Archive of Our Own ^beta

If you were to ask Iwaizumi, Oikawa Tooru has never had a good idea in his life.

Currently, he’s lying on Iwaizumi’s bed, on his front, elbows propped onto one of Iwaizumi’s pillows and legs swinging idly back and forth as he’s holding a manga Iwaizumi vaguely recognizes. From the looks of it, it must be some kind of paranormal series featuring all kinds of creepy looking creatures. Borrowed it from Matsukawa, he said earlier as he dropped his bag in a corner of Iwaizumi’s room.

Iwaizumi, on the other hand, is twirling a pencil between his fingers and pouring over his remaining chemistry homework. Or at least, attempting to.

When Oikawa had arrived earlier that morning, a bright smile on his lips and a plastic bag dangling from his wrist, he’d bragged about finishing all of his summer homework early and then chastised Iwaizumi for not starting sooner. As if it was somehow Iwaizumi’s fault that Mr. Ogura enjoyed tormenting his students right before summer break.

The teasing lilt of his ever-so-cheerful voice bled through the hallway of Iwaizumi’s home and Iwaizumi snatched the bag from Oikawa’s grasp, peering at the snacks his best friend had picked up on the way.

Now, a small mountain of plastic has accumulated in the corner of his desk and he briefly observes the various food wrappers, a mosaic of colors against the single white wall of his bedroom. His fingers are still sticky with the remnants of the custard bun he’d eaten earlier. (And the handful of lemon candies Oikawa had tossed his way every fifteen minutes for the past hour or so).

Eventually, his gaze drifts back to his best friend. His best friend, who’s lamenting his last break-up like he’s the lead in some shitty period drama his mother watches occasionally. Iwaizumi decides that his homework is far more interesting after all.

“And you know what she said after that?” Oikawa asks, clearly outraged.

“Mm?” Iwaizumi hums, tapping his pencil against his notebook with little care for whatever Oikawa’s ex-girlfriend had to say during the final moments of their tumultuous relationship.

“She said that I was never ‘fully’ present whenever we kissed. Whatever that means!” Oikawa exclaims, tossing his manga aside with a huff. Judging by the sounds, he must’ve faceplanted into Iwaizumi’s pillow half a second later. Sure enough, when Iwaizumi’s gaze is pulled into Oikawa’s direction once more, he finds his best friend muttering something against the pillow.

He looks hopelessly pathetic.

As if sensing Iwaizumi’s thoughts, Oikawa turns his head to look at him. The creepy bastard.

“This is the part where you cheer me up, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says dryly. “It’s like you don’t care about my problems at all.”

He doesn’t.

Not the ones regarding Oikawa’s love life at least.

“I don’t,” Iwaizumi says without missing a beat. He bites back a chuckle when Oikawa huffs again, and ducks aside when another piece of lemon candy is tossed at him. It lands somewhere on his desk and he scribbles down the answer to the second to last question before reaching for it.

The plastic crinkles as he unwraps the sugary treat, joining the evergrowing pile as he tosses the wrapping aside. With the candy tucked into the corner of his mouth, Iwaizumi swivels on his chair. “Why do you even care about what she said? You guys dated, like, two months.”

“Almost three,” Oikawa corrects.

“Big deal.”

There’s a moment of silence during which Oikawa rolls onto his back with a loud sigh. He tucks one of his arms beneath his head, gaze aimed at Iwaizumi’s ceiling. Even though Iwaizumi is only able to see the side of his face, he can tell that Oikawa is clearly troubled by his current predicament. It’s as though he’s attempting to solve the world’s most difficult mathematical equation.

Currently, Iwaizumi has had his fill of equations. He shuts his notebook, deciding that he’s done for the day. His tongue pushes the lemon candy from one side to the other until he presses down on it with his teeth.

“Do you think she broke up with me ‘cause I was a bad kisser?” Oikawa asks then, contemplative. “None of my other girlfriends ever complained about that. I think.”

“No,” Iwaizumi replies, clenching his jaw hard enough so that the candy shatters between his teeth. The taste of lemon coats his tongue, briefly reminding him of the lemon pie Oikawa’s mother made a few weeks ago. “She broke up with you because you’ve got volleyballs for brains. Same as the others.”

“What does it even mean? Not being fully present?” Oikawa asks himself, clearly ignoring Iwaizumi’s not-so-subtle jab. “I’m a great kisser!”

Between one breath and the next, he rolls onto his side, gaze entirely focused on Iwaizumi. There’s a line between his brows, one that often appears whenever he’s picking apart endless thoughts and turning them over in his head, and Iwaizumi can tell he’s seconds away from asking or saying something utterly ridiculous.

Sure enough, Oikawa asks, “How many people have you kissed, Iwa-chan?”

The question leaves Iwaizumi choking on his own spit.

He coughs violently, warmth flooding his cheeks as he sputters, “None of your business!”

Unfortunately, Oikawa Tooru is like a dog with a bone. The more you pull, the harder he’ll bite down on said bone. He’s utterly relentless, which makes him a formidable player on the court and an amazing captain, but also a pain in the ass on most days.

He pushes himself up into a seated position, clearly affronted. “Oh, c’mon, just tell me. There’s no need to be shy.” A pause follows his words; one that lasts a little too long for Iwaizumi’s liking. The look of indignation he’d worn slowly transforms into something much more terrible: arrogance. It bleeds into his voice as he asks, “Have you even kissed anyone?”

“Of course,” Iwaizumi says reflexively, belatedly realizing that he’s been lured into a trap. Unfortunately, there’s no going back now, because Oikawa looks like a shark who’d just smelled blood. Iwaizumi might have just signed his own death warrant.

Oikawa swings his legs over the edge of the mattress until his feet hit the floor, palms pressed on either side of his thighs as he leans forward eagerly. “Bullshit. I want names or you’re lying,” he challenges. “Who was your first kiss? You never told me so it probably didn’t even happen. I can’t believe Iwa-chan has never kissed any–”

Frustration rolls through Iwaizumi’s chest like a tidal wave. He can feel his cheeks growing hotter than before, which is why he snatches his eraser off his desk and hurls it at Oikawa, aiming at his forehead. “It was a girl on vacation, okay?!”

It’s a clean shot and Iwaizumi watches as Oikawa’s hands fly to the center of his forehead with a yelp. It leaves him feeling the slightest bit smug, even when Oikawa grumbles something unintelligible and tosses the eraser back at him with a lot more force. It bounces off the top of Iwaizumi’s shoulder, who rubs at the spot afterwards with a laugh. (He might find a bruise there tomorrow, but it’s completely worth it).

“If this becomes a bruise, I’m strangling you,” Oikawa hisses, hand disappearing beneath his bangs as he continues to rub at his forehead. And the thing is, Iwaizumi knows he means it.

If only all of his admirers could see him now: clad in an old t-shirt, hair mussed, and threatening Iwaizumi with bodily harm while something akin to fury tears through those bright brown eyes they often find themselves fawning over.

He likes this side of Oikawa the best; the one he rarely shows to their peers. Instead, he offers polite smiles and teasing grins. They hear tinkling laughter, playful and melodic, whereas Iwaizumi is often subjected to the shrill cackles that erupt from his chest during one of their movie nights, complete with undignified snorts and all.

There’s a slight difference between the boy before him and the boy roaming through Aoba Johsai’s halls.

After all, here he’s just Tooru.

“I’d like to see you try,” Iwaizumi challenges.

The summer heat has made its way into his room, draping itself around his shoulders like a cloak and brushing against the back of his neck. July’s warmth is unforgiving in its onslaught, all scorching days and sweltering nights to prepare them for the clamminess that August will bring. It’s like being wrapped in two or maybe three thick comforters in front of a fireplace with no way of shedding any layers.

He should probably close the window and turn on the airconditioner, but there is something comforting about the birdsong that glides along the air currents until it finds refuge within the four walls of Iwaizumi’s bedroom. Even though his shirt clings to his skin, right there between his shoulder blades, Iwaizumi braves the oppressive heat, for it temporarily distracts him from the true danger: that knowing look in his best friend’s eyes.

It’s a look he’s been subjected to many times over the course of fourteen years — give or take. Being near Oikawa means preparing yourself to be picked apart at any given moment. Iwaizumi often compares him to a surgeon wielding a scalpel: dangerously precise. He’s become an expert at slipping past Iwaizumi’s defenses unknowingly, armed with nothing but the sharpness of that gaze and an even sharper tongue.

“He could probably outsmart the devil himself,” Hanamaki said once.

Iwaizumi agrees.

Nevertheless, he holds his ground and counters Oikawa’s glare with one of his own until every trace of annoyance vanishes from Oikawa’s face. He watches as his expression shifts into something more contemplative, a hint of curiosity flashing through his eyes. “What was her name?”

There’s a part of Iwaizumi that wants to tell him that it’s none of his business, but he prevents the words from tumbling past his lips. Instead, he molds them into something different. Two syllables. “Ami.”

For a moment, Oikawa’s eyes widen, but that look of surprise disappears as quickly as it had arrived. “Pretty name,” he remarks. “When was this?”

At this, Iwaizumi tugs his lower lip between his teeth, a terrible habit Oikawa often chastised him for. A string of memories unfold themselves rapidly; a high-pitched laugh, hazel-colored eyes, brown hair, the smell of sea water, sand between his toes. After swallowing twice and forcing the jaws in his muscles to relax, Iwaizumi answers, “Summer break. Freshman year. When my parents took me to Okinawa.”

This time, surprise doesn’t tug on Oikawa’s features. The frown he’d worn earlier returns, though. Iwaizumi can tell he’s digging through a box of memories of his own, likely replaying some of their older conversations. “And you never told me?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Wasn’t much to tell. It was a girl I met on vacation. We hung out a few times and we kissed. Nothing special.”

“A first kiss is a pretty big moment in a person’s life, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, sounding almost insulted. “I tell you everything.”

There’s a sudden tightness in Iwaizumi’s chest, as though he might’ve done something wrong. All he did was keep a very small, insignificant moment in his life to himself, and yet, he feels the urge to defend his choices. “I never asked you to tell me everything about all of your girlfriends, though.”

“Well I like sharing.”

“You like bragging.”

Much to Iwaizumi’s surprise, the words pull a chuckle from Oikawa’s throat. He pushes his fingers through his hair and Iwaizumi notices that some of the redness along his forehead has disappeared.

“Touché.” Oikawa then drops his hands to the mattress again, palms placed behind him as he leans back slightly. “C’mon. Tell me. I like when you tell me stuff.”

With a roll of his eyes, Iwaizumi shifts forward in his chair. The wheels roll across the floor as he moves a little closer to the bed. “What do you wanna know?”

“What did she look like?”

“Like a girl.”

“You have such a beautiful way with words, Iwa-chan.”

When Iwaizumi flips him off, Oikawa sighs and reaches into his pockets to retrieve his phone. “Fine. Does she have Instagram or something?”

“How should I know?” Iwaizumi asks, affronted. “You’re the only one who’s ever on those apps.”

“Useless as ever,” Oikawa murmurs. “Gimme her full name, I’ll find her.”

A surge of panic pushes through Iwaizumi’s chest at the prospect of Oikawa possibly cyberstalking a girl he hasn’t seen or spoken to in two or three years. “Hell no! Don’t stalk her, you creep.”

Naturally, Oikawa whines. “C’mon, Iwa-chan, aren’t you curious about what she looks like now? Maybe she’s gotten even prettier! Just tell me her name, I swear I won’t like any of her photos. I’m very, very careful.”

“No.”

“It’s either that or I’ll steal your phone and look through your contact list.”

“What makes you think I have her number saved?”

Oikawa offers him a flat look and Iwaizumi resists the urge to shove his hand into the pockets of his shorts and protectively curl his fingers around his phone lest Oikawa tackles him to the ground like a hyena.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Quite frankly, it’s much too hot to wrestle Oikawa off of him, so Iwaizumi weighs out his options. After a moment of contemplation he drags a hand across his face with a groan and concedes. He even joins Oikawa on his bed, curiosity pulling his gaze towards the small screen of Oikawa’s phone as he seemingly scrolls through Ami’s Instagram account with widened eyes.

“Wow, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, “she’s a beauty. And she liked you?”

“Why do you have to say it like that? And she didn’t always… look like that.”

“Did you just call her ugly?”

“What—no! She just looked different when I met her. Shorter hair and less make-up.”

“Oh?” Oikawa replies, glancing from Iwaizumi back to his phone. “How short?”

He selects a picture where Ami is grinning at the camera, a small, fluffy white dog resting in her arms. Her hair appears to be much longer now, spilling down her shoulders and back in soft brown waves, and her face has lost some of its youthful roundness. She’s on all accounts a beautiful girl, regardless of the length of her hair. It’s just that he doesn’t quite recognize the person in this photo.

When he’d first met Ami two or three years ago, they’d both been fifteen; just a couple of kids who’d been dragged to Okinawa on a holiday. Turns out, she had relatives on the island.

Back then, what stood out to Iwaizumi the most was the fact that she was almost a head taller than him and had one of the prettiest smiles he’d ever seen in his life.

She’d accidentally hit him with a soccer ball, apologizing profusely afterward and inviting him to play with some of the other kids she’d befriended. Iwaizumi had agreed, mostly because he had nothing better to do and being around people his own age sounded a lot more appealing than staying with his parents the entire time.

As it turned out, she’d been playing soccer since elementary school and they’d bonded over their love for various sports. Iwaizumi remembers teaching her a few passing drills after sharing his own athletic history. Needless to say, a friendship blossomed.

Iwaizumi found her quick wit oddly charming and her candor rather refreshing. And, as it turned out, she (for some reason) found him just as charming. He recalls sitting side by side at the beach, their toes digging into the sand while the sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline bled together with children’s laughter and the shrill shrieking of the seagulls.

Her hair had been a lot shorter then, shorter than that of most girls their age. She’d run her fingers through it, uncaring whether or not she’d mess it up. “My dad doesn’t like it. Says it’s too boyish,” she told Iwaizumi, then grinned, “but my mom loves it.”

He liked it too. Even told her as such without stumbling over his words. And that’s when she’d kissed him; simply, casually, without a care in the world.

He remembers freezing at first, unaware of how to react, but then it seemed like his body somehow just knew what to do. It was a decent kiss as far as first kisses go. Good, soft, nothing spectacular but still quite nice, with a girl who was equally as nice.

They spent a little more time together during their remaining days on the island before eventually parting ways. He received the occasional text every now and then, but they contained nothing of substance. And before Iwaizumi knew it, his crush had disappeared, swallowed by the Earth like a raindrop seeping into fresh soil.

As the memories fade, he reminds himself to answer Oikawa’s question. With his gaze still trained on Ami’s photo he mumbles, “Really short. Kinda like yours. Little shorter maybe.”

A quiet ‘ooooh’ passes through Oikawa’s lips and Iwaizumi watches as he brings the device a little closer to his face. “How daring! I can see why that would suit her.”

Iwaizumi hums. “She’s half French apparently. On her mother’s side.”

“That’s cool,” Oikawa remarks, surprise coloring his features anew. After a short pause, he adds, “She’s absolutely gorgeous. Maybe I should message her—quick, how do you say hello in French again?”

Almost immediately Iwaizumi pushes at his face, pulling one of those shrill laughs from Oikawa’s throat. The phone tumbles from his grip just as Oikawa falls backward, his body hitting the mattress.

His fingers wrap around Iwaizumi’s wrist, who’s now leaning over him and squeezing both of his cheeks with one hand. “Sorry, sorry! I swear I won’t steal your girlfriend, Iwa-chan. Mercy!”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Shittykawa.”

“You know, I really hate when you call me that.”

“Shithead then.”

“Ooh, creative.”

“Save it.”

Iwaizumi gives his cheeks another squeeze for good measure before snatching Oikawa’s phone away with his other hand. He slips the device into his pocket just as he pushes himself upright, but Oikawa doesn’t seem to be all that bothered about losing his phone. Rather than retaliating, he stays as he is, now with his arms folded under his head.

“I remember who else you kissed,” he says, thoughtful.

Iwaizumi adjusts his own shirt. “Oh?”

“That girl you dated last year. Yoshima. Almost forgot about her.”

The mention of Iwaizumi’s first — and only — short-lived relationship summons a number of memories. They push to the front of his mind, unfolding like the pages of an old book.

Yoshima glancing at him in class, asking to borrow a pencil, offering to help him with their history homework, talking to him about a movie they both really seemed to like. Then, one afternoon, right after practice, she’d been waiting for him behind the gymnasium. Iwaizumi remembers the brightness in her eyes and the easy confidence with which she spoke to him. It was so very different from the confessions Oikawa often told him about — or the ones he’d witnessed from afar. She barely stuttered or blushed, merely told him that she’d liked him for quite some time now.

In that moment, he’d been unsure whether or not the feelings he carried for Yoshima went beyond the limits of platonic affection, but he also remembers being somewhat overwhelmed by the thought of someone considering him to be a romantic prospect. That sort of stuff only happened to Oikawa — and people in movies.

In a moment of absolute befuddlement, Iwaizumi agreed to go out with her. And that had been that.

They went on a few dates, all of them pretty decent as far as dates go, and not much changed between them aside from the fact that he walked home with her after school every now and then. They’d kissed, of course, and that had been fine too.

The whole relationship was just fine.

