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Hajime would consider himself lucky to sleep dreamlessly — something, growing up, he’d never have thought to be a mark of good fortune. But Hajime has been having strange dreams, strange enough to be bad.
It’s always the same story, maybe with a different setting, maybe with an added detail that makes it worse. In his dreams he is running, and no matter how much his limbs thrash, his body remains stubbornly in place.
This time when he has it, he wakes up on a plane, drenched like he had been running in real life as well, startling abruptly enough to elicit a yelp from the woman sitting next to him.
His sleep mask sits askew on his forehead, pushed off of his eyes by himself no doubt. A dried string of drool blazes a treacherous trail from the corner of his mouth, through his stubble and down his jaw, all the way to his neck. Hajime hates flying.
And yet, that fact didn’t cross his mind as pertinent when he impulse-purchased himself a one-way ticket to Milan.
As a last-minute passenger, of course Hajime gets stuck with the aisle seat. It’s a wonder he was able to get any moment of sleep with all the people passing by, whipping him in the face with their arms, bags and what-have-you. He wonders how the other people in his row were able to use the bathroom.
He glances over at the duo next to him. They appear to be mother and son. The young boy has the same idea as Hajime, cheek against the window, sleeping rather fitfully. Understandable. Hard plastic does not make for a good pillow. But Hajime knows what would.
He taps the woman on the shoulder, startling her for the second time in five minutes. She pries her eyes away from her movie and Hajime holds the pillow out to her.
“For him,” he says and points to the sleeping boy.
She smiles, grateful, and it lights up the entire cabin. Hajime swears he hears someone grumble about a glare on their screen. It feels like he’s in Irvine again, toasting under the California sun. He clutches his chest and wonders if he is in love, entertains the brief and idiotic thought of being a stepfather before his conscience, shaped suspiciously like Oikawa Tooru, kicks his daydream in the balls and reminds Hajime that he is gayer than volleyballs are round.
But Oikawa doesn’t know. Well, actually. Oikawa does know. Real Oikawa, that is, because Hajime has complained to him about it at length. But Conscience Oikawa does not. Does not know that Hajime is lonely. And that’s why Hajime finds himself here, however many miles above the Earth, three hours away from Malpensa Airport.
There is an observable phenomenon in some sports. Bronze medalists are always happier than silver medalists.
And that’s the case for Team Japan, Tokyo 2022 bronze medalists for men’s volleyball.
Sakusa Kiyoomi flew off the bench and into Ushijima Wakatoshi’s arms as the final whistle blew. He never knew that Sakusa was the kind of man to hug people. And next to him, there was Kuroo Tetsurou on the phone with Kozume Kenma. Even Kageyama Tobio wore a huge smile on his face, unsettling to all except for the man in the crowd to whom he was waving, who would compete the following day and clinch the gold medal for Brazil.
Everyone was happy. And yet, Hajime, who had worked just as tirelessly as the players to get the team here, could not find joy in himself to share. What he could find in himself, however, was the urgent need to get the fuck out of Japan.
And now he’s here, however many miles above ground, out of breath from his brief dance with heterosexuality and telling the flight attendant that he’ll have the seafood option.
In three hours he’ll touch down at Malpensa.
He kills time with a charming film about animals in an anthropomorphic metropolis. He still feels lonely. A rabbit and fox find love and Hajime can’t tell if it’s platonic or romantic, but he realizes inconveniently that he wants what they have. Maybe if he retells this story, he’ll omit the part where he tears up to pop music sung by a gazelle.
The next part of the story finds Hajime, feet cemented against linoleum at the arrival gates. He barely remembers landing and going through customs. Everyone brushes past him and finds, in the sea of people, someone waiting for them. Even the detached businessmen, inattentive and on their phones while they walk, have drivers waiting to take them somewhere.
Hajime looks to his right. The woman and child from the plane bound happily towards a young man, arms open for a hug and holding a bouquet of wildflowers. This must be their home, Hajime realizes then, looking around at an airport no different than any other he has seen around the world.
