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i. ...there’s still so much Oikawa in the scent of his hair. “It’s alright,” he says.
Overhead is the wall clock that displays a shrilly 10:27, quite a flagrant indication that it has been vaguely an hour or two Iwaizumi idly lies on the couch, torn between the long day catching up to him and a haunting reminder on the coffee table in the form of a pile of paperwork he needs to wrap up. When he hears a familiar click on the door, his brain rouses and gives him two options before it fully swings open: greet the perpetrator and ask them about their day or pretend that he’s fully asleep until they quietly submerge into the bedroom.
Funnily enough, Iwaizumi has been too acquainted with this scenario enough to kindle his awareness: that no matter how much he knows about the habits between two people in a humble abode (a decade or two be damned), a few oddities will always find ways to muss with fixed assumptions.
Oikawa makes his way through the door, mop of brown hair too neat for an aftermath of a hard day’s work but posture reasonably slumped. There are no greetings exchanged except for the barely heard “I’m home” and “welcome home” and Iwaizumi drops plans on fake-sleeping. He’s too tired to stand either.
With no more words uttered, Oikawa drops his duffel bag by the coat rack and silently crawls on top of him. It’s natural like that, an unspoken agreement of the consequence of routines and subconscious body languages. Perhaps it’s just favorable when two people have both been close-knit for more than two decades and living together for one.
It’s summer—the AC barely there but functional in ways that satisfy. Oikawa’s soft puffs are rather hot on his neck and Iwaizumi is not sure whether it’s it or the rampant humidity that makes him sweat.
Oikawa’s heartbeat is steady and calm against his chest, but Iwaizumi feels as if he has the whole world in his arms. His fine breathing tickles his neck, but it also burns his throat.
The burning and the burden—they’ve been going on for years he can’t follow up, but they’re nothing but normal.
“Tired?”
“Dead,” Oikawa corrects, propping his chin on his clavicle to look at him that they’re almost nose to nose. “You have no idea.”
“You have no idea how I do,” Iwaizumi snorts, though coming out soft, more like a huff or a sigh, and it’s with habit that he wreathes his arms around Oikawa, fingers coming up to pet his hair like it’s built in him. Under his throat, Oikawa melts like butter and coos a sleepy, satisfied Iwa-chan. “We’re always both dead.”
“Of course we are. Our souls are interconnected. You’d take a shit first and I wouldn’t be surprised if I followed after.”
Disgust and amusement on his face, he chooses to ignore the comment and mumbles something as he gets a whiff of his hair. It doesn’t smell like their usual shampoo. “Mm... you don’t stink.”
“Took a shower before I got here,” Oikawa mumbles on the upside of his chin and Iwaizumi feels ticklish right there he almost sneezes. It’s one thing he hates about Oikawa’s bad, bad habits. “because I know I’d be dead. They only have those generic branded shampoos, similar to those you get in hotels. I think they suck.”
Iwaizumi figures out he doesn’t mind that much when there’s still so much Oikawa in the scent of his hair. “It’s alright,” he says, earning unintelligible hums of disagreement from him. “Wanna sleep here?”
“You’ll have muscle cramps by the time you wake up.”
“I’m not as weak as you are.”
“I’m the athlete here,” Oikawa counters, a glaring pointed him though it soon melts as he throws him a worried glance, all but covered by stubborn languor. “Iwa-chan...”
“It’s fine. I’m sure,” Iwaizumi reassures, the way he cards through his hair just making him a notch drowsier. “Now be quiet before I throw you off.”
He does get those damned cramps in the morning, but well, it’s nothing but normal.
ii. “But it’s Twice, Iwa-chan.”
“I’m going with you.”
Oikawa seems to haven’t quite registered whether he has some appointment to attend or a rendezvous to show up. Leaning by the kitchen island in his full pajama glory, he looks up at him in confusion.
“Where?”
“In Your Area,” Iwaizumi says; Oikawa blinks in response.
“What.”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, but what.”
Iwaizumi gives him a shrug. “Yeah.”
“So, you’re saying,” Oikawa mumbles slowly, the message conveying to his brain still in the process. “you’re not going to Saitama for Twiceland so you can go to BlackPink with me?”
Iwaizumi nods without hesitation. “Basically.”
“But why?”
“Because.”
“What the hell, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa wheezes, dropping himself on the dining chair while he sulks, phone in hand now forgotten. “But you’ve waited for this?!” He pauses, rather more disappointed himself than Iwaizumi is, before he surveys him and an idea pops in his head. “I can lend you money for tickets.”
“Twice tickets are always expensive as fuck. Fuck,” is what he doesn’t say and rather, “You’ll come with me next time.” He rolls his eyes, plopping next to the distressed Oikawa. “We can see them next time they come.”
“But it’s Twice, Iwa-chan.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re not going to disband anytime soon, Oikawa.”
“You know all those nagging, you didn’t take them seriously, did you?” Oikawa chuckles with a hint of a smile, but no doubt with guilt.
“Well you did nag at me about it non-stop,” Iwaizumi scoffs, ruffling Oikawa’s bedhead. “But whatever, I’m going.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“How sure are you?”
“I just am. Since when was I not even?” Iwaizumi questions him, quite annoyed but sure himself, in the eye, and maybe if he squints closely, he can notice the hint of cherry across Oikawa’s cheeks. (He doesn’t quite know why.) The heat gets to him, perhaps the AC is acting up again, so he stands up to roam around their tiny kitchen. “So, when do the tickets go on sale?”
“Tonight.” Oikawa follows him suit, tailing at his heels like the Corgi he reminds him of next door. “It’s going to be crazy so you gotta queue for tickets with me.”
“And if you can’t get them, make sure you don’t get scammed by those scalpers. They’re wild these days.”
“I’m not dumb and very excellent at getting tickets,” he brags, grabbing at Iwaizumi’s shirt so he turns to face him. Excitement has now taken over his dismay and though it seems trifling for a score-old friendship, the transition never fails to be curative in some way; Iwaizumi feels relief in his chest. “I was gonna call Mattsun to come with me. I wasn’t expecting you’d cancel on Twice, Iwa-chan. You’re crazy about them.”
“I’m not crazy about them,” he rebuffs, earning a knowing glance from Oikawa. “Well, not as crazy as I am crazy about... for...” his voice tapers off, now in awareness of his own words and breaks eye contact. He then ends it with a lame bob of his shoulders. “...something.”
“...Okay,” Oikawa nods, clearing his throat. Rubbing on his forehead, he takes careful steps back and heads for the shower. “Yeah.”
“Stupid,” Iwaizumi scoffs. “BlackPink House marathon tonight, you want? We can do it while we wait for tix.”
With just a few words thrown, it’s the first time he’s seen Oikawa glow like that in days amidst the consecutive overtime fatigue catching up.
“Please!” Oikawa exclaims, nothing but pure excitement in his voice, and the way he looks at Iwaizumi stunts him in place. “I just can’t find anyone like you, Iwa-chan.”
Me either, Iwaizumi doesn’t say and just lets his heart beat in its respective rhythms (sometimes too hard but always peaceful.) He’s too keen on him he hopes it doesn’t show on his face. And so he covers it by chucking a fresh towel at him in which he effortlessly receives.
iii. ...there’s really no one else who intervenes and pulls him out of his immersion. It’s always Oikawa who drags an extra chair, scoots next to him and wordlessly sticks an earpod to his ear.
Sometimes when the heat is getting into them, they repel it with beats they like jamming into. Usually, it’s Oikawa who has his phone on the speaker, but on good days, it’s Iwaizumi who has his connected.
It’s always Oikawa who’s dancing around up to the every corner of the house with every chance he gets, but when he’s too convincing and Iwaizumi is a little more persuaded, he gets to dance with him.
