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Christmas in Argentina is different. But after spending the last two cramming over-the-break projects in his dorm room in Irvine and the one before those attached to his living room heater in Miyagi, Hajime decides it’s a welcome change.
The sun soaks into his back, which Hajime is pretty sure already drenched in sweat. In spite of the warm weather, families and children circle the shop fronts lined with garlands in various shades of red, green, and gold. Some windows are even festooned with strings of white cotton balls he assumes are made to mimic snow. It makes him think, briefly but fondly, of the winters in Northern Japan. Right now, though, there’s no ice crunching under his feet or chilly wind making his nose red; instead, there’s sand between his toes and the sea breeze tousling his hair.
But the most welcome change of them all—though he would never admit it out loud—is the one currently dragging him by the arm through the hordes of tourists and locals alike dotting Playa Punta Mogotes.
“Oi, ‘Kawa, where the hell are you bringing us?”
“The beach!”
“The beach is right here,” he points out in response, because it’s everywhere. Hajime is no stranger to beaches—he literally lives in California—but it’s becoming increasingly evident that neither is Oikawa. Which is unfair, because San Juan doesn’t even have beaches.
It’s unfair, Hajime thinks, how Oikawa’s skin now glows with the slightest hint of bronze when he used to only turn pink and sunburnt every summer they spent playing outside for hours on end. It’s unfair how his shoulders have become broader, his muscles more defined, when he used to mope around the gym whenever Hajime did extra bench press sets alone. It’s unfair how he looks so vibrant, so sure of himself as he leads Hajime across the sands, when he used to be a little scared of the ocean, except when Hajime was tugging him along.
Maybe it’s not just the beach Oikawa’s grown used to. Maybe it’s all of Argentina, transformed into a land in which Oikawa Tooru can bloom.
And Hajime is happy for him, has felt unparalleled levels of joy since Oikawa first barrelled towards him and subsequently made them both crash to the ground of Ezeiza International Airport. But still, it’s unfair how even though they’ve finally reunited after so long, Hajime still knows he’s going to miss him.
After what feels like forever in the sluggish heat, Oikawa finally slows down to a stop.
“We’re here!”
Hajime has to give it to him: Oikawa knows his stuff. They’re practically the only people in this area of the beach, which is a miracle given how many beach umbrellas, foldable chairs, and picnic blankets they had to dodge earlier. Here, it’s all trees, pebbles, and half-crushed seashells which might be a pain to step on later, but Hajime doesn’t really mind. They’re also noticeably nearer the water, its surface shimmering with specks of gold in the sunlight, stretching all the way to the horizon.
Oikawa drops his bag onto the sand and turns to Hajime with a self-satisfied grin, the ocean and sky melting into a mere backdrop behind him.
“Well? What do you think, Iwa-chan? Much better and closer to the water, right?”
“Yeah. Just one shove and I can send you flying into the Atlantic.”
Hajime expects a complaint of mean, Iwa-chan! paired with an obnoxious whine. What he doesn’t expect is this: Oikawa, arms crossed and smirking as he says, “Try me. I’ve got tons of experience now, remember? Ever tried playing beach volleyball with Ninja Shouyou?”
Hajime snorts. “The only experience that matters is when you wet your pants running away from the waves in Shichigahama.”
“We were in kindergarten!”
He rolls his eyes. “I know you don’t want to get your clothes wet, Oikawa.”
“With seawater? Trust me, I couldn’t care less,” he replies stubbornly with the subtlest flip of his hair. His gaze burns into Hajime, taunting.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Hajime retorts, and because he can’t back down from a challenge—especially if it’s from Oikawa—he barrels forward.
They collide, almost like how they did in the airport. But this time, neither of them fall, because Oikawa’s got his hands wrapped around the wrists that are pushing into his chest. And then Oikawa’s pushing back too, and Hajime is once again reminded of how his best friend has, much to his irritation, bulked up.
Oikawa laughs, loud and full, and Hajime cracks a menacing smile as he sneers, “Don’t get cocky, now.”
“Cocky? Why would I?” he asks innocently as he gives another shove and all of a sudden, raises his leg to knee Hajime in the stomach. Hajime stumbles, and in that moment he realizes that he’s been cornered. Their positions have completely switched, and his back is now to the ocean.
“Asshole.”
Oikawa’s eyes glitter. “Y’know, Iwa-chan, maybe you were right. Bench presses aren’t that bad after all.”
“Oh, I’ll show you bad, Shittykawa,” he says, and Oikawa charges at him for the final shove. But Hajime wasn’t Seijoh’s undefeated arm wrestling champion for nothing.