Home. He hasn’t known the meaning of that word for quite some time, floating from Japan to America, back to Japan again, and now Milan — like a fragment with no bigger thing to which he belongs.
The kid still wears Hajime’s pillow around his neck. Hajime thought he was doing him a service when he insisted that he could keep it. Now, he wants to take it back.
It’s late afternoon and he’s found his way to the city centre of Milan. The options are endless for what he could do. Instead, he flops face first onto his hotel bed.
He has the dream again. Running with the strength of all those cardio days he skipped, he still can’t displace himself from where he hovers suspended in place.
And maybe it’s the new city, maybe it’s the position he fell asleep in — he has heard that sleeping on your stomach causes weird dreams. Whatever the reason, as if his dream were some isekai game, he unlocks a new part of his subconscious reality.
He is at the top of a hill with no room to move. A step in any direction would result in a fall. It’s the perfect design to keep him stranded, keep him all alone.
And it’s that realization that startles him awake to a dark room where outside the window, the moon hangs in the distance. The bedside clock reads 22:11 and Hajime’s stomach growls, presenting him with a problem. But he did his time in university and graduated with a more than functional grasp on the English language. If anyone can sniff out a late night bite in a pinch, it’s him.
His nose leads him to a bar, not Hajime’s first choice. Sitting on a rickety stool with only a sticky bartop on which to rest his elbows while ambient chatter fills his ears would be, in fact, his absolute last choice — but he should have thought of that when he opted for sandals instead of his pair of sneakers.
“Iwaizumi?”
He scowls, looking up from the menu in his hands to face whoever it is that seeks to distract him from his pursuit of food — especially now that he finds himself so close to the finish. It’s not until wide brown eyes meet his own, narrowed with scrutiny, that he realizes he had been called by his name.
Hajime has probably gone hypoglycemic. Reality seems to blur, vision growing fuzzy like the cotton in his ears. All he can see is brown hair — lots of brown hair, falling over square shoulders, shaped by a past of athleticism and softened by subsequent years of rest. A strand at the front curls inward, drawing Hajime’s attention to a pale and slender neck. Hajime has always been a neck guy. He has never told anyone but Ushijima and even he thought it was weird. But an apple a day keeps the doctor away and Hajime likes the Adam’s variety.
“Iwaizumi Hajime, Seijoh’s ace, JNT athletic trainer.” There is a split second of doubt. “Right?”
He looks up. “Huh?” And he clears his throat. “Yes.”
“It’s Asahi,” says the man, but Hajime doesn’t need a reminder. Kuroo has dragged him into enough pointless video calls where Asahi was present to remember. “Azumane Asahi? I designed the Team Japan uniforms.”
Video calls do not do justice to how well Asahi has aged. He has always been attractive, but in the way that forty-year-old looking boys do when you’re a teenager just realizing that he might like men. But Asahi has since grown into his features. The light dust of stubble at his chin distinguishes him rather than ages him, and his hair looks like he has finally discovered the miracle that is conditioner. Hajime wants to touch. From losing his fingers in Asahi’s chestnut locks, to brushing his thumb over the prickles of facial hair.
“Um.” He has never been one for articulation. But this is a new low even for him. “Hi.”
“I don’t mean to bother you.” Asahi chuckles nervously. “It’s nice to see a familiar face.” He points awkwardly at the seat next to Hajime, then pulls it out and sits. “And I really appreciate your feedback last year on the uniforms.”
Hajime flushes beet red. “You remember that?” Because Hajime sure does and doesn’t recall a single moment of coherence to be found in his ramble on ergonomics.
“Of course!” Asahi nods, earnest. “My designs were too fashion focused. You reminded me not to lose sight of athletic performance. I’m glad Kuroo had you attend.”
“I honestly didn’t think there was any point of me being there.”
“Of course there was!” insists Asahi. He leans in close enough for Hajime to see how long Asahi’s eyelashes are. “You helped me do right by our team and make uniforms fit for Olympic medalists.”
Hajime feels his eye twitch at the mention of medals. He preoccupies himself by returning his gaze to the menu. “I’m glad to be of help.”
