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Iwaizumi idly watches pink fluffy clouds that adorn the five-in-the-evening sky, fingers drumming against the car window as he waits for Oikawa to come outside. It’d been a spur of the moment decision, calling his best friend having had no plans to initially.
Irvine is hot in summers, especially in the middle of August. The summer air is thick, and there are way too many people outside for Iwaizumi’s liking to stay in the local area. Since Oikawa was around for two weeks (another impulse decision after he’d told Iwaizumi that he had three weeks off from volleyball) he figured it would be best to get out and drive around California, perhaps up-state to San Francisco where it was much cooler.
So Iwaizumi finds himself waiting in the car for Oikawa to pack the rest of his things. The drive to San Francisco is only seven hours itself, eight to nine if you factor in potential traffic, but since Iwaizumi’s never really been out of the general Los Angeles area, and Oikawa has, obviously, never been either, it’ll be nice to stop somewhere in between for a night so they can take in the scenery. He feels almost nostalgic spending so much time with Oikawa after nearly a year apart.
The pair often spent afternoons and evenings hanging out in the summer, whether it was mostly be playing volleyball in Oikawa’s backyard, hanging out with other members from their team, going on hikes, but after Iwaizumi had moved to California to attend university, and Oikawa had gone to Argentina, well, the outcome is self explanatory.
“Iwa-chan!” The sound of his name being called by a familiar voice that Iwaizumi isn’t entirely sure if he finds annoying or endearing snaps him from his almost entranced state.
He releases his lip from the bite he was holding it in, letting his eyes drift up to where Oikawa stands, waving at him from the front porch, a small duffel bag at his side. His cheeks hold a similar colour to the blush skies above them, and Iwaizumi feels as if he’s forcing the air in and out of his lungs manually, because, wow.
Iwaizumi’s lips ghost around words that can’t find their way out. Beautiful. Perfect. Then, what?
He swallows the growing lump in his throat, squeezing at the car’s gear shift in an attempt to keep his rapidly increasing heartbeat steady. It’s futile; Iwaizumi is easily flustered, this isn’t uncommon knowledge, but there’s something about Oikawa that sets his heart running multi mile marathons at great speeds. He shakes his head. He’s not unfamiliar with these thoughts, he accepted long ago he wouldn’t be able to get rid of them. Naturally, he settles with the only other option he sees. Pretending they aren’t there. It’s not like he could ever act on them, they live too far apart now. Iwaizumi would be a distraction, with the distance between them, and he knows Oikawa like the back of his hand.
He knows Oikawa doesn’t need any distractions. Knows he can’t afford them. So he puts on his signature scowl (Oikawa’s words, not his) and he leans across the centre console to push the door open with a grunt. Oikawa slips into the passenger seat with ease, head turned in the direction of Iwaizumi, but the latter keeps his gaze fixed on the gear shift.
“You okay Iwa-chan?” Oikawa’s hand finds its way to Iwaizumi’s shoulder, where he pokes a few times. Iwaizumi’s head flicks up, eyebrows pinched together. He feels his shoulder tingle from the contact, and he swallows down the lump that forms in his throat.
“Um, yeah. Just thinkin’ about stuff I guess,” Iwaizumi turns to face the road in front, eyes narrowing as he silently hopes he didn’t notice anything off with him, even though he knows Oikawa is just as familiar with him as he is with himself, maybe even more so.
Still, if Oikawa notices something, he doesn’t point it out. Instead, he flashes a teasing smile at him.
“Don’t think too hard,” Oikawa’s sing-songs, teasing, and Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.
He reaches over and flicks him over the head, earning a sharp whine and a pout from Oikawa. “That’s my line, Trashykawa.”
“Mean Iwa-chan,” he hisses, and Iwaizumi grunts smugly back at him.
The click from Oikawa fastening his seatbelt gives Iwaizumi the cue to start the ignition, and he pulls out of the driveway.
It’s two hours into the drive when Iwaizumi begins to rethink the whole idea of a road trip. Being stuck in a car—or rather any small area—with Oikawa is a fast-track path to a migraine, or his sanity being damaged, or both.
