Chapter Text
After years of being a pro athlete, social media influencer (he’d just hit 143.2 million on Instagram last month), and well sought-after model, Tooru would’ve thought that he’d be able to apply his PR training much better than this.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” he whispers, bracing his arms on the vanity in front of him. “Oh, my god. Iwa-chan is going to kill me.”
The door to the dressing room creaks open, and Tooru shrieks.
“Jeez, Oikawa! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
“I’m the one who should be saying that!” he yells back. He turns back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart.
“Okay, let’s try that again,” he whispers.
He lifts his head, smiles cheekily at his friends’ reflections in the mirror, and spins around to properly face them both in the flesh. “Makki! Mattsun! How nice of you to surprise me here.”
Hanamaki rolls his eyes and punches Tooru’s arm with a smirk. “Wasn’t my idea.”
Matsukawa answers Tooru’s question before it even leaves his tongue. “He’s coming in a bit,” he says breezily. “Just making sure the coast is clear before we get you out of here.”
Tooru’s stomach does a little flip. “Why, are you planning to kidnap me?”
“Why, do you have another ride home?”
Iwaizumi’s leaning against the doorframe, and he probably looks a little awkward trying to be all cool and suave-looking, but it makes Tooru’s stomach dive straight into the cartwheeling part of its gymnastics routine anyway. He hates that because it’s Iwa-chan, it’s incredibly endearing and makes Tooru lose all of his cool, running towards him with arms wide open and a stupidly big grin on his face.
Of course, as always, Iwaizumi meets him halfway.
“Hey,” he says gruffly, half-laughing into Tooru’s shoulder as he ruffles his perfectly-styled hair.
“Hey! Stop that!” Tooru whines. He pulls away, giving himself a good view of the bright, boyish grin on Iwa-chan’s face and making his heart stutter all over again.
Truth be told, Tooru’s probably been free-falling ever since he saw Iwaizumi in the crowd, looking so incredibly proud and flustered and endeared all at once, and accidentally professed his undying love for him in Tagalog for the whole world to hear.
Right. He did that. Horror once again bubbles up in his chest, so he pushes the feeling down and raises his voice instead. “Wow, Iwa-chan really missed me!
Iwaizumi pulls away, and Tooru tries his hardest not to sigh out loud. He’s still holding Tooru by the shoulders, though, the intensity of his gaze nearly enough to make him blush.
“How could I miss you when I couldn’t go anywhere in this damn city without seeing your face?”
Tooru preens. “So you did see me!”
Matsukawa grins. “A hundred and four of you, to be exact.”
“We kept a pretty good tally,” adds Hanamaki, showing off his notes app in confirmation.
“Only a hundred and four?” Tooru pouts. “Well, I’m sure that number will go up once we start doing our nationwide mall tour.”
Iwaizumi pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “It’s gonna be a lot harder to get you around now with people asking you for photos.”
“Speaking from experience, are we, Iwaizumi?” Hanamaki drawls.
“Shut up!”
Tooru looks between them, puzzled. “Iwa-chan, did you forget that I’ve been famous for years? I’ve practically mastered the art of subterfuge.” To prove his point, he grabs his favorite bucket hat from the rack beside him and pulls it over his head. “See?”
“Isn’t that a little too big for you?” Matsukawa comments.
“It’s so my hair is completely covered,” Tooru explains. “It’s one of my best, most distinguishing qualities after all.”
Iwaizumi raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Don’t come crying to me when you lose the bucket hat within thirty seconds of getting on the jeep.”
Tooru loses the bucket hat within thirty seconds of getting on the jeep.
He’s still staring desolately at the exit from where the hat had flown out into the street when he feels Iwaizumi gently nudge his knee. “Hey. It’s okay. We can buy a new one from Divisoria tomorrow.”
For once, Tooru’s glad that his mask covers the absolutely goofy smile that takes over his expression. “You’re the best, Iwa-chan!”
Iwaizumi only grunts as he passes their fare to the person beside him. The jeepney continues to rattle along the road, each movement making their legs knock together, until Iwaizumi decides to eliminate all space between them altogether and rest a hand on Tooru’s knee.
Tooru feels like screaming.
They get off at Taft Avenue, after Tooru bumps his head on the roof of the jeepney several times. Iwaizumi laughs at him until Tooru complains that “of course this would never happen to tiny Iwa-chan.”
After a beat of frowny silence, Iwaizumi asks, “Does it hurt?”
Tooru, taken aback, blinks at him owlishly. “Huh?”
“Your head.”
“Oh! No, not really.”
“Good. Because I’m gonna need you to be alert from now on,” Iwaizumi says, glancing around at their surroundings. “C’mon. We’re going that way.”
