Work Text:
Oikawa Tooru is a genius.
Not in the traditional sense; not the kind that gets perfect grades without trying or solves impossible equations for fun (Oikawa works hard for that). No, Oikawa’s true brilliance lies in people. He can read emotions like they’ve been written out for him in plain text, effortlessly picking apart intentions and insecurities before anyone else notices they exist. He knows exactly what to say to drag someone back onto their feet, and how to push, encourage, and inspire until people believe they’re capable of more than they ever imagined.
Hajime has watched Oikawa pull exhausted teammates back from the brink with nothing more than a few well-placed words and a confident grin. He’s seen entire games turn around because Oikawa refused to let people give up. Somehow, impossibly, Oikawa can take a team performing at thirty percent and make them play at one hundred twenty through sheer force of personality alone.
He understands people frighteningly well.
Which makes it all the more ridiculous that Oikawa seems fundamentally incapable of navigating life without someone holding his hand.
It’s one of the universe’s great contradictions, but Hajime has never doubted its validity.
Because for all Oikawa’s brilliance, he’s also the same idiot who once managed to burn instant ramen. Hajime has personally witnessed him butcher his eyeliner badly enough to resemble a sleep-deprived raccoon, and his tendency to walk directly into doors, walls, and signposts honestly borders on impressive.
Oikawa crafts himself carefully for other people. Hajime knows that better than anyone.
He knows how Oikawa smooths out rough edges and adjusts his personality depending on who he’s talking to. He knows the loud confidence and dramatic charm are, at least partially, a performance—a mask polished to perfection over years of wanting desperately to be liked. Needed. Admired.
Underneath it all, Oikawa is painfully insecure.
He asks for validation constantly, though rarely outright. It hides in the way he fishes for praise after practice or brushes off compliments only to glance over hopefully a second later. Nothing he accomplishes is ever enough for long. Every victory only seems to sharpen the fear that he’s still falling behind.
Hajime hates that about him.
Not because it’s annoying, but because Oikawa genuinely cannot see himself clearly.
No matter how many times Hajime tells him he’s incredible, Oikawa continues to drive himself into the ground chasing perfection that doesn’t exist. He practices until his knees ache and his shoulders give out. Pushes through injuries. Exhausts himself completely because he thinks he has to earn the right to stand where he already does.
Because he’s “not good enough.”
Because he “has to do better.”
It’s infuriating.
Hajime admires Oikawa more than anyone else in the world, but sometimes he wishes he could grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Wants to force Oikawa to stop for one second and look at everything he’s built instead of obsessing over what he lacks.
He hates sitting on his bedroom floor watching volleyball matches together while Oikawa mutters bitterly about how he’s “falling behind” or “not nearly good enough,” as if he isn’t already extraordinary.
In moments like that, Hajime feels something fierce and protective rise in his chest. Something sharp enough to make him want to drag the entire world to its knees and lay it at Oikawa’s feet.
Because Oikawa deserves that much.
And then there are moments like this, where Hajime seriously considers blocking his number.
He glares down at his phone like it has personally wronged him. Oikawa’s contact flashes at the top of the screen again and again like some persistent little demon refusing to die.
With a long-suffering sigh, Hajime opens the messages.
Today 22:29
Shittykawa: Iwa-chan!!
I just had a brilliant idea!
You never have good ideas
Shittykawa: ಥωಥ
Rude! Iwa-chan!
I’m full of great ideas!
What is that face?!
Ok, fine, what’s your “brilliant” idea?
Shittykawa:I resent that brilliant is in quotations.
BUT
I think we should go stargazing.
stargazing??
where???
Shittykawa: Yeah! In that field near the
wind farm!
We’ll bring blankets and shit!
The field that has a huge “NO TRESPASSING” sign?
“And shit”
Shittykawa: Yep! o(^◇^)o
It would be so fun!
We could get arrested.
Shittykawa: we’ll be fineeeeeee
Come on Iwa-chan, we’d take your dad’s truck
We’d only go for like, an hour
It takes half an hour to get to the windfarm
And we can’t take my dad’s truck
Shittykawa: please ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀)
Your parents would never know
I really want to go
The moon is full!
And i want to see the stars!
There’s no way we’d see stars in that area
Especially not with a full moon
Shittykawa: we totally would
IWA-CHAN PLEEEEAAASEEEEE
It would be smarter to say no.
Objectively, unequivocally smarter.
