Chapter Text
Oikawa Tooru knows that Kageyama Tobio is an Omega.
He knows that this is true the same way that one knows that the sky is blue, the moon causes the tide, and the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. All of these things are obvious, just like the matter of Kageyama Tobio’s birthright. These should all be nothing more than simple statements of fact, facets of the natural order of the world determined by physical laws and biological forces. Such things will remain so regardless of whether people like them or not. Why waste breath debating them?
It is for this reason that Tooru pays little attention to the cyclical drivel that arises in the news media whenever a major event approaches: the Olympics, the biannual World Championships, the east-Asian Volleyball Conference, so on and so forth. Yet it amazes him that reporters from around the world— even from more progressive countries!— always pretend to rediscover the fact of Tobio’s “unfortunate birthright” whenever Japan’s national team finds its way to the court. Questions about it pop up in interviews with Tobio’s teammates and those on the other side of the net frequently, always phrased in the most tasteless of ways.
Exhibit A:
How did it feel to go up against Kageyama-senshu today? Was it at all distracting to play against someone so accomplished— and of course, the only Omega player present at the Tournament this year?
Tooru lets out an unbecoming snort, the flickering lights of the television illuminating the puzzled face of the South Korean player who stares dumbly at the interviewer before him. No doubt the man’s been trained by his team’s PR agents to know how to respond to comments of this kind; nonetheless, it’s understandable to be stunned when you lose a match and the first thing you’re grilled on is not your plays but the pretty blue eyes of your opponent.
“Tooru, you need tissue?” Santiago holds up a couple napkins from across the booth.
“No, gracias.”
Well, Tooru acquiesces while finishing up his beer, maybe part of the media buzz around the issue is understandable. Kageyama Tobio is both the first and the only Omega to ever play division one volleyball in Japan and to make the men’s national team and represent the country in the Olympics. These are all accomplishments worth noting, not really for Tobio, but for the sake of his secondary gender and other Omegas who aspire to become professional athletes themselves.
Those who have never met Tobio might find feel-good stories about overcoming adversity both believable and inspirational. It’s certainly the kind of narrative the media had pushed during his debut: this idea of a young, daring Omega who, against all odds, clawed his way into the international spotlight through sheer determination, triumphing over self-doubt and internalized prejudice in the process.
The television screen flashes and the cameras switch over to a shot of Japan’s national team. Flanked by Miya Atsumu and Hinata Shouyou, the prodigy himself sits on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders, his regal features twisted into an expression of stony indifference.
Tooru glances at the bottom of his mug, the golden-tinted sheen of the glassware reflecting his amused expression with perfect clarity.
Yes. Tooru knows better than to buy into those stories.
“You okay?” Santiago asks, shooting Tooru a worried look. “You have been very quiet tonight. Maybe… nervous?”
Vargas, who is sitting closest to him, nods toward the waitress. “You want something else?”
“Tooru wants another beer!” Figueroa shouts, red-faced and gleeful from the end of the table. Then the mirth transforms into mischief as his opposite hitter realizes where his attention has been. “Or maybe… he wants to be somewhere else? Maybe with the Japan team? Tobio Kageyama?”
A chorus of suggestive ooohs breaks out, and Vargas elbows him in the ribs. “Tooru, you dog!”
Tooru rolls his eyes and reaches out a hand to catch the can Figueroa throws his way. Cracking it open, he holds it out to his team, who respond by raising their drinks.
“Salud!”
“To another victory tomorrow,” Tooru vows.
“And all the rest of them too!”
Nine days later, Japan is knocked out of the Transcontinental Men’s Volleyball Tournament, ranking eighth among the twenty two countries in attendance. On the eleventh day, Argentina drops the final set in a tight match with Germany, finishing in fifth place.
It’s unsatisfying. Tooru knows that they would have had far better chances if their first-string libero didn’t twist his ankle during the fourth set. There’s also the fact that he could have done things differently, too: maybe if he had prioritized precision just a bit over strength and more accurately targeted the run-up path of that particularly annoying German outside hitter, number six….
Santiago whacks him in the back, apparently finished using the tiny bathroom of their shared suite. “Tooru, you are overthinking again.”
Tooru tries to be discreet about the fact that the wind has been knocked out of his lungs and lies back onto his bed with a huff. “Reviewing our gameplay is important.”
