Work Text:
“I’m gonna ask something,” Hajime begins, already sounding exhausted, “and you’re not allowed to laugh at me.”
Tooru pouts. “That’s my favorite thing to do, though.” Hajime glares at him.
“I’m serious.” He pauses, tapping his fingers against the table. “I have a date — in a week and a half,” and okay, ouch, that hurts, “and she’s pretty — forward, I guess? So I think she might kiss me.”
“Okay,” says Tooru, not quite knowing where this is going, “congratulations.” Hajime holds a hand up.
“My only problem is,” he clears his throat, “I’ve, uh, never kissed anyone before.”
Tooru drops his spoon, wincing when it clatters against the tile of their apartment.
“What,” he says.
Hajime rolls his eyes. “I know you heard me.”
“No, I mean — you’ve been on dates before,” seven this year, Tooru thinks, and he’s not bitter, he swears, “so I just. None of them have tried to kiss you?”
“People have tried,” Hajime grumbles, turning a pretty shade of red. “I just didn’t let them.”
“But you’d let her,” says Tooru distantly. Hajime’s eyes dart toward the ceiling and back.
“Yeah, I guess.” He fiddles with his hands. “But, uh, I don’t want to, like, suck at it, so I probably need some practice.”
Oh, Tooru realizes, and he definitely shouldn’t do this; his feelings are muddy enough already, but he’s stupid and selfish and likes to cause himself pain so he says, “I can help.”
Hajime’s ears turn bright red but he’s halfway to a smile. “Okay,” he replies. All of this feels way too casual.
“Okay,” Tooru repeats. “Um, I’ll meet you in my room?” Hajime nods, and Tooru throws him a grin as he walks backwards into his room, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into.
&
Hajime’s wearing a sweatshirt and boxers. This is unremarkable on its own — that’s his typical outfit at home, but now he’s sitting across from Tooru and his thighs are large and muscular and Tooru has to pinch his own arm to remind himself to be normal. “Okay,” he says brightly. “Let’s get started.”
“Could you,” Hajime says, and he looks so uncharacteristically nervous — shaky where he’s always been solid, “um, give me a demo? So that I know where to start?”
It takes Tooru a moment to register that Hajime’s asking him to kiss him (he wants to be kissed; he wants to kiss Tooru, if only for practice). He beams. “Of course, Iwa-chan. That’s what a good teacher does.” Hajime rolls his eyes but he sits still, expectant, legs crossed in a way reminiscent of when they were kids and would sit across from each other and just talk for hours.
Tooru leans in. “First lesson,” he begins, quiet. “You want to make them want it. Draw it out a little, like…” He adjusts his position so that his lips are hovering just over Hajime’s, so that he can hear Hajime’s breath stutter, just barely. “And start off gentle.” He presses his lips against Hajime’s, soft. In that moment he realizes three things: Hajime’s lips are pleasantly chapped. His face smells like the lavender moisturizer Tooru bought him last month. This is going to hurt — it already does.
He pulls back, clearing his throat and pasting on a smile. “Okay. Your turn.”
“Yeah,” Hajime exhales. He leans forward — almost overbalances, but catches himself — kisses Tooru.
Hajime’s always been a quick learner. He picked up volleyball before Tooru did, ranked near the top of their class without trying, taught himself how to swim just by going in the water. Tooru supposes it makes sense that the same applies to kissing. He cups Tooru’s jaw with one hand and his waist with the other, only pulling back when Tooru runs his tongue against his lips.
“Oh,” Tooru says, “sorry, I didn’t — ”
Before he can finish, Hajime’s lips are back on his. He kisses like he does everything else: careful, gentle but firm. Tooru sucks on his bottom lip. Hajime lets out something like a groan, low and keening, and Tooru tucks it carefully away into his memories, safe to reminisce upon after this is done and Hajime gets a girlfriend and he’s alone again.
Hajime tastes like mint toothpaste — the same brand Tooru has, the same they’ve used since they were six. His hands are warm against Tooru’s hips. Tooru wants more. He wants everything so badly that it aches, low and thrumming against his ribs. “You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, and Hajime groans again, pushes his hands under Tooru’s t-shirt, spreads his palms flat against his stomach. Tooru fists Hajime’s hair with one hand and uses the other to pull him closer, clambers up on his lap so that they’re more comfortable.
They separate for a moment. Hajime looks like art, like a sculptor’s wet dream, like everything so beautiful it feels like Tooru’s committing a crime by touching him. His eyes are dark, lips parted, throat bared. Tooru kisses along his jaw, down his neck, sets his teeth against the juncture between his throat and his collarbone and works there until it’s blooming red, until Hajime’s letting out small, ragged pants.
