Chapter Text
Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t panicking.
Really, he isn’t.
Because everything in his life is going perfectly fine. Sure, his physiology lecturer is a bit of an ass who decided to change the final term assignment into a closed book exam at the last minute; sure, Iwaizumi has now wasted weeks pouring over the now-redundant assignment; sure, Iwaizumi has now lost all the free time he thought he had cleared up so no, really it’s okay that he is spending the first of two preciously short weekends with his best friend, who has travelled halfway around to globe to see him, cramped up in his dormitory room instead of sightseeing through the cities.
Which is how, Iwaizumi blearily thinks, he has found himself in the situation he is currently in -
- where he sits cross-legged on his dorm room bed amidst the peaks and valleys of laundry he hasn’t had time to clear, cold-sweating of valiant last-minute attempts to cram a semester’s worth of physiology into one weekend -
- staring anxiously at said best friend. Who, wearing a San Juan club athlete shirt, with long legs overflowing from the tiny desk chair he is seated backward against, seems to be entirely out of place from Iwaizumi’s moody California dorm room.
Oikawa Tooru rifles a pile of study flash cards in hand and flashes back to Iwaizumi a wicked teeth-wide grin, talkshow-presenter-host-esque grin. He then triumphantly announces with a graceful wave of his hands:
"Alright, alright, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, all the way from Sendai City, we have the one, the only: Iwaaaaaaa-izumi Hajime! Aged 21, sports Science sophomore, the University of California!"
Iwaizumi groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, the edges of his forehead creasing.
"Iwaizumi-san. It is the moment of truth.” Oikawa’s voice drops in a deadly seriousness. “Are you ready for the first question?"
"Urgh Trashy-kawa, do you really need all the theatrics? Just get to the questions already.” Iwaizumi throws a pencil un-inspiredly in Oikawa’s direction, grumbling: “I don't have time for this."
"Oohh, folks, our first contestant is a real wet blanket isn't he?" Oikawa tuts disapprovingly before covering his mouth with a hand and adding fading hisses of "boo, boo, booooo" as if imitating a non-existent crowd in the far background of the gameshow.
Despite the stress which hammers against his forehead, a laugh unwittingly tugs at the edge of Iwaizumi's lips.
"But okay okay, stop hitting my leg ouch, I'm getting to it Haa-chan - our first question is - what is the first stage of meiosis?"
"Prophase I." Iwaizumi quips up, promptly hitting a fist against the pillow in his lap, as if hitting a buzzer.
"Yes!” Oikawa points to him with a theatrical gasp which implies that Iwaizumi has just potentially won a million dollars. “And how does that happen, Iwaizumi-san?"
"The chromosomes condense and undergo synapsis. Crossing over occurs at the chiasmata."
A smile sneaks upon Iwaizumu's face as he watches his friend's brown eyes flicker across the flash cards in his hand, brows drawn in adorable concentration. His lips move silently, mouthing the foreign contours of chiasmata.
As if to tease him, Iwaizumi continues easily: "Prophase ends once crossing over finishes, and then the next stage is..."
"That is correct, Iwaizumi-san!" Oikawa interrupts with a grin, as if daring him to underestimate his ability to pick up strange scientific terms. "Now what's the next phase after that?"
"Metaphase I, which is when..."
"Ooooh wrong! You didn't buzz in."
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes as he smacks a fist against the pillow. "Metaphase I!" He grumbles.
"Correct! And what happens then?" The corners of Iwaizumi's mouth have now been involuntarily pulled upward into a full grin as Oikawa points two fingers guns at him.
"Well the homologous chromosomes move to the equator of the cell and then separate to the opposite ends..."
"Ooooooh wrong!"
"What?" Iwaizumi's voice rises in indignation. "I buzzed this time!"
"Yes but also the moving to the opposite ends is Anaphase I so you've gone too far with your explanation." Oikawa laughs. “Here, have a look.”
He offers the flash cards to Iwaizumi between his upturned thumb and index finger like a magician offering a card to an audience. Out-stretched, in stark contrast against Iwaizumi's library-pale hand, Oikawa’s arm is sun-kissed and tanned from days of training under the Argentinian sun.
"Urgh of course, I knew that,” Iwaizumi swipes the flash cards from Oikawa, but barely gives it a glance as he grumbles. “It was just a slip of tongue.”
"My, my what excuses. Maybe you were too distracted by how dazzling the game show host was, Haa-chan."
"Oh shut up, Shitty-kawa."
In the corner of his eyes, Iwaizumi sees something small fall out from in between the cards - a white envelope of some kind - but Oikawa glances down and reaches for it first. Iwaizumi lets him, frowning as he focuses instead on reading through the stages of meiosis again. There is a slow sense of panic that is throbbing through the side of his temple, just looking at the sheer amount of material that he still has yet is not quite appropriate for one cramming weekend let alone the one weekend his best friend is here in person rather than on video call -
He doesn't even realise Oikawa has opened the rogue envelope and read through its contents until he hears Oikawa say with a slight lilt of surprise and something else - is it carefully-hidden fear he hears? - in his voice:
"Iwa-chan - what's this?"
"Eh?" Iwaizumi looks up. Across from him, Oikawa’s face is oddly tense as he holds up two maroon tickets in a hand.
"Ahhh." Iwaizumi nods in recognition. Something still feels amiss, his brain not quite connecting Oikawa's reaction to the items in hand. He takes the tickets from Oikawa's hand, stuffing them back into their envelope. "It's nothing much - just some random coupons I won in one of the college’s sports carnival raffles. I think it may have expired actually, I won it quite some time ago and never got around to using them."
"Nothing?" Oikawa's voice squeaks indignantly. "Iwa-chan, those are tickets for a Deluxe Night Out for two in San Francisco - worth 400 dollars each, which is like 800 dollars total!"
For a moment, the hitch in Oikawa's voice sounds so much more like a return to Oikawa's teenage self than the young adult early-twenties Oikawa that Iwaizumi has not yet gotten used to having around in person, that Iwaizumi glances up properly, torn between a rush of nostalgic fondness and curious concern for Oikawa's change in tone.
Oikawa's shoulders have relaxed now though. As if whatever he had been fearing when he had first found the tickets had been relieved by Iwaizumi's explanation of what the tickets were.
Iwaizumi frowns. There is something slightly off about his friend’s reaction which he can’t quite place his finger on – not in his state where he is still semi-occupied thinking about the 14 chapters of physiology left to read anyway.
"Well... I just thought it would be a waste to not use them, that's all." Oikawa rubs the back of his neck, turning slightly red, perhaps realising under Iwaizumi's stare that he is acting a little odd. "I mean, 800 US dollars Iwa-chan. Surely you wouldn't want to waste 800 dollars handed to you on a platter! And it expires this Sunday too. You have to go, and bring someone along with you too."
Iwaizumi sighs and slumps back in his bed.
He holds the flash cards above his head and stares at it. Behind his card, a ceiling light he had meant to change a month ago flickers at him as if teasing him, and the diagram of chromosomes stares back at him ominously. He then glances aside at Oikawa who is still eyeing him indignantly, before he sighs:
"I suppose you're right it would be a waste to just not use it. But I have this test on Monday..."