They’re in the midst of doing laundry (still in the first stages of separating the whites from colored), side by side in the tightness of their too tinyutility room, when Oikawa starts to playfully sway his hips. He guesses Iwaizumi must be in a good mood because it doesn’t take long for him to follow through and then he’s side-bumping Oikawa’s hips in his own funny pattern.
“You’re dancing.”
“I’m not dancing. I’m getting my blood circulated.”
“Hips don’t lie, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa chimes cleverly. “Which means you’re getting your blood circulated by dancing, stupid.”
Iwaizumi doesn’t even know why the word stupid gets his chest all jittery and excited.
“I’m a better dancer than you, idiot.”
“You dare sabotage me!” Oikawa squeaks. “A caveman can’t compare to my fine abilities.”
“They are our ancestors, Oikawa. You can’t say that,” Iwaizumi rebuts just as Oikawa snorts an oh my god. “And if stepping on my feet countless of times is considered a fine ability then you’re on crack.”
“When in reality, it’s Iwa-chan who always looks like he’s on crack. And stop talking so loudly, you’re muffling the music,” Oikawa fires back weakly just as the speaker shuts down. Music then rumbles from Iwaizumi’s phone speaker now, almost unheard.
Iwaizumi sighs. “You forgot to charge it again. How many times have I told you to charge it when it’s almost out of battery, idiot?”
“It’s okay, we can still dance to it!” Laundry now ignored, Oikawa chucks the last ball of clothing into the tangled mess and grabs both Iwaizumi’s hands. He jiggles their arms around.
In some unlikely instance, he slips on his feet and almost drags Iwaizumi with him to the wet tiled floor. One would have probably cracked his head open if not for their firm hold on each other. There’s an awkward laugh that intertwines with a trendy pop song but there’s nothing tighter than his hands on Oikawa’s hips and Oikawa’s arms around his shoulders. And they both know there’s no way out when their eyes catch each other’s in a look.
“How many times have I told you to get a new phone with good audio quality, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa mumbles after a few but painstakingly long five seconds, regaining his balance. Iwaizumi tries not to think about how close he is but he can’t look away.
“Not everyone is as rich as you, stupid,” his breath fans Oikawa’s mouth and he watches as it emits a healthy blush on his cheeks. Iwaizumi is weak.
“You’re a doctor, and you’re telling me you’re not rich?”
“I pay rent, I pay for our monthly consumption. Vitamins. Electricity. Water bill. Bills.” Iwaizumi frowns. “What do you even do?”
“I dunno...” Oikawa trails off, the first one to look away but it doesn’t last long before he’s back again. “Be with you, I guess.”
Iwaizumi tries his very best to maintain his scowl but it’s not that easy containing a smile that makes a way to quiver its way through—it’s hard and wide, it almost hurts his jaw, almost embarrassing even, and he doesn’t risk clamping it down when Oikawa makes that equally embarrassed laugh.
Sometimes, they have matching off-days and off-days where it’s hard to appreciate them to a gratifying extent. Iwaizumi goes ham and gets too absorbed in his work even in his free hours that he almost forgets the time and where he is.
But there’s really no one else who intervenes and pulls him out of his immersion. It’s always Oikawa who drags an extra chair, scoots next to him and wordlessly sticks an earpod to his ear. They listen to a repertoire of 80’s music that ranges from Japanese to Western, both in their own businesses. To Iwaizumi, it isn’t as suffocating anymore—his brain functions easily and his workflow smoothens knowing the company beside him. He doesn’t have plans on taking a break yet and Oikawa thankfully doesn’t attempt on disturbing him, just silently catching up with a thriller novel he’s been hooked on for the past week until he falls asleep on Iwaizumi’s desk. He doesn’t even notice he’s already dropped dead.
Perhaps the only effective mean that can fully pull Iwaizumi out of his immersion is this: when he’s able to look at Oikawa this quietly, asleep and unaware, and it’s only him and his rumbled thinking.
(He barely even bothers about the scattered papers under his head, ready and open to soak his drool.)
He puts his pen down, and even to this extent does it so noiselessly because the universe knows Oikawa Tooru is one light sleeper. You probably forgot your monthly trim again, Iwaizumi thinks. There’s a lost bundle of hair crowding at his forehead and he brushes it away. He almost regrets it though as this movement alone puts him out of dreamland.
“You should sleep on the bed,” he whispers, breath fanning his lashes. “You’ll hurt your neck.”
“No, no,” Oikawa reasons, petulant for someone so sleepy, and repetitively tugs at Iwaizumi’s forearm.
“What?” Iwaizumi is perplexed at first, but then he eventually gets it and drops his head on the desk as well, now facing him parallel.
Oikawa simply makes an affirmative nod of his head, a small smile to boot, and then goes back to sleep. For someone who wakes up easily, he definitely dozes off too quickly. Iwaizumi thinks his heart had never hurt this good.
He has seen this; they have been this close when they happen to wake up at each other’s faces sometimes. He itches to sweep the perpetually pesky fringe off his forehead and does it much gentler this time, the palm grazing across his cheek as light as feather. Surprisingly, Oikawa doesn’t wake and the silence gives Iwaizumi the urge to laugh and be sentimental at the same time.
Every time is such an unfailing renewal of an anticipated feeling, and he thinks, he wants to have more of these.
He simply hopes for perpetuity of such things.
iv. ...so he waits for him in patience, because patience is all that ever takes to annihilate temporary walls.
On bad days, Oikawa gets a little cranky.
And on very bad days, where it’s more than just stepping a foot out the wrong side of the bed and drinking spoiled milk for breakfast, he dwindles into his self-destructing habits.
But the thing about being with him for many, many years is the merited patience gained through the labyrinths inside him. In passing time, his heart has become more open than before even if it had taken Iwaizumi his entire life to teach it to him.
“Alright, who is it?” he declares as soon as he enters the room, unplugging one of the earpods from Oikawa’s ear unannounced. “Tell me who it is and I’m gonna bust their ass.”
Oikawa sighs in annoyance, though he scoots over to make a room for him. “This isn’t grade school anymore. It’s just me.”
“Then I will bust your ass.”
He chuckles weakly, offering him his earpod. “Wanna listen together?”
“Not until I’m done with you.” Then, he takes his music off completely and sets his phone aside. This doesn’t make Oikawa give in in any way and he just resorts to blankly facing down his sheets. “Come on, what is it?”
“Just, I don’t know, tired,” he tells him like he’s tired of finding words, all with attempted nonchalance even though it’s clear he’s lying. “Week’s been long.”
“Nervous for the Olympics?”
Years ago and it would have been a surprise Oikawa looks passive about this. But Iwaizumi knows those layers to the core with all the years of observance and perseverance, so he waits for him in patience, because patience is all that ever takes to annihilate temporary walls.
“There’s so much pressure,” Oikawa admits honestly, but vaguely yet. Perhaps he isn’t lying in the first place—there’s evident tiredness in his eyes, after all. “So much pressure.”
“I get you,” he tells him and Oikawa offers a weak smile. “You know I know it. I’ve been with you through it. And we’ll do it together again.”
“I know,” Oikawa utters, because they know what one is going to say, one is going to feel and they’ve been knowing it ever since. “I know you will. And I’m thankful you’re still here,” he whispers the last bit with such sincerity and tenderness that it tugs something at Iwaizumi’s heartstrings. “But then I just can’t help it... sometimes.”
There it is: Oikawa and his bouts of self-depreciation. It frightens Iwaizumi just how effortlessly they go together and Oikawa’s toxic thoughts pilot him into another night of self-doubting. The next series of words rattles a shuddering breath out of him, but he knows what the next bout is because he’s heard it a year ago and years before that, and it makes his chest whittle.
“What if we won’t make it again?”
Iwaizumi’s gaze softens as he notes the flicker of helplessness in his eyes.
“I can’t be in the position to say it, because certainly, I’m not some high deity or a tarot reader,” he says, adding a soft laugh to somehow appease the atmosphere. “but you’ll live and get more opportunities to bag that bastard of a gold medal, Captain.”
