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He wasn’t a good person.
Not exactly bad, either—but if you asked around, people would tell you.
Oikawa Tooru was not a good person.
He had a twisted personality, warped by insecurity and polished by attention. A thousand small indulgences from people who wanted something from him—his charm, his touch, his approval, sex—until the line between affection and manipulation blurred beyond recognition. Even his friends would tell you he was a little shit, usually with affection, sometimes not.
Maybe being pretty made you bad. Or maybe it just made people forgive you for being bad long enough that you never learned how to stop.
Oikawa couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t get what he wanted—or when he didn’t have someone standing beside him, tolerating the wreckage he left behind. Usually, that someone was Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi, who tried to keep him in check.
When they were in junior high, Oikawa had nearly hit Kageyama once. Frustration, jealousy, the panic of realizing someone might surpass him—it had boiled over before he even knew what he was doing. Iwaizumi had stopped him, of course. But everyone remembered the almost-hit.
Kageyama remembered.
And Oikawa did too, even if he told himself it didn’t count because he had not done it. He’d apologized. He’d been just a kid. But deep down, he knew that wanting to hurt someone was bad enough.
No one remembered that part. Just how Oikawa had tried to hit Kageyama until Iwaizumi stepped in.
High school wasn’t better. He’d started sleeping with Matsukawa. He was horny, Matsukawa was just there. It had been easy—lazy, hormonal, almost meaningless. They were friends; it was just another way to burn off tension.
Everything was fine.
Until Hanamaki had asked him to stop, voice trembling, eyes shining, saying it was tearing him apart because he actually felt something for Matsukawa.
Oikawa had stopped immediately. Matsukawa never asked why. But Hanamaki had stopped meeting his eyes for weeks. The silence had been unbearable.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa had started dating no much later and everyone just assumed what has happened in silence.
Oikawa hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. He never did. He just… always did anyway.
Bad timing, he told himself. Or bad luck. Or bad wiring.
He was just a little shit.
Maybe it was because he’d grown up in a world that revolved around him—a small, flattering orbit of fans and teammates and rivals. Attention was oxygen, and Oikawa had learned to breathe it until he couldn’t live without it.
And what attention did he crave most?
Iwaizumi’s.
He couldn’t stand not being the center of Iwaizumi’s world. He needed those eyes on him, always—angry, exasperated, fond, it didn’t matter. So he provoked him. Constantly.
When they were kids, it was wiping his snot on Iwaizumi’s sleeve just to make him shriek. In junior high, it was peppering his food until it was inedible. In high school, it became flirting, sleeping with Matsukawa, performing for his fan club. Each act an offering, a challenge: Look at me. Don’t you dare take your eyes away.
It worked.
For a while.
Iwaizumi was always yelling, always scolding, always watching.
And Oikawa mistook that for love.
But attention isn’t the same as care. And eventually, the yelling stopped meaning what it used to. Eventually, even Iwaizumi’s patience started to wear thin.
And that was when Oikawa began to understand what it meant to be bad.
Not evil. Not cruel. Just human—and selfish enough to ruin the things he loved trying to keep them close.
But Oikawa was pretty, and sometimes it felt like the universe rewarded him just for that, even when he didn’t deserve it. Because somehow, despite everything, he had gotten Iwaizumi in the end.
He didn’t know how, or why, because he clearly didn’t deserve it.
They had been in Iwaizumi’s room. Oikawa playing Nintendo on the floor while Iwaizumi studied at his desk, posture tense, jaw set. Boring, Oikawa thought. Reliable. Predictable.
And Oikawa wanted—needed—his eyes on him again.
“You’re so boring, Iwa-chan,” he teased without looking up.
“I’m trying to study,” Iwaizumi said, the quiet irritation already there.
“That’s why you’ll graduate a virgin, you know?” Oikawa grinned, tossing the controller aside. “I could help you, if you wanted. I can be very generous when I want to be.”
Iwaizumi’s pencil froze mid-note. “What?”
Oikawa smirked wider, crawling closer. “I’m serious. We wouldn’t want you to reach college without any experience, right? I could take one for the team.”
“Oikawa—”
“Come on,” he pressed, voice lilting, too close now. “You’ve never even kissed anyone, have you?”
Iwaizumi frowned. He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
“Aww, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa cooed, mock sympathy curling his lips. “Your first kiss? Don’t worry, I’m a professional. You’re lucky I’m offering my services—”
“Enough.”
The word came out sharper than Iwaizumi intended. He closed his book, finally turning in his chair. His eyes were darker than Oikawa expected, hurt rather than angry.
“Do you ever stop to think before you talk?” he asked.
Oikawa blinked, surprised by the sudden edge. “What, did I hit a nerve?”
