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i. sight (the human eye is a deeply flawed creation)
Everything seen by anyone is simply a flipped reflection of what the eye sees. Perspective and depth are skewed and warped to fit each person’s brain; a different world contained in each individual’s pair of eyes. That’s why when someone describes another person saying “they’re cute” or “they’re too tall” or “they have a nice body” it’s best not to rely on them because their eyes have different stories to tell and different colors to see.
(Iwaizumi hates looking at Oikawa, he always has)
It’s the moments when Iwaizumi finds him hunched in the locker room alone staring at his feet with his shoes still half tied or standing in the courtyard and staring almost directly into the sun that he thinks maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind looking at Oikawa.
(and he doesn’t, he really doesn’t at all)
When he feels those eyes gazing back at him with irises so deep they feel like black holes that could drag him down into oblivion, the good kind of oblivion, or when he peeks out the corner of his vision and can sense the ball coming his direction because it’s supposed to be meant for him. When he sees Oikawa’s face in that split second of time when the ball is in the air he feels it.
(what “it” is Iwaizumi can never be sure)
They had spent a lot of time looking at one another. Not in any kind of perception that might be considered strange or awkward but more in one of togetherness and affection, an old feeling that both had long gotten used to years and years ago. A casual kind of rapport that neither one felt the need to affirm or re-establish because it had always been there. They had watched each other grow up, Iwaizumi small and scraped up with day old band aids and blistered fingers and Oikawa snot nosed and teary-eyed with fluffy baby bird hair.
(always, he had always only ever watched Oikawa)
From winters, Oikawa in his too big jacket and red mittens with one hole in the thumb, to the boiling summers in tiny shorts and almost permanent blue stains on his chin from the popsicles Iwaizumi’s mom kept in the freezer during the heat wave in august. When they were eight and Oikawa lost his front tooth after biting down on a piece of ice, bloody and proud after hiccuping through tears for ten minutes or so and Iwaizumi teased him that he would never get any more friends with only one front tooth.
(not that he really wanted him to though)
Then the seasons changed over and over again and they’re first years in middle school with tamer faces and wilder personalities; new uniforms but the same childish skin itching for something more. Girls and English homework are the two things they fear the most, and Oikawa never seems to show his now full smile anymore as much as he did then. Oikawa in his one size too big shoes and wide eyes that hadn’t started to smolder yet and his tongue that still occasionally got tied when talking to new people.
(sometimes he wants to go back to that year, but only sometimes)
Volleyball becomes the center of their universe and Oikawa realizes that he has wings that are stronger than anyone else’s so he takes off, leaving Iwaizumi on the ground to keep things in order for him. But it had always been that way; the ever changing tides cannot exist without the stationary sand.
(he had never minded being Oikawa’s anchor)
In the next four years they became very much who they are today: Iwaizumi sturdy with roots that extended deep into the earth and Oikawa unattainable with a porcelain face that cracks when he speaks. It wasn’t so much a transformation as it was a predestined event, one that only Iwaizumi could have seen coming because, let’s face it, he knows them better than anyone else.
(he still hates looking at Oikawa)
ii. smell (sunday mornings and mint toothpaste)
There’s something about the scent of the gym after an especially difficult practice or freshly dried clothes from the line that puts Iwaizumi at ease. Both are familiar, easy to deal with. There is no effort or emotion in those scents, and it’s something that he likes to take in as much as possible, to fill himself up with those simple things.
Because god knows nothing else is simple.
Sometimes, when they’re so close Iwaizumi can feel the vibrations of Oikawa’s voice against his chest and the pretense of being childhood friends is finally ripped down and thrown in the proverbial trash can, he can smell day old cologne like crushed pine needles and hard liquor burn against his nose. Other times, pressed against Oikawa’s back and head stuck in the niche of the his shoulders it’s sweeter like white tee shirts and lemons soaked in honey. It’s heavy and enamoring amongst the delicate rustle of clothes being thrown to the floor and the spring breeze just barely coming through the window.