He saddles the urge to throw himself out of the moving car as Oikawa drones on about how he’s been looking at Ushiwaka’s instagram posts, and have you seen them? Have you Iwa-chan? He only posts about games and that boyfriend of his. Iwaizumi isn’t sure when he blocks him out, but his attention is brought back when Oikawa lets out a high pitched screech. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, he shoots Oikawa the dirtiest look he can through the rearview mirror.
“Oi Shittykawa, I’m driving,” he hisses, but Oikawa makes no move to apologise and instead huffs at him.
“Driving where, exactly? Your phone is dead,” he retorts, and Iwaizumi almost slams the brakes right there. Thankfully, the road is completely empty aside from their car, so Iwaizumi pulls over to the side before attempting to turn his phone on, and sure enough, it won’t turn on.
“Okay, shit,” he curses, then he turns to Oikawa, who looks back at him expectantly. His lip finds its way between his teeth. “Okay,” he repeats, “What about your phone?”
Oikawa shakes his head. “Won’t work, I don’t have a U.S. data plan.”
“Can you get a charger out of my bag or from yours?” But when Oikawa looks up empty handed after rustling through both of their bags, Iwaizumi feels the familiar jumping-out-of-the-car urge bubble up from within his stomach.
“We both forgot our chargers,” Oikawa points out unhelpfully. As if Iwaizumi didn't figure from the lack of a charger in his hands right now.
“We both forgot our chargers,” Iwaizumi parrots, probably in disbelief. There's no fucking way.
Definitely in disbelief.
Then, he slams his head into the steering wheel. The loud honk from the horn startles Oikawa, and he jumps in his seat with a scream matching the volume of the honk itself. Iwaizumi wearily pulls back from the horn, muttering a sorry and rubbing at where his head hit the wheel.
“Okay,” he hears Oikawa hum, and with newfound exhaustion he forces his gaze over to where the brunette thoughtfully taps at his chin. “We don’t know where we are, neither of our phones are working, but we have fuel in the car, right?”
Iwaizumi’s eyes flick over to the gas meter— he wouldn’t be surprised if it was low, at this point —and his shoulders sag in relief when he sees that the tank is almost full.
“So we just keep driving and stop at the nearest town. They’re bound to have some kind of store there, and if not, we can ask someone for directions,” Oikawa seems excited, likely because he sees it as some sort of adventure. Iwaizumi’s thoughts are confirmed when Oikawa claps his hands together. “It’s just like when we were in primary school, and we used to go on those adventures! Isn’t it fun, Iwa-chan? Just like old times.”
Iwaizumi reaches over and flicks him in the same spot as before. Oikawa doesn’t whine this time, only flashes him a pointed look and a frown.
“There’s not really any other option,” he says. Iwaizumi knows.
“Yeah. Yeah I know.”
They keep straight on the road for as long as they can, before they reach turns, which Oikawa honest-to-god flips a coin to choose, and Iwaizumi pinches the bridge of his nose each time. They’re definitely far off the route to San Francisco, but it’s no matter when they find what looks like a small town. He feels like his blood pressure has reached an impossible high as Oikawa directs him toward a plaza in a voice all-too-cheery for someone who has been stuck in a car for the better part of the evening, that too at the peak of a Californian summer.
Thankfully, there’s a convenience store where they buy two chargers and some blankets, but by the time they turn on their phones and realise they’re at least two hours off of their original route, it’s nearing 10 in the evening. Sure, it might be their fault for traveling so late in the evening, but how were they supposed to know this would happen?
The motel is full, just their luck, so they’re forced to camp out in the car for the night. Oikawa seems almost offended by this, shaking his head. “I’m going to have muscle aches for weeks, and Coach is going to kill me for it,” he complains while Iwaizumi brushes his teeth above a plastic bowl— they packed bowls but not phone chargers, how amusing.
“I’m going to have to tell him that it was Iwa-chan’s fault.” Iwaizumi looks up at this and shoots him a glare as if to say this is equally your fault as it is mine. “If I get kicked off the team, I’m coming to live with you,” Oikawa says firmly. “Not as Iwa-chan’s house-husband, though.”
Iwaizumi ignores his complaints, in lieu of gesturing towards a water bottle. Oikawa hands it to him, and he spits out the rest of the toothpaste into the bowl, rinsing his mouth out with the water, before turning to Oikawa. “You can sleep on the back seats if it bothers you that much. It’ll be more comfortable than the front seat,” he sighs, and Oikawa looks almost— surprised? As if he didn’t think Iwaizumi would offer that.
