Work Text:
“Look at that,” said Oikawa, smoothing out the end of the tape measure against the wall. “You grew like three millimeters.”
“Really?” Iwaizumi turned his head and squinted at the tape. “Shit, I actually grew this year. Hey, I think it looks more like three and a half, too.”
“That is not a half a millimeter,” Oikawa said with a laugh. “You can’t even measure a half-millimeter. You’re so desperate.”
Iwaizumi pointed at the tape. “That’s a damn half millimeter, you blind old man.”
“Stop stealing my insults! That’s what I call you.”
“Then stop stealing my sweaters,” he said, shrugging his jacket back on.
“Wait—you’re leaving already?” said Oikawa, helplessly eyeing the jacket.
“My mom wants me back home for dinner.” Iwaizumi glanced back up as he buttoned his jacket, noticing Oikawa’s sullenness. He gave a small smile and looked down again. “But I’ll come by later, yeah?”
“Okay,” said Oikawa. He ran his tongue hard against his teeth, desperately trying to keep his smile casual. “We can do homework.”
Iwaizumi was in the doorway, lingering. Finding a way to say goodbye felt like a monumental task. Oikawa lifted a hand to wave, then decided that was too weird and aborted the action, his hand instead landing on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He gripped the door with his other hand and leaned forward, careful to avoid looking at Iwaizumi’s expression.
He meant it to be quick and thoughtless, as if it was a thing they’d always done and always would do. He meant it to be no big deal.
But when Oikawa’s lips touched skin, so close the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth and not his cheek like he had intended, he lingered. He didn’t know how much time passed them by while they stood there, their faces gently pressed against each other’s and wishing the rest of their body would follow suit; two seconds or four, he couldn’t measure it precisely, but it matched the length of the soft exhale leaving Iwaizumi’s mouth.
When he pulled away with a surprisingly coherent “Bye,” Iwaizumi didn’t leave, just blinked.
“I don’t know,” said Iwaizumi, “if you’re teasing or just being a wuss.”
Iwaizumi’s kiss was hard but quick, and Oikawa found himself leaning forward for another one when Iwaizumi pulled back. He let go of the door, leaving the solid wood for Iwaizumi’s back. The black cotton T-shirt bunched up in his fists, a slight tremor in his hands.
“Can’t believe you’re calling me a wuss,” Oikawa said. “You’re a wuss.”
“You don’t wanna play this game,” Iwaizumi said.
Iwaizumi pressed his cheek against Oikawa’s, lips close to his ear, so that Oikawa wouldn’t see him smile.
“Are you saying that because you know you’ll lose?” said Oikawa.
He would probably would lose at this rate, Iwaizumi thought, able to smell the faint scent of Oikawa’s shampoo.
He kissed Oikawa’s jaw just once before pulling away for good.
“Don’t test me,” said Iwaizumi. “I’m competitive.”
They reluctantly pulled apart, and Oikawa watched him go.
Iwaizumi was two meters away before he made a smooth U-turn and marched back, one solid foot stepping onto the front steps as he pulled Oikawa down by the shirt collar and kissed him.
“I lose,” Iwaizumi said as he let go, and walking away once more seemed like the hardest thing on Earth.
He didn’t look back, but grinned when he heard Oikawa’s laugh.
/
When it was almost dark out and his mother was finally satisfied with spending enough time with him, Iwaizumi was back on the front steps of Oikawa’s house. He raised a hand to knock, then froze and checked his teeth in the window reflection.
Was his hair too messy? He smoothed it out.
Finally, he knocked.
Wait—was he fixing his hair for Oikawa? He suddenly felt ridiculous. This was absurd.
He ruffled his hair quickly just before the door opened.
“Iwa-chan! You’re early.”
“Hey.”
“I started studying already, so we have to start with math.”
“Is that gel in your hair?” Iwaizumi said.
He touched it with his thumb and rubbed his fingers together.
“No,” said Oikawa, frowning and looking away. “It’s just water. Because my hair was feeling… dry.”
Before Oikawa could defend himself any more, Iwaizumi pulled off his coat, letting it fall to the ground as he took Oikawa’s face with both hands and pressed their lips together.
Oikawa kissed back with a low groan in the back of his throat, which made Iwaizumi tighten his grip, thumb stroking Oikawa’s jaw. When Oikawa felt Iwaizumi’s tongue on his bottom lip, his eyes widened and he pulled back.
