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In Iwaizumi’s defence, his mind had been otherwise occupied. Making sure he’d filled out the housing form for his return to Miyagi after a year studying abroad was — with hindsight, mistakenly — not at the higher end of his priorities. Lucky for him, this blunder hadn’t ended in homelessness; the university told him another student was looking for a replacement after their previous roommate had moved out. Iwaizumi silently thanked whoever was responsible, and might’ve cried a little bit when he got the email about the free space. He wouldn’t be able to thank Tsukishima — the name familiar, but unable to be placed to someone’s face in Iwaizumi’s mind — enough for being willing to take on a complete stranger, though he probably figured that if Iwaizumi was an axe-murderer, Iwaizumi would be the one inconvenienced.
Having shoved a year of his life into three small suitcases was both a little sad and kind of impressive. Iwaizumi was definitely happy he stayed consistent with his exercise, or toting the three glossy, dark grey suitcases may have been a challenge on his own.
At least he could rely on the taxi rank — he wouldn’t have to wait hours for a ride. He let the greying man help him fit his luggage in the boot, slid into the back seat and politely asked to be taken to the university campus.
Once comfortable, Iwaizumi shot off a LINE message to Oikawa to let him know he’d arrived back to Miyagi safely and was on the way to pick up his keys then head to the apartment where, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t need to interact with Tsukishima until he was far less jet-lagged and his eyes weren’t burning from exhaustion anymore. Iwaizumi could almost hear Oikawa’s voice in his head, You need your beauty sleep, Iwa-chan, you look scary otherwise!
Iwaizumi was thankful it was pretty early in the afternoon, otherwise he would have fallen asleep in the back of the taxi. Despite the cool air outside, the warm envelop of heat blowing through the vents, and his position in the sun made the backseat rather cosy, though perhaps that was more down to the sleepless flight through over twelve hours of time-zone talking. The brightness of the sun was the only thing stopping him — Iwaizumi was prepared to sleep for months. Just his luck that his classes started after the weekend was over.
This wasn’t Iwaizumi’s fault. Oikawa’s insistence that they spend as much time together as possible before they were no longer on the same side of the earth — “but Iwa-chan, at least when you’re in America, we don’t have to schedule Skype calls, we can be spontaneous!” Which wasn’t quite the truth, but not wrong either — is what landed him with two days to sort his shit out for the new semester and become not-jet-lagged. (That extra week with Oikawa was fun, not that Iwaizumi would ever admit it. He really does miss Oikawa. The lack of his presence at times was so dreadfully wrong Iwaizumi had to talk himself down from crying a bit. It’s not like Oikawa had died: he’s just on the other side of the world.)
Iwaizumi thanked the taxi driver, wrangled his suitcases, and staggered his way into the housing office. Barely thirty minutes later, he had his new key in hand, and directions to the apartment. Despite his elation at not being homeless, Iwaizumi cursed the five storeys of stairs he had to make his way up. Iwaizumi sighed heavily, and slowly started the climb.
Body aching and suitcases a bit more battered than they were five minutes ago, Iwaizumi found the door to his new apartment. He wasn’t expecting Tsukishima to be around, given that it was the middle of a weekday, though he supposed Tsukishima might not have classes on right then. Iwaizumi knocked, regardless, and jimmied the key around until the grey slate door opened.
Iwaizumi shucked off his sneakers, and stepped up onto the wood, careful to avoid the cold tiles. “Pardon the intrusion,” he called out. Traumatising his new housemates by ‘breaking in’ would not be a good move.
Deciding he would leave his suitcases near the entry, Iwaizumi took in the surroundings of the apartment. It was surprisingly spacious, though that did explain the need for another occupant. Books were stacked neatly — a shock, if Iwaizumi was honest — on the low coffee table which sat in the middle of a small TV, a cosy-looking loveseat, and a two person couch in desperate need of new upholstery. Pots of flowers and succulents sit on every surface Iwaizumi could see. The kitchen was much closer to what Iwaizumi expected: plates, mugs and empty two-minute-noodle cups strewn around. The sketch-adorned fridge, at least, was large, and the windows let in a decent amount of light, though Iwaiuzmi suspected that, if all the lamps were any indication, natural light in the apartment was sparse.