“Oh,” Oikawa’s voice comes out quiet, and Iwaizumi’s brows furrow in confusion. “You can sleep on the back seats if you want, it’s your car.”
It’s silent for a moment, neither of them speak, before Iwaizumi raises his hand like he’s going to flick him again. Oikawa flinches, but the strike never comes, and instead Iwaizumi retracts his hand.
“Don’t be stupid, you’re the pro volleyball player,” his words feel thick as they leave his mouth, and his tongue feels heavy all of a sudden. “Besides, I can’t have you getting killed by anyone but me,” he says in strained amusement.
Oikawa has a weird look on his face, but he doesn’t comment further. He only nods, and crawls through the gap between the front seats to get to the back. The sound of shuffling bounces off the car walls for a bit, as Oikawa pulls the cheap material of the blanket around him; Iwaizumi does the same, shifting his seat and leaning it far back enough so that he can rest comfortably while still leaving room for Oikawa to get up if he needs to.
It’s quiet then. It’s not completely rare for the pair to sit in complete silence, but uncommon enough that it unsettles Iwaizumi.
And so, in true Iwaizumi fashion, he closes his eyes and pretends he’s back in his dorm and in his bed. Because if he thinks about being in his car, with Oikawa’s even breaths and the occasional sound from outside the only things in the air around him, he’s certain he won't get to sleep at all. His eyes snap open— he’s not sure how long it’s been since he closed them —from the sound of the door opening and closing shut. It takes a minute for his vision to adjust to the dark again, before he sees Oikawa climb onto the trunk of the car from the rearview mirror.
He pulls his seat back up, and pushes his own door open. Oikawa’s head turns as he trudges closer to him. A newfound sense of energy bleeds into his every step, and he keeps his eyes trained on the brunette as he heaves himself onto the trunk next to him. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. It’s only until Oikawa registers that he’s sitting next to him, that the former speaks up.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
Iwaizumi tilts his head slightly. “Yeah.” His voice is rough from disuse. Oikawa frowns. “It’s okay though. Wasn’t sleeping properly anyway.”
Oikawa presses his lips together, then opens them, like he’s about to say something. He closes them again, and turns his gaze to the sky. “You can’t see the stars out here that much,” Oikawa all but whispers, "still, even with all the haze, it's so big and beautiful." Iwaizumi tilts his head up to look at the sky. He’s right. But even then—
“Wildfire season,” Iwaizumi mumbles. His eyes are fixed on the sky. Even without many stars adorning the sky, it is still breathtaking. Looking at the smoke-kissed sky with Oikawa... all at once he feels too many things.
“Oh,” Oikawa says, then, “Did you know I wanted to be an astronomer, even when we went to Kitagawa. Back then, I didn’t see myself playing volleyball professionally because,” he trails off.
“—Of Kageyama,” Iwaizumi finishes for him. “I know.” He does know. Iwaizumi knows Oikawa up-and-down, like the back of his hand. He’d find Oikawa in any crowd, even if he were blindfolded. He knows Oikawa would be able to do the same.
Oikawa looks at him, an unrecognisable emotion flashing in soft brown eyes, and Iwaizumi feels his stomach hollow out.
—even then, it’s not the vastness of the sky that makes it beautiful. It’s who Iwaizumi is looking at it with. It’s Oikawa who makes looking at the sky feel like the most important moment in his life.
His throat feels like it’s closing in and his mouth feels too dry all of a sudden. “I need water,” he says, and his voice sounds gravelly, though not because he really does need water, but it does help his case. Oikawa nods, hopping off the car.
“While you were asking if there were rooms, I saw a vending machine just around the corner.” Oikawa brushes his clothes, even if there’s no dust on them.
“Are we allowed to use it? We’re not guests,” Iwaizumi asks skeptically, but Oikawa just grins.
“Isn’t that the fun part, though.” It’s rhetorical, Oikawa extends his hand out. “You coming?”
Iwaizumi doesn’t make a move to grab it, but he does slide off the car. Oikawa’s hand drops, but his smile doesn’t. He grabs onto Iwaizumi anyway.
