Work Text:
First
When Ogata Kōrin’s Red and White Plum Blossoms toured all the prefectures of Japan, Iwaizumi was not there. More specifically, he should have been.
Instead, Iwaizumi sat at a grave in the rain. It was a bit too late for rain like this, but the weather seemed not to care. Iwazumi let the droplets run down his face, and wondered if his father was resting. The earth simply absorbed the water with no answer.
His father was an avid fan of the painting. As an office worker at a supply company most of his life, he hadn’t ever had much time for art, but a replica of Kōrin's famous piece stood in their front entryway. The screen was a bit too large to fit comfortably, but it was the only piece of beauty that his father had ever really insisted on.
He had said that the work reminded him of the beauty of spring. The simplicity of it all, the way that the textures and colors blended without edges to contain them. Iwaizumi had understood. So he should have been there, to see the piece in person, to feel the magic even if it looked the same as the one he saw every morning.
But instead he was at a grave. So it was.
But Oikawa was not at the grave. Oikawa was not that kind of friend. Instead, Oikawa was at the exhibit, and thinking of Iwaizumi all the same. Oikawa had seen that painting nearly as much as Iwaizumi had, and had known the senior Hajime for almost his whole lifetime. So the grief hurt, but differently, because Oikawa was not made of the same flesh and blood, but rather a spirit a bit more daring. And so when he looked at the painting, surrounded by all the awe-inspired onlookers, he remembered how Kōrin died with a grand reputation and barely a cent to his name. An idea took hold, and he let it spill outwards like ink into water, like grief onto the landscape of the heart.
Three days later, Iwaizumi returned home to Oikawa on his porch, holding a screen identical to the one in the entryway.
“I did something,” he remarked neutrally.
“You have my father’s screen,” questioned Iwaizumi.
“I have Kōrin’s screen,” breathed Oikawa.
Iwaizumi’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“Your father deserved to see it in person.”
Iwaizumi took a step back, “You’re a fool.”
“I already switched them. The guards will never know.”
Iwaizumi didn’t know what to say. Oikawa wasn’t sure what to say either. Iwaizumi was drowning in a sea of grief, and instead of bringing a lifeboat, Oikawa had decided to drown alongside him.
“What if you get caught? You’ll go to jail. Prison, probably. It’s a goddamn national treasure, for fucks sake. There’s no volleyball in prison, ‘Kawa.”
“Your father should have seen it.”
“Well he can’t fucking see it now!”
“But you can.”
“So what? I don’t give a damn about a real or fake painting. I don’t want it. I want my dad back, and you can’t give me that.”
Oikawa stared into Iwaizumi’s eyes. They were the kind of black that alluded to memories, the kind of night sky where no place was closer to home than another. He knew he couldn’t fix this; life had hit them until they broke. So he nodded, knocked, and opened the door, to place one of the world’s most renowned pieces of art in the small Hajime family home.
He turned to Iwaizumi, “I’m sorry that I was too late.”
Iwaizumi understood. He looked down at his shoes, trying to blink away the wetness in his eyes.
Three months later, the grief had shifted. Not lessened, not gone, but something different. Something more restless, more numb. And when he looked at that screen every morning, aware of its prized status, his focus cleared. Spring was in bloom, and the blossoms were falling everywhere. There was a pink haze in the air, but Iwaizumi felt it was mold, seeping into his lungs and rotting him from the inside out. His mother stressing over finding a job to keep the family afloat was the push of the dominos, each one falling with a crack. So on the walk home from practice, he turned to Oikawa.
“Remember how you got the Kōrin screen?”
Oikawa stopped walking. “I remember.”
Iwaizumi paused too.
“What if we got more?”
“What are you asking, Iwa-chan?”
Iwaizumi took a breath, “I think there are other people who need to see art, and we could help them.”
Oikawa narrowed his eyes, “I stole that for you. I don’t give a damn about the rest, but don’t delude yourself into thinking that you’re helping others.”
“Okay, fine, ‘Kawa. I’m doing it for myself. Is that really so bad?”
“I never said it was.”
“So are you on board?” He held his breath in fear of the answer.
“Partners for life, right?”
