Archive of Our Own

The car is old. 

It was Iwaizumi’s uncle’s first car, so obviously it would be, and after much grimacing and (failed) attempts at negotiation for a better one, Hajime’s resigned to driving it. There are worse cars out there anyway, he likes to think, and as long as it gets him where he needs to be he shouldn’t have many complaints.

So anyway. The car is old, and Iwaizumi is driving it. 

And Oikawa is 98% certain he’s going to die.

Iwaizumi knows this statistic is accurate, because that’s 98% of what’s come out of Oikawa’s mouth since he’d flung open the car door and the other boy had gawked at the sight of him in the front seat.

“Oh my god , Iwa-chan!” Oikawa presses a hand flush to his chest, ever the dramatic, and Iwaizumi corrects himself ––  99 . “You’re going to kill us both!”

“Shut up, Shittykawa!” Iwaizumi grunts; his grip on the steering wheel tightens, but eyes remain solely on the road ahead, despite the ever frivolous distraction that is his (ugh) best friend. Years with Oikawa had trained him in the art of concentration –– and more patience than anyone could possibly imagine. “You can walk your ass to the stadium now, for all I care.”

The small o that puckers at Oikawa’s mouth retreats back to thin stage pout, one he’s carried since that time he was a kid and Iwaizumi said no to going alien hunting with him. 

(Hajime had begun to say “Because aliens aren’t r––”, but upon the look on eight year old Tooru’s face had adjusted with “Really going to be around Miyagi anyway, stupid! Even they’d know Tokyo’s more exciting!”)

“So mean.” he settles on as a rebuttal, but there’s no real malice behind the pout, and it’s evident by the way it relaxes only a few moments later, gaze resting on the view that flies by his window.

They’re on their way to Iwate to watch some junior high schoolers play, to scout for fresh blood; Tooru’s aware there are nicer ways of phrasing that, but it is what it is, isn’t it? Besides –– and as much as he’d like to deny it –– he can’t be playing for Seijoh forever.

(Playing with Hajime, of course, is a different story entirely.)

The setter’s about to make another quip –– another bemoan of death incoming, most likely –– but finds it delayed on his tongue when he notices something out of the corner of his eye.

Iwaizumi is looking at him.

This should be nothing new, because Iwaizumi always looks at him –– glares at him, more like, even when he doesn’t deserve it (even if most of the time, sure –– he does). Stares at him, incredulous after mastering a new combo, after hearing Oikawa’s fifth alien conspiracy theory in a row. Oikawa knows it well: Iwa-chan’s one of the few people who’s always looked at him, and not to him.

Except this time –– and he’s quite sure –– he’s never seen Iwaizumi looking at him like this . 

Tooru doesn’t think he’s seen such softness adorn Hajime before. Not to say he hasn’t seen beyond the rough edges that tend to stick out, because of course he has –– during moments of injury, or loss, or pre-puberty, when Oikawa was stick thin and wimpy and picked on and Iwaizumi had to bandage him up before his mom would see. 

(“Your mom’s going to think I did it.” Iwaizumi reasons, but even Oikawa’s mom knows that despite everything, towards Tooru, Hajime is nothing if not gentle.)

But this is different . There’s a familiarity to it, but not quite, and Oikawa averts his gaze and turns away even further while he tries to remember where exactly he’s seen it before (and why, on Hajime, it feels like a swift and painful volleyball to the gut). 

It isn’t a long train of thought, though, because an “Oi.” snaps him out of the inner monologue threatening to arise, and when he turns back, Iwaizumi is looking at him, well –– like how Iwaizumi looks at him. Oikawa wonders if he’d merely been imagining things; maybe fear of death actually had him believe Iwaizumi was looking at him all funny.

(Why he’s so disappointed that it’s all in his imagination, though, he chooses to ignore.)

“You have that weird look again.” Iwaizumi grumbles, wary; one of the last times he’d seen Oikawa look like that, Kageyama had nearly taken a fist to the face. “Like you’ve got something … not so nice up your sleeve. Or constipation.”

“I– I do not–– !” Oikawa splutters in disbelief, and Iwaizumi uses a free hand to cover his own snickering. 

“I …” Pause ; the setter bites at his lower lip, before shifting gears entirely in but a split second. 

“I was just thinking about how you drive like an old man, Iwa-chan.”

“What– I thought you said I was going to kill us both!”

Oikawa only scoffs at that, relaxing into this new guise. “You can be both reckless and a grandpa, Iwa-chan. For one, old people can’t see the road well! Because they’re old !” he reasons, indubitably proud of his own logic. “And if you go any slower, we’re going to miss the first set!”

The boy in the driver’s seat scoffs back (and Oikawa is only slightly envious of how masterful a scoff it is –– again, years of practice). “So we’re going to miss a bunch of snot-nosed kids make some half-hearted spikes.”

