Archive of Our Own ^beta

act one: i can't decide if its a choice, getting swept away.

Hajime is only seven years old, but he already feels like he's rolled his eyes for a lifetime.

You see, life's swell and pink-colored for a kid who's only predicaments are: "Mom, the worker at the figurine shop told me they only have 3 Godzillas left, if they sell out before I get one I might seriously die." and "It's not my fault my classmates don't know how to dodge a ball in dodgeball, dad, is it really my fault if i hit them too hard?" Overall, Iwaizumi's parents are doing a good job in raising a happy-go-lucky boy, and they make sure all of their acquaintances know, proudly showing off their only offspring whenever they get the chance.

"What?!" The boy abusing his patience yells. "You don't have any brothers or sisters? I bet you're really selfish with your stuff." Big wet eyes look back at him, curiosity and indignation written all over them. "My mom always says-"

The singleton feels a headache growing, so naturally, he tunes him out.

Iwaizumi Hajime is a vibrant and observant kid, he's courageous and maybe a little bit too opinionated for his age. His mom's friends who wear a little bit too much rogue and drink a little bit too much wine, say that he's handsome yet smart, and that he's gonna make someone very lucky when he grows up. He has tanned plump cheeks that can't help but be victims of his aunt's and uncle's invasive fingers whenever they visit, so as a result of that, he's learned to be patient, too.

That's why even though he's already annoyed at having to look straight into this boy's bright halo, he takes a deep breath and tries not to snap at the sound of his high pitched voice.

"-so that's why my sister and I aren't allowed to go into the kitchen at the same time anymo-"

Hajime has strong arms, or so he's been told. When that happens, he always responds in one of two ways. If he's feeling cocky, he'll cuff his shirt sleeves to his shoulders and flex his barely there muscles, adding in a proud smile. That always gets the people cooing and clapping. But if he's not in a showing off mood, he'll simply say: "Thanks, my grandma makes me hold her yarn for her while she nits, and my arms end up hurting after a while. It's probably because of that." Even though it's no seven year old's favorite activity to stand still and watch sweaters get made, especially for a boy as electric as him, Hajime takes the task very seriously, and his favorite part about the job is when he gets to hear his father's mother's speeches. He finds them amusing. She rambles on about many things, like what happened in the last episode of the newest drama the cable just aired, or how the grocery store "robbed her blind" with how high the orange's prices had gotten. But what's most important to her, he noticed, is to make sure she tells her grandson about all the qualities that make a great man, trying to teach him the ways of a gentleman from early on.

"Always be present, son. Nothing drives someone away faster like acting as if you don't care that they're around you anymore."

To no one's surprise, Hajime also turned out to be caring and helpful.

Cue Iwaizumi's migraine.

The boy playing alone smelled what felt like salt in the air and heard breakers crashing on a shore, as if the ocean was just around the corner. With his curious nature sparked, he put on hold his bug-hunting activities, hoping that the yellow and emerald beetle he'd just found would still be here when he came back. Trusting his inner compass to lead him the right way, he set off, walking around his neighborhood.

Hajime wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he figured he'd know once he found it.

He lives in a pretty quiet place, mostly filled with beige-toned houses that belonged to no-fun old people who always tell him to get off his yard whenever he chased a really cool bug that wanted to escape his clammy hands. "Screw you." he'd say to himself, and with false bravado proceeded to give them the middle finger in the privacy of his own pocket. He made a left on one of these houses that he's been told off on so many times, and Hajime's skip on his step suddenly dimmed.

The clouds got darker and the scent grew stronger as he continued, sounds of waves thrashing angrily. He wasn't scared, he was a big boy who prided himself on his sense of direction. But right now, he felt like a ranger lost at sea. Alone in his boat, with some strong magnetism throwing off his compass' needle, telling him to go south, north, east and west, all at the same time.

Or maybe it was the other way around, as if Hajime was the moon, disturbing Poseidon's reign, infuriating the ripples with its magnetic force as he grew closer and closer.

"Can you help me find my volleyball?" someone cried.

Water started to pool around Hajime's ankles, and it all seemed to come from the kid in front of him. This boy had to be new in town, he'd never seen him around, he was sure he would have noticed him when the freckled stranger was sporting a nimbus as luminous as the stars Iwaizumi pointed to at night. Now, he panicked. Was he the only one seeing this? Was everyone else blind? How was he supposed to handle all of this by himself?

"I was just playing with it," the boy motioned some gestures with his hands as if he was setting a ball, fingers positioned with mathematical precision even though there was nothing there, "And then I went BAM!" He jumped, startling Hajime and cutting the air in half with his arm, spiking the breeze. He came back down, wiped his runny nose with his shirt sleeve, and continued. "Now I don't know where it went." With a pout, he angrily let himself fall to the ground, showing the first few classic signs of a tantrum. If the ground had hurt, he didn't show it.

Iwaizumi was stunned. He'd met his fair share of classmates and adults, babies and old people, but yet, he didn't understand why it seemed like this boy talked with his whole body. He had never seen anything like it. Animated movement after animated movement, hands flying all around him, eyes almost too raw and pure, it felt like this kid still didn't know enough words in the alphabet to convey the extent of his emotions, so his fingers, arms, legs and everything else he could flail around did it for him. Maybe his mom was too busy to read to him every night like Iwaizumi's dad did, so he didn't know as many big words as him. Maybe he just needed to learn how to communicate better.

He perceived further, and came to the conclusion that it was almost as if the kid's personality was too grand for the tiny body that he's been given, too prodigious. Too extensive for a body whose bones are still fragile as a stick. He was overflowing through every pore and with every staggery breath. And Hajime, overwhelmed, couldn't help but want to stop the currents.

But he was just another kid, like the one in front of him, he wasn't strong enough to fight against all that, was he?

"Let's search." he sighed and gave in to the foam of now broken tides, letting himself get swept away. The cold whites relieved the summer's presence that Tuesday afternoon, and Iwaizumi thought maybe fighting against the flow wasn't really worth it in the first place.

That's how he'd found himself in this sticky situation: head buried deep in Mrs. Misato's hydrangeas, the ones from her porch, under July's heat, sweating, looking for a ball that isn't even his, with some boy he doesn't even know, hoping to not get caught by the evil old witch that lives there. He feels like he deserves about a thousand NECA Godzilla King action figures by now. Said boy sits on the grass beside him, still leaking, and while Hajime is already struggling with getting himself untangled from millions of little branches, his high pitched whines somehow make the process even harder. "Hey! Are you even listening to me?"

"I stopped paying attention about five minutes ago." Iwaizumi is sincere. "What are you even going on about?" He manages to say, a bit breathless.

"I want to use your net."

"Oh, no way."

"Ah, see! I knew you were selfish!" He points and raises his voice even more, as if he had just won some sort of imaginary competition.

"No, I'm not," Hajime finally gets out, and stretches his back. He looks down and doesn't bother with getting on the same eye level as him. "I just don't want you losing it like you lost your ball."

"I won't, I swear I won't! You can supervise me the whole time." He bribes, and looks expectant waiting to see if his offer works. When a noncommittal hum meets him, he raises the stakes and puts all his chips in the pot, "If you teach me how to catch bugs, I'll teach you how to play volleyball." He's all-in.

The kid's voice lowers and takes a serious turn, as if he could never make a proposition like that without meaning it. When Hajime finally says, "Okay, deal." the boy looks up, immediately stopping the riot of the billows hitting, calm blues at last.

"Really?" he grows hopeful, not a hint of distrust in his voice.

A chubby hand stretches out in the middle of them, helping scraped ones get up from the floor.

"Yeah."

A smile returns to the nameless kid's face and trust comes easy for seven year olds.

The sky's blue, the cicadas chirp, the grass seems greener, and his halo gets impossibly brighter, promoting itself from a regular star, to the sun. It almost leaves Iwaizumi blind, dazed, with funny colored spots dancing all around his sight. But before he lets himself stare for too long, he's grabbed by a pair of hands he's only gotten to know ten minutes ago. They're dirty with little rocks, pebbles and spiky grass from the ground, so his touch stings, he's aware. Still, he lets himself follow.

"Okay!"

The boy's enthusiasm leads the way and Hajime knows he's gonna keep his promise.

"By the way, I'm Tooru."

act two: i'd be smart to walk away, but you're quicksand.

Hajime is fourteen years old and he's just been told he's a pretty eloquent young man.

If someone were to open up a dictionary, search for the letter E, and look up the word eloquent, they'd find the following description: "an individual fluent or persuasive in speaking, with the ability to have an influence on others." Or, they'd find synonyms such as: "expressive, strong, potent." It's safe to say this adjective fits Hajime like a glove, even at the tender age of fourteen.

But beside him, Tooru snorts mockingly.

"Iwa-chan? Eloquent?" Hajime sends him a look, a warning telling him to watch his mouth. Oikawa catches it, but he relishes in getting on his nerves, so he proceeds. "Please, mom, you just haven't seen him angry!" He stops for a moment, and as if he's just remembered an inside joke with himself, he starts giggling. "God, he can't even string two sentences together without throwing about a thousand insults in the middle!" If Hajime didn't know any better, he'd say he almost looks eager to make his best friend look bad.

