Work Text:
The scent of incense is suffocating. It infiltrates every breath of air, clinging to their clothes, even lingering on their skin, it seems, so it follows them around as a constant reminder. As if they could forget.
(Upon their return to the house, Miwa pulls her hair from its ponytail, and when she shakes it out, the smell envelops them once more. Tobio reflexively claps a hand to his mouth as bile burns a familiar trail up his throat and Miwa heads straight for the bathroom, tears already slipping down her cheeks). (Once the mourning period ends, Miwa will chop her hair off so the tips rest just below her chin, a length she will maintain for years to come.)
Even more suffocating are the people. Tobio recognizes a few of them and can name even fewer. Regardless, per tradition, he greets each one, acknowledging their respectful condolences with a monotone script. While some ring more sincere than others, all fade quickly into a static white noise. Their gaze slides right over him, a background character to barely be seen, much less heard.
He glances at his sister and thinks about taking her hand, something he hasn’t done since elementary school. But he hesitates; Miwa’s eyes are blue and hollow, glassy and lifeless as if some other force is puppeteering her movements and she herself has retreated to some faraway place. Somewhere where she can cry as she has done so often lately, behind the shut door of her room, sobs muffled by a pillow and tears flowing from some bottomless well inside her. This is not his sister.
So, instead, he curls his fingers into a fist, longer-than-usual nails digging into his palm in a sharp reminder that he hasn’t even had a moment to spare on volleyball since...
In contrast, his father’s dark eyes are hard and focused, pinched at the edges and slightly severe even as he plays the role of the dutiful eldest son. He has never seen his father cry and it appears as though that will not change today. Then again, he hasn’t seen his father in a while, so it’s possible (though not likely) that his tears had been spent prior to his arrival in Miyagi. Tobio is probably imagining the slight quiver in his chin because when Tobio blinks, his father’s jaw is set, mouth pressed in a firm line.
Tobio glances at his mother. Her eyes are dry but downturned. Blue, technically the same shade as his and Miwa’s, yet Tobio can’t find his reflection in them. They are opaque like the ocean at midnight, as if light could only dream of piercing through the surface. She is as poised and unreadable as she has ever been, though he can still recall the warmth of her brief but tight embrace when he and Miwa picked her up from the station, the feather-light hand against his cheek as she pulled away.
Tobio wonders what his own eyes look like.
They function as a unit for the rest of the ceremony, going through the motions in near-perfect synchronization. They are cogs in a machine, and each mechanical step is one Tobio need not dwell on, so long as he makes it to the next.
People mostly ignore him afterward and Tobio takes no issue with that. It’s hard to breathe in this hazy room where the edges of his vision vignette from lack of oxygen. Or maybe lack of sleep. Or maybe grief.
Who can say?
Those who do approach him share sentiments that Tobio hears but cannot process. Recycled words in creative combinations that, no matter how pretty they are, amount to nothing in the end.
What he does note, though, is the way they look at him. While Tobio has never been good at reading people, even he can tell everyone wears a similar expression when they go to speak to him. They are like rotting fruit, soft with sympathy to the point of falling apart, their eyes glazed over from pity, eyes that don’t see Tobio. Just some child who has lost someone, who they feel compelled to comfort.
After they have stayed for an appropriate amount of time, they are finally given permission to leave. Their parents have other arrangements to make and matters to settle, so Miwa and Tobio return to the house together. Miwa disappears into the bathroom and Tobio is left alone in a house that looks like his home yet has lost all ability to feel like it. (His grandfather is not in that urn; his grandfather is not in that urn.)
He takes a single step into his room, but the walls start to close in on him.
He takes a step back and then another—and then, backs out of the house altogether.
It’s difficult to breathe as he sprints away. Fumbling with his tie, he eventually manages to undo the constricting knot and stuffs the stupid piece of fabric in his pocket. He gasps in breaths of cool, fresh air that sting at the rawness of his throat. He doesn’t know where he’s going.
He runs and runs and runs.
The aching in his feet forces him to slow down. Though he has since switched to his sneakers, the shiny new shoes that he’d been forced to wear for hours during the ceremony had pinched his toes and rubbed at the back of his foot. Panting heavily, Tobio looks around at wherever he has ended up.
To his surprise, he recognizes the area as being close to school. He supposes it makes sense that he would have run to a familiar place.
He stands there, staring at nothing in particular as his pulse gradually returns to baseline. He’s not ready for things to calm down just yet, though. It’s easier to ignore your thoughts when the pounding of your heart fills your eardrums.
Tobio goes to wipe his brow and catches a whiff of the lingering smoke. He jerks his hand away and shakes his arm (as if that will help). Gritting his teeth, he urges the churning in his stomach to stay there.
“Tobio-chan?”
