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Five-year-old Oikawa was too young to understand the words on his wrist. He knew what they said, yes- ‘What? Hey, dummy, don’t call me that!’- But he didn’t really know why they were there. He had asked his mother countless times, but she just got that strange wistful look in her eye and tapped him on the nose, saying, “You’ll understand when you’re older, sweetie, trust me,”
According to his mother, there were a lot of things he would understand when he was older. Things like marriage and why girls had different pee-parts than boys, and why swearing was bad, even if it was on TV. But when five year old Iwaizumi had come over, all rosy-cheeks and mussed raven hair and scabbed knees, and Oikawa had said,
“Hello, Iwa-chan!” The other had snapped back, faster than lightning, “ What? Hey, dummy, don’t call me that!” Oikawa realised with a jolt that those were the words etched into his skin.
“Hey!” he had exclaimed clumsily, pushing up his sleeve so the shorter could see his words. “We match!”
“Oh,” The other frowned with mild interest, revealing his own words, and Oikawa saw the smooth, elegant script that read, “Hello, Iwa-chan!”
“What does that mean?” Iwa-chan (and yes, at first Oikawa had been calling him that to rile him up, but when he saw the soft ink on the other boy’s skin it became more permanent, fixed, like the tattoo was a brand Oikawa had set there that belonged to him alone) and he shrugged.
“I don’t know. Mum said i’d know when i was older.”
“Oh,” Iwa-chan said again, rolling his sleeve back down, the ink hidden from sight once again. “I’ll ask dad. He’ll know.”
“Cool,” Oikawa nodded. “Wanna play on the swings?”
Iwa-chan smirked, “Race you,” And the matching tattoos were forgotten, like they hadn’t ever been there in the first place.
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Later that week, (They’ve started seeing each other every day, and the shorter has fallen into the role of best friend. It’s like there’s a magnet in his stomach, pulling him towards Iwa-chan and his stupid spiky hair and voice that is way too deep for a five year old, and Iwa-chan seems to feel the same way, because albeit all the ‘Oi, Trashykawa!’ ‘s and ‘You Dummy!” ‘s, the other still shows up on his doorstep every day, shyly asking if Oikawa wants to play, “And my dad gave me pocket money, so we can go to the corner store as long as you pay me back”- Which Oikawa never does, but neither of them mention it anyway.) ,they’re sitting in the park, by the tiny creek, skinny, bruised legs dangling in the water, and Oikawa;s shoes and socks are getting wet because he hasn’t bothered to take them off. They’re both silent, and Oikawa is wondering if it could be classed as ‘a comfortable quiet’, because he’s heard that phrase a lot on TV and and this isn’t exactly uncomfortable, because the sound of crickets chirping and water trickling and Iwa-chan humming some commercial jingle under his breath isn’t half bad, and neither is the grass tickling his bare legs, or the feel of Iwa-chan’s hand ever-so-lightly grazing his own.
“I asked my dad,” Iwa-chan confesses suddenly, “What the matching tattoos mean,”
“Oh? Them?” Oikawa says, trying to sound like they haven’t been the sole thing on his mind since he met the shorter boy.
“He says-” Iwa-chan pauses, nose scrunched up (And something at the back of Oikawa’s mind registers how cute he is), like he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “That we have a very special bond between us.”
“Oh,” Oikawa says, and it doesn’t cross his mind for an instant that that type of bond might be different than friendship. “Does that mean we’re best friends?”
Iwa-chan looked uncomfortable. “If you want us to be,” he says quietly, picking at a clump of grass, and for the first time since Oikawa’s met him, he sounds his age.
“Of course, dummy,” Oikawa said affectionately, swiping at the other half-heartedly. “Best friends for life. If we break it, we’re cursed, because of the tattoo!”, and Iwa-chan nodded solemnly, like Oikawa was spouting out some great prophecy.
“Pinky promise. And show me your fingers, so you can’t cross them” He says fiercely, and they lock fingers, chocolate orbs staring into hazel determinedly, daring Oikawa to break the promise. Oikawa has never seen anyone so serious about anything, and his chest squeezes up in a funny way he’s never felt before, like somebody’s knocked all the air from him.
“Best friends,” Oikawa repeated a little awe-struck, and every time he closes his eyes he sees Iwa-chan’s smiling face.
He relayed their conversation to his mother at dinner, grinning widely, and he was confused when she went pale, telling him, “Boys can’t have a special connection to each other. It’s not normal. It’s wrong.”
