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Iwaizumi knows all too well that volleyball is a sport of action and reaction. When one sets the ball up, another must spike it down. When one spikes the ball down, another must be there to receive it, to send it back up. He's spent years honing his reflexes to achieve just that: nail that serve, receive that spike, win the point.
In that one split second about halfway through practice, however, Iwaizumi senses that everything's about to go wrong. Yahaba's set is a little too low. Kyoutani, rushing to the net like a feral dog, jumps much too high. Iwaizumi himself, across the net, is braced two steps too forward than he should be. Kyoutani slams the ball to the other side of the court, and Iwaizumi doesn't have time to react before the ball comes crashing straight into him.
The spike knocks the air from Iwaizumi's lungs--and knocks him off his feet.
The next thing he knows, Iwaizumi is flat on his ass, keeled over on the floor. He lets out a hoarse cough; it sends a sharp pain ripping through the center of his body. When he hears the ball bounce to a stop on the gymnasium floor, he knows this isn't supposed to happen. And when he looks up, every member of the team has their eyes fixed on him.
It's not the nice kind of attention, like when he powers through a block and scores the set-winning point. It's the attention that makes him feel singled-out, self-conscious, and weak. His coaches whisper into each other's ears. Yahaba alternates between staring at him with concern and sending dirty glances Kyoutani's way. Kyoutani himself eyes him relentlessly, judging his strength. And Oikawa stands towards the back of the crowd with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. It's the last person who makes Iwaizumi feel lesser.
Hanamaki is the first to extends a hand. "Yo, Iwaizumi! You okay?"
"It's fine," Iwaizumi replies. He forces himself up with an elbow, ignoring Hanamaki's outstretched hand, and stands on his own two feet. He focuses his attention elsewhere because the team's focus should still be on the scrimmage, not on him. It's also the only way he can bear the pain. Iwaizumi continues, "But more importantly, the ball stayed up just now." He turns his head to his fellow teammates on his side of the court, making every effort not to wince. "You could've kept it in play. Note that for next time."
His teammates shoot each other tentative glances, then bow just as quickly. "Yes, Iwaizumi-senpai!" they shout a little too hastily.
They're not completely sincere by any means, but the words alone allow Iwaizumi to power through the pain.
---
From an outsider's perspective, the rest of practice goes by smoothly. Iwaizumi excuses himself for a few minutes, popping a few painkillers in the clubroom before rejoining the rest of his team. He helps Watari out with his receives, spikes some balls for Kindaichi to block, and disciplines Oikawa when the team gets too off course. And in the few minutes after practice has officially ended, Iwaizumi has time to work on his own jump serve. He gets in a few solid serves, powerful but not as precise as he'd like, before the pain in his side becomes too much to bear.
By the time Iwaizumi returns the club room, his teammates have already gone home, and he sighs a breath of relief. Oikawa is the only one remaining, fixing his hair with a pocket-sized comb and a tube of hair gel in front of his locker.
Iwaizumi opens his own locker--the one next to Oikawa's--and uses the door to block himself from Oikawa's view. He takes a peek under his shirt and winces when he sees the state of his chest. The bruise has bloomed into an ugly, swollen, purple splotch at the top of his right ribcage. He slips a hand up his shirt and feels the area for any cracked ribs, trying not to make any noises of discomfort. He counts his blessings when he doesn't feel any.
He quickly changes into his Aobajousai tracksuit, taking full advantage of Oikawa's longer-than-usual personal care routine. When he goes to put his practice uniform in his bag, he finds an unfamiliar sight.
He slams the door and faces Oikawa with his sternest expression. "What the hell is this?"
"Your math textbook," Oikawa says without missing a beat. He puts down his comb and fluffs his hair one last time before shutting his own locker. "You didn't take it out of your locker at lunch, so I took the pleasure of doing it for you."
"And why would you do that?" Iwaizumi snorts when Oikawa's grin grows even wider. "I turned in the homework this morning like I was supposed to," he elaborates.
"But I didn't. My class is a day behind yours." Oikawa looks at him with the cutesy eyes he uses whenever he wants a free milk bread from the bakery in their neighborhood. "Tutor me when we get home."
"I'm not doing your homework for you, Trashykawa."
"Then keep me company."
Iwaizumi knows he should ice the welt on his chest as soon as possible. But he also knows that a moody Oikawa will be just as troublesome, especially considering the demanding tone he's using right now. It's usually a sign he won't take no for an answer. Iwaizumi doesn't take even a second more to make up his mind.
