Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

—

Days, months, two years. Time passes, life moves on, and so does Oikawa, because he has to. 

The first step was building a routine that he could stick to. Living in a foreign country and encountering new and unexpected things every day, it’s nice to have some things that stay the same; a straight line amidst the twists and curves. He has training from 9AM to 5PM every day except Sunday and days with games. He has Spanish class on Tuesdays and Thursdays after training. He goes to a nearby supermarket every Saturday and he tries to batch cook his proteins every Sunday so he saves time during the week. He learns how to cook because the team nutritionist needs them to meet specific nutritional requirements every day and he’s earning his own money for the first time in his life and he learned early on it’s a lot cheaper to eat at home. He just had to suffer through his sister cackling from her phone screen the first couple of times he had to video call her to ask what it means to blanch something or why his chicken kept sticking to the pan.

And eventually, he starts building on top of this routine, the foundation for his new life. Exploring the nearby places from his apartment to renting a car to explore the places outside the city. Having dinner with his classmates after class and meeting his team mates’ families during the weekends. Of course, there are bumps. Sometimes he’s gripped with such strong homesickness, he spends an entire weekend holed up in his apartment watching anime or Japanese channels on Youtube because it was comforting to listen to a language he could fully understand. Or sometimes he ends up scrolling through Instagram to see what all his friends back home were doing (without him).

Fortunately, there were only so many weekends of wallowing in self-pity before eventually his new teammates decided to band together and drag him out of his apartment to take him out to a club. And it was during one of those nights, sitting in a loud bar, noise and laughter and music all around him, the bass beating in his chest, staring at the bottom of his third cocktail glass, he thought—fuck it. What's the point of leaving your entire life and moving to an entirely new country if you’re still stuck in the place you’re supposed to have left behind. There is no going back. Everyone’s already begun to rearrange their lives without him there; everything’s changed, everyone’s moving on. 

He told that to himself everyday, in the moments in his apartment when the loneliness was stifling, in the lulls of conversation when he reached the limit of his Spanish with someone and they nodded politely and looked away, in the clubs he went to when certain songs or the way someone moved or the way someone looked at him made him think about people, sometimes a specific person, back home.

And he tells himself that again as his plane sets down in Narita, nearly two years since he left Japan.

He takes his phone off airplane mode and opens his messages.

Oikawa Tooru:
just landed :)
5:32PM

He stares out the window as the plane taxis to its gate. The airport tarmac is blinding in the afternoon sun. His phone vibrates with a new message.

Iwaizumi Hajime:
Okay see you soon
5:34PM

He breathes deeply through his nose. Everything’s changed, everyone’s moved on.

It was around six months to his stay in Argentina when Iwaizumi sent him a message. Before that, the last time they had spoken was the night Oikawa had climbed out of his window in a fit of tears. He still tries his best to wipe that night from his memory.

The message was simple: Is there a site where I can watch your games?

Oikawa remembers the smugness of not being the one that sent the first message; see, he was totally moving on. It wasn’t that big of a deal to him, he wasn’t the one extending the olive branch after months of not talking. He was moving on so well, he could have gone on longer without speaking. So yeah, fuck you, Iwa-chan, he won their no contact standoff. 

What he tries not to remember: the way he froze in the middle of his hallway when he saw Iwaizumi’s name on his notifications. How he had stared at the message for a good minute before he put his phone back in his pocket, ignored it for the rest of the day as he went to practice, had lunch, finished practice, went home, took a shower, prepared dinner, got ready for bed, then as he stared up at the ceiling, trying and failing to fall asleep, grabbed his phone from the bedside table and replied with the link. Just the link. Not like he had spent six months dying to talk to him. He had to make that obvious.

Carefully, they picked things up from there. With the time difference, and if his busy schedule permitted him, Iwaizumi would watch Oikawa’s games over his breakfast, messaging Oikawa his thoughts and commentary. By the time Oikawa was finally able to get to his phone after the game, Iwaizumi was often already asleep and their messages would continue when Iwaizumi woke up and Oikawa was winding down from the day. 

The plane doors open and Oikawa gets off. He picks up his luggage from the baggage carousel then he’s on the shuttle service from Narita to Shinjuku Station. It’s an hour and a half long, so he settles in his seat and opens Instagram, thinking about what story he’ll post to announce he’s back in Japan.

While Iwaizumi could watch Oikawa through his games, much to Oikawa’s continued annoyance, Iwaizumi still didn’t have Instagram. So the glimpses Oikawa saw of his face and what he looked like these past two years were from the occasional times he would be present in mutual college friend’s Instagram stories, or sometimes in Mattsun or Makki’s posts when they were in Sendai. And each time Oikawa caught him in one, he paused the screen, lingered on his face, before lifting his thumb and moving on. 

They’ve never gotten on a call, video or even just a regular call. Somehow it still felt too much for him, to hear his voice, see his face, not have the benefit of taking his time to be able to write and rewrite his replies, so he had never offered, and Iwaizumi never did too. 

So they kept their communication through messages. And the messages were on and off, mostly on the days Oikawa had games, and they mostly centered around the safe territory of volleyball; Oikawa’s new team, Jose Blanco, how the Argentinian league system was so different from Japan’s. It was only when Oikawa hit his one-year anniversary of living in Argentina when it felt like a window had opened and they could breathe a little easier and they both started testing the waters, expanding the topics of their conversations to their personal lives; Iwaizumi mentioning how he saw his sister when he was visiting Sendai over the long weekend, asking how Oikawa’s parents are, have they visited him in Buenos Aires. Oikawa asked Iwaizumi how graduation was and how his post-graduate program is going, if he had anything lined up for the weekend, has he watched this new anime he’s heard about.

The jet lag creeps up on him slowly, and he falls asleep, only waking up when the bus jerks to a stop at the station. He shuffles out of the bus, gathers his luggage, and as he steps inside Shinjuku Station, deja vu hits him square in the chest: here, again, searching for Iwaizumi’s face in the crowds of Shinjuku. And here, again, that lurch in his stomach when he finally sees him.

His cheeks are just a bit sharper in a way that late nights and no energy to cook proper food do to someone. A shirt Oikawa recognizes hangs around his broad shoulders. But also—

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa gasps. “ Your hair. ”

Iwaizumi stops walking toward him to run a hand through his hair—rather, over it , because his dark hair is closely cropped to his head and there isn’t any hair long enough that can reach between his fingers. He must have cut it recently because Oikawa last saw him on a mutual classmate’s IG story a few weeks ago, and he still had his usual hair then. 

“Oh, yeah,” Iwaizumi says, shrugging. “I'm keeping it short for the next few months since I don’t have time to keep getting it trimmed.”

“Now you definitely look like a brute.”

The last time Iwaizumi had his hair shaved this short was back in fourth grade when there had been a lice outbreak in their class. He had been an unlucky victim, so his mother had all his hair shaved off and he had hated it. Oikawa’s mind reconciles the memory of that younger Iwaizumi to this version in the present, standing in front of him, and the versions of the Oikawa that's there in both. 

Once the shock of Iwaizumi’s haircut passes, what’s left is a nervousness he tries to ignore. Here, once again, standing in front of each other, taking each other in. 

“Hi,” Oikawa says.

“Hi,” Iwaizumi says.

Seconds pass. Iwaizumi clears his throat then slowly lifts his hands up to his sides.

“Hug?”

It’s so awkward, Oikawa has to laugh.

“Yeah, okay.”

They walk to each other, steps awkward and stiff, but as soon as they're within arms reach, it's like they're on auto-pilot: Oikawa is the one to walk into his arms, and as soon as Iwaizumi’s arms are around him, his eyes close, his shoulders ease. He settles his hands on Iwaizumi’s back, resting his chin on his shoulder. He still smells the same. He’s four, he’s fifteen, he’s twenty-two.

“You smell the same,” Oikawa tells him as much.

He starts to step back, but Iwaizumi doesn’t let go. Oikawa feels his traitorous heart start beating a bit faster. Fucking quit it, he tells himself.

“You smell like recycled air and unwashed hair,” Iwaizumi says, but doesn’t move.

“Whatever,” Oikawa mumbles into the cotton of Iwaizumi’s shirt.

