Work Text:
Out of all of the activities on his regimen, running is the one that Tooru does without intent.
It’s easier to run when he thinks about other things. His nightly exercise always lasts longer than the night before, letting himself wander in the ruins of his mind until he drags himself out of the rubble. Running is his second shower of the day — his first being volleyball and his third being an actual shower — that cleanses him before his thoughts soil again and he rinses, repeats.
The March air pads against his skin as he runs today. His thoughts bounce around incessantly: volleyball, career plans, friends, his sister’s new boyfriend (what exactly did she see in him? her previous boyfriend was a whole lot better, in his opinion). This is a neighborhood he doesn’t remember well, he realizes, as he takes in the scene around him for the first time and follows the lampposts down an empty road.
The road leads into an alleyway that opens up into a small, empty parking lot. A vending machine leans against the wall of the adjacent building; Tooru hears the rattling of shopping carts and the rustling of plastic bags not too far ahead. His feet slow to a halt, and he tugs his earbuds out of his ears.
Tobio-chan stares up at him from his spot on the curb.
“Oikawa-san.”
“Tobio-chan.”
Tobio-chan’s eyes linger on Tooru’s face for two more seconds before he looks back down between his feet. He holds a volleyball in his hands, twisting and turning it as a chef would his onigiri, molding it to feel just right on the surface of his palm.
It’s been two years since Tooru has seen him in person; he’s seen the papers highlighting the Kitagawa Daiichi loss, the image of Tobio-chan’s curled fist and devilish expression that screams immaturity. The Tobio-chan in front of him now wears an expression opposite to the one framed in the papers, one more nonchalant.
Normally, Tooru would nod and run back the way he came, but today his own convoluted feelings compel him to stay. He sits down next to Tobio-chan, stretching out his legs so that his soles nearly graze the wheel stops. He’s feeling generous today, won’t be rash. “Do you live around here, Tobio-kun?”
“Sort of.” The white leather makes a muted slap against Tobio-chan’s hand. “I was visiting Shiratorizawa Academy.”
Tooru’s mouth immediately curls into a frown. Tch. Worst school ever. “Don’t tell me you’re going there in April?”
“No. I… I didn’t get in.”
Oh. The unusual calm begins to make sense, revealing itself as not nonchalance but dejection. Tobio-chan sets the volleyball down next to his feet and curls himself inward, hugging his knees.
“Well,” Tooru sighs after a minute of silence, “I don’t know what drove you to apply there, but you’ll find better people to play with.”
He waits for a response, but the boy next to him doesn’t say a word. He tries again.
“Having one of the top three spikers in Japan means nothing.” That’s a lie, Tooru knows, but he’ll let them both believe it tonight. “You’ll find a good team. Like Aoba Johsai! We’re just as good as Shiratorizawa, if not better. Although I’d rather you not come and threaten my position on the team, thank you very much.”
Tobio-chan laughs, and while it sounds forced, Tooru silently rewards himself for at least eliciting a response. “I won’t be going to Aoba Johsai. Kindaichi and Kunimi are going, and they wouldn’t want me there anyway.”
“Hm. Well that makes three of us.” He winces at his own remark. Jesus, Tooru . He playfully nudges Tobio-chan’s shoulder to make up for it. “It’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” Tooru watches Tobio-chan’s head disappear behind his arms. “Thank you.”
The breeze is chilly now against his cooling sweat. Tooru leans his head back and looks up at the sky.
“Fuck Shiratorizawa!” he yells at the stars. He feels Tobio-chan huff slightly next to him and Tooru looks over, smiles. “Going to beat their asses this year right after I beat your team, Tobio-chan, just you wait.”
The head of hair nods, each strand scratching Tobio-chan’s nylon sleeves. Tooru looks back up, watching their thoughts get lost in the black of the night.
He avoids that route after that night, although he knows the chances of running into Tobio-chan again are small. Relaying kindness is one thing; continuing intimacy is another. There’s no need to create opportunities for friendships Tooru has no interest in forming.
He sees Tobio-chan again at their practice match that April, and at the Interhigh qualifiers where Aoba Johsai wins over Karasuno, and at the Interhigh qualifiers where they lose. Tobio-chan must have taken his message that night to heart, because he no longer looks like the dictator the papers made him out to be. His team looks good, plays well; his deft fingers send the ball to their eager, waiting palms.
Tobio has grown. It’s a scary, thrilling thought. How much farther will he go when Tooru looks away?
