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Iwaizumi notices it first, because of course he does. He blames it on the first aid seminar he’s been attending, as if his knowing of every inch of his best friend’s body has nothing to do with it.
It’s not because he’s seen Oikawa grow too big for his skin before settling into it comfortably again. It’s not because, during this sixteen-years-old friendship of theirs, he’s memorised everything about Oikawa, including the way he walks and the shape of his knees.
He does blame his interest in first aid on his careless friend, though. Oikawa has, on multiple occasions, pushed himself to his limit and then even more, and even for someone as physically strong as he is, injuries are plenty. He’s also used to others taking care of him, being perpetually the baby of his family, and by high school he hasn’t really learned to stop to rest unless he’s told to.
Plus, first aid is useful and interesting. Iwaizumi now knows how to help people having strokes, heart attacks, seizures, panic attacks—you name it, he can deal with it. His perception of the human body has changed in the few months he’s been attending the seminar, and even when it comes to injuries he’s not trained on he can still tell if there’s something wrong.
Oikawa’s knee stands no chance.
The first thing he notices is that Oikawa’s walk is a little funny. The thought that follows directly after is that they’ve known each other long enough, have closed the distance between them too many times; if Oikawa always walked funny, he would know it by now, in the same way he knows that Oikawa wears contact lenses for his near-sightedness and has the weakest spot for his nephew and bruises easily and sleeps curled on his side and likes thinking out loud and is good with words, but prefers to use his hands.
He would know because he knows Oikawa. Every last bit of him.
The realisation is uncomfortable enough to make him discard his concerns. Whatever. Surely Oikawa has always walked like this. Surely Iwaizumi can’t recognise someone from the stature of their body alone. That’d be silly.
Surely he just missed something. Everyone does.
(He ignores whatever happens at the bottom of his stomach at the thought of having missed something.)
The second thing he notices, however, isn’t as small. He can’t ignore this one. Oikawa is stupid enough to ignore his own pain, but Iwaizumi has never been good at ignoring anything that has to do with Oikawa.
He can’t help it. He’s like everyone else, only slightly more privileged. Oikawa is the brightest star of a constellation: the world stops, stares, gravitates towards him. It’s just how things work when you’re as handsome, as talented, as sharp and brilliant and great: everyone stares. It’s natural.
Except when Oikawa lands after a spike and his entire face distorts with the effort of not showing any shock or pain, his eyes immediately seek the one person that isn’t just staring. Because both of them know there’s always one person looking straight through him, eyes as sharp as they are reverent.
And Iwaizumi suddenly thinks back to that awkward, funny walk, and ponders its implications for the very first time.
His gaze meets Oikawa’s, and it doesn’t take a mind-reader to know exactly what the panic in his eyes conveys. It merely takes someone who has played alongside him since their hands were large enough to hold the ball. Someone who was taller once. Someone who has seen every little moment that made Oikawa fall in love with volleyball.
The thing is, their first prelims in high school are starting tomorrow.
Please, is all Oikawa’s face is saying. Please, Hajime, do not take this away from me.
Iwaizumi looks down to Oikawa’s exposed knees. He knows them as well as he knows his own. He also knows what a swelling knee looks like.
The least he can do is wait until they’re alone in the changing rooms.
“Which knee is it?”
He knows it’s the right one. He just wants to hear it.
It’s a train wreck, really, and he wants to watch it crash and break his heart like he’s the one facing the consequences of Oikawa’s insane disregard for his own well-being.
In part, he is.
Oikawa looks away, because he can’t lie now. They’re alone; there’s no one left to lie to.
He bends his left knee, shifting most of his weight there. It’s the first sign of real discomfort he’s shown willingly.
“I’m playing tomorrow, Iwa-chan,” he says softly. It’s the most serious Iwaizumi has heard him, perhaps ever, and it sends a shiver down his spine.
There’s no fighting this one.
He walks over to Oikawa and backhands him regardless.
“Iwa-chan!”
“We don’t have setters to spare, so make sure you don’t fucking ruin this for yourself and for all of us.”
He knows, at least, that this is worth something.
At their very last set, something shifts. Oikawa looks at defeat directly in the eyes for the very first time in a long while, and all he has left is to go completely out. If sheer recklessness might do the trick, then so be it.
It’s a terrifying sight, mostly because it works for a bit. They truly do wonders as a team when their brilliant setter isn’t restricting himself.
Iwaizumi hasn’t felt this cold in his life.