Finally, they pull away from each other. 

“Hungry?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Starving.”

“Great. There’s a cheap izakaya nearby.”

Iwaizumi reaches for the handle of his luggage, and Oikawa is relieved he lets go of it just before their fingers brush. Iwaizumi turns around and heads toward the station exit, and Oikawa takes another steadying breath, eyes on Iwaizumi’s back, and follows after him.

—

It's easy.

Everything's so fucking easy it hits him how difficult the past two years have actually been. 

It's so easy to say what he wants, to put his thoughts into words and have the other person understand exactly what he's saying (and to know him so well he understands what he doesn’t). It’s so easy when you’re with someone who’s lived through the same highs, cried the same tears, weathered the same challenges. Who can fill in the gaps of whatever he talks about because he was there too.

And yeah, the alcohol helps. It helps a lot. Two beers later, Oikawa’s shoulders are loose, the tightness in his chest eases, he’s able to ignore the way their knees occasionally brush against each other under the tiny table they’re sharing, and he can just enjoy where he is, in a familiar city, sitting across a face he’s known his entire life.

Over the course of their meal, he sneaks glances at Iwaizumi, cataloging the changes over the past two years. The shaved hair, of course, a sun spot near the corner of his eye that wasn’t there before (he needs to remind him to put on sunscreen), how he’s had two bottles of Asahi Super Dry now when he was never that particular about what beer to order before. But also, what’s stayed the same: his laugh, starting off drinks with two orders of agedashi tofu that he doesn’t even offer to share because it’s mine and you eat all of it so get your own, the way his brow narrows when he needs to think about how he has to answer a question.

“So are you coming to Sendai too?” Oikawa asks. He nibbles on a piece of grilled chicken.

Oikawa only has a week and half before he has to go back to training. Some of the senior members of the team are taking longer vacations, but two years in, he’s still trying to prove himself. He wants to be the starting setter this upcoming season. So he’s only in Tokyo for the weekend, a quick pit stop to rest after his flight before he heads to Sendai where he'll be spending the rest of his week with his family. 

Predictably, Iwaizumi’s brow furrows. Oikawa knows immediately that he isn’t joining him.

“I wish I could, but I've got games this week and a practical exam on Thursday.”

Oikawa nods, quashing the twinge of disappointment in his chest.

So it's just this weekend for them. Alright. Not like Iwaizumi can pause and rearrange his life to spend more time with him. He knows a thing or two about that.

“Oh, okay.”

“Sorry, I wish—I wanted to,” Iwaizumi sighs. “It’s just a bad time right now.”

While the Argentinian league is on its season break, the Japanese volleyball league is in full swing. Iwaizumi is on a paid internship at a Division 2 league while also taking his two year specialization program. 

Oikawa sneaks another glance at Iwaizumi while he orders more yakitori. There’s a tiredness in his face, the way he carries himself, that reminds Oikawa of long weekends cramming for his exams. He must be having a hard time juggling his job and studying.

Instinctively, he reaches out to squeeze Iwaizumi’s hand but he catches himself just in time. He rests it on his shoulder instead, squeezing it gently, like what normal friends would do.

“It’s fine, Iwa-chan,” he says, dropping his hand back to his side.

The rest of the night goes quickly: Iwaizumi once visited Matsukawa at his funeral company, accidentally walked into a room that was holding a funeral, and never visited him again. Oikawa learned how to drive so he could go around the city but also explore the countryside outside of Buenos Aires. Iwaizumi saw Takeru the last time he was in Sendai and he’s already up to his shoulder. Oikawa knows how to cook now (this got a bigger reaction than the driving) and is quite proud of his stir-fry vegetables.

One of the waiters clears their throat, distracting Oikawa from their conversation, and when he looks up from his beer, he realizes most of the salarymen in their izakaya have gone. Which means it’s definitely late.

“Oh,” Oikawa says, glancing around. “It’s just us left.”

Iwaizumi looks around the restaurant.

“Oh, shit, you’re right. Let’s get the bill, we’re seeing each other tomorrow—err, later today, anyway.”

They get the bill, Oikawa insisting the meal is on him since Iwaizumi is still technically in school. When he’s done paying, Oikawa stands up—and the room starts spinning. 

“Oh, what the—”

He sticks a hand out to grab onto something, and Iwaizumi catches it, his other arm wrapping around Oikawa’s waist as he falls back onto Iwaizumi’s chest. 

“Woah, are you alright?”

Oikawa nods, rubbing his glassy eyes so his vision clears. Their nutritionist has had them all strictly follow their diet for the past few months, so it’s been a long time since he’s had alcohol and this much to drink. It wasn’t even that much. He’s a complete lightweight.

“Yeah,” he says, embarrassed. He stands up straight, pulling himself away from Iwaizumi. “I guess I’m not used to drinking this much anymore.”

“I'll walk you to your hotel.”

“What, no, Iwa-chan, it’s five minutes away, I can manage—“

Iwaizumi is already picking his backpack up from the floor. 

“You might just fall and hit your head on the pavement,” he says, voice firm. He takes hold of Oikawa’s arm, hand around his elbow, steadying him, looks him in the eye. “Can you walk on your own? You can hold onto me, if you need to.”

Oikawa’s cheeks warm with embarrassment. But also the pleased satisfaction of being doted on that he’s never managed to get over and only the alcohol-fueled self-awareness gets himself to acknowledge. Blaming it on the alcohol, he takes Iwaizumi up on the offer, lets himself be comforted by the warmth of his body as they walk together to his hotel, Iwaizumi’s arm wrapped around his side.

It’s really only a few blocks away. Oikawa had chosen a hotel near Shinjuku Station since it’s also where he'd be taking the train to Miyagi. He had also booked his room last minute so by then all the single rooms had been taken. He had to pay a bit more since the only rooms left were the ones for two people, and he only remembers all of this when he opens the door and sees the double bed that takes up half the room.

“Oh,” he says to himself, stopping by the door. 

Iwaizumi shuffles inside, putting his luggage in for him. He sets Oikawa’s bag on the carpet before he steps back out onto the hallway.

Oikawa turns to him. 

“Thanks for the help,” he says. He checks his phone. The last train was over an hour ago, which means Iwaizumi is going to have to spend on a taxi to go home. He adds, “Let me pay for your taxi since you helped me with my luggage.”

Iwaizumi waves him off.

“You paid for dinner. It’s fine. I'll just walk a bit more before I call a taxi so it won’t be so expensive.”

Oikawa bites his bottom lip. He feels guilty for letting him miss the train. He thinks—no, he shouldn't. He knows he should let Iwaizumi leave and take a cab and see him in the morning. 

So he blames it on jet lag. He blames it on the alcohol, again, the easy buzz in his veins. He blames it on once again being put on a countdown (31 hrs 23 minutes) for how much time they have with one another and the number of times he’ll get to see his face until he leaves again—

“Want to sleep here tonight?” he asks. “The bed’s too big anyway.”

The question hangs in the air. He shouldn’t have asked. Fuck. It would have been okay before, but after all that’s happened, the time apart, trying to go back to being friends, it’s too weird now. But—Iwaizumi will probably think it’s a bad idea too. That he'll be the one to say no, stop it before—

“Actually—yeah, okay,” he says. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you..?”

Oh. 

Oikawa feels his cheeks grow warm. He hopes it's masked by his alcohol flush, but he sees Iwaizumi’s face is red too. 

“Y-yeah, of course it’s okay, I asked,” Oikawa says, shuffling inside the room, heart thumping in his chest. 

Iwaizumi follows after him, but jerks to a stop.

“Oh, shit, wait, I smell like I've brought the izakaya here and I don't have anything to change—”

“You can borrow my clothes,” Oikawa replies, too quickly.  

Iwaizumi looks at him, and Oikawa is overcome with the urge to escape.

“Let me just take a shower first.”

He zips open his luggage and takes some clothes out before going to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. It’s the kind with the large glass window on the shower wall that separates the bathroom from the sleeping area. He sees Iwaizumi taking his phone out of his pocket and settling on the floor. He presses the button to lower the blinds to give himself some privacy. Sure he won’t be seen, he kneels down on the cold bathroom tiles that help sober him up a little and thinks, What the fuck what’s happening get a grip this doesn’t have to be weird. 