Iwaizumi looked at him. A boy standing in the street, a mirage shining in front of him. Unreachable, untouchable, slipping past his fingertips everytime he almost connected. He thought of how the ball barely touched Oikawa’s hands before he redirected it elsewhere, never letting himself shine unless he was alone in his serve. Iwaizumi had no idea how he had stolen the screen, and he didn’t know how they would do the rest, but he knew that as long as it was Oikawa and him, they wouldn’t get caught. Oikawa was not the type to be caught by anyone, not even Iwaizumi himself.
“Of course.”
And so it began. The cymbals crashed and the fire burned, and Iwaizumi’s heart finally stopped drowning.
Fourth
“I think it’s time to stop”
Iwaizumi turned off the engine. “What?”
Oikawa looked out the window without meeting his eyes. The dark parking lot wasn’t going to stare back, but Oikawa couldn’t stop looking.
“I’m tired of running, Iwa-chan. Aren’t you?”
Iwaizumi wasn’t sure how to answer that. Was he tired? He couldn’t remember a day when he wasn’t, but he didn’t know a reality any different. He stared at the steering wheel in silence.
Oikawa turned in the passenger seat and faced him, “I’ve been tired for a long time, Iwa-chan. We started with chasing the thrill, but I think we’ve caught it. I want to see what’s beyond this.”
“Beyond this? I thought we were partners for life?” Iwaizumi remarked.
Oikawa looked down at his lap, “I think we’ve forgotten ourselves. We aren’t as young as we used to be.”
Iwaizumi didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to rest. He wanted to chase the sun with Oikawa and forget that he ever felt the touch of rain.
“What would you do instead?” he whispered.
“I’ve been thinking of going to Argentina.” He at least had the decency to look guilty, “I want to get out of Japan and see the rest of the world. There’s a lot more out there that I’ve never experienced.”
Iwaizumi hadn’t ever needed to see the world. He had stared at the back of his world everyday on the court for the past seven years. There was no world beyond him. And suddenly, Oikawa felt so far away, and he didn’t know how to pull him back.
When Iwaizumi had first researched famous art, back at the start of the con, he had fixated on Salcedo’s Shibboleth. The piece was an interactive large crack in the floor, which had irreversibly changed the museum. Salcedo had said that the crack represented the immigrant experience in Europe, like the old tale of Shibboleth, where the outsiders were distinguished by their inability to pronounce the word. But when visitors came to the museum, they twisted and turned to peer inside the crack. There was nothing there, really, just a fracture in the floor, but Iwaizumi had been fascinated by it. It was a line in the sand, a fissure that separated people, and yet they couldn’t look away.
“You’re really going to leave Japan?” He didn't ask if Oikawa could do it. He knew that Oikawa could do whatever he set his mind to. He didn’t dare ask if he was running to something or running away. The answer would be unbearable, and he already knew.
“I want to rest, Iwa. I need to see who I am without this.”
Iwaizumi’s heart cracked.
“I can’t go on like this. I can’t spend all my life just running from the cops, one con after another. I want to build a life that I can be proud of, something honest.”
Iwaizumi knew at that moment that he would never be able to pronounce Shibboleth quite right. In a single heartbeat, he had become an outsider to their world. Oikawa had never let anyone forget his pride; yet somehow, Iwaizumi had chipped it away, day by day, to the point that they broke. The shame filled his eyes.
“Okay.”
Oikawa looked at him, a sliver of hope in his eyes, “Okay? You’re alright with it?”
“I want you to be happy, idiot. You deserve to feel new things, in Argentina or wherever.” He turned away before Oikawa could see the tears in his eyes.
Oikawa grinned. “I won’t forget to write.”
“You better not,” he mumbled quietly.
Oikawa hesitated, “It’ll be good for both of us. You can figure out who you are too.”
There was a pause, and in it, they both heard the unspoken truth.
It wasn’t Oikawa’s fault, really. Iwaizumi had always known that it couldn’t go on forever, but he had dared to dream, when the days had stretched on endlessly and the thrill had swept him off his feet. In the metaphorical sense, Oikawa could pronounce every word. There was no place that he couldn’t make home. Iwaizumi was lucky that he had been blessed by his presence for so long; the sun was contained in his smile, and no piece of art would ever be worth that. So he sucked in his breath, counted to four, and found his resolve.
“Yeah, it’ll be good for us both.”
The lie sounded as off as a mispronounced word, and Iwaizumi knew that there was no coming back. He felt like a fool, peering into the darkness for an answer and only seeing himself. He had dreamt of love that ran off into the sunset, and had forgotten that the horizon always slipped out of his grasp.
