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He receives 275 new messages, 15 missed calls, 13 requests for video calls, and one notification of a package sent, the moment he arrives in Buenos Aires.
Oikawa’s phone still has Japan’s time zone on the lockscreen, but he can see from inside the airport that the sunrise is barely starting. He had to put on a jacket after leaving the plane due the sudden cold. Goosebumps rose, shivers ran down his spine, and it was that kind of electrical shock Oikawa needed to finally understand, see, what just happened.
18.370,59 kilometers of distance between Argentina and Japan.
33 hours and 5 minutes of air travel.
Time zones between the two countries have twelve hours of difference.
He spent the majority of those hours asleep, unable to shake the inconsistent emotions running through his veins. Like falling dominos, his feelings dropped down on him heavily, unconsciously.
First stop off: Tokyo to Montreal. Oikawa felt excited, the skin of his lower lip already teared. Books, movies, music, nothing caught his attention. Like a shonen protagonist, off he goes to a new adventure. Was he Gon from HunterxHunter right now? Then he felt sleepy as hell, because 14 hours was a lot of time to be awake.
Second stop off: Montreal to Toronto. Oikawa had no time to think, really. One hour and 23 minutes of traveling, then 20 minutes to the next plane Lester B. Pearson International Airport (Cool! Another stamp to his passport). The moment he stepped off that plane he walked (more like, jogged really fast) to his next and last trip. Oh yeah, what he felt was fear: what if he missed his plane? There was no way Oikawa would call José Blanco to admit it and ask for help. He would continue living in the snow and play volleyball with snow.
Oikawa remembers only one thing: Canada was cold.
Third stop off: Toronto to Buenos Aires. Oikawa couldn’t stop staring at the small screen, showing the map’s route. The little icon of a plane passing through so many unknown cities to him. He got a map of South America at the last minute to learn more than high school taught him besides countries names and capital cities, but.
His brain was fuzzy, his eyes were burning from staring at the screen for so long in the dark, his belly was full from the dinner (and if Oikawa was correct, breakfast was coming soon. He had no idea how many hours passed). The emptiness of his mind was filled only by that yellow line stopping at Buenos Aires, Argentina. His destiny pictured by a map his fingertips could trace.
He sends a gazillion I’ve arrived safely. Talk to you later!! messages to everyone, then turns his phone off. Most of them are probably asleep, anyway.
Not a lot of people are around the airport now. On the entrance, at international arrivals, some family members take the care and effort to pick their loved ones and take them home. All of them have sleepy faces. More gift shops, food restaurants, football advertising colors the place.
While he tries to look for the national flight’s door, his footsteps feel heavy. Something troubles him, and he can’t pinpoint what it is yet. Maybe the lack of sleep and his own marathon in between airports and flights have finally reduced him to the madman everyone says he is, and he didn’t even stay one day here.
He passes many screens announcing departures and arrivals.
He looks up to look at one. Japan is in none of them.
He continues walking, until he reaches a (hopefully) final destination. He’s getting sick of airports.
National departures.
San Juan AR 1309. One Time.
He can only hear the rasped wheels of his suitcase on the floor, his only company for more than a day. He hasn’t spoken to anyone else besides the air hostesses (Chicken or beef? Soda or water? Have a safe trip!), the immigration department. The closest he’s ever felt to a person last time were his mother’s arms, hugging him tight.
Oikawa hands one last flight ticket.
Another hostess greets him with a smile. “Buen día, sea bienvenido a bordo.”
One hour and 50 more minutes to go.
Fourth stop off: San Juan it is.
“Is he finally connected?” That’s the greeting Oikawa receives on Skype, by Annoying Voice Number One: Hanamaki.
“I’m only seeing– a–a–a black square.” Possibly Annoying Voice Number Two says, Matsukawa.
Oikawa can’t hear them very well. Their voices sound distorted, like they were far away, when most of them are inside their bedrooms.
Oh, they are far away.
“There he is! I think?” Less annoying than everyone else but very close to crossing that line, Yahaba, waves at the camera.
Yeah, the internet connection sucks.
“The man, the myth, the legend!”
Kindaichi’s voice steps in. “Iwaizumi-san, we miss you.”
Iwaizumi was right there since Oikawa entered the group call.
“You guys are the worst.” Oikawa disconnects the call.
