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It's irrational, and Tooru knows it.
Just like his last therapist would say to him during every weekly session: perception's not reality; you just need to take a step back.
So he takes several, and he sits and looks out at the expanse of his living room just like he would survey the court in the midst of a heated rally. Donning a facade of levelheadedness as familiar now as the smiling mask once inseparable from his visage in adolescence, he reassures himself again and again, over and over, that—
There's nothing to worry about.
There's nothing to worry about, and Tooru knows it.
"Tooru," Tobio calls from across the room. "Tooru?"
Tooru's head snaps up. "Hm?"
The younger gestures to the last of the moving boxes in the middle of the floorspace. "Do you remember what's in this one?"
He wets his lips, clears his throat mutely. "Ah. It should be— just old clothes."
"Oh." Tobio pauses. "Nothing fragile?"
"No," Tooru responds. "No, I don't think so."
He shuts his eyes tightly as Tobio grabs the scissors and zeroes in on the distant sounds from the outside world streaming in from behind the glass sliding door of his balcony.
There's— he can hear traffic, the steady rolling of wheels, the humming of motor engines. Beneath it all, boisterous conversations in harried Spanish, but only bits and pieces: things like, excuse me, and have a nice day, watch your step, see you soon; each word processed into his native Japanese only as an afterthought.
A car honks its horn, and then there's incensed shouting, keep your eyes on the road!, followed by some incoherent argument between two men that ends rather anticlimactically with tires screeching as both parties drive away.
Life goes on six stories below.
It seems that life will go on here, too.
Something slides across the hardwood floors and there's the sound of packing tape being ripped open, clean down the middle. Then the shuffling of cardboard, and then the little puff of noise as the box top gets opened for the first time in one long month, the delayed expulsion of dust and decay settling into the air like smoke.
Tobio begins to unpack. He unpacks because;
Because—
Tooru can't.
He can't, and it's irrational. It's irrational, and it's stupid, and it's sentimental and childish, and it's every descriptor that falls in between: because it's not the memento that matters so much as the meaning imparted onto it, and as long as that meaning's still there— or it's still somewhere— then it's not as if the memories have been erased. So long as Tooru remembers, then with or without the keepsakes he's carried with him from Miyagi to San Juan, from San Juan to this little flat in Buenos Aires, then— well, that's all that really matters.
Or rather, that's all that should matter.
He swallows down the lump in his throat and takes a deep breath. His fists tighten almost painfully in his lap.
It's okay, he reminds himself; It's okay.
It's— it's irrational, yes, but it's also okay.
It's okay to be irrational. It's okay to be upset over this. And it's okay to take some time to— just a little bit of time to process the loss...
"Tooru."
Tooru falters. "... Yeah?"
"Your jerseys," Tobio says.
His hands are shaking now, fingers clenched and blanching white around the bottom of his old San Juan tee. "Is— is it bad?"
There's a sharp intake of air.
"... It is."
Tooru pries his eyes open and looks, but not at the mess on the floor. Not at the bunched up masking tape, not at the shredded remains of old photographs and yearbooks, not at the carefully swept-up glass shards that used to be family picture frames. Instead of everything gone and lost he focuses on what matters most: because sitting cross-legged and vulnerable in the middle of Tooru's new living room is Tobio.
His Tobio.
Patient, soft, gentle, and sweet in ways the rest of the world will never know, not like Tooru does.
His Tobio, who heard his voice shaking over the phone, explaining how the moving vans had finally dropped off four of the seven boxes they'd lost in transit to Buenos Aires last month, only to discover all of them were horribly damaged. His Tobio, who rushed all the way over from Turin just two weeks before Torino's first official match of the season, booking a last-minute flight only an hour after they finished their call. His Tobio, who promised to help him sort through the boxes to determine what was salvageable and what was not, who then wordlessly took charge of everything when Tooru broke down after unwrapping the shattered fragments of his mother's favorite teacups from five layers of bubble wrap.
His Tobio, just as giving and unconditional as when they were kids even now at the age of twenty-eight; bathed in the warmth of Argentinian sunlight over layers and layers of colors imparted onto once-snow-white skin, first painted red by the land of the rising sun then immersed in heated gold under the shade of the Roman flag.
Turin's cold blues have not yet reclaimed his Tobio.
But Tooru knows this won't be true for much longer.
So he takes in this sight greedily, commits to memory the reflections of pale yellows and oranges on his lover's cheeks, the reddish-brown highlights of inky locks that become visible in the sunlight, the smidge of dark shadows that linger under sweet blue eyes.
