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To wake up next to Oikawa Tooru is a sight to behold. At least, if you were to ask Iwaizumi.
Oikawa is a painting. A masterpiece. Godhood wrapped in soft skin and lean muscles. Something to be admired, something to be worshiped. Granted, Iwaizumi isn’t a particularly religious person per se, but something about Oikawa in the mornings is simply otherworldly.
When he woke up that morning, Oikawa’s head had been buried beneath a pillow—stifling the loud snores that passed through his lips. It caused Iwaizumi to snort in amusement as he slowly rose from the bed.
He dragged himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, fully intending on preparing breakfast for the both of them, when he realized he’d left his phone in the bedroom. When Iwaizumi returned to the other room a few minutes later, Oikawa had untangled himself from the sheets—kicking them off the bed entirely. His head rested atop of his pillow; arms tightly curled around it as if the thing would suddenly grow legs and escape.
(He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it as he lingered in the doorway).
And now, as his fingers curl around the phone resting atop the nightstand, Iwaizumi’s gaze remains glued to the man soundly asleep on the bed. His eyes travel along the length of Oikawa’s spine, watching the steady rise and fall of his back with every inhalation and exhalation. Muscles flex and shift with each movement and he thinks that there’s something hypnotic about it.
Sunlight filters through the curtains. A gentle intrusion in the dark room. Gold meets navy as the light travels along the mattress; caressing Oikawa’s skin with the gentle touch of a lover. It’s enchanting .
The expanse of Oikawa’s back is decorated with the occasional mark. From faint scratch lines to the discoloration of numerous hickeys; they each sit on his skin like paint on a canvas.
A lot can change in three months—Iwaizumi knows this better than anyone. Which is why he allows himself a moment of observation. He observes the subtle changes in Oikawa’s appearance as he lowers himself gently onto the mattress; taking in the various details.
His skin tone is one or two shades darker, bronzed by the Argentinian sun during the summer months. His hair color is lighter; a clear indication of countless hours spent outdoors, soaking up the sun’s rays. Evidently, its length has changed as well—brown locks appearing slightly longer than usual. It reminds Iwaizumi of a younger version of Oikawa. One that was round-faced and bright-eyed. A boy with rosy cheeks and a charming smile.
It has become a tradition of sorts. Every summer, Oikawa grows his hair out. Just a little.
(Iwaizumi likes it. He likes the way his bangs fall across his forehead—enjoys brushing them aside before placing a gentle kiss against Oikawa’s skin. He enjoys playing with the curls at the nape of his neck; fingers carding through soft, soft , hair, and lips curling up in amusement at the pleased noises Oikawa makes as a result. He loves the way it feels beneath his fingertips whenever he grips at the soft strands in a moment of passion and ecstasy).
As the sun continues its journey, illuminating more of Oikawa’s skin with each second that passes, Iwaizumi’s eyes follow its trail. He observes and observes, counting moles, freckles, and scars. He observes the ones he knows and searches for new ones that might have appeared during his absence.
There’s a mole on his lower back, millimeters above his butt, and one on the outer side of his right thigh. Two more decorate the shell of his right ear; two small dots right below each other. Iwaizumi knows all of them. He knows about the ones on his back, on his arms, and the one right above his navel. Though, the one might like the most, is the one people rarely notice—lest they are close enough to see it.
It sits on Oikawa’s lower lip, barely noticeable, and Iwaizumi has become intimately familiar with it.
He’s close enough to see it now; close enough to count the freckles dusted across Oikawa’s nose.
Yes, a lot can change in three months, but what hasn’t changed is the love Iwaizumi feels for the man before him. Affection sweeps through him, curls around him like a warm blanket, and his fingers reach for Oikawa. They brush his hair aside, revealing a small scar on his temple. The result of an unfortunate accident involving a bike and a ball when they were seven year old.
(He’d walked around with a band-aid for days, proudly telling the story to whoever would listen).
Iwaizumi often presses his lips against it.
He doesn’t realize that he’s leaning in, until his lips are pressed against Oikawa’s temple.
It earns him a soft sigh from Oikawa in response, who buries his nose into his pillow as a response. Iwaizumi’s name is a whisper on his lips. A quiet ‘Iwa-chan?’ is murmured around a yawn and Iwaizumi hums in return, pressing a kiss to the back of Oikawa’s neck.
