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“You have to come, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa whined, hands clasped down on Iwaizumi’s shoulders as he rocked him back and forth, “Somebody has to keep an eye on me when I’m drunk!”
Iwaizumi glared at the tall figure looming to his left. “Why’s it got to be me? Mattsun and Makki would probably enjoy it a lot more—“
“But they’re not Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pouted and it was at this point Iwaizumi knew the matter was a lost cause. He supposed, all in all, a Saturday spent drinking in the next town over was a pleasant change to his usual routine: work, eat, stare aimlessly at the ceiling until sleep overtook him. And truthfully, he didn’t trust Oikawa to make his way back alone either, a sneaking suspicion that he was a lightweight gnawing at the back of his head.
With a resigned sigh, Iwaizumi twisted round to face the boy, resenting the slight angle that he had to tip his head in order to meet his eye. “Fine. But you’re not leaving me by myself, okay? I don’t like your douchebag cram school friends,” and when Oikawa gave him a questioning look, Iwaizumi continued, “They’re douchebags.”
Oikawa laughed and Iwaizumi thought, with the cool winter light streaming in from the window behind, he looked just a bit like an angel.
-
Coats and bags thrown haphazardly into a room upstairs, it took all of three minutes before Iwaizumi found himself with a shot in each hand. Through the music he heard Oikawa’s countdown, throwing his head back at the screech of one and spluttering as he tried to keep down what he suspected was vodka.
“Isn’t this fun, Iwa-chan?!” Oikawa gleamed and Iwaizumi couldn’t help but smile — they’d been here all of five minutes, but it seemed the atmosphere had already done wonders.
Iwaizumi surveyed the room as Oikawa slipped another shot in his hand. Couch to his left, people piled on top of each other in an effort to stay included in the conversation; straight ahead, a dimly lit kitchen where he imagined was the go-to spot for blossoming couples of the night. He wasn’t above it all, no, far from. Iwaizumi indulged in the atmosphere just as much as Oikawa, probably.
About four drinks in, Iwaizumi and Oikawa had moved to the makeshift dance floor. Surrounded by gyrating bodies, up and down, the smell of sweat lingering in the simple-mindedness of it all, it seemed futile to resist the movement.
A new song faded in and there were cheers and pushing and pulling and suddenly Oikawa was a lot closer and—
If Iwaizumi had been sober, perhaps he’d have had the sense of mind to step back. Maybe, most likely, he’d have slipped a hand round Oikawa’s waist and guided him outside instead, a breath of fresh air he would’ve insisted was necessary for his drunken state.
But Iwaizumi was intoxicated. Not only by the liquor on his breath and the fire burning deep in his lungs, but by the warmth as Oikawa placed his lips over his. It was clumsy and misguided — something to be embarrassed about, really — but later on.
They opened their mouths reflexively, snaking arms round necks and backs and did he just tug my hair? There was no room for discussion as Iwaizumi ran his tongue across Oikawa’s lips, gasping for air in any single moment the two weren’t joined entirely.
“Get a room, you two!” someone guffaws.
Suddenly, there’s nothing.
Oikawa detaches himself and Iwaizumi, regaining a vague, faraway feeling of sobriety, has the sense to cringe as saliva hangs between them. Eyes wide, lips still puckered, Oikawa looks like he’s just discovered the meaning of life, or maybe whether aliens are real. Iwaizumi guesses that’s the kind of thing he would actually care for.
Then, Oikawa grins. A move which, if Iwaizumi knew his friend well enough — and he did, meant “don’t worry about it”. Iwaizumi didn’t mind doing just that. Two friends kissing whilst drunk wasn’t exactly groundbreaking.
It’s that reassurance that sits on his mind as the pair walk home together, later that night. They’re hanging off each other, giggling at stupid things like Mattsun’s eyebrows.
“Drunk Iwa-chan laughs with me!” Oikawa cries, as though he’s figured out something glorious. His face then drops and, although Iwaizumi is fully aware this is just his usual theatrics, he still finds it in him to play along and roll his eyes as Oikawa sighs, “I prefer drunk Iwa-chan."
