Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Sorry, what?”

Oikawa blinks up at you from the ground where he’s kneeling and wringing his clasped hands dramatically. “Ah, you’re gonna make me go through the whole speech again - “

“No no.” You interrupt with a wave of your hand. “No, that wasn’t a genuine - no, sorry, should’ve been clearer.”

You start and stop, your eyebrow quirking as you look down on Oikawa. He doesn’t take the hint. You flick your fingers up and finally he gets it, moving smoothly to his feet until he looms above you again.

“Why me? Besides the - “

He grins, almost unbearably cheery.

“That’s it, actually. I figured - you’ve seen me in a, ah, compromising position so this is essentially buying your silence and mutually assured destruction all in one! If you tell, I tell.” There’s a beat of silence where you stare at each other. He’s grinning but his eyes are flinty. “Plus, my fans. I love them, but they’ve been so much lately and some distance is needed. Makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right?”

“That’s . . . “ You hesitate, lips twisting. “Honest?”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything, just hums and looks satisfied with himself. That might just be his default, and it’s weirdly effective at bringing you back to normal. It’s hard to believe your own memories, that you’ve seen him in tears, sincerely heartbroken and sad not one day ago.

“So,” Maybe, in the future, you’ll work on being less easygoing, “what do I get out of this?”

He pouts. “I’m not enough for you?”

You make a face that says a very rude thought just popped into your head, but you refrain from verbalizing it. So polite.

“Okay, okay!” Oikawa brings a hand to his chin, shifting to get into a very exaggerated thinking pose. “What do you want?

“Money.”

The bluntness of your answer takes Oikawa’s breath away.

“I’m not looking to break your bank or whatever, but tell me what you want me to do and we can work it out. Dates ’re gonna be at least twenty five hundred yen since they’re public. Hanging out and getting used to - “ You motion to Oikawa in his entirety and he can’t believe he thought you were nice, “ - will have to be, I don’t know, operating on a favor basis? I know you’re good at some classes I’m not so good at, so that’ll have to do.”

When you’re finished you tilt your head up to meet Oikawa’s wide eyes and stick out your hand, only half aware of the whole load of bullshit you’d just spewed. Off the cuff wouldn’t even begin to describe the amount of spaghetti statements you’d just made. You’re lucky he’d provided you with some ideas at the beginning.

“Deal?”

And yet somehow it sticks, adhering to Oikawa’s desperation.

“Deal!” He brings his hand up to shake yours, the dazed look in his eyes fading as he nods firmly and quirks his lips in that pretty boy smile. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist!”

“ . . . Cool.” He releases your hand and you look down at it with a grimace. “Now what?”

He giggles - an honest to god giggle - as he brings a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you were the professional!”

Before you can protest, he’s wrapping an arm around your shoulders and dragging you toward the classroom door. He’d cornered you in the same room you’d seen him crying in. You’d wondered if that was intentional. Considering Oikawa, it probably was for the drama of it all. Or a reminder of the secrets you’re holding between you now - him, the fact that you’d gone on dates for money, and you, that you’d seen Oikawa get utterly rejected.

“Now we go get a nutritious after school snack while we discuss this further so I can learn more about my lovely little - !”

Your eyes glaze over. “No.”

“But - “ You’re not looking up at him but you get the feeling he’s pouting. “How will anyone know you’re mine if I don’t call you my - “

“Just call me by my name. Or talk to me, not at me.” You resist the urge to shrug off his arm. “You’re trying too hard.”

“This is how I always am.” His tone is playful but there’s a thread of vacant bounciness. Sweet but no substance, like a lukewarm, flat soda. 

“No it’s not.” Unbeknownst to him, you’re thinking back on the few times you’d seen him with his best friend. With him he was still annoying, yes, but it was tempered. More serious. That may just be the energy he had on the court but it felt miles more genuine than whatever this was. “Look, do you want this to be seen as a real relationship or a fling?”

He’d pulled you to his side so tightly it’s impossible to miss the tension that suddenly suffuses him. You wait, idly picking at your cuticles.

It isn’t until you’re well past the school gate that he answers.

“A - a real relationship.” He says, voice small. You nod to yourself and skate over the urge to ask why, beyond the paper thin “fan” excuse. You can guess.

“Okay.” You go to pat his hand but reconsider at the last second. “Then treat me like a person and we can go from there.”

There’s a moment where you genuinely think he’s going to just renege on the whole endeavor, where he goes so silent you wouldn’t know he was next to you if not for the fact that he’d glued himself to your side.

“You make me sound so horrible!” It bursts out of him, a pouty whine so over the top and so different from the solemn quiet you get whiplash.

“I was . . . being as objective as possible.”

Oikawa huffs again and squeezes you. You think it’s supposed to be some sort of admonishment but the pressure is nice and grounding and your arms itch with the urge to return the gesture. There is also the urge to shove him away and maintain a safe, two feet distance.

“You’re so mean,” He hesitates, “Honeybun?”

“No.”

“Pumpkin Muffin?”

“No.”

“Sweetheart?”

“Maybe.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Aw!”

He hangs his head, settles his chin on your scalp. 

“What’s up with your suggestions, anyway? You hungry or - “

His stomach growls.

“Huh.” When you glance up at him, he’s scratching the back of his neck with an almost overwhelming amount of boy-next-door charm you doubt you’d be able to imitate even if you were literal neighbors with someone.

“Oh! Our first date!”

“What?”

The absence of a proper reply to that is a pointed thing. Oikawa papers over the silence with loud conversation about volleyball and sporty terms that, much like an actual volleyball, flew right over your head. What didn’t fly over your head was the sheaf of yen notes he pushed into your hand. You stare at it for a second before shaking your head and paying for the muffins.

“First one’s on the house.”

Oikawa coos about how you’re so sweet, just the best, and walks you home.

-

He doesn’t bring up becoming “official” but he swings by your classroom with his lunch and manages to maintain some sort of physical contact at all times, whether that’s an arm swung over your shoulder or his chin digging into the top of your head, and that’s sufficient enough. You think. It certainly is for one of the more dedicated members of his fan club, who throws a bottle of water into your face after he leaves.

You’re drying off with a handful of paper towels - the one-ply, doctor’s office, papery kind and it leaves your skin rough and itchy - in the bathroom when someone shoves you into the wall. All in all, it’s a terribly weak push that unbalances you more than anything. You can already foresee many more of these little petty gestures and mourn the days where you didn’t know being dry and largely unbothered was a luxury.

You should’ve asked for more money.

-

“Oikawa.” He stiffens at your voice, so briefly you barely catch it, before perking up and spinning on his heel with the same lukewarm-soda beam. His friend, a dude who was tall, dark, and handsome personified as opposed to Oikawa’s bubblegum boy-next-door, stopped too.

“Cutie Pie!”

“No.”

Oikawa pouts.

“Your face is gonna get stuck like that one of these days and then what’re you gonna do.”

His friend snickers. Oikawa turns to him, his lip sticking out even further. There’s a shine to it. It isn’t spit - you’ve only been around him for so long but you know it’s the thick, honey-scented lip balm that he packs in the side pocket of his school bag.

“Iwa-chaaaan!” He whines and ‘Iwa-chan’ rolls his eyes. “This isn’t fair! You’re ganging up on me!”

“Oikawa.” He blinks and looks at you, tilting his head at your monotone. “You said you’d help me study.”

“Oh!” Iwa-chan and Oikawa exchange a look. It’s staggered though - Oikawa’s eyes flick to Iwa-chan first and then away, and then Iwa does the same. You glance between them, your grip tightening on the strap of your school bag. “Of course, how could I forget?”

“You don’t - “

He breaks from Iwa-chan’s side, swings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you so tight to his side you nearly wheeze. Your face is completely smushed against his chest.

“T-too clingy - “

Oikawa laughs and it’s too loud, almost performative, and if you can catch that you know that Iwa-chan must as well. When you glance at him though, Iwa-chan’s eyes are fixed at something off into the distance and looking like he wants to be anywhere else - long suffering.

“Iwa-chan, this is my - “ You shake your arm free and elbow him in the side. He wheezes, but isn’t deterred enough. “ - my cute little melon bun!”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

Oikawa squawks, his grip growing tighter before he catches the little upward quirk of your lip. You roll your eyes at the question in his.

Iwa-chan clears his throat. When you look at him, he’s glaring at Oikawa and you’re not sure how sincere it is. You’d never want to be on the other end of a look like that but oddly Oikawa doesn’t seem bothered.

“Idiot, if you had something to do - “ His hand curls into a fist, though Oikawa doesn’t flinch when he raises it. Iwa-chan gives up and looks at you, then. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault he has the memory of a goldfish.”

“Hey! Mean!”

“Yeah, and you committed yourself to it so what’s that say about you?”

Iwa-chan scratches the back of his neck as his eyes slide away from you.

“See you tomorrow, Oikawa.” He nods to you, raising a hand to raise in a goodbye before he turns. At the sight of the back of his head, your own tilts. It’s oddly familiar. It leaves you scratching your head as Oikawa walks you home and, as he promised, helped you study. It isn’t until later, long after Oikawa’s left and you’re laying in bed, that it clicks.

-0-0-0-

“ . . . and I - I love you - “ It’s the last thing you catch before the classroom door slams open and a tall - person? - goes stomping out with a huff, phone in hand. “Hey!”

He ignores the call, presumably for him, with another huff and a groan as he looks at the screen of his phone. “We’re late, Idiotkawa.”

There’s a pause as he stands there, a red flush creeping up the back his neck. His back was to you and you thank every deity in the universe for that because you don’t know what to say. You’d gone completely still as he’d stormed out of the classroom, like his vision was based on movement, and hoped to everything that he didn’t turn. Your lungs start to burn. Breathing was movement too.

“Stupidkawa!” He snaps out so suddenly you jump.

“I’ll be - “ 

“Hurry up!”

“ - give me - “

He groans again as his head dips to look at his phone.

“I’ll meet you there.” And he goes stomping down the hall so loudly you glance around, expecting a teacher to appear and scold him before remembering school had already been dismissed and you’re the only one who’d stupidly forgotten their notes in their classroom.

“I - “ The person on the other side of the classroom door chokes. Their voice is thick and thready. Pained. You make a face and debate how much you really need those notes before remembering there’s a quiz planned for tomorrow so, yeah, you really need those things. Still, you dither for a long minute.

The sniffling grows louder. Quietly, you slide the door open.

“Iw - “ The first thing you see on the other side is a pair of tear filled, chocolate brown eyes. The next is how the hopeful light in them goes out like a light as he sees that you aren’t the person who left. His face crumples and you freeze. When his head hangs and he brings his hands up to smother the sound of his sobs, you edge toward your desk. Your notes are waiting for you in the little cubby. You snatch them up, ignoring the way some of the papers bend at your less than careful handling and eye the door. Briefly you debate the ethics of just leaving when his breath hitches. You glance at him and you’re already moving even before you register the tears dripping down his cheeks.

The floorboards creak under you. He freezes and you do too, hand outstretched.

“It’s - “ You swallow the reflexive platitude and lay your hand on his shoulder. “Um.”

He’d gone stiff. You don’t think that’s a good thing and start to pat him lightly. You get at least four pats in before his shoulders start to shake again and you panic, patting harder and feeling horrifically awkward, before you realize he’s laughing. Still, you catch the way he wipes his eyes before turning to you. His eyes are slightly swollen and the light in them is dim, but he’s smiling a little.

You take your hand back and nod at him. It’s almost business like.

“Ice cream helps. I think?”

His smile dims, grows into something a little more plastic. You wince.

“Thanks.” He breathes and stands, stretching like he’s trying to physically shed the past hour of his life. “Looking for me, then?”

Your head tilts as your brow scrunches.

“Uh. No? I was - “ Explaining feels inane but you hold your notes in front of you like the bent papers say everything. “ - there’s a quiz tomorrow.”

He freezes and looks at you again. His eyes are still somewhat puffy and shiny and heartbroken, but there’s a determination to the way he holds himself.

“There’s a quiz tomorrow?”

-0-0-0-

“Hey!” You’re forcibly shaken out of the memory by Oikawa, who pouts at you. “Were you ignoring me?”

“No.” You lie.

His sticks his bottom lip out, intensifying the pout and you think a few of the not-so-subtle onlookers swoon. You’d contemplated asking Oikawa if he wanted to have lunch somewhere else instead but this sort of attention was kind of  the point of everything, uncomfortable as it made you. So, you swallow down your discomfort along with the accidentally burnt rice you’d brought for lunch.

“You’re lying!”

The burnt kernels crunch between your teeth. Oikawa winces.

“I can’t take this - here!” In his hands is a bun, covered in plastic. “You better thank me when your teeth don’t fall out in ten years.”

You don’t even have the energy to roll your eyes. You push away the box of mostly burnt rice and take the bun with a small thanks, tearing open the plastic with an impatient huff before taking the biggest bite you can. Oikawa laughs.

“ - can’t believe - “ You catch the beginning of a whisper, bitter and mean, complete with a hiss of your name. You’re not sure if Oikawa catches it - he doesn’t look in their direction. Instead he smiles at you and pokes your cheek.

“Come to my practice.”

You swallow the bite of now-chewed bun and narrowly avoiding choking on it. “Huh?”

Oikawa props his chin up on the palm of his hand, the other holding a juice box that he takes a long sip out of. You wait until the straw starts noisily sucking up air before raising an eyebrow and then you know he’s doing it to be annoying. Finally, he sets it down.

“Come watch me practice.” 

“What if I have things I need to do?”

Oikawa pouts again and you don’t know how to tell him it isn’t nearly as effective as he clearly thinks it is. “I need my melon bun to support me!”

There’s another wave of activity at the edges of the classroom. It’s probably the ‘melon bun’ bit.

You sigh and glance down at the bun he’d given you. The plastic crinkles in your hand.

“Fine.”

He cheers.

Chapter Text

School ends and you’re still shuffling together looseleaf sheets of paper when your name is called into the empty classroom. The instinctual acknowledging hum catches in your throat when you look up.

“Oikawa?”

He saunters up to your desk with a sunny smile.

“You pro-mised!” He sings as he reaches for your hand. You take a second to get used to the feeling of his palms - which are softer than you expected them to be, seeing as he is an athlete (he probably moisturizes) - before refocusing on organizing your notes, albeit with one less hand.