Maybe that’s why Iwaizumi wasn’t terribly heartbroken when Yoshima suddenly told them that they had to end things. As the memory shatters, Oikawa’s voice acting as a lance that penetrates a wooden shield, Iwaizumi looks back at his best friend.

“She moved away, didn’t she?”

Traces of that conversation wind through Iwaizumi’s brain, curling themselves around existing memories like a snake. He remembers the way she’d bitten at her lower lip and the way her eyes were downcast.

My family’s moving. I’m sorry, Hajime-kun.

At the time, he’d felt surprised, and perhaps a bit disappointed, but Iwaizumi mostly recalls feeling content. This is where their story ended and that was okay. Later, he ruminated about the future; one in which Yoshima never moved away.

What would happen?

They’d graduate, go to separate colleges? Or maybe the same college? Would they move in together? And get married at some point?

As he let the endless possibilities fester in his mind, turning them this way and that, Iwaizumi realized that he didn’t feel particularly excited or scared. Which struck him as strange.

Wasn’t love supposed to be some dizzying, all-encompassing, overwhelming feeling? Isn’t that why people wrote millions of songs and stories about it after all? Countless works are created from a place of love about love and yet Iwaizumi had never experienced that strange rush people often spoke about.

Did he actually love her?

He buries the thoughts with a shake of his head, clearing his throat as he replies quickly, “Yeah. It was very sudden. A family emergency apparently.”

A long hum vibrates through Oikawa’s throat. “Shame. I thought she was kinda cute. How long did you guys date again? Three months?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi replies, voice cracking at the edges. “Somethin’ like that. Start of second year. She moved away that summer”

At Iwaizumi’s confirmation, Oikawa suddenly pushes himself upright. He swings his arms forward, hands clapping together with a rather loud declaration: “Well, that simply can’t do!”

Both the sudden movement and Oikawa’s exclamation startle Iwaizumi, who leans back. “What?”

“You’ve only kissed two people in your eighteen years of life.”

“So?”

“So? You’re going off to college soon. You need more experience, Iwa-chan.”

“Graduation isn’t til March,” Iwaizumi argues. “Summer break just started. It’s not like I’m moving away next month.” That flash of heat he’d felt earlier has seemingly returned and Iwaizumi tries his best to ignore it. “Besides—I’m not dating anyone now, am I? How am I supposed to get experience?”

This is when Oikawa turns towards him, facing Iwaizumi fully. One of his legs is slightly folded and tucked against his front, with both of his hands resting atop of his thigh. His eyes roam across Iwaizumi’s face as though he’s searching for something; subjecting Iwaizumi to that familiar scrutinizing gaze that often leaves him feeling strangely exposed. “You practice,” he says matter-of-factly. “With me.”

Iwaizumi can feel the exact moment his brain decides to short-circuit. Each of his thoughts escape him, scurrying off so suddenly that they slip between his fingers. It leaves him in a state of panic, unable to string together enough words to form a proper sentence, so it isn’t surprising when he stammers, “Wh-what?!”

Oikawa is still staring at him, seemingly unfazed by Iwaizumi’s sputtering and not at all shocked by his own suggestion. He merely raises a brow at him, as if Iwaizumi is the crazy one here. “You heard me. You practice with me. C’mon, Iwa-chan, it’s not weird. Friends do it all the time,” he tells him, sounding strangely sincere. “...Besides, you’ll help me too. I need to know if Misaki-chan was right about me.”

It takes Iwaizumi a few deep breaths to wrestle his heart into submission. He forces it to slow down, damn near hisses calm down to himself, and swallows roughly. His hands rest atop his own thighs, the fingers of his left hand forming a tight fist. “But I,” he starts, pauses, licks his lips. “I’m not—”

He’s not one of those pretty girls that always seem to be hanging off of Oikawa’s arm. Wouldn’t it be different to kiss him? What would Oikawa even gain from this?

“I’m not like your ex-girlfriends,” Iwaizumi finally forces out.

“So?” Oikawa replies, blinking a few times. “I have kissed boys before, you know?”

For some reason, that tidbit of information causes parts of Iwaizumi’s brain to light up like a flashlight. There’s a jab of confusion, which bleeds into mild shock before transforming into genuine curiosity. “You have?”

They’ve never talked about this; about attraction and all the things that come with it. As far as Iwaizumi knows, Oikawa has always liked girls. He’s forgotten the names of his ex-girlfriends, but they’d always been lovely girls. (Sweet, pretty, seemingly perfect). Boys had never been part of the equation for some reason.

He tries to imagine it now, Oikawa’s palm folded into a hand that’s a little larger than his own, leaning up to kiss someone’s cheek rather than leaning down. He pictures broad shoulders and deep, rumbling laughter instead of soft, high-pitched giggles.

It paints an interesting picture.

How strange.

“Sure,” Oikawa says, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth as he fiddles with one of the longer hairs that brush against his cheek. “Not many, though. One, actually.”

“Who?” Iwaizumi asks. He mentally sifts through a list of boys at their school, wondering which one of them might’ve harbored feelings for Oikawa. It’s surprisingly difficult to narrow it down, mainly because he’d rarely seen Oikawa hang out with anybody outside of their friend group. Maybe it had been one of his classmates.

“You don’t know him,” Oikawa answers. “He was a senior at a different school. Happened last year.”

Someone older than him. Iwaizumi didn’t quite anticipate that. “Are—are you guys still in touch?”

The question is met with a shake of Oikawa’s head. “He went to college, so.”

A round of silence follows his words and Iwaizumi catches the subtle shift in Oikawa’s expression. There’s something guarded yet vulnerable about the way he regards him now, as though he’s waiting for some kind of metaphorical explosion. “Do you think it’s weird?” Oikawa asks carefully.

It seems rather obvious that he doesn’t need to specify what he’s referring to, but Iwaizumi finds himself voicing it regardless. “That you kissed a guy?”

Oikawa nods.

There’s no need for rumination as Iwaizumi doesn’t feel the urge to analyze and dissect his own thoughts. He shakes his head. “No.” It’s the truth. “As long as he wasn’t a dick to you it’s all good.”

To his surprise, Oikawa chuckles. A soft sound barely heard over the sound of Iwaizumi’s own heartbeat. “No, he was kind of sweet.”

The admission is featherlight, quiet as the night, and Iwaizumi feels something akin to understanding slip through him. Oikawa decided to share something with him; something vulnerable.

That sense of curiosity hasn’t subsided either, he realizes, but it’s accompanied by something else. Gratitude, he supposes. He briefly presses his lips together and angles his upper body so that he’s facing Oikawa fully. Before he can think the better of it, he says, “Fine. Let’s try it then.”

Now it’s Oikawa’s turn to be surprised, it seems. His eyes widen a fraction. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Iwaizumi mutters. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

He could do this for Oikawa. If a kiss helps him to quiet whatever thoughts might trouble him, Iwaizumi could offer some assistance. After all, isn’t that what best friends are for?

“O-okay,” Oikawa replies, shuffling closer. “I should take the lead, I think?”

“Well, you’re the one with more experience, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi mutters.

“Be nice to me,” Oikawa huffs, voice quiet. “You can’t insult people when they’re about to kiss you. That’s lesson number one, actually.”

Iwaizumi resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s about to call Oikawa a lousy teacher for good measure but the words don’t quite make it past his lips when Oikawa places one of his hands in Iwaizumi’s lap. Somehow, it feels like everything moves a little slower around him. It’s like the inside of his skull has been filled with molasses, sticky and sugary.

He’s suddenly aware of each breath that travels through his lungs and the steady beat of his own heart. Beneath twenty-four ribs, he can feel it thumping against his chest.

Oikawa’s hand feels warm in his lap, warmer than usual, and as he leans in slightly, Iwaizumi finds himself observing the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His eyes then drop to Oikawa’s mouth and Iwaizumi vaguely remembers the last time he was in a similar sort of situation with Yoshima. Except, Oikawa’s hair is brown, not black, and Oikawa doesn’t smell like lavender and strawberry lip balm, but like jasmine and lemon candies. However, his lips look just as soft as hers, just a little fuller, with a more pronounced cupid’s bow.

Funny, he’d never bothered to properly look at Oikawa’s lips until now.

Iwaizumi swallows, then inhales, before meeting Oikawa halfway. His gaze shifts from Oikawa’s mouth to the mole located at the right side of Oikawa’s chin, just below his bottom lip, and he wonders if it had always been there. It’s as though he’s looking at a completely different person.

The thoughts are chased from his mind when the smell of jasmine grows a little stronger. Oikawa’s close enough for his breath to fan across Iwaizumi’s skin and there’s a moment of hesitation before he gently presses his lips against Iwaizumi’s own.

The first thing Iwaizumi notices is that Oikawa’s lips are much softer than expected, but that they don’t feel any different from Yoshima’s lips, or Ami’s for that matter. They simply feel nice.

Perhaps a kiss is just a kiss, regardless of who’s sitting across from him.

And this kiss lasts roughly two seconds.

When Oikawa pulls back slightly, Iwaizumi finds that he’s quite surprised at how quickly it had passed. Though, he’s not entirely gone because Iwaizumi can feel the way Oikawa’s nose brushes against his own. It tickles.

As he focuses on that particular sensation, it occurs to him that he hasn’t bothered to open his eyes to look at Oikawa. Somehow, it feels wrong to do so; as if he would somehow interrupt something important if he were to peer at his best friend. At first, Oikawa seems almost afraid to speak and Iwaizumi realizes he hasn’t said anything either.

Luckily, Oikawa breaks the silence. Or rather nudges at it with a whisper of, “Was that okay?”

Iwaizumi hums in agreement.

Oikawa’s voice is still quiet as can be. “I’ll kiss you again, okay?”

This time, Iwaizumi manages to respond properly. “Okay.”

The second kiss is different from the first one.

If the first one was nothing but a peck, soft and careful to test the waters, this kiss is fueled by conviction. It’s still gentle, in a way, but it seems that Oikawa’s earlier reluctance or hesitation has vanished. A strange sensation shoots across Iwaizumi’s spine, almost like a jolt of electricity, just as Oikawa tilts his head a little more.

It’s almost natural for Iwaizumi to follow his lead; to move with him as though they are one entity. Just like on the court, wherever Oikawa goes, Iwaizumi follows. He chases and chases and chases.

The hand resting in Iwaizumi’s lap shifts, moving until it settles somewhere on his side, fingers curling themselves into the fabric of his shirt. He’s unsure what’s happening to his own hand, but it seems to move on its own accord. It reaches for the side of Oikawa’s neck and Iwaizumi thinks his own body is leaning forward a bit. Oikawa seems prepared because he leans back easily, pulling when Iwaizumi is pushing.

His mouth is soft and warm, which feels quite nice, and when he parts his lips a little further, Iwaizumi copies his movements easily. They exchange a few more kisses just like that, slow, careful, unhurried.

At some point, Oikawa’s fingers are no longer tightly wrapped around Iwaizumi’s shirt. His palm slides up until it comes to rest atop Iwaizumi’s shoulder, and Iwaizumi gently allows his thumb to swipe back and forth across Oikawa’s skin.

That initial rush of adrenaline that washed over him appears to have vanished bit by bit and his heart doesn’t slam against his ribcage as fiercely as before. Instead, a sense of tranquility has enveloped him. Warmth spreads through his skin, climbing along the back of his neck until it finds refuge in his cheeks.

His palms feel a little warmer too. He hopes it doesn’t make Oikawa feel uncomfortable.

He brushes the thought aside with another slide of Oikawa’s lips against his own, his palm no longer resting against the side of Oikawa’s neck but settling at the back instead. Here, his fingers are able to brush against the shorter hairs along Oikawa’s nape. Which they do, carefully.

He thinks Oikawa might’ve flinched or shivered, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he digs his fingers a little harder into Iwaizumi’s shoulder and carefully brushes his tongue against Iwaizumi’s lower lip.

It surprises Iwaizumi somewhat, but before he’s able to react, Oikawa pulls away with a quiet gasp. For the first time in a few minutes, or perhaps hours (he’s unsure how much time has passed, really) Iwaizumi opens his eyes.

There’s a brief moment of confusion, which he voices by saying, “Are you okay?”

Oikawa nods quickly, sounding as winded as Iwaizumi feels when he replies, “Yeah—yeah. I just think we should stop here for today.”

A flush has spread across his cheeks, coloring his skin a soft shade of pink. His lips look a little redder than before and Iwaizumi wonders if his own lips are a similar shade of red. They tingle a little and he fights the urge to lift a hand to his mouth to see whether or not they’re somehow still attached to his face.

“Yeah—sure,” Iwaizumi answers, clearing his throat. “Was that… good?”

“Mm-hm,” Oikawa hums, shuffling back. He’s tugging on his own fingers with a little laugh, looking anywhere but directly into Iwaizumi’s eyes.

Weirdo.

Iwaizumi rubs his hand along the back of his neck before digging it into his pocket and retrieving Oikawa’s phone. The device is tossed into his best friend’s lap, whose lips part around a quiet, but surprised ‘oh’ as he glances down.

“You still might need a bit more practice, though,” Oikawa adds after a moment. “You can’t cover everything in one day, after all.”

“Right, right,” Iwaizumi replies, lifting himself off the bed so that he can give his limbs something to do.

He listens to the sound of rustling sheets and he reckons Oikawa must’ve made himself comfortable again on his bed. His assumptions are proven to be correct when he lowers himself back onto his desk chair, watching as Oikawa has picked up his abandoned manga again. “Was I—” he begins, hesitating for a moment. “…Present enough? Shit, that sounds so lame.”

“It does,” Iwaizumi admits, a chuckle escaping his lips.

Oikawa remains quiet for another moment until a laugh of his own climbs up his throat. Then, they’re both laughing; equal parts embarrassed and relieved.

Once the laughter dies down, Iwaizumi chews on the inside of his cheek, swiveling his chair from side to side before glancing at his laptop. “Wanna watch an episode of Border?”

At this, Oikawa’s eyes light up. “Yes! Do we have any snacks left?” Even before Iwaizumi’s able to reply, Oikawa has already pushed himself to his feet. “Nevermind, I’ll make some popcorn, you go and set everything up!”

And with that, he practically sprints out of the room. The muffled, rhythmic sound of his feet hitting the steps as he races down the stairs leaves Iwaizumi laughing to himself. With a sigh, he rises from the chair.

“Weirdo.”

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

That night, long after Oikawa went home, Iwaizumi finds himself replaying the events of the afternoon. It seems only natural.

After all, how often does one end up kissing their best friend? Well, according to Oikawa everyone does it, but Oikawa’s also full of shit eighty-five percent of the time so Iwaizumi knows better than to trust any of the words that come out of his best friend’s mouth.

Speaking of mouths.

As he rolls onto his back, tucking one of his arms below his head and chewing on the inside of his cheek, he summons a number of images carefully.

Oikawa on his bed, with his too-long bangs and old shirt and summer freckles starting to peek through. His skin, now bronzed by the sun’s rays, dusted in a soft shade of pink. It always starts at the tips of his ears, for some reason. Iwaizumi remembers pointing it out once and getting hit with a pillow in the face right after.

As that memory fades, another one takes its place. His thoughts drift towards Oikawa’s mouth; the dip of his cupid’s bow, the softness of his lips, the subtle taste of the lemon candy hidden within each kiss.

While it hadn’t been his first kiss, technically, it had been the first time he’d kissed a boy. Part of him feels as though that revelation should spark something inside of him, but he finds that he’s neither upset, repulsed or confused by what had occurred. If anything, it felt natural — good even.

Huh.

A distant conversation with his mother comes to mind.

They’d been sitting in the kitchen on a Saturday night, the minutes stretching more and more towards midnight. His stomach had been giving him some trouble and she ended up brewing some tea for him while his father sat in the living room, having fallen asleep midway through whatever movie his parents had been watching. Iwaizumi recalls the warmth of his favorite mug as his mother told him about one of her cousins.

“She and her wife got married abroad recently,” she mused.

The scent of chamomile tea wrapped itself around Iwaizumi, providing a sliver of comfort with every sip. “Oh?” he’d remarked, blowing on his tea. “Didn’t even know auntie had been dating someone.”

“Well, you haven’t seen her in nearly five years, Hajime.”

“She lives kinda far.”

“Still.”

While his mother chuckled, Iwaizumi frowned at her over the rim of his mug. He took another sip of his tea afterward, murmuring, “Good for her, though. Hope they’re happy.”

“They are,” his mother told him, leaning back into her seat with a sigh. “Your father and I might visit them next summer. Do you want to come with? Or are you too old to go on trips with your parents now.”

“Can’t. Got a tournament right after summer break. There will probably be a training camp.”

“Such a busy boy.”

“I just wanna stay focused,” Iwaizumi told her between small sips. “It’ll be mine and Tooru’s last year and all, so we really wanna make it to finals.”

A thoughtful hum had been her initial response. Then, with amusement seeping into her voice, she said, “Allright. Please look after each other then.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Iwaizumi mumbled against the rim of his mug. “Always do.”

“I know, but I have to say it. That’s a mother’s job,” she reminded him, grinning. “But, alright, your father and I will go by ourselves then. I’ll tell your auntie that you’ll come some other time.”

There’d been a moment of silence and briefly it looked as though she was going to say something else, but then she remained quiet while they both sipped their tea.