The bus ride home is quiet. They’ve already shed whatever tears they needed to get the loss out of their systems, and now all that’s left to do is rest and recuperate. The next match awaits, after all, even if it is a few months away now.
Iwaizumi tries very, very hard not to stare, but he noticed it before and he hasn’t been able to shake it off since: Oikawa’s right thigh has been losing muscle. The same quad that protrudes on his left leg has practically flattened down on his right, and unless Oikawa has finally lost it and decided to only keep one leg fit, something is terribly wrong.
He informs his mother of their loss before dragging Oikawa to his bedroom and forcing him on a chair. Oikawa gasps, caught off guard, but Iwaizumi has had enough with the pleasantries. The tournament is over, they’ve lost, and his unspoken promise finally means nothing.
“Shut up.”
“Iwa, honestly, I’m—”
“If you say you’re fine I’m going to clobber you.”
“We both know you won’t.”
“Stop testing me before I change my mind.”
“Mean.”
Iwaizumi kneels before his best friend, palms cupping gently on his knees. He can feel the swelling; his thumb traces it very easily. If he could ignore it before, he can’t anymore. Even worse, he can feel liquid glugging in Oikawa’s kneecap.
“Disgusting,” he announces, because saying anything else might hurt too much.
“What are you talking about? I’m never disgusting.”
Never change. “This is going to hurt.”
He presses. Deep, with his thumb, on the inner side, where it feels most uneven.
Oikawa yelps. When Iwaizumi looks up, he’s met with teary eyes and teeth hard over the bottom lip.
It’s his final straw.
“You absolute piece of shit, Tooru, how bad were you going to let this get, exactly?”
“It’s not so bad! I can still play.”
“For how much longer, you asshole?”
That shuts him up.
The silence is heavy. They’re both breathing a little too hard. Iwaizumi’s hands are still holding onto Oikawa’s knees, knuckles white, like he’s going to put it back together all by himself.
Finally, Oikawa looks away, and Iwaizumi knows he’s accepting defeat. Fucking finally.
“I genuinely thought this would be obvious, but since you’re this unbelievably thick—if you get it checked and cared for before its breaking point, you’ll be able to play again sooner and longer. Surely you’re smart enough to figure this out on your own, no?”
Oikawa rolls his eyes but doesn’t speak. There’s not much to say now, from someone who hates being wrong to someone who’s hardly ever wrong.
Though Iwaizumi does hate himself a little for waiting this long to say something. They didn’t even get that far in the tournament. He could’ve done something earlier, pressed more before the injury got to this stage. He could’ve spared them at least a little bit of this.
Not that Oikawa would’ve listened.
“Promise me you’ll take care of it,” he says, tired, because it’s the best he can do now.
At least Oikawa listens. Maybe because he always keeps his promises to Iwaizumi—or maybe because Iwaizumi’s fucking right.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Oikawa admits defeat and books an appointment with his doctor the very next day. Three visits, one x-ray, many inflammatories and one MRI later, he’s admitted to the hospital for meniscus surgery, and he walks home defeated yet okay.
He’s okay. He will play again soon. It’ll merely take a few weeks of physiotherapy and a short break from volleyball, and then he’ll be back. It’s simple. It’s nothing.
Except it’s not simple, it’s everything, and it breaks a lot of spirits and two hearts clean in half.
The night after Oikawa’s surgery, Iwaizumi visits his best friend.
The room is mostly dark, the only light coming from the battered lava lamp Oikawa has kept on his floor for half a decade now. It’s dancing on the ceiling, on Oikawa’s face, in the mess of his hair and the daze in his eyes.
Iwaizumi opens the window, allowing some moonlight and summer breeze in. Crickets chirp. Cars pass by. A block down, a dog barks. It’s painfully familiar and it feels so right, and it’s almost laughable—nothing is right. Not now.
Oikawa is lying on his back, his freshly operated leg wrapped in bandages and propped up on a pillow. His eyes are still glassy from the anaesthesia, yet there’s something desperate there, too. Iwaizumi knows, he knows—he knows for a fact he’ll feel relief soon. Before he can blink he’ll be overflowing with pride again, even if he’s too cynical to show it.
But for now, when he blinks, nothing changes. He’s not on the court; he’s in Oikawa’s bedroom. Oikawa didn’t just score; he’s laying half conscious because he overextended himself, and now he’s paying the price.
He’ll come back. He’s larger than life, he always has been; this won’t hold him down. In a few weeks he’ll be on the court again, serving like he’s planning on breaking his opponent’s wrists, and Iwaizumi will feel both proud and relieved to be on his side.