And he convinces himself that— rationally, he will not need memories, nor will he need tokens of a home left behind to remind himself of how far he's come, and all he's given up for a gold medal, and for his adoptive country that gave as much as it took, and for the long-standing reconciliation of fulfillment with all his worthless pride.
No. He doesn't need any of these things, not when the pinnacle of his achievements is sitting right here, still gazing at him as if he's the only star in the sky.
But... would it be selfish of him if he did?
Would he be any less the man he's become if that were the case?
"Tooru?"
Tooru blinks, focusing back on Tobio, who's begun to lift something white and navy and marred by black lettering out of the parcel. There's a dark, tar-like smudge peeking out from what must be the sleeve of the shirt, slowly creeping up out of the box and into Tooru's field of vision.
But then abruptly, it stops.
The younger's hands tremble, hesitant in a way that Tobio rarely ever is.
God, Tooru wants to cry. God, his Tobio.
Tobio swallows. "... Do you want to take a look?"
Instead of answering he just sucks in a deep breath. "How are the rest of them?"
Obediently, Tobio sifts through the box, but the already deep furrow of his brow intensifies.
"Tobio..?"
The younger makes a pained noise. "Maybe— maybe the ones on the bottom survived."
Tooru fixates on the slender fingers curled over the parcel's edge.
"Tooru," Tobio calls again. "Do you want to check?"
Underneath the Kitagawa jersey bunched up at the side, Tooru gets just a brief glimpse of a myriad of colors: mint and white, then the dark green of an old elementary school's emblem, and in the corner the mellow baby blues of San Juan where Tooru fears his heart still remains.
The backs of his eyes burn.
"Tooru..."
He swallows, shakes his head. "I don't want to check."
Strained, waterlogged, and uncertain despite his resolve, his voice betrays him as it has begun to frequently in the recent years. When did he become so sentimental, and such a poor liar? Maybe— ah, his Tobio's rubbing off on him, he muses. A soft laugh escapes his lips, though he thinks from where Tobio sits and watches probably it seems more like a sob.
When he repeats himself he sounds like a child, or something worse than a child. Perhaps he sounds like a man pushing thirty, a man with an Olympic gold medal, a man who has moved so many times across so many countries that it's unfathomable that a move across provinces would reduce him to a fragile mess like this;
A man who renounced his birthplace, foolishly believing he could always take Japan with him, packed into a tiny cardboard box;
A man who never considered the possibility that one day these things might go missing, only to return shattered into pieces.
"I don't want to," Tooru insists, and this is the man he is, irrational and pathetic but unable to be anything more. "I don't."
Sock-clad feet slide over the hardwood floors. A sturdy arm snakes around Tooru's shoulders.
"We can try and— maybe Miwa-nee will know how to get the stains out," Tobio whispers. He squeezes Tooru, runs one hand through dark brown locks. "We could take it to a cleaner if that doesn't work."
Tooru leans into the embrace but does not respond.
"Some of the rips aren't that bad, you know. If you have a sewing kit, then I could try to—"
"Let's just get rid of them," Tooru breathes.
Tobio's hand falters where it presses against Tooru's bicep. "... What?"
"Let's just..." Tooru lowers his head as the first frustrated tears begin to drip down his cheeks. "I— I don't want them anymore."
And there's a soft puff of air near his ear, and then Tobio's snuggling closer, silky dark locks tickling at his cheekbone. "Are you sure?"
When he can't muster up the strength to speak without crying, he resorts to a voiceless nod.
Lips brush his temple, gentle and reverent.
"Go rest. I'll clean up."
Irrational and sentimental and obedient in a way that Tooru rarely ever is, he ducks his head away from the light, croaking out a ragged affirmation back. And then he quietly collects himself before slipping away, avoiding the debris scattered along the path forward.
Shattered glass. Dirt-stained fabric. Ripped up papers. Now all that remains of the lives he'd lived before starting anew here.
Irrational.
Sentimental.
Stupid.
(As if the person he was up until eighteen could ever fit in moving truck.)
He closes the bedroom door only halfway. Bathed in warm light in Tooru's Buenos Aires apartment is his Tobio, holding up the tattered dark blue of an old Kitagawa jersey, fingers tracing over the crackled black print that once read #1.
Tooru commits the sight to memory better than any photograph ever could. Then he retreats to bed, blocking the world out from underneath the covers.