He freezes at the voice. It sounds different than he remembers, but there is only one person who calls him that. He turns around. “Oikawa-san?”
“Ah, it is you.” His former upperclassman saunters over, still towering over him despite Tobio’s growth spurt over the past year. Tobio narrows his eyes. The difference in height has lessened a bit, he’s pretty sure.
“What are you doing here?”
Oikawa shrugs. “Just buying something from the konbini.” he says. Tilting his head, he scans Tobio. “I almost didn’t recognize you, what with that wrinkled forehead and ferocious scowl.”
Tobio should be upset, he’s sure, because that’s an insult, but he’s caught so off guard that he blinks in surprise and his face, which has been pulled taut and pinched at every edge for the past few days, loosens, settling back into place. “I, uh—”
“You did something to your hair, too. What is that, gel?” Oikawa clicks his tongue in disapproval. (Tobio has no idea. He’s pretty sure Miwa put something into his bangs.) “Not your best look, Tobio-chan.”
“...Right.”
“If you’re going to use gel, you should at least spike your hair to pretend you’re taller.” Oikawa straightens his posture to emphasize his height once again.
“If I spike my hair, will I look like Iwaizumi-san?”
“Never mind,” Oikawa says, making a face. “Don’t do that.” There’s a pause. “Well, I’ve got to—”
Tobio’s stomach interrupts with a growl. One so loud it attracts stares. “Uh, sorry, I haven’t eaten anything all day.” Maybe longer. Time has blurred past the point of definition. Also, he can’t recall the last time he had felt hungry. Or thirsty. Huh.
Oikawa wrinkles his nose. “Well, the konbini’s right there.” He waves his hand toward the shop. “Get something to eat.”
“I don’t have my wallet.”
Scowling, Oikawa crosses his arms, staring at some point over Tobio’s head and muttering to himself before letting out a giant sigh and saying, “Fine. I, the great Oikawa-senpai, am feeling generous and so, I will…” Through a clenched smile, he finishes, “...buy something for you.”
Tobio hesitates. Oikawa has never been one to offer anything without a string or five attached. “That’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.” His stomach growls again in protest and he glares down at it while Oikawa scoffs.
“Tobio.” Tobio jerks his head up and discovers Oikawa’s even gaze looking right at him. The first person to do so today, it’s both electrifying and terrifying, the way those brown eyes disregard any bullshit, pinpointing Tobio’s very essence like a sniper and zeroing in on it. Zeroing in on him.
He shudders in spite of himself.
“You need to listen to your body or you won’t get stronger. If you ignore it for too long, you might not be able to play volleyball.”
No volleyball? Tobio’s shoulders stiffen at the thought and Oikawa gives a decisive nod before turning on his heel and heading toward the shop. Tobio follows.
“What do you like?” Oikawa gestures to the display before them. Tobio only recognizes about half of the snacks.
“Curry.”
His upperclassman snorts at that. “That’s kind of heavy for a meal if you haven’t eaten anything. How about a curry bun?”
“I’ve never had one.”
“Well,” Oikawa says, leaning over to grab two buns, “you’ll find out if you like it today.”
He pays, has them warm up the food, and then, they head outside to eat. Tobio accepts and unwraps his, sniffing at the bun suspiciously. He doesn’t smell any curry, but he takes a reluctant bite.
The first bite is only bread and he just chews for a while. However, the second one reveals warm curry, the familiar, savory taste filling his mouth and he takes another bite and another and another, suddenly ravenous.
“You’re gonna choke,” Oikawa mutters, passing him a bottle of water.
Tobio might have retorted back if his mouth was not full of food. Maybe it’s because he can’t even recall his last meal, but he’s pretty sure this is the best snack he’s ever had.
They eat in silence for the most part, although Tobio attempts to start a conversation. “Uh, how’s Aoba Johsai’s team?”
“Like I’m going to tell you, stupid.”
Well, it was worth a shot.
As they’re throwing away their trash, Oikawa says, “I wasn’t worried about you, you know.”
“What?”
“You looked tired and I just figured, I didn’t wanna feel obligated to carry you home again if you collapsed. That’s all.”
“Right.”
“And I’m definitely not going to let you defeat yourself before I get a chance to defeat you first, so you’d better eat a proper meal when you get home.”
Tobio nods. That makes sense. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Oikawa pauses. “Seriously, don’t tell anyone about this.”
“I won’t,” Tobio says. With that, they part ways and Tobio takes a deep breath as he starts toward home the house. To his surprise, the stench of incense no longer assaults his senses. Instead, he smells the last of the curry bun in the cool evening air.
The first time he and Miwa visit Kazuyo’s grave together, it is far too soon after the funeral and yet, far too long for Tobio to have been away from his grandfather. He dreads lighting the incense sticks, even as a tradition, and from the emotion that flinches across Miwa’s face, she does not care for it either. Part of him wants to stay for a while and tell Kazuyo about school and volleyball as if his grandfather can still hear him, but as the smoke coats their clothing, he knows he cannot.