“That used to be us , Iwa-chan! Except I wasn’t snot-nosed.”

Hajime snorts. “Kindaichi’s old lockscreen begs to differ.”

“ What old lockscreen?! ”

(They go on like this until finally reaching the gymnasium, both alive and uninjured, save the pain in Oikawa’s shoulder where Iwaizumi had socked it in an endearing annoyance.)

––––

Valentine’s Day is a spectacle.

He gets confessions, obviously, because he’s Oikawa and he always does, and it isn’t just a Valentine’s Day-exclusive thing. But it’s amplified because of the holiday, and it isn’t long after he steps onto campus that he’s showered in chocolates and little stuffed toys, in compliments from girls across year levels.

(Tooru never says yes to any of them, but he never says no, either. “There’s enough of me to go around, Iwa-chan!” he drawls, trademark broad smile and wink in place, only to earn him a whack to the head and a “You’re such a piece of shit.”)

Currently he’s strolling back to the school parking lot, Hajime trudging behind him, hands full of chocolates from identical brands and teddy bears so saccharine sweet merely holding them makes him look like he wants to hurl (and also hurl Oikawa to the ground, but that’s typical).

“Hurry up, Iwa-chan!” he calls in a singsong voice, bright smile unparalleled as he meets the other’s gaze. “The chocolates will melt.”

“Eat them then. Asshole.” Hajime responds without mirth, nor skipping a beat. “Also don’t see you carrying any of this shit.”

“So vulgar!” the setter acts affronted, though plenty used to the other’s profanity by now. “For the record, I’m holding plenty of stuff too.” and just to prove his point, he waves the many unread love letters in Hajime’s face. “See? Equal load.”

Iwaizumi mutters something under his breath (it sounds a lot like “Asskawa,” and Oikawa reminds himself to chide him about that later), but doesn’t do anything more except open up the trunk of his car, unceremoniously dumping all of Oikawa’s presents inside –– and then ceremoniously flipping Oikawa off.

Tooru bites back a laugh, because he’s supposed to be hurt by it, but even a middle finger on Hajime is charming. And in the spring sunset, when gold paints the horizon, he realizes he’s come to memorize every crevice of Iwaizumi’s face, the slight upturn of his lips when he’s fighting back a smile.

(And then, an afterthought: Has Iwa-chan always looked this … nice? )

“Keep one up front for a snack on the road, Iwa-chan.” he insists, sidling up to him by the trunk and grabbing the first box he could find. They’re a nice enough brand, from a local chocolatier nearby, and coincidentally enough Tooru knows they’re Hajime’s favorites –– for good measure, he holds it up to the other’s line of sight, smile broad and excited as he throws up trademark v with his fingers. “Aren’t I the most considerate passenger?” 

He gets a sigh in response (which is better than a punch, at least), but Oikawa doesn’t press for more, skipping to the shotgun seat with ease.

Except once he swings the door open, he finds there’s a small teddy bear already occupying it.

Huh . Eyebrows furrow at the sight, sizing it up like his next opponent. It’s confusion that settles at first; he hadn’t seen Iwaizumi put anything up front the whole time they’d been walking, so it couldn’t have been from his pile … 

Eyes widen at the exact moment Iwaizumi opens the driver seat. Oh. Oh . 

“Oh!” Oikawa exclaims, a little too breathlessly for his own liking; at any rate, it stops Iwaizumi in his tracks, one foot already inside the car. “Iwa-chan, did–– did someone confess to you today?!”

Now it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to knit eyebrows, but realization is quick to dawn upon his expression when hues rest on the stuffed bear reclined in the seat ...

And then –– to Oikawa’s incredulity –– nonchalance.

“Yeah.” is Hajime’s reply, clipped and concise as ever. “Sakurai-chan, from the year below us.” And something about the way Iwa says chan leaves the taste of bile on his tongue. “She, uh, came up to me after history. You were with confession number four, I think.”

Oikawa purses his lips in memory; Sakurai , he repeats to himself in thought, willing himself to put a face to a name. He’s typically good at that, Oikawa likes to think –– but only when said face proves important. Huh. Huh .

He feels … strange. At this point he should be teasing Iwa-chan, or at least offering tips like the impeccable ladykiller he is. He doesn’t think he’s ever known Hajime to be vocally interested in any girls before; Tooru himself has done his best to egg his friend on, enumerating lady after lady that he deems a potentially perfect match.

But as he slips into his seat and cradles the bear in his hands there’s a searing hot flash of … something , that crawls under his skin and makes a home in all the gaps of his confidence.

(Now this –– this he can put a name to.
And this time, he’d really rather not.)

“... and she cried when I said no. –– also, why are you so surprised that I got confessed to, you dick?”