This time he’s rewarded with a chuckle, a barely audible sound—but oh, how he missed hearing it. How he has longed for it. Every part of Oikawa remains the same, yet slightly different. He changes with the seasons, adapts himself to his surroundings; a boy, a man, in constant bloom.
Each part of him is deserving of love. And Iwaizumi vows to do so.
It starts with slow, gentle kisses along the back of his neck. His lips tracing the path sunlight had carved out for him. Beneath him, Oikawa inhales deeply. His exhale is a gentle sigh as Iwaizumi’s mouth continues its path downward.
His upper back is covered in the occasional scratch mark and Iwaizumi kisses each of them. An apology, a promise. I’m sorry and I might leave more.
Of course Oikawa notices, and of course he laughs. The sound is buried into a cotton pillow case and Iwaizumi smiles against his skin. He shifts until his entire body is on the mattress, hovering above Oikawa with hands planted at either side of Oikawa’s head and knees digging into the mattress as he keeps himself steady.
There’s a lot to love about Oikawa.
Iwaizumi could fill an entire book with what he feels for him. Maybe even more than one. Volumes one, two, and three; written by Iwaizumi Hajime.
As his lips continue to travel along the planes of Oikawa’s back and shoulders, Iwaizumi thinks about the weight of the expectations that have been thrust upon him. Once a captain, always a captain. And with that position comes certain responsibilities, dreams, and goals.
There was a time Iwaizumi felt concerned about the pressure Oikawa endured, but even in his moments of unease, he never doubted him—never doubted that Oikawa wasn’t strong enough to carry the world on his shoulders. But, Oikawa isn’t Atlas. He doesn’t have to do it alone.
So, Iwaizumi kisses those strong shoulders; nuzzles into the space where his neck and shoulders meet. Whatever burdens you carry, I will carry them for you.
(Not that Oikawa would let him—stubborn and independent as he is).
Iwaizumi’s lips travel south, following the curve of Oikawa’s spine. He remembers being enthralled by it, and how it would bend for him in moments of passion and ecstasy; the muscles in his back shifting and flexing beneath Iwaizumi’s own palm.
Each kiss is a slow drag of lips dragging across skin until Iwaizumi reaches the bottom of his spine—just above his lower back. A particularly sensitive area; one he has massaged plenty of times after a particularly long day or grueling match.
Two kisses; one to each dimple on Oikawa’s lower back. It earns him a quiet laugh in response and Oikawa flinches as he mumbles something along the lines of ‘that tickles’. (It only fuels Iwaizumi’s own amusement). His smile is hidden against that sensitive spot as he pinches Oikawa’s side quickly; a chuckle falling from his lips when Oikawa flinches again and half-mumbles, half-whines, his name.
“Sorry,” Iwaizumi apologizes. He pushes himself upward until he’s resting on his knees entirely. His fingers find Oikawa’s hips, curling around them and giving a small squeeze as he mumbles ‘turn over’.
Oikawa obliges, lazily rolling onto his back—and there it is; that half-lidded gaze. A stripe of sunlight carves a straight line across his upper body, illuminating his right eye and highlighting the little bit of gold trapped between warm brown. Iwaizumi is rewarded with a slow, lazy smile, and something inside chest unravels and tightens all the same.
Yes, Oikawa Tooru in the morning is a work of art.
When he leans forward once more, his lips follow the same path as before. They start at the top, pressing slow, gentle kisses to the side of Oikawa’s neck. A sigh is buried in Iwaizumi’s hair and he momentarily nudges the back of Oikawa’s jaw with his nose before dragging his teeth lightly across the hollow of his throat.
He feels the bob of his Adam’s apple, hears the quiet gasp escape Oikawa’s lips and then there are fingers carding through his own hair. A slow, gradual movement that causes Iwaizumi to release a sigh of his own. He moves lower and lower, kissing his way down until he reaches Oikawa’s chest; until he hears the steady beat of his heart—feels it thumping against his lips.
A heart that carries so much love.
It beats for him; a melody only Iwaizumi knows the words to.
It’s always been yours. Those were the words Oikawa spoke quietly on a summer afternoon, when they were much younger. It will always be yours.
Iwaizumi’s own heart had been hammering inside his chest; desperate to keep up with his brain as he processed the words. It was as if his heart was conveying a message of its own.
‘As is mine’ it said. ‘Only yours.’