“I know. One sec.”

Through no fault of your own your heart is pounding and you’re fighting down the urge to rip your hand out of his. The writing on the pages goes blurry before your eyes and it stays like that no matter how much you blink and squint. You sigh and slide them, unorganized, into your bag. Almost immediately Oikawa starts tugging and you go stumbling as he practically drags you after him. Half-heartedly, you try and pull away.

“Should I expect this to be a regular thing?” There’s a beat and you try to clarify. “The handholding.”

He yanks on your joined hands into a hallway. It’s only barely occupied with a few students who must have stayed behind to organize their notes as well, you imagine.

“Hey - “

“Duh! We’re dating!” Oikawa throws you a smile over his shoulder as his eyes flick to a student hurrying down the hall. “Is my melon bun shy?”

You sigh and yank him into an empty stairwell, ignoring his squawk. When you face him there’s a thread of tension straightening the line of his shoulders. Absentmindedly, you squeeze his hand.

“Seriously, we didn’t really talk about this beyond dates.”

“I said a ‘real relationship’ didn’t I?” He says it almost defensively, slipping his hand from yours as he crosses his arms and you let yours hang by your sides. You’re lost in the complicated, yet undeniably displeased, expression on his face.

“Well, yeah, but,” This feels like a conversation you shouldn’t be having in a stairwell but you’ve found that Oikawa is almost too good at dodging questions he doesn’t want to answer. “That isn’t specific. We could have a ‘real’ horrible relationship that goes out like a car crash, or a real relationship that - I mean, there’s a lot of things to decide here - “

“A real relationship!” Oikawa hisses suddenly, and you jolt. He glares at you. “A gross, perfect one that - “

There’s a distance in his eyes. The venom is still there, spearing you to the floor, but it doesn’t feel so targeted. It balls up instead, turns inward. His fingers are digging into his forearms so hard it looks painful - every muscle in his body is taut.

“One that’s so perfect it hurts.”

It isn’t at all the answer you were looking for but it’s the one you get. You let him grab your hand again and don’t protest when he drags you to the gym.

He throws the door open and points out the bleachers with entirely too much gusto and then he’s gone, disappearing into the locker room and leaving you to pick your way across the squeaky floors to the seats. There are eyes on you. Not many - just enough to be uncomfortable and downright mortifying when you trip on air and bark your shins against the bleachers. Someone snickers at your half swallowed shout of a curse. You sink onto the bleachers and hide your face in your notes.

“Oi, Oikawa!” You peek up from your notebook to see jersey number one frowning. “Where were you?”

“With my melon bun! They came to support me - aren’t they dedicated?” Oikawa grins as he points a thumb in your direction. More eyes than you’re comfortable with land on you and you return the attention with an awkward wave.

Number one scoffs and mutters something you can’t catch over the smack of volleyballs against the lacquered floor. Oikawa purses his lips. You’d call it pouty but he’s almost genuine with the energy of the court wrapped around him. It isn’t bubblegum. It’s prickly.

“Captain! That’s how you know we’re meant for each other!” He’s loud enough that you can hear him clear across the gym. “Opposites attract, right?”

Your face is burning again, heavy with the weight of someone’s stare, and when you search it out it’s Iwa-chan. He’s hanging by the nets but his focus is on you. There’s something in his eyes, in the way his brows sit on his face. You’d say it was pity - maybe curiosity - but you don’t know him that well. Oikawa does, though.

He’s looking at Iwa-chan like there’s nothing else he’d rather see. Iwa doesn’t notice. He shrugs to himself and turns back to another player running drills. Oikawa’s grin falters. You turn back to your homework, bouncing your pencil between your fingers.

“And set!”

Oikawa talks like he’s going to die if he doesn’t, like the world will end if he lets the silence lie. You’re fine with letting him. It lulls, though, when his teammates leave and you’re the only one waiting. He still smells faintly of sweat when he brushes past you to the doors. When you catch up, he’s staring off into space and that empty look is sucking away all the exuberance he usually has. Your stomach twists.

“Volleyball is pretty metal.”

You can feel Oikawa’s eyes on you for a second before he snorts, breaking out into laughter a second later. It’s an ugly, hyena-like cackle and you have to stop as he doubles over. That knot in your gut unravels a little.

“What - “ He wheezes as his face flushes a delicate pink. “Metal?”

Your face aches with your smile, the tangents in your head that you usually let run their course bursting from your lips.

“Well, yeah. All sports kinda are but you - you’re like a kangaroo jumping all over everywhere. It’s pretty cool.”

“Ah?” Oikawa recovers with a crooked smile. “My melon bun thinks I’m pretty cool then?”

“I mean, I said you were like a kangaroo which is pretty much the same thing - have you ever seen one?” He’s staring at you, incredulous. It’s better than the emptiness from earlier - you keep talking. “They’re ripped as hell. I have pictures.”

You pull out your phone.

“Wanna see?”

Somewhere between showing off pictures of ripped kangaroos and puns (“See, p-elvis, because it’s a pelvis with Elvis hair - “) you arrive at your doorstep.

“Well.” You shift on your feet. He smiles at you. It’s dim, but you don’t get that sinking feeling in your stomach like before. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

Oikawa waves and, away from everyone, calls you by name when he says goodbye.

Chapter Text

A sound like a thunderclap echoes through the gym. When you look up, Oikawa is landing in a light crouch and the volleyball is rocketing past an outstretched hand to the far wall. It lands in the corner of the court and skids across the shiny gym floor to the wall. You glance around you. A few fans are cheering and just for the sake of fitting in you wonder if you should applaud too. You settle on raising a fist with a low whoop that gets totally drowned out. Still, Oikawa turns to the seats. He flashes a smile in your direction and then, with a quick glance to the side, he blows a kiss. A nearby student swoons. You sink into your seat, hand still raised in a fist and another half hearted cheer on your lips, nose scrunched.

“Ew.”

You don’t stand back up for the rest of the game, content to let your classmates do the heavy lifting in terms of cheering - and by god do they cheer. Every time Oikawa as much as takes a step another wild whoop comes tearing out of the stands. For a first year, it’s a lot. Oikawa seems to like it though, throwing smiles and peace signs over his shoulder occasionally as Aoba Johsai utterly obliterates the opposing team. It’s infuriatingly arrogant. You don’t know if you like this better - his honest, almost cruel arrogance - over the sickly sweetness he smothers you in during school.

“Muffin!”

You frown as Oikawa bounds over to you, smiling like he doesn’t notice the small group of fans crowding around the unobtrusive staircase that lead up to the seats. He spreads his arms wide and you take a second to sigh before he wraps you up in an unsettlingly damp embrace. Still, though, you lean into it and wrap your arms around him. It’s nice.

“Didn’t I look good out there?”

You hum into his shoulder.

“Pretty metal?”

You pull away and look at him, at the confident smile he wears. “Yeah. Pretty kick-ass too, actually. You’re . . . cool.”

His eyes shine as he tries to maintain a pout. “Hey, what’s with the pause?”

“Oi, Stupidkawa!”

His arms loosen almost instantly, though he doesn’t pull away. The delight in his eyes is blinding. You do try to lean back but find that he’s intent on keeping you there, almost pointedly.

“Don’t smother them, you’re gross and sweaty.”

“It’s the fruits of my labor, Iwa-chan!”

An almost comical whap rings out in the gym and you catch the tail end of Iwa-chan’s slap before Oikawa is burying his face in your neck.

“So mean!” He whines, and you wiggle at the tickle of his lips against your skin. “Muffin, protect me!”

You spare Iwa-chan (you still don’t know what his name officially is) an evaluating look. He, like Oikawa, is abominably sweaty and - more importantly - built like a brick wall. Volleyball evidently does a body good.

“Like,” You hesitate, “physically?”

A whistle goes off.

“Iwaizumi!” You file away the name. “Oikawa! Huddle!”

Oikawa peels himself off you, which is a deeply unsettling experience, before smacking an obnoxiously loud kiss to your cheek. You can feel the stares on your back sharpen into glares.

“Wait for me!” He winks, too, before jogging over to his coach and the team. It isn’t really a question either - he considers it a given. For a second you contemplate leaving but the heated whispers have exploded into hisses and facing that alone isn’t appealing in the least, so you hum a belated affirmative. Oikawa is already in the huddle.

You loiter aimlessly by the door as the huddle finishes up. Oikawa doesn’t so much as glance at you as he files into the locker room with the rest of the team and you wonder if you’re still fooling anyone, if Iwaizumi is fooled. He hasn’t said anything but that could more for your benefit than anything else.

“Mu-ffin.” Oikawa coos. You blink and let your eyes refocus on him, freshly showered and smelling like the nice, expensive type of deodorant. Iwaizumi trails after him, looking relaxed.

“Yeah, fishcake?”

That gives him pause. Iwaizumi has a complicated look on his face and his lips are pressed in a line, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. You shrug.

“I’m hungry.”

-

You’re not sure if Oikawa is a naturally touchy person. He certainly seems the type. He hugs you in the halls, slings an arm over your shoulder when he catches you at the school gates and walks you to class. It’s always purposeful, though. His eyes are almost never on you. When they are, they’re distant. He gets better at covering that over alarmingly quickly.

Something changes about it for the worse when he comes barging into your classroom during lunch, later than he usually does, kissing you on the cheek as he pulls you up off your chair.

“Melon bun!” The pet name sounds almost vindictive. “Why don’t you come eat lunch with us today?”

You don’t spare them a glance but you are aware of how one corner of the classroom had gone quiet at Oikawa’s appearance. Your lunch had gone missing when you’d gone to the bathroom.

“Okay.”

He smiles and threads his fingers through yours. Before he can drag you off, you snag the strap of your backpack.

“My melon bun is so studious!” He exclaims as you leave the classroom. “I’m lucky.”

He goes quiet as soon as you’re in the relatively empty halls. As you get closer to the courtyard his grip tightens and he tenses until you’re standing in front of the door. You watch as he forces his shoulders down and refreshes the smile that had gone a little tight around the corners of his lips, mesmerized. He even fluffs his hair. You wonder if he’d forgotten you were there.

He sucks in a breath and pulls you outside, toward the benches and people (six, at least, and you recognized them only in the vaguest sense by their jersey numbers) you’ve only ever seen jumping around the court - excepting Iwaizumi - settled with their lunches. He offers you a wave and you return it with a small smile. Oikawa doesn’t even look in his direction. You wonder.

“Oikawa!” A dark haired student you recognize as Number Two calls. He looks different off the court. “You still owe me a - oh.”

Number Two’s eyes connect with yours, his eyebrows rising. You raise a hand in greeting.

“I know, I know.” Oikawa sounds almost irritated.

“You owe him?” His grip on your hand tightens but the question comes tumbling out anyway. You’d turned to look at him too, so you can see his smile grow brittle. “For what?”

“He bet that Iwaizumi wouldn’t do anything about the confession he got.” Number Three laughs as Iwaizumi ducks over his lunch, seemingly fixated on his small hot dog octopi. His face is getting redder, too. “Now Oikawa owes me and Mattsun twenty five hundred yen.”

“Huh.”

Number Three takes a bite of his lunch. A grain of rice catches on the edge of his lip and your fingers itch as your eyes latch to it, even as he turns in your direction.

“You gonna pay up Oikawa?”

Oikawa scoffs. “Of course I am, Makki.”

Mattsun - you think - raises a thick brow. “Are you going to sit down, too? I’m getting just tired looking at you.”

You blink and finally notice the little space Makki and Mattsun had made on the bench. You plop down without much ceremony, and Oikawa follows. His thigh presses up against yours and your joined hands rest on your knees. You don’t scoot away but it’s a near thing.

“Do we get interest if you don’t pay up?” Makki taps a finger on his pursed lip. Oikawa’s leg starts to bounce, shielded from their eyes by the overhang of the table but every movement jostles you.

“It’s been two days.”

“Details, details - it’s two days I could’ve been enjoying financial bliss.”

Mild, distant concern at his judgement of “financial bliss” wells.

“By the way, who are you?” Makki (probably?) turns to you, chin propped in his palm. His eyes flick between you and Oikawa. “I’ve seen you around - he hasn’t been bothering you too much, has he?”

“I mean - “

“This is my melon bun!” Oikawa interrupts you cheerfully, bringing up your joined hands to rest on the tabletop. “Now you better keep your eyes to yourself, Makki!”

Makki does not. He glances from Oikawa to you, eyebrow raised. He lets the silence hang before pointedly speaking to you. “And you’re still with him?”

While Oikawa splutters indignantly you tilt your head.

“He feeds me, he’s good at hugs, and he’s pretty smart. Pretty much all I could ask for.” You shift a little under Makki’s stare. “So, yeah I guess.”

“Huh.” That’s pointed too, and you wonder if you’re missing something.

What had Oikawa said - “so perfect it hurts?”

“He’s pretty, too.”

Oikawa, who had pulled out his lunchbox, chokes on a mouthful of rice. You hand him his water bottle and he takes a gratuitous swig. His eyes are teary and heavy as they rest on you, but you’re sure shrugging probably isn’t the right move to make at the moment even though it’s the best answer you have.

Your stomach growls. Oikawa hands you a bun wrapped in plastic and you shoot a look at Makki.

“See?” You unwrap it and take a bite. “Perfect.”

Despite yourself you glance over at Iwaizumi. You already know Oikawa is too, and maybe it was all a little too blatant because Makki sees as well. As you look away from Iwaizumi and to Oikawa your gaze locks with Makki’s and there’s something stomach turning there.

You clear your throat and take another bite of the bun. “Thanks, fishcake.” 

“Anything for my melon bun!” It’s a little strained but, in fairness, Oikawa doesn’t miss a beat. He also hugs you to his side for good measure.

You glance at Makki again and he’s gagging dramatically. “Oh god - I’m trying to eat lunch here!”

There’s not much to say after that and you busy yourself with finishing off the bun while Oikawa picks up the threads of conversation with Makki and Mattsun and the three others. Iwaizumi had barely noticed the commotion, buried in his phone. You’re not about to leer over his shoulder to satisfy your curiosity but enough is said by the flush on his face and the little smile he tries to hide with a hand.

Oikawa walks you back. He presses a kiss to your cheek to the envy of his admirers before he leaves and then he’s gone. You’re not hopeful for the state of your lunchbox as you step into your classroom and, as you expected, it’s still nowhere to be found. Still, you settle into your chair. There’s only ever eventualities to hope for and you have the feeling Oikawa has no intention to make lunch a one off.