"...Okay," he says, hoping Oikawa won't sense the uncertainty in his voice, "But not for long. I have some stuff I need to do later."
---
Oikawa is oddly focused when they get home. Instead of lying on his bed and dicking around on his phone, he's sitting cross-legged at the low table by the door, writing away in his math workbook. The air is still in Oikawa's bedroom; all Iwaizumi can hear is the sound of pencil hitting paper.
Iwaizumi himself sitting right across from Oikawa, trying to focus on his own work and failing. He glues his eyes to a page out of his English textbook, because he might as well use the most out of this time. For every line of text he reads, however, his hand unconsciously ghosts across the part of his shirt that hides his bruise. He has no doubt Oikawa has noticed by now, and it makes him want to kick himself.
When Oikawa looks up from his studies, Iwaizumi knows he's failed to keep his cover. "Iwa-chan, come here for a sec, yeah?" he says casually.
He props himself on his knees and crawls to the other side of the table. There's no point in trying to hide it now. Oikawa's carefree expression slips into a frown for the briefest moment, and Iwaizumi has second thoughts. He sits in front of him anyway.
Oikawa's fingers make their way to the hem of Iwaizumi's T-shirt. "Oi, what are you doing?" he asks. His heart is beating fast.
Oikawa doesn't reply. Iwaizumi winces as he pulls the shirt up his arms and over his head, exposing the deep purple mark he had been hiding in vain. Oikawa traces the outline of the bruise with cold fingers, being careful not to press too hard. It brings Iwaizumi both pain and relief.
"Don't touch it asshole," he says.
Oikawa's hand lingers on Iwaizumi's skin for a second more before retreating. "That bruise is hideous," he says plainly.
Iwaizumi's cheeks burn. "Yeah, yeah. Don't rub it in."
"It looks like it hurts," Oikawa says. Iwaizumi wants to smack him because no shit it hurts.
"It's not that bad," he replies instead.
Oikawa brings his face close to Iwaizumi's side, examining the dark hues of the bruise up close. His nose grazes Iwaizumi's skin and it makes him shiver. "You went through all of practice with this thing?" he asks.
"I could play through it," Iwaizumi replies. He knows what Oikawa is thinking: Is it legitimate? Will it affect his ability to play in the future? So he adds, "It's not a serious injury or anything. I checked."
He expects Oikawa to give him a jab about not following his own advice. Don't overwork yourself. Don't let your efforts go to waste. Know your limits. He's parroted the words to Oikawa countless times over the years. He doesn't know why his hypocritical ass doesn't follow them himself at this point.
Instead Oikawa sighs, not in disappointment, but out of some kind of envy. "That's impressive, no matter how you look at it." He brings his lips to the swollen skin and plants a small kiss on the biggest bump. Iwaizumi feels Oikawa's lips curve into a smile at the contact; they're surprisingly soft. Oikawa looks up, and Iwaizumi's face lights on fire. "If only I were as much as of a savage as you. Just think of what I'd be able to accomplish."
With that single backhanded compliment, all of Iwaizumi's doubts boil into something more scathing. He grabs the nearest book and smothers it in Oikawa's face.
"You're ruining the moment!" Oikawa screeches, voice muffled.
"You ruined it as soon as you opened your crappy mouth!" Iwaizumi roars in return.
Oikawa shoves the book aside. His face is smudged with pencil lead. Iwaizumi doesn't hesitate to laugh at how stupid he looks; the pain he feels in his side is completely worth it.
"Well now that you're out of your dumpy little mood, I'll be back in a minute," Oikawa says, standing on his own two feet and walking to the door, "Let me go get a little something to make it better."
Iwaizumi's eyes widen as he realizes that, just maybe, this had been Oikawa's plan all along. He feels like a fool for agreeing to this "study date" in the first place.
"Shittykawa--"
Oikawa turns his head and Iwaizumi suddenly feels like an opponent on the other side of the volleyball court. "And don't even think of sneaking out, Iwa-chan," he says menacingly, "It's rude for guests to leave without even saying goodbye."
Before Iwaizumi can turn him down, Oikawa has slammed the door behind him. He rubs his temples, then brings his fingers back to the warm welt at his side. He thinks to himself that this must be the downfall of having someone in his life that knows him better than he knows himself.