He takes a moment to listen, forehead pressed against Oikawa’s chest as Oikawa continues to push his fingers through Iwaizumi’s hair, and he wonders how it’s physically possible to love someone this much. So much that it consumes you entirely ; fills you with a sensation that cannot be explained through words alone. It’s one of life’s biggest mysteries and Iwaizumi thinks that he might never be able to solve it.
And he’s okay with that.
His head moves lower and lower and Oikawa’s muscles continue to contract beneath Iwaizumi’s lips as he peppers Oikawa’s abdomen with kisses. More laughter fills the room, quiet and breathy; music to Iwaizumi’s ears.
The sounds eventually die down when his mouth travels lower—replaced by the beginnings of a gasp when Iwaizumi’s head disappears between Oikawa’s legs.
There isn’t a single part of Oikawa’s body that Iwaizumi doesn’t love, but there has always been something about his legs. They’re long and powerful, with thighs that are soft yet incredibly strong. Whether they’re clad in a pair of jeans, sweats, or volleyball shorts, Iwaizumi’s eyes—and hands—always find their way back to Oikawa’s legs.
Fingers dig themselves into soft tissue, massaging it gently, as he places a kiss to the inside of his thigh. One turns into two, turns into three, and then Iwaizumi loses count. On occasion he dares to glance upwards, observing the satisfied smile on Oikawa’s lips. He holds his gaze, watching as he tugs his lower lip between his teeth momentarily, and when Iwaizumi bites down a little harder than before, a quiet moan climbs up his throat and spills over.
It’s accompanied by a laugh and a sigh. “Tease.”
“I’m just taking my time.”
“I can tell.”
Iwaizumi arches a brow, hides his smile against Oikawa’s skin, “Are you complaining?”
Fingers, gentle, beautiful fingers, push through the dark strands of Iwaizumi’s hair once more. He can’t help but sigh in response, eyes momentarily falling shut as Oikawa’s nails scratch gently along his scalp.
“I wouldn’t dare, Hajime.”
The smile that’s being offered to him is fond, endearing, and a little devious all at once. It causes the smile that sits on Iwaizumi’s own lips to widen as he hooks a thumb into the waistband of Oikawa’s boxers.
“Good,” he murmurs, tugging the fabric down.
✷ ✷ ✷
Afterwards, when they’re both feeling a little lightheaded and boneless, Iwaizumi observes Oikawa once more. His eyelids have fallen shut, lips parting around quiet breaths, and he reaches out for him—pushing his bangs aside before tapping his nose gently with his thumb, “M’gonna make breakfast.”
Oikawa mumbles a reply, something unintelligible. It most likely means ‘okay, go ahead, I’ll be here’.
He’s always been fluent at speaking Oikawa.
A moment passes before he pushes himself, a little reluctantly, off the mattress. He hears Oikawa mumble something again before his boyfriend ungracefully rolls towards the edge of the bed. “Five minutes,” he mumbles.
“Take your time.”
Five minutes turns into ten—because of course it does.
Iwaizumi doesn’t mind, though. It allows him to prepare breakfast without getting distracted.
As it turns out, Oikawa conveniently skipped on buying groceries—leaving Iwaizumi with little to work with. Nevertheless, he’d manage to find ingredients to prepare a half-decent omelet with. While he’s spooning rice into two bowls and plopping two slices of bread into the toaster, Oikawa quietly pads through the apartment.
After a few minutes, he emerges from the bathroom—face washed and teeth brushed—dressed in a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt that might have belonged to Iwaizumi once upon a time. Its yellow color has faded significantly. What was once a bright, vibrant shade, has transformed into a more pastel tint over the years.
It suits him.
Thoughts regarding the yellow shirt are pushed aside when a pair of arms encircle Iwaizumi’s waist. A chin is hooked over his shoulder as Oikawa presses himself against Iwaizumi’s back with a quiet sigh. Iwaizumi leans into the embrace, allowing Oikawa to bury his face into the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck, while one of his own hands comes to rest along Oikawa’s forearm.
Every part of Oikawa is made to be loved.
His arms are no exception.
They are strong and gentle. A sanctuary; a place of warmth. They have embraced Iwaizumi thousands of times, pulling him close, shielding him, comforting him. He has found a home in those arms, with his head resting against Oikawa’s chest and a heartbeat in his ears.