When Tooru wakes, the sky has transitioned from bright blue like San Juan to orange-red: a sunset that bleeds of finality, or a Japan that tires and readies for sleep. The room is painted with autumnal brushstrokes but the room is warm, almost hot, as if summer won't leave without a fight. Its spirit leaves his face slick with perspiration.
It takes longer than he would like to muster up the nerve to get out of bed, longer more to rise once he's sat up, then to venture out of the bedroom. He switches the light on after a moment of hesitation and takes in the cleared floorspace. Other than a small tray that holds the few items that survived the mishap— an old vabo-chan keychain from high school; his Seijoh diploma; a photo of him, Takara, and Takeru— nothing remains of the day's wreckage.
It's like this afternoon never happened at all.
Eventually the daydream's cut short by the front door creaking open, and Tooru turns red-eyed and groggy to meet Tobio's bright and flustered face, half-obscured by the large shopping bags clutched awkwardly in his arms.
"Oh," Tobio breathes. "You're awake?"
"Let me help you," Tooru manages, still hoarse.
But Tobio's already toeing his shoes off, the door closing quietly behind him. "I've got it, don't worry."
The bags get set on the kitchen counter, the keys hung up back on the hook near the coat rack.
"You went to get groceries?"
"You were all out of milk." Tobio pauses from unpacking the shopping, glancing up. "Sorry I didn't leave a note, though. I didn't think you'd be up."
Tooru wets his lips, watches Tobio dig through the bags for the cold items first. "I'm the one who should be sorry."
"Hm?"
"I fell asleep on you," Tooru says. "And I left you to clean everything up, and—"
"I told you to, though?" Tobio carefully takes out a carton of eggs from one of the bags and sets it down onto the counter. "And there wasn't much to do."
"Yeah, but..."
He trails off, vaguely aware that Tobio's not really listening, instead preoccupied with rummaging through the fridge.
"Oi," Tobio grunts, pulling him from his thoughts. "What the hell is this?"
Tooru raises a brow. "What the hell is what?"
"You've got— your fruits are in the compartment for the eggs." Tobio sets the carton down before he begins to rearrange the items. "And the fridge door is for small things, not..."
Tooru frowns, trying to look, only his view's obscured by an incredibly round head.
"Not what?"
"Not— this." Tobio swivels around, wielding half a head of lettuce wrapped haphazardly in cellophane. "Why the hell was this on the door?"
Honestly, Tooru is not quite sure, but there's no way in hell he's going to admit it.
"I have a system, Tobio-chan! Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it's wrong!"
"It is wrong, and your system sucks."
Tooru elects to ignore this comment and slides into a seat at the dining table, leaning forward to rest his cheek in his hands. "What do you want to do for dinner?"
"I bought takeout."
Tooru blinks. "You did?"
The fridge closes, and Tobio circles around the counter, setting a bag onto the table along with two plates. "There was a vendor set up by the market. And I was already out, and..."
"Oh."
"... And I really wanted empanadas."
Tooru laughs a little through his nose. "Keep talking that way and it'll make me think you came here for the food, not me."
Tobio gives him an innocent look. "Why can't it be both?"
"Rude," Tooru huffs.
"Just eat your food," orders Tobio, and Tooru is pleased to obey.
The containers aren't labelled, so the five different fillings are each a surprise. With a little plastic cup filled with chimichurri, Tooru finishes his first empanada in just a few bites. The second and third are ham and cheese, then corn, and the fourth is ground beef with olives, potato, and raisins. He's almost tempted to snag the last from the container but lets Tobio have it instead, picking up the fifth and taking a bite of the mystery filling.
The texture hits him first. Then the moisture of tomatoes, the mildness of the mozzarella.
It's— it's good. Really good, even.
But just like the rest of Buenos Aires always seems to do, it catches him off guard.
And it's irrational because it's always the small things about the city. Like all the Italian flags that fly alongside Argentina's, or the trilling intonations of Rioplatense Spanish that sound so much like Neapolitan, or this, seeing caprese empanadas and pizza and pasta and provolena and milanesa in every restaurant.