Sure enough, as Oikawa pulls him by the arm around the motel to the back, Iwaizumi sees first, the yellow light of the vending machine, then the machine itself. And then he sees Oikawa walk up to the vending machine—sees how the glow of it settles on his skin. He looks star-blessed, and Iwaizumi has to lean against the wall to keep himself on his feet.
Oikawa’s head hangs low as he searches for something to get, Iwaizumi’s heart beats harder as he notices the way the light reflects in his eyes. The former turns to him, and his lips curl around words, but Iwaizumi doesn’t hear them. Can’t hear them over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He must be dying, surely, he is, because it feels as if he’s lost every sense but sight. All he can focus on is Oikawa.
He forgets that his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, forgets that they’re an hour off their original course, almost forgets that they live continents apart. But he can’t, he can’t forget, he’s not supposed to, Iwaizumi will not—
“Yoo-hoo.” He looks up. Oikawa is handing him a bottle of water, holding a bag of trail mix in his other hand. The glow from the vending machine is cast on his back and it makes him stand out against the darkness around him and Iwaizumi feels a pang in his chest as he stares at what he cannot have for the millionth time in his life.
“Iwa-chan, are you okay?”
Iwaizumi presses his lips into a thin line, before nodding slowly. “Fine, just thirsty.” He takes the water bottle, and offers Oikawa a stiff smile. He thanks the clouds in the sky for covering up the moon just enough to dim the moonlight, so Oikawa can’t see the way his face is red.
—Iwaizumi will not be a distraction to Oikawa’s career.
A burning sensation in his eyes greets Iwaizumi the following morning. It takes him a moment to peel his eyes open, and blink sleep from them, but once he does, he registers the afternoon sun offensively glaring into his eyes, Oikawa standing outside, shirtless and scrubbing at himself with Iwaizumi’s t-shirt, and—
Wait, what?
He scrambles to push himself up from his lying position, hitting his elbow on the gear shift. He hisses and spits curses under his breath, before squinting out of the car window to make sure he saw correctly, and much to his incredulity, Oikawa is indeed wiping at himself with one of Iwaizumi’s shirts. He pushes the door open, to which Oikawa squeaks and throws the shirt over his chest in an attempt to cover himself up.
“What are you doing?” He quirks an eyebrow at Oikawa, whose cheeks are furiously reddening with every second that passes.
“I was trying to clean myself, but Iwa-chan has no decency and interrupted me,” he accuses, turning sharp on his heel to open the car door. He pulls out a white tee-shirt with a faded alien print on it, and Iwaizumi sucks in a sharp breath.
He’d gotten Oikawa that shirt the summer before they went their separate ways. That’d been just over a year ago, so why does it look so worn? Does Oikawa wear it often?
Iwaizumi snaps himself out of his own thoughts. (Something he finds himself doing more and more often these days.)
He watches Oikawa tug the shirt over himself, before hitting him across the arm. "Why would you use my shirt to clean yourself? Use one of your own, Assikawa.” He slips back into familiar banter and insults because it’s all he knows how to do when his brain is betraying him with thoughts of running his hands along Oikawa’s arms, kissing him, being able to call Oikawa his.
But he can’t.
He can’t, and he has to keep reminding himself of this, because if he doesn’t, he’ll be the reason that Oikawa gets distracted, and that’s the last thing he wants. It’s a mantra that he repeats every time he needs to. He’s doing this for Oikawa.
“And ruin one of my shirts? I thought you knew me better than that, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa tuts, and throws the wet t-shirt at him. Iwaizumi catches it after a second of stumbling, and glares at him. “Wash yourself, you smell like worn volleyball shoes.”
After Iwaizumi washes up and changes into clean clothes, they set out onto the road, two hours behind schedule and nearing the end of the snack supply that they packed.
Oikawa points out this lack of food exactly fourty-seven minutes into the drive, and Iwaizumi is already back at the point of wanting to jump out of the moving car. The thing with Oikawa is that he is persistent, which is good in cases where when he wants to improve, he will do so, (and Iwaizumi has seen enough proof of this to confirm it ten times over) however it’s possibly one of the worst situations a person can be in to be sitting with a hungry Oikawa, because his persistence turns into annoying nagging.