OIkawa frowns. shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “We’re best friends, mom. I pinky promised,” He tells her, with as much importance as a five-year old can muster.
“Best Friends?” she says slowly, as if she can’t quite understand. “You promise that’s all, right? You’d tell me if it was…..” She hesitates, looking at anything but Oikawa’s face. “Something more than that?”
“Pinky promise,” Oikawa tells her firmly, although he’s confused because, what comes after best friends? His mother ignores his outstretched hand, but she looks calmer, nodding slightly.
“Good,” she says loudly, like she’s convincing herself. “Good.”
That night, Oikawa touches his pinky, running chubby fingers up and down the strip Iwa-chan touched. Oikawa closes his eyes and pretends that it’s the shorter boy’s hand against his again, and he wonders what his mother would say if she knew.
The next day, Oikawa tells Iwa-chan they can still have their special bond, just not talk about it. The other punches him and won't speak to him until Oikawa promises to buy him a lollipop from the store. (“ Yes, Iwa-chan, a raspberry-flavoured one, but only if you come out. Yes, i promise that i’ll let you give the cashier the money”)
They don’t talk about the matching tattooes after that, but Oikawa finds himself wishing that the other would bring it up.
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Nine-year-old Oikawa is in PSHCE when he first hears the word, ‘Soulmates.’
He’s sitting next to Iwa-chan, like always, and neither are really paying attention, also like always. They’re trying to have a thumb war without being noticed by Mr. Sugawara, and Iwa-chan is winning, because Oikawa keeps getting distracted by the shivers running down his spine.
“ There is a tattoo on your wrist, as you have probably noticed,” Mr. Sugawara says all of a sudden, and Iwa-chan and him both jump back into their seats, as if they’ve been electrocuted. “The tattoo says a sentence. This sentence is very special, because it’s the first words your soulmate will say to you,”
Oikawa freezes, not daring to look at Iwa-chan. He remembers the words on his wrist and that sunny day four years ago, when they were young and fumbling and clumsy with words, too open and trusting with secrets.
A kid Oikawa doesn’t recognise waves her hand around. “What’s a soulmate?”
Mr. Sugawara smiles, eyes flashing with a strange sort of emotion Oikawa has never seen before. “The one you’re destined to spend your life with. Your fated partner. The person whose soul clicks with yours in every way possible, and you can’t help but fall in love.”
Oikawa looks at Iwa-chan then, mesmerizing the curve of his face, the way sunlight shifts and swirls in his chocolate eyes so they look like stained glass, the way his lips are plump and rose-petal-pink, slightly chapped, because he chews them when he’s nervous. He feels a thick twist of something in his gut, and he tried to remember if he feels it when he looks at any other friends
. He remembers his mother's hands tight on his shoulders, red-painted nails digging into his shoulders, and how he tried to tell himself she wasn’t hurting him on purpose.
“Boys don’t love boys,” she told him, shaking him slightly, and Oikawa was too scared to protest. “Boys who love boys are weird and strange and bad. They need help. Do you need help?”
He stares at the floor.
“Oikawa, look at me.”
“No, I don’t” he says, trying to banish the waver from his voice.
“What about Iwaizumi? Does he need help?”
His face is burning, but he can’t help himself, as he squeaks, “Iwa-chan doesn’t need help!”
He’s not expecting the sting of a hand across his face,the specks of blood already forming on his cheek, or the unmasked fury in his mother’s eyes. He’s too shocked to cry, too shocked to speak. He remembers his mum pushing him on the swing when he was six, a flower crown of daisies weaved into her long, honeydew hair, a smile hanging freely on her face. He remembers laughing and squealing, “I’m flying, mum, I’m flying!” and her laughing, hands soft and gentle on his back.
“Never call him that,” she said, voice trembling with something Oikawa doesn’t quite understand. “Never. Call him Iwaizumi. Say it. Say his name.”
“Iwa-” he swallows, the word strange and awkward and heavy on his tongue. “Iwaizumi-san.”
“Louder.”
“Iwaizumi-san.” That name means nothing to him, and his mother looks satisfied, softening the grip on shoulders. “I’m sorry, baby.” she says, stroking the side of his face gently, and he bit back the urge to slap it away. “I’m just doing it for your own good, sweetie.”
He stares at her. “For me?”
“All for you,”
Before he even knows what he’s doing, he blurts out, “Can your soulmate be the same gender as you?”
He stares at Mr. Sugawara, determined to look at him, and him alone. He can hear Iwa-chan’s breath hitch slightly, and he wonders if he’s looking at him.