He indicates their direction with a pout of his lips, and it’s so endearing that Tooru has to stifle a giggle.
“What’re you laughing at?” Iwaizumi asks, brows furrowed.
“Nothing,” Tooru sings. “Lead the way, Iwa-chan!”
There are cars and buses and commuters everywhere, and a million sights and sounds clamoring for attention: the rumble of the railway, songs blaring out from passing jeepneys, the constant honking of the vehicles stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Brightly-painted signs decorate the fronts of towering buildings, the golden sunlight of a late afternoon pouring through the spaces in between.
He tries to be alert. He really does. But it’s hard to do anything when all that chaos condenses into a single, infinitesimal point every time Tooru’s hand brushes against Iwa-chan’s beside him. And every time, the contact tricks him into glancing at Iwa-chan’s face, just to see the molten gold kiss the outline of his jaw in a way Tooru could only ever dream of.
Inevitably, Iwaizumi catches him staring. Tooru turns away immediately after a lopsided smile, letting his gaze linger instead on the stray cat balancing on the roof of the gate beside them.
It must be why he nearly walks into oncoming traffic before Iwaizumi grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backward.
“What the hell, Shittykawa!”
Tooru winces. “Oops.”
“I told you to stay alert!” Iwaizumi seethes, a vein visibly pulsing in his temple.
“Yes, sir,” Tooru says weakly, adding a salute for good measure.
“Wow,” Hanamaki whispers. “They really are the same.”
“Matters of the heart, my dear,” muses Matsukawa, “are sometimes also matters of life and death.”
Iwaizumi folds his arms together before turning to the couple behind them. “We’re crossing the street once the light turns green.”
“Right behind you, boss,” Hanamaki drawls, tightening the loop of his arm around Matsukawa’s. Instinctively, Tooru looks down at his own hand hanging loosely by his side, just mere millimeters from Iwaizumi’s, and wonders what would happen if he tried brushing them together again.
The light turns green, and all of Tooru’s thoughts come to a screeching halt as Iwaizumi wraps his hand around Tooru’s.
Blood rushes in his ears. He imagines Iwaizumi can feel his rapid heartbeat where his thumb is pressed against Tooru’s pulse point, and hopes he’ll write it off as fear of the dozens of motorcycles whizzing past.
If either of them say anything, it’s lost to the commotion of the pedestrian crossing. It’s terrifying. It’s absolute mayhem. But Tooru thinks he would’ve gone through it with his eyes closed anyway, all of his trust in the palm of Iwa-chan’s hand.
They reach the other side unscathed, and Tooru prepares himself to let go of Iwa-chan’s hand when Iwaizumi loosens his grip—
—to readjust his hold and lace their fingers together.
Tooru gapes at him. “Iwa-ch—”
Iwaizumi clears his throat abruptly. “Are you guys hungry yet? There’s this stall somewhere near that sells pares if you want something quick.”
“Sounds good to me,” Matsukawa says.
Hanamaki raises a thumbs-up.
Iwaizumi turns to Tooru. “What about you?”
He realizes that his mouth is still hanging open and promptly closes it. Iwaizumi continues to stare at him. When Tooru opens his mouth again, his voice comes out strained and high-pitched. “Sure!”
Iwaizumi, who’s always been able to see through his bullshit even with his eyes closed, looks wholly unconvinced. “You don’t seem sure.”
Tooru feels like he’s in some kind of TV drama with the way Hanamaki and Matsukawa are watching their back-and-forth with eager expressions.
“I’m…” he falters. His hand feels uncharacteristically sweaty in Iwaizumi’s. “Ah, uh…”
A loud, gastric rumbling interrupts his frayed train of thought.
“Oops. That was me,” Hanamaki grins. “Y’know what, Issei and I are gonna go ahead. The pares place is just right down the street, right, Iwaizumi?”
“Yep,” Iwaizumi says. “Just look for the big blue umbrella.”
“Gotcha.” He flicks a finger gun at them. “C’mon, Issei. Let’s hope they sort out their shit before we come back.”
Tooru watches helplessly as the two of them disappear into the crowd. He thinks he sees Matsukawa glance back once, winking, though the distance makes it hard to tell.
“They’ll be fine,” Iwaizumi mutters under his breath. He shifts a little, hand still miraculously holding onto Tooru’s.
“And what about us?” Tooru asks before he can stop himself. His next words linger, unspoken, in the air between them. Will we be fine?
Iwaizumi peers up at him. “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” Tooru asks innocently, even though he already knows exactly what Iwaizumi is asking.
“What you said earlier,” confirms Iwaizumi.