When they bid farewell at the crossroad between their houses, it almost seemed as though the kiss was truly forgotten.
-
After the dreadful hangover the following day, made worse only by his little sister jumping on him until he promised to get up and make breakfast, Iwaizumi was feeling thoroughly done with parties.
By contrast, in typical fashion, Oikawa seemed entirely unaffected by the entire ordeal. “See, I made sure to drink water when I got home,” Oikawa sing-songed as they approached the gym, “but I guess we can’t all be as smart and all-knowing as me.”
So, it was one of those days. In his mind, there was little worse in this world than a condescending Oikawa. Iwaizumi stepped closer and, into his ear, “Yeah, right, if you were that smart you’d have learnt how to stop wetting the bed before you were seven years old.”
Oikawa blanched and charged forward towards the doors.
Practice passed as it always did, the heavy fog lifting from Iwaizumi’s body with each spike, the sweat settling on his back a reassurance that he was doing well. Regardless, he was thankful when the last set of the 2-on-2 was complete. His teammates didn’t exactly go easy on him, after all.
At that point, however, Oikawa’s calm demeanour slipped and the whinging began. The collective moans from his surrounding companions might have been enough to stop him, if he was normal and understood a not-so-subtle prompt to shut up — but he wasn’t.
“Someone has to have a party!” Oikawa cried as he dragged the ball cart into the corner of the gym.
Iwaizumi scrunched his face in disgust. There really was no limit to what Oikawa could handle.
When there was no response, Oikawa sighed in his typical melodramatic way, lifting the back of his hand to his forehead as he proclaimed, “Well, if this is what it takes…” and when met with unamused stares, turned from sweet to sinister in a single moment, “I’ll pay for the drinks.”
Iwaizumi liked to think his teammates were above such a simple-minded bribe, but perhaps realised his faith was misplaced as Makki and Mattsun whooped, slipping large arms round their kouhai’s shoulders.
“My parents are visiting my uncle next weekend,” Kindaichi said stiffly, prompting further cheers from the two misfits.
“Well, then, that’s sorted, isn’t it?” Oikawa gave one of his perfect smiles and at that point, it was a done deal. The team jog towards the showers in high spirits, leaving Oikawa behind to practise serves.
“Man, Oikawa’s really determined to have a party,” Makki comments over the squeak of trainers.
“Yeah, I wonder why?” Mattsun follows, and Iwaizumi feels like there’s a joke he’s missing out on.
He elects to simply shrug his shoulders instead and, if Mattsun and Makki share a particularly suspicious look between them, Iwaizumi elects not to notice it.
-
Arriving early hasn’t been a priority for Iwaizumi over the years. Oikawa puts it down to his brute, ruffian image —“Being late is cool, isn’t it, Iwa-chan?”— but the boy himself pins it on just a small itch of social discomfort. Nothing big, really, but conversations are always stilted whilst waiting for ten other people to arrive.
This time, though, he decided earliness was worth it: small gathering, free alcohol. Made sense. Little could Iwaizumi know he’d be the last one there and that a tipsy Oikawa would be the one to open the door.
“Guys, Iwa’s here!” Oikawa bellowed and Iwaizumi took it upon himself to drag the rowdy teenager inside before the neighbours got involved, smacking him lightly on the back of the head in the process, “And someone needs to get him drunk so he isn’t such a meanie!”
Cue a shot in either hand. Iwaizumi doesn’t have much time to ponder how he’s ended up in this situation two weeks in a row as he’s forced to gulp the fiery liquid down.
Certainly, the party is a lot tamer than last weekend’s; there were first years here, after all, and the older members needed to maintain some sense of decency off the court. Regardless, it seemed to be just as fun, the lights dim and conversation flowing.