But damn if it didn’t hurt.
Third
Red and blue lights flashed behind them and sirens cut through the air. Oikawa had his head pressed against the dash, eyes closed tightly. Iwaizumi focused on the road ahead. The Ruysch painting sat wrapped in cloth in the backseat.
This job hadn’t been as clean as the rest. The patron had paid an exorbitant amount though, so they had to follow through. The painting was the famous Fruit and Insects, and Iwaizumi had understood why they had wanted it. As one of the most valued pieces in the world, by a female artist no less, it was priceless, but fortunately for them Ruysch wasn’t well known outside of the art connoisseur circles. The security at the exhibit had been tight since the piece hadn’t traveled in years, but they had been getting better and faster with each job so they had taken the risk.
Currently Oikawa looked like he was regretting that decision.
He was muttering swear words under his breath, talking about prison and volleyball and how the fruit would just rot. Iwaizumi decided to let him be and keep driving. He didn’t have a plan exactly; they had made an escape route before just in case, but they hadn’t ever needed to use it. He couldn’t quite remember the directions, so he was hoping the speed would be enough. They had removed the license plate but he didn’t want to take any more risks than they needed to.
“Iwa, what are we doing?” Oikawa whined. He pouted in the seat and smacked his forehead against the window, “This is such a shitshow. I can’t believe I forgot about the camera in the corner. That’s the most obvious one, and it completely slipped my mind.”
Iwaizumi kept quiet. He knew why Oikawa forgot; they hadn’t slept properly in weeks. They were trying to make it through school and lead a volleyball team, all while running cons at night. They were risking their futures and their families for the type of money that neither of them even knew what to do with. They had donated most of it to charity to keep it out of their accounts, but they were falling apart. Nobody could gamble forever. They were getting sloppy, and it was only a matter of time before they slipped.
“We made it out fine and we got what we needed. Let’s just get to the drop off point and get it off our hands.”
“Fucking hell, Iwa. That was too close. We can’t do more jobs like that.”
“We won’t. That was an exception. We’ll go back to doing things more low-profile.”
“Did you know Ruysch was sponsored by the Medici? Everyone said that still-life painting was easier and took a lower skill level, but she became rich and famous anyways.”
Iwaizumi didn’t understand what he was hinting at, “And?”
“I mean, she did supposedly lower skill art and still became high profile.”
“Are you wanting to back off?”
“I don’t know Iwa!” He sighed and groaned, “I don’t know what I want to do,” he trailed off.
Iwaizumi turned to look at him. “Look, we don’t have to do this. Tell me now and we'll stop today.”
“Can you?”
Iwaizumi was taken off guard by the question. “Yeah, can you?”
Oikawa raised his eyebrows, “I can if you can. But do you want to?”
Iwaizumi didn’t lie. “I don’t want to stop. I want to keep doing this with you, but I don’t want you to burn out.”
“I won’t. We’re in this together, right?”
Iwaizumi’s heart ached. “I’m still your getaway car driver.”
Oikawa smiled tightly and stretched, “Okay, then we’re fine.”
Iwaizumi didn’t know about that. He could feel Oikawa’s will faltering under the facade, but he didn’t want to stop running. For better or worse, they were in it together. Even when everything was disintegrating, he still couldn’t leave. He felt like the fruit in the painting, rotten on the inside with the insects swarming around them before the mold overtook everything.
He pulled into the drop off location, the cops long lost to the road. The patron’s car sat in the far corner of the lot with the headlights off, and not for the first time he questioned why they were even doing this. They didn’t need the money at this point, and they were falling apart with each new job, yet they continued it anyway. Was he addicted to the thrill, or was he just in love with the feeling of being at Oikawa’s side? He shook his head to clear the thoughts like flies.
“Let’s go,” he said as he opened the door.
Oikawa nodded, and they stepped out without a sound. He should have said something. He didn’t.
So the con continued, and the fruit rotted, and still Iwaizumi drove onwards into the night.
Second
“I don’t get why everyone is so in love with Klimt.”
Oikawa sighed. “It was an easy one to swap. Don’t think about it too much.”
Iwaizumi glared without heat. Cool wind blew through the open window as they cruised along the coastline. They had just dropped off a Klimt painting with a buyer and the freedom had lightened his mood exponentially, but he still didn’t understand why anyone would ever want a painting like that. If they were going to pay that much, it should at least be nice to look at.