“Oh, you are here.”
Iwaizumi turned quickly to face, who he assumed to be, Tsukishima.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Iwaizumi bowed. “I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.
“That’s alright,” he returned the bow. “I’m Tsukishima, thank you for accepting to stay here.”
“Really, I’m the one who should be thanking you — I made an uncharacteristic mistake, and I completely owe it to you that I’m not homeless right now.”
Tsukishima’s eyebrow quirked up, a tinge of judgement — or maybe humour, Iwaizumi wasn’t sure — in his dark honey eyes, before his sweetly sculptured face returned to neutrality. “Well, as long as you do your chores, I don’t care who you are.”
“Regardless, thank you very much, Tsukishima-san.”
“Of course,” Tsukishima said. “I have some studying to get back to, but I can show you to your room. The bathroom is also right down the end of the hall, so if you want to have a shower and get the airplane grime off you, you’re welcome to. We can talk about tasks and boundaries later.”
“That sounds great,” Iwaizumi agreed. “Thank you again.” He followed Tsukishima down the short hallway, and noticed that he had to duck under the doorframe. Tsukishima stopped, and pointed to a wooden door slightly further down.
“Bathroom is there, and this here is your room.”
Several more awkward thank-you’s later, and Iwaizumi was left in his new room, with an entire year of his life stuffed into three suitcases and an unmade bed he was prepared to fall asleep on despite the lack of covers.
It's the jet-lag's fault that Iwaizumi forgot that he was supposed to call Oikawa. Iwaizumi was, generally, a light sleeper, but unfortunately, pure exhaustion knocked him well and truly out. He woke up several hours later, the sun still hanging bright despite his phone reading 8pm, to several missed calls and hundreds of huffy emojis. Iwaizumi stretched his tired body out, cracking his back satisfactorily, and groggily fumbled for his phone.
Iwaizumi snorted — Oikawa had sent several emoji-adorned texts to their group chat with Matsukawa and Hanamaki exclaiming that “・゜・(ノД`)・゜・(ノД`) IWA-CHAN DIED!!!!!!!” The familiar antics of his friends had his heart aching. Even if Oikawa was halfway around the globe, he could, he reasoned, still spend time with the others.
I’m not dead, idiot. I fell asleep
💩川：
(ノ*゜▽゜*) IWA-CHAN!!!!!!!
マッツン：
Thanks for abandoning us to deal with the drama queen
Sorry, Matsukawa. I appreciate the sacrifice
Jet lag, y’know?
花巻：
Glad to see you’re aliveeeeee
Tell us if you need help w anything
Thanks, Hanamaki
マッツン：
We won’t help, but we can come laugh at you :D
Wow. Ok
I should go talk some stuff out with my roommate, but we can talk more later.
Iwaizumi threw his phone to the side, screamed a little into his pillow, and got up.
Tsukishima was seated at the small kitchen island with a huge mug that smelled of cinnamon tea, furiously flipping through a textbook, eyebrows pinched behind his glasses.
Iwaizumi stepped into the kitchen, and realised he had no idea where anything was. The joys of moving into a new place.
“You can grab a glass from the cupboard over the sink, if you want.” Tsukishima said, closing the textbook with an angry snap.
“Thank you,” Iwaizumi said. He quickly filled the glass full of tap water before turning back to Tsukishima. “Sorry for making you wait, I didn’t get the chance to sleep on the plane.”
“It’s no problem.” Tsukishima answered honestly. “Let’s talk about dividing the chores, shall we?” Iwaizumi was impressed at Tsukishima’s ability to stride right through what should have been an awkward silence and right down into business.
