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He paints his eyes in self depreciation, two smooth lines on each to make him beautiful, and dots of concealing cream smattering his face to gloss over flaws that Iwaizumi has yet to find. The face that stares back in the mirror is what everyone has seen for years, since he doesn’t even go to practice without doing his makeup first.
He ignores the inflamed ache in his knee, its brace lying forgotten on top of his dresser. Today is the obligatory day to keep it off, so Iwaizumi doesn't worry even more than usual. Every step induces a well-masked wince, but it’s alright, since Iwa-chan won't see how weak he is.
If he sees the ugly side of you, he’ll leave.
It had started as a joke, really. Early in high school, as a thought of "maybe he'll think I'm pretty". Oikawa began to cover up a scar here, a dark mark there. Before long, his eyes were rimmed in dark brown, and his eyelashes long and fluttering. It became a daily routine, and Iwaizumi never mentioned the difference, though Oikawa realized that Iwaizumi’s eyes followed him more often, studied his face with a note of sincerity. But as years passed his knee worsened and his self-esteem plummeted, and it had evolved into a crutch. Instead of attempting to draw Iwaizumi's attention, now it glossed over his ugly flaws in an effort to hide them from his childhood friend.
So he wouldn't leave.
It's their last game of the tournament, and they’re met with bitter defeat. The pair sits in the empty locker room, Iwaizumi’s arms around his shoulders to bandage his shattered dream. His mascara runs with the tears, and Iwaizumi stares intently at his face. Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat, eyes clenching shut at the intense gaze. He can only hope that he didn’t sweat off the foundation over his cheeks and chin so that there’s nothing for Iwaizumi to judge.
But the embrace around his shoulders disappears, and he opens his eyes to see Iwaizumi stand and turn away from him. Oikawa can't move words past his tears to beg him to stay. He can only stare at his knees, trembling.
Walking over to his bag, Iwaizumi pulls out the small packet of makeup wipes that he's felt obligated to carry ever since Oikawa began this phase several years ago, tucked into his bag right next to the painkillers and spare knee brace. He takes a cloth from the packet and returns to the bench, crouching down and gently rubbing over Oikawa's eyes and down around his face to remove the skin colored cream. When all of it is done, Oikawa blinks up at him with abject fear in his eyes.
Exhaustion rings his eyes, and several acne scars decorate his chin and forehead. His eyes are less accentuated, but no less captivating. Iwaizumi suddenly remembers talking about galaxies as children, and accidentally blurting out that his favorite would be a galaxy of chocolate as he stared into those eyes.
He brings his lips down, pressing a kiss to every mark, every imperfection that adds up to make Oikawa unique. So much beauty had been hidden for so long, covered up by matte colors and promises of perfection.
"You've been hiding from me," he murmurs, face nuzzling into chestnut locks. Oikawa shakes like a leaf in the embrace, petrified that the warm body against his own will vanish.
Suddenly he pulls back, cupping Oikawa's face in his hands tightly, forcing him to make eye contact. "Tooru, you're beautiful."
He shakes his head rapidly, breaking free from Iwaizumi’s grip. He can hear the tremor in his own voice but forces his words around it. “I’m ugly, Iwa-chan. Why would you want to be around someone like me?”
And then Iwaizumi is mad. Livid, honestly, that the angel he stares at daily thinks there’s a demon hidden under his mask.
Oikawa Tooru is no demon king.
There’s a pause before Iwaizumi tilts Oikawa’s chin up, fitting their lips together in a firm declaration. It’s to shut Tooru up, placate him, press reassurances as deeply into his skin as he can manage. Oikawa’s sniffling when he pulls away, clinging desperately to Iwaizumi’s shoulders, hands with tight grips on his jersey. He’s bare in front of the spiker, but the affection he’s being showered in makes his heart destroy the insecurity that Iwaizumi will leave. When his makeup is gone and he’s a sniveling mess on his shirt, Iwaizumi just holds him tighter than before, carding through his hair and tracing small patterns along his back. He gasps out the name “Hajime” until he can hardly breathe and Iwaizumi carries him home.
That evening, when Iwaizumi reaches into Oikawa’s bag and moves the makeup kit into his own duffle, Oikawa just presses another kiss to his chapped lips.