“Wait, wait.”
“What’s wrong?” said Iwaizumi. He stepped back, eyes fearful.
“Nothing. Just— we were supposed to be studying.”
Iwaizumi’s eyes went to the notebooks and textbooks on the coffee table, then back to Oikawa.
“You mean you were serious?” he said. “You really meant you wanted do homework?” With a shrug, he sat down on the couch and pulled a textbook into his lap. “Okay.”
“No, I meant— well, yeah, I was serious about doing work. But that doesn’t mean we can’t— you know.”
“So,” said Iwaizumi, confused, “which one do you want to do?”
“Both,” he said like it was obvious. “We’re supposed to study first and then one thing leads to another and we’re both sitting on the couch and then we’re supposed to kiss—spontaneously.”
“So you planned this out… to be spontaneous.”
“I didn’t ‘plan it out.’ That’s just the way it’s normally supposed to happen!”
“Says who?” said Iwaizumi.
Oikawa rolled his eyes and sat down next to him, forcing him to scoot over. “Have you seen a movie or read a book, ever?”
Iwaizumi turned his head and looked him dead in the eye. “No.”
They stared each other down until they broke their gazes at the same time, turning away with annoyed sighs.
“Does it have to be so needlessly complicated?” said Iwaizumi.
Oikawa smiled and tilted his head. “Don’t you enjoy the dramatics of our unfolding love story?”
And just like that Iwaizumi burst into laughter, hand slapped over his face. It was funny and genuinely embarrassing at the same time, because he said “unfolding love story” (love?) and he had to go and say it like that.
He knew Oikawa was joking, but it was more than a joke now, because they really did have a sort of—cringe—“unfolding love story.” And Iwaizumi could play along, if it put Oikawa at ease.
He tossed Oikawa his notebook and a pencil, then cracked open a book himself. They stared at each other with challenging eyes, struggling to keep from smiling, before actually getting to work.
/
It was almost midnight when Iwaizumi’s phone buzzed, pulling him away from the variety show on the television that they were laughing at. He squinted at the bright screen. His mother had sent him a text asking when he’d be home.
He checked the time.
“Oh, fuck.”
“What?” said Oikawa.
“It’s midnight.”
“What? No.” Oikawa scrambled for his phone and checked the time. 23:54. “Crap. How long was our TV break? We haven’t finished the last set of problems yet.”
“Let’s just do them now and sleep,” said Iwaizumi, typing away on his phone. “I can stay over.”
Oikawa turned off the TV and rubbed his eyes. “Mmkay.”
For half an hour they worked in silence, the weight of midnight and homework making them realize their tiredness. The pencil was slipping out of Oikawa’s fingers and clinking against the glass table as soon as he finished his last problem, head dropping against Iwaizumi’s shoulder.
With a grunt, Iwaizumi tried shoving him off, but Oikawa just leaned in further. His nose pressed against Iwaizumi’s throat, and he smiled when couldn’t hear Iwaizumi’s breaths anymore.
Iwaizumi tried nudging him once more. “I gotta do a few more problems.”
Oikawa bit him lightly on his shoulder. Iwaizumi tried to suppress a shiver. “You’re so slow, Iwa-chan.”
“Say that when I get a higher score than you on the next test.”
Oikawa had the nerve to laugh, which made Iwaizumi flick him on the forehead.
“Ow!” He sat up and rubbed his forehead.
“Finally.” Iwaizumi leaned forward went back to doing problems.
A second later Oikawa’s head was in his lap, shoving past his arm.
“Hey!”
“Mmm.”
The warm weight of Oikawa’s head on his thighs was supposed to be familiar, but it sent Iwaizumi’s pulse racing and his mind going a mile a minute about things Oikawa would probably end up teasing him for.
“Get off,” he said. He immediately regretted his words.
To his relief, Oikawa didn’t move.
Without thought, Iwaizumi lowered his almost steady hand until it was mere millimeters above Oikawa’s hair; it hung there, suspended in air, as if held by a string. Steady.
Finally, he let it drop. In that split second Oikawa opened his eyes, mouth parting to inhale—almost a gasp. It might’ve been a gasp. Iwaizumi couldn’t tell. His hand froze mid-stroke, almost about to pull away, when Oikawa closed his eyes again.