Eventually, he turns on the shower, gives it a few seconds for the water to grow warm as he removes his clothes. When he finally steps under the shower, he groans in relief. He closes his eyes as the warm water runs down his body. He feels his muscles relax, his limbs growing heavy, and it feels like the alcohol evaporates from his pores along with the steam. Had he really been on a plane for over 24 hours? He can’t even remember how long he’s been awake for. He’s exhausted. 

His mind wanders and starts thinking about the clean sheets and cold pillows, so he washes up quickly, eager to get to bed. He changes into a loose shirt, one of the many Club Atletico San Juan merch he has lying at home, and a pair of boxers. When he steps out of the bathroom, he’s greeted by the cold air of the air conditioner that runs a shiver up his legs and spine. He loves this feeling. Coming out of a hot bath, body warm, stepping into a cold room and lying on cool sheets. The perfect start for a good sleep.

“Shower’s free,” Oikawa says, drying his hair with his towel. “Get whatever shirt and pair of boxers in my bag.”

“Alright, thanks,” Iwaizumi says, setting his phone down before kneeling in front of Oikawa’s luggage to get some clothes.

Oikawa opens his toiletry kit and starts to lay out his toner and evening moisturizer on the tiny bedside table.

Behind him, Iwaizumi says softly, “I was wondering where this went.”

Oikawa stiffens. He knows immediately what Iwaizumi has in his hands. 

He breathes evenly, flipping open his bottle of toner and dabbing it onto a cotton pad.

“Hmm?” he asks, glancing back, voice just the right side of curious and clueless to what Iwaizumi is referring to.

“I always thought I left it in that laundromat that closed down.”

He was holding the shirt his college had given out during his freshman orientation. It used to be one of Iwaizumi’s favorite shirts to sleep in. And when their separate piles of clothes had merged into one big heap they pulled from, it quickly became one of Oikawa’s favorites too. First, it was definitely better material than the shirt Oikawa got during his orientation. It was loose around the shoulders, thick enough to be comfy during the cold winters, but not too thick that it would also be perfect for the summers and he wouldn’t need a blanket.

“Oh! What’s that doing there?” 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, getting up from the floor. Fortunately, he doesn't push the topic further. 

“Don’t mind if I use it tonight then,” he says, walking to the bathroom.

As soon as the door closes and he hears the shower running, Oikawa drops onto the bed. He rubs a hand over his face, willing his cheeks to cool down as he listens to the sound of the water running. 

The second reason was that the shirt had smelled so much of Iwaizumi. His last night before leaving their dorm, while Iwaizumi was out to class, Oikawa had dug through his pile of clothes to steal it and he had worn it to bed every night in Buenos Aires until it no longer smelled of him. Lovesick idiot. He’s going to keep that secret to himself til the grave. Right now, he’s cursing himself for not having gotten rid of it yet and even bringing it all the way back to Japan. What was he thinking!! 

He forces himself to finish his skincare routine, then after, shuffles onto one side of the bed, dropping his head back on the pillow. He’s closing his eyes and ready to pass out when he remembers he hasn’t checked his messages since the airport.

Groaning, he sits up, leans over to fish his phone out of his backpack without getting up from the bed, and he’s opening his messages as he drops back onto the mattress. There’s messages from Mattsun and Makki in the groupchat he shares with Iwaizumi, from his parents asking if he’s landed and if there’s anything he wants to eat during his stay so they can buy it in the market tomorrow, from his sister scolding him for not sending her a message as soon as he landed, some messages from his teammates and—

“Fuck,” he breathes. He sits up as he opens a specific thread where he sees five unread messages. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Emil Paredes:
I think your plane should have arrived by now, right? How was the flight? :)
6:13PM

Emil Paredes:
Have you checked in your hotel already? Any plans for dinner?
7:13PM

Emil Paredes:
Hey is everything okay
7:52PM

Missed call from Emil Paredes
8:16PM

Emil Paredes:
I’m guessing you’re passed out. Message me as soon as you’re awake
8:18PM

Emil is a half-Japanese-half Argentinian barista that works at a cafe near Oikawa’s apartment. It had been such a jolt of surprise the first time he started speaking to Oikawa in Japanese after he gave his name for his order. He's helped Oikawa with his Spanish and introduced him to different parts of the city these past six months.

They’ve also been dating these past three months. And he also hasn't crossed Oikawa’s mind even once the second his eyes landed on Iwaizumi. 

Oikawa swallows. He’s opened the thread now, so all of Emil’s messages have a read receipt. He spends minutes typing up a reply, deleting it, then typing a new one.

Emil doesn’t know about Iwaizumi. Well, he knows about him in the sense of there being a childhood best friend that he played volleyball with and that he was meeting up with in Tokyo before going home. But they haven’t gotten around to talking about the full extent of their… backstory. But—they’ve only been seeing each other for three months! There’s a lot of ground they haven’t covered. Emil might have his own share of messy relationships he hasn’t shared yet. There’s a lot of things that just haven't come up or that they just haven’t gotten around to talking about yet. 

If he were to reply with the truth, it’s that he lost track of time, and he’s with his best friend. The complete truth: A best friend that he also used to sleep with, that he had confessed to and was subsequently rejected by just before he moved to Buenos Aires, and that said best friend is spending the night in his room and sharing a bed with him. But he knows the truth is not the kind of message you’d want to receive from the guy you’re monogamously seeing when he’s halfway around the world.

So he spares Emil from all that because while it’s the truth, it’s just… it would do more harm than good without him being there in person to give the whole context and to emphasize that it was all in the past anyway. It would only make him concerned or maybe upset when… it’s nothing. It’s not like he’s spending his entire break with Iwaizumi. It’s just this weekend. Heck, the day and a half left of the weekend. So really, it’s nothing. 

Oikawa Tooru:
Sorry for the late reply. :( i passed out as soon as i got to the hotel
2:12AM

Oikawa Tooru:
Is the weekend lunch rush over?
2:12AM

Emil’s reply is immediate, and so is the guilt Oikawa feels in his stomach. 

Emil Paredes:
Oh thank god
2:13AM

Emil Paredes:
I was worried something had happened
2:13AM

Emil Paredes:
I’d call but we’re still in the middle of lunch here. Call you later?
2:14AM

Oikawa agrees and he’s wishing Emil luck when the bathroom door opens and Iwaizumi steps out, and fuck , Oikawa actually feels his dick twitch like some fucked up Pavlovian response to the sight of Iwaizumi fresh out the shower, wearing his old college shirt and a pair of boxers, seeing his bare knees and thighs, rubbing the towel over his head which lifts his shirt and exposes a small strip of skin above his boxers that Oikawa’s tongue knows the the taste of. 

“I’m so ready to sleep,” Iwaizumi groans, hanging the towel over the desk chair and drops down beside Oikawa, lying on his back. He lets out a long, throaty groan as his body settles on the mattress.

Oikawa’s heart: racing. Dick: steadily getting harder.

Fuck!

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” Iwaizumi mumbles, dropping a hand over his eyes. His voice is low and gravelly, his words slurring the way they usually did when he’s a few seconds away from sleep.

“Mhmm,” Oikawa says, sliding his phone under his pillow and turning around to face the other side, his back to Iwaizumi. He squeezes his thighs together to get his overactive dick to calm down. “Good night.”

Iwaizumi replies with a soft snore, and the sound is so familiar that when Oikawa closes his eyes, it’s the fastest he’s fallen asleep in years.

—

Oikawa wakes up he doesn’t know how many hours later, groggy, and his face feeling oddly warm. It takes him a few seconds to process that sometime during the night, he had turned to the other side, and the warmth is coming from his face pressed against Iwaizumi’s back. He stills, then carefully pulls himself away to roll onto his back, making sure not to move the bed too much.

He pulls his phone from under his pillow. 5:47AM. Which means he’s only been asleep for three hours.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes as the rest of his body starts waking up against his will, accustomed to his 6AM runs. He flicks through his messages, skimming through his team’s group chat, leaving some heart reacts and thumbs-ups here and there to let them know he’s read their messages. He sees two messages from Emil, probably when he found time to reply after the lunch rush, but his finger pauses in front of the screen before he opens the thread.

