Shifting Courts

by SlyOtter22

Summary:

After a game in Argentina, Oikawa says in an interview that he wants to “go” to Japan. The choice of words reveals a quiet truth—Japan is no longer home. When asked about his high school friends, he admits they only talk in their old group chat now.

It’s a bittersweet moment because sometimes, to love someone is to know when to let go.

Blame the new magazine for this.

Chapter 1: The Slip of a Word

Summary:

Oikawa saying something he means without actually meaning to.

The post-game press room in Buenos Aires was buzzing, the hum of translation devices, murmurs from journalists, and the click of cameras filling the air. Iwaizumi and Matsukawa were tucked into a corner, sharing a grin over a poorly timed question from a local reporter. But all eyes were on the tall, meticulous setter with the slightly tousled brown hair—Tooru Oikawa—who had just led Argentina’s club team to a narrow but decisive victory over a strong Brazilian opponent. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his jersey clinging to him, and yet his composure remained pristine.

A young Argentine reporter leaned forward, notebook ready, and asked in careful English, “Mr. Oikawa, you’ve been playing outside Japan for several years now. If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”

Oikawa paused, his expression thoughtful, the faintest shadow of a wistful smile tugging at his lips. He adjusted his microphone slightly and said simply, “I want to… go to Japan.”

It was a short answer, unassuming in delivery, but in its subtlety lay a world of nuance.

The reporter tilted her head, sensing there was more to probe. “Do you still frequently talk to your Japanese high school friends?” she asked.

The room seemed to quiet for just a fraction of a second, as if every journalist and translator collectively leaned forward. Oikawa’s gaze softened but carried a distance now familiar only to those who knew his journey. He answered, “Not much anymore… outside of our high school group chat.”

The words were innocuous enough in isolation, but for the legions of Japanese fans following Oikawa’s career, it was a shockwave. Within hours, clips of the interview were posted online, subtitled, shared, retweeted, and commented on relentlessly.

On Twitter, the reactions came in torrents. The first wave was disbelief:

@JPVolleyFan21: “Did he just say he doesn’t really talk to his old friends anymore? Outside of the group chat?? Oikawa, no… 😭”

@Hana_Heart: “I can’t. He wants to go TO Japan but not back. What does that even mean?? My h⁰eart.”

@AobaJohsaiForever: “Tooru… you were OUR captain… OUR setter… Japan isn’t the same without you. Please come home someday. 🥲”

Japanese fans mourned openly. It wasn’t just that Oikawa was abroad—it was the subtle shift in his phrasing, the quiet indication that Japan, with all its traditions, expectations, and familiar courts, had become something different for him. He wanted to go, a visitor’s curiosity, a longing for connection perhaps—but not to return to Japan, not to reclaim the identity he once held. It was like hearing a song you loved performed in a completely new key: familiar notes, but the feeling changed.

Meanwhile, Argentine fans’ reactions were layered and conflicted.

@VolleyBAfan: “I love that Oikawa wants to go to Japan. But also… isn’t that sad? I guess he feels like he belongs here now too. 🇦🇷🏐”

@TangoSetter: “He’s ours now, folks. Oikawa sees Argentina as home. Let’s celebrate that. But… wow, Japan must be devastated.”

@OikawaAdmiresBA: “Honestly, I think it’s beautiful. He’s grown into a global player, someone who can carry both countries in his heart. But yeah, the group chat comment stings a little. 😅”

Over the next few days, the conversation spread beyond Twitter into forums, YouTube reaction videos, and volleyball fan blogs. Some Japanese fans took it as a personal loss: Oikawa, their emblem of high school triumphs, the captain who could rally even the most fractured teams, was moving beyond them in ways both tangible and emotional. Others parsed the phrasing carefully: “go to Japan” vs “go back to Japan.” Each word became a symbolic marker, a sign of emotional geography.

The distinction wasn’t lost on linguists, cultural commentators, or even casual fans: “go to Japan” implied intention without belonging, an acknowledgment of a place’s existence outside oneself. “Go back to Japan” implied return, reclamation, reconnection. For Oikawa to say the former without the latter suggested he no longer saw Japan as home, but as a destination.

Japanese fan threads began to thread themselves into quiet melancholy. One popular post read:

“He was our captain. He was the heartbeat of Aoba Johsai. And now… he speaks as someone who belongs somewhere else. I can’t help but feel we’ve lost him, even if he’s winning everywhere he goes.”

 

At the same time, sympathetic voices tried to contextualize his feelings.

@VolleyballMama: “Oikawa has spent years abroad. Of course his friendships shift. It doesn’t erase the legacy here; it just… moves him forward. Japan will always be part of him, even if he doesn’t speak to us every day.”

@NeoSetter: “Think about it. He’s 30 now. Life moves forward. He’s not a high school boy anymore. People change. Friendships evolve. The group chat is… maybe the last thread holding him to the past.”

Even among Argentine fans, the conversation was polarized. Some were proud, claiming him as one of their own:

“Our courts are better because of him. He trains, he fights, he wins… and he’s learning to love this place like we do. That’s something to celebrate.”

 

Others, more empathetic to the Japanese perspective, expressed hesitation:

“I can’t fully cheer for him without thinking of what he left behind. Argentina is lucky, yes. But we are inheriting someone else’s heartbreak too.”

 

The narrative was further complicated by Oikawa himself. He didn’t make any follow-up statements clarifying his phrasing or intentions. He continued to post light-hearted training clips on social media, captions in both Spanish and English, occasionally replying to Argentine teammates, subtly signaling warmth and belonging in his current life. But Japan remained in the background, a soft echo in his words.

On Japanese volleyball blogs, some fans posted what could only be described as elegiac tributes:

“I remember watching him set in high school, precise as a metronome, yet with that spark that made us believe anything was possible. Now he’s an adult, overseas, chasing victories in a world far from ours. And yet… part of me wishes he could still see Japan as home.”

 

The duality fascinated analysts and fans alike: Oikawa’s words carried the weight of loss, but also the promise of growth. The man who had once been the pride of Aoba Johsai High School was no longer tethered by the same boundaries. He had evolved, and in doing so, had shifted the emotional center of two fan bases—one grieving, one celebrating, both intensely aware of his presence across oceans.