That’s all a few weeks away, though. Right now, all he feels is sad.
It’s a small word, simple and overused and rarely sufficient. Yet at this very moment, nothing else comes to mind.
Nothing, except a hazy, soft memory, carried by the warm breeze and the crickets and the light from the old lava lamp painting abstract shapes on the walls. A rare case of déjà vu that’s comforting rather than unsettling, and suddenly they’re barely older than ten and it’s too late to go home, so Iwaizumi climbs into Oikawa’s bed and curls next to his best friend. Because there’s a bed, and they’re both small enough to fit, and the couch in the living room is too far away.
How simple it was back then, when sleeping in the same bed with someone implied nothing at all.
Maybe this is a loophole, Iwaizumi thinks, because there’s no other way to explain it: somehow, suddenly, he thinks lying down next to Oikawa like he did back then wouldn’t be a big deal. They’re best friends. They’ve done this before—they did this all the time when they were kids. And he wants to be here, for fuck’s sake. He just wants to stay here.
He thinks, if he could, he’d trade legs with Oikawa and bear the worst of it if it meant his best friend would still smile and shout and do what he loves. Then he thinks that’s a terrifying thing to think for someone. He thinks, in another universe, where perhaps the lava lamp died long ago, he’d do it.
He thinks the couch really is too far away.
Oikawa turns his head when Iwaizumi cautiously lies by his side, lips parted in surprise. They’re too big to share a single bed now; too aware of the implications; too scared of the world.
Not that there’s anything to be afraid of.
There was enough space to sleep comfortably once; now, too many overgrown limbs are touching. It should be more uncomfortable than it is.
They’re still the same kids, though. A little too big, perhaps, but still the same kids.
Iwaizumi turns on his side to find Oikawa already staring. It cracks what remains of his heart only the littlest bit.
“You’ll be okay,” he whispers. It scrapes at his throat. He can almost feel Oikawa’s heartbeat reverberating through the mattress—or maybe it’s just his own.
Probably his own.
He turns his attention back to the ceiling. He shuts his eyes; steadies his breathing; thinks we will be okay, we will be okay, we will be fucking okay.
You’ll pull through, and we’ll be okay.
Oikawa recovers, because of course he does; he’s too stubborn for injuries. He rehabilitates diligently, and the moment his physiotherapist clears him for practice again, he’s on the court like it’s not been a day.
Iwaizumi stares, hard, and waits for him to catch up.
He’ll glance. He always does.
Oikawa’s eyes finally find his own, and something clicks into place.
“Careful now, yeah?”
“Always, Iwa-chan.”
Oikawa asks him to stay after practice, and Iwaizumi knows it’s not just because they always do these after-hours together; they both know really well there’s only one person in the entire universe capable of keeping Oikawa in check. Yet it still does something to his heart that Oikawa trusts Iwaizumi more to stop him than his own self, his own physical pain.
It’s been like this since they were kids. Oikawa’s mom liked that they hung out so much, because she always trusted Iwaizumi to keep an eye on her son, because Oikawa was too curious and bright-eyed for his small frame back then. Larger than life, as he is now.
Insufferable, Iwaizumi thinks, and something painfully fond pangs in his ribcage.
He ignores it the way he ignores everything else that has to do with Oikawa these days.
(Save, of course, for Oikawa himself.)
No one can predict when disaster will strike. It’s just how life works.
Iwaizumi would like to have a word with life. Potentially a fistfight too.
It’s only practice, and yet Oikawa is giving it his all, because he’s never known moderation. He always does things at a hundred percent or not at all. So when the coach’s spike slips off course, Oikawa goes for it anyway. His ankle decides it’s had enough of his jumping around, and gives up.
Just like that.
Before anyone can even realise what is happening, Oikawa is on the ground. Again.
There’s a lot of shouting. Their normally calm and collected coach freaks out, because his star player is on the ground, and he’s not supposed to be there, and the prelims are starting soon—
The prelims.
Either this is just a huge universal joke, or Oikawa really deals with his stress by simply overworking himself, and it’s once again come back to bite him.
Iwaizumi doesn’t remember the moment he made it to Oikawa’s side. He just sort of finds himself there.
Where else would he be?
He can tell it’s not serious. It isn’t swelling or bruising, but it’s a sprain at the very least. He presses around with his fingers, looking for the part that hurts the worst. He instructs Oikawa to move his foot around in little circles and guides it with hands that tremble only a tiny bit.
“It’s not too bad,” Oikawa manages through gritted teeth.
