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Early mornings in winter are the worst.
Iwaizumi’s never been much of a morning person to begin with, slow to rise and even slower to make sense of the sights gradually filtering into his vision. His skin feels clammy against his sheets; his pillow’s smushed against the back of his head, bent presumably in half against his neck. College hasn’t made things any easier, either - late nights and irregular hours only served to draw the waking process out even further. At least, that’s what Iwaizumi tells himself when he falls asleep close to dawn alone, fingers clenched around his phone because he’s nodded off before he could hang up again, breaths matching subconsciously to the huff of Oikawa’s exhales on the other end of the line as exhaustion begins to set in. Or worse, falling asleep at his desk or leaning against the couch, eyes slipping shut before the phone can ring. Mornings after those nights are particularly trying, Iwaizumi’s breaths coming too fast and too shallow, the shape of an unsaid goodnight still clinging to every other word that falls from his lips.
(Miles apart, and he still hasn’t shaken the habit of matching the other step for step, breath for breath, each rise and fall synchronised to habitual, well-practised perfection.)
Blinking blearily, Iwaizumi wriggles an arm out from the blankets, only half-wrenching the pillow from his face, just enough to make out the 5:45 glinting green against the dimly lit room. He immediately groans. It’s too goddamn early to face anything just yet, and the notion of prolonged consciousness on his first day off from classes and volleyball in weeks is one he’s not willing to entertain until the sun’s at least well and truly up in the sky. Yet here he is - eyes open and brain disappointingly awake - and there the sun isn’t, nothing drifting in past the drawn blinds but early-morning chill. Iwaizumi groans, mashes the pillow back into his face, wants nothing more than to block everything out with pillows covering the front and back of his face until his body remembers how to fall back asleep, and —
— Iwaizumi only has one pillow. He hadn’t packed an extra when he first moved into the dormitory, several months ago now. With sleeping habits as atrocious as his - and a matching morning temperament, to boot - he hadn’t seen the point. A few moments pass in thoughtful stupor, sleep slipping further and further from reach as he ponders. The pillow against his face is soft but lumpy, residual warmth fading fast from when he’d first woken up. So, normal. But the pillow against his neck - which Iwaizumi’d initially presumed had gotten bent at some absurd angle throughout the night - is much less soft, and decidedly less lumpy. Pushing his head back against it, Iwaizumi discovers that it’s also rather feathery, ruffling slightly even after he stopped moving, breaths puffing warm and slow against his neck, mumbling incoherently between exhales. Iwaizumi blinks.
It’s around this time he also registers the abnormal state of the rest of his bed. Sure, he tends to get all tangled up in blankets somewhere between dreaming and waking, but never to the point that he couldn’t pull a pillow away from his face. Looking down, he comes to the conclusion that this is probably because most mornings, his blankets don’t have arms wrapped snugly around his middle, grabby hands bunching the sheets around his torso, leaving his toes almost numb with cold. The faded green, alien-patterned pyjama pants tangling with his own are also out of the ordinary.
Very, conspicuously not normal.
A grin starts to work its way across his face, stretching from the upturned corners of his lips as he turns around, taking care not to move as much as possible. Staring down at one close-eyed, sleep-ruffled Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi’s fairly certain he could power his apartment through the sheer mega-wattage of his smile alone. The arms around him tighten ever so slightly before loosening, just enough to be noticeable, as Oikawa smacks his lips sleepily, worming his way even closer against Iwaizumi.
Sunlight starts to creep slowly through the blinds, hardwood floors shot through with slits of sunrise red and pale, wintry blue, but Iwaizumi barely notices, focused entirely on the figure curled comfortably against him. Brushes a finger lightly alone Oikawa’s cheekbone, laughs quietly as Oikawa leans further into the touch.
Hides the rest of his laughter against the feathery fluff of Oikawa’s hair as he draws his hand away, the latter twisting his head this way and that in search of the missing touch. Inhales, breathing in the long absent but still achingly familiar mix of fruity moisturiser and kid’s bubblegum-scented shampoo. Settling an arm loosely around Oikawa’s waist, Iwaizumi tangles their legs together even more as his other hand traces gentle patterns along Oikawa’s spine. Exhales as Oikawa’s back arches, a tell-tale sign that the other’s already awake, but Iwaizumi doesn’t call him out on it.
Instead, he feathers kisses along Oikawa’s face; trailing his lips from his hairline to his eyelids, the smooth crook of his nose to the angular set of his jaw, nuzzles against his neck before finally settling his face against Oikawa’s collarbone. The other’s been exceptionally well-behaved so far; keeping up the charade through Iwaizumi’s cuddly onslaught.
It’s only when he slips a hand under Oikawa’s shirt that the other’s breath hitches. Iwaizumi slides cold fingers up Oikawa’s warm ribs, leg thrown casually over his best friend/boyfriend’s thigh so they’re pressed hip-to-hip as he shapes letters against Oikawa’s ribcage.
T - o - o - r —
“Not fair, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines softly, shivering slightly at the cold touch, eyes still clenched shut.
— u.