In the quiet of Oikawa’s kitchen, Iwaizumi thinks about those arms—and how glad he is to feel them around him once more. He traces an invisible pattern on Oikawa’s skin with his index finger; sighing when he feels Oikawa’s fingertips slip beneath the fabric of his own shirt. They dance along Iwaizumi’s abdomen, nails slowly dragging across his skin, and Iwaizumi briefly forgets about the omelet, and toast, and rice.
He briefly forgets his own damn name.
A breathless laugh finds its way out of his throat and he’s reluctant to pull away from that comforting embrace.
Oikawa makes a disappointed little noise and Iwaizumi snorts, “C’mon, let’s eat.”
They eat in a comfortable silence at Oikawa’s kitchen table, with Oikawa’s leg resting in Iwaizumi’s lap. Oikawa had been given the table as a gift from someone Iwaizumi doesn’t remember—when he first got the apartment. It’s an old thing; entirely made of wood. Its round table top is covered in a layer of teal paint, which is a little chipped at the edges. One of the legs wobbles a bit and it clashes horribly with the rest of the kitchen, but it’s charming and completely, utterly, befitting of one Oikawa Tooru.
Many things have changed in his apartment, but the kitchen table has been a permanent fixture.
Iwaizumi watches as Oikawa takes slow sips of his tea. Chamomile. No sugar. Because Oikawa enjoys tea on his days off. The mug is muted green with a small, cartoon bird printed on the front. It’s the same mug he has used for over fifteen years.
Iwaizumi has a matching one in the cupboard of his apartment.
He briefly considers taking a photo to immortalize the sight before him. Oikawa in the mornings. Yellow shirt, blue table, green mug.
It’s a sight he wishes to see every morning. And night.
The thought of having to leave in nine days causes something painful to erupt in Iwaizumi’s chest. He pushes that feeling away, ignores it in favor of playing make-believe for a little longer. A reality where the sight before him is permanent—not temporary.
When the mug is empty, Oikawa rises from the chair and Iwaizumi follows him. They carry their plates towards the sink, where they settle into a mindless routine of washing and drying. On occasion Oikawa bumps hip against Iwaizumi’s, and Iwaizumi nudges Oikawa’s calf with his foot in return.
It’s peaceful and perfect. It’s everything.
As he places one of the plates back into the cupboard, he thinks of their conversation of the previous day—of the words Oikawa had spoken quietly.
Hajime, I’d marry you right now if I could.
A flutter makes itself apparent in his stomach; fleeting and gentle.
Oikawa begins to tell him about their plans for the upcoming week and a half. He tells him about a restaurant, and a bar, and how he’s been meaning to go to the farmer’s market for a week now. Apparently there’s a guy with fantastic oranges and amazing mangoes, and oh, he’s also been meaning to buy some new plates.
Amidst his chatting, Iwaizumi observes him—watches the sunlight bounce off the high points of his countenance. It drapes over Oikawa’s form, basking him in warm light; a beautiful glow, and Iwaizumi falls a little bit in love with him again, and again.
That smile—that beautiful smile—is aimed at him and Iwaizumi wants, and wants, and wants. He feels fondness gathering in his chest, curling around his heart, and spreading through every part of him. He wants to prolong this moment, he wants it to last forever.
His mouth moves quicker than his brain when he speaks.
“Marry me.”
Oikawa’s chatter immediately stops, his smile slowly fading away and his eyes widening ever so slightly, “...What?”
It takes a moment for Iwaizumi to realize what he’d just said, or rather, requested. One would think that he might feel panicked, or perhaps confused—given how he responded the previous day to Oikawa’s words—but Iwaizumi has never felt more calm and sure in his life.
So, he repeats it.
“Marry me,” he says, lowering the glass he’d been holding. He turns to face Oikawa completely, looks into those brown eyes he adores, and adds, “I’m serious.”
Oikawa blinks rapidly, lips parted, attempting to form a sentence of sorts, and Iwaizumi steps closer. “Yesterday… you said that you were serious,” he points out, resting one of his hands along Oikawa’s hip, “said that we could do it—elope. Just the two of us.”
Iwaizumi licks his lips, takes a breath. “So, let’s. Let’s do it.”
Oikawa is still staring at him when a nervous laugh escapes his throat, “You’re… you’re making a joke, right? This isn’t funny, you know…”
“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says as he pulls Oikawa’s hand into his own. It feels warm, and he notices a slight tremor in Oikawa’s fingers. It matches the rapid beating of his own heart and he thinks that if this is how he’s going to do it, he might as well go all the way. His left knee bends before he even realizes it; slowly lowered onto the kitchen floor.