Tailgating in the middle of a restricted field at midnight is the kind of idea only Oikawa could come up with and somehow make sound appealing. They could get caught trespassing. They could get arrested. Hajime doesn’t even want to imagine the expression on his parents’ faces if they found out he snuck out in his dad’s truck to commit crimes with Oikawa.
Because that’s what this is.
Crimes.
Tiny, stupid crimes wrapped up in moonlight and Oikawa’s excitement. Hajime knows he should shut it down immediately. Tell Oikawa to go to sleep. Just ignore the barrage of texts lighting up his screen. Instead, he stares at the messages, his resolve weakening with every passing second.
Because he can already perfectly picture Oikawa.
Wide brown eyes shining with hopeful insistence. Lips pulled into an exaggerated pout. Hands clasped dramatically together like he’s pleading before a shrine instead of asking Hajime to trespass onto government property for “the vibes.”
And worst of all, there’s that certainty Oikawa always carries when it comes to Hajime. That quiet triumph tucked beneath the pleading.
As if he already knows the answer.
As if the outcome was decided long before Hajime ever picked up his phone.
Maybe that’s what irritates Hajime the most; that Oikawa knows him so well. Knows exactly which strings to pull and which expressions will wear Hajime down fastest. He does it effortlessly, instinctively, like breathing.
Hajime groans, dragging a hand down his face.
Weak. He’s weak.
Then again, he thinks bitterly, Oikawa has always been his greatest weakness. With all the resignation of a man marching willingly toward his own downfall, Hajime types back:
Today 23:17
All right, fine.
But only if you’re here in 10 minutes
Shittykawa: REALLY!?
YAY!
Coming now!
You’re the bestest Iwa-chan!
(づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ♡
Hurry up before I change my mind
Oikawa shows up at Hajime’s door twelve minutes later, his cheeks flushed and hair all over the place from running. “I’m only two minutes late! We can still go, right?” He holds up the stupidly comfortable blanket he keeps on his bed as a peace offering. Hajime pretends to consider it for a moment, tilting his head in thought . Oikawa is practically bouncing in anticipation. “Come onnnnnn, Iwa-channnnn.”
Hajime sighs in defeat. “All right, fine.”
Oikawa smiles triumphantly, and Hajime immediately regrets agreeing because that expression has always been dangerous. Chestnut hair falls into Oikawa’s eyes as he grins, bright and victorious like he’d already known Hajime would cave.
“You’re the best,” Oikawa declares, shoving the blanket into Hajime’s arms before slipping past him into the house. “I knew you loved me.”
“I tolerate you at best.”
“Liar.”
Hajime rolls his eyes and grabs his keys from the counter before either of his parents can catch them sneaking out. “Keep your voice down, dumbass.”
Oikawa gasps dramatically. “Iwa-chan! I would never sabotage our covert operation.”
“You literally announced yourself the second you walked in.”
“That’s because I was excited.”
“You’re always excited.”
“And you’re always grumpy. It’s why we work.”
Hajime hates that he’s right.
The drive out to the wind farm is quieter than usual. Not silent—silence and Oikawa simply do not coexist—but quieter. Oikawa rambles from the passenger seat about constellations and meteor showers and some article he’d read online about how humans are made of stardust.
“Which sounds fake,” he says, feet propped on the dashboard despite Hajime repeatedly telling him not to do that, “but apparently it’s real. Isn’t that wild? Like, technically, Iwa-chan, you are a space object.”
“I’m going to throw you out of this truck.”
“You’d miss me.”
Unfortunately, Hajime would. The thought settles strangely in his chest.
Outside, the roads grow emptier the farther they drive. Streetlights become sparse, replaced by stretches of dark countryside illuminated only by the moon hanging low and bright overhead. The wind turbines appear gradually along the horizon, massive silhouettes turning lazily against the night sky.
Oikawa presses his face against the window. “See? Totally worth it already.”
“We haven’t even gotten there yet.”
“But look how pretty it is.”
Hajime glances sideways. Oikawa isn’t looking at the turbines anymore. He’s staring upward through the glass, eyes reflecting silver moonlight, mouth slightly parted in quiet awe. And suddenly Hajime understands why people write poetry.
It’s unbearable.
He looks back at the road before Oikawa notices him staring.
They park near the edge of the field, just beyond the obnoxiously large NO TRESPASSING sign Hajime pointed out several times on the drive over.
“Criminal,” Hajime mutters while cutting the engine.
“Adventurer,” Oikawa corrects.
“Future inmate.”
Oikawa laughs as he climbs out of the truck, blanket bundled under one arm. The wind immediately whips through his hair and sends him stumbling sideways with a shriek.