So they make another detour, going twenty-two minutes off course to a small diner in the middle of a town smaller than the previous.
They’re still in the southern part of the state, so it’s still hot, and Iwaizumi isn’t religious but he honest-to-god prays that there is some kind of air conditioning or at least a fan running in the diner, because the owner of the diner will have to clean up an Iwaizumi shaped puddle and Iwaizumi isn’t quite ready to be reduced to melt just yet. He still has too much to do with his life.
And perhaps there is some mighty being looking over him and hearing his prayers, because Iwaizumi and Oikawa are met with a cold blast of air as they push open the doors of the restaurant. Iwaizumi gratefully welcomes the shield that is the air conditioning against the hot knives of sticky, summer California air that stab into his back with every moment he’s outside.
Oikawa sags against the booth as they sit down, clearly just as relieved as him to be in a cool space. It’s only after Iwaizumi sits down opposite of Oikawa that he checks his phone. It’s almost four, and they’ve still got at least five hours to drive. They’ll reach around eleven at best, twelve or later if there’s traffic when they reach the more densely populated parts of the state.
Oikawa peeks over his menu and looks at him inquisitively. “You’ve got a scowl on your face,” he points out, having seen Iwaizumi staring back at him just as questioningly, “you always do, but you look less,” he sets the menu down and gesticulates dramatically at Iwaizumi’s face, “Iwa-chan-y.”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, scowl deepening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re thinking,” Oikawa concludes, “about how it’s so hot and we still have so much more to drive.” It’s not a question, he says it like he’s confident in his deduction.
“How’d you know that, Shittykawa?” Iwaizumi’s heart pounds, his thoughts from the previous day echoing in his mind. Oikawa is just as familiar with him as he is with himself.
Oikawa’s gaze is fixed on him for a moment, before it snaps over to a waiter. He waves, and flashes his signature esprit grin, before he turns back to Iwaizumi. Through the same grin he used to call over the waiter, he says idly like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You’re easier to read than you think, Iwa-chan. At least, to me.”
And then he turns back to the waiter, who has reached their table, as if he didn’t just set off an eruption of flames in the cavity of Iwaizumi’s chest. As if his words didn’t make Iwaizumi’s heart bleed. He only vaguely registers the sound of Oikawa ordering them food. The rest of their meal is like that too, he only half-hears what Oikawa is saying, only half-responds to his comments. He’s only half-present when Oikawa stands up, and looks at him expectantly.
He stares back.
“Are you coming? It’s almost four-thirty.” And Iwaizumi just nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
And they set out onto the road once more.
Iwaizumi Hajime thinks the world is cruel. He thinks it’s cruel for setting him up to spend time with the person he wants to be with more than anything, but not get to have him the way he wants.
He thinks the world is cruel in the way he has to really focus on driving because Oikawa is humming the song that Iwaizumi had been listening to five days before he left for Irvine for the first time. The song that was playing when Oikawa had called him, and for the second time in his life, he’d heard Oikawa sound completely defeated. The first time having been after losing his ticket to nationals for the final time.
“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi had picked up the phone, usually the former would greet him with loud calls of his name, and he would usually dive into whatever it was he wanted to speak about before giving Iwaizumi time to catch his breath. This time, there was nothing. He was only met with silence.
“Hajime.” Oikawa had sounded broken, and Iwaizumi’s heart had shattered right there. “Is leaving the right choice?” Iwaizumi knew he was asking himself that just as much as he was asking him.
He’d swallowed thickly, before saying, “You’re supposed to be on the court, and I’ve got other plans,” then, “that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Oikawa had been quiet, processing what he’d said, before, " And we won’t stop talking?” It came out a question, soft, and vulnerable, and genuine.
“We won’t stop talking.”
“I can’t lose you, not even for volleyball,” Oikawa had said. Iwaizumi had almost, almost let himself believe that. But he knew volleyball would be greater for Oikawa than he could ever be. He wasn’t in any place to hold him back, he couldn’t do that to him.
“You won’t,” he’d promised.
