Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh, you are so screwed. 

So the story goes a little something like this: you’re an embarrassing person. You’re also easily embarrassed. The magnum opus of the cataclysmic reaction of these two traits occurred early on in the peak embarrassment period of your life: puberty. 

You were fifteen, and madly in love with Iwaizumi Hajime. 

In your defense, everyone had a crush on Iwaizumi Hajime in high school. No fifteen-year-old looked like that, no fifteen-year-old was such a genuinely nice guy, and no fifteen-year-old was quite as cool as Iwaizumi was back then. He was a volleyball star, defended girls when the other guys’ locker-room talk got a bit too out of hand, and he had arms like that. 

Now, not in your defense is this: Iwaizumi Hajime knew just how sickeningly huge your crush was. 

It wasn’t your fault. 

Okay, it totally was. There is no defense for this. You’d been on cleaning duty early in the morning with one of your close friends, laughing as loud as you wanted because it was an hour before class and no sane person came to school this early anyway. She’d been teasing you about acting stupid in front of the volleyball club after school yesterday, and you were getting so flustered that you couldn’t quite control yourself, and then you said this: 

“Well, it’s not my fault that I’m in love with Iwaizumi!”

Behind you, the sound of the door swinging open. In front of you, your friend’s eyes widening to the size of sauceplates. Even your idiotic teenage brain could put two and two together as you slowly turned around, cheeks a flaming crimson. 

It was him. 

Iwaizumi Hajime. 

And the only thing you could think was this: he looked really handsome coming fresh from volleyball practice. 

Then… well, you don’t really remember. It’s like you blacked out on the spot, only you didn’t, because you definitely stammered something unintelligible before Iwaizumi hastily dropped his bag at his desk without saying a word and rushed off to who knows where. The two of you weren’t even really friends then. So in your utter teenage shame, you didn’t speak a single word to him for the rest of the year, and neither did he seek you out. 

Thankfully, the two of you were never paired for school projects, and it seemed that that moment of stupidity was being balanced out by the sheer luck you had to not be in the same class as him for the next two years. Gradually, as the years went by and numbed you to the shame, it became merely a funny story that you told close friends. The whole event was buried solidly in past tense, another stupid thing you did to be relinquished to the consequenceless landfill of awkward teenage years. 

You would never have to see Iwaizumi Hajime again. 

Except—

[9.23am] Orientation Committee Representative: Welcome to the mentor-mentee programme! We’re glad to work with you in welcoming the new students. 

Your mentee is IWAIZUMI HAJIME. 

When you get the message in the middle of your morning lecture, you read it once. Then again. Then you resist the urge to hurl your phone across the room and scream. 

This truly is a crisis.

You and your roommate Mila may have been from opposite ends of the world, but the two of you have such a strong shared penchant for the worst, most embarrassing situations that you drew together inexplicably—orbiting around each other through the gravitational pull of endless high school stories and Tuesday ramen feasts. 

The Iwaizumi story was the bread and butter of your late-night jokes, and in return, she told you about the horrible day she discovered one of her classmates was writing romance fanfiction about the both of them. You’ve shared with her the experience of catching your form teacher drinking underneath the library table at 10am in school, and she confessed that she once threw a basketball at her ex-boyfriend’s head upon discovering him cheating on her in front of the whole school, and missed. The two of you are problem partners, catastrophe companions, crisis comrades. 

Which is why, when you get back home that night, you know you and Mila are having an emergency meeting. 

“Mila!” you cry, flopping onto the bed. “You know how we got our mentor-mentee pairings today? Guess who my mentee is.” 

Your roommate, Mila, raises an eyebrow at you as she leafs through her magazine. “Okay, okay. Is it the super scary dude who everyone says is in a gang?” 

“Worse.” 

“Oh, um, is it the really bitchy first-year that flipped off one of the seniors?” 

“Nope,” you tell her. “Worse. Worse, worse, worse. It’s freaking Iwaizumi Hajime.” 

A deadly silence falls over the room. 

“No,” she whispers, magazine falling from her limp fingers. “The boy from back home? Your ‘I’m in love with Iwa-zumi-something’ boy?” 

“Yes! He must’ve taken a gap year or something! I didn’t even know he was applying!” You babble, burying your face in your hands. “What do I do?” 

Mila stands up, walking over to your bed with a pep in her step. She grabs your shoulders, and you look up at her, slightly dazed, hands falling to your mattress. There’s a serious look aflame in her dark eyes. 

“Listen to me,” she tells you, holding out a finger. “Look at you now. You are gorgeous, clever, and super attractive. You will go and meet this Iwaizu—yeah, whatever his name is—with nothing but sheer confidence brimming in your body. I’ll bet you, like, fifty dollars, that you’re ten times hotter than he is now.” 

In the midst of your despair, even that gets you to choke out a laugh. “That’s funny, Mila.” 

She shakes your shoulders slightly, and you straighten up. “It’s not funny,” she says, a searing determination in her eyes. “It’s true.” 

“Mila, you’ve never even seen this guy,” you tell her. “Hang on, let me, uh…” 

You pull up Oikawa’s instagram page, because there’s no way Iwaizumi’s is public, find a post of the volleyball team, and then shove your phone right below Mila’s nose. 

There’s a brief silence. 

She looks at you, eyebrows raised slightly. “Okay, well.” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

She inhales, chancing another glance back at the phone. “Okay, um, maybe not ten times as hot, but I’d still put my money on twice as hot.” 

You groan, flopping back on the mattress. 

“Hey, and he’s really hot! That’s a huge compliment, you know.” 

You let out another unladylike yell into your pillow. Mila laughs and lies back on the mattress next to you. 