His phone’s screen lights up again and again with new notifications. He comes back to the call.
“Ah, there. Oikawa-san!” Annoying Voice Number Four, Watari, says.
“Sorry, Oikawa-san!” Both Kindaichi and newest addition to Annoying Voices, Kunimi, yell. They’re huddled together in the same bedroom to fit the laptop’s camera.
“Your internet sucks, man.” First time talker and less annoying than the rest, Iwaizumi.
Oikawa rolls his eyes. “No way, I didn’t see it.”
“Yeah, Oikawa-san, your voice somewhat transforms into robot-like. Have you tried turning it on and off?”
“I think it’s because it’s seeing your face, Matsukawa.”
All of them begin to protest with the loudest of noises. He hopes all neighbors are either sleeping great, or gone off to work. A neighbor, a retired old lady with glasses bigger than her face and a poodle under her arm, said to Oikawa that the walls are so paper thin, she got spoiled a series’ ending because of the guy in 5A.
The apartment is fine. His payment as a player pays the basic needs. Coach Blanco helps him with the bills and, as a housewarming gift, he bought him food enough to fill two volleyball teams. He’s good for now. Some pictures are hanged, a calendar in Japanese, and his now washed training clothes for S.A San Juan.
It’s so big for someone starting so small.
“Man, look at this new Seijoh reunion! What time is it over there, guys?” Hanamaki says.
Oikawa points at the window behind him. “Nine am.”
“Four am.”
“Holy shit, Iwaizumi. Did you even sleep?”
“I start training at five so one more hour today it’s okay.” Yet, Iwaizumi yawns.
God, he misses them. He misses them terribly.
José –coach, now– Blanco introduced him to his team mates earlier this week, and with Oikawa’s limited spanish and the guys limited english, their interactions were short and stifled. They played okay, waved goodbye after training and everyone left home ten minutes later than the estimated hour. It’s okay, Oikawa wouldn’t expect a blooming connection and the perfect team by five o’clock, but Oikawa’s heart opened that tucked place in his heart he didn’t want to recognize until now: the yearn.
He’s not a teenager anymore, with the look and smell of sweaty training clothes and oily sun protector on their bodies during practice. His friends, his teammates, are not around to ramble next to his ear for the next hour. Yet in this space, this time, completely alone, he’s never felt more like a kid reaching for a helping hand.
He yearns for the attention and everything good that brings it with: the smiles, the friends, the easiness of school. The freedom of staying late at night and think which matches he’ll play next. Oikawa wonders, and wonders.
What if…
“So, Oikawa, how’ve you been?”
“Apparently better than you, Yahaba. Look at those dark circles.”
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
A Noiseless Patient Spider
By Walt Whitman
Oikawa realized too late he knew shit about spanish.
He hears how his teammates speak, like he used to sneak around with Iwaizumi and Matsukawa and hear what Coach Irihata and Mizoguchi would talk about after training.
The first day Oikawa played with them, the only words he understood were
Good game! and Go! in english. Hello and goodbye. It was so awkward Oikawa wanted to swallow Google Translator. He had an open ear and an open mouth just to hear everything and say in return: What are you talking about? Are you talking about the game, about me? Did I do okay?
On the second day, everyone decided to adopt Oikawa. No more english, only really hard pats on his shoulders and tight team hugs. Sometimes one of them would scream in happiness at his face. The guys apparently found Oikawa and his play good, great even (Coach Blanco said so, now in his new part-time job as Oikawa’s translator), so they dropped the small formalities and decided to go all in on him.
So Oikawa does the same.
“Coach Blanco, what does it mean?”
“What did Nicolás say, Coach?”
“Coach, what the hell does “Che” mean?”
Capitán. Nicolás. Rematador. Julián. Bloqueador. Romero. Libero. Facundo. Punta. Agustín. Especialista defensivo. Mateo. Armador.
That’s me.
He buys books. Learns his teammates full name, the way they greet each other. He speaks more with Coach Blanco. Says hi to their neighbors and gets nervous when they ask him how he is (he hasn’t been able to say more than Bien, Disculpe and Muchas gracias). Watches tv. A lot of tv. Downloads apps. Talks, and talks, and talks. Even by himself.
“José, me parece que es momento que Tooru aprenda a insultar bien como argentino.”