“The nurse will decide that, not you,” Iwaizumi says, though he believes him. He stands up and offers both hands to help him up. “Careful.”
Then he throws Oikawa’s arm around his shoulders and carries him off the court and to the school infirmary.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much does it hurt when you put weight on it?”
He doesn’t get a response right away, so he turns, and the look on Oikawa’s face throws him off. There’s pain, of course, and the mild panic of believing the injury isn’t too serious but not knowing for sure—but somehow, Oikawa’s made space for something else too. A fondness so obvious it’s ever so slightly terrifying.
His heart skips a beat. It’s a lot of things at once, but the warning in it prevails.
“What?”
“I forget how reliable you have become sometimes.”
Nope.
“Just rate your pain.”
“A solid… four.”
“That’s good.”
He can’t deal with that now. He just can’t. Oikawa’s injury is already overwhelming enough; whatever else is going on in that head of his, Iwaizumi doesn’t want to know.
The nurse has finished her shift for the day, but the infirmary door is unlocked, and Iwaizumi knows his way around here. He has a first aid certificate, after all, and a very careless friend to practise on. He trusts himself to handle this right, and if it keeps hurting, he’ll drag Oikawa to the hospital.
He helps Oikawa on a chair, positions his injured ankle on another, orders him to not make a single move or else, and fetches an ice pack.
“You need to stop threatening me, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa chastises him when he comes back.
Iwaizumi wraps the ice pack in a towel, secures it on Oikawa's ankle and holds onto it with his fingers outstretched. “I can start pulling through with the threats if you want.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
He’s being his usual, stupid self, then. This can’t be any worse than a sprain, otherwise he’d be freaking out. “Someone needs to keep you in check, and apparently no one else does.”
“That’s because everyone else is civilised.”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “I’m going to abandon you here.”
“No, no, I’ll shut up, I promise.”
“Good.” They both know he won’t. In fact, Iwaizumi counts forty-one seconds before Oikawa opens his mouth to speak again.
“It’s always been like this with you.”
Iwaizumi looks up, horrified, because he knows what he’ll find there. That fond, nostalgic look again. Whatever’s gotten into Oikawa today, it seriously needs to stop. It’s clearly messing with both of them.
He turns away, determined to pretend he’s not seeing anything but still unfortunately curious. “Like what?”
“Like… this. I don’t know. You’ve always acted like you hate my guts but the moment something happens you won’t even let anyone else check on me.”
Iwaizumi froze somewhere mid-sentence, most of the rest fading to a buzz, because Oikawa used a very specific word, and it’s like a knife directly to the heart. He can’t even look away anymore. “You think I hate you?”
Oikawa rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly, Iwa-chan. You adore me. We both know that.”
That I do. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“You do. It’s kind of nice.”
“I’m seriously going to resort to violence.”
“Have feelings for two minutes, will you! I’m being appreciative here.”
“And I’m missing the days when wrestling you to the ground was still socially acceptable.”
“Stop dreaming of wrestling me!”
“Never.”
His brain catches up with his mouth way too late, but at least Oikawa doesn’t look deterred. Maybe Iwaizumi is just overthinking it. Words are literal sometimes, after all, and Iwaizumi has never been one for flowery speech.
“You love me.”
Yeah, that I do.
He wonders if it’s off-limits to say that. He also wonders if he’s imagining the urgency in Oikawa’s stare.
He decides it’s worth a try.
“I’ve been tolerating you my whole life. Of course—”
“Mean, Iwa-chan!”
“—I love you.”
“... Oh.”
Iwaizumi can feel his ears burning. “Did you seriously just figure this out?”
Oikawa’s smile softens. “No. I already knew it. You’re still here, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
I’ll always be.
Once again he recovers, and once again he plays stellarly, and once again Shiratorizawa beats them to the finals, and Oikawa and Iwaizumi have one final chance to do this together.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
It’s not like Iwaizumi isn’t serious about volleyball, but he doesn’t dream of a professional career either. He knows he’s good, but he isn’t exceptional, and without Oikawa dragging him to practice like their lives depended on it for a decade straight, he wouldn’t have ever taken it as seriously as he does.
Oikawa will play professionally eventually; he’s insanely good, and there’s no limit to what he can accomplish. Iwaizumi has never had more faith in anyone else. He knows his best friend will be remembered, adored, honoured by so many people, and Iwaizumi will always be full of pride, because he witnessed it all; every single moment of Oikawa’s dream, he’s been there. He hasn’t just seen it all: he’s experienced it by his side. The endless nights of practice, the victories, the ties, the breathless last-second saves, the missed opportunities, the injuries, the losses, the tears, the tightened fists; from now on, many people will go through these things with him; even more will see him go through these things again, and again, and again.