“Listen, girl,” she tells you, switching back to that seriousness from earlier so sharply it just about gives you whiplash. “You are seriously cool now, okay. You’re not the fifteen-year-old girl who accidentally spilled her crush to, um, her crush’s face. You’re super hot and super intelligent and super witty, and boys are lining up around the corner to date you! Why you haven’t dated is beyond me—oh. Oh my gosh.” 

“Yeah.” A deep, shameful sigh slips past your lips as you turn to face her.

“You still like him!” She cries. 

“I do,” You confess, clapping your hands over your eyes. “He was just cool all throughout high school, okay! I admired him from afar, and the boys at this school suck!” 

“Yeah, true.” Mila sighs, before returning to her businesslike tone. “But my point still stands! You’re super attractive now, and it’s like this opportunity is being dropped on you to reverse the situation, so what are we gonna do?” 

You inhale deeply, and then exhale, staring at where the cracks have run over your whitewashed ceiling. There’s only one right thing to do. 

“I’m just gonna come clean and address it, do my best to not make him uncomfortable, and be the best mentor this university has seen yet!” 

“No!” 

“Yes!” you yell in return. “Mila, Iwaizumi is a really nice dude. Like, an actually nice guy. Plus, I’m supposed to be his university mentor! There has to be some kind of moral issue with that!” 

“Ughhhh, fine. But don’t let yourself forget—twice as hot.” Mila wiggles two fingers, which eventually come upon your forehead to give you a little nudge. “Don’t you dare lose confidence. You’re gonna go out there and be confident and be the coolest mentor around, alright!” 

“Yeah!” You exclaim, and the two of you share a high five, before falling helpless to laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. 

Then Mila nudges your shoulder, a playful smile on her face. “Will you at least let me decide what you’re gonna wear when you meet him, though?” 

Oh, Iwaizumi is so screwed. 

So the story goes something a little like this: when he came to the States for university, and he heard that the university usually tries to pair students up with mentors of similar nationality to ease the adjustment, he thought he would be relieved. He thought this was a good thing. 

Until he saw your name there.

Now, he knew he had no real reason to be nervous. You had a pretty good reputation back during Seijoh days, and you’d never given him any real trouble before. But to a fifteen-year-old Iwaizumi Hajime, that confession—the first one he’d ever received—was really quite unforgettable. 

After that day, he’d dropped everything and dodged confrontation, making it his personal mission to avoid you as much as possible… until he figured out that you were avoiding him too. So, fine. You never harassed him or tried to coerce him into a relationship with you, but his personal experience with the confessions he received after yours had made him wary. 

Really, all things considered, the incident with you was innocent, even naive. But he’s seen enough of Oikawa’s struggles with obsessive stalkers to know that it’s not a concern to write off entirely. What if you were crazy? What if you were still bitter about the rejection? Would he be able to survive with a batshit insane mentor? 

But the first session rolled around, Iwaizumi entered the little coffee shop where the two of you had planned to meet with rather sweaty palms… and he found you nothing but lovely. 

Lovely in demeanour and lovely in… 

Well, you had grown up well. Really well. Iwaizumi tries to pride himself on not being one of those shallow, superficial guys, but he, quite literally, couldn’t ignore what was sitting right in front of him. In the first three sessions alone, the two of you had been interrupted five times by various guys you seemed to recognise from lectures and workshops and clubs. And each time it happened, Iwaizumi could easily identify the tell-tale look in their eyes that you seemed oblivious to, but ones which meaning were painfully obvious to him. 

On the first day, you were barely past greeting Iwaizumi when a male classmate came by, smiling a little too fondly at you and asking you what drink you’d ordered because it looks really good, and if you had the time, maybe you could go out with him and help him do your secret order and the two of you could hang out? 

To which you smiled at him and said, “Huh? Oh, it’s just a matcha latte. Here, take mine! I haven’t even touched it yet; I’ll just order another.” 

Iwaizumi watched as the guy’s face fell before he declined and politely excused himself. Ouch, he thought. He pities the boys who come by and try to pick you up; it’s really, really difficult, but at the same time, he gets it. 

You’re pretty, but you’re also lovely in disposition, with a poised sort of confidence and an easy sense of humour. You cracked jokes with him, asked him about home, hyped up his interest in sports science in ways acquaintances back home never did. For a while, Iwaizumi even sort of forgot what happened back in first year, and he wondered if the two of you would just sweep it under the rug when suddenly, the conversation fell to a meaningful hush, and you flushed. 

“Um, Iwaizumi,” you said, smiling sort of shyly. “I just wanted to tell you that… Well, this is really embarrassing for me, but do you remember what happened in the first year of high school? When we were in the same class?” 

The sudden switch in your demeanour, and your bringing up of the incident, knocks him for six. Slowly, Iwaizumi nods. “Yeah… I remember.” 

“Ah,” you say, and your cheeks turn a little pink. “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m, um, really sorry about back then. It was silly of me, considering we weren’t even close. I just wanted to reassure you that that’s all in the past, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me or think that I’m hitting on you. You also don’t have to step on eggshells around me, I promise I’m not fifteen still and I won’t read into everything you do thinking you have a crush on me back.” 

Iwaizumi paused, slightly surprised. He watched as you glanced out the window, clearly still a little embarrassed, before turning back to him with another sheepish smile. 

“Of course,” he assured, waving his hand dismissively. “I didn’t think that at all. Actually, it’s been really nice talking to you. Feels like we’ve been friends for a while.” 

Your eyes widen in relief. “Oh, really? Phew! Okay, now that mortifying ordeal is out of the way, did you bring your map?” 

Iwaizumi reached into his bag and produced a folded sheet of paper. You leaned in, whispering almost conspiratorially, and produced a pen from your own bag. “Now listen as I teach you the most important thing about this school.” 