Memes and posts proliferated, often bittersweet: side-by-side photos of Oikawa in his Aoba Johsai jersey versus the Argentine club, captions reading “The heart of our captain, now split across two lands”, or “Group chat only, but always in our hearts”. Fans debated whether it was fair to mourn someone who had every right to redefine their life, whether emotional attachment to a public figure could ever be separated from the realities of adulthood and personal choice.

In Argentina, young setters watched Oikawa with renewed reverence. Coaches referenced his precision, his strategic mind, the way he orchestrated his team. Some fans proudly declared that even if he remembered Japan fondly, he had now become a part of their own volleyball identity. And yet, they acknowledged the fragility of that belonging.

Back in Japan, evenings were quiet with screens glowing and fans scrolling through clips of the interview. A sense of collective melancholy settled across forums and comment sections. But amid the grief was respect, a recognition that Oikawa’s life had branched into directions they could not follow. Some held hope, quietly wishing he would someday say, “I’m coming back,” but even that was tempered by understanding: the Oikawa they knew had grown beyond the courts of their memory.

By the end of the week, Oikawa’s interview had become more than a post-game soundbite. It was a cultural moment, a dialogue on home, belonging, and the evolution of personal identity. Fans in Japan and Argentina alike debated the delicate balance between rooting for someone’s success and mourning the emotional distance it created. The phrase “not much anymore outside of the group chat” became shorthand for the bittersweet complexity of adulthood, the way friendships can endure yet transform.

And Oikawa, meanwhile, trained silently, eyes focused on the court, hands precise and steady. His words had traveled farther than he ever intended, shaping hearts and conversations thousands of miles away, but on the court, he remained exactly the player he had always been—meticulous, brilliant, and unflinchingly himself.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Chapter 2: Echoes Across the Net

Summary:

Iwa-chan appears hehe

The quiet of the Argentine morning was deceptive. In the team lounge, Oikawa sat at a small table, breakfast barely touched, eyes fixed on the glow of his phone. The Argentine team had gathered around, joking about yesterday’s victory and debating the new rotation strategies, but Oikawa was elsewhere. Notifications blinked endlessly: retweets, replies, and fan comments, some translated into Spanish by eager teammates.

He had stumbled upon the viral spread of his interview almost by accident. A teammate had leaned over, nudging him with a grin. “Hey, Tooru, look at this. People… are really talking about what you said.”

Curious, he scrolled slowly, almost cautiously, through the flood of reactions. Japanese fans, Argentine fans, translated snippets—some sympathetic, some celebratory, others quietly mournful. He paused at one that read:

“He wants to go TO Japan, but not back. Does that mean he doesn’t belong there anymore?”

 

The phrasing caught him, and he blinked. He’d said it casually, almost offhandedly. He had never intended for fans to dissect to versus back as though it were a philosophical text. And yet, here it was, the debate unfurling across continents, spilling over timelines and feeds.

Oikawa leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Internally, he began replaying his own words, over and over. Go to Japan. Not go back. There was subtlety here, layers even he hadn’t fully acknowledged at the moment of speaking.

Go to meant intention, a desire to see familiar streets, to walk through the markets of his childhood, to feel the rhythm of home courts. Go back implied belonging, claiming a place as his own once more, anchoring himself to a home he no longer lived in. And that—Oikawa realized—was the crux. Japan was still home in memory, but his heart had expanded, stretched across oceans, woven into Argentina’s culture, its language, its people, its team.

His fingers hovered over the screen, reading more comments:

@Hana_Heart: “Japan isn’t the same without him. How can he just… move on?”

@TangoSetter: “We’re lucky he’s here now. Our courts are better because of him. But I get it… he has a life there too.”

He exhaled slowly. There was no malice in his heart, no desire to erase the past. Yet the distance felt real, heavier than he had anticipated. He glanced at the Argentine players gathered near the breakfast table, laughing, tossing a volleyball between them. Their smiles were bright, expectant, grounding. They were home too, in their own way.

“Are you okay?” asked the youngest setter on the team, eyes wide, sensing Oikawa’s unusual silence.

Oikawa nodded, forcing a light smile. “Yes… I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

Meanwhile, halfway across the globe, Japanese fans and players were immersed in their own digital whirlwind. The Japan National Team were clustered around a screen in their lounge, seeing the tweets, posts, and subtitled clips of Oikawa’s words.

“What do you think he meant?” Bokuto asked, half-exasperated, half-curious.

“Not sure,” Kageyama muttered, eyes narrowed. “He wants to ‘go to’ Japan… but not go back. That’s… weird. Isn’t home supposed to be where you were?”

Hinata frowned, bouncing slightly in place. “I mean, he’s Oikawa. He’s complicated. He probably has a reason.”

Sakusa, ever analytical, scrolled through the threads silently, lips pursed. “He’s grown beyond our definitions. He’s not a high school kid anymore. Maybe it’s less about physical home and more about… emotional home.”

Among them, a quiet tension threaded through the conversation. Respect for Oikawa’s growth was paired with an unavoidable sting—the realization that the man they had all admired, teased, and competed against had moved into a life and identity they could observe but not inhabit.

Back in Japan, the Seijoh high school group chat buzzed with activity. Their reactions were surprisingly light-hearted, though beneath the humor ran a current of genuine support.

“He finally admitted he’s old enough to have his own life. Welcome to adulthood, Tōru.” from Yahaba

“Group chat only, huh? Classic Oikawa. Priorities: volleyball, Argentina, memes, then maybe friends.” from Makki

“Iwa-chan okay though? Someone check on him. He’ll be sulking somewhere.” from Matsun

Iwaizumi, reading the chat quietly, felt a strange cocktail of pride and melancholy. He had always wanted Oikawa to achieve his dreams, even if those dreams pulled him away from Japan, away from their shared past. There was a pang, sharp yet softened by understanding: the boy who had once strategized with him on the same court, who had teased him mercilessly, who had been the heart of Aoba Johsai, was evolving. And evolution sometimes meant leaving behind the familiar.

“I think he’s happy,” Iwaizumi said quietly to no one in particular, staring at his phone. The Argentine posts, the news articles, the images of Oikawa laughing on foreign courts—they all confirmed it. Even if it hurt, even if the Japanese courts felt emptier without him, Oikawa was pursuing his path. Iwaizumi could live with that.

Yet, underneath that acceptance simmered the subtle, complicated undertone of IwaOi. The years they had shared, the countless hours of practice, the unspoken understanding of each other’s moves, the banter, the reliance—it wasn’t something Oikawa could articulate fully, and it wasn’t something Iwaizumi could let go of easily.