“Are you eating something?” Asahi asks. “Let me pay for your meal. My treat.”
“It’s okay,” replies Hajime and he flags down the barkeep.
“Can I at least eat with you then? I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“The chicken caprese panini sound okay?”
Asahi nods. Hajime orders.
“Sorry, I’m not usually this —” Asahi gestures vaguely to himself and Hajime tries not to follow when Asahi’s hands get close to his crotch, “Just had some drinks with friends. I really wanted to talk to you.”
Hajime feels the tips of his ears go hot. “It’s okay.” He tries his best to smile without giving too much away. “We’re talking now.” He wonders what it is he even has to hide.
Asahi returns the grin and it does something horrible to Hajime’s heart. “I’m enjoying it very much.”
“Really? I don’t feel like I’ve been very entertaining.”
“But you are. Very much.”
“You might be drunker than you thought,” Hajime snorts.
Asahi laughs, deep and melodic, leaning forward and muffling himself with Hajime’s shoulder. “See?” he whispers, lifting his mouth to Hajime’s ear. “You’ve made me laugh.”
His warm breath sends a shiver down Hajime’s spine. “I think you must be easily entertained then.”
“Maybe,” hums Asahi as he pulls away. Hajime is tempted to chase, watching Asahi lean against the counter with an attractive kind of ease. “Hey, Iwaizumi, could you do me —” pausing a half second too long, “one more favour?”
What Asahi asked for was Hajime’s demise.
I have some athletic wear samples I need to send off and no model to try them on.
And Hajime readily gives himself up.
You keep yourself in such good shape, Iwaizumi. Haijime’s skin still burns in the places Asahi’s hands had touched. An innocent thing, adjusting a collar; the memory of it keeps him up until the sun starts to rise.
You think?
Lip bite, and then, I do.
Hajime spends the following afternoon getting scolded.
“Iwa-chan, you idiot!” Oikawa shrieks, voice made more shrill over the phone. “You should have kissed him!”
Hajime frowns. “Why?”
An exasperated sigh crackles through the speaker. “He was flirting with you,” replies Oikawa. “Didn’t you want to kiss him?”
“Maybe.”
“Shut up.” Hajime can practically hear Oikawa’s eyes rolling in their sockets. “You’ve wanted to kiss him since high school.”
“Have not!” he rebuts, immediately ashamed by how juvenile he sounds. He tries again, less like a child, just as much of a liar. “I haven’t.”
“God, how serendipitous. The universe practically hands you Asahi-chan on a silver platter and…” Oikawa trails off, laughing. Water runs in the background and dishes clink.
“Hey Matsukawa!” Hajime shouts, catching a glimpse of his own smug expression in the mirror. Oikawa tsks and Hajime can picture the annoyance on his best friend’s face.
“Iwa-chan says hi,” Oikawa says distantly. Matsukawa’s gruff morning voice returns the greeting.
“How many sleepovers has it been, Tooru?” Hajime asks tauntingly. “You wanna lecture me on making a move, and yet…”
A door shuts on the other side of the phone with Oikawa presumably going somewhere private. “Shut up!” he hisses. “At least I can kiss him.” The next part is quieter, smug, “And then some.”
“My mom’s been pestering me to set one of my girl cousins up with him. I’ll do it.”
“You wouldn’t,” Oikawa replies. “And when did we stop talking about you? I’ll set up my sister with Asahi-chan right now if you wanna play that game!” He laughs almost evilly. “God Iwa-chan, you were in his apartment! At twelve in the morning! Modelling clothes for him! After a chance encounter in a foreign country! It doesn’t get more meant-to-be than that!”
The more Oikawa speaks, the more Hajime realizes his friend might be right. But he’s not about to let Oikawa take the win on this.
“You had to be there,” grumbles Hajime. “The moment wasn’t right.”
“Moment shmoment.” Oikawa huffs. “You better kiss him today. Last chance.”
Hajime rolls his eyes. “Speaking of which,” he says, adjusting the collar of his shirt in the mirror, “did you get the pic I sent? Thoughts?”
