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Oikawa visits Iwaizumi in California for a week in late April during his freshman year, not knowing much about smoking weed aside from what Matsukawa and Hanamaki had sent memes about in the group chat, and especially ignorant of how ingrained it is in California university culture.
On 4/20 itself, Iwaizumi’s roommate shares a blunt with both of them, and they cough. A lot. Iwaizumi had smoked a few times the previous semester due to peer pressure at parties, but never this much, and never this fast. Oikawa has never smoked before at all, so he almost throws up, claiming he’s dying from smoke inhalation in between retches. He still reaches for it when it comes back around, though.
And, of course, Oikawa gets paranoid. 40 minutes later, he’s fully convinced that he’s never going to be able to play volleyball again because he just burned his lungs to a crisp in a single sitting, and swears off the stuff for life.
Iwaizumi just looks at him fondly, ruffles his hair, and says, “Sure, Soberkawa.”
Oikawa doesn’t really want to think about why the hand in his hair feels so nice.
A year later, he comes back, and Iwaizumi introduces him to the world of edibles. Oikawa is thrilled.
As it turns out, Iwaizumi had become kind of a connoisseur in the last year, even getting himself a medicinal marijuana card to make life a little easier.
“It’s for anxiety,” he tells Oikawa, who raises an eyebrow in return.
They trek to the dispensary down the street from Iwaizumi’s apartment and buy three tins of gummies, a couple cake pops, and a giant cookie to split, and spend the rest of the evening fucking zonked watching Futurama and drinking orange Fanta by the gallon.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, staring at his third bottle of the stuff that night. “Will this turn my eyeballs orange? Like carrots?”
“Dumbass,” Iwaizumi responds, eyes glued to the television. “Carrots don’t do that, sweet potatoes do.”
Oikawa looks at him incredulously and then bursts out laughing, falling off the couch in the process. Iwaizumi just pats his head with a smile.
Oikawa crawls back onto the couch with some difficulty, ending up laying half in Iwaizumi’s lap with his legs dangling off the armrest. Iwaizumi huffs out a breath as Oikawa settles, but doesn’t say anything.
He starts to card a hand through Oikawa’s hair, and Oikawa thinks that it might be the best thing he’s ever felt. His scalp is tingling slightly from the effects of the drug, but his skin feels like it’s on fire, and he knows it isn’t all because of the weed.
He falls asleep there, lulled by the motion of Iwaizumi’s hand and the fuzzy feeling in his chest.
The next day, he wakes up in Iwaizumi’s bed, his best friend snoring soundly beside him. He doesn’t talk about it, but no matter how hard he tries, he never quite forgets that feeling.
After that, it becomes somewhat of a tradition. Oikawa doesn’t partake unless he’s physically in California – he claims it’s because he has to watch his diet, but he’s really just scared shitless of getting caught and sent to jail if Iwaizumi tried to mail him anything and he has no idea how to go about getting it in Argentina – but when he’s there, every day is punctuated with a half a gummy and a bowl of salt and vinegar chips.
In Iwaizumi’s senior year, weed is legalized for recreational use in California. He sends Oikawa a link to the first article he finds, and gets about 300 emojis of leaves and trees in return.
That year, when Oikawa visits, they try their hand at making their own edibles.
Iwaizumi is on track to become an athletic trainer, and Oikawa is officially a starter on his team. They both can’t afford to eat like shit for a week straight, even if it is for the sake of getting high, so Iwaizumi finds instructions online for making weed butter and buys some organic peanut butter and chocolate protein powder to make cookies with.
It’s a disaster.
The kitchen in his apartment absolutely reeks and it’s a good thing Iwaizumi’s flatmate is a stoner because anyone who wasn’t used to the smell would have keeled over on the spot upon entering. They make way too much butter (“Iwa-chan forgot to adjust the serving size, didn’t he?” “Shut the fuck UP, Shittykawa”) and end up with four tupperware containers full of the stuff to give to his friends. They burn the first batch of cookies beyond the point where they can salvage anything, and nearly start a fire when they accidentally drop a dish towel into the oven while trying to dispose of them.
After a few batches of failures, though, they finally extract a tray covered in what look like passable sugar-free peanut butter cookies, packed with equal amounts of protein and THC.
