Colluding (and definitely not canoodling) with the enemy

by aquietlife

Summary:

“You are famous.” Hajime repeated, like as if trying to understand why one plus one is three.
“I am famous.” Tooru hummed matter-of-factly. The way someone who is used to having 32,000 people watching him does.

Or,

Iwaizumi Hajime learns to cope with the side effects of dating Oikawa Tooru.
The ongoing Tokyo Olympics and Pretty-Setter Twitter Fiesta do not help at all.

Notes:

Hello! I came to Iwaoi for all the mutual pining – but stayed for just how sweet and aggressively supportive they are of one another.
Also, who doesn’t love some post-timeskip Olympic-era Iwaoi?

Chapter 1: Iwaizumi Hajime hates carrots

Once, when Hajime was eight and Tooru almost-eight, Tooru had declared a strike on all orange food.

“Nii-chan says if I eat orange-coloured things, an orange tree will grow from my stomach,” Tooru’s declaration had been solemn, stubborn and ridiculous. Pouted glare and clenched-up fists. Crossed arms and sulky lips. 

Hajime had rolled his eyes, smacked his best friend on the shoulder and went along with it anyway.

For the few months that Tooru’s orange-strike lasted, Hajime let Tooru secretly slip him mandarin slices under the table, scoop runny yolks off his sunny-side-ups and poke fish roe out of his sushi rolls.

And carrots. Urgh. The number of carrots Hajime ate. Cubes fished from curries, strips whisked off congees, sticks tossed through salads.

Somehow, Hajime never thought to tell Tooru that he had always hated carrots.

***

It’s funny isn’t it – how you can keep such large parts of your life hidden so entirely from everyone else?

It is a rainy Friday evening, one weekend shy of the Tokyo Olympic games and Hajime’s turn to pick the Japan team’s weekly drinks venue.

His decision had been easy: a tiny sports bar crowbarred into the edge of Tokyo’s forgotten goose-grey streets, fronted by a large Brazilian flag. There is water dripping from the pipes, walls plastered with peeling posters of Columbian cigars - but as always, volleyball blaring from the tiny television sets boxed in where the walls meet. In front of Hajime, Bokuto glances up with wide-eyed curiosity at the colourful international flags hanging from the ceiling as they walk down the stairs leading into the bar. Next to Hajime, Hinata perks up in curious recognition of the Spanish pop songs pulsing off the speakers.

From behind the counter, the bar owner Luis – a tall, large man with tight curls and tattoos - catches Hajime’s eye and shoots him a grin. Hajime rolls his eyes but smiles when Luis picks up a television remote controller with a roughish wink. As he leads his athletes to settle into a comfy booth table, the television sets above their heads buzz and change channels.

“What is this absolute shit hole you have brought us to, Iwaizu-“ Atsumu’s words are drowned out as Luis turns up the volume on the television sets into loud, excited commentary:

“And it is 4-3! CA San Juan scores once again, against Sada Crizero, it’s Argentina against Brazil fighting hard in the South American Club Men’s Championships…”

Almost immediately, the heads of Japan’s national volleyball team turn in unison to the television like dogs who have just heard the word fetch!

“Oh, oh it’s him, he’s playing, he’s playing!” Hinata bounces in his seat and excitedly taps Hajime on the arm. “Is he going to be starting setter in the National Team? Yes? Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be starting setter!”

“You could have just asked him yourself.” Hajime laughs as he pushes the smaller man off his arm. “He’s always telling me you should message him more.”

“I do but he always keeps me on a cliff hanger even when I ask him for updates! Which is why I ask you.” Hinata’s eyes widen. “Oh, is this why you picked this bar? Because they play his matches and –“

“Who are you talking about?” Atsumu interrupts with a scowl, and it is at this juncture that Hajime has to laugh at the ridiculously accurate deduction that Hinata has made and at the thought that pops into his mind:

Seven months.

Seven months he has worked with the Japanese National team.

And seven months he has gone without mentioning even once the overwhelming presence who has been his favourite person in the world since he was four.

(Which is surely, his personal best record.)

“And another service ace for CA San Juan! Let’s see if number seventeen can pull the same trick again for two aces in a row.”

Pixilated against the old television screens, the man with brown hair is set in frame: his jaw set in determination, eyes narrowed with razor focus. Between his palms, he deftly spins a ball the way he has before every serve since he was fourteen and first landed a clumsy jump serve into the back of Hajime’s head.

On camera, Oikawa Tooru tosses the ball up, strides forward, and leaps.

Off camera, Iwaizumi Hajime leans back, smiles, and says nothing at all. 

***

Oikawa Tooru becoming a serious pro athlete had caused more changes to Iwaizumi Hajime’s life than he would have liked.

Firstly, Hajime had to confront the idea of Tooru one day becoming fitter and stronger than he is. Possibly even eventually beat him in an arm-wrestling match. It was something that had troubled Hajime for about a day before he decided to sign up for a 12-month membership at his local gym.

Secondly, Hajime had to learn an entire second course in athletic nutrition and health outside his sports science degree - this time through endless, winding video calls with Tooru sprouting a million pseudo-scientific, internet-fact rambles that Hajime exasperatedly corrected over and over again. When Tooru finally became pro enough to be assigned an athletic trainer of his own, Hajime had been a tiny bit disappointed, but for the most part, relieved.

Thirdly, Hajime has had to learn about social media.

The learning came in a few parts. It began with Tooru one day cheerily informing him that he now had a public relations manager – and no, it is not one to manage his team, it is one to manage just him. Her name is Sofia Medina, and Hajime had vaguely wondered why Tooru needed to inform him about his public relations manager’s full name, before his question was answered by Tooru promptly inviting him to a video call meeting with Sofia Medina.

“It will be good!” It had been during one of Tooru’s visits to San Francisco, one of those long summer holidays that had gone much too fast. The wane breeze tugging at the curtains, melting popsicles shared between mealtimes, warm hands clasped over golden sunsets. Hajime remembers Tooru lounging on the couch in his rented apartment dressed in one of Hajime’s university sports jerseys, legs propped up on the coffee table, arms leaned back behind his head. Chill in the deceitful way that someone who wants to look chill but is very much not chill looks.

“Okay.” Hajime had sighed, putting aside his study notes. He remembers curling up into Tooru’s side on the lumpy couch they had pulled off a garage sale one day. The way he does a million times that summer and then miss a million times once Tooru returned to Argentina in autumn. “I mean, I don’t get why I have to join a public relations meeting about you. It’s not like I have anything to be publicly related to you about.”

“Oh Iwa-chan. So naïve.” Tooru would have slipped an arm around Hajime’s shoulder the way he always did, pulling him in closer like as if to declare mine. Hajime would have scowled in mock annoyance, and Tooru would have grinned back in playful wickedness. He remembers Tooru saying, in a semi-solemn way: “I know it must be hard being wrong about so many things all the time – but Iwa-chan. You are about to witness just the most wrong you’ve perhaps ever been about anything.”

Hajime would have raised a hand or kicked a foot (any kind of half-hearted threat of violence really) while Tooru would have easily laughed and gleefully ducked. Which is the way Hajime remembers that they first appeared on camera when he first met Sofia.

Hajime had known that Sofia was a bright, spirited presence that matched Tooru’s enthusiastic energy – but it still caught him off guard how excited Sofia was to meet him. No, more accurately, he had not been ready for exactly how much Tooru had apparently talked him up to Sofia – and it showed with every comment Sofia made. It wasn’t just Sofia declaring how great it was to meet the famous Iwaizumi Hajime – it was also Sofia responding to Tooru’s stories with tell-tale signs like oh it is so like Hajime to get you flowers when you landed, Tooru! or oh, of course Hajime is a better chef than Tooru is!

Hajime, in fact, had been so caught so off guard that he almost missed the moment when Sofia cheerily decided to switch from introductory chatter to work talk:

“So, as Tooru grows into an internationally known sports athlete – what you two need to do is decide on how public you want to be with your relationship.”

***

It is something that Hajime is reminded of again when he is three beers deep and somehow holding onto Miya Atsumu’s obnoxious neon green iPhone. He has avoided saying too much about Tooru throughout the table’s excited conversation while watching the replay of Tooru’s game last week (spoiler, Hajime knows, CA San Juan wins) – but his fingers have somehow found themselves tottering on the edge of Miya Atsumu’s phone, five letters short of typing out the Twitter handle name @TooruOikawaaa!

The blue-ticked verified badge that pops up next to his boyfriend’s name is something that fills him with pride and some odd amount of dread. When Atsumu impatiently snatches the phone off him and clicks into it – Hajime notices rather dizzyingly that his boyfriend has 940k followers – a number too large for his puny brain to comprehend.

“Oh my god – you have to see the service aces he made in that game against Germany last year!” Hinata is blabbering excitedly from opposite Hajime, his face just as pleasantly red from drink. Bokuto, who is seated on Atsumu’s other side, leans in eagerly too, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Show him, Iwaizumi!” Hinata taps on Hajime impatiently, acting like as if Hajime is some kind of tour guide and expert on all things Oikawa Tooru. But well, Hinata isn’t wrong, so Hajime obediently complies and expertly scrolls down Tooru’s Twitter page - past videos of Tooru mid-game, shots of Tooru posing with his team with trophies, selfies of Tooru pulling ridiculous faces against the camera, stupid tweets of Tooru saying he is hungry.

Hajime clicks on the post Hinata is talking about – one he is sure he had contributed at least a thousand views to when it was first released. As he watches Atsumu stare with growing intensity at Twitter-Tooru jumping into serve after killer serve, Hajime can’t help but think to himself: Thank goodness for Sofia.

***

Back in San Francisco, Hajime’s apartment had come with a balcony.

It was a tiny thing – cobwebbed, chilly, covered with pigeon crap and cold grey concrete. It didn’t even really have a good view. Like the majority of homes in most other closed, crowded cities, the view from the balcony was of a narrow alleyway lined with fire stairways, metal bars and trash cans. The closed gutter where stray cats screeched and chased; the narrow roads wandering drunks puked late into Friday nights.

In fact, Hajime had never even stepped foot on his balcony until Tooru had arrived and decided to get all inspired. Hajime had returned home from a long day of lab classes to find Tooru whistling as he dragged out of his narrow balcony window a wicker two-seater grey sofa that he was sure was once cream-coloured. On their run to the Asian grocery around the corner, Tooru haggled back two large wooden crates adorned in Mandarin words that smelled of old pears and persimmons.

The next evening, the pigeon crap and cobwebs had been cleaned out; and Hajime had stepped in disbelief onto what looked like a completely new balcony. Pots of leafy green ferns adorned the walls, fairy lights filled the apartment in a shade of warm light and cups of cheap scented candles had the area smelling of bergamot and lavender.

Before Hajime could even find time to protest against Tooru’s mass redecorations, he found himself unwittingly coaxed out into the balcony every evening of his summer vacation.

On some days, he was sold by cups of cool iced green tea propped against old Mandarin fruit crates. Other days, he had been bribed like a hungry stray dog by the crackle and whiff of smoked capsicum grilling atop barbeque tops. Most of the time, it was just the magnetism of Tooru’s beaming smile as he dragged Hajime to clamber out of the tiny balcony window the way they clambered over tree branches and fallen logs as kids.

And on those long evenings, Hajime would lounge back in the once-cream wicker sofa, head leaned back against the warm summer breeze. Hands stroking through Tooru’s soft hair. Tooru, usually humming some sort of old Japanese pop tune, would lie with his head nestled in Hajime’s lap, long limbs sprawled across the sofa, eyes closed with peaceful bliss.

When Hajime had asked why the alleyway and the lack of a view on the balcony didn’t bother Tooru, Tooru always hummed and replied: “Just less time to be watched by the rest of the world.”

“And more time to be watched by just you.”

***

“Urgh what kind of South American has a Japanese name anyway?”

Atsumu is loud, annoying and pouts a lot when he is upset. A bit like a (in Hajime’s opinion anyway) less cute version of an annoyed Tooru.

Which is exactly how Atsumu looks right about now, leaning forward in his seat, face red from the beer he clasps in his hand, lips pursed into a huge sulk.

Hajime can’t remember how they have gotten here – but he vaguely remembers it beginning with Ushijima commenting that Tooru has to be one of the best setters of the decade. After Atsumu bolted upright, looking highly offended, Hajime had watched with some amusement as the setter struggled to find an insult to fling at the Tooru that is flying through his match flawlessly on the television screen.

Before settling on an insult that somehow manages to sound racist against both Japanese names and South Americans all at the same time.

“Well maybe he is Japanese!” Bokuto jumps in, looking thoughtful. “Which is pretty cool, don’t you think - like our fellow countrymen making Japan proud all over the world.”

“Bokkun – he would be playing against Japan for Brazil, ya know that?” Atsumu buries his head in his hands in a long-suffering groan.

“Argentina, ‘Tsumu.” Hinata corrects, before happily continuing: “And I agree, Bo – I played with Tooru when I was in Brazil and his sets were the best!”

Atsumu glares like as if Hinata had just stabbed him in the back with ten knives.

“Ahh, are you seriously sulking, Miya?” Hajime laughs as he shoves Atsumu in the shoulder. He then grins wickedly as he points at the television, just in time for CA San Juan to lose a rally. “For the record I agree with you – look at Oikawa Tooru’s terrible form when he goes in for digs. Like is that shitty guy seriously a professional volleyball player?”

The mix of reactions that Hajime attracts – Bokuto’s look of genuine betrayal, Atsumu’s gleeful, vindicated delight, Ushijima’s confused frown and Hinata’s knowing laugh that he hastily turns into a cough and– makes every last one of his wickedly malicious words worth it.

Or so, Hajime had thought in the moment.

***

Sofia’s call had haunted Hajime for longer than he would have liked.

He thought of it when he awoke at dawn, quietly watching Tooru sleeping under his arms; in the morning, when he cycled onto campus with the bento box and black coffee Tooru packed for him in his bag pack; in the afternoon when he idly doodled poses of figures mid-jump serve against his notebook against charts of chemical reactions.

In the evenings when he lay out in the balcony, with Tooru nestled in his lap like as if it was the place Tooru had always meant to be.

Tooru never reminded him, never rushed him on it, never brought him up unless Hajime did first.

But Hajime could feel it. Tooru was waiting.

Waiting on an answer.

Which was why on one of those evenings, perhaps two weeks after the call with Sofia, Hajime finally brought it up again. As his hand card through Tooru’s waves of hair, he asked, as casually as someone would about what to eat for dinner:  

“How would you come out to the world, Tooru?”  

Tooru had hummed, the way he did when he was thinking. Their hands had been entwined, rested against Tooru’s chest, and Tooru’s thumb rubbed gently in the space between Hajime’s thumb and index finger. Outside, a cab horned, the ever-reminder of the living, breathing Californian city beyond the alleyway. The living, breathing world of people outside of them.

“Sofia and I have brainstormed through a bunch of ideas. Captions, photos, campaigns. Whether to do it in conjunction with pride month.” Tooru turned his brown eyes to Hajime. Hajime still remembers that exact moment – because it had struck him, the way Tooru’s eyes had looked. Pure, honest and straightforward, with no ulterior motive or no underlying thought as he answered: “But really, I’d probably just come out by posting a photo of us, and calling you my boyfriend.”

Hajime’s throat dried up. His hand paused in between Tooru’s hair, suddenly cold against his boyfriend’s warmth.

“And you… would you…” Hajime’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat before continuing: “And would you want that, Tooru?”

At this, Tooru sat up. Hajime’s lap was suddenly empty without the weight of his head. Tooru looked at Hajime, his gaze soft but unwavering as he answered:

“I’ve told you a dozen times already – I really have no preference.” Tooru said it slowly and patiently. Like explaining a concept to a child. He continued, wrapping his hand around Hajime’s, a thumb comfortingly rubbing against his. “I think it’s really up to you.”

“But – why do you not have a preference?” Hajime’s brain could not comprehend it.  

Tooru not having a preference is unheard of. Tooru usually always has a preference. 

Tooru gave him an adoring, long-suffering look. “Because I am already famous Hajime. I am already in the public eye. You on the other hand, are not. So you still have a choice.”

To be frank, Hajime found the whole thing ridiculous. Insane. Preposterous.

Tooru already has more than 32k followers total on both his public Twitter and Instagram accounts! Sofia had cheerfully announced like as if reporting the weather for the day. So I think it is about time to get him official Instagram and Twitter pages and to request for a proper verification badge. Maybe with the name Tooru Oikawa for his international audience?

Hajime’s mind had turned numb.

32,000 people watching Tooru’s every photo, story, tweet or post.

32,000 people. Hajime tried to imagine it in numbers. The population of a city, the size of a stadium, the density of microbes per micrometre-squared of a petri dish.

32,000 people who, if they scrolled down far enough, would see two posts on Tooru’s public account that features Hajime. One being a selfie of them smiling by an Argentinian beach, the caption being two simple sun emojis. And the second being a throwback photo of Hajime snoring against his school desk, scribbles and drawings scrawled all over his cheek, Mattsun and Maki posing with peace signs in the background, the caption being Tooru writing cheekily: Happy birthday Iwa-chan! Much love from Mattsun, Maki and me! :P

“You are famous.” Hajime repeated, like as if trying to understand why one plus one is three.  

“I am famous.” Tooru hummed matter-of-factly. Not in the arrogant tone he used when he wanted to annoy Hajime, nor in a whiny way the way he did when he said something he knew wasn’t actually true. Matter-of-factly.

The way someone who is used to having 32,000 people watching him does.

***

Midway through the drunken Team Japan arm-wrestling finals, Hajime’s phone rings.

Atsumu had been the one to start it, inviting Bokuto to a match, and then Aran, and then Hajime.

It hadn’t been long before the wrestling bug had caught on – and somehow Hajime finds himself in the finals facing off against Ushijima. The rest of the team crowds around, red-eared with excited anticipation and cheeks flushed with drink, as Hajime and Ushijima (probably the most sober of them all) exchange a slightly amused glance before clasping their hands together on the table.

Except Hajime’s phone rings – and he doesn’t quite clasp Ushijima’s hand as he picks up his phone instead.

“Oh my god – don’t you dare take the call at a time like now.” Atsumu groans in horror as Hajime stands up. “This is the finals!”

“Yeah – just answer it later!” Yaku whines. “Don’t leave us hanging!”

But Hajime just laughs and pats Yaku on the shoulder as he squeezes out of the bar booth. He winds through bar tables, pushes his way out into the cool summer night, and strolls two doors down the street.

Leaning against a lamp post, he presses the phone against his ear, and finally speaks:

“Oi.”

“Huuuh what oi, do you know how long you’ve kept your poor boyfriend waiting on the line, Hajime?” The voice on the line teases, abundant with affection.

“Oh shut up, Shitty-kawa, I answered on the first ring, didn’t I.” Hajime smiles fondly up at the stars twinkling in the sky. “Boarded your plane yet?”

***

“I – I think we… we should keep it lowkey.”

The words had slipped of Hajime’s mouth before he had even realised it.

Fairy lights blinked and two cups of green tea condensed into puddles atop old wooden crate. Somewhere below their apartment, a dog’s bark echoed up against the grey alley wall ahead of them.

“Yeah?” Tooru’s thumb paused in between the strokes it had been making against Hajime’s palm.

“Yeah.” Hajime’s hand tightened around Tooru’s. “Yeah. I… I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

To be called your boyfriend to the world.

Tooru’s gaze pierced through Hajime’s. The downside to dating one’s childhood best friend is that they cannot lie about anything. They have always known each other too well to lie and get away with it.

The best Hajime can do is to tell half-truths. And even so, he knew that Tooru had instantly known.

Which was why Hajime, understanding that his answer had not been satisfactory under Tooru’s gaze, continued: “Yeah, I… think it would be nice to just keep things out of the public eye for now.”

He hesitated. And then added, as he looked up to catch Tooru’s eye. “If... that is okay?”

In other words, Hajime silently asked Tooru: I will tell you what I can for now. If… that is okay?

Tooru’s shoulders dropped and his eyes softened. Yes, is what Tooru silently says in return.

When Hajime thinks back, he sometimes wonders if he wishes that Tooru hadn’t given in then. 

“Of course Hajime.” It was Tooru’s hand this time that carded through Hajime’s hair. He gently leaned in for a kiss. “Of course that is okay. And you talk to me about it whenever you need to alright.”

“Okay. Okay Toouru.” Hajime thought of 32,000 people, as Tooru scooped him into his arms. 32,000 people, with their eyes on the man whose heart he could hear beating against his ear.

The world loves you so much, Tooru.

“And you know, I do like being lowkey too.” Tooru gently kissed on the top of Hajime’s head. He leaned back, smiling down at Hajime nestled against his chest. “Also, I don’t think the world is even ready for the Oikawa Tooru Iwaizumi Hajime power couple yet anyway. We have to give some other celebrities a chance too you know.”

“Yeah,” Hajime breathed as he closed his eyes and leaned into Tooru’s chest. “We do,” He repeated, like a prayer.

What if the world loves you less once they know that I’m with you?

But like carrots from curries, it isn’t something that Hajime says aloud.

Chapter 2: Godzillas, a cat and a long Facebook post

Summary:

Tooru lands at Tokyo International Airport at 6 in the morning, 3 hours earlier than when he told Hajime he would.

Notes:

Um.... hey! It's been a hot minute since I last promised I would update eh. APOLOGIES I ran into some serious writer's block (read: perfectionism).

I leave you with this new snacks to nibble on. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

During his first three weeks in Argentina, it became a habit for Tooru to make daily calls to Hajime.

Hajime had been a night owl and Tooru a morning bird then – or maybe they had never been that way but grew into it for the convenience anyway. At 5:30am sharp in San Juan, Tooru would video call Hajime with an hour to spare before training; and at 6:30pm in Tokyo, Hajime would answer, looking scruffy and tired after a day at the library.

Hajime would complain about Tooru’s shitty timing and grumble that he was being kept away from having dinner. But he would settle into a seat, head leaned on his arms, eyes fond as he smiled at Tooru for far too long anyway. 

Back then, Tooru hadn’t known why he called every morning, why he needed to hear Hajime’s voice to start each day.

All he knew was that he wanted to.

And goddamnit, if Oikawa Tooru doesn’t do what he wants, he might as well not be Oikawa Tooru.

It was why on the eve of his flight date, Tooru had turned, tears on his cheeks grazing the edge of Hajime’s nose, to bury his face tightly into Hajime’s chest. Why at the airport, when they finally snuck a moment’s peace from Tooru’s family and friends to get ice cream, Tooru laughed in confession: “Of all the people here, I think the person I’ll miss the most is you, Hajime.”

At that point, Tooru hadn’t known what to name it. The feelings that rose in his chest whenever he looked at the boy that he had grown up with. The man he was about to part ways with.

All Tooru had known was that he wanted to be around Hajime.

All the time. In all the places.

For the rest of his life, if he could.   

Still, there were things he never knew for sure. Had Hajime wrapped his arms tightly around Tooru that night when they lay on the floor of his empty bedroom because he wanted to, or because Tooru was already there sobbing into his chest anyway? Had Hajime blushed as he wiped a smudge of ice cream off Tooru’s top lip when he had said he would miss Hajime because he felt the same, or because he was just embarrassed?

It took three weeks.

Three weeks after he had left Japan, for Tooru to realise that Hajime wanted the same things too.

Hajime just never said those things aloud.

It had been on a Monday, a hot, Argentinian summer day. Tooru had overslept and missed their morning call for the first time. He rushed to training on a dead cell phone and didn’t find a charger he could lend until that afternoon. When he finally plugged his phone in at his coach’s office desk, there were three missed video calls, one actual overseas phone call, and four messages from two different social media applications. All from one Iwaizumi Hajime.

Hajime, who never calls first.

It was 4pm in Argentina and 5am in Japan. Hajime was a night owl then, who didn’t usually wake till 9am, but Tooru called anyway.

Hajime picked up on the second ring. He held the phone above his head, blinking blearily up at the screen amidst his pillow. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, but the lights in his room were still on, like as if he hadn’t really been asleep yet. Tooru burst out blabbering:

“I’m so sorry, Iwa-chan, I know it’s really early there now - but I overslept in the morning, and my phone died, and I missed my bus and…”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Hajime interrupted, yawning. He looked closely at Tooru, a strange emotion settling over his face. Tooru thought it looked almost like embarrassment. Maybe some amount of relief. “As long as you’re okay. Charge your phone properly next time alright, Shittykawa?”

“Is everything okay, Iwa-chan? I only just got your missed calls.” Hajime had never said that’s fine breezily after leaving four missed calls before. Usually there were just no missed calls. “Did something happen to you? Are you alright?”

Perhaps it was Hajime, being less guarded at 5 in the morning. Or maybe it was Tooru, being more observant without Hajime’s actual physical presence making him flustered and distracted. But for the first time, Tooru saw it. The way Hajime’s hand clenched and unclenched with uncharacteristic nervousness. The blush that travelled up his cheeks and tinged his ears.

“No, I just called to save my own ass, shitty-kawa. I know you were bound to get all sulky just because we missed our usual call and…”

Hajime was lying. It spoke in the way he didn’t quite meet Tooru’s eyes, the way he glared askance, the way his hand rubbed awkwardly on the nape of his neck.

Stunned, Tooru laughed, surprised by the daring words that next escape from his mouth:

“Don’t lie. You missed me, didn’t you, Hajime?”

“What?”

“You called me because you missed me.” Tooru grinned. His heart was pounding a million miles an hour and there were butterflies in his stomach. “You, Iwaizumi Hajime, are being clingy. You like talking to me.”

Hajime groaned, dragging a hand over his face. He grumbled something incoherent. Sat up in his bed, now fully awake, glaring at Tooru in the full glory of his bedhead.

“As if. Why would anyone like a trashy personality like yours?”

“Lies! You are a person who likes a trashy personality like me. Look, look, you’re smiling!” Hajime looked away, unable to hide the affectionate smile that tugged at his lips anymore. “You like it when I annoy you. You like it when I’m with you. You like me, Hajime.”

Tooru hadn’t thought, he hadn’t thought before the words escaped his mouth. He smacked a palm over his own lip, horrified. On screen, Hajime froze, eyes wide, face flushed. A streak of sunlight had begun travelling over his room. The speckled reflections of light over Hajime’s face gave his eyes an open, vulnerable quality.

“Hajime - I – look, I don’t know why I said that – I didn’t mean, I mean, I meant that…”

“Tooru,” Hajime interrupted. He reached out a hand to raise his own phone camera to eye level too. It was strange, but somehow Tooru understood that it was the equivalent of what would have been a hand gently cupped by the side of his cheek, if they had been speaking in person.

“Of course.” Hajime said. His cheeks were flushed furiously, irreparably red by this point. He laughed as if not quite believing what he was about to say. “Of course, Tooru. Of course I love you.”

***                                                                                                                              

Tooru lands at Tokyo International Airport at 6 in the morning, 3 hours earlier than when he told Hajime he would.

Once he arrives, he checks with Hinata that Hajime had not joined the Japanese team’s early morning run (“No, he told our group chat he was taking the day off to do paperwork.” Hinata laughs. “Paperwork is a nice nickname for you Oikawa.”), changes out of his Argentinian team attire he is required to wear for the flight for a nicer, more discreet albeit slightly flight-crumpled shirt and flags down a taxi. He tells the driver to stop a street away from Hajime’s address in the city of Hiroo, picks up the flowers he had ordered weeks ago, and tracks down to the tiny line of apartments he has seen a million times in video calls, but never in person.

Hajime’s apartment front consists of a tiny steel grill door, followed by a sturdier looking wooden door. A dainty white cat lying by the doors looks up at Tooru suspiciously when he comes to a stop. She leans forward when Tooru crouches down and takes a perfunctory sniff of the fingers Tooru offers.

“Hello. You’re the walking embodiment of Hajime’s secret sappiness, you know that, Kawa?” Tooru whispers. The neighbourhood cat, christened Kawa by Hajime, lies back with approval, her tail flicking in satisfaction as Tooru scratches behind her ears. Her ears perk up from the withdrawal of scratches when Tooru straightens back up, and she flicks a paw, saying come back, gimme more.

“Oh I can see why Hajime named you Kawa though – you are clingy.” Tooru laughs. He digs through his duffel bag until he pulls out a tiny Godzilla plushie. Kawa turns her head, curious, as Tooru places the plushie on the doormat right outside the apartment.

“Ah ah, don’t touch it.” Tooru raises a warning finger when Kawa lifts a paw toward the plushie. Gently, he pushes Kawa’s paw away, beckons to Kawa to come to his side instead. “Let’s just let this be our secret for now okay? Kawa to ‘Kawa.”

He leans an ear against the door and takes a sniff – just as he had guessed, there is the sound of stove fans running and the whiff of fried salmon travelling out from the apartment. He has some time. He takes a second Godzilla plushie from his duffel bag and tucks it under his arm in preparation. Picks up the bouquet of flowers in one hand, secures his duffle bag over his shoulder and pulls up his luggage bag in the other.

Ridiculous. It all feels so ridiculous, but he does it anyway. Grinning like an idiot, he rings Hajime’s doorbell - and immediately bolts with all his items to the end of the corridor. Kawa meows in surprise and that nearly makes him laugh aloud as he leaves the second, larger Godzilla plushie sitting at the end of the corridor before clumsily spinning around the corner with all his luggage clattering over him.

He has to bury his face in his hands to stifle his laughter, when ducks down together with his luggage to hide out of sight.

It doesn’t take long for Hajime to come to the door, by the sounds of the creaking and key rattling. On the other side of the corridor that Tooru is facing, another neighbour has poked his head out curiously at the noise – but Tooru is trained on the familiar voice that travels down from Hajime’s end.

“Huh?” Hajime’s voice has always been extra gravelly in the morning. To most, it would sound like a grouchy grumble, but to Tooru, it has always been like a warm hug on a cold winter’s morning. There is a pause while the jangle of keys sound against the second metal doorframe.

“Did you ring the doorbell, Kawa?” Kawa’s purr travels down the corridor. “I could have sworn I heard someone…oh.” Tooru grins, bitting the bottom of his lip. He has spotted the Godzilla, perhaps? “Oh, wait what…”

“Excuse me, mister!”

Troublingly, the nosy neighbour has extracted himself further from his house and is now walking over. Tooru glances up, annoyed at the interruption, which is when he realises oh shit, the neighbour – a young boy’ with wide, excited eyes, is walking over purposefully, a finger pointed in the way people do right before they -

“You are Argentina’s starting setter, Oikawa Tooru!” The boy excitedly exclaims in recognition. He leaps over the Godzilla plushie between them, a hand extended excitedly. “I am your biggest fan!”

From around the corner, Tooru can hear Hajime burst into peals of laughter.

Pushing back the desire to bury his face in his hands, Tooru sighs as he straightens up from his makeshift hiding spot and accepts the boy’s hand. “Yes, yes, I am Oikawa Tooru and –“

“It is you!” The boy gasps. He withdraws his hand, suddenly shy. “I knew you would be around for the Olympics! But I thought the Olympics athletes would all be in Tokyo instead of Hiroo, so I wasn’t sure at first…”

“Yeah, Oikawa Tooru. Why are you in Hiroo of all places?”

Tooru’s head snaps up.

Iwaizumi Hajime grins up from behind the boy, arms crossed, leaning against a wall by the corridor.  

His hair is a pile of messy spikes falling over a pair of thin-framed square glasses. There is a cooking towel carefully slung over his shoulder, an apron tied over his waist. In his well-built arms, he holds both Godzilla plushies over a black t-shirt that is almost too tight around his broad chest and shoulders. There is nothing fancy about his appearance at all: from the slight sweat on his brow to the tattered sports shorts Tooru knows from college days, capped by the rubber flip flops that a cat has clearly chewed on.

But then he smiles and oh, Iwaizumi Hajime smiles. It is a smile that is soft and blazing; exasperated and fond; bold and shy all at the same time. A smile that looks like it holds all of the world all in one place just for Tooru.

And when Tooru smiles back, it feels like all of time and space has stopped short just for them.

***

By age 27, Oikawa Tooru has become a household name, recognisable to many. Usually in Argentina or South America. Surprisingly popular too in the USA as well as Japan too.

In turn, Oikawa Tooru has become an expert in recognising when fans are about to recognise him.

It is usually their eyes that give them away. The excited, wide-eyed side glances that are shot his way between whispers. The double stares that wonder: wait was that who I thought it was? Their feet are a secondary tell-tale sign. Groups discussing whether to come up to him always had their feet pointed his way first before they started walking. A passenger on the train, feet tapping nervously, glances stolen up between a lifted phone and himself.

Tooru used to like it. When he was 16 and a naïve teenager, getting recognised by fellow school mates was a novelty he relished in; fans people he kept happy in his desire to be known and admired. By the time he was older and a semi-well known professional athlete at CA San Juan, he had learnt that the novelties of fame bore a second sharper edge.

 “You have a reputation,” Sofia once told him. “People say that you’re too flirty.”

It had been 12 am at a cool open-air bar by the beach, far too late, far too far for Hajime to be part of the conversation. This had also been before Tooru had even told Sofia that there was an Iwaizumi Hajime to be involved in conversations with.

Tooru had laughed, taken a sip from his glass of Asahi, before looking at Sofia and realising she was being completely serious.

“Oh.” He tapped on the edge of his beer glass. “You know I am happily taken right? If I come off flirty, I really don’t intend it. What seems to give off that impression?”

Sofia snorted. “Really Tooru? You’re telling me you don’t know?” She raised a hand, an eyebrow lifted. Closed down fingers to start counting: “Number one, you make stupid nicknames for everyone you meet. Number two, teasing and being semi-mean to people seems to be part of your way of daily conversation. That gives off serious flirty vibes. Number three, you are so nice to your fans. Too nice sometimes. No one entertains giving out this many photos and signatures to guys and girls.”

Tooru huffed. He tapped on the side of the table this time. Of course he was in the know – Hajime had told him one too many times once he had finally asked, incredulously, how Hajime had never known he had been flirting with him all the years. It’s because it looks like you flirt with everyone. Hajime had snorted. He had rolled his eyes, flicked the top of Tooru’s forehead. How was I to know that I was special?

“Four.” Sofia dropped her ring finger. She looked at Tooru seriously. “You never post or share anything about your significant other to your fans. Like is she your girlfriend, or your fiancé, or your wife? Is she in San Juan? Does she even exist?” She threw up her hands exasperatedly and pressed them on her hips. “Do you see what I mean? Even I’m not sure if I know if she is real – let alone the public or your fans.”

Of course you are special. Tooru had told Hajime. Gently carded his hand through Hajime’s hair. Thought that maybe, all of Hajime’s frustration toward him had been warranted after all. You see, I think you’ve all just misunderstood the way I flirt with others. He had then pressed a kiss against Hajime’s forehead like as if asking for forgiveness. Sure when I like someone, I tease them, I make stupid nicknames for them. He gently pressed down on Hajime’s brow, smoothening out the wrinkles from his frown. But when I really like them, I trust them in every tight corner. Show them all my fears and ugly sides that no one else sees. Follow them everywhere I go.

I call them by their first name. Hajime had smiled then, his eyes relaxing into a close, hands wrapped around the hands Tooru has gently cupped against his cheek. Hajime. Hajime. Hajime. Tooru raised Hajime’s hands against his lips and pressed in a kiss. Iwa-chan will always hold a special place in my heart, but Hajime? That’s the name I first called you by.

Still, Tooru knows. He knows because he is also an expert at reading Iwaizumi Hajime. Hajime’s tell-tale signs are aplenty. The eyes that flicker warily at pedestrians who ogle as they pass. The hands that pull away from Tooru’s the minute anyone comes into view. The feet that drift, falter, then come to a complete halt when fans crowd in now. The shoulders which stiffen when he stands aside, isolated and invisible, when fans ask enthusiastically: “Oikawa-san, Oikawa-san! Are you seeing anyone currently?”

“Sorry, I don’t date fans,” Tooru always laughs and ducks the question, like an eel slipping out of rushing waters. “It isn’t proper you know!”

If he had his way, he would like to have a different answer. He would like to be able to charge through the crowd and storm up to Hajime the way Hajime has stormed up to him a thousand times whenever fans crowded him in high school. He would grab Hajime’s hands in his, dip Hajime down by around his waist and kiss him senseless, and then announce to the world before Hajime can recover from his shock: you want to know who I’m dating so badly? This is who I’m dating – Iwaizumi Hajime, the greatest friend, partner and soulmate I’ve ever had! See him, look at him. Look at us and don’t you ever forget it!

Still, there are some things Tooru doesn’t know about Iwaizumi Hajime.

Like how he is so sure Hajime wants the same things but can't figure out why he acts like he doesn’t. Or why Hajime is always the first to close his hand over his once they get home; yet refuses to even graze his finger in public. Why Hajime, who used to openly yell and wrestle down Tooru back in high school, now barely smiles in acknowledgement when watching Tooru’s game with his workmates.

There are always things Oikawa Tooru is learning in life. How to do a better serve, how to gauge a more accurate set. Apparently, how to appear less flirty.

Top of his list though, is always, how to understand Iwaizumi Hajime better.

At the very least, he isn’t a fool. He has an inkling as to why Hajime feels the way he does, conflicted and confused. Frustrated, but afraid.

“It’s a he.” Tooru had muttered aloud. He gazed out at the stars twinkling in the night sky, listened to the waves crashing on the shores. Deducted three hours in his head – calculated that it was 9pm in California. Sofia stared at him, mouth agape. Tooru sighed as he lowered his beer glass. He finally caught Sofia’s eye.

“My significant other exists. And it is a he.” Tooru lifted one of the beer coasters with two fingers. Tapped it twice against the table. Club Atletico San Juan! It read on its circumference, around the symbol of a white volleyball. He stole a glance at Sofia again. “My boyfriend’s name is Hajime and we’ve been dating since I was 17. He is Japanese and currently studying sports science in California. He has been my childhood best friend since I was old enough to remember, my volleyball partner since middle school, my vice-captain im the volleyball team in high school and…”

It was stupid, it was just Sofia – a colleague, a friend, asking, flagging issues out of concern. But tears prickled the corners of Tooru’s eyes, and he furiously wiped them aside, angry as he continued:

“… and of course it hurts me to hear that people don’t believe he exists. Of course I want people to know about him. But…”

He gazed up at Sofia, more steadily this time. “I’m not sure if that is what he wants.”

“And what is important is what Hajime wants.”

***

The neighbour, a boy named Kendo, turns out to be a huge volleyball nerd and a friend of Hajime’s. Hajime is patient and sweet to the boy, as he always is to those who look up to him. He encourages Kendo as the boy nervously blabbers through his questions for Tooru.

Go on, you can ask him about it, Hajime gently says to Kendo, who in turn, looks to Tooru, eyes wide as he burst out: Oikawa-san, what made you decide to become a setter? When Tooru asks cheerily if Kendo plays in a team, Kendo looks askance, defeated. Hajime nudges him encouragingly, saying: Hey. Maybe we could ask Oikawa-san for some advice? Which is then how Kendo admits with a worried frown that he has recently torn his ankle badly enough to need surgery – even if he gets to play again, will he ever catch up to the others?

Tooru can’t help glancing a smile at Hajime. In turn, Hajime’s returning smile is all too knowing. Tooru kneels down and places a gentle but firm hand on the boy’s shoulder as he explains:

“Of course you will. Talent is something only you yourself can make bloom. Instincts and skills are weapons only you can polish. With diligence and, with care,” He presses a hand on the boy’s wrapped ankle. “You can definitely do what you want to do. Not catch up, no, no it’s never good to compare yourself to others.” He says firmly as Kendo’s mouth opens and closes. “But to make good your promise to yourself to do your best. To push your abilities to their furthest limit.”

Behind Kendo, Hajime, with his head leaned against the wall, is watching Tooru with such soft fondness that Tooru is sure even Kendo would catch on it if he turned around at the exact moment. Luckily, Kendo is too busy being starry eyed and wordless with awe by the time Tooru finishes. Tooru laughs and ruffles the boy’s head.

“Or something like that. Iwaizumi-san here may disagree.” He adds, glancing up teasingly at Hajime who smiles and shakes his head. He then looks back down at Kendo. “But you know what’s one thing I know for sure, Kendo-kun?”

“What is it, Oikawa-san?”

“You’ve got the fighter spirit in you.” He winks. “Which tells me that you can definitely do it.”

“Thank you, Oikawa-san!” Kendo bursts out, his lip trembling. It is corny, but it works – Tooru has always been good with kids since his days teaching junior volleyball. Still he lets out a huff of surprise as Kendo dives into his chest and wraps his arms around him. Behind Kendo, Hajime grows doe-eyed like his heart has just melted into pieces. Tooru laughs at the sight of Hajime all soft-hearted, cuddled up against two Godzillas in his arms, and returns Kendo’s hug with a pat on the back.

“Shall we ask Iwaizumi-san to help us take a photo?”

“Yes please!”

Kendo is a bouncing ball of excitement as Tooru kneels down next to him, grinning widely for a photo. They laugh when Kendo directs Tooru to do finger guns (that’s what they do in my favourite tv show! Kendo exclaims) and Hajime pretends to faint when Kendo and Tooru shoot imaginary bullets at him.

"I’ll send the photos to your mother okay, Kendo-kun?” Hajime ruffles Kendo’s hair fondly as he shows Kendo the photos. “Speaking of which, I’m sure she must be looking for you now – you probably should get back before breakfast yeah?”

“Okay!” Kendo leaps on his feet, happy. “Can I ask one final question though?”

“Yeah of course, what is it?” Tooru smiles, following along as Hajime begins leading Kendo back to his unit.

“How long have you two been friends for?” Kendo looks up at them as he hangs by his ajar door. He beams with happiness as he looks between the two of them. The conversation seems to have filled him with newfound confidence. “And Oikawa-san, did you bring flowers to give to Iwaizumi-san? My mum says it’s polite to bring people flowers when you visit!”

“Ah.” Hajime’s smile turns awkward and the tip of his ears grow red. Tooru laughs. Discreetly he rests a hand briefly across Hajime’s back, meaning don’t worry, I’ll take charge this time, and kneels down to ask:

“Kendo-kun, what makes you think Iwaizumi-san and I are friends?”

“Well, you laugh at each other’s jokes and smile at each other! That’s what friends do. Even though you’re on different teams now, which means you are also rivals.” Kendo furrows his brow. He then brightens up. “Also you gave Iwaizumi-san Godzillas! Iwaizumi-san loves Godzillas! Not sure if he likes flowers though,” Kendo adds.

Tooru can’t help the big, idiotic smile that crosses his face. “Well, Iwaizumi-san does like flowers, incidentally.” Next to him, Hajime has buried his face in his hands, cheeks flushed, but Tooru can tell that he is smiling too. “Do you like flowers too, Kendo-kun?”

Kendo’s mouth falls into an open shape. “I don’t know! I’ve never had flowers before!”

Tooru takes down the bouquet from where it rests on his luggage bag. Offering it to Kendo, he beams: “Here, have some! The white ones are baby’s breathes, the purple ones lavender, and the yellow ones chrysanthemums. Which one do you want? I’ll pull them out for you!”

Kendo’s eyes grow starry wide and he gasps in delight as he reaches out for the flowers. When Kendo’s mother comes to the door, Hajime hastily explains the situation, apologising for the noise; but Kendo’s mother just beams, as happy as her son, and encourages Kendo to pick out some flowers before thanking Tooru profusely.

“So sorry to take your flowers, and to take up your time,” Kendo’s mother looks apologetically at Tooru as they stand back up. “The flowers though. Were they really for–“ She glances momentarily at Hajime, her brow furrowed into a frown. It isn’t the way someone usually looks when they talk about flowers.

Beside Tooru, he can feel Hajime’s shoulders tense.

“They are welcome flowers my team gave the athletes when we landed,” Tooru cuts in smoothly. “And no worries at all,” He adds in cheerily. “I was just dropping by to see an old friend when I ran into Kendo-kun and Iwaizumi-san – my pleasure to meet a young volleyball fan as always!”

Slowly, Tooru can see Hajime’s shoulders relax as they continue chatting.

Still, Tooru notices, that Hajime had discreetly hidden both the Godzillas behind his back now.

***

Once Tooru made the Argentinian team and Hajime the Japanese team, Sofia set up a video call between them titled Olympic Rules.

“Like Olympic regulations? Or more like yeah the Olympics rule!” Tooru teased when they settled down in Sofia’s office for the call. He then settled down with a more serious tone, as he passed an iced coffee to Sofia. “Go easy on Hajime okay. Try not to spook him out too much.”

Sofia blinked. Understanding then crossed her face and she took a determined sip of the coffee. “I’ll try my best.” She promised.

Hajime joined the call from his living room in Hiroo with the night sky twinkling behind him. He looked like he had come straight from work, a little tired and still wearing his Team Japan jersey. Still, he smiled as Tooru and Sofia cheerily waved to him. Laughed when Tooru showed off Sofia’s new revolving office chairs.

“Hey Hajime!” After a few pleasantries, Sofia dove right into the topic. “Firstly, let me check – are both of you still happy to keep your relationship out of the public realm?”

Tooru stared at Hajime over screen. Hajime nodded, with only the slightest pause of hesitation.

“Okay. In that case, I’ll have the both of you know as well that the International Olympic Committee has strict rules on the integrity of the games that still impacts you. Hajime, you probably already know this, but I’ll repeat it anyway.” Sofia glanced up and Hajime nodded his okay. He looked so serious that Tooru wished he could reach over the screen to rub the lines off the top of his brow. “Firstly, there are technically no rules against dating between participants, so you’re both clear on that, whether you’re public or not about your relationship.”

“But there are still rules that apply to participants between teams which the two of you may want to watch out for.” Sofia lifted a paper in her hands, gazing through it. “For example, the Committee is very strict on catching and investigating suspicions on match fixing or competition manipulation, where a participant knowingly plays a game in a certain way, for example underperforming to get a bribe, or get a specific result.”

“Yeah that’s definitely not going to happen, don’t worry about it,” Tooru snorted. He grinned up to catch Hajime’s eye wickedly and Sofia laughed, having heard their story enough times to know of their competitive promise to one another.

“There is also betting – for example participants betting on their own games and then manipulating their games in order to win.” Sofia looked at the screen. “Once again, I trust it is something you would be wise enough to stop Tooru from ever doing, Hajime?” Hajime nodded, arms crossed, while Tooru protested hey, I knew that too!

 “And well,” Sofia lowered her list. “To be honest I trust that neither of you would be the type to mess with the integrity of the games anyway.” She smiled cheerily.

Her smile then wavered a little uncertainly. “I think what we should be most careful about is just not accidentally doing anything that will raise suspicion.” Sofia proceeded cautiously.

“Like – Hajime.” Hajime blinked up, surprised. “You as an athletic trainer, keep records of your different players don’t you? And I’m sure you have one for Tooru too?”

“Yes of course.” Hajime looked slightly startled. “Tooru’s athletic trainer sometimes comes to me for information from that file even. What does that have to do with…”

“We just need to make sure that it doesn’t ever come off suspicious, mi amor, like you’re fixing match details between the Argentinian and Japanese teams.” Tooru smiled soothingly. “And I’m sure my AT knows you well enough by now to vouch that we’re definitely not doing that.”

“And when you two meet in Japan,” Sofia added, shaking a finger between the screen and Tooru. “Just be extra careful with the way you act around the games and other participants or officials. Just make sure nothing ever seems…” She raised a shoulder and shrugged. “… suspicious I guess.”

“Very eloquently worded.” Tooru muttered, making Sofia laugh and smack him in the arm.

“Hey! I’m just your public relations person okay.” Sofia huffed. “My bread and butter is social media, not explaining Olympics rules. Plus I’m sure the coach will do a proper run through of this rules very soon – as I’m sure yours has Hajime.”

“I will say though on a social medias point of view.” Sofia’s face clouded with seriousness. “Impressions stick. And any news that happens to be tagged along with the idea of the Olympics grows viral quickly. So be careful okay.”

Hajime’s brow furrowed. Tooru coughed, discreetly digging Sofia in the ankle with his heel.

Hastily, Sofia added in: “But I’m sure you will both be perfectly fine! These are just precautions after all!”

***

Once the front door closes, Hajime places the two Godzillas down on top of the shoe rack and turns around to cusp a hand gently over Tooru’s face. The doorway is narrow enough that the duffel bag hanging off Tooru’s shoulder knocks into Hajime’s thigh as Tooru rests a hand around Hajime’s waist. Kawa meows as she slips through the luggage bag left by the door.

“Tooru.” Hajime’s lips grow into a grin, as he leans in for a kiss.

Teasingly, Tooru presses a finger against his lips, pushing him back. Hajime splutters in protest as he fumbles backward.

“Before that. Give me a chance to start over again.” Tooru clears his throat and stretches his arms like as if doing a warmup. Hajime rolls his eyes but steps back anyway. He looks back up, arms crossed, eyes filled with amusement as Tooru bows and offers him the bouquet of flowers in his hands. “Iwaizumi Hajime. My love. My everything. I am delighted to see you again. Here are some of your favourite flowers I got for you. They are missing a few chrysanthemums but I hope you don’t mind.”  

Hajime laughs. “You idiot.” He takes off his shoes, disentangles himself from Tooru’s duffel bag and disappears into the living room. When he re-emerges, there is a bouquet in his hands, filled with Tooru’s favourite flowers. “Looks like we had the same idea.”

Tooru laughs as they exchange bouquets. They then beam at one another, fond, standing in the doorway cluttered by flowers, luggage, Godzillas and a yawning cat.

“You know,” Tooru whispers. He lowers the bouquet of flowers onto the ground so he can lift his hand against Hajime’s cheek instead. Cheekily, he strokes a thumb down Hajime’s chin before grazing just on the corner of his lip. “For a moment back there, it really looked like you were falling in love with me all over again.”

Hajime’s cheeks burn red. He puts the flowers carefully aside and wraps an arm around Tooru’s hips. “Damn right I was.” Is all he says shortly, before he closes the distance between them. Tooru’s eyes widen, an impish grin rising on his cheeks when Hajime pushes him back and pins him against the wall. Their heads angle in, and for a moment, as Tooru watches the playful narrow of Hajime’s eyes, he thinks that Hajime is about to smash their lips together into something furious, something fierce.

Which is maybe why, Tooru leans down and chooses to kiss Hajime first. Gently, carefully, like as if he would dissolve under his touch - a soft press of his lips, the slow sliding of his tongue over Hajime’s bottom lip. He feels the way Hajime’s shoulders relax under his touch, his hackles lower under his arms, and when Hajime returns the kiss, it is so soft, so slow, so gentle. Like air gliding across skin. Warmth grazing over warmth.  

It defies all odds of the thousand scenarios Tooru had imagined their reunion to be. Despite how little time they have in between their tight Olympic schedules, they are acting like as if they have all the time in the world. Like as if time can not just stand still, but flow in backward for them.

“Welcome home, Hajime.” Tooru whispers when they draw back from the kiss. He leans in to press his forehead against Hajime’s.

“Welcome home too, Tooru.” Hajime presses his lips upward into Tooru’s nose. And then against his cheek, his forehead, his lips. Over his ear, down his neck, teasing him on the edge of his collarbone, until Tooru squeals in delight, which is when Hajime lifts him into his arms and carries them out into the living room, and then, bedroom. 

***

The rest of the one precious day Tooru has with Hajime before the first day of the Olympics games passes by much the same - like a honey-glazed dream, filled with soft-pressed kisses, long loving gazes and sweet murmurings in each other’s ears. Hajime finishes the breakfast he was mid-way cooking when Tooru arrived, carefully accounted for Tooru’s Olympic diet requirements. Once Tooru emerges from the shower, comfortable in a University of California sports shirt and old shorts, they eat on the balcony couch, gazing out into the Tokyo skyline with Kawa purring on the space in between them.

Hajime’s hand presses over Tooru’s and Tooru turns his palm upward to link Hajime’s fingers in his.

Tooru takes a photo of his singular plate of breakfast on the balcony with Kawa curled up in the background, with the caption: Good to be back in Tokyo! to satisfy his daily professional Instagram story and Twitter requirements. He then shows Hajime the Facebook post that he sees Kendo’s mother has posted and tagged him in, including photos of him posing with Kendo, and then of him posing with Kendo’s mother (which had been subsequently requested, and Hajime subsequently complied with being camera man for).

Together, they tap open and read the caption:

Met Argentina volleyball team’s star setter @TooruOikawaaa! today! He was a real gentleman and very very nice to my son. Kendo, who is 10 this year, has always been trying to learn volleyball but has recently been down with an ankle injury. He really looks up to the volleyball stars, so imagine my shocked surprise when he met Oikawa Tooru in our apartment block today…

“Oh wow, Kendo’s mother is really telling the whole story here.” Hajime observes, frowning slightly as he reads through. “Oh shit,” His hand around Tooru’s flits away for a moment, before returning and tightening. “I’m mentioned.”

… with kind help from our neighbour @Iwaizumihajime (who also so happens to be Team Japan’s athletic trainer and our family friend), Kendo had the best time asking his volleyball questions…

“Hey.” Tooru watches the way Hajime’s brow creases. The way his shoulders stiffen. He gently moves Kawa aside; shifts so he can press his entire body into Hajime’s side, arm tucked over his waist. “You okay?”

Hajime frowns and doesn’t answer as he keeps reading.

The rest of the post mostly retells through Tooru’s advice to Kendo with surprising accuracy, until:

… it is admirable how amicable the Japanese and the Argentinian volleyball team members are, setting aside their differences to meet with their fans like this. As Kendo noted after, it was almost like as if Iwaizumi and Oikawa were long-lost friends, which goes to show the power of the Olympics to bring nations together. This has truly been a memorable morning!

“See, that was all okay wasn’t it?” Tooru gently cards a hand through Hajime’s hair.

Hajime grunts. He clicks onto the comments, scrolls through them. They are mostly positive, Kendo’s mother’s social media friends commenting and wowing on her experience. An influx of Tooru’s fans (no doubt from his tagged name), have flooded in with positive remarks. Hajime’s own tagged account, Tooru knows, is on private settings.

“Hajime.” Tooru croons softly. He rests a hand on Hajime’s cheek. Sighing, Hajime finally shuts the screen and turns to look at him. “What are you thinking about?”

Hajime hesitates for a moment. He gazes at Tooru, and then looks away again.

“Honestly? About how close a call it was.” He mumbles. He plays with the edge of Tooru’s thumb. Doesn’t quite look Tooru in the eye. “And how we should be a bit more careful from now on. I mean – Kendo could tell we were close just from the looks we were giving one another.”

Tooru wants to laugh, incredulous. He doesn’t. Instead, he nods. Instead, he tightens his hold on Hajime’s hand as if to say I am here, and persists:

“But why, Hajime? I know you wanted to be more low-key. To keep things out of the public eye. But…” He breathes out. Eases his hold on Hajime’s hand. “This is just a random kid telling his mum random things about us. A kid who is also friends with you. Of course he’ll say things like that. Of course, he’ll make observations like the fact that you like Godzilla. Adults won’t be the same. You saw how Kendo’s mum took in my excuse so easily.”

Hajime’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, but before that?” He asks quietly. “Did you see the way she looked at us before that? When she thought the flowers were for…”

They both pause, watching one another. And then Hajime’s lip trembles, and Tooru’s eyes harden as he moves forward and wraps his arms around Hajime. Protectively, he pulls Hajime into an embrace so tightly, so furiously, that he can feel his muscles tensing. The phone clutters down between them, disappearing into the couch seats.

Hajime is still for what seems like a lifetime. And then, he finally lifts his arms to wrap back around Tooru’s. It is only then that Tooru relaxes. He presses a kiss on the top of Hajime’s head. Lowers his arms soothingly down Hajime’s back.

“I don’t care. I really don’t. And neither should you,” Tooru mumbles through Hajime’s hair.

Hajime doesn’t reply but he does bury his head into the curve of Tooru’s shoulders. His hands are fist-shaped when they kneed against Tooru’s back.

It is progress.

At least progress, since the last time the topic was brought up.

It will take time, cracking Hajime open. But Oikawa Tooru has time. He is about to face the most important matches of his career – but for the most important person in his life, he will always have time.

At least, he thought he did.

It is around mid-afternoon when Tooru is sleepily awoken from his jetlagged slumber against Hajime’s chest by the sound of his phone ringing. Sofia is the one who speaks urgently, informing him of the news.

The news of how big Kendo’s mother’s post has grown.

And the news about the players who bet on a game.

Notes:

So yeah this chapter is WAY overdue. I had some real plot struggles and ended up writing at least what must have been a dozen alternate versions of this chapter from Oikawa's POV, and then Iwaizumi's, randomly Kuroo's, before this version of Oikawa's finally sat right with me.

You know the scene in Blue Period where Yatora paints his Bonds piece and then couldn't move on from that forever? Yeap, that was me.

Special thanks to everyone who left encouraging comments on the last one! Hope you enjoy this one! Post-timeskip Iwaizumi Hajime has always held a special place in my heart - but I think this one makes me love post-timeskip Oikawa Tooru even more too :)

(Also - when will I next update? It's hard to tell in all honesty, I'm a bit of a stubborn Oikawa-type in real life who keeps busy chasing way too many ambitions in life. I am very fond of this story though - so I will very much be hoping to update when I can!)

Chapter 3: Let the games begin

Summary:

Right before they go to sleep, Mattsun texts Hajime a screenshot taken off Twitter.

@TooruOikawaaa:
Always great to meet a fan, and right before the Olympics too! ^.^

@TherealMiyaAtsumu
Replying to @TooruOikawaaa:
Um hello, how dare you not acknowledge the fact that you also just met the GREATEST ATHLETIC TRAINER, Team Japan's Iwaizumi Hajime????

“Oh my god, Miya Atsumu you menace.” Hajime mutters, burying his head in his hand.

Notes:

Hello! Apologies again for slow uploads but I had fun with this chapter and the amount of domestic Iwaoi fluff in here hehe. Hope you enjoy!

Despite the close run-in with his neighbour, Hajime has a good remainder of a Sunday with Tooru.

If the Olympics games is D-day for the sports players; then the week before the Olympics is a long, series of D-days for the sports support staff. There are documents to be filed, strategies to be finalised, reports to be finished. It is a small miracle that the Tokyo team couch had even approved of Hajime’s proposal to work from home day over the weekend. Hajime is so snowed in with work that he spends most of the day filling out documents and answering phone calls.

Tooru on the other hand, has a prescribed rest day off. In between his jetlagged catnaps, he tidies up the work-frenzied mounds of mess Hajime had built up in his apartment, tries out a bunch of Hajime’s hoodies to figure out which to steal and watches videos of old plays with a quiet seriousness. At some point in the afternoon, he disappears for half an hour out of the apartment and returns whistling an old Japanese tune with an armful of ingredients for dinner.

Hajime and Tooru are also really clingy.

Most of Sunday. All of Sunday.

Tooru idly rubs his hand over Hajime’s knee just out of video shot while he’s on calls; Hajime reads his documents over Tooru’s head, arms wrapped around Tooru’s shoulders. They kiss once, and then twice, and then again and again, like as if they will never be in the same space again except for today, and maybe some part of that sentiment isn’t far off from what is about to happen for the upcoming weeks. Fingers dance and graze fondly across skin, hands warm under hands, limbs mould tightly against limbs.

Their voices murmur in soft sounds against each other’s ears, laughter and banter and whispers enjoining and melding into one across the sun-lit space.

At some point around dusk, Hajime looks up from the report he is reading and glances down at Tooru. Like as if by telepathy, Tooru looks up from where he is lying over Hajime’s chest, his glasses falling back against the bridge of his nose as tilts his head like as if to say what?

“Nah it’s nothing…” When Tooru pushes his laptop aside and insistently wraps an arm around Hajime’s shoulders to lean in closer, Hajime laughs and confesses, a little sheepishly:

“Well I… I’ve missed this.” 

Tooru’s eyes grow round. Hajime continues, carding a hand through Tooru's hair gently: “And when we’ve both moved into the Olympic village on Monday… I’m  afraid that I’ll be so sad that we’re apart that I won’t even be excited about the Olympics.”

And of course, watching Tooru tear up has always been the most surefire way to make Iwaizumi Hajime cry too.

***

Sofia calls them again that day.

Hajime, stuck on a work call, can only watch as Tooru gets up to take the call in a different room. By the time Hajime’s meeting finally ends, Tooru is already back and laying across the couch waiting patiently for him, his feet rested on Hajime’s lap.

“Social media update, Iwa-chan." Tooru announces when Hajime finally gets off the meting. "Sofia wants me to share your neighbour’s post about running into us on my official social media accounts.”

“What?” Hajime fumbles and almost drops his laptop. “Why?”

“Honestly - it’s just blowing up too big.” Tooru laughs. He lifts his legs off Hajime’s lap and nuzzles into Hajime’s side instead, squeezing in close so that there isn’t any space left between them. Gently, he lifts up Hajime's laptop and puts it on the table instead. “She thinks it would be odd if I didn’t react at all to it.”

“And plus, by replying I get to control the narrative around it.” Tooru closes a hand over Hajime’s. Squeezes Hajime’s hand in his. “We just want to be careful – some Argentinian athletes were caught betting on some games recently. Nothing malicious, just kids being dumb. But Sofia just wants to make sure none of this gets taken the wrong way round, or that no one grows suspicious.”

Hajime feels a cold grip across his heart. “Suspicious of what? Of us meeting up to cheat at the Olympics?”

“I know, just ridiculous. But seriously though, don’t worry okay.” He kisses Hajime on the top of his head, carding a hand through Hajime’s hair soothingly. “We’ve got it all handled. My sister’s in Tokyo this weekend so we’ve got her as an alibi to say I was visiting if anyone asks; and I’m just going to keep the post short,  thank your neighbour the way I usually thank fans.” Tooru ticks the items off his fingers. “Keeping it short and simple!”

“I guess.” Hajime puts his work aside and looks at Tooru. He sees the dip of seriousness in Tooru’s eyes, the slightly too cheery smile Tooru has put on, and squeezes the hand that Tooru has wrapped in his. “And… are you okay?” He asks. He grazes his thumb comfortingly over Tooru’s. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Between the two of them, Hajime is the health professional, the trainer, the teacher. He is the one who nags and worries over volleyball idiots like Tooru for a living - minimising the things that can go wrong, patching up what has gone wrong and being the voice of reason.

The thought of him not being able to do anything at all about the millions of people scrutinising Tooru is strange, frustrating and scary.

Tooru lifts Hajime’s hand and presses his fingers against his lips.

“You’re plenty of help already, Iwaizumi Hajime.” Like as if having read Hajime’s thoughts, Tooru bundles forward, arms warm as he tugs Hajime into his embrace. He presses a soft kiss atop Hajime’s head “Plenty, and plenty, and plenty of help.”

With his head leaned against Tooru’s chest, Hajime can hear Tooru’s heartbeat. It is steady and comforting, like oars beating forward through choppy waters to the shore.

He lifts his head and presses his lips against Tooru’s.

Slowly once, and then twice, and then faces angled, arms wrapped, hands roaming, the third time.

***

Their Sunday evening is the heavenly smell of golden empanadas Tooru cooked, and quiet chatter by the balcony to the backdrop of a dusty pink Tokyo sunset.

There is also a peppering of video calls, mostly close family and friends giving their well wishes for the Olympics.

Yahaba is amongst the first to call Tooru. Hajime listens to them banter back and forth from where he is washing up in the kitchen, before Yahaba asks: “Oh yeah, is Iwaizumi there with you too by the way?”. It is only when Hajime walks over, still wiping his hands on his apron, that Yahaba grins and wishes both him and Tooru victories in the Olympics.

Next, Hajime receives a call from Kyoutani – which isn’t too out of character given Kyoutani does sometimes call him for training advice - but is slightly out of character when Kyoutani gruffly asks: “Anyway, um. Is Oikawa-san still around?”. It is then Hajime’s turn to gesture over a surprised Tooru and they both smile at one another when Kyoutani greets them the best for the games over loudspeaker.

After that, Hajime begins to see a pattern to the calls: usually one of their mutual friends calling whoever they are closer to between him and Tooru, and then somehow, with some strange foresight, guessing correctly that they are together and then opting to pass on their well wishes in one go.

“How does everyone just somehow know that we’re spending the evening together right now?” Hajime grumbles, when Maki video calls them midway through them brushing their teeth and immediately yells: Yo, Oikawa’s right next to you now, isn’t he? Get that idiot into the frame.”

“It’s not that hard, we are all just Oikawa fanboys who saw that viral post about Oikawa running into the Japanese athletic trainer online,” Mattsun, also on the video call, explains with a smirk. “The natural conclusion is then, well, duh, of course Oikawa would spend his first day back in Japan with Iwaizumi.”

Rolling his eyes, Hajime hands the phone to Tooru in order to gargle and spit out his toothpaste. With a clay mask setting on his face, Tooru obediently stretches onto the phone with one hand far enough to capture both their faces, raising his eyebrows salaciously at the camera, while brushing his teeth with the other hand.

“You know, it’s disgustingly domestic that you two brush your teeth together.” Maki crinkles his nose. “Also, Oikawa – you haven’t answered my texts, which usually means you’re either playing volleyball, or busy making sappy eyes at Iwaizumi.” Tooru makes a protesting sound against his toothbrush but looks pleased as he leans his whole weight against Hajime. Next to him, Hajime pulls a face.

“Don’t look so appalled, Iwaizumi,” Mattusn laughs. “Being called disgustingly domestic is a compliment.”

“I’m not appalled.“ Hajime tries to school the scowl on his face. He makes only a feeble attempt to push Tooru off him, before taking the phone back so Tooru can keep brushing his teeth. “I just didn’t know that old high school friends would be making educated guesses about my life based on some silly little social media post, that’s all.”

“Oh Iwaizumi,” Mattsun shakes his head. “Seriously Oikawa? You’re not going to educate your boyfriend?” Tooru shrugs, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like I tried. “The silly little post you’re referring to has gotten 13k likes since the time Oikawa shared it on his official Twitter account this afternoon.”

“Serious?” Hajime splutters, making Maki and Mattsun burst into laughter. “Really?” He glances to Tooru, who nods apologetically and leans down to spit out his toothpaste. “What?”

“It’s not actually that bad.” Tooru says soothingly as he straightens back up. He wraps his arms around Hajime’s shoulders. “I don’t think it was actually that obvious that we were visiting each other from the post. Our friends just know us well. Right guys?”

The demand for confirmation in Tooru’s voice isn’t subtle. Hajime knows Tooru is trying to make him feel better, and the realisation makes him smile reluctantly.

“Oh yeah.” Maki answers helpfully. “I don’t think any stranger would have picked that up through that post at all.”

“To anyone who even vaguely knows the two of you though? So obvious.” Mattsun chooses chaos instead. He grins, a mixture of honesty and mischief beneath his sleepy eyebrows. “Did you know that my sister asked me if you two were together when she saw the tweet?”

“Why, are you jealous?” Tooru snorts, making Maki laugh while Mattsun pretend gags. Not knowing how to react to this revelation, Hajime just rolls his eyes.

Somewhat discreetly, hidden from camera view, Tooru rubs a hand soothingly across the small of Hajime’s back.

***

Right before they go to sleep, Mattsun texts Hajime a screenshot taken off Twitter.

It is the tweet Tooru had shared earlier about running into Hajime’s neighbour:

@TooruOikawaaa:
Always great to meet a fan, and right before the Olympics too! ^.^

@TherealMiyaAtsumu
Replying to @TooruOikawaaa:
Um hello, how dare you not acknowledge the fact that you also just met the GREATEST ATHLETIC TRAINER, Team Japan's Iwaizumi Hajime????

“Oh my god, Miya Atsumu you menace.” Hajime mutters, burying his head in his hand.

In the chat, Mattsun observes to him: Btw LOTS of people have replied agreeing with Atsumu, defending you and flaming Oikawa LOL. Scowling, Hajime clicks on his google chrome app, ready to open up Tooru’s twitter for a check.

In his arms, Tooru stirs from his sleep and lifts his head, like as if his Iwaizumi-Hajime-annoyance-radar has just gone off. He murmurs: “Mmm? Hajime? Wha’s wrong?”

“Ah nothing, just my teammates being stupid.” Hajime sighs. He kisses Tooru on the forehead, putting his phone down. Tooru is still clearly very jetlagged, and it isn’t worth taking up his sleep time with issues like this. “C’mon, let’s sleep, babe. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Tooru mumbles softly. He leans his head back down on Hajime’s chest. G’night, ‘Jime.”

It doesn’t take long until Tooru is snoring lightly in Hajime’s arms again. Hajime allows himself to lie awake for a while, watching Tooru’s back rise and fall steadily as he thinks about the tweet. About tomorrow.

In his sleep, under the hazy silver moonlight, Tooru looks younger. Lighter. Peaceful.

It’ll be fine, Hajime reassures himself. He presses his lips gently against the top of Tooru’s head and lies back, closing his eyes. We’ll be all fine.   

***

Having seen Tooru over the weekend is both a blessing and a curse.

Back at work on Monday morning, wherever Hajime looks, it is all just Tooru, Tooru and Tooru.

He thinks of Tooru, soft and sun-kissed when Kuroo, his Olympic village roomie, cheerily asks him how his weekend was; wonders if Tooru’s athletic trainer had received his newest records, as he files the team’s paperwork with the Olympic committee; daydreams, stupidly, midway through the couch’s morning meeting with the athletic support team, about how Tooru’s lips had felt against his when they had kissed in the apartment for the last time before parting ways under the barely-present lights of dawn.

The thing that finally gets him is his first aid kit. When he lifts open the white plastic cover for his morning check before the athletes arrive, he realises with a jolt that Tooru had neatly re-organised his bandages and tapes just the way he likes them, without even mentioning it to him. He closes the kit again and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, his heart thudding against his chest.

It’s a dangerous thing, being a health professional distracted on the job.

But who knew it would be possible to already miss someone you just saw an hour ago so much that your chest aches?

He almost texts Tooru.

Almost.

But then thinks of how if he is distracted, Tooru will almost certainly be too. And being a distracted Olympic athlete is maybe even worse than being a distracted athletic trainer.

He opts instead to bury his phone in his pocket, taking a deep breath and chasing away all (well, most) thoughts of Tooru, telling himself at least concentrate until after the Japanese team’s first game is over.

Even when he catches sight of Miya Atsumu entering the stadium for their first morning practice session, he files the conversation he needs to have with Atsumu away as a to-do for later.

***

The Japanese team takes an easy win in their first match against Ireland.

Hajime watches his team like a hawk, swapping out players based on physical states, wrapping up minor scratches as quickly as he can. When Kiryu lands awkwardly on an ankle, Hajime pulls him out for the set, even though Kiryu had been the top scorer in that rotation. It is a risky move – but it plays off when Kiryu’s ankle doesn’t escalate any further into any further injuries and he can send him back to swoop a victory in the final set.

His gamble as it turns out, doesn’t go unnoticed. After the match, when he stands around carefully watching over the players’ interviews with news reporters, he is startled when a journalist points a microphone to him instead.

“Iwaizumi-san!” The journalist is a young lady, with eager eyes. Next to her, a man turns a large camera onto Hajime, its lens a gaping blackhole staring into Hajime’s soul. “It’s nice to meet Team Japan’s athletic trainer! It was an interesting decision to pull Kiryu out of the first set. What went into your decision making there?"

"Um - it was ah …” Caught on unawares, Hajime glances around for a while. The journalists don’t normally interview any of any non-players beyond the coach and there are still plenty of players around so why is this journalist talking to him? “Well, as an athletic trainer, I always think it’s better to be safe than sorry for things like that. The long-term impacts of an injury are just not worth the short-term gain.”

“I see!” The journalist nods. “And what would you say is the importance of athletic trainers?”

“We ensure that the players’ physical and mental health are taken care of.” Hajime answers awkwardly, half-distracted. He glances aside and catches Kuroo’s eye for a moment, the only fellow support staff around. Kuroo stares back, amused, and makes no attempt to save Hajime from his demise, which is why Hajime has to continue as the journalist nods eagerly at him: “You make sure they are in good shape to be able to play in a healthy, sustainable manner.”

To his bewilderment, another two news reporters have crowded round as well. They ask him about training and playing strategies which Hajime fumbles through unprepared explanations for, while his brain whirls into overdrive trying to understand why he was suddenly getting such media attention.

That is when one of the news reporters asks, making Hajime’s heart leap into his throat:

“What do you think of Argentina’s setter, Oikawa Tooru-san’s latest tweet? Do you agree that he was being disrespectful to athletic trainers?”

Hajime stares at the news reporters in front of him, mouth agape like a dumbfounded fish. In some distance, a camera goes off with a flash.

“What tweet?”

***

“You didn’t know?” Kuroo wheezes, bent over like as if it is the funniest thing in the world.

“No – what is this that I’m meant to know?” Hajime says incredulously. He slams shut his locker, turning around to glare at his team. His players look back with a mixture of emotions – fear (Aran hastily sneaking away), curiosity (Sakusa, discreetly hovering around the corner), naive excitement (Atsumu, Yaku and Bokuto, who are grinning at him with a suspicious amount of anticipation and ecstasy).

Kuroo, smirking with amusement, passes Hajime his phone, with a Twitter page open:

@TooruOikawaaa:
Always great to meet a fan, and right before the Olympics too! ^.^

@TheRealMiyaAtsumu
Replying to @TooruOikawaaa:
Um hello, how dare you not acknowledge the fact that you also just met the GREATEST ATHLETIC TRAINER, Team Japan's Iwaizumi Hajime????

@BokutoKoutarou_heyheyhey!
Replying to @TooruOikawaaa:
YEAH HOW DARE YOU!!! Iwaizumi is the best!! Team Japan for the win!

@TheOnly_YakuMorisuke
Replying to @TooruOikawaaa:
Honestly, Iwaizumi is the best athletic trainer with such knowledge on how to train and build muscle. It’s disappointing you’re not even acknowledging him here.

Suddenly, all the journalist attention Hajime received makes sense.

Atsumu, Bokuto and Yaku’s replies, written in Japanese, have each garnered over 7k likes each. Underneath, a seemingly endless thread of replies from strangers ranges from “Agreed, so rude he didn’t acknowledge the Japanese athletic trainer” to “does he think he’s too good for the support staff?? Athletes are always so arrogant and ungrateful” to “That is exactly what I expect from a deserter of his own nation – absolutely no respect!”

When Hajime looks up again, Atsumu, Bokuto and Yaku are looking at him eager puppy-dog eyes, like kindergarteners who have just presented their parents a handmade card.

Ignoring the oncoming headache forming in the back of his head, Hajime turns a stern glare up on each of them.

“What on earth possessed the three of you to do this?”

Bokuto and Yaku’s smiles fall.

Atsumu, however, bravely bursts out:

“Yer can’t tell us that we were wrong to stand up for ya!” He jabs an accusing finger at Hajime. “We were defending yer!”

“Did I ask to be defended?” Hajime keeps his tone serious and calm, even if he is internally imploding with exasperation. He turns a disappointed look onto Atsumu. “You picked a public fight with another Olympic player, and over such a petty reason. I expected better behaviour from you – yes, all three of you.” He adds, glaring over at Bokuto, who has deflated, and Yaku, who is now pouting.  

Atsumu huffs. “It’s not a petty reason. You’re too polite about these things, Iwaizumi. Oikawa Tooru was looking down on you!”

“I think you’ve got it wrong, Atsumu.” Ushijima’s deep voice unexpectedly joins in from behind them. Holding a duffel bag over his shoulder, Ushijima adds matter-of-factly, like declaring one plus one is two: “Oikawa would never look down on Iwaizumi.”

Hajime can feel a flush rising up his face, and bites his tongue, willing himself to not show how embarrassed he currently feels.

“What? How can you be so sure?” Atsumu looks suspiciously between Ushijima and Hajime. He holds out Kuroo’s phone. “Read this tweet– don’t you think it’s disrespectful?”

“Oikawa can be disrespectful at times.” Ushijima agrees. He doesn’t even bother looking at the phone. “And I have seen him disrespect Iwaizumi, yes. But still, he refused to join a better team just so that he could…”

“Okay, thank you Ushijima, but I think that’s about enough.” Hajime interrupts hastily, before Ushijima can tell the story Hajime suspects he is about to tell. He gives Ushijima a pat on the shoulder and a side glare, before turning back to Yaku, Atsumu and Bokuto.

“Look,” He crosses his arms, looking at them evenly, trying to ignore the fact that his heart has begun thudding in his chest. “I need all of you to understand that we do not go around picking twitter fights with opposing Olympic players.”

Yaku sulks, still defiant. “But what if it was a necessary circumstance? I mean, Ushijima just said he’s seen Oikawa be disrespectful to you!”

“Sure. Maybe.” Hajime sighs in defeat. In his head, he has run through all of the possible options and settled on the only one he can see get them out of this. He steels himself, before adding: “But that is only because Oikawa and I are actually friends.”

Atsumu splutters aloud, Yaku’s jaws fall open, Kuroo’s eyes widen and Bokuto erupts into a giant WHAT? Around the corner, Sakusa and Aran stare, no longer able to pretend they are not eavesdropping.  

Ushijima, that bastard, just nods in agreement.

***

Sofia calls him the minute he texts.

“Thank god you read Japanese, Iwaizumi, I knew those tweets were blowing up but couldn’t understand anything happening whatsoever,” Sofia groans, speaking in English over the phone. Hajime ducks out from the court, glancing around for a quiet spot to talk that isn’t occupied by a member of the Japanese volleyball team. “And thanks for offering to reply to the tweet too – I think you’re right, that’s the best way to solve the issue.”

“Yeah, you can kinda coach me on what to write.” Hajime settles for a spot on a side bench, a good distance from where his team is practising. It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s ever called Sofia without Tooru present as he replies in a rusty mix of Spanish and English, but any awkwardness is overshadowed by the urgency of the whole situation. “Also I’m really sorry – my team mates mean well, but can be real idiots.”

“It’s okay, it’s not really your fault.” Sofia laughs. “It is kind of sweet they are trying to defend you. And if anything, it’s probably my fault.” She adds with a sigh. “I told Tooru he should at least mention you in the tweet, but,” Hajime catches just the slightest hint of frustration in Sofia’s voice, “Tooru insisted that we keep your name off the tweet, even though I told him that this might happen…”

“And he didn’t listen to you?” The revelation is bizarre to Hajime. Tooru adored Sofia and was always going on about how great she was. As much as Tooru can be stubborn, Tooru isn’t one to just dismiss the advice of another professional.

“No, he didn’t listen.” The floodgates of frustration broke and Sofia sighs, her tone half-exasperated. “I mean – you know how stubborn Tooru can be. And it’s fine, it’s kind of sweet, I think he really only does it because of you… but, only he had taken my advice …”

Sofia changes the topic so quickly that Hajime almost misses it.

“Sofia.” He interrupts. “What did you just say? What does Tooru do only because of me?”

“I – “ Even over the phone call, Hajime can tell that Sofia has suddenly grown flustered. “Uh well… um…that’s ah…”

“That’s okay,” Hajime adds in quickly, “I don’t want to put you in a difficult spot, I can always just ask Too… my boyfriend myself.” He lowers his voice, changing to Spanish as he spots Aran walking around the corner.

“You – well - no it’s okay.“ Sofia sighs. She takes a deep breath, rubbing the top of her head sheepishly like as if thinking something through, before deciding: “Crap, I don’t think Tooru wanted me to tell you this explicitly, but I think it would be good to make sure both of you decide on a way ahead together…”

The line goes quiet for a moment.  And then Sofia says:

“I get the feeling that Tooru really wants to be public about your relationship.”

Hajime's breath hitches sharply.

Sofia’s words continue to tumble through, like a confession. “And all I mean he’s never told me that specifically, but from the conversations I have with him… all I was about to say is that I think the only reason he keeps your relationship a secret, is well, because of you.”

“Ah.” Is all Hajime has to say as he stares up through the windows in the stadium.

They are both quiet for a while.

And then, Sofia asks, softly: “Hajime. Do you want to keep your relationship a secret?”

Somewhere nearby, blissfully unaware, Oikawa Tooru is serving the winning point for Argentina’s first set against India.

Notes:

Ayee things are a-brewing! Do you think Iwa's really that surprised to hear that from Sofia though? I think, deep inside, he kinda knew.

I also think it's really amusing that Atsumu thinks he's done Iwa such a favour, defending him against his own boyfriend, and Iwa internally is just like so done, and being all oh god, why is this happening.

Next chapter should be a Tooru pov (or an alternating one)!

Let me know what you think! :)

Chapter 4: Snow

Summary:

By the time Iwaizumi had finally ended the online feud by tweeting: "Guys, it’s fine, I was the one who told Oikawa not to mention me because I don’t really use Twitter. Plus we actually know each other as high school friends", Kuroo had seen enough to know:

Iwaizumi’s tweet was destined to go viral.

Notes:

Hello, it’s been a while, I hope you’re all well!

This is possibly my favourite or second favourite chapter I’ve written thus far, but is also the heaviest.

Trigger warnings for: homophobia, racism, anxiety attacks, violence. Note that the heaviest stuff happens after the end of Kuroo's POV.

Otherwise, hope you enjoy! :)

“Hajime. Do you want to keep our relationship a secret?”

There had been snow, so much snow, anything beyond the yellow beams of their low headlights obscured in a flurry of grey. Tooru remembers thinking but not saying aloud that Hajime looked slightly underdressed in his cream collared shirt and maroon woollen sweater, a pink tinge of cold on the edge of his nose.

It had been early days – back when Tooru’s Spanish was still an atrocity, Hajime’s days scattered with college entrance exams; back when the two of them still figuring out how to go from best friends to boyfriends.

They had been sitting in Hajime’s crappy second-hand Toyota Corolla parked on the side of the road two streets away from their houses. The old radiator rattled from the effort of keeping up the heating. Outside, the car windows shuddered under the howl of the winter wind; inside, a soft stream of Japanese bumbled from the half-muted radio. Against it, the left indicator Hajime had pulled ten minutes ago ticked on steadily.

“I mean…I think my mum can guess as much, but my dad… you know how he’s like, Iwa-chan…”

Hajime switched the radio off carefully. Intentionally.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, onward the left indicator went.

They both gazed out into the mesmerising, blinding, confronting swirl of grey and white snow for a moment, silent, Hajime with one arm rested on the steering wheel, Tooru motionless against the passenger window. Finally, Hajime said:

“I don’t think keeping secrets will do any good for your family.” Tooru’s chest tightened, recognising the truth of the words, the logical conclusion that followed. Hajime continued steadily, like as if speaking for him:

“Let’s tell them, Tooru. Let’s tell your family”

“Okay.” Tooru’s hand clenched into a fist. He ran his other hand through his hair. “Okay. But Hajime, you have to be careful alright, my mum and sister will probably be fine, but my dad…”

Hajime’s warm hand closed over his.

When Tooru turned around, Hajime’s olive eyes were steadfast, affixed with determination. It hit Tooru in such a rush that this was the man he had grown to love and find comfort in, that the thousand racing thoughts in his mind halted unexpectedly, stunned by the momentousness of the dizzying realisation.

Hajime leaned in, eyes closed, pulling his head forward to rest his forehead against Tooru’s, and that was when Tooru let himself drop into short gasps, Hajime’s right hand tightening on his shoulder, left firmly holding onto Tooru’s, before Tooru closed his eyes too to steady himself, remembering to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, until the knot in his chest eased into something looser, something more manageable.

“Tooru.” Hajime’s breath grazed softly against his nose. “We’ve got this.”

Tooru tightened his hold on Hajime’s hand. Hajime tightened his hand back.

They sat for a little longer until Tooru, breathing easier, sat back and gave Hajime a small but resolute nod. Pulling the car out of parking, Hajime drove them forward into the snowstorm, neither of them with any clue of what lay ahead.

***

“Oikawa Tooru, can you tell us a little about your friendship with Team Japan’s Iwaizumi Hajime?”

Next to Lucas, Tooru freezes. Cameras click and microphones cave in.

“What?” Tooru’s laugh sounds genuinely shocked, with a hint of trepidation.

Lucas turns to him, surprised.

After all, in his fifteen years of professional volleyball, Lucas has yet to meet anyone better able to handle every type of trashy, nosy, good for nothing interview question than Mr Oikawa Tooru.  

Perhaps it was born from necessity - being a Japanese playing in the Argentinian leagues can’t be easy. In the years Lucas has played alongside Tooru in CA San Juan, he has seen perfectly nice journalists suddenly demand nationalistic reassurances about Tooru’s loyalties and sprout ugly jokes built on racial stereotypes.

Tooru’s choice of weapon has always been to laugh at it.

“Two beers for me if someone makes a Chinese joke today.” Tooru would flash them a wicked grin as they were getting mic-ed up for a press conference. Paulo, their libero, would clasp Tooru’s hand in solemn agreement, replying: “Two beers for me if you get asked again if you’re dating Maria Sando from the women’s team, or just gay.”

And maybe, Lucas thinks, it is the only way you can really take it: by laughing at it. Because if you play into their hands, get all affected, all you’re doing is giving them ammo.

It is why he has learnt to cheer along when Tooru corrects jokes made to him about being the Argentinian Yao Ming to the Argentinian Ken Watanabe; to nod eagerly whenever Tooru smoothly redirects a conversation about him being an emotionally-constipated, whale-eating Japanese to instead a story about his most volleyball play. To laugh, at the very least laugh whenever Tooru gets asked if he prefers his women Japanese or Argentinian, or god forbid, if he just doesn’t prefer women at all.

That one, Lucas has noticed, is the one that always hits Tooru’s nerve the most. It showed in the sharp pull of his brows, the curl of his bottom lip. The hint of warning that would flash in his eyes.

“That question is misogynistic, sexist, homophobic and racist all at once.” Tooru snorted whenever they came backstage after a question like that. “Imagine how many people I could insult in a go if I actually answered that seriously.”

When someone is as charismatic, confident and self-assured as Oikawa Tooru is, you come to expect them to be always be that way.

Which is why Lucas is even more taken aback when Tooru fumbles with a question after their first game at the Olympics, that doesn’t seem very misogynistic, sexist, homophobic or racist at all:

“Oikawa Tooru!” The journalist is trying her question again. “Mr. Iwaizumi has tweeted to explain that because the two of you are in fact friends, you were not being rude when you excluded him from a previous tweet. Can you tell us more about this surprising friendship?”

“Oh.” Tooru’s laugh sounds bright and breezy, and it is only from years of sitting through media conferences together that Lucas realises that Tooru also sounds afraid. Cameras are trained on him from every angle, lights bright and microphones tall. There is a slight furrow in Tooru’s brows, the look he gets when he is thinking, strategizing. His hands under the table twist around a bottle cap with unexpected nervousness, but when he answers, he answers with confidence:

“Mr Iwaizumi Hajime is an old high school friend of mine. We used to play volleyball together. It was nice running into him over the weekend.” Tooru bows his head down to the Japanese journalist who had asked the question in English. “It will be my pleasure to meet him again over the Olympics.”

***

Lucas doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but even after the team is mostly done cleaning up after the press conference, Tooru is still on a phone call, huddled in a corner in the locker room and whispering in rapid Japanese. Hesitantly, Lucas approaches Tooru to check on him, which is how he accidentally overhears:

“Are you sure?” Tooru asks quietly into the phone. His brows are pulled in seriousness and he runs a hand through his still-wet post-game-shower hair. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

It is a phrase Lucas had learnt from the many weekends they had spent watching Paulo agonise over picking a lady friend to ask out at their local bar back in San Juan. Tooru would tease Paulo in sneaky Japanese: Are you sure? Final choice? and while the likelihood of any lady friends overhearing and understanding Japanese were close to zero, Paulo would hiss for Tooru to shut up while Lucas chuckled with laughter. Lucas has a wife and son and enjoyed just being a spectator to the younger players’ antics. Tooru has vaguely mentioned having a long-distance partner and never participated in Paulo’s shenanigans, always preferring to just egg him on and on occasion, act as a semi-successful wingman.

In the Olympic locker rooms, Tooru notices Lucas and flashes him an apologetic smile. He continues in a flurry of Japanese Lucas doesn’t understand, before hastily hanging up and jumping to his feet.

“Thanks for waiting for me, Luc.” Tooru hastily bundles his bags together. He grins distractedly. “AT’s gonna kill me for running this late, isn’t he?”

“He has started to get shouty about it, yes.” Lucas chuckles. As they bustle out of the locker room together, he adds quietly: “Is everything okay? You seemed a bit spooked by that media question by that Japanese journalist earlier.”

“Oh.” Focus returns to Tooru’s gaze as he looks to and gives Lucas a lopsided smile. “No, no, all good, don’t worry about it.” Unconvinced, Lucas persists, deciding to try while still a safe hearing distance away from the team:

“Is … that Iwaizumi fella they asked about a friend of yours? You seemed really startled hearing his name earlier.”

“Hah, did I?” Tooru laughs, sounding a little embarrassed. Lucas doesn’t miss the flush climbs Tooru’s cheeks, the ghost of a smile that tugs on Tooru’s lips. In a bizarre contradiction, Tooru’s gaze clouds, his jaw tensing and shoulders squaring.

Noticing Lucas’s concerned look, Tooru rolls his shoulders back once, like as if forcing himself to relax, and then flashes a more convincing grin as he says:

“Yeah, Hajime’s an old friend, Luc. Just an old friend.” And somehow, Tooru’s response sounds like an earnest answer and something amiss all at the same time.

***

The night of the snowstorm had been Tooru’s first trip home since moving overseas.

Once his eyes adjusted to the light in the house, every tiny change seemed to leap out at him. The beige shoe rack on the right, the fresh chrysanthemums by the living room. The look of uncharacteristic reservation Takeru sent him, when he poked his head out from the stairway.

Still, some things never changed: the way his voice echoed off the walls when he yelled: “Mum, Dad, I’m home! Iwa-chan’s here too!”; the way Hajime neatly tucked his shoes by the coat rack, left first then right; the way his mother skidded out from the kitchen, her laugh as bright as the sun, the corridor filling with the smell of home-cooked curry, and suddenly, Tooru was home, really home, laughing and bundling into his mother’s arms, Hajime watching on fondly.

“Tooru, you’ve gotten so much bigger! Don’t you think, Hajime-kun? Look at your shoulders! You’ve grown taller too!”

“I told you, Okaa-san, it’s the Argentinian sun.” Hajime teased, making Tooru’s mother laugh and Tooru’s heart backflip in his chest, because this was the first time he would be introducing Hajime to his mother as his boyfriend (my boyfriend, mum! Hajime’s my boyfriend!) and it could go terribly, oh so terribly, but it could also go fantastically, because how wonderful it could be - it must be to have a boyfriend that his mother already sees as a second son.

Tooru watched, amused, as Takeru shuffled up to Hajime to whisper something in his ear, before, without sparing Tooru so much as a side glance, dashing back upstairs.

“He’s actually really excited to have you back, Tooru.” Hajime whispered as they watched Takeru’s feet disappear up the stairs. “I think he’s just shy because you’ve been away for so long.”

“Yeah, Takeru-kun’s really missed you.” Tooru’s mother agreed. “You should see the way he took after Hajime-kun in your absence – and oh, have you heard about Takeru’s recent game? It was last Sunday and he did so well, he…”

With his mother chattering on, Tooru followed Hajime and his mother into the kitchen, gazing at the new pans on the walls, the sauce bottles that have re-arranged, the wall tiles that have turned cracked and crooked. Even Hajime and his mother’s interactions had changed: they now chatted with more ease and less formalities, and Hajime moved with a familiarity around the kitchen, pouring Tooru a mug of water and opening the cupboards to begin setting the bowls out for dinner without Tooru’s mother asking him to.

It struck Tooru then that maybe Takeru wasn’t the only one who had dealt with his absence by growing closer with those in the vicinity of Tooru’s life.

“Mum, did you just replace me with Hajime while I was gone?” Tooru grumbled, pretending to pout. To his delight, Hajime’s ears turned red as his mother ruffled his hair fondly, laughing: “Well, how could you blame me, Tooru - Hajime-kun is so much better a kitchen hand than you are – look at the way he serves the bowls!”

When his mother busied away to tend to her curry stew, granting them a moment alone in the kitchen, Tooru pulled Hajime in close by the shoulders. He pressed a kiss into Hajime’s cheek in thanks for all Hajime had done while Tooru had been away and smiled as he watched Hajime properly turn red on his cheeks this time.

“Thank you, Hajime,” Tooru whispered. For putting in place the building blocks, He realised with a dash of gratitude and hope, of the family we could be.

***

“Well you’re right, Kuroo. It isn’t easy convincing Iwaizumi to do things. But that’s only because he does everything he agrees to properly and thoroughly.”

“Hmm.” Kuroo responds thoughtfully. He and Bokuto stand by the edge of the stadium, watching volleyballs begin to fly across the court. It is day two of the Olympics and the team has a full day of practice building up to their second match in a couple days.

Kuroo watches as Bokuto crouches into a stretch, eyes glimmering in anticipation of the upcoming practice. “So what you’re saying is that even if it is difficult to convince Iwaizumi to do things, that difficulty pays off in the long run?”

“Yeah!” Bokuto nods enthusiastically. He leaps up to his feet and adds thoughtfully: “He’s kind of like the opposite of me. I get convinced to do anything very quickly, but if I don’t think the thing’s fun after all, I won’t follow through at all. Iwaizumi though…”

They both involuntarily turn to look at where Iwaizumi is talking to Kiryu, his face gentle and reassuring against Kiryu’s nervous nodding. “…It might take you a hundred tries to convince Iwaizumi to do something, but once he says yes, even if the one thing is as un-fun as running a thousand laps around a stadium, he’ll follow through and do a proper job of it. Because he only says yes to things he really believes in.”

“That is actually… really insightful.” Despite his happy-go-lucky exterior, Bokuto does have his moments of insight, Kuroo thinks. “So you think it’s worth pitching the idea to him?”

“Oh definitely.” Bokuto brightens. “I would love to see an interview between him and Oikawa Tooru!”

***

The thing is, Kuroo is torn between two considerations.

The first: Iwaizumi has, seemingly by complete accident, exploded into Internet fame-dom.

Despite not partaking in the Oikawa Tooru-Japanese Volleyball Team Twitter shenanigans, Kuroo had watched on with curious interest.

His job is after all, to promote volleyball. And what better way to do so than through volleyball Olympians throwing a Twitter fiesta? By the time Iwaizumi had finally ended the online feud by tweeting: Guys, it’s fine, I was the one who told Oikawa not to mention me because I don’t really use Twitter. Plus we actually know each other as high school friends, Kuroo had seen enough to know:

Iwaizumi’s tweet was destined to go viral.

Oikawa Tooru and Bokuto are fairly well-known players; then add on Atsumu and Yaku’s sizeable fanbases, and violà, it doesn’t matter that no one had ever heard of Iwaizumi Hajime before, everyone definitely knows of him now. Iwaizumi’s Twitter following skyrocketed from a measly 2 to the eight thousands within a day (and that man’s only ever made one tweet, Kuroo thinks incredulously. ONE tweet!); and a dozen news columns and internet articles have since been published, detailing what little information could be scrapped from Iwaizumi’s spotty online presence (his LinkedIn, Team Japan’s website, his published master’s thesis).

Then there is, of course, the main focus of the public’s curiosity: Iwaizumi’s connection to Oikawa Tooru.

The theories floating about are aplenty, none of which were hard to find. Twitter threads, Reddit forums and blog posts cite impressive bibliographies for their findings, all of which reached the same conclusion: Oikawa and Iwaizumi weren’t just any old high school friends the way they both seemed to downplay in interviews; they were former captain and vice-captain of the Aoba Johsai volleyball team.

The word spread around Team Japan like wildfire.

Atsumu shares his findings in dramatic whispers in the morning warm-up. Gao discretely shares a blog post around claiming to give a complete timeline of Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s friendship dating back to middle school. By lunch time, Bokuto is gasping what everyone is thinking: Captain and vice captain! That’s months upon months of training, bonding and trusting!

And it is true, Kuroo can’t deny it, a year of captaincy and vice-captaincy forges a special kind of bond, a sense of understanding like none other. You weren’t just teammates or friends, you were comrades who have crawled through the depths of trenches together. A quick google search for Aoba Johsai Volleyball team brings up photos of a longer-fringed, lankier, grinning Oikawa Tooru. And in almost every shot featuring Oikawa Tooru is Iwaizumi Hajime: smaller, spikier-haired, usually frowning and always by Oikawa Tooru’s side.

The thing is, Kuroo isn’t sure Iwaizumi Hajime had realised that he would become internet famous.

Because Kuroo’s second consideration is this: Iwaizumi Hajime is a startlingly private individual.

Perhaps it is an occupational necessity: being reserved enough to maintain respect from the athletes he trains. More likely, Kuroo suspects, it is just Iwaizumi’s personality. The man has a good sense of how to care for others, how to push great athletes into star athletes. But given a choice between joining the spotlight and taking a backseat, Iwaizumi will always prefer to stay in the backdrop.

This careful reservation is reflected in the way Iwaizumi maintains his privacy. He isn’t shy like Kenma, nor naturally quiet like Ushijima. On the rare occasion that he does share his thoughts, he is an engaging storyteller, knowing exactly when to pause for suspense, grinning knowingly after delivering a perfect punchline. It is not as though he has a lack of interesting life experiences either - no, Iwaizumi Hajime just prefers to let others take the spotlight, enhancing conversations instead through witty remarks or deadpan jokes. Kuroo doesn’t always know how Iwaizumi is feeling at any given point in time; but Iwaizumi is always the first to ask people if they are alright; the first to sit with someone at their lowest; the first to share in joy at their highest.

As what Kuroo suspects is an intentional result on Iwaizumi’s part, no one really knows much about Iwaizumi’s private or dating life. Most of the team assumes that he is single simply because he has never mentioned having a partner. Atsumu however, swears that he once spotted Iwaizumi walking into work on Valentine’s holding a bouquet of flowers. This unfortunately, was immediately debunked the next day by Aran who announced, with photographic evidence, that he had run into Iwaizumi on that exact same Valentine’s evening, eating chilli chicken wings and watching a volleyball game at a sports bar alone. Very much single-man, no-girlfriend behaviour.

(“Maybe he was waiting for his date!” Atsumu had wailed, devastated at his loss of credibility.

“Yeah yeah, I’d love to know where I could find a girlfriend who would voluntarily spend Valentine’s watching volleyball at a South American sports bar.” Aran snorted.)

The thing is (and Kuroo knows Iwaizumi would hate hearing this), the mysterious aura Iwaizumi has built for himself is a plus point to his potential for internet fame.

A nice guy who is open about his personal life (like Bokuto) gives a great family-friendly vibe; whereas a sometimes-(accidentally)-controversial bad boy vibe (like Atsumu) is a hit with teens and young adult fans. Put the best of both worlds together, and you have Iwaizumi: beefy, scowl-y and mysterious enough to garner bad boy vibes; but on closer inspection, just a really nice guy with a heart of gold and a tireless work ethic.

Kuroo knows this combination formula works.

Because in many ways, Oikawa Tooru’s fame hinges on a similar formula.

Sure, they are not exactly the same. Oikawa has more controversies than Iwaizumi does. He has a reputation of being too flirty or making overtly sharp remarks in interviews. He is also less private than Iwaizumi is, if his random selfies and tweets about milk bread are anything to go by. Still, he is good with kids, works extremely hard, has a fascinating backstory that makes him easy to root for, and down to it, has bucketloads of charisma which Kuroo suspects is the reason he gets accused of being too accidentally flirty.

Oikawa Tooru also, has a complete mystery of a dating life.

There is always a new rumour on the streets about who he is seeing. Maria Sando from the Argentinian women’s volleyball team is the new suspect, but before her was a famous Latino soap opera actress, an American model, a Japanese volleyball player and an Indonesian football player. Oikawa has never affirmed or denied any of the rumours, always just cheerily waving them off or changing the topic. Which in some ways, makes him even more appealing than a family man who everyone already has figured out.

So sure, Iwaizumi and Oikawa have different dials tuned for the same formula. But in a way Kuroo can’t quite explain, he has a feeling that these differences are complementary rather than conflicting. Iwaizumi is sincere and trustworthy where Oikawa isn’t. Oikawa is dashing and charming in a way Iwaizumi isn’t.

Together, they are a winning combination for social media fame in the making.

Upon deciding the pros outweigh the cons, Kuroo starts putting in place his plan.

Step one, is selling the idea to one notoriously stubborn Iwaizumi Hajime.

***

Kuroo selects Bokuto Koutarou as his first sacrificial pawn.

“So, Iwaizumi…” Bokuto says solemnly as he sits down for lunch on the third day of the Olympics. Opposite Kuroo, Iwaizumi looks up from his katsu with a raised brow. “… let’s talk about Oikawa Tooru.”

