throw on some clothes again, but Oikawa is warm and cuddly beneath him, so not just yet.
What a beautiful evening.
After, when they’re showered and clothed again, they flop back on the couch, two glasses of water and a plastic jar of crispy fried salmon skin set out on the coffee table. They still have free reign of the common spaces despite Pedro being home; about ten minutes ago, Tooru caught a glimpse of him scurrying from the front door to his bedroom without so much as a greeting nod. (Shoyo mentioned once that Pedro is shy, so Tooru doesn’t take this personally.) He’s grateful for access to the couch without scrutiny from a stranger, and he tilts his head back and rests his dry, hot eyes. Distant rumbles of traffic and the clean smell of after-rain float through the open window, swaddling him in a state of calm. His mind, for once, is empty, a receptor only for the sounds of Shoyo snacking and his own steady breaths as they slip freely through his nose and chest.
“Want one?”
Tooru pries open his eyes. Shoyo is holding out the jar of salmon skin, and Tooru supposes it’s been years since he’s had any. Wordlessly, he takes one and munches. The salty, pungent taste reminds him of Miyagi. This food must be very precious to Shoyo, and yet he’s sharing it with Tooru anyway.
“You’re pretty tired now, huh?” Shoyo asks.
“You wore me out,” Tooru says with a dramatic sigh. “And with the gentlest fucking of my life, too. I must be getting old.”
“You’re not old! You’re just starting out—you’ve got so much time to do great things!”
“I was joking, shortie pie, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
What a sweet boy, and so tireless in his encouragement. Tooru swallows the last of his food and feels warmth in his chest akin to a candle flame: small and glowing and delicate, quietly beautiful. It would be so easy to smother, but its impermanence only makes it more precious, and it’s not in danger of consuming him. He feels safe to let it burn for a little while longer.
“We’re going to keep in touch after this, right?” he asks.
Shoyo pauses mid-chomp. “Why wouldn’t we?” It comes out muffled around his mouthful.
“No reason, really. I just wanted to be sure.”
“Oikawa-san, you can’t get rid of me that easily!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, shorty. You’re not getting rid of me easily, either.” He stands and stretches, cracking his neck and relishing Shoyo’s disgusted protestations. “Okay, I’m going to bed. Join me soon so you can be my pillow.”
Shoyo crawls into bed not ten minutes later with a whispered, “Goodnight,” and Oikawa lets himself be spooned.
He imagines that when he gets home tomorrow, he’ll be sad at first, sprawled at night in his own queen bed and no Shoyo to share it with, no steady breathing at his back to lull him to sleep. But that sadness won’t last long. There will be fewer nights spent staring sightlessly at the darkened star map on his ceiling, fear slicking up his throat as his mind plays visions of his career fizzling out like a wet sparkler. Instead, the sprawl of his body will fit the bed well. He’ll feel at ease alone in his apartment, fall asleep without the help of old photos and Google Maps, in a place he belongs because he’s chosen it for himself. And Shoyo’s words will live in his bones, reminding him that whatever he’s managed today, it’s enough.
For a long time now, Shoyo has only trusted his own definitions of love. He’s heard too many assertions that young people can’t possibly know what love is, because the real thing is elusive and rare. Shoyo, for the life of him, will never understand how anyone can think this when there are so many different kinds of love. At only twenty, he knows this from personal experience.
He loves his family—that goes without saying. (But, the people who talk about the elusiveness of love probably aren’t talking about the familial kind.) He also knows he loves Kenma in a way that is very real and not at all romantic, knows it in the awe he felt when they played each other back in high school, knows it in how proud he is of Kenma’s recent career successes, knows it in the way he cheered when, several years ago, Kenma emailed him to say: I kissed Kuro. We’re dating now.
He’s felt love for all his former teammates—including Tsukishima, who was hard to even like at first. It’s the kind of love that comes from being able to trust someone completely. Some might argue that this is just affection, but Shoyo is of the firm belief that there isn’t nearly as much difference between love and affection as people think.
And yes, although he is young, he’s even experienced romantic love: for Kageyama, during their first year of high school. It wasn’t just a crush. Crushes were the blush that consumed him when the middle school girls’ setter tossed for him, and the way his brain short-circuited when Shimizu told him to do his best at the Seijoh practice match. He almost didn’t notice romantic feelings developing for Kageyama, too distracted by their constant competition and too unfamiliar with anything beyond a crush. In Kageyama, he’d found a partner, someone he felt secure with both on and off the court, because nobody else had ever fully understood Shoyo’s ambitions or been able to match his crazy work ethic. It wasn’t until he watched Kageyama grin after landing a service ace that he was bowled over by three thoughts in quick succession: one, that seeing Kageyama happy (which was cute) made Shoyo happy; two, that he really wanted to kiss him; and three, that kissing him was something he wanted to keep doing, maybe for the rest of his life.