It feels like an entire lifetime has passed as they finally drive under a sign that adorns ‘San Francisco’ in big blocky lettering. True enough to Iwaizumi’s calculations, they enter the city past quarter 'till twelve, and it crosses the hour as they pull into the hotel parking garage, seventeen minutes later. Oikawa uses his natural charms (again, his words, not Iwaizumi’s) to profusely apologise for missing their check-in time, and as Iwaizumi sets foot into the room he feels his muscles sag, and he shifts himself so that he’s leaning against the entryway desk to hold himself up from falling over.
Oikawa makes a beeline for the bathroom immediately after setting down his things, so Iwaizumi has around thirty minutes to himself. Which means thirty minutes of mulling over him, and hey, he’s not proud of it either, okay.
He thinks back to the stupid alien shirt, and how it looks as if it’s been worn multiple times, more so than what would be considered normal for a shirt that’s only a year old. Maybe he got it dirty, or maybe he used the wrong detergent. Or maybe he wore it because he missed Iwaizumi just as much as he missed— misses Oikawa.
It’s hard to see someone your entire life, and then go to only seeing him through a phone screen, and even then only on days when he’s not too exhausted from classes, and at times where it’s reasonable for both of them to be awake. And it’s even harder when that’s the reason he can’t have Oikawa the way he wants.
Because if by some miracle Oikawa returned his feelings, he would want to spend time with Iwaizumi more. He’s seen Oikawa in enough relationships to know that he loves spending time with his partners, and that would be pretty hard given that they are almost five thousand kilometers apart. That’s four thousand miles. That’s twelve hours of distance by plane, more by any other method.
If Oikawa returned his feelings, he would be upset every time they couldn’t call because it was too late in California or too early in Argentina, and he would be upset if Iwaizumi was too tired or too busy to hear all the stories he had to share.
If Oikawa returned his feelings, Iwaizumi would have to live with not being able to hold him, kiss him, comfort him the way he needs.
And as Oikawa steps out of the bathroom, hair neatly combed, face shining from his skin-care regimen, wearing soft pyjamas that hug his skin perfectly, Iwaizumi comes to the realisation that these kinds of thoughts always arrive at: it would just be a distraction, and Oikawa doesn’t need that.
Iwaizumi is too sober for this.
Wordlessly, he picks himself off the bed. Grabbing one of the two room keys, he makes his way over to his jacket, ignoring the look of confusion on Oikawa’s face.
“Where are you going?”
Iwaizumi almost doesn’t answer. But then he realises he shouldn’t take out his frustration at the world out on Oikawa by ignoring him, so without turning back, he replies, “There’s a twenty-four hour store just across from the hotel,” he explains. “I’m just going to get a drink.” Before Oikawa has a chance to reply, he opens the door and exits in three swift motions. He leaves Oikawa standing, just as confused as when he’d asked, on the other side of the door as he closes it.
He could’ve been nicer about it, but the world seems to have sucked that ability dry from him. He’s not sure he has it in him to be anything other than apathetic to everyone and everything at that moment.
It’s when he sits in the back of his car, a can of beer pressed to his lips— he’s only a little tipsy, and still entirely too close to sober— that he hears loud rapping on the window behind his head, where he’s leaning against the door.
He startles only slightly from his drunken trance, and is coherent in his movements enough to open the door and recognise the figure of Oikawa, bundled in one of his own blankets that he’d brought along, looking angrily down at him.
“When you said you were getting a drink, I didn’t think you meant you were going to get wasted in the back of your car.” His words have an edge to them, and Iwaizumi at least has the dignity to look ashamed. “I waited for almost an hour and a half, Iwaizumi . You could’ve at least called to tell me you were alive and didn’t get kidnapped or something.”
Iwaizumi hangs his head low, suddenly finding the cracks in the pavement beneath the car very interesting. He doesn’t open his mouth to apologise. He’s sober enough to know Oikawa has more to say.
“You were fine yesterday, and you were fine all of today, until now. So what happened?” Oikawa’s tone is accusatory, but also pleading. “Did I do something?”
And that’s when Iwaizumi breaks.
You see, it’s a common law of nature. With any given object or matter that has a capacity, there will always be a limit to be reached. What happens when that limit is met? That varies given what the object or matter is, or is in regards to. A common example of this can be a dam. A dam can be built to take much water pressure, to hold it back, but if more and more water keeps coming, there’s only so much the dam is able to withstand. Eventually, as more water keeps on putting pressure on it, the dam will break.