“Why, yes,” Mr. Sugawara says, frowning slightly. “Of course they can.”
“Oh.” Oikawa says. “Isn’t that wrong? Don’t boys have to be with girls?”
Mr. Sugawara frowned, creases appearing on the bridge of his nose.
“Why do you say that?”
OIkawa looked down. “Isn’t it disgusting?”
Mr. Sugawara pauses, opening his mouth, and snapping it shut.
“Who told you that?” he says finally, and OIkawa blushes.
“My mum,” he confesses, and he hears a sharp bang coming from Iwa-chan’s direction. He doesn’t dare look over.
The crease in Mr. Sugawara’s nose deepens. “It’s not wrong at all,” he says, but gentler this time, as if he’s talking to a small child. “Would you like to speak privately? After class?”
“Okay,” he says softly, staring at his hands, soft and supple on his lap. “Okay.”
Iwa-chan doesn’t try to talk to him for the rest of the lesson.
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“My soulmate is a boy,” Mr. Sugawara says when they’re alone. “It’s not wrong at all,”
“Oh,” Oikawa says, feeling slow and stupid, like a donkey. “Sorry.”
Mr. Sugawara smiles, all sunshine and happiness and forgiveness, and Oikawa wonders how one person can be so kind. “Don’t be. But remember, don’t listen to all the influences in your life. Some are bad,”
Oikawa is slow, yes, but he isn’t an idiot. He pictures his mother, with her sharp cheekbones and narrowed eyes, nails digging into OIkawa’s tender skin.
“But-” he pauses, swallows thickly. “Okay.”
Mr. Sugawara stares at him strangely for a second, golden eyes clouded with doubt.
“Okay.” he repeats. “Come to me if you ever need to talk.”
Oikawa feels naked under the teacher’s gaze, like his very soul is being picked apart and organised from every angle. “Thank, you sir.” he says, nearly falling over in his haste to leave that room, the air coated with suffocating memories. Iwa-chan isn’t waiting for him outside the door.
When he finally finds him, he’s eating lunch alone, and looks surprised when Oikawa sits across from him.
“Yoo-hoo,” Oikawa says.
Iwa-chan grunts around a mouthful of rice, eyes fluttered closed. Long, charcoal lashes rest lightly on peaches and cream cheekbones, and Oikawa faintly wonders if somebody should be allowed to look that beautiful with soy sauce slopped all down their front.
He watches Iwa-chan eat in silence, and he thinks of yesterday, where there chatter would of been overflowing with, “Crappykawa”’s and “Iwa-chan, so mean!”’s and, “Everyone knows I’m the real womanizer around here,”’s
He wonders if they’ll be this silent every day.
“Let’s join volleyball club,” He says suddenly, because he needs something to fill the gaps of quiet between them, and volleyball is the first thing that pops into his head.
He’s surprised when Iwa-chan’s eyes slip open, and he says, “Okay, sure,” Bits of sauce still at the corner of his lips.
He’s even more surprised when he becomes good at volleyball, really good, and Iwa-chan starts looking at him with pride and fondness, something that makes his heart beat a little faster than it should.
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“Are you overworking yourself again?”
fifeteen-year-old Oikawa flinches. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know who’s there, he can tell by the cool, bored voice that still sets something swirling in his stomach like he’s a 13-year-old schoolgirl.
“I’m fine, Iwa-chan. Are you my mom?”
He tries to make it come off as light and teasing, but he winces when it sounds exhausted, even to him. He hears a long, dramatic sigh behind him, and a smile pricks at the corners of his mouth when he imagines Iwa-chan holding his heart melodramatically, shaking his head in an over-the-top way.
“Dumbass,” he hears, but both of him know he doesn’t mean it.
He serves another volleyball in reply, watching it slam to a finish at the end of the court.
Iwa-chan whistles.
“You’re getting really good,” he says softly, and Oikawa realises he’s moved closer with a jolt, when he feels warm breath at the back of his neck.
“The ladies don’t chase after me only for my great looks, Iwa-chan.” He says, glad his blush doesn’t spread to the back of his neck.
“But it’s also 3 am.”
“Excellent observation, Sherlock.”
Laughter, deep and thick, like rich honey spilling over the space between them.
“Get in the car, Oikawa.”
“You’re too young to drive, Iwa-chan. Naughty, naughty.”
“Yeah, you’re too young to drink. And have sex. Doesn’t stop you.”
He realises his mistake as soon as it leaves his mouth, but Oikawa is already shaking.