Oikawa hadn’t even noticed that Iwaizumi hadn’t stopped talking –– the static that had permeated his ears had been far more significant, it seemed –– but the bleariness fades out as Hajime punctuates his last sentence, engine beginning to sputter to life, and again his eyes widen.

“No?” he repeats, like the word is foreign on his tongue. Hajime’s question is long forgotten at this point, and unimportant, too, because Oikawa isn’t surprised at all –– Iwa-chan has always been boyfriend material, past his brutish looks and unkind tongue.

“But –– But Sakurai-chan is so pretty!” she probably is, he thinks, if he could remember her at all. 

(And there’s a sick, swooping satisfaction that clenches his guts when he realizes it: she’s pretty, and Iwa-chan turned her down. Ha.)

In the driver’s seat, Iwaizumi’s shoulders rise and fall in a seemingly thoughtful shrug. “Sure.” he responds, almost like he hadn’t thought about that before.

Oikawa promptly loses it.

“Sure?!” words come out squawked, almost (but not quite!) akin to that of a chicken let loose. Expression shifts from that of shock to clearly painted admonishment. “You’re so tactless , Iwa-chan! No wonder she cried!”

“I didn’t mean to make her cry, you asshole!” Hajime combats indignantly, though Oikawa feels a pang of smugness as he watches a flush crawl up the other’s cheeks. “I just–– I told her I wasn’t interested, really nicely, too. But it was a clear no, not like what you do to those poor girls who follow you around.” This time, it’s Oikawa’s turn to let out an indignant noise of protest, one very easily ignored. 

“I’m just ––” Hajime exhales. “I’m not ready for that, not right now.”

A beat passes; Tooru’s eyes bore into the teddy bear in his lap. He finds his shoulders slowly relaxing at the thought of Hajime rejecting What’s-Her-Name (he knows it, he’s just being a dick), but Iwa-chan’s last words loom over what’s meant to be an already relieved reverie.

Not ready for that, not right now . Does Iwa-chan mean he isn’t ready for a relationship with her? Will he come back to her eventually? Or does that mean he isn’t ready for a relationship with anyone ? 

And why does the second possibility bother him so much, anyway?

“You have that look again.”

He loses the staring contest to the teddy bear, inevitably, only to be met with another contestant: Hajime’s eyes are heavy with concern, an attempt at analysis, and even the Great King can’t help but feel small in the light of his gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Oikawa feigns cluelessness, head tilted and eyebrow arched.

“Cut the bullshit, Tooru.” that elicits a blink from him –– first names between the two are always so rare, after all –– and even if it’s Iwa-chan that turns his eyes back to the road first, Oikawa already knows he’s lost.

The other boy continues. “You’re looking at that bear like it’s Ushijima or somethin’ –– trying to over-understand how it works, what you’re supposed to do next.” fingers drum against the steering wheel casually, but it’s betrayed by the hardened look in his eyes. “Must be exhausting.”

And it is. He can’t remember the last time he hadn’t thought like that –– mind a whirlwind of strategies and tactics both in and out of the court. It keeps him on his feet and at the advantage most times, which is the whole reason he does it, anyway –– but there are days being so opaque feels like he’s seeing the world from outside in, all alone.

Then he remembers who he has by his side, and with Hajime around he feels a little more … here .

“I’m never exhausted, Iwa-chan!” he proclaims, earning him another eye roll. “I do get my eight–– six––” he purses his lips after a split second, because if he let the actual number of hours (or lack thereof) slip Hajime would strangle him. “–– enough hours of rest, you know. And they don’t call it beauty sleep for nothing.”

“Definitely not enough, then.”

“You’re always so mean !”

Iwaizumi replies with a chuckle, eyes once again glued to the road ahead, and Oikawa takes this opportunity to open up the box of chocolates and pop one into his mouth. “Don’t bite me.” he warns playfully, and there’s a quick fondness that adorns his gaze when Hajime instantly opens his mouth so he can feed him his share. “Unless you’re into that, of course.”

The result is a near death by choking experience on Iwaizumi’s end, and a near death by fatal blow experience on his own. 

(Once he’s certain Hajime won’t try to gut him again, Oikawa insists on grabbing some udon for dinner at their favorite neighborhood restaurant –– his treat.

He leaves the rest of the chocolates in the shotgun seat for Iwa-chan when the other isn’t looking, but keeps the teddy bear.

It’s not even Iwa-chan’s favorite color. Amateur.)

––––

“You’re such an idiot!” 

It’s long past the light coming home when Oikawa calls him, and even without the strain in his otherwise forcibly singsong “Iwa-chan~” Hajime had already known something was wrong. 

And he’s right, obviously, because when he arrives at the gym Tooru’s sat on the floor, surrounded by volleyballs sprawled out in every direction imaginable, fighting back tears as he tries (and fails) to stand.

(Never mind that it’s past his curfew; it’s fine, it’s not fine , because he needs to get Oikawa home.)