But for the first few times, one was there to share the heartache.
Oikawa’s bed is too narrow for the two of them now, but it’s okay. The physical closeness, previously distressing, is heavy with a weird mix of comfort and dread. The finality of the next tournament is suddenly looming over them, impossible to ignore, and Iwaizumi has to bite the insides of his cheeks to not cry again.
Next to him, Oikawa suddenly shifts. Iwaizumi turns as his friend curls up on his side and looks at him with eyes that are too bright for the darkness of the room.
He’s not sure, really, if he’s seeing the outline of Oikawa’s body or if he knows it well enough by now to picture it.
“We’re making it to the nationals next time, you and me,” Oikawa tells him. Just like that. As if it’s that simple.
Iwaizumi turns on his side too, until their knees touch. He knows that Oikawa is going to play in bigger courts; there will be more important matches than high school tournaments. This can only really matter to one of them.
The darkness makes it easier to reach out and thread his fingers in Oikawa’s hair as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand ends up resting on the nape of Oikawa’s neck, steady enough to pull him near. Someone braver might’ve even done it.
It wouldn’t be the first time exactly, anyway.
“It doesn’t—”
“If you say it doesn’t matter I’m going to clobber you.”
Iwaizumi stares, lips parted in surprise. Then he scoffs. “That’s my line.”
He feels a hand on his chest, getting a grab of his shirt.
“We started this together,” Oikawa mutters, fist tightening. “We’re finishing it together.”
It breaks Iwaizumi’s heart clean in two.
“Nothing’s ending for you, idiot. Argentina, remember?”
“You won’t be there, though.”
Oh. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters! You think you’re the only one here who cares? We’ve done this entire thing together. I would’ve probably gotten myself killed if it wasn’t for you keeping me in check all these years. Hell, I doubt I’d be anywhere near good enough to play professionally if you hadn’t been there this entire time. You think it’s an accident that when matches get tight, I always set for you? I don’t even know how to play without you on the court!” His voice breaks on the last words.
Iwaizumi thinks his heart, or whatever remains of it, might beat its way straight out of his chest.
“I know you’re a sore loser, but can you please be less dramatic?” he finally manages. “You don’t need me around to play. You’re exceptional on your own. I have nothing to do with it—”
“Iwa-chain, you’re very annoying sometimes, you know that?”
“Rich coming from you.”
Oikawa stares at him for a very long moment. Iwaizumi thinks this might be where he loses it and does something so spectacularly stupid it makes Oikawa feel grateful that they only have a few months together left in Japan.
Not that history has taught him that. If anything, it didn’t change anything the first time—but then again, they were eleven. These things hardly matter when you’re eleven. They matter even less when they’re followed by less innocent things, with other people, when retrospect makes it a silly childhood memory, hazy enough for one to be convinced they simply dreamt it.
They were eleven. Oikawa was curious, Iwaizumi was there, the world was far too large, it was all very simple.
It was just a peck, they were just two curious kids, and it was so long ago Iwaizumi thinks he might’ve really just dreamt it. Maybe that’s why it was so harmless.
It never mattered anyway. It won’t magically start mattering now. A kiss that was barely a kiss, that he barely remembers, with a friend that has kissed plenty of people since.
Iwaizumi wonders why he doesn’t remember his proper first kiss, but remembers this stupid little thing they shared because they were too innocent to think it through.
Oikawa moves again, and before Iwaizumi is fully out of his own head again, he feels the warmth of his best friend’s lips on his forehead.
The world stops on its axis. Oikawa’s hand is on his cheek, holding him steadfast. Iwaizumi remembers a time when he knew how to breathe. He remembers a minute ago, when he was convinced he was the only one who still thought of that little kiss occasionally.
He wonders, genuinely wonders for the first time, if there’s maybe something he’s been ignoring for a while.
“It hurts a little when you doubt me so much,” Oikawa says gently.
Something clicks back into place.
It never comes. They never make it to nationals. Their last tournament together comes to the usual premature end, and the weight of the entire universe crashes on Iwaizumi’s shoulders as his mind races to catch up with what his collapsing body already knows.
It’s over.
There was a time when he thought this might not matter that much. Then, there was a time when he realised it mattered, a lot. Now’s the time where all that mattering catches up, and it hurts like hell.