Before Oikawa’s hands reach his shoulders, Hajime ducks underneath them and wraps his arms around his friend’s waist.
One moment, he’s crashing into Hajime. The next, he’s in the air, screaming.
“IWA-CHAN! PUT ME DOWN!”
“Is that what you really want?”
“I’m serious! Put me—AAAHHHH!”
Hajime spins him around, and Oikawa releases a long string of profanities that would probably make Mama Oikawa wash her son’s mouth with bleach. Hajime promptly dumps him into the waves, effectively silencing him.
The resulting splash is enough to get the front half of his own shirt and pants wet, but frankly, he doesn’t care. He’s laughing, and there’s salt water in his eyes and all over his clothes, and—
And Oikawa’s looking at him, half-sitting in the water but not even making a single move to get up. His bangs are caked to his forehead, his face flushed an exceptional shade of pink, and his mouth is hanging slightly open in a round, perfect oh.
“You asked for it,” Hajime jabs, before Oikawa says anything. Because Oikawa not saying anything is weird.
Oikawa blinks before his expression morphs into a petulant scowl. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”
Hajime raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re just giving up like that?”
“What?”
“The back of my shirt’s still dry, Loserkawa,” Hajime prods him. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. He supposes it’s got something to do with the adrenaline high of spinning his best friend around and launching him into the ocean.
Oikawa slowly gets up, tongue darting out to lick his lips. That must be salty, Hajime thinks offhandedly.
“You are so on.”
They spend the next fifteen minutes kicking and scooping up water and splashing at each other like their lives depend on it. Oikawa shrieks with laughter when Hajime somehow trips and ends up fully drenched, and yet they still keep going. At some point they go back to wrestling each other down into the water again, but because neither of them are very agile with their feet sinking into the sand and waves lapping around their knees, they both keep falling anyway.
After what must be his twentieth fall, Oikawa flops down onto the shallow beach on his own accord. “I can’t,” he pants, wiping at his eyes, “Wait.” He grabs at the collar of his green button-up shirt. The top three buttons have already come undone, exposing the long column of his throat all the way down to the bottom of his sternum. “This is useless.”
Oikawa gets up, finally, and shucks off his shirt as he walks back to the shore. The rest of his skin is still pale, Hajime notices, as he watches water trickle from his neck past a distinct tan line between his shoulders. Suddenly Hajime realizes how warm and flushed his face is. Probably from exhaustion and exposure to the sun.
“Your face is so red, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, standing at the shore with one hand on his hip. “You forgot to put on sunblock again, didn’t you? You should know this by now, you know!”
“I know,” Hajime grumbles as he makes his way out of the ocean, shrugging off his own tank top.
Oikawa eyes him, face scrunched in disapproval, as he hands him a towel. “Here. Dry your face.” He then proceeds to conjure a tube of sunblock from his bag.
Hajime squints at him. “Since when did you become so responsible?”
“I’ve always been responsible!”
“Uh huh.”
Oikawa sighs and steps towards him, squeezing a dollop of sun cream onto his fingers. Then his hand is on Hajime’s jaw, thumb swiping across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. Hajime can feel Oikawa’s calluses on his skin with every purposeful movement. A setter’s hands, he thinks.
For a moment, Oikawa looks at him, and for once, Hajime can’t understand the look in his eyes. Then he steps away, a pleased grin on his face, and clasps his hands together. “Great! Just wait a couple of minutes and you should be good to go. Also, you should really start incorporating sunblock into your daily skincare routine, Iwa-chan. But since you already act like an old man, I suppose it doesn’t really matter if your appearance catches up soon!”
Hajime rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Assikawa.”
“I might as well retouch mine,” Oikawa says, humming as he lathers the cream over his smooth skin. There’s a click as he closes the cap then returns the bottle to his bag.
Hajime glances at him and spots a small smudge of white just underneath his chin. Before he knows it, his fingers are on Oikawa’s skin, gently rubbing at the spot.
“Iwa-chan, what are you…”
“You didn’t spread it properly, dumbass,” Hajime grunts.
“Oh.” Oikawa blinks. “Thanks.” Then he flashes a grin at Hajime. “Iwa-chan actually knows how to use sunblock. I have to say, I’m pretty impressed.”
Hajime stands up and begins walking back towards the sea.
“Or not,” Oikawa grumbles. “Hey—Iwa-chan! You still need a couple more minutes!”
“I won’t wet my face, Oikawa, it’s fine,” he replies, already waist-deep in the water. It isn’t long before Hajime hears the splash of water behind him as Oikawa wades into the surf.