After another round of silence, she spoke up again, sounding a little contemplative, and Iwaizumi now remembers the way the corners of her mouth had curved upward slightly as she said, “It will be nice to see her again. She’s much happier now. I think it’s because of her wife.”

“I thought she had a boyfriend before, though.”

“Mm-hm,” she replied, lowering her mug. “One or two. She said it took her some time to figure out she was attracted to women. It’s never too late, I suppose. Everyone goes at their own pace.”

Then, with a jerk of her chin she said, “That goes for you, too.”

“Mom,” Iwaizumi groaned, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks. “Can we not—”

“Oh, stop it, Hajime,” she replied, rolling her eyes halfheartedly. “I’m just saying that sometimes it takes time for people to figure themselves out.”

After a pause she added: “What matters is that you find someone who makes you feel happy. And who makes you feel loved.”

At the time, Iwaizumi felt like he’d wanted the ground to swallow him whole. If not for the sincerity in his mother’s voice, he would’ve probably slammed his forehead into the table or rushed back to his room. There is nothing quite as mortifying as talking about love and relationships with your parents after all.

In hindsight, he supposes that he should consider himself lucky that his mother approached the topic so easily and with such gentleness.

As Iwaizumi sifts through the case of memories that spilled across the inside of his skull, he thinks back to that afternoon.

Did kissing Oikawa make him feel happy?

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

Iwaizumi sees Oikawa again two days later.

Today, they’re visiting the bakery Hanamaki works at every summer. It belongs to his aunt and uncle (“Longtime family friends, but who cares about semantics.”), and they’ve visited the store many times over the past three years, slowly becoming one of their many regulars.

Many afternoons were spent buying custard buns (Oikawa) and anpan (Iwaizumi), along with whatever sweets and baked goods they could get their hands on. Today, they find themselves loitering outside while Hanamaki pretends to sweep the same spot on the curb for approximately ten minutes now.

He’s chewing on a piece of red licorice, listening intently while Oikawa, who’s nibbling on a piece of his own, is in the midst of showing him a funny video on his phone. Iwaizumi stopped listening halfway through, having already seen said video and listened to Oikawa’s entire spiel about it.

Instead, he’s lazily glancing around the neighborhood and silently lamenting Matsukawa’s absence. Turns out he’d gotten sick two days ago. (“Getting sick in the summer should be illegal,” Oikawa declared). Maybe the four of them could hang out later this week.

Once Oikawa and Hanamaki have stopped laughing at the video, the trio ends up discussing their plans this summer. There’s talk of the upcoming training camp and Hanamaki’s vacation plans. He’s moved on to sweep a different part of the curb, biting down on another piece of red licorice when he offhandedly mentions, “Oh, by the way, me and Issei started dating. Figured you guys should know.”

Suddenly, each of Iwaizumi’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. He can practically feel the tire tracks on the walls of his skull. Somehow, each word feels foreign in his mouth. There’s an attempt to formulate a response but each attempt fails spectacularly.

Next to him, Oikawa chuckles. “About damn time.”

Hanamaki offers him a lopsided grin. “Right?”

The broom is then placed against one of the store’s walls and he dusts off his hands before making a noise that Iwaizumi finds difficult to identify. It’s not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, but something in between. Something born from either relief or annoyance. “Ah, man. Feels right to finally say it out loud.”

By some miracle, Iwaizumi’s lips and tongue manage to move again. “How—how long have you guys been together?”

At this, Hanamaki hums; the sound long and thoughtful. He holds up two fingers. “‘Bout two months now? S’been nice. Sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa says, lips stretching into a grin. It’s one of those genuine smiles, full of mirth. “We’re happy for you guys. Right, Iwa-chan?”

Luckily, Iwaizumi remembers to nod in time. “Yeah. Of course. Is he okay with you telling us?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. Wish he was here right now to make some stupid joke about it, though.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue before cooing, “Missing your boyfriend, Makki?”

“Man, I take it back, never should’ve said anything—”

“No, no, I wanna know everything, c’mon, spill the beans!”

There’s laughter and shrieking and Oikawa putting Hanamaki into a headlock. As Iwaizumi watches the two of them, a strange, foreign sensation swims through his chest. It’s hard to identify. Something that might be part surprise, part something else.

He’s happy for Hanamaki and Matsukawa, though.

Inadvertently, his gaze drifts towards Oikawa.

Oikawa, whose nose and cheeks are beginning to darken after spending a few hours outside. A faint redness starts to settle across his skin. Later, he’ll complain about it, mention how he should’ve worn more sunscreen and blame some kind of weather deity.

Right now, he’s still laughing, utterly delighted by the news their friend decided to share with them. There’s a softness to his gaze as Hanamaki feeds him morsels of information and, for some reason, it makes Iwaizumi’s chest feel tight.

He breathes past it, though, and decides to listen as well.

After badgering Hanamaki for a few more minutes, the two of them decide to head towards the local grocery store to pick up a few things. Soda, eggs, mandarins, flour, soy sauce, chili oil, and laundry detergent.

Amidst their walk home, they bump into one of the neighborhood cats, a calico cat that listens to the name Miki. Iwaizumi digs through his pockets, grabbing two of the remaining treats he often keeps with him, and approaches Miki with his palm closed as she perches on a stone wall.

Rather quickly, she nudges his hand with her head and he chuckles, offering the treats and scratching behind her ear. Behind him, Oikawa makes a noise of complaint. “She never lets me do that.”

“She can tell you’ve got a bad spirit.”

“Lies you tell, Iwa-chan. My spirit is wonderful and pure.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Iwaizumi quips, rubbing Miki across the head a few times before bidding her goodbye. When he walks back to Oikawa, he kicks him in the back of the knee, snorting when Oikawa sinks through his legs. “C’mon, loser.”

“Brute.”

As they reach Iwaizumi’s house, he fishes his keys out of his pocket. “You coming inside?”

“Duh,” Oikawa answers, pushing past him and unlocking the front door on his own as though he fucking lives here.

There’s a shout of pardon the intrusion as he toes off his shoes and Iwaizumi can only watch and shake his head as he follows him. They pour themselves two glasses of soda, snatch a bag of chips from the pantry and put a few grapes in a bowl before rushing upstairs.

Once they’re in Iwaizumi’s room, Oikawa complains about the heat. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, mentioning that the fabric must be soaked by now. Sure enough, there’s a damp spot between his shoulder blades. Without much thought, he pulls the shirt over his head, his back turned towards Iwaizumi, who can only watch as his best friend decides to rummage through his closet half-naked.

“So, Makki and Mattsun, huh?” Oikawa begins, digging through piles of clothes and occasionally pulling out a shirt to sniff it — as if Iwaizumi would throw his dirty clothes back into his closet.

(Okay, he’s done it a few times. Sue him).

It’s not that he doesn’t register Oikawa’s words, it’s just that he finds himself watching the way his muscles of his back shift beneath his skin. A number of moles are scattered across Oikawa’s back, with two sitting near his left hip, and Iwaizumi lets his gaze linger on that spot for a moment before he looks back up.

It’s then that Oikawa turns around, seemingly having found a shirt to wear. It’s not one of Iwaizumi’s older ones, but he’s fine with it. As he pulls the garment over his head, he repeats, “I said ‘so, Makki and Mattsun, huh’.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi answers quickly. “Yeah. Crazy.”

“I’ll say,” Oikawa says, amused. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming, though.”

The words cause Iwaizumi to frown. He lowers himself on his desk chair. “What do you mean?”

Chuckling, Oikawa sits down on the bed. The bowl of grapes finds its way into his lap and he plops one of them into his mouth. “You’re so dense, Iwa-chan. It was so obvious something was going on between the two of them.”

“No there wasn’t? They’ve been acting like they always did.”

“To the untrained eye it might’ve seemed like that.”

Iwaizumi levels him with a flat look. “And your trained eyes saw all?”

Nodding like he’s some kind of sage, Oikawa says, “Oikawa-sama sees and knows all.”

“Oikawa-sama is full of shit.”

That earns him a grape to the face.

“Don’t waste food,” Iwaizumi mutters, rolling his eyes when Oikawa merely sticks his tongue out.

“They seem happy, though,” Oikawa tells him with a sigh as he lets himself fall on Iwaizumi’s bed. “I’m happy for them.”

Iwaizumi is suddenly unsure whether or not he should join Oikawa on his bed. Which is why he drags his desk chair forward and spins it around so that his front is pressed against the backrest when he sits down, arms folded along the top of it. “Me too,” he admits. After a short pause he asks, “When did you figure it out?”

A soft hum permeates the air, Oikawa’s arm stretching upward as he flexes his fingers a few times. He looks like he’s reaching for something. “About two months ago.”

That causes Iwaizumi to frown. “Bullshit. How?”

“People aren’t as subtle as they think they are. Especially when they’ve got something to hide,” Oikawa says easily, like he’s the lead in that crime drama they watched the other day. He’d probably make a shitty detective. Though, he does love sticking his nose into places where it doesn’t belong. And he’s far too perceptive for his own damn good.

A chuckle travels along the walls of Iwaizumi’s throat. “I forget how much of a creep you are sometimes.”

“You wound me,” Oikawa quips, fingers forming a fist before his hand drops to his chest as if protecting his heart. He’s still not looking at Iwaizumi, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I could tell they were into each other long before that, though.”

“What gave it away?”

“All sorts of little things. When you know how to look for them, it becomes very clear.”

Iwaizumi clicks his tongue, replying with a quiet ‘mm-hm’ before remaining silent. Amidst this silence, he digs through a number of memories. He summons a series of images of Hanamaki and Matsukawa, wondering if there were any supposed signs he might’ve missed in hindsight.

If you were to ask him, their behavior hadn’t changed much. They were still as close as they’d been previously, still laughed at the same stupid jokes, still engaged in lengthy discussions about the same three books Matsukawa happened to be fond of and Hanamaki vehemently disliked, and still bickered about whose turn it actually was to choose a film during one of their monthly movie nights.

Perhaps that, too, is a sign of being in love. Being comfortable enough with another person that the shift from platonic to romantic goes without fanfare, something as natural as a lengthy exhale after a long run or stretching your limbs after a particularly nice nap.

If Oikawa knew Iwaizumi had just compared being in love to taking a nap, he’d probably call him the most unromantic person to ever grace the planet. (Fortunately, Iwaizumi doesn’t give a shit about what Oikawa thinks on most days).

“What kind of little things?” Iwaizumi wonders. “I still think you’re full of shit.”

It takes another long hum from Oikawa before Iwaizumi is granted a reply.

He watches as his best friend suddenly pushes himself upright, a gleam in his eye and a conspicuous smile playing on his lips. There’s something funny about him in these moments; when he looks as though he’s just broken into some government building and snagged a top-secret state document filled with all sorts of important information.

(Aside from being a shitty detective, he’d probably be a terrible spy as well. He could never resist a good piece of gossip).

“Okay, a few weeks ago Makki injured his hand, right?” Oikawa starts. “We all saw it happen. Looked painful but it was nothin’ serious. A light sprain at best.”

Iwaizumi nods.

“But do you remember the way Mattsun ran to his side? And how much he fussed over him? You would’ve thought Makki was bleeding out on the floor with a knife in his chest!”

At this, Iwaizumi draws his brows together in thought. There’s an urge to refute Oikawa’s claim, which is mainly a force of habit at this point because they both enjoy disagreeing with one another for the sake of disagreeing, but he finds that his rebuttal never makes it past his lips. Instead, he mumbles a quiet ‘huh’ before adding, “I did think it was weird that he walked with him to the nurse’s office just for that.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen in excitement and he nods feverishly. “Exactly, exactly! See, Iwa-chan, just think about it, which I know is quite the task for your microscopic brain—”

“Watch it.”

“—but even you could tell something was up. I’m telling you, there were other moments just like that one.”

As Iwaizumi turns his earlier thoughts over in his head, he has to admit that Matsukawa’s concern — while understandable — struck him as odd at the time. Not because Matsukawa is an uncaring person, quite the opposite actually, but because Hanamaki’s injury hadn’t really warranted such a strong reaction. He even laughed it off a few seconds later.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Repeat that for me, Iwa-chan. I am what?”

Snorting, Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Annoying, meddling, loud—”

“Smart, funny, handsome, dastardly charming,” Oikawa lists. “Why, Iwa-chan, you are just full of compliments today.”

Iwaizumi is faced with one of those trademark shit-eating grins for a moment before Oikawa’s expression shifts into something a little more challenging. “Should we practice again today?” his best friend suggests.

“Practice?” Iwaizumi repeats, mildly surprised by the sudden change in topics. “Oh, you meant—uh, okay, sure?”

Oikawa tilts his head then, lips pursed slightly, which draws Iwaizumi’s gaze towards his mouth for a brief moment. Once he realizes what he’s doing, his eyes snap back up to meet Oikawa’s, who says, “Unless it made you uncomfortable?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know how to explain that kissing hadn’t made him feel uncomfortable. If anything, he’d enjoyed it. Admitting that feels a little strange, though. Which is why he ignores the heaviness pressing down on his tongue and raises his shoulders in a shrug, opting for nonchalance and praying he doesn’t fail.

“Not really.” He frowns. “Does that mean that I was a bad kisser, though?”

A laugh falls from Oikawa’s lips. “No, no, you weren’t bad, just a bit stiff at the beginning maybe, but with a few more pointers you’ll become an expert in no time.”

Iwaizumi makes a noncommittal noise. He’s not even sure if he wants to become an expert. (Whatever that means). Though, before he’s able to voice that thought, Oikawa pushes himself to his feet and beckons him closer by curling his finger, evidently interrupting his thought process. “All right, come here.”

A sudden stab of embarrassment pierces his chest and he attempts to wrestle that odd sensation into submission as he gets to his feet. It feels incredibly lame to walk towards Oikawa, who’s got his hands folded behind his back like some teacher as he’s rocking back and forth on his heels. “Now what?”

“Now—stop frowning—now we’re going to try something different. I think the way we were sitting last time made it a little difficult for you to actually use your hands, so standing might fix that.”

He launches into a spiel about places to hold, touch, squeeze; guiding Iwaizumi’s hands from his shoulders to his waist to his hips, and Iwaizumi tries to ignore the heat that rushes towards his cheeks with every word that passes through Oikawa’s lips. He makes it sound so simple and casual, which likely has to do with the fact that he’s kissed a billion girls. And a boy apparently.

There isn’t much time to ponder this, because he clears his throat and suddenly there’s a weight on Iwaizumi’s shoulders. It takes him a moment to identify said weight as Oikawa’s arms, which are now bracketing Iwaizumi’s neck.

Iwaizumi’s hands are hovering before him just as Oikawa tilts his head. “You’re in charge today. Just pretend I’m some tall, pretty girl you want to kiss.”

It’s moments like these that make Iwaizumi curse those meager five centimeters between them. There’d been a time where he had been the taller one of the two of them, but then Oikawa got that absurd growth spurt during their final year of junior high and Iwaizumi has been suffering ever since.

“Right, okay,” Iwaizumi mumbles, all of a sudden far too aware of what his hands are, or rather, aren’t doing. He nearly cringes. “I should probably just—”

Across from him, Oikawa sighs. It’s a soft thing, sounding almost fond in its nature if Iwaizumi didn’t know any better. “Your hands, Hajime.”

The ever-present, teasing lilt that usually bleeds into his voice is currently absent, and the childhood nickname he bestowed upon Iwaizumi around age eight has been replaced by the syllables of his given name.

It’s all very strange, but also oddly comforting.

Iwaizumi exhales slowly, noticing the way Oikawa had gradually lowered his eyelids. The gentleness of his gaze is what propels him to take a step forward, his initial discomfort slowly bleeding out of him as he places his hands on Oikawa’s waist.

Today, the smell of jasmine isn’t as present as it was two days ago. It’s replaced by something else; something sweet and tangy, like peaches or oranges. The scent beckons him forward and Iwaizumi complies, gaze dropping to Oikawa’s lips for a brief moment. They’re just as pink as they were two days ago, parted ever so slightly, and curiosity stirs inside of him once more. Will they taste like lemon candies again?

He pours over the answers to that question as he leans up.

Simultaneously, he tightens his grip around Oikawa’s waist, tugging his best friend towards him until their bodies are pressed together. He wonders if he might have imagined the soft gasp that rose from Oikawa’s throat just now. It takes half a second for that thought to form and disappear because the feeling of Oikawa’s lips against his own chases every bit of noise away.

They still feel as soft as they did before, perhaps even softer.

It’s different like this, Iwaizumi realizes. Oikawa’s body is much closer now, the warmth of his skin pouring into Iwaizumi everywhere they touch. Last time, his hand had been resting somewhere in Iwaizumi’s lap, but now Iwaizumi notices the way Oikawa’s grip has slightly tightened, as if he wants to keep Iwaizumi as close as possible.

It feels kind of nice.

His hands are still holding on to Oikawa’s waist, but with each slide of their lips, Iwaizumi feels an urge to move them a little further upward. Carefully, his palm traces the path of Oikawa’s spine, and Oikawa must enjoy it, or at least approve of Iwaizumi’s decision, because he hums against Iwaizumi’s lips before retracting one of his arms a little. Rather than keeping both arms tightly wrapped around Iwaizumi’s neck, Oikawa fits his palm against the underside of Iwaizumi’s jaw and—oh that feels different.

