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It’s no surprise that the first person they call to save your drunk ass is Iwaizumi Hajime.
Because he owns the unit, sure, but besides that, everyone knows that the best caretaker to a walking - well, kneeling - hammered disaster is the best friend.
You should be thankful they know that much, but they have no idea how mean Hajime can be when it comes to you. He’ll drill his fist on your crown while calling you shit like you’re one of the bros. You wonder if he often did this to Oikawa Tooru back in high school.
“I - totally don’t need the headlock right now,” you hold up your palm as you belch into his poor tub, unable to catch his squint as he shuts the door and staggers toward you, noise and music muffled behind him.
“You’re a piece of shit,” he spits out.
You’re thankful anyway that he bunches your hair up instead of smacking your head (you plan to puke all over his shirt if he does), his free hand emptying the contents of your wine glass into the tub and placing it above the toilet seat.
“You’re a piece o’ shit,” you bark back, rising up only to land on your butt.
“No seriously, look at you.”
“Hajime, this dress is so fuckin’ tight.”
“I warned you not to buy the smaller size -”
“But I wanna look like an hourglass -”
“Kenji left thirty minutes ago. With Alisa from Physio.”
“Well, fuck.”
Hajime wipes your mouth with toilet paper and makes you down a glass of water, ignoring your complaint of why it tastes like water and not margarita.
For god knows how long you lean on the edge of the tub spewing nonsense, but you’re thankful he isn’t telling you to shut up. You know he won’t, for while he is a mean caretaker, Hajime is a patient caretaker. He listens to you with an expression between bored and grumpy, stroking your back lest you puke more stuff out.
All while tipsy himself— you notice because his cheeks and neck turn into a certain shade of red after a number of shots.
“Hey, Hajime? Is that a tattoo?” you cut yourself mid-ramble as you crawl onto his lap, tugging the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. “Hm, just dirt. Or hickey?”
“That’s confetti. Dumbass.” He holds your wrist while you flick the small stripe off of his clavicle, grimacing.
You think you know Hajime, yet you look up and gawk as you find yourself leveling with his lips. Who knows they could actually gloss so lusciously under yellow lights? His skin is flawless too, compared to yours as you thumb his cheeks, curious of the brand of cream he uses. You never take him for a skincare enthusiast.
“Hey Hajime? You’re very pretty.”
“Huh.” Hajime nods in confusion, placing both hands on your waist to steady you. “Thanks but, mirror’s the other way.”
“No but really, you’re- wait.” He raises a brow. “Did you- did you just compliment me?”
“What, I can’t?”
“N-No, but- wow?”
He snorts. “A dumbass though. So they kinda cancel out.”
You’re so so ready to vomit on his chest, but your stomach is empty. Shame. You pull his cheeks instead. “Hey, the fuck-”
You wheeze at your own mischief that you lose balance, hands grasping his shoulders for support. “Hajime, hold me properly will you!”
“I am, fuck,” his palms slide down to grip your hips, firm. “ I am. ‘m dizzy. Stop squirming. Be good.”
You think you know Hajime, angry grumpy Hajime, but the bat of his dark lashes as he watches you giggle before tapering off to awkward silence, the Adam’s apple that protrudes in time with his measured blinks, the brows that smoothen the longer you hold his gaze, throw you off guard.
You witness all these pretty little details for the first time for you’d never looked - really looked - at him; you were in no position to.
“Hajime?” Something about the way his eyes dilate a bit when you say his name, flitting down your lips and back up, makes you think he’s on the same page. “I, uh—”
“Be good,” he repeats, lower this time.
His nose slopes perfectly it’s unfair. Your subconscious tells you something, something like ruin it, so you lean in to poke his nose with your own, nudging, a weak attempt to taunt.
“Mm, how good?”
The words slip out before you really know what you’re saying. Abashed, your head clears up enough to draw back, fumbling for an excuse. Shit, that’s awkward. He is so gonna whack my forehead.