Tsukishima apologised for his directness, but said that his previous housemate had been dreadful and useless, to say the least. Iwaizumi had nodded in agreement, the agreed-upon sharing of chores totally reasonable.
“Usually, my boyfriend–” Record scratch, rewind and freeze frame. (oh joy, now Oikawa was narrating his thoughts) His boyfriend . That explained the disdain towards the asshole of a former-roommate, but Tsukishima was hot enough on his own, Iwaizumi’s gay heart wouldn’t be able to handle it if this unnamed boyfriend was hot, too. “–would come over most days, but he’s busy with work for the next month, so it’s unlikely you’ll meet him any time soon–”
Iwaizumi decided to ignore the part of his brain that sunk disappointment into his stomach in favour of the relief of not having two excruciatingly attractive people in the same room as him. (He takes a moment to wonder why his brain has painted Tsukishima’s boyfriend as hot, an enormous assumption on his part, but Iwaizumi can’t imagine Tsukishima not dating someone just as hot as himself.)
“–which is lucky, because he is an impossibly endless flirt.” Tsukishima tagged on, quietly.
“Ah, that’s not a problem.” Iwaizumi said, and hoped his face wasn’t bright red.
Tsukishima looked at him strangely. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
Tsukishima straightened his back, uncurling and untensing himself, before nodding. “Good. That’s good. I’m...hmm, yes. Goodnight.”
Tsukishima stood, and disappeared into his room, leaving a very confused but mildly amused Iwaizumi behind.
Iwaizumi had settled in some, and managed, against all odds, to land a part-time job at a flower shop in need of someone to do their heavy lifting, and cover the desk from time to time.
Iwaizumi, left alone to man the shop over the lunch hour, was fairly relaxed. The smell of flowers was pleasant and, unexpectedly, not overpowering. The ambience in the naturally lit nursery reminded Iwaizumi of a down pillow, warm and soft.
The wind chime over the door tinkled, a waft of warm air from outside flooding in.
“Welcome–” Iwaizumi looked up. “How may I help you?” And, well, if that wasn't bed hair, Iwaizumi didn't know what was. The hair in question belonged to a tall, well-tattooed man holding a sketchbook and looking somewhat lost.
“Uh, sorry to bother you,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I’m Kuroo, I work across the road in the tattoo parlour? A client is asking for some botanical designs, and I was wondering if I could use some of your flowers as references? Google has been entirely and completely unhelpful, and I have no idea what a ‘bat flower’ is.”
“Oh I see,” Iwaizumi said. His attempts at getting his brain to work over the screaming of HE’S SO HOT were not going well, not internally at least. “I’m not really the expert on the flowers, but I’m happy to show you to them.” Iwaizumi had seen the bat flowers come in, had helped put them out on display, but why on earth would anyone want them in their house, let alone on their body permanently? He didn’t know, and as he led Kuroo through the airy store, Iwaizumi decided he didn’t really care. They were kind of cool, he supposed, as he stood in front of the dark petals adorned with stringy white whiskers.
“Would you like to buy some to take with you?”
Kuroo made a face as though he hadn’t thought of buying flowers from a flower shop . “Ah,” he laughed softly, and not for the first time Iwaizumi was thankful for his so-called resting bitch face. “I left my wallet at home. I’m happy just to look for the moment, but I might come back tomorrow,” Kuroo smiled, eyebrow raised. “If you’ll be here?” And oh no the hot man was flirting with him now.
“Uh, yeah, I’m going to be here.” Iwaizumi managed, and hoped the smile that crawled its way to his face was nice and not dopey (“the only nice smiles you have are the dopey ones, Iwa-chan! All the others make you look like a murderer.”)
“Great!” Kuroo took out a sketchbook, messy, with extra pages sticking out, stained with colours, and began working.