Tooru feels his heart seize in his chest. “Why does it matter?”
Iwaizumi scowls, and Tooru is half-tempted to press his thumb to the crease between his eyebrows and smooth it over. “It matters because I’m going to tell you something, too.”
“You’re not going to reject me, are you?” Tooru blurts. “Because this is a terrible time and place to do it. I don’t want to start crying in the middle of the street, Iwa-chan. People are going to recognize me and take pictures and upload them on the Internet for the whole world to see and it’ll ruin my reputation but even worse ruin yours, Iwa-chan, and I don’t want any of that to ha—mmf!”
“You,” Iwaizumi mutters, using the hand that isn’t covering Tooru’s mouth to jab at his chest, “are one to talk about time and place.”
Tooru’s eyes widen. With a look of utter irritation on his face, Iwaizumi looks up at him and hisses, “How the hell do you think you were supposed to hear me say it back in the middle of a fanmeet?”
Then he drops his hand from Tooru’s mouth and immediately averts his gaze, red creeping up the back of his neck.
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says slowly, fighting to stay afloat amidst the sudden flood of hope and affection in his chest, “are you really about to ask me out here?”
“What?!”
Tooru’s face falls. “No?”
“Yes!” Iwaizumi grabs his hand again, pulling Tooru closer to him so that they’re pressed together chest to chest. “Well, kind of!”
“Uhh…”
“The aircon unit behind you was dripping,” Iwaizumi mutters. He then tries to put a little distance between them by stepping backwards, and nearly trips when he knocks into the bottle tied to the tarpaulin behind them. Tooru laughs, steadying him with two hands on his waist.
“Yeah, definitely not here,” Iwaizumi grumbles.
“Iwa-chan, you know I’d say yes anyway,” Tooru tells him honestly. He feels like his heart is spilling out of his chest.
Iwaizumi blushes. “I know,” he says quietly. “I just… gusto muna kitang ligawan.”
“What?”
“I want to court you first,” Iwaizumi blurts. “Ah, well, I’m using the word ligawan very liberally here. But I’d like to show you. If you’ll let me.”
“Iwa-chan…” Tooru sighs. “I feel like that’s literally what I’ve been doing to you my entire life.”
Iwaizumi snorts. “What? By pissing me off?”
“Mean, Iwa-chan!”
“I don’t know why it even worked,” Iwaizumi grouses.
Tooru smirks at him. “How are you going to court me?” He racks his brain for his conversations with Mama Iwaizumi, who used to tell him all about her dazzling romance with her spouse. “Are you going to harana8 me?”
Iwaizumi shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t know how you managed to sound conyo9 in Japanese, but you did.”
“What’s conyo?”
“Not important.”
“Hey! You aren’t answering any of my questions!”
Iwaizumi smirks at him. “Answering you will spoil the surprise.”
“You have a surprise planned?”
“Of course,” Iwaizumi says. “Lots of places to go to, too. Baguio, Iloilo, Davao, Cebu, Cagayan de Oro, Laguna…” He drifts off when Tooru moves his hand from his waist to rest on his cheek. “Does that sound exciting to you?”
It does, but Tooru has other things at the forefront of his mind right now, like how earnest and handsome Iwaizumi looks as he gazes up at him with nothing but deep, unbridled affection.
“Mhmm.” Tooru hums as he leans forward, eyes fluttering shut when their noses brush.
He feels something wet against his cheek and huffs out a laugh in the minuscule space between them. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” Iwaizumi says, suddenly too far away from Tooru’s mouth for his liking. “It’s raining!”
The light drizzle grows into a heavy downpour in seconds. Tooru squeals, pressing himself as close as he can to the wall and the small awning above it. “Iwa-chan! I don’t have an umbrella!”
“Neither do I!” Iwaizumi yells back. His usually spiked-up hair is now beginning to flatten against his head. “Hala!10 Wait—Hanamaki and Matsukawa!”
“Didn’t you tell them to go to someplace with an umbrella?”
Iwaizumi nods. He’s laughing, even with the raindrops trickling down his face, and so is Tooru. “We gotta run. Are you ready?”
“I always am.”
This time, it doesn’t take much thinking for Tooru to reach for Iwaizumi’s waiting hand. He doesn’t miss the awe in his best friend’s expression when he meets Tooru halfway, fondness smoothing over his sharp features as their fingers slide together in a perfect fit.
“Ready, set, go—!”
Together, they take off running down the bustling street.
“Alright, boys,” Mama says, holding up her phone with two hands. “Ready? Say cheese!”
Hajime grins as Hanamaki throws an arm around his shoulder. Matsukawa does a little hair flip to get his bangs out of his eyes.
