Chapter Text
and when the wind whispers tooru’s name it lifts him up and carries him along for the ride; cradled against the warmest of breezes, the gentlest whispers. a well-worn sort of welcome saved only for the oldest, dearest of friends. here we are again, he thinks, almost like i never left at all.
except that’s not entirely true, the surrounding scenery finally settling on a shape and staying, as if to prove it.
tooru smiles, rueful. iwa-chan’s dreams are as flighty as they are giving, but he can’t fault them for that. they’re not the ones changing the dream, that’s all—
“—oikawa.”
“iwa-chan, hello,” tooru answers, turning to face nowhere in particular. an anywhere direction, wherever it is iwa-chan might be.
“hey. so, we’re here.” an answer to tooru’s question and not, both at the same time. “care to explain what’s going on?”
oh, there you are. tooru was facing the right way already.
“isn’t it obvious, iwa-chan?” it isn’t. tooru smiles, small and only the smallest slip scared for how little knowing there is in it. “we’re in a flower field.”
and so they are. blooming outwards and upwards and everywhere are flowers, lavender and hydrangea growing together into a a lavender-light gradient against the backdrop of the sky.
iwa-chan tilts his head to the side. or maybe it’s just his shoulders, pulling inward as his eyes chase whatever detail tooru’s left out in the open, everything he’s forgotten to hide away. tooru shifts; iwa-chan isn’t smiling, and tooru almost wishes he would.
then the moment passes, and iwa-chan’s mouth really does tug upwards, the loosest curl of a smile. not because tooru wanted it to be there—that’s not how this works—but because, because—
“oikawa,” iwa-chan says again. the question—and it is a question—breathes out into the space between them, no less steady than before. maybe a little less unyielding. yes, tooru nods, iwa-chan really is a kind person.
“since you’re asking.” he starts and stops. begins again: “well, since you’re asking, iwa-chan: no, i’d rather not. i’d really, really rather not…”
quiet, again. the lavender sways. the hydrangeas continue to bloom.
“i guess not,” iwa-chan says.
“thank you for your understanding,” tooru answers, wondering if that’s really what this is.
“yeah, yeah. so we gonna keep smelling the flowers, or what? my nose itches.”
“…in a dream.” the smile feels easier now, a simpler weight to wear. tooru’s glad.
“we can’t win everything,” iwa-chan snorts. “but seriously, oikawa—.”
“alright, alright.” the changes happen before the words finish, tooru’s whims wandering into the threads of iwa-chan’s dream, resting beside it, building whole worlds, maybe, tooru’s never tried stretching that far out.
as far as this dream goes, tooru only needs to focus on a single world: right here. the solid brush of iwa-chan’s shoulder against his as the ground shifts beneath tooru’s feet, flowers into flowers into a singular, starry sky. open air, bright lights. in this field, this dream, tooru finds nothing else.
“the realism approach? it’s a lot later than this, oikawa.” iwa-chan’s voice an unspoken message: rest earlier, idiot.
tooru parrots back: “we can’t win everything, you know.”
and iwa-chan groans, shrugging, tooru’s head dipping backwards as he laughs. lets himself tip back the rest of the way, too, arms outstretched to scoop up whatever laughter remains in his hands before that, too, drifts away, tooru’s hands falling back over his head as he lies against the grass, staring up at the stars.
iwa-chan doesn’t join him but he does sprawl out beside him, arms holding the rest of him up. he asks tooru about what’s kept him up this time; the same question he’s always asking, just worded differently to allow for the easier answers. tooru can do the easy answers just fine, so he does, launching into a story about his latest lecture woes, volleyball practice wrung for all its worth till tooru’s aching with it, a satisfying tenderness lingering somewhere beneath his skin.
tooru imagines he hears an answering ache in iwa-chan’s voice, too, similar but not the same to his own when iwa-chan says: “it’s been a while since we’ve all met up properly, huh.”
“see, iwa-chan does miss me! but never fear, it’s only a week and change until you get to see this oikawa-san’s face in the flesh again—.”
“hanamaki’s studying near your university, yeah?”
tooru frowns at the interruption. iwa-chan doesn’t, grinning instead.
“yes,” tooru answers. “actually, i think we might hang out soon. maybe even tomorrow? not sure about mattsun, though.”
“that’s still good,” iwa-chan says. he sounds like he means it, too. he always means it.
“is iwa-chan not jealous at all? no fun.”
