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At age nine, Iwaizumi cuts his hair for the first time. His ponytail lies on the bathroom floor; he feels reminiscent of a dog with a bird in its jaws as he plucks it and brandishes it to his crying mother, like a trophy to be praised or a bug to be proud of. “Look,” he says, as if this is the thing that matters most, “now you won’t complain when you brush it.”
It’s summer, the kind so hot that it makes you want to forget its heat and sleep ten feet under. There is sweat on the back of his neck and a melted popsicle in his hand, sticky and fruity and tasting of artificial mango. It’s been a day since the ponytail debacle and Oikawa’s hands are in his hair, because he is a child that does not know limits.
“Why did you cut it?” Oikawa asks, his voice so indifferent that it sounds as if he is remarking about the clouds overhead. He’s got his eyes fixed to the tufts of dark hair that now sprout from Iwaizumi’s head, akin to saplings amongst grass.
Iwaizumi’s gaze is trained to the sky, and he feels the weight of his shoulders shift in what is a half-hearted shrug. “Because it was hot,” he says. Because he wanted to. There is nothing that stands out about it to him. Not now, when his biggest concerns are about the cicadas left uncaught in his backyard.
“Well, I like it.” Oikawa licks carelessly at his strawberry popsicle, sticky juices covering his palms and dripping to the ground beneath.
“Mom doesn’t,” he notes. Chewing on the edge of his popsicle stick, Iwaizumi contemplates his actions. His mother says he’ll need to return to school like this; Iwaizumi can’t find anything wrong with that. “She kept complaining about knots. I thought maybe cutting them out would help.”
Oikawa stares blankly, all blue braces and round eyes. “Oh.” There’s something like surprise in his voice, as if he cannot understand why someone would find fault with Iwaizumi’s hair.
“It’s fine,” Iwaizumi says, because it is. He doesn’t care. It’s just hair. It’s not like it means anything. “Do you want to go find some bugs?”
He watches as Oikawa’s nose wrinkles crudely. “They’re gross,” he states, “and they fly in my face. But sure.”
Iwaizumi stands. “Cool.” He grabs his net, and with it comes the end of their prior discussion. They do not mention his fabled haircut again.
When he is thirteen he learns that the shape of his body is like water. Its surface is made up of the fat on his thighs and the inward dip of his hips, and when he looks in a mirror he cannot tell himself apart from the grey mannequins of his mother’s favourite store. He is like the tides of the Sendai Bay, and no amount of clothing can fix that; the moon pulls with its gravity on his skin until it pinches under bra straps and chaffs from school skirts.
Salvation comes in the form of the Oikawas’ eldest daughter. She’s easy to talk to, with bobbed hair and eyes that match the round complexity of her brother’s. She is tall and loves biochemistry, rugby, and taking Iwaizumi shopping. Here he finds it easy convincing Oikawa-san to buy him sports bras, board shorts, and anything else he thinks might help this newfangled issue.
“How many of these do you need?” she asks him at one of the boutiques, arms full of undergarments. There are five pairs of sports bras, at least three board shorts, and a Mechagodzilla shirt she’d found for him.
Iwaizumi shifts from foot to foot. It feels strange asking for more, so instead he shrugs, looking away. There’s a model on one of the walls, hips curved and chest pushed by the undergarments she is wearing. Her body looks so foreign, so unnatural; Iwaizumi hates it. Something akin to disgust rises in him, but he thinks it’s directed more towards himself than the picture.
“I don’t need anymore,” he decides. “Thank you, Oikawa-san.”
She smiles, and Iwaizumi thinks it is the kindest thing he has ever seen. “Okay. Let's pay then, shall we?”
That night he stacks three sports bras on top of himself. Gods, it fucking hurts, and it feels like the weight of the universe has come colliding with the centre of his chest. But when he looks in a mirror and sees the way his body looks, he determines he likes it. He’s reminded of the boys he watches on the streets outside, with snapbacks and loose shirts and the wheels of skateboards beneath their feet. He doesn’t understand why the imposing thought brings with it a swell of warmth, but Iwaizumi feels the way his heart glows between palms as if it’s unlocked all the answers it’s seemingly searched for.