Iwaizumi raised his eyebrows. You two were really quite close like this, bent over that one sheet of paper. 

And then you smiled suddenly, and it really was quite charming as you cupped a hand around your mouth and whispered, “Where the most tolerable Japanese restaurants are.” 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. You leaned back, satisfied and grinning, before proceeding to annotate the map with little circles and stars and doodles of what dish was the best at which place. 

So you were chill (and pretty, and funny, and you could draw a mean doodle of salmon sushi). But that wasn’t the problem. 

The problem was this. 

It’s a couple meetings in, and Iwaizumi can say that the two of you are friends. You meet up at parks and various prominent places in school, and he’s slowly starting to get his bearings here largely thanks to your patience. You’re always friendly, and you dress pretty well, so it’s natural that he would feel a little nervous about what he should wear and how he should style his hair, right?

And when you see him, telling him that he looks great today, and his stomach does a little flip, that’s totally okay too, right? 

(Oikawa guffaws in his ear through the phone for a solid five minutes straight when Iwaizumi tries to convey this mystery. Iwaizumi huffs, but the physical distance of several oceans and great land masses between the two means he can’t hurl a volleyball at the boy to shut him up. 

“You idiot! Iwa-chan, you’re so stupid!” He cackles. “Also, yes, I took your shirt.” 

“Shut it, Shittykawa,” he hisses, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why the hell did you take my shirt?” 

“Uh, because I looked great in it? And I had a date?” 

“Why did you have to take my shirt to go on a date, dumbass?” 

Oikawa snickers. “Why do you care so much about what shirt you’re wearing if it isn’t a date?” 

Iwaizumi nearly flings his phone across the room but just manages to resist at the thought of the hefty price tag of a repair. Instead, he contents himself with yelling into the receiver over the sound of Oikawa’s annoyingly loud laughter.)

They’re not dates, and the two of you definitely aren’t dating. He doesn’t do datey things—you refuse to let him pay for you when he tries to offer, and you always keep your hands firmly to yourself. Iwaizumi’s been on dates before; he knows when someone is interested in him. The flirtatious flattery, the coy smiles, the excuses made just to touch him—he knows it all. 

But you do none of it. 

Once, on a crisp autumn day, one that starts to remind people of the imminence of winter, the two of you are seated outside the coffee shop. You’re wrinkling your nose rather cutely, complaining about how you thought California would be an escape from cold weather but your hands still get dry. From your tote bag Iwaizumi watches as you swiftly procure a small tube of hand cream; it’s a citrusy blend. 

“Oh, crap,” you mutter, frowning as you look down at your hands. “I always do this. How do I manage to squeeze too much every single time?”

Iwaizumi says nothing, just watches the way your soft-looking fingers move elegantly, darting in and out of one another before you carefully set the tube down on the table. Suddenly, you glance up at him, and his eyes go wide. He’s been caught red-handed. 

“Do you, um,” you say, gesturing to your hand. “Do you want some?” 

He doesn’t know what other excuse he could possibly give for staring at your hands like a creep, and also, suddenly, he can’t stop thinking about how your soft fingers will feel against his rough palm when you transfer the excess cream from your hand to his. He knows it’s an innocent gesture, but somehow, in his panic-addled brain, he also finds it kind of intimate, like maybe this is your way of showing your interest, a subtle excuse to hold his hand, and why does he feel so fluttery and excited at the prospect? 

“Sure,” he hastily tells you, when he realises he’s been quiet for too long. 

Slowly, Iwaizumi curls his fingers open from his palm, heart feeling a little quick in his chest as he tries not to stare at where the two of you will make contact—

Oh? Something cold. 

Iwaizumi’s head snaps down. There’s your bottle of hand cream, looking smaller than it did when it was sitting in the palm of your hand. 

Shit. He thought you were going to, he doesn’t know, rub it in for him, or hold his hand, or at least be flirting with him somehow. But you just gave him the bottle. Of course! That makes so much more sense. Shit. He’s so exceptionally stupid. 

“Do you not like this scent?” You ask, blinking at him from across the table. You’ve rolled your sleeves up slightly to rub the excess cream into your wrists instead.

Iwaizumi looks down, and then back up at you. He feels a little dumbfounded. “No, I do.”

You smile at him, going back to reading something he’d asked for your help with, and Iwaizumi fights off the blush rising to his cheeks as he stares at the tube of hand cream. As gently as he can, he squeezes a dollop onto his own hands—he doesn’t think he’s ever used hand cream in his life—and watches it disappear underneath his fingers. 

Damn, he thinks. Now he smells like you, too. 

These aren’t dates, Iwaizumi knows. They’re not dates, but it’s not like they have to be, right? Friends grab coffee all the time. Friends help each other with work all the time. Friends worry about their appearance or the prospect of having to hold hands for platonic meetings all the time. 

Iwaizumi desperately wills himself not to read too much into it. 

So why, then, does his heart jump in his chest when you offer to cook for him? 

He’s complaining to you about how a well-meaning but rather clueless volleyball team member brought him to some generic Asian fusion place, clapped him on the back and proudly pronounced that he should be happy because they had gone to get “his kinda food”, and then proceeded to order the worst semi-Japanese beef bowl he had ever eaten in his entire life. 

“I’d be content with even mediocre beef yakiniku,” he sighs, inwardly delighted at the giggle that slips from your lips as he does. “I miss my mother’s cooking.” 

You just laugh, flipping through a reading. “Unfortunately, the closest we can come to it is cooking it yourself. Still doesn’t taste exactly like home, but it’s probably closer than wherever your friend brought you.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” you hum. “Do you want me to send you some recipes?” 