“Showering is important too. Your turn.” The middle blocker starts rummaging through his half of the hotel closet, presumably looking for a clean shirt. “Where did I put..?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“I didn’t, I was… oh, here.” There’s a shuffling sound and Santiago reappears from the closet, now clothed in a CA San Juan T-shirt. “You coming tonight?”
Tooru considers it. He’s not really in the mood for a full night of bar-hopping, but if the others get too rowdy, he can always head back on his own. Maybe he can text Shouyou and they can grab a beer somewhere more quiet. It has been a while since they’ve seen each other.
He rises from the bed and grabs his bath towel. “Sure, why not?”
Santiago flashes him a thumbs-up. “That’s the spirit!”
Five hours later, Tooru finds himself thankful beyond words that Shouyou is incredibly easygoing and flexible and immediately confirms with a ya of course!!!!!! to his last minute request that they meet in the bar in the hotel lobby instead of the club they’d initially settled on earlier that evening. Reminding himself several times that he loves his teammates and perhaps more importantly, that homicide is illegal, Tooru makes his way back to his and Santiago’s hotel room. There, he wastes no time stripping out of his ruined shirt, once white and baby blue, now stained bright orange by the cocktail Figueroa accidentally spilled down his back.
He's able to shower for the third time today and change his clothes in record time, making his way down to the lobby just a couple of minutes past 11:30. Thankfully, Shouyou’s also running late, meaning he doesn’t have to add tardiness of his list of things to apologize for.
Tooru orders a pitcher of beer and grabs them a corner booth. He’s only a couple of sips into his drink when a familiar head of fluffy orange hair appears at the doorway of the bar.
“Tooru-san!” Shouyou exclaims. Their eyes meet from across the room as Shouyou jogs over, donning that characteristically sunny smile.
“Shouyou,” he greets back, flashing the other man a genuine grin of his own.
And then Tooru notices that Shouyou is not alone.
“Oikawa-san,” Tobio acknowledges, trailing a few strides behind Shouyou. It’s a bit difficult to gauge his expression considering he’s wearing a baseball cap pulled halfway over his face, but by the downturned edges of his lips it seems he is not pleased by this turn of events anymore than Tooru is.
“Tobio-chan.” Tooru shoots Shouyou a brief, questioning glance. “I didn’t realize you’d be here, too.”
“Sorry I didn’t text you earlier,” Shouyou cuts in. “Me and Tobio both wanted to leave the club at the same time, so we figured we’d head back to the hotel together. I was just gonna walk him up to his floor and come down to meet you, but—”
“I got kicked out of the room,” Tobio grumbles darkly.
“Sexiled,” corrects Shouyou.
Tobio’s ears turn a little red and he huffs something under his breath that Tooru can’t quite make out.
Suddenly Tooru registers a twinge of sympathy for his former kouhai: this six-foot-two professional athlete with all the emotional maturity of a five year old. Being the only Omega on the JNT, he’s probably used to having a room to himself during tournaments and away games. The official conduct of most professional sports organizations is that Alphas are to be housed separately from Omegas, but Betas can room with whomever. Tooru vaguely recalls that the JNT added three Betas to their roster this season, one of whom is probably the roommate responsible for Tobio's situation.
“Okay, no problem,” Tooru says amicably, and gestures toward the empty seats and the pitcher. Because he is a mature adult now, he can tolerate a couple hours of Tobio’s presence, especially with Shouyou as a helpful buffer. Plus, if worse comes to worst he can always remind Tobio that Japan placed eighth and Argentina placed fifth— you still have a long way to go! “Help yourself.”
“Thanks!” Shouyou exclaims, pouring himself and Tobio a glass. Then, presumably because Shouyou has somehow managed to retain the metabolism of a sixteen year old boy, he orders a plate of tapas and a basket of fries from the counter before they get settled fully into their seats.
“Good game today,” Shouyou says once he’s swallowed down a mouthful of food. “Too bad about your libero, hope he’s doing okay. But that was a great fifth set!”
“Thanks.” Tooru snags a fry from his plate, willing his mind not to spiral down into its usual replay of the day’s rallies. “Christian’s fine. He’ll be back on the court in time for Tokyo.”
“Good,” Shouyou shoots him a smug look. “I would hate for you to lose to us just because you lost a first-string player.”
“You should worry about yourself. Who was it that got benched during Nationals because of a cold?”