And then the ache comes back, and he's not thinking of La Boca or even San Juan, but Naples, where he and Tobio ate calzones and wandered the ruins of Pompeii for so long they were covered in blisters for the remainder of the trip. Or it's his first trip to Rome, where Tobio picked him up from the airport after a red-eye and they ate pistachio gelato, and then walked the streets hand-in-hand to see the Trevi Fountain, poking fun at the legend and the tourist trap, only— only, the whole time, they'd both wanted to try it, but neither wanted to be the first to admit it and ask. All the same, they'd ended up following through, tossing in three coins each with reddened cheeks, promising they would come back together and make good on the promise. And Tobio's hands had been warm in his as they left, and Tooru had wondered if this was what it was like to be homesick for a place he'd never even called home in the first place.
Maybe it's not Buenos Aires that he can't get used to.
Maybe it's not that the city feels so unfamiliar, but rather that the city's too familiar, and in all the wrong ways.
"Do you not like the caprese ones?"
Tooru blinks, looking up from his hands to meet wide blue eyes. "What?"
"The caprese ones," Tobio repeats. He tilts his head. "You don't like them?"
Realizing that he's been glaring daggers at the food for a long while, Tooru drops the empanada back onto his plate and shakes his head.
"No, they're good," he reassures. "Sorry. I was just thinking."
"What were you thinking about?"
Tooru glances at Tobio, who's still chewing but staring very intently right back at him.
Already he can feel his face flushing with embarrassment. "I was just thinking that— these kind of... they remind me of you."
Tobio stops, gaze flickering from the food to Tooru, then back to the food.
"... The empanadas do?"
"Because they're Italian. And Argentinian, like..." Tooru coughs. "Like us."
"... Tooru," Tobio says after a long, long pause. "We're Japanese."
When Tooru groans, Tobio shoots him an indignant look. "What? You're saying we're not Japanese?"
"Of course we are," Tooru retorts quickly, raising his head from his hands only to stop, his voice catching in the back of his throat. "I mean— you are."
"Never mind," Tooru grimaces. "Just forget it."
But Tobio is nothing if not stubborn at the most inconvenient times. Food forgotten, plates pushed to the side, the younger reaches over the table to rest his hands gently over Tooru's.
"We both are." Tobio's voice is quieter now, but still insistent. "You still are, too."
Tooru makes a weak noise of agreement. "In some ways."
"In the ways that matter," Tobio urges.
Tooru's gaze falls back down over their hands. A thumb strokes gently over his knuckles, as if easing them to let go, to relax from where they've clenched into tight fists.
"Can we talk about it later," Tooru says, or maybe he asks, or maybe he pleads. "It's just— I'm kind of tired right now."
"... Are you?"
He nods weakly. Slowly, slowly, slowly— Tobio retracts his hands.
And Tooru stands, feeling pins and needles prickling at his feet, something equally sharp at the backs of his eyes.
Tobio calls his name once more, hesitant. Instead of replying, Tooru pads over to the opposite end of the table and leans down, pressing a soft kiss onto the corner of the younger's mouth.
When he pulls away, he smiles: fragile and glass-like but still honest and still real, because there's still reason to smile even if something inside aches.
"I'm fine. Really," Tooru assures. "Or I will be soon."
Tobio studies his face, those blue irises searching. "If not, you'll tell me. Right?"
"Always," Tooru promises.
Lying in bed and staring at the murky white wall cast cold by the night, Tooru reevaluates.
And he thinks that, yes, maybe he's not now, but— he will be, soon.
He drifts in and out of sleep, fitful and restless, every return to bleary consciousness marked by an empty space at his side where Tobio should be. By the sixth time it happens, half-dazed and unsure of why his head feels so heavy and his eyes feel so strained, he's too exhausted to remember that Tobio came here at all.
Tooru wakes to the whirring of the coffee machine outside and the soft noises of the television in the living room. Once he manages to open his eyes, the light nearly blinds him. Japan rises again, bright and constant, sending sunbeams filtering through the shutters and over his cheeks.
Tooru rises again, too.
"You're up early," he murmurs, leaning against the doorframe, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. The blur that is Tobio startles near the Keurig, turning around.
"Oh, sorry. Was I too loud?"
Tooru waves a hand dismissively and shuffles toward the couch, collapsing onto his back. "Did you want to do something today?"
"We can if you feel up to it," Tobio responds. There's a beat of silence cut short by the television droning. Then everything becomes background noise, white and static. "... Do you feel up to it?"
"I feel tired," Tooru answers. He folds his hands over his chest contently. "That's what I feel."
His Tobio— his sweet, darling Tobio— snorts in response. So very unbecoming. But alas, love is blind.
"You're an old man," Tobio mutters.
Tooru opens one eye to glare at his boyfriend, or the blurry dark thing in the kitchen that might be his boyfriend but also might be the refrigerator.