“I’m just saying, I think the gold leaf is a little excessive.”
“Not a fan of religious symbolism?” Oikawa chuckled with a self-effacing laugh.
Iwaizumi thought of the gold medal that would be around Oikawa’s neck one day and how he would shine on the world stage, a god on the court. He shrugged. There was no way to explain what he believed in.
Oikawa gazed at the dark ocean with a small smile that held too many secrets, “Klimt’s interesting. Everyone criticized him for being too explicit, but none of them looked away.”
Iwaizumi supposed he understood. After all, he understood what it felt like to not look away when he should, to drive on when he should have hit the brakes.
He pulled off onto a lookout point. The ocean waves lapped at the cliffside below softly and the radio played an old song from their parent’s generation. The stars sparkled like a painting and Iwaizumi wished he could live in the moment forever. There was such sweetness in the crime, a blurring of the senses that made him feel like he was lying in a field, surrounded by nothing but stray clouds and Oikawa at his side.
Oikawa turned to him with a contemplative look. “What are you thinking?”
Iwaizumi gazed straight ahead at the ocean, that all-encompassing darkness, and spoke softly, “Would you ever steal a kiss?”
Oikawa paused.
“A kiss? It depends. Who’s asking?”
“Me.”
He blinked. “Things like that shouldn’t be stolen.”
Iwaizumi turned, “What if I gave it for free?”
Oikawa weighed the question. He reached out and lightly pulled on Iwaizumi’s hoodie strings to get him to face him.
“I would give you one back.”
They paused, the space between them only inches. Iwaizumi gazed into his best friend’s eyes and saw the person who had known him his entire life, at all of his best and worst moments. Oikawa had been the altar to his prayers for as long as he could remember; he wanted to show him how much he believed. Iwaizumi closed his eyes and closed the distance.
Their lips met softly, warm and sweet under the moonlight. Iwaizumi was hesitant at first, but after a moment Oikawa cupped his face with his hands and they relaxed into it. His own hands traveled up to play with Oikawa’s hair as he explored the taste of him.
Iwaizumi understood why everyone liked Klimt’s Kiss. His heart shone gold with the feeling of being with Oikawa like this. It wasn’t so different than before, really, and at the same time everything was different. A boundary had been crossed, and he wanted more and more and more. He wanted Oikawa’s hands on him for as long as possible, until the flowers bloomed and he drowned in the petals. He was a sucker for religious symbolism, in the way that heaven could be as near as they painted it. Oikawa smiled into the kiss and Iwaizumi thought that maybe he was already gone. Maybe a version of him in another universe had lived such a saintly life that it carried over into this one. He felt holy and broken and beautiful, like nothing he had felt before. He smiled too, the kiss broken, but let his forehead rest against Oikawa’s.
Oikawa laughed softly, “Why haven’t we done that before?”
Iwaizumi wondered the same thing. He settled for another kiss, until the night spun itself away and the moon sank beneath the horizon, leaving them shining in the golden light.
Fifth
The bus shook with each bump in the road as it climbed higher and higher up the mountain. Iwaizumi’s hands shook in his lap. His destination approached closer and closer and his pulse pounded in time with the screech of the tires. The bus stopped and the exit doors hissed open. He thanked the driver in his awkward Spanish and stepped out onto the dirt road of the Argentinian countryside. Three miles ahead of him lay his destination, the man he had once planned to spend his entire life with. He took off in stride. There was nothing to turn back to anyways, on this road and in his past. There was only the path ahead of him and wherever it led.
When he finally reached the house, he smiled wistfully. It was painted light Seijoh blue-green, with white shutters and a volleyball net visible in the backyard. He could hear faint music coming from an open window. He raised his hand and knocked thrice.
Footsteps approached. His heart was pounding too fast and he wanted to hide. The door opened.
Oikawa looked good; that was what Iwaizumi thought first. The sun had kissed his skin and hair, and he looked taller, although he knew that wasn’t possible. He was barefoot on the tile floor, with a loose t-shirt and shorts. His eyes blinked in open shock.
“Hajime?” His mouth hung partially open, “What’re you doing here?”
His mind blanked. He choked, then recovered, “I got your address from your mom.”