If Iwaizumi is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He takes another mouthful of rice and looks back up at Bokuto, chewing expectantly. The team had spent a good part of the morning whispering and discussing the gossip about Iwaizumi’s connection with Oikawa. Iwaizumi, beyond the occasional glare when the gossiping interrupted training, had mostly pretended not to notice. With an inquisitive Bokuto in his face, however, he can’t quite ignore the question anymore.

“What about him?” Iwaizumi asks evenly, when Bokuto doesn’t continue his sentence.

“Tell us more about Oikawa Tooru!” Bokuto bursts eagerly. “How’s he like as a friend? How was he as a volleyball team captain? Was he taller than me in high school? Is he a good setter? What is his favourite food?”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth but Atsumu kills any chance of a response by interrupting with a groan: “Duuuuude, that’s way too many questions in one go. I don’t think even I could answer all that and I’ve been dealing with you since MSBY days.”

So okay, maybe Kuroo could have chosen a more tactful person for his first move. He ropes Atsumu into his plan, since the setter had already witnessed and could learn from the failed first attempt.

Atsumu tries his attack at the end of training on the third day. “So Zumi-Zumi,” He cheerily lopes an arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Iwaizumi takes on a long-suffering look and doesn’t even bother glancing up from his clipboard. “Who do you think is the more superior setter? Oikawa Tooru or myself?”

Disaster. Absolute code red disaster. Kuroo, caught in the crossfire, ends up standing through fifteen minutes of yelling from Iwaizumi in what must have been the scariest yet strangely lifting lecture about self-assurance he’s ever witnessed: Miya, what did I just say last week about not comparing yourself to others? Improvement and self-confidence comes from within, not from external validation!

“I see why you’re all so afraid of Iwaizumi now,” Kuroo admits to Atsumu when they finally stumble away, both shaken but oddly motivated.

Kuroo keeps this lesson in mind when he switches tactics to next approach Kageyama. He vaguely remembers Kageyama having a starry-eyed awe, rather than just raw fear, for Iwaizumi. Which is why he asks:

“Say, Kageyama, you’ve known Iwaizumi since middle school, haven’t you? What would you say is the best way to convince him to do something without getting yelled at? Something good that is. Not, like, crime or anything.” Kuroo adds hastily when Kageyama gives him an understandably confused look.

Kageyama’s brow furrows in seriousness.

Slightly too late, Kuroo remembers that perhaps Kageyama isn’t the best person to ask on advice for people interactions. Surprisingly though, his answer is strangely helpful:

“Iwaizumi-san doesn’t seriously yell at people unless they actually deserve it.” Kageyama says. “I think he also only yells because he cares.” Kageyama looks at Kuroo like as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “The best way to get him to do something is to just explain why you think doing that thing is a good idea.”

And well, Kuroo will be damned if he gets better advice from anyone more surprising than Kageyama Tobio, king of awkward conversations. Which is why he stops trying to move his chess pieces and instead, retreats to think carefully about how to checkmate. He does have a sneaky rook hidden in his corner: which is that he is roommates with Iwaizumi in the Olympic village. Nothing spells sincerity more than a heart-to-heart conversation in a (albeit forced) sleepover right?

When Kuroo gets back to his room at ten at night, Iwaizumi is already lying on his bed, his gaze sleepy but pulled in concentration as he ponders something on his laptop, earphones plugged into his phone. When Kuroo sets his bag down by his bed, he catches a glance of Iwaizumi’s laptop screen and recognises the familiar layout of an athletic training plan. Guiltily, he remembers how busy Iwaizumi must be looking after the team, and thinks, with a start, of how tiring it must be also deal with all the unwanted media attention on the side from the Twitter fiasco.

“Hey Kuroo.” Kuroo startles slightly when Iwaizumi pulls out an earphone to look over at him. Up close, Iwaizumi does look tired, more tired than Kuroo remembers him being at the start of the Olympics. Still, he gives Kuroo a sincere smile as he says:

“You know if you want to talk to me about anything, you can always come to me directly right?”

Kuroo laughs. He rubs his head sheepishly, caught. “I suppose I wasn’t being as sneaky as I thought I was being going through Bokuto and Atsumu huh.”

“No.” Iwaizumi returns a laugh. He sits upright and stretches his arms upward with a yawn. “Kageyama also isn’t exactly the most discrete person in the world.”

“Oh crap.” Kuroo chuckles, properly and fully laid bare.

“Oh crap.” Iwaizumi agrees. He looks at Kuroo, amused. “So, what’s up? What do you want to talk to me about that you’ve been trying to skate around with everyone else?”

Kuroo studies Iwaizumi and for the first time since he’s had the idea, properly sees him as a fellow support staff, a fellow colleague, a fellow friend who he’s worked alongside tirelessly for the past few months. As support staff, they both have the same goal after all: they only want what is best for the team. With this revelation, Kuroo drops his schemes as he admits:

“Look, I think I skated around a little because I feel bad asking this from you. I think… no, I know, that this won’t be something you’ll enjoy doing.”

Iwaizumi frowns. He closes his laptop and raises a brow, prompting Kuroo to keep going.

“Despite that, I’m still asking,” Kuroo continues sincerely. “Because I’ve weighed out the pros and cons, and I think doing this would sincerely benefit the team, and really, really help promote volleyball locally and internationally.” He finally takes the lunge:

“Iwaizumi, I think it would be really cool if you could do an interview session with Oikawa Tooru for the Volleyball Association’s YouTube channel.”

Iwaizumi stares at him. Slowly, he takes off his earphones, wraps them around his left hand and looks aside to pause the music on his phone. When he looks back at Kuroo, there is a new crease in his brow, but his voice is calm as he says:

“Well, you’re right, I don’t think I’ll enjoy doing that. But I think it’s only fair I let you explain what you mean by that.”

“Sure, of course.” Kuroo gasps, recognising his chance to give his pitch. He quickly sinks down into a seat on the edge of his bed to face Iwaizumi properly. Iwaizumi rubs a knuckle against his eyes like as if to will himself awake, before turning his full attention in a serious gaze over at Kuroo.

“See, I’ve always had this idea to make this Youtube video series called Volleyball Beyond Borders.” Kuroo begins eagerly. “Because it’s true – volleyball players end up playing across all these different countries and closing the differences between us. But I don’t feel like we have enough media highlighting the friendships and connections we make from playing the sport.”

“You and Oikawa are currently at the peak of social media attention, riding from the previous Twitter feud.” At this, Iwaizumi looks away, clearly uncomfortable, but Kuroo persists. “Social media attention is not easy to get, Iwaizumi, and it’s not a bad thing. Media attention does wonders for funding; and better funding does wonders for keeping sports alive, for getting people who would never otherwise discover a passion for sports into sports.”

“You will know too as well as I do that support roles like ours are crucial to make sports work. Do you know how rare it is to have social media attention on you as a support staff?” Kuroo urges. “We need kids to be inspired by stories like that too – not just by the celebrity aces and famous coaches of the world. My mind was blown when I first discovered that I could even make a living out of business and sports. That is why media is important.”

“The thing is, kickstarting a new online series isn’t easy.” Kuroo admits. “I don’t have many international connections yet, and the connections can only come in after we can prove that the series is worth making. The starting episode for Volleyball Beyond Borders needs to be strong, preferably with people I know who present well, and even better with at least someone who is already famous.” Kuroo looks up at Iwaizumi. “Oikawa Tooru is famous. Properly, concretely famous. On top of that, I’ve seen how both you and Oikawa present in front of a crowd, and both of you present fantastically. You both have interesting backgrounds, values that I think would align and are smart, charismatic, interesting people.”

The edge of Iwaizumi’s mouth twitches like as if he is about to interrupt, which is why Kuroo adds hastily: “And yes, I can’t say for certain that Oikawa Tooru would agree to this. But I also can’t see his social media team turning this opportunity down outright. Oikawa is fairly big in the South American scene and is just on the cusp of becoming a big international player. I think the Olympics will be the final domino needed to turn him into an global household name; but to make certain of that, I think a video like this, if done right, would be the concreting factor. A zeitgeber if you will.”

Iwaizumi chews on his bottom lip, eyes narrowed in thought. Urged on by the lack of an interruption, Kuroo quickly continues: “You and Oikawa are also perfect because there is an established friendship, a history the world now knows about. Iwaizumi, do you know how crazy lucky to have a story as unique as two friends who played on the same high school team, and now doing different roles in opposite nations at the Olympics? Bokuto was another top contender I considered but he doesn’t have as strong a beyond borders buddy to pair with. Kageyama and Hinata would make a great story since they’ve both played overseas: but it isn’t quite beyond borders if they are playing on the same team for now. I also considered Ushijima, but well, Ushijima isn’t exactly the most captivating speaker for a video let alone a first video and…”

“Okay.” Iwaizumi interrupts with a short laugh. When Kuroo looks up, Iwaizumi’s gaze has softened. He sighs and leans back, looking up at the ceiling before saying quietly: “Okay I get it, Kuroo. I see why you would think Oikawa and I would make good candidates for a video like this.” He lets out a slow exhale. “When do you need an answer by?”

“No rush.” Kuroo says hurriedly, before correcting himself: “Actually, there is a bit of a rush – we would want to get a video out before the hype from that Twitter thread dies down and before social media is just swamped with the peak of the Olympics. The actual video will also take a few days to organise and film, so I would need an answer in the next day or two. The other thing is,” He adds apologetically. “I don’t actually know Oikawa Tooru. So it would also be a huge help if you could reach out to him to ask about this – I assume he would answer much faster to an old friend than to a cold email to his professional team…”

“Mm.” Iwaizumi runs a hand through his spiky hair. Kuroo thinks that he looks almost nervous. “Well, I can’t promise Oikawa will say yes, but I guess I could definitely try reaching out to him.” He lets out another slow exhale and gives Kuroo a small smile. “I’ll think about it and give you my answer too as soon as I can.”

“Of course, thank you.” Kuroo gasps gratefully. He grins, suddenly filled with excitement. “I’ll send you a proper written proposal tomorrow that you can forward along to Oikawa. And thank you so much again, I really, really appreciate it.”

It isn’t until much later when they are lying in bed with the lights off that Kuroo remembers to ask:

“Iwaizumi? Actually, how close are you and Oikawa Tooru really?”

For a moment, Iwaizumi is silent for so long that Kuroo thinks he must have fallen asleep. Before Iwaizumi answers so quietly, that Kuroo almost misses it:

“Well, we were close. But then we, ah, drifted apart after high school.” Iwaizumi pauses, and then adds: “It will be nice to reconnect with him again I suppose.”

Kuroo carefully stores that knowledge away in his head before falling asleep.

***

Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t panicking.

No he isn’t, no he isn’t, no he isn’t.

He lies awake for a good two hours, trying to sleep at first before giving up, staring absolutely still up at the ceiling with his heart thudding in his chest until he is sure that Kuroo is snoring and dead asleep to the world.

He then gets up to his feet, tries his best to push down the constricting feeling rising in his chest, and slips out from their shared room and out to the corridor.

The accommodation corridor is dark, lit only by the lights that turn on by motion sensors. The narrow Olympic village walls, exciting and surreal at first, now feel claustrophobic, as Hajime passes room after room that he knows is occupied by members of the Japanese Olympic team. He starts walking faster, until he is almost running to the elevators at the end of the corridor. He presses the down button, glances aside when he hears laughter bubbling from a nearby room, light spilling out from an open door, and instead pulls open the entrance to the fire escape stairs.

Hajime doesn’t know where he’s really going.

He races down one flight of stairs, two flights of stairs, three flights of stairs, four flights of stairs until he is panting slightly and then sinks into a seat on the edge of a step.

He pulls out his phone. Stares at Tooru’s name on their text message conversation. Tooru was last online 3 hours ago, which was when they had last exchanged their ‘I love you’s and ‘Goodnight’s.

Hajime’s thumb hovers over the call button for a few moments. Before he snaps his phone screen shut and slips his phone back into his pocket.

He sprints down another three flights of stairs, until he is properly panting.

Leaning by the staircase railings, Hajime buries his head in his arms which are beginning to sweat. The day’s events return to him in droves: the internet articles he’s seen. The gossip he’s heard when people think he isn’t listening. The prickly questions from the nosy journalists. Kuroo’s eager, sincere plea for help. The lying. All the endless, relentless lying he’s had to do. No, we’re not close. No, I haven’t spoken to Oikawa since high school. On top of it all, the fast-paced, overwhelming athletic training work which deserves his full attention, not his half-worried, half-distracted meandering focus. The insanely packed Olympics game schedule that means he has barely had time to message, let alone speak to Tooru. The suffocating inability to get any private space in between living day in day out with his team.

He pulls out his phone, thumbs hovered over his text conversation with Tooru.

Help. I think I’m panicking. He types. Please. I need you. I need you here with me.

He tightens his right hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm.

He knows, if he just pressed send, if he just clicked call, Tooru would drop everything to be with him in an instance.

But if he is this stressed, if he is this overwhelmed; then Tooru, a first time Olympic player who has his second match tomorrow, must be beyond stressed and overwhelmed. And the last thing Tooru needs the day before an important match is to have his boyfriend calling in a silly panic.

He deletes the message.

He bites the bottom of his lip until he tastes blood.

The tight feeling in his chest isn’t loosening.

Hajime isn’t panicking, no he isn’t. He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t.

He pockets his phone and forces himself to take a few deep breathes. He pinches the bridge between his eyes angrily, because fuck, Tooru told me that all of this might get out of hand if I wasn’t careful and I didn’t listen, while at the same time it isn’t Kuroo’s fault, he doesn’t know what’s going on behind it all, he’s only asking for what is best for the team, and also, it isn’t the team’s fault, how could I blame them? I’d be just as curious if I were them too, they don’t mean any harm, and most of all, Tooru, what is the best thing for Tooru, I can’t make Tooru worry, what can I do for Tooru and he continues running, running, running down the stairs until he reaches the ground and bursts out into the night air, just to find that the relief the cool breeze and bright stars bring him is only temporary and very merely fleeting.

***

Hajime remembers the snowstorm in the winter of 2013.

It was the year Tooru had flown back to Japan for the first time since moving to Argentina.

He had picked Tooru up at the airport. They had talked about whether to tell Tooru’s parents about their relationship in the car on the way home. It was a continuation of a conversation they had had for months. Hajime had already told his father, a kind, gentle man who wanted nothing more than his only child to be happy. It had been a difficult conversation, but an amicable one that ended with his father agreeing to learn to be more open-minded.

Tooru’s parents though, were a different beast of their own.

Tooru had been reluctant, riddled with anxiety. His mother, he had always said, would be fine. The tricky person was his dad.

And Iwaizumi had known, that was the thing, he had known. He had known how Tooru’s dad was like, he had seen it countless times growing up. There was a reason after all, that Tooru had grown so obsessive and neurotic over being the best back in middle school. Kids don’t just put pressure on themselves: they learn from adults to put pressure on them. They learn from adults to hate, to raise their voice, belittle others, to resort to violence. They learn from adults to fear the expectations put on them.

And that was the thing. It had all been Hajime’s fault. Even knowing all of that, he had been confident. Pushed Tooru, with an almost-naïve sense of resolution, to do what he had thought was right.

“Let’s tell them, Tooru. Let’s tell your family.”

The dinner had started out fine. Hajime remembers helping Tooru’s mother plate the food, he remembers smiling encouragingly at Takeru to bring down the card all the kids back at the Li’l Tykes Volleyball Class had signed, congratulating Tooru for getting signed onto CA San Juan as a reserve player. Tooru had been giddy with joy, surrounded for the first time in a year by all the people he loved. Every look he sent to Hajime had been a delighted, rosy-cheeked, incredulous beam, like as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be back home.

Hajime remembers being completely, absolutely, helplessly smitten by Tooru. He adored the way Tooru laughed, smiled at every word Tooru said; wanted selfishly to keep this image of him: happy, warm and bursting with joy, burning in his mind like a candle for forever and ever from then.

Tooru’s dad and sister had joined the dinner after Tooru’s mother called for them. Tooru’s sister was the same as ever, every bit as cheeky and sharp-witted as Tooru and the two of them had immediately started bantering like as if they hadn’t spent a single day away. Hajime remembers catching Tooru’s father’s eye and nodding amicably. Never mind that Hajime secretly hated him for all the shit he had put Tooru through over the years – Hajime was polite to everyone, and Tooru’s father had liked that about him.

They had laughed and chatted as they ate dinner, taking dishes for one another, exchanging stories and pouring warm teas. Every time Hajime caught Tooru’s eye in a smiling side glance, his heart fluttered. It felt like they were a family already, without even trying, and Hajime knew Tooru was thinking the same: of how fortunate they were to be so close, to be dating someone whose family they already knew so well. Even Tooru’s father was well-tempered and well-behaved for the night, still elated with the idea of his son being signed onto a professional sports team overseas.

After dinner, Takeru and Tooru’s sister had disappeared out into the living room. With a game show blaring on television in the background, Hajime had helped Tooru keep away the main dishes and brought out the bowls of dessert fruit. It was then that Tooru had quietly turned to watch his mum and dad, who seated opposite them on the dining table, were laughing at a story about Takeru. Illuminated under the soft yellow dining lights, they looked happy. Hajime, seated next to Tooru, remembers watching his boyfriend slowly exhale, his face paled but pulled in determination as he steeled himself. He remembers watching Tooru, curl his hands into fists below the table.

Discretely, Hajime took Tooru’s hand in his. Gently uncurled his fingers, ran a soothing hand down to squeeze around his wrist.

“Mum, Dad.” Tooru’s voice was small. The quiet seriousness of his voice made both his parents turn around. “There’s something I need to tell you.” His mother’s mouth pulled into a worry line. His father’s brow deepened into a frown.

“Hajime and I –“ Hajime could feel Tooru’s pulse jumping under his wrist. Tooru tightened the hold on his hand. Tooru’s voice wavered before he tried again, braver this time:

“Hajime and I are dating.” Tooru said. His voice was soft but resolute. “I don’t just like girls, I also like boys, and I…” He glanced at Hajime, like as if drawing courage from him. “I love Hajime. And Hajime loves me. We are dating and have been dating for about a year now.”

That was when Hajime caught it. The warning sign that told him, in the split of a second that everything was about to go wrong.

It was Tooru’s mother. Marked in her face was not shock or surprise, but grief. Her entire expression fell into one of deep, remorseful grief – a terrible, irrevocable look of sorrow. After all, what was it that Tooru had said? I think my mum can guess as much. She had known. Indeed, she had known.

Tooru’s dad stood up. Hajime had long let go of Tooru’s hand. By some instinct, both Hajime and Tooru pulled their chairs back sharply to stand too. Tooru was just slightly taller than his father and had an arm outstretched protectively across Hajime’s chest. Hajime was just slightly shorter than Tooru’s father, and had a hand gripped on Tooru’s shoulder, ready to pull him back.

The look on Tooru’s father’s face was thunderous. A quiet, brewing look of pure fury.

“Out.” He pointed at Hajime. “Out. Now.”

“No.” Hajime pushed himself forward to stand abreast with Tooru. Beside him, Tooru sent him a worried glare, his outstretched arm keeping him back firmly. “Not if you so much as lay a finger or raise your voice against Tooru…”

“Don’t.” Tooru’s father snapped. Outside, the sound of the television abruptly dropped. Takeru and Tooru’s sister were clearly listening in too now. Behind Tooru’s father, Tooru’s mother was pulling on his sleeve, looking terrified, whispering: Darling, don’t yell please. You’ll scare the neighbours. You’ll scare Takeru. Please.

Forcefully, Tooru’s father lowered his voice to a dangerously quiet timbre instead.

“Don’t.” He growled. “Don’t call my son Tooru.” He raised a finger and pointed to the door. “I am giving you your second warning now. Leave. Don’t make me say this a third time.”

Hajime continued standing stubbornly, agonised, his chest burning with fear, fury and anxiety.

Beside him, Tooru grabbed his arm. “Come on Hajime,” He muttered, “Let’s go.”

“No.” Tooru’s father snarled. He glared at Tooru, taking a step forward. “Did I say you could leave? You are staying, I have things to talk to you about. You.” He pointed at Hajime again and began his way around the table. Tooru’s hand gripped tighter around Hajime’s arm. “You don’t belong on this family table. Leave. Now.”

And before Hajime could react, Tooru pulled Hajime’s arm with a strength that he didn’t usually use, and Hajime found himself dragged out of the kitchen, out into the corridor, and stumbling to the front door behind Tooru. Hajime watched, numbly, as Tooru pulled the navy woollen coat he was wearing earlier off the coat rack and over Hajime’s shoulders, wrapped his biege scarf over Hajime’s neck, and pushed the car keys hung on the side hook urgently into Hajime’s hands.

“You weren’t wearing warm enough clothing before.” Tooru explained hurriedly, and Hajime stared at him, at the ridiculousness of the observation that Tooru had decided to share at a time like this. Tooru then opened the door and as gently as he could, shoved Hajime out into the cold. Hajime turned back to look at him, worried, terrified.

“Go.” Tooru said, his voice terse and struck with pain. He then grimaced when Hajime didn’t budge and instead, pushed back on the door, looking stubbornly at him.

“Tooru, I’m not going until I’m sure you –“

“I’ll be fine. It’ll only make things worse if you stay. Or if I go now with you.” Tooru’s gaze turned into a look of stubbornness. “Please Iwa-chan. Go.”

They held gazes for a moment, Tooru’s increasingly hardened, Hajime’s increasingly wavering.

Hajime let go of the door.

Tooru took one last look at him. He mouthed, silently: I love you. I’ll call you once I’m done.

We’ll be okay.

And with that, he closed the door in Hajime’s face, leaving him standing outside in the swirling, freezing, dead of the howling winter storm, helpless to do anything other than to leave.

***

After winning his second ever Olympic match, Oikawa Tooru turns on his phone to check his messages.

Hajime has messaged him a few times. Three of them are observations and compliments on the game highlights; one, a congratulatory message for winning with one single, sincere heart emoji in typical Hajime style – and the final message, with a PDF attached, which makes Tooru’s heart jump into his throat:

Tooru, Kuroo’s asked me if we could do an interview together to promote this new YouTube series ‘Volleyball Beyond Borders’.

And I think it’ll be a great idea.

***

They had not been okay. Or at least not immediately then. 

Tooru had been kicked out of his house that winter night. He had taken a taxi to an inn a few blocks away, not wanting his parents to harass the Iwaizumi household if they thought he was there. Hajime had leapt into his car once Tooru texted, begged his father to cover him if the Oikawas came by, and had driven out immediately to be with Tooru.

Shaken down to his core, Tooru had left with nothing on him beyond his phone, his wallet, the clothes he was wearing, a thick red winter puffer and a beanie he had managed to snatch before being kicked out. The luggage bags he had yet to unpack had been just out of reach at the bottom of the staircase, away from the front door. Hajime brought as many extra clothes as he could in a duffle bag. Once he arrived, Tooru had collapsed into Hajime’s arms, his arms still trembling, tears collecting in his eyes. Hajime had carefully combed Tooru’s hair back, forcing himself to steady his own breathing, and held Tooru tightly in his arms.

He too, could feel himself beginning to cry. But I can't, He told himself. For Tooru, I can't.

There were painful red bruises and swells on Tooru’s cheek. Hajime gently cleaned them with warm water and soap, pausing every time Tooru winced, before dabbing them with cotton swabbed in iodine and antiseptic. Tooru had his eyes closed, breathing controlled as Hajime worked. Like as if all they were doing was cleaning up sports injuries after practice.

“Tell me,” Hajime whispered when they huddled together on the bed, holding each other tightly. “Tell me what happened.”

And slowly, Tooru had begun, his voice hoarse. He gave Hajime the blow-by-blow account of what had happened, sparing no detail, narrating until he began crying again at the memory of it. But Tooru is and always has been a story teller – he feels better after he tells people things, and Hajime knows that from years of listening. By the time Tooru has told the story a second time to explain how his sister had tried to jump to his defence; a third time wrecked with guilt for the fear he had seen in Takeru’s eyes, his eyelids had began to droop, and finally, he had fallen into an uneasy sleep in Hajime’s arms.

Hajime watched Tooru’s uneven breathing and micro-twitches in his sleep, and wrapped his arms tightly, protectively around him.

Hajime swore to himself then, that whatever it would took, he would never let Tooru get hurt again.

There were many things from that night which have stuck with Hajime. Nothing really, would ever replace the gripping fear, the sharp pain that had crossed his chest when Tooru, bruises on his face, shoulders trembling, had first collapsed into his arms.

But the one that hurt the most, the one that really stung with a long, dull thud, was not one that happened that night, but in the next morning.

When Hajime had awoken, Tooru still fast asleep on his chest, he had noticed, with a start, a text message from Tooru’s mother. Not sent to Tooru’s phone; but one sent to his phone.

He had opened it right away, somewhat naively hopeful, thinking perhaps, that Tooru’s mother had managed to convince his father to cool down, to let Tooru home. After all, he had always gotten along with Tooru’s mother hadn’t he? In the last few years, there had not been a week he and Tooru’s mother didn’t at least talk once, in genuinely enjoyable conversations that never needed Tooru’s presence to flow. In the last few months especially, they had found company in one another, in replacement of the gaping hole that Tooru’s absence had left in their lives.

And that was why it hurt. That was why it stung, hit to the core of his being when he read:

Hajime. You are a good boy. I know you always try to do what is right. I know that you really do love Tooru. I know Tooru really does love you. He’s never tried to bring a girl home before. But he’s always, always brought you.

The thing is, there are things bigger than you in the world. You will learn this as you grow older. And as Tooru’s mother, as much as I want to rejoice, I grieve. I grieve because I know if the two of you continue with this, that my son will never be able to have a proper family. That my son will never be able to get married. That my son will never get a normal life.

Tooru is a dreamer. He is a chaser, he is that little boy who will do whatever he can to get to top of the world, be it scrapped knees, dirty socks, muddy ankles.

You’ve always been by his side, always been the one to rein him back when he needs it. I’m thankful for that. But there will come a time, that you, that unnatural love you have for Tooru, will hold him back. You will be his downfall, don’t you see? Tooru will climb high, if he can, and if he does, he will be on a stage where the world will be watching on. And not everyone will be like me, silent and passive. There will be many more like Tooru’s father, angry and violent. And as a mother, I cannot bear to think of that. I cannot bear to think of Tooru ever being in danger because of that.

Hajime, all I ask for you is to take care of my Tooru. And if that means, one day, letting him go, I hope that is something you will have enough wisdom and courage to do.

Once Hajime finished reading the text, he closed his eyes and buried the phone in his chest, right above where Tooru lay, asleep.

Later when Tooru awoke, he would lean across Hajime’s face, softly caressing the tear tracks down Hajime’s cheeks, the heartbreak clear in his voice as he asked, bundling his strong arms over Hajime’s:

“Why are you crying Hajime? Tell me. Talk to me. What are you thinking about?”

But Hajime would shake his head, not saying a word, opting instead to bury his head into Tooru’s chest, breathing in his familiar scent again and again and again, until he was sobbing into Tooru’s shirt, staining the front of it with tears. Tooru would soothe him with a tight, fierce hold, whispering assurances in his ears, and yet Hajime couldn’t speak, couldn’t bring himself to tell Tooru what he now knows. To this day, even as Tooru and his mother are on speaking terms again, even as Tooru’s father has begun making amends again now that his son is an Olympian, Hajime still can’t bring himself to tell Tooru, to even bring himself to just show Tooru the words on his phone that are still the last text message he has ever gotten from Tooru’s mother.

Because maybe Tooru's mother is right. Maybe Tooru is better off without him. And maybe, selfishly, if Hajime just doesn’t say these things aloud, if Hajime just keeps them all to himself locked away from Tooru ever knowing, Tooru will always be okay, and Tooru will always be safe, and there will never come a day that Hajime will ever have to let Tooru go.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed it! I really enjoy writing Kuroo - I think he would be the type of person to use the word "zeitgeber" in conversation hahahahahahah. I also wanted to make sure that Kuroo didn't accidentally come off sounding like the villain in the story by adding more to Iwa's plate. Poor Iwa though *hugs* IM SORRY TO PUT YOU THROUGH STRESS.

I also like to think that Iwa was waiting to watch Oiks play a game when Aran ran into him at the sports bar on Valentines, so Atsumu wasn't wrong, he was waiting for his date (Poor Atsumu has gotten a lot of fleck in this fic hahahaha).

Also, obviously a lot of what Tooru's parents say in this chapter isn't right, so please don't take any of that to heart. If you need to talk to anyone about the heavier stuff mentioned in this chapter, my inbox is always here for a listen at: [email protected].

Let me know what you think as always! :) I genuinely enjoy writing this story even if it always takes me ages to upload LOL but will see you again hopefully soon!

Chapter 5: Warm Up

Summary:

Hajime’s hands are trembling.
Thankfully, not very obviously.

Or,

The filming of 'Volleyball Beyond Borders' begins, and its success hinges on the chemistry between guest stars Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime.

Notes:

To everyone’s surprise, including my own, I am done with this new chapter and uploading it within a week???? (Big yay to being on annual leave haha, love being able to tap tap away on my keyboard without my usual levels of life-busy.)

Anyway, lots of aggressive Iwaoi mutual support coming right up – hope you enjoy!

Hajime’s hands are trembling.

Thankfully, not very obviously.

It could be due to his nerves, or how early it is in the morning. Maybe, how terribly he has been sleeping lately. Realistically, all three. Either way, Hajime clasps his hands together firmly to steady them, to steady himself.

He eyes himself once in the mirror. Dressed in his black work polo shirt, Japanese flag embroidered in the left corner, he looks tired and tense. He inhales once, brows furrowed, palms pressed, then looks up again at himself, his jaw set as he exhales slowly.

“Okay.” He breathes in and out again until a quiet confidence crosses his face. “You’ve got this.”

The studio is bright, bustling with movement when Hajime emerges from his change room. Large cameras move on wheeled stands, men in black tees haul large studio lamps Hajime has only seen when taking passport photos over their shoulders. Ducking under a mass of multi-coloured, criss-crossed wiring linking to large, fuzzy microphones, Hajime stops short of the centre of the studio. Two black bar stools stand in the middle of a clean, white backdrop.

“Morning everyone!” He raises his voice, taking on an energetic tone. “Taking coffee orders! Kuroo?” 

“Double shot of expresso!” Kuroo shoots Hajime a grateful look as he hurries past.

“Four lattes for the crew, thanks!” Jono, the media director and videographer peaks out from behind a large video camera.

“Two soy caps.” One of the microphone guys smiles when Hajime gestures to them. 

“A hot choc!” Bokuto cheers from where he is pulling masking tape over something on the ground; next to him, Atsumu yells as he struggles with a large piece of cardboard: “Flat white!”

“Hey.” A hand grazes gently on Hajime’s elbow, and his heart leaps to his throat when he turns around to find Tooru standing by his side, looking stupidly handsome in a white linen shirt and grey slacks. “Let me put down my bag and I’ll come with you to –“

“Oikawa Tooru!” They glance aside as Jono yells across the studio, waving happily in their direction. “Just the man I need! C’mere, let me adjust your chair!”

“Looks like you’re needed elsewhere.” Hajime laughs. He takes a step back and studies Tooru for what he hopes isn’t a suspiciously long pause, his heart still hammering in his chest. He then adds, softly enough that only Tooru can hear: “Long black, single o’ if possible?”

“You know it.” Tooru’s gaze is loving, to put mildly.

You’ll need to be less obvious if we are to survive today, Hajime glares, but Tooru just smiles, squeezes him once on his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd, communicating reassurance louder than any spoken word:

We’ve got this.

***

“Well, Kuroo’s not wrong, this is a great opportunity.” Sofia looked up from a print of the proposal she held in her hands to the camera. “But Hajime, Tooru, is this really what you want? This Volleyball beyond borders Youtube video idea doesn’t exactly scream low-key.”

Tooru, lying in bed, earphones plugged in with his phone screen facing the wall for privacy, stared at the tiny box on his screen that Hajime occupied. In his shared room, Lucas’s humming echoed from the running showers.

Sofia’s leopard-print glasses sparkled in reflection of the morning sunlight back in Argentina. Tooru had always found Sofia’s fashion sense deceitfully playful in sharp contrast to her keen sense of observation.

“Well, how great is this great opportunity?” Hajime asked. Like Tooru, Hajime was in bed, lying flat on his back and staring up at his phone. He had warned them that he probably had 15 minutes before Kuroo would be back. Tooru had agreed that Lucas probably took the same amount of time to shower. “Personal considerations aside, Sofia, would you recommend Tooru take up Kuroo’s proposal?”

Sofia thought about this for a moment. She then said carefully: “Well, yes. If we put the whole keeping your relationship on a down low aside – then yeah. This is a near-perfect opportunity at an amazing time. I would tell Tooru to take it.” She paused, and then continued: “But, that’s just in an ideal world. And the personal considerations are valid considerations Hajime…”

“I know.” Hajime said, gently but firmly. “But it’s fine. I agree, it’s a great opportunity. Which is why I think we should do it.”

Tooru thought Hajime sounded tired. Tired, but determined to not show that he was tired.

He had become more and more like that lately, Tooru had noticed. As much as Hajime tried to hide it, it bled through his texts, showed in his replies. It was a concern that nagged in the back, well, front of Tooru’s mind since the first day of the Olympics, but he hadn’t had the time to do anything about it. Hajime never responded well to direct questions of concern and in between the tight games schedule and living fully with his team, Tooru was barely finding the time to text Hajime, let alone to use his usual indirect methods to gently push Hajime into telling him what was wrong.

The consequence though, was a feeling of distance. Despite being physically closer to one another than they had been in over a year, Tooru felt a widening emotional chasm between them that he was struggling to halt, much less narrow.

In fact, the call with Sofia was only the second time he had spoken to Hajime since the Olympics started. The first was the call they had had about four days ago once Tooru had first realised that Hajime had announced to the world via Twitter that they were friends.

The call had been short. Tense. Tooru had felt it brewing close to a fight. Neither of them, however, had actually taken the bait, simply knowing that they didn’t have time to get into a fight.

“Hajime, I don’t mind that you’ve tweeted that we’re actually friends, and I get why you and Sofia had to respond quickly before telling me.” Tooru had said softly. “But is this really what you want?”

“Yes.” Hajime’s voice had cracked, exasperation catching on his end of the line. Tooru could hear in the background, the familiar voices of Bokuto and Hinata yelling and chanting something together. “Can you please trust me? I made a call; and I made a call on what I think would be best for us.”

And well, it wasn’t that Tooru didn’t trust Hajime – no, he trusted Hajime with his life, trusted Hajime even more than himself sometimes, especially when it came to making decisions that were best for him.

It was just that he didn’t trust Hajime to make decisions that were also best for Hajime.

Iwaizumi Hajime, in a way that Tooru found both endlessly lovable and intensely frustrating, is the most selfless person Tooru knows. The catch is that Tooru knows Hajime can be selfless to the point of self-destruction. Especially when it came down to decisions involving Tooru.

But Lucas had been urging for Tooru to get going, their next training slot ready to begin in five minutes; and Tooru could hear the coach calling for Hajime on the other side of the line, so Tooru had let go of the fight, choosing to end with comfort rather than confrontation.

“No, of course I trust you, Hajime. But you need to tell me anytime this stops working for you okay.” He had soothed, and there wasn’t time, there wasn’t enough time to emphasise what he meant, to make sure that Hajime properly understood what Tooru was trying to say, because sometimes, Tooru wasn’t even sure that Hajime knew exactly how self-sacrificial he could be.  

Hajime had grunted in agreement, saying softly: “Of course, Tooru.” and later, they had both texted in guilty apology for getting snappy, exchanged their ‘Love you’s and ‘Miss you’s because it was true, as great as the Olympics were, it was also harrowingly lonely to be as stressed as they were without having proper time or space to talk to one another.

And that was the last time they had spoken, until the call with Sofia, on what was maybe the exact same unresolved issue.

Later on, Tooru would look back and harshly kick himself for not asking more, for not taking out more time for his boyfriend, for letting Hajime carry on with something he already suspected was unnecessarily detrimental to himself, for the perceived benefit of Tooru’s. Further along, Tooru would forgive his past self, realising that really, he had done what he had thought was the best thing to be done given what he knew, given the limitations of what he could guess was really going on.

On the call, none of those were things Tooru thought about. All he had thought as he stared at the video call that was ticking near 14 minutes then, was: Hajime looks tired. So tired. I don’t want us to fight. Fighting is tiring. I don’t want us to even talk about public relations anymore. I just want to be with Hajime in a simple, uncomplicated way. But fighting is difficult and complicated, and there are at least 12 more days to the end of the Olympics, and Hajime looks tired, so, so tired…

“Iwa-chan.” Tooru said softly. Sofia had looked away, maybe sensing – no, knowing – that there was something more intimately complicated going on than just a question about public relations. “I trust you.” Hajime looked up at him, his expression unreadable beyond just plain weariness. “I can make a decision if you like; but otherwise, I trust you and am happy to go along with what you think is best.”

Hajime nodded, and Tooru couldn’t tell, he couldn’t tell whether it was relief or anxiety, or maybe both, that passed through his eyes.

“We can do this.” Hajime responded firmly. “We can do the video, reap the benefits of it for Tooru and for Kuroo’s initiative, while keeping our relationship private.”

“I’ll start sending the both of you some pointers and guidance.” Sofia promised, and Tooru knew then, that the decision had been made. "I agree that’s definitely doable – but you will both need to be careful. There will be some little things to watch out for: like how you’ll act around one another, ensuring your stories align, checking that Tooru doesn’t accidentally call Hajime Iwa-chan on live camera…”

“Hey!” Tooru protested but laughed in recognition of Sofia’s attempt to ease the tension in the call. Hajime’s face too, cracked into a small, reluctant smile but then Kuroo’s voice burst in on Hajime’s end, Hajime’s video immediately fumbling aside to face the wall, and then there had been a hasty end to the call that left Tooru blinking at his own reflection on the black screen, apprehensive as to what was to come.

***

There are two pressure points to Kuroo’s plan.

One of which he knew and planned quickly to address: timing. The decision to film was very last-minute and in the thick of the Olympics. Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa were on impossibly tight schedules, with almost no overlapping breaks, and with manpower split between marketing the Olympics, coordinating even one extra video was disruptive to their social media plan.

The solution had been to rope in as many of the Volleyball Association media crew as Kuroo could find on short notice, split the filming over one very early morning and one late evening (being the only free timeslots Iwaizumi and Oikawa had) and when last minute jobs popped up with not enough manpower, Kuroo pleaded on friends within his vicinity. Bokuto, Yaku, Atsumu and Hinata had jumped to his aid almost immediately, to his great relief and gratitude.

The second pressure point was something Kuroo was keenly aware of but could do absolutely nothing about. That being, of how well Iwaizumi and Oikawa would actually present together. The entire video hinged on their dynamic and chemistry being interesting, funny, or at the very least, not awkward, and lacking time to prove that to be the case, Kuroo had begged his directorial lead Jono to take the leap of faith with him.

Still, Iwaizumi’s confession that he and Oikawa had not been close for about ten years played on Kuroo’s mind, and Kuroo is surprisingly nervous on the first morning of the filming. Oikawa Tooru is more sincerely charming in person than he is on television; and Iwaizumi is, as always, Iwaizumi: steadfast, endlessly helpful but also, reservedly quiet.

Mid-way through the set-up, Jono elbows Kuroo and observes in a whisper:

“Excellent choice with Oikawa Tooru, he’ll be amazing in front of the camera. It’s Iwaizumi we will need time to crack open.”

Kuroo doesn’t quite get what Jono means until the makeup artist complains that the second guest is missing and it suddenly occurs to him that Iwaizumi might be avoiding starting in the spotlight by helping around with the odd jobs. He resists using Iwaizumi for any further errands despite his obvious efficiency, and instead chases him down to cosmetics where Oikawa already is.

“Here.” Iwaizumi says, handing Oikawa a cup of coffee as he sinks into the empty seat next to him in front of the makeup tables. "Sorry, they didn’t have any single o.”

Oikawa, with his face turned upward to allow the makeup artist to pat foundation down his nose, offers a small lopsided smile in thanks. It is then that Kuroo realises, this is the first time he has seen Iwaizumi and Oikawa talk in person, and sinks into a seat beside them, watching on with discreet curiosity.

Honestly, Kuroo doesn’t really know what he expected. Heartfelt stories to cover ten years apart? Quick quips of friendly banter? A telenovela-worthy breakdown of dramatic accusations?

In reality, none of that happens, and to Kuroo’s surprise, both Oikawa and Iwaizumi are quieter together than they are apart. It isn’t awkward per say - awkward is fumbling attempts at conversation, hesitant questions and jerky answers. But they are just… quiet. Two individuals who, by all means, are social creatures when apart, but somehow just silent when put together. Iwaizumi is clearly not used to having makeup done and the makeup artist keeps clicking her tongue in annoyance between Iwaizumi scowling, accidentally rubbing makeup off, or misunderstanding every second instruction. Oikawa however, is a seasoned makeup receiver, happily discussing products with his makeup artist in between the smooth turning of his face here and there, up and down, close your eyes now, perfect. Every now and again, Oikawa’s eyes would flicker over to glance at Iwaizumi. Stoically silent, Iwaizumi would keep his eyes closed as he leaned back in his chair.

Still, they don’t talk – not really anyway to one another.

Kuroo is starting to get worried, starting to think that maybe he has played his cards wrong and chosen the wrong first pair - when Iwaizumi’s nose twitches upon having powder dabbed on his cheeks, eyes still shut tight and a scowl on his face. At this, Oikawa’s lip quirks up in amusement and he meets Kuroo’s eye from across Iwaizumi. Oikawa then says cheekily, in finally, what is the first thing Kuroo has heard him say in acknowledgement of Iwaizumi’s presence:

“Iwaizumi-san looks adorable getting makeup done, don’t you think, Kuroo-san? Like he’s shy about it or something.”

Caught by surprise, Kuroo bursts out laughing, and even the makeup artists chuckle in failed attempts to hold back their laughter. A vein jumps on the corner of Iwaizumi’s forehead as he picks up a used cotton bud on the edge of the makeup table and flings it at Oikawa’s head, but there is a smile, a small, small smile that tugs on his lips as Oikawa easily ducks, chortling gleefully.

“I think they’ll be okay.” Kuroo reports back to Jono later, when Oikawa and Iwaizumi are getting microphoned-up. “Oikawa I think, will crack Iwaizumi open.”

***

The thing is, Hajime has no idea what to say to Tooru.

It is still only the second time he has really seen Tooru in person after the year of long distance, the first being the weekend they had spent together right before the Olympics. In between they had had two calls, both of which Hajime feels guilty about because they had been so tense, building to an argument that they never arrived at.

So, of course, there is so much he wants to say, so much he wants to do. Tooru, he has noticed, is walking with a slight lean to his left – had he pulled something in the recent match, or did Hajime miss it last time they met? Has the Olympics been just as wonderful as they had dreamt it as kids for Tooru, or as difficult as it has been for Hajime without their daily calls and all the social media fiascos?

Seeing Tooru in person has also unlocked an instinctual desire in Hajime that he hadn’t realised he had been missing: a desire to just be held. After how terrible the past few days have been, Hajime can feel his self-control careening and crashing, and he wishes that he could bury his head into Tooru’s shoulder, have Tooru’s arms pull him into his chest, Tooru’s hands resting on all the familiar angles. He wants to feel Tooru’s presence, his warmth, his smell, to be assured that Tooru is indeed here, and here with Hajime –

- But Tooru is here, cheerily chattering the crews’ ear off, and Hajime is also here, so wrecked with anxiety that he is starting to blank. They are so close they could touch, yet they are barely talking, barely even looking at one another, hyper-conscious of all the people who are watching: Kuroo and Jono, anxious; Atsumu, Yaku and Bokuto, curious; the rest of the crew, interested; and Hajime is scared - no, he is terrified, because what can he even say to Tooru that won’t be an immediate giveaway to all of the lies he’s been telling? When will he make the inevitable screw up that, like the fatalistic swing of a sledgehammer, will wreck the delicate balance between what is best for Tooru and what is best for Kuroo’s project? And he is stumbling, he is free-falling, he is doing absolutely nothing but failing at the one job he has, the one thing he had promised Tooru and Kuroo and Sofia and Jono that he could do and…

“Hajime.”

Hajime’s head snaps over to Tooru in a panic, because Tooru isn’t supposed to say that, he isn’t supposed to use Hajime or Iwa-chan or…

Tooru rests a hand over Hajime’s knee. He is leaning forward, eyes flooded with concern.

“No one can see us.” Tooru starts when Hajime, realising that Tooru is leaning in further to rest a hand on his cheek, jerks back almost violently. Tooru quickly moves back too, lifting both his hands off Hajime and raising them like as if to say: Look. Hands off.

“The microphone guys are done and have left.” Tooru says patiently. Hajime grips the edge of his chair and stares at Tooru, his heart pounding in his chest. Tooru raises a microphone box in his hand. “Red light means it’s off.” He gestures behind them. “And see, there’s an opaque screen set up here because they have begun testing the lights.”

“The lights…” The screen, the microphone, Tooru’s concerned gaze are all starting to blur into one, and it is taking conscious effort for Hajime to even keep looking at Tooru. His mind isn’t taking in anything Tooru is saying, isn’t processing anything properly, too overstimulated and overwhelmed with panic. “When… when do we need to go?”

“In ten minutes.” Tooru says gently. The mic guy said he would come to get us.” He lifts a hand, like as if wanting to touch Hajime again, but returns it to his side when Hajime visibly winces.

 “Hajime. You’re panicking.” Tooru’s voice is soft. Matter-of-fact. His hand curls in his lap but he doesn’t reach out again. “Breathe. Slow down.”

“I –“ It is becoming harder to breathe, and somehow, having Tooru right here, gazing at him with that helpless worry in his eyes, is worse than being alone, because he can’t, they can’t do anything, not when the thing that is causing Hajime all of his anxiety is the fact that they can’t be caught, they can’t be caught being anything more than friends, they can’t even be caught being close friends, and Hajime jumps up to his feet, looking around wildly and…

“Hajime.” Tooru says, and he is standing protectively, steadily in front of Hajime. A hand reaches out almost instinctively, before remembering itself and dropping again. “Talk to me. Tell me how I can help. What do you need?”

“I…” Hajime takes a step back. “Time.” He manages to choke out, because he knows, from the past few times that this has happened in the past few days, that it dissipates after a while. His breathing has become even more laboured, and he takes another step back even though Tooru hasn’t moved at all. “Alone.” He adds, fervently hoping that Tooru doesn’t take it the wrong way, and somehow Tooru understands, nodding and saying: “I’ll buy you time. Is fifteen minutes enough?”

And Hajime is nodding, nodding hard, and Tooru gives him a thumbs up, a reassuring smile, and slips out from behind the screen.

Once Tooru leaves, Hajime drops back into his chair, breathing heavily, his hands trembling. When he feels his phone buzz, he fumbles it out to see that Tooru has texted:

I’ll tell them that you got a personal family call and will need some time. I’ll also entertain them with my silly little antics in the meantime :P No one will even realise you’re gone.

Also, anytime this video thing stops working for you, please please do just say the word and we can pull the plug. Nothing is worth it if it’s causing you too much stress okay. I can be the one who chickens out for you; say that some sponsorship conflict came up or something.

I love you so much <3 So please tell me if there’s anything I can help with okay.

And Hajime leans his head down to stare angrily at the floor, letting the fear and anxiety burn into him, and he tries hard, so goddamn hard not to cry because he has no clue what will happen if he cries on a face full of makeup.

***

When Hajime finally emerges from behind the screen, Tooru can tell that he looks shaken, but for the most part, to probably anyone else, relatively normal.

 “Oh look, Iwaizumi’s done with his call.” Tooru says carefully to Kuroo, because he knows Hajime probably trusts Kuroo the most out of anyone else here, and he needs someone else who knows Hajime less well, but still well enough, to also make a call on how okay or bad Hajime looks. Kuroo takes a glance over, and clearly not noticing anything amiss, perks up and says: “Okay, great! I’ll give Jono the heads up.”

You’re good. You look fine. Tooru texts Hajime discreetly, because he knows Hajime would want to know. How are you feeling?

Across the room, Hajime chances him a shaky smile. He texts back:

Like shit lol. But okay. Much better. Thank you. <3

And Tooru smiles, relieved, because Hajime does sound much more normal. He quickly texts back:

What do you think? Pull the plug? Continue?

Hajime’s reply is so Hajime that it reassures Tooru that he has truly returned to the ground: I mean, I’ve already sat through all that dab dab dab stuff haven’t I? Let’s go on.

Foundation, Iwa-chan, foundation, Tooru replies, biting back a laugh.

He starts making his way over to Hajime, thinking carefully.

In the fifteen or so minutes Hajime has taken to calm down, Tooru has also been forcing himself to stay calm, and to think. Seeing Hajime, usually so stoic and reliable, breakdown like that was frightening to say the least, but there are better ways to use his time now, Tooru knows, than for him to also drop into panic and worry. He pushes aside the questions he has that are not helpful right now (Like, is this the first time Hajime’s had an anxiety attack? If it’s not the first, then why hasn’t he told me he’s been having anxiety attacks?), and instead, ponders carefully, calmly, strategically over questions which are helpful (What triggered Hajime’s anxiety attack? Can we do anything to avoid those triggers? What can I do to lighten the mental load for Hajime?)

There is one Tooru can think of, which he isn’t sure was the specific trigger, but at least, he thinks might help. Which is why he texts:

Iwa-chan, stop worrying about how you should act in front everyone, or the camera. You might not believe me, but I am a secret interview expert. I’ll take the lead. All you have to do is follow.

Hajime has an eyebrow raised when Tooru returns to his side. Tooru is relieved when Hajime doesn’t jerk away from him when he stands in step next to him.

“Ready to go on set, Iwaizumi?” Tooru says cheerily. The way he would talk to Bokuto or Yaku or Atsumu, or just any other acquaintance he just met. “Is this your first YouTube feature?”

“Um yeah.” Hajime glances toward the set, like as if not quite able to meet Tooru’s eyes. “I mean,” He continues awkwardly, “Unless you count like, those amateur video projects we – ah, I mean, I…did, in high school…”

He is fretting over how and what to say to me, Tooru thinks, his suspicions affirmed. He wants to make sure we don’t sound too close to everyone else. He smiles to Hajime, trying to look as reassuring as he can while still being discreet, before adding:

“Oh yeah, those high school video projects were so silly, weren’t they!” Tooru adopts a hinting purposefulness to his voice. “I was always the design master! Always did the styles and animations on those powerpoint slides for the video. What role did you tend to play in those video makings?”

Hajime opens his mouth and closes it again, a frown creasing. And then, Tooru can almost hear the moment the gears start clicking into place and whirling into motion in Hajime’s brain as he slowly says: “Well, I was never good with visuals so…” Tooru nods at him, all encouraging smiles. “So I was usually the researcher or the writing guy…”

And Tooru catches Hajime’s eye to exchange a knowing grin, because they know, they both already know that Hajime always begrudgingly did all the research and writing while Tooru would go wild on presentation and glittery WordArts; and they have made many jokes since about how fitting it was, since Hajime is the one who now holds a bachelors and a masters, while Tooru never even cracked college in his desire to go pro early. But it didn’t matter because no one else needs to know that, all the others need to know are that Tooru and Hajime are talking, and they are friends, friends with some but not too many shared experiences. And there is a way to make that happen, a way to look easy and natural, and of course Hajime knows how to do that, he just needs a little jumpstart, a little reminder, a little reassurance…

“Quick, Iwa.” Tooru adds in a small, mock-scandalous whisper. “Ask me a question you know I won’t like!”

“What?”

“Ask me: Oikawa-sama, are you currently seeing anyone?”

“Oikawa-san,” Hajime laughs, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Are you currently seeing anyone?”

“Seeing? Oh plenty!” Tooru answers, sing-song and cheery. “You know, ghosts, therapists, physios. Traffic controllers every Monday on the jam to practice – so many!” He send a knowing grin to Hajime, his grin widening when he sees the realisation light across Hajime’s eyes, as it dawns on him what Tooru is trying to demonstrate.

When Jono finally calls them onto set, all eyes in the room turned on them, Hajime takes a deep breath, looking still nervous but much, much calmer.

“We’ve got this,” Tooru whispers, in Spanish, and he can see a smile pick up on the side of Hajime’s lips as they walk forward together into the bright spotlight.

***

“Hi, my name’s Oikawa Tooru, and I am starting setter for Team Argentina.” Oikawa is cheerful and breezy, as picturesque as a scenery, leaned back on the bar stool, with just enough buttons open on his white linen shirt open to reveal his well-built chest. Kuroo is sure that had been a deliberate decision on wardrobe’s part.

“And hi, I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.” Iwaizumi says stiffly, arms crossed awkwardly. “And I’m uh, an athletic trainer for team Japan.” Wardrobe had changed Iwaizumi out of his work polo into a tight-fitting suit shirt, a few buttons also sneakily opened on the top. It is a smart choice, Kuroo thinks, eyeing the well-built arm muscles that clearly show through Iwaizumi’s rolled-up sleeves.

Iwaizumi’s squarer, more robust build is a handsome contrast to Oikawa’s leaner, more graceful make, if only –

- Iwaizumi wasn’t so obviously nervous.

“It’s okay, keep going!” Behind the camera, Jono calls out encouragingly when Iwaizumi grimaces guiltily in their direction, like as if having read Kuroo’s thought. “This is just the warm up. I always make my guests repeat their introductions at the end anyway when you’re all fluid and relaxed.”

“Um okay.” Iwaizumi looks uncomfortable, but Oikawa sends Iwaizumi an encouraging smile, so brief that Kuroo almost misses it, before calling back and waving over a handful of prompt cards:

“Sure, Jono! So it’s icebreaker questions next right?”

The interview, Jono and Kuroo had decided, would be split into three parts: ice-breaker questions, a day-in-life swap segment, and then a fun sillier Q&A at the end. Kuroo was hoping that by the end of the interview, there would also be enough good vibes going along to catch some impromptu footage of the two guests just being friends, since it was the point of the whole video idea after all.

Although at this rate, Kuroo isn’t quite sure how that would play out. In a strange way, he thinks, this almost feels like a first date: it will either go fantastically, or end spectacularly mediocrely. He sinks into a seat next to Jono, watching on carefully.

“Okay Oikawa, first question.” Iwaizumi’s nervousness is clear in his voice. Still, Kuroo can tell that Iwaizumi is trying, from the way he clears his throat into a steadier tone when he asks:

“Tell us a bit about yourself, Oikawa. Where did you grow up, where are you now?”

“I grew up in Sendai, Japan, and moved to San Juan, Argentina when I was 18.” This is a stock standard answer that Kuroo has heard Oikawa given in several interviews. Oikawa then careens off his usual script, grinning: “Sendai is the easiest city to cycle, wouldn’t you agree, Iwaizumi?”

“No,” Iwaizumi holds back a surprised chuckle, and then he turns to camera, as if apologising on Oikawa’s behalf. “We ah – grew up in the same hometown in Sendai. Oikawa’s just trying to be funny – Sendai is beautiful, but there are a lot of mountains so it probably isn’t the easiest city to cycle…”

“Well, maybe you just weren’t the best bike rider.” Oikawa teases, collecting a few chuckles from the watching crowd as he dodges Iwaizumi’s light whack on his arm with the prompt cards. Kuroo doesn’t miss the slight twitch of amusement in Iwaizumi’s lips as he continues reading off the next question, a little less awkwardly:

“What got you into volleyball in the first place?”

“Ah.” Oikawa’s smile is sincere this time. “I don’t know really, I just started playing it as a kid, and I thought it was so fun that I kept going back to it. Like you know, other kids would be colouring, playing tag, or catching bugs,” A ghost of a smile flickers on Iwaizumi’s face at this. “But all I would want to do was play volleyball, so all I would do - a boring kid, I know - was practise, practise and practise again.”

“Tch, that does sound pretty boring, no wonder you had no friends.” Iwaizumi snorts and it is so unexpected, so un-Iwaizumi, that it tears a genuine bout of laughter out from the watching crowd. Oikawa gasps in mock offense, even though the grin that crosses his face says the contrary as he protests: “Mean, Iwa-ch…san! Mean!”

And that only makes everyone explode into even more startled laughter, especially those who know Iwaizumi, because none of them, none of them, not even Atsumu with his Zumi-Zumi have ever dared to call Iwaizumi anything as playful and mock-polite as Iwa-san and Oikawa and Iwaizumi are looking at each other, Iwaizumi exasperated, Oikawa delighted, but both of them clearly amused and enjoying the energy they are building as much as the other, and Kuroo thinks, with finality, that this first date will end up fantastic.

***

As it turns out, Kuroo hadn’t even needed to really worry.

Once Iwaizumi warms up, he warms up. Kuroo had expected Oikawa to be the witty one and Iwaizumi the sincere one – but he couldn’t be more glad to be proven wrong. Iwaizumi can be deadpan in an outrageously funny way, and when he is, Oikawa in turn, acts as the anchor that pulls Iwaizumi back in, with a sincerity Kuroo hasn’t really seen him use anywhere else before.

“Iwa-san, why did you get into athletic training?” Oikawa asks, reading off a card.

“Well,” Iwaizumi begins, with a completely straight face. “I was one of those kid who, as Oikawa mentioned, would in the daytime, play in the dirt catching bugs, then in the night-time, play in my room catching Pokémon.” He pauses, and even the pause alone draws a few pre-emptive chortles form those who can see where the joke is going. “So I suppose I got into athletic training because, well, don’t you think it is a bit like the real world equivalent of catching and training Pokémon?”

The crowd bursts into peals of laughter because Iwaizumi is hilarious, he is genuinely hilarious and Oikawa too is grinning too when he asks in mock-concern: “But Iwa-san, does that mean you’re about to squish all your athletes into little jars and shake us till our legs fall off? Isn’t that what little kids do to bugs?”

“Of course not, what kind of monster child do you think I was?” Iwaizumi huffs, making Oikawa grin. “I always gave my bugs a snack and then let them go of course.”

“And I suppose, it’s the same with being an athletic trainer, right? The point isn’t to prepare your athletes for shiny display or to win great Pokémon battles,” Iwaizumi laughs a little, in acknowledgement of his silly metaphor. His gazes then softens a little as he continues more earnestly: “But really, athletic training is to give support to our athletes, keep them healthy and happy, draw strengths out from within them they didn’t even know they had. Let them find, for themselves, with all the help and resources that they need, the direction they want to go to, to become the best versions of themselves.”

At this point, Jono spins over to Kuroo, a hand dramatically clasped over his chest to whisper: “I’m sold, Kuroo. Seriously, well done finding Iwaizumi Hajime. I’m sold – no, I’m more than sold - I’m in love, Kuroo, I’m in love.”

Kuroo snorts at Jono’s dramatics, but he can see what he means. He too, feels the proud excitement in his chest at watching Iwaizumi, who he had believed would be good, truly unfurling out of his shell, to defy their expectations into something truly incredible.

When glances back on set, he can see Oikawa Tooru too, leaning sideways in his chair, smile as he watches Iwaizumi continue talking, a proud, steady fondness in his gaze not unlike the one Jono has in his.

And suddenly, Kuroo wonders how much of what Iwaizumi is saying Oikawa already knows; and in turn, how much of Iwaizumi’s unexpected brilliance, has been drawn out by Oikawa Tooru knowing exactly the right ways to do so.

A little bit, Kuroo realises, like a setter drawing out the best from his ace.

***

“That was amazing.” Bokuto is more than a little starry-eyed when they leave the set at the close of the first half of filming at the studio. It is around 9 in the morning, and the sun is peaking around the corner as they lug the studio lamps off to the storage room, ready to head off to training. “Iwaizumi and Oikawa must have been really close back in the day.”

“Maybe they used to be lovers.” Atsumu chuckles, and that is when Kuroo, Bokuto, Yaku and Hinata all stop in their tracks to stare back at him. “What?” He protests. “Don’t you think they seemed a little flirty with one another?”

“What?” Hinata laughs. “Flirty? No way.”

“Yeah,” Yaku crosses his arms curiously. “I mean really, how in the world did you get the vibe flirty off of that?”

“No? Is it only me?” Atsumu puts down the boombox he is carrying and crosses his arms. “Seriously? I mean have you ever seen Iwaizumi that engrossed in a conversation before? Have you ever seen that man tease anyone as much as he does to Oikawa Tooru?”

“He teases you quite a bit.” Kuroo observes, amused. He thinks about it for a while before adding: “He teases me like that sometimes too.”

“Okay but, like…” Atsumu flails his arms for a moment, finding his words. “Have you seen Iwaizumi smile at someone as many times as he has to Oikawa Tooru? I’ve honestly never seen him even laugh as many times as I have today.”

“He smiles at me a lot.” Hinata offers encouragingly.

“I think he just doesn’t find you funny, Atsumu.” Bokuto adds earnestly, perhaps not realising the insult in his statement.

“Stop trying to give Iwaizumi a love life he doesn’t have.” Yaku chuckles with a snort and at this, everyone is starting to fall into laughter, at the unexpected twin roasting of Atsumu and of Iwaizumi.

“Okay, sure, sure, don’t believe me. As usual.” Atsumu groans. “But you can’t tell me that Oikawa Tooru doesn’t seem at least a little bit flirty. I mean Iwa-san? Who calls an old friend that without first asking permission?”

“Probably an established nickname between them.” Hinata shrugs.

“...but also, the way Oikawa was teasing Iwaizumi, like as if always trying to get a laugh or a rise out of him. Isn’t that just classic flirting 101?” Atsumu persists. “And do you see the way Oikawa Tooru smiles at Iwaizumi? I tell you, there’s no platonic explanation for the way Oikawa Tooru looks at Iwaizumi.”

At this, all four of them pause, like as if thinking back to contemplate what Atsumu is saying. Finally, Kuroo is the one who admits:

“Okay, Oikawa Tooru did seem kinda flirty. But I think that is just Oikawa being friendly. Do you know how many people have accused Oikawa of being too flirty… to literally anyone and everybody?”

Atsumu opens his mouth and closes it again into a sulk, because it is true, they have all heard of Oikawa’s reputation, and actually, now that they have seen it in person, they can see how Oikawa’s version of friendly can very easily be mistaken as flirty, especially since the way he made jokes half the time was in the teasing, charismatic tone of his, and added with his habit of giving out random nicknames.

They pick up their items and continue their journey to the storage room, quiet for a while, before Kuroo adds, in quiet observation:

“I did think Oikawa was being more sincere than he usually is though. Like as if, he was just… comfortable.”

No one really responds to Kuroo, besides than Hinata giving a few nods. Because really, there isn’t any surprise or juicy reveal there.

All of them know, after all, that Iwaizumi in all his steady sincerity, is a very, very easy person to be comfortable around.

Notes:

I think the phrase Kuroo was struggling to look for in describing Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s dynamic, is that they act a little like an old married couple. XD

As much as Oikawa can be this flashy, extravagant person, I always think back to that scene (warning manga spoilers) where Oiks watches that volleyball match as a kid, and instead of being like WOW I WANNA BE THAT COOL CENTRE-OF-ATTENTION ACE, he’s more like whoaaaaaa, that was really cool how Jose Blanco got the ace back on his feet without the audience even realising, now THAT is why I wanna be a setter. To the heart of it, I think Oiks genuinely enjoys bringing the best out of people he cares about (in this case, Iwa in his first ever studio filming rodeo!). And now Oiks knows, or has at least seen a glimpse of how anxious Iwa has been.

Let me know what you think as always!! ^.^ I'm working on the next chapter and I promise some juicy smushy drama, as well as some good old Iwaoi fluff!

Chapter 6: Partners

Summary:

After all, Iwaizumi in all his steady sincerity, is a very, very easy person to be comfortable around.
This extends too, to his on-screen dynamic with one Oikawa Tooru.

Or,

Tooru and Hajime film the second part of 'Volleyball Beyond Borders' and do a 'day in a life' swap.

Notes:

…And when I say I was working on the next chapter, I really meant that I had already written it but because I thought Chapter 5 was getting too long and needed to be split into two parts so… here it is as Chapter 6! Surprise lol aquietplace updating Colluding three times in a month?? Seriously unheard of.

I think this chap is best read in conjunction with Chapter 5 to get all the little themes and connections and references so… enjoy!

“Alright, Oikawa Tooru,” Hajime says, picking up a misplaced dumbbell and repositioning it without looking. “When was the last time you athletically trained someone?” 

Around him, the on-watching crew chuckle in appreciation. It is a play on words, a repeat of the question Tooru himself had asked Hajime when they had filmed the day-in-a-life swap portion of Tooru’s segment two hours ago, in the Olympic stadium volleyball courts:

“Alright Iwaizumi Hajime,” Tooru had cheekily tossed Hajime a volleyball, the VA film crew, some of Team Japan and a larger number of Team Argentina forming a small semi circle around them. “When was the last time you played a proper volleyball game?”

The real answer Tooru knew, was last June, when they had played social volleyball in California for the fun of being able to play it together. For obvious reasons, however, Hajime shrugged and offered instead: “Maybe not since university?”

Hajime’s answer, a solid undersell of his abilities, made for an even more satisfying outcome on the courts. The sun setting then, had illuminated Hajime in a shade of warm gold that simmered down his broad shoulders and carved out the contours on his well-built arms, making him, Tooru had thought, truly beautiful as he flew across the court. With the cameras rolling, Hajime had played a few points as setter against Tooru as the opposing setter (Tooru got in a few cheeky dumps just to tease out Hajime’s look of pure outrage) before they swapped it around so that Hajime was opposite hitter with Tooru as his setter.

Despite obviously being no match for the actual Olympian athletes, Hajime quickly won over the respect of the Argentinian team with his persistence, his ability to always hustle even with numerous other Olympians on the court who could have covered for him if they really tried. Tooru sent as many perfect tosses to Hajime as he could manage, exactly the way he knows Hajime likes them, with just enough extra oomph to push Hajime further each time.

“What the heck, you’ve gotten so good.” Hajime had panted, laughing in awe as he high-fived Tooru after scoring a point. “That was a freakin’ great toss.”

Hajime had said it so much genuine surprise and pride, that Tooru had laughed, replying before he could catch himself: “Of course! That’s why I keep telling you, we should play more games together some time.”

As they played, Team Japan watched on, their jaws agape with awe.

Because Tooru knows: sure, Hajime is no Olympian but he is pretty incredible for someone who isn’t actually a professional volleyball player. And, Tooru also knows with some pride: while Hajime by himself is already fantastic, Hajime with Tooru is a different beast altogether. They moved with ease, communicating with familiarity (the only thing Tooru struggled with was not saying Iwa-chan instead of Iwa-san), needing no more than even just a grin and the flash of a glance sometimes to understand what the other needed. And there was the trust, the irrevocable trust that they have in one another – the one that had Tooru dialling his skills to exactly Hajime’s levels, Hajime pouring all he has into what he trusts Tooru will give him, and they were so in sync, so connected, doing so well that Tooru had wondered for a moment if they should fake a fumble, just so they don’t seem too in-sync.

But Hajime had then laughed, clasping his hand over Tooru’s in a high five when they make another connection, his eyes wide with child-like excitement, his shoulders eased like as if relaxing for the first time in days and Tooru’s heart melted into a pathetic little puddle as he thought:

No harm dropping our guard for just a few more points, right?

By the time they move on to the next portion of the video, they had all fallen into a comfortable, familiar rhythm. The next portion of the video is a day-in-a-life swap for Hajime’s job as an athletic trainer and after Hajime gives a brief introduction of his role to the camera, Tooru finds himself, holding a roll of kinesiology tape and looking down, in an amusing reversal of roles, at Hajime, who in turn, is lying on a treatment table glaring up at him.

“Don’t break my leg, Shi- Oikawa.” Hajime warns, and Tooru grins, in what he recognised was Hajime’s near slip in using his old nickname.

“I promise.” Tooru could almost forget the cameras were there when he rests his hands down on Hajime’s knee, working through the familiar motions of up, and across, and down, and around. Hajime watches on, a faint red growing on his cheeks, and Tooru, catching his eye slightly, bites down a smile, because he knows what Hajime is thinking: Tooru hasn’t taped for Hajime since high school, before Tooru and Hajime went professional in the opposite roles. But even despite the years, muscles remember what is important, and Tooru’s hands move with a quick familiarity, entering a well-practised rhythm…

“No. Wrong.” Hajime scoffs, making Tooru jump mid-taping. The on-watching crew guffaw with laughter. Tooru glares at Hajime, spluttering: “What do you mean, how could that be wrong?”

“You skipped a step.” Hajime teases. He sits up and steps off the table, gesturing instead for Tooru to sit down. “Come on, lie down, I’ll show you.”

And Tooru lying down, finds himself looking up at the much more familiar scene, one he’s grown to love and find comfort it: Iwaizumi Hajime, handsome and steady, gently pulling his right leg up into a bend, and firmly pressing down against his right knee, kneading into the muscles beneath it. Looking to the camera, Hajime explains, more for the sake of the video than anything else:

“See, the crucial step Oikawa skipped here is that he didn’t talk to his patient first.” At Jono’s direction, Hajime gazes back down to Tooru, as he continues: “That’s an important first step, to see how the patient is feeling. Because the number one thing in athletic training is doing what is best for your athlete.”

Hajime’s hand rests comfortably, almost by habit, on Tooru’s knee as he speaks, and perhaps, realising that it would look too intimate, Hajime hastily draws his hand back, as he continues: “Athletic training is about making sure the patient is comfortable and healthy and happy. Ask things like: Hello, how are you sir? How are you feeling? Are there any concerns you have come with today?”

“No fair, you didn’t tell me to ask the questions at the start of the filming,” Tooru whines, and Hajime just laughs because they know, they both know that really Tooru already knows all of this. Because when has Hajime not started a taping or check-up session with his usual gentle questions: How are you today, my love? How is your knee feeling, is it still tense? Are you still worried about that ankle from last week? Tell me how your day's gone, I’ll microwave dinner while listening.

As Hajime begins pulling the tape gently but firmly across Tooru’s knee with his professional efficiency, his face falling into easy concentration, hands unhesitant with familiarity, Tooru suddenly thinks about all the other times Hajime has done this for him – in high school, in college, in university, in California, in Tokyo, in San Juan – on treatment tables, sitting in surf shorts full of sand, lying in bed barely dressed, cuddled on the couch with the television on –

“Okay, all done.” Hajime says gently, finishing up his taping. They smile at each other for a moment, each perhaps, looking too affectionate or fond, since Tooru feels his cheeks warm and Hajime scowls from the effort of holding back the blush that has spread to his ears.

And Tooru suddenly wonders if looking back at this video recording of them will be akin to accidentally catching a couple dancing in each other’s arms in their kitchen on a late summer’s night: warm, intimate, loving and endlessly in-sync, moving perfectly in-step with one another.

***

They are comfortable, almost too comfortable, by the time they wrap up the filming with the final fun Q&A session, which turns out to be a series of most googled questions for one another.

“Is Iwaizumi Hajime single?” Tooru reads Hajime’s question aloud and replies before Hajime can even open his mouth: “No, he is multiple, he is many, he is everything and everywhere all at once.” Hajime smiles, until Tooru adds: “Multiplying, dividing like a little amoeba,” which is his cue to whack Tooru on the shoulder to stop before he gets annoying.

“Is Oikawa Tooru an Olympic medallist?” Hajime in turn, reads Tooru’s questions aloud. “No.” Tooru laughs ruefully. “Not yet” Hajime jumps in to add persistently, and the delighted grin he gains from Tooru for that is as bright as the sun.

“Is Oikawa Tooru married?” is the last question Hajime reads with a snort. “No.” He answers for Tooru, looking dead at the camera. Next to him, Tooru waves a ringless hand, laughing in turn: “Not yet”.

They look at one another, amused, like as if exchanging an inside joke and Hajime tries his best not to look like his heart was hammering right out of his chest because damnit, Tooru is always doing this, making his damned indirect, teasing proposals - 

“I’m Oikawa Tooru, setter for Team Argentina.” Tooru grins, leaning on Hajime’s shoulder by the end of the shoot.

“And I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, athletic trainer for Team Japan.” Hajime rolls his eyes, shoving Tooru off him with an easy push.

“And this is volleyball beyond borders!” Tooru grins, bright and mischievous; Hajime says, stoic and steady, and Jono yells cut and stands up, looking immensely pleased.

***

Kuroo proposes a celebratory film wrap-up barbeque and drinks at a nearby bar, with both Team Japan and Argentina invited in thanks of the efforts involved. As it turns out, one thing the Japanese and the Argentinians have in common is a love for good meat and free beer; and in between English chatter and rounds of drinks, the party goes along surprisingly well.

Oikawa, as Kuroo had expected, is ever the social butterfly, joyfully leading the cheers and celebrations in the bar, then effortlessly introducing both sides and switching fluidly between Spanish and Japanese. Iwaizumi surprises Kuroo by not only turning up but also carefully engaging the VA crew members and Team Argentina athletes in conversation – though on hindsight, of course Iwaizumi would be the kind of person to properly thank everyone involved in a project.

It is only toward the tail end of the party when most of the company has either ebbed out or kicked on to bigger places, that Iwaizumi’s exhaustion shows most clearly, in the way he leans his head heavily on one arm, gaze unfocused and on the edge of sleep. In stark contrast, Oikawa, sitting by his side, is still chattering on energetically, talking about world class aces with Kuroo and his Argentinian outside hitter Lucas.

“You good?” Kuroo asks Iwaizumi. “You can head back first if you want though – don’t worry about the rest, I can clean up after them.” Oikawa too, turns to look aside at Iwaizumi, his expression just as gentle.

“Yeah – yeah, I’m fine.” Iwaizumi yawns. He gets up with a stretch, and then, ever the caregiver, asks around the table: “Water anyone? I’ll get us some water.” He starts, walking toward the bar.

“I’ll come help.” Oikawa says, giving Kuroo a quick beam, before getting up and hurrying after Iwaizumi.

Kuroo watches as Oikawa catches up with Iwaizumi by the bar, lightly tapping him on the elbow so he turns around, and observes to no one in particular:

“Those two really do seem close don’t they?”

“Yeah, I was surprised.” Lucas chuckles. “I’ve known Tooru for five years, and I’ve never even heard him mention a friend named Iwaizumi before.” He then taps on his chin thoughtfully. “I was thinking really hard about when Tooru may have mentioned him before actually. And the only thing I could really think of, was that Tooru sometimes works with this other athletic trainer apart from our own one. I can’t remember what that trainer’s name was called though.”

“Really?” Kuroo is surprised to hear that. It is usually sufficient to work with just one athletic trainer assigned to the team, and he is surprised to hear that Oikawa would have one of his own. Almost automatically, he glances aside to look at Oikawa and Iwaizumi – but they are no longer by the bar and have disappeared from view. It is the waiter instead, who brings over the four glasses of water for them.

“Look, I was surprised too that Tooru has a second athletic trainer.” Lucas spread his hands out. “Oikawa is a great friend – but he can be so secretive! I barely know much about his personal life, sometimes it’s like as if he has a large secret to hide.” Lucas laughs, only joking.

“Yes!” Kuroo says with a gasp. “That’s how I feel about Iwaizumi too! He’s really such a great guy – but so, so, so private. Like I never know what is going on with him outside of work or what he’s even thinking.” He sighs and laughs in comradery with Lucas. “I’m sure it’s not us Luc, but it does sometimes make me wonder if Iwaizumi just doesn’t trust me enough or something.”

Lucas nods in understanding. “Me too, me too.” He then gasps, with a snap of his fingers. “Ah wait! I think I could look for that second athletic trainer Tooru was talking about.” He fumbles out his phone and begins scrolling religiously through it. “Tooru was telling me about some technique for warm-up exercises that he said he found really helpful and had forwarded it on to me. Wait, let me look for the photo.” Lucas looks up, with a beam. “Maybe it’ll give us at least a bit more insight into our secretive friends huh!”

Thinking back, Kuroo, and he is sure, the earnest and kind Lucas too, had meant it as a perfectly harmless thing. He had expected to just look at the photo, laugh a little about how adorable it was that Tooru had sent his friend messy handwritten instructions on how to do a warm-up stretch, and then go back to only jokingly lamenting about their friends’ secrecy about their personal lives, with no real intention to look any further into it.

But when Kuroo looks at the photo that Lucas holds up, his mouth runs dry, because it is a photo of instructions written on a whiteboard – not just any whiteboard, but the whiteboard against the wall and carpet he knows like the back of his hand at the training stadium the Japanese team train at; and not just any handwriting, but the large, scrawly handwriting that Iwaizumi Hajime writes in.

And fuck, Kuroo thinks numbly, we might have a bit of a problem.

***

“Hey,” Tooru says softly, resting his hand on the edge of Hajime’s elbow.

“Hey yourself.” Hajime smiles, visibly tired.

They lean for a moment together by the bar, Hajime calling out the bartender for four glasses of water.

Tooru then leans in closer as he whispers: “I miss you.”

Hajime looks around, hesitantly, before whispering back, his voice cracking: “I miss you too.”

Tooru’s hand tightens in his pockets. Leaning forward, he cheerily prompts the bartender to send the drinks to the table where Kuroo and Lucas are still laughing at, then steers Hajime out of the bar and onto the balcony outside. A gentle summer’s rain is falling on the tarp held up by pillars outside, making for a cool breeze. The balcony is quiet, and they meander through a few corners until they reach an isolated end. The soft patter of raindrops sounds against the zinc roof above them and a mellow murmur of distant unseen conversations thrums, muted, from inside the building’s brick walls.

On this balcony corner, they stand still, watching the swaying trees that block them from the view from the street. And then gently, Tooru turns to Hajime, raises his hands to the air by his sides, and asks as softly as he can:

“Hajime, is it okay if I...?”

Because he remembers, or more accurately, there is no way he can forget, the way Hajime had jerked back from him this morning like as if Tooru’s touch had been a burn from a hot surface. A similar fear spikes through Hajime’s eyes now, a flicker of anxiety so sudden and sharp that Tooru’s heart immediately tugs. But a moment of struggling hesitation crosses Hajime’s face, before exhaustion floods through like a broken dam and -

“Yes please.” Hajime whispers, his voice tiny, broken, and laced with need – and that is all the encouragement Tooru needs to move his hands forward, as gently and lightly as they possibly can, to rest them on either side of Hajime’s waist.

Hajime’s olive eyes, Tooru thinks, look beautiful reflecting the moonlight filtering through the swaying cypress leaves.

“Tooru – I  –“ Hajime’s hand, which raises and rests in turn on Tooru’s hip is uncertain. “Someone might see us here.”

“Okay.” Tooru says gently. “How about if we tried this then?” He shrugs off his navy rain jacket and wraps it over Hajime’s shoulders, pulling the hood up over his cold-tipped ears. He then swings them around so that he is leaning against the balcony railing and can see if anyone is coming; Hajime’s back faced to the corridor, his face hidden if anyone does come.

“There,” Tooru smiles. He fondly tugs the jacket hood drawstrings tighter. “No one could even tell that it’s you now!”

Tooru had meant to continue talking, to keep easing Hajime down so he can ask about what had happened this morning, gently tease out the full story from him, but Hajime is looking at him like as if he’s falling in love with Tooru all over again, his gaze unwaveringly soft, his hands planting themselves on Tooru’s chest, travelling up Tooru's jawbone and -

Hajime pulls Tooru’s chin up to press their lips together.

They should talk first, they really, really should talk first, but Hajime’s lips are moving against Tooru's with an urgency that borders on desperation, and Tooru wants Hajime, he wants Hajime with him, on him, holding him, kissing him, especially after the days apart, after the tense calls, after the near-perfect day spent together except just not together and fuck it, Tooru thinks, you are both such idiots, you and Hajime should really fucking talk first, before allowing himself to crash head-first into that want.

They kiss, lips moving in rhythm, tongues searching, hands tangled and Hajime tugs Tooru in closer, leaning Tooru back against the balcony railing so that their chests are pressed together and Hajime’s hands slowly roam down and across his shoulders, Tooru’s mapping out the taut muscles on the small of Hajime’s back. Almost involuntarily, Tooru shifts his hips upward, searching for connection; and he bites down a gasp when Hajime gives it, pressing downward, an equally satisfied huff escaping his lips.

They continue like this for a while, bodies moving in sync with one another’s, soft sighs muted under the rustle of leaves and fall of rain on roof tiles, self-restraint crumbling away. Finally, Tooru’s brain kicks in long enough to catch himself:

“Iwa-chan,” He pants, pushing Hajime backward so he can think again: “Room? Bathroom?”

“Room.” Hajime breathes, his eyes looking dazed. His arms are wrapped around Tooru’s waist tightly, like as if he doesn’t want to ever let go. “Hopefully Kuroo and Luc will be talking for a while. Let’s not be filthy animals.”

And Tooru laughs, letting Hajime lead him along down the stairway on the balcony to avoid running into Lucas and Kuroo or anyone else they know. Maybe it is the few beers they’ve had, or maybe it is the day spent together, but something fuels Tooru with courage – and he has a feeling that Hajime feels the same way too.

When they emerge on the empty streets outside of the bar, Hajime pulls Tooru closer to press their shoulders together, and Tooru tugs him even closer to press their lips together, because Hajime looks too beautiful washed in the moonlight to not be kissed. When he leans back, Hajime, with Tooru’s hood still pulled up over his head, flicks Tooru once on the forehead, blushing adorably, before he leads the way again, their hands firmly clasped.

The Japanese dorm rooms are near, and by pure luck, they don’t run into anyone they know when they chase into the elevators, giggling and tugging at each other, hands helplessly playful. When the elevator doors close, Hajime leans in to take Tooru’s lips into his again, urgently, hotly, and when the elevator doors open again, Tooru has to kick Hajime in laughing reminder for him to lead the way.

Once Hajime’s room door locks softly behind them, Hajime pulls Tooru forward into a tight kiss, a leg wrapping around Tooru’s thigh, Tooru encouraging it with his hands. There is then a quick work of fumbling fingers across buttons, sleeves struggled off arms, and Tooru is kissing, kissing Hajime down into his bed, their chests bare, legs wrapping and then –

“Ah crap, Luc’s calling me.” Tooru groans, propping himself up by the elbow and pulling out ringing phone. “Should I…”

“Get it, it’ll be suspicious if you don’t.” Hajime laughs. He lies back heavily into the bed and closes his eyes, suddenly looking exhausted. Still, he caresses a hand gently over Tooru’s cheek as he murmurs: “We did leave without saying bye after all. They’re probably just wondering where we are.”

And because it’s too distracting to take the call while practically lying on top of his sleepy, half-undressed boyfriend, Tooru stands back up and walks into the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror, trying to not sound too breathless as he answers: “Yes. Sorry I met a friend from Germany, we got chatting downstairs and we walked around the block! Iwaizumi? Oh I’m not sure, maybe he was tired and left? Not like him to not say goodbye? Yeah, I agree, hmm that is strange. Um, maybe try…” Tooru buries his head in his palm, realising the stupidity of his suggestion, but continues since he has committed to it anyway. “…calling him?”

And when Tooru emerges from the bathroom, a sulk on his lips and ready to complain to Hajime that now Kuroo is about to call him, he realises that Hajime bundled on his bed, has fallen asleep. Curled up on his side with Tooru’s shirt hugged up to his nose, Hajime looks smaller, vulnerable somehow, amidst the messy blankets. Even when Hajime’s phone starts ringing, Tooru gently fishing it out from his pants pockets to check that the caller ID is indeed Kuroo Tetsurou, Hajime doesn’t stir, well and truly out and dead to the world.

“Oh Hajime.” Tooru says softly, combing back his boyfriend’s hair.

He has so many questions. So many worries. Hajime is religiously disciplined with his sleep schedule and knows better than to drive himself into exhaustion by working, especially with a job that requires himself to be alert and awake in his working hours. So the tiredness that Hajime has been having for days, Tooru suspects, comes from a genuine inability to sleep.

But if so, why hasn’t Hajime been able to sleep? Why hasn’t he told Tooru that he’s been sleeping terribly? Tooru can think of a few stock standard answers: Hajime doesn’t want to trouble Tooru until the Olympics are over, Hajime doesn’t want Tooru to worry. Tooru takes a seat down by the bed to continue carding a hand soothingly through Hajime’s hair. It doesn’t matter Hajime, He thinks. I’m always thinking about you anyway. I’ll only worry more if you decide for me what not to worry about.

Unsure of when Kuroo will be back, Tooru starts the process of picking up their discarded clothes from the ground, placing Hajime’s shirt into the laundry basket for him. He unclasps Hajime’s watch, fishes Hajime’s keys and wallet out from his pockets to place them all in a neat pile on the nightstand (Hajime he knows, will wake in a panic tomorrow and check for them there). Easily unlocking Hajime’s phone, he double checks that Hajime has alarm clocks set for tomorrow (Alarm clocks have been set for the week, because of course, Hajime has). Pulling through his boyfriend’s backpack, he checks that Hajime hasn’t fallen asleep with his contact lenses on (he hasn’t).

Finally, Tooru gently pries his own shirt loose from Hajime’s arms, his grasp surprisingly tight – and it is only at this that Hajime shifts in his sleep, murmuring something incoherent and grasping at the blankets like as if finding purchase at the loss of Tooru’s shirt.

Tooru stops at this, his chest whelming with emotion. He strokes Hajime’s cheek gently with a thumb, kiss him on his forehead and pulls the blankets to wrap tightly over him.

“I love you.” He whispers. “You know that, don’t you?” He runs his hand gently through Hajime’s hair. “I don’t know why you act like you don’t know that sometimes.” It is stupid, talking to Hajime while he isn’t even awake but Tooru continues, a rush of words he hadn’t even realised he wanted to say bubbling forth: “Like what happened this morning at the studio, you -” His voice breaks off slightly, and he struggles for a moment before continuing:

“You scared me you know. You really scared me, Hajime.” He rests a hand over the back of Hajime’s head, like as if to steady himself, to reassure himself that Hajime is right here. “You probably know that and feel guilty about scaring me, but what I don’t think you know is that it was scary for me only because I hadn’t known that it was about to happen. I mean, what kind of boyfriend doesn’t know that his partner is about to have an anxiety attack? Is that why you have been so tired all the time? How many times has it happened? I need you to talk to me, Hajime. I don’t know why, I don’t know when, but it just feels like you’ve stopped -”

Tooru forces himself to pause, wiping at the tears that have sprung to his eyes. He’s being stupid, he figures. It sounded like Lucas and Kuroo were done at the bar, and if Kuroo walks into the room right now, he wouldn’t have any good explanation for being here, sitting on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Hajime. Quickly, he buttons on his crumpled shirt and takes one final glance around to make sure that he hasn’t missed anything. There is one: he fills up a glass of water, finds Hajime’s vitamin C tablets from his bag and adds both of those to the bedside table next to Hajime’s belongings.

Useless. He feels useless. For all he has said about being hurt that he hadn’t known before, he knows now that Hajime must have been nerve-wrenchingly anxious the past few days, and nothing, Tooru has done nothing, and can still do nothing about it. He could stay here, watching over Hajime until he wakes in the morning and just be with him until he talks, which is usually what Hajime needs; but then he would have to explain himself to Kuroo, to Lucas, to everyone who sees them together. He could drop by, visiting Hajime in between work throughout the day, to try and make for a semblance of company and support; but then again, that would probably just put Hajime in even stickier situation, and add to him the burden of making up some reason to his teammates as to why Tooru keeps visiting him.

So here Tooru is, doing what useless, mundane things he can. Making sure his boyfriend wakes up on time. Making sure his boyfriend stays hydrated and takes his morning vitamins. Tooru wipes his eyes angrily, because they are all useless, useless in the grand scheme of everything else he knows is going on, and he is helpless, helpless if he is trying and trying but Hajime won’t let him in, won’t let him help…

He switches the night lamp off and tugs on his rain jacket. Checking the corridor is clear once, and then twice, he slips out of the room, down the elevators and back out into the dark, gently raining night.

Notes:

Our boys are both completely in-sync and completely un-in-sync as partners in entirely different ways.

I also like to think that Iwa was running on pure adrenaline this chapter and the last like the high functioning little shit he is – and then the minute there was a soft bed and the security of Oiks’s presence, his body was like okay, you’re safe, I’m tired, peace out (cue immediate crashing).

Edit: the wonderful hlw on Tumblr has made some incredible art of the Volleyball Beyond Borders scenes from this chapter (and 1 scene from chapter 18, though there are no major spoilers in the art itself)! Go check out the art - and all the other great oiiwa/ iwaoi art hlw has made on Tumblr here: https://h-l-w.tumblr.com/post/780582845133504512/art-for-colluding-and-definitely-not-canoodling
Seeing the adoring/ tender glances Oiks and Iwa have exchanged through the whole of VBB animated has made me so happy :)

Anyway *evil laughs* chaos is about to ensue now that Kuroo has many crumbles and hints of suspicions. Catch ya on the flip side next time, and let me know what you think as always!

Chapter 7: A responsibility, a being, a choice

Summary:

Iwaizumi Hajime awakes on the sixth day of the Tokyo Olympics to an odd sense of peace.

Or,

The Volleyball Beyond Borders trailer is launched and Hajime gets some interesting text messages.

Notes:

Hello!! *checks watch* Gosh is it May already???

Hope you enjoy! :)

Nine years ago, hours after the first time they had ever slept together, Tooru and Hajime awoke to the peaceful, swallowed silence of the early San Juan dawn.

In Tooru's creaky second-hand double bed, they shifted to face one another almost shyly, bare bodies pressed in reminder of what had preceded. Hi. Tooru whispered, pulling the blankets up to his chin even though there was nothing left to hide anymore. Hey, Hajime breathed, moving Tooru’s hair out of his eyes, because somehow, even with all of Tooru lain out for him, that was all he cared about.

Did the cold wake you up? Hajime’s hand lay, a warm reassurance against Tooru’s bare shoulder.  

Tooru nodded, swallowing, because he didn’t know what else to say, because his heart was hammering so hard against his ribcage he was sure Hajime could feel it beneath his fingers. Through the darkness, he saw Hajime smile, one of those rare, unreserved smiles Hajime kept only for him.

I’ll close the window, Hajime’s lips were warm as they pressed once against Tooru’s forehead. His strong, calloused, gentle hands pulled the blankets up securely over Tooru’s shoulders. When he left the bed, he did so carefully by lifting his side of the blankets only minutely, so Tooru’s side of the bed would stay warm. At the table, Hajime didn't just shut the window - he also rightened the desk calendar that had been knocked askew by the morning draft, the one he knew always annoyed Tooru when it fell over because Tooru always mentioned so over video calls; picked up Tooru’s dog-eared, askew-on-its-spine copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude, gently closing it on a bookmark; and then carefully returned the book to the slot he knew Tooru liked it at on the shelf, next to the the ET DVD Hajime had given him last Christmas. They were all things Hajime knew because Hajime listened, he watched, he learnt everything he could about Oikawa Tooru down to every nook and cranny of his tiny rented San Juan room, because Hajime cared, he protected, he loved Oikawa Tooru and - 

It was the moment Tooru had known:

He wanted to one day marry Iwaizumi Hajime.

It was a silly thought, a ridiculous one that would held entirely no logic - not then anyway. They were eighteen, Hajime was studying, Tooru was trying to break in the professional sports scene - neither of them barely earned enough money to pay rent yet alone a wedding. They had also only dated for about three months by then, all of their relationship entirely long distance bar a day and a night. Overall, proposing would be so insane, so ridiculous, so comical that Tooru laughed aloud just thinking about it. 

“What?” Hajime had curled back into Tooru’s side. He flicked Tooru once on the forehead but his eyes were soft with fondness. “What are you laughing at, Shittykawa?”

“Nothing,” Tooru giggled. Any residual nervousness he had about being intimate was melting away like pancake butter in a hot pan, and he buried himself into Hajime’s chest, tugging his chin down to kiss him on the lips. “Was just thinking that you should quit college and live here as my househusband instead.”

There was a pause - a silence that stretched for just a moment too long, both their heartbeats suddenly loud against one another's chests - and when Tooru moved back, Hajime was staring at him from where he lay on his side, wide-eyed with a mixture of emotions: delight, surprise, longing, disbelief. For a moment, Tooru wanted to open his mouth to answer the question Hajime had not asked aloud ("yeah, Hajime, I do mean it") but instead, broke into squeals of laughter when Hajime growled: "Well, I'm not quitting my education to come here to do laundry for you," before launching into Tooru, peppering his face with fierce, enthusiastic kisses, a betrayal of the joy he clearly derived from Tooru's ridiculous suggestion  - 

- which was how Oikawa Tooru had begun his nine-year-long running joke of mock-proposing to Iwaizumi Hajime.

It was watching the sun set against the neighbouring apartment’s back wall in San Francisco, teasing: “Retire now and become my trophy husband, Iwa-chan". Lying in bed on their last night spent together in San Juan murmuring with longing cracking against his voice: "Miss your flight tomorrow, Hajime, marry me and stay here forever,". Standing in the hallway of Hajime's Hiroo apartment the weekend before the Olympics, holding Hajime like as if he was holding the world, only a tiny-part joking as he whispered: “Make me your husband so when Argentina beats Japan, you can still say you won gold.”

Every proposal he made he tacked on with something ridiculous, a request he knew Hajime had to turn down, a reason for Hajime to have to say no. Sure, Hajime never said yes because he would never admit Tooru earned enough money to make him a trophy husband; and sure he never said yes because he would never agree to Argentina taking gold over Japan. But never did Hajime say no either, and more importantly, never did the question ever fail to make Hajime smile.

And that was all it had ever been about, hadn't it? Even as Tooru came to realise marrying Iwaizumi Hajime would be a trickier, more complicated dream that he had ever expected, he knew he would keep proposing, in all of the silly ways he knows how, in all of the only ways he knows how till the day he can properly, finally propose –

Because even if he never gets to take Hajime as his lawfully wedded husband, he has to and always will make good on the vow to always make Iwaizumi Hajime smile.

The vow he had made years ago, under the starry nights of the Sendai skies. 

***

Mum,

The purest form of love, I think, is simply wanting the person you love to be safe, happy and healthy.

No matter what it means for yourself.

The first person I learnt this from was you. You taught me that this way of loving was a responsibility, a necessity, an obligation almost. With every scrapped knee you cleaned, every fist of dad’s you dragged back, every night you thought of leaving but never did because of Nii-chan and I - you showed me time and time again that this way of loving, of putting our needs above your own, was what you would do simply because it is, to you, the most correct way to love.

The second person who ever taught me this was Hajime. He loves in a way so simple, so earnest that it can feel almost naïve: if you like milk bread, he will get you milk bread; if you’re unhappy and can’t figure out why, he will sniff out said source of unhappiness like a determined, loyal hound dog sniffing out a deer trail. Hajime, I think, loves in this way not just because he thinks it is the most correct way to love, but more so, because it is the only way he knows to love. Whole-heartedly, thoroughly, selflessly. The same way breathing and blinking is the only way to live, a natural state of being which one can’t question or learn to do differently.

The third person to teach me this was Hajime’s mum.

She taught me, that loving in this way is a choice.

Back in middle school, there was a time Hajime and I would get into these especially bad fights. They always began the same way: Hajime nagging me about something I didn’t like being nagged about, me getting annoyed and snapping something mean at Hajime. Eventually, I would feel bad and head to Hajime’s house to whine for forgiveness and Hajime (rightfully so) would refuse to let me in. I would sit outside on his front step in the aftermath: miserable, cold, waiting and hoping to be forgiven.

Each night this happened, Hajime’s mum would quietly slip out to sit with me.

She would offer me something warm: a cup of tea, a jacket smelling of Hajime, a hug tight and reassuring. I used to find it strange that she was so nice to me, especially since I was usually in the wrong and her son in the right when we fought, but still without fail, she would sit with me, un-judging, un-accusing. Some nights we would just sit in silence staring up at the stars. Other times - most times - we would talk. About life, about Hajime, about things we shouldn’t say when we get upset at our friends.

It was in those talks that I first learnt, that loving the way you and Hajime love, is not as easy as either of you made it seem. You made it look like a refined technique, the way a chef cooks or an ace spikes. Hajime made it seem instinctual, like something you just had to be born with, a second nature I couldn’t just replicate.

Mrs Iwaizumi on the other hand, would point out, well, but Tooru-kun, do you know how much effort it takes to be giving? To be observant of what others want and need? To be selfless enough to give up something of your own – time, money, a portion of your food, an item that you love – just for someone else who may or may not love you back the same way too?

Back then, we had been talking about Hajime, but hintingly, I think Mrs Iwaizumi had been referring to you too, in the way adults often try to make children see slowly how much their parents do for them.

Mum, you might not want to hear this, but you and Hajime are more similar than you think. You are both protectors: you both do your best to keep everyone around you safe, happy and healthy, albeit in vastly different ways, with vastly different philosophies. You always appear tough on the outside, always taking things in stride but I know, there are times too you wish you had a version of you to be there for yourself. Hajime too, is so outwardly strong, so steady and reliable, that people often forget he isn’t invincible, that he isn’t actually untouchable. 

And that was the thing Mum, I think the thing Mrs Iwaizumi had always been trying to teach me: people who love tirelessly, selflessly, are human too. That just like anyone else can be worn out and down, cut by words and pained by actions.

Mum, just like you, Hajime is human too.

He too, can be hurt in ways that are not immediately reparable, not immediately forgivable.

***

Iwaizumi Hajime awakes on the sixth day of the Tokyo Olympics to an odd sense of peace.

Sunlight drifts through the curtains in a soft, golden hue. Across the room, Kuroo’s light snores rise and fall in rhythm. When Hajime rolls onto his side, his eyes adjust to the darkness to make out the items lined up neatly on his bedside table: a glass of water, a tube of vitamins, his phone, keys and wallet. His blankets are tightly tucked, carefully wrapped around his bare shoulders, too warm to be done by himself. 

Tooru. Hajime closes his eyes, buries his nose into his blankets, breathing in the residual smell of his boyfriend once present and now absent. Tooru last week, Tooru yesterday, Tooru last night-

-  Tooru’s fingers carding through his hair, palms guiding him gently, firmly, back into the bed. Strong legs encircling their hips impossibly closer together, lips burning kiss after incinerating kiss down the strip of Hajime’s neck-

- Tooru, yesterday: soulmate, partner, pillar of assurance, source of unshakable safety, blending into every other version of Oikawa Tooru who has ever awoken next to Iwaizumi Hajime: murmurs of laughter against the call of San Juan birds; slow hands traversing thighs pressing kisses over lips under the rumbling of Hiroo trains; chests heaving and falling in unison, heels hooked, breathes caught beneath the covers of the Californian dusk  –

5:30am.

Hajime blinks blearily, eyes wincing as he picks up his phone to turn off his alarm.

For a moment, he no longer cares. The filming of Volleyball Beyond Borders is done - and he has survived it. They have survived it, together, because Tooru was with him, careful, patient, attentive, loving and Hajime no longer cares that they are meant to be low-key, that there are reasons why he hasn’t told the world about them, that there are complications to what would happen if they did so. All he wants is to hear Tooru’s voice, to have Tooru next to him again, to tell Tooru: fuck it, who cares what the world thinks, I love you, I love you, I love you, just please never let me fall asleep without you by my side again -

He scrolls down his notifications, searching for Tooru’s name in his most recent messages, ready to hit call.

Which is when he freezes, noticing instead, a series of new messages from Tooru’s mother.

***

Mum,

We, our family, feel strongly, deeply, openly.

You and Nii-chan are similar - you can't hide how you feel, and when something makes you upset, you will openly express so. Me, as you know, I am more like Dad: I stave off my feelings behind snarky remarks, pretend I don’t care behind arrogant facades. But really, I care about everything deeply, and after a while all those emotions bottled up can burst in a destructive temper. 

Because we Oikawas feel too much, too openly; we also are too quick to distrust. To protect our own open emotions. To grasp some control around the beating of our loose, sleeve-worn hearts.

Nii-chan used to joke that it is a privilege to be trusted by an Oikawa.

But in turn, I think it is a privilege to know how an Iwaizumi is truly feeling.

See, just like you and I, Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who feels just as deeply, just strongly too. He just doesn’t always show it. Especially when he thinks showing it might hurt someone else. We raise barriers to protect ourselves. Iwaizumi Hajime raises barriers to protect others. 

Mum, what did you think was going to happen when you sent Hajime those text messages?

Did you think Hajime would have just ignored them? Just go about his day and do nothing about them? Reply back to you arguing back the way I used to as a teenager? Sending you back insults in dramatics the way Nii-chan would to her ex-boyfriends? 