Iwaizumi shifts in his seat. “To be honest, I don’t know anything about cooking. I’ve tried, but I can’t learn from recipes, either.” 

At this, you look up at him. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m bad at cooking, first and foremost, but the little I do know I learn from watching people do it,” he admits. “I think it’s something to do with being a kinaesthetic learner or whatever.” 

You pause, shuffling your papers back into order. “Why don’t you come over for dinner one of these days then?”

“Huh?” 

“To watch me cook,” you offer. “I can show you how if you’re interested.” 

He blinks at you, and, all of a sudden, you flush a bright pink. 

“In cooking!” You hastily tack on, eyes wide in embarrassment. “If you’re interested in cooking. It’s not a date, is what I mean. I’m not asking you on a date, so—so please don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, no, no,” Iwaizumi reassures. “It’s okay. I’m not worried.”

(He really isn’t.)

You blow out a little exhale, shaking your head. After a while, a small, sheepish smile blooms on your lips. “Sorry, Iwaizumi. Anyway, I promised you that I won’t hit on you and I won’t think you’re hitting on me, either. Well, it still stands, okay?” 

(Iwaizumi’s starting to wish it didn’t.) 

But he does nothing but nod, watching you as you gradually brush off the embarrassment and go back to your reading. And then, maybe he’s read the situation wrong, maybe you were retracting your offer subtly, but the anticipation and the weird nervousness and built in his chest and before he can think about it too much—

He blurts out, “So is tomorrow good for you?” 

Which it is, apparently, because now Iwaizumi is looking at your dorm room, and for a moment he feels like he’s sixteen and standing in his first girlfriend’s bedroom again. Textbook, fiction, fiction, notebook. He’s counting the spines on your shelf, trying not to think about how pretty you looked when you first opened the door and gave him a sweet smile. You were dressed in blue jeans and a grey sweater, looking a little red-faced as you shot a look at your roommate. 

(The girl had given him a smirk as she brushed past him at the door, telling him, “Don’t worry, I was just leaving! Take good care of my roommate for me tonight, okay?”) 

And now you’re in the kitchen, setting up the cutting board and knives and plates, as Iwaizumi watches you open a high cupboard and tiptoe to grab something. He tries not to look at where your sweater lifts to reveal a sliver of your stomach, when suddenly he thinks of him. 

Oikawa, and his many exploits with girls. From a distant crevice of his mind, one of Shittykawa’s many rants about how to pick up girls floats to his mind. And he doesn’t want to deign himself to, for goodness’ sake, Oikawa’s strategies, but it’s also a really short window of opportunity, and—

Before he knows it, he’s striding over to you, chest pressed into your back, fingers brushing gently over yours as he takes the bottle of mirin into his hand. You’re soft. And warm. And his stomach is feeling weird again all of a sudden. 

“Here you go,” he whispers, voice low and right into your ear. And he doesn’t know if it’s just him, or if there really is a tension between the two of you so thick you could cut it with a knife… 

There’s a beat of silence, before you turn around slowly. You’re staring at him with an inscrutable flicker in your eyes, and Iwaizumi can’t help but swallow as his gaze flicks downward… 

“Cool, thanks, Iwaizumi!” 

Huh?

The moment has evaporated. Was it even there in the first place? You flash him a bright smile, easily sliding out from between him and the countertop. “Gosh, being tall really is just an unfair advantage, geez.” 

And as you pad slowly over to the table, eyebrows knitted for a moment as you murmur something about shoyu sauce and cuts of meat to yourself, Iwaizumi realises it—

He likes you. 

Shit, he really likes you. 

Is this how you felt, back then? Is this why you couldn’t stop yourself from saying it? That night, every time your hand brushes his as you show him the right way to hold a knife, or every time you look up at him with a gentle “did you get that?”, he feels the confession bubbling in his chest, in his throat, rising up so quickly he has to force it back down with a vengeance. 

(Don’t mess this up, he scolds inwardly, unaware of the way you’re hissing the same thing to yourself when he places a large, warm hand on the small of your back to orient himself around your small kitchen, unaware of the way you try to tame your flustered blush every time he rolls up his sleeves to rinse something.)

That night, as the two of you sit down to eat with the quiet domesticity of an itadakimasu slipping naturally from your lips, your speech from your very first meeting echoes in his mind on loop. How you promised you wouldn’t read romantically into his actions and how you wouldn’t fall for him either… Iwaizumi can’t help but just look at you, everything you’re saying about beef and rice and stock gone in a whirlwind of his sheer desperation. 

(Why didn’t stupid, blind, idiotic first-year Iwaizumi just say he loved you back?)

This truly is a crisis, and it’s all his fault.

Chapter Text

“I have a problem.” 

“You have a problem?” Mila leans back in her seat, swirling her cup in her hand. “Oh, gosh, what could that be?” 

It’s mid-afternoon and there are definitely better ways to spend a sunny day out than ruminating about the biggest, most horrible problem in your life right now, but you’re in the midst of a crisis and this is the only thing you know how to do. Mila’s sitting across from you, staring at you pointedly. All your essays lay forgotten on the table in light of your most simultaneously most recent and most ancient problem, namely—

In the words of fifteen-year-old you, that it’s, ha, not your fault that you’re in love with Iwaizumi. 

You try not to think about it. The more you do, the more real it becomes, and the sicker to your stomach you grow. “You know what I’m talking about.” 

She flashes a mischievous grin, twirling a lock of hair in her finger. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, screw you.” 

“No, really. Say it.” 

“I’m not saying it!”

“Saying what?” She blinks at you innocently. 

“Ugh, fine!” You narrow your eyes, throwing your hands into the air in frustration. “Iwaizumi. And, yes, hold the applause, how I’m sooo in love with him—” 

Mila suddenly clears her throat. 