Which Iwaizumi personally thinks isn’t very fair either, so he pushes Oikawa’s shirt up past his stomach, gaze glued to Oikawa’s face as he leans in closer. Blows a raspberry against his abdomen, before pushing himself almost off the bed after in his haste to dodge the other’s kick.
Oikawa’s eyes fly open, mouth slack-jawed as he shoots Iwaizumi a look equal parts betrayal and disappointed dismay. Iwaizumi thinks his eyes look beautiful like that; dark brown irises lit faintly in morning glow. “Not. Fair. Iwa-chaaaan,” Oikawa bites out, legs flailing even more, and Iwaizumi begins to laugh in earnest, snorts slipping through the hands he’d oh-so-strategically positioned against his mouth. “Couldn’t, help it” he manages in-between sniggers, “you looked like a strangled chicken, like I’d just ruffled all your feathers at once.”
Oikawa’s eyes widen even further at that, mouth open in only half-joking horror, and wow have his teeth always been that white first thing in the morning…? Iwaizumi blinks, and Oikawa’s feet take aim at his chest in one last bout of mock anger, finally sending Iwaizumi off the bed and into a blanket-covered blob on the floor.
Iwaizumi stops laughing.
“Sorry, Iwa-chan!!” Oikawa calls back from the bed, head dangling over the edge, an absolutely shitty, smug grin on his face as he peers back at Iwaizumi. And Iwaizumi wants to get back at him for it, the bed-hogging bastard, just jump up and noogie the smirk off his face till he’s begging for mercy, but. But it’s been so long since he’s seen Oikawa grin like that, been so long since he’s seen Oikawa face-to-face at all, that Iwaizumi finds he can’t muster near enough anger to strike back at all. So he doesn’t, flops back against the floor completely instead, just. Drinks it in, the sight of Oikawa lounged on his bed like it’s his own, some terrible punchline probably about to escape his mouth to add further insult to Iwaizumi’s supposed injury. Like it’s a game, and they’re eight years old again, wrestling each other off the bed and falling asleep beneath glow-in-the-dark stars.
Iwaizumi thinks he’s probably been losing this game to Oikawa since they were eight years old, honestly. Ten years down the track and it’s still the same old, same old; a recurring dream Iwaizumi’s still trying to wake up from.
(He doesn’t think he’s ever really tried to wake up from this, couldn’t ever foresee a circumstance where he’d want to.)
“…Iwa-chan?”
Oikawa’s quieter now, joking gaze bleeding seamlessly into concern, and Iwaizumi takes it back, takes it all back, Oikawa’s eyes look best like this, attention focused entirely on Iwaizumi.
Oikawa looks best full stop, far and away the best thing Iwaizumi’s seen this early in the morning in a long time, in ever.
“God, I missed you,” Iwaizumi whispers, and his voice didn’t just crack, it didn’t. “Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes, gaze softening as he reaches out to pull Iwaizumi back onto the bed. The blankets are still hovering somewhere on the floor, but Iwaizumi doesn’t care. He should probably get the heating going, too, because Oikawa hates being cold and Iwaizumi’s starting to get goose bumps. He does none of these things, instead wrapping his arms around the other’s neck as he leans on top of Oikawa, feels Oikawa circle his arms against Iwaizumi in return; legs naturally twining together, a tangle of cold toes and tender looks. How, he tries to say, but he doesn’t get any further than shaping the words in his mouth because Oikawa’s mouth is on his and oh, whispered goodnights and promises to visit have nothing on this.
Not even close.
“I couldn’t get to sleep last night,” Oikawa murmurs between kisses, “so I took the train here first thing in the morning. You still keep a spare key under the mat.” Iwaizumi’s never been this happy about Oikawa’s lack of impulse control before. And then he remembers.
“Wait. In your pyjamas?” Oikawa wrinkles his nose. It’s terribly endearing, and Iwaizumi’s missed this more than he can say. “ I missed you…” Oikawa trails off, cheeks tinted pink, but Iwaizumi doesn’t think it’s from the cold. All he says in return, though, is “you’re gonna catch a cold, wearing just that. I should go turn on the heating.”
The blush on his face doesn’t fade, but Oikawa’s smiling now, too. “Always such a worrywart, Iwa-chan,” and Iwaizumi doesn’t have anything to say to that, just mumbles “mm” as Oikawa curls himself even closer to Iwaizumi, like he’s trying to slip under his skin. He already has, but that’s got nothing to do with Oikawa’s closeness, and everything to do with the way Iwaizumi can feel Oikawa breathing against his skin. Slow and steady.
He’s fallen back asleep, and Iwaizumi wonders just how true Oikawa’s story about not sleeping at all last night really was. He doesn’t wonder for long, though, because it’s morning and cold but sleep’s finally starting to pull at the edges of his consciousness again, so he lets it.
Iwaizumi starts his morning with cold toes and warm breath, falling back into sleep before he got round to turning on the heater. And that should probably bother him, he’s not much of a morning person after all, but he doesn’t really mind.
Early mornings in winter aren’t so bad, sometimes.