Good different.

Oikawa’s palm is soft in some places and a little rougher in others, but Iwaizumi finds that it doesn’t bother him. The additional warmth that pours into his cheeks is pleasant and he parts his lips a little further when Oikawa decides to brush his thumb back and forth, barely repressing a shiver.

Somehow everything feels a little different today. They don’t move as slowly as they did two days ago. Instead of caution there is determination, fueled by an inexplicable hunger. It’s as though he’d tasted something wonderful and immediately felt the urge to chase its sweetness again and again. And judging by the way Oikawa captures Iwaizumi’s lips with his own; intensity poured into each kiss, Iwaizumi assumes that his best friend might experience the same.

The strange jolt of electricity that shot across his spine two days ago has returned once more. This time, its sparks follow a different path. They swerve, traveling along the length of his arms until they reach his fingertips; his skin tingling in their wake. It probably has to do with the fact that they’re standing now, Iwaizumi tells himself.

A different position can change a lot, apparently.

However, that thought is pushed aside rather swiftly when he feels Oikawa’s tongue brushing against his lower lip. Instinctively, Iwaizumi parts his lips a little further, allowing Oikawa to deepen the kiss.

That first brush of Oikawa’s tongue against his own redirects the oxygen from his lungs to an entirely different place, and the movement of Iwaizumi’s hands almost seems beyond his control. They eagerly roam across Oikawa’s upper body, fingers anchoring themselves around the back of Oikawa’s neck as he returns the kisses with equal amounts of eagerness.

Breathing becomes rather difficult all of a sudden, especially when Oikawa decides to tighten his grip around him. The scent of peaches is overwhelming, merciless in its onslaught, yet, Iwaizumi chases it. He inhales deeply, gathers some of its sweetness in his lungs, and wonders if Oikawa had always smelled like this.

When his fingers brush against the hairs above Oikawa’s nape, Oikawa makes a small noise in the back of his throat and Iwaizumi takes that as his sign to properly sink his hand into the soft, brown waves.

A shuddering breath leaves Oikawa’s chest half a second later. Simultaneously, he presses himself a little harder against Iwaizumi, who slowly but surely pieces a few things together based on Oikawa’s reactions. Each time he pushes his fingers through Oikawa’s hair and gives a gentle tug on a few of the strands, that same noise spills from his lips. It’s buried between their mouths like a secret, but Iwaizumi likes to think he’s gotten quite good at peeling back the layers Oikawa wraps around himself like armor. He tries it again, growing a little bolder with his movements by deciding to grab a fistful of hair this time, and Oikawa responds by capturing Iwaizumi’s lower lip between his teeth.

A sharp, painful sting is quickly followed by something far sweeter and Iwaizumi is powerless to stop the groan that rises from the depths of his chest. It startles him — and by extension Oikawa, who breaks the kiss with a quiet, but confused ‘Iwa-chan?’

His face is flushed, shades of pink spilling across his cheeks like paint, and his lips, somehow, look even redder than last time. (Iwaizumi has a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that he’s responsible for Oikawa looking like that). Confusion passes over his features, along with something else Iwaizumi can’t entirely identify. The longer he stares at Oikawa’s half-lidded gaze, the stranger he feels.

That tingling sensation in his lips appears to have bled into his fingertips as well and he blinks hard before clearing his throat. “S’okay if we stop here for today?”

It takes Oikawa a moment to respond, but he nods. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice rough as though he hasn’t had a drop of water in four days. He clears his throat as well, tongue darting out to wetten his lips, and offers Iwaizumi one of those saccharine smiles that often leaves the female student body squealing with delight. “You’ve definitely improved.”

“But?” Iwaizumi asks. There’s always a but.

“But,” Oikawa parrots, lifting his hand so that he can drag his thumb across Iwaizumi’s lower lip. A flash of heat passes through his belly. Strange. “I think you still have a lot to learn.”

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

On a cloudy Tuesday they try again.

Third time’s a charm Iwaizumi reckons and this time they find themselves in Oikawa’s house instead, exchanging kisses on the couch because Oikawa’s parents won’t be home all day.

He’s more talkative this time, telling Iwaizumi how to move his tongue (“Not too much, not too little.”) and mentioning the importance of exploring other regions to kiss.

“Here, I’ll show you,” he says casually, sliding one leg across Iwaizumi’s hips before settling into his lap. It catches Iwaizumi off guard initially, but he merely sinks into the cushions behind him as Oikawa leans forward. Just as he thinks that Oikawa will seal their mouths together, his best friend tilts his head slightly; lips skimming along Iwaizumi’s jawline.

An involuntary shiver runs down Iwaizumi’s spine. It reminds him of the first time Oikawa had cupped his jaw. Though, this feels a lot nicer.

“Breathe, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa chuckles, “and relax your fingers.”

Iwaizumi wants to bite out that he’s perfectly relaxed but his body would likely betray him. Tension rolls through his muscles as he concentrates on the weight of Oikawa on top of him and the feeling of his lips against his neck.

As instructed, he inhales deeply.

Today, the smell of laundry detergent, soapy with a hint of citrus buried into it, stands out most to him. The image of Oikawa burying his face into a pile of freshly washed clothing manifests in the corner of his mind. (Something Iwaizumi had often seen him do).

Amusement shapes the smile that forms on his lips and his tongue darts out to brush against his lower lip. Earlier, Oikawa’s mouth tasted like the watermelon they’d shared — sweet but subtle — and Iwaizumi had mentioned this offhandedly in between kisses. Oikawa chuckled in response, pointing out that Iwaizumi tasted the same.

He feels his muscles grow heavier as the thought gradually slips away. Oikawa’s breath caresses Iwaizumi’s skin as his lips carve out a line along his neck. When Iwaizumi flinches and murmurs that it tickles a little, Oikawa releases a short hum, amusement bleeding into his voice as he says, “Iwa-chan is ticklish? Good to know.”

“Stop it.”

Oikawa’s teasing may have ceased, but his lips and tongue continue to move. Slowly, they make their way along Iwaizumi’s neck until they reach his throat. Here, Oikawa lightly drags his teeth over Iwaizumi’s Adam’s apple, which leaves him sucking in a breath.

“Good?” Oikawa wonders, his voice quieter than before. It’s coated in something Iwaizumi can’t identify. There’s a richness to it, as if someone has poured honey over his vocal chords, making every word that spills from lips sound sweeter than before.

“Y-yeah,” Iwaizumi rasps.

Involuntarily, his grip around Oikawa’s shirt tightens when Oikawa lightly bites down on his skin. On top of that, he finds that he’s powerless to stop his hips from twitching. “Shit—sorry.”

Mortification crawls across his skin, hot and sudden, and Iwaizumi could swear even the tips of his ears feel warm. He’s about to apologize again until his ears register the distant sound of a key sliding into a lock. Immediately, a surge of panic seizes him. His heart lurches, threatening to escape his body via his throat lest Iwaizumi wrestles it into submission. “Oikawa—”

Oikawa is quick to pull his mouth away from Iwaizumi’s neck, eyes widened in horror as he glances down at him for a short moment. His eyes then dart from side to side and he digs his teeth into his lower lip, silently muttering a string of curses. “My parents weren’t supposed to come home yet.”

Their reddened lips and flushed skin will surely raise suspicions and Iwaizumi temporarily debates dashing out of the house through the garden door. “Get off!” he hisses, pushing at him just as Oikawa slides out of his lap.

He’s got about as much grace as a newborn fawn because he flails his too long limbs with a shriek, essentially falling off the couch with a loud thud. Iwaizumi can’t even enjoy his moment of stumbling, because a familiar, high-pitched voice travels through the hallway while he quickly adjusts his clothes and tugs his phone out of his pocket. “Tooru! Mom said you’d be home, I’m here to drop off some stuff.”

The sound of footsteps approaching grows louder and louder until Iwaizumi finally catches a glimpse of a face he’s seen approximately three-thousand times before. A pair of brown eyes regard him with surprise and he watches as a grin stretches across the face of Oikawa’s sister, Ayame, who lingers in the entryway of the living room with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Oh hi, Iwa-chan. I should’ve known you were here too,” she says airily, her tone so very similar to her younger brother’s. Then, with an air of confusion — and, perhaps, mild suspicion — she asks, “Tooru, why on earth are you on the floor?”

“Felt like it,” Oikawa mutters, pushing himself to his feet and walking towards her. “And don’t call him that.”

Iwaizumi keeps his eyes glued to the screen of his phone as though the device is the most interesting object in the entire universe. He fights to keep his voice even as he replies, “Hi nee-san.”

“I don’t think Iwa-chan minds,” she says with a hum, “are you two still taking Takeru to the aquarium on Saturday? He’s been looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oikawa responds, ushering her to the kitchen. “Just put the stuff in here and get going.”

An indignant squawk travels from the other room into the living room and Iwaizumi can’t help but chuckle as Ayame responds, “Rude! Why are you trying to get rid of me? This is my house too, you know.”

“You don’t even live here anymore.”

Iwaizumi catches every fifth word as the two continue to bicker in the kitchen. He’s pretty sure Ayame starts to laugh at some point, mentioning that Oikawa’s skin looks awfully red, and Oikawa loudly exclaims that she’s overstayed her welcome. It takes an additional ten minutes before Oikawa returns to the living room, a sigh passing through his lips as he pushes his fingers through his hair. “Sorry about that. I forgot she was supposed to come over. My mom mentioned something but it slipped my mind.”

Iwaizumi’s teeth worry at his lower lip as he slips his phone back into his pocket. It feels a little stupid to ask whether or not they should continue where they left off so he forgoes the question and, instead, nods towards the doors that lead towards the backyard. “Wanna do some drills outside?”

Oikawa’s response doesn’t come immediately and Iwaizumi briefly wonders if the ‘oh’ that eventually falls from his lips is born from disappointment until he smiles, nodding twice. “Sure, yeah, c’mon.”

The rest of the afternoon is fairly uneventful, as most summer afternoons are. They run a few errands, stuff themselves with snacks, and play a new video game Oikawa had been dying to get his hands on for the past month and a half. All in all it’s a pretty good day.

Even if Iwaizumi’s gaze is occasionally drawn to Oikawa’s lips.

For some reason, each time Oikawa’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, Iwaizumi follows the movements with his eyes. They glue themselves to Oikawa’s lower lip, which Oikawa snags between his teeth before closing his mouth around a straw, and Iwaizumi assumes that he must be a lot more aware of Oikawa’s lips now that he knows how they feel against his own.

If Ayame hadn’t shown up, Iwaizumi thinks they might’ve stayed on the couch for a few more hours; Oikawa in his lap and Iwaizumi’s hands roaming across his back, exchanging kisses until their lips had gone numb. Perhaps her surprise visit had been a blessing in disguise, because what would’ve happened if they’d gotten too carried away and Oikawa’s parents had caught them in the act?

Unease snakes between Iwaizumi’s ribs while Oikawa’s laughter bleeds into the corners of the living room.

Is it wise for them to continue all of this?

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

A few days pass without either of them mentioning again what had occurred at Oikawa’s house.

Oikawa doesn’t suggest they practice, likely noticing the apprehension that has gradually solidified beneath Iwaizumi’s skin. They end up taking Takeru to the aquarium as promised and it ends up being a lot more fun than expected. Throughout their visit, Takeru rambles about the various fish and sea creatures they observe, providing additional information and an assortment of random facts about the various animals.

“He’s got a new thing to obsess over,” Oikawa whispers to Iwaizumi with a roll of his eyes while Takeru all but presses his face to the glass. “Sea life.”

Iwaizumi snorts, watching as Oikawa steps away and tugs on Takeru’s shoulder before gesturing for him to turn around entirely so that he can take a photo. Oikawa’s voice is quiet when he tells Takeru to ‘smileeeee’ and Takeru actually does, a large grin forming on his lips while he points at some kind of creature Iwaizumi fails to identify.

After that, Oikawa suggests Iwaizumi join him for the next photo and Iwaizumi complies without putting up a fight. He sinks into a low squat next to Takeru, who leans against him with a big grin, and smiles at the phone. “You guys are so cute,” Oikawa cooes, grinning at his screen after probably taking approximately thirty-five photos.

It causes Iwaizumi to roll his eyes, but he clicks his tongue and gestures for Oikawa to hand him the phone. “Get over here.”

Oikawa pads towards them, standing on the other side of Takeru after dropping the device into Iwaizumi’s opened palm. It requires a bit of adjusting but Iwaizumi manages to angle the phone just right so that he can take a photo of the three of them.

As expected, Oikawa complains and points out that he “wasn’t ready yet” and demands a do-over. He ends up demanding at least thirteen do-overs. At some point, the burning sensation in the muscles of Iwaizumi’s thighs is impossible to ignore — as is the ache that spreads along the lower half of his face. He’s fairly certain he might need to unscrew his jaw after smiling for ten minutes straight.

However, Oikawa seems satisfied with the photos, grinning widely as he thumbs through them. His teeth briefly sink into his lower lip before he presses the device against his chest. “They’re super cute.”

Iwaizumi’s brain latches onto that last word, gaze traveling along Oikawa’s face.

Cute, a voice in the back of his head repeats.

They continue their stroll after that and Iwaizumi tries his best to pay attention when Takeru tells him the names of the other creatures they encounter amidst their walk. He even manages to remember a handful of names, which surprises both Oikawa and himself. Occasionally, he’ll toss a question into Takeru’s direction, who answers each of them with the kind of excitement that brings a smile to his face and Iwaizumi wonders aloud if Takeru would ever want to work in an aquarium when he’s older.

“Maybe,” Takeru supposes, folding his arms behind his head. “Being a doctor also sounds cool. You get to use knives.”

“For the fifth time, they’re not knives,” Oikawa says around a sigh.

“But how do they cut people then?”

“Go stand over there and pose with the stingrays!”

After spending an additional hour or two walking around the aquarium, the three of them head towards the exit. Upon arriving outside, they are quick to locate an ice-cream vendor; who’s currently surrounded by eager children and their mildly exhausted parents.

Iwaizumi ends up jogging over to the cart, returning a few minutes later with three servings of ice cream and Takeru continues to bombard both Iwaizumi and Oikawa with even more miscellaneous facts about at least ten different types of fish between bites. (Surprisingly, Iwaizumi even learns a thing or two).

Once they’ve dropped Takeru off, Oikawa mentions that he wants to stop by the grocery store on his way home. Iwaizumi agrees with a shrug, tugging his phone from his pockets and texting his mother to ask if he needed to pick up a few things while there.

They discuss a number of things, all of them utterly trivial but entertaining nonetheless. As they’re strolling through the snack aisle, Oikawa mentions that Takeru might have a crush on a girl in his class and Iwaizumi chuckles. His fingers are curled around a bag of chips when Oikawa hooks his chin over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his cheek nearly pressed against the side of Iwaizumi’s face. “I’ve been wanting to try these. Is it a new flavor? Get me one as well.”

Their sudden proximity causes a flash of heat to crawl along the back of Iwaizumi’s neck and he’s not entirely sure where the strange fluttering sensation in his lower abdomen is coming from. It swims through his body, unwilling to disappear as Iwaizumi fights to gather a bit of oxygen in his lungs.

With Oikawa this close, he’s unable to ignore the scent of his sunscreen and whatever hair products he might’ve used this morning. (Lavender, his brain supplies). As the two of them stand there for the better part of a minute, Oikawa presses himself a little closer to Iwaizumi’s back and Iwaizumi almost, almost leans into him, half-expecting to feel the softness of Oikawa’s lips along his cheek and jaw any second now.

Except, it never comes.

Oikawa merely pulls away with a hum, mentioning that he’s going to grab eggs.

Iwaizumi remains there, rooted to the spot in the snack aisle, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He tightens his grip around the bag of chips before tossing it into his basket.

They eventually leave the store, with Iwaizumi carrying most of their groceries. Next to him, Oikawa has been kicking the same rock for the better part of seven minutes. He’s talking about one of the episodes of Border, pointing out that they should watch another one soon, and Iwaizumi hums in reply as Oikawa launches into a spiel about the main character.

Halfway through his story, a loud but distant voice calls out to them. Or rather, to Oikawa.

“Tooru!” Iwaizumi hears.

‘Tooru’?

A dark-haired guy jogs towards them, his lips stretched into a grin and a gleam of excitement flashing through his eyes. Once he’s close enough, the first thing Iwaizumi notices is that he’s a head taller than Oikawa and that he’s got a small scar on his upper lip. His eyes are about as dark as his hair, nearly black and framed by thick lashes, and his skin seems to be lightly bronzed by the sun’s rays. He can’t be much older than them, he reckons.

Quickly, Iwaizumi sifts through a catalog of memories in an attempt to recall whether or not he’s seen him before, but he comes up empty despite his many attempts.

A pang of annoyance shoots through his chest.

Next to him, Oikawa seems equally surprised by the stranger’s sudden appearance, but then something akin to recognition passes over his features before a smile begins to spread across his lips. “Tatsuya! I thought you were still in Tokyo.”

The guy — Tatsuya, apparently — shakes his head, still grinning. “Nope,” he replies. “Came back for the summer. Just for a little while, though. Wanted to see my friends and family. How have you been?”

A short conversation arises, meaningless small talk mostly, but something shifts in Oikawa’s demeanor.