“It’s freezing!”
“You insisted on coming.”
“And you agreed!”
Hajime circles around the truck and drops the tailgate with a metallic clang. “Yeah, yeah.”
They settle into the truck bed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the blanket. Oikawa kicks his shoes off almost immediately and stretches out dramatically across the blankets like he owns the entire night sky.
For a while, they just sit there.
The world feels strangely distant this far from the city. No traffic. No buzzing lights. Just the rhythmic turning of turbines and the endless stretch of stars overhead.
Oikawa tips his head back. “Told you we’d be able to see some stars.”
Hajime follows his gaze upward despite himself.
Damn.
Maybe Oikawa had been right.
“There,” Oikawa says suddenly, scooting closer until their shoulders press together. He points upward enthusiastically. “That one’s Orion. See the three stars in a line?”
Hajime squints. “Barely.”
“You’re hopeless.” Oikawa grabs Hajime’s wrist before he can protest and lifts his hand toward the sky. “Look—right there.”
His fingers are warm around Hajime’s despite the cold air. Hajime stops hearing anything for a second.
Oikawa keeps talking animatedly, tracing invisible lines between constellations while half lying against Hajime’s side. His voice rises with excitement every time Hajime successfully spots one.
And Hajime…Hajime finds himself watching Oikawa more than the stars.
The way his eyes light up when he talks. The way he gestures wildly and nearly smacks Hajime in the face twice. The soft curve of his smile whenever Hajime humors him.
Something warm twists painfully beneath Hajime’s ribs.
Oikawa finally settles with his head resting against Hajime’s stomach, still pointing lazily at the sky. “That one kinda looks like you.”
“That’s literally a cluster of random dots.”
“Exactly.”
Hajime snorts.
Then, as if summoned, blue light suddenly floods across the truck bed. Hajime’s entire body goes rigid. The sharp cry of a siren cuts through the night.
Oikawa slowly lowers his hand from the sky.
“…Iwa-chan?”
Hajime stares into the rearview mirror at the flashing police lights behind them and feels his soul leave his body. “We’re so dead.”
“Think there’s enough time to make a break for it?”
“Are you out of your mind?!”
The lights grow brighter as the patrol car rolls to a stop beside the truck. Hajime freezes as both front doors open, two officers stepping out into the field.
Beside him, Oikawa lowers his voice conspiratorially.
“I still think we should run.”
“Shut up.”
A beam of light sweeps across the truck bed. Hajime squints against it as a voice calls out, “Evening, boys.”
Oikawa immediately folds in on himself with the fakest innocent smile Hajime has ever seen. “Good evening, officer!”
Hajime has to physically stop himself from groaning.
The officer approaches the tailgate with another cop lingering near the patrol car. He’s older, broad-shouldered, and looks profoundly unimpressed. “Well,” the officer calls out, “this is the saddest criminal operation I’ve seen all month.”
Oikawa gasps quietly. “Rude.”
Hajime elbows him hard.
“You two know this area’s restricted, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Hajime answers before Oikawa can say something catastrophic.
“We were just leaving!” Oikawa adds brightly.
The officer glances between them. “Mhmm,” the flashlight beam travels over their pile of blankets, the half-empty convenience store snacks scattered around the truck bed and then on Oikawa’s ridiculous star chart app still open on his phone. “You boys drinking tonight?”
“No!” Oikawa says.
“No, sir,” Hajime says at the same time.
The officer hums, unconvinced but apparently not interested enough to push further. “IDs.”
Hajime digs his wallet out with numb fingers. Beside him, Oikawa fumbles so badly he nearly drops his entire phone out of the truck.
“Smooth,” Hajime mutters.
“I’m nervous!”
“You?” Hajime whispers incredulously. “I’m the one whose dad owns the truck.”
The officers take their IDs back toward the patrol car. The second he’s out of earshot, Oikawa slumps dramatically against Hajime’s shoulder.
“We’re doomed.”
“You said we’d be fine.”
“We are fine,” Oikawa says immediately. “Probably.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Silence settles over them for a moment, broken only by the soft crackle of the police radio and the distant turning of wind turbines. The lights continue flashing rhythmically over the field.
A few minutes later, the officers return. “Okay, boys,” the older one says, “Step out of the vehicle.”
Hajime’s stomach drops.
“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath as they climb down from the truck bed.
Oikawa edges closer immediately until their shoulders brush. “If they arrest us,” he whispers, “I want you to know I’d survive prison for you.”
“You would not survive prison.”
“That’s fair.”