Right now, under the fluorescent light of his small but cozy kitchen, Tooru is surrounded by the two people that know him most in the world: Hajime, and his mom. A tight-knit clan who is extremely familiar with his charisma and natural theatrical prowess. Of course, the pair's immune to his antics, a skill only possessed by someone patient enough to deal with Oikawa's primal but naive need to keep things interesting, to never stay still.

It was a blessing and a curse, really, always wanting to keep the currents moving. And Hajime knows this, because he watches. He doesn't quite understand where Tooru's waves come from, but still, he contemplates the sea that forms around him and respects it, knowing what it's capable of. He thinks he might look at it too much, for too long. If someone else could see it, would they run? Is it odd that he's so entranced by it? The truth is, he accompanies Oikawa's big vast blues even when the imaginary red flag that indicates a high hazard is flaming in the sky, warning of a storm approaching. Of course, he doesn't care to flee, because the ocean became his playmate a while back, and he knows it wouldn't hurt him.

Iwaizumi finds himself wondering a lot lately. He looks back to the time they first met, to the time when he didn't know he would become part of that whiny boy's family, and to his dismay, Tooru's flimsy body grew. His twig-like bones got stronger and larger, he even grew taller than Hajime, but unsurprisingly, his personality did too. So, no changes there. The now shorter boy started to think that his best friend would never grow into a body tall enough or big enough to contain all that Oikawa Tooru was and still is, because he's a package deal: He's grand but chaotic, he's obsessive but passionate, he's closed-off but overwhelming. Take one thing out of those equations, and he would no longer be the setter he's grown to know. Asking him to shrink himself down so he's not achingly bright anymore would be ludicrous, or telling him to keep his storms to himself would be just plain cruel.

The rest of the world should just wear sunglasses, he figured. Become friends with the waves, just like he did seven years ago.

So Hajime got used to the currents, got used to the water, got used to the blues, the reds and the yellows that came with his best friend, not once asking him to mute them down. He felt fortunate, getting to see all the new colors Tooru came up with.

If he mixed blue and red, he got purple. He got tears, pride, arrogance, and immaturity.

When he mixed yellow and red, he got orange. He got warmth, spontaneity, happiness and adventure.

Sometimes he mixed blue and yellow, and he got green. He got envy, hope, and growth.

Tooru painted with his fingers and Hajime felt like a blissful canvas.

But right now, in this kitchen that he knows as if it was his own, Oikawa's like an ugly shade of brown, the same color you get when you try to mix the whole palette together because you're bored and have nothing better to do.

Tooru's mom has known Iwaizumi for a long time now, and she loves Hajime as if he were her own son. She's watched him grow up, she knows him, recognizing a good friend and an even better person when she sees one. For example, the only times his mom could sleep peacefully at night when Oikawa was out of the house was when she knew him and Hajime were having a movie night, or when she'd normally leave his son about a thousand text messages pestering him over his whereabouts, it'd only take one call from Iwaizumi saying he's with him for her to stop spamming his inbox.

Hajime is trustworthy.

But still, Iwaizumi grew impatient by the second, not liking it one bit that his friend was making him look like some sort of careless hooligan in front of his mother, like someone who doesn't care about her son, just for the thrill of seeing Hajime mad. So, he excused himself and very politely exited the kitchen, heading towards Tooru's backyard.

The air around him feels hot and heavy as he steps outside.

It suddenly dawns on Iwaizumi what day it is.

Memories start hitting him like a truck, stories his grandmother told him about his parents' youth in Saitama still fresh in his mind. He knows all about their journey, two highschool sweethearts getting married, and how they eventually moved to Miyagi when they knew they were expecting. Even though they flew north, drunk on love and new beginnings for the three of them, the couple never forgot where they came from, taking the south's traditions with them. She'd finish off the tale by telling Hajime that no matter where he went in this world, she expects him to do the same.

The summer solstice in the Kanto region means celebrating the start of the sweat and sun filled days (that he's not so fond of, because who likes training in 30°C weather?) by spending the afternoon eating komugi-mochi. So, naturally, after having met Oikawa and his serious sweet tooth, his first thought was: "I need to let my mom know to leave some for Tooru."

He gives his mother a heads up every time this time of year comes around, and she always responds with "I know, I made extra." It really shouldn't catch Iwaizumi off guard, the fact that he's managed to pass Oikawa's knickknacks onto his mother. They come in pairs, after all.

"My mom wanted me to give this to you."

Tooru opens the gift and Hajime swears he saw his eyes jump.

"Iwa-chan! I love sweets!"

"I know." He rolls his eyes at the obvious statement. "My family's from Kanto, they make this every year on the first day of summer."

"I'm so jealous." Oikawa talks with his mouth full. "Sweets and the summer, my favorite things. I think I need to move in with you."

Iwaizumi agrees, and starts thinking of ways to convince his mother.

Of course, that didn't work out.

"Oh? A bento box? On June 21st, for me? I wonder what this is!" Tooru teases.

"Shut up and eat, you're lucky I didn't steal any on the way here."

He pops one in his mouth and hums approvingly "Amazing, I can't believe she just gets better with the years, tell her I said thank you."

And every year he delivers his message.

"What are you thinking so hard about?"

His daydreams get cut short when he notices his best friend sitting next to him on the porch's stairs, oblivious to his nostalgia. He was so caught up remembering past picnic days that he didn't even hear him sneak beside him. Iwaizumi wonders just how much time he spent walking down memory lane, because when he looks up the sun's already set, leaving the sky as something to admire, reflecting pink and orange hues on the few clouds they can see. Maybe he's a little love-drunk by the sight.

Or the memories.

Or the boy.

Hajime forces himself to snap out of his daze, remembering their previous hurdle, and tries to communicate. "You were acting like a real dickhead in there." He knows this isn't Tooru's forte, but he doesn't care. "What was that all about? There's a time and a place for everything." Oikawa shifts in his seat, and only then Iwaizumi takes notice of the volleyball in his lap. Still, he continues. "Making me look bad in front of your mom isn't cute, asshole."

"I thought it was funny."

"I didn't."

They stay silent for a while and when the youngest boy speaks, Hajime hopes for an apology.

"Wanna go spike a couple of tosses?"

The oldest one sighs, knowing it was no use.

"Today's supposed to be our rest day, you heathen."

"So?"

And because Hajime's never been able to say no to Tooru, just like he's never had it in him to sneakily eat one of the treats his mother leaves for him, the sky's a dark navy blue when his palm aches and his lungs feel like they're going to give up at any moment, betraying him under his friend's gaze.

He can't say no, but damn him if he's gonna let Oikawa have the last word.

"You can't ignore me forever." Hajime buys himself some time, hoping Tooru doesn't notice he can't catch up to him anymore. He takes his shot at communicating, once again.

"Hm." Oikawa doesn't bite. "Is there any mochi left at your house?"

Of course he remembered.

Unlike him, Iwaizumi didn't, but he knows he isn't lying when he says: "Yes, we always leave some for you, you know that."

"Can we go later?"

"Not if you keep changing the subject."

He gets something between an exaggerated sigh and a long groan in response.

"Iwa-chan," Oikawa says, voice laced with irritation. "Have I not been sending you perfect tosses for the past hour and a half?"

Iwaizumi stills. "...Yeah?"

"And they're all for you, aren't they?" He's trying to make Hajime put two and two together.

Hajime nods.

Oikawa softens.

"Then you should get what i'm trying to say."

I'm sorry, you're right, I acted like an ass, let me make it up to you, by fitting even better together.

A bucket of cold water drenches him. Has Hajime been close minded all these years, ignorant to the many languages of the world? How didn't he figure it out? Iwaizumi spent the majority of the day recalling their moments together, and he still didn't notice?

Tooru pecks his cheek after finishing all the treats he brought him.

Hajime blushes. "What was that for?"

The boy with cornstarch all over his face simply shrugs.

God, how stupid is he?

"You know, I'm the one who tells her every year to keep some for you, shouldn't I get some of these thanks too?"

The teenager with cornstarch all over his face clings to Iwaizumi like a tree, arms hugging his shoulders while they walk to class, not caring about the weird looks they're getting.

"Nope."

He feels a sting of guilt, realizing he's been trying to shove his own dialect onto Oikawa, instead of taking the time to translate what his friend has been saying to him for almost a decade. Just how many things did he miss? He's been communicating all along, the dialogue he craved so much has always been in front of him.

Words aren't the end all be all of the world.

Iwaizumi feels dumb, he feels sorry. Oikawa reads him like the open book he is and shoots him a look that says: "don't worry, you're forgiven."

This time, he gets the message, and Hajime makes a silent promise to never let one slip him by ever again.

The setter positions himself once more, focused brown eyes looking at him like he's the only one in the world capable of touching the ball he's sending his way, like he's immune to the heat of his own passion. This is the first time Iwaizumi sees flames instead of rivers, and the time he realizes he's fireproof.

They lock eyes, and Hajime thinks others would have turned to ashes by now.

Others would have turned to ashes long ago.