To anyone else he might seem like his usual, charming self, but to Iwaizumi, who’s been in Oikawa’s life since the age of six — when the two of them still donned their milk teeth and peed the bed regularly — the oh-so-subtle changes in his behavior are impossible to ignore.

It starts with his voice, which appears to have gone up an octave; a clear indication of excitement or anxiety. (Perhaps even both in this particular case). Then there’s his hands, carefully hidden behind his back as his fingers twist and turn, tugging impatiently on the handles of the grocery bag he’s holding.

Finally, there’s his face; a dead giveaway, really. Teeth sink into his lower lip while amusement flashes through his eyes, melting together with something that could only be described as intrigue. On top of that, Iwaizumi could swear that Oikawa’s cheeks look a little redder than before.

He frowns.

The pang of annoyance he felt earlier hasn’t subsided. Instead, it continues to move beneath his skin as Iwaizumi silently observes the conversation. It’s difficult to pinpoint the source of his irritation, because Tatsuya does seem like a decent guy on all accounts.

He’s polite, and rather kind by the looks of it, and, yes, one could argue that he’s kind of handsome. And yet, Iwaizumi finds himself shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other, eager to return home.

Fortunately, Oikawa ends the conversation after another moment, though not before exchanging numbers with Tatsuya, who mentions something about texting him later in the week. Iwaizumi feels the muscles in his jaw tighten, molars grinding together. It’s like someone had sewn his tongue to the floor of his mouth, making it difficult for him to swallow. Nevertheless, he tries.

The tightness in his throat dissipates as he and Oikawa continue down the road that takes them to their neighborhood, but the silence between lasts for a few minutes before Iwaizumi dares to ask the question that had settled somewhere in the back of his mind ever since they ran into Tatsuya. “Was he the guy you told me about before?”

He’s not sure why he wants to know the answer to that question. Genuine curiosity, he supposes.

Oikawa’s response doesn’t come immediately. Not until they make it to the corner where their paths usually diverge.

There’s an affirming hum of sorts, quiet and nearly undetectable, before he replies, “Yeah. Didn’t know he’d be back.”

“He seems nice,” Iwaizumi says, adjusting his grip around the grocery bag he’s carrying. “Are you gonna see him now that he’s back for the summer?”

“Dunno,” Oikawa answers thoughtfully. “Depends, I suppose. I’ll see if he texts me or not.”

It takes a moment before Iwaizumi realizes that he should probably reply to that. “Right.”

That strange, tight sensation he felt earlier, manages to reappear. It relocates itself, finding a hiding spot behind his sternum and making it impossible for Iwaizumi to squander it despite his many attempts.

Like an annoying cough, it persists — poking and prodding at him until he finds himself growing irritated once more. It becomes nearly unbearable when they reach Oikawa’s house. If he could reach inside of his own chest somehow, clawing through muscle and bone, he would’ve torn it out instantly.

Sadly, all he can do is surrender to it.

Once they pass the threshold, with Oikawa announcing their return, Iwaizumi’s irritation is accompanied by desperation. He needs to do something.

As a result, his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping themselves tightly around Oikawa’s wrist before he drags him forward and towards the stairs.

With a yelp and a confused ‘Iwa-chan!’ Oikawa follows, allowing Iwaizumi to lead him up the stairs. “The groceries—”

A series of hurried steps take him to Oikawa’s bedroom, where he turns on his heels and yanks Oikawa closer. Their collision knocks Iwaizumi backward, but he catches himself in time and slides one of his arms around Oikawa’s waist before pressing his mouth against Oikawa’s own.

It’s hardly an ideal kiss, far too rushed and rough. He releases a quiet grunt when their teeth clack together and he can feel Oikawa hooking his fingers into the front of his shirt with a gasp.

The second one is better, though. It takes a bit of adjusting, but then Iwaizumi finds a rhythm they’re both comfortable with. He nips at Oikawa’s lower lip, just as Oikawa had done to him, and it seems that Oikawa enjoys it because he slides one of his hands towards Iwaizumi’s shoulders and squeezes tightly.

He makes an attempt to talk in between the kisses, murmuring something along the lines of, “What’s gotten into you?”

“Wanted to practice,” Iwaizumi mutters. It’s not entirely untrue. Kissing seems like a good way to get rid of whatever pent-up energy he’d been carrying with him and, according to Oikawa, Iwaizumi would still benefit from some more practicing.

For some reason, the words cause Oikawa to pause abruptly. He pulls back, simultaneously pushing at Iwaizumi’s shoulders with a huff, which catches Iwaizumi off guard. “Not like this,” Oikawa says, voice tinged with either annoyance or anger.

The look on his face leaves Iwaizumi knitting his brows together in confusion. He looks as irritated as he sounds and Iwaizumi can see his jaw working as he bites on the inside of his cheek. Before he’s able to ask why Oikawa suddenly pushed him away, his best friend turns on his heels and stalks out of his bedroom, murmuring that he’s going to put away the groceries.

Iwaizumi exhales through his mouth before clicking his tongue. With a sigh he drops himself on Oikawa’s desk chair, running his fingers through his hair as he attempts to analyze Oikawa’s words.

What was wrong with wanting to practice? Sure, generally speaking, it’s Oikawa who usually initiates it. Had Iwaizumi been wrong to take the lead today?

As Iwaizumi allows his gaze to roam across the room, he spots a number of photos attached to Oikawa’s wall. There’s a picture of Takeru, a picture of him and Ayame, one or two pictures of the team, but most of the photos are of the two of them. An endless stream of memories captured on film throughout the years. He stares at one of them at the swimming pool, which features both of them mid jump, hands clasped and eyes gleaming with excitement. They have to be around eight or nine years old in that one.

In the two photos right next to it, they’re at the arcade. It’s the same summer, if Iwaizumi recalls correctly. In the first photo, both of them are staring intently at whatever game they’re playing, with Iwaizumi manning the controls and Oikawa peering over his shoulder, both hands on Iwaizumi’s shoulders. He remembers beating a level Oikawa was stuck on for ten minutes.

In the second photo, Oikawa offers the camera a toothy grin, flashing whomever is behind the device a peace sign while Iwaizumi remains entirely focused on his mission: beating the opponent trapped within the small screen before him. If he squints, he can kind of make out the name on the side of the machine.

‘Asteroids’ it says. One of their favorite games, if he recalls correctly. Space Invaders was a close second, though.

Smiling, Iwaizumi peers at some of the other photos. Him and Oikawa eating ice-cream at the park, doing passing drills in the backyard, sitting on a pair of swings, falling asleep on the couch, petting someone’s dog, playing on their GameBoys side by side.

It’s strange to see all of it again; buried memories are pulled to the surface. A thousand different colors bleed over pieces of paper until they create an endless collection of pictures.

He’s glad Oikawa kept them in his room.

After a few more moments, Iwaizumi rises to his feet. He still feels unsure whether to wait until Oikawa returns or march downstairs and apologize for kissing him so suddenly.

With a frustrated groan, he exits the room and jogs down the stairs.

As he pads into the kitchen, he’s spotted by Oikawa’s mother, who smiles at him warmly. “Ah, Iwa-chan, I thought I heard you both going up.”

“Hi,” Iwaizumi greets quietly, eyes sliding towards Oikawa, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of yellow fruit. For a brief moment, they look at one another, a round of silence passing between them before Oikawa pushes at the plate next to him. It slides across the counter top, moving barely a few centimeters.

A wordless invitation for Iwaizumi to grab whatever lays on top of it.

Upon closer inspection, he spots a few pieces of mango, and he chews on the inside of his cheek before approaching him and snatching two pieces off the plate for himself.

An apology lies dormant on his tongue, but Iwaizumi swallows it for now. It’s probably better to wait until they’re alone.

Oikawa’s mother rushes from one corner of the kitchen to the other, seemingly searching for something. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Oikawa either, who chews on another piece of fruit with a hum and comments, “Hallway.”

“Right, right,” his mother mumbles. “I have to leave now or else your aunt will be mad at me. After that I’m meeting your father for dinner, so we’ll probably be home late, but there’s enough food in the fridge. Are you staying home tonight or are you having dinner with your sister?”

“Don’t know yet,” Oikawa replies. “Might call her.”

“Fine, just let me know where you’ll be, okay?”

“Suuuuure.”

While chewing on a piece of mango, Iwaizumi makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Satomi-san, my mom told me to check with you if it’s still okay for Tooru to stay at our place next week while she and my dad are on vacation.”

The question causes her to pause and Iwaizumi watches as she purses her lips slightly. “That’s next week already? Gosh, time flies,” she says pensively. “Tell her that I said it’s okay. Oh, and before I go, Tooru, can you check on some stuff in the garden for me today? The hydrangeas need to be watered. I already deadheaded the roses, but can you take care of the zinnias and the geraniums too? And please look after the ferns, it’s been really hot lately… There’s still mulch in the shed and—”

“Yes, yes, now go, you’re making auntie wait,” Oikawa says while making a shooing motion with his hands.

“So rude!” his mother replies.

An involuntary chuckle passes through Iwaizumi’s lips as he watches the exchange.

There are a lot of similarities between Oikawa and his mother. Appearance wise, he has the same thick, chestnut brown hair, heartshaped face, and eyes the color of burnt caramel. Whenever he smiles, round cheeks lifting ever so slightly, it’s her lips that stretch across the lower half of his face and when he laughs, eyes gleaming with mirth, it’s almost like she’s in the room with them. Traces of her can be found within her son’s countenance and demeanor, woven in between his tinkling laughter and sharp gaze.

Personality wise, he inherited her charming wit and teasing nature, as did his sister, but in moments like these, when she starts to ramble about her garden — her biggest passion project and result of a lifelong hobby, apparently — Iwaizumi sees a lot of Oikawa in her.

He’s always been quite fond of her.

Eventually, she rushes out of the kitchen, but not before rubbing the top of her son’s head, ruffling his hair, and saying, “You need a haircut.”

“Sure don’t,” Oikawa calls out after her, annoyance bleeding into his voice. He plucks at a few of the strands in an attempt to undo whatever ‘damage’ she’d done. Afterwards, he drags his palms through his hair with a sigh.

For as long as Iwaizumi could remember, Oikawa always preferred to grow out his hair over the summer. According to him, it provides a sense of freedom. Or whatever. (“I always keep it short during the school year, but in the summer it doesn’t matter, you know?”)

Right now, a few of the longer strands tend to fall into his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Occasionally, he’ll brush them to the side, but for the most part he seems unperturbed.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know how he does it. He likes keeping his hair short. It feels nice, especially during the warmer months. Subconsciously, his palm disappears behind the back of his neck, fingers brushing against his nape.

Just as the front door falls shut, Oikawa looks towards him. “Is Iwa-chan thinking about cutting his hair?”

Fucking creep.

“Maybe,” Iwaizumi mumbles in response. “Just a trim at the back, though.”

“I could do it for you.”

He probably could. He’s done it plenty of times before. And, admittedly, only fucked up once. They still call it the Great Debacle of ‘09.

“Maybe later?” Iwaizumi suggests.

“Sure,” Oikawa hums. “We should go outside. Gotta check on the ferns and stuff.”

Taking a step back, he rubs his palms on his pants. Right as he turns away, Iwaizumi’s hand shoots out, all five fingers curling around Oikawa’s wrist in an attempt to prevent him from leaving the kitchen.

His steps falter, surprise painting itself across his features when he glances at Iwaizumi.

Quickly, Iwaizumi blurts out, “Sorry—about earlier.” He inhales. “We’re still good right?”

A sigh spills from Oikawa’s lips, which he pulls to the side. “Of course we are.”

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says, swallowing afterwards. “Okay. Just wanted to…eh.. check.”

This earns him a smile; one of those annoying, teasing ones that he’s far too familiar with. “Are you embarrassed?”

“Of course not,” he replies hotly.

Across from him, Oikawa snickers in that annoying way he often does. The smile he’d worn has now bloomed into a smug little grin and Iwaizumi resists the urge to shove a piece of mango into his mouth just to put a stop to it. Simultaneously, the tightness in his chest unravels, making it a little easier to draw a breath into his lungs.

It’s then that his best friend says, “We’re always good, Iwa-chan.”

Eventually, they relocate towards the garden, where Iwaizumi settles atop of an old picnic blanket Oikawa had tossed at him. Before him lies a copy of Volleyball Monthly, along with a copy of Number and a recent edition of Jump. He thumbs through each of them lazily while Oikawa is located a few meters away, kneeling in the soft grass.

His earlier outfit had been discarded and replaced with a faded, pastel yellow t-shirt and a pair of old shorts Iwaizumi recognizes. For the past forty-five minutes or so, Oikawa has been digging through the soil, pulling weeds and watering the various flowerbeds as per his mother’s instructions. His phone lays atop of the blanket, next to Iwaizumi; a soft, melodious tune echoing through the speakers. It’s flanked by two bottles, one filled with water, the other filled with peach flavored ice tea.

Occasionally, Oikawa jogs towards him, takes a sip from the bottle, thumbs through his playlist, and then resumes his initial task.

Watching him is mildly entertaining, especially when he accidentally hurts himself and starts swearing colorfully. (The majority of his gardening related injuries usually consist of little cuts and scrapes, along with the occasional splinter). Currently, there’s a bandaid wrapped around his ring finger while a second one is placed across his shin.

He seems to be faring pretty well.

When Iwaizumi glances up from one of the magazines, he finds Oikawa kneeling near a patch of sunflowers now. He peers at the ground with a frown, carding his palms through the soil before reaching for his watering can. After a few careful pours, he gets to his feet with a sigh.

Similar to his mother, Oikawa possesses a green thumb that would put the average person to shame. It’s funny, Iwaizumi thinks, to see him pouring all of his attention and care into something other than volleyball. Obviously, he knows that Oikawa’s interests aren’t exclusively limited to sports, but seeing him like this, surrounded by greenery, fingers digging into the earth, he seems so very different from the boy he often witnesses on the court.

“It helps me think,” Oikawa told him once. “Gives me something to focus on. Outside of volleyball.”

“I get that,” Iwaizumi replied at the time, wielding a pair of shears as Oikawa instructed him which flowers to trim.

Right now, he’s using that same tool on a group of orange flowers Iwaizumi fails to identify. His quiet hums carry through the open space of the backyard, floating towards Iwaizumi.

He has always liked it here — Oikawa’s garden.

Years worth of time and energy manifested itself into a beautiful and vibrant space, leaving one feeling as though they might’ve stepped into a different realm. A vast collection of plants, flowers, and herbs can be found throughout the backyard; colors bleeding into every crevice of the area.

Every now and then, a flash of white distracts him. The fluttering of a pair of wings pull his attention towards the small insects that hide between colorful leaves and Iwaizumi watches Oikawa grin at a pair of butterflies that suddenly emerge from a nearby bush. “There have been a lot more of them this summer,” Oikawa tells him. “Wonder why.”

“Optimal temperature,” Iwaizumi answers with a shrug. “And, plenty of food. Your garden is like an all-you-can-eat-buffet.”

“You have such a way with words.”

Using the garden hose, Oikawa pours a bit of water over his hands to wash away some of the dirt. He then pads towards Iwaizumi, who has rolled onto his stomach and is currently in the process of delving into an article about Japan’s National Baseball Team. His eyes skim the first two sentences until he’s forced to lift his head because Oikawa, notorious for invading people’s personal space, has decided to turn Iwaizumi’s personal space into his personal space.

With his face but a few centimeters away from Iwaizumi’s own, he says, “Remember when you used to catch all those creepy little bugs when we were kids?”

“Sure do.”

“You were so strange.”

“You ate sand.”

“That was one time and it was a dare.”

The affronted look Oikawa offers him unravels something within Iwaizumi’s chest. Suddenly, he’s forgotten all about Japan’s number one pitcher, and the rest of the team for that matter. Laughter finds its way out of his throat, leaving his shoulders shaking and his abdominal muscles contracting in a way that’s nearly painful.

Despite his attempt to keep a neutral face, Oikawa is very clearly just as amused. (Iwaizumi can tell by the way he tightly presses his lips together). A chuckle falls from his lips, followed by another. His efforts, commendable as they are, are in vain. There’s a whine hidden between rounds of laughter, along with sounds of ‘stop’ and ‘Iwa-chan’ and ‘you’re so mean’, which only fuels Iwaizumi’s amusement even more.

Naturally, Oikawa tries to punish Iwaizumi for his transgressions by pushing at his shoulder, but Iwaizumi easily captures his wrist within his own hands. A battle of strength ensues, with Oikawa still complaining between laughs and Iwaizumi feeling the corners of his eyes prickle with tears.

He finds himself pushed onto his back within a matter of moments, Oikawa hovering above him as he cages Iwaizumi in between his arms. As the laughter subsides, the occasional twitch in his abdomen a reminder of his endless amusement, Iwaizumi manages to catch his breath. There’s an ache in his cheeks but he finds that it doesn’t bother him at the moment.

He feels warmer than a few minutes ago.

Above him, Oikawa is still pouting in a way that most people would probably consider cute. Unfortunately for him, Iwaizumi is terribly immune to it. Having been subjected to this particular pout for over ten years means that he’s built up quite the tolerance.

Instead, he glances at Oikawa’s bangs, which have been pinned back so that they wouldn’t obstruct his vision amidst his perilous garden work. It looks funny. One might even call it adorable.

He fights the urge to reach for the hairclip.