“Slow — can you slow down,” Hajime gasps, and Tooru pulls back. “I feel like you’re — where do you kiss?”
“Um,” says Tooru, “jaw. Throat. Ears.” Hajime nods — he looks so adorably determined that Tooru suddenly wants to kiss him gently, hold his hand and give him flowers.
Hajime presses his tongue against Tooru’s throat before biting down gently. Tooru’s mind goes blank. He registers: Hajime’s nails against his spine, Hajime’s lips sucking at his throat, Hajime’s shoulders, broad and firm. “So good,” Tooru gasps again, and he’s whining and he sounds filthy and he doesn’t care. “You’re so good, baby.” He freezes — Hajime’s going to back away now; he has to; he’s lost everything — but instead Hajime shudders, moans, low and throaty. Tooru pushes him away — shakes his head when Hajime looks at him, shattered — shoves Hajime down against the mattress and kisses him, wet and hot and messy, just how he likes it, just how Hajime apparently likes it too.
Hajime arches under him, wraps his legs around Tooru’s waist. Tooru kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, mapping out his mouth, memorizing the way his breath stutters when Tooru licks into him, the way he moans into Tooru, the way he grabs Tooru’s hair and runs his nails along his scalp. “Please,” he gasps, and he’s grinding up against his stomach, desperate.
Tooru stares at him, stunned, before he carefully aligns their hips — grinds down. “Is this what you want, baby?” he asks, careful. Hajime throws his arm against his face — nods, just barely. “I need you to say yes; I can’t – not without your permission.”
“Yes,” Hajime hisses, “yes, Jesus Christ.”
Tooru laughs, and then he can’t because Hajime’s rutting up against him, mouth open and sloppy on his neck, and Tooru thinks this might be the hottest thing he’s ever done in his life and he’s saying you’re so good, baby, got you, you’re perfect, wanna feel you, so good, so good for me , broken and nonsensical like a half-drunk prayer. Hajime’s gorgeous — a blush sits high on his cheekbones and his lips are kiss-red and he already looks fucked out and this is too far, too fast, a boundary crossed they’ll never be able to return to, but Tooru’s selfish and if he only gets him for tonight then he wants all of him, he wants more, he wants to push himself inside and feel Hajime around him and make him beg for it but he can’t so he’ll settle for this.
“Fuck,” Hajime groans, “fuck, Oikawa, Tooru —” and then Tooru shoves his hand inside Hajime’s pants, strokes once, twice, three times, and Hajime’s coming, hips jerking, hands scrambling against Oikawa’s back until he stops.
“Fuck,” he says again, but it sounds horrified. “Fuck.”
“Wait, Iwa-chan—” Tooru begins, desperate, but Hajime’s already stumbling off his bed, backing out of his room, closing the door gingerly and leaving Tooru alone to jerk off and then cry until he can’t anymore.
%
The first time they talk afterward is almost a week later. Tooru’s been out late almost every night and Hajime’s out all day and somehow they’re even in sync when deciding not to see each other. It’s only when Hajime sends him a text at midnight — we need to talk — that Tooru sighs, lifts himself off the bed and trudges to the living room.
Hajime’s eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is sticking up in strange places, like he hasn’t brushed it yet. “Hi,” he says. Tooru forced himself to smile.
“Hi. How was your date?”
Hajime pauses — runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more and Tooru definitely shouldn’t be remembering how messy it was when he was under him right now but he can’t help it. “I, um,” he says once Tooru sits down, “I never had a date.”
Tooru blinks.
“What?” he asks. He shouldn’t be hoping yet, but he feels something bloom in his chest like a flower turning its petals to the sun.
“I never had a date,” repeats Hajime. “I just wanted to — I just wanted to know what kissing you felt like and I took it too far; I’m sorry.”
“You — why would you — ”
Hajime looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Because I’m in love with you.” He winces. “And I know it’s not mutual and I get if you want to distance yourself, but I’m not letting us not be friends.”
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru interrupts. He feels like he’s made of light. “I love you. Why would I — I thought I was letting it go too far and you regretted it and that’s why — ” He collects himself. “I’m in love with you too.”
“Oh,” Hajime exhales. He smiles, wide and a little crooked. “I love you.” He sounds ecstatic, like he did when he got onto their college team, like he’s finally been waiting for this for years. Tooru thinks he wants to kiss him — so he does, and it’s kind of awful and their noses bump together and they’re both laughing too hard to do anything, but it strikes him that they have all the time in the world to practice.