“we’re already meeting up the weekend after training camp,” iwa-chan reminds him, like he even needs to.
tooru flings a hand over his chest. “iwa-chan, please. i wouldn’t miss golden week for anything.”
“the last two days of it, you mean,” iwa-chan says dryly. “that your team won’t sanction for volleyball, on top of everything else.”
“it’s the thought that counts,” tooru insists, iwa-chan nodding his head, uh-huh, night passing even as the sky above them both remains unchanged, somewhere to hang on to, somewhere to forget, just for a little while—
tooru blinks, the stars above slowly striping with outside light. there’s a distant thrum under his back—iwa-chan’s alarm, maybe?
“i’ll catch you later,” iwa-chan yawns, stretching. “earlier if you go to bed like you told your mom you would.”
“rude! this is a safe space, no accusations here. iwa-chan.” tooru can’t see where the stars end and the light from his own room begins to filter through anymore, but. just before the dream spirals away entirely he catches the faintest whisper of something else, lingering—
“oikawa,” iwa-chan says, one more time. his hand reaches out to bump against oikawa’s, fist to fist.
“yeah. ‘till next time, then.”
—when tooru opens his eyes, finding himself looking back up at the cream ceiling sky of his room. then, hanging on from the dream or lost from the neighbours across the hall or for no reason at all, tooru finds the scent of lavender, thin and close, clear. enough to notice, still not enough to feel, or touch.
“geh, what’s this—the great and kind oikawa-san finally living up to his name…!”
“i’m perfectly capable of getting to places on time,” tooru huffs, elbow digging into makki’s side as he does. it only makes makki laugh harder, rushing out of him breathy and loud, too fast, the sound of it sparking a sensation in tooru’s own lungs that his brain won’t register as anything less than endeared.
“what’s time got to do with anything? where’s iwaizumi to haul you from the selfie hunters? where’s my selfie while we’re at it, oh hanger tooru-san.”
and, because makki is ridiculous and competitive and rude, he elbows tooru back, right as tooru’s about to respond, a squawk scratching out in place of words, still not loud enough to drown makki’s snickering.
“makki,” tooru manages in the end, matching makki’s peace sign with a two-finger poke to the forehead. makki’s eyes trail towards tooru’s fingers, chasing till he’s almost cross-eyed with it, nothing but tooru and tooru and tooru. “it’s been a while,” makki says, eyes crinkling closed; tooru’s fingers feel the way his forehead smooths out, too, motion rippling across makki’s face, tooru’s hand. they’re both grinning, incredulous, infectious.
ridiculous, ridiculous.
meet ups with makki always are, really. ever the scene, a constant flurry of white noise conversations and well-timed wisecracking, sunlight splintering off the sunglasses makki’s got shoved to the top of his head, tooru’s face like laughter bouncing off the lenses, mirroring the smile makki still wears on his own.
“so,” makki drawls, “let’s hear it.”
tooru walks a beat faster. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“you sure? no nice to see you too, nothing?” makki’s steps are out of time with tooru’s, but they keep pace with each other all the same.
“nice to see you, too?” tooru hums. “what for, makki, it’s like i never left at all.”
“i’m touched.”
“you really should be.”
“—i take it back.”
“you’re a menace, a menace. and oh, look, it’s your turn to buy the snacks.”
“ain’t buying you squat, oikawa.” digging into his pockets, makki tosses tooru a milkbread. the packaging’s crooked, bent out of shape like makki really didn’t buy it for tooru today. tooru envisions a secret stash of milkbread in the safety of makki’s apartment and snorts, ripping into the packaging, crooked or not.
makki’s hand’s still outstretched, though, which tooru ignores as he takes his first bite before reaching into his own pockets. a handful collection of hard candy falls into the curl of makki’s fingers, and makki peers down at them, squinting at the glinting plastic.
“outdid yourself this time, huh.”