That night, Oikawa lingered after practice, alone on the court. The Argentine gym smelled of fresh polish and sweat, echoes of his teammates’ laughter drifting faintly from the locker room. He crouched, fingers tracing the seams of the volleyball as if reading it like a book. Go to Japan… not go back. The distinction felt both freeing and melancholic. Freedom, because he could claim the life he had built abroad. Melancholy, because it was impossible to erase the intimacy of the courts, of the friendships, of the memories waiting for him in Japan.

A subtle buzz on his phone drew him out of his reverie. Another thread, another post:

"Oikawa’s not home in Japan, but he’s home on the court. Maybe that’s enough.”

 

He smiled faintly, tension in his shoulders easing. Perhaps it was. Perhaps the definition of home was mutable, shifting like the spike of a ball mid-flight, landing wherever one felt belonging, wherever passion met purpose.

The next morning, Oikawa joined the Argentine team for breakfast again, the group’s chatter filling the space, teasing him about yesterday’s save, about how he had somehow timed a jump perfectly despite being tired. He laughed, soft and easy, letting the warmth of camaraderie pull him further into his present.

Iwaizumi, far away, lingered in thought, watching the chatter of the Seijoh group chat, their humor and support weaving reassurance around his chest. He texted Oikawa simply:

“Be happy. That’s all that matters. Even if I’m still sulking somewhere.”

Oikawa read the message, a lump forming in his throat. He typed back a single word:

“Always.”

And just like that, across continents and time zones, two hearts acknowledged the same truth: paths may diverge, words may travel farther than intended, but bonds—silent, steady, unshakable—remain.

Japan could mourn or celebrate. Argentina could cheer or reflect. But Oikawa, standing in the quiet of his chosen present, allowed himself to simply be—to play, to live, and to exist in a home not bound by geography but by purpose, presence, and connection.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Chapter 3: The Court of Public Opinions

Summary:

A Japanese journalist’s op-ed claiming Oikawa has “abandoned” his homeland.

The day started quietly in Tokyo, but the calm was deceptive. A Japanese sports journalist, well-known for provocative commentary, had published an op-ed that rippled through the volleyball community. The headline was sharp, bold, and emotionally loaded: “Oikawa Tooru Has Abandoned His Homeland.” The article went on to frame Oikawa’s words in Argentina—the casual phrasing of “go to Japan” versus “go back”—as a betrayal, as though choosing to play abroad signaled a rejection of the nation that had nurtured him.

Almost immediately, reactions erupted. The Japan National Team, still gathered for a mid-morning training session, had phones buzzing, feeds filling with screenshots and translations of the article. Wakatoshi Ushijima was the first to break the silence.

“This is… ridiculous,” he muttered, scrolling through his feed, jaw tight.

Bokuto leaned over, arms crossed, frowning. “Ridiculous? It’s insulting. Oikawa’s done nothing but elevate volleyball. He hasn’t abandoned anyone.”

Kageyama, ever precise in thought, scrolled through Twitter threads and muttered, “He didn’t say he’s leaving Japan behind forever. He’s just living. The journalist is twisting words.”

Hinata, bouncing slightly as always, shook his head. “I can’t believe someone could even think that. He’s the same Oikawa we all admire. He’s working hard, everywhere.”

Sakusa, quiet as ever, added, “People always think belonging is only geographic. But Oikawa… his commitment to volleyball, to his teams, his friends—those define him more than borders.”

Outside of Japan, the Argentine team also saw the article after a teammate’s cousin shared a translated version. There were laughs, mostly incredulous.

“He abandoned Japan?” the youngest setter asked, incredulous. “He’s literally the reason our club is performing at this level. He’s helping us win!”

Oikawa, sitting quietly in the corner of the lounge, scrolled through the comments. His chest felt heavy, a familiar guilt settling in. Perhaps he had been careless in the phrasing of his words. Perhaps he had unintentionally hurt people he cared about, people he respected, people who had been his foundation. Yet, as he scrolled further, he saw something that warmed him: the overwhelming tide of protection and support.

Japanese fans flooded posts, replies, and forums with messages defending him:

@AobaJohsaiForever: “Abandoned? Oikawa gave everything to volleyball, and his spirit lives in every court he touches. Don’t twist his words.”

@JPVolleyFan21: “He’s OUR captain. He’s OUR setter. You don’t just ‘abandon’ someone like that. #ProtectOikawa”

@HinataSmolButLoud: “Stop calling him a traitor. He’s working, training, winning. He’s human, not a symbol of nationalism.”

Even the Seijoh alumni, now scattered across Japan and abroad, weighed in. Screenshots of group chat exchanges went public on social media, showing lighthearted banter with a sharp edge of defense:

"Abandoned? We survived his perfectionism, his constant eye-rolling, his obsession with clean passes. He wouldn’t abandon anyone.”

 

“We joke about him too much, but if anyone says he left us… they better be ready to face all of us.”

 

“Honestly, he’s thriving, he’s happy. That’s all that matters. The rest is clickbait.”

 

Even Iwaizumi, who had remained quiet since the initial interview went viral, was observing. He scrolled, heart tight at the careless framing, but a warmth spread through him as he saw the love surrounding Oikawa. Argentina, Japan, old teammates, fans—all standing up for him. And then, after hours of watching the rising support, Iwaizumi decided it was time to speak, carefully but unmistakably.

Meanwhile, Oikawa sat at the table, fingers hovering over his phone. His guilt weighed heavily—he had left Japan, chosen Argentina, phrased his longing imperfectly. But every comment, every defense, every fan post reminded him that the bond was unbroken. He wasn’t abandoned. He hadn’t abandoned. He was loved and understood, even when distance separated him from the people who mattered most.

A notification chimed: a subtle post from Iwaizumi had gone live on social media.

“Some things need clarification. For those twisting words: Oikawa Tooru has never abandoned anyone, least of all the people who care for him. On behalf of the old Seijoh team, know this: we see him, we support him, and we trust his path. #OikawaOurCaptain”

 

The post was understated, seemingly casual, but the undertone was unmistakable. To anyone familiar with Iwaizumi’s history with Oikawa, the unspoken depth of feeling was palpable. Protective. Proud. Hurt. And undeniably tinged with the old, complicated IwaOi angst that fans had always adored, dissected, and theorized about.

Social media exploded. Fans quickly recognized the significance.