The drive home is tense, and Hajime lets him know it.

“How many times have I told you you can’t keep overworking yourself?” Beration comes mercilessly; his fingers are tight and stiff, shoulders rolling back and forth to ease the tension he’d had from having to practically carry Oikawa back to his car. “How many fucking times?”

He doesn’t receive a reply; Oikawa does nothing but take it all in, blinking back the tears that form at the corners of his eyes, and the cold compress to his knee does nothing to cool the heat of Iwaizumi’s gaze.

Too many times , he wants to say. But clearly not enough.

Are you my mom, Iwa-chan? is another option. But the look on Hajime’s face tells him he’s in no mood to joke around. 

So he goes with the last resort, and sucks up all his worthless pride, and says “I’m sorry.”

Even Iwaizumi is surprised to hear it, if evidenced by the subtle widening of eyes; he doesn’t say anything further, though, and Oikawa can’t decide if the silence is worse (no –– it definitely is).

But then Hajime pulls over, a few blocks away from his house, and pulls out the gauze he’s kept in his side pocket for all Oikawa-related emergencies. “Up.” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt, and Oikawa doesn’t need to be told twice, lifting his sprained leg and wincing. 

A flash of worry softens Hajime’s expression (and it’s one that mends and breaks Tooru’s heart, all at the same time), but he remains stoic as ever, beginning the application of a bandage he’s had to wrap and unravel time and time again. Oikawa watches calloused hands become so uncharacteristically gentle at the touch –– the same palms that could spike volleyballs miles and miles away now pressing to ensure he can still toss them to him.

Oikawa feels shameful, and pathetic, and shoves away the way Iwaizumi caring for him leaves a part of him yearning for more.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.” And it’s only then that Iwaizumi looks up, gaze just as intense but tinged now with the same gentleness his hands apply. “You’ve said that before, and I’ve done this before, so I’m past the bullshit, Oikawa.”

(It’s then that Oikawa realizes he isn’t the only one who hurts when he falls.)

Iwaizumi finishes the bandage up neatly, the same way the doctors had taught him when he’d insisted on learning how to help Stupidkawa the first time around, and exhales. “Does it hurt?” he asks gruffly. At the shake of Tooru’s head he buckles up once more, the car beginning to resume its movement through the night.

But Oikawa is restless in the silence, hates nothing more than having to stew in Hajime’s disappointment. “I only wanted to become stro––”

“Stupidkawa.” It’s flatter than usual; tired, resigned, but Oikawa still feels the sting of the words. “If you still feel like you’re fighting this fight on your own, then that’s on you.”

He’s heard this lecture before, and each time it still manages to rattle him: There are six team players on the court, you dumbass! If you think how you do equals how the team does, I’ll punch you, you dumbass!

“Six who are stronger together are stronger.” he echoes involuntarily from memory. And this time, he can see Iwaizumi nod beside him.

(He’s always been the king, but what’s a king without his lionheart?)

The way the tension dissipates is almost palpable, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Oikawa exhales. 

“My mom’s going to kill me.”

“Not if I kill you first.”

“You can’t be mean to an injured person, Iwa-chan!”

(Tooru’s mom doesn’t kill him, at least not with her favorite son Hajime around.)

––––

“I think I saw the Karasuno captains earlier.”

It’s one of their few weekends off, per their coach’s forcing, and Oikawa’s pestered him long enough that Iwaizumi’s begrudgingly agreed to drive them around, for no particular reason other than the fact that they can.

It’s a do-whatever-we-want day! the setter had insisted, even when Iwaizumi said all he’d really wanted to do was sleep and play video games. One day, no volleyball. I promise, Iwa-chan!

So of course, Hajime’s not even the least bit surprised when Oikawa brings volleyball up.

“So?”

“No, like …” and Oikawa seems at a loss for words, which is rare, because usually he never has enough ; it’s enough to pique Hajime’s curiosity, and he awaits the other’s next sentiments without rushing him.

“I think I saw them … on a date.”

If Oikawa tried hard enough, he could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. He tries to think back: the crows’ captain and Mr. Refreshing had always seemed close, even during their first few matches together, and Tooru had always unwittingly assumed there had been something more there –– but to see it in person (and fairly publicly, too!) was another story entirely. 

(He doesn’t abhor them, or anything of the sort –– he’s not backwards , after all. 
In fact, seeing them walk out of the convenience store together hand in hand actually made him feel kind of … nice. 
Too nice, maybe.)

He’s unaware of his own heart thudding so violently waiting for Hajime to respond, until he does.

“Oh.” 

Oikawa has to admit, he’ll always find himself inevitably floored by Iwaizumi’s own nonchalance. He peeks a glance over at the other, clad in the NASA shirt he’d bought him last Christmas (there’s a sudden interruption in his head when he realizes he hasn’t seen Hajime in non-school and non-volleyball clothes in a minute, and it’s almost embarrassing how, at the sight of him, his thoughts seem to garble together like foam), wondering if maybe there’s a certain widening of eyes he’s missed.