It’s when he’s fifteen that he understands it, or at least begins to crack its code. He’s sitting by the local park with Oikawa, his friend’s chin on his shoulder, eyelashes curved towards the sky. “Iwa-chan,” he hears Oikawa sing, “won’t you let me cut your hair?”
Iwaizumi lifts his hand and brushes it along the nape of his neck. There are strands of dark hair amassing there, pressing to his skin until he feels a wave of self-consciousness. “Moron,” he grunts. “Your hands are shit with scissors. I see the way you cut those paper price tags for the market.”
Oikawa frowns. “That’s not exactly nice of you now, is it? My hands are super steady, thank you very much.” As if to prove a point that Iwaizumi cannot nor will ever care to understand, Oikawa holds out his hand with the palm downwards. They both watch as his fingers remain in a steady line.
“How fucking fantastic,” Iwaizumi deadpans. “But you’re still not cutting my hair.”
Dropping his hand and folding it between his legs, Oikawa sighs and leans back against the jungle gym. He’s staring across at the swingset, now still without children to play upon it at night. It’s just them, with the sound of the summer crickets outside to keep them company. “Iwa-chan,” he finally says, like there’s something stuck in his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
Iwaizumi lets out a grunt. “Is it about my hair again?”
“No!” Oikawa raises an arm innocently. “I promise.”
“Then what?”
There’s the drumming of nails against a bare thigh. Oikawa looks worried, with wrinkles between the fine lines of his brows. He’s gnawing incessantly upon his lip - Iwaizumi knows he will complain about it in the morning. Already he can picture banana balm and coconut oil against plush lips, and he doesn’t know why, can’t possibly understand why, but the thought sends his gut twisting until it is a loaded spring. He looks away in haste.
“Why did you want to join the boys’ volleyball club?” When Oikawa finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, lost in whatever thoughts he is now surmising. Their shoes click together, dirty soles against worn laces.
Iwaizumi’s heart, which is ever-so-diligent, begins to pick up its pace. Iwaizumi thinks that his chest is a track for the barrel horse now running full speed between the confinements of his ribs, tripping only when Oikawa turns to stare directly into his eyes. “I,” he begins, unsure of his next words, “thought it would be better.”
Oikawa laughs, like whatever Iwaizumi said is the funniest joke of the day. “Did you want to play with me? Is that it?” He drapes an arm across Iwaizumi’s shoulders, bringing him close. “I could be your setter, Iwa-chan! How cute.”
Scowling, Iwaizumi pulls away with a sharp tug. “Idiot.” There’s a moment of silence, laced with whatever unsureness lies between them. But this is the city, and city nights are never truly quiet. Not when his guts are spilling from between his teeth, saying words for him that he’d be too nervous to utter any other time. “Of course I want to play with you.”
Iwaizumi has never once told Oikawa about how he feels. Hell, he’s never really let himself think about it either. It’s difficult, but with Oikawa’s question posed between them, the truth begins to surface regardless. It comes slowly, like teeth being pulled or molasses being drawn from a jar. Iwaizumi can feel it there upon his tongue, waiting to be set free on invisible wings that he cannot see himself. With a shuddering breath he squeezes his hands together, brows knitted so tightly that he fears they will stick together permanently. “I think the main reason is that I’m not a girl.”
The confession is so quiet, so heartfelt, so intimate that Iwaizumi fears Oikawa has not heard him. But then his friend is standing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts. There’s something like understanding on his face, but Iwaizumi’s not sure, can never be sure, because this is Tōru Oikawa, the fucking master of faking smiles. It’s only when he extends a hand to help him up that Iwaizumi understands with a slanted grin that it’s fine. It’s fine.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa hums, and it sounds like a confession of another in itself. “Let me set for you.”