“You think this is funny? You don’t care who you touch, who you kiss, who you sleep with, do you? You just—” Iwaizumi cut himself off, frustrated. “You treat it like a game. But I actually care, Oikawa. I care about who I’d do that with.”
Oikawa’s grin faltered. “So you think I don’t?”
Iwaizumi didn’t answer.
“You think I’m easy,” Oikawa said quietly, the teasing tone gone.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He laughed, but it sounded wrong—hollow, too thin. “It’s fine. Everyone thinks that.”
Iwaizumi looked away. His silence was worse than any insult.
Oikawa felt something twist deep in his chest, hot and small and unbearable. His mouth moved before he could stop it. “What if I told you I love you?”
Iwaizumi’s eyes snapped back to him.
Oikawa forced a laugh, desperate. “Relax, I’m joking—”
Iwaizumi didn’t even blink. He moved on the floor to close the distance between them, not giving Oikawa an inch to hide behind the joke. The air between them went heavy, and Oikawa realized too late how close they were—knees touching, breath mingling. He shoved at Iwaizumi’s shoulder to break the tension, but Iwaizumi caught his wrist, pushing him back.
They stumbled, the world tilting until Oikawa hit the floor with Iwaizumi above him, bracing himself on his elbows. Their chests brushed. Their eyes met. Neither moved.
Oikawa opened his mouth, ready to deflect, to smirk, to say it was a joke—but his throat closed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered instead.
And then he broke. The sound came out of him small and raw, his hands covering his face as tears he hadn’t even felt building began to spill. He just couldn’t stop crying, like everything he had kept bottled up had finally cracked open and poured out.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said softly, trying to push his hands away, trying to make him stop hiding.
“I don’t wanna,” Oikawa muttered back, fighting to keep his face covered. “Stop, Iwa-chan.”
“Tooru!” Iwaizumi had yelled, and Oikawa’s hands dropped instantly. His eyes—wet, scared—fixed on Iwaizumi’s face.
“You’re an idiot,” Iwaizumi said, before kissing him.
Oikawa hadn’t known, in that moment, if it was love or pity. He only knew he didn’t know how to shut up.
“You’re an awful kisser,” he had complained, while small hiccups still escaped him.
“Then teach me,” was all Iwaizumi had said.
Iwaizumi—poor, stupid Iwa-chan—he couldn’t stand to see him cry. He never could.
So they ended up together.
Oikawa didn’t deserve it, but he got it anyway.
And he never understood why.
It wasn’t like Iwaizumi was the kind of man people wrote love songs about. He wasn’t pretty—not in that effortless way Oikawa was, not the kind of beauty that made people look twice and whisper. His skin was too tanned for what others called “refined”, his hair too stubborn to lie flat, his voice too rough. He frowned more often than he smiled, and when he did, it always seemed like an accident. He didn’t wear expensive cologne, didn’t have the soft hands or polished edges of someone practiced in charm.
But he was the kind of man people stayed for.
Oikawa was the one people flirted with, chased for the thrill, the heartbreak. But Iwaizumi—people chose him when they got tired of playing. He was the one they built lives with, the one who didn’t leave when things got hard.
And maybe that was why Oikawa never quite understood it. Because he had always been the one people played with, not the one they chose.
Iwaizumi was steady. He was real.
He cared in ways that didn’t sparkle.
He worked hard. He tried. He always tried.
And Oikawa—who had built his life on pretending—had no idea what to do with that kind of sincerity.
He didn’t deserve to stand next to him. Didn’t deserve those eyes looking at him like he was worth something. Didn’t deserve the quiet steadiness of those hands, or the clumsy gentleness of those kisses that always tasted like restraint.
But he had them. Somehow, he still had them.
Iwaizumi was still there, still putting up with him, still loving him more than he should. And maybe that was the cruelest thing the universe had ever done—giving Oikawa everything he wanted, just to prove he’d never know how to keep it.
College years came, and with them, distance.
Oikawa had left Japan for Argentina with a smile and a suitcase full of ambition. He hadn’t asked Iwaizumi what he thought about it—because he already knew the answer, and because it wouldn’t have mattered. He was going, with or without his blessing.
And yet, he never let him go.
He never said let’s break up, never offered Iwaizumi the clean exit he deserved. He still called him late at night, sent photos of stray cats, selfies of himself, of empty hotel rooms, the occasional dick pic, of the courts he trained in until his body almost gave up. He still said I miss you, even when he didn’t make time to call for weeks.
He wanted Iwaizumi to wait for him, to keep him anchored to something warm and familiar while he chased the only thing that ever made him feel right—volleyball.
He wanted Iwaizumi to love him enough to stay.
And he did.
Iwaizumi stayed. He studied, got a degree, moved to California. Closer now, easier to see each other when Oikawa had breaks between tournaments. They met in airport terminals, in borrowed apartments, in beds that always felt too big when one of them left again.