They don’t see each other in person again till nearly two years after Tooru graduates, when his mind wanders too far and takes his legs with it. He’s quelled his worst worries for the most part, but every so often his restlessness overrides his melatonin, and he runs till all he can hear is his pulse in his throat, his heart in his lungs.
Today these thoughts take him back through the alleyway and to the empty parking lot where he spots Tobio, lying with his back on the concrete and volleyball against his chest. A milk carton lies next to him on its side.
Tobio’s faded blue hoodie rides up to reveal the sliver of skin above his black sweats. The comfort he exudes feels so out of place in Tooru’s presence, and Tooru’s limbs tingle with a warning. Run away.
Tooru steps forward, past the figure on the ground and toward the vending machine. “You’re gonna get run over if you’re not careful.”
There’s ruffling of cotton and a scratch of rubber against gravel. “Oikawa-san.”
“Tobio-kun.”
“You’re still in Miyagi?”
The vending machine belts its high-pitched beeps as Tooru presses. C, 3. “Till July. And then I leave.” He bends down to retrieve the can, cool and certain in his touch. “Are you staying here?”
“In Japan, yes. I’m playing for the Schweiden Adlers.”
This Tooru already knows, having seen the headlines on the local newspapers his family uses as lining under their portable gas stove when they grill meat. National Youth Training Camp Attendee Kageyama Tobio Joins V.League. Karasuno High’s Setter Goes From Crow To Eagle. A New Future Hatches For Fledgling Kageyama Tobio.
He feigns ignorance, though, as he takes a seat next to him. “Oh? That’s impressive, Tobio-chan.”
“You’re drinking a latte?”
“Hm?”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“I’m not sleeping anyway.” Just to make a point, he sips his drink with a prominent gulp. “Aren’t you here because you can’t sleep either?”
Tobio shrugs in response. “Where are you going? In July?”
Tooru smiles softly at the carefulness of Tobio’s voice. “Argentina, to play in their volleyball league.” He stretches his right leg out, his foot nearly touching Tobio’s ankle. “I was going to go right after I graduated, but I had to take care of my knee.”
The CA San Juan team had been generous enough to wait for Tooru after he told them he tore his knee, allowing him to finish physical therapy and attempt a college degree. His knee didn’t take as long to heal as he thought, only restricting him from playing for a few months instead of a year, but he held out on college for two years until he couldn’t stand it anymore. His place wasn’t in a lecture hall; it was on the court.
Tobio will play an official game before he does, but Tooru knows he still has a leg up on this stage. Amidst all of his worries about his future, he etched the reminders into his calves as they supported his healing menisci: this is not a break — this is experience.
“So you dropped out of college.”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m a quitter, Tobio-chan.”
“So you didn’t drop out?”
Tooru pushes him lightly, which Tobio responds to with a genuine laugh. His heart beats a little faster. “What about you? Are you going anywhere during the summer, Tobio-chan?”
“No, just volleyball practice.” Tooru watches Tobio scratch the back of his hand. “And here, when I can’t sleep.”
“Yeah, me too.” He takes another sip. “It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re worried about how things are gonna play out.”
“Are you worried about Argentina?”
“Mm, sort of. New team, new language, new home. Worried my knee will give out again, too.”
“It’ll be okay. You’re good.”
Tooru stares at Tobio, who in turn looks away and stares into the nothing in front of him. His eyes fall on Tobio’s lips, as if he’ll see the words that just left his mouth tattooed on them.
Praise has never been foreign when it comes to him and Tobio; it would be foolish for Tooru to say that the boy next to him isn’t one of the most skilled setters he’s ever seen. But the suddenness of Tobio’s declaration leaves Tooru slightly stunned. He feels his ears start to burn; maybe he didn’t hear him correctly.
As if reading Tooru’s thoughts, Tobio says it again. “You’re good.” He taps the volleyball back and forth between his feet. “And you’re a setter who brings out the best in all of your players, no matter what team you’re on, so.”
“Playing nice with me, Tobio-chan?”
“Maybe.” The other boy’s lips quirk up into a smile. “And also just telling the truth.”
What an asshole, Tooru thinks as the blush spreads from his ears to his neck. Thinks he can be all sweet now that he’s older or something. You’re still only 18, Tobio-chan, come back when you reach your twenties . It’s nice, though. He’ll soak it up while it lasts. “Hmph! Just because of that I will consider coming back here so you aren’t lonely.”
