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There were a hundred things that any sane man would hate about Tooru Oikawa. The main one seemed to be the fact that he could get any girl that he wanted, because they practically threw themselves at him. They flocked to him, showered him with compliments and bashful smiles, and naturally, he flourished beneath the limelight. To make things worse, he’d steal any girl from any guy because it was all just ‘fun and games’; he never genuinely cared about any of them, and that was number two.
He didn’t give a single shit about anyone who paid attention to him, but the moment they stopped? He’d up his advances. Then again, who really every stopped stroking his ego?
That’s where his arrogance came in, making that number three on the hundred things people could hate about Oikawa list. It was big, threatening to most bystanders, annoying as fuck, and was the main cause of his shitty personality.
Hajime Iwaizumi clearly wasn’t a sane man.
He should’ve known he was just like every other dimwit who’d fallen under Oikawa’s spell no matter how shitty his personality was. He’d fallen, like every girl in Oikawa’s posy, for the wavy caramel locks that flipped effortlessly with a gentle flick of Oikawa’s head. He’d fallen for the chocolate depths that widened in amazement every time a new theory had come out about aliens. He’d fallen for the long, lean legs and the flawless skin. He’d fallen for the quiet smiles, the ones Oikawa would let slip when he thought no one was looking.
Hajime was looking. Hajime was always looking.
No matter how many times he tried, no matter how many pep talks he’d given himself, his eyes followed his childhood friend like a hawk.
That was the worst of it, wasn’t it? The fact that they had been friends since before he could even remember, thick as thieves, just him and Oikawa for years on end. Other people could never hold a friendship with him as long Hajime had, but they never saw Oikawa when he was striped from the limelight.
They weren’t there all the times Oikawa stayed up all night watching volleyball matches so he could learn the other teams’ weaknesses and exploit them. They weren’t there to hear those broken, wretched sobs every time he’d thought he’d let his team down. They weren’t there to hear the soft hum every night he slept or the songs he’d sing to himself without even realizing it.
Hajime was there. He was always there.
Hajime became the rock, sturdy as steel, and Oikawa leaned on him. Neither of them discussed just how much Oikawa relied on him, but it never really needed to be said. That’s just what friends do, best friends do. They were there for each other even when the other made a mistake… or several in Oikawa’s case.
It should’ve been obvious to Hajime that he’d fall for his best friend, but it just sort of happened… Like one day he woke up and suddenly the black and white world he once saw turned to color. Every single sense heightened, and it was like Hajime was alive for the very first time.
He battled it, fought long and hard against it for what seemed like an eternity. Part of him hoped that once high school came to an end, Oikawa would leave him and their town for a university far away, and never turn back. It’d made sense, Oikawa always wanted to see the world, but Hajime was naïve for thinking he wouldn’t be dragged along for the ride.
Which brings them to now.
Two inseparable (as many would say) best friends sharing an apartment together three blocks from campus and finally playing university volleyball. They were a force to be reckoned with on the court, because after losing their third year, they both weren’t going to let it happen again.
At least not on the court anyway.
Hajime wished he could say he wouldn’t lose at life, wouldn’t lose himself over his lo- Fuck. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not right now, not in the middle of a game when his team was relying on him to get to the winning point and claim another victory.
His body, thick and strong, ran on autopilot the moment Oikawa jumped for a set, his chocolate depths flashing to him in an instant, telling him to‘Get it, Iwa-chan!’. Hajime did; his hand with the sheer force of a thousand suns, smacked perfectly on his target and sent it in a deadly decline on the other side of the net.
The roar from the crowd around them told him what he already knew, and his grin couldn’t be stopped. Multiple hands grabbed at both him and Oikawa, slapping their backs in congratulations and pulling them into a victory huddle.
In those moments, Hajime didn’t care about the sweat causing his jersey to cling to him, he didn’t care about the pain in his thighs or the numbness in his hands, because all he cared about were his and Oikawa’s matching smiles and their teammates shouts of triumph.
-x-
After a much-needed shower and celebratory feast, him and Oikawa finally journeyed back to their apartment with full bellies and tingling limbs. Even with the sake running through his veins, he grabbed his favorite bottle of whiskey from the top of the fridge and poured himself a generous glass. There was a reason to celebrate after all.
“Not even gonna offer me a glass?”
Hajime didn’t need to turn around and see the pout on Oikawa’s face, he could hear it. “You don’t even like whiskey.”
“Maybe I do today,” Oikawa countered, defiant as usual. “I could be a whiskey man.”