It was never enough.
The distance didn’t stop, not really. Even when they were in the same room, there was something unspoken between them—a dull ache that came from knowing too well how different they’d become. Oikawa still teased too much, provoked too often. He didn’t know how else to draw Iwaizumi’s eyes back to him except by being unbearable.
He would pick fights over the smallest things. Over tone. Over texts not answered fast enough. Over the way Iwaizumi said good luck before a match, like it was too casual, too easy.
Oikawa wanted everything to mean more.
And Iwaizumi—he always fought back. He yelled, slammed doors, told Oikawa to stop acting like a child. But he never left. He never turned away completely. And that was all Oikawa needed to believe that what they had was real, even if it hurt.
Maybe it was love. Maybe it was selfishness.
Maybe both.
They weren’t a perfect couple.
They weren’t even stable.
It was Oikawa’s fault, yet again. He could no longer remember how many times he had broken up with Iwaizumi and then cried waiting for him to come back and tell him everything was fine.
But somewhere between the airports, the hotel rooms, and the apologies that never sounded right, they kept finding each other again—two people too proud and too scared to admit that they didn’t know how to be apart.
When Oikawa finally came back to Japan, it wasn’t the triumphant return he’d imagined.
He had expected relief—to see Iwaizumi waiting at the airport, maybe annoyed but smiling, that warm, steady presence he’d missed so much it hurt.
He got that, in a way.
Iwaizumi had shown up. He’d carried Oikawa’s bags, listened to him talk about flights and coaches and old injuries. He’d cooked him dinner that night, simple and quiet.
And still, something felt off.
Maybe it was the change. Iwaizumi had matured, grown up. He was no longer the boy who used to bark at him, match him word for word, now he just hummed, nodded, said yeah and I see.
Oikawa didn’t know what to do with that.
He wanted to scream.
So he talked more. Filled the air with stories and jokes, complaining about the food overseas, about the weather, about the dumb referees and the fans who screamed too loud. He filled every pause like he was afraid of what might come through the cracks if he didn’t.
They moved in together a few months later, after Oikawa kept pretending it wasn’t a big deal. He had laughed when Iwaizumi asked if he was sure. “Of course! We’re adults now, right?” he’d said.
But living together didn’t make things easier.
It just made the distance harder to ignore.
Oikawa was chaos. Iwaizumi worked long hours, treating athletes with a patience Oikawa envied. And by the time he got home, he was always exhausted.
Too exhausted for Oikawa.
Too exhausted for his antics, for his provoking, for his childish acts.
They still laughed, still kissed, still fell asleep tangled together—but there was always something tight beneath the surface. Some unspoken resentment, some insecurity Oikawa couldn’t shake.
He’d catch Iwaizumi scrolling through his phone, see the names of other people, other athletes, and feel that childish spark of jealousy burn through his chest.
He hated it.
He hated how easily he could ruin a good night with a single sharp comment.
And yet, that’s how he knew he still mattered—because Iwaizumi still reacted. Still frowned, still sighed, still called him a pain in the ass.
Oikawa needed that proof.
It was stupid, but he didn’t know how else to exist beside someone who was always steady when he was not.
So he kept testing it. In small, ridiculous ways.
“‘Iwa-chan,’” Oikawa called from the couch one evening, his voice dragging out the nickname in that singsong tone that always made Iwaizumi’s brow twitch.
From the kitchen came the muffled sound of water running. “What?”
“Come here. I need you.”
Iwaizumi appeared in the doorway, drying his hands on a towel. “What now?”
Oikawa stretched out one long leg, wiggling his toes dramatically. “My toenails.”
Iwaizumi stared at him. “What about them?”
“They’re too long. Cut them for me?”
“What? Are you a child?”
“Please,” Oikawa said, feigning a pitiful pout.
Iwaizumi sighed the way a man does when he’s already lost the argument. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, kneeling down anyway.
Oikawa watched, pleased, as Iwaizumi grabbed the nail clipper from the table and got to work. His hair was damp from a recent shower, curling slightly at the edges, and his hands—calloused, careful—moved with the same precision he used taping a player’s wrist. The television murmured low in the background, the glow painting Iwaizumi’s shoulders in soft gold.
“You know this is stupid, right?” Iwaizumi said, focused on his task.
“Hmm,” Oikawa hummed, leaning his head against the back of the couch. “But you’re still doing it.”
“Because if I don’t, you’ll whine for hours.”
And Iwaizumi—maybe too tired to fight, or maybe too used to this rhythm—did. He muttered under his breath the whole time, did it.
“See?” Oikawa smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. “You spoil me.”
Oikawa watched him, head tilted, soft grin playing at his lips. He liked watching Iwaizumi yield, just a little. It made him feel wanted, kept, even when everything else in their lives slipped out of control.