“I’m so-” he starts, but Oikawa cuts him off harshly.
“Don’t. Don’t. It’s true.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s ok, Oikawa.”
“I’m always so horrible to you, Iwaizumi. I’m sorry. I know-”
“Oikawa,” Iwa-chan says, and that’s all he needs to say, because OIkawa nearly broke the golden rule.
never mention soulmates
never mention the words on your wrist
never mention how ours match
His wrist is burning, itching, and his arm is crowded with bruises from volleyball and home. (“ I didn’t know it was possible to get this many marks from a sport either, Iwa-chan, but there you go” ) And bile stings like acid in the back of his throat.
“Let’s go home,” Iwa-chan says, but it’s so forced and false, each word like a stake to Oikawa’s heart.
“Okay,” Oikawa says, and he turns his back on the court, littered with volleyballs, and pretends not to notice when Iwa-chan won’t look him in the eye. The night is cool and dark when they arrive at his house, and they step out of the car together, staring at Oikawa’s front door. The living room light is on, and Oikawa can see a silhouette waiting at the window. He already knows who it is, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling Iwa-chan into a hug, craving the feel of sturdy, calloused hands on his back, and nutmeg-scented breath on his cheek.
“Oikawa?” he hears when he turns away, and he freezes.
“Yeah?”
“Why do you still call me Iwa-chan?”
The image of Iwaizumi’s wrist is as clear as the day it was made in his mind, and he thinks of the neatly printed ‘Iwa-chan’ there, in a handwriting he now recognises as his own. He remembers thinking that it was like a brand he put on him, saying that Iwa-chan was his and his alone, not Iwaizumi, Iwa-chan. And he kept calling him that as a reminder, of their fate that could never be undone.To say, Look at us. Look at this pathetic mess we have made, but you will always be mine, no matter what happens.
“Because it suits you, Iwa-chan!” he answers, forcing his voice to be cheery, and he waits until he hears Iwa-chan’s car rev into life and crunch out of the driveway. His mother is waiting for him at the door, and he convinces Iwa-chan that the black eye he has the next day is because he tripped in the dark.
(“You’re so clumsy lately,” Iwa-chan comments at lunch, but it sounds more like an accusation than anything.)
Iwa-chan finds him in the gym three more times that week, the last with tears running down his face, collapsed on the floor, clutching his knee. Iwa-chan picks him up silently and drives him to the hospital, and Oikawa pretends to be asleep on his chest when he hears Iwa-chan start to cry.
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He wakes up in a hospital bed, and everything is white and cold and stinks of disinfectant. He wants to cry and then he notices Iwa-chan asleep on his bedside table, hair ruffled into bat wings, and he’s made of the most beautiful shades of colour and scents and sounds Oikawa has ever seen. He notices the way his leg is winched above him, bundled in a scratchy white cast. The white clock at the end of the room reads noon. It’s a school day, Oikawa realises, and wonders what Iwa-chan is doing here.
He wonders where his mother is.
He falls back asleep to the sound of Iwa-chan’s breathing, and he dreams that they’re five again, at the small creek in the park they used to go to, dangling their feet in the water, listening to the crickets chirp, and Iwa-chan hum the jingle to a brand that’s long out of business. He dreams of them wearing short-sleeved shirts, proud of the words on their wrist, laughing and chatting and for once not tiptoeing around them. He dreams of his mother with a daisy crown weaved into her honeydew hair, laughing as she twirls barefoot in the garden, a long, white dress swirling round her ankles, the sunset setting her beautiful face aglow.
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”Is he going to be okay? Please, tell me.” the voice is blurred and muted, like someones taken an eraser and smudged it, but he’d recognise it as Iwa-chan’s anywhere.
“He’s on a lot of painkillers right now, sir, but we are only allowed to disclose more information to family and soulmates.” A second voice says. He doesn’t recognise it, but he can tell it’s a woman's, and he’s surprised when he feels jealousy twisting in his gut. He wonders if she’s pretty. He wishes he could leap up to him and show her their matching tattoos, snarl, “He’s mine,”
“I am his soulmate, dammit, please let me see him,”
“Wrist, please?”
“His says,” There’s a heavy sigh, pained and thick. “It says, “What? Hey, dummy, don’t call me that!”
What?
That’s the words on his wrist. He knows them more than his own face, more than his gentle curves of chestnut hair and glimmering copper eyes, more than his sharply slanted cheekbone and button nose that girls go crazy over. Those are his words, and they are a secret. Why Is Iwa-chan saying them?