"Oi," Tooru grunts in warning, because love may be blind, but it is certainly not deaf. "I heard that!"
The blur just scoffs. "Next thing we know, you'll have arthritis."
"Don't make me come over there, Tobio-chan!" For good measure, Tooru points a finger vaguely toward the kitchen, wagging it very patronizingly. "Don't think I won't!"
"I know you won't. 'Cause you're old."
Just because he is not an old man and not arthritic, he makes a dramatic show of throwing his legs over the side, standing with elegant flourish. And still bleary-eyed but fueled entirely by spite, he marches into the kitchen ready to give stupid bratty Tobio-chan a piece of his mind— only stupid bratty Tobio-chan is waiting for him, holding out a hot cup of freshly-brewed coffee.
"Good morning," stupid bratty Tobio-chan greets. "Two creams, one sugar."
Tooru sniffs delicately, wrapping his hands around the mug. "I accept your offering. And I will consider forgiving you."
Tobio raises an eyebrow as he stirs creamer into his cup.
Tooru breathes in the aroma wafting from the top, letting out a contented sigh. "But it might take some time for me to decide."
"How much time?"
Tooru mulls it over, tapping at his chin. "Possibly three to five business days?"
"I'll be gone by then," Tobio points out.
A devilish smirk spreads across Tooru's face as he steps in closer, his free hand moving to rest on the countertop to box Tobio in against the cabinets.
"Then maybe you should plan on making it up to me today," he whispers. "Hm, Tobio-chan?"
Their mugs get set back down on the counter at the exact same time. They're always in sync this way, at least.
(By the time either of them realizes they forgot about their coffee, it's far too late in the day for caffeine.)
The rest of the day is as lazy and sleepy as a proper Saturday should be. Sitting together, tangled and cozy on the couch, they end up watching an old soap opera because there's nothing else on TV. Tobio lets Tooru talk him out of a morning run (we just burned a couple hundred calories, Tobio-chan~! Was that not enough for you?), though not without a few jabs at Tooru being an old man (can't believe that tired you out already, jii-san). In return, Tooru holds still while Tobio fiddles with his hair, and does not throw a fit when he discovers that Tobio's tied twenty little ponytails on the top of his head in the past hour.
"You weren't even watching, were you," Tooru accuses while pulling out the little rubber bands. He winces when one comes back with several strands of his hair, shooting the younger a withering look. "Well?"
"Not at all," Tobio admits without a lick of shame. "I zoned out, like, five minutes in."
"Here I was, trying to be a gracious host and expose you to some Argentinian culture— and you weren't even paying attention!"
"But I was trying to make you beautiful," Tobio deadpans.
An affronted gasp escapes him. "You're saying I'm not beautiful as is?"
"We all have room for self-improvement," Tobio replies sagely.
Today, Tooru decides, vengeance takes the form of tickling Tobio until he's crying. And though he has never had reason to be grateful for suffering from poor circulation all his life, it appears that his ice-cold fingers have finally become useful as instruments of torture, applied mercilessly to the younger's squirming sides.
"You're beautiful!" Tobio practically screams, tears running down his face; "I take it back, you're— holy shit, stop it!"
Tooru only ceases the attack when he's laughing too hard to go on. This is how the punishment ends, leaving both aggressor and victim gasping for air with aching ribs, crying on the couch.
"Oh my god," Tobio wheezes, tear-streaked face flushed bright red. Vaguely, Tooru hopes the sight does not awaken something in him. "I— oh god, I hate you so much."
Tooru holds out his hands again.
"I mean— I love you, and you're beautiful."
Tooru drops his arms, folding his fingers back over his chest. "That's what I thought you said."
Eventually they recover enough to get comfortable again, Tobio curling up at Tooru's side. As always, Tobio is warm, warm, warm, and Tooru thinks he could fall back asleep just like this, even with the soap opera droning on in the background, sickeningly effusive. Only half-conscious of the plot, he watches with bleary, half-lidded eyes as someone's once-dead cousin is revealed to not actually be dead at all, and moreover has been the mistress of the main character's old flame this whole time.
Or something.
"Tooru," Tobio whispers, his hands curled over the fabric of Tooru's sweatshirt. "Hey."
"Hm..?"
Tobio shifts a little, resting his chin on top of Tooru's chest. "How do you feel?"
Tooru blinks, then glances down to meet dark blue eyes: tender and open and loving and soft, in ways the rest of the world will never know.