Feeling renewed and invincible, he jumps. A perfect shot, a practiced dance.

Gravity pulls him back to the ground, and they're back to normal when Oikawa asks, "So, what flavor did she make this year?"

act three: two headlights shine through the sleepless night.

Hajime is seventeen years old when he realizes he should learn how to swim.

It's weird that he doesn't know how to, given how much time he spends looking at the tide, admiring but never getting in too deep. He's not scared, that's not the problem, it's just that he's comfortable with only getting his toes wet, or maybe even going as far as cuffing his bermudas and letting the brine crash against his knees. But that is it.

So he never learnt, not knowing to read the signs, blissfully ignorant of what was coming to him.

It's February when Hajime finds himself neck deep in Tooru's blue, standing on his tiptoes, desperately fighting to keep his nose out of the water, not wanting to give up just yet.

"Fuck, this is it."

It's winter in Japan, it's winter in this room and he's so cold when he holds in one last breath that freezes his insides, and the water swallows him whole.

Iwaizumi wakes up with a gasp, eyes wide open.

He immediately looks beside him, panting and shuddering, expecting for Tooru to be sleeping soundly in his bed, but as he adjusts to the dark in his best friend's childhood room Hajime notices he's nowhere to be found.

Then, he listens. First, his own erratic heartbeat, and later, he recognizes faint sounds of whistles, sneakers against wooden floors, and the grunts of spikers trying to get past some tall middle blockers.

"Tooru?" He asks, voice coarse, but is greeted with silence.

He hears the exact same sounds he heard a minute ago, in the same pattern. Squeaking shoes, silence, a whistle, footsteps, and a hand making loud contact with the ball.

Hajime calms down, letting out a defeated sigh.

He suspects, and when he notices the faint light that's coming from Oikawa's living room, he confirms.

"Tooru." The object of his affection is now sitting right in front of him, replaying clips of his serves over and over again, torturing himself. "It's three in the morning, for the love of God, just go back to your bed." he pleads.

Nothing.

He decides to try his hand at Tooru's language, it's been a few years now since he's been studying, observing, remembering. So he touches him, nudging him on his shoulder, and Tooru's scorching.

Oikawa understands, and wakes up from his trance.

"Oh, you're up." He says, not surprised, as his irritated and crazed irises go back to the screen. "Sit," Oikawa pats the floor. "I need your eyes too." He's so focused. "I've been looking at this for too long, and maybe you can point out some things I'm doing wrong that I seem to be missing."

Since his friend asked for his eyes, he dares to look, and linger.

Hajime watches and writes sonnets in his mind. It's effortlessly easy, and when he lets his eyes roam free on Oikawa's milky skin, making a stop above his cupid's bow, noticing the tiny little scar he tries to conceal with makeup, he feels like picking up a paper. When he watches him push brown locks away from his face, wishing they were his fingers instead the ones carding through his hair, he feels like picking up a pen. When he counts fifty-six freckles on his cheeks, he feels like writing. When he realizes he's the only one with the biggest collection of Tooru's bright and genuine smiles, he feels like completing an entire book.

The sonneteer doesn't know when it all started to feel like this, the crushing weight on his shoulders, the stupid urge to fall into his arms, not caring if the hands he worships catch him or not. Maybe ever since he smelled salt in the air, maybe when he realized he's fireproof.

Did he really think he was strong enough to keep ignoring calls and wails from the mermaids that lived within his bottomless oceans? No, he's been enchanted for a while now. He's a flawless turquoise, a shattering force. Beautiful and intimidating, capable of disasters, capable of peace. He's like a fire, forcing multitudes to look at the way it dances, bright and sizzling, almost hypnotic.
Eyes start to hurt after looking for too long, and when they close, the flames are still there, staining retinas. Hajime might just be an arsonist, never getting enough of the flames. Hajime might just be a trained marine, knowing the ocean like the back of his hand. It's this thought that makes him choke out a dry laugh. "What a cruel joke the universe is playing on me." He thinks to himself, because it's painfully funny, the fact that Iwaizumi doesn't particularly like the heat unless it's coming from his best friend's devotion, or how he would dive into the deepest of waters if they come from his setter's trepidation.

The pressure's too high, he needs to come back from cloud nine.

Right now, his once beautifully taken care of setter hands are calloused and dry. His nails are going to bleed if he keeps biting down on them, and he doesn't care about being gentle to the parts of his body he relies on the most. The tips of his fingers and ears are bright red, because it's too cold to be out of bed, but the speed of his thoughts and the cogs in his brain create enough friction to warm up an entire room. Cold sweats. The oceans inside his best friend are slowly evaporating, making the entire room foggy and hard to breathe in.

Hajime feels suffocated.

He clears his throat, "There's nothing wrong with your serve, you're doing nothing wrong, Oikawa."

A chill runs through Tooru's spine like he struck a nerve when he pronounced that strange forgotten name, not intimate enough. He brings his knees to his chest, hugging them, as if he's trying to contain himself, trying to do what Hajime's been allowing to happen ever since they met.

It had never occurred to him that maybe his best friend is tired of his own currents, tired of shrinking in his own body, tired of being too much for his own good. Ever since he got swept away, he's wanted to just let him be. Maybe he was being selfish, admiring for too long, not realizing that the things that burn the brightest are also short-lived, and painful.

"Tooru, look at me."

He obeys his command. Big wet eyes look at him from below, and suddenly Hajime's a kid again, with a net in his hand, in front of a boy who doesn't know how to use his words, looking for a ball, making a partner for life.

He helped him out back then and he'd do it a thousand times over.

This time, he kneels to his level, rests a hand on the scared boy's knee and tries to make the blistering contact of skin to skin less noticeable.

"Stop." Hajime hopes he's listening, he wants to burn his voice into his brain. "You're frightened, I know, you're too honest for me to not notice it."

They're close, and Iwaizumi can feel his shuddering breath.

"You're always trying to one up yourself, Tooru, doesn't it get tiring? This constant competition? You're allowed to rest, you know? You need to rest."

He can see how Oikawa's eyes start to get glossy, and how he's biting his lip to keep the tears in.

"You're so good, you're so good, unbelievably skilled, really, and I think the only reason I'm able to barely catch up to you is because we've been in this since the start."

Tooru tries to interrupt but he doesn't let him. "Don't worry, I know I'm good."

Oikawa laughs, Iwaizumi feels blessed.

"What I'm trying to say is, I know you, Tooru." He softens his voice, almost a whisper. "I know what you're capable of, I've seen you grow into the person you are today, and fuck, I feel like I already know how you're gonna be like a decade from now." He's getting carried away, but his friend doesn't seem to mind. "You're just going to step on everyone, aren't you? Burn everyone down to the ground." Lacing his tone with melancholia, Iwaizumi finishes, feeling a thousand pounds heavier.

Oikawa's eyes, huge, lay heavy on his, tears to the brim. The air is not the same as it was minutes ago, it's clear now, the fog long gone.

If Iwaizumi sees realization in his best friend's eyes, he ignores it.

"Anyways," he breaks the spell. "It's not just you out there, I'll remind you as many times as it takes, dumbass." And with that, the older boy gifts him a smile, radiating reassurance, comfort, warmth.

What feels like a wave hits Hajime, and this time he rides it, he had been waiting for it.

He hugs back, beds, covers and the cold long forgotten.

act four: all we are is skin and bone, trained to get along.

Hajime is eighteen he finally drowns.

He's supposed to be a rock, an anchor in people's lives, taking the role ever since he was a child. It's never been a burden to him, quite the opposite, he loves to feel needed.

Iwaizumi is charitable. He does the groceries for his family without anyone asking him to. He takes notice of all the things that are missing in the house and he just goes, arms strong enough to come back carrying all the bags by himself. When Hajime visits his grandmother at the hospital every week, sometimes he'll catch her sleeping, but he still stays and changes the water for the flowers, fluffs her pillows and kisses her on the forehead before he leaves. His little cousins look up to Hajime, and he's eager to teach them the perfect way to spike a ball, once they learn how to take two steps before falling face first to the ground.

Pride fills him when he remembers the fact that his peers respect him, and that he's part of a well oiled machine, having Tooru as the motor.

He encourages the first years, he teaches and observes. Hajime has a hard exterior, but he knows they trust him enough to come to him when he's needed, when palms are stained red and sweaty from training so hard but the spikes still don't land, they know Iwaizumi has been through this before, and he fixes it. He listens to the second years, he values what they have to say. Where does he need to improve? Are his receives sloppy? Does he need to practice his blocks even more? Where else can he fill in the gaps?

He trusts the #3, admires the #2 and adores his #1.

But one doesn't simply spend eleven years beside Oikawa Tooru and expect to come out untouched, so it shouldn't take Hajime by surprise when he starts showing the same torturous traits he sees in his best friend.

The whistle cuts through the atmosphere and just like that, the match's over. They're all looking back at his captain, who's still looking at the ball that hit the floor five seconds ago, not daring to move a muscle.

Time stands still, and Hajime expects the flood.

And it does come, but not from Tooru.