Shouyou flushes an intense shade of red. “That was one time!”
Tobio, from the corner of Tooru’s eyes, twitches and drums his fingers against the tabletop. He jolts when Shouyou throws an arm around his shoulder.
“To-bi-o! Tell Tooru-san! I’ve been super careful with my health ever since!”
“Yeah, sure,” Tobio deadpans. Shouyou shakes him back and forth, clearly unsatisfied with his lackluster support. Rather half-heartedly, Tobio adds, “Sakusa-san would probably slaughter this guy if he got sick before the Olympics.”
Shouyou releases Tobio’s lapels with a shudder. “I had to room with Sakusa in the Pan-Asia Conference during flu season— he was convinced I was going to get him sick. Do you know how hard it is to sleep with one eye open?”
Tooru snorts against the lip of his glass. “What, would you rather have roomed with Ushiwaka?”
The name induces a trembling fit across the table, worse than before. Tooru’s almost sorry he brought it up. “What’s wrong now?”
Tobio pats Shouyou’s back. He's wearing a painfully unimpressed look on his face, no doubt thinking something rude about his teammate in a manner reminiscent of their high school days. “He has this weird recurring nightmare where Ushijima-san chases him around while trying to squash him like a bug.”
“With a fly swatter,” Shouyou adds woefully, as if this makes things any less pathetic.
Tooru bites back a derisive laugh. “And here I was, thinking all of you were getting along swimmingly on the JNT. I guess high school rivalry never really fades.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Tobio still. But once again, Tobio avoids eye contact.
Shouyou makes a thoughtful noise, thankfully none the wiser. “I don’t think it’s that. He’s always nice, I just get the feeling he secretly wants to crush me."
"Crush you," Tooru repeats.
"Yeah. But not violently. At least, I think?”
He looks to Tobio, who shrugs. "How should I know, dumbass?"
The redhead sighs. “It’s probably since we’re playing the same position now.”
“And you’re both Alphas,” Tooru adds.
“Almost everyone on the team is. But that probably doesn’t help.” Shouyou downs the rest of his drink and flags a waiter down for another pitcher of beer.
Tooru takes the opportunity while Shouyou’s distracted to level a glance at Tobio, who’s staring resolutely down at his phone, typing out a message with the same degree of concentration he exhibits during a heated rally. He took his cap off at some point and is now sporting an impressive case of hat hair, his heavy bangs pressed flat against his forehead.
“Who’re you texting?” Tooru asks. He steals a couple of Shouyou’s fries, which are now soggy.
“Roommate.” Tobio’s beer remains untouched. “He’s still not done.”
“Aw, let the guy have his fun.”
Tobio glowers at his phone. “He’s been having ‘fun’ every night this week. I want to sleep.”
A newly refilled pitcher of beer is pushed across the table as Shouyou slides back into the booth. “You could always just crash with me? I don’t think Bokuto-san would mind.”
Tobio turns to Shouyou with an expression as if Shouyou had just suggested he spend the night in a dumpster. “I’d rather eat Yaku-san’s dirty socks!”
“You could just say, no thank you!" Shouyou squawks. "That's the response I get for being so nice? Tooru-san, do you see what I have to put with?”
Tooru gives Shouyou a sympathetic smile, one he hopes is convincing enough to mask his expression of intrigue. “Very cruel,” he agrees. Then he looks to Tobio, who’s returned to scowling at his phone. “Congrats, Tobio-chan. I guess you’re all grown up now, turning down Alphas left and right.”
That expression of disgust gets turned directly on Tooru, with navy blue eyes widening with disbelief. "What?"
It’s the first instance they’ve made eye contact since Tobio walked into the bar. Tooru’s breath catches in his throat.
And then Shouyou’s cackling, pulling Tooru out of his stupor. “Oh my god, what did you— you thought that—?!”
Tobio’s now realized what’s going on. His face is red, whether from indignation or embarrassment, Tooru’s not quite sure. Shouyou’s laughter is severely impeding his attempts to hear whatever protests Tobio’s trying and failing to stammer out.
“There, there,” Tooru placates, “What the two of you do together is none of my business.”
“It’s not my business, either!” says Shouyou cheerfully. “I’m off the market.”