The older officer gestures toward the patrol car. “Hands behind your backs.”
Hajime’s brain short-circuits. “Seriously?”
A shrug. “It’s protocol; you boys are trespassing after midnight. We're gonna need you two to take a breathalyzer once we get you to the station.”
“We haven’t drunk anything!”
“Protocol,” the officer says, not unkindly, “sorry, kid.”
Cold metal clicks around Hajime’s wrists before he can argue again. The handcuffs aren’t painfully tight, but they’re uncomfortable enough to make humiliation crawl all the way up his spine. Beside him, Oikawa twists his wrists experimentally after his own cuffs snap shut.
“Huh,” he says thoughtfully. “These are heavier than I expected.”
Hajime stares at him in disbelief. “Why do you sound curious?”
“I’ve never been handcuffed before.”
“Neither have I!”
The younger officer snorts quietly as they guide them toward the patrol car. “First time for everything.”
“This is not something I ever wanted to have a ‘first time for’,” Hajime mutters.
The older officer opens the back door of the patrol car with the exhausted expression of a man who has dealt with too many teenagers tonight. “Get in.”
Oikawa slides in first, awkward with his cuffed hands, and Hajime follows reluctantly after him. The seat is cramped enough that their knees knock together immediately.
Then the door slams shut. The sound echoes heavily through the small space.
The back seat of the cop car smells faintly of coffee and cold air freshener.
Hajime hates it instantly.
The plastic seat sticks unpleasantly against the backs of his legs, and every tiny movement makes the handcuffs bite colder into his wrists. Across from him, Oikawa looks significantly less distressed about their current situation than any sane person should.
Which is to say: not distressed at all.
The patrol car pulls back onto the road with a low crunch of gravel beneath the tires.
Blue and red lights continue flashing through the windows, washing over Oikawa’s face in shifting color. Every few seconds he flickers from red to blue to gold beneath the passing streetlights outside.
It’s deeply unfair.
Even handcuffed in the back of a police car, Oikawa somehow still looks beautiful. Hajime decides, not for the first time, that the universe must have favorites.
“I can’t believe this actually happened,” Hajime mutters, leaning his head back against the seat with a groan. “My parents are going to kill me.”
“They’ll probably ground you first.”
“You are not helping.”
Oikawa grins.
God. That smile should genuinely be classified as dangerous.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says softly, leaning a little closer despite the limited space. “Relax. We’re not going to jail.”
“You don’t know that.”
“They said they were taking us to the station, not booking us for murder.”
“That’s not reassuring either!” Hajime closes his eyes briefly. This is a nightmare. A horrible, humiliating nightmare. And somehow Oikawa is still having fun.
“I still think the stars were worth it,” Oikawa says after a moment.
Hajime opens one eye. “You are unbelievable.”
“No, seriously.” Oikawa tilts his head back against the seat, gaze drifting toward the window. “Did you see how clear the sky was out there? We were able to see hundreds of stars! It was crazy, I honestly didn’t think there was a place so close to us where we’d be able to see so many.”
Hajime did see. He saw Oikawa lying across the truck bed with moonlight tangled in his hair, pointing upward with bright, animated excitement. He saw the warmth of Oikawa pressed against his side beneath the blanket. The sound of his laugh drifting through the empty field.
And now Oikawa is sitting three feet away in the back of a cop car, smiling like this entire situation is just another ridiculous memory waiting to happen.
Something strange twists sharply in Hajime’s chest. Because Oikawa should look awful right now. He should look nervous, embarrassed, or irritated. Instead, he looks alive. Beautifully, disastrously alive.
The passing lights outside paint fleeting shadows across Oikawa’s face. Soft mouth. Warm brown eyes. Hair falling messily over his forehead from the wind.
Hajime’s stomach drops somewhere around his knees.
Oh.
Oh, this is bad.
Very bad.
“Iwa-chan?”
Hajime blinks hard. “What?”
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
Heat rushes violently into Hajime’s face. He jerks his gaze toward the opposite window so fast his neck protests.
Beside him, Oikawa laughs quietly. The sound settles somewhere deep beneath Hajime’s ribs and stays there. That’s-That’s not normal.
Hajime has known Oikawa for years. He knows the shape of his smile better than his own reflection. Knows every expression and every tone of voice and every stupid dramatic gesture.
So why does everything suddenly feel different?
Why does Oikawa laughing in the back of a police car make Hajime feel like his entire world is tilting sideways?
Oikawa catches him looking again and smiles—small this time, softer than usual.
Not performative. Not his practiced charming smile. Just Oikawa.