Well, I think he did really what you would have done if you got text messages of those sort:

He cried. 

This might be a difficult story for you to hear. It was painful for me too when I first heard it, because I hadn't known about it when it had happened, not then. Hajime hadn't told me he had sat on the cold bathroom floor for most of that morning, struggling and failing to collect his cool again. He hadn’t granted me privilege to this knowledge: not when it happened, not in the many subsequent times he had broken down that day, not even when I eventually found out, too late, about your texts. This was something he mentioned to me months after, casually, conversationally, like a footnote he had tried to pretend never existed.

Like a footnote he had tried to erase.

***

Anxiety makes you stupid.

It short-circuits at your logical capacities, makes you physically incapable of performing the act of thinking, clouds your brain into a slow, panicked fog. It makes you either want to run and run and run and never return – or alternatively, freeze. To sink into a spot, muscles tense and painful, unable to do anything but panic, head buried as far as possible in the sand and freeze.

It passes after a while, as it always has.

When Hajime finally pulls himself up and shakily straightens himself against the sink, he feels exhausted, as if he has run a marathon. Breathing heavily, he leans forward, closes his eyes and pressed his forehead against the mirror for a few silent seconds, willing himself to stop trembling.

He looks up at his pale, shivering reflection. He hates that this has become a norm, hates that it is happening often enough that he has started feeling numb in the aftermath.

Brushing his teeth is a slow ordeal with his limbs feeling like lead and the tiring tightness of anxiety slowly creeping again in his chest. His mind flickers back to the texts, even as he tries to push it aside, tries to tell himself he is running late as is.

By the time he spits the toothpaste out into the sink, Tooru has called once and he has ignored it once.

When he steps into the cold of his morning shower, he lowers his head to rest against the tiles, letting water trickle down his back. The drying of his hair, the buttoning on of his uniform, the making of his bed – the routine, ordinary things feel fumbled, heavy, difficult to manage in his worn out state.

He checks his phone on his way down to find the location for his first morning appointment with Atsumu. Tooru has texted him in messages so gentle, so careful, that Hajime is sure Tooru can already sense that something is wrong:

Baby, are you okay?

Was just calling to ask if you wanted to meet up later - I think we have a free, overlapping block at 9pm today!

Hajime takes a deep breath. The thought of Tooru’s presence, reassuring just an hour ago, now grapples a cold, strange fear over Hajime’s chest. He replies carefully, trying to not sound too amiss:

I’m sorry Tooru, it’s been a busy morning. Will let you know later if we can meet up?

Tooru turns online instantaneously, replying:

No worries Hajime, we’ll talk later :)

For a moment, Hajime is relieved. Relieved that Tooru is just going to leave it there, not going to say anything further, not going to prod him more on what he can tell is something amiss.

Which is when Tooru adds:

For me, be kind to yourself, even if just for today, okay?

I love you Hajime.

And remember: I am always, always here for you.

Hajime could have made it to his appointment with Atsumu with five minutes to spare.

Instead, he ends up late because he has to close himself into a bathroom stall for fifteen, hands trembling so hard that he has to grip them into tight fists as he presses them against his eyes, his breaths choking as white hot panic floods through his body.

And fuck, he thinks numbly, angrily, as he chases and fails to catch each gasp, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you, breathe, Hajime, just fucking breathe – because this isn’t the reaction he should have to his boyfriend professing his unwavering support for him, this isn’t the reaction he should have to the person he loves most in the world saying I love you so sincerely and vulnerably to him – but it is there, the feeling, horrible, heavy, sordid, so sharp, so cutting that it hurts, it physically hurts in a thudding ache over his chest, so unbearable that he has to sink into a kneel, digging his nails deep in his forearm, his forehead pressed furiously against the door until after a blurred passing of uncertain time, he can finally sit up again, his breathing still laboured, his hand still trembling as he lifts it to rest against the door.

Hazily, he acknowledges with a cold shiver of trepidation, that it is a new feeling, a new feeling he that has sunk its ugly claws upon him since this morning, one that has single-handedly made every breakdown he’s had today worse than every other breakdown he’s had from the past few days, one that had latched on him since the morning, one he can’t quite name or recognise. 

A feeling that he is doing something very wrong and that because of him, something terrible he can’t stop is about to happen.

***

Iwaizumi is distracted today.

It isn’t hard to tell – Iwaizumi is usually so focused, so dedicated, so thorough with his closely paid attention to detail, that anything lower than his usual standard is shockingly obvious. Before a game, he is usually the right balance of cheerful and professional, sharp and relaxed – easing Atsumu into his pre-game confidence, all while working carefully through any injuries or exercises that need to be done for his best physical condition.

Today, Iwaizumi is quieter. Less cheerful, more tired, like as if a faded shell of his usual self. He gives Atsumu a wane, almost forced smile when he hurries into their appointment (late! Iwaizumi is never late!) and asks Atsumu to sit. The smile disappears the minute he turns away to start pulling out the tape and bandages.

More than distracted, Iwaizumi seems upset.

Curiously, Atsumu wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that Iwaizumi Hajime had slept with Oikawa Tooru last night.

It had been a complete accident, the way Atsumu had found out about it. Toward the end of the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks, Atsumu had joined a bunch of Argentinians and Spaniards for a game of pool first, in the bar, and then, when ushered by the bartender, a floor up into the rooftop. There was a good view of the street from where the pool table sat by the windows, and when Atsumu had glanced down onto the streets, whisky in one hand, cue stick in the other, he had seen them:

Oikawa and Iwaizumi stumbling out onto the wide, empty streets outside the bar, laughing.

Atsumu, curious, had leaned in closer, pressing his nose against the window.

He hadn’t noticed it at first: but they had been holding hands. It hadn’t been obvious from the way Iwaizumi had his shoulder pressed against Oikawa’s, the melding together of their clothes concealing the detail of whose hands were where. With a rain jacket hood pulled over his head, Atsumu wouldn’t have recognised Iwaizumi if he hadn’t just spent hours that day watching Iwaizumi film Volleyball Beyond Borders.

It was only when they walked forward, their bodies parting slightly, that Atsumu’s brain short-circuited, his eyes widening as he noticed that their hands were linked. Before he could process what it meant, Oikawa Tooru was tugging Iwaizumi Hajime back toward him, smiling as he pressed their bodies together, loped his arms around Iwaizumi’s shoulders and –

Atsumu’s mouth fell open as Oikawa Tooru kissed Iwaizumi Hajime.

And whoa – fuck, what? Atsumu put down his whiskey, blinked once, blinked twice, shook his head hard and then stared again – but there was no mistake – it wasn’t just a peck of the lips, or a brush against the cheek – it was a proper, eager kiss, the longing and heat between the two men obvious even from where Atsumu was watching two floors up.

When Oikawa finally pulled back, Atsumu’s stunned brain almost expected Iwaizumi to do something – well, Iwaizumi. Like yell at Oikawa or shove him in the shoulder or wrestle him down until his head was fixed under his arm. But instead, all Iwaizumi did was flick Oikawa on the forehead, a gesture Atsumu had come to realise was affectionate after a whole day of watching Iwaizumi interact with Oikawa –

“Dude, dude –“ Atsumu gasped as he tapped on the shoulder of one of the Argentinians nearest to him – a libero named Paulo. He hadn’t meant to gossip, he hadn’t meant to spread rumours - he had just meant to share the shock of his accidental observation with someone and Paulo was just so happened to be the closest person standing there. “You won’t believe what I’ve just seen, Oikawa, he was kissing Iwaizumi –“

“What.” Paulo dropped his cue stick, staring at Atsumu in shock. “Oikawa? Our Tooru Oikawa? And Iwaizumi… your athletic trainer?”

“Yes!” Atsumu blabbered, waving his hands frantically. “Your Oikawa kissing our Iwaizumi. I swear I just saw him and they were holding hands and then Iwaizumi flicked Oikawa on the forehead, which well, coming from Iwaizumi, is essentially a second kiss, and –“

“What? Where?”

“There!” Atsumu scrambled back to the window, pointing out. But of course, because it was always Atsumu’s luck, the streets were empty when Paulo rushed to the window and stared out, instead into nothing but rain on the tiled pavements.

“Are you sure that’s what you saw, Atsumu?” Paulo drew back, raising an eyebrow. “I mean – I don’t think it sounds like something Tooru would do.”

“No – I swear – I had just seen them.” Atsumu groaned. “And why? Why wouldn’t it be something Oikawa Tooru would do? I mean –“ He began frustratedly, tired of constantly being discounted, always not being believed. “Don’t you think Oikawa seemed at least a little flirty with Iwaizumi today?”

“Iwaizumi?” Paulo’s mouth pulled into a frown. “Atsumu, Tooru has a girlfriend. And Tooru isn’t the kind of person to cheat.”

For the second time that night, Atsumu’s mouth fell open in shock.

“I thought…” He spluttered. “I thought Oikawa was single. I mean, he’s never mentioned dating anyone…”

Paulo shrugged. “True, Tooru doesn’t mention it to the media. But trust me,” Paulo knocked a fist twice across his own chest. “I’ve tried getting Tooru to hook up with girls we meet at bars in San Juan for over three years now and he never ever even shows the mildest of interest.”

“Because…he is taken?” Atsumu’s brain still can’t comprehend the conflicting pieces of information he has just received in his brain. Oikawa kissing Iwaizumi. Oikawa having a girlfriend. Iwaizumi, with all his integrity and honesty, who would hate becoming the cheated with. “How do you know it’s because he has a girlfriend? What if he just wasn’t interested in the girls at the bar?”

“I asked him and he told me!” Paulo insisted, waving his hands, looking increasingly frustrated. “The first time I tried to get him to pick up girls with me and he said no, I asked if he already had a novia and he said yes. A novia, not a novio.” He emphasised again, at the look of confusion on Atsumu’s face. “A girlfriend, not a boyfriend.”

“And you are sure he isn’t – “

“No,” Paulo looked almost upset with Atsumu at this point. “I mean, he would point out girls he thought I could talk to, mention his novia whenever I asked and joke about ex-girlfriends… so I am pretty sure he isn’t one of those… you know, he definitely isn’t…“

And then Paulo had fallen into a hush, like as if it was forbidden to say the word gay and Atsumu had fallen silent, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had gone in, suddenly uneasy with the implication he may have accidentally landed Oikawa, and potentially Iwaizumi in, if Paulo really believed him, which is why he had said, quickly, reassuringly:

“Look – the streets were dark, so you must be right – I must have seen someone else.” Atsumu clapped a hand on Paulo’s shoulder. “Come, let me get you another drink yeah – what would you like?”

After he had bought Paulo a second drink and chatted enough to steer conversation away, he made an excuse to use the bathrooms and instead, ducked out to get some fresh air. Outside, he frowned as he did some googling, on a whim: Oikawa Tooru girlfriend – and sure enough, there it was, a flood of news about Oikawa having been spotted recently spending a lot of time with the Argentinian women’s team’s Maria Sando, including photos of them strolling on the beach, leaving a restaurant glaring at the paparazzi, faraway shots of them chatting at a bar –

But Atsumu knew what he saw – and more accurately, he knew what he had seen for the whole day. Forget Oikawa Tooru – realistically, he doesn’t know Oikawa Tooru well enough to know whether he had been flirty or friendly – but Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi Hajime, he has known for almost a year now – and if anything, he knows Iwaizumi.

He knows Iwaizumi doesn’t flirt around carelessly, that Iwaizumi doesn’t play with the feelings of others recklessly. More than that, he knows that Iwaizumi is careful – genuine, friendly but cautious on where the boundaries lie.

And because of that, Atsumu knows, he has never seen Iwaizumi behave to anyone else the way he does to Oikawa Tooru. No, not with the way that Iwaizumi smiled at Oikawa, fond and captured, exasperated but amused; not with the way he was always watching Oikawa when he thought no one was looking like, like as if it was a struggle to look anywhere else; not with the way Iwaizumi fought back a laugh at every second joke Oikawa cracked, always stifling back exactly how funny he found Oikawa; not with the way Iwaizumi teased Oikawa, merciless and delighted, like as if always hoping that Oikawa would rise to his baits too.

And then there was the trust, the clear lack of reservation, in the way Iwaizumi moved around Oikawa. It hadn’t been obvious at first, but once Iwaizumi had gotten over his stage fright, it had been blindingly clear - on the court, in the training room, on the set, on the benches – an almost uninhibited sense of being that Atsumu has never seen Iwaizumi display with anyone else in the team, the kind you have when you know someone well enough, or love someone deeply enough that –

Atsumu hadn’t even realised he had been walking, walking to the direction of the Japanese Mens’ dorm rooms, until his feet found themselves by the pathway turning toward its entrance. It was so rainy, the streetlights so muted by the trees, that he would have almost missed him, if he hadn’t spotted the hood of a familiar rain jacket over a figure too tall to be Iwaizumi, over a headful of recognisable waves –

It was Oikawa Tooru, leaving the Japanese men’s dorm rooms.

Wearing the rain jacket Iwaizumi Hajime had been wearing.

Atsumu ducked behind a tree, biting down an inadvertent gasp. He waited, listened to the footsteps pass him, and then dared a glance out.

He caught Oikawa’s expression right before he turned the corner: distant, wary, head lowered. His hair was messy, shirt rumpled, cheeks flushed, eyes dark - very much the look of someone who leaving a scene they would not want to be caught leaving -

Oh my god, Atusumu thought numbly, I think I just caught Oikawa Tooru having an affair.

And then, in a terrible second realisation:

Fuck, I wonder if Iwaizumi knew about his girlfriend before he slept with him.

And judging by how upset Iwaizumi seemed the morning after, Atsumu suspects that Iwaizumi, if he hadn’t known before, knew now.

Because surely, anyone would be upset to have secrets kept from them right?

***

Tooru calls Hajime a second time after Atsumu’s appointment, while Hajime is sitting in his office.

Hajime ignores it a second time.

He turns the phone over so he can’t see Tooru’s name flashing on his screen, so anxiety won’t continue tightening over his chest, like as if it isn’t already as he clicks into the Volleyball Without Borders trailer that had been released this morning.

The one Tooru’s mother too, had clearly seen.

On camera, he looks serious, focused and much steadier than he feels. Next to him, Tooru is breathtakingly handsome, endlessly charismatic. In almost every shot, he is looking, smiling, laughing at Hajime, the affection in his eyes barely contained. His body leans toward Hajime’s. His eyes are patient, attentive, warm, caring.

Never once leaving Hajime’s face.

Hajime pauses the video, his heart hammering in his chest.

He should have known. (How? An insistent voice pipes up. How could you have known?) (How? A second voice snarls. How could you have not known?)

He opens his personal email inbox. Finds, and downloads a document:

Oikawa Tooru – Master Report.

There are hundreds of pages, in reverse chronology, but Hajime scrolls to the very beginning.

The year 2013, when Tooru’s parents had first cut him off.

***

[12:53am]
Hajime, do you know how exciting it is to finally see my own son on Japanese television? To finally, see him do an international feature in a language I understand?

Do you also know how intensely horrifying and genuinely scary it was to realise that the person he is doing it is with you?

***

Iwaizumi, Kuroo realises, has missed a deadline.

Which is bizarre because Iwaizumi never misses deadlines.

When Kuroo had returned to his room late last night, Iwaizumi had been fast asleep and dead to the world, barely stirring when Kuroo accidentally knocked over his backpack rummaging for his floss. By the time Kuroo awoke at 8 in the morning, Iwaizumi had long gone from the room, which was not out of the ordinary given what a morning person the man was.

Iwaizumi was due to send Kuroo documents in the morning for the Volleyball Association’s records, and Kuroo had assumed Iwaizumi was getting them sorted. But when 10am comes and goes with said documents unreceived, and the treatment room where Iwaizumi is meant to be treating Hinata is empty, Kuroo starts asking around for when everyone else had last seen him.

Interestingly, it slowly dawns on Kuroo that no one seems to know where Iwaizumi had disappeared to after the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks last night.

“Haven’t seen him this morning, last I saw him was last night at the bar talking to you,” Aran shrugged. “Thought he had left with you?”

“Maybe he went to play pool with the Argentinians?” Hoshiumi offered thoughtfully. “I saw Atsumu and Bokuto join them for a game.”

“Oh no, Iwa didn’t join the pool game, but I thought he had brought a girl back to his room,” Bokuto’s whisper was excited and conspirator-like. “I left back to my room early from the bar last night, and I thought I heard two sets of footsteps going into his room when he came back.”

“Did Iwaizumi leave the bar with someone last night?” Atsumu, usually a gossip-hound, looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable with the topic. “I have no clue man, nu-uh, didn’t see a thing, no idea who or what he did or got up to, zero, zilch.”

“No, I didn’t see Iwaizumi leave with anyone last night – but I thought he was getting along really well with the film crew so maybe he hung with some new friends!” Hinata offered brightly. “Maybe he’s in his office now though – he told me he would run late for my appointment.”

The office Hinata refers to is a small room set up as a temporary office for the support staff. There, Kuroo finds Iwaizumi’s chair empty and his laptop left unattended, a cursor blinking mid-sentence on a word document.

Kuroo hadn’t meant to peek.

Lucas’s words from last night, had got him thinking, but he trusted Iwaizumi. Sure, the idea that Iwaizumi might be secretly colluding with Oikawa Tooru as his athletic trainer was strange; the suggestion that Iwaizumi might be secretly giving out Japanese Team secrets to an Argentinian setter was scary, and more than that; the inference that Iwaizumi must have lied to Kuroo about how closely he knew Oikawa Tooru was unnerving.

But Kuroo trusts Iwaizumi.

Not just because Iwaizumi is adored by Team Japan enough that more players attend their social functions and optional trainings when Iwaizumi is around; not just because Iwaizumi has proven himself as a dedicated, loyal, caring team member and an individual who is nothing but honest and full of integrity; but also because Iwaizumi is Kuroo’s friend -

Which is when Kuroo’s eyes catch on the name of the word document unmistakably displayed on the screen:

Oikawa Tooru – master report

***

[12:58am]
I have done my best to try and learn to be accepting of you and Tooru’s ways.

But it is one thing to associate with such unnatural things in private, another to flaunt such things publicly.  

Coaches have dropped players for lesser reasons. Do you know how reckless this is, Hajime? How much danger you are putting Tooru in, not just to his career, but also to him?

We both know Tooru is someone who will do whatever it takes to go after the things he loves. For volleyball, we know he's done everything to build his life up again: learn a new language, make new freinds, live in a new country.

All of that, just to come to this.

Do we really need to learn how far Tooru could go to destroy everything he's built - just for you?

***

Around the corner from his office, Hajime sits on the edge of a bench, phone pressed against his ear. One of his hands is trembling again. He hates it, he hates that he is like this, he hates that he had dug this hole for himself. He closes his hand into a tight fist against his knee.

“To me, the Volleyball Beyond Borders trailer is a little obvious, Hajime, I won’t lie.” Sofia’s words are a horrible drum of truth against his ear. “It’s the way Tooru looks at you. The way you both smile. How genuine Tooru is with you. How clearly fond, proud and protective he is of you.”

Hajime’s fingernails dig against his palm. Protective. He remembers his breakdown yesterday morning, how he had gasped for breath, scrambling backward from Tooru’s touch. The way Tooru had looked, helpless worry written over his face, hands hovering over Hajime’s, wanting to do anything, anything to help. The calm, careful strategies Tooru had put in place even before Hajime had fully recovered. Tooru, never leaving his side again for the rest of the shoot, a watchful eye always rested on Hajime’s side. Protective. Protective.

(It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s your fault if anything at all happens to him –)

“It’s not his fault,” Hajime hears himself begin to say aloud to Sofia, like a disembodied voice he has no control over. “I’m sorry, it’s not his fault, Tooru hadn’t meant to…”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Sofia soothes. She laughs a little. “Having seen how Tooru acts around you normally, I think he’s dialled himself back already. Plus, I am Tooru’s social media manager, I know like the back of my hand how he acts toward most people in his interviews, enough to be able to see the difference when he is doing an interview with his boyfriend. To the casual fan who hasn’t watched every video of Oikawa Tooru there is out there in the world though, it probably doesn’t look like you’re anything but close friends.”

“Right.” While calculated to make him feel better, Sofia’s words do nothing but make the panic start to rise further in Hajime’s chest. From how Tooru normally acts? Does Tooru normally act that obviously?

“And yeah sure, there are some fans who have commented on what excellent chemistry the both of you have, or some fans who have started asking if you are really just friends.” Sofia continues, “But honestly, if anyone accuses you of being more than friends, then well, welcome to just be another day of normal social media shenanigans with Oikawa Tooru. It’s the same way the internet has shipped him with Maria Sando. The hostess of FM1 radio. That Indonesian football player. Any woman he has apparently occupied the same room with honestly.”

Hajime clears his throat, trying to ease the anxiety that is beginning to enjoin his otherwise still-steady voice. “Okay sure. And when is the actual video getting released again?”

“This afternoon.” Sofia answers before adding seriously: “Hajime, it will be tricky to cancel the release of the video so late now, but I guarantee you that it is definitely still an option if it is causing you too much stress.” She hesitates, and then adds more gently: “Have you talked to Tooru about this yet? If you do, I’m sure he will pull the plug on it right away.”

“I – um - no.” The thought of speaking to Tooru fills him with nothing but panic and guilt. “Give me a moment Sofia – I just need to check something, I’ll call you back.”

Hajime hangs up and stares out blankly at the slowly busying volleyball courts he is sitting by. Teams and athletes are starting to hurry through as the games are starting to be set up, a reminder too of how behind schedule he is himself. He owes Kuroo a report; he is already running ten minutes late on his appointment on Hinata. He cannot think, not with the amount of panic starting to glaze over, and it’s horrible, being so anxious all of the time because his mind isn’t working, it isn’t functioning –

…this is a near perfect opportunity I would tell Tooru to take… It probably doesn’t look like anything to the casual fan…

- the anxiety coiled around his chest is tightening again. Sharply, he forces himself to stand up to his feet, unable to bear the thought of losing it again, not now, not when he has already broken down twice today, not when he is on this impossibly tight schedule, not when the games, the health, the hopes of his athletes are weighed on him -

Do you know how reckless, careless and dangerous this is? How much danger you are putting Tooru in, not just to his career, but also to him?

He finds his way into a quieter corridor by the side of the courts. He forces himself to inhale deeply once and then twice, letting himself lean back on a wall for support.

Have you talked to Tooru about this yet? If you do, I’m sure he will pull the plug on it right away…

He thinks of Tooru yesterday. Worried. Protective. Holding him tightly on the balcony, in the room, like as if they would dissolve and disappear if he just let go.

He thinks of Tooru years ago. Eyes wide with fear, grim with resolute. Staring hard at him as he stood in the whirling snow storm saying go. Please, Iwa-chan, go. Tooru after, collapsing into his arms, bruises scattered over his cheek, trembling from head to toe, trying and failing not to cry.

So you’re making him choose again? He’s already made that choice once, and what did that bring? You already know what he’s going to do, is it even worth asking again?

Guilt, guilt is the feeling he hadn’t recognised before, the feeling that implodes in his chest, so overwhelming that the weight in his chest isn’t just tight but painful, painful like as if his muscles have constricted upon themselves, and fuck he had been trying to avoid this, he was trying to be normal, to be fine, to be okay -

All you do is ruin things. This is Oikawa Tooru we are talking about for goodness sake. Oikawa Tooru, who could very much be with anyone he wants, anyone who isn’t you, someone he could show off to the world without all of these issues -

He jolts when his phone rings again. It is Sofia. He forces himself to take a few more deep breaths, before picking up the phone in what he hopes is his most normal voice:

“Hey. Sorry, I just needed to check something earlier but –“

“It’s okay.” Sofia says. Her voice is gentle, firm, but filled with a renewed purpose. “Look, I thought about it more. My job isn’t just to advise on the best decision for Tooru for his public relations: but also to make sure Tooru doesn’t make public decisions he will regret.”

“Okay.” Hajime’s brain struggles to process what Sofia is saying as it makes attempts to flee into flights of panic. He is glad Sofia doesn’t expected him to say anything more as she continues:

“I know I said I think you should talk to Tooru about your concerns, but I also understand that you might be reluctant to do that. I think we both know that Tooru, being Tooru, might either get too worried and cancel the whole Volleyball Without Borders release on a whim, without considering all the options. Or want to relegate that decision back to whatever you think is best, which I get the sense that you aren’t sure of either.”

“Yeah.” Each individual word Sofia is saying makes sense, but Hajime’s brain is too foggy to tie them cohesively into sentences which hold meaning. Still, he catches enough words to understand what Sofia is saying, especially as she helpfully adds for context:

“Like last time, when Tooru chose to ignore my advice to mention you in his tweet, which led to the whole Twitter blow up that started this all anyway: I still feel bad about having let Tooru make a risky decision which I knew was fuelled purely by emotion rather than a best outcome.”

“Which made me realise,” Sofia continues, “that something important I had not been doing enough of, is talking to you.” Hajime blinks, caught slightly off-guard. “Especially as Tooru has made it clear that of course, you are a non-negotiable factor in all of his PR decisions.”

A non-negotiable. The phrase is terrifying to him for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. “What do you mean?” He manages to ask.

“I mean,” Sofia’s tone is serious and business like. “If I am to advise Oikawa Tooru well, it means I have to be advising Iwaizumi Hajime well too. I know Tooru is in a game and can’t join our call now – but let’s run you through the options first. Let me make sure you know of the options, and I’ll run Tooru through the same options later while you are occupied. Then, you two can discuss in the short shared free time you have before your game, and we can make a decision together on how to manage Volleyball Without Borders as soon as possible. Sound good?”

Hajime takes a deep breath. Non-negotiable, he thinks numbly. Sofia thinks he is a non-negotiable in Tooru’s life. How many people has Tooru made that clear to? How many opportunities has Tooru turned down or been denied then, when Hajime, his non-negotiable hasn’t been able to budge for that negotiable thing?

Hajime thinks of Tooru’s mother again. The messages from the morning.

“Let’s do it.” Hajime says, as quietly as he can. He takes a deep inhale. “Tell me what the options are Sofia.”

***

[1:03am]

True love is doing what is best for the person you love.

Not what is best for yourself.  

I can't force you to do things you don't want to, Hajime.

But I hope this is something you will think carefully about and never forget.

***

Mum,

I don't think I've told you about what happened in the year after I came out to you and Dad, have I?

It was the year I had very nearly quit volleyball.

Despite what one might think, the starting pay for a young reserve player in a professional volleyball team isn’t much. It was barely enough to scrap through paying rent in San Juan, let alone living expenses. I was 19. You and Dad had stopped talking to me. You and Dad had stopped supporting me financially.

Because my Spanish was atrocious, and because my day job as a volleyball player took up so much time, the options I had for part-time jobs were limited. I ended up working weekends and weekday nights at a small Japanese restaurant run by an Indonesian couple (the food wasn’t authentic but still tasted good). I was too clumsy to be a good waiter but Mr and Mrs Sulaiman liked me and kept me despite the number of sake bottles I broke in my first month there. In the early mornings, I worked at a warehouse hauling crates of wine in and out of trucks. That I was better at: all it took were strong arms and a good stamina.

Still, my volleyball suffered as a result. I was too tired from working part-time to be playing well and playing too poorly to not work part-time. Vaguely, I knew I was stretching myself too thin, but it’s harder to realise the reality when you’re in the situation yourself. It was much easier to just think I wasn’t enough, that somehow, I could work myself out of the situation, as I always thought I could.

Every month, Hajime would quietly transfer me enough money to pay for half of my rent.

Every night when we called, he would tell me: quit your warehouse job Tooru. I’ll pay the rest for you.

Whenever this happened, I would protest and try to send the money back. Yes, Hajime still received allowances from his father, but his father was retired, Hajime was paying for college on top of his own rent, and also working two part-time jobs himself. He needed the money just as much as I did.

Still, every month, without fail, Hajime would transfer me the money and nag at me to quit hauling crates at the warehouse. See, even that he had thought about carefully on my behalf: he knew I enjoyed the friendship I had formed with the Sulaimans, and that the restaurant job was good respite from the stresses at my day job. Even if it was better-paid and shorter hours, the warehouse job was too physically demanding and unsuitable for an athlete whose body was meant to be recovering during his off-practice hours.

It took me about eight months of torture before I finally took Hajime’s advice and quit at the warehouse. Hajime continued sending me rent money and I continued protesting for about two years before I finally made it far enough in the athletic world to quit working for the Sulaimans.

I know you sometimes think of those years we did not speak as the years that I chose Hajime over you. But honestly, I just see them as the years in which my existence as a man who was in love with another man – someone I always was, am and could have been, Hajime or no Hajime - finally came out of hiding and into full, painful incongruence with your and Dad’s views.

Throughout those years, I told myself constantly that I was fine. Of course, I cried, and of course, it hurt whenever I was reminded, like when the Sulaiman kids came home for Christmas, or after Hajime, his dad and I would have dinner back in Sendai, or when my teammates’ families showed up cheering for games. It made me sad that you refused to let me talk to Takeru, that you and Dad never picked up my calls or let me visit, that I had to hear about family graduations and weddings through secret calls with Nee-chan. But for the most part, I thought I had held up surprisingly well considering the circumstances. I had thought that I was okay. That I could live with it.

It was only years later, when grandma passed and you finally, finally let me back home to visit. At the funeral, you hugged me and broke down crying. When you admitted between tears, that you had missed me, you had missed me so much, I had cried and it was only then that I felt this terrible, horrible sadness I hadn’t even realised I had carried around with me lift.

When I told Hajime about it that night, he had smiled: soft and relieved, happy and sad, all in all unsurprised.

“I mean, you have always been a family person after all.” Hajime had said simply, and it was strange, because I had never even thought myself as that before until he said it aloud so matter-of-factly.

I had wondered for months after about how Hajime had known what even I hadn’t known, until one day I idly glanced through tht training and health records Hajime had been taking of me, the ones he’s made ever since he first learnt how to in his first internship in athletic training.

It was then that I realised Hajime had carefully documented week after week, month after month, year after year, in factual medical objectiveness how much being estranged from you and the rest of our family had affected my physical and mental wellbeing, his notes so neat, so thorough, so matter-of-fact that it was almost painful reading back, realising all of the emotional decisions he made in extrapolation from the cold, hard facts he saw, the honest medical knowledge he applied.

Mum, I don’t think you were the only one who thought I had chosen Hajime over our family in those years.

And contrary to what you might think, I don’t think Hajime felt victorious about it either.

I think he felt guilty.

I think he felt responsible.

Notes:

*Gives Iwa a nice tight hug, hands him to Oiks and nods them toward a quiet place they can sit together in peaceful silence*
*Turns to clap 'Tsumu on the back*

Honestly, this took me so long because (1) I had written and wanted to release 3 chapters that were best read together in a go initially (do y'all prefer frequent releases or less frequent but more content in a go??) and (2) there is a shift in tone / theme in this chapter I had planned for ages but couldn't figure out how to execute without being afraid of it messing up the story!

Rest assured, I will be working on the next chap (trust me: there are many, MANY drafts sitting in my to-edit folder!)

Let me know what you think as always! :)

Chapter 8: Time-Out

Summary:

Something has happened, Tooru knows. Something has happened to Hajime that he hasn’t told him about.
Or,
While Iwaizumi Hajime gets the interesting text messages, Oikawa Tooru grapples with the strangeness of his day.

Notes:

Introducing new collectable characteeeeerr....José Blanco!
(And more quality time with guest star Paulo the Argentinian Libero)

FYI this chapter overlaps timeline wise with Iwa's happenings in chapter 7, if that helps anyone keep up with the plot.

Hope you enjoy!

It was a situation they had been in a million times.

Arms scorching, legs burning, board reading a menacing score. Not always but often, the final time-out was but a false relief, a mere delay of what was to come.  

Standing by the court before the final play, all eyes in the team would turn to look to Tooru.

It was not coordinated, Tooru suspected, nor something his teammates themselves had realised they were doing. He too had never known before making captain, how utterly crushing, how intensely isolating being the person who had the final say in the crux of the moment was. How hard it was to stand strong, pretending nothing was wrong under everyone’s hopeful, desperate gazes. How difficult it was to put on a genuine smile under the eyes that wanted, begged to be convinced that they could pull off a miracle. To be believed, almost ridiculously, nonsensically, that Tooru could somehow form the words, the plans, the play that would turn the tides on a losing game. 

At those times, Tooru looked in turn, to the only person he could.

And Iwaizumi Hajime would always be looking right back.

It never mattered how exhausted Hajime was then – how much shorter or sharper his breathes or heavier and slower his movements. With the team, he was always straight-backed, a fiery wipe of sweat off his brow, a confident shout to his team to liven up. His energy was infectious, his determination inspiring - a born mentor, a natural motivator – and with his simple, seemingly impenetrable steadiness, Hajime would look at Tooru, his gaze unwavering, re-assuring, knowing; and he would clasp his hands together and announce:

“So captain? Got a plan?”

“Of course, Iwa-chan, of course I do.” It was a play, pantomime – because even if Hajime knew Tooru really had no plan, even if Tooru knew Hajime had really lost all hope of winning – there was a routine: Hajime prompted, Tooru responded. Hajime awoke the troops, Tooru led them to battle. Hajime defied the odds, Tooru followed.

Through it all, Hajime’s gaze would burn with a message louder than any words spoken aloud:

Count on me, Tooru, count on me.

Tooru, too, would stare back, wanting, willing:

Count on me too, Hajime. Count on me too.

***

Mum,

The texts you sent were the spark.

Hajime took the flint and turned it into a flame.

***

Something has happened, Tooru knows. Something has happened to Hajime that he hasn’t told him about.

He had gone to sleep on the fifth day of the Olympics, comforted by having seen Hajime the way he was in front of their friends: happy, confident, comfortable; unnerved by having seen Hajime the way he was when they were alone: cracked, tired, vulnerable. When he awakes on the sixth day of the Olympics, he decides he needs to get to the root of whatever it is that is bothering Hajime.

He calls the minute he’s conscious enough to be speaking, rubbing his eyes as he yawns awake in bed, checking it is 5:32am, two minutes after Hajime’s alarm clock would have gone off.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

And so he waits as he takes his morning shower, waits as he pulls on his shirt, waits as he shaves and by then, an unnerving feeling has grown in the pits of his stomach. The issue isn’t just that Hajime hasn’t picked up, hasn’t called back, hasn’t replied with a hasty apology. No - the bigger issue is that it is uncharacteristic of Hajime to not do so, in their already well-established long-distance morning routines of having that one even if hasty, even if murmuring, nonsensical half-asleep morning call or text.

The uneasy feeling grows as Tooru brushes his teeth. He thinks of yesterday: Hajime flinching from Tooru’s touch in the morning. Hajime desperately, urgently kissing him in the evening, like as if begging for something he needed but couldn’t say aloud. Hajime falling asleep immediately in the room after, exhaustion clear in every facete of his face, his limbs small, fragile underneath the sea of blankets.

Tooru gurgles and spits his toothpaste out. He pauses, closing his eyes, and takes a deep breath as he holds onto the side of the sink.

There is something Hajime isn’t telling him. But why?

For one, Tooru knows, he trusts, that Hajime isn’t doing anything to maliciously harm him. They are both under an immense amount of pressure with the games and Tooru isn’t perfect either under stress. He has a tendency to grow clingy when feeling insecure, Hajime, in turn, a tendency to grow distant when feeling overwhelmed. The combination of their tendencies, Tooru knows, is that as much as he feels like forcefully confronting Hajime about the matter, the last thing he wants to do is accidentally drive Hajime even further away.

Tooru stares at himself for a moment in the bathroom mirror. His hair is a rumpled, bed-ridden mess. As he runs a hand through it, he thinks of Hajime yesterday, looking up at him sleepily, a hand combing through his hair, his words murmuring for him to pick up Lucas’s call, his other hand holding Tooru by the waist telling Tooru there was nowhere else he wanted him but there with him.

Kindness. Tooru decides. Hajime has enough going on in his life at the moment. He needs the one person he loves the most in the world to be kind and patient with him. Tooru can trust that Hajime will talk, when he can talk.

He picks up his phone and texts Hajime in gentle, careful messages:

Baby, are you okay?

Was just calling to ask if you wanted to meet up later, I think we have a free, overlapping block at 9pm!

It is only after Tooru has showered, dried his hair and is pulling on his socks in his room while chatting to Lucas that Hajime’s reply flashes up on-screen:

I’m sorry Tooru, it’s been a busy morning. Will let you know later if we can meet up?

Something is wrong. Hajime hasn’t replied his are you okay question. His excuse for missing the call is vague, lacking any of Hajime’s usual humour and banter, care and love.

No worries Hajime, Tooru texts in response, we’ll talk later :)

He adds, hintingly:

For me, be kind to yourself, even if just for today, okay?

I love you Hajime. And remember: I am always, always here for you.

***

Breakfast too, is a strange affair.

First, Tooru sights Miya Atsumu from across the cafeteria, the little blonde gremlin grabbing seconds from the food line. Not that that was anything out of the ordinary – but on catching his eye, Atsumu glares at him - like as if he had just insulted him and his entire Miya clan.

Bemused, Tooru exchanges a look with Lucas who looks back, puzzled. The expected reaction for kind, undramatic dad-friend Lucas.

To his surprise, though, Paulo, usually the gossip hound of counter-part to Lucas’s calm, too just shrugs and looks down at his phone, clearly feigning disinterest.

Tooru and Lucas exchange an uneasy look, silently agreeing on the strangeness of Paulo’s behaviour.

Paulo’s odd mannerisms only continue when they approach their usual table for breakfast. Today, the Argentinian table is busy – mixed with a sea of white jerseys – a group of Spanish volleyball players, laughing and chatting, who Tooru recognises, had been playing pool with Paulo and some of the other Argentinians just the night before at the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks.

To his surprise, Paulo stops in his tracks, grabs Tooru on his arm and says with an urgent edge to his voice:

“Tooru, let’s sit outdoors today for a change?”

Lucas, who had already been sitting down on the table looks up in surprise, but Paulo tugs on Tooru’s arm so insistently, so desperately, that Tooru gives in, waving a hasty goodbye to the team with a flimsy excuse of wanting sun, and exiting the cafeteria.

They end up sitting on a bench outside half-shaded by the trees. As they sit, Tooru stares at Paulo, waiting an explanation – but the libero instead, has suddenly become very interested in examining the contents of his breakfast bag.

“Okay, Paulo – what was that all about?”

Paulo shrugs as he unwraps his egg sandwich. “Nothing. You know me, just introverted in the morning.”

“Paulo, Mr Let’s-Party-Every-Saturday-Night, I have never seen you not extroverted.” Tooru snorts. “Plus, I thought you were friends with those Spanish players. Weren’t you playing pool with them last night?”

“Just because we played pool doesn’t mean I’m friends with them,” Paulo grumbles. He looks up at Tooru, raising an accusing eyebrow. “Speaking of last night, where did you disappear off to?”

Tooru thinks of Hajime: the soft angles of his face under the dim light by the bar, his hands against his hips on the balcony, and - okay, don’t go there - he picks up instead on the lie he had already used on Lucas last night: “I ran into an old friend and was chatting to him.”

“Which friend?”

“Old German friend.” Tooru waves a hand. “Plays volleyball too. We took a walk round the block. Anyway,” He raises an eyebrow. “Stop changing the subject, come on, tell me, what’s wrong? Why did you not want to sit with the Spaniards? Did they make fun of you at pool last night? Did they see you hooking up with someone last night?”

Paulo chokes on his mayonnaise and egg – serves him right, Tooru thinks in amusement, trying to change the subject – and splutters:

“I – I didn’t hook up with anyone last night!”

“I believe it from how weird and awkward you’re acting.” Tooru scoffs, gaining himself a pout from Paulo. “So come on, tell me, what’s wrong?”

Paulo stares at him, the sun adding light flecks to his dark hair. The libero is fun, loyal, daring but also sometimes naive – a born and bred Buenos Aires-ian who has never left the country before until the Olympics, four years younger than Tooru, ten years younger than Lucas. Young enough to still be doing stupid things after a few drinks, old enough to be regretting them the day after. Like with an adopted younger brother, Tooru has fished Paulo out of a number of sticky situations enough times – but usually that was when Paulo came to him begging for help or crying over a girl – not when he is now being elusive and strange.

For a moment, Paulo’s mouth opens and closes, before finally settling on:

“Look, it’s really nothing. Let’s just eat.”

Well fine, apparently the trend this Olympics is let’s see how many secrets we can try to keep from Oikawa Tooru this summer, Tooru thinks sarcastically. At least Tooru’s ability to see through Hajime’s facades is a result of how well he knows Hajime, not for the lack of Hajime’s efforts; Paulo on the other hand, with his unconvincing ‘it’s nothing’ isn’t even trying. Even an emotionally-trained monkey like Kageyama would be able to tell something was up.

But because Tooru is tired enough of people around him not telling him things when something is clearly wrong, he drops it, opting to munch on his onigiri in silence as Paulo tears through his second sandwich. It is a tactic that he knows would not work with Hajime – no, Hajime is far too stubborn to fall for the old spill your secrets or suffer the social awkwardness of silence trick – but it is a tactic that has worked with Paulo in the past: be silent long enough that it is uncomfortable, and Paulo will initiate something to fill the silence, often times that something being the thing he had not wanted to reveal otherwise anyway.

And sure enough, after barely one and a half minutes of silence, Paulo begins fidgeting, looking uncomfortable. Tooru takes another small munch of his onigiri, chewing as he counts backward in his head: three, two, one and okay here we go –

“So um.” Paulo clears his throat. He rubs his hands together uncomfortable, and begins in an awkward, false cheeriness: “How’s your girlfriend going, Tooru?”

***

It had not been the direction Tooru had expected the conversation to go in, but the remainder of the breakfast with Paulo turns into a rapid-fire interview about Tooru’s non-existent girlfriend.

Tooru, in a time before Sofia, in a time before he had grown famous, in a time before he had realised the full consequences of his actions, had happily mentioned to his teammates that he had a long-distance, long-term partner. He had told Lucas when they had first started in CA San Juan years ago, happily explained why he was usually overseas during the off seasons, why he took all these late-night calls; and by the time Paulo joined CA San Juan more recently, it had been too late to pretend otherwise. Paulo assumed it was a girlfriend; Tooru never bothered to correct him on it.

That was just the way it was: Tooru didn’t give details; the team didn’t press for details. At times, it would come up in banter: jokes about Tooru’s seeming inability to ever marry his long-term girlfriend; jabs at Tooru for the various rumours about him being with other female celebrities when the truth was just as boring as one very stable, very undramatic long-distance relationship.

Today though, Paulo is ruthless with his questioning. The questions begin firstly, with the troublesome what’s her name? “Ha - Hana.” Tooru blurts out, because he had almost accidentally said “Hajime” and because Hana is his latest ex-girlfriend’s name (before instantly regretting as he wonders if he may have told Lucas a different name years ago).

And then: where is she now? Tooru replies with “California,” because he has mentioned this before in the years Hajime had still been studying in San Francisco -

- What does she do? “She’s ah – a photographer,” because that is what Hana does, and athletic trainer is too specific anyway, not when Paulo had just met the athletic trainer in the filming yesterday –

- and from there on, Tooru begins fielding most of the questions about how long have you been dating for, how did you meet, what did she study into Hana-based rather than Hajime-based answers which is all going well until:

“Can I see a photo of her?” Paulo asks curiously.

Normally, this would be the point any average person would be happy to pull up one of a million photos they have of said girlfriend, except Tooru can’t. He has a gazillion photos of Hajime of course: Hajime being a dork, Hajime sending thirst traps, Hajime being ruthlessly handsome even when he isn’t trying to, Hajime being unfairly adorable when he is pouting at Tooru - but not a single photo of Hana and with no good reason why.

Which is how he ends up cursing himself internally as he searches up his very-much-not-Californian-based ex-girlfriend’s Instagram, praying that she doesn’t have any photos of her boyfriend on her Instagram –

Oh right, Hana and Miyoto broke up recently, Tooru remembers with delight when Hana’s Instagram loads with no photos of her recent boyfriend, YES she deleted the photos – okay, I’m a horrible friend for celebrating her breakup but anyway -

“Here –“ Tooru shows Paulo a photo of Hana posing at a restaurant, “Here’s my girlfriend.” Oh my god, Hana’s going to kill me, “And look–“ He brings up a photo of himself and Hana grinning at the camera holding up beers - they are still good friends and did catch up whenever Tooru was back in Sendai. “This photo, see, of us back in my hometown in Japan…” Hajime, you better appreciate what I’m doing.

“And yeah that’s her!” Tooru beams, quickly exiting the Instagram before Paulo can try to scroll any further down. He spreads his hands. “That’s Hana.”

And to Tooru’s relief, Paulo drops the subject after that.

***

Once he escapes Paulo, Tooru sneaks to a quiet corner and calls Hajime.

As he stares out at the athletes streaming past, he listens to the call ring and ring, suddenly missing Hajime even more intently despite having just seen him yesterday.

The call rings and rings and rings into voicemail. Tooru checks Hajime’s messages.

Hajime has not replied.

Something is off. Something is not right.

***

Tooru messages people, to begin asking.

He texts Hinata to ask how Hajime has been today. He asks Hajime’s father if everything was okay at home. He messages Mattsun and Makki to check if they knew anything else was up. He messages Hajime’s best friends from university to ask if they had realised anything amiss.

Nothing, not that anyone can tell, is wrong.

Everyone he messages, tells him in return the same un-helpful statement:

I’m sure whatever it is, you will be the first person that Hajime tells.

***

Once Tooru leaves, Paulo hastily pulls up his Instagram, and searches for the username handle that Tooru had clearly shown him earlier: @sekozawa_hana1995

First, he sends it to @TherealMiyaAtsumu, with a message: Btw – checked with Tooru, this is his girlfriend.

Next, he clicks back onto Hana’s profile. Hana’s profile is public, with a number of her photographs displayed. She seems like a nice girl. Someone who deserves a good boyfriend.

Paulo clicks message. He types in, using google-translated Spanish to Japanese:

Hey, sorry for the strange message, but my name is Paulo and I’m one of Tooru’s colleagues.

I just thought you deserved to know – I think Tooru is cheating on you.

***

There aren’t any official games on the sixth day of the Olympics, and Tooru is thankful for that. He is distracted during the warmups, his mind returning again and again to a growing worry about Hajime, a nagging wonder if he should be doing more, if he should be pushing harder, or if he’s being too worried over nothing. It shows in his practice games. His serves are inaccurate, and he hits in right into the opposite libero’s position a few times. His sets are less fluid and confident than usual, like as if his own reaction time had been delayed.

Eventually, after fumbling with a set, coach José Blanco gestures him off the court, sits him down and asks if he is doing okay.

“Yeah sorry, sorry.” Tooru grits his teeth, his cheeks aflame. He is better at being benched now than he was in middle school – but how much he hates it still hasn’t changed, the stiff, sticky feeling of doing poorly enough that he has to be pulled aside and asked about it. “Just – some personal things going on, I’m sorry I swear I’m trying to get them sorted.”

“I’m sorry to hear, it must be something significant if it’s affecting you at an important time like this.” José looks at Tooru sympathetically. “Anything I can help with?”

José has worked with Tooru for a long time by now. Since moving to Argentina, José had been his mentor, his teacher, his guide, the person training and pushing him, calling him out on his mistakes, and leading him to the next thing and the next.

Just two years after beginning in CA San Juan, Tooru had suggested dinner with Hajime and José together. He had brought them to the small but quaint Japanese restaurant he used to work at on a Wednesday he knew would be the quietest. Out in the lantern-lit courtyard, they had sat, laughing over sake, Tooru having the wonderous experience of seeing two of the most important people in his life get to know one another.

He hadn’t said aloud then what Hajime was to him, but he could tell that José knew anyway. It showed in how interested José had been to meet Hajime; in the way José paid close attention to Hajime, not just asking him the polite get to know you questions like so what do you study, but also the more careful, deeper ones like so where are you looking to go next? He understood how much it meant to Tooru for the two of them to get to know one another, Tooru’s mentor and Tooru’s well, almost everything else. Throughout the years, when Tooru had emergencies or injuries, Hajime was his emergency contact, the person José, or their athletic trainer Ignacio dialled – and in turn, no matter whether from San Juan or Japan or California, Hajime would always without fail, turn up when he was needed, when he was called, which probably cemented the fact of what he was to Tooru, for those two anyway, José and Ignacio, who were in the know.

Still, it is one thing to subtly, gently let José into one of the biggest secrets of Oikawa Tooru’s life; another to suddenly confide in José all that has happened in the eventful week that has led up to Tooru’s worries at the moment. Tooru appreciates the thought – but instead, shakes his head as he tells José with a smile:

“All good, I’ll sort it out. I’ll make sure I come to the next match in top shape.”

“Okay.” José gazes at him, serious. “Remember we’ve got our second-final preliminary match tomorrow, and then our final preliminary match the day after, and then if we get through, it’s semis, quarters, finals. The mental strain, the mental fortitude needed to go through the amount of anticipation and pressure for the last few rounds is no joke. So make sure you are okay by then alright. Just tell me if you need any time off at all, alright.”

After making Tooru promise he would get some rest, José lets Tooru off practice early. When Tooru checks his phone, a renewed determination to get to the bottom of whatever is up, he finds that Hajime has finally replied to his texts:

Hey sorry for missing your call again. Will call you again after my own practice games.

FYI I spoke to Sofia about a plan for the Volleyball Beyond Borders launch today. She should call you soon.

Tooru checks Hajime’s schedule – he is indeed in a practice game now – and instead, picks an isolated spot in the locker rooms to dial Sofia’s number.

“Hey!” Sofia picks up almost immediately, replying cheerfully. “You’re done with your practice early! How are you going?”

“Okay,” Tooru exhales. “Won’t lie though it’s been a bit of a weird day.” He sits down on a bench, and checking that no one is around, adds quietly: “How is my boyfriend? How was he when you spoke to him?”

“Hajime…” Hesitation wavers in Sofia’s voice, and Tooru knows she has picked up on the frustration underlying his own voice. “He was okay, maybe just a little stressed out.” Her tone turns slightly sympathetic. “Have you not had the chance to catch him yet today?”

“No –“ Tooru swallows the words it feels almost like he’s avoiding me, and instead opts for asking: “Why what did he sound stressed about?”

“Well, he called me because I think he’s now just realising what a hit Volleyball Beyond Borders will be when it is released tonight,” Sofia pauses, and Tooru can tell she is choosing her words careful. “and I think he is freaking out a little about the two of you being potentially looking too much like a couple in the trailer, and thus also the actual video.”

Tooru perks up at this, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest.

“Wait, do you think we do look like a couple in it?”

“Not gonna lie – I think you were a little too obvious.” Sofia says gently. “It’s not your fault – but because you’ve done so many interviews with other people where you act one way, it’s fairly obvious to me anyway, that the way you act with Hajime is quite different. And Hajime just got worried that you know, rumours with fly. Or that you two might get accidentally outed.”

So is this what had happened in the morning? Why Hajime has been avoiding me? Tooru wonders. Sure, this is something he knows Hajime was deathly afraid of even if he never said it aloud: the fear that they would be accidentally caught in public, accidentally outed. It was why Tooru had emphasised time and time again that they didn’t need to agree to do Volleyball Beyond Borders, why he had mentioned again and again that they would only do it if Hajime really wanted to.

But before yesterday, Hajime at least, even if not explicitly, let Tooru in about his fears one way or another. He had sat with Tooru, silent in clear dislike for when his neighbour had written the Facebook post about them; he had vented to Tooru his exasperations about Atsumu’s tweet when they eventually spoke about it over phone. He had let Tooru see him, stressed and anxious at the start of the shoot, let Tooru guide him through it, trusting to follow Tooru’s example in presenting their public image. So what changed today? Why does it feel like Hajime is no longer confiding in me, relying on me? Something, something has changed – and Tooru had an inkling it was more than this, something more complicated than what Sofia was saying…

“Let’s call it off.” He hears himself saying to Sofia. “Look, I really don’t want to stress Hajime out and if VBB is causing him this much stress, it’s not worth dealing.”

“No, it’s not that simple though,” Sofia urges. “Look, as I was just telling Hajime, the trailer’s already out, so cancelling may just cause an even bigger commotion and speculations – kind of like how you leaving Hajime out of that tweet about running into him and his neighbour only brought more attention to him than less.” Tooru grumbles a concession on that. “Plus there will also be that risk of you upsetting the Japanese Volleyball Association by pulling the plug so last minute on a project they have clearly poured money and resources into.”

“Which leaves us,” Sofia continues, “With two options. First: do nothing, let the episode air, be yourselves in the upcoming press interviews about the video, let rumours fly if they do. Trust, just like every other rumour about you dating anyone else: Maria Sando, Argentinian models or otherwise, that any rumours about Hajime and you dating will just die down eventually.”

“Right,” Tooru pauses for a while. He thinks again, to the events of yesterday and guesses: “Hajime said no to this option, didn’t he?”

Sofia laughs. “Oh yeah. You know him well. He shot down this option down so politely, but also so quickly."

“Of course he did.” Oh Hajime. “So – what’s the second option then?”

“Damage control.” Sofia answers simply. “You let the episode run, but then just engage in damage control. You and Hajime really make sure you dial down your flirtiness and familiarity when you’re next in front of a camera together. Make sure we emphasise how very very into girls, and not into each other you both are. Distract them with other news.”

“For Hajime – no one really knows of him yet, so we get to build his persona from scratch. Based on the draft Volleyball Beyond Borders video Kuroo sent me yesterday, I think Hajime will actually do really well with family and female fans. He’s polite, he’s kind, he’s steady, he’s reliable, he’s handsome - so instead of being vague and leaving room for speculation, I think we instead cement this idea that Hajime is a single, wholesome bachelor, let fans really dig into that.”

“And as for you,” Sofia continues seriously, “– you are the trickier one because you’re the one in the limelight with all this inconsistent stories – like how to the press you’ve never denied nor confirmed any dating rumours, but also to your own team mates, you’ve told them that you have a long-term partner. So I think you have to just play up the rumours, while maintaining that story with your team mates. Maria Sando is actually your friend right – go spend some time with her, say it is platonic to your teammates who know you aren’t actually dating, but also do enough so the press can photograph and make random rumours. We will also push earlier the announcement that you’ll be signing to play again with CA San Juan once your Olympic stint ends.”

“So basically,” Tooru says slowly, “Doing everything possible to take public attention off Hajime and I.”

“Yeap, that is basically the plan.” Sofia agrees. “And look, this is the option with the most work, but – short of just openly coming out which I know isn’t what you or Hajime want at the moment - this is the option that will also give you the most control of the narrative. Hajime said he would call to talk to you himself after this when he’s free – but yeah, this is the option he was most keen on.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’s great, let’s go with this option.” Tooru lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, though he thinks his relief comes more from hearing Hajime will call him, more than any plan itself. For some reason, he realises, he doesn’t really care anymore whether they are out, or a secret, as long as they are still them. “I might go look for Hajime in person too to make sure he’s okay.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” Sofia hums. She hesitates for a while, before adding: “You know, Tooru, I do need to apologise for one thing: which is that I don’t think I had really understood before how busy you and Hajime have been. I realised the only time I was really hearing Hajime’s opinion alone was when he called me for emergencies – like when the Twitter thread first blew up, or for this. But you are a team – he gets a say as much as you do too. And to tailor my options to his needs, I have to know what he needs and wants are too.”

“What we had been trying to do earlier too - trying to fit in discussions during the times all three of us were free – while makes sense in theory, was probably in practice taking up all of the time Hajime and you would normally have to just talk to one another, without me being there. And I realise that may have caused some stress to you both – so for that I apologise.”

“Hey, nah, that’s okay,” Tooru soothes – but he is grateful – Sofia isn’t Sofia without her glimmering insights and observations. It is true, and he has noticed as well: the dwindling amount of time he and Hajime have had to just call about things that was not PR-related discussions, had probably in turn, contributed to the rise in frustration with another, the tension in their calls that couldn’t either be resolved in the hurried, snuck meet-ups they had yesterday. “Maybe we can next time try this way where you speak to us separately first, or we speak together first before coming to you with a joint decision to save time. At least till the Olympics end.”

“Yes,” Sofia agrees. “I will definitely to try to minimise eating up your shared time that is precious enough as is. And Tooru,” She adds, almost hintingly, like as if she can see through what Tooru is thinking. “Don’t worry too much okay. I’m sure things will be fine.”

“Mm. Yeah, I hope so too.” So Sofia had noticed too, the worry that had been bubbling away in the back of Tooru’s mind. He hesitates for a moment, knowing it is both not really Sofia’s job to comment, but also knowing Sofia being Sofia would have useful insights to this, which is when he finally decides to ask what he has been wanting to ask the entire call:

“Sofia. Was Hajime really okay when he spoke to you? I don’t know why but I’ve just got this feeling this entire day that he’s been avoiding me.” Tooru presses a hand against his forehead. “But I don’t know, maybe you’re right, maybe I am just worrying too much and reading too much into him just being busy –“

Sofia is quiet for a few moments, letting Tooru ramble until his end, which is when she admits quietly:

“I don’t think it’s just you Tooru. I doubt Hajime is actively trying to avoid you, Tooru, no, he clearly cares too much about you to do that – but well, I thought he just sounded very occupied. Like as if something had happened that had really freaked him out, and he was struggling to stay afloat just trying to deal with that.”

***

Spoke to Sofia, the last option sounded good :)

PR matters aside, are you going okay Hajime? Is everything alright on your end?

I miss you, and will talk to you soon.

***

Tooru grabs lunch after his call with Sofia, goes for a run and tries to get his head in the game again before his afternoon training sessions.

It doesn’t work; it is almost in fact, worse. He is distracted, he is worried, Sofia’s words something had happened that really freaked him out echo in his head. They practise two on twos – and he, paired with the outside hitter Marco are losing so badly that eventually Tooru is the one who calls the time out himself, exiting the court with the excuse of needing water.

He splashes his face with water aggressively, stares in the mirror to tell himself to focus. What good would it do for him to worry about Hajime on his own like this? He gulps down more water, does a few stretches, and then jogs back onto the court, determined to play well again.

Which is when José calls to him from the sidelines:

“Tooru! Come over please!”

His heart sinks, thinking he is being benched again as he turns around, which is when he stops short, noticing standing next to José:

Iwaizumi Hajime. Still wearing his Team Japan uniform beneath a black jacket, arms crossed with an eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging on his lips.

The emotions that cross Tooru’s chest are two-fold - a simultaneous pouring of relief and release of worry, paired with a fiery, mad annoyance at the audacity of this man. You idiot, you absolute idiot, Tooru mouths in hisses. Hajime’s lip quirks upward in amusement. Tooru passes the ball to Marco, apologises briefly to his two teammates who he had been playing against, and then walks off the court, slow at first, before almost-running as he barrels himself into Hajime’s side:

“What are you doing here?“ Hajime is meant to be at work now too, in a jam-packed schedule of physio appointments now based on his timetable, not raising his arms and laughing in amusement as Tooru begins landing adoringly frustrated punches on the arm. “You, you idiot,” Tooru punches Hajime again on the shoulder, Hajime protesting and leaning back laughing, neither of them caring that Paulo who is walking by, staring their way. “I was so worried, why did you, how did you –“

“José called.” Hajime’s answer is simple. “So I came.” And Tooru opens his mouth and kicks himself for never having thought to ask the same the entire time.

***

They take a stroll out into the wide, open pathways of the Olympic village, between the athletes, the members of the public, the journalists passing by. The Argentinian team’s accommodation rooms are nearby and in an unsaid agreement, their walk begins in that direction.

Gazing down, Tooru carefully takes in the whole of Hajime: the way the sunlight turns his hair a dark shade of brown, a slight crease in his collar, the glasses hanging off his shirt pocket, the slight tiredness in his eyes. Hajime too, gazes back up at Tooru, like as if observing him, analysing him too.

“How are you, Iwa-san?”

“Not bad. You, Oikawa?”

“Eh, as you know, could be better. What did José say to you?”

“Oh, just that you were playing terribly, you know, worse than your usual bad.”

“Mean. What else?”

“That you were distracted about something. A personal matter. Lovesick almost.”

“Come on, José Blanco did not say I looked lovesick.”

Hajime smiles. “Yeah, he did not,” He admits.

Their shoulders graze slightly as they walk. Still, they keep a distance between each other, never quite touching. As they enter the elevators of the building, Hajime holding the doors open for Tooru to step in first, Tooru doesn’t quite manage to keep the accusation out of his voice:

“I thought you weren’t free till 9pm tonight.”

“I was not. I pushed back one of my appointments – so we’ve got about half an hour now.”

“What were you in the middle of?”

“The physio appointments. Your favourite Mr Ushijima Wakatoshi’s second one of the day actually.”

“Bleurgh. Which was when José called and told you to come over?”

“No.” Hajime pauses. “Which was when José called and I decided to come over.”

The elevator doors open again. Hajime holds the doors open and gazes at Tooru. Tooru steps out, and then waits for Hajime to join him on his side. The corridor is empty and dead silent, with all the athletes out and about for the day. The back of Hajime’s hand grazes against Tooru’s as they walk down toward his and Lucas’s room.

Once they are in the room, Tooru turns and observes Hajime for a moment. He watches Hajime take off his shoes, place his glasses down on the table and finally, turn to look at him.

“You’re upset with me.” Hajime offers.

“I am.” Tooru sighs, crossing his arms.

“But. You’re glad I am here?”

Tooru gives Hajime a quizzical look as he walks to sit down on the edge of his bed, offended that it is even a question Hajime would think to ask.

“Yes.” He whispers. “Of course I am.”

Tooru waits, watching Hajime pause for a few moments, suddenly hesitant. Before he then walks forward and joins Tooru in taking a seat by the bed.

“Nice socks.”

Tooru wriggles his alien sports socks Hajime had gotten him last Christmas. “Thank you. My boyfriend got me these.”

He gently brushes a hand down Hajime’s jacket, which he had gotten him last New Year sales, straightening out the crease.

“Nice jacket.”

“Oh thanks. My boyfriend got me this too, what a coincidence.”

They both smile slightly at this.

Gently, Hajime takes Tooru’s right hand into his left. Tooru lets him, watching as he rests their enjoined fingers together on the edge of Tooru’s knee.

“Tooru,” Hajime begins softly. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Tooru looks up to him, his façade of bravado and banter slowly falling apart, and in that moment, he knows, he knows, from the way Hajime looks back at him, a mix of worry, upset and guilt that Iwaizumi Hajime too, knows exactly what is wrong.

Gently, Hajime turns to face Tooru. He moves forward and pulls Tooru into his embrace, burying their heads into each other’s shoulders, arms wrapped tightly around backs. They sit there for a moment, just breathing, holding, before Tooru pulls back to say what has truly been on his mind:

“You were not answering my calls.” He whispers. “You’ve been acting so off.”

Hajime grimaces, a line setting over his forehead. He wraps his hands over Tooru’s, his green eyes holding his gaze, apologetic, searching.

“Yeah I have. And I’m sorry.” He whispers back. He rubs a thumb rubbing soothingly across Tooru’s knuckles. Tooru tightens his hold on Hajime’s hands.

“I got really worried you know.” Tooru’s eyes flicker down once to Hajime’s lips, and then back to his eyes. It is far too easy to remember the night before, in Hajime’s room not dissimilar to his: Hajime’s lips on his, urgent, desperate, wanting. All the things they had not said that night. The radio silence the next morning. “I thought you were avoiding me.”

“Hey of course not.” Hajime murmurs. He gently cusps Tooru’s face within the palms of his hands. Leans forward and presses a slow kiss on the top of Tooru’s forehead. Hajime too, Tooru realises, is holding back, probably thinking of the same. “I’m sorry I made you think that. I promise, I would never mean to do that.”

“Then, why did you miss my calls?” Tooru whispers, his voice cracking slightly. “Is there something wrong, something you’re not telling me?” Hajime grimaces, rests a soothing, apologetic hand over Tooru’s thigh. His worries, Tooru realises, from yesterday, from the days, the weeks before are all crashing and cumulating into one. “I mean,” Tooru corrects himself, wrapping his hands over Hajime’s shakily. “It’s okay for you to miss my calls, I know you must have just been busy and you know, I don’t need you to answer every one of my calls right away. But you were acting so weird this morning, you were so anxious before the filming yesterday, our calls had been so tense the days before, I just got so worried and I didn’t even know if you were okay, we haven’t even spoken about the morning of filming since and you were not answering –“

It isn’t the most ideal way to ask about it, Tooru has to admit: himself stressed and worried, Hajime calm and steady when jarringly, it had been the other way round just yesterday, just the days before. But Hajime listens patiently, his hands moving soothingly over Tooru’s knee, shifting forward and collecting Tooru into his arms so Tooru can bury himself forward in his embrace. Tooru can feel him tense slightly when Tooru mentions the anxieties from the day before - but he eases almost immediately, to instead make small hums of re-assurances as Tooru’s worries continue pouring forward.

When Tooru is done, Hajime leans back to look at Tooru seriously, like as if to say I am here. I am here and I hear you. And he leans forward to kiss Tooru on the lips, softly, apologetically before he leans back:

“I’m sorry.” Hajime runs a hand gently up Tooru’s arm, closes it against his chest. “I was busy and distracted until about lunch time when José called – which was why I missed your calls before that. You’re right though, I get distant when I’m stressed, it’s a bad habit, and being distant again isn’t what we need at a time like this. I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer in my text messages, and I’m –“ This is the moment Tooru can see it again, the slip up, the crack of anxiety again, in Hajime’s voice. “- I’m really sorry I made you worry.”

“It’s okay, Hajime, it’s okay.” Tooru in turn, collects Hajime back into his arms, leans forward to rest his head against Hajime’s chest. He closes his eyes, just breathing in his familiar smell for a moment, listening to the familiar heartbeat, the familiar rise and fall in his breathing. “All I want is to make sure that you are alright.” He leans up, cusping a hand over Hajime’s cheek, searching Hajime’s eyes. “All I want is to know that you are okay.”

“I am, Tooru. I promise you, I am.” Hajime closes a hand gently over Tooru’s. Leans forward to kiss him on the lips. “I was stressed out about the filming before, but you helped out so much with that.” Tooru catches it again, just the slightest flicker of something else in Hajime’s eyes before it is replaced by a small smile. “But yeah, I am okay now. I promise, I am okay.”

“Are you really though, because if you’re not, you have to tell me, Hajime, you have to tell me, because sometimes, I really, really worry that you’re not telling me things and -” It is stupid, because Tooru is starting to cry, from all the stress he hadn’t realised he had pent up for so long,  even though he’s the one trying to make sure Hajime is fine, and it is Hajime instead, who is now leaning forward and making soothing noises, as steady as a rock, his arms warm and comforting, “It scares me, it really scares me when you do that, like as if you don’t know how much I love you, how much I want to be here for you.”

“I do,” Hajime soothes. He too has closed his eyes and is tightening his hold on Tooru. “And I will tell you things, I promise you. There’s nothing wrong okay, there’s nothing you have to worry about. I’m fine, I’m good. We’re good, Tooru, understand? We are good.” And that only makes Tooru cry even more, from how relieved he is to finally hear from Hajime’s own words, that he is okay, that all the worries Tooru has about him are but nought and fine, and he lets himself bury forward into the familiar, warm embrace once again. 

It is not until far later on that Tooru would kick himself for not realising sooner:

Iwaizumi Hajime had been putting up a brave front.

Hajime understands people; he understands Oikawa Tooru. He knew what Tooru needed in the moment was reassurance, the comfort of a steady presence, a cheery brazen front absent of all fears and anxieties to quell Tooru’s own.

And so he delivered. He made himself what would help Tooru best, never mind how he was actually feeling. If Tooru had been less upset, less stressed, less broken down in relief to just have Hajime with him, he probably would have noticed: the way Hajime’s smiles weren’t truly reaching his eyes, the way Hajime still hadn’t really explained what had made him tense and upset, the way hesitation had begun to creep into Hajime’s every facet, in every word, re-assurance and gesture he gave to Tooru.

But all of that had been hidden, stuffed carefully, neatly behind the front. The very brave, very stubborn, very stupid front. The kind of front Hajime would use on their teammates with Tooru, but would normally never usually against Tooru. The kind of front even Hajime himself perhaps, did not realise he had begun to use against Tooru.

But in the moment, Tooru thought of none of that. Instead, he lay, cradled in Hajime’s arms, letting Hajime gently wipe the tears off his cheeks, turning them around so they could lie facing one another in the narrow, much too small bed, legs pressed, noses almost touching. As Hajime whispered: “Come on, Tooru, tell me about you. About your day, your week, about you. How have you been?” his arms were warm, his gaze soft, his hands soothing down the last of the knots in Tooru’s shoulders.

And so Tooru did: first in a slow murmur, and then fully, properly for the first time since the Olympics: talking, chatting, telling stories, laughing, just being with Iwaizumi Hajime. He tells Hajime about the first time he heard Hajime’s name in a press interview, how startled he had been. He tells Hajime about Paulo this morning, the strange interaction that had transpired. They laugh about Hana; exchange stories of sharing rooms with people that weren’t each other, how Kuroo snored and how Lucas took too long in the shower; they talk too about the games, the matches Tooru giddily gushed over with excitement that went well, the matches Hajime steadily smiled and told Japan to have played well in so far. And slowly but surely, Tooru eases and eases until he feels normal again, by the end of the time they have to part ways and return to work again.

Again, it isn’t until much later that Tooru would realise that while Hajime had sincerely meant it when he had told Tooru that he was okay, it had been more of an aspiration, a wish of what Hajime wanted to be -

Not quite, the truth of what he had actually been in the exact moment;

Nor something perhaps, even Hajime had realised himself, was inaccurate at that point in time.

Notes:

Poor Tooru has really gone through the wringer this time round! On unrelated notes:

1) The Japanese restaurant Tooru works at/ brings Iwa and Jose to in San Juan is a inspired by a very real Indonesian-run Jap restaurant my friend used to work in haha.

2) It is such an Oikawa Tooru thing isn't it, to be a perfectionist in so many areas of his life, but suddenly panic that he may have accidentally given Paulo a different fake-girlfriend-name to the fake-girlfriend-name he gave Lucas 4 years ago.

3) I have actually written Chap 9 but it just needs a proofing! Chap 9 actually goes together with this chap like bread and butter, roti and curry, noodle and soup, pizza and prosciutto - so will probably post that too v soon!

As always, let me know what you think! :))

Chapter 9: Iwaizumi Hajime puts on a brave front

Summary:

By the end of the sixth day of the Olympics, Iwaizumi Hajime is convinced that he is doing a terrible job in most aspects of his life.

Or,

Iwaizumi Hajime has promised Oikawa Tooru he is okay. It is a promise he does his best to keep up.

Notes:

I did mention I had chapter 9 written and ready to go haha so... here it is!

Now, THIS is my actual contribution to Iwa-day - just a lil late because an Oiks chapter did have to happen first! Iwa is genuinely my fav chara despite everything I put him through - so happy (late) Iwa day indeed

By the end of the sixth day of the Olympics, Iwaizumi Hajime is convinced that he is doing a terrible job in most aspects of his life.

Most of the morning he had already lost to crippling anxiety, his work slipping through his fingers in delayed appointments and careless document work. Sofia’s plan, thankfully, returns some kind of normalcy and reprieve to his day: a series of steps he could take, precautions he could follow to re-gain control over all the public relations side of things he had felt himself slowly losing.

And then, out of the blue, the call from José Blanco.

It was a wake-up call, Hajime had told himself sternly, angrily, as he begged a favour from Ushijima to have his appointment re-scheduled. A warning of how his behaviour and decisions inevitably, had its effects on the one person his life had become so inexplicably entwined with.

When he first caught Tooru’s gaze from across the court, the mixture of frustration and relief that flooded Tooru’s eyes was a look that Hajime decided he did not want to see again – a look that reminded that he, Iwaizumi Hajime, somehow single-handedly had the power to make Oikawa Tooru worry and play volleyball poorly enough, to in turn make José Blanco ring the alarm bells.

He put on a smile. He made jokes and banters. He carefully listened to Tooru, made sure, in every way he could, every way he knew how in the limited time he had, that Tooru was okay. Apologised, for being as strange as weird as he had been.

Pulled Tooru into his arms.

Whispered that everything was going to be okay.

Wished he could do better at giving Oikawa Tooru everything he deserved, everything he could not give.

For a moment, buried in each other’s arms, Hajime had been tempted to tell Tooru everything. The messages; how badly he has been sleeping; how poorly he too had been working; how many breakdowns he has had since it all started. How illogically afraid he has become, for seemingly no reason whatsoever, that he will somehow lose Tooru, that he will somehow hurt Tooru, that he is somehow undeserving of Tooru -

- but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, not without the waves of emotions threatening to break through behind the seams, the careful facades he has built threatening to break down completely, not when they only have half an hour, not when Tooru was the one who needed him now -

- and then Tooru had looked up at him, with those serious, worried eyes. A completely unguarded, unrestrained sense of love was carved into his face, the kind that made him look vulnerable, lost almost. A fierce yearning to protect, a stubborn wanting to give - one Hajime understood all too well - were etched into Tooru’s fingers, when they reached up to graze across Hajime’s cheeks.

I just want to know that you are okay. Tooru whispered.

Hajime had kissed him, hard. He would kiss all the worry in Tooru’s world away, if he could.

I am, Tooru. He had promised, and he had meant it. He thought he was, he thought himself a tough nut to crack, one who usually, through sheer willpower and determination, could splinter through any adversaries to emerge perfectly fine. I am okay. He thought of Tooru’s mum. The last time he had seen Tooru truly happy with her, leaning in the kitchen, arms rested on counters, faces aglow with laughter. Tooru on the courts. His eyes bright, electrifying, a hand lifted as the crowd roars, Tooru turning him, grinning, eager, inviting -  

 I am okay. Hajime tells himself. I have to be okay.

But he is not okay. He is not at the end of his time with Tooru when they slowly unravel from each other, arms warm from holding one another, heads still pressed against shoulders; he is not when Tooru gently strokes his face and says Iwa-chan, you promise me you’re alright? You promise me you will tell me if you are struggling? He is not happy nor weightless nor warm when he parts ways with Tooru at the bottom of the building, Tooru glancing back for as long as he can until Hajime smiles, raises a hand and mouths I love you - he is just empty. Empty and sad and broken and empty.

Because that was what he had thought was missing: being with Tooru, being held and kissed and fussed over by Tooru. The one absence that had exacerbated his breakdowns, the one salve that would fix all his current miseries. Right?

There is a special kind of hollowness that builds when you realise you have gotten what you thought you wanted, but not at all what you needed.

If anything, what he feels is worse.

Guilt. It is this sticky, strained, ever-present feeling that has settled in his stomach, spread into the marrow of his bones, arched into the vessels of his mind. Like a silent scream he can’t let out, a now-familiar weight that now crushes against his chest, an ugly shadow that buries beneath his skin that he can’t dig out. He made Tooru worry. He made Tooru do Volleyball Beyond Borders.

When he returns to his appointments and sits down, he finds once again, the words on his documents are ludicrous to him. He can’t concentrate, can’t read, can’t think.

There is no José Blanco equivalent for him, no one to watch him, to pull him aside for performing poorly, to make a phone call to get his number one support, to force him to take time off to recover. He is the José Blanco for his players: if he does his job poorly, someone else who is having an unlucky day could fall, slip, break an ankle, tear a ligament, split a knee. All because Hajime is distracted, all because Hajime hasn’t done his examinations right, because Hajime hasn’t been thinking while doing his tests and stretches and appointments.

Hajime’s next session is with Yaku. He tries, he truly tries, for about five minutes to do his job until it is clear that his brain is not processing a single word Yaku is telling him. It is like as if there is a voice talking at him, louder, harsher than anything else he can take in: What gives you the right to do any of this? Do you know how much danger you’re putting Tooru in? Who are you to swing into Oikawa Tooru’s life pretending to save him from all the troubles that you yourself caused? Finally, when he can’t take it anymore, he apologises profusely to Yaku, explains that he needs to postpone his appointment and hastily makes an exit from the room.

Talking to Oikawa Tooru is usually top on the list of things that make Iwaizumi Hajime feel better; but that failing, he tries one rung down the list. He heads down to the gym, puts on his boxing gloves and goes to work on a boxing bag. Round after round, swing after swing, he throws his punches into the bag, bam, bam, bam, his frustrations, his anger, his self-loathing, his guilt, the guilt, the sticky, slimy,  ghastly layers of guilt.

By the end, when he is heaving and panting and sweating, it feels finally, as if he has finally knocked out the voices in his head. As if he has finally tired himself out enough to no longer have the energy to be anxious anymore.

He takes a quick shower. Tells himself to pull the fuck together.

He gets on with his day.

His original work schedule had been meant to finish by nine at night. Instead, he sees Ushijima and Yaku between nine to ten, and then finishes all the document work he hadn’t managed to in the morning after the appointments.

In between, he calls Tooru, asks if he is okay. Tooru murmurs back that he is. He too, asks if Hajime is okay, his voice serious, worry underlying his soft, gentle tone.

Hajime says he is. He doesn’t believe in his answer quite so much anymore.

His lack of conviction, he knows, would not have been picked up but anyone else in the world but Oikawa Tooru.

“You’re doing it again.” Tooru says, frustrated.

“What?”

“The thing where - something feels off.” Tooru pauses. “Like as if something’s wrong. But you’re not telling me what’s wrong.”

“Tooru, I’m not -”

“Hajime, it wasn’t just not answering my calls that was the issue earlier, do you understand?” Tooru begs, the upset slowly creeping back in his voice. “It was this. This holding back. This not telling me things.”

Hajime had been in the office alone still, as they were calling. He lowers his voice, closing his eyes as he says, in the most convincing voice he can possible:

“Oikawa Tooru.” He says quietly. “I promise you. Everything is okay. I am busy, I have work to finish, so yes I am stressed - but everything is okay. I’m okay.”

There is a silence on the line for another while.

It isn’t believable. They both know it. It isn’t convincing.

“Fine.” Tooru breathes out. Hajime understands, in some vague terms, that he has used up one of his last chance cards. “Okay. I trust you, and if you say that, then I will take your word for it. But,” He stresses. “If that changes at any point, at any point at all, you have to let me know. You understand, Iwa-chan? You understand?”

“Yes.” Hajime lets out an exhale too. “Yeah - of course, yeah.”

“I love you.” Tooru says quietly, almost anguished.

“I love you too.” Hajime whispers back.

Close to midnight, Hajime heads back to his room and flops into bed.

He spends about ten seconds worrying about how upset Tooru had sounded over the call before falling asleep right away.

***

Kuroo Tetsurou too, is having a late night at work.

There are a million final tweaks to make, a gazillion final changes to discuss on Volleyball Beyond Borders before it is finally launched at 8pm on the sixth day of the Olympics. Jono, the beer-loving half-Australian half-Japanese he is, convinces Kuroo for a quick drink to celebrate and Kuroo returns to the office two hours later slightly tipsy with a half-drunk third beer in hand, to finish off the rest of his document work he had neglected to get Volleyball Beyond Borders out the door.

To his surprise, Iwaizumi is still there when he walks into the office, his face drawn in concentration as he scrolls through something on his laptop. The athletic trainer usually wakes at the same insanely early hours the athletes do and is never usually up this late.

“Heyo Iwa.” Kuroo waves. “Late night huh?”

“Yeah unfortunately.” Iwaizumi looks up. He runs a hand through his hair, looking tired, but gives Kuroo a small smile. “Almost done though.”

Kuroo returns the smile and lets Iwaizumi get back to his work, not wanting to distract him too much.

He pulls up his own laptop and curiously visits the Volleyball Beyond Borders YouTube page to see how it has fared in the two hours he had been away drinking with Jono. It has done well – already gaining good traction with a mix of adoring Oikawa Tooru fans and a series of new fans marvelling at Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s clearly close dynamics.

Glancing at Iwaizumi’s bent head, Kuroo wonders if Iwaizumi truly knows how famous he is about to get soon. Has he kept up with how well the trailer has done? Has he noticed how keen fans have been about the launch of the actual video? Has he spoken to Oikawa Tooru at all since the shoot? Or has he just carried on with his life, expecting nothing at all to change?

All of this reminds him, a little guiltily, a little uneasily, of the report he had accidentally seen earlier on Iwaizumi’s laptop. The report that clearly, alarmingly, in Iwaizumi's usual style of reporting, outlined a series of close examinations about Oikawa Tooru. And that in turn, reminds Kuroo of the little query he had made to Kenma earlier today.

He pulls up he and Kenma’s message history:

[11:20am]
Yo, yo Kenma!
I mean this as a compliment in absolutely the best ways–
but you are the best internet detective I know.

Kenma: [2:01pm]
What do you want, Kuroo?
Sorry just woke up

[2:05pm]
Hahaha sorry didn’t mean to disturb your beauty sleep
I was just wondering if you could do some top-secret, super-confidential internet searching for me.

Kenma: [2:05]
Go on…

[2:06]
You know the Argentinian setter Oikawa Tooru?
I want to know exactly how well he knows this athletic trainer on our team, Iwaizumi Hajime

Kenma: [2:08pm]
…
Just say you want me to stalk the stars of your JVA video, Kuroo

[2:08pm]
Oi, I said nothing about stalking
But well yes that.

Kenma [2:08]
Why tho…

[2:08pm]
You know, confidential research.

Kenma [2:10pm]:
? What are you looking to find?
We already know they were high school best friends? What more do we need?
Are we getting a Volleyball Beyond Borders round 2? If yes, I’m not helping you with any of the video edits this time, no matter how much you beg.

[2:13pm]
No no, no more round 2 of begging you for video editing help I promise.
But well look. I thought they were just friends too but… there’s been some fishy stuff I’ve found lately.
Wait let me call you, it’ll be easier to explain

[Missed call from Kuroo, 2:13pm]

[Missed call from Kenma, 2:20pm]

Kenma [2:20pm]:
??

[2:20pm]
sorry sorry was getting earphones

[Call with Kenma, 2:21pm]

[3:18pm]
Keep it on the downlow though
I don’t wanna falsely accuse Iwa of anything.
He’s a good guy.

[3:18pm]
Allg, gotcha

Kenma [7:20pm]
Okay, look what I found
Looks like Iwaizumi has made some visits to San Juan, or at least, to Oikawa Tooru and his coach at San Juan before.
Take a look at this:
[Link]

Kuroo opens the link, his eyes widening.

***

On the seventh day of the Olympics, Hajime awakes once, and then a second time with a jolt when he realises he has slept through his first alarm clock by fifteen minutes.

Shit – He hurries up to get changed. He has a few appointments booked in the morning, followed by his first interview post-Volleyball Beyond Borders launch. He rushes through his morning routine and calls to apologise profusely (again) and warn that he will run late to his first appointment of the day (his victim this time is Aran, who very kindly tells him not to worry).

When he emerges from the bathroom to hurry through ironing his shirt for the interview, that is when Kuroo, annoyingly, starts engaging him in conversation.

“Morning!” Kuroo says, too energetic for this time in the day. Kuroo isn’t usually up this early – but somehow he is today, hair bedridden and messy, still wearing an old jersey and shorts as he lounges by the desk.

“Mm morning.” Hajime grunts in return.

His smart watch beeps with a message. He checks it: it is Tooru telling him good luck for the interviews, reminding him to let him know if anything at all is wrong.

Hajime ignores the message – for Kuroo is now continuing:

“So, how are you feeling about the interviews for Volleyball Beyond Borders today?”

“Hm okay I guess.” Hajime lays his shirt out on the ironing board. Truth be told, he is feeling a little trepidatious about it, but the plan he has with Sofia is keeping him calm. He though, looks a little suspiciously at Kuroo, who again, seems to want to tell him something but isn’t quite getting to the point. “Why what is up?”

“No, nothing much.” Kuroo says cheerily. “Just excited for it is all!” He grins. “It has been great fun putting it all together, so just keen to see what the press have to says about it.”

To this, Hajime allows himself a small returning smile. He knows Kuroo has worked long and hard for it. “Yeah, with big kudos to you and the team for pulling it together of course.”

“Did you enjoy it yourself?” Kuroo asks. “Did you find it fun re-uniting with your old friend?”

“Oh – yeah for sure,” Hajime replies lightly. He veers the topic away easily. “It was great getting to know the rest of the Argentinian team too. And the JVA crew.” And then, because he genuinely does need to rush off: “Kuroo, I woke up late and am running behind schedule – is there something you want to ask me about that you might want to spit out now?”

Kuroo’s mouth opens, and then closes, clearly hesitating for a moment.

Hajime stares back, pausing mid-way through ironing a sleeve on his shirt.

His smart watch beeps. Hajime hastily shifts his arm so that his watch face is turned away from Kuroo -

- Just slightly too late.

“You - and Oikawa message?” Kuroo asks, raising an eyebrow and pointing to Hajime’s smart watch.

“Well – we – yes, we do.” Hajime self-consciously tugs his watch face closer toward himself. “I mean, as I told you, we are friends.” He adds, hoping Tooru hasn’t messaged him something obviously sappy that Kuroo can see (emojis, emojis are the killers oftentimes). “Friends you know, tend to message every now and then.”

“I thought you two were estranged friends.” Kuroo’s brow furrows.

Right. That was the impression Hajime must have given Kuroo, when telling him they hadn’t spoken in a while. “Yeah, but as you know, we re-connected during the shoot.”

“And before that?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow. “How close of friends were the two of you exactly?”

Hajime thinks of himself, holding Tooru yesterday, knees leaned against one another, heads buried against shoulders. “Not that close.” He lies, his heart starting to trip in his chest.

“Right. When was the last time you saw him before the shoot?”

Cursing himself, Hajime remembers the answer he had given Kuroo a few days ago, the upfront, blatant lie, which feels now like some kind of trap he is walking into: “Maybe not since high school.”

“And you definitely did not see him anytime between the shoot or high school?”

“Kuroo.” Hajime says sharply, putting down his iron. His heart is now hammering in his chest - Sofia’s plan had prepared him to dodge and weave questions from the press; not this insistent, almost-suffocating cornering of questions from one of his closest work friends. “Is there something you want to tell me? I am really running late, and if there’s something you need to say, I’d rather we talk about this properly rather than in a hurried rush.”

Kuroo sits down on the edge of Hajime’s bed, gazing up at him.

“How long can you talk for now?”

“Well, about minus twenty minutes, unless if I move Aran’s appointment to the afternoon, then I’ve got ten minutes.”

“Well, I think you should move it. And maybe your next appointment too.” Kuroo says simply, and oh shit, Hajime finally places the iron aside and switches it off - Kuroo is serious.

“Iwaizumi,” Kuroo begins, and Hajime notices then, exactly how unsettled, how unhappy Kuroo is. Like Kuroo too, isn’t enjoying having to hold this conversation. “Why have you been lying to me about how well Oikawa Tooru and you know each other?”

Hajime opens his mouth and realises, he has absolutely no answer to that.

***

Iwaizumi Hajime walks three steps up onto the small, lifted stage. The lights hit him immediately, like a beam of fluorescent white, and he winces slightly, unused to being under the spotlight. The cameras are bright, their flashes incessant. The sound of clicks smatter together as Hajime joins the panel of Team Japan volleyball players sitting on the press conference table.

From the stage, the journalists are but a sea of jostling dark heads, giant microphones squeezed between in clumps, large video cameras sitting like giant jagged rocks rising from the dark ocean. Something Hajime had never realised before this was how silent the room is when no one was speaking or asking questions. His palms are cold with sweat; his heart leaping to his throat.

“Volleyball Beyond Borders was great!” One of the journalists begins. There is a murmur of agreement around the room. “Are you and Oikawa Tooru truly friends in real life?”

“We are.” Hajime confirms. His voice sounds small echoed in the halls. Somewhere in the crowd, a young man in black wearing a headset is gesturing for Hajime to move forward, gesturing toward an imaginary microphone.

Hajime moves forward, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He clears his throat and repeats again, louder this time: “We are.”

(“You visited Oikawa in San Juan at least twice after graduating high school and before now. You are friends with his coach.” Kuroo earlier, had accused.

He brought up the website of the Japanese restaurant Tooru used to work in in San Juan, where the happy, proud Indonesian owner Mrs Sulaiman has posted a photo of Hajime, Tooru and José Blanco grinning and having dinner at the restaurant.

Hajime stared. He had almost forgotten this post existed. Mrs Sulaiman had always been proud of the fact that one of her ex-waiters was now a professional volleyballer.

“I did.” He numbly confirmed. “And yeah, I am.” He added, because what else could he say in the face of evidence?)

“And how well do you know Oikawa Tooru?”

Hajime’s throat feels stuck. It is such a simple question, which should have such a simple answer for, but with all eyes turned on him, the microphone capturing his every word, he feels the burn of his own tongue, in the answer he has to bite down and the answer he gives instead:

“We are old friends.” He is my other half. “We have known each other since high school.” I have not known a life without him.

(“I’m going to ask you again, Iwa.” Kuroo’s tone carried a suggestion of warning. “How do you know Oikawa this well? Well enough to be having dinner with his coach?”

He is my soulmate, Kuroo. Hajime thought desperately. He is my everything, my beginning, my end. He wanted me to meet one of the other most important people in his life. That was a time when his parents, his sister, his nephew had been estranged from him because of me. All the important people left in Tooru’s life, he could count on one hand, all of them sat in that tiny Indonesian-run Japanese restaurant, in the tiny photo you’ve just shown me.

“We are friends.” He managed instead, his vowels sticky from his throat. “I’ve told you, we are friends.”)

“Was Oikawa Tooru ever an inspiration for what you currently do as an athletic trainer?”

In any other situation, Hajime would have loved this question. But beneath the watching, breathes-held silence of the auditorium, his mind is a-scramble. What can he say, that will not implicate him in the future? That will have enough truth but not enough of a lie to be a smart thing to say now?

“Every athlete has their struggle and triumphs.” He licks his lips and finds himself saying. “Oikawa was one of the many athletes I knew back in high school. So of course, he was an inspiration to me, just as many other friends and fellow athletes were.”

(“You went to the same middle school as he did.”

“Yes.”

“He was captain of your high-school volleyball club, you vice-captain of your high school volleyball club.”

“Yes.”

“So… you two are close, close. You had played volleyball for about six years, and then visited him overseas too after graduation. You two were never estranged.”

Hajime looked at Kuroo, anguished, not quite knowing what to say. There were still inaccuracies he could correct, passive lies, white lies he would be leaving.

He thinks of Tooru throughout the years. Laughing, crying, smiling, just being by his side.

Not knowing what else to say, he quietly agreed: “Yes. We were never estranged.”)

“What is Oikawa Tooru like in real life? What are three words you would use to describe him as a friend?” Another journalist, American by the sounds of his accent, asks eagerly.

Hajime opens his mouth and closes it. He gazes across the table, hoping that someone else would jump in, someone else would take the question for him: after all, there are at least a few others here on the table like Hinata, and Kageyama, and Ushijima, who would call Oikawa Tooru a friend too right?

Six sets of eyes, of those six other athletes seated on the table, stare back at him silently.

Hajime’s mouth is dry.

“He is hardworking.” He finds himself saying into the microphone. “He is funny, every bit as annoying and silly as he is on television. He is kind.” He finishes, before he can think of whether it is an inappropriate thing to say. But it is true, it is what he has always told Tooru is what he wishes more people knew about him, beneath his snarky tones and silly airs, what the world knew of him, what the world could in turn treat him with.  

(“You worked with him even before the Volleyball Beyond Borders shoot.” Kuroo said, like a statement he was daring Hajime to refute. “Lucas showed me exercises you had sent him over text, that you also given the Japanese National team.”

What could Hajime have said otherwise?

He nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“Do you do that with any other athlete in the Argentinian team?”

“No,” Hajime let out a slow exhale. “No, I do not.”)

“How has Oikawa Tooru changed in the years you have known him, seeing as you have known him since childhood?”

Had that been obvious from the Volleyball Beyond Borders video? Hajime wonders. He and Tooru, he knows, at least, have never admitted that fact publicly aloud. His hands are tremoring from the pressure of having question after question aimed at him now, despite being only one out of the seven sitting on the panel, arguably the least famous one amongst all the other sporting superstars he is seated next to.

“He –“ Hajime clears his throat into the microphone. He realises that he had spoken aloud without an answer in mind, and is now staring out into the crowd, mind a complete blank. Cameras click, flashes go off. “I think he is quite similar really, to how he was back then. I mean obviously, he is a lot more confident now, a lot more skilful with volleyball than when he was a teenager. He’s grown into his shoes more now too. Become someone a younger him would be proud of.”

He dates a guy now too, Hajime thinks. He never did that before.

He also almost-lost half his family in the process. And Hajime is not sure that is something a younger Tooru would be proud of.

(“You maintain an athletic report of him.”

At this, Hajime, who had moved into a seat as he listened, lost for words through Kuroo’s interrogation, stood up, almost instinctually.

“What?” He had said, not realising how sharp with fear his voice had suddenly gotten.

Kuroo looked up at him, himself too, a little taken aback by Hajime’s change in tone.

“I said, you have a report of him…A report I saw, which looked like reports you have of all the other players in the team. So I assumed it was an athletic health report of him.”

“How much did you read through it?” Hajime asked, his voice suddenly deadly serious.

Kuroo raised his hands, a look of understanding crossing his face. “Not much, I promise. I know this stuff is confidential. I just caught a glimpse and recognised it to be similar to the other reports I’ve seen, but I didn’t read through it I swear.”

“Okay.” Hajime sat back down, exhaling slowly. He shook his head. “Sorry – occupational hazard. It’s never good for confidential health information to be leaked.” He grimaced. “My own fault too for leaving his report open for reading if you saw it somewhere.”

Kuroo stared at him, as they settled back into tense silence.

“So you’re not denying it?”

“Denying what?”

“That you have an athletic report kept and written about Oikawa Tooru?”

“You’ve seen it.” Hajime held Kuroo’s gaze. “So what is there left to lie about?”)

The next journalist who steps up has a hard look about him. He has long hair tied back in a ponytail, and when he speaks, he is almost apologetic, yet still eager as he asks:

“I know this has already been asked many times before - but as a long-term friend of Oikawa Tooru, could you at all shed any light on the rumours that he is secretly gay? Do you think if that was true, it would affect the way you see him? The way your friendship is with him?”

Hajime’s hand tightens into a fist, his fingers digging into his palm so hard that it hurts. He can see that the journalist doesn’t intend any specific harm - perhaps just wanted a good story, or extract from him a semi-inflammatory political statement.

Which is why he forces a smile, his heart hammering as he says, perhaps playing right into giving him the inflammatory statement he wants: “No of course that would not matter to me what he is at all. Neither should it to you.” He forces a small laugh. “Anyway, haven’t we all heard that Oikawa Tooru has somehow snagged the beautiful Maria Sando from the rest of us?”

Across the panel, he can feel his team members’ eyes jerk around to look to him in surprise, because of course, that is the first time they have ever heard Iwaizumi Hajime call a woman beautiful (because spoiler alert, Iwaizumi Hajime is very gay, and has been off the dating market for more than a decade). So okay – Hajime takes note, dial down the theatrics next time, that does not work well on him - but also, he hates it, he absolutely hates that he can sense, with a loathing, terrible sense of dread what the next question is about to be:

(“Are you… working with Oikawa Tooru? Are you colluding with the enemy team?”

They had been near the end of the ten minutes Hajime had promised. Hajime had been burning to leave, Kuroo dogged for answers.

“I am not –“ Hajime hesitated. “ – working for the Argentinian team if that is what you’re asking.”

“Then,” Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “You are just working for Oikawa Tooru?”

“Which in itself, is not against the Olympic rule book.”

“You’ve checked the Olympic rule book on this?” Kuroo laughed, disappointment bounced off in every syllable. “Oh my god, Iwaizumi, I haven’t even checked the rules. I was just hoping you would deny everything, maybe have some kind of explanation, instead of just,” He waved a hand bitterly. “agreeing with everything I’ve just said.”

“Kuroo.” Hajime pleaded. The network of lies he and Tooru have built is so complex, so difficult, that he genuinely did not know what answer he could give Kuroo. “Let’s talk about this another time. Please let me explain to you another time.”

Because what truths he could reveal, what half-lies could he keep up? If he told Kuroo the truth, how quickly would it spread? Why let his stupid, careless mistake, in leaving Tooru’s report open one morning in the office, destroy everything he and Sofia and Tooru had worked so hard to build? Why expose Tooru to the risk, to the danger, of having this news burst into the limelight?

If Sofia had already confirmed that Hajime sharing information with Tooru’s athletic trainer and coach was not an issue with the Olympic rules, then surely the easier option would indeed to just pretend they have been colluding and working together right?)

Which was how they had left it: Hajime promising an answer, an explanation. Kuroo agreeing bitterly, looking disappointed, betrayed, frustrated.

And honestly, Hajime does not know which was worse: sitting in his tiny room with Kuroo, blood thudding in his ears as he confessed the truth again and again to the mountain of evidence Kuroo laid against him; or sitting in this public arena of journalists, lying again and again to the sea of microphones and cameras, catching every word he is saying, recording every story he is telling.

When the final question comes, Hajime almost laughs from how stupid it is. How ridiculous it is that the world could both shame them for it, yet want to extract it from them, will them confess to it. How scarily, frustratingly accurate Tooru’s mother had been in her predictions about this:

“You and Oikawa Tooru have known each other for a long time now it seems.” A journalist, her accent soft, speaks out. “Has there ever been something of a spark between the two of you?”

Hajime smiles, his strongest, brightest smile, and says with the most grit out of all the stupid half-and-full-lies he had told all morning:

“Of course not. Oikawa Tooru is nothing more than a friend to me.”

Notes:

Iwaizumi does boxing (or some other kinda martial art) in his spare time and you could not convince me otherwise.

Also as you may have noticed, chapter 9 got too long so I have also published its second half as Chapter 10 too. Both chapters are best read together - so go on and enjoy (or, take a break to tell me what you think of this half in the comments!)

Kenma and Kuroo’s missed calls and scrambling for earphones is the most accurate piece of text messaging dialogue I’ve ever written.

I also clearly like to think of Kenma as this secret internet-sleuth, video-editing weapon Kuroo keeps in his back pocket.

Chapter 10: Backstage

Summary:

Hajime heads backstage after his press conference.

Notes:

Chapter 9 ran too long so I decided to split it into two. Enjoy!

Once they get back-stage from the interview, Atsumu watches, with some concern, as Iwaizumi leaves for a dark, quiet corner of the back-stage room. When he thinks no one is looking, Iwaizumi slumps back against a wall, closing his eyes and pressing a hand against his forehead.

Indeed, it must be an absolute pain, to be answering questions left right and centre about the man you have just slept with two nights ago, your estranged best friend who has now cheated on his long-term girlfriend with you. Atsumu has no clue how Iwaizumi truly feels about Oikawa Tooru: whether they are friends with benefits, a one-night-stand, ex-lovers, or whether Iwaizumi is secretly in love with him -

All he knows is that Iwaizumi has some kind of complicated feelings about Oikawa Tooru, based on his reactions from every time Oikawa Tooru is mentioned.

He grabs a bottle of water, and as discreetly as he can, makes his way across the backstage to Iwaizumi’s corner.

“Hey.” He says quietly. Iwaizumi blinks up, half-startling at Atsumu’s sudden appearance. “You okay, Zumi-Zumi?” He asks, handing Iwaizumi the bottle.

Iwaizumi nods slightly, taking the bottle. “Yeah - I’m, I’m all good thanks.” He clears his throat and gives Atsumu a small, sheepish smile. “Just not very good with public speaking, as you may have noticed by now.”

“Nah all gucci, it’s a tough gig. I still feel like I mess up half the time doing interviews.” Atsumu sinks into a seat next to Iwaizumi by the wall, untwisting his own bottle to take a sip.

Iwaizumi nods, not replying. He has returned to closing his eyes and leaning his back against the wall, head knelt forward against a hand, altogether falling uncharacteristically quiet. Up close, Atsumu notices that his shoulders are trembling; his breathes short and sharp the way an athlete’s is after playing a game.

Because he doesn’t know what else to do, Atsumu just continues speaking, casually, easily, as sympathetically as he can:

“Man those were some tough questions there today. They really did you a dirty, just fielding you with questions about Oikawa Tooru left, right and centre.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t respond, so Atsumu keeps going:

“I mean, where were the Iwaizumi Hajime questions? Sure there were one or two, but the press really did you dirty just going at you on and on about Oikawa Tooru like that.”

To his relief, Iwaizumi lets out, at this, a small, slightly strained laugh.

“It’s okay. Kinda expected it. He is the more famous one of the two of us.”

