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It started near the end of fall, like it did every year.
Iwaizumi let out his customary sigh at the familiar sight of Oikawa rummaging through his closet, but couldn’t quite put his heart into it. Oikawa was tossing aside clothes in search of the one item he wanted, making Iwaizumi’s room even messier than usual. Ah, well. It was already covered in clothes most of the time, he supposed. There were better things to yell at Oikawa for.
“Where’s your red one? It goes with my shoes today,” Oikawa whined, opening another drawer.
“It’s in the wash,” Iwaizumi said, falling backwards onto his bed with a sigh.
Oikawa turned around, looking at him with scolding eyes. He settled for an old dark grey one, pulling it over his head and wiggling his fingers in the too-long sleeves.
“That’s my favorite,” said Iwaizumi, forcing annoyance into his voice.
Oikawa smiled and walked over to pat him on the shoulder.
“Mine too.”
He expected him to flop on the bed and join him, and he was inexplicably disappointed when Oikawa headed towards the door instead. “I have to study for exams,” he said. Ever more responsible than he looked. Iwaizumi chuckled.
He yawned. Rolling over to his side, he grabbed a pillow and held it to his chest. Iwaizumi never slept like this, instead usually sprawled out on his back, but the blurry space between fall and winter always made him curl up like a leaf.
When he was almost asleep, he heard his drawer sliding open. He opened his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he said.
Oikawa just waved him off, not looking at him.
“I forgot,” said Oikawa. “I need another hoodie to sleep in. I don’t want to sleep in this one and get it dirty; then I couldn’t wear it to school. Hey, do you still have your blue one?”
“You still have my blue one. You never give it back to me last year,” Iwaizumi said, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, yeah! I think I was using it as a rag to clean my toilet—”
Iwaizumi threw the pillow at him.
“I was just kidding!”
…
“Shit,” he whispered.
How did he not hear the hard patters of the rain from inside? The sidewalk was slick with water and the gutters were little rivers carrying away dirty leaves. He dipped his heel in and it wet his soles—almost as a test to see if all this water was actually real. He clicked his tongue and went back inside to dig through the closet, triumphantly holding up his old umbrella after a few seconds.
He rubbed his hands together when he finally got to school, warm and dry. A few people waving hello at him were soaked; he wondered if Oikawa wore his hoodie to school. Bastard better not have gotten it wet and dirty.
When he slid open the classroom door, he found it almost empty save for a few student with their heads hung low into their books and notes—a grim reminder that Iwaizumi came to school early today so that he could study for upcoming exams.
And there Oikawa was, sitting in the spot next to his own seat with closed eyes; he was using a grey cotton sweatshirt as his pillow. It was—dry.
A crease formed between Iwaizumi’s brows when he saw that Oikawa’s hair was unusually shiny today. Standing over him, he grabbed a clump of strands between his thumb and index finger.
Wet.
Oikawa’s eyes opened and he inhaled, looking up in alarm.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s just you, Iwa-chan. What’re you doing, touching me so inappropriately?”
“Didn’t you bring an umbrella?” said Iwaizumi.
“Yeah. It was just too small. Couldn’t find the big one.”
“Why didn’t you wear the sweater, idiot?”
Oikawa shrugged. “Wanted to keep it dry so I could sleep on it. These desks are too hard for naps. The school should really do something about that.”
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and swatted him lightly on the head.
“Just wear it next time. You’re going to get sick.”
Oikawa shrugged, then rested his head on the sweatshirt and closed his eyes again.
“Why’d you come so early if you weren’t going to study?” Iwaizumi said after a while.
He noticed again how empty the room was, then realized that Oikawa was the only one not straining his eyes to read equations and English grammar rules. Oikawa was being so quiet. Well, he was sleeping. But still.
Oikawa yawned, mouth open like a cat’s, then shrugged.