"Look, just study hard all weekend! I'll get out of your way and do the sightseeing myself." Oikawa says cheerily. When Iwaizumi gives him a stare, Oikawa waves his hands easily, insisting: "No it's fine really, I'm still here for another week Iwa-chan, so what's the rush? I'll go catch a few of those football games I always wanted to, visit those famous Cali beaches - who knows I might even run into Ushiwaka here for a game of beach volleyball?"
"Shitty-kawa..." Iwaizumi starts, frowning.
He feels even more amiss now, because high school Oikawa would now be all high-pitched, upset and fake-smiling at the suggestion that they spend this one precious weekend apart. But the long-distance friendship and thousands of blurry video calls has blunted Iwaizumi's usually sharp Oikawa senses, and almost worryingly, he can sense no falseness to Oikawa's smile. The smile looks nothing else but genuine and understanding, and not at all upset.
In fact, it is Iwaizumi instead who feels slightly hurt, that Oikawa had made such a suggestion. Hurt, that Oikawa could so easily suggest spending a weekend without him, even as they’re finally, finally in the same country again.
"No honestly, I’ll be fine." Oikawa smiles and okay, his smile is so genuine that Iwaizumi definitely now feels upset that Oikawa isn’t more upset. Is that a weird reaction to want from your best friend? Iwaizumi bleakly wonders and stores it away for another time to ponder on as Oikawa continues:
"Look, this is the perfect opportunity for you - aren't you always complaining that you don't have time to spend time with your new friends here? There's that friend you mentioned, Alice was it? From your microbiology class? Maybe ask her along and..."
And there it is, Iwaizumi catches it - it flashes only for a moment, the crack in Oikawa's smile - just the tiniest hint that he is at least a little sad that they won't be spending the weekend together despite being in the same country for the first time in years, and Iwaizumi jumps on it with a sparring urge that suddenly takes over him:
"Okay look, why don’t you just come with me to this…whatever 800-dollar experience thing, Oikawa." Iwaizumi interrupts. "I'm too lazy ... And frankly too stressed," he waves a hand at the notes scattered around him. "to spare energy socialising with new people I don't know well."
Oikawa blinks in surprise, brows furrowed and opens his mouth, but Iwaizumi snorts and interrupts him as he sits up:
"And yes, I know what you're gonna say, yada yada, Iwa-chan, you're such a grumpy recluse, bla bla bla, you'll never make new friends or find true love at this rate." Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. He gathers his study flash cards neatly in a pile and hands them back to Oikawa. "So come on, let's do the question asking thing again."
Oikawa's eyes are round as he takes the cards back, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain as he asks: "But wait... Haa-chan, are you sure you want me to bring me to this? You know these are tickets for...?"
"Yeah I know, it's just one of those lame California experiences with a dinner and show and stuff in a package." Iwaizumi grumbles. "But yes, of course I want to take you along. Because…” I like being with you anyway, “...it's easy to be with you. The Oikawa who I’m comfortable with. The Oikawa I already enjoy being around."
And he pauses, as he realises the next page of his notes (the four chambers and mysterious workings of the heart as an organ) is something he has no memory of even studying, and shoot, he might really fail this test if he doesn't spend the next few short hours cramming, especially if his entire Sunday night is apparently going to be spent thrifting 800 dollars instead.
And even though he hasn’t said anything outwardly, his tense expression must have revealed more stress than he had intended to, because Oikawa's face softens and he pulls up the flash cards, and with a small smile asks:
"Alright, Iwaizumi-san, let’s try this again eh. What is the third stage of meiosis?"
And really, Iwaizumi Hajime isn’t panicking.
He is just tiny, teeny bit stressed, and probably a tiny, teeny bit more sleep-deprived.
Because if he had been less stressed, less sleep deprived, perhaps he would have noticed behind Oikawa's smile, the clouded gaze and distant eyes that were general signs of Oikawa's brain gear-shifting into overthinking mode. Perhaps Iwaizumi would have read more into how Oikawa had sporadically switched between his more recent nickname for Iwaizumi Haa-chan and their old high school theatrics of Iwa-chan.
Perhaps Iwaizumi would have stopped to properly ask: "Why what is it Oikawa, is something wrong?”
But because Iwaizumi is stressed and sleep-deprived, he doesn't ask any more and lets Oikawa gently lead him back into a series of biology questions in his still-teasing but now slightly more serious game show host alter-persona.
And because Iwaizumi is not panicking (no he is certainly not), he will suffer the consequences of accidentally asking his best friend (who has been secretly pining over for decades) to a romantic night out for two in San Francisco.
***
Honestly though, panicking or not, Iwaizumi should have seen the rest of it coming.
The first warning sign is when Iwaizumi jolts awake to a knock on the door on Sunday evening.
Blearily, he realises he had fallen asleep on his desk, cheek warm from being pressed up against the notes on his table, the measly three hours of sleep he had last night from cramming hitting his head like a rock.
The time on his laptop says 5:45pm.
Iwaizumi frowns.
Oikawa is 15 minutes early.
Oikawa is never early.
The knock sounds again, more impatient this time, and Iwaizumi yawns as he heaves himself out of his chair and fumbles his way toward his door in his tattered grey sweater and sweatpants: “Alright, alright quit your knocking, I’m coming!”
Iwaizumi flings open the door and steps out immediately in the brazen, unapologetic way he always has with Oikawa. “Shitty-kawa, you’re too early, I still have five minutes to finish on my mock-practice exam you know, you interrupted me mid –“
The words die in his throat.
Standing so close to him that their faces are almost touching is Oikawa Tooru - tall, lean and dastardly handsome in a black suit and waist coat.
Complete with a navy bow tie and white pocket square neatly pressed against his suit jacket, Oikawa Tooru gives him a bright beaming smile, one that matches the bouquet of bright yellow and violet flowers he holds on his arms. As hard as he tried not to, Iwaizumi’s eyes are inexplicably drawn to the tight fit between Oikawa’s broad shoulders, the lean arms under which a large parcel is tucked - and holy smokes, did Oikawa always smell so good (why is he sniffing Oikawa? Has he ever sniffed his best friend before?)
“Oikawa, you… You look…” Iwaizumi barely catches himself before the word great escapes his mouth, before it dawns on him with horror that he is currently standing close enough to his friend to count the lashes off his eyes. He hurriedly fumbles backward, clumsily hitting the back of his head against the dorm room door he had thrown open just moments before.
Ignoring the blush that is now burning up the side of his cheeks, Iwaizumi punches Oikawa in the shoulder, hard.
(He would have gone for the face if Oikawa hadn’t been looking this pretty today.)
“Shitty-kawa, why in the world are you wearing a suit?”
If Oikawa is fazed by Iwaizumi’s reaction, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he grins with a pleasant hum and gently gives Iwaizumi a shove back in the shoulder: “No, the better question is why aren’t you wearing a suit, Haj-chan? The ticket specified a strict black tie dress code.”
“What?” Iwaizumi’s voice comes out in a squeak. He is suddenly all too aware his ragged grey sweater and slightly-too-long sweatpants that now he thinks about it, may have at some point belonged to Oikawa. “It … it was a black-tie dress code?”
“Yes.” Oikawa grins, amused. “I think we’ll need at least have suit jackets to get into the theatre.”