"... I feel better," Tooru admits quietly. One hand adjusts to gently rest over the top of Tobio's head, petting at the black silk of his locks. "You?"
Dark lashes flutter over the tops of still-flushed cheeks.
"Me, too."
They go to bed at the same time that night, but when Tooru stirs sometime close to dawn the other side of the bed's empty and the lights in the living room are on, peeking through the gap at the bottom of the bedroom door.
He's not sure how long Tobio's gone; but when he wakes again, it is still dark, and Tobio is back.
This is all that matters, at least for now.
In the morning, the rising sun greets them, the orange-yellow yolk of dawn a perfect mixture of cold blue and fiery warmth. Twelve hours behind their native place, where in Miyagi the sun has begun to set; four hours behind Tobio's Rome, as well as Tobio's Turin; exactly the same hour as in San Juan, where Tooru still thinks something important was left behind; yet they rise together all the same.
Humans are such adaptable creatures. It's a scary thing, how easily one forgets.
With their coffees they sit on the balcony, absorbing the warm air and the sunshine on their cheeks. Cross-legged on their chairs, long sleeves half-covering fingers clasped over their favorite mugs, they watch the city start to come to life: cars streaking down the streets, people exiting apartments and offices while exchanging greetings and laughing jovially.
Tooru translates each snippet of conversation for Tobio, even though he's not asked to.
Perdón, excuse me;
すみません。
Que tengas un buen día, have a nice day;
お大事に。
Tenga cuidado, watch your step;
足元に気をつけて。
¡Hasta luego!, see you soon.
またね。
And when another case of road rage breaks out at the intersection at the end of the block, Tooru delightedly translates the profanity into Japanese just so Tobio can follow along, too.
"You're such a good influence," Tobio snorts.
"Well, I've always been a great senpai, haven't I? Don't ever say I never taught you anything useful."
"Uh-huh. I'll be sure to let Iwaizumi-san know."
"Snitches get stitches, Tobio-chan." He reaches over to pinch the younger's cheek, giving him a shake. "When'd you become such a brat, hm?"
Tobio rolls his eyes with great emphasis, but with his face half restrained it makes for a sight so ridiculous that it elicits a sharp bark of laughter from Tooru. When he finally lets Tobio go, the younger rubs his cheek, shooting Tooru a disgruntled look.
After they finish their coffees and because Tobio cannot be talked out of a morning run two days in a row, they get dressed in their athletic wear and head out. Only Buenos Aires is denser and busier than San Juan, and every possible path's punctuated by what feels like hundreds of intersections and crosswalks, and every street is busy even during the earliest hours.
Tooru has not yet figured out the best jogging route.
He wonders if ever he will.
"We can just walk around," Tooru suggests at last. "Would that be okay?"
Tobio hooks their pinkies together. "Sure."
Linked together by their littlest fingers, they stroll down the street, away from Tooru's apartment and toward the shopping square that Tobio visited two nights ago. Their strides now are almost exactly the same length and their natural paces as good as identical. No need for adjustment. In the back of his mind, it registers that something about this feels like a shame: that they always manage to sync up, jetlag dissipating and sleep schedules aligned, only right before one of them has to leave again.
(Someday he hopes that there won't be a return flight home, that there won't be an until next time or a goodbye to have to worry about.)
They walk for half an hour before settling on a cafe to have breakfast: medialunas and churros dipped in dulce de leche, and just to have something savory with it, they split an order of revuelto gramajo, too. Their second caffeine fix of the day's yerba mate, milk added to Tooru's and brown sugar to Tobio's.
Halfway through the meal it occurs to Tooru that he should have taken a picture at the start to have a memento of the day, of Tobio here.
But he doesn't pull out his camera. Instead he just stares.
"Do you miss it?"
Tobio looks up from his yerba mate. There's a crumb on his chin. "Huh?"
"Do you miss Rome." He reaches over to brush the food off of Tobio's mouth. "... Do you?"
Tobio gives him a deciphering look. "What brought that up?"
"I was just wondering."
Tobio pauses.
"... Well, sometimes," he answers at last. "But I like Turin, too. And I can go back someday."
And he glances toward the window, where the whites of the buildings on the opposite side of the street cast a warm glow on his face.