“What.” 

“Turn around,” she whispers, eyes wide. 

A horrible sense of deja vu sends an unwelcome burst of adrenaline down your veins. You feel your blood run cold; slowly, carefully, you twist your body around in your seat. 

One, two, three—

Hm?

There’s the familiar brown countertop of the cafe you like to frequent just in front of you. Behind it, two baristas beyond it wiping down some mugs, chatting animatedly. Music playing listlessly in the background of your conversation. An empty till. A quiet cafe. As you search the room, confused, one of the baristas lifts her head to meet your gaze, so you quickly muster the best, most casual smile you can. It’s a regular day at the cafe, all completely ordinary…  

And there’s nothing behind you. You feel that flash of confusion in your chest before it hits you; you turn around with a sharp scowl. “Mila!” 

In front of you, Mila guffaws. “Sorry, sorry, I just had to!” 

“Seriously?” 

“I just wanted to tease you a little,” she confesses. “Wouldn’t it be funny if he was actually there?” 

“Not funny! Horrifying!” You shoot her the most vicious glare you can muster, but it must not be particularly vicious if she’s still grinning at you like that. “I’m revoking your rights to my cup noodle stash!” 

“Aw, not the cup noodle stash,” she says, fluttering her eyelids at you. You cross your arms and chuck a used napkin at her face, which she laughs and dodges easily. “C’mon, don’t be angry. I only made the joke because I think you have a real chance with him.” 

You rub your eyes. “Mila…” 

Ah, this again. You and Mila joke around a lot, but you’ve also grown close enough to know when to stop pushing. You look down at your hands—you feel pale. How someone can feel that way, you don’t know, but that’s certainly how you feel right now. 

Maybe it’s the overwhelming anxiety at the fact that you fear that your feelings for Iwaizumi—feelings you’ve had like a loser since you were fifteen—are becoming harder and harder to suppress as the days go by. Sometimes, when he looks up from his work to smile at you, you feel something in your chest give way. Each time Iwaizumi does something strangely tender, like lightly touch your back to guide you someplace, or lean over to gently draw a finger over your neck when explaining his sports science anatomy classes, you can’t help but feel so flustered that you’re fighting off the instinct to just melt under his touch, or, worse, just blurt out how unbelievably hot he is to his face. 

The fact that he can do all this to you, make you all embarrassed in infatuation, while he feels nothing… 

It really is over for you, isn’t it? 

You feel something sharp and bitter prick at the back of your throat. It’s like Mila can read your mind, though, because the moment the despondency begins to spread, she’s leaning over to grab your hand sympathetically. The playful glint in her eye gives way to something a little more earnest. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I just… I guess I don’t see why you’re so upset over it. You could just ask him out.”

“Ask him out!” You echo in sheer astonishment. “Why would I do that? Did you hear the part of the story where Iwaizumi avoided me for years after he found out I liked him?” 

“That was so many years ago! You guys weren’t even friends then.” 

“Yeah, but what’s really different now?” You run your fingers along the condensation of the cup, watching the droplets slowly fall to the surface of the table. “We’re still the same people we were then. Besides, you say it like it’s so easy.” 

“I mean, it is easy! Just go see him, call him Iwaizumi-senpai—” 

“I’m the senpai, idiot.” 

“—Yeah, but in the animes the boys like it when you do that, right? I mean, what else are we watching them for?” She ignores the pointed look you shoot her way. “As I was saying, hit him with the senpai and then be like, oh, please meet me on the rooftop, I have something important to say to you, and then tell him you love him. Easy.” 

“We’ve been watching too much shoujo anime,” you groan. “And besides, Mila, this is real life. It doesn’t work that way, you know.” 

“It does when he’s in love with you!” 

“He is not in love with me!” 

Mila widens her eyes at you incredulously. “Did you see the way he looked at you when you opened the door that night? The cooking date?” 

“It wasn’t a date,” you argue. “And he looked at me like, I don’t know, a normal person.” 

She gasps. “Are you crazy? I think you very well knocked the wind out of his chest, my friend.” 

“You’re crazy, and have you been watching Ouran without me? I think it’s distorting your idea of romance,” you huff, blowing a strand of loose hair from your eyes. 

“Besides, Mila, I promised him I wouldn’t be weird about this. The last thing he needs is a senior who’s all lovestruck about him. Like all the freshman girls are. I’d…” Your hands fall to the table and you sigh. “I’d just be a nuisance.” 

Her eyes seem to soften. “C’mon, you know that’s not true.” 

“He’s foreign, and he’s cute,” you say, biting your lip. “Let’s face it—I’m nothing special to him. Just an embarrassing senior who gave him the worst confession of his life.” 

“No!” She interjects. “That’s not true. He spends so much time with you. You’re like a, um, a familiar fixture.” 

“Yes,” you say, closing your eyes briefly. “If by familiar fixture you mean just someone from his past.” 

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” 

“No, really. It’s, like, if he was just some hot guy, it’d be fine. But he’s my friend! And I like him a lot as a friend. Why would I do something I know is destined for failure and… and… lose him as a friend too?” You shoot her a weak smile, voice going quiet. “Besides, have you seen all those other girls who hit on him? The ones at his games? How could I… how could I even try to compete?”

“You know, I have seen them,” she tilts her head in something akin to sympathy. “And you’re way better!” 

“Thank you, Mila. I mean it. But I just…” You let out a watery laugh. “I just don’t think I have a shot.” 

And there it is—Mila’s disapproving gaze on you from across the table, which you appreciate for her support, but honestly? You’re kind of exhausted. This is a conversation you’ve had with yourself a billion times, and each time, you see the truth clear as day. 

You’re hopelessly in love with Iwaizumi, and he does not like you back. 

