Chapter Text
After years of dealing with having both the Japanese Men’s National Volleyball Team and Argentina’s star setter under his care, Hajime can count on one hand the few remaining things that are able to threaten his patience to the breaking point.
Friday rush hour traffic in Manila is one of them.
His foot is beginning to ache from repeatedly pressing on and releasing the brake. His temples are throbbing in time with the angry honking of the surrounding cars. He likes to think he’s pretty good at self-control, but he’s just about one more swerving motorcycle away from pounding the wheel into oblivion.
He makes a mental promise to himself that the next time someone makes up a sorry excuse for being late to training, he’ll ship them off on a flight to Manila and make them understand the meaning of real pain.
But really, Hajime thinks it can’t get any worse than the two-odd hours he’d spent circling around Ninoy Aquino International Airport because his friends hadn’t informed him that they were arriving at terminal three, not terminal one—thank you very much, Matsukawa and Hanamaki—but of course the universe decides to prove him wrong and make him suffer infinitely more instead.
“Oh hell no. No. What the hell.”
“Huh?” Hanamaki pipes up from the backseat. He leans forward, resting his hands on the backs of each headrest, and squints at the windshield. “Oh. That’s a lot of cars on that bridge.”
“It’s not the cars,” Hajime grits out. “It’s the—it’s the feet.”
“Excuse me?!”
Matsukawa slowly lowers his feet from the dashboard with a mumbled apology.
“No–not—I meant on the billboard,” he explains, rubbing a tired palm over his eyes. They still haven’t moved an inch past the stairs going up to the MRT station, so all he can really see from here are the model’s bare feet crossed together, smooth ankles just barely peeking out from underneath cuffed denim. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
Still. Hajime’s at least ninety-nine percent sure that heel has hit his shins, and ribs, and face at least a dozen times each in his life. (Countless times, actually. Insisting on sleeping beside each other in a too-small bed until graduating from high school had its consequences. Hell, the two of them had even shared Hajime’s tiny-ass Irvine dorm bed.)
“Damn, Iwaizumi,” Matsukawa whistles. “If I knew you had a thing for grippers, I wouldn’t have put mine away.”
“I do not have a thing for—” Hajime exhales, deciding to save his breath as he finally releases the brake and lets the car rumble forward. A shadow envelopes them for a moment as they pass underneath Guadalupe Station, followed by a glare of sunlight too bright for him to see anything, but he keeps his gaze fixed determinedly on the road ahead.
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes is all Hajime needs to get through the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Guadalupe Bridge.
Thirty minutes of trying to avoid the sultry gaze of five gigantic Oikawa Toorus in various poses, looming over the delightful, sun-speckled viridian of Pasig River.
Hajime catches the exact moment Hanamaki’s jaw drops in the rearview mirror. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he chokes out between peals of laughter. “You recognized his feet?!”
Matsukawa, meanwhile, hasn’t said a word, expression glazed over as he gapes at Oikawa’s annoyingly perfect pearly whites.
“I prayed I was wrong,” Hajime tells him solemnly. “I really, really did.”
“How?!”
“I’ve known that little sucker since we were both in diapers,” he grumbles. He’s horrified to find himself stealing glances at the billboards, and it’s getting harder and harder to tear his gaze away each time.
There are five of them in total: somehow, Oikawa had managed to snag every single BNCH/ billboard lining the river and turn it into some kind of blown-up version of his Instagram account. The three on the right show him in various pieces of casual wear that highlight his strong shoulders and long, long legs, though Hajime personally thinks that the clothes themselves honestly don’t stand out as much as the faux-windblown perfection of his carefully styled hair, or the handsome playfulness of the flirtatious expression on his face. The two on the left seem to be more focused on different cuts of denim jeans, both paired with a white top that immediately makes Hajime flare up in indignation because when the hell did Oikawa’s biceps get so… thick?
“Okay, dude, enough about the feet,” says Matsukawa, having finally snapped out of his reverie. Unfortunately, he also confirms Hajime’s devastating observation when he adds, “just look at those arms, man.”