“But I’m not getting any younger, Iwa-chan,” he whispers woefully, clandestine like he’s afraid of admitting it otherwise he will age with his unfulfilled dreams. We’re not getting any younger. “There are many talented young players that could kick me right out of my position in any day and then I would have accomplished nothing.”
“Oikawa...”
“You know that, Hajime.”
He’s right. Time does never stop moving forward, and it only reminds Iwaizumi of the chances he got and missed—those many trials and errors all throughout the years he’s living with him. Besides articulating on a response, it makes him ponder on how things would have been if he had done them the other way.
“This is probably going to be my last Olympics,” he titters wistfully. “Who knows?”
Iwaizumi holds back a sigh, trying to suppress how his gut coils to it. “What makes you say that?”
“I overheard them. We might not win it,” Oikawa states, shrugging like he can’t help it but then his voice quivers. “And if so then a half of the starters are rumored to retire. The team is relying on me... all that know me, the entire country. It’s a lot when the whole world is at you.”
“And if you won’t, what will happen to you?” Iwaizumi asks him and his heart falls the same way Oikawa’s face starts to disintegrate. But he reaches out to him, pulls his neck down until he’s at eye-level. When Oikawa tries avoiding eye contact, Iwaizumi digs his nails into the skin of his nape and holds his gaze with force. “Why do you always think that you’re fucking Atlas? You don’t carry that burden by yourself. How many times do I need to say for it to get into that thick skull of yours that there are six people on the goddamn court, those players not in the starting lineup, fucking benchwarmers, Coach, the managers, even your assistants and fucking shoe-shiners—”
Oikawa looks like a deer caught in the headlights as if he’s not used to Iwaizumi’s means of approach, but the truth is they’ve done tough pep talks like this countless of times, and it never fails to startle him into realizations of his self-worth. The gesture from afar would have been atrocious if not for the words uttered.
“I’ve been with you for most of my life, Tooru, and most times, honestly... I wouldn’t know what to tell you for you to feel better because I’m always just... yelling," Iwaizumi adds ineloquently. "I’m not that good at articulating words even though I’m old and supposed to be wise, but I just wanted you to know it.” His gaze softens when a trail of tear spills Oikawa’s cheek, ending right where he’s holding him. “I’m always there.”
Then he feels the weight of Oikawa’s head thumping his shoulder. “How can you be sure about it?” His gusts of breath fan his collarbone, along with the dampness of his tears. “No one has that much patience.”
“Oikawa, I don’t think you get how dealing with you for most of my life has made me,” Iwaizumi huffs out a laugh, running aggravated fingers through his hair, and the vexation puts Oikawa into staring back at him. “You know why I willed to will through it. You know why I’m still here.”
Oikawa chews on the inside of his left cheek, moist and blur prickling at his vision as he nods in understanding. “I’m not doubting you. Sorry I made it seem like that.”
“It’s okay.” Iwaizumi heaves a sigh. “It’s okay. Everyone’s got the right time for breakthroughs. I’m sure you’ll get there,” he tells him, complacency in the gentleness of his tone. And it’s by his subconscious that he entwines his thumb with Oikawa’s little finger. “and while you’re on your way, I’ll be with you until then.”
“...hey, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa calls out amidst the tears in his throat. He gives Iwaizumi a covert smile, a tender quirk of the lips, those glassy eyes, and it’s all worth a million words the world can decipher.
In the repose of the evening, Iwaizumi takes a song to Oikawa’s ear and shares it with him this time. His palm lingers on his cheek when he puts it on, the dangling wire their only distance, and the music begins.
Just Breathe by Pearl Jam.
But then sometimes, it’s really hard to grasp situations—Oikawa is either a tight bottle cap or a loose cannon. It breaks Iwaizumi as much as it breaks Oikawa, because he breathes the same rhythm as him and his blood pumps in the same pace as his. His soul is his soul, and what contains in him fills him up the same. But every second of treading into his disguised self, no matter how dreadful the process is, it’s always done by Iwaizumi’s God-honest willingness. It’s because it’s worth it when they both reach the denouement of each.
Iwaizumi thinks Oikawa looks his best when he’s finally, genuinely smiling after a good cry and decides he wants to be the sole witness for this—like finding the Polaris in the night sky past an untimely catastrophe: of being lost and whatnot—again and again and again.
v. ...in a way of returning the favor, he listens to Just Breathe with him.
Iwaizumi stands still in the somberness and observes nimble fingers working on his tie. In his lifestyle, he’s like those employees garbed in formal attire almost every day of his life, and yet he still wonders most of the time how Oikawa does his knots way better than him.
It’s been quite a reasonable time since he’s last worn a full suit (a new one at that upon realizing his old ones exceed the level of tightness for his own liking.) With a muddled mind, his gaze zeroes on a lint on Oikawa’s blazer, like he’s seemingly tempted to flick it away. When his fingers twitch and he as so as lifts his hand, he’s then knocked out of his conflicted reverie when gentle fingers comb along his bangs.
“Your hair’s getting longer,” he comments.
Iwaizumi distractedly hums, eyes still glued to the same disturbing object on Oikawa’s clothing (or probably nothing in particular) before he replies. “Should get a trim once we get home.”
“I can do it for you,” he offers, and when Iwaizumi finally cuts his gaze off to look at him, he gives him a small smile.
“Sure.”
There’s a considerate pause and then Oikawa hesitantly asks him, “You wanna smoke?”
He shakes his head. “Not going back. I’d probably go out for some air or something.”
“You should do that. I’ll be here then.”
There’s nothing too special about the weather today. It’s sunny, but the clouds are thick, almost grey, in its glory. (He realizes it’s Oikawa’s favorite weather, or rather, an Oikawa-ish weather.) And while he thinks of it, he observes him from outside.
In a fair distance, he can see the exhaustion he wears by the glass doors. They haven’t gotten any ounce of sleep since the wake, but if Iwaizumi is sleep-deprived, then Oikawa is close to becoming a bona fide zombie. He’s been up for most hours throughout the remaining days of the week, tending himself to Iwaizumi and holding him at secure proximity while he mourns about his late grandmother.
His heart breaks for both, about her and about Oikawa, especially when he sees him discreetly crying to himself when he thinks everyone else is tending to their own grievances. Because ever since the news of the untimely death reached to their household, Iwaizumi has never seen Oikawa shed a single tear before him. He remains tough through and through and always tries to hold it in no matter how much the mist in his eyes accumulates and becomes visibly heavy.
And when he thinks of turning the tables over and reaching out, he halts in his tracks and can only watch his sister pull him into a consoling hug.
When the family and guests are called back in for the bone separation ceremony, Iwaizumi almost loses track of Oikawa in the crowd. He almost snarls at him when he finds him at the back, threading his way among the other guests.
“What are you doing?” Iwaizumi hisses, pulling at his wrist, and almost feels guilty upon seeing how worn-out he looks. “You’re family.”
There’s nothing more heartbreaking than seeing a loved-one turn into bone and ashes, and while he picks up a pair of chopsticks in his quivering hand, there’s an encouraging one on his back that tells him things are going to be fine. Even so, Iwaizumi almost knocks out the urn with his deteriorating composure, and at that instance, Oikawa pulls themselves out too quickly to be discreet.
Iwaizumi never really cries easily, but he cries his whole heart out when he does and it takes him every ounce of his energy to ease himself.
He’s always thought their relationship is a never-failing give-and-take, so when he submits himself to Oikawa, he’s welcomed without doubts and reassured with secure words.
“I’m here, I’m here.”
It’s like that until the ceremony comes to its very end. People say goodbyes after goodbyes and offer customary to sincere condolences. Iwaizumi only ever has to pull away when both of their families remain.