Nope. He inhales again, attempting to draw out some semblance of dramatic, because that’s just who he is. “Like a date date, Iwa-chan. Like they’re––”

“Gay.” Hajime finishes for him, and while Oikawa’s pleased to get something out of him (albeit monosyllabic), he’s slightly surprised by the impatience in the other’s tone. He scratches the back of his head, train of thought at a standstill, because this isn’t the track he’d been planning to go on. 

“And again –– so?”

Oh. Admittedly, Tooru’s disappointed; had Iwaizumi already known and chosen not to share it with him? He doesn’t even want to think about the possibility that Hajime might be as close-minded as the other boys back in school, who bullied that poor Kubo-kun so hard he’d skipped school for days on end. There’s a lump in his throat that builds, now, and he’s not sure how or where to place it.

The thundering in his chest grows louder.

“You seem to be taking this new bit of information awfully well, Iwa-chan.” he begins carefully, not blind to the way Hajime’s grip tightens around the steering wheel.

A beat passes before Iwaizumi answers. “Sure.” and is Oikawa imagining things, or is Iwa-chan’s voice more strained than usual?

“I mean. I’m gay. And that’s no big deal.”

There are two thoughts that run through Oikawa’s mind upon receiving this new bit of information: 

The first is Oh . 

The second is What .

Except when it comes out it’s a bit of a combination that sounds like “Wuh-oh,” and for the first time in perhaps forever Oikawa Tooru wishes he could eat his own words (and the bewildered expression on Iwaizumi’s face doesn’t make him feel any better).

“... right.” his best friend decides on, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “It isn’t a big deal, is it?”

Towards anyone else it might’ve come off as hostile –– threatening, even. But much to Oikawa’s surprise, he catches it for a split second in Iwaizumi’s gaze. As rough as Hajime’s tone was, the question is sincere: he’s just come out to him, and he thinks Oikawa might leave him because of it.

The tinge of doubt Iwaizumi has in him makes him want to throw up.

He almost misses the way Iwaizumi’s hands are both trembling at the wheel, and he realizes: now it’s his turn to be the stern one.

“Of course it doesn’t matter, stupid Iwa-chan.”

Almost immediately, Hajime’s riled up; face contorted in an expression of indignance. “Hey––!”

And then Oikawa puts his hand over his, and Iwaizumi quiets immediately, expression indecipherable. 

They stay like that, for a while, until the butterflies in Oikawa’s stomach are too much and (to his own disappointment) he settles back into his lap.

“How long have you known?” he finally works up the courage to ask, and Hajime shrugs his shoulders.

“Like, fully? I don’t know. A few months or something.” Hajime mulls it over thoughtfully, though the trembling has since stilled to a stop. “I guess I always … always kind of knew, though. Like it’s always been a part of me.”

“That–” Tooru blinks. “... that’s so cheesy, Iwa-chan!”

“Shut the fuck up.” he responds without skipping a beat, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips now. Oikawa’s always liked that smile.

(Or maybe Oikawa’s always liked the fact that he’s the only one who can bring it out of him.
Same thing.)

“Does your mom know?”

That earns Tooru a snort, for whatever reason. “Yeah.” Iwaizumi answers eventually, though; there’s a flush to his ears now that doesn’t go unnoticed. “She’s always disappointed when I come home without a nice boyfriend in tow.”

That stings a little –– only because Iwaizumi’s only ever come home with Oikawa with him. If Iwa-chan’s mother didn’t think he was good enough, who would be?

“I could help with that, you know!” Oikawa offers –– maybe a little too enthusiastically, because it completely falls apart at Hajime’s sudden, hearty bark of laughter.

“Oi, Shittykawa. No offense, but you’re not exactly wingman material.”

Now Tooru’s affronted –– very clearly at that, based on how he clutches his chest like he’s physically pained by Hajime’s words. “I would make an excellent wingman!” he huffs, and Iwaizumi’s “Yeah, yeah” is drowned out by his already going through his mental contact list to find Iwa-chan the perfect match.

Well –– that’s what he’s meant to be doing, anyway, but right now –– and it’s definitely due to Hajime’s driving –– the thought of someone else getting to hold Iwa-chan’s hand like Sugawara and Daichi did makes him sick.

(But when Oikawa arrives home later that night after a nice walk around the park and dinner that definitely wasn’t a date, he collapses in bed with the sinking realization that grandpa driving isn’t to blame for the thoughts of Iwa-chan’s fingers slipping between his own that constantly run through his mind, and the butterflies that subsequently follow in his stomach.

Fuck .)