Hajime silently curses the day he decided to design a brand-new, specially-tailored workout routine for his best friend. For free. Out of his own volition, because he thought that Oikawa would appreciate the surprise.
Turns out he’d appreciated it a little too much.
“Oh ho ho,” Hanamaki grins, his face just inches from Iwaizumi. “Looks like somebody’s in trouble.”
“Lean back,” Iwaizumi says sharply, flattening his palm against Hanamaki’s face and shoving him backwards. “Unless you want to fly into the dashboard the next time somebody runs across the street out of nowhere.” He pauses. “Also, my arms are still way bigger than his.”
Matsukawa, grinning, leans over and pats Hajime’s bicep thoughtfully. “True.”
“We aren’t even moving,” Hanamaki points out, stubbornly wedging himself again between the two of them. “Trust me, if we were, I’d be locked in. I feel like my life would be a bit more in danger now that our driver’s a little, er, distracted.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re distracting me,” Hajime snaps as he turns away from the fourth billboard (the jacket Oikawa’s wearing in it does look pretty nice, even if the little sliver of visible golden skin underneath it inexplicably irks him).
Hanamaki’s next retort is interrupted by an eerie Sci-Fi ringtone blaring from Hajime’s phone.
“What the hell…”
“Ignore it,” Hajime mutters. He tries to reach for his phone in the holder next to him, but Matsukawa snatches it up first with a triumphant smirk.
He peers at the contact photo, eyebrows shooting up high enough to disappear behind his bangs. “You have a special ringtone for Oikawa?”
Hajime feels his face burn. “Yeah? We set it up ages ago. Just never thought to change it.”
Matsukawa hums and clicks the green answer button before Hajime can protest further.
“So, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa begins sweetly over the speakers. “How’s the Philippines so far? See any familiar, handsome faces yet?”
“Yeah,” Hajime answers without thinking.
He throws a panicked glance to his right and blurts out the first non-Oikawa name that comes to mind. “Matsukawa.”
For a second, Matsukawa blinks back at him in shock. Hajime groans inwardly as a sly, knowing smirk begins to take over his expression.
“Aww, man,” he blushes. “Thanks.” The look on his face tells Hajime that he’s definitely going to get shit for this later.
Hanamaki folds his arms together and frowns. “Wow. Seriously? What about me?”
Oikawa makes a similar noise of disappointment. “Mattsun?! Really, Iwa-chan? Just because he looks like that Filipino actor you had a crush on?”
“What—Jericho Rosales? It was my mom who had a crush on him, you idiot.”
Matsukawa raises an eyebrow. “Now this is my first time hearing about this.”
Hanamaki, having already pulled up Google on his phone, says, “Dude. This guy totally copied your haircut.”
Matsukawa’s eyes widen as Hanamaki shows him the black-and-white photo. “No way.”
Hajime snorts. On the other side of the line, Oikawa huffs out a small laugh. “How’s Tita, by the way?”
“Preparing way too much food for everyone as usual,” Hajime tells him.
“Ooh, what food? Is she making kansi again?”
“Kansi, sisig, pastil, and lots of pancit.” His mouth waters at the thought—it’d also been a while since he last had one of his mama’s delicious home-cooked meals. Ingredients in the Philippines hit so much better than the overpriced Asian Mart substitutes anywhere else.
Oikawa lets out a whoop. “God, I love your mom.”
“Mahal ka ba,”1 Hajime mutters under his breath. The insult is mostly directed at the smirking Oikawa on Billboard #3 in his godawful, butt-hugging skinny jeans.
“What did you say, Iwa-chan?”
Hajime has to press his mouth into a thin line to keep himself from laughing. “I don’t know what she sees in you for her to like you so much, honestly.”
“Ah, the curse of the Iwaizumis,” sighs Hanamaki from the backseat.
Hajime promptly lifts one hand from the wheel to flip him off.
