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Iwaizumi is no stranger to firsts.
First best friend is where most of his firsts begin. He remembers the first time Oikawa pressed a volleyball into his then-too-small hands, remembers the feeling of his first official club uniform creased and later sweat-damp against his skin, remembers his first loss and first win like the memory runs diluted in his blood. Oikawa has been there for all of those firsts and most of the ones thereafter, and he’s been so many of Iwaizumi’s firsts—first best friend, first teammate, first black eye and split lip—that somewhere along the line, Iwaizumi started half-expecting Oikawa to be his first kiss, too.
Of course he’d never planned on saying as much. He’d hoped it would be something simple, one of those things that gets lost in translation but gets them where they need to be anyway, something easy and quick and painless. But they’ve been together too long for Iwaizumi to entertain that notion as anything but fantasy; he knows their first kiss will be a pain in the ass, like most things are where Oikawa’s concerned.
He’s right. It is a pain in the ass to get Oikawa alone after practice, to make him put his shirt on, to get him to quit talking long enough to get down to what Iwaizumi wants. Oikawa knows what’s going on just as well as Iwaizumi does, and even if he wants the same thing (they always do, the two of them, no matter how they go about it), that doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy.
They’re walking home, steps falling in familiar rhythm, and above the crackle of gravel and the chirp of crickets is Oikawa’s voice going on about plans for practice tomorrow, musing on homework, guessing how many confessions he’s going to get during lunch. That one is pointed, said with a smirk and a glance, and that’s what makes Iwaizumi fist his fingers in the front of Oikawa’s club jacket and yank him to a stop.
Oikawa says, “Iwa-chan—” and nothing more, because when Iwaizumi kisses him Oikawa is silent the way he is when he really wants to be.
In the quiet of it, this first time, Iwaizumi’s mind is a wheel spinning, catching, gaining traction. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, they’re meant to be this way; like two hands not quite the same size, skin calloused and fingers bent, not fitting together the way they would were they softer and kinder but pressed palm to palm nonetheless. It’s the way Oikawa’s always told him they were; it’s the way Iwaizumi’s always known they were.
Oikawa’s mouth is smile-tense under his, and while Iwaizumi doesn’t have much experience with kissing, something in his gut is telling him it shouldn’t be quite like this. It should be sweeter, maybe, warm like a mug of fresh coffee or perfect like he’s heard people say. But this is Oikawa, and he’s not sweet or warm or perfect, and Iwaizumi’s always known that. Oikawa pushes, and that’s what he’s doing now: fingers tickling at the skin of Iwaizumi’s hip under his shirt, tongue slick on Iwaizumi’s bottom lip, fast and forward and as much of a handful as ever. And Iwaizumi doesn’t quite know how they work like this, not yet, but he figures it can’t be all that different from playing or fighting or just being, so he does what he’s always done.
Iwaizumi tells Oikawa no with a hand tight to his elbow, says slow down with kisses close-mouthed and firm, and when Oikawa matches him for pace and softness Iwaizumi’s heart skips a beat in half time. There it is: that nebulous in-between, uncharted but familiar still, where Oikawa meets Iwaizumi halfway without seeming to take a step. This is where Iwaizumi’s instincts lead him; this is what he feels is right.
It’s a moment in slow motion, there for a minute and gone like a crack of lightning in the seconds after. Oikawa bites at Iwaizumi’s lip, sinks his teeth in just hard enough to hurt, and Iwaizumi lets slip a delayed half-growl before he jabs Oikawa in the ribs. His cheeks are hot and his heart is beating so hard it might crack a rib and he’s irritated, and that’s what makes it all okay. He feels, somehow, the way he’s always felt towards and around and about Oikawa, and that reassures him (not that he’d ever had a doubt).
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, and somehow that teasing tone is just a little less annoying when his mouth is pressure-pink, “don’t lie, was that your first kiss?”
Scratch that. Still annoying, just a little more bearable, that’s all.
“It’s gonna be your last,” Iwaizumi snaps, wishing his cheeks weren’t so damn hot, and grabs Oikawa by the collar of his shirt.
(In the end, there’s much more kissing done than punching, but Iwaizumi will never admit to it.)