And Hajime feels something cave in his chest.
Warm.
Permanent.
Terrifying.
“You okay?” Oikawa asks quietly.
Hajime swallows hard. “Fine.”
“You’re acting weird.”
“You got us detained.”
“Temporarily detained.”
“That still sounds bad.”
Oikawa grins. “I think this is bonding.”
“We’ve been best friends for years.”
“And now we’ve committed crimes together. That’s growth.”
Hajime laughs despite himself.
Immediately, Oikawa’s expression brightens like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The reaction is instant. Automatic. Like Hajime’s laughter is something precious.
Hajime risks another glance. Huge mistake.
Oikawa is looking at him with soft concern, wrists cuffed awkwardly in front of him, knee pressed accidentally against Hajime’s own in the cramped seat.
And Hajime; Hajime realizes, with slow horrifying clarity, that he would probably follow Oikawa anywhere.
Into terrible ideas. Into midnight trespassing. Into the backseat of cop cars. Anywhere.
“Oh my god,” Hajime whispers.
Oikawa immediately straightens. “What? What’s wrong?”
Everything, Hajime thinks helplessly. Absolutely everything.
Outside the window, familiar streets begin appearing again, illuminated by scattered streetlights and neon signs. Every mile closer to town makes the knot in Hajime’s stomach tighten further.
His parents are going to kill him.
No, actually his dad is going to kill him first, and then his mom will bring him back just to kill him again.
A horrible thought suddenly occurs to him.
“My dad’s truck,” Hajime blurts.
The older officer glances back through the divider. “What about it?”
Hajime sits forward as much as the seatbelt and cuffs allow. “What’s gonna happen to it?”
The officer shrugs casually, which somehow makes it worse. “It’ll stay out there tonight. Tow company’ll pick it up in the morning.”
Hajime feels genuine horror crawl up his spine. “Tow company?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, my god.”
“There’ll be towing fees too.”
He stares, “Shit.” Beside him, Oikawa winces sympathetically. “Okay, yeah, your dad actually might kill you.”
Hajime turns toward him slowly. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Oikawa gasps. “I distinctly remember giving you the option to abandon the mission.”
“You begged me!”
“And you folded immediately.”
“I hate you.”
Oikawa smiles softly. “No, you don’t.”
The worst part is that he says it with complete certainty. Like he knows. Like Hajime’s feelings have always been painfully obvious to everyone except Hajime himself.
Outside, the police station's glowing sign comes into view. Hajime seriously considers throwing himself from the moving vehicle.
Beside him, Oikawa straightens slightly, peering out the window with open curiosity. “Huh. Smaller than I expected.”
“You say that like you’ve planned this before.”
“I’ve watched crime shows.”
“That explains so much.”
The patrol car turns into the station parking lot. Blue lights reflect briefly across the brick building before the engine finally shuts off. Silence settles heavily inside the vehicle.
For one fleeting second, neither of them moves. Then Oikawa leans closer until their shoulders press together again. “Hey,” he says quietly.
Hajime looks over reluctantly.
Oikawa’s expression has gone softer somewhere during the drive.
The excitement is still there, alive in the brightness of his eyes, but quieter now. Dimmed into something warm beneath the wash of blue and red light spilling through the windows.
For a moment, Hajime forgets entirely where they are. Forgets the handcuffs biting cold against his wrists. Forgets the station looming outside. Forgets the inevitable disaster waiting for them once their parents arrive.
There’s only Oikawa.
“You’re thinking really hard over there,” Oikawa murmurs.
Hajime exhales slowly through his nose. “I’m thinking about my funeral after my dad finds out about the towing fees.”
Oikawa laughs softly.
God.
Hajime is so unbelievably screwed.
Because the terrifying thing isn’t the station or the cops or even the fact that his life is effectively over.
It’s this.
The way Oikawa keeps leaning into him like it’s instinct. The way his voice gentles whenever he says Hajime’s name. The way the flashing blue lights catch reflect in his eyes until they look almost unreal.
“You know,” Oikawa says quietly, “I’m still glad we went.”
Hajime’s heart stutters.
Because he is too.
And that realization feels far more dangerous than anything else that’s happened tonight.
•••
Processing takes forever.
Or maybe it only feels that way because Hajime is exhausted enough to feel every passing second.
The officer behind the front desk moves agonizingly slowly, peering down at paperwork through thin glasses while occasionally typing into the computer with exactly one finger. Every click of the keyboard feels personally targeted at Hajime’s remaining sanity.