Atsumu laughs a little too. “True, but what for right? He isn’t that great, is he? Surely, me or good ol’ Kags, is just as good a setter as you’ll get too eh?”

To this, Iwaizumi lets out a small huff of amusement. He exhales once, takes a deep breath and then sinks down into a seat next to Atsumu.

“You know, I think you two could be good friends if you got to know him.” Iwaizumi looks sideways at Atsumu. He looks tired - his smile a little like crooked and upset, Atsumu notes worriedly - but lightly amused anyway, in the way Atsumu likes seeing Iwaizumi best.

Which is why Atsumu continues, travelling down this line of banter:

“I don’t know, I’ve heard he’s quite a shitty guy sometimes,” Atsumu grumbles and this makes Iwaizumi let out a soft laugh. “I mean, have you heard much about this shitty-ness of his, Iwa? Asides from all the glowing things the press made you talk about him today?”

“I have, I have.” Iwaizumi chuckles. He leans back, closing his eyes for a moment, and Atsumu too, leans back, gazing up at the tall backstage lights, not wanting to put the pressure of staring at Iwaizumi for too long. “I hear he’s really childish in person. Like he likes to give people weird nicknames and stuff.”

“I hear he thinks of himself as a bit of a playboy.” Atsumu snorts. “Like as if he is some big shot going around flirting and breaking hearts - what does he think of himself, handsome or something? I bet he hasn’t even actually slept with a woman in like a decade.” It is a risky joke, given what Atsumu knows are the circumstances - but it makes Iwaizumi burst out laughing, so genuinely, so unexpectedly, that Atsumu grins, glad to have contributed to it.

They sit there for a little longer, bantering and joking as they wait for the rest of the team to pack up, to move onto their next venue. Iwaizumi still doesn’t look a hundred percent, his breathes still a little shallow and his demeanour still quieter than usual, so Atsumu cheerily continues chatting, letting Iwaizumi have an excuse to stay seated with him on the floor, out of the team’s sight.

As most of the team gets wrapped up, they stand and pack up their belongings and start to leave out from the backstage.

It is at that point that the Argentinian team floods in, getting ready for their interview session next.

Atsumu notices Iwaizumi’s shoulders freeze - and following his gaze, sees that he has found Oikawa Tooru from across the room.

Oikawa Tooru, clearly, has found them too, staring in their direction. His brow is creased, an unreadable expression on his face.

Putting his bag down, Oikawa Tooru starts heading over; Atsumu looks in turn to Iwaizumi, who he notices, is shaking his head just very slightly at Oikawa Tooru. Unsure of what to do, Atsumu can only watch, paused from a slight distance, as Oikawa continues approaching, Iwaizumi looking clearly reluctant and -

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Atsumu butts in between Oikawa’s pathway to Iwaizumi. He grins up pleasantly at Oikawa Tooru. “I think you’re heading the wrong way, the stage entrance is that direction. We’re rushing off now actually.”

Oikawa’s eyes harden with a cold sort of glimmer. “No, I’m pretty sure I was going in the right direction. I think you are going in the wrong direction, the stage exit is that way.”

“You sure, pretty boy?”

“Oh yeah I’m sure, blondie.”

“Both of you,” Iwaizumi pipes up, stepping between them firmly. His voice, to Atsumu’s relief, has regained its usual strength that it had lost while they had been sitting on the floor earlier. “are using stage directions very wrongly, which goes to show how little neither of you know about what you are saying.”

Iwaizumi looks to Atsumu. “Go ahead.” He says. “I’ll catch up later.”

Atsumu hesitates. He glares back up at Oikawa Tooru - who is clearly holding back an annoyed glare too - and looks back down at Iwaizumi.

“You sure? You’re okay?”

“Perfectly fine.” Iwaizumi nods. “Just go ahead.”

“I’ll wait for you right here.” Atsumu says stubbornly, and Iwaizumi lets out a small, slightly exasperated sigh, before turning to Oikawa and gesturing him aside.

***

Tooru, in between practice, had snuck a few glimpses of Hajime’s morning interview.

He had noticed immediately, how horrific the questions had been. A suite of personally invasive questions, hintingly homophobic suggestions, glimmering guesses as to the nature of their relationship. Hajime took it bravely; he took it well - but Tooru could tell, he was affected. It showed in the forced smile on Hajime’s face, the barely-restrained anger in his expression, way his voice shook slightly when he fiercely made clear that he didn’t care whether Tooru was straight or gay.

Tooru had wanted to rush out from practice immediately after the interview ended, but José had caught him warningly. At first, Tooru had been rearing to fight, ready to protest - but José had instead given him a meaningful look and said quietly:

“From what I understand, you and Hajime are keeping things on a downlow, yes?”

Tooru’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realised José too, had been keeping an eye on the events.

He swallowed down his protest and nodded.

“Then don’t rush to him now.” José urged. “The journalists will still be around. It’ll cause a scene, give them even more food to chew on. We are going to the interview room soon anyway for our round at the panel. Just come with the team, don’t raise suspicions. Catch Hajime when he’s leaving, check he’s okay then.”

Tooru nodded. He took in a deep breath and sat back down.

By the time they get to the interview rooms, most of Team Japan had gotten up and were leaving already, but Tooru catches a sight of Hajime on the tail end of the group, hands in his pockets, shoulders huddled forward, walking next to Miya Atsumu. He can see Hajime’s eyes raise to scan the Argentinian group as they walk in almost out of habit - and finally, when they catch one another’s eyes, Tooru stops uneasily in his tracks.

Hajime is not okay. Hajime is clearly not okay.

It shows in how pale Hajime is, how tired he looks. How his eyes are slightly glazed the way Tooru knows they get when he’s close to crying. It sits in his body language - the way his shoulders are shrunken, his hands wrapped in his pockets, like as if he has huddled himself closer together, afraid of the world inflicting on him.

Tooru knows how many people are around. He knows Paulo, again is staring at him, perhaps starting to find suspicious how drawn he is to Iwaizumi Hajime each time he sees him. He knows Lucas too, has slowed down and is watching on, a worry creasing on the top of his brow. Next to Hajime, Miya Atsumu too is narrowing his eyes.

Tooru doesn’t give a shit.

Slowly, as discreetly as he can manage, he stats walking toward Hajime.

From afar, Tooru can see Hajime give him a glare, and start to shake his head infinitesimally. No, don’t come here. He insists. I’m fine, I swear, I’m fine. But Tooru continues walking forward, driven by the need to know, a slowly rising upset because if I hadn’t seen this, would Hajime have just not told me otherwise? and as he is almost approaching, he can see Hajime take a hesitant step back, glaring: Don’t, Tooru, I tell you, don’t you make a scene, I swear, I’m okay -

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Miya Atsumu steps in between Tooru’s pathway to Hajime. He grins up pleasantly. “I think you’re heading the wrong way, the stage entrance is that direction. We’re rushing off now actually.”

Tooru turns to him coldly, not because he is particularly angry at Atsumu; but because he is worried, scared at how upset Hajime is; furious at the people who got him there, the people who are now standing in his way to Hajime. “No, I’m pretty sure I was going in the right direction. I think you are going in the wrong direction, the stage exit is that way.”

“You sure, pretty boy?”

“Oh yeah I’m sure, blondie.”

“Both of you,” Hajime threatens, stepping between them firmly. There is a hoarseness to his voice, that indeed, confirms to Tooru that he had been crying or at least near-crying earlier, though it doesn’t reduce the warning in his tone. “are using stage directions very wrongly, which goes to show how little neither of you know about what you are saying.”

He shoots a side glare to Tooru - I told you not to make a scene - before turning to Atsumu. “Go ahead.” He says. “I’ll catch up later.”

Atsumu hesitates. He glares back up at Tooru - who, trying his best to not make a scene as requested, holds back his best annoyed glare - before looking back to Hajime.

Atsumu and Hajime exchange a few words Tooru doesn’t catch before Hajime rolls his eyes, lets out a small, slightly exasperated sigh, before turning to Tooru and gesturing him aside.

They walk through the backstage, past the readying athletes and microphone men, until they find a quiet corner in the edge of the room. Hajime stops abruptly, facing the wall and gives Tooru a look. Understanding, Tooru moves in front of him so that he can face the room, watch out for anyone approaching from the crowd on Hajime’s behalf, the way they had on the balcony the next after the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks.

“Hajime,” Tooru begins worriedly. He can tell, even from the small walk between where they had been arguing with Atsumu to the corner of the room that Hajime has shrunken even more, that he has returned to his strange mood, like a bowl of water ready to overspill at any moment. He watches the way Hajime isn’t quite meeting his eyes; the way his chest is rising and falling raggedly like as if he is slowly struggling to breathe evenly. “Are you okay? I saw the interview and I’m sorry, that was horrible, I just wanted to check on you -“

“Tooru,” Hajime snaps. His voice comes out in a hoarse tremble. “If I tell you not to come talk to me - I mean that you should not come talk to me.”

“I -“ The words sting against Tooru’s chest, especially after all he has done to plan, to coordinate the best time to see Hajime, to check on him without raising suspicion. He can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he in turn snaps back: “Look, I’m sorry I hadn’t realised you wouldn’t want your boyfriend to -“

“Don’t. Please.” Hajime whispers, and this time when he raises his head to look at Tooru, there is a plea in his eyes, a brewing of begging fighting beneath his trembling lips, his white-knuckled fists. “I can’t, I can’t talk to you right now. Not when I’ve got a game in an hour’s time. Not when you’ve got an interview in fifteen minutes.”

“Hajime -“

“Tooru,” Hajime looks away again, his voice gaining an anguished quality as he continues fiercely, insistently: “Once I leave this room, cross the village and step into the arena, I will have fifty minutes to prep my players and get them ready for the game. If I don’t do that well, if I can’t focus, I could miss something. If I miss something, someone could get injured. Someone could be put out of playing permanently. I have just spent the last twenty minutes fighting back an anxiety attack, because Miya Atsumu wouldn’t leave me to just panic alone, and I thought maybe his talking smack about you might make me feel better but no, I think it’s only just delayed the anxiety attack.”

Hajime looks back up, and he is near crying, Tooru realises, tears whelmed in the corner of his eyes, teeth gritted, chest heaving -

“And yes,” Hajime continues, laughing bitterly in this gritted, shaky voice, “I want to talk to you, Tooru, goddamnit, you have no idea how many mornings, how many nights I’ve lain awake just wishing I could talk to you. And you are right -” He laughs, a horrible, uncharacteristic harshness tacked to his voice. “Everything you said about me yesterday is true. I am a terrible boyfriend. I have been avoiding you. I have been keeping things from you -“

“Hajime.” Tooru pleads. He steps forward just slightly. His hands ache to hold, to soothe, to comfort. “I never said -“

“You don’t need to say aloud things that are true.” Hajime looks up at Tooru again, and Tooru can physically see the way Hajime comes closer to crying every time he tries to meet Tooru’s gaze. “But I think you should know: the only reason I can’t talk to you is because you are Oikawa Tooru,” His voice cracks at this. “My body is so comfortable with you, so familiar with you that anytime I’m even so much as near you, it just stops being able to hold back these fucking anxiety attacks, it stops being able to keep up its usual fronts and facades,” Hajime tries to laugh, except it comes out more like a sob.

At this point, Tooru can’t take it anymore - he moves forward, aching, pained - as he gently grips Hajime on his forearms and pulls him closer. Not quite embracing him - but holding him close enough to shield him from the crowd, to protect him from any curious gazes.

His fingers dig, fiercely, into Hajime’s forearms. Hajime’s fist close shakily against the edge of Tooru’s jacket.

“If I talk to you, if I start telling you things,” Hajime’s voice is a small, barely held tremor. “Everything, this façade, this dam, this walls I’ve built, everything I’ve done to make myself okay, to make myself functional -“ He looks up at Tooru, agonised. “- they will all come crumbling down and all I’m going to be is this huge emotional mess of pieces that you will have to pick up.”

“Is that what you want?” Hajime’s voice picks up in volume, a desperate, frightful tone. “I will fall apart, and leave you all of the mess to clean up, Tooru, do you hear me, do you understand me? When you have to be out on stage in fifteen minutes, and I have to be out on the court in ten minutes, and both of us will need to be functioning, both of us performing, do you understand why I can’t tell you things? Why I want to but I can’t, I can’t - I just can’t and -”

Hajime breaks off, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched with the effort of gritting his teeth. His hands furl tighter in Tooru’s jacket as he stares down despondently at the ground. And then through the silence -

“Iwaizumi Hajime.” Tooru says softly. “I hear you. I understand you. I hear what you’re saying, and I won’t make you talk, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. But we are going to try and calm down together first, is that okay? Can we try that?”

Slowly, Hajime nods, taking a shaky inhale, and then a shaky exhale. Gently, Tooru pulls him a little closer, his hands tightening on his forearms.

“Okay. Let’s take in a deep breath - yes just like that, slowly does it. I’ll do it with you, Hajime. Inhale, and then exhale. Inhale, and then exhale. Good, yes, just like that. You’re doing so well, baby, you’re doing so well.”

Hajime’s chest heaves, trembling with effort to not flee back into his anxiety. Carefully, Tooru begins rubbing his hands soothingly up and down Hajime’s forearms as he begins saying, as steadily and gently as he can, like reading off a children’s book:

“Hajime, listen to me. You won’t be an emotional mess of pieces, you won’t be the reason a player stops playing permanently, you won’t be a reason I play poorly, if you were thinking that. After this, you and I will go to our respective places and hey, you might not believe me, but I know we will be functional, we will perform, we will go ahead and do our best. No one’s going to get injured, no one’s going to mess up. At worst, we might be a little late: José might lecture me; Hibarida might lecture you but that is all Hajime, that is all it will be. No one will die, nothing will set on fire. Isn’t that right?”

Hajime nods again, like as if slowly absorbing what Tooru has to say. He is still staring down at on the ground, breathing heavily.

“You’re doing really well, baby, that’s it: deep inhales, slow exhales. Yeah, you’ve got this Hajime, you’ve got this.”

Gently, Tooru nudges his shoes between Hajime’s. “Look at my shoes Hajime. Look at that dark mark on the edge of my shoes I need to clean off; look at the edge of my shoe lace that Kawa your damn brat of a cat chewed on over the weekend,” This, to Tooru’s relief, makes Hajime huff shakily in a small laugh. “Focus on the spot there: the edge of that shoelace. And just keeping breathing okay? Deep breathes. In, and out. I don’t want you to think of anything else, except just the spot, that cat-chewed shoelace. In, and out. In, out. That’s it, baby that’s in, come on we can do this. In, out. In, out. In, out.”

They stand like that, breathing in and out, and in and out for a few moments, until Hajime is breathing more steadily, his shoulders lowering.

“You’re doing great, Hajime, you’re doing great,” Tooru encourages again. He moves his hold up to Hajime’s shoulders instead, drawing little circles in his shoulders soothingly. “And hey,” He continues, gently but firmly: “I hear you, I really do hear you when you say you find it hard for you to be around me when you’re near a breakdown, because you feel like you’ll lose control. I’m sorry I didn’t know about that before. I’m sorry I came over even though you told me not to.”

At this, Hajime’s breath catches again and Tooru persists, taking a stab as to the reason for Hajime’s reaction: “But it’s okay Iwa-chan, it’s okay, I am not mad, you’re not a bad boyfriend for feeling that way. In fact, knowing this now helps me know how to act, helps me understand what you were going through before, so I’m glad for it. Okay? Yeah?” Hajime nods, clear relief flooding his face.

They stand there for a moment longer, Hajime’s hands loosened on the edge of Tooru’s jacket, Tooru’s hands gently rested on Hajime’s shoulders. Hajime’s breathes have steadied and are slowly, growing more even, which is why Tooru says as gently as he possibly can:

“Hajime, what I understand is you find it hard for me to be around when you’re under time pressures like you are now. And because of that, if you want to return to normalcy, you will need to do it without me. Is that right?” Tooru wishes he could kiss Hajime on the head, just as Hajime had done for him yesterday. “Am I understanding that right? Would the best thing for me to do now be to leave you alone so you can continue on with your match?”

Hajime’s hands tense up again. He doesn’t look up, but slowly, painfully, nods.

“Okay.” Tooru says gently. He settles instead for a gentle tip of his thumb against Hajime’s chin. Hopes Hajime understands the gravity, the meaning, the love that he means in it. “So what I’m going to do now, is that I’m going to slowly leave okay? Not because I want to, not because you want to, but because we both know this is what you will need to recover and get back to your day.”

“It will hurt, it will hurt like a bitch, especially because you are feeling vulnerable and exposed now - but we both know it is temporary, and that we will both see each other very soon again alright. And if you change your mind and want me back, just give me a call and I’ll be there. You understand Hajime? Can you tell me you understand?”

Hajime nods, swallowing hard.

“And if you have an anxiety attack again like this Iwa-chan,” Tooru continues gently. “I want you to do what we just did okay. Focus on a spot, breathe until you calm down. Ask for a time-out if you need it - somewhere nice, somewhere outdoors, somewhere sunny.”

“And be kind to yourself, Iwa-chan.” He whispers. “You are doing a great job - at work, at being the most wonderful boyfriend - and I think the only person who doesn’t believe that sometimes is you. So make sure you treat yourself the way you treat everyone else, alright?”

Hajime slowly lifts his head to meet Tooru’s eyes. There is anxiety still, fighting beneath his eyes; but there is also, a steady look of determination as he breathes out raggedly, fiercely.

It is indeed going to be hard to leave, Tooru realises with an ache. It feels wrong to leave when Hajime is broken and vulnerable, and in turn he knows it will feel sharply hurtful for Hajime to have him leave right at this moment, when he feels like he needs someone the most.

Which is why Tooru runs his hands down to Hajime’s forearms again and suggests gently: “Do you remember the five senses grounding technique you taught me years ago, to deal with pre-game anxieties? Would you like to do that together with me now? So that you can be more back to normal by the time you get back to Atsumu?”

Hajime’s fists tighten on Tooru’s jacket, like as if realising what Tooru is doing. Still, he nods, playing in to lessen the blow.

Tooru smiles, pretending he is not fighting back the ache in his heart. “Okay baby. Can you tell me five things that you can see?”

“I -“ Hajime’s voice is husky when he starts. “- can see you. The lights behind you. The wood shaft near the ceiling. Your shoe laces. My shoe laces.”

“Amazing,” Tooru beams. “And now, what are four things you can feel?”

“I can - feel your hands. My shirt. My bag. My socks.”

“Okie, dokie, lots of clothing artefacts! Now, what are three things you can hear?”

“I can hear - your voice,” Hajime’s voice is growing stronger, more normal. “the crowd of athletes behind us who I’ve almost just lost it amongst.” Tooru smiles sympathetically. “The hum of air conditioning.”

“Perfect, baby. Now what are two things you can smell?”

“I can smell - you.” Gently, Tooru is letting go of Hajime and stepping back. “And - is this weird? Fish and chips?”

“I smell that too - maybe someone’s packed that for lunch.” Tooru laughs. “And you’re almost there - what’s one thing you can taste.”

“I can taste - ah, this is always the hard one - oh.” Hajime startles, when Tooru pulls his palms together to press something into his them, and when he looks down, it is a small capsule of mints -

 - and when he looks back up, Tooru gives him a smile, one filled with so much love and worry and courage and affection that it makes Hajime’s chest ache as he says:

“I love you Hajime,”

- and then he leaves.

And Tooru is right, it hurts like a bitch to have Tooru leave him like this, all alone when it feels like he is just recovering from an anxiety attack, when he feels like he most needs Tooru by his side, but Tooru is also right, this is what he had told Tooru he needed.

He places a mint into his mouth and closes his eyes, wondering what on earth he had done in his previous life to deserve Oikawa Tooru.

Slipping the mint tin in his pocket, he takes a deep breath and begins to walk back to Miya Atsumu.

***

From afar, Atsumu carefully, curiously watches onto Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s conversation.

He can’t quite see Iwaizumi’s face, not with him turned away - but based on Oikawa’s stiff, frozen reaction for most of the conversation, and then the hands that he grips on Iwaizumi’s arm for the rest of it, Atsumu is guessing that it isn’t a particularly fun conversation. Eventually, Oikawa leaves, rather abruptly - and after awhile, Iwaizumi is turning over to walk back toward him.

“Hey.” Atsumu looked at Iwaizumi closely. “You alright?” He is sure now, if he hadn’t been sure before, that Iwaizumi looks like he had been crying - his eyes slightly red-rimmed, his expression even more tired.

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi smiles, “I’m all good.” The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but still, he gestures for them to go forward. “Let’s move.

Notes:

My head cannon is that Iwaoi’s top shared love languages are quality time and physical touch - neither of which they get much chance to have throughout this time unfortunately.

Also big love for José for being an attentive couch; and A for effort to Atsumu for being a well-meaning friend.

Let me know what you think as usual! I clearly just had a few days off and finally got through a writing block (thus the fast updates haha) - can't promise they will be as fast in the future but the next update won't be too far off :)

Chapter 11: The match, the flame

Summary:

Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t one to give up without a fight.

Especially not with Oikawa Tooru counting on him.

Notes:

Enjoy!
(Note trigger warning for homophobia & violence)

Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t one to give up without a fight.

Once he arrives at the sports arena for Japan’s next game, he takes Tooru’s advice to heart. He tells coach Hibarida he needs a time-out; and when Atsumu offers to accompany him again - bless his soul - Hajime firmly but gently declines.

Settling down on a small bench outside the stadium, Hajime closes his eyes and takes in a deep inhale. Lets out a slow exhale. He can feel how raw and shaken he is from the press conference; how drained and tired the anxiety attack has left him. Added to that is the sharp, intense ache in his chest from missing Tooru, despite having just seen him. He misses how soothing it was to have Tooru hold him; to have Tooru's gaze against his, worry, care, love devastatingly burned into his. How comforting it had been to have Tooru with him during the anxiety attack: talking to him, steadying him, holding him close away from the crowd.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

He isn’t sure why, but as of late, loving Tooru as much as he does hurts.

It is as if how much he wants Tooru, how much he needs Tooru, has cumulated into an ache seared deep in his bones, a pain strung tensed across his chest.

He looks up, at the blue of the sky. The dabbed white of the clouds. The drifting by of athletes.

He thinks of the brown of Tooru’s eyes. The fierce conviction, the undying certainty that had lit Tooru’s eyes as he had whispered right before he had left, not caring about the room of people all around them, not caring for Atsumu glaring at them, Paulo and Lucas staring from afar:

I love you, Hajime.

Hajime lets out a slow exhale.

He forces his shoulders to lower. Curls his fingers into fists and uncurls them again.

See, Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t one to give up without a fight.

Especially not with Oikawa Tooru believing in him. Counting on him. Loving him.

When he returns to the stadium, Hibarida asks if he is okay.

Hajime nods, and with all the strength Tooru has lent him from their short reprieve, answers:

Yeah I am. Let's do this.

***

The preparation for the match is busy but a good kind of busy.

For the first time in days, work comes smooth, easy, even delightful to Hajime. With the heavy weighing of anxiety on his chest lifting slowly but surely, his mind is quicker, his hands deft and steady to follow. His decisions are faster and smarter, handiwork neater and swifter and his good work in turn, is reflected in his players.

Kiryu’s face crosses with relief when Hajime offers confident re-assurance that he has improved the strength in his bad ankle; Kageyama’s eyes widen in genuine excitement when Hajime explains a new strategy that can further perfect the motion of his jump serve in a healthier, more powerful manner. It is a special kind of joy to see work emulating from his own hands impact his players: one that reminds Hajime that everything has been worth it after all, to be here with his athletes at the Olympics.

By the end of the pre-match preparations, he feels almost entirely back to normal again, tethered down by the comfort of his routines, the joy of his work.  

As they are sending players off onto the court, Hajime accidentally catches Kuroo’s eye from the other side of the room. They exchange a polite smile, reminiscent of the tense conversation in the morning, but Hajime tells himself: It can wait.

As Tooru had said after all: no one is going to die, nothing is going to burst into flames.

***

Right before the games begin, Hajime ducks aside to text Tooru:

Thank you for before you really helped <3 and sorry for the trouble.

Almost immediately, despite being midway through for his press conference, Tooru texts back:

Iwa-chan, anytime.

Just make sure you keep troubling me okay.

Anytime you need anything, just say the word and I will be there.

Hajime exhales slowly as he replies:

I will. I promise.

And I love you too, Tooru.

***

The game itself is Japan versus Spain, the second-final preliminary match. Spain has power with their tall, strapping players (a little like having six sub-variants of Ushijima, coach Hibarida says thoughtfully); but Japan has variety with their freak duo; their in-the-air and on-the-ground marvels. It is a matter of Japan besting Spain in strategy, not in power, Hibarida notes, and curiously, Hajime thinks it is like Karasuno or Aoba Johsai going up against Shiratorizawa - and at least one of them have bested the giants before.

Immersed in the game, Hajime has no time left to worry about Tooru, the interview, or the messages from Tooru’s mum. His attention is on his athletes, on the game and nothing else. He deals with minor injuries deftly, efficiently; watches his players intently to catch and prevent any incidents. After Suna fumbles a landing after leaping for a block, Hajime pulls him out of the game to rest his ankle. When Suna grits his teeth, clearly frustrated from being benched, Hajime calmly sits with him to detail all the points he has seen Suna win so far. He explains calmly why resting now will mean that Suna will be able to help the team more later once his ankle strengthens.

Hajime’s job isn’t the most glamorous. No, if he does a good job, his role shouldn’t be noticed by anyone because then there would be zero injuries, zero swap outs, no need for pep talks or tending to wounds. To him, recognition is secondary, it isn’t something he even thinks about. It is enough to watch pain relieved in Bokuto’s eyes when he salves his shoulder; to see Suna’s eyes narrow with determination again despite sitting on the bench with a compressed ankle.

It is why he doesn’t expect it when it happens.

When Japan finally takes a close 3-2 win, Hajime glances up at the big screen and realises with some shock, himself projected on the big screen.

It takes a few moments to truly hit that it is him on the big screen and not some strange lookalike with spiky hair, an almost cartoonishly open mouth and startled frown. He freezes, not knowing what to do beyond glancing behind himself with maddening disbelief as if trying to find the person who the camera is really meant to be focused on - which is when Hibarida laughs and nudges him in the shoulder telling him: Wave, Iwaizumi, wave!

Hajime turns around to face the screen and half-scowling because he isn’t sure what other expression to make (smile, Iwa-chan, you are meant to smile! He later imagines Tooru laughing), he slowly, awkwardly lifts an arm up to wave.

It is in that moment that it strikes him: this is what Tooru, Sofia, Kuroo - everyone - had been telling him about: that if Volleyball Beyond Borders did well, he would be famous, not just another random name floating on the internet, but stadium cameras pointing at him famous. And that is Iwaizumi Hajime, team Japan’s athletic trainer! The commentators are now chattering excitedly. You may have seen him in the viral Volleyball Beyond Borders video lately, covering his unlikely friendship with Argentinian setter Oikawa Tooru - and today, here we’ve seen it as well, Iwaizumi in action, managing injuries, taking care of the players, ensuring that a good game is played safe!

This is fine. This is good, Hajime re-assures himself. They are bringing more spotlight on supporting staff - and that is good isn’t it?

When the interviewers are allowed to crowd in onto the court grounds, Hajime is pleasantly surprised that the tone of the questions too have changed in that direction. Instead of clambering over Oikawa Tooru gossip, the journalists are curious, sincerely interested in knowing about him and his job. What do athletic trainers do? They ask eagerly. What do you think is the hardest part of your job? What do you think is the most interesting part of your job? What was your career pathway to get here? What would you tell an aspiring athletic trainer to do to enter the field?

There are still a few invasive questions sprinkled in between (“Are you single, Mr Iwaizumi Hajime?” “Any ladies you might be interested to have us introduce you to?”) but for the most part, the questions are well thought-out, interesting, and enjoyable. Like with the latter half of filming Volleyball Beyond Borders, Hajime feels himself slowly warming up and is happily giving full, carefully considered answers to the questions by the end of the interview, explaining passionately what he does for his job, and why he enjoys helping and seeing players grow so much.

By the time the journalists scuffle off to fuss over Bokuto and Yaku instead, Hajime catches Kuroo’s eye again. This time, despite it all, they exchange real, genuine grins.

From one support staff to another: they know that Volleyball Beyond Borders has achieved some good.

***

As the excitement from the match and the interviews finally die down, the teams start slowly moving to the locker rooms to pack up and rest. Hajime lingers back to clean up the court, walking along the sidelines to pick up stray balls and scan for any lost belongings. Hinata and Kageyama race past, yelling to ask if Hajime wants to get fried chicken with them, to which he replies no and watches them chase off in amusement.

By the time Hajime is heading back toward Japan’s end of the court, ready to pack up his first-aid-kit still sitting on the sidelines, the court is almost entirely empty. Only two Spanish players are still straggling behind, chatting and nudging one another as they walk.

It is when Hajime hears it, whispered in Spanish:

“Hey – that’s the dude Iwaizumi isn’t it? The one who Oikawa Tooru apparently slept with?”

Hajime turns around sharply – catching almost immediately the eye of two Spanish players now walking off the court.

Instead of being embarrassed at being overheard, one of the Spaniards – number 12 - smirks while the other – number 5 - raises a middle finger, mouthing fag, before being swallowed into the darkness of the corridor behind him.

And okay, fuck, that just happened.

Hajime stands, staring numbly at the now-empty court behind him.

Of course, it isn’t the first time he’s ever been called a homophobic slur. 27 years of living as a gay man has desensitized him to most random acts of homophobia - and usually, Hajime would just roll his eyes or make a sarcastic quip before moving on. This time though, the thing that gets to him is:

Did I hear that right? Did they just say that I slept with Tooru?

In an almost delayed reaction, Hajime moves into the corridor that leads to the locker rooms after the Spanish players. When he walks past the door to Japan’s locker room, he hears Hinata yell after him telling him he’s going the wrong way but ignores him, instead following the Spanish players into the half-emptied Spanish locker rooms. He continues, walking past the benches and metal lockers and showers, blood beginning to hammer in his ears as he scans for numbers 5 and 12. Around him, the players in the locker room are starting to stare. Some starting to stand. Others raising eyebrows, tossing frowns, giving smirks, or frowning with glances away. 

That is when he begins to hear it, the whispers in Spanish of players who could never guess that a Japanese athletic trainer had, for their Argentinian boyfriend, had spent about nine years learning Spanish:

“Dude, that’s the one isn’t it? The one who they say Oikawa cheated on his girlfriend with?”

“What? Oikawa as in… Argentina’s setter? Cheated on his girlfriend… with that guy?”

“Yeah – I heard Paulo say he saw them hooking up yesterday, they definitely fucked.”

“Ew, I don’t even want to picture it. I mean, what the hell it’s so dangerous nowadays, that dude doesn’t even look gay.”

“Haha what do you even call a guy who another guy cheats on? A mistress? A mister? Poor Maria Sando.”

“It’s kinda on her though picking Oikawa Tooru – that guy’s always looked like a poof anyway, I can’t believe they even let him on the team in Argentina, he looks like someone you could -“

And that is the last straw, it really is - because it is one thing to insult him, another altogether to insult Tooru - and Hajime spins around, the roaring of blood now thudding in his ears and he points to the player number 5, who he does know as the Spanish Daniel Martez, a setter Tooru has never liked, whom Hajime has told him time and time again to be polite to anyway -

“You do not speak about other people like that.” He growls in Spanish, fists tightened by his sides. Daniel’s eyes widen, the players around him staring in growing realisation that Hajime could understand them all this time.

“That’s none of your business, buddy.” Daniel lifts himself off his seat on the bench and starts moving closer. “You’re in our space – so watch your mouth on what you say, defending your little boyfriend.” Menacingly, he leans forward and spits at Hajime, a move that Hajime easily side-steps.

“Hey, you missed.” Hajime says, dangerously calm on the outside, white furious rage on the inside. “I have nothing to watch my mouth over – you on the other hand, have no business spreading rumours about –“

“Is it a rumour though if it’s true?” Suddenly, a second player – number 11 - peels himself off the wall, moving forward to Daniel’s side. “I heard from Argentina’s libero Paulo Alonso that he saw you kissing Oikawa Tooru outside the streets earlier, you freaks – you shouldn’t even be allowed to sleep with the same dorms with other men –“

“People like you should just go to hell.” Another player – number 12 – is extracting himself from the crowd and stepping closer, “How did you guys fuck anyway, I would like to know…”

“Better than you would in any case,” Hajime laughs, almost not believing the things he is hearing, and too late, he recognises how outnumbered he is.

Number 12 stands up to full towering height and suddenly, lunges at him, his arm hurtling forward with a punch. Hajime dodges the fist in time - but almost immediately, he is tackled from his left and rammed into the ground by number 11. Growling, he grabs number 11 by the jersey, rolling him over and successfully shoving him off which is when -

A shoe slams, hard, into his face against his nose, into an explosive burst of pain.

Fuck, Hajime scrabbles desperately for purchase against the spill of blood that blurs his vision. A pair of hands grab him roughly by the front of his shirt, lifts him into the air and then slams him backward into the lockers so hard that the metal doors shudder in his ears. Above the crack of sharp pain in the back of his head and the sting of his right ear cutting on something, he can hear the words being distantly yelled: “You and your little boyfriend better fucking watch out for your fucking backs, you fags –“ and through his blurry vision, he can see the hands tightening their grip around his collar, a fist raised and drawn back -

“Iwaizumi! Iwaizumi!” Against the ringing of the metal against his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth, there is a cry of a familiar voice – Hinata - Hajime recognises distantly. The grip against his shirt loosens in hesitation and Hajime takes the opportunity to tear the hands that are holding him captive away, struggling his way out of Daniel Martez’s grip.

He lands awkwardly on the side of his ankle with a hiss of pain - shit, he thinks dizzily, this is what I was preventing Suna from getting earlier - and he recognises, as the crowd around him is scattered, confused, that now is the perfect opportunity to run.

But Iwaizumi Hajime is a stubborn asshole, especially when he’s angry, even more so when he’s furious on Tooru’s behalf, and he finds himself grabbing the front of Daniel’s jersey, jerking him forward. Daniel’s eyes widen and the Spanish players around him yell and crowd as Hajime growls: “Don’t you dare so much as say a word about or lay a finger on Oikawa Tooru or else –“

“Iwa, Iwa, stop!” Suddenly, there are hands grabbing on his arms and tugging him back – and Hinata is there, jostling through the crowd, yelling in broken Spanish stop it everyone, stop it, we’re leaving – we’re leaving!

Through his rage, Hajime growls and struggles against his new captors - before realising with some confusion that the arm that is dragging him firmly back by around his chest is Ushijima’s, the fingers digging stubbornly into his arms is Kageyama’s. Finally, he lets go of Daniel Martez’s shirt as he stumbles back and allows himself to be dragged back by his team mates.

“Let’s go,” Kageyama urges, “Let’s go,” and they turn around, Hinata, Kageyama and Ushijima ushering, dragging Hajime out of the locker rooms.

When they burst back out into the corridors, it looks for a moment like Daniel Martez is about to follow them as he lurches in their direction aggressively still yelling “You and Oikawa both, you better fucking watch your backs you – “

But Hajime snarls as he too, snaps forward in response - and Hinata and Kageyama and Ushijima are yelling and pulling him back; numbers 11 and 12 hollering, rushing to block Daniel’s way and pushing him back, which is when, Hajime is finally half-carried, half-dragged backward into the Japanese locker rooms.

It is only once they have stumbled safely into the locker rooms, half-collapsing into a pile by the benches, that Kageyama firmly slams the doors shut behind them.

Their panting echoes loud against the empty locker room, and when Ushijima finally lets go of his iron grip on Hajime, Hinata grabs Hajime and forcefully pushes him down onto a seat on the bench.

“Iwa, Iwa -” Hinata kneels before Hajime, looking worried. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What in the world happened back there?”

The questions, together, are too complicated to answer, and Hajime doesn’t know how much the three of them had heard or understood between the mix of Spanish and English yelled. The back of his head is still pounding from being slammed against the lockers, and when he tries to stand up again, the world around him spins out of proportion. Hinata hurriedly grabs him by the arm as he fumbles backward slightly, the blood from his nose now traversing across his upper lip and into his teeth:

“Guys, I - I’m fine,” He presses the back of his hand across his bleeding nose and stumbles into a firmer stand, trying to shake off Hinata’s grasp. “It’s nothing – I… I’m fine – you should –“

“You are not fine, you are bleeding.” Ushijima observes, placing a hand on his shoulder warningly.

“Maybe concussed.” Kageyama adds quietly, which Hinata’s brow furrows worriedly at as he asks: “Where did you leave the first aid kit, Iwaizumi?”

“No – look, I feel fine, I am bleeding sure, but not concussed – you, you guys -“ Hajime becomes even less convinced by his own words as he struggles to recall what he was about to say next, a thudding pressure growing in the back of his head “- have a de-briefing to go to, you should go have time to rest up first. I’m fine, I swear, I’m fine -“

“We’re not going anywhere.” Kageyama says, his voice surprisingly stern.

“We made a promise to watch out for you.” Ushijima adds calmly and before Hajime can even process what that means, Hinata is asking again gently:

“Iwa, where is it? Where is the first aid kit?”

“No, all good I can attend to myself, I – “ Suddenly, the room is lurching alarmingly again, the lights in front of him blurring, his head spinning – which is why he lets himself, weakly, be pushed back into a seat by Ushijima and Hinata. Finally, he gives in as he kneels over, burying his face in his hands and closing his eyes to will the dizziness away.

Gently, he feels an arm rest across his shoulders.

“Let’s give him a moment.” He hears Ushijima say distantly, his arm weighing down on him reassuringly. “Also, I think the first aid kit might still be on the court.”

“Got it.” Kageyama says swiftly, and then there is the sound of his footsteps leaving against the door opening and closing. Next to him, Hajime feels Hinata drop into a seat and then, huddle in against Hajime and wrap his arms over him into a fierce, almost protective hug.

After a few moments, Hajime mumbles an apology as he shakes Hinata off, stumbles up and lurches over to the sink where he begins throwing up. When he is done, he shakily rinses his mouth, after which Hinata gently guides him back to the bench. There, he kneels over again to bury his face in his hands because he is feeling so immediately queasy again. Hinata wraps his arms protectively over his shoulders again, Ushijima too, carefully resting a hand on Hajime’s arm.

They stay like that for a prolonged, patient period – until to Hajime’s relief, the fog in his head and the spinning in his vision starts to clear and slowly, he can unfurl and sit back up again, although still leaning his head heavily against the wall behind him.

“Iwaizumi-san.“ Ushijima and Hinata have carefully let go of Hajime, and Hajime makes the mistake of meeting Ushijima’s gaze. “Where are you injured?”

“Can you manage the walk with us to the infirmary? Or is there anything pressing we should tend to now?” Hinata adds worriedly, and Hajime remembers hazily, that he is usually Hinata’s point of authority for medical-related questions.

“No – really, I’m fine, I’m fine. I may be a little concussed, but that’s all good, it’s just my nose and I can fix it up myself -” Truth be told, Hajime can’t remember the last time anyone who isn’t Tooru has fixed injuries up for him. Tooru, who always makes soft, soothing noises as he tends to even the smallest of Hajime’s household injuries – a burn on the stove lovingly salved, the slam of a door on a finger carefully iced. And suddenly, it hurts, it physically hurts more than his bleeding nose, more than his throbbing ankle to be reminded that shit, shit, there are people gossiping about him sleeping with Tooru, that people think that Tooru had cheated on a long-term girlfriend with him -

- and with a dawning of understanding, it is him, Hajime is the reason that the gossip had started. He had kissed Tooru on the balcony after the Volleyball Border drinks. He had pulled Tooru into him, desperately, pathetically wanting him; brought Tooru back to his room, selfishly needing Tooru, needing Tooru to kiss him, to hold him, to touch him, to fill his void of anxieties and fear - so much so that he had stopped caring that they had been in public, stopped caring that they could be seen by players who would gossip about Tooru, players who would think to hurt Tooru and -

“Iwa, Iwa.” Hinata pleads. He kneels down again, forcing Hajime to look at him in the eyes. He looks worried – as does Ushijima behind him troubled. “Please, let us help you. Where are you hurt? What can we do? Would you like us to call Oikawa?” He adds, like as if having read Hajime’s mind. “You have the number for his coach, right? Shall we call him to get Oikawa to come over? I’m sure he must be close by.”

Hajime breathes out, slowly, burying his face back into his hands again. Tooru. He thinks vaguely. The crippling anxiety, the furious self-loathing, the immense guilt that Tooru had so gently chased away before the match is slowly but surely returning again, seeping into his veins like a raw, heavy toxin. He grips his hands into tight fists, like as if hoping that the physical sensation of his nails digging against his palms might dull the sharp ache of his emotional state but of course, it does not, it does nothing but delay them - the anxiety returning almost more sharply once he lets go.

Tooru is in his afternoon second-final preliminary game by now against Germany, Hajime reminds himself, probably flying through points, sending his elegantly, deceivingly powerful sets across the court.

A safe distance, away from Daniel Martez, away from anyone who could so much as lay a finger to harm him.

The pain in his head is growing more intense – his ankle, he suspects, is sprained, or at least pulled from when he fell from Daniel’s grip, which is going to be a real annoyance across the rest of the Olympics. His face, he knows, must be a mess of blood and sweat and spit. Getting into a fight with an athlete from another is something that word will get around about. He will have a line of work lined up for himself after this. Things to explain to the team’s managers. Appointments that will once again, need postponing. Interviews he was meant to attend, that will now inevitably, involve questions about him getting into a fight -

“Tooru put you all up to this, didn’t he?” Hajime grimaces, lifting his head from his hands to look at Hinata and Ushijima. There is the door slamming shut behind them, and they all tense just to relax again when they see Kageyama hurrying back into the locker rooms holding the first-aid kit. Hajime winces as he tests his ankle against the floor, before gesturing for Kageyama to bring the kit over, finally too exhausted, too overwhelmed to protest. “Shitty-kawa messaged the three of you telling you to watch out for me or something today huh?”

“Last night.” Kageyama nods.

“Four days ago, actually.” Hinata admits.

“He mentioned you were having a hard time and to watch out for you if I could.” Ushijima shrugs, casually honest as usual. “And as a friend of the both of you, I of course said yes.”

“Should have known.” Hajime grunts. He gets up, holding back a hiss at the pain in his foot, and hobbles to the sink again, this time to wash the blood off his nose and mouth. When he is done, he sits back down and takes off his shoe, pushing aside the seemingly incessant replaying in his head of Daniel Martez spitting Tooru’s name out between his ugly teeth, as he props his swelling ankle up on the bench.

“Iwa,” Hinata asks again, a little uncertainly. “Do you want us to call Oikawa? I’m sure he would come right away if we called his coach.”

“No.” Hajime pulls out a cold compress from his first aid kit and wraps it over his ankle, biting his lip slightly at the pain. “He’s in an important match. And I’m fine. Let him finish the match.”

“I am certain Oikawa would be more than willing to be here with you even if it means leaving the game.” Ushijima comments. Hajime laughs a little at this, his chest tightening as he remembers Tooru’s words before: Anytime you need anything, just say the word and I will be there.

“I know,” He soothes to Ushijima, like a parent re-assuring their child that mum and dad are not fighting. “I know he will. But he doesn’t need to, not now anyway.”

Just make sure you keep troubling me okay. Tooru had pleaded.

I will. Hajime had promised before. I love you too, Tooru.  

A promise which now brings a bitter, acrid sensation into Hajime’s mouth. 

The guilt in his chest is growing more immense - immense and conflicting and painful even - but Hajime ignores it for now. Hinata, Ushijima and Kageyama watch in silence, each looking so concerned than it is disconcerting, as Hajime rests his ankle upon his bag that Kageyama has brought over for elevation.

“Alright pass me some antiseptic please.” He extends a hand, knowing the three players would feel better to be given something to do. Hinata jumps on the task, taking a seat and rummaging through the first-aid kit. “No, that’s the Fucidine, that can come later –“ Hinata places back a white tube to hand him instead the yellow bottle. “- yes, thanks, that’s the one.”

“Sit, by the way, if you are adamant on not leaving.” He adds, glancing at Kageyama and Ushijima. “Sorry you three have to do this right after a match when you should be resting.”

“It’s nothing, Iwaizumi-san.” Kageyama insists, as he and Ushijima settle down into seats.

“Yeah, of course it’s nothing Iwa.” Hinata’s face furrows and softens at the same time. He rests a hand on Hajime’s shoulder. “You’re always doing this for us all the time.”

“It is kind of my job,” Hajime points out, but he gets what Hinata is trying to say, and grunts in gratitude when Kageyama hands him some gauze without being prompted.

For a while, the three men watch in silence, as Hajime works carefully cleans out, salves, and neatly gauzes up his own face and ear injuries, working off a mirror. When he is done and begins to strip the cold compression off his ankle to replace with a compression elastic bandage for the journey out of the locker rooms, Kageyama asks, quietly:

“Iwaizumi-san, why did you get into that fight?”

Hajime glances up to meet Kageyama’s blue eyes.

It occurs to him that Kageyama looks upset, angry even.

“I –“ Hajime starts, hesitatingly, when Hinata shakes his head, answering for him:

“Kageyama, Iwaizumi didn’t throw any punches! I saw it – these guys were the ones who attacked him – and three on one! And the only thing Iwaizumi did was defend himself and…”

“It’s okay, Hinata” Hajime shakes his head. Kageyama has always had a quiet admiration for him, which he has always thought was slightly disproportionately placed. Looking squarely at Kageyama, he answers honestly:

“They were saying things about Tooru. I got angry.”

Kageyama’s fists tighten.

“What were they saying about Oikawa-san?” He asks quietly, and to this, Hajime’s chest tightens and he finds he cannot answer. He looks away, wishing that Hinata would jump in for him this time, that Ushijima would stop looking at him with a concerned intensity, that Kageyama wouldn’t look so upset like as if he already knew the answer –

He shakes his head and just looks down, extending a hand and saying:

“More tape please.”

As Ushijima calmly hands it to him, he says quietly:

“Iwaizumi, it wasn’t okay what they said.”

Ignoring him, Hajime finishes gauzing over a cut behind his ear which he hadn’t even noticed until he had looked in the mirror.

“They need to be reported.” Kageyama adds. His voice is icy cold, furious. “They can’t just get away with beating people up like this.”

“Kageyama, it’s okay, I returned their taunts, I fought back too -” Hajime tries protesting, but Hinata interrupts, his voice quiet and terrible:

“Iwaizumi stop. It’s not your fault.”

And Hajime looks up, tortured, anguished, guilt burning so deeply within him that it feels like his chest and throat are closing and constricting, because he knows, of course he knows it is not his fault, of course he knows he has done nothing wrong.

But more than that, it is not Tooru’s fault. It is not Tooru’s fault that he will now be put in danger; that he will now slowly have everything he has worked so hard to build - his career, his reputation, his livelihood, his community - crumble down and destroyed around him and Tooru’s mother is right, she is right after all these years: all Iwaizumi Hajime will bring to Oikawa Tooru is destruction and ruin and hurt and danger. And that realisation, that terrible, horrendous realisation make his limbs - his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders, his legs - his torso, his chest burn with pain like as if struck and roared into fire with a thousand hot, burning matches.

The words said to him no more than six months ago echo in his head. The quiet words, said across the small box neatly seated on the tatami between them:

Hajime-kun. Please think about the consequences your actions have on my son. Not everyone is as kind as I would be about my Tooru being with another man.

***

Iwaizumi Hajime was not okay, that much Oikawa Tooru had known.

What he could do about it was frustratingly little.

With the benefit of hindsight, it was clear to Tooru that Hajime had not been okay for a while now. Since the start of the Olympics, maybe even the weeks, months before that. Whenever it was, there had been a day when Hajime had begun not telling Tooru things, a micro-crack in the ground that Tooru had missed, which now looking back, has grown into a dangerous chasm that yawns across the width of an ocean.

The confession, that had trembled forth from Hajime’s lips when he had broken down in the backstage of the interview room - that he had been keeping things from Tooru, that he had been avoiding Tooru - had caught Tooru off-guard.

It was yet, at the same time, something Tooru realised he had known all along.

Something he had instinctively felt for a while now.

Yet, Tooru had left.

He had left Iwaizumi Hajime, broken and raw and heaving with the effort to not cry after a breakdown, staring after him desperately, longingly.

Because Hajime had told him to.

Because Hajime had told him, that he wanted him to.

At the press conference he had next gone to, journalists jostled, questions fired aplenty in his direction. Cameras flashed, microphones pointed. The hall was crowded: even more crowded than it had been when the Japanese team had had their turn, the man who microphoned Tooru up told him, impressed. Have you seen your Twitter following lately? Sofia had called him just that morning. You’ve really blown up! Volleyball Beyond Borders has done so well - you’re definitely hitting a million followers within the week.

As Tooru sat beneath the blinding lights, beneath the shower of compliments, litany of hinting questions, endless snapping of shutters and lenses, he realised: he no longer cared. He would happily banish all traces of Volleyball Beyond Borders off the internet, gladly delete all his social media accounts - as long as it meant doing so could protect Hajime, could keep him safe from the world, could stop Hajime from being the way he had been earlier: cracked, vulnerable, falling apart. Fuck you, He wanted to stand up and storm at the journalists. Fuck you for going after my Iwa-chan, for making my Iwa-chan afraid, for making him scared, for making him feel like he isn’t enough no matter how many times I keep telling him he is -

A particularly bright flash startled him back to reality.

Next to him, Lucas dug into his side discreetly, looking concerned at he gestured toward the awaiting crowd.

In the crowd, a reporter had her microphone pointed up.

Oikawa Tooru, She asked breezily. We just wanted to know if you would share what you think about Iwaizumi Hajime. Is he someone She added, hintingly, who has played a particularly special role in your life?

Tooru licked his lips.

He thought of Hajime. Trembling beneath his hands, teeth gritted, hands clenched.  

I mean, what do you want to know? He spread his hands with a falsified laugh. He thought of Hajime kissing him on the balcony, afraid and desperate and strained. There is nothing much to know! He thought of Hajime frozen by his side, as his neighbour asked if the flowers were from him. There are other volleyball players I’m much more interested in than Iwaizumi Hajime.

The crowd gasped with interest, taking on the hint. Tooru continued the line, implementing the plan Sofia had conceived, feeding the public with rumours about him dating Maria Sando. Acting like he did not give a flying shit about Iwaizumi Hajime. Denying all he could, with as little care as he could pretend, that he did not know Hajime any closer than a friend he had once known.

It was after all, what Hajime had asked him to do, and Tooru would do anything Hajime asked of him.

But what is Hajime really asking of him?

Is Hajime truly asking for things Hajime himself wants?

***

By the end of the press conference, Tooru emerged, with no real damage caused, and certainly, with at least some damage controlled to his and Hajime’s public image.

When he arrived in the arena later for his match, he pulled José aside and admitted to him what had happened before the press conference. How Hajime had broken down, how scary it had been, how shaken he still was.

“If I’m not playing up to scratch in our game,” He told José carefully. “and you think one of our other setters can play better, please, do what is best for the team and bench me if you need to.”

José looked at him searchingly: “Do you think you’ll play badly?”

Tooru thought about this for a moment. He thought of Hajime earlier: wrecked, upset, his teeth gritted, eyes bleary on the verge of tears, shoulders heaving with his efforts to calm down. But he also thought of Hajime: how he, in the most Iwaizumi Hajime way possible, had his fists wrapped with stubborn determination, eyes hardened with fiery will - still trying to keep holding on, still fighting to pave his way out of the difficult situation.

“No, I don’t think I will play badly.” He answered quietly. “I think talking to Hajime has only convinced me that I have to play well now.”

And that, Tooru thought on reflection, was not something Hajime would ever know about unless he was told upfront: the power Hajime had, even at what he clearly thought was his lowest, to motivate, to still drive Tooru forward to be a better person, to keep going, to keep playing. This, Tooru reminded himself, is something I need to tell Hajime more next time, his chest tightening as he remembered the easy conviction Hajime had laughed about himself being a terrible boyfriend, when it was far from the truth. This is something I don’t tell Hajime enough.

Iwa-chan, Tooru thought as he took his place in the courts. He stared up at the cameras around him, wondering when Hajime will get off his game and start, as he usually does, sneaking watches of Tooru’s game instead. If you’re watching this, I want you to know that you are wonderful, you are amazing, you are strong, you are beautiful, you are incredible. Even when you think you are at your worst. Even when you think you are at your lowest.

He knelt down, arms held forward to ready to receive position. He could imagine Hajime frowning, incredulous, not really believing the reassurances Tooru gave him.

You know how I know this? Because even at what you think is your worst, you are still the person I turn to for support. The person who inspires me to become a better person.

The referee blew the whistle. The opposing team served, Paulo received. Tooru rushed forward to set the ball in a beautiful arc toward Lucas, who was, as always, already approaching perfectly in position.

José doesn’t bench Tooru; Tooru doesn’t play poorly. Easily, Argentina wins their second-final preliminary match against Germany. The 3-0 win is quick and satisfying - the Germans are solid but struggled to keep up with Argentina’s tricks and strategies.

In the final set, Tooru scores three service aces, one of them securing them the final winning point.

The roar from the crowd is deafening when his serve touches the other side; the gasps of shock, the groans of horror, the shouts, yells of celebration. Tooru himself yells in pleasant shock, launching himself into Paulo who is the closest to him on court, both of them yelling and pumping the air with happiness, before the rest of the team piles on in.

The team is in a celebratory mood after, calling for drinks and dances. They dawdle longer than usual after the match in their light, happy mood - doing longer interviews, dancing extra rounds around the court in celebration and audience thank yous, they huddle back into the locker rooms in bright moods.

“I reckon we skip all other work we have planned for today and go straight to drinks,” Paulo is saying cheerily next to Tooru, which earns him a fond cuff on the head by Marco.

Tooru in turn, laughs, as he picks out his phone from his bag and turns it on to check for notifications.

Which is when he first notices all the missed calls he has received throughout his game.

The notifications pop up as his phone loads. Two calls from Hinata, one from Kageyama, one from Ushijima. Two from Maeno, the Japanese team’s manager. Two from Mattsun, one from Makki. Two from Hajime’s father. One from Tooru's sister

Everyone really, in the vicinity of Hajime, except for Hajime himself.

His heart hammering, Tooru checks for his messages from Hajime.

He takes in a sharp inhale as he reads:

Hey Tooru. I have feeling that when you turn on your phone, you are going to see a dozen missed calls from all these people, and that because of that, you are going to start worrying.

I’ll cut the chase and tell you what’s happened. In short, Paulo and some Spanish volleyball players saw us kissing after the vball beyond borders drinks.

Apparently there are rumours going around that we had sex after.

I mean - that’s just plain frustrating isn’t it lol, because they’re not even right. Any other night and they could have been right - but that night, all I did was fall asleep. All you did was tuck me in bed, fill up my water and tube of vitamins for me.

But I guess to them it doesn’t matter. They were really homophobic. They said all these terrible things about us.

I overheard them. We got into a fight. That’s why people are calling you.

Please, promise me you’ll stay away from those Spanish players as much as you can - Daniel Martez & whoever is playing as number 11 and 12 especially - Javier Navarro and Hugo Perez I think? Make sure you keep close to people you trust in your team. Maybe José and Lucas and Ignacio.

As for me - please trust me when I tell you I am fine. I’ve got some minor scraps like the kind I’d get roughhousing with Takeru - nothing more major than that. Ushiwaka, Kageyama and Hinata are with me, and I’m being treated by a medic. I know you will be worried, I know you will want to come see me, but please, don’t.

Please don’t come. I am fine I promise you, I am fine.

Call me when you can.

Tooru stares at the messages, his heart in his throat.

The messages had been sent over two and a half hours ago. After Hinata had miss called him. Before Kageyama, Ushijima, Maeno, Mattsun, Makki, Hajime’s father, his sister had called him.

No one had thought to call José to pull Tooru out of the match.

Because the only person who knew how to call José to pull Tooru out of the match was Hajime.

And Hajime hadn’t. He had chosen not to across the course of the past hours, despite it being the one thing Tooru had kept telling him to do:

To tell him, to tell him, the minute, the second he is not okay.

Across the room, he can still hear Paulo yelling something happily, singing and gathering the younger teammates together for celebratory chants. As if broken from a trance, Tooru stumbles up, sickened to his stomach, suddenly unable to bear the thought that Paulo, his friend, his teammate Paulo had been the one to have seen him and Hajime kissing, had been part of the group that had spread the rumour, had been part of the process that had led to Hajime being, from what it sounds after Tooru sifts through the Hajime-bullcrap, jumped on and -

“Hey,” Lucas is coming by, looking concerned. “Are you okay?” He starts, but Tooru shakes his head, grimacing an apology and stepping back. He hasn’t even changed out of his sweaty jersey, hasn’t even packed his things, but he quickly moves out of the locker rooms, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, unable to bear sitting in the same room with someone who may have been part of the reason his boyfriend had just been attacked and -

He burst out into the busy corridors. He navigates, racing almost through the winding stadium pathways into the open. There are people everywhere: in the corridors, in the rooms, out on the open pathways and it is impossible, impossible to be alone in the Olympic village -

Gritting his teeth, he ducks behind a tree, off the usual pathways and travels his way to the back of the arena. There are still people around, athletes strolling by, support staff chatting and moving about but Tooru doesn’t care anymore.

He calls Hajime’s number.

He waits, shakily, as Hajime dial tone rings once, twice and then -

“Hey.”

Hajime sounds tired. Groggy. Exhausted in a way Tooru rarely hears him sound openly in public. There is a strangeness in his voice: he sounds distant. Tense, like a tight string. Near a breakdown Tooru realises, similar to how Hajime had been yesterday morning before he had called him out. How Hajime had been in the morning in the interview room backstage, right after his press conference.

There is the sound of people chatting in the background. Strangers, voices Tooru doesn’t recognise.

Tooru grips his phone, biting down on his bottom lip. Trying to sound steadier, less afraid than he feels, he whispers:

“Hajime.” Tooru asks gently, trying to not sound too worried. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah -“ Tooru hears the way Hajime’s voice catches as he lies. “- Yeah, I’m fine. I told you, I’m fine and -“

“Where are you?”

The line falls silent. Tooru hears Hajime struggle for a moment.

“If I tell you,” Hajime’s voice is quiet, with a quiver of begging Tooru rarely hears. A plea of urgency, a tone of desperation. “Will you promise me that you won’t come see me?”

“Hajime,” Tooru’s voice breaks. He leans against a wall. Tightens his hand into a fist against it. “You are my boyfriend. You’ve just been in a fight. You’re injured. I love you. I care about you. Of course I will come see you.”

“Okay.” Hajime sounds strained. He is holding back, Tooru can tell, he is holding back from Tooru, not because he wants to, but because of the people around him, the people constantly around them. The persistent lack of privacy. The constant fear that they will be caught. “Then, I can’t tell you where I am.”

Tooru lets out something a cross between a laugh and a sob. He sinks into a seat on the ground, burying his head in between his knees. When he lifts his head again, he asks, in a bitter laugh:

“Hajime. Why? Why do you keep doing this?”

It comes out sharp, it comes out shaper and harsher than Tooru had intended it to. Tooru regrets it the minute he hears the way Hajime inhales, like as if the words punctured him, like as if the words were bullets that have buried themselves in his torso.

“You know why.” Hajime’s answer sounds ragged. Difficult. Like as if he is trying not to cry. “You know why, Tooru - fuck - I’ve told you this morning, don’t make me say it again, I -”

“Because you’re afraid of falling apart? Because you are afraid that once you see me, you won’t be able to hold it together?” Tooru recites. He is trying his best to stay calm, trying to remain kind, to remind himself that the last thing Hajime needs now is for the person he loves the most to get mad at him but Tooru is human too, he too has feelings, he too has wants, and he too is hurt, endlessly wounded by Hajime telling him no, he could not see him -

“Because Hajime, if you need to fall apart,” The sentence catches in Tooru’s throat, “then let me be the person to catch you. If you need to crumble into absolute pieces, I want you to let me be the person to put back the pieces for you.”

The words come bubbling, bursting forth from Tooru’s lips. “You have gotten so afraid, Hajime, afraid of being that with me. But that is part of us, Hajime, that is part of what we’ve always done. I hold you when you don’t have the strength to hold on. You hold me when I’m unable to - and I don’t understand, I don’t understand when or why that’s changed -“

“Tooru, stop.” Hajime’s voice is low, rough, desperation punctuating every word of his plea. “Please. I can’t do this now. Not now, not right now,” A guttural instinct tells Tooru that something is wrong, something is even more wrong than usual, but he keeps going, unable to stop now he’s begun:

“Then when, Hajime, when will we do this?” Tooru begs. “You still haven’t answered me, you still haven’t told me: why? Why have you stopped telling me things? Why have you stopped trusting me? Why are you -“

“Tooru – don’t -“ Tooru hears it, the second time Hajime cracks like as if splintered with a dagger, “Don’t say that - you know I haven’t stopped trusting you, you know I won’t let you come over you because I can’t, we can’t – there are people - and we can’t -“

“So what if people see us if I come over?” Tooru takes a stab at the words Hajime can’t seem to piece together. “Who cares if people know that we’re together? Who cares if people know that we’re gay?” The word burns in his mouth, “Who cares if people know that I am in love with you?” His lip has begun trembling. On the line, he can hear Hajime exhale just as shakily. “When I sat in that press conference this morning, when I stepped in the volleyball courts this afternoon, the only thing I could think about was you, Hajime because I love you and I don’t care, I don’t care anymore how famous I get, or how many medals I win - I don’t get how you can’t understand that the only thing I care about is you.”

“Don’t say that, don’t say that - “ Hajime’s voice sounds almost hoarse, with how much he is trying not to break down, and Tooru knows he should stop, he knows he is upsetting Hajime, he knows that this is him clinging too hard, Hajime pulling back too far, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop as he keeps pleading:

“Recently,” Tooru croaks, “it feels like you don’t believe that I love you anymore and it hurts, it hurts.” He is crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks, the effort of holding himself back from outright sobbing down the phone line herculean. “I don’t know why you can’t seem to understand this, why you keep refusing to accept this but I love you, Hajime, I love you so so much -“

“Tooru - please - “

“ - and I don’t care what people think, I don’t care if it means living in secret or coming out to the world; changing careers or quitting volleyball -“

“Don’t Tooru, please - don't - “

“- as long as you let me be there for you, to be there with you.” Desperation cracks through Tooru’s voice as he repeats the plea he has made over the past few days, weeks, months really: “Hajime, I love you. And it’s as plain and simple as that so please. Let me be there. Let me help you.” His voice trembles. “Let me just be the boy who loves you.”

On the other end of the line, Tooru hears a shaky inhale. Followed by a ragged, pained exhale.

And with that, Iwaizumi Hajime hangs up on Oikawa Tooru.

Notes:

Iwa, my brave boy. *Draws him into a tight hug* And Tooru, my strong one. *Scoops him together into a fierce huddle*
*Pats Hinata, Kags and Ushi on the backs* You three did good.

To anyone reading from Spain: I'm sorry I had to allocate those mean players to you, I'm sure people in Spain are LOVELY. The only reason I made the Spanish players Spanish was because I needed a country that spoke Spanish for plot purposes and that was (unsurprisingly) the first country to come to mind (My sincere apologies).

Anyway, a little random but here are some songs if you want to live on for each of our boys’ perspectives this chapter just a li’l longer, kinda like outra songs to their povs?:
- For Iwa’s pov 1st half of this chapter: The Outsiders by Doves
- For Oiks pov 2nd half of this chapter: The places we won’t walk by Bruno Major
Other song recs welcomed too! If you enjoyed this I might leave song recs for other future chaps too? (the plot has lived in my head for so long that it has manifested in the form of playlists)

Anyway, as always let me know what you think as always! :) And till next time (which will hopefully be soon!)

Chapter 12: Two kids in a great big world

Summary:

After Hajime gets into a fight, Tooru tries to piece together what has happened and what will happen next.

Notes:

If you need to re-read past chapters to refresh your memory before this one, I’d recommend Chap 10 and 11 (or if you’re reading this on a chill evening and have lots of time for max experience, chap 7 to 11)!

Otherwise, please proceed this way my good sirs/ ma’am’s/ persons and ... Enjoy!
(Also I hadn't planned for this timing - but happy bday to our one and only Oikawa Tooru!)

The worst evenings were the ones where silence hung like static over the doorbell intercom, usually after the words spilled had been especially biting, especially spiteful.

On those nights, Tooru sat for what felt like aeons on the doorsteps under the cold, unblinking stars, hating himself, hating the anger, the jealousy, the confusion which had possessed his tongue to twist the wicked words they had, to the person who was most undeserving of the words, the person he really wanted to tell he loved most in the world.

Whenever he heard the door creak open behind him and saw the rectangle of light, warm and soft throw across his shoulder onto the steps in front of him, he always felt a small rush of relief. Almost sub-consciously, he would already be moving aside, making space. After a few times, he always sat on the left, like as if already expecting her arrival.

“Tooru-kun,” Her voice was warm and gentle, never accusatory, never judgemental. “Got into a fight with Hajime-kun again?”

“Yes.” He would murmur, miserably.

The door would close and the light over his shoulder disappear.

Hajime’s mother would sit down next to Tooru, humming gently as they began their nightly vigil.

***

Mum,

Ultimately, there is no way of perfectly understanding what is going on in someone else’s life at every given moment.

It is just how the world works. No matter how close you are to them: whether they are the partner you wake up to every day, the child you once changed diapers for every night or the parent who gave you your life - in the end you are you and they are them and we are all separate, individual beings.

The best we can do is talk and ask and love with all of the inadequate ways we have, to give our best attempt at bridging the gap between what we understand and what our loved ones are really going through.

That applies for Hajime and I.

And for me and you.

Sometimes when I think back, I wonder if what had happened during the Olympics could have been prevented if I had just spoken to you more.

It would not have prevented everything, but it might have prevented the worst of what happened to Hajime.

And to me, that is everything.

I guess these letters are my way of beginning to do that. My fumbling, inadequate ways of beginning to bridge the communications I never tried to before. My way of trying to tell you my side of the story, so you can understand me better, so I too can hear your side of the story eventually, so I can understand you better too.

Mum, for starters, I want to tell you this.

It took me time to come out to myself too.

To realise that it was okay to like guys.

That it was okay to like like Hajime.

That internal battle, that internal push and pull between love and despair I think, was one of the reasons I had fought as much as I had with Hajime back in middle school. I liked him, I liked him so so much. But I was also so confused, so maddeningly bewildered by what I felt for him. He was my best friend, so was it odd that I constantly wondered what it would be like to stroke his hair, to hold his hands, to touch his lips? Or that when I was with him, my world buzzed and spun alive in a way no other girl, not even my first ex-girlfriend who I had thought I had truly loved, had ever done for me?

I was afraid. Afraid of what it would mean for our friendship. Afraid of being found out. Afraid of what would happen to me if the world knew, that the famous Oikawa Tooru had a big fat crush on a guy. I pendulum-ed between desperately wanting Hajime’s attention, and then trying to push him away, to try and bury this part of me that was unnatural, disgusting, strange.

But Hajime was Hajime: he was always there, with his infinite patience and care, always trying to figure out what was wrong, always reminding me that no matter what was wrong, he would always be there for me. Time and time again, he proved to me his loyalty, his kindness, his returned affection that always slipped just slightly beyond platonic but never clearly so – and of course, it did absolutely nothing but made me more infuriatingly, torturously in love with him.

Eventually, my terrible solution had been to date my second ex-girlfriend Hana, who genuinely, I had liked and found attractive. We are still good friends, and in another timeline, I think we could have been together happily for a long time. In this timeline though, the only flaw she had was a deadly one: she wasn’t Iwaizumi Hajime.

Throughout dating her, Hajime would remind me again and again that I should be treating Hana better, that I seemed to be spending too much time with him, almost like a way to avoid her. Illogically, those words made me upset: that Hajime was telling me to spend less time with him; that Hajime wasn’t more jealous of me and Hana – and finally, I would snap something mean at him, for example, pointing out Hajime’s lack of a girlfriend, not realising then as I now know, that he too was preoccupied with many things, amongst which included all of the internalised homophobia someone who was not even interested in girls would feel even more intensely.

All of that together, made for a terrible year. At least every day of the week at some point, I would be sitting outside the Iwaizumi household being turned away from an apology, Hajime’s mum looking out with a patient sigh through the front door.

“Fought with Hajime-kun again?” She would ask. Tearily, I would nod and quietly, she would sit down. I don’t know how much she had really known then, but I think, she may have known, or at least suspected what was going on. Just like Hajime, she was perceptive. Kind. Had watched carefully the way Hajime and I acted. Perhaps even clued into the themes of our fights. The way we were constantly pulling and pushing at one another – delighted to be together, and then afraid whenever together crossed too far.

After one particularly bad fight, I had asked, shamefully, guiltily:

“Do you think I should stop being friends with Hajime? All I ever seem to do is make Hajime upset and mad.”

Mrs Iwaizumi had looked at me, thoughtful, not answering immediately. I had liked that about talking to her: she considered everything you said seriously, even the most ridiculous questions that any other adult would give the most obvious answer too. We had been chewing on slices of pear slices she had brought out in a small bowl and dessert forks. Gently, she nudged over the last piece, nodding for me to have it.

“Do you like being friends with Hajime, Tooru-kun?”

Quickly, I nodded.

“And do you want to still be friends with Hajime?”

I nodded again furiously.

“Then well, I think it isn’t your call to stop being friends with him.” Mrs Iwaizumi said simply. “While it is true you make Hajime upset sometimes.” She continued slowly. “On most other days, you also make Hajime really happy.”

I looked up, disbelieving. When I turned to Mrs Iwaizumi, she was watching me, a knowing smile on her lips. She had then added, thoughtfully:

“And I think, Tooru-kun, as long as you both keep trying, as long as you both want to, you and Hajime are two kids who will always stay together no matter what. So don’t worry too much, go home and rest up today, and just try again tomorrow okay?”

I looked up at Mrs Iwaizumi, eyes wide, and she had laughed in that same spitfire sure way Hajime did whenever I looked startled about something he had utmost confidence about.

See, Hajime is different from his mother in many ways: he is more gruff, more scowl-y, less openly cheerful. But Mum, Hajime and his mother, they have this same basic core: this earnestness, this kindness, this rare genuineness. The sort that makes you realise that they would never ever say nice things just to be nice, unless they truly, whole-heartedly meant it. 

And Mum, you don’t know how much that belief meant to me, how much comfort the faith behind her words brought to me. It was the first time I had ever heard from anyone, even as hintingly said as it was, as subtly put as it had been, that they believed two boys like Hajime and I, could love each other and stay together for an eternity, if we so wanted and tried.

It was then that I had promised, fervently, earnestly, that I would indeed keep coming over, that I would keep trying to make Hajime happy. That I would always do my best, to always make Hajime smile.

I remember telling you this later that evening and you scoffing at it. You said it was idealistic of Hajime’s mum to think any two people could stay together forever: let alone two teenage boys like Hajime and me. And I mean, you were right, we did end up moving to different countries, pursuing different careers, playing for different teams.

But you know what? I don’t think Hajime’s mum was wrong either.

Because whenever I stood up, ready to finally give up and go home, the door would creak open and Hajime would finally step out with a sigh, brows furrowed, scowl fixed but arms open, ready to accept the teary, snotty apology hug I would soon barrel into him.

And till now, that is still all I really want us to be, Mum.

Two kids who stay together no matter what in this great big world.

***

As he sits, listening to the end call sound beep on the end of Hajime’s line, Tooru buries his face in his hands, takes a deep breath and decides, that it is time he takes the advice Hajime’s mother had given him more than a decade ago.

He leaves it be and trusts that Hajime will come round when he’s ready to.

He listens to his voicemails, reads through his texts, makes the necessary calls to find out how everyone else in the vicinity of Iwaizumi Hajime had ended up calling him. Hinata, who had been the first to miss call him, explained he had also been the first to get to the fight, having been the first to realise Hajime was missing. He gives Tooru the gory details when Tooru asks for them: how hard Hajime had been slammed backwards against the lockers head-first, how Daniel Martez had an arm pulled back ready to slam fist against face if Hinata had not yelled out in panic. The messy spew of blood and grime that had been marked across Hajime’s face by the time they tugged him out from the masses, the look of hot fury that has burned in Hajime’s eyes when they dragged him back, yelling and kicking, and off to safety.

Kageyama next, tells Tooru with an icy cold anger underlying his voice all the things he had overheard the Spanish players saying. How, none of them was okay, how disgusting it was the way they had ganged up on Hajime. How Hajime had not raised even so much of a finger against them; how it was less so a fight as Hajime had made it out to be, and more so an attack as Tooru had suspected.

Ushijima in turn, steadily recites to Tooru in impressive clinical accuracy all the injuries that Hajime had sustained. How Hajime had (in classic Hajime style, Tooru rolled his eyes) dealt with his injuries himself with his first aid kit, and how as a result Ushijima is now determined to learn first-aid, realising it is now one of his many skills gaps. His long, factual rant and overly detailed story, surprisingly, calms Tooru down a fair bit, especially after how emotional both Hinata and Kageyama’s re-tellings had been. Knowing exactly what injuries Hajime had obtained, and hearing Hajime do classic Hajime things like nagging his players to not run late for their debriefing while he is bleeding from the nose helps re-assure Tooru that Hajime is at least in some sense alright.

Tooru thanks Ushijima sincerely and cuts him off before he can continue on with his ramble about the benefits of white charcoal for maintaining blood count.

Maeno, the Japanese Team’s manager has messaged explaining the missed call was because Tooru has been listed as Hajime’s emergency contact number and that while it was procedure to give him a call, they have also informed Hajime’s second listed emergency contact when they couldn’t reach Tooru. Mattsun, who is Hajime’s second listed emergency contact because he is often actually in Tokyo for his family business, explains over call that he has told Hajime’s father what happened. Makki messages confirming he had only called because Mattsun couldn’t reach Tooru, because he had heard about what happened, and wanted to check if Hajime was okay.  

Tooru’s sister just wanted to ask Tooru how to fillet a salmon and had forgotten that Tooru was playing a game, that bastard.

Finally, Tooru calls Hajime’s father, still seated on the isolated bench outside of the sports arena.

“Hello. Otoo-san.” He says gently, when Hajime’s father picks up, because that is what he has gotten used to calling him especially in the recent few years. “Sorry I missed your call.”

“Tooru-kun.” Hajime’s father greets, because that is what he is used to calling him too even after all these years. “I heard about what happened to Hajime. Is he doing alright?”

“Physical injuries-wise, yes.” Tooru confirms. “It sounds like he’s got a few scratches but I think the worst thing he has is a sprained ankle and maybe a very mild concussion.”

There is a pause. “Physical injuries aside?”  

Swallowing, Tooru answers honestly: “I don’t know.”

***

By the time Tooru finishes his call with Mr Iwaizumi, Hajime has sent him a message.

It is a link to his location - infirmary 1, level 6, Building Block C - and a time: 6:15pm.

Hajime has added: All of the JNT will be busy and away in a conference for an hour. Come then.

Tell someone - Luc or José - to come with you. Or at least, tell them where you will be so they can make sure you are safe.

Tooru checks his schedule - and indeed, Hajime has checked ahead and made sure his proposed time does actually match with a half hour window he has then.

Determinedly, Tooru gets on with his day as best he can. He participates in his cool-downs, in the team de-briefings, afternoon check-ups and stretches. He sticks to Lucas where he can, unable to quite meet Paulo in the eye, not in the right headspace either to confront him about why he hadn’t warned Tooru, why he hadn’t potentially done the thing that could have kept Hajime safe, even though he had known. Lucas too, realising that something is wrong, keeps close to Tooru, checking in with Tooru every now and then, but never pushing quite beyond that.

Before he leaves to make his walk over to Block C, Tooru pulls José aside to confide in him quietly, wearily:

“Hajime got into a fight. I’m going to the infirmary now to see if he’s okay.”

José’s mouth falls open.

“Hajime? Your Hajime? Fight?” José’s eyebrows draw in surprise. “That doesn’t sound like something he would do.”

“From what I’ve gathered, it sounds more like he was jumped on.” Tooru grimaces. “Apparently,” He exhales slowly. “There has been some rumours going around about us and some Spanish players made some homophobic remarks. Hajime called them out; he got jumped on.”

“I’m so sorry Tooru,” José’s gaze turns into tight-knitted concern. “That sounds horrible. How many of them were there?”

“Apparently at least three large dudes. Against one of him.” Tooru says, echoing what Hinata, Kageyama and Ushijima had all said. His stomach grips at the thought of it, at having to say those words aloud. “He’s okay though, from the sounds of it. Just minor bruises and scratches.” He adds, and hates how much he is echoing Hajime’s words: trying to downplay the situation, trying not make others worry.

“I’m glad to hear Hajime’s not too badly injured but you should definitely tell Hajime to report this.” José looks worried. “That sounds like it would have been really scary for him - and for you too.” He rests a concerned hand on Tooru’s shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you? To make sure you get there okay?”

Tooru attempts a small, wane smile. “All good, José, I should be fine. But I’ll have been on my way to Block C if I don’t return in an hour.”

***

José doesn’t end up coming with Tooru - but to his surprise, Lucas does, without even knowing the context. When he sees Tooru getting ready to leave the arena, Lucas quickly grabs his bag and asks Tooru where he had been going, and if he wants any company.

“I’m just visiting a friend at an infirmary - fifteen minutes away at Block C.” Tooru says, a little hesitantly. “Why?” Even before the revelation - he had always trusted Luc more than he did Paulo - but recent incidents have made him cautious.

“You just look like you’ve been having a bad day.” Luc says simply. “And when I’m having a bad day anyway, I tend to appreciate company.” He pulls on his backpack and smiles. "If you want, I can walk you to the bottom of Block C, and wait for you on the ground floor?”

“Did José put you up to this?” Tooru asks, a little incredulous.

Lucas looks at him, genuinely puzzled. “José?”

Tooru laughs a little, his heart warming, and gratefully, agrees for Lucas to come along.

***

The stroll to Block C is pleasant, beneath the brilliant red of the setting sun. Lucas is good company - offering just enough light chatter to keep Tooru from drowning under the overwhelming sense of dread and just enough silence when Tooru clearly no longer feels like speaking, never once pushing Tooru to tell him what is going on. When they get to the bottom of the building, Tooru asks Lucas:

“You sure you don’t mind waiting here?”

“Not at all - thank you actually, for letting me come along to enjoy the sunset.” Lucas pulls a book out of his bag, grinning. “If I hadn’t come with you, I would have just been an old hermit going back to my room to read alone and would have missed the sunset entirely.”

Tooru smiles, his heart aching.

“Thank you,” He says softly, and then adds: “You know, sometimes, you really do remind me of this person I know.”

“Yeah?” Lucas tilts his head, amused. “Was the person a boring old grandpa like I am?”

“Close.” Tooru laughs. He smiles a little. “She was the mother of a close friend of mine.”

***

The infirmary is split into three beds - each bed sectioned off by a set of grey curtains. In the first bed, there is a woman sleeping with a clearly bandaged foot, a man curled up in a seat by her bed, his head rested on the pillow next to hers, their hands held.

In the second, a man lying in bed with a bandaged arm, so young he is more like a boy, is chatting happily with two team mates, talking about a game, clearly trying their best to keep their voices down. When Tooru appears, they hush down, looking up, like as if afraid they might be told off. Tooru only smiles and waves to tell them they are okay.

In the third, Iwaizumi Hajime is sitting, gazing out of the window. He is wearing a loose grey sweater Tooru recognises from his varsity days. His hair is messy, in the way it usually is at the end of a long day.

He turns around when Tooru arrives. There is a look in his eyes - hard and sober and terrible, holding back some unbearable emotion - that makes Tooru stop in his tracks.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

Hinata had given Tooru a heads-up that Hajime would look bad, but no amount of forewarning could have prepared Tooru for the real thing. There is a thick gathering of painful purple-red bruises travelling down the centre of Hajime’s face, from the edge of his left eyebrow, across his left eyelid, diagonally cutting down his nose, to a smattering halt by the top right corner of his lip. His left eye is red and swollen, its cornea still a little bloodied, his right ear bandaged. On the end of Hajime’s bed, his right ankle lies bandaged and elevated on a pillow. On his lap, folded, are two hands closed in fists. His left knuckle is just slightly scrapped, the right bandaged in its entirety.

It is not the kind of injury created by a need to effectively halt an opponent. But the kind of injury struck out of spite, out of nothing but pure hatred.

Tooru’s jaw closes into a tight clench.

His worry must have shown - because Hajime in turn, looks down, as if it pains him to keep holding Tooru’s gaze.

Looking away too, Tooru forces himself to take a deep breath. Every part of his body screams with a need to rush to Hajime’s side. He wants to envelop Hajime into a fierce, protective embrace, to hold him so tightly that he can no longer remember where he starts and where Hajime ends. He wants to wrap Hajime’s face in his palms, to press his lips across each of his wounds gently, softly, as if loving him more could take away his pain, could protect him, could keep him safe from anyone, anyone who could even think to do this to Hajime -

But he doesn’t. Not with the way Hajime is looking down at his lap, his breathing growing short and sharp, his fists tightening as their gazes hold, his shoulders stiff and tensed as if afraid with every slight inclination that Tooru is about to move forward.

Instead, Tooru ignores the burn in his chest. He ignores the furious want to hold, to comfort, to love the person he’s only ever truly loved sitting no more than two arms’ length away and instead smiles as he gently lifts a small container in his hands:

“Brought you some dinner.”

Hajime nods. He doesn’t look Tooru in the eye. He has an arm laying on his lap, the other tightened across his chest.

Quietly, Tooru leaves the container on the table at the end of Hajime’s bed. He then points to the messy scattering of four plastic chairs by Hajime’s bedside, trying to keep his tone light and teasing:

“Four chairs. You’ve had the most visitors I’ve seen in this entire infirmary.”

That at least, makes Hajime look up. He tries on a smile, albeit a weak one.

“Shall I sit? Tell me which one Kageyama or Ushiwaka has not sat on.”

“The second one I think.” Hajime says, and so Tooru sits down, on the chair second closest to the head of his bed. Close enough, but still, with a distance.

They sit for a moment further in silence. Silence has never worked on Iwaizumi Hajime. Tooru knows. He has always been too stubborn to be willed into talking by the power of silence, which is why Tooru speaks first:

“So… yes concussion? No concussion? Did they shine lights in your eyes and find no human soul, only pure gorilla?”

On any other day, that joke (and the Ushiwaka one before) would have been enough to make Hajime laugh, or at the very least smile.

Today, Hajime just shakes his head as he answers:

“No, they did all the tests. No concussion, only at most a very mild one.”

“Mmm.”

Silence.

“Secret bruises?”

This one catches Hajime off-guard.

“What?”

“Everyone mentioned your ankle, your mild concussion, your face.” Tooru pauses. “But,” He tries to keep his voice steady as he continues. “Being smashed against lockers and jumped on by three Ushiwaka-sized Olympic players is bound to give you bruises on your torso and limbs.”

Hajime doesn’t say anything. For a moment, his hand twitches against the hem of his sweater, like as if he is about to lift it up to show Tooru the bruises. On any other day he would have. Today, he just nods and agrees:

“Secret bruises.”

They continue, sitting in silence for a moment longer, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning. Tooru takes off his jacket and slowly, wraps it on the back of the chair. Hajime continues sitting almost completely still with his hands resting on his blanketed lap in his bed. Every now and then, Tooru glances up at Hajime but Hajime stares steadily down at his hands, which are picking slowly at the threads in his blanket.

Quietly, Tooru asks:

“Did it hurt?”

Hajime doesn’t look at him.

“Of course it did. What a stupid question, Shitty-kawa.” Tooru answers for him. He then asks instead, his voice softening:

“Where does it hurt now?”

Hajime finally looks up at him. Tooru realises, that there are tears, rising in the corners of Hajime’s eyes, tears that he is fighting back.

“Tooru,” Hajime says and his voice cracks as he continues: “I can’t do this anymore.”

Tooru feels like as if every fibre of his body has burned into hot red iridescent pain.

“What do you mean, Hajime?” His voice sounds estranged from his body. “What do you mean?”

Hajime’s head is bent as he breathes raggedly downward toward the blankets. Tooru can see from the way his mouth opens and closes, the way his Adam’s apple shifts in his throat that he is trying, he is trying to speak, but he can’t, he can’t -

“I mean,” Hajime’s voice is hoarse.  “There are people out there.” He stops, chest heaving with difficulty, voice terrible with conviction: “Who will be good at this. People you won’t have to lie about being with. People you can show off to the world without being put in danger for.”

“Hajime.” Tooru says sharply. He has stood up abruptly without realising, the chair scrapped backward with an ugly sound. He has always hated that he is the easier crier amongst the two of them and he hates it especially now as tears begin whelming in the corner of his eyes. “Hajime, don’t say that, don’t say things like that - it almost sounds like you are thinking of - ” His voice thickens, terrible with realisation. “ - and I won’t let you Hajime, I won’t let you –“

“- I am not, I promise you, I am not.” Hajime finally looks up to meet Tooru’s gaze, his voice trembling, eyes anguished. He breaks off, struggling before managing again in a choked voice: “We can’t - we can’t - we can’t break up, not this way, not like this -“

And that does it, Hajime too begins crying. Painfully restrained sobs wreck through his chest, his teeth gritted with anger as he tries and fails to bite them back. A fist tightens, digging into his own forearm. He continues to hold his gaze against Tooru’s - terrified, tortured, devastating, loving.

“Then what are you saying?” Tooru begs, staring back. He feels it too: the fury, the anguish, the terror. “What are you saying because it sure sounds like - “

“I know what it sounds like,” Hajime rasps. “And I don’t want it to be that because,” Hie lets out a difficult half-sob. “There is nothing, nothing at all wrong with us Tooru, nothing we’ve done wrong.” His gaze is terrible, so terrible against Tooru’s. “But also we can’t – I can’t live like this anymore. The lying. The falsehoods. The constant fear of being found out -“

“Then let’s stop doing that.” Tooru begs. He takes a step forward. Forces himself to stop when he sees the way Hajime’s shoulders stiffen and draw back, the way his jaw tightens. “If you can’t lie anymore, then yes, let’s stop lying. If you don’t want pretences anymore, then yes, let’s come out to the world. I want to, Hajime, I want to, and I will do anything, anything that will keep us together, anything that will keep you safe and whole and okay, and it is as plain and as simple as that -“

“But it’s not that simple, is it?” Hajime cuts him off, sounding unexpectedly angry. Tears are now streaming down his face as he looks up at Tooru helplessly. “There are consequences Tooru. Consequences on your family. Your career. Your team. Your reputation. Your livelihood. Your safety -“

“- And you think I don’t know that?” Tooru whispers. “Iwa-chan, do you think I didn’t know all that when I first started dating you?” His voice too takes on a harder edge. “That I hadn’t thought all that through when I first started loving you?”

“No, of course you have.” Hajime interrupts with a small, anguished laugh. “Tooru, you have thought this through, more than I ever have. How else could you have done all you have with Sofia, walked me through all the PR strategies? But it’s me, do you understand,” A sob racks through Hajime’s chest, his voice broken and horrible and rasped: “I’m the one who can’t do this anymore. I’m the one who can’t sit here and watch you destroy everything you’ve worked so hard to build all just because I couldn’t be smarter, I couldn’t be more careful, I couldn’t be better -“

“Hajime, don’t say that- don’t say that about yourself -“

“It’s only true.” Hajime croaks hoarsely. “Because I love you Tooru. And because I love you, I want to have you forever and I tell myself that I can take care of you, that I can protect you, that I can do what it takes to keep you safe and happy and healthy.” He lets out another laugh, one brimmed with fright, with grief, with disgust. “But the truth is,” His gaze burns upon Tooru’s. “you are not safer with me. Your life is harder with me. And you are the one thing I can’t lose. Not because of this. Not because of me -“

“And what makes you think you would lose me?” Tooru begs. Hajime’s words sear painfully in his chest. “What makes you think I would be safer without you?”

To this, Hajime smiles – and too late, Tooru realises what a stupid question it is when Hajime raises a hand against his face.

Across the angry red bruises smattered across his bloodied, beaten face.

And Tooru cannot take it anymore. He moves forward, knees sinking into the bed as he grapples Hajime into a tight, fierce embrace. Tooru, we can’t - not here, Hajime is crying aloud in protest, his hands pushing back against Tooru’s shoulders but Tooru wraps his arms protectively around the back of Hajime’s head and pulls him tightly against his chest, and he can feel the tension battling in Hajime’s shoulders, the ragged inhales and exhales that pull almost painfully at Hajime’s back until -

- he hears the painful difficult half-sob, when Hajime finally gives in, sinks into Tooru’s embrace and burying his face against Tooru’s chest.

They sit still like that for a moment: Hajime crying silently into Tooru’s chest, fists closed against the front of Tooru’s shirt, his back shaking and shoulders heaving beneath the hand that Tooru holds against the small of his back. With his other hand Tooru strokes through Hajime’s hair, trying and failing to not cry too, tears streaming irrevocably down his cheeks as he pulls Hajime closer, and then -

“Tooru,” Hajime lifts his head up. He pushes Tooru back with hands on Tooru’s shoulders. He is still crying even as he does so. It is paradoxical - how tightly Hajime’s fists are gripping the front of Tooru’s shirt screaming don’t go, please don’t go, against the way Hajime is now pulling himself out from Tooru’s hold, the terrible look growing again on his face as he begins to plead: “Please Tooru. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, please -“

“No, Hajime, listen to me first,” Tooru grips one of Hajime’s shoulders. “It is not your fault, do you hear me?” He sees the way Hajime’s breath catches at this and he knows he has hit a nerve. “It is not your fault what happened -“

“It doesn’t matter -“ Hajime looks away. His chest is still heaving and falling painfully. “It doesn’t change the fact that -“

“Yes it does, especially when you clearly think yourself responsible.” Tooru cups a hand across Hajime’s face, careful to not press on any of the bruises. “I’m sorry that they hurt you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” He pulls both Hajime’s hands fiercely, desperately into his. “But you can’t put this all on yourself. You need to know that this is not your fault -”

“I know it isn’t. I promise you, I know that it isn’t.” Hajime lets out a half-sob. Both his hands are icy cold, tremoring within Tooru’s hold. Shakily, he untangles them from Tooru’s fingers, pulls Tooru’s hand off his cheek. “But it’s not your fault either, Tooru. It’s not your fault any of this is happening, not your fault you will be put in danger.”

“Hajime -“

“Tooru.” Hajime closes his eyes, his tone hardening. When he opens them again, there is that look again, the horrible, harsh, sober look that he has been wearing. “Being jumped on was scary. But even scarier is knowing that the very same could happen to you.”

Hajime laughs, a horrible, strained sound against the silence of the room. “Because if Daniel Martez could want to do this to me, a random he doesn’t even know, then I can’t imagine, I can’t even fathom the number of people who may want to do this to you.”

“Hajime, these things -“

“- can be prevented if we are more careful.” Hajime’s gaze is terrible. “If for the time being, we stopped - we stopped seeing each other -“

“Hajime, Hajime, please, it doesn’t have to be that, you are not being sensible, there are other things -“

“I’m not saying it has to be forever -“

“No - Hajime, no -“

“ - but at least, until all this dies down - ”

“Please, we can work this out together, please, please -“

“ - at least until the Olympics end, and we can stop living in this nightmare and -“

“And then, what Hajime?” Tooru’s voice cracks. “We just wait until the day I stop being famous? Until the day the world suddenly forgets that Oikawa Tooru ever once played volleyball in the Olympics? That Iwaizumi Hajime ever became the first ever household name athletic trainer?” Tooru half laughs, half sobs. “Because Hajime, you know that will never happen. It will be months, years, decades - and then what, Hajime, and then what?”

The conviction on Hajime’s face is terrible.

“Then,” He whispers. “I either learn to be better; or you will find someone better.”

“Don’t say that.” Tooru grips his hands on Hajime’s shoulders. He is crying, silently, furiously. “Hajime, I keep telling you to stop saying these horrible things about yourself, but you keep not listening -“

"Tooru -”

“ - I don’t need you to be better, I don’t want you to be different, you are perfect for me, do you understand, I love you, I love you just as you are -“

“Tooru.”

“If you can’t do this anymore, let’s talk, let’s come up with a solution, let’s change the plan,” Tooru begs. “Yes, there are homophobes and horrible journalists and people who will want to hurt us,”

He tightens his hold on Hajime’s shoulders. “But I don’t care, Hajime, I need you to understand, I don’t care as long as we are together, Hajime, I don’t care if we are hiding or out in plain sight, because the only thing I care about is you -“

“Tooru. Stop. Stop saying that.” Hajime is crying again, tears streaking down his cheeks as he stares at Tooru. “I won’t be able to live with myself if anything bad ever happened to you and I hadn’t first done all I could have done to keep you safe, you hear me?”

As Tooru watches Hajime’s bottom lip tremble, he realises how difficult it is for Hajime to say the next thing he does: “There are so many things that are part of your life and I am just one of them, so stop saying that I’m the only thing you care about because you can’t – you can’t do that - you shouldn’t –“

“Why, are you going to tell me now that I shouldn’t love you?” Tooru is the one who interrupts this time, with a half-laugh, a half-sob. “That I can’t just be in love with the only person I’ve only ever truly loved my whole life,”

Hajime winces and Tooru realises, they have arrived at the same argument, the same one they have been growing to and avoiding and having the past few days, the one that always ends with Tooru saying, his voice breaking:

“Hajime, it feels like you have stopped believing that I love you -"

Hajime's hands have slowly tightened into fists over his chest.

"- It's like you no longer believe that you deserve to be loved by me anymore -"

Hajime's shoulders - tense, strained, rise and fall unevenly, painfully.

"-and you think I don’t notice, that you are so good at hiding, but I do, Hajime, I do." Tooru half-laughs bitterly. "One day, when I wasn’t looking closely enough, when I wasn't taking care of you well enough,,” His voice thickens with terrible difficulty. “You got it in your head that you’re no longer good enough for me. That something bad will happen to me if you’re with me. But why?” Hajime is looking away, back heaving, his eyes not meeting Tooru’s gaze. “Why would you think such a thing? Was it something I did Hajime? Did I do something to make you feel that way? I don’t know, Hajime, and I can’t know until you tell me, until you tell me what is going on –“

When Hajime continues to stay silent, gaze askance, Tooru, teeth gritted, starts to cry again. “It hurts me Hajime, it hurts so much to know that you’re hurting, that you are not telling me that you are hurting.” Hajime is now looking down at his lap, his breathes beginning to grow harsh and ragged. His fists are now clenched painfully against his own chest. “Because I love you, I love you so much, but I can’t seem to do anything to convince you of that anymore, and I can’t even convince you to tell me what’s wrong, what’s making you so sad and anxious and afraid, what’s making you think you are not good enough anymore -“

“Tooru.” Hajime’s words come up in a rasp. He has moved back, away from Tooru’s reach, pain clearly pulled across his face. His breathing is laboured, and he is panting, like as if finding it difficult to breathe. “Please. Don’t.” He bends over slowly, burying his face against his shaking hands. “Please, I’m begging you, please don’t push this.” His voice is hoarse, rough, trembling. “Please. Just go, make this easy, and just go -“

“Hajime,” Tooru shifts a hand slightly, meaning only to rest it on Hajime’s arm, to steady him, to ground him - but Hajime jolts violently, fumbling aside and toppling unsteadily onto his feet on the opposite side of the bed, upsetting his pillow and tugging his blankets half off the bed in the process. Tooru in turn, tries to catch him, more out of instinct and familiarity than any real thought - but when Hajime flinches away a second time, brutally, intensely - it is then that it truly dawns on Tooru in an awful realisation that Hajime is panicking, Hajime had been crying before from upset, from anger, from all the normal emotions of having a potential-break-up-style argument with his boyfriend, but now he is panicking, he is descending into an anxiety attack and Tooru, Tooru is the cause of it, and -

“Hajime - I’m sorry.” Tooru gasps.

He scrambles to stand up and away from the bed, lifting his hands pleadingly.

“I’m so sorry– I didn’t mean to pressure you with all that - I –“ Hajime shakes his head, panting as he leans forward unsteadily with his hands grasping the side of the bed, like as if trying to catch his breath after running a marathon. Every now and then, he lifts his head to give Tooru a stupid, watery, meant-to-be-reassuring smile as if to say don’t be sorry but it is unconvincing, not with the amount of pain glazed across Hajime’s eyes, not with the way his arms are shaking. “Please, Hajime, tell me how I can help, tell me what I can do -“

“Tooru,” Hajime gives out a small, shaky laugh. He is sinking into the ground, limbs trembling. “Go.” He buries his face slowly into the side of the bed. “Please go.”

“No. Hajime, not when you’re like this -“

“Please.” When Hajime looks up, he is crying even harder. “I’m trying, you know - I’m really, really trying.” His right arm moves to grip across his own chest; his left hand still grappled so tightly on the bedsheets that his knuckles are white. “Everything you’ve mentioned, everything you’ve asked about, I have wanted to tell you about, but I can’t, I can’t,” He looks back down with a sob. “I - I can’t Tooru – not without my entire body breaking down every time I try –“

“Hajime -“

“And it hurts, it hurts so much to even try to form the words and – I - I –“ Hajime’s breath catches painfully “- I am trying Tooru, I am trying so hard but I can’t – I can’t – and I don’t know why but I can’t – “

“Hajime,” Tooru is slowly kneeling down on the ground too, to bring himself to Hajime’s eye level. To speak to Hajime, across the distance of the bed between them. He is terrified - it is terrifying seeing Hajime this scared, this panicked, but he is trying too, he is trying his best to stay calm. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I know you’re trying, and it’s okay if you can’t talk about it now, and you don’t have to talk about it now.” He grips onto the edge of the bed himself, trying slowly and cautiously: “I am here for you Hajime, let me help you, let me stay with you, let me be here with you and…”

“And then what?” Hajime lets out a strangled laugh in between his sobs. “And then someone - Maeno, or Kuroo, or the Olympic committee will eventually come along and see you here. And then everything, all of this will happen again.” He buries his forehead into the bed, his back heaving like as if it is difficult to breathe. “The lying. The breakdowns. The falsities. You, being in danger.”

“- then I’ll just sit here okay, I’ll just keep you company, we can say I’m visiting if anyone comes-“

“And it won’t work, not with me like this.” Hajime looks up tearfully. “I want you Tooru.” He lets out a sob. “I want you around me, to stay with me so badly. But apparently I can’t even be with you for even a few moments,” He lets out a small, hollow laugh. “without breaking down into a stupid fucking anxiety attack, without immediately alerting everyone to how much I am falling apart-“

“And that’s okay, Hajime, I told you earlier too, that’s okay,”

“Tooru, please -“

“-if you can’t hold on anymore, let go, and I’ll catch you, and it’s okay -“

“Please – stop -“

“- let me help you, Hajime, please, let me stay and -“

“Tooru, stop. Please.” Hajime sobs, and the trembling pain, the raw vulnerability in his voice makes Tooru finally, draw to a stop.

They stare at each other for a moment: Hajime breathing heavily, like an athlete after playing a long match; Tooru stilled in his kneel opposite the bed, hands fisted in his laps. Hajime is still crying as his mouth opens and closes a few times as if it is hard for him to speak. His right hand is still gripping the bedsheet tightly. He looks up, trying to make out some words. Looks back down, chest heaving with such difficulty that it looks painful.

“Okay.” Tooru whispers. “Okay, I’ve stopped Hajime. I’ve stopped. Let’s calm down and just breathe for a moment, okay?” Hajime nods, wincing as he does. “Slow inhales. Deep exhales.” He takes a deep breath, matching Hajime’s inhale as he does. “Yes, just like that. Careful now. Gently now.”

Hajime takes in a ragged inhale, followed by a short exhale. Another difficult inhale, followed by a ragged exhale. Slowly, Hajime loosens his grip on the bed and crumbles back against the wall behind him, raising both his hands to his eyes and burying his face into his hands.

It is clearly not the first time an anxiety attack of this scale and intensity has happened for Hajime; but it is the worst one Tooru has witnessed him go through, the ones that had happened in the interview backstage and before Volleyball Beyond Borders mild in comparison. How many times has Hajime dealt with this alone? Tooru wonders numbly. How many times has Hajime sat on a ground just like this, crumpled into himself like as if every breath pained him?