It wasn’t until the class was full and the teacher walked in that Oikawa finally lifted his head, loose fists rubbing at his eyes. He pulled the sweater to his lap and set his notebook on the desk. With one hand still clutching the hoodie, the other fished for a mechanical pencil from his bag and began writing down notes.
Iwaizumi pulled his eyes away, realizing that he wasn’t paying attention to the lecture.
After a few minutes he was lost in his notebook trying to get down everything the teacher was saying. She seemed to be talking abnormally fast today, squeezing in everything else they would have to know before their first exam.
Sure enough, though, a sideways glance toward his left saw Oikawa getting everything down effortlessly. What freakishly quick and nimble hands. He’d have to get those notes later lest he suffer another sing-song “I got four percent higher than you” from him.
Beside him he heard a loud inhale. Oikawa was muffling his yawn, hand over his mouth.
Did he look more tired than usual?
Iwaizumi’s pencil stilled as he traced with imaginary fingers the slight dark coloring under Oikawa’s eyes. Maybe he was studying late at night. He did do that a lot.
He lowered his gaze to Oikawa’s lap, where his other hand was still clutching at the sweater. His pale fingers dug into the dark cotton, holding it against himself like he was a child with a stuffed animal. That was the way he used to hold his stuffed toy monkey, Iwaizumi realized. He hadn’t seen that thing in over seven years.
“Pay attention,” Oikawa whispered, the corner of his mouth upturned.
“Don’t be smug,” he said, snorting at their role reversal.
He tried to turn his ear to what the teacher was saying, but the muffled pitter-patter of rain kept sliding against skull, and all he could see were those pale fingers against dark cotton. That old monkey. The crease between Oikawa’s eyebrows when he took down notes, and the way he gripped his pencil too hard as the minutes went on but he never once wrinkled the sweater.
…
A week later, Oikawa was delighted to see Iwaizumi’s red sweatshirt, clean and hanging over his chair. He picked it up and sniffed it to make sure it really was washed, then pulled it over his torso.
“Matches my shoes,” he said, even though he was barefoot in the house.
He hopped onto the bed with a smile.
“Get off my bed,” said Iwaizumi, pulling the sheets from underneath Oikawa. “You’re making it all wet.”
Oikawa continued clutching at the blankets, knees pulled up to his chest as he lay on his side. His wet pants dampened the sheets, leaving streaks of water.
“But it’s so comfortable.”
“I’ll kick you.”
“Been there, done that.”
Iwaizumi gave a rough sigh and let him lay there. He wondered when he got so weak-willed.
“Hey, it’s not raining anymore,” Oikawa said.
Iwaizumi paused, listening for noise outside the wall.
“Oh. Yeah.”
He sat at the foot of the mattress for a while, listening to the silence. It was an odd clearing in the midst of a week-long barrage of drum beats.
“Hey,” Iwaizumi said after a while. “What’d you get on the English exam? I’m pretty sure I beat you this ti—”
He turned around to see Oikawa sleeping, blanket pulled up to his shoulders.
He sighed, getting up and sitting on his desk chair. When he was about to open his bag and take out his notes to study, Oikawa shifted, turned on his other side, and mumbled something quietly.
The hem of the sweatshirt rode up, leaving the small of his back exposed. Iwaizumi wanted to walk over and pull it down, or at least pull the blanket over it, so he wouldn’t be cold, but he didn’t.
He sat staring at the dip of his back where his spine ran. His entire backside was slightly paler than the rest of him for lack of tanning. With all the times they had seen each other shirtless in the locker room, how had he never noticed that before?
It was like cotton was stuffing his airways, and Iwaizumi’s throat went dry. He tore his gaze away, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
…
It was a small mass of hazy lights in the corner of his eye that drew Oikawa in when he walked through the door. He turned his head, then blinked. It hit him then that it was really December.
“Your mom got a Christmas tree this year?” he said.
Iwaizumi turned, spotting the lighted plastic thing the size of a small child that had Oikawa so enamored.
“Yeah,” he said. “She saw it in the store and liked it. It’s kind of ugly.”