He glances at Iwaizumi sleeping beside him, the steady rise and fall of his shoulders, so close he can still feel his warmth on his cheek.

Oikawa doesn’t open the message, puts his phone down, then slowly gets out of bed. He’s already awake, might as well go for a run. Maybe it’ll help take his mind off things. He changes quietly by the foot of the bed, then tiptoes out of the room, the door clicking closed behind him. 

He jogs through the quiet city streets, the sun peeking from behind the tall glass buildings and concrete structures of the Tokyo skyline. He runs past the early morning delivery trucks, workers stocking up the vending machines, past bakeries and the smell of butter and warm bread. He makes his way to a nearby park, jogging in between the trees and flower bushes, greeting fellow runners with a polite nod.

He finally stops by the lake, hands on his hips, throwing his head back as he takes in lungfuls of air. He takes in the greenery before him, the reflection of the trees and the city skyline against the water’s glass surface, the birds chirping by the trees, the soft hum of conversation from elderly women on their morning walk. And for a few seconds, the murmur of emotions thrumming in his chest quiets, and all he can hear is the sound of his breathing as he watches the sun rise above the trees.

The city, the air, it all feels and smells so different from Buenos Aires. It feels like he’s a different person here. Like parts of him that have laid dormant for the past two years are stirring back to life. He tries to ignore it, but it's there. Look at me look at me i’m still here, it says.

Taking one last view of the lake, at the city reflecting on the stillness of the water, he turns around and starts the jog back. When he’s near the hotel, he stops by a 7-11 to buy some Gatorade. He’s heading to the counter when he passes by the staff restocking the ready-to-eat food and notices they’ve just restocked their maguro onigiri. He buys two. 

When Oikawa gets back to the room, Iwaizumi is awake and sitting up on the bed, pillow lines creased on his face as he watches the news on the television.

“Good morning,” Oikawa says. “Catch.”

Iwaizumi catches the onigiri with one hand. He narrows his eyes at what he’s holding, clearly suffering through morning brain because it takes him a few seconds to process what it is, and when he does, his eyes widen. 

“You remembered I like this?”

“It was the only thing you had for breakfast for over a year. Of course I remember.”

Iwaizumi blinks and it’s gone, but Oikawa’s seen it—this faraway look in Iwaizumi’s eyes, thoughts and words rising to the surface, before they’re swallowed back down. Oikawa sees it because he’s done the same thing many times in his life.

“Thanks,” Iwaizumi says.

He opens the onigiri and takes a bite.

Oikawa takes a quick shower and when he’s done, he drops back on the bed, his head landing closer than he had intended by Iwaizumi’s thigh. He tries to scoot farther up the bed without him noticing, but Iwaizumi looks down at him, and he lifts his hand and there’s a brief second where Oikawa is seized by the thought he’s going to run his hand through his hair (like he used to) before he looks away, dropping his hand back to the bed. Oikawa stares up at him, feels his heart beating in his chest.

Look at me look at me i’m still here

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi says, looking down at his lap, the onigiri plastic in his hands. “Was… this is a bit weird, isn't it.”

“What? Sharing a bed? 

Iwaizumi crumples the plastic into a ball. 

“Yeah. I should have just gone home.”

Oikawa swallows. “But I offered. So. It's…“

“ ‘Whatever?’ “ Iwaizumi finishes, smirking down at him.

Oikawa rolls his eyes, unable to stop himself from grinning.

“So what do you want to do today?”

Oikawa looks up at the ceiling. On the plane, he had prepared a list of the different restaurants he wanted to eat in, desserts he wanted to try, cafes he wanted to take pictures in, clothes he wanted to buy, all the things he wanted to squeeze in during this one full day in Tokyo.

But now—nothing comes to mind. He glances back at Iwaizumi. 

“Maybe let's get breakfast first. Then decide from there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They go to a restaurant and have a traditional Japanese breakfast of miso soup, grilled salmon, hot white rice, and an assortment of pickled vegetables. After the first spoonful of rice, Oikawa immediately starts to look forward to a week of his mom’s cooking and all his favorite food he hasn’t had for years, but it’s cut short when he remembers that Iwaizumi won’t be joining him back home.

They head to a department store to buy Oikawa’s skincare products since there are more options in Tokyo compared to Sendai. Iwaizumi tags along behind him and holds the basket he dumps his products into and carries the shopping bag for him when Oikawa stops to buy a strawberry crepe at a stand. After, they pass by the arcades to use up their coins, and they’re at the claw machine and there’s a crowd of students around them and they’re down to their last coin when Iwaizumi wins a whale plushie.

Iwaizumi’s jaw drops. “Oh, shit! I did it!”

Oikawa, who hasn’t stopped jumping up and down ever since the claw managed to hold onto the tail and lift the plushie out of the pile of other toys, yells back, “You did it!” and wraps his arms around him so they both start jumping up and down together, laughing. They’ve been trying their hand at the claw machine since they were kids and this is the first time one of them’s actually managed to pull it off.

Iwaizumi bends down to pull the whale plushie out of the machine, a proud grin on his face.

He hands it to Oikawa.

“Here, you have it.”

“Aww,” Oikawa says, taking it from him. “It’s like we’re on a date—”

He jerks to a stop.

“Sorry, uh, that just slipped—“

“It’s fine,” Iwaizumi says. The neon pink and yellow lighting of the arcade can’t hide the growing redness in his cheeks. “It’s… I don’t have space in my apartment anyway.”

In a lucky twist of fate, Oikawa’s phone starts ringing to bail him out of the awkward situation he put themselves in. He motions to his phone, Iwaizumi nodding and taking his shopping bags and the whale plushie from him, and he presses his phone to his ear as he heads for the arcade exit.

“Hi, yes?”

“Hey, sorry it took me a while to call. I just got home.”

Oikawa blinks. He glances at the name on the screen. Emil. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he says, pressing the phone back against his ear. The door opens and Iwaizumi steps outside, carrying Oikawa’s shopping bags and his plushie under his arm as he checks something on his phone.

Oikawa instinctively switches to Spanish. “Hey, what time is it for you? Isn’t it almost 1AM there?”

“Yeah,” Emil groans. Oikawa pictures him falling back on his couch in his apartment, running a hand through his hair. “Someone had their birthday party at the cafe today. But enough about my job, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Oh, nothing much, really…”

“It’s okay. It’s just nice to hear your voice.”

Guilt twists in Oikawa’s stomach. He leans against a wall as he tells him about dinner at the izakaya, how he woke up and took a jog, and how the air smells different here. The entire time, Emil listens, and from his voice and his enthusiastic replies to Oikawa’s stories, it’s so clear he’s happy for him. 

The call winds down, and there’s a pause on the other end before Emil says softly, “I miss you.”

Oikawa swallows. He looks down at the ground.

“I miss you too,” he says. “See you soon. Get some rest.”

When Oikawa hangs up, his chest, but really, his entire body feels heavy. He also feels a headache building behind his eyes. 

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” he says, walking toward him. “Is it okay if I take a quick nap back in the hotel? I… I think the jetlag is hitting me.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They head back to the hotel, and Oikawa lays back on his side of the bed while Iwaizumi takes the other side and turns on the television. He leans back against the headboard and lowers the volume, and the soft hum of the TV lulls Oikawa to sleep.

When he wakes up, he’s blinking up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but the room is darker than what it was earlier. He rolls to the side to pull back the curtain and the sky is fully dark, not even any traces of the sunset. So he must have been asleep for a while.

“Shit! What time is it?”

There’s a rising panic at the thought of it being early Monday morning and he already has to prepare to leave for his 7 o’clock back train to Sendai.

Some point during his nap, Iwaizumi had moved to the desk. It looks like he’s watching some kind of lecture on his phone. There’s also a plastic bag of food beside him.

“It’s 7pm,” he says, and Oikawa’s stomach drops. 

“What?” he says, sitting up. He pats around the bed for his phone—it’s 7:02PM. 

“You completely passed out. You didn’t even move when I left to get us food.”