No one warned him that looking at a ball hitting the floor could hurt like someone physically tore his heart out.
He figures it out on the bus home. Oikawa sits next to him, earphones on, eyes glued to the passing cars of all the people who didn’t just have their entire life torn out of their hands. It’s almost unfair, how the world keeps going on like nothing happened. Iwaizumi thinks at least one comet should fall on earth, ruin something just to balance things out, because he doesn’t think he can contain all this heartache in a way that matters.
Oikawa’s knee rests against his. It’s as if nothing has changed for him too, it seems now. When Iwaizumi looks at him, he sees his childhood best friend, the one constant of his entire life, about to be taken away from him. He sees their reflections blending in the window pane, and bites his tongue, because he knows Oikawa trusts him still the way he did when they were kids, back when trust was very vague and meant very little and also everything in the world: blindly, unquestionably, thoughtlessly. Oikawa has always known Iwaizumi will be there, because there’s never been a moment when he wasn’t. It’s innocent to the point of naïvety, but it’s all either of them has ever known. At no point have they needed to even consider any other scenario.
When Iwaizumi finally breaks down, he makes sure no one sees him.
Life, being the sick and twisted thing it is, goes on:
Iwaizumi studies for his final exams. Oikawa starts making checklists for his move to Argentina. Iwaizumi’s electric heater breaks down, so he buys another one. Oikawa’s bedroom feels emptier every time he visits. Iwaizumi falls asleep on his desk, laptop still running, and when his mother approaches to wake him she finds three tabs open: the solution to a maths problem, the pricing for a return flight to Argentina, and the study guide to the nearest university’s physiotherapy department (if she went back a few tabs, she’d find every sports-related department already checked out). Oikawa continues training with their volleyball team after school, determined to lay a strong foundation for Aoba Jousai’s boys’ team to make it next year. Iwaizumi stops by on Fridays, either just to watch or, occasionally, to spike for them.
He doesn’t really play anymore. Volleyball will have to take a backseat until his finals are done. Between his own plentiful options and his parents’ concerned whispers for his clearly no-office-job future, he needs to get at least passing grades, and he’ll work his way from there. He just needs to make sure he gets to choose.
During his breaks, he hops over to Oikawa’s backyard and helps him stay in shape. Whatever deranged combination Oikawa wants to learn to use at least decently before he leaves, Iwaizumi is always the one he chooses to fail with first, as he’s done for years and years.
It’s kind of relieving.
They’ve taken to lying down together a lot more now; it stopped being awkward one forehead kiss ago. Now there’s only the very present awareness that they’re both avoiding something. Two reasons: one, Iwaizumi’s been spending increasingly more time studying, so his personal life has been reduced to basically nonexistence, and two, Oikawa’s leaving soon, and neither of them wants to make this any harder than it already is.
If it can get any harder than this, that is.
Oikawa is curled on his side, knees very pointedly in Iwaizumi’s personal space. The latter is frowning up at his half-solved maths problem that is currently making very little sense. He jabs a finger at Oikawa’s side, drawing only the faintest amount of fond satisfaction out of the little yelp he lets out. “What have I done wrong?”
“Well, for starters, you’re studying horizontally in semi-darkness,” Oikawa says, taking his notebook from his hand without flinching away when their fingers brush. He squints up at the maths problem, then very casually rolls over Iwaizumi to reach for his glasses on the bedside drawer.
Iwaizumi’s oxygen deprived brain barely registers the fact that Oikawa is near-sighted and shouldn’t need glasses to read the notes in front of him. Or maybe Iwaizumi’s handwriting is that shitty. Or maybe, somewhere on the way, Oikawa developed astigmatism.
Oikawa settles back on his side and frowns up at Iwaizumi’s notes just as Iwaizumi finally stops short-circuiting. He blinks slowly behind his glasses, lost in thought, as he tries to find what Iwaizumi did wrong to get stuck here. If he knows he’s being stared at, he doesn’t show it.
“Here.” Oikawa taps a long, steady finger on the page. “You got the sign wrong. This should’ve been a minus.”
It’s way too high up on the page. Iwaizumi sighs, takes his notebook back and promptly smudges the entire page. “I’ll redo it later.”
“Why not now?”
“I need to cope with the fact that I just spent a full half hour solving the entire exercise wrong because I missed a fucking sign.”