Iwaizumi snorted but didn’t argue. When he finished, he pushed Oikawa’s leg away lightly. “There. Happy now?”
It was such a small thing—stupid, even—but Oikawa felt it settle somewhere deep, somewhere tender.
Even after all the fights, after all the distance, Iwaizumi still gave in. Still took care of him in these quiet, wordless ways.
It wasn’t romance. Not really.
But it was something like love.
“Mm. Not yet.”
Because he couldn’t leave it there. He never could.
“Would you suck on them too, if I asked?” Oikawa murmured, tone light but eyes sharp, watching for the reaction.
A small twitch in Iwaizumi’s jaw. That was all it took for Oikawa to push further, to turn the game meaner.
“Come on, Iwa-chan. You do everything for me,” he said, pressing his foot against Iwaizumi’s face, trying to get a rise out of him.
“Stop it,” Iwaizumi muttered, trying to push his leg away before his patience snapped.
But Oikawa didn’t. He laughed, leaning in, voice sing-song and brittle. “What, afraid I’ll make you—”
That was when Iwaizumi snapped.
Not in anger, exactly. More like exhaustion—frustration and tenderness coiled tight, finally breaking.
He reached for Oikawa’s wrists, but Oikawa panicked, pulling away, struggling, trying to shake him off. For a moment they wrestled, breathless, half-angry, half-laughing. Then Iwaizumi caught him, pinning his wrists to the couch, one on each side of his face.
Oikawa’s breath hitched.
Iwaizumi’s face was close—brows furrowed, chest rising fast.
Oikawa tried to look defiant, but his hands trembled. Iwaizumi could feel it. Could see the flicker of fear underneath the mask, the fragile, human thing that lived behind all that arrogance.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air between them was thick—anger, love, fear, all the same heat.
Then Iwaizumi leaned forward and kissed him, releasing his wrists.
Oikawa broke immediately, arms circling Iwaizumi’s neck, clinging like he’d been waiting for this all along.
He couldn’t live without Iwaizumi, he couldn’t breathe.
“Iwa-chan… Iwa-chan…” he whispered between kisses, holding onto Iwaizumi like a man starving.
Iwaizumi didn’t answer. He just kissed him deeper, held him until Oikawa’s trembling quieted.
Later, when they reached the bedroom, everything between them blurred into heat and breath. The fight melted into touch, into the only language they both understood. Oikawa clung to him, trembling, gasping for air that never quite came.
It was always like this—their calm found only through collision, their love measured in the marks they left behind.
At some point, while Iwaizumi thrusted deep inside Oikawa, his hand found Oikawa’s ankle again. He lifted his leg, his thumb drawing slow circles against his skin, before lowering his mouth and pressing a kiss on the underside of his feet, eyes fixated on Oikawa before he opened his mouth and sucked on his toe, his tongue playing between his fingers. A quiet surrender, wordless, something older than forgiveness.
Oikawa watched him, heart pounding, face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead. He could barely breathe, but for that one moment, everything felt right.
Because even when he ruined things, even when he made love into a battlefield, Iwaizumi still reached for him—still gave him this strange, fragile proof that he was wanted.
I’m still here. Even when you make it impossible.
And Oikawa—half trembling, half smiling—knew he had won again.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa called from the doorway, voice sing-song, arms crossed over his chest. “Are you seriously doing this now?”
Iwaizumi groaned. “Doing what? Taking a dump? What do you want me to do, schedule it when you’re not home?”
Oikawa made a face, nose scrunching up. “You stink.”
“That’s why I told you to get out!” Iwaizumi yelled from inside the bathroom, voice echoing off the tiles.
Instead of leaving, Oikawa stepped closer. “It’s just—you always disappear in here forever. Maybe you’re secretly calling someone. Or maybe—”
“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi’s tone was low, dangerous, the kind that usually meant he was two seconds away from snapping. “I’m on the toilet. Can I live?”
Oikawa gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow, rude. You’re the one who decided to spend quality time without me.”
“I’m literally shitting!”
“See? You even talk dirty when I’m around,” Oikawa teased, laughing when Iwaizumi threw a roll of toilet paper at the door.
He stepped back just enough to avoid it, pretending to pout, but didn’t go far. He leaned against the wall outside, eyes fixed on the floor.
It was stupid, childish, the kind of thing that made Iwaizumi sigh and mutter about bad life choices.
But Oikawa couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t stand the silence on the other side of the door.
So he stayed there, waiting, listening to the mundane sounds of Iwaizumi existing. Because that was enough—just to know he was there.
And when Iwaizumi finally came out, tired and exasperated, Oikawa smiled like an idiot. “Missed you,” he said, voice soft now.
Iwaizumi just rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. But you love me,” Oikawa replied.
