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Hajime’s phone pings inside his sweatpants. Taking his eyes off the Irvine Polar Bears, who were busy running drills on the court, he fishes it out of his pocket and discreetly hides it behind the clipboard he’s using to take notes.
The screen lights up, slow and pulsing, showing seven different notifications and twenty three new messages waiting to be read, but he only pays attention to the last one (the one at the very top of the screen, the one he never silences no matter what).
Tooru 16:14 got five minutes?
Hajime locks eyes with Martinez, the Polar’s athletic trainer, and nods towards the gym doors wordlessly asking if it is okay to step out for a moment. Martinez nods back from the other side of the court before turning back to the players and so Hajime jogs out, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Hey,” he greets when Oikawa picks up.
“Hey yourself,” Oikawa greets back. “Am I interrupting?”
“Nah, I’ve got a couple of minutes. We got a one-hour briefing, the team’s just started their warm-up,” he says, moving away from the entrance in search of some privacy. “What’s up?”
He hears Oikawa moving the phone around, presumably holding it against his ear with his shoulder, the clickety-clack sound of a keyboard reaching him through the line. He’ll never understand Oikawa’s refusal to put the speaker on, but it’s nice feeling his voice like this, so warm and close.
“I’m about to get the plane tickets,” Oikawa tells him, “but there’s been a little change of plans and I wanted to check it with you first.”
Anticipation churns inside Hajime’s guts at the thought of being just a few weeks away from seeing each other after eight long months apart.
Just thirty seven days, he thinks, skin prickling with want.
“Shoot,” he says into the phone, voice a little hoarser than five seconds ago.
“I know the plan was to land there late at night on the eighteenth and then sleep the jetlag off and join you for the bachelor party,” Oikawa says, “but if I push the trip back a couple of days and get there on the morning of the twentieth, I can stay until the next friday instead of having to fly back on monday.”
“Fuck,” Hajime says, breath softly leaving his lungs. “Do that.”
Oikawa snorts, fondness seeping into his voice.
“I’ll be missing the party, though,” he teases. “I’ve always wanted to see if they’re anything like how American movies make them out to be. And Dave’s gonna kill me.”
“Dave’s getting married,” Hajime replies. “He already got his wedding. Let me have this.”
Oikawa laughs, the sound clear and clean.
“Alright, Iwa-chan,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Alright.”
As much as they’ve wanted to see each other, it had been impossible with Oikawa’s packed schedule and with Hajime starting his internship with Utsui-san. Then, four months ago, after they’d already resigned themselves to not seeing each other at least until August, they’d gotten twin invitations to Hajime’s best friend’s wedding here in Cali, and Oikawa, after working out his schedule for the next few months, had confirmed his attendance announcing that he could cram in a quick visit of less than four days. It was a crazy idea considering that, even with perfect flight connections, he’d have to endure two journeys of at least thirty hours and three different planes each, but after two failed attempts at making him reconsider his decision, Hajime hadn’t insisted any more.
He wanted to see him so fucking much.
The steady background noises of typing stop and then Oikawa speaks again.
“Aaaand–” he says, tapping one last time, “–done. I’ll be making a quick layover in Bogota besides the one in Buenos Aires. It’ll be fun lugging a suit around,” he says wryly.
“Packing a suit is a bitch,” Hajime says. “Just bring some slacks, I’ll lend you a shirt when you get here. It’ll probably be too hot for a jacket anyway.”
“Roger.”
Hajime sighs, eyeing his watch.
“I have to go back. Talk to you later?”
“Yeah. Have fun, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime snorts.
“Sure. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Hajime puts the phone back in his pocket and heads back to the court.
Just thirty nine days, he thinks, readjusting his mental countdown. And then seven days until Tooru has to go back.
Seven wonderful days.
He can’t wait.
*
Unsurprisingly, time passes excruciatingly slow even though Hajime’s no short on things to do with both his internship and his role as one of Dave’s best men. At times he’s almost convinced days don’t pass at all but then, finally, he finds himself laughing and toasting at Dave’s crowded bachelor party, his focus divided between having fun, doing his best at embarrassing the fuck out of Dave, and getting a faithful photographic report so Oikawa can see if Hollywood movies exaggerate things or not (as far as Hajime’s seen, they definitely do — although Dave’s always been a pretty laid back guy, so maybe that’s on him. If what he’s heard is at least half true, though, Rachel’s bachelorette party is being way wilder than even Oikawa could dream about).