“Coach?”
“One thing at a time.”
The first time Oikawa hears them speak without needing the translator app to check, he repeats word by word for days.
He teaches his mom some words. Laughs when his nephew tries to repeat them. In return, some of the guys ask him words in japanese.
Like he did at Aoba Johsai High, he learns and speaks a language rooted in his hands during volleyball. His teammates don’t need words from him at the time, but the swift pass of a ball. Pass after pass, they begin a routine. His language becomes their language. As he passes the ball to the spiker, he finds peace at the lack of words during that time. The guys don’t need to learn japanese, nor does he spanish, for a little while. There is language in movement, and sentiment every time the ball passes to one another.
How insane, to have a body speak for itself.
Still, for the first time in many weeks, Oikawa feels proud. They’re learning as a team, he’s learning a new language, and everything that entails. When a strategy comes into mind, Oikawa can redirect it to others. He doesn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth are his.
It hasn’t been this exciting to learn something new every day since his first year at Seijoh.
“Ah, Tooru! Buen día.” Nicolás is the first one to arrive in the morning, Tooru very close in second.
He waves his hand. “Buen día!”
Oikawa loses his first match in the country. 2-1 against C.A San Fernando del Valle.
He’s on the bench during most of the second one.
It’s a slap in the face.
After some pats on his shoulders from the guys, Coach Blanco appears in front of him to give him a jacket. “Come, Tooru. Let’s take a run.”
They run without stopping. He hears some jaded breaths from his Coach, but never stops their route for a second. Oikawa is greeted with new places he’s never seen before; he hasn’t been able to explore the city as much as he’d like. He’d promised Iwaizumi and Hanamaki (a lot) of pictures. The sun slowly begins to stand behind the mountains. He passes museums, theaters, cathedrals. Oikawa feels the wind hitting his face, leaving behind the disturbance shaking the bush of his mind.
They stop at a park, the biggest and most centric they have in the city, Coach Blanco says.
He hands Oikawa a water bottle bought nearby. “I needed you to lose that match. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wanted our team to win, but it’s not bad to have a quick slap in the face in the start.”
“I didn’t know you read minds, Coach.” Oikawa says, chuckles humorlessly. “I thought you said you didn’t speak japanese.”
“I know you don’t need my advice right now, nor you don’t want to, maybe. But I’ve seen the way your eyes go somewhere else that’s not the field, I don’t think it’s even in this world. So, forgive me for the harsh words. ”
“Coach Blanco, I– yes. You’re right.“ The loss of a match makes Oikawa enlight all his senses, because he doesn’t want to fall behind the shoes of his opponents. When his teacher, someone he can confide in, knocks on his head to speak, he does the same.
He remembers the flying Karasuno, the overthrowing Shiratorizawa.
“One more lesson my boy, and I’ll free you. Until tomorrow.”
The air from his lungs feels lighter. “I’m all ears.”
“Learn. Learn from everywhere. Learn from your teammates, learn from your neighbors, everyone here and everyone there. You learnt from your school’s loss at the spring high. When you feel like nothing, try to learn something new. A new word in spanish, how to jump higher, how to bake something.”
“When everything is ready, show your efforts to the world.”
At some point, Oikawa learns of nicknames.
They all have one. Nico, Juli, Agus, Mati, Gallo (simply, why). Coach Blanco’s nickname is only Blanco, but Facundo told him that Coach Blanco’s wife told him that everyone in the family calls him Blanquito.
And Oikawa, to no one’s surprise, doesn’t fall behind.
“Toto.”
All the guys surround him. It’s 8 am.
“What?”
The team’s captain is the first to answer. Of course. “That’s what we’re calling you.”
Nicolas gets pushed behind.
“It’s your nickname, dude.” Mateo says. He’s the youngest of the team, barely eighteen years, yet looks like he aged fifteen more with this team. He laughs at everything they say.
Oikawa is confused. “Toto?”
Julián nods. “Toto.” He looks at Oikawa dead in the eye.
“What does that even mean?”
“You know… Tooru… To. Toto. Also your face just screams Toto, right?”
On the entrance, Coach Blanco applauds to gain everyone’s attention.
“I want you all running for five minutes straight now. Also, tie very tight those shoelaces, Toto.”
Well, it’s better than Shittykawa.