“But I… don’t have a suit jacket…” Iwaizumi’s voice is embarrassingly pitchy now. Internally, he is panickily mapping out the closest places that may sell cheap jacket suits near his campus on a Sunday evening. “Wait… why do you even have a suit jacket, Oikawa, did you buy one just for this…?”
“Haj-chan, I’m a professional athlete now, remember.” Oikawa waves a hand carelessly. “I attend media conferences at the end of tournaments – of course I have a suit jacket.”
Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa, stunned for a moment. It is hard to believe that this man, no, this professional athlete, who wears suit jackets and speaks of attending press conferences the way Iwaizumi speaks of attending lectures, is the same Oikawa that Iwaizumi knew in high school.
The distance between them hasn’t just dulled Iwaizumi’s Oikawa-senses. It has dulled all of Iwaizumi’s sense of Oikawa.
And then, Oikawa leans an arm forward toward Iwaizumi’s forehead and Iwaizumi freezes. For a ridiculous moment, Iwaizumi wonders if this stupidly handsome man that has replaced his childhood friend is about to lean in for a kiss –
- but of course, all Oikawa’s arm does is pass over Iwaizumi’s head and reaches instead to push his dormitory room door behind Iwaizumi open.
Cocking his head aside in question, Oikawa gestures toward the door.
“Well, are you going to invite me in?” Oikawa teases as Iwaizumi blinks at him, confused. “Or are you hiding a secret lover in there, Iwa-chan?”
“Of course not.” Iwaizumi recovers himself enough to snipe back. He turns away, his face burning (from what? Oikawa being tall enough to reach the door over his head?), and quickly steps aside to let Oikawa in. His room is a mess – with books littered across the floor, notes scattered across his bed, desk and carpet, the room barely lit with just a table lamp on. Iwaizumi sheepishly rubs the back of his head as he watches Oikawa carefully tiptoe in, trying to avoid shifting the papers, before gingerly sitting on the small square of free space at the edge of Iwaizumi’s bed.
“Why did you even bring flowers here, Crappy-kawa?”
“Oh they’re good luck flowers!” Oikawa’s pauses in between the pile of books in the middle of Iwaizumi’s room and turns to smile at him – his well-groomed appearance a sharp juxtaposition against Iwaizumi’s complete disaster of a college room. “A nice florist I ran into today had some leftover flowers so she gave these to me for free. She mentioned aster flowers are for good luck so I thought you could use some for your exam on Monday!”
“Ah.” Again, Iwaizumi has to look away because he feels his face might implode with fire if he catches Oikawa’s eye. He quickly turns away, pretending to have an issue with closing his dorm room door to hide the stupidly large smile that tugs stubbornly on his cheeks at the thought of good luck flowers. “And what’s the large parcel for then?” He continues asking casually.
“Ah yes Iwa-chan – I may have a nice, Argentinian-made suit, but this one is California-made...” Frowning, Iwaizumi spins back around just in time to see Oikawa carefully place the parcel in his arms down on his bed between the books, and pulling it open to miraculously reveal an elegant navy suit jacket and waist coat. He holds the suit jacket out to Iwaizumi, who has no choice but to step in closer to receive it – and then, deeper in the parcel, Oikawa pulls out as well a black tie and a white shirt, and then hands them over to a stunned Iwaizumi.
“You…” Iwaizumi chokes as he stares at the clearly expensive bundle of fabric that now lies in his hands.
He lifts up the jacket and pulls out a sleeve to pin against his arm.
It fits him perfectly.
The sleeve isn’t Oikawa length, it is Iwaizumi length.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi’s voice almost cracks and he tries again: “Shitty-kawa, how much did this cost?”
“Ah I earn adult money now, don’t worry about it.” Iwaizumi is still staring at the suit jacket, but he can all but hear the amusement in Oikawa’s voice. “And I know you well, Haj-chan. I knew you wouldn’t have had the time to read the ticket properly to figure out the dress code.”
“So instead of just telling me, your solution was to just snoop through my wardrobe to see whether I had a suit jacket? That’s an invasion of privacy, Oikawa!” Surely, such pesky behaviour should be condemned, but Iwaizumi’s voice fails to conjure up any actual annoyance. To make sure that Oikawa doesn’t get too pleased with himself, Iwaizumi sends him a scowl and tosses a pen from his table at him.
“Guilty as charged. And also my investigations tell me that you don’t have a white shirt, or a tie either.” Oikawa’s laugh is both gleeful and full of delight as he raises his hands and easily dodges the pen. “But I do see some appropriate black dress pants lying on the corner of your unfolded clean laundry pile – so go change Iwa-chan, or we will actually be late!”
“What are you, my mother?” Iwaizumi grumbles, making Oikawa burst into peals of laughter. Despite that, he does take the shirt and tie from Oikawa and fishes the black dress pants from his mountainous laundry basket (damn it, Oikawa’s right).
As he wanders into the bathroom and catches sight of his sordidly tired self in the mirror, it strikes him.
Wasn’t it not too long ago that Oikawa who had said that exact same phrase to Iwaizumi, while Iwaizumi nagged Oikawa’s ear off?
***
When Iwaizumi emerges from the bathroom, he grumbles still, but has to admit he looks much sharper in the white shirt and tie, hair at least somewhat tidied and styled. Oikawa nods approvingly, before catching him squarely in the eyes, a small smile growing on his lips.
“Hold still, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa says. He leans forward from where he sits on the edge of Iwaizumi’s bed, one arm a-stretched.
Once again, but Iwaizumi is struck with this sudden ridiculous sense that Oikawa looks like he is leaning in for a kiss. His insides soar with excitement, but his brain has melted down into a blub of pure panic. Awkwardly, he obliges and freezes on spot, his heart thudding at a million miles an hour.
Oikawa reaches out a hand… and wipes gently at the side of his cheek.
“Ink, Iwa-chan. You had ink on the side of your cheek.” Oikawa laughs.
He lifts his hand – against his calloused fingertips are black and blue smudges.
Iwaizumi laughs nervously.
He can’t quite decide if he is more relieved or disappointed.
***
The theatre is a train-ride’s distance away, but much to Iwaizumi’s relief, the travelling returns some sense of normalcy to the friendship dynamic Iwaizumi is used to.
Oikawa slots perfectly into the role of ever-excited tourist, staring out of the train windows with wide-eyed wonder, tugging on Iwaizumi’s sleeve on a dozen detours as they walk down the bustling city streets. Iwaizumi in turn plays along as grumpy tour guide, grumbling whenever Oikawa finds fascination in the tiniest mundane things, reluctantly reciting to Oikawa explanations for the million questions Oikawa has about his life in California and secretly smiling at his friend’s excitement.
When they finally approach their destination, the OrpheumTheatre, and Iwaizumi is relieved that Oikawa had forced him into the suit as they join a queue of well-dressed theatre-goers. As they approach the stern-looking ticket collector at the front of the line, Iwaizumi pats down on his jacket pocket, feeling a rise of panic in his chest as he realises the tickets aren’t there.
A warm hand clasps at his shoulder and suddenly, all he sees is Oikawa smiling, gentle and reassuring.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got them.” Sure enough, Oikawa pulls out two tickets and easily hands them to the ticket collector. Even with his broken English, Oikawa somehow charms the ticket collector enough that they are laughing about something – and then the ticket collector has lifted the velvet rope bollard and Oikawa smoothly guides Iwaizumi in through the theatre doors.