When they get back to their car for the way back home, only then he knows why Oikawa had to rent it in the first place. The train to Miyagi has always been a viable option for them—for holidays, vacations and whatnot—but Iwaizumi realizes he was able to grieve in private.
Before they hit off the road, Oikawa wordlessly connects his phone to the car. And in a way of returning the favor, he listens to Just Breathe with him.
It’s as if the skies are grieving with the earth, or so it seems, Iwaizumi thinks when beads of rain quickly blur the tinted windows. Strangely, at this unlikely moment, he quietly welcomes the soft pitter-patter of every drop.
“I’m always used to hating the rain. I don’t know why I even feel calm right now.”
“But obaa-chan does,” Oikawa mumbles, turning the wiper on. “She’s taking care of you.”
Even in the afterlife. Iwaizumi can only hum. He agrees with him.
“You want something on the way home, Iwa-chan?”
vi. “The older you get, the grumpier you are,” Oikawa tells him by a whisper.
Eyes simultaneously on the road and on his phone, other hand on the steering wheel and free fingers flying away on the keyboard, Iwaizumi’s really got no space in his brain wanting to take in and counter Oikawa’s anxiously glaring eyes darting between him and the seemingly endless freeway. When they get honked by a delivery truck zooming by them at around sixty miles per hour, the first warning comes like this:
“No phones while driving, Iwa-chan.”
The consequences of coming to an end of a weeklong vacation are always the uncouth means of welcoming him back to reality—all in the form of never-ending calls from work and demanding texts for souvenirs from friends. The moment he disables airplane mode, his phone blasts in a series of ringtones and he reconsiders maybe having really let Oikawa drive instead.
“I know. I just have to take this message quick.” Iwaizumi situates his phone above the steering wheel to level his vision on the screen and the road, gritting his teeth as he sees the horrendously long line of messages. “Today’s shift is crazy.”
“But you’re not on duty.”
“They might call me in for sub.” And then he mutters a low fuck while viciously typing back a reply. “One of my coworkers collapsed.”
“Can’t it wait until we arrive?” Oikawa suggests, voice distinctly strained to be calm though Iwaizumi can hear the pounding of his forehead veins well. “There are literally almost like five cars on the lane.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m being careful,” he assures him but then speeds up a notch like it’s reassurance.
“Iwa-chan.” Oikawa’s tone now is aggravated and he warns him the second time. “Eyes on the road, please.”
Iwaizumi clenches his jaw, his focus dissolving now that irritation consumes him. "Just a quick one, Oikawa. We’ll live. Now please be quiet for once because I have a raging headache.”
“Hajime.”
“…for fuck’s sake.”
“You know your carelessness can put your ass to jail, right?
“Do you really need to pull this shit on me?” Iwaizumi barks, impulsively chucking his phone to the back seat and replies now all but forgotten. “I’m the one who works eight hours a day here. I wouldn’t have taken this shit if it wasn’t important!”
“Well, that’s a bullshit excuse for you to die then. Pull over,” Oikawa demands with a condescending tone and Iwaizumi can only scoff, pressing deeper on the gas. "I said pull over, Hajime!”
“The lay-by isn’t until two kilometers! Stupid.”
“I’d rather be fined for illegally parking than go to prison for illegally driving! I have just enough money for a fine; I’m not fucking bailing you out.”
He literally punches on the horn when an innocent SUV overtakes them. “For fuck’s sake, Tooru. Stop being a child for once.”
“I’m the child?” Oikawa exclaims in his overly done dramatics and Iwaizumi almost lets out a snort of how absurd he sounds. “What a reach. Do you want to go to jail? Do you want to die, then?”
“No one fucking said about wanting to die.”
“You’re so goddamn hard-headed. Why can’t you just, you know, understand why I’m yelling at you, Hajime?” he responds after a frustrating moment passes, just silent enough to be heard. “I’m not just screaming at you for no reason.”
For a minute or two, neither has said anything and Iwaizumi temporarily leaves their petty argument that way. Because it can’t be just left like that while he feels that nasty, plague-like guilt claw up at his chest.
When Oikawa twists himself away and faces the window, Iwaizumi tries his best to stay focused on the road while he throws him apologetic glances.
Oikawa gives him a full cold shoulder up until when they have returned the rented car, arrived home and done the laundry. Iwaizumi hasn’t touched his phone ever since and doesn’t bother yet in consideration of coming to terms with his current worries. (Oikawa first and then work.) He slides into their room as quiet as possible and sees him three-fourths buried in the sheets.
His eyes dart to Iwaizumi awkwardly stepping in and, as if seeing an unwelcomed visitor, the crease between his eyebrows deepens. It makes Iwaizumi chuckle in a way, because his own head has reached levels of messed up enough to think Oikawa looking quite endearing, but then he keeps it to himself, as well as how his insides just thaw for him.
“Hey.”
The pissed look on Oikawa’s face while he works on his Rubik’s cube then dissolves into confusion when Iwaizumi crawls with him under the covers and tells him he looks cute when he’s mad.
“You really think I’m cute when I’m mad?” He asks him doubtfully but with a hint of genuine curiosity.
Iwaizumi frankly ignores the question and takes the Rubik’s cube from his paused hands, promptly finishing it for him. “You forgot the combination again.”
Oikawa is certainly not bothered by it and just wordlessly places it on the nightstand. He tosses and turns on the bed until he finds the perfect lying position— facing Iwaizumi, and Iwaizumi takes the chance to meet him halfway. He doesn’t cower when the tips of their noses touch.
And he draws in all those excruciatingly slow forty-five seconds to fully absorb how sublime it feels being this close to him.
“The older you get, the grumpier you are,” Oikawa tells him by a whisper, his breathy chuckle just barely kissing him.
“That makes the two of us then.”
I’m not grumpy, Oikawa would have countered years ago but a fond sigh only leaves his mouth.
For a minute or two, neither has said anything and Iwaizumi temporarily leaves their silence that way. Because it can’t be just left like that while he feels the same heaviness and levity filling up his chest. He relieves this by a nerve or two and wordlessly reaches over to caress his cheek. Oikawa remains unmoving, only his eyelashes flutter and fall, but he nevertheless remains his gaze on him. And it’s what makes Iwaizumi’s heart swell to the point of pain.
He thinks they’re never supposed to be this close anyway, with his nose on the verge of becoming runny, but all his guards aside, he complies when Oikawa scoots closer just enough that he inhales his exhales.
“Iwa-chaan,” he nasally calls out and Iwaizumi sweeps his wavy bangs aside in some poor excuse to touch his face. “Iwa-chan.”
“What.”
“Iwa-chan.”
“What.”
“Nothing,” Oikawa chortles and fiddles his fingers with Iwaizumi's hair. There’s always something so distinct the way he looks at him, like recalling a fond memory, or perhaps loosely close to being nostalgic. “How come you have a big forehead but have your hairline level all the same?”
Iwaizumi snatches his hand and bites at his forefinger.
“Ow!”
“Because I don’t use ridiculous products unlike you. Idiot.”
“The gym shampoos kinda grew on me though...”
He hums thoughtfully. “True.”
“Hey, Iwa-chan,” he calls out but Iwaizumi remains pokerfaced. He snickers and tries again. “Hey, Iwa-chan, for real.”
“What is it, you noob.”
“Do you know why I’m mad then?”
Iwaizumi pauses to study him, the shame and relief both washing over his insides, and playfully pulls at his chin. Sometimes he forgets Oikawa barely grows facial hair and it pisses him off.
“You’re staring,” Oikawa comments. The tinkle of his laugh almost lulls Iwaizumi to sleep.
But he nods, nevertheless, and remains eye-contact. “Of course.”
vii. “...doing something people would call as redundant and dull, but I wouldn’t want it another way.”
On summer mornings, when the season reaches its peak, it’s a common occurrence for Iwaizumi to wake up eighty-percent naked with an equally eighty-percent naked Oikawa latching onto him. He doesn’t quite get how it happens, but they manage taking their clothes off, sans boxers, somewhere in the middle of those humid nights without fail and a care in the world.