People share a lot of things around here.
Oikawa would snatch bits of pork from Matsukawa’s bento and iced tea from Iwaizumi, or demand the latest rumors surrounding the school's volleyball teams and how they’re doing.
In San Juan, things are already near the palm of his hand.
What people have been doing, mostly. Opinions, all the time. They’re birds sitting on high electrical cables, on a morning routine. All talk, talk, talk.
“We argentinians like to have an opinion of everything, everywhere and anytime. I don’t know.”
Oikawa is just two shakes of his wings to follow up and land on that conversational cable.
They also share a lot of food.
Mate. It’s a drink. Hot. Well you can also drink it cold but it fucking sucks, I tell you. You can drink it alone, but we usually share it in groups. You drink things sweet or bitter?
At first, Oikawa hated it. He ate the biscuits the guys would share and other snacks, but he also got a terrible stomach ache the first time. He learnt the concept of merienda. He does like that. Snacks at noon way before dinner, hot or cold beverages, and company. A lot of company.
The second time he tried mate, weeks after he said No, gracias, yo paso to Agustín and Julián, he… begun to have consideration. Specifically, sweet as hell mate.
By the third time, he joins the guys (Seijoh, now, for they are also his guys) in a video call during merienda time, while some have breakfast. Iwaizumi is on his way for lunch. Oikawa’s not alone. Company is here, with the guys in Argentina. Company is there, in group calls with the guys from (ex) Seijoh.
Oikawa, in return, shares a future with these people.
S.A San Juan wins 2-0 against C.A.C. Chubut.
They all go out and celebrate. Oikawa shares food, drinks, and songs for the entirety of a friday’s night.
It’s the first time he sleeps for more than eight hours.
Oikawa’s building composes of something like this:
Two families, one with two young kids, the other has a teenage daughter.
A single man, who works for the capital’s city hall. He owns a turtle.
A woman, who works in a gaming store. She owns two cats, Pepa and Manteca.
A retired couple, who isn’t often seen because they travel the country.
And Marcelo, the building’s janitor, who often asks Oikawa how his matches do. And if he ever plans to get married.
How does he know all of this?
He befriended Marta, the other retired lady who lives in the building. She also has a cat, named after a famous actor Oikawa still has no idea of. She asked for his help once when Oikawa was still new and fresh in learning spanish, yet the universal language of help was bigger. She gave Oikawa in return a recently bought carrot cake, and told him tuesdays are the best days to buy and fill the refrigerator, they get the best discounts.
Oikawa has a reputation here too. He’s the Japanese, the volleyball player, the nice guy who always, always sets a course to jog at seven in the morning from their street to plaza 25 de mayo. He’s the one learning spanish, so always remember to speak slower so he can absorb all they say, as Marta kindly asks her neighbors.
They are a bit of a duo. He’s learning so much old argentinian slang with her, some of the guys joke about it during training. In return, they teach him the newest. Oikawa thinks, with a confidence boost, he still has the charisma to charm a crowd of thousands.
That’s because you have a dumb face. Iwaizumi texts the next day.
I hope you step on a rock. Oikawa replies.
Argentina is loud.
The people talking are loud. Sellers and street vendors yell at the top of their lungs what they have in store. Fights on the street at night and birthday parties on the weekends have the loudest cheers. Even the birds sing loudly. The support from C.A San Juan’s fans is even louder. They make themselves present, with fire burning in their eyes. They even root louder for him now.
It’s all loud, loud, loud. He remembers the talking and the cheering in Japan, but it’s not the same. He asks his dad if he somehow became louder, too. "You've always been a loud kid." he said.
“They’re a fun crowd.” Oikawa’s eyes shine with excitement. The screaming fills his lungs, prepare him for what’s coming next. They fit themselves within his veins.
Romero shakes his head. He’s the tallest of the group, and sometimes he reminds him of Date Tech High’s Iron Wall, three people turned into one. “This is nothing, my friend. I’ll send you a few Youtube links later.”
The guys and Coach Blanco say, If you think San Juan is loud, you don’t even want to step in Buenos Aires.
"The north is definitely the prettiest, tho. I wanna visit Jujuy so bad."
"Boludo, but the south has the glaciers! I'm taking my wife next year there."