Chapter Text

The dates never end up being horrible. Awkward sometimes, especially the first few, but never near terrible enough to make you cut your losses and leave. They were regular though, weekly - sometimes more often than that, when the mood struck Oikawa which was no skin off your back as that meant you got paid more - and surprisingly vanilla. Cafés, movies, picnics (“so perfect it hurts”) - all very public affairs. That’s purposeful. But also, and this is one thing you probably shouldn’t have been so surprised over, Oikawa likes to people watch.

“Oh my god, look.” He leans into your shoulder to hiss in your ear, tilting his head toward a couple on a plaid picnic blanket. One was digging through a cute little wicker basket. “I think they’re gonna propose.”

“How do you - “ You straighten on the bench like you’re suddenly going to gain x-ray vision if you angle yourself just right. Even halfway across the park, you can see a very distinct sparkle. “Huh.”

“It was so obvious.” There’s a smile in his voice as the other half of the couple turns and screams as they take in the sight of their partner kneeling, the little black box in their hand. “That one was so fidgety! But so in love - couldn’t you see it?”

He sighs like he’s the one on the receiving end of a proposal. You follow that thought for a second.

“No.” Your deadpan answer doesn’t even faze him. He isn’t really listening for it anyway. He rests against the park bench like a seventeenth century court lady, fanning away the sympathetic tears as the couple embraces.

“Isn’t that so romantic?”

Oikawa’s been riding a high for the last week, ever since Iwaizumi broke it off with whoever had made him smile at his phone. You actually don’t know for certain if Iwaizumi’s single and ready to mingle again but he doesn’t pull out his phone during lunch anymore and the team seems more bombastic when he’s around, like they’re trying to distract him from something. Then again, he seems fine to you so maybe they’re all excited over something volleyball related.

“I guess?”

“You’re hopeless.” He shakes his head and throws an arm over your shoulder, jostling you like a scrappy entrepreneur about to reveal his latest crackpot, yet assuredly successful, idea. “Can’t you see? Love is in the air!”

“I think that’s just pollen.”

-

Oikawa presses an abundance of kisses to your cheek and you find yourself getting used to it as another part of your routine, just as him buying you lunch when yours goes missing or you bringing your book bag to the benches is. Your textbook went missing once too. It never shows back up, so you pay for a new one with Oikawa’s date money and say nothing during study sessions when he whines about how you got lucky because his textbook is tattered to bits and probably from the fifties —

-

“I still don’t get it.” You’ve lost count of the times you’ve said it though the repetition doesn’t make it less true. No matter how many times Oikawa had bent himself into a pretzel trying to explain it — “This doesn’t make sense.”

“It does!” He insists and the upbeat encouragement that he’d begun the lesson with was fading in favor of frustration. Had faded. It was hanging in there. “You just have to - look, here - “

He launches into another explanation you try to keep up with and yet it still goes in one ear and out the other. No matter how much you try and latch onto the words they run through your hands like water. You feel like crying.

“See?” His eyes are on you, flicking between the worksheet and your face, looking for an understanding that you don’t have. You’ve lost track of how long he’s been trying to explain this to you. There’s at least one blessing here, though. Having him tutor you in your home means that no one else can witness how horribly you’re failing at getting chapter one concepts to stick.

“Uh. Yeah.”

He sighs and nudges his glasses up so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “You don’t.”

“No, I do! Really.”

“Yeah?” He props his chin up on his palm and raises an eyebrow, poking the front of the worksheet with the eraser end of his pencil. “Explain this part.”

You don’t even have to read through it to know that you cannot, in fact, explain that part but you fix your eyes on it anyway. The text swims across the page. Individually, you can catch the words and can also probably cobble together a definition if pressed. Strung together the way that they are, your brain shudders and gives up. You clear your throat as the silence stretches.

Oikawa doesn’t sigh but you feel like you’re burning alive anyway as he flips the page over to the first set of questions. Those ones you had gotten, if only through the power of desperation.

“Okay.” He says, more in preparation than anything. “So - see, this first step you got just fine - “

-

“Did you get dunked in a pool or something? Go for a brisk afternoon jog?”

You’d tried to wring as much as you could out of your hair. It still dripped down to the collar of your uniform, soaking into the cotton and making it weighty against your front. In the crisp autumn air it definitely wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Then again, it certainly could be worse. It could be juice.

You don’t respond to Makki, though you do feel slightly nonplussed he thinks you could sweat so much and exclusively out of your scalp.

“Melon bun!” Oikawa is familiar and routine, but he hesitates as he pulls you in for a hug. When you glance at him he’s eyeing you too. There’s a twist to his default smile, a tightness at the corners of his eyes that you catch before he looks away.

“Hey.” Your focus shifts briefly to Iwaizumi. His brow is furrowed and he’s fixated on a droplet of water rolling down the bridge of your nose. You wipe it away with the back of your hand as you direct a nod of greeting his way.

“You weren’t waiting for me!” Oikawa finally whines when you settle next to him. It grates.

“I was.” You had been. “For forever.” Maybe not that long but the stares, piercing and heavy and wretchedly anticipatory, had certainly made you feel like it. “Where were you?”

At the turnaround, Oikawa laughs nervously and scratches the back of his neck. He ducks away from your stare too. It’s almost guilty. “Well, Iwa-chan - “

“Oi!” A pair of tan hands slam against the table. Oikawa jumps and edges closer to you on the bench like you’d protect him against Iwaizumi. Warmth blooms where his shoulder touches yours. “Don’t blame me! This idiot forgot his wallet at home and I had to keep him from sneaking off.”

You sigh. “Fishcake.”

He turns to you then, and the expression on his face is caught between pleading and preparatory. The line of your lips soften a little.

“It’s fine.”

It’s almost instant the way he smiles, relieved at your forgiveness. How he lends you his blazer helps too.

-

“Are you sure you don’t mind staying late?” Iwaizumi asks you, balancing a volleyball on his hip and ignoring an almost chastising “Iwa-chan!” Another few whiny calls of his name come in short succession and you share a look with Iwaizumi. Still, you shrug and spin your pencil between your fingers. His concern sits in your chest - not quite flattering, but warm.

“‘M sure.” You had to be, it was part of the deal.

Iwaizumi shifts from foot to foot almost indecisively.

“Are - “

“IWA-CHA - !” It echoes off the walls of the gym. Iwaizumi’s brow twitches.

Between one blink and the next the volleyball has disappeared from Iwazumi’s arms and you follow the white streak as it smacks into Oikawa’s head, a solid sound followed by a low boing as it careens across the gym. You snicker.

Oikawa catches the sound and whines plaintively. “Melon bun!”

It’s sudden, like an overfilled balloon popping inside your chest. Laughter bursts out of your mouth and you hunch over yourself, wrapping your arms around your middle as you shake. Tears come to your eyes, too - you’re laughing so hard it hurts.

“Oh my god.” You can barely hear Oikawa over your shaky gasps. “Iwa-chan, you broke my melon bun.”

“I’m - “ fine, you mean to say but when you look up both Oikawa and Iwaizumi are closer than they’d been. There are twin expressions of concern but even through the tears running down your face you can see it. It’s practically glowing. Your breath stutters. “K-kawa!”

“Huh?”

“B-b-“ They lean in closer as you untangle an arm and point at Oikawa. “Ball!”

Iwaizumi is the first to look as Oikawa crosses his eyes to try and see where you’re pointing. His gaze swings between you and Iwaizumi, who’s snickering now too.

“What?”

That makes it so unimaginably worse you actually think you might die, wheezing over the print of a volleyball that’s embedded itself into Oikawa’s petulant, puffed out cheek. You have to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to breathe. When you open your eyes Oikawa looks just as bewildered as before and Iwaizumi has pulled out his phone to snap a photo.

You glance at Oikawa and stifle a wrung out giggle.

“What?”

When their burning need for extra practice had been satisfied it’s already getting dark and you’re just happy that you’re not walking home alone even if you can’t follow most of their conversation. Something about the upcoming games. You make a note to figure out train schedules.

Iwaizumi is the first to split off from the group and then it’s just you and Oikawa.

“You - “ Oikawa cuts himself off. You turn to look at him, head tilted. He meets your eyes and laughs almost nervously. “You can laugh?”

You hold back a sigh. “I can.”

“Why don’t you do that more often?” It’s strange - hesitant and rushed all at once but he gets it out there. You didn’t know he’d actually noticed anything about you, but maybe that’s to be expected. “Dating” him is easy. Maybe just because you’re not obligated to worry about his feelings beyond the transaction - the pass of money from his hands to yours - though that doesn’t mean you don’t. It does mean he doesn’t expect you to. Maybe that’s what makes it easy. Expect nothing and you’ll never be disappointed, and you’re free to worry on your own time.

He calls your name. There’s a questioning lilt to it, and you remember he’d been asking a question.

You shrug. “Dunno. Guess I just got a weird sense of humor.”

Oikawa huffs. The silence hangs and, as usual, he’s the one to break it but this time it’s with a whine of your name. You nearly trip. The lack of ‘melon bun’ sounds strange.

Your house is coming up and you’re familiar with the disturbances in the sidewalk so you look at him. He doesn’t return the favor.

“I guess I’ll just have to figure it out then. My - you should laugh more.”

You’ve stopped in front of your house. You stand for a few seconds before blinking and shaking your head, waving your hand for good measure. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I will!” He chirps. And he will, too, if only because of spite now.

You shrug and amble toward your front door. Oikawa waits on the sidewalk as you dig out your keys, shuffling his feet like he’s got something to say. The lock clicks. You wait, fingers curled around the handle.

He calls your name again. You turn.

“Kawa’s cute."

Your hand leaves the handle as you cross your arms. “I guess. Not as good as fishcake.”

He scratches his nape and there’s a pretty red blush working its way up his neck. He’s frowning, too. “Ugh, it’s definitely cuter than fishcake.”

You make a noncommittal noise.

“Would you call me that? Instead of fishcake?” His eyes flick up to meet yours, oddly hesitant. You’re sure he already knows your answer.

“If - “ you stop calling me melon bun. It sticks, though.

0

“Melon bun!”

You bite back a sigh and continue packing up your books. “You’ve decided on that one, then.”

“Yup!”

“And I can’t get you to reconsider - “

“Nope!”

With your books packed, you glance up at him. He’s got that sickeningly sweet grin on and his eyes are looking beyond you. You grimace.

“Oikawa - “

“Call me Tooru!” He chirps as he fixes you with a suave grin.

“Oikawa.” His lips twitch ever so slightly down. “You’re being too obvious.”

His hands slam down onto the desk and you can’t help the way you and your heart jumps, or the way you eye the classroom door.

“This is - “ He spits and you edge away from him, curling in on yourself slightly. Oikawa swallows and sucks in a breath through grit teeth. “This is how I always am.”

That hangs in the air, unchallenged. You pack the rest of your things away and let him walk you home.

0

You blink and you’re in front of your house again, with Oikawa waiting on you. One of his hands, the one not on his neck, is gripping the strap of his bag and you realize you’re doing the same. You let go, let your arms hang by your sides. The demand doesn’t exactly leave a bitter aftertaste but it’s . . . something. You get ‘melon bun’ or ‘muffin’ and he gets ‘Kawa.’ Anyone could be ‘melon bun’ - an entire club is so eager to show you that every day - but only one person could be ‘Kawa.’ The other gets to be expendable. You shouldn’t’ve accepted his proposal. It’s a matter of pride at this point. You don’t want to feel expendable, not by someone you can’t help but feel is a little bit of a friend.

“I like fishcake.” You say instead, turning. “We’ll see.”

You open your door and slip inside, throwing a thanks a rushed out “goodbye” over your shoulder. You’re not sure if Oikawa returns it. You’re not sure if you care. There’s a headache blooming in your temples.

Chapter Text

It becomes one of those things you don’t talk about. There are a lot of those, actually. You’re fine with letting them fade into the happy monotony of routine, into the background where it mixes with other little insignificant notes: don’t forget to buy hand soap; there’s a test on Friday; Oikawa isn’t your friend.

It loops and loops and loops.

-

It’s started to get colder. When your breath starts to come out in puffs of steam Oikawa wraps a long teal scarf around your neck with a smile, and that’s that. You run your fingers over the fabric and your chest warms up from the inside.

-

You’ve been standing by your door for about eight minutes. The seconds tick by. You shift from foot to foot and pat your bag down, feeling for the shape of your keys in the side pocket, your pens and pencils, the notes you’ve bundled together painstakingly over the course of the school year. They’re still there. They’ll still be there when you check again in the classroom, but it’s something to do. You check your phone again.

You’ve been standing by your door for about ten minutes.

You swallow and scuff the heel of your sensible school shoe against the pavement, fiddling with the fringe of the scarf. A snowflake lands on your hand and you tilt your head up to peer at the sky. It’s a cloudy gray expanse, satisfyingly gloomy this early in the morning.

Eleven minutes.

“Whatever.” You mumble to yourself as you hike your bag further up your shoulder, and you go into a half hearted jog halfway down the street because you’d just wasted eleven minutes waiting for Oikawa.

There’s no one to ferry you around the halls and you hesitate in your classroom when the bell for lunch rings. Then Iwaizumi shows up at the door. You’re throwing your things into your bag, wincing at the way some papers bend, but you’re eager to get out and to the benches.

“Hey!” You smile at him, so grateful and wrung out and tired.

“Hey.” He returns your greeting simply. “Meat bun?”

“That - “ You’re caught between thanking him and correcting him, telling him ‘melon bun’ and you have a small existential crisis as you realize that isn’t your name either. “Uh. Thanks.”

The package crinkles as he hands it over. Familiarity is the only thing keeping you from walking into a wall as you fidget with the clear plastic. It’s a different brand than you’re used to, different filling.

“You gonna visit Oikawa after school?”

“Visit him?” Your hands stall. You nearly stop walking too, and end up doing an awkward half step before rushing to catch up with Iwaizumi. “Why?”

“He’s sick.” Iwaizumi says haltingly and when you lift your head to look at him he’s staring at you, baffled. “He didn’t tell you?”