It’s not a surprise though, but Iwaizumi tries not to think how he wakes up to Oikawa’s skin pressing to his and how the ripples of his torso just naturally conform to his back. When he slowly accumulates his senses, the first thing he does other than slowly register Oikawa’s tamed shampoo scent is to half-sit up. He pauses right there, quite at a loss with one elbow propped on the mattress and the sheets pooling at his stomach.
Indeed being a light sleeper, Oikawa had likely felt the rustling beside him and wakes up as expected. He turns over to face Iwaizumi.
“Did we do something last night?” he asks in mild disorientation, looking between their exposed chests.
“Don’t be stupid,” Iwaizumi grumbles and promptly rolls over to hover him. Oikawa locks eyes with him in curiosity and alarm, now fully awake, and Iwaizumi discreetly observes how he sinks into the bed and chews on his cheek. He arches his eyebrow and asks him in his morning voice, “Why? You want to?”
Oikawa makes a dramatic groan, hands flying up to his chest as he makes the world’s lewdest face. “Fuck, I’m hard.”
With a blank expression, Iwaizumi grabs a stray pillow off the floor and slams it on his face.
“Iwa-chan!” he sputters.
“I’ll report you to the landlady,” Iwaizumi warns with no bite as usual. He sits up and side-eyes Oikawa. There’s a noticeable tension right there, and Iwaizumi can feel much more alert eyes on him. As Oikawa steps a foot out of the bed, he obviously tries to do it too casually, so Iwaizumi kicks it off by instantly bolting for the bathroom door.
“No, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa claws at Iwaizumi who’s holding onto the door jamb with all his living strength. He makes unintelligible grumbles (or as Oikawa likes to dub as prehistoric human yelling) and blocks the door from him as much as he can.
“Hajime, I will shit on the floor if you won’t let me in first!”
“It’s not my fault you’re a slow turtle, dumbass!” He yells and swats at Oikawa who’s now breathing at his neck. He goddamn knows he’s ticklish there. “Get off, Oikawa!”
“I can’t,” Oikawa grits, fighting with his own will. And when he dares digging his teeth into his bare shoulder, well, Iwaizumi might have accidentally flung him back. He hears a thud and a yelp that now turns into a cry.
“Shit,” Iwaizumi barks out a laugh (he does feel bad), and promptly drops to the floor to survey Oikawa. He has his hand cupping his head and Iwaizumi might have believed his dramatic crying this time. He genuinely sounds in pain though and he almost feels guilty about it. “You’re okay, right?”
“What kind of caveman question is that? I’m not!” Oikawa glares at him and his piercing eyes soften when Iwaizumi chuckles and cradles the back of his head. His fingers intertwine with Oikawa’s there.
“’m sorry,” he says, voice unusually gentle and tiptoeing to a soft laugh.
Turns out there is no shower happening after that in lieu of Oikawa’s demand to lounge with him on the couch. They’re huddled under throw blanket (one used too many times and two weeks past the laundry schedule), still in boxers, and they drink their oolong tea while watching early Sunday news.
“Recently, I’ve been interested in those daily life vlogs on YouTube,” Oikawa initiates the conversation of the day, and Iwaizumi watches him as he throws his head back to bask under the sunrise tearing through their balcony doors. He always does this. He says it helps him get his vitamin D. “They’re now a part of my daily meditation. Watching them is so satisfying.”
“You think so?”
“Though I do think it might come out as boring to you, because aesthetics, minimalism, and Iwa-chan sound unlikely together.”
Iwaizumi scoffs. “And Oikawa and minimalism go well? The house is a garbage dump because of you.”
“No, but, Iwa-chan’s type of life seem to roam around constant energy. Like wrah! and not hmm-hmm-hmm, you get me?” Iwaizumi’s eye twitches he as tries processing his words. Oikawa always talks so animatedly and sometimes, alien-like. “You wake up and immediately head out to the gym, or for a jog, or consume your bitter morning coffee. But I guess that’s common for you, because you’re living your life,” he sighs in wonder. “Iwa-chan, always living his life on the go...”
“I hate it when I’m not moving.”
“Can’t argue. Keep saying it while you’re young. Old people can’t relate to that; they either hate or miss moving around,” he states and Iwaizumi agrees, turning to face him to indicate he’s listening. Lately, it’s been kind of an afterthought, wondering how he’s always done this—having all of himself to Oikawa. It’s a habit he can’t get rid of, after all. “We’re so different in the morning, you noticed that? We used to jog together; now it’s just you, because then I’d jog at night. While you’re out to buy groceries at six, or tend to the cactuses on the balcony, I’d still be in bed, with my mouth wide open,” Oikawa pauses to snicker, an unflattering snort coming out of his nose, and Iwaizumi just can’t stop staring at him. “and sleeping the day away. And then you’d come back at seven-thirty-ish and make breakfast. While the rice cooks, you’d be in the bathroom to shower, or uncharacteristically take a dump. And while you dry your hair off, you’d wake me up so we’d eat together. And sometimes when it would get too lazy, or we’d get indigestion from a meal the night before, we’d take turns in the bathroom or drink our tea in silence... sometimes in the kitchen island or the balcony outside. Maybe here on the couch. In our boxers. And perhaps a blanket over us.” Just like this, Iwaizumi construes it as that when Oikawa gestures to the setting around them. As he tilts his head to face Iwaizumi, there’s both keenness and wistfulness in his eyes, but his content smile just compensates it all. “I feel like I could live my life off as simple as this. It feels fulfilling every day, Iwa-chan—doing something people would call as redundant and dull, but I wouldn’t want it another way.”
When he utters his postscript before their customary sunup tranquility, Iwaizumi is then struck to silence (not in an apprehensive way), and has already decided for himself.
In the right time, a thought caresses.
“I like being dull like this.”
viii. “That dumbass hates kids but our pantry’s stuffed to the brim with classified pet food.”
Eleven minutes prior to their tryst in Mikamine Park, they stand amidst grace and recklessness, with cascading petals and scurrying people, and the afternoon coldness nipping at their heels. The chilly air from winter season drags all the way to the first days of spring, thus the shuffling of cold hands and huddling of bodies into the warmest of garments, and as they await the arrival of long old friends, Iwaizumi glances at Oikawa by his peripheral and makes out the mulish reddishness of his cheeks.
Oikawa poorly attempts blowing heat to his perpetually freezing hands, but Iwaizumi damn knows no natural element in the world can cure them unless he dips them into boiling water. He always, always forgets bringing his gloves even with Iwaizumi’s constant reminders enough for it to permanently stick to his head. He doesn’t really have the whole heart to reprimand him though, with him being jittery and excited and jumpy in his stuffy long padding, a whole too sweet for a six-foot grown man.
“It’s been too long! I can’t wait!”
He chirps like a bird and it’s the most ridiculous metaphor he can ever think of.
“Because you never show up when you’re on vacation,” Iwaizumi sighs, drawing out the secretly tucked gloves from the pocket of his coat he brings for emergencies, or rather, careless instances.
On today’s day-out comprises intentionally matching outfits, what with Oikawa Tooru’s way of bragging about his sponsorship from The North Face and couple paddings with Iwa-chan! Iwaizumi doesn’t really oppose to it as it’s five fucking degrees outside and the fabric is comfy enough for him to even subliminally name it a portable couch.
“Iwa-chan, how cute are you huddled up in that coat!” Oikawa coos and snickers like the toddler he is and Iwaizumi deadpans, whacking the pair of gloves upside his head.
“I’ll kill you.”
He whines. “You Neanderthal with no sense of public manners!” he cries out, allowing the passersby to throw him weird glances. Nonetheless, he accepts the gloves with fervor and hurriedly slides them on his hands. “This is why people are intimidated of approaching you!”