Like this he's far away, all soft edges illuminated by reverent light: a perfect portrait, something that belongs in a museum, but not on display for wandering eyes or something for tourists to gawk at. Rather than being subject to the constant limelight, worn down and dulled by flash photography— tarnished and tattered by the demands of constant travel around the world for art exhibits and galas, and bent into all sorts of unnatural shapes and odd positions just to fit into glass frames and tapestries and the jerseys of each and every city in Italy over and over again—
— wouldn't it be better to just settle down?
Safe from the elements, safe from careless hands. Safe from the unavoidable risks of each and every move, the possibility that one might get lost and never return, or might return but return completely and irreversibly changed.
They'd only bring him out for touch-ups, just to repaint fading corners. Just to keep things— just to keep his Tobio — well preserved.
Don't go back, Tooru wants to say, or maybe wants to demand, or maybe most of all wants to beg and plead, except he would never, except he wouldn't mean it even if right now he thinks it's all he wants.
Tobio's hands settle atop his over the table, warm and firm. Patient, soft, gentle, and sweet in ways the rest of the world will never know.
Not like Tooru does.
"It's okay to miss something," Tobio whispers. "It's okay."
The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach remains for the rest of the afternoon. Present as they tour the colorful streets of La Boca, as they shop around for last-minute souvenirs for Tobio's new teammates, as they eat choripanes for lunch, as they ride the bus all the way back to the apartment, and most of all when Tooru unlocks the front door and the empty living room greets him, even though Tobio's standing right behind him.
Because he knows that in no time at all, this will no longer be the case.
"Tooru..?"
"Ah, sorry."
He moves out of the way and busies himself with taking his shoes off only to stop. And the discomfort in his abdomen feels like something more tangible now but just as irrational as it's been this entire weekend: something unlike the impressions left behind by Rome and Naples, something more like frustration over the fact that Tooru still hasn't seen Turin yet and won't get to see it until off-season finally rolls around, and he can get out of Buenos Aires, and—
God, who would've ever thought that Oikawa Tooru would ever look forward to off-season?
He swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth and croaks out hoarsely, "Have you started packing yet?"
"No, not yet," Tobio answers. His athletic trainers get placed neatly in the corner, lined up right next to the coat rack. "Before that, I wanted to..."
Tooru looks up from his shoelaces. "... What?"
"Uhm. Hold on."
Tooru pauses, watching Tobio pad forward into the hallway and toward the living room where he stops in front of the couch. The younger squats down near the armrest, grabbing a large shopping bag from the floor.
Tooru rises to his feet again. "Tobio?"
With Tooru moving forward, Tobio pacing back, they end up meeting halfway: just between the dining table and the coffee table. They stare at each other for just a second. Then the bag's pressed firmly into Tooru's hands.
"It's for you," Tobio murmurs. "I've been— it's something I've been working on. Since Friday."
Tooru frowns at the parcel, then at Tobio. "Working on what?"
But Tobio's avoiding his gaze, his eyes trained toward the floor. His tongue snakes out to wet his chapped lips nervously. "I was gonna wait until tomorrow morning to show you, but... I thought maybe you might want to have it now."
Tooru holds onto the sides of the bag with numb hands, feeling his features contorting with confusion. Slowly, he tears his gaze away from Tobio's face and glances down.
For a second, he fears he'll be sick.
Right as Tooru's grip slackens, familiar pale hands chase his, steadying.
"Just open it!" Tobio splutters, "If you— if you take a look, and you don't like it, then it's okay, but just... please."
Tooru takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Tobio, why would you..?"
"I— just, please," Tobio insists. "... Please."
And Tooru's chest is still tight and his throat's constricting now, but Tobio's hands are cold like they never are, and are trembling when always they are firm and purposeful.
"... Okay," Tooru agrees.
And he reaches in, fingers closing over familiar fabrics and nostalgic colors that burn: Seijoh's mint and white, Shiogama elementary's ivy green, San Juan's sky blue.
He takes hold only of teal, but—
When he pulls, all the colors move.
And they're not his jerseys, ruined and tattered and bunched up in the bag like he'd thought. No, they're— they're squares, squares that've been salvaged from the wreckage, cut from the areas of each jersey that weren't ripped or stained or carelessly left to fall apart, all of them stitched back together like still frames in a stop-motion picture to form one continuous reel of time.
Seijoh's #1, proud and bold in teal over bright white. The back of San Juan's #17 with OIKAWA printed over the top in navy blue. Then what looks like the sleeve of his elementary school jersey, and the breast of Kitagawa's with its dark, dramatic lettering. All these, along with club shirts, pieces of track jackets and sweatshirts he'd kept over the years, even the old singlet he'd bought just to play beach volleyball in Rio back in 2016: things that were lost and then returned in shambles after the move, back in his arms and reconstructed before his very eyes.