But all Tooru can do is watch from the distance across the bed, every fibre in his limbs burning for him to get up and cross the small room to gather Hajime in his arms except he can’t, Hajime won’t let him - so all he can do is have his heart break slowly, steadily as he watches his boyfriend sit folded in pain, shoulders heaving, back bent, his entire being wrecked with overwhelming panic, debilitating anxiety, wave after wave of fear and distress while the seconds, the minutes tick by slowly, silently until -

“M’sorry,” Hajime’s voice is hoarse when he speaks again. He lifts himself slightly to a half-stand. He sounds awful - distant, numb, defeated. “M’sorry Tooru. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

“Hajime, it’s okay, it’s okay -” Tooru too, lifts himself into a half-stand. He yearns to move forward, to comfort, to plead please, never apologise like that again, never apologise to me for not being okay again, but then Hajime looks up, his voice thick as he says quietly:

“You asked me earlier where it hurts.”

Tooru swallows, not knowing where this is going.

“Where Hajime?” He asks quietly. “Where does it hurt?”

“When I - I get like this -” Hajime’s voice sounds raw, broken. “It hurts here,” He grazes a trembling hand over his forehead. “and here,” He rests his hand painfully on the back, and then the front of his neck. “and here,” He runs a hand slowly across his arms as if any faster would injure. “and here,” He wraps an arm tightly over his mid-section. “and here,” He gestures down shakily to his legs.

“It hurts here.” He clasps a hand over his chest. Closes a hand above his heart. His gaze is unbearable. “It hurts here so so much.”

Tooru nods tearfully, not knowing what else to say.

Hajime tries on a weak smile. For Tooru’s sake. He is always doing things for Tooru’s sake. “Tooru,” His voice trembles. “The next few days will be hard. People will want to speak to you about the incident. You will have games to play. Games you will find difficult to play because of this, because of me and I’m sorry, I’m sorry -“

“Hajime -“

“I wish I could be there with you. I, as a boyfriend, should be there for you.” Hajime’s voice cracks. “But I can’t - I can’t anymore - so please don’t ask - don’t ask me to do this anymore -”

“I’m not asking you of anything Hajime.” Tooru whispers, a final, terrible plea. “All I’m asking if for you to let me help you. For you to tell me how I can help you –“

Hajime smiles. It is a quiet, pained but genuine smile. One with no deception; one finally, dropped of all brave façades. His hands rest on the edge of the bed. They are still trembling, even as they fold into fists like as if to stop themselves from doing so.

And in that moment, they both know. They both know what Hajime wants Tooru to do, which is why Hajime says quietly:

“Tooru.” His voice is gentle. Pained. “Can you help me by asking me what are five things I can see?”

Tooru closes his eyes, understanding.  A way to soften the blow. The way they had done just that morning.

“No -“

“Please.”

“No –“

There is a silence. And then Hajime’s voice cracks as he begins by himself:

“I see you. I see the bed. I see the curtains.” He crouches back down, like as if it pains him to keep standing. Buries his eyes into the edge of the bed. “I saw my feet. I saw your shoes.”

He pauses for a while and when Tooru doesn’t reply, Hajime continues:

“Four things I can feel. I feel these bedsheets.” His fingers tighten against the bed. “I feel the bed frame. I feel my sweater. I feel my bandages.”

He pauses again, and this time, Tooru speaks up, in a cracked, horrible voice:

“And what do you hear Hajime?”

Hajime, he can tell, is now crying silently against the bedsheets. “I can hear you,” He replies, his voice trembling. “I hear me. I can hear the air-conditioning.”

Tooru lifts his jacket from where he had left it on the chair earlier. He is beginning to cry again too, but he tries to hold his voice steady as he asks:

“And what is two things you can smell?”

“I can smell you,” Hajime’s voice is starting to tremble. “You smell of safety. Of comfort. Of home.” He exhales shakily. “And I can smell me.” He laughs a little. “I smell of hospital. Of antiseptic. Of gauze.”

Tooru crosses the room. Gently, he leans down to wrap his jacket over Hajime’s shoulders. When Hajime doesn’t flinch, he kneels by Hajime’s side, resting his cheek down against Hajime’s bent head and pulls his arms around Hajime’s chest into a tight hold. Gently, he runs a soothing hand across Hajime’s chest where he had said it hurt. Hoping that it will in what stupidly little he can do, ease some of Hajime’s pain. He pauses his palms by the hammering of Hajime’s heart.

“Hajime.” He says softly. He lifts his head. Gently tips at Hajime’s chin up with a thumb.

When Hajime looks up, his eyes are red from crying. His gaze is filled with love, with fear, with desperation, with despair.

“I will always love you.” Tooru whispers, and he kisses Hajime, he kisses him with all that he has, for all that he is, for all he can be, because he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know when the next time he will kiss Hajime is, when the next time he will hold Hajime is, and Hajime is kissing back, a hand closing over Tooru’s chest, another grasping on the small of his back like as if begging please, please don’t go, please don’t leave me, please I want you, I love you, I need you before the warmth of the hand slowly retreats from his back and then -

When Tooru pulls back, Hajime’s eyes are still closed, tears glimmering on the edges of his cheeks.

“Hajime, what is one thing you can taste?”

And the next time Hajime opens his eyes, Tooru is gone.  

Notes:

This chapter was honestly physically PAINFUL to write. Iwa and oiks really are just two kids trying to stay together in a great big world 🥺

Anyway I can now say it: the previous chapter 11 is called “The match, the flame” because of (1) the vball match (2) the Iwa v Martez Match and (3) the fight was the final match that sparks everything into a bigger flame in this chapter.

The next chapter is again, SITTING in my draft but I just need to find time to tidy it up - so see you again soon!

Chapter 13: Iwaizumi alone

Summary:

Hajime hadn’t wanted to go to the infirmary. Not at first anyway.
Or,
Hajime grapples with the consequences of the fight.

Notes:

I apologize for hurt and angst on the last chapters - enjoy this one!

Hajime hadn’t wanted to go to the infirmary. Not at first anyway.

The litany of bruises running down his face, he knew, were not the kind any medical professional could look at and in their good conscience believe were from a sporting or fall injury. Nor were the bruises that he suspected were sprouting on his ribs and back, from when number 11 had rammed into him and when he had been slammed against the lockers.

But going to the infirmary meant alerting medical officers that he had been in a fight. And alerting medical staff meant alerting his team’s manager, coaches and athletes; alerting his team meant alerting the Olympic officials; that in turn meant investigations, inquiries, and ultimately, potentially, alerting the media.

It meant alerting the world that there had been a fight.

A fight involving Hajime, the Spanish players and without him even being present to the scene: Tooru.

Still, Hajime is a stubborn man, not a stupid one. In the locker rooms, when he tried to heave himself back on his feet after tending to his wounds, the world around him had once again lurched in such alarming severity that he had stumbled over, overwhelmed with a sudden wave of nausea. Steady arms had quickly grabbed him on his shoulders - Ushijima looking at him disapprovingly on one side, Kageyama and Hinata sternly, almost angrily on the other, and okay, that was when Hajime could admit: he may indeed be a little concussed and if so, he really should admit himself into some professional medical care.

They ended up limping their way to the nearest infirmary - Kageyama, who is at the most comfortable height for supporting Hajime, guiding him along with a firm arm over his shoulders. When they got there, Hajime was reminded again of how atrocious he must look when the attending medic’s eyes inadvertently widened with shock at the sight of his face.

“I think I might be a bit concussed,” He told the medic, because that was the main thing he hadn’t been able to tend to via first aid for himself. “You might want to do a concussion test,” He added, because he has become one of those annoying semi-medical professionals who thinks he can self-diagnose. He could already imagine Tooru, if he were there, rolling his eyes and sighing irritably for Hajime to just trust the medic do his job.

“I will.” The medic promised. She instead, lay Hajime down, elevated his feet on a pillow and asked him to remove his now-bloodied shirt in exchange for giving him a warm, comfortable blanket. Shock. She is treating me for shock, Hajime realised, right, forgot about that, and already, he could imagine Tooru’s rolled-eyes-this-is-why-you-don’t-self-diagnose-Iwa-chan expression.

The medic - who introduced herself as Furuya - did however, do a concussion test after making sure that Hajime had no other immediately pressing wounds (“This is really good handiwork,” She had said, impressed as she examined the ear wound Hajime had tended to earlier. “Do one of you know first aid?” She had asked, glancing up at the three onlookers still in their sweaty sports jerseys. “He’s an athletic trainer,” Ushijima pointed out, to which Furuya makes a small ahhh sound, like as if everything now made sense). Once it became clear that Hajime was for the most part cognitively sound, Furuya gently asked what had happened that led to his injuries.

“I was in a fight.” Hajime answered simply.

“Iwaizumi was jumped on by three athletes the size of him.” Hinata jumped in, gesturing toward Ushijima. “By the time we got there,” He made a harsh gesture in the air. “They were slamming him into some lockers like this.”

Furuya looked to Hajime for confirmation. Hajime grimaced and nodded.

“Okay, I don’t think you are concussed, or if you are, you are only mildly concussed,” Furuya explained, pocketing her hand-held eye torch. “I think your symptoms are from shock, not the head trauma, but I would like to keep you here at least overnight to keep you monitored.” She glanced up at the three athletes who were still standing by watching: “It’s good that there are three of you here – could I please assign you tasks?”

With professional efficiency, she asked one of them to gather a change of clothes for Hajime - something loose and comfortable, she emphasised - the other of them to inform his managers and to call Hajime’s emergency contacts; and the last of them to stay here, if Hajime would like, to keep him company. Kageyama volunteered to gather the change of clothes and Hinata, now with express authority to do so, informed Hajime that he was going to call Tooru.

“There’s no point, he’s in a match - all that will do is worry him once he leaves the match and sees a bunch of missed calls,” Hajime protested wearily, but Hinata just glared him down. When Hinata was about to leave the room however, Hajime took a deep exhale and sharply, called out:

“Hinata. Kageyama.” They stopped in his tracks. Hajime looked at them, unable to hold back the dread in his voice as he begged: “When you tell the others, will you please promise me you won’t mention who and what the fight was about?”

Hinata’s face crumbled into concern, Kageyama’s into a sharp grimace.

They both nodded in promise before they left the room.

This left Ushijima with Hajime for company. The ace sat in silence, watching with rapt attention as Furuya confirmed the minor sprain in his ankle and removed the first-aid compression band for a more permanent bandage. Hajime had a year ago, listed Tooru’s number, although anonymised, as one of his emergency contacts for his work records, and Hajime began to imagine the number of missed calls Tooru was about to receive: not only from Hinata, but likely from his team managers too.

Hajime closed his eyes. He imagined Tooru sitting in Ushijima’s place. Tooru: worried, comforting, Hajime’s: one hand tightly wrapped around his, the other stroking back his hair soothingly, lips pressed against his cheek in soft murmurs. Hajime wanted Tooru so much that it hurt. He wanted to bury his head into Tooru’s chest, to grip his hands against Tooru’s arms, to have Tooru hold him, kiss him, love him, just be with him - he wanted it so much that it hurt, it physically hurt almost more than his black-blue bruises and open wounds.

But every time he came close to relenting, to just calling José, begging for him to pull Tooru out of the game and to his side, the same images flashed through his eyes. He thought of number 11 spitting Tooru’s name between his snarls. Imagined Daniel Martez slamming Tooru against lockers the way he had with him, the sickening crunch of bone against metal. The too-bright lights flashing from the press conference. The confused frown of his neighbour at the idea of Tooru bringing flowers for Hajime. The questions: Is Oikawa Tooru gay? Would that change what you think of him?

Hajime opened his eyes. Trying his best to not sound too affected, he asked Ushijima to pass him his phone. He carefully texted Tooru, telling him what had happened. Warning him of the Spanish players. Telling him:

Don’t come. He pleaded. Please don’t come looking for me. I know you’ll be worried but I’m fine, I promise, I’m fine.

When he was done texting Tooru, and also his father and his second emergency contact Mattsun to reassure them he was fine, Hajime laid his head back in the pillows and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Which was when he heard the door to the infirmary open again, the sound of footsteps, the rustle of curtains and finally, Hinata, followed by the beginning on an onslaught of visitors.

Kuroo looked worried, guilty almost, perhaps thinking of the tense conversation they just had in the morning. Atsumu too, was more worried than Hajime had ever seen him, immediately pulling a chair next to Ushijima and sitting down. Sitting there half-undressed, Hajime had tightened the blanket over himself self-consciously to cover up the bruises on his torso, scowling in exasperation as more and more of his teammates rushed in, all of them clearly having noticed Hinata, Ushijima, Kageyama and Hajime’s absence after the games.

“What on earth is this, a party?” Furuya said sharply when she returned to find half the Japanese Men’s Volleyball Team crowded around Hajime’s bed. “Out, out - no more than four -“ She caught Hajime’s scowl, “- two visitors at once - out out everyone!”

As everyone cleared out leaving only Atsumu and Kuroo settling in their seats, the questions already visibly forming on Atsumu’s lips, a frown creasing in Kuroo’s brows - okay, wait, anyone but these two - Hajime could not be more relieved to have Kageyama re-enter the ward with a small bagful of clothing. Using the prompt excuse of needing to get changed, Hajime sharply instructed for everyone - Atsumu, Kuroo, Kageyama, and yes, you too, Bokuto, I see you there - to get out, leaving him finally, with some peace and quiet.

“Alright, let me check first: are there any visitors you want, or do you want me to find an excuse to keep everyone out?” Furuya asked, when she returned to find Hajime alone and pulling on an old grey varsity sweater.

“How about,” Hajime sighed. “No visitors for at least an hour. Just tell them I’m haemorrhaging to death or something and can’t deal with their questions.” He added, which brought an amused quip to Furuya’s top lip.

To Hajime’s relief, Furuya did buy him peace and quiet - he wasn’t sure what she ended up saying but no one returned to the room and the murmur of voices outside the infirmary dispersed eventually. He had intended to spend the time planning of what he would say to his team’s managers and the Olympic officials when they would inevitably inquire about how the fight happened - but instead, he fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted by everything.

When he awoke next, it was to the sound of curtains being rustled apart, and he blinked and lifted himself up to a half-sit blearily when Hibarida the team coach and one of the team managers Maeno walked into the ward. Furuya behind them, watched cautiously, exchanging a look with Hajime like as if to ascertain if this was okay - Hajime, despite still being half-awakening, nodded to her vaguely. He had been expecting the visit anyway.

“Iwaizumi,” Hibarida asked gently as he took a seat. “Are you alright? Sorry to wake you up.”

“Mmph it’s okay,” Hajime grunted, pulling himself up properly into a seat.

“We’ve contacted your emergency contacts. The one we could reach, Matsukawa-san, told us he would let your family and your other important contacts know.” Maeno explained. “Matsukawa-san says he isn’t in Tokyo at the moment but can travel down if you need him to.”

“No, it’s fine,” Hearing the word emergency contacts (and Mattsun’s full name being paired with a san), jarringly, woke Hajime up, reminding him with a slight startle that yeah, he had been in a fight, the sort of situation where emergency contacts would be called. Tooru must still be in his match, Hajime concluded, if they had gone down the list to call Mattsun.

“How are you feeling?” Hibarida asked again patiently. “I know you’ve got a number of injuries - are you still in much pain?”

“Not that much,” Hajime answered - it was true, there was still a dull thud at the back of his head and it still hurt when he accidentally pressed on his bruises on his ribs and back - but lying down, he was for the most part fine. “I do have a minor ankle sprain though; I think that will be the only thing that will annoy me for the next few days.”

“That’s good to hear,” Maeno nodded. He then added, looking serious: “We hear that there was a fight. Not one that you started,” He corrected. “But at least one that you took part in.”

Hajime tensed. “Yes.” He acknowledged.

“And as you would be aware of,” Hibarida continued gently, “because it was a fight and there were injuries resulting, it is procedure that we will have to ask you about what happened and file a report with the Olympic committee, and potentially, also with the police.”

“Itta,” Maeno added, referring to the other team manager, “Is actually out there with an Olympic official representative and a police officer.” Hajime’s blood turned cold and suddenly, he felt like throwing up again. “We don’t have to do this now if you don’t feel up to it,” He added quickly. “But if you are up to it, the police officer Tomodo-san and the Olympic official representative Kaho-san would like to ask you a few questions.”

Hajime’s hands, hidden under his blankets, have curled into fists.

“It’s no issue, I can talk now.” He re-assured Maeno and Hibarida. “Bring them in.”

The sooner he did it, the sooner he could control the narrative. The sooner he controlled the narrative, the sooner he could keep Tooru safe.

***

Tomodo-san, turned out to be a fresh-faced young man who had to be no older than Hajime himself in a stiff police uniform; Kaho-san, a sterner, no-nonsense looking woman in official Olympic attire. Kaho-san and Tomodo-san took seats next to Maeno and Itta while Hibarida stood back, watching, looking a little worried, from the foot of the bed.

They asked the standard questions: Hajime’s name, his date of birth, his role in the team. They reminded him that he had a right to have a lawyer with him and asked if he wanted to call a lawyer. Hajime knew that, and although it again, awoke him rudely to the seriousness of the situation, he shook his head and explained it was fine. When they began asking about the fight, Hajime’s heart had already begun leaping into his throat.

“So, tell me everything from the beginning,” Tomodo-san said steadily. “How did the fight begin?”

“I -“ Hajime’s heart rammed in his chest. “There were three Spanish volleyball players we had just played a match against. Daniel Martez, Spain’s setter, I recognised; and two others I don’t recall the name of. Number 11 and number 12 - both middle blockers I think.”

“No, don’t skip ahead.” Tomodo-san corrected him. “Let’s start from the beginning. Where were you? What were you doing when the fight began?”

“I -“ Hajime’s heart was jammed, racing in his throat.

He licked his lips - Hibarida, Maeno and Itta stared on - all of whom had no clue that he was gay, let alone about his relationship with Tooru. He hated the corner he had been backed into, he hated that if he were to tell the truth, this would be the way he would have to come out to them, three colleagues he respected and admired and were friends with. He also had no idea how well his bosses - or Tomodo-san and Kaho-san would take it: they all were or looked like nice people, but the Japanese police and the Tokyo Olympics officials didn’t exactly have a reputation for being queer-friendly. It was frightening, being so out of control, being outted in a way he didn’t want to be outted because he had no choice.

Perhaps more frightening to him than the prospect of himself being outted in this manner, was outing Tooru in this manner, Tooru, who wasn’t even here, who wasn’t even getting a say in this. Tooru, who wasn’t even involved. Who was only involved because of Hajime. Because Hajime couldn’t wait till they were safely in private to kiss him that day on the balcony. Because Hajime couldn’t keep his cool and mind his own business and not follow the Spaniards into their locker room after the match. Because Hajime…

“I… I was on the court. After the match.” Hajime’s mouth was dry. “I… I was cleaning up the arena. Picking up balls, clearing bottles.” His gaze flickered, unconsciously toward Hibarida, and back to Maeno and Itta again. “Two Spanish players then walked past. Number 11 and number 12 I think. And… and then they ah. Said some things at me.”

“What did they say” Tomodo-san prompted.

“They -“ Hajime’s jaw opened and closed. His heart was now hammering so hard in his chest that he felt a little light-headed. “Just some rude gestures. Swear words. Aggravating stuff.” He ended up saying. “You know, like putting their middle finger up at me.” He quickly grazed over the detail. “I was mad, so I followed after them into the locker room.”

“Okay.” Tomodo-san jotted down notes on his pad. Kaho-san too, was writing notes. Tomodo-san’s eyes were narrowed, perhaps noticing Hajime’s hesitance, the way Hajime was skipping through details. “And then what happened in their locker room.”

“They… were saying more rude stuff.” Hajime cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “I called them out on it, told them they shouldn’t say things like that. And then they…” His voice faltered, despite himself, for a moment. “And then they started attacking me.”

“What were they saying?” Itta jumped in. He was frowning, like as if confused by something. “You’re not one to get all confrontational and angry like that normally, Iwaizumi. What did they say to make you go after them?”

“They -“ Hajime struggled to find an excuse. He could say that they were shit-talking the Japanese team - the Spanish team had just lost after all, hadn’t they? - but he knew it wouldn’t be convincing. Athletes shit-talked all the time - it would be believable for someone more hot-tempered to go after them, one of their younger reserve players maybe - but Hajime knew that Itta, Maeno and Hibarida knew he was too level-headed, too professional to have done something like that.

“Yeah, it really doesn’t sound like you to get into a fight by going after someone,” Hibarida added slowly, like as if reading Hajime’s mind. When Hajime caught his gaze, he saw that Hibarida was worried. “Are you sure that is what happened, Iwaizumi? Are you sure you’re not covering up for someone else? We won’t get anyone else in trouble if they started it you know - if Hinata, or Kageyama or Ushijima had been the one to start it,”

“No, no, of course not, they were not involved.” Hajime laughed, mortified at the suggestion. His heart was now racing in his chest, his hands clammy and cold as they gripped upon the edge of his sweatpants underneath his blanket. “No, Hinata and Ushijima and Kageyama just realised I was missing after a while, searched for me and broke up the fight when they found me - that’s all, that’s how they got mixed in with this,”

“Then what-” Maeno started, looking just as worried, which at point, Kaho-san, the Olympic official representative jumped in, interrupting and saying:

“Sorry gentlemen but -“ She gazed between Hajime, Tomodo-san and the three JNT members. “If I could just interrupt for a moment -,” She asked politely looking around the room. “It is starting to feel like there are slightly too many people all gathered here in this tiny room. Itta-san, Hibarida-san, Maeno-san,” She glanced around pleasantly. “Would it be alright if the three of you step out for now and just allow Tomodo-san and myself to have a word with Iwaizumi-san alone first please?”

Hajime didn’t know what to make of this. He watched as Itta, Hibarida and Maeno murmured their apologies, perhaps realising the ruckus they had caused, as they hastily exited the room. This left Tomodo and Kaho sitting by his bedside - both of which exchanged a meaningful glance. Tomodo then got up to close the curtains that Itta had left half-open, glancing a check out as they heard the door finally click shut behind the disappearing footsteps.

“Sorry -“ Kaho said gently. “Usually having some familiar people around helps - but in your case, you looked like you were looking reluctant to talk about some things with them around.”

“Which of course, is understandable, they are your superiors at work after all,” Tomodo sat back down, looking apologetic, and before Hajime could explain, no it’s okay, that’s not the issue, he added:

“Iwaizumi-san, this is a serious situation. You have been, in other words, physically assaulted by these three Spanish players, for which we can press police charges against them for; and for which,” He gestured to Kaho briefly. “They can be suspended from the games for as well.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about yourself though,” Kaho added gently. “From what we gathered,” She exchanged a look with Tomodo who nodded. “the Spanish players didn’t sustain any injuries themselves, so it seems pretty clear that it wasn’t really a fight so much as a one-sided assault.”

“To issue the suspension or to press charges though,” Tomodo added. “We will need the proper statement from you. And for you to be as truthful as possible.”

“I -“ Kaho gestured toward herself. “Can leave the room if you prefer me to and just make a decision on the Olympic committee’s behalf based on whether police charges are pressed. But for him,” She gestured to Tomodo, “to at least to do his job properly, you will need to tell him what you’re able to.”

“Right.” The words, meant to be a re-assurance, still didn’t help calm the wild beating that was now happening in Hajime’s throat. He stared down at his blanket - he can feel himself starting to blank as he concentrated on a thread on the blanket - come on, Hajime, inhale, exhale, don’t lose it, don’t lose it. He then looked back up, biting his lip and asked: “Could I just have a few minutes alone first? And then could I speak to both of you after that?”

Tomodo and Kaho graciously agreed and left him be.

Once they left the room, Hajime buried his face in his palms, breathing in and out shakily.

He didn’t know what to do - he doesn’t know a lawyer, he never had a need for one before. He wanted badly, so badly to break apart, to call José and ask him to pull Tooru off the courts, to send Tooru to his side right now. In a way, he knew what Tooru would choose to do: he would be furious on Hajime’s behalf, he would tell him to tell the truth, to report the whole story, to do what was best for Hajime, never fucking mind what happened to himself. But he would also listen, listen to what Hajime had to say, to work out with him a solution together. And more than that, Tooru would be here, he would be here for Hajime and that was all Hajime really, really needed.

But if Tooru was here, Hajime would absolutely fall apart. There would be not a chance that he could hold it together anymore the way he had this morning, brittle and snapped as he was. He would collapse into a crying mess within Tooru’s arms and become utterly useless, completely inconsolable, absolutely helpless. Maeno, and Itta, and Hibarida would see - as would Tomodo and Kaho; Kuroo and Atsumu, Bokuto and Yaku and Furuya and - never mind fearing whether a police report would go public; just Tooru being here, rushing to Hajime’s side, fretting over Hajime, taking care of Hajime would be enough to out them, enough to make clear who he was to Hajime, to reveal them to the public in a way that Hajime had never asked for, in a way he had never chose for, a way that was dangerous if recent events had not been enough to teach him about it -

So he didn’t have Tooru. He couldn’t have Tooru, more accurately, and his chest tightened, burnt with the pain of that knowledge. He felt skinned raw, forced into a corner, where he had no other choice but to sink down into his knees, kneel over and take the beating until it was done with and in a way, he was relieved, relieved  that there was nothing else he could do, no other option to take, because having no options meant he could no longer mess up; he no longer could keep fighting and he was so tired, so, so tired, in a way, relieved, that this was it, this was when he could stop fighting and admit defeat.

He raised his face shakily. When Furuya looked in and reminded him gently that he could always do this later if he wasn’t feeling up for it, Hajime shook his head.

He knew what he had to say. He knew what he had to do.

***

Tomodo and Kaho returned to the room. Tomodo had taken off his police jacket; Kaho was holding a steaming paper cup in one hand. They pulled up the plastic seats and sat down. Kaho offered Hajime the cup of tea; Hajime politely accepted.

Tomodo asked if Hajime was ready to talk.

Hajime said he was.

Quietly, Hajime explained that the Spanish players had flung personal insults at him. Those insults included insults not just about him but also about his friends: Hinata Shoyo, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Kageyama Tobio, and...

“...Oikawa Tooru,” he added carefully, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, “because those players knew we were friends from that recent Volleyball Beyond Borders video.”

Both Tomodo and Kaho nodded in recognition.

“Would you like to tell me what the specific insults were?” Tomodo asked.

His mouth dry, Hajime shook his head.

“No.” He answered quietly. “I would not.”

Tomodo and Kaho exchanged a look.

“Iwaizumi-san.” Tomodo said carefully. He lowered his pen. “You understand that you not giving us a complete statement may affect our ability to prosecute them for what they did to you?”

Hajime looked directly at him, his face full of bruises, an eye still red from the blood, and asked:

“If I don’t tell you what they said to me, is there enough evidence to convince you to take measures to ensure those players don’t hurt more people?” He glanced to Kaho. “For the Olympic Committee to take action on preventative measures?”

Kaho’s brow creased at this. It was a strange question and she knew it.

“If you are afraid of retaliation from them,” She said. “We can re-assure you that we have measures put in place to ensure your safety.”

“And the safety of the others?” Hajime urged. “The others they made threats about too? Hinata, Kageyama, Oikawa, Ushijima?” He added, trying to sound casual about it. “Is there enough evidence to suspend the players? To remove the players from the premises for safety’s sake?”

Tomodo hesitated. The concern on Kaho’s frown deepened.

“We have seen the CCTV footage.” Tomodo admitted. “It is pretty clear that they attacked you and gave you these injuries. From the police end, that is enough to have charges pressed against them, begin investigations and have the rest of the matter decided in court.”

“From the Olympic committee’s end, it’s enough evidence for the Olympic committee to suspend them from playing.” Kaho nodded. She gave Hajime a sharp look. “I will tell you though: even if one side of a fight ends up with more injuries than the other - we can sometimes end up deciding to suspend both sides of a fight.”

Hajime nodded. He knew this. Of course he did, he was always reminding his players of things like this, usually the one keeping them out of trouble. He breathed out, hoping he didn’t sound too affected.

“That’s fine.” He said quietly. He looked at Kaho in the eye. “I’m not troubled by the risk of myself being suspended. I didn’t aggravate them, I didn’t do anything that deserves being suspended on,” Except apparently, having sex with another man, “You can come back to me if Daniel Martez and the others decide to tell you otherwise.”

Hajime was banking on the fact that if he did not tell Kaho and Tomodo what the Spanish players had said; chances were that the Spanish players would not either. Not all of the world would be kind on him for being gay; but in turn, also not all of the world would be forgiving on the Spanish players for being homophobic. They could keep this matter between them, if neither side spoke up. Keep it down under wraps.

“Are you sure?” Tomodo asked carefully. “I mean given there were three witnesses and given the number of injuries you sustained,” He explained gently. “Charges can likely be made out and pressed. And that should be sufficient to have the players suspended or security added for you and the other players: Hinata-san, Kageyama-san, Oikawa-san, Ushijima-san. But it will strengthen your case if you tell us the whole story.” He urged. “If you don’t tell us, and the Spanish players don’t tell us or tell us something else, then it won’t be a detail we will be able to take into account in their disciplinary action you know.”

“These are all the details I can give.” Hajime firmly confirmed. “As long as it doesn’t affect keeping the others safe.” And indeed, he felt a tremendous peace with that.

***

Once Tomodo and Kaho left, Hajime buried his face in his blankets and slowly, began to cry.

He was afraid. He was so so afraid, the fear, the anxiety, the guilt so piercing and overwhelming and intense it felt like a weight burrowing down on his shoulders and chest, forcing the breath out of his lungs, tightening a cruel pain over his chest. It was as if of all his anxieties over the past few days had cumulated into his worst nightmare. Even if the players were suspended, how could he be sure there wasn’t another Daniel Martez who would do the same if they caught wind of the news? Who would do the same to Tooru as they did to him?

He could hear the rustling of curtains, Furuya’s voice forming the start of a sentence - before she fell silence, her steps faltering - perhaps realising that he was crying. She paused in place for a moment before quietly asking:

Are you okay?

Hajime nodded, pressing a knuckle against his mouth fiercely, angrily, doing his best to smother his sobs back into ragged exhales downward into the blankets.

I know you have some medical knowledge, Iwaizumi-san, but you need to tell me if you need treatment or help, okay. I’ll ask this one last time: are you in any physical pain or need any help from me?

Hajime slowly, shook his head. His chest was beginning to hurt, the way it had started hurting in his recent anxiety attacks.

Okay, I’ll take your word for it but you have to let me know if that changes okay. Is there anyone you might want me to call? One of your friends? One of your emergency contacts?

Hajime shook his head, hard. The searing tension in his chest only grew more intense at the thought of Tooru. Tooru, what he knew he had to do that would be best for Tooru, how to keep Tooru safe, fuck, he had almost outted Tooru, how he has perhaps, already outted Tooru -

Okay. I’ll get you a hot water bottle and some warm water. And is there anything else I can help with?

Just time alone, Hajime managed to rasp between his struggling breaths, and to his relief, Furuya nodded and left, closing the curtains tight around Hajime’s tiny ward, and leaving Hajime once again, alone.

Hajime bent over and buried his face in the blankets.

Every part of him was alit with pain, with despair, with dread.

Knowing what he knew.

Knowing what he had to do next.

***

Later, when Oikawa Tooru finally steps into Iwaizumi Hajime’s room, it takes all of Hajime’s self-control to not immediately break down crying.

It is difficult to look Tooru in the eye.

If he had thought the call was hard, it was nothing compared to seeing the amount of pain, love and worry written all across Tooru’s face.

You are destined to destroy him. A voice in Hajime’s head whispers. Do you really want to know how far he will destroy everything he’s built just for you?

“Brought you some dinner.” Tooru says gently.

Hajime’s chest hurts. He tightens an arm over his chest and says nothing.

It is horrible, it is so so horrible.

Tooru being here is all he wants. Yet somehow, Tooru being here feels like the worst thing that has happened to him all day.

***

“Where does it hurt now?”

Tooru’s voice is soft. He wants, so badly, to hold Hajime’s hand. Hajime can tell.

“Tooru,” Hajime says, his voice hoarse. “I can’t do this anymore.”

It is something Hajime has known for a while now.

Tooru's lips tremble. Tooru had known. Tooru could tell.

***

Hajime barely sleeps that night.

He drifts between awake and dream uneasily; both parts too tired to stay awake, but too emotionally wrecked to truly go to sleep. When he is awake, his final argument with Tooru repeats itself incessantly in his mind. You are not - I won’t let you -  Tooru begins crying, again and again, his hands curled into fists in anguish. Then what, Hajime? Tooru shakes Hajime on the shoulders, tears falling hard and fast on Hajime’s lap. Then what?

I will always love you. Tooru whispers. His lips soft against Hajime’s - familiar, home, his rock, his everything - and Hajime would jolt up into a seat panting, the reality of what had happened hitting him again as he looks around the room, before crumbling down into himself, grief washing upon himself anew from the reminder that Tooru isn’t here, he asked Tooru to leave.

His dreams, if possible, are worse. He dreams of Tooru coming back to him, them embracing and kissing. Tooru holding him the way he had earlier, tightly, fiercely, one hand supporting the small of his back, the other cusping the back of his head to pull him into his chest. Daniel Martez drawing over them. Shadowed figures dragging Tooru off Hajime, arms tugging Hajime back. Hajime, shouting, crying, as he instead, watched, helpless to do anything, as Tooru instead, was the one being shoved to the ground, kicked in the face, slammed against the lockers.

He awakes several times, panting, beaded in cold sweat, feeling nauseous. Once or twice, he does almost puke, finding his way through the darkness, limping on his bad foot to the tiny bathroom attached to the infirmary, leaning down and dry heaving nothing against the sink.

On the second time this happens, the night shift medic finds Hajime, shivering against the sink.

“Nightmares?” He asks. His name is Oda - Furuya had clearly told him what had landed Hajime in the infirmary, if the worry and understanding on his face was anything to go by.

Hajime clutches the edge of the sink, nodding feverishly.

“Is there anyone you want us to call?" Oda gently leads Hajime back into the room. "An emergency contact to come by before we can let you go in the morning?”

Muted, Hajime shakes his head vigorously.

“Would you like to keep the lights on instead?” Oda asks kindly. “Maybe you can try and watch something or read something to get yourself to fall asleep.”

Hajime nods, grateful for the suggestion.

He tries, he really does. But as is the way it is when you have been together with someone for more than a decade, realistically, almost three decades, everything reminds him of Tooru. Every show he tries to watch, every article he comes across, he’s shown to Tooru, laughed about with Tooru, talked to Tooru about in some way until finally, he gives up, puts his phone down and closes his eyes.

He is still wearing Tooru’s jacket. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to take it off after Tooru had left and now he curls into himself, burying his nose against into the jacket sleeves. He thinks of the way Tooru had held him, gently, fiercely; the way Tooru had kissed him as they had lay in bed the weekend before the Olympics, slowly, lovingly, arms pulled tightly against one another’s, before everything had begun, before everything had gone wrong -

What are we now? He imagines Tooru asking him gently. It is a question he knows Tooru had wanted to ask earlier but hadn’t, perhaps too afraid of the answer. In Hajime’s mind, Tooru is sitting by his side amidst the messy blankets. His knees are pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. His wavy hair is messy, the way it often is on the mornings they wake up together, just the two of them, in a quiet, peaceful home.

Boyfriends. Lovers. Partners. Soul mates. Hajime answers achingly. He lifts a hand to gently stroke through Tooru’s hair. He loves him so much it hurts, it hurts, in a throbbing pain across his arms, over his chest. What else could we be?

Tooru’s face crosses in pain. He looks away, with a grimace.

I don’t know, Hajime, what are we? What are we now?

And then, they are instead, sitting in a dark motel room, a blizzard howling outside, Tooru buried in Hajime’s arms, back heaving, bruises all over his face. And then, there is a blaze of lightning that turns the room dark and then sizzling bright again, and they are sitting in a cream-white corridor, Tooru holding Hajime’s hands. Tooru is saying gently, painfully: it’s done, Hajime, it’s done; and then, a bright flash of light again and instead, they are standing on a stage, cameras flashing, journalists jostling and yelling, Tooru’s eyes pained as he pulls his hand away from Hajime’s, bruises, terrible bruises marred across his face in scarlet red and purple-black and -  

Hajime bolts up into a seat, panting, fully awake again.

He leans over, panting painfully and closes his eyes, pressing fists tightly against them, nails digging against the flesh of his palms.

After a while, after he has caught his breath again, after the feeling of spinning panic has ebbed down to a manageable level again, he lies back down into his pillow.

Sleep tugs at his eyelids, but he keeps his eyes open, staring at the white fluorescent lights above him. Across, at four chairs sitting scattered on his bedside. Ahead, at the bandages on his elevated, useless ankle. Further ahead, at the slim, grey table at the edge of his hospital bed.

He pauses.

He stares at the small container of dinner Tooru had brought him earlier. Still siting neatly in the middle of his bedside table.

Slowly, he sits up. The sleeves of Tooru’s jacket, slightly too long for him, fall over his wrists. He shifts over to the end of the bed and pulls the container toward himself into his lap. It is one of the containers that keeps food warm, like as if Tooru had known Hajime would take a while to get to his dinner.

There is a note stuck on top of the container. One that reads, in Tooru’s neat writing:

Iwaizumi Hajime,

You are the bravest, strongest, kindest, stupidest person I know.
Still, that doesn’t mean you have to go through anything alone.

I should have been there.
I should have been there to fight back those players.
To hold you tight once you stepped off that stage.
To keep you company, every time you haven’t been okay.

I am sorry. I am sorry that I wasn’t there.
But I am here now. And I promise you I am here to stay.

If you would just let me be for you
even just a fraction of all that you have been for me,
all that you are for me,
that would be all I would ever need.

Yours. Forever and always,
Oikawa Tooru

In the container is a simple dinner. Rice, vegetable and grilled fish, with a generous serving of Agedashi tofu.

It is the meal Tooru used to cook for Hajime. After late nights at the library. Following a stressful, difficult exam. At the end of a long, tiring week.

And just like that, Iwaizumi Hajime finally gives in.

He leans down, and for the first time in a long while, doesn’t fight it when he begins to cry.

Notes:

*Holds Iwa tightly* You’ve done so well. You’ve done so well.
As an ending song for chapters 12 and 13, for no particular deep reason, I like Yellow by Coldplay (specifically this version if you have Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/33koOQs551ijjVmLbmrcDc?si=7bb53444b736495c) At first, I thought the lyrics would be fitting as Tooru’s words to Iwa, but the more I listened the more I thought they were fitting as Iwa’s words to Tooru.
Other thoughts:
> I might have accidentally stolen the chapter title from an Avatar episode.
> I think the most obnoxious athletic-trainer Iwa thing to do would be to self-diagnose right after getting in a fight.
> Kids, if you are ever in Iwa’s situation, I would recommend you call a lawyer FIRST before speaking to the police.
> Bless Furuya for being the smart cookie she is picking up on all the little cues.
> I like to think Tooru has pretty good handwriting but as an adult (full-time athlete) has grown too lazy to put in the effort. Except for Iwa: for Iwa, he will always pull out his neatest penmanship.

As always, let me know what you think :) Hope you enjoyed - and I swear, the comfort part of hurt/comfort will arrive eventually!

Chapter 14: Let me be a fraction, of all you are for me

Summary:

If you would just let me be for you
even just a fraction of all that you have been for me,
all that you are for me,
that would be all I would ever need.

 

Or,

Iwaizumi Hajime is a problem solver. Oikawa Tooru just learns from the best.

Notes:

HELLO!!! I know, I know, I keep promising comfort but not delivering, but... hopefully this chapter will properly be a good break from all the angst in the previous ones
(Or I found it to be at least a little anyway...? Enjoy!)

The precinct of Miyagi sits an approximate three-hour train ride north of Tokyo. 

Nested in the precinct of Miyagi is the city of Sendai. Central to the city of Sendai is the Sendai morning market.  

In the Sendai morning market works Sato Sachiro the fishmonger. 

On that Monday morning a year and three months before the start of the Tokyo Olympics, Sachiro began his day at the Sendai morning market like most others. He opened shop by pulling the plastic sheets off his counters, hauling the fresh tuna and mackerel the fishermen had brought in early morning onto crates of ice. His wife, Sato Moya, as she was laying out the dry produce – seaweed, squid, anchovies – informed him that the local doctor had finally passed on his practice to his son and grumbled about when it would be their turn to retire. “Maybe, when our customer’s grandchildren start buying fish from us,” Sachiro had joked in response.  

It was spring. The skies were blue and clear of clouds, a warm breeze parsing the branches of flowering trees outside. The usual customers trickled in: Kato-san smiling with her daughter bubbling and tugging excitedly on her hand. Suzuki-san who owned three cats, bought for his usual three salmon fish-heads, the ones with more fat please. Busying with measuring out the salmon heads, Sachiro almost missed the approaching man with dark hair.  

“Morning, Sato-san.” 

“Hajime-kun!” Sachiro looked up, delighted. “You’re back!” 

Iwaizumi Hajime smiled as he stopped before the stall counter.  

He wore an olive linen shirt and black slacks, his hair styled in a neat side-part. In Sachiro’s memory, Hajime-kun was just only a child, yelling as he ran through the market in Godzilla-patterned singlets, his hair an electric explosion of spikes in every direction. Yet, before Sachiro clearly stood not a boy but a man – tall and broad, his smile gentle and kind, his gaze confident with a hint of seriousness.  

“Hajime-kun, welcome home!” Sachiro’s wife Moya yelled over from where she was attending to a customer at the cashier. “When did you get back?” 

“Last night to Sendai.” Hajime-kun raised his voice to half-yell his answer. He exchanged an amused look with Sachiro as if to say some things never change . “But I got back to Tokyo some time ago.” 

“Tokyo? Is Sendai just not good enough for you anymore, Mr California-boy?”  

“I must say, the fishmongers in Tokyo don’t yell at me across their stall.” Hajime-kun yelled back with a laugh. “And well, I work in Tokyo now actually.” 

“Oh you’re graduated!” Sachiro turned to Hajime-kun, delighted. He shook his head in wonder. “Excuse me for sounding like an old man, but I feel like it was just yesterday you came up to just my elbow! What do you work as now?” 

The question made Hajime-kun’s smile widen. “I take care of athletes for the Japanese Mens’ Volleyball Team.” 

“For the Olympics?” Sachiro gasped.  

“Is Hajime-kun playing in the Olympics?” Moya yelled again across the stall.  

“No I’m not!” Hajime-kun yelled back before adding with a sheepish laugh to Sachiro, as if knowing he was bragging but was enjoying it regardless: “But yes, the players I take care of play for the Olympics.” 

“How about Tooru-kun then?” Sachiro’s wife appeared by Sachiro’s shoulder, wiping her hands on her apron, egger for gossip. “Do you still talk to Tooru-kun? How is he doing?” 

Hajime smiled, colour rising subtly on his cheeks - and oh, of course, Hajime-kun and Tooru-kun were still thick as thieves, if Hajime-kun’s smile was anything to show for. “Well, Oikawa’s still playing in the Argentinian league, and doing very well too.”  

“Is Tooru-kun,” Sachiro’s wife leaned in with a scandalous, enthusiastic whisper, “playing in the Olympics?” 

Hajime’s smile blazed and now he was bragging and fully basking in it. “I have no clue,” He said, his cheeky smile clearly suggesting otherwise. “But if he is, there should be an announcement in a week’s time.” 

Sachiro and Moya exchanged an excited glance.  

They talked for a while longer, asking after Hajime-kun’s father (he had been well despite the health scare last year), whether Hajime-kun has a girlfriend yet (no, no, Hajime laughed hastily, looking awkward), giving Hajime-kun the newest Sendai market gossip (Onika-san’s stall closed - but hadn’t they all seen that coming?). Sachiro told Hajime-kun about the pain in his bad ankle and Hajime-kun demonstrated some stretches and strengthening exercises before giving him a contact to see a physiotherapist. Finally, Hajime-kun asked for two mackerels and a dried squid, explaining apologetically that he needed to head off. 

“Did you know,” Moya said happily, as Sachiro wrapped up the products. “This dried squid still to this day remains Tooru-kun’s mother’s favourite! Brings me back to the days where you and Tooru-kun would come by in your school uniforms running errands for her, doesn’t it?” 

Hajime-kun smiled. “Good old days.” His smile then grew as he raised a hand and added with more energy: “Well, I’ll be off now, keep well and will see you again soon!” 

The Sato couple waved and then stood for a moment, watching after Hajime-kun’s retreating back. The way he held all his grocery bags in one hand like as if the weight of it were nothing to him. The way he checked something on his phone with one hand, before tucking his phone away, straightening out his collar almost sub-consciously as he continued onward.  

“I wonder where he’s off to.” Sachiro mused. “I didn’t think it was Hajime-kun’s style to wear a nice button-up shirt out to the markets alone.” 

“Maybe it’s not a where he’s off to, but who he’s meeting.” Moya smiled cheekily, leaning back on the counter. “I refuse to believe a nice, handsome young man like him isn’t seeing anyone!” 

Sachiro gave a small non-committal hum in reply. He also wondered, but did not ask aloud, why Hajime’s smile had seemed rather forced when Moya had spoken about the dried squid.  

It wasn’t Hajime-kun’s style either to be upset with any mention of Tooru-kun’s family. 

*** 

They were six and almost-six.  

Together, they stood at the edge of a ditch, staring downwards.  

There was a steep slope of tall grass, followed by a metre-tall fall to the bottom of the ditch. At the bottom of the ditch was a drain way, in which then gushed in a quick stream murky brown water. Caught in a thicket of branches and twigs was a red-green-and-white Molten volleyball, the tug of the stream threatened to break the makeshift dam to carry the volleyball along with it. 

“Just get a new one.” Hajime’s arms were crossed, his lips scowled. 

“But I like this one!” Tooru’s eyes brimmed with tears, his hands fisted. 

“Fine.” The tilts of Hajime’s eyebrows softened, even as he grumbled. He began lowering himself down the slope. “Just this once, stupid-kawa.”  

“But wait, Iwa-chan - it’s so steep! ” Fingers lurched forward to grasp tightly against Hajime’s shirt. "What if you fall?” 

Glancing back, Hajime broke out into a grin. 

“I wont.” He said reassuringly. “I promise.” 

That day, Oikawa Tooru learnt that Iwaizumi Hajime was willing to clamber down a metre-tall drain into dirty ditchwater for him, never mind scrapped elbows, never mind muddied runners. 

Iwa-chan is so brave, Almost-six-year-old Tooru thought in admiration, He isn’t afraid of heights, he isn’t afraid of falling.   

*** 

There is a man sitting in the corridor outside the infirmary on level 6, Building Block C of the Tokyo Olympics Village. 

He has short brown hair which fall in waves over clasped fingers. Leaned forward on the bench, he rests his forehead against his knuckles, eyes closed as if deep in thought. Breathing in and out, his back rises and falls rhythmically, steadily with intention. 

The way athletes breathe between sets to recollect their calm. To regain their composure.  

Furuya sneaks a look once, and then twice.  

There is no doubt about it: the man sitting on the bench outside the infirmary is Oikawa Tooru.  

He sits for about half an hour before leaving to answer a call, his voice low, a hand mussing through his hair, the corridor echoing with quiet murmurs of Spanish. When he returns, he stares at something on his phone, his expression crossed with seriousness. 

When Furuya peeks out to find him still there an hour later, she wonders if she should do something about him. 

In a way, she does know why Oikawa Tooru is still here. Iwaizumi Hajime had told her earlier, quietly, seriously, to allow Oikawa Tooru and Oikawa Tooru only to visit between the times of 6:15pm to 7:15pm. She had seen Oikawa walk in at 6:15pm sharp, his face grim and set. She had overheard the murmured words, soaked in hushed anguish, when she had been going through her rounds with her other patients.  

She also knows that Iwaizumi Hajime must be important to Oikawa Tooru in some way, and vice versa. 

It hadn’t been anything she had been told, but more so what she had seen: the look on Iwaizumi’s face when he had spoken Oikawa’s name aloud. The way Oikawa had exited the infirmary after his visit, silent and grim, teeth gritted in a tear-stained gaze. The way he had stood leaned against the corridor wall, almost scarily motionless before sinking into a seat on the bench with his face buried in his hands.  

The way Oikawa and Iwaizumi had looked at one another in the Volleyball Beyond Borders episode Furuya had just watched yesterday . The way they looked at one another carefully, fondly, with a quiet intensity, as if they could never bear to look anywhere else.  

Furuya checks Iwaizumi’s medical records. Top on his emergency contacts is a telephone number with initials OT.   

Relationship: Friend.   

*** 

When Oikawa Tooru finally knocks on the door of her office, Furuya is unsurprised, but also isn’t sure of what to expect.  

Oikawa is taller in person than he appears on television. He stands by the door frame, his expression closed in seriousness, emotions layered underneath in multitudes. His eyes are what betray him: they burn with pain, with grief, with resolution. Layered through those is another emotion Furuya can’t quite place: almost like anger yet not quite like anger.  

Oikawa bows his head slightly in greeting, the gesture more Japanese than Furuya had expected. 

“You’re the medic who’s treating Iwaizumi Hajime.” He says. It is more a statement than a question. 

“Yes, I’m Furuya Aiko, general medic. And you’re Oikawa Tooru.” Furuya lowers her laptop screen. She sees no reason to pretend otherwise. “You are listed as Iwaizumi Hajime’s friend on his emergency contact.” 

A muscle twitches in Oikawa’s jaw but he merely nods in agreement.  

They both fall silent, as if each waiting for the other to speak. Furuya gets the impression that she is being sized up, which is fine by her as she too, is in her own way, assessing Oikawa Tooru. Taking in the tension across his shoulders. The residual redness around his eyes. 

And then, as abruptly as he had appeared, the quiet words fall from Oikawa’s lips: 

“Iwaizumi Hajime has been having anxiety attacks.” 

Furuya takes a sharp inhale. In her mind, a missing piece in the puzzle finally falls in place.  

“I see.” She pauses. She sifts through what she has seen. What she can and cannot say to someone who is Iwaizumi Hajime’s top emergency contact. She decides she can admit: “I’ve noticed.” 

It is subtle but Furuya catches it – the effect those words have on Oikawa. The way he opens his mouth and then shuts it again. The way the fist by his side tightens into itself. The way he runs a tongue almost over his bottom lip as he closes his eyes as if to think.  

Oikawa isn’t trying to intentionally come off as curt and stand-offish as he currently seems, Furuya realises. This is his way of staying calm. Of holding himself together .  

“Please,” Furuya looks up, startled by the next word that Oikawa speaks. Oikawa is now looking at her, with a fierce, fiery resolution now clearly painted across his face. “Please, help me, Furuya-san. Please help me learn how I can help Hajime.”  

In Oikawa’s eyes it is there again: the indescribable emotion resembling anger but not quite anger, fear but not quite fear, determination but not quite determination. 

If Furuya didn’t know any better, she would have described it as love. 

*** 

They were nine-and-a-half and nine-and-five-months. There had been a festival day at school.  

Tooru was in charge of setting up the volleyball club booth. To his left, the basketball booth was ready, with a trial hoop and tables; to his right, the baseball club had already started chanting cheers waving their set up banners. At the volleyball club’s spot, all there sat was a raggedy cardboard box holding their crumpled banner, with their teacher nowhere in sight... 

“No big deal, just do it yourself.” Hajime shrugged. He had been assigned to help at the red cross club but had wandered over anyway, sipping on a drink, his small red hat bearing the white cross lopsided. 

“Iwa-chan, there is a table and three chairs to move from the first floor!” Tooru wailed unhappily. “How can we do that ourselves?” 

“There’s four of us,” Hajime pointed to the two other members of the volleyball club, Haru and Jiro who were also waiting by anxiously. “We’ll get a corner of the table each.” 

The four of them clattered up the stairs, found the storage room containing the tables and grabbed one on each corner. The process was slow and awkward at first, especially on the turn of the stairs, but once Hajime offered to take over the corner that Jiro was struggling with and lifted the whole of one side by himself, their move sped up significantly.  

As Haru and Jiro stayed to set up the banner, Hajime and Tooru returned to the storage room upstairs for chairs.  

“Here take this, Stupid-kawa.” Hajime pushed a chair to Tooru. He stacked the remaining two chairs they needed together. “I’ll take these two so we don’t have to make another trip up.” He then shoved Tooru gently on the shoulder. “Quit worrying so much okay? You’re doing just fine.” 

Iwa-chan is so strong and cool, Nine-and-five-months-old Tooru thought, awestruck as he watched Hajime lift the chairs and start toward the stairs. He can carry tables and chairs like they weigh nothing. He can pull a team together in the snap of fingers. Tooru felt a rush of emotion when Hajime glanced back as if to check that Tooru was fine behind him.    

He can pull me together like it’s no harder than breathing.   

*** 

“Sorry, I’m running late,” Tooru had said quietly when Lucas called him at about 7:30. “Go ahead to dinner without me, I might be here a while.” 

Lucas hesitated as he stood up from the bench outside Building Block C where he had been waiting. The sun had set into a quiet, peaceful mauve-and-mandarin-tinged twilight. “Is everything okay?” He asked. He kept his tone gentle. Non-intrusive. “Is your friend at the infirmary okay?” 

He heard the difficulty, the strained hitch in Tooru’s voice even as he answered seriously, not even bothering with the false cheeriness he might have put on any other day: “He’s - okay, but I - “ Tooru cleared his throat, taking on a steadier tone. “I just need to settle some things. I’ll be done maybe by 8.” 

Lucas contemplated his options. He imagined Tooru, clearly upset and shaken, needing to walk back into the cafeteria for food afterwards. Being forced to endure the inquisitive questions from the team, strange stares from other foreign players. Picking at leftovers, sitting alone a long, clearly difficult afternoon. 

“How about this Tooru,” Lucas said gently. “I’ll grab some dinner for you in case the cafeteria runs out and I’ll meet you back outside building block C whenever you’re done. If you feel like being alone then, just say the word and I’ll go away. But if you feel like company, I’ll be here.” 

He heard Tooru exhale slowly on the other end of the line. 

“Okay.” Tooru said slowly, gratitude evident in his voice. “Thanks Luc.” 

*** 

At the cafeteria, Lucas realises uneasily, rumours have begun. 

There are talks of a fight between the Spanish and Japanese volleyball teams after their final preliminary game. Someone had seen a man, bleeding and limping, being helped to the infirmary. Others had seen police officers arriving at the Olympic village.  

Speculations passed around that the volleyball players might be suspended for fighting.  

“Have you noticed,” Marco whispers when Lucas joins the team table with his tray of dinner, “that Daniel Martez, Javier Navarro and Hugo Perez are not at dinner? I think they were the ones involved in the fight.” 

“Are they?” Felipe, their second-seat setter turns to Paulo curiously. It is common knowledge within the team that Paulo is drinking buddies with the Spanish team and by extension, the team assumes Paulo may be in the know, as they turn toward him. “Was Martez involved in the fight?” 

“I - I don’t know.” Pualo stammers, colour draining from his face. Paulo knows something, Lucas thinks, watching the way Paulo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I mean - we were all in our game when that happened! And I haven’t spoken to the Spanish team about it since.” 

“Do you think it had anything to do with the game they just played?” Diego, their team’s opposite hitter leans forward. “I mean - what else could it be to spur the players into fighting? ” 

“Maybe but still, why would the Spanish players pick a fight with the Japanese team of all teams?” Felipe scoffs. “I mean isn’t that just plain stupid - we’re literally on Japanese home ground. Surely the Committee would favour a Japanese team, even if they are just as guilty as being part of the fight.” 

“Where’s Tooru by the way?” Marco adds, glancing by default to Lucas, being the person Tooru is closest to on the team. “I wonder if he might have heard what happened about this from the Japanese team.” 

He’s visiting a friend in the infirmary, Lucas thinks queasily. He instead answers, intentionally lightly: “I’m not sure - I think he wanted to speak to José about something?” 

The team fortunately, takes the answer easily - José is not at dinner either and Tooru talking to him made for a good explanation for his absence as well. 

Later when Lucas is taking dinner portions for Tooru, he scans his eye over the table where the Japanese volleyball players sit.  

Iwaizumi Hajime, he takes note, isn’t there. The table however, isn’t as full as it usually is either. Ushijima Wakatoshi is also missing, as is Ninja Shoyo. Kageyama Tobio, Japan’s famous prodigy setter is not there either. 

Ordinarily, Iwaizumi’s absence would have barely been noticed, especially next to the absence of the other bigger international name players. But Volleyball Beyond Borders has only just launched two days ago and just as Paulo has become associated with the Spanish players - Iwaizumi too, has become associated with Tooru.  

“I hear Iwaizumi Hajime, that Japanese athletic trainer is friends with that Argentinian setter Oikawa Toor.” Lucas overhears a Colombian runner whisper to his friend over the salad bar. “I wonder if he’s the one who’s been involved in the fight. After all, don’t Daniel Martez and Oikawa Tooru have all that long-running bad blood?” 

*** 

The historical bad blood between Tooru and Martez is an unfortunate and suspicious link, Lucas admits. 

Tooru, especially in his younger days, had a habit of being overly snarky and cheeky toward his opponents. Most opponents took it in stride, eventually growing to be great friends with Tooru once they got to know and respect one another. But Martez is hot-tempered, arrogant and rude – a combination Tooru had never been able to look past or tolerate. Once, after Martez had jeered rudely at one of their CA San Juan teammates Antonio, Tooru had surged forward, yelling furiously in his defence; Martez in turn, storming forth, fists flared and lifted. 

If it hadn’t for each of their teams intervening, a fight could have broken out right on live television. Both Martez and Tooru had almost been suspended for being combative, the tabloids and journalists jumping on the story as an example of poor sportsmanship for weeks after. 

Lucas hadn’t heard what Martez had yelled at Antonio, the thing that had triggered the fight. 

But he heard through the whispered rumours afterward, that it had been a homophobic slur. 

“Aye, why did you have to pick fights that aren’t yours for?” Paulo once exclaimed to Tooru cheerfully when the infamous almost-fight had been brought up years after. “It’s just how Martez banters. Plus it isn’t like he was calling you that name, right?” 

Tooru hadn’t replied, instead busying himself with packing his bags. Still, when he walked past Lucas, he had briefly, caught Lucas’s eye. 

Can you believe this idiot? Tooru’s furious eyes and furrowed eyebrows read. 

I know, Tooru, just leave him be, Lucas had responded silently, in grim apology. he doesn’t know what he’s saying.  

Still, if even Paulo, a relative newbie to the sporting scene knew about the Martez-Oikawa near-fight, the chances were that all the other sporting veterans would remember it too. Sure enough, as Lucas makes his rounds between his international friends, making light chatter and collecting insights, Tooru’s near-fight with Martez is brought up again and again. Martez’s infamous reputation is known within the circles, whether because of Tooru’s story or other stories involving Martez snapping at a different player, and everyone is certain the Spanish side of the fight had involved him. The Japanese side however, remains a mystery. Lucas’s Brazilian friends suspect Ushijima, who apparently had had his own unpleasant run-ins with Martez. His British friend swears it must be a Japanese coach who Martez had apparently had disagreements with. 

Troublingly to Lucas, one candidate is brought up again and again: Iwaizumi. 

Because sure, Ushijima has had run-ins with Martez but aren’t they more often one-sided tantrums which Ushijima had mostly ignored and never engaged with? And well yes, Martez and that Japanese coach don’t get along, but hadn’t that coach been busy with the women’s volleyball team’s game at the time of the fight? Also, isn’t Oikawa Tooru the guy Martez had almost fought with on live television back in the Volleyball Nation League of 2019? And isn’t Iwaizumi Hajime, who trains the team which just beat Martez today, Oikawa Tooru’s close friend?  

Sure, Iwaizumi seems polite on television, but when he gets serious, doesn’t Iwaizumi look like the kind of man who would have an explosive temper and throw fists in a fight to defend his friend?  

*** 

They were four-months-from-thirteen and five-months-from-thirteen. 

Valentine’s day that year had been wet and stormy.  

That morning, Tooru had bubbled excitedly about a limited-edition milk bread which he wanted to scramble for after school before they ran out. Hajime had rolled his eyes, made some scathing comment about Tooru’s “ childish addiction to milk bread ” but sat through Tooru’s excited ramble anyway.  

When the final school bell rang, Tooru rushed to pack his bag to make his escape - but he was bombarded. Expressions-of-interest for Valentines’ Day made a beeline for him: each bearing gifts of chocolates, confession letters, flowers, hand-crafted cards. Each with their own reasons for why they liked him, their own stories on how they got to know him, their own hopeful questions.  

I’ve liked you for a really long time, Oikawa. Would you consider dating me?  

I play volleyball too, Oikawa. Would you play volleyball with me some time?  

Tooru laughed awkwardly, putting on his best smile and entertained the girls as well as he could. In the corner of his eye, he checked the clock desperately again and again. Outside, rain had begun falling, the howling of wind picking up, the leaves rustling. If he sprinted for it, he would have a fifteen-minute window to get to the bakery before it closed. Yet, as each girl came up to him, eyes hopeful and adoring, all he could think of was Hajime rolling his eyes and smacking him on the shoulder afterward, reminding him how downright rude it would be to hastily run away from confessing girls just for something as silly as milk bread.  

These are for you Oikawa! I think you’re so cool when you play volleyball - You don’t have to say anything now but have a think about what I’ve written in the card!  

I’ve wanted to confess to you for such a long time, and even if you say no, I wanted myself to be brave! So please, think about it and tell me what you say!  

Half an hour after the final bell had rung, Tooru finally thanked and said bye to the final Valentines confession he had received. 

Finally alone, he sank into a seat, burying his face into his arms on his desk, next to the mountain of chocolates and presents and cards and confessions. He would have to slowly and carefully read through later tonight and then think of some carefully-crafted response for each one over the next few days. 

The bakery had closed ten minutes ago.  

He lifted his head slightly to pick up and read one of the cards. It began with talking about how the girl had first seen him from his volleyball games. He wasn’t dumb: he knew of course that his rise in popularity could be attributed almost entirely with his rise in ability and recognition as a star setter on the courts.  

And sure, he didn’t hate the extra attention he now received, but at the same time he did find it slightly unnerving.  

Because really, all he wanted to do was to get better at volleyball. And the only reason he wanted to improve in volleyball was because he loved volleyball.  

Yet with improvement came this new popularity, this fame, this new pressure to impress.  

None of these girls knew him. None of them knew about how bad he was at Math, none of them knew how afraid he was of falling behind in volleyball, none of them knew about his (as Hajime coined it) so-called “ childish obsession with milk bread ”. 

Yet all of them had spoken as if they had known him. After all, didn’t you have to know someone to truly like someone? Or perhaps they liked him for what they imagined him to be, not who he really was. But who had they imagined him to be? If he really dated any of them, would he live up to who they wanted him to be? 

“Oi.” A familiar knuckle rapped against the top of his head. “Shitty-kawa.” 

When Tooru looked up, Hajime had settled down, sitting against the head of the chair in front of his desk, the heel of his shoes leaned against Tooru’s desk.  

The first thing Tooru noticed, with some astonishment, was that Hajime was absolutely and completely soaked from head to toe: his spikey hair flat and dripping with water, his jacket darkened with rain, the fabric of his shirt clinging onto his skin from how drenched it was.  

The second he noticed was the small box in Hajime’s hands, which in contrast to the rest of Hajime, was completely dry - 

“Oh my god, Iwa-chan, is that -”  

"Idiot.” Hajime laughed as he let Tooru grab the milk bread box, Tooru’s mouth agape in shock. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He added as Tooru looked up at him, starry-eyed with delight. “You wanted to eat it didn’t you?” 

As Tooru tore into the milk bread eagerly, yelping and leaning back when Hajime leaned forward and teasingly shook his head like a wet dog to make raindrops fly everywhere, it occurred to Tooru abruptly, the amount of effort Hajime must have gone through to get the milk bread.  

Perhaps it was the shock of being given something for no reason after receiving a mountain of gifts all aimed at encouraging Tooru to be someone’s Valentine’s; or perhaps it was the shock of something nice done to him, without there being any expectations of him needing to do anything back, like say yes to a confession -  

Which was why, Tooru looked up and blurted out: 

“But why ?” He stared at Hajime. “Why would you get this for me?” 

Hajime frowned, looking just as surprised.  

“You wanted it.” He said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So I got it for you.” 

That day, Tooru realised for the first time, exactly how selflessly Hajime loved. Without want of return, without expectation, without conditions.  

Hajime is nice to me just because he’s nice. Five-months-from-thirteen Tooru thought in wonder as he lay in bed that night. He reached over to touch the empty milk bread box he had carefully placed on his bedside table. He’s not like the girls who confessed. He doesn’t get me gifts because he wants me to say something back, he doesn’t get me gifts because he expects me to be a certain version of myself. He is nice to me just because.  

***  

That night, Tooru also wondered for the first time what it would be like to confess to someone. To be one of the girls who had confessed to him today. To like someone enough to buy chocolates, write confession letters; to have the bravery to stand in front of that person they like, under the eyes of the other passing students, to announce aloud: I’ve liked you for a very long time, please consider being mine!  

He tried to imagine himself doing it to someone. First, he imagined doing it to himself; and then, to a girl, first a faceless one, then his ex, then some girls he thought were pretty. But none of them felt right: he couldn’t imagine being moved enough to confess to any of them. And then, suddenly in his mind, Hajime was standing in front of him, the sun setting behind him, closing his locker and turning over to Tooru the way he did a million times each day.  

Hmm, what is it? Imaginary Hajime asked, that gentle smile he reserved only for Tooru tugging on his lips and suddenly, butterflies erupted in Tooru’s stomach and his heart backflipped and he wanted nothing else to be touch Hajime, to lean in close to Hajime’s boyishly handsome smile, to be held by his strong, steady hands, to spend every moment of his waking hours with Hajime and Hajime only and holy crap, Tooru sat up, his heart beating wildly in his chest: the only person I can imagine myself confessing to is Iwa-chan. 

But why? How? He thought queasily. Iwa-chan's a guy. And I like girls. I’m not gay - I like girls. I’ve had crushes on girls before. I’ve dated a girl before.  

He thought of the versions of him that the confessing girls think him to be: perfect and handsome, a volleyball star.  

He thought of Hajime, smiling down at him fondly, soaked to the skin. He thought of how happy Hajime had looked, just watching Tooru being happy. He thought of how Hajime had laughed when Tooru had leapt on him after, burying him in a tight hug, not caring for how wet and soaked he would be made as well, because Hajime, Hajime was too good for him, and he would never understand how he had ever come to deserve Iwaizumi Hajime -  

Five-months-from-thirteen Tooru turned over in his bed uneasily. He wondered what the girls would think of him if he ever confessed to Hajime.  

*** 

At around 8pm, Lucas’s phone rings.  

Expecting Tooru, he excuses himself from his conversation hastily, moving aside to take the call - but it is José, asking if Lucas could come by to his office. His tone is serious and concerned, and Lucas suspects he knows what the talk will be about even before their call even ends. 

At the office, José gestures for Lucas to close the door once he enters. 

“Tooru tells me you offered to meet him at the infirmary after he is done?” José asks, straight to the point. 

Lucas nods, lifting the takeaway box he holds. “Yeap. I’ve got his dinner.”  

“Thanks, I’m sure he will really appreciate it.” José says gratefully. He adds quietly: “You haven’t mentioned where he is to the team, have you?” 

Lucas shakes his head. “Not a word.” 

José is silent for a moment as he gestures for Lucas to take a seat. Once they are both seated, José passes Lucas a glass of water and says:  

“I am about to tell you something that hasn’t reached the news yet but will eventually.” He looks at Lucas seriously from over his desk. “And I am only telling you this because I trust you, and more importantly, Tooru trusts you and has okayed me mentioning this to you. But you have to keep this under wraps okay.” 

Lucas nods. “Of course.” 

“You’ve probably heard the rumours about some Spanish players fighting a Japanese player.” José pauses, and then confirms: “The Spanish players are Daniel Martez, Javier Navarro and Hugo Perez. They attacked Iwaizumi Hajime, team Japan’s athletic trainer.”  

A chill goes through Lucas’s spine. He thinks of the kind, steady and reserved athletic trainer he had met only just a few days ago. It is one thing to hear rumours, another to hear it confirmed, and to have it happen to someone he knows, someone he has spoken to and laughed with.  

“Is Iwaizumi okay?” He asks. 

José makes a non-committal gesture. “He sustained a few minor injuries and was brought to the infirmary. But from what I know, none of the injuries were serious enough for him to be transferred out to a hospital, so thank goodness for that.” 

“Just Iwaizumi?” Lucas looks at José, puzzled. “I thought it was a fight between a few Spanish players and a few Japanese players. Was Iwaizumi just…” He realises the word José had used. Not fought but attacked. “…jumped on?” 

José nods, grim. “I’m not sure how the Olympic Committee are going to frame it in the media - but essentially what I understand is that he was jumped on.” He shakes his head, his disgust barely held back. “Apparently the Spanish players even tried doubling back to temper with the CCTVs after the fight. Clearly they realised how bad the situation looked for them. It didn’t work though - the police have checked the tapes and confirmed Iwaizumi’s account of what had happened.” 

Lucas grimaces. “So the police are involved?” He asks worriedly.  

“Yeah, the Olympic Committee as well, it is standard procedure for an incident of this level.” José confirms. “Now, the reason I know all this, is because the police have called to warn that during the fight, according to Iwaizumi, Daniel Martez made threats against Tooru.” 

Lucas’s breath catches as he looks up sharply. 

“What?” The severity of the situation, the gravity of the scenario suddenly hits him. It is one thing to hear about a fight happening to someone he knows at best as an acquaintance - another altogether to suddenly hear his close friend pulled amongst the mix. “What kind of threats did they make? Why would they have dragged Tooru into all of this?” 

“It isn’t super clear.” José shakes his head. “But Iwaizumi described threats of physical violence - and well, you’ve seen how Martez is when he gets angry. It is concerning that he has actually physically beaten up someone this time, which is why we’re on alert for making sure the few individuals Iwaizumi had identified as apparent targets stay safe. Tooru included.” 

“But they will be suspended right?” Lucas stares at José. An anger is rising in his chest - he had already been angry before, on Iwaizumi’s behalf, at the fact that three players would gang up on one athletic trainer, but now for Tooru, he is furious . “Surely, if the CCTV tapes show what has happened and there is a risk to the safety of others, they must be suspended -“ 

“The Olympic Committee have issued a temporary suspension and are still investigating it.” José confirms, sounding frustrated. “But Martez, Perez and Navarro claim they only fought in self-defence and -“ José shakes his head. “We’ll just have to wait and see if the Olympic Committee maintains the suspension or lifts it in time for them to play their next game.” 

“Self-defence?” Lucas echoes, furious. He thinks of Iwaizumi, the earnest, kind man he had met, the man who thanked everyone after a film shoot personally one by one. The man whose mere presence, seemed to make Tooru happier and calmer and softer than anyone else Lucas had ever seen. “But self-defence… against Iwaizumi doing what ?” 

José shook his head, staying silent and it is then that Lucas senses that there is more José knows but can’t tell, which is when Lucas grim, falls in silence too.  

*** 

To end their conversation, José tells Lucas that the police want to speak to Tooru, to give him an important update. He also tells Lucas that although it is not a must, it would be good if Lucas keeps Tooru company and makes sure he is safe on the way back from the infirmary.  

I’ve told Luc about the incident. José texts Tooru after.  

He pauses and adds: I haven’t told him about you and Hajime.  

José has been through many difficult moments in his career as a coach. Being there for players as they limp off the courts for their final time. Supporting players go through personal losses, deaths within family, friends and the team. Doing all he can against a mounting wall of frustration as players get caught in bureaucratic battles with sporting authorities, or due to media dramatics, get booed down to the ground by crowds.  

Watching Oikawa Tooru, the player who he has watched grow from a boy into a man, sit and listen with a completely straight face, as the police recount to him the details of how his significant other had been beaten up, is up there in the ranks of these difficult moments. 

Oikawa had really downplayed the situation earlier, José realised as he listened from where he stood behind Tooru’s chair. Sure, the injuries Hajime had sustained were not life-threatening or un-recoverable by any means, but hearing how they had happened was harrowing . Hearing that he had first, fended off two men on his own, before being kicked squarely in the face by the third, completely unprompted, completely unprovoked, and then thrown backward against metal lockers. It was clearly a hate crime, through and through, based on what José knew except... 

“Well, Iwaizumi-san refuses to tell us what was said that started the fight, which quite frankly makes it difficult for us to determine if he had a role to play in initiating and provoking the fight. Regardless, Iwaizumi-san says Martez made threats to his friends, including to you.” The policeman looks at Tooru. “We have tightened security to keep an eye on anyone who has been targeted.” 

Tooru, completely silent and stone-faced, can only nod. 

From where he stood, José could see how tightly Tooru’s knuckle was gripped behind his back.  

Still, he is calm. Calmer than José could ever imagine himself being, if he were in Tooru’s shoes and his wife was the one who had just been attacked, and that José suspects is a construct from efforts by both Tooru and Hajime as well.  

Here, Tooru had told José quietly earlier before the police had arrived, showing him a text message from Hajime. So we’re not surprised later, here is the story Hajime gave the police.  

José doesn’t know Hajime as well as he knows Tooru, but even so, he can tell that the text message is Hajime in every single way. It is short, succinct, straightforward but carefully, closely crafted so that Tooru has all the information Hajime has about the fight, so that Tooru knows what to expect going forward, so Tooru knows how to speak to the police when it comes his turn. It is, José can tell, the equivalent of Hajime knowing exactly which stretch would loosen the tension in Tooru’s bad knee. The equivalent of Hajime knowing exactly when to arrive at practice unannounced to turn Tooru’s bad day around. The equivalent of Hajime, as they walked home from the dinner they had had years ago in San Juan, always pulling Tooru toward himself when a passerby walks too close, always holding his umbrella when it rains just slightly more to Tooru’s end so that Tooru is always a hundred percent dry but Hajime always has one sleeve wet. 

The police ask Tooru a few questions: 

Can you think of any reason why Martez might threaten you and the other Japanese players Iwaizumi named?  

Tooru shook his head.  

Do you know of any reason Iwaizumi might have provoked a fight with Martez, or Martez provoked a fight with Iwaizumi?  

Tooru once again, shook his head, continuing to be tight-lipped because really, what else could he have said?  

Is there anyone else you think we should be on the watch out for, either as a potential assailant or victim?  

Tooru’s jaw tightened at this.  

“Is Iwaizumi being kept safe?” He asked finally, his voice hoarse from lack of use throughout the interview. 

The policeman nodded. “We’ve ensured there will be security at the infirmary. And rest assured, the assailants have been brought off premises.” 

Eventually, the police left, after a final reassurance for Tooru’s security and with a vague mention that they may return if they have more questions.  

Once they leave, Tooru leans back and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.  

José makes sure his office door has been properly locked before he asks gently: 

“Hey, was Hajime okay when you saw him? Do you want to take tomorrow off, maybe to spend time with him?” 

Tooru looks up and he has tears whelming in his eyes, the tears he had been holding back the whole time the police had been speaking to him, the tears any other significant other being told by the police that their partner had just been assaulted would have been afforded, anyone else except those in Tooru’s shoes - 

“I might take time off. But it won’t be to spend with Hajime.” Tooru shakes his head. “Hajime doesn’t want to see me.” 

 José looks at him, disbelieving. “What?” 

“Yeah, he...” Tooru laughs a little, pain creeping into his voice. “I think he’s reached his limit.” His voice cracks . “And José, I – I knew- I knew he wasn’t doing well but I – I didn’t - I hadn’t - ” 

And just like that, Tooru begins to cry properly, all the tears he had holding back rushing forward as he kneels forward in his seat. José sits down next to him patiently, quietly, placing a hand on his hand on Tooru’s shoulder. 

He waits for a while, in case Tooru wants to talk, in case Tooru needs a listening ear, and when Tooru stays silent, forcing himself to calm down furiously, slowly, José says: 

“Tooru, I don’t know all that is happening, but what I do know is that the two of you can get through this.”  

Tooru looks up at José, his face full of strained incredulity.  

“You and Hajime,” José says quietly. “have been together for almost ten years. You’ve been through sports injuries, and family deaths, and long distance, and coming out to your families.” It is a topic he and Tooru had barely, if not ever, acknowledged aloud before, and he can see the slight startle that travels through Tooru’s eyes at the mention of this.  

“This must all have been so difficult for Hajime.” José continues. “And I’m not just talking about the assault which is horrible enough,” He adds. “But also all the pressure that Hajime must have felt, with the Olympics, with Volleyball Beyond Border s, with all the constant tug of war on how out your relationship should be. It must be so overwhelming for him to suddenly have to deal with all this attention, all this fame, all this incidents.” 

"But he cares about you so much, Tooru.” José says fiercely and at this, Tooru looks up at him, his gaze burning. “Like that day, when he turned up to our practice. All I had said in my call to him was that you had seemed off, and he came over, right away. And I too can see that you care so much for him. That you’re always watching out for him, after the interview, after the attack, even now.” 

“I’m really sorry to hear that he is at his limit.” José says quietly. “And I am really sorry for all the strain this must be putting on your relationship. But the two of you will work through this.” He urges. “It may be hard for now and hell, it will probably be difficult for awhile going ahead, but eventually you will get through this . Together.”  

“And if there’s any couple in the world I would bet my money on for getting through this, it would be the two of you.”  

*** 

They were fourteen-and-one-month and fourteen. 

Ushijima had just beat them yet again. Tooru had started practising late into the nights. Hajime had begun nagging Tooru about working too hard.  

When Tooru refused to go home, Hajime refused to leave too. Some nights Hajime won - lecturing and yelling until Tooru left with him. Other nights Tooru won, Hajime grumbling and sitting down on the sidelines, working on his homework until Tooru was satisfied with practices for the day. 

One evening, Tooru had hoped that Hajime would win. He had been exhausted, feeling close to becoming feverish and sick, yet unable to bear the idea of falling behind, of letting precious practice time slip through his fingers. He had wanted Hajime to yell at him as he started his late evening serve practice, to smack him on the back of his head, to call him an idiot and to drag him back home.  

Instead, as he walked to the serve line, ready for the jump, he saw Hajime from the corner of his eye pulling on his jacket and slinging a packed bag over his shoulder. Ready to head home, whether Tooru was ready to go or not.  

Even Iwa-chan has given up on me. A small, cruel voice speaks in Tooru’s head. Even Iwa-chan thinks I’m not good enough anymore.   

Without warning, tears flooded Tooru’s eyes as he leapt into his jump serve. His vision blurred with tears, and his hand missed the centre of the ball, hitting just the very bottom of it instead. The ball slipped off his hand and hit him directly on his head instead. When Tooru landed, he fumbled with the ball, almost falling forward if not for the hand that grabbed him by his elbow. 

“Whoa, Oikawa , what happened ?” Hajime growled by his ear, alarm and worry evident in his deep voice. A second hand grasped around Tooru’s waist to stabilise him, the steady touch of Hajime’s arm against his back sending lightning bolts through Tooru’s spine. “Are you okay -“ 

“Yes, perfectly fine !” Tooru snatched himself out of Hajime’s grasp. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, at the residual warmth from Hajime’s body, that is how it would be like to be held by Iwa-chan, that is how it would be like if Iwa-chan liked you back - He was unable to hold back the bitterness, the upset in his voice as he said: “If you want to go, just go, okay Iwa-chan, I just -“ 

“Crappy-kawa, I never said -“ 

“You were carrying your bag! You were about to go, so just go okay!” 

“ Tooru , I needed to go because -“ 

“- because I’m not good enough for you, am I?” Tears stream into Tooru’s eyes. He could see Hajime’s face fall, knew that he had hurt Hajime’s feelings but he kept going anyway. “You used to be the one person who I always thought I could lean on, but lately, I don’t even think that you think I’m good enough anymore and -“ 

Hajime stepped warningly close. Tooru winced, ready for one of Hajime’s painful wake-up punches but instead -  

Hajime pulled Tooru forward to bury him into a bone-crushingly tight embrace, arms wrapped fiercely around his shoulders, head rested protectively over Tooru’s.  

“Wha…what are you - I thought you were going to…” 

“…Hit you?” Hajime grumbled, still not letting Tooru go. He pulled Tooru in tighter, letting Tooru bury his now tear-stained face into his chest. “To kick you for being a huge fucking idiot ?” 

Tooru now begun crying, all the emotions from his difficult week – Ushijima, volleyball, Iwa-chan who might never like him back - bubbling over and spilling. Hajime drew back, fiercely wiping the tears off of Tooru’s cheeks, and then gently, giving him a playful cuff on the head. 

“Shitty-kawa, I can’t kick someone who was already kicking themselves as hard as you are.” Hajime sighed. “And idiot,” He added. “I was not going to leave without you. I need to get home earlier to make dinner because Dad’s working late - I was about to tell you to come with me, if only you hadn’t been so busy doing your fucking serves .” 

“Oh.” Tooru managed a small, weak laugh, to which Hajime smiled, half-exasperated, half-fond. 

“Come home with me?” Hajime said gently. “Please?” 

“Okay.” Tooru whispered. He leaned forward to rest his head against Hajime’s shoulder just a little longer, closing his eyes. At times like this, he felt like he could almost let go of the anxiety of not knowing whether Hajime could ever truly liked him back more than a friend, as long as he could be with Hajime like this. “Okay, Iwa-chan.” 

Iwa-chan is always here for me, Fourteen-year-old Tooru thought as he felt Hajime’s arms settle on his back to pull him closer into the embrace again, his chest rising and falling steadily. He is always so patient, so kind and so caring. Whoever he decides to love in the future is a very lucky person who will be well taken care of.   

*** 

That night, Oikawa Tooru sits alone at the desk in his shared Olympic dormitory rooms. 

Wearing his glasses, he leans over a piece of paper, twiddling with a pen in hand. To his right, his laptop sits, his email inbox open to an email from one Furuya Aiko. On his left sits the dinner Lucas had brought him, which he has half-eaten.  

Lucas, bless his soul, had kept him company back from José’s office, offered to lend a listening ear if Tooru needed so, but also offering to let Tooru have time alone if he wanted it. José too, made similar offers after the police interview, making it fiercely clear that he would have his support every step of the way.  

Gratefully, Tooru had told them both that he appreciated it, but he needed time alone. 

To think. To learn.  

Hajime, Tooru thinks, is brave and strong and selfless and kind. He is someone who has always been there for Tooru, who has always taken care of Tooru. 

And it is time, Tooru thinks, that he learns how to take better care of Hajime too. 

But what makes someone as brave, as kind, as selfless and as strong as Hajime afraid? What is it that drives someone as steady as Hajime to his limits?  

“Whether what you’re describing are anxiety attacks or not,” Tooru remembers Furuya saying earlier, “It sounds like Iwaizumi has been going into fight or flight mode a lot.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Tooru frowned. By that point in the conversation, he had taken a seat in Furuya’s office, with Furuya’s door firmly close. He had described to Furuya in detail the three times he had seen Hajime breakdown over the past few days – before the filming, after the interviews, and then, most difficult of all, after their fight. With careful rapt attention, Furuya had jotted down notes, leaning back and thinking carefully about it.  

“I’m not a psychiatrist or a registered psychologist, so I can only give you some general thoughts,” Furuya pre-empted, “But it sounds like from what you’re describing, that each time Iwaizumi has had an anxiety attack, or whatever we are labelling those events for now, he’s essentially entering a high-stress response that is telling him to either stay and fight, or run and flee. Think encountering a bear in the wilderness when you’re hiking,” Furuya added. “Your entire body goes into red alert, preparing for some kind of attack or threat, so you get ready to either run or to hunker down and fight. Your heart starts to race, your breathing becomes ragged, your muscles start to tense.” 

“You see,” Furuya picked up a piece of paper and began scrawling an approximate image of a brain. “When we go on with our ordinary daily functions, we usually engage our pre-frontal cortex here to think, and to make decisions.” She shaded in the front region of the brain. “But when our fight or flight reaction is triggered, what is triggered is instead this portion of the brain known as the amygdala.” She marked out a little circle toward the centre-bottom of the brain.  

“So when Iwaizumi told you it feels like he can’t get himself to focus on work, or he can’t hold himself together when he’s fighting back a breakdown,” Tooru nodded, recognising Furuya’s recounting of Hajime’s symptoms. “What he’s experiencing is probably the amygdala taking over and forcing him to begin operating on a fight or flight response, rather than on his usual pre-frontal cortex functioning instead.”  

“The brain has this option of switching between the amygdala and the pre-frontal cortex functions for a reason.” Furuya explained. “Say you’re just having a conversation at a café - you don’t need your body to be fuelling your muscles or pumping you with adrenaline, you don’t need to run at any given danger, you don’t need to suddenly defend yourself. But if you are in a dangerous situation – like meeting a bear in the wild for example, you will need that extra bit of blood in your muscles, and adrenaline in your veins to make those split-second decisions that could mean life or death for you. And moving the foucs and functioning of the brain away from the pre-frontal cortex to the amygdala helps does that." 

"But in Hajime’s case,” Tooru frowned, “If he’s been going into fight or flight mode for situations that actually require his pre-frontal cortex functions...” 

“It means he’s essentially panicking and having these breakdowns to situations that he has started to perceive as threatening or fearful to him, even if they are situations that we know aren’t actually threatening, or Iwaizumi himself may even be aware aren’t actually threatening if he thinks logically about it.” Furuya nodded. “And that may come from any variety of reasons – for example, as you have described, maybe it is a particular anxiety that he has about certain situations or things.” 

“He isn’t typically an anxious person though,” Tooru worried. “Like I don’t think he is typically the kind of person who would grow overly nervous over these scenarios, or had a history of anxiety...” 

“And that’s fine, again.” Furuya reminded Tooru gently. “Sometimes anxiety can arise from circumstantial reasons - it doesn't always mean that the person has a disorder or has a biological pathology. In other words, I guess, what I’m saying is, given how he’s had these anxiety attacks quite suddenly and given he hasn’t had a history of it before – is there something circumstantial which you think may be causing his current anxiety?” 

Tooru nodded. He of course, knew exactly what that circumstance was, but couldn’t tell Furuya, not without revealing everything and instead admitted: 

“Yeah I do.”  

There was a pause, each of them silent in thought.  

Tentatively, Furuya asked: “Could the circumstance be removed? Or could Iwaizumi be removed from the circumstance, so he gets some space from it to recover?” 

Tooru grimaced at this. “It's a complicated answer.” He admitted. “But assuming we can’t for now,” He struggled to keep the pain out of his voice as he said so – but at this point, he had a feeling Furuya could tell what he and Hajime were to one another and could not care less anymore. “is there anything else I could do to help?” 

“Hmm.” Furuya leaned back and pondered. “Well, I think the way you’ve handled his breakdowns so far have been pretty good from how you’ve described them.” She said gently, encouragingly. “And I can send you materials on how to help Iwaizumi the next time you are with him during a breakdown.”  

“Right.” Tooru forced a smile at this, thinking of his last argument with Hajime. Furuya grimaced too – Tooru hadn’t told her about the contents of he and Hajime’s fight, but again, he was sure she could pick up on context, given he was now speaking to Furuya instead of being in the infirmary with Hajime. 

They sat in continued silence before finally Furuya said: 

“I think,” She said slowly. “The next best thing you can do, short of actually physically being there to support him, is firstly, keep reassuring him that you are here for him. Even if he knows it logically, even a text message or call to show you’re thinking of him can go a long way. It also sounds like a big recurring theme in whatever Iwaizumi is going through is that he somehow believes that he must deal with it all alone. And honestly, I’m not surprised by that. Especially given how taboo mental health issues tend to be in Japanese culture – I think it tends to build more difficulty in opening out within patients I’ve seen.” 

Tooru nodded, swallowing. It was one thing to know it was a recurring theme, another to hear it said aloud by Furuya. 

“Secondly,” Furuya said. “And maybe this is me taking some creative licence with giving you suggestions here and I don’t know how applicable it is to Iwaizumi.” She looked up. “But as someone who’s been through anxiety and depressive cycles myself, one thing I know I always found super hard, was keeping my life together when my mental health was complete trash. So I always appreciated it when people kind of helped me just well, do things that got my life back on track. To help take the mental load off for me. Little things like cooking for me, reminding me to pay bills, motivating me to attend classes, cleaning my apartment with me, to just you know, keep going, keep functioning, even when my pre-frontal cortex had geared into a halt and I was operating purely on fight and flight responses. I guess, in other words, to just do acts of service for me.” 

*** 

In his room, Tooru leans forward on his table to rest his forehead in his hands. He thinks again of his conversation with Furuya. 

He thinks of what it would look like to implement the second suggestion Furuya had made: to do acts of service. He thinks of Furuya’s examples: paying bills and cleaning apartments. He thinks of Hajime’s examples. At six, climbing down ditches to retrieve volleyballs for him. At nine, carrying tables and chairs down school stairways for him. At almost-thirteen, braving the rain just to buy milk bread to make him happy. 

At fourteen, just being there for him, night after night again. Nagging him to rest, to go home. Reminding him that he is there. That Tooru is enough. 

Helping Hajime isn’t hard, Tooru realises suddenly. All he has to do is put himself in Hajime’s shoes to imagine what Hajime needs now, what help Hajime would keep him going. 

And putting himself in the shoes of someone else too, isn’t hard. Tooru has grown up with the best example of how to do so after all. He has always had the privilege of always having front row seats to how Iwaizumi Hajime consistently puts himself in Oikawa Tooru’s shoes again and again.  

He thinks about what Hajime would do, if their situations were reversed. How much bravery, kindness, reassurance, patience and strength he knew Hajime would show, if their roles were the other way round now. 

And then, he reminds himself, in a gruff little Iwa-chan-voice that lives in his head: 

Oi, Shitty-kawa, there’s no need to copy me, all I’d want is for you to just be yourself.  

Tooru smiles. He is crying again: just thinking of Hajime, how much pain he had been in earlier, how much difficulty he will still likely have to go through in the days to come, makes his heart ache in pain. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much that is beyond his control. But the one thing he does know that is very much in his control is that Oikawa Tooru is someone who never gives up on Iwaizumi Hajime.  

Leaning down, Tooru starts writing a list: 

1. Crutches 
2. Sunrise 
3. Message 
4. Lawyer 
5. Friends 
6. (for myself) tell Luc

He pauses, and then adds: 

7. Trust 

Notes:

I know people irl who, like Hajime, are selfless and empathetic souls who will do anything to help you. And just like Hajime, it can be really difficult to get them to accept help in turn. This chapter is like my lil love letter to all those who are there in difficult times (Jose, Luc, Furuya), the idiots who help everyone but themselves (Hajime) and all those who are trying their best to support those in need (Tooru). And ofc, to some good ol' fashioned Iwaoi aggressive mutual support and love.

Also, I am not a professional psychologist or psychiatrist so don't take Furuya's advice to Tooru as gospel - but I thought it was about time the story addressed Iwa's anxiety attacks head on to some degree! I think it's just like Tooru too, being the person who will carefully analyse his players to suit his playing style too, to slowly start collecting info about Hajime's situation to try and help him.

P.s. the flashback when iwaoi are 14 is essentially that situation Tooru mentions in his letter in chap 12: where Tooru irrationally gets upset with Iwa because of his huge conflict about his feelings for him; Iwa in turn, being infinitely patient and gentle with Tooru, but in the process accidentally toeing the platonic/romantic line too closely without clarifying which it is for him. Idk if anyone is interested to hear my ramblings about the ties I make between chapters HAAHHAHA but here it is anyway.

Let me know what you think as always!! :D (and of any song recs for this chap? I was listening to Midori no Amayoke which sort of kind of fits...)

Chapter 15: Sunrise

Summary:

In the morning after their argument, Tooru and Hajime watch the sunrise.

Notes:

If you can’t tell by now, Iwa is my favorite character both because of who he is, and also because he is always such a joy to write about.

Enjoy!

Two mackerels and a dried squid.  

A bag of three persimmons, a bunch of grapes and two pears. 

Iwaizumi Hajime walked out from the Sendai morning market, a year and three months before the Tokyo Olympics, holding all his grocery bags in one hand, his phone in the other.  

Just left the market. I think Sachiro the fishmonger misses seeing you by the way, He typed out one-handedly on his phone. How am I doing for time?  

On his phone application, the word typing blinked on screen for a while before Takeru responds in text: 

You’re good. He’s slow today, not even at breakfast yet – I think you have another hour.  

Thanks, you're a champ. Hajime replied gratefully, before slipping his phone into his pocket.  

Crossing a street, he easily found the little corner by which he had left his bicycle parked and locked. He checked that the jacket he had left folded neatly inside the bicycle basket was still there, slipped his pocket belongings safely into the inside-pocket of the jacket and loaded the groceries into the basket. 

Before he got on the bike himself, he straightened out the side of the collar of his olive-green shirt. Distantly, he wondered if he had made a mistake wearing something this nice this early on, rather than changing later.  

No, He told himself. You have to time this right. You might not get a second chance.  

He swung his leg over the seat and secured his right foot into the pedal. He was wearing his formal leather shoes, polished and well-shone and it was almost strange, seeing them fit against the blackened bicycle pedals he remembers riding as a teenager.  

Ahead of him, the Sendai sun that had been slowly climbing peaked over the distant hills, bright and golden, filling the town with light. Hajime gazed up, watching the clouds above him float by for a while, one foot against the ground, with his hands rested on the bicycle handlebars.  

All this effort will pay off. He told himself. It will be worth it.  

For Tooru, he decided, he would make it worth it.  

Pushing the bicycle forward into a pedal, Hajime began a course for the riverbank, the Sendai skies wide and azure-blue above him.  

*** 

To see the sunrise, take the lifts one level up from where the infirmary is, and turn into the first room on your left.   

There is a balcony there, from which the view is spectacular.  

Or at least, that is what my sunrise-sources tell me Iwa-chan :)

Iwaizumi Hajime squints up in disbelief at the tiny words on his bright mobile phone screen through the darkness of the infirmary room.  

It is 4:45am on the eight day of the Tokyo Olympics, his barely-awake brain processes. It was 2:30am the last time he checked, in between reading Tooru’s note over and over again like the sad, pathetic man he has become, which means that he must have fallen asleep in between. 

The fog of sleep makes the words on Tooru’s text messages blur in and out of focus, and when Hajime next opens his eyes, more conscious this time, it is 5am and his brain coherently processes the sentences Tooru has sent this time. 

But okay, even fully awake, he is still confused.  

He and Tooru had just blown into one of the biggest arguments of their relationship last night.  

And this morning, all Tooru is talking about is.... the sunrise?

Hajime rubs his hands against his eyes and puts his phone down. He sits up – before immediately lying back down again with a hiss of pain. Various spots in his upper torso burn in protest – he is no doubt feeling his bruises after a night’s rest – and the back of his head too throbs in pain. His limbs are sore as well as if he had just played an intense match yesterday – and well, technically he had – Japan’s Olympic match and then the fight against Martez after.  

He stays still for a while before letting out a controlled exhale and making a second attempt at sitting up, wincing in pain until to his relief, his body finally adjusts to being upright and the pain slowly subsides into a dull ache again.  

The infimary is dark and quiet, with only the hum of air conditioning to be heard. A dim source of light can be seen from beyond the curtains that section off his ward. On his left, the four chairs by his bedside had been neatly reduced to just two, against one of which leaned a pair of crutches. His bag of clothing that Kageyama had brought yesterday had been placed closer to him on his bedside table. Outside the window on his right, the sky outside his window is still dark, a shade of purple-and-red that symbolizes the soon-to-rise sun. The sweater and Tooru’s jacket which Hajime must have shrugged off in his sleep are lying on the foot of the bed. Gently, Hajime gathers them both in his arms.  

Just being in the infirmary reminds Hajime again of his argument with Tooru. Which brings him again to... 

Hajime picks up his phone, frowning suspiciously at Tooru’s messages about the sunrise. If it hadn’t been for the ‘ Iwa-chan’ at the end, he would have thought that Tooru had simply sent the message to the wrong person.  

His fingers hesitate on the screen, before he types in the best intelligent response he can provide: 

...what?  

On their messaging chat, Tooru comes online immediately, the little green dot appearing next to his name. The messaging app shows that Tooru is typing for a while, before his reply finally pops up:  

Ah so you are awake  

I thought you might be  

Hajime frowns. It is the normalcy of it all, at a time that feels anything but normal, that is confusing to him.  

As if able to guess Hajime’s reaction, Tooru adds: 

Iwa-chan, all I’m saying is that you should go check out the sunrise if you are not going back to sleep anytime soon.   

You like sunrises Hajime :) I think you’ll enjoy it  

*** 

Hajime had been waking up at 5am every day for the past two years as a force of habit. 

And of course, Tooru knows that. 

While the habit had mostly begun to fit in line with the time the Japanese Volleyball Team began their morning trainings, waking up that early had its benefits. It is peaceful, being awake when no one else quite is yet, while the world is still asleep. Like as if no one is watching you, no one listening to you.  

As if you could truly just exist freely as you are, for these few stolen hours. 

Hajime ponders this as he turns over to sit on the side of his bed. Inwardly, he wonders, both a little hopefully and a little worriedly, if Tooru has any other motives for asking him to go see a sunrise. He rummages through his bag full of clothes, pulling on a t-shirt and packing his sweater back into his bag. 

He pulls on the jacket Tooru had left behind yesterday. He is being pathetic, he knows, but with how awful he has been feeling recently, he can let himself at least indulge in the small comforts, he figures. 

He pulls a shoe onto his good foot, and then hobbles onto the crutches. Testing his sprained foot on the ground, he walks around the room a little, getting used to the crutches. 

Once he is confident he has the correct heights adjusted for both crutches, he slips his phone and wallet into his pockets and begins leaving the infirmary. 

Even though he has only been there for an afternoon and a night, it is a relief to finally leave the tiny space of his ward. The ward next to his is empty, as is the one at the end of the infirmary – both the patients who had been there must have been discharged since. Hajime pauses at the beginning of the infirmary where he spots Oda in his office, and tells him that he is just going out for a quick walk.  

“Oh hey!” Oda spins around on his office chair. Hajime can tell that Oda is glancing him up and down, perhaps assessing how stable he looks on his crutches, until Oda says hesitantly: 

“Look, that should be fine, but I just want to ask first: how are you feeling?” 

Ah right – Hajime remembers with a jolt, that Oda had just seen him awake various times throughout the night plagued with nightmares and anxiety attacks. He pauses to process Oda’s question. He feels tired, no doubt from the lack of sleep, and various parts of his body hurt just from the act of walking. But whether it is the short snatch of sleep he’s had, or the small texts from Tooru, he feels strangely... better. Not completely okay, but at least, enough of an okay that he can feel the momentous anxiety that had overwhelmed him for most of yesterday kept at bay. 

“I’m - feeling better.” Hajime tells Oda. “Still kinda shitty,” He admits, “but not as bad as I felt throughout the night, those episodes you saw” He adds apologetically. “But in general, moving around and seeing the sunlight helps me feel better.” He smiles, reassuring. “Plus, I’m a morning person. Being up in the morning tends to be good for me.” 

“Okay.” Oda nods. He offers Hajime a smile this time. “Just make sure you call the infirmary if you run into any sort of trouble okay. You have our number?”  

And as Oda confirms the infirmary’s number with Hajime again, it occurs to Hajime that Tooru too, knows that he is a morning person. That Tooru too, knows that Hajime gets less grumpy and cranky once he’s moved around and seen the sunlight in the mornings.  

That Hajime himself, lost in the midst of his own anxieties, had forgotten to comprehend the significance of tiny things like moving in the morning making him happier, calmer, until Tooru had said: 

You like sunrises, Hajime :) I think you’ll enjoy it  

“I can bring breakfast around at around 6 by the way, if you want to eat by then.” Oda says. “My shift then ends at 8am and Furuya will be back after. We want to monitor you for 24 hours – so you’ll only be properly allowed to leave after lunch.” 

“No problemo.” Hajime nods. “I won’t be gone too long. And breakfast at 6 sounds great.” 

"Okay.” Oda smiles. “Where are you walking to by the way?” He adds, curiously. 

“Just up one level in this building.” Hajime answers. He glances up, wondering. “A friend of mine just reminded me that I like sunrises.” 

*** 

Out of some strange stubbornness to prove to himself that he is still mobile and capable, Hajime takes the stairs instead of the lifts, hobbling up the one flight of stairs. He then hunts down the lifts, figures out which room on the left from the lift Tooru is talking about, and pushes the door open, looking in curiously. It is just a small meeting room with an empty table and chairs, but to his surprise, does have a balcony linked to it, curtains billowing gently by the balcony doors. 

When Hajime pushes open the balcony door and glances out, he holds his breath, half-expecting to see Tooru there. 