They spend the best part of Friday’s afternoon as well as the whole night out, playing ridiculous games and drinking and singing and dancing and finally crashing at a coastline hotel in Newport Beach after a late (and probably illegal) skinny-dipping incursion near the port.
The next day at 9:30 a.m. sharp, Hajime’s waiting at the reception desk ready to fulfill his best man’s duties and carry Dave home so he can suit up. At 11:10 a.m. they park outside Dave and Rachel’s apartment (which will be Dave’s HQ for the next three hours) and at 12:25 p.m. he’s ordered to go the fuck home.
“What,” Hajime says, intonation so flat it doesn’t even come out as a question.
“Just go, man,” Dave repeats, dressed in a weird mix of ratty Lakers shorts, a nice shirt, an elegant tuxedo and mismatched socks. “Tooru must’ve landed already. You must be dying to see him.”
Two hours and fifty minutes ago, Hajime automatically thinks, both having memorized the flight details and having seen Oikawa’s thumbs-up text after the plane touched down. And fuck yeah I am.
“I’ll see him later,” he says instead.
Dave rolls his eyes.
“Look, I say this with the deepest sense of love a person can harbor but I didn’t put up with your pining ass for two whole years just to be subjected to your hopelessly in love, kicked-puppy face on my wedding day too, man.”
Hajime tries to retort, but Dave cuts him off.
“Just go already. Even if I suddenly forget how to put my pants on, these two idiots will be here to help me figure it out,” he says, nodding to his grinning cousin and his highschool’s best friend —the remaining members of Dave’s best men party.
Hajime rolls his eyes back at him, hand already closing around the hanger sticking out his suit bag.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever. I’ll see you at the altar,” he says. “You won’t be the one talking about hopelessly in love faces then.”
At 13:15 p.m., after an endless uber drive seasoned with an uncontrollable bouncing leg, he finally steps into his place.
He doesn’t stop to announce he’s home. He simply blazes in, throwing the suit bag over the back of the sofa as he passes by, his legs carrying him forward with single-minded focus until he stops abruptly at the open bedroom’s door, air catching softly inside his throat.
Oikawa’s right there, tall and elegant and ravishing in his dark gray slacks, looking up in surprise with Hajime’s baby blue shirt hanging open from his shoulders and his hands frozen around the collar. Hajime only has time to mutter a breathless fuck before stepping forward and kissing him, cupping his face and burying his fingers in his hair. Oikawa kisses back a second later, mouth parting, breath scalding, body pressing forward with heavy intent.
“Fuck,” Oikawa echoes when they pull back. He’s holding Hajime’s wrists, his hands warm and solid against his skin. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”
His voice sounds throaty, maybe from the accumulated fatigue, maybe from their kiss. Hajime can’t tell, and he doesn’t stop to find out. He just kisses him once and then again, thumbs pressing against Oikawa’s nape, Oikawa’s own hands moving up to hold Hajime’s face.
“We have to stop,” Oikawa says breathlessly after minutes, hours, eons, breaking the kiss and pressing their foreheads together, fingers clutching to Hajime’s face as if he didn’t want to let go. His skin burned against Hajime’s, strong body vibrating with want.
“Yeah. Right,” Hajime says, clearing his throat when his voice doesn’t come out. “Right,” he repeats, louder this time. He feels feverish all over, and he has to resort to his last ounce of willpower to not pick Oikawa up and thrust him against the nearest surface because they really need to stop before things escalate any further and they go past the point of no return.
He counts up to ten and then he pulls back reluctantly, taking a deep breath and trying to clear his mind too.
“Did you have a good flight?”
“Yeah,” Oikawa says, voice definitely thicker than usual. He clears his throat too before running a hand through his hair, trying to cool down. “Managed to sleep a few hours according to Cali time, hopefully jet lag won’t get me like last summer. I ate some of your leftovers when I arrived, but there’s still some left if you want to eat something?”
Hajime shakes his head, thinking about the small catering samples they were offered at Dave’s place while they waited for the make-up artist to arrive.
“Already eaten.”
“How’s Dave?”
“Nervous,” Hajime says, cracking a smile. “But a good kind of nervous.”
“Sounds like him,” Oikawa says, cracking a smile too. He looks impossibly handsome, hair slightly damp after a shower and a mischievous touch in the way his lips curve up. Hajime’s much more clear-headed now, though, and he finds it easier and easier to focus on something other than the gorgeous man in front of him.