Above him, there’s a sharp intake of breath as realization settles in. “Oh god,” Oikawa breathes, “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
In his moment of certainty and bravery, and perhaps a little bit of insanity, Iwaizumi speaks the words he’s kept in his heart for so long. He’s not sure where they come from, but they fall from his lips with ease, with love.
“You’re the person I think of every day. When I wake up, when I go to bed. My head, my heart, are filled with you, Tooru. There’s not a single sentence that could capture the magnitude of the love I feel for you. I loved you before knowing what love was and I feel so lucky to not only love you, but to be loved by you in return. We’ve been doing this for a while now and you’re the only person I want to do this with—the only person I want to wake up next to every morning. I want us to have a home, a place we can call our own. I want to be with you, every day, until we’re both old and gray and cranky.”
A shaky exhale follows, but Iwaizumi smiles around it, watching as Oikawa covers the lower half of his face with his other hand. “My heart’s always been yours. It belongs to you, and only you. And I want you to have it, forever. In this life and the next one,” he says, “so, Oikawa Tooru, will you marry me?”
Even though Iwaizumi already knows the answer, Oikawa’s silence causes the slightest bit of anxiety to settle into his bones. But then, he hears a laugh. Or, maybe it sounds more like a sob; a strange little strangled noise.
He’s fairly certain Oikawa’s eyes are a little glassy. “T-this isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he murmurs.
Iwaizumi can hear the amusement in his voice; can see the affection in his eyes.
“Honestly…this isn’t how I pictured it to go either,” Iwaizumi admits, “I was actually gonna plan something bigger—I don’t even have a ring.”
Another laugh follows and Oikawa uses the heel of his hand to rub at his eye, “No—I mean, I was supposed to ask you!”
Iwaizumi grins at that as he squeezes Oikawa’s hand, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over his skin. “Well, tough shit. I was quicker,” he points out.
“I hate you so much,” Oikawa says with an exasperated sigh. “I really do.”
“You still haven’t given me your answer, though.”
The words earn him a chuckle and a quiet ‘god, Hajime you idiot’ as Oikawa lowers himself onto his knees, right before Iwaizumi. He’s close enough for Iwaizumi to observe the freckles along his nose, the flush on his cheeks, the gold in his eyes and the little beauty mark in the corner of his lower lip, and Iwaizumi thinks he could never tire of this sight. The sight of Oikawa with his hair grown out, clad in an old, ratty t-shirt, with a smile on his lips that could rival the sun in terms of brightness.
Oikawa’s palms fit themselves against Iwaizumi’s cheeks, as they’ve done so many times before, fingers curling around his jaw. The words ‘of course I’ll marry you’ are whispered into the space between their lips as Iwaizumi is pulled forward.
Adoration blooms in his chest. It spreads its vines, blossoming into something beautiful, and wonderful, and amazing as it travels through Iwaizumi’s body. There’s a warmth in his cheeks, burning and burning like the love he holds for the man before him, and oh, how lucky he is—to exist in a lifetime with Oikawa Tooru.
How lucky he is—to have found a love like this. One that feels freeing, and comforting. It feels like coming home; like being completely at peace. It’s like walking through the forest at dawn; a gentle breeze tickling your skin, filling your lungs with fresh oxygen. It’s breathtaking , enthralling, liberating and exciting.
It’s a love that will last.
Iwaizumi smiles against Oikawa’s lips, winds his arms around Oikawa’s waist and pulls him tightly against his body. He kisses him, again and again, on the kitchen floor—and at some point he ends up leaning back against the cabinets and Oikawa kind of falls into his lap. They laugh through it, making zero effort to get up from where they’re seated on the floor, and Iwaizumi thinks about how they’ll be able to do this more often in the near future. Morning spent exchanging slow kisses in the comfort of their own kitchen—not Oikawa’s, not Iwaizumi’s, but theirs .
It’s not a traditional proposal, he supposes. There’s no candlelit dinner, no beautiful ring, no rose petals scattered across the floor. There are no bystanders, capturing the moment on film; there’s no elaborate scheme to lure Oikawa towards some sort of beautiful outdoor location beneath the stars. It’s simple and spontaneous and unplanned, but it’s honest and genuine.
And perhaps it’s a bit silly or unwise to do this; to get married so suddenly, without even living in the same country, but Iwaizumi finds that he doesn’t care.