––––

Practice is good. It tends to be, most of the time, anyway, even with Kindaichi talking out of his ass and Kunimi’s deadpan, Yahaba and Kyotani’s bickering and Practically Everything Else. Oikawa’s particularly pleased about the new combo he’s managed to nail with Iwaizumi, and with Spring High Preliminaries coming in only a few days they don’t have much time to waste.

They’re on the way home from a practice run late (a team consensus, not his own choice! Oikawa likes to point out), when Iwaizumi notices something … weird.

“You’re quieter than usual.” he surmises. Oikawa hums in response. 

And then: “I got an offer from Chuo.”

“Already?” Even Iwaizumi can’t hide his amazement, though he knows he shouldn’t be surprised –– knowing Oikawa, it’s the first of many. But Chuo University’s held an impressive number of championship titles, and if a team like that wants Oikawa as one of their own, it’s an understatement of a testament to how amazing a player he is.

But for some reason, Tooru remains unfazed.

“Yeah.” he waves his hand airily. “They saw lots of potential, are excited to work with me …” the sentence trails off into a hum, and already Hajime narrows his eyes. 

He’s not stupid; he sees where this is going.

“I haven’t said yes or anything, though … there are still lots of other roads I can travel on––”

“Other roads?!” Iwaizumi barks out in disbelief, and Oikawa braces himself for the lecture about to explode; it’s a lot of talk of wasted opportunities and not having to wait for others to make his own decisions, you’re a grown ass man, Idiotkawa, and this is probably the best option you’ll have!, and when Tooru can finally get a word in edgewise his face is all scrunched up in weariness, not unlike Hajime’s (except his is more exasperation than anything).

“Ah, stop nagging! What are you, my mom?” Oikawa responds. “I’ll be fine , Iwa-chan. I’m just …” Waiting for you –– making sure I don’t have to play without you by my side . 

“I don’t want to rush anything.” he decides on; Hajime huffs, but doesn’t say anything further.

(In turn, Oikawa says nothing of the fact that if the roles were switched, he knows –– hopes? –– Iwaizumi would do exactly the same thing.)

In an attempt to escape the tension in the atmosphere, Oikawa chooses to zero in on Iwaizumi’s hand on the gear stick –– how, if he really wanted to, it would be all too easy to rest his own hand atop his, to lace fingers together like perfect puzzle pieces.

“Do you think you’ll get a boyfriend in college, Iwa-chan?” he asks in spite of himself, and he almost winces at how Hajime tenses immediately at his side, bringing his other hand back to the steering wheel like he knew Oikawa had thought to hold it.

“If I’m still going to have to keep your ass in line? Probably not.” 

And if Iwaizumi’s movements had stung before, this is what he thinks wounds him most; Oikawa freezes, then falls abruptly silent, teeth chewing at lower lip so hard there’s the threat of bleeding. 

( It’s a joke , he tells himself –– one he’s heard paraphrased over and over by Iwa-chan, time and time again. 

But what if it isn’t? He’s had Hajime at his side all his life, but he’s never stopped to ask if he’d ever wanted to be there in the first place.

Hajime doesn’t deserve to have his wings clipped any more than he does.)

He’s barely noticed when Iwaizumi pulls up in front of his house, eyes still glued to the gear stick, mind trying to mend something that shouldn’t be broken in the first place.

Said mind subsequently short circuits when Iwaizumi puts a hand on his arm. “Oikawa.”

Oikawa kisses him.

It’s uncoordinated, and he nearly misses Hajime’s lips by a few inches, but he kisses him –– and he nearly pulls away before Iwaizumi kisses back, lips pressed to his trembling and urgent. It isn’t Tooru’s first kiss, not by a long shot, but feeling Hajime warm and secure against him awakens something he never realized he’d had; a small gasp leaves his lips as he leans forward, hand rising to brush against Iwaizumi’s cheek because he has to know this is happening, this is real .

Nothing about it seems grand or romantic in gesture; they have always moved through life seamlessly, transitioning from one point to another, the grand king and his lionheart, and he supposes this kiss is no different.

Except –– and Oikawa reminds himself –– this kiss makes everything different.
He’s not risking Iwaizumi for the small chance that different will be good .

When he pulls away, Iwaizumi is looking at him again, the same way he had on their way to Iwate, and it clicks with Oikawa, suddenly, where he’s seen that look before: it’s the same look he’s adorned whenever he looks to the boy at his side.

Love hits like a volleyball to the gut, and he doesn’t know if he can afford to be hurt any longer.

“What––” is all Oikawa hears from Hajime before he blurts out a “Wuh– uh–– bye, Iwa-chan!” and all but stumbles out of the car, hurrying up his house steps in fear of his heart leaping from his chest.

(He always thought volleyball was his first love.

Now it feels like a very close second.)

––––

They lose.

(Three years, he thinks. More before Seijoh, of course –– but he’s not Oikawa without them now. He watches the crowd roll up the seafoam green banner with a clenched jaw, tries not to show he’s drowning.