“Say, Tooru,” he starts, looking past him. “Any reason why you decided to empty half my wardrobe?”
Oikawa turns his head, following Hajime’s look and glancing at the bed and the pile of clothes spread over it (which effectively looks like half of Hajime’s wardrobe, if not more). He hums shamelessly as if he’d just noticed the mess and didn’t consider himself accountable for it, the sound low and pleasant in his chest.
“Mmh yeah, I may be having some trouble finding a shirt.”
“Shittykawa,” Hajime snorts. “You’re wearing gray pants and I have, like, five shirts top. There’s no way you can fuck this up. Literally every color fits.”
“It’s not about the color, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, rolling his eyes. There’s something in the way he moves his head, in the way his eyes light up with a wicked glint that tells Hajime there’s a punch waiting in line. “It’s about the size.”
Hajime lets out a new snort.
“Hah. Bullshit.”
“Fine,” Oikawa shrugs. “You’ll see for yourself soon.”
Shrugging, he bows his head and starts doing the shirt up, eyes focused on his own hands and the nimble way in which they work. Hajime can’t help but watch too, dark eyes roaming over Oikawa’s long fingers, over his hard stomach, over his bent arms, appreciating the way the shirt hugs his narrow waist, how the sleeves wrap around his biceps, how he can almost see the muscles on Oikawa’s sides flexing under the blue fabric with every little move, names coming to his mind as he slowly trails his eyes up; internal oblique, external oblique, serratus anterior—
It takes him a few seconds to realize Oikawa’s finished buttoning the shirt, and a few more to arch a brow when Oikawa doesn’t abandon the weird slouch posture he’s in.
“Well?” he asks.
Oikawa sighs and then, slowly, with careful and deliberate movements he straightens his back— arms coming down to rest against his sides, shoulders pulling back, head lifting up— until he reaches his full height, once again standing up straight in the middle of the room.
Suddenly Hajime can’t speak. Can’t move.
The only thing he can do is stare and swallow around the sudden thickness of his throat thinking that, yeah.
Yeah, he sees it now.
He’d thought Oikawa’d been fucking with him, exaggerating about slightly short sleeves that would make him show his wrists an inch or two.
But that’s not it.
Not by a long shot.
Hajime’s shirt spreads impossibly taut over Oikawa’s chest, tight-fit like a second skin, his pectorals pressing against the fabric and threatening to rip it. They look— plump. Strong and firm, sure, but also full and rounded, barely contained inside their linen-fabric restraint. Hajime can’t stop looking. He just can’t. It’s like a caricature, like an exaggeration, an impossibility— seams straining, fabric stretching, the arch under Oikawa’s breasts deeply marked, his muscular pectorals perfectly outlined.
It’s the hottest thing Hajime’s seen in his whole life.
Oikawa opens his mouth to speak, and the moment his chest swells up with the intake of air a button pops off. It hits Iwaizumi’s collar bone like a furious projectile before falling and clattering loudly against the naked floor, the sound amplified in the sudden silence that has spread between them.
Neither of them speaks for a few seconds.
Then Hajime parts his lips, one single word escaping them and leaving a white-hot pulsing trail on its way out:
“Fuck.”
*
The wedding is beautiful.
Dave and Rachel exchange vows on a small, private beach, with the sun setting behind them. It’s hard to tell who looks happier, sunset turning their smiles golden and their cheeks rose.
A huge and airy canopy has been set up nearby and beneath it several round tables have been placed along with dozens of blue flowers and an intimidating three tiered cake and even a dance floor. Warm garland lights hang from the tent’s columns and roof, and even though it’s May and they’re less than thirty feet away from the crashing waves, the night isn’t cold.
Hajime just sat down at his half empty table, finally able to take a break after a long hour taking all kinds of pictures with the bride and the groom and the rest of the best men and all three bridesmaids in all possible combinations and forms. A waitress approaches him and Hajime gratefully takes a champagne flute from her tray. He takes a look around, but he finds no trace of Oikawa nor his whereabouts.
Yeah, well, probably better off this way, he tells himself taking a much needed sip of champagne.
The wedding is beautiful, but Hajime would be lying if he said he’d been thinking about anything other than Oikawa all along.
At almost 25 he’s far from being an inexperienced and hormonal teenager unable to keep his libido under control, but fuck if he hasn’t been on edge since Oikawa all but bursted a fucking button out with his massive chest.