Not long after, Iwaizumi was pushed gently out of the store by the elderly owner, insisting that he didn’t need to work any overtime, and should go “be young!” Iwaizumi reluctantly did as he was told (wow, he must be gone if he wants to work overtime just to see the guy sketch flowers) and headed towards his apartment.
Oikawa, holy fuck
💩川：
YOOOOOOOO (づ￣ ³￣)づ
Whats up Iwa-chan whats happening
Ooooh is there gossip
Did you find out your roommate is a serial killer?
What the fuck, no
Why are you awake, idiot
It’s 2am
YOU TEXTED ME FIRST (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
How would you even know what time it is here?????
I know because a) GOOGLE and b) I have argentinas time saved in my phone
Moron
Rude
But seriously, what’s up
Nevermind, it’s not important
It doesn’t have to be, you know
I miss you, Iwa-chan, I miss knowing what’s happening with you
Fine
This tattoo artist came into the flower shop I work in
And he was
Very hot
YOOOO ASK HIM OUT
ASK HIM OUT
ASK
HIM
OUT
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I might, actually
I think he was flirting?
Or maybe that was just me, but
IWA-CHAN
I KNOW YOU THINK I’M STUPID
AND YOU’RE WRONG
BUT IN THIS CASE
YOU’RE EXTRA WRONG
AND
NEED
TO ASK
HIM
OUT
Shittykawa, calm the fuck down
I will, okay. He said he’d be back tomorrow, I’ll ask him to coffee or something
Now go to sleep, you absolute moron
I miss you too
(ღ˘⌣˘ღ)
GO TO SLEEP
It turns out, Iwaizumi didn’t even have to ask the hot tattoo artist out.
“I have to put these in the back, but would you like to go get some coffee with me?”
Kuroo remembered to bring his wallet this time, but not for more reference flowers. No, these were carefully chosen, dutifully inspected succulents — a gift, apparently, though deposited without ceremony into the back room of his parlour so Iwaizumi wasn’t sure who the gift was for, before the two of them headed to the café.
Iwaizumi didn’t even know there was a café on this street. It was, admittedly, a little bit hidden, and he was, admittedly, a little new to the area, but still.
Iwaizumi was surprised by how cosy it felt, almost a contradiction to the low-hanging industrial lights, deep bronze pipes lining the brick walls, and the vaulted ceilings. The smell of coffee permeated the air, the quiet tinkering of good jazz and the soft buzz of voices mingling together.
Joining the line together, bunched together so as to not block others from walking past, Iwaizumi got a good look at the tattoos trailing up and down Kuroo’s arms. His right arm had an intricately detailed sleeve, cuffed at his wrist, of wabori flowers resting on boldly lined waves, the bright crimson and golden orange flowers contrasting against the grey-blue ocean. His left wasn’t a full sleeve, rather a series of tattoos; a cat resting on the top of a garbage dump, a collection of crystalline constellations, three chemical structures Iwaizumi didn’t recognise, and a fourth that looked like adrenaline. The unrelated tattoos were surprisingly cohesive, taking up good space, fitting together well. Iwaizumi wondered if Kuroo did them himself, though decided it was unlikely.
The tattoos sat gently on Kuroo’s arm, and Iwaizumi wanted to reach out and touch the soft-looking skin. He was saved from his embarrassing impulse by the call of the cashier, before realising that he’d been so distracted by the ink on Kuroo’s arms that he’d forgotten to choose a drink, and both Kuroo and the cashier were looking at him, expectantly.
“Uhm,” he stuttered, unattractively. He scanned the board as fast as his mind could go (much slower than usual, fuck why wouldn’t his brain work when near hot men) before he panicked and gave up. “I’ll grab a soy latte?”
“You want anything to eat?” Kuroo asked.
Iwaizumi shook his head, despite the grumbling in his stomach, giving way to autopilot. “I’m alright, thanks.”
“Alright,” Kuroo said. “You can have some of mine, if you change your mind.” He slipped two thousand yen onto the tray as the cashier confirmed their order, gave them a number, and instructed them to choose a table.