With a roll of his eyes, Hajime offered his glass and watched the purse of pink lips and distaste flash across Oikawa’s features. “Idiot,” he said, biting back his chuckle.
A single, perfectly plucked brow arched at him as a challenge flashed across chocolate depths, Hajime watched his favorite liquid get swallowed in one drink.
“You’re buying the next bottle,” Hajime grunted, snatching the empty glass from his shitty best friend and ignoring the proud smirk on his face.
Oikawa hummed thoughtfully behind him. “Maybe I could get one of the girls to buy it for me as their next confession.”
“Why anyone likes you is beyond me…” Hajime mumbled under his breath, pouring even more into the glass than he had before.
Bringing the glass to his lips, he inhaled the smell of cedar before taking a drink. The burn warmed his body, releasing his limbs from the built-up tension. He always enjoyed the first sip of his drink and the way his body would flood with relief.
However, the moment had been far too quiet, keeping him from fully enjoying it. There were only certain times when Oikawa was silent, and Hajime had a feeling this time it was because he was up to something.
With a heavy sigh, he turned around, eyes dull. “What?”
“I think…” Oikawa smirked devilishly and leaned into Hajime’s personal bubble. “You’re jealous.”
Hajime swallowed, grounding his emotions as best he could so that they didn’t broadcast clear as day on his face. Breathe, he told himself, his chest already wound tight from the accurate accusation. “Of your confessions?” He chortled, regaining composure. “Why would I be jealous of idiocy?”
The smirk grew wider into that boastful grin so many people hated. “That’s not it,” he said with a shake of his head; Hajime narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher what Oikawa meant. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re as dense as a rock,” he voiced cheerfully, bopping Hajime on the nose and sauntering away.
“Fuck off.” A beat too late, a second too long.
Hajime stood there, in their modest kitchen, swirling his whiskey while his thoughts whirled in his head. Jealousy… Was that the reason his heart clenched every time a girl confessed, every time a guy appraised Oikawa’s body when they walked across campus? Was it really jealousy or just anger because he’d fallen in love with his best friend and he’d never be able to look at him the way others do?
“Stop stewing in there and come watch the new documentary with me!”
As much as he wanted to tell Oikawa no. As much as he wanted to tell him to fuck off, he sighed, took a generous gulp of his whiskey, and walked into their living room.
“One show and then I’m going to sleep,” Hajime voiced the moment his backside hit their well-loved couch.
“You’re no fun,” Oikawa pouted, slumping down next to him and hitting play. He ditched the remote on the coffee table and snuggled in closer. Hajime had grown used to this; Oikawa didn’t understand personal space.
Hajime ignored him; there really wasn’t a use in arguing. Plus, he’d learned long ago that arguing with him only lead to Oikawa winning. Somehow, he could keep going on the most mundane conversations and he’d talk anyone back into a corner until the person caved and agreed. Hajime learned to avoid these arguments altogether, making it a win in his eyes.
Knowing how Oikawa operated really was a win. No one understood his motives… well more like, no one wanted to believe that his drive usually came from a selfish place.
Long fingers ran up and down Hajime’s bicep, a tantalizing dance that left his breath in his throat no matter how many times it happened. Ever since they moved in together, the physical touching had doubled… maybe even tripled, and it always tested Hajime’s control.
His mind had wandered far too often when he was alone in the heat of his bed, in the early mornings just like every other guy across the world. It’d all start with Hajime remembering the way Oikawa fingers felt sliding up and down his arm or across his shoulders, then from there it’d only grow lewder.
He’d tried not to let himself venture there, mentally scolded himself the first time he’d done it, but he’d given in, figured ignoring it would do more damage than good. But now? Shit. He knew where all of his fantasies led the moment he imagined those feather light touches on him, so he rolled with it.
Suddenly, Oikawa plopped his head down in his lap, shattering every image that had conjured in Hajime’s mind. “Iwa-chan~.”
Hajime forced his focus on the TV, not daring to look down at the face in his lap. “What?”
“Play with my hair.”
A request he’d heard before, one he abided because again, arguing with Oikawa got him literally nowhere. “Needy,” he mumbled, carding his fingers through the silky locks.
No one’s hair should be this soft.
Finally, they found their rhythm for the night: Oikawa sucking in an excited breath at every new discovery and Hajime clutching to his whiskey glass like an anchor. The glass had been empty for a while now, but he still held it to keep himself steady as he rubbed the pads of his fingers across Oikawa’s scalp.
The pleased hums sounding from the man in his lap really tested his fuckin’ reserve. He’d managed though, made it all the way to the end of the documentary without pushing the limits.