They’ve been together for years—have spent the better parts of their lives together—and spent so much time apart, chasing their dreams and accomplishing their goals.
They’re allowed to do this; allowed to do whatever feels right and makes them happy.
Iwaizumi pushes his fingers through Oikawa’s hair, gripping the brown strands gently as Oikawa nips at his lower lip between kisses. He hasn’t relinquished his hold on Iwaizumi’s jaw, his thumb tracing an invisible line along Iwaizumi’s skin, and Iwaizumi is okay with that. He thinks he could spend the entire day on the kitchen floor, until his legs feel numb and his jaw aches.
Oikawa leans back then and Iwaizumi instinctively moves forward, eager to press their lips together again. He ends up planting a kiss to his cheek as Oikawa cradles the back of his head.
“We could do it this week,” he mumbles. “Since non-residents can get married here, too.”
Iwaizumi hums in agreement against his skin, “I want to.”
Oikawa’s fingers dance across his nape; nails slowly dragging up and down his skin. “Our mothers are going to be annoyed,” he sighs, a short laugh following suit. “When they find out.”
“They’ll get over it,” Iwaizumi counters, pressing a second kiss to Oikawa’s other cheek. “There will be a second celebration with everyone anyway.”
“My sister will hate us.”
“She can arrange the party.”
“Takeru will be livid.”
“We’ll buy him a video game.”
“Makki and Mattsun will be—”
“Ecstatic.”
Oikawa laughs at that and Iwaizumi takes the opportunity to sneak in another kiss. It’s followed by another one, and another one, until Oikawa tumbles backwards and pulls Iwaizumi with him. They’re a mess of tangled limbs; the tiles of the kitchen floor cold against the warmth of their skin and Iwaizumi buries his own laughter in the crook of Oikawa’s neck. He breathes him in, inhaling the scent of something he can’t quite describe. It’s floral—and warm. Along with something citrus-y; something so inexplicably Tooru .
After a few moments, Oikawa mumbles something about the floor and back problems and Iwaizumi hums, pulling away to look at him. He’s greeted by a fond smile and a quiet ‘hey’ as Oikawa’s fingers reach for him, brushing along his cheekbone. When Iwaizumi leans into the touch, mouth finding the palm of Oikawa’s hand, the smile widens.
“It’ll be strange not to call you my boyfriend anymore,” Oikawa says quietly.
“You still have a few more days,” Iwaizumi replies, “after that it’ll be…”
“Husband,” Oikawa finishes. A brief pause follows as his teeth catch the bottom of his lip. “I like it.”
Iwaizumi smiles against Oikawa’s palm, “Say it again.”
“Husband,” Oikawa repeats. “My husband.”
Hearing it makes Iwaizumi feel a little dizzy , but in the best way possible. He wonders how it feels on his lips. “Husband,” he whispers against Oikawa’s skin.
It feels amazing.
Another moment passes before Iwaizumi untangles himself from Oikawa entirely; slowly pushing himself to his feet. An outstretched hand hovers in front of him, but he ignores it. Instead, he leans down—hooking an arm beneath Oikawa’s legs before lifting him off the floor entirely with practiced ease.
Oikawa makes a noise of surprise before winding his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck; his grin sharp and taunting, “We’re not married yet, you don’t have to carry me just yet, you know.”
Iwaizumi shrugs. “Figured I'd practice.”
“Who says you’re gonna do all the carrying? Maybe I’ll carry you when the moment arrives,” Oikawa tells him as Iwaizumi takes them out of the kitchen and back towards the bedroom.
“Not if I do it first.”
Iwaizumi nearly drops him when Oikawa pinches his side. “Ah-ah, you got the proposal , don’t be greedy. Fair’s fair, Hajime,” he points out.
Iwaizumi makes a noncommittal noise in return, tossing Oikawa onto the bed once they arrive in the bedroom. He’s immediately pulled forward by Oikawa’s eager hands—falling atop of him with a lot less grace than he’d hoped.
Strong, comforting arms wind around him. A sanctuary, indeed. A place of hope and warmth; a place of unlimited love.
They are his home—Oikawa is his home—and Iwaizumi smiles as he thinks of the next chapter in their life. They’re not unfamiliar to new beginnings, but this is a blank page they will fill together. New adventures await them; a journey that is exciting, and a little bit scary, but Iwaizumi knows that as long as Oikawa’s with him, he has no reason to be afraid.
After all, together they are fearless. Dauntless.