Shouyou flashes Tooru a glimpse of his left hand, where an expensive golden band adorns his ring finger. A quick glance to Tobio, who has his face buried in his hands, groaning, confirms the absence of the matching pair.
“Shouyou, you sly dog! Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Hitoka-chan,” Shouyou responds brightly. “Our manager from Karasuno.”
Tooru recalls a blonde girl with big brown eyes and a wobbly smile. If memory is correct, she’s the farthest thing possible from the surly grump sitting across from him. “I’m happy for you.” Then, feigning hurt, he sniffs. “But I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to your wedding.”
“Hasn’t happened yet. We just got engaged two months ago,” Shouyou sings. “We’re still figuring out the details— I promise you’ll get your invitation as soon as the date is set!”
“You better not go back on your word when Argentina kicks your butt next month.”
“Not gonna happen,” Shouyou says smugly. “I’ve already promised Hitoka-chan my gold medal as her engagement gift.”
They settle into comfortable banter after this, with a couple of digressions into Shouyou’s wedding plans (the venue will probably be in Miyagi, where he and Hitoka first met) as well as other recent events and upcoming plans (after the closing ceremony tomorrow, Shouyou’s going to spend the next few weeks before the Olympics in Tokyo, training with the JNT; Tooru’s heading back to San Juan to prepare). By the end of the hour, they’re finished with the second pitcher of beer, and Tooru’s sufficiently buzzed, face warm and cheeks sore from laughter.
“Should probably turn in soon,” Shouyou mumbles, emptying the last of his glass. “Team’s got a meeting early in the morning.”
Tooru grunts in agreement. Then, because he’s realized Tobio hasn’t said a word in an hour and has spent the night boxed into the booth, trapped by two drunk people he has no choice but to tolerate, Tooru lifts his head in his former kouhai’s direction. “Your room safe by now?”
Tobio winces. “Yeah, I think so.”
Shouyou claps Tobio on the back. “Hey, at least Amano owes you now. You can make him hit a whole day’s worth of your tosses!”
“A whole week,” Tobio corrects darkly.
Tooru stands, stretching a little, and the three of them gradually make their way out of the bar. There’s still a good amount of people in the lobby, some of them appearing to be fellow athletes while the remainder are likely normal guests. By the time they’ve meandered their way to the elevators, there’s already a small group waiting ahead of them— a couple of teenagers, a guy from the South Korean team (was it their libero?), and maybe a businessman, who’s talking animatedly into his cellphone.
They step into the elevator and Shouyou’s the one who’s pressing the buttons for them. “What floor are you, Tooru-san?”
He narrows his eyes: the button for floor fourteen is already lit.
“What a coincidence,” he mumbles. By the way Tobio’s gone still next to him, he's probably realized the same thing.
Gradually, the elevator empties out until it’s just him, Tobio, Shouyou, the Korean guy, and the business man on his cell. They politely say good night to the South Korean player when the elevator stops on the tenth floor (it is their libero, Tooru confirms to himself), and then the doors open on the twelfth and Shouyou’s saluting them with a silly little smile.
“See you, Tooru-san! Have a safe flight back to San Juan!”
“Thanks, Shouyou. See you in Tokyo.”
“See you. Night, Yamayama!”
Then the doors close and the last glimpse of Shouyou’s red hair disappears from view, the humming of the lift now the only thing saving them from an extremely awkward silence as the business man hangs up the phone.
The doors finally open on the fourteenth. All three of them exit and make their way down the hall.
“Excuse me,” the man says, nodding to them, and passes them to enter his suite.
And then there were only two.
After what feels like an eternity, they reach the point where the fourteenth floor splits off into the east and west wings.
Tobio stops, gesturing to the opposite direction. “I'm this way,” he mumbles.
“Right,” Tooru says, trying not to sound too relieved. “Well then, I guess I’ll see you next month.”
“Yes,” Tobio says flatly. “Uh, good night.”
“Tobio-chan,” Tooru says, before he can stop himself. Ugh. Old habits die hard.
Tobio pauses, looking back with an unfamiliar expression on his face— something Tooru can’t recognize, maybe because of the warm lighting of the hotel, or maybe because of all the alcohol in his system.
Tooru wets his lips. “Make sure not to lose to anyone but me.”
Tobio’s mouth is opening, and Tooru’s waiting to hear whatever bratty little remark he’s managed to concoct with his two working brain cells— only instead Tobio’s suddenly falling forward, his foot catching against the uneven carpeting bunched up near the wall.