For a moment, you let your eyelids flutter shut. Not a foolproof escape from the situation at hand, but at least it’s something. 

After all these years, you’re still a fifteen-year-old lovestruck Iwaizumi fan hiding in the crowds at his games, that’s what you are. While Iwaizumi is out there, meeting new people and playing volleyball and being one of the nicest guys alive, you’re stuck in the summer of a few years past.

Iwaizumi’s familiar brown eyes surface to mind and you’re rubbing your bleary eyes once more. Guilt swirls through your head. Aren’t you basically deceiving him, promising him that you wouldn’t like him while being so unbelievably lovestruck?

The sheer shame accompanying the thought has your eyelids fluttering open. Across from you, Mila is still staring at you with something akin to a gentle pity as she tilts her head and frowns.

“It’s all good, Mila.” You quickly plaster on your best smile. “Hey, didn’t you say you had to meet someone? Wait, isn’t today the cute lab partner?” 

She gives you a soft smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, I know. Okay, I have to go, but tonight, we’ll also come back to this.” 

“Okay,” you tell her, although you’re not sure if you really mean it. 

Mila squeezes out of her seat. “I’m serious, you know.” 

“Yes, Mila,” you reassure, waving at her. In less than a second, in sizable heels, she’s striding through the glass doors and shooting you a small wave from outside. You return the gesture, maintaining your smile until she finally disappears from view. 

You exhale, looking down at your lap. 

Well, you know the truth for certain. Anyway, you’ve fulfilled your official duties as Iwaizumi’s mentor. Maybe you should just cut off contact with him? Maybe you should tell him the truth? You sink back into your seat, back melding into the soft cushion of the chair, ready to ruminate in all your misery—

There’s a knock on the table. “A-hem,” comes a voice. 

Huh? You turn back to the seat across you, which has a hand laying across the top. There’s a boy in front of you. Who is he? 

“Hi,” he greets. 

You glance around for clues, but turn up with nothing. You give a polite nod instead. “Oh, hello. Sorry, um…” 

“Sorry,” he says, pleasantly. “Is anyone sitting here?” 

“No,” you say, still a little dumbfounded. “I’m leaving soon too, actually. If you’re waiting on someone else, they can take my seat.” 

“No!” He responds, a little too quickly, before recollecting himself. “Oh, I’m Thomas? We share a theology class together? I was just hoping we could talk for a bit.” 

Inwardly, you sigh. You were hoping that you would get to be alone to just sulk for a while—but you guess if a classmate needs help with school, it’s plain courtesy to at least hear him out. 

“Sure,” you agree weakly. “How can I help you?”

“I have a problem.” 

“Oh, yeah?” comes the familiar voice, crackling through the receiver. “When do you not, eh, Iwa-chan?” 

Iwaizumi clenches his phone tighter around hand. “Shut up, Shittykawa. This—this is an emergency.” 

“An emergency?” He can practically see Oikawa perk up over the phone, straightening at the mention of romance. “About her?” 

Iwaizumi sighs. “Yes.” 

When Iwaizumi thinks of Oikawa’s ego exploding over having been asked for advice from, he nearly wants to slap the stupid out of himself. To think that he’s sunk this low over… over something so juvenile. A stupid schoolboy crush he can’t get rid of. 

But it’s too late to go back on asking Oikawa, and anyway, it’s worse than just a schoolboy crush. It’s a stupid schoolboy crush on someone he once rejected. A stupid schoolboy crush that has him suddenly waking up from dreams he’s reluctant to tell anyone else about, trying not to force the memory of your sweet scent from when he stood so stomach-gnawingly close to you in that kitchen he could feel your warmth permeating into him… 

Okay, fine. So maybe it’s not so schoolboy. And maybe it’s not just a crush, either. 

But it’s not like he can do anything about it—you’ve firmly grounded him into the friendzone of your mind and told him not to move. If only your efforts to ground yourself into the friendzone of his mind were quite as successful, then maybe he wouldn’t be acting like a fool right now, pining endlessly, trying to forget every moment of that dinner you shared together. 

A strangely intimate moment that you both walked away from with… nothing. Absolutely nothing. That night, he’d left without the guts to have said anything, and you sent him to the door with that same pretty smile on your face as you waved him goodbye. As he walked home, he cursed himself for landing in this stupid situation. He’s hung out with you so often, liked you so much, and yet all he is now to you is a regular kouhai. A young, clueless boy who’s constantly asking you for help with classes, yearning to see you constantly under the guise of these stupid excuses he’s sure you see through anyway.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “In all seriousness, just do something nice for her. She sounds like a nice person. Get her flowers or buy her a meal and then just tell her you like her.” 

Iwaizumi exhales. “Do you think I haven’t tried that? Dude, you suck at this.” 

“I do not suck at this! You suck at this. You’re the one asking me for advice.” 

“…” 

“Uh, Iwa-chan? Was my reply that clever?” 

“Shut up, Oikawa.” 

Because in the dim sunlight streaming through the cafe he’s walking next to, illuminating your hair softly, there you are. 

But that’s not the problem. 

The problem is the tall, well-dressed guy making himself comfortable in the seat opposite yours. He watches as you nod at him, offering a smile—a pretty smile, he thinks—and Iwaizumi can’t help but feel the fresh panic sink into his body. 

Is it over? 

He keeps watching, Oikawa finally silent over the phone. His palm aches with the pressure of his fingers curled up into them. This—this asshole, he’s chatting you up for sure, all sleazy words and attempts to lean over and brush your hair over your ear. 