People start moving around them, cheering loudly but not aiming the hoorays at his team, and Iwaizumi silently panics.

Hajime's used to feeling the water, the cold and the blue all around him, he had made his skin as thick as leather and storm-proof to endure the waves and tsunamis, the burning and the thick fog.

He feels every single beat of his heart against his ribcage, every bone of his body trying to keep him standing. Gallons of blood rush to his head, plugging his ears, blocking his sight, and just what is he supposed to do when the oxygen starts lacking and, this time, the currents are inside him? He realizes every single word of advice that's ever come out of his mouth is useless, because until now, he's had no idea what it's like to be in constant battle with yourself.

He feels sorry, sorry, sorry.

Tooru's always shown vulnerability through his hands. Their perfect trust, carefully built over time, grew under Hajime's mouth and Tooru's palm.

Tooru touched and Hajime burned, Tooru pointed and Hajime followed, Tooru caressed and Hajime melted.

So, with his heart ripped out of his chest and without anyone noticing the chaos inside him, he starts to move. Slowly but surely, he leaves his team behind, and his captain, too.

He is never going to look at his setter again.

He plays back the scene that made his 10 second long (and counting) turmoil look like a lifetime of epiphanies, making the water rise up to his nose, and if he doesn't stop thinking soon, it will wash over him.

How was he supposed to face him? Tooru pointed and Hajime failed to deliver.

He failed to give the last point to the boy that's been perfecting his sets just for him ever since he convinced Hajime to play with him, the boy whose blood, sweat, and tears will forever leave a stain on his clothes and bedsheets, no matter how many times he washed them.

He failed his team, failed to give the third years, his friends, more time to stay on the court.

And with that thought, it's Hajime's turn to overflow.

The familiar sting of tears behind his eyes starts to make itself present, screaming at him to acknowledge the same pain and hurt he's sure he's caused his teammates by not fulfilling the role they trusted him with, the ace. Iwaizumi catches his bottom lip between his teeth and doesn't realize how hard he's biting until he tastes blood. He doesn't stop biting, he deserves this, he-

He lets go.

A burn hotter than he's ever felt before spreads through his back. Lightning, a meteorite going a thousand miles an hour strikes him, leaving him breathless and evaporating oceans with it's impact. Vapor burns him from the inside out, purifying, making him return to his senses, reminding him of who he is.

He's not self destructive, he's not unworthy.

Hajime's just a boy who gave it his all.

Tooru walks by him, having done more than enough with what he can give at the moment.

His back stings again, and one more time after that. Three impacts in total, three friends. A whole team.

He's loved, he knows this.

act five: put your lips close to mine, as long as they don't touch.

Tooru is eighteen years old when he breaks both their hearts.

As he watched the ball drop, Oikawa felt the fire inside him start to char, smoke going from his gut to his throat, making it close immediately, leaving the fume with nowhere to go.

He hated, truly despised him. A genius taking away his only opportunity to keep going in this school, keep going with his friends. He grabbed the last opportunity he had to keep being Hajime's setter, and took it away. He proved once again that talent wins over skill, and Tooru felt bile threatening to come out.

He hand-picked his best reds, crimsons and vermellions, and with no more space in his palette of colors, he created a masterpiece in a matter of seconds: a look so vile and disgusting loaded with resentment, meant only for the muse, Tobio.

The setter detached his eyes from the spot on the floor where the ball had once been and didn't dare to look around, knowing his target was on the other side of the net, and his tunnel vision was only getting worse by the second.

But as if his spiker had done it on purpose, right where his personified nightmare should be standing, Hajime was in his place, only he was on his side of the court, like he always had been.

He saw him first, and the blues, sapphires, and cobalts took over.

His gaze softened, he heard the sizzle of the blaze and shivered as salty water ran through him, creating currents again. Concern spread from his head to his toes like lead, and it frightened Tooru to see the same oceans he's been dealing with his whole life inside his best friend. He's never wanted this for him, to feel as inadequate as he does, to have to learn to ride the waves.

Because, Tooru loves him. Of course he adores him, in a colossal, earth-shattering, red-hot, blazing way, like the only way he knows how to feel about the things he cares about, in huge and all-consuming ways.

There's a fine line between love and obsession, passion and infatuation, they lure people into creating the sweetest of songs or the cruelest of crimes. The setter is no stranger to this. When Oikawa adores, he composes lullabies, and the world can't help but dance to his tune. When Oikawa fixates, black holes see him as one of their own.

But it's poles apart with Him. Him, who he doesn't even have to put a name to because there's no way there could be another person out there that rivals what He makes him feel. Him, who his brain recognizes not only by scent or the way his shoes sound when he walks, but by the fires that he tames and the oceans that he settles. With Him, there's no obsession, there's no mania, there's no hurt. Him, who gives Tooru peace and quiet, Him, who opens his arms and gives the boy a warm place to hide from his hauntings, Him, who teaches how loving should actually go without even saying a word.

He says plenty, anyways.

That's why it came so easy, the need to put his selfish thoughts aside and do what his friend has been doing for him all these years, in his own way.

He accumulated all the anxiety, tension and stress he's been hoarding during this stupid game, and turned into electricity, sending it all to his right hand. He slapped Hajime across his back, hoping to shock him, hoping that the voltage brings him back, hoping the message gets to him.

You're enough, you're worthy, it's not just you out there, you're an amazing ace.

And of course, it did.

Hours passed by, tears fell, pulses slowed down, and now, with red stains barely noticeable on their cheeks anymore, sitting on Iwaizumi's couch like countless times before, Tooru needs to say it.

He needs to say what he's been meaning to say before it rots inside him, he needs to spit it before it keeps poisoning his blood.

"I'm go-"

"Thank you." Iwaizumi says, speaking first, oblivious to Tooru's mental battle. "For what you did for me today, I mean."

Hajime is looking at him like he always has, earnestly and longingly, with that soft side of his that only shines through when they're alone like right now, a little bit too close in a couch that they've grown out of, with their limbs tangled and synched breathing, as if they're trying to melt into each other once again, just one more time, after trying for years and failing, with hopes that they'll succeed this time.

Oikawa gulps hard, he needs to look away before he gets sucked in. He can't do this right now, he needs to say the thing that's lodging his throat. "You're welcome." He needs to remember how to breathe. "I noticed you were struggling."

"Yeah, I was." He's so close, and to make matters even worse, Iwaizumi dared to touch.

Tooru is so aware of every atom in his body, and every cell is screaming at him to say it.

He doesn't know what gave Hajime the bravery to swipe his thumb up and down his hand, touching dry reddened knuckles, looking fluent in the language he spent so much time trying to understand. "Is that how you always feel?" He's so tender, tender, tender.

Oikawa swears this couch is shrinking even more, because suddenly he can count every long dark eyelash of his, and all the brown specks in Hajime's green eyes.

"Not always-" he coughs, speaking is hard. "But pretty much."

He wants to get carried away, he wants to feel, he wants to burn his touch into Hajime's soul, he craves to introduce the pad of his thumb to the curve of Hajime's lips, he's drunk on the smell of Hajime's shampoo.

Hajime, Hajime, Hajime.

"I'm sorry." Hajime says, and proceeds to send Tooru to his early grave.

Oikawa's just a boy, he's just a weak kid, not strong enough to calm the strongest storm he's felt to this day. He's sure his heart is going to give out at any second, not being able to take all this heat and soak, all these reds and blues, all this passion and worry.

As he said those words, Tooru followed with his eyes Iwaizumi's hand. He watched it go up, up, up, all the way to its landing. On his neck. Calloused fingers danced on his nape, and they braved to play with his curls.

Oikawa's just a boy, a mere mortal being taunted by his deepest desires, so he allows himself to be selfish when all he's ever wanted is right here, touching his hair, making foreheads rest against each other, blending his breath with his own.

He says, "It's okay." before putting one hand on his best friend's cheek, as one last moment of weakness.

And there's something so cruel, so twisted, in the fact that this has to be the scenario where he pulls out his dagger. This holy ground, right here where they grew up, in this place where Iwaizumi laughed whenever he chased Oikawa with ugly bugs, making him cry, and where they slept so many times after practice, exhausted but happy because no matter if they're eight or eighteen, they never seemed to stop complimenting each other, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle, proving once again that they're meant to be.

But crows have been picking at Tooru's lifeless body ever since he found out the news, ever since realized he was going to leave. Weeks of decomposition on him, he was positive he's already been through the worst, the mental preparation of accepting the fact that while he was going off to chase his dreams, it was at the cost of leaving Hajime, Hajime, behind. He thought there was nothing that could ever be worse than that.

He was wrong.

Because he didn't picture it going like this.

The scene that comes next would haunt his nightmares for months to come, an infinite loop of his own personal hell.

Hajime closes his eyes and leans in, trusting and oh so tender, but Tooru can't hold it in anymore:

"I'm going to Argentina."

act six: nothing safe is worth the drive.

Tooru is still eighteen years old when he finds out he gets dizzy in airplanes.

"Let's go people, let's keep it moving!" Oikawa yells, waving around in forward motions the free hand that isn't preoccupied with holding his luggage. "We don't wanna be late now, do we? Chop, chop!"