Oikawa doesn't say anything. He drops back to the bed, a hand over his eyes. The well-rested contentment of his nap is gone, and instead there’s a bitter storm of emotions swirling in his gut. He had one day and he's slept most of it off. His chest grows tight, his breathing growing short. It feels like time is caving in around him. He feels tears in the corner of his eyes.

“You should have woken me up,” he mumbles, pressing his hand back against his eyes when he feels them grow hot. He's taken aback at how swift the disappointment, the frustration, take over him. He's angry at himself, for not thinking of setting an alarm. At Iwaizumi for not even trying to wake him up. At himself again for not having the foresight to tell Iwaizumi to wake him up because of course Iwaizumi was going to think that what's best for him is for him to do what he wants. And isn't that why they are where they are now, this whole fucking situation, Oikawa doing whatever he wants and Iwaizumi making the rationale fucking decision of letting him, not even trying to stop him, telling himself it's what's best for him, for the both of them—

He feels Iwaizumi take his hand, gently lifting it off his face. Their eyes meet. The cool air dries the tears forming at the corner of his eyes. 

“Come on,” Iwaizumi says. He squeezes his hand. “Let’s have the food at the park.”

Iwaizumi drags him out of bed, and Oikawa sullenly follows him to the park he was jogging in earlier in the day. They take a seat on the bench in front of the same lake. As he stares at the water, he thinks, unhelpfully, that maybe if he hadn’t gone jogging, he wouldn’t have been so tired and wouldn’t have needed to go to sleep.

Iwaizumi takes out a katsu sandwich from the plastic bag and hands it to Oikawa. He ignores it.

“I’m not hungry,” Oikawa mumbles.

“The last time you ate was 12 hours ago,” Iwaizumi says, still holding the sandwich out. “I know you’re hungry.”

Frowning, Oikawa takes the sandwich. And when he bites into it, he hates that it’s his favorite and that Iwaizumi remembers and that it’s delicious and that he immediately feels some tension leave his body.

He sighs, dropping his head back on the bench. He looks up at the sky. There aren’t even any stars. The city lights drown them out.

“I hate this. I’ve wasted the entire day.”

Iwaizumi is quiet as he takes his sandwich out from the bag.

Oikawa glances at him. “Wasn't there anything you wanted to do?” He can’t even hold back the accusing tone in his voice.

Iwaizumi takes a bite out of his sandwich.

“Not really. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

Oikawa’s heart does a particularly loud thump.  

“Two years is a long time.”

Oikawa’s eyes dart out to the lake. He takes another bite of his sandwich to give his mouth something to do. He rests a hand on his chest, feels his heart racing beneath his fingertips. 

Look at me look at me

They eat their sandwiches in silence. The lights of the Tokyo skyline twinkle on the lake’s surface.

Some time has passed when Iwaizumi clears his throat. “Your call earlier…”

He stops, shifting in his seat. Oikawa sees the way his cheeks grow red.

“Was it… someone you’re seeing?”

Oikawa blinks.

“I… what…?”

Iwaizumi chuckles. “Yeah, I figured.”

The topic of dating had never come up in any of their messages during the entire almost two year stretch of time. Equally impressive was the fact they both seemed to have unspokenly agreed to the terms that the topic was out of bounds. Oikawa had wondered who would be the first to bring it up, while also mentally preparing himself for the possibility that he would break sometime and be the one to ask first.

Oikawa turns on the bench so his body is fully facing him.

“But you don’t speak Spanish. So how…?”

Iwaizumi shifts in his seat again. He doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Ah, no, I didn’t understand what you were saying. It’s just—never mind, it’s stupid—“

“No, it isn’t stupid,” Oikawa says, poking his shoulder. “Tell me.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes glance at Oikawa before they look away again. His face grows redder. Even in the dark, Oikawa can see it.

“It wasn’t the words…” he says. “It’s your voice. The way you talk. Your voice, um, it sounds different when you’re talking to someone you—“

He shakes his head. “Like I said, it’s stupid. I just recognized how your voice sounds, that’s all.”

From when I used to talk to you like that .

Oikawa can’t believe that was even something he did. And that Iwaizumi even noticed. 

The words leave him before he can hold them back: “And you?” 

Iwaizumi looks up from his sandwich. “If I’m seeing anyone?”

Oikawa nods. He hates that he’s holding his breath.

He laughs. “No.”

And he hates that he actually feels something like relief. Why? Why does he still care? Fuck! He smoothes a neutral expression over his face when he notices the way Iwaizumi is looking at him, curious and reading. 

“Oh,” he says, balancing just the right amount of surprise and cool that he thinks is convincing.

“Life’s too crazy right now,” Iwaizumi continues. He motions toward his shaved hair. “I don't even have time to get a haircut. And besides, I'm not like you, it's not so easy for me to make friends.”

Oikawa’s lips quirk. “I make enemies just as easily as I make friends.”

“… Well, that’s true.”

They grin, a few ready examples they can list at the top of their heads. They finish their sandwiches as well as the milk bread Iwaizumi had bought for him. They’re getting up from the bench to head back to the hotel when Iwaizumi turns to face him.

“I’m happy,” he says. His voice is firm. “That you have someone. Over there. It’s good you’re not lonely.”

Oikawa gives him a long look. It’s a busy park, full of evening joggers or people taking a shortcut to get to someplace they need to go. But for a split-second, it’s like someone’s hit pause and it feels like it’s just the two of them.

“I was lonely for a long time,” he says. He meets his eyes. “I still get lonely sometimes.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t look away. The air shifts.

“I know what you mean.”

It’s the look in his eyes, the low pitch of his voice—and Oikawa feels it instantly, this familiar, low pull of want inside him that he has to take a deep breath through his nostrils to steady himself, unused to how swiftly it takes over him. It’s there on the way back to the hotel, a tension in the air between them, like a rubber band stretched out, just at the cusp of snapping back. Their fingers brush accidentally as they step into the elevator, and their eyes meet and pull away at the same time. They stop in front of their door and Oikawa takes they room key out of his pocket—

“I should go,” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa stills.

“Why?”

He knows why. 

He holds the room key tightly in his hand, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Iwaizumi doesn’t move from where he is. He shakes his head.

“It’s not… you have a new life, you’re moving on.”

He looks up at him, his eyes unwavering.

“But the thing is—I still want you.”

Oikawa closes his eyes. He replays the words in his head, and thinks, if he says it enough times, they can settle in him like a balm over old wounds.

It takes a while before he responds. 

“You know, you never said that to me before,” Oikawa says softly.

“What?”

“That last night. In your room,” he says. “You never said that. That you wanted… this. That you wanted me .”

Iwaizumi drops his head. It takes him a long time to answer.

“I… I didn’t think it mattered, at that point. It was never going to change anything.”

Oikawa bites his lip. It’s true. He still would have left. But.

“I wish you‘d said it then.”

Iwaizumi looks up at him.

“I wish I had too.”

And slowly, Oikawa can feel it, his heart caving in, crumbling to reveal the truth that he had tried to ignore when Emil told him he missed him and all he felt was that Emil would think something was wrong if he didn’t say it back; a truth that he’s known existed ever since he set foot in Japan and their eyes met. That nothing’s changed. Two years, he’s met someone new, he’s built a whole new life for himself—but everything goes gray when he’s standing in front of this boy who’s been a part of his life as much as he's been a part of his. And the want is so deep and so familiar and so fucking natural in its all-consuming way, like it’s a part of who he is to want him.

Iwaizumi sighs, sounding as tired as he looks.

“I… I can’t, I don’t know how to reconcile all of this. I still want you, you’re still leaving, you have—someone, a new life to go back to, so let me just give your clothes back so—“

It’s like his body moves on its own and it takes Oikawa a few seconds to process that his hands are cupping Iwaizumi’s face, their noses are brushing together, and there’s the heat of Iwaizumi’s mouth against his. He wants him so much he feels lightheaded with it, like it’s the only thing he knows how to feel right now.

He closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Iwaizumi’s, grounding himself to him. “Don’t go.”