“Hey,” Oikawa starts quietly, drawing his lower lip into his mouth, which pulls Iwaizumi’s attention towards mouth — briefly. “Wanna practice again? Not like before, though.”

By now, every trace of laughter has vanished; hidden between blades of grass and slipped into the soil of the garden. The sun is relentless, pouring warmth over them until Iwaizumi feels as though he’s choking on it. He doesn’t want to move, though. Even with all that sweat clinging to his back and the dryness that’s begun to accumulate in his mouth, Iwaizumi would rather stay exactly where he is.

Nearby, birds practice their song; a gentle melody carried by the wind from place to place. Elsewhere, a bumblebee must’ve stumbled upon its afternoon snack. The distant buzzing of its wings bleeds together with the loud chirps of the birds and the very quiet meowing of the neighborhood cat. As these sounds wash over Iwaizumi, and by extension Oikawa, his eyes dart from Oikawa’s hair to his lips. They are still as pink as before and Iwaizumi knows that they will feel really good against his own, so he nods.

A hand reaches up, brushing one of Oikawa’s longer locks away from his face before settling on the back of his neck. With a nod and a gentle tug, he complies. Simultaneously, Oikawa leans down and slants their mouths together.

Kissing him doesn’t feel new anymore, but Iwaizumi feels that familiar tingle crawling up his spine once more. There’s an odd sense of excitement accumulating in his body; it’s the strange flutter low in his belly, the tingling of his fingers, the tightness in his chest because Oikawa has stolen all of his oxygen.

He leans into it, briefly allowing himself to surrender to each little sensation.

Amidst all of this, something nudges at him at the back of his skull, a reminder that all of this is just make-believe. A way for both of them to get what they want. Iwaizumi gains more experience and Oikawa feels more secure in his kissing abilities.

We’re just pretending, he tells himself. Nothing more, nothing less.

One of his hands glides down Oikawa’s back until Oikawa decides to lower himself entirely. The full weight of him presses into the front of Iwaizumi’s body, who is unable to bite back a quiet gasp in response. They’ve never done this before — kissing while lying down — but he quickly realizes that having Oikawa so close to him only heightens every sensation. The feeling of his lips, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his hands. Oikawa smells like sweat and soil and sunscreen and, somehow, a little bit of sunlight.

All of it is oddly confusing, and yet it feels very right.

Iwiazumi’s arm wraps itself tightly along Oikawa’s waist, who releases an appreciative hum as he sucks Iwaizumi’s lower lip into his mouth and — fuck, Iwaizumi definitely likes that.

He must’ve made some kind of embarrassing noise in response, because Oikawa chuckles. The vibrations of his laughter bleed into Iwaizumi’s own chest as though they are a part of his body as well. Having Oikawa this close makes it feel as though they might be sharing a single body. They are a collection of limbs and hearts and shared breaths, melting into one being as the earth embraces them.

With a gentle push, they roll onto their sides and Oikawa wastes no time tangling their legs together as he sinks his fingers into Iwaizumi’s hair. As Oikawa drags his nails across Iwaizumi’s scalp, Iwaizumi nearly shudders. He deepens the kiss, a foreign hunger crawling through the lines of his stomach. It grows with each kiss they exchange and he doesn’t know how much time passes before he adjusts their position again and crawls on top of Oikawa.

Under him, Oikawa hums again, then sighs. He wraps both arms tightly around Iwaizumi’s neck and Iwaizumi drags his palms along Oikawa’s side until they reach his hips, remembering each of the body parts Oikawa had pointed out last time they’d done this. It’s then that Oikawa shifts slightly, wrapping one of his legs around Iwaizumi’s lower half as though he intends to keep him in place.

With sunlight draped over his back and Oikawa’s body below him, Iwaizumi finds himself existing between two planes. There’s the stifling heat of the sun’s rays and the comforting warmth of another body, both of which are pouring into him with renewed fervor. It should be unbearable, but instead a sense of tranquility engulfs him.

(He could stay like this forever).

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

Days pass, mornings bleeding into afternoons into nights and back into mornings, and whenever the two of them happen to have a moment to themselves, they reach for each other. Like a pair of magnets, their bodies seem to drift towards one another almost instantly.

Oikawa rarely comments between kisses anymore, seemingly satisfied with Iwaizumi’s current skill level, and Iwaizumi doesn’t question it. He’s forgotten how many times they’ve kissed in total. It doesn’t matter, he supposes.

One afternoon, in his bedroom, he’d spent what felt like hours with his mouth latched onto the side of Oikawa’s neck. Afterwards, when he’d managed to untangle himself from him, Iwaizumi stared at a patch of skin that seemed a little redder than the rest. Oikawa, flushed and a little out of breath, had beamed at him and brushed a finger across the mark. “That’s called a hickey, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi soon learned that Oikawa enjoyed getting hickeys. He also enjoyed leaving them on Iwaizumi’s clavicle. (“Trust me, nobody will see!”)

On a different day, Oikawa had been sucking on a popsicle for the better part of six minutes and promptly pulled Iwaizumi in for a kiss that left Iwaizumi feeling a little lightheaded. Oddly, for the remainder of the night the lingering taste of cherries remained on his tongue. Even after he brushed his teeth.

He also learned a little more about the sensitive spots behind Oikawa’s ears and the hollow of his throat; the way his breath hitched when Iwaizumi thumbed at his hip bone and the funny little noise he made when Iwaizumi gently tugged on his hair.

It’s interesting, Iwaizumi thinks. To see that side of him; a part that is so vulnerable and seems both familiar and unfamiliar at once. Yet, it feels very normal. After all, this too is Oikawa. A boy who wields his passion like a lance, armors himself with determination and pours every ounce of himself into whatever he might be working on. Whether it’s volleyball, his studies, or his garden.

At night, Iwaizumi would mentally replay the day’s events. Pouring over the images with strange fascination. A breathless chuckle, reddened cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes. He’d find himself imagining the soft press of Oikawa’s lips against his own or the feeling of his fingers as they squeezed themselves around his biceps. Oikawa tended to do that; touching, touching and touching Iwaizumi as much as possible. Oftentimes, his hand would roam all across the upper half of Iwaizumi’s body and Iwaizumi noticed that his fingers frequently found refuge around the swell of his bicep or his shoulders.

He likes it.

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

“You’re staying over tonight, yeah?” Iwaizumi asks one afternoon, his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he’s padding through the kitchen. “Don’t bring anythin’. Already did groceries.”

His parents left for their trip that morning, allowing Iwaizumi to stay by himself for the week. He’s been looking forward to it for days. Together with Oikawa, he’d compiled a list of movies and tv shows to watch, games to play, and comics to read. Oikawa had been giddy with excitement, mentioning that he was probably going to bring half his room with him to Iwaizumi’s house.

“Oh, Iwa-chan is such a good host,” Oikawa chirps on the other end of the line. There’s some distant shouting, followed by a shrill, whiny voice going ‘Tooru’ loudly, and Iwaizumi snorts when he hears Oikawa’s long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, I’ll be there later. Gotta go. Takeru’s gonna bite my head off if I don’t play this stupid game.”

“It’s not stupid!” Iwaizumi hears Takeru yell indignantly.

“Oi, be nice to him,” Iwaizumi warns. “Do you want me to leave you some dinner or are you eating there?”

“You sound like my mom,” Oikawa chuckles. “I’ll probably eat here, but you can leave me something regardless. I’m a growing boy after all.”

“Starting to have my doubts about that. See you later.”

“Bye-bye!”

Once the call ends, Iwaizumi returns to his initial task: cleaning. There is still plenty of time to kill, which means he’ll probably spend a majority of the afternoon cleaning and tidying up various rooms. While it isn’t his favorite activity, he knows he’ll feel much better having Oikawa over when the house looks a little more organized.

Sighing, he peers into the living room before turning on his heels to grab the vacuum cleaner.

Hours pass until Oikawa’s arrival, but around eight o’clock the sharp but ever-familiar sound of his doorbell pulls his attention away from an uninteresting news bulletin. He’s on his feet within seconds, jogging towards the hallway. As Iwaizumi opens the door, gaze temporarily dropping to the large duffel bag Oikawa brought with him, Oikawa exclaims, “Who’s ready for the best sleepover ever?”

“How much stuff did you bring?” Iwaizumi asks, frowning.

“Enough,” Oikawa answers matter-of-factly as he steps across the threshold and into the hallway. While doing so, he leans in slightly to press a kiss to Iwaizumi’s lips. It’s a short one, lasting barely a handful of seconds, but it takes Iwaizumi a moment to process the sudden affectionate gesture. Briefly, he finds himself at an impasse — unsure of how to respond.

Across from him, Oikawa freezes for a moment. He seems just as surprised, pulling back with a look of confusion, or perhaps guilt. Something akin to panic settles into his eyes and it bleeds into his voice as he stammers, “S-sorry—I just—”

“S’fine,” Iwaizumi says quickly. “Just dump your things in my room.”

With a quiet ‘yep’ Oikawa speeds out of the hallway, leaving Iwaizumi to analyze that odd interaction. He searches and searches for a name to assign to that strange emotion that’s pushing its way through his stomach, but his efforts are in vain.

Eventually, he gathers a bit of air into his lungs and heads back towards the living room.

The rest of the night is fairly uneventful. They watch the first film out of a trilogy, eat their body weight in snacks, and don’t mention whatever had transpired between them in the hallway.

It all seems fairly normal, but Iwaizumi notices that Oikawa has primarily kept to his side of the couch for the majority of the evening. His hands are either folded in his lap, placed along the couch’s arm rest, or carrying one of two popcorn bowls. Strangely enough, they never touch Iwaizumi’s shoulder, nor do they rest along his thigh.

His legs are tucked beneath him instead of being draped across Iwaizumi’s lap and his head finds refuge on the cushions, which evidently replace Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

To anyone else it might seem fairly normal, but to Iwaizumi — who could probably recognize Oikawa by the sound of his heartbeat alone — it all feels a little unusual. Nevertheless, he brushes it off. Tomorrow might be different, he tells himself.

Somewhere through the second movie (a b-rated sci-fi film from the eighties with terrible special effects), Oikawa’s phone buzzes where it’s resting between them. The vibrations pull Iwaizumi’s gaze from the large screen towards a much smaller screen, where he reads the name Tatsuya twice, thrice, as a plethora of messages begin pouring in.

A sudden pressure gathers in his chest, something heavy and constricting. It pours in-between his ribs, fills the entirety of his upper body until it becomes difficult to breathe. He makes an attempt to swallow past it, focusing instead on the way the main character navigates his way through an aerial battle somewhere in outer space.

Iwaizumi hopes he dies.

With another inhale, he glances at Oikawa, who snorts at a terrible joke, and says quietly, “Your phone.”

Surprise paints itself across Oikawa’s face as his gaze drops to the device, lips forming an ‘o’-shape. He’s quick to grab the phone and Iwaizumi tries his best not to stare when Oikawa’s fingers furiously tap against the screen. When he notices the curve of Oikawa’s smile and the way he lightly bites at his lower lip, that pressure he felt earlier bleeds out of him. It’s molded into something different; a sharp, stabbing pain he finds difficult to ignore.

It seizes him so suddenly, as though a pair of claws have wrapped themselves around his throat — squeezing harder and harder.

A question forms in the back of his mind, which escapes through his lips with a surprising speed. “Are you gonna hang out with him?”

“Hm?” Oikawa replies.

“That guy,” Iwaizumi clarifies, purposely keeping his gaze aimed at the tv. A part of him doesn’t even want to mention him by name, which feels stupid and childish, but Iwaizumi currently doesn’t care about that.

“Tatsuya?” Oikawa asks. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

A part of Iwaizumi expects to feel relieved, but a dumb part of his brain latches onto the word ‘probably’, repeating it over and over and over. Then there’s the fact that Oikawa seems hellbent on calling him by his given name.

Rather than replying outright, Iwaizumi grunts.

One hand disappears into a bowl of popcorn and he tries his best to keep his eyes on the tv, fighting the urge to glance sideways each time Oikawa fiddles with his phone. Scene after scene passes, with the main characters fighting their way through the galaxy and traveling to at least three different planets.

(Iwaizumi hopes he dies.)

Had it been any other night, Iwaizumi would’ve spent the majority of the time laughing at the absurdity of it all whilst listening to Oikawa’s half-baked film analysis and vehemently disagreeing with at least a quarter of his talking points. However, tonight, he just wants to go to bed as quickly as possible.

Once the credits roll, he gets to his feet and murmurs that he’s going to grab the spare futon. Oikawa might have said something, but Iwaizumi’s already halfway out of the room by then, hurrying up the stairs like he’s getting paid to do so. He yanks the futon out of the closet and carries it to his room, where it’s unrolled onto the floor. Each movement feels rushed and aggressive, as if the furniture had wronged him somehow. Had his mother been present, she probably would’ve commented on it and joked that the poor futon did nothing to deserve his wrath.

By the time he manages to find a spare pillow and comforter, Oikawa has made his way upstairs. He’s lingering in the doorway of Iwaizumi’s bedroom, eyes darting from wall to wall while Iwaizumi busies himself with fluffing up a pillow that doesn’t even need to be fluffed. He just knows that if he doesn’t give his hands something to do, he’ll do something stupid like slap his lamp off his desk. The poor thing doesn’t deserve that.

“Is everything okay, Iwa-chan?”

The words are spoken carefully, hesitation seeping into Oikawa’s voice. It makes Iwaizumi’s stomach feel strangely heavy.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi answers, pointedly avoiding his gaze. “Just wanna go to bed.”

“Oh,” Oikawa replies, “okay.”

A round of silence follows before Oikawa quietly asks, “Did I do something wrong?”

That sharp stab of pain Iwaizumi felt earlier has turned into something different. He can feel his stomach drop, guilt twisting and writhing inside of him. As he finally looks at Oikawa, who’s begun to chew on his lower lip in a way that often signifies that he feels slightly remorseful about something, Iwaizumi curses himself.

Normally, Oikawa would call him out on his bullshit. He’d badger him into confessing whatever troubles him, even going as far as wrestling him until he has Iwaizumi pinned down, but today he seems nervous. (Which bugs the shit out of Iwaizumi).

His brain immediately latches onto a theory involving Oikawa and Tatsuya and whatever budding romance must be blooming between them. Perhaps the time has come for the two of them to put an end to all of their “practices” so that Oikawa can redirect his attention elsewhere.

After all, Tatsuya seems more than eager to explore whatever exists or has existed between them and Iwaizumi would hate to stand in the way of his best friend’s happiness.

He’s familiar with the logistics of it all. The way Oikawa slowly grows enamored with the other person, the constant texting, the endless chatting about dates, the obligatory and slightly forced hang-out during which Iwaizumi has the chance to meet the infamous girlfriend — or in this case: boyfriend.

It would be unfair to continue their activities, given that it was nothing more than a way for Iwaizumi to gain some experience before college.

But why does the thought of ending it all feel so wrong?

As he searches for something that seems hellbent on hiding from him, he clears his throat. “No, you’re fine. C’mon, let’s just brush our teeth and go to bed, yeah?”

Something passes over Oikawa’s face at Iwaizumi’s suggestion, a mixture of apprehension and disappointment maybe, and a part of Iwaizumi wonders if he’d simply imagined it, because Oikawa wipes every trace of it off of his face and replaces it with a smile that wavers at the edges. “Sure, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi hates it.

Oikawa is quick to turn away after that, the empty sound of his footsteps bleeding into Iwaizumi’s room before Iwaizumi can even form a reply. For a moment, he stares at the pillow in his arms, then he inhales and presses his face into it with a silent scream.

They take turns in the bathroom, silence continuing to stretch between them. It’s strange how stifling it feels; as if every bit of oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Their easy camaraderie has been replaced by discomfort and Iwaizumi knows he only has himself to blame for it. The rational part of his brain makes an attempt to overpower the endless thoughts that plague him, but he ignores it in favor of his own unjustified anger.

He wants nothing more than to turn every part of his brain off, rational and irrational alike, and fall into a deep slumber, but sleep evades him. Cautiously, he listens for the sound of Oikawa’s breathing. It’s always much heavier once he’s asleep and while he may claim that he doesn’t snore, Iwaizumi knows for a fact that he makes some strange, little noise that could be categorized as a snore of some kind.

Oikawa, naturally, fiercely denies this every time.

As Iwaizumi searches for that sound, he’s met with silence. He rolls onto his side, peering over the edge of his bed to observe Oikawa’s back. He must still be awake, likely turning a number of thoughts over in his head to see where he’d fucked up. Iwaizumi wants to shake him and yell that it’s not Oikawa’s fault that his own head is all screwed up.

Or maybe it is.

Maybe it is Oikawa’s fault that Iwaizumi is unable to fall asleep tonight. It’s his fault that Iwaizumi is getting worked up over some random guy he didn’t know existed until two weeks ago. It’s his fault Iwaizumi feels like he’s seconds away from bursting out of his skin at any given second.

He feels like he’s choking on something; he can’t think, he can’t sleep, it’s almost like he’s fucking in lo—

No.

No, that’s not what’s happening, Iwaizumi mentally hisses.

He’s not sure why his heart — the fucking traitor — is suddenly slamming into his ribcage like he’d just ran a marathon. In an attempt to control it somewhat, he inhales deeply. Or, at least, he makes an effort to.