"Toto, just take your time." Old lady Marta comes into vision in his mind. Yes, she’s heard of the Toto nickname. Maybe all of San Juan knows about it, thanks to Twitter.
Right. Maybe that's the most valuable lesson.
He thinks he’d like to visit them all, if he can.
For now, the field is his world.
[...] so I turn left, happy for the mundane instructions. Let us robot at once.
Tell me where to go. Tell me how to get there.
She means a life, of course. You cannot sum it up.
“The hurting kind”
By Ada Limón
Oikawa encounters Hinata Shoyo in Brazil, with the sand in between his toes and a smile that the sun is competing against.
He reminds him of something so important he can’t stop thinking about it until the next week: he’s here for volleyball. Volleyball is fun.
Sometimes, he forgets words in japanese.
He needs any quick translator page that would help him find the word he needs besides just saying the thing, you know, the thing! in replacement.
He’s been speaking more spanish than japanese, or english, and people notice.
He feels all these words live beneath his tongue, ready to present a different version of Oikawa. He is the same, but matured. He’s the same, but speaks in contrasting tones whether it’s japanese or spanish.
“Yeah, and our… what was the name of it… partido… match! Yeah, our match against–”
“Look at you, Tooru! Forgetting how to say match.” His mom jokes.
Oikawa, however, stays quiet for a second. “I guess so.” He taps his chest. “I’m just an incredible polyglot, mom.”
He thinks about it for a while. He hasn’t been in Japan since 2013.
He wonders if the food tastes the same, if the streets in Miyagi have the same people walking by every day. Does his house have the same color on its walls? Has it changed, the way he did, when he didn't realize before?
C.A. San Juan wins Argentina’s national volleyball championship.
His teammates throw him in the air as they celebrate.
Coach Blanco brings him the morning’s newspaper. He makes it to the sports main page. Oikawa’s face hurts from smiling.
Coach Blanco is at the front door one day.
Four years after staying in Argentina.
Oikawa has been traveling more now. A map of Argentina hangs in his bedroom now, marked with all the provinces he’s visited so far for the national championship. Two months ago, he stayed in Buenos Aires. He sent about 150 pictures to his parents and the boys.
His apartment has a life of its own now. When he’s away, Marta likes to clean and water the plants he hangs on his balcony (they were her gifts), but most of the decoration comes from Oikawa himself; postcards coming from California, Rio de Janeiro and Tokyo, pictures of his family, manga in spanish and japanese, an old dvd player that still works. Trophies and souvenirs. A full stack of Hokkaido milk bread, frozen, eaten on every special occasion.
His nephew sent pictures of his primary school graduation, along with snacks Oikawa missed from Japan. He eats them bite by bite, and if he closes his eyes, just for a little while, he’s back at Aoba Johsai, at home.
Coach Blanco visits every time he can, but more often than not is Oikawa at his house, invited over dinner. He’s seen his teammates’ houses more than he’d like to admit, but now they’ve welcomed themselves at his front door, ringing his bell. He’s got two full packs of yerba mate stacked, and often says he bought them for when they hang out at his place, and none of his teammates say the opposite, when they know Oikawa is beginning to drink more and more. Some report Oikawa still lacks technique in the process, and he’s been secretly trying to shut them up.
The kitchen and dining room of his apartment are conjoined. He boils water in a kettle as Coach Blanco sits in a chair. “I have a proposition to make, and I was hoping you’d listen.”
“Coach, my ears are yours.”
“Well,” Coach Blanco laughs. “I’ve obtained the role of Coach for our national team. Starting next year. The plan is to bring a mix of new and veteran players for Tokyo 2020.”
Oikawa whistles. He thinks of Japan, and some names cloud inside his head. “The olympics?”
“Exactly.”
Oikawa grins. There’s a drumming in his heart he wants to quiet down. “Congratulations, then! Coach, you’ll ace it.”
“Thank you, Tooru. I’m happy too.” Coach Blanco rubs his hands. He looks at Oikawa with a look he’s never seen before.
When José Blanco gave Oikawa the option to travel and play for a country on the other side of the world, his eyes were eager, patient, like a fisherman waiting for his prey, baited by the hook.
Here, years later, with a bigger, older, reshaped Oikawa Tooru, owning a place and a city at the palm of his hand, José Blanco looks at him with the same fire C.A San Juan’s fans look at him after a jump serve makes a point. Cackling, overthrowing, expectant to bring its smoke up to the sky.