Beside him, Oikawa sways slightly where they stand near the desk, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie now that the cuffs are gone.
He still somehow looks unfairly pretty beneath fluorescent lighting.
Hajime resents him a little for it.
“Names?” the woman asks flatly, despite already having asked twice.
“Oikawa Tooru.”
“Iwaizumi Hajime.”
“Mhm.”
More typing.
More clicking.
More suffering.
“You two took a breathalyzer?”
Two affirmatives, as if she didn’t have the paperwork on the desk beside her.
At some point in the last hour, their handcuffs had been removed and replaced with cups of aggressively bad vending-machine coffee. Oikawa drank his anyway.
“This tastes burnt,” he whispers.
“It probably is.”
“I think I can see the bottom of the cup through the coffee.”
“Stop drinking it then.”
Oikawa takes another sip.
Hajime watches him over the rim of his own cup and feels something warm twist painfully beneath his ribs.
It’s sometime around quarter to two in the morning when the station doors finally slide open again.
Oikawa’s mother walks in wearing slippers.
And somehow that’s more terrifying than the cops were.
Her hair is slightly messy like she threw herself out of bed the second the station called, cardigan hanging loosely over one shoulder. She looks exhausted.
She also looks entirely unsurprised.
Her gaze lands on the two of them sitting side by side in plastic waiting room chairs.
“Tooru,” she says slowly, “why were you trespassing at a wind farm.”
Oikawa straightens immediately. “In my defense—”
“Tooru.”
He wilts slightly. “Right. Sorry.”
She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose before looking toward Hajime. And somehow that’s worse. Hajime would rather be yelled at than receive maternal disappointment from someone else’s parent.
“I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Hajime-kun”
Hajime opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because the thing is—he hadn’t been dragged anywhere. He had followed willingly.
Across empty roads and past warning signs and into the backseat of a police car with Oikawa laughing beside him like the entire world was one long adventure waiting to happen.
And somehow that feels impossible to explain at one-forty-five in the morning underneath fluorescent lights that make everything look too pale and too tired.
Beside him, Oikawa shifts restlessly in his chair.
For once, he’s quiet.
The station hums softly around them. Phones ringing somewhere deeper in the building. The distant crackle of a radio. Rain tapping lightly against the windows outside.
Oikawa’s mother sighs again, softer this time, exhaustion weighing heavily through it. “Your father is waiting in the car.”
Oikawa visibly flinches.
A flicker of amusement passes briefly through her expression before disappearing again. She looks down at the paperwork in her hands, then back at the two of them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder.
“You boys could’ve gotten hurt.”
The words settle differently than anger would have.
Heavier.
Hajime stares down at his hands. Beside him, Oikawa goes still. Because underneath all the dramatics and teasing and impossible recklessness, they both know she’s right.
The world outside their small town suddenly feels sharper in Hajime’s mind. Endless dark roads. Strange officers. Headlines about stupid teenagers who thought nothing bad could happen to them.
For the first time that night, embarrassment twists properly into guilt.
“We’re sorry,” Hajime says quietly. And he means it. Oikawa glances sideways at him. Something soft passes over his face.
His mother exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I know.”
Silence stretches again.
Not awkward. Just tired.
Then Oikawa leans sideways suddenly until his shoulder presses warm against Hajime’s again, casual as breathing.
Instinctive.
Hajime’s chest tightens painfully. Even now. Even after the station and the cuffs and the towing fees and the certainty that his father is going to murder him tomorrow morning.
Oikawa still reaches for him first.
Like it’s natural.
Like Hajime is where he settles.
The realization blooms slow and aching beneath Hajime’s ribs.
Not sudden.
Not dramatic.
Just devastating in its certainty.
Oikawa’s mother notices. Of course she notices.
Her gaze lingers on them for one unreadable second too long before she looks away again, hiding something suspiciously fond behind another exhausted sigh.
“Come on,” she murmurs finally. “Let’s get you boys home.”
•••
Three weeks later, Hajime is still losing his mind.
Not visibly. He’d rather die than let Oikawa know that. But privately? Internally? Catastrophically?
Absolutely.
Because once Hajime realized he was in love with his best friend, apparently his brain decided to make it everyone’s problem.
Everything is unbearable now.
Oikawa smiling at him across the gym after practice? Horrible.
Oikawa stealing food off his plate during lunch? Agonizing.
Oikawa absentmindedly throwing himself across Hajime’s bed while complaining dramatically about homework? Psychological warfare.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part? Is that Oikawa keeps looking at him like he knows something.