“I mean,” You start, flicking your fingers over the plastic edge of the bun wrapper. “He - um. We don’t - “

Maybe it’s just a natural consequence of being around Oikawa but you’ve started spending a good amount of time with Iwaizumi. Which is fine. He’s nice. Blunt. Which makes the disturbingly Oikawa-like look he levels at you so worrying. It’s measuring, and it isn’t the first time you’ve caught a look like this so maybe he just knows you and Oikawa better than you know each other. He probably does know Oikawa like the back of his hand, actually. You’re more concerned about the fact that he seems to know you.

“I didn’t know he was sick.” You finally manage, and fall silent. Iwaizumi’s eyes move on from you to the hallway you’re walking down, to the doors that lead to the courtyard.

“You have his number?”

You’re caught between a slow-rolling paranoia and curiosity. His number is in your phone, labeled plainly ’Oikawa Tooru,’ but your correspondence has been mostly limited to locations (cute cafés and parks and movie theaters) and pun memes - on your end, at least. You’d like to think you’ve gotten him to laugh at least once with them.

He’s definitely dated before you. Probably. You can only think he has with a question like that, if he’d been running through enough people to come to the habit of not handing it out all willy nilly, that Iwaizumi knows to ask.

“Yee-up.” You resist the urge to flash it to him to prove it.

“Oh.” He says, and lets it sit.

The thought creeps up and sticks to the roof of your mind like one of those jumping cacti: Oikawa is like a social lubricant. Left in awkwardness, his absence is uncomfortably apparent.

“Are you going to visit?”

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi nods as you round another corner. “Probably after volleyball practice.”

You nod too, only feeling a little like a bobblehead, and hum. “Man, he must be pissed he’s missing it.”

Iwaizumi huffs out a laugh. “He tried sneaking out before I caught him halfway out the window in his pajamas.”

The image comes to you suddenly: Oikawa, red nosed and bleary eyed and standing in the snow with nothing but volleyball on the mind even as cold wet snowmelt seeps into his socks. A small smile comes to your face. “Sounds like him.”

He laughs a little louder, a little more genuine. It’s infectious and you find yourself laughing along a little too.

“Oikawa?” You call into the quiet house. “Hello? It’s me.”

The spare keys Iwaizumi had told you about jangle in your hands as you kick your shoes off. The edges of your socks are the slightest bit damp and you dawdle around a bit before peeling them off and rooting around for a pair of slippers. Eventually, you find a nice blue pair and they squeak against the wooden flooring.

“Are you dead?”

Nothing. You grimace and make for the stairs, tightening your grip on the heavy plastic bag straining against your fingers. There are several rooms on the second floor and all of them are closed. The first one you pick is the bathroom. The second is a study and third time’s the charm because when you open the door you’re greeted with posters of volleyball players, a little display for a medal mounted on the far wall, and a bed with what you presume to be Oikawa nestled on top of it, though all you can see under the mountain of blankets is a tuft of brown hair. There’s a desk, too, and you catch a glance of a few framed pictures before a quiet snore brings you back.

The plastic swings in your grip. You glance at it and then at the night stand before sighing and plunking it onto the wood.

“You’re welcome.” You say to Oikawa idly before perking up and reaching into your schoolbag. There’s a stack of sticky notes that had gone largely unused. You peel one off and take out a pen, scribbling on it before sticking it on the side of the container of chicken soup.

Get better, fishcake.

-

“He’s still sick?” Is how you greet Iwaizumi the next day during lunch, flicking your thumbs over the edges of the plastic bun package. It’s different today too, with yellow lettering advertising a sauce exclusive to the winter months.

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi sighs. “He’s being real annoying about it, too.”

You choke on your laughter. It’s a thoroughly unattractive noise but Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to hold it against you.

You’re still in the halls - it seems to be where most of your conversations with him take place, where you’re not overwhelmed with the noise and conversation the volleyball team (usually it was mostly Oikawa but you’ve found Makki and Mattsun were no social slouches) brought.

He takes in a breath, and it’s sudden and deep enough to draw your attention. It sounds like he’s bracing himself for something.

“Wanna visit him together?”

Maybe you should feel insulted, if that called for so much preparation, but you’d think that’d be somewhat hypocritical. “Y - oh yeah, you don’t have practice today. O’ course.”

He makes a sound low in his throat and pulls out his phone. “Here.”

You blink and glance between him and his phone, a dial-up tone playing in your head. His thumb taps against the side. “Oh! Yeah!”

Your phone nearly slips out of your hands as you yank it out of your pocket. It’s sweat and nerves, a combination that makes you wipe your hands against the hem of your shirt before you reach out to take his phone. Your face is hot as you glance between your screen and his, trying to juggle between speed and precision as you enter in your number.

“Thanks.” You say as you hand it back, and you’re not quite sure if that’s the right thing to say in this kind of circumstance but Iwaizumi echoes it so you don’t feel quite as ridiculous.

His legs are longer than yours and, as a consequence, he reaches the door sooner than you do. He holds it open and your thanks is returned with an acknowledging hum as you make your way to the benches.

This time it’s Iwaizumi who flips the welcome mat over and picks up the key, the one who unlocks the door. He shucks off his shoes, kicks them into a corner, and shuffles into a pair of black slippers. They look like Adidas but half the logo has been rubbed off by time. You take the blue ones again.

“Oikawa!” Iwaizumi calls as he ambles into the house, so familiar like he’s in his own home. The front of your slipper catches on the genkan step and you stumble in after him. The only thing that kept you from careening into his back was that he was already at the stairs. “Oi! You awake?”

A drawn out, miserable whine answers that.

Iwaizumi huffs. You get the feeling he’s rolling his eyes as well, not that you can really prove anything with his back turned to you.

He stops in front of the door, the third-time’s-the-charm one, and with a last remark made under his breath (“Dramatic motherf- “) swings it open.

“Iwa - “ Oikawa looks better. You think? He’s awake at the very least, but clearly still sick because the lag is noticeable as his eyes go from Iwaizumi to you. He tenses a little. His shoulders rise. “ - chan!”

Something you hadn’t known you’d even had in your chest deflates, goes out like a three day old balloon animal. It’s a sad, quick process. You can just barely muster a smile as he properly turns to you.

“Melon bun!”

“Fishcake.” You return evenly and find your heart can drop even further as he looks away from you, unable to meet your eyes. He tenses more too, fidgets with the ends of his blanket. You rock back and forth on your feet by the door. “Still sick?”

“Yep!” Even his cheeriness has lost some of its luster, covered over by the sick rasp in his voice. “Your soup helped a lot though!”

Your smile is wider but no more genuine. You don’t have the energy to try and keep up the conversation either, no ice breakers or little factoids to distract and amaze with even if you wanted to. It’s all blank. You drift.

“I brought your homework.” It’s gruff and accompanied with a low thunk as Iwaizumi sets a folder down onto Oikawa’s desk. You straighten.

“Oh - and I, um - here.” Another thunk and there’s a container of soup, tomato basil this time, accompanying the homework. Just as quickly as you darted to the desk you go to back away to the doorway, but not before catching a look at the array of pictures plastered to the wall above Oikawa’s desk. “Is that me?”

It’s more out of incredulity than anything else because that is clearly you. Oikawa’s taken plenty of pictures with you. For posterity, for proof, whatever. You hadn’t really begrudged him them and plastered on a close lipped smile for the ones where he tugs you close and squishes his cheek to yours so you can both fit into the frame. This one, though, is not only printed out but a candid. You’re hunched over your desk, half asleep and leaning your chin on one hand while the other rests on your books. It’s not terribly embarrassing really, but Oikawa’s added his own flair by putting bunny ears behind your head. Very him.

Surrounding it are similar pictures of Oikawa and the other members of the volleyball team. There’s even a few (more than a few) of Iwaizumi and Oikawa over the years and you catch an eyeful of a tiny, gap toothed Oikawa beaming at the camera while squeezing the life out of Iwaizumi, whose long suffering look makes him seem very mature for his age. They’re painfully cute. That hasn’t changed over the years either.

“Why’s that me?”

Iwaizumi is staring at you, brow furrowed, and he entirely misses the way Oikawa’s eyes flit from him to you. You catch it. He grimaces, face reddening, before it smoothes out into a half hearted yet still charming grin. His cheeks are still pink, though.

“I can’t have pictures of my melon bun?”

Your brain lags. It’s not that he can’t but why would he. No one is going to examine this relationship that thoroughly, at least intentionally. But then again you doubt Oikawa is one for half measures - especially when he wants something so bad he’s willing to date a stranger. It’s a lot, but as you look at the one picture of yourself surrounded by ones of the volleyball team you guess it’s just enough for someone like him.

You take a second but it’s bubbling up in your chest. It needs to be said. “You know, if we got you some eye liner and that powdery stuff I think you’d make a really pretty E-girl.”

Iwaizumi snorts and that neatly breaks the discomfort you’d felt swirling in the air between you three.

“You can, by the way, but it’s kinda weird you took a picture of me while I was asleep.”

Oikawa stares at you for a second. You stare back. There’s something hanging between you, something you’re not sure you really want to put words to. It’s awkward and secretive, another one of those things that you don’t talk about - that you won’t talk about. It weighs a little heavier with Iwaizumi in the room. You break the stare. It passes.

He recovers quickly. A playful kind of outrage comes to Oikawa’s face, all pouts and crossed arms and he looks unfairly nice for being bedridden. “Weird? What about ‘sweet?’ Iwa-chan, do you see how my melon bun bullies me even though I just want to see their face in the morning - “

“If you wanted to see me so bad you could help me with my homework.” You pause. “Unless you’re still sick. Don’t puke on my homework, please.”

Oikawa splutters, suddenly indignant. “I wouldn’t! I won’t!”

“You have.” Iwaizumi chimes in.

You grimace. “Ew.”

“Iwa-chan!”

Somehow some studying does get done even with the gratuitous amount of ‘melon bun’s and ‘Iwa-chan’s. Iwaizumi falls into Oikawa’s rhythm easily and you do too soon after, trading questions and insight and answers and you only feel a little like crying when you get caught on some of the more difficult concepts. There’s not as much pressure with Iwaizumi. He’s steadier, which is something you notice when he leans over your shoulder to check on one of your answers and you don’t wince when he tells you the ways you got it wrong. It’s comforting, even if his presence is contingent on Oikawa’s.

Eventually the worksheets get done You sit cross legged on a corner of the bed as Iwaizumi lounges on the desk chair. Oikawa fiddles with the plastic bag. He’s doing it annoyingly loudly and absolutely on purpose. When he pulls out the container he gasps dramatically and then louder still when he sees the accompanying sandwich.

“Melon bu-un!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi grunts.

“Look how sweet my melon bun is! A homemade meal all for me? I should get sick more often!”

The flattery slides off you like an ill fitting coat, ringing false like all the other times he’s made a point of complimenting you in public. “Thanks I g- hey, wait it’s not - “

“Hm?” He looks at you, poised to take a bite of the sandwich and a sip of the soup (there’s no spoon he’s just going to drink it out of the container like an animal - ).

“It - it’s not warmed up! It’ll be gross and soggy - “

He beams and doesn’t move to lower the sandwich. “I’d like anything you gave me! See?” The floppy sandwich disappears into his maw. “Mmmm!”

“You’re disgusting.” Oikawa smiles as he chews, undeterred. “That sandwich was flaccid.”

For a second Oikawa looks like he’s either going to spew chewed up grilled cheese and tomato soup all over his nice bedspread or choke and you’re very grateful that he chokes. Iwaizumi laughs after it becomes clear Oikawa isn’t going to die but you stay hovering by his side, arms outstretched and slightly shaky.

“I have no CPR or whatever training so please think non-choking thoughts.”

Iwaizumi just laughs harder and Oikawa joins him.

“I’m serious.”

“I know!” Oikawa giggles like you’ve just told him the greatest joke. A bit of the soup sloshes over onto his sheets as he shakes.

There’s a staggered silence then, as Oikawa and Iwaizumi recover and you sink back onto the mattress. Oikawa noisily slurps some of the lukewarm soup. You fiddle with the ends of your jacket sleeves.

“Alright, I’m gonna go.” You blink, your mouth parted to say that exact thing. Iwaizumi beat you to it.

“What?” Now it’s Oikawa that’s stolen your line.

“I’ve had enough three wheeling for today.” Even though he’s as gruff as ever there’s a glimmer in his eyes. Approval? Maybe? He’s settled on something. And he looks happy about it. He’s up and disappearing through the doorway before you can get up and suggest maybe walking home together. “See you tomorrow!”

“Bye!” You call out after him. Oikawa echoes you faintly. You almost want to apologize as you turn to him, because this has clearly not turned out the way he wanted it to. His eyes are fixed on the new tomato-y stain. You stand. “I’ll go too, I guess.”

You catch a hint of a frown on Oikawa’s face. It slips away as he raises his eyes to meet yours, changes into a smile as he stretches his arms out to you. “Hug before you go?”

“ . . . Yeah, alright. Don’t infect me.”

“I would never!”

“B - “ Because that’s totally something you can control, is what you intend to say but as his arms wrap around you the words evaporate. Oikawa gives good hugs. Perfect, even, with just the right amount of pressure and even though it’s only been two days since the last hug of his you feel yourself falling into this one like you’ve never been touched in your life. Your arms tighten around him as you mumble into his neck.

Oikawa hums inquisitively, and the rumble of it vibrates against you. You have to pull yourself away from him before you meld into his body and you stand at his bedside just centering yourself for a few seconds.

“Missed you.” You say finally, and Oikawa grins.

“Is that so?” He drawls almost smugly like he isn’t laid up with a cold underneath soup stained sheets before he glances at the soup. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment but the grin loses its edge and he smiles instead. “I missed you too, melon bun.”

It’s the sincerity that gets you, that brings up the thought: you should fire me. It lingers, and only intensifies when you get two texts later asking if you’ve gotten home alright.

Chapter Text

Winter break rolls around. Oikawa doesn’t mention Christmas. You don’t either, so it’s a surprise when he rolls up to your house on the afternoon of with a smile and a gift. It’s a little sports jersey keychain. The Aoba Johsai jersey, and it’s almost worthy of admiration that he’d found one that’s the exact shade of turquoise - as far as you can tell, at least. It has his jersey number plastered on the back too.

“Merry Christmas.” He smiles; it’s more than audible in his voice even when your eyes are stuck on the little keychain. It doesn’t feel like plastic. It’s solid and weighty and smooth against your skin - it feels expensive. Like ceramic. It could still be plastic, but the nicer kind.