Oikawa goes quiet on his side. Then, “I want to give you a wedgie. Undo a couple buttons, weirdo.”
“I’ll kick your ass.” But Hajime does as told nonetheless.
“You’ve got such nice tits, Iwa-chan,” says Oikawa with a casualness that almost overshadows his crass wording. “Show off the goods.”
“Don’t refer to my chest as ‘the goods,’ dumbass.” He snaps a photo of himself in the mirror and sends it off. “There. How do I look now?”
“Like you’re about to go kiss the guy of your dreams.” Oikawa snickers. “Sixteen-year-old you is gonna be jealous.”
“Clam it, you dick. I’m calling my cousin after I hang up.”
“Iwa-chan, don’t you fuckin' dare!”
It’s a miracle that Hajime visited Asahi’s place and made it out alive. He should have turned around the moment Asahi unlocked his front door and out came wafting his scent. Hajime didn’t even realize that Asahi had a smell to him, not until he took in a breath and all he could think was Asahiasahiasahi.
And then, there’s Oikawa’s Test. Asahi’s place was a complete wreck, the complete opposite of Hajime’s, which he keeps immaculate. It is a very fickle test, but Oikawa has yammered on enough about this opposites-attract theory that Hajime has started to believe it. At least enough to be thrown completely off his game as he stepped around stacks of paper and dug through piles of textile samples for space on Asahi’s couch.
The reward for his bravery? Even more time with Asahi – as if that night hasn’t caused him enough damage. Despite all logic, Hajime is excited.
As thanks, Asahi insisted he take Hajime out for a picnic. Hajime stammered out a ‘yes’ before he had a chance to think. It seems his crush on Asahi has reached the say yes to everything phase.
But he is in Italy. A trip to one of the many parks Milan has to offer would have been on the itinerary. Why not check the Giardini della Guastalla off the tourist’s to-do list while also making a fool of himself in front of a pretty boy? He gets some fancy bread out of it too.
“Riso’s my favourite.”
Hajime startles out of his thoughts, almost sending grapes flying all over their blue picnic blanket. “Huh?” Think, Hajime, think. What were you two talking about?
“Riso,” says Asahi. “It means rice.”
“Oh.” Hajime still has no idea what they were talking about. “I see.”
“Do you have a favourite?”
Fuck. “Same as you,” he lies — or says honestly. He doesn’t know.
“We should get some after we’re done here,” Asahi suggests. Hajime nods for lack of a better response. “It’s Italy, after all. Gelato bars line the streets.”
So that’s what they were talking about. Hajime smiles, relieved but also happy. “I’d like that.”
Asahi grins right back before he returns to reading his book.
Hajime didn’t bring along his own entertainment. In all truth, he didn’t have to, completely content with watching Asahi’s eyes as they slowly move side to side. Asahi licks his fingers before he turns the page, tongue darting out between light crimson lips.
School girls pass them by, looking at the two of them and giggling amongst themselves. They must be ridiculing him for the way he stares, undeniably mesmerized by the simple strands of hair that fall out of Asahi’s bun and get to caress his face.
“Asahi,” he says, something overcoming him. Curiosity, perhaps. Idiocy, for sure. Sometimes the Oikawa in his brain overrides every ounce of reason within him. “Are we on a date?”
Asahi looks up from his book. His cheeks fill with a red that rivals his lips. “Would you like us to be?”
“Only if you would.”
He pushes the hair out of his face, giving Hajime a clear view of the way his eyes crinkle with his smile. Hajime’s sixteen-year-old self would be envious. He was, after all, the one who spotted Asahi all those years ago across the court at the Sendai Gymnasium. And yet it is twenty-six-year old Hajime who leans back onto his elbow, lying on a blanket that smells just like Asahi’s home; the two of them so close, he could reach out and touch Asahi’s knee.
“I would.”
His subconscious had been quiet the night before. The excitement of running into Asahi at a bar all those miles away from their homes in Japan had him buzzing too much to dream. After a long day out, Hajime finds himself tired enough to be sent back to the hilltop.