Not smug exactly. Just… attentive. Curious in a way that makes Hajime feel flayed open. Perceptive bastard.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says suddenly.
Hajime startles hard enough to nearly drop the volleyball he’s holding.
Across the gym, Oikawa raises one eyebrow slowly.
“…Why are you acting like I caught you committing tax fraud?”
“Shut up,” Hajime mutters automatically.
Oikawa’s eyes narrow.
That’s the problem with him. Most people look at Hajime and see a reasonably composed human being. Oikawa looks at him and immediately starts digging for structural weaknesses.
He jogs closer across the gym floor, spinning a volleyball lazily on one finger. “No seriously,” he says, stopping directly in front of Hajime. “You’ve been weird for weeks.”
Weeks.
Exactly three of them, actually.
Three weeks since blue lights and handcuffs and Oikawa smiling at him in the back of a cop car like he’d hung the stars overhead personally.
Three weeks since Hajime realized his entire life was effectively over.
“I’m not weird,” Hajime lies.
“You flinched because I said your name.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You stared at me for, like, thirty straight seconds during stretches yesterday.”
Hajime nearly chokes to death.
“I was not—”
“You absolutely were.” Oikawa tilts his head slightly, eyes bright with dangerous amusement. “It was kinda intense, Iwa-chan.”
Heat crawls violently up Hajime’s neck.
Around them, the gym buzzes faintly with the sounds of the remaining team members cleaning up after practice, but it feels strangely distant. Blurred at the edges.
Oikawa steps closer.
Too close.
Hajime can smell laundry detergent, sweat, and the faint citrus shampoo Oikawa uses. It should not be enough to make his brain short-circuit. Unfortunately, his brain is weak.
“You know what I think?” Oikawa asks softly.
“I think you should mind your business.”
“I think,” Oikawa continues like Hajime didn’t speak, “something happened at the wind farm.”
Hajime’s heartbeat stumbles hard enough to hurt.
Perceptive. Bastard.
Oikawa watches him carefully now, all traces of teasing gone, strangely quiet around the edges.
And Hajime. Hajime suddenly understands with horrifying clarity that he has never once stood a chance against Oikawa Tooru.
Not really.
Not when Oikawa notices everything. Not when he looks at Hajime like this, patient and warm and entirely too observant.
“What happened in the cop car, Iwa-chan?”
The question lands softly. That somehow makes it worse.
Hajime grips the volleyball tighter. “Nothing happened.”
Oikawa hums. Disbelieving. Then, gently: “You’re a terrible liar when it matters.”
Something sharp twists beneath Hajime’s ribs. Because Oikawa says it fondly. Like this version of Hajime, flustered and unraveling and painfully obvious, is something worth handling carefully.
The gym lights buzz overhead.
Somewhere behind them, Hanamaki yells something at Matsukawa near the locker rooms. The sound echoes briefly through the emptying gym before fading again.
Neither of them moves.
Oikawa’s gaze drops briefly to Hajime’s hands still clutching the volleyball. Then back to his face. Slowly, deliberately, Oikawa smiles.
Not smug.
Not mocking.
Just soft enough to make Hajime feel like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.
And suddenly Hajime realizes the truly horrifying part of all this:
Oikawa might already know. He might’ve known for weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe Hajime has never hidden anything from him successfully in his life. The thought leaves Hajime feeling strangely weightless. Like the floor beneath him has disappeared entirely.
“You’re quiet,” Oikawa says gently.
Hajime lets out a sharp breath through his nose. “I’m deciding whether or not I should transfer schools.”
Oikawa laughs. The sound lands warm and familiar between them, softening the sharp panic clawing at Hajime’s ribs. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Hm. Fair.”
Neither of them moves.
The gym has mostly emptied out by now, distant voices muffled somewhere beyond the locker rooms. The overhead lights buzz quietly above them, too bright against the late afternoon gold filtering through the high windows.
Oikawa steps closer. Close enough that Hajime can see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from practice. Close enough to notice the tiny scar near his chin. Close enough that breathing suddenly feels unnecessarily complicated.
Hajime’s pulse stutters. “This is really unfair,” he mutters.
Oikawa tilts his head. “What is?”
“You.”
Something flickers across Oikawa’s face then. Small. Surprised. Fond. For one terrible second, Hajime thinks he might actually survive this conversation.
Then Oikawa reaches out.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His fingers curl lightly around the volleyball still trapped against Hajime’s chest, grounding and warm.
“You know,” Oikawa says quietly, “most people confess before they start staring at someone like they hung the moon.”
Hajime nearly dies on the spot. “I did not stare.”