Hajime jiggled his legs, indicating for Oikawa to move so he could escape before he got roped into another theory about aliens on earth. He almost thought he managed it without having to say anything, but Oikawa didn’t budge.
“What kind of girls are you into?”
The question caused an uncomfortable silence to stretch between them and Hajime wished his glass could magically fill with amber liquid all on its own. He needed something stronger than a buzz if he had to ward off Oikawa’s questions tonight.
“Short girls? Tall girls?” Oikawa pressed, sitting up so that he could look Hajime in the face. “Blondes, redheads, brunettes?”
Hajime stood, taking the one chance he had to physically walk away from the conversation. Where were these questions even coming from? Him and Oikawa had never really discussed girls before other than some of the confessions the latter had received.
“Sporty, nerdy, preppy?” Oikawa continued, right on his heels.
“Why are we talking about this?” Hajime deflected, steering his body back towards his trusty whiskey bottle instead of his bedroom where he could claim tiredness.
“Because you never tell me anything about your love life, Iwa-chan!” The pout was back, full force and Hajime knew it was a move, bait on a fishing line to get him to react.
“That’s because I don’t have one,” he answered tersely, avoiding the prying depths on his back as he poured himself a shots worth and downed it in one go. Oikawa knew everything about Hajime, so why the twenty questions now?
“There’s had to have been something,” Oikawa protested.
Hajime ditched the empty glass in the sink and didn’t bother glancing at his best friend as he walked out of the kitchen to his bedroom. The conversation was pointless; Oikawa had literally been apart of his life since before the subject of kissing girls even arose, so he had to know that Hajime’s love life was nonexistent.
“You never tell me anything,” Oikawa whined behind him, hot on his tail.
Times like these made him insufferable and responding wouldn’t make a difference. It never did. Oikawa would believe whatever he wanted to believe and that was that.
“I’ve kissed-”
“I know,” Hajime gritted. Please for fuck’s sake not another play by play. He had to listen to Oikawa’s adventures in the ‘love’ department far too many times and even with the whiskey in his system, he didn’t think he could handle it again.
“Exactly,” Oikawa said exasperatedly. “I tell you everything and you tell me nothing.”
Hajime gripped the door frame, tan brute fingers digging into the wood. When would the alcohol dull his senses? Simmer the anger that was rising in his throat? “I already answered your question.” Shit. His voice came out flustered, embarrassed, heat creeping up his neck and ears.
Oikawa ducked beneath his arm, successfully entering the room without permission and locked eyes with Hajime. “Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. Hajime got distracted by the way his neck stretched, a full display of milky, flawless skin. Blinking a few times, he redirected his gaze back to the all-knowing gaze analyzing him. “So innocent, Iwa-chan.” A cocky whisper that should have angered him, that should’ve made him react with a punch to Oikawa’s gut.
But no hit came, only the ever growing flush across his skin.
Hajime could blame the whiskey for the heat crawling all over his skin instead of the mocking gaze upon him, but what could he blame for the hitch in his breath? The tightness in his chest? The build in his gut?
“Are we done?” Hajime hoped they were because he knew his self-control was slipping through his fingers. His arm dropped from the frame and he moved passed Oikawa to his bed, stripping his shirt off as he went.
“Are you gay, Iwa-chan?”
The question froze him in place and he really fucking wished he could’ve taken it in stride. Wished he could’ve acted like that question didn’t matter because he could respond with ‘No.’ and move on. He could go to sleep and wake up the next day to their usual routine: coffee, school, training, homework, tv, bed. No prodding questions. No confessions.
“If you’re asking,” Hajime breathed, deep and sound. “Then you already know.” He wouldn’t turn to look at Oikawa, he’d just focus on his breathing and stop his hands from shaking.
“I do,” Oikawa agreed, his voice genuine and soft. The voice he reserved for Hajime and Hajime alone. “I just kept hoping you’d tell me.”
Hajime’s shoulders fell as he glanced behind him, reading the hurt all over a face that was usually bright and smirking. “It’s not important.”
Because it wasn’t. It didn’t matter if anyone knew because the real problem was the fact that he was in love with the guy standing two feet away from him.
Oikawa huffed, clearly disapproving of his answer, and took a step forward. “What kind of guys do you like then?”
Hajime ran a hand down his face and turned back around to face Oikawa. “I don’t really have a type.”
A lie, and not even a good one at that. He had a type. Said type was currently taking another step towards him, watching him with inquisitive eyes.
The silence stretched between them, but the distance shortened.