“You didn’t have to pay,” Iwaizumi apologised.
Kuroo slouched into the booth, Iwaizumi following behind him, and he smiled across the table. “Nah, I’m happy to pay for you.”
Oh, beating heart, have mercy: be still.
“So, ‘Zumi-san,” Kuroo smirked, leaning his arms onto the table. “You go to school around here?”
Iwaizumi nodded. “Yeah, I’m studying sports science. I just moved back from a stint in California.”
“America, huh? That’s pretty fancy,” Kuroo said. He pulled his arms back, nodded politely at the waiter who plonked their coffees, and Kuroo’s sandwich onto the table. “I was going to study biochemistry, but—” he shrugged “—changed my mind.”
They could’ve talked for hours, if time permitted. Unfortunately, Kuroo had a client he had to get to — a back tattoo of a dragon and a sword (“No flowers this time,” he laughed) he was excited to do, but it required at least the next eight hours.
“Sorry to do this to you, Iwaizumi-san.” Kuroo stood outside his parlour, unlocking the deadbolts and switching on the lights
“Nah, that’s alright,” Iwaizumi said. “It was really nice to get to know you, Kuroo-san.”
“Next time I might even let you pay,” Kuroo laughed.
“You better.”
They waved goodbye, Iwaizumi’s bag hanging heavily over his shoulder as he walked away. Next time he’d get to buy Kuroo’s drink, and maybe actually not seem like a bumbling idiot.
He stopped.
Next time.
Their coffee dates increased in frequency, and yet Iwaizumi still got butterflies every time.
Iwaizumi had been home for a total of two months, and much to his relief, he and Tsukishima got on swimmingly. Mostly they just stayed out of each other’s way, but they’d discovered they shared a love for science documentaries and sci-fi movies. Apparently, they’d also met a few times in high school, briefly, through volleyball which explained why the name Tsukishima had seemed familiar to him, but the fact that Iwaizumi hadn’t remembered the towering first year was somewhat embarrassing. (In his defence, Hinata had been very distracting, and Tsukishima himself admitted that he hadn’t been trying very much at that point.)
“When was the last time you and your boyfriend had time together, anyway?” Iwaizumi asked over the top of the ad blaring from the TV screen framed by several new plants Tsukishima had gotten from somewhere.
Tsukishima picked up a fallen sketch and carefully pinned it under magnets and closed the fridge behind him, two cans of beer in hand. “We had lunch together the other day, but it’s been a bit… scarce.”
“That sucks,” Iwaizumi hummed. “But you’ve finished your exams right? You said he’s coming over tonight?”
“That’s right. And…” Tsukishima trailed off, turning bright, blistering red. “We might be a bit loud?”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“Nah that’s fine, you guys can do whatever you want.” Iwaizumi smiled genuinely, glad that his roommate was comfortable enough to tell him beforehand. “ I was going to walk to the café to study, anyway. I still have another handful of exams, you lucky bastard.”
“Do you want to finish the documentary?” Tsukishima asked, eager to change the topic from his sex life.
“Yeah, I’m not in a hurry,” Iwaizumi said, and took a sip of his beer. “Besides, this tile thing is mildly creepy, and I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Seconded.”
Iwaizumi had intended to study, he really had, but Oikawa took priority (for some reason, the dickweed.)
“Why’d you even call, Shittykawa? Shouldn’t you be at work or something?”
“I could sense your ugly frowning from here, Iwa-chan, I wanted to see it on your face.” Oikawa sighed. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t have coffee with Kuroo-san today,” he said.
Oikawa rolled his eyes. “And? You’re grumpy because you missed coffee with your boyfriend?”
“He is not my boyfriend.” Iwaizumi’s face flushed. They hadn’t actually talked about it — yet — despite the frequent and increasing ‘dates.’ Assumptions couldn’t be made, and for all Iwaizumi knew, Kuroo wasn’t even interested in men.