The drinks have dulled his instincts but Tooru is thankfully still quick-witted enough to throw his arms forward to catch Tobio, preventing the younger man from faceplanting and smacking his nose straight into the ground. Even through the murky haze clouding his senses, Tooru realizes three things with startling clarity: one, he’s holding Kageyama Tobio in his arms— two, oh thank god, I’m still taller than him— and three: something smells very nice. Is it Tobio’s shampoo?
There’s a sudden intake of breath, a huff of air against his chest, and then— oh— Tobio’s standing upright, now several feet away from him. His inky dark bangs are covering his eyes from Tooru's view.
“Thanks!” Tobio half-yells, startling Tooru out of his skin.
Before he can reply, Tobio’s already dashed out of sight, soon followed by the sound of a door slamming forcefully in the distance.
Tooru’s still standing there a minute later, blinking owlishly at his hands.
What just happened?
When Tooru wakes up the next morning, it’s to the muffled shuffling of Santiago about their hotel room and the familiar sensations of an intense hangover. “Santi, ¿Podrías hacer menos ruido?”
“Ah, lo siento.”
As Tooru manages to sit up, Santiago pushes a plastic cup of water and three aspirin into his hands.
“Rough night?”
Tooru grunts noncommittally, downing the pills in one go.
“Breakfast?”
Tooru shakes his head. “Go without me.”
“Okay,” Santiago says. “But be at the lobby at ten. Can’t miss the ceremony.”
He waves Santiago off, collapsing back into the sheets as soon as the door closes.
The closing ceremony is relatively uneventful, with all twenty-two teams present to watch the organizers confer awards onto Italy, the US, and Brazil. Argentina’s positioned near center court, having ranked fifth, while Japan is further away. While Tooru would have normally tried to catch a glimpse of the JNT’s sulking faces as a nice keepsake from the otherwise disappointing tournament, his head is still throbbing, so he tries to keep his eyes down in order to avoid the stadium’s bright lights as much as possible.
Besides, he’ll have another chance next month in Tokyo. And the view will be much nicer from atop the winners' podium.
After the ceremony concludes, the Argentinian team goes out for lunch at a nearby buffet, and then they’re back at the hotel for less than an hour to gather their things and check out. The JNT must have already left since Tooru sees cleaning staff stationed in front of the rooms in the same direction Tobio had scurried off to last night.
He thinks little of the JNT for the next eight hours, sandwiched between Santiago and Vargas on the plane ride back to San Juan.
The plane touches down in the afternoon, and while Tooru’s headache is somewhat better, he’s still exhausted and wants nothing more than to pass out in his own bed. After some quick goodbyes to the rest of his team, he’s in a cab back to his apartment, and thirty five minutes later he’s home. Tooru makes it as far as the couch before he’s out like a light.
When he wakes up, groggy and half-dead, his phone screen is flashing 7:46PM in bright white light. He blinks away the sleep from his eyes and scrolls through the notifications on his home screen.
Forty five unread text messages.
Twelve missed calls from Yamato Masaru.
Two missed calls from Mateo Santiago.
Four missed calls from Felipe Figueroa.
One missed call from Iwaizumi Hajime.
Without thinking, Tooru presses return call. He sits up, scratching his back, and is debating whether or not it’s too much trouble to get up for a drink of water when the receiver clicks.
“Shittykawa.” Eight thousand miles of distance between Tokyo and San Juan do nothing to ameliorate what Tooru knows is pure rage emanating from his best friend’s raspy voice. “What have you done?”
Tooru’s about to say something glib, ready for them to fall into their usual banter, when he’s interrupted by the ping of a text message notification, a picture sent from Iwa-chan himself.
"Iwa-chan, I just woke up." He dazedly clicks on it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t done any…”
The words die on the tip of his tongue.
Displayed in cruel, colorful vibrancy is a picture of him standing in a familiar hotel hallway, red-faced from alcohol, embracing none other than Kageyama Tobio of the JNT, whose hands are placed gingerly on his chest with those unmistakably blue eyes of his trained intently on Tooru’s face.
His breath catches in his throat when his eyes catch the headline printed over the image.
A transcontinental affair: The potential end of Kageyama Tobio’s professional career?
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Hajime says gravely. “I suggest you start talking now.”