Three years.
All it takes is a dropped ball, 
the blow of a whistle.)

The quiet is heavy in the car, in the ruins.

(He bows thank you to the audience, to the team; looks away when he sees Kindaichi on the brink of crying.

We’re all counting on you , they’d said.
But talent is something that blooms; instinct is something that’s polished; and in the spring only one of them can grow.

He feels water fill his lungs.)

“Oikawa.”

( He needs you, too .

He’s not oblivious to the way Hajime had stared down at his hands after the last failed spike.
He’s also not oblivious to the fact that they haven’t been alone since that night.

Tooru had always felt so invincible with Hajime beside him; had always tossed the ball to him (to the ace; to Iwa-chan!) knowing it would land somewhere between triumph and victory.

He pointed to him .
Now he can’t even look him in the eye.

You can’t love him and destroy him at the same time .)

He gets out of the car without so much as a goodbye.

––––

Oikawa Tooru has never been drunk before.

Tipsy, maybe, during family reunions and team dinners after a winning game. The first time he’d ever tried alcohol was when he and Iwaizumi had snuck into Hajime’s dad’s liquor cabinet at 14, and the smell of anything resembling vodka still haunts him to this day.

So no. Oikawa Tooru has never been drunk before.

But now, sitting in front of the Sendai Gymnasium at god knows when in the morning, he’s just about trashed out of his mind.

It’s been a few weeks since the game, the match, the fall. To say he would be handling it well would be an understatement at best (and a flat out lie at worst).

He still hasn’t spoken to Iwaizumi in that same amount of time, and it’s more agonizing than any lost game combined; losing car privileges (and best friend-you-just-happen-to-be-in-love-with privileges) means having to walk home and take public transport again, something he’d never liked doing without Iwaizumi anyway, and having to see him at school and blatantly avert his gaze is exhausting when all he ever wants to do is look, reach out, hold.

(He had almost failed once, after walking home from one of their last team meets; as much as he’d wanted to keep to himself, Oikawa had always been so conscious, aware of Iwaizumi’s movements –– especially if they were straying far from the direction of his own. 

As he watched Hajime wave goodbye to Matsukawa and trudge slowly to the parking, Oikawa couldn’t help but notice the slump in his features; the slight hood in shoulders where a sturdy confidence used to reside. And while practice is always tiring, something about his demeanor displays more than just exhaustion –– it’s loneliness.

He’s all too familiar with it, because for the past few days now he’s looked the same way.)

The bottle is empty now, Oikawa notices with squinted eyes and a “tch” of disappointment; the floor is spinning at this point, and he’s pretty sure he has two hands, not three, but it’s fine –– he’s fine , and all he needs now is another bottle, and maybe for the ground to slow down a bit so he can try to get off.

What he doesn’t need is the pissed off “What the fuck.” that emerges in the quiet from the person he least wants to see –– who also happens to be the one person he’d managed to drunk text before he couldn’t look at a phone without hearing colour.

Oikawa doesn’t need to turn around to see the agitated red blooming across Iwaizumi’s face (and also turning around doesn’t make his head feel any better), so he remains planted to his spot, even if the sudden shake of his shoulders draws out a helpless whine. “You’re going to make me dizzy.”

“You deserve it, you asshole.” There’s venom in Hajime’s words, but weariness, too; he spots Iwaizumi in the corner of his eye plopping down beside him, gaze resting on the gymnasium ahead. “You’re going to be arrested drinking here –– illegally .”

A hand waves in the air dismissively, trying to sway his thoughts away from the fact that this is the first time they’ve spoken in weeks, and it isn’t fair because he looks like an absolute mess and Iwaizumi looks amazing, even when he’s tired and sleep-deprived, and he’s missed this, missed him so much it feels like a blow to the gut.

“Do you hate me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa slurs out, though refusing still to meet his gaze; it’s a question he’s had on his mind for a while now, but has always been too afraid of the answer for.

Several beats pass before Iwaizumi answers, and it’s so quiet Oikawa nearly misses it.

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.” 

And Oikawa lets out the shaky exhale he’d been holding since the first time Hajime took his breath away.

(Then Iwaizumi adds, “But if you get us both in trouble for being here, I’ll kill you myself,” and he’s too far gone to let out a proper “So rude, Iwa-chan.” because if he says anything further he may actually throw up.)

It’s a whole thing , getting Tooru into the front seat of the car (and maybe he’s being a little dramatic, clinging onto Hajime longer than necessary), but they make it there eventually. And even when Iwaizumi says something along the lines of “I’m still mad at you, Dickawa,” the setter still relaxes into the seat so easily, into something that immediately feels like coming home.

They’ve rounded a corner when it’s Iwaizumi now who asks the question he’d been holding in for a long while.

“Why did you do it.”