Time passed quickly as he discussed his embarrassing obsession with the magical girl anime Oikawa would make him watch on the weekends, when they were both done with homework and the sun was setting. In return, he discovered Yahaba’s particular enjoyment of cross-stitching and, more interestingly, his recent attempts at getting Kyoutani to try it, too.
Later on, Oikawa produces an empty vodka bottle from behind his back and as the connotations set in immediately, there are excited cheers all around. Until that point, Iwaizumi had been able to dissociate from the events of the previous week, the way Oikawa’s lips moved against his and the almost unbearable heat of their bodies so close. His face flushed red, the memory bringing to the front of his mind that he definitely wouldn’t mind doing that again.
As they gathered in a circle, Mattsun slipped a grin. “No cheating, people, three seconds on the mouth, at least. If not, you’re a big fat wuss.”
Hanamaki slapped his shoulder, hiccuping slightly. “Unless you aren't comfortable with that,” he reinstated, waving his drink around, “because y’know, some people don't like doing that and that’s fine and don’t ever feel like you need to conform to society’s expect—“
“That’s lovely, Makki,” Mattsun brought him closer, pulling the pink-haired boy’s legs over his. Hanamaki shut up instantly, cheeks dusted a shade of red darker than before, and Iwaizumi smiled at the interaction.
“Me first, then!” OIkawa says, as he plants the bottle on the carpet and spins. Makki. Iwaizumi notes that neither have the sense to hide their disappointment and almost feels a small swooping feeling, like what happened between him and Oikawa was special. He stomps that thought down, though. It’s a matter of self-interest, is all.
He’s distracted enough that he doesn't even acknowledge the kiss taking place in front of him, electing for another swig from his whiskey bottle instead. Much of the game passes this way, with the occasional hesitant peck from a first year who is afraid to overstep boundaries or, in particular, a rather disgusting encounter with Mattsun’s tongue, until it’s his turn again and it’s spinning and spinning and then it lands on Oikawa.
By matter of probability, it had to happen eventually. Regardless, Iwaizumi still stumbles as he rises to his knees and leans forward into the circle — something he would belatedly blame on the drink — as the brown-haired boy opposite him does the same.
“Three seconds, at least!” Makki cries with glee, replying to Mattsun’s raised eyebrows with a mumbled, “Well, it’s not like they’ll be uncomfortable.”
There’s a moment in which Iwaizumi is hyperaware of the many eyes closing in on them, judging every small move. He supposes this is what they’ve all been waiting for on some level.
They meet tentatively at first, slow and steady, but their experience in each other’s care shows in the way Iwaizumi immediately cradles Oikawa’s jaw and sucks lightly at his lower lip and how Oikawa, in turn, places a self-assured hand on his bicep, running it up and down as their kisses gain ferocity.
There was something about Oikawa that drove him mad. Moving a hand to the back of his neck, he thought about how he’d never have enough time to indulge in every feeling that poured through his veins when Oikawa kissed him, never could he properly explore the sensation that came with each small touch.
A cruel reminder of that came in the form of a strange sound bubbling up Oikawa’s throat.
He was gone in seconds.
“Oh my lord, his face!” Makki shook with laughter, unable to form words properly through the tears, “Don’t worry, Iwaizumi, I’m sure he was enjoying it up until—up until then! Hahaha!”
Iwaizumi was forced to swallow his disappointment down as the sounds of retching came through the bathroom door. It couldn’t be helped.
The whole experience sobering him up somewhat, he decides his place for the remainder of the night is by Oikawa’s side next to the toilet, moving the hair out of his eyes and occasionally wiping the tears from them, too, as he gags on the feeling of bile rising up and down his throat. Not the best job, but he didn’t mind.
If someone had to do it, he’d rather it be him.
-
Nothing really happens for a while after that night, to Iwaizumi’s relief. Exams are a tough time for everyone and there is no slacking to be had, not in a school like Seijou. Iwaizumi spends morning until night revising, committing organic mechanisms and statistical equations to memory and, when he’s not doing that, spiking balls over nets.