But then both their eyes widen, simultaneously as Iwaizumi emits a quiet oof, when a kid, around three years old, latches onto his leg and wails his lungs out.
“Hey, what’s wrong buddy?” It’s automatic how Iwaizumi reacts to the outcry the way his radar is attuned to Oikawa’s emotional episodes. He throws Oikawa a panicked look, the latter barely reacting from the confusion itself, and awkwardly glances around as if he just committed a felony. He kneels to level with the boy, surveying him and checking for any forms of physical injury, and as he’s reassured himself that there’s zero, at the least, his hand comes up to rub on his back until he is crying less.
“What’s wrong, kid?” Oikawa chimes in and Iwaizumi wishes he shouldn’t have bothered; otherwise he’s going to get in trouble with that nasally voice of his. “I know Iwa-chan’s face can be scary enough for you to cry, but he’s actually pretty nice!”
The child frowns at him, harrumphing as he sniffs his snot. Oikawa’s eye spasms.
“What’s with that attitude... your mom might leave you for real.”
The child bawls his eyes out again and cries louder than before.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi hisses and Oikawa yelps when he’s cuffed.
“Iwa-chan, make it stop.”
“I will drag you to the police station!”
He must have thought Iwaizumi is talking about him, because then he turns into having a full panicked tantrum.
“Yuuto!”
“-oh, there she is.”
“Onee-chan!”
By the moment Iwaizumi is about to pick the kid up, a fairly tall woman with neck-length hair tears through the crowd and brakes just a few feet from them with a look of both relief and panic. She charges without second thoughts, frown appearing to be more and more prominent with each step she takes.
“We saw him and thought he might be lost. He was the one who found us,” Iwaizumi admits, handing him to her with an awkward air around them; he side-eyes Oikawa.
“Thanks,” the woman nods, stuttering in a way she contains but still apparent. She briefly looks at Iwaizumi in the eye and immediately shifts eye contact. Oikawa whistles when she’s out of sight.
“I see Iwa-chan still got it.”
Iwaizumi barely makes out of what he’s talking about and instead coughs a snort. “She didn’t even recognize you nor give you a second look.”
“For all we know, she must have been living under a rock.”
“You’re so pissy.”
“Am not!”
He shakes his head, thinking about the banter a second ago and resists the urge to jab him. “Why do you hate kids anyway?”
“I don’t hate my nephew and he’s a kid,” Oikawa reasons smartly, humming in thought as he concludes. “And babies are kind of cute when they’re not crying, so technically, I don’t hate them. They just hate me.”
“Takeru’s not a kid anymore. He’s a high schooler.”
“He’s still a kid to me.”
“And so are you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not even getting started yet and Iwaizumi looks like he’s ready to murder you, Oikawa.”
Matsukawa and Hanamaki join in as they appear into their hopeless repartee (courtesy of Matsukawa with the remark), amused look on their faces. On today’s day-out doesn’t just comprise Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s matching outfits, but as well as the other duo deciding to join in with their own Oikawa-sponsored OOTDs. (Five boxes of long padding had come to his doorstep and he’d immediately given the remaining one to his sister.)
Iwaizumi jabs an accusing thumb at him. “How old is he, by the way, to fight with a child?”
Matsukawa gasps in offense. “What level of pettiness is that, Oikawa?”
“I was just teasing!”
“He’s a toddler, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re supposed to be a grown fucking adult,” Hanamaki comments, all amused. “but then you do justify it when we forget you’re actually mentally three.”
“With him not showing up for a long time, I would have thought he’s finally meditated in the mountains to become a changed man.”
“Mattsun!”
“Of course he didn’t wanna show up to us. He only shows up to Iwaizumi—”
“—and be even pettier.”
“And more childish.”
“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Iwaizumi sighs, irritated with all the noise, and lets Oikawa huddle up closer to him. “My ass is freezing. Can we go now.”
“So?” Hanamaki shuffles in the cold, fixing the coat bigger than his size. “Where to?”
Backfire melting at his tongue, Oikawa’s eyes sparkle as he throws in his two cents. “That dog café that opened while I was away!”
“He’s always wanted to go there,” Iwaizumi snorts and almost misses the way Oikawa slides his icy fingers into his. The chilliness neutralizes his warm ones, and he then again realizes exactly why Oikawa wants to be anywhere but home in cold seasons. “Ah, WithDog, that one?”
”I fucking knew it.”
“Tell me more about that whole fiasco in Mikamine, Hajime.” It’s the first thing Hanamaki asks him when they find themselves seated in one of the cozy wooden tables, no reason but to amuse himself while they leave Oikawa and Matsukawa with their acclaimed priorities.
“You know it. The usual. That bastard,” Iwaizumi makes a lopsided smile, eyes trained to Oikawa quivering with excitement as puppies start to gather around him, doing said priorities by shuffling for a paper bag of dog food in his pocket. “That dumbass hates kids but our pantry’s stuffed to the brim with classified pet food.”
“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?” Hanamaki asks him, or rather makes a statement, hiding a knowing smile behind his coffee and glance darting between him and the subject.
“Yeah,” he chuckles like he can’t help it, wistful in a way, and he watches how Oikawa struggles to gather the gargantuan shiba inu into his arms and stuff its mouth with munchies all the same. He laughs in the way he finds something genuinely amusing, the kind that just comes out of his mouth without forewarning, without pretense, and Iwaizumi’s heart swells into two sizes. He has always been a magnet to animals. “I kind of have been with him most of my life, so.”
“Why don’t you just break it, then?”
“I’m going for the right time.”
“And when exactly is that?” He’s not quite sure how many times Hanamaki has asked him that, but he’s surely asked it to the point of annoyance. “He’s just waiting for it, Iwaizumi, every time is the right time. And you’re both not getting any younger. You’re twenty-eight.”
“Way cool to point out I am obviously aging.”
“You get my point,” he makes a pointed look to match. “You can’t just keep living with him without establishing the final official of the both of you.”
“I know that.”
“So, you got any hints?”
“Well, I love him,” he nods, buoying himself up, and almost lets the embarrassment get to him saying it. “And he loves me, or that’s what I think.”
“You think,” Hanamaki deadpans. “That’s why you need to go for it, brother. You’re now behind all of us even though you started your shit the earliest.”
“But I will, I’m sure of that. I’m very sure of him.” At this point, it gets more and more frustrated having to glance at his friends’ couple rings every now and then. “Stop making me stressed.”
“What stress are you guys talking about?” Oikawa approaches them back to his seat, a baby samoyed in his hands as he hands it to Iwaizumi wordlessly.
Iwaizumi takes it from him and remains stoic as possible under his curious gaze.
“Oh, you’ll know,” Hanamaki scoffs.
ix."What?” he asks, wary as Oikawa tugs him by his belt loop.
Iwaizumi pops in one of his aged Kayama Yuzo tapes to the cassette player, decades old and something he’s proudly inherited from his father in his younger days, while he takes in the scent of home and the ambiance of finally having himself in peace past being away for three weeks. As he rummages the kitchen for his own welcome home dinner, the song continues where it left off, just where the first seconds of the beginning verse starts in Kimi To Itsumademo. He thaws the leftover rice Oikawa had stored in the freezer, and the nostalgia hits the spot when he hears the door click, beep, and shut close.
“I’m home, Hajime,” he hears a mutter, more of something directed to oneself, and the scuffing of soles.
The hairs on Iwaizumi’s nape rise upon the call, as in all those years he’s lived with him, he’s never really heard a customary greeting so familiar yet so strange before.
Well, his arrival is supposed to be some sort of surprise, but then he’s not sure how he even knew.
Iwaizumi silently watches him from the kitchen, figuring that he may not be aware of his presence, because he always gives Iwaizumi a glance or two post-greeting, by routine.
There is an eerie silence as Oikawa kicks his shoes off, looking up and frowning distinctively with a look that tells he’s trying hard to dig his brain for something.