@JPVolleyFan21: “IwaOi is real. Iwaizumi said it, and it’s EVERYTHING. The subtle words, the quiet support—it’s all him.”

@Hana_Heart: “Iwaizumi’s post is so him… protective, heartfelt, and totally Oikawa-centered. My heart can’t.”

@AobaJohsaiForever: “This is the Seijoh team speaking. He’s not alone. Never alone. IwaOi confirmed.”

@VolleyBAfan: “Even from thousands of miles away, his Japanese high school friends are watching, defending. Oikawa must feel it.”

Oikawa, staring at the screen, felt a lump rise in his throat. He blinked, scrolling again through the support flooding every platform. He had been grappling with guilt over phrasing and distance, but now the overwhelming love and trust from those who knew him best—old teammates, Japan National Team members, Seijoh alumni, even foreign fans—felt like a shield around him. He realized, in that moment, that home wasn’t just a country or a court. Home was the people who saw him for who he truly was.

Argentina’s team, sensing the emotional shift, watched quietly as he put down his phone, a small, soft smile tugging at his lips. The younger players nudged each other, whispering, noting how Oikawa’s stoic composure softened in the face of so much genuine care.

In Tokyo, the JNT continued to discuss the op-ed, many members posting messages and public tweets that quietly, yet firmly, defended Oikawa:

Wakatoshi Ushijima: “Tooru is a player, a human being, not a headline. Anyone calling him ‘abandoned’ misunderstands the heart behind his choices.”

Bokuto: “We played against him, we learned from him, and we respect him. That is what matters.”

Hinata: “He’s doing amazing, everywhere. If that’s not enough proof of his love for the game, I don’t know what is.”

Even Hoshiumi, always playful yet fiercely loyal, shared a post with a simple caption: “Oikawa = legend. Opinions don’t change that.”

The combined flood of support became overwhelming, in the best way possible. Oikawa, reading through the morning and afternoon, felt his guilt transform into something else: gratitude, humility, and an almost tangible sense of belonging across the globe. His life, his choices, were validated not through accolades or awards, but through the quiet, steadfast love and understanding of those who mattered most.

That night, Iwaizumi’s post continued to trend, fans analyzing every word, noting the subtle possessiveness, the underlying history, the quiet devotion:

“On behalf of the old Seijoh team…”

 

The phrasing alone carried weight, a gentle acknowledgment that Oikawa’s choices weren’t a betrayal, that Iwaizumi’s heart still carried the old intensity of partnership, protection, and perhaps longing. The fandom responded instantly, crafting threads and memes highlighting the emotional subtext: the quiet anxiety, the love, the nuanced angst that only IwaOi could convey without saying a word directly to Oikawa.

In Buenos Aires, Oikawa set his phone down. He breathed, deeply, and felt something shift within him. The guilt was still there—human, natural—but beneath it was a newfound lightness. He was not alone. Not truly. Every corner of the world where his fans, his teammates, his old friends, and even rivals had taken a stand for him reminded him of the intricate web of connection he had cultivated across continents.

Iwaizumi’s subtle declaration, the protection of the JNT, the humor and warmth of the Seijoh alumni, the celebration of Argentina’s fans—it all coalesced into a quiet affirmation. Oikawa was loved. Seen. Understood. And in that love, he could exist freely, straddle two worlds, and continue to thrive.

As the sun set over Buenos Aires, bathing the court in gold, Oikawa held a volleyball in his hands, tracing its seams. He glanced at his teammates, then at his phone, and finally, with a small but sincere smile, whispered softly, almost to himself:

“Thank you… for believing in me.”

And in Japan, across oceans, a quiet, subtle smile mirrored his own. Iwaizumi’s heart ached and glowed simultaneously, knowing the man he had always supported, teased, and challenged had not only found his place in the world but had also remained deeply, irrevocably connected to the people who had shaped him.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Chapter 4: You should have...

Summary:

Something lighthearted for now

The internet rarely slept, but that evening in Tokyo, Matsukawa found the perfect moment to inject a little chaos—and humor—into the ongoing Oikawa discourse. With a sly grin, he uploaded a short video on social media. It began innocuously enough: a clip from years ago, teenage Ushijima standing stiffly, arms crossed, serious as ever, telling a much younger Oikawa, “You should have come to Shiratorizawa.”

The screen flickered, transitioning seamlessly to the present day. Matsukawa faced the camera, grin wide, shrugging with exaggerated dramatics. “You should have come back to Japan,” he said, then laughed, a rich, infectious sound. He tagged Oikawa in the post, adding: “I can’t help it. The net needs to lighten up.”

Within minutes, notifications began to explode on every corner of the volleyball fandom. Japanese fans, Argentine fans, and even Seijoh alumni were reacting simultaneously. Some were laughing so hard they nearly spilled their coffee. Others were tagging friends: “This is exactly the energy we need right now.”

@JPVolleyFan21: “IwaOi angst aside, Matsun is absolutely evil. And hilarious. 😭”

@HinataSmolButLoud: “I can’t stop watching. The evolution from teen Ushijima to present-day Matsun is perfection. ‘You should have…’ is everything.”

@AobaJohsaiForever: “Seijoh alumni are wild. Also, Ushijima’s face at the start… priceless. 😂”

Argentine fans were bewildered but amused.

@VolleyBAfan: “Wait… what is the story behind this? Who’s saying this to who? Is it like… an inside volleyball joke?”

@OikawaAdmiresBA: “I’m so confused but I love it??”

Soon, Ushijima himself replied to Matsukawa’s post. His tone was formal but warm:

> “You should have come to Japan, because you are honestly the best setter I’ve met. Oikawa choosing Argentina is a big loss, really.”

 

The comment went viral in seconds. Japanese fans erupted with pride and sentimentality, while the Argentine fans’ curiosity intensified. Ushijima’s respect for Oikawa was evident, and it added a layer of bittersweet emotion to the humorous meme.

Atsumu Miya, never one to let an ego slide, immediately responded. Outrage dripping from his fingers, he posted:

> “Excuse me? THE BEST SETTER? I’ve been practicing all my life for this recognition, and you’re giving it to Oikawa?? Not acceptable. I demand a rematch. NOW. #BruisedEgo”

 

Fans exploded in laughter, loving the playful energy Atsumu injected into what was already a viral joke. The hashtag #YouShouldHave quickly began trending, and memes emerged overnight. Any minor inconvenience or misstep became fodder for the catchphrase:

> “You should have studied for the test.”
“You should have brought an umbrella.”
“You should have scored that spike.”