His fingers ran hesitantly, drawing wavering lines through Oikawa’s hair. He could do this only because Oikawa wasn’t watching; Iwaizumi didn’t think he’d be able to handle it if Oikawa looked straight at him while his index finger traced a path on his scalp, like a needle on a seismograph. He was sure Oikawa noticed that hint of shaking. He wouldn’t say anything about it, but Oikawa did notice, and if he opened his eyes at that moment they’d be looking at each other and not speaking and not smiling because there was no script for this and then Iwaizumi would feel like he was being split open in that kind of naked silence.
It wasn’t a bad feeling, though. Not bad.
He stopped, collected himself, then picked up his pencil again.
Oikawa made a face at the loss of the hand in his hair, which inspired in Iwaizumi secret glee.
After a few more minutes of pencil scratching on paper, Iwaizumi stretched his arms and laid his head back.
“Come on, I’m done,” he said.
When Oikawa didn’t respond, he patted his cheeks. Oikawa pretended not to feel it.
“Tsk.”
He touched his thumb to Oikawa’s bottom lip, pressing lightly.
Then he pulled on his chin, making his jaw move up and down.
In a high-pitched voice he said, “I’m Oikawa Tooru and I’m a giant pain in the ass who sleeps on people, and I will never get a higher test grade than Hajime—”
“Ahhh!” Oikawa slapped at Iwaizumi’s hand.
When Iwaizumi burst with rough laughter, Oikawa pulled the hand away from his chin and sat up. He gripped Iwaizumi’s face with one hand, cheeks smushed between Oikawa’s fingers and lips pouting like a fish’s.
“You’re a bad person, Iwa-chan!”
He let go and stood, smoothing out his shirt, then gave Iwaizumi a squinty glare for his smugness.
After they sorted their papers and textbooks, Iwaizumi stretched out on the couch and was about to say “Good night” when Oikawa looked at him in confusion.
“What are you doing? Let’s go to sleep,” said Oikawa, impatient.
Iwaizumi looked at the couch. “Oh, I— right,” he said, sitting up. “I’m up, I’m up.”
By the time they dragged themselves up the stairs, they were too tired to bother with pyjamas, just pulling off their pants instead. When they were finally in bed, their relief lasted only a few seconds before they looked at each other and realized they didn’t know what to do with their bodies. They had slept in the same bed before, of course.
But not with their arms around each other—not since they were little.
“Um,” said Oikawa. Are we supposed to cuddle?
Before he could voice his question aloud (with a chuckle, of course, because then that would make it not-awkward), Iwaizumi said, “I call big spoon.”
“What?” said Oikawa. “But I’m taller.”
“So?”
“That’s the rule!”
“That’s not a rule. You’re just making shit up.”
“It just makes sense!” said Oikawa. “The taller one is the big spoon. I’m the taller one.”
“It’s doesn’t matter,” Iwaizumi said, turning on his side. “Besides, I’m more muscular.”
“How dare you. I have been working out nonstop—”
“Stop arguing and turn around so we can sleep,” said Iwaizumi.
Oikawa opened his mouth, but then turned around to look at the time on his alarm clock.
“Fine. You can be the big spoon. This time. Next time is—”
“Sure, sure.”
Iwaizumi kept a hand on Oikawa’s back as Oikawa rolled over. He scooted forward until they were pressed against each other, sliding his hand over Oikawa’s side and resting it on his chest; then, all rustling and creaking ceased.
“Good night,” said Oikawa.
“G’night.”
/
“Shit!”
Iwaizumi jerked awake. “Wha— hm, what’s wrong?” he mumbled. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm and turned away from the sunlight shining at them through the window. He looked at the alarm clock. “We’re not late for school, are we?” They still had an hour to spare.
“Yesterday we were going to—do stuff. But then we actually did homework.”
“Is ‘make out’ a bad word?”
“Shut up. And it’s two words.”
“You were the one who wanted to study.”
“But I didn’t mean study the whole time! I guess we just… forgot.”
Iwaizumi yawned and said, “We could do it today. I got nothing to do.”
“Mm. Romantic.”
Iwaizumi smiled and kissed his shoulder.
Oikawa crossed his arms. “Well, I guess we could… even though it’s not spontaneous.”