Say you love me too, please. Say you love me, Iwa-chan.
“I do. I love you.”
That was how it always went. Little fights. Halfhearted apologies. Love tangled up in irritation and longing.
But they made it work, somehow.
Until the night of the yakiniku dinner.
It had all started with a stupid question—one of those thrown out too casually, too late into the night, when the beer was already in your being and the air was thick with smoke and laughter.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa were already halfway through their third round at the yakiniku place, the table sticky with sauce, the grill hissing between them. Smoke curled into the air, catching in the dim light, the smell of burnt meat clinging to their clothes.
Oikawa had joined them after work, hair still damp from a shower, a crisp white shirt and jeans that, on him, looked like they belonged in a magazine. He knew it, too—how the light hit his face, how people turned when he walked in. But tonight wasn’t the same, because Iwaizumi wasn’t there.
He’d stayed behind for work again—something about Bokuto’s shoulder, or his knee, or some other stupid strain that always seemed more important than Oikawa.
Oikawa hadn’t even listened properly when Iwaizumi called. It was easier to pretend he didn’t care.
“So that’s why Iwaizumi cancelled?” Matsukawa asked, grinning over his glass.
“He can’t help it, it’s work,” Oikawa replied smoothly, already forcing a laugh.
Hanamaki leaned forward, chin resting on his hand. “Well, Bokuto deserves the best! And that’s our Iwaizumi, right?”
Oikawa’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he fixed it again. “I mean, whatever. I’m actually sad Bokuto has to put up with Iwa-chan. He’s not careful at all.”
Matsukawa raised a brow. “But… Akaashi’s with him, right?”
Oikawa blinked. “What do you mean?”
Hanamaki joined in, nodding like it was obvious.
“What are you guys talking about?” Oikawa asked, frowning, voice sharper now.
Hanamaki nodded, like it was obvious. “Yeah, Akaashi’s always there with Bokuto.” He paused for a moment, looking at Oikawa like it was obvious. “They’re together.”
Oikawa frowned, the edge of his voice turning sharp. “I know they’re together, what I don’t understand is why are you guys even bringing that up.”
“I mean,” Matsukawa said, lazy grin tugging at his lips, “Iwaizumi can at least have some eye-candy around. Akaashi’s easy on the eyes.”
Oikawa stared. “What?”
“Yeah,” Hanamaki chimed in. “Akaashi’s really pretty—elegant, quiet, smart. And Iwaizumi likes guys, right?” He asked Oikawa, but since Oikawa didn’t reply, he went on. “I mean, you’re not the only guy he likes. He is bi, isn’t he?”
Something cold sank into Oikawa’s chest. “So?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“So it’s impossible he hasn’t noticed,” Hanamaki said. “Bokuto really hit the jackpot with Akaashi.”
“Hey!” Matsukawa complained, nudging Hanamaki, who just laughed it off.
“You said it first!” he grinned, ducking his head when Matsukawa bit his neck in mock offense.
Oikawa was in his own world. It was a joke, probably. A careless one. But it landed like a stone in Oikawa’s stomach.
He laughed too. Loud, sharp, the kind of sound that made people turn their heads. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah, like—if we made a poll,” Hanamaki said, eyes lighting up, “who do you think people would vote for, you or Akaashi?”
Oikawa blinked. “What kind of question is that?”
Hanamaki already had his phone in hand. “How many people are in the group chat right now? C’mon, this’ll be funny—”
Matsukawa leaned over, scrolling through his contacts. “Wait, who are you adding? Is that Bokuto? That’s like free points, add Iwaizumi too. Oh, and Atsumu. He’ll actually vote.”
The air shifted. The grill hissed louder, smoke curling up between them. The laughter felt far away now, tinny and distorted, like it came from behind a wall.
Oikawa froze. The question had found its mark—somewhere deep and ugly, where old insecurities still sat rotting—where Kageyama’s shadow still lingered, where Hanamaki’s tears had once been, where every apology had come too late.
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.
Because he knew what people thought.
That Iwaizumi deserved better.
That Akaashi was better—kinder, quieter, easier to love.
That Oikawa was just a mess of sharp edges pretending to shine. He wasn’t gold, he was pyrite.
So he smiled, because that’s what he did best. He lifted his glass, voice perfect. “Obviously me,” he said lightly. “Akaashi’s just Fukurodani’s knockoff version.”
Hanamaki barked a laugh as he hit “send.”
Matsukawa rolled his eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”
And Oikawa smiled until it hurt.
[GROUP CHAT: “Prettiest setter boy”]
Hanamaki: ok vote: who’s prettier—Oikawa or Akaashi??
Matsukawa: This is science btw
Kuroo: WTF is this about??
Kuroo: Akaashi obviously. Like, he is not a dick.