 

It wasn’t just limited to volleyball. The fandom was everywhere. Gif compilations, edited TikToks, and fan art flooded timelines, each iteration riffing off the classic Matsukawa setup. And in the midst of it all, Oikawa was sitting in Buenos Aires, his Argentine teammates clustered around him, phones in hand, laughing so hard they were nearly falling off their chairs.

Oikawa himself uploaded a short response video. In it, he sat on the edge of the court, mock exasperation on his face, a volleyball rolling lazily beside him. Behind him, the Argentine team was doubled over, howling, some pointing at him and mimicking the famous phrase.

“Stop haunting me with that phrase,” Oikawa said, shaking his head with a wry smile, eyes narrowing in mock irritation. The words carried a rhythm, a cadence familiar to anyone who had followed his career, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable.

In the background, Argentine teammates teased him mercilessly, shouting “You should have come to Argentina!” and “You should have passed the ball faster!” Every iteration made Oikawa roll his eyes and laugh, a rich, free sound that reminded the world why he was beloved both at home and abroad.

Japanese fans, meanwhile, were slowly processing this new layer. The humor softened their lingering melancholy. Oikawa was thriving, undeniably successful, deeply loved, and even playful in the face of his ongoing scrutiny. Supportive posts flowed:

@JPVolleyFan21: “Seeing him laugh at this makes me happy. Oikawa deserves joy, wherever he is.”

@Hanamaki_Heart: “Okay… we’re still sad he’s in Argentina, but now he’s also hilarious, and I can live with this.”

Seijoh alumni chimed in, responding to fan threads with the same warmth and humor:

> “He’s still Oikawa. Still dramatic. Still perfect. Still ours.”
“Honestly, Matsun’s evil. And Iwa-chan is silently judging. Classic.”

 

Meanwhile, Ushijima’s comment maintained its reverent tone, creating a contrast that deepened fans’ emotional engagement. Japanese fans began to accept Oikawa’s choice with a bittersweet understanding: supportive but still slightly mourning the loss to Japan volleyball.

Even Atsumu’s exaggerated outrage fueled engagement, turning every discussion into a playful debate: who was the better setter, the one who stayed or the one who left?

In Argentina, Oikawa laughed harder than he had in weeks, tossing the volleyball lightly to a teammate. “You all are unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “Stop. Seriously. Stop haunting me with that phrase.”

His teammates ignored him, shouting variations at him in Spanish, laughing hysterically. Even in a foreign country, with new friends, Oikawa felt the familiar rhythm of camaraderie and belonging—the same rhythm he had loved at Seijoh, now alive in a different court, a different culture, a different life.

By the end of the day, #YouShouldHave had become a meme for the entire volleyball community. Fans were using it for every inconvenient moment, every missed spike, every slightly tragic life event. Even off the court, it became shorthand for friendly teasing, admiration, and playful regret.

Oikawa, watching the threads slowly grow, felt the guilt ease further. The viral phrase, once a potential reminder of a mistake, had become a celebration of him: of his choices, his career, and the love and laughter surrounding him. Japan and Argentina alike were in on the joke, even the high school friends and former rivals. They weren’t just accepting his decision—they were embracing it, shaping it into something lighter, joyful, and communal.

He leaned back against the net post, the last rays of sunlight falling across the court. His phone pinged again—more memes, more inside jokes, more affectionate teasing. Oikawa smiled, genuinely, a wide, open smile that reached his eyes. He had survived criticism, navigated cultural distance, and, above all, felt the unwavering support of people across the globe.

And in that laughter, teasing, and shared absurdity, he realized something profound: home wasn’t just where you grew up. It was where people saw you, loved you, teased you, and still rooted for you—even if that meant sending you memes with the phrase “You should have…” for the rest of your life.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Chapter 5: Unspoken Messages

Summary:

"You should have come with me to Argentina"

Iwaizumi sat alone in his apartment in Tokyo, the hum of the evening city fading into a soft background as he scrolled through social media. At first, he smiled, watching the “You should have…” meme spiral wildly out of control. Clips of Oikawa being teased by Matsukawa, Ushijima, and even Atsumu, combined with fan edits and playful remixes, had transformed the once-serious conversation into pure, chaotic hilarity.

And yet, even in the humor, a sharp edge tugged at him. Every meme, every playful post, made him laugh—and simultaneously ache. He had been watching from the sidelines, marveling at Oikawa’s ability to laugh at himself, to join in on the absurdity, and to embrace the joke fully. That same energy, that same levity, reminded Iwaizumi of the boy he had trained with, argued with, and relied on. The Oikawa he loved—the Oikawa he still loved—was alive, thriving, and visible in ways both public and profoundly intimate.

But alongside pride came longing. He knew that behind the laughter, Oikawa was still Oikawa. Meticulous. Dramatic. Sensitive to the smallest emotional currents. And somewhere deep in Buenos Aires, he was feeling the weight of distance, of choices, of a life lived partially away from what Iwaizumi had always thought of as home.

The Seijoh group chat, meanwhile, escalated the joke mercilessly. Screenshots of Oikawa’s exasperated reactions, combined with wild fan edits, GIFs, and meme compilations, kept piling in.

> “You should have practiced your serve before I beat you.”
“You should have blocked that spike. Seriously, Oikawa.”
“You should have texted me back faster. That’s a crime.”

 

Each playful jab was a jab aimed straight at his heart. Iwaizumi felt it acutely, despite the humor. His chest tightened as he watched Oikawa’s reactions from across the world. Laughing. Rolling his eyes. Exasperated. And somewhere behind that carefully curated public persona, there were layers of longing and emotion that only those closest—those who had shared the same courts, the same hours, the same dreams—could truly read.

Then the post appeared.

Oikawa, sitting against the familiar backdrop of his training court in Argentina, uploaded a short video. The camera focused on him, close enough that every detail was visible: the slight furrow in his brow, the softness in his eyes, the subtle curve of his lips that carried unspoken weight. The background song played softly, Unsaid Emily from Julie and the Phantoms, and it wrapped around the video like a delicate veil of melancholy and longing.

The caption was simple, cryptic, and loaded with emotion:

“You should have come to Argentina with me.”

The fandom erupted. Fans, both Japanese and Argentine, immediately recognized the meme callback—the playful, ubiquitous phrase—but the context and execution turned it on its head. The humor was gone; in its place, a palpable sense of yearning, of absence, of connection stretched across oceans.