“We– I want you on the national team. If everything goes smooth, we can give a preliminary list, and you’d be our main setter. I know I’m asking a lot, since you don’t have an Argentinian citizenship and that would mean a lot of paperwork and effort, god, more than you’d think but–”
“I’ve seen your progress more than anyone else in this country and you deserve it, Tooru. I’m really proud of you.”
The kettle whistles. Oikawa can’t hear it.
The olympics, huh.
Him against the world.
He’d be going against the top players of every country for a chance. He’ll climb up the stairs on bloodied knees until he reaches the top. His palm stings with anticipation. To have an opportunity like this, in a place that saw him grow wings again. Oikawa won’t cry. He won’t cry.
There’s also another thing.
He’ll wear blue and white, like Aoba Johsai, instead of Japan’s red and white. He knows he can’t have a double citizenship, so Oikawa would have to renounce his japanese citizenship in order to play for Argentina.
So it’s like this. Oikawa bites his lips, thinks. Would it be so bad to open another window? He’d like to see if his future has sunny days. What would his parents think? His former teammates, friends? What’s morally correct, in the pursuit of his dreams?
When he played for Aoba Johsai, Oikawa played for his team, for his country, for his teenage years, for rivalries and show offs.
Now, if (and Oikawa’s heart skips a beat for a second, thinking how quickly his brain responded with when) he plays for Argentina, he’ll become a new man. An adult now plays, in the future, for a new beginning, for fresh blood pumping in his veins, for summers and winters spent with a new set of papers having his name. The now is new.
Both, Oikawa finally sees, are his home. Both have the walls that toughened his muscles, saw him jump higher and higher, saw him keep the ball in his gaze without blinking.
He sets the kettle apart from the flame, and the whistle stops.
“I’ll do it.”
Hinata Shouyou sends him pictures of Japan’s volleyball magazine. He apparently returned to Japan, as a freshly appointed wing spiker for the MSBY Black Jackals. He doesn’t remember timezones, because he sends them all together at three in the morning, waking Oikawa like he’s heard a ghost. He takes a look at the pictures, and sees Ushijima and Kageyama are on the cover. Hinata sends him a lot of emojis after the pictures.
He, in return, sends a selfie.
Oikawa goes back to sleep.
Spring turns into summer, and a new year is coming.
Oikawa has been in Argentina for six months now.
Call him silly, but he didn’t know some countries spent the holidays during the summer.
More countries should do movies set during Christmas, because what the hell.
Nicolás is talking to Mateo while handing water bottles to everyone, after training. “I gotta go back to Córdoba, my whole family is spending the holidays there.”
“And what about the 31st?”
“I don’t know, whatever comes, comes. I hope my friends text me at midnight to go out.”
Julián pats him on the back. “Che, Toto. What’s your deal for Christmas? Going back to Japan?”
Oikawa shrugs. “We didn’t spend Christmas at home.” He closes his eyes to whine. “Agh, I should’ve saved money for a plane ticket. I can already hear my mom.”
Julián thanks their captain, sipping water as he listens to Oikawa. “How do you guys spend the holidays there, then?”
“Not a lot of people celebrate Christmas, friends or couples go out to have fun and eat good food. I used to spend it with my high school team eating fried chicken at karaoke. New Year is for the family.”
“Oh, you’ll get to experience another culture shock.” Julian laughs. “How will you spend it here?”
Oikawa stills. He didn’t consider it until now. His head had a non stop bouncing volleyball. “I don’t… don’t know.”
He waves his hand at Coach Blanco. “Coach! Are you continuing last year’s Christmas dinner party?”
“I’ll have to discuss it with the wifey, but I think so.”
“What a good man.” Julián pats Oikawa’s knee. Argentinians touch each other all the time, Oikawa realized. “I think you’ll like it. Different than, what, you guys celebrate it during winter, right? Completely different from there.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right!” Facundo sighs dreamily, like he’s reviving good flashbacks. “Your first holiday in Argentina, Toto! All other countries are boring, we gotta celebrate together.”
Since Coach Blanco heard their conversation, he invited Oikawa to spend the night of Christmas’ Eve with his family.
Oikawa raises one eyebrow at them. “You guys celebrate it at night?”