Each step closer had Hajime’s heart going into overdrive, pumping wildly in his chest and causing a full body flush. Suddenly he felt barer than he every had before with his naked chest on full display, but he couldn’t find it in himself to move his arms and cover up. His eyes were the only thing working, focusing on Oikawa’s outstretched hand coming towards him.
The moment it touched his shoulder, Hajime sucked in a harsh breath, eyes locking with Oikawa’s. The hand dropped slowly, fingers sliding across his skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Hajime had been touched by Oikawa several times before, but this… this was different. Unexplainable.
His brain just about short circuited when the hand climbed its way back up, gliding over Hajime’s shoulder and to his clavicle, resting low on his neck.
“Oikawa,” he breathed… a warning? A plead? He didn’t know, he couldn’t understand anything right now as the room spun around him.
The fingers at his neck played with his hair, a taunting dance that left him breathless.
Those eyes. Those warm, wide chocolate brown eyes looked at him and him alone. “So dense, Iwa-chan~”
That was all it took for Hajime to close the gap, to place his hands on either side of Oikawa’s face and seize the kiss he’d been dreaming about for the last three years. His body ran on instinct, moving his lips in an unfamiliar way and relaxing into the kiss. Oikawa sighed against him, opening his mouth wider, a silent plea for more. Luckily, Hajime understood what it meant and cautiously swiped his tongue across Oikawa’s lip, earning another soft sigh.
Their tongues slid over one another in a languid dance, tasting of nothing but Hajime’s favorite whiskey. His brute hands found purchase on Oikawa’s hips, finally feeling those defined hip bones he’d be staring at during practices for far too long. He rubbed circles with his thumbs beneath cotton, simultaneously loving and hating how soft he was. Another soft sigh sounded between them, but this time it was from his own lips.
By the time they broke apart, Hajime felt more drunk off their kiss than the alcohol pumping through his veins. His breathing was shallow, face completely flushed, and if Oikawa gave him a little shove, his knees would buckle.
“You made me wait too long, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pouted, pressing their foreheads together. “You really are as dense as they come.”
Hajime squeezed his hips in protest, earning a squeak. “Call me it again and I’ll take my lips elsewhere.”
“Like to my co-
Hajime refused to hear the end of that sentence and he pushed Oikawa down on the bed, gaining a genuine laugh. “Please, Iwa-chan!” He melodramatically placed the back of his hand to his forehead. “Have mercy!”
“You fuckin-” Hajime bit back his own chuckle, sinking down on the bed next to him and flicking his forehead. They shared a smile with soft chuckles, and Hajime wondered if this was really happening. “How long?” He asked finally, resting his head on his forearms as Oikawa turned to face him.
“Longer than you.”
“Bullshit.”
Oikawa grinned wider before settling into his calm face that he only reserved for serious conversations. “Since middle school when you won me that alien plush at the arcade. I knew then.”
Hajime just stared, speechless. He’d thought the last few years had been hell but the last decade- “Damn,” he mumbled aloud.
“Mhmm,” Oikawa agreed as he carded his finger’s through Hajime’s hair. “And I knew I had to do something because you clearly weren’t picking up on any hints.”
Hajime grunted. “I didn’t think yo- that we-”
“I know.” Oikawa smiled softly. “We can talk about that tomorrow.”
Hajime winced involuntarily, the idea of all of this being a dream flooded his mind again and he dreaded what dawn would bring.
“Hey,” Oikawa whispered, ruffling his hair. “It’s real.”
A sigh of relief rushed from his lungs and he quickly hid his face from view. He allowed himself to become so vulnerable in front of Oikawa.
“Flustered like a teenage girl,” Oikawa teased, poking at his cheek.
Hajime snapped up his head and glared at his favorite pair of eyes. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out,” Hajime said again with no real heat, but he was grabbing Oikawa and hauling him off the bed.
“Iwa-chan!”
“Nope!” He opened the door with one hand and pushed Oikawa out with the other, ignoring the pleas and protests sounding from the annoying guy he’d somehow fallen in love with. “Trash isn’t allowed in my room.” With that, he shut the door and quickly covered his mouth to cover the sound of sheer joy bubbling from his chest.
“So mean, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa whined from the other side of the wood.
Hajime ignored him and climbed into bed, slipping beneath the comforter and feeling genuinely happy for the first time in three years. He let his mind clear and silently agreed with Oikawa that their much needed conversation could happen tomorrow.
For now he’d rest and fall asleep to the sounds of Oikawa’s empty death threats on the other side of the door and to the taste of whiskey on his tongue.
If it really was a dream, he hoped he’d never wake up.