Similarly, Iwaizumi can really only take so much pressure, until eventually, he’ll snap. And, well, it seems he’s snapped.
The tears come first, and only when he reaches a hand up—fingers brushing against his cheek, as he draws back to see the tips of them wet from teardrops—does he feel a pressure at the bottom of his throat. He chokes on a sob as it comes out, and he looks up at Oikawa, gasping over the sobs that wrench themselves from low in his throat. Oikawa immediately drapes the blanket over him, leans into the car and cradles him close, holding Iwaizumi as he shakes in his embrace. He’s not sure it’s the alcohol, in fact, he thinks that was just what brought his walls down.
This had been a long-time coming, and well, it had to arrive eventually as did all things. He's been tangled in a cruel web of doubt for too long.
I can't keep doing this to myself, Iwaizumi thinks with each cry that he lets out. He’s finally sick of it. But it's not just about him, it's never been easy enough to just say.
“I’m fine,” he hisses through gritted teeth, but it’s not true. Oikawa knows it too.
“You’re not,” he whispers, gentle, into his hair. “You’re not, and that’s okay. I’m here, and you don’t have to tell me anything right now, but I’m—”
Tear-filled green eyes meet tender brown, and in that fraction of a second, Iwaizumi’s decision has been made.
“I love you,” he gasps out.
It’s like crossing a thin glass bridge, one that breaks behind him with every step. There’s no going back, the bridge is broken behind him.
“I love you,” he repeats, because it lifts a weight off his shoulders, “I love you,” again, “I love you,” and again. “Tooru,” he says, and because he’s already given up any hope of hiding the real meaning of his words, ‘cause he’s given up hope on brushing them off as a drunken mistake, “I’m in love with you.” He’s not sure when his sobs become pitiful giggles, but he finds himself staring at Oikawa with a sad smile on his face. “Isn’t that just the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”
What Iwaizumi expects is for Oikawa to frown. Not to push him away, not to immediately throw away their years of friendship, but to let him down gently. What he doesn’t expect is for the corner of Oikawa’s mouth to tremble. Once, twice, and then quirk up, into a full grin.
“You mean it?” Oikawa’s voice is just as shaky as Iwaizumi feels. His heart rate picks up as Oikawa leans in closer. “Iwa— Hajime, I need you to tell me, do you really mean it?”
And because he’s completely dumbfounded to respond any other way, Iwaizumi responds, “Yeah,” bluntly. Honestly. Because he does. He’s more sure of it than anything else in the world. He knows he’s in love with Oikawa like he knows he needs oxygen to breathe, like he knows he needs food and water to survive.
He’s known it as long as he’s known how to hit a volleyball just the right way to sync with Oikawa’s sets—he’s known it longer than he’s known the streets of Irvine, California. He knew it before he knew he had to let Oikawa chase after his dreams, even if it meant him being a thousand kilometers away from him, and he’s one-hundred percent sure of it even now, in his half drunken stupor.
Iwaizumi Hajime has been sure of it, sure of being in love with Oikawa, since his first year of high school, probably.
The first tear falls down Oikawa’s face, as his gaze searches over Iwaizumi. He’s not sure what the former is looking for. “Tooru?” He whispers, leaning into his shoulder.
“You call me an idiot,” Oikawa starts, “but you’ve been in love with me since high school, and you. Didn’t. Tell. Me.” He punctuates each word with a light punch on Iwaizumi’s arm. He must’ve said that bit out loud.
“Sorry,” he says dumbly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Oikawa’s sniffles are followed by short gasps for air through his sobs.
“You’re the idiot. Idiotzumi ,” he chides, but Iwaizumi can feel him smiling into his hair. “‘Cos I’ve been in love with you too, you know. You didn’t even notice, but I’ve been in love with you since high school too, probably before then.” And then, because Oikawa wants to win the competition that isn’t even there, or maybe because it’s true, “Definitely even before then.”
“Yeah right,” Iwaizumi croaks out. And his entire body feels light, like he’s floating. And he desperately hopes that if this is some kind of sick dream, that he doesn’t wake up from it.
