sunbeams and bath water

Dragging him up to my apartment was almost impossible. Of course it would be. It was Oikawa. He might be the hardest worker on this planet, this country's fan favorite sportstar, but he was still a hot mess. I managed to find a shopping cart and hoisted his lanky, intoxicated body into the small basket. The grandmother who lived on the first floor was trekking back from a late-night corner store. She clutched a gallon of milk and a basket of tomatoes in her arms.

"Konbanwa." She beamed a toothless smile.

I grinned back, managing a wave as I lifted Oikawa's back with my other arm. Was the old woman oblivious to this strange antic before her eyes, or did she just not care? Most likely, it was the latter. Either way, she moved happily along, and the rest of the apartment (only saori-weaving grandmothers seemed to occupy my apartment building) was fast asleep.

Once we managed to enter my room, I plopped Oikawa into the bathtub, took off his vomit-stained shirt, tossed it in the washing machine. He would probably wake up confused... maybe even perturbed. My alarm clock might just be his voice — that incoherent, hungover delirium. To prevent morning confusion, I left a note by the sink:

Hi there. You were passed out in front of this apartment building. Don't worry, you're not hurt. Feel free to take a shower. I washed your shirt. There was puke on it.

I wondered if I should leave before he got up. Many thoughts raced through my mind: Do I really want to see him tomorrow morning? Is this some sort of twisted fate?

Screw destiny! Screw our lack of free will!

It occurred to me that Oikawa always felt present in my life because he was always around. His face was on every street corner. Those infamous eyes lit up the big LED screens, and his smile covered every printer paper ad on Shibuya's cafe walls. He never really left the peripheries of my world; it was like he was always tiptoeing around the fringes. However, Oikawa had not seen me since we both left Miyagi. When we both left our hometown, I floated into his dark void.

There was no way to ever trace me. No social media accounts. No articles. No blog posts. None of that... Hm, perhaps, there was no use worrying about this. I shut off the lights and pushed my anxieties away.

This was a problem for tomorrow.

_____

I woke up to the heavy steam of bath water. Really? I said he could take a shower, but the fool had the audacity to take a full bath. The landlord was already pestering me about the water bill. I should've known; he was always a high maintenance guy.

Oikawa's rambles echoed through my small apartment.

"Where the fuck am I? Oh god, what is this place? How did I fall asleep in this tiny tub? I hope they didn't steal my Prada shirt. Fuck, what if they stole my shirt? That was a gift from Miuccia Prada. They wouldn't even know."

I wanted to scream, 'I can hear you, fucker!', but I bit my lip. I brewed some French roast coffee and blasted my September playlist to drown out his annoying murmurs. Once the sun peeked over the tall Tokyo towers, I opened the curtains. The autumn sun casted lightstreams onto my wooden floors. I stuck my head in the kitchen sink and splashed my face with water, feeling the disoriented thoughts swirl through my body. What a hell of a night. What a cursed morning.

"Hello there?" his voice echoed from the bathroom. He opened the door. "I just wanted to thank you for-"

Oikawa stepped outside, towel around his waist. He had on his sugarcoated, 'Mr. Perfect" smile. It was like he'd spent years in charm school, learning how to enchant people.

We locked eyes. A moment of painful silence followed.

"Iwa-Chan!?" His sugary smile transformed into something completely different. He stopped himself. "Sorry. I meant Iwaizumi. Wait, what is happening right now?"

"Where's my thanks?" I scoffed, half-jokingly. "You were the one who winded up wasted in front of my apartment."

For a moment, a nostalgic sadness glinted in his big, brown eyes. It ended when his melancholy smile turned into a sly smirk, and he began changing into his clothes in the middle of my cramped dining room.

I covered my eyes. "Goddammit, Trashykawa. Go change in the bathroom. We're not sixteen-year-olds anymore, and my kitchen space is not a locker room." Just like him, I caught myself. "Sorry. Meant to say Oikawa."

He went in and out of the bathroom, fixing his hair and grooming his eyebrows. A few snarky comments — "Do you own any skincare!?", "Where the fuck is the blowdryer?" — bounced around my apartment. If the old grandmas in this building could hear him, they would roll their eyes at Oikwaw's absurdity.