Oikawa breathes out a soft, light laugh; it feels like stepping in a patch of sunlight. He takes his glasses off, but doesn’t climb over Iwaizumi this time; he simply hands them over. Iwaizumi sets the glasses and his notebook on the bedside drawer and briefly imagines a world where his and Oikawa’s things are always stacked neatly like this, in the same house instead of the two ends of the Pacific Ocean.
It fractures the last of his restraint.
“Did you really have to go to a whole fucking other continent? Wouldn’t, I don’t know, South Korea do?”
“I’ll visit. I promise.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.”
“You’ll visit too. I’ll show you around.”
“I appreciate it, but it’s still not the same.”
“Stop being so grumpy, Iwa-chan. You insisted I went more than anyone, remember?”
“One, don’t call me that. Two, you don’t get to speak. You’re not the one being left behind.”
It comes out more bitter than he wanted. Too sincere.
Perhaps it’s for the best. Maybe if they get this out the way it’ll hurt about one percent less.
The funniest, saddest part is, he doesn’t even believe that. He’s not being left behind when he really was the one who pushed Oikawa every time he hesitated. He can’t complain about this when it would’ve probably never happened without his insistence anyway.
Still, though. Still.
He’s leaving.
Oikawa’s voice is soft, taken aback. “You think I’m leaving you behind?”
“I think you’re a piece of shit. Also, I meant what I said earlier. If I somehow stay involved with this stupid sport and we ever cross paths again, I won’t hold back.”
Oikawa raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling now. Iwaizumi thinks he knows what’s coming, and for once, it doesn’t terrify him.
He’s said it all pretty clearly, after all. If he outright told Oikawa that he’ll miss him, that his absence will be about as noticeable as a failing lung (which he hasn’t experienced, but he thinks it must be pretty fucking noticeable), neither of them would believe it. Pretending he doesn’t care, that he’s not feeling a giant gap where his heart should be—that’s an act Oikawa can see straight through.
And he does.
“I wouldn’t want you to hold back, my love.”
And, yeah, he definitely knows where this is going. It makes it hard to contain his own smile.
All this tip-toeing around because there will soon be so much distance between them. As if it fucking matters.
They’ve done this before, almost eight years ago.
He shuffles nearer. His hand finds his best friend’s, fingers threading together like they won’t have to ever let go.
Oikawa’s eyes are bright in the half-light. His free hand comes up, cupping Iwaizumi’s face. His thumb runs over his cheekbone like he’s touching something sacred, and he’s taking his sweet fucking time—though Iwaizumi doesn’t mind it that much. Not if he’s being touched like this, taken in like this.
He was dumb for avoiding this because he was convinced it was ever one-sided, or because it couldn’t possibly be worth the heartache. He was even dumber for fearing reciprocation, as if this isn’t the most sacred thing he’s ever been part of.
When Oikawa finally pulls him in, every last ounce of doubt leaves his body in a wave.
He’s always known, really.
It’s a slow kiss, careful and gentle and sweet. They’ve both held back for far too long, and the moment feels more fragile than it is—yet there’s also a sense of timelessness, like there isn’t a deadline mere weeks away; they could keep doing this forever if they wanted. Iwaizumi’s hold on Oikawa’s hand tightens, and Oikawa runs his fingers gently through his hair, comforting and loving and there. When he finally pulls away, breathless and smiling so fondly it’s almost sickening, Iwaizumi leans back in without a single coherent thought in his head and kisses his best friend’s stupid, beautiful face until his heart is full.
“I really, really hate you for leaving.”
“You adore me.” Oikawa kisses him again.
“I do,” Iwaizumi mutters when Oikawa finally pulls away. It doesn’t choke him this time. If anything, it’s disgustingly easy. So he decides to say the whole thing, just because he finally knows he can. “I love you.”
Oikawa presses a kiss on the corner of his mouth. It’s stupid and obvious and it doesn’t need to be said aloud at all, but Oikawa says it anyway. “I love you too.”
Their final exams and graduation pass by like a tsunami. Before Iwaizumi can even process a single thing, he’s no longer a high school student, and Oikawa is getting dressed because he needs to get home early tonight: his flight is at five in the morning, and he’ll be lucky if he gets three hours of sleep. When Oikawa turns at the door, the world’s most depressed goodbye ready at his lips, Iwaizumi punches him on the shoulder and threatens to deck him if he makes this feel any more finite than it already is.
“I’ve had enough of your crying today.”
“As if you didn’t cry.”
“Please shut up.”
The second Oikawa pulls the door shut, Iwaizumi stands there frozen for a full minute, his brain processing what really just happened. Then he practically flies back upstairs to get his phone.