There’s rustling for a few minutes, and Oikawa can hear the scratching of pen on paper.
“Clear,” The female says, and before his mind can process what is happening, there’s the heavy scrape of a chair next to him, and a warmth closes around his hand. He feels warm puffs on his face that are more comfortable than he’s like to admit, and the scent of nutmeg bleaches his senses. He wonders faintly why Iwa-chan’s face is so close to his, then comes to the overall decision that he doesn’t really mind. (And tries to ignore the small niggling thought at the back of his head saying, this isn’t right. Two boys this close are wrong . )
He wakes up three hours later with a limp and a cast and pretends he never heard anything, and that he doesn’t notice the drool staining his clothes, from when Iwa-chan fell alseep on him. He doesn’t complain when Iwa-chan lectures him on “overworking himself, how he’s lucky it isn’t permanent, how he’s an absolute dumbass who needed to be monitored 24/7 apparently, because he seems to be having trouble doing basic human tasks, such as eating, and sleeping, and doing other things with your damn life than practice volleyball, crappykawa, you’re already amazing. ”
Oikawa just smiles.
----------------------------
The next day, he goes to Mr. Sugawara.
“Iwa-chan is my soulmate,” Is the first thing he says, barely waiting for the door to close. Mr. Sugawara jumps slightly, looking surprised to see him. His ash blonde hair is tousled slightly, and some small reading glasses are perched on the end of his nose. There’s a picture in his hands, of him and another man with dark hair and broad shoulders, both smiling brightly and displaying their wrists to the camera. Mr. Sugawara’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his bare arms, and the large, clumsy script on one reads, ‘Wow. Um, wow. You’re- wow.”
“Oikawa?” Mr. Sugawara says, and Oikawa deflates slightly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sugawara, I’m wasting your time, i’ll go-”
“No! No,” Mr. Sugawara gestures to a small red stool tucked under his desk. “Take a seat, Oikawa. And please, call me Suga”
-----------------------------------------
Oikawa starts to notice the deep jealousy in Iwa-chan’s eyes whenever he get’s a confession. (Which is, actually, a lot.) It gives him a funny feeling in his gut, that twists and turns like a snake and isn’t that bad, so he speaks sweetly and accepts their presents and always throws them a wink, or peace sign. He feels awful when the look in Iwa-chan’s eye sends tingles down his spine, when he delighted in how Iwa-chan stood so close to him he could feel his breath on the back of his neck, like he was his bodyguard, but then he remembered Suga, with his warm eyes and easy smile, and how his face shone like the actual sun when he talked about soulmates and love and and anything to do with Daichi, as Oikawa learnt he was called, and for the first time in his fifeteen years, OIkawa wonders if his mother was wrong.
He chases that thought away with a sick feeling in his stomach as soon as it appears, but it burrows in the back of his mind, a small seed of hope that he can’t quite bring himself to brush away.
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Sixeteen-year-old Oikawa is finally allowed back on the court, and it’s like he never left.
He jumps and tosses and dumps and spikes, each with a flair of elegance and style that is uniquely his, and he knows it. He soaks up the surprise in everyone's faces, but pauses when he gets to Iwa-chan’s, because it’s that look again, the one that make his stomach tie itself into knots, and his heart leap into his throat like it’s in a high jumping contest. He conducts his team with elegance- and it’s his now, he can say it’s his, because even if he’s not captain, the setter conducts the team and by god, is he conducting it. They all know he’ll be captain next year, as well, and they know he knows it too, by the way his smirk is smugger than ever, and his peace-signs are even more frequent than usual.
Oikawa Tooru is in his element, and it’s obvious.
He doesn’t have to worry about his mother and the words on his wrist here, on the court. All that matters is the ball and the players and the reassuring squeak of gym shoes on the polished wood floor.
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“Where have you been?”
His mother is leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed, plump, red lips pursed. Her honeydew hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a few golden strands left framing her tan face. Her large, expressive eyes are are a swirl of blues, like waves crashing gently against each other. She’s dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans, but she still looks so beautiful, so casual, and in that moment, Oikawa hates her more than anything.
“Talking to a teacher,” he replies. It’s the truth.
“Which one?”
“Sugawara Koushi.” His hands are shaking, and he puts his pen down quickly, before he drops it.
His mother’s mouth drops open, eyes bugging wide. “Don’t talk to him anymore. I’ve heard bad things about him.”
“Like what?” He asks, although he already knows the answer.