Iwaizumi is a bit dazed and has a million questions – but Oikawa is now excitedly pulling him toward the bar, babbling something about getting something called a playbill. The theatre lobby is crowded, so Iwaizumi gives in to letting Oikawa drag him along by the forearm through the masses of people, and he too grasps on to Oikawa’s arm.
Somehow one way or another, Iwaizumi eventually finds himself handed by Oikawa a flimsy glossy booklet (“Hold this!” Oikawa had beamed before vanishing into the crowd again). After a while, Oikawa returns with two small glasses of golden bubbling liquid.
“Champagne.” Oikawa grins when Iwaizumi raises a questioning eyebrow. “What, do you college students not have drinks nights?”
Yes, but it is usually dirt-cheap spirits and hard liquor, not fancy tiny glasses of light champagne. Iwaizumi thinks. He is dazed still as he lets Oikawa navigate through the crowd, glancing between their tickets and the signboards to figure out which door they should enter from.
And soon, Oikawa is grinning, as excited as he is when entering a sports stadium, as they stroll into the Orpheum Theatre.
Rows of velvet red seat line the sloping floors and at the front of the theatre, a wooden stage sits, velvet curtains hanging on either side. Iwaizumi blinks for a moment, taken aback by the brightness - two magnificent glass chandeliers hang off the high carved ceilings illuminate the theatre in almost a golden sort of light.
Oikawa’s light brown hair is tinted with gold flecks under the lights, and his smile, wrapped in the bow tie and suit, looks about a million volts when he glances back to make sure Iwaizumi is following along.
They scuttle along until they find their seats and settle down, squished between an old couple on one side, and a young chattering couple on the other. Oikawa has already taken his glass of champagne and is now going through the booklet that is apparently a playbill, excitedly blabbering and pointing out the singers he has just researched online right before coming.
“This is La Traviata, Haj-chan! One of the greatest operas of all time!”
Even though Iwaizumi has no clue what Oikawa is talking about, or really what show they are even here to see, he can’t help but feel Oikawa’s infectious excitement slowly creep up on him too.
After all, how could Iwaizumi forget?
Watching Oikawa be happy has always been one of his favourite past times.
By the time the lights start to dim, Iwaizumi is laughing at Oikawa’s attempts at fumbling through the foreign Italian names on the playbill and smiling fondly as Oikawa awes over the years of performance experience listed under each singer’s biography, a professional acknowledging another.
When orchestra music begins rising from the stage, Oikawa closes the playbill and raises his champagne glass to Iwaizumi with an excited grin.
“Cheers, Haj-chan!”
“Cheers, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi laughs, clinking glasses against his.
The lights go fully out and the curtains draw open. Deep notes fill the air in the opening number, and music gently fills the theatre in a warm soft melody. The orchestra are but tiny men, illuminated barely by the light in the music pit beneath the stage.
When the sweet sounds of violin strings join the orchestra, Oikawa gasps and grabs Iwaizumi’s wrist that rests on the arm of the seat.
Iwaizumi chuckles and swats Oikawa’s hand away as he whispers: “You dramatic asshole.”
But he gets it. It is the way the violin cuts through the air like a sweet serenade of angels. The way it makes his heart too, soar along with the music’s swells.
And when opera singers dance onto the stage, voices soaring in harmonious melody, it is Iwaizumi’s turn to feel hairs on his arm rise. The tenor singer’s voice a magnificent vibrato that booms across the theatre, the soprano’s a graceful flight through the air, each filling every cavity in Iwaizumi’s soul. The words foreign but the trembling joy in their voices universal.
He unwittingly finds himself leaning forward, drawn to the depths of his voice down to the bottom of his chest.
“Now who’s the dramatic asshole.” Oikawa whispers. From the corner of his eye, Iwaizumi can see Oikawa’s triumphant grin stretch across his face.
“Shut up.” Iwaizumi whispers fondly, giving Oikawa’s shoulder a shove while keeping his gaze still determinedly fixed on the stage.
Oikawa huffs a happy laugh and this time, Iwaizumi spares Oikawa a glance, sending him a small smile to the side. Suddenly in the dark, he is struck by how close their faces are from one another, sitting forward in their tiny theatre chairs like that.
Iwaizumi is glad for the darkness when his face blushes furiously, and he quickly turns his attention back onto the stage.
As the opera carries on, Iwaizumi lets himself drown in the music and forget. He forgets the meiosis notes that lie awaiting him in his dorm, he forgets of all the trepidation and uncertainty he feels toward the seemingly familiar yet strange man that is sitting just too close to him.
When he finishes his last sip of champagne and puts the glass down on his armchair, the edge of his hand accidentally travels slightly too far and brushes against the edge of Oikawa’s, their pinkies just barely grazing at the edge of their hands like as if anything more would electrify them both.
With his gaze firmly faced forward to the stage, Iwaizumi holds his breath. He waits for Oikawa to move his hand away – but Oikawa doesn’t. And somehow, their arms are now brushing, and somehow in the darkness, Iwaizumi dares to let himself enjoy the feeling of Oikawa’s arm against his.
And so, Iwaizumi doesn’t move his arm – and neither does Oikawa.
A full act later, sunk comfortably against his soft seat, the warmth of Oikawa’s arm miraculously remains pressed against Iwaizumi’s.
As Iwaizumi’s excitement has died down, he can feel his lack of sleep catch up to him. The Second Act opens with a slow heartfelt love song between who Oikawa whispers in explanation are husband and wife, and the voices lull Iwaizumi’s mind into a slow drifting blank.
Iwaizumi feels himself nod to sleep once, and then twice; and then he struggles himself awake, determined to not miss out on the show, before he gives into sleep again a third time. The sleep comes fast and heavy, the past days of hard work rewarding him to a deep, dreamless slumber. Beneath his head is something warm and soft too – comfortable enough to think for a moment that he is at home lying in his warm beds and covers.
It is only when he finally next blinks awake to the thundering of claps that he understands why.
He has fallen asleep nuzzled comfortably sideways into Oikawa’s chest, buried in the soft folds of his shirt, the smooth carvings of his well-built chest. There is a warmth around his shoulders – no, not just any warmth, but the warmth of Oikawa’s arm, looped around his shoulders, hand capped against his elbow, drawing him in, keeping him snuggled warm in his chest.
In his bleary half-asleep state, Iwaizumi hesitates. His mind dithers and dips between reactions, considering for a moment how to best remove himself from the capsulation of Oikawa’s arms. Does he casually shrug it off like as if nothing has happened? Pretend to shift in his sleep, giving Oikawa the hint to move his arm away? Does he fling himself out with such vigour that it spells clearly to Oikawa that no Oikawa, we are friends and nothing more… right? Right?
Or as much as he hates to admit it, does he do nothing? Because surely the only way to satisfy the tripping and hammering that his heart has suddenly begun is to just continue lying so, doing absolutely nothing…
… and suddenly, the weight of Oikawa’s arm lifts over his shoulders before he can even make up his mind, and a pair of hands gently muss against his hair, peeling his head off of Oikawa’s chest. In seconds, Oikawa has gently tipped Iwaizumi back into place in his seat, a hand softly rubbing against his shoulder, like as if to draw him out from sleep.