Ever since their eyes met in Shinjuku Station, he’s felt like there was something hanging over the both of them, and when Iwaizumi kisses him back, hands in his hair, it finally lets go, washing over Oikawa, like a dam breaking and he can breathe and feel everything again and kiss him again, like he used to. Iwaizumi crowds him against the door, and Oikawa clings to him, tilts his head back against it, closing his eyes, parting his lips, Iwaizumi’s tongue slipping in, hot and possessive in the way only he knows has always driven Oikawa crazy. He groans, heat rising, hands roaming up and down Iwaizumi’s back, slipping under his pants, pulling him closer so they’re pressed against each other, letting him feel how hard he already is for him.

Iwaizumi pulls back. There’s a line of saliva between their lips, his pupils are dark and blown wide.

“Maybe, inside—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Oikawa agrees, jamming his key against the door lock behind him, and they stumble inside, the door barely closed as Iwaizumi lunges back to him and Oikawa lets himself be hoisted up and dropped on the bed. 

“Take off—”

“Want to see you—”

“Fuck, yes, fuck—”

They strip off their clothes and Oikawa’s holding his hands out from the bed and Iwaizumi dives back into his arms. Oikawa curls a leg around his back as they get back to kissing, tasting each other again, breathing each other in. Oikawa thinks he'd be okay if they just stay the entire night like this, until he feels Iwaizumi’s hips jerk, his cock sliding against Oikawa’s in a delicious way that makes him remember there are many other things he’d like to do tonight.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa moans into his ear. “I want—there’s lube, in my kit—”

“Fuck, got it,” Iwaizumi says, sitting up and reaching over to dig into Oikawa’s toiletry kit. In his rush, he knocks Oikawa’s toner and moisturizer over and they fall to the carpet, but he can’t bring himself to care right now as Iwaizumi climbs back on top of him, lube in hand. Oikawa spreads his legs, opening himself up for him, never getting over the rawness of giving himself over to someone in this way, and Iwaizumi takes one of his legs and sets it over his shoulder.

And then he stops. Oikawa looks up just as Iwaizumi presses a soft kiss to his ankle. Slow, like they've got all the time in the world when in fact he leaves in less than twelve hours. Careful, like Oikawa’s fragile, something to be held and cared for. It’s such a small thing, but Oikawa’s chest starts growing tight, and he feels his eyes grow hot. 

“Oikawa?”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels Iwaizumi’s weight over his body, his thumb wiping the tears from his cheek. 

“S-sorry,” Oikawa hiccups, embarrassed, hastily wiping the tears with the back of his hands. “I don’t know what—sorry, fuck.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, but presses his lips to Oikawa’s cheek in such a gentle way that only makes Oikawa cry harder. He cups a hand over his eyes, unable to look at the way Iwaizumi is looking at him, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking without him saying it, and of course he does.

It makes him think back to when they had been exchanging messages again for around a month, and Oikawa was just getting comfortable with talking to Iwaizumi again without his chest hurting when he finished a game and saw a new message from him.

Iwaizumi Hajime:
Go easy on your knee okay. Make sure to stretch
9:31PM

It was followed by links to knee and hamstring stretches from physical therapy YouTube channels. Oikawa had stared at his phone screen. They were on other sides of the world and all Iwaizumi could see of Oikawa was through the tiny part he took up in the video of his phone screen, and yet he was able to pick up something his team mates and even their team physician hadn’t even noticed yet. That Oikawa's knee had been acting up recently so he was making up for it by landing on his left leg more often than usual. 

Staring at the message, Oikawa was hit with the painful reminder of being known so well. That there are bonds that can endure years, thousands of kilometers, the whole fucking Pacific Ocean. And how rare it happens in life to come across someone to have that connection with, the kind that feels like by knowing them, you change on some deep, molecular level and you’ll never be the same again. He’s 22 with his whole life ahead of him but he knows down to his bones that it’s true.

He never replied to the message. When he did reply, it was three days later and he changed the topic to something else, and Iwaizumi never acknowledged how he never replied to his last message.

Oikawa thinks about that now, that he could move on and live his life and reach the highs of his volleyball career and never move back to Japan and meet new people and be with someone else—but maybe Iwaizumi is it for him. There isn’t anyone else who’s going to make him feel like this. He hasn’t ever felt this much for another person. And he doesn't know how to wrestle that with his current reality, how to balance it with his dreams and all the things he wants for himself. Why does it have to be so difficult? Why does it have to be like this? Why did it all have to be so fucking unfair?

He comes back to the present, to Iwaizumi’s lips pressed gently against his neck, his collarbone.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Oikawa hiccups. He wipes the tears with the back of his hand as he takes low, shuddering breaths. He wants to make a joke out of it, to bring things back to lighter, easier things. “This is totally going to your head.”

“What?” Iwaizumi muses, understands immediately what Oikawa’s trying to do. “That you wanted to have sex with me so badly you cried over it?”

Oikawa smacks his shoulder. 

Iwaizumi chuckles, bending down to kiss him. 

“Yeah, this is definitely a confidence booster,” he says, laughing, then lowers his head back to Oikawa’s neck.

Iwaizumi kisses his chest, his stomach, his hip, moves lower and takes Oikawa’s in his mouth. Oikawa closes his eyes, tips his head back against the pillow, and feels the wet hot heat of Iwaizumi’s lips, his tongue, around him. He moves his feet up the bed, holds onto his knees and pulls his legs back, opening himself fully. Iwaizumi lifts his head from his cock, and Oikawa feels his hands spreading him, and he’s anticipating the cold press of lube and his fingers when instead he feels the hot slide of Iwaizumi’s tongue over his hole.

“Oh, f-fuck,” Oikawa groans, nearly letting go of his knees. Iwaizumi pushes his hips back further so he’s practically bent in half, lower body off the bed. And he’s shaking so hard, holding himself open, just as Iwaizumi pulls his head back and spits over his hole. Saliva trickles down his ass before Iwaizumi dives back in, licking and pushing it in him with his tongue.

Oikawa’s mind is racing— this is new. They've never done this before, Iwaizumi eating him out. Is he just trying this out now? Did he learn this from someone? Who taught him? 

He’s pulled out of his rapidly jealous thoughts when he feels Iwaizumi’s wet tongue push inside him, and fuck , it’s so hot, he thinks he can come any second now. He can’t even think of anything else but spreading himself as wide as he can, zeroing in on getting Iwaizumi’s tongue as deep in him as he can. 

He feels himself edging closer just as Iwaizumi pulls his head back, swiftly replacing his tongue with his fingers, and it’s an easy slide, one finger, then three. Oikawa brain whites out, mindless, eager for it, fantasies tumbling into his mind—wants Iwaizumi’s cock in him, wants to ride him until it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to cry, wants to sit on his face while sucking on his cock, thinks about how much can they do before he leaves—but what happens is Iwaizumi has him on his back, crying out, wrapping his legs tighter around Iwaizumi’s hips with every thrust because even if Iwaizumi is already inside him, he still wants him closer. Every thrust punches out a groan out of him that Iwaizumi has to silence with his lips, his tongue, and Oikawa can’t get enough of the taste of him, chasing his lips, gasping into each other's mouths.

Maybe it’s the time apart, but this feels different. It feels like a turn to a direction he didn’t know even existed, like unlocking a level that he didn’t know could be even reached, and when their eyes meet, he knows this feels so much bigger, so different to every orgasm they’ve pulled out of another, and Iwaizumi knows it too. 

Oikawa comes so hard he’s almost sure he passes out because the next thing he knows, Iwaizumi is kissing the side of his face, his tongue licking away a track of tears he didn’t even realize he had shed.

He throws a hand over his eyes, and instead of a warm afterglow, he’s pissed. He’s so fucking pissed. Is this what he’ll be comparing every future orgasm to? Why isn’t it like this with anyone else? What’s even the point if it’s never like this with anyone else?

Iwaizumi drops his head onto Oikawa’s shoulder, taking deep breaths Oikawa feels in his own chest. He pulls his head back, their eyes meet, his eyes wide. “That was…”

Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi’s head back to his chest, runs his fingers over his scalp, looking up at the ceiling, his heart in his throat. 

“Yeah,” he breathes.

—

After, with a pillow propped up behind him, Iwaizumi leans back against the headboard, Oikawa on his side, his head propped up on his hand. They hadn’t bothered putting any clothes back on. Their legs are tangled together, and with his other hand, Oikawa traces abstract patterns on Iwaizumi’s chest, his collarbone, listening as Iwaizumi talks. The conversation flows easier now; softer, less like an exchange of updates and more thoughts and musings, hazy and halfway formed the way most 3AM conversations are, and yet clearly understood in a way only your longest friend can. 