The boy flying south tries to be cheerful while staring right ahead at the light-gray wall in front of him, and the fingertip stains, the crayon doodles that he was never fully able to remove were staring back, mocking him. They weren't the only ones, the framed photos are also making fun of him, but even though the glass hasn't been cleaned in a while, through the dust he can still see the sneering expression of the pictures of him and Takeru at the zoo, or the taunting look the shot of his twelfth birthday party gives him. Then there's the cracks in the paint under his and Hajime's height comparisons over the years, too. They were once scribbled with permanent marker, but the numbers his mom had written when they were eight were considerably more blurred out, and with the digits 128cm and 130cm barely readable anymore, a stranger new to this house might have to get to his knees, stand really really close to the marks and squint, thinking to themselves, "Is that a three or a five?" But of course, not Tooru, who knows this wall as if he's been staring at it his whole life. Half of it, at least.

He drives his eyes away from the cemetery of memories, he doesn't want to mourn anymore, and he doesn't even have any flowers to leave the corpses. Oikawa feels sorry for them, they're stuck in time, lingering in a limbo, not being able to touch the gates of heaven or suffer in the pits of hell. But the memories look back, commiserating as well, hoping that the boy who made them what they are someday realizes he's only looking into a mirror.

"The fact that you keep getting even more irritating everyday despite all these years is frightening, and honestly, a bit impressive." Hajime says, while grabbing his luggage for him.

His best friend's voice startles him, and snaps him right back to the present. "Oh, you know me, always excelling." Tooru pretended like the passing mention of the years didn't sting.

"Shut up." He tried to sound annoyed, but failed when a smile escaped his lips. "God, what are you taking to Argentina anyway?" Iwaizumi said, and even though he complained, he lifted the 40kg suitcase as if it was made of feathers. "This is going to leave a dent in my trunk."

"Your dad's trunk, you mean."

Hajime pouted. "Why do you always have to ruin the moment?"

Yeah, why do I?

The boy flying south tries to be cheerful but he can't, and neither can the people staying north. The boy learning Spanish wanted the ride to the airport to be filled with loud music and smiles, and in his head, Hajime's hand rests on his thigh while he drives and misses red lights because he keeps looking over at this boy, enamoured, trying to keep the Polaroid of him safe in a drawer in his mind. But that's not the case for the boy who packed his life away, and reality is cut-throat, making the love of his life barely able to look at him as he sends him off to a land with immense plains, deserts, tundra, forests, as well as tall mountains, rivers, thousands of miles of ocean shoreline and 11,221 miles of distance between there and this sacred place.

"We're here." His mom chokes out as his best friend parks, and he feels bad he forgot she's in the same car as Iwaizumi and him.

"Right." The traveler barely moves a muscle.

"Tooru," the hand on his thigh finally comes, but not in the way he wishes, or in the context he pictured. Still, Oikawa knows the sting is gonna follow him all the way to the Ezeiza airport, twenty-three hours from now. "Your flight leaves in thirty minutes, we have to go."

"Right." He swallows. "Yeah." Again. "Yeah, you're right, let's go." And opens the door.

A puppeteer moves his body for him with absolutely none of the grace and mannerisms of an athlete as intricate as him, saying things he usually wouldn't, like: "It looks like it's gonna rain." Or "Pretty nice place, huh?" while lifting the string of his right foot first, left foot second, right, left, right, left, leading him all the way to his gate, with fifteen minutes to spare.

His mother hugs and cries, the same brown eyes he got from her looking up at the kid she raised, wondering when the hell did he get so tall. His mother kisses his cheeks and leaves lipstick stains all over the badly shaved stubble, leaving her lips tickling. His mother says what she has to say and embraces him one last time. His mother says she's going to get coffee, and leaves them alone.

"You're not going to get sappy on me, are you now?" Hajime's voice wavers, it betrays him.

Tooru cuts the strings and lets his body speak for him.

He's never been good at handling the sea, acting up whenever it pleases, obliterating everything that dares stand in its way. He's never been good at handling the fires, quenchless and ravenous flames painting the town red. But when he was a child, a worthy opponent appeared, unafraid and ready to tame the waves and the blaze, as if his skin had been specially made to sustain the burns and the cold torrents. The oceans and the forest fires couldn't help but fall in love with this brave challenger. Oikawa fell with them.

"Of course not." Tooru lies while he wraps his arms around the knight's neck and lets tears stain the back of his shirt, holding so tight and wishing so hard that all these years of his best friend decoding his language, his translator doesn't fail him now.

He touches.

Oikawa touches his nape, he touches his hair. Oikawa touches his cheeks, he touches his jaw. Oikawa touches his shoulders, his arms, his veins, his blood and bones. He hopes his touch travels through his body like he wishes his fingers could. He hopes his touch makes a forever home under his skin.

He touches and he hopes.

"Flight A452 to Buenos Aires is scheduled to take off in 5 minutes. All passengers please come to gat-"

"God, shut up." Iwaizumi hugs tighter and proceeds to do what he does best. "Take care of yourself, you hear me?"

Worrying about Tooru, that is.

"Don't lose your passport on the move, grow eyes on your back if needed, dumbass." He shifts and looks at him right in the eyes. "Don't forget to look at the expiration date on the food you buy, always check the gas key before you go to bed." The front of Iwaizumi's shirt is now stained with his tears. "Make sure to let some light into your room once in a while, open the windows, let some air in or you're gonna have mold all over your walls."

A deep breath.

"Don't-" Iwaizumi's voice cracks. "Don't give your teammates a hard time, please. I'm sure they don't have as much patience as me, and I don't want to see you back here for a while."

And with that, he lets his forehead rest on Tooru's shoulder, as if the weight he's been carrying finally toppled over.

When one of them falls, the other rushes to his aid, and that's how it's always been.

Oikawa doesn't know where he finds the strength to gently grab Hajime by the chin to lift his head, and leave a kiss on his forehead. His best guess is he borrowed some from his my-best-friend-needs-help emergency stash.

Tooru's lips against him are branding iron, heated, leaving a mark for life. A reminder, a promise, something he wishes Hajime can look at and remember just how deep his love for him runs.

"Not even my mom worries as much, Iwa-chan." Hajime huffs in response.

"One more thing." God, please, stop talking, I'm not as strong as you, Fuck Blanco and fuck Argentina, I'll stay. Oikawa thinks but doesn't say.

Hajime grabs his hands."It's never goodbye with us, Tooru." One kiss, one in his right hand, another kiss, this time in his left hand. "Go, I'll see you around." And just like the cicadas he never liked holding back for too long, he sets them free.

act seven: out of focus, eye to eye.

Tooru is nineteen years old.

"Happy birthday, Tooru." The voice he no longer remembers as vividly as he'd like speaks through the phone's speakers.

"Iwa-chan, you know you don't always have to be the first one to congratulate me, right?" Oikawa laughs and teases, but oh God, after the year he's gone through, this takes him back.

Turns out, the streets are noisier in San Juan than in Sendai, the food is spicier and the stars are brighter. Oikawa's looking at them, right now, through his bedroom window, and he wishes he could share a piece of this view with the confidant speaking in his ear, take a little bit of Argentina to California, just like he's bringing a bit of Japan to his apartment.

Because even though it's been eleven months ever since he left his heart back home, neatly tucked in his childhood alien-patterned sheets, it hasn't stopped begging for him to come back, making Tooru hear it's cries all the way to his flat, here. He's grateful for his best friend once again, since talking to him feels like a breath of fresh Miyagi air, a dip in the pool on a hot summer day after practicing non-stop, or the bag's crinkle of his favorite brand of milk-bread he's about to devour.

"Happy birthday!" Is all Tooru hears after getting crushed to death, in his bed, by the weight of his best friend on top of him.

"Wha-" he coughs. "What are you doing!" Oikawa manages to spit out, still recovering from the hit. "It's literally midnight, tomorrow's a school night!"

"Don't you think I know that?" Iwaizumi does his signature eye roll. "And keep it down, dumbass, your mom doesn't know I can sneak through your window."

(She knows.)

"Anyways, happy 10th birthday." Hajime takes out a little, tiny paper bag. "I made this for you."

Tooru takes the bag in his hands as if it's the most precious thing he's ever held, and opens it so carefully one would think the paper was the gift itself, but inside lies the real eye-catcher. A beautiful handmade bracelet, sporting Tooru's favorite colors, and it's the same one he noticed on Hajime's wrist as he shyly gave him the present.

His love laughs. "I know, dumbass, but I want to do it." Iwaizumi's giggle echoes through him, and he already feels like no other gift could compare to this one. He can't touch it, he can't keep it, but he knows Hajime would gladly give it away whenever he needed to hear it, even if it's not July 20th. "You always say the same thing every year, do you want me to stop? I should just stop talking to you altogether, see how you like that." He jokes.

As to be expected, Tooru's had a real hard time adjusting to the Argentinian lifestyle: loud music on crowded subways, strangers hugging and kissing on the cheek as a form of greeting, like they've known each other since forever, and heated discussions in the lunch table over politics, voices overlapping, not waiting for their turn to speak.