The Japan National Team was among the first to comment. Bokuto’s fingers hovered over his phone before he typed:

> “He’s… actually serious here. This is more than a meme. This is… something else.”

 

Hinata, nearly bouncing out of his seat, whispered, “His eyes… you can see it. He’s… waiting for someone. Or missing someone.”

Sakusa, ever the analyst, simply stared. “The longing in his gaze… it’s directed at someone specific. It’s not general. It’s precise.”

Even in Argentina, the teammates reacted with a mixture of amusement and gentle teasing. “Oikawa, dramatic as always,” one muttered. But the laughter was softer, more intimate. They could see the weight behind his words, the rare glimpse into his private heart.

Japanese fans dissected every frame. Some cried quietly in front of their screens, some whispered theories about the intended recipient. And then, a few sharp-eyed fans noticed what everyone who had known Oikawa closely already understood: this message, subtle yet loaded, was meant for Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi himself froze. His phone slipped slightly in his hands. That look in Oikawa’s eyes—the way he spoke, the music, the quiet, intense longing—it was meant only for him. Every playful meme, every exaggeration, every public joke had been the surface. Beneath it all, Oikawa had left a message only he could read.

Hours later, Makki, who had been quietly observing the entire sequence, uploaded a cryptic post of his own. Tagging Iwaizumi, he wrote:

> “Letting go of someone you love for their dreams is part of the process, and it is an act of true love.”

 

The post included a soft, melancholic track in the background: Midnight Rain. The tone was somber, reflective, a subtle echo of the complicated history between Iwaizumi and Oikawa. The underlying message was unmistakable: Makki saw the silent pain, the quiet devotion, the love that had always existed and still persisted in their intertwined stories.

Fans exploded in commentary. Japanese volleyball enthusiasts analyzed every layer: the song, the tagging, the phrasing. Seijoh alumni nodded quietly to each other, laughing softly at the subtle emotional communication that only those who had shared the court with Oikawa could fully appreciate.

@JPVolleyFan21: “Makki is telling Iwaizumi what we’ve all known. The depth here… this is some serious IwaOi energy.”

@Hanamaki_Heart: “The heartbreak… the subtlety… the MEMES turned into longing. I can’t deal. IwaOi is real.”

@AobaJohsaiForever: “It’s beautiful. They’re communicating without saying it outright. And the music choices… killer.”

The Argentine team joined in, teasing Oikawa gently, laughing while maintaining a softer, affectionate tone. “Look at you, dramatic as ever,” one said. “Even our memes aren’t enough for you.” But the laughter was protective, warm, filled with the understanding that Oikawa’s heart straddled two worlds: the one he had built in Argentina, and the one he had left behind in Japan.

Iwaizumi sat in silence, staring at Makki’s post, then back at Oikawa’s video. The familiar ache was there, a knot in his chest that had never fully untied. Pride intertwined with longing, joy intertwined with melancholy. Oikawa was alive, thriving, successful, playful, dramatic, and utterly brilliant—but somewhere deep in that brilliance, Iwaizumi could see the threads of their past, woven into every subtle gesture and glance.

His chest tightened as he realized the truth: Oikawa’s words were not only a playful twist on a viral meme. They were a message, a confession, a soft admission that distance and choice could not sever what had always existed between them. And yet, as much as the heart longed, the unspoken understanding remained: Oikawa had chosen his path, and loving him meant honoring that choice.

Fans continued to craft memes, edits, and posts around the phrase “You should have…”, layering humor and emotion, turning it into an ever-expanding cultural moment. And through it all, Oikawa’s gaze, soft and longing, reminded everyone that even humor could carry weight, that even viral trends could hide a depth of feeling that transcended the screens.

Iwaizumi exhaled, a mixture of relief, pride, and bittersweet longing washing over him. The meme had become a bridge, connecting them across continents, through time and memory, through humor and heartache. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to smile genuinely, privately, knowing that Oikawa’s heart had always been visible to those who truly understood him—and that he, Iwaizumi, would always see it.

Across oceans, across courts, across social media and shared histories, the volleyball world watched, laughed, cried, and fell quietly in love with the depth and complexity of their connection. The memes would fade, the jokes would evolve, but the quiet, enduring bond between Oikawa and Iwaizumi—and the silent support of friends, teammates, and fans—would remain, unspoken but undeniable.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Chapter 6: Edits and Threads of Time

Summary:

One Last Time and We Don't Talk Anymore

Oikawa stared at Makki’s post long after the notifications had stopped pinging. The cryptic words, the music, the tagging—everything hit him with a weight that made his chest tighten and his throat go dry. “Letting go of someone you love for their dreams is part of the process, and it is an act of true love.” It wasn’t just Makki’s gentle observation—it was a mirror, reflecting every choice he had made, every sacrifice he and Iwaizumi had silently borne.

He didn’t respond publicly at first. He sat with it privately, letting it sink in. The GC of Seijoh alumni buzzed almost instantly, the group chat alive with teasing, speculation, and affection:

“Makki’s trying to remind Iwa-chan he’s not alone, even if he doesn’t reply immediately.”
“Oikawa, stop brooding. Your dramatic aura is leaking again.”
“Don’t tell me you’re crying to Midnight Rain again. We warned you.”

 

Oikawa tapped a short reply, but he kept it private: “This is way too accurate.” He chuckled softly to himself, but the laughter was fragile, tinged with bittersweet tension. Alone, away from the camera, away from the teasing teammates, he felt the ache—the recognition that letting go had been necessary for growth, but also devastatingly hard.

Meanwhile, the fandom erupted. Japanese and Argentine volleyball fans alike turned the “Unsaid Emily / Midnight Rain” pairing into a kind of emotional war. TikTok edits, Twitter compilations, and Instagram reels surfaced within hours, blending Oikawa’s longing gaze, the subtle emotional weight of Makki’s words, and Iwaizumi’s quiet stoicism. Fans dissected every glance, every unspoken emotion, every hesitation in Oikawa’s posture. They speculated endlessly: how Iwaizumi had silently accepted Oikawa’s decision, the depth of their unspoken bond, the tension between pride and heartbreak.

@JPVolleyFan21: “It’s like watching a soap opera and a documentary at the same time. Oikawa’s heart is literally screaming for Iwaizumi and I can’t handle it.”