“You never know,” said Iwaizumi, moving to kiss his neck. “It could be spontaneous.”
“Oh,” Oikawa said quietly, and let his eyes close.
He tried not to let out a surprised groan when Iwaizumi sucked at his skin. How the hell was anything allowed to feel this good? He tried to quiet his breathing as Iwaizumi worked at his neck. After a while his eyes flew open, and something about the sunlight made him hyper aware of the lips on his pulse. Iwaizumi’s lips. Iwaizumi’s mouth. Iwaizumi’s hand on his hips and almost past the waistband of his boxers, fingernails digging into fabric like he was struggling with something.
It was so much, it was too much, they had never done this before and Oikawa wanted it so bad, but panic rose in chest like he’d been thrown into the middle of an ocean.
“Iwa-chan,” he managed to say, tugging on the back of Iwaizumi’s shirt.
“What is it?” he said, voice raw like it was painful to pull away from Oikawa’s neck.
“Let’s get ready for school, yeah?”
Iwaizumi let his head drop against Oikawa’s chest, listening to the rapid heartbeat still as his own heavy breathing settled. They lied like that for what felt like forever, but was probably only a minute, waiting until their bodies didn’t feel like a storm.
When their breaths were almost inaudible, Iwaizumi finally lifted his head and said “Okay,” placing one last kiss on the skin between Oikawa’s jaw and neck. Oikawa’s fingers tightened around his shirt, and Iwaizumi couldn’t help but place another one on his collarbone. “Okay, we’ll go.”
On the walk to school and throughout the day, they didn’t speak much, too embarrassed about the way started their morning. It hit Iwaizumi some time before first period that that was Oikawa he had his mouth on, that was his neck he had been sucking, they used to catch bugs together when they were five and throw dirt at each other, and it was a strange and awkward and warm realization. The rest of the day went on almost normally, with them even making fun of each other to other people (Oikawa snorted—“Can you believe he makes me measure his height up the millimeter?”). But they could hardly bear to meet each other’s eyes.
The next few days, Oikawa barely texted him, which was alarming when Iwaizumi was used to getting “I’m so hungry, please come feed me” fives times a day and “I think I thought of a new possible solution to the Fermi Paradox—I’m serious this time” on the daily. Oikawa was constantly texting him while on the toilet, for god’s sake. He updated Iwaizumi on his poops. How had Oikawa gone four days with only a “Will you bring my green notebook tomorrow? I left it at your house” and “Good night!”?
Iwaizumi tapped slowly at his phone.
“Are you mad at me?”
After a moment, he backspaced rapidly. He clenched his phone for a few seconds, then tossed it across the bed.
It never used to be this hard.
His phone buzzed.
He shot up and scrambled for it, almost knocking it off the edge of the bed.
Mom: “Haha I know right”
Mom: “Sorry honey wrong person”
He groaned and dropped his phone to the carpet.
Had he done something wrong? Had he said something wrong?
Had he gone too far that morning?
He picked up his phone from off the floor.
“Were you freaked out by what I did that morning? I won’t do it again if it bothers you.”
He hit backspace as soon as he typed it.
“Hey Shittykawa, want to see Star Wars next week?”
Backspace.
“Hey”
Backspace.
For minutes he stared mindlessly at his phone screen.
Miraculously, it buzzed. His eyes widened.
Oikawa: “You know, I haven’t pooped in like 3 days. Does this mean I’m constipated?”
The quiet but heavy sigh of relief he breathed almost surprised him.
He hesitated, then responded, “Are you busy? Can I come over?”
He bit his lip harder as the seconds passed, his eyes never leaving his phone.
Oikawa: “Sure”
Oikawa: “Bring food though”
He ran out of his bedroom, grabbed a random tupperware container out of the fridge, and headed for the door so fast he almost stepped out of the house without shoes. After shoving his feet in some old flip flops, he let the door shut with a loud thump. It was only later that he realized he forgot his jacket.
/
“Did you run here?” said Oikawa, amused. “You’re out of breath.”
“What of it?” Iwaizumi said roughly.
Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “Did you bring me food?”
Iwaizumi held up the tupperware full of—he finally looked at it now—congee.
Finally, Oikawa stepped aside to let him in.
“I love you,” he said, eyes lit up as he took the tupperware out of Iwaizumi’s hands. “I was so hungry,” he whispered painfully.