Reality explodes before Iwaizumi in the form of bright, golden theatre lights and audience members squeezing past the cramped knees they have cramped in their seats.
“Oikawa, I – I’m so sorry,” The words splutter out before he can stop them, and suddenly the side of his face that was just then nestled in Oikawa’s chest burns with embarrassment. The guilt from having fallen asleep punches him in the gut as he bolts up straight, suddenly soberingly awake. “I was so tired, I hadn’t even realised I had fallen asleep on your shoulder and oh god, I missed the entire play, you were so excited and I fell asleep…”
“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Oikawa laughs, his voice a gentle soothe. His thumb continues to rub circles into Iwaizumi’s shoulder, before finally dropping aside, leaving a warm spot behind. “You seemed really tired Haj-chan, I didn’t want to wake you up.”
For a moment, Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa, feeling amiss at the sight of his friend adorned only in his white shirt and waistcoat. And then he startles again as he realises he is wearing two suit jackets and hurriedly tears Oikawa’s black suit jacket off his own shoulders:
“Oikawa, I’m so sorry, please here have your suit jacket back, you must be freezing cold…”
“No that’s okay, you can keep it if you’re cold.” The jacket is pressed back into Iwaizumi’s hand with insistent force. “You were shivering when you first fell asleep, maybe you’re catching the start of a cold or something.”
“I’m fine I’m…”
A staff member is waving for them to move along – the show has ended, the curtains are drawn and their row is almost empty except for the two of them sitting there, Iwaizumi a spluttering, apologetic mess; Oikawa a gentle, patient anchor.
“Keep it.” Oikawa smiles as he pats his own jacket nestled in Iwaizumi’s arm. A tilt of the head: “Shall we head, Iwa-chan?.”
And Iwaizumi has to cave in – because a cleaner is now inching closer, sweeping at the floors – and all he can do is reluctantly turn away from Oikawa to start shuffling out from the tight seats, Oikawa humming in satisfaction and following behind him.
And then, it catches him off-guard. The half-amused, half-serious words that sound from behind him: “Also, Iwa-chan, you should really get more sleep even during exam times you know. You’ll fall ill if you continue like this.”
And Iwaizumi’s face burns and he can’t quite look as Oikawa as they exit out of the theatre into the lobby, exit the lobby into the fresh air outside. Because Oikawa is nagging him, Oikawa has been nagging him all night but it isn’t fair, because nagging is what Iwaizumi does to Oikawa, not what Oikawa does to Iwaizumi. Something in the world has tumbled and turned upside down and Iwaizumi staggers and falters, unable to find his balance in the shifting of worlds.
When they are finally out in the streets, standing squeezed to the side to avoid the teaming crowds that flood the street, Iwaizumi firmly grabs Oikawa by the arm and shoves Oikawa’s suit jacket back into his hand.
“Here, come on, you’ll catch a cold if you give me your jacket…”
Almost like as if the universe is conspiring against him, Iwaizumi sneezes, a cold wind that billows through the streets running a chill down his spine. Internally, he curses himself – he isn’t usually this cold in autumn, maybe Oikawa is right and he is growing sick?
Oikawa sighs, his brown eyes trained on Iwaizumi.
“Come on, Haj-chan. Don’t make me do this by force.”
“No. Come, put your jacket on…”
“Iwa, I swear to you that I’m barely feeling the cold and you’re standing there shivering like a drowning hedgehog.”
“Okay, how do you know what a drowning hedgehog looks like?”
“Ah, avoidant techniques – I will take that as a yes then. Arms out Haj-chan.”
“No – Oikawa, I can do this myself – stop-“
But Oikawa has already moved to behind Iwaizumi and is now gently pulling his suit jacket over Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Iwaizumi’s stubbornness shakes, and then falls like a wave-washed sandcastle. He sighs and extends his arms, allowing Oikawa to slip them into the sleeves that he holds out.
Up close, Oikawa is taller than Iwaizumi remembers, his hands even warmer against the cold autumn air. When one of his fingers gently graze against the bare skin on the edge of Iwaizumi’s collar, Iwaizumi involuntarily shivers for reasons he isn’t sure is related entirely to just the cold weather.
“You really are a stubborn idiot you know.” Oikawa’s soft murmur is a warm breath of air from behind Iwaizumi’s ear.
“Oh shut up Shitty-kawa.” Iwaizumi hates to admit it though, but he is finally warm enough with the two jackets on and his teeth have stopped chattering. His hands especially, are comfortably warm tuckered inside Oikawa’s jacket sleeves that are slightly too long for his arms.
It also helps that the jacket smells like Oikawa and it makes his chest fill too with warmth.
When he looks back up, there is a tenderness in Oikawa’s stare, an odd fondness that plays on his lips in the ghost of a smile.
“What?” Iwaizumi demands, his face flushing for what must have been the umpteenth time today.
He doesn’t really have to ask why. Like the swooping feeling of violin strings, he understands why without Oikawa even saying it.
Oikawa’s smile splits into a laugh. “Nothing Haj-chan.” He gently knocks a shoulder against Iwaizumi’s. “Come on, let’s go for dinner.”
***
When Oikawa had said dinner, Iwaizumi had been expecting a small modest moonshine diner, or maybe a homely Japanese meal in one of San Francisco’s tiny holed-up restaurants.
He had not been expecting actual, fancy dinner. Honey oak tables and glass wines glinting under the warm light of fire heaters. Silver cutlery adorned with velvet red napkins, French words L’Ardoise Bistro that he cannot pronounce.
“Oikawa are you sure this is…“
But Oikawa winks with such certainty as he strides up to the waiter that Iwaizumi has no choice but to as he has the whole rest of the night, be pulled along.
“Booking for two, under the name Oikawa? Under the Night out for Two Coupons?”
“Ah yes. Tooru Oikawa, and this is your partner?”
“Friend.” Iwaizumi corrects quickly and the waiter glances up at them, startled. Iwaizumi tears his gaze away, not quite daring to catch Oikawa’s eye. For a moment, Iwaizumi wonders if they can be denied entry just based off how ridiculous they must look: him shivering slightly in his two jackets, one of which is clearly too large for him; Oikawa, tall and broad-shouldered, harrowingly bright in his white shirt and brown eyes.
But Oikawa just laughs it off, and doesn’t even sound hurt when he agrees with Iwaizumi’s correction: “Yes, friend, and partner for the night” and they are through. Oikawa lets Iwaizumi lead the way this time, the two of them barely keeping up with the hurrying waiter as they traverse narrow corridors lit by candlelight, pass tables of couples heads crooned and pressed together. The waiter gives them a curt nod, gestures to a corner at the back of the restaurant and…
Shit, is that our table?
A scattering of rose petals across a scandalously red tablecloth, lit by two vanilla white candles in the middle of the table. A tiny golden lantern with cut-outs of angels (or cupids, Iwaizumi isn’t sure which is worse) hangs above glistening a golden halo above the circular table and two chairs.
“I…” The heat beneath the two jackets Iwaizumi is wearing is suddenly overbearing and a flush spreads violently from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He turns around, the words excuse me, there has to be some mistake on the edge of his tongue, but the waiter has squirreled off somewhere else, and instead, he accidentally catches Oikawa’s gaze.