Though the hard work pays off, these periods of Iwaizumi’s life always drag. It’s here he inevitably sees a sharp increase in time spent shuffling under the covers at midnight, stifling lewd moans, when he should be sleeping.
One night, the image of Oikawa’s face enters the forefront of his mind as his hand slips under the waistband of his shorts. In such a pent-up state, he thinks little of it as he slides his hand back and forth, imagining the trace of a tongue—Oikawa’s tongue—down his neck; rubs a thumb over his head, revelling in the idea of Oikawa making his way lower, sucking and pulling on the skin below him; twitches at the mere thought of Oikawa glancing up at him from all the way down there.
He brings a forearm over his eyes as he stiffens, body convulsing and writhing, and it only gets more intense when he wonders what OIkawa would look like as he did the same.
If there was something weird about that, it was only in the mornings, as he met up with Oikawa on the walk to school, where he would realise it.
-
Exams finish eventually, but they’re all too tired to be anything more than relieved about it. In keeping with their traditions, Oikawa and Iwaizumi are having a celebratory sleepover, indulging in unsightly amounts of junk food and a steady stream of pirated films, with each one promised to be “Iwa-chan’s new favourite!”
This time around, though, something seems different. Iwaizumi is unsure if he’s making it up: a tension rising in the room only on his own accounts, his own guilt simply catching up to him. It’s as though he’s on the cusp of a revelation every time he’s subjected to Oikawa’s toothy smile and the small dimple on his left cheek.
He wishes the gap between them would close, slowly shuffling towards each other the way you see in rom-coms, only pretending to watch the screen ahead. But Oikawa’s invested in this film and, really, he is too. There, instead, a bowl of toffee popcorn lays between them.
By the time it’s over, they’re both a bit teary-eyed. Iwaizumi pinches OIkawa by the cheek, “Nice way to lighten the mood after exams, dumbass.”
“The trailers never made it look so depressing, I swear,” Oikawa mumbles into the sleeve of his jumper, “I didn’t even think a film about a boy called Courgette could be depressing.”
Iwaizumi snorts, taking the silence after as an opportunity to get up and stretch his limbs. If he’d not been so busy yawning, he might’ve noticed Oikawa’s wide eyes trailing the expanse of his toned back as he flexed his arms upwards. Equally, perhaps he’d have heard the small exhale as he ran a hand through his flattened hair.
Instead, Iwaizumi responded to Oikawa’s disinterested tone of “Can you grab my bag for me, please? Yeah, that one.”
“Jesus, Oikawa, what’s in here?” he huffed as he plonked the messenger bag on the bed, grimacing at the clinking sounds immediately following, “Forget I asked. Are you stupid? Do you not remember what happened last time?”
“That was one time, okay?!” Oikawa splutters, clearly embarrassed by the reminder, and busies himself with pulling out bottle after bottle of beer, “This is a celebration! Don’t let me down, you big brute.”
Iwaizumi growls in response, registering only a second too late that he’d succumbed perfectly to Oikawa’s taunting. At the realisation, Iwaizumi growls again and snatches the bottle from his hands.
Reluctant swigs are made and with them, the conversation changes up a bit.
“My mother wants me to settle down with a girl and I just—I can’t! I just can’t! That’s not me!” Oikawa sighs frustratedly, leaning against Iwaizumi, “I just don’t see it.”
“Same,” Iwaizumi offers, staring blankly at the neat pile of work on the desk across from him, “I know she’d at least try to understand it, but it’d just be so awkward, y’know?”
Oikawa nods eagerly, face closer than it was a second ago. “Y-yeah, exactly! And-and she’d probably be wondering why I’m not your typical gay like you see in the movies.”
“Mhmm,” Iwaizumi brings an arm round Oikawa’s shoulder, looking down at him lazily, “and God, I can’t even imagine her trying to explain it to my sister.”