Kenma: Why am I here??
Atsumu: lmao AKAASHI obviously.
Bokuto: AKAASHI!!
Bokuto: wait
Bokuto: why are we voting?
Suna: oikawa’s gonna cry isn’t he
Kuroo: Nah he loves attention
Akaashi: This is incredibly childish.
Hanamaki: 3 votes already lol
Daichi: Sorry Oikawa, but Akaashi’s is really nice.
Akaashi: I’m not staying.
Akaashi has left the chat
Atsumu: aaaaw Akaashi left.
Tsukishima: Akaashi.
Osamu: Akaashi, that’s not even a question.
Atsumu: easy there, ‘Samu.
Osamu: shut up.
Yaku: Akaashi!
Hanamaki: omg 7 votes
Matsukawa: someone add Kageyama
Oikawa watched the screen blur in front of him, his own reflection ghosting back in the dark glass.
He laughed, just once, hollow. “Wow, you guys have no taste,” he said. And for the rest of the night, he drank fast—because it was easier than admitting how much it burned.
By the time he got home, the poll had twenty-two votes.
Eighteen for Akaashi.
Four for him.
One of them was his own, and Kageyama had actually voted for him. Probably pity.
Iwaizumi hadn’t voted.
Hadn’t even reacted.
When Oikawa stumbled through the door, shoes half-off, keys slipping from his hand, the apartment felt too quiet. Only the faint sound of water dripping from the bathroom. He stood there, unsteady, the phone still lit in his hand, that stupid poll glowing at him like proof.
Iwaizumi came out of the bathroom with a towel around his neck, hair damp, skin flushed from the heat of the shower. He looked so solid, so calm, like nothing in the world could touch him.
He hadn’t seen it. Of course he hadn’t. He needed to believe that.
“What?” Iwaizumi asked, brow furrowing as soon as he saw Oikawa’s face.
“Do you think Akaashi is pretty?” Oikawa said. His voice came out uneven, slurred, but his eyes were sharp—too sharp.
Iwaizumi blinked. “What?”
“Do you think Akaashi is pretty?” Oikawa repeated, louder this time, almost a challenge.
“I mean…” Iwaizumi exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, still clueless. “You can’t deny he’s handsome. Like—objectively.”
“What?!”
“What what, shittykawa?!” Iwaizumi snapped, confusion turning into irritation.
Oikawa’s jaw trembled. “Do you think he’s prettier than me?!”
That’s what it was really about. Not Akaashi. Not the stupid poll. Just him. He needed to hear Iwaizumi say no. He needed it like air.
Iwaizumi frowned. “It’s not the same. Akaashi is—”
But Oikawa didn’t let him finish. Something in him cracked. All the laughter, the teasing, the silence—it all rushed out at once. He took one stumbling step forward and swung, his fist colliding with Iwaizumi’s cheek.
“I hate you!” Oikawa shouted, voice breaking halfway through. “I hate you, Iwa-chan! I hate being your boyfriend!”
The room went still. Only the sound of Oikawa’s ragged breathing filled it.
Iwaizumi didn’t move. Didn’t yell back. Didn’t even look angry.
He just stood there, a bit confused, his jaw tight, water still dripping from his hair, a red mark spreading across his jaw.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Too quiet.
“Nobody is forcing you to be with me,” he said. “I’ll make a bag.”
Oikawa froze.
That tone—steady, resigned, careful—was the worst one. It wasn’t anger; it was detachment. It meant Iwaizumi believed him. It meant he’d done it this time.
He’d said I hate you before.
He’d said we’re over before.
And every time, Iwaizumi had stayed. But not this time. Not with that voice.
Something inside Oikawa twisted. The tears burned behind his eyes before he could swallow them back.
He wanted to say wait, to say that’s not what I meant, to say please just tell me you’d have voted for me.
But the words stuck in his throat, thick and useless.
So he just stood there, in the entryway, crying while Iwaizumi turned his back and disappeared into the bedroom. The sound of the zipper on the duffel bag was somehow louder than his own breathing.
Oikawa didn’t move, he just stood there, staring at the floor, before finally letting his legs give way beneath him.
He sank down, shoulders slumping, head dropped. Crying like an idiot. He recognized the sharp, familiar twist of panic in his chest, the shame gnawing at him. Maybe this was for the best. He was a bad person. He always had been. And Iwaizumi—calm, steady, good—deserved better than someone like him.
From the bedroom, the faint and constant rustle of the duffel bag told him Iwaizumi was making good on his words. And Oikawa could do nothing but watch and hate himself.
Iwaizumi grabbed his phone to call a cab and that’s when he saw it: The chat. The poll. Every vote, every snide comment, every joke. And he finally understood where Oikawa’s actions came from. All of it. The envy. The comparisons. The panic.