Sadly, said effort is a complete and utter waste of time, because no matter how hard he tries, Iwaizumi is unable to provide his lungs with enough oxygen. The organs suddenly feel too large for his body, or perhaps too small. They feel wrong, everything feels wrong, wrong, so damn wrong—

“…chan.”

As the blood rushes through his ears, Iwaizumi thinks someone might be saying something. Whether it’s Oikawa or some messed up voice in his head that sounds a lot like him, he doesn’t know, but the voice grows a little louder each time. He wishes it would stop. All he wants is a little bit of silence and for the ache in his chest to subside. And yet, it continues, badgering him, slamming into the front of his skull until it feels like his head might split open.

“Hajime!”

With a gasp, Iwaizumi stares at his best friend’s face. His best friend, who’s kneeling at the side of his bed and who has both hands tightly wrapped around Iwaizumi’s wrists while panic flashes through his eyes. “It’s okay—just breathe, okay?”

As those brown eyes continue to stare at him, Iwaizumi is convinced that Oikawa is somehow able to see right through him — past every defensive layer Iwaizumi had tossed between them. Walls crumble before him, endless broken pieces falling to the ground until he finds himself standing in his own ruins. Then, one by one, he feels his ribs shatter, until there is nothing left. His heart puts up a valiant fight, even as blood begins to pour from every invisible wound.

It feels like he’s lying on an operating table, ready to be dissected with sharpened tools, on display for all to see.

There’s a sudden urge to pull away, to run, to hide, but his body remains frozen in place. Labored breaths pass through his chest, spilling from parted lips just as Oikawa inhales deeply. “Come on, breathe,” he urges, squeezing Iwaizumi’s wrist between his fingers.

It’s the warmth of Oikawa’s skin and the tightness of his hands that pull him back into his body, and when Oikawa exhales, Iwaizumi exhales with him, subconsciously matching the rhythm Oikawa had set for him.

Always perfectly synchronized, Oikawa would often joke. It’s like we’re one person sometimes.

Iwaizumi takes another breath, noticing the way Oikawa’s grip starts to slacken. His fingers are still wrapped around Iwaizumi’s wrists, one of his thumbs slowly rubbing circles into Iwaizumi’s skin. It’s almost aggravating how nice it feels.

Just as Iwaizumi is about to pull his hands away, Oikawa leans forward. “Move.”

Iwaizumi isn’t sure why he listens, but he shuffles back until Oikawa is able to climb onto the bed. It’s a tight fit, but Iwaizumi makes room for him, as he’s always done. Oikawa might take up a lot of space, be it physically or emotionally, but that has never bothered him, because Iwaizumi welcomes it.

After all, Oikawa has made plenty of space for him in return. In every way that matters.

There are parts of Iwaizumi that are buried inside of Oikawa, hidden behind bone and knit into sinew. Fears, secrets, dreams. He trusts him with each of them, with every secret he has ever kept, knowing that they will always have a home within the walls of his best friend’s heart. It can be quite frightening to trust another person that much, but any lingering doubts have always been erased by the sound of a reassuring voice and the kind smile that came with it.

In his eighteen years of life, fourteen of which having spent near Oikawa’s side, Iwaizumi has learned that trust and vulnerability, as scary as they might be, are some of the key components to their friendship. It made him brave during times when he was frightened, made him strong when he felt weak, and allowed him to experience beautiful forms of happiness. Somehow, being near Oikawa draws all these different sides of him to the surface, allowing him to grow in ways that continue to surprise him to this day.

And, sure, they are quite strong on their own, but they are stronger together. When Oikawa is by his side, nothing can harm him. There is nothing to be afraid of.

Once Oikawa has settled in, shifting until he’s facing Iwaizumi, his eyes fall shut. “Sleep.”

Iwaizumi is half tempted to tell him to get lost, just for the sake of it, but his brain is far too tired to argue. (He refuses to listen to Oikawa’s command, though). With some kind of childish defiance, he keeps his eyes open. They dart from place to place, dissecting Oikawa’s face as though he’s looking at him for the first time.

Even with the darkness hiding parts of Oikawa from him, Iwaizumi finds himself peering at every little detail he is able to see. He’s unable to look away from the dip of his cupid’s bow, the length of his lashes, or the mole located just below his lower lip.

It’s hardly the first time he’s seen them and it’s stupid, so stupid, but Iwaizumi wants to keep looking at them. He wants to touch them. He might even want to kiss them. And what’s even more stupid is that Iwaizumi doesn’t want someone else to kiss them.

The unwanted image of Tatsuya and Oikawa flashes through his mind; Tatsuya’s hands gripping Oikawa’s hips just as Iwaizumi had done just three days ago, tilting Oikawa’s head back slightly before deepening the kiss. In this image, Oikawa smiles happily, his arms tightly wound around the other boy’s neck. He appears so entirely at ease with him, peering at him through his lashes like he so often does before Iwaizumi had kissed him.

And there it is again: the tightness in his chest, the nausea that sweeps through his stomach. It’s a strange, suffocating sensation that makes him feel as though he’s drowning. The coldness of the water wraps itself around his limbs, leaving his body sinking to the bottom of a lake — except, there doesn’t appear to be an end. Instead, he just continues to fall.

Even when he replaces Tatsuya’s face with that of another person, a random girl from Oikawa’s class or some guy from the baseball team, the tightness persists. It expands, stretches far and wide, infiltrating every part of him until it feels like it might crawl up the walls of his throat and climb out of his mouth, spilling all over his duvet. (Briefly, he thinks it does, and he finds himself inspecting the sliver of empty space between them).

Once he’s certain that his feelings haven’t stained his sheets, Iwaizumi exhales slowly. Oikawa’s hands lay before him, and for once, he wants nothing more than to feel the softness of his fingertips against his own. Greed is what pushes his own hand forward, closing the meager distance between them until they almost touch. If he concentrates, he’s able to feel the warmth of Oikawa’s skin against his own.

His eyes are still shut, which leaves Iwaizumi wondering what thoughts might be swirling within the walls of his skull. When Oikawa releases a sigh, Iwaizumi is rewarded with an answer. “I know you’re awake,” Oikawa mumbles, a faint line appearing between his eyebrows. “And I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He sounds equal parts frustrated and irritated, and Iwaizumi supposes he deserves that.

Inadvertedly, his thoughts begin to wander again, returning to his earlier musings — before his body had betrayed him. This time, the sound of his mother’s voice pushes its way through, steady and reassuring.

Find someone who makes you feel happy.

With his gaze still glued to Oikawa’s face, Iwaizumi turns the words over in his head. He looks at them this way and that, pulls the syllables apart, inspecting vowels and consonants. Carefully, each letter is dissected.

Happy, he repeats. What does it mean to be happy?

To him, happiness is the satisfying sting along his palm when Oikawa delivers a perfect toss to him. It’s the grin on his best friend’s face, framed by a pair of pink lips, complete with reddened cheeks, and bright brown eyes that crinkle at the corners. Happiness is the lazy Sundays in Oikawa’s garden or the cloudy Thursdays in his bedroom when they’re studying and Oikawa peels an orange for him and the whole room smells like citrus.

It’s every time Oikawa nearly topples over from laughter because Iwaizumi showed him something funny or made a very stupid joke. They crash into one another, wheezing between laughs and fingers tightly gripping each other’s shoulders, ignoring that familiar ache in his abdomen tells him he’s probably laughing too much.

Happiness, he realizes, is also walking into Oikawa’s home and feeling at ease. With his mother, his sister, his father, his nephew. Happiness is the safety of a home and those who reside in it.

For as long as Iwaizumi could remember, Oikawa’s family has been warm and welcoming, with Ayame naming him an ‘honorary family member’. (After all, a certain childhood nickname had been bestowed upon him within the walls of their home).

He thinks he could list a few more things, but Iwaizumi knows that happiness — in every sense of the word — will always be tied to Oikawa in one way or another. When he thinks of Oikawa, in all of his moods, with all of his eccentricities, he feels something tug at his heart. He’s unsure whether to call that particular feeling merely ‘happiness’ for it doesn’t encompass the magnitude of the fondness he carries for his best friend. It’s not just a matter of answering the question ‘Does this person make me feel happy?’ but rather asking himself ‘How can I make this person happy?’

In his moment of contemplation, he realizes that he doesn’t just want to make Oikawa happy; he wants to make him feel supported, comforted, safe, and all of the other things Iwaizumi himself experiences when he’s around him.

Somehow, each time Oikawa kissed him, each of those feelings seemed twice as intense. The sense of joy and comfort, the safety and affection; all of it seems heightened every time he feels Oikawa’s lips against his own. In a way, it’s almost addicting.

He returns to that odd sensation from before, allows himself to analyze it once more, holding it between his palms. There’s the urge to crush it, destroy every bad part of it, but that would be unfair. So, instead, he carries it, forcing himself to confront it rather than running from it. It takes him a little less time to come up with the appropriate word for it, given that he’s experienced it before, in smaller doses.

Envy is a peculiar thing.

It leaves one entirely at the mercy of oneself, tearing through the body with a ferocious sort of violence. Sometimes, it’s a roaring fire, burning through tinder until the flames grow ravenous, consuming whatever else might lay on their path. Other times it’s a barely-decectable toxin; something that rots and festers. It will burn through flesh, melt each layer away, until there is nothing but bone. Much like a fire, it consumes, but whereas a fire will swallow anything within seconds, poison is a slow-simmering flame.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what type of envy has currently inhabited his body like an infestation, but he knows that he feels the urge to claw it out of himself. In hindsight, he supposes there had been signs of some sort. Each time Oikawa brought one of his girlfriends with him, a pang of annoyance would make itself known in his chest. He brushed it off, chalked it up to Oikawa’s general disposition instead of wondering about its true origins, but after the past week, he finds that it’s near-impossible to ignore now.

Now that he knows what he wants, he knows that he doesn’t want to lose it.

Inhaling deeply, Iwaizumi stares and stares at his best friend. His lashes, his lips, the slope of his nose, the length of his hair, the roundness of his cheeks; all of it so utterly and completely fascinating. So completely Tooru.

He thinks of all the things that his eyes are unable to see at the moment. Such as his confidence, his bravery, his tenacity, his warmth.

Fuck.

If the Gods or spirits exist, Iwaizumi hopes one of them can grant him a bit of luck and courage. I hope I’m not making a mistake, he mentally whispers to whoever’s listening.

He exhales slowly, licking his lips. “Tooru?”

A pair of his eyes regard him; stupidly beautiful, curious, and somehow all-knowing. There’s no reason to be scared, he supposes. It’s just Tooru. And yet, his heart acts as though Iwaizumi is staring down the edge of a cliff. One wrong step and he might very well plummet to his death.

“Hm?” Oikawa hums, his hand still millimeters away from Iwaizumi’s own. “Yes?”

There are so many things Iwaizumi could say — wants to say — but it seems that every word temporarily escapes him. He chases the vowels, watching as they slip through his fingers.

By some miracle, his lips and tongue obey his command, allowing him to ask a single question.

“Can I kiss you?”

The subtle widening of Oikawa’s eyes does not go unnoticed. Nor does the sudden intake of breath that comes after. Briefly, Iwaizumi thinks that he might reject him, or ask why, but then Oikawa shuffles closer. Close enough so that their noses touch. Iwaizumi can feel the brush of Oikawa’s hair against his own forehead. He listens to the sound of their combined breathing as he moves his hand, lazily tangling their fingers together.

He’s so close that he must be able to hear the thunderous beat of Iwaizumi’s heart. It might shatter his sternum, he thinks.

“Do you want…” Oikawa doesn’t finish his sentence, but Iwaizumi thinks he sounds a little strange. Hopeful almost. Yet, there is a fragility to his voice that he’s not familiar with.

Part of him knows what Oikawa might want to ask, so he answers, “I don’t want to practice. I just want to kiss you.”

The whisper of Oikawa’s voice tickles Iwaizumi’s skin. “Why?”

“Because,” Iwaizumi starts, swallows, licks his lips. His face feels warm. “Because I like kissing you. And I want to keep kissing you. Just you.” After a pause, he adds: “I think I was jealous. Of you and that other guy. And I thought about the two of you together and you kissing him and—”

Iwaizumi exhales roughly. “I didn’t like it. I don’t want you to kiss other people.”

For some reason, the words feel strange in his mouth. Not quite right, but not quite wrong either. They hide beneath his tongue, stick to his palate, and find shelter behind his teeth. There are probably one-hundred-and-ten more eloquent ways he could’ve expressed his feelings, but lying across from Oikawa like this makes forming proper sentences so very difficult all of a sudden. It’s as though someone had crawled inside of his skull and decided to take a machete to his nerve tract, cutting a path through the proverbial minefield that is his brain.

Frustration picks at Iwaizumi’s skin and he fights the urge to press the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. The warmth in his cheeks persists, growing a little hotter by the second.

It’s so stupid, he thinks. It shouldn’t be this hard.

Oikawa must sense his inner strife, because he mumbles, “Hajime, I don’t—”

Iwaizumi doesn’t let him finish his sentence, though. Determined to force the words out of his throat, he gathers them together and shapes them into something comprehensible. “What I’m trying to say is that I li—”

And of course, in true Oikawa Tooru fashion, Oikawa doesn’t let Iwaizumi finish whatever he’s saying either. The sudden press of Oikawa’s lips against his own, steals the oxygen from his lungs. It silences every thought he’d had up until that moment. The words he’d tried so hard to gather disappear, gliding down his throat until they find themselves caged in by bone once more.

Iwaizumi probably shouldn’t be surprised, but a part of him somehow feels caught off guard by a single kiss. It takes him another moment before he’s able to reciprocate, but then he leans in, pressing his mouth more firmly against Oikawa’s. A hand cups his jaw, as it’s done so many times before, but this time, Iwaizumi lets himself enjoy the softness of Oikawa’s palm fully. He drapes his arm across Oikawa’s side, grabbing the back of his shirt as he drags him a little closer, until they’re entirely pressed together.

It’s impossible for him to physically feel Oikawa’s heartbeat within his own chest, but when they’re together like this, Iwaizumi thinks they might share a single one between the two of them. The heat in his cheeks spreads further down, sneaking into the cavities between his throat and chest.

As Oikawa slides one of his legs between Iwaizumi’s, he parts his lips a little further and Iwaizumi takes his time kissing him, his mouth moving unhurriedly against Oikawa’s, who hums pleasantly when Iwaizumi slips a hand beneath his shirt and squeezes his waist.

Eventually, Oikawa drapes one of his legs over Iwaizumi’s hips before sliding on top of him and the full weight of his body leaves Iwaizumi sighing against his lips. One arm winds itself around Oikawa’s neck while the other anchors itself around his middle. Both of Oikawa’s palms cup his cheeks after another moment, his tongue brushing against Iwaizumi’s own when he deepens the kiss, and even though it’s not the first time they’ve kissed, it’s the one that feels the most right.

With each slide of Oikawa’s lips against his own, Iwaizumi’s mind keeps replaying a single sentence over and over.

I like you.

He’s certain Oikawa must’ve heard his thoughts somehow, because he pulls away after another moment. Moonlight has poured into the room, draping itself over Oikawa’s face with such gentleness that Iwaizumi can only stare. The corners of his mouth are lifted, his lips slightly parted as he attempts to gather a bit of oxygen in his chest, and Iwaizumi is rewarded with a smile that could probably stop his heart then and there.

(Surprisingly, it keeps beating).

“I don’t want to kiss anybody else,” Oikawa tells him. He sounds as out of breath as Iwaizumi feels. “I don’t like that guy—I mean, he’s really nice but…”

Here, he pauses, looking somewhat unsure.

Something desperate takes root within Iwaizumi’s ribcage. He drags his hands upwards, sliding them up Oikawa’s side as he licks his lips. “But?”

With a groan Oikawa lets his head fall forward, face buried in the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck — who squirms and finds himself unable to stifle the laugh that escapes his throat as a result. “Oi, that tickles—”

“Shut up, Hajime, I can’t look at you right now,” Oikawa hisses, trying to hide his face even more and evidently rubbing it against the same spot, which only causes Iwaizumi to squirm again.

Another choked laugh tries to worm its way out his throat and he releases an affronted noise, deciding to pinch Oikawa’s side in retaliation. “You’re so fucking weird.”

As expected, Oikawa squeaks, wriggling away from Iwaizumi’s hand, which Iwaizumi had anticipated, so he pinches him twice more for good measure while Oikawa punishes him by blowing a raspberry into his neck.

“Will you let me finish?!” Oikawa exclaims, nearly shrieking into Iwaizumi’s ear.

They both stop moving; Oikawa still resting atop of Iwaizumi, his nose and lips pressed against the side of Iwaizumi’s neck, and Iwaizumi’s arms wrapped around him. He moves one of his arms upward so that it can rest along Oikawa’s upper back before tightening his grip slightly with a hum.

His eyes trail along the ceiling, searching for patterns in the dark despite knowing he will find none. He abandons his task in favor of listening to the way Oikawa inhales deeply. Simultaneously, Iwaizumi turns his head until his lips find the top of Oikawa’s head. He can feel the way Oikawa deflates, exhaling against Iwaizumi’s neck before burying his face a little deeper into Iwaizumi’s neck as though he intends to crawl into his skin. The thought causes the corners of his mouth to twitch upward.