And in that moment Iwaizumi was grateful to any gods that might’ve existed that Oikawa was too distracted by the food to look up—otherwise he would’ve seen Iwaizumi’s pink face and halted breath. He didn’t dare speak. (Oikawa would never let him live down the stuttering.)
After he was sure that his face was back to its normal color, he said, “You wanna watch that stupid Matsumoto Jun drama?”
Mid-scoop, Oikawa paused his slurping to look at him sharply.
“You hate that drama,” he said, voice laced with suspicion.
“I’m bored,” Iwaizumi mumbled.
Oikawa grinned, shouting “No take-backs!” as he put down his spoon and ran to the DVD case.
“Turn off the lights!” Oikawa said as he popped in the DVD.
Soon he was pulling Iwaizumi down on the couch with him, wrapping the thin couch blanket around them and holding onto his arm.
“Okay, let’s just skip to the good episodes,” said Oikawa. “Unless you want to watch the whole season?”
“Skip.”
/
So many times Iwaizumi came close to bringing it up, but he could never get the words out. He could never find the right ones, or the right moment, or enough courage. After a while he gave up, contenting himself with Oikawa’s head on his shoulders and the blanket that wrapped them together and the gleeful shine in Oikawa’s eyes when a particularly good scene came on.
“Are you watching?” Oikawa whispered after an hour, turning his head up to look up at him.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good.”
/
The TV screen was blue. Oikawa’s head was resting on Iwaizumi’s shoulders, his eyes closed; the DVD had stopped playing for ten minutes now.
“Hey, Oikawa.”
“Hmm?”
“Were you”—he exhaled—“are you mad at me?”
Oikawa pulled away, looking him in the eyes. Iwaizumi wished Oikawa hadn’t done that.
Oikawa looked confused. “What?”
“Uh, are you upset? About—the other morning.”
“Oh,” said Oikawa, looking away nervously. “I was— I’m not upset. I wasn’t upset.”
“Okay,” said Iwaizumi. But Oikawa still wouldn’t look at him. His heart ached painfully in his chest. “All right,” he whispered.
“I wasn’t,” Oikawa insisted. “I just— I was just—”
“What is it?”
“It’s not scary for you?” Oikawa whispered.
Iwaizumi was silent. Oikawa continued, “I love this, and touching you, and everything”—Iwaizumi’s heart stuttered—“but aren’t you ever nervous and embarrassed and—terrified?”
Iwaizumi’s shaky breath hung between them. He would’ve asked what Oikawa was terrified of, but he knew; there were so, so many things to be terrified of. He felt a different kind of terror every time they kissed, or he saw him laughing with another boy, or one of them brought up graduation. Finally, he said,
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
He almost smiled at the look of relief on Oikawa’s face.
“It’s just a lot sometimes, you know?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Oikawa leaned into him and fisted the shirt fabric at his sides, pressing his face against Iwaizumi’s neck because he couldn’t look at him and couldn’t not touch him at the same time.
“I think it’s a good ‘a lot’ though,” Oikawa whispered.
Iwaizumi wrapped his arms around him tight without even thinking. His fists clutched at Oikawa’s shirt, hands shaking slightly.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” said Oikawa. “Really good.” He blinked, and Iwaizumi knew this because he could feel the tickle of Oikawa’s eyelashes against his neck. “So good.”
Iwaizumi closed his eyes, wanting to feel as much as he could of Oikawa’s face against his neck and hair against his face and body in his arms, he wanted keep the soft and terrifying perfection of this moment for as long as he could hold it.
But then Oikawa’s tongue licked at his pulse and his teeth bit softly at his neck, not enough to cause pain but enough to leave a tingle, and the moment was over.
“I liked it,” Oikawa said, voice low. “When you did that.”
Iwaizumi swallowed, suddenly finding that all the air gone was from his lungs.
Oikawa ran his hands over his sides and under his shirt, tracing a line of his ribs with his thumb. He kissed him, right between his neck and shoulder.
Iwaizumi understood now why Oikawa had stopped him last time—his skin felt so hot it was almost unbearable, he felt so naked it was almost paralyzing.
He pulled Oikawa away and pushed him against the back of the couch. He stared at Oikawa’s adam’s apple bobbing, then looked up. Oikawa was biting his lip, faced flushed. Iwaizumi couldn’t tell if this was want or nervousness or both, didn’t know if he should continue.