“It’s cute!”
Oikawa rushed over and kneeled, eyes scanning the tree for all its decorations. He pinched a leaf, feeling the plastic between his fingers.
“Get away from that thing and let’s go,” said Iwaizumi, tugging upward on the back of Oikawa’s collar. “You’re the one who said we should study today.”
“But it’s so cute!” he said, reluctantly letting himself be dragged away.
The mattress springs creaked as Oikawa fell backward on the bed. He clutched his notebooks against his chest (against the hoodie he was wearing, Iwaizumi thought), looking up at the ceiling. He was thinking something, Iwaizumi knew.
Grabbing his textbooks, he ignored it and sat at his desk, not daring to ask. He didn’t want to know.
“Hey, Iwa-chan.”
Damn.
He didn’t respond, just flipping to a random chapter in his book.
“Iwa-chan.”
“What?” he said, throwing his head back and pretending like his neck had snapped.
The last time Oikawa used that tone of voice, he wanted to adopt a dog—which was fine since that was primarily Oikawa’s parents’ problem, but now this voice was being directed at him. The hint of excitement in Oikawa’s voice meant things like staying up all night to go UFO sight-seeing when they were ten after he saw a documentary about aliens, or trying to get musicians’ autographs when they were fourteen and Oikawa was obsessed with some pop star named G-Dragon.
Huh, Iwaizumi thought as he looked back at years of standing by Oikawa while he did ridiculous shit. He supposed he had always been weak-willed, then.
Oikawa sprung up, sitting now.
“Let’s get a Christmas tree for your room,” he said, clapping his hands together.
Well, that wasn’t as bad as UFO-hunting twice a week or going to a concert when Big Bang’s was doing their Japan Tour. He almost shuddered thinking of that year when Oikawa played their music non-stop and wouldn’t shut up about how cute G-Dragon was. Fuck aliens. Fuck Big Bang. Fuck G-Dragon.
“We already have one in the living room.”
“No, a real one.”
“No one has a real tree,” Iwaizumi said. “I don’t even know where to get one.”
Oikawa pursed his lips and lay down again, thinking. Iwaizumi threw an eraser at him.
“Hurry up and study.”
…
A few days later, when he opened the door, the first thing he said was, “What the fuck did you do to my sweater?”
Iwaizumi looked down at the felt reindeer prancing across Oikawa’s chest, stitched into one of his green hoodies.
“I got my mom to sew it on. Isn’t it cute?” Oikawa grinned, even in the face of Iwaizumi’s glare. “Don’t hit me, Iwa-chan. Not so close to Christmas and New Year’s.”
Iwaizumi turned his face to the sky and let out a noise halfway between a groan and a yell, then sighed. It was okay, he told himself. He didn’t like that sweater anyway.
Oikawa checked his phone in the meantime, waiting out Iwaizumi’s frustrated caveman noises. Well, he didn’t look bad in a Christmas sweater, surprisingly. The snowflakes around the collar were sort of cute.
Iwaizumi’s eyes widened at what he just thought. Vomit. He could never let Oikawa know, lest he try to get him to wear one too.
“Why did you want to go to Ikea, anyway?” said Iwaizumi as they walked toward the train station.
“I heard they sold Christmas trees there—real ones. We can get one for your room.”
“We’re not getting a Christmas tree for my room.”
“Well, I can’t get one for my room. My dog will chew it up.”
“What the fuck am I going to do with a tree in my room? A live tree?”
“Let it be—Christmas-y!” said Oikawa, thrusting his arms out and spreading his fingers.
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re the one still walking with me to the train station,” Oikawa said with a smile.
“I’m going back,” said Iwaizumi, turning on his heel.
“No,” Oikawa whined.
He wrapped his arms around Iwaizumi’s shoulders, pulling him backward. Iwaizumi stilled, Oikawa’s hot breath against his neck. He was then aware of how cold the tip of his nose felt, how cold every inch of his bare skin felt except for that part of his neck that was so close to Oikawa’s mouth.