Oikawa, who is still innocently trotting over from behind, stops when he sees that Iwaizumi has stopped too.
“Oikawa, I’m really sorry, I hadn’t known that it would be…” Iwaizumi begins, a semi-panicked ramble, but Oikawa just tilts his head aside in curiosity, unaware, confused.
“What’s wrong, Haj…” It is almost comedic the way the same pink flush startles across Oikawa’s cheeks at the exact moment he sights their table, and my goodness Iwaizumi allows himself a moment to revel in how satisfying it is to see Oikawa, the man who has been so cheerfully blithe about everything all evening finally get caught off guard about something…
… that is, until Oikawa breaks into a peal of laughter.
“Well, I guess it is a nice little décor isn’t it.” Oikawa chuckles. He moves forward to stand beside Iwaizumi, hands on his hips like as if contemplating a piece of furniture to purchase in Ikea. “The candles on the table look rather pretty but the rose petals are a bit of an overkill. Don’t you think, Iwa-chan?”
“I… I mean…it’s uh…” Iwaizumi’s tongue is once again a fat, triple-knotted thing that trips over itself. He is appalled, offended almost by how easily Oikawa had gotten over his shock, and determined to not be left behind, he persists without really thinking: “Well, I hadn’t expected it to be quite so…”
He catches himself, right before the word romantic falls from between his teeth. Like as if saying it aloud would make it come true, not like both of them weren’t already thinking it already.
“Quite so expensive?” It feels like mercy on him that Oikawa chooses to purposely misunderstand.
Oikawa clears his throat and continues, his tone casually thoughtful: “Well, this was worth about 100 dollars each. So what did we expect.” He flails tiny snipping motions in the air with both hands, like as if imitating a crab, his face mock-serious. “For them to decorate the table with little paper animal cut-outs?”
It is so unexpected, so stupid, that Iwaizumi surprises himself with a small laugh.
The beam that crosses Oikawa’s face in an instant is bright. Like a child that has seen a sweet treat.
Oikawa steps forward and places a hand against his chest dramatically.
“O’ my love. My liege. My dearest Iwa-chan. Please do thee have a seat.”
“Stop it, shitty-kawa, I’ll punch you.” Iwaizumi makes a half-hearted swipe at Oikawa – but he is grinning, stifling a laugh as his friend makes an over-flourished bow, pulling out one of the chairs on the table for him.
“T’is not a good chair? Is the wood not strong and supple enough? Thy wouldth be heartbroken if the fair Iwaizumi shouldth chooseth to not sit on thy’s chair.” Oikawa pulls a pout and turns wide puppy eyes on Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi has to bury his face in his hands to both press down the laughter that is now bubbling from him at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, the silliness in his friend’s face, and how cherry tomato-red his entire face must be by now.
It is a miracle – no, Oikawa has worked a miracle because they are soon seated amongst rose petals and scented candles, laughing at each other with just the tiniest hint of embarrassed pink still staining their cheeks - but miraculously alive, miraculously normal as they banter back and forth in the way Oikawa and Iwaizumi do. The waiter brings a tray of soft buttery scallop entrees and Oikawa thanks him as he pours two glasses of rosy-pink Moscato, and it feels ordinary, like as if they do this all the time, dining in an expensive restaurant dressed to the nines in suits.
A second glass of white wine later, Iwaizumi can’t help but set down his fork to pinch the bridge of his nose. Because how else can he know if he is still asleep in the theatre, caught in some sweet dream? And how else can he do away the apparition that sits before him, illuminated with rosy-cheeks on the other end of the table: Oikawa Tooru - tall, wind-swept, the buttons around his chest delightfully tight, the amusement in his eyes impossibly charming?
But when he lets go of his nose, Oikawa Tooru is still there, retelling one of his recent matches in the familiar flow of Japanese that bubbles and leaps with energy and exuberance; the punctuation of sentences with mischievous grins and dramatic expressions like as if sharing an inside joke with Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi’s head is so pleasantly fuzzy that he has already lost track of who is who in Oikawa’s story, but his tongue feels feather-weight light that he is convinced he is invincible when he leans forward and interrupts:
“Tooru.”
Oikawa looks up in surprise at the sound of his name, a soft, familiar breath on Iwaizumi’s tongue.
Fondness radiates from every word as Iwaizumi continues without thinking, proclaiming with a soft smile: “I’ve really, really missed you.”
And holy shit, there it is, the stupendously delightful feeling of being able to catch Oikawa off-guard, to see the rise of colour in his cheeks, the widening of those brown eyes that are golden when ignited under candlelight, the punch-drunk look of disbelief that crosses his face for the briefest of a second. Oikawa’s mouth widens, then closes; and then widens then closes again, as he hesitates and fumbles with his response – and Iwaizumi laughs because it feels almost illegal to feel this satisfied that finally, Oikawa can feel at least a fraction of how flustered Iwaizumi has felt the entire night.
“Lost for words, Trashy-kawa? Too touched by my bold statement?” Iwaizumi teases. Brazenly, playfully, the way that Oikawa usually teases him. Because if the world has gone upside down and Oikawa can nag him about not sleeping enough, then he too can tease Oikawa about being flustered into silence.
Of course, Iwaizumi doesn’t expect to win in Oikawa’s own game – but he is expecting to be able to come up with a semi-decent snipe back at whatever glimmeringly sly response Oikawa quips back.
He however, is not ready for all the air to be sucked out from his lungs when Oikawa smiles as he answers with a sincerity so earnest that it makes Iwaizumi’s heart aches: “Not lost for words, just trying to find the right words.” Oikawa leans forward, rests his chin on his knuckle, as he adds softly: “Hajime. I have really, really missed you too.”
It is a knock-out, a win so effortlessly graceful that Iwaizumi doesn’t even try to fight back as he buries his head in his hands, his cheeks blistering hot, his heart racing so fast he is sure Oikawa can feel it hammer from across the table. And now Oikawa is chuckling, sounding a little embarrassed, like as if he is aware of the effect his words would have on Iwaizumi – but Oikawa’s hand is now out-stretched and travelling wordlessly to the left side of Iwaizumi’s cheek…
… and they both jump as the waiter arrives with the main courses, and a microphone echoes noisily across the restaurant. There is a second echo before it is fixed and a musician standing at the front of the place apologises for the noise feedback before announcing that a string quartet will be playing shortly.
When Iwaizumi looks back down, Oikawa’s hand has shot back to safety on his side of the table, and Oikawa himself has become sheepishly pink to the tips of his ears. The two of them look at each other, and they both laugh: at the fact that of course there is a string quartet playing tonight, at the untimeliness of the interruption, at the silliness of what they both know Oikawa had been just about to do –
At the wonderous disbelief that hides shyly, cautiously, terrifyingly behind their smiles as they stare at each other, daring each other to ask:
Do you…? Do you too…?
***
When they leave the restaurant, both Iwaizumi and Oikawa are contentedly full, rosy-cheeked tipsy and dizzyingly joyful. Oikawa guides them to their last destination for the evening through the wooden docks on the city’s glisteningly beautiful waterfront, animatedly quizzing Iwaizumi on the sights along the way. Iwaizumi listens and teases at Oikawa’s boy-ish excitement, delightedly pointing out as they walk stories of his California escapades: and this is where Karim, Sarah and I fished during summer; that is where we sat watching the fireworks for the New Years’ countdown.