“And I see some of my classmates, and they’re doing the same thing I am, they’re working too, and…” Iwaizumi shakes his head. “Doesn’t seem like they’re having a hard time.”

While Oikawa had already sensed it without him having to say it out loud, now, Iwaizumi’s more open in talking about how hard it is to juggle his job and school. And this time, Oikawa doesn’t hold himself back from comforting him, from moving closer, pressing his lips to his temple, to the juncture of his neck to his shoulders. When he feels Iwaizumi lean toward it, feels his shoulders ease beneath his lips, Oikawa’s stomach twists, feeling guilty, like he should have given this sooner, they should have been doing this sooner, and not have waited until four hours before his train to Sendai.

“You don’t know that,” Oikawa says. “And also, what you’re doing is hard. It’s normal to have bad days. I’m sure everyone has them.”

He moves closer, resting his head on Iwaizumi’s chest. He lifts his chin. “But do you still like what you’re doing?”

“I love it,” Iwaizumi says, a familiar fire in his voice that makes Oikawa feel relieved. “It’s fucking hard but… I love it.”

Oikawa wraps his arms tighter around him.

“I get it.”

“And you? I bet those first few months were tough.”

Oikawa swallows. They were. 

“Yeah, it was tough,” he says slowly. “It… it was really hard. It got easier when I started getting better at Spanish. But… some days are still really hard.”

He doesn't mention that meeting Emil had helped a lot too. Having someone to take him around and introduce him to new places and be patient as he fumbled through the language. Having someone in general. But thinking of him twists his stomach in knots. Oikawa knows he's being incredibly selfish right now. Emil is a great guy… but Oikawa’s never felt this much with him. With anyone else. And maybe that means something.

Iwaizumi nods, stroking Oikawa’s hair, taking away from thoughts of how he’d need to tell Emil the truth when he gets back.

“Sorry it took me a while to send a message. I wanted to sooner, but, well, things were—”

“No, I get it,” Oikawa says. His cheeks warm. “I wanted to also. But… I didn't want to be the first one.”

Iwaizumi chuckles. And it's so stupid, but just the sound of it, the quirk of his lips, has Oikawa staring at his face, cementing the sound and this image and this moment in his brain. He’s already wrapped around Iwaizumi’s side, but he buries himself closer.

Iwaizumi glances at him, then looks away. He presses his lips into a thin line, the way he does when he wants to say something but holds himself back. 

He clears his throat. 

“Do you ever… still think about Karasuno?”

Oikawa scoffs. He closes his eyes as he rests his head on Iwaizumi’s chest.

“Yeah. Oh, I told you about when I ran into that shrimp in Brazil, right?”

“Yeah, you did. It’s good to hear there’s some semblance of maturity in you by now.”

Oikawa twists his nipple in retaliation. “Whatever, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi laughs, fingers running through Oikawa’s hair absentmindedly. He wraps an arm around Oikawa’s back, holding him closer. Seconds pass before he says, “Sometimes I still think about that last spike. Against Karasuno.”

Oikawa opens his eyes. What? Why? He tilts his head up, waiting.

Iwaizumi drops his eyes, not looking at him as he says, “And how if it wasn’t me… if you had a better spiker, he would have made that kill. We would have won the game.”

He glances at Oikawa. 

“And, fuck Ushijima, I know. Even if he is, like, an okay guy behind all of it, but what if you had gone to Shiratorizawa—”

“Iwa-chan—”

“And maybe I just held you back by making you want to stay in Aoba Johsai. You… don’t ever think about that?”

Oikawa sits up. The blankets pool around his waist.

“Where’s this coming from?”

Iwaizumi looks up at the ceiling. He pulls his arms to his chest the way he does when he's uncomfortable.

“Sometimes I think about it…” he says. “How you should have been part of the Junior Olympics team. But that never happened because you never got to Nationals.”

Iwaizumi swallows.

“You never got the chance to prove yourself, the scouts never got to see what you could do,” He takes a deep breath. “And maybe I’m part of the reason why that never happened. Because I wasn’t good enough.”

“What?”

“Things could have been so different. If you had made it to Nationals. If everyone got to see you on that bigger stage… maybe you’d never have needed to leave.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen. 

Iwaizumi lets out one long breath he must have been holding back. He’s still not looking at Oikawa. “What if… this. Me. What if I’m just holding you back?”

Oikawa's stomach twists. He thinks about high school, college, the years they lived together, during those days that felt like the happiest in his life, and even now, the happiest he's felt in months—has Iwaizumi been thinking this the entire time? How long has he been keeping this to himself, believing this about himself? Oikawa’s chest hurts just thinking about it. 

Oikawa holds Iwaizumi’s face in his hands, making him look at him. 

“Hajime,” he says. Iwaizumi’s eyes look up at him. “Believe me when I say that I’ve never thought that. Never.”

“Oikawa—“

“Yeah, sure, I think about how things might have turned out differently if we had won. If we had made it to Nationals,” he says. “But I never once wanted to leave the team. Leaving you. I’ve never thought you weren’t good enough. Never even crossed my mind.”

“But—”

“Never,” Oikawa repeats. He kisses him on the cheek for good measure. “So stop thinking that about yourself.”

At this, Iwaizumi closes his eyes, pressing his head to Oikawa’s. 

“Alright.”

Oikawa wraps his arms around Iwaizumi’s back, pulling him closer. 

“Iwa-chan, I'm the one with the obsessive personality and a massive inferiority complex,” he mumbles. “You’re the well-adjusted one. Don’t take this from me.”

It punches a laugh out of Iwaizumi, and Oikawa feels incredibly proud of himself for getting him to laugh. He presses his forehead against Iwaizumi once more, kisses him softly. 

“I don’t regret staying in the team,” he says. “I’ll never regret what we’ve had. I never will.”

Oikawa catches the look in Iwaizumi’s eyes. The words hang between them, air heavy with emotion. Maybe too much. Oikawa’s about to backtrack, say a quick joke, lighten the mood, poke fun at himself, when Iwaizumi lifts his chin, looks up at him, then leans up and kisses him. It makes Oikawa’s head swim, too many feelings inside him, and he pours them into Iwaizumi, in each kiss, in each swallowed breath they steal from each other. 

Oikawa slides his leg over Iwaizumi until he's on his lap, a hand trailing down his chest, his stomach, finding its way to Iwaizumi’s cock, pleased to feel him hard already. He wraps his hand around it and Iwaizumi throws his head back against the headboard as Oikawa lifts his hips and sinks slowly onto him, one hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder and the other on the headboard, balancing himself as he sinks down to the hilt, his thighs quivering in restraint.

Once he has him all the way, Iwaizumi’s hands hold onto his back, pulling him closer and Oikawa kisses him, Iwaizumi hungrily kissing him back as Oikawa moves his hips. He builds his speed, thighs clenched around Iwaizumi’s, riding him hard enough that Iwaizumi drops his head back against the headboard, mouth open. 

“Fuck, Tooru, you’re killing me,” he breathes, closing his eyes. And Oikawa kisses his eyelids, his cheekbones, his forehead, tracing his face with his lips. 

“Yes, yes,” Oikawa breathes, frantically moving his hips, picking up the pace. Distantly, he hears the bed banging against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, grip tight on Iwaizumi’s shoulder and the other on the headboard, holding on as he rides him. He’s close, so fucking close, moaning with every thrust hitting that spot in him.

“Fuck, Tooru,” Iwaizumi breathes, eyes closed, lips kissing his jaw, his neck.

Iwaizumi’s hand leaves his hip, wraps it around Oikawa’s cock, timing it with each thrust like he’s fucking into Iwaizumi’s hand the same time Iwaizumi’s cock fucks into him.

“I’m close,” he whines, lips sliding against Iwaizumi’s in every word. “I’m close, Hajime, I’m—”

He lasts two seconds until he’s gone, arching back, coming over Iwaizumi's hand, his chest. He keeps fucking up into Iwaizumi’s hand, riding him through his orgasm.

