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Oikawa opens his eyes one day and stares across the table, past pens and textbooks and index cards and coffee cups to the head of mauve hair sitting right in front of him. His face is furrowed in concentration, lower lip pushed out in an endearing pout. His fingers, with its nails blunt and bitten to the bed, tap a distracted rhythm that goes in time with the rain.
It’s a Wednesday. It’s a Wednesday and it’s raining and it’s cold outside but it’s warm right here.
It’s a Wednesday, and he’s in love.
-
Hanamaki is unique; eye-catching and memorable in his individuality. His hair is perfect against his pale skin, his voice surprisingly deep, gruff and resonant in sharp contrast to the pastel delicacy of his features. He laughs like a hooligan, full-bodied, loud and speckled with horrendous snorts. His body is only second to Iwaizumi’s, tall and toned to perfection, like he was lovingly carved out of Greek marble. He has a sharp tongue and a wicked grin and once accidentally made a girl in their year cry, but made it up to her the next day with brownies he’d made himself, offering them to her in the middle of the hallway with a remorseful bow and a heartfelt apology.
(And maybe he’d fallen in love with him then too, maybe without realizing it the swell of pride in his chest was already leading up to something else.)
He looks back at the three years he and Hanamaki have shared, three years of tears and laughter, of study sessions to salvage Hanamaki’s horrible classical literature grades, of photos and selfies still safe in Oikawa’s phone and Hanamaki’s camera, of high-fives and jokes whispered in-between sets, of being carried on his back while Oikawa bit his cheek to counter the throbbing pain in his knee.
He looks back and thinks that maybe he’d fallen in love little by little, like the slow trickle of water into the rocking bamboo of a sōzu, finally overflowing to the forefront of his mind once it reached its tipping point.
Suddenly, the music stops. Nothing left but the static hiss of the rain falling outside. Oikawa glances to the side and Hanamaki’s fingers are paused on the table. He’s staring at him. Oikawa knows he’s been caught but can’t find it in himself to avert his eyes, not when Hanamaki’s smiling right back, faint eyebrow quirked in amusement.
“I know I’m handsome, Oikawa, but it’s still rude to stare.”
Oikawa blinks, gaze quickly darting to his notes. “Sorry.”
Hanamaki’s smile falters slightly. His fingers twitch, like they’re about to reach for his, but Oikawa pulls it away, pretends it’s just to scratch his temple, then brings it down out of reach.
-
It’s a Friday, and he’s kissing Hanamaki Takahiro.
It had been a dare. They had been drinking on the balcony of Iwaizumi’s very own college apartment and Oikawa had been dared to kiss Hanamaki.
Hanamaki had smiled at him in challenge, tilting forward and puckering his lips exaggeratedly, closing his eyes like Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince. Matsukawa had scoffed, shoved his best friend’s shoulder as he laughed. Iwaizumi kept nudging Oikawa to get it over with already and Oikawa had crawled forward, thinking that maybe the spreading numbness in his body is no different from how prisoners felt as they walked up to the execution block.
The moon was bright, the light beautiful as it stroked over Hanamaki’s face like a lover’s hand. He reached up to replace it, cupping the side of Hanamaki’s neck, thumb brushing his jaw, curious, fascinated. Hanamaki’s eyelashes fluttered, and he had leaned in, pressed their lips together.
It was unfamiliar and clumsy and Hanamaki had accidentally angled his head too far, their noses bumping together, but Hanamaki was warm and real beneath him, cheekily opening his mouth just so, letting Oikawa’s bottom lip into his mouth to suck, to bite, and Oikawa had moaned because god surely this was too good to be true?
Yahaba and Kyoutani had tossed popcorn at them, gagging and telling them to get a room. Oikawa was about ready to brush it off with a laugh, fill himself with more tequila to cover up the burn in his cheeks and how fast his heart was beating, but Hanamaki had grabbed his wrist and tugged him up to the bedroom, cheers and cat-calls following them the whole way.
And now here he is, pressed against the door, someone else’s tongue in his mouth, hands gripping around an amazing ass. Here they are, kissing like they’re both hungry for it, like it’s been a long time coming. Oikawa almost lets himself have this, almost lets himself close his eyes and sink into Hanamaki’s kiss but then a hand is fumbling over his jeans, trying to work the belt open and suddenly he’s holding Hanamaki by the wrists, pushing him away.
“You’re drunk.” He hisses, too awake, too aware. “Stop. You don’t want this.”
“Shut up.” Hanamaki growls back, wresting his hands out of Oikawa’s grip but Oikawa is too fast for him, grabbing them again before he can rip his jacket off. “The fuck do you know about what I want, Oikawa?”