Instead, it is just an empty balcony, with a small wooden bench and railings painted grey against a white wall. No Tooru. No tricks, no surprises. 

Unsure of whether he is more relieved or disappointed, Hajime moves to sit down on the bench. Resting his crutches down on the bench, he then glances up and out into the sky. 

Indeed, it is a spectacular spot to watch the sunlight. High enough to be mostly unrestricted, the sun like a runny yolk rising from the center of the familiar Tokyo skyline. The sky is misty and still mostly navy-blue, with tinges of pink, orange and yellow beginning to blossom, like a painting with one brushstroke gently pulled over the other and then the other. The sky is mostly cloudless, except for a few drifting by in white tufts.  

Hajime sits back and just watches for a moment.  

It is quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind. No voices, no chattering athletes, no prying eyes. A chirping swallow swoops from above to the bottom.  

Hajime pulls his knees up to his chest. He buries his nose into his arms. It is peaceful, it is serene but at the same time, there is a strange, aching kind of sadness slowly crossing his body. 

He closes his eyes. 

He thinks of the police. He thinks of Martez’s fist swinging over, the blinding pain that had cracked across his face. He thinks of the texts from Tooru’s mum. He thinks of Tooru, pulling him into himself, arms fiercely folding over back, thighs pressing together -  

He looks up, and before him again, is this beautiful sunrise. The sunrise that will still be here day after day again, no matter all the terrible things that have happened over the past few days, never mind all the things he is afraid are still to happen. 

His phone pings with new messages from Tooru: 

Did you accept my sunrise side-quest?  

[Tooru has sent a photo]  

If you didn’t, here’s the one I’m looking at from my room (while Luc is away) so you can enjoy the fruits of my questing labours :D  

The messages make Hajime smile, even if a little shakily. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens them again.  

He takes his own photo of his view and sends it back to Tooru, replying: 

Side-quest completed.  

Tooru types for a few moments, before replying: 

 :)  

Hajime, I’m really glad we’re watching the same sunrise  

And Hajime doesn’t know why, but that does it: he begins to cry. Tears fall from his eyes despite his furious attempts to hold himself together, despite the amount of self-directed anger he has for not being able to even have a text conversation with Tooru without falling apart. Yet, these are not the same tears as yesterday: yesterday he had felt desperate, hopeless, beaten down into a corner, bundled into anxiety and fear. Today, today is less intense, less upsetting, less hopeless but still -  

I’m sorry. Hajime writes, the letters heavy beneath his thumbs. 

He clicks send and then watches as Tooru types for what seems forever again before he replies: 

Hajime, it’s okay. Again, you have nothing to apologise for. You told me how you felt about things, and I am glad that you did.   

I know you had told me a few times before how anxious you were feeling but I hadn’t exactly understood before the exact intensity and gravity of how much pressure you were under.   

How even me just appearing without warning, or me being around in a way that might out us may seem like minor things to be stressed about, but really could very much be the single straw that breaks the camel’s back.  

And for that I’m sorry myself that I hadn’t realised before. That I pushed harder on you that I should have.  

Hajime wipes his tears down as he furiously replies: 

It’s okay Tooru, please don’t apologise either.   

It’s not your fault you didn’t know – I should have told you sooner.  

I’m sorry for being such a complete mess lately.  

Hajime pauses, not knowing what to say next, his thumbs shivering a little despite the warm jacket, and after a while, when it is clear that he isn’t saying anything more, Tooru replies gently: 

Hajime, you’re hardly a mess.   

I don’t know if anyone else with half your resilience and wit could have even handled everything going on as well as you have.  

Even if you are a mess, that makes absolutely no difference to me anyway. I love you and how kept together you are has absolutely nothing to do with that.  

Hajime closes his eyes, soaking in the words for a while. When he opens his eyes, Tooru has added gently: 

Iwa, about what you said last night: I want you to know that I will respect what you’ve asked for because I want to do what helps you, and what you tell me helps you.   

I’ll stop seeing you in person. I understand, how much stress it is for you if I keep showing up around you, even if my intentions are to help you. We will stop doing all those things that could potentially out us. We will make sure we keep things as down low as possible.   

But the one thing I refuse to stop being is your boyfriend. The one thing I refuse to do is to leave you alone, when you need me the most. I want to still be here for you: over texts. Over calls if you feel up for them.  

Would that work for you? Is that okay?  

Hajime closes his eyes. He wishes Tooru were here, wrapping his arms over him, bundling him into his side. He wishes he could just turn to his side, and just give up using his crutches, and could just have Tooru carry him gently, in his arms, out from the balcony, down the stairs, out of the Olympic village and home, just home, where they can just be, where he can just lie down and rest his exhausted body, and just have Tooru hold him, have Tooru love him. 

But while he can’t have that, he is relieved, happy even, to hear Tooru offer this. 

Hajime wipes his tears and inhales slowly, trying to steady himself as he replies: 

Yes. Yes that works.   

Tooru replies is instantaneous, despite how long Hajime had taken to reply: 

Okay Iwa-chan. We’ll do that. :)   

And then as if he is able to read Hajime’s turmoil off the screen, Tooru continues:  

And the first thing I want you to do, as your still-boyfriend, is to just take it easy.   

You are strong, you are brave, you are smart. You have me. And we will figure this out. We have time to spare. Let’s give ourselves time to think.   

If your head is bent down, I want you to lift it up and to look out at the sky.   

If your breathing is tight and tense, I want you to just slow down, and take some deep inhales and exhales.   

If your knees are hugged to your chest, I want you to extend your legs instead, stretch them out ahead of you.  

Just watch the sunrise, breathe in the clean air, and take in your surroundings.  

Let’s not even worry about the rest of the day for now. We will deal with it later on when it happens.   

Let’s just take it easy.   

This is Tooru and Hajime’s sunrise time.   

Ours and ours only.   

*** 

Hajime looks out at the sky. The beautiful, persimmon-orange that has begun taking set in the depths of Tokyo. The tinges of pear-yellow that has now spread in light touches to the corners of the wide sky.  

He takes a deep, steadying breath.  

Holds his breath, as if to quieten all the noise in his head for a moment. Plunges under, cutting through the troughs of fear in strong, powerful, urgent strokes, to anchor down to what he truly cares about. 

Hajime presses call. 

Tooru answers immediately.  

“Hey,” Hajime breathes, his voice trembling a little. 

“Hi.” Tooru whispers, his voice rough with relief. 

*** 

In silence they sit, watching the sunrise.  

Listening to the breathes they knew each like their own, rise and fall over the phone line. In soft inhales. Over steady exhales. 

Unlike yesterday, today’s phone call holds no dramatic pronouncements of love. There is no pained pouring of anger for all the injustices that have occurred, no begging of frustration to change things they cannot now change. 

Tooru does not press Hajime to explain all the things that they both know he still has not said aloud. Hajime does not shirk away from the fact that they both know he isn’t okay.  

As the sun slowly rises and the street lamps turn off, Hajime leans forward a little, resting his chin on the balcony wall as he watches athletes begin to fill the village, like tiny miniature figurines. They are colourful, multitudinous, travelling in herds, moving alone. The sound of chatter and movement too grows on Hajime’s floor, voices and footsteps beginning to echo.  

The stolen few hours they had where they can just be, without anyone watching them, without anyone overhearing them, Hajime understands, is nearing its end. 

Hajime takes in a deep breath. He wills himself to stop thinking for a moment. To stop fretting, to stop fearing, to stop wanting to do what is best for them for a moment, and to just be selfish, to just do what he wants even if just for now: 

“Tooru.” He hears the words slip from his mouth before he can stop them. “I love you.”  

Perhaps it is the way he’s said it, unrestrained and unafraid for the first time in days, free from the undercurrent of the guilt, the trepidation that he has come to associate with the words - but he hears the sharp inhale on Tooru’s side and he knows, he knows that despite Tooru’s composed exterior, despite Tooru’s confident execution of his sunrise side-quest, how much these days too have affected Tooru, how much hearing those words too mean to Tooru. Even if Tooru knows Hajime loves him, even if Tooru hadn’t called with the expectation of hearing the words this morning. 

“You are right, we will get through this.” Hajime says softly and for once, he isn’t saying it just to reassure Tooru, he is saying it because he genuinely believes it, because he genuinely, doggedly, maybe stupidly, is beginning to desperately want to fight again. “And thank you, for all your borrowed strength.” Hajime takes a deep breath. “I’ll do my best to take it easy.”  

*** 

I didn’t borrow you any strength. Tooru wants to say. All I did was give you a jumpstart and you found it all on your own.   

But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know if he can say it without crying. 

He doesn’t know why he forgets this every time – but Iwaizumi Hajime truly listens, carefully considers and earnestly takes in everything Tooru says. Even if he doesn’t always show it. Even if Tooru’s own insecurities don’t allow himself to believe that he does.  

And having Hajime listen to him and process his own words so quickly, so thoroughly, has made Tooru more emotional than anything else. 

There are so many things an emotional Tooru wants to say. Keep talking to me , he wants to beg. Stop holding back. Stop feeling like you have to carry the whole world on your shoulders. Let me in. Let me help you. Let me come to you. Let me be yours. Tell me, show me, please, that I am still yours.  

But really, if Hajime’s kryptonite is never wanting himself to be the one to let others down, Tooru’s kryptonite is being deathly afraid that others will leave him even if the reality is far from that. He is Hajime’s and Hajime is trying to let him in. He has told Hajime these things – and Hajime has told Tooru in turn, that he is trying. More than that, Hajime has shown him these things repeatedly in words, in actions, even in his idiotically selfless acts. He just hasn’t done so in the precise way Tooru himself wants in order to satisfy Tooru’s deepest insecurities. 

Which is why, Tooru knows, the solution to that is trust.   

Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t perfect. Even if he comes close, he can’t read Tooru’s mind, and even if he seems it, his strength and threshold for stress too has its limits. Just as one understands that a person with a broken leg can’t run or leap or play soccer, Tooru understands too that the anxiety that has crippled Hajime for the past few days, the stresses and harrowing pressure of all that is happening, has blunted all of the usually sharp tools and senses Hajime has for operating at the level he normally would be able to.  

Hajime has admitted he knows he has been holding back. Hajime has said he needs to be better – more than that, he knows and holds himself responsible deeply, furiously, guiltily, for not being better. And he is trying, trying so hard, within the confines of difficulties – of attacks and unwanted social media fame and anxiety attacks - 

- Which is why Tooru had suggested gently: take it easy. Had told him gently, you, Hajime will always try your hardest, I know it. So maybe sometimes, the solution, is to take it easier.  

In turn, Tooru admits, he too needs to take his own advice as well. In his own way. 

He reminds himself to trust. To let go, of the little part of him which fears, which needs and wants Hajime to give him all the re-assurances Hajime has already given him. To not plead Hajime to make promises he knows he can’t deliver on at this moment, to not push Hajime to explain things he doesn't have sufficient mental capacity to explain, what with everything going on. To lift even just that little bit of extra pressure off Hajime, to just trust that Hajime will come to him when it is the right time for Hajime to do so, because Iwaizumi Hajime does always come back to Oikawa Tooru at the end of the day. In his own way. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, but always, in his own way.

And all Tooru wants is Hajime – all of Hajime, the good, the bad, the beautiful, the flawed. 

It is why Tooru replies in turn gently, trying to not sound too emotional, trying to not accidentally tip them back into emotional devastation:

“I love you too.” 

Because just like Hajime, stripped off of everything else, those words are all that Tooru truly, deeply needs Hajime to know. 

*** 

They both stay on the line, quiet, neither of them wanting to leave the moment for as long as they can.  

Finally, softly, Tooru says: 

“Iwa-chan?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m really sorry to have to do this because this feels like every one of our talks recently: but I want to make sure we cover this before end of the call. So I’m about to switch to problem-solving and strategizing talk – okay?” 

Hajime laughs a little over the line.  

“No, no, it’s good,” He answers softly. He lets out a slow exhale. “Let’s do this.” He says, and Tooru’s heart whelms to hear the hint of determination returned to Hajime’s voice.  

*** 

Because other athletes have begun walking into the meeting room and out onto the balcony to also enjoy the sunrise, Hajime slowly begins to limp back to the infirmary on his crutches, still on the call with Tooru with his phone pressed to his ear.  

“First and foremost,” Tooru is saying seriously. “I think you might need a lawyer, if Martez keeps insisting that he had only fought you in self-defense.” 

“Yeah, I’ve thought about this too.” Hajime admits. He takes the lift this time, thinking wisely that his boyfriend might abandon all promises to respect his decision-making if he injures himself falling down the stairs just because he was distracted calling while hobbling on crutches. “The police haven’t confirmed that that is what Martez is claiming though – but if it is I think you’re right, I think I might have to speak to a lawyer before speaking to the police this time.”  

“Yeah, I think so.” Tooru pauses. “And I’m assuming you don’t know any criminal lawyers off the top of your head.”  

“Nup. Zilch.” 

“Mm.” Tooru hums. “Alright, leave that with me okay. I’ll look into it. I have an idea of who I can call.”  

“Really? You know a Japanese criminal lawyer?”   

“No, but – do you remember Karasuno’s captain when we were third year? He’s a cop – in Sendai though. I’m not sure the criminal lawyers he knows would be based in Tokyo – but I figured it’s a good start as any.”  

“You kept in touch with him?” 

“And as always, you show such touching trust in my friendship-making abilities, my love.” Tooru laughs, his voice too fond to pretend he is seriously grumbling about it. “But yeah I have actually – so leave that with me and I’ll try and see what he says. 

“Okay.” Hajime pauses to hobble out of the lifts. “And actually.” He admits. “Now I think about it, I have Tokyo friends I can try asking too.” 

Tooru is silent for a moment, as if hesitating on whether to say this and then he says: 

“Mr Rooster?” 

“Yeah. I suppose he’s top candidate.” Hajime takes in a slow inhale. He thinks about the last time he had spoken to Kuroo. Of the mountain of evidence Kuroo had brought up about Tooru. That is another thing he needs to deal with, he thinks, even if he doesn’t say aloud. A conversation with Kuroo is long overdue anyway.  

Tooru pauses, as if sensing the reluctance in Hajime’s voice and then says gently: 

“Yeah. I think that would be a good idea.” Tooru hesitates again, before adding: “And that is actually the second thing I wanted to suggest Hajime: talk to people.” His voice thickens with some slight emotion. “I mean – this is just an idea I have and I don’t know if it will actually work for you – but –” Tooru’s voice roughens with some emotion. “If I can’t be there physically with you right now, please, at the very least, consider letting some of those you know around you know what is going on.” 

Hajime’s blood runs cold as he pauses mid-step in the empty corridor, a corner away from the infirmary. 

There are problems with this suggestion, they both know.  

Tooru at the very least, has Sofia and Jose, both of whom have worked with Tooru and been his formal support network for almost a decade, long enough to be tightly-trusted with secrets and to lean upon. In contrast, just due to how much shorter a time Hajime has been working for the Tokyo Olympic team post-university, his formal support system: Maeno, Itta and Hibarida – are not people he knows very well, or have worked long enough to even really know if they might be homophobic.  

Similarly, Tooru has played alongside and been friends with Lucas for almost a decade too – the kind of trust and bond not easily replicated in how long Hajime has known Kuroo, Hinata, Atsumu, Ushijima or any of the others physically present around him for, being at most, in real friendship, a year.  

"Even if not everything -” Tooru is saying, and by this, Hajime understands this to mean even if you do not want to come out to them, “ - at least, maybe confide in them and let them know how stressful everything else has been.” 

Tooru pauses. When he continues, his voice shakes and it dawns on Hajime that this is what Tooru is really worried about: “Hajime, it really scares me to know that you’re dealing with all these anxiety attacks alone. Like if I can’t be there, I just -” Something catches in Tooru's voice, a difficult, grim fear. “- I just – need to know that there will be at least, at the very least, one person who will be nearby you, who knows that this is happening, who knows to check on you if you’re really not feeling okay.” 

“Tooru -” Hajime begins, wanting to re-assure him that no that won’t happen, and don’t worry, he will be fine, except his own voice catches in a betrayal of how much he himself too, has started to dread the anxiety attacks. The memory of the them: draining, debilitating and painful floods his system, his muscles tensing almost in recollection of it. He closes his eyes, steadying his breath, before admitting quietly: 

 “Okay.” He says softly. “I see the logic in what you’re saying. I’ll try. I’ll take care of myself.” He adds, soothingly. “I promise -”  

And when he turns the corner to walk to the infirmary on the end of the corridor, his voice dies in his throat as he sees standing right outside the infirmary: 

It is Tomodo, the policeman who he had spoken to yesterday, and with him, a second, older, clearly more senior police officer, another man with salt and pepper grey hair. They both nod to him – clearly indicating that they have been waiting for him to return.  

Next to them, Kaho-san, the Olympic committee representative, who had been talking to Oda, turns around too.  

None of them are looking quite as friendly as they had appeared yesterday anymore.  

“Hajime, one more thing -” Tooru is beginning to say over the call.  

“I am so sorry,” Hajime says, as calmly as he can, as if his heart hasn’t started beating wildly in his chest. “But I will need to call you back.” 

“And calling Daichi-san might be a good idea after all.” 

Notes:

Y’know, as I was writing this, I did wonder if it was a cop-out for Tooru and Hajime to be talking again so soon after the huge blow out. But when I thought about it, I simply could not imagine myself staying upset with anyone I loved who was in Iwa’s situation; or not relenting if the person I loved came to me as understanding and compromising as Tooru did, reducing the situations Iwa found anxiety inducing to the minimum. And realistically, not everything is resolved either - but I think any two people who have dated for as long as Iwaoi have in this would find a way to still work together in a situation as potentially serious as the one Iwa is in.

But idk let me know what you think!

This is the quickest I’ve ever written and edited a Colluding chapter probably because it mostly involved one scene rather than jumping between various POVs, letters, flashbacks and sub-plots for once hahahaha but also, maybe I’m just getting better at this and faster updates are ahead!

Chapter 16: Decisions (Part I)

Summary:

Hajime and Tooru deal with the aftermath of the Martez-Iwaizumi fight.

Meanwhile, Atsumu comes to a realisation about his involvement in recent matters.

Notes:

HELLO! It has been a while, please accept my apologies (and my Iwaoi offering).

To quote Thomas Jefferson from Act II of the musical Hamilton immediately after the lovey-dovey song It’s quiet uptown: “Can we get back to politics please, YO.”

Enjoy!! 

In truth, nothing ever occurs in isolation.  

Humans are creatures of habits. Collectors of experiences and perceptions, repeaters of mistakes and misperceptions. Everything has a cause and effect: actions have consequences, decisions flow into the next and then another and then another. A single event, which appears instantaneous and abruptly shocking on the surface, often has had a cumulative history, ripples which lead into the present. 

A year and three months ago, a man cycled to a halt before a tea shop by the Sendai River. He wore an olive-green shirt with his spikey hair neatly styled down. His bicycle basket held wrapped mackerels and a pack of dried squid; persimmons, grapes, pears and a black jacket. Within the jacket was an jetted pocket, and in the jetted pocket a small, square box.  

A year and three months later, the man limps to a halt before a meeting room in the Tokyo Olympics Village. He wears a black jacket too long on the sleeves, too tight on the shoulders. Ahead of him, two policemen and a woman in an Olympic Committee uniform glance back, watchful. 

Iwaizumi Hajime is a man of cause and effect. He is a creature of habit, a repeater of mistakes, a collector of understandings, misunderstanding, perceptions and missed perceptions.  

A year and three months apart, he makes two decisions which on their surface appear worlds apart; yet to their cores are driven by the same motivation. 

He makes the decisions knowing full well the consequences if he is wrong.

Knowing full well what he can save if he is right.  

*** 

"Iwaizumi-san." Officer Tomodo says quietly as they sit down. "Is there anything else you might want to add to your story yesterday? About why Martez attacked you?"

The meeting room is small, cramped and grey. Officer Tomodo has taken a seat directly opposite Hajime. Beside Officer Tomodo, an older police officer sits, watching on with his arms crossed.

Behind them, the Olympic Committee representative Kaho-san watches with a quiet, rapt attentiveness.

"No." Hajime says, quietly. "There is nothing more I want to add."

"I see you didn't give Officer Tomodo the details about the threats Martez made to you yesterday." The older officer speaks up, raising an eyebrow. He lifts a sheaf of papers in hand. He looks mildly at Hajime, as if more disappointed than anything else. "Any chance you might want to tell us about those today?"

Hajime shakes his head. "No, I've said all I'm willing to share." He then adds, with a firmness: "And I'd like to consult a lawyer before I speak to you again next."

The police officers glance at one another: the frown creasing Officer Tomodo's forehead betraying the slightest hint of frustration, the older officer's crook of his eyebrow to Tomodo instead replying silently I told you so.

Behind them, the representative from the Olympic Committee, Kaho-san waits, silent. Her eyes observant. Watchful.

Taking note.

Thinking.

***

Tooru sees the official news first first not through Hajime, but through a link Sofia sends him.

The article is dated early this morning, published while Tooru and Hajime had been watching the sunrise together in blissful ignorance of all that has been broiling beneath.

SPAIN’S MARTEZ SUSPENDED FOR “FIGHTING” JAPANESE ATHLETIC TRAINER IWAIZUMI  

Fan favourite Daniel Martez and reserve players Javier Navarro and Hugo Perez from the Spanish volleyball team have been “temporarily suspended” from the Tokyo Olympics following a fight with the Japanese volleyball athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime.   

The Olympic Committee confirms the fight occurred after the Japan vs Spain game yesterday. Martez, Perez and Navarro have since been removed from Olympic village premises.   

Investigations are still underway to determine if Martez, who has challenged the suspension, will be allowed to play in Tuesday’s semi-finals match, or if Japan’s Iwaizumi will similarly receive a suspension.   

Both Martez and Iwaizumi have declined to comment to the press.   

Right. The press. Tooru thinks uneasily. Another thing Hajime and him, in the midst of everything else had not yet found time to decide what to do about.

He mentally adds calling Sofia somewhere further down his list of things to do after call Dachi for  lawyer recommendations and before ask Hinata to keep an eye on Hajime.

Which is when his phone rings with Sofia's name in bright words.

*** 

“Hajime decided to lie to the police?” Sofia sounds aghast. “He looked at the police standing outside the infirmary this morning, unconvinced by the half-baked lies he gave them yesterday about Martez making threats against him and his friends, and then decided the best thing to do here is to continue to lie to the police?” 

Tooru winces. Sofia is right, but the words when put like that are harsh.

"Listen, I feel your frustration, Sofia,” Tooru begins, trust me I really do, he thinks, his fight with Hajime last night an unpleasant barge-in memory, “It does sound like a stupid thing to do, but -”  

“ But what, Tooru? I mean – Hajime’s usually so smart and logical, I'd normally say I trust what he's chosen to but this? This is serious you know, lying to the police by telling them Martez threatened more people than just you and Hajime, and then refused to tell them the exact threats -” 

“I know, Sofia, of course I know -” 

“- this isn’t just a public relations issue you know, there are also criminal consequences -” 

“- yes, Sofia, I know, but you have to remember this isn’t Argentina, this is Japan.” On Tooru’s snapped words, Sofia finally falls silent. “Discrimination against gays isn’t even illegal here, Sofia. All the bullshit that Martez said to Hajime before attacking him isn’t illegal . It’s different here, you have to understand, it’s different -” 

“But they still attacked him.” Sofia begins in anguish. There is a worry in her voice that had not been there before. “But they still attacked him and surely that’s illegal -” 

“Of course it is. And of course, we would like to think, the police will take action on that.” Tooru laughs horribly. “But do we know if the police still take Hajime seriously if they knew he was attacked because he’s gay? Do we know if the police themselves are homophobic? You know, two months before the Olympics began, a trans athlete came out to his coach and was told he just had not slept with enough men, and that he should try it out with the coach.”  

He laughs again, incredulous at the ridiculousness of it all, the fear that he knows a single silly news like that had created. “It’s not a matter of the law Sofia – it's the culture, the way people still think about same-sex relationships here. It permeates, through the everyday person, the lawmakers, the supposed figures of authorities. Olympic coaches. The police.” 

“I’m not saying that what Hajime did was right,” Tooru continues hoarsely, “But what I’m saying is if you put yourself in his shoes, you could probably see why he did what he did. He has a career on the line. A career where he works in close physical proximity, to many other male athletes.” He grimaces, hating that he has been on the receiving end of enough homophobic remarks to know the line of thinking.  

“He’s grown up – well, we have both grown knowing what it’s like to be afraid. Knowing how people speak about people like us. Knowing that we could never be married or openly hold hands. Knowing the shame, the fear, the guilt, the violence,” Tooru’s voice catches a little at this. “that is associated with being gay. He’s been afraid not just for his sake, like the stupid man he is, but also for my sake and -” 

“ - and Hajime’s just been attacked Sofia, my Hajime’s just been attacked .” Tooru continues, his voice growing difficult. “He’s just been beaten up for being gay, by strangers he doesn’t know, for something we didn’t even do that night and -” 

Tooru breaks off, gritting his teeth. He doesn’t want to accidentally build himself up into crying mess again. There is enough going on that he doesn’t have time to be angry at the situation and he needs Sofia, he needs Sofia to be part of the team, to understand and to help and - 

“I’m sorry.” Sofia says quietly. The phone line is silent for a pause longer and then Sofia adds: “You are right, I wasn’t thinking about it from Hajime’s perspective. I got frustrated and impatient and – I'm sorry. I am sorry it’s happened. I’m sorry it must have been so difficult for you and for Hajime.” 

“It’s okay,” Tooru sniffs. He presses a hand against his eyes, against the tears which have whelmed up anyway despite his best efforts. “Sorry I snapped at you too. I know it is still a stupid decision, I told him so myself too. Between the two of us, Hajime’s usually the more rational one. The braver one.” He lets out a small hollow laugh. “It is just frightening, seeing Hajime so scared. So scared that he is making decisions which seem almost irrational.”  

"Fear is a strong emotion.” Sofia sympathises. Tooru is silent as he continues trying to pull himself together again, for which Sofia gently fills it by adding: “And look, a lot has happened in the past few days. With everything that is going on, I don’t think anyone in Hajime’s position would be able to get through this without sometimes making irrational decisions, without being least a bit afraid.” 

“But what it’s worth,” Sofia adds in sort reassurance. “I think you’re doing great Tooru. And no matter what it is,” She adds fiercely. “I’ve always got your back – and that includes Hajime’s too.” 

"Thanks Sofia." Tooru exhales slowly. "Because I think we are going to be in for a bit of a ride."

*** 

Just like any small town, word travels fast in the Olympic Village.  

By late morning, it feels as if every athlete and every athlete’s assistant coach, nutritionist and manager had already read, consumed and regurgitated the headlines from the Olympic Committee’s morning press conference.  

Did you hear, Martez has been suspended for fighting a Japanese athletic trainer?   

Oh shit, how is Spain gonna play then for the semi-finals without their regular setter?   

Man, I had my money on Martez for best setter, that’s a shame.   

Isn’t Iwaizumi, the athletic trainer who fought Martez Tooru’s childhood friend? Strange isn’t it that he hasn’t been suspended himself.   

Yeah, isn’t it kinda unfair that Iwaizumi has been allowed to stay on.   

The problem, Lucas suspects, is that the Olympic Committee had decided to call it a fight. Not an assault or an attack, but a fight . Not one-guy-gets-beaten-up-by-three-larger-guys, but a fight , implying exchanged fists and exchanged injuries. 

And from what José had described to Lucas yesterday, the Martez-Iwaizumi showdown hadn’t exactly sounded like a two-way fight. 

Perhaps the Olympic Committee had wanted to spare the public the gory details. Maybe Martez had good lawyers; or maybe Iwaizumi hadn’t wanted the detail to be publicised. Either way, the press statements provided no detail about the injuries resulting from the fight, nor blamed any side.  

Instead, the focus has been on the three Spanish players who had been suspended and the one Japanese trainer had been allowed to stay on in the games. 

And if there was anything Olympic athletes cared more about Olympic gossip, it was making sure they didn’t become the next Olympic gossip. 

By mid-day, the tune had already begun shifting. It began as friendly chatter and light complaints. Favoritism, the whispers had begun saying. The Olympic Committee’s playing favorites. We’re on Japan turf – of course they aren’t going to suspend someone who’s from the home team even if he played equal portion in the fight.   

Insecurity and fear brew gossip, as does jealousy. They won’t touch Iwaizumi now he’s some internet big shot. Lesser-known players and reserves scorn. Get internet famous enough and they won’t touch you if they’re scared they’ll lose money over it.  

Exasperated, Lucas wants to step in to interrupt. Martez is a bigger name than Iwaizumi, if they feared internet fame backlash they wouldn’t have suspended Martez. He wanted to say. The Olympic Committee is also held accountable by representatives by various countries, not just Japan you know. It wouldn’t be as easy to play favorites as you think it would be.   

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t and instead holds his tongue, because José has told him to, because Tooru had told José to.  

At lunch time, Lucas tracks down José to ask if he knows how Tooru is doing. Tooru had taken a half day off training. Lucas asks whether he could do anything to help out. 

“Bring our Tooru his lunch.” José gives him a small smile, handing him a small container. “Eat with him, distract him from all the news even if for a while.” He adds and Lucas suddenly, realizes he hasn’t even thought to check if any of the Olympic Village gossip had been megaphoned into world-wide talk and speculation as well. 

*** 

By the time Luc swings by for lunch, Tooru could have made a list of the 10 people you would have never thought had an interest in meeting Iwaizumi Hajime, who have now met Iwaizumi Hajime. These included the police, the Olympic Committee representatives, his managers, his team coach, Team Japan’s PR personnel, Team Japans' lawyers, local and foreign serious journalists, tacky local and foreign gossip magazine journalists. 

Again and again, Hajime was asked throughout his morning back-to-back meetings: 

Will you tell the full story of how the fight happened?  

Then after, there would be the inevitable follow-up: 

But why won’t you tell us the full story?   

When recounting this to Tooru over his update calls, Hajime is quiet, stoic even. Bubbling beneath the surface, Tooru knows, is exhaustion and barely supressed growing of anxiety. The barely-grasping-onto-normalcy, the trying-to-not-cycle-into-a-breakdown.  

Hajime doesn’t tell Tooru explicitly how he answered the questions. He doesn’t have to: Tooru already knows anyway. The answer had been the source of their argument yesterday: Tooru’s desire to change that, Hajime’s refusal to deviate from it. It was the source of the fight which their sunrise talk in the morning had bandaged over, but not properly healed or treated for at all.  

In a way, Tooru knows that there is no perfect answer to those questions. No perfect decision. 

Rather, it is a question of what outcomes you are willing to accept, what risks you are willing to take.  

Hajime and Tooru have simply arrived at different conclusions to the same risk-weighing exercise.  

Under any other circumstance, Tooru would have fought tooth and nail with Hajime to have him change the answer. To get him to tell the police the truth even if it means outing himself. To get Hajime to put himself first for once, to get Martez properly caught and suspended.  

But Tooru doesn’t. He keeps quiet: not approving, but also not picking that fight again with Hajime. It is not the right time. Not when Hajime needs him to just be there for him, rights and wrongs aside. Not when they both know that Hajime is precariously standing on a momentary period of relative mental okay-ness, which he will need if he is to survive the day ahead.  

What Hajime has done, he has already done anyway, we can’t turn that back. Tooru thinks. We will deal with it later, a fter we talk to the lawyer, after we decide on a PR plan. All we are doing now is buying time, he reassures himself and he doesn’t dare think of what will happen if he is wrong. 

***  

WHO IS IWAIZUMI HAJIME? Ten facts you did not know about the athletic trainer who fought Daniel Martez – number 5 will shock you!  

Miya Atsumu glances around, feeling more guilty than he does being caught red-handed eating his twin brother‘s ice cream, and hastily clicking in the link once he is sure no one has loitered by during his lunch break close enough to see his phone screen.  

As with the links he had perused before this, the first few facts are ones Atsumu already knows. #1 Iwaizumi holds a masters degree, yeah, boring; #2 Iwaizumi grew up in Miyagi, Sendai, whatever, old news; #3 Iwaizumi used to play varsity-level volleyball, well checks out, explains how he’s so good at aiming volleyballs at the back of heads; #4 Iwaizumi won a state-level arm wrestling competition in college , okay, can’t ya be bad at something for once Iwa -  

#5: Iwaizumi Hajime and Oikawa Tooru are old best buds  

Atsumu stops to a scroll at this.  

Slowing down, he begins to read: 

Growing up, Oikawa and Iwaizumi went to school together at Aoba Johsai high school in Sendai, Japan. The unlikely pair connected over volleyball, Oikawa being the captain and Iwaizumi the vice-captain of their high school volleyball team. The two are so close that Oikawa Tooru’s Instagram featured not one, but two images of the two images of Iwaizumi – one from their high school days ; the other from a trip the duo took together in San Juan .   

Atsumu tries to click on the links in the article – both of which lead to an error message on Instagram’s website announcing that the post he is trying to look at no longer exists.  

When he googles Oikawa Instagram photo with Iwaizumi , the posts the article is referring to pops up immediately. Screenshots fans have taken before Oikawa had presumably taken the post down: a photo of a much younger, scrawnier Iwaizumi, sprawled asleep on a desk with two other friends sniggering as they scribble on his upturned cheek, Oikawa playfully wishing him happy birthday. And then the second post, a selfie of just Oikawa and Iwaizumi, older, looking more as they do today, sitting by a sunny beach, each grinning behind their respective sunglasses.  

Uneasily, Atsumu thinks of the way Iwaizumi had been the last time he had ran into Oikawa. Pale, clearly uncomfortable, nearing close to a panic attack almost. He thinks of the way Oikawa had been the last time he had seen him with Iwaizumi. Angry, snappy and sarcastic, pushy, intense even.  

Why would Oikawa Tooru delete the Instagram photos? Is it because he and Iwaizumi have now fallen out of good terms? 

Atsumu thumb shifts, accidentally clicking into one of the webpages hosting the Instagram screenshot of Iwaizumi and Oikawa.  

r/does anyone else think the Martez-Iwaizumi fight is too convenient for Oikawa Tooru? A reddit forum loads, its title in big black font.  

Below the title is the Instagram screenshot, but also a YouTube screenshot of Oikawa and Iwaizumi from Volleyball Beyond Borders. Iwaizumi is mid-speech, his face turned toward the camera, but his eyes fixed on Oikawa. He has a tape in one hand, Oikawa’s knee rested gently securely under his other. Oikawa is lying down on the treatment table, propped up by an elbow. He is looking at Iwaizumi, his gaze is soft, affectionate, adoring even, in a way Atsumu has never seen Oikawa appear in any other public image of him.  

The Reddit post reads: 

Am I just crazy but does it feel like Daniel Martez getting suspended is just way too convenient for Oikawa Tooru?   

Everyone knows Daniel Martez and Oikawa Tooru have been long-standing rivals for the prize of best setter in championships and tournaments. Oikawa has lost that title to Martez in their last two stand-offs. Now Martez is suspended from the Olympics and there’s suddenly a clear pathway for Oikawa to bag the big prize.   

Coincident? Or a pre-mediated plan?  

Iwaizumi and Oikawa are clearly close friends. Those two have known each other for years, since high school. Wouldn’t it be easy for them to set up a ploy to mutually benefit from ridding Martez from the competition? Iwaizumi pulls his strings with the Japanese team being his home base. Oikawa splits the prize money with Iwaizumi.   

Yes, Martez has had run-ins with other athletes. But I don’t think we’ve ever seen him ever lose his temper with any support staff, let alone a completely random athletic trainer from Japan who Martez has probably never even met before.   

Maybe it’s a completely wild theory, but something just smells fishy here.   

Atsumu stares, reading through the Reddit post incredulously a second time.  

He then scrolls down to check how popular it is. Drawing a sharp breath, his eyes widen when he sees the thousands of upvotes and hundreds of comments the post from only 7 hours ago had already generated. 

Grimacing, Atsumu wonders which is worse for Iwaizumi: being accused of colluding with the enemy or being caught canoodling with Oikawa Tooru.  

*** 

Here is the thing:  

Miya Atsumu feels guilty .   

He had been the one to see Iwaizumi and Oikawa kiss. The one who had accidentally ran his stupid mouth to Paulo. Caught up in his shock that night, Atsumu hadn’t thought to tell Paulo to obviously keep things hush and don’t tell anyone else I told you that – until he realises slightly too late the next day that maybe that hadn’t been that obvious to Paulo, when Paulo messages Atsumu a link to an Instagram account with the caption:  

Btw – checked with Tooru, this is his girlfriend.  

By then, alarm bells had begun going off in Atsumu’s head as he stared through the Instagram profile Paulo had sent him. The Instagram account was of a sweet, artsy Sendai-based Japanese girl who had also graduated from Aoba Johsai. She had a few photos with Oikawa Tooru on her profile, beaming as she stood linked arm over shoulder with him. 

Firstly, why Paulo, why meddle in this ? And secondly: if Oikawa Tooru had a Japanese high school sweetheart this whole time, why would he entertain, even encourage, the endless rumours about him dating Maria Sando, the Argentinian volleyball women’s team player?  

Thirdly: if Oikawa Tooru is dating Sekozawa Hana or parading around with Maria Sando, then what is he doing also messing around with Iwaizumi Hajime’s heart? 

Anger, furious, storming anger, began brewing in Atsumu’s chest. He was angry on Iwaizumi’s behalf. He is livid to have someone as kind and earnest as Iwaizumi being played like this. It was why he had begun watching Iwaizumi as carefully as he had, noticing how quiet and upset Iwaizumi had been the morning after he and Oikawa had slept together; how frustrating and difficult Iwaizumi had found answering questions about Oikawa in the press conference after; how anxious and afraid Iwaizumi had been when Oikawa Tooru had cornered them in the backstage after.  

Then, when he heard that Iwa had been jumped on by Daniel Martez and his friends, Atsumu couldn’t help but wonder ominously if Paulo or Oikawa had had anything to do with it.  

Had Paulo been the one who had told on Iwa? He was clearly friends with Daniel Martez – they had all been playing pool together on the night Atsumu had seen Oikawa and Iwaizumi kissing. It wouldn’t have been hard for Paulo to have turned around to tell Martez about it almost immediately after Atsumu left. And Atsumu wouldn’t put it past Martez being homophobic.  

Or had Oikawa somehow contributed to the mix? Clearly something had happened in between Oikawa and Iwaizumi exchanging longing, loving glances on the day of filming Volleyball Beyond Borders to barely speaking to one another in the next few days. Had Iwaizumi found out about Oikawa’s secret girlfriend? Had there been an argument? A falling out? A betrayal? Or was it ever just meant to be a one-night-stand, a drunken mistake in which Iwaizumi bit off more than he could chew? 

Atsumu isn’t usually the type of person to meddle in the affairs of others, or to feel guilty over matters which do not concern him. But the way Iwaizumi had looked in the infirmary after the fight when Atsumu and Kuroo and the rest of the team had burst in unannounced, which had stayed with Atsumu. 

Iwaizumi had looked exhausted. Broken, afraid, tired, defeated .  

And if there are things in this world which can force even Iwaizumi Hajime – boxer, athletic trainer, arm wrestling champion and former volleyball ace - to his knees on the ground, Atsumu does not want to ever see them listed on a website of 10 things you did not know about Iwaizumi Hajime. 

*** 

By the sheer willpower of making half a dozen pleading calls, pulling at connections and charming friends and lawyers, Tooru and Hajime to find a suitable lawyer by late afternoon.  

Utashiro-san, Daichi’s Tokyo colleague has confirmed, is a reliable, smart and sensible criminal lawyer. She is also, based on Hajime’s careful research and intel, known in the Tokyo community for being queer-friendly.   

“An assault case is definitely up my areas of expertise, Iwaizumi-san.” Utashiro-san confirms over their video call. Her eyes then darken with seriousness. “But as you’ve brought it up, if my legal practice being queer-friendly isn’t okay with you, then I think it better if we didn’t work together at all.” 

“Oh trust me, if I wasn’t so friendly with queers, I wouldn’t be in this situation myself either.” Hajime grumbles in response and Tooru, who is on the call on the guise of being Hajime’s support person, involuntarily snorts so hard that he has to mute himself to stifle his bouts of laughter. Hajime in turn, breaks new internet frontiers by somehow managing to direct a death glare at Tooru across video call, and this makes Tooru smile, glad for a split moment of enough normalcy for Hajime to be making sarcastic quips and his signature scowls. 

“Okay then” Utashiro-san sounds amused, perhaps picking up on their dynamics already. “Iwaizumi-san, would you like to talk me through your situation?” 

*** 

Utashiro-san's advice is simple: there is plentiful of evidence that Hajime had been attacked by Martez.  

The CCTV footage. Hajime’s injuries. Three eyewitnesses, who had seen Hajime slammed against the lockers, bleeding from the nose and cuts across his ear.  

And Martez has nothing for arguing in turn, that Hajime had done anything to warrant self-defence.  

“Essentially,” Utashiro explains, “If you have make a formal police report against Martez, Iwaizumi-san, the police can decide whether there is enough to charge Martez with assault and to then bring him to court to convict and punish him for the crime. In that case, you won’t be needing me – the police prosecutor will forward your case for you. Martez can then claim self-defence if he wants against your case with his own defence lawyers. Given the evidence, it should be a straightforward case for the police to bring and win.” 

“On the flip side, if Martez makes a police report about you and the police decides to press criminal charges,” Utashiro continues. “then the situation is reversed. Martez will be able to rely on police prosecutors while you will need a defence lawyer like myself to defend yourself in court. However,” Utashiro raises an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that Martez will make such a claim against you. He has no evidence, and even if he does cook something fishy up, I don’t think the police will press charges given the amount of evidence that shows it was instead a one-sided assault.” 

“I say sit tight and just let things play out.” Utashiro concludes with a small smile. “You don’t really need me to act as your defence lawyer now – but if things change, come back and let me know.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Hajime nods. He looks exhausted but relieved and Tooru is glad they at least, have good news to work with for once. “In the meantime, do you think I should tell the police the full story if they ask again? Or do you think it won’t hurt to keep things on the downlow.” 

“That it is a question for you to weigh out the pros and cons of but from a legal perspective,” Utashiro says slowly, “I don’t think it’s the worst thing to tell the police the full story and to formalise the police report against Martez. If you want to keep Martez suspended and out of the games so he can’t hurt you again – which is a valid concern – you will have to formalise the report so the police press charges against him.” 

“I suspect his suspension is temporary because the Olympic Committee are waiting for charges to be pressed to make it permanent.” Utashiro adds. “The police I think also have not yet pressing charges because well, frankly, your unwillingness to tell the full story is probably making them suspicious that there is more to the incident than there is. And so they will probably hold back on pressing charges until they have more ifnromation, or until you formalise your police report.” 

"On the other hand,” Utashiro says, her tone turning serious. “I don’t think you can expect to keep your relationship a secret anymore if you formalise the report. Criminal intent is one of the elements they will need to establish to find Martez and his two friends guilty of assault. The court and the police will need to bring up the events leading up to the attack as part of their job and yes, you can try to keep the threats out of it but I imagine it being very hard and difficult.”  

“Oikawa-san,” Utashiro adds, making Tooru startle slightly at suddenly being referred to. “I’m sorry to use you as an example by the way, but I personally I follow women’s volleyball tournaments on the side and I genuinely thought you were dating the Argentinian player Maria Sando because of all the news about it. The fact that you two are in fact a couple did shock me a little at first, so it will be things like this that you two will need to be ready for,” She says hintingly, “if you do formalise the police report for this.” 

At this, Tooru watches again, the uneasy flicker of fear that crosses Hajime’s face. 

And he understands, this will be another decision that there will be no easy answer for. 

*** 

Iwaizumi Hajime’s trip to the ceremonial tea shop by Sendai River one year and three months before the Tokyo Olympics was quick and simple. He knew exactly which tea to get in which amounts and which teapot to pick up.  

After all, it would be an understatement to say he had been planning this for quite a while now. 

There was only one more stop left to his last destination. He cycled his way back up the hill, past the Sendai morning market, and then turned into his own childhood home. He could hear his father awake and bustling around the living room. Quietly, he parked his bicycle outside, and then slipped through the back door to place one of the two mackerels in the fridge and to tidy his hair in the bathroom mirror. 

He hadn’t told his father about his plan. 

He couldn’t bear to before he knew it would succeed.  

In case it all just went up in flames.  

Realistically, he did not need his bicycle anymore, but it helped calm his nerves to wheel it across the short distance, to hear the rattling of the pedals, to fix his hands around the familiar handlebars. In steps he must have taken a million times before since he was old enough to walk, he moved past one house, two houses, three houses, then stopped on the fourth house.  

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he texted Takeru: 

All clear?  

All clear. Takeru confirmed. Good luck.  

Hajime breathed out slowly. He took out his jacket from his bicycle basket and pulled it on. A little too late, he wished he had put it on earlier, at his own house, so he could check that he hadn’t creased it. Instead, he patted down his jacket pocket. Reassured himself that the small, square box was still there.  

He had made his decision. And it was time to bear the consequences.  

Taking a deep breath, Iwaizumi Hajime stepped forward and rang the Oikawa household doorbell for the first time in seven years.  

Notes:

Ahhhh things are a-brewing!

Sorry it has been so long since I uploaded, life had just gotten in the way. This chapter was also harder to get together than expected, there are just so many POVs and plotlines going on at the moment (but hopefully it's enjoyable and not just confusing!)

I was very excited to finally have someone finally say aloud the title of this fic though (16 chapters in HAHA) and that honour ended up going to our boy Atsumu! If it tells you anything about how many drafts I write and re-write per chapter, Osamu was the original chara who had the honours of saying the title many drafts ago LOL.

The next chapter should be up very soon (it is written and done and just needs some tidying up!)

As always, let me know your thoughts are (fav scenes, worst scenes, theories, jokes, all welcomed!)

Chapter 17: Decisions (Part II)

Summary:

Gosh, writing these chapters always CONSUME my life when I get in a flow, to a point I need to just GET THEM OUT to be able to keep living my life again.

So here, as promised, is the second part of Chapter 16 :) Enjoy!

Notes:

Fear, as Sofia had said, is a strong emotion.

Or,

Kuroo and Atsumu make their decisions.
Tooru digs deeper, to understand why Iwaizumi Hajime is afraid. Or if fear is in fact, the right emotion.

Nothing occurs in isolation.  And as certain as that is the fact that nothing in the world is a guaranteed constant. 

Things change; people change. If there is anything Tooru has learnt from being together with Hajime for as long as he has: it is that Hajime has, and always will continue to change.  

Tooru knows this; and he is unafraid of it. After all, he has seen Hajime at seven, toothless grins and boyish fearlessness; Hajime at thirteen, moody scowls and rough edges to disguise his soft heart of gold; Hajime at eighteen, confident, finally honest with himself, finally ready to allow himself all the emotional vulnerabilities that come with being in love with one’s best friend.  

Hajime at twenty-five. Quieter, more reserved but happily, steadily confident in who he knows he is, who he knows he loves. 

And then, there is the Hajime now. One who Tooru isn't so sure is as confident or as happy anymore.

There was once, Tooru knows, a Hajime who would have simply told the police the truth, never mind whether it would out him and Tooru or not. A Hajime who would have not hesitated to show their love to the world. 

The question that Tooru doesn’t know the answer to is of why Hajime had changed. And when that change had happened.

Confusingly, in Tooru’s mind, the Hajime who is unafraid had been there not so long ago. That Hajime had survived Tooru’s estrangement with his parents, had survived Tooru’s growth into fame. Together, they had once spoken about their future as a happy, malleable object that would be theirs and theirs only to command. Absent of all interference, devoid of all maleficence. 

It had been no more than a year ago, perhaps Tooru’s birthday or their anniversary. The excuses they made to see one another never really mattered anyway – it was the tiny details which etched in Tooru’s mind instead: the steady beat of Hajime’s heartbeat under Tooru’s ear, the slotting of Hajime's legs between his. The moving of hands against backs, lips grazed upon skin, the fitting of their bodies into one another's as if they were always meant to belong, melded, folded as one.   

In Tooru’s memory, Hajime was soft and warm. They had been at Tooru's place in San Juan. They had been lying, bodies wrapped and snuggled, Tooru's head rested on Hajime's, Hajime's hair tipped golden by the standing night lamp, his eyes were a sleepy shade of green cedars as he lifted his head to whisper to Tooru:

“Babe, do you think if we had children, would they have your eyes or mine?"

Tooru had raised his head to stare at Hajime. He searched for the punchline, the tease he hadn't yet seen coming and instead found only a genuine, slightly embarrassed smile which Hajime returned. A look of pure joy, love and contentment.  

Gently, Tooru cupped a hand around Hajime's face, feeling suddenly shy, nose-to-nose with the man he had known and loved his entire life. 

By then, they had both known they wanted kids, but it is one thing to know one's best friend wants children and another to know your partner wants to have children with you. They hadn't even decided on all the things they knew they wanted before kids: living in one home wasn’t spread across two continents, buying a place together, having pets, getting married  – all things which were closer in time, thus their practical difficulties clearer, their hurdles more evident.

Which was why instead, they dreamt.  

They breathed air into the impossible.  

“I would like our children to have the shape of my eyes, and the colour of yours." Tooru whispered.

Tooru smiled as he watched Hajime’s eyes widen, his breath catch in his throat. Beneath Tooru's palm, Hajime's heartbeat had soared, galloping beneath his chest. Tooru's answer had been far too specific for either of them to pretend that he had thought of it on spot.

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, so loving, so tender that Tooru's heart could no longer bear it which was when he added:  

“But, babe,” He dropped his voice into a whisper for dramatic effect, “What if your green eyes and my brown eyes would just mix together to give our children with dirty ditchwater algae green-brown eyes?” 

And just like that, Hajime had burst out laughing: Tooru, biology doesn’t work that way! and Tooru too had grinned and joined in the laughter because never mind biology which meant they could never have children of their eyes together; never mind the laws which meant they could never get married where they grew up; never mind the financial system engineered for marriages between a man and a woman; never mind the journalists which would never leave him alone if they found out that Oikawa Tooru was raising a family with a man; never mind the team mates which would look at him funny if he ever makes reference to a husband instead of a wife; never mind the parts of the world which still deem their mere existence a crime, an item of sin and disgust -    

In that moment, Tooru said none of that aloud. All he did instead, was hold Hajime’s face between his palm - this silly, loving, wonderful person he loved - and he kissed him.  

And as Tooru pulled back and watched Hajime smile, Tooru thought that perhaps, being able to love Hajime, is all he really wants from his small, inconsequential existence.   

Back then, Tooru and Hajime dreamt because they hoped, and they hoped not because they were brave, not because they were blind, not because they were foolish, but because they loved, and when it feels like the whole world is against you, sometimes all you can do is hope: the foolish, reckless kind of hope that defies all logic, that defies all that should be right and instead paves its own meaning of what is right.  

Yet somewhere along those lines, Hajime had stopped hoping.

Somewhere along those lines, Hajime had grown afraid.  

And on the seventh day of the Tokyo Olympics, on the precipice of an uneasy feeling Tooru could not shake off that something was about to happen, Tooru knew he wouldn't be able to truly truly close the distance which has widened between him and Hajime, until he truly figures out why Iwaizumi Hajime has grown afraid. 

*** 

"I just don't understand it." Hibarida exhales slowly. "It just isn't like Iwaizumi to do something like this."

Kuroo Tetsurou is silent as he looks up at the whiteboard set up in front of his small meeting company of four: himself, Hibarida the Team Japan coach, and Maeno and Itta, the Team Japan managers. A simple list has been drawn up on the whiteboard: 

HOW FIGHT BEGAN: 

• Iwaizumi says threats were made by Martez against himself, Hinata, Kageyama, Ushijima and Oikawa. Refuses to explain threats
• Martez says he never made threats but acted in self-defence against Iwaizumi. Has not provided details of self-defence. 

"The thing is because neither of them are telling the whole truth." Maeno shakes his head. "It makes me think either, or more likely, both of them are each lying about something."

The company present falls silent again. They all know that both Iwaizumi and Martez have both lawyered up and refused to talk further, and that has spelt the end for their informal questioning. 

“I just can’t imagine what it is that he feels like he can’t tell us." Hibarida lets out a slow, frustrated exhale again. "It’s so clear that he’s been jumped on, it's so clear he’s done nothing wrong here if he just –“  

"We don't know that for sure." Maeno jumps in sharply.

Hibarida stares at Maeno, aghast and then swings around to look questioningly at Itta and Kuroo. Maeno too, follows his gaze, his piercing black eyes falling upon them.

“Sorry Hibarida - I agree with Maeno." Itta cracks under the pressure first, grimacing apologetically. "As much as I respect and want to trust Iwaizumi, it is getting a little hard to keep trusting him if he keeps refusing to tell us what Martez said which started the fight.” 

“It is concerning to know that Iwaizumi is hiding something from us and the police.” Maeno nods, leaning forward in his seat. “He is an athletic trainer: a profession that requires us to be able to trust that he is doing the best for our players, that he is upholding a duty of care with utmost integrity. Surely, if you’ve done nothing wrong, then you will also have nothing to hide. And if he does have something to hide – then how can we trust him?”

Kuroo watches as Hibarida in turn, grimaces at this, looking almost upset.

Being the team coach, Hibarida has worked closely with Iwaizumi, often as equals, partners in doing what is best for the players’ wellbeing and performance. Iwaizumi covers the health aspects, Hibarida focuses on the volleyball training. As a result, Hibarida knows Iwaizumi – he knows and trusts and respects Iwaizumi, in the same way Kuroo does, from simply being familiar with the honesty and steadiness Iwaizumi normally carries himself in.  

Itta and Maeno however, are team managers. Neither of them have worked closely with Iwaizumi before, or gotten to know Iwaizumi personally in any capacity. They are managers whose jobs are to focus on the picture bigger than just the athletes. Team financials, work health and safety, employment concerns, the team’s public image and reputation, the team’s sporting integrity. 

In a way, Kuroo can empathise with Itta and Maeno. He too, has the same large-picture considerations for the Japanese Volleyball Association’s interest – how to damage control on the public front, how to do what will best keep public relations for future promotional shoots - ones which force him to consider beyond his personal ties with and wishes for goodwill upon Iwaizumi. Itta especially, Kuroo finds, easy to work for. He is fair, calm and reasonable.

Maeno on the other hand, Kuroo finds sometimes a little intense. Which he has to admit however, is a reason Maeno is so good at managing and protecting the team’s interest, which has in turn, created this dynamic in which there is Itta and Maeno who are gunning to be hard-lined on Iwaizumi on one end, Hibarida more willing to give Iwaizumi a chance on the other and...

Itta turns to Kuroo, finally asking:

“What do you think, Kuroo? You’ve been quiet for a while now.” 

Kuroo hesitates. In terms of experiences in the team, Kuroo is acutely aware that he is the youngest, the least experienced, the one who is also personally closest to Iwaizumi. Hibarida is older, more experienced, but clearly slightly too close to Iwaizumi to be completely impartial.

Itta and Maeno both know Iwaizumi less and will therefore be technically the most impartial. Itta is fair but inexperienced, this being his first Olympic managing experience. Maeno is the oldest and has managed at least three past Olympic teams which means that in a scrimmage, will likely be the one to be given the most respect and due weight... 

Kuroo has to play his hand of cards right.  

He thinks for a while before answering carefully: 

“I think Iwaizumi’s injuries, in contrast to Martez’s, speak volumes about what went down. Even if they may not tell the full story. But I agree otherwise with what you have both said, Itta and Maeno,” He admits. “I don’t know why Iwaizumi won’t explain the threats.” 

“Look.” Hibarida exhales. “I mean – I don’t think Iwaizumi’s not the type to be dishonest but...” 

“...But then, why refuse to tell us the full story?” Maeno shrugs as he stretches his hands out. “In the end it still comes back to that – why hide a part of the story if you have nothing to hide?” 

They are all silent as to this, none of them with answers which is when Maeno sits up and begins: “I’m sorry to say this. And I am sorry if this comes off as me not trusting Iwaizumi.” He adds, looking at Hibarida and Kuroo’s directions.  

“But we have a duty to do what is best for the team. And at this point, I am concerned about the growing accusations that the Olympic committee is playing favourites for the Japanese Men’s Volleyball Team .” Maeno continues. “Our Team has a good reputation – one we’ve worked hard to build. It would be a shame to lose all our good rep, just because we had one errant employee we didn’t deal with when we should have dealt with.” 

“Getting in a fight with players from an opponent team is a form of misconduct. Even if,” Maeno adds when Hibarida begins to open his mouth indignantly. “Iwaizumi sustained more injuries than Martez.” 

“You’re saying -” Itta says slowly. Maeno nods. 

“I’m saying I think we should investigate into this.” Maeno confirms. He gazes across the table. “We need answers to be able to know how to control the narrative forward: whether we suspend Iwaizumi or defend him. Obviously, if Iwaizumi can answer our questions then great, we have our answer. But if Iwaizumi refuses to answer despite our best attempts, then we need to look into some of these accusations, these rumours, do a background check on him, make sure he is as trustworthy as he says he is.” 

“I understand that the Japanese Volleyball Association,” Maeno adds meaningfully as he turns to Kuroo. "needs these answers as much as we do, to ensure Volleyball Beyond Borders has a life beyond just its first episode.” Maeno raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

And Kuroo can’t really find a reason to say no to that.  

*** 

By the time he leaves the meeting in the mid-afternoon of the eighth day of the Olympics, the only thing Kuroo Tetsurou is sure about is that he feels conflicted.   

On one hand, Maeno is right, he owes a duty to the team, to the Japanese Volleyball Association, to do what is best for them. To see the situation as objectively as it is: a support staff who has become very recently very internet famous, who has gotten into a physical brawl with an opponent team but is now refusing to tell the full story.  

All in all, objectively, it is a story that is littered with red flags. 

But on the other hand: this is Iwaizumi.  

This is the Iwaizumi who Kuroo knows is responsible, ethical and careful. The Iwaizumi who is kind, helpful and selfless, which Kuroo suspects, had been the reason he had even agreed to Volleyball Beyond Borders in the first place. To help Kuroo out. To let support staff everywhere be in the spotlight for once. To help the Japanese Team grow its name out to the international stage. To grow volleyball, and all of the roles associated with it.  

And Kuroo feels responsible, he feels responsible because this is the Iwaizumi who hadn’t wanted anything to do with the internet fame in the first place; yet none of this would have blown as big if Iwaizumi hadn’t become as famous as he has - 

- If Kuroo hadn’t looked Iwaizumi in the eye, knowing full well that Iwaizumi would hate being filmed, would hate becoming famous, would hate being placed under public scrutiny, and convinced him anyway to do it for him.  

And well, if Kuroo had been the one to get Iwaizumi involved in the mess, then isn't he responsible for getting him out of it too? 

*** 

Iwaizumi returns from the infirmary shortly after Kuroo returned to the training room from the meeting. 

His sprained foot is still in ankle brace, and he walks in a limp in his crutches. The bruises on his face have gone into their purple-red blooms but still, he smiles when his entrance is met by a rambunctious wave of cheers and hollers by his players.  

Hinata and Bokuto jump on Iwaizumi almost immediately, joyfully ruffling his hair and hugging him around the shoulders; while the others crowd around, just happy to see him. Grumbling for them to settle down, Iwaizumi quickly enters work mode, sitting down to pull up his laptop and asking anyone who has any pressing queries in the time he’s been away to book in a time with him before their next match tomorrow.   

The team is glad to have Iwaizumi back, Kuroo knows. Sure, they have assistant and reserve athletic trainers, but they aren’t the same as Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi is meticulous, steadfast, brilliantly succinct yet detailed in his explanations and endlessly innovative in his solutions. There is a reason that Iwaizumi’s appointment slots are always filled up compared to the assistant trainers – he is good and the team knows it. The team knows it, and as a result, the team trusts him. 

Still, it occurs to Kuroo that as much as Iwaizumi is irreplaceable in the eyes of his athletes, he certainly isn’t in the eyes of the team managers .  

When athletes are good, it is obvious to a manager that they are the rainmakers, the reason a team is gaining money and fame. The Ushijima super-aces and Kageyama genius-setters of the worlds will never be out of a job. Replacing them don’t just mean losses in matches; but also public outcries from the fans.  

A support staff though? Support staff work in the background – the better they are at their jobs, the more invisible they also become. Team managers are not athletes. They don’t know how it’s like to be injured, what a difference to an athlete’s mental state it makes to have a superb athletic trainer, even if an average one could also technically provide the same medical solutions. They don’t understand that the better Iwaizumi is at his job, the less often dramatic injuries happen, the less obvious it is that he is good. The managers see Iwaizumi as just a cog in the wheel, another piece of the puzzle who, sure, plays an essential role, but is a role that any other athletic trainer can also easily fill.  

If Iwaizumi begins bringing in more trouble than he is worth, Kuroo realises, he won’t be untouchable. He won’t be irreplaceable the way other superstar athletes are.  

And if Maeno decides he doesn’t trust Iwaizumi anymore, he can and will find a reason to make Iwaizumi leave.  

And that perhaps, gives Kuroo the answer to what he knows he has to do.  

*** 

After dinner on the eighth day of the Tokyo Olympics, Miya Atsumu goes searching for Iwaizumi Hajime. 

For the rest of the late afternoon, Iwaizumi had returned to working like normal as if absolutely nothing had happened at all. He said nothing about the incident, and in turn, no one asked him about it out of respect. When asked anything peripheral to the incident - how his injuries were, how his time away was – Iwaizumi answered with quick, short answers and a glare that shut anyone who had been daring (or stupid) enough to have tried in the first place. 

After his last appointment for the evening, Iwaizumi had vanished almost immediately. He had then reappeared to wolf down his dinner, before quickly excusing himself early.  

There are two things Atsumu knows Iwaizumi Hajime does when he wants to de-stress.  

The first, is that he goes for a run. Which isn’t possible at the moment, given his sprained ankle. 

The second is then, that he goes down for a box at the punching bag in the gym.  

Which is where Atsumu finds him after dinner, brows narrowed with concentration, gloved fists raised and ready.  

The gym is quiet, caught in the down time between the end of official training sessions and before the night gymrats appeared. When he walks across the gym, Atsumu can hear Iwaizumi’s steady punches ring through the empty space: bam, bam, bam. As he approaches the steady rhythm, Atsumu wishes for a moment that he had thought to dress for the gym so it wasn’t so obvious that he was just here to look for Iwaizumi. Then, Iwaizumi glances up once between his lifted fists, catching Atsumu’s eye in the wall mirror – and Atsumu figures that Iwaizumi would not have been fooled by such a disguise anyway.  

“You’re interrupting my set Miya.” Iwaizumi grumbles to the mirror reflection of Atsumu. He finishes his last hook and jab and then finally turns around. There is sweat gathered on his brow as well as along his muscled, bare arms. Atsumu can't help but stare at the bruises which litter down Iwaizumi's arms as he pulls off one of his boxing gloves. It is only when Iwaizumi moves to the side with a slight limp to grab up a towel to wipe his brow that Atsumu remembers again that one of his feet is still in the ankle brace.  

“You’re a really good boxer.” Atsumu offers. He had meant it as an observation, but immediately winces once he hears how it sounds spoken aloud, in context of everythint. 

Iwaizumi raises a brow. He replies simply:

“Yeah, I am. And so?” 

Atsumu hesitates. He might be digging his own shallow grave but there are worse things he will need to tell Iwaizumi today anyway so he might as well say it: 

“Well, I guess it might just make some people wonder why you hadn’t just fought Martez back like that.” 

The sentence, unexpectedly, makes Iwaizumi tense, a flicker of unreadable expression crossing his face. A silence settles between the two of them for a moment, hanging, pulling until finally -  

“Been getting in with the rumours recently?” Iwaizumi says lightly. His expression unreadable. “Think I didn’t fight Martez because I’ve been part of some secret ploy to get him off the Olympics, do you?” 

“No- ” Atsumu’s cheeks flush red as he realises where he had subconsciously gained that line of questioning from. The fact that Iwaizumi – a former volleyball ace, college arm wrestling champion and varsity-level boxer - had apparently not incurred enough damage to the Spanish players to warrant his own suspension had made a good number of athletes and internet detectives suspicious. Some even theorised that Iwaizumi had allowed himself to lose the fight on purpose to make sure Martez would be suspended. “I just meant – you – you could have you know, saved yourself some injuries, protected yourself, defended yourself -” 

Iwaizumi watches on wryly, letting Atsumu fumble his way into eventual embarrassed silence before he asks simply: 

“Ever fought anyone before, 'Tsumu?” 

“Well - yeah of course, y’know, like my twin brother ‘Samu and other guys at school...” 

“Mm. And ever fought three guys by yourself before?”  

Atsumu considers this. “No,” He admits eventually. 

This makes Iwaizumi smile a little. “Not as easy as it seems.” He says mildly. He removes his second glove and beneath it this time, Atsumu notices that a side of his palm is still wrapped in bandages.  

“So – you did fight back.” Atsumu points to his fist. “So you did throw in some punches to defend yourself.” 

Iwaizumi stares at Atsumu for a while. He looks down at his own fist, and then looks back up, meeting Atsumu in the eyes as he answers quietly: 

“No I did not.” He watches, his gaze unwavering as disbelief flickers over Atsumu’s face, and then he adds: “Because I’m not them , ‘Tsumu.” His voice lowers with a cold, quiet sort of rage. “I don’t feel so small that I need to put someone else down, just so I can feel better about myself.” 

There is a silence that hangs. They watch each other for a while, until Iwaizumi turns around to continue keeping away his boxing gloves and water bottle. And just like that, Atsumu doesn’t know why, but the feeling of guilt inflates in his chest, and he knows, he has to tell Iwaizumi now or perhaps he never will.  

“Iwa,” Atsumu begins, his voice small. Iwaizumi turns around to meet him, his gaze piercing as if he already knows, as if he had already been expecting it.

“There’s something I should have told you some time ago.” 

*** 

Once Atsumu has left, Hajime slowly picks up his water bottle and slings his boxing gloves over his shoulder.  

He pauses to stare at himself for a moment in the floor-to-ceiling gym mirror opposite him. He is fit, well-built from all the hours he has put in at the gym. He does have the physique of someone who looks like he would do well in a fight. He looks at the bandages on his fist. The bruises on his arms when he pulls back his sleeves.

He thinks of Hana, Tooru’s ex-girlfriend: light, pretty and cheerful. He thinks of Maria Sando, Argentina’s prized volleyball player: beautiful, charming and graceful. He thinks of Utashiro’s words: Oikawa-san I always thought you were dating Maria Sando. The fact that you and Iwaizumi are a couple did shock me a little.

He thinks of Atsumu’s words, his assumption: Oikawa Tooru cheated on his girlfriend with you, didn’t he.  

He remembers:

it is one thing to associate with such unnatural things in private, another to flaunt such things publicly.

Hajime raises a hand, against his bruised, battered face. 

Do you want to see how far he’ll go to destroy everything he’s built for you.  

Hajime snatches up his gym towel, his heart suddenly ramming in his chest. 

I'm not good enough and will never be good enough, will I?  

In quick steps, Hajime moves into the locker room. Unlike the empty gym, there are a few men chatting, getting ready for their gym session. Hajime retrieves his bag and stuffs in his belongings. He doesn’t bother with his change with clothes, instead, slinging his bag over his shoulder and quickly making his way back to his room. 

Along his way back, he weaves through familiar faces, politely forcing a smile as he does but not stopping when they want to chat. When he finally reached and pushed open his door to his room, a panic he had been trying to keep away sinks its claws in his chest once he sees Kuroo sitting at the desk in their room. The sanctuary of his own room he had hoping to find comfort alone is not available for him. Kuroo looks up, waving hi and mouthing sorry, work call and somehow, Hajime manages a feeble smile, as he drops his gym bag on the floor, grabs his phone and then leaves the room right away. 

It is a familiar route, the travel down the short accommodation corridor to the safety of the fire escape stairs. Right before he can open the door to the stairs however, a room door throws open and, Bokuto and Hoshiumi glance out to ask happily if Hajime if he would like a game of Uno. Hajime turns them down hastily, and he can hear how strained his voice sounds in his forced, false cheeriness. He clumsily fumbles and presses down on the elevator, smiling and nodding weakly at Bokuto’s chatter as he waits for him to go away. 

The lift arrives before Bokuto and Hoshiumi leaves, so Hajime instead says bye and hastily jumps into the lift. There are people too in the lift, chatting and laughing, and Hajime’s hand is trembling when he presses an arbitrary floor number. When gets off at that floor, he wavers for a moment, as if forgetting how he got here, the overwhelming emotion in his ears roaring so loud that his mind is blanking – before he hears the sound of a dorm room opening – and he quickly, remembers to grab the door to the fire escape stairs and pulls it open.  

The fire escape stairs is a place he has escaped to a lot recently, being one of the only places where he could find refuge in the crowded Olympic village.  

His entire body is shaking now, his breathing laboured and his chest drawing tight n the familiar pain. He lets himself lean back on the wall, panting, burying his face into his hands, clawing his hands between his hair in frustration and fuck, fuck, maybe it is the fact that he has somehow managed to stave this off for the whole day with Tooru’s gentle calls in between anchoring him down that now it is so much worse now, or maybe it is all the things Atsumu has just told him which Hajime had just listened to and then told Atsumu quietly to leave and please, leave him alone, and fuck, he sinks down into a seat, gritting his teeth, now Atsumu will be another person he will need to talk to at a later time, to explain things again at a later time; except he doesn’t want to tell Atsumu the truth, he doesn’t trust that Atsumu will keep the truth a secret, not when he knows Atsumu has already let slipped the truth once; and fuck, there is so much, too much going on - 

He leans down and finally, begins crying.

The pain, the anxiety, the sadness, the fear he has been holding back the entire day finally overwhelming him. 

Logically, Hajime knows he is fine. Logically, he knows that what Atsumu has told him has already happened; that he can’t change it; that what would make sense is to focus forward and to find solutions. That these breakdowns are an overreaction, an unhelpful response which does nothing to help the situation. 

But he can’t help it: in these moments it feels like all ability to control his body has fled him. His body feels like it’s on fire, telling him nothing except that he is scared, scared, so scared, and as if to fill in the blanks, his mind scrambles, finding reasons to backward rationalise why he is scared. Like the fact that it’s his fault; that he years ago, was the one who told Tooru to keep their relationship a secret; and that now, it is backfiring because it will cause even more of a scandal if they come out and like Atsumu, like Utashiro, everyone is shocked because Tooru had spent so long fanning other gossips. That it is Hajime's fault, that Hajime is stupid, he kissed Tooru that night of the filming, that he is worthless, that he will be the reason that will cause Oikawa Tooru’s downfall, that he is useless, because he now can't stop having these fucking breakdowns - 

Hajime has now curled forward with chest pressed against his legs, head buried so closely to his knees he can feel the condensation from his own ragged breathing. His fingers are gripping onto the side of his calves so tightly that it feels like he might leave marks against his skin after and somehow, he hopes it does, because it would prove to himself that he can gain control, that he still has some control by being able exert a pain onto himself that is worse than the dull pain that is now burning across his entire body.  

He then sits up, suddenly more panicked, because he recognises how illogical that thought is, how concerning that line of thinking is – and he forces himself to stand back up with some difficultly. He tries to pull himself together, to do what Furuya had told him earlier to try and interrupt anxiety attacks: Clear your thoughts, focus your eyes on something. It is similar to what Tooru had him to do before, backstage for an earlier anxiety attack. Hajime tries focusing on the grey rung of the bare emergency fire stairs. And just breathe, breathe...  

Hajime’s vision blurs with his tears. His mind roars with the noisy, harsh chatter, his limbs aflame with pain. It isn’t working, He thinks as his chest whelms with pain, with panic. This isn't working. He chases down one flight of stairs, as if trying to find something else to ground himself, glancing up from the grey stairs to the fluorescent white of the staircase lights, the neon green of the exit signs - 

And now, he cries, crumpling backwards against the wall as he halts again at the bottom of one flight of stairs, pressing his face into his hands, and this time, he is crying, not because of anything that happened today anymore but just because he wants this to stop, that he just wants himself to stop having these unbearable, uncontrollable break downs, he just wants to be normal again, to just be able to just deal with life like a normal human being again -  

But what good is there going for him anyway, even if he was no longer having these breakdowns? There are rumours spreading, police who would want an answer again, the constant questioning from the managers, the constant lying he had to do. Tooru sounding worried and far too gentle on calls, Tooru who has been put at such risks, Tooru who is being dragged through all of this just because of him, him and him, and Hajime hates himself, he hates that he can’t even seem to find anymore a light at the end of the tunnel, he hates that he can’t even seem to bring himself to be happy thinking of Tooru anymore - 

And fuck, Hajime catches himself on a gasped sob, because that is a terrible thought to have about his own partner, a horrible thing to think about someone who you want to be your forever and it hurts, it physically hurts to not be able to stop himself from thinking that way and now he is crying even harder, sinking down to his knees again but somehow though it all, a small, logical voice rings out in the back of his head, swimming and struggling to cut through the ugly murky mess in his head as it urges and begs:

Call him. You promised you would if you had another breakdown. 

Just call Tooru and tell him what’s going on.  

*** 

Similar to Hajime, Tooru had returned to training around late afternoon. José approves of him doing some extra training to catch up in the evening, but only for an hour. 

“We have the final preliminary match tomorrow so don’t tire yourself out too much.” José reminds Tooru. “Though I have to ask: do you feel up for playing?“ 

Tooru nods, determined. “Bench me if I’m terrible, otherwise, let me do it.” 

After dinner, José sits Tooru down to catch him up on the strategy that Tooru had missed when the team discussed it during the day. 

It is midway through the explanation that Tooru’s phone begins to ring. When he sees it is Hajime, Tooru leaps up immediately, hastily apologising to Jose who shakes his head, understanding.  

“Hi.” Tooru breathes as he quickly ducks out of the room with José. The corridor he has emerged in is filled with athletes travelling for their night debriefing and training sessions, so Tooru slips out instead into the cool, summer open air.  

“Hey.” Hajime says, and immediately, Tooru knows can hear that something is wrong. Hajime has been crying. He sounds exhausted, run down to the bones, numb almost.  

“Hey.” Tooru says again softly, worriedly. He waits for a while, and when Hajime doesn’t say anything, he asks carefully, hesitantly: “Is something the matter? Are you okay?” 

“I - I’m – ” There is a terrible difficulty in Hajime’s voice. “Tooru,” His words fumble together. “I-”  

And just like that, Hajime begins to cry. 

Across their years together, Oikawa Tooru has seen Hajime cry many times. There are tears of anger which no one except Tooru catches, quiet and furious as Hajime blinks them back fiercely; there are tears of sadness, simple and straightforward, like when they lost their ticket to nationals for the last time. There are the argument-tears, like last night when they had both being whisper-yelling at one another in anguish, unhappy to be fighting yet unable to stop the wave of conflict; there are tears of stress, of anxiety, which Tooru had suspected were the ones right before Volleyball Beyond Borders, backstage after the interview had been. 

Yet this crying – this crying is a beast of its own. It is deep-chested, desperate, deeply unhappy sobs; an overflowing sense of being overwhelmed; struggling breathes broken between helpless tears. When Hajime tries to explain himself, never quite making it to a full sentence, he sounds horrible: terrified, anxious and also just sad, so so sad. Hajime it’s okay, you can cry, it’s okay , Tooru whispers because it’s all he can do, I'm here, he promises, I'm here, even though he isn’t really, he is but he isn’t but that is all he can do, because all he can do is listen, and reassure and realistically do nothing as he listens, his heart shattering as his partner, the man he has loved all of his life continues sobbing down the phone line. 

After a while, Hajime calms down, or maybe tires down, into something more manageable, something quieter. Breathe, Iwa, breathe, Tooru whispers, and he can hear Hajime’s ragged attempts at it. When he is well enough, Hajime finally manages to croak: 

“Talk to me, Tooru.” Hajime’s voice is rough from crying. “Talk to me. Distract me. Distract me please.”  

And so, Tooru talks. He sits down on an outdoors park bench, steadies his own voice so he doesn’t sound too upset himself, and begins to talk. He talks, because it is what he had been discussing with Jose right before this, about the team’s new techniques, his team’s strategy for tomorrow, how he has been perfecting new footwork, who he thinks the best reserve if he has to sit out is, the strength of the opponent’s team tomorrow is versus his. 

When he pauses, he can hear Hajime still sniffling, as if still crying but just more silently, more controlled now; so he continues, talking about the new book he has been reading, about this Korean war refugee who moves to Brazil and meets a Japanese tailor; and this other book about four young men who live in New York, two of which are obviously gay, and one of which reminds Tooru of Hajime, except of course Hajime is funnier and smarter and obviously way hotter - 

When he successfully gets a soft, shaky chuckle out of Hajime for that, Tooru continues, encouraged. He keeps talking: about the newest stupid reality TV shows he’s watched, explaining the newest drama on Survivor out in the most dramatic way possible just so he can draw a few more shaky laughs from Hajime. He remnisces about the last time Mattsun had visited them in California and gotten horribly lost until Hajime too, is laughing and sounding a little normally too as he starts to slowly begin to join in the talking too. Then he tells Hajime about how sweet Luc has been recently, how understanding Jose has been, and he can hear the warmth and happiness return slowly to Hajime’s voice again, clearly touched to know support is around.  

And that is when Tooru messes up. 

He begins telling Hajime about how Takeru and his sister had recently sent him a hamper of protein bars to wish him good luck for the Olympics, which his athletic trainer had immediately deemed unhealthy and banned Tooru from eating them. Isn’t that funny, Iwa-chan, the fact that the average person just assumes protein bars are athlete food and – but man, it was so sweet of them to send them and you have to help me finish them after the Olympics and -  

“Yeah.” Hajime says. “That is nice of them.” And just like that, Tooru can hear the switch in Hajime’s voice – from happy and warm just a moment before to suddenly, the iron curtains closing down again, a fakeness trying to hide away a distant unhappiness. Tooru doesn’t understand it. Hajime knows and loves Tooru’s sister and nephew; he knows them just as well as he knows Mattsun, loves hearing Tooru being supported by them just as much as he hears Lucas doing the same and yet -  

“Anyway,” Hajime says. He has stopped crying now, but something about his voice still tells Tooru he is off; as if the Hajime who had lain his soul bare and vulnerable for Tooru to see just moments ago had disappeared and instead been replaced by one who feigns normalcy and okay-ness behind a mask again. His voice sounds estranged, pained even as he tries to say: “I’m feeling okay now Tooru so I’ll let you get back to it. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” 

“Wait Iwa-chan - are you sure?” Tooru begins worriedly. “I can always stay with you longer until I -” 

“No, that’s okay.” Hajime says. Tooru hears him smile a little over the phone, as if trying to force himself to be both genuine-Iwa and masked-Iwa all at the same time. “You’ve done wonders for me already, my love. So thank you.” He says, and it is the warning persistence in his voice that tells Tooru this is it, this is his signal to go.  

“Hajime. Talk to me anytime you need me okay.” Tooru urges and Hajime promises he will. 

And abruptly as that the call ends, and Tooru is left staring at Hajime’s contact photo on his phone, feeling strange and utterly misplaced.  

*** 

It takes Tooru a while, but he thinks of it late at night, as he is lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

He has seen Hajime cry the way he did over the phone earlier before.  

Once, in the infirmary, at the end of their big argument. A time when Tooru had thought Hajime had been crying from fear and from anxiety.  

But there was another time. Another time, more than a decade ago, when Tooru has seen Hajime cry that way too. 

With an emotion that was not fear, not anxiety, but instead:

Grief.

*** 

It is close to midnight by the time by the time their shared dormitory room door creaks open.  

Kuroo turns around from where he had been working at the desk, lowering his laptop and glancing over. Shutting the door and taking off his shoes, Iwaizumi catches Kuroo’s eye with a wary look. 

“Hey. You’re up late.”  

“Yo. Well, you’re up late too.” 

Iwaizumi moves forward in his crutches until he is properly in the room. He walks around until he reaches the end of his own bed and sits down so that he is facing Kuroo. Up close under the dim light of the table lamp, Iwaizumi looks tired, but resolute. He adjusts the edge of his collar with a hand almost sub-consciously, before returning his hand to his side. 

They look at one another for a while, before Iwaizumi starts: 

“Kuroo,” The quiet resolution in his eyes glimmer like a flame. "We need to talk.” 

“Perfect.” Kuroo agrees. He has turned in his seat to face Iwaizumi squarely. “Because that is exactly what I wanted to do too.” 

Notes:

*Gently gathers Iwa into arms and holds him for a long, fierce time*

On the bright side, I think both Iwa and Tooru are growing more aware of the current situation, and from both their ends, learning to deal better which each time Iwa has a breakdown. Iwa on his end, pushing himself to call Tooru; and Tooru from his end, being able to observe more and more what is actually going on each time a breakdown happens.

As a side HC, I like to think Oiks picked up reading in his lonely first few years of living abroad! He began it to improve his Spanish, and then realised he really loved the drama derived from reading fiction hahaha (and eventually gives up and reads the Jap translation of works). The first book mentioned is Snow Hunters, and the second is A Little Life (and yes, he is saying Willem reminds him of Iwa) and that is a shout out to both books I've read and absorbed styles from in earlier chaps

Also If I haven't answered your previous comments yet, I'm sorry and I will do so later on!! Know they have been and always are very appreciated - I have just been madly trying to get THIS chapter out hahaha.

Otherwise, let me know your thoughts / vibes/ feels (if you want) as always! :)

Chapter 18: Colluding, and definitely not canoodling

Summary:

Tooru and Kuroo each awake at 6am on the ninth day of the Tokyo Olympics.

Their conversations with Iwaizumi Hajime from the night prior cumulate into effect.

Notes:

Happy New Year Iwaoi nation!! This fic has now reached yet another year, so thank you to everyone who has stuck around for how long this has taken.

Firstly, a PSA: I kinda messed up the timeline of the Olympics earlier in the story then realised and went back to edit (...and probs missed a bunch of references which I need to go back and fix...). Anyway, for clarification, the Jap v Spain match (the match after which Iwa was attacked by Martez) is a second-final prelim round, and they all have a final prelim round to play (in current timeline of this chapter) before the semi-finals begin. Do the actual Olympics work this way? Probs not hahah but let’s roll with it.

A second PSA: I personally... did not like my own writing in chapter 17 LOL so I have edited its beginning slightly (in case you read back and go eh this wasnt here last time??). I still don’t love chapter 17 but what is done is done and we're moving on – I was bound to publish a chap or 2 that I dislike in this long project. 🤷 I'll go back when I have time to edit and fix the two above PSA/ mistakes more.

Otherwise, I have loved writing this particular chapter, and hope you have fun reading it too 😊 Enjoy!

That spring day had felt like a divine sign of possibilities.  

The last time he had stood on the very same doorstep had been during a snowstorm. Yet here he was, seven years later, on a day when the air glimmered with sunlight and the skies above were azure blue. All along the streets, flowers bloomed and new leaves swayed, all signs of new life, of new hope. 

The woman who stood at the front doorstep looked older. There were new wrinkles on her brow and her hands were thinner, new varicose veins visible. Still, she had the same wide brown eyes, the same graceful wrists which worried over her shawl, the same pressed lips which bit against themselves in hesitance. All features he knew by virtue of knowing her son too well.  

For all his planning, he realized he did not know what to say. Okaa-san, was what he had last called her, but that had been seven years ago. He imagined she was thinking the same: that Iwaizumi-san seemed cold, cruel even in its formality, but Hajime-kun seemed like a relic of a rosy past which had by now long-shattered. 

So it was in silence that they stood: Iwaizumi Hajime just outside the gates in his olive-green shirt, hands still rested on the handlebars of his bicycle. Oikawa Ayaka with her pale blue shawl closed over her shoulders standing on the doorstep of her family home in Sendai, Miyagi. 

If such a thing could be quantified, there in that moment, stood at the Oikawa household, were the two people who loved Oikawa Tooru the most in the world.  

It was a fact that neither of them doubted. 

In the end, Hajime was the one who began. It is part of his name after all, a blessing and a curse: his willingness to be the first to do what is right; his inner moral compass he follows as surely as travellers follow the north star; his inability to leave wrongs un-rightened, pasts unresolved; his will to begin, to make right what has gone wrong; his perseverance to push forward the same way spring water cracks through solid rock -  

“Okaa-san.” He decided aloud. It had been seven years since he last called her Okaa-san, but twenty-two years since he last called her Oikawa-san and he was not about to start now. 

“All I want is to talk.” 

*** 

Kuroo Tetsurou awakes on the ninth day of the Olympics to a quiet sense of unease. 

It is raining lightly, the drizzle outside like falling pins against the windows. Across the room, Iwaizumi’s bed is empty and neatly kept. Kuroo squints at phone screen: it is 6 in the morning.  

He closes his eyes and runs through the itinerary for today.  

The meeting at 8am. 

Japan’s final preliminary match at 11am. 

And if all goes well: the press conference is at 2:30pm.  

Kuroo opens his eyes.  

He thinks of his conversation with Iwaizumi last night.  

He wonders if he had made the right decision. 

*** 

Across the Olympic village, Oikawa Tooru startles awake on the ninth day of the Olympics to the sound of his phone ringing. 

He must have fallen asleep holding his phone, for he feels his phone slipping off his loose half-asleep grip once he jolts up, the phone clattering off the bed and into the darkness of the floorboards below.  

His phone stops ringing. Wincing, Tooru turns on his night lamp and the room comes sharply into view. Lucas is still fast asleep, bundled in his bed across the room. The time, 6am, blinks on a clock on Lucas’s dresser.  

Tooru sits up, abruptly pulled awake.  

A familiar worry tightens across his chest.  

For most of last night, he had been trapped in a wavering, restless sleep. Every time he awoke, he checked his phone. Hajime had called twice last night: the first time in the middle of his relentless anxiety attack; the second time, to apologise for ending the first call as abruptly as he had and, in the way Tooru knows Hajime always tries, to do what is right. 

“Tooru.” Hajime had said during the second call. He had called twenty minutes after the end of the first call, sounding steadier and recovered. Tooru could have thought him almost entirely back to normal if not for a slight roughness in his voice which served as a tell-tale reminder of how terrible he had been just moments ago.  

“I want us to have better control of the narrative.” 

Atsumu had been the one who had seen them kiss; and Atsumu the one who told Paulo about it. The revelation had freaked Hajime out – that much, Tooru could tell, when Hajime finally told him the story he had tried and failed to convey throughout the first call. Atsumu had also asked Hajime why he hadn’t fought Martez back, which strangely, Tooru suspected bothered Hajime perhaps more than the first revelation itself. He had wanted to ask Hajime about it, but also hadn’t want to detract from Hajime’s current thought process which was why he instead encouraged softly: 

“What do you mean by that, Hajime? What do you want to do to better control the narrative?” 

He didn’t have much of a plan, Hajime confessed, but he knew what had to change. The first were the rumours: he had hated hearing them throughout the day: about his fight with Martez, the speculations about Tooru’s connection to the Martez fight. He had also hated hearing Atsumu’s sudden revalation, a rude reminder that the making of certain assumptions are out of their hands. 

The second, Hajime admitted, his voice wavering slightly at this, are the anxiety attacks. They were not healthy, he acknowledged quietly. And Tooru, you’re right, Hajime admitted, I need to do more to properly address them. 

“I was thinking about what you said.” Hajime said. “About confiding in people I trust in: telling them about us, and about the anxiety attacks. And I think you’re right,” He paused. “Kuroo would be a good candidate. Both as a friend. And as someone who has a finger on the pulse of how the public narratives are going.” 

The words had been a relief to Tooru: the self-awareness that Hajime was showing, the steps he was willing to take. Gently, he had re-assured Hajime that it sounded like it was the right direction, re-iterated that he was here to support Hajime whenever, however, wherever. Hajime wanted to talk to Kuroo immediately after their call. 

“Call me after you’ve had the talk.” Tooru urged softly. “Tell me how it goes.” 

"It's way past your usual sleeping time, Tooru.” Hajime had soothed in return. “I’ll let you go to sleep if my talk with him runs too late. But I’ll definitely call you tomorrow morning.” He promised.  

Which was how Tooru had fallen asleep waiting for Hajime to call.  

At 12:50am, Hajime had messaged telling him not to wait up, that he loved him and that he would call in the morning.  

At 1:23 in the morning, Tooru had blearily read Hajime’s message, typed back that he loved him and fell back into his uneasy sleep.  

The message had not helped Tooru sleep better.  

*** 

Which is how at 6am on the ninth day of the Olympics, Tooru jolts awake to a call, fumbles and drops his phone. When he finally finds his phone and turns on his phone screen, he sees that he has a missed call from Hajime.  

He calls back at once.  

“Hi.” He whispers, not wanting to disturb Lucas. He tries and fails to keep the worry which had eventually kept him awake most of the night out of his voice. “How did your talk with Kuroo go?” 

“Hey.” Hajime replies. “It went... interestingly.”  

Hajime’s voice is calm, quiet and steady. 

Something has happened. Hajime is putting on a facade, Tooru knows immediately.  

He does not point it out. 

Something in Hajime’s voice begs him not to point it out.  

*** 

Impressions are key today. Kuroo takes his time picking out his outfit, ruling out a white-shirt-red-tie combination in favour for a white-shirt-grey-tie look which makes him look older, more mature. At around 7:10 in the morning, as he is styling his hair after his morning shower, he hears the bedroom door open, and he catches Iwaizumi’s gaze in the mirror as he hurries in.  

“Hey. Managed to finish your early appointments?” 

“Yeap.” Iwaizumi moves across the room with impressive agility for someone on crutches. He quickly dispenses and re-packs some items from his backpack, before moving onto his wardrobe. “Let me get changed then we can go.” He says before he disappears into the bathroom.  

When Iwaizumi re-emerges, he is wearing a well-fitting white shirt, navy tie, black slacks and a black blazer. Kuroo gives him a nod of approval. Together, they then move out and down to the Olympic Village, making their way to Building Block A.  

Iwaizumi is quiet. Kuroo lets him be.  

The dark circles under Iwaizumi’s alert eyes tell Kuroo that Iwaizumi is more affected than he is letting on.  

They arrive at the meeting room shortly before 7:30. Iwaizumi waits outside while Kuroo checks that everyone who is meant to be present in the conference room is present.  

When Kuroo next re-emerges, he closes the door firmly behind him. Iwaizumi watches on, waiting, his expression unreadable.  

"You ready?” Kuroo asks. 

Iwaizumi lets out a slow exhale. “As I’ll ever be.”  

"Good luck.” Kuroo lays a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be rooting for you to convince us.” He adds quietly, and then gesturing Iwaizumi forward, turns the knob and opens the door. 

*** 

Last night, on the eighth day of the Olympics, Iwaizumi had returned to their shared bedroom shortly before midnight.  

There had been something he had wanted to tell Kuroo. Something he had clearly been building up the courage toward. Something which showed in a dogged, fiery resolution in his eyes. 

Instead, Kuroo had spoken first. He had spoken, with an urgency he hoped Iwaizumi would catch: to understand the weight of what he was about to tell him, to understand what he was putting on the line in order to tip him off that: 

“Iwa,” Kuroo said urgently. “Martez has formalised his self-defence claims against you. And,” He grimaced. “Tomorrow morning, the team managers, the Olympic Committee and myself as a JVA representative are going to begin an investigation into these allegations made against you.”  

“Let’s just say,” He added hintingly, “You should not tell anyone involved in the investigation – myself included – about what we spoke about Oikawa Tooru outside of the context of Volleyball Beyond Borders.”  

*** 

In the morning on the ninth day of the Tokyo Olympics, Hajime ended up giving Tooru three calls. 

The first, Tooru understood, was his boyfriend privileges call. A call Hajime had made with just him so he could know first before anyone else, what was about to happen. Hajime told Tooru of Kuroo’s tip-off. He told Tooru he had not ended up telling Kuroo what he had planned to tell, because of Kuroo’s role in the investigation which meant anything he told Kuroo, Kuroo might be obliged to turn around to also tell Maeno, Itta and Hibarida and the Olympic committee. Something he had not been ready for.  

He told Tooru of the investigation meeting which was about to commence an hour and a half from then. At 7:30am on the ninth day of the Tokyo Olympics.  

The second call was a group call with Hajime, Tooru, José, Utashiro and Sofia. This was, Tooru realised quickly, the call which Hajime actually needed to get done before his meeting, a call to decide what Hajime should do about the investigation. A call Hajime had clearly spent time since Kuroo’s tip-off preparing for, carefully planning for.  

Then there was the third call with just Hajime and himself. A call Tooru understood served two separate purposes: 

For him, the third call was the final objections call. It was Tooru's final chance to voice his disagreement against what Hajime was planning to do. 

But for Hajime, the third call was the moral support call. It was the last time he would talk to Tooru before he would have to rush back to join the investigations interview. 

There was plenty Tooru had wanted to say. Plenty he wanted to object to in the decision they had come to in the group call, where it had been a 4-1 decision, the 1 being Tooru. 

But he took a single look at Hajime’s face over video call and his resolution, his anger crumbled. He knew he had to give in. He knew that Hajime was barely holding on, barely balancing onto a very slim tightrope.  

He knew he was about to let Hajime win the battle. 

Which felt like letting Hajime lose the war they hadn’t realised they had begun until now. 

“Hajime,” Tooru said instead. Softly. Urgently. “My love, I trust you with all my heart. But if it gets too much, if it goes anywhere near anything detrimental to you,” His voice thickened with a plea. “Please promise me, promise me, you will do what you need to put your interests first. Don’t try to be a fucking hero about it, or else I’ll kill you before Martez or the police even get you. Okay Hajime? Do you understand what I’m saying? Okay? ” 

The words came out fiercer than Tooru had intended, catching even himself by surprise. The threat was more Iwa-chan-esque than Shitty-kawa-styled - but maybe that wasn’t such bad a thing because it in turn, it made Hajime smile, even if just a thin, wavering smile. 

And it has been awhile, Tooru thought with an ache, since he had last seen Hajime smile. 

"Okay, Shitty-Tooru. I promise .” Hajime whispered and they looked at each other over video call, inhaling and exhaling slowly until their breathes were in sync and then Hajime’s alarm for 7:05am rang. 

*** 

It is 7:32am. 

The room is cold, small and white. There is a circular table in the room clustered with seven chairs. Hibarida, Maeno and Itta make introductions for the two Olympic Committee representatives: Kaho-san, who Iwaizumi has already met twice, and Abe-san, a representative from the Olympics sports integrity committee. 

The circular table gives a false impression that the meeting is collaborative, when in fact, it is interrogatory. 

Kaho-san explains the purpose of their meeting and the purpose of the interview in context of the investigation into Martez’s formalised claims. Iwaizumi indicates that he understands. Kaho-san then begins on the questions.  

“Iwaizumi-san, on 30th June 2021, you got into a fight with Daniel Martez, Javier Navarro and Hugo Perez. Is this right?” 

“Yes.” Iwaizumi’s hands close upon themselves over his lap as he nods. 

“You previously told us the fight began because you overheard Martez, Navarro and Perez making threats about you and your friends, but refused to tell us what these threats were. Do you still maintain your refusal to disclose these threats?” 

Iwaizumi’s gaze stays steady. 

“Yes.” He says quietly. “Sorry.” He adds.  

Maeno and Itta exchange a look, unsurprised. Discreetly, Hibarida gives Kuroo a grimace. 

They have arrived at the same impasse they have always arrived at. 

The impasse from which the investigation will truly begin. 

*** 

At 7:40 in the morning, Oikawa Tooru stands up from where he had been sitting in front of José Blanco’s office. 

José stops by the door, holding a paper bag and two cups of takeaway coffee. He stretches a hand to offer Tooru one of the two coffee cups. 

Tooru murmurs his thanks. They are both silent as José unlocks his office, and when they are both in his office and the door is safely locked behind them, José says: 

“Sit.” José takes a seat himself, behind his desk. He tears open the paper bag, revealing two pieces of milk bread. “And eat Tooru. Have some breakfast.” 

Tooru’s lip trembles. 

“I’ve never told you before that I like milk bread.” He says. He hates that his voice is wavering and growing thick over something as small as this.  

José looks up, grimacing in an understanding. “No.” He concedes. “You haven’t.” 

Something about it makes Tooru's chest suddenly inflate in anger. 

“He passed it to you this morning.” 

“Yes.” José gazes at him. “Early in the morning. C'mon Tooru,” He tries again. “Sit.” 

Tooru doesn’t. Instead, he continues to glare at José accusatorily, furiously. 

He is being irrational, he knows, like a child who has discovered that his parents had banded against him for his own good, and his irrational anger is being unfairly directed at José. Still, he can’t stop himself as he snaps: 

“José, don't you see, this is too much – this is him being all stupid and overly self-sacrificial for no reason. He could just tell them what the threats are: tell them the truth that yes, all we did was fucking kiss , and Martez is a homophobe who attacked Hajime because of it . All this avoiding – just to not out us - is unnecessary, it is overly self-sacrificial - and you agreed with him? You agreed knowing fully how stupid his idea is and -” 

“No, it is not.” José says firmly. “Tooru,” He now stands again, looking Tooru squarely in the eye. “Hajime is being investigated on self-defence allegations. We don’t know what the exact allegations are beyond what Kuroo has told Hajime. But either way, we know Hajime didn’t do anything to him, and because of that, the investigation will find no evidence that Hajime did anything to Martez. On the other hand, all anyone has to do is look at Hajime’s face to know what Martez did to him .” 

“As Utashiro said,” José continues, referring to the group call in the morning. “Martez bears the onus of proving that Hajime said or did things which made Martez react in self-defence. And there will be nothing Martez can prove, becuase we know Hajime did nothing.”  

His eyes flash with an anger at the unjustness of the situation which betrays his otherwise calm tone. “ All Martez is trying to do is to create enough doubt in the Olympic Committee’s mind to get back in the Olympics to play in the final preliminary match – but Hajime is right, whether he was called homophobic slurs, or whether Atsumu saw you two kiss – all of that has nothing to do with the fight itself. Revealing that information doesn’t change Hajime’s position from where we are now – I agree with Hajime on this, as does Sofia from a PR standpoint, as does Utashiro from a legal standpoint.” 

“But what if continuing to conceal the truth does create some kind of detriment for Hajime – as to his integrity, as to his job, to his public reputation?” Tooru grits his teeth. He raises a hand, frustrated that José – and Sofia and Utashiro and Hajime, Hajime - can’t seem to understand this. “What if they accuse Hajime of attacking Martez because of my past run-ins with Martez and Maeno decides to fire him for being violent? What if Martez accuses him of, oh I don’t fucking know, making racial slurs at him, and the Olympic Committee decide to suspend Hajime for it -” 

“ - None of which Martez will have proof for.” José points out. He is so calm that Tooru wants to yell at him, or throw a chair at him, just to get a reaction, just to get him to rise to the level of anguish that Tooru himself is at. “If they really continue to suspect Iwa of misconduct after talking to him today, they will just continue investigations. Interview more witnesses, scour through correspondences – all of which we again, know Hajime has done nothing wrong for.” 

“Part of the investigation, as Hajime pointed out earlier, may very well involve you being investigated if the allegations aginst Hajime involve allegations against you as well. But as I mentioned on the call,” José adds fiercely. “That’s easily resolved because I would just refuse to investigate any supposed claims against you Tooru, on the basis that Martez hasn’t raised enough evidence to found a claim in the first place. Which if you ask me, is what the Japanese Team should have just said about the claims against Hajime to avoid this whole investigation in the first place -”  

“Okay but, if Martez has no evidence and we have nothing to be afraid of, then why shouldn’t Hajime just tell the truth upfront” Tooru snaps. “Why shouldn't he just come out to the police, to the team managers, to the Olympic committee?” He begs. He thinks back to how calm, how steady, how rational Hajime had been in the call earlier; how easily Hajime wears his brave facade for those he knows he needs to convince, which for the call, had been José, Sofia and Utashiro. 

José and Sofia who both, for no faults of their own, hold Tooru’s best interests above Hajime’s by virtue of their relationships with Tooru. Utashiro who is Hajime’s lawyer and holds his best interest at heart, for no fault of hers either, just doesn’t have all the context Tooru has.  