They stay in the ocean for what must be hours, but here, time seems to melt away into insignificance. At that moment, Hajime’s world is nothing but the water bordered by this little stretch of shore, and Oikawa, cloaked in the blue of the sky and the sea.
Hajime may have left home, traveled halfway across the globe and some more, but right now, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
✩*⋆ ⍋*✩⋆⍋⋆*✩
The sun is sinking past the horizon by the time they emerge from the ocean, fingertips wrinkled like raisins and shoulders tinged cherry-red. Oikawa groans about how he’d forgotten to let them put sunblock on the rest of their bodies the entire walk back.
They drop by for a quick shower in the room they’re staying in, which is part of a housing complex that belongs to one of Oikawa’s teammates and his wife. It makes Hajime think of how young and accomplished Oikawa actually is—just three years out of high school, surrounded by professional players who have long since graduated from university.
He watches him as he lathers aloe vera gel on the red parts of his skin, humming a Christmas carol that Hajime vaguely recognizes as something probably overplayed in malls in America. Oikawa looks young, definitely. But Hajime had watched Oikawa grow up for nearly eighteen years. To suddenly see him again with his features suddenly matured is almost jarring. Low-quality video calls simply couldn’t capture the new definition in his cheekbones or the sharpness of his jawline.
Their gazes meet in the mirror, and Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Are you staring, Iwa-chan?” he teases.
Hajime glares at him threateningly. “Hurry up.”
“Fine, fine.” Oikawa gives himself another once-over in the mirror. It lasts about thirty seconds longer than it actually should. Finally, he steps aside, heading towards the closet to finally put a damn shirt on.
Without Oikawa blocking his view, Hajime finds himself staring at his own reflection. He wonders if the other sees any changes in him, too. He doesn’t think there’s much—he’d only managed to grow a centimeter and a half since graduating high school, much to his chagrin.
“Ready, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa skips over to the doorway. “I’m hungry!”
They emerge in the courtyard of the housing complex, which is decorated almost as much as the shopfronts they’d passed by earlier. Mini Christmas trees and wreaths take the centerpiece at long rows of tables, which are laid out with a variety of Argentinian dishes—empanadas, beef roulade, potato salad, roasted pork, stuffed tomatoes, meat and cheese platters, and at least a dozen more dishes that Hajime can’t name. The smell of grilling meat wafts over from the center of the courtyard, where a barbeque appears to be taking place. Hajime recognizes the person fanning the grill as the tall, bearded man who had welcomed them to their room earlier.
“Jorge!”
“Tooru!” He jogs over, wiping sweat from his forehead, a wide grin on his face. “And Hajime, right?” he adds in mildly accented English.
“That’s me,” Hajime replies with a smile.
Jorge motions towards one of the tables. “I need to introduce you to my family!”
A beautiful woman with dark, curly hair approaches them, two young kids clinging to her skirt. “This is Evangelina, my wife. Evangelina, este es Hajime, el amigo de Tooru.”
Evangelina’s eyes crinkle as she beams at them both. “Nice to meet you, Hajime,” she says. She steps forward and ruffles Tooru’s hair. To him, she says: “Es tan guapo como tú, Tooru.”
The corners of Oikawa’s mouth lift in amusement. “Puede, pero no más que yo.”
The couple laughs. One of their children steps forward, hand still clutching his mother’s skirt. His eyes are wide as he gazes up at Hajime. He must be no older than six years old.
“This is our eldest, Francisco,” Jorge says, hand on his son’s shoulder. “And our daughter, Paula, but she’s quite shy.” The little girl ducks even more behind her mother, and Hajime chuckles. He crouches down and reaches out a hand towards Francisco. The boy takes it reluctantly, but his face splits into a grin as they shake hands. At that, Paula edges forward ever slightly, and Hajime gives her a gentle smile.
“Oho!” Jorge chortles in delight. “Tooru, your friend is so good with children!”
“Of course, he learned from me,” Oikawa replies smoothly, preening.
Hajime rolls his eyes as he looks up at Oikawa, whose expression radiates equal parts annoyance and awe. It’s the same expression he wears whenever Hajime gets a good serve in. (“I feel like I’m losing to Iwa-chan!” “No, Oikawa, you are not.”)
Jorge looks between the both of them, a pleased twinkle in his gaze. “I’d better go back to the barbeque. Tooru, Hajime, start eating already! Evangelina didn’t cook all day for you two to sit around waiting now!”