“Merry Christmas.” You say to the Aoba Johsai jersey. His name is on the back of it in bold white letters. Your face heats. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Oikawa laughs. “Well maybe I just wanted to give you something. I can’t do that?”

“I - “ You stare at the creases of his smile as you run a finger over the edges of the keychain. “ - you can, I guess. It’s Christmas though.”

He brings a hand up to cradle his chin thoughtfully, humming. “It is!”

Your eyes migrate to the way the skin around his eyes crinkle. It smooths out as he pouts, as he plants his fists on his hips dramatically.

“You’re not gonna ask?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.” 

He rolls his eyes, the pout smoothing out as the levity leaks out of him. His sudden smile is a little too wide - overdone. “We’re having a New Years party. Would you come with me? Pleaaase? It wouldn’t be complete without the team’s power couple, pleaaaaaase? I’ll compensate you with hugs!”

By the last syllable of the ‘please’ he’d clasps his hands together pleadingly, eliciting a wave of deja vu to course through you. You thumb at the sleeve of the keychain. You sigh.

“Okay.”

There’s no other way to describe the way he lights up besides, plainly, radiant. His eyes shine, his back straightens, and his arms reach out for you as he lets out a wordless cheer. You barely register the white of his smile before you’re being folded against his front, squeezed against his chest.

“Oik-Oikawa!” You wheeze. Your arms are trapped against his chest; your fingers curl into the fabric of his coat. “Air - !”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” His arms loosen. You turn your head so your cheek is smushed into his chest instead of the front of your face.

“You’re still paying me for the regular dates, though.”

“Of course I am! I’m not a cheapskate!”

You hum neutrally.

“Aw, melon bun! What, am I not spoiling you enough?”

You sigh and pull away. He lets you.

“I’ll text you! See you then!”

And he’s gone, zipping down the street with a wave and a distant smile.

-

It’s one of the volleyball seniors that’s hosting the party. Oikawa picks you up at your house and guides you through the subway like a tour guide desperate for tips. He also makes good on that promise to reimburse you with hugs, pulling you close at every opportunity.

As you emerge from the subway he does something slightly different. He slips his hand into yours. It’s gentle, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull away. You squeeze.

The party isn’t far from the train station. As you approach, Oikawa gets jittery. He smooths down his hair with the hand not holding yours and bites at his lip, tugging and tearing at the thin skin until it looks fit to bleed. You can practically see the thoughts flitting around inside his head.

“Ech.” You tug him to a stop a few houses down from the party. “Lip balm?”

He blinks, brow furrowing as he slowly starts. “In my pocket, but why - hey!”

It isn’t in the left, but the right pocket. His keys are in there too and you dig around the metal for the cool plastic tube. “C’mere.”

Cradling his chin in your hand, you roll a layer of his honey flavored chapstick onto his lips. He gives up trying to protest when you accidentally smear a bit onto his cheek, settling for a pout that displays his lips neatly. You linger on them for a second, just to make sure everything’s been evenly spread, before rubbing the pad of your thumb over the misapplied balm. It’s sticky. Edible too, according to the label, so you pop it into your mouth and lick off the excess. It’s as sweet as it smells, if a little waxy.

You wipe your thumb off on your coat.

“You look fine, your hair’s nice, and it’s not like you won’t be able to play volleyball if the seniors aren’t impressed with you.” Putting the balm back in his pocket is difficult - you kind of want to just take a bite out of it. You shake the thought off and clap Oikawa on the arm. “You’ll be okay.”

Your face burns under his attention and the heat flares further when, after a long second, he laughs. “Silly, that’s not what I’m worried about!”

“Then - “ He reaches for your hand and you meet him halfway, winding your fingers through his. “ - What are you? Worried about, I mean?”

He scratches the back of his neck with the hand not holding yours, breaking eye contact. “Ah - melon bun, it’s back that way.”

Oikawa is, surprisingly, on time. At least according to Iwaizumi he is. You barely get to talk to him before Oikawa is dragging you all around the house fast enough to make your head spin, going from one person to the next and talking up a storm.

“I’m thirsty.” You say during a lull in the conversation between him and who you think is the captain. “Gonna go get a drink.”

“Get me one too?” He squeezes your hand and then you’re off down a hall you think leads to the kitchen. You rummage through the cabinets for cups and fill them with a good amount of water - enough to sip politely through conversation.

Finding Oikawa again is easier than you thought it’d be, though it’s mostly Iwaizumi’s shout of “Stupidkawa!”

“Ah!” Oikawa yelps as you round the corner into the living room. His head is tucked underneath Iwaizumi’s arm - he’s getting a rough looking noogie and trying in vain to protect his head. “Not the hair, not the hair!”

There’s enough room on the couch they’re on for you to sit. You settle next to him and take a sip of the water. “Drink?”

Iwaizumi lets Oikawa go with a snort as he rearranges his hair to his liking. “Melon bun! You saved me!”

You hum and take another sip, holding out the other cup for him to take. “Sorry if you wanted something else.”

Oikawa waves off your apology and takes a long swig, smacking his lips loudly as he pulls away. “Ah! That hit the spot! Love you, melon bun!”

The world doesn’t stop. You don’t spontaneously combust, though you almost wish you could as your brain flatlines and any inkling of something intelligent to say leaks from what feels like every neuron.

He’d go that far? You think to yourself but as you glance between Oikawa and Iwaizumi, the latter of whom doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as you’d expect him to be, you can’t really muster all that much shock.

“Love you too, fishcake. I guess.” You mutter into your cup. When you get the nerve to look him in the eye he’s looking right back, staring. “What, was I not supposed to say it back? Fine, I don’t love y- “

“Nope!” He loops an arm around your shoulder and pulls you practically into his lap, your side crushed against his. “No take backs!”

The rest of the party passes by in a daze. Oikawa stays with you on the couch and the rest of the team steadily migrates to the living room for the countdown. Makki squeezes next to you on the couch at some point and you nod in greeting before fixing your eyes on the TV. There’s less than a minute left on the countdown.

“Muffin?”

In the background, the loud “ten . . . nine . . . eight” registers. You hum. He lays a hand against the side of your face, turns you to face him.

“Five . . . four . . . “

Your water had been finished a while ago but having something in your hands was a little grounding. You play with the lip of the cup as Oikawa’s face draws closer to yours. The shine of his lip gloss had faded but you can still smell the honey.

“Happy New Year.” The words drop in the air between you. He’s smiling and it’s a little twisty at the edges, almost disbelieving.

“One! Happy New Years!”

He leans in, and you sigh. You push him back with a hand on his chest and lift your other to brush away his on your cheek. His eyes leave yours, fall away to the side. He doesn’t see you lean in, almost a mirror to his earlier movement, but he does feel your lips against his cheek.

“Happy New Year, fishcake.” You return quietly, eyes still closed.

Chapter Text

The end of year blues have long since settled in when you turn to Oikawa one chilly afternoon.

“Hey.”

He tilts his head to look down at you, splayed across his bedroom floor in a way that will absolutely leave your school uniform wrinkly. He smiles. “Hey.”

“So what do we do if we wanna date someone? For real?” It’s a question that’s been brewing since New Years.

He shifts as the smile freezes on his face, turns to glance at the prep packet for end of year tests, and says nothing for a good few seconds. It extends into empty space until you’re fifty percent sure you can just say he’s properly ignoring you. You frown. This is not satisfactory.

“Oikawa.” You say, and when he still says nothing you call his name again in a drawn out “Oikaaaawa.”

“Mhm.” It’s almost quiet, a good few levels under his normal speaking volume.

“What do we do?”

“Why?” He turns to you again and all you can really see is the curve of his lips as he grins - the light is hitting his glasses at just the right angle to make it completely opaque. “You got suitors lined up for you, melon bun?”

“Suitors. Suitors? Who says that?” You haul yourself up and squeeze your eyes shut when the headrush hits. “Ugh, weirdo. Nevermind.”

(Your bag jingles when you pick it up now. Oikawa flicks the keychain absentmindedly during lunch sometimes, when you have your bag settled in your lap so you can revise during lunch.)

-

“Can you believe they’re graduating?” Oikawa sounds almost offended. Astonished. “Teruhashi still looks like he’s barely out of middle school and Nana acts like - “

He can’t really gesticulate flamboyantly the way you know is his habit because of all the papers he’s carrying from the end of year desk cleanup but you can practically hear the motions in his voice.

“Show our seniors some respect, idiot!” Iwaizumi, who was far tidier and therefore had all his hands ready, thumps Oikawa on the back of the head. It’s a slower movement than usual - you’re all a little tired from the long closing ceremony - but there isn’t even an attempt at a dodge.

“It’s not like they’re here.” Oikawa whines before, predictably, turning to you. “Melon bun!”

“Mmhm.”

“Iwa-chan’s being meeaaaan.”

“Iwaizumi.” You glance over at him, fix your eyes on the bridge of his nose. “You know he’s sensitive.”

He snorts as Oikawa tries to bury affectionately into your side, nearly pushing you both into the street in the process. A few papers escape his grasp and flutter away in the wind. You sigh before chasing after them. Oikawa leans back to let you.

“So how’d you blackmail them to stay with you again?” Iwaizumi must think you’re far enough out of earshot.

“Iwa-chan!” He doesn’t even sound bothered, and it makes you only more conscious about the way your shoulders had raised to your ears.

Another gust of wind blows through the small street, scattering the papers further. You lunge hurriedly after them.

“They’re too good for you.” It’s good natured, you think, but still your stomach twists. You don’t hear Oikawa’s response. This time you’re truly out of earshot and you could hesitate, linger for a second, but you’re not sure if that would be worse so you focus on the papers and let it lead you.

-

There’s officially nothing to do now that the year is out and you take the opportunity to sleep in. Oikawa, you discover one morning, does not.

“Melon buun!” Your bedroom door opens quick enough to slam if there wasn’t a hand on the knob. “Melon bun?”

You curl up tighter underneath the blankets and pray he won’t pay attention to the suspicious lump on your mattress. A pointless hope, really. He flops on your bed.

“Where are you?” He whines, like he can’t feel where he’s crushed you or hear the way you wheeze. “I’m loooonely. Iwa-chan went to his grandparent’s house for the weekend, Makki is too and so is - ugh! Everyone’s seeing their grandparents!”

He rolls onto his back. In the process his elbow digs into your side and a pained, whimper-y snort escapes you.

“What’s so great about old people anyway?”

You bat back the thick blanket and wiggle around Oikawa’s suffocating elbow, poking your head out into the cold air with a gasp. He’s barely moved by your efforts and slumps onto your thighs.

“Wisdom, I think.”

Oikawa scoffs. “I’m wise.”

You hum and try not to think of the way you’re sinking into the mattress. Your lids are sliding closed too, the weight of Oikawa anchoring and surprisingly relaxing.

“Melon bun!” His playful outrage is softer and you thank him inside your own head. In the quiet you find yourself drifting. Then he says your name and you fumble for the threads of conversation you can remember.

“Mm, but do you have those - “ If you could move at all your hand would be making a vague motion in the air. “ - uh, those generational recipe . . . things.”

He scoffs. “Google exists! Who needs some dusty old cookie recipe that probably doesn’t taste that good anyway?”

“Love covers the dust.” That is probably the most poetic thing you’ve said, at least unintentionally. “Huh. I need to write that down.”

Neither you nor Oikawa make even an attempt to move. With the lack of school and any proper reason to hang out to keep up appearances he isn’t over nearly as much and in his absence you’ve noticed that your room doesn’t smell right. It had hit you around a week into break when he’d insisted that you brush up on your worst - and his best - subject and had commandeered your desk for his devious scholastic purposes. It was him. A mix of his hair product and his cologne, you think. You hadn’t been able to look at him for a while after that.

“So.” You clear your throat. “Do we just keep on doing this?”

His back muscles tense. “Hm?”

“Ugh.” You try to knee him gently in the back but you’re still absolutely stuck under his weight. “This.”

He rolls over and your breath catches in your throat when he rests his chin on your stomach. There’s a second between the movement and the pout that he pastes on but in that interim you see his face, and it’s the blankest look you’ve ever seen. A blank slate for whatever he needs it to be.

“Ow.” You reach out to push him off and the pout disappears as he scrunches his face, squawking when your fingers squish his cheeks. “Pointy-ass chin.”

“Hey!” His lips move under your palm. It tickles and you smother a giggle as your hand tilts so your fingers aren’t covering his eyes. You push yourself up with your newly freed hand at the same time. There’s a flurry of movement as he adjusts and after all that you’re left with OIkawa’s head resting in your lap, angling so he can push his cheek into your hand. His legs hang off the edge of the mattress. “My chin is shapely.”

“Yeah, shaped like a point.” He’s gearing up to make a pointless, distracting argument — you can tell by the pursed lip and the pointed intake of breath. “Oikawa.”

His hand plays across your forearm, drawing mindless little patterns.

“We’re . . . friends, aren’t we?”

That gets his attention - his eyes fly up to meet yours. “Yes!” He sounds vaguely insulted. Still, there’s a kind of weird warmth that settles in you.

“Well, good.” It’s a little hard to speak around your smile. “Friends don’t leave friends to the mercy of their fans. Just . . . y’know. Need to know if I have to start putting away money for a tutor this year if - yeah.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Oikawa whines loudly. It sounds a little more raw than you think he means it to. “A tutor?”

“Well, no.”

He perks up.

“You’re also my bun dispenser.”

Oikawa glances up and catches the trembly smile threatening to turn into laughter and scowls playfully. “I’ll show you bun dispenser!”

“That - “ comeback sucked, is what you mean to say but his fingers are digging into your sides and your mind is blanking out at the feeling of so much contact. Oikawa is all around you and you’re choking on that thing you’d been missing. By the time you’re able to think past that block of static he’s laying lengthwise with his chest resting on your stomach, crushing you, and it still just feels comforting.

Chapter Text

The first thing you notice when approaching the lunch table is that Makki is slumped over the top of it, cradling his head in his folded arms. He looks like a man deep in his midlife crisis and deeper in an unfortunate number of jello shots. Coincidentally, the sounds he’s making sound like regret.

“Nooo.” He moans, muffled in his arms. You sit down uneasily and exchange a glance with Oikawa who seems just as bewildered.