He remembers when, a year ago, the UPCN had changed trainers and Oikawa had been given a new workout regime. Hajime’d had a look at it, curious and willing to learn, and, sure, he’d noticed the slightly heavier emphasis on Oikawa’s upper body in comparison to his previous training routines but he hadn’t given it much thought. And even if he had, he thinks now mentally picturing Oikawa’s chest, there’s no way he could have anticipated that.
God, he thinks with his eyes closed, heat crawling over his collar and trailing up his nape.
They’d had to make an emergency trip to the closest mall to get Oikawa a shirt that would actually fit (as it turns out, the blue one had been the only one he’d managed to button all the way up), and Hajime’s still recovering from the combined stress of the very real possibility of not making it on time to the wedding and the even more real possibility of popping a hard-on in the middle of the Armani store. He’d barely been able to even look at Oikawa since the moment they’d left Hajime’s apartment to the moment they’d stepped into the store, opting to wait near the ties rack instead of walking into the fitting room with him to offer his opinion (unnecessarily fucking expensive, for starters, not that they had time to waste trying different stores or that it’d have changed Oikawa’s mind had he said so).
They’d rushed to the wedding right after that, Hajime changing in the back of the uber much to the driver’s amusement and to the dark delight in Oikawa’s shameless eyes, and even though they’d been seated next to each other during dinner, they’d barely had time to interact, Hajime being way too busy giving his best man’s speech, ultimating the last details of the surprise present the best men an the bridesmaids had prepared for the newlyweds and being kidnapped for the special wedding photo shoot.
And all through that (unrelenting, unforgiving) he’s been thinking about Oikawa (brash, beautiful, dangerous Oikawa), want pulsing lowly in his blood and piling up inside his mouth.
All in all he thinks he’s done a damn good job managing to keep his skyrocketing horniness in check, at least until Oikawa silently materializes in front of him with an outstretched hand and a shit-eating grin dancing on his lips.
“Would you dance with me, Iwa-chan?”
He looks stupidly good with his salty-breeze disheveled hair and the sleeves of his brand new shirt rolled up, charming and casual in his tie-less attire. Hajime himself has untied the mandatory bow tie he’s had to wear as a best man as soon as he’s sat down, and it now hangs flatly around his neck. Music reaches them a little toned down, mixed with clinking glasses and multiple conversations and happy laughs.
Hajime picks the champagne and, without breaking eye contact, he slowly finishes it, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Unhurriedly, he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt with his other hand, smirk growing when Oikawa’s eyes leave his to hungrily follow the movement of his fingertips, pausing a bit too long on the hollow at the base of his throat.
“Yeah. Why not,” he responds with his lopsided grin, putting the flute down.
Their bodies come together smoothly and easily, and as they sway on the dance floor to the soft beat of a slow song, Hajime lowers his hand from Oikawa’s nape to his chest and then squeezes.
“My, my. So forward, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says with amused eyes and a dark, voracious glint that betrays the presence of something more. “I feel so objectified right now.”
“Sure you do,” Hajime coos, palm spread over Oikawa’s pec. He cups it, feeling the impossible size, the meaty flesh. They are dancing so close he knows it’d be almost impossible for any casual onlooker to see so he squeezes harder, meat filling his hand and spilling out through his fingers, flesh hot beneath his palm.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he mumbles, positive now that Oikawa’s been actively hiding it for months. “I haven’t stopped thinking about this all evening. You’ve been driving me crazy all day.”
“Have I?” Oikawa hums, breath hot against the side of Hajime’s neck. “I’ve been so good, though. Standing just one step back, letting you focus on your speech and all the important things you had to do. You looked so good, Iwa-chan, so hot.”
Hajime snorts and then he moves his hand down a little, placing it right under his chest and holding his pec up.
“Flattery will get you nowhere. You still owe me a shirt, you know,” he says in a low voice, lips brushing under Oikawa’s ear, tasting the faintest scent of sweat and cologne. They spin slowly to the song, Oikawa’s palm spreading wider against the small of his back. His whole body is radiating heat, seeping into Hajime’s everyplace they touch.
“Mmh. I guess we could go back to your place and I could spend the night sewing the button back,” Oikawa says, voice dripping heat too.
“Or…?”
“Or we could go back to your place and I could spend the night making it up to you in other ways.”
“I may have a couple of ideas,” Hajime says, cupping Oikawa’s pec again.
Oikawa smirks at him.
“I wouldn’t expect less.”