“You stared so hard I thought you were gonna start writing poetry.”
“Shut up.”
Oikawa’s smile widens faintly.
God.
Hajime is so gone.
“You could’ve said something,” Hajime mutters weakly.
“I wanted you to figure it out yourself.”
“And if I never did?”
Oikawa looks at him for a long moment.
Soft.
Certain.
“I think,” he says quietly, “I would’ve waited anyway.”
The words crack something open inside Hajime. Because Oikawa says them so simply. Like waiting for Hajime would’ve been easy. Like Hajime is something worth waiting for.
The volleyball slips forgotten from Hajime’s hands and bounces once against the gym floor before rolling away across the polished wood.
Neither of them looks at it.
Oikawa’s eyes flick briefly down to Hajime’s mouth.
Then back up again.
The movement is tiny.
Hajime’s heartbeat turns violent.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” Oikawa murmurs, voice suddenly quieter than before, “I’m gonna kiss you.”
Every coherent thought leaves Hajime’s body immediately.
“Maybe you should stop talking then,” he says before courage abandons him completely.
Oikawa stills. For one suspended moment, neither of them breathes.
Then Oikawa smiles softly—small and disbelieving around the edges—and steps into Hajime’s space completely.
Warm hands slide carefully against Hajime’s jaw.
Gentle.
Like Oikawa’s afraid he might ruin something.
Hajime thinks, distantly, that this is probably the closest thing to ascension he’ll ever experience. Then Oikawa kisses him.
Oh.
Oh.
Hajime had been expecting fireworks, panic, or some overwhelming cinematic moment.
Instead it feels terrifyingly quiet. Like something settling into place.
Oikawa’s mouth is warm and soft against his, lingering carefully at first before Hajime finally grabs fistfuls of his practice jacket and kisses him back properly.
That makes Oikawa laugh softly into his mouth.
The sound nearly destroys him.
It’s perfect.
Not dramatic.
Not world-ending.
Just warm in the way sunlight is warm. Quiet in the way coming home is quiet.
When they finally pull apart, Hajime realizes vaguely that his hands are still tangled in Oikawa’s jacket and Oikawa is smiling at him like he’s just won something important. Which, knowing Oikawa, he probably thinks he has.
“You’re staring again,” Oikawa murmurs softly.
Hajime exhales a laugh despite himself. “Shut up.”
Oikawa beams immediately, unbearably pleased.
God.
Hajime thinks he could spend the rest of his life memorizing expressions like this one.
The gym around them feels strangely distant now. Golden evening light spills across the polished floors in long hazy streaks while somewhere down the hall a door slams shut, reminding them faintly that the world still exists outside this moment.
Neither of them moves apart. Oikawa’s hands remain warm against Hajime’s face.
Careful.
With purpose.
Like he’s been wanting to do this for a long time. Maybe he has. The thought sends something soft and aching through Hajime’s chest.
“You know,” Oikawa says quietly, “this means you can’t deny being obsessed with me anymore.”
“There it is,” Hajime mutters. “I was wondering how long you’d stay normal.”
“I was normal for at least thirty seconds.”
“That’s probably a personal record.”
Oikawa laughs again, softer this time, and rests his forehead briefly against Hajime’s.
The gesture feels oddly intimate.
Dangerously easy.
Like this—whatever this is—has existed between them for far longer than either of them realized.
Hajime closes his eyes for half a second.
They’ve known each other since they were kids—since scraped knees on playground asphalt, since shared bus rides and walks home and stupid arguments and years spent orbiting each other so naturally neither of them ever thought to question it.
Now Oikawa is kissing him beneath the fluorescent gym lights after practice, as if this was always where they were headed.
Maybe they were.
Eventually, they pull apart enough to breathe properly again.
Oikawa reluctantly lets go first, though his fingers trail slowly down Hajime’s sleeves like he doesn’t entirely want to stop touching him yet.
Hajime understands the feeling completely.
Outside, the sky has begun to dim toward evening. The first stars will probably appear soon.
Oikawa glances toward the gym windows, then back at Hajime. Something bright flickers immediately behind his eyes.
Hajime recognizes that expression with deep dread. “No,” he says instantly.
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“You’re planning something.”
“I’m always planning something.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Tooru grins. And pulls Hajime by the sleeve to the locker room.
Later that evening, Hajime is halfway through pretending to do homework when his phone buzzes beside him.
Shittykawa
Of course.
Hajime opens the message immediately despite himself
Today 21:37
Shittykawa: hey
we should go stargazing