Tooru thinks of the versions of Hajime he knows, the real versions of Hajime José, Sofia and Utashio have not seen beneath the facades. Hajime, who had yesterday cried with such grief and tremulation; Hajime in the infirmary, wrecked and falling apart in Tooru’s arms, bruised and bandaged, hurting and frightened. Hajime, who can put up a brave front to everyone except Tooru, his one kryptonite, the one person who he can’t deceive. It is a lot to convey, a lot to tell José without being able to explain everything, but Tooru tries his best as he continues to plead:  

“José, Hajime hasn’t been doing well.” Tooru exhales shakily. “All the lying, the attack, the rumours, the publicity – it's all been chewing him up inside out. If we have nothing to hide, then for his sake, if not for any other reason, why not stop hiding?” He swallows as he continues difficultly.  

“I know Hajime wants to protect my reputation. I know Sofia says it’s not ideal to come out during the Olympics, in the midst of when I want people to know me for my athletic abilities, not for a relationship scandal. But I don’t care .” Tooru’s voice grows in frustration. “And I don’t get why you and Sofia couldn’t have  trusted me when I said I don’t give a fuck about that stuff -”  

Tooru’s voice is now raised and he desperately hates that he is now shouting at José for something that isn’t his fault; that he is now yelling at José for just helping him, for just being rational. 

“I don’t get why you couldn’t have supported me when I said we should just stop lying, stop hiding, when I say that this is unnecessary, and that Hajime is being unnecessarily self-sacrificial and -” 

And the hurt whelms in his voice, finally cracking through: 

“- and I just don’t get why Hajime can’t trust in us enough to just tell the truth." Tooru's voice trembles as the words he hadn't realised he needed to say slip fron within him. "Why he can’t trust in us enough to share his load with me; why I can’t get through that stupid thick head of his that we’re in this together, and he doesn’t always have to carry the weight alone the way he always does -”  

Tooru breaks off abruptly, breathing heavily. 

José is quiet. He too, has now stood up. They both look at each other, the weight of Tooru's outburst, the emotion which had finally revealed, the anger which Tooru had really held explained - 

“Tooru." José keeps looking at Tooru steadily. "Hajime hasn’t stopped trusting you.” 

“Yes.” Tooru whispers, his voice thick with despair. “He has.” 

“No he hasn’t.” José says fiercely. “He trusts you; he loves you so, so much.” He exhales slowly. “Everything you said in the group call, he listened to, he considered so carefully. If Utashiro and Sofia and I weren’t there to agree with him, if we all had more time before the investigation, I think you would have been able to convince him to change his mind. I think you could have convinced him to tell the truth.” 

Tooru doesn’t understand why, but José’s words, his belief that he could have gotten his way, hurt even more than his earlier conviction that he had been outnumbered. He presses his hands against his nose, and then slowly over his eyes, as he pulls back at ragged breaths. 

“Tooru.” José says again, more gently this time. 

When Tooru looks up, José is gesturing to the chair before his desk.  

“Sit.” José says. “Please .”  

Tooru exhales. He closes his eyes, opens them again and then this time, finally moves around and into a seat. José too, returns to his seat. 

“Tooru.” José says quietly. “Whether you two want to come out or not is ultimately you and Hajime’s choice. And I’ll be here to support you no matter what happens and what you two choose.” 

“What I can say though, is that I can understand where Hajime may be coming from. Asides from,” José adds when Tooru opens his mouth. “considerations about what is best for you, I think I can understand why Hajime is so afraid. I know this is going to sound rich coming from me, a foreigner – but you,” He says gently. “have not worked in Japan before. Hajime has. I have.” He says, in reminder of his days coaching for Tachibana Red Falcons in the Japanese volleyball league.  

“And let me tell you.” José says gently. “I don’t know everything that is going on, but what I do know, it is a whole new ballpark altogether coming out in a workplace in a country where homosexuality isn’t openly accepted or openly spoken about.” 

“In a workplace where you don’t know how it will be taken.” 

*** 

It is 7:45am and the investigation has only really begun.  

Kaho-san had begun running through a few questions about Iwaizumi’s involvement in Volleyball Beyond Borders. Kuroo wonders how much of his tip-off and hint had prepared Iwaizumi for this direction of questioning, but either way, Iwaizumi gives no indication of having received a tip-off as Kaho-san continues:  

“You were invited to a Volleyball Beyond Borders end-of-filming drinks party. Do you remember attending this party?” 

Iwaizumi nods.  

“Yes. I remember attending the party.” 

“What time did you arrive at the party?” 

“Probably, about 6:30pm.” 

“Who did you arrive with at the party?” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes flicker aside once toward Kuroo.  

“Kuroo-san. Oikawa-san, and also maybe a few other members of the camera crew. We were last to leave the set.” 

“Do you remember what time you left the party?”  

“10 maybe? 10:30? The party had dwindled down by then. Some had kicked on for seconds, but I didn’t join them and instead went back to my room.” 

“Did you leave the party with anyone?” 

Iwaizumi looks straight at Kaho-san. In his chest, Kuroo’s heart had begun to hammer in anxiety on Iwaizumi’s behalf. He thinks he knows the answer to this.  

Simply, Iwaizumi replies:  

“I left the party with Oikawa-san.” 

*** 

“Had you met or known Daniel Martez before 30th June 2021?”  

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “No.” 

“What was your impression of him before 30th June?” Maeno contributes. 

Iwaizumi closes his eyes, thinking. 

“Good setter.” He responds. “But seems to have a bit of a temper issue, from the games I’ve seen.” He looks up, the purpling bruises on his face a blunt evidence of his words. 

“Did you interact with Daniel Martez at all during the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks?”  

“No.”  

“Do you remember Martez being at the drinks?” 

“I don’t remember seeing him there, but I heard he had been playing pool with a few of the Japanese and Argentinian team members.” 

“Did you play pool at any point during the drinks?”  

“No.” 

“Okay. Then, did you interact with Oikawa Tooru during the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks?” 

“Yes.” 

“How often? Sporadically? Consistently?” 

“Sporadically.” Iwaizumi answers. “We were both going around socialising mostly with the other team members so it was sporadic." And Kuroo knows, that he is being honest against his own recollection. 

“Did you two mostly speak in groups? Or did you ever speak alone?” 

There is only the briefest moment of hesitation, passable as a moment for recollection, before Iwaizumi replies: 

“Both.”  

“When, and where were you when you spoke alone?” 

Iwaizumi is silent for a while, his gaze lowered as he thinks. He then looks back up and answers, gazing slightly toward Kuroo: 

“Toward the end of the night, I was initially sitting in a group chatting with Kuroo, Oikawa and another Argentinian player Luc. I then got up to get water from the group at the bar. Oikawa came with me. We chatted for a little by the bar, and then out on the balcony.” 

“Is that the only time you spoke alone during the party?” 

“I think so.” 

“What did you two talk about?” 

Iwaizumi shrugs.  

“We’re old high school friends so we just caught up. Our mutual friend Makki is in between jobs now. We spoke a bit about how he was going and his job-hunting. Stuff like that.” 

“Did you two talk about work? About the Olympics?” 

Kuroo can see Iwaizumi frown slightly at this, as if trying to work out where the line of questioning is going. 

“I don’t think so.” Iwaizumi pauses, thinking about it a little. “I think we were both in a sentimental mood after doing a whole filming session about our friendship, so the conversation was more reminiscent rather than work-related. 

It is a good answer, Kuroo thinks. A good, believable, simple answer. 

“Did you two talk about Martez?” 

Iwaizumi laughs a little at this. 

“No.” He looks slightly amused. “We definitely didn’t.” 

“Have you two ever spoken about work in general?” Itta pipes up.  

“Yeah, of course we do.” Iwaizumi answers evenly. “I mean, we’ve been friends for this long – of course it pops up now and then.”  

“What about Martez?” Maeno adds. “Have you two ever spoken about Martez in general?” 

Iwaizumi nods honestly. 

“I follow volleyball. Oikawa is part of the volleyball scene; as is Martez. Martez has come up in conversation, yes.” 

“Okay.” Maeno nods. “Seeing as you follow volleyball,” He says unexpectedly. “Do you know who’s predicted to be in the running for the best setter award of the Olympics thus far?” 

Iwaizumi blinks, taken aback. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, before answering: 

“Oikawa I believe.” He pauses. “And well, before his suspension, Martez.” 

“Who has won the most best setter titles in the volleyball leagues in the past few years?” 

Again, Iwaizumi’s brow furrows in surprise at the irrelevance of the question. Still, he obliges Maeno: 

“Well, Martez is the old guard and reigning champion. But Oikawa is the new blood who is starting to snag titles away from Martez.” 

“And do you know about Oikawa’s run-in with Martez in the Volleyball Nation League of 2019?” 

“I -” Iwaizumi’s brows furrow. “Well, yes. Again, I follow volleyball news and inevitably, as Oikawa Tooru’s friend, I read volleyball news about him. So, yeah, I knew about his run-in with Martez in 2019.” 

“Did you ever talk about Oikawa about this run-in with Martez in 2019?” 

Kuroo can see what Maeno is trying to do. He wills Iwaizumi, through some desperate telepathy, to see through it too, to not get flustered by the strange line of questioning.  

Iwaizumi’s eyes flicker aside as he thinks for a while before he replies:  

“Yeah probably. We were friends then so that probably has come up.” 

“What did Oikawa say to you about his run-in with Martez?” 

“I don’t remember the exacts, but the gist of it was that he got angry at Martez because he thought Martez had been unprofessional.”   

“Why had he thought Martez had been unprofessional?” 

“I think Martez had been rude to one of Oikawa’s teammates and Oikawa had moved to his defence. To be honest though, I can’t remember if I know this fact from reading about it online, or from hearing it from Oikawa himself.” 

“What had Martez said to his teammate?” 

Iwaizumi holds Maeno’s gaze steadily. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember.” 

Maeno raises an eyebrow. “Did Martez say to you something similar to what he had said to Oikawa’s teammate?” 

Kuroo himself isn’t familiar with the 2019 incident that Maeno and Iwaizumi are talking about – but he sees the visceral reaction that this produces in Iwaizumi: the breath he draws sharply, the way his eyes narrow at this. But it is only for a split second, and Iwaizumi’s voice stays calm as he replies steadily: 

“I’m not sure. As I said, I don’t know what Martez said to Oikawa's teammate.” 

There is a silence, and then Maeno continues: 

“So you mentioned you chatted with Oikawa about mutual friends at the Volleyball Beyond Borders game, and then you left the party with him. Is that right?” 

Maeno’s questioning tone is more direct, more quick, more intense than Kaho’s had been. Kuroo can see the whiplash Iwaizumi gets from the sharp veering of the topic back to the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks again. 

“Well yeah – we chatted, then conversation died down. I was tired, he also agreed he was tired, so we both decided to leave.” 

“Where did you go after that?” 

Suddenly, Kuroo understands where this is going. He thinks of Luc calling Oikawa. He thinks of himself reaching Iwaizumi’s voicemail. 

“We were chatting on the balcony, so we went down the balcony staircase.” 

“And then what happened after?” 

Iwaizumi pauses. His mouth opens and closes on this for a moment. 

“We walked.” He says quietly. “We continued chatting for a while." 

“And where did you walk to?” 

Iwaizumi lets out a slow, controlled exhale. Kuroo doesn’t know if it is because he suspects he knows the answer to this that he thinks Iwaizumi seems especially nervous; or if Iwaizumi’s careful facade has indeed cracked for this one question.  

“We walked across the Olympic village. The bar the drinks was being held at was near the Japanese dormitories, so we walked in that direction.” 

“What did you two chat about then?” 

“Again, we were just catching up. Laughing about old times. Talking about old friends.” Iwaizumi’s gaze steadies; he meets Maeno's gaze squarely. 

“And then?” 

“And then,” Iwaizumi’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We went up to my room.” 

“And you two were alone there?” 

“Yes.” 

“What did you two do there?” 

“We talked.” Iwaizumi says quietly. “We sat and we talked.” 

“What did you talk about?” 

“Updates on each other’s life. The usual gossip two old friends talk about. Like how Oikawa’s ex had recently broken up with her new boyfriend. How Oikawa’s nephew is going. Stuff like that.” 

“Did you talk about work?” 

“No.” 

“Did you talk about Martez?” 

“No.” 

“And then what happened?” 

“Oikawa left. I went to sleep.” 

Kuroo’s heart has begun to hammer. Oikawa had lied to Lucas after all when Lucas had called asking where they were. Oikawa had lied about where Iwaizumi had gone after the drinks. 

“Where did Oikawa go?” 

“I don’t know. Back to his room maybe? I don’t know.” 

“At any point during this night, did you and Oikawa ever discuss working together or colluding to remove Daniel Martez from the games?” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen.  

And Kuroo can see the exact moment it hits Iwaizumi what the investigation is truly about. 

*** 

Tipping Iwaizumi off about the investigation had been a risky decision. 

One which if Kuroo had miscalculated could cost him his job. His career. His reputation, good will and integrity. 

The premonitions for the decision had begun earlier but had finally been made concrete by an email had arrived around 6pm the day prior to the investigations beginning. Maeno, in an email sent to Itta, Hibarida and Kuroo had written: 

Subject : Update re Iwaizumi and Martez fight  

Hi team,   

Martez has confirmed to the police and the Olympic Committee that he fought Iwaizumi in self-defence.  

He says he overheard Iwaizumi and Oikawa colluding to get him removed from the Olympics a couple days before the fight, on the night of 28 th of June 2021 (after Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks).  

On 30 th of June 2021, Martez says he confronted Iwaizumi about the collusion after their game with Japan. This led to Iwaizumi getting angry and making threats at Martez. When this began escalating, Martez’s friends jumped to his defence and things got out of hand as the fight broke out.   

Martez claims the collusion to have him removed would have benefited:  

• Iwaizumi on behalf of Team Japan (as Spain had been assigned as the next team Japan was playing against on the 30th of June); and  
• Oikawa Tooru (because Martez and Oikawa are top running contenders for the best setter award). 

These are serious accusations. We may also loop in someone from the Argentinian team too to make them aware of the accusations made against Oikawa Tooru.    

Let’s arrange for a quick conference call ASAP.  

Kind regards,  
Maeno 

Kuroo had stared at the email, reading it and re-reading it in increasing incredulity. 

Iwaizumi? Colluding with Oikawa Tooru? 

What could Iwaizumi and Oikawa have done to get Martez intentionally removed from the game, had it not been for the fight? Plant drugs on him? Accuse Martez in turn of cheating? Set up a cartoonish booby trap to sprain Martez’s ankle to render him in crutches the way Iwaizumi is now?   

On paper, the theory did fit with the puzzle pieces. During Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks, Kuroo had last seen Iwaizumi chatting to Oikawa by the bar before they had both disappeared. Kuroo also seen the health report prepared by Iwaizumi for Oikawa, the photo of exercises Iwaizumi had sent Oikawa. There was also the closeness the two held which Iwaizumi had consistently lied about yet struggled to explain when caught out. 

Still, Kuroo’s gut told him something wasn’t right. 

There was something against which the allegation that Iwaizumi and Oikawa were colluding did not fit .  

Truth to be told, Kuroo wasn’t ignorant. He knew what he saw. It had just been easier, neater, more professional to pretend he did not. There were things he had observed while spending his copious amounts of hours planning, coordinating, filming and editing Volleyball Beyond Borders, things he had tried not to dwell on, tried not to speculate into, tried not to entertain when Atsumu spoke aloud the obvious. Things he had tried to take Iwaizumi’s word for, to ease over, to skip past, to ignore and pretend not to see - for Iwaizumi’s sake. 

Still, those were things he could not ignore. They were things which had then sharpened into clarity after he had found all the proof that Iwaizumi offered no easy explanation for. Things he knew, he could not truly confirm without Iwaizumi agreeing so, but could sense with his own gut: 

Iwaizumi Hajime has feelings for Oikawa Tooru. 

There was a short clip from Volleyball Beyond Borders Jono had loved and wanted to make the outro to roll the credits over. It was a clip from the day-in-a-life-swap segment, when Iwaizumi and Oikawa had played volleyball together. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had just scored a point, Oikawa beaming and Iwaizumi laughing as they exchanged a high-ten. Iwaizumi had then trailed off the court for a drink of water, a ghost of a smile still lingered on his face.  

The camera had followed Iwaizumi, zoomed in on him for slightly too long. Iwaizumi had drunk his water, and then looked aside, his gaze softening. The camera panned out – revealing Oikawa walking over, also smiling, looking like he was glowing under the sunset. 

They didn’t say anything. Oikawa stretched out a palm; Iwaizumi placed a bottle of water into it.  

They looked at each other briefly, both glanced away, and then together, looked at each other again a second longer time. They smiled. 

It would have been the perfect outro to roll the credits over. 

If not for the fact that Kuroo had suddenly felt like he had accidentally intruded on something private. 

Iwaizumi had feelings for Oikawa.  

And there were feelings private enough, or perhaps were part of a situation complicated enough, that Iwaizumi never spoke about them aloud. That Iwaizumi would choose to lie about how well he knew Oikawa Tooru. That he would thread carefully around the topic, around Oikawa Tooru, while trying to support Kuroo’s vision for Beyond Borders.  

Whether the feelings were returned Kuroo did not know and refused to speculate about. It was none of his business, and he refused to join the maddening crowd which jostled Iwaizumi, and Oikawa, who clearly hated being asked such questions for answers. 

Yet, there are things which are beyond Kuroo’s control. Like the decision made during the video call Kuroo had with Maeno, Itta and Hibarida shortly after Martez confirmed his allegations: that despite the clear lack of evidence, the suspicious lack of specificity in Martez’s claim, Iwaizumi would be investigated against those claims.  

Like the unrefutable logic in Maeno’s pointing out that Iwaizumi is a support staff who held a position of trust. He had a duty to care for the wellbeing of the athletes and had access to a large amount of the team’s confidential information. If he had indeed colluded and made the threats that started the fight, he would have engaged in a serious misconduct for someone entrusted with his role. A finding that his professional or sports integrity had been compromised meant effects not just on himself but also potentially, the end of their journey and fight for the Olympic medals. 

“We’ll begin by putting the allegations to Iwaizumi as soon as possible, and getting his response.” Maeno had confirmed. “If he replies to our satisfaction, we can publicly back him and just put an end to all of this.” 

“And if not,” He had added. “We will have to take the investigation further.” 

*** 

Which was why Kuroo in turn, had made a decision of his own. 

“Why give me a tip off about the investigation when you’ve seen all the incriminating evidence against me?” Iwaizumi had asked last night. He stared at him, his gaze still unreadable. “Why give me time to remove the evidence, to collude with witnesses, to taint the outcome of the investigation? Why not just pass what you know to Maeno and Hibarida and Itta, instead of giving me this heads up?” 

“Because,” Kuroo had responded quietly. “You are you, Iwaizumi. But I owe an obligation to you: as someone I trust, as my friend . I can’t give you the specific claims Martez raised because I owe an obligation to my job, to my team,” He explained, frustrated. “But I trust you Iwa, I trust you enough to at least give you a heads-up about this investigation.”  

At this, Iwaizumi looked away, drawing a deep, sharp breath. Unperturbed, Kuroo continued fiercely, wishing for Iwaizumi to catch on to what he meant but had just not said aloud yet:  

“Because I trust that whatever it is, you haven’t done anything wrong Iwa.” Kuroo said fiercely. “So please, make sure you prove to us that we haven’t misplaced that trust.” 

*** 

“At any point during this night, did you and Oikawa ever discuss working together to remove Daniel Martez from the games?” 

Maeno repeats the question again in the face of Iwaizumi’s stunned silence.  

Iwaizumi pulls himself together, answering quickly, sharply: 

“No. No, o f course not.”  

“Okay. And at any point during this night, did you and Oikawa ever discuss working together to fix a match or to cheat in the Olympic games?” 

“No. God, no. Maeno, that’s terrible – of course we wouldn’t have done anything like that -” 

“Has Oikawa ever paid you money in exchange for fixing a match, or perhaps, engaging in certain conduct in the games?” Maeno continues, ignoring Iwaizumi. 

“No. Never.” 

“Have you ever leaked any confidential information of the team to Oikawa then?” 

“Definitely not.”  

"Did Martez confront you about a suggestion that you and Oikawa colluded to remove him from the games?” 

“ No.”  

“And did you get angry at Martez, hence initiating the fight and justifying Martez acting in self-defence, because he accused you of colluding with Oikawa Tooru?” 

“ No.” Iwaizumi exhales, and Kuroo can see indeed, the emotion, the frustration, that Iwaizumi is now struggling to push down. “There was no such thing. Martez never said such a thing. I never did anything which would justify Martez acting in self-defence -” 

"Then what had Martez said instead?” Maeno raises a brow. “What has he said that you can’t repeat to us, that is instead the reason you confronted him? The threats Martez denies making against you, against Hinata, against Oikawa, against Ushijima, which you still haven’t told us ?” 

When Iwaizumi is silent, Hibarida joins in as well, speaking up for the first time the entire investigation: 

“Iwaizumi, we know you, we want to trust you, we want to help you. ” Hibarida looks at Iwaizumi fiercely, almost agonisingly. “But it is difficult, so difficult without the whole story.”  

“Iwaizumi-san.” Kaho-san adds quietly. “We remind you that whatever you tell us will be kept confidential. It will be kept within this room and just this room only.” 

“And the truth will only help.” Itta adds. “It will help the investigation, the team, the integrity of the games – it will help us. It will help you.” His gaze is serious and it strikes Kuroo that Itta is also sincerely frustrated because he sincerely wants the best for Iwaizumi and for the team. “Please, Iwaizumi, keep that in mind.” 

Maeno looks at Iwaizumi. And he says, bluntly, in a sentiment uncannily reminiscent of the way Kuroo had finally convinced Iwaizumi to do Volleyball Beyond Borders:  

“Iwaizumi, consider how your decisions impact the team. Consider how your decisions impact the integrity of the games.” 

*** 

Down to it, Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who always tries to do what is right.  

He knows what is right for the team. He knows what is right for the investigation. 

He also knows what Tooru thinks is right for them . 

What Tooru wants him to do. What Tooru wants him to say.  

It was something Tooru had been clear about in the calls in the morning, even when he had been outnumbered by José, Sofia and Utashiro. Hajime could see the frustration Tooru had gritted back for his sake in the group call, the way Tooru had let it go in order to instead offer him support in the final call before the investigation meeting.  

Hajime knows the impact of his decisions on Tooru.  

He knows the impact of everything that is going on - of his refusal to tell the whole story - on Tooru. 

Slowly, Hajime lets out an exhale. 

He closes his eyes, and then slowly opens them again. 

He is happy to lose the battle, if it means winning the war. 

If it means doing what is right for Tooru. 

He meets Maeno’s gaze. And quietly, he begins to say:  

“Martez called me homophobic slurs. I confronted him about it. That was how the fight began.” 

His words are met with a silence so loud that a pin drop could have been heard. He hates the reactions he can see are rippling through the group: Hibarida’s eyes widening, Kaho’s brows furrowing, Itta and Abe’s looks of shock, Maeno’s quiet grimace, Kuroo’s downturned gaze. 

Finally, Kaho is the one who asks, gently: 

“What slurs did Martez call you? Where were you when this happened?”  

Hajime shakes his head. His heart is hammering so loud in his chest he feels sure that everyone in the room can hear it. Do they believe him? He wonders. What are they inferring of this revalation? Do they think that this means that he is -  

He tries to push those thoughts aside; to push back the fear that rises in his chest every time he thinks back to the fight, the fear that claws at his throat and threatens to suffocate him. He forces his breathing to calm, burns his gaze at Kaho, and answers, with a voice as steady and unaffected as he can manage: 

“Martez called me a fag. I was out in the volleyball courts as Martez and Perez walked past and Martez called me a fag.” 

“And then after that,” Maeno wears a quiet look of severity as he asks. “What happened?” 

“I followed them back into their locker rooms to confront them. There, I ran into a bunch of them – Martez, Perez and Navarro. They continued making threats and slurs.”  

“What was said?” 

“Someone said fags shouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the same dorms as other men,” A numbness is starting to descend over him as he speaks. He feels as if he is drifting away from his body and the words escaping from his mouth, heavy and ugly, aren’t his own. “Another person told me to go to hell. Someone asked me how gays fuck. I don’t think he sincerely wanted to know.” He laughs, trying to use the joke to regain a better grip on himself, a closer grip on reality. He tries for a small smile. It looks forced, he knows. “You know. Stuff like that.” 

“And was there a trigger to all of this?” Itta asks. He looks concerned. “Is there a reason of some sort Martez had begun calling you these slurs?” 

Hajime gazes back at him. At Maeno. At Kuroo, who has now risen his head and is now looking at him with a look so complicated that Hajime knows in the moment that Kuroo knows, Kuroo must know - 

Hajime shakes his head. 

“No.” He says quietly. “I have no idea why they began calling me these slurs." 

*** 

Down to it, Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who always tries to do what is right. 

It is part of his name after all: his willingness to be the first to do what is right; his inner moral compass which forces him forward, his stubborn inability to leave wrongs un-rightened, the stubborn will which he pushes through life with the same way spring water cracks through solid rock - 

Down to it, Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who loves Oikawa Tooru. 

And for those he loves, Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who will always try to do what is right.  

Notes:

Iwa’s name in Kanji (岩泉) means rock/spring water, and Hajime (一) means first or to begin.

I like to think baby Hajime used to gloat about how he can write his first name since day 1 of kindy (一) while baby Tooru fumes over the unfairness that is his struggle to learn his first name (徹) hahaha.

I am GLAD that the name of the fic is finally coming in relevance(!!). And even though Iwa was probably so nervous lying his socks off, I'd like to think Iwa too would find it funny on hindsight that he decided to describe him and Oiks making out passionately on the balcony as "catching up" (while accidentally dissing Makki's joblessness in the process). Though of course, we can laugh more about it when this is all over and we can make sure poor Iwa never has to recount his fight with Martez again.

For myself, Tooru’s conversation with José hit emotional notes which took me by surprise even as I was writing it. I don’t think Iwa has at any point in the story ever consciously doubted how much he trusts and loves Tooru (except for maybe acknowledging how his anxiety attacks taint everything including his interactions with Tooru), yet it is interesting that the takeaway Tooru has constantly taken from Hajime’s actions are that Hajime has somehow stopped trusting in him – idk let me know what you think!

Let me know your thoughts/ theories/feel – whether each character you think made the right decision, whether Kuroo’s tip-off made a difference, what wars or battles Hajime and Tooru are fighting – otherwise incoherent babbling and screaming @me are very welcomed too :P

As always, hope you enjoyed and see ya next time!

Chapter 19: Drop in the ocean

Summary:

Hajime and Tooru grapple with the investigation results and the side effects that come of that. 

Notes:

Hello!! Ummm it's been a while hasn't it?

Honestly, my biggest enemy as a working salaryman is the lack of time LOL and I think if every time I update basically just coincides with when I either take annual leave/ sick leave / if there is a public holiday. So I guess my work timesheets will be the best indicator of this fic's update schedule?

In any case, here ya go - hope you enjoy! :)

Love weighs more once you become acquainted with loss. 

The two become folded together, intertwined, dressed and disguised as one other. It becomes difficult to discern when one will appear and the other disappear; which waves will carry and corners turn. 

In the Oikawa household that warm spring morning, they leapt at him from everywhere. The childhood photo no longer hung in the hallway. The spot by the coat rack no longer reserved for his shoes. In the living room, the dark oak table he and Nii-chan had built together that one summer still sat in the middle of the tatami. Across the walls, it was not hard to tell which years of framed family portrait shoots Tooru had not been invited to. 

Love, once you have known grief, takes on a different meaning. It becomes more dangerous, more sacred. 

It becomes something you now know can be lost. 

Sitting cross-legged facing one another in the living room, she poured out two cups of tea. He murmured his thanks. Neither of them could quite meet the other’s eye. 

Outside, a gentle breeze rustled the buds of flowers yet to bloom. Inside, the sunlight cast the room in a gentle gold. They sat in continued silence, the steaming tea cups clasped between their hands until finally, in a sentence both too formal and too tender at the same time, Hajime said: 

“Okaa-san, I brought some fruits and seafood.” 

The square box hidden in his jacket burned, like his hammering heart, against his ribs. 

*** 

Eleven years ago, in a house not far from his down the street, Oikawa Tooru awoke in the depths of a cool summer’s night. Outside, the thin weave of rain pelted, a rhythm which enjoined the hushed hum of conversation in the house. The air smelt of chrysanthemum and herbal medicine. 

A thin rectangle of light was spilt from the ajar bedroom door when Tooru sat up in his guest futon, blinking blearily. “Iwa-chan?” He murmured, raising a hand to his left. 

He looked aside when his fingers found empty, rumpled sheets. 

Iwaizumi Hajime was not in his bed. 

They had been fourteen that year. 

Teenagers, little more than kids themselves. 

*** 

Twelve years later,  on the ninth day of the Tokyo Olympics, Kuroo Tetsurou once again faces the humbling reminder that for all the time they have spent working together, he does not know Iwaizumi Hajime well at all. 

But, at the very least, he is making progress. 

The investigation wraps up as best it can. Hibarida and the Olympic Committee member Kaho-san each ask a few more questions, Hibardia out of helpfulness, Kaho out of professional duty. When it becomes clear that there is nothing more Iwaizumi is willing to say on the matter, the questions taper to a close. 

Maeno explains to Iwaizumi that they will now discuss a decision on the investigation, which will mean he has to leave the room during the deliberation. Itta thanks Iwaizumi for his cooperation and prompts Kuroo to lead him out. 

No one asks the question that has been the elephant in the room. 

Whether it is a good sign or not, Kuroo cannot tell. 

In an ideal world, it shouldn’t matter . The question of Iwaizumi’s sexuality is just as irrelevant to the investigation as his race would be if Martez had hurled racial instead of homophobic slurs. But as Kuroo opens the door to lead Iwaizumi out of the investigations room, he catches Iwaizumi’s eye and he understands they both know that it won’t be as simple as that. 

For Kuroo, his job is simple. Contribute his thoughts to the investigation outcome, act on behalf of the Japanese Volleyball Association. As he leads Iwaizumi to a separate meeting room to wait out the making of the investigation decision, he can hear Kenma warning him in his head: It’s no longer any of your business, Kuroo, you’ve done your part. You warned Iwaizumi about the investigation last night and that is already more than enough.  

But to Kuroo, it doesn’t feel enough . Not when he had this morning finally watched the CCTV footage of the attack, flinching at the brutality Iwaizumi had downplayed in each re-telling of the incident. Not when he has just started learning how to read Iwaizumi and now knows that the low, bitter laugh Iwaizumi gave when recounting the homophobic slurs was nothing but a facade for the anger, fear and (Kuroo suspects) self-deprecation he feels toward the incident. 

It doesn’t feel like enough when finally, all the pieces are falling in place and making sense in Kuroo’s mind. Iwaizumi’s initial hesitation to do Volleyball Beyond Borders. His struggle to answer when confronted by all the evidence of his closeness to Oikawa. The two completely different stories Iwaizumi has told. One, in which he says Martez had threatened Oikawa, Ushijima, Hinata and Kageyama but refused to provide any more details, almost like as if not caring if Martez was prosecuted for his actions as long as Oikawa, Ushijima, Hinata and Kageyama were protected. 

And now, this second story. A story in which Martez makese homophobic threats against Iwaizumi, and just Iwaizumi alone. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see what the turning point had been. 

Once Kuroo closes the door and it is just the two of them in the small meeting room, he says quietly: 

“You’re doing all this for him, aren't you?” 

Iwaizumi tenses, turning to look at him. Incredulity and fear split across his eyes for a second, so fast Kuroo could have imagined it. 

“The way you are choosing which details to tell, which to withhold.” Kuroo continues. “The way your story changed the minute Martez’s allegations stopped being against just you, and instead, also against Oikawa Tooru.” He meets Iwaizumi’s eyes. “You’re not doing this to protect you. You’re doing this to protect Oikawa.” 

Iwaizumi’s mouth opens, and then shuts. He holds Kuroo’s gaze, saying nothing for a moment. There is an unreadable emotion in his eyes. Anger but not quite anger, fear but not quite fear, determination but not quite determination.  

Kuroo Tetsurou doesn’t know Iwaizumi Hajime very well. 

But if he had to put a guess as to that emotion, he’d call it love. 

*** 

“I am trying to help you,” Kuroo urges. “But I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want out of this.” 

He and Iwaizumi stand, arms’ length apart. Iwaizumi’s shoulders are squared, his jaw tensed, his gaze wary. Like an old guard dog who has been beaten down one too many times. Around his crutches, his hands are gripped tight. 

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Kuroo adds urgently. Desperately wanting Iwaizumi to understand. “But at the very least, I need to know what outcome you want to achieve, what interests you want to prioritise first. That’s why I’m asking -” 

“But why?” Iwaizumi interrupts. He shakes his head, letting out a low laugh. “Why would you help me ?” 

And there is something, something in the way Iwaizumi has asked the question, which cracks open a realisation for Kuroo. Iwaizumi does have all the right to be wary of telling Kuroo things: Kuroo had last night made it clear he owed a responsibility to pass on anything Iwaizumi told him to the Olympic Committe and team managers. And Iwaizumi admitting he was doing this for Oikawa would be just as sure as admitting that he was - 

“You know why I’m helping you?” Kuroo says. An anger is beginning to rise in his chest, as he suddenly understands where this is coming from. “Because, you’re you, Iwa, and after all you’ve said today, you’re still you.” He looks fiercely at Iwaizumi who has now stilled completely, staring back at him. “I have worked with you for more than a year now Iwa. And even if I don’t know you well personally, I know you well professionally. I know you’re a person of integrity. Of honesty.” 

“And because of that, I trust you.” Kuroo says quietly. “And nothing, nothing you’ve said today has or will change that.” 

In words unspoken, Kuroo says to Iwaizumi: 

And nothing about you being gay will ever change that.  

*** 

“So?” Kuroo tries again. “Would I be right in saying,” He hesitates and then steps carefully: “that what you want out of the investigation is to put not just your interests first, but also Oikawa Tooru’s?” 

Iwaizumi stares at him for a silent, heavy moment. 

He then lets out a slow exhale, closes his eyes and nods. 

*** 

There are two decisions the Olympic Committe, the Japanese National Mens’ Volleyball Team and Kuroo as the Japanese Volleyball Association representative have to come to: 

Firstly, what to conclude of the investigation into Iwaizumi’s and Martez’s respective allegations. 

And secondly, whether to suspend Iwaizumi from working in the Olympic games. 

Once Kuroo returns to the conference room, they begin with the first question. Already, there is no easy answer. Both Martez and Iwaizumi’s stories are patchy and inconsistent. If Martez had suspected that Iwaizumi and Oikawa were plotting to remove him, why hadn’t he reported it to the Olympic Committee earlier? But if the fight had all this time been because of homophobic threats, why hadn’t Iwaizumi just brought that up with the police in the first place? 

Iwaizumi’s stories have their troubling internal inconsistency as to exactly who Martez made threats to. There also also gaps he still hasn’t covered, like how the homophobic slurs had begun in the first place. Martez’s allegations however, are flawed in a different way. There was little detail of what he suggested had been Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s ploy was to remove him from the game: and the allegation itself, lacking in particularity and specificity, came off as a wild try for a self-defence claim. 

“Given the issues with both sides, I think we simply don’t have enough information to make a decision.” Maeno concludes. “We need to extend the investigation to collect more evidence: finances, correspondences, close circuit camera footage, witnesses, document records. Verification for which version of events is the correct one.” 

It is the best outcome, Kuroo thinks, that Iwaizumi can realistically get from the investigation. 

And here is where he jumps in, suggesting as causally as he can: 

“Maybe, we can start with just witnesses and the CCTV footage?” 

Cautiously, Kuroo begins threading out his reasons. While there was CCTV footage of the fight, the CCTV had not recorded sound nor of the conversation leading up to the fight, so the next best thing are the witness accounts. He suggests Hinata, Kageyama and Ushijima, being the one present to the fight (and witnesses who are likely to take Iwaizumi’s side) as well as the remaining Spanish players also at the locker rooms during the fight (who are unlikely, he thinks, with 3 of their teammates already suspended, to lie and take the risk of similarly getting in trouble). 

Next, he suggests taking CCTV footage from the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks where Martez claimed he overheard Iwaizumi and Oikawa colluding to remove him. If Iwaizumi was telling the truth, there would simply be no such footage. 

Other witnesses could then be drawn from the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks attendance list if these first few witnesses were unhelpful. Witnesses who could then verify, which of Martez and Iwaizumi’s accounts were closer to the truth of the night’s events. 

“To save time, I don’t think we necessarily need to look into finances, emails, text messages or document records at this point. Nor do we need to investigate Oikawa Tooru on those colluding allegations until we have exhausted our present investigations.” Kuroo finishes. 

When Maeno, Itta and Kaho agree that his suggestions make practical sense, Kuroo feels a wave of relief. 

He thinks of the clinical notes Iwaizumi had made for Oikawa which he had accidentally seen, the text messages Luc had shown him and knows he has at least taken some things off Iwaizumi’s plate for now. 

Then, comes the decision Kuroo is less confident on: whether to suspend Iwaizumi from work. 

The main issue, Maeno explains, is that because Martez and his friends as one side to the fight have been suspended, then the argument is that Iwaizumi should be too in the interest of fairness. 

“Yes, but Iwaizumi has not done nothing wrong.” Kaho says calmly. Kuroo looks up, slight startled to hear the Olympic Committee member who has remained fairly neutral throughout the discussion taking a side on this question. “There is clear CCTV footage of Martez and his friends assaulting Iwaizumi.” Kaho continues, looking around, her gaze even. “But nothing in the footage shows that Iwaizumi landed any blows in turn on Martez and his friends, except to try and protect himself and escape.” 

“None of Martez’s allegations against Iwaizumi have been concluded as true yet either.” She adds with a shrug. “And pending that, I see no reason to suspend him.”   

Maeno’s brows furrow. “I understand that from a doing what is just and fair perspective,” He agrees and then glances slightly at Itta and Kuroo’s direction. “But from an optics perspective, the question still remains: if there is an ongoing investigation into Iwaizumi and an allegation floating around that he has colluded with another player, then is there a benefit in suspending him as a precautionary measure to maintain the team’s reputation?” 

“Suspending him temporarily may be unfair to him, but it is what may be needed to maintain the integrity of the Japanese team and the Olympic Committer. A way to prevent anyone calling favouritism for the host country, or to bring up any issues with the Japanese Team continuing to have someone who has colluding allegations against him.” Itta nods in considering agreement along with Maeno’s words. “These are things which we know people have started to say. And if we suspend Iwaizumi while still paying his salary, the benefits of reigning in these public rumours may outweigh any unfairness caused to him.” 

“Iwaizumi’s an athletic trainer too of all things.” Maeno’s eyes narrow as he tacks this on. “As a health professional who has to work closely in proximity with all these athletes, he holds a higher duty of care than just any normal athlete. There is not just an issue of public perception,” And it is to his next sentence that Kuroo feels a sense of unease: “but also an issue of trust within the team to still carry out his roles with these allegations hanging over his head.” 

There is a silence in the room. Hibarida is looking down, quiet, perhaps aware that he works too closely with Iwaizumi to make an unbiased opinion about the matter. Kaho-san has sat back, crossing her arms, her body language indicating this is a matter for the Japanese Team to decide on. And now, Itta is leaning forward, opening his mouth, looking like he is about to agree with Maeno when Kuroo jumps in: 

“Just thinking aloud,” Kuroo’s voice loud in the quiet room. He can feel all the eyes turning to him and he picks his words cautiously. “I think what we are feeling is that we need to do some damage control. But that it is perhaps a little premature and unfair to suspend Iwaizumi from his work in order to achieve this damage control.” 

Maeno’s eyes narrow, still unconvinced. But it is Itta this time who steps in this time, looking interested: 

“Okay., I accept that point.” Itta hums. “What have you got in mind to damage control instead then?” 

“Rather than suspending Iwaizumi, we utilise his current fame to do the PR damage control.” Kuroo says. His heart begins to hammer: he knows that he is taking a gamble, one which can pay off handsomely or terribly for Iwaizumi. “We put Iwa front and centre before the cameras. Let the public see for themselves what injuries he has received, let the public hear for themselves what has happened. 

“If Iwaizumi has nothing to hide,” Kuroo continues, trying to sound more confident than he is. “then he has nothing to be afraid of.” 

“I say instead of suspending him, I say we let Iwaizumi face the world and prove that for himself.” 

*** 

Cameras.

Cameras and microphones everywhere.

At 9:30am on the ninth day of the Olympics, Iwaizumi Hajime steps out into the brutal reminder that the world is indeed now watching him. 

There are cameras, cameras and microphones everywhere as he and Kuroo make their way toward the Ariake Arena for Team Japan’s next match. Groups of athletes nudge one another and whisper. Spectators who had arrived to watch the games stare for too long and angle phone cameras at him. News anchors dressed up and waiting to go live watch him, their eyes widening in recognition, as they begin usher their film team over in his direction. Journalists with large cameras frown, eyes widen and then raise their cameras, clipping on their flashes.

“People know who you are now.” Kuroo had said simply, when they had readied themselves to step out into the Olympic Village. “And once you’re famous,” He adds, in words Hajime has heard from Tooru a million times before but never truly understood, “it becomes quite hard to go back to being un-famous.” 

The investigation decision had been reached by around 9:15am.

After the Olympic Committee and team managers gave Hajime the formal outcome, Kuroo had then pulled Hajime aside to run him through the details: the witnesses, the CCTV footages. 

And in Hajime’s head, he is acutely aware, there is so much more to do, so much more he has to prepare. The outcome Kuroo had gotten for him was amazing, but also not perfect. Paulo and Atsumu are both Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks witnesses who may easily be interviewed, neither of which he nor Tooru have properly spoken to. Hajime is also uneasy about the Volleyball Beyond Borders drinks CCTV footage; if any of them have captured when he and Tooru had kissed. 

Truth to be told, Hajime had barely slept last night. He had spent hours after Kuroo’s forewarning preparing for the investigation: cleaning up his document trails and re-tracing his steps to check CCTV footage, making sure his story is aligned with any evidence. He is certain that the sleep deprivation he has staved off for days will hit him sooner or later – but right now, there is so much on, so much to do that any tiredness has been swept up by the nervous thrum of adrenaline and determination to just not fuck things up.  

And of course, there is the public relations, the facing of the media. 

The one part of the investigation outcome, Hajime understands, was a trade Kuroo had made in exchange for not being suspended from the Olympics. 

An aspect which he has now realised, if done well, will also help with closing off the investigations; and making sure it doesn’t get anywhere near affecting Tooru. 

“You are not just a face for yourself now.” Kuroo had added in his list of public-relations-warnings for him earlier. “You’re also the face for the Japanese Team, for their reputation, for them to be sure that they haven’t made the wrong decision in trusting you and not suspending you.” His eyes harden as he adds, blunt and straightforward: “In that same way, and maybe you already know this but I'm going to tell you this again anyway because this is important: you’re also a face for Oikawa Tooru. For the Olympic Committee to know they haven’t made the wrong decision in not investigating him. For the public to know it is Oikawa made the right choice in choosing you as a friend, when he appeared beside you on Volleyball Beyond Borders. ” 

The words begin a slow twist in Hajime’s stomach. 

And as they walk across the Olympic Village now, they are watched; and as they are watched, they are crowded in. Cameras ranging from professional to phones; kids pointing, adults gazing. By the time the first news reporter approaches them, Hajime has come to accept that it is inevitable, that this had to begin some way or another: 

“Hello!” The news reporter must be American, if the television channel logo plastered on her microphone is anything to show it. She grins up at Hajime, looking fresh-faced, curious, excitable, almost like a student out on a field trip. “Excuse for my interruption,” She says in English, “but are you Iwaizumi Hajime the Japanese Team’s athletic trainer?” 

“I -” Hajime hesitates, glancing at Kuroo slightly, who just nods in confirmation that he should respond to her. “Yes, yes I am.” He replies in English. He continues to walk, trying to shake her off, but the woman merely beams and follows along. Behind her, a camera man with a large camera hoisted on his shoulder keeps up to their pace. “Sorry, I can’t really stop to talk, we’re headed to our team’s next game.” 

“Oh!” The reporter smiles, her eyes widening. “Are you preparing your players for the next game?” 

“Yes.” Hajime confirms, thinking it an uncontroversial answer. Something about the reporter’s eager smile makes him uneasy in a way he can’t put his finger on. 

“Does that mean you’ve been cleared of all investigations if you haven’t been suspended from work then?” The reporter’s eyes widen. “Does that also mean Daniel Martez’s claim that the attack was out of self-defence has been disproven?” 

And that is when Hajime blinks, suddenly fully aware of the situation he has walked right into, suddenly aware that this, all of this, all of the public relations components he has agreed to, is akin to the beginning of the second interrogation of himself. A bigger and much broader, much more public interrogation than that  he had just finished this morning. Next to him, Kuroo is watching him with a quiet, focus gaze and Hajime realises, Kuroo has known that what is about to happen, which is why he has so carefully prepared Hajime prior to leaving the building earlier to say: 

“The investigations are still ongoing and I have been cleared to return to work for the time being.” Hajime says. Around him, reporters have begun crowding, cameras flashing, microphones leaning in. The numbing sensation that he had had during the interview is beginning to drift over him again as he repeats the words, as if saying things from a body not his own: “I cannot comment on anything else until the Olympic Committee and Team Japan will provide their official statements.” 

And with that seemingly small first drop in the ocean, the public media storm well and truly begins .  

*** 

Unnervingly, Tooru first hears of the investigation outcome not from Hajime, but through social media. 

He has joined in his team’s morning training in between intermittently checking his smartwatch for any new updates from his boyfriend. When his smartwatch beeps with a notification at 9:45am, he quickly ducks aside in case it is from Hajime – and when he sees that it is from Mattsun and Makki, he exhales and opens the message anyway. 

In a group chat they have with Hajime and Tooru, Mattsun has sent a new link saying: 

Yo Mr Bigshot Iwa, we saw you on Twitter this morning. Martez REALLY got you bad huh.  

Yeah dude, Makki has added, are you okay?? I can’t believe they’re still investigating you when that’s the damage Martez has done to you?

The link Mattsun sent is a clip of Hajime walking through the Olympic Village grounds with Kuroo by his side. He is gazing forward at a news reporter, scowling slightly the way he often defaults to when caught off-guard in the spotlight, as he answers yes, he is returning to work and yes, the investigations are still ongoing. It is the first time Hajime has appeared on camera since the fight, his bruises just as atrocious as Tooru remembers them. 

And it is also, Tooru realises with a jolt, the first time he himself has heard of the result of the investigation Hajime, which he had just been waiting on Hajime to update him on. 

It is an unnerving sensation, one which Tooru has only recently become acquainted with. He continues standing in the court for a moment longer, staring into Hajime’s face on the small Twitter video clip, blood suddenly loud in his ears, an ache growing in his chest. He has, he realised, likely for the first time in his life, learnt important news about Iwaizumi Hajime, not first from Iwaizumi Hajime, but first from the world. Like as if the world has stolen from him the one thing that had always belonged exclusively to him and only him. 

It is a sensation, Tooru realises, that Hajime must be intimately familiar with. Because usually, their positions are swapped and it is Tooru, Tooru who is featured in news interviews which Hajime has no forewarning for. It is usually Tooru who grows trending on social media accounts reporting things live which Hajime finds out about updates through. 

And it is this uneasiness, this ache of a privacy, an intimacy Tooru hadn’t realised he had treasured as much as he did before which is now lost.

This uneasiness which now grapples Tooru’s chest in knowing, knowing that there is no going back now once this has begun.

Once he has to begin sharing Iwaizumi Hajime with the world. 

And this, a small voice whispers in his head, must be an unhappy, uncomfortable feeling Hajime has learnt to live with for years now, for you. 

Tooru runs his tongue over his lips. He picks up his phone and calls Hajime, once and then twice, waiting, needing and then listening with an ache to Hajime’s voice when the voicemail runs. He then watches the Twitter video again: taking in the quite calmnenss in Hajime’s answers, the steadiness of his voice, the near-lack of any sign that this is a man who has broken down almost every single day in the past week leading to today. And even though he can’t put his finger on it, a feeling deep in his gut tells him that something, something is wrong, something is coming close to a dangerous breaking point and he knows, part of it is that the stakes which have been building and building for a while now, are now much higher than they have ever been, than they had been at Hajime’s neighbour’s Facebook post, at Atsumu’s tweet, at the publication of Volleyball Beyond Borders -  

He exits Twitter to snap himself out of the loop of watching and re-watching the video. He calls the group, catching Makki and speaking to him for a while. 

He then calls Hinata, hits his voicemail, and then calls Kageyama and Ushijima. 

He also hits voicemail with Furuya and leaves a message. 

Hajime has a game at 11am, a press conference 2:30pm today and then an end-of-prelim-games party at night. 

Tooru similarly, has the same press conference today, a game at 3pm and then the same end-of-prelim-games party. It will be difficult to find time and space to properly talk to Hajime until after it is all over. 

He has made a promise to be Hajime’s safety net, and he is not about to let Hajime down now of all times. 

Even if it means sometimes, doing things Hajime doesn’t want him to do. 

*** 

As Hajime soon learns, the American news reporter had been but a tame beginning. 

Daniel Martez has played in both European and American leagues and unsurprisingly, his fans from both regions are not happy about the decision by the Olympics to suspend him. Hajime is crowded by predominantly European and American news casters who shower him with an endless list of questions as he gets closer to the Ariake Arena, them having known they would find him there. 

The questions centre around the theories about the attack: What do you say to the suggestion that Martez had acted in self-defence? Was that part of a scheme to remove Martez from the games? Others, to Hajime’s unease, appeared more interest in tying Tooru to the situation, asking: are you aware of Martez and Oikawa’s near-fight in the Volleyball Nation League of 2019? Did your fight with Martez involve a dispute about Oikawa Tooru? 

The rest narrow themselves down on the investigation. Were you in the investigation interviews this morning, Mr Iwaizumi? Why has Martez been temporarily suspended but not yourself? What is your version of events as to why Martez attacked you? Neither the Olympic Committee and Japanese Team have released any updates on the investigations and the result is that Hajime has ended up bearing the brunt of their lateness by virtue of him being the easier-accessed source of information for the media. 

After Kuroo and Hajime finally struggle their way into the safety of the staff-only areas of the arena with Hajime battering back the questions with a dozen non-committal answers about him not being able to comment on anything until an official statements have been released, Hajime gives Kuroo a glare and says: 

“I am grateful for the deal you struck for me by having me not be suspended in exchange for helping the team on the public relations front: but it would be a lot easier for me to do that once the team has released some kind of official statement.” 

That being said, the other thing Hajime is steeling himself for is facing the team in light of them learning more about the investigations. The managers had promised that neither Hajime nor Martez’s allegations would be leaked to the public given they are still under investigation and yet to be substantiated, but Hajime knows with some wariness that once the interviews begin with the witnesses, word will begin going around. Both, as to the suggestion that he and Tooru colluded to remove Martez, and to the alternative suggestion that Martez had made homophobic slurs at him which in turn meant he would be under the microscope for having his sexuality examined and picked apart. 

He tries not to think too much about this as Kuroo and him arrive at the team’s locker rooms: there, the mountain of work which he has had to put off amidst the investigation confronts him in the form of players asking him a million questions and quickly fitting in last-minute physio and pre-game check up sessions. Amidst the hordes of athletes coming to him in every direction and Maeno keeping a sharp eye on him in the corner, Hajime barely manages to find time to squeeze aside a few moments for himself, during which he finally sees Tooru’s missed calls. 

He tries to call Tooru only to also hit voicemail.

He then sits down to hastily info-dump the necessary updates about the investigations into a mass text message to Tooru, Sofia, Utashiro and José before hurrying back to work. 

Hajime had expected the familiarity of work to become a welcoming, if not only temporary break from the investigation and public relations chaos. Except with how busy he has been lately, he is starting to become aware to that his work has begun to suffer in turn. His usually-neat reports are messy and rushed; strategy plans no as detailed as he would like. Less time focused on his players also means more problems arising which he has not picked up earlier on. By the time he corrects his second mistake in prescribed warm-up exercises, a dull migraine has begun throbbing in one half of his head. And he does not even want to begin listening to the little self-important medical voice in his head warning him that headaches within 48 hours after a possible concussion event is not a good sign. 

His players are also in a mood today: overly excitable and jumpily nervous about their final preliminary match which will make or break their entrance into the semi-finals. Yaku is running Hajime through a new strategy plan which did not need to be changed this last minute and Bokuto is excitedly saying he thinks he will try a different cross hit today which Hajime has told him a million times he has still not gotten his form right for. Atsumu is still awkwardly avoiding Hajime after their conversation earlier today and after a few attempts to locate him to check on his right knee which he had stumbled on in a prior game, Hajime exasperatedly sends the assistant athletic trainer after him, and for another reserve player he can’t seem to pin down either. 

Tooru calls him back when Hajime is mid-way through multi-tasking between massaging Suna’s tense calf and keeping his temper even as he tells Bokuto for the hundredth time that no, his arm has to be here, not there for the cross hit. When he sees Tooru’s name light up on his smart watch, he hastily excuses himself and moves backward through the hubbub of noise, pressing his back against a wall and trying to ignore the thudding pain growing in his head as he answers with a hand over his mouth: 

“Hey.” His mind, which has been on problem-solving mode for so long, launches immediately into assuming that Tooru has called him to talk about their next steps on the investigations. “I’m guessing you’ve seen that text message I’ve sent by now and I know, the tricky thing is what you say to Paulo but -” 

“Hajime.” Tooru’s voice is tensed when he cuts him short. There is a pause in which his brain briefly registers that his boyfriend is upset, that is the way Tooru says his name when a fight is about to start, which is when Tooru says: “You told the investigators that Martez made homophobic threats against you – but not against me?” 

Hajime opens and then closes his mouth again. His mind, running low on sleep and overloaded with the million to-do lists misfires for a moment, completely running on a blank as to what Tooru is talking about until he remembers, with a jolt, that had said that during the interviews, he had taken the hit entirely on his own so he could leave Tooru out of it, so he could leave the fact that they kissed out of it, despite the fact that - 

“- You promised me you wouldn’t be a hero about this.” Tooru says and Hajime’s brain finally, finally catches up on why Tooru is upset, why he is angry. “You promised me you wouldn’t do anything detrimental to yourself: but this, this telling incomplete stories just to keep me out of things, causing yourself to look more suspicious and to be investigated further – Hajime, that is not putting yourself first, that is not being smart about things -” 

“Tooru -” The throbbing migraine in Hajime's head is growing, as is the hubbub of noise around him. Opposite him, Suna is looking over, an eyebrow raised, clearly impatient to go on to his own warm ups. “Look, I don’t think that was that detrimental to me, I was just doing what I thought was best for the situation -” 

“You have now told the investigators two inconsistent stories.” Tooru snaps on the other line, and Hajime winces because for all of their bickering, it isn’t often that Tooru gets actually, properly mad at him. “That’s pretty fucking detrimental to you, don’t you think?"

"You also told me and José and Sofia and Utashiro before the investigations that you were going to maintain the one same consistent story. And then you went in there and told a completely different story. What was then the point in even talking to us before the investigations? What was the point then in even talking to me before it all ,” Tooru's breath catches and it is on this that Hajime can hear the hurt that runs deep in Tooru's voice now, “if you weren’t even going to listen to me.” 

“Tooru, I'm sorry, I really am. I do listen to you, I do remember what you tell me, but I was caught off guard by Martez's allegations, I was just doing what I could think of in the moment -”

"And," Tooru says, his voice ragged with upset. "is your solution every single time you get hit with something unexpected is to play some kind of stupid hero? The one thing I told you, the one thing I begged you not to do? You know," He continues, his voice trembling. "I was talking to José before this and telling him that it sometimes feels like you don't trust me anymore. And I know, Hajime, I know I know you don't mean it, I know you've told me you don't mean to come off that way - but it really fucking does feel that way when you pull bullshit like this."

"I -" Hajime's migraine is now no longer the only overwhelming pain in his body; a familiar, unwelcome tension is also now tightening in his chest. His vision is starting to cloud, an anxiety coiling in is stomach and like a juggler who’s finally missed a singular item in a cartoon, Hajime can feel everything slowly crashing and closing down on him. He can feel himself fading away, as if there but not quite there, hearing Tooru's words yet not quite listening, the way he had felt before the news reporter, before the interviewers -

- because on a good day, he could handle this, he would know how to talk to Tooru, to discuss and soothe things through a fight -

- but today, today, his day has been horrible to say the least, the taste of recounting the homophobic slurs still acrid in his mouth.

And all day, all day, he had not realised until now, all day he had been suppressing, suppressing how terrible he has been feeling, pushing deep, deep down how much he wants Tooru. How much he needs Tooru, to just have Tooru’s soothing support, to have his gentle words -

- but after all of that, only to be caught completely off guard by Tooru beginning their call with anger, with picking up on their endless, still unresolved argument they had agreed to hold truce to brings his carefully built walls crashing down as if Tooru had smashed the pillars holding them up.

But he knows, it's not fair to Tooru, it's not fair because Tooru too, is human, Tooru too just wants to be heard.

And then there it is again.

The floodgates opened on a guilt, a deep, unshakeable unhappiness slowly rising up into his stomach, into his chest, into a numbing sensation in his head -

Amidst the chaos of the readying athletes, Hajime moves himself further from the crowd, turning himself to face wall so no one else can see him angrily press a shaking fist down against his chest as if it would help him fight down a break down.

And he doesn't know, he doesn't know how to tell Tooru without breaking down entirely, the terrifying feeling he gets whenever he thinks about the potential of even accidentally outing Tooru, let alone intentionally outing Tooru by telling an investigation panel that they had kissed, and he hadn’t meant to, he hadn’t meant to not listen to Tooru, he hadn’t meant to make his word nought like that and - 

“I’m sorry.” He hears himself rasp to Tooru. His voice sound strained, flat, as if he is speaking to a stranger rather than to the person he loves most in the world. “I can’t do this now – not right now - I'm so sorry, I really can’t – I’ll call you back later, okay, I'll call you back later.” And it feels awful, he feels horrible, he hates himself, hates that he is ending the call on an argument, hates that he will be hanging up on Tooru in a way which will definitely impact Tooru’s mood, hates that he has become such an unreliable, unreachable distant partner and then he ends the call anyway because if he says anymore, he can’t be sure that he won’t breakdown crying, and if he breaks down crying and amidst the crowd, before a game, with the number of people watching on - he does not know how he can recover. 

So he instead stands silently, staring at the wall with his phone still held up to his ear shakily, breathing heavily, knowing that he and Tooru’s sunrise truce has been broken to the same roundabout argument that has not been resolved because of him and he closes his eyes, breathing in and out for a few moments as he pushes his phone down in his pocket and then presses a hand against his eyes to press away the tears which have whelmed. 

He takes in another deep breath and then opens his eyes again. 

One more day. He tells himself. Keep it together for one more day and everything will be okay.  

The guilt, the anxiety, the unhappiness, which each fight for his attention, he pushes down slowly, one by one, again and again, until his breathing has returned to normal again.

He thinks of Tooru, closes his eyes again and then thinks again of the rational thing to do. He picks up his phone, messages Tooru a short guilty apology and again, promises to call again when he can. 

He returns to Suna and Bokuto, and feels both relief and a strange twinge of sadness that neither of them seem to recognise anything wrong with him. 

Hajime, I’m sorry too. I should have approached that better, I didn’t mean to stress you out. Tooru texts him minutes after. Let’s talk after your game okay, when you have more time and privacy.  

Hajime does not respond. 

He does not trust himself to say anything else and still be able to keep up his facade of being perfectly okay. 

*** 

There is a second text, shortly after, which Hajime receives.

Thinking it is from Tooru, he opens it immediately, only to read:

Hey. Daniel Martez here.  

Can we talk?  

Hajime stares at the text for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest.

Then, calmly, he places his phone in the locker, locks it firmly shut and steps out in the court to begin Japan’s final preliminary match. 

 

Notes:

Wew there are quite a few things in this one eh! There is enough going on that I now have a giant mind map I need to consult when I need to remember what plot points there are haha - and honestly, with all that he's juggling atm, Iwa probably needs one too.

Just as last chapter was I think the first time Tooru properly lose his cool (with José accidentally in the firing line), I think this is the first time we've properly seen Tooru get properly, truly angry at Iwa - which is interesting isn't it, given you'd think the argument they had in the infirmary would have been the more serious one?

Otherwise, Kuroo gets to be the MVP this time round, for pulling the strings he has for Iwa! Whether he struck a good deal for Iwa - I suppose time will tell.

In other unrelated news, I am thinking of upping the rating on this fic (make what you will of this, I'm not giving spoilers haha) but if anyone who has been reading this is affected by that, I will probs keep the rating of this fic as if and just up the rating when the relevant chapter comes about and give a heads up in the start notes!

In my usual aquietlife fashion, I'll say that there is genuinely an 80% complete draft of the next chapter sitting in my folders - but I'll just need to find the time to publish that next! As always let me know what you think (if you want to!) and will see you next chapter!

Chapter 20: Storm

Summary:

And with that seemingly small first drop in the ocean, the storm well and truly begins.

Or,

Tooru braves the storm.

Notes:

Hello hello!! Y'all thought I was never gonna update right but SYKE I am just an extremely busy corporate slave who has had a chaotic few months (and wants to get their writing right!)
Anyway, I really did love writing this one even if it took me ages so - hope you enjoy!

Night air sprung cool and humid against Tooru’s skin.

He pushed his blankets back and sat up in his futon. The alarm clock on the nightstand read in Godzilla-glow-in-the-dark green: 2:05am.

By his side, the messy cocoon of blankets once-containing Iwaizumi Hajime was empty.

Above the bed and against the window, a summer’s rain fell like a steady silver tarp. On Hajime’s desk, pages of their homework books flitted and turned in the breeze, illuminated under a thin rectangle of light which spilt from the ajar door. Tooru’s feet warmed against the cool floorboards as he moved his way through the dark across the room. The soft fabric of Hajime’s Kita-ichi jacket hung on the back of the door, grazed against his shoulder. The air was thick, filled with the aroma of herbal ointment and ginger.

In the distance, beneath the whispers of rain, two voices echoed through the house: Hajime’s and Hajime’s mother.

Slowly, Tooru padded out into the dimly lit corridors. Hajime’s parents’ bedroom diagonally opposite their son’s room was dark and empty. As Tooru reached the staircase at the end of the corridor, he paused for a moment, before he knelt into a crouch and rested his hands on the banisters. From a couple steps down, Maru the Iwaizumi family cat rolled around. Her ears flickered to attention, her golden eyes blinked up in quiet observation.

“Oikawa.” Hajime had said abruptly, about a month ago.

They had been walking home, school bags slung across their shoulders, bicycles wheeled as they approached the juncture which split the two streets they lived on. Usually, their parting was easy, without much fanfare, neither of them slowing in their stride as they bantered until they were out of earshot. On that day however, Hajime had been unnaturally quiet. All day, he had seemed distracted, responding to Tooru’s usual teases and jokes with half-committed grunts and shrugs.

At the juncture, Hajime came to a halt. It took Tooru two steps before he realised and turned around to the sound of his name.

“Oikawa, can you -” Hajime’s eyes met and then darted away from Tooru’s gaze. He cleared his throat as he corrected himself: “- do you wanna come over? It might be easier to finish off our Math homework that way.” His voice was gruff, his words nonchalant. Tooru didn’t miss the way his right fist tightened on his bicycle’s handlebar.

It had taken a few sleepovers before Tooru had suddenly, abruptly pieced things together. He had suspected as much beforehand: being childhood best friends meant there was realistically very little they could hide from one another. Secrets were merely topics they allowed the other the mercy of skirting around; and skirting around was simply their teenage masks for disguising their quietly intense mutual trust and respect into something easier understood, easier digestible.

Still, guessing was never quite the same as knowing. And knowledge for Tooru, first arrived on that night he crouched on the top of the staircase, looking down between the banisters into the living room of the Iwaizumi household. Looking down at Hajime’s mother seated on the tatami below. Looking down at Hajime with a hand rested quietly on his mother’s back, his words gentle as he said:

I’m here, Okaa-san. I’m here.

It had taken Tooru a moment to realise that Hajime’s mother had been crying.

If either Hajime or his mother had known that Tooru had seen them, they had said nothing about it the morning after. Over breakfast, Hajime’s mother was her cheerful, warm self again, gently teasing Hajime, who had overslept, and was his gruff teenage front once more.

But who they had been that night before remained etched upon Tooru’s mind. It was as if the fall of rain, the cover of the night then had peeled away layers on both mother and son to expose more honest, rawer versions of themselves. Hajime’s mother, leaned forward in her seat, her expression closed with pain, her shoulder tight with tension. Hajime, moving his hand onto his mother’s shoulder as he asked gently, quietly, as if waking a child from sleep:

Okaa-san. Tell me.

Where does it hurt?

It was that which would stay with Tooru: the attentiveness held in Hajime’s face as he listened to his mother’s gritted response; the deep meticulous care held within his steady palms which lathered herbal ointment between themselves and then, upon his mother’s back. There was the protectiveness – something so fierce, so strong, that it made Tooru’s chest ache– the protectiveness which filled Hajime’s then-untrained hands which kneaded her tensed shoulders to ease the knots in her weary muscles, which worked to quieten the aches and pains Tooru would later learn, had long-settled into her bones.

In turn, there was a surprising vulnerability in the way Hajime’s mother closed her eyes and leaned forward with a shaky exhale. Hajime, with his stocky build and tendency toward reserved stoicism, had always shared more outward similarities to his father, but it was in that moment that Tooru saw just how much of Hajime’s fierce independence and stubborn resilience came instead from his mother: Mrs Iwaizumi who was a steady warmth, an endless pillar of strength, the giver, the carer, such that to suddenly see her helpless and pained felt disconcerting and painfully disorientating -

When Mrs Iwaizumi’s breaths finally eased, Hajime rested a hand against her elbow and another on her shoulders to help her upright. He poured her a cup of ginger tea, a hand still rubbed soothingly over her shoulders. Careful, it’s hot, he murmured. His right hand remained raised and readied even after his mother had taken the cup.

Mrs Iwaizumi returned the cup to her son when she was done. Her shoulders lowered on exhale. She put on a shaky smile; her son returned a gentle smile of reassurance.

Outside, the summer rain poured like an all-encasing, all-encompassing cover.

***

“He makes it look so easy.” Tooru said unhappily. He poked the single slice of pear remaining in his bowl with a fork, restlessly pushing it around the circumference. “I’m not the same, Okaa-san. I’m not like Hajime. I don’t just know how to do things like that.”

Beside him, Hajime’s mother hummed thoughtfully. She leaned back against the front doorstep of the house, her gaze turned upward towards the starry Sendai night sky.

“Well, Tooru-kun, as nice as it is for you to give Hajime so much credit, I don’t think he just knows what to do all the time.” She offered him a gentle smile. She paused, thinking again before adding: “I think Hajime puts in a lot of effort, but just doesn’t always act like he does.”

When Tooru looked up at her, his incredulity must have shown on his face because Hajime’s mother laughed, a warm sound against the chilly night air.

“Sounds familiar, huh Tooru-kun?” She teased gently, knocking her shoulder against his. Asides from Hajime and Nii-chan, Mrs Iwaizumi was perhaps the only other person in the world fourteen-year-old Tooru didn’t really mind being teased by. “Well, you two are best friends for a reason.”

***

There is a privilege, Tooru would come to learn, in being able to watch the people you love just be themselves when alone. To watch the people you love, love the people they love when alone.

A privilege, Tooru would come to treasure, in being loved by Iwaizumi Hajime when alone. When stripped away from all his masks and guards and facades which he shows to the world.

***

“And folks, look who we have with us today: Mr Iwaizumi Hajime!”

Standing on the steps in the audience grandstands, Tooru stares up at the big, blinding stadium screens. The roar of the crowd erupting around Tooru is deafening, like the rumbling of thunder before a summer storm.

“Indeed, looks like he is back from after the controversial fight with Daniel Martez!”

Illuminated under the stadium lights, Hajime’s hair glimmers black with hints of dark brown. It is a shade Tooru has carded between his fingers and kissed a million times over on the quiet mornings when sunlight filters through the windows. A shade Tooru loves holding under the gaze of his lover’s slow, soft smiles. It is a shade tens of thousands of roaring live audiences are now seeing cast across the big stadium screens, millions of at-home audiences watching broadcasted across the globe.

“Martez, Navarro and Perez are still suspended after the kerfuffle with Iwaizumi two days ago. We were waiting to hear if Iwaizumi would receive a similar suspension – but I guess we know the answer now!”

On the big screens, Hajime is talking to Suna while walking, his face half-turned away from the cameras. He has foregone his crutches, walking instead with a determined pace, his expression serious and drawn in focus. Tooru tries, and fails to discern if he is limping.

“Well, that’s right Takeshi-san – if Iwaizumi is back in action today but Martez still remains suspended, I guess that gives us the Olympic committee’s decision! Martez will no doubt challenge the results. Many fans have called home ground bias as well.”

On screen, Bokuto walks past, grinning as he nudges Hajime toward the cameras. (Bokuto! Tooru thinks weakly, Bokuto Koutarou, one of the biggest volleyball stars has just walked by, and still, they’re focusing on Hajime?). Hajime’s shoulders lower in what Tooru can guess is a controlled exhale, and he turns around to finally face the cameras fully.

Tooru’s breath catches, a pain grappling over his heart.

He had forgotten. He had somehow stupidly forgotten. Between their calls feigning normalcy in the past few days, after years of knowing and loving every line and turn on Hajime’s face well enough to draw him in his sleep -

“... ooooh, looks like Martez has really done a number on Iwaizumi! Of course we haven’t seen how Martez has emerged on his end of the fight but jeez, just looking at that…”

- Hajime’s face is bruised, a single-black-eyed, the painful red-purple welts on his face blown out in high definition on the mega-pixelated Olympics sports screens. He is handsome, he is stoic, he is prepared –he had strategically turned to face the camera with his better side before, Tooru realises – but now his injuries in full display, furious and unforgiving, eclipse all else. Hajime raises a hand in acknowledgement and nods at the camera as if he can’t hear the crowd bursting into reactionary gasps and whispers. So the rumours are true, Tooru could hear whispered all around him from where he stood on the edge of the spectating crowds, so there really was a fight-

On-screen, Hajime looks straight into the cameras, his gaze steady and calm. Beneath it is a burning glimmer of fierce defiance, as if daring anyone, anyone to say anything otherwise about the bruises, the bruises which are themselves a reason for why he is still in the games and not the three Spanish players; the bruises, which are the reason Tooru has not seen Hajime for the last couple of days; the bruises which Hajime still has not spoken to Tooru about -

Tooru averts his eyes. A sudden upset, a sharp anger has arisen in his chest. His vision blurs, his hands gripping into shaky fists.

You told the investigators that Martez made homophobic threats against you - but not against  me ?

Tooru had wanted – no needed – to see the start of Hajime’s game, especially after their last call.

Look – Tooru - I don’t think that was that detrimental to me, I was just doing what I thought was best for the situation -

Next to him, Luc, who had offered to accompany Tooru, looks over, concerned.

You have now told the investigators two inconsistent stories. That’s pretty fucking detrimental to you, don’t you think?

Hajime had fallen silent on the phone line after that. Tooru had known, even without seeing it, that his boyfriend had flinched at his snapped words. It would have been a visceral, physical reaction too, Tooru knows – the involuntary jolting back of his body, the painful flash of hurt wincing through his eyes. Hajime had then ended the call with a series of strained apologies. Tooru imagines his boyfriend’s gaze quietened as he does so, the back of a knuckle rising to scrub against his eyes the way he does when he is tired and overwhelmed –

You made him upset, you made him upset knowing he had a game to go to, knowing he’s already struggling - a voice, self-hating, guilty and angry, rises in Tooru’s head -

- but what else could you have done to bring him to his senses? a second voice speaks up, begging and defensive, what else could you have done to make him understand? To make him listen -

“...because Oikawa Tooru,” Tooru startles, whipping his head up as he hears his own name loud over the speakers, under the booming voice of the sports commentators. “is friends with Iwaizumi Hajime as we know, the rumour is that Iwaizumi may have ended up fighting Martez because of the historical bad blood between Oikawa and Martez -”

“C’mon,” Lucas places a quiet, firm hand on Tooru’s shoulder. “I think it’s our cue to go.”

For a moment, Tooru doesn’t move. He instead stares at Lucas, at the big screens that are visible behind Lucas, at Hajime calm and focused as he speaks to a group of players.

In a way, Tooru understands, he understands why the cameras are still trained on Hajime, he really does.

There is a magnetic quality about Iwaizumi Hajime, Oikawa Tooru knows better than anyone. In his strength, his steadiness, his willingness to right any wrongs for you - so much so that you can believe even if just for a moment, that no matter how bruised, no matter how tired, no matter how difficult, there is nothing that could knock Iwaizumi Hajime down, nothing that can harm him, nothing that can stop him from being the solid, steadfast anchor who will always do what he can to keep you safe, to keep you happy –

- Except, that simply isn’t the Hajime who Tooru knows. It isn’t the Hajime who is soft eyes crinkling into a smile on quiet mornings; strong arms holding Tooru warm on chilly evenings paired with kisses slow, fond and adoring; trembling shoulders tearing themselves back from Tooru’s grasp, sobs gritted in an unspoken plea: don’t go, Tooru, please, please Tooru, don’t go -

On-screen, Hajime gazes up at the cameras, bold and defiant and brave.

Off-screen, Tooru looks away, tears suddenly hot in his eyes.

And then, there is a thought, which rushes upon him with an anger that takes even himself by surprise:

So this is how it feels to begin to lose the person you love most in the world.

***

But Tooru hasn’t lost Hajime.

He knows he hasn’t, and as Jose and Sofia keep reminding him, how much Hajime still loves him is abundantly evident. It lies beneath the self-frustrated apology texts Hajime sent him after their most recent fight. It weaves through each careful decisions Hajime has made the entire Olympics.

It sits in all of its cracked, quiet grief with which Hajime had cried to Tooru with over the phone last night.

And, even if he were losing Hajime, what exactly is Tooru losing? Possession of Hajime, in an archaic model of relationships they are surely too modern, too non-hetero-normative to ascribe to? Control of Hajime, despite how their relationship, their friendship, had always thrived off the foundational columns of love and respect for each other’s independence and autonomy?

Tooru is more than aware of the logical incoherence in such a thought. Yet, his newfound fear still occupies him when he sits in a meeting room an hour later, listening as the Argentinian Mens’ Volleyball Team’s assistant manager Carlos tells him:

“The Olympic Committee won’t investigate you for the colluding allegations. But they have asked that you participate in the interviews as a witness.”

“As a witness?” Tooru echoes hollowly. Next to Carlos, Jose, who had been listening impassively, gives Tooru a sharp glance, but the words escape Tooru before he can stop it: “But I thought the colluding allegations were against both myself and Iwaizumi - “

“They are, but the Olympic Committee have decided there isn’t enough evidence to substantiate the claims against you at the moment. Which is why they are only investigating the claims against Iwaizumi at this point, but asking you to give evidence as a witness.” Alfio, the Argentinian team manager raises a brow, perhaps registering the strangeness in Tooru’s reaction. “It’s a good thing Tooru, not being investigated directly.” He adds. “If you want to keep playing pro, your professional integrity needs to be kept clean.”

“Don’t let fame and petty grudges get to you before you even have a chance to prove your worth.” Carlos adds warningly. “There are more important things than that in the Olympic games.”

***

It is like seeing Hajime on the big screens again. A sucker punch which Tooru saw coming a mile away, and yet failed to dodge before it hit sickeningly in the stomach.

“Even Alfio and Carlos thinks it’s true.” Tooru paces the length of Jose’s office, restless and frustrated. “They believe the rumours. Those ridiculous fucking rumours that Hajime fought Martez because of my past conflicts with Martez. Like as if Hajime would ever do such a thing -”

“Alfio and Carlos don’t believe that, Tooru, they’re just doing their jobs.” Jose soothes. Even he looks tired, a hand rested on the empty chair he had tried and failed to coax Tooru into. “You’ve gotten a good outcome being asked to join a witness but not as a suspect being investigated. Alfio is just trying to keep it as that.”

“A good outcome?” Tooru laughs lowly. He wants to cradle Hajime’s face between his hands. To hold Hajime’s bruised, tired body fiercely against his own. To whisper to Hajime: it’s okay, I have you, I have you, my love - “I’ll still have to talk to the Olympic Committee and the police as a witness anyway, what difference does it even make that I’m not being directly investigated?”

“The difference is you get to keep playing in the Olympics.” Utashiro replies simply. She sits in the video call displayed on Tooru’s laptop on the desk. “Colluding allegations are serious because they tie into sports integrity. You – and Iwaizumi-san – are lucky that the Olympic Committee didn’t straightaway suspend you for those.”

“In other words, keeping you out of the investigation puts you out of the firing line.” Sofia adds quietly over video call. “It keeps you playing in the Olympics, Tooru. The one thing you’ve worked so hard for.”

“By putting Hajime’s job on the firing line instead?” Tooru bites back. He can feel his irrational anger rearing its ugly head again. “By putting Hajime in the media spotlight once again? By putting his integrity in question just to protect mine?”

“Tooru,” Jose soothes. “We’re not saying what Hajime did was right, all we’re saying is -”

“- there is no right or wrong, but any decision which puts Tooru first and Hajime last is usually more right?” Tooru laughs horribly. “Because that sure sounds like what you both keep saying anyway -”

“Tooru, we’re just trying to be practical here.” A strained frustration splits across Sofia’s voice. “the reality is the Japanese team would have exposed Hajime to the media, whether he told them about homophobic comments or not. Showing Hajime’s injuries to the world,” Tooru closes his eyes, forcing himself to take a measured breath as Sofia continues: “justifies the decision to suspend the Spanish players, but not suspend Hajime. All without dealing with the mess of their mutual allegations.”

“And as your PR person,” Sofia persists. “I need to remind you: what Hajime has done makes logical sense. All this was going to blow into the public eventually anyway, but Hajime’s plan may have saved him his job.” Tooru opens his eyes to glare in disagreement at Sofia, only have Sofia to gaze back just as fiercely over video. “Revealing the homophobic threats makes Hajime more sympathetic than if he hadn’t; and, not revealing that you two are together avoids blowing this into more of a public media shit storm than it needs to be, which would also make it harder on Hajime if that had happened- ”

“So what you’re saying is I shouldn’t do anything?” Tooru snaps. He is angry not because anything Sofia and Jose have said was wrong, but because the implication of their words are that: "- this situation that Hajime is in,” His voice trembles. “is the best solution we can find to all of this?”

“No, we are not saying that.” Jose soothes again. It strikes Tooru why he hates how calm Jose is: it reminds him too much of Hajime’s well-practised mask of stoic steadiness. “All we’re saying is what is done is done and let’s focus on moving on -”

“And I’m sure moving on,” Tooru laughs bitterly, “involves me following along the script Hajime has already written anyway, because it doesn’t matter what I want, as long as it is right for me -”

“No,” Sofia says, her frustration now clear, “we are trying to do what is right for both of you. You know that full well Tooru -”

“Yet, every time I suggest what I want, all that seems to happen is we find the solution which involves Hajime drawing the shorter and shorter end of the stick - “

“Tooru, Hajime was in the stickier end of the situation to begin with, we are not intentionally trying to make the situation bad for him, but you have to understand there is a difference -”

“- and the way around that difference is to consistently ignore what I ask for?” Tooru can hear himself begin to shout. He is being irrational, he knows, losing his temper at people who are on his side - and if Hajime were here, Hajime would be dragging him out by the ear by now, telling him with a fierce glint in his eye to calm the fuck down - but Hajime is not here, he isn’t here and without Hajime, Tooru is unscrewed and untethered and alone and afraid, and he is angry, so angry as he continues: “So apparently the way to fix the issue is to consistently veto out my suggestions of how to help Hajime in favour of what is more right only for me -”

“Okay, tell us then.” Utashiro says calmly. “How do you want to help Hajime?”

Tooru freezes.He opens his mouth, and then after a moment, closes it again, his lips trembling.

Later on, Tooru will come to recognise the crucial role Utashiro played in that moment. She was the one person who could offer an objective perspective and cut through the emotions which both Jose and Sofia had slowly become too close to Tooru and Hajime to navigate.

Tooru would also come to realise the significance of Utashiro’s question. Later on, he would wish that he had given it more thought, because maybe if he had, if he had thought about it more, maybe he would have realised then what had been truly going wrong. Maybe he could have then, realised the truth of things he would come to miss until too late.

But in the moment, Tooru is angry. He is angry and upset and his entire being aches for Hajime so much so that he is afraid to even ask for it, afraid of being told no again and all he can think of is Hajime on-screen, battered and brave, Hajime over call, cracked in all hidden difficulty and suppressed unhappiness; and I’m sorry, Hajime is saying difficultly over the call, I can’t do this – not right now - and words are forming on Tooru’s lips, trembling and slipping out as he admits:

“I don’t know.” He swallows down a difficult exhale and repeats himself:

“I don’t know how to help Hajime anymore.”

Jose turns his gaze sharply onto Tooru. On camera, Sofia is looking down, grimacing.

“Because to help someone,” Tooru continues, the words falling horribly and hoarsely from his lips. “You need them to tell you what’s going on.” He laughs a little, incredulous in what he has known for the days, but now, feels cemented in an ill-dreaded certainty: “And I haven’t known what’s been going on with Hajime for a while now.”

“I don’t think Hajime’s trusted to tell me what’s been going on for a while now.”

***

They were fourteen and almost-fourteen.

It had been exceptionally bad, the argument they had stormed into that day.

The birthday of Tooru’s then-girlfriend had been nearing. Hajime had been quieter, more withdrawn than usual and with all of the charms of an insecure thirteen-year-old desperate to learn what was wrong with his best-friend-turned-highly-repressed-crush, Tooru had cheerily jabbed:

“C’mon Iwa-chan, admit it! You’re just grumpy because I’m bringing Mika-chan out this Friday instead of you.”

Hajime slowly put his pen down to look up at Tooru. It was recess and outside the classroom, sakura blossoms billowed in the spring breeze. The exhale Hajime let out was heavy and exasperated - a sound which Tooru hated, a sound which made Tooru feel useless and stupid and unwanted.

“What do I care what you do with your girlfriend, Shitty-kawa.” Hajime’s voice was low with a threat.

“Well, Fridays are our ramen days!” Tooru trampled onward foolishly. “If Iwa-chan is feeling down, I can always see Mika-chan on Saturday instead.”

“No, Mika-chan’s birthday is on Friday.” Hajime’s brows furrowed. He glared at Tooru, suddenly serious. “She’s really excited to spend time with you, Shitty-kawa, so don’t screw this up for her, okay?”

A tight feeling closed around Tooru’s heart. “Oh c’mon, Iwa-chan, we can still hang out if you want to.” Tooru put on a pretend pout. “I don’t even know where to bring Mika-chan on Friday, girls are so picky -”

Suddenly, Hajime stood up, his book slammed shut, his chair pushed back with a loud screech. He looked down at Tooru, with a disgust, an anger so sudden, so real in his eyes that it made Tooru freeze in his seat. “Oikawa,” He growled. “if you can’t understand how important it is to value those you love around you, then I don’t even think I can know how to help you with this anymore.”

And all Tooru could do was stare at Hajime, his mouth hung open, Hajime’s response so shockingly disproportionate, so abruptly mismatched to Tooru’s attempts to simply spare time for his best friend, and then, an ugly upset began blotching across Tooru’s heart, a helpless anger rising in his head in a chant he hates you, he hates you, he will never love you – and Tooru too, was rising to his feet, angrily shoving the books on the table aside as he spat out the words he knew he would regret the second they left his mouth:

“And what the fuck do you know about love, huh, Iwa-chan?” Hajime’s gaze splintered, as if blinking into a flinch, but he continued holding Tooru’s gaze as Tooru moved forward, shoving Hajime on the shoulder. “All you do is sit on your high house lecturing about love while you yourself are an absolute coward who refuses to participate in it. You’ve never had a girlfriend, and I bet you’ve never even had a crush before. How can you even claim to understand how to love someone, if you’ve never even loved anyone before?”

Something hard and hurt closed over Hajime’s face.

Quietly, he stepped back, and without a second glance at Tooru, he turned and left.

After school, Tooru stood on the Iwaizumi household doorstep, desperately ringing the doorbell and begging for Hajime to let him in to forgive him. Back then, it had been endlessly frustrating to Tooru, these two versions of him which seemed to exist: the one with the wicked words which overtook him when his temper blew; and then the version of him which he wanted so desperately to believe was the real him, the real him who cared, the real him who did not actually mean a single word of cruelty which he spoke.

When he was inevitably turned away by Hajime, he sat down on the Iwaizumi household doorstep, his knees drawn against his chest.

As the evening turned into night and the stars began shining upon the dark Sendai skies, Hajime’s mother opened the front door.

“That wasn’t nice what you said to Hajime today.”

Tooru buried his head in his arms. “I know.” He murmured, feeling shame burn across his skin. “I’m sorry, I really, really am. I have never even for a second believed anything about that about Hajime was true, Okaa-san, but I know I said what I did and it was hurtful and I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry - ”

Beside him, Hajime’s mother sat down. Quietly, she rested a hand on Tooru’s shoulders, her warmth and presence soothingly. Tooru looked away, unable to not cry if he caught her gaze. They sat like that for a while in silence, amidst the chirping of the crickets, amidst the sounds of children riding by on the streets, until Tooru raised his head, sniffling as he said quietly:

“Hajime was right. I’m not very good at valuing those I love.”

Mrs Iwaizumi looked at Tooru. She waited patiently for him to continue.

“I hurt Iwa-chan.” Tooru’s voice cracked. “I hurt Iwa-chan even though all I was trying to do was to make him feel better.” Tears of frustration began to whelm in Tooru’s eyes again. “Why do I do that, Okaa-san, why do I say these awful things to Hajime? I don’t even want to say them, I don’t even think these things are true.”

“And yet,” Mrs Iwaizumi said softly. “They just come to you when you get angry?”

“Yeah,” Tooru pressed a hand against his frustrated tears, continuing lowly: “When we fight it’s like a different version of me takes over. A monster version of myself who says these things, knowing that it will just make our fight worse, knowing that they will hurt Hajime -”

And Tooru freezes, suddenly aware of the confession which had slipped out of his mouth: a confession that he does these things to Hajime intentionally, that he hurts Hajime intentionally. In his head, a battle had long-waged, the want to forever draw Hajime close, to test how Hajime’s lips feel under his, and yet the alarm bells screaming that he is a monster, that he wants to do terrible, dirty things to Hajime, that he likes Hajime, more than Mika-chan, more than he should like Hajime and he waited for Mrs Iwaizumi to do something, anything: hit him, yell at him, to leave, to tell him never to talk to Hajime again -

- Instead, she merely continued sitting there, quiet and gentle. If anything, her arm pulled even tighter around Tooru’s shoulders.

“Well,” Hajime’s mother said gently. “What were you two fighting about before that? What made monster-Tooru decide to appear in the first place?”

“I – We were -” The words died on his mouth. Tooru had in the past hours processed the fight and figured out what had gone wrong: Hajime had been exasperated that Tooru had seemed to not care about his own girlfriend. But in turn, Tooru had been upset that Hajime hadn’t been more upset that they would miss their ramen Friday, that Hajime wasn’t more jealous of the fact that Tooru was spending time with his girlfriend, that Hajime had been upset at something and yet refused to tell Tooru about it -

But how was Tooru meant to tell any of that to Hajime’s mother, who was now looking at him so gently, so softly? Mrs Iwaizumi, who could always read through him like a book, who always made him feel so much lighter after their chats and their talks, who was such a never-ending pool of patience and reassurance that she sometimes made Tooru feel undeserving, almost like a fraud, in the same way Iwaizumi Hajime’s unwavering attention and quiet love too made Tooru feel -

“I – I was just trying to cheer Hajime up.” Tooru whispered finally. “I was just trying to make him feel better.” His voice quivered, “All I was trying to do was help. All I was trying to do was to show that I cared.”

***

Because, there is a privilege in loving and caring for Iwaizumi Hajime. A privilege in being able to descend into the deepest, most hidden chambers of Iwaizumi Hajime’s heart, knowing he has kept all the doors open for no one else but you.

A privilege in being trusted by Iwaizumi Hajime.

In being trusted to love and be loved by Iwaizumi Hajime.

***

“So,” Mrs Iwaizumi’s words were soft. “You got upset, because Hajime got angry at you when all you were trying to do was to show him that you care.”

“I guess so.” Tooru’s eyes whelmed with tears. “I think it just – it just felt as if he didn’t want me to care for him. As if he didn’t want me around. As if,” He swallowed, “He didn’t trust me anymore.”

“And maybe all monster-Tooru was trying to do,” Mrs Iwaizumi said gently. “was to let Hajime know how you felt.”

***

Loss weighs more once you become acquainted with love.

Did you know that, Okaa-san? I certainly didn’t until it was too late.

Another discovery I made then is that love too, is a privilege.

And just like all other privileges, love too, can be lost, snatched from one’s hand, taken by force.

***

“Oikawa-san.” Maeno extends a hand. “Thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”

The room is small and florescent bright. The interviewers sit in convoys: the Olympic Integrity Committee, the police, the Japanese Team managers and staff.

Niceties are exchanged. The conversation begins in English before steering into Japanese.

We understand, Itta says, that you are Iwaizumi-san’s old friend.

Pens click. Papers pinned on clipboards flip.

The interview begins.

***

In the Ariake stadium several hundred metres away, Miya Atsumu is leaping into a jump, Japan a mere two points away from winning their final preliminary games.

His hand makes contact with the ball, slamming in forward in a giddy, impossible motion that can only just about be classified as a setter’s dump.

And then, abruptly, without warning, he is falling, his shoulder twisting against the rough net and then, suddenly, the hard ground.

***

Once Tooru leaves the interview room, he finds a quiet spot around the end of the corridor. He closes his eyes and sinks shakily into a lean against the wall.

In his head, they are fourteen, standing at a juncture, hands rested on bicycle handles.

Seventeen, laying bare their love over a call across an ocean.

Twenty-seven, standing on the balcony of a bar, hands rested on waists, jacket hood lifted over Hajime’s head -

Why Hajime? Oikawa Tooru whispers in each iteration. Why hadn’t you just told me sooner -

And now, Tooru is standing in a quiet corridor and he is crying, crying and wiping his tears away furiously, angrily -

- because to attend the witness interview was like waking up at fourteen and staring at Hajime’s empty bed. Like watching Hajime walk, face pale and shaken across a crowd backstage; like leaving the match to find a million text messages telling him Hajime had been in a fight; like staring up at Hajime on the big screen, bruises red and angry -

Tooru buries his face in his hands, forcing himself to still his own crying. The feeling which clenches around his chest is horrible, absolutely, overwhelmingly horrendous, a hideous mix of fear and unhappiness and anger, so much anger, anger, which he doesn’t even know anymore is directed at Martez or Sofia or Maeno or Hajime, Hajime -

Tooru lifts his hand shakily and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Hajime has miss called him once while he was in the witness interviews, no doubt to address their earlier fight. There is only fifteen minutes until both he and Hajime have to go for a press conference. It is terrible timing, Tooru knows, there won’t be enough time to do any conversation justice. Tooru’s presence will stress Hajime out, and arguing right before a press conference is a spell for disaster, but Tooru doesn’t care anymore, he can’t do this anymore, he needs to see him, he needs to see Hajime -

There is a small notification sound which snaps Tooru’s gaze down to his phone screen.

Hajime has just messaged him, with a link to a location and short text saying:

Tooru, let’s talk.

***

The location turns out to be a small meeting room in the building where they are both scheduled to go onto press conferences in less than fifteen minutes. Tooru understands immediately the gamble Hajime has taken: there is more time to talk this way, but also, there is more chance of them being seen by others.

Indeed, the building is swarmed with journalists and reporters by the time Tooru arrives. Tooru forces a grin and makes a few dutiful waves at the cameras shoved in his face before squeezing into the backstage areas to the press conference room. In the brightly-lit, narrow corridors littered with coat racks, media equipment and colourful wires, Argentinian and Japanese athletes scuttle about readying for their press conferences for. Tooru squeezes through the crowds, ignoring call-outs to him by his teammates and averting his eyes from gazes of those who recognise him.

He finds the narrow door marked Room G-10. There is a glass panel in the door, a small window between room and busy corridor. Tooru stops by the door to take a deep, shaky breath. He hadn’t realised how wildly his heart had been beating until he came to halt. He turns the knob with a shaky hand and then pushes the door open.

Hajime is standing by the round table in the small room. His crutches are leaned by the table’s side and he is wearing his black uniform. His hair is mussed, the way it tends to be after a busy day. His bruises sit, in terrible, unfamiliar markings on his face andin an instant, singular look shared between them, Tooru can tell, with some anger, that Hajime is putting on a mask.

That the strained, almost distant steadiness Hajime is current wearing is not at all what he is currently feeling.

“Tooru -” Hajime begins once Tooru closes the door, but Tooru shakes his head and begins instead, his voice trembling and accusatory:

“You hadn’t told me what slurs Martez and the others called you.”

Hajime’s expression freezes, his shoulders tensing. This is not the conversation he was expecting, Tooru recognises immediately. On any other day, Tooru would have told himself to cool down, to take a step back, to not allow himself to be swallowed by his anger, but instead to read how Hajime too is feeling. If he had, he might have seen the hand that Hajime has tightened on the back of one chair. He might have recognised the raggedness in Hajime’s inhales, smothered and disguised by his intentionally slow exhale.

But today, Tooru is furious. He is furious and afraid and upset as he moves forward, stopping only when his boyfriend almost involuntarily takes a step back and that is when Tooru crumbles:

“Hajime, I had to find out through the investigation what slurs they called you.” Tears whelm up again in Tooru’s eyes. His voice shakes and he feels almost light-headed with his anger. “How they beat you up, how they cornered you. I had to find out through the police, through Hinata, through Maeno – because everyone else apparently knew about it way before me.”

“And do you know how horrible that is, Hajime?” Tooru is beginning to properly cry again, the helplessness and fear from the interview descending on him again. Hajime is looking at him, his gaze so steady, so still that Tooru wants to shake him just to garner a reaction. “Do you know how horrible it is to hear all these from other people? To learn about my own boyfriend first from every other source but him?”

“Were you ever going to tell me these things?” Tooru grits. He steps forward, beginning to yell in anger. “Or were you planning on just keeping it all to yourself forever, because it’s apparently safer, better for me?” An edge of warning, a line of tremor is beginning to show in Hajime’s eyes but still, he holds Tooru’s gaze steadily. “We’re a team, Hajime, we’re a team. You don’t get to play the fucking martyr, or to tell me what is right for me until you make a fucking decision by yourself - “

“Tooru,” Hajime speaks up finally. His voice is so calm it is almost cold and that enrages Tooru even more. “Listen, I’m sorry you had to find out that way, I am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I have been trying, you know I have been trying to keep you included, to keep you involved to the extent I can -”

“Oh yeah,” Tooru laughs hoarsely. He hates the implication of what Hajime is saying, hates that it sounds: “Like a chore you hate to do that you have to remind yourself to do, right? The boyfriend you have to remember to keep involved.”

“Tooru, that’s not what I -”

“Because now you’re a big internet sensation, Iwaizumi Hajime-san can make all his own shots and little Tooru-kun can just find out all about them through the news, can’t he?” Tooru can hear how irrational he is being now, but he is angry, so angry that he can’t stop himself from hurtling forward. “Like the time you told the investigators about the homophobic threats,” He spits, “even though that was not what we agreed to do. You were trying to keep me involved but you just forgot, huh?”

“Tooru, I only did that” Hajime closes his eyes. He is now struggling to keep up his calm, Tooru can tell by the rise and fall rhythm of his chest. “because I remembered you wanted me to tell the truth, and what I told them was the truth -”

“You’re not stupid, Hajime, so stop pretending you don’t know - what I meant by telling the truth was the whole truth, to tell them about us, to tell them what Martez snapped at you about, not the crappy partial truth you gave them then.” Tooru snarls. Hajime opens his eyes, and there is a quiet sadness in them, a sadness which recognises that they have returned to the same fight they had late this morning, in the fight they had before the sunrise truce. “You always just have to do everything properly, don’t you,” Tooru keeps going, angry, angry that Hajime still isn’t reacting. “You always have to do what’s fucking right don’t you, Hajime.”

“But what if I don’t want a hero, what if I don’t want what’s right.” Tooru’s eyes are starting to burn up with tears again. “What if all I want is my boyfriend, my partner, the whole of him,” Tooru’s voice cracks. “Not the bullshit fake version of him the rest of the world buys. A partner who tells me things, a partner who still trusts me -”

“But you don’t even trust me anymore.” Tooru’s voice thickens. It pains him to say the words like this, bare and simple; and it pains him even more to have Hajime look away, giving no response to the accusation. “You don’t trust me anymore, and I can see this even if you can’t because I know you, Hajime, I know you.” He looks at Hajime, agonised. “I know how it feels when you trust me, when you’re telling me things. I also know you’ve been unhappy, I know you’ve been anxious, I know you’ve been in pain and I’ve asked again and again what’s wrong, for you to just tell me what’s wrong, and you haven’t, you still haven’t -”

“What have I done to lose your trust?” Tooru begs, as Hajime continues his long, strained silence, his stare now fixed on a spot on the table. Tooru moves forward, and this time, grips Hajime on his shoulders despairingly. Everything that is coming out from Tooru’s mouth is now terrible and sordid and horrible as he continues: “Am I so undeserving of your trust that you won’t tell me, you won’t even just tell me -” His words burn upon his throat and he sees the hurt, the painful hurt flares too across Hajime’s averted eyes.

“And am I even really your partner if you can’t just tell me what’s wrong, if you can’t just trust me to help you? Because sometimes,” Tooru continues, his voice shaking as he looks back up to meet Hajime’s equally trembling gaze. “It makes me feel like I’m just about to lose you and it makes me feel so scared, Hajime, it’s all feels so wrong and we keep trying again and again and we keep failing and I don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know how to fix things anymore -”

He breaks off, unable to continue. Hajime closes his eyes, still standing under Tooru’s grip, tensed and still.

There is a silence, a silence which holds and balloons and fills the room, this small, empty, terrible, non-private florescent bright room which they occupy, which feels just like the million other non-private florescent bright rooms they have occupied of late, and it is, silent except for each of their ragged, upset breathing -

Then, as gently as he can, Hajime peels himself back from Tooru’s grasp and moves himself backward to put space between them again. Tooru can only watch, agonised.

More than an arms’ length away from him now, Hajime closes his eyes again, leaning down against the table, hands flat against the plastic table top, his chest is rising and lowering in sharp heaves. With his eyes closed, Hajime looks calm, so calm that the anger twists ripe and strong in Tooru’s chest again, especially when Tooru himself is trembling, his hands trembling and face stained with tears with how angry, how upset he is, and he opens his mouth, ready to speak again when -

Hajime says, so quietly that Tooru almost misses it.

“Leave then.” Hajime’s lifted gaze burns against Tooru’s. “Leave me, Tooru, leave.”

Tooru stares at him, dumbstruck.

“What?” He croaks, his voice catching in his throat for a moment. “Hajime, what -”

And now, Hajime is looking away, teeth gritted, his back still heaving up and down raggedly, and then he looks up at Tooru again, looking terrified, looking terrible, his voice is raw and rough, and entirely unlike him as he repeats again:

“Leave me, Tooru, that’s what I said, leave me.” Hajime leans down and laughs wildly, shakily. He grips the table and looks up at Tooru, his smile disorientatingly bright. His chest is now heaving and falling so sharply it looks painful: “I won’t hate you if you do, I promise, I never could.” He lets out another laugh, like a sob, downward at the table again. “Hell, speaking as your best friend and not as your boyfriend, even I would tell you to lea -”

“Don’t.” Tooru chokes. He is now rushing forward desperately, stopping short only when Hajime jerks back, panting hard and panicked and staring wide-eyed at Tooru. “Don’t say that, Hajime, don’t say such a thing -”

And it is in that moment that it hits Tooru that something is wrong.