“Oh god,” Oikawa laughs, face flushed, and he puts on a high-pitched voice as he explains, “When two men love each other very much, Haru-chan, they… they…”
His voice trails off. Just like those times before, it’s as though Oikawa is suddenly in his space, crowding him, electrifying his very core as he licks his lips and tilts his head. All Iwaizumi can think about is how beautiful the boy looks, the curve of his plump lips and the invitation of milky white skin enticing him as well as ever. He wasn’t making up that tension earlier: not one bit.
Suddenly, they’re scrabbling for any form of physical contact. Somewhere in the scuffle, Iwaizumi had flung himself back on the bed, pulling Oikawa on top of him and it seemed they had done this too many times to be considered normal now, because even in the aggression of the moment their teeth didn’t clack together, not once. They were accustomed to how the other moved, fine-tuned to their fingers trailing around their flesh, and it was a moment of pure bliss.
Iwaizumi pulls back for a moment, no longer than a second, and the sheer want in the other’s eyes is enough to make him groan. There’s no time to be embarrassed by the wanton display as Oikawa’s lips move to his jaw and, Jesus, it’s just like his fantasies as his teeth nip in all the right spots. Each puff of breath sends shivers down his spine and if he had any coherent thought process, he might’ve thought to return the favour.
Instead, he let Oikawa suck long and hard into the crevice above his collar bone, chest rising and falling further with each slip of tongue. It was addictive and when his hips roll up beyond his control, he expects maybe that Oikawa will awkwardly slide off him and call the whole thing off. But he doesn’t. Something is different this time.
Iwaizumi takes the temporary stillness on Oikawa’s part to flip them over, shoving a knee between his legs and caging him in with his arms. Oikawa near-groans as Iwaizumi’s knee shifts back and forth, but is quickly silenced as his lips are captured in another kiss.
Iwaizumi repositions himself, Oikawa taking the opportunity to snake his hands below the waistband of the other’s plaid pyjama pants, kneading the skin below hard enough to leave bruises. Then, Iwaizumi shifts slightly, their crotches aligned and he swears he sees stars.
“D-don’t stop,” Oikawa whimpers and Iwaizumi pauses his assault on the skin behind the other’s ear to take a good look at his face, blotchy and visibly tense. It makes for a beautiful sight.
They continue to rut against each other maniacally, devoid of rhythm or grace, and when they come it’s with groans muffled by the mouth locked tightly onto their own. They take a moment to calm their laboured breaths as Iwaizumi’s quivering body slumps directly onto Oikawa’s.
“Get off me, you big mountain!” Oikawa giggles immediately, “I can’t breathe!”
Maybe the words are said with just a bit too much fondness for a quick fuck and maybe Iwaizumi picks up on that and maybe he’s suddenly realising what exactly his earlier grasp at a revelation was. He wanted this. Really, really wanted this. Wanted it without the smell of alcohol on their breath and swimming headaches afterwards. He wanted to remember every second.
Oikawa jumped up from his bed, smiling cheerfully down at Iwaizumi in a way that didn’t fit the mood at all. “You’re a great friend, Iwa-chan, I bet none of the others would do that with me,” he laughed as he checked his hair in the mirror and no, this is all so calculated and cold, “Exams really had me riled up, wow! Thanks for helping me out. I think it’s all better now, though. I”m just gonna go and clean up! Don’t miss me too much!”
Iwaizumi was mortified. To think that Oikawa would act in anything in other than self-interest; God, he was so stupid. A feeling of embarrassment washes over him as he changes into fresh pyjama pants, stolen from Oikawa’s drawers with such ease that you’d think they were boyfriends or something. But they weren’t, were they?
When questioned on his sullen mood as they retire for the night (by an all too happy OIkawa), Iwaizumi replies that he’s simply tired and “good night, OIkawa”. Yet, when the clock strikes two a.m. and he can hear a flock of birds overhead, it hits him that he isn’t tired at all. He’s just a little bit broken.