“But you’ve been going on dates?” Oikawa said, deadpan.
“Technically, yes,” Iwaizumi glared. “We just haven’t… clarified if they’re mutually romantic dates.”
“But you like him?” It wasn’t a question, not really. “You like him, don’t you Iwa-chan?” Oikawa raised his eyebrow at Iwaizumi’s hesitance. “Or is it more than that?”
Iwaizumi wanted to snap at Oikawa, that he was reading something that wasn’t there and call him a shithead moron, but that wouldn’t be fair. Least of all because it was true. It was true and Iwaizumi didn’t know what to do with it. Sure, he’d had crushes before, had even been pretty serious in a few cases, but even then it wasn’t like this.
This was a bit of an inconvenience, taking up large buckets of his brain power when he shouldn’t be thinking about it. This was pounding hearts and sweaty palms and dopey smiles that lingered well into the day. This was so obvious that Oikawa, 18 thousand kilometers across a literal fucking ocean, could tell.
Fuck.
“Fuck.”
“You should go talk to him.”
“I don’t know where he lives,” Iwaizumi snapped. “And even if I did… Even if I did, I couldn’t just show up , Shittykawa. I have manners.”
Oikawa barked a laugh. “Yeah, manners. Totally.”
“I should talk to him, though. When I see him next.”
Oikawa shifted, taking Iwaizumi on a quick, blurred and nauseating walk to his kitchen. “I think you should do it tomorrow, or you’re just going to keep procrastinating.” He flicked the kettle on. “I know you, Iwa-chan. You’re not as responsible as everyone thinks.”
“Shut up.”
“No,” Oikawa said with a slam of a cupboard. “Because you, Iwa-chan, are on your way to being in love with this guy, and I refuse to let you miss something that could make you happy.”
“You’re right, but, what should-”
“The truth, Hajime. You’re good at that.”
Iwaizumi groaned. “Fuck you for making me talk about my feelings.”
Oikawa gasped and flailed his free hand wildly. “Iwa-chan, rude! I’m helping you on your quest for true love, show me some respect!”
“Absolutely not.”
“RUDE!” Oikawa knocked over his mug.
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes at the spluttering and swearing coming from the other end of the video call, and did his best not to laugh at his friend. He stuffed his unused textbook and iPad deep into his bag, zipped it and slung it over his shoulder, giving Oikawa time to recover from his mishap.
“ I like it when you’re happy.” Iwaizumi heard through his earphones.
“Wow, thanks.”
“I’m serious, Iwa-chan. Go. Sort yourself out for tomorrow.”
“Going.”
“Good.” The smirk on Oikawa’s face spilled into his voice. “I want deets.”
“There won’t be any deets!” Iwaizumi spluttered angrily to an already ended call. He sighed. Oikawa was — much to Iwaizumi’s dismay — right. He needed to go and rest, send a text to Kuroo so that they could sort out a time when Iwaizumi could… confess, he supposed. Like a teenager.
He groaned.
At least the walk back to the apartment was quick. He didn’t really want to be privy to Tsukishima’s sex life, but Iwaizumi could deal with it. He doubted he’d even really notice, anyway, so caught up in his own little dilemma that there would be very little that could distract him from it.
Three sets of lights, the tantalising smells of late-night ramen, a ridiculous number of stairs later, and Iwaizumi was ready to sleep for a good, long, eternity. There was one little, tiny issue.
“Tsukki, babe, love of my life, that's a shit movie, I'm not watching it again,” comes shooting out of the lounge room, and had better not belong to the person it sounds like it does. Please don’t belong to the person it sounds like it does.