It is like as if Iwaizumi is filling Oikawa in on all the parts of his life a video call can’t capture; and Oikawa is doing so for Iwaizumi too. Where a younger Oikawa would have gasped at some of Iwaizumi’s outlandish stories demanding that’s so bold, why didn’t you tell me you did that, Iwa-chan! the now-Oikawa chuckles and nods Oh yeah, I know what you mean, five shots of whiskey would do that to you. Where a younger Oikawa would have pouted in jealousy as Iwaizumi fondly recounts his closest friends in San Francisco, the now-Oikawa smiles, beaming with genuine joy as he announces: I’m so glad you have such good friends here Haj-chan.
And in between the new responses that slide in together with Iwaizumi’s memories of the old Oikawa, he begins to weave together, finally grasp in his mind who this new Oikawa is – calmer, collected, healthier, happier,
More sincere. More emotionally transparent.
It is that final point that Iwaizumi can’t quite grasp – this near-emotional openness that Oikawa now has. Neither of them mention what had happened in the restaurant, and Iwaizumi skates and tethers around any topics that involves them. They get close at times: the lingering smiles when they proclaim I wish you could have been there to see that, the gush of desire when they exclaim gosh, you would have been the first person I told if you had been here, the unwavering support with which they both smile I knew you would do well here.
When those moments happen, Iwaizumi’s face burns and he runs for what he knows: a faux-grumpy banter (yeah right, like as if I would know how to get you out of that trouble if I were there, shitty-kawa, or just simply shut up trashy-kawa). Or when he is actually lost for words, he resorts to fond punches and hair-ruffles, which is caveman-like, Iwaizumi admits, but at least better than no response. The second time Oikawa proclaims with a breathy laugh I’ve really missed you, Hajime, Iwaizumi drivels him an embarrassed punch in the shoulder because what else can Iwaizumi find to fault with that, now he’s already admitted to the same?
In Iwaizumi’s defence, he tells himself, teenage Oikawa had always been exactly the same. Whenever they got too close to the confusing feelings between them, teenage Oikawa teased and wrecked dramatics. Teenage Oikawa pretended to get all huffy and particular, bickered and bantered, challenged Iwaizumi to a fault, and then tossed insults at Iwaizumi – anything really anything, just to keep the emotions at bay.
But now-Oikawa is different. Now-Oikawa is the one who lets them get close, accepts the moments with a fond smile. I wish you had been there is met with I know, I wish I was too; you would have been the first person I told if you had been here is responded with an earnest I am always here, Haj-chan, you can call me anytime you want and I’ll answer even if in the middle of the night, you know.
I knew you would do well in the Argentinian league is met with a smile, so fulsomely sincere and genuinely grateful, that Iwaizumi almost tears up when Oikawa replies: Thank you. For being the first to ever believe in me.
It is all so emotionally mature, so startlingly refreshing, so awkwardly new that Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to do about it.
Because there are all these feelings they know are between them but have not been spoken about for years through the inconvenience of distance, and now Oikawa Tooru is here, ready with his heart open and his smile oh-so patient, and Iwaizumi Hajime has no idea what to do.
And so, it is rather fitting, Iwaizumi thinks, that when they arrive at their final destination – a painfully cringe-worthy romantic spa night at a five-star hotel for two, that Oikawa laughs immediately in full-acceptance of their fate tonight, which is to go on from romantic destination to another as not a couple, but just a couple of good friends; while Iwaizumi buries his head in his hands, unable to take it anymore. Of course, it is his fault for not having properly read the coupon, of course it is his physiology professor’s fault he had been too stressed to hear Oikawa try to warn him that this would happen.
Of course the romantic spa consists of a beautiful but small round jacuzzi tub set up in a corner, against floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sparkling night lights of San Francisco city on one side, the ocean dazzling under the bright moon on the other. Naturally there are a million scented candles lining the sides of the jacuzzi and the lights are dimmed everywhere else; and obviously, by the side of the tub are two champagne glasses, and in the tub floating amidst the foaming bubbles are rose and lily petals because nothing says romance like goddamn flowers. And honestly, is Iwaizumi even surprised anymore that next to the two champagnes that sit by the side of the tub are a plate of chocolate-coated strawberries arranged into the shape of a heart because what other shape could it possibly be?
The hotel staff explain that they have an hour in the jacuzzi room, half hour in the sauna after, and that warm towels can be found on the rack by the side of the room when they are done. When Oikawa graciously thanks the lady, she winks at both of them as she adds enjoy yourselves, boys, and Iwaizumi wishes he can just dig a hole in the ground and rot to death.
Eventually, she finally leaves, the door closing behind her with a gentle click. And suddenly, it is just Iwaizumi and Oikawa, again in a dark room, lit only by the shine of candlelight.
Oikawa’s hair is once again, beautifully gold under the dim light, but Iwaizumi doesn’t want to even think about it, or even look at it. He sighs and sits heavily down on the steps by the side of the jacuzzi, burying his head into his arms.
“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa’s laugh is a soothing one.
“Nooooo, I’m so sorry Oikawa,” Iwaizumi’s groan is muffled against his arms. “I seriously hadn’t realised the voucher included this, I’m so sorry.”
“You know I’ve bathed naked with you a million times before in those bath houses back home…” He hears Oikawa sit down beside him on the steps. Gently, an arm’s length away. A respectable distance.
“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi’s voice cracks under the stress of it all. “The Japanese bath houses don’t have petals. They don’t have chocolate-coated strawberries arranged in the shape of a heart.”
And Oikawa laughs – a sound so joyous, so clear as it echoes off the walls of the tiny bath room, that reluctantly, Iwaizumi peeks back up, unable to resist glancing as Oikawa who continues to laugh replies: “I guess you’re right, Iwa-chan, they usually just have those ugly worn-away tiles, and heaps of pot-bellied, balding old men. Definitely no chocolate-coated strawberries there.”
And Oikawa is helplessly stuck in peals of laughter now, and the laughter is so infectious that Iwaizumi too can’t help but begin chuckling, and soon the two of them are laughing again, over and over again at the imagery of that one old Japanese bath house in Seijoh they both grew up going to with their fathers, friends and uncles; in sharp contrast with this one romantic jacuzzi room they have somehow suddenly gotten themselves into in the backdrop of a glorious San Francisco. Iwaizumi catches sight of them – the reflection of them in the glossy walls of the bath room, and begins laughing even more – of the two grown men, limbs too lanky to be sitting on tiny steps surrounded by puny candles, Iwaizumi still wearing two jackets over his shirt and now-askew tie, Oikawa still in his fully buttoned-up shirt and wind-strewn bowtie.
And when their laughter finally subdues, Oikawa leans over and fondly pats Iwaizumi on the shoulder as he says kindly: “That’s okay Haj-chan, we don’t have to bathe if you don’t want to.” He then adds with a twinkling flash of a boyish smile: “We could still take off our shoes, roll up our trousers and dip our toes in by the side though?”
And it is such a comforting, startling mature response that Iwaizumi blushes as he nods okay, because teenage Oikawa would have definitely have bullied him into going into the bath, but adult Oikawa’s kindness and understanding is ten times more attractive.