“He’s-” She glances around, making sure no one but he can hear. “He’s gay,” She whispers it like it’s a dirty secret, an awful insult, and Oikawa thinks of soft ashy hair and shining gold eyes and a laugh that reminded him of ringing bells, and he is angry, angrier than he’s ever been before.
“So?” he spits, and his mother jerks back, almost comically.
“He’s messed up,” she replies slowly, as if she’s explaining something to a child.
“Mum,” he says, and he’s taking off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves before he can stop himself. “Look at this, mum. Look at this.” And it’s his wrist, the words clear and proud on it as the day he was born. “You know who i’m matched with, mum, you know it’s a guy. You know it’s Iwa-chan.”
His mum is shaking like she’s never shook before, and remember the day ten years ago when he and Iwa-chan linked fingers, when Iwa-chan told him they had something special between them, and his mother who promised she loved him, took that special thing between them away from him, and he hates her with a passion she’s ever known before.
“I tried to save you,” she whisperes, eyes staring off into the difference like she’s reading off something, and Oikawa nearly laughs.
“No, mum,” he says. “No, you did not.”
In his mind, he strutted out of there like a hero with a packed suitcase and his mother begging him to stay.
What really happened was he knocked on Iwa-chan’s door at one am with nothing but his volleyball uniform and an E.T plushie, after gaining a split lip and a bruised calf, and losing his only family left, and his home.
Iwa-chan answered, in too-big pajamas, rubbing his eyes, mumbling,”Oikawa, i know this is one of your stupid attempts to-”
He trailed off when he saw the tear tracks staining his cheeks, the blood dribbling on his chin, the way he wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Oikawa? Oh, my go- OIkawa? Oikawa, are you okay? Oh my god, what happened?”
The stared at eachother for a second, before Oikawa cracked a weak grin, saying, “The fangirls got a little rowdy.”
Iwa-chan let out a weird, strangled kind of sob, and then, for the first time since he was nine and he talked to Suga for the first time, and he found out what a soulmate was- Oikawa began to cry.
He felt warmth around him, the scent of nutmeg and coffee and crisping autumn leaves enveloping his senses, and he felt Iwa-chan all around him. The porch was cool and hard under there bare feet, and Oikawa ugly-cried all over Iwa-chan’s shoulder, feeling his hand rubbing back gently, feeling a voice whisper softly into his ear, too quick for him to understand anything, until Iwa-chan’s parents woke up.
He slept on Iwa-chan’s floor that night, and the next day, they set up a bed for him in the spare room.
He was so scared though, scared to say anything wrong, act too friendly towards any male, talkback, come home late, and he knew they noticed how he blanched in terror when they came too close.
He was learning, though. That was all that mattered.
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“Oikawa,” Iwa-chan said one day. “You’re a dumbass.”
“I know,” he replied. They were lying on Iwa-chan’s bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling.
“Just checking,”
“Cool,” OIkawa says, and Iwa-chan joins their hands, angling them so their words press together, and for once, Oikawa doesn't pull away.
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Seventeen-year-old Oikawa Tooru wins them the nationals.
It wasn’t just him, of course- each player is amazing in their own way- after all, they are aoba johsai, and each one of them have worked equally hard to get them here.
But Oikawa is the leader, the conductor, with his stupid Yoo-hoo!’s and alien babble and excessive peace sign use, and none of them would have it any other way.
Iwa-chan wraps his arms around him, and smiles so widely Oikawa can almost hear it. He can see Suga in the crowd, sitting next to Daichi, radiating happiness and throwing Oikawa double-thumbs-up, and Oikawa knows it isn’t only for the game.
“Hey, Hajime?” Oikawa says softly, and the other stills at the use of his name. “This….this whole soulmate thing…”
“Yeah?” Iwa-chan says gently, voice bursting with thinly-masked hope.
“We could, um. We could give it a try, if you wanted.”
Iwa-chan laughs at that, bright and airy and happy, and OIkawa nearly cries with joy.
“Really?” Iwa-chan asks, eyes wide with excitement like a little kid on christmas day.
“Really,” Oikawa confirmed, eyes shining. “Jeez, Iwa-chan, i didn’t realise i was that irresistible.”
A blush burns from the base of the others neck to the tips of his eyes, and he pouts, grumbling, “Oh, shuddup, Trashykawa. You ruined the moment.”
“Oh no, not the moment!”
Iwa-chan just smiles stupidly again, tangling there hands together, and for the first time in sixteen years, Oikawa Tooru feels alive.