“What the fuck,” he curses lowly, sniffing. He pauses, frowns, and sniffs again. “I swear to God I turned the stove off this morning.”
“Dumbass, what are you doing there, talking to yourself?”
He is then knocked out of his monologue, startling so hard he almost outbalances himself on the genkan. His eyes promptly shifts to the counter, meeting Iwaizumi’s with his terrified own, and the picturesque sight looks worth a laugh.
Iwaizumi stares at him until the consciousness dawns on Oikawa and he combusts into a fiery blush.
“Iwa-chan—!”
“Hey.”
“You’re home earlier than expected?” Oikawa chokes with his words while he makes a beeline for the kitchen. The residual redness of his face still remains, but nearly the entire thing is then replaced by a genuinely surprised smile, almost like he can’t stop a grin from coming out too wide. He laughs breathily and it sounds relieved, glad even, for a lack of a better word.
“Yep. Took the earliest flight back home. The last two days of activities were not compulsory.”
“What activities?”
“Sight-seeing.”
“Oh,” Oikawa snorts, bumping his hip with his and scooting closer. “Cool tan, by the way.”
“I’m dying in this sunburn I tell you.”
“Did you miss me that much you had to come home that bad?”
Iwaizumi doesn’t bother fronting it. “Yeah.”
“Oh,” Oikawa stutters, and on the mirror’s reflection from the living area, his face visibly comes back to that fiery red. “What are you making?”
“Not sure,” he buzzes, rubbing on his chin as he glances at him for suggestions. “There’s leftover rice so I’m not sure whether you prefer fried rice or congee tonight.”
“I’m okay with anything actually,” Oikawa honestly tells him, trying to squeeze himself into their tiny counter.
In their minuscule movements, a variety even as simple as grabbing water and breathing, Iwaizumi can feel their intimacy and quietly sent signals. Oikawa is a lot closer today, or so it seems, but then Iwaizumi is just deprived of all remembrances of him, all the way from Thailand, that he tends to get as close as possible his own. Either way, he doesn’t mind minuteness of things and caches every covert smile Oikawa makes to the back of his head—somewhere he will visit later when he sleeps.
Perhaps it may have been the days of absence they’re trying to fill in.
By spontaneous decision, he resolves on congee for dinner when Oikawa presses his half-drank water bottle to his cheek. Iwaizumi gladly accepts the offer and downs another half of it, his mind subtly on the thought of Oikawa’s taste on the lid.
With the remaining content, he pours the entire thing into the casserole.
“How was Phuket?”
“Great weather,” Iwaizumi reminisces, fondly sighing about sun tans and improv cut muscle tees. “Good food.”
“Hot girls?”
Iwaizumi only smirks, shrugging.
“Mm...” Oikawa hums, lips jutting and clearly envious. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“For hot girls?”
“No, for the weather and food.”
“We should, some time.”
“We’re always busy,” Oikawa chuckles, and it’s quite pensive as it sounds. “And we barely have matching off-days.”
“We can work it out.”
Oikawa simply nods, smile expectant and waits until he has put the ingredients into cooking. And while they both wait for dinner, he frowns at him.
“What?” he asks, wary as Oikawa tugs him by his belt loop. It comes not a surprise but definitely random, and the words die in his throat when he hooks his free arm around his shoulder and sighs into his skin. “What?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, his words tickling Iwaizumi’s sunburn. “This song’s just a good pick to dance to.”
Liar, Iwaizumi grins into his hair and guys him. “You don’t disturb me in the middle of cooking just so we have burnt dinner, stupid. I’m home, Hajime, huh?”
“Shut up.”
Iwaizumi’s laugh dissipates into every strand, and the scent that emits even with the bland shampoo he’s using makes his heart do somersaults like a teenager’s. After all, the warm weather in Thailand can’t compare to the one he’s used to at home. And even if he’s used to it enough that he must have gotten sick of it, he takes all he can get like he’s drinking him in, bit by bit in slow appreciation and with unwavering complacency.
“You miss me?”
Oikawa says nothing but nods once.
Iwaizumi susurrates words only he can hear, all but embarrassed, and pulls him tighter.
Oikawa’s fingers unhook from his belt loop, and with those he cards through his hair. He doesn’t quite know what face he’s making, but the way his fingertips dance on his scalp in such an Oikawa-ish habit is enough indication that he’s been waiting for him all along.
Cheek stayed pressed to his shoulder, he tilts his head up to look at him in silence before saying,
“You smell like onions.”
Iwaizumi’s brow twitches up and he levels his view to look back. He does wonder would he boldly have his lips on his if not for the barely there distance.
“And you’re ugly.”
“And you love me.”
There’s a playful glint in Oikawa’s eyes, and had it been anyone, they would have not discerned the uneasiness that sits deeper in his irises. Iwaizumi’s words sit jumbled at his throat—it’s kind of hard to breathe when he loves him this much and he’s this close.
“You’re awfully affectionate these days.”
But his heart does decide when to slide out of his mouth, and in just a few thoughtful moments, without any sort of hesitation, he tells him, “I’m not a teenager anymore enough to be weak with you.”
It’s nothing but serene after that, even and after they dig into their dinner, only the background noise that is the mellow music from the cassette player filling in the pleasantness of it. When they wash the dishes side by side, Oikawa is quiet, has his head leaned to his shoulder while he works on drying their utensils. Iwaizumi realizes he smells more and more like those basic shampoos he uses in gyms and receives from hotel rooms and makes a comment.
“You know, you should save me some of that shampoo you use. They smell pretty nice.”
x. "...I had to ponder about it all night even though the answer is vague and universal at the same time, but I do think I caught the gist of it in exchange of a good night’s sleep.”
Home from a two-month-long conquest in France has never been a more rewarding feat than carrying a silver medal in his hands.
They say sunsets in Paris are things you can’t miss, dinner by the Eiffel Tower another, but there’s something about a late meal above the bustling Tokyo afternoon that speaks to me on a certain degree. And albeit they’d both agree to save stories to tell for tomorrow (because repercussions of a fourteen-hour flight is never an easy period to combat), Oikawa had mumbled those words last night, vague and clear all the same while he hovers on the threshold of slumber.
In the morning, he sleeps in late, and in an unusual occasion, Iwaizumi takes the day off by his own will (otherwise, without the nagging in a usual occasion.)
“That pinch serve was great, by the way,” Iwaizumi speaks through his cup of tea the second he hears footfalls on wooden floors, something he hasn’t heard in a while.
“The volunteer I made was risky, but only because you told me to,” Oikawa glares as he trudges to the living room; the intimidation barely gets to Iwaizumi, not with that large yawn on his face. He flumps on the couch, takes his readied tea from the chabudai and taps his cup with his. “But it also got me the silver medal.”
Iwaizumi gets to look at him and beams with pride, perhaps just a nick higher from the kind he’s made while he watched Oikawa walk up to the Olympic podium, ever stupid-looking with his crying face he could barely hold in.
“You were the best.”
“Because you always made me feel like it.” His face mirrors his, and he’s laughing like he can’t believe he’s made it. “It’s like volleyball training. And I took it with me to internationals.”
Iwaizumi redoes his sitting position when he finishes his cup, torso twisted that he faces him, side on the backrest and arms crossed. “How were you doing there?”
“I regret not bringing your favorite socks with me.”
“Stupid,” he snorts on impulse. “You took my hoodie with you. And you were in France.”
“France is not the same without you,” Oikawa says honestly yet not quite facing him, and resorts to weirdly studying the residual leaves whirring in his drink. “You should go with me next time.”
Iwaizumi makes a face, and in his head does a mental calculation about the days he’s going to file for leave. “Olympics? In L.A.?”
“Oh, that too,” Oikawa says in wonder, as if in realization. “But I meant about France. The internet never lies, Iwa-chan. It was a great time there.”