Iwaizumi nearly feels that strange mixture of urgency and irritation surge through his veins at the mere sight, and any words he might have said wilt in the edge of his throat. He can faintly hear Oikawa echoing are you there? into the speaker, but can’t seem to focus on it properly. Not with you here, looking down uneasily as you neatly dodge his hand, nervously tucking your hair behind your ears as you say something to the boy. 

Iwaizumi watches for a second, waiting with bated breath for any signs of coercion or violence, but the boy opposite you merely says something and you look back down uneasily. 

Well, he hopes it’s uneasily. To tell the truth, from this angle, he can’t quite make out your expression clearly, and it’s definitely not strong enough for him to denounce the boy opposite you as a creep. (Even though Iwaizumi is 99% sure that he is.) All things considered, you’re in a public space, so the chances of you getting into a dangerous situation is fairly low. And it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything, so why the hell does he feel this way?

Iwaizumi curls his fingers into a fist and looks away. The quad before him is vast and empty.

Fine, he’ll say it. He’s jealous. You’ve been here longer. He feels his hands clench into fists at the thought that, of course there are guys who ask you out, guys who are closer to you than he is, maybe even guys who have held your hand or cooked you dinner or fondly walked you home from the library at night. It’s not your fault that you’re so kind to everyone, ever patient, always looking so pretty that Iwaizumi has to fight off the thought every time the two of you meet. 

It’s not your fault that Iwaizumi has come to like you so much. 

But logic is no match for the rapidly bubbling vat of emotions in his chest, and as Oikawa resumes his chiding over the phone for being a coward and starts telling him to “just man up” and confess to you, because “she’s just your mentor, and this isn’t like you, dude”… 

The words are spilling out of his mouth before he can swallow them back down. 

“Shut up, Shittykawa! It’s not my fault that I had to go and fall in love with my university mentor!” 

Silence. 

Behind him, the faint sound of a bell jingling as the door swings shut. In front of him, in the reflective surface of the glass, you. 

You, standing there, wide-eyed and blushing with a hand cupped loosely over your mouth. Iwaizumi freezes. A moment passes as he looks at you, and you look at him, and then he looks away at the quad just by his side—

And then he bolts. 

Crap. Damn. Shit. Immediately, on pure instinct, Iwaizumi turns the corner and begins dashing back to… wherever that isn’t here, in front of a girl he really likes who’s so earnestly promised him that they’ll never date. But still, he hears your voice. 

“Iwaizumi!” You’re yelling, and he can hear the telltale sound of your shoes pounding against the pavement. “Why are you running? Wait!” 

There’s a familiar burn in his calves as he takes flight through the buildings and the fields. Iwaizumi knows he can outrun you, so he keeps going, but damn you actually do put up a pretty good fight. There’s an opening on his left but as he turns he can see you run to that alley so he instinctively veers right and then—

A dead end. 

“Hah…” You grin, words coming out breathlessly. “Perks of being a senpai and—huff—knowing the building layout slightly—huff—better than you do.”

There’s no way out anymore. Shit. Time to say goodbye to knowing you forever. Iwaizumi’s head is churning like a tornado. 

“You said you—” 

“I like you a lot, yeah,” he murmurs, running a hand over his face in distress. He doesn’t want to meet your gaze. 

“Iwaizumi—”

“Shit,” he mutters, facing the wall in his guilt and then turning back to you. “Look, I’m really sorry. I know we were clear from the start about not being involved like that but I—I couldn’t help it because you’re really—I mean, you’re such a wonderful person and I hope we can just forget about it and move on because you’ve been a great mentor and—’

“I like you too.”

“What?”

For the first time that afternoon, Iwaizumi thinks he hears the birds sing.

You let out a soft laugh. He summons the courage of superheroes, of adventurers, of anyone who is offering, to meet your eyes. 

And there you are. 

Hair fluttering slightly in the wind, framing a bright yet soft smile, face pink from maybe a mixture of the running and embarrassment from what you’ve just said. Obviously, it’s not possible for him to forget what you look like every time you two depart, but sometimes it feels that way—because every time he sees you, the way you look, that slight, inquisitive tilt to your head belying all the warmth and kindness and wit he’s come to know—he stumbles headfirst into the same fluttery feeling of that night, just the two of you, in your kitchen, again and again and again. 

You step a little closer to him, and he feels something in his chest pick up. 

“You mean you didn’t know?” You tease. “You’re a couple years late, buddy.”

“But you said you wouldn’t—you said you wouldn’t like me!” 

“I said I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you say, fumbling with your hands. “So I wouldn’t make any passes. But I—I do like you. I’m not reading this incredibly wrong, am I?” 

“N—no!” He quickly reassures. “But… but has it really been since then?”

You look up thoughtfully, but there’s an almost sarcastic edge to your voice that slowly softens. “Well, I was only fifteen, and we didn’t really know each other, but I’ve always—well, there’s always been something there for me, I guess. You’re a really good guy, Iwaizumi, the kind that’s hard to come by.”

Shit. Iwaizumi feels like he might pass out. 

A beat of silence. Iwaizumi’s eyes dart away for a split second before he looks back at you, but all that comes to mind is: “Um, you can call me Hajime.”

Your eyes light up. “Haj—” 

“Can I call you Hajime too, Iwa-chan?” 

Shit. Damn. To all hell. 

How did he forget to end the call? 

“Oikawa, go die,” he mutters into the phone, and then just as he moves to hang up, you’re stepping closer. 

“Oikawa!” You exclaim. “It’s you! Hi!” 

“It is me! Hey! How are ya?” 

Iwaizumi looks up at you. “Wait, you know him?” 

All of a sudden, you glance at the ground, a faint but sheepish smile spreading across your face. “Oikawa once came to talk to me after a match in our senior year. Kept nosing around about why I was always there. So I told him.” 

Iwaizumi blinks at you once, and then twice. 