“Gracias, Evangelina, Jorge,” Oikawa says. Then, slipping back into Japanese for Hajime: “C’mon, Iwa-chan. You have to try the empanadas first—Evangelina’s really good at making them, she packs tons for the team whenever we have away games and they’re amazing."
It’s probably the millionth time Oikawa’s told him about the said empanadas, but Hajime finally understands when he takes a bite. The dough is crispy and flaky, the beef bursting with flavor. “Shit, it really is good.”
“I told you so!” Oikawa exclaims with glee. “Here, you should try the pionono next. They’re like sponge cake rolls—I personally like the sweet ones, but I know you think sugar’s the devil right now so you can have the savory one as an appetizer.”
Hajime almost points out that Oikawa still has a habit of sending him an excess of Japanese candies and chocolates whenever he orders way too much for himself, but he’s silenced the moment Oikawa says “Here, try this one, it’s got ham and cheese and palm hearts!” and promptly shoves the roll into Hajime’s mouth.
“Mmf!” Hajime makes a move to elbow him, but Oikawa simply dodges, a trained expert at dealing with his jabs. He sticks his tongue out and wiggles his eyebrows excitedly, and Hajime wonders why he ever thought Oikawa had matured. “Good, right?”
Hajime grunts in affirmative, much to Oikawa’s delight.
By the end of the night, Hajime’s probably tried at least twenty different Argentine dishes amounting to a week’s worth of college meals. Dinner with Jorge, his family, and the rest of their neighbors is a lively affair. Jorge animatedly tells Hajime about their team’s frequent trips to Buenos Aires for games, which is why he had decided to buy a house in the area for vacationing with his wife and kids. The entire family seems to be very fond of Oikawa, which is expected, but it’s their equal enthusiasm in welcoming Hajime that is a pleasant surprise. At some point, Francisco even shyly offers Hajime a pack of fruitcake, mumbling something in soft Spanish.
“He says it’s for you,” Oikawa clarifies. “I can’t believe you’re stealing Francisco from me!”
“Oh, uh, gracias,” Hajime tries, wincing internally at his likely butchered pronunciation. Francisco beams up at him nonetheless before scurrying away.
Oikawa shoots him a sly grin. “Practicing your Spanish, huh?”
“Shut up,” he says in biting English.
Conversations in various languages float across the courtyard, and although Hajime can only speak two of them, it isn’t too difficult to understand the holiday cheer radiating from the families gathered together in the warmth of the evening. After being surrounded for so long by people of different nationalities in California, Hajime doesn’t feel too strange. Or perhaps it’s impossible to feel out of place when he’s sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his childhood best friend.
As Oikawa leans his head into the crook of his neck, Hajime realizes there’s no other way to put it. It just feels right.
“Tooru,” Jorge calls from behind them. “It's almost midnight. You and Hajime should go.”
Oikawa shoots up. “Shit!” he says, first in Japanese. “I almost forgot!”
Jorge waves a hand reassuringly. “There is still time, if you go now. The party is just starting.”
“Where are we going?” Hajime asks for what feels like the umpteenth time that trip. It’s also the umpteenth time that Oikawa shoots him a wink and replies, “It’s a secret!”
“Go,” Jorge urges. “And have fun! ¡Feliz Navidad!”
“¡Feliz Navidad!” Oikawa returns at the same time Hajime says, “Thank you!” They look at each other, and Oikawa chuckles. “Let’s go, Iwa-chan!”
There’s a warm glow that seems to emanate throughout Mar del Plata as they make their way once again through the bustling crowds. The decorations from earlier are even livelier now, lit up by strings of Christmas lights that remind Hajime of the winter illumination in Sendai.
It’s barely a surprise that Oikawa is thinking the same thing. His eyes are sparkling with excitement when he turns to Hajime and says, “It’s almost like the Sendai Pageant of Starlight, right?”
Suddenly, Hajime is seventeen again, fresh out of Friday volleyball practice with the rest of his team as they walk down the tree-lined avenue still clad in their white jackets. Oikawa is next to him—he always is—his smile illuminated by the golden light. Doesn’t gold look good on me, Iwa-chan?
The years seem to bleed together as their fingers brush, warm and familiar. The crowd continues to move around them, and Oikawa’s hand finally catches his wrist.
“No getting lost on my watch, Iwa-chan,” he says, twinkling gaze focused straight ahead.
Hajime snorts. “Maybe it would help a little if you could, you know, tell me where we’re going.”
“You’ll see!”
“How will I do that when I have no idea what I’m looking for?” Hajime counters. And then he sees it. Specks of yellow-orange light scattered across the shore ahead of them, slowly growing in number as more and more people make their way towards the beach.