Oikawa smells like moonlight and apple shampoo, like misty sunday mornings and fresh mint toothpaste.
(this is only when the hour is early in the morning, foreheads pressed together and fingers so lightly intertwined they barely touch)
Sometimes Oikawa smells like sweat and energy drink; musky, warm, and artificial and Iwaizumi is reminded even the boy with the perfect smile cannot escape being human, no matter how high his wings may take him. The unwinnable can come into reach when it’s human, as if that one quality gives it immediate flaws.
(but Iwaizumi has never worried about not winning)
To say that to Iwaizumi, Oikawa smells like home, wouldn’t be accurate enough. It’s something more along the lines of getting to know home all over again, tearing it down and recreating it from the foundation up. This wasn’t the home he had known before, years old report cards taped to the fridge and a squeaky stair that creaks when it gets stepped on.
It’s the home he and Oikawa built together, messy and mostly unorganized. The one they had been building for years. The walls aren’t exactly clean and the roof has a few leaks and sometimes it almost gets devoured by flames or destroyed completely over stupid and ridiculous things but it’s still theirs. That’s what Oikawa smells like, he decides.
(he smells like what Iwaizumi wants to come home to each and everyday)
He also decided that if Oikawa found out any of this, he might as well bury a hole and stay there for all of eternity.
iii. taste (poison and wine)
There is an old convenience store stuck right between in the smack dab middle of the route between their neighborhood and school. It’s cheap and easy for late night after practice binge snacking when both of them don’t have the energy to drag their bruised bodies back home just yet. Oikawa always eats while he walks and talks. Iwaizumi just listens, taking occasional sips from his can of black coffee.
When Oikawa kisses him on the street corner away from the light of the streetlamp he tastes like cheap ice cream and strawberry soda; it’s childish and nostalgic, making him rub his neck and run his thumb along Oikawa’s jawline gently.
Iwaizumi remembers once they had gotten in a fight.
(it was stupid and loud, more a show of mutual pride from both than anything else.)
There were punches thrown and words harsh enough to leave scars thrown between empty threats and angry tears. When he kissed Oikawa then it was blood and iron, burning his lips and scalding his throat even as he felt a pair of hands caress the spot where his hipbones peeked out of his pants.
(they ended up making out on the floor, tongues more focused on other places besides mouths)
There is something to be said about the fact that he never truly knows. He is never entirely sure how he can feel faint and drunk just on the way Oikawa’s neck and collar bones feel beneath his tongue, sometimes like sweat and sometimes like green tea body wash. Or how Oikawa’s lips could taste like ice so cold they burned his own, the best kind of burn spreading through his entire body. Curry udon, milk bread, wintermint gum and oranges. It didn’t even gross him out-was it supposed to?-when he could sense what Oikawa had just eaten on his tongue.
Because when it came down to it Oikawa was like a poison, a drug. And he was addicted.
(oh was he addicted)
Maybe it was going to kill him in the end but he sure as hell was going to enjoy it while he could. They had mapped out each other’s bodies with more than just eyes, getting to know each corner and bruise and bone like they knew their own. Simply together would never be close enough. There was an unparalleled craving for more and even when they stood on opposite ends of the court with minds both focused only on winning he would find himself wondering what the side of his ribs or joint of his knee would feel now that they had been used and worn out. Would his lips still taste like wine and his skin like salt and sugar even after being pushed to their limit? And in the moment before his hand would collide with the ball to smash to the other side he would decide: I’ll just have to find out for myself later.
iv. hear (the difference between first and last names can be astounding)
“Iwa-chan!” - normal, everyday, irritating, usually between smirks and overenthusiastic laughter.
“Iwa-chan.” - earnest, sinking, select times when the air is too heavy or the score is too likely to tip against them.
“Hajime-” - a punch to the gut, breathtaking, whispered against pillows and into the hollow of his mouth behind the gym and in front of his bedroom door.