“Are you - “ You cut that question off at the knees because if this is Makki in a state of okay-ness then you’ve got bigger things to be concerned about. And this isn’t, you’ve known him for long enough to know that this is far from the default so - “What’s up?”

You observe the table at large at that, looking for an answer, and notice that none of the other occupants look particularly pleased either. Mattsun looks almost forlorn. Iwaizumi is glaring and then you notice the face down piece of paper - a copy of which seems to be in front of everyone.

“I flunked!” Makki, who’s propped his head up on his hand, cries into his palms. “The first test of the year and I flunked!”

“It - I mean - “ The platitude dives in a fiery tailspin as Iwaizumi wordlessly plucks Makki’s test from the table and shows it to you, and you try not to do a double take at the panic inducing 59 stamped in the top right corner of the sheet. “Oh.”

There’s a wordless noise of despair from Makki. Iwaizumi shows you his test, a respectable 74, as Mattsun stares into the void.

“What happened?” Oikawa sounds nearly breathless from shock and you elbow him lightly in the side. He catches your arm not a second later and slides his hand down so he can hold yours.

“Uh, yeah.” You cough. “Sorry, just - yeesh.”

Makki unearths himself from the cover of his palms and hangs his head to stare at his score.

You clear your throat and say, somewhat lamely, “Difficult class?”

Makki’s still lost in the crumbling of his school career so Mattsun answers in his stead with a low hum.

“Difficult class.” He confirms with a glance at his own paper. His eyes are haunted. “I didn’t know pop quizzes were legal.”

You pull a face. Oikawa pokes your cheek and you return the gesture with a barely stifled smile before an idea hits you like a bolt of lightning. “Study group!”

Iwaizumi’s eyes meet your own and there’s consideration there. He nods absentmindedly to himself as the concept comes together and spills forth.

“And since you’re all in volleyball it won’t be annoying having to schedule around everyone.” You’re nodding too, looking off into space as you tetris together a tentative plan for the week going off the free time you know at least Oikawa has. Somewhere in the middle of your train of thought your stomach grumbles. A plastic crinkling reaches your ears and you instinctively open your hand for the bun that’s delicately placed in your palm not a second later, unwrapping and biting into it with a muffled thanks.

-

“You wear glasses?” Makki pauses in the middle of fishing out his books, snickering. Oikawa’s brow furrows as he folds his arms.

“Yeah.” He says, uncharacteristically short, before smirking. “So, Makki, what’s been tripping you up?”

It’s almost unreasonably flirty, the promiscuous tutor cliché cranked up to eleven with an added petty twist, and you meet Mattsun’s eyes - he’d set up shop across the table from you and Iwaizumi. He doesn’t seem shocked at all. It must be nice to be that zen.

When you look back Oikawa’s propped his chin up on his palm and leant against the table. The top button of his uniform was undone. You’re not sure when that happened, but he pushes his chest forward and if he had boobs you’re sure they’d be spilling tastefully out of his shirt.

“Something something let me help you take care of the hard problems.” Oikawa purrs.

You drag a hand down your face as Makki squawks. “Wh - they're right there!”

Oikawa meets your eyes as you sigh, resigned to the fact that your name is about as useful as slippers on a chicken in this group. It’s a relatively small sigh as you’ve eased yourself into the concept already, but you can still mourn the sanctity of your given name. You prop your chin up on a palm and shrug.

“I’m into it.”

Oikawa chokes. You backpedal.

“Not in, like, a weird way! Just - y’know - if it’s true love then - um.” Your mumbles trail off into silence. You clear your throat. “So. Matrices?”

Mattsun approaches you first.

“When’re we meeting next?”

You don’t know when you became the authority on the study group. “Whenever you guys don’t have volleyball, I guess.”

He tilts his head and, without much ceremony, takes out his phone. “Your number?”

In a haze of deja vu you pull out your own and parrot the digits for him before receiving his in turn. Makki, who’d been trailing behind him, does the same and suddenly you have two more numbers on your phone. You stare at the screen as you walk home. Your contact list is filling out.

-

“Hey.” Makki starts. You look up. Oikawa doesn’t and his hand flies up to tug pettily at your hair with a snarky little ‘pay attention!’ that gets cut off by Makki’s - “When’d you two start dating?”

“Uh w - “

“Around second semester last year.” Oikawa interrupts. He plays with the ends of your hair absentmindedly. The strands tickle your cheeks and you push his hand away. He lets you, though he does whine dramatically.

“Ah, so your anniversary is coming up.” Makki says thoughtfully and Iwaizumi is looking up now, too. Mattsun remains largely unbothered, flipping methodically through the textbook armed with a stack of sticky notes, but you think he’s listening in. “Huh. Didn’t think you’d be the type, Oikawa.”

You snicker.

“The t - hey!” Oikawa’s lip sticks out in a familiar pout and you give in to the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach up and tap his nose. He scrunches it and pays back the gesture with a little smile-smirk that steadily grows wider. “Shouldn’t you be defending me, melon bun?”

“I mean, I’m a little surprised too, fishcake.” Under the table you reach out and curl your fingers around his, the motion smooth as you look into his eyes. That’s become easier too. They’re carefully blank but you keep your eyes locked on his. “I thought by now we’d implode with our combined perfection.”

Makki snorts. “Ugh, I forgot how gross you two were.”

Oikawa is the one who breaks first and looks away. “Don’t worry, when we win at Interhigh you’ll see so much of us you’ll get sick!”

“I’m already sick of it.”

“You’ll get it when you find someone you love!”

“Fishcake!”

“What?”

-

On your first time out with Oikawa in a while since he’d started training in earnest for Interhigh he takes you to a cutesy café tucked in between a vacuum store and a hat shop.

“What’re you gonna get?” He jostles you lightly with the arm he has wrapped around your shoulder.
“Don’t rush me.” You poke him gently in the side and smile when he yelps. He tugs you closer, trapping your arm between you. “What’re you gonna get?”

He strokes his chin solemnly as he peers at the menu. You copy him.

“So . . . what does - ” You squint. “ - the Unicorn drink taste like?”

After ordering you press the money into the hand of the cashier before Oikawa can get out his wallet. You can see him frown in the corner of your eye, and it stays even as you take his hand to wait by the ‘ready’ counter.

“I could’ve paid.” He pouts. “I promised I’d spoil you.”

You shrug, suddenly unable to look at him. “’S your money anyway. And. Look, I kinda signed you up for the group and - you don’t have to pay. Anymore. Y’know, you can just . . . refund me with, uh, hugs?”

The barista bustles around on the other side of the counter, pumping shots of colorful syrup into a glittery pink cup. Your eyes follow them even as you reach tentatively toward Oikawa.

“If it makes you feel any better I could collect right now.” The offer is made quietly, almost too low to hear over the hum of the various coffee related machines. Your heart beats.

(You hadn’t felt this nervous on the first date. It’d been business-like and mostly a performance for the students you’d spotted sitting at the other tables as you’d tried to settle yourself in the nonstop bouncy energy that Oikawa exuded.)

His hand curls around yours, pulls you in. You meet him halfway. He’s oddly quiet as you settle your head against his chest, as your eyes slide shut to focus on the sound of his heartbeat. It’s soft, more a sensation against your cheek than a sound. Relaxing. You press closer into him, wrapping your arms tighter around his middle as you breathe him in. Your mind is quiet.

Your name is called. You’d be perfectly fine with ignoring it but Oikawa shifts and that’s a bucket of cold water over your head.

“S - “ The apology breaks halfway through as you pull away from him. You clear your throat. “Sorry.”

The glittery pink cup is cold in your hand and as extravagant as you’d expect something called a ‘Unicorn drink’ to be. Sugary, too. You lean back in your chair, absentmindedly jiggling your leg as you push the cup across the table to Oikawa.

“Want some?”

His hands shake a little as he drags the cup closer. Your eyes are fixed on his face as he takes a sip. He gags.

“Yech!” Grimacing, he slides it back across the table. “How can you drink that?”

“Like this.” You say drily before taking an exaggeratedly long drag from the straw. “Mm, diabetes. Delicious.”

He snorts, takes a sip of his own drink. You shift in your seat. It’s an odd quiet, similar to the one you’d felt during the hug - not quite uncomfortable, just unusual. Underneath the table, you kick. Your other leg is still bouncing. It’s a strange little exercise, seeing how long you can maintain both movements. When that loses your interest you turn your head to peer out the window.

“Wanna try some of mine, melon bun?”

He nudges his cup to your hands. You take an obliging sip and almost instantly scrunch your nose. Not even the faint taste of his lip balm on the cup can hide the tongue-curling bitterness and you take a long pull of the Unicorn drink as he laughs. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears at the sound, something warm and inordinately pleased curling in your chest.

“Happy Anniversary.” He tells you on your doorstep. The warm, windy feeling spreads to your extremities. It’s unusually bitter.

“You too.” You say, haltingly. “I . . . didn’t get you anything.”

Oikawa shrugs, smiling. “Refund me with hugs, right?”

Your arms are already around his waist, the weak protest dying before it can even reach your lips. He squeezes you back. As you turn your face into his chest, the words ‘hey, let’s stop’ have never sat heavier in your mouth because you've realized you never want to let this - let him - go.

Chapter Text

“Next year.” You start, flipping a pen between your fingers. “I’ll - um - I’ll probably have to take cram lessons. So, y’know, I won’t have time to go out. At all.”

“Ah, don’t worry! We can still study together!” Oikawa returns with a smile, either oblivious or deliberately obtuse and the thought of it being the latter makes your stomach churn. You resist the urge to shrink away from him.

The courage you’d scrounged up in the periods of melancholy that followed remembering who Oikawa was - who you were - (moments of which had increased in frequency recently) deserted you, leaving an empty thing that curled like a dead spider. You tap the pencil against your worksheet. You hum.

One of those things you won’t talk about, then.

-

“Hey, melon bun!” He greets you from the classroom doors. You’re already moving, even as that pit in your stomach sinks deeper.

“Hey.” You return quietly. He reaches out, twines his fingers in yours and squeezes back when you tighten your grip on his hand. It’s comfort. It’s pain. It’s a tight, wrenching feeling deep in your chest that wraps around your insides and steals the breath from your lungs in between the moments that you look askance and see Oikawa by your side. He’s really there (he really isn’t).

Steadily, you wilt. The strap of your backpack slides down your shoulder but before it can fall into the crook of your arm the hand in yours disappears and Oikawa reaches across your back and snags it. You stare as he swings it onto his own shoulder. His eyes catch yours as he reaches for your hand again, smiling. Despite yourself, you straighten like a plant seeing the sun for the first time after a long winter.

“Ugh, how do you carry this around? I can feel my back bones grinding into dust!”

You reach over but he just pushes it further up his shoulder and sticks his tongue out at you when you roll your eyes fondly. Too fond. You blink and glance at Oikawa again. Again, he catches it.

“Something wrong, melon bun?”

The space between your palms is getting sweatier by the second and you pull your hand away (his follows for a moment), wiping the grossness off on the hem of your shirt.

“No, just - “ You start and stop, eyes flitting from his face to his hands, to your bag on his shoulder. “I - “

You shut your eyes and take a breath and go for it, wrapping your arms around his middle and squeezing like it’s the last time you’ll hug him. Oikawa doesn’t hesitate in returning it.

“Thanks.”

-

Aoba Johsai, as it has done in the year before, absolutely cleans house in the volleyball court. You’re up in the stands, as you were last year, cheering for the team.

When they inevitably win, Oikawa meets your eyes from across the gym and your Oikawa senses - like spidey sense but calibrated specifically to Oikawa related incidences - tingle.

Don’t you dare, the look you hope he can sense says. It reaches him. That or you’ve got some untapped powers of telepathy.

(It doesn’t stop him later, when you’re going to meet him before he gets on the bus to head back, from rushing to meet you on the sidewalk, arms wide and smiling like he’d just won the Olympics.

“LOVE YOU, MELON BUN!”

You mumble something purposefully unintelligible into his chest as the declaration rings in your ears. Later, when he’s left your side and you’re walking aimlessly back to the train, you turn the phrase over in your head. Front and back, up and down, you roll it around your mouth and test how it feels to say and swallow when you realize it comes quite naturally when you visualize Oikawa in front of you.)

-

Sometimes you find yourself just staring at Oikawa. When it’s during study group, when Makki catches you, he gags loudly and moans and groans about how sickening the two of you are.

“Can’t help it.” You state, stoic even though your face is heating. “He’s perfect. Gotta look.”

When you look up, Makki is laid out on the table like a beached fish, Iwaizumi is rolling his eyes (good-naturedly, you think), and Oikawa is covering his face with a hand. You still catch the blush lighting up his skin. You’ve already said it - he’s perfect - but the sight of him now is oddly . . . painful. You have to look away.

-

It might just be a volleyball club thing, but the seniors are throwing another New Years party. Opening your front door and spotting Oikawa standing outside is one of those things. Not necessarily one of those things you don’t talk about, but one of those things that you’ve gotten used to and you’ll die before admitting that you wouldn’t be averse to seeing it every day.

He looks up from his phone at the creak of the door and grins when he sees you. You’re returning it before you can even think of looking away.

“You look nice.”

He preens, runs a hand through his carefully styled hair as he dramatically tilts his head back. “Perfect?”

“Oh my god.” You snort as you reach for his hand. He pulls it away at the last second and raises his brow at the look on your face. “Oikawa.”

“C’mon, melon bun. Admit I’m perfect and maybe I’ll hold your hand.”

You stare. You can’t help it. He’s still preening like a peacock and, true to his words, his hands are balled and planted on his hips like he plans on walking down the street in that pose instead of just holding your hand.

The seconds tick by as you steadily realize oh, no he was serious.

“Oikawa. Oikawa, are you really - “

He turns his head away from you pettily as soon as it becomes clear that the words coming out of your mouth aren’t ‘Oikawa, you’re perfect.’

“Wow.” You cross your arms, feigning-kinda-but-not-really offense, before uncrossing as an idea sparks to life in your head. Blinking, you hold your hands in front of your face. There are two. “I’ll hold hands with myself then.”

Oikawa finally turns your way to see you threading your fingers together and when they were fully connected you stared at them dramatically, like you’d just had the epiphany of the millennia.

“Nevermind. This is better.”

You start walking off, waiting on the inevitable.

“Melon bun! Wait!” 

There it was.