But then Oikawa gripped the front of his shirt and urged him forward, and Iwaizumi had to stop himself from crashing their lips together.
Slowly, Iwaizumi’s lips grazed his neck.
Oikawa shivered.
Iwaizumi kissed it once, twice, three times, then stopped; he just let his lips be there, parted and pressed against Oikawa’s skin.
“Hurry up and kiss me,” tumbled out of Oikawa’s mouth; he hardly realized he was saying it.
Iwaizumi lifted his head, letting his lips skim Oikawa’s jaw before he gave in, finally kissing him on the mouth. He wasn’t good at teasing, when it came to this. He wasn’t good at waiting.
The room was calm and dark and comfortable, but they kissed so desperately it almost hurt.
Iwaizumi couldn’t help but pull away—just a centimeter, not enough to let their air between them cool—and say “God, I love you,” and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it either.
“Oh,” Oikawa breathed, almost inaudible.
Oikawa was on him as soon as those words registered, pushing him back and kissing him hard and urgent. The arm of the couch dug into Iwaizumi’s back, but he just tugged Oikawa down further, not wanting to move from this spot, not wanting Oikawa anywhere but hard against his body and on his lips. He wondered if this was some dream, if this was really happening, if he really got this lucky, if his luck would ever run out some day.
“I, um, me too,” said Oikawa, finally ceasing his kisses and catching his breath. “I— uh, I— I—”
“I know,” said Iwaizumi, cradling his face and kissing the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. I know.”
Oikawa sat on the toilet, pants around his ankles, and typed,
“You know, we haven’t even had our first date yet”
Iwaizumi: “I get the hint”
“Do you?”
Iwaizumi: “You’ve only mentioned it five times”
“Six, actually :-) Remember to wear something nice. And do something with food.”
After a few more exchanges, Iwaizumi sent, “Going to sleep now. Night”
then,
“I love you”
Oikawa almost let his phone drop to the floor, fumbling to catch it. He re-read the message and froze. He had wanted to say it back, that night on the couch, but chickened out. But it should be easier to write “I love you” it than to say it, right? So he wrote,
“I’m taking a shit right now”
and not missing a beat, Iwaizumi replied a second later: “That’s nice dear”
A week later, as they walked home and Oikawa was contemplating if it would be okay to hold Iwa-chan’s hand at the moment, they passed by a movie poster at a bus stop.
Oikawa gasped, eyes lighting up.
“What?” said Iwaizumi.
“The new Star Wars came out already—I completely forgot!”
Iwaizumi smiled, watching Oikawa reach out and touch the poster reverently.
“You wanna go see it?” said Iwaizumi.
Oikawa whipped his head around. “Tonight?”
“Um,” said Iwaizumi, “uh, how about tomorrow? I need time to—yeah. And tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Time to what? Let’s just see it tonight,” said Oikawa. “Tomorrow we have finish our group project and then go practice. We’ll be tired.”
“All right,” said Iwaizumi. “Then I can’t go to your house today. I have—stuff to do, before we go tonight.”
“What stuff?”
“Just stuff for my mom.”
“That’s fine,” said Oikawa distractedly, wondering whether he should wear his classic Star Wars logo T-shirt or his stormtrooper hoodie.
“Okay, I gotta run to the store. I’ll look up the movie times and text you later, okay?” said Iwaizumi, already half-running away.
“Okay,” he said, but Iwaizumi was already crossing the street. “See you later.”
Oikawa realized he didn’t get to kiss him goodbye, then wondered if that was a thing they were supposed to always do from now on.
He wasn’t sure, but he really, really wanted to anyhow. He would make a note of it next time.
/
“Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa.
Iwaizumi turned around and looked down at Oikawa’s clothes—a white stormtrooper hoodie and rips in his jeans.
“Hey,” he said. He tugged at the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up shirt.
“Are those new jeans?” said Oikawa.
Iwaizumi looked down at his new black pants. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Come on, let’s go inside,” said Oikawa, grabbing Iwaizumi’s arm. “I wanna get good seats.”
He smiled Oikawa’s at urgency and relished the warm hand on his arm. As Oikawa pulled him along, Iwaizumi unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, breathing a relaxed sigh.