Oikawa stared in disbelief and shook his head to clear his vision, “She didn’t mention it. I’m sure she was glad to hear from you. She always said you were her second son.”
They stood awkwardly on the doorstep, unsure what to do next.
“Can I come in?”
Oikawa startled, “Yeah, of course. I’m brewing tea right now.”
Iwaizumi took off his shoes in the entry, “That sounds great.”
They made their way over to the couch. This was the house they had planned over late night calls when the other couldn’t sleep. The blue couch, with the wooden coffee table and the corner lamp. Iwaizumi didn’t miss the Kōrin screen against the wall. He lingered too long on it, his heart aching with emotions he knew but wouldn’t name.
“So why are you in Argentina?”
Iwaizumi stared as Oikawa walked over with the teacups and chose to bite the bullet, “I missed you.”
Oikawa flinched and set the cups down on the coffee table between them, “You didn’t call. You never responded to my letters.”
Iwaizumi didn’t know what to say to that truth. Every time he had picked up the pen his heart had seized; the person he loved was happy, and he hadn’t wanted to spoil the joy with his bitter longing. He had come to be vulnerable, but he had forgotten to make a plan. He didn’t know why he chose to come here this month and not the one before or the one before that, in all the endless days that he had missed Oikawa. He had woken up one morning and known that there was no place to be if he wasn’t in Argentina. So he booked the flight and decided he would speak his heart. Except right now, surrounded by memories he didn’t build, in a house he recognized but remained a stranger, his mind remembered the pure blue color of Frankenthaler’s The Bay. The deep hues choked his lungs and asphyxiated him slowly.
“You’re right. I didn’t. I’m sorry for that.”
Oikawa nodded without comment. “How’s Japan?”
“Same as before.” Of course nothing was the same without him, but he let the lie fill the space. “What’s Argentina like?”
Oikawa grinned, “You would love it here, Iwa-chan. It’s everything I dreamed of.”
Iwaizumi smiled, and it was genuine. He had no doubt that this place had been good for him. He looked happy here, in a way he hadn’t at the end.
Iwaizumi didn’t know how to explain that it didn’t hurt anymore. That he understood why he had left, why he had tired of running. That more than anything, he just missed him.
He looked over at the wall, “I like the Kōrin screen.”
Oikawa gazed at it fondly. “I wanted a piece of home with me.”
Iwaizumi replied, “I still have mine too.”
They both smiled softly.
Oikawa’s smile faded a bit. “Are you still running the con?”
“No.”
He nodded again and paused before speaking. “We had something good, didn’t we?”
“We did.”
“Do you ever miss those days?” Do you ever miss me?
“I don’t miss the stress.” I miss you everyday.
They stared, and Iwaizumi remembered what it felt like to drown with someone at his side.
“Do you still get offers?”
“Occasionally, but I turn them down.”
“Sometimes I wish we could go back and relive those days. Not the stress, but the moments in between,” Oikawa admitted.
Iwaizumi shrugged, “I think that’s life.”
Oikawa kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “For what it's worth, I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad too.”
He wondered about the sunsets and the ocean between them. The person in front of him was simultaneously someone he knew and also someone different. He felt bittersweet; they had gained and lost in the space of the same breath, and there was no option to go back. There was only the grand life ahead and what they chose to make of it.
His heart settled with the knowledge, and he realized why he had come to this country that held Oikawa so dearly.
There was simply no other place for him to be.
Oikawa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “How long will you be in town?”
“My flight leaves tomorrow.”
He blinked in surprise, “Short trip, huh?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“I do.”
Iwaizumi had forgotten that the ocean was not only for drowning. Sometimes people swam and glittered in the reflection of the sun. Sometimes grief reflected how much a person loved.
Oikawa pivoted, “Do you have any plans for the day?”
Iwaizumi shrugged. “Not really.”
“Want to see the city? I can give you a tour.”
“I would love that. Can I get a tour of your place first?”
Oikawa grinned, “Sure, but we’ll have to play a set in the backyard before we leave. On principle, you know.”
Iwaizumi smirked back. “Of course, but don’t cry when you lose.”
Oikawa scoffed, “As if. Be prepared to be crushed, Iwa-chan.”
They didn’t say for old times’ sake. This was something in the undefined space, untouchable to time or memory. So he let himself fall into that endless blue, and when the water filled his lungs he only pictured the bright unblemished sky, not a cloud in sight or a single drop of rain on his face. There was only the hand in his and everything beyond it.