Thankfully, the speaker doesn’t seem to have picked up Hanamaki’s unsubstantiated comment, because Oikawa continues to prattle on. “Oh, Iwa-chan, you don’t have to act so jealous. She only wishes she had me as a son, after all. Then maybe someone could actually inherit her badass cooking skills.”
Hajime rolls his eyes before realizing that Oikawa can’t see him, and then feeling glad all of a sudden for it. He was too perceptive, especially when it came to Hajime—he’d definitely be able to pick up on the reason for his constantly shifting gaze.
“I’ve also been told we’ll be molding the pastillas for you once we get home,” he casually remarks. “She’s probably got a dozen bowls ready.”
“We’re going to be doing what?” Matsukawa asks.
“Really?” It’s almost ridiculous how Oikawa’s tone has shifted completely when he exclaims, “Iwa-chan does them the best!” He sighs dreamily. “Well, second best, because you always put less sugar than Mama Iwa does. Makki, Mattsun, I’m counting on the two of you, okay?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but roger that, Captain.”
“Same here.”
Oikawa hums, seemingly satisfied. “Anyway, Iwa-chan, do tell me if you see… anything interesting, alright?”
“Interesting,” Hajime repeats dully. “Why don’t you come here and see for yourself?”
“Oh? Is Iwa-chan that excited to see me? You already know that I’ll be there in a couple of days.”
“So I’ve got a couple days of peace. Got it.”
“Don’t listen to him, Oikawa, he’s practically bouncing with excitement.”
“He’s been moping about how you wouldn’t be able to join us at the beach.”
“Don’t remind me!” Oikawa wails. “I swear—oh, Coach is here. Gotta go. Bye!”
“See ya,” Hanamaki and Matsukawa drawl in unison as Hajime says, “Take care, ‘Kawa.”
The line goes dead, and the two of them glare at Hajime with raised eyebrows and matching smirks.
“What—the hell are you two looking at me like that for?”
Matsukawa blissfully ignores him as he sets the phone back in the cupholder. “Hey, do you think we could go down there and take a photo with the billboards?”
“And spend at least an hour more going around to get there? Absolutely not.”
“I was just suggesting,” Matsukawa mutters.
“Aww, come on,” Hanamaki pleads. “Might as well, so we can get a full picture of the four of us to post today.”
“We are literally going to see his pretty—” Hajime splutters, feeling the tips of his ears go red with embarrassment, “pretty stupid face in a couple of days.”
The sunglasses-clad Oikawa #2 seems to glare at him, offended, through his dark aviator lenses.
Hanamaki whips out his phone with a sigh and begins swiping furiously. Hajime almost feels himself relax before he hears the telltale click of a seatbelt being unlocked and the loud hum of the backseat window rolling down.
The thick smell of sun and smoke immediately hits his nostrils. He watches in horror from the rearview mirror as Hanamaki sticks his head out the open window and snaps a selfie with the Oikawas.
“What the hell—dude!”
Hanamaki immediately ducks back inside, flashing a victory sign as an offering of peace. The thought of wringing him by the neck is a sweet fantasy that Hajime indulges in for all of two milliseconds before he forcibly jabs his thumb into the window closing button instead.
“For our joint Instagram account,” Hanamaki explains once the outside noise is finally blocked out. “The people need updates.”
Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales deeply. It doesn’t help that when he glances to his side, all he can see is the first Oikawa, whose head rests in the crook of his stupidly muscular arms. (Really, the BNCH/ crew must’ve really worked the lighting to make them seem bigger than they actually are.) His expression is wistful, almost innocent, but Hajime knows better than to be fooled.
“Say, Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki begins, once again leaning dangerously close to the gearshift, “I think you’ve been staring at them long enough, so have you decided which one’s your favorite yet?”
“I like the third one,” Matsukawa offers. “The hand-in-hair pose is really working for his biceps.”
“God, I know. I was gonna say the same thing.”
“You have wonderful taste, babe.”
“Why, thank you.”
Hajime sighs. It’s going to be a long drive home.