-
Somehow it was Iwaizumi that got roped into hosting the next party. When Oikawa found out he had a free house for a week, it was all “please, Iwa-chan!” and “help us Iwa-chan, you’re our only hope!” until he had eventually caved. Because he always did. He just couldn't say no to a pout like that.
This time, there’s a few girls invited and despite his bitter mood, Iwaizumi can’t help but laugh at the first years’ attempts at flirting. It was all tentative hands on knees, eyes fleeting between their hands and the girls’ plump lips — was he really so cringeworthy at that age, too.
He was participating half-heartedly in a conversation with Yahaba about the state of Kyoutani’s latest cross-stitching disaster when he felt a looming presence behind him. It reminded him of that day just a couple of months ago, Oikawa begging him to come to the party that started it all.
“Sorry, I need to borrow my lovely Iwa-chan for a second,” a sickly sweet voice comes from behind, and it was all the warning he got before he was being dragged upstairs. There were no nerves, no anticipation, and the wolf whistles travelling up the stairs from behind only made him feel sick.
He’s in a daze when he’s shoved up against a wall and all he can think is about how wrong this all feels. He gets no chance to look at OIkawa before his face is pressed tightly against his own and his hand palming Iwaizumi through his jeans. “It was getting a bit boring downstairs, right?” Oikawa breathes and Iwaizumi shivers not with enjoyment, but crushing disappointment.
“Oik-Oikawa,” he tries, hands pushing gently at the other’s chest. No response.
“Oikawa—Tooru, I’m not in the mood,” he repeats and he swears he feels tears down his cheeks and he’s so sure they’re not his own, but the other boy doesn’t let up.
Iwaizumi’s anger gets the better of him. “Fuck sake, Oikawa, just let me go! There always has to be some excuse with you, doesn’t there?” he seethes and as the tears well up in his eyes, too, he finds the only thing he can do is run.
-
Iwaizumi had lost track of time as he sat picking at the grass in his own back garden, staring at each blade as though it held the secrets to the universe. Maybe it did, he pondered, before realising that’s exactly the kind of ridiculous thing Oikawa would say. The boy had more of an effect on him than he’d like to admit, for sure.
He vaguely recognises Mattsun’s mess of hair as he plops down next to him, grimacing as he manages to sit right in the pile of grass he’d painstakingly collected. There are more important things to be angry about, though.
“Oikawa’s sobbing like a baby right now,” Mattsun sighs, bringing a hand to Iwaizumi’s thigh and rubbing it soothingly, “I”m guessing you have something to do with it.”
Iwaizumi remembers little other than the feeling of Mattsun’s hand, warm and steady and everything else he needed in that moment, as he spills the story out into the night sky.
-
A pounding headache and the stale taste of corner shop liquor welcome Iwaizumi bitterly to possibly his worst hangover yet and seconds later, when the initial hungover haze has settled, serve as a reminder to the events of last night.
Tooru.
God, he had fucked up. Though he knows it’s wrong, he can’t help but think that just going with it —letting Oikawa exploit and manipulate him as he pleases, working hands along hipbones and kneading the flesh below, desperately pushing and pulling in a ravenous, drunken mess—would have been better than this. Better than nothing.
When the threat of spilled tears has eventually passed, Iwaizumi opens his eyes. He’s expecting empty bottles littered across tables, broken furniture and perhaps, if he really was as cursed as he thought, an unapologetically massive red stain on the carpet from the copious bottles of wine passed around later in the night.
But it’s spotless. Suspiciously so.
The cogs begin to turn in his head only when it’s too late, a pale hand already in his peripheral vision and nudging a cup of tea towards him.
“For you,” Oikawa croaks, his hoarse tone making Iwaizumi wince. Regardless, he accepts the drink wordlessly and Oikawa takes this as a prompt to continue, “So, um, Makki said.. well, he told me I was a terrible person last night.”
The honesty shocks Iwaizumi. This was Oikawa, a boy well-versed in disingenuousness, with a catalogue of false smiles and fabricated lies to be used at will. In some ways, he had expected these falsehoods and for that he almost feels guilty.