Flustered, you go on. “One of the reasons why I came to respect you so much is because I found out you didn’t tell anyone after it happened… Lots of guys try to throw around confessions like an achievement, you know?” 

Iwaizumi inhales, exhales. He turns to you with a quick “sorry” before turning back to his phone, murmuring a string of swear words like that he hopes you don’t hear. (Across from him, you let out another laugh, and—well, you always sound cute when you laugh.)

Oikawa’s annoying laugh spills through the phone. “Have fun, Iwa-chan! And congratulations to you both!” And then he’s gone. 

Iwaizumi’s frozen, trying to make sense of the sheer absurdity of the situation, raking a hand through his hair. He can’t believe—this is ridiculous. Is this really true? You like him? After everything he’s worried about, thought about, everything he’s dreamt about late at night in despair?

Then he hears it—your gentle laughter, floating through the air over to him, and it’s like everything is okay again. 

He glances at you, before he softens into a chuckle, and then finally, the both of you are looking at each other, laughing, you with your hand over your mouth and your eyes drawn to his. 

It hits him, finally. It’s real, it’s all real. 

Iwaizumi inhales deeply, clenches his fingers into a fist, and then steps closer to you. You’re running a finger under the strap of your tote bag, a sign that you’re nervous despite the ease you’re trying to project, to comfort him with. His heart swells with the thought that you’re always doing that, trying to put him first, trying to consider his feelings before yours. And now, he knows that you like him. Someone like you likes him! He’s dizzy with inertia, but he supposes that, given everything that’s happened, he should probably be the first to say something. 

(It’s the least of what you deserve after everything you’ve done for him.)

So he reaches out to you, for your hand, shoving away his hammering heartbeat, trying not to get distracted by how pretty you look under the Californian sunlight. “Hey,” he finally says. “You know, this isn’t how I would’ve wanted to do it, and I know I shouldn’t have made you wait for so long, but do you think I… I don’t know, I could take you on a date one of these days? A real one?” 

A laugh slips from your mouth. “A real one?” 

Iwaizumi tucks a bashful smile underneath his hand for a moment. “Well, one that we both acknowledge is a date. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” 

“There’s nothing to make up for, Iwaizumi.” Your eyes crinkle slightly at the edges as you smile, nodding. “And, yes, I’d love to go on a date with you.”

Iwaizumi grins, looks down, and runs a finger carefully over the back of your hand, an act of treasuring you, almost. As the both of you stand in this small alleyway, the two of you facing each other as you did all those years ago in your first-year high school classroom, his chest so warm and full at the thought of liking you and finally getting to bring you out on a date as something more than friends… 

Whether it be the kind heavens, this strange destiny, or anything else in the universe, Iwaizumi can’t help but say a silent thank you to whoever allowed this prophecy to finally come full circle.

Bonus: 

“So how do I know if it’s a date?” He groans. 

You never thought that you, of all people, would be giving someone dating advice. 

But it seems love makes people fools—as you’re well aware—and so here you are, legs loosely crossed over each other, smiling at the younger boy sitting across the table. 

He’s Iwaizumi’s mentee for this year’s orientation mentor-mentee programme. He isn’t from Seijoh, but he did play volleyball, and so on account of that he and Iwaizumi were automatically bros from first meeting. It’s this kind of bond, you suppose, that has Iwaizumi agreeing to ask if you would come and meet him so you could give him girl advice. 

You’ve spoken through his anxieties and struggles and confusions, and honestly? You thought you and Iwaizumi were doing a pretty good job. But a question like this? You and Iwaizumi share a brief look before a grin curls up his lips—one that you’re sure is mirrored on your own. 

“You don’t,” the both of you say, nearly together, and in the midst of glancing at one another and then smiling, his fingers find yours under the table and you wonder how you ever got so lucky. 

Later, after the boy has left and you’ve doled out hand cream straight into the palm of a strangely pleased Iwaizumi, you find yourself fidgeting with the base of your plastic cup of coffee and feel a strange sense of deja vu wash over you. 

“What are you thinking about?” He says, tapping your cup just out of reach. 

Your fingers still over the table, now without an object to fiddle with. The stillness forces your head to calm. What are you thinking about? You can’t quite put your finger on it, for some reason. 

“Nothing,” you finally say, turning to look at him. “Hey, are you still coming over for dinner tonight?” 

“You bet,” he tells you, offering a brief grin. “Promised I’d cook for you, remember?” 

You let a little chuckle slip from your lips as you shift your body to face him completely. “So which is it tonight? Beef yakiniku or salmon teriyaki?” 

“Hey,” he warns. His hands, now freshly moisturised, find yours again. “I’m learning more stuff.” 

“Yeah, I know, kinaesthetically.”

He looks down at your lap, where your fingers are intertwined, and a smile rises to his lips. “Watch it! I’m cooking something new for tonight, you know.” 

“No way,” you gasp, tone verging on teasing. “Really? A new dish? The great Iwaizumi Hajime’s cooking will be mine?” 

“More like the great Iwaizumi Hajime himself is yours,” he says, and then wrinkles his nose at just how cliche it sounds. 

“Lame,” you laugh, smacking his arm lightly. He grins at you. “And are you sure about that?” 

He nudges you with his shoulder. “Always has been,” he insists. 

“Even in the first year of high school?” You tease, glancing up at him. 

He hums, running his thumb over your fingers tenderly, before lifting his head to meet your gaze with a gentle grin. “Uh, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” 

“Hajime!” 

He laughs again, and it’s a low, pleasant sound that makes you feel a little lightheaded. His hand is holding yours firmly now, fingers fully intertwined with yours. 

“Yes,” he tells you, and your stomach blooms with warmth. “Even then.”