“Come on, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa.
He didn’t move.
…
Was Ikea always this bright? Iwaizumi thought as he stared at the ceiling. The lights were a bit blinding.
“This one’s too soft,” he said, patting the mattress. He wiggled his head around. “My body sinks into it too much.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Oikawa beside him. “It’s perfect. The label says it’s latex and foam. Your body is just freakishly hard and dense, like a neutron star collapsing into itself from it’s own pressure, destined to—”
Oikawa got a mouth full of pillow muffling his words. He pulled it away and gasped for air.
“Okay, let’s try that one,” he said. He pointed to a bed diagonal to them labelled “SPRING MATTRESS.”
They got up and lay down on that bed, feet dangling off the mattress.
“Not bad,” said Iwaizumi.
“Too hard,” said Oikawa.
“Too bad. I like this one,” he said, closing his eyes. “Grab me a pillow.”
“Yes, Iwaizumi-sama,” he said.
He pulled himself off the mattress and grabbed two pillows from another section.
“Hmm,” he said, tossing a pillow to Iwaizumi and sitting back onto the bed. “‘Iwaizumi-sama.’ Iwa-sama. Iwa-sama.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Iwaizumi. “Iwa-chan is bad enough, but at least I got used to it.”
“Okay, Iwa-dono.”
Eyes still closed, Iwaizumi cracked a grin, trying not to laugh.
“Iwa-heika?”
“Shut up,” said Iwaizumi, smacking him lightly on the stomach while silently laughing.
“Hey, kids, you can’t lay on these beds if you’re not going to buy them.”
Their eyes opened, looking up at an employee in a blue polo.
“Sorry,” said Iwaizumi as they both sat up.
“And please put the pillows back.”
They looked at each other, struggling not to smile.
Once they were out of the mattress section, Oikawa said, “Hey, let’s go to a café. I’m hungry.”
“Didn’t you want a tree?”
Oikawa blinked. “Oh yeah. Shit. Where is that?”
A few minutes later their knees were bent as they stared into the green depths of an Abies nordmanniana, according to the label.
“How tall is this?” said Oikawa.
Iwaizumi squatted and read the description at the bottom. “It’s a hundred and forty centimeters. I think it’s taller than the one in my living room.”
“Look!” said Oikawa, pointing to a yellow tag tied to the bottom with “¥1990” written in black ink. “It’s only two thousand yen! That’s so cheap.”
Iwaizumi sighed. “Just help me carry it to the register.”
Oikawa turned to him, his grin blinding.
Iwaizumi looked up at him, mouth parted. He didn’t breathe for a few seconds, then turned away quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. His chest felt warm—had they turned up the heater in here?
(Alien UFOs, Big Bang, Christmas trees. He remembered, then, why he stuck with him through it all. He really had always been weak-willed.)
…
“They’re all looking at us,” said Iwaizumi.
He bit into his sandwich, glancing at the other customers from the corner of his eye. Oikawa sipped his coffee and shrugged.
“It’s only because they’re admiring me, wondering if I’m a famous athlete, or perhaps a movie star.”
Iwaizumi chewed while looking at him, unimpressed.
“We could’ve at least left this thing outside the café while we ate,” he said, gesturing to the tree they set against the wall next to their table.
“What if someone stole it?” said Oikawa, looking aghast.
Iwaizumi mumbled something that sounded like, “That’d be great,” and Oikawa kicked him under the table.
…
“People are still staring at us.”
All was silent except for the gentle shaking of the train. A few people looked on at the tree Oikawa held against his lap.
Oikawa shrugged. “Must be my gorgeous sweater.”
“You turned my sweater ugly as f—”
“—fun and fantastic!” Oikawa finished, thrusting his arms out and hitting his hand against the rough tree. “Ow!”
Iwaizumi snorted.
…
“Hmm.”
Iwaizumi sat cross-legged on the floor, poking at the trunk of the thing. It had been left in the corner of his room for a week now.