They all just chuckled. A few nodded. Evidently, the idea of their Christmas was not the same as those movies from the United States, with warm mugs of hot chocolate and presents in the morning for the kids.
And boy, were things different.
First, it was hot as hell.
The temperature never lowered, making Oikawa’s shirt stick to his chest. They all had asado to eat with a variety of side dishes. The food was made exactly for this temperature: fresh, tasty, fulfilling. He never ate this much during a holiday.
Coach Blanco’s house has an air conditioner in the dining room, but there’s so many people, they set the table on their garden, outside. The only bit of air coming is from the standing fan, so far away from Oikawa and his sweat. The cool drinks keep coming and coming, so salvation is ready.
“Coach Blanco, I might be dying”
José Blanco nods, understanding. Some sweat can be seen on his forehead. “Can someone please switch places with Tooru so he can sit next to the fan.”
He sits next to the kids.
“Who are you?” A girl in a pink dress asks, while holding a teddy bear. She’s Coach Blanco’s granddaughter and Santa Claus' gift to her (we call him Papá Noel, Tooru, Santa is too american"). He had the whole introduction to his family the minute he stepped into the house. Her spanish is so fast Oikawa answers a bit late, due to him trying to understand what she just said.
He settles for: “I’m Tooru. I work with your grandfather.” He even got a christmas present by the poor sweaty family member dressed Santa –no, Papá Noel– that passed by at midnight:
“What do you do?”
“I play volleyball. Woosh.” He imitates with his hands the way he does a jump serve next to her.
“I like football better.”
Ah, right. Coach Blanco –translator, tourist guide, coach for Oikawa– told him about football. “We play many sports in here, but football… football is up there with God.”
“Volleyball is fun too. We have… a lot of people playing, very, very –what’s the word– exciting.”
“I’ve never seen a volleyball match. Dad likes football, so I like football. But I also like grandpa, and if he likes volleyball then I like volleyball too. It’s confusing.”
Oikawa can’t help but agree. “Yeah, it is.”
“How’s this, I promise I will see a football match, but… in return, you also come and see your grandpa and me play volleyball.”
She puts her hand in the air. ”Deal.”
Oikawa shakes hands with her. They both have very serious looks on their faces. An international agreement was made way past midnight, after what they call the mesa dulce. Just sweets, coffee, alcohol, and more sweet snacks. “Deal.”
Coach Blanco appears behind her, beer in hand. “Tooru, what the hell did you do to make her agree?” He gapes at Oikawa.
Oikawa laughs. “She’ll be seeing two future stars in the field, Coach. And because I’m a charm!”
What he doesn’t in the future, many years from now, is that football will stick to him a lot. He won’t understand all the rules like he already has engraved volleyball rules in his head, but the sentiment, the nervousness of a match imprints on him. Nothing can compare to the beauty of passing a ball for mere seconds and see your life through the hands of your teammates, but the people near him made Oikawa get stressed over football. He may or may not scream a goal.
In return, Coach Blanco will shed a tear or two when his granddaughter congratulates him on winning the national championship. By a miracle, or a coincidence, or both, the tournament is being made in San Juan, so all the people they know come to see the match. Coach Blanco’s granddaughter and her entire school class. Marta and some of the neighbors see Oikawa play, and learn about the beauty of volleyball.
When it’s late past four in the morning, Oikawa is one of the few remaining in the garden. There’s a soft wind now, so his complaints about the weather are finished. He’s sleepy.
A few hours ago, after he received text after text from his teammates greeting him for a Merry Christmas Toto!! Don’t forget we’ll see each other tomorrow at noon to eat what’s left of Coach Blanco’s great asado!!! and one text from their parents on the other side of the world, wishing him a good night during Japan’s afternoon, he realizes a mosquito bit his arm.
He looks at the pink mark, already turning itchy, swelling on his skin, and thinks many things at once. What's in his head is real.
I’m on the other side of the world.
I speak a different language.
I collide with a different culture.
I play volleyball for a living.
I’m a good player, with a good team.
I’m here to beat everyone I want.
What will the future hold?
He can’t wait to find out.
夢で見るたびに少し骨が強くなる気がする日も
Every time I dream, there are days when I feel like my bones get a little stronger
Slow ni Odorudake - Gesu No Kiwami Otome