“makki—thanks for the food.” tooru beams—
—and immediately ducks, bobbing away from the trajectory of a candy whizzing past his face, the wicked precision arc of it hitting the ground and rolling. tooru stops, watching it. all makki says is, “boo,” before taking another candy and, unwrapping it this time, pops it into his mouth, sugar and teeth clinking together, audible.
tooru eyes makki. makki eyes tooru. neither of them are moving anymore.
makki bites into the candy; tooru hears the clatter. just like that, the moment shatters and they’re laughing again, tooru falling into the rhythm of makki’s collected anecdotes from his classes, dropping fractals from his life weird and wonderful. tooru’s own responses are equal parts in answer to makki’s chatter and the irresistible indulgence of trying to one-up him with babble of his own. the words themselves are simultaneously irrelevant and significant, casual conversation made meaningful with the comfort of it, the simple, shared joy.
an afternoon of moments, meandered into endless moments more. tooru walks makki back to the station as the moments slow down, drawing out into a single snapshot, a continuous held breath. makki takes his time fiddling for his rail pass at the platform’s mouth, people cutting past them in both directions.
rail pass between two fingers, makki offers tooru a salute. the ends of his hair curl, moved by some unseen wind, an incoming train.
“there’s your ride,” tooru guesses.
“there it is,” makki agrees. his hands drop back to his sides; the grip on his rail pass tighter.
“—okay, so. makki—.”
“ah!” makki ducks forward, arm looping over tooru’s shoulder, not quite settling around his neck before he’s pulling out and turning away. head twisting back to face tooru, makki adds, “since i hate cutting things short, you’ll just have to tell me next time.”
“sure? might forget. you willing to risk it, makki?”
“i think i’m safe.”
tooru laughs, manages to pull enough of his voice back to taper off with, “i think they’re calling your train now.”
“so they are—i’m holding you to that next time, oikawa.”
makki’s hard to see, now, charging into the flow of people until he’s just another current in the station, but tooru waves anyway, and he doesn’t leave the station till after they announce the train after makki’s.
almost forgot, makki texts on his walk back, but the candy wasn’t half bad. so points to you, or something.
or something, tooru echoes back before pocketing his phone again, unsure when this, too, became tradition unspoken, upheld. the clouds cast passing shadows over the footpath as he walks, tinting the tiny bursts of plantlife slipping through the cracks, blanketing tooru’s footsteps, his own shadow. even then, late afternoon flickers of light seeps through them both; enough for tooru to avoid stepping on the emerging plants, at least, before the sun wanes completely.
almost, not quite. a recurring motif of tooru’s life, as of late.
it’s the last set, both teams levelled out score-wise, 24-24. the last practice match on the second last day of golden week training camp.
almost, not quite.
from the opposite side of the court a toss goes awry, the spiker’s angle offset as he tries to match it, tooru lunging to meet the ball from his side of the net. it’s a sharp spike, made quick but clean; a good spike, setter and spiker meeting halfway to score. so when the ball ricochets off tooru’s arm, airborne again and arcing the wrong way for tooru’s team to score, tooru closes his eyes and breathes out. it can’t be helped. 25-24. we’ll get it next time. he knows this, he does.
almost, not quite.
“don’t mind, don’t mind,” kuroo calls out and tooru grips his shoulder as he passes—got it—falling back into position for the next play. the ball goes up, kuroo diving to receive it and tooru’s moving, bokuto already running up to spike whatever toss tooru can set. and he does, the ball touching and leaving tooru’s fingers, brought down with the palm of bokuto’s hand, just in front of the line. a solid play, confidence carried by the beginnings of a sure foundation, plays slipping together smoother than the start of training camp.
almost, not quite.
the whistle blows; they took the point back. 25-25. bokuto’s itching to let loose, tooru can tell, rocking side to side on the balls of his feet. tooru huffs a laugh, and bokuto turns, like he could hear it, too. “close game, huh,” he tells tooru, eyes fixed at the net.
“not that close.” kuroo’s up to serve, now. just one more point.
almost, not quite.
“mm, yeah—kuroo’s got this one.”
there’s no time to ask how or if bokuto knows for sure because kuroo does get it, serve sweeping over their heads, beyond their opponents’ libero’s reach. and bokuto really does let loose now, kuroo running up to meet them, both of them reaching out to grip tooru’s back, standing still between them, caught in the middle of the team, their win.
“what’d i tell ya, hey hey hey!”
“yeah,” tooru says.
“thought i wouldn’t get it, did you?” kuroo, now.
“yeah,” tooru says.
kuroo snorts. “knew it.”
“but we’re good, aren’t we?” tooru raises a fist to kuroo. “yeah?”
“yeah, yeah,” kuroo says back, but he’s grinning and so is bokuto, yelling at everyone to huddle before they line up, tooru a seamless fold in the dips and bends of their team. hands clapping over his teammates’ backs, tooru feels it: understanding, different than he’s used to, closer to what he’s looking for all the time.
almost there. almost there.