“I like you,” Oikawa whispers, Iwaizumi’s shirt bunched between his fingers. “So much.”

The words slam into Iwaizumi’s chest like a freight train. They latch themselves onto his heart, sinking further and further into it until it feels like he can’t breathe. His lips feel numb when they move. “You like me?”

Oikawa’s grip around his shirt tightens and it almost sounds like he’s gritting his teeth when he replies, “Don’t sound so surprised. Of course I do.”

“What do you mean ‘of course’?” Iwaizumi asks, affronted. “How am I supposed to know that?”

At this, Oikawa makes a noise of frustration, shifting again until he pushes himself up so that he’s hovering over Iwaizumi. The line between his brows has notably deepened and Iwaizumi watches as he begins to gnaw on his lower lip. “Do you really think I would’ve kept kissing you if I didn’t like you?”

“You said best friends do that stuff all the time?!”

“Well, have you considered that I lied?!”

Of course they’re arguing again.

It’s so stupid, so stupid that Iwaizumi can’t help but laugh at the ridiculosity of it all. The sound startles him, but the sense of relief that follows afterwards is quite pleasant, so he lets the waves of amusement roll over him. While doing so, he presses his palms to his face, allowing his eyes to fall shut for a brief moment.

“What’s so funny?” Oikawa asks, sounding almost petulant. “I can’t believe you’re laughing in my face.”

Just as he’s about to move away, one of Iwaizumi’s hands shoots towards him, fingers hooking themselves into the fabric of Oikawa’s shirt. With a firm tug he’s able to pull him closer and Iwaizumi secretly relishes in the panicked squeak that exits Oikawa’s throat as he flops on top of him. He gets an elbow to the ribs in the process, which temporarily restricts his airflow, but it’s absolutely worth it.

Affection blooms behind his sternum, it spreads its roots far and wide until it feels like the entire upper half of his body is somehow filled with the first rays of the morning sun; a gentle warmth that presses into his organs.

Something else accompanies it, though. He’s unsure whether to call it fear or a strange type of excitement, but it reminds him of sitting in a roller coaster and slowly climbing towards its peak. That split second before the drop, when one’s stomach tightens with both anticipation and excitement, tricks the mind into thinking it will either die then and there or makes it feel as though it’s invincible.

Perhaps that’s how he feels right now.

Strangely invincible.

“What’s gotten into you?” Oikawa complains, face pressed into the space between Iwaizumi’s shoulder and neck once more.

Iwaizumi wraps both arms around him again, a little tighter than before. “I’m just happy,” he admits. “All of this is so stupid.”

Oikawa squirms again, though, this time he doesn’t attempt to break Iwaizumi’s hold on him. He shifts slightly, angling his head in a way that causes his nose to bump into Iwaizumi’s jaw. Iwaizumi reckons he must be trying to look at him.

His hands return to Iwaizumi’s sides, fingers no longer clutching his shirt but carefully resting along his waist.

“Don’t call my feelings stupid. That’s not very nice.”

“They’re not,” Iwaizumi replies. “I’m just talking about us.”

He remains silent after that, chewing on the inside of his cheek before adding, “I like you too.”

“Obviously,” Oikawa murmurs.

Iwaizumi squeezes him. “Let me finish.”

When Oikawa makes a noise in the back of his throat, Iwaizumi takes that as his cue to continue. His eyelids fall shut with a sigh and he slides one of his hands upward until his fingers reach the nape of Oikawa’s neck, idly scratching at the shorter hairs he finds there. (That gets Oikawa to relax entirely, like some overgrown house cat). They feel nice against his skin.

“I don’t know how to do all of this,” he says around another sigh. “I’m not like you. I’ve had, like, one girlfriend for three months.”

There’s another pause. Then: “And I’m pretty sure I… didn’t even really like her now that I think of it.”

“But she was so cute,” Oikawa murmurs.

“Well, it’s not just about looks, is it?”

Oikawa hums in reply before lifting his head, chin digging into Iwaizumi’s sternum. He tilts it sideways as he peers at Iwaizumi, amusement flashing through his eyes. “Do you think I’m cute?”

Iwaizumi should’ve seen that question coming.

And yet it’s impossible for him to suppress the smile that spreads across his lips. He rolls his eyes in an attempt to save whatever dignity he has left, but Oikawa is already grinning at him, very clearly entertained by the nonverbal reaction Iwaizumi has provided him with.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, I see that smile!” Oikawa whisper-shouts.

Instead of refuting the accusation, Iwaizumi retracts his hand so that he can pinch Oikawa’s nostrils together. It causes Oikawa to shriek and sputter as he bats Iwaizumi’s hand away with an indignant ‘Iwa-chan!’

Iwaizumi snickers, strangely endeared by the look of annoyance that crosses Oikawa’s features. The slight pout of his lips makes him want to press a kiss to it. By some miracle, he resists doing so.

“You can’t do that if I’m gonna be your boyfriend, you know,” Oikawa points out.

“Says who?” Iwaizumi asks, incredulous. Then his brain latches on to a rather important word. “Boyfriend?”

“Yes, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says slowly, as if Iwaizumi is suddenly four years old. “When two people like each other, two boys in this case—”

Shoving his hand into Oikawa’s face, Iwaizumi laughs, “Yes, I know what that means, asshole!”

Oikawa, who might be the actual child between the two of them, ends up biting at his hand and Iwaizumi curses between laughs before pushing him off entirely and attempting to climb on top of him instead.

Naturally, Oikawa retaliates and they spend a few minutes pushing and shoving at each other, their combined laughter bleeding into the corners of his bedroom as they roll from one side of the mattress to the other.

Eventually, Oikawa wheezes something along the lines of ‘enough, enough, I surrender’ and Iwaizumi decides to choose mercy that night. They end up in their original position, facing one another as they both attempt to catch their breath.

Once it seems like Iwaizumi’s heart and lungs have found their natural rhythm again, he takes Oikawa’s hand into his own. He can feel the way Oikawa’s knee presses into his own and he lets him tangle their legs together.

“Still think we’re stupid?” Oikawa asks quietly, a smile half-hidden by Iwaizumi’s pillow.

“The stupidest,” Iwaizumi answers. “I wanna be your boyfriend, though.”

Chuckling, Oikawa squeezes his hand, slotting his fingers into the empty space between Iwaizumi’s own. A perfect fit. “Stop sounding so cool.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Iwaizumi tells him, sinking his teeth into his lower lip to prevent his smile from growing larger.

“Liar,” Oikawa murmurs. “Oh, look at me, I’m Iwa-chan, I’m good at every single sport ever and I’m vice-captain and ace of the volleyball team and I am so strong and fast and handsome and everyone wants me.”

It’s impossible not to laugh at Oikawa’s theatrics, though Iwaizumi tries to stifle the sound as he presses his face into his pillow. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You kinda do. Your voice has gotten a little deeper, though.”

“And yours has gotten more annoying.”

“Liar. You love my dulcet tones. Everyone does.”

“Sometimes I wonder what the inside of your head must look like.”

That earns Iwaizumi another laugh, a delightful little sound that sneaks in between his ribs. He thinks he might never get enough of it, despite having heard it many times before and all of its variations.

Oikawa keeps looking at him, his eyes only partially opened, and even though there are but a few centimeters of space between them, Iwaizumi thinks he should move a little closer. As if hearing Iwaizumi’s thoughts, he shuffles forward, allowing his forehead to rest against Iwaizumi’s. The faint scent of jasmine and oranges greet Iwaizumi just as his eyelids fall shut.

“We’ll talk about all of this tomorrow,” Oikawa murmurs, keeping their hands trapped between them like he’s guarding something precious. “For now, let’s sleep.”

Iwaizumi squeezes his hand. “Okay.”

– ‧ ₊˚♡˚₊ ‧ –

It doesn’t come as a surprise that they roll out of bed fairly late the following morning. Had Iwaizumi’s parents been present, his mother would’ve likely complained about it, but he currently finds it difficult to care about hypotheticals when he’s got Oikawa next to him in the kitchen, a spoon tucked between his lips as he uses his hips to nudge Iwaizumi out of the way before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Let’s eat outside, it’s nice,” Oikawa suggests, carrying a bowl in one hand and a mug in the other.

Iwaizumi follows him towards the backyard, where they both sit cross-legged on the porch. A pleasant breeze tickles his skin as the sun’s rays crawl across his legs. The distant sound of a birdsong makes for a calming atmosphere and he scoops a spoonful of yogurt into his mouth while Oikawa does the same.

As promised, they continue their conversation from the previous night, with Oikawa admitting that he might’ve harbored some romantic feelings for Iwaizumi for quite some time now. (“Just a little.”)

There’s talk of his past relationships, all of them decent in their own way, but nothing that ever felt completely right. “I think I liked all of them, though. In one way or another,” he says pensively, pushing a strawberry side to side with his spoon. “But, they weren’t you.”

Hearing that makes Iwaizumi inhale sharply. It’s impossible to ignore the familiar flutter in his belly and the not-so-subtle quickening of his pulse, but he takes another bite of his breakfast with a nod and hopes the warmth in his cheeks will quickly subside. “Did—did you ever think about telling me?”

“Of course,” Oikawa replies, chuckling. He drops one of the other strawberries into Iwaizumi’s bowl, which Iwaizumi plops into his mouth rather quickly. “I came close a few times, but I don’t know. It was scary.”

“And kissing me wasn’t?” Iwaizumi teases.

Oikawa releases a long hum at that before nudging Iwaizumi’s shoulder with his own. “That was different! At first I was messing around. I didn’t think you’d agree.”

“Of course.”

They continue to eat their breakfast in a comfortable silence before placing both bowls aside. Oikawa leans back after another moment, palms placed behind him on the wooden surface of the porch. “Turned out great, though.”

“I guess so.”

“Oi,” Oikawa says with a frown, lightly kicking Iwaizumi. “Be more excited about being my boyfriend.”

A chuckle rises in Iwaizumi’s throat as he leans into him. There’s that word again. Boyfriend.

He finds that he quite enjoys the sound of it.

With one hand raised, he captures Oikawa’s chin between his fingers before pressing their lips together. “Better?” he mumbles into the kiss.

“I’ve created a monster,” Oikawa murmurs. “Stop being so smooth.”

“Gettin’ mixed messages here.”

With a huff, Oikawa pushes forward, wrapping his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck, until they topple over. Iwaizumi laughs, allowing Oikawa to crawl halfway on top of him so that they can spend the rest of the morning like this, exchanging slow kisses on the porch. Below him, the warmth of the wood feels comfortable against his back, but the warmth of Oikawa’s body atop his own feels even better.

Stopping seems nearly impossible. It’s as though Iwaizumi’s body has a mind of its own. His hands move of their own accord, his lips finding plenty of places to touch and caress, as the greed inside of his body never quite disappears. It all feels so natural. To take and consume, but also to give.

Stay a little longer, the voice in his mind whispers, mentally reaching out to Oikawa.

Oikawa must’ve heard it, because he appears to have zero intention of relinquishing his hold on Iwaizumi any time soon. That easy rhythm that they created years ago, all synchronicity and shared heartbeats, comes easy to them now.

In between rounds of kissing, they find themselves discussing their past relationships a little more, with Oikawa mentioning that he’d felt somewhat guilty whenever he agreed to go out with someone. “I mean, I was pretty sure I already liked you, you know?” he mumbles, his head coming to rest atop of Iwaizumi’s chest.

As Iwaizumi runs his fingers through Oikawa’s hair, he releases a hum in response. Oikawa sighs, brushing his palm back and forth where it lays atop of Iwaizumi’s abdomen. It feels comforting, even if it tickles. “Figured it was just a little crush and that it’d go away at some point.”

“But it stuck.”

Oikawa nods once, releasing a short hum.

It’s strange, Iwaizumi thinks, to know that there are entire periods where Oikawa had locked away parts of himself. Out of fear, he claims. Apparently, he’d been worried that he’d jeopardize their friendship somehow. Iwaizumi understands his concerns. Had their roles been reversed, he probably wouldn’t have handled it any better.

When he mentions that, Oikawa merely chuckles, then presses a kiss to his cheek. “Probably not.”

Laughter pours from his lips as Iwaizumi dives on top of him half a second later and starts to pinch and poke his sides repeatedly.

At some point, the conversation steers away from past relationships. They talk about a variety of topics: school, volleyball, Takeru’s birthday, a new book Oikawa recently purchased, a pair of sneakers Iwaizumi hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past three weeks. Words are punctuated by smaller kisses; lips, cheeks, noses, foreheads, eyelids, not a single area remains untouched.

It’s delightful.

When they move to another part of the garden, tracing the sun’s steps, Oikawa seems eager to discuss a different topic: people they’d kiss if given the opportunity. Suspicion pricks at the back of Iwaizumi’s head.

It feels like he’s being lured into a trap, but he decides to humor him regardless, listening when Oikawa mentions a drama actor Iwaizumi doesn’t know. He retrieves his phone momentarily to pull up a photo of the aforementioned man. “I mean, sure, he’s handsome, I guess,” Iwaizumi supposes, inspecting the photo for another moment. “I just wouldn’t.”

Pocketing the device, Oikawa clicks his tongue. “Fine. What about people we know then?”

“Do we have to do this?”

“I’m curious about Iwa-chan’s type. C’mon, work with me.”

“I don’t think I have a type.”

“Sure you do,” Oikawa decides, releasing a thoughtful hum as he draws his brows together. “Okay, if you had to pick between Makki or Mattsun, who’d you pick?”

“Neither, they’re my friends,” Iwaizumi says dryly.

“So am I. Choose.”

“Who’d you pick then?”

“I’m not saying until you are.”

A brief staring match ensues before Iwaizumi eventually complies. It takes him a handful of minutes before he’s able to provide Oikawa with an answer. “Fine. I’d pick Hanamaki, I guess.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen slightly, intrigue coloring his voice as he says, “Really? That’s interesting… I’d pick Mattsun.”

“Huh,” Iwaizumi remarks. Curiosity stirs inside of him, his fingers dancing along the length of Oikawa’s spine. “Why?”

“Don’t know. He looks like he could be a good kisser,” Oikawa shrugs.

“Based on what?” Iwaizumi huffs.

“My gut,” Oikawa counters. “Why’d you pick Makki?”

“I don’t know—It’s just a feeling, I guess.”

Oikawa purses his lips, subjecting Iwaizumi to his gaze of scrutiny. He thinks Oikawa might say something else about Iwaizumi’s decision to choose Hanamaki over Matsukawa, but then he says, “Okay, how about people who aren’t our friends then? From another school maybe.”

“Like who?”

“Karasuno’s captain is kinda handsome.”

Now that pulls a noise of surprise from Iwaizumi’s throat. His brows shoot upwards as he summons an image of the other school’s volleyball captain in his mind. “Sawamura?!”

“Yeah,” Oikawa shrugs, grinning. “C’mon, think about it! He’s got something don’t you think? Always so calm and dependable. And level-headed.”

“Unlike you.”

“Shut up.”

Iwaizumi snorts, folding his other arm below his head. His thoughts steer towards Sawamura once more and he has to admit that he kind of understands Oikawa’s sentiment. He mentally sifts through the rest of the team, pausing when the face of one of their other members flashes through his mind. “Actually,” he begins, contemplative. “I think I’d pick the vice captain over him, though. Number two.”

“Refreshing-kun?” Oikawa exclaims, nearly bolting upright. Something akin to giddiness seeps into his voice and Iwaizumi finds the expression he’s currently wearing equal parts amusing and endearing. It melts away rather quickly, transforming into something a little calmer. “I mean, I kinda see it. He’s pretty, isn’t he?”

Iwaizumi taps the spot below his eye. “He’s got a mole here, I think. S’cute.”

“Aha,” Oikawa says, drawing out the sound. “I see it now. Iwa-chan has a thing for the pretty and cute ones. That makes sense. I’m pretty cute after all.”

“All right, we’re putting an end to this,” Iwaizumi decides, attempting to push Oikawa’s face aside when Oikawa leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. He’s unsuccessful, leaving him at the mercy of his best friend. A few more kisses are pressed against his nose and forehead and other cheek. Laughter bubbles up in his throat. “Tooru.”

“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan, I think you’re the most handsome of them all. I’ll never leave you for Sawamura-kun.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Besides, there’s probably something going on between him and Refreshing-kun, don’t you think?”

“There you go again, sticking your nose into places they don’t belong.”

“Listen, I was right about Makki and Mattsun, I’m right about this too—”

Iwaizumi makes a noncommittal noise as he cups the back of Oikawa’s neck and pulls him in again. Silencing Oikawa can be quite challenging, but recent developments have granted him a new set of skills he’s more than happy to utilize. Oikawa ends up muttering a few more words against Iwaizumi’s lips before ultimately falling utterly silent and Iwaizumi is fairly certain he can feel him smiling into the kiss.

Memories of the past weeks bleed into the various corners of his mind and he takes a moment to inspect the images carefully. From that first moment in his room to everything that occurred last night. It’s been quite the journey and there are plenty of things to further discuss, but Iwaizumi supposes that they have the entire summer to figure that out.

For now, he’s content with simply lying here, disappearing in the softness of Oikawa’s lips and the feeling of his hands as they roam along the various parts of Iwaizumi’s body.

After all, a bit more ‘practicing’ couldn’t hurt.