He is eighteen now and they have lost their final interhigh tournament. He thinks the blue of the Aoba Johsai jersey matches the blue of the Argentine flag, in the same way that it reflects the sky and the ocean and the blue sheets of Oikawa’s childhood bedroom. There is so much here between them, from the notches in the wood from where they’d measured their heights to the initials Oikawa had written in Sharpie on the bottom of Iwaizumi’s desk. Japan is their home, but now, in the dead of the night, Iwaizumi is aware that they are both leaving.
It’s been nine years since he first cut his hair. It’s still short, still rough, still tufted in all the wrong spots. Oikawa has begged him long enough to cut it, and he thinks now is a good time, because Oikawa’s tears are still fresh in his mind, stark amongst porcelain cheeks. They’d reminded him of falling stars, the kind that he wants to stand beneath with outstretched hands and catch between his palms. “Thank you for the three years,” Oikawa had said, and before Iwaizumi knew it he had discovered his own little clandestine universe. He remembers meteorites against his own shoes and the realisation that Oikawa’s eyes are upon him the entire time, like there’s something there left unsaid, waiting in the depths of the Seijoh gymnasium.
There are things that will change. The United States is waving. Argentina is smiling. But no matter what, there is still this: scissors and a boy’s hair.
Iwaizumi sits in front of the bathroom mirror. Behind him, Oikawa’s hands brush along his neck. They’re callused, worn down, not smooth like they once were. But they send goosebumps all the same, in the same way one does when a lover’s breath is to their skin.
“Are you sure about this?” Oikawa asks, because no matter what he is still kind, even when he is not. Iwaizumi thinks it is his own blindness that fools him; he has seen the amount of hearts Oikawa has broken. He is not a saint, but yet he is, careful with his words as if a charmer with a snake in a jar. He knows what to say, knows how to say it, and Iwaizumi thinks that is what infuriates him most.
He shrugs, letting his chin dip to his shirt. “Sure. Get on with it.”
There’s the sound of a brush being picked up, and then bristles against thick hair. Oikawa takes his time, slow, methodical, like he’s relishing this as much as Iwaizumi is. “No need to be so impatient, Iwa-chan.” His voice is loud in the little room, too loud, and Iwaizumi shuts his eyes tightly.
“Not impatient,” he retorts. “Just worried you’ll cut my ears.”
A chuckle. The bristles continue to brush invisible knots. Iwaizumi does not tell him to stop, even while knowing there is nothing left to comb through. “Funny. I’ve already told you plenty of times - my hands are steady.”
Iwaizumi doesn’t know when he fell in love with Oikawa. He thinks it’s when they’re ten and building forts, but it might’ve been later, or sooner; what he knows is that it starts when he first realises that he has memorised Oikawa’s scent by the detergent his mother uses, memorised his touch by the way his fingers feel between his shoulders, memorised the exact colour of his eyes (hickory, he thinks, nothing more, nothing less), and can tell how many loops of Bangarang by Skrillex it takes to get from his house to Oikawa’s.
Iwaizumi doesn’t know when he fell in love with Oikawa, but he sure as hell feels it in moments like this. “I know,” he says. “I remember. Doesn’t mean I trust you.” It’s a jab that falls flat, and Oikawa knows it, because he chuckles like the bastard he is. Iwaizumi trusts him with his life, and with scissors posed to his neck, he gets what it means to hand your heart over.
Oikawa snips away the first lock of hair and with it goes a sliver of his heart. It’s a gift meant only for him.
“Are you going to call me once I get to Argentina?” Oikawa asks. He’s not looking in the mirror, too focused on cutting Iwaizumi’s hair to the length he finds pleasant. Iwaizumi scoffs in return, eyes narrowed to slits.
“That’s a stupid question.” He takes in a breath, feels the way his binder resists the rising of his chest, and then closes his eyes. “I’d be a pretty shit friend if I didn’t.”