“Okay.”
“Not because I can’t sleep. Just out of pity.”
“Okay”
“Okay.”
“Do you want my number?”
“Huh?”
Tobio blinks. “So I can tell you whether I’m coming here or not.”
Who the fuck is this Tobio . Tooru takes out his phone and hands it to him, index fingers touching for a millisecond before Tobio pulls away and types in his number. They touch a second longer when he passes it back.
“I’ll text you,” Tobio says.
“Okay.” Tooru feels himself smiling at the thought. He grabs the volleyball from its place between Tobio’s ankles. “Wanna play?”
Spring unfolds into summer, and Tooru finds his late nights following a new routine. He starts expecting the do-mi-do-ti-so of his text tone as the sky’s rosy pigment fully dissolves into blue. His fingers absentmindedly make sure he has cash in his pockets before he leaves the house.
“Out for a run” becomes his reasoning whenever his mother asks where he’s going or where he’s been. He stares at his cheeks flushed crimson in the mirror as he brushes his teeth — wonders if it’s because of running fatigue, or the humid summer heat, or the boy he’s just departed from that he’s anxious to see again tomorrow.
Sometimes they set back and forth, sitting cross-legged on the concrete where the pebbles stencil their skin. Other times, Tooru plays music from his phone and they lay an arm’s length apart, Tobio tapping his fingers to the rhythm on the ground.
On days like those, Tooru makes it his routine to glance over at Tobio during the third song that plays. By then Tobio’s eyes are closed, and Tooru traces his gaze over the boy’s zigzag bangs, the concave slope of his nose, the tan line at his shoulders where his sleeve rides up slightly in the breeze.
Sometimes they talk as they sip their drinks, as they do today. Tobio bends the vertex of his milk carton in and out, thumb and index finger pinching the damp paper.
“Iwaizumi-san goes to college in America?”
“Mhm, in California. He’s taking summer classes this year, so he’s there right now.”
“Do you think you’ll ever visit him there?”
“Huh? I mean, maybe, if I’m not busy.” Tooru adjusts his glasses higher up on his nose, scratches at the side of his neck. “But knowing our schedules, if we reunite anywhere it’d probably be back at home.”
“Oh.” Tobio leans forward onto his right calf, hands folded on his thigh as he stretches. “Are you still going to visit Miyagi after you move?”
It’s a simple question with a simple answer, but Tobio’s voice wavers enough to tell Tooru there’s something else wedged in the words; he decides to excavate another time. “Yeah. My family’s still all living in Miyagi, and most of my friends will come back here during their breaks and stuff, so... all of the people I love are back here.”
Tobio’s staring at him when he turns. His eyes reflect the same wavering in his voice — what is it? hope? hesitation? honesty? — until they don’t, the truth slipping away with a single blink.
Sometimes the nights are like this, and Tooru finds it hard to breathe in the presence of Tobio’s blunt equivocality.
“What are you eating?”
“A smoothie bowl. I don’t remember what the fruit is called... A-sa-hi? Like Karasuno’s old wing spiker.”
“Mm.” Tooru looks up at the ceiling from his bed as he sets the ball to himself one, two, three times, over and over. Next to his head, Hajime provides background noise through the video call: the clinking of bowls, the screeching of plastic cafeteria chairs, the bustling and hustling of university students rambling in foreign chatter.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed soon? It’s nearly midnight for you.”
Tooru smiles and sets the ball slightly higher to the ceiling. “Aw, keeping track of our time zone differences, Iwa-chan?” His phone vibrates, muffling the fuck you that exits Hajime’s mouth.
His phone vibrates again. Tooru catches the volleyball with his right hand and rolls over onto his side.
from: tobio-chan [23:20]
Should i get calpis or regular milk
from: tobio-chan [23:20]
Im walking over to the parking lot right now
An indirect invitation. The smile breaking across Tooru’s face is unstoppable, stretched like a never-ending cheese pull. He sits upright on the bed, licks his lips and types out a response.
to: tobio-chan [23:21]
calpis. u dont need more milk stop growing
to: tobio-chan [23:22]
should i get my latte
to: tobio-chan [23:22]
?
from: tobio-chan [23:23]
If you want
“Oi, Shittykawa, where’d you go? I gotta go back to my dorm room soon and get ready for class, but I can stay on for another ten-ish minutes.”
Tooru switches between apps to return to Hajime’s sleepy but somehow still glowering expression. Cute. Some things never change. “Actually, I’m gonna go out for a run right now, so I’m gonna go, okay?”