Looking back, some might say it was infatuation. Shoyo won’t deny this; of course he was infatuated. But he’s confident in saying there was love, too, because while his feelings for Kageyama stopped being romantic years ago, he still loves him with his whole heart—love can be fluid that way. It’s kind of like his love for Kenma, and kind of like his love for his sister, and yet—it’s a feeling that’s not wholly explainable, something special for one of the most important people in his life.
Really, Shoyo wishes more people would acknowledge that love can be a common occurrence without losing its worth. In fact, over the years, he’s discovered two things: that if he has the urge to call a feeling love, he’s probably right to do so, and that sometimes, loving someone is the most natural thing in the world.
Now, with Rio de Janeiro’s early morning sunlight dappling across his bunched-up bed sheets, he can’t help but smile as he looks down at Oikawa, who is sleeping with his head on Shoyo’s chest and an arm flung across his waist. Their relationship is difficult to define. Maybe it’s because he entered this with no expectations, knowing it had an expiration date, or maybe it’s because he truly isn’t in the right place for something serious, but Shoyo still thinks the idea of him being Oikawa’s boyfriend is odd. He definitely cares for Oikawa a whole lot—last night is a testament to that—and maybe if Oikawa were going to be closer for longer, it would be fun to see where things go. But while he’ll miss Oikawa’s company when he goes back to Argentina, Shoyo doesn’t feel gutted at the idea of Oikawa moving on to other people. At this particular moment in time, he knows this isn’t romantic love. One week just isn’t enough time for that.
That makes the other obvious option lust. He chuckles, because if there wasn’t lust, they wouldn’t have fallen into bed together every night since they met. Still, it would be wrong to write this off as nothing more than a lust-fueled fling. Shoyo cards gentle fingers through his lover’s hair. They’ve both been laid bare in more ways than one, and the resulting connection goes deep. This past week, he’s felt more grounded than he has in months. Oikawa has made him feel like he’s home again, and Shoyo suspects the sentiment goes both ways. (Of all the people to achieve this, Oikawa Tooru is the last person he’d have expected. His high school self would either be ecstatic or incredibly confused.) Whatever they have in this small window of time is exactly what they need right now, and no matter what happens in the future, Shoyo has every confidence they’ll make their relationship into what it needs to be then, too. Maybe they’ll continue to fuck sometimes; maybe they’ll be lifelong friends. Maybe, somewhere down the line, they’ll fall in love. Who knows? Anything could happen.
Oikawa snuffles against his chest and blinks up with bleary eyes, a smile curling the corners of his lips.
“Morning,” he rasps, craning his head up to plant a kiss on the underside of Shoyo’s jaw.
Shoyo cups his cheek and kisses his lips, slow and tender. “Good morning.”
Oikawa’s smile brightens as he curls more into Shoyo’s side, nuzzling his t-shirt. Then he freezes.
“Oh, gross,” he whines. “Shoyo, I’ve disgraced myself!”
“Huh?”
“…I drooled.”
Shoyo shakes with laughter.
His explanation of their relationship may be confusing and convoluted, but what he feels for Oikawa is actually so simple, so straightforward: it’s a comfort as easy as the slow, calm beat of his heart and as natural as the warmth that spreads from there to his extremities. And, well, it might just be some kind of love.
It’s their last morning together, and he itches to climb up to the roof so he can shout his thanks to the sky for the time they’ve had.
Oikawa’s alarm—the actual “alarm” sound, because, ‘If it doesn’t scare me, I’ll never get out of bed’—makes Shoyo flinch, and he flails to turn it off. Oikawa doesn’t even twitch, and Shoyo wonders grumpily if, in choosing the most obnoxious alarm, Oikawa has desensitized himself to all alarms entirely.
“Come on, time to get up,” he says, rolling Oikawa off of him.
Oikawa pulls the pillow to his face. “Five more minutes?”
“Not if you want to eat breakfast before your flight.”
Shoyo hides a smirk behind his hand as Oikawa heaves a long-suffering sigh before pushing himself up, eyes sleep-swollen and blinky, his usually perfect hair poking out in all directions.
“Fine,” he yawns. “What are we having?”
Breakfast is freshly-cut papaya; green tea (for Shoyo); sweet, dark coffee (for Oikawa); and pão de queijo, purchased from the bakery down the street. The walk there and back seems to have woken Oikawa up a bit, and they eat in a comfortable quiet, seated side by side at the kitchen table with their shoulders brushing. They pause once to watch a couple videos of Kenma and Kuroo’s new kitten, laughing until they remember that Pedro is still asleep.
“Shush,” Shoyo whispers, holding a finger to his lips.
Oikawa, who’s trying to stifle his giggles, whispers back, “You shush!”