“Hmmmm.”
Was he supposed to decorate it? Oikawa would probably whine if he came over and saw it bare.
His cell phone buzzed on the floor beside him with Oikawa’s name lighting up on the screen. The text read:
Oikawa: CHECK OUTSIDE!!! GO CHECK!!!
He raised an eyebrow, tempted to text back, “No.” Instead he got up and swept the curtains over his window to the side.
Ah, he thought. First day of snow.
He expected Oikawa to come over any minute now, and sure enough, when he stepped out of his house, a minute later Oikawa was running toward him.
“Break out the kotatsu!” Oikawa said.
His breath fogged the air as he spoke. Iwaizumi looked down to see footprints on the thin layer of snow. It wasn’t snowing much, but it was enough.
Knowing they wouldn’t be indoors on the first day of snow, Iwaizumi stepped forward and closed the door behind him. “My mom will as soon as she sees this.”
The slightly crunching noise of Oikawa stepping onto the snow was oddly satisfying. He had always liked that noise.
“What’re you wearing?” said Oikawa.
Iwaizumi looked down at his sweater and pajama pants. “What?”
“Your sweater’s so thin,” he said. “And your pants. You need to put on something warmer.”
“I’m not that cold,” said Iwaizumi.
He noticed that, beneath a coat and scarf, Oikawa was wearing one of Iwaizumi’s white hoodies.
Good.
Good—that it’ll keep him warm. Oikawa always got cold easily.
“No,” said Oikawa. “Come on. Let’s go inside where I can force you to wear another sweater.”
“You stole all my sweaters,” said Iwaizumi, but he followed Oikawa back into the house anyway.
Oikawa took out all the clothes in his bottom drawer and made a mess (again) until he found a thick black sweater—the last one Iwaizumi had left. Gone was his favorite grey one, his red one, his white one, his green one, his blue one. Probably his other white one. Well, at least Oikawa would be warm. And he always got his sweaters back some time in the spring. (Most of them, anyway. He always ended up buying one or two to replace the ones Oikawa kept.)
Holding up the sweater to Iwaizumi’s body, Oikawa said, “Maybe this would look better if we sewed some fabric snowflakes on it?”
“Never.”
He took the sweater from Oikawa’s arms and pulled it over his head.
Oikawa pouted, but Iwaizumi kept shaking his head.
“Fine, whatever,” Oikawa said, lying on the bed. “You have no sense of seasonal cheer.”
He pulled the blanket over himself and let out a content breath.
Iwaizumi stilled.
There it was. That was it—the sight of Oikawa lying on his bed, wearing his sweater. His throat went dry and he was becoming uncomfortably hot—it was probably the extra sweater. What was it about that sight? What was this?
Oikawa looked up at him. His eyelashes were so long, when you looked closely. He couldn’t think of another guy that had eyelashes that long—or maybe he just never looked closely enough at other people’s to notice.
Oikawa leaned his head back, stretching out his neck with a pleasured groan. The scarf slipped slightly from his neck. He smiled, his pale cheeks slightly colored from being out in the cold.
Iwaizumi stood there, watching and wracking his brain. His throat was still dry.
What was it?
What was it?
…
“Why are we laying on the cold-as-fuck snow in the middle of the evening?” said Iwaizumi, although he didn’t sound particularly bothered. Not any more than usual, anyway.
“I thought you didn’t get cold easily, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi grunted.
They were just a few inches apart, lying flat on the thin layer of snow in front of Iwaizumi’s house. His mother had opened the door, spotted them lying there apparently doing nothing, and just sighed, telling them not to get sick and come in for dinner when they were done with their “odd teenager behavior.”
After a while, even words stilled in the slow, cold air between them, so they lay quietly. The sky was such a light blue, almost ghostly. Nothing like the rainy sky just a few weeks back. Iwaizumi didn’t know which one he preferred.
