The Summer Olympics isn't for another year and a half, but Iwaizumi has already enforced a strict regime for his team, exploring new dynamics and strategizing plays; advising them on food supplements and tailoring diets bespoke to their nutritional needs; expanding and strengthening each individual's repertoire. He may have retired his old volleyball sneakers and replaced them with a new set of trainers, but even though he no longer stood alongside them in the limelight, Iwaizumi realized he had bigger shoes to fill now that he supported them from the sidelines.
Coach Hibarida once said they didn't seek out good players. They didn't have to. These monsters appear out of the blue and demand to be chosen-in those words lies a certain pride that enthralled Iwaizumi as a young intern, and since then, Iwaizumi had sought after a different stage, an encompassing goal: to be strong enough to hoist up and foster such talents, bearing the Japanese flag on his chest and the dreams from his childhood on his shoulder.
"You're staring again," Yaku accuses, and Iwaizumi doesn't have to see his expression to recognize the signature smirk on his face or the quirky wiggling of his brows. Weird fellow.
"I'm not," Iwaizumi presses his knee onto Yaku's back more firmly, pushing him forward to reach his toes. For someone with short limbs, Yaku's fingers struggle to touch his feet-it makes Iwaizumi wonder if it was the toll of Yaku's miraculous saves, arms and legs invariably stretched to a position of a receive. "Stop distracting me and focus on loosening those joints if you don't want me to pair you up with Ushiwaka again."
"Geez, when will you stop using your ex-summer fling on me like some sort of boogieman?"
"When you stop acting like you're three," Iwaizumi cracks his knuckles behind Yaku's head, not even bothering to deny the non-existent love affair in California two years ago. Yaku is more interested in nonsensical gossip than his actual recount anyway. (So much for playing wingman for his best friend and his high school rival.)
"Touché," Yaku lets out a pained grunt as he jerks forward by another sudden force. "Hey, easy! Don't be so brute like Mr. Sorry-I'm-too-strong. You know my body is too frail to be bent in half on the hard floor."
"Well, that surely didn't seem to be the case when you were holding Hakuba in a deadly arm lock on your first day."
"That brat deserved it! Mistaking me for a middle school fan and offering to give me a ride on his shoulder?" Yaku scoffs.
"And so you brought him to the ground and made his back a makeshift throne."
"Exactly!" Yaku huffs proudly, but it only lasts a good second. Realizing his blunder, he chuckles nervously and quickly reverts to the subject. "Anyway, I don't understand why you and Miya won't just make out already. Seriously. It's clear as day he's more than interested in you. Pretty boy has heart eyes for you whether praising him or telling him off. And didn't you two-"
"Don't call him that," Iwaizumi growls.
Yaku smirks, mischief dancing in his narrowed gaze. "Why? Is someone a little jealous?"
"No."
Not a little remains unspoken but goes understood.
"Whatever you say, Zu-mi-ku-n," Yaku drawls his syllables, poorly mimicking a Kansai-ben that's a hundred-no, a thousand-times more endearing in Iwaizumi's auditory memory.
"Don't call me that," Iwaizumi retracts his leg and steps back. "Alright, we're done here. Now quit yapping and bring your ass to the cool down room. I'll meet you and the rest for a few reminders."
"Okay, okay," the libero props himself up and starts skipping away, but not before swiveling around for a final jeer that truly tests the limits of Iwaizumi's self-restraint. "Oh, and by the way... you've got a little-" he vaguely gestures drool dribbling down his chin.