“That’s good.” He nods, mouth twisting into a tiny smile. “So, Phuket and then France.”
“You think we could do it in a year? Maybe put more in the bucket list?”
“I’m sure two is more than enough.”
"Huh. We could have more only if you use your number of leaves accordingly,” Oikawa pointedly tells him.
“People need me. I can’t just file for leave whenever I want.”
“And you need rest,” he scolds in a way that makes his chest wrench with clear affection. “That’s what shifts are made for, it’s not like you control the goddamn hospital. I can’t believe I’m actually telling you this myself, it’s crazy, but you need to stop overworking.”
“And so do you,” Iwaizumi retaliates.
“Hey, Iwa-chan, you really need to go to France, I tell you. I got to eat authentic French food for two months, after all,” Oikawa haughtily says, a smirk forming under all that but eyes holding something close to brooding. Iwaizumi waits for him. “They have the comfiest bed in the athletes’ village, maybe even softer than the one we have in the bedroom. In France, I have a bed solely for myself and the windows are larger. The Eiffel’s silhouette is the first and last thing I see when I look out the window, it’s there, following you everywhere in Paris, and it’s more than what my dreams could ever make out, because what do you expect? It’s France!”
Iwaizumi can merely listen and he lingers and lingers on his words until he tells him more, because he looks at him and sees a discrepancy somewhere in his animated story-telling—his words don’t quite reach his tone and his tone tiptoes on pensiveness rather than elation.
“But then in France,” he continues, placing his half-empty cup beside Iwaizumi’s. “I barely slept no matter how exhausted I was or how soft that bed might be. Funnily enough, there were times I find myself wondering what it would be like to have another burnt meal from you when I’m hungry.”
“—you really are the stupidest stupid I’ve ever known—”
“I guess I wasn’t honest with you, about getting decent sleep… because on nights that I couldn’t, I thought of nothing other than wanting to be in that goddamn bed back in the bedroom, even though that thing makes my back sore a little, as then I’d know I was home.
“I forgot how many times I wanted to go home, Iwa-chan, but of course, I had dreams to chase,” he laughs wetly, heel of his palm digging into his eyes until he sees phosphenes; Iwaizumi quickly reaches out to hold it down.
Stop that, he reprimands without saying.
Something heavy tingles in his sweatpants, yet he keeps it all in, including the urge to pull him into a kiss that tells how much he always thinks about him.
“Hey, Iwa-chan.”
“Yeah,” his voice unintentionally comes out as a whisper, a silent shudder in between breathing, and he passes being casual by rubbing his eyes.
“You know what I did when I missed you when you were away? When you were in Phuket? I was rummaging through the sock drawers. Because I would miss you and your ugly face and I wanted some comfort because FaceTime is not enough.” By now it’s Oikawa who has the tables turned and Iwaizumi’s hand contained in his, and he laughs. He laughs in such a way that comes out without premonition—maybe wholesome, maybe relieved, and it’s Iwaizumi’s favorite thing. “So, I borrowed your ugliest pair of socks. And you know what I found there?”
It dawns to him like a meteorite to his head, and at this, Iwaizumi’s eyes widen a fraction he almost tears up. Though he’s right in front of Oikawa, he tries, even so, to suppress a tense chuckle and blinks innocently. “Found what?”
Oikawa’s gaze softens as he keeps himself on him, never breaking eye-contact even when he inches closer and mirrors his position.
“So, how long did you keep it there?” he chuckles softly, thumb caressing Iwaizumi’s neck. “How long are you going to keep me waiting?”
As if you can really get yourself away with it. Somewhere up his mind, Kyoutani’s words ring with a warning about carefully hiding significant things. He can only laugh in genuine embarrassment, no speech waiting at the tip of his tongue (perhaps all dissolving so quickly), and unceremonious over digging for the ring in his pocket.
“Give me your hand.”
Oikawa’s eyes are eager watching Iwaizumi slide the band along his finger, a rather late “yes” mumbled like a quiet prayer when it reaches past his knuckle. It’s a little loose, but it sits perfectly in his hand like it’s meant to be there. It’s everything he has ever hoped for past those months of shovel talks and heartfelt advices from friends and families, that is: to get that ring to the bottom of Oikawa Tooru’s finger.
“You didn’t even put it in a box? How do you manage living a careless life?”
“Shut up.” Iwaizumi is still aflame with humiliation. “But you’ll marry me, right? You can take it off if you don’t want to.”
“Are you stupid?” Oikawa blurts out an amused laugh, and maybe if Iwaizumi takes his time being attentive to details, he can make out how much the stars in his eyes outstand the morning. “That’s usually not how one proposes.”
“Yeah, because that’s how I propose.”
“Weird flex, but okay.”
“You really need to stay off Twitter and stop pretending to talk like a teenager.”
“Well, you suck at keeping things from me,” Oikawa huffs, yet he can’t keep a smile from wiggling out. “We share sock drawers! Stupid.”
“So, what did you do after finding it?”
The grin on his face falls and he looks away from him, stubborn. “I wasn’t watching Marley and Me when I cried FaceTiming you.”
“Typical idiot excuse then.”
He rolls his eyes though he can't keep himself from ogling at the gold band adorned on one of his flexed fingers. Iwaizumi takes the distraction to pull him for a tender kiss to the head, a gesture that speaks for many words and many decades, and while he does so, he mutters the words to his hair.
They remain that way, and it’s quiet for a while that way. He never really thought much about when he needs to pop it up. (Thus explaining having to keep the ring with him at all times he’s around Oikawa, lest he finds the right moment to be proposing.)
He’s just waiting for it, (of course) every time is the right time, a passing thought way back early spring comes like a blip. Just thinking about it, what with how long time has gone, has made him realize the many chances he let disintegrate into the winds.
Yet the way Oikawa’s arms are tight around him, Iwaizumi hears the sentimentality of such gesture.
It’s fine now. Because we’re here now, and we’re going beyond this.
“I do think about it sometimes. We’d just be chilling here and I’d be curious.”
Iwaizumi pulls away with a frown. “About what?”
Oikawa shrugs, the motion of his head bumping his chin.
“Why it has to be me.”
“Then who else would it be?”
Iwaizumi watches him emit into a grin akin to a spoiled housecat’s and lets himself be dragged into a needy hug and series of playful pecks on the lips. “Such a vague time to be proposing.”
“Since they say we’re not getting any younger.”
“That’s true.” Oikawa softens and ponders in a thought. Iwaizumi, unannounced and on a whim, takes him into a lingering kiss.
(And so the afterthought that pulling each other out of their own immersion has always been one of their two-way streets.)
“I knew you’d meant to bring gold,” he announces just as Oikawa shudders a sigh into his mouth. “and this time you couldn’t yet, so I’m bringing gold to you.”
A sob or a huff of a laugh, he’s not quite sure what came out before Oikawa pulls him for a kiss one more time. “Thank you.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ll get a full explanation on the day.”
On a point of time above the bustling Tokyo morning, past whirring vehicles and fast paced shoes, it’s his laugh that outstands all noise, ever lively in Iwaizumi’s ears and generous in filling in their humble home.
“Well I want it to be a spring wedding.”
Spring 20xx
There are those mornings when I would wake up and then feel a sort of odd emptiness in me. It's not dreadful or anything... just something—like an itch in the body so enigmatic you can't make out where it is.
As always, you’re genuinely curious, this time as to why it was you who I chose to be with throughout my life, even before we decided to put on the final official between us.
I had to ponder about it all night even though the answer is vague and universal at the same time, but I do think I caught the gist of it in exchange of a good night's sleep. Well then, I made it concise, I’m pretty sure this will be enough explanation as you always say you’re smarter than me.
I don't know, Tooru... I see you and I don't know why it all gets better. I feel like you're the one who makes me whole.
Thanks for saying yes.
I’ll be waiting for you down the aisle.
– Hajime