This time there is a breeze, faster and stronger than any he has encountered before in his life. It makes balancing up high difficult — scary. There are no structures or tethers nearby to which Hajime can hang on. He either fights to stay upright or gives in and falls.
Or he wakes up.
Sweat dots the edge of his hairline. 22:11, reads the bedside clock again. It’s serendipitous to the point of comedy. Asahi dropped him off four hours ago, but Hajime thinks he wants to see him again. Four hours feels too long, even if he spent all of it sleeping, flopping onto his bed immediately after entering the room just like he did the day before. Jet lag is a wondrous thing.
He pries his phone out from where it is sandwiched between his thigh and the mattress, somehow rolling onto it in his sleep. He opens it up and searches his contacts. Asahi is near the top.
To: Azumane Asahi
> It’s Iwaizumi
> I can’t sleep
Hajime remembers the brush of their fingers when he handed his phone to Asahi. Asahi stood close to him, breath fanning against Hajime’s face, as he inputted his phone number.
From: Azumane Asahi
> Come over
So Hajime does as told. But Asahi doesn’t play fair, answering the door with his hair down, shirt collar so wide Hajime can see collarbones — and more specifically, the place where they dip at the base of Asahi’s throat, the perfect place for his tongue to go.
“Hi,” says Asahi.
Hajime answers by kissing him, licking the peppermint taste out of his mouth. He feels the stretch of Asahi’s lips into a smile, teeth clashing as they meet each other halfway. Hajime stumbles into the apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. Asahi leads the way to his bedroom, dragging Hajime, clingy and unable to tear his mouth away from the gentle stubble along Asahi’s jaw.
They fall into the bed and Asahi stares up at him in the dim amber glow of the room. His eyes crinkle at the corners and when Hajime thumbs over his cheeks, they feel warm from a blush. He is so cute. Hajime feels guilty that the sight of Asahi like this goes straight to his crotch.
Hajime bites his lip. “Do you wanna…?”
Asahi doesn’t need him to finish. His hands grab the end of Hajime’s shirt. “Yes.” And he pulls it over Hajime’s head.
His stubble tickles as he kisses down Hajime’s chest. Distracting Hajime while Asahi pops open the fly of Hajime’s trousers. He slips a hand inside.
Hajime has always been slow to rise to the occasion, but Asahi gets him worked up in record time. “Shit,” he curses below his breath and reaches between their bodies to feel Asahi through his pants. “Where’s your stuff?”
“Nightstand.”
It’s a superhuman feat, peeling himself off of Asahi, who looks so pliant and gorgeous against the cream-coloured duvet. But Hajime wouldn’t be the trainer of elite athletes if he couldn’t manage to do it. He grabs the bottle of lube and a condom for himself. When he turns back to the bed, Asahi has taken off his pants. His long legs stick out from the bottom of his shirt, the hem of which presently obstructs Hajime’s view of what lies between Asahi’s thighs.
Tossing the lube onto a pillow, he climbs onto the bed, condom packet between his teeth. He reaches between Asahi’s thighs, fingers wrapping around his warm length. He is still only half-hard, but Hajime strokes him the rest of the way there.
Asahi whimpers angelically, wrapping one arm around Hajime’s shoulders and plucking the condom packet out of Hajime’s mouth with his free hand.
The mattress creaks beneath the shift of their weight. Assuming this will happen again, Hajime wants to break it one of these days.
But first, this time, he wants to be gentle.
Hajime falls asleep to the memory of chocolate brown hair splayed across satin pillows. The image of Asahi, shirt between his teeth, muffling a moan that spells out Hajime, etches itself into Hajime’s skull.
He’s back at the top of the hill. The grass is greener this time and the breeze is soothing and warm.
“Hajime!” someone calls from behind. Hajime turns around.
Instead of a downward slope, Hajime finds more green grass. In the distance, someone waves at him. “Hajime!” they call again. The wind picks up and long brown hair billows with it. It’s Asahi.
Hajime runs towards him. This time, he can move. This time, he is happy to dream.