The pixels that represent Hajime’s arm and a smoothie-filled spoon glitch to a halt. “Huh? Why the hell are you going on a run right now?”
“Continuing my physical therapy. Knee things. Bye, byeee , have a nice day, bye!” Tooru hangs up before the boy on the other end can prod further, slipping his phone into his pocket and grabbing his navy zip-up from his desk chair.
This is wrong , Tooru thinks as he throws the hood over his head and tiptoes out of his front door before sprinting down the road. The wind runs against his face and through his hair, painting his nose with a pink blush. I shouldn’t be this excited. Is this wrong?
It doesn’t matter, he decides, when he sees Tobio’s back in a black tee, his left hand tapping a Calpis bottle against his thigh and his right hand out of view. Tooru exhales, doubt replaced with relief in his lungs.
As he gets closer, he watches Tobio’s back straighten. His right hand reaches toward the keypad, types in the worn out C. Tooru smiles and smiles and smiles. His index finger meets Tobio’s own on the 3 .
“Are you buying me my drink, Tobio?”
Tobio leans slightly into Tooru’s arm in surprise. “Oikawa-san.” His neck cranes toward the keypad, and he presses the button, taking Tooru’s finger with him. “Yeah. This one’s on me.”
Tooru’s chin hovers just above Tobio’s shoulder; he can feel the small ups and downs of Tobio’s breathing from the movement of his T-shirt against Tooru’s chest. Would it be going too far if Tooru leaned all the way in? What would it even mean, to Tooru, to them? What have the past three months meant to Tobio, if anything at all?
Before he can decide, Tobio crouches down to retrieve the can from the machine, holding it up toward him in a silent gesture. The drink passes between their cold fingertips; the thought passes through Tooru’s mind, fleetingly, that he wants to keep Tobio’s fingers warm between his.
“Tomorrow’s July.”
Tooru blinks, still staring at Tobio’s fingers. “Hm?”
“Tomorrow’s July.” He hears Tobio’s feet shuffle, and then the boy looks up at him. “When are you leaving for Argentina?”
There’s that stare again. Tooru’s fingers clench around his drink, feels the condensation slide down his palm onto the inside of his wrist.
Argentina. He’d forgotten it was so soon.
“Three days,” he manages to say.
“Will I be able to see you before you leave?”
Tooru shakes his head. “I have to pack, and my family wants to celebrate before I leave. So today’s probably the last time.”
“Oh.”
What a feeling it is to be happy about the sadness in someone’s voice. Tooru would call himself a masochist if he didn’t feel his own misery slowly rising. How did he forget? What happens next between them when he leaves?
“We can text,” Tooru says weakly. The condensation from the drink drips off of his elbow and down to his shoe. “I’m going to be watching your games all the time anyway. To make sure you don’t get too ahead of me.”
Tobio laughs softly and stands up, dusting his hands off on his sweatpants. “I’m sure I won’t, Oikawa-san.”
“You better not.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
What does this mean? Tooru thinks, as Tobio steps closer and leans his forehead onto Tooru’s right shoulder. They’re touching so gently that Tooru can barely feel the other boy’s weight. Why does this mean so much to us?
“See you soon, then?” He feels Tobio’s fingers nudge his free hand. They maneuver till their pinkies are locked tight, holding onto a promise they’re too scared to make aloud.
“Yeah,” Tooru breathes. “See you soon.”
Promises of keeping in touch rarely maintain their tangibility. Tooru watches them slip through his fingers like water through a sieve, the droplets clinging onto the bottom eventually evaporating in their drought.
Tooru texts his condolences when Japan fails to qualify for the 2016 Olympics; Tobio asks about Argentina. Tooru watches Tobio’s V.League games when he has time, until he doesn’t have time, until even when he has time he can’t bring himself to search for videos. Tobio leaves a voicemail once complimenting one of Tooru’s service aces. Tooru doesn’t call back.
Maybe it was all a ruse played on him by the summer air and the liminal space, convincing him that the nerves he felt were caused by Tobio and not the caffeine in his veins. Maybe infatuation is as short-lived as the seasons.
Tooru eats, plays volleyball, and sleeps until he can’t remember the color of Tobio’s eyes, the shape of his face.
It’s three years later at Tooru’s five-year high school reunion when he sees him.