The ocean’s fault for being so vast.
Underneath the streetlight at the corner of the street, Iwaizumi watches as a dark blue car pulls up on the pavement through the little cloud of his own breaths. The passenger seat’s window rolls down, and Oikawa’s mother smiles at him brightly and waves as he opens the door and slides into the backseat.
“Props to you for waking up so early, son,” Oikawa’s father beams as he restarts the car and drives off.
Iwaizumi decides not to tell him he slept maybe fifteen minutes overall and inclines his head instead. “Thank you for picking me up.”
“No worries, darling.”
When he finally turns, he finds Oikawa blinking at him like he descended from the sky. “What are you doing here?”
“Saying goodbye?”
“We said goodbye yesterday.”
“And yet you’re still well within reach. You thought you could get rid of me so easily?”
“As if I want to get rid of you.”
Iwaizumi sighs, then leans over and presses his lips on Oikawa’s shoulder (the same one he remembers punching a few hours ago, because he didn’t want Oikawa to get all sniffly and disgusting). He feels lighter now than the last time they said goodbye, as Oikawa’s mother fiddles with the radio buttons and the car makes its way through the sleeping city and out into the highway. The streetlights illuminate Oikawa sporadically, and each time Iwaizumi remembers being five or so and running around his backyard with a bright-eyed, overly enthusiastic boy he’s always taken for granted, and not even once imagining ever leaning against him as they’re driving to the airport because one of them is seizing the day like his very existence depends on it, while the other takes it one step at a time.
Iwaizumi has always been the careful one, after all. It’s nothing to regret or feel sorry about. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than their paths aligning somehow, but he knows it could never happen. Oikawa has always been destined for greatness, always leaps ahead of everyone else in his life—yet he’s always left a hand outstretched for Iwaizumi to follow, for no reason other than, very simply, he wants him to.
They’re not done choosing each other, Iwaizumi thinks now. If anything, they’ve chosen each other over just about a million things, fully aware that they don’t need to sacrifice their futures to have this.
It’s not optimal, sure. But it’s not the worst thing, either.
“For the record,” Iwaizumi mutters without opening his eyes, head still resting on Oikawa’s shoulder, “if anyone flirts with you, you have a boyfriend.”
Oikawa lets out a soft, surprised laugh. “Do I?”
“Yes, dumbass, you do.” He makes a pause. “Unless you’d rather move on.”
“As if I could.” Oikawa presses a kiss on his temple, and Iwaizumi promptly and happily shuts up. “As long as you’re willing to tolerate me I’m not going anywhere. Metaphorically, at least.”
“Too soon, asshole. Too soon.”
At least it earns him another kiss.
He opens his eyes briefly, just to find Oikawa’s hand and hold it in his own. He trails his thumb gently over his best friend’s knuckles and thinks to himself that the next time he gets to do this will be the sweetest moment of his life.
He sleeps most of the way to the airport, and then it’s all a rush. Between the frantic luggage counting and passport checking, the tight hugs and the airport security-typical panic (“Iwa-chan, what if I accidentally packed three bags of cocaine in my backpack?!”), all Iwaizumi can think of is a constant I love you, I love you, I love you.
“I love you,” he mutters in Oikawa’s ear as he finally hugs him goodbye. For real, at last. “You’ll do amazing.”
“I love you too.”
Oikawa pulls away, glances at his family (who, minus Takeru, are currently all pretending to be fascinated by the ceiling), then finally gives up on the subtleties (as if there’s any chance they have fooled a single person) and leans in for a kiss. “I know it’ll be difficult, but try not to miss me too much.”
“You’re making this significantly easier than it should be.”
“Mean, Iwa-chan. Mean.”
“Fine. You’re the light of my life and I will miss you terribly. I’ll make sure to stare out of the window melancholically for five minutes every day until we meet again.”
“You better mean that. Otherwise it’s only marginally better.”
It is better, though, treating each other like they always have, acting like barely anything is changing. They’re the same they’ve been for a decade now, except they kiss now. Also, being able to call Oikawa his boyfriend is going to be fun.
Now they just have to find a way to cope with the distance.
Whatever. It won’t stop hurting, but Oikawa wasn’t entirely wrong. Metaphorically, they’ll both be there for each other.
It’ll have to do.
He almost lets go, but then Oikawa’s palms cup his face, any embarrassment he might’ve felt around his family long forgotten. “I’ll make you proud,” he whispers.
And Iwaizumi doesn’t think he needs to say this out loud, but he does anyway.
“You already have.”