“Okay! One, two, three—”
“Wait!” Oikawa yelps suddenly.
Mama looks above the camera with her eyebrows raised in amusement. “Yes, anak?”11
Much to Hajime’s surprise, Oikawa has the capacity to look a little embarrassed. It’s a little strange for him, especially since he and Hajime’s mother had known each other long enough for Oikawa to outgrow any kind of shyness towards her. In fact, he doesn’t think Oikawa was ever even reserved around her in the first place.
That had changed in the past few days, though. Hajime had a feeling that it might have had something to do with him finally introducing Oikawa as his boyfriend.
“Can I fix my hair first?” Oikawa asks sheepishly.
Mama laughs amicably. “Go ahead.”
Still blushing furiously, Oikawa pulls out a comb from his pocket and begins to brush his hair. “How do I look?”
“Like you dipped your head in Pasig River,” Hanamaki deadpans, then purses his lips as if holding back laughter.
“Don’t worry,” Matsukawa reassures him. “The wet look works. In fact, they should totally arrange for that in your next billboard.”
“It’s not my fault I just washed my hair and now I’m sweating!” Oikawa wails.
“You look fine, dumbass,” Hajime says, rolling his eyes as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind Oikawa’s ear. “Come on. You’re making Mama wait.”
But Mama only waves them off with a smile. “Nakakatuwa naman kayo.12 It’s fine. I waited much longer for you two to get together, anyway.”
“Mama,” Hajime sighs.
Next to him, Oikawa flushes a brilliant shade of red, while Hanamaki and Matsukawa both burst into laughter.
“What? It’s true!”
“Iwaizumi-san truly is our strongest soldier,” Matsukawa says sagely, raising his hand in a salute.
“Hold on,” Hanamaki says. “Issei, put your hand a bit higher on your head.”
“What?”
“Like…” He reaches for Matsukawa’s hand, dragging it up his forehead to pull back his bangs. “That! Now just cock your hip a bit. Perfect.”
Mama lets out a giggle. “Matsukawa-kun, you’re such a great model!”
Hanamaki clasps his hands together. “You ate Oikawa up, actually.”
“Excuse me?”
He points to the billboard behind Matsukawa. There, looning across the river, is Oikawa standing in a similar pose, one hand tousling his brown hair as he gazes intensely at the camera.
“Hey! I totally did it better than Mattsun!”
“Whatever you say, dude,” Hanamaki says, “But I bet I can do better than you.”
He casts a glance at the walking Oikawa on the billboard on the far right. “A motion shot, huh,” he muses. “Alright.”
He turns around, and Hajime thinks he’s about to lean on the railing before he suddenly twists his torso to face the camera, back arched dramatically and one hand splayed out on his waist.
“That looks nothing like my pose!”
“My point exactly,” says Hanamaki. “Because my pose is way better than yours, and it’s still dynamic.”
“I thought the point of all of this was for you guys to copy my billboards?”
Hajime looks up at the only remaining billboard, smack in the middle of the two that Matsukawa and Hanamaki had chosen to recreate. “Oikawa, bend over for a second.”
Oikawa gapes at him. “U-uhm—”
“Or just squat,” Hajime interjects immediately. He can feel everyone else’s amused gazes on both him and Oikawa, who seems hell-bent on keeping his eyes trained on the ground.
“Fine,” Oikawa grumbles, sinking to his heels with a petulant scowl. Hajime grins, leans over him, and rests his elbows on his shoulders.
“Iwa-chan, you’re heavy!” Oikawa complains as Hajime shuffles to fix the position of his arms. “Ow, ow—hey! That tickles! Stop! Stop!”
He ignores Oikawa in favor of framing his chin with his fingers in the signature pogi13 pose. He hears the click of the shutter go off once, twice, and about a dozen more times before Mama lowers the camera with a big smile.
Oikawa all but collapses against his legs. “I was laughing the whole time!”
All his remaining complaints die on his tongue when Mama approaches them to show the photos.
Hanamaki lets out an appreciative whistle. “Damn. We look like we could totally start a boyband.”
“Iwaizumi should be the lead singer,” says Matsukawa. “Imagine how much better he could actually sing if he’s already a siren when he’s drunk as shit.”
“Oh, shut up,” Hajime scoffs lightly, unable to hold back a grin.
“Good?” Mama asks. “Should I take some more? I’m sorry I can’t really do anything about how green the river looks, though.”
Oikawa shakes his head. “No, no, Mama, this is perfect,” he says, beaming widely. It’s his real, genuine smile, Hajime notes with satisfaction. He’s been seeing a lot more of it lately. “Thank you.”