@VolleyBAfan: “Can someone tell me how someone can look so happy and so sad in the same frame? IwaOi is literally killing me.”

Oikawa, half-distracted, watched the spiral from Argentina. He leaned against the wall of the training facility, staring out at the court as his phone buzzed relentlessly. His GC was alive, alternating between memes, emotional commentary, and gentle prodding:

> “You should text him. You know you want to.”
“Stop hiding behind your volleyball and your dramatic edits. It’s Iwa-chan.”
“We all see the longing. Stop pretending you don’t.”

 

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Pride and vulnerability waged war in his chest. Finally, he typed a simple, almost trembling message.

“Hey… can we talk?”

In Tokyo, Iwaizumi’s phone buzzed. He had been quietly observing, listening to Makki’s post, reading through fan speculation, and trying to reconcile pride with longing. When Oikawa’s message appeared, his chest tightened, a strange mixture of relief and nervous anticipation flooding through him.

“Hey…” he replied, fingers shaking slightly.

The conversation that followed was halting, careful, tender. They shared private jokes, subtle apologies, and glimpses of the unspoken history they carried with them across continents. The rift that had widened slowly, quietly over time, began to narrow in the gentle cadence of texts, emojis, and reassurances.

A few days later, a TikTok edit surfaced that would consume the fandom. The video opened with Oikawa’s recent interview about Seijoh, the song We Don’t Talk Anymore providing a haunting, nostalgic backdrop. Clips from high school flooded the screen: Seijoh team goofing around, teenage Oikawa in his pristine Seijoh jersey, laughing with Iwaizumi and others, arms flailing exaggeratedly during practice. Then, seamlessly, the video transitioned to adult Oikawa in his Argentine jersey, training, spiking, setting with intensity, the narrative bridging time, space, and choice.

Fans were stunned by the precision of the edit: the way the high school moments and the present-day clips mirrored each other, the way the music captured unspoken regret and joy simultaneously, and the climactic scene—Oikawa and Iwaizumi passing each other after Japan faced Argentina in the Olympics. The briefest glance, the smallest nod of acknowledgment, and a lifetime of shared history was encapsulated in a heartbeat.

Seijoh alumni erupted in the GC.

“This is devastating and beautiful all at once.”
“Iwa-chan’s eyes at the end… he’s processing decades in three seconds.”
“The editors captured the real Oikawa. All of him.”

 

Japanese National Team members were equally enthralled. Bokuto and Kageyama stared silently at the clip, broken into whispers of admiration.

Bokuto: “It’s… it’s like watching the history of their partnership in one video.”
Kageyama: “The emotion… the restraint… incredible.”

 

Argentina’s volleyball team also took notice. Teammates crowded around Oikawa, watching as the narrative of his youth and present blended into one seamless, emotionally charged edit.

> “Man… this is… wow,” murmured one.
“You didn’t tell us he had this much… history… with someone back in Japan?” another asked, nudging Oikawa.

 

Oikawa smiled, quietly amused and secretly touched. He didn’t elaborate—the moments of intimacy, the years of connection, were private—but the subtle pride and longing were visible to anyone who knew him well.

A few hours later, a fan posted a TikTok of the last high school match Oikawa and Iwaizumi had played together. The song One Last Time underscored the narrative: Oikawa setting, Iwaizumi poised, the crowd roaring, the final spike pointed by Oikawa to Iwaizumi—Karasuno winning in the end. The heartbreak of their final coordinated play, the fact they never played together after that, and the gentle commentary explaining that these two had known each other since childhood made it emotionally devastating. Fans wept, shared, and discussed the video endlessly.

Japanese fans flooded the comments:

@JPVolleyFan21: “The story behind their last high school match… I can’t. IwaOi forever.”

@AobaJohsaiForever: “They’ve known each other since they were babies?? No wonder the chemistry is insane.”

@HinataSmolButLoud: “I never knew about this. The ending… the song… their faces… I can’t.”

Argentina fans, seeing the edit for the first time, were stunned.

@VolleyBAfan: “So Oikawa and Iwaizumi… have decades of history? That explains so much. No wonder he’s so… Oikawa.”

 

The Japan National Team reacted quietly, reverently, recognizing the depth of Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s bond, both past and present. Ushijima’s phone buzzed with colleagues sharing the link:

“Look at them. All of this history. And he’s still the same… brilliant, meticulous Oikawa. Even here.”

 

Iwaizumi, sitting in the gym as the JNT’s athletic trainer, watched the fan-made edit, hands pressed to his mouth. The mixture of nostalgia, pride, heartbreak, and joy flooded through him. He let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, recalling the moments: the laughter, the struggles, the final spike, the losses, the unspoken understanding, the lifetime of connection compressed into fleeting frames.

He sent a simple message to Oikawa:

“Saw the video. You’re still… you. Proud of you. Always.”

Oikawa’s phone buzzed, and a subtle smile curved his lips. That small, quiet acknowledgment carried a weight far heavier than words alone. Across continents, across courts, across decades of shared memory and emotion, the bond was mending. The gap of distance and choice narrowed with every subtle message, every memory, every fan edit that celebrated their history.

In that quiet moment, the volleyball world collectively paused, watching the narrative of two lives—intertwined since infancy, forged through competition, friendship, and love—play out in gifs, edits, and TikToks, their story immortalized by the fans, cherished by teammates, and quietly honored by the players themselves.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Chapter 7: A Call is All We Need

Summary:

A call between Iwaizumi and Oikawa.

The phone vibrated softly on Oikawa’s training table, insistent but patient. He stared at it for a long moment, fingers trembling ever so slightly before lifting the receiver. His heart thrummed in a way he hadn’t felt in months—not since he had first left Japan, not since the jokes, the memes, the viral edits, and certainly not since he had seen Makki’s cryptic post.

“Iwa-chan…” he began, voice soft, uncertain, almost breaking before the syllable was even finished.

“Oi… Tooru,” came the reply on the other end, low and quiet, a mixture of restraint and relief. There was a pause, the kind that stretched too long, loaded with years of unsaid words and unshared moments.

“I… I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” Oikawa admitted, swallowing hard. His usual confidence, the polished tone that masked everything, wavered now, fragile and human.

“I… I almost didn’t,” Iwaizumi confessed. “After all the… everything, I didn’t know what you wanted. Or if you even wanted me.”