“Being cold makes you more vulgar than usual,” said Oikawa, amused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a perfect gentleman. I wear deodorant and everything.”
Oikawa laughed, and the shaking of his body shifted the snow beneath him. It was way too easy to make him laugh.
He sat up, and Iwaizumi’s eyes trailed the line of his body. After he took off his coat so that he was just wearing the white hoodie and scarf, he folded it neatly and handed it to Iwaizumi.
“Here,” he said. “Put it under your head. You shouldn’t just lay your neck on bare snow. You’ll freeze your arteries off.”
“That’s not how arteries work.” But he took it anyway, sliding it beneath his head.
A jacket for a hoodie, then. (A jacket for many hoodies, actually. Not a fair trade, exactly, but fair enough.)
Oikawa lay back down. He turned on his side, facing Iwaizumi.
“Hey, remember that time when we were kids?” he whispered, his warm breath and the cold air mingling in a way that was terrifyingly intimate. Iwaizumi didn’t breathe. Oikawa looked down, terribly fond of some memory, no doubt. Nostalgia looked good on him. “That time when you were eight and you took a piss on the snow?”
For that he got a face full of mushy snow, balled up in Iwaizumi’s hands. Oikawa wiped the snow from his face with his sleeve, coughing.
Iwaizumi said, “Go fuck yourse—”
“Merry Christmas!” Oikawa sang, throwing his arms around his shoulders and pulling him in. When their faces were close, Iwaizumi breathed a little more quickly. Oikawa’s breath smelled like flowers today. How odd.
“Your breath smells like flowers,” he said, breathless, eyes looking down at his mouth. “Disgusting.”
…
“Hmm.”
He checked his phone again:
18 December, 15:04. Zero texts. No missed calls.
“Hmmm.”
“‘Hmm, hmmmm,’ I hear you say every week nowadays.”
He looked up at his teasing mother, who was carrying a newspaper. She smiled at him, then ruffled his hair.
“Hey, where’s Tooru? It’s unusual that he’s not here. You should call him and tell him to come over,” she said, walking away.
Well, that was what he had been trying to figure out.
Usually, around noon on a Saturday, Oikawa would call or text to tell him he was coming over, or he would just come over unannounced. By 13:00 he was usually sitting on Iwaizumi’s floor, watching TV in the living room or wrapping blankets around himself in the bedroom. By 14:00 they were eating or playing video games.
Now it was 15:08.
He bounced his knee, his fingers digging into the couch cushions. Finally, he sent a text to Oikawa:
Iwaizumi: Where are you? My mom says you should give me back those hoodies so she can wash them. They stink.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.
Oikawa: I’m at Ikea!!!! My mom said we could get a real tree for the living room as long as I keep it out of reach of the dog… Do dogs eat tree??? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Oikawa: Take a train and come over here!!! I’m trying to decide between the 136 cm one and the 139 cm one………
This time, Iwaizumi didn’t even bother spending a few minutes to say “No” and watching Oikawa beg him to come. Fifteen minutes later, he was on a train.
Ikea was just fun, okay?
…
“Hey, Iwa-chan, what do you think of this couch?” said Oikawa when Iwaizumi approached him, not even bothering to say hello. “It’s a little firm, but it’s a nice color. Deep red. I like that—it reminds me of your blankets.”
Taking a seat next to him, Iwaizumi pressed his hand to the cushion. “It’s okay. Fabric is kind of weird.”
“Hmm.”
They leaned their heads back and stretched out their legs at the same time. Oikawa looked around, then smiled and closed his eyes when he saw no employees.
Iwaizumi stared up at the ceiling. The faint store music drifted in and out of his ears, hitting him with such clarity. Not like muffled rain or eerily silent snow.
When he turned to look at Oikawa, he let out a short laugh.
Oikawa opened an eye. “What is it?”
“How long ago did you steal that one?” he said, looking at Oikawa’s yellow hoodie. “I don’t even remember owning a yellow sweater.”