“I don’t know.” and Oikawa answers almost immediately, the guilt in his tone bleeding deep through his words. “People in those stupid coming of age movies always have a big dramatic epiphany scene when they’re drunk, so I assumed––”

“I don’t mean that .”

Tooru knows, but he still freezes anyway; he feels the hurt and heartache in Hajime’s voice all at once, and it makes his head spin worse than the empty liquor bottle in his hand.

Why did he do it? He didn’t know then, and still doesn’t know now; or maybe he does, but he’s not ready for the truth to come tumbling out of his lips, into the silence. He’s always known, he supposes –– always turned to his right side when he speaks knowing Hajime would be beside him, always kept around an extra of whatever he had to give. 

Oikawa had never been incomplete without Hajime –– it was simply the fact that he was, and still, always, wanted him around.

“Because I’m in love with you, Iwa-chan.”

The words linger in the summer breeze, and Oikawa is too terrified to notice Iwaizumi pulling over.

“And I can’t––” he struggles to continue, almost wishes he were still drunk, wishes he had the same courage Hajime does. Teach me how to be brave , he swallows back. “–– And you deserve the best and I’m not–– I’m not that, and you can’t grow if I’m holding you back, and you’ll grow to resent me, and––”

He feels the hand grab his before he can see it; shuts his eyes like he knows what comes next when Iwaizumi kisses him, soundly on the mouth.

They’re a mess of tangled limbs in the front seat of the car suddenly; Oikawa all but lunges himself onto the boy in the driver’s seat, near pushing far too many buttons in the process, but he doesn’t care because fuck, fuck , Iwaizumi kissed him, and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to kiss him back.

“You idiot, you idiot .” Iwaizumi groans between kisses, placing a hand on Oikawa’s cheek, and the setter shudders –– finally, finally , he feels like he’s flying. 

“I love you, too. For as long as I can fucking remember–– I love you, too.”

(They make one trip home that night instead of two, because a) Tooru’s mom will certifiably kill him if he throws up all over their new carpet, and b) being wrapped up in Hajime’s arms as he sleeps is the best antidote to any hangover.

The second is not entirely accurate, as proven by the several toilet flushes of vomit and Iwaizumi’s aggravation the morning after. But when he feels Hajime’s hand take his, to Oikawa that is certifiably worth it.

Maybe those coming of age movies really did know a thing or two.)

––––

Graduation is a melancholic affair.

All the juniors come to see them off with gifts –– flowers and sports drinks (charming) –– and while Oikawa swears to himself to not become over emotional, the words “best setter we’ve ever had” curls lips up into a smile unstoppably tender. 

Even Hajime’s “That … doesn’t look calculated at all.” is laced with genuine surprise; Oikawa reminds himself it is graduation day, and therefore he cannot kick him.

(Coming out to the team, on the other hand, had not been melancholic at all.

Ever the dramatic, Oikawa couldn’t help but feel disappointed when, at the sight of him and Hajime bursting into the gym with hands held, no one bats an eye.

“We all assumed you were touching dicks already.” Kunimi puts it bluntly. 

Kindaichi and Matsukawa eyes widen like flying saucers, Yahaba chokes on his water and Kyotani gives him a violent heimlich, and Hanamaki howls in laughter, doubling over with lack of air. 

Iwaizumi looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm and mutters something about murder, maybe, and Oikawa turns an undiscovered shade of red.)

“I’m counting on all of you.” he claps Yahaba’s back firmly, and the new captain doesn’t shy away as he nods; Oikawa’s always liked that about him –– he knows the team is going to be in good hands.

(He says yes to Chuo in the end, and Iwa-chan’s found a promising sports science program NSSU, which is only 20-something minutes apart; living together at the halfway point seems reasonable enough, he persists.

“Who says I want to live with you?” Hajime scoffs, but words are empty when he’s got a hand carding through Tooru’s hair gently, Oikawa’s arm wrapped around his waist as he stares down at him and grins.)

“Hey.”

They’re standing in the parking lot as they had a thousand times over, and after glancing up at Aobajohsai for what would be the last time in a while, Oikawa looks at Iwaizumi in the light.

(“Thank you. For everything.”

And Tooru tilts his head at the sudden words, at the gentleness that coats Hajime’s gaze and bathes him in warmth, and he smiles.

“Don’t thank me yet, Iwa-chan. Thank me at the end.”

And when does it end? When the volleyballs stop falling; when the stadium goes silent. When they walk away from this, wounded and scarred, there will be more battles ahead of them; there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.
It’s a good thing they’re invincible, together.

They’ve spent years at each other’s side, from quick reassurances to victories, to losses, to growing up, to growing ; the ocean and the earth coexisting, depending on one another to bring in all the glory imaginable.

And then, as always, to find their way back home.)

Oikawa takes his hand.

“Let’s go home, Iwa-chan.”

They do.