Culture shocks slapped him across the face over and over again, giving him no time to recover for a while.

But around month eight, Tooru finally started to love this country for what it is instead of punishing it for what it isn't. San Juan will never be quiet like the streets of his neighborhood, it will never be calm like Sendai's lakes, and it has never seen Hajime and Tooru grow up. He used to resent these soils, hating that they held the opportunity he's always wanted, he despised that they were so far away from Hajime. But it was all denial, a façade, because as soon as he stepped foot in this country and realized that the people here spoke the same language as him, he felt guilt so strong that ripped through his chest.

And of course, Tooru doesn't mean Spanish.

He was bewitched by the way the natives talked with their hands, painted with red and embraced the heat, how they accepted the blues and understood the sea. These people touched, kissed, hugged, held, cried, laughed in grandiose ways. They did it in the streets, restaurants, cinemas, parks, trains, and nobody even turned to give a second look, because this is how it is here, this is their nature, they're used to 36°C afternoons in December, and they dip themselves in the ocean to cope with them.

"I'll kill you if you ever stop calling me." He knows Hajime could never, but still, his tone turned serious.

And what already was something incredibly hard, like moving your whole life to a new, strange country, turned into something unbearable, because there Tooru was, in the middle of all these people loving each other and expressing just like he did, without being able to pour it into his other half.

Hajime has it easy, Oikawa thinks. He can talk to me, I can still hear him, but he can't feel me, I can't touch him. Does he even remember, at this point? What my love feels like?

The homesickness has gotten better now, but even on top of all the laughter of the friends he's made, he can still hear the cries.

"I could never, I've made it my mission to annoy you for the rest of your life, even when you're over there. It's called payback."

"Iwa-chan, don't you know you're not allowed to annoy the birthday King?"

"Birthday King? Get off your high horse, birthday Clown."

"Hey! We're both thirteen now! You don't have any more I'm Older So I Do What I Want privileges!"

"When you get a time machine, turn back time and make it so that you're born first, then we'll talk."

"You think you're so funny, don't you?" Iwaizumi laughs on the other line, again, and Tooru's heart skips a beat, again. "Hey, Hajime," Oikawa almost whispers.

Iwaizumi's breath hitches at the sound of his name. "What is it?"

It's been so long since I've last touched you that I'm starting to think you never existed, like you're just a fraction of my imagination. Is eleven months long enough for me to start losing my mind? It would make sense, though, because how is it possible that someone as destructive as me is worthy of someone as harmless as you? Are you real?

"I want to see you, and show you something." He says instead. "Can you turn on your camera?"

Just seconds after saying that, Iwaizumi pops up on his screen.

It's been two days since he looked at his face through the pixelated screen, but seeing his even more tan, broad frame, and green eyes that stand out despite the shitty internet connection still takes away his breath. He cards his hand through his hair, disheveling it, and he gets a glance of the bracelet Tooru now wears as an anklet. It's a little shorter, his hair, and the sun barely discolored it since it's only been a month since he moved, but Oikawa can see it's a bit lighter. It's seven o'clock there, he's outside, in some sort of balcony he doesn't recognize, but he can barely stop to think about that when Hajime is right there, in his hand, basking under the golden hour's light, so completely insensitive to what this sight does to Tooru's heart.

Are you real?

"What did you want to show me?" Curious emeralds sparkle.

He picks said heart from the floor, gets up from his bed, and drags his feet through his room, reaching the window. He turns on the camera and points it to the night sky.

"Do you think they're brighter than Sendai's stars?"

He knows Hajime can barely see what he's showing to him, but he still says: "Yeah, they do look dazzling."

"Can you promise me something? And you can't lie under the stars, Hajime, or karma's gonna come back and bite you in the ass."

The temperature outside is below zero, but he can't figure out if he's trembling from the cold, or if he's just excited about finally introducing the boy to the stars, saying, this is who I'm always talking to you guys about.

"Shut up and spit it." Iwaizumi frowns.

There he goes. "Promise me you'll never stop calling." Oikawa is sure he won't, but he needs this, he needs the word of honour.

He sees how Hajime's frown softens and a tender smile slips his lips.

"I promise, Tooru."

The boy who flew south sighs, relieved.

"And I promise to always pick up."

Hajime scoffs.

"Oh please, that goes without saying." The sight of his smirk makes Tooru weak. "You can't live without me."

Ugh, can you stop reading my mind even when we're miles away?

"As if." He puts a hand to his chest, calming his erratic heartbeat. "Now, tell me, how's California treating you today?"

act eight: your name has echoed through my mind. 

Tooru is twenty-one years old when he realizes he fucked up.

He's hard to deal with, he knows that: he can be petty at times, that he clearly knows how to hold a grudge, or that it's incredibly hard for him to put words together and say whatever it is that he needs to express.

"And how's Iwaizumi-san doing these days?"

But then, there are some things Tooru refuses to acknowledge: like the fact that he drives people away, or, when those little mean voices in his head start acting up, whispering to him his deepest insecurities, he shuts down.

"Oh, I wouldn't know." He clears his throat. "We haven't spoken in about... three or four months."

Years have passed since he's heard that name come from someone else's mouth, not to mention in Japanese, and it shocks him to his core. He doesn't let it show, though, just how much hearing a simple "Iwaizumi-san" makes his jaw lock and his muscles tighten.

The indistinct chatter inside this tiny vegan diner lets itself be heard. Knives and forks clinking against ceramic plates, the sound of waiters and waitresses yelling orders to the kitchen staff, the worn down fans in the ceiling that used to be white but now are some kind of yellowish color, and insects flying right into the bright, flickering light-bulbs that look like they haven't been cleaned in years.

Tooru pays attention to all of this.

Because he doesn't want to think about it.

"What?" He doesn't look at Hinata's incredulous eyes, he doesn't want to think about it. "You're joking, right?"

"This salad is really good." He says with his mouth full, he doesn't want to think about it.

And he won't, he's not going to, because he's trained himself not to.

He doesn't think about it when his teammates ask him why they haven't heard his high pitched "Iwa-chan!"s over the phone lately, or why he doesn't stop practice anymore when he sees Iwaizumi's name light up on his screen. He doesn't think about it when his mom asks him to "Send Hajime my regards!" or when she says "Why haven't I heard anything about him lately?" Tooru doesn't think about it when his fingers ache and his palm screams every time he attempts another serve that isn't good enough to his standards, or when he stays up until two in the morning exhausting himself out. He definitely doesn't think about it when he lets another call go to voicemail.

It's actually really easy not to do it when he shoves every reminder of him into a dusty box, and keeps it in the deepest crevices of his brain.

It's actually painfully easy not to do it when he's numbed himself whole, slaps of skin against new volleyballs going unnoticed, ignoring the trembling of his legs when he crashes against the floor, landing his umpteenth jump serve of the day, playing dumb when he hears his coach's pleas to leave the gymnasium.

He simply can't let himself do it, not when there's no one around when he overflows, and when there's no one around to stop it.

But fuck, Shoyo just keeps going. "I can't believe this!" Stop, stop, stop. "You guys were inseparable in school!" Shut up. "It's like, you were connected physically and spiritually in and out of the court!"

"Okay, enough! I get it!"

Cutlery rattles, chatter stops, waiter and waitress look over. Even the flies seem to stop in their tracks.

Fine,

He'll think about it.

"Hey Tooru, I know I said I'd call around 9 but some stuff came up, me and my study group need to meet up at the library and go over some stuff before our exam, I'm sorry! We'll talk later."

"Okay! No problem Iwa-chan, good luck!"

"Hey Tooru, sorry, I can't make it on time tonight, I'll make it up to you."

"It's okay, don't worry."

"Oh, shit, I completely forgot we agreed to facetime at 10, these finals are killing me, sorry."

"I see."

"Hey! This Iwaizumi's voicemail, I'm probably busy right now but please leave a message after th-"

Oikawa sighs, deflating. "I'm- I'm sorry shrimpy, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

Seconds pass by, the restaurant goes back to normal, strangers don't care about his outburst anymore, it's old news. The awkwardness in the air lingers, though, and Oikawa tries, he really tries to listen to all the white noise again, he searches for the silverware and the clumsy waitresses, he searches for the flies stupidifying themselves with the lights, but all he can hear are the voices he's tried so hard to drown, saying: "See? this is because you're weak, and you thought about it."

Tooru opens his eyes wide, lighting going through him.

"It's okay, Oikawa-san, I didn't mean to intrude too much! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The bright haired boy over-apologizes.

"You made him feel so bad, all you do is make people feel bad."

Tooru chokes on air. "You're fine, it's on me." He can barely talk, because they're back.

He'd heard them for the first time around four months ago, when the homework-swamped boy was too busy to call, and heard the last of them when he stopped answering his best friend's calls, and texts.

And Instagram direct messages.

And the messages Hanamaki sent him on his behalf.

"You seem upset, though, do you want to talk about it?" Shoyo speaks up, willing to help, but Tooru can't listen.

Suddenly, there's salt in the air.