Eventually, he buttoned his shirt in front of my bedroom mirror. His hair dried in the light's warmth. Sunbeams casted soft, warm colors onto his ruffled locks. After repairing the mess that was his rum-filled body, Oikawa looked much more like "himself"... or at least, he looked like the man who glimmered in fashion campaigns and Olympic photoshoots. I looked away before he could notice me staring at him.

I never offered, but he poured himself a cup of coffee and joined me at the table. We gazed out my open windows, looking out at the Tokyo skyline, hoping the other person wouldn't point out the awkward pauses between us.

"I didn't know you moved to the city." He broke the silence. His face lit up with a clumsy yet hopeful glee "Well, now that I know you're here, we need to start seeing each other more!" It was like he completely forgot about our big falling out. Maybe, he chose to ignore it? I was never quite sure.

"Aren't you busy with everything going on in your glitzy, little life?"

"Didn't you hear the news? I quit volleyball recently. The injury seems to be permanent, so it was the best thing to do."

"Right." I looked away and thought about the weekends we spent at his medical appointments. How we would always get grocery store ice cream afterwards. It was the silver lining we created to help him cope with the chronic pain.

"However! The bright side is," he smirked, "I literally live right there, and I have so much more time on my hands" He pressed his finger on the glass, pointing straight at the fancy tower across the street. It was the Beep, Boop tower for the wealthy elites of Shibuya.

I detested that elitist place. My blood in my veins ran boiling hot.

"Of course you would live there! The rich are so delusional."

"What do you mean!? It's a beautiful place to live, and if you weren't so bitter right now, I would want you to come over, so I can show you around."

"Why? So you can flaunt your wealth?"

"Shut up, Iwa-Ch-" He stopped himself again. "Okay, I have to head out soon. Ainu has a flight to catch in a few hours, but my schedule looks pretty free tonight. What do you say we meet down in my apartment lobby? Tonight. 9 PM?"

"Nakamura Ainu? You two are still together!? After all these years?"

Oikawa scratched his head. "Yes, we are," he answered. His voice sounded monotone, and he was taken aback with the mention of her full name. We both remembered.

"Well, that's wonderful. I'm happy you two have been able to stay together for so long." Talking about Nakamura Ainu felt like experiencing two minutes of hell. His tone became so formal, so tense. The discomfort slithered around the room like a worn-out snake. Oikawa stared at me as I shifted my gaze away from him.

We were both trying to piece together the illogical nature of this current situation, but at the same time, something within us got ahold of our old selves... Somehow, we instantly reverted back to our younger personas... and it was nice. There was no time to question the absurdity of this encounter. In the tightness of my cheap apartment, we just accepted what the universe had given to us and went with it — full-force with no query.

"Anyway..." he added, "sounds like a plan. 9 PM. I'll see you tonight."

"Wait, hold on, but..."

"But what?"

I had no response. He smiled, knowing he got his way. Classic.

Oikawa wrote his number on a piece of notebook paper. Then, he blasted out the door, yelling "Be there or be square!". The note I'd written from last night hung out of his trousers' back pocket.

When he left, the room felt empty. I almost wanted him back just to have his annoying rambles play as background noise. I felt sixteen again, and that made me feel a bit more alive than ever before.

I pulled out my phone to type in the number he wrote down. However, the digits were still the same ones from high school. His contact name appeared as how it was when we first got cellphones: Shittykawa Tōru-Tōru-Tōru (ㆆ_ㆆ).

Above his name was an old photo: Oikawa and I resting on the Aoba Johsai field. I remembered Yahaba snapping the photograph after a summer practice match. It was hot and humid, but we wanted to sleep beneath the blue sky.

Across the street, Oikawa's apartment tower glistened like icy silver beneath Tokyo's pristine clouds. It was a very different world from my small building, where the laundry of old women hung from our balconies with string and rainbow clothespins, where I crouched on my floor each night to eat cheap ramen, where Oikawa would never had entered if it weren't for his insobriety.

He was there. All of these years, and he was right there. I placed my hand over his lingering fingerprint, feeling the warmth of the glass. How did this all happen? I caught myself feeling sentimental and pushed those feelings aside.

That fool. After all this time, he was still an obnoxious asshole.