“I don’t.” Oikawa huffs, because honestly he can probably pin Hanamaki down on a good day, but the alcohol and the brush of Hanamaki’s every breath against his lips is distracting, getting him weak in the joints. “But you’re drunk. We’re drunk. And I...I’d rather not—”
And just like that, Hanamaki’s arms fall limp in his hold, nearly pitching Oikawa forward at the loss of the countering force. Hanamaki’s cheeks, which had been red with alcohol, are now washed of color.
“Fuck.” He hisses, panic in his voice. “Fuck. I was so sure I wasn’t reading this wrong.”
He’s struggling again, this time to get away from Oikawa, scrambling off his lap as he tries to get him to let go.
“I’m sorry, I just thought you—I just—”
And here Oikawa pulls Hanamaki hard, the shock of the sudden move sending him toppling back into his arms, face pressed against his shoulder as Oikawa wraps arms around him, holds him until his breath evens out. He holds Hanamaki how he held Takeru when he had a nightmare, when his brother and sister-in-law were out and he was small and crying and afraid.
“If you really wanted this then it wouldn’t matter to you to wait until we’re sober.” He whispers, brushing down the hairs on the back of Hanamaki’s head, light plumes of his shampoo wafting into his nose with each sweep.
Hanamaki’s whine blows over the junction of his neck. He shivers but holds firm.
“Tomorrow.” He says, and allows himself to press one kiss to Hanamaki’s temple. “Tomorrow we’ll talk. I promise.”
-
Oikawa wakes up and he thinks Iwaizumi had checked on them sometime in the night, because he doesn’t remember pulling the blanket over him and Hanamaki, or removing their jackets and folding them over the chair sitting in the corner.
When he finally draws his gaze towards his bedmate, he finds half-lidded gray eyes already staring back at him. Hanamaki had been settled close to his side but now he’s warily shifting back, the space widening between them like a slowly-rising dam.
He breaks it with a hand reaching out, finger brushing against the side of Hanamaki’s palm. He freezes, eyes darting down to where they’re connected, then up to Oikawa’s face. He tries to put on a reassuring smile, but his face is still numb, largely incapable of anything past blinking and opening his mouth. Damn, how much did he drink last night?
“You alright?” he asks. Hanamaki blinks, shrugs weakly.
“It gets more than that to give me a hangover.”
Silence. He tries to slip Hanamaki’s hand in his, but his fingers are stiff, stubborn as they curl up into a loose fist.
“How much do you remember?”
More silence, but the different kind. The kind that comes with the last few seconds before something terrifyingly big.
“Everything.”
Oikawa feels something expand in his chest, so large that it squeezes his heart and lungs tight against his ribs.
“You said,” Oikawa starts, licks his lips and swallows because his voice is cracking horribly, “you said something. A lot of things. What did you mean?”
He’s not making much sense, but he knows from Hanamaki’s drawn face that he knows exactly what he’s talking about. He curls up into himself a little, perhaps unconsciously, but doesn’t pull his hand away from Oikawa’s.
“I thought you liked me back.” He says, voice ragged. “I was so sure…and Iwaizumi and Matsukawa said they saw it too, and that I should go for it.”
Hanamaki averts his gaze in something like shame. Oikawa wants to say something, wants to so bad but his lungs refuse to get enough air in.
“I didn’t ask Matsukawa to give you that dare. Please don’t hate me for that. Sorry I assumed. Sorry you—”
Oikawa doesn’t wait for him to finish. He turns on his side and flings himself over Hanamaki, so fast like he’s been launched from a slingshot. He presses their lips together, makes a face at the swirl of stagnant breaths and stale alcohol between their mouths, but pushes on anyway, the hunger overpowering the disgust.
“I did.” He breathes, in the brief spaces between kisses. “God knows how long I even—Maybe even since high school, I don’t know—”
He feels Hanamaki’s gasp against his lips, feels his breath hitch in his lungs beneath his hand, and suddenly there’s no more need for words. He beings a hand up and around Hanamaki’s waist, pulls him until he’s lying on top of him, his weight bearing down on the erection in his jeans and tearing a moan from his throat.
Dimly, he hears the door open, and they fly apart just in time to see Iwaizumi’s petrified face morph into furious exasperation, spinning around and slamming the door hard behind him, screaming Oh fucking hell I let you sleep in my brand new bed then you go and fucking desecrate it?! as he goes.
Oikawa pulls away, to do what he isn’t sure, probably apologize, probably to beg his best friend not to say anything to the group chat, but Hanamaki hauls him back and suddenly his back gets reacquainted with the mattress, those lips are back on his, and nothing else matters.
It’s a Saturday, and everything’s fine.