Oh God, not right now, please, I've been doing a good job at keeping myself together.

Waves thrash.

It's just the beach nearby, that's gotta be it.

Droplets.

No. I can't, I can't, I can't, not when he's not here.

"Ah, you don't have to worry about me." Tooru stands up, sweating, heart beating so fast it threatens to jump out of his chest. "I actually have to get going, so, It's been fun, Shoyo!" Oikawa says while slamming money on the table. He probably left too much, but that's the furthest thing on his mind at the moment.

"Oh, oka-" Tooru storms out.

Shoes sound against the pavement but he might as well be walking on air, or scorching rocks, because he can't feel his body. It moves at its own accord, leading him to his hotel, walking through Brazil's streets as swiftly as he did in his neighborhood, back in Sendai. He surfs through crowds. They're big, so many people in one place, so he pushes. He doesn't care about being polite when all the air escapes his lungs, and no matter how hard he inhales, it's not coming back to where it should.

It feels like he's just been served a deadly cocktail of too many things he doesn't want to think about, and he took it.

He sees them coming, all the things he buried deep. They come in the form of tsunamis, typhoons, relentless and uncaring, with their winds strong enough to carry even the heaviest of Tooru's troubles.

He didn't remember much about the past four months, the stuff he did or the things he didn't say, he'd shoved it all down.

But he does now.

The tempests are here, and they bring the voices with them.

"Did you forget why you stopped talking?" They say, tone laced with poison. "Let me remind you."

It's like watching a movie: Lights out, and one single light shining in the dark, showcasing all his mistakes.

It goes back to the time Hajime started to call less, and less, and less with each passing day.

"Okay! No problem Iwa-chan, good luck!"

Tooru watches himself kill the line. He remembers now, vividly, painfully. How could he not? He's in bed, in his apartment in San Juan, and it's been more than two years since he's gotten a whiff of homemade miso-soup. Even though he eats like an athlete should, he feels weak.

He's not dumb, Oikawa. He knows how responsible Hajime is, and what else could a college student drowning in deadlines do?

But maybe it's because he hasn't tasted his mother's cooking in years, and that makes him nostalgic. Maybe that's why he feels weak. Maybe because he feels weak, they sneak up on him like a cold does on a freezing July, and he lets them in for the first time, too tired to fight back. He's not dumb, Oikawa, but maybe, if he were the wiser of the two, this wouldn't have happened.

"He's finally gotten tired of you, huh?"

What else could he do but listen?

Lights out again, and then, a different scene.

He watches a drunken Tooru type out "It's okay, don't worry." and only he knows how hard he was trying to hold back tears at the time, not wanting to dampen the mood in his friend's birthday party.

"See? He doesn't even have an excuse, you finally exhausted him."

Tooru doesn't drink, but he did that night.

Darkness, and another one.

"I see." He texts.

"He simply forgot about you, what else did you expect? He probably went and got himself a friend who actually opens up with him, unlike you, who pathetically expects that he'll get what you mean by a lousy hug, or a pat on the back."

Another one.

"Hey! This Iwaizumi's voicemail, I'm probably busy right now but please leave a message after th-"

"Just give it up. You always pride yourself on giving people what they need, not what they want, so can't you see he needs you to leave him alone? He doesn't even pick up, so give him what he needs: space from you."

Tooru only registers when he makes it back to his room once he crashes against the soft, white sheets of the bed, with every memory he's wanted to drown now floating on the surface.

They stopped talking to him when he followed their advice, believing that these voices had Iwaizumi's best interest in mind. So he ignored calls, and didn't think about it, he ignored text messages that implored him to please explain what had happened, and he didn't think about it, and he ignored everything else, until today, in this asphyxiating bedroom, where he can't stop thinking about it. Tooru knows Iwaizumi deserves better, so that's why he did it. He wishes he could be the friend someone like him could brag about, but he isn't, and it tears him apart.

In the privacy of his own room, he crawls onto bed, and cries for the first time in months.

"What are you doing? No, don't call him, Tooru."

He thought he had regained control of his body once he arrived here, but apparently he hasn't, because before he knows it, in between heartbreaking sobs and failed calming breathing techniques, Tooru dials his emergency contact number, and holds his phone to his ear.

It seems he's still a selfish friend, because he could never peel himself away from Hajime, no matter how much he deserved to be far, far away from him.

"Tooru! Hello? Are you okay?"

He hears his voice and finally breathes, even if it's fragile.

He wants to say so many things he doesn't think his mouth would be able to catch up.

He wants to tell him how sorry he is, Tooru wants to say sorry about as many times as his lips will allow him to, he needs to tell him how much he regrets letting his insecurities get to him, that he should have been stronger, wiser, clear-headed. He cries even harder, squeezing his eyes so hard he starts to see spots, because he wants Hajime to know that he knows now how much he fucked up, and that it's not going to happen again. Tooru wants to tell him to please, please forgive him for being a bad friend, he knows better now. He chockes sobs, because lastly, he needs to tell him how much he's missed him, how his life feels completely void of meaning if he isn't there to share the most stupid and uneventful moments of his day, and how he hasn't been able to start his day off right for a while now, because the good morning texts Hajime used to send while Oikawa slept were nowhere to be found. He needs to say, he needs to scream how his mind, body and soul missed him horribly.

"Oh Tooru…"

He lays there, like a rock, not daring to breathe or blink.

He did it, he said out loud all he needed to say, it poured out of him like a waterfall he didn't know he had in him, even before they had any say in the matter.

"I've missed you too, dumbass, so incredibly much."  

A whiff of homemade miso-soup, a bite out of Hajime's mother's mochi, a warm embrace.

act nine: i'll follow you home.

Tooru and Hajime are twenty-seven years old when they meet again.

Airports are always a weird place to be.

They're big, intimidating, they have way too many hallways and stairs, it's too easy to get lost in them, and they're sad.

It's the people that make airports what we know them to be: nostalgic, frightening, a place that holds way too many goodbyes. It's the stories that these worn down patterned floors hold, like the one of the man who sleeps in the waiting areas of overcrowded gates at three in the afternoon, with a jacket over his shoulders. Or maybe it's the tale of the taps that heels make on ceramic, echoing through silent corridors, coming from air stewardesses who just came from Morocco and are now headed to Venezuela. It's the sad anecdote about the crumbled tissues that lie next to the trash on gate 57: a teary eyed woman left them behind because she was waving her lover goodbye, and with a blurry sight she missed the can.

But it's a sad place, until it's not.

It's a lonely place, until you hear a family cheer with glee and cry jolly tears as the daughter, niece, girlfriend that they haven't seen in ten years comes running to their arms. It's a depressing place, until you hear a baby laugh in the arms of its father, while the mother next to them holds a sign saying "We're reuniting after 345 days!"

It's a heartbreaking place, until two best friends reunite in the same spot where they last saw each other, eight years ago. The same airport that once held their farewell, now makes room for a life changing "Welcome home."

Well, their greeting might not go that picture-perfect, but they have their own, special, Hajime and Tooru ways to communicate:

"Wow, I can't believe you didn't grow at all, Iwa-chan."

Twenty minutes ago, three different flight attendants had to approach Oikawa to tell him three different things:
1) To please stop bouncing his leg up and down, because he was disturbing the passengers.
2) If he was kind enough to stop making holes with his nails on the plane's seat.
3) That he'll get escorted out of the first class lounge if he doesn't stop pacing up and down the plane's corridors.

To say that he was anxious was an understatement.

Hajime was no exception, because the workers at the fast-food restaurant where he was patiently waiting in front of had to call their supervisor over some "weird dude who won't stop walking in and out of the store." Iwaizumi might have overheard someone say: "seriously, he's been at it for twenty minutes now, he's going to dig a hole in the ground."

So what if he was patiently waiting in front of this no-good-customer-service diner who also happened to be right in front of the gate Oikawa was supposed to come out of? People should learn to mind their business.

"Oh my god, I'm literally going to walk away right now, I can't believe I even bothered to come pick you up."

But there they are, two people who've known eachother since they were snotty little boys, meeting again after almost a decade of not seeing one another, now as two disgustingly pining adults.

It's been a long, long time since they've last seen each other, face to face, flesh and bone. And maybe someone who doesn't know them and hears their story might say "Yikes, that's gotta be kinda awkward." But as Hajime fakes annoyance, jokingly walking away from him and lowering the sign with the names Toto, Shittykawa and Tooru written all over it, the boy who just flew north chases after him, lets go of his luggage, and jumps.

Tooru drapes his arms around Hajime's neck, wraps his legs around Hajime's waist, places his chest against his best friend's broad back, and laughs. Hajime supports Tooru's thighs to keep him in place, hunches over so that the man who still smells just like he did when he was eighteen doesn't fall backwards, and tries to keep walking forward with 181 pounds on his hind. He laughs even harder.

Twenty minutes ago they were scared, they were terrified. With doubts ruminating in their minds and hearts on their sleeves, the airport was witness of their worries once again, because this is no easy task: to see what had become of the seed they planted one sweaty July afternoon, to see if the beautiful flowers they've once grown together had survived the drought. What a nerve-racking thing it was, to test if their destiny together was magically written in the stars as something fated and heartfelt, or dreadfully carved in stone as something rotten and loathsome.