And then, too soon, it’s time for Oikawa to leave. They walk to the bus that will take him to Santos Dumont Airport, Shoyo bringing his bike and backpack so he can head straight to work afterward. As they wait, Oikawa pulls him into a lingering hug.
“Thank you again,” he says into Shoyo’s hair. “I had a lot of fun this week.”
“So did I! I’m really glad we ran into each other.”
Oikawa pulls back to run a thumb across a yellowing hickey that peeks over Shoyo’s t-shirt collar. “Yeah, I bet you are.” Shoyo smacks his hand away.
“But seriously,” Oikawa continues, and now there’s a fire in his eyes. “You’ve reinvigorated me. I’m going to beat everyone on the international stage. Tobio, Ushiwaka, you, everyone.”
Shoyo grins and says, “Yes, sir!” because that’s the Oikawa he remembers from high school—ambitious, and just the right amount of cocky. That’s the Oikawa who makes a formidable opponent.
“Did you hear me? I said I’m going to beat you, too. Try to act a little more scared.”
Of course Shoyo heard this. That’s why he’s grinning.
“Oikawa-san?” he says. “Will you message me if you’re doubting yourself, so I can cheer you up again?”
The bus rumbles up, wheezing to a stop, and the small crowd of waiting people lines up to board. Oikawa falls into the back of the line and gives Shoyo a fond look. “Yeah, I’ll do that. And if you’re feeling homesick and have a few days free, you’re welcome to visit me. My door is always open for my friends.”
Shoyo’s grin is either going to pop his face or stretch out his cheeks so much that they’ll be old-man-saggy when he stops smiling. That doesn’t matter, though, because Oikawa just called him a friend, and he thinks, For right now, that’s perfect.
“Tell me when you land so I know you made it back safe!”
“Sure thing, Shoyo.” The line moves up; they both move with it. When there’s finally no one left in front of them, Oikawa squeezes Shoyo’s shoulder. “Well, take care of yourself.”
Then the doors are closing behind him, and Shoyo is watching the bus lumber away in a cloud of exhaust, Oikawa’s face barely visible behind the tinted windows.
Shoyo’s grin hasn’t shrunk, because he is definitely, absolutely going to take care of himself. He swings onto the bike’s saddle and kicks off, coasting down a hill towards the sea. He’s already pumped to train, to play beach, to make the most of his two years here. Rio has a lot to offer him, and now he has a friend nearby, a little piece of Miyagi if he really needs it. There’s also, he knows, a piece of Miyagi within himself, although all this time he’s been treating it like a benign tumor needing to be cut out. As Rio’s salty sea air blows his hair back, he remembers Oikawa’s speech about the concept of home and realizes that he really doesn’t have to operate on his sense of self in order to move forward, or even to exist today in Brazil.
He is Hinata Shoyo of Miyagi, and he is also Hinata Shoyo in Rio de Janeiro, untethered but far from aimless, and he is going to be all right.
On the plane, settled into his window seat, Tooru opens his laptop to find the latest Schweiden Adlers game still pulled up and ready to play. He could watch it; the flight is long enough. The thought of doing so brings with it a sudden and bone-deep exhaustion, and he shuts his laptop again. Shoyo’s impassioned speech last night may have been exactly what he needed to hear, but much like his playing, his mindset can’t change overnight. Even having Tobio’s admiration confirmed doesn’t stop his insecurity from squirming around inside him like a slimy eel, and he’s not in the mood to indulge it right now. He’ll watch the match when he gets home, or later this week. Actually, he doesn’t have to watch it at all. He huffs happily at the realization. To choose when or if he’ll watch his high school rivals, instead of feeling compelled to watch every game as soon as it’s available to him—that’s powerful. He can definitely learn to live like that.
Besides, there’s enough to sort out in regards to himself: more meditation on the nature of talent versus hard work; figuring out his place in the sport and in the world. He is, at least, excited for practice tomorrow—that’s something Shoyo changed in him quickly. He’s going to master that new attack, and then he’ll keep mastering every move he tries, not to earn his spot on the court, but because playing well is satisfying. And if he gets too lost in his own head, Shoyo is just a phone call away. Is it even possible to feel hopeless with that persistent little shrimp slinging encouragements? Tooru doesn’t think so, and he’s very glad to have finally gotten to know him. Huh, he thinks. Hinata Shoyo really is his friend now. Who’d have guessed?
Anyway, Tooru doesn’t have to figure everything out immediately, but he should call up José, who always seems to see things in Tooru before he can see them in himself, and ask to meet for lunch. It’s been too long since they last talked.
But that’s a task for when he lands. For now, he slips in his earbuds, puts on some music and, watching green Brazil drift by his tiny square window, doesn’t think about the future at all.