They laugh as they undo their shoe laces, toss aside their socks, and help each other roll up their trouser sleeves as far as their calves allowed them, suddenly six again, getting ready to clamber through muddy ponds to catch dragonflies and tadpoles with little nets trailing behind them. Except instead, they both now carefully step by the side of the jacuzzi, clearing a space between the candles, and dangle their feet into the warm water, toes dabbling at the bubbly foam.
And Iwaizumi has to laugh even more because Oikawa has picked up the plate of chocolate-coated strawberries and is pouting in mock-concentration, moving them around. He puts the plate back down between them, revealing to Iwaizumi the strawberries in a round circle instead of the previous shape of a heart.
“It’s a volleyball.” Oikawa grins, “Because you like to call me a volleyball idiot even though you are clearly one too.”
“Or O for Oikawa.” Iwaizumi teases back. With his feet bubbling warm and their banter back to normal, he feels muscles he hadn’t even realised were tense relax into themselves. He pushes the all the strawberries into a line in the centre of the plate. “Or I for Iwaizumi.”
And Oikawa laughs and Iwaizumi laughs as well, because it is all so stupid and so silly yet it is the kind of stupid and silly that he has missed more than anything else in the world. And then, as they both fall into comfortable silence, chewing on the strawberries and staring out at the twinkling city line, Iwaizumi finds himself opening his mouth and saying softly:
“Thank you by the way.”
Oikawa glances at him, head tilted. He is mid-nibble through a strawberry, a little dash of chocolate by the side of his mouth when he asks curiously: “Wait, what for?”
“For…” Iwaizumi’s face burns with embarrassment and his voice waivers.
Emotional openness. It isn’t something he is very good at.
But for Oikawa, he can try. He clears his throat, stares out at the ocean waves that pull back and forth in the distance and starts again: “For starters, I guess, thank you for organising everything tonight. The show, the dinner, this.”
Oikawa laughs, teasingly kicking some foam across Iwaizumi’s toes. “Silly Haj-chan, this was all just lined up in the coupon, I just made the booking calls that’s all. There’s no need to thank me for that.”
“You did more than that, Tooru.” Iwaizumi rebuts. He kicks some foam back at Oikawa, gently splashing at his toes. Stares at the bubbles, at their bare feet side by side. “You got me the suit, figured out the theatre seat numbers, gave me your jacket. You navigated us around a city you don’t even know well all evening.”
Iwaizumi looks aside, now daring enough to look up at his friend. He doesn’t know what he had expected, why he had been so scared earlier – but now that he does, his eyes meet Oikawa’s face and oh, suddenly, he remembers, this is a face that he knows. It has changed, for sure – his skin is tanner and now has spots of sun-kissed freckles, his waves of hair are now shorter, more kempt and neater; his eyes kinder, more patient, more readable.
But underneath all that it is still Oikawa. The stubborn determination in his eyes to pull through the evening, the observant gaze he keeps on Iwaizumi. The never-ending thoughts that pass quietly hidden behind the cheery eyes, the way he craftily manoeuvres his decisions based on the body language cues he picks up from Iwaizumi. The way he knows he is effortlessly charming and uses it with other; but reserves his most sincere self for Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi only. The way he calls Iwaizumi Haj-chan, nothing else but an adult pass, a carefully tried-replacement for the teenage days of Iwa-chan that no longer quite fits with who they are.
And it is Oikawa’s mouth, a mouth that Iwaizumi knows that is speaking now, forming the words that he knows Oikawa will say:
“It’s okay, Haj-chan, you were busy with your studies! I was just helping out, you would have done the same for me too.”
And Iwaizumi has to smile, because it is Oikawa, it is him after all. The teenage Oikawa who is fiercely loyal and refuses to leave Aoba Johsai because of his friends, is the same as the adult Oikawa who refuses to leave Iwaizumi’s side and is always watching out for him, over and over again. The teenage Oikawa who put a hundred and ten per cent to everything he does to the team, is still the same adult Oikawa who had no doubt spent the afternoon hunting down every nook and cranny of the San Francisco streets they roam today.
“Oh, actually speaking of which, Haj-chan, I do have something that I think will help you out too…”
But this new Oikawa can still catch Iwaizumi off-guard after all, and Iwaizumi’s heart skyrockets alarmingly as Oikawa leans over from his side of the jacuzzi. For the third time today, he ridiculously wonders whether Oikawa is reaching for a kiss, wonders what he would do as he freezes in reaction –
Before he blinks in startlement when Oikawa leans down instead to lift the side of his own suit jacket open, to reach into the inside pocket of his suit jacket,
And pulls out a neat deck of colour-coded studying flash cards.
“Look, I brought this along!” Oikawa’s smile is a million watts bright as he waves the study cards in Iwaizumi’s incredulous face. He carefully places them aside, safely out of reach from the bubbling waters and hazardous candles. “I thought you would appreciate still practising some of the questions if you were nervous for your exam tomorrow. And now you won’t have to feel like you’re just sitting here, dipping your toes in a bath for an hour wasting time with me rather than studying. Only if you want to of course and…”
Finally, something in Iwaizumi snaps.
Because how dare Oikawa refer to time spent with himself as a waste of time; how dare his best friend know him well enough to bring those stupid studying flash cards along; how dare he deny him a third almost-kiss.
And how dare the universe, already knowing how much Iwaizumi loved the teenage Oikawa with all his insecurities and whininess, now present to him adult Oikawa, who has gone off and become all grown up without him, into this quietly mature, teasingly charismatic, startlingly empathetic, impossibly loving man.
And how can anyone expect him to put all of Iwaizumi’s feelings for Oikawa which are so huge that they could fill a galaxy, into tiny, human words because Iwaizumi is fucking terrible at putting emotions into words and god, there are tears now coming out of his eyes which is extremely embarrassing but Oikawa is watching him with a mix of amusement and slight concern, and his lips are moving to ask if he is okay, and oh god, those lips, those are lips that Iwaizumi knows and –
Iwaizumi leans forward, cups Oikawa’s left cheek in a hand, and kisses Oikawa on the lips.
Gently, softly, shyly.
His lips against the lips that he knows.
And when he draws back, Oikawa moves forward like as if magnetized across the bubbling waters, and his kiss is firmer, stronger, more eager and then it is returned, as Iwaizumi tightens his hand against Oikawa’s cheek and Oikawa wraps an arm around Iwaizumi’s back.
When they finally move apart, they are breathless, dizzy, disbelieving. Foreheads pressed, noses grazed, eyes searching, toes curled up against one another’s.
Oikawa lifts a hand and gently presses it against the hand Iwaizumi has against his face. He twirls Iwaizumi’s hand around so that their fingers lace together in a tight, warm hold, and lowers it to press against his chest so that Iwaizumi can feel, exactly how fast Oikawa’s heart is racing; just as Oikawa can feel how fast Iwaizumi’s is with the other hand Oikawa has rested flat against Iwaizumi’s back.
“About time, Hajime.” Oikawa whispers, and then smiles like a million chandeliers and lighted scented candles.
And Iwaizumi smiles too, because suddenly, it is easy, all too easy, and he can’t believe it was ever hard before, to find the words to respond:
“I love you too, Tooru.”