Iwaizumi exhaled a long, low sigh. He threw the bag in one corner of the room, frustrated. He was done. He turned and exited the room, finding Oikawa on the floor, and he simply knelt in front of him.
Oikawa lifted his head slowly, eyes heavy and wet. Iwaizumi was holding his phone in front of him, showing the chat. He’d voted for him. And then he’d left the chat. Quiet. Tired of how childish it was.
“I was in the shower,” Iwaizumi said, voice low, careful, almost exasperated.
Oikawa looked away, swallowing hard. “I know.”
Words could fix everything. But it was a start. They just stared at each other, Oikawa trembling slightly, still broken, still raw. Iwaizumi sighed again, tired. “You need to… grow the fuck up, Tooru. Seriously. I’m tired of having to put up with the antics.”
Oikawa laughed bitterly, a small, trembling sound. “I know… I just…” He trailed off, head dropping again. Sad, pathetic, a mess of insecurities he couldn’t hold back.
Iwaizumi’s hands were steady on his shoulders. “Look at me. Just… listen. You’re an idiot, yeah. But… I love you. I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.”
Oikawa’s chest constricted at that, he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could respond, Iwaizumi’s phone rang.
Hanamaki’s name lingered on the screen. He was probably still drunk, still laughing, replaying the poll like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Iwaizumi picked up. “Makki.” His voice was flat, exhausted.
“Iwa-chan~!” Hanamaki sing-sang, deliberately imitating Oikawa. “You saw it, right? Like, did you? Or was it Oikawa just voting for himself without—”
Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened, his free hand curling into a fist. His patience snapped in the tiniest fraction of a second. “It’s not funny, Makki. I don’t appreciate it.”
He took a slow breath, eyes flicking to Oikawa, slumped against the wall, small and vulnerable, shoulders heavy, still crying. “You shouldn’t either.”
Hanamaki stammered, trying to recover, but Iwaizumi’s tone shut him down completely. With a sharp exhale, Iwaizumi hung up, tossing the phone onto the floor more violently than he had wanted.
Oikawa knew Iwaizumi was still angry. He flinched slightly as the phone slammed against the floor. “It’s fine, Iwa-chan… I… deserve it.” His voice was quiet, brittle.
“You don’t.” Iwaizumi said firmly, raising a hand to caress Oikawa’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin.
Oikawa blinked, voice soft, almost defeated. “Tobio actually voted for me.”
“I know. I saw it.” Iwaizumi paused, letting his thumb trace the line of Oikawa’s jaw. “Listen, Tooru… What happened with Kageyama doesn’t make you a villain. It just doesn’t.”
“The rest of the world doesn’t seem to think the same…” Oikawa replied, bitter.
“I don’t give a fuck what the rest of the world thinks, Tooru.”
Oikawa swallowed, looking down, voice small. “What about what I do to you?”
“What? Drive me crazy because you insist on putting salt in my coffee?” Iwaizumi asked lightly, but his hand stayed on Oikawa’s cheek, grounding him.
“I hit you.”
“Yeah.” Iwaizumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just waited, steady.
“I’m sorry I’m not good and… mature, not like Akaashi…”
Iwaizumi’s chest constricted at the sound of it—that small, fractured voice he so rarely heard. His hand went to Oikawa's shoulder, a steady weight meant to ground him. “Stop that.”
Oikawa’s lips trembled. He turned his face away, ashamed of how small he sounded, how much of himself he’d just exposed.
Iwaizumi knelt fully in front of him, hands braced on Oikawa’s knees, forcing him to look up. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
When Oikawa finally did, his eyes were glassy and lost.
“I know who you are,” Iwaizumi said, each word deliberate. “I’m with you knowing exactly who you are. The parts everyone sees… and the ones only I do.”
That broke something in Oikawa—the pride, the careful mask, the need to always be dazzling. His breath caught, trembling, as if the truth itself had cracked something open inside him.
“You’re just used to play the villain’s part,” Iwaizumi said, voice low but steady. “You pretend you don’t care, but you do. You act like you don’t because you think that way nobody will be able to hurt you, but you’re one of the softest people I know.”
Oikawa’s eyes glistened, the tears caught between shame and relief.
“That actually sounds horrible, Iwa-chan, like I’m weak or something…”
“Well, maybe you are a little weak sometimes,” Iwaizumi’s thumb brushed lightly under his eye, catching a tear that escaped. “You lie to everyone—including yourself—because you think it makes it easier. But you don’t need to fake it with me.”
And that was what undid him—the quiet certainty in Iwaizumi’s voice, the unbearable tenderness of being seen.
Oikawa let himself lean into him, finally, forehead against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. The room was quiet except for their breathing, the tension between them stretching and bending into something fragile and real. Iwaizumi held him there, letting him release a little of the guilt and shame that had built up for hours, for days, for years.