Something is more deeply, terribly wrong about all of Hajime’s behaviour, and it isn’t Hajime simply not trusting him, it isn’t Hajime simply trying to do what is right -

“I mean it, Tooru.” Hajime looks almost-giddy with his terrible conviction. He is now smiling at Tooru, a wane, watery, terrible smile in sharp contradiction which the sobs which manage to escape between his shaking front in whimpers. “I – I mean it. If I – if I didn’t have anything to - to gain, I would have told you earlier – even earlier than now -”

“No. Hajime, Hajime, no, I am not leaving you. Hajime. No.” Unable to do anything else, Tooru extends a trembling hand, as if ready to catch Hajime if he decided to bolt. “Listen to me, Hajime, I’m not leaving you, I’m never leaving you, I’ve never wanted to do such a thing and I never will. Do you hear me, Hajime, tell me do you hear me -”

“I hear you.” Hajime’s hands have now curled into shaking fists and Tooru realises, with some stupidly late shock, that this is Hajime in one of his anxiety attacks, only that it looks nothing like Hajime’s usual attacks, except for a few select tell-tales, like the fists, like the ragged breaths, like the low laugh Hajime now gives as he says again: “I hear you but I’m still telling you to go. Because I can’t -” Hajime lifts a shaky arm to close over his chest painfully and Tooru’s heart is shattering into a million pieces because how could he have not noticed how much pain Hajime was in sooner, “I can’t, I just – I can’t -”

- And Tooru can only watch as Hajime presses a hand against his eyes desperately, sinking back shakily against the wall, and something is wrong, something is truly, horribly wrong because in all their nine years of being together, in all of their twenty-three years of being friends, no matter how hard they fought, no matter how much they yelled and got upset and angry at once another, never once has Hajime has asked him to leave before, not properly like this, not in this broken, frightful fashion and -

“Hajime.” Tooru pleads. “Look at me, please, listen to me -”

“Tooru,” Hajime interrupts. His shaky smile is still agonisingly bright. “I can’t give you what you want.” His looks away, his face drawn in a hollow, blisteringly unhappy pain. “I can’t even get this right,” His voice drops into a tremble. “I thought I could do this but I can’t – I can’t - so please, I am asking you to just leave me -”

Suddenly, there is a sharp two knocks on the door. Both Hajime and Tooru jerk apart and Tooru swivels around, moving instinctively, protectively in front of Hajime – and at the door, Kuroo, Itta and Bokuto are chatting, pausing to cheerily announce it was time for them to go for their press conference -

- and then in a second instinctual movement, one he shouldn't have done, Tooru looks back for just a split second at Hajime, who is still pressed against the wall behind him and when their eyes meet, Tooru is struck, by the storm of emotions which spilt from under the masks Hajime had been wearing their entire conversation: the stricken fear, the harrowing anxiety, the agonised pain and the grief, the sorrowful, horrible, tumultuous grief that stretches for miles and miles and is the emotion that Tooru had missed in the midst of his own anger and upset and -

“We’ll be a moment.” Tooru says quickly. All of Kuroo and Itta and Bokuto have fallen silent, clearly realising that something is amiss. “Yeah, we’ll just be a minute,” Hajime too manages to add in a semi-decent voice before he ducks his head down, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he quickly busied himself with packing up his belongings.

Tooru too, leans on the table, quickly picking an interested conversation with Itta, who slowly, with some reluctance joins in, until Hajime turns around, his voice shockingly steady for all the terrible things he had been saying just a moment ago.

Hajime says to Kuroo, without meeting Tooru’s eye.

“Okay, we best get going.”

And Tooru can only watch helplessly as Hajime, in his crutches, begins to slowly leave the room, not once looking at Tooru again -

It then occurs to Tooru numbly - more than when they had fought in the infirmary, more than when Hajime had cried to him helplessly over the phone last night - - just how much pain Hajime must have been holding within himself the entire time, to think, let alone speak aloud the words they had just ended their argument on.

***

“I see,” Hajime’s mother said gently. She pulled an old jacket of Hajime’s over Tooru’s shoulders, shielding him against the cold Sendai night. “I guess sometimes monster-us says things which are irrational because they want to voice aloud our fears. Because we need others to have our feelings, even if irrational, heard.”

“I think so, Okaa-san.” Tooru sniffed. He stared out into the starry night sky. “And I think sometimes monster-us wants to know what others will say in return.”

“To find out if there is any truth at all, to some of our most irrational fears.”

***

They were fifteen, walking home from school. It had been one of those days again when Hajime had grown quieter, more aloof than usual.

By then, Tooru had learnt better than to jump to conclusions. He had learnt that sometimes all Hajime needed was company. Time, in the presence of warm, familiar company.

He had also by then, figured out what was going on in the larger scheme of Iwaizumi Hajime’s life. He had tip-toed past enough medical talk, the jargon, the careful, diligent watching which filled a family once an illness like that took heed. There had been enough mornings before school when he sat on the kitchen counter, watching Hajime count and sort his mother’s pills into neat seven-grid medicinal boxes.

Still, on days especially bad like that day, he would try to push Hajime to tell him what was wrong, mercifully dancing around the big topic in all of his gentle, teasing ways. Did you not eat well? Did you fail a test? Did a girl turn you down? Hajime, with his usual look of irritation, would mostly just ignored him. Still, Tooru learnt after a while, that Iwaizumi Hajime often softened in the face of Oikawa Tooru’s insistent persistence.

On that day, it was once again, when they reached the juncture that split between the road to Tooru’s house and Hajime’s house that Hajime stopped in his tracks, looking down at the ground. Years later, Tooru would realise with a jolt, that perhaps Hajime always announced things on this juncture because it was Hajime’s way of offering to Tooru an easy excuse to leave. In case Tooru wanted out of the situation Hajime was about to put on his shoulders.

It was be the sort of thing Hajime would think, that Tooru, upon discovering, would find ridiculous.

“We saw the doctors again yesterday.” Hajime had said, feet paused at the juncture. He said it quietly, face gazing up at the sky, so quietly that Tooru almost missed it. “Three months is what they gave Okaa-san.”

Tooru’s mouth dried. They stood at the juncture, silent, nothing but the howling of the wind against their upturned school jacket collars. Tooru looked at Hajime, but Hajime didn’t catch his eye. He didn’t know what to say: this wasn’t the usual way their friendship worked. Usually it was Tooru upset about something, Hajime nagging him until he spilt the thing forth. And once Tooru spilt the story, he would have also burst forth with everything like water from a dam, rambling and crying into Hajime’s open arms as he always did.

But that was Tooru; this was Hajime.

And Hajime was silent, Hajime looked away, Hajime didn’t say another word or invite Tooru in or give Tooru anything else to work with, and this was before, way before Oikawa Tooru had learnt how to elegantly navigate anything of such depths and gravities with Iwaizumi Hajime, which was why…

“Hajime, I’m sorry.” Tooru said quietly. It was the best he could think of in the moment, the only thing that felt appropriate in the heaviness of Hajime’s sudden declaration. And then he added clumsily, because he sincerely wanted to know: “Are you okay?”

The answer was no, of course, and all Tooru had meant was for it to be his clumsy, 15-year-old attempt at opening the gates. But Hajime didn’t operate that way, he didn’t operate as an easy releaser of information or talker about emotions even with the person he trusted the most in the world, not when that information or emotions was difficult, heavy, sticky. Not when his reaction was…

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Hajime said, running a hand through his hair, shoulders tense, still not meeting Tooru’s eye. He turned around and started walking toward his house. “Anyway, text me when you get home.”

Tooru watched Hajime walk away past one lamp post, two lamp posts, three lamp posts, before something had grappled over him, tugging him forth in a forward momentum. He ran and then sprinted, barrelling himself into Hajime’s side and wrapping his arms around his friend’s back, shrieking: “Fuck you, Iwaizumi Hajime, you still owe me chocolate bars from yesterday – don’t you dare leave before I get those back!”

And against all odds, Hajime laughed, startled, wrestling Tooru off him, the two of them scuffling, pushing and shoving at one another fondly, until finally Hajime resigns to Tooru slinging a firm arm over his shoulder.

When they walked back together to Hajime’s home, Tooru leaned his head firmly, fiercely almost, against Hajime’s, burying the warm side of his cheek against the top of Hajime’s head, as if to tell him I'm here, Iwa-chan, I'm right here, and how dare you think I would leave because I am not going anywhere, nowhere I tell you Iwa-chan, nowhere -

It took a few seconds, a few more steps, but eventually, Hajime rested his head back too into the crook of Tooru’s neck as if to say in return:

And I'm glad you're here, Tooru. I'm glad.

Notes:

EDIT: note that I made a minor edit to the end of the chapter!! My apologies to any early comers who read the older version.

My favourite thing about this chapter is that despite being almost all Tooru-pov, Hajime's presence seeps through every facet of this chapter (because Tooru's brain, like mine, is just entirely Iwaizumi Hajime-wired at this point).

A fun fact: (a version of) the backstories involving Hajime's mum for this chapter was originally written for chapter 7 in June 2023 (1 year ago)! I have been trying and failing to fit that into almost every chapter since so I'm very personally happy with this chap!

Another fun fact: I now have 37 documents on my laptop called "Storm [insert date]" with the earliest date being in April hahahah. With that being said, I hope you are starting to see why it takes me so long to write this fic - there are a few plot points I'm trying to make work so it is a bit like a jigsaw puzzle sometimes - knowing what the complete picture looks like but needing to make things fit!

Otherwise, there is so much I would love to say about this chapter (its implications on character analyses especially) but I also don't want to spoil the fun of letting people make their own interpretations so I will leave it be, and do share with me what you think (if you like!!!).

Adios, hope you enjoyed and see you next time!! Bear with me with my slow updates - I want this story out very much too!

Chapter 21: Waltz of Hajime and Tooru

Summary:

There is a song he’s loved since he was a kid.

A simple, waltzing piano, a quiet guitar. A lonesome voice pacing out an old love song.

Notes:

Aaaand finally, an update to this fic!

If you need to refresher on the story, I highly recommend re-reading Chapter 20 (as this chapter is very linked to that one). As a heads-up, I have also upped the rating on this fic (it was kind long overdue for an upped rating anyway) and I’ll also explain that more in the end notes.

Believe it or not, I actually began a first draft of this chapter in July 2024 – but then had various Advanced Level Adulting Shenanigans which only died down in late Dec 2024 – so... tada, here we are!

That being said, the accidental 6-month marination of this chapter did help feed me more interesting ideas for this fic than if I had just rushed it, so no regrets on the delay! I had a great time writing this chapter and hope you will reading it too.

Enjoy!

Autumn holds a special place in my heart,

Because it announces its end in its beginning.

***

There is a song he’s loved since he was a kid.

A simple, waltzing piano, a quiet guitar. A lonesome voice pacing out an old love song.

Such a romantic Hajime. Tooru would laugh. Still, he would put the song on and turn around, eyes twinkling in the modest light of their tiny kitchen. Smile growing, palms turned up, arms outstretched in invitation.

The sight of it never failed to make Hajime smile. His body drew forward, their fingers meeting, feet bare upon the cool cracked terracotta tiles, the second-hand refrigerator humming like a baritone singer. Tenderly, Hajime closed a hand over the warmth of Tooru’s neck. Gently, Tooru’s hand found the slope of Hajime’s waist.

Slowly, unhurriedly, they danced.

Bodies bundled in each other’s warmth, swaying in loosely-in-time rhythm with notes sewn in the night air. One-two-three, Tooru closed his eyes and rested his forehead into the crook of Hajime’s shoulder. One-two-three, Hajime gently led Tooru’s face up to bury a kiss in against his nose. One, two, three, Their heartbeats chased and then calmed beneath palms on chest. One, two, three, Eyes opened to hands lain on cheeks.

One-two-three.

Hajime whispered, the three syllables aching with meaning beyond containment.

One-two-three-four.

Tooru whispered back, the warmth in his voice familiar and knowing.

They looked at one another, smiles shy, each quietly in awed wonder of the sight before the other.

Together, their breaths rose and fell in unison.

One, two.

Three, four.

***

OneTwo.

When the two knocks on the door sounded urgently, warningly, they jerked apart as if scorched, two halves of a whole torn down the middle.

OneTwo-ThreeFour.

He stumbled, falling back against the wall, trying and failing to catch each breath clawing down his throat, against his chest.

Vaguely, he could tell that Tooru has intentionally moved to stand in front of him, shoulders drawn and back tall, a hand outstretched protectively to the side, ready to shield him.

His fingers reached, extending toward Tooru’s, and then dropped as soon as he heard Kuroo and Itta’s voices.

What had he been about to do anyway? The last words he had spoken had already been said. Floating between them, dispersed like petals drifting down on a breeze.

***

When the leaves yellow and the birds fly out in flocks,

I build up the branches and hand-weave the walls,

***

Before they had been them, they had of course, been he and him.

Even as a kid, Hajime had looked at Tooru and known, with an understanding deep in his bones, that here was a boy who would never willingly leave him.

He did not have the words to explain it then, and he never had to. Louder than words were Tooru’s fierce, persistent loyalty; his startlingly keen observational skills; his attention which he gives whole-heartedly to those he cares about.

His unnerving ability to make anyone of his choice firmly affixed at the centre of his universe.

Looking back, Tooru’s decision had been obvious even in that year, despite all the subtle ways he hid it. Long, accompanied waits at the pharmacy were hidden behind the cheerfully flimsy excuse of later-ramen. One-night sleepovers extended into week-long stays when Tooru conveniently finished his homework far too late into each evening. Hajime watched it happen time and time again but being painfully ill-equipped to do anything, pretended he could not read between the lines. Pretended he did not want it.

Pretended he did not need it.

It was only in the nights and early mornings when he was most tired, when he felt most alone and helpless, that he allowed himself to indulge in it. That night had been one such night, that night which he has turned over in his mind a million times over since. Each time, he arrived at the same admittance, that the first thing he had done when he had awoken was to search through the darkness for Tooru.

Tooru, who lay asleep in the guest futon they no longer put away each evening. Tooru, whose gentle face, whose familiar features, were illuminated under a sliver of moonlight which fell across the bedroom, a cowlick of hair falling over his forehead, his small nose turned within the blankets.

What would have happened if he hadn’t searched for Tooru that night? If he hadn’t lain still in that moment he almost never allowed himself, slowing his breathes to match the rise and fall of Tooru’s chest, thinking about how he would do anything, anything for her, but also wishing that he could just close his eyes, crawl into Tooru’s warm side, and have Tooru hold him, have Tooru whisper that everything will be okay, that this will all come to an end –

Abruptly, he sat up.

He stopped his Godzilla-green alarm clock right before it rang for 1:45am.

***

Yet, the tighter I fasten the hinges and latches,

the sooner winter arrives on my door.

***

Eleven years later, he and him have firmly become a they.

It is such that when he walks away from Oikawa Tooru, he understands that he is walking away from them.

One; two; three; Each step that he takes feels heavier than the last; one; two; three; Itta and Kuroo are looking back at him with some questioning concern. One; two; three; through the crowd, Kuroo is now slowing down to fall in-step with him, motioning for Bokuto to walk ahead with Itta. One; two; three; Tooru’s stare burns into the back of his head, begging him to don’t go, Hajime, don’t go, please, not like this -

One; two; three; four.

Right before the turn of the corner, his self-control splinters and he glances around to look -

- and Tooru is staring right back at him, his expression so raw, so torn open with desperation that it is almost unbearable to look at.

Their gazes hold, and then both waver. Tooru takes a step forward. His lips move fervently, forming the words:

Hajime, please -

The crowd in between them swells, closing Tooru out of sight. A gaggle of athletes push through from a side door. A man with a giant box accidentally knocks against Hajime’s shoulder, apologising as he squeezes through between Hajime and Kuroo.

One, two.

Hajime ducks his gaze down and forces himself to turn back around.

Three, four.

He grits his breathing back down into slow, measured breathes.

Five, six.

Fists curled, his nails biting into the flesh of his palm.

Seven, eight.

Hajime looks up and keeps walking forward.

***

As the music slowed and the night grew deep, they leaned in, dancing so slowly, so closely that they were almost still. He kissed Tooru down the strip of his neck. Tooru’s lips outlined the side of his. Gazes held, they leaned back against the kitchen counter, hips pressed and arms wrapped.

Gently, Tooru leaned forward and kissed Hajime on the lips.

Hajime. Tooru’s eyes searched when he drew back. In a whisper, he asked: Promise you will dance with me forever?

Hajime wrapped a hand tightly against Tooru’s. I promise. He whispered. His thumb stroked gently against Tooru’s palm. I promise I’ll dance with you forever, Tooru, he said and he leaned in to kiss him again.

***

So alone in this house built for two,

I stand still and can only think of you.

***

He has run the scene over in his head a million times.

Playing again and again the game of what-more-he-could-have-done.

Once he stopped his Godzilla-green alarm clock ringing for 1:45am, he sat up on the side of his bed, staring across the dark room.

Quietly, he stepped off, moving past where Tooru lay asleep in his futon. Opening the wardrobe, he first found a small, sealed plastic bag in a drawer, and then a set of blankets neatly folded on a shelf. It had been chillier than usual that night.

His Kita-iichi jacket ballooned gently in the breeze when he opened his bedroom door. The corridor outside was dimly lit, the door to his parents’ bedroom slightly ajar.

Hajime walked, his feet warm against the cool floorboards, until he paused by the door.

Knocking gently, before he pushed it open -

***

- and when Tooru finally fights his way through the crowd, Hajime is gone.

Tooru staggers, half-collapsing back against the corridor wall. His breathing is ragged, and his fingers tremble as they clench into fists. In his mind, a terrible conflict brews, because, it’s true, Hajime’s mother has told him time and time again: sometimes, Hajime just needs to be alone to process things. Give him that time, and when he’s ready, he’ll come back, he’ll come back -

But this. This is something wrong. There had been something in the look Hajime had given him just moments ago through the crowd, for the last time in the room; something in his gaze, in the split second of his expression, which made Tooru’s instincts go berserk, alarms blaring in his head screaming: something’s wrong, something’s horribly, horribly wrong and if you don’t go after Hajime right now, you will lose him, you will lose him -

Something in Tooru snaps. He jerks his head up, suddenly furious at himself for having even hesitated. He begins moving, pushing, running through the crowd. His fingers fumble as he calls Hajime, his heart thudding harder as each dial tone passes. He skids to a dead-end in one corridor, and then, chases down the other until he finds a door with the taped sign for press conference backstage 1. The sound of Hajime’s voicemail playing twists a tight coil in his stomach. When he lowers his phone, he can see he has 3 missed calls from José. He ignores them and pushes the door open.

The backstage area to Team Japan’s press conference hall is empty – clean white plastic chairs, piles of bags lined up by the walls, some crew members in black uniforms walking around cleaning up. Distantly, over the walls, Tooru can hear the echo of the press conference that has started: the claps from the crowds, the muffled sounds of the speakers. A worry rises in his chest. He continues walking, searching through the faces he can see desperately, until -

“Hey.” A sharp voice. “Sorry, I think you’re in the wrong place. Argentina’s at press conference room 2.”

Tooru spins around, blood roaring in his ears.

Kuroo Tetsurou, dressed in his uniform, arms crossed over his chest, looks squarely, firmly at him.

“Where’s Iwa-chan?” Tooru’s words land tense and accusing. He doesn’t even realise that he has used the wrong name until he has said a second time: “I saw Iwa-chan coming here with you, and I need to -”

“Sorry, as I mentioned, I think you’re in the wrong place: this backstage area is for Team Japan players only.” Kuroo walks forward, a hand extended, pointing back toward the door. His face is pleasant, polite, but there is a warning in his eyes which narrow as he repeats: “I believe your press conference has already begun so you better get moving.”

“No, you listen to me.” Tooru growls. He takes a stubborn step forward. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where Iwaizumi is. I need to talk to him, and I don’t care if he’s readying for the press conference, I need to talk to him right now -”

“Look, I don’t know where he is –“

“That’s fine, I’ll go look for him then.”

“- Oikawa-san, this is an authorised personnel only area -”

“For what? To protect the bags of the athletes at the conference? What do I have to steal? Muesli bars and water?” Tooru lets out a low laugh. He continues moving forward fiercely. “All I’m trying to do is to talk to Iwaizumi -”

“And what if,” Kuroo grabs Tooru’s elbow. His gaze hardens. “Iwaizumi doesn’t want to talk to you?”

It is like a slap across the face. Tooru stares at Kuroo disbelieving, furious, almost sick with anger for a moment, and he only, only just catches himself before he can grip Kuroo by the front of his shirt, Kuroo, who had begun all of this shit, who had initiated Volleyball Beyond Borders, and he only just catches himself before he can shove Kuroo back, snarling: and what the fuck do you know about what Iwaizumi Hajime wants -

But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a step back, tearing himself out from Kuroo’s grip, breathing hard.

Let it be. A voice in his head - Hajime’s mother’s - reminds him gently.

Let it be and just try again later.

Kuroo lets him go, watching with a mixture of now-open hostility and unrestrained disgust.

“You’ve got this all wrong.” Tooru hears himself say, as if listening to someone else speak, a quiet, trembling anger laced on every word. “Whatever it is, you’ve got this all wrong.”

And with that, it is his turn to look away and leave.

Above their heads, the PA system crackles, calling everyone in-station to be ready for the Argentinian press conference to begin in: Eight, seven, six, five -

***

For one thing is clear: it would be inaccurate to say he had first remembered it that night.

The reality was that it was always with him: like a shadow which never quite leaves but can only been seen under certain lights. Sometimes, upon the playing of a particular song or the hearing of a specific turn of phrase, Tooru would quietly slip a hand into his, thumb soothing circles into the centre of his palm. On the anniversaries, when it was plain and lucid and unrelenting, Tooru would pull him tightly into himself, knowing exactly how to sit with him, to gently, tenderly coax it out from him, to hold the weight of it with him, cupped within his careful hands.

Recently, it has been with him almost all the time. It was with him when he awoke, filtering in with the sunlight on the empty seat opposite him when he sat alone in his Hiroo apartment with his gently-steaming coffee. It was with him when he worked, watching the older players sitting with the younger ones, listening and giving them re-assurances. Late at night, when he misses Tooru the most, it lies coolly on his chest as he stares up at the ceiling, like an animal which has padded back into his bed through the dark.

Last night, after Kuroo had given him the investigation tip-off, it had found its way back to him again, slinking around his shoulders as he sat, staring out into the florescent-lit grey-cement walls and floor of the emergency stairwell. How many nights had he sat there in the same way, in the eerily silent chambers, behind the closed doors, listening to the monotone hum of air conditioners, as if an cosmonaut floating through the space, sitting through it in waves?

And maybe because now that it is with him, all he feels in turn is nothing, nothing. There was so much he had ought to have had a reaction to that night: Kuroo’s fiercely loyal tip-off, the upcoming investigation, the worry and love in Tooru’s voice when they had spoken earlier – that should strike inspiration, fear, trepidation, happiness, love, sadness, anything, anything in him –

- and yet, there was nothing.

Just nothing.

The nothing was not a light sort of nothing, but a weighted nothing. He felt it draped, weighed across him, heavy and sordid and exhausting and he closed his eyes for a moment, leaning down and burying it against his arms. He imagined Tooru here with him, knelt down before him, hands closed over his face, foreheads pressed, fingers moving protectively over his cheeks as he speaks in low, comforting murmurs, his, his and just his -

- he lifted his head up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

There was no time he could waste, plenty left which he had to do.

***

Which was the thing that had always haunted him.

The what-more-he-could-have-dones.

Before that night, in those earlier days, he had already thought them as playing their roles they best could, puzzle pieces fitting into slots they were best placed. It was only after that he realised the reality was nowhere as simple, nowhere as picture-perfect.

In those mornings, he would walk into the kithcen to his mother cheerily pouring out tea and setting down steaming buns, his father’s cup already clean in the dish washing rack and newspapers neatly folded by the window. Sometimes, Tooru would already be there too, schoolbag slung over his shoulder as he happily chatted to Hajime’s mother, gaze softening as it followed Hajime down the stairs with a smile.

After school, he would drop by the pharmacist’s with the prescription scripts and then the shops with scribbled grocery lists. Eventually, Tooru insisted that his favourite ramen spot was the restaurant conveniently located near the pharmacy, such that his after-school routine became accompanied by Tooru and rounded up by Iwa-chan-and-Shittykawa late afternoon ramen.

When he arrived home, usually alone after parting ways with Tooru on the juncture, he would check the mailbox, feed the cat and begin cooking dinner. On that particular day, Tooru had walked with him up to his house, engrossed in a long, passionate rant dissecting a volleyball match they had recently watched. After Tooru waved goodbye, Hajime had opened the mailbox and pulled out a singular, thick envelop.

It was from the hospital, addressed to both his parents.

He begun tearing open the envelope, thinking it to be new prescription scripts. He read the letter as he shook off his shoes, stepping onto the front curb and then he stopped, silent and still.

***

“And folks, look who we have with us today: Mr Iwaizumi Hajime!”

The crowds roaring around him were so loud, so deafening that they turned into a sea of static. Like the roar of a furious thunderstorm, each raindrop dissolving into an all-encompassing nothing.

“Indeed, looks like he is back after the controversial fight with Daniel Martez!”

He was there for a purpose. To be a fucking good athletic trainer for the team. To swing public opinion to his side on the Martez-Iwaizumi fight.

To divert any suspicion placed on Tooru from the colluding allegations and rumours.

To continue doing all he can, to keep Tooru safe.

***

That night, they spoke about the letter from the hospital after his father had returned from work and finished his late dinner.

Before then, all numbers meant to Hajime were Mathematical problems, chemical equations, prices on a ramen menu. But as they spoke, he begun to see how the numbers were also the bone-deep tiredness etched into his father’s face. The fierce, pained determination woven into his mother’s gaze as she insisted that they were already doing enough. The outcome of his mother’s future, suddenly, printed in neat dollar figures on the sheaves of white paper.

Let me take on a part-time job. Hajime had argued. I can balance it with school work. I could even drop volleyball, it’s not like I’m going to go pro anyway -

Immediately, both his parents rose into a furious refusal of his suggestion.

You do your job and we’ll do ours. His father insisted. There was a rare fierceness in his voice. It’s never just for one person to bear. He added knowingly, hintingly. We’re a family and we will figure this out together.

Plus you enjoy volleyball. His mother added gently. Don’t put your life on hold for mine, Hajime. Her hand squeezed tightly over his. I know you’re worried, but I promise you, we will figure this out. We will be fine.

Even until today, Hajime isn’t certain which of the promises were fulfilled and which weren’t. He continued playing volleyball and his father continued working so much that he was exhausted all the time. His mother stayed cheerful, the heart of the family, the determined, strong warmth which kept both him and his father ticking. Yet the first time he saw her truly cry was not when she had first gotten the diagnosis, not when she had started her first gruelling round of treatment, but instead when she had been sent home early one day from work with the harsh realisation that she had grown too weak to continue working.

This time, it was he and his father who soothed her as she cried, promising that everything would be okay, that they as a family, would get through this. Quietly, Hajime’s father began working more and more night shifts, in further and further locations. The remote night shifts paid better, even if it meant he was travelling hours away each night, even if it meant his sleep schedule, his daytime routine was absolutely destroyed.

Hajime watched the gaps growing in his family.

And just as quietly, he stepped in wherever he could to fill them.

He took on more household responsibilities, waking early to brew the tea, steam the breakfast buns and sort out his mother’s medicinal boxes. He slept late to finish the undone laundry, to clean the floors, to research diets - vitamins and minerals and meat proteins - best for his mother’s health.

It took a while for him to properly tell Tooru what was going on, but by then, he could tell that Tooru already knew. He and Tooru’s late-afternoon ramens turned into fortnightly, and then monthly Friday-ramens, replaced by chats in the kitchen while Hajime cooked, late nights in Hajime’s bedroom as Hajime crammed his homework.

The one thing Hajime always created time for instead were visits to the doctor, which he insisted on accompanying his mother to now that his father was too busy working for. Quickly, through the visits, through asking the right questions to the doctors, to the pharmacists, he learnt the timing and dosage of his mother’s pills, the closer details of her illness, what to do when she was feeling nauseous or had a headache, when to ring the alarm bells when his mother was abnormally sick or weak.

By the time his mother had her first episode in the middle of a night, it had felt almost inevitable based on the doctor’s warnings, and still, Hajime had been completely unprepared for it.

It was pure luck that Hajime had woken up that night and gone downstairs for water; pure luck that his father had only driven five minutes away from the house on an unusually late start to his shift; pure luck that his mother had regained consciousness, albeit weakly, by the time they had pulled up at the emergency department twenty minutes later. He should have learnt from that episode: learnt how to develop a better contingency plan of what to do in case of a night-time emergency, assigned a better emergency contact in case anything happened while his father was away at work.

You and your dad must have been so very tired by then, you can hardly blame yourselves. Tooru said gently when Hajime finally expressed the thoughts years later. He had pulled Hajime closer to himself, pressing his nose tightly against Hajime’s forehead. And it’s a lie to say you didn’t learn from it. You did develop a contingency plan.

But was there more he could have done? That was the question which remained, even as Hajime had closed his eyes, quiet, letting Tooru kiss and smoothen out the furrow between his brow. Tooru was not wrong either: after that episode, he had begun his nightly routine: awakening to check on his mother in the middle of the night, initially out of paranoia, and then eventually, out of necessity, when he came to realise that there would always be something: a pain, an ache, a low blood pressure measurement, a dizziness, something which he could be there for, which he needed to be there for.

His mother protested in the beginning, worried that Hajime was not getting enough sleep, promising Hajime she would call if anything, but eventually, after a few near-scares which Hajime’s nightly visits caught, she stopped bringing it up, perhaps realising the necessity of the routine.

In that way, Tooru was right: he did find a contingency plan. He did do what he could, in accordance to what he could think to do.

But as the years went past, the question calcified and hardened and cemented until eventually, Hajime could no longer pretend it was but a vague question with no real answers. There were real answers of course, truths of what more he could have done, what he should have done, what he, at fourteen, not yet medically trained, had not thought to do.

Which was how, looking back, he had begun thinking of the eight minutes.

***

- Four, three, two, one.

***

“Well, that’s right Takeshi-san – if Iwaizumi is back in action today but Martez still remains suspended, I guess that gives us the Olympic committee’s decision!

Walking past him, Bokuto grinned and nudged him toward the cameras. Behind Bokuto, hidden out of camera view, Kuroo was nodding firmly to Hajime, making a turn around hand gesture which was clear in its intention.

“Martez will no doubt challenge the results. Many fans have called home ground bias as well.”

Hajime let out a slow, controlled, grounding exhale.

As he turned around to face the cameras, Iwaizumi Hajime had no idea that in approximately three hours, he was about to ask Oikawa Tooru to leave him.

***

But what more can you do?

His vision wavered for a moment, the sight of himself on the big stadium screens, bruised and stiff and strange like a separate being which merely looked like himself.

What more can you do? What more should you do before it’s too late?

***

The truth was he should have stepped out.

He should have admitted that he was too distracted, too overwhelmed, too sleep deprived to work his best. He should have asked to be replaced, to have the assistant athletic trainer fill in for him. He should have listened to his body: the throbbing migraine, the weight of sleep on his eyes, the protest in his sprained ankle, the nothingness, the unrelenting, unwavering nothingness -

Instead, he pushed on.

When Miya Atsumu fell, two points away from them snagging the game, Hajime leapt onto his feet, rushing onto the court, all care for his weaker ankle gone. Under the bright lights, the gasping crowds, he was furious, furious with himself as he sunk into a kneel on Atsumu’s side, his hands shaking as he applied on the cool spray to Atsumu’s injured knee because fuck, he should have pushed to check on Atsumu before the games, fuck, it had been on his list and yet he had forgotten amidst his argument with Tooru, the text from Martez -

Later, on the bench, while bandaging Atsumu’s knee, he watched the setter grit back angry tears, a hand steadied on his shoulder. He spoke to Atsumu in fierce, quiet words, reassuring him that his injury did not spell the end of his career, that one bad knee did not make all his work up to the Olympics nought.

In turn, tearily, Atsumu told Hajime he was sorry for telling Paulo about Oikawa and him. Caught off-guard, Hajime froze and then merely nodded, not dwelling on the topic.

After Atsumu had been sent to the infirmary, Hajime instructed an assistant to keep an eye on the game and retreated to keep away the loose rolls of bandages he was still holding. As he knelt down by his open first aid kit, the sounds of the yelling, cheering crowd behind him, he stared down at the bandages, the gauze, the tape, the scissors and his mind blanked, fading into nothingness for a moment and then -

- he could see it again: the streak of pain which had twisted across Atsumu’s face when he had crumpled onto the ground. An expression he had seen multiple times before in his life: Kiryu in the earlier game, Tooru during his high school injury, his mother throughout her last few -

He drew in a sharp inhale, cutting the thought short. Why was he being like this? Why now of all times? Closing his eyes again, he forced his breathing to slow, to come back under control.

When he opened his eyes again, he stared down at his first-aid kit, taking in the kinesiology tape he had neatly tucked into a corner. The tape which he had been planning to use on the knee that Atsumu has now injured. If he wanted to, he could step out right now the exact warm-ups he had forgotten to tell Atsumu, spell out in exact words the sentence he had written in Atsumu’s report late last night: R. knee tension from stumble on game 2 – follow up. He forced himself to take in another deep breath, followed by another slow exhale. He should have checked on Atsumu. He should have paid more attention, he should have -

“Iwa.” He snapped his head up sharply. Kuroo was looking at him, standing a couple arms’ length away. In the dim lighting of the alcove back-dropped by the bright court lights, he couldn’t read Kuroo’s expression. “The match is nearly at its end. You will need to be out in the court soon for the post-match interviews.”

“Right.” Hajime squeezed his eyes shut once and then opened them again. He took in another deep breath. “Right, of course.”

Kuroo nodded and then hesitated, before asking:

“Is Atsumu alright?”

“Yeah, he should be fine.” Hajime took another quiet, steadying inhale. He stood back upright. “His knee was tense, and probably strained from a previous exertion. He may be able to return after a few days’ of rest, depending on what the medics say.”

“Okay.” Kuroo’s voice quietened. “And, are you alright?”

“I -” Hajime raised his head to look at Kuroo. Kuroo had moved forward, the look of tensed worry on his face now clear. “I – I’m fine.” A roughness caught on Hajime’s voice and he cleared his throat, his voice steadier as he admitted: “Just the stress of all this -” He smiled a little wryly as he heard the crowds outside roar into a cheer again outside. “- getting to me I suppose.”

Kuroo nodded. “It’s a lot.” He acknowledged, and for a moment, Hajime thought he meant Atsumu’s injury until Kuroo added knowingly: “It is a lot to be scrutinised under the public eye like this.”

“And speaking of that,” Kuroo raised a phone in his hand. “I need to warn you about this before you go on out there.”

His expression tightened into a grimace. “I’m really sorry, Iwa. I know this isn’t what you wanted at all.”

***

But what do you want, Hajime?

It is a question which Tooru has asked him endlessly over the past days, months, years.

What do you really want?

He wants quiet. He wants simple. He wants early mornings on the kitchen bench, smiling as he watches his mother chat and banter with Tooru. He wants late nights, slow-dancing bare-footed in his home within the warmth of Tooru’s arms. He wants Tooru lain together with him in bed, gaze loving and soft; Tooru running to him after a match, burying his body into Hajime’s hold; Tooru sitting next to him at dinner parties, laughing with a half-glance at Hajime, their fingers laced -

The bright stadium lights reflect off the microphones pushed up to him. The cameras, the lights, the studio logos jostle and shove and push and wave.

“Iwaizumi-san! Is it true that you were involved in some sort of collusion to rid Martez from the Olympics?”

All he wants is to keep Tooru safe.

“Mr Iwaizumi, who else is involved in this supposed collusion? Who else is the Olympic committee investigating?”

All he wants is to keep Tooru happy and healthy.

“Why do you think you are not suspended, if you are currently still being investigated? Isn’t that unfair to Martez, given he has been suspended?”

What he wants is to do what is right by Tooru, to do what is right for Tooru.

“And Mr Iwaizumi - can you tell us what kinds of homophobic threats Martez made against you?”

It was as if time had suspended for a moment. He was a cosmonaut, floating, burning through an infinite vacuum of space. His mouth was moving, words forming from between his lips. He could see the flashes of light, follow the asked questions, hear the smattering of camera lenses but it was as if all he was doing was watching, watching from a distance, watching a strange, nightmarish stage act of himself from a high, far away distance -

“Mr Iwaizumi, what do you say to the rumours that you are gay and that you hitting on Martez was what actually spurred the fight?”

“Iwaizumi-san, what do you say to the suggestion that if you are gay, it would be inappropriate for you to be athletic trainer for a men’s volleyball team?”

“Mr Iwaizumi – is there any truth at all to the suggestions Martez has made as to your sexuality?”

What he wants is to do all that is right by Tooru. All that is right for Tooru.

Once he came off the court, he pushed his way into a bathroom stall where he knelt down and began puking violently. His breathes hitched from the exertion, from the pain, the fear which now burned into his skin, incinerated all over his limbs, grappled in a tightness over his chest, and in that sudden, terrifying crash, he was fully back to earth again, the taste of last meal bitter and acrid on his tongue, cold sweat collected over his nose from the nausea, his fingers gripped tightly over his own knee.

When he was finally done, he fell back and buried his face in his hands. The knuckles of his thumbs pressed against the corners of his eyes in an effort to push back his tears, his body curling into itself as he forced his heaving, ragged breathes to slow, as he tried and failed to smother down the sobs already escaping from his body.

There was a promise, a promise the investigators had made to keep Hajime and Martez’s mutual allegations under wraps. It was a promise that had now been clearly broken. As Hajime had re-appeared in the public eye with Japan’s final preliminary game, Kuroo had explained quietly, angrily, the investigators had watched the online response to his re-appearance and grown concern about accusations that Hajime had not been suspended because of a Japanese home-ground biases.

In turn, there had been a unilateral decision by the Japanese managers to release a press statement. To provide the public more fulsome information about the allegations currently been investigated. To give a semblance of fairness to the fact that both Hajime and Martez were still being both investigated, even if only one of them was suspended.

Except, all that did was to invite more scrutiny, more speculation. More questions on what sort of scandal might be hidden behind the ominous allegations of a ‘collusion’. More columnist gossip and public curiosity on what the allegation of ‘homophobic threats’ involved, what it implied -

It felt like a nightmare, a nightmare Hajime kept waiting to wake from which kept just repeating, repeating and repeating. As he sat, stilled, on the cold tiles of the bathroom, his chest still heaving and lowering in pained breaths, nails dug against his own curled palms, he stared out into the grey walls of the stall, letting the waves and waves of pain crash over him.

It was the long-ingrained terror of being outted without choosing to be outted. The long-cultivated self-disgust from years of internalised homophobia, which he had worked hard throughout adulthood to overcome, to tame and yet, just like that, had been re-awoken once again. It was the helplessness, the blinding panic from the absolute loss of control over one’s privacy, over one’s life which accumulates into a twisted, sordid thing in his stomach, in his chest, in fiery, terrifying pain across his limbs -

He pulled up his phone, and without thinking, pressed call on Tooru’s name. He waited, gritting back his sobs as he listened to the dial tone ring once and then twice and then three times and then four times and then again and again and agin until it ended in voicemail, and he put his phone down, his hands shaking and he bent his head down to cry into the ground.

You know this, he reminded himself angrily, you know that Tooru can’t answer his phone now because he is in witness interviews, witness interviews about these exact allegations, and he buried his head in his hands again, a new fresh wave of fear, of panic washing over him, as he realised, shit, shit, if he, a relative unknown, had been outted like this, what would happen if the investigators find out the homophobic threats were about Tooru too? What will the media make of this if he was not careful, if he let the exact same thing happen to Tooru?

Later, as he calmed and came down from the worst of his anxiety attack, he decided that it was probably best that Tooru hadn’t picked up his call.

Because, it was too late for Hajime already anyway.

This was it, the revelation of the homophobic threat allegations meant this was it. Never mind that the allegations were not confirmed, never mind that he had never wanted or consented to being out so publicly even to his friends, to his colleagues, let alone in the media.

In this way, with no forewarning, with such little fanfare, with fuck all within his control, despite all he had planned and plotted in those gentle, safe discussions he had had with Tooru and with Sofia across the years -

- just like that, in a short, poorly thought-out press release by the Olympic Committee and Japanese team -

- Iwaizumi Hajime was now as good as out to the world.

***

Because, it was still not too late for Tooru.

He had always known the risk of telling the investigators about the homophobic threats. Of letting more and more of himself, which he had hidden away for so long, out into more hands which he could not trust.

It was for this exact reason that he had told the investigators that the homophobic threats were only about him, and not about Tooru.

This meant that there was at least, one saving grace.

A saving grace he knew Tooru would hate him calling a saving grace.

Miraculously, incredibly, Tooru’s name had been left out completely from the press release.

And as a result, not a single journalist in their earlier onslaught, had mentioned Tooru’s name in their questions.

***

There was one more press conference which both Hajime and Tooru were attending in the afternoon.

Followed by one final preliminary game for Tooru to play.

Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, Hajime looked pale and tired. His bruises, angry red and startlingly purple, were a good distraction from how drained he really looked to anyone who didn’t know him too well; but he knew that Tooru would see through him in an instant.

He leaned down to draw in a deep breath, turning on the tap to splash water across his face. The next few hours, he realised, were crucial. If Tooru won his final preliminary game this afternoon, Argentina would be off to the semi-finals. The investigations were also still ongoing for the rest of the afternoon and probably tomorrow. If Hajime could just pull himself together and hold on for a few hours more, he could figure out what to do to keep Tooru’s name out of the investigation, figure out he could talk to Atsumu, to Paulo -

If you can just hold on for a few more days, the Olympics will come to an end. Hajime told himself as he looked up in the mirror. His eyes were still red-rimmed from crying and he lowered his face again to wash them furiously under the cold water again. If he just held on a few more days, Tooru, and himself, will be done with the Olympics, with the most important competition of their careers. If he just held on a few more days, Tooru would hopefully have cemented his place as a world-class volleyball player by then.

Hajime closed his eyes, turning close the tap and just letting himself breathe for a moment. He had thought it through over the past few days, played out the scenarios after each breakdown, each night he had been kept awake with crippling anxiety.

He knew that something wasn’t right with him. He knew that he was pushing himself too hard and careening steeply toward a complete burnout. He knew that his anxiety attacks were not normal, that they were cause for concern, alarm even, and that he couldn’t just let them happen and keep doing nothing about it. He wanted nothing more than to have Tooru with him. To finally tell Tooru everything that was going on. To finally, just let Tooru be by his side.

But for as long as the Olympics lasted, he and Tooru would both continue to be in the forefront of the public eye. He did not know, if he relented, if he let Tooru come to his side, how long it would be before their false public front would fall apart. He did not know, if he relented, how long he could continue pretending to be okay before he simply broke down into pieces and leave everything completely in Tooru’s care.

He did not know, if he did break down that way, if Tooru would simply choose to exit the Olympics in favour of taking care of Hajime. And that, was not how he wanted this to end. Not during the Olympics. Not during Tooru’s first Olympics, with no guarantee of there ever being a second.

You can hold on for a few more days. Hajime opened his eyes, telling himself sharply. He drew in deep breaths, pushing down the anxiety nausea he could feel still lingered in his throat. You can keep it together for just a few more days.

And then, a small voice in his head whispered, Tooru will be yours again.

The swelling beneath his eyes had come down. He pressed the running water against his face one last time, breathing out a slow exhale as he counted:

One, two, three four -

***

- five, six, seven, eight.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Kuroo asked quietly.

The questioning had been horrific. He had watched as Iwaizumi stood, bold and brave and steady under the onslaught of horrific questions out on the court. He had watched as the lights slowly died out in Iwaizumi’s eyes as question after question piled up about his sexuality, about the homophobic threats.

Once they had gone backstage, Iwaizumi had quietly slipped away out of the team locker rooms. Kuroo had watched, worried, started to follow and then stopped himself. He could tell that others were watching too: Hinata, Kageyama, Yaku; Maeno, whose sharp gaze were trained on Kuroo. Itta, who was standing just slightly off of Maeno’s side.

When Iwaizumi finally returned to the locker rooms twenty minutes later, it was only because Kuroo had spent nearly the whole day with him that he could tell how pale and drained Iwaizumi looked now. When asked if he was okay, Iwaizumi merely nodded, flashing Kuroo a small, forced smile, before he continued tidying up his bag from his locker.

Kuroo hesitated, looking at the rest of the players still around and then deciding they were far enough out of earshot to add quietly: “Iwaizumi, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, those questions -”

“Are over.” Iwaizumi closed the door on his locker firmly. He looked at Kuroo. “I’d rather,” He added just as quietly, “not talk about this now.” He then stared away, his gaze hazy for a moment before it re-focused again as he looked back up.

“Kuroo. Can you do me a favour?”

***

Tooru, Hajime’s text message had read. Let’s talk.

What he should have instead written was: Tooru, I’ve just been publicly outted and I tried to call you while I was panicking, so please, call me back.

What he really should have instead written was: Tooru, I’m really, really struggling right now and I need you, I need you to be here with me, more than anything else in the world.

Instead, the what-more-he-could-have-dones replayed in his head, swirling in circles swirling amidst the thousand other things he had to do, the thousand other responsibilities he had to keep up.

The text messages. The eight minutes. The journalists. The investigations. The press conference. The athletes.

Tooru.

Tooru .

***

And maybe, the end feels worse when, even though you have prepared for it, a part of you still does not believe that it would ever really happen.

One-two-three,

He thumbed the skin of Tooru’s chest gently, resting his hand above Tooru’s beating heart. Another hand stroked down the pane of Tooru’s thigh to where their limbs were tangled, where they were joined.

One-two-three,

The song, the dinner had long come to an end and now, their breathes were heavy, held against one another. Tooru was looking up at him, a hand rested on his cheek, his gaze so soft, so trusting, so loving that it ached.

One-two-three,

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss steadily into the middle of Tooru’s chest. Grazed another, less steadily this time, against his bare stomach.

One-two-three,

Felt the shiver which travelled down Tooru’s spine, the tightening of Tooru’s body around him. The sloping down of Tooru’s hands, tugging him down to breathe a kiss against his lips, Tooru’s own kiss-glossed lips soft beneath the moonlight falling through the closed curtains.

One-two-three.

Being them: being Tooru and Hajime, being Hajime and Tooru, is an intimate labour of love. A dance to which only the two of them know the music to. A waltz in which one begins and the other continues, and one takes a step while the other tries another, and they fail and they fall and they fight and they pick themselves up again, and then a step, and then another and then another until in time, their bodies fall in rhythm, into a synchronised union together -

One, two.

Hajime. Tooru had breathed. The last time they had done it had been the weekend before the Olympics, in Hajime’s Hiroo apartment, blissfully unaware of everything else which was about to soon happen. Tooru’s eyes had been closed, arms wrapped tightly around Hajime’s back, lips pressed against Hajime’s as he whispered: I missed you Hajime. I love you. I love you. I love you -

Three, four.

It was not the first time Hajime had heard those words, nor would it be his last. Yet, he felt his own rhythm stiffen, an ache, then still new, unfamiliar and strange, rising in his chest.

Five, six.

Tooru’s eyes opened, noticing. He moved a hand down Hajime’s chest, closing his fingers tight below the wild beating of Hajime’s heart, his eyes tender and concerned. Soft and steadying.

Seven, eight.

I love you. Hajime whispered. He pulled Tooru in tighter, signalling reassurance that he was okay. I love you. He kissed Tooru on the lips, suddenly filled with a fierce protectiveness as he pressed himself deeper into Tooru, Tooru's kiss growing more fervent in turn. I love you. He drew back, looking at Tooru. Watching the devotion in his brown eyes, the deep, unending love thrummed in his gaze. I love you, I love you, I love you - 

And in that moment, Iwaizumi Hajime knew, as he always has known, that for Oikawa Tooru, he would do anything.

Anything.

***

Kuroo booked the room for him in the same building where the press conferences were held. Hajime made excuses to Maeno and Itta and Hibarida for why he would be late to the press conference.

As Hajime waited for Tooru, he held himself together with a strained mask, forcing his breathing to stay steady. He was not going to break down, he told himself. He was going to tell Tooru what had happened. Discuss what they should do next. And then, he was going to give Tooru a fresh slate, a peace of mind to go to his final preliminary game on. He was going to pull himself together, for Tooru, for Tooru -

The door opened. Tooru stepped into the room, wearing his Argentinian uniform.

Their gazes met, and just like that Hajime’s self-restraint crumbled.

This was Tooru. Tooru, who held him as he cried in the infirmary bed just two nights ago; Tooru, who whispered loving words of assurance to him just last night as he broke down over the phone. Tooru, who when they last kissed, had whispered: I will always love you ; Tooru, who if Hajime lost, Hajime would never be able to forgive himself for.

“Tooru -” Hajime began, his voice trembling. But Tooru shook his head and suddenly, too late, Hajime recognised the anger in Tooru’s eyes, the fury in Tooru’s words as he snapped:

You hadn’t told me what slurs Martez and the others called you.

Hajime froze.

His breathes hitched, his shoulder tensing. His hand, held against the back of a chair grappled into a fist. The nothingness, the nothingness that had filled him all day flared across his mind, every part of his body suddenly brittle and tense again. He breathed, trying to regain his grip on reality, as Tooru continued:

Hajime, I had to find out through the investigation what slurs they called you. Tears were whelming in Tooru’s eyes and he was angry, Hajime recognised, furious in a way he rarely ever truly was with Hajime. How they beat you. How they cornered you. And do you know how horrible that is, Hajime? To learn about my own boyfriend first from every source but him?

There was a pattern to how they fought as a couple. It was too, a familiar waltz of their own. When confronted with conflict, Tooru charged ahead, he stormed, he spoke his opinion, he wanted to battle out the problems. In turn, when stressed, when truly upset or angry, Hajime withdrew. He grew quiet, distant, needing time to think and recollect himself. It was a dynamic which if handled poorly, clashed, but they have been together long enough to know how they each functioned, how they each operated, how to smooth out their differences over the years -

But today, today, Hajime could see it happening and could do absolutely nothing to stop it. He was cracked, splintered, his mind a blank white roaring mess and he was already doing all he could to even stay focused, even stay present to listen to what Tooru was saying, to respond rationally, to not completely break down panicking -

It all feels so wrong, Tooru whispered, agonised. We keep trying again and again and we keep failing and I don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know how to fix things anymore -

The something brittle and tense in Hajime shattered.

What more can I do? He had been constantly asking himself over the past few days. Watching the gaps, picking out the weaknesses, the flaws, the things that did not work, fixing them, doing what was right. It was the classic rule of how to fix a problem, wasn’t it? If something works, keep doing that. If something doesn’t work, find ways to change it.

What more can I do?

As his body begun breaking down once more, a terrible thought rung between Hajime’s ears:

I’m the thing that isn’t working here.

And then, following that in simple logical coherence:

The what more I can do, is to ask Tooru to leave me.

**

One, two, three, four.

Five, six, seven, eight.

Notes:

Look, I did say I enjoyed writing this, but didn't say I enjoyed the content of this hahahaha. I promise, the rest of the fic won't all be this bad - this is just a iwa pov chapter and he's having a really rough time now.

The one scene which unexpectedly broke my heart was Iwa calling Tooru and hitting voicemail - and the entire second half of the chap too ofc

What I loved about writing this chapter though is how obviously well Iwa and Oikawa know each other. i.e. The way their memories and re-tellings of their back stories are different but still aligned. Even the way they perceive the same events from chap 20 I would like to think, are similar because of how much time they have spent growing up and together, but also with their differences eg Iwa is infinitely harder on himself in his memories of the flashbacks than Tooru is.

But yes I have updated this fic rating to M as I felt the plot / scenes going forward deserves it! And the themes are pretty heavy as well.

Anyway, as usual, let me know what you think :)

Thanks for reaching the end and as always, I will update when I can!

Chapter 22: An interlude

Summary:

The photograph would have been charming, had it not turned into an interlude for the events after.

Notes:

Ummmm it has been a while huh (8 months almost exactly today haha)

Well, hope you enjoy the new (four-part) chapter!

The photograph would have been charming, had it not turned into an interlude for the events after.

He stood before the stall in a thick black coat, head slightly bent, brown hair lit beneath the solitary bulb. The background was blurred, skies dark with a flurry of gloomy sleet. But the real centrepiece of the photo was a bouquet of yellow flowers held in his hands, tight against his chest. A blossom of colour amidst the black and grey.

Oikawa Tooru, an interviewer would later ask, laughing, who the hell were you visiting in the remote town of Shichikashuku, Japan in the dead of winter?

***

That first morning, holding Tooru in his arms as they lay in their Hiroo bed before everything else, he thought of the photograph. Portrait of Oikawa Tooru with flowers. The press had called it. Portrait of Oikawa Tooru meeting his secret lover in Japan.

Funnily enough, he hadn’t even been in Japan when the photo had been taken: winter school had kept him cramming for an exam in Irvine, California. It was a testament to how well-written the tabloid stories were that Makki was the first but not last to call in a worried, moral-dilemma-filled panic.

Oh god, that’s it? Makki groaned in relief once Hajime explained the situation. That’s it?

That’s it. Hajime had promised. He remembered how he had said it, offering a small laugh over the phone. That’s it. Years later, in Hiroo, he pulled Tooru closer into his chest. That’s it. He listened to the rise and fall of Tooru’s breaths, felt the shift of Tooru’s body against his arms in his sleep. It’s done. He closed his eyes and saw the tall wooden counter, the long white corridor. It’s done. He felt the creature pad in between their bodies, wind through the fingers he has rested on Tooru’s stomach, curl down into the spaces where his arms closed over Tooru’s shoulders. It’s done.

In the portrait, Oikawa Tooru holds in his hands, against his chest, a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums.

In Hiroo on the first day of the Tokyo Olympics, Iwaizumi Hajime cards through Oikawa Tooru’s hair and presses a kiss above his closed eyes.

***

But how do you do it?

How do you love, knowing full well that one day, all you love will come to an end?

Chapter 23: Portrait of Oikawa Tooru with flowers

Summary:

There is a splendid cruelty in the way the press conferences are about to play out.
Kuroo watches, from the back of the hall, as the questions begin.

Notes:

I did tell you it was a four-part chapter.
Anyway, hope you enjoy :)

You just do, She whispered.

You just do, and you keep loving and you have to keep loving and -

***

- pink, a soft, gentle pink, is the colour of cherry blossoms swaying in the wind, when he walked out of the Oikawa household a year and three months before the Tokyo Olympics.

He can still see it when he closes his eyes. The petals gathered about his half-worn, polished shoes. The plastic bag held in his hand. The small square box rested in the jacket pocket under his other palm.

The bicycle he has left on the street facing the wrong direction.

***

But how can you keep loving? He whispered back. He hates himself even as he says it, those words that were never his, but have taken root within him over time:

How can you keep loving, when you know the selfless thing is to let go?

***

There is a splendid cruelty in the way the press conferences are about to play out.

The hall is foreboding, picturesque even in its gravity. It is like looking at an art piece: eight volleyball players in red staring down at the one figure in black, walking on in crutches. The journalists are like spectators in an arena, eyes affixed upon the stage ahead, cameras shifting, microphones raising.

Kuroo watches, from the back of the hall, as the questions begin.

On-stage, as Iwaizumi Hajime begins to speak, his voice is low and steady and -

***

- it hadn’t been obvious to anyone else, but backstage, before the press conference, Kuroo had heard Iwaizumi murmur to the microphone technician that he would be back in five, before moving away in his crutches.

Something felt wrong, has feltwrong for a while now, since Kuroo, Bokuto and Itta walked into Oikawa and Iwaizumi mid-fight earlier. Kuroo remembered Oikawa’s frozen expression of tensed anger; Iwaizumi’s uncharacteristically vulnerable look of fear. Oikawa had moved fiercely in front of Iwaizumi, while Iwaizumi had been pressed to the wall behind, as if trying to get as far away as possible from Oikawa -

The backstage wasn’t crowded. Most of the players had already gone out into the press conference. Kuroo followed behind Iwaizumi’s limping figure, slowing when Iwaizumi stopped by a water cooler. He hesitated and then made up his mind, calling out:

“Iwaizumi!” The athletic trainer’s dark head, bent down towards the cooler, stiffened. Kuroo should have taken that as a warning, but instead, pushed forward, unable to ignore his own growing worry.

“Hey.” He rested a hand lightly on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Just wanted to check if you are -”

Iwaizumi looked up. His teeth was gritted, shoulders raised. He had one hand held on the water cooler’s edge, the other clenched against his chest. He stared at Kuroo, blank, glassy-eyed, as if looking right through him at something else, before then, wincing and tearing his gaze away.

Iwaizumi was crying.

***

By the time Kuroo urgently yanked open the door to an empty meeting room, Iwaizumi was shaking.

He was shaking as he leaned a grasp down against the back of a chair, his breathes harried and difficult. When Kuroo closed the door to the room firmly, Iwaizumi was not sobbing, he was not crying aloud, but there were tears, tears silently running down his cheeks, which he pressed away furiously as they fell.

“Fifteen minutes.” Iwaizumi choked out. His voice was rough, hoarse. When he looked up, his gaze was pained, tired, vulnerable in a way Kuroo had never before seen him, not even at the interrogations, not even after he had been outed. He still had an arm tightened around his torso, a shaking fist clenched across his chest. “I need fifteen minutes – alone -”

“Of course.” Kuroo promised helplessly. “I’ll tell – I’ll get you fifteen minutes alone.” It was hard to keep his own voice even, to not betray how shaken he too was to see Iwaizumi Hajime cry, even in this silent, fiercely controlled manner. “And if you need any other help, just call me okay, just call me.” He urged. Iwaizumi looked away and Kuroo thought he flinched, before returning with the smallest of nods.

The thing that would get Kuroo later is that he should have seen it coming. After all, he had known, even researched the rumours. Maria Sando. The long-term Japanese girlfriend he had apparently cheated on. The Argentinian actress, American singer. Iwaizumi’s initial reluctance to work with Oikawa; Iwaizumi looking longingly after Oikawa at the filming; Iwaizumi taking hit after hit in the interrogations for Oikawa. Oikawa being pin drop silent on all of the Martez scandal.

The look of terriblepain on Iwaizumi Hajime’s face when he looked at Oikawa, at the moment Kuroo, Itta and Bokuto had barged in mid-argument.

When Oikawa came by backstage shortly after searching for Iwaizumi, Kuroo firmly stuck to his promise to give Iwaizumi fifteen uninterrupted alone minutes. He had wanted to be polite, to betray nothing of what he now suspected, but as Oikawa had grown demanding and sarcastic, stepping over all and any boundaries Iwaizumi seemed to have failed to set between them, Kuroo snapped:

“And what if,” He growled, as he grabbed Oikawa by the elbow: “Iwaizumi doesn’t want to talk to you?”

For a moment then, Kuroo had thought Oikawa was about to raise his hand to hit him, his gaze gone cold with an icy, sharply intense fury. And then, Oikawa tore his arm off of Kuroo’s grasp with a warning:

“You’ve got this all wrong.” Oikawa’s voice was low, cold with conviction. “Whatever it is, you’ve got this all wrong.”

A strong word to use, but in that moment, Kuroo truly hated Oikawa Tooru.

***

Alone, in a bright bathroom stall, Oikawa Tooru stands, staring down at the cream tiles beneath his feet.

In his hand, he holds a phone opened to a video link of a live stream.

In his head, his lover’s words ring over and over again:

Leave me.

Leave me, Tooru, leave me.

His hands shake as he raises them to his face.Hajime is looking at him, terrible grief pulled in his eyes. I can’t do this anymore, Hajime’s voice trembles. There is a desperate pain, hidden, closed within each of the words which Hajime speaks. I can’t – I can’t – so please, just leave -

Tooru presses his hands against his eyes, against the tears which run down in helpless streams. His chest heaves once and twice and he leans his forehead forward on the opposite wall, gritting down his sobs into his palms as he cries.

How could he have let this happen? He had known that Hajime had been anxious for so long, that Hajime was injured and exhausted and not sleeping and vulnerable and pained and frightened and yet, he had done nothing; yet, worse than nothing, he had lashed out at Hajime with his own overthinking and anger and insecurities, and that is why Hajime hasn’t tell him yet, why he still hadn’t told him that he had been outed by the homophobic allegations, why Tooru has had to learn about this instead from text messages from Sofia and Mattsun and Makki and -

Tooru’s hand tightens over his phone, closing the screen shut.

He knows, from watching the live stream that Hajime has just walked on-stage to his press conference, late but looking stoic and calm, as if it was just any other ordinary day.

***

Asides from the smattering of shutters, the press conference hall is pin-drop silent.

The journalists hang off every word. On-stage, Iwaizumi Hajime’s expression is unreadable beyond an air of quiet, complicated defiance. There are the blue-red-bruises. The swollen eye. The bandaged hand. It is like encountering a horrific car accident that no one can turn away from.

A photo speaks a thousand words, they say.

But violence too, Kuroo thinks, hides within itself a thousand ugly fears.

“Mr Iwaizumi.” A journalist begins: “How can we confirm that Martez made those homophobic threats, if you won’t even confirm your own sexuality?”

***

Earlier, at the end of the allocated fifteen minutes alone, Kuroo had gently knocked on the meeting room door.

Iwaizumi had been talking quietly on the phone to someone in what sounded like Spanish. When the door opened, he raised a hand to Kuroo in acknowledgement. Not for the first time today, Kuroo remembered the medical report Iwaizumi had done for Oikawa. He remembered the photo of them at a San Juan restaurant.

Iwaizumi ended his call and looked up. He looked tired, but now steadied. His eyes and nose were still flushed red, but he was calm, incredibly so for someone who had just been crying horribly moments ago.

“Let’s go,” He said and suddenly, Kuroo saw it, the way Iwaizumi adorned his mask, stitching and tightening on his facade as they began emerging out into the backstage, walking towards the bright press conference stage, Kuroo’s pace slowed to match Iwaizumi’s limp.

***

Tooru has not gotten a single text or call back from Hajime since their fight.

Hajime has asked Tooru to leave. And Hajime has told Tooru multiple times that he doesn’t want to see Tooru, that seeing Tooru causes him to break down.

Yet, this Hajime is still the same Hajime who had called and cried to Tooru last night with such helpless grief. The same Hajime who had this morning, in their last call before the investigations, stayed on the line for just that moment longer to listen to Tooru quietly match his own breathing. The same Hajime who had buried his head against Tooru’s chest as he cried in the infirmary, in his own way of pleading: I need you Tooru, please stay, stay -

What does Tooru do, who can he even talk to about this? Sofia has miss-called him earlier and so has Jose (he has told Jose he won’t go to his own press conference because he is in no mental state to), so he could talk to Jose or Sofia and they would have the full context of everything - but how would that help? This is no longer a social media matter; this is squarely outside the remit of a professional matter. This is a personal matter but even so – what is it? That his boyfriend wants to breakup is inaccurate when Hajime’s request had been accompanied by pained, self-despising laughs; but that his boyfriend has asked him to leave him sounds haunting, like a terrible exposition of Hajime’s deepest vulnerabilities to Jose and Sofia who are mere acquaintances to him.

Then, does he instead call Makki or Mattsun or one of Hajime’s close friends? But even then, what can Tooru say? That Hajime told me to leave him still feels like a betrayal of something Hajime had confided to only while terrible and desperate and steeped in anxiety, a nearly half-crazed plea meant for Tooru and Tooru only to hear. And what can a friend even advise him in turn? To ignore what Hajime has asked for, to force him into a confrontation, but potentially send him into a further breakdown? Or to give Hajime space but then, do nothing even if Hajime continues to spiral?

Tooru closes his eyes with a grimace. It’s been a long, long time since he and Hajime have had a fight this bad: the last one this terrible he can remember being them as teenagers, before they had gotten together. He leans forward against the cold plastic bathroom stall wall, forcing his breathing to slow, calming himself down himself from his long, horrible cry.

Truth be told, Tooru knows who he wants to call.

Who the only person he would ever wantto call in a situation like this would be.

It is at times like this, when he misses her the most; when he remembers that what he experiences must be a mere fraction of what Hajime would feel a million fold.

Sometimes, Hajime had told him once, with a small half-smile. I just imagine talking to her. I play out what her responses would be in my head.

She would tell him to go outdoors. To get some fresh air. To leave the claustrophobic cramp of the bathroom stall. Tooru opens his eyes, and wipes down his tears and runny nose one last time. He then takes a deep breath and leaves the stall, pausing by the sink to wash up his face.

He no longer cares that he still looks red-eyed and runny-nosed when he leaves the bathroom. He imagines her teasing, more to make Hajime smile more than anything else as she often did in those last few months: Wow, never thought I would see the day Oikawa Tooru stopped caring about his looks! He travels down the hallways until he pushes open the doors to step outside. The afternoon sun is bright and warm. He wanders until he finds a secluded spot behind the arena. Sinks down into a seat on a step before a backdoor. Takes a deep breath and looks out at the trees, at the river stream beyond it.

He closes his eyes and leans back. What would you do if you were in my situation? He imagines whispering to her. Bowl of pears in hand. Hajime’s jacket warm over his shoulders. If the person you love the most in the world is telling you to leave, at a time when they seem to need you more than anything ever -

He breathes in and then breathes out again. There is silence, broken only by the gentle whisper of breeze, the quiet rustle of leaves.

He opens his eyes. Tears have formed in the corner of his eyes again. As he wipes them down, he recognises that he won’t get an answer from his imaginary version of Hajime’s mother. He knows that his question, fraught and difficult as it is, his current mental state, terrible as it already is, cannot do this, cannot configure an answer from this situation.

And it hurts, hurts to be reminded that there is, and never will be a substitute for her. And just as much, it hurts to remember tangentially, that he does have his own mother, his own Okaa-san who he also can’t reach for questions like this, for reasons so, so completely different to that of Hajime’s mother. And he too, misses her, because for all she has done, for all that has happened, for she is still his mother, she is still someone he turns to for things if not for this, if not for all this; and he wishes, not for the first time and he he wishes, in a way Hajime too aches and yearns for, that he and Hajime had more support, more family they could turn to, perhaps even, if they could turn back time, to that blissfully ignorant childhood and teenage years when each of their families had been whole, when they each had their mothers to love them and one other seemingly unconditionally, a time when love itself was simpler, uncomplicated and -

Tooru sits up suddenly, realising:

There is one person who he can call.

A person who cares for Hajime as much as Tooru does; a person who too understands Hajime like the back of his hand by virtue of sometimes, plainly, being too similar to Hajime. A person who would miss Hajime’s mother just as much as Hajime does.

A person who would understand, more than Tooru could even imagine, the prospect of losing the person you love the most in the world.

Tooru wipes down his tears and forces himself to take a deep breath. Hajime wouldn’t want him to be called, wouldn’t want him to be stressed, but Tooru thinks, Iwaizumi Hajime has long lost the right to make decisions on who he withholds information from for the sake of not worrying them.

“Hi Otoo-san.” He says softly, once the call goes through. He tries a little, not fully, to hide how devastated he currently feels.

“Hey Tooru-kun.” Hajime’s father greets on the other end of the line. His voice is gentle but worried, not unlike how his son would be if positions were swapped. “Are you and Hajime-kun okay? I’ve been following the news.”

***

You hold on, she whispers. You hold on and find the strength to hold on,

Until you figure out what is right.

Until you figure out what the selfless, loving, right thing is to do.

***

Violence grows from hatred, and hatred festers from fear. Fear, in turn, is is bred from ignorance. From encountering the other, the unknown, the perceived threat to one’s world as is distinctly known.

When he walks on stage, he remembers, the portrait of Tooru with chrysanthemums.

If all that could be just over flowers, his hand grappled on the microphone What else is there if they know about me?

***

It came to Kuroo too late, mid-press conference. A realisation, it dawns upon him, that Iwaizumi must have known since the very beginning:

The public attention on the fight was never going to be about Iwaizumi Hajime and Daniel Martez.

The fight was and is always going to be about Oikawa Tooru and Daniel Martez.

***

It is in part due to a reason of his doing, and in other part truly and thoroughly not.

It was Kuroo who had made Iwaizumi Hajime famous through Volleyball Without Borders. But it was Iwaizumi himself who had cemented his own fame through his interactions with Oikawa Tooru.

So of course the public do not care about the impact the fight had Iwaizumi personally: the public does not know Iwaizumi personally, and in turn cannot fathom an Iwaizumi Hajime as isolated from Oikawa Tooru. And why would they, if there is no public imagination accessible of such an Iwaizumi? Why would they, if Iwaizumi’s fame hinges on him being Oikawa’s childhood friend, Oikawa’s international partner?

And then, comes the complication: Daniel Martez.

Because in many ways, despite their historical animosity, Martez and Oikawa are to an objective observer like Kuroo, really two sides of the same coin. They are both brilliant, extremely hard working setters, each bold and entertaining, handsome and charismatic enough to clinch the limelight. Martez has his old-school, masculine charm, Oikawa his teasing flirty ease. Both have leapt from one rumoured love interest to the next and the next, with enough public appearances with those new (often also famous) female friends to maintain tabloid attention.

But most fascinating to Kuroo is the way the public has treated the each of their personal lives and romantic controversies.

Martez, from what Kuroo has seen, has an attitude which tells you that he loves but doesn’t necessarily respect his girlfriends. He can be vulgar and rude, too quick on his temper as he exes have often hinted but - it is simply the way he jokes; everything has been taken out of context; boys will simply be boys – there is a forgiveness afforded for him, allowable only of a certain type of men, beloved by the public like him.

Oikawa in turn, is never rude of offensive in that same blunt manner. Unnervingly personal observations hidden within underhand teases? Oh yes, plenty - Oikawa is clever enough to read right through others and sly enough to use that to his advantage, whether it is to charm or distance someone. It is why he read through Kuroo’s bluff too so easily earlier backstage, why Kuroo had hated his insistent pushing, when he could clearly read between the lines. But comments which are disrespectful and offensive in the way Martez’s are? None at all. Yet, the press is harsher on Oikawa than they ever are on Martez, for what Kuroo suspects is one simple reason:

Oikawa has a quality about him which makes the public uncomfortable.

It is the way he styles his hair and picks his clothes; it is in the gestures he makes with his hands, expressive, even effeminate. It is betrayed in his voice, so often light and teasing opposed to the expected gruff and masculine. His jokes, insults and flirts lack the vulgar that one expects of men but instead has the emotional cleverness typically associated with women.

No matter western or Asian or Latino, the mass public don’t know which of their distinctly established boxes to put Oikawa Tooru into. Is he Asian or South American? Is he straight or queer? Does one swoon at his charms they do with Martez, or is there something sharper, more sinister behind them? Is Oikawa the terrible womaniser the tabloid often makes him out to be, or does he secretly seek out his secret boy toys by night?

And as is the case with people who do not fit into those standard norms, the criticism and scrutiny garnered around them will always much, much harsher than those that are not.

***

“Mr Iwaizumi, what do you say to the rumours that Oikawa Tooru was involved in a scheme to oust Martez from the Olympics?”

“It’s not true.” Iwaizumi’s answer is quiet and simple. His face betrays nothing as the cameras click and flashes flicker. “There are no allegations pressed by the Olympic Committee or police against Oikawa Tooru. The allegations are only against me and against Martez.”

“So you are saying Oikawa Tooru is not currently being investigated?”

“No, he is not.”

“Then, you’re saying the fight has nothing at all about your relationship with Oikawa, and Martez’s rivalry with Oikawa?”

“No, no it is not.”

“Well, what was the fight really about then, Mr Iwaizumi?”

***

Years ago, Oikawa had been photographed in a rural countryside town of Japan holding a bouquet of flowers.

To Kuroo’s interest, the seemingly mundane photograph had gone viral, first in Japan then in Argentina, and then in mainstream sports media worldwide. The rumour at that time had been that Oikawa was dating a well-beloved Argentinian soap opera actress, having been spotted with her on numerous dinners and parties. The photograph thus brought about the question: who had Oikawa Tooru been seeing with flowers in Japan, if not Elena Pietra, his girlfriend who had been in San Juan shooting her newest soap opera episode?

Kuroo had then watched with some morbid fascination, as the photograph blew out into a full celebrity scandal.

The truth was, the scandal had not been anything Oikawa Tooru had done, as much as it related to just who he simply was. He was not the right type of guy, not the right image of a boyfriend the Argentinian public wanted their darling soap actress star to be dating. Elena has that kind of beauty that deserves a real man, you know! The comments and forums online read. Someone like her co-star, or that other athlete. Not a pretty soft boy like Oikawa Tooru!

Never mind that Oikawa Tooru, professional athlete, was probably fitter and stronger than Elena Pietra’s chiselled co-actor; never mind either that other male celebrities like Daniel Martez could be spotted doing far more suspicious things without it being this big of a scandal.

Oikawa’s good at using people, the rumours whispered. He uses people to get what he wants. He is playful, he is disloyal, and because he flirts with girls and guys alike, he will never be loyal. If he’s with a girl, he must be thinking of screwing a guy. If he’s with a guy, he’s probably dreaming of feeling up a girl. Either way, none of his romantic endeavours must be that serious, and must instead, be for his own benefits and use. How utterly untrustworthy, how entirely dishonest -

The press never really figured out who Oikawa Tooru had really been meeting in Japan on that winter morning with flowers, but it didn’t really matter anyway. The damage had been done; the reputation had been built. It was one of the things Kuroo had considered when deciding whether to ask Oikawa to be part of Volleyball Beyond Borders: this reputation he has, of being flirty, of being sleazy, of being sly, cunning and untrustworthy as a result of the litany of his rumoured romantic pursuits.

Then, Kuroo had determined Oikawa’s reputation to be a non-issue for one reason, which is that as co-star of Volleyball Beyond Borders, Iwaizumi Hajime, in all his steady sincerity and earnest trustworthiness, would easily counteract any past scandals Oikawa’s image may bring up.

Of course, what Kuroo hadn’t wagered on, was any of this. Of Iwaizumi himself holding a torch for Oikawa, with feelings from what Kuroo can tell, do not appear to be returned or equally respect. Of Iwaizumi too, whether there was any truth in this, becoming embroiled in said scandals Oikawa too was involved in.

Of Iwaizumi now, in the interviews, as he has too in the interrogations, being hooked, snagged and sunk, by Oikawa Tooru’s public reputation.

***

“Well, what was the fight really about then, Mr Iwaizumi?”

“The allegations are as publicly announced.” Iwaizumi speaks in a quiet, steady tone. Next to him, Yaku, Hinata, Ushijima and all the rest of the Japanese volleyball players stare down the table, having been asked no questions since he has come on-stage. “You know what the fight is about.”

“But in your own words, Mr Iwaizumi?”

“Martez made homophobic threats against me.” His words are simple. “And then, he attacked me.”

“Are you in a relationship with another man, Mr Iwaizumi?”

“No,” The first time Iwaizumi had answered this question he had been sharp and shocked. Now, he only sounds tired and on edge. “and I don’t - ”

“Are you in a relationship with Oikawa Tooru?”

“From what I understand,” Kuroo can’t tell if he is imagining a rough edge to Iwaizumi’s voice as he answers. “Oikawa Tooru is in a happy relationship with a fellow Argentinian athlete Maria Sando.”

“And is it true that Oikawa Tooru is gay, or has been with guys in the past?”

Iwaizumi’s gaze hardens. Kuroo thinks he sees it for a moment, Iwaizumi’s facade waver. “I,” he says quietly. “don’t know the answer to that or see the relevance it has to any of this.”

“The relevance, Mr Iwaizumi, is that the rumoured allegation is that the homophobic threats had not been made against you, but against Oikawa, when you got angry against Martez.”

At this, Iwaizumi bursts out into a startled, horrible laugh. “No,” He says, and there it is again, Kuroo catches, a tiny flint of fear in Iwaizumi’s voice, barely perceptible before it dissipates again. “I can confirm to you that is not what happened?”

“And yet,” the journalist continues. “you say you yourself are not in a gay relationship at the moment.”

“That is correct.”

“And are you gay yourself?”

Iwaizumi’s gaze out in the sea of journalists is for an instant so so conflicted, so terrible, that Kuroo is sure that anyone can see through his facade now. The cameras snap all about him.

“I again, do not see the relevance of that to anything at hand.” He says quietly. A hand of his twitches upon one of his crutches. “I will not be commenting on that any further to any questions asked.”

***

Violence, and those fears which breed and bloom from violence, find their way to seep into everything else.

Like small cuts, growing and proliferating, dividing and differentiating, mutating and metastasising until they grow into a tiny thousand cancerous cells.

When he had uttered the words leave me and watched the world fall apart on Tooru’s face, he had been reminded irrevocably, of both those snowy nights. That night when he had rushed up to the Oikawa household, desperate, ringing the doorbell, clanging the lock, yelling himself hoarse. Okaa-san. Okaa-san! And, that other night, years later, at that very same house, when Tooru had pushed him out the front door and whispered:

Go. It’ll only make things worse if you stay, or if I go now with you.

Please Iwa-chan.

Go.

***

The press conference has ended. Backstage, someone has handed him a water bottle; another has un-clipped the microphone from his shirt. Someone – Kuroo, with Ushijima by his side – rests a hand on his shoulder, asking if he is okay, voice worried. He barely registers what he murmurs back, the usual excuses he provides, then shakes them off, moving instead to a quiet corner of the backstage. There, his arms tremble where they are held around his crutches, as he leans back against a wall, hiding in the privacy stolen behind a stack of large boxes.

Even backstage, the bright lights swim around him.

He remembers the call he had made to Martez before going on-stage.

He remembers how the period following the second of those snowy nights had been of pure self-deceit.

***

They had told themselves they were okay, constantly, unquestioningly. They told themselves they were okay, because they had to be okay. Admitting they were not okay was to admit they could not survive. Tooru had lost his family and in turn, his safety net. By losing his safety net, Tooru too had lost the privilege of chasing volleyball as a dream. Instead, volleyball became a means to survive.

If volleyball failed, Tooru would have no Argentina. If Argentina failed, Tooru would be nothing but a high school graduate with no other skills and no money to gain the relevant skills. If Tooru failed, he would have no family, no backup plan, no home to return to, no pockets to reach into.

No one to catch him except for one Iwaizumi Hajime.

Which meant that if Hajime failed, Tooru would in turn have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In some ways, it was ironic wasn’t it?

Tooru had taken him to be his everything, and in turn, Tooru had been left with nothing but him.

He opens his eyes. Vaguely, he is aware that his breathes are coming out strangely, raggedly. He isn’t crying, but he feels numb, a different kind of pain when he had broken down crying before Kuroo earlier. The noises, the chatter, the movement all around him are superfluous, all a part of the world which have all banded together to do nothing more than to exclude and exhaust him.

He feels, if he looks down, that he will see in his open palm Tooru’s heart, Tooru’s pumping heart, torn out by his own fingers, aorta by aorta, ventricle by ventricle, bleeding in deep saturated red down his forearm to his elbow and then dripping onto the floor below. He had gorged it out during their last argument, grasped it hard throughout the press conference. Yet, even now, all he can do is to continue to hold it, continue to stare down at where it beats and bleeds, endlessly loyal to him, endlessly committed and loving towards him, despite what he’s done.

Desperation.

The violence at that time; the physical violence Tooru’s father had dealt on that winter night; the silent emotional violence Tooru’s mother had then joined in with for the days, months, years after -

That violence had blossomed into desperation. A desperation which coloured and encoded their lives. A desperation which tainted and burned into every facet of their love, their relationship. On the surface, it was impossible to tell. Over calls, they were practical, rational, almost to the point of being transactional. They were too busy, too tired, too occupied with merely staying afloat financially, emotionally, to have the time or energy to be good partners to one another.

Even more so of the truth was that there was no space to be happy, to be hopeful, to simply enjoy loving one another, when their love was constantly a painful reminder of all they had lost. Tooru no longer talked about them getting married or having kids the way he used to: eagerly, happily as if they could just walk up to a service counter and order those things the next morning. Instead, those things died and wittered away until they became like an alternate reality, a fantasy others could enjoy but they could never achieve.

But the desperation – the desperation still lived and breathed below all of that. Hajime leans down now, between the boxes of audio-engineering equipment, closing his eyes and pressing his face into his hands as he remembers it. The first nights they were reunited in those years, already far and few between as they already were then, were always terrible. The physicality of having one another again was wonderful, but once the gentle kisses and tender holds inevitably turned into a fierce desire to press and fit their bare bodies together, Tooru would become filled with a desperation, an almost-feverish despair.

Harder, he would whisper into Hajime’s ear, his voice shaking, as if asking for a punishment, his heels dug into the bottom of Hajime’s back. Harder. He would say again, tightening his hold over Hajime’s shoulders as if he would lose Hajime if he let go. Love me, He seemed to beg, in words not said aloud: Love me, not to prove to me that you love me, not to have us enjoy you loving me, but love me, to prove to me that you are still mine, that you are still mine because -

- if you’re not still mine, what else would I have left in this world?

And how could Hajime blame him? How could he blame Tooru when Hajime was the one who had done this to him? He and Tooru made love then, not for themselves, not only because they loved one another, but instead, in an angry, desperate defiance against all the violence that had been dealt against them. How could he ever put aside the sensation of lying curled up in the dark after, holding Tooru in his arms as Tooru sobbed against his chest, as if the whole process – their jobs, their hard-earned money, their carefully-planned reunions, their kisses, their held hands, their sex, their heated, violent, desperate sex – all of that was just a way, the only way Tooru had to let out all the anger and hurt and upset he normally held, all the pain he held for losing his family, for having his reality, become as fraught and difficult as it has been.

The space in which they could occupy had grown smaller and smaller as time went on, until their relationship had felt like a quiet, wronged sin in which they could only indulge in behind closed doors, beneath drawn curtains, beneath their entangled sheets and secret touches, and now, now -

- now, Hajime raises his head, his breathing still ragged. Now,what is the difference?

What is the difference to all that is happening now?

***

And how do you find the strength? He whispers. How do you find the strength to hold on, even knowing all that you know?

***

Because down to it, no matter how hard he fought, the truth was that when he walked into her room that night, he had been wishing for an end.

Yellow had been the light he turned on when he shook her awake. Okaa-san. He had said softly, as if in acting out the act of waking someone up in a pantomime. Okaa-san. Wake up. Wake up.

You were wishing for an end to your exhaustion. Tooru told him gently, years later. You were wishing for an end to her pain. He held him, cradled his head in his hands, speaking soothingly, his voice so tender, so loving that it hurt. For an end to the new normal. For an end to her illness, for her to get better.

Silly wasn’t it? That Tooru, the one person who could call him out on any of his million flaws, would also be the one to give him such generous excuses. No, Hajime wanted to cry, fists pressed, Tooru, don’t say that, you can’t say that: how self-deceiving, how pathetic do you think I need to be, to be able to think that it true -

After all, he knows what happened that night, so how could he let himself believe otherwise? He knows what he had been thinking when he had knelt by her side, calling her awake softly, as if not properly trying. He knows, just as he has told Tooru, that when she had not stirred, he had laid down in his father’s empty futon next to hers, huddled in against her fading warmth and closed his eyes, choosing not to wake her for just a moment longer.

What were you doing then? Tooru asks. His expression is ever-gentle, and he trusts Hajime so much that it hurts -

Hajime looks at the love, the terrible, wonderful, helpless love Oikawa Tooru holds for him and something small and vulnerable in him shatters.

I was giving up, He whispers, like a confession. I was giving up before I even realised what I had done.

***

You find the strength to hold on, she whispers, by being brave.

By being unafraid to do what is right. To do what is true.

To do what is needed to be done, for who you love.

***

It takes a while after Iwaizumi returned to the team, but Kuroo eventually realises it. The subtle shift and quiet resolve, which tells him that the vulnerability he had glimpsed when Iwaizumi had cried earlier, is a vulnerability he is never going to see from Iwaizumi again.

When Iwaizumi divulges the plan to him, a few hours later, it is not as a friend but as a colleague.

“And you’ve spoken to a lawyer about this?” Kuroo asks helplessly. “This is the best way to go?”he adds, unable to say what he really wants to say: You don’t have to do this, not for him, not for him -

Iwaizumi nods.

The crack in the wall, which he had revealed to Kuroo earlier in the day, has now been firmly sealed away.

***

At the beginning of the fifth set of the Argentinian volleyball men’s final preliminary match, Oikawa Tooru is called off the court.

He disappears for half the set, re-emerges and plays so badly for two points that he is immediately called off again.

Argentina still scraps a win with their second-string setter, but just barely so.

***

In the locker room off the court, Oikawa Tooru can’t bring himself to care about whose team the roars and cheers for the end of the game are calling for.

He is seated bent over, a shaking hand pressed over the tears in his eyes, the other gripped tightly over the phone in his fist.

Something is wrong, he knows, something is about to go very, very wrong, and he has to do something, he has to do something before it is too late -

Hajime, he had whispered over the call, are you sure? Are you sure this is what you want?

Yes, this, Hajime had replied, his voice terrible and steadfast and plain: This is what will bring things to an end.

***

There are futons and painkillers, socks and wet wipes. Scripts and blood pressure machines. Eight minutes, eight minutes that will never be returned.

In the meeting room, he is joined by the team managers, Itta and Maeno, the Olympic Committee representative Kaho and the policeman Tomodo. There is paperwork and legal-lease. Utashiro his lawyer, speaks through the steps. Kuroo and Hibarida sit, faces grim and unreadable, watching from the side.

Tooru is lain, small and curled by his side. Tooru’s head, beneath his soft hair, can be cracked and splintered, his bones that can be fractured and shattered. Hajime is pulling the gates open, crying aloud in furious desperation, amidst snow falling on a dark winter night. You need to come over, now. He is yelling. Bring the car, bring the car.

As he signs the papers, he remembers whispering as he lay, as if asking forgiveness for the younger him: Did it hurt less because I was ready for the end? Tooru held him tight, chest pressed against his back, face buried against his shoulders, a hand closed, soothing down his front. Or did it hurt more because I was ready for it to end?

It won’t solve everything, Utashiro had warned him earlier, over phone, but it will solve at least part of what you are looking for. They drive through the night, he and Tooru and their mothers, inching with difficulty through the sleet. But what justice looks like is different for everyone, Utashiro adds fiercely, so Iwaizumi-san, you have to make sure that you want to do this, that you are comfortable with doing this. In the backseat, he watches in the stripes of light created in the streetlamps they pass, as Tooru reaches across the gearbox to find his own mother’s hand. Tooru had been fifteen then, but he could have just as easily been ten, five, one, reaching to his mother for comfort, his mother holding his hand in return, each performing that instinctual pure, unquestioning act of love, beneath the beating of the snow, the howling of the winds and Hajime too, takes his mother’s hand in his.

***

Loving someone whole-heatedly, selflessly, thoroughly, is after all, a choice, a decision. She whispered.

A decision that you make again and again and again and again.

***

And what is it about the mundane that is so memorable amidst the terror?

Like the metallic snap of the stretcher, clicking together like a laundry drying rack; or the loss of her warmth from his lap he never knew would be the last time, not unlike the yawning walk away of a bored cat. There are navy, plastic seats in the waiting room, baseball on the television next to the florescent red of the Kanji sign 救急外来 . He remembers her documentation he pours on the counter, forms he fills out with a blue, haggard ballpoint pen tied with rubber bands to the plastic clipboard, Tooru’s hand on his shoulder, Tooru’s mother gently pointing out when he misses something. His father’s voice, quiet and steady, revealing nothing, when he finally makes the call later, stood aside from the watchful eyes of the Oikawas.

The small, round, white clock with bold, thin hour and minute hands.

It is nearly dinner time when the meeting ends. There is a big Olympic-wide dinner party for the end of the preliminary games tonight. He is asked to join along, and feeling nothing, he allows himself to be swept along.

But why does he feel nothing? Why does he feel nothing from the end of it all? He stops at the entrance to the great dinner hall, staring out into the dark crowds of athletes and blasting music and darting neon lights he is about to be swallowed into. Next to him, Kuroo has slowed to look at him, concerned, and he picks up his pace again, limping forward in his crutches.

After all, the point of the jiddan, the settlement, was to bring some relief wasn’t it? For him to withdraw his police charges and allegations, in turn for Martez withdrawing his own accusations. He is free now, in return for selling away his right to pursue Martez for what he has done wrong to him. A right, since the very beginning, he had never cared for anyway.

So why doesn’t he feel more relieved? Why doesn’t he feel any happier?

The Japanese team is in a ruckus, giddy mood by the time they join them. He somehow finds himself slotted between Bokuto and Yaku. Drinks are poured, drinks are downed. He is fine, he should feel fine and so he too, as any fine person would, drinks. Small glass shots of clear sake and shochu. A large can of beer, and then, wine that someone slaps into his hand. Martez is slamming him back against the wall, yelling. Blood floods his mouth, its metallic taste tangy and sharp. Tooru is looking him, crying: I don’t know how to fix this anymore. His mother lies un-moving as he sobs. Wake up, wake up -

Hinata is saying something to him, arm extended and grazing the side of his jacket. He barely registers, barely takes in the words, before Hinata is gone again. Are you sure? Tooru had whispered to him over call earlier, sounding agonised, sounding pained. Are you sure this is what you want?

And he had been sure, he had never been more certain in his whole life. The music in the hall has now been turned up louder, the chatter, laughter growing too in volume. A terrible, screaming, wailing monster within him had quietened and soothed, only when he told Tooru: yes, this is what will bring things to an end. Just as it had, growling and stopping into a calm only when he had said:

Leave me, please, just leave me.

Someone has lain a plate of food before him. He tries a bite and tastes nothing, nothing but the roaring sound of blood in his ears, a pain beginning to throb in his chest. His fingers pick up the metal fork, the metal knife, and then let them clatter down with a tremble against the dining table. In his lap, his useless hands curl into fists, and then release. They do not steady. They shake and Tooru’s heart which he still holds continue to beat and bleed. Lights and cameras. Police officers. Why hadn’t you defended yourself? Atsumu asks. Him falling on the floor, fright whelming as from above, a shoe looms and comes smashing into his face before his hands can even move, darkness cracking and pain stinging across his eyes.

When his phone rings, he stumbles up without his crutches and moves aside to take the call. He doesn’t go far: most of his team have by now left to go to the dance floor anyway, only a few stragglers remaining laughing and drinking around the table. The police have dropped the charges against both you and Martez now, as you know, Maeno tells him over call, but the Olympic committee will keep investigating the allegations against you, Martez and potentially Oikawa too. As you know, the Olympic committee’s decision is not something you and Martez can agree out of by way of the jiddan settlement.

When the call ends, he stares out into the moving, pulsing crowds in the dark, loud hall. Blood trails in a straight line down from his ear, to his fist to the floor.

His hand is trembling. He is walking down the white, florescent corridor, Tooru and his mother in tow. He finds his seat, on the now-empty table, plates cleared. There is a knife still on Sakusa’s seat - he pockets it, into his jacket. He begins to walk through the crowd. Through the overwhelming, swimming, blurring crowd. Cutting through the saturated red violence. Burning through the incomprehensible hatred, fighting down the years and decades of gripping fear.

The bathroom is dim, dark and quiet. There is a counter, tiled, with taps and sinks, before small rectangled mirrors. He leans down into a sink, panting unevenly, raggedly. Nausea rises in his throat, the bitter, sour taste of alcohol which he swallows back. His hands, gripped by the counter, are now shaking. When he looks up into the mirror, he can see how haunted, how pale, how frightened he looks, and the world spins about him as he looks down again, panting, his skin, his chest, his limbs, now bursting into flames.

There was once an eight minutes, an eight minutes upon which -

Chapter 24: Portrait of Iwaizumi Hajime before a mahogany counter

Notes:

Necessary trigger warnings (also being why I upped the ratings): death of a maternal figure; and thoughts of self-harm

- he stood before a mahogany counter in a crumpled grey sweater.

Head slightly bent, black hair lit beneath the florescent lights. The corridor is white, lined with navy blue plastic chairs. If this were a photograph, a portrait, the centrepiece would be the blue pen in his hand, held poised before the cream-white document on the document.

It’s not right, He whispered, it can’t be right.

Hajime-kun, Tooru’s mother had said from behind him. She sounded pained. Your father’s on his way, he can sign it if you can’t -

“I can.” He insists. “But her time of death can’t be three in the morning.” His hand on the pen grips. Next to him, Tooru is grasping his shoulder, whispering his name, as if trying to wake him up. “We arrived to the hospital at eight minutes past three. I checked.”

“Hajime -” Tooru’s mother starts again, before her voice breaks. She too, has just lost a best friend, he would later remember. She is the one who had driven.

“Iwaizumi-kun.” The nurse behind the counter says gently. “Your mother had passed by the time she arrived at the hospital. The doctors estimate the time of death to be about eight minutes before arrival.”

***

Eight minutes.

The bathroom stall is dark and narrow.

Eight minutes.

Cold tiles. Knees pressed against the hard grey floor. 

Eight minutes is something so small you can barely hold it. The time it takes to boil a jammy egg. The time it takes to photograph someone holding chrysanthemums to visit a grave. The time it takes to call on a home, to drive through snow.

You could have woken her up right away. The creature pads down to sink into a seat, beneath the forehead he has pressed against the wall, the breaths which shake horrendously upon each pant. You could have called for an ambulance. The articles he has read, the statistics he has crunched. Would it have been faster? The creature watches him, its tail flickering back and forth. Does Okaa-san blame you for making her drive, for putting that guilt on her hands? Would she have still been alive, if you had just - 

The tense, tight pressure in his chest. The heavy pain of each inhale. Fingers, reaching, finding the cold, metal handle of the dinner knife in his pocket. A bandage best ripped off; a pain better self-served. Control through the uncontrollable, violence through the violence - 

Maybe, he whispers, maybe, I'm just not right for Tooru.

(Leave me, please, leave me -)

Maybe, if I leave Tooru first, his breath hitches in pain, then nothing else can ever take Tooru away from me.

It will hurt in the very beginning, then dull out into something bearable. Tooru will find someone new, Tooru will find someone better. The taste of blood split against his shaking lip, the cold of the tiles against his teeth. He will make sure Tooru finds someone better, he will do everything in his power to live to see it happen and -

It is the right thing to do, the creature settles, purring, paws tucked beneath its body, quietened and satisfied. It is the what more you can do, the what more you have to do. The knife, now in his fist, emerging trembling against the fabric of his jacket and - 

Something light. A flash of white amidst the grey. 

A small slip of paper, falling to the ground. Hinata earlier, holding his elbow, speaking to him urgently. Pushing something into his jacket pocket.

It is crumpled, torn on the edges. It is small Japanese characters, handwritten in black. He stares at it, not comprehending, not processing for a moment, and then suddenly, just like that, the fear, the violence, the creature within him is burning, roaring up through his body, through his lungs, through his ribs, through his pained chest, through his gripped fists against his knees - 

- tears, tears begin whelming hot in the corner of his eyes, falling on his hands, on his fingers, on the note that reads: 

Hajime,

You wear grief like a responsibility.

But that responsibility is and never has been yours alone to bear.

I love you, always. And that means I’m here, always, to carry that weight together with you.

Yours, forever,
Tooru

Chapter 25: and, a bravery

Love is a responsibility.

A duty, a weight he carries with him every day. 

But love is as well, a being. A part of him he has no control over, an emotion he is utterly helpless to hold back.

And with that, love too, is a choice. It is the decisions he has made, for better or for worse, over and over again, all the wants he can only buckle into the force of -

What do you want Hajime?

He wants quiet. He wants simple. He wants peaceful early mornings on the kitchen bench. 

What do you really want?

He wants to hold his mother's hands again. He wants to lay his head on her shoulder and talk to her once more. 

What else, Hajime? What else do you really want?

He wants Tooru to be with him. He wants Tooru to hold him, to carry the weight of everything with him. He wants Tooru to love him, to just be here, to just be here with him - 

And what more, Hajime? 

He wants a boldness to start even when he knows there will be an end. A courage to try, no matter how hard it gets. It is after all what he has seen Tooru do, year after year they have loved and fought and battled through all that is hard and difficult and desperate -

What more, what more, what more - 

He wants to love. He wants to be loved. He wants love in all its joys and terrors and fights and tenderness, all of its responsibilities, its beings, its choices and within all of that - 

He raises his head, the note held tight close to his chest, breathes heaving. 

What more do you want, Hajime? What more do you really really want?

He wants to be the bravest he has ever been.

For Tooru.

And just as much, for himself.

***

The knife is rested down, tremoring, against the hard tiled floor.

The phone is raised, a familiar number dialled. 

When Tooru's voice connects through the call, soft and gentle and worried, Hajime knows he is now powerless to stop it.

He lowers his head down and lets the walls smash and shatter, the facades crumble and collapse, the raw want of it cracking through his chest and wrecking through his body as the words escape him:

“Tooru," He begins crying: "I need you.” He begins sobbing, sobbing helplessly down the line: “Tooru, I need you, I need you here with me, right now -”

Tooru's reply is calm and steady, hiding beneath it the urgent and frantic. Stay there, Hajime, stay there, he pleads, I'm coming, I'm coming and even as Tooru pleads and Hajime cries, the seconds drag onto minutes, and the minutes inflate like hours, and - 

- there is the sound of the doors flinging open, feet rushing in, and Tooru is here, Tooru is here, so frightened he looks almost furious. Hajime cries out, reaching out, and just like that, Tooru is barrelling down, grappling Hajime into a full-body hold, his hands wrapping behind Hajime’s head, pulling him into his chest protectively, fiercely. And Hajime has missed Tooru so much, so so much, that he is immediately gripped with the fear of losing him again even as he is here, he is right here - 

"Tooru," Hajime cries, grasping the front of Tooru’s shirt, his hands trembling as he kneads tight fists into Tooru’s back, "Tooru, I’m sorry," his chest heaves and falls painfully and he begins sobbing, as if praying, begging, pleading, "I’m sorry, don’t go, don’t go, please, please, don’t go -

“I’m not going anywhere, I'm not, I'm not -" Tooru lowers his hands to wrap over Hajime’s fiercely. Tears too are streaking down his cheeks as he holds their hands between their bodies, pressing them against Hajime’s chest, soothing over where it hurts most. Hajime cries into Tooru's shoulder as Tooru whispers:

“I’m here, Hajime, I’m here, I'm here."

***

It had all begun again a year and three months ago. On the day with cherry blossom springs and a bicycle with a shopping bag parked backwards.

For the first time since that day it had all begun again, Iwaizumi Hajime lets the grief consume him - all of the horrible, terrible grief he has been holding tight in his chest, in a tiny locked, square box in his heart. He lets it finally break him, he lets it finally tear him down in a roaring monstrous storm until he is left as nothing but shaking, frightened, fragmented, sobbing pieces -

- knowing that Tooru is here to hold him. That Tooru is here to protect him, to cradle him, to love him, to have him, the good and the bad, the weak and the strong, and finally, with all the care and tenderness and courage Tooru holds for Hajime, powerful enough to withstand the weight of the world and all of the violence within it, Oikawa Tooru will always find a way put Iwaizumi Hajime back together once more, piece by gentle piece.

Notes:

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
EDIT: This chapter used to be titled "Grief may be an invisible, time-travelling creature; but right now, you and me, is all that is here". Which I still stand by as a wonderful title, esp in light of chap 24, but I just decided this new title suited the chapter 25 as a whole better (and completes the title to Chapter 7) :)

I have so much to say about this 4-part chapter . But firstly: Hajime, you were only fifteen :(

secondly, since the very beginning of this story, I’ve always known I wanted Iwa to be the one to pick himself back up, to lift himself out of his own emotional mess. No one – not even Tooru – can mind read and tell if Iwa is really struggling, and even if they notice - like Kuroo - no one can truly change it unless Hajime changes it himself (as is with so many things in real life). I never wanted the fic to be one where Tooru swoops in to save the day. Tooru gets to give Iwa a few boosts along the way sure,

But Iwa, in the end, always needed to be the hero of his own story.

I am also glad to finally finish writing those parts of the backstory! They have been a long time coming (since ?? chap 6??) and I’m very glad to have them out of my head and on paper. Family dynamics are complicated, and the Iwaizumi-Oikawa family lore will always be plentiful.

My top pick of a song to for this specific 4-part chapter is 《光亮》 by Zhou Shen, my fav version here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRXgdmB3tNM&list=RDeRXgdmB3tNM&start_radio=1 [Edited:] It's in mandarin, but I love it so much (generally) and it fits so perfectly for these chapters that I've made an English translation here so you can hopefully listen and feel many feels with me: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1HfKd1QFcxdWpa5z5ILWVXM7LTqEZtT6wY5_yRnLHD9Y/edit?usp=sharing

Second finally, here’s a plug to hlw's amazing art for some earlier chapters of this fic!! everyone go send some love, it’s incredible: https://h-l-w.tumblr.com/post/780582845133504512/art-for-colluding-and-definitely-not-canoodling

Finally, if you want to read why this took me 8 months to write chapters 22-25: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11LFQpVbro9g7gYx3nPvZEmfwSV-vay3Y3M0IEYaa2dY/edit?usp=sharing

As usual, come tell me your thoughts if you like!!!