Looking into the mirror, Iwaizumi finds Oikawa smiling. He’s still busy with his hair, but it’s looking better, and the tufts look less like weeds and more like ferns. “So sweet. I’ll make sure to call you too, Iwa-chan. I can’t have you missing me, can I?” He’s so gentle, uncharacteristically so, and Iwaizumi thinks it’ll destroy him. Just take me, he thinks. Do whatever. Destroy my hair if it pleases you.
“Shittykawa. There’s no way I’ll miss you.” Iwaizumi smirks, letting his dangling feet kick back to find Oikawa’s own. “Not when you’re going to be Skyping me at every chance.”
Laughing, Oikawa finishes cutting the last of his hair. “Aw! You know me so well. I can’t wait to see your grainy face. I bet it’ll look just as cute as it does now.”
It’s a joke, he knows it is, but still Iwaizumi falls silent. He can feel Oikawa’s fingers in his hair now, gently picking loose strands that did not yet fall to the floor. He’s so attentive, like he’s thought of how he’d go about this. Iwaizumi knows he has.
“You alright?” Oikawa asks. His voice is quiet, which is unusual, because nothing about him is quiet. Iwaizumi wants it to stop.
He gets up, standing, and wipes off his pants. The tiles are covered with his hair, like falling leaves. It makes him think he is a tree, standing tall and alone. “I’m fine. Does my hair look alright?”
Oikawa stares at him, and Iwaizumi takes in his face. It’ll be a while until he sees it in the flesh again. He needs to remember this, the way Oikawa’s nose curves into a ball at the end. He needs to remember this, the way his eyelashes are black, not brown. He needs to remember this and this, the way Oikawa leans forward to brush his bangs and the way he smiles so easily that it is like butter on bread. “It looks fantastic. Don’t you regret not letting me do it sooner?”
No. What he regrets is everything else. All the little things, like how he hasn’t kissed him and how he wants to. It would be so simple, so easy to take his mouth against his. Oikawa would grab his lip between his teeth like he did with girls and Iwaizumi would ascend, because there’s nowhere to go except heaven after a boy does that to you, especially one like Oikawa, who Iwaizumi thinks is carved from the gods themselves.
“Sure,” he concedes instead. “I regret it.”
Oikawa smiles, like he’s won a game that Iwaizumi was unaware of. “I think it looks nicer. More you. More… Iwa-chan.”
“You didn’t do that much shit to it. Stop sucking your own dick.”
A hand comes out to smooth Iwaizumi’s cheek. “I’m serious! Ah, you should let me do this more. It would give me a reason to come see you in California.”
There’s the tossing of eyes. “Because I’m not enough? Fuck off.”
Oikawa’s stare wavers. “Sure, you’re enough. But it’d be nice regardless to do it again. Don’t you think so?”
And here is the thing: it would be nice. More than nice. Iwaizumi can accept that intimacy comes in more ways than just physical touch, because no matter what, Oikawa’s presence means the most. He can forgo thoughts of kisses and the holding of hands, as long as it means cherishing whatever this is. They have their entire lives ahead of them; there is no need to rush what time will bring.
He smiles the kind of smile that pulls only faintly at lips. “Maybe.”
Oikawa’s grin is wide, brilliant, and as bright as the sun itself. “So you’ll let me? Is that what you’re saying, Iwa-chan?”
There’s a blush staining his cheeks. He turns away then, grabbing for the broom they’d brought. Iwaizumi does not take his eyes off the bathroom floor as he says slowly, carefully, “Yeah. Maybe I am saying that.”
“Does that mean it’s a date then?” Oikawa asks. His voice is closer, higher, like he’s trying to hold in some unseen excitement.
For the first time that night, Iwaizumi laughs, and it fills the room around them with a sense of pureness and warmth. “It’s a date, Shittykawa.”
California has never seemed so promising.