Names can be frightening things. He had never thought much about his name, one that he didn’t particularly care for but also didn’t particularly dislike. It had always been simply a name to him but when some people said it (when Oikawa said it) there was something different. Heavier and more meaningful than just the characters for “rock” and “spring” etched into lined paper and spoken casually between acquaintances.
(the -chan was still annoying, don’t be mistaken)
Ebbing and flowing, lilted and pushed by a breeze through trepid waves that could never settle for more than a few seconds before crashing down again and drowning him. When Oikawa spoke to him, only him, and said that single word in quiet desperation, choked out sobs or hazy tenderness:
"Hajime."
That was how it felt. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, to feel like a word strung together across faintly pink lips, mumbled between rumpled uniform shirt collars or the bare skin of his inner thigh, could be the end of it all. He is fairly certain that the more Oikawa says his name, the more susceptible he was to being totally and utterly destroyed.
(but as long as it’s Tooru, he would be okay with that, probably)
The first time, it’s an accident. It just slips out, and not in the type of situation he could have predicted. It’s at graduation with flowers in full bloom and all the girls want the second button off of stupid Oikawa’s uniform, a phenomenon Iwaizumi would never understand. It was just a minor annoyance, a slight itch on the inside of his throat that he couldn’t quite scratch and then that turned into:
“Let’s go home, Tooru”
It slips out, for the first time in years. A name that he thought shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make a difference anymore. A moment of silence hangs in the air, warm and speechless, a silence no one seems to notice but them.
“Okay, Hajime.”
Just the slightest shift, a smile no one else sees but him. They walk side by side as the flower petals scatter and are carried away by the wind. When the door shuts behind him Tooru slips his second button into his palm and plants a kiss square on his lips.
They never go back to last names again.
v. touch (kiss with a fist)
The dip and bend of his shoulder blade, the tuft of hair that never goes where he wants it to, the veins that run along the inside of his wrist, the faint outline of muscles on his stomach and the heat that seems to radiate from his hands. Fingerprints pressed against pale skin covered in goosebumps, still as terrified the tenth time as they were the first.
(and god when he feels those slender fingers on his cock it feels like he might burst into flame)
Casual nudges of knees under tables, elbows skimming in the rare moments on the bench, arms brushing as the sun set at their backs. Mere fractions of a second that they didn’t even realize were happening until one night after a particularly bad loss when the air was too thick and they were drunk (just a little, Iwaizumi barely at all) when Oikawa buried his face in his right shoulder in the corner of the entryway whispering “I need you.”
(not love, like, or want, it was need. he was sober enough to remember that)
The other’s hair tickled Iwaizumi’s neck ever so slightly as Oikawa moved closer, tracing a circle over the place on his chest where his heart thumped against his ribcage. His touch was rough and wobbly,almost more like a jab, partially because he was drunk and partially because he probably wanted it to hurt.
(i need you i need you i need you)
All he could think to do was place a hand on Oikawa’s head, threading his fingers through his hair.
“I know. Me too.”
The momentary times of contact then turned into sessions of secret hand holding during lunch break with thumb pads gently massaging sweaty palms, and tracing the bumps of the other’s spine in the empty locker room after practice, really anything to curb the insatiable feeling of never being enough.
(this is why Oikawa annoyed the hell out of him, nothing is ever enough)
Because when all Iwaizumi can feel are the press of his lips against his neck and the sensation of being swallowed whole it’s hard to imagine that anything could ever reach this peak let alone be enough to keep him content. He wanted to be rid of it, this feeling of constant necessity to reach out and feel the sinewy tendons of Oikawa’s hands, the hands that would always make sure the ball reached him, rubbed his face whenever it was cold, calloused and smelling of that stupid chrysanthemum lotion he had gotten for christmas; the hands that loved him.
Love him, present tense.
(maybe it was enough after all.)