And it’s funny because you think you know Hajime, you think, but your heart jackhammers in your ribs when he remains quiet, cracks of resilience manifesting in the slow, insistent pull of your hips past his knees. He’s quiet but he’s almost squeezing you, warm press of palm bleeding through the fabric. You let out a shaky breath as you absently trace his shoulders up his neck, but then he calls your name and the next thing you know—
You’re sprawled on his bathroom floor in your rumpled A-line dress, dizzy and groaning and kissing him.
Kissing your closest guy friend of fourteen months, kissing him in your inebriated state but despite yourself you know this is Hajime. Iwaizumi Hajime, nineteen, college sophomore, your closest course mate, study buddy, best friend— the same man who’s fumbling through your dress while kissing you as fucking deeply as you're kissing him.
“What are we doing,” he croaks when your lips separate for a millisecond, his head tipping against the wall without breaking eye contact as he drags you further up his thighs.
“I think we’re making out,” you state dazedly, earning a throaty chuckle from him.
Pride wells in your chest - you’re making angry grumpy Hajime laugh; fuck, perhaps you’re dreaming. It’s getting hard to breathe.
You slide one hand to his nape and kiss the corner of his lips, grinding your ass on top of him while clinging to his shoulders. Shit, you need to breathe. “ ‘s this good enough?”
“I—” You think you know everything about hajime until you hear him groan like that, low and broken in your mouth and something coils within you. “Yeah.”
Breathe.
He leaves your lips to trail kisses up your jaw, hands splaying up and down your spine. He pauses against your ear, whispers, “Stay still.”
You think you know everything about Hajime until you let him handle you. It’s a literal breath of fresh air, really— your waistline loosening up, chill wind breezing through skin making every fine hair in your body rise as you realize you are halfway freed from the shackles of your tight dress. He lets out a tiny laugh as your back arches under the graze of his fingers, smirking against your lips, “You’re welcome.”
“Fuck you, Hajime,” and fuck him indeed, making you want him as badly as you know him.
But perhaps you do not know everything about Hajime yet, because you roll your hips with more intent and under you he grows rock hard, and though you’re not the best at estimating, that must be a five and a half inc—
A loud crash echoes in the other room, followed by collective curses and music stopping.
Your hips halt, and Hajime’s head snaps to the door. Both of you still, before a hand leaves your side to run over his face. “I swear if that’s my goddamn porcelain—”
If you weren’t so hyperaware of all parts of Hajime meshed with yours, you would have missed the cold drag of zipper up your skin in favor of dwelling on the burn in your chest over the abrupt interruption of - whatever you’re doing to him.
It’s all a blur, being hoisted up by the forearm from where you lay on the floor. Remnants of alcohol in your system strike again, your knees wobbling under your weight, and your waistline is tight once more, and god maybe the past ten minutes was nothing but a figment of your drunk fantasy?
“Haji—” Before you finish, he knocks his forehead against yours, hands smoothening your dress.
“Stay after the party? I’ll lend you a shirt.”
Your head swirls, his breath hot on your mouth, hand comfortable on your waist. You think you know Hajime, until he speaks this soft and holds you like this and kisses you while you’re both drunk. A meek nod is all you can manage.
He nudges your nose, smiles. "Great. No more drinks. Rest in my room.”
He drags you behind him, index fingers entwined, unclasping only when the door swings open and Hajime cracks his knuckles, signature scowl back like it hadn’t left. “So who the fuck am I gonna kick out—”
The recurring bass and laughter and accusations are deaf to you as you lean against the doorframe, your full attention on the back of Hajime’s head as he wrestles a common acquaintance who seems apologetic for something. You don’t know. All that you know is your hands still shake, heart still pounds, skin still scalds on places he’d touched.
Everyone in the room knows you and Hajime are the closest of friends. They know everything but one— that there’s still a lot about Hajime they think you know but don’t, all but awaiting discovery.
And as your eyes meet in the middle of the crowd - silent and loaded and telling - that you realize, everything about Iwaizumi Hajime, nineteen, college sophomore, your course mate, best friend, study buddy, and maybe, possibly, more—
You’re absolutely dying to know.