“He.. he said I was being selfish, which was nothing new apparently, and.. and said that I clearly don’t care about you if I was willing to be.. be like this,” Oikawa’s face crumbles at this, a reservoir of tears rapidly building, threatening to spill over blotched cheeks. Iwaizumi can’t bring himself to look up at the sight, keeps both eyes trained on the rising steam from his cup, knowing he wouldn't last a second.
“I.. I just don’t know what to do, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa cries and now the tears are falling, a testimony to just how much of a crybaby Oikawa could be and Iwaizumi would be mad at it all if he didn’t love the boy so fucking much, “And n-now you’re just sat here with that face of yours, saying nothing, and I’m trying so hard—“
Iwaizumi knows not to raise his voice around Oikawa. He had learnt first as a child, no older than eight, when he shouted at the boy for killing a spider in the park; Oikawa ran home to his mother and cried for days, only accepting Iwaizumi’s apology once he promised he’d never do it again. Not to him.
He guesses, though, that some promises are made to be broken.
“Not nice when it’s the other way around, is it?!” Iwaizumi roars, at his limit, and not even the heart-stricken face that greets him when he finally glares upwards enough to stop him, “G-God, it’s like everything always has to be about you. Talking to me about this for.. for your benefit so, well… what? So we can keep whatever this is without you having to feel guilty for it? I’m sorry, Tooru, okay? I-I’m sorry I can’t keep doing this. It can’t just mean nothing.”
Iwaizumi supposes it’s all over at this point, expects Oikawa to get up and leave and pretend nothing happened come school on Monday. That kind of behaviour was just in his nature and equally, it was Iwaizumi’s nature to abide by it.
There’s a different expression on Oikawa’s face, though: one he can’t quite read. His voice comes out soft, wary and reserved, and he’d almost sound like a child if there wasn’t such a mature certainty to it all when he states, “it’s never meant nothing, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi’s hands shake as he places his cup on the table.
Oikawa had always been a fan of fairytales, beginning to end. Nothing could go wrong—too wrong, anyway—or else it was all ruined. Ruined forever. Some might argue that it’s a childlike view, naïve of reality, and yeah, Iwaizumi would think to himself, yeah, it is. But he can’t blame Oikawa, because those stories are the nicest. Those stories are the kind to give you hope when everything has gone to shit, an insight into the world at its best.
That’s why Iwaizumi could never deny Oikawa: he was fragile and based his life off of fairytales, and if Iwaizumi didn’t satiate that mindset, then who would? Iwaizumi was there to make sure things were never ruined beyond repair.
So, Iwaizumi hugged him. He felt a strange sense of relief as he cradled Oikawa, the feeling of intimacy all too familiar. It felt right this time, though, felt like more than a drunken kiss or quick fuck.
“I-I’m just a coward. I thought to myself, I thought if I was drunk was then it was fine. If.. if I got rejected by you, then what did it matter?” Oikawa sobbed into his shoulder, “B-b-but I was wrong. It.. it stung so bad and it made me realise I just fucked this up so bad and I can’t take it back now and w-we can never ever be the same and it’s all my fault!”
Iwaizumi hushed him as best he could, smoothing one hand over his head and the other over his wrist. “Look, I.. I can’t just assume things here. Do you… do you.. y’know,” and Iwaizumi didn’t realise saying it would be so hard, “What are your.. feelings…?”
He swears he hears a huff of laughter through Oikawa’s sniffles and blood rushes to his cheeks. “I like you. I do. I really, really, really do. I promise the only reason I ever even invited you to that stupid party was for an excuse to ki—“
And once again, Oikawa likes his fairytales.
Likes the cheesy romantic gestures, though he won’t ever really admit to it. Not to Iwaizumi. But he knows anyway, obviously, because it’s Oikawa and what doesn’t he know about him?
So, he cuts him off with a kiss.
It tasted like snot and salt but, if nothing else, it also tasted a lot more real.