“It’s not a dream,” Oikawa says, pulling back quickly, now holding his face between his hands. He must’ve said that out loud too. “It’s not a dream, I promise, it really isn’t,” he scrambles to find words, “I don’t know— I,” he takes a deep breath, “Can I kiss you?”
And if everything else had failed, that definitely knocks the breath out of Iwaizumi. His breath hitches in his throat, and he struggles to find air from his lungs as he searches for any inclination in Oikawa that this is a joke. But he knows Oikawa. He knows he wouldn’t joke about something like this, not even with Iwaizumi.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, then louder, just in case Oikawa didn’t hear. “Yes, please.” With urgency, “Please do,” Iwaizumi whispers, low in his throat, and Oikawa doesn't hesitate anymore.
Iwaizumi meets him halfway as Oikawa leaned forward to close the gap between them, a hand falling to the seat so he can crawl onto Oikawa’s lap, the urge to be as close to him winning over his every movement. He cups Oikawa’s face with a fierce passion. It’s slow at first, sweet and shy, but they’ve waited too long for it to be just that. Desperate fingers weave their way into Oikawa’s hair, and Iwaizumi pulls on it lightly, heart beating wildly at the way Oikawa gasps into his mouth. Iwaizumi cranes his neck to the side, further into Oikawa’s hand, allowing him access to his neck, and Oikawa happily obeys, leaving a trail of kisses from the corner of his mouth, down to his neck, where he bites gently.
“Iwa-chan,” he whispers against Iwaizumi’s mouth between kisses. “Hajime,” pressing kisses behind his ear, “wanted to kiss you for so long,” down his neck. “I love you,” his voice is husky against the curve of Iwaizumi’s collarbone. Iwaizumi breathes heavily, putty in Oikawa’s grasp.
“I love you too.” He kisses him deeply, pulling back to whisper again, “I love you.”
He tilts his head back down, catching Oikawa’s mouth in his own for a final kiss before he breaks for air. Through half lidded eyes he can see Oikawa, rosy cheeked and wide eyed staring back at him. The sound of small gasps for air from pink-kissed lips can be heard, matched only by the sound of Iwaizumi’s own breaths. His words come out airy, dancing light on his tongue. “What are you thinking about?” Because he doesn’t know what else to say.
Oikawa doesn’t miss a beat in replying, “You,” then, “Why didn't I do that sooner.”
And, really, cheers to that, because Iwaizumi feels the same.
“Tell me next time. When something like this is weighing on your mind— and don’t shut me out when it gets too much. That’s not fair,” Oikawa keeps his gaze steady on Iwaizumi, who nods.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Iwaizumi whispers, “I won’t keep things like this from you again, I promise.”
As they lay on the bed, curled against one another, a few minutes later, Iwaizumi can’t help but feel the same pit of anxiety low in his core.
“Are we going to be okay?” he whispers, because he’s tired of hiding things from Oikawa, he doesn’t need to anymore.
“Hm?” Oikawa hums against his shoulder.
“When you go back. We’ll be miles apart. I don’t,” he swallows down the lump in his throat that arises, “I don’t want to distract you from anything. You're you. Destined to shine and do amazing things.” he pauses for air. "What If I'm just getting in the way of that?"
He shivers as Oikawa laughs against him, breath hot against his skin. His eyebrows furrow upon feeling the other man's soft mirth in response to his worries.
“You and I are together now, aren’t we?”
Iwaizumi nods slowly.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” Oikawa echoes Iwaizumi’s own words from all those years ago, and Iwaizumi feels his stomach churn with fierce emotion. “We’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out,” he mutters a promise to talk about this more in the morning into Iwaizumi’s ear. "You never distracted me back then. You made, no, you make me better, Hajime." He shudders in Oikawa's embrace, his whole body burning at that.
God, Tooru will be the death of me, he thinks, and then, but he's like the air I breathe to live. The thought alone feels heavier in his throat, in his mind, everywhere— more than that of a love confession. Familiar anxiety creeps up his veins. “I’m not going to lose you?” Iwaizumi whispers— he just needs this one confirmation. “No matter what happens, I can’t. I can’t lose you.”
Oikawa laughs softly, and just as Iwaizumi had said five days before they parted ways, he whispers the promise into the air to seal it.
“You won’t.”