But then, Hajime saw Tooru's new freckles in person, and thought:

"Ah, I'm gonna have to count them all over again."

He saw the way the Argentinian sun had adorned his skin, bronzing it, polishing it, making the scar right above his cupid's bow stand out. Hajime remembered Tooru's eyes to be chocolate brown, like the drink he used to order on cold Novembers, but as he walked closer to him, Iwaizumi couldn't deny that they were a warm, honey-like hazel color, like the stupidly sweet caramel syrup Oikawa used to drizzle in his coffee every morning before school. He also remembered that his eyes used to look like coming home, and thankfully, that still stands.

Then, Hajime saw the pair of hands he took care of and taped countless times, the pair of hands that acted as a channel for Tooru's devotion, the pair of hands that burned him alive and left the marks he still looks at every night, the pair of hands he kissed goodbye eight years ago.

He'd missed the heat and missed the currents, he'd missed being called by the nickname made just for him, he'd missed hearing it come from the mouth of the person who created it. Hajime spent those long eight trips around the sun, simply missing. Because, you see, it never rains in Irvine, because the drought nearly killed him. Because no matter how many Californian beaches he saw and dipped his toes in, or how many bonfires caught his attention, nothing could compare to Tooru's ultramarines, nothing would ever compare to his auburns.

And of course, how could Tooru not look back? How could Tooru not notice the way his best friend had gotten taller, or the way his shirt sleeves hugged his arms a little too tightly?

The roots of his adoration ran deep. They grew in such ways that what once started as innocent leaves on his ventricles, now expanded through every vein and artery of his body, carrying a new-found love, a different kind of love, with every skip of his heart. Of course they were going to grow to be bigger than him, when the waters that fed them were the same ones that fell in love with the object of his yearning twenty years ago. Would Hajime notice? Tooru tried to hide these love-drunk roots, but from time to time, some sneaky fronds and branches would grow under his touch, and he didn't have the heart to cut them off.

So how could Tooru not look, after all this time, at the way his pinkish lips transformed into a sheepish grin?

Oikawa heard harps and felt clouds under his feet, but since he refused to tear his eyes away from a shamefaced, older, beautiful Hajime and fact-check that he wasn't actually in the promised land, he prefered to opt for blissful ignorance, believing that he was.

Between laughs, Hajime says: "If you don't get off me in the next three seconds, I'm dropping you."

So no, it isn't awkward, because they're Tooru and Hajime: childhood best friends who still keep their own special ways to communicate intact.

Or, they're Tooru and Hajime: two halves of a whole.

"Shouldn't you let go of me, first?" Between hugs, Tooru responds.

act ten: epilogue.

constancy n. – 1. loyalty: the quality of remaining faithful to a person, belief, activity or decision, especially in the face of difficulties.

The time they spent apart bloomed around tangled telephone chords, words left unsaid and touches not felt. Constancy was something delicate, a precious gold that could be fused into promise rings or olympic medals.

It was a concept that two heartbroken rovers needed to learn all over again.

Constancy — By Hajime and Tooru:

At first, it was something given and unappreciated. Regularity laid in a silver platter for two best friends to fall into, without any hitches or setbacks, like nothing could ever be not this. This was their bubble, from eight to eighteen. The same volleyball, the same classes, the same feelings. Overfamiliar clashes of skin, like palms against shoulders after a successful practice game, or pinkies interlocked under blanket forts.

When they parted, it turned into an oath, and later, into a broken one.

"I promise to always pick up."

Their persistence crumbled under Hajime's nose, right where his many textbooks and borrowed notes rested, and it shattered thanks to the weight of Tooru's insecurities.
Sometime in the middle, Iwaizumi tried to find unknown fingers that stung like the ones he knew so well, but failed terribly.

But then, it simply turned into something easy:

"My mind, body, and soul miss you."

"I've missed you too, dumbass, so incredibly much."

And that's all it took, really, for them to fall back together.

Oceans, ravenous fires, rain, and storms all dance to the tune of Tooru's hands, bloodthirsty and unforgiving.

Hajime watches, he's the only one who can, and thinks: "We're screwed, aren't we?"

Forces of nature are unstoppable, and as this particular one unspools around the court, it says: "Go on, look at me, watch me do the unthinkable."

Iwaizumi feels sorry, Japan's middle blockers can't see what's about to hit them. They can feel it, though, a sense of dread and destruction boiling in their guts increasing by the millisecond as Argentina's #13 turns their back on them, preparing.

"It's Argentina's turn to serve, former Japanese citizen Oikawa Tooru is at the lead. There's one minute left of this electric game, ladies and gent-"

One step, two steps, three steps, a jump, and lightning.

Constancy is something delicate, a precious gold that is fused into the olympic medal that Tooru wins when he scores the last point of the match.

The ball was there one second, and the next, a streak of bold light took its place. Blink, and you would have missed it. Thankfully, Hajime's never been able to take his eyes off Tooru's tempests.

But for Tooru, it went in slow motion.

You know how people say in the moments before someone dies, their whole life flashes before their eyes? It went like that, except he's never felt more alive.

First step, he's six and his sister just gifted him a volleyball for his birthday.

Second step, he's seven and he's teaching his new friend how to play the sport he's grown to love.

Third step, he's ten and Hajime is taping his fingers together after a bad sprain.

Jump, he's sixteen and he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do to become a better setter.

Slap, skin against rubber, fire through his veins. He's eighteen and his team just lost their last chance to go to nationals.

Hajime heard silence, and then,

"Argentina pulls through at the end and snatches the first place, the gold medal! Oh my God what an exciting game this has been, Argentina, winne-"

The fires stopped, the currents simmered down, flowers bloomed where Tooru stood, and his halo was brighter than ever, no longer the sun, but the implosion of millions of stars.

The blue boy now painted golden looked at Hajime, and he stared back, tearfully.

As the illusion of time stopping in its tracks keeps unfolding, they talk through one long continuous stare:

"I did it?"

"Yes, you did."

And then, the clock resumes it's ticking, and Tooru's teammates are all over him, screaming in his ear, hugging his shoulders, tackling him to the ground. Hajime watches as Tooru drowns in his friends' arms, with a smile so bright it earns the top spot in his ever growing collection. He watches, and watches, he engraves this moment in his mind, he watches, he wat-

"Hey, Hajime, can you come help in the back real quick?"

Seriously?

"Sure, be right there."

Hajime watches for one last time, and he catches Tooru's eyes as he leaves.

Hajime and Tooru have been each other's constants despite the years, the miles between them, and the hurt.

Through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, win or lose.

"What the hell are you doing back here?"

Tooru doesn't answer, he just stares, chest going up and down.

"Tooru, if you don't go out and celebrate with your teammates, I swear to-"

"I won."

He catches him off guard.

"Yes, Tooru, you did, it was the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

Hajime talks slowly, taking his time to pronounce every single syllable, wanting to make Tooru actually believe that he made his dreams come true, that it was all worth it.

"I won." He repeats. 

"I wish you could have seen it from where I was standing, Tooru, you don't even know how powerful you loo-"

It happens like this: last thing they remember, they're in Sendai, catching bugs and chasing volleyballs at seven, eight years old. Last thing they remember, they're kicking the old vending machine that's one block away from Hajime's place because it ate Tooru's ¥500 coin. Last thing they remember, they're crying over lost games and wasted opportunities. Last thing they remember, they're saying goodbye in the middle of gate 32, not saying how scared they are, no, they're just holding each other.

It happens like this: Hajime is there to see Tooru win.

It happens like this: They're standing in a dirty locker room, it smells funny and Hajime is too worked up talking to see Tooru take five huge steps towards him, only snapping back when he grabs his face, and kisses him.

They kiss.

It talks, it screams.

This kiss holds time, it holds care. This kiss holds promises, it holds hurt. This kiss is the sweetest reward life could have ever given them. This kiss is years worth of what-ifs, shy touches in the dark, gazes that didn't dare too much, tears on cell phone screens, all exploding into something so vital, something so indispensable as breathing, that it makes them think they've been dead for twenty-seven years. Hajime's words lay to rest on the slant of his best friend's lips, they turn to vapor once they touch his smouldering skin. Tooru's touch makes life grow, planting roots so deep that they put to shame all his feeble attempts of making a garden out of Iwaizumi's skin when they were eighteen, all because they weren't meant to bloom yet.

Hands meet cheeks, fingers meet waists, they hold each other in such a familiar way that it makes them wonder: Have we been doing this for lifetimes? Two creatures of habit, it wouldn't be surprising that they keep finding themselves through the centuries despite their souls' individual journeys.

Perfect partners, a tale as old as time.

It's silent, when they pull apart.

Until it isn't, because Tooru's laugh echoes through the air, contagious happiness infecting the atmosphere when Hajime says: "Shit, I think I just won too."

And as it turns out, there isn't an ocean big enough to keep them apart, or a fire hot enough to reduce them to ashes, just like there isn't a universe in which they don't end up like this.

But they knew that already.