It's a giant patchwork quilt, spanning eight square feet plus some twenty long years of his life.
"I tried my best, but I'm still not— I know some parts aren't great, and the fabrics are all different," Tobio manages, his eyes searching Tooru's face from over the top of it. "And I know you said to throw them out, but I..."
Tooru opens his mouth, only instead of Tobio's name all that comes out is a waterlogged gasp; and then he's crumpling to the ground, body curling over the quilt clutched in his trembling hands. Tobio follows him down, because Tobio always follows. And once again they sit sprawled over the living room floor, just like they did on Friday afternoon.
Tobio's hands are carding through Tooru's hair as if voicing apologies without words. And the younger's face is flushed red, and his blue eyes are watery; and the sight of Turin's colors like this makes Tooru think that maybe the city's already reclaimed his Tobio, but—
God, he thinks he sobs out,
What a beautiful shade of blue.
"I'm sorry," Tobio is repeating over and over, again and again; "I'm sorry, I messed up a few times, and I should have asked you before I did it, but... I thought it would be a waste to throw them out. I didn't mean to make you upset."
If Tooru could, he would laugh. He'd say something cryptic, or he'd scoff, or he'd smirk and needle the other. He'd tease Tobio mercilessly and only after having his fun would he tell Tobio the truth: that even if this thing was held together only by fishing wire, or even if it fell apart right here in his hands, he couldn't possibly care any less. Not when nothing has ever made him feel as much as this gesture has, as much as Tobio has.
His Tobio.
His Tobio, his Tobio, his.
He laces their fingers together instead, squeezing tight, and then—
Then, Tooru pulls Tobio's hands close, reverent and gentle, laying kisses over pin-pricked fingertips.
"Is this what— that's what you were doing at night?" He laughs a little through the tears, mouths words into Tobio's palms. "This whole time?"
"... You noticed I was gone?" Tobio breathes, eyes wide.
And Tooru smiles, fragile and glass-like but more genuine than ever. "You noticed I was, too."
"W-Well, it was hard not to." Flustered now, Tobio turns, pursing his lips. "I mean, you almost cried over an empanada."
"Cheeky," Tooru laughs. And then he's leaning forward, and laughing against Tobio's mouth, and Tobio is laughing back;
And then he's kissing Tobio, and then they're lying on their sides on the floor;
And then Tooru's just holding Tobio in his arms, the patchwork quilt draped over them.
It's warm. They both are.
"It's okay to miss San Juan," Tobio whispers. "And to miss Seijoh, and everything else. Everyone else, too."
"And you," Tooru says. He brings Tobio's hands to his lips, keeps them there as if in prayer.
"God," Tooru breathes. "You're still here, and I'm— already, I miss you, Tobio. I miss you all the time."
Watery blue eyes meet Tooru's.
"Me, too."
That night when they come together, Tooru thinks that maybe, this is it: the compromise, or as close as he can get to it right now.
Committing to memory every sound Tobio makes; every shade of blue his eyes flash under the changing phases of the Argentinian moon;
Every way, shape, and form he knows his Tobio right now;
Every way, shape, and form he will miss his Tobio when they are apart.
When the rising sun paints them red and orange the next morning, and the skies outside shine gold and blue like San Juan, still they are twelve hours apart from Miyagi. Still they are four hours behind Tobio's Rome and Turin, still they will be when Tobio's flight departs. And still the sight of Italy and Argentina's flags whipping about in the wind side-by-side, reds, whites, and greens mixing together with soft subtle blues, inspires a tangible ache that follows him just as Tobio does: all the way from Tooru's apartment down the busy city streets to Ezeiza International Airport.
And still it hurts just like always to say goodbye, to relinquish to Turin his Tobio.
And when he comes back home to an empty living room, to a fridge stocked with milk that Tobio didn't manage to finish, to the leftover caprese empanadas packaged carefully away in the back, Tooru thinks that still, it will never stop hurting.
And still Tooru's not feeling quite like he's in Buenos Aires, but not quite like he's in Rome or Naples or Miyagi, either. And he thinks maybe it's true something got left behind in San Juan, something he will never get back, something that may well be lost forever. But maybe it's inevitable that something gets left behind every time he leaves. And maybe it's inevitable that it gets replaced by something different every time he arrives somewhere new.