“I didn’t mean it!”

His shoes slap against the pavement and then he’s by your side, pawing at your still connected hands. Almost instantly, you fold and your hand is in his.

“Oikawa.” You say as the train starts moving. “You’re okay.” 

He leans all the way into your face, holding himself up by the hanging train handles. Honey and hair product invades your senses.

“Perfect.” He insists, pouting. Your eyes catch on the shine of his lips. You can still remember what it tastes like.

You sigh. “Oikawa. You’re perfect.”

He grins and your chest squeezes with that odd pain. It hurts more, cuts you deeper, but you can’t step away with the push of the other passengers pressing into you from all angles so you stand and look at his smile and hear the echo of the ‘I love you’ in the now empty expanse of your mind.

You’d lost track of Oikawa for ten minutes at most ( . . . probably) and when you find him again he’s talking to one of the seniors with a can in his hand and taking the occasional sip. The senior takes a swig of their own can and comes up for air after a long few seconds. When they realize it’s empty they give Oikawa a wave and go meandering off to look for another.

“If you puke on the way home I’m abandoning you on the subway.”

“Pft.” His cheeks are ever so slightly red. Maybe you’d miscalculated how long he’d been left unsupervised. “Nah.”

“Nah?”

“Nah.” He nods to himself. “You think I’m perfect.”

“That - “ You shake your head and take his hand. Your phone buzzes and you finagle it out of your pocket, perking up at the message. “Let’s go find Iwaizumi.”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa chimes in and you nod, suddenly tired.

“Yup. Iwa-chan.” You parrot absentmindedly, peering around the sparsely lit house - for the atmosphere, Oikawa had said just before you’d stubbed your toe on a well hidden low table. Who designed this place, anyway?

“You can’t call him that!”

“I - ” You’re focused on Oikawa again, the phone buzzing in your suddenly limper grip unattended. “I . . . can’t?”

“That’s my nickname! I made it.”

“Oh.” You clear your throat and let go of his hand so you can check your phone, fiddling around with the screen and ignoring his whine. Apparently Iwaizumi arrived at the same time as one of the seniors and he’d been roped in to some kind of drinking game. He needs a rescue.

“And you’re my melon bun.” Oikawa says like he hadn’t gone silent for a good long moment, like the statement is as good as a long winded explanation. “And I’m your fishcake.”

You stare down at the screen of your phone, flicking aimlessly through the chat logs. Somewhere around the beginning of it is the picture of Oikawa with that volleyball imprinted on his cheek. Finally, you get to it. It’s slightly blurry from the shake of Iwaizumi’s hand. The bright red mark on Oikawa’s cheek could be seen from space and the look on his face, wide eyed and mouth open in a shocked little o, usually makes you smile.

“Yeah.”

Iwaizumi had gotten sucked into a game of truth or dare. You, having come to rescue him, also get sucked in. As you hover near the edge of the circle of people, Oikawa trips and nearly brains himself on someone’s beer bottle. You only just manage to save him, with your hands tangled in his nice button down and tugging him back to his feet. The audible stretch of fabric doesn’t stop him from staring at you, at where you’re touching him.

“Sorry.” You say as you unclench your fingers. “I’ll pay you back.”

“In hugs?”

“Instead of a shirt?”

“Hugs are more worth it than shirts.”

Someone snorts. “Are they - “

“Yes.” Makki, who had just finished taking a gulp from a beer bottle because there was no way in hell he was going to streak around the house, rasps. “They’re always this gross.”

“We could be grosser.”

“Doubt it.”

You squinted at him, ignoring the way the some of the others in the little truth or dare circle were starting to stare.

“Watch me.” Pointedly, you wrap an arm around Oikawa’s waist and pull him close. You raise your chin and plant your other hand on your hip.

Makki buries his face in his hands. “Oh god, it’s like I’m watching my parents.”

Oikawa shifts, takes a breath.

“I swear, fishcake, if you say something about him calling you daddy I’m leaving.”

“ . . . The party? Or me.”

“Both.”

His teeth clicked as he closed his mouth and you relaxed against his side, tuning in to the other conversation.

“So only you can call him daddy then?” One of the seniors chimes in suddenly and you choke.

“N - “

“Yep!”

Makki looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. “I’m gonna puke.”

“Iwaizumi.” You plead across the circle. “Help me.”

He stares back at you and takes a long sip of his drink.

You wordlessly rub Oikawa’s back as he retches, leaning away as much as you can from the possible splash back while still maintaining a line of emotional support.

Someone knocks.

“Is he okay?” Iwaizumi’s voice pierces through the door.

Oikawa clutches the rim of the toilet bowl like it’s a lifeline, moaning miserably. You pat his back a little firmer.

“Ehhhhh. Might take him home.”

Oikawa heaves again and it’s a dry and wretched sound. You wince.

“N-never - “ He hiccups. “Never g’nna drink ‘gain.”

Iwaizumi pushes off the wall he’d been leaning against when you finally emerge from the bathroom with Oikawa, who’s dripping in sweat and swaying in place and holding onto your hand painfully tightly. He trips over his own feet and is so lucky that Iwaizumi is there because in the process of tripping he’d pretty much yanked your arm out of its socket and the only thing keeping you both from eating shit on the carpeted hallway was Iwa.

“I’ll help you get him home.”

With Oikawa sprawled on the couch, you and Iwaizumi on either sides of him, you quietly watch the countdown.

“Ten!”

Oikawa’s head is settled against Iwaizumi’s shoulder and his hand is holding yours. Iwaizumi’s snoring - the aftereffects of having to practically carry Oikawa through the subway.

“Nine!”

He shifts, pitches to the side too far and collapses into your lap.

“Eight!”

You snort as he sluggishly props himself up. It’s less amusing when his fingers dig harshly into your thigh.

“Seven!”

Now eye level with you, he stares. You stare back.

“Six!”

A slow smile takes over his face. He still smells a little like the cheap party beer.

“Five!”

“Happy New Year!” He cheers.

“You’re a little early.” You gesture with your chin to the TV and Oikawa swings his head to peer at the screen.

“Three!”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa kicks his friend in the shin. “New Year!”

“Two!”

Iwaizumi wakes up with a dad-snort, yawns so open mouthed that your jaw cracks in sympathy, and squints.

“‘ll kill oo.”

“One!”

Warm.

Behind the countdown a confetti graphic goes off and the big, bold 0:00:00 is draped in colorful streamers and sparkly little bits that brighten the dark living room.

His hand is on your cheek, turning your face in his direction and it’s deja vu bubbling up, flooding you to the tips of your fingers. Your eyes are wide open. Oikawa’s aren’t. You can taste the minty menthol of his mouthwash and it burns your lips.

“Oik - “ Iwaizumi’s voice reboots the part of your brain that had shut down at the kiss. You lean back. He follows. The hand at your thigh burns. You push him back with a hand at his chest, gently but firmly, and turn away.

Iwaizumi is a good enough friend to not forsake Oikawa’s poor spine to the mercies of the couch but there are limits and apparently the kick reached it. He dumps Oikawa into bed, bids you both goodbye, and leaves for home.

“He’s a good friend.” You remark absentmindedly as you plant the trashcan next to Oikawa’s bed.

“Mm. Love him.” Even though he’d puked up all the alcohol he still sounds tipsy. “Love you too.”

“Yeah.” That gets his attention in a peculiar way and you’re back at staring at each other. The only light in the room is his desk lamp - it’s softer than the overhead light, easier on the eyes - and it hits him, the way he’s laid against the pillows, at an angle that a professional photographer could cry over.

“Say it back.”

You blink and find yourself fixating on his pout. “What?”

“Say it back!” Oikawa’s propped himself up on his hands. Your own are terribly cold and empty. “Say it back, say it back, say it back!”

“Oikawa.” His cheeks are warm underneath your palms and his eyes are less hazy than you expected them to be. “Of course I love you.”

-

“Why me?”

Oikawa doesn’t fall in love easy but he loves easily with an enthusiasm, a passion, that anyone can see burning behind his eyes. He’s zesty!

“Besides the - “

The tears have long dried but the heartache from rejection dulls the zest and so he’s honest, satisfied with this innovative solution, and doesn’t care all that much for whatever you might think about it. He admits to himself though that your reactions to him are interesting. That comes to bite him a little because he ends up with a friend who got - arguably - the worst of him as the first memories of their relationship.

“So.” Oikawa had been about as subtle as an axe to the face. “Anyone on your radar yet, Iwa-chan?”

His friend - his very best friend - sighs. But his hands are fidgeting and there’s a wonderfully pretty color lighting up his cheeks and Oikawa’s heart thuds unsteadily in his chest. But -

The name that leaves his lips is unfamiliar.

“Huh?” Oikawa’s pencil strains under the force he’s gripping it with. “Who’s that?”

Iwaizumi shrugs, still looking everywhere else but at Oikawa. “They were my partner in a group project. They’re nice.”

“Nice.” Oikawa scoffs. “Bleh. What about the juicy stuff, Iwa-chan? Are they hot?”

Iwaizumi grumbles and the cuff is expected but Oikawa whines anyway. His friend turns back to their homework and clearly expects Oikawa to as well, but that name lingers in the back of his mind.

When he’d walked you to the café on your first official date together it isn’t quite hate that simmers in his chest but it’s something close. Hate adjacent. It’d cooled but still, he can’t help but be annoyed at the way you’re so unflappable. Steady. So unlike him. But you are like Iwa-chan in a weird way and that makes it a little easier.

(He doesn’t notice, though. Iwa is steady as a rock and he doesn’t even blink at your presence at Oikawa’s side, just scolds Oikawa even more after you’re gone. Unfortunately, Oikawa doesn’t give up. He holds his head high. And he will make this work.

Oikawa smothers you in physical contact and ignores the way you stiffen up at his touch. He should’ve expected the confrontation but if he thinks about the why of this all he’ll think of the way it isn’t working and he’s desperate - )

And then Iwa-chan is smiling at his phone and you’re still at his side and he guesses that should be it, really. Except . . . you’re cool. Metal. You call him perfect and it soothes the ache of obviously not being perfect enough. His touches get a little softer, a little more conscious of the way you still instinctually pull away. He likes the feel of your cheek underneath his lips.

It’s quick.

And then, one day, you show up at lunch looking like you’d gotten a swirly - the staple trope of high schools everywhere. Something in his chest twists and he almost can’t bring himself to look at you. The look on your face is unchanged, blank and passive, and Oikawa hadn’t really thought of his fan club before.

And you laugh and Oikawa sees a totally different person -

(Not a different person, he realizes later, just one that he hadn’t really cared to get to know before that point but happiness looks good on you.)

You bring him dinner and call the sandwich flaccid -

(He’s not sure if it’s homemade or not but either way it fills him with a weird sense of nostalgia and he can’t help but think he wouldn’t mind getting something like this every time he got sick.)

The countdown is echoed by nearly everyone else in the room and Oikawa can’t take his eyes off your lips.

It erodes. Oikawa knew it would but he can’t help the way he seizes up when you mention the end of it, of this thing that he’s let a little too close to his heart. He knows where the spare key to your house is and lets himself in, invites himself over until you’re inevitably left with a variety of his things. You’re friends but he can’t help but feel sick when you say “what if we meet someone we wanna date for real” because, well . . .

Well. It’s happened all over again. Slow and steady, over the course of the year, but it’s happened.

The funny thing is alcohol didn’t inhibit his memory nearly as much as you clearly think it did. Even though the next day comes and you check on him to make sure he hadn’t drowned in his own vomit (he likes seeing your face in the morning) Oikawa can’t help but think of the way your hands had felt on his cheeks and the way his heart had raced when you’d said you loved him.

“We can still be friends, right?”

Oikawa turns his head to look at you, his brow raised. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I mean, I’ve never broken up with someone before.”

He freezes.

“How do exes usually act around each other?”

You’re steadily filling the sudden silence.

“You’ll probably have to get someone else to fill in for me.”

Buzzing fills Oikawa’s ears as you start to ramble, everything suddenly too much and too little. When he looks at you again your face is unreadable. The route to your home is carved into the muscle memory of his legs but he finds himself taking an extra long step where he shouldn’t and tripping on the raised cement. You still steady him with a hand on his arm.

The sidewalk leading to your front door stretches out in front of him and it’s then that he notices that the little jersey keychain isn’t hanging from your bag anymore.

“See ya later I guess, study buddy.” You squeeze his hand.

“Yeah.” Oikawa misses ‘fishcake.’ Still, he squeezes back and pastes on a smile he hopes you can't see right through. “See you later, melon bun.”

Chapter Text

Iwaizumi had never known you to be overly talkative but he supposed there’s a difference between introversion and completely shutting down. It reminded him of Oikawa - his sulking - except steeped in a unique blankness. It made him uneasy. Oikawa, on the other hand, talked more, laughed louder, but there was a curious distance between you two now that Iwaizumi didn’t know how to interpret. It reminded him of a stretch of time in middle school where he and Oikawa just didn’t talk. It felt about the same too, awkward and discomfiting, like you’d both lost a limb. He sees it in you when they’re preparing for volleyball and you make to join them before seemingly remembering something at the sight of Oikawa and you just leave, in the end.

Iwaizumi had never been one to mince words.

“What happened?”

Oikawa stiffens ever so slightly before humming inquisitively. Iwaizumi, for once, does not roll his eyes.

“With - “ He doesn’t even struggle with the objectively questionable pet name. Anymore, at least. “ - melon bun.”

“Ah.” Oikawa says, like he’s just had the eureka moment of a lifetime, before nodding. “It didn’t work out.”

Iwaizumi blinks at the tremble in Oikawa’s voice and fully turns in his friend’s direction. He’s running his fingers through the heavily styled fringe like he couldn’t care less, like he’s remarking on the weather, except Iwaizumi remembers the puffy redness of his eyes - of your eyes too - the day you’d both fractured.

“We were better as friends.” Oikawa finishes and Iwaizumi can’t help the instinctual thought of ‘bullshit.’

“Is that what they said?” Iwaizumi asks flatly. He can’t help but think of the declarations of love Oikawa had practically showered you in every spare moment and the way you’d returned them.

“Yeah.” Oikawa answers placidly. “I mean, I guess we - us - kinda ran its course.”

‘Better as friends’ plays on loop in the back of Iwaizumi’s mind.

“They’re still my melon bun, though!”