“Oh, this one’s not yours,” said Oikawa. “It’s Hanamaki’s. I ran into him on the train and he lent it to me. He said it was too cold to just be wearing a cardigan.”
Iwaizumi wasn’t lying back anymore. He twisted his body to turn to him, staring down at the dark yellow and remembered that, yes, he had indeed seen Hanamaki wearing this same sweater. He had seen him wear this sweater just a month ago, when Hanamaki pulled it on before walking home. Iwaizumi had watched his back disappear into a picture of falling leaves and wet ground. It had struck him because it was such a picturesque scene.
Now Oikawa was wearing that sweater, so yellow and happy against the maroon couch.
Oh. So that was what it was. So that was what this was.
Cold, ugly jealously filled him and he had trouble breathing and now that he knew, he cursed himself for all these dramatics. What a joke. He wanted to laugh. Oikawa had always been ridiculous, but Iwaizumi was pretty ridiculous too, it turned out.
He said nothing, mouth caught between a grim line and a unbelieving smile. The store music drifted in and out of his ear, in and out, so clear.
Oikawa began humming Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
“You’re really in the Christmas spirit, huh?” said Iwaizumi.
“Don’t be bitter,” he said. He opened his eyes. “Hey, for Christmas we should go to Sendai and see the lights.”
Iwaizumi sighed his customary sigh, but it just sounded like a breath of relief. “Sure.”
“Hey,” Iwaizumi said after a while. “You don’t look so tired anymore.”
“What do you mean?” said Oikawa.
“A few weeks ago you looked tired in the mornings. More than usual.”
“Ah,” he said. “I can never sleep when it rains so hard. Noise drives me crazy.”
Iwaizumi furrowed his eyebrows, a little shocked. “I never knew that.”
They had known each other since they were four—how did he not know that?
Oikawa smiled. “It helps when I sleep in your hoodies, though. Must be your musky scent—probably touches on some primal aspect of my physiology and puts me right to sleep.”
Custom dictated that he hit Oikawa for his stupid Manly Caveman Iwa-chan Jokes, or at least laugh out of lack of restraint, but all could focus on was “It helps when I sleep in your hoodies, though.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
The cold must’ve been doing things to his brain. What did he care, though? Even after the snow melted, Oikawa would still be here, saying things and doing things and breathing on him and exposing inches of his bare back while lying on his bed and Iwaizumi would still be going a little nuts.
God damn it.
He pulled Oikawa in by the collar roughly, then wrapped his arms around him tightly. He tried to ignore Hanamaki’s smell on him. Oikawa’s hair tickled his cheek, and he could smell his shampoo. He pulled him in closer.
With wide eyes, Oikawa stayed still.
Iwaizumi expected him to ask what on Earth he was doing, but instead Oikawa said, “Are you okay, Iwa-chan? Is something wrong?”
Iwaizumi just clicked his tongue.
Oikawa said again, with none of his usual levity, “Hey, what’s wrong? Iwa-chan?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said. “Maybe. It’s nothing bad. Just let me hug you, damn it.”
Oikawa laughed, and Iwaizumi felt his shaking chest against his own, the noise vibrating in his throat so close to Iwaizumi’s ears. He didn’t lean in to kiss the vibrations. He didn’t know if Oikawa would want to kiss him, so he didn’t. But he could do this, at least.
A second later, Oikawa wrapped his arms around his waist, then said, “We haven’t done this since we were kids.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Iwa-dono.”
“What?”
“Remember you agreed to go to Sendai with me. I want to see all the lights. I’m not letting you back out of this one.” Oikawa poked him in the back for emphasis.
“Whatever.” After a minute, he said, “Hey.”
“What?”
“You smell bad.”
He huffed, giving Iwaizumi a slap on the back. “Well then.”
Oikawa couldn’t see his face, so he wondered if Iwaizumi was smiling. Resting his head on Iwaizumi's shoulders and pulling in even closer, he could feel a faint but rapid thumping in his chest, beating against his own between two layers of warm cotton.