They let them cool, making a few more batches with the remaining butter, and then settle in for the night with a cookie each, three boxes of La Croix, and a pantry filled with snacks.
They find out the hard way that they made the cookies way too strong.
Two hours later, Oikawa watches as Iwaizumi lets his head fall back against the couch and stares at the ceiling, softly humming the tune to the second Bleach opening under his breath.
Oikawa is sprawled out on the couch with his legs thrown over Iwaizumi’s lap, his head lolling off the side on the opposite end, trying to make sense of why the paint looks like it’s liquid, rippling on the ceiling like waves of marshmallow fluff.
“Crappy,” Iwaizumi grunts.
Oikawa doesn’t respond.
“Crappyka- crappy-cow,” Iwqaizumi tries again, his voice thick.
“S’not my name,” Oikawa mumbles, his mouth equally as dry as he assumes Iwaizumi’s is.
“Is too,” Iwaizumi responds, then bursts into a fit of giggles.
Oikawa just looks at him. There’s a smile on his face the size of the sun, and just as bright. It might be the weed, or the light from the lamp beside him, but Iwaizumi looks like he’s glowing.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says with purpose.
Iwaizumi hums and looks over at him.
“Play with my hair,” he demands.
Iwaisumi snorts, but beckons for him to come sit on the floor in front of him. He spreads his knees apart to make room, and Oikawa settles between them.
The moment Iwaizumi’s blunt nails make contact with his scalp, Oikawa knows he’s fucked. His head falls back of its own accord, leaning against Iwaizumi’s thigh, but Iwaizumi doesn’t flinch. He just keeps running his fingers through Oikawa’s hair.
They sit like that for a long time, but at some point, Iwaizumi’s fingers start to dip lower, scratching at the short hairs at the back of Oikawa's neck. He runs his whole hand from the base of his neck to the front of his head, and his fingers snag on a tangle, pulling slightly. Oikawa moans.
His eyes shoot open just as Iwaizumi’s hand stills, and he thinks he might be dying. No, scratch that, he’s definitely dying. He’s dead. He has to be.
A moment goes by where neither of them say anything, Oikawa far too embarrassed to move at all, let alone speak. Then, Iwaizumi grabs a handful of Oikawa’s hair and tugs. On purpose.
Oikawa gasps and his eyelashes flutter because he’s high as shit and has no filter, and Iwaizumi chuckles from behind him.
“Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing,” Iwaizumi murmurs, his voice low.
Oikawa is stunned.
He turns slowly – which is difficult, because Iwaizumi still has a fistful of his hair – and levels Iwaizumi with a look that he hopes says something along the lines of ‘what the fuck?’ but is probably closer to ‘I’m all the way in outer space right now and have no idea what is going on.’
Iwaizumi grins, his eyelids droopy and his pupils wide.
“I’m gonna say this because I’m fucked up and I have no fear,” he says, “but that kind of did something to me.”
“What?” Oikawa squeaks.
“I like pulling hair,” Iwaizumi continues. “And I like it even more when the other person likes it, too.”
Oikawa licks his lips, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. “Yeah?” he asks.
Iwaizumi’s eyes flick down to Oikawa’s mouth. “Yeah,” he answers.
“You don’t usually talk so much when we do this,” Oikawa whispers, turning his body to face Iwaizumi from where he still sits between his legs, his gaze unwavering.
“Tell me to shut up and I will,” Iwaizumi says, calmly.
Oikawa leans forward slightly. “What if I make you, instead?”
Iwaizumi surges forward and grabs Oikawa by the jaw, crashing his lips into his own. Oikawa groans into the touch, fully aware that they definitely need to talk about this once they’ve sobered up, but for now just content to feel it.
His lips are buzzing where they meet Iwaizumi's, his palms hot where they rest on his thighs. He’s kissed people before, obviously, and done a lot more, but never high. Never like this. And never Iwaizumi.
It’s… different. It feels like a lot of things all at once, like some of his senses are being amplified tenfold and others are being dulled to the point where he isn’t even sure where his knees are at the moment, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s happy. He’s stoned out of his mind, he’s making out with his best friend, and he’s happy.
The other shit can wait.