“Yes, your highness.”
When they were in their seats (middle column, middle row) and the words started sliding across the screen, Iwaizumi cleared his throat and inched his hand towards Oikawa’s. He glanced over at him and his eyes widened, hand ceasing.
“Are you crying?”
“Shhh,” Oikawa hushed gently. There were no tears, but his eyes were unusually shiny. “It’s just been so long.”
Iwaizumi opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.
Oikawa, alternating between scrutinizing critic and devoted fan, didn’t pay any attention to Iwaizumi. He kept his hands firmly on his lap, or sometimes held his chin and squinted like he was trying to figure out if the movie had done something wrong, or held them to his chest when he stopped breathing at an intense scene. Iwaizumi struggled between mild frustration and great amusement.
“Eleventh of all,” said Oikawa as they walked out the theatre, just as the sun was setting, “I feel like they should’ve included Poe more. He was gone for most of the movie! But I suppose there’s always the next episode for him—unless they kill him off, of course. Which, going back to my ninth point—”
“Hey,” said Iwaizumi, “do you wanna stop by house before we go somewhere else?”
Oikawa, too distracted by his upcoming twelfth point, said “Sure” and didn’t think about what “somewhere else” was.
/
“You know, I feel like people can’t tell you’re actually a kinky freak just by looking at you, but you are, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” said Iwaizumi, hand flat against Oikawa’s back as they turned a corner.
Oikawa tugged at his blindfold. “Couldn’t you have at least gotten one made out of silk?”
“Why do I ever do try to do anything nice?”
After after ten more minutes of walking, Iwaizumi had Oikawa wait for another minute while he set up, then let out a breath and said, “We’re here.”
He untied Oikawa’s blindfold.
Oikawa looked around, blinking.
“Hey, we’re at the park.”
“Yeah,” said Iwaizumi, rubbing the back of his neck. “I— I brought food. So… you know.”
Oikawa looked down at what Iwaizumi had been setting up—a large, faded beige sheet and a picnic basket.
“And we haven’t been here in a while, since we’ve been so busy, so I thought— I thought it would be nice,” he continued.
“It’s very nice,” he said with a grin.
He sat down cross-legged, and Iwaizumi followed suit.
“Why did you blindfold me to go to the park though?” said Oikawa.
“I don’t know,” said Iwaizumi. “It’s fun to watch you suffer and trip over things.”
Oikawa ripped out some grass and tossed it at him. Then he looked around, squinting.
“It’s not as dark as I remember the last time we were here in the evening—did they install new lamps?”
“I think so,” said Iwaizumi, opening the basket. He looked around. “More people than I remember too.”
A little girl knocked into him just as he opened a jar of orange juice.
“I’m so sorry!” she said.
The other girl chasing her tagged her on the shoulder. “You’re it!”
The first girl looked at Iwaizumi with guilt.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You can go.”
She ran off, leaving him to wipe at the dripping juice on his sleeve.
“Just take off your shirt,” said Oikawa.
“What?”
“You can wear my sweater.”
“It’s okay,” said Iwaizumi. “I’m fine.”
Oikawa rolled his eyes. “I won’t be cold. I’m very muscular, you know. It keeps me insulated.”
Iwaizumi snorted. “You’re a toothpick.”
For that, he got a sweater thrown in his face.
(Iwaizumi noted then that Oikawa chose to wear his Star Wars logo shirt and his stormtrooper hoodie.)
When he came back from the bathroom wearing Oikawa’s hoodie, he threw his wet shirt on the grass and let it dry.
“That stain’s never gonna get out. My mom’s gonna kill me.”
As if noticing it for the first time, Oikawa eyed the shirt and tilted his head.
“You know, you really did look nice today,” he said, a little suspicious now. “What’s the occasion?”
Iwaizumi blinked. “I— this.” He gestured at their picnic. “This is the occasion.”
Oikawa just stared at him. Then he stared at their picnic. Finally, it clicked.
“Wait, are we— is this a date?”
Iwaizumi’s eyes darted around the park, refusing to look at Oikawa. “Well, I looked up ‘first date ideas’ on Google and this popped up. So yeah.”
“Oh my god,” he said. “I didn’t know that.” He looked at the holes in his jeans. “Why did you let me wear this? Why did you let me wear this on our first date ever? Why? Oh my god, we didn’t even take pictures!”