Oikawa brings them over to an open tent near the shore where a small crowd gathers. “Hold on, Iwa-chan,” he says, and then joins the throng of people. When he emerges moments later, there’s a large paper lantern in his hands.
“I wasn’t allowed to reserve more than one,” he says with a pout. “So this is for you.”
Hajime stares at him. “What?”
“I said,” Oikawa repeats, “this is for you, Iwa-chan. Don’t be too surprised, now! It’s so you can make your yearly wish for five more centimeters of my height!”
“Asshole,” Hajime huffs. “I’m not accepting this. It’s yours.”
“What?! No, Iwa-chan, I got it just for you! You can wish for something more realistic, I promise!”
He scoffs. “Fine. We can just share it, then.”
Oikawa looks at him curiously. “Are you sure, Iwa-chan? I mean, what if the gods decide my wish is much better and ignore yours completely?”
“I’m fine with that,” Hajime blurts, and then frowns, surprised at his own answer. Oikawa seems to be equally shocked, looking at Hajime with wide eyes.
“Really? Why?”
Because you deserve to have everything you’ve ever wished for, you idiot, Hajime thinks, and it’s as sudden and natural as his earlier reply.
“Because I know it won’t happen,” he responds instead. “You’ll probably wish for something horrible like Ushijima’s downfall, and the gods will never listen to you again.”
“Of course not!” Oikawa cries. Then he pauses. “Wait. You know, you might actually be pretty brilliant sometimes, Iwa-chan.”
“Just light the goddamn lantern.”
“Yessir!” Oikawa fishes a matchbox out of his pocket and tosses it to Hajime, who catches it with a grunt. “Actually, you can do it!”
He takes out a matchstick and lights it in one swift motion. Oikawa claps his hands in delight. “Smooth! Here.” He steps towards Hajime as he unfurls the lantern, holding it up to expose the base.
Hajime holds the matchstick to the wax-covered fabric and watches as the orange flame flickers and grows. “There. Careful.”
Oikawa beams at him. “Think of your wish now, Iwa-chan! It’s only a few minutes until midnight.”
Sure enough, a loud voice begins a countdown in Spanish over the megaphone. Hajime tries to think, but his mind comes up empty.
“Nine,” Oikawa whispers, gripping the base of the lantern. “Eight. Seven.”
When Hajime was six, his and Oikawa’s families went to a lantern festival together. He recalls the memory as if through the shimmering blur of air above a flame—details hazy, faces out of focus.
But he remembers Oikawa, his gap-toothed smile, one soft hand around Hajime’s wrist, the other gripping the strip of paper containing his handwritten wish.
"What’d you write?” Hajime asked.
“Nee-san said it’s s’pposed to be a secret,” Oikawa whispered. “Or else it won’t come true. But you’re my best friend, so I'm sure it’s okay!”
Hajime frowned. He didn’t want Oikawa’s wish not to come true. But before he could stop him, his friend already opened his mouth.
“I wished that we could play together forever and ever!”
“Volleyball? That’s silly.”
“Not just volleyball. Why?”
“You said it yourself. We’re best friends. Of course we’ll play together forever and ever.”
And Hajime had closed his eyes and wished for the first thing that came to mind—a new Tamagotchi—because what else was there to really ask for when Oikawa was always by his side?
Now, he looks at Oikawa, whose face is illuminated by the warm glow. The shadows underneath his eyes. The fire in his irises. Everything, so real yet ephemeral.
“Three. Two…”
He wants to reach out and feel Oikawa’s skin underneath his fingertips, solid and there. He wants to feel his hand on his back, firm and reassuring. He wants to take in that stupid smirk and know he’ll see it again later that day, then the next, then the next after that.
He wants, but he does not wish. Because with Oikawa, Hajime has only really wished for one thing.
“One! Let go, Iwa-chan!”
The lantern floats into the sky. They watch, gazes tilted upwards, as it joins the hundreds of glowing lights sailing into the inky darkness.
Once the lanterns have become mere pinpoints in the sky, Oikawa bumps his shoulder. “So what did you wish for, Iwa-chan?”
“Isn’t it supposed to be a secret?”
He pouts in response. “Okay, fine. I hope my wish comes true!”
Hajime laughs, which earns him a confused look from Oikawa. “You’re weird, Iwa-chan,” he declares.
“That’s rich, coming from you,” he shoots back, but he’s still smiling anyway.
Oikawa may not know it, but he’s already said exactly what Hajime wished for.