Iwaizumi grunts and looks askance at his friend, who’s resolutely staring forward. The edges of his smile is trembly - melting plastic. His eyes shine. The questions lodged in the back of Iwaizumi’s throat, the curious nudging, falls back into his stomach. Instead his hands tighten around the strap of his school bag and he scratches his nape, scratches a little too hard and he bites the inside of his cheek at the sting.

Again, Iwaizumi peers over at Oikawa. The lack of your presence hangs in the air. Wordlessly, gruffly, Iwaizumi claps a hand to his friend’s bicep. Pats a few times.

Oikawa snickers. It’s punctuated by a wet hiccup.

“Thanks, Iwa-chan.”

-

One thing Iwaizumi notices is that you’re quick to paper over the discomfort, quick to look in Oikawa’s direction again even though you don’t meet his eyes nearly as much. Oikawa, normally one to pick on those kinds of things with well practiced words, takes after you. Before he knows it you’re both leaning into each other’s sides again. A tentative new kind of peace, one that doesn’t include the phrase “I love you” even if Iwaizumi can see it.

(Iwaizumi, as your seat mate this year, is the one to bring you to lunch now.)

-

Someone is sitting in your seat. You try to not let it bother you and plop down into the spot next to Iwaizumi, on the other side of Oikawa, and your butt hangs half off the edge of the bench. Oikawa and the new person are less than five feet from you and you can hear the sickly sweet words they exchange quite well, however quiet they try to be. They don’t try very hard.

Iwaizumi’s elbow knocks into yours as you deposit your textbook onto the table. You murmur an apology. The pages are nice and new, laminated and slippery against your fingertips. The printed words themselves are also neat, also nice, and completely obscured by a familiar looking wrapper.

“Uh.” Your hand is on autopilot, reaching out and tearing the packaging before you can even read the blue label stamped on the front. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

You chew, turn it into a gluey, sticky paste and choke it down as you listen to Oikawa and the new person.

“Baby - “ Oikawa says, all sugar sweet simpering, and you take another bite. It sits on your tongue as Oikawa positively gushes about his date last weekend when he’d taken his ‘Baby’ to the park. Your leg is bouncing under the table on the side you share with Iwaizumi at first, so you stop and switch but then he presses closer. Intentionally. You’re not sure if the warmth you feel at the contact, the comfort, is what he’d intended but then he does it again. It’s almost like an arms free hug.

You blink away the sudden moisture in your eyes.

“Thanks.” You murmur again.

“Welcome.” He repeats. The words in your textbook come back into focus and the final bite of your bun isn’t as tasteless.

-

Oikawa’s Sugarloaf, Honeybunches, Baby/Bae remains a presence at the table. You don’t.

-

Iwaizumi thinks he’s about a second away from losing his mind.

“It’ll be fine.”

Your shoulders don’t lose any bit of tension, remain hunched all the way to your ears. “We’re gonna fail.”

“We won’t.” Iwaizumi tries not to grumble. He isn’t sure how successful he is.

“But what if we do?”

“Then the teacher doesn’t know quality when it’s right in front of their face.” He lets out a breath. “And my parents would kill me.”

Your shoulders lower a little and a singular ‘ha’ escapes. “Ah, mine too. Well, I guess it’s success or death or whatever.”

(It isn’t this that makes Iwaizumi feel like screaming, it’s the way that Oikawa can’t stop gazing in your direction like a love lorn Shakespearean protagonist and the way you miss it every time. Oikawa does it again and Iwaizumi’s eyes lock with Hanamaki’s, who returns the flat look with a roll of his eyes and a theatrical gag that doesn’t have nearly as much pizzazz as it used to. Both of them are thinking of ‘Sugarloaf.’)

Maybe it’s the “we” or the new-ish camaraderie between you and Iwaizumi - whatever it is, it catches Oikawa’s attention and when Iwaizumi breaks the small staring contest, Oikawa is glancing between you and him with an almost unreadable look on his face.

“Group project.” Iwaizumi explains as you slump over. Now that he’s paying attention he can see the way Oikawa’s expression sours a bit, the wrinkle in between his brows. It smoothes over when you start to mumble something muffled in the pages of your notebook.

“More like . . . g - uh - gr-dumb project.”

Matsukawa sighs in unison with Iwaizumi before burying himself back into his own project. Iwaizumi does the same, even as he feels a last glance landing on him, weighing on his shoulders. Nothing but the sound of pencils scratching against paper hit the air for the next few minutes.

“Are you going to be at Interhigh?”

Iwaizumi can feel Oikawa’s eyes on him again as you hum an affirmative into your notebook. He nods to himself, keeping his face resolutely turned toward his own notes.

“Good.”

-

And sometime between then and Interhigh:

“So . . . what happened?”

You hesitate. “What’d he tell you?”

“That you said you were better as friends.”

“Huh.” You swallow. It does nothing for the blockage in your throat, the lump that forms at the thought of this.

Iwaizumi pushes on. “You didn’t say that.” It isn’t a question.

“I mean.” You huff out a nervous laugh. “Eh. I guess.”

He groans. “God, talking to either of you about this is such a damn headache.”

“We could, y’know, not talk about it?” Your quick, ever so slightly bitter response catches his ear.

“Fat chance of that.” Iwaizumi shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s weird.”

“Weird?” You make a face - not that Iwaizumi can see it but it’s obvious in your voice, in the incredulous tilts of your tone. “What?”

“Oikawa letting his ‘melon bun’ go.”

For a second, you and Iwaizumi just exist in the aftermath of those words. Then you scoff.

“I mean, it was inevitable. We - “ You swallow again, eyes stinging. “ - wouldn’t work.”

Iwaizumi scoffs so forcefully it sounds like half his lungs came out his nose. “Bullshit.”

“Bull - ?“

“He loved you.” 

“Wh - “ You choke on your own spit, on the reply of how wrong he was. He keeps talking.

“And you were too gross about it for it to not be mutual.”

“G - “ You cough. “Gross? Geez, you sound like Makki.”

His eyebrow is raised.

“What?”

“You love him.” He prompts.

That hurts, hits something squishy and vulnerable deep in your chest. Your eyes slide away from his face, fall to the sidewalk and trace over the cracks and patches of scraggly grass that dot the pavement. You shrug.

“F - “ Iwaizumi huffs. “Children. You’re both children. How did you complicate - “

“That part wasn’t my fault.” Too much bitterness for comfort leaks into your voice and you seal your mouth shut as Iwaizumi straightens.

“Then whose was it?” He asks, and your tongue knots in your mouth. Iwaizumi calls your name. You shrug again and hope he won’t think much of the way you scratch at the bridge of your nose, how you turn to hide your face in the palm of your hand. “Hey.”

A choked, bitten off curse catches in your throat. His hand settles on your shoulder and it’s petrifying in the worst way as the tears finally spill over.

“Uh - “ Iwaizumi, who was clearly unprepared for this turn of events, freezes. “Uhhhh - “

“Sorry!” You manage through your tears, giggling in between hiccups. “It’s just - he’s gonna kill me.”

“What?”

“You were never supposed to - this - “

You stop yourself from going on a tangent (there aren’t enough contacts, enough of a list, for Oikawa to sink down but he’s at the bottom anyway and you eye it occasionally and read the short teaser of a text) by biting down as hard as you can. You catch the tip of your tongue. The tears are now pain-tears and therefore far less embarrassing so they go largely unbothered as they drip down your cheeks. Miserably, you sniffle.

“Ah thibnk ahm bhlheeding.”

As you poke out your tongue and go mildly cross-eyed in an effort to see the damage, Iwaizumi rummages around his bag frantically for some napkins. Something red drips onto the front of your shirt.

“Ow - ackloepfh!” Iwaizumi stuffs a handful of napkins into your bleeding mouth.

Eventually the blood stops and you pick the sodden pieces of napkin off your tongue.

-

When they walk off the court your legs start to itch. You’re in the middle of a row of seats, surrounded by people and paralyzed. The cheering echoes in your ears alongside Aoba Johsai’s heart wrenching lament. When you blink next you’re walking through the halls, passively observing the various volleyball posters. They’re explosions of color against the sterile white backdrop. They lead you to a stairwell. You can hear sniffling.

Without a word, you sink down onto the steps. You’re more or less silent but the sniffling halts. A hiccup punctuates the pause.

“M-melon bun?”

With your eyes fixed firmly forward, you thrust out a little on-the-go packet of Kleenex. They’re taken after a long second and an elephant worthy snuffle follows.

“Fishcake.”

His breath catches so shallowly it could have been mistaken for another hiccup. You hold back the instinctual search for his touch, for comfort, and watch him out of your peripherals instead. He shuffles closer. Barely a few centimeters, but it wrecks your self control and you’re leaning in anyway. Your hands curl in your lap.

“Can I . . . “ He starts haltingly, drawing in a shaky breath. “I still owe you a hug.”

You hum and settle your elbows onto your knees. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him fidget.

“Melon bun?”

“Did - “ You chew on the side of your tongue. It still aches. “Why’d you ask me?”

“For . . . a hug?” He falters a little and you swallow back a sigh.

“No.” You open an arm and beckon him into your side after a second. “ . . . Hug.”

However hesitant Oikawa may have been, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around your middle. He buries his face in your shoulder too and the remnants of his tears soak into your shirt. You don’t say ‘there’s always next year’ because this is the ‘next year’ they’d been promised last year and that’d be a bit gauche. You don’t say ‘it’s ok.’ Your shoulder is wet and oddly humid and his shuddering is actually tickling you a little bit but it’s grounding. As Oikawa sobs into you, you blink and notice that the stairwell is dusty and smells faintly like plastic and cleaning solution. You shift a little so your mouth is right next to Oikawa’s ear, though you don’t say anything (he smells like familiarity, a mix of sweat and fading cologne, and your eyes start to sting). He pulls you closer, holds you tighter, like he’s trying to make up for months of lost hugs.

There’s still a few more matches that need to happen. You won’t rush him.

(You stare at Iwaizumi and feel the confession sitting on your still bleeding tongue: he did it for you. To make you jealous. You can feel the curses, the tears that have built up behind your eyes. You never noticed. How could you not notice?)

Walking Oikawa to the bus is a less somber affair than you expected it to be. He pulls ahead of you as the door to the attached parking lot grows closer and you take one step more before stopping and observing as he goes to greet the team. Iwaizumi spots you over Oikawa’s shoulder first and waves. You return it with a lackluster flick of your fingers. You couldn’t smile if you wanted to.

“Dumb.”

“Hey!” Oikawa’s face is suddenly filling your vision, pouty lower lip and all.

“Wasn’t talking to you.” Your expression remains flat. The pout fades into a contemplative frown as he reaches for you, for your hand - a move that’s aborted halfway through and he runs his fingers through his hair instead almost nervously.

“Is it - are you okay?”

“‘m tired.” You glance over Oikawa’s shoulder. The rest of the team are still waiting by the bus. When you look back to him he doesn’t even try to look away - his lips are thinned, twisted like there’s something important resting on the tip of his tongue. There’s a flash of white as his teeth dig into his lip and whatever the important thing was slips away.

-

(“How would you deal with it?” You say, apropos of nothing. Iwaizumi cocks his head.

“Deal with what?”

“Someone you . . . love being in love with someone else.”

There is a few moments where Iwaizumi processes what you’ve said. “You can’t be serious.“

“Hypothetically, then. Hypothetically, what would you do if - “

“He isn’t.” Iwaizumi groans. “Akibara was a rebound. The most obvious, trying-to-get-you-jealous rebound in the history of — “

“Ok, then hypothetically I’m Akibara and - “

“Idiotkawa wouldn’t look twice at Akibara.”

“Yeah, well, I was Akibara once too and look where I am now.”

“You weren’t a fan. Or a rebound.” Iwaizumi scoffs. You press your lips tightly together.

“But what if I was - “

“You weren’t, you aren’t, and you’re just as dumb as Oikawa is if you think so.” Iwaizumi sighs, turns, and sets his hand on your shoulder. “Talk. To him.”)

-

Oikawa Tooru

<do u still like those unicorn drinks?

-

The corners of the note cards digs into the webbed, fleshy bits between your fingers and the words scroll past the inside of your eyelids when you blink. The café comes into view. Your pace slows. Somehow that just makes the café approach faster and you’re crossing its threshold and setting eyes on Oikawa, who’s snagged a corner table and waves cheerily at you. As you sit, he pushes a sparkly pink drink in your direction.

“As promised!” His own drink is already half finished.

“Thanks.” You take a sip and peer around the table, tapping your fingers against the plastic. “I’ll pay you back.”

“In hugs?” He winks, but you notice the way his fingers curl around his cup. Still, your breath catches in your throat.

“. . . You were so quick with that.”

“Can’t help what I need!”

“You need my hugs?”

“‘Course I do!”

Your face heats and you duck your head, abruptly remembering the cards. “Actually, um, I kinda wanted to talk to you about that - “

“Could I,” When you look up, his eyes are on the cards in your hands. “Say something first?”

“No.” If your stomach wasn’t trying to crawl up your esophagus you would’ve laughed at his scandalized expression. “I just need to say this before I - or, y’know, you could read it. Uh. Here.”

The cards are all folded in on each other, practically crumpled, and Oikawa carefully unbends them and smooths them out on the table. The scribbled, practically illegible mess of your own writing catches your eye and you try to bury a wince under a deep breath that goes right to your head. While you blink back the spots in your eyes, Oikawa examines the paper.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze flicks up to lock with yours. “I know I’m not - like, this is kind of the opposite of what you wanted when you asked me to - “

The ambient noises of the café buzz in your ears. You swallow.

“I’m - I like you. And I’m sorry.”

The other side of the table is absolutely silent. Your curiosity isn’t enough to make you brave whatever expression he has on his face so you take a long sip of your drink and try not to sink down through the floor -

“Oh.” There’s a smile in his voice. When you look up, despite his nonchalance and the fact that everything is suspiciously blurry, you can see tears collecting on his lashes. “That’s a relief.”

-

Iwa

>u were right

<duh

-

It’s a thought that comes to you somewhere between the haze of preparing for graduation: nothing much changed from before. Dating Oikawa, that is. The hugs, lunch, and casual declarations of love —

Oikawa stares at you after you remark upon this observation.

“What?”

“Well.” He clears his throat. “What you said, melon bun. Of course I love you.”