Iwaizumi snorted, picking up the jar of orange juice again and pouring it into cup.
“Don’t get orange juice on my sweater,” Oikawa warned. He looked around for any more running children in their vicinity.
“Sure, sure.”
“Oh my god, this is actually romantic,” said Oikawa, looking down at their basket. “A picnic,” he marvelled. Then, after some contemplation, “You know, I can’t believe this actually went well.”
“Why?” said Iwaizumi, brows furrowing.
“Wouldn’t you expect our first date to be a complete disaster? I mean, adorable, of course, but in a disaster kind of way.”
Iwaizumi realized with some horror that he knew exactly what Oikawa meant, and decided he needed to stop watching romantic movies and TV shows with him.
“I guess so,” he admitted.
“Then again,” said Oikawa, stretching out his arms and lying down, “we’ve been going to movies and hanging out in the park for more than a decade now.”
Iwaizumi blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we have.”
A sly, crooked grin spread across Oikawa’s face.
“Were you nervous, Iwa-chan?”
“Shut up.”
“Were you nervous for our first date?”
“We’re never going on a date again.”
“Uh huh.”
A silence settled around them, filled out by children screaming and others laughing. It was almost fully dark now, the sky black enough to see the clear outline of the moon. Iwaizumi lay down next to Oikawa, their shoulders just a hair’s breadth apart. Sometimes someone would run or walk past them, rustling the grass enough for the sound to tickle in their ears.
They didn’t turn to look at each other. Even so, when their hands brushed, they laced their fingers together and held on.
/
The moon was shining loudly by the time they walked back to Iwaizumi’s house a few hours later.
After they put away their dishes and stored the basket back in the cupboard, they lingered in the kitchen.
“Can I sleep over?” said Oikawa, and the words felt strange in his mouth. They slept over at each other’s houses all the time, and they had never had to ask that before. He wasn’t sure if he had to ask that now, but he did, just in case.
Iwaizumi clearly didn’t think he had to, because he looked confused and said, “Yeah? Why are you asking?” He started walking out of the kitchen, then halted. “Oh, wait, do you mean— um—”
“No,” Oikawa said. “That’s not what I meant!”
The look on Iwaizumi’s face said he was about to make fun of Oikawa.
“If you shut up right now,” said Oikawa, “I’ll let you be the big spoon and I won’t subject you to having me drool on your hair.”
“I can be the bigger spoon if I want! There’s no rule about the taller one being the bigger spoon!”
“Yes there is!”
“No there’s not! You just made that up.”
“It’s just logical.”
“You’re not even that much taller than me. You’re barely taller than me.”
“Well,” said Oikawa. “That’s true. You have been growing quite a bit lately.”
Iwaizumi perked up. “Really?” he said, tentatively hopeful.
“Oh Iwa-chan,” he said, like Iwaizumi was tragic. “I was just kidding. You’re exactly as short as you always are.”
Iwaizumi pointed at the door. “Get outta my fuckin’ house.”
/
Later that night, when Oikawa had his back to Iwaizumi’s chest and Iwaizumi’s arm around him, he grabbed his phone by the pillow.
“What are you doing?” said Iwaizumi, squinting to shield the light from his eyes. He had been slipping into sleep.
“I’m texting a boy,” said Oikawa. He lowered his phone to hide it from Iwaizumi, then wrote,
“I love you too.”
On the other side of the bed, something buzzed.
Iwaizumi turned around, leaving Oikawa cold, and reached over to grab his phone. After a few moments, Oikawa heard him tapping against the screen.
“You’re such a loser”
“I hate you!” said Oikawa, sitting up. “I hate you so much!”
He whacked his pillow against Iwaizumi’s shoulder.
Iwaizumi’s laughter lit up the house. “Oh my god,” he said in between laughs, “you’re so lame.”
“That was”—smack—“a heartfelt confession”—smack—“of my feelings!”
Iwaizumi’s laughter only grew louder. He circled an arm around Oikawa’s stomach and laid his head just below his chest. From this angle and in the dark, Oikawa couldn’t see his cheeks tinged pink.
“I”—smack—“hate”—smack—“you.”
He closed his eyes and settled his breathing; it was then that he discovered for the first time what a comfortable pillow Oikawa’s torso made.
“I know.”