Last
They were speeding down the highway, but the cops were close on their tail. Iwaizumi didn’t know how they were going to get out of this one. It was supposed to be one last con. Oikawa had just returned to Japan, and someone had wanted a painting by some obscure European artist. Iwaizumi hadn’t intended on saying yes, but Oikawa said his hands had been itching for a quick job. He had never been able to say no to him, and he didn’t want to anyways.
“Someone must have tipped them off. We didn’t trigger any alarms. I swear Iwa, it was a clean job.”
“I know. I think they’ve been building a case against us.”
“Fuck,” Oikawa put his head in his hands and tugged on his hair.
Iwaizumi smiled, “I guess everyone wants us. We’re just that cool.” He laughed deliriously at his own joke as they sped down the road.
Oikawa looked at him incredulously. “Are you joking right now?”
Iwaizumi continued to smile manically, “Laughter is the best medicine, shitty-kawa.”
Oikawa stared, but slowly a smile crept over his face. “I have always been popular. A true catch.”
“A bit of a narcissist, but yeah, a catch for sure.”
They looked ahead to avoid the truth in their words, only to be met with the sight of flashing lights in the distance. There was a police blockade a mile down the road with no way around. They sped on. The lights got closer and closer. Iwaizumi kept his foot on the gas. His fingers began tapping on the steering wheel. Oikawa’s grip on the door handle tightened. The cops raised their weapons and pointed. Iwaizumi didn’t know what to do next. There was no way out.
He stepped on the brake.
The car skidded to a stop twenty feet from the police cars. The officers swarmed forward and one carrying a megaphone instructed them to get out of the car with their hands up. They looked at each other and opened the doors. They stood in front of the car, with the headlights shining onto their backs like holy light they would never possess. The officer instructed them to lay on the ground with their hands on the backs of their heads. Iwaizumi kneeled and thought of prayers to a boy’s name. They laid faced down on the cold concrete as the chaos frenzied above them.
Iwaizumi turned his head and met Oikawa’s gaze. He remembered then, Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty. The piece was made of rocks in the Great Salt Lake in the United States, and was only reachable through a pilgrimage to the far side of the water. The work amazed the public with how it bent nature to its form, yet just a few years after it was constructed it was completely submerged under the lake’s depths. Thirty years later it reappeared with the retreat of the lake’s edge, but it disappears again when the tide shifts. He thought of how nature never bent to anyone, and how the work was only visible in periods of loss. He thought of how something so great could only shine for a short amount of time, and how that never diminished the impact. He wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the rocks anymore.
He looked into the eyes of the person who had been at his side his entire life. He looked and he smiled.
Oikawa smiled back.
They had rediscovered what they had lost in between the cons and the cars and the long game of running, because they had never lost it at all. They had changed and grown, but never lost.
He knew the news cameras would tell of their exploits and crimes, and spin tall tales of their infamy. He knew they would fade away after the fifteen seconds of fame, and nobody would remember their names. But the world wouldn’t ever know what Oikawa’s eyes looked like in this moment. They would never know what beauty truly looked like. Not a painting, not a sculpture, not a screen, but rather a man who smiled with his head on the ground. He wasn’t a mirage or an ocean or a sun or an altar; he was simply Oikawa.
“Thank you. For everything,” mouthed Iwaizumi across the distance.
Oikawa shook his head. Tears fell down his cheeks, but still he smiled and whispered back. “For life, right?”
He nodded as well as he could against the ground. “You’re the best partner I could ask for.”
The cops were talking above them now and giving instructions, but neither one listened. They would take a plea deal and track back all the things they stole, or hunt down other art thieves, or break out of any prison that tried to hold them. It didn’t matter; they would find their way back to one another. He would find Oikawa in all the universes. There were no words to define them, other than the obvious: partners, for life.
He had never needed the art or the beauty. The greatest artists could never capture Oikawa’s gaze the way he did. The historians would have no idea what to call them and likely wouldn't call them at all. He was secretly glad that their story belonged to them alone.
So he looked at his partner on the court, partner in crime, and partner for life, and smiled one last big grin as he got into the cop car. The rocks submerged under the water once more with barely a ripple, and the sunset shone over the lake as if the art had never existed there at all.