“Come on,” he says, kissing him. “Come for me.”

And he's just a hair's breadth from being over sensitive when Iwaizumi groans and comes, Oikawa feeling the hot spurt inside him, then dripping down his thighs. Iwaizumi holds onto him, and they find each other's lips once more, tongues clashing, Oikawa closing his eyes and losing himself in the kiss, never going to be sick of this, and only snaps out of it when Iwaizumi shifts beneath him and his cock slips out of him.

Slowly, Oikawa climbs off his lap and falls back on the bed. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, chest heaving as he looks up at the ceiling. 

Iwaizumi leans over him, kissing him deeply, and Oikawa lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, forgetting for a split second that he’s cut it short. And in that split second, an unexplainable sense of loss takes over Oikawa that makes his eyes grow hot; if he had been around, he'd have been able to dissuade Iwaizumi from shaving his hair. Would have told him he liked his hair the way it was. If he had been around, he’d probably have offered to trim it for him if Iwaizumi’s issue was he didn’t have time to head to a barber. He’d have done something stupid like go so far as to watch YouTube videos on how to cut hair or order shears or scissors or something. If he had been around.

But he wasn’t around. And in a few hours, he won’t be around either.

Eventually Iwaizumi pulls away and stands to get a towel from the bathroom. He returns, wiping himself clean before he joins Oikawa back in the bed. Oikawa lets him push one knee to the side to wipe between his legs.

“So spoiled,” Iwaizumi mutters, but no real heat in the words. 

Oikawa looks up at him, feeling equal parts fond and aching.

“I’m starving,” he says, before he says something stupid or horrifying.

So they put their clothes back on and go down to the 7-11 near their hotel, the staff unfazed at their appearances, buying sandwiches and chocolate at five in the morning and having them in the room. It's an hour before Oikawa’s train when Iwaizumi stands to take a shower, and Oikawa gets up to join him, clinging to their narrowing window of time, like he’s wasting any second if he can’t touch him or can’t see his face. Fuck it, he can be honest with himself at this point.

Iwaizumi turns on the water and they stand and just look at each other as they wait for the water to warm up, the bathroom mirrors steadily fogging up. Oikawa wipes off a breadcrumb at the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth with his thumb. The air feels heavy with a goodbye they can’t ignore. When the water is warm enough, they pull off their clothes and get in.

In between the soap, the shampoo, they make out lazily under the overhead shower. Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi closer, wrapping a leg around his waist, and Iwaizumi pushes him against the shower’s glass window, slipping two fingers back inside him and thrusting slowly. Oikawa groans, his head falling back against the glass, turning his face slightly to see the room’s outer window facing the Tokyo skyline. Iwaizumi holds him tight, pressing kisses up his neck, and Oikawa thinks about how tinted the hotel room’s windows are. Would someone in the building across be able to see the soft yellow light of their hotel room, see the shape of them fucking against the glass, Iwaizumi slipping another finger in him, curling them inside him—and he comes at the thought, riding Iwaizumi’s fingers, his lips chasing after Iwaizumi’s.

Iwaizumi looks back at him, an amused look on his face. “You and your exhibistionist kink.”

Oikawa hasn’t let go of him yet. He doesn’t think he can stand on his own. 

“Of course,” he says, half-slurring, orgasm mixing in with the tiredness, the jet-lag, the love-sick happiness of getting fingered in the shower by someone you can’t get enough of. “Want everyone to see how lucky I am.”

He goes down to his knees and swallows Iwaizumi’s cock in one go. He’ll miss this. The heady taste of it, the weight of it on his tongue, and when he looks up, he’ll miss the punched out look on Iwaizumi’s face as he takes him even deeper, throat swallowing around his head. Oikawa’s given head to other guys, loves seeing the way they unravel for him, because of him, and he thinks he’ll never get sick of doing this for Iwaizumi, seeing himself let go, figuratively and literally, coming down Oikawa’s throat.

Oikawa gets up from the shower floor, water washing away the come on his lips. 

“Also,” Oikawa says, kissing Iwaizumi, tasting himself on his lips. “How many times did you come tonight? You could just say you missed me.”

“Remind me, who cried in the middle of—”

“Hey!” Oikawa gives him a wet punch on the shoulder.

Iwaizumi laughs. “Yeah, I missed you. I’ll miss this.”

He says it to add onto the joke, but it sobers Oikawa up to the reality of their situation. Now he just wants to do something stupid like cry in the shower.

He wraps his arms tightly around Iwaizumi, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against his shoulder. For a while, the only sound is the shower and the water’s soft pattering on the tiles.

Eventually, they get out of the shower and leave the warmth inside the shower’s glass walls separating them from the rest of the world. Iwaizumi puts on his clothes and he picks up his old college shirt from the floor, folds it in the way his mom taught him how to do it since he was a kid, then hands it to Oikawa.

“Here, take it.”

Oikawa is on the floor packing his things back into his luggage. “You don’t want it back?”

“I haven’t had it all this time. It’s yours.”

Oikawa takes it. And as he puts it in with the rest of his clothes, beside the whale plushie Iwaizumi won for him, he realizes instantly it smells of Iwaizumi again. He barely controls himself from pressing the shirt to his nose and breathing it in when he remembers he still has the real thing with him and he needs to save as much of it for back in Buenos Aires. Any other time he’d be cringing at his thoughts but he just feels so much right now to think of how stupidly he’s being.

He finishes packing while Iwaizumi fixes their bed—another thing his mom taught him to do, he’s physically unable to leave a bed unmade, he used to make their bed all the time in college—and they quietly shuffle out of the room together. Oikawa doesn’t say anything the entire walk to the station. Like maybe, if he doesn’t speak, the world can stay back. They’ll get to stay in this bubble longer. 

They navigate the station to find his gate, and finally, they stop in front of the turnstiles that take him to his platform. They turn to face each other. People around them rush to get to their trains, going on with their lives on any other day of the week.

“This moment feels two years late,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi settles his hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah.”

Stupidly, Oikawa doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Well, see you the next time I’m here, I guess.”

He doesn’t know what to do either. Other than cry. But that’s not exactly something he wants for the both of them. What does he do with his hands? He stretches a hand out, a farewell bro handshake maybe— 

Iwaizumi looks down at his hand, wraps his hand around it, then Oikawa lets himself be pulled, closing his eyes and burying his face into the hollow of Iwaizumi’s neck, breathing his scent, like maybe if he inhales deep enough, it’ll stay with him back in Argentina. He feels his eyes grow hot. Bubble broken, the thoughts are an onslaught. It’s fucking unfair. Their time together was too short. Who knows when they’ll be able to spend time together again. Will things be the same the next time they see each other? He doesn’t want to leave. After being inseparable for most of their lives and spending nearly every day with each other, is this how their friendship is marked? By whatever train station or airport they’re saying goodbye from?

Oikawa wonders, is Iwaizumi thinking the same? Does he also feel like his heart is being sucked to the floor like it feels for Oikawa?

“I’m sorry I can’t go with you to Sendai,” Iwaizumi says.

When they pull apart, Oikawa quickly looks away, blinking the tears back before he faces Iwaizumi again. 

“Just reinstall Instagram already,” Oikawa says, trying to inject some levity otherwise he’s really going to cry. “I hate that I never see your face.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“No, I’m not leaving until I see you download it.”

Iwaizumi stares at him. “What, really?”

Oikawa stares back at him. Immediately, Iwaizumi picks up that he’s serious. 

“Okay, fine.”

He takes his phone out of his pocket and Oikawa watches him as he downloads the app. When it’s done, he holds his phone screen out in front of him, the familiar interface on it. 

“There,” Iwaizumi says, laughing. “You’re fucking ridiculous sometimes.”

“But you like that about me, right?”

Iwaizumi smirks. Oikawa wishes he could kiss it off him. 

“Your train’s there.”

OIkawa glances up to see he’s right. He turns to Iwaizumi. “Maybe we can get on a call sometime.”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

After taking one last look at him, Oikawa turns around. He taps his ticket on the turnstile, gripping his luggage tightly behind him. He continues walking until he gets to the escalator that takes him down to his platform. He takes one last look back and he can’t see Iwaizumi, lost in the Tokyo rush hour.

—