“You don’t need to fight for my attention,” he said softly. “You already have it. You always have. There’s no one else, Tooru. There’s never been.”
Oikawa’s breath hitched, his voice small. “Iwa-chan…”
“Yeah, I know.” Iwaizumi’s voice gentled, pulling him closer. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
Oikawa pulled himself back together, he quickly dried his cheeks with his hands, forcing a smile, forcing himself to act not broken.
“Damn Iwa-chan, I didn’t expect you to want to have make up sex so soon, I’m still half-drunk, you know, you would be taking advantage of me.” He tried to joke.
“I don’t.” Iwaizumi didn’t flinch, didn’t tease, didn’t sigh. “You hate having make up sex, we did it once and you didn’t even get hard.”
Oikawa opened his eyes big, surprised. “What…?”
“I know you,” Iwaizumi reminded him. “I don’t know who put in your head that you had to have make up sex, but you don’t. We don’t.” He helped Oikawa into the bed and then pulled him closer until they were lying side by side, the space between them vanishing. Oikawa’s face pressed against his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of Iwaizumi’s heartbeat.
“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Iwaizumi murmured into his hair. “You don’t have to turn every bruise into something romantic. You don’t have to fuck it away just because someone else does.”
Oikawa let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He’d heard people say that sex after a fight was the best kind—the proof that passion survived anything. But he wasn’t like that, despite trying to make everyone else believe he was.
Iwaizumi’s arm tightened around him. “I want you,” he said quietly. “Not some version of you that’s trying to keep up with everyone else.”
Oikawa just closed his eyes, tired.
The next morning, when Iwaizumi woke up, Oikawa was gone. For a second, panic struck—then he heard the faint clink of a mug and followed the sound to the kitchen.
Oikawa was sitting at the table, hair a mess, glasses on, a book open beside a half-empty cup of coffee.
“Since when have you been up?” Iwaizumi asked, voice still hoarse from sleep.
“I don’t know, I have a hangover,” Oikawa muttered without looking up. “Couldn’t keep sleeping.” He nudged another mug across the table. “I made you coffee.”
Iwaizumi picked it up, half-expecting that familiar saltiness—some childish prank or melodramatic gesture—but it was just black coffee. Ordinary. Real.
Oikawa’s cheeks were faintly pink as he stared at his book, pretending to read.
“You know I’m going to ruin it again, right?” he said quietly, like he was confessing to something inevitable.
“You won’t.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because I love you,” Iwaizumi said simply. “And you love me.”
Their relationship didn’t need to be perfect, or enviable, or easy. It didn’t have to make sense to anyone else. People could look at them and think it was sad, or think that Iwaizumi deserved better—but none of that mattered.
It just had to work for them.
Iwaizumi had gone to work with his jaw still slightly bruised. No one asked. They just looked, hesitated, and when he kept acting like everything was normal, they moved on. It was a quiet day. Slow enough that he got to leave on time.
At the end of the day, he went to the locker room to get changed into something more casual and ran straight into Kuroo.
“Hey—that looks awful,” Kuroo said, chin tipping towards the bruise on Iwaizumi’s face. “Was it that bad?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iwaizumi said flatly.
Kuroo leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I knew Oikawa was difficult, but violent? Didn’t think he had that in him.”
Iwaizumi didn’t take the bait. He didn’t roll his eyes, he didn’t get defensive. He just closed his locker. “I’m not talking about this.”
“You don’t have to lie to me,” Kuroo said, softer, but still far too amused. “People talk. You know how it is.”
“Let them talk. I don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Iwaizumi replied. He met Kuroo’s gaze, steady. “Especially not about my relationship.”
“You’re really in love with him…”
“After so many years, I would’ve expected people to have realized this already.” Iwaizumi simply said.
That shut the conversation down. Kuroo raised his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”
Iwaizumi took his bag and left without another word.
The train ride home was quiet. He sat by the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching the city pass. He knew what people said about Oikawa—that he was selfish, dramatic, unstable, that he’d break anyone stupid enough to love him.
But that wasn’t the Oikawa he knew.
He remembered the kid who used to cling to his shirt when they crossed the street. The boy who cried when a beetle landed on his arm, even though he pretended he wasn’t scared. The way Oikawa had always been there—loud, annoying, too much—but always there.
For Iwaizumi, it had always been him. Since the beginning.
By the time he reached their apartment, it was already dark. He unlocked the door, toed off his shoes—and before he even finished stepping inside, there was a blur of movement.
Oikawa rushed to the hallway, socks sliding on the floor, hair a mess, cheeks flushed like he’d just run from the living room.
“Iwa-chan!” he beamed.
Just that. Just his name, in that voice, with that stupid, honest smile.
And for Iwaizumi, it was enough.