Oikawa returns a few minutes later with an ice pack wrapped in a hand towel and a tube of ointment. It's complete overkill, considering Iwaizumi's pain tolerance, but he doesn't see the point in complaining about it now.
"I was gonna ice it when I got home," he says, "You don't have to do all this."
Oikawa sits in front of him, crushing the ice in the pack with his hands. "I want to, though," he replies.
"I never asked you to."
"And I didn't ask for your opinion. Just sit back and relax for once." Oikawa returns Iwaizumi's reluctance with a smile. "Captain's orders."
Iwaizumi exhales and shuts his eyes as Oikawa presses the pack to the bruise. He groans at the relief the cold sensation brings him. It's the best he's felt since his fall a couple of hours earlier. He embraces the silence while he can; Oikawa's lack of words is almost comforting. He listens to Oikawa's breathing, feels his breath against his face, and thinks to himself that this wouldn't be happening if it were anyone else.
Oikawa brings his free hand to Iwaizumi's, massaging his open palm with his thumb until Iwaizumi's breathing has slowed. "You know, sometimes I'm glad you're like this," he says.
"Like what?"
"Kind. Selfless. You give your whole self to others, even when they don't ask for it." Iwaizumi opens his eyes, and Oikawa is gazing back at him. His eyes are earnest. "And yet you never ask for anything in return. Even when you deserve it."
Oikawa slots his fingers in between Iwaizumi's, squeezing them when he tenses up. "And do you know why?" he asks. He doesn't wait for Iwaizumi to reply before giving his answer. "It lets me show you the same love when you really need it."
Oikawa removes the ice pack from Iwaizumi's side, placing it on the floor next to him. He opens the bottle of ointment and spreads it onto his own fingers, then onto Iwaizumi's skin after that. He glides his fingers over Iwaizumi's body like it's his own, avoiding the spots that would make him squirm in discomfort. Iwaizumi watches his hands at work, tracing gently across the most swollen parts of his side, then pressing more deeply into the lighter parts of his skin.
He thinks about what has him coming back to Oikawa again and again, year after year. What makes him want to look after him, to make sure he's not overstepping his limits, to make sure he's doing alright. He finally decides that it's Oikawa's ability to bring out all the qualities in himself--both his best qualities and the ones he'd rather not acknowledge. He's the one who brings him down from an unbreakable, all-supportive pillar of the team into, well, an actual person.
Iwaizumi's gaze trails back from Oikawa's hands to Oikawa himself. As obnoxious and as infuriating as he can be, he would've cracked a long time ago without him.
Oikawa removes his hand and wipes it against the side of his pants. He brings his face to the bruise once more, giving it one last lookover before returning his eyes to Iwaizumi's. He smiles. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Iwaizumi lets his thoughts cloud his better judgment and grabs Oikawa's head with both hands before he can move away. He plants a kiss on Oikawa's forehead, not bothering to hide the smile that creeps up on his face right after. It doesn't feel lame, nor does it feel embarrassing. It's honest.
Oikawa's cheeks flush pink. "I-Iwa-chan?"
"I never said I didn't want you looking after me," he says. He releases Oikawa's head from his hands and ruffles his hair before letting him move away. "Thanks, Oikawa."
Oikawa hums contentedly in reply. He moves his hands to Iwaizumi's and gives them a final squeeze. His face, however, begins to show the forming stages of a fit of laughter.
"What the fuck's so funny?" Iwaizumi growls.
"Are thank you kisses here to stay?" Oikawa muses, letting out a snort, "Maybe I should tell Mad Dog-chan to start aiming his spikes at you more often."
Iwaizumi scoffs back. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he says. He grabs his shirt at the edge of the table and slips it back on himself. The pain he felt when removing it earlier has numbed into something much more manageable. He sends another glare Oikawa's way once it's completely on. "And don't you dare tell anyone on the team about this," he warns, "I spent two years building up my image, and I'm not about to go losing it all because of your big mouth."
"That's fine by me," Oikawa says, and his grin turns into an outright smirk. "I want this side of Iwa-chan all to myself."
Iwaizumi racks his head trying to think of what would be the best way to make Oikawa's life miserable for that line. But now that he thinks about it, it's not exactly the worst arrangement. It feels natural, like it's supposed to be this way all along. And dare he say it, he thinks he prefers it this way.
He exhales, then lets the faintest of smiles ghost across his lips. "I'm not complaining."