Except Iwaizumi seemed to be out of luck. It was Kuroo (shit, Iwaizumi really should have asked Tsukishima what his boyfriend’s name was) because of course it was Kuroo. Standing in the kitchen with cheap, plastic wine glasses in hand was Kuroo, the tattoo artist, the person Iwaizumi is body over his heels for, in an unfairly loose muscle tee. Even though Iwaizumi had seen the bottom half of Kuroo’s sleeves many a time, oggled them on their first coffee date even, he’d never experienced the torture privilege of seeing them in their full glory.
It wasn’t fair to Iwaizumi’s poor heart, it could only take so much.
“Hey, it’s ‘Zumi-san!”
“Hi, Kuroo-san,” please don’t be blushing, Iwaizumi thought, blushing. “Sorry I’m back early.”
Tsukishima looked up at him from the couch, the usually neat, short, curls of his hair tousled. “It’s no problem, Iwaizumi-san.”
“Drink?” Kuroo asked, pulling a third glass from the cupboard. “We were just talking about you, weren’t we, Kei?”
And well, in the short time that he’d known Kuroo, Iwaizumi had never heard Kuroo’s voice go as gentle, as reverent as when he said Tsukishima’s name, like it was something in need of protecting.
“We were.” Tsukishima confirmed, looking somewhat sheepish.
“Do I want to know why?”
Tsukishima looked to Kuroo, who shrugged a shoulder: a silent conversation in a language Iwaizumi didn’t know yet.
“Tetsurou was just telling me how much he likes you.”
It took all of Iwaizumi’s willpower not to whimper because Tetsurou liked him, and Tsukishima seemed unexpectedly nonchalant.
“Wow, what a delivery babe.” Kuroo said.
“ You wanted me to tell him, but I refuse to ask.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with me asking, though?”
“Yes, Tetsurou, you’re not…” Tsukishima coughed and blushed, as though he was just remembering that Iwaizumi was in the same room and that this wasn’t a private conversation. “You aren’t the only one who likes him.”
“Well then, Zumi-san—” Kuroo didn’t let the beat of awkward silence stop him, barrelling through as though nothing was remotely uncomfortable “—would you like to go on a date with the both of us? Because we would like to take you out, if you’re game.”
Iwaizumi’s heart thrummed heavily in his chest, an anxious and unsure rhythm. The world felt swimmy and out of focus, and he was maybe freaking out a little bit.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
Because he would, despite his panicking brain. It would all be okay, they would be okay. As Oikawa said, Iwaizumi was good at the truth, and he’d be damned if he stopped with himself. Iwaizumi handled Oikawa for more than eighteen years, and Iwaizumi had known even then that the communication needed for it to work, with Oikawa’s intense self-doubt especially earlier on? Iwaizumi knew he could do it here, too. Communication and truth he could do.
“We’ll talk more in the morning, properly decide where we're going from here,” Tsukishima said.
Kuroo laughed, and fell onto the couch, next to Tsukishima, dragging Iwaizumi with him. “Yes, but for now: movies,” he said, and pressed play.
They hadn't changed the movie from Tsukishima’s original choice, the grainy colour of the opening sequence causing Kuroo to groan, only to be swatted on the arm by Tsukishima.
Iwaizumi felt Kuroo relax against Tsukishima, a jackhammer of inadequacy screamed in his ears as Tsukishima ran his hand through Kuroo’s deceptively spiky hair. In the back of his mind, thousands of thoughts facing around suddenly trying to justify his place on the couch with these incredible men, he knew that there would need to be a part in their morning discussion where he mentioned how he felt.
Iwaizumi had to agree with Kuroo; the movie was awful, and barely the kind that could be enjoyed, but if he was being totally honest, his loud, looping thoughts made it difficult to concentrate on much at all, let alone the movie. Thank fuck, then, that Kuroo’s hand lazily tucked itself into Iwaizumi’s, Tsukishima’s long legs gently wound between their limbs, holding everyone close.
If anyone ever asked Iwaizumi what his favourite movie was, it would be this. And if, a year later, he got Testurou to tattoo on his shoulder the movie poster framed with batflowers? Well, his boyfriends weren’t judging.