Matsukawa’s just poured Tooru another shot of soju, which Tooru gladly sends down his throat in one go. When he looks back down, Tobio stares back at him, from the other side of the restaurant window.
That’s what his face looks like , Tooru thinks instantly. Tobio’s irises are black and blue, not like a bruise but like the edge of the horizon where you wonder if the ocean is safe to swim in, where you wonder what creatures live there that you’ve never encountered.
Tobio stares at him, eyes wide. He’s there, real, right in front of him. But then Tooru blinks, and Tobio’s gone, and all of the restaurant chatter restarts in Tooru’s ears.
Was it just his imagination? Fuck. He takes another shot.
“Dude, are you okay?” Hanamaki asks. His voice sounds like it’s a mile away. “Did something happen?”
Tooru shakes his head. His phone buzzes in his lap; he brings it up to his face to read the notification.
from: tobio-chan [20:13]
Still C3?
Tooru wants to swim. Swim to the edge of the horizon, even if it means that he will drown.
“I have to go, guys. See you later, okay?”
Everyone’s eyes are on him as he stands up and grabs his coat, but Tooru can’t bring himself to care. He tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs his wallet from the table. Run. He needs to run.
“Where are you going? Weren’t you the one who said let’s go to karaoke after this?”
“I’ll be there later, promise! Text me the address, Makki, I’ll beat your high score later!”
His ears pick up on oi, Shittykawa and pay for your meal, idiot and like hell you’re beating my high score, but they’re all drowned out by the echo of his feet pounding against the concrete. Run, his mind screams. Run, run, run.
Out of all of the activities on his regimen today, running is the one that Tooru makes sure to do with intent.
It’s a breath of fresh air when he arrives and sees a lone figure sitting on the curb. A blue coffee can stands on the wheel stop in front of Tobio’s feet. He looks up at the sound of Tooru’s footsteps, stands up as Tooru walks closer and closer till they’re barely a foot apart.
Tooru’s shaking. He’s met Jose Blanco and endured excruciating knee pain and moved halfway across the world to play on a stage he’s never known, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this nervous, this overwhelmed, this ready for anything in his life.
His arms give way, dropping his coat on the pavement. His fingers slot into position on Tobio’s face, the pad of his middle finger grazing the underside of Tobio’s earlobe, his thumb resting just under Tobio’s lower lip.
It hasn’t worn off, the high that coursed through his veins two, four, six years ago. It was only remodeled, from enmity into longing into desperation. Maybe infatuation is as short-lived as the seasons, but just as green leaves replace the wilted, maybe infatuation can be renewed.
The feeling is different; the man in front of him is the same.
“Tobio?”
“Tooru.”
He leans in, and he thinks this must be what children feel when they truly see for the first time, go from insentient to conscious, witness the colors that form their first memory — that prove to them that they are alive.
The first contact is soft because Tooru doesn’t know if he can do anything more. Their lips burn, as if Tooru’s is a cigarette and Tobio’s is a lighter, igniting a euphoria they’ll face the consequences for later. Fuck . He doesn’t know what else to do, so he presses his thumb firmly into the crease under Tobio’s lower lip, hoping the action conveys at least an ounce of his emotion.
The first contact is soft because Tooru doesn’t know if he can do anything more, but luckily Tobio does. He pushes insistently into Tooru’s mouth, fingers making their way into the curls at the nape of his neck. Each swipe against his teeth, tug on his lower lip, nudge against his tongue, sends Tooru’s mind into a daze.
They aren’t kids anymore; Tooru understands that from the fruition of their persistence.
Under his closed eyelids flash the possibilities of kissing Tobio’s jaw, leaving small indents in his neck and his collarbone; tracing his calloused palms across the smooth arch of Tobio’s back; running his fingers through Tobio’s short hair, becoming the wind that dictates which way each strand sways. But for now he’s enamored with Tobio’s face, so instead he brings his free hand up to cup the boy’s other cheek.
Tobio’s free hand clenches at the bottom of Tooru’s shirt, two fingers slipping under the fabric to hold his waist. Tooru can feel every ridge of his fingertips, every perfect parabola of his nails digging at him desperately. Their mouths read one story while their hands trace another.
Nothing will ever feel like this, Tooru thinks. No one will ever take words out of him without a single phoneme escaping, will ever make him act without a single coherent thought except his erratic breathing finding rhythm in another’s. Under the haze of Tobio’s limelight, Tooru lets his limbs unravel into the ruins.
This is what it must feel like, Tooru thinks, to come back home.