The admission hung in the air, heavy and aching. Oikawa’s throat tightened. Gods, Iwa-chan… I never wanted you to feel that way, he thought. But he didn’t speak; the line was fragile, as if any wrong word could shatter it completely.

“I… I’ve seen the memes, Tooru. The edits, the posts, your videos…” Iwaizumi’s voice hitched slightly. “I know it’s… it’s all in fun. But I also know that behind every one, you’re feeling something else. I can hear it in your words, even when you try to hide it.”

Oikawa swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Iwa-chan… I—” He faltered, breath catching. “I wanted… I wanted to say so many things. I wanted to explain why I went. Why I… why I didn’t go back. And every time I try, it comes out wrong, or… or it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late,” Iwaizumi said firmly, though the vulnerability in his voice betrayed him. “It’s not. You’re here. Talking to me. That’s enough to start. That’s… that’s everything.”

Oikawa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Everything,” he echoed, and the word sounded foreign, yet aching, as if it had been trapped in his chest for years. “Iwa-chan… I’ve missed you. Not just the volleyball, not just the routine of Seijoh… I’ve missed you. Every single thing about you. I missed the way you’d yell at me, the way you’d roll your eyes at my dramatics, the way… you understood me when no one else did.”

A long pause followed, heavy with the sound of each other’s breathing. Iwaizumi’s voice came then, quieter, almost a whisper: “I missed you too, Tooru. More than I ever let myself admit. Every day, every game, every meme… it all reminded me of what I left behind when I didn’t chase after you… or when you left. Or whatever this is. I don’t know how to explain it. But I missed you.”

Oikawa’s fingers twitched around the receiver. “Iwa-chan… I never wanted you to feel like you had to let go. I never… I couldn’t bear that. I didn’t mean for my choices to hurt you. I thought I was… protecting you. Protecting us. I thought distance would make it easier for both of us. But it didn’t. It just… it made me ache more.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi breathed. “I felt it too. And I hated it. I hated watching you go. I hated watching you choose… Argentina, of all things, when I thought maybe we’d still have a shot here. And yet… I know why. I know why you had to go. And I don’t regret it—not really. I’m proud of you. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Oikawa’s voice cracked now, the polished cadence of the past long gone. “Iwa-chan… do you… do you still…?” He hesitated, fear creeping in like an unwelcome shadow. “Do you still… feel… for me?”

The silence stretched on, and Oikawa could hear the quiet rasp of Iwaizumi’s breath. Then, soft but undeniable, came the reply: “Of course I do, Tooru. I always have. And I always will. You think you left, you think the distance matters… but it doesn’t. Not for me. I’ll always feel… everything for you.”

The words hit Oikawa like a physical weight, a mixture of relief, guilt, and longing crashing together. “Iwa-chan…” he whispered, tears threatening. “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Iwaizumi interrupted gently. “Just hearing you say my name… just knowing you called… that’s enough. You’ve been living your dream, and I… I see it. I see you. And I love it. I love you. Even from here. Even if I’m thousands of kilometers away.”

Oikawa let the words sink in, every syllable etching itself into his heart. He swallowed, finally letting himself speak freely: “Iwa-chan… I love you too. I’ve loved you… forever, since we were kids. And it’s… it’s been killing me, knowing that the choice I made—my dream—would hurt you. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could… I don’t know. But hearing you now… knowing you still feel… God, Iwa-chan…”

Iwaizumi’s voice was calm, steady, yet thick with emotion. “It’s okay, Tooru. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain everything. You just… exist. You’re alive, you’re happy, you’re playing volleyball the way you always dreamed. And that’s all I ever wanted for you. Even if it meant letting you go.”

Oikawa’s hands gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. “Iwa-chan… I hated the idea of you letting me go. I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to… everything with you. But I was too afraid. Afraid that if I tried, it would ruin… something between us. Afraid that my choices would trap you or hold you back.”

“Stop, Tooru,” Iwaizumi said softly. “You weren’t holding me back. You never could. I love you too much to be held back by anything. And you… you chasing your dream doesn’t change what we have. You’re still mine in every way that matters.”

Oikawa let out a shaky laugh, soft and broken. “Mine… huh?”

“Yes, yours. Always,” Iwaizumi replied, voice steady, warm, and undeniable. “Even if you’re thousands of kilometers away. Even if you’re laughing with your Argentine teammates. Even if you’re… doing all the things I can’t do with you right now.”

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa whispered again, this time letting himself fully collapse into the vulnerability he had been holding at bay for months. “I… I don’t know if I can ever explain how much I needed to hear that. How much I needed… you.”

“I know,” Iwaizumi said softly. “I know. And you don’t have to. Just… be here, now. Talk to me. Cry if you need to. Laugh if you want. But don’t shut me out, Tooru. Not ever again.”

Tears slipped down Oikawa’s cheeks, unnoticed as he leaned against the table. “Iwa-chan… I’ve missed everything about us. Every single thing. And I was too proud. Too scared. But hearing you now… God, I want… I want it all back. I want… us back.”

“You have it,” Iwaizumi said firmly, but gentle. “We’re here. We’ll figure it out. Step by step, okay? No rushing. No pressure. Just… us.”

Oikawa’s breath caught, and he nodded, even though Iwaizumi couldn’t see him. “Okay… step by step.”

A long silence followed, filled with the comfort of shared breathing, unspoken memories, and the fragile, tentative steps toward reconciliation. It was quiet, intimate, and devastatingly beautiful. The phone connected them across continents, across time zones, across the unspoken distance that had haunted them for months, and yet… it didn’t matter.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa finally whispered.

“Yes?”

“I… I think I can forgive myself now. For leaving. For everything. But only if… only if we try. Only if we do this… together.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Tooru. We’ll do it. Together,” Iwaizumi said, and Oikawa could hear the steadiness, the unwavering devotion, the love that had always been there.

The line was quiet for a long while after, both of them just listening to each other’s breathing, sharing the same space over wires and distance, letting the tension dissolve, letting the years of longing and heartache slowly untangle. For the first time in months, Oikawa felt like he could breathe freely, like the weight on his chest was finally easing.

“Iwa-chan…” he whispered one last time, voice trembling but resolute. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Tooru,” came the reply, soft and firm, carrying the weight of years, shared history, and an unbreakable bond. “Always.”

And in that moment, across oceans, across courts, across years of struggle and distance, they began to heal.

Notes:

Any feedback is welcome. Please be nice, this is my first story.

Should I add more?

You are free to recommend ❤️❤️❤️.