Upon their return home, Miwa heads for the shower and Tobio runs to the closest convenience store. He purchases a curry bun.
It turns to ash in his mouth.
Head down and shoulders slumped, Tobio returns to the konbini near Kitagawa Daiichi following a soul-obliterating match. They had been so close—the finals! They could’ve gone to Nationals.
Now, he doesn’t know if anyone will ever hit one of his tosses again.
While not the same by any stretch of the imagination like the grief of Kazuyo’s passing, Tobio cannot help but feel as though he has lost something else very important to him. Something else he cannot get back.
Hardly hearing the jingling bell announcing his presence, he makes a beeline for the curry buns, hand outstretched to grab one when he hesitates. He fears what it might taste of this time. He also thinks of what Oikawa had said, about not letting Tobio defeat himself before Oikawa can. He’s not sure if becoming the King of the Court counts.
(He thinks it might.)
He chooses a different snack instead.
His first year at Karasuno, Tobio gives the bun another chance. There is no special occasion here: the team stops by Sakanoshita Mart after practice (much to Coach Ukai’s chagrin) and Sawamura offers to buy everyone something. Though Tobio usually gets meat buns like the majority of the team, he reaches for a curry bun. Somehow, with this new team, he believes it will be fine.
He takes a bite and chews for a long time.
“Is everything okay, Kageyama?” Yamaguchi asks, peering at him.
“Yeah.”
And it is okay, it really is. It’s good. There’s just something missing, something that he can’t quite put into words yet knows is absent even now. Maybe it’s because this is a different store. Maybe his memory is hazy with nostalgia.
Regardless, he thinks he’ll stick to meat buns for now.
Though not matched against each other, Argentina and Japan are both in Osaka during the third week of the 2022 VNL. When Argentina loses to the United States, also losing their shot at the quarterfinals, Tobio takes a quick trip off the premises.
He returns with a bag, which he presents to Oikawa.
“What’s this?”
“Payback.”
Giving him a suspicious look, Oikawa opens the bag and lets out a soft snort of laughter. “Curry buns, huh? I haven’t had one of these in forever.”
They eat without speaking for the most part, though Oikawa occasionally interjects with a comment like “If only you’d had this kind of enthusiasm during your Power Curry commercial”. Tobio is content to sit there and savor the flavor he has been chasing for years with the person he has been chasing for just as long.
“You know,” Oikawa says thoughtfully, “it kind of tastes like the one from that konbini down the street from Kitaichi.”
Tobio blinks. He thought so, but he hadn’t expected Oikawa to make the same connection. “Yeah. It does.”
“I’m getting some weird déjà vu.” Oikawa squints at him, frowning. “Have we done this before?”
Tobio nods. “When I was a second year.”
“Huh, interesting. And you still like curry buns, even after living in Italy or wherever?”
“Yeah.” There’s no doubt about that. “I do.” Before he loses his nerve, he blurts out, “Um—can we do this again?”
Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “You want another curry bun? Don’t you have a match tomorrow? I don’t think Iwa-chan will approve of these extra carbs.”
Well, that’s true, and Tobio would prefer to not incur the wrath of Iwaizumi. However, “No, it doesn’t have to be curry buns. Or even now. I just…” How should he put this? “Food tastes better with you.”
The other man stares at him for a long, unblinking moment, eyes piercing Tobio’s in the same way they did on that fateful afternoon, bypassing the incense and fog, grief, and pain, to find the person in the center.
Then, in one fluid motion, Oikawa leans over and presses his lips to Tobio’s. The kiss is warm and soft and almost hesitant, relaxing more when Tobio kisses back a stunned moment later. A new hunger yawns and stretches in Tobio’s gut.
“How did that taste?” Oikawa asks after pulling away.
“Like curry.”
Oikawa sputters in indignation. “Why you—”
“Can we try again after we’ve finished eating?”
Oikawa rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Always about food with you. I don’t know why I bother.” He stands, probably to throw out his trash, but without thinking, Tobio reaches out, fingers closing around Oikawa’s wrist. “What is it?”
“When you asked me a minute ago—if I still liked curry buns, I lied.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Tobio takes a breath. “I—I might love them.”
Oikawa doesn’t say anything for a moment and Tobio releases his grip, letting his hand fall limply to his side.
“Stupid.” Oikawa sounds as though he’s holding back a laugh, but Tobio doesn’t have time to analyze the nuances of Oikawa’s voice because hands cup his jaw and lips find his again.
And while Tobio might be imagining it, head swimming from the sensations and flavors, he thinks he can hear Oikawa mumble, “Me, too.”