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Iwaizumi opened the door, and immediately halted.
Oikawa shouldered his way through the room, tossing his neck back and throwing an empty bottle of beer behind him. The curtains were closed, and the only light in the hotel was coming from the lava lamp in the corner. Collapsing on the couch after grabbing another thing of alcohol from the fridge, Oikawa thanked the gods that Iwaizumi wasn’t back.
The shards of glass remained on the floor, no matter how many times Iwaizumi blinked, assuming that it was a drunk-induced vision.
“Oikawa?”
There was no response, and Iwaizumi felt his heart rate pick up. It had been so stupid, a petty argument.
Aiko crossed her arms, frowning. “It feels like you’re more Iwaizumi’s boyfriend than you are mine.”
“Ai-chan, he’s my best friend.”
She looked unconvinced. “I- I think we should break up.”
Oikawa gaped, “But…”
“If ‘Iwa-chan’ is so important to you, you should tell him,” Aiko said, not without a hint of sympathy in her tone.
It was weird to be in the hotel when it was so quiet, the usual constant stream of chatter and banter that defined Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s friendship having morphed into white noise. Iwaizumi made his way further into the room, and peered over at the vacant kitchen and couch before heading over to the two bedrooms. Both were empty.
“Just let me go! If you’re so insistent that we need to be together-” Iwaizumi winced inwardly at his own words, knowing that they were harsh, “then maybe we need space from one another. To learn how to be independent. So your relationships aren’t ruined by… by this!” He gestured to himself and Oikawa.
Sometimes, it was hard to be in love.
“Oikawa?” he yelled, more frantically now. When Iwaizumi had burst out onto the streets of Paris, needing to be alone, he had expected Oikawa would stay put. His (friend? best friend? person who probably now hated him?) was terribly scared of crowded places, so frightened that Iwaizumi had sat with him through many panic attacks induced from being in Tokyo.
While Oikawa tried to desperately recall his French lessons from tenth grade in his inebriated state, the Parisian was cocking their head, looking bemused.
He waved a hand, the universal signal for “nevermind”, and the red-haired girl walked off to go rejoin her friend, some guy in a cap.
Oikawa felt his breathing quicken as he stumbled over to the edge of the pavement. Mucus gathered in the back of his throat, and anxiety set in. He was alone in the City of Lights.
Iwaizumi had been in love with Oikawa since eighth grade. This was as true as the sky was blue. It had been, and always would be.
Oikawa wasn’t in love with Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi knew this, and had accepted it as law long ago. But tonight, with Oikawa freshly single (and because of Iwaizumi, nonetheless), and their trip to Paris having just started, he seemed to have forgotten.
Oikawa had been in love with Iwaizumi since they met eyes for the first time when they were six. This was as true as the sky was blue. It had been, and always would be.
Iwaizumi wasn’t in love with Oikawa. Oikawa knew this, and had accepted it as law long ago. But tonight, after having been broken up the day prior (and Ai-chan had cited Iwaizumi, the irony was not lost on him), and the trip to Paris having just started, he seemed to have forgotten.
When he had ventured out, walking with his fists clenched, and his jacket zipped tight, Iwaizumi had been the very picture of a boy (man? no, boy) who didn’t want to be bothered. Gazing at the breathtaking view, he wished that the night had gone to plan, and that it was Oikawa beside him (“Huh, Iwa-chan. The Eiffel Tower is almost as big as my-” “Shut up, Shittykawa!”), and not the random blonde girl who had her hair tightly done up in a ponytail.
The girl and the boy he had seen previously wandered over to him, looking concerned, and speaking in rapid French.
Pulling her phone out and texting someone, the red-head grabbed Oikawa’s elbow and helped him over to the nearest bench.
“Thanks,” he managed, before bending over and hurling what was left of the lunch he had eaten on the plane onto the cement.
A purple haze swept over Iwaizumi’s vision, and his mind went blank, before-
“Hello, Philia. I am Hawkmoth. I am granting you the power to manipulate love, so you can take back and find what is rightfully yours.”
“Hawkmoth, you can count on me!”
Oikawa didn’t usually hallucinate when he was drunk. That was more of an Iwaizumi thing, and it frustrated him that he knew this.
So when the two teenagers who were helping him quickly scrambled up to greet a